The Million Dollar Question

Why would you need another pair of shoes when the one you have is perfectly fine?

That’s a trick question. It requires a lot of thought, and if answered a minute too soon, might haunt you for the rest of your life.

Drama. Jangan Tak Drama.

You have a reasonably reliable pair of shoes. They’re a timeless pair, black, sturdy, hand stitched all around, and boast a fashionable and trendy name. You had to have them the moment you set your eyes on them. The image of those shiny patent on the equally shiny wooden rack would be flashed again and again in your mind, interrupting your speech and your daily routine. If on a woman, you imagine them on your feet, adding just that extra inch to transform you from the girl-next-door into a professional, confident fashionista. Every man will turn when you strut your stuff, and every woman would turn green in envy. If on a man, you could stride in pride across boardrooms, shaking hands with flair, confident that that deal will be in your hands by the end of the day, due to the impressive way the shoes made you carry yourself. And don’t even start on the number of women that would be blown away by your mere presence..

So you buy them. You treat them with great TLC, and indeed, it was proven time and again, that they served you with exact precision with what you had had in mind. They were comfortable, they perk you up in a way that no other shoes can. With them on your feet, you have the world in your hands. The shoes become you.

Until you see the matt brown leather pair that just happened to be featured in the latest magazine.

And you imagine how this pair, would for women, make you a little bit more sexy, bold and mesmerizing… and would for men, make you taller, solve issues even better, see things clearer and best of all, would elevate your status to “ You’ve Made It”.

Now what would you do… Black Pair’s perfectly fine.

Scrutinize every detail to find fault with Black Pair? Get Matt Brown anyway and justify it later? Rationalise by drumming it into you that Black Pair’s perfectly fine, but so is Matt Brown.. and you can deal with two pairs?

This is exactly what I mean. Do you need to find fault with the old to justify the new, or be content that it shouldn’t be rattling on your conscience since you need both, you can take care of both, and both will in the long run, make you a happier person?

Now apply the same concept to these situations :

a) why need an extra child when the number you have is already perfect?

b) why find new friends when the ones you have are good enough?

c) and the killer of all questions : why seek a different woman/man when the woman/man you’re with is perfectly fine?

And the answer would be? Let me know, please... :-P

Pengantins & Fairies

Note : This is an old entry, newly produced after finding it tucked away in remote, forgotten files. It happens.

I was looking at the two girls playing together. One of the very rare occasions that they can do that - without tearing each other’s hair out or hurling accusations at top pitched voices. D1 (7) was a Pengantin, complete with lace trimmed gown, glittering crown, waist length veil, flower bouquet – the works. D2 (4) was a multiple role player, from the bridesmaid, groom, kompang boy, confetti-throwing guest, to the Director giving specific instructions.

Somehow, their role playing befits their characters perfectly. D1 is a sweet natured, gentle, determined perfectionist. The perfect textbook kid. D2 is … Not. Where D1 is sweet, D2 is grumpy. Where D1 is gentle, D2 is rough, forceful and loud. Wait, I tell a lie. She’s not loud. She’s LOUD. But there are similarities. D2 is also a determined perfectionist. She is 24/7 determined to get things perfectly done her way. And hell hath no fury like a grumpy, forceful, loud 4-year old, and condolences to those who dare to get in her way.

Except that people do get in her way, because D2 looks like an angel. If looks are said to be deceiving, with big round eyes, soft curls, and cherubic face, then D2 is living proof. The only tell tale sign that all is not quite as it seems, is when after every “Aiyaa.. so cuteee! So adorable one la you little girl..” remark, would quickly be followed by “Oiit..! Don’t do that! You come back here, you….*&%^”. (Original remark deleted to avoid defamation suits).

Back to the Pengantin scene.

Only now, the scene has changed. D1 is in a floaty, pink fairy dress, with wings. I don’t know where D2 is. But wait, she’s making her entrance now. D2 is in a policeman outfit. She’s blowing hard on the whistle, left hand holding a walkie-talkie, right hand dangling a set of handcuffs. She’s shouting real loud now. Annoyingly loud. She’s on a mission. Someone has just reported a fairy stealing jewellery, someone called “Krita Fatasha”, and the police is here to do justice. She grabs hold of the fairy, twists both her arms, slaps the cuffs on and marches her down to the prison. All these when the poor fairy was bending down to put on her glittery platform shoes, singing softly to herself. Poor fairy… she was caught by surprise like a chicken in a tsunami.

Pengantins and Fairies. How times have changed. I try to stretch my mind as far back as I could - and that’s a lot of stretching – but I don’t remember ever playing Pengantins and Fairies. Neither do I remember being a princess, a queen or all things nice, sugar and spice that little girls are made of. It always has to be ala Bawang Putih Bawang Merah, or Ratapan Anak Tiri – and I was always the tortured soul.

I remember playing Cinderella, being bullied and abused by the stepmother and two step-sisters, or I was a child that nobody wanted and was forced to leave the house in the middle of the night amidst heavy downpour. The latter would take place in the bathroom, and I’ll be under the shower (cold, heavy rain?), shuffling on the floor, bent under the weight of my imaginary bundle of clothes, crying my eyes out seeking for shelter. I would act until my fingers turned blue and shriveled into prunes. The former would be acted in front of my mother’s floor length mirror, and I would be jumping from one scene to the other, playing first the mother (cruel and abusive), then Cinderella (begging for mercy, pleading and always trying to please the mother). And when I say ‘jumping’, that was not a metaphor. I would be jumping first on one side to play mum, then jump to the other side to play Cinderella. Jump, Jump… Act, Act… It was a one-person theater, with multi-players, and I was lost happily confused being both the heroin and the villain.

Having said that, I’m beginning to question my childhood. Why wasn’t I playing Pengantins? Maybe not fairies, although I could have as I was an ardent fan of Enid Blyton and her world is full of fairies, pixies and goblins. Did the choice of childhood games contribute to the making of the weird, complex individual that I am now? I will have to have a word with my mummy…

Back to the Police and Fairy scene.

I'm sorry, I will be zoning off now, because the scene is no longer serene, and the two girls are not playing together anymore. They’re killing each other, if not physically then definitely audibly. The screams, the wailings, the you-did-this, no-its-your-fault, I’m-telling-on-you cries is like a jolt down familiar lane, too familiar and too often for my liking. Maybe that’s why all those years, I chose to play a one person game. Its probably more fun to handcuff yourself, then jump to the other side pleading to be free, then jump back to decide whether to be nice or mean. Jump, jump… Act, act…

Yes. Those were the good old days.

Tagged!

Tagged! (by The Jah aka Once an Ayam Serama)

• Link to your tagger and post these rules.

* List eight (8) random facts about yourself.
* Tag eight people at the end of this post and list their names.
* Let them know they’ve been tagged by leaving them a comment on their blogs.

I honestly don’t know what to do when I get tagged.

Is this like the game “Tag! You’re It!!”… followed by main kejar-kejar, where you run like mad after someone and touch any part of that person, and either you run away from him/her (because he/she’s now the catcher) or you sit down, which means he/she has to run after someone else instead. So, say it is like the physically exhausting game, what happens if I choose to sit down? Do I have to wait for someone to ‘sep’ me, before I can carry on blogging?

Cool… Works perfectly. Ok, so the reason for me not being able to update is because I have yet to wait for anyone to ‘sep’ me. Meaning, I’ll have to wait forever.

But in the mean time, The Jah, this is for you.


*By own admission, I’m a control freak. I have to do things which I plan to do, My Way, or No Way. Don’t get me wrong, if I’m told to do a task, and there’s instructions on how the end product will be, then I will produce the end product, by hook or by crook. It will be done and it will be awesome (lah di daa di daa). Just don’t interfere on how it is to be done. I don’t just swell up 3 times bigger, I might just be a little life threatening.

* I usually look at things differently from how others would.

If someone sees a leather clad guy sporting a mohawk, one would think that this person is a misfit, running wild in a dangerous group… I would be thinking how uncomfortable his sleep must be with all that standing hair, and that all that leather must be making him feel unpleasantly hot. We both would feel pity for the guy, but for very different reasons. If there is a bunch of monkeys while walking along the road, one would turn back for fear of being attacked, or clutch a long stick to fend them off… I would be so excited, and would run up to them to gawk at their natural habitat, to stare at the young clutching at their momma’s tummy, all the time chattering away to them… and I would not be attacked. If it was at a mall at 1pm, one would not even venture into the parking lot unless they’ve got ‘Preferred Parking’ passes or park high, high up or far, far away…. I would just think that someone who had an early lunch would surely be making her way out now, and I’ll drive head on into the full parking lot, and voila… right in front, a car is driving out.

Don’t blame me. I’m just wired differently.

* I like all things weird, bloody and gory.

I like scary movies, spooky hauntings, objects slaughtered, ripped off or skinned alive, fatal accidents, mass bloodshed and the list goes on. Expecially if it happens to deserving people. I think, that could run in the blood. We were watching a Spanish matador bull-fight on telly one night, and Dad was whole heartedly cheering and goading… for the bull to step on the Matador’s skull. His exact words, “Kill the bugger!”

Chromosome defects cannot be explained, just understood.

* I don’t eat, I graze.

I eat when I feel like eating, not because it’s required of me. When I want to eat, even a starved oink-oink would be put to shame. But if I choose not to, its because I have other important things on my mind… like mentally choosing between a turquoise sheer blouse or an orchard brown glitzy top, or busily contemplating when I can fake an outside client meeting just to purchase the item, and serious follow up pondering of when and where the hoot do I get to wear the item when I do purchase it.

Such serious issues need more brainwork than eating. Of course its also due to my feelings of empathy towards the Myanmar typhoon and China earthquake victims. Of course, of course. That goes without saying.

(“ … slinks away with head hung relatively low, due to great, unexplained shame…”).

* I have to walk on the left of a person walking by my side.

I am not deaf in the left ear, neither do I have a limp in either leg. I’m just so used to tilt my head to the right to talk to the person next to me. If I attempt to do the opposite, I would automatically be off-balance. I will trip over my own feet, I will start getting paralysingly annoyed and I cannot promise that I wouldn’t end up eating the head of the person who’s mere bad luck was to walk on My left.

* I dislike physical activities with a vengeance.

I did play basketball in school, I went for jungle trekking and camped by rivers in my younger days, I grudgingly followed an exercise routine after the births of each Decepticon, and done my fair share of running and skipping merely to entertain them.

Today, I make monthly payments as a member of a fitness centre (more of they just deduct it from my card), and on last count, the last time I’ve paid them a visit was precisely 1 ¾ years ago. Hey, it’s the thought that counts. Your rolls of fat surprisingly melts away when you make the effort to keep them away… in my case, its done by telepathic transmission of being a gym member.

My nonexistent ‘muskel’ can be seen with sheer determination of the mind. Betul. Tak tipu. I see them. Bulging lagi…

*I prefer reading to watching television, forced conversations or any other activity which remotely hints of physical exertion (shopping excluded).

* I’m a big fan of Indonesian music, and I’m not the slightest bit embarrassed to admit it. I don’t buy albums though, I just download them into my iPod. So yes, I’m a free-loader. Tough. So sue me.

I feel so self-centred, writing a piece on “I, I, I”. So like diva only. And because of point 7, I don’t have 8 friends to tag. Consider me as a non-tagger. The Jah, my job is done. I now choose to snooze for another month.

Warning : An Emo Entry

From a very young age, you are encouraged to think. To decipher events and causes and ponder why things happen. Its easy when you’re little – neglect your teeth and your pearly whites will rot; too much play and tv and your grades will come tumbling down after; behave improperly and you get a telling off or a whack on your rump. Matters are black and white and no exceptions apply.

When you grow up a little, things start to turn grey. You realize that things are not always fair. The naughtiest girl in school who never seemed to study keeps on getting first in class; you’ve behaved like an angel the whole week and yet you still couldn’t go to a friend’s sleep-over. The concept of ‘Good Things Happen to Good people’ doesn’t seem to be quite relevant anymore. In fact, there are times when your faith is challenged when you keep observing again and again that Bad People have it all and seems to have the world swept right under their feet.

So it comes to no surprise that I couldn’t come up with an answer when many unexplained things took place around me. Why the dearest of ladies, the one person who couldn’t hurt a fly, who had worked tirelessly since the age of fifteen to make ends meet to fend for her eight children, would suffer a chronic heart attack and lay day in day out in the CCU unit of Institut Jantung Negara. Why the 32-yr old mother of two, who went into a simple day surgery to have her tonsils removed, went to sleep in her room post-surgery and never woke up again. Why a dear colleague who’s always smiling and ready to help, who was elated and over the moon (to put it mildly) when she found out she was pregnant, went to her Gynae for a routine 6 month pre-natal check-up, only to be told that there was no longer a heartbeat. Why a well renowned heart transplant doctor, a dear husband, father and acquaintance, who saved thousands of lives, drove back from his kebun with his gardener on a route he had taken countless times before, made a fatal error of judgment and collided head-on with a passing lorry, and the gardener, unscathed, lived to tell the tale.

I’m no cynic, and I hate being in such a melodramatic mood. But it drains the energy out of me trying to figure out how to explain the facts of life to an 8 and 4 year old. To try to put it into their perspective of simple black and white. The concept of qada and qadar is too advanced, incomprehensible to their minds. They see, feel and hear things, but they don’t necessarily understand. They realize that you’re upset, they know that something bad has happened, and they keep wanting to know why it happened. They want to understand.

And I can’t do that. I can’t explain to them why things happen the way they do. The best that I can say is that God takes away the people He loves the most… the Good People. Which brought a question from D1 of why then should she be good, and be taken away, which would cause pain and sadness to her family, not to mention herself? Stand to reason why one would opt to be good in the first place.

Its easy when its self-caused. If a young, generous, successful car dealer meets his untimely demise due to lung cancer, its not too difficult to explain that that’s quite possible when you’re smoking 3 packets of cigarettes a day. Or when a boy hardly past his teens crashes into a tree during a mat rempit full stunt joyride. Clearly, those are black and white issues.

It’s the grey matters that I need help on. Help me to help them.

Or I could just give you my phone number and you do the explaining to the Decons. Whatever works.

What The?

I came across three teenaged boys at 7-11, all donned up in white shirts, green trousers and black shoes. They looked the typical secondary school boys, except for two distinctive factors. 1. They were sporting black shoes. 2. They look and sound different.

The fact that they were wearing black shoes shouldn’t be a strange factor. But I notice that schools around my area do not have boys wearing black shoes, unless they’re some sort of union-group members i.e prefects, librarians, etc. Then their uniforms will be different. Different, weird and in the school’s attempt to outdo other schools on the who-can-design-the-most-outrageous-uniform… I must say, downright ugly too. Sorry. Just my personal opinion. These boys on the other hand, were wearing the normal public school attire.

They look different. This mainly is again, because the norm in my area, the boys normally look outrageously good looking, hair symmetrically razored and cut to the ‘in’ do of the moment – Ariel Peter Pan look-alikes, some Korean “My name is Rain” superstar or laid back 'I couldn’t care less' hair, which screams a minimum RM100 tag. Yup. The local school boys here don’t even look of any particular race anymore. Fused and scrambled in a concoction of easy money, they now all look like each other and related somehow, like an osmosis product in a melting pot.

Now, these boys were different. They were all in short, no nonsense haircuts, cuts that carries the proud look and feel of kedai India barbershops, the ones with the blue, white and red pole of spiral stripes lighting up to clearly indicate that they’re open for business. They were strong, male, macho cuts. Not some namby-pamby boy band cuts. And these boys wore them well. (Although I have to admit that they were fair, tall, lanky and err… red-lipped too… but you can tell, they were boys through and through. No gender confusion here).

They sound different. Okay, this is why my attention turned to them. I am not, (I stress) in the habit of checking out school boys in their uniforms. I am not the female version of Males leering at Brittney Spears in pigtails. Yuckss! The reason I found these boys interesting, was because of their conversation.

Boy 1 : “Apa la engkau ni, banyak cekadak betul… Beli je la…”
Boy 2 : “Taknak la. Nanti warden tangkap, mati aku…”
Boy 1 : “ Ala… beli je la. Kalau kau beli, aku tabik spring dengan kau…”
Boy 2 : “Taknak. Kalau kena penampar maut dengan warden, confirm bapak aku pun tumpang belasah aku sekali…”
Boy 1 : “Aku cover la. Kau jalan dulu. Kalau problem, campak je. Aku tunggu kat Tangga Bradley…”
Boy 3 : “Eh, aku pun nak. Aku derb!”

I had to laugh when I heard them. First, they were using phrases that I used to use when I attended that certain boarding school, back in all those years. Its good to know that the underlined phrases are still alive and doing their rounds. I used and abused the same phrases right up to Form Five, and mysteriously, they left me when I left the school. Although I could have sounded different since I was banned from ever using “Engkau-Aku” phrases, no thanks to mummy dearest spreading red chilly on my mouth when she first heard me using them with a friend over the phone. Suffice to say, I can’t even say those terms again without feeling a chill(y). Apart from that, the boarding school lingo was still part and parcel of everyday talk. In school that is. It somehow didn’t fit my home environment.

But, I swear, my heart literally stopped when Boy 1 mentioned “Tangga Bradley”. The same staircase that we were forced to step up and down, and count and recount every step during Orientation Week. The stairs that we used to go back and forth from class-hostel-prep-dewan makan-hostel. The connector of two lives – the academic and the appearingly normal. Runs deep in history, those stairs.

So, me being me, I couldn’t contain my excitement, and approached the boys.

Me : “Adik, U all ni sekolah asrama kan? Sekolah “tut-tut-tut” ke?”
Boy : “ Betul la tu”.
Me : “ Yang Selangor ke yang KL?”
Boy : “ Yang original la… yang KL. Yang Selangor tak ori…”
Me : (chuckled, completely agreeing with them)

Then came the Mother of all questions. The missile that rudely jerked me out of memory lane, back to the harsh world of reality.

Boy : “Kenapa Aunty? Anak Aunty sekolah situ ke? Form berapa? Entah-entah kitorang kenal…”

What the…? Aunty? I’m only in my thirties, and you call me Aunty? Do I look Aunty-ish to you? You’re bigger and taller than me, and YOU call me Aunty? And “Anak Aunty sekolah situ?” What sort of question is that? My anak just started primary school, but you think I’m Aunty enough to have a child in your class? What, you think I got married at 17?

Poor boys. They never knew what hit them. With a cold stare, I brushed them aside abruptly, paid my purchases and stormed off. Two steps off. Then I realized what an ‘Itch with a silent B’ I was, turned back and said sweetly, “Takla… Akak yang dulu sekolah situ. Kirim salam kat Tangga Bradley nanti, ye….”

Then it hit me too. First, I became paranoid when being termed “Aunty”, when in fact I was termed as such by Decepticons’ friends. Talk about being in serious denial. Then, this paranoid being of an Aunty asked to send her regards to … a staircase. Even though glamorously named “Bradley”, it was and still is a tangga. What the…?

It could be slow signs of dementia. It could be apparent signs of identity crisis. Whatever it is, I’ve got to work on it fast. Memalukan sungguh…..

Antara KL dan Jakarta

The four of us were in the car, driven by a black leather jacketed chap with midnight shades. Luggages were piled in the trunk, and we were happy-clappy all the way, all revved up to begin our journey. Passport – check. Tickets – check. Attire – very tourisy and perasan cool. Check.

And then the text message came in. Sukarno-Hatta Airport had been shut down since 10 this morning due to bad flood.

Granted, we were only going to Jakarta – not a far-fetched, romantic, getaway resort on a remote island somewhere. Still… We were looking forward to this trip for weeks. It was supposed to be a kids-free holiday. One which we planned to eat, walk, eat, shop, eat, eat till our hearts’ content, and in that order. The gals had refused to eat the whole week, just to make room for the eating spree weekend. The guys, well, they didn’t not eat.

So, telling us that we might not be able to engage into our makan marathon, that is not on. So on the spot, we made plans. Lets get tickets to Bangkok instead. We can roam the night markets and try the crickets, grasshopper and livestock menu. We can visit the ‘adult only’ areas and act like we’re on our honeymoon. We can buy fakes. Loads of fakes. Or maybe, lets go to Macau instead. The Asian Las Vegas. We might have to deliberate long on every choice of food, but then, no pain no gain. We can take pain. We can try our hand on the bingo machines, and with the extra moo-lah that we’ll make, since we can’t spend them on food, then maybe, yes… we can buy fakes. Loads of fakes. Now, do we bring our rupiah, or change at the airport, or at the casinos…

Amidst the tossing of venue ideas, and the constant squabble of menu choices, we reached the airport. KLM was right on schedule. Not even a half minute delay. So much for crickets and jackpots, we were way on our way to Jakarta.

Of course-lah we got there as scheduled. Aeroplanes travel by air, why would it be affected by land matters like flood? Flood would only concern objects with all wheels or legs touching solid ground. The wheels of the aeroplanes would touch the ground for mere minutes, so unless the runway was floored in water, their schedule would not the least be affected. But the roads leading to and fro the airport was a different story. Traffic was a standstill. The driver of our rented car had been stuck for 3 hours getting to the airport. And he was nowhere near the airport. Quick calculation, we decided we would be better off taking another car from the airport. Except there were no legal rented cars or taxis left. “Semuanya kehabisan, Pak. Macetnya, aduh… Ribut sekali”.

Ribut tak ribut. We don’t care if its a taufan, we need a car, and we need it NOW. We shouldn’t have worried though. The illegal cars were aplenty. After much negotiation, we hopped into an MPV, and headed off…. The journey to the hotel was an Episode. The smart-alecked, boom-box voiced driver, was also the disciple of David Coulthard. His skills in cilok-ing even at the most uncilok-ed places scared us witless. It was amazing how he could swerve from one end to the other, with hand constantly on the horn, and managed to outrun all other vehicles, in a standstill, non-moving jam. Crazy, I tell you. Not fun, I also tell you. But, even though he accused us Malaysians of being “Perogol Bahasa dan Budaya Indonesia” (It must be that Rasa Sayang song and them getting irked at being termed “Indon” issue), to which, Guy Friend answered “Sama-sama merogol, Pak…, he delivered in getting us to Mulia Hotel via alternative village routes in exactly four hours. To that I raise my hat. Maybe not raise, just tilt it a bit.

By then, mood was lukewarm bordering cold. Being trapped four hours on an empty stomach drains the smileys out of you. We dropped off our luggage and went to the hotel restaurant. Fairly impressive! It had just been refurbished, and had the look of an icicle clove with drops of snow on the sides. Very christmasy. We couldn’t stomach the abundance of sushi and sashimi (Indonesians LURVE their sushi), so settled on Sup Buntut instead. It was the wisest of choices. It was pure heaven, and it warmed us all up (banjir kan, so very the cold…), so much so that we could smile and be merry again. Jakarta was looking good.

Ramblings Galore

I’m supposed to write on a different topic. A topic that has everyone asking why I’ve been AWOL for quite a while. A topic that I’ve promised to expose and bare all. Problem is, I don’t feel quite up to it yet. So I’m ranting on something else. I’m ranting on nothing.

I’m back at work after one whole week. Under normal circumstances, a week of absence from work would be bliss. D1 would term it as “Totally kewl…!”. I would term it the same too, except that, I didn’t quite know what to do with the leave. I couldn’t do the things that I would normally do, only because I wasn’t in much of a mood to walk around, do some window or serious shopping, catch up with friends over coffee and bagel, or coffee and cake or salad…. Or just coffee. Don’t get me wrong… I am still a coffee addict, and I am still catching up on lost coffee in my system – but the idea of having to make an effort to just do those things are a killer. And I feel guilty going out. Again, not because I know what I’m supposed to do, because I clearly have no idea of what to do with myself, but I just feel better not doing things which gives me pleasure. Hang on… the last sentence didn’t quite come out right… I’ll try again. Let’s just say that since I didn’t know what good things that I should do, I feel better not doing things that I shouldn’t do. Although I’m not exactly sure that I shouldn’t do half the things that I thought I shouldn’t. Oh wow…now I’ve managed to get myself confused.

A friend of mine just received a phone call from her daughter in Sg. Petani. The daughter said that a mother of her room mate just called her up. That mother had been trying to get that daughter for two days, but that daughter refused to answer calls. So that mother called up this friend’s daughter to ask her whereabouts. This daughter said that this daughter hasn’t seen that daughter for weeks. That daughter hasn’t been attending lectures, and hasn’t been back at the hostel either. In fact, the last time this daughter saw her, was at a taxi stand. That daughter zoomed by in a car with 2 male adults, and asked this daughter whether she wanted to catch a ride. This daughter agreed. In the car, that daughter introduced the driver as her “Ayah Angkat” and the other male as “Bapa Saudara Angkat”. Yup – both males were in their late 40s and that daughter is 19. Go figure. In light of the Nurin case and the still missing Sharlinie, I just hope the parents would act on it fast. To me, the difference is only age. And 19 is still shallow no matter how much experience she thinks she has. Its no blooming contest against 40y old buskers. (You know I meant something else, but just trying to be a lady here…).

Another friend just had her neighbour’s house robbed. In broad daylight, with people outside their houses on a bright, sunny, Sunday mid-afternoon. People in the house were lazing around in front of the telly, and two guys casually dropped in, stuck a pistol each at 2 members of the family, got them to hand over jewellery, cash and handphones, then casually walked out again into a waiting car. Not a word exchanged, just a gentleman understanding of how things are done… all in 10 minutes. Now this I would also call “Totally kewl”…. All in the spirit of Malaysia Boleh.

People are screwed up. I am too. And at this moment I can’t tell the difference and I couldn’t care less.