I think I got you from my father’s side. Then again, I could have also acquired you from my mother’s side. Whatever gene carries you in my body and from wherever I got you from, it seems to be that you are here to stay. Actually, I think you have lived within me for a while now.
The point is that you are an ass. Simply put. No hard feelings. I wish you were not, but you are, and because you live with me – you are one of those traits that live in my brain- I become a jerk when you get the better of me. I don’t like you for sometimes getting the better of me like when I am taking a walk in Ramallah, when I’m in an argument, when I’m trying to quiet down the little siblings and cousins, or when I would rather be calm.
You suck when you show up during “first meetings” with people, like in places where I would like to give off a good impression, but then you come along, and I seem mean, so that means if I do not get a second meeting with those people, I’m forever seen as a monster. Yeah, that’s when you suck.
Then again, sometimes, it isn’t your fault. Sometimes, things piss people off, and you surface to take your stand, just like when you are daydreaming about a loved one, and the mushiness appears as an idiotic smile on your face.
What I am trying to say is that I would like you to shape up. Actually, I have tried the whole goose-fraba thing on my own, and one of my best friends, Hamda, used to tell me, “Alright, Hash, just count to 10.” I think I reach number 3, and then, you, my dearest temper, rage on.
My dearest temper, since we live together and the world cannot help but calling on you to rise once in a while, we should work on being friends – I help you and you help me.
With a raised eyebrow and a grin on my face,