I don't have a fever yet, but I feel the thing coming.
Somehow, I begin to remember this bitch I knew.
She was rich. She was beautiful. She had a loving husband. Two smart kids. She was one of the biggest bitches I knew. A real bitch, not a fake one. Someone who wouldn't take no for an answer.
She had a multi-million dollar condo in KL. I went there once, during Chinese New Year, and lost RM50 to her in a game of poker.
She died. Years ago.
I do not pity here, but sometimes I do miss her.
She and I, we were not very close. But bitches - real ones, not wannabe fake fascimile pretentious ones - tend to find me and talk to me. I don't know why.
I often sense, underneath all the tough bitchiness, lie very gentle souls. I appreciate their directness and candour. I always know where I stand with bitches, and true bitches, they see no need to be rude or evil unless absolutely necessary. Fake bitches embrace the form, while the real ones brim with essence.
This is true for everything. Fake liberals only embrace things at a very shallow definition. How you LOOK, instead of how you are. And even with how you are, they always confuse action for essence.
When you are something, you don't need to work at doing or acting out anything. Those things simply go forth naturally.
For example, a lot of people tell me, they want to be writers. I used to go on and on about this, but after a while, I just stopped and shut up whenever people say all this to me.
Why? Cause the real writers will just BE writers. They will be one from inside out. They will first be a writer, inside, then they will do it - writing - and in the end, they will have that - designation as a writer.
The idiots, they will run around like headless chickens, never writing, never finishing what they write, because they are bedazzled, like a chicken, with other things. Shiny stuff like the romance of writing, the status, the glitter which, after
eight years, I can assure you is not gold.
Sometimes, all it takes is a simple shift inside you and your whole world could change. And this does not necessarily mean positive things.
Now, why did I wake up, half-feverish from my dreams, to write about writing and a dead friend?
Ah, yes, perhaps if we all were to have enough balls like the REAL bitches I have known and loved, we would all be happier people, living in our dreams.
Though, caveat emptor, the price of getting what you want is getting what you once wanted. I guess all married people would understand that last bit at some instances of their relationships.
And with that, I sink back into the world of neither-here-nor-there fevered dreams.
