cookie-cutter comments

A stick of dynamite everytime I blow up.

A fucking unconscienable comment, you bastard, that’s what it was: and you deserved every fucking word I dished out your way you bloody pint-sized goatfuck.

Right. If I had a therapist, she’d say “think happy thoughts, darling”, then flirt with me. My luck’s not going to change anytime soon, so I’d say counting to ten should’ve been a better option. I should’ve just reached out and showed him some love, fist-first. I mouthed off and walked away, instead. How much of a pussy am I now?
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I think he gets it right again: just why are the MPs so worked up over the exposure of their AP ownerships? Is it a reaction against arm-twisting or is it something more? Mr Pereira notes:

So why was there such a sledgehammer reaction by the MPs to the release of the list? Perhaps because Rafidah is vulnerable.

Perhaps because there is little downside in going after someone who appears to be nearing the end of her political shelf-life, more so a minister who once moved around with such swagger.

Perhaps, because there is so much negative vibes about APs that no one wants to be linked to this policy, even if they have legitimate reasons for being recipients.

Whatever their reasons, Rafidah does not owe anyone an apology for letting the public know which MPs got APs.

If transparency over the automotive policy is what everyone in this country craves, then Malaysians must get the unvarnished version.

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Surviving funks is like surviving a long, heady night out with the boys: isolate yourself, innudate yourself with water/piss/panadol and then brood as the headaches take over. It’s such a human endeavour, getting stuck with ruts and such; it’s almost as if we are pre-programmed to stumble through life with one eye blind and the other shuttered. I suppose stumbling has its very own, particular comic value to watching deities. (anyone remember Gabriel’s opinion of angels on the expression of faces during coitus? ha!)

And sometimes you see it coming, the train-wreck to end all train-wrecks, and most times you don’t. I didn’t and my own particularly cheerful train-wreck has been creeping up on me without my knowledge. How has this come to pass, one might ask? It’s pretty simple: backroom deals, conversations whispered between conspirators in private and other cloak-and-dagger stuff resulting, with reference to the latter, with daggers in the back.

“Et tu, Brute?”

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