I'm not gonna sleep tonight. Catching up on some work. Most of it's finished. Just a matter of rearranging them. I was dead tired last night. Came back from Kuantan and then straight to the office. It wasn't work that was wearing me down. I'm just worried about my parents.
I need to think about arrangements for them. Am not going to put them in nursing homes - no fucking way, man - cause I've been to nursing homes in Malaysia. They'll be surrounded by sad cases.
When you're surrounded by wailing and screaming people, it would be hard not to wail and scream with the chorus.
Nope. They will have to be in their places of power. Their own land. Their own home.
I'm doing all I can for them, but I don't think it will be enough.
My father's a stubborn old man. He will do as he pleases, and he is not scared of any type of illness. Not scared of death either. Not a single person in our family is scared of death. Not individually. And we're all very strong individuals.
He just got his eyes bombarded with lasers and the doctor told him to rest for a week, for fear of the damage sunlight can do to his retinas.
Doctor: Optic blast! Optic blast!
Father: Berserker barrage! Berserker barrage!
One week of prescribed rest. Two hours after we got home, he was outside, weeding an acre of land. Under the sun which thankfully had gone behind some clouds.
I guess I just have to be okay with it. And trust that they would know what's best for them. Trust that they're adult enough to know.
I am particularly worried about Hari Raya. The food can kill them. Rendang is bad, bad, bad. Glutinous rice is poison. Tapai is radioactive material. Smorgasboard of kuihs and other sweet things.
I will have to step in and have a hand in the matter. I'll be the bad cop, if need be.
I might be hated, but hell, man, I was never born into this world to be loved. That's not my thing. I've had lots of practice.
I never had that complex. It is enough if you fear me, or ignore me. When I am old, I want to be alone and die in peace. Though as things unfold now, I can see that I might die with fucking submachine guys nailed to my hands.
You'll never take me alive, bitch! Just like Raja Petra. Yeah!
So you see, this puts everything in perspective. No other worries from anywhere can match the things we as a family need to do for our parents.
And one of the reasons why I do it is because my parents never told me that they had me so that they can use me as a fucking insurance policy.
Damn me if ever I were to follow the herd mentality of Malays who take care of their parents because it's fashionable to do so. Fashion, my dick.
And people who say they do things, cause they don't want to regret things later, if the other person dies. That's selfish, in my book. You do it, so YOU don't feel bad. It's all about you, eh? Well, fuck you.
Everyone's entitled to their opinion, right? And everyone has an opinion like they got assholes, right? Well, stick your opinion up your motherfucking assholes, okay? That's why I fucking disabled comments. Shut the fuck up and enjoy my genius, a'ight?
Closest thing was when my father said I should have been a doctor, so I could get him free drugs.
If they did say that they had kids so it would be easier for them when they're old, I would have given them the finger and told them to fuck off and die. They were never a bother to me, though.
In fact, it is one of their big things to be independent and not trouble any of their children.
They've always been independent. My father never had a proper father. He was adopted. He moved a lot, as a child, earning his cot and his keep by tapping rubber and taking care of other people's houses and other people's children.
I think that, perhaps, when he had his first child, he didn't know what the fuck to do.
That's all in the past. And I'm sure a lot of people who have or had parents would know what I'm talking about. Or one day you will.
I am neither proud nor ashamed of my parents. They're parents. They're people. People get old. People get sick. And one day, people die. Everyone dies. Doesn't make it okay, but they do. You know?
One thing, though. My father's right eye has been open for a month now. That's a sign that he is recovering from the stroke.
If I have it my way, no one comes to the house during Raya. The fuck you doing there for? You were never there when he was healthy, and now you want to do what? Pay last respects? Fuck you. My father may yet outlive me. Still smoking four packs a day. I can only manage three.
Oh well. Back to work.
Oh. Fuck you.