Macbeth.

I have a fear of jinxation. I’m terrified that if I articulate the positives in my life, they will cease to exist. Similarly, I fear that if I discuss any previous successes that I've had, I will be doomed to failure in the future. I’m convinced that the mere mention of certain words and phrases will bring bad luck. I've discovered that most of these “taboo” words are inherently positive. They represent all that I'm working to achieve, and hope to one day be defined by. I’ve also discovered that this mindset is in no way normal (bordering on insane, really), so I decided to get to the bottom of it. I tried googling “jinxation”, “fear of jinxing”, and “jinxaphobia.”; much to my surprise, I got zero results. Is it possible that I’m the only person on the planet who fears the jinx? If so, I should probably stop typing immediately and run to the nearest therapist. I’d rather not have to do that; perhaps I’ll try searching “jinx-conscious”….

Nabokov.

On Friday night, after failing to get a hold of anyone I know in Boston who I might like to spend an evening with, I decide to go out alone. There are two bars in Jamaica Plain- the hipster neighborhood that I've been closetly obsessed with- that I was extremely curious about. With my iPod as aural courage, I took the train down to JP and walked to the Midway Cafe, a dive bar known for its local flavor and live music. It was exactly what I wanted it to be- dark, seedy, and ale-soaked, with pistachios on the bar and Wild Turkey behind it. Having grown utterly bored and disenchanted with the polished clubs and lounges of DC, I craved someplace raw. This was it. After about an hour and a half of music and conversation with my bar stool neighbor, I hopped a cab to my next destination- The Milky Way. This venture was much more daunting than the last, as the Milky Way was Boston's prime hipster hangout. My feelings towards hipsters can be described as ambivalent at best. In a way, I can't stand them for their contradictory snobbiness - clearly upheld to disguise insecurities. Yet for some reason, I find that I'm continually drawn to them, and simultaneously intimated and awed. As I descended into the bar, they were everywhere. Shooting pool, dancing to the reggaetone band, clustered around pitchers of Pabst. As I stood in front of the stage and watched the band, I felt an unfamiliar uneasiness come over me. I've never had a problem doing things alone, whether it be studying at a coffeeshop, sightseeing, or even eating at a restaurant, which seems to be where most people draw the line. I don't particularly have anything to prove by doing so; I just never thought it to be an unusual habit. But last night, among the herd of independent hipsters, I felt self-conscious. It occurred to me that in town like Boston, where most the population was between 18 and 22, the lines between “cool”, "mysterious" and "sketchy" were thin ones. By the judgment of those around me, I probably fell into the third category. And while I find that fact to be somewhat disconcerting, I can’t help but relish it. After all, as a girl from McLean by way of Palestine, who knows if I’ll have another opportunity to play such a devious role.

Slam that door, make a scene.

There's nothing I appreciate more than a person who'll let you be mad when you're mad. I never understood why society is so averse to the expression of anger. Not every emotion can be conveyed in a steady tone- sometimes, you have to yell. You WANT to yell. I hate repression in all forms, and the concept of anger management seems to essentially be self-denial. Of course, there are extremes to be avoided, but it is possible to simultaneously respect someone and raise your voice in their presence. No doubt this sounds beauty pageantesque, but if yelling didn't have such a negative stigma attached to it, there'd be less need for violence. We all need to let it out sometimes- better we do so vocally rather than physically.

Bittersweet.

For the last three months, I've been living by the light of a single 70 watt bulb. There's an overhead light in my apartment attached to an electric ceiling fan; however, when I first moved in, I pressed all the buttons on the remote and it didn't turn on, so I figured it was broken. Every night for three months, I've hauled a lamp back and forth from between my desk and my nightstand- often several times a night- as if it were a lantern. I might've actually preferred a lantern, or even a candle; at least then I wouldn't have had to continually plug and unplug it. The other day, my landlord Patrick came by to seal off possible entry points for mice. While my last visitor- Jerry- pretty much just kept to himself, I didn't think that the next mouse would be as respectful. When I got home that evening, the overhead fixture was emanating light throughout every corner of my apartment. I could almost hear Handel's "Messiah" blaring as I entered. The light amplified just how miserable of an experience coming home to darkness had been. and I immediately signed online to thank Patrick.

me: hey thanks for fixing the light!
it makes a WORLD of difference

Patrick: i didn't
zaina, you have to have the switch up

Alas, the experience of having a well-lit apartment will forever be tainted by the humiliation of knowing that I could have had one all along.

Rat Race.

Encouraged by the response to my piece in the CS Monitor, I attempted to write another op-ed about infighting between Hamas and Fatah. The withholding of humanitarian aid and tax revenues from Palestinians had created an atmosphere of frustration, manifested by increased hostilities between the two parites. I scrambled to write the article, as op-ed writing is as much about timeliness as it is quality. Between the Atlantic and graduate school applications, I had to put the piece aside, as it was too much pressure to try and get it out while the issue was still relevant. Reading the NYT earlier today, I saw that infighting between the rival factions had resumed, and that a prominent member of Hamas had been killed. The surge of excitement rhat I experienced upon discovering that the issue was back in the headlines not only left me feeling guilty and ashamed, but led me to realize that I never want to be a journalist.

My limited experience in the field has shown me that journalism is often not concerned with the actual issues, but with construction and speed. As a journalist, you are inevitaby desensitized, as you come to view world events as raw material from which to craft a polished argument. As long as you do so before anyone else does, it really doesn't matter how obvious or far-reaching your argument may be. It's a vanity contest, with journalists as the contestants and audience members alike. It is sad but seemingly true- few journalsts are taken seriously by those who they seek to influence. Perhaps most disturbing of all is that for a journalist, bad news can be good news. That just can't be good.

Intrusion.

When did it become acceptable for vendors to comment on their patrons' purchases? I'd really love to know. In my younger days, I wouldn't have been at all surprised by this phenomenon. As a teenager, I had a constant fear that every time I bought tampons at my neighborhood supermarket, the cashier- who'd been working there since I was born- would make some remark about how I'd finally become a woman. Looking back, I might've preferred this to the comment that the new Senegalese cashier made on my last trip home from Boston- "tu es tres gros maintenant, non?"

Earlier today, I went to the Boston Beanery to pick up some lunch, a delightful coffeeshop in the North End that serves great paninis. I was already disgruntled at having discovered that my favorite sandwich- the Gobbler- had been discontinued. I guess I should've known that it was only a seasonal sandwich, as its main ingredients were turkey, stuffing, and cranberry sauce. I decided to spring for the replacement sandwich and a bowl of clam chowder. I'd always found the guy behind the counter to be somewhat attractive- he has that bohemian, art student style that I love. As I ordered, he gave me a perplexed look, and asked, "is this all for you?"

I knew what was coming. "Yes...why?"

"You've got a big appetite."

I wanted to impale him. I've always somewhat prided myself in my love of food, and in my ability to consume mass quantities of it. I can put away a foot long meatball sub in one sitting, and I never order anything without asking for extra cheese. So I wasn't so much embarrassed as I was annoyed- for once, I thought I was being moderate. Soup and a sandwich seemed like a normal, balanced meal to me. You'd think that I'd ordered a sandwich and a burger. And even if I had, what was it to him? I was so tempted to ask if anyone had ever taught him to NEVER tell a girl that she eats to much; instead I asked, "isn't it better than being one of those exclusive salad eaters?" Honestly, I thought guys appreciated a girl who could eat. I think he realized his folly, but his attempt to atone for it only made matters worse. He started rambling about some hot dog eating contest- apparently if you eat 6 or more "dogs", you get your money back.

"You should sign up. You could probably win." He spoke with such innocent enthusiasm that I decided to just ignore this last comment and attribute it to nervousness. I changed the subject, and we actually ended up having a fairly decent conversation. But I was sure to avert my eyes away from everyone in line behind me as I walked out- soup and sandwich in tow, tail between my legs.

Theory of Relativity.

"Hell is other people". So said Jean-Paul Sartre. At times, I couldn't agree more. When I first moved to Boston, I was thrilled by the prospect of living in a town where I knew no one. Being completely on my own led me to encounter individuals and seek out experiences that I wouldn't have otherwise. I didn't have to go out on a Friday night if I didn't want to, and if I did, I could go wherever I pleased. The city was mine to discover and behold.

After clinging so fiercely to my precious solitude, I've grown to despise it. It doesn't quite suit me, and my personality has done everything in its power to shake it. I find that I've been talking to almost everyone- the guy at my convenience store, my fellow morning metro commuters, bus drivers- even myself, which is not a little bit scary.

I had a professor in college who once told us that "the meaning of life is human relations." Now more than ever does that statement make sense. Most things in life can only have instrumental value- without friends to share them with, they're simply meaningless.