It all happened in the night between the greatest decision of my life and the moment I was supposed to make my parents to know about it. Well, not exactly all of it. That night, I had a nightmare. It was the worst nightmare I have ever had. I dreamed I was a Jew. The only nightmare that might have been worse than that one, was the one in which I broke my arm by a bear falling asleep on it. When I woke up, I found my brother sleeping on it. And it really was broken.

Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against Jews, or against their religion. Or against any of their not understood customs. I mean, they insist to wear furry hats in the warmest day of the year, but that’s only their problem. And they cut some body-parts to their own babies and then keep claiming that they don’t abuse other country's children. On the other hand, they also claim that god's got an explanation for that. And who argues with god?

But me? A Jew? That was too much. So I made another important decision in less then six hours and came into the living room with brushed teeth, brushed hair and a key of the front door in my pocket, to run out when it's needed.

"Good morning." Mom came out of the kitchen with a cup of tea and placed herself on the big sofa, next to dad. They both had bills in their hands and tried to figure out some money issues. It was probably the most inappropriate moment to say such thing as "I'm going to Israel." There was a short silence before dad smiled to me, said "good morning", and put his face back into the bills. I waited a few seconds before repeating, "I am going to Israel." 

Mom took off her glasses, "Finish college first, then we'll talk."

"No, I mean… I'm going next week."

Their both faces were raised up, examining every inch of my face. "If you wanna get killed, there are easier ways." Mom said.

"And cheaper." Dad added.

"No, I'm serious. I really want to do this. And I'm going to."

"As I remember, you are studying next week. So, again, we'll talk about it later."

"We don't really have to talk. I've already ordered the ticket." Lie number one.

"What ticket?!" dad started to realize and I tied my hold on the key.

"To Israel. Just wanted to tell you, so I guess now I can go." I made a few quick steps toward the door.

"Wait!" mom stood up. "What are you talking about? What about college?!"

"Oh, that…" I looked at the floor. "Yeah, that's the other thing I wanted to tell you. I quit." I opened the door and left the house. 

hello. or hi. you can also accept it as ahalan if you speak Arabic, which i don't. 

i have a blog. i mean, technically i have two of them, but the other one is on my native language, or however you say it, which might be the reason for me to use this one less then the other. as a person who one day realized that one of the reasons for god to make me live, was my ability to write. i'm not saying that what i write makes sense or that i am going to be a writer, but i am saying that i can finish a sentence without any spelling mistakes. well, maybe not in English, but in other languages i can. and when one day i opened my computer and found there a folder full of stories, some of them were given to other people and returned to me with a friendly ask to get some more of these, that day i was really bored and decided to open a blog. the other blog. i never wanted to share my feelings, thoughts or to get any advices about what i should do. that blog only had one purpose: i wanted people to read what i wrote, and even more than that, to know what they thought. it was pretty hard to ask this kind of think on a blog because i was afraid to be given unsatisfied reactions. so i wrote my first post. i could see the number of views, and i was pretty happy. people saw it. to the next posts, a few even left a comment, a satisfied comment. i was even happier. but then came the crisis. no comments. the number of the views was pretty low too. and i started wondering what changed. i wrote every kind of possible to write kinds of compositions, i wrote my opinion, just stories, tried to be funny, got back to the opening-post-style. one time i even shared something from my childhood. maybe that one was too evil. and then i published one of the most boring things iv'e ever written. the number of views was twice bigger. 

so here is my opinion about blogs: it's stupid. i don't like reading them, they are mostly written by 12 years old girls who complain about their love life and popularity, or 50 years old people who suddenly discovered the benefits of the internet and now share everyone with their sewing experience or their own recipes. i mean, the second kind is great, but i guess ill first have to succeed making food up to at least 15 percents of the recipes the cooking book i have. (those are the only 10% i have ever had the courage to try to make, and it always tasted like a spoiled avocado. yeah, even the cake. no, actually the cake tastes like a spoiled banana). and i saw many great blogs with no comments at all. so for those who use this thing as an public diary, be free to use it. you can be sure it stays private, it will be probably never read. of course, the only person you don't want to read it, will accidentally see it. you know, marfi and friends...

on the other way, if you want it to be published, you'll probably have a better chance for someone to find it if you bury it four meters under the ground, better in a far and lonely place. i mean, archeologists will definitely dig there some day.

of course, i forgot the option that i'm just boring. but i don't know, you tell me.

a guy: "i love your daughter. really. and... you know... when people love each other... they sometimes express it in physical ways..."

his girlfriend's father: "your'e making me angry now. and... you know... when i get angry... i sometimes express it in physical ways..."

(that 70's show)

Every 8^-years-old child in every speaking society around the world knows that in some point of his life, to make some success, he will have to study English. The educational systems will never tell you that the best way of learning English, accept for moving to America, is watching movies. And that's how he finds himself sitting in a conditioner-less class (or with a broken one), repeating a list of words that ten years later, when he will actually need them, he will find in some online dictionary.

The English joins automatically to a list of all the international languages that we have no idea how they got there. The previous in that list is the Aramaic, whose writing reminds the writing of a cross-eyed student after coping in a Hebrew exam. The Esperanto can enter this list too, because that is probably the only international language that hasn't been spoken even by one nation. The only beautiful thing about the English being an international language, is the fact that many Americans can try to speak English with aliens and honestly expect them to understand, but in interaction with business-men from Japan, the English speakers will insist to study Chinese (yes, I know that they speak Japanese in Japan).

English is really a nice language, the problems begin when after studying "perfect future" for four years, from 6^th to 10^th grade, a week before the finals in 11^th class you ask your teacher about the forgotten tense and she tells you in a smile: "oh, that? You don't use that." damned, couldn't you tell me that four years ago?

And really, the only place where you can find the use of everything that has ever entered your brain while you were sleeping in English classes during the high school, is foreign movies of unspeaking English countries that are bagging for American attention.

Bet hey, I really like English! :)