I'm going to chop my head open with a fine ax and poke at my brain with the sharpest ice pick until I can feel nothing anymore. I am now officially surrounded by Egyptians. My next door neighbor's kids bought the house right next door to mine and so now there are three connected homes on one block occupied by Egyptians.

My next door neighbor on the right is currently blasting some hickish shit that only taxi drivers in Egypt can be excused for listening to, my father upstairs is taking a nap and is falling asleep to the Koran, my mother is watching her soap on the satellite dish while she's waiting for the next match to begin, and my next door neighbor on the left is listening to some Arabic music that I really can't describe. There are two children running in and out of the three homes, yelling and screaming about the molokhia being ready. My ears are going to start bleeding in another second.

And I am ready to DIE. DIE. DIE. I can't take it. And why do I stay? Why don't I just go out? It's a lovely Saturday.

I can't leave the house because the Brazil-France game is about to start in minutes and I've become such an addict that I'm willing to risk permanent mental retardation.

At least Kaka is playing. Makes the rest of the kaka seem worthwhile.