Everybody at my bus stop knows of the rat who wants to be a squirrel. Every morning, around 7.15 am to 7.20 am, a rat would scurry out of the storm drain that runs behind the bus stop, and rush to this particular yellow flame tree, and try to climb it.
I've seen this happen on several accounts (for sometimes I go to the bus stop later, or the bus arrives earlier, so I don't witness this everyday, but I imagine it to happen everyday). The highest that I've seen him gone, is about...1.5 metres? Which is quite a feat, don't you think? For a rat.
Nobody knows what's the motivation, exactly, or maybe everybody else knows it, but since I don't talk to anybody, they don't tell me.
But anyway, I'd like to think that the rat wants to be a squirrel, because it is in love with the handsome squirrel who springs from tree to tree, branch to branch, with a handsome bushy tail, which, no doubt, should make the "swinging bachelor" very desirable, as compared to the other rats, and their worm-like tails.
On second thought, should love, or even lust, inspire such tedious dedication? Perhaps. But surely, such a tale would constitute a tedious repetition, and my imagination should be able to complicate matters in a more interesting way.
Perhaps, the rat was once a squirrel, and when it was little, there was a squirrel civil war, of sorts, and the occupants raped his mother, and threw him out of the nest, and down the tree. He was gripped by his need for vengeance, ever since.
Exiled, the rats took him in, out of pity or something else, it cannot be certain. Perhaps, he bribed them with his luscious tail (highly plausible since that would explain why he looks like a rat now).
Being skilled merely as land soldiers, even warriors, the rats were suitable to help fight the aerial combats of the squirrels. In this way, the rats proved to be weak allies, despite their viciousness and unscrupulous nature. They could hardly even offer emotional support without exchanging it for sexual favours.
As his popularity as a male prostitute grew in the rat community, so did his romanticised tale of vengeance, until it reached the ears of a ninja rat (whose true story may have inspired the popular character, "splinter"). Or, on hindsight, perhaps the ninja rat's ears reached him. So, more probably, it should have been a samurai rat (I heard samurais are into this).
Being a cheapskate, or in a rush, or a bad boyfriend, the samurai rat told him that, in order for one to fight his battle in the sky, he must first learn to fly. These words of wisdom, or obviousness, besides falling into the annoying stereotype of how ninja or samurai or kung fu masters talk, had our hero infused with a sense of purpose - he must first learn to climb trees again.
Climbing trees must be difficult, for a squirrel who grew up with, and who was pretty screwed up by, rats. Well.
Climbing trees must be difficult, for a squirrel who was never properly instructed, and who had no bushy tail to help. That is why, he practises it every morning. He probably practises more often than that, but I just wasn't there to see.
I don't know if I am rooting for his success, really. Although, it is very moving to see his determination every morning, on my way to work, I cannot decide if I believe that vengeance, in general, is an overrated or childish... excuse for not accepting defeat. This is in the same vein as how I cannot quite decide if our hero is a male or female.
(Sneak)
Sunday, 20 April 2008
Tuesday, 15 April 2008
The Girl from Ipanema?
She looked tall and tan and young and lovely. I admired her at the traffic crossing through the dusty window panes of my car.
Her light green satin dress was dancing with the gentle throbbing of her long brown hair that had big curls at the ends; and, her plumpy breasts were bobbing.
Then, a gentle breeze started blowing, distracting the rhythm of her jaunty walking. It was wrapping her dress to her body more tightly... so I noticed her hips... her crotch was showing... but it was not so womanly, something was jutting... She had a cock!
Her light green satin dress was dancing with the gentle throbbing of her long brown hair that had big curls at the ends; and, her plumpy breasts were bobbing.
Then, a gentle breeze started blowing, distracting the rhythm of her jaunty walking. It was wrapping her dress to her body more tightly... so I noticed her hips... her crotch was showing... but it was not so womanly, something was jutting... She had a cock!
Sunday, 6 April 2008
Tamás Vásáry
I've put it off for about one year or more but, today, I finally got my own CD recording of the Rach 3.
I've forgotten which version was supposed to be a good version, so I got the cheapest one left on the shelf. It sounds a little different as everything often does but it should suffice - the London Symphony Orchestra with Tamás Vásáry on the piano. I think he may be Spanish. Or he could be French. Frankly, I don't care and would rather he remain as the person who played the piano on the cheapest Rach 3 CD that I could find and bought on the afternoon of the 6th of April 2008. For this reason alone, I shall be grateful to him and the London Symphony Orchestra.
I shall harbour hopes of being introduced to him in person one day. I will tell him that his name sounds familiar and when I finally recognise him in time, I will tell him that he made a difference to me on the 6th of April of 2008, when I did not matter to him at all.
Maybe he will shake my hand and we will be friends, and then, we can go have mint chocolate chip ice cream together and wonder if it were made from crème de menthe.
Maybe Tamás is dead and I shall never be introduced to him in person...and it shall be very tragic for me to be anticipating an encounter. Will I only come to know his nationality from the internet?
I've forgotten which version was supposed to be a good version, so I got the cheapest one left on the shelf. It sounds a little different as everything often does but it should suffice - the London Symphony Orchestra with Tamás Vásáry on the piano. I think he may be Spanish. Or he could be French. Frankly, I don't care and would rather he remain as the person who played the piano on the cheapest Rach 3 CD that I could find and bought on the afternoon of the 6th of April 2008. For this reason alone, I shall be grateful to him and the London Symphony Orchestra.
I shall harbour hopes of being introduced to him in person one day. I will tell him that his name sounds familiar and when I finally recognise him in time, I will tell him that he made a difference to me on the 6th of April of 2008, when I did not matter to him at all.
Maybe he will shake my hand and we will be friends, and then, we can go have mint chocolate chip ice cream together and wonder if it were made from crème de menthe.
Maybe Tamás is dead and I shall never be introduced to him in person...and it shall be very tragic for me to be anticipating an encounter. Will I only come to know his nationality from the internet?
Monday, 17 March 2008
Fit
She learnt from some website mag to use mink oil on her mothers' purses to make them as good as vintage. So, in a fit of independence and self-actualisation, she triumphantly found some fine animal fat and a piece of left over craft felt and began to rub her bags.
“Wow. The leather really feel so nice and smooth with this magic mink oil, it's so cool! I...”
And before she finished her thought, with a sudden poof, a genie popped out of the classic Chanel clutch she was rubbing and said formidably,
“I am the genie of the Chanel bag... I will grant you one wish....You have only one wish because you're a size six! If you were a size four, I'd grant you maybe, three wishes.” This was not true, the genie always granted one wish to anyone, even size fours; he just liked to make people feel bad about their bodies so that they would wish to be slimmer, and he could quickly grant that well-rehearsed charm to go back to whatever, or whoever, he was doing.
“Whoever the fuck you are, you are just a bitch to me,” said the girl, unfazed, as she flashed the genie a middle finger which was glossy with mink oil,
“Now what was I thinking... I had wanted to put it on my blog,” she whined as she rolled her eyes at the genie before she announced her recollections self-righteously, “oh yeah, I was just thinking before I was rudely interrupted... that I wish someone would rub mink oil all over my dead body when my skin's all dried and wrinkly.”
“Wow. The leather really feel so nice and smooth with this magic mink oil, it's so cool! I...”
And before she finished her thought, with a sudden poof, a genie popped out of the classic Chanel clutch she was rubbing and said formidably,
“I am the genie of the Chanel bag... I will grant you one wish....You have only one wish because you're a size six! If you were a size four, I'd grant you maybe, three wishes.” This was not true, the genie always granted one wish to anyone, even size fours; he just liked to make people feel bad about their bodies so that they would wish to be slimmer, and he could quickly grant that well-rehearsed charm to go back to whatever, or whoever, he was doing.
“Whoever the fuck you are, you are just a bitch to me,” said the girl, unfazed, as she flashed the genie a middle finger which was glossy with mink oil,
“Now what was I thinking... I had wanted to put it on my blog,” she whined as she rolled her eyes at the genie before she announced her recollections self-righteously, “oh yeah, I was just thinking before I was rudely interrupted... that I wish someone would rub mink oil all over my dead body when my skin's all dried and wrinkly.”
Wednesday, 20 February 2008
Sunday, 17 February 2008
The Romeo and Juliet
Once upon a time, there lived a couple of lovers quite like Romeo and Juliet. Their families were at odds with one another, and they were, well, both filial and cowardly such that they did not want to go against the wishes of their family and date each other, or hold each other’s hands. They communicated through letters, and the post system, and sometimes, via telephone. Boring stuff.
Love.
One moony night, as the owls hoot, they thought of each other, and both wished aloud to be birds simultaneously so that they could be together (so much for filial piety). The owls heard and told a fairy with the powers of such things and they were turned into birds.
Immediately, they flew off to be together, but alas!
When they finally learned how to perch, they realized that as birds they could not speak, but could only chirp.
They could not hold hands, or hug, or kiss, or fuck!
Well, actually, they fucked, but it was quick and unsatisfying. So, they hung their heads in sorrow and wept and sang a song in a bird language that meant,
“We should have waited to be together after our fathers and mothers were dead! Or at least have them changed into birds instead!”
They lived, regretfully ever after.
Love.
One moony night, as the owls hoot, they thought of each other, and both wished aloud to be birds simultaneously so that they could be together (so much for filial piety). The owls heard and told a fairy with the powers of such things and they were turned into birds.
Immediately, they flew off to be together, but alas!
When they finally learned how to perch, they realized that as birds they could not speak, but could only chirp.
They could not hold hands, or hug, or kiss, or fuck!
Well, actually, they fucked, but it was quick and unsatisfying. So, they hung their heads in sorrow and wept and sang a song in a bird language that meant,
“We should have waited to be together after our fathers and mothers were dead! Or at least have them changed into birds instead!”
They lived, regretfully ever after.
Wednesday, 30 January 2008
Silverfish Graveyard
As I was cleaning a corner of my room, I came across two dead silverfish on a cardboard box and did not fail to say “Yucksss” before wiping them off with a piece of toilet paper. After which, I took a closer look at the cardboard box, and discovered more dead silverfish.
It looked like a normal cardboard box. It used to contain industrial tape. I know because I got the box home from some company I used to work at. However, it must not be a normal cardboard box which I thought of it to be for there are so many dead silverfish on it. I could not bear to count the number of carcasses exactly, but 34 seems like a conservative exaggeration for you to share my disgust. I disposed of the bodies with care and repulsion and more toilet paper. It must be a special silverfish graveyard cardboard box. Befittingly, I threw it away, as well.
“Why are there so many dead silverfish in this corner of my room?” I asked myself. I did not know the answer immediately so I set out to investigate the matter.
Firstly, I took a book near the silverfish graveyard and tapped it against the ground to see if any more dead silverfish will fall out, or worse, alive ones. Luckily, there were not any. Therefore, I must force myself to conclude, for lack of better alternative, that all the silverfish in my room are dead and those alive are gone. They are dead and gone.
Secondly, I must ask myself how the silverfish died and went. With a gentle twitch of my imagination, I know that there can only be two possibilities, either they have evolved teleportation skills and abandoned their grandparents to die of old age; or they were all poisoned by a psychotic book loving silverfish, who thought that as long as the silverfish survive, they will eat and even though they can find alternatives now, one day, the alternatives will run out and they will have to eat books. After poisoning all the silverfish, it slammed its head repeatedly onto the cupboard box and died.
Thirdly, I researched on the internet to find that silverfish have existed for approximately thirty million years. Do you know how long thirty million years is? It is longer than I can imagine, and therefore, quite damn bloody long. And if the silverfish existed for so damn bloody long, and still look as creepy as they do, and still eat that shit (hair, dandruff, glue) that they do, I think teleportation skills should be quite low on the priority list. I deduce that the teleportation theory is unlikely. Therefore, I must incline towards the psycho silverfish theory, and mourn for two minutes for its tragic and bizarre death.
Then again, it was quite opinionated and presumptuous to poison everybody. It was cruel and incomprehensible. Could it have valued books something supposedly inanimate and tangible over life?
Isn’t life the most precious of all? Being alive, and staying alive. It is life that is of the highest order of living. Life and being alive are the crystallized sense of what living is. It is about being alive that we have a use for books: I use them to place on the shelves; the silverfish use them for food;and, the shelves use them for company. Of all the three examples, the most esteemed use for a book would be how the silverfish use them for food to sustain life itself. Sustaining life is the most fundamental, and therefore, the highest form of living. Now, we suddenly have the psycho silverfish who killed everyone else who might end up eating books... Was it for love?
There is no dilemma here. This is only irony. This is the stuff of war and protests (like for animal rights and human rights). This is the stuff of songs. This is the stuff of books.
I could kill myself to feed someone who is starving, but that would be disrespectful to my own life. So, I proclaim that I would gladly be killed by someone who is starving for food. Oh! I am so inspired that I would turn vegetarian if not for the fact that I can quickly agree that vegetables have lives too, so it won’t really make any difference, and enjoying eating good food is enjoying the highest form of living well, and that, makes me feel good about myself, that I am better than an psychotic book loving silverfish.
(sneak.)
It looked like a normal cardboard box. It used to contain industrial tape. I know because I got the box home from some company I used to work at. However, it must not be a normal cardboard box which I thought of it to be for there are so many dead silverfish on it. I could not bear to count the number of carcasses exactly, but 34 seems like a conservative exaggeration for you to share my disgust. I disposed of the bodies with care and repulsion and more toilet paper. It must be a special silverfish graveyard cardboard box. Befittingly, I threw it away, as well.
“Why are there so many dead silverfish in this corner of my room?” I asked myself. I did not know the answer immediately so I set out to investigate the matter.
Firstly, I took a book near the silverfish graveyard and tapped it against the ground to see if any more dead silverfish will fall out, or worse, alive ones. Luckily, there were not any. Therefore, I must force myself to conclude, for lack of better alternative, that all the silverfish in my room are dead and those alive are gone. They are dead and gone.
Secondly, I must ask myself how the silverfish died and went. With a gentle twitch of my imagination, I know that there can only be two possibilities, either they have evolved teleportation skills and abandoned their grandparents to die of old age; or they were all poisoned by a psychotic book loving silverfish, who thought that as long as the silverfish survive, they will eat and even though they can find alternatives now, one day, the alternatives will run out and they will have to eat books. After poisoning all the silverfish, it slammed its head repeatedly onto the cupboard box and died.
Thirdly, I researched on the internet to find that silverfish have existed for approximately thirty million years. Do you know how long thirty million years is? It is longer than I can imagine, and therefore, quite damn bloody long. And if the silverfish existed for so damn bloody long, and still look as creepy as they do, and still eat that shit (hair, dandruff, glue) that they do, I think teleportation skills should be quite low on the priority list. I deduce that the teleportation theory is unlikely. Therefore, I must incline towards the psycho silverfish theory, and mourn for two minutes for its tragic and bizarre death.
Then again, it was quite opinionated and presumptuous to poison everybody. It was cruel and incomprehensible. Could it have valued books something supposedly inanimate and tangible over life?
Isn’t life the most precious of all? Being alive, and staying alive. It is life that is of the highest order of living. Life and being alive are the crystallized sense of what living is. It is about being alive that we have a use for books: I use them to place on the shelves; the silverfish use them for food;and, the shelves use them for company. Of all the three examples, the most esteemed use for a book would be how the silverfish use them for food to sustain life itself. Sustaining life is the most fundamental, and therefore, the highest form of living. Now, we suddenly have the psycho silverfish who killed everyone else who might end up eating books... Was it for love?
There is no dilemma here. This is only irony. This is the stuff of war and protests (like for animal rights and human rights). This is the stuff of songs. This is the stuff of books.
I could kill myself to feed someone who is starving, but that would be disrespectful to my own life. So, I proclaim that I would gladly be killed by someone who is starving for food. Oh! I am so inspired that I would turn vegetarian if not for the fact that I can quickly agree that vegetables have lives too, so it won’t really make any difference, and enjoying eating good food is enjoying the highest form of living well, and that, makes me feel good about myself, that I am better than an psychotic book loving silverfish.
(sneak.)
Tuesday, 11 December 2007
All the flowers that you planted...
Holding onto that thing on the train that everybody holds on to with both hands in front of me, I rest my head on myself, listening to my mp3 player, to the song you had on repeat in your car when you had just broke up. The song that you would drive to, and keep quiet to, and not listen to the things I was rattling on about to. Were you healing your broken heart?
Was this how she made you feel?
Yesterday night, over the phone, you asked me not to break your heart. I'm not the best person you could trust your heart with.
Does the wind in the tunnel rushes by the train, or does the train pushes itself against the wind? I can barely hear the whining of the song if I pay attention to the howling tunnel. Will it ever tire? I take a deep breath. I feel out of breath. I feel like that pretty often nowadays. I sigh.
Shillings in my pocket. I have a box at home that I will put shillings from my pocket into. I know exactly where it is. I can imagine the sound of the coins as they are put inside in the way I will put them inside. And the way the light will flicker when I turn it on the way I will turn it on. I can imagine exactly how the way the light will twitch as the beep of my computer will sound exactly a moment after when I switch my computer on with my toe. I can imagine the smell of my room. It smells like wet laundry on the line on rainy evenings like these. The dusky sky has a corner of pink.
Most of what's left of the day looks grey. Pale, milky, bluish grey. I remember you asking me what's the difference between bluish grey and greyish blue. I explained it to you in terms of adjectives and nouns. Now that I think about it, I don't know if I'm correct about what I thought any more. I'll be sure to feel even more estranged from it if I give it any more thought.
There are others queuing in the line for the bus. I wonder if they were doing their Christmas shopping. She smiles with delight. Her teeth are very straight. That helps make her smile quite perfect. She could be in an advertisement. The girls on my right are restless, they keep looking in the direction of the bus's way. They are young.
I look at my feet. I cannot separate my index and middle toes. On both feet. It frustrates me that I cannot will my toes, but it does not surprise me. If you were here I would amuse you by making up another story on my toes.
The evening breeze makes the ends of the branches of the tree in front of me move a little. It is comforting to watch it. It is hypnotic, probably. I cannot see the green of the tree against the blurry sky. It is made of shadows now, for all I care.
I shall sit by the aisle. A seat that is near the alighting door. I don't want to squeeze pass too many people to get out. Sometimes it is okay. But not today. I take out my book to write. I tried to write about the tree being made of shadows. But it doesn't flow. I can only remember the image of the leaves swaying. Little 3 cm pinnate leaves. Made of shadows. I lose my train of thoughts. Is that my hand-phone vibrating in my bag? Should I check? Can I ignore it? I really don't feel like picking up a phone call from my mother now. Why do I feel like I have a hang over? I didn't drink anything last night...right?
You had called to ask me if I wanted to meet up for dinner. What would life be like if we didn't have cell phones? What would we be like?
I put the heartbreak song on again. I don't know why I want to listen to it. It makes me feel uneasy. There is a 10 seconds pause before the fella starts singing on the track.
Is it raining again? Doesn't look like it. But why are the wipers on? I shouldn't have worn this today. I wouldn't have, I suppose, if I had known it was going to rain.
The fluorescent lights at the bus stop comes on. The advertisement board is such an ugly lantern. But I feel welcomed. I have always liked to step off the bus. Maybe it's the way it's a big step and a little stretch. Maybe it's a little like the way I like to step off a boat that just docked. A delivery lorry speeds by. There are no cars coming my way. I cross the road despite the red man. I realise that I didn't notice the bus leaving. I don't want to go home. I don't know why I am still walking.
Did you know that I wish to die before I turn sixty-five? I don't think my teeth would last me that long.
(sneak)
Was this how she made you feel?
Yesterday night, over the phone, you asked me not to break your heart. I'm not the best person you could trust your heart with.
Does the wind in the tunnel rushes by the train, or does the train pushes itself against the wind? I can barely hear the whining of the song if I pay attention to the howling tunnel. Will it ever tire? I take a deep breath. I feel out of breath. I feel like that pretty often nowadays. I sigh.
Shillings in my pocket. I have a box at home that I will put shillings from my pocket into. I know exactly where it is. I can imagine the sound of the coins as they are put inside in the way I will put them inside. And the way the light will flicker when I turn it on the way I will turn it on. I can imagine exactly how the way the light will twitch as the beep of my computer will sound exactly a moment after when I switch my computer on with my toe. I can imagine the smell of my room. It smells like wet laundry on the line on rainy evenings like these. The dusky sky has a corner of pink.
Most of what's left of the day looks grey. Pale, milky, bluish grey. I remember you asking me what's the difference between bluish grey and greyish blue. I explained it to you in terms of adjectives and nouns. Now that I think about it, I don't know if I'm correct about what I thought any more. I'll be sure to feel even more estranged from it if I give it any more thought.
There are others queuing in the line for the bus. I wonder if they were doing their Christmas shopping. She smiles with delight. Her teeth are very straight. That helps make her smile quite perfect. She could be in an advertisement. The girls on my right are restless, they keep looking in the direction of the bus's way. They are young.
I look at my feet. I cannot separate my index and middle toes. On both feet. It frustrates me that I cannot will my toes, but it does not surprise me. If you were here I would amuse you by making up another story on my toes.
The evening breeze makes the ends of the branches of the tree in front of me move a little. It is comforting to watch it. It is hypnotic, probably. I cannot see the green of the tree against the blurry sky. It is made of shadows now, for all I care.
I shall sit by the aisle. A seat that is near the alighting door. I don't want to squeeze pass too many people to get out. Sometimes it is okay. But not today. I take out my book to write. I tried to write about the tree being made of shadows. But it doesn't flow. I can only remember the image of the leaves swaying. Little 3 cm pinnate leaves. Made of shadows. I lose my train of thoughts. Is that my hand-phone vibrating in my bag? Should I check? Can I ignore it? I really don't feel like picking up a phone call from my mother now. Why do I feel like I have a hang over? I didn't drink anything last night...right?
You had called to ask me if I wanted to meet up for dinner. What would life be like if we didn't have cell phones? What would we be like?
I put the heartbreak song on again. I don't know why I want to listen to it. It makes me feel uneasy. There is a 10 seconds pause before the fella starts singing on the track.
Is it raining again? Doesn't look like it. But why are the wipers on? I shouldn't have worn this today. I wouldn't have, I suppose, if I had known it was going to rain.
The fluorescent lights at the bus stop comes on. The advertisement board is such an ugly lantern. But I feel welcomed. I have always liked to step off the bus. Maybe it's the way it's a big step and a little stretch. Maybe it's a little like the way I like to step off a boat that just docked. A delivery lorry speeds by. There are no cars coming my way. I cross the road despite the red man. I realise that I didn't notice the bus leaving. I don't want to go home. I don't know why I am still walking.
Did you know that I wish to die before I turn sixty-five? I don't think my teeth would last me that long.
(sneak)
Sus
(After much deliberation, I told her the truth. It will not be easier on me now. I do not feel lightened of the burden, now. I feel sheltered by the shade of what is impending.)
I was walking around in the plaza today, and I looked at all the young faces wearing the cliched expressions on the young heads of people older by age than me. They walked around, either holding on, sometimes unleashed, to the pinkish pets they farrowed; or, caressing their not-so-newly-pregnant uterus beneath their bellies, beneath their taut lycra tee-shirts, spilling from their ugly creased cotton cream-vomit-coloured beach pants; or, grunting after their wives they treat as siblings in crimes of stolid abberation.
I wondered, scornfully, "why do they look happy?" Or rather, "why do they look so stupidly happy?" Maybe we tend to over-complicate little things too much.
(Maybe, I don't need to know that you belong to me. I just need to belong to you. I always say that the truth is over-rated but who doesn't want to live happily ever after?)
The little girl with her pony tail, in white barbie tee-shirt and pink barbie pants, talking loudly on her proud mother's mobile phone to her father who may be out fucking some other woman at the hour before this, will grow up to be like who? Her mother soon squeals at her to finish up the food.
(Who did I grow up to be like? It's been a long time since I heard anyone mumble "get a life". It is an impossible dream.)
Take your baby dolls and hang them by the umbilical cords you fed them with. It should be easier than trying to smother them with your half-hearted dedication. It should be easier than having to buy them two dozens of spectacles before they turn 21.
You won't look like barbies anymore, child brides. Buy a strip of pork lard but at least deep fry it just before you lap it up, pigs.
I was walking around in the plaza today, and I looked at all the young faces wearing the cliched expressions on the young heads of people older by age than me. They walked around, either holding on, sometimes unleashed, to the pinkish pets they farrowed; or, caressing their not-so-newly-pregnant uterus beneath their bellies, beneath their taut lycra tee-shirts, spilling from their ugly creased cotton cream-vomit-coloured beach pants; or, grunting after their wives they treat as siblings in crimes of stolid abberation.
I wondered, scornfully, "why do they look happy?" Or rather, "why do they look so stupidly happy?" Maybe we tend to over-complicate little things too much.
(Maybe, I don't need to know that you belong to me. I just need to belong to you. I always say that the truth is over-rated but who doesn't want to live happily ever after?)
The little girl with her pony tail, in white barbie tee-shirt and pink barbie pants, talking loudly on her proud mother's mobile phone to her father who may be out fucking some other woman at the hour before this, will grow up to be like who? Her mother soon squeals at her to finish up the food.
(Who did I grow up to be like? It's been a long time since I heard anyone mumble "get a life". It is an impossible dream.)
Take your baby dolls and hang them by the umbilical cords you fed them with. It should be easier than trying to smother them with your half-hearted dedication. It should be easier than having to buy them two dozens of spectacles before they turn 21.
You won't look like barbies anymore, child brides. Buy a strip of pork lard but at least deep fry it just before you lap it up, pigs.
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