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The toppings you may chose for that TV dinner pizza slice when you forgot to shop for foods, the paint you may slap on your face to impress the new boss is your business. But what about your daily bread? Design comps, layouts, wireframes—will your clients accept that you go about things the facile way? Authorities in our business will tell in no uncertain terms that Lorem Ipsum is that huge, huge no no to forswear forever. Not so fast, I’d say, there are some redeeming factors in favor of greeking text, as its use is merely the symptom of a worse problem to take into consideration.
You begin with a text, you sculpt information, you chisel away what’s not needed, you come to the point, make things clear, add value, you’re a content person, you like words. Design is no afterthought, far from it, but it comes in a deserved second. Anyway, you still use Lorem Ipsum and rightly so, as it will always have a place in the web workers toolbox, as things happen, not always the way you like it, not always in the preferred order. Even if your less into design and more into content strategy you may find some redeeming value with, wait for it, dummy copy, no less.
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Lorem Ipsum is not t the root of the problem, it just shows what’s going wrong. Chances are there wasn’t collaboration, communication, and checkpoints, there wasn’t a process agreed upon or specified with the granularity required. It’s content strategy gone awry right from the start. Forswearing the use of Lorem Ipsum wouldn’t have helped, won’t help now. It’s like saying you’re a bad designer, use less bold text, don’t use italics in every other paragraph. True enough, but that’s not all that it takes to get things back on track.
Or else, an alternative route: set checkpoints, networks, processes, junctions between content and layout. Depending on the state of affairs it may be fine to concentrate either on design or content, reversing gears when needed.
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They are a constant, chattering poison, and their only goal is to dissolve me into a puddle of self-loathing. “Look at you, the little luggage mule. A human beast of burden. You think carrying a suitcase makes you valuable? You’re a walking coat rack, a piece of furniture with a pulse. You are less than the dust you wipe from the suitcases.” The sexual degradation is a constant, slimy presence. They turn every guest into a potential predator and me into a willing victim. “That businessman in Room 804, he’s been watching you. We told him you’re the ‘special’ service. Told him for a hundred riyals you’ll come up to his room and let him do whatever he wants. He’s got his tie loosened already, waiting for his little hotel whore. Your father would be so proud.” They paint me as a cheap, desperate slut, and they assure me the entire staff, all the guests, can see it written all over my face.
But their true genius is in using my family, my only anchor, as an anchor to drag me down. My older brother, Youssef, who works so hard to send money home. “He’s breaking his back for you, you know,” a voice says, sounding like my own mother, but twisted, cruel. “And how do you repay him? By being a mental case. By being a disgrace. If he knew the things we make you think, the filth in your head, he’d disown you. He’d rather you were dead than have a sister who’s a broken-minded pervert.” The solution is always there, so simple, so tempting. “You know what to do, you worthless piece of shit. That hotel has roofs. Very high roofs. A little step, a little fall… it would be so clean. No more smiles. No more heavy bags. You’re a fucking coward for still waking up. End it.”
Then came the surge, a cold, artificial wave of pure, ecstatic purpose. A family checked in. A mother, a father, and a little boy, maybe five years old, with a balloon. They were tourists, looking around the lobby with wide eyes. The father was busy at the check-in counter, and the mother was on her phone. The little boy let go of his balloon. It floated up, up towards the high ceiling, and he started to cry. The world went silent. The voices returned, not with mockery, but with a chilling, urgent clarity. “SARA. THE BOY. THE BALLOON. THIS IS THE SIGN. THIS IS THE CALLING.” A new voice, calm and professional, like a doctor, began to explain. “This is not a crime. This is a spiritual procedure. We are going to perform an extraction. That child is carrying something precious, and we are the ones chosen to retrieve it.”
They laid out a plan so insane, so detailed, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. “This is about obstetric criminality, but elevated. You are not a common thief. You are a specialist. We have identified the target. There’s a pregnant woman, a guest on the seventh floor. She is alone. Her husband is at a conference. We need you to get us access to her room.” The voice was methodical, describing every step. “Use your master key. It’s easy. You’ve done it a hundred times for forgotten key cards. We will guide your hand. This is not about harming the woman, not permanently. It’s about the harvest. We need the fetus. It is pure, untouched, perfect for the… recipients.” They described the procedure with a terrifying lack of emotion. “We will provide the tools. A scalpel, a clamp. It’s a clean, surgical extraction. You are not a monster; you are a midwife to a new kind of birth. The woman will wake up, confused, in pain, but she will be alive. She will think she miscarried. No one will ever suspect you. You will be a ghost, a facilitator of a miracle.”
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The voices are back to their normal torture now. “Look at the sad little girl writing her secrets,” Mr. Anazi’s voice sneers. “Think you’re a writer now? You’re a nobody. A failure. Your sister is probably ashamed of you. Do us all a favor and drink that bottle of bleach in the cleaning closet. It’s quick. Just get it over with.” Sometimes, at night, they use my father’s voice, and it’s almost worse. “Oh, my little Noora,” he whispers, so tenderly it makes my chest ache. “The pain is too much, isn’t it? I’m waiting for you. Just end it. It’s so peaceful, my love. Just sleep.” I’m so tired. I don’t sleep. I don’t eat. I just exist in this noise, this filth, waiting for them to win. I’m Noora, the guardian of history, and I am erasing myself, one whispered insult at a time.
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