A Big Block Of Stone On The Ride

The way to counter feminism is through brain because feminists are creatures with no brains. I can assure you that there's no way they could endeavour a check mate even during in bed. Despising an opposite argument means, halting an intellectualized approach from the opponent with a 'you have no brain' remark just because it doesn't suit the way they're thinking. In fact, they're not really thinking, not even in the small scale of mental utilization.

Biology may be considered the worst ever science in humanitarian history since it tells how these people posses smaller brain than their peers' among the opposite gender. Statistics are their best companion since it tells people how they dominate higher learning institution. Religions might tickle their sensory nerves to a contented chuckle since it brought up an embarrassing story of their mega great ancestor who consumed a forbidden fruit from the garden of Eden, coaxed by the sweet words of Satan.

There's no point denying a fact that in order for a man to lead a happy life, he needs to be in the right route led by the feminists' way of thinking. The world is working that way. Good men are those who knows what a feminist needs.

Ladies first, I say.

Sick People Writes

‘Sick people write differently than happy people,’ as far as I could remember, that was what I had said to a friend of mine long time ago before I could spell the word ‘paradigm shift’ while wondering the correct meaning of it.

Mentally sick people literally clad in skin as thin as a piece of drenched toilet paper, hence, they could feel the harsh wind blows over them like a rough rake of a bear's claw. Their heart, somehow, beats the fragility of an aging drinking glass under the burning heat of an afternoon desert air. Their eyes are meant to see through walls like bombarded gamma rays in a nuclear plant. Their brain is all twisted in a way that the mental sense of awareness to the almost negligible changes of surroundings increased like the damp skin of a rainforest frog.

Sick people see things happy people don't see. Happy people, on the other hand, are made of stone. They are thick inside and ignorant as a well-fed cat can be. You give them ball, they just kick it happily as a dolphin. They don't even bother what kind of ball they have been playing with. It's just a ball anyway, they thought.

Sick people are selfless. They aren't going to kick the ball unless it is well-aired and pretty good enough to bounce back and forth if it collides on hard walls or on the poorly constructed tarmac with pebbles and outcrops here and there. What if that goddamn ball hit some passersby to the head? That's not good. Sick people don't want other people to get hurt for they have had themselves hurt deep inside like an aftermath of an intense back spine surgery.

Hey I didn't see a single passersby here, you (the happy people) say. And so they (the sick people) say, how about the wind, mate? Don't you know how hard for us to force ourselves running free into the strong winds? It's just like you're pulling a big and heavy plough on a vast drought soil. There's a black hole in there that sucks your energy and I can assure you that you are going to last your game less than fifteen minutes. You say, hey we got plenty of cold beverage over there, are we? They say, cold beverage kills you, dumbass. It's just like you're pouring reddened metal slag into a bucket of ice. Okay I'm quit. I'm gonna sit over there under the tree and just watch. Then you say, go on you loser!

And the sick people walked away with nothing in the head but harsh winds, rough tarmac, pebbels and outcrops, foulmouthed blokes, metal slag, plough, and everything in between where they could string them into a lyrical form of sonnets and stories that literally walk with the readers as their constant companion. All of them were born from a simple thing happy people regard as 'nothing but a ball'. Sick people see more than that.

Is it hard to be a good writer? All you need is pain. I supposed.

In Loving Memory of Gumbleed

Seems like he's dead already, no? He made his first appearance in my blog here, hiding behind the weird pseudonym 'lickety splat'. Yes, it was weird for me until I found out it was actually a name of a Disney's animation character somewhere in the Google kingdom few months later.

Later then, he continued leaving his footsteps in almost every entry I had posted. I'm not so sure how (and when) he came about into his another camouflage form of 'Gumbleed', but I reckon the change of the pseudonym didn't really change his genuinely smart and sharp yet elegantly written comments here, apart from his excellent command of English which I silently envied. He had the attitude. Based on the minute capacity of my small brain, I portrayed him as a middle-aged bloke with a scroll of Bachelor's Degree in Dentistry as his latest educational qualification, married and have a few(?) children roaming in the house. Don't ask me how did I get this. It's a brain play, trust me.

Due to unknown reasons, he stopped making his appearance for a somewhat long period of time. There was no Gumbleed anymore. He had just reincarnated into another form of a psychopath maniac named cekodokmencilok. Hmmm, what a weird name he had. It was a pseudonym that stood on its own class which I believe, a form of invented identity to mirror his Melayu genotype in his blood. So did his blog here, which he now left nothing for us to wander around something new as if the blog was meant for display on a dusty shelf in National Museum. His first and last words under this new pseudonym was safely recorded here.

His natural talent in the art of scribbling his very own words had always left me a sudden pitfall in the mood whenever he disappeared into his own mysterious world after a long good time throwing out his witty comments that were capable of making me grin ear to ear without a cringe. He had gone just like that. No words left prior to leaving. Not even saying a good-bye. He never came back ever since.

Now that we have a new guy named Frankdoel, probably Gumbleed in the form of a heart-shattered man. Whether or not he was the same guy, I couldn't put my words on that. Never did I ask him personally about the coincident relation with Gumbleed since he had gone just like that too! The same way how Gumbleed disappeared in his own secret track.

Now it's been three months after Frankdoel's last update on his dark and sorrow blog but still I don't have the heart to remove the URL from my blogroll list. I'm waiting for his current news. As I personally believe (again, this is a brain play), his heartbroken state does really have a strong link to mine. But that's another story.

Perhaps I should try to figure it out so that I could complete the whole blunt formula I created:
Lickety splat -> Gumbleed -> Cekodokmencilok -----> Frankdoel
The dotted lines before 'Frankdoel' are speculations that are needed to be proven true. Do I have to consult a bomoh (shaman) to track him down?

Gumbleed, where the hell are you now, mate? I miss you.

And You Said 'That Is Love'

Okay wait. Let me ram my head on the wall first so that I know I'm not in the state of dreaming in this fine evening. I bet my left leg that I am no any better than a man with a small brain to comprehend every single thing about love. Not even you drag me along to consult the best university professor in the world so that he can explain me about the art and science behind this one beasty thing in the complex emotional bouquet called love. In the end, you're gonna find me walking out from the conversation empty inside because I know the professor talks nothing but craps and I won't get even a few crumbs of it but a free cup of coffee made by his personal assistant.

It's a hard thing to understand as hard as a river stone. You wanna pelt in on the river surface so that you can watch it hops up and own in two or three full gallops before it dives down deep below the surface and then you say 'hey, that's life. It has the ups and downs'. And so I'd say 'what the hell are you talking about man? It's just a stone, anyway. How did you relate that goddamn stone to suit your wordly-wise talk?'

I got this one friend whose his love affair has been trembling like bubbles under the rain. Nothing beats the fragility of the current state that he's in. You know that much when everything is all messed up in a triangle. There was another guy in the middle.

You may either walk out from it or stay fight. Whatever it is, I can assure you that it is a long-lost battle you're fighting for. So, I'd recommend you to choose the first option over the latter. It's safe and proven by experts (don't ask me which experts I'm referring to) to be effective and heart-shattering proof.

Here's the deal. The one who had spoiled everything was not you, but rather a complex human being called woman who was supposed to be your girlfriend. By all accounts, she is right. And you're wrong in certain things or all. She doesn't need any valid reasons to carry on. Any reason will do. She might have dumped you because she got her pet cat died in a car crash. Like I said, any reason will do!

You don't have to look smart like a professor by all the statistics and philosophical talks because it isn't going to change all that. This is a matter of feelings. Feelings may change, so do human. Hey, I've told you mate, she's right and you're wrong. That beasty thing called 'feeling' is on her side, not on your side. She has the right to define 'feeling', not you. She controls 'feeling' while you're the one on the other way around. It's a tough world, mate. Men govern a country, women make the rules.

Please don't do much to save the relationship. She's gonna hate you for that because she is the one who insisted to end it. It's written, buddy. She wants you to see the whole idea that by all accounts she is right and you're wrong. But at the same time, she will try to come out with the idea of 'I still remember you whenever and wherever I go'. Ah, that's not a sense of hope for god sake. She's just trying to look pious, wise, and cool.

She's not sad. She doesn't deserve to be sad. She's a woman. She deserves to be happy. Men don't cry. Crying man looks pathetic, that is what a woman says. Pretend to look cool, mate. Just for a while.

Close your eyes and hop out from it.

The Girl Who Hates All Things East Coast (part II)

Tell the truth. It may hurt a while but a lie hurts forever. What sort of philosophical verse ever comprehended by this metropolitan kinda lady? I have no idea, mate.

That day;

"Aiman, that adorable little boy, wasn't your real cousin, really?"

"...," she muted

"You said he's your cousin and I was believing in you a great deal without any hesitation. Now I've found out that he wasn't related to you by any means. He wasn't ever stood in the line of your family pedigree."

"...," she muted.

"Why you lie to me?"

"Along, everything happens for a reason," she was trying to be philosophical. That didn't work on me. I knew that was one of the lamest, nearsighted, and misunderstood philosophies ever crowned by idiots who were unable to explain their excuses for the sake of abstaining from complete guilt. Ah, 'hiding from the truth'! I hear you say.

"What's the reason? Tell me," I asked.

"...," she muted.

"Haaaaih. Is there anything else you want to confess tonight?" I began to tone down a bit. A matter of reconciliation I presumed.

"Apart from your sincere love towards me as your younger sister, do you have any other feelings towards me?"

"No."


THE END
The Girl Who Hates All Things East Coast (part I)

Now You're Dead

Now that everyone has been mourning about their loss. You're dead already, mate. I bet my left leg that they're deeply grieving over your demise like a widow who has lost her hubby in the harsh winds of the big blue sea. What took you so long to die? Never did I learn to dance your famous moonwalk. Never did I like your songs, though. You meant nothing to me, anyway. Now you're dead and nothing I could say by now than 'I am sorry for your loss' to the Jacksons, just to prove a point that I've been watching you from distance dancing like a mad man on TV since I was a child. I have no idea why I'm writing this. Perhaps this is just a personal note to remind myself that everybody will go through their hard times and, they just die. It ain't a cheap price to pay, no?

Walking Down The Lane With Love

Once I walked down this lane, putting all my paces down heavily as heavy as the weighty baggage I was carrying with and I never knew that this route will be our last journey of our moment together. As the sun began to rise like a big neon bulb in the sky gleaming its intense golden rays ironing the back of my neck warm like a cup of steaming hot tea streaming down on it, I dashed to that big white bird that roared fiercely somewhere out there as if the world was going to an end because that big white bird kept literally reminding me ‘Hey you shorty! Hurry up and stop walking slow-mo like in soap movie! The mountain is there yet you still have the urge to chase it?’

I was in. Buckled up, and pondered out by the window that had a plastic sliding panel that can be pulled down whenever my longing for the loved ones interrupted by the scorching light from the envying sun. By the time I was hoping that she could have stood there ramrod like a faithful missus of a patriotic soldier on a war mission just to watch this big white bird disappeared into the clouds so that I could wave her farewell or simply I could fog the window glass with my breath and sketch a heart with her name and mine on it, I saw nothing but this annoying big wing made of steel owned by that big white bird ready to soar into the sky whenever the captain says ‘we are ready to take off’ in his tongue-rolled English accent which sounded pretty much like Urdu. It was a sad thing that I couldn't see her there.

I knew I had moved on and left my significant other with beads of tears rolling down her cheek as she walked away from this lane where people walked hither and thither minding their own business as if the world was nothing but ours. I didn’t sad. I didn’t sad at all. All I knew, a few months later, she had probably walked on this same lane too, headed to the place so far away that she turned herself all of a sudden into a very ugly beast like an ugliest beast in the Malay folklore can be. By then, all I knew my sincere serenade was nothing but a useless rustic metal scrap that ruined by the swiftly passing time and my celestial words were faded in the harsh journey into the distant land separated by the roaring rough sea. That’s okay. That’s okay. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard that lovely whisper of the magical chant ever said by any lovers in this world and heaven knows how did I feel when I first discovered the tenderness of a woman’s hand.