Dream- Sisters are a nightmare.

I've decided to post again after a very, very long time. I will henceforth be writing about my dreams which have become extremely vivid. Maybe one of you psych majors can tell me a little bit more about me.



So my dream begins with...

My family sitting in lawn chairs placed in a courtyard in Mombasa, Kenya. To set the scene a little, the courtyard was surrounded by palm trees and the spacious area was decorated lavishly with streamers and the like. What was odd about the dreams is that I don't think I was in it at all. I was, to best put it, off screen. Anyways, my family was gathered there to celebrate my eighth birthday. This is where it gets really strange. There were two versions of my sister Shaila in my dream. A two-year-old version of Shaila and a six-year-old version of Shaila. I'm going to call them Little and Big Shaila, respectively. Big Shaila was carrying Little Shaila under one arm. In the other she was carrying my balloons for my birthday party. Little Shaila had a needle in one hand and every so often, to my horror, she would pop one of my balloons! The ridiculous thing is every single time Little Shaila popped a balloon, Big Shaila would almost vindictively call out to me (off screen) saying "Oops, sorry Amyn." Every. Single. Time.

My family did nothing and it made me sad.

Death be not proud

DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,	5
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,	10
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die. -John Donne

Something Embarrassing.

Since I have not been religiously posting anything lately, here's a laugh. Don't judge me. Please.

Backstory: so a friend and I decided to participate in a mock wedding to raise money for a charity. To publicize the event and get a significant audience, we produced our "love story."

As much as it pains me to say this, enjoy ahaha

do-re-mi

I sing.

Surprisingly.

UNC Samaa is an a capella group I was fortunate enough to be accepted into. The people I've met are indescribably amazing and.. just.. really fun. We're a fledgling group but we're picking up momentum.

Anyways, here's one of our songs!!! Hope you enjoy

Shukran Allah V Sunday Morning

Also, if you'd care to share your thoughts...

On Needles

As I write this post, I realize my days.. rather, hours.. are numbered. 2013 seemed like it would start on such a happy note but I have arrived to a stark reality. Tomorrow morning at 7:45 AM Eastern Standard Time, I will be subjected to heinous acts of torture as doctors extract my warm, nurturing, rich blood for analysis. I fear I may not survive the day. Please.. Keep me in your thoughts.

..But seriously. I have an irrational fear of needles. It's rather pathetic (and ironic, since I want to enter the medical field), but the very thought of a needle puncturing my skin, entering a vein and then sucking out blood really creeps me out. It has partially something to do with the fact that I am particular about anything sticking me but also because the crook of the arm seems so innocent; nonthreatening. Why would anyone want to stick a needle there? Creeps me out.

I understand the necessity to draw blood in order to check my cholesterol, etc, etc. but as I've grown, the days of pricking my ring finger to extract blood into minuscule vials have long passed and I have to know act and be treated "like an adult."

Be warned for my thoughts are not censored, but personally, I'd much rather a doctor create an incision with a scalpel on my arm to drain blood from me than a needle be stuck into a vein to extract it. That's right, I'd rather be cut open than be pricked by a needle. It makes no sense, but there it is.


Oh boy.

Surgeon vs. Mechanic

I got this in an email and I thought it was so great I figured I'd share:

A cardiologist was there waiting for the service manager to come and take a look at his bike when A mechanic shouted across the garage. A mechanic was removing a cylinder-head from the motor of a Harley motorcycle when he spotted a well-known cardiologist in his shop.

"Hey, Doc, want to take a look at this?"

The cardiologist, a bit surprised, walked over to where the mechanic was working on the motorcycle.

The mechanic straightened up, wiped his hands on a rag and asked, "So Doc, look at this engine. I open its' heart, take the valves out, repair any damage, and then put them back in, and when I finish, it works just like new. So how come I make $39,675 a year and you get the really big bucks ($1,695,759) when you and I are doing basically the same work?"

The cardiologist paused, smiled and leaned over, then whispered to the mechanic:




"Try doing it with the engine running."

Mimicry

I believe the best way I could describe myself when I was five is as a cross between those minions from Despicable Me and Dennis the Menace. I had the capacity for mischief that surpassed most children and I think the only reason why my parents still kept me around despite my terrible antics was because I gave them hours of recorded comedy or because everyone seemed to like my voluminous cheeks.

One day, as I often did, I watched my father shave. There was something particularly thrilling and magical about the disappearance of white foam from my fathers face. I don't really know why, but I got a kick out of it. My father is the epitome of manliness. Having climbed Kilimanjaro as a sixteen year old and having traveled all over the world.. Well.. he was a role model; a hero.

So, I'm watching my dad shave and an absolutely enlightened thought occurred to me. I was going to shave.
In Kenya, we broke for lunch and came back to school after our "break" and on one fateful day I did it.

I ran into a problem as soon as I walked into the bathroom. I had no beard to shave, no mustache to trim. I sat there long and hard, puzzled. Then I noticed my eyebrows.

I figured, hey, its the next best thing and since I don't have any other sort of facial hair.. why not? It's a miracle I didn't shave off something important (like my nose) but lo and behold! I had shaved off one of my eyebrows. For some reason I did not deem it necessary to shave the other one. Maybe I wanted to retain some individuality and not copy my dad fully. Who knows.

Off to school I went and when I got home to my parents...

Oh boy.