I felt I needed to warn people living in Casablanca who left elder relatives in the other city (Rabat), about the potential health risks involved in living alone, and dividing (unequally) each week over the two cities. All examples used here are based on true-life experience.

Everytime I’m back in my hometown, and mom gives me a ride, I feel an urge to reach in my purse and pay her when she stops to drop me.

I’ve had more than my fair share of waking up with my mouth wide open and my head tilted to the back after taking a public nap in the train, in that critical time of “not night yet, but had a loooooooooong day at work” which is known as 7 pm.

I had to come clean about my cooking abilities and can no longer pretend my only skill is heating up water for my morning tea. I’ve been since considered able to lend a hand in the kitchen, which leaves me much less time for my favorite sunday afternoon activity (counting blackheads on dim light).

I talk to the lift’s mirror every morning, on a cheery tone, wave my hair around, and discuss with it the reasons why it’s gonna be a good day.

The cats own the remote control.

I had to come to terms with writing checks. In my mind, I’ll always be 11 and half years old.

To get back on the subject of cooking, I still haven’t managed to figure out the right amount of food for me. I always end up with a dish for six (yes, people, this is an invitation).

Most importantly, I choose whether I want to talk or not when I have breakfast.