Feeling silly and weak in ... some parts.

So, I was on this commuter train, going to my place of work. I had my notebook and some other stuff in my backpack. I HAD the backpack with me most of the way, and put it on the compartment above me only about three frickin' minutes from my stop.

I had Suicidal Tendencies blasting from my headset. Now, I know that hot piece of music isn't any way responsible for the thing about to come down--'cuz you know, it's the goddamn SUICIDAL TENDENCIES is what this is--but, hey, it makes this note somewhat longer, so there you go.

Anyway, the train arrived at this big-ass station, and it was my stop, though I don't usually get off here: This train's final stop is not the one where MY commuter train ends its journey at, but the train had been the one ready to leave and I hadn't had time to wait for the commuter train I'd have prefered to take.

Well, so I got off the train and walked like a boss to north exit of the station because that's where I take the public minivan to my office. Upon reaching the spot where I'd wait for my ride, I realized that I LEFT my fricking backpack on the BLASTED train! So, I ran, like an ass, back to the station, rushed to the Station Master's office, and, while trying to catch my breath, told the people there that I was an ass, with Suicidal Tendencies blasting. A few phone calls later, the good people at the office told me the backpack was found and was secured and that I should just hang in there and chill and wait for the commuter train to return to the station, which should not be not more than 40 minutes (The train has only two more stops before reaching the last station and commutes back, really).

So, here I am, sitting on a bench, writing this. With Suicidal Tendencies blasting.

RAD

Kim is one rad SOB

O Reds Where Art Thou?

O this cheating heart of mine

If only a knife so sharp and so fine

Would stab it and rob me off of my prime

No heart shall beat ever more in time.



Why O you Reds perform so?

Mediocre football unlike what I used to know.

Sluggish defense: look how it brought you so low

Hurts seeing those scoreboards oft times show zero.



Kuyt's hit-and-miss, and alos the others

Gerrard's talismanic presence, will it withers?

Torres's prowess no more a-glitter?

Injuries, O cruel injuries! Away thee from mine lovers.



Should this heart transport away from Anfield?

To land softly on another grassy field

Where awesome young guns a steamy professor builds

See them play how this heart bleed.



Emirate Stadium may close to house this inconstant heart

But alas Liverpool's charm may still hold the card

To stay it in Anfield, and make parting hard

With other hopefuls to watch over beer, nuts and fart.

Me, Myself and I, and a little bit of You aka. It Sucks To Be Atheist

Eternal glory be to The One whose Love everlasting, pure and simple, unassuming

All receive, none left out, the wicked and the meek,

For ones who are restless and those who sit and wait

Rows of mountains, chasms so deep, all touched, jungles so thick that eternal nights prevail under the canopy of leaves; the air the sky, great open sky , homes of millions of galaxies of microbes and mites and dust, all tended to:

With Sight beyond sight beyond sight, Plunge to the deepest of gorges, Sweep over the highest of mountains, Rummage through the darkest of caves, Stare into the brightest of reflection, yet subtly, o so subtly that none feels, but the most restless of seekers.

Whose Existence is so Real that what are perceived by mortals are but fleeting imageries,

Whose Presence is the only thing Constant that we hopelessly look the other way for the comfort of hopeful forgetting

Praises, love, and subjugation all.

All intention, all work and all prays:

Forgive me, for here I am, burying myself in work, neglecting You.

You're All forgiving One, I am all being forgetful

God, forgive me some more, for I gulp and swig and belch without Your Name mentioned

And I know You will forgive me for this weak body will surely suffer without sustenance for at least every 5 minutes

Lord, I humbly intone for your mercy as I cursed my fellow roadie, cutting in front of me (and I, in my mind’s eye, transforming him into a furry, cute animal not deserving such low analogy for this animal is loyal and sincere as loyal and sincere can be)

Yet, naught but peace do I feel knowing You, God, Owner of All, Demander of none from this servant of Yours, See me whole as a lowly creature with loose tongue and temper shorter than life.

My Love, my God, I cry, hardest, for deliverance as my children take less priority in my days, become more of a burden for my shoulders, grow less adorable with their constant questions and innocent eyes, steal more of my temper as they follow me around, and their pudgy little fingers tug at the corner of my shirt, dishevelling that corner of my shirt thus cruelly ruining the overall impression of my perfectly pressed attire.

Nevertheless, I rejoice: You with Your Overwhelming Compassion, would Brush off this negligence as the sacrifice I have to make for merely the benefit of my self-actualization.

O my Lonesome Stranger here-there-everywhere, I'm now all dead unless Your Might Still the hands of Azrael because my "my love," my "cintaku," my "honey-bunny," my "sayangku," my "dearest," my "mi adore mi amor" is addresed not to my companion I have chosen--

by Your Consent, for what're all of us but as grains

in a weaved basket running this way and that

played by the hands of a skillful granny

before said grains end up in the mill

to be transformed into flour,

then mixed and beaten into dough

for making yummy pie that all who've tasted it

will go to sleep smiling all the while

But I digress--

But, who am I to question Your Everpresence Grace for Knowing and, most importantly, Understanding my desire to be loved--at least in words or more but more on this coming up--more than just by those whose mundane lives I'm part of?

Dear God, here I am, lamenting for Your Forgiveness for my six-pack fresh-from-fitness-center abs/sultry-fragranced perfumed body, my perfectly-symmetrical trimmed hair & moustache/lipstick-covered sensual lips and my schooled posture/sparkling-inviting eyes are not for the person I gave my connubial vow to.

Yet, how relieved I am, Your servant, with my brow kissing the Earth, understanding You would See this transgression of mine as most deemed by society.

My God, You Are the One, as all are nothing but the sum of the parts,

Render my soul with Your Anger for I use my soaring intellects, my exquisite beauty, my out-of-this-world witticism, my breath-taking attention-gathering pleasing figure to win as many hearts as I can, for my own heart is too big for a mere spouse and some runny-nosed kids.

Or as my cool composure and my demure countenance sell me more and win me more hearts for to be loved by many and love them in return is a way I know how to prove me worth it in the eyes of the whole wide world, to fill these rooms within me yearning for praises (call it recognition), for adoration (call it acknowledgement), for devotion (call it friendship), such as my aim.

Yet, again, again and again and again, Your Tenderness, Your Compassion, Your Brand of Forgiving shall Set me free from the burden of guilt, such that I have.

My Maker, Destroy me, I realize not what I am doing

For thinking ill of my dearest acquaintances, for speaking poison about them when they're not looking.

For taking the sweetest apples from their plate, and leaving snakes in its wake.

But who am I to think bad about myself? Isn't it wrong to think of self destruction? And You Forgive me as I once again realize my mistake, until the next day when I repeat the offense, this small remembrance and prayer will prove handy.

My God, The True Possessor, Strip me off of my skin, Sear my flesh, Dry my blood, Grind my bones:

I stroke my vanity 'till it grows tall and proud raising over all else,

I grease my vapidity so that it shines so brightly blinding those who know not the darkened corridors I take

I talk high to bring down those whose merits boil my blood

And I skitter low to jab them high on the neck where their blood flows the freest.

I cater to my ego for if I don't do it, who will?

And despite all these, I find, as I always believe I shall, no truer peace with the Love and Forgiveness You Shower me with.

Lord of all, Pulverize me. For I shudder when I see my actions.

Look at me prancing away the days, looking down on those whose stations in life I sneer at, as a prove of my achievement I've won, as the reminder of my worth.

Hear me talk down to others, Watch me snub the lights of spirit burning in their eyes, Witness as I trample on their hopes,

I see a lady with stumps where her feet should be, dragging her body on a dirty floor of a commuter train, stopping every one foot and extending her hand, showing a palm so black and thick with grime, and I, while cursing the government officials responsible for such ugliness with a thousand black deaths, suddenly find a renewed interest to a text message I've received three months prior saved in my most sophisticated (for at least another couple of weeks) smartphone

all these and more, God,

but of course, You the All-knowing All-seeing, from the division of cells within the tip of an ant's leg to a star going supernova destroying a thousand planets orbitting it.

You See the spittle on the corner of a mouth of a child busker dries up as he sings,

You see a mother on the dirt floor in a tilted hut grinding a dry cassava to make pulp for feeding her four children

You See a man and a woman in a post-coital embrace pouring out their injured hearts (and self esteem) inflicted by their spouses and playing 'what-ifs' as their next round of wild blissfulness approaches,

You see money changing hands under tables and over electronic signals across over thousands of kilometers of wires and radiowaves,

You see my thoughts.

And You See me feeling the suffering of what I'm doing or failing to do and I feel exalted 'causeYou Forgive.

O Maker, Atomize me, the lowly owner of this infernal body:

I fantasize over those adult performer/sinetron star as I lay in my nuptial bed with my other half whispering sweetest nothingness and exchanging grunts,

I lust over those models strutting their luscious/muscle-bound bodies in the pages of those respectable tabloids/'natural-wonderment' websites/shopper's catalogs,

I have my fun-between-the-sheets with the one person, Your Present of Earthly delight for me, with whom my days are weaved in hours filled with domestic bliss

(listening to my spouse's unending stories of unending adventures in a world industry, manufacturing, production and constant development growth; catching the last whif of perfume, now mixed with the fragrance of sweat after a whole day and half of evening self actualizing as hope for a quick shower to also catch a small portion of that freshness people out there have the privy to enjoy this whole day is unrealisitic, for my spouse is too tired for that and what am I if not understanding and empathetic?) and the rearing of our pride and joy, apples of our eyes, our dreams made flesh, our lives on earth guaranteed continuation,

but for grrrrrreat fucks surely I look elsewhere.

I flirt heartily, exchange suggestive messages, touch each other's bare skin,

I have rendezvous at an obscure locale, kiss each other's cheeks, eat from each other's spoon, gaze deep into each other's eyes, open each other's heart, give each other's comforting squeezes as laments pouring out, confessions spilling over, hopes made up,

But not with whom solemn oaths I once exchanged

under the canopy of flowers, claiming You "as my Witness",

flanked by those in whose wombs I knew not

any worry, nor cold, nor bitterness

Only warmth and love 24/7

No, God help me, not with that one, for modern life demands me of this,

And my soul-searching doesn't stop with that pledge, a pledge whose echo sounds more like nuisance to these ever-growing sophistaced ears of mine.

And I get all hot and bothered,

My body itches and my mind a-flame,

With that nuisance word printed on my ID

Like dog on a leash I cry for my human rights,

'Buddhism,' 'Catholic,' 'Christian,' 'Confucianism,'

'Hinduism,' 'Islam' or whatdoyouwanna call it

I've got a thousand excuses for every call I fail to answer,

For I won't be bound by sweet promises that come with it that bind my aspiration

And You, my Omniscient God, You Understand how much I shall lose if I'm bothered by those chains

And in my belief in You I find Your Forgiveness.

And I never, o God, take You for granted

anymore than I will never in my days on earth see me wanting, as You, yea You, always fill my heart and mind,

when I need You.

***** (^_^) *****

Puzzling 'poo

Torment hath been but a word, like

all flowers this world hath borne.

Lexis-all meaningless to this tongue for scorn.

Kisses naught but these brows fevered hike.

Into thine eyes thou hath me drowned, but

sail me back to thy harbour then as night's nigh near

Charge me, hard and true. What

hail of love, I am torn asunder.

Exile me from these nations of men.

Arrows thru my heart those words you sent

Playfully render me heated and bothered.

Woe, o woe is me,

To o'ershadow mine eyes with aught else to see

Perplexed feeling this heart of mine

Words so sweet mine ears are thine

Roses bled their perfumed blood

To breathe in your scent I'd hold mine breath

Sweets rolling in thy tongue to me the world's wealth

To win to earn to treasure to hold.

Mine body trembles for thine

Thy love my own my wont

Use me, love, o'erwrought me I'm thine

For want a puzzle solved, agitated not but read and reread.

"Comment" your answer if you would

Torment hath been but a word, like

all flowers this world hath borne.

Lexis-all meaningless to this tongue for scorn.

Kisses naught but these brows fevered hike.

Into thine eyes thou hath me drowned, but

sail me back to thy harbour then as night's nigh near

Charge me, hard and true. What

hail of love, I am torn asunder.

Exile me from these nations of men.

Arrows thru my heart those words you sent

Playfully render me heated and bothered.

Woe, o woe is me,

To o'ershadow mine eyes with aught else to see

Perplexed feeling this heart of mine

Words so sweet mine ears are thine

Roses bled their perfumed blood

To breathe in your scent I'd hold mine breath

Sweets rolling in thy tongue to me the world's wealth

To win to earn to treasure to hold.

Mine body trembles for thine

Thy love my own my wont

Use me, love, o'erwrought me I'm thine

For want a puzzle solved, agitated not but read and reread.

"Comment" your answer if you would

Delectable Details

"Having children doesn't make a woman a mother" ran an [facebook] status update of one of my estranged colleagues.

You can argue until your lips crack, your throats hurt, your veins ready to burst, you're all ready to act as only humans can possibly do: tear your interlocutor's throat and drink the person's blood, only you aren't thirsty, over the issue. Yet, it is a tough job being a parent to little kids though it all comes down to You want it, they've got it (They being your kids):
- As babies they could do no wrong: all cuddly, cute as can be with everything they do sending you into ecstatic love and pride. You've been wanting this pride since you knew that kids don't come with the mail, and they couldn't care less as long as there is a teat to suckle everytime they open their mouth.
- Come toddler age, and they look for you, among their toys, when you are starting to regain your love to soap operas. And yet you mollycoddle them, dress them to the nines and parade them around town. All the while scanning those tabloids and bulletin walls in the hospitals for the next Baby Contestas you want to enter them to it and taking notes of the prizes offered, should your kids win.
And you find all your diplomas now come complete with thick-red-crayon drawing of figures suspiciously looking like a sausage having been run over by a truck, with curious-looking protusions and big circular things which if you let your imagination runs really wild may resemble a bit like feet, tail or eyes. Figures which upon interrogation are revealed to be those of dogs, cats or pigs--lipsticks used-up, unsigned contracts now paper planes after taking a dip in the bathtub, walls a scene of batlefield among soldiers of fairy, zoo crew and Ferrari drivers. You bite your lips and try to maintain composure, explaining to them the connection between the importance of your lipsticks to your overall presentability to everyone except your husband; the risk of their living their days like "those kids in Africa" now that daddy's paper is just another one of those Titanic wannabes, with wings to boot; the big, BIG possibility of their grandma's failing to remember their birthday, what with all the walls looking like that--they being kids the connection, or the lack thereof, would escape them, so you can get away with this trickery. All the while you curse under your breath for their losing in those baby contests, into which you've invested quite a lot for the admission fee, new clothes for them and such like. You want the world to acknowledge how great the parties involved in presenting such joyful bundles of cuddly love to the world and see if they care.
- And they grow by the millimeter, occupying more space than you yourselves have trouble filling (being there is not enough space to fill yourselves with in the first place), more and more you bump into them, more and more they ruin your concentration just when you need to focus all of your thought, mind and heart into texting or chatting, more and more often they appear behind you and startling you when you were this close to coming up with that winning move in the chess game against that damn computer(!!!), more and more often they come to you with all their stories which day-by-day sound more and more to you ridiculous, tiring, Why-do-only-I-have-to-hear-this-?, Who-is-going-to-listen-to-ME-?, Don't-I-deserve-attention-just-the-way-I-show-them?, I-want-my-ME-time, Don't-I-deserve-MY-self-actualization-after-everything-I've-been-through,That's-it-I-may-go-to-Komnas Perempuan/Komnas Pria (this writer's pipe dream)-tomorrow. You want your ego stroked, and those kids' big eyes wonderment and dependent love to you just don't cut it.
- And, of course, should you lose your kids' nanny and all their grandmothers or great-aunts have (Surprise!) their own lives to live so that they cannot be there for you to take care of your kids (for you, don't forget that...), you have this to say: "Yeah,yeah, I know, I'm late. Again. Sorry, boss. Got problems at home." You want your excuse, and they provide.

It's Dead –Sincerity*

* aka. You'd laugh out loud if I tell you there some funny s**t down here

aka. There Might Be a Part II Somewhere Here, or Not

It's so nice to live in a world full of people always willing to help one another.

'Here's my number. Call me anytime. Anytime, y'hear? I'm all yours the moment I got your call calling me for help. I'm there the moment we cut the connection.
'I'll be a fly, stealing into your abode—just give me a door or a window ajar for me to fly through.
'I'll be a mammoth, all horns and tusks announcing to the whole wide world that I'm here for you, should you want you prefer it that way.
'I'll be an eagle, flying high and plunging into your heartache and with talons sharper than blade, tearing it out and dropping it down from up high.
'I'll be a mole, blind to fear, digging tunnel to your place of retreat.
'So, call. Hear?'
…
…

'Why haven't you call? I've been sitting here by my cell phone waiting for your call. How could you
not call!? How could you?!'

And you call.
And you go and wail away spilling your heart out.
And you get all the help you feel you so justly deserve, and then some.
And you get your trouble sorted out, lifted up off of you, thanks to the help rendered.
And you turn away all sunshine and birds and bees, and all the colors of rainbow are you.

Then it takes only a moment with words not necessarily in a sentence, but you will be made sure you understand.
You have your say and you want the reply, a question that would demand an answer:
‘And now I use your help.’
Sincerity? That’s for suckers.

I give and I take.
Sell me yours. You then buy me something.
I do this for you. Wait there—your turn will come when you do me stuff.

‘There. That should do it.
… Hey, don’t I at least get a thank?’
Wow. That’s sincere.

Throw your hands to the heaven, and bargain God. ‘This, O God, Your servant offered Thee. Deliver, O Lord, from Thou aplenty.’
Bargaining with God: Yea, that always turns up good profit.

‘The person has helped me. Surely, I should return the favor.’
‘No one would help me, if I don’t do likewise.’
And that’s what you teach our children, since the moment they recognize you as more than merely an extension of their mouths: That nothing comes for free. You don’t help unless you get something in return. And you sure as Hell don’t get help without paying.

You don’t get your allowance unless you show me respect that I deserve.
You don’t get that new toy car provided you don’t flare my temper for at least four days straight.
You don’t get to play with your friends if you lose the paperwork I bring home.
You don’t get my love, as you don’t act the way I want you to act.

I got taught that one should not fall into the same ditch twice. I know that people change. I positively believe that people also change back. Let loose a dog, which for ten years you’ve been feeding nothing but the most expensive dog meals sold—the kind whose price you’d better not let your domestic helpers know for it would send them into terminal fit—and which you bathe and take to pet salon thrice a week, into the city dumpster and it would see you as not merely its master but its god who has magicked it down to a dog’s heaven.
‘All you stale bread, half-eaten chicken bones, baby’s puke, and everything else that squirm in there, HERE I COME!’

Yep. Dog’s Heaven, all right.

But dogs are not people.
Absolutely true, for dogs are incapable of being insincere.

Do I stay away from people because of whom I spent moments of my life in the dumpster? I do.
Do I forgive? Uh-huh.
Do I learn my lesson? I’d better.
Do I stay away from people with the help of whom I stared Devil in the face? Hell, yeah.

Love is in the air *Might be for Consenting Adults*

Love has certainly been around:

Love for politics gets you started running for your head of neighborhood watch hoping it would be your stepping stone to something a little bigger in seven to ten years' time, say, a country's prez.

Love for your job lands you in a position envied to death by your peers: Your boss's shoeshine boy (or girl). You might wanna watch where you park your vehicle at your office building parking lot here. Closest to the security post is recommended. Or under your office window--provided you don't spend too much of your working hours tending to your boss's needs in your boss's room.

Love for a type of music puts you at odds with those not listening to similar kind of music: You listen to your music wanting the whole world to have the same appreciation you have to it, to sing with you, to shout at the sky of the glory which are the notes, the power within the lyrics, the strength the verses possess, the delicacy the arrangement delivers, the harmony wrung out of the diverse instruments played with such precision bordering on miraculous. Music from Dismember, Slayer, Cradle of Filth, Judas Priest comes to mind...
Someone plays his, or her, favorite music--whose singer you'd just love to see give a never ending concert at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean with all the singer's fans attending--out loud for all the world to hear, you grind your teeth trying to keep your cool and not to run up to the person and tear him, or her, a new windpipe. You do not forget to bring your headsets wherever you go. Period.

Love for learning invites questions from mostly senior members of your great big family (grannies, great aunts and the likes): "You're a Doctor, now, dear? How wonderful. When are you going to get married?" "You're doing your thesis now? How nice? When are you going to get married?" "You're getting a full grant for that Fellowship program? Bless you. When are you going to get married?" etc. and grants you titles bestowed by those close or not-so-close to you: (Note on those not-so-close to you: There comes a time when you see someone, learn a thing or two (that's right: A thing or TWO)about that person, such the person's name and age, and you feel like that you know the person enough to pass judgement): Withered Flower, Cold Donkey, Mrs. D----, etc.

Love for money has you knock on doors, open drawers, shuffle paper, clear throat, check stationery, steal glances, have second thought, think better off it, draw lines, feel like taking a downer, or oft times, upper. Go figure.

Love for your children gets you to do some of the coolest things around: Go down on all four so that they can donkey-ride you (for little tykes, of course), teach them how to dribble a ball and watch them look at you with those admiring eyes that fly you straight to heaven (the fact that you were the lousiest athtlete in your high school loses its significance here), dig in the dirt to find those earth worms and teach them biology (That's right: Biology is very much about digging in the dirt and finding worms), spray water from the hose in a hot afternoon to create a rainbow (which lasts for about three seconds after spraying for about 20 minutes) and teach them physics (That's right: Physics is all about playing with colors. And lots of water), eat half of their ice cream after saying that too much ice cream is not good for them... What? One is supposed to put his his kids to school, feed them good food, sing them lullabies and help them with their homework??? Oops..

Don't You Just Love Logic?

'Before you can pass me, O mortal,' it said, 'you must answer my riddle.'

'Why?' said Teppic.
'What?' The Sphinx blinked at him. It hadn't been designed for this sort of thing.
'Why? Why? Because. Er. Because, hang on, yes, because I will bite your head off if you don't. Yes, I think that's it.'
'Right,' said Teppic. 'Let's hear it, then.'
The Sphinx cleared its throat with a noise like an empty lorry reversing in a quarry.
'What goes on four legs in the morning, two legs at noon, and three legs in the evening?' said the Sphinx smugly.
Teppic considered this.
'That's a tough one,' he said, eventually.
'The toughest,' said the Sphinx.
'Um.'
'You'll never get it.'
'Ah,' said Teppic.
'Could you take your clothes off while you're thinking? The threads play merry hell with my teeth.'
'There isn't some kind of animal that regrows legs that have been-'
'Entirely the wrong track,' said the Sphinx, stretching its claws.
'Oh.'
'You haven't got the faintest idea, have you?'
'I'm still thinking,' said Teppic.
'You'll never get it.'
'You're right.' Teppic stared at the claws.
This isn't really a fighting animal, he told himself reassuringly, it's definitely over-endowed. Besides, its bosom will get in the way, even if its brain doesn't.
'The answer is: "A Man",' said the Sphinx. 'Now, don't put up a fight, please, it releases unpleasant chemicals into the bloodstream.'
Teppic backed away from a slashing paw. 'Hold on, hold on,' he said. 'What do you mean, a man?'
'It's easy,' said the Sphinx. 'A baby crawls in the morning, stands on both legs at noon, and at evening an old man walks with a stick. Good, isn't it?'
Teppic bit his lip. 'We're talking about one day here?' he said doubtfully.
There was a long, embarrassing silence.
'It's a wossname, a figure of speech,' said the Sphinx irritably, making another lunge.
'No, no, look, wait a minute,' said Teppic. 'I'd like us to be very clear about this, right? I mean, it's only fair, right?'
'Nothing wrong with the riddle,' said the Sphinx. 'Damn good riddle. Had that riddle for fifty years, sphinx and cub.' It thought about this. 'Chick,' it corrected.
'It's a good riddle,' Teppic said soothingly. 'Very deep. Very moving. The whole human condition in a nutshell. But you've got to admit, this doesn't all happen to one individual in one day, does it?'
'Well. No,' the Sphinx admitted. 'But that is self-evident from the context. An element of dramatic analogy is present in all riddles,' it added, with the air of one who had heard the phrase a long time ago and rather liked it, although not to the extent of failing to eat the originator.
'Yes, but,' said Teppic crouching down and brushing a clear space on the damp sand, 'is there internal consistency within the metaphor? Let's say for example that the average life expectancy is seventy years, okay?'
'Okay,' said the Sphinx, in the uncertain tones of someone who has let the salesman in and is now regretfully contemplating a future in which they are undoubtedly going to buy life insurance.
'Right. Good. So noon would be age 35, am I right? Now considering that most children can toddle at a year or so, the four legs reference is really unsuitable, wouldn't you agree? I mean, most of the morning is spent on two legs. According to your analogy' he paused and did a few calculations with a convenient thighbone- 'only about twenty minutes immediately after 00.00 hours, half an hour tops, is spent on four legs. Am I right? Be fair.'
'Well-' said the Sphinx.
'By the same token you wouldn't be using a stick by six p.m. because you'd be only, er, 52,' said Teppic, scribbling furiously. 'In fact you wouldn't really be looking at any kind of walking aid until at least half past nine, I think. That's on the assumption that the entire lifespan takes place over one day which is, I believe I have already pointed out, ridiculous. I'm sorry, it's basically okay, but it doesn't work.'
'Well,' said the Sphinx, but irritably this time, 'I don't see what I can do about it. I haven't got any more. It's the only one I've ever needed.'
'You just need to alter it a bit, that's all.'
'How do you mean?'
'Just make it a bit more realistic.'
'Hmm.' The Sphinx scratched its mane with a claw.
'Okay,' it said doubtfully. 'I suppose I could ask: What is it that walks on four legs'
'Metaphorically speaking,' said Teppic.
'Four legs, metaphorically speaking,' the Sphinx agreed, 'for about-'
'Twenty minutes, I think we agreed.'
'Okay, fine, twenty minutes in the morning, on two legs***'
'But I think calling it in "the morning" is stretching it a bit,' said Teppic. 'It's just after midnight. I mean, technically it's the morning, but in a very real sense it's still last night, what do you think?'
A look of glazed panic crossed the Sphinx's face.
'What do you think?' it managed.
'Let's just see where we've got to, shall we? What, metaphorically speaking, walks on four legs just after midnight, on two legs for most of the day-'
'Barring accidents,' said the Sphinx, pathetically eager to show that it was making a contribution.
'Fine, on two legs barring accidents, until at least suppertime, when it walks with three legs-'
'I've known people use two walking sticks,' said the Sphinx helpfully.
'Okay. How about: when it continues to walk on two legs or with any prosthetic aids of its choice?'
The Sphinx gave this some consideration.
'Ye-ess,' it said gravely. 'That seems to fit all eventualities.'
'Well?' said Teppic.
'Well what?' said the Sphinx.
'Well, what's the answer?'
The Sphinx gave him a stony look, and then showed its fangs.
'Oh no,' it said. 'You don't catch me out like that. You think I'm stupid? You've got to tell me the answer.'
'Oh, blow,' said Teppic.
'Thought you had me there, didn't you?' said the Sphinx.
'Sorry.'
'You thought you could get me all confused, did you?'
The Sphinx grinned.
'It was worth a try,' said Teppic.
'Can't blame you. So what's the answer, then?'
Teppic scratched his nose.
'Haven't a clue,' he said. 'Unless, and this is a shot in the dark, you understand, it's: A Man.'
The Sphinx glared at him.
'You've been here before, haven't you?' it said accusingly.
'No.'
'Then someone's been talking, right?'
'Who could have talked? Has anyone ever guessed the riddle?' said Teppic.
'No!'
'Well, then. They couldn't have talked, could they?'
The Sphinx's claws scrabbled irritably on its rock.
'I suppose you'd better move along, then,' it grumbled.
'Thank you,' said Teppic.
'I'd be grateful if you didn't tell anyone, please,' added the Sphinx, coldly. 'I wouldn't like to spoil it for other people.'
Teppic scrambled up a rock and on to You Bastard.
'Don't you worry about that,' he said, spurring the camel onwards. He couldn't help noticing the way the Sphinx was moving its lips silently, as though trying to work something out.
(Terry Pratchett- Pyramids

Reprinted WITHOUT Permission from the distinguished Mr. Terry Pratchett

"A friend of yours?" "Well, I know the person..." Part I

So there I am, opening Facebook and am presented with many names accompanying pictures that if I think loong and haaard may invite certain recollection. The thing is that all these names/pictures have this cute li'l tab that reads Add as Friend...
Now what's a guy to do? (I'm talking about me... OK?)
Should I just click-click-click away those tabs, making these people "my friends"?

Are they "my friends"?
Am I their "friend"?

Yes, I know them. And I may know some things about them, be it their occupations or certain personality traits, but here comes those questions again: Are they my friends? and Am I theirs?
I have my own understanding of this word: friend.
I have friends, thank God, meaning that I consider them friends. But whether they consider me their friends, you gotta ask them that. I realize that I don't consider myself having many friends, and you know what? It suits me so very fine (NOT having many friends, I mean).
I choose my friends, I am teaching my kids to choose their friends very carefully. And I believe that these friends of mine, either consciously or subconsciously, "choose" to befriend me for whatever reasons.
Why am I teaching my kids to choose their friends? Because there are people out there that I strongly believe will bring harm to my kids should they become friends. I believe that NOT everyone fits to be someone else's friend. The bottom line is there are bad people out there. That is how the world is.
I can live with just a few people whom I can really call friends. And I will not befriend someone whom I think will bring me harm. I grew up being taught that one should not fall into the same hole twice, and there are qualities--good and bad--that everyone possesses; and, because of this I don't mind losing "so-called friends." (Hey, there are 6.6+ billion people in this world, what's losing a "friend" or two?)
I believe in redemption, but it is not for me to give and to prove whether a person has indeed redeemed himself.
Am I a person holding a grudge? I am a cautious person.
So, until there is another cute li'l tab that reads Add as Acquaintance, I'll stick with a few friends I have and believe.

*Fiuuh, that's a lot of F-words...*