We go through phases in life and we gather experiences. We learn from people, and we pick up phrases from box-office blockbusters. Sometimes, we pretend to be art critics ourselves and scoff at the run-of-the-mill quality that these things carry in them. But you can't beat that final fact, it hammers into you like a dull, droning thud. Not reality, but like-reality. Where was I?
I must have lost sense of my surroundings. Oh yes, you didn't quite realise it, and I've been halted. 'Don't curse. It's unbecoming.'
'Uh.'
'You don't say foul things. Don't go, "My ass," and point to your arse like that, it doesn't look good.'
'Huh.'
'It makes you seem uncultured.'
Who the heck told you I was cultured anyway? Well if you must know, I drive an unwashed Wira that will take me years to finish paying in installments, and my entire study's a complete mess. My receipts are all over the place and it doesn't look like I'm going to complete my income-tax self-assessment exercise anytime soon (and the clock's ticking, so I've been reminded). I don't have a full-time job goddamnit, but you can be certain that I am trying, trying, and trying very very hard to make ends meet. You won't believe me but I ain't like the rest of you living off your daddy's money and all that. My daddy's out of the country since the end of the 1990's, and since then, it's always been Mummy and me.
So what's so bad about cussing? It's not like I say fuck you to every cuddly rabbit on the road, anyway.
Blah.
