A Visitation

Dear Papa,

How are you? I hope that you are enjoying life as usual and that you are healthy. But I am sure you are healthy, because as I remember, you are a health freak of sort! How’s your racing Papa? Are you already prepared for this year’s endurance race? Is the car ready? But most important of all, are you ready? Knowing you, I am sure everything is under controll and all problems are being looked into and will be sorted out, if not already sorted out.

I know that Papa. Because you are that kind of person. You are that kind of father to all of us. Kak Long, Angah, Adik and myself, all of us, had always known that. You would take care of everything. Not a single complaint from you. Not a single word from you. But at the end of the day, everything will be there for us. I am now old enough to realise Papa, that despite all the aloofness, and sometimes the silence, you had always had all of us in your heart all the time for which all of us now are so thankful and grateful. If only you are around, we would of course try to repay some of your deeds, if that was ever gonna be possible.

You know Papa, life is synonymous with time. Life gets along as time passes by. It is when time stops that life stops. And probably, vice versa too. It is difficult in the sense that all of us have to learn to get by in life but the biggest lesson of all is life itself and the best teacher is also life itself! And with life, we have all got to learn as it comes along. Now, that is not exactly proper planning don’t you think Papa?

Sometimes I detected a degree of coldness on your face Papa. And also in your voice. I used to think that those were the times when you were in a bad mood or something. But now I realise that the coldness was just probably your defence mechanism. Against all that was happening in your life. In our lives. Notwithstanding, we had a really good life Papa. Thanks to you and mom. And since you have been gone, life was initially quite tough for all of us. We missed you a lot. And still do. How sometimes all of us would wish that you are still around. Looking at you dreaming on the swing at night. Washing the cars on weekends. Even polishing your shoes. Restringing your guitars (gosh, I miss that riffs you used to play Papa, that real noisy riff from that Pink Floyd song, what was it, Comfortably Numb, was it Papa?). I miss creeping up behind you while you are on your lazy chair reading one of those silly articles about some foreign policy and stuffs. I miss sitting, and then, falling asleep on your lap in your music room. I miss you Papa.

Hey you know what? Today is my birthday. I remember my 7^th birthday really well Papa. That was today isn’t it Papa? In your time that is. That pink “gameboy” set which you bought as a present. It was like you were reading my mind! How did you know? I never told anybody. Not you. Not mom. You know, I still have it now with me. After all these years. It still works. Just the other day someone offered a hefty price for that stuff but of course I was not gonna sell it, not even for a kidney and a heart! I remember you coming back from the office on my 7^th birthday. You were a bit late that day. I suppose you had to go and buy my “gameboy” set on the way back home and that was why you were late. Mom had baked a cake. And we celebrated it after dinner. With 7 candles on the cake. And the cake! What a cake! A chocolate cake (my fav!). And we had lotsa ice creams too! Ya, that was exactly 45 years ago, Papa. I still have the video of that small party we had. And Adik was just learning how to walk. That was 2007 Papa. How we all miss those days. Days when we were all together. But in life, of course, nothing last forever.

Although you are now gone, forever, I thank God that through technology, I now could communicate with you on your blog. I could always write to you and perhaps get some news from you and mom. I could always tell you that all of us are doing okay. You and mom had prepared us well Papa. Thank you. I have got to pen off now. I will write to you again sometime later.

With lotsa loves and kisses,

Sara

9^th May 2052

ps: Oh ya, Kak Long, Angah and Adik say "hi" to you and mom. They will write in soon.

ps 2: actually I had wanted to write to you for a long time but I had just found this blog while I was in the library just now. It's a cool blog Papa, with really cool writings. It's full of historical facts. And all the rants. Like, wow! The Chapatti Moments! I mean, they don't write like that anymore nowadays. Nobody does! And finally, I could find articles about tootbrushes and highlighters! Brilliant.

Of Titles

It could easily be said that if you farted in the room at some social function, you would be sure to hit a few titled people in the room. By titled I mean all those members of society that bear titles bestowed by the local States or the Federal Territory in their many manifestations but can mainly divided in two three main categories. First and the 'lowest' in order is Datuk (if bestowed by the Federal Government) or Dato' (if bestowed by the various States; which sometimes also tack on some other flourish after it like 'Dato' Paduka' or 'Dato' Wira'). Next is the 'Tan Sri' which is second in order. This can only be awarded by the Federal Government and used to be given very rarely. But as usual, these ones are starting to go like hotcakes these days. And finally, there is, what used to be, the sacred 'Tun'. This is it. As far as it goes. For this mama, you gotta be something wild like Prime Minister, Chief Justice or Speaker of the House or something. Mad.

So titles. Before the Malaysian boom of the 1990s all these titles were rare. Newspaper reports were shorter. Speeches were shorter. People got on with things. When the economic boom hit us, suddenly there were a slew of Datuks amongst us. I always thought that these titles were reserved for those outstanding individuals that have made our country proud or because of their outstanding service to the country. That bubble burst when I saw some very Chinese fellas that I have never seen nor heard before in the newspapers and having nothing remotely to do with some outstanding service to the country. Then just about everybody seemed to have one. The royal announcements got larger and larger that once I think it took a few days to be completely published. It was crazy.

Then if you were titled, you were treated better. People around here were discouraged to argue because it would seem 'disrespectful' to someone you were supposed to have respect for, in terms of protocol. It was easier to get a table at a restaurant. People on a balance would tend to believe you more than a person without a title because you have been recognized by the State as an outstanding individual. People's back were just a little straighter when they are dealing with a titled person. It was easier to open doors because usually someone in business had a Dato'ship as well - so at least you had something in common.

So there were all these informal benefits to having a title that then everybody wanted one. And our royalty suddenly seemed too ready to dish out these Dato'ships by the hundreds every year. We have nine States that can issue titles every year. You do the math, and the math. Every once in a while you will come across some idiots being cheated for trying to buy a title or some palace official caught trying to arrange to sell them surface in the media. And now, throw a stone or a fart, you're bound to hit one of them. In fact there are so many of them these days that at some Malay weddings, when you get to the entrance of the hall there are signs which point one way for those of us bearing the title, 'Encik/Puan' and 'Dif-dif yang berhormat' (Honoured guests which mean Dato's and above) points the other way. That's how many there are.

And there are some of these pathetic children of these titled people that love to pad their rather plain names by what I call 'stuffing the arse'. For example (all names henceforth used in this example are fictional; I apologies in advance if this happens to be your name. Was not intentional), Mohamed Arsehole bin Mohd Rojak. Say his daddy gets himself awarded a Dato'. Say it's one of those fancy ones like Dato' Berbakti. Our example will then expand his name and put it in his card as Mohamed Arsehole bin Dato' Berbakti Mohd Rojak. And now because some of these brats did it, everybody just assumes it goes. It is highly unimpressive to say the least. And you would at some point or other come across those assistants/officers that just loves the idea of working for these titled people and flaunted their bosses title as if it were theirs. These are what you call the bottom feeders. Once their bosses get their title they turn from assistant to priest. Extremely pathetic. Avoid at all costs.

But the problem with giving these titles away so readily is that it becomes cheap and sometimes there is no control with the quality. In Malaysia, so often is some Dato' or other involved or connected in some way with some shady rumour or dealing that it is reported in the press that the title of Dato' has now an almost sinister connotation with it. When a Dato' is involved in some scam or other, we are no longer surprised and in fact expect it. The two titles above it are still relatively rather safe from the blight of reputation the Dato'ship has suffered but their writings are already on the wall, if not awarded already. The slow stained hand of corruption will soon have it firmly within its grasp.

And it's not like there are no obligations once you are awarded a Dato'ship. Depending on how you got it, sometimes you would have to spend much money to the maintenance of the Dato'ship. You may be expected to have a certain kind of lifestyle (usually wealthy). There are also some formal obligations such as tea at the Istana every now and again for those that obtain theirs quietly without encouragement.

And you should see some of the absolute wankers that get awarded these titles. Soon after their conferment, they act as if they are some superior form of human beings - as if the mere conferment of a Dato'ship lengthened their penises, replaced their huge overhanging gut into an eight pack washboard that does washings several times a day, looked like Brad Pitt, possessed the brains of Einstein, the eloquence of John Ruskin and the sexual prowess of Ron Jeremy. Losers.

I have on occasions been asked whether I would ever accept a title if it were given to me. I used to immediately and unhesitatingly reply in the negative. But after having given it some thought, I have reconsidered. I now think that I would accept a title of whichever rank provided I thought I deserved it. After all, the recipient must accept the title as well, and cannot feign complete ignorance. And to me that in a very subtle way is also a bit of a 'boast' as well. And one must always be able to back up one's boast to avoid sounding hollow. But happily, I should have no trouble over this matter because I shall forever think myself unworthy of such an honour.

remembering Sue...

"I love you. I'd always loved you. And I will miss you. I will miss you a lot. I have to go now. I love you very much...bye." With that, you left. And you are gone.

Silence. In a vacuum.

And the voidness of it all.

Click. Good night.

In the Service of Others

These days the idea of service to a Master or being in the employ of someone seems to carry a greater sense of the menial (that you are doing lowly or menial work) and servility; that there is no honour in such work - that there is only honour in being the Master instead of a Servant. That somehow to be working beneath or under someone means that you are necessarily lessser in every respect to person above you. This highly materialistic, heirarchical and capitalistic understanding of the relationship between Master and Servant has intensified in recent decades with societies cultural norms being heavily influenced if not altered by a wantonness in materialism, consumerism, intensification of the demands of labour, insufficient attention to the personal self despite a heightened sense of narcissism and a culture of constant 'success' or 'progress'.

Complaints of this nature are not new either. John Ruskin in one of his letters that from the collection of Fors Clavigera (Letter XXVIII, 20 February 1873) had occasion to comment on this fading comprehension and understanding of both the responsibilities between Master and Servant when contemplating the corruption of the word 'menial':

'But I used another terrible word just now - 'menial'. The modern English vulgar mind has a wonderful dread of doing anything of that sort!

'I suppose there is scarcely another word in the language which people more dislike having applied to them, or of which they less understand the application. It comes from a beautiful old Chaucerian word, 'menie,' or many, signifying attendant company of any one worth attending to; the disciples of a master, scholars of a teacher, soldiers of a leader, lords of a King. Chaucer says the God of Love came, in the garden of the Rose, with 'his many'; - in the court of the King of Persia spoke a Lord, one 'of his many.' Therefore there is nothing in itself dishonourable in being menial: the only question is - whose many you belong to, and whether he is also a person worth belonging to, or even safe to be belonged to; also, there is somewhat in the cause of your following: if you follow for love, it is good to be menial - if for honour, good also; - if for ten per cent - as a railroad company follows its Director, it is not good to be menial. Also there is somewhat in the manner of following: if you obey your Taskmaster's eye, it is well; - if only his whip, still, well; but not so well: - but, above all, or below all, if you have to obey the whip as a bad hound, because you have no nose, like the members of the present House of Commons, it is a very humble form of menial service indeed.' [Emphasis is mine]

So the Servant who obeys a Master who is of good character and noble actions also gains honour and integrity in his service to him. But a Master must also be mindful and care for his Servants as well. Just as he may command his Servant to do anything he so pleases, he must also take care not command his Servant in vain so or as a mere expression of his power. Just as it is the responsibilities of a Servant to obey and care for his Master, the Master too has a similar and simultaneous obligation towards the Servant. Thus there is a symbiotic and synergistic relationship between a Master and a Servant who are sensitive to each other's needs and are loyal to both their respective roles. One cannot exist without the other.

Glorious of such examples of loyalty and perfect understanding are replete in Japanese literature especially during the Shogunate period where samurai's followed the Bushido. Some of my favourite serialized graphic novels such as Lone Wolf and Cub, The Samurai's Executioner and especially, Path of the Assassin, all by the Kazuo Koike (Writer) and Goseki Kojima (Artist), tell of the life of the various samurai - those in service, those in honour, those without who are known as ronin. What I found particularly striking was the intensity with which these men lived their loyalty and allegiance to their Masters. They would think nothing of slitting open their belly before them if they were found wanting in their task or position, or sometimes because they disagreed with their Master. Whilst such display of loyalty is commendable, I think it rather extreme.

Ruskin's meditations seem to suggest one of the more obvious reasons for the lack of honour felt in serving someone - that these days there are very men or women of such worth that one is willing to serve in their service or in their cause. Our society itself is replete with examples of this. I for one would not even give up a cut toe nail in the service of virtually every self-proclaimed or otherwise leader in this country. You cannot gain honour or integrity in serving a man of ill-repute and a lack of morality (unless you are in a society that does not allow you to choose your own Master) because a rot that starts at the top, will undoubtedly, in time, affect the bottom.

Another also obvious one would be the 'Me-first' mentality which is pervasive in most civilized cultures lately where the primacy of the individual is championed over and above that of the community which is really a product of Western Philosophy, with its hard and clear definitions, where things are or they are not with nothing in between acceptable. Western Philosophy's obssession with trying to define and classify, whilst of great use, is sometimes difficult to apply in the messiness of human relations and thought, and more so in the interaction between the individual and society. There cannot be a triumph of one over the other because it would result in the extermination of both. The interaction between the individual and society is complex, dynamic, engaging and inextricable like that of our physicaly body and our thoughts. While both can be readily ascertainable and defined to a certain extend, they cannot be considered in a mutually exclusive fashion.

Perhaps that is one of the causes of much work dissatisfaction these days amongst employees and the employers' mounting inability to properly manage its human resources - because both have forgotten their moral and ethical obligations to each other. Legal obligations merely set the minimum conditions for a relationship to be recognized, adjudicated and validated, it does not govern the daily and intimate relations between each other.

Contentment

Siam Reap, Cambodia

October 2004

B

The Club is Bouncing. Jumping. Heads bobbing. Bodies moving. Smiling. Sweating. Hands. Shaking. Groping. Gripping. Everybody. Oblivious. In the ecstatic.

Cut through the crowd. Like water. The colours. They roam. They blink, they blind. Hard to see. Anything. At the edge. The crowd.

You. At the Bar. Luminious pearl in Mud.

Approach you.

Dazed. Blinded.

You. You. I’m next to you.

“Hi,” I think. I say. You turn.

Your eyes. One me. Up. Down.

“Hey," you sing.

“Buy you a drink?”

“Anybody ever told you how eloquent you are?”

That was a joke. Right?

“No.”

“Figured. Orange juice.”

“Wicked.”

Bar is packed. Lots of screaming. Shouting. Orders. Bills. Spittle. Everybody wanting something. Bartenders running about. Grab one.

“1 orange juice and 2 double vodka limes. 20 bucks if you do it for me now.”

He nods. 2 minutes later. Drinks in hand.

“That was fast.” She’s impressed.

“Didn’t feel like hanging around.”

Double vodka lime raised. Clink!

“You’re funny.”

“I’ve been told that. Yeah.”

Alcohol going down. Lime on tongue. Shiver through shoulders. Tasty!

“Ah! Modest as well! Aren’t we a balanced individual?” She smiles. Sips.

Damn! So fine. Smile back.

“By yourself?”

“Nah.” She looks at dance floor.

“Mom and dad?” She giggles. Turns to me. Hazel brown eyes. I like.

“Yeah. It’s the old folks night out at Bounce. They’re tearing up the dance floor as we speak.”

“’S shame your mom and dad are in there. Bumping and Grinding. And we’re sitting around out here all old like.”

She smiles. Smile of Smiles. Her eyes twinkle. Corny. But true. Maybe.

Heart. Beating. Hard. Thumping. In my Head.

She leans. To me. Her face. Near Mine.

“It is isn’t it? I was wondering whether you were going to do anything about this deplorable position we are in.”

“I’ve got an idea.” Closer.

“Let’s hear it then. Don’t have to be all shy about it.”

Her smile. Can feel it. On my cheek.

“I was thinking it would be kinda fun if we joined your mom and dad in there.”

She’s giggling. Good thing. Right?

“Is this how you ask women to dance with you?”

“Yes.” She’s smiling. Warmth.

“Have you been successful with this…” Her glass. Swirls. Ice. Clinks. “this… method?”

“Not sure.” Her eyebrows. Knitting. Not-a-good thing.

“Why aren’t you sure?”

“Because you haven’t told me what you think of my idea.”

“You mean …” Bewilderment. The Dawning. Knitted Eyebrows. Away!

“Oh, you can’t mean I’m the first!” Surprised! Smile is back. Wide. Sublime.

Turn away. Drink. Pause. 1 … 2 … 3 … Straight in her eyes.

“Yeah.”

She draws closer. Her lips. Millimeters. Her Breath. Sweet. My Ear.

“Let me give you some advice. Next time, be more direct! Let’s go.”

She grabs. My hand. My fingers. Her hands. Soft. Small. Delicate.

Days in goodness spent.

Crowds. Bodies. Jumping. Kicking. Sliding.

We’re in.

Beats. Loud. Every fibre. Of being. Thumping. Soul. Heart. Rattling.

She. Vision. Beauty. Grace. Sexiness. Whoa!

Dance. Dance. Bodies. Bumping. Grinding. Thrusting. Dance. Dance.

Her body. Against Mine. Heaven. A taste.

We groove.

We move.

Forever.

A heartbeat. Later.

Rooftop. Club. Leaning. On rails. Sky. Diamonds on black velvet.

City. Stretches. Far away. Concrete poles. Blinking lights.

Moon. Full. Luminous.

Beats. Distant. Fresh. Cool. Air. Breeze.

Her laughter. Floating. In the air. Sweetest sound. Petals. In my ear.

“This was a good idea.” She glows. I’m falling.

“There’s only so long I can take in there.”

“I must say, I underrated you.” Brushes. Her hair. Black. Away.

“I know you did.” Wink!

“Yeah right!” Smiles.

“Yeah right big time!”

Looks at me.

Her eyes. Her hair. Her mouth. Her lips.

All.

Everything.

Beautiful. Sublime. Mesmerized.

Heart. Pounding. Again.

Keep Breathing.

Shut up. Don’t speak. Anything. Fumbling. Pockets. Searching …

“Cigarette?” I offer. Just Lights. Will she take it?

“No, thanks.”

“Oh, okay.” Put back. Cigarettes. Lights.

“It’s okay, you know. You can go ahead and smoke. I don’t mind.” Whoa!

“S’alright.”

“No, really. Go ahead.”

“S’alright.”

“No, really.”

“I don’t smoke.”

“You don’t smoke?” Looks at me. Strange man!

“Nope.”

“Then why’d you ask me whether I wanted a cigarette?”

“Because you might want one?”

Pause. Smile’s back.

“You are bizarre.” Uh-oh. Not good. Right?

Compliment?

“Uh… thanks?”

“So are you here by yourself then?”

“No.”

“Who are you here with?”

“Some friends.”

“Where are they?”

“Beats me.”

“So what were you doing at the bar?”

“Testing a hypothesis.”

“Oooh. Big word for a place like this. Don’t you know you’re only allowed 2 syllables per word?”

“I’ve already cleared it with the owner. He said it’s okay as long as I only use those words once an hour.”

She giggles.

Her Head. Cocked left.

“And what was this hypothesis of yours?”

“Whether God plays dice.”

“Oh my, that sounds terribly deep.” Feigns awe.

“Yes, it does sound terribly and unforgivably deep, doesn’t it?”

“Umm hmmm. So does God play dice?”

“Beats me. But I feel like I’m on the luckiest roll of my life tonight.”

Big smile. Blushes.

Feels like. Shooting stars. Fill the sky.

“Oooohhh, I’d better be vewy vewy careful of you Mister!” Waggles her finger. Tone. Saccharine sweet.

Shit. What’d I say? Nevermind. Play by ear. Along.

“And why is that, young miss?” Frown feigned.

“Because if you get any smoother I might just slip on your words and fall into your arms.”

“Ah!” Cha-ching! Definitely. Flirting. My heart. Smiling. Ear to Eternity.

“Well then it seems I have found my purpose tonight.”

“Which is?”

I smile.

“Why, to find the right words of course!”

She smiles. Then turns. Away.

Looks. Up. At the stars. Down. At the carpark.

Bites. Lower lip. Grips. Railing. Too tightly.

My back. On railing. A breather?

She titters. In it. A touch. Melancholia.

“You know, we’ve danced, drank and talked for a while now and I still don’t even know your name.”

Her eyes. On carpark. Still.

Bad.

“I don’t know yours either.”

Pause.

“Oh, you are so gonna hate me. Maybe it’s better that way” She says. Softly. For me.

“It’s okay.” It’s not okay. Fuck, it’s not okay.

“It’s not. I …”

My heart. My hopes. Melting. Crumbling. Sandcastle in a wave.

“Please. I know all good things come to an end.” Traction. Major.

“It’s just that it’s been a while… long while, since I’ve smiled so much, and had so much fun.”

“We can leave it like this. Quit while we’re ahead kinda thing. You don’t have to say anything more.”

“I think I owe you an …”

“You owe me nothing.”

“But you made me so happy tonight.”

“I was powerless to do anything else.”

I feel. Her smile. Her sadness.

Her hand. My right shoulder. I turn. Face. To face. Sorrow. In her. Eyes.

“You see. I should have fallen into your arms right there.”

“And I should have caught you right then.”

“Oh, please stop.”

I turn. Away. Too good. Too random. To last.

Knew it. Knew it!

'Okay. Then I'll just, uh, go in then.'

'No.’ I stop. ‘Please. Don't go. I know this might be a bit forward but, uh, I'm going through a really bad and ugly patch in my life right now. And then tonight this, this ray of light. Just feels good, you know? Even though we barely know each other.' Right.

'And, kinda sad because I have to step out of this light. Even though I feel and would want it otherwise.' Uh-huh.

'You know?' Don’t I. Know it. Story of my life.

'B!!' From the door. A girl. Pretty. Tight dress. Approaching us.

'We've been looking all over for you.'

Wearing a pissed off look.

B moves. Away.

Turns to me. Wistful look. Perhaps.

Then. Her back. Faces me.

'Where the hell were you?'

'I just wanted to get some air.'

'Were you dancing with that guy just now?'

'Yes. I was.'

'Who is that guy anyway?'

'Oh. Somebody.'

'What's his name?'

'I don't know.'

'Do you even know him?'

'Sort of.'

'Man, you'd better not let Chris find out you were with some guy didn't even know.'

'To hell with Chris.'

Door opens. Door closes. Silence erupts.

And she's gone. Out. Out of my sight. Of my life.

*sigh*

Did not notice. How beautiful, cool it is.

Up here.

A Junkie Hooker

(Subtitle: Meditations upon empathising in harbouring ambitions of being a junkie hooker for at least twenty thousandth of a microsecond)

If there was anybody who came closer to more than a microsecond of harbouring any ambitions of being a junky hooker, that person might be me. It's crazy, I know, but thankfully, the fever passed as quickly as it gripped me. Before, I had any chance to act out that seemingly insane sort of ambition, which would rank up there with mass murderers and the guy who has to clean the cages in the zoo, it left, as if driven from me like a bad spirit exorcised from the depths of my soul. Despite its terribly limited time with me, I managed to glance some insight into such a lifestyle.

If there was one attractive feature of such a lifestyle it is its sheer simplicity, in essence. Screw people for money. Buy and use drugs. There you go. A complete and total lifestyle in eight words. You cannot get any simpler than that. Of course there is the attendant necessities such as rest, preserving one's physical condition appropriately to be able to carry out such a lifestyle, place to stay, etc. But simplicity in what it is you are all about. Drugs and sex. And by drugs, I mean the hardcore, addictive stuff like heroin. The burn out rate however, I imagine, would be pretty damn quick. Thing about the cake and eating it and then wanting to keep it all applies there.

And this is simple compared to say a typical Malay middle class local graduate who had to borrow money for his tertiary education (okay the last part is fiction). Quickly find a job so that he can pay off his loan, and establish himself by looking for a place to settle down (if he is not staying with his parents, or even if he is, he will soon), get a set of workable wheels, there's his social, familial and love interests to occupy his hours of leisure aside from his own interests. And suddenly things get complicated. He has many things to juggle. Comparing this to the junkie hooker's lifestyle, we see how the latter triumphs the former in terms of simplicity and, as a friend of mine one's described those things, in putting down no 'anchors'.

But the junkie hooker's ultra-simple lifestyle pays the price of limitedness. That choice is one which is very hard to unmake in one sense, and in another, that he will never feel or experience many other things in life other than drugs and sex and the limited range of emotions that lifestyle can only foster (pun intended). And that's what that middle class lifestyle that is progressing would allow, the possibility of the full range and depths of human emotions and possibilities. There is now room for travel, literature, laughter, companionship, for a healthy sort of love to blossom just as they will disappointment, tears and sadness. The point is that there is wealth of experience to be enjoyed and should be.

The horror then of that lifestyle is that a whole world of possibilities and existences is reduced, if not utterly annihilated, to sex, money and drugs, and even that not for very long. There would be little life left in that style. It is the death before death. But I can see how some people who need to escape so far away from everything and simplify their lifestyle so ruthlessly. Sometimes the world gets too great for them and there is no other way. They run, they hide. They simplify. I feel sorry and sad for them now instead of a sense of disgust which I may perhaps feel if confronted with them in real life.

Removes fishnet stockings and thick colourful make up from face.

Say, uh, anybody got a joint or something?