So last night, as we got talking, some crying dames suddenly stopped crying and said, "You're... Amir Hafizi? THE Amir Hafizi?"
I smiled, and nodded.
God, I hate this.
"I love your article on this and that and whateverthefuck!"
Oh no. They're only naming my blog posts. They'll expect a performance, not of the sexual kind. I'm a walking circus. But I can't blame anyone.
"So what do you do?"
"I write for a newspaper."
"The Star?"
FUCK! I. DO. NOT. WRITE. FOR. THE. STAR! I've never written for The Star. Not that I have anything against them. I just go with underdogs. Going with The Star is like supporting Brazil. And Brazil lost.
"No," I grinned. Flashing clean white teeth. "I write for The Malay Mail. Read it. It's free."
"Oh, I read it, when I was looking for my first job."
When was that? 1896?
"You also do movies, right? I read on your blog..."
I whip out Lucille from my trenchcoat and started shooting up the place. BAM! Straight between the eyes. BLAM! Somebody lost a nut or two. KA-BLAM! No open casket for that dame.
"And then, and then, you wrote..."
She laughed. And her friend started sniffing. Turning up her nose. I know what's coming.
"Hmph! I don't read blogs."
"Neither do I," I said.
And then she starts playing games. Not Super Mario Bros or Tetris. The hot and cold game. The "come and fuck me, but only if I let you" game.
I ain't got time for games. The cold night wind was calling me. I didn't even have the mood to play my character for the enthusiastic broad. I got up, and went out into the night.
I hope I left the two broads with the realisation that life is no game, not like in blogs or forums or Facebook. I hope they realise that not all stories have an ending, wrapped neatly with a bow.
And that sometimes, you better make me pay the bills or part of the tab before I go. Cause I sometimes forget.
