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Who? Me? Extended

I got a complaint! Wisa expressed his “disappointment” after reading my last entry. I’ve told him upon making the piece that I’ll write “something about me”. So he eagerly anticipated to read my self-comment as if waiting for the juicy-sticky-stuff from Bill Clinton’s biography. He expected to find “my eecky-self” to slime all over the place.

Now, reality check, my dear Mas Wisa. I’m no Clinton. I never have a “Monica” giving me a blow job at work or anywhere else for that matter. My cubicle is so small and I share it with two “bapak-bapak” that, let alone hiding someone under my desk and giving me the ride of the day, I can’t even open your full-action-face-pic without first making sure these two God-obedient-descent-older-men are out for praying or eating, which of course, I hardly do. I mean, one of them is as old as my father—who’s coming to town as you are already aware of, and he—God bless his wonderful-soul—never drags me with questions of marriage as you expected he would, unlike my mom who would have and relentlessly try every time I speak to her over the phone. I can’t help but to show my bestest behavior in front of him. I feel the presence of my own father. Conclusion, there’s no eecky-juicy me to spread around.

And, another reality check, with mountainous work I have been doing, and another Everest coming (four books—two in English, a magazine, web content update, some proposal and some translation works, gosh, I’m sleepy already just counting the possibility of my future sleepless nights), my life can never be any more dull! It’s all about work, work, … and some more work. I hardly have time to do any thing else and satisfy your curiosity for gossip, gossip, gossip, you KISS fan you! You see, I just refused Iwan’s offer to see Shrek 2 tonight for crying out loud! I could hardly believe there’d come a time when I, a self-proclaimed movie buff, would turn down an offer to see a movie I haven’t seen! Can’t I sink lower?

Oh, Lord, I’m so ashamed of myself. I have been too “nice” for too long. So, for the moment, Mas, I can proudly scream at the top of my lungs the line belongs to that pre-beautiful-irksomely-noisy Eliza Doolittle when Mrs Pearce dragged her for bath, “I’m a good boy, I am!”

A Fair Gentleman.

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