Move in or Move on

Sitting on a stone couch on the terrace of my soon-to-be home, I grew wings and soared high in the horizon. I enjoyed the sunset as the scent of orange blossoms filled my heart with joy and birds sang their prayers to a new dusk. A sense of achievement flowed through my veins and a happy tear twinkled in my eyes as I embraced my future. My mobile rang. She was a friend. I answered. After a stream of courteous greetings, my friend asked about my whereabouts, and I informed her that I was checking the paint colors at my new apartment. I embarked on an infinite rant about the beauty of everything I laid my eyes on until she caught me off guard with a question: Will your boyfriend move in with you? I met her question with silence followed by a need to go do a thing!

I was not offended by her question; I was just baffled – needless to say clueless. First, I was not sure which boyfriend she was referring to. Who has she seen me with? Who have I told her about? Who has been in my life long enough to be a boyfriend? Who does she think I love enough to share a home with? I honestly could not pin a face to her question. The second and main source of my confusion is the fact that I have never given that particular issue any thought. It is true that I have been living alone for the past five years but I have never considered it “home”. It was as though I borrowed someone’s car; I have to keep it clean, keep it safe, treat it with respect, and return it on time in perfect shape.

Now I own a home and one day I will have a boyfriend who will make it past the first month. What if he makes it past the first six months? It is one thing to come and visit and it is a totally different thing to move in with me. Bearing in mind that I am a very territorial person – territorial enough to pee allover my desk so no one would dare sit on it – and bearing in mind that I value space and privacy beyond any man I have ever known. Will I be willing to share? Will I welcome his clothes in my wardrobe? Will I be able to see his toothbrush next to mine in the bathroom? Will he have a key? Will he really move in with me?

Other than my space issues, there is a lot of social baggage that comes with such a situation. Like virginity, abortion, homosexuality, extramarital affairs, cohabitation is another taboo in our society; for a couple to live together they have to be married. They get to really know and understand one another after they are legally bound to one another - another instance of burying our heads in the sand and sweeping our dust under the carpet. I believe that this is a major factor that is ruining all my marriage and commitment attempts. Between cultural variations, personal differences, and individual perks, I find the idea of cohabitation rather appealing and logical.

When two people come together, they are not just who they are today; they represent their respective homes, schools, friends, peers, and groups with their attitudes, habits, beliefs, and needs. This is a lot of ironing to do in a relationship. How a person eats, talks, or walks is just the tip of the iceberg. The way one communicates with, reacts to, and feels about things and people is a wide enough gap to bridge. Hence, many love stories crash after marriage because he was not who she thought he was or because she was not the girl she said she was.

The idea of sharing is in itself frightening; who is to do what? Assigning roles and responsibilities and trying to fulfill them over a long period of time is like the prologue to a marriage. Is he responsible? Is she reliable? Is he stingy? Is she a control freak? Is he too organized? Is she beyond sloppy? There is no other way to find out. Living with someone is not just about the sexual part of the relationship; it brings out the mental and emotional dimensions to the foreground and the day to day dealings are the real test of the success or the failure of the relationship.

Moving in together does not mean that one partner is hosting the other at his home – responsibility free. I am walking the whole nine yards here; electricity, water, gas, maintenance, food, and the rest of the bills. I am speaking about chores, tasks, duties, compromises, and adapting. How hard would it be for a man to move into my house and be reminded every second that this is “my house” and he is not entitled to anything? How hard would be for a woman – who is not me – to live with a man who treats her as a guest? How hard will it be to discuss the money issues and the other “embarrassing” issues? – I assure you it is much harder to talk about those things for the first time after the deal is sealed and signed.

I am also not claiming that jumping that hurdle is a guarantee that the relationship will last forever. People change and people grow in different directions; a couple could live together happily and get married, then after a year or two they could grow apart. Keeping a marriage intact is another story and it takes a lot of work on a different level; fighting redundancy and boredom that creep into the marriage requires two people who want to stay married and are willing to work to reap what they once sowed. In a way, it is much easier to reach the highest top than to stay on top.

I am not advocating brothels and turning one’s home into a full board motel; I am talking about a relationship that has grown and has developed into something solid and is worth investing in. At the same time, I am not promoting the notion of test driving the man; I am pushing the idea of test driving the marriage concept to that man. Having thought about it now, the “living together” phase is all good; if it works, then you will have a solid marriage with no nasty surprises because of how she looks when she wakes up or how he sounds when he goes to sleep. If it does not work, then you have saved yourself a rough marriage or an inevitable divorce.

Detoxing

* I have reached a point where I got so familiar with the colors of sadness and madness; they come wrapped in a big brownish ball - the color of human waste.

* I am sick of the color, the smell, the taste, and the feeling of deep shit!

* My heart is sinking, my soul is sulking, and a vicious crab is playing xo on my guts with its cutting edges.

* I turned from the inspiration to the burden; from the muse to the block; from the comfort to the pressure; from the real thing to the distraction; from the relationship to the rebound.

* There is a huge void in the center of my body; I have no passion, no thoughts, no drive, and no life. I am a drained air-vacuumed sac of human bones!

* I knew this feeling; the feeling deep down that the person at the other end is slipping away. I knew it is over and I knew that the more I held on, the more I would get hurt!

* Getting over someone is hard; ending a relationship is hard; overcoming a crush is hard; letting go is hard; I wished it would just hurt a bit then go away.

* I am now vomiting the toxic residues of a relationship that went sour; the leftovers of a person who poisoned my life!

* I've been hit by a bus; I do not want to get out of bed. I am sitting there hurting from inside. I am unable to reach into myself - where it hurts - to try to make it better .

* There are tears to go with the pain. Sometimes I just go numb then I am struck by a sudden pang of pain. I feel overwhelmed by anger at life.

* I tried resisting but the more I resisted the more difficult it got. It was like pushing a rewind button that would start the cycle all over again.

* Memories hurt. Unfulfilled wishes and dreams hurt. Anger hurt. The wounded ego of a person should have been worshipped hurt.

* The hole is getting deeper. The wound feels as if it would never heal. It is a vicious cycle that is just draining me.

* The peak periods are driving to, or back from, work, upon waking up, before going to bed, during meals, watching a movie, before a date, on a date, after a date, with family, with old friends, with new friends, at work ... I do not recall the rest of the times when I want to shoot myself!

* I never knew that misery can be seen, felt, touched, smelt, heard, and tasted.

* I know the drill by heart; sinking, sulking, aching, hitting rock bottom, then bottling it up, pushing it down, locking it in my black box with my other black memories, and then climbing my way up the tunnel.

Thoughts on: Change & New Beginnings

* New beginnings are always loaded with many contradictory feelings; hope, fear, optimism, doubt, resolution, skepticism, comfort, hesitation, and determination.

* The skeletons in the closet and collective experiences are a threat to new beginnings.

* We remember when we were last burnt or when we were last hurt, and we subconsciously look at our scars and resist the change.

* Memories of how deep and how painful the scars were rush back to our heads and, with an involuntary movement, we clench our fists as though we are holding on to the past - Something inside of us refuses to let go.

* At home we were directed to focus on our downsides, at school we had to improve our bad grades, and in the workplace we are asked to “develop” our weaknesses. Those who moved on did the exact opposite.

* It is amazing how much power we have yet we are so oblivious to its existence. Invest in what makes you feel strong instead of wasting time on things that only make you feel weak and bad about yourself.

* We do not believe in flying; we feel more secure with our feet on the ground, even if it is just quicksand.

* Fear always intercepts our attempts to change; fear of the devil we don’t know; fear of the other side of the fence; fear of the maze.

* We hold on to stability, to our comfort zone, like a mother to her child on a collapsing bridge, and we avoid venturing outside for fear of getting hurt or getting lost.

* Nothing justifies waking up in the morning hating what you wake up to, who you wake up with, or where you get up to go.

* Nothing explains leading an unfulfilled life with an unfulfilling job and an unfulfilling partner.

* We are meant to choose. We are created to investigate options and alternatives. We are not equipped to compromise for the long term.

* There are times when we consciously limit our options because we do not want to feel overwhelmed by the infinity of choices out there. It is difficult to choose; the bigger the selection, the more helpless we feel.

* How do we know we are making the right decision? How can we tell that we are not going to regret this? Other than using our limited common sense and intangible gut feeling, we will never know!

* Find micro-options and loopholes of choices in the tightest of situations and the trickiest of questions.

* Shift your motivation from the fear of loosing to the excitement about winning.

A Penny for your Thoughts!

Growing up I had ample respect for writers whether they wrote for the silver screen or on the pages of newspapers and magazines. My deepest and most pious thoughts were directed towards those whose books and novels hacked my mind. I have always envisioned male authors to be old wealthy intellectual creatures whose lives are filled with seminars, parties, lectures, and brilliant discussions. My teenage head believed that female writers had to wear glasses on a plump face; they had to be short and their hair had to be gray. It was natural to assume that recognition, wealth, and thoughts that were worth sharing came with age; hence, the notion of a young writer was not to be conceived.

Over the past 33 years I have absorbed the colors, scents, flavors, textures, and voices of everything I encountered. I have sponged on people I met vacuuming their feelings, experiences, beliefs, fears, dreams, and nightmares. I have turned into a walking magnetic crucible of humanity and there is much more to attract. When I turned 30 my collective potion of pain reached its boiling temperature and it began pouring in emails to my friends, on magazine pages, and along the tabs of my blogs. Writing liberated me and vented the heat off my overloaded psyche. I also discovered that great young writers exist and that female writers could be pretty and smart without one attribute overriding the other.

In my grown up head it was natural to assume that if a person had the talent and the imagination to string literary beads of thoughts into a sacred rosary, then that person could be a writer. Then I learned the power of connections and the allure of fame. I adamantly worked on both seizing every opportunity that beamed in my horizon. I thought that I was a few baby steps away from my dream – becoming a writer … a real writer … a published writer with books, essays, novels, and what-have-you. Again, I assumed that people who contribute to the legacy of an era should do nothing but write, and that if a person chose to become a writer then that person needed to earn a good living out of writing.

Between the ruthless clutches of publishers, producers, agents, copyrights, and other calculative mechanisms a writer’s priceless thoughts and words became worthless. The most creative writers I know are leading the lives of vagabonds. The freelancers, unless they are trapped into some corporate entity, they are semi starved. The scriptwriters – talented ones – are licking the dust. Novelists are sold cheap and columnists do it for fun. Editors in magazines enjoy zero stability and very little income compared to their counterparts in other industries.

The blogosphere has attracted a multitude of writers – published and unpublished – whose work reeks of talent. Whether it is in English or Arabic; be it poetry or prose – mystical is their gift. Being the naïve optimist that I am, I urged them to get published. The Miss Fix-It that I could be, embarked on creating a fool-proof marketing plan for their talent and gift in a world that pays more for a skilled – not talented – well-connected pen. The World Wide Web has given them a voice, a solid base of readers, a fan club, and interactive feedback. They have escaped from materialistic torture devices into cyberspace. They write because they just want to write – it is not a living and it certainly is not a life.

The image that I painted for writers in my teens is now shattered. The dream that I lived about becoming one of them is now uncertain. Touring the world with my books, touching hearts, provoking thoughts, and raising our dead society from its beauty sleep all seem vague. If I want to maintain the standard of living that I luckily enjoy now, writing will not suffice. I will always have to sell my body to some corporate entity to secure my basic physiological and safety needs. In front of me she sat, and with young inquisitive eyes the 21 year old journalist looked at me and asked: “Can I make a living out of being a writer?” I could have lied. I could have given her false hope. I looked into her soul and said: “No! It’s a penny for your thoughts!”

The Magic Mirror

Mirror … mirror on the wall,

Who’s the fairest fair of all?

Mirror … mirror on the wall,

Who’s the smartest head of all?

Mirror … mirror on the wall,

Who’s that girl standing tall?

Mirror … mirror on the wall,

Who's to hold me when I fall?

Mirror … mirror on the wall,

Why are you not answering my call?

Oh mirror ...

The lines and the scars you do not hide

My scattered thoughts you would not guide

Me myself and I; the gap so wide

Oh mirror; you make me look inside

You show me a girl against the tide

By the rules she would not abide

Within your frame, a caged spirit am I?

By your name, what voice have I?

Oh mirror … can you hear me?

My mirror is deceiving me!

I will show you my smile ... will you let me?

A star in my eyes ... will you get me?

I will show you a happy face ... please let me

A shelter from myself ... please get me

Mirror … mirror on the wall,

Do not show me her face;

I have killed her and left no trace.

Mirror … mirror on the wall,

She shall never stutter;

With a new voice, words she will utter.

Mirror … mirror on the wall,

Her fear you shall never show;

Fearless she is to know.

Mirror ... mirror on the wall,

Do not point at her scars;

It hurts ... not her scars.

Oh mirror ...

There is no Santa but tell her not

Dreams are dreams but wake her not

She will give in ... tell her not to

She will give up ... tell her not to

Cruel mirror ...

Why show me a figure so broken?

Why tell me words unspoken?

My mirror ...
Every time I at look you

I miss a line in her face.

Every time I come to you

A part of her I erase.

Every time I need you

I abandon her grace.

So my mirror ..

Where is the little fat girl that you used to show me?

Where are the frightened eyes that used to look at me?

Is she still hiding her smile with her hand?

Is she still looking for a magic wand?

You loved her not

You loved me a lot

Mirror … mirror on the wall,

What have I done?

Mirror … mirror on the wall,

Where has she gone?

Mirror … mirror on the wall,

Which way do I run?

Yes mirror ...

How I wish I could give you my back

and never look at you again.

How I wish I could leave you on a rack

and never fall for your tricks again.

Oh mirror ... Why can’t you lie?

Why don’t you tell me that I am the fairest fair of all?

Why don’t you tell me that I am the smartest head of all?
Why don’t you let me stand proud and tall?
Will you at least be there when I fall?
Oh … Mirror … mirror on the wall …
Why are you not answering my call?

The Funfair

My laughter and giggles filled the air
as you walked me to the fair.
I was again a little girl of five;
I was so alive.

My pink ballerina shoes I wore
for I feared falling no more.
To the carousel we walked
and about all the games we talked.

The merry-go-round song played
and to the tunes I swayed.
A black stallion I mounted;
up and down I counted.

In the air my hands I threw
in my heart your love grew.
To the rollercoaster we went
next to one another we laid spent.

You bought me ice cream on a cone;
its chocolate flavor made me moan.
You painted kittens on my face,
and gave me mittens made of lace.

In the mirror maze we set foot
hand in hand we stood.
What I saw was never so true;
I saw the girl that I once knew.

In front of the fortuneteller our eyes met.
“Will it last?” I asked fearing regret.
“Carpe Diem” were the two words she uttered.
“I love you” in a low voice you stuttered.

Between a silent breeze and tunes so fine,
in the horizon a dolphin did shine.
In my heart and out he jumped;
our bodies gently bumped.

I am the ocean! The high waves I create.
I am a wave! In the ocean I propagate.
In a chocolate factory the little girl stood.
The delightful chocolate tasted so good.

Oh God!

Nothing

Deep into your beautiful eyes I look;
I see nothing.
Between your poised words I listen;
I hear nothing.
Through your sculptured face I gaze;
There is nothing.

You look at my defeated face;
You see nothing.
You hear my hollow words;
You say nothing.
You reach out to me;
But alas! You mean nothing.

Like a big transparent ball,
You are made of nothing.
Like a wooden plaque on a wall,
You reflect nothing.
Like a Greek statue in my hall,
You feel nothing.

In the circle of nothingness we met,
Talked for hours about nothing I bet,
Have I not told you? Nothing will nothing beget.

Yours truly,
Marwa Rakha

Challenging the Dragon in the Eye of the Sun

“Imagination was given to man to compensate him for what he is not; a sense of humor to console him for what he is.”

- Sir Francis Bacon

I woke up gasping for air after another nightmare and I knew that this would be another sleepless night. I reached out for his book as though I needed to feel his presence. No one has ever dedicated anything to me - I read the dedication he wrote me one more time; in his head I am smoking apple flavored shisha on my terrace, staring at the stars, obsessing about my toothbrush, and coloring my world in orange. I am not an avid reader of Arabic literature but Ahmed Naje’s Rogers was anything but disappointing.

Reading Rogers felt like sitting next to a remarkable storyteller as he flipped through his photo album and told me the story of each shot. Instead of turning moments into fading memories, Ahmed decided to capture the essence of his childhood memories, school days, traumas, family icons, wars, and amours in his book. The prose and narration, along with his vivid imagery, textured descriptions, and forward colors gave life to each of his characters. His attention to detail can be easily traced in his descriptions – the mosquito scene on his grandfather’s hand is just one example.

Ahmed Naje’s Rogers is a canvas of memories and snapshots where fact and fiction are woven beyond identification. His imagination fed stories to his green inquisitive mind. Questions like the existence of God, the creation and “sewing” of the human body, the laws of attraction, and the need to create a utopia are just a few fragments of his enigmatic book. Unlike other picture albums, Naje’s pictures are far from perfect; he has no reluctance in showing his scars, his fears, his dreams, and his frustrations – as a little boy and as an adult. As a reader, you cannot help but identify with the feelings that each shot evokes.

Feeling the air blow against his face, walking by the river, and seeing green fields set a striking contrast between his life at his hometown and his life in “the big city” where suffocating cement blocks turn his stomach and only the thought of a revolution or a supernatural gift for larceny cause his mental orgasms. The most visible themes revolve around his grandparents, his parents, his street, his cruel teacher, his girlfriend, his undefined female friend, and his best friend. On a deeper level you can trace his unanswered questions – starting from God to his very own existence and his chosen path.

With lots of imagination Naje, echoing Roger Waters of Pink Floyd’s Album “The Wall”, created a brick wall between his reality and his fantasy land. In his own words and using his own palette he decided to color his pictures adding one brick after the other to the wall that he often crossed in his first book – Rogers.

The S-Word

Like a sword the s-word cuts through our lives; starting and ending relationships; labeling and tagging people; torturing some and relieving others. I grew up watching our Egyptian cinema turning sex into a shameful repulsive act where the woman is defeated and the man is delighted. The message was very clear: women who “give in” to men without a legally binding document end up suffering one way or the other. The s-word turns them into social outcasts, black sheep, or infamous notorious creatures of the night. The man usually vanishes leaving behind a bereaved creature pulling her hair and tearing apart what’s left of her clothes as a sign of intense remorse. Some of those women were portrayed to show further suffering when the seed of the affair blossoms into a child. With nothing but disdain and a curled lip, the voice of our intact society would echo in our ears saying “I told you so!”

In our modern cinema, girls can flirt and tease as much as they pleased but the s-word is still frowned upon. Those engaging in premarital sex strive throughout the movie to set two wrongs right – and of course it is the girl who is always doing her very best to get a ring on the damn finger. Other tragic heroines, whose character flaw is their lustful nature, have to go through a painful catharsis whereby they are humiliated, rejected, mortified, and eventually forgiven, or killed in an accident. In the first dénouement, being forgiven in this sense means that they have learnt their lesson and that they will lead a life of penance and “virtue” until a fine gentleman sees how far they have changed and kindly accepts to give them a ring. In the second scenario - where they die - they have paid in full for their mortal sin and now they can just die to set an example for the living.

Today a fellow writer, in a casual chat, asked me why girls refuse and adamantly resist getting intimate with their beau. He complained of the fact that girls feel that the s-word impacts the interest, or the lack of interest, of a guy in a girl. He bluntly asked me why girls fear losing the guy once they have sex with him. I was not the only one watching those movies; I could even consider myself lucky because I was a late bloomer in my relationship with the silver screen. Decade after another, such movies spread the guilt culture in our shame society. As if FGM (female genital mutilation) was not enough to create lifetime barriers between our girls and their sexuality, we have a whole culture preaching the virtue of a hymen.

Arabic movies, books, and anecdotes planted a deeply rooted conviction that girls who are “dishonorable” are not fit for being wives or mothers. The same influences caused men to believe that a girl who expresses her love physically is loose; hence the famous analogies between a girl’s honor and a match stick, a brand new car and a second hand car, and the famous piece of meat covered in sticky flies. My maid once noticed that my cats were not playing together and threw me a casual comment saying “why would he want to even see her face … he already took what he wanted … he is just a man!”

I have many male friends who, in my presence, share their success stories and conquests in the female world. Their verbiage and jargon are of the most offensive type; verbs like jumped, humped, and scored are very popular. So even if a guy is sitting there all polished and cleaned up for his girl, she could still sense the jump-hump-score sequel. Our men are known to be sweet-talkers and to be very expressive in the beginning of the relationship; an American friend of mine, who laments ever getting married to her educated Egyptian hubby, told me that he swept her off her feet with his words, attention, and passion – this is what our men do.

But once the girl loses touch with the ground, she falls … she falls hard and is most likely to break her neck, smash her head, or crack her back. She survives the fall only to live with a permanent disability. Experience taught girls to hold back; they learnt to disguise their feelings in a cloak of callousness for self preservation purposes. Our generation of men and women are confused; everything that they were taught as kids is being questioned as adults. Our very same inhibited women and our very own conservative men, once in the presence of a foreigner are transformed. The women no longer feel judged and the men no longer feel pressured and questioned – what a mess!

I am not for or anti premarital sex. There are so many variables in the equation and our society is not ready for a generalization of any sort at this point of time; if I tell girls to go ahead and to release their inhibitions, I will be damned. If I tell them to resist and to fight the natural urge for intimacy, I am a lying hypocrite. I will just leave it at the point where it is a case by case scenario and I will conclude on a final note to the guys: mental shackles are way worse than metal shackles. We will get out of our dungeons, when we no longer fear your dragons.

Women are like Ducks!

A few years back Shania Twain inspired me to sketch an analogy between men and shoes. At the time, I had settled for a very wrong pair of shoes; uncomfortable from the start, though highly maintained, they lost their allure as time passed, and I realized that I have invested a fortune of emotions into a fake, yet well polished pair of mismatched sneakers. Today, for no justified reason, I decided to come clean with a new confession; women are like ducks. When I look at women, instead of faces, I see ducks. There are several categories of ducks in my world; wild ducks, stuffed ducks, black ducks, and sitting ducks. There are pure, hybrid, and deformed breeds of ducks … Let me illustrate to give you a better idea.

Wild ducks are fearless spirits, risk-takers, and trend-setters. In the prairie, among beasts they live, yet highly respected and well positioned. No one dares pluck their feathers, tame, mold, frame, or domesticate them. Those creatures are often criticized, rejected, and resisted but it never makes them any weaker or milder. Whether other ducks look up to them or look down on them, they just cannot be as wild or as free. Unlike black ducks, they know who they are, what they want, and where they want to go. Wild ducks end on a plate only if shot dead or ambushed.

At the other extreme, black ducks are outcasts; like their market value, their self esteem, and their social acceptance are low. Their flaw could be related to their physique, social disposition, spiritual inclination, tarnished reputation, or unheard of ideas. Black ducks are sentenced to a lifetime of isolation and alienation – and it hurts them. A black duck wants to be unnoticed, unheard, unseen, and, in a way, invisible. They are the geeks, the nerds, and the pimple-faced teenagers that never grow into anything more assertive. Since the men of this world are not blessed with insight into their souls, black ducks, end up alone or on the plate of an equal male outcast. Being a black duck is a stigma that neither time nor blood could erase.

Going down the ladder, stuffed ducks are a delight to look at and a pleasure to feast over. They are perfect for social occasions and for showing off purposes – each man on the table has a stuffed duck on his plate! Being full of rice, onions, and any leftovers in the fridge, stuffed ducks look bigger and better than other ducks – posh and grand. They lure men by their big bloated over-fed over-exposed over-stuffed appearance only to give them, instead of nourishing meat, a plate full of constipating legumes. Needless to say, one can only handle that much of stuffed fowl. Their mission in life is to look good – and stuffed! Stuffed ducks land on the plate of whoever pays more.

Sitting ducks are pathetically lovely; you can caress them, fondle them, shoot them, cook them, stuff them, or cage them. They are tame, demure, docile, and disciplined. Sitting ducks are anything but confrontational – they will whine, complain, and bitch about something to everyone and anyone but their offender. Sitting ducks have neither flying abilities nor argumentative capabilities; they are an easy catch, a quick dump, and a perfect emotional punching bag. They do not land on a man’s plate; they end up in his fridge for use when there is no other food on his table – sitting ducks are always taken for granted and never appreciated.

Our culture encourages sitting ducks, exiles wild ducks, despises black ducks, and craves for stuffed ducks, but pure breeds are rare nowadays; for example, I am a hybrid of wild and black ducks- and that says it all about me. Men drool over the offspring of crossbreeding stuffed ducks and sitting ducks; such ducklings fit all the molds of our patriarchal society. Some men are stupid enough to think that they can turn a wild duck into a sitting duck, or even worse, turn a black duck into a stuffed duck. The most hazardous type is a mix of wild ducks and stuffed ducks; they think they rule the word.

Continuing the bird analogy, I would classify swans, ostriches, and birds of prey as deformed breeds. Swans are the vain girls who do not practice what they preach; they claim to be on a high ethical pedestal when their feet are in deep mud. Ostriches burry their heads in the sand thinking they outsmarted everyone when they are nothing but blind, stupid, and ignorant. They easily point out the flaws in others, and because their heads are in the sand, they believe that no one could see their flaws. Hawks are a carnivorous strain of women that feeds on its own friends and loved ones. They are full of envy, venom, evil, and have zero tolerance and no resilience. Multiple deformities occur but the outcome is a creature that is, at best, disgusting.