Of peeling my candied eyelids back and diggin' the smut

Don't you just love technology? The way it makes everything easier from keeping in touch to losing weight, all you have to do is invest a few dollars (or more!) and voila! If we were to chart human activities, nothing should surprise us at how simple it is to amuse ourselves ... Look at me for goodness sakes. I spend my free time talking about myself! It is only my fervent hope hope that readers may gain some beneficial instruction from my endless ramblings that kept me going.

And again, I have to thank technology for this outlet. Purging ourselves of our inner demons used to involve a priest, gallons of holy water and a tub of vomit. Not anymore. Hook yourself up to the Net, become an online Sybil and feel free to pretend that your overweight, stubby-no-neck body is actually housing a hoochie mama in black leather. Or the second coming of Brad Pitt. Take your pick, or substitute as desired.

I was left to my own devices today and developed a startling fixation on sex. I was reading a blog about how Kate Winslet was forever doing nudies and love scenes. Not that I'm complaining, of course. If a beautiful woman wishes us viewers to have an edifying look at what Mama gave her, then the only thing I can say is "Callo, Callay, Yahhooo, Hoorayyy!" Then my thread of thought picked up on Hugh Dancy's turn as a bisexual gigolo in a bizarre menage a trois with Eddie Redmayne and Julianne Moore. Oh the redheads galore!

Hmmm ... talk about them burning bush ...

Hell, to take this fixation and run it to death I, at the urging -- make that violent urging -- of a friend decided to defile my already reprobate eyes and irredemably filthy mind by searching out the many amateur porn sites that litter the cyberspace we sometimes traipse around.

Oh Good Lord! Some things should not be seen by those with hyper-active imaginations. As I was viewing the many trials and free tours accorded by these sites I was gobsmacked and left wondering: People get paid for this! And others pay to see this!

I am quite thankful that I am quite worldly, therefore seeing a bisexual tag-team isn't a gnarly an experience as it would've been for some. My complaint about the ones is see at one of the sites -- one Corbin Fisher -- is that the women featured are butt-awful-ugly!

One looks like tranny on crack. No joke, I'm telling you. Everytime she got flipped over I see her flapjack breast flop-fluppa-flopping around like raw flapjack pancakes. From what I saw I think the two guys tag-teaming her were enjoying each other more than her ... She might as well whip out the pink-Bedazzled dildo and whack them over the head to get their attention.
The pink dildo bit was just me, by the way ....

The skanky smutty artist in me was enjoying the sight of all these bee-YOO-hooo!-tiful people rutting around like lemmings before the grand plunge until it finally hit me just how artificial some of these sites are ... we have a gay-for-pay stud doing his first one-on-one with another guy ... and suddenly he's swallowing sword?!?! How do the viewers ascertain he's gay-for-pay? with a cert that proves he's limp till clams twitter-twatter at his face?

I think I just swallowed my own 10-litre bile ...

However, lest I projectile-vomit onto my laptop I deem it unnecessary that readers have to be subjected to the same pain I endured (ain't that nice of me?). Therefore I hope you enjoy the more desirable of photos culled from the hidden (ass)cracks of cyberspace.



*photo credits to whomever took them! :-P

Of eternal springs

Aaaah ...

Such is the sound that escapes from my parted lips as I try to puzzle my current predicament.

I would like to think -- that despite my aloof, callous demeanour -- I am not a person given to hate.

I'd like to say that I'm a rather amiable person. That I can be content -- if not happy -- in my current lot compared to the poor swabs around me and not feel the twisting stab as I begin to see washes of red in my field of vision.

Perhaps this resentment stem from my restless nature. Although I can be very patient, the dullness of monotony does not sit well with me. There are times past that I used to stab myself with my name-tag pin in class just so I won't keel over out of sheer boredom.

What does it say of a person who prefers pain over joyful ruckus in class to break the humdrum study hours?

I wish that this hope that one day I might be able to feel won't be just that. That while hope springs eternal I am only mortal. Even the most ardent of force must one day cease. It is the nature of things to wither and be replaced. Will there be hope left if I tire of waiting?

Everyday, I pick at my mental scabs -- countless scores of them -- as I beat and puzzle my way through this sparse expanse of my worldview.

Everyday.

I should be an old hand by now.

Of beautiful defenses

Silence.

Blissful silence.

Beautiful, blissful silence.

It has always been something I crave. The silence of peace. The solace of solitude. The sense of aloneness when you feel weary of the world--when needs must to place a barrier between yourself and the outside world whenever you tire of it.

Upon the surface, most would be forgiven for thinking that I enjoy the limelight. To a certain point, I would agree that I do enjoy the attention. I would also heartily agree that most audiences are fools. They believe the facade conjured and take it as truth. They insist the public and the private must be one and the same. They demand transparency and take you at your face value that that is all there is to what makes you a unique creature. Nothing is ever as it seems. We all wear masks. We all tell little white lies (Good heavens! You don't look a day above 35, Mrs Wong!) and big black ones (I did not have sexual relations with that woman ... !).

Sometimes the truth is exactly what scares us into such perfidy. Sometimes the truth is boring. Bland. We are sometimes afraid that the truth about us would diminish us in others' eyes. To a person who prides in being known as an Incomparable, Original and Unique this must rankle.

How painful it is to be regarded as--gasp!--common!

Therefore we put on a show. Whether they carry the glitz of Ceasar's Palace or the gritty edge of a Sundance nominee, we perform our little charades. Sometimes the canny viewers will guess at the truth and we abashedly come clean, or we layer another performance--an improv, if you will--on top of it. Before we know it, the smokescreen we had concocted became a point of fact to be appended to us. Our personality, our idiosyncracies--everything!--became a warped image of what we are.

It has now become a guessing game as we all attempt to unmask everyone around us. And it is a beautiful thing to watch. Even as I sit quietly in the far corner of the local coffee shop or a secluded section of a bar--or anywhere for that matter, I smile as I relish the amateur performances before me.

The incompetent boss who covers up her deficiency by obsessing over every trivial minutae. The young father glaring at his wife whilst the recalcitrant child struggles in his hand as he waits patiently for her to finish her shopping--then smiles indulgently at her when she comes out from the store. The backstabbing office bitch trying to cover her misstep with unimaginative small talk. The young man taking a second look at the girl two tables away as his date prattles on about her day. The late evening jogger gorging on food as if it were his last meal. The drunken yuppie enjoying being groped by his gay best friend. The voluntarily oblivious girlfriend who pleads ignorance about her beau's marital status.

Even as I take it all in, I am ever wondering if I am the lone observer here? Mayhap there is someone else lurking in the wings, noting my movements? My smug smirk as I watch other people stumble. Are they near enough to hear my muttered invectives? How would I look to them?

Bitter. Jaded and cynical. Enjoys observing anothers' fall, thinks himself so smart with his snappy comebacks and sarcastic asides. Covers his insecurities with bizarre behaviour--maybe he wasn't hugged enough as a child.

Is that the real me? or just the front that I present?

Is that why I treasure the silence I bind myself in sometimes? That for the few brief minutes, I can just be--without fear of saying the right things, of making other people laugh ... of putting on yet another show.

Of seeing France and underpants (or lack thereof)

There are things to be said about decorum. Observing proprieties and the little gestures that comes with being civilized avoids all sorts of bad press. In every and any aspiring well-bred lady or gentleman, there certain rules which could be considered paramount:

1. Chew food with one’s mouth closed.

2. On public transports, it behooves one to offer one’s seat for those who needs it (i.e. the elderly, handicapped, etc)

3. Say Please or Thank you as the situation warrants.

4. Don’t flash your undies or privates to the unprepared masses.

Ever since kindergarten, we’ve always made fun of those who has their fly undone, or the girl who didn’t realize her raggedy bra strap was showing, or bustling corporate woman with a fire-fighters’ ladder in her stockings but nowadays the rules seemed to have changed.

To put it simply: The more you show, the better it is!

One would be tempted to blame advertisements, fashion magazines and Hollywood style icons for influencing us. It would seem that some of the more fashion forward of us delight in flouting rules of comportment and gently-bred etiquette that we end up being inundated by unwanted sights of branded/designer labelled underwear peeking—make that jumping!—out from low-slung jeans, skirts, shorts and whatnots.

If you're lucky, you'll see the underwear. The more severe offense would be an exposed posterior cleft or -- and I'm trying to be delicate here! -- mons pubis.

Sans follicles.

Yet I hesitate to point towards a certain blond heiress and her fellow starlets/socialites for flashing us with her denuded Venus mound in several paparazzi shots. One could almost feel sorry for the young woman. Truly. All that work put into plucking herself like a game bird and all she had to show for it was the first page in the tabloids to be made for office water-cooler gossip.

Yes, we know your Versace thong goes well with your skinny APC jeans … we don’t need to see what colour it is, the material it was made from or the size written on the label! And yes, we applaud a woman (or man) who takes grooming seriously. We just don’t need to know you’ve embraced Brazil’s namesake when it comes down South! And we know you apply the same deforestation policy to your rear, we just don't need to see how squeaky-smooth it is ... What are you trying to do? Turn us into crack addicts?

Lackaday. Whatever happened to the times when men dress as men, women dress as women—without sacrificing their identities or wallets whilst going about it? I appreciate a well-pressed shirt, a pair of slacks creased just so, the charming flirt of a well-turned blouse … but alas, they’re now relegated to those deemed too frumpy to warrant a notice.

Here's hoping the Gossip Girl guys don't end up exposed as male waxing fetishists!

Of stewing and brewing

People are lucky.

Make that very lucky.

Why, one may ask? Quite simply, murder is a crime.

Yes, yes ... it's far too late or too early (it all depends on whom one asks) for such angry thoughts but I have to opine that there are some people I wouldn't mind erasing from this existense.

Now, before one starts counting back when one did what to whom--and why the what was done, for that matter--let us take a step back and admit that such rage and hatred exist within us. I am honest enough to admit that I offend easily. The less discerning and those simple ones would say I'm high-strung or overly sensitive. I prefer cantankerous. Same difference, no? The latter sounds better however to me.

I sometimes wonder if it's healthy to live and go about carrying an exposed nerve, daring people to just push you one step closer to unleashing Abyss-knows-how-many-vials-of-wrath that you've been steeping inside your head like a thundering, trammelled dam.

Once the floodgates--and the damage--has been unleashed, is it even worth it? Or is it advisable to unleash it in the first place? In a life that is temporary, where the Judgement of the eternal awaits us all is it even worth going Hiroshima on someone--or about something--no matter how justifiable?

I am of two minds about this. Exposing such venomous vitriol might make others leery and mind their P's and Q's but it also paints you as unstable and erratic. On the other hand, just swallowing whatever abuse others heap on you make you look like a pathetic doormat. Truth to tell, with the choice of being known as pathetic or pushover on one hand and foaming lunatic on the other isn't much of a choice. Perhaps the choice is there ... only my decision to view it as absolutes of black and white blinds me to the grey areas and its myriad alternatives.

Perhaps.

Rumination notwithstanding, I still maintain that some people are better off dead. Dead in the most agonizingly slow and vicious way possible. And that I get to watch.

Does that make sound like a disturbingly angry person? Deal with it.

"Vows of Punishment"

No sorrow weep
No torment past
No lovers keep
No treasures last

No promises bound
No friends abide
No gladness found
No pain subside

No hunger filled
No thirst slake
No sickness healed
No repose take

Misdeed you'll pay
to never be free
Rue the day
that you wronged me

Of polygamy: double wives, double pleasure, double standards?

It was an interesting read on The Star Online today. Especially a particularly elucidating and humourous column by Dina Azman titled "Why do men take second wives?"

The writer started with how she nearly choked on her dinner when her friend confided that he wanted to have a second wife. Now I was thinking, seeing as he is a Muslim this should not have been such a rigmarole. However, the near-choking was brought on not by the intention to marry, but rather the prospective woman's impressive charms. Which would be situated somewhere on her chest area. That's right, boys ... Marry the mammaries! The article then continued their humourous dissections on the whys, hows and various other related nuggets concerning polygamy and infidelity.

Throughout my own meetings with people--friends, acquaintances and even random strangers--I found that we have adopted a double standard when it comes to our wives, husbands, toyboys and mistresses.

The other partner--usually a younger, trophy version that you can wave or brandish in others' faces when it came to that inevitable pissing contest--is showered and feted, catered to their [almost] every whims and wants. All this while, the original model like Milo-tin Proton Saga before it is left mouldering in self-recrimination and downward psycho-spiral.

Muslim men especially like to play the sunnah Nabi card. That is well and good. I do suggest however that they first study their Islamic history; the Prophet Muhammad (BBHN) married war widows to protect them. More to the point he provided for them equally. So bear that in mind gentlemen Muslims ... if you give a Tiffany bracelet to your second wife, the first wife is also entitled to one!

I suggest stocking up on credit cards and maintaining a good credit report.

I do not pretend to be an expert on all matters Islam. Neither do these men who mock it wantonly--yes, I used that word on purpose.

In the end, it doesn't really matter about one's race, religion, gender or sexual preference. People cheat because they can.

"I Promise"

Did I promise to always be there for you?
Will I be there for you when you call me?
Take your darkest night and make it bright?
I promised not to hurt you.

Am I to be your Rocks of Gibraltar?
Am I to warm your cold-weary soul?
Will I be the one you call in the night?
I promised not to hurt you.

How can I do all that?
I am not yours to keep
Nor are you mine to claim.

For we are bodies moving
at light-speed to paths of our own
I promised to not hurt you

But I never promised you me.

Of having fierce eyes

Being a slavish follower of America's Next Top Model means I have also developed a taste for reality-TV catfights. And let me tell you something, no one does catfights like models. Or wannabe models. Or modellettes, if you prefer.

For the last episode saw the departure of Isis King, ANTM's first transgendered contestant. She started out strong but continued to drop down the ranks week after week until finally Tyra sent her packing.

This week's judge's choice was Clark Gilmer, a 19-year old South Carolina native. Not to mention this cycle's Resident Skank.

This week's photoshoot concept saved her somewhat as she's been told that her jawline lacks finesse and she had difficulty controlling her lips to make them look soft.

My own personal choice would be the 19-year old loveable bundle of nerves named Marjorie Conrad. She displays a disarming awkwardness and skittish quality that translates beautifully into photos. Kinda reminds me of that psycho Lauren from Cycle 10. She is nothing like Lauren though, thank goodness!

Next week's episode should be interesting as the rest of the modellettes finally had enough of her self-effacing nature and confronted her about it. WTF???

Well, they let the genie out of the bottle cause what the teaser showed was a potty-mouthed Marjorie lashing back at them ... Air yang tenang jangan disangka tiada buaya ...

This cycle's Fey Princess is 20-year old Virginia native Lauren Brie Harding. Ethereal, graceful and quitely confident, Lauren Brie has consistently been at the top of the pack.

It would be interesting to see what the rest of the cycle has in store for our Miss Harding.

This week's episode saw the disappointing lackluster photo of Elina Ivanova from Washington. The 19-year old Seattle native was the top pick last week with her edgy, racially ambigous look but got stuck in one pose for her photo shoot and was deaf to the photographer's promptings.
Looking like she was slumping and about to fall asleep, her passivity earned her a very low spot on this week's queue.


*Photos by the CW

Of bitch-slapping some sense into people

Aaaahh ... don't you just adore children sometimes?

At other times you wish you could stuff them into a microwave oven and watch them explode into a gory splatter ala Gremlins. I am of the opinion that such thing is possible ... if only murder isn't a crime.

I suppose I should admit that I'm a firm believer that people get what they deserve. Perhaps not necessarily immediately, but just desserts will arrive soon after the main repast. Therefore, for those who are impatient for those deserving their comeuppance I implore you to rest easy. Verbal lashings--or even physical ones--can only do so much. If the recipients are receptive, then well and good. More often than not however, they remain unheeding. Such often stems from a deluded sense of entitlement--that the world and its inhabitants owe them for their existence. It is unbecoming for certain but one must take one's victory wherever they may be found and I relish greatly when such persons fall from their lofty perch.

For those who walk tall and proud, may you be deserving of your destination--for good or for ill.

Now all I have to do is make sure I don't trip on my stilleto (or shall I call them still-ego) heels ...

Of doubts

I met someone in the course of the last three weeks.

I was crushed, that I just ended my tie with yet another person who only saw me as a meal ticket—-wine, dine, sixty-nine me?—-and nothing else. It was with a great surprise that I ran into a charming young man who attracted my attention just as I was picking myself up. I would like to say we clicked, but it was too early for me to tell. Truthfully, I’m not sure under which category do I want to lump him under ...

’Friend?’ or ‘Potential Heartache?’

And so, here I am. Beating my masochistic little skull against the Walls of Reason. Perhaps I should launch myself ala RingLing Bros and see if the oft-gossipped diamond heart that I have will shatter against it.

Will that grant me any respite?

Would that the great love story will somehow find its way into my circle and lift my limbs to join the dance of the living. Alas, alack, I am broken from so many visions of death. My eyes are old. My soul ancient and withered. If we are embodiments of seasons, then I am the harshest days of winter.

I don’t want to hide ... yet I find myself shying away from gestures of concern. I snap at people. I’m verbally vitriolic at a moment’s notice. I envy lovers arguing ... simply because I tire of arguing with myself.

Is it even healthy to live this?

Of going against the grain

Huffy, finicky, persnickety, anal-retentive me.

Oh woe of woes. Calamity. Alas and alack.

It's hard being misunderstood I tell you. You keep to the rules and you're not a threat. You play by the contstrains of polite society and you're a stick. You cut others slack and they walk all over you. You give others the cut direct for being rude . . . and you're the heinous bastard. Sometimes it's much safer to just stay in. And wallow in your misery and self-pity as you rock on your heels (while clutching your head), moaning to yourself, What does this all mean?!?

At which point, the saner more jaded part of your mind will calmly state, It means you're an idiot.

Then you step out of the house with a new attitude--or a makeover to take care of the puffy eyes--and a determination to not be such a weakling. Which you curiously aren't . . . You dispense with empty vacillations and stood firm to your decisions. You keep to principles. You nip things in the bud before they could grow to an entirely new set of problems, issues or dramas. And you still get to be called a heinous bastard.

We are people. People with various interest, ethics and other countless idiosyncrasies that makes us, us. In theory it sounds good but hardly anyone places much stock in mutual respect of each others' differences.

Which is why you get people who owe you money but dither--or sometimes never--paying up.

You get people who haven't seen you in ages and yet greet you with "You've put on weight!/You're fat!" as their way of greeting. To you gentle readers, when faced with jerks like these try to reply with "Ohmigaawd! You, too!" Let me know what reaction was displayed. I am most curious.

You get morons who can't seem to say anything nice . . . constantly carping away about how inadequate or strange or 'just-plain-wrong' you are.

You get come-latelies who have to spout on and on about how grand they are as they're extolling abot the virtues of their company's new laptop, or company credit card . . .

It all goes on and on and on. Ad infinitum, ad nauseum. Wash, rinse . . . repeat.

I've always endeavoured to go against the grain most of the time. Being practical however, it doesn't mean I won't conform when the choice will benefit me in the long run. I am adaptive that way. But of course, others see that as me being "confused."

Of D&D madness

Recipe: D&D Battle Scene. Serves 3-4.

Take one playboy fighter. Add a dash of nara sorceress. Stir in a human cavalier. Shake well, adding three NPCs--a tavern owner, 2 noblemen and a witch--as you do so. Remove the tavern owner after it has steeped for 1 hour.

Add a kidnapping mystery into the mix.

Toss in between 8 to 10 vampire spawns.

Bake for 6 rounds.

Garnish around the mixture with more mystery and horror.

Enjoy.

DMs note: For the more adventurous, consider substituting the vampire spawns with vampires instead.

Of train rides

Early morning, 5:54am to be exact.

Three old Chinese ladies in their market get-up. Two young Chinese men in their yuppie uniforms of skinny ties, fitted Raoul shirts and G2000 flat-front slacks. A modern Indian couple, the guy with multiple piercing on his left ear and the girl with a belly chain and ample cleavage pressing against the ruffled decollette of her scoop-front cotton blouse. Her bra is a pale mint coulour, judging from the strap.

I, leaning against the wall with a cigarette perched in the corner of my lips as I twiddled with my MP3 player trying to decide whether the correct soundtrack for an early morning train ride should be Who's to Say by Vanessa Carlton, or Flown Away by Lene Marlin. In my getup of thin, heather-gray top with three-quarter sleeves, brown Versace jeans and boots you'll be forgiven for thinking I'm not your usual BDE/Biz rep.

The train came. We ran helter-skelter for it, limbo-ing under the rising grille hoping to make it before the doors close and the 7-minutes-and-36-seconds wait for the next (crowded) train make its appearance.

I resigned myself to another dull day at work. Don't get me wrong; I love my job but it's the routine that I don't like. I was still trying to decide whether I should listen to the next song as we were reaching the Bangsar stop when a tiny whiff of Drakkar caught my notice.

And there he was.

I would like to say that he was eyeing me as I was scrolling through the list of songs contained in my GoGear--oh what fetching picture I must have made! In truth, I think it's more of the fact that in my current seating position I was taking up too much space!Let me educate you about frustration. And discomfort. And perhaps a modicum of pain.

It goes something like this: You have a healthy--no, make that voracious--libido. We're talking about "not sleeping till three" here. You haven't had sex in 7 months, and sitting next to you is a man who is a cross between Hugh Jackman (Wolvie magnetism), Robert Redford (for refinement) and Keanu Reeves (for the face).

Either you applaud my self-control. Or stone me for the frigid bag that I was.

I was crossing and uncrossing my legs, quite certain that my arosal is obvious to other people. Thank Heavens for early morning trains; most commuters prefer catching up on sleep to checking out other passengers' package. I risked a glance at him.

Big mistake. Have you ever seen someone do a Cheshire grin, with their mouth closed? Needless to say, when I reached Masjid Jamek I walked out with a bulging front--did I mention I was wearing boxers?--thankfully the school kids hopping on the train did not notice my constipated look and my get-out-of-my-way-cause-I-need-to-jerk-off-in-the-loo walk.

The bastard. He didn't even have the decency of handing me his number after putting me through that Hellish experience. Granted, I didn't ask so sue my frigid nunnish tendency.

I hope I run into him again . . .

"I Would Like To Feel"

I would like to feel something other than this
this sin that coats me in thick sweetness of bliss
Unfurl me from scarlet folds and reveal me to splendor
a most challenging of task that heroes endeavour

A wise man uses a crutch to remember His blessings
A fool runs wild; running unfeeling, unthinking and denying
A lover waits patiently for the phone that never rings
The pauper with a bad penny thinks himself a king

I would like to see something other than this
this illusion that blinds me with glittery mist
Burn away the wetness and clear my vision
Renew my faith, my hopes and lost devotion

A child seeks an indifferent father
A slave for his brutal master
A circle without its center
Teetering, sinking into disaster

I would like to feel something other than these

I would like to be seen in a different light
To be cloaked by a gentle light shed
Would my weaknesses be turned into might
To walk into battle unafraid, though I bled

A warrior returning home to his fastness
A husband to his wife and child
A bird returns to his nest
Satisfied of flying free and wild

I would like to feel something like this

Of returning things

Dear God!

The almost unthinkable has happened. That THING is back!

* * *

For those gentle readers who feel as if they’ve just entered during the third reel, I assure you, I felt the same way when I first found out about it.

The THING I’m referring to would be nothing else but that pustule of painful existence, MT.

Now, what could possibly be so bad about this young man, one may ask?

Nothing much, unless you count the fact that he almost cost me my job. His excuse was that he was trying to help. But really, MT—you hid your client’s confidential papers amongst my things and did not mention anything to me even when we met the day after? Why, you wanted me to be surprised? Damn right I was surprised ... my team manager was surprised, too! Three years of impeccable behaviour and I was about to get the sack for fraud!!!

Of course, gentle readers ... it didn’t stop there. He had the cheek to actually spit back at me that he was trying to make it up to me.

If this is him trying to make things up to me, I shudder to think what he’ll do if he wants to screw me over.

Some of our mutual friends/acquaintances were all a-clack to find out what MT has been up to. This is not surprising as he was quite vocal about his desire to emigrate overseas with his ‘daddy’ and leave Malaysia. Understandably, we’re surprised (yes, even me!) that he’s back to square one.

Frankly, I don’t want to know. I do not care to know.

I do not have the will to even care ... !

Poseurs like him shouldn’t be pandered to. It’ll be like stoking live coals with a gasoline-soaked stick.

Of weirdos

It is almost amusing the things some would do.

Really.

The impetus for this entry is that apparently certain persons have taken it upon themselves to tell yours truly how to live. And that was me being kind.

Now, I wouldn’t be the first one to point any fingers but a certain inference must be done to make things clear. And to you gentle readers, the events depicted herewith are not in chronological order.

* * *

PERSON “A”: To those who know me—well enough or not, you decide—I am not exactly a pious man. While I will admit I am Muslim, I am hardly the posterboy. There came one Friday that “A” decided to lecture me on my own religious/moral failings—simply because I told him (tongue in cheek) that I didn’t go for my Friday prayers due to ‘MENstruation’

Yes, I know it’s tasteless but it seemed funny in my head at that time ...

So I availed myself to his lecture for 30 minutes, nodding patiently (and wondering if he got laid last night?) until he asked me if I had any plans that Friday night? I told him I’m trying to finish this absolutely riveting historical novel about Eleanor of Aquitane. He told me I’m a stuffed shirt and that he is off to "go cruising tonight ..."

Yes, gentle readers. You read it. He said those exact words.

I pointed out to him that he just gave me the ‘brimstone and hellfire’ lecture and 5 minutes later admitted he’s out to engage in pre-marital butt-sex?

It seemed the planet ought to tilt on its axis at such skewed logic.

* * *

PERSON “B”: This one is slightly different. Yet, it is oh so disturbingly similar that I wonder if I am in a pattern of attracting the psychologically undeveloped.

This one when I was chatting with “B” regarding my DnD campaign. The usual ping-pong of Q&A ensued, discussions and ideas lobbed back and forth and it seemed to me “B” understood my demands (as DM) when it comes to game-play.

Alas, it is not to be. Not only did “B” misinterpreted me, he took it upon himself to include mechanics not vetted and included in my current setting. Now, as a player I could certainly understand the concept of ‘power-playing’ but “B” kept telling me (ad infinitum, ad nauseam) that he understood and it was never his intention to cheat. Truly.

It got quite heated that a third party had to get involved. And la, the process itself was quite distressing. I had to endure about an hour of waiting for “B” that not one, but three buses had already left for our mediation. And when called, “B” told me he has been there for the past 10 minutes!

And on a separate occasion, he had the nerve to show up 45 minutes late! And no, gentle readers, there were no apologies forthcoming. I admit, after various interactions with him, I am not exactly holding my breath with this one.

* * *

PERSON “C”: Now, I am quite well-known for being fussy when it comes to certain things. Not quite Bree Hodge (nee Mason) from Desperate Housewives, but it can be just as trying for those not used to my quirks.

I ask you gentle readers, is confirming an appointment too difficult a task? It is apparently so, to this next chap.

Not only were our appointments rescheduled and vetoed several times over (in a space of two weeks, no less), but it only came in at last minute and only because I called first (my anal-retentive streak at work) to find out about it. Is common courtesy the next to-be-extinct virtue, doomed to follow big-brother chivalry?

Lackaday, I admit to a touch of choleric display when confronting “C”. It is not becoming to lose one’s composure but there is only so much one can take ...

* * *

PERSON “D”: A gracious host is always well-regarded. And in today’s times of fast-paced entertaining, a truly masterful one is a gem in a million. It is my belief, that regardless of the guests’ familiarity with the host, the latter is obligated to offer some refreshments—even if it is just a humble glass of water.

Sadly to say, not only was I left dry for close to 2 hours, I had to point out to him that my parched throat was about to expire. Not surprisingly, there were no offers for food from our host—it is not expected of course, as I am not attending a dinner party!—so I called for food (delivery services are a godsend!).

The food arrived and as I tucked in, our host and other guests began to eat from my food as well. The nerve of some people.

What happened here? Is the host so destitute and miserly he had to rely on this one guest to feed the others? Talk about cheapskate! But I suppose, I shouldn't be surprised; he several times shortchanged me whenever it was time to settle accounts.

* * *

PERSON “E”: A long-lost friend is always a delight when finally found. At least, in theory that’s how it is supposed to be ...

Can you imagine that an old college-mate of mine is a celebrity? I am truly happy that he has found his niche. Especially after failing at other things he tried his hands at ... as friends we must be supportive of his successes where he finds them.

It is regretfully tainted by his blatant requests for “pussies”. It can be safely assumed the ones he requires aren’t the four-legged type, else it’ll be just too bizarre!

Yes, gentle readers. The same TV personality/model/actor decided that his old friend could serve him better as a pimp. I suspect even if I were to accept such dubious honour, I will not be entitled to a cunt--I mean, cut.

* * *

The irony of it all is these are just some of the people who seem to be so free to heap assumptions that all is not right with me: Selfish, Malicious, Vengeful, Moody, Obsessive-compulsive, Overly anal-retentive, Illogical, Screaming Drama Queen ... Aaah, the list goes on and on and on, but I shall refrain from straining the eyes of you gentle readers. It is enough to know that weirdos do not exist solely in movies, they walk the Earth!

I believe it is not so difficult to act, or at the very least observe some rules of propriety. As a dear friend of mine pointed out: We’re not looking for saints ... just someone who is socially functional.

Of sobriety

After eleven years, there are things to be said for sobriety.

It helps keep things in focus. The edges of things gain clarity; you leave doubts for another day. It also magnifies things for you.

For those who are already teetering on the edge, it is a perilous perch. Do we step into the void of newness—who knows what we may find?—or do we hug the safety and comfort of the commonplace?

I find that my views of this world is not exactly as I had remembered it; it is too painful to see yourself whenever you analyze your own doings. Selfish manipulations are hardly the stuff of heroes, one could say. We try to make ourselves a better person but we still cling to old, destructive habits. We shroud our psyche with clothings of familiarity, until one day that same raiment that used to accord us some semblance of comfort—and it does feel good in our comfort zones!—begin to stink.

Thank goodness for singlehood: I have no witness to my self-loathing.