I've always been blamed for being too nice. Too many so-called friends have stepped all over me. But I kept assuming the best of humankind. I insisted on trusting (in a non-naïve way) and giving. It's not so easy to become my friend, but once you do, I will forever be there for you.

All my friends have told me that this attitude towards others will bring me nothing but pain. While it's true that I get disappointed and hurt often, I also receive the advantages of having a true friend and a trustworthy companion. It's amazing how magical a relationship becomes once both parties are non-cynical and open.

So, over the years, I've consistently chosen to love with all my heart over being protective and distant. When in doubt I've given unexpectedly. I don't mean to say that I'm an angel. I make mistakes. I hurt people. I say stupid things. But I always try to be the best I can be and I always try to assume the best of people with whom I haven't previously interacted.

I get bitter when hurt and I get angry, but I know that I'd still rather be me than a selfish bastard. Maybe cause I can sleep better this way. I've continually struggled with the idea of how I could be selfish. So have Six and Owen, I think. And somehow I've always come around to realize that this is the way I was built and this is the only way I can live with myself.

It all made sense when my psychology teacher started talking about Adler. Adler had this theory, which says that every human feels inferior as a child. So we, humans, compensate by striving to be the best we can be. Trying to be better than others happens when this feeling is perverted. And Adler says that if you're selfish, then you're neurotic.

Now, that, I like!

Previously? Shitty Manners.

If I haven't mentioned earlier, my mom came to visit last weekend. Since I am unable to fly, she took the eleven-hour trip from Istanbul to New York. This inability to sit on a plane extends to other annoyances. For example, my back doesn't allow me to visit a museum with her. I can't go shopping either. All we could really do outside is eat and go to the movies. Only cause the theater is close to my house and I could return home if needed.

So we went to the movies last night. To be totally honest, it was a stupid movie, but still, I never realized how much we depend on people's manners. The couple sitting next to me must have confused the dark setting and Jennifer Lopez's soothing voice (or whiny as the case may be with her) for their own living room. They kept chit chattering and giggling throughout the movie. After a half hour of this maddening whispering, I turned to the guy and asked him to please stay quiet. I normally hate people who do that but it was truly unbearable.

So the couple practically ignores me and within a few minutes, I am fuming. I ask him to please shut up and he says that if I'm not happy I can move somewhere else. Which is when it hit me that there was absolutely nothing I can do. If the guy wanted to be a totally jerk and talk throughout the entire movie, I have no capacity to stop him. If this were a classroom, the teacher would act as the chaperone. In a museum, we have guards. In the library, librarians. But no one in a theater.

If the guy had turned really obnoxious, I probably could have called someone to kick him out, but there is nothing I can do unless the actions are totally out there. Before last night, I never realized how much we rely on people self-policing their manners. The only reason we don't act rude in public is cause we think we shouldn't. Amazing how often that is enough.

And I am really glad it is.

Oh and I passed the Japanese test that I took in November, so I rule!

Previously? Heart.

If you read Metafilter or McSweeney's , you might have heard about Dave Eggers's recent clarification. I've read several of Dave Eggers's works and I'm quite a fan. Since I'm not really a humor reader, I've always wondered why I like his work so much and while reading this clarification, I remembered why.

Here's the sentence that goes to the core of things.

David, you wrote that without heart. There is no heart in your piece.

In the end, it all comes down to heart. People who make solid friends, good movies, novels and music all have to have heart. Cause if the passion, the burn is not there than nothing matters. If you can't be enthused and thrilled and amazed about what you're doing, why are you doing it? If you don't care about your friends, why would you have them? If you're not giving it all you have, you're wasting your time. And ours.

Tonight, I finally watched Billy Elliot and I loved his answer to the judges from the ballet school. He said dancing makes him feel like electricity. I've always admired artists cause they have the balls to do the thing they truly love while the rest of us and just working so we can put food on the table. They have heart.

Another point by Eggers which is close to my heart is the following:

In your correspondence, you sound like a normal, even warm, person, who cares about truth, who enjoys books, etc. But in your journalism your persona is very different. Where does that tone come from? How can any reasonable person speak so snidely about books? Books!

I couldn't agree more. Each time I read a book critic that totally bashes a book in the most snotty, all-knowing way, I think the exact same thing as above. How pathetic must these people's lives be that they feel the need to bash others. If they know so much about books, they should sit and write one themselves! I guarantee their viewpoint and harsh judging criteria would change. How much bitterness and anger must these people have to do this for a living?

When I finally finish my novel, that's all I want out of it.

I want it to have heart.

Previously? The Universe and Me.

Today was a good day.

Last few months have been days of crisis after crisis. Going to work and staring at the screen and coming back home without having gotten my scripts to work. Spending hours trying to make sense of everything that just refuses to cooperate. Not responding to email or phone calls while the do-to list keeps increasing. Some jerk stealing my credit card and using it to put expensive crafts supplies. Classes where I would love to do the homework only if my brain would cooperate.

Wednesday, I realized one of the biggest reasons of my unhappiness at work. Thursday, I got it resolved. I had a very important meeting today, which went so well it was beyond my expectations. And to top it all off, I fixed my script.

I responded to the three most outstanding and most dreaded emails I'd had since November. My friends Judy and Priscilla, whom I hadn't seen in three years, came to New York so we got to meet and have a long chat. My Italian Literature teacher recommended several books that I've been looking forward to read. I got the notary signature/stamp on my affidavit due to the fraudulent charges on my credit card.

As more and more issues got resolved, I felt more energized and fixed even more stuff. Amazing how something small can set off a chain reaction.

Sometimes the universe just aligns to fit your needs and all you need to do is be thankful.

Thank You.

Previously? Silence.

My first official boyfriend and I started dating a few months before I turned sixteen. Before he came along, I'd sort of been dating my best friend but we never publicly admitted it.

So this guy, whom we'll call James for ease of use, and I had known each other for ages. That summer we spent a lot of time together and finally became exclusive. At the time, there was no such thing as dating in Turkey, at least in my surroundings. You either were friends with someone or you were exclusive.

So James and I start seeing each other. We spend the next two years together. During this time we had many high points and a lot of hard times. I think that, overall, we had a pretty wonderful relationship. We laughed a lot. We cared for each other a lot and we fought little.

Since I was twelve years old, everyone around me has known that I planned to go to the US for college and for the rest of my life. It's been a consistent and public goal. In the months before I left for college, James and I spoke at length about the future of our relationship. I wanted to stay together and see where it goes but he said we were to breakup. It wasn't up for discussion.

So we separated. He took me to the airport on my last day and we kissed goodbye. We did talk on the phone during the first few weeks. After a month or two, I mentioned possibly seeing other people and he totally freaked. That was the beginning of the end. After a freaky few months, we stopped talking altogether. I started seeing someone else.

During the several trips home, I called him and tried to make up. It never worked. He was always cordial but we never spoke more than three words again.

This year, it will have been nine years since James and I broke up and we still don't speak. It seems like such a shame that I shared two beautiful years with someone whom I loved and gave a piece of my heart to and today we're nothing more than a "hello."

I don’t know what, but shouldn't it be more than that?

Previously? One Life to Live

Sunday, my mother and I went to see Sweet November. I'm not going to talk about how the trailers give away everything or about Keanu's lack of acting ability.

If you've seen the movie trailers, you know that Charlize Theron's character asks Keanu's character to live with him for one month so she can let him out of the "box" he lives in. She lives a more liberated life and wants to help him achieve the same. Charlize is lovely. People love her, she's kind, she never works (at least not during the movie) and she does whatever she feels like. As the trailers showed, Charlize's character is sick. Very sick.

Which, of course, led me to think, how come we only let go when we've got no hope of living? Maybe it is just in the movies. But when I think of my life and the people surrounding me, I can't see one example of someone who truly does what he or she wants to be doing. Most of my acquaintances work too hard, too many hours in a job they don't like.

When I tell people that I work part-time the first thing most of them say is, "Oh I wish I had that deal." But they can. Of course they can. At least most of them. But they're too scared to ask. Just like I'm too scared to go off and live on a farm.

It seems the rewards are only valuable when the risks are not so high. If I know I'm only going to live fie more years, I'd live my life totally differently. I wouldn't work so hard, I'd probably still program but mostly for myself. I'd stop trying to lose weight. I'd call my friends more often and spend more time getting to know them. I wouldn't let any criticism get to me. I would travel to Antarctica and pet the penguins. (Well, they wouldn't bite me if they knew I was going to die, would they?) I would go skydiving.

What would you do if you only had a few years left?

Previously? Blah.

For some inexplicable reason I seem to be overcome with a mood best described by the word "blah."

I don't feel motivated to do anything. A few weeks ago, I was playing around with a new design and came up with something different for this page, but I haven't had the time, or more correctly the motivation, to implement it across all my pages.

The last few weeks at work have been almost counterproductive. Going to work has become more frustrating than not. I sit in front of the computer and stare at the screen. I've been working on the same 3-page perl script and three sql queries for the last month. Concentration simply refuses to cooperate. If by some major luck, something starts making sense long enough for me to realize what direction to take it in, my nerves decide to react forcefully, making me stand up, therefore, knocking out any productivity I dared have.

In a strange twist of luck, I am still coherent during my classes, but I crash every minute in between. I fall asleep in the subway on the way to classes, I plop myself on the couch the second I enter my house. The TiVo and I have gotten real close. I seem to be stuck on Canto XXV of The Inferno for over ten days, now. And the deadline to finish was today. My library books are sitting on a shelf, waiting for their due date. I haven't even picked up my saxophone in the last five days.

My mother's here from Istanbul for the week and I can't walk around with her. The freezing weather makes it ideal for us to take long tours of The Met or Guggenheim but my nervous system has its own ideas of what I should and should not be doing. I'm just tired, worn out and unable to think straight.

In case the writings here have lately been sporadic and lacking in intensity, now you know why. (If you think the writings here have always lacked that umph, my page is prolly not your cup of tea, anyhow.)

Previously? Vive La Difference

I've never understood people who hate different people. Whether it be a differing skin color, religious background, sexual preference or dressing up in an odd fashion.

Why is it that some people get angry when they see gay men? How is that so threatening? Why does it bother you if a guy decides to dress up like a girl? My very first gay friend ever was a guy named Brad. Freshman year in college. Kinda late, I know, but people don't come out all that easily in Turkey. Or they didn't in my environment when I lived there.

Maybe I remember it differently, but I don’t recall being mad at Brad, ever. He was a kind, giving and caring person. He had just told his parents and they had not reacted well. Actually quite badly. Enough such that he ended up having to drop out of college to save money so he could afford to go back in college.

I just don't understand the hostility. Does it come from a fear that if such people exist you might accidentally become one? How little fun would life be if we all looked the same and we all thought the same. Yet, even as a child we tend to feel the need to make fun of others. Little kids love to gang up against an unusual looking little boy or a girl with a funny name.

One of the reasons I love New York is that one rarely feels like a freak here. There are so many varieties of people and everyone's so busy living their own lives that, they don't have the time to stare at others. Or they don't care.

I love that.

Just live and let live, I think. As long as you're not affecting my life, who am I to tell you how to live yours?

Previously? Blondes Have More Fun.

Just in case it wasn't enough that I've been on my back with severe back pain and have tingling sensations on my left leg where I also seem to be entertaining a minor loss of feeling, the powers that be decided that I should also have a cold.

It seems I have swallowed not one, but three porcupines. I am alternating between shivering and sweating. At least there's the side benefit of the weight I lose each time I make the trip between the couch and the heater.

So I did what every reasonable woman would, I dyed my hair.

I am officially blonde.

I could tell you the entire tale of how I was orange just before that, but I won't. Be thankful.

As the hairdresser dried my hair, I kept staring at the image reflecting back from the mirror. A few encounters with scissors and several hours of sitting with my head covered in aluminum and Ta Da! I'm a brand new person.

Suddenly everything seems possible. Of course I'll use the conditioner on my hair. I'll get a facial. I'll start taking care of my skin. I'll even get a manicure. I'll put make-up on every morning like a good blonde. I'll even blow-dry my hair.

Suddenly all is possible.

And, as Heather said earlier this week, I'm fine.

Really.

Previously? Chocolate.

Jake and I went to see Chocolat last night. I'd read the book during Christmas and knew it would make a good Valentine movie.

When I saw Shine a few years ago I thought the very same thing that I thought last night. It's a shame parents feel the need to impose their choices onto their children. Both extremes of this need bother me. One, as the case was last night, is when the mother feels uncomfortable and decides it's time to move on regardless of the child's feelings about the matter. The other, which is sometimes more severe in my opinion, is when the parents live vicariously through their children. Take a mother who wanted to be a ballerina as a child but somehow never got to fulfill that dream, and you can be sure she's making her kid take ballet classes.

I just hope that when I have children, I will be more considerate of their feelings. I know there are times when things are unavoidable and I know that most parents don’t consciously hurt their children, but I just hope that I will be more aware. Maybe that's one of the reasons I work hard at not having regrets. I really hope I can raise my kids by paying attention to their own personalities and wants and needs.

The other interesting detail I noticed in the movie was a major change they added into the screenplay version. The Count, who is the mayor of the town in the movie, is the parish priest in the novel. In the book, he's the only character associated with the church (directly that is, all the other characters do go to church). In the movie version, there is a young parish priest and, if I'm not mistaken the Count helps him out but is not the religious figure himself (the Count is quite religious, but he's not the priest in the movie). Without giving away too much of the story I'll say that this young priest is totally different in personality that the Count.

The reason this made such a strong impact on me is that when I read the book, I got a very negative impression of the church and religion in general. Since the Count was the only one (actually in the book, his father plays a much bigger role in this matter as well) who represented the church, his negative personality and anger reflected upon religion, in a way making religious people seem close-minded and hateful. In the movie version, the young priest's existence took away the relationship between negative personality and religion. I assume the distinction was made consciously and, even though I'm not particularly religious, I applaud the change. I can't be sure if the writer has anything against the church itself, but I'm confident that some readers could have easily interpreted her book that way.

I don't appreciate sweeping generalizations of any kind. To say all gypsies are bad is the same as saying all conservative people are narrow-minded. Until you meet every single person in a "category" you can not make judgements a group of people. Every single human being is different and should be given credit as such.

All that from a movie about Chocolate.

Previously? Damn Sheep.

Why can't I be one of those people who can live on four hours of sleep a night?

I spent most of last weekend putting my sister's present together, which meant that I got very little sleep. Specifically, on Saturday night I slept around four hours and I had six hours or more on Friday, Sunday and last night. Even with all that balanced sleep surrounding one night of not so great sleep, I couldn't keep my mind from wandering all weekend and all day yesterday. I dozed off several times during my architecture class.

Though, in my defense, the teacher is a really soft-spoken, slow moving woman who turns off the lights to show slides in a warm room. All those coupled with the 7:30pm class time should be enough to put any normal human to sleep. I spent the last four days like a zombie, walking from class to class. The funny thing is, I am awake and aware during most of my classes, but any free moment is like a permission to crash.

The final jolt came when I fell asleep during my volunteer job today. I mean, I really slept. Can't even be sure I didn't snore. (Thankfully my officemates are deaf and prolly didn't hear my snorts.) I was knocked out for only 20 minutes or so and I woke up on my own, but it was quite embarrassing, to say the least. (As an even funnier side note, my boss, John, had changed the screen saver on the computer to say "Karen, Wake up!" which was totally appropriate today!)

After that sleeping episode, I had to go through two more classes and neither was in English. Pure torture.

People tell me to stop taking so many classes or doing so many things, but that's not the point. I don't want to stop doing a million things; I want a body that can support the active mind I have. I want to be able to sleep three to four hours a night, so I can have more time to study and read. I hate that I need sleep so badly.

My neuroscience teacher says that you can actually go insane from lack of sleep. Hmm I wonder who thought that was a good design decision?

Previously? Paranoid.

I can't exactly be sure when it all started.

Maybe it's cause, as a little kid, I had friends who didn't think I fit in and didn't like me to be around most of the time. Maybe it's cause I've met too many two-faced people. Maybe it's just me and my overactive imagination.

But I seem to suffer from paranoia. Not the kind movies are made of where you think someone is out to kill you, but the kind where you think no one likes you. That's not even exactly accurate. I know that Jake loves me and I have a few really close friends whom I trust to tell me the truth.

With most other people, I am more guarded than usual and I look for any excuse to conclude that they harbor negative thoughts towards me. It's like the walking into a room when people suddenly grow quiet effect, but it's tripled or even worse. Someone mentions something that annoys him or her and I make a quick mental search to see if I've ever done that to that person. Are they talking about me? Are they trying to give hints that I piss them off?

I remember watching Pretty Woman years ago and there is a scene where he tells her how beautiful she is and she says that the bad stuff is easier to remember. Even back then, I agreed with that wholeheartedly. Jake must have told me millions of amazing and loving words over the years, most of which I can't recall, but I can tell you almost every single mean word he used. When he mentions something negative, I am much more willing to accept it as truth than when he compliments me.

Since I know I am screwed up in this manner, I tend to ask my friends to be fully honest with me. I'm less likely to be paranoid about what they might be saying behind my back if I know they can tell the brutal truth to my face. As distinctly as I remember the negative, it's nothing compared to what my imagination can do, so often times, the brutal truth is much milder than what I cooked up.

Amazing how a few bad friends can ruin you for life.

Previously? Loss of Memories

No thanks to you, I decided what present to give my sister.

This present, which you most probably shall hear more about as it nears completion, includes collecting memories and pictures from family members and friends. One of the things I noticed while we did a similar thing for my mother was that you can easily see a pattern in people's words. If five or more people say that you're gentle and kind, odds are they're probably right.

As I go through the emails, I enjoy seeing other people's opinions of my sister. I like the similarities cause they define my sister's core traits. I also like to see the ones who are distinctly different. It makes me wonder why she has such a unique relationship with this person when compared to the others.

Since a large portion of the present is a long story by me, I figured I should dig into my bank of memories and pull out a few entertaining moments. To my dismay, I realized that I can't remember anything from before kindergarten.

I can recall how much I cried when my mother took me to my first day in kindergarten. I have strong memories of my first day of elementary school. But nothing before the age of five. With one exception. I remember when my sister taught me to read. She was lying on my parent's bed, reading a newspaper, and I asked her to show me how she read. Starting with the large headlines, she taught me each letter. I can't remember how old I was but I know it was before kindergarten.

I've seen many photographs of my childhood, a whole lot of them with my sister, so I know I'm not adopted. But, for the life of me, I can't remember anything from the first five years of my life. The symbolism of such a lack of memory must be strong but I have absolutely no idea what it means.

It's not that I had a sad childhood, we have home videos and photos proving otherwise, but I somehow erased that part of my brain. Maybe I overwrote it with information on how to create hash tables or linked lists.

What's the earliest childhood memory you can remember?

Previously? First Time

I'm exhausted as I walk through the door. It’s only 8:30am and I have no idea how I will make it through three classes and five hours of volunteer work that's supposed to follow my appointment.

I get out of the tiny elevator on the eleventh floor and walk down the long, windy corridor in search of the suite number. Even though I can tell the door is not locked, I knock and a voice tells me to walk right in, so I do. As I make my way down a shorter corridor I marvel at the sense of liberty I get from the high ceilings. I should move down to SoHo, I think.

She's not like I expected at all. I don’t really know what I was expecting, but I do know this is not it. She appears to be in her twenties, American, tall, thin, and pretty. She's wearing fashionable frames. She's nice but not in a touchy-feely way. She's not fake either. Genuine niceness, such a rare quality these days.

I sit at her desk and notice the small glass ball filled with water. Tiny, red fish swim in it. "Do they really live without having their water changed?" I ask.

"Yes, it's an entire ecosystem in there," she says. "I didn't believe it when I saw it either but they live like that for six years." That's an eternity for fish, in my experience. I smile at the beauty and complexity of nature and survival.

Japanese and Chinese characters cover most of the decoration. For a second, I wish I were still in Japan and then I remember how lonely I was and how sick I've been and I feel glad to be home.

She asks me questions about my medical history and lifestyle. As always, the word "stress" comes up more often than it should. I tell her that I've come to accept that I like living on stress and she nods. I don’t even bother to imagine what she must be thinking. I can't be the only weirdo she's ever seen; we do live in New York City after all.

She makes me stick out my tongue and checks my pulse on both hands simultaneously. She then takes me to a small room, containing only a chair and a massage table. She tells me to take of my socks and pants and lie on my stomach. As she sticks the needles in my body, she warns me about the small pinch. In some cases, my body jerks involuntarily. It’s not really painful but I can certainly feel most of the needles in my body.

She leaves me be for a few minutes and then comes back to take them out. She mentions that I might feel elevated pain or numbness and that it's normal for the first time. We make an appointment to see each other again on Monday and I walk away, worrying about the pain that's still shooting up and down my leg.

I run to the corner of the street and jump in a cab, away from the calm of her suite to the madness that is my life.

Previously? Knowing the Future.

Heather's mention of Tarot card reading made me remember my childhood struggles with fortune telling. When I was fifteen or so, my sister and her friend went out dancing on a Saturday night.

At the early hours of the next morning, I woke up cause of a commotion in the living room. The girl that my sister went out with was in the hospital. The story goes that somewhere around two hours into the night, she went over to my sister and asked if my sister wanted to come along to another bar a few miles away. My sister shook her head, so this girl and a guy left the bar, saying they'd be back in a few hours. In OJ fashion, a third guy joined them in the car, but he was totally drunk. The driving guy wasn't so sober himself and there are several versions of this story, one being that he was really drunk and another that a car was chasing them and cornering them. Either way, the guy ended up smashing right into the wall of a tunnel with a sharp turn and the girl flew out of the window (at the time, you weren't required to put on a seatbelt in Turkey) and was plastered all over the wall.

The driver was only slightly hurt and the guy in the back walked away without injuries but also slept through the entire event. The driver then picks up the remains of the girl and hails a cab (says a lot about Turkey that a cab was willing to stop for a guy carrying a really bloody girl) and takes the girl to the nearest hospital. She lays in a coma for several weeks and then comes out of it long enough for the doctors to consider doing reconstructive surgery on the originally breathtaking girl's now non-existent face. But the next day, she lapses back into the coma and dies.

After she died, there were a lot of rumors circulating that this girl used to consistently go to a fortuneteller. Supposedly, this fortuneteller told her that very week that she was going to die during that week. While the likeliness of this story being true is slim to none, it still gave me the creeps.

To add to my disdain of palm readers and such, my neighbor went to see one with a bunch of her friends and they were all in the room together when this woman tells my neighbor that her father is cheating on her mother. Even if the fortuneteller was totally wrong, is this something you want to hear in front of your friends?

Putting my skepticism or lack thereof aside, I don't think I could possibly stand hearing potentially damaging news, from someone who is supposed to tell the future, and not dwell on it.

It's not that I'm not curious, I'm just really scared, I guess. Cause you know what? I have more than enough worries already.

Previously? Totality of Life.

For the longest time, I've struggled with having too many areas of interest. I've always felt like I don’t know enough about anything. While most people have a specific area of passion, I want to know it all.

This might seem like a neat flaw on the surface, but the lack of depth in my knowledge base depresses me. Is it better to know a lot about one thing or a little about many things? I love the idea of being a practical expert on an issue, but I don't want to sacrifice the time that would take away from learning millions of other things.

I know that I prefer speaking seven languages half-assed to speaking one amazingly well and I think most people would agree with that preference. At the same time, I think I should master at least one language. Just like how I should master programming since it's the profession of my choice. I spend hours and hours wondering about this dichotomy in my personality.

Today, my Italian literature teacher talked about the "Renaissance Man" analogy that people like Leonardo DaVinci symbolized. He talked about how Dante sort of started that era by being a political figure as well as a poet. He mentioned that these people were into experiencing the totality of life.

Experiencing the totality of life. That's exactly what I want to do!

I want to play musical instruments. I want to draw and paint and sculpt. I want to speak nine languages. I want to study literature. I want to study Math and Physics and Biology. History and Politics. I truly can't think of subjects where I have no interest at all.

Leonardo and Dante were both amazing at everything they did, which is why they are the quintessential Renaissance men. I don't share that quality, but at least I share the drive. And that can't be bad, right?

Totality of Life. Doesn't it sound so wonderful?

Previously? Tunes and Memories.

If you've been here before, especially lately, you might be aware that I seem to be hostage to severe mood fluctuations lately. Or maybe you have been here before and you're just not very insightful. Either way, Jake's had to work a lot lately due to some major changes in his job setup, so I've been having a lot of time to myself. Which, considering the aforementioned shifts in emotion, is not a particularly healthy thing.

So today, in an attempt to keep my mind busy, I went through the mp3 archives on my machine and clicked on random songs. If a picture is worth a thousand words, a tune must be worth a thousand memories. With the fist few notes of each song, I was transported somewhere in my past.

During high school, I spent a good three months desperately trying to memorize the dates of the wars the Ottoman Empire won and the agreements that resulted from these bloody messes. While I failed that class twice, I can easily recite you every word of every song I listened to back then. Not just the Turkish ones, either. I can spew out English, Italian, French and any other language, anything but the dates or names of those stupid agreements.

Not only can I remember the words to the songs but I also have specific scenes attached to each and every song. Even the ones I hated. The ones with painful memories. The ones that still make me cry. The ones that make me want to pick up the phone and call a friend with whom I should have kept in touch. (Ironically, I also remember all the phone numbers.) I can tell you where I was when I listened to it. Who I was with and how I felt.

So I decided to conduct an experiment. In an attempt to prove I'm not the only freak who remembers lyrics over historical dates and also to have some fun, I'm collecting evidence. If you care to entertain me and maybe help out restore some of my sanity, send me the title and singer of a song that, within the first ten or twenty seconds, causes scenes to replay before your eyes. I also want to know something about the memory. The amount of detail you choose to share is totally up to you. I'll put up a page with everyone's replies, so if you have a web page, make sure to list it in your mail so that I can link to it.

What are you waiting for? Tell me!

Previously? Destruction.

I stare at her as she sits on my bamboo chair, eating her lunch. Words, or more accurately accusations, boil up inside me but I say nothing.

As she tells me her most recent stories, I keep trying to remember how we became friends. What were the things that brought us together? That made us so close?

When I look at her now, I can't remember a single idea we share. Can I still be friends with a person who's the epitome of most things to which I morally oppose? Should I keep trying? Questions dance in my mind as I try hard to concentrate on her words. But I only hear bits and pieces. It's as if she's acting out a foreign language tape, emphasizing the important words while the others fade out into the background.

I can't move beyond what's so fundamentally wrong to me. My mother's words echo in my ear; "What makes you think you know what's best for her?" I don't. I so don't know what's best for her. But I can't imagine it's this. Her life has had nothing but curveballs since this saga began. How many bad things must happen before we can agree it's a sign?

It's all so inconsequential to her. As if these aren't real people and their lives aren't being destroyed alongside of hers. I feel like getting up and shaking her, so her senses can move back to where they belong. And then, once more, I remember my mother's words. I don't know where they belong. Maybe this is their new home. Maybe this is who she'll be from now on. I should be happy for her. In many ways, she's more content then ever before. Shouldn't that make me ecstatic?

Well, it doesn't. And I know this isn't the best for her. I know she'll be hurt and I hate not being able to prevent it. I don't know what's best for her. But I know this isn't it.

I don't tell her anything. I've said all I can. Now, I just wait.

Previously? Never Mind.

Crack.

When I was a teenager, my friend Karen's knees would crack each time she bent down. My mother's knees did the same. I remember thinking how neat the sound was and how I wished my knees would do the same. Cracking your fingers is just not the same as the fragile sound that escapes your as knee joints bang against each other involuntarily.

Even though, I knew that the sound was an outcome of bone ends touching each other (well I don’t really know that to be a fact, actually) and, that in the long term, this sound was a bad omen for the future of your bone, none of that took away from the coolness of it.

One the morning of February 1, 2001, I got a glimpse of the feeling behind the noise. As I picked up my arm to help myself off my bed, several bones made me aware of their presence. On the way over to the bathroom, with each movement of my left leg, I became immersed in the symphony of my joints conducted by what I assume must be my herniated disc.

After a half-a-day of cracking, I decided it might be a good idea to call my physical therapist. I must have been right cause he asked me to come over immediately. Apparently, the sounds coupled with the tingling sensation and pain traveling the length of my left leg isn't a particularly good sign.

So I rip myself away from the fascinating world of SQL queries and limp to the therapist. He pulls my legs, uses the sonogram and the heating machine, cracks my pelvis joint so loudly that I'm not sure I will ever be able to procreate, and makes me lie in several uncomfortable positions. And then he gives up. He asks me whether the pain is gone and all I can think of is how now both of my legs are hurting. Helplessly, we part to reconvene the following morning.

On my way back to work, the symphony continues.

Crackle. Pop.

After another hour of idly staring at my beautiful, black flat screen, I pick up my coat and join the commuters of the 6 train.

Now that I can fully appreciate it, I decided I don't really want my knees to make that sound. Where did I get off wanting to be cool anyway?

Previously? Phone Call

Words spill from my mouth before I can think. Even as I’m saying them I know it’s going to end bad. Yet I can’t stop myself.

We’ve been here so many times before. At one point, these words had become second nature. They felt comfortable and common, like chewing gum as we say in my language. We’d yell them out without any consideration or worry about hurting the other person. Something small would become the most important issue ever.

But not lately. We’ve been much better. Which is why I’m mad at myself for using the same words, the same tone. I desperately try to get a hold of my thoughts but my emotions are on overdrive. Inside my head, I scream at myself. I take a few deep breaths and finally manage to stop.

Tears are trickling down my cheeks. I whisper, "You knew what I would say and you’re now mad cause I said it."

He concurs. I guess we both wish I were different. But do people truly ever change?

"Just do whatever you want. It’ll be fine either way." I'm in too much physical pain to go through this.

He knows what that means. He's frustrated, but he's not mad. I know he loves me. No one else would put up with this much. I feel like hugging him. I hate it when he's away.

"I mean it. Go, have fun." To my surprise, I do mean it. I don't have the strength to make a big deal out of it.

He tells me he loves me and we hang up. I start wondering why I don't mind. Did I stop caring about us? Do I love him less? Is it just that the physical pain is overpowering everything else?

Or is it that I've finally begun to really trust him?

Not really. But I wouldn't realize that for another year, which was when I learned that sometimes it's best to cut your losses and let go.

Previously? People I Like