Viks was up because he couldnt sleep,so he decided to move to the living room to watch tv. He staggered out from his bed with a pair of swollen eyes,blakened sockets, a stiff back and a rigid neck,looking unlike the undead as he embraced their time of day. Viks got the shivers as the living room was dead and the night was alive.As he tiptoed down the wooden stairs, Viks hoped he was the only creature up although he feared the loneliness,as when all you could see are your hands and feet you are terrorised by the slightest bump, the stealthiest thump and the simplest caress on those limbs that connect you them.But Viks was a brave young boy who didnt buy into such irrational jerks.He soon shook it all out, telling to himself it was just crickets and dripping taps. He went on with a gallant look as he stared into the empty room, wanting to stare down monsters. He murmured "I am not a liltle boy anymore" over and over again for he believed this words were monster kryptonite,that, once hummed, would place a spell which spelled "MONSTERS DONT EXIST!" on the murky, silet room. He wanted teevee and teevee he would get danger or no danger. Viks was a brave young boy who didnt buy into such unreasonable inputs, and so he jaunt his way in, chests risen,from the last step of stairs to the living room.He turned the television on when he found the remote,and what he saw in it was a skinny liltle kid, bobbling his way back to bed, tired from watching tv.Suddenly a shriek was heard,the screen turned blank. His throat took a lump and his stomach slammed into his lungs, Viks was shaken and stirred as he realised who he was. Who he was was that skinny liltle kid who in an instant fell victim to what laid ahead.What lays ahead? he squirmed and shuddered discomfortly in the chair, with cushions and pillows wrapped all around him. He wriggled and wriggled all about,he was agitated, he couldnt just stay so he swayed from one armrest to another.He thought he had thought it all out. All there was to do ws to mutter those magic words "I am not a liltle boy anymore" and things would be as fine as things would be on that line. But now, admist the blank screen and the static roar emanating from it, he knew he was wrong. he knew he was wrong even though he still thought it was wrong to be thinking so illogically and to be fluttering so insanely. Viks took on his instincts and found his instincts took him on, thus he was here now smothered to the nose with cushions that were meant to be sat on with your butt and to be laid against your back. He was a knight, a knight with armour plates made from wool and fluff, pulsing to the rhythm of the cold freezing night.Suddenly, a flicker of an image registered on screen, his eyes balooned as large as chicken eggs as the brave liltle boy who was him reappeared in the scene. What lays ahead? it spiralled and spiralled in him before this. Now the spinning stopped, it was time to learn what happened, whether he still was that liltle skinny boy and not a skinny pile of bones. Viks quivered as he sunk deeper and deeper into his tent of cushions, till eventually it submerged his eyes blocking his view of the screen. He was scared, afraid of being a skinny pile of bones and not a skinny liltle boy who was just a skinny pile of bones to any predator which may lurk beyond his hands and feet and so wasnt worth a mea.But Viks needed the truth, he needed to know what happened. So he rose from his covers and glimpsed with a keenness not present since he started being a liltle boy again. He had forgotten his initial fright, he was pumped with curiosity,with a nosiness only possible through a boldness only available in that liltle brave boy who could stare down monsters and who would stray into living rooms chanting "I'm not a liltle boy anymore".What laid ahead was a mouse scattering about searching for the scrapings of the cheeze which that skinny liltle kid ate for supper before he went out of his room to watch tv, and when he was tired he went back to it and screamed a tear so bare it terrified the liltle skinny boy on this side of the screen. The liltle viks in the liltle brave boy this side of the screen was assured. He laughed a loud puff when he saw who he was, a fool the idiot box made fun off. He turned off the tv as he whipped out a joke mocking himself by suggesting it was enough suspense for one night. And so he bobbed of to bed, till a shriek was heard and brave skinny liltle viks found out his brothers registered him for fear factor, home challenge, where he was supposed to swallow a mouse whole for supper.

I was toast under this weather. Everytime I looked at my limbs,which were a golden brown, I thought of King Midas and saw him in the sun. It burned when he touched my skin, and each time he did I glowed and melted a liltle more. It was hot. The sky was a deep blue and the afternoon shine was a bright white and the shadows procreated were as black as night. I knew I had to get out fast before I was charred a black that black, but all I could do was sit thight and wait for the aircond to start. I stabbed the key in,the engine choked and choked till it eventually wheezed a smooth whirl that was followed by a loud static roar from the ducts and I thought I was safe at last. But, alas, I was wrong. I was wrong because this was a Proton, a Malaysian car with Malaysian components with Malaysian quality stamped all over them, and so instead of a soft, cool hush all I got was a scalding jet of air punched onto my face.It was a Malaysian aircond built with a Malaysian weather in it, which made me mad because it made me remember I am a Malaysian, the only nationality which comes with a gurantee that things will fuck up all around you.Things fuck up all around me,and it was exasperating when the door locks shut irregularly, when,from a whisper of air,the alarm beeped loudly, when the windows dont whine shut prefectly, when the seat belts ate into my tummy and when my tummy ate up my body and when my brain didnt snap synapses when it mattered and when my synapses snapped, in a different way, when it mattered. Things fucked up all around me not because I am Malaysian but because I fuck up, because I was a boob and a fool, a fool who only knew the art of eating and sleeping, a boob who only secretes sweat and plaque and saliva and not work when he was working and play when he was playing, who kept on thinking of work during play and play during work till all that were left were guilt and shame and shame and guilt.I stared at this truth, a truth so bare it drenched the crimson flush,coloured by the fumes from the ducts, off my face,till what was left in the rear mirror was a mask so white it shoud be snow.It was a fascade of snow white's after she ate the poison apple and before she kissed the curing lips, a peal so pale it could not bear life. I knew what I am and what I was were guilt and shame and shame and guilt. I ran and ran from the problems admist till I was crippled by them in the end. From there I glared and glared at the rear mirror, till all that were there were a fool and a boob,their crust boiled from a golden brown to a crimson flush by the air cond ducts.

I am a man of few words when I speak. I am a man of whom few words were used when spoken off. And yet, it baffles the mind at the seeming contradiction which exists when I am logged on into the web, where I write and write and write till somebody screams afowl over words typed,or rather the volume of words being typed.And so I would like to address to the common man and his curiousity on this seemingly miraculous transition. A change,so unexpected and so unforseen, that money would fall from the sky and leap into your pockets as they shout "spend me! spend me!" with glee whenever it happened. And what you bought with that cash is your business,although I apprehend them being a suit of body hugging spandex, a collar, a whip and a pair of handcuffs. The common man might question my understanding of nature's science, even though I took and scored that elite distiction that is a low pass in physics,chemistry and bio at school, of why as of yet their hasnt been a gail of running 50ringgit bills gliding down from the stratrosphere. My dear fellow taxpayers, the question is not to do with my understanding of nature's laws, but of my comprehension of economics and even perhaps meteorology,which isnt a science of nature (and so doesnt count) since that ahma across the street could do a better job at predicting rain.I had slipped out of the topic at hand as I giggled with sadistic joy, grasping the idea that whomever that read the previous paragraphs would be overcomed by the merriments of monetary security, only to be dashed of it a few sentences later.Not to worry, for they shall, with a puff of a breath or two, regain what liltle is left of their sanity, and soon would be qualifed for that prestigious fraternity that is Tanjung Rambutan, of which I am in charge of the accounting of its finances.I had skipped out of the topic at hand, and I shall quickly take a bend back to the straight path. Why,oh,why,did these idle fingers jab and jab till ctrl alt tab,being punched twice, seemed to be a good choice of action? Well, with an honest heart I shall devour the contents of my mind, which are just as meriticrious as the contents of my hind. The truth of the matter, and the matter of the truth, is that there is no one single solution, just as there is no one single pollution worst than the stink that resides in both ends of my poles.I molest keyboards because I could, because there is a deeper need than the desire to be slothful, and that is for the inner shout to be heard and to be listened to.And that internal squabble may be about my wobbly figure, as opposed to the vanity that is Bradd Pitt, or the dark impulses that cajoled me to throw acid at him, or the lighter fantasies of being a female's Siren aka a Backstreet Boy which wouldnt 'Quit Playing Games with their Hearts'.I stabbed that rectangular chopper board for the thrill that eludes even spandex and spiked collars. It is a pleasure founded upon your leisure, your willingness to pave the maze that are my articles of thought and feeling.And it is you that give me worth, a worth that wouldnt dispend even after your long patience and persistence finally gave up and broke nto a thousand pieces,that resulted in a thousand shards of aggresive commentaries that started this attempt of an explanation in the first place. I dabbled upon that sad excuse for a typewriter because I wanted to discipline my wavy, uneven skills and my garbled knowledge to produce, to ptoduce something worth a smite and a jibe from the barely-literate. I wanted to curdle blood,to inject tears and to lessen cheeks for a laugh or two, I wanted to procreate the humanity within us that has been monopolised by hong kong soaps and bollywood goods and to realise, to show that it doesnt take a Priyanka Copra or a Louis Khoo or any face of botox to be human, as all that is needed to flush that face red, to cry that eye a river, to press that lips a smile, is the volumnious or economical use of words describing your friend is a whore