Friday, September 19, 2008

Once More For Old Times Sakes.

You've had five pints of lager, a bit pissed since it used to take only two pints to get tipsy. Guess it's harder this time. The girl you've been looking at is still dancing, but the girl you wanted is gone. Make do with what you have, mate. Your mind says that. So you stand, make a little tap of you feet. Maybe she'll notice, you say. Your mind is split. One side say's move to her, while the other remembers the past. Your steps get disorientated because of this.


Get on your feet mate, you say.

She's still moving.

Maybe I should move, you think.

And so you do.

This time a bit better, at least in your head. Notes of drums slide into the cranium, which is desert-like empty. You want it that way. One tap of bass and two of snare, continued with the usual cymbals. You understand. Move now, you say. But your body fails, and you stumble a bit.

This can't be good.

She's looking away.

And so she does.

So you drink again. It's not me. It's the music. One more and I'm off. The songs get worse, it does. Dashes of Guns 'n Roses, and Metallica, when you prefer the anecdotes of Arctic Monkeys and bass riffs of Interpol. Idiot DJ. He should know better. Look at the crowd, and look at me.

Next song is "School's Out For The Summer". By some guy you know, but you don't because you're a bit off. Well, maybe a lot off. But what does it matter now. The music is dead anyways.

So you sit down. You look in front of you. Vision OK. I'm OK. You close your eyes. Vision is spinning. Vision not OK. I'm not OK. Your bowels seem to churn a bit. The rice and veges you had earlier isn't settling too well. Keep it in, mate. You think this. And through that pain, there's some pleasure. At least one of us has to get hurt right? You think this too.

That's it, I'm off. The music is shit. The DJ is old and every song is too long. Short bursts of Ting Tings wouldn't be bad, or even the dreaded Strokes would help. But the DJ looks poor and his records are weak. Shame, really.

You stand.

She's still moving.

I don't want her, you tell yourself.

You walk past her and she doesn't look back.

Of course I don't, you tell yourself.

Outside you grab a cab. The ride is forgetful, or is it your head that's not remembering. You remember the wind though. But that's not much to say about.

You're at your place. You pay the man, add a little tip just for the hell of it and stumble out of his stale vehicle.

Somehow you're upstairs, in your bedroom. It's a bit empty, even though it's cluttered and messed. You kind of wish she was here, and you kind of wish she wouldn't. At least you're over it.

You close your eyes. The room is spinning.

Just like last night. And the night before. And the night before.

Sure, I'm over it.

Just like last night. And the night before. And the night before.

It feels nice though.


Monday, September 15, 2008

What The Hell Is All This Self Pity Man?!

"What the fuck is all this?!"... is the thought that comes to mind when I skim through my posts. Self pity, cheesy, mushy, gay posts about love and shit like that. WHAT THE FUCK?! Jeez Louise, did I turn myself into one of those people who exist to spout bullshit about things they don't know.

Well, let me be the first to apologize for this. I did not mean to make you laugh out loud, while you were reading the words prior this post. It's OK. You can admit it. I laughed out loud too. Aaaand, now I'm embarrassed. Let's change the topic, shall we?

I don't want to dawdle in anecdotes and long sentences, since I realized that I hate people who do, so I'll summarize the ups and downs of lil' old me. Let's see here.

Life is good. School is coming. Have no script to give in. Eeep. "Zippo" is coming together very very well. Props and many hugs to Dragos "The British Ninja" Dulea for editing it in the most insane and beautiful ways. He saved the movie, and thus my life. If I weren't so inclined towards ladies, I'd give him a congratulatory blow-job. I guess a nice pat in the back is good enough ^^

Money is short. I spent 200 lei one Friday night. I don't remember how though... I remember arriving at the club. Saying "Hi!" to people. Buying drinks... then after that is a symposium of blurs. I remember a guy eye-ing my fine body, hugging lots of people, and finally pissing in the corner of a street and screaming out "Oh! It's like a puddle!". And then I woke up in my bed and it was 5pm Saturday evening... still wearing my piss soaked shoes... Yeah.

In the last 2 weeks, I've been hugged spontaneously and very VERY "lovingly" by 5 prostitutes. They smell good, but they look bad... shame, really.

I found out my favorite food is cooked rice with steamed vegetables and fishies. Nom nom, das ist gut.

I have a new love for metal... SOME metal. Like Dir En Grey (:3) They're gut.

I've picked fights with two people on the street and realized that I can intimidate people. I kid you not. A couple of --- and you're ready for a scuffle, brother. Of course, I'd probably get my arse served back to me, but they don't know that *wink wink, nudge nudge*

And finally, I'm fond of speaking in British accents... old chap. I think is sexy. Especially butlers. Mmmm. Butlers.


Monday, September 08, 2008

Fly Me To The Moon

I slip in and out of consciousness. It's an occasional thing nowadays. So much so, I don't mind the relapse of memory anymore. It seems natural to forget reality. To forget of what has been, what is, and what will become. I want to forget. I like to forget. But even in intoxication of ---, she comes. Lucid. Real.

This time Sinatra was playing in the background. It was "Fly Me to the Moon". Played by a record in the dark corner of the room. A vintage record player, spinning warped disks of canned music. I can't see it, but I knew it was there. I don't know where I am. It feels like a ballroom, but it's empty like the desert. I'm inside, cozy and warm, but I'm outside where it's cold and desolate.

I'm in the middle of the room. The lyrics kick in. I'm dazed. Confused. Everything is so real.

"Fly me to the moon, and let me dance upon the stars."

Like a rehearsed act, she appears. Lucid. Real. She's in a dress. I feel like I should remember it, like I picked it out before I was here. She's so beautiful. Like all the other times I've seen her, regardless of place, time or the observant circumstances. She walks up to me, leaving echos of heels tapping the floor, and looks me in the eye with a smile. Comforting me. Comforting me? "This can't be...", I tell myself. "Why are you doing this to me?"

She doesn't listen. She holds me, hands on my shoulders, her breasts close to my chest. We have clothes, but we're naked. I try to hesitate. I know what is real. She won't do it again. I know what will happen. She leans her face on the crease of my neck. She can sense it. That pain. I can smell her hair. It hurts. Everything is real.

And suddenly as Sinatra hits the chorus, and I feel it. Those past times I try to forget with ---. I want to go back to what was. I want to leave this reality. So, I hug her, so tight that I feel my arms snap beneath my flesh, and my bones crack. But there is no pain. She feels no pain. I can't see her, but I know she's smiling still. She is comforting.

We spin and glide and hug as if we're making love. Nothing's changed. Sinatra does his best number in ages, and it seems like his death was just a facade. I am content. I am happy again. I can finally breathe in what seems like ages. Just like old times.

"In other words, hold my hand."

She looks up to me. She cups my face. But now it's different. I get that feeling again. A feeling I recognized and I've tried to push so hard to the back of my skull that it petrudes and dents my being. I've seen that face before. The expression, right before she said it.

"No. Please. Don't do this. Not again." My head begins to hurt. Just like before.

Her smile fades. The twinkle in her eyes dim quickly and is replaced again when she blinks. The mood isn't happy anymore. we aren't happy. Her eyes tell it all. My heart sinks. It's happening again.

"In other words...", Sinatra sings. "I love you." The record stops. EVerything is quiet.

Then she says it. "I have something to tell you."

Everything falls then. I see darkness, but all I hear are screams from my head to my toe so loud it pierces, and thoughts blaring out from every corner of my consciousness, and images and memories of past and things that have been. Everything falls then. It happens all over again, like there is no tomorrow.

I am conscious. I am on the floor. My heart feels like a stone. I puke. I don't remember where I am in reality. Things happen, but there isn't a timeline.

All I can remember is the past.


Saturday, September 06, 2008

That Feeling I Love

It takes a kick in the knickers for you to discover a lot about yourself. About those things that never come out of you, but have been flawlessly tattooed on your brain, until that final decisive minute where it comes out. Presents itself elegantly, like a beauty queen.

I like destroying myself. No. I love it. I enjoy the pain that --- does to your body when you've had just the right amount. One ---, two ---, three ---, four. You've slid past awkwardness, and morals, and issues. Then you go past doubt.

That's the feeling of bliss. That's the feeling I wait for. When you can just do whatever the fuck your mind wants without it telling you to second guess.

Now that we've gotten that out of the way, let get some more. Five ---, six ---, seven ---, eight. Let's lose control of our mind. Let's let go of thought. The moment where everything pours out, left, right, middle. The good, the bad, and the ugly all fight for the spotlight, just so you can see them and think about them and prod them. But it's the scuffle of thoughts that's genius. All that confusion, contusions, confliction, complications, yelling, shouting, screaming, pain, anger, sadness, regret, hate, pity, self-pity, violence, destruction. Art. All of that reeling for your attention, stripping and teasing for you to dwell in their performance.

And then, just like how you lost control of your mind, your body gives way. Nine ---. That's the fun. Ten ---. Feeling that sick, nauseaus, gaseous form build up in the pit of your stomach. You try to fight it, it tries to fight you. Punch here, punch there. See, I love to keep fighting. I love holding that thing in me, and feeling it slowly eat me up. That's the moment that I truly, truly love.

Elegant like a beauty queen. I love self-destruction.


Friday, September 05, 2008

Cheers, Darlin'.

He swayed himself towards the corner of the hotel room. Careful now, he thinks. Tired, his back slams to the wall, dragging down the rest of his existence. He's ready now. He lays his head to rest on the wall, looking out the opposite window. Curtains sway at the midnight breeze, the city lights starting to blur in his vision. Just like a film scene, he thinks. The marque of the hotel blinds the stars. "Hotel Paradis" it reads. What's so heaven about it.


"We're at different paths now." She said that. "He fits like a glove." She said that. "I need to go to him. It feels like I must. If I don't do this, I might regret it." She said that too.

"What about me?" He said this.

"I'm sorry." She left.


Funny, he thinks. It's harder to get drunk when I'm sad. He waves his hand. Fifth glass of scotch should be the charm. He looks around. The bar is filled. Women in short skirts. Men in long ties. People nursing their alcoholic medicines. Funny, he thinks. Everyone is ugly. He can't help but to remember her smile. Nothing compares to when she's happy. Like when they kissed on the rooftops. Well, she's happy now. He can't help but to remember her charm. Nothing compares to when she's drunk. Like when they stumbled in the park, laughing at their toes. He can't help but remember her breasts. Nothing will compare to how they made love. Funny, he thinks. Not one fight, not one argument. Not one betrayal with a cheap hooker, or an expensive fuck. Not one choice without thinking of her first. It was five years. And yet she loves another one man in one night.

What about our dreams, he thinks. What about living together. What about coming home to eat dinner together. What about Cambodia.

The whiskey slides in front of him. He slides back a $50 bill. The bartender can't help but feel confused. He winks. Keep the change. I'm going to Cambodia. Cheers, darlin'.


7 days. Sex acts in 4 hotel rooms. 10 days. Laying down on the beds, remembering. 20 days. Angkor Wat. Everything is so golden. When did The Khmer Rouge history happen? Phnom Pehn. The Lunar New Year. She would have loved this. 30 days. Soft boiled noodles. Bai Cha. How did it taste? 50 days. The landmines. Poor children. Beautiful smiles. 100 Days. Drinking with friends. Forgetting the past. Khnom Soksapba-ee, choh loak? I'm fine. And you? 150 days. Eating Sankya Lapov all day. The beaches suit him well. 170 days. It's so beautiful. Everything is wonderful. Maybe I should shave, he thinks. 257 days. It was a dream come true. I miss home.


He lays in his hotel bed. No home. No job. Some money. I need to get a job.

The phone rings.

"Hello?" He said this.

"Where did you go? I was so scared you died!" She said this.

Familiar. It can't be.

"Who is this?" He said this.

"It's me."

She wants to meet.


They sat in the room, around a small foldaway table. They talked and talked. He told her about Cambodia. She told him about work. He told her about his flight. She told him she was happy with her man. She said the man's name again, and he felt weak. She said she was thinking of moving in soon, and he felt his chest cave. She said that he cooks dinner often, and his stomach churned close to his mouth. She said she would love to go to Cambodia, and he smiled.

I'm tired, he said. She smiled and they hugged. "See you soon." She said this.

He sat on the bed. Bars were ugly. Scotch was ugly. Money was ugly. Women were ugly. Cambodia was ugly. No matter how many times he would run away, the simple sight of her would lead the past crashing towards him. Only she was beautiful. He only wanted her.

He looked in the mirror. I'm ready, he said. He picked up the razor. I've only used it once, he thinks. He cuts his hand. I hate shaving, he thinks. He cuts up. God, that's a lot of blood, he thinks. He walks out of the bathroom. Pours a glass of scotch for himself. There's blood in here, he thinks. He takes a long sip.

He swayed himself towards the corner of the hotel room. Careful now, he thinks. Tired, his back slams to the wall, dragging down the rest of his existence. He's ready now. He lays his head to rest on the wall, looking out the opposite window. Curtains sway at the midnight breeze, the city lights starting to blur in his vision. Just like a film scene, he thinks. The marque of the hotel blinds the stars. "Hotel Paradis" it reads. What's so heaven about it. His arms feel cold now. The glass begins to feel heavy. He looks down at his wound. Careful now, he thinks. He slowly slides down and falls onto his side. His eyes close without closing. He takes one last sip, before dropping the glass.

Careful now, he thinks.

Don't forget how she looks like.

Cheers, darlin'.

It's a delicate situation this love. That gut wrenching punch-drunk event that philosophers so easily call a feeling. When you have it, you can't help but rape it of it's benefits, until one fine day when you are sick and tired of watering that weeding flower. You take it for granted, you come to peace with it's acceptance, and you grow tired of it's blossoming petals. And as logic should come to glory at this point: once it is at perfection, there is nothing to do but die. So it lets you go, this love. But once it lets go of you, regardless of your want or agreement, you start to cry, moan, bitch, complain, and destroy yourself to grab a single moment of that feeling again. You can't help but feel childish, no? How the hell does logic play in this "beautiful" feeling?

Easy. It don't. It don't play well, either. Logic and the L word plays like a zionist dog and a Hitler-esque cat. I read somewhere in a book I despised: a quote that said "love is a fair and beautiful". Clearly this man is a 50 year old virgin who still wears the knickers his mother lays on his bed. It isn't fair. Because once you dig down deep into its core, it's all a game of survival. If you don't fit me, you can fuck off for all I care. Just like window shoppers or illitarate millionaire, they will always pick the most convinient product to wear and tear. They will disregard the feeling of the opposite party, disregard all they have given or will give; and in plain canvas, just disregard what might happen to them. Exchange the old for the new. Exchange the torn and worn for the sleek and improved. Hell, why not burn and piss on the flames while you're at it. I can't help but feel at least a little hate for the people around me. Of course, given the situation, let me be bitter. It's the least I could do to repay the sweet sado-masochist irony of this beautiful feeling. So I fucked off.

I have given up past, present, future and life for it. Money, status, ideas, and self. I have split myself in half, laid myself to waste, and destroyed my inner side to pleasure the respective partner.

Funny thing is, I'd do it again.

As for now, I am childish. I am destructive. I am hateful and smiling. I am without a care in a the world.

With those words, I urge you all to raise those glasses and give a mighty middle F-U to everyone around you. Why? Because I say so. It makes life all that much beautiful. If you'll excuse me now, I'm going to destroy myself and the people around me. It's fun.

Cheers darlin'.

Sunday, August 24, 2008


It has come to an end. These last year and half was a delight I have to say. But just tell everyone I said something more dramatic. I don't hate her. I understand. She will be happy. I know it. As for me, I'm going to be a space cowboy for a few months.

Till next time, pussycats.

Thursday, March 29, 2007

A Sad Tale Of The Spiky Haired Florist and His Happy Little Trees.

"My happy little trees. Ah, my happy little trees" said the spiky haired florist. "What happy little branches, happy little roots. What happy little barks and happy little leaves. I love my happy little trees." He stroked the happy branches, roots, bark and leaves of his happy little trees and reached into his pocket. For his happy little trees he prepared a song. And to play this song he needed an instrument. Which is exactly what he pulled from his pocket. A harmonica, so shiny and perfect.
He laid himself slowly on the happy little root of his happy little tree, rested his head on the happy little bark. He felt the wind of the happy little leaves and the waves of the happy little bark. He slowly lifted his silver apparatus and whistled out a harmonic harmonica melody. Oh, how the trees waved to the melody.
Absurd it must sound, to read of waving trees. But this is no normal melody the spiky haired florist played. No. This was a melody that was a favorite of nature. Flora and fauna bathed themselves in the crescendos, baritones, staccatos and scales of this song. Flowers bloomed to its beat. Grasses grew to its pace. They were happy little trees. Not only were the trees happy, but the whole forest was, waving, moving and shaking to the harmonica.
The spiky haired florist finished his piece and kissed his happy little trees goodbye. His happy little trees clapped their little leaves, echoing for an encore. He smiled a full smile off his lips and stared in wonder how happy his little trees were, but it was getting late. He walked out of the forest in a skip and a hop combination. Naturally, the trees and forest waved him goodbye. He waved back, skipping and hopping.

The next day, the spiky haired florist walked into the forest. However this time his spikes were less spiky. His smile was less bright. He was not as happy as his happy little trees were. His shoulders were drooped and his face mimicked it. His happy little trees noticed that, and were curious to why he was sad. "Why are you sad?" waved the trees.
"Because life is angry at me, trees." he replied in a low voice.
"Why is life angry at you, florist?" the trees asked again.
"I don't know."
The florist sat down and hugged the bark of his happy little trees. The trees could feel the touch of the florist. As rough as the skin of the trees were, the skin of the florist was easily felt. He was sad.
"What did life do to you, florist?" asked the trees comfortingly.
"It wants me to be what I am not, trees. I wants me to be sad."
The trees could feel the skin of the less-spiky haired florist. And through the contact of touch, the sadness of the florist was transmitted into the trees. They felt sad too. Their happy little leaves drooped. Their happy little branches hardened. Their happy little barks cracked. And their happy little roots darkened. They were sad little trees now. The florist hugged the trees tight and began to pull out his harmonica out.
"How about a song, trees." he offered, forcing a smile.
The trees nodded their trunks, forcing a smile. The florist blew into his harmonica, expelling a melody. This melody, however, was not happy anymore. It was armed with sadness. The trees disliked this music, but was hypnotized to listening to it. Partly due to the fact that they couldn't move, and partly due to the fact that they loved the florist, they listened to it. And they listened. And they listened. They were sad. The florist finished his piece and kissed the trees, and droopingly dragged his feet out of the forest. The forest did not wave, but sighed sadly out of the cracks of their barks.

Day after day, the florist came into the forest, hair less spiky each time. Song more sadder each time. The trees began to overflow with sadness, slowly draining through their stems. This continued to get worst. The sad little trees were sadder. They were the saddest little trees ever.

But one day, the florist came into the forest. He was sadder than usual. He was the saddest florist ever. He walked slowly up to the trees and caressed it cracks. Water flowed out of it, like teardrops. Sad little tree teardrops.
"I'm sorry, my sad little trees." said the florist, eyes wet and puffy from crying.
"Why are you sorry, florist?" said the little trees, barks damping from their little teardrops.
"Because life wants me to be what I am not." replied the florist, blinking a stream from his eyes.
"Life wants you to be sad?" asked the trees.
A dead silence blew through the forest. The florist caressed the bark and branches and roots and leaves of the trees, and the trees replied by bending over its branches. The trees hugged the florist. The florist looked deep into the trees and looked back down at his feet.
"If I am to be sad, I cannot have my happy little trees anymore." said the florist in a quiet voice.
The trees hugged him tighter yet, and kissed him with its grey leaves.
"We know." they said.
With this, the florist pulled out his harmonica and began to play. Sad notes and sad scales. Sad baritones, sad crescendos, and sad staccatos. The trees heard this and tightly hugged the florist. The florist closed his eyes and felt wet water stream down the cracks of the trees. The trees cried and cried, and began to dry out.
It cried and dried and cried and dried, until life began to fade from its leaves and bark and branched and roots. The florist closed his eyes and tortuously continued playing his piece. Blowing out murderous notes after murderous notes. He felt the life of the trees fading, the hug getting weaker and weaker. He felt the trees slowly becoming drier and drier.
He finished his piece and opened his eyes. There, standing in front of him, were not his trees anymore. No. Instead were lifeless stones that resembled trees. Their granite leaves dead, waving goodbye. Their barks hard, crying. Their roots grey, clenching. Their branches lifeless, drooped. The florist began to weep and cry silently. He scratched a small hole on the floor of the stone garden and into it placed, carefully, his harmonica. He stared at it, landing a tear on its shiny and perfect surface, then, pushed the dirt over it and stood up. He kissed his dead sad little rocks and walked out of the dead sad little forest, and lived his sad little life.

Peace out,

Saturday, March 03, 2007

Of Spontaneous Lows, Boredoms, Photography and Films.

Ladies and gentlemen, I welcome you all to a spontaneous low. Yep. I have just hit a spontaneous iceberg of depression. Well, it's not one of those "God, I'm gonna slit my wrists and wipe the blood all over my face expressing my emoness." It's more of... boredom. I just feel bored. Which is not good, seeing how my life is on a pretty straight and steady path. Could this mean that I'm not happy because I'm happy? Pfft, hell what do I know. All I know is I gotta get out of this bind pretty quick because the moment it sets in, I think you all know what happens.

So. I'm bored. The thing is that I shouldn't be bored. I have a good love life, with a girl I love with all my heart. I got friends who are totally cool and open minded. I got a house with gadgets and gizmos I don't need, but are there. I'm studying a subject that I'm fully passionate about. I'm finishing my second short film; in a manner that I'm somewhat happy about. But recently, I just felt somewhat stale.

I just went to a club, hoping to regain the clubbing vibe that I loved when I first came here. I stepped through the doors of the club, music blaring in my ears. I hung up my coats and scarf at the appropriate area, and climbed down the stairs, thinking to myself "I'm gonna party like it's 1999, baby!". Went to the main area, met my housemate and her friends, and I tried to party. But for some reason, trying to party was hard. I felt sick of dancing, sick of the tacky overtly dressed people, sick of the Top 100 machine music, sick of the "this club is so shit, but why do I stay" thought that sneaks up once in a while in your head. I found out that I hated clubbing. I'm 18, going on 19. I can't hate clubbing! This is supposed to be the best years of my life, and already I'm getting bored of the main activity puberty ridden teens accomedate themselves with?! God, either I'm growing old way too fast, or I have an attention span of a chimp.

I'm starting to feel my life isn't fast, too. It feels slow. Not the snail slow, but a mediocre mixture of flatness and boredom. I need adrenaline. I need excitement. I need something that makes me scream like a little girl in unbelivableness. Hope I find it soon. This depression is starting to settle pretty well in my head, and I'm starting to feel comfortable with it. Bad.

On the upside, I'm just fell in love with photography! Funny thing is that I used to hate photography, mainly because I suck balls at it. Give me a camera and I'd probably sell it. But now I'm starting to warm up to it, like how a bear warms up to fresh carcass. Bad analogy, but cut me some slack. It's 6AM. It started off with an exam that I had to do for Photography Art. I had to bring photos of interior, exterior and something that revolves around a character and his/her relationship with the surroundings. So, seeing what I had to do, I went around the city with a couple of friends and just went photo crazy. I took like 200 photos. I took loads of pictures, and I loved them all, albeit not following the regulations of the exam. I found out in the end that I had to have a unifying theme... which I didn't. C'est la vie, eh? Or my version "fuck it all". So photography kinda decondenses my boredom feeling. I'm eager to see what elements of nature and technology I can exploit using my housemate's camera. I'll post up my photo's soon... it's 6AM now.

On to another note, my next short, "The Irony of It All" is about to be done in a couple of days. Still some color correction to be done, sound equalizing, and adding subtitles for all you international viewers (since the movie is in Romanian), then I'll be finished. It should take a week or two. I wanna take the chance right now to full on thank all the people who helped me. Without them, my film would have been a bust! Thanks especially to the stage hands, who helped build the set. THANK YOU ALL, YOU STAGE MONKEYS! ^_^ I also wanna thank the set designer, Dana, who stood by me through the film. Total cool help! Knew everything, I swear!

Ok, that's about all I can scrape out of my constipated brain for now. Sorry for the subtle rant. I know kids in Somalia are starving and there's bigger problems than this in the world, but every dog needs it's day. I gotta go to sleep now, then wake up and continue working and studying. Exam period right now. Urgh.

Peace out,

Thursday, January 11, 2007

"The Guitar Wolf Experience: An experimental poetry movement"

Right now I've got the worst stomach ache. I'm burping like a drunk hobo on New Years, and my stomach feels like there's a mexican village dancing the Cha-Cha in it. I'm also bored and horny. A mixture of abdominal pain, boredom and sexual urges has made me come up with an idea. I would just write anything that came to my head, but centre it around one random word or character. I chose "Guitar Wolf". A Japanese new age Rock & Roll band with Joan Jett influence. I haven't heard of them, but I would like to. Either way, this is what flows into my brain. I just let it leak out through my fingers and let them type whatever. Clap your clappy hands, I present you with "The Guitar Wolf Experience: An experimental poetry movement".

I am Guitar Wolf. Listen to me. Ravage. Savage. Bring it all back. Caveman experiences. Never ending cosmic explosion. sexual demands of a monsterous unknown. Dialogue between groundbreaking poets. Let it spin. Let it glide. Let the Guitar Wolf slide. Slide down your spine. Slide down your slide. Spine down your slide. Waver. Wafer. Cut wood. Wood cut Guitar Wolf, limited. Restocked. Emited lights when I slept. Look. Up in the sky. It's a bird. It's a plane. No. It's Guitar Wolf. Now in pill form. Extra-ordinary. Nonsensical. Perposterous. Weird. Kicks down your front door and eats your barking Cocker Spaniel, then spits it out like slow forming clay. It's Guitar Wolf. Beware. Stay bare. Naked stare. At my hair. It's flair. It don't care. It don't snare the fair and smile at it's glare. It's Guitar Wolf. Capital G. Capital W. Lower case 'uitar'. Add another 'olf'. What does that spell? It's Guitar Wolf. Smile. Say "Cheese". Look at our lives through the camera lens. Picture perfect. Perfect picture. Pure mixture of adolescence fixtures. Take a pill. Take a pop. Take a tablet. Take Guitar Wolf. Take risks. Risk takes. Stairway to Heaven. Hairway to Steven. Climb the steps, comb the folicles. Jump start testicles with 8 Volt batteries. How nasty. How kinky. How totally absurd. How now brown cow. It doesn't know. Only Guitar Wolf knows. Lick me. Love me. Suck me. Spank me. Guitar Wolf can do it all. Retro-Rock. Garage Pop. Garbage slop. Manicure flop. Push it in. Pull it out. Shake it all about. Mix with water, and batter with eggs. Cook at 180 degrees celsius and serve at room temperature. Walaa. It's Guitar Wolf. Do you feel lucky, punk? Well, do you? Russian roulette with a fully loaded machine gun. Slot machines with syringe levers. Blackjack with a laughing clown. Luck. Stuck luck. Pure yuck. Mass murderers, giant hurricanes, divorcees and eating disorders. Welcome to the New American Classic, proudly brought to you by Guitar Wolf. Release the doves. Here he comes. Around the bend. Into Dealey Plaza. Oh no! The Guitar Wolf has been shot! The Guitar Wolf has been assasinated. Oh, the horror. Oh, the humanity. Oh, don't worry. It's Guitar Wolf. Full volumed, octane powered, seven cylinder engine, with full grip transmission and smooth transitions. Guitar Wolf. If you're happy and you know it, clap you hands. Guitar Wolf is here.

My stomach still hurts. Owies.

Peace out,

Saturday, January 06, 2007

Ode to Space Monkey

He lied on his roof, imprinting his silouette on the sand-blasted tiles. His eyes locked onto the stars, splattered and spotted across the dark night sky. Slowly he scanned the artistic galactic palatte, focusing on each star, hoping. Hoping to take a glance at a small silver space craft, floating across the galaxy. Hoping to steal a glance at his friend, lonely and secluded in a steel cage spaceship. The cold night wind blew his pink punk-like hair across his face, sofly wiping the tears from his eyes. He continued scanning, squinting and straining. Then he stopped. Hopeless and, again, saddened. He hung his head low and whispered quietly, "I'm sorry, Space Monkey. I ate the banana."

And with those final words, he leapt of his 7 story apartment, ending his life, and leaving only a half digested banana, fermenting in his stomach.

To all space monkeys everywhere. We miss you, and hope you come back safe and sound.

Peace out,

Wednesday, December 27, 2006

How I beat "Super Mario Bros" (Part 1).

I laid on my blanket cluttered bed and looked up at the ceiling, pondering on my short comings and smelling my empty KFC Colonel Chicken Combo bucket. Thoughts drifted in and out of my head: "I'm too short", "I'm too lazy", "I've got incurable testicular cancer from over eating at KFC and 'happy ending' massages". These were troubling thoughts. Too many troubling thoughts. Too many problems. So I tried to sort them out.

I sat at my study table, softly draped in yellow light. I took out a crisp piece of paper and lightly tapped my pen on it, hoping to beat out my problems. Think. Tap, tap, tap. Nothing. Think. Tap, tap, tap. Nothing again. THINK! Tap, TAP, SMASH! I had broken my study table, softly draped in yellow light. I had splinters the size of bigfoot's wang sticking our of bloody cuts on my hand. The table had costed me $150. But, I had more important problems. I slumped into my chair and rubbed my blood ridden hand all over my face in frustration, painting it red. My face was red. My eyes were blinded by my own warm blood. The splinters were cutting my face into shreds. But I had more important problems. I closed my eyes and thought of the biggest problem. "Work". Nope. I needed a bigger problem. "Health". Nope. I needed an even bigger problem! Suddenly, my eyes widen in a mixture of pure "eureka" brilliance and epileptic horror. I shook uncontrollably, like the shake you do when you're about to blow a big one. I had found the problem that had plagued my contrastingly handsome and puberty-filled life.

I had never beaten "Super Mario Bros".

I quickly dressed myself and ran up to my attic, which isn't really an attic because it's underground, so it's really a basement, but I want it to be an attic, but I don't have an attic or a basement. So instead I ran to my closet instead. I opened it, revealing years of suppressed memories. Making out with my grandmother, being raped by a sexually suppresed Kodiak Grizzly Bear, eating a banana. But I had bigger problems. I needed to beat "Super Mario Bros"! So, I pushed the memories deeper into my psyche, causing an even bigger crater of emotional trauma and psychotic troubles. But that didn't care me. I needed to beat "Super Mario Bros".

Quickly, I jumped into the pile of junk in my closet. I threw everything everywhere. My "Blow Up Sex Doll with Interactive Sound Effects" flew to the corner of my room. My collection of hair strands from famous dogs in movies slid across the floor and broke in a fabulous explosion of hair particles, which resembled the image of Lassy spontaneously combusting. A banana flew into my lamp, causing an action movie like Kaboom! with light effects and cool stuff like that which I can't describe because I can't find the words. After a few minutes of digging around, I finally found it. I picked it up with delicate, blood-ridden fingers and sniffed it. It smelt beautiful. It smelt like unfinished business. It smelt like beautiful unfinished business. It smelt like my Nintendo. It was my Nintendo. I blew the dust off its surface and stared at it with glowing and determined eyes. I slowly stroked it gently, feeling its bumps and scars from the last time I threw it into the wall because I couldn't finish "Super Mario Bros". It had been so long ago, yet the memory haunts me and has led me into a depressive spiral of KFC combo meals and sexual images between a piece of string and an Olympus Digital Voice Recorder, which is my life. It has to stop now. I needed to finish "Super Mario Bros". Lightly, I opened the game catridge area. I peered in. It was still there. It was waiting for me. The "Super Mario Bros" cartridge was teasing and taunting me to play again. I will. And this time I will pawn you. I will pawn you like I got pawned from that Kodiak Bear. I needed to finish "Super Mario Bros".

To Be Continued...

Peace out,

Wednesday, December 13, 2006

Best December 13th Ever

You guess why. *gives devilish grin*

Anyways, movie is uploaded. Check it out at this link:

All comments are welcome, be it stupid, idiotic, annoying, or just pure hateful. I don't really care, cuz I had the best December 13th ever.

Haha, just joking. Either way, enjoy the movie, you fun loving criminals, you.

Peace out,

P.S. Send the link around. I do want to be famous, after all. :D

Friday, December 01, 2006

I Saw Her Again.

I saw her again, but in different form. Now the feeling's back. Embedded in my head. Like footprints in mud; pushed, pressed, hardened, and implanted. It will keep haunting me. The image of beauty, so laborious on my spirit. It will mould me. It will change me. Like the last time, it will sadden me, and change my essence. Again, i will feel the sense of loss. A loss of something I never had. Something I couldn't have. A one sided emotion. A biased emotion. A blind, and prejudiced, and racist, and rejected, and arrogant, and selfish, and unfair emotion. A loss of something I think I will never have. This loss will stay. It is a broken record, behind a locked door, on the 50th floor, with a broken elevator, in burning building, on a flooded street, in a bombed city, in a country at war; an island of solitude that screams so loud. I cannot stop it. The memories. The beautiful, sad, sweet, sick and heart wrenching memories. But this time it's different. More beautiful. More seductive. It has a new face, that explodes at every corner of my thoughts. I am trapped in my own mind. I encounter an ordeal that I have faced before. But this time it might just win. I pray to God it won't. I can't stop it. She's so beautiful.

Not so peacefully out,

Tuesday, November 28, 2006

The "Pondering Gargoyle" Has Emerged

In the span of 48 hours, I have only slept 6 hours. What was I doing with the other 42 you ask? Editing my movie, of course! Finally, after 2 years of hibernation, I have created a movie! Well, it was a remake of my last movie "The Box", but now it has better lighting, actors, directing, locations, editing, music, mood... Hell, it has better everything!

Well, the whole film started by chance actually. The "montaj" or editing class had an assignment. We were split up into groups, each having cinematographers, screenwriters and directors. The assignment was to make a short 5 mins film, showing your editing at best. Due to circumstances, I had a bit of trouble working with my group. It wasn't personal or nothing, just different ideas in directing. So me, and my friend, Ples (pronounced Plesh), who is also in the directing class, met with a couple of cinematographers, Alex and Danny the Kid, who were in the same bind as us. So, in true espionage style, we created a group in secrecy. Thus, the group was created.

We began plotting ideas, and I pitched my "The Box" idea, and we all agreed to work with it. Kiyaa helped with storyboarding, and I wrote the script. We also had help with a screenwriter, Anna, who added a touch of darkness to the script. Finally, we presented the idea to the professor, who loved it! She interrupted my directing class, just to say she liked it! :D Oh! This whole process was in the span of 3 days... amazing group I have.

After the greenlight to go came about, we organized a group of freaking awesome actors! Through Danny's room mate, Victor who is an actor, we were able to wrangle up a fantastic cast. We had Alex, who really helped me learn about how to get into the characters of my scripts. Then we had Victor, who was funny and wild, and made the set more laid back. I gotta thank him for finding the actors! After that, we had Alice, an actress who was fantastically amazing! She got the character perfect! And finally, we had Sadim. I didn't talk to him much and he didn't have a big role in the movie, but I liked his style and I'm thinking of casting him in other movies that I make. :P

Filming was great! It took me a while to get into directing. Like a gender confused chipmunk, I felt unsure, but had a lot of energy. We had the help of Anda, a fourth year director, who really taught me how to direct and film effectively. She was the spice that made this whole fantastic crew work! Ples helped a lot along the way, like when I was confused and shit, he would step in. Real cool, like. I also learnt a great deal about lighting and stuff. Danny and Alex knew a lot about lighting and we were able to use fantastic lighting because of them.

Finally, the editing. My god. This was more annoying than a diseased ferret with the powers of projectile vomiting! Me and Ples stayed up 2 nights, cooped up in my room, editing it. We survived on "Bake Rolls" snacks and Pepsi. We went through 4 hours of footage, trying to edit it down to 10 mins. And after 42 hours of straight work, we came up with "The Box"!

And along with the birth of "The Box" came the birth of "Pondering Gargoyle Productions"! I always wanted to have a production team called "Pondering Ape Productions" and Ples wanted "Gargoyle Productions". After a few fork stabs and flailing girly punches (from Ples), we comprimised and came up with "Pondering Gargoyle". A name that shall uphold our film making abilities with pride and power!

So today I presented the film. Sadly, Ples couldn't be there, due to the fact that he was kicked out of class for talking. :P So I had to persevere with one man less. Lemme tell you, my stomach was rolling like an apyleptic shocked kid. I was so nervous. But finally, at the end, it came out great. Sure there were flaws with too long cuts, and crappy sound. But overall, the professor said "the movie beat last year's films". XD I have to thank the actors and the crew for all this. Also outside assistance from Kiyaa and Anda. I have a crew I can be proud of!

With this aside, now I can focus on my other script for my directing final. Unfortunately, after so many edits, I feel like I've massacred the whole point of the story... sigh... oh well!

Peace out,

P.S. Will post the movie on after a few edits.

Thursday, October 26, 2006

Heroes don't look like Jesus, but they talk like gentlemen.

Today is a day worth noting. Not only for me, but for the many generations after me! Today I met one of the world's greatest editing directors. Today I met Walter Murch, the acclaimed Editing Directors of such movies as Cold Mountain, Jarhead, Godfather III, The Talented Mr. Ripley, The Conversation, Ghost, and many many more awesome movies! He's here, YES, RIGHT HERE in Bucharest with... ahem, drum roll pwease... FRANCIS FORD COPPOLA! The talented Mr. Coppola is here filming a movie called "Youth Without Youth", a pre-WWII drama. But back to the point: I met Walter Murch. He came to the school to gave a lecture about cinema and life around it. It was super great, like the kind of great that is only comparable to having an epiphany, while being seduced by Scarlett Johanssen, and riding the world's only golden donkey named Steve. Yes, that kind of super great.

Let me begin from the start. Well, today wasn't really the greatest day. It started off like a diarehea ridden turtle: slow, tiring, and shit. Woke up extra tired today, mainly because I slept really late the night before, due to homework overload. But went to school with my friend and we arrived at "Scenaristica", or "Scenes". The scene class was ultra boring and I slept most of the way through, only to wake up for short periods and be hit with confusion. After, the whole directing class headed to "Arta Regie" or "Art of Directing". That class was boring as well, mainly because the head teacher, WHO PROMISED TO READ MY SCRIPT, wasn't there. It bummed me out and I wanted to sleep... but I couldn't because I consumed a cup of caffiene enriched coffee with two table spoons of sugar and milk... and also cuz I couldn't anymore after being caught last time and embarressed in front of the whole class. Back to the point, the class was a bummer. So instead I gazed at this one tree that had dead leaves all around it, and it looked like there were a million crows that perched on the branches rather than dead black leaves. Very cool and inspirational. I also found my clicker pen fascinating... I have no idea why. What was cool though was I got the story I wrote back (see last blog post), and I had good comments. They complained about how my story was too much of a narrative, but they said it had a great ending. WOO!

So class was cut 2 hours short for the Walter Murch lecture, which was held in the "Sala Albastra" or "Blue Room", which is a screening room of sorts. At that time the room was screening all the old films from the old students who succeeded in directing. I tried to barge in, but the room was more packed than a newly opened strip club on a Saturday night, and the stench of sweat shoved me out.

Instead, I joined some of my other class mates to look at an acting class to scout for actors for our final movie directing assignments. The class was uber fun! They had to throw tennis balls to each other, and use the ball as a form of dialogue and stuff like that. It was meloncolic and reminded me of my theatre days. Sigh. But to the point: I found a cool actor. He was really free with himself and confident to be spontaneous! And he had an innocent look which helped with my script characterization... in general, perfect! But I had to get my script approved first, in order to approach the actor... Damn you, Head Teacher.

After a couple of hours of scouting, I headed to the actual lecture. I came a bit late, but I learnt cool things! Like how people in cinema are strong and stupid, and how film has three legs, and how you edit films according to how the actor blinks and the power of blinking... it sound's weird, but it made sense to me. What was really awesome was that Walter Murch wasn't like how I thought him to be: uptight, overly artistic, and an ass blow. He was completely different! He was spontaneous, funny, charismatic, friendly, witty, full of wisdom. He was a gentleman! Listening to him talk made me feel even more enthusiastic and he inspired me to keep persevering. Like he explained: filming has three legs. Luck, talent, and hardwork. And hey... you know I have all those! :D (kidding, kidding! Jeez...)

Oh! By the way, here's the script I wrote. Don't copy or I'll rape you with legal lawsuits and such threats. Enjoy!

"Best Served Cold"
Written by Ismail Jamaludin


It is a bare apartment room. Lights from the windows flood
the room, making it look warm and yellow.

It is silent and still. Suddenly, the entrance doors swing
open and a man, around 24 years old, in blood covered office
clothing stumbles in. There is blood on his hands and his
face looks as if a boxer went to town on it. He falls to the
floor and crawls towards the corner of the room, leaving a
trail of blood and sweat behind him. He sits in the corner
and looks at the door in frightened anticipation. He pulls
out a cross necklace that hangs on his neck, under his bloody
shirt, and clenches it with fear. He begins praying, quietly
at first, then loud and begging God for forgiveness and

We hear heavy footsteps outside. The man looks at the door,
frozen in fear. The footsteps grow louder, until finally a
burly man, in his 40's, walks into view and turns to the
blood ridden VICTIM. The ATTACKER smiles.

There you are.

The victim is now scared shitless, and moves closer into the
corner, attempting to back away.

No! Please! No!

Come 'ere!

The attacker runs towards the victim and slugs him in the
face. The screen blacks out.


The victim comes to and slowly takes in his surroundings. He
realizes he is tied to a chair in the middle of the room. He
panics and tries to struggle out of his bind.

Would you knock it off, already.
You look pathetic.

The attacker is behind the victim, leaning on the window,
making the sunlight hug him. He slowly walks towards the

Double knots. You can't get 'outta
those. Nice house you got here.
Kinda' empty though. Planning to

He walks in front of the victim, stares at him, then finally
sits on the floor in front of him.

Let me go! Please!

The attacker laughs.

Let you for?! Hah! After all I've
worked for to find you and you
expect me to let you go?

Who the fuck are you?!

The attacker smiles in disbelief. He slowly stands up and
chuckles a little. His face slowly shifts from a smile to
pure rage. He slugs the victim in the face.

You got some fuckin' nerve asking
me that!

The attacker smiles again.

You don't remember? You fucked my

The victim looks confused. He struggles to get free again.

Please! Let me go! You've go the
wrong guy! Please!

Don't treat me like an idiot! You
think I don't know who you are,
Mister Hoytes?

The victim stares at the attacker in panic and disbelief.

No! I'm not him! You got the wrong
guy! Please! Let me go!

The attacker takes out a wallet from his pocket. He opens it
and takes out a card. He reads it:

Mister Peter Hoytes. Age: 24. Date
of birth: April 8th 1982. ID
number: 1051107693.

He throws the card at the victim. The victim looks confused.
The attacker takes out more cards and reads out the names:
Peter Hoytes. He throws the cards at the victim. There is a
few seconds of silence.

Who are you?

You still don't remember? Am I that
worthless to you?!

The attacker begins to walk around the victim.

Five years ago, you and a couple of
your rich assed friends had an
idea. You would play a prank on
some unfortunate person. You
decided to hack a random computer
and fill its hard drive with
thousands of dirty pictures of
dirty little boys. Then you decided
to call the cops and tip them off.
Well that person was caught,
charged with a crime he didn't
commit. He lost his job, his
family, his friends, and his life.
In the end, he spent five fuckin'
years in a cell with a twisted
serial child rapist as a room mate,
and getting raped each and everyday
without mercy. Ring any bells?

The attacker stops behind the victim.

That man was me, Mister Hoytes.

He crouches behind the victim and pulls the victims head back
by the hair. He whispers into his ear:

You fucked up my life.

He lets go of the victim, stands up and walks to the front of

And since you were so nice to do
so, it's my turn to fuck yours.

He reaches into the inner pocket of the coat and pulls out a
small, black Glock handgun. There is a small silence as the
attacker admires his gun. The victim is clearly frightened
for his life.

Can you feel it?

The attacker smells his handgun.

The end is near. One pull of the
trigger and all my suffering will
be answered.

He points the gun to the victim.

One bullet for you.

He points the gun at his own head.

And one bullet for me!

He laughs maniacally. The victim beings to cry uncontrollably
and beg for his life.

I'm sorry! Please! I'm sorry!

The attacker is angered and hits the victim across the face,
making his nose bleed and quiet down.

Shut up! Be a fuckin' man! Face you
death like a man.

The victim has his head hung low and his cross necklace hangs
from his neck. The attacker points the barrel of his gun at
the victim, but he notices the necklace. He tears the
necklace from the victims neck and examines it.

How can a beast like you believe in
God? How can God love a monster!

The attacker looks at the victim and ponders. There is a
suspenseful silence. He begins to walk behind the victim and
starts to undo the knots. The victim lifts his head in

I'm going to give you a chance to
live. If God really does love you,
your life will be saved.

The attacker walks in front of the victim and steps back. The
victim stands, still stunned.


The victim looks at his attacker in silence, then begins to
run. But, after a few steps, the victim stumbles and falls to
the floor, clutching his ankle. The attacker slowly walks up
to the helpless victim.

It seems that God has no love for

He raises his gun and points it at the victims face. We see a
shot of the back of the attacker. BANG! A shot sounds. The
attacker falls to the floor, revealing the victim, who is
holding a smoking silver handgun. There is a silence. The
victim puts his gun back into the holster on his ankle. He
stands up and slowly walks towards the door. The attacker is
left on the floor, dead, and hot crimson blood spilling from
his wound.


Peace out,

Thursday, October 12, 2006

Worth the Wait.

So about 2 weeks ago, I finally achieved the first part of my dream: I got into film school! It took me 4 months of useless Romanian classes, 2 months of self-studying to catch up the 4 months of useless Romanian classes, and a stressful exam. But, it was worth the wait!

The exam was a big crapfest on my part cuz it was in Romanian and my level of understanding in the language kinda stinks. And half way I just gave up speaking Romanian and just blasted the movie explaination in english. And to my surprise, I got in! It's a great place filled with awesome people with their own style, open minds and confidence and love of movies... good lord, I look up to them like hell! We learn script-writing processes, how to 'pitch' a film, how to get inspiration and movie analysis, and camera angles, and photography, and much much much more! It's more fun than skinny dipping in a vat full of your favorite pudding!

But film University is a big stress covered monster with stress filling that constantly craps out more stress... and its even more stressful when you barely understand Romanian. So, most of the time I leave the lectures feeling confused, and angry (and jump into morbid daydreams of screaming incoherent rants at my lecturers, even though they're innocent... most of the time). Plus, I get very sleepy in class because I have to translate my assignments from English to Romanian and read all my Romanian notes and translate them to English and read Romanian textbook, only to translate them again! And what's embarrasing is when you slowly doze off in class because of the deadly concoction of late nights, un-understandable lectures, and the faint but potent smell of paint in the air (since my school is newly renovated). Jeez, I look like an idoit! But if you wanna chase your dream, I guess it doesn't come easy. Well, my last assignment was to make a short story that was set in a train station or a pasar. Since I always hated the smell of pasar's, I picked the first of the choice. Here's my story (please ignore the 4th Grade level english. I was rushed to write it). Enjoy!

Retired Memories

Mihai stepped off the train platform, into the cold winter air. The train station was bustling with arrivals of passengers from many corners of Europe. A cold wind blew through the open platforms, and Mihai tightens up his scarf closer around his neck, warming up his old and worn body. He picks up his luggage and makes his way towards the entrance.

He walks down the long and frigid hall towards the exit, when from behind him a voice called out, “Mihai?” He turns around, faintly recollecting the voice. Nothing. Confused, he continues walking. Again the same voice looms behind him, “Mihai, is that you?” Mihai turns behind him and sees a familiar old man wearing a black tuxedo. Mihai examines him from head to toe, trying to remember. They stand looking at each other. “Mihai, it’s me! Andrei! Don’t you remember?” says the old man.

Mihai finally smiles and laughs joyfully, and they hug each other. “How are you, Mihai? When did you arrive?”

“Fine! Just about 5 minutes ago.” Mihai pauses and stares at Andrei in disbelief. Andrei looks at him, confused, and then finally asks, “Mihai? Are you alright?” Hearing this, Mihai snaps back into reality, and smiles again. “Fine, fine.” He waves towards the seat nearby, “Come. Let’s sit.” They both take their seat next to each other.

“My god! How long has it been since we’ve seen each other?” asks Andrei, full of joy.

“Forty years, my friend. Forty long years” replies Mihai. There is a melancholic silence between them.

“Forty years? Has it been that long?” says Andrei. “It must have! I mean, look how you’ve changed! You’ve aged well, Mihai.”

“So have you. You still look like you did back then. Full of life.” Mihai smiles at Andrei.

Andrei laughs. “Back then we were all full of life!” Andrei laughs out. “Me, you and Viktor!”

Mihai nods his head and laughs along. “Yes, we were inseparable! What did they call us? ‘The Rats’?”

Andrei laughs out loud. “Yes! ‘The Rats’! You still remember!”

“How can I not? Mister Alin gave us that name!” replies Mihai, enthusiastically.

They both laugh out loud. “Yes, the baker! I remember how we would con him into giving us free food” reminisces Andrei. “Everyday, Victor you and I would go into his shop after school and buy donuts. We would eat it, then save just a small piece.”

Mihai laughs out loud. “Yes! Then Viktor would pull out a strand of his hair and carefully thread it inside the donut.”

Andrei laughs along. “Ha-ha! What a devil Viktor is! It was all his idea!”

“Ha-ha! Yes! Then he would bring the pieces of donut to Mister Alin and come back out with three fresh ones!”

“For free!” screams out Andrei in joy. They both laugh wholeheartedly. “And not only free donuts, but free donuts for two weeks too!”

“That Viktor is a genius!” says Mihai, between laughs. “Do you remember when Mister Alin finally caught us?”

“Like it was yesterday! He finally saw us put hair in the donut pieces!”

“Ha-ha! I remember, he was swinging his rolling pin like a maniac, screaming at us. He called us ‘rats’! The whole neighborhood heard him!” says Mihai.

They both continue to laugh. “He chased us down four blocks!” Mihai continues.

“It would have been one if Viktor didn’t keep calling him fat and taunting him” adds Andrei.

“And then, do you remember, he threw his rolling pin and hit Viktor right on the head!” points Mihai to his own head. “He was knocked out for three hours!”

They burst into another row of laughter. Soon, the laughter dies down. Mihai wipes tears of joy from his eyes and his face turns solemn. There is a stoned silence. “It’s a shame he had to die.” Andrei nods in agreement. They both sit in silence.

Mihai signaled the passing taxi and they both enter the backseat. “To the Italiana Church, please” tells Mihai to the driver. The drive was as silent as death. As they passed street after street, surrounded by dead trees and lifeless snow, the silence maintains. Finally, Mihai turns to Andrei and says, “I’ve missed you, my friend.” Andrei turns at him and smiles back comfortingly.

At last, they arrive at the church. Mihai pays the driver and exits the vehicle. He looks back and sees Andrei still in the taxi. “Aren’t you coming, Andrei?”

“Don’t worry. You’ll see me inside” replies Andrei. Mihai looks at him in silence, then nods. Mihai heads towards the large doors of the church. He opens it and sees mourners, all in black, sitting down and softly sobbing. He makes his way towards the coffin at the end and stands over the open lid. He looks down and tears begin to fall from his eyes, landing on the dead body of Andrei. Mihai continues sobbing. He whispers, “I’ve missed you, my friend.”


Peace out,

Monday, October 02, 2006

My country breathes so salty.

It disgusts me how people can be so racist. It disgusts me further when people's judgement and thought of a better future is fucked up by the contagious and salty cloud of racism. What makes me sick is that this is occuring in my own country.
I believe Malaysia is a country of countless possibilities. A nation inhabited by three nationalities and cutures; Indians, Malays, and Chinese; and a mass untapped resource of cultural brilliance. But this source remains untapped, and I fear that it will continue remaining frozen and dead for many years to come, because of the ignorance of my own people. Don't percieve this wrong, I love each and every citizen of Malaysia, but there is a large number of those people who put judgement on each other, due to one stupid and truly pointless reason: their skin color.
Just because of the color of one's skin, my country refuses to progress. Malays try to run the country in a fashion that benefits only the Malays. Chinese and Indians run a majority of the large businesses, discreetly pushing on the Malays due to the manner in which the government works. All this hatred towards each other creates a rift in the progression of a state that is truly able to become the greatest coutry in the world. We have the resources; our supply of palm oil and exports of high grade petrol. We have the man power. We have the education. So why the fuck can't we better ourselves?
I'll tell you why: Because my government, run by old Melayu megalomaniacs, continues to throw the momentum of progression back. Two things circulate their minds; money and power. They fuck up the economy by selling unrefined petrol to other companies, just for us to buy it back in a refined form for a higher price! Why not refine it ourselves?! Why not make a profit for ourselves?! Like bestfriends, power accompanies the greed of money! The government hides behind the face of religion to keep the people frozen! If a Malay is caught in a relationship with a Chinese, the government intervines and forces a marriage where the Chinese is FORCED to become muslim. Why? Because my government is sick. Sick, old and stupid.
My government gives exclusive rights to Malays, like myself, that we don't need! Education is prioritized towards the Malays. Scholarships are mostly reserved for Malays. Subjects are made to help the Malays. Why do Chinese and Indians have to learn the history of Islamic religion?! If they are made to learn the history of Islam, then why not make us learn the history of Buddhism and Hinduism? Equality is the key, you snot nosed bastards! If our people knows information on each culture and each race, then we will truly understand each other! If we knew each other then we will not bow to the degrading act of racism! Why does the students of a school need to speak Malay and ONLY MALAY?! Why do they not offer Hindi and Chinese?! This lack of language awareness makes the people break apart and make their own schools. Chinese attend chinese schools, Indian attend their own. This rift and congregation of separate races does not help the problem. It is sad. The proudness and stubborness of my own race is pushing down the progression of my people.
Due to the fact that my government, run by mostly Malays, is focusing on pushing the Malayu heritage up and offering exclusive rights, my people are creating race wars between each other. Chinese and Indians have to work harder to just get by, while Malays ride on the backs of my government. While Malays are hiding behind the government, the Chinese and Indians are making more money. Then jelousy subsides. Malays begin to complain that they are poor, making the Chinese and Indians swing back, saying that we ride on the backs of the government.
This leads to stereotyping! Because of this hatred, Malays are classified as lazy, while the Chinese ruthless, and the Indian money hungry snakes. All these names are used by adults, which rub on their children, echoing the racism.
What truly makes me heartsick is that the people who shape society hold this grudge. Government officials, policemen, and parents. They all protect and create the country, but due to their racistic mentality, my country is formed into a morbid and angry nation of self hatred. The most saddening story I heard is from my friend, who had a conversation with her old teacher. She was talking about one of her Malay student having an Indian boyfriend. However, the tone of her conversation was in disgust. She constantly cringed her face at the fact of their love, and she would state that they were disgusting. How can a woman of such high distinction, who educates the children of all three races, have such a dimwitted mind! HOW CAN SUCH A PERSON EDUCATE OUR NEXT GENERATION!
The only solution to this is to create equality! Make students learn all the languages: Malay, Hindi, Chinese and English! With this, the potential of our people making businesses in foreign countries increases, as the language barrier breaks. Make them understand each culture's history and beliefs! If we know our own people like brothers and sisters, there shouldn't be a reason to fight! Give them the freedom of exploring each race! And finally, DO NOT GIVE EXCLUSIVE RIGHTS! This only creates barriers and hatred against one another.
What's worst is that my government tries to hide this problem with the slogan "Malaysia. Truly Asia.' The topic of racism is so untouched upon in my country, that the existence of anti-racism campaigns are put to the minimal! Please! Wake up, the people of Malaysia! See your true potential! Do not digress to the infamy of racism! Fight to better yourselves!
This may just be a small call of one small teenage citizen of Malaysia, hoping for a better future. But this is a call from the heart. This is a call from the soul. I cry for the future of my country, and I cry for my next generation. I cry because my country breathes so salty.

Peace out,

Thursday, August 10, 2006

Man I miss it!

OK, since I've been away from Malaysia there are a large number of things that I sorely miss. Cheap video games, Baskin 'n Robbins, KLCC, Ampang Point, Laksa. And... um... I'm missing something. OH! Kawan! Yeah. Friends, they're always good for money :D. But the thing that tops the list at the moment (other than kawan kawan) is mamak. (Maaaaaaaybe more than kawan kawan :P)

It's not just the smell of roti canai and sambal of the cool night air of the mamak stalls. Sure, that is a giant part of my mamak missiness, but since I've been in Romania I've kinda meditated on the mamak image and I've hit a milestone. Although mamak has a lot of makanan bes gile, like roti boom, teh tarik, and Indon Mee goreng with bawang and telor mata kerbau and kicap on top... You can't forget the Indon Mee goreng with bawang and telor mata kerbau and kicap on top... but even though it has all those heart attack inducing and deliciously lethal foods, it has a more metaphorical and underlining meaning to it. Mamak isn't just a fast food restaurant for Malaysians on a budget. It's actually the whole idea of a perfect Malaysia! We see indians, chinese and malays all eating and discussing and ranting. We see a Malaysia in unity! When you enter a mamak stall you don't feel any aura of hostility or sadness. It's a place filled with the smell of food and the feeling of multicultural beauty. All races eating all kinds of food and all in peace with each other.

Mamak is also a place of sheer inspiration! In one corner of the room a Malay daugher is talking to her father about how she wishes she was a baker, while just a few tables across a Chinese and a Malay are talking about their past as kids fishing. And just outside the mamak stall, a group of university students are ranting about how crap their lecturers are, and across from them a group of lecturers are ranting about how crap their students are. And two tables behind the lecturers 20 or so teenagers are complaining about the government and their sexual imprisonment by JAIS. It amazes me how in one small area of sociality, an abundence of different lives are being juggled and balanced and planned. A million mamak stalls, with a million more hungry customers and a billion stories within each of them. Inspiration gile!

But the best memory I have of mamak is, of course, with my family and friends. I remember when I was 16 and my life was in utter ruins, juggling my hormonally charged love life, my crappy skin and illnesses and my new change to Malaysia from Thailand. It was a hellish festivity of one crappy event after another. But what cheered me the most was having the few mamak suppers and early dinners with my two sisters, Nurul and Lily. There I would ask them about their days at ISKL and how their friends were. It was the cloud that would often cheer me up in the time of dire.

My other fondest memory was of me and my MMU friends; Nini the artist, Pravin the philosopher, Emerson the mecha-lord, Ben the Flasher, Lina the slugger, An the smooth, Jason the smooth talker, and Calvin the Clavicus. It was my last week at MMU before I would leave for Romania. We had beautiful and psychadelic talks of how the world was crazy and reminiscing how we first met and how we would meet in the future and open an art university in Malaysia and how each and everyone of us would be head of each branch; like photography, and art, and filming, and animation... And I remember fondly how they would constantly say how they would miss me, and how uncomfortable I felt at their remarks. THANKS A LOT PEOPLE! Haha! But I miss them so much.

Mamak is a beautiful place. Not only the food, but the concept. A place of kenyang-ing, of future pondering and of peace and unity. A beautiful place. AND AKU MISS GILE BABI MAAAAAAAAN! DAMN YOU ROMANIA FOR NOT HAVING MAMAK AND INSTEAD HAVING OVERLY PRICED SANDWICH AND BURGER BARS AND STUPID NO TEH TARIK AIS!... Man, I miss mamak.

Peace out,

Monday, June 26, 2006


God. I am so sick of remakes. New Line Cinema to remake "Battle Royale", Paramount to remake "Poseidon", Praying Ape Studios to remake "Saving Private Ryan". OK, so I added the last one for a more powerful point. But, the point is remakes suck balls! It's just a sad, sick way of studios trying to pull in money from sad, sick bastards who actually pay to watch a more 'modern' movie with more special effects. The original was a masterpiece! WHY WOULD YOU DUMB DOWN AN ALREADY GREAT MOVIE FOR THE LOW I.Q. SOCIETY! When will they stop?!

First they started remaking the good Japanese movies, like "Ringo" and "The Grudge". We all know that this was just because silly Yankeedoodles are too goddamned lazy to read subtitles. It's just reading you pricks! NOT LIKE YOU'D GET S.T.D's FROM IT!

After systematically degrading the highly regarded and respected Japanese movie culture, they begin to screw up their own. They remade "Psycho" into a half-assed idiotic bore fest. "Planet of the Apes" was a sad lame attempt to remake and already unremake-able movie! And finally... wait for it... this is the best... "Lolita". Yes. Apparently, some doofus watched Stanley Kubrick's masterpiece, and potentially one of the best movie made by one of the best director, and said to himself "Hey! I can beat this old fart!" News flash dimwit, THE OLD FART IS A GENIUS! Oh well. I guess you set your bar a little too high, buddy.

What's next? Will they remake porno? Instead of people will they use clay figurines? And instead of sex will they read semi-erotic poetry naked with pieces of bacon over their private parts? Wow... what an achievement you will do.

Now I hear the remake of one of the goriest movies I have ever seen: Battle Royale. A cult classic with a good underlining message. One of Japan's most famous and greatest movies... in a gory and bloody sense. And this remake... what will they do? More gore? More weapons? More booms, bangs, and Visual Effects? Gah. Spare me. I know this movie will be screwed up by the damn American consumer worshipping studio executives. Yeesh... what's worst is that when everybody sees how bad the movie is they'll all blame that the original is worst. Screw you American studio executives! Screw you and your remaking antics!

Now, I cry for my future as a potential film director. q(; ~ ;)p

Peace out (but still mad),

Thursday, June 15, 2006

Get Your Haircut, Today! Special Offer: 'Piece of Shit' Look!

There are millions of unanswered questions in the world. Like how the Hulk’s jeans never fully rip, or if Superman can have intercourse at bullet-speed. But, the biggest question that really frustrates me is: WHY CAN I NEVER GET A GOOD HAIRCUT!

Well, today I got my haircut. I came in with medium hair and was looking for a good style. My hair had gotten so wavy and unmanageable; I might as well have had kids. So I came in and was greeted nicely by this super hot hairdresser. Things were starting off pretty well. So I sat down, and got comfortable, and she asked me what style I would like. I was kinda blur to what I wanted, so I said to her, "Just give me what you think looks good on me." She smiled and started to cut away! Looking at so much of my hair falling on the ground made me feel kinda sad, because of all the time I had spent on it. But, hey! She's hot. What harm can she do?


Halfway through, it kinda just hit me. This isn't really looking that good. So I asked her, "Is this gonna look good?” She replied, "You're gonna look beautiful." I smiled... mainly cuz she was hot and she complimented me. So I went with the flow. More hair fell. I started to look uglier as each snip passed by.

Not it's the end of the cut... and I look like an idiot. Seriously, my head was furry. Not stylish! Furry! I asked her, "Can you style this up?” She replied, "Sure! No problem. I'll make you look more beautiful!” I don't know if she was blind, or stupid, or reaaaally h
ate men, but she made it look worst. I looked at my locks of hair with misery. She asked me, "Don't you like it?” I answered, "Yeah! It's nice!” Yes, you guessed it: Because she was hot. So I paid my stinking money, walked back to my stinking house, and screamed my stinking head off! I tried to take a shower, but it made me look worst! I took a picture and showed it to Kiyaa and Emerson, online. Lets just say they didn't really help. They called me... Fiery Chicken or Ayam Berapi, because of how my hair stood up. You've all seen Seinfeld right? Well I look like Kramer.

I was pissed. So I made a comical rendition of the whole process! It might be over the edge... but I'm pissed. So "bleh" to you! Enjoy.

Peace out,

Tuesday, June 13, 2006

Cartoon #1

So me and my friend, Emerson, was chatting, right. And we had a funny conversation. It started humorously enough that it inspired my first cartoon. It's done in paint, so bear with me, all you critical and artistic pencil-heads! Now, clap your hands for "Number 1"!

Much creditnessity to Emerson for this convo!

Peace out,

Monday, June 12, 2006

The Truth Is Revealed!

After months of torture and pain, it has come to light that my morning hatredness is caused by none other than *dum dum dum!*: MY FRIENDS! Yes! They have betrayed me and made my mornings a living hell!

It begins with their surveillence equiptment. Emerson, a well known mecha-freak, has created the perfect spy cam. It is scattered all over the room, and each day it shifts its position so as to make me struggle to find them. But, I have succeeded in finding them! Yes! I could smell your sticky mecha-fingers all over the device! You thought I wouldn't check my underwear drawer, did you?! Well I did! After 340 days of the same underwear, I finally decided to change and "Ta-Da!", I found it! How dare you spy on me and wait till I sleep to launch your decisive and elusive plans of tormentment!

After hours of 'peeping-tomming' me and making sure I was fast asleep, the plan is launched. The first phase: Midnight Imps. The Imps are sent to my rooms, armed with ping-pong balls, under the command of Kiyaa. Kiyaa had gained their trust in late 1998, when the Midnight Imps and the Afternoon Imps were having turf wars and was viaing for control of the island of Trinidad. Kiyaa emerged and sided with the Midnight Imps. Using her powers of painting, she painted booby-trapped pictures of Twix candybars (beacause we all know how Afternoon Imps enjoy Twix candybars for tea), and ambushed them, causing victory to side with the Midnight Imps. Darn you, Kiyaa! You two faced woman you!

As the Midnight Imps crawl and creep into my room, their captain and uberly stinkifying leader, Aan, orders them to launch ping-pong balls into my nose! They pry my nose open with a crowbar and stuff the balls (ping-pong balls, that is) into my nose, like a squirrel stuffs nuts (peanuts, that is) into its den for winter! By the time they're finished, my nostrils is bigger than Adrien Brody's jewish sniffer!

Little did I know, that the ping-pong balls were supplied by none other than Arpveen! His Yogi Bear like appearance may fool others, but his heart is deep with evility and badiness! Yes! EVILITY AND BADINESS! Like a weapons dealer, he picks the highest bidder and leaves the scene of the crime. He ignores the psychological ping-pong damage his ammunition has caused me. Ping-pongs everywhere!

When I wake up, the damage is apparent. I am nose clogged. To the ends of my nostrils ping-pong balls have been stuffed up there. Hours of damage control, with the help of a hankerchief, is needed to sustain my breathing ability... darn you. Traitors! Nincompoops!

After a lengthy nose-blowingness, I crawl like an injured greek cross roman cross half indian-italian pastrami maker towards the bathroom, in order to relieve myself. But the smell hits me like a garbage truck. However, I took the initiative of video taping my voyage towards the latrine, and after carefully playing and rewinding and playing and rewinding and playing again... IT WAS A GARBAGE TRUCK THAT HIT ME! A huge green garbage truck flies from off screen and smacks me in the face, before disappearing into thin air. A message was painted on its side. It mockingly said: "Try and catch me now, biatch! Love, Arpveen." The Yogi Bear has struck again.

Finally! The toothpaste incident! That was caused by... me. Yes. I have not yet gained the ability to control a toothpaste. It takes years of careful training and hardwork to raise your level to a mediocre toothpaste user. I am still a beginner. You can see from my toothpaste encrusted eye.

But, nevertheless! It was their fault! I shall get them yet! Darn you! Darn you, Arpveen, Aan, Nini, and Emerson! Darn you for doing this to me! I shall get you all yet!

Oh, and Farah is suspected cuz she also commented on the previous blog blaberring about surveys and such nonsensical hysteria. I believe this is a sick and unusual experiment brought on by people with sick and unusual characteristics. *waves at them* Hello!

Peace out (well not really, cuz of them Imps),

Saturday, June 10, 2006

10 Things I hate about mornings

After a long time of bloglessness, I have returned once again, donning a huge red cape with an 'S' carefully knitted on it by my assistant, Madam Chong. Madam Chong is a camel that I used to race in the underground camel derby. I won and she gained her freedom, but I enslaved her, because I'm evil that way.

Well everyone has their hatred of something. Some hate cats, some hate chipmunks, some have an irrefutable desire to burn Barney the Purple Dinasour. But, my hate has not physical appearance, so I can't inflict any damage on it. It is mornings. My enemy, other than dogs, but that's another story.

Here are 10 things that make my mornings a tad lower than b-e-a-utiful.
  1. I wake up and open my eyes. Tis morning and tis cold. And because of my sinuses my nose is more blocked than a renovated road! It's like some midnight imp creeped into my room and lodged ping-pong balls into my nasal cavity! And believe me, nose nuggets the SIZE of ping-pong balls do come out! But I try to make it better. I name them and introduce myself before I throw the tissues away.
  2. Next I take a long breath and then, the best part, I exhale. And I smell my morning breath. Wow. It's like someone slapped me with a garbage truck. Something died in there. I'm hoping its the midnight imp that shoved ping-pong balls up my nose.
  3. Next I go into the bathroom. Aaaaaand, it smells. This smell comes from the fact that I relieved myself yesterday and, absent-mindedly forgot to flush... so overnight my package sorta... evaperated. Thank you science for making all this possible.
  4. Four, I brush my teeth. See, I have a sort of problem with toothpaste. I can get it on my toothbrush, but after that, all hell breaks loose. Whatever I do, I tape the toothbrush to my hand, I staple my whole body to the wall... whatever! The toothpaste just.gets.everywhere. On the mirror! On the walls! Under the sink! All over my face! On the ceiling! IT GETS EVERYWHERE BUT IN MY MOUTH!... darn you you stupid squeeze tube...
  5. Finally, no matter how hard I try, I AM ALWAYS LATE! It might be the fact that I have to blow seven ping-pong ball sized boogers out every morning. Or the fact the my morning breath knocks me unconsious for about twenty minutes. Or that I have to crawl on my all fours to avoid the stench of my overnight 'package'. OR it might be my retardation of the utilization of a simple toothpaste squeeze tube! WHATEVER IT IS I AM ALWAYS LATE!
Ok... thats the end of my morning rantiness. Alas, I did not succeed at reaching my objective of 10 things. But if you kinda squint, turn your head and flare your nose, you see double vision and that counts to 10! Ta-da!

Peace out,

Monday, May 29, 2006

Race Cars, Shmace Cars!

People keep telling me F1 drivers and Nascar drivers are the best drivers and have the most dangerous jobs. They get all the girls and drive fast cars and have big houses and bigger paychecks. But I think their jobs are over rated. I say F1 has made they're jobs easy.

So you can drive a fast car in extremely hard tracks at death defying speeds. Big whoop! Why not make their jobs a bit harder, shall we? First of all, instead of tall drivers, have midgets. Nothing says danger than a driver who can't see over the steering wheel. If not midgets, then extremely tall steering wheels.

Next, inject a potent poison into the driver's bloodstream that will take effect and kill them if they do not finish the race in, lets say, 2 hours. This will make them desperate, and us spectators, enjoy this so called sport even more!

In addition to poison and dangerous driving, pimp the cars out with weapons and oil slicks! But none of that cruel missile crap, give them oil slicks and Super Mario Cart- like weapons! Flying turtle shells! Mushrooms that enlarge the car! We've developed genetic science, so don't tell me that isn't possible! Now who doesn't love over exagerated war monging in sport?

After that, put obstacles on the tracks. Along with tight turns and hairpin corners, make them dodge large flaming saws, jump through rings of fire, and avoid painful death by leaping over cliffs and such dangerous and formidable activities! Flaming crashes would be a guarenteed event in ALL race events!

Finally, instead of trained and experienced pit crews, use random people from the audience and educate them with an appauling 10 minute video tutorial on 'pit crewing' narrated by Bill Cosby. Not only will they get crappy information, but they'll get crappy information by somebody they can't understand!

If they integrate these well thought out and slightly safe changes into the world of motorsport, they would win more viewers. More importantly, they'll win me as a fan! And who doesn't want me, a weird little man with constant bursts of random words, as a fan?

Friday, May 26, 2006

Brendon the Gay Bestial Necropheliac

(To read this higly vulgar and disturbing blog post effectively, read it aloud with a deep voiced British accent. Thank you.)

I dislike Brendon. Not because he laughs like a chimp, or he constantly borrows money from me. No. I dislike him because Brendon is a gay bestial necropheliac. Yes, Brendon fucks dead male horses. I do not have any problems with Brendons, gays or bestiality, and I have just a slight annoyance to necropheliacs. But when your name is Brendon and you find pleasure in deceased virile animals, then I have a big foot up my ass.

I can't blame Brendon for his weird sexual antics. See, Brendon's parents were animal people. They cared for animals with all their love and tenderness. However, they weren't very good at it. In fact, most of the animals that went under their care would either starve or die.

But, it wasn't very long before Brendon's parents love for each other would bloom into a child. In late 1985, Brendon was born. But Brendon's parents, being bad animal people, did not know how to care for a baby. But they did know how to take bad care of animals! So for the next 13 years of Brendon's life, he lived in a 10"x10" cage and had the education level of a brain dead rat. Due to such a horrible living environment, Brendon was highly underfed and had lost most of his hair.

And when he was let out into the world, at the age of 15, he was not sexually appealing. But he was sexually active. Brendon would take advantage of his parent's dead animals, and it wasn't long until he found out he liked male animals the most. Brendon had found out he loved dead male animals.

But Brendon's disturbing flaw in the eyes of society saved his life more than once. On one sunny day, Brendon was at the bank, enjoying his hobby: smelling people's hair. While he was in the process of inhaling a red head, a bank robber stormed into the building and took Brendon hostage. Soon after, both the robber and his hostage, Brendon, were confronted by a platoon of angry policemen.

"I'll kill him!" yelled the robber.

"Fine! Kill him! He's a gay bestial necropheliac!" replied the captain of the squad.

See, the police were highly aware of Brendon's sexual preferences, as they would often recieve distressing emergency calls from farmers who had their livestock raped by Brendon.

"What's a gay bestial necropheliac?" questioned the robber.

After the robber was informed that Brendon enjoyed fornicating with manly animal corpses, he abandoned his bank robbing, gnawed his hand off and surrendered to the police, pleading for a psychiatrist.

Tragically, Brendon died in a horrible slapping accident. Brendon and I were on my balcony and I had told him of my hatred of him. Brendon wept and I found it annoying, so I slapped him and he fell seven stories down to his doom. The police didn't arrest me because they also hated Brendon and his sexual practises. The judge and jury didn't want to put me on trial as they thought the case was a disgrace to justice and all that serve it. And psychiatrist did not want to treat me, because after seeing the vast amounts of psychological trauma Brendon caused to farmers and citizens, they thought that his death had been long posponed.

To Brendon, may he hump lots of dead male animals in his after life.

p.s. This is a joke and does not AT ALL reflect the sexual practises of the blogger. DO NOT IMAGINE ME "DOING IT" WITH DEAD MASCULINE ANIMALS!