Dealing with a Fuckboy. #1

Humans. Labels. Stereotypes. Games. Rules. Tricks. Decisions. Emotions. Attachment. Heartbreak. Chaos.

Those are the words that just popped into my head after writing down that headline. Here’s my story:

I was feeling down, I had somewhat of a out of the blue break up with a guy that I had only gotten so close to. I got busy with work almost a month after, forgot about him, and what not. Then the time got less and less busy, and all of a sudden he was all I can think of. Let us call him O, not that he is very relevant right now. Anyways, so I decided to follow through with a trend, Tinder.

I am a Hijabi, and it is somewhat looked down on when a girl with my image appearing on a application as such. I had to clearly pin the reason why I was on the app, and it was

‘I am not here to break your fancy, don’t be nasty’

I did that, and I have been on Tinder before, I would tell the boy I am not going to stay here, so this way we would move to another app. Ps. This is how and where I met O.

I would remove Tinder after meeting a decent man or two, and then I would vanish. I came back for my second try, and here I was, meeting this other guy, called A.

He is the typical fuckboy, typical player, typical arrogant guy, but I am somewhat able to see something else to him. He just needs some time to realize that I am not the girl he can act that way around, he needs to watch his words around me, and to my shock, he stayed and asked for my number even after all of that. We matched by the way. Meaning we both swiped right. Meaning we both found the other to be attractive.

I am putting myself in this game, knowing, knowing very well what might come out of. But, that’s what is good about all of this, the very fact that I know the intentions, Personally, it makes  everything easier, easier to not get emotionally or mentally attached to his type.

Step 1: Be there all the time, show him that you care, speak to him, and be there.

Step 2: Be distant. Very distant. Make him miss me.


Don’t fuck with me and I won’t fuck with you.


Is my Hijab Oppression?

I was asked if my Hijab is seen as an instrument of oppression, and this was my response:

Okay, first and for the most part. The hijab isn’t forced on us. I can not be wearing and still be a Muslim, but that all depends on the culture. Iran and Saudi women are forced. But those are extremists when it comes to Islam. So to be oppressed means that I’m not allowed to do certain things, or most things for the bigger part. I’m a Hijabi, and have been for more than 10 years now. I had the most normal childhood you can think of, and that involved me in a hijab. I went to parks, watched movies, played with rocks. Growing up, into highschool, which I attended like any other human, I was active with life and joined clubs. My scarf didn’t stop me from being in a feminist club or even the pro-civil marriage club. I attended college, and I got a degree and I now have a job. I can and have traveled abroad just like anyone else, some think we cannot hang out with our friends, female or males, but we can. Some think we cannot go out because of it, but we can. The Hijab is not a burden, it never stands in the way of things I want to do. I don’t see any lines of oppression coming my way. I do believe that just like anything else, it all depends on how we look at it. Some see it as a wall from practicing many things, but that doesn’t apply when some people in the same situation are freely practicing those activities. 
But, that doesn’t stop me from acknowledging that the scarf does that limitations, limitations are not oppression, with having the scarf on there are certain, but not major, activities that I cannot do. For example, it is frowned upon for Hijabi to be seen at a club, party, or a concert. 
But I am a hijabi, and I believe not everyone lives through the eyes of how media or the western politics/media want to represent the hijabis. I am not controlled or subjugated by a certain system, I was not forced to wear it, I was and still am given the choice whether to keep it or not. 
I am not badly treated because of my scarf, I am not mentally pressured for the most part, I am not abused or bullied into wearing it. 
But, on a personal level, I have to be more conscious and active of the way I act because of my Hijab. That’s not a negative, rather can be seen as positive, because it only activates positive attitude and acting in ways that portray a sensible and respected women. Hijab is a symbol of purity, respect and value, not oppression.

Red – Short Story

       Her hands grasp the thickness of her sheets, her hands hold the bed so tightly that her knuckles turn white. The world is turning. The black collides with white, but then comes a light line of red. The red dominates. The red is what she’s feeling. She opens her eyes and her body aches, her breathing hurts, and she doesn’t want it. She does not want the breath she is breathing; she does not want the air that is passing into her lungs. She sees his face, she hears his breathing, she’s taking in his breath. She’s hurting; she’s haunted by his burning eyes, she’s gasping pain. Her hands are no longer hers, her chest is not hers, her heart does not belong to her no more, and no more does she belong to her.

He collapses on top of her, rolls to his side, he leaves her laying there. Red covering her waist down, red covering the sheets she once picked out with her mother, when she was once happy, when she was excited to pick them out. He leaves her and goes into the bathroom. She bites her palm and cries, she can’t yell, she can’t scream, she’s alone, and she’s scared. She hears the cluttery sound he’s causing. She hears the cabinets opening, shutting, and opening again. She doesn’t know what do, she’s lost, she’s confused, she’s broken, and she’s feeling everything and nothing all at once. She sits up, her hands brush down her thighs; she uses her elbow and arm to wipe her eyes. She looks around and then he steps out. He looks at her, he was pale, he was tall, he was well-built, and she couldn’t describe him now in many words but ‘the one that fucked her- well, in her case, hurt her’. I, myself, I cannot describe him as human right now.

He comes close; she moves back and stands on the floor. She looks around her and walks to the bathroom slamming the door. “I didn’t mean to slam it.” She whispered to herself. She felt her skin crawling off of her, she felt it peeling off, and she was not feeling herself anymore.

‘I don’t want to be here, I don’t want to be with him, I don’t want this, and he doesn’t want this, who wants this? Who would want this?’ She whispers to herself, she was uttering words, but she was not feeling them, she was not sure she meant them, she was not sure of anything. She stands up, steps into the ice water that matches her skin and cleans her body up, she washes off the red, she cleans up the red, and gets out covering the body she lives in with a white robe.

She steps out back into the room, the sheets were gone, and the bed was cleared. The evidences were gone, she no longer had proof, and it was her fault because she left the room.

The bed was naked, it was just there, white and pale. The color of the sheets gone, the touch of the sheets, gone, all of it, gone.

She sits at the edge of the bed, she felt more connected to the bed than she does to herself. It reflected her, it was naked, bare, hurt, and no one will ever know, because it will be cleaned and it will look perfect again.

The Type of Love.

She wakes up every morning looking at her phone. She holds it, her eyes barely open, but her hopes, her hopes are high. She throws the phone and her hopes are naive. She groans and goes back to sleep. No one, no one bothered to say Hi, no one bothered to care, no one bothered to check if she’s here. 

Days, days, and days pass. It’s the same thing. She meets someone, she thinks he cares, she talks to him,day one, day two, and then day three. Day three he’s gone, she’s longing to talk to him, she’s almost hoping he responds now. Caring too much brings this to light. Again. The caring of the heart is a sin, not a bliss, don’t believe people when they say those who are kind and care are the ones to find happiness. 

She then thinks that he’s too busy, it’s not that he doesn’t care, he does care, he’s my friend. Excuses. Excuses. Excuses. We back up the acts of others by excuses, we glorify their bad with excuses.  She does it so often that she forget the bad in people. 

But that’s okay, she thinks it’s okay. She doesn’t say anything when someone is mean to her. Her heart can hold it. But I wonder how long she can hold all of it for? Can she really have it all. It’s not about the boy anymore. It’s about how she touches the world with her heart, or how the world touches her heart. 

Does the world touch her heart? Or does it stomp right into it. Does it speed run in and then speed run out? 

It’s not about the boy anymore. It’s not about if he likes her or not. It’s not longer about emotions. She knows it’s not the it she is looking for. 

She is a romantic. She wants it to be effortless. She wants it to be simple and majestic. She wants to just feel the love and not fight for love. 

That boy is not for her. Any boy like that is not for her. She deserves more. I know she does. 

She should not settle for the fight for love. She should settle for just love. 

I Walk With X 

At the age of 2 I walk with mom.

At the age of 6 I walk with sisters.

At the age of 10 I walk with friends.

At the age of 15 I walk with less friends.

At the age of 20 I start to walk alone.

At the age of 22, now, I walk with X.

I sit back and wonder, how did I get so far? Think it’s positive? On the contrary, how did I get so far from people? Why do people leave me? Why do people not care?

I look down at myself and wondered. I looked into my soul and not at my clothes. I noticed the blip of pain, the dot of hurt, but I noticed something strange within me. I reached my hand in and touched it. It was far way too heavy, it was my heart, the problem.

How is the problem within my heart?

Simple. Having a kind heart ruins you. Caring too much ruins you. Expecting too much ruins you. Ruins. Ruins. Ruins.

Brace yourself child. You have to fix it. You have time to mend.

But I don’t want to have anything to fix! I want them to accept me! I don’t want hurt from caring! I don’t want pain from loving! How? How? How can this be so hard.

I walk alone right now. I walk with x. X is changeable. X will have a name. When I meet X, it will be better.

Short Story – The Absence.

Her eyes went blank when she opened them. Her heart fell to her feet because she felt it. She reached her hands out and felt mute. She slumped back on her bed and took a struggling but deep breath. She touched her face but felt nothing but a flat surface. She went down and touched her neck. She touched her shoulders and then she was lost. Her hands were lost and no longer in touch with her. 

She was able to feel one thing. Her mind. Her memories in her mind and whatever emotions that came through. Her soul is what mattered. That broke her, because her soul was broken.  How can God be so cruel and take away all the good that she had. The fake smile. The small laugh. The touch of her skin. How can God be so mean to her and prevent her from touching the world with her feet. From feeling her heart beat. Preventing her from talking to the one person she trusts. She lost her voice, so she lost her companion.  

She had one image in her mind right now. It was the nightmare she was running from. The pain that touched her heart. The little joy that brushed against her skin. It was that one thing she never had but the one thing she wanted. The one thing she was scared of and the one thing she has never experienced. It was that magical thing everyone talks about. Everyone hates. Everyones wants. Everyone needs. 

She never had it. 
It was love that she hated. 

The absence of love made her feel lost. The absence of love made her lose it. The absence of love struck her hard. 

She was numb. 

She opens her eyes again, she’s still broken. She touches her eyes and brushes off the sea that builds without her knowing. 

Your Mind, not your heart. 

I know your mind because your heart is still too deep for me. I know your mind from what you told me when we were strangers. I forced something out of you? No, now, I feel like my finger tips are forcing their way through into your mind. 

I don’t want your heart. I won’t fall for your heart. Your mind. I want that. I want to read it like my favorite book. I want to remember the lines. The details. I want to carve quotes from what you say. I want you to be the author, I promise, I will be the best reader ever.   

I want to get lost in your mind. I don’t want your heart. Everyone goes for the heart. I am not everyone. I am not like everyone. 


Show me your mind and I’ll show you mine. Just like that.