just minishorts.

This part of my life. What I'm going through now. Look, it's not the work stress, it's called release. What I'm doing, every single day of my life, for the past two weeks, if it wasn't clearly explicated already, is reading, and reading, and reading storybooks meant for children aged seven to nine.

And then, from there, I'm supposed to use my 'expertise' (yes, it's true, I do have expertise in this), to select the most suitable ones for a series of educational materials. In the process, I'm to come up with adaptations.

That's my job. That's what I do for a living. This is my bread and butter, now. And no, I'm not complaining because it's hell of a job and I really, really like it.

When you stumbled upon here, a long time ago, I was in my SECOND YEAR of University, my ambition was vague, I had somewhat a vision of myself standing in front of a bunch of bored-to-death varsity kids, trying to explain in laymen's terms, the differences between syntax and morphology. And now I'm somewhat there, except I don't meet the students, I communicate with words. It's not exactly what I imagined, but you've heard enough of me bragging about how all these is far beyond 'achievement' for me.

Every single day of my life, right now, I flip through compilations of Bedtime Stories. Every single morning I wake up at 7.00, take a bath, and by 7.45 I'm on the road, and 20 minutes later seated at the computer booting things up, and drinking my daily dose of mocha (Nescafe campur Milo lah what else). And then, after a while, I start to read, and read. In between page-flipping, I surf blogs sometimes, or chat to friends who are online. It isn't always that a story is worth adapting for the materials I do, as demonstrated, the sensitivities that may arise are just… endless.

I leave the book reading/story writing at 5.30, and at the end of the day, I'm a larder full of screwed up inspirations that are just DYING to be let loose, but can't for the sake of practical logic. The end result is this.

And yes, recently, being nice and cuddly is getting to my nerves. Previously it wasn't as bad because I was doing books for the upper levels, but now that the target market's 7 to 9 year olds, please, have a heart, and understand the pains that I'm going through these days.

So what is it that you don't get? I have a life too, and what you're seeing here, is the exact translation of what I am living for. This is the way I earn my bowl of rice, and like it or not, you will have to live with it. Otherwise, find some other person who was as 'hopeful' and 'melancholic' as I was, when I was a kid.

No, honestly. I have not recently just started to become more blatantly loose with my dispensal of the four-letter word. The word has been embedded within me for quite sometime already, and while previously it did sound a wee bit foul to be cussing with the four-letter F*** word all the time, I have since begun to view it as a simpler way to convey my meanings, especially when it comes to the extra-intense ones that need more 'ooomph'.

Apropos, the four-letter word has been recognized to be one of the most versatile words in the f***ing universe, as demonstrated by this over-circulated flash, and in (what I have recognized as) my limited lexiconal capacity I have merely reduced several parts of my speech to this singular but extremely diverse dictionary-entry. Also, I wanted to help you understand things more.

Besides, it makes things more interesting too, as demonstrated below in an otherwise mad-mix of adjectives/adverbs/verbs/etc, etc.

Did you hear about that blasphemous tale about the resident shorts-wearing elf that tried to silence the atrocious parrot with the defunct tongue that wouldn't stop wagging? Well, she did it in the sincerest hope that the move would bring wondrous joy to the entire jungle.

That was very civilized and boring. The four-letter word can spruce things up.

Did you hear about that fucking tale about the fuckilicious resident shorts-wearing elf that tried to silence the fucked-up parrot with the fucked-up tongue that just wouldn't stop fucking? Well, she fucking did it in the fuckerest hope that that fucking move would bring fuckrous joy to the entire fucking jungle.

So, as you see, it has so far served its purpose well, and I believe it shall continue to be a loyal servant of its master (a.k.a. me). And I hope this post will further convince you that I am not fucking fucked with my fucked life.