You Can't Beat a Woman

You can't. And you should never.

Never beat a woman.

Last night, as I was helping my dad unload bags of sand from his car, a white Lexus screeched to a sudden halt 15 feet from where I was standing. In the darkness, I noticed a lot of commotion going on. The door on the driver's side flung open momentarily and revealed a man and a woman. I knew then, that they were having a fight because he shouted, "Stop it!"

And then he hit her. He punched her.

The door closes and the commotion continues. I stood there in the darkness, the gate separating me from the fight outside. And I watched the movements of the people inside. I listened to the muffled argument from where I was standing.

"Dy, the people in the white Lexus are fighting," I said to my Dad.

He turned and looked over his shoulder. "Really?" he said disinterestedly.

"He just punched her," I said.

"Well, don't look. It's none of our business," my dad said as he continued to unload the bags of sand. "It's none of our business," he repeated, "and come help me with these."

I stared at the car. The brake lights went off. The car sped 10 feet ahead and screeched to a halt again. I could still hear them. And the light from the lamp post illuminated their shadows in the dark. I knew he hit her again.

I tore my eyes away. "He hit her again," I mumbled, not meeting my dad's eyes.

"None of our business. Come on inside." And casually, my dad dusted his hands and walked into the house.

I turned to look at the car again. It sped off into the night, away from my sight.

I continued to stand there. I felt unsettled, disturbed.

It didn't matter where it happened, who it involved, or at what time it occured. You can never justify the reasons to hit a woman.

You should never beat a woman.

She Returns

"That woman sent me an SMS today."

My mind drew a blank. "Which woman?" I asked stupidly.

"That one," he said to me quietly.

I stared at the traffic lights ahead, hoping they'd turn green soon. Hoping that it will distract us from this conversation. It seems as if his car got too stifling, too small, all of a sudden.

Yet, it stubbornly remained red.

"Oh, her," I said. "What did she want?"

Honestly, I didn't really want to know what she wanted. Especially from him. What else could she want from him?

A picture of her smiling into the camera made a driveby in my mind's eye. She's pretty, I can't deny that. She's even sugary sweet. She looks like someone I'd be friends with. If circumstances were different, I might even like her.

Except that I don't. I haven't even met her yet. I can't like her and I won't.

I put on a plastic smile that proved to be convincing enough for him. "Well, I'm sure she wants to be friends with you again. Try to be nice to her then," I said without looking at him.

"It'll take time," he mumbled.

I glanced at him quickly. He remained expressionless, and I was dying to know what he was thinking.

He dropped me home that night. And for the first time in many, many months, I felt like someone had just ripped my heart out and stomped on it, many, many times. It didn't feel good at all.

I sat down in bed, motionless, expressionless. And then I cried.

So I look like I'm abnormal. But I think it's a pretty cool picture. Thanks, Jon(athan Gordon). 

Oooooh...I like this font. So I sound like a retard. So what?

I realized that I've been such a lazy blogger that I shouldn't even be classified as one. There's been this ongoing debate in Youth2 in The Star for a couple of weeks now, something about the harmful effects of blogging. My first reaction was "WTF?"

I mean, seriously. If I wanted to blog, I'll blog. If I didn't want to blog, I won't blog. There was this parent writing in saying that bloggers use inappropriate language, like, you-know-what. Well. I'm sure everyone uses it once in a while. When we're pissed off, we use that F word. When we're happy, we use that F word. When we're sad, we still use that F word. In short, it's not something rude anymore. It's part of our vocabulary. It's like breathing. We don't even realize we're breathing--and same goes for saying that word.

To that very distressed parent who wrote in to say that blogging is like baring our souls to strangers and that the language used is often inappropriate, I hope you'll get over it soon. Things don't change overnight. It's not necessarily a bad thing. Just be thankful that your kid doesn't curse in front of you. And because he respects you that much, he chooses his words carefully when conversing with you. See?

Personally, I've never thought it was cool to swear. I mean, how can swearing be cool? Like I said earlier, it's like part of our vocabulary. Blame it on TV, blame in on our bas sekolah gang, blame it on the construction workers who speak loudly on their cellphones. The point is, yes, we know it sounds rude. And yes, it makes many people cringe. Of course, our sentences always sound better without those words.

But do bear in mind, though, that we don't do it on purpose. I can't count the number of times I've let it slip from my lips. Honestly, do you think I'd structure my sentences around swear words? Imagine this. I'm trying to illustrate just how slow the car in front of me is going. It's so slow, it's almost not moving.

Now, I can't be going "Oh, I think I should put in a couple of swear words so that other people will get the point." R-ight. So I go, "That car is so fucking slow it's not even really moving~~"

Yes, pardon the French. I told you I didn't do it on purpose. It's in my vocabulary. It's a bad, bad habit. Like biting on my nails. Or chewing my lip when I'm thinking. It's something that I can obviously try to kick (which, by the way, is what I'm trying to do at the moment).

Now, now. I'm neither encouraging nor discouraging people from swearing. It's a free world. It's your choice, not mine. And if you don't like what I just said, well, screw you. That wasn't intended to be rude. And yes, you may leave any comments of dissatisfaction here.

Have a great day~~