Koro: The fear that your penis will shrink into your body.
I learnt this from a Malaysian psychology student I met, it came under the category of 'cultural specific psychological disorders' and it was said to be specific to the Malay Archipelago this Wikipedia article says different though. In any case, I must say...what?
Has anyone heard of this before?
the phrase 'penis panics' made me laugh real loud in a silent library.. heh :)
I guess that's the word - numb. It's how I feel about Malaysian news and life. Talks of race and religion, equity and stocks, rights and privilidges. Nowadays, when someone tells me something that's gone wrong with the country when it could do so much better, my numb response is this:
credits for pic go to its original source (right-click > properties)
Poem: Slip of the Tongue by Adriel Luis My glares burn through her. And I’m sure that such actions aren’t foreign to her because the essence of her beauty is, well, the essence of beauty.
And in the presence of this higher being, the weakness of my masculinity kicks in, causing me to personify my wannabe big-baller, shot-caller, God’s gift to the female species with shiny suit wrapping rapping like, “Yo, what’s crackin shorty how you livin’ what’s your sign what’s your size I dig your style, yo.”
Now, this girl was no fool. She gives me a dirty look with the quickness like, “Boy, you must be stupid.” so I’m looking at myself, “Boy, you must be stupid.” But looking upon her I am kinda feelin’ her style.
So I try again. But, instead of addressing her properly, I blurt out one of my fake-ass playalistic lines like, “Gurl, you must be a traffic ticket cuz you got fine written all over you.” Now, she’s trying to leave and I’m trying to keep her here. So at a final attempt, I utter, “Gurl, what is your ethnic makeup?”
At this point, her glare was scorching through me, and somehow she manages to make her brown eyes resemble some kinda brown fire or something, but there’s no snap or head moement, no palm to face, click of tongue, middle finger, roll of eyes, twist of lips, or girl power chant. She just glares through me with these burning eyes and her gaze grabs you by the throat.
She says, “Ethnic makeup?” She says, “First of all, makeup’s just an anglicized, colonized, commodified utility that my sisters have been programmed to consume, forcing them to cover up their natural state in order to imitate what another sister looks like in her natural state because people keep telling her that the other sister’s natural state is more beautiful than the first sister’s natural state. At the same time, the other sister isn’t even in her natural state, because she’s trying to imitate yet another sister, so in actuality, the natural state that the first sister’s trying to imitate wasn’t even natural in the first place.”
Now I’m thinking, “Damn, this girl’s kicking knowledge!” But, meanwhile, she keeps spitting on it like “Fine. I’ll tell you bout my ‘ethnic makeup.’ I wear foundation, not that powdery shit, I wear the foundation laid by my indigenous people. It’s that foundation that makes it so that past being globalized, I can still vocalize with confidence that i know where my roots are. I wear this foundation not upon my face, but within my soul, and I take this from my ancestors because I’ll be damned if I’d ever let an American or European corporation tell me what my foundation should look like.”
I wear lipstick, for my lips stick to the ears of men, so they can experience in surround sound my screams of agony with each lash of rulers, measuring tape, and scales, as if my waistline and weight are inversely propotional to my value as a human being. See my lips, they stick, but not together. Rather, they flail open with flames to burn down this culture that once kept them shut. Now, I mess with eye shadow, but my eyes shadow over this time where you’ve gone at ends to keep me blind. But you can’t cover my eyes, look into them. My eyes foreshadow change. My eyes foreshadow light. and I’m not into hair dyeing. but I’m here, dying, because this oppression won’t get out of my hair. I have these highlights. They are highlights of my past atrocities, they form this oppression I can’t wash off. It tangles around my mind and twists and braids me in layers, this oppression manifests, it’s stressing me so that even though I don’t color my hair, in a couple of years it’ll look like I dyed it gray. So what’s my ethnic makeup ? I don’t have any. Because your ethnicity isn’t something you can just make up. And as for that crap my sisters paint on their faces, that’s not makeup, it’s make-believe.”
I can’t seem to look up at her. and I’m sure that such actions aren’t foreign to her because the expression on her face shows that she knows that my mind is in a trance.
As her footsteps fade, my ego is left in crutches. And rejection never sounded so sweet.
We fired our maid yesterday because we caught her with a handphone. My mum took the handphone and inside were all sorts of 'cinta/sayang' msges and calls. So we figured that she's prolly being lured and tricked by some Indon arse and one day he and his gang will break-in and rob us. To make matters worse, in the phone were pics of her with our clothing on. We actually would have let her stay on though, that is if she had not locked herself in her room and refused to do any work.
In any case, that was yesterday. I've been doing housework since then and one of my tasks today was to clean up her room, damn. For being the cleaner of the house her room was the dirtiest of them all. The floor was dusty and there was some sticky liquid stuff on the floor and it was like little black crap balls. I also found a food container with spoons (yea she steals our chocolates) and many other of my sister's accessories she had taken for herself.
But the worst of all.
Hidden under her bed-side tabletop cloth was a scanned IC of me that I had thrown away.
"The photo is the Pulitzer Prize winning photo taken in 1994 during the Sudan Famine.
The picture depicts stricken child crawling towards an United Nations food camp, located a kilometer away.
The vulture is waiting for the child to die so that it can eat him. This picture shocked the whole world. No one knows what happened to the child, including the photographer Kevin Carter who left the place as soon as the photograph was taken.
Three months later he committed suicide due to depression."
On the 26th of April, a Thursday morning, I lazily walked to my car for yet another day of college. But lo and behold, when I went to my driving seat i realised that there were glass shards on the seat. My eyes then bounced off the glass shards to notice that my entire radio had been (very barbarically, mind you) ripped out and my glove compartment was open and my SmartTag was gone. I then quickly rushed over to my front passengers seat window to face this sad sight.
This event happened right in front of my house the night before. Our garage doesn't have enough space for 4 cars, so as a result, my car the unlucky 4th, is left right outside.
I guess what's strange is that none of us heard the car alarm sound. The other pity of the whole event is that my car was parked on the left side of the house's front gate and thus the CCTV on the right didn't catch anything at all.
Fortunately, despite that they had opened the glove apartment and had obviously ruffled through its contents, they had not stolen anything else.
Unfortunately, the day of the event was the day I was leaving with Rotarian Pua to go for the Golden Child Project. The Golden Child Project is a yearly event sponsored and organised by the Rotary Club of PJ where approx 30 terminally ill children are taken to a holiday destination in Malaysia for 3 days and 2 nights, this time it was Genting.
On another note, there's this new cancer ad on Astro where there's a young kid walking around an empty stadium. Her name's Amiza and she was one of the terminally kids we brought to Genting. The toy Koala she is holding is from the Golden Child Project and it is sponsored by the Rotary Club of Surfers' Paradise. Everytime i see that ad now i feel slightly saddened since i know her personally, but at the same time i feel somewhat happy that i have helped her in some way through the project.
Imagine being 6 and knowing that you might never reach 7. And here I am complaining about my stolen radio.
An individual is like a card, No two are exactly the same; It is interesting how great society, Can be compared to a poker game.
We start off with the two big groups: The Reds and the Blacks- Spades and Hearts at the front, Clubs and Diamonds at the back.
Now countries must have rulers, Thus comes the Kings and Queens, Jacks to run the government And Aces on TV screens.
And then there are the others; The majority, - the numbers:
Ten, Nine and Eight- Ministers, Heads of State; Seven, Six and Five- People working at the hive; Four, Three and Two- Collars coloured blue.
Their faces may be different, But their backs are all the same. They live in the same old box, They play the same old game.
But this is where similarities end, Cards and Humans are different packs; For if Cards were exactly like Humans, You would not be able to shuffle the deck.
