Meet the Monk

I almost had a panic attack the other day in an Indian temple. Peter tricked me into following him to this Indian temple to visit this monk that can read your fortune by giving him your birth date.

I was fuckfuriosing mad because we were supposed to go for a jog not to get my past and present life scan from an unknown person. This monk is capable of conversing in malay and English clumsily resulting a smile on Peter’s white bun face and me not smiling. That is also because my cousin did not share the same tragedy with me – read to find out babes.

I was not smiling the entire time because this monk looked at me as if I am a sad occasion. Monk / Fortune Teller, please don’t do this to me because it is Peter’s fault I am here, I do not even want to know you.

Monk: Can I have your birth date?
B: Two days after Peter’s
Monk: Oh that is not er really good...
clears my throat
Monk: You ah don’t have boyfriend kah
B: Er no
Monk: But why...tak ade kah?
maleh asking me why..cibai

Monk: Eh you boleh jadi orang punya mistress tahu. And ah when a man sees your face, they won’t like you, you know. Because you punya face like snake. U l a r. So ah it is poisonous you know. Men don’t like.

Tsk tsk. Me a snake lady. How can that be – the last time I checked my parents are not reptiles.

Jada.fitch

Monk: Your hair why you cut like that coming down *touching his hairless head* (what he meant was my hair actually slants down, razor short at the back) No good. No good.
I didn’t cut it; my hairstylist did it you Monk-eyface! Dear dumb blog, condemning my hair or keeping his reputation is more environmentally imperative? I was waiting for him to comment that I can be a porn star with this abnormal hairstyle.

The tension between me and the monk was so interesting that when Peter was motioning me to leave, the monk politely rejected my red dollar bill to him and sympathize me loudly, ‘It is okie lah girl tak pe – I know you got no money.’ I wanted to squeeze the blood out of him but perhaps that is the best evidence to conclude that he is for real? My cousin somehow sensed my exasperation and I am glad he didn’t call or text me for several days.

Next time he calls, I am taking him to a snake farm. Oh, with the monk too.

Knowing that my blog is dumb and can't get any bitchier, I decided to change my blog name to as you can see B writes with style, oh well not that it is really WITH or in style *meek smile* but well if you guys are reading it so far, I guess all is good.

Dumb blog let me tell you I am so geram with this book I am reading. I think i should occupied myself with other materials for sure. I mean I have neglected blogging just to finish reading my books and this book written by Robert Raymer is making me very pissed. Imagine a book can actually make me pissed.

I am not the world's buziest person, just been away internetless for a couple of months - that I know. Catching up with friends that I thought were dead, connecting emotionally with both old horror prodigy books and new glitzy paperbacks that are so addictive and of course sorting out the rumbles of my personal anxiety.

I know I am supposed to blog about my Hong Kong trip - again I do not have time to post it accordingly. Guess I need to make time next week - right after my trip to Kuching. Babes, it is the Sarawak Rainforest Music Festival this time around. Am leaving tomorrow. Hugs!

On a lighter note, I had a love affair with Hong Kong. My next post would covered the bits and pieces of Hong Kong and Macau– the smell of the emotionless city, the taste of almost exotic food and the strangeness rush of the Hongkies.

Pretty Poison

My hands are warm. It’s been a long time since my hands are warm. Anyone that has touched my hands before would know the coldness and the emptiness of it. The lack of warmth and the warmness that I always long for. The absence of an affectionate human touch I dare say. Like a pretty poison, my hands need a lover not a friend. Que pasa warm now?