it's the morning again.
(Tuesday, February 10, 2009)
there's not way that i can explain how much i hate asian literature. every single book i've read written by anyone asian, i can never fucking finish it. or if i did, it probably took somewhere around 6 months to a year to digest. and it made me felt hungover, bad aftertaste and nauseating. personally, i think it's too fucking asian. mellow and depressing. one dimensional. lack of depth. whatever.
in my very lack of exposure point of view, for the life of me, i've not met anyone that got buggered at a young age or a child that gets sold to a brothel masqueraded as a social lounge then falls deeply in love with a man that she claims she didn't have sex with. she's got dignity, that one. then there's this drug addict with history of drug abuse, and she tells her story with such shame and disgust. we, asians live a fucking tragic live, and there's no two ways about it.
if asians are what the fiction says we are then we're just a bunch of weppy queers that couldn't get over our chillhood plight. it seems like Billy Holiday's baneful existance can't even hold a candle to any ordinary asian's life. To us, Christ's crucification is merely as painful as getting an ear pierced. asian's woe hurts a million times more than any living thing has every experience. we are, the sole master of torment.
ironically, our romance with pain single-handedly drowns the rest of the numerous but sensational emotions anybody normal would have. hence we fail to live an existance that does not relate to agony. we're one dimensional and broken yet we could not understand or find relieve in it.
surprisingly, last week while poaching for materials to read last week, i came across a book, the cover was a sketch of a gingerly stick man with a slab of blood smacked right on where the penis (all stick men are male, mind you) should be at accordingly to the right human anatomy. i can too, be a victim of marketing if it's competent enough, and the cover stuck out from the shelf like an erect dick in a women that loves other women convention. as soon after i dug the book out from the shelf, i couldn't get my eyes off it. with the eloquence of guy ritchie story telling, localised humour which is can be funny too and none of the (asian) melancholy weighing it down. the author, Brian Gomez did pretty good i must say.
bullshit.
(Wednesday, February 04, 2009)
the sun is too hot!
he's not rough enough when we're having anal sex
the waitress look like shit
our minister is too anal (if you know what i mean!)
yank yank yank.we complain about every fucking thing there. so far, men (actually, mainly women) has always found thing to complain about. people who tends to complain are the equivalent the asshole birds who sings outside my room too early in the morning. they make a lot of noise to keep themselves happy but annoy the fuck outta every soul out there that is not them.
once there was this person in my neighbour hood that said my dog was barking too loud. i shut the damn dog up, you know give it a couple of whip and kicking. i bet he wanted to complain that i was hurting my dog too, but instead, he complained that my neighbour's dog is smells too funky for his liking. then about his neighbour's plants, then about my car parked outside my house. in the fucking end, we concluded that he is a complainer (or you can call him a neurotic moron asswipe too).
nothing can satisfy a complainer. if you take a dump, he insist that you wipe your ass instead of washing them like the good old Al Gore's the enviroment way. you submit to him, and in return, he wants you to fold the toilet paper in milimeter precision. it makes you throw up a little in your mouth, but you fucking do it too. before you fucking know it, he got a list of a 100 asswipe must-dos. what a fucking jerk! i don't know about everybody else, but morons like this, in my very humble and peaceful opinion, make one wants to fucking swing a 9-iron into his butt ugly face and tear the jaw out. ouch.
the complainer does deserve the baneful fate.
i fucking love rain, but everytime it rains, i still can find something to complain about...like now i can't go out for my jog.
change is for the good.
(Sunday, February 01, 2009)
maybe.
who knows.
talking to some old friends who aren't just about photography and more work does lift the weight off my shoulder, a little bit. in fact, it was refreshing, it was liberating. just like the good old days where my friends were fun to be around with. the good ones either left the country or became a fucking grandmother.
growing up too soon and too much, apparently. for the most of it, i was stuck with meanless callow conversation that had too much rubbish in it, or it was just empty, feels more like the music a person will listen to while driving home after a long overnight party.
the usually unseen few made the rare appearance for the lunar new year. the long caveats didn't matter, it was warm and familiar. then we blaze into a verbal tango, everything from raunchy details of our insignificant lives to indecorous theories to the secret of our being and our very limit is the time we could spare for each other.
ironic enough, to have few to spat such nuisance with, is in reality proved astonishingly more difficult than algebra equations. at times, i felt like precious time was robbed of me, trying to make new acquaintances with anyone. pretending to care or compromising yet another surprise in the forthcoming person that i will meet sounds like a drag of nails through a rough blackboard. that damn path looks dim to me still...
for what's it's worth, dismal time i spent meeting my good friends were something words can't depict. it was better than good, more than anything i could have asked for. i love every single one of their surfacing.
