A Noble Conjecture

Eve Of The Day And I'm At Work

noreply@blogger.com (Demented) — Thu, 24 Dec 2009 02:21:00 +0000

There's hardly anyone here today, except for me.

One of the very few poor bastard or should I say stupid moron in my office working the day before Christmas. I didn't want to, believe me but..arrgh, fuck it! Its no use. I'm here and fuck all.

There are a few little things I could be doing, work-related things, but none are that important and I don't feel like I want to. But really, are you not expected, almost required, to goof off if you have to be in the day before a big holy day?

Especially when it's so quiet, so few people around.

I chatted for a while with one of the only other elves for a while this morning. But then he left early. Says his girlfriend called and said she was sick and that she was at her mom's and he had to go home and take care of her goldfish or something like that. All bullshit but more power to him for coming up with an excuse to leave work.

Next I spent a good solid hour wasting time on the internet until that got boring. Then I started daydreaming. That quickly turned into some erotic fantasizing that got me seriously errr...wanting. Which then turned frustrating. And now I can't get fantasies of doing Hikaru Koto out of my mind.

I guess there's only one more thing to do then. Close the door, surf on some Japanese porn, pull down my pants and masturbate until lunch time.

I'm kidding! I'm kidding!

Anyhow, have a good one tomorrow, y'all!

Tough Year

noreply@blogger.com (Demented) — Sat, 19 Dec 2009 02:51:00 +0000

As the end of the year draws to a close, it seems apparent that other such things are also coming to an end.

It's the time of year again.

Time to look within ourselves and find what we don't like and make wild claims about what we'll change and shit like like that. Come end of this month, I'll be looking in the mirror again and asking myself what achievement I've made for myself.

That is why I don't like December.

I am not quite sure where this year had gone, what I've achieved and yet somehow its a mere six days to the celebration of Yeshua's womb evacuation day and emotionally, I'm still in the same place and pretty much still disillusioned.

Was this year fine or just simply mediocre?

I certainly did some good. I did some charity work. Nothing great although I wished now that I did more. Oh, I finally made an effort to quit smoking. I used to go without for two or three months but its always been an emotional roller coaster rides of highs and lows. This time though, I'm good. Well, technically I still do but only the good stuff. But even that, only when the good stuff's available.

As the course draws to a close I fucking hope that the new year will bring some assurance of comfort. This year had been pretty tough. Fuck, last year and the year before that was tough.

But as the new year beckons, I couldn't help but wonder what the future holds in store.

I know we all will be embarking on new directions and shit like that. Yet this excitement is clouded by the inevitable change which will occur. Will all the shit we did this year and the events and stuff we shared with people become merely distant memories?

I don't know.

In the meantime, I'm going to pick myself up, dust myself off and go with the flow.

Pink Gunk

noreply@blogger.com (Demented) — Thu, 17 Dec 2009 02:24:00 +0000

The common toilet on out office floor has a generic-looking soap dispenser. Every once in a while, I've noticed that the cleaning lady gets a little lazy about refilling the soap dispenser. And rather than taking the empty soap thing out of the dispenser and replacing it with a new soap refill, she'll just leave the soap refill down next to the sink for people to use.

And what an unfortunate-looking soap refill it is.

You see, its basically this bag of pink soap with a rubber tube jutting out of the bottom of it. When put in the dispenser the pink bag and the rubber tube are completely hidden from view. When it's just sitting out next to the sink though and not in the dispenser, there's no nondescript little lever or button to push to get soap to come out. Instead, you have to squeeze the rubber tube. It's kind of like having to squeeze a really tiny little dick that shoots pink stuff into your palm.

Seriously, every time I see that little refill sitting all by itself next to a sink, I see a tiny little dick. And every time I've had to sqeeze that rubber tube to get the soap, I've had sexual thoughts...errr...gross sexual thoughts. I've often wondered if other people in the office and our neighbours thinks the same and feels kind of dirty - how's that for irony- whenever they have to wash their hands.

I've never heard anybody else make a comment about it. Out loud, anyway.

But this morning, when I went to take a dump and saw another refill sitting on the edge of the sink, there was a note stuck on it. I don't know if they did this as a joke, recognizing what everybody probably thinks anyway and leaving a note to give people a laugh, in which case, well done whoever you are. Or if they were seriously offended and did this to try to get the cleaning lady to stop leaving refills by the sink instead of replacing them inside the actual dispensers.

Either way, I thought it was fucking funny. The sticky note says - "Ini barang macam peler" (This thing looks like a dick). And I have to agree.

Seriously, should I really have to pump a rubber dick until it spews pink gunk just to be able to wash my hands at work?

My boss just asked me if I was the one who left the note. Apparently it looks like something I'd do.

What the hell was he thinking???

My Foot

noreply@blogger.com (Demented) — Mon, 14 Dec 2009 04:20:00 +0000

The Good: I had a fun weekend. Went out of town for a feast of terrapin and frog meat. There were lots of other good stuff mainly because the good host is a firm beliver that all good times should not be without heaps of the good stuff, whatever the good stuff maybe.

Nevermind.

But there were lots of good food and lots of good drink and coupled with good company, what can possibly go wrong? Met a friend of my sister, one who's going through a divorce right now, and man was she cute and so funny and laid back and friendly, it was trippy.

The Bad: Klutz that I am, I totally fell while stepping out of my ride most probably because I was a little tipsy. Okay, maybe I was drunk. Landed on the wrong side of my right foot, which is either sprained or perhaps even broken. Either way it hurts like hell to walk. I'm an idiot and in pain.

The Ugly: That would be my foot, which is swollen and sort of purplish in the spot that hurts the most. Fucking great.

Did I mention I can't wait for Yesua's womb evacuation day celebration? That's about the only thing to look forward to this month. And that other day commemorating Prophet Muhammad's, peace be unto Him, journey from Meidna to Mecca. Both days falls on a working day and that means I dont have to be at the sweatshop. Which is good. Otherwise, December is a very depressing month.

And my foot fucking hurts.

Imma Git The Freak On

noreply@blogger.com (Demented) — Fri, 11 Dec 2009 05:10:00 +0000

Time : 1:48am

I used to think I might be just a slight bit off the normal scale from the rest of the world, a bit crazy, just a hair or two away from being what you could call truly sane.

But fuck man! I didn't have a clue...

Because right now I am truly wrapped up in insanity. Its crazy. Wonderful insanity. Ecstatic, vibrant, psychedelic insanity. My world full of bright colors, greens and hot pinks and oranges and velvety reds and turquoises and canary yellows and fuchsias. I hear music. I fucking hear music. Wonderful rocking grooving makes-you-wanna-git-yo-freak-on music, every fucking minute.

I.Am.Fucking.Alive!

I am hyper-sensitive, in the most exquisite way. I am orgasmic.

I have somehow, unwittingly stumbled upon the world's biggest crazy happy pill. Errr...but I don't do chemicals.

A fucking huge heap of herbs it is then!!!

I am drunk. Intoxicated. High. And out of my mind with madness.

And this madness is finger lickin delicious-nous. It is exotic and erotic and powerful. It has consumed my mind and my fucking soul. And especially my sexual organs, like my brain, yo!

I am the monster that Dr. Frankenstein created. He has awakened me and put me on a fucking crazy-ass spell.

Imma his freak!

And the biatch is mine!

Please let this madness never end.

Gramps

noreply@blogger.com (Demented) — Wed, 09 Dec 2009 04:10:00 +0000

I just got back from visiting my grand dad at the village. It was a year or so ago when I last saw him. He is very sick now and was admitted to the hospital for this thing they tell me as 'severe case of stomach complication'. I don't really know what the problem is and I don't want to know but as far as the doctors prognosis is concern, its not very good. The doctor said 'a few weeks to maybe a few months' and recommended that he went home. There was nothing to be done.

I met him at my dad's family home. He was happy to see me, he says. I was too, although I couldn't help being overwhelmed by sadness to see him lying on his bed, frail and thin. His legs were so thin I could barely see them under the sheets and his stomach so distended that it looked like a basketball had been put under his shirt to fill out his tiny little frame. He spoke to me in whispers. He was no longer the same grand dad I had always known. Vivacious, adventurous, the grand dad I walked to the padi fields with. No longer the grand dad that I had gone to town for kolo mee or the grand dad who had given my brother and I the advice to “always tell the truth” because “you will get no where in life by lying”.

Occasionally he let out a good laugh at some jokes and repeatedly reassured me he was fine and eating well. I spent a whole day just chilling with him last weekend next to his bed. He asked if I was to stay till Christmas but told him I couldn't and that I'd try to visit in the next coming weeks.

He was quiet for a few seconds and I felt guilty.

He nodded and that is when he started.

"When you were young. About five, I think..."

There I was, sitting next to my 86 year old grand dad recounting stories and listening to tales he used to tell me when I was kid. Mostly stories told by his father. Stories he heard when he was my age. And he still remembers my favourite. The one about the tortoise who carved an instrument, a ruding, from the bones of a forest lizard. There is also a monkey in the story who stole the ruding from the tortoise and ended up having his dick bitten by a crab. It later dies a miserable death. Its funny, really.

We laughed and he told me some more.

My grand dad loved to tell stories, and over the last few years I would encourage him to tell me stories from his life at every opportunity. I must have heard the story of how he met my grandmother a hundred times, each time with the same zeal. He told me stories of his days as the village chief and stories of his days in the field during the war. His stories were always punctuated by some victory or other, small or large and displayed his stubborn fighting spirit and his will to prove naysayers wrong.

I used to be at my grand dad's house quite a lot when I was young. I remember that quite clearly. He and my late grand mother dotted on me. My own dad wasn't around most of the time as he was working in another town and grand dad took over the role. He provided me with the kind of wisdom, guidance and fun a young kid would need. I know grand parents raise their grandchildren for a lot of reasons such as death, divorce, child abuse, neglect or abandonment. For me, I was just happy that my grand dad took the time to help raise me. Grandparents raising grandchildren offer them a special bond that will impact their lives forever.

I don't recall most of the things he told me. Mostly about my exploits and the shit I got myself into but knew somehow those things happened. Some were unpleasant and mostly to do with chickens that strangely went missing from the coop and then there are the few I can now vaguely remember. But it was just amazing to sit there to listen and notice how every details are still fresh on his mind. He still remembers them as if it happened only yesterday. At times he paused in between whispers and I could see how he was probing his mind for the exact details just to make sure he got it right.

And that was when I realised how little time he has. And that he also realises it.

But there was not a sign of resignation in his voice. He was calm and at peace and I could sense his will to carry on was strong although in essence he was all ready for the next journey. He tells me that he was in a lot a pain sometimes. The pills helps, he says.

I think I may have been sitting there and talking to him for four or five hours and I knew he was just making sure I remember the good times with him. I saw him just before my flight back yesterday. I went to his room, told him I had to go and promised to see him again soon. He was in good spirits and said he has one or two other stories to tell.

As I think about life and especially after my visit, I feel hopeful. Hopeful now that I believe that life is grand and there is fucking hope.

And that life is lived in cycles.

A beginning, a middle, an end.

But the end isn't necessarily final.

Worried

noreply@blogger.com (Demented) — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 09:08:00 +0000

What if I didn't have enough to worry about?

And how the fuck will I know if I'm worrying enough about my worries.

What if I wake up tomorrow and the government bans Tiger beer?

What if the worst thing that can happen isn't the fucking worst thing that can happen.

And like, what if Britney Spears fucking shaves her head again?

Damn!

Pening

noreply@blogger.com (Demented) — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 09:05:00 +0000

I have only this to say - What a day!

I was blindsided by a fucking headache this morning. I don't know but it could be the 7 big cats and 3 Trios I had last night. Could be. And I pretty much hid in the dark until this afternoon while I tried to convince the bastard with the icepick behind my eye to give me a fucking break.

Everything had an aura around it and light was the enemy. I know how vampires feel when I get like this.

And as I am reminded of every time I have a throbbing headache, I have to say that there is nothing like fucking agony to make you appreciate the wonderfulness in feeling normal.

Like right now. Normal is fantastic. Fucking wonderful in fact.

I am nearly delirious to be sitting here downing my second big cats and feeling ever so everyday and completely and totally ho fucking hum average.

Peace!

The Candle

noreply@blogger.com (Demented) — Wed, 14 Oct 2009 12:59:00 +0000

Were there times when you just didn't want to be seen or to be followed? And all you wanted to do was to fucking disappear quickly and quietly without any drama and all that shit?

And you wanted as much time in the darkness as you possibly could because you know the dark provided cover...

a place to hide...

and most of all, that it provided comfort.

I do sometimes and then I listen to this shit and I feel complete.

Yes and No

noreply@blogger.com (Demented) — Sat, 26 Sep 2009 03:02:00 +0000

This passion curls and rests on her lips.

Just a few words, she says.

He twinkles back,

Damn this!!

Its probably yes...probably no.

Certainty is never written in water.

Your tongue and lips always moist

can never hold me.

Few words, maybe yes...

maybe no.

Berries, Phones And Pods

noreply@blogger.com (Demented) — Wed, 23 Sep 2009 02:34:00 +0000

You know, it just blows me away that some folks put so much of dependency on this thing they call a blackberry or whatever equivalent. These ones I find completely mystifying. Their pride in being “connected” to everything and I mean everything, is somewhat bizarre to me. Take this friend of mine. He not only has a blackberry but also an i telephone that has not 1 or 2 but 3 g's in it although I don't really know whats the deal with the g's. And these he carries with him everyday and everywhere. And just in case, his top of the line i pod too.

Now, I’ve no idea of the things that a blackberry or an i telephone that has not 2 but 3 g's can do. But I see some friends checking their e mails with their berries and then answer calls with another phone. Mostly of the i telephone variety while another flicks out his i pod thing, after checking his mail with his berry and making a call with his HTC, and proudly shows the latest porn he downloaded. I find all this annoying on many levels. Especially when drinking at the pub. And there's another who claims that he actually blogs with that berry thing. This dude also tells me he reads on his i pod and that he has the whole books of the bible on his pod thingy.

Seriously, what makes it so indispensable that some people own and use more than one of these things at the same time is just beyond me.

So, say that you can call people, listen to music, watch porn, read a book, do mails, make appointments, book tickets, take photographs or videos, watch live TV programmes and everything else on your berry or your pod - that makes it a multifunctional item.

Well, thats all good and nice.

Very cool. Very clever.

But does it mean that you simplify your life by getting rid of the TV, DVD player, music system, phone, camera, videocam, computer, books and possibly your secretary? I don't think so. So if you’re still going to have all those things anyway, what’s the point of that berry or that i telephone or that pod thing?

Phones that play music and that pod thing that function as a phone – what da fuck is up with that? I don't have the luxury of a pod that plays music or one that function as a phone and play music but I would be very happy if, and only if I had one, it would just play music and do nothing else. I don’t think I need my pod to be a phone, a diary, an alarm clock, a radio, a DVD player, a TV, computer or a portable vagina. I fucking swear I saw a portable vagina at this sex shop the other day and that was hillarious. Can you believe this shit? A fucking portable vagina you can put in your pocket and bring to work, yo! Pocket pussy, y'all! How about that?

But I digress.

And how, in the name of sweet mother of Thor, can anyone enjoy porn on a 2 by 3 inch screen? Me, I'm into details. I like to see that little mole Ms Hikaru Koto has on the left cheek of her soft butt. You wouldn't get that kind of detail on a berry or a stupid pod. And that is why I've a nice 29 inch screen TV. I have all these things they put on a berry or a pod separately and they all work just fine. And for the life of me, I've never been overcome by an irresistible urge to watch skin action on a 2 by 3 inch screen anywhere, no matter how little else I have to do. Even on those bigg ass planes, when I could conceivably be expected to be bored and require entertainment, I don’t bother with the stupid screens on the back of the seat in front of me.

I don’t think I’m technologically challenged. Maybe fiscally. But I just don’t feel the necessity to be connected all the time to an electronic leash, everywhere I go. And I certainly don't need to watch tv on a 2 by 3. Technology is a utilitarian thing, as far as I'm concerned. If it does what I need, that will do. When an item that's meant to make your life simpler turns out to need training to operate, because it's complicated by the sheer number of things it does, those technological advances defeat the original purpose. Fucking simplicity.

I sometimes wonder what these folks would do, those very important, very tech-savvy people who are addicted to their berrys and pods, if they were disconnected from the electronic world. How would they survive the lack of entertainment at the touch of a teeny weeny little button on those thing with fucking tiny screen?

I’d read a book. Just your normal, printed book - the ones with words, which wouldn’t tell you the time, remind you of an appointment, play music, make a phone call, receive an email, take a photograph or do anything other than be something to read. The kind of book that would have pages made from paper that you could touch, smell and feel, the kind of book that wouldn’t need batteries, power or recharging.

That kind of...retro book, if you like.

And oh, my Nokia 1110 rawks!

Chill

noreply@blogger.com (Demented) — Thu, 17 Sep 2009 09:01:00 +0000

The sun rises bright and fresh,
penetrates the windows and wraps its warmth
around my shoulders,
light-shards smile across the floor.

But it's a tease. I know it is...

But these are strange days,
sudden change of weather comes in the night,
windstorms in the afternoon,
morning mists on cold floors that yields to dark clouds and then the drizzle,
While the wind drives chill against my skin.

I want to believe the warm hug is especially for me,
that she's going to stay,
but warm is a fickle lover...
and I know...
...she'll be gone and I'll be cold.

Black Cat

noreply@blogger.com (Demented) — Mon, 14 Sep 2009 15:45:00 +0000

I know you know this one.

They say if a black cat walks under the ladder you're climbing, you're fucked and if a black cat crosses your path, you're sure going to be doubly fucked.

Thats what happened after dinner just now as me and my dinner partner walked towards my ride. The feline of bad omen crossed our path which stopped my dinner partner dead in his track and prompted him to chant some unintelligible mantra, waving his hands around frantically in between. Totally blown away, I stood there staring at him.

"You can't be too careful. Bad luck, you know", he said.

So at the pub, and still curious, I asked him at what distance does the bad luck begins to affect me. That is, how far away does a black cat have to be? 2 feet? 12 1/2 maybe? A few hundred feet? Do I even have to fucking see the cat crossing my path for the bad luck to start or is it enough that a black cat cross my path at all, whether I see it or not? And does the cat have to be a specific breed? Like if it was a cross breed of a Siamese and a stray, would my bad luck be quadrupled in its affect or something?

He wasn't amused and said we shouldn't be questioning the spirit world, the fairy's and those small little beings that sometime appears to his grandfather.

But never mind that. Back to the black cat - does the same bad luck thing applies when you're driving? Say, when one runs across the road in front of you?

I mean, why can't these things be more precise?

Hey, you!

Yeah. You.

Happy birthday!

Convert

noreply@blogger.com (Demented) — Fri, 11 Sep 2009 15:00:00 +0000

I left the saltmine at 6:30 in the PM and as I drove towards the general direction of Ruai, a good friend called and asked if I wanted to join him at a coffee shop for a few rounds of them amber coloured juice. I told him I was already proceeding towards Ruai, a venture he was very much against on the account that he was broke and so was I. And to rub it in, he reminded me of the critical condition of my tab over at the pub.

So I arrived at the coffee shop and took a seat at one of the empty tables and ordered a bucket of Stella. I was early and already at my second can when this smartly dressed person walked to my table and asked if he could join me.

There are a few banks in the vicinity and by the crumpled, rolled up sleeves of his cotton shirt, double pleated pants and his leather bag, he'd pass for a banker. I don't normally feel comfortable sharing tables with strangers but the dude looked legit and I nodded.

He held out his hands, confidently shook my hand and introduced himself.

"Jonathan Leong", he said.

I offered him a beer but he declined and ordered ice tea instead. And then we talked. He said he was from Malaya and in my backyard for a visit. We spoke of the weather, the flu thing and got into some political discussion because you can never go wrong with politics. Especially local politics.

I was enjoying his company until he asked, and casually too, if I was a religious person. Immediately then I knew where the question was leading.

"Not very. But I do go to church on Sunday's".

It had happened to me countless of times during my college days. And the modus operandi was always the same. Someone would befriend you and then try to make you embrace whatever religion they were selling while you were at your most vulnerable.

"Friend, have you had many dark moments?", he asked next.

I had already ravished four Stella by then and didn't really want to get into any heavy discussion on religion. But because I didn't want to be rude, I decided to make light of the situation before he could get started properly.

"Yeah, of course. Like right now. Being broke, you know. Thats dark to me", I bowed my head sadly.

But the look he gave me made me feel guilty.

"In all seriousness, friend, do you ever pray?"

"Sometimes. When I'm down and I need hope. But right now, I'm all good, really". I tried to slide out of it again but he kept calling me 'friend' and asking me questions that I had to answer 'yes' to.

"Do you believe in God, friend?"

"Sort of. But it's more my own version of God"

And then he exhaled loudly and placed his hands on the table, palms facing upwards. I knew then something big was coming.

"Friend, I am a Mormon", he finally declared.

And the way he said it was like a confession and the words were just left there, dangling in the air like he just told me he was gay or had fucking cancer or something. He looked at me earnestly but I just didn't know how to react.

"Really?", I nodded. "Thats nice".

It was a stupid thing to say but in all honesty, I just couldn't think of anything to say. And frankly, I had a bad impression about these bunch. I've gone through the same thing with the group-that-do-not-believe-in-blood-transfusion years ago and they are alright but a bit persistent. Thing is even though I don't really know much about these Moromon's, folks I know always talked about them in a negative way. But Jonathan was all good. He was cool.

"Friend, if I gave you some of our literature would you be prepared to read it? Don't worry. I'm not going to push anything on you. It's up to you".

"Sure. Why not?"

He then opened his leather briefcase and took out what looked like a thick, hard cover book and a few other materials and placed them on the table. I took one, flipped through and said my thanks.

He smiled and just like that he wished me well and walked away

------------------------------------------------

I read the thick book and found it interesting. Really. I'm not kidding.

Very science fiction-nish. Lots of strange beings with cool names. Like Nephi and Moron.

Unbearable Lightness of Being Me

noreply@blogger.com (Demented) — Wed, 09 Sep 2009 09:00:00 +0000

The time tells me its 5:53pm and this is what I did at the office today :

- sorted out the various letters / memos / papers according to size and arranged them in neat piles.

- tapped two pens on the edge of my table to imitate a horse trotting along, then finally going at full gallop. For 20 minutes or thereabout.

- tried to compose a new song mainly about horses at trotting tempo with imaginary horses falling off the table to a sad death hundreds of millimetres below on the floor and with an imaginary funeral at the end for dramatic effect.

The song starts with a long and enchanting "Oooooooowwhhhhhhoooowww..."

- attempted not to move my head while looking out of the window to my right straining my eyeballs in the process. I tried so hard, I had dizzy spells for a few minutes.

- drew dust Jolly Roger on my monitor screen.

- made a call to Kobelco and asked if they sold Caterpillar. I was lucky. The receptionist on the other end was either too stupid to cut me off but I spent a good 15 minutes explaining that I was in dire need of a bulldozer type 150 DMTx-U876, 13 HpT with a swing load of 76.8 degrees to 10 tonnes. I left her my number and she hasn't called back.

- tried to fit a whole box of paper clips into a cigarette box holder and spent ten minutes disentangling the fucking load.

- summoned the power of my boredom to fast-forward into time, but apparently only succeeded in stopping it.

- and yawned 574,689 and a half times

Lift Me

noreply@blogger.com (Demented) — Sun, 06 Sep 2009 08:54:00 +0000

I did not...

It was not like that.

It's this world,

Stained and now swiftly fading with time.

So...

Won't you please hold on to these cold cold hands...

And take these old cold feet,

Lift me up...

And lay me down...

Blood Sucking

noreply@blogger.com (Demented) — Fri, 04 Sep 2009 01:54:00 +0000

I received a call from a relative yesterday evening informing me that one of his brother was sick and is now admitted at the hospital. They're from my village and from where I come, to qualify for a stint at our overcrowded state side hospital one has to have either cancer or something life threatening. So I knew it was something bad.

My first reaction was - do i need to know this shit right now?. There was already too much shit over at the saltmine to deal with and now this. But because these people are relations so I asked how he was doing. It was late evening and I had just left the saltmine and was about to reach the pub when she continued, "He was put under the knife since 6:00am and they aren't finished with him yet".

"How serious?", I asked.

"Very", she said.

So I detoured from the pub to the hospital and found a crowd at the ICU area. Mostly relations and looking very sombre. All was not well.

I didn't ask but someone said something about a ruptured vein, bad heart and busted kidney. The whole nine yards. One of the brothers later pulled me aside and asked what blood type I was because the brother needed 'A'.

I don't remember having any alcohol in the past 24 hours so I was good to give. And so early this morning I drove by at the blood bank and went through the works. Apart from the four or five blood sucking technicians who looked pretty busy, I found two other persons waiting in line to spill blood.

After filling up the necessary forms and going through the standard interview of which one of the question asked was if I had multiple sex partners in India in the past two months. Not a bad idea actually, but I had to disappoint him and declared that I haven't fucked an Indian national or for that matter, fucked in India in the last two months. I've been through this many times before and its always the last few questions that cracks me up.

Like - have you been tested positive for HIV? And I'm like what the fuck am I doing here spilling blood if I was positive.

I was later ushered to a bed next to a dude who smiled and said, "Isn't it great to know that we're actually saving lives?". I nodded and smiled back at him. I really wanted to tell him that my relation who was going to receive my pint of blood might not even make it. But I didn't want to spoil his day. I could tell he was excited and a little nervous. Could be a first timer.

It was all over in 30 minutes.

"You want this for a particular person?", one of the blood sucking technician asked.

"Yes. The name's on top of the page".

And then I left but with this thought though - why and how is it that I should feel great just because I spilled some blood and that I may possibly save a life? When I first drew blood many years ago, I never bothered that pint of blood was going to save a life. I didn't even care. I did it then because it was cool and besides them doctors will tell you its good for your health. They'll say excessive iron isn't good for the heart and shit. So its pretty much like what them ladies get every other month and that is why them ladies live longer, yo.

So even if my pint do save a life, I was already detached from it from when I left it at the blood bank and do I give a fuck? Hell, fucking No! Its very much like going to the sperm bank, you see. You take your pants down, jerk off to some bad porn and leave your shit there and then fucking leave. Yes, you may 'father' a son or a daughter but you'll never get to know your seed.

Does it matter? Fuck, no!

And it is not like my bag of blood has my name on it. Somebody needs it and if he lives because he/she had mine, so be it.

Maybe I just don't like this idea of 'saving lives'.

Ogostus

noreply@blogger.com (Demented) — Mon, 31 Aug 2009 05:03:00 +0000

Its Merdeka day and all that jive today. Malaya's independence day from their colonial masters. Its quiet here on the home front. There were talks a couple of weeks ago about encouraging people like me to fly the nations flag and some campaign to drive the message and meaning of Merdeka to her subjects but by the way things look around town, its like no body gives a shit. There's a lot of discounts at the supermarkets though. Which is good.

Was over at the pub last night and a few local talent jammed. It was noisy. Seconds before midnight and at the end of the gig, the host did a rendition of the great Sudir's Merdeka song - very off key and very, very drunk. A friend later said it certainly doesn't feel like a celebration this time. I didn't know there was suppose to be a celebration.

There were talks about fireworks and all that shit but I don't know whats that about either. And I don't want to start to understand and appreciate whats the fuss about because I'm looking at things around me and it looks like its all fucked up.

Just read the fucking papers, man.

And I certainly don't need your interpretations and shallow appreciation of events that led to this day either. And don't fucking go with that empty rhetoric and slogans with me. Don't like? Go fuck.

Last I read somewhere, there are still fucking crazy racist among us and some love to march with a severed cow head. And what about those crazy self-centered politicians who squander of with them millions and get away with it and the many other scandals this nation witnessed in the last few months.

Ahhh...fuck it.

Its a good day by any standard. Its like any other day except that its the thirty first of the month of August and its a fucking holiday.

So happy Monday.

The 70's

noreply@blogger.com (Demented) — Wed, 26 Aug 2009 02:51:00 +0000

I got this in my mail box this morning and I thought this piece deserves a space in here. Thanks again for this shit, Janice. Well, now we know Janice is an old hag.

Old, like me.

"THIS IS TO ALL BORN IN THE '70s...

First, we survived with mothers who had no maids. They went to work / cooked /cleaned while taking care of us at the same time.

They took aspirin, candy floss, fizzy drinks, shaved ice with syrups and diabetes were rare. Salt added to Pepsi or Coke was remedy for fever.

We had no childproof lids on medicine bottles, doors or cabinets and when we rode our bikes, we had no helmets.

As children, we would ride with our parents on bicycles / motorcycles for 2 or 3. The other richer kids rode in cars with no seat belts or air bags. And riding in the back of a private taxi was a special treat.

We drank water from the tap and NOT from a fucking bottle.

We would spend hours on the fields under bright sunlight flying our kites, without worrying about the UV rays which never seem to affect us.

We go to the jungle to catch spiders without worries of mosquitoes or malaria. There was an endless game with 5 pebbles and with a tennis ball we boys would run like crazy for hours.

We catch guppy in drains / canals and when it rained we fucking swim there. We shared one soft drink with four friends - from one bottle - and NO ONE actually worry about being unhygenic.

We ate salty, very sweet and oily food, candies, bread and real butter and drank very sweet coffee / tea, ice cream potong and ATE Milo mixed with lots of sugar but we never got fat because...

WE WERE ALWAYS OUTSIDE AND ROUGHING IT OUT!!

We would leave home in the morning and play all day, till the streetlights came on.

No one was able to reach us all day. AND WE DIDN'T HAVE HANDPHONES TO BUG US. And we were O.K. AND WE WERE SAFE.

We would spend hours repairing our old bicycles and wooden scooters and then ride down the hill only to find out we forgot the brakes. After running into the bushes a few times, we learned to solve the problem.

We did not have PlayStations, X-Boxes, Nintendo's, multiple channels on cable TV, DVD movies, no surround sound, no phones, no personal computers, no fucking internet. We had friends and we went outside and found them!

We fell out of trees, got cut, broke bones and teeth and we still continued the stunts.

We never had birthdays parties till we are 21.

We rode bikes or walked to a friend's house and just yelled for them!

The idea of a parent bailing us out if we broke the law was unheard of. They actually sided with the fucking law!

And, yes, this generation has produced some of the best risk-takers, problem solvers and inventors ever!

We had freedom, went through failures and success and we learned how to deal with it all.

And by God, it feels good to be born in the 70's"

Picture Story XI

noreply@blogger.com (Demented) — Tue, 25 Aug 2009 10:49:00 +0000

Old No. 7

Balcony

Spinning

Brothers

Glasses

Colours

Up down

Shrooms

Spirits

Beggar

You

noreply@blogger.com (Demented) — Mon, 24 Aug 2009 01:00:00 +0000

Who are you?

That I should see your smile
in the taste of my morning coffee
and the last sight of evening,
And in the tiny bubbles
in my beer glass?...

Who are you?...

That I should hear you in the crowds
pretending to be...

And who are you?

that I should see you in the serenity of the trees
and the silence of the river flow?

Who are you?

That the forest flowers
reminds me of your hair?

Where are you?

Puzzle

noreply@blogger.com (Demented) — Thu, 20 Aug 2009 01:00:00 +0000

It's like a puzzle in here right now. And I don't mean a small puzzle, but an emormous one with fucking thousands of pieces. This wretched body being the main picture, much like the puzzle box cover, a guide to the completion of the fucking whole.

When I pour the pieces of the puzzle out onto the table I see only fucking chaos, nothing else. The pieces are laid out all over the place when I let them fall from inside the box onto the surface that I am working with.

Some pieces are specific points in time.

Like this puzzle piece right here represents one day when I was little. When I inflicted a scratch on my kanids face. And this puzzle piece, the first time I watched porn when I was 12 and my very first beer.

Whooahh...what's this here? The piece from the first time I had sex and the start of a rollercoaster fucking relationship from hell! What a fucking ride, that was. And lookeeee here. This piece is from my college days. Its a Friday, Palm Court apartment, Block B, Floor 15 and I'm fucking high on some herbal constituents. The ladies from two floors up are wasted and one of them has got her t off - tits and all. I've got this stupid grin on my face and her Less Than Jake shirt on. I remember this one so clearly.

And here's a puuzzle piece from just last night. 13 big cats. I think.

There are countless amount of puzzle pieces in this fucking puzzle. But this is me. My fucking life, a huge puzzle. As far as putting it together, I wouldn't even know where to start.

Maybe, I'll just let the pieces find their own places.

Go Fly

noreply@blogger.com (Demented) — Mon, 17 Aug 2009 04:04:00 +0000

Go ahead...

close your eyes and
look towards the heavens.
Feel and touch the earth under your
bare feet.
Spread your arms
to embrace the sky.

And fucking fly.

Look back...
Leave the world behind.
Look ahead...
and join the stars.
Under the burning sun
your wings are mirrored
in the ocean waves.

Go on...spread your arms
and touch the sky.

And fly.

Try...
press your pen to paper,
watch as words crawl from the deepest places in your mind.
Embrace imagination,
touch your dreams…

And fucking fly.

Recovery

noreply@blogger.com (Demented) — Sat, 15 Aug 2009 08:23:00 +0000

The barking of my neighbours dogs woke me this morning and since there was nothing on my calendar calling my name I was able to pull the sheet over my head and hibernate for an extra little while.

It’s been one hell of a week and my mood have been tossed about like a fucking sampan on the rough seas. I've been at the pub for the past 17 nights out of which I was so drunk out of my mind at least in 5 outings. Last night was no different. I feel desperately in need of time to calm down.

So I decided to take the morning for myself. It is Saturday and I should be at the saltmine but it's raining and my mobile did not ring with news, good or bad. The rain smells funny. Cloud seeding, I was told. So I sat on the couch outside the house for a long while with a book and coffee, enjoying the silence and solitude. I thought to myself I need this bit of time to recover.

Recovery for me, always involves quiet time, solitude, being at home, chilling out, books, music. If I feel particularly brave, I might venture out for some strong coffee or drive over to my favourite sio bee shop. Most of all, I need to give my body to heal. Come Monday, perhaps I will have become more settled into this detoxing process.

All right then, let the recovery begin…

The Great Servant

noreply@blogger.com (Demented) — Thu, 13 Aug 2009 02:57:00 +0000

And so last night, together with three Iban Brothers of Warriors we met under a very auspicious time. A time when the solar power and the moon and many other stars formed a full circle in our city bright night skies, where the centre emitting rims of rays that resembled a ferocious tiger and two powerful claws followed by three thunderclaps.

Brrroooom! Bada boooom! Booooom!

It was a good sign.

We arrived at the Halls of Servitude and like all warriors before us, took our places at the Altar of Rest. Solemnly, we performed the rituals of summoning the Great Servant, Baki to whom we, mere mortals and most unworthy, humbly made our request for the spiritual juice that quench all thirst.

We knew we have appeased the spirits and they favoured us for there and then the Great Servant, Baki so magickally appeared. And as suddenly as he appeared, he so vanished in a blinding flash of glorious lights unto his spiritual domain.

Our prayers were quickly answered.

Eight heavenly ewers emitting blue rays which pained the eyes and requiring us to shield our face with our hands suddenly manifested before us on the Altar of Rest.

And then with a voice deeper than that of the old warrior, Barry White, the Great Servant, Baki announced, "Drrrrrrink, humble servants! For today the spirits favour you"

Humbled then and with our heads hung low, we took what was presented unto us and drank.

-The End-