Let this be a reply to both of your comments.

First, kudos to both of your well-thought of comments. It's always nice knowing there are thoughtful people like you out there.

The only reason why I'd be a feminist is when somebody tells me that I can't drive when he could. When somebody tells me that I can't go out without telling him, and he could.

And I do agree with you. Good marriages are rare to come by, but when they do, it's heaven on earth.

It's the bad marriages that makes writings like these come up every now and then. Maybe they're not as frequent as I see it, but they sure raise a lot of steam. *grin*

So thank you for reminding me of my own biases.


I’m sorry I broke your heart. It was a fantasy. Not him. It sure did get me into a lot of trouble though. *nyengir, salah tingkah*
I’ll see you Friday.
And thank you for your prayers.


I reckon that you still want to get married. So be grateful. I’m doing you a favor. Tak sadar jugakah kamu?


Dude…busyet deh. I can smell you when you think of me. Stop thinking of me, because it’s driving my kids nuts!

How can anyone regret singlehood when life is generously fulfilling?

I’ve never met a single person (pun intended) in Saudi who doesn’t complain of loneliness and spousal longing when they hit that certain age. Heck, I keep losing guy friends because of this. Either because they start treating me as a girlfriend, or because they get married and don’t want to “cheat” on their wives by maintaining a friendship with a quirky female like myself. Oh, you know who you are!

Is life really that unfulfilling in Saudi?

Don’t know for sure, but I think that marriage becomes the next best thing when you run of out steam for life. Marriage is the social solution to everything in Saudi: are you sad and depressed? Get married! Do you have an addiction problem? Get married! Are you jobless? Get married! Are you homosexual? Get married! Are you tired of your marriage? Get married again!

What would happen if people suddenly stopped pushing marriage as a solution to everything? Would we start becoming grateful for what’s already been given and ask for no more?

That’s not realistic, is it? Humans are prone to sin, prone to fall in love, and to succumb to temptation, no matter how tough our yearly resolutions are.

Prayers don’t always work in repelling temptation. The thing with temptation is that, when it strikes, it will force aside every danged mental and physical obstacle, persuade like there’s no tomorrow and raise an iron-clad demand. And crawling closer to God actually makes temptation harder to deny, sometimes. Because the closer you are to the source of light, is the darker becomes the shadow that follows you around.

(That’s why I’m always wondering what catholic monks do for fun).


One point of blogging is to raise questions I cannot answer to the surface. Let whoever out there think along and maybe ask more enlightening questions. The goal to asking questions is not to get answers, just to bask in wonderment and let that damned grey matter click its way on its own.

Some people aren’t meant to get married (at least not right away). Some questions aren’t asked to get straight answers. And some of you out there should stop worrying about what’s coming ahead of you; because whatever is coming, will come on its own time. And when that happens, nothing in the world will have the power to stop it.

So have a good one, folks.

There was a difference between a lazy day spent with IT and with Jai.

Both of them were ‘boys’ in their early-thirties. Both of them expected to be cuddled and loved. Both were very enjoyable to spend time with. And maybe both of them sincerely loved me. (Hey, wishful thoughts are always nice)

But with IT, when I needed to go out, what I said to him was, “I’m going out now, need I pick up anything for you?”

With Jai, what I said was, “Can I visit my mother, and pass by Jareer on the way? I’ll be back by eight o’clock. I’ll call you when I get there. Do you need anything from anywhere?”

See the difference?

With Jai, I was asking for permission.

With IT, I was giving information.

With Jai, unless I was asking for divorce, he’d have to know exactly where I was going, whom I’m seeing, when I was coming back, and make sure that I stick to the proposed plan by the letter.

With IT, unless I was near death, he wouldn’t bother knowing more than what dinner I’m bringing back. He wouldn’t offer to be my knight in shining armor, knowing that by eighteen I should have had my own.

Jai would call me as soon as it strikes eight o’clock. And make sure that I remember that I have a husband waiting for me at home.

IT would text me every once in a blue moon. Just to make sure that I don’t get sold to some slave market in some foreign land. Or forget his dinner.

Jai’s expectations were as normal as every husband would have.

IT’s were as normal as every close friend would have.

The relationship I had with IT was impossible to occur with Jai.

Because IT expected me to be safe and sound, while Jai expected me to be obedient and attending.

Because one treated me as his friend and the other treated me as his wife.

Oh, wait…

Let me rephrase that.

Because one treated me as his equal and the other treated me as his wife.

I have no doubt that if IT were my husband; he’d have the same expectations as Jai did .

Normal men have normal expectations of their wives.

Normal men expect normal wives.

Not feminists.

Not ‘westernized’ women.

Not women with ideas about gender equality, individuality, and self-actualization in their minds.

Normal men expect replacements of their own mothers, and pedestals for their egos.


Bugz told me about a friend whose wife is refusing to let go of her job in order to live with him.

Why can’t he let go of his job and live with his wife instead?

What a Stupid question.

Right, so is that why people get married? So that the woman would blend into the man’s personal life and not the other way around?

Let’s say she does let go of her job, live with him, serve and attend, is that all marriage has got for her? Because she’s a woman?

Valin used to say that society wouldn’t condemn a woman for not having a career but would harshly judge a capable man if he didn’t work.

So if the man didn’t work, should his wife also quit, saving her husband’s face?


Women have been arguing like this for years.

And it always boils down to this:

Family always comes first. Even if it erases an individual’s identity.

Women don’t need identities when the children are raised and fed, the house is neat, and the husbands are loyal and happy.

Isn’t that all the identity and self-actualization that she needs?

Man, sarcasm is going to keep me single for a very long time.


Is it true that a woman may not enter heaven unless her husband consents it?

(Dude, are you still pissed about that one time I made you break the rule that expelled us out of heaven? I thought we got over that!)

What kinda bullshit is that?

What if my husband abused me?

What if my husband neglected me?

What if my husband was HUMAN, full of flaws and sins, just like me?

Is God worried about Femme-Fatale? Or is He worried that insolent women might start a suffragette campaign in heaven?

“So, men, tame your women well.”


When men blamed women for driving them out of heaven, isn’t that another way to admit what powers women have over men?

Dude, we’re so hot you’d prefer what’s between our legs than any other heaven that God has given you. And I know I like what’s between yours. So let’s break the one rule that’d give us more access to each other’s crotches.

Our kids would love us for this.


God, I know You ain’t no guy, so I know that You ain’t that dumb; I’d rather have normal men as my lovers and friends for the rest of my life than have my relationship with You be disgruntled with bitterness.

God, when You made marriage as a venue for us to love and respect each other, You didn’t put an invisible footnote somewhere that stipulated in women to be subordinates to men, did You?

God, You gave me as much IQ as man, more strength and patience than man to bear his children, more forgetfulness and kindness than man to forgive him, how can I possibly believe that You’d be so ignorant to place him above me?


I’m grateful for the friendship IT had offered. He made me realize what kind of relationship I’d want to have with a man in marriage.

I’m grateful for the attention that Jai had for me. I wouldn’t have been so relieved to be single again if I didn’t have him as my husband.

Next time,

If I have to ask for permission from my guy, so should he.

I might need him to pick up a tampon on the way back.


I have a really quirky maid in the place where I live.

She calls my pets the oddest names (Soup for my cat, Wono for my dog Misha), and intends to make Indonesian dishes out of them.

She calls me stupid and naïve.

She makes fun of all of my friends.

She makes fun of me all the time.

She’s the only maid I know in the world who likes booze.

She would prefer money to anything else in the world.

But she’s there when I need someone to talk to.

She’s there when I get sick, spooning medicine into my mouth.

She’s there when my room is so wrecked that it takes hours to clean up.

She’s there when I need someone to cover for my ass, feeding and playing with both of my kids, accepting letters, getting the grocery and paying the bills.

She’s there when insanity touches me, with her “It doesn’t bother me if you die out of starvation, but it’d bother me cleaning up your stinking carcasses, so EAT SOMETHING!”

And she’s honest to the Rupiah.

Last night I made her sit on the floor with me.

I just came back from a four-day trip, loaded with ache and loneliness.

I had a bottle of Bailey’s, and needed the company.

Between giggles and name-calling, I half filled the mug with ice and Bailey’s, took the first sip and offered it to her.

She looked at the mug reluctantly, “maybe I should drink from another cup.”

“Why? I don’t mind.”

“Are you sure? I’m just a maid, remember?”

“Yeah? So what am I?”

She looked at me for a beat of a second, and with laughter and appreciation all over her face, she took the mug. “You’re stupid.”

That was the most endearing ‘Stupid’ I’ve ever hear her call me.

A day, an hour, of virtuous liberty 
Is worth a whole eternity in bondage.

Joseph Addison (1672 - 1719)


Heard in a overly-condense bus in Jakarta, exchanged between two women of different generations.

The younger one looked around her, securing her her footing against the vehicle's jerky stops and runs, balancing herself while at the same time protecting her companion from falling. She wiped the gleam of heat and suffocation off her lips and forehead, then smiled to her companion, “If only I could just like living in Saudi, things would have been so much simpler. I could just get married to a Saudi guy who would adore me as long that I obeyed, who could provide me with all the neat conveniences that all Saudis enjoy in Saudi Arabia, and even my mother might start to like me again.”

The older one reflected, “It really depends on you. What is it that you really want? Do you want to spend the rest of your life here, like this? Can you enjoy a life without the typical Saudi conveniences, dangling like this on stuffed buses, living on minimum wages in tiny houses and barely making it for the rest of your life?”

The younger one said, “Those things never really bothered me. This lifestyle outshines everything else financial. Relationships seem to fall back on the priority list; it doesn’t seem to matter what my social status is, because I can still reach all ends of town on my own. I can still walk and run with my dog on the street, just the two of us. If I ever got hungry, I can just put on my shoes and find something to eat. By myself."

She sighed and continued, “I couldn't do that when I was in Saudi. I had to wait for someone to allow me to get out of the house, to eat, to walk, to window shop, to go to my favorite café to write. I had to remain the half of someone for as long as I lived there.” She saw a passenger leave, and shouldered her way for the older one to be more comfortable. It's a long way home.

The older one sat down and sympathized, “It’s what the culture expects you to be; that your entire identity is the shadow of someone else’s light. And your problem is that you can’t live without liberty.”

“Why should I make a big deal of this liberty? Why can’t I just live without it?” said the younger one, preparing to leave the crowded bus, barely hearing what the older was saying.

“Because liberty", revealed the older woman in her mind, "can build and crush nations. It’s not a menial matter if for the sake of it thousands of men would die. Liberty can give your life its meaning.”

Bus stop. The younger one hops off and starts walking home. Alone.

Her liberty allowed it.


I avoided the internet for a month after seeing Jai’s latest MSN screen name: “I’m over you.” I sunk into that familiar heartbreak. It’s not bad enough that he removed me his contact list when he thought, “If you could have the heart to leave me, then you don’t deserve to be remembered”. He just had to add insult to injury by telling everyone in his contact list how over he is of me.

Like, how could Jai get over me? How dare he get over me? All I could think of, night and day, was Jai. I’d be having friends in my face and would still have Jai closer to me than any of them. If I hadn’t gotten over him when I was the one who bailed out on our marriage, how could he get over me?

I could have just removed him from my contact list. I could have just dismissed him the way he acted out his dismissal. But I kept writing and thinking about him. Verses and prose poured generously out of desperate longing for him. I was still waiting for him. Waiting for him to miss me enough to initiate contact, may it be a risen hell or methodical damnations. A part of me still clenched with fear of his disapproval. All of which meant how undone I was with him.

What made it harder was that I was getting involved with a new guy who, at first, reminded me so much of Jai. Every time a sweet moment passes between him and me, I’d automatically recall Jai, thinking “now why couldn’t I have this with Jai?”

Then one day, just like the day he removed me from his contact list, I said “this is the last time that you’re going to hurt me.”

That’s when I removed him from my list. That’s when I stopped waiting for him. That’s when his solitary email couldn’t stir or twist a single emotion in me. The relief of having a light heart again after so long was similar to the relief I feel when releasing a block of frozen shit off my ever constipated butt.

Of course, daylight can be deceitful. It makes my heart hopeful and strong. Whereas when dusk falls, and darkness shrouds all secrets with restlessness, and thoughts of Jai came back.

These thoughts came back in a form that made me understand, and certainly believe, that he never really loved me. At least not the way that I wanted to be loved. He didn’t love me; he couldn’t love me, because there was always someone else better. It could have been someone I should’ve become, or someone he expected me to become, or someone who was beyond his reach. Either ways, he couldn’t love me for me. That’s why marriage to Jai was the most frustrating love I ever experienced, because we both loved each other, but for the people that we weren’t.

What amazed me was that all of these insights emerged with mock anger and playfulness I never thought existed in my feelings for him. I felt so ridiculous that I practically giggled when I called him a “big, fat liar”.

And that’s when it really happened. When I got over him too.

Mama was telling me to go back to Saudi, for the hundredth time, last night.

Her urges usually come in a repeated mantra. “Go back, work there, teach there, get married to Asim, then live in Riyadh with him.”

Why I Can't Live There

I tell her that I can’t stand living in Saudi. I tell her that even Asim has forgiven my inability to live there. The one thing I haven’t told her is that I can’t live in a country where I am nothing but an extension of men. I can’t live in Saudi without my set of men. Father, brother, driver, mu3aggib, and/or husband.

In Saudi, I’m considered as a full person only when there is a man who approves it. I can only work when my mahram approves it. I can only travel abroad only when my mahram approves it. I can only go to work and school and visit friends and loiter in the café only when there is a man who approves to take me there.

I couldn’t stand living in Saudi for the half-heartedness of life. You’re never really alive in Saudi. Not in normal conditions. The course of life is based on consumerism; you work to buy more things. You work to buy a smarter computer, a faster car, a bigger house, a prettier dress. You work so that you can afford lavishness and efficiency. You work so that you can spend more. You work because there’s nothing else to do.

You never know who you’re trying to impress and entertain. Smarter to do what? Faster to beat what? Bigger to house what? And underneath all of those facades, can it make your heart and mouth prettier?

I got tired of that tiring cycle. Things don’t impress me. The Saudi education doesn’t impress me. The nights out, the boys, the opinions, the materialism, the drugs, the religiousness, nothing impressed me anymore.

My inability to get amused and impressed with things murdered my readiness to live. I lost my home, and got sick with incurable longing for the gone. The gone is gone, and if I try to relive the gone, only disasters happen.

Why I Can Live Here, In Indonesia

I can’t explain to my mother why I enjoy my current life in the middle of disasters. I can’t afford most of the things I buy. I can’t afford most of the meals I eat. I keep cheating on my savings plan like there’s no tomorrow. And hell if I care, because my life has never been so real.

I love the trips I take from home to work, from work back home, even though I bitch in every second before I start walking. Seems like as soon as I start walking, my mind is forced to think basic: (literally run and) catch that bus, watch out for pickpockets, find a place to eat without getting food poisoning, feed dog and cat, walk, walk and walk some more, walk dog, pray, sleep, breathe, eat.

The only time I really think about the gone is right before I sleep, and the moment I wake up. And that’s more wakeful dreams than I need.

The wakeful dreams are the only thing that keeps me writing these days. Probably the reason I write is to shut them up. And these dreams about the gone are always the same. Seasoned with sadness and longing, they’ve taken a permanent spot in my brain, and as easy to bring up as dropping the ashes of my cigarettes.

But at least these dreams only come in the first and last moments of waking, and the weekends. That’s why we’re looking for another job to quench the rest of those dreams.

Why I Want To Do This Alone, For The Time Being

A bunch of people, other than my mother, have commented on my fierce singleness. My lack of effort in meeting and dating anyone amazes them. And my nonchalance considering the concept of marriage scares them. My soft-spoken landlady actually said that “a girl like you should have a lot of boyfriends.”

I can’t help the carelessness and meanness I carry in my behavior towards men. It’s not like I don’t want to be married, have kids, and die fast. I just don’t care anymore. The men I’ve met are so predictable, so below my esteem. Maybe my expectations are too high for normal men to fulfill, but my expectations were once filled (before they burnt out with anger and loneliness) by a real person and (looking at the amount of damage it caused from those fulfilled expectations) I don’t really want my expectations to be filled again so soon.

This is what my mother, and all of the elders who encourage me to marry and settle, cannot understand. That I’m not selling my peace of mind for anybody’s approval.

This is how one month, or maybe more, can be broken down into a set of paragraphs…

I found out that English is best used in expressing neutral, technical and happy thoughts. English is used when the talk is about theories of evolution, about the way to Setiabudi Building, about the way my children greet me at the end of the day.
That’s why English is actually my writing tongue. Not Indonesian, which is my mother tongue. Not Arabic, which is my learning tongue.

Bahasa Indonesia is used when poetry slips off my fingers out of sadness and longing. It is also the language in which the superego speaks and yells. And since both poetry and superego carry the saddest, worst news, my Indonesian poems are raw and my behavior unreasonable to those with reason.

Arabic is the most masculine language I’ve ever met. Whatever the form, let it be poetic or prose, feminine ‘you’ or masculine, Arabic is only used when the argument is no longer an argument, but an order. Love, in Arabic, is inarguable. It is there to stay, to hurt and to teach. Whether or not you want to learn or love. Whether or not you agree or care. Whether or not you receive or produce it.

That’s why the most romantic language in the world is Gibberish because love is beyond the definitions of language. Those who think that French is a romantic language only think that because they don’t know how to curse in French. Like Bangla and Hebrew, which I barely can understand but have the ability to caress my heart deeper than Arabic or English or Indonesian. Gibberish is the language I use to speak with my cat and dog. Gibberish is the language used with those whom I’ve fallen in love with.

People, Loving
I saw a woman get off the back seat of a motorcycle the other day, a man was driving it. She handed the helmet she was wearing to him, and kissed the man’s hand goodbye, then walked away to the crossing bridge that lead to the bus terminal. All in plain, automatic fluent accuracy of a daily (good) habit, that I take for granted would always occur whether or not those two in good terms. I hope I haven’t laid a bad eye on them with my stare.

I’m more worried about this couple which I stared at harder and longer, partially because their interaction took a longer time. This woman was standing in front of a man who placed his hand around her nape, holding her face close to his, both completely oblivious to their surrounding. With one hand on her nape; thumb rubbing her cheeks and lips, another hand balancing the motorbike between his legs. This silent interaction might have taken a full minute, and I almost wondered whether or not I should pull out my camera to digitalize the moment.

When he released her nape and broke off the hypnosis session with a sigh, and I was finally able to take my eyes off them before falling into a ditch ahead. Looking back at them, I hated their intimacy; mostly missing that kind of interaction, when both parties bid farewell to each other at the start of a day by saying things like “have a nice day, I’ll see you later. I love you.”

Freedom is still the overrated illusion, the mythical goddess I chase. We’re very subjective when we define freedom, because each of us has her own restraints. We’d long for one night stands when the boring husband walks in with that all-too-familiar look on his face, with his familiar cock, familiar maneuvers, and familiar sighs of orgasms. We’d be praying for the handsome prince, driving the shiny white car, offering all the boring securities and facades only a marriage could conjure up, once we’ve dated too many men and swallowed too many disappointments and crossed out too many names off our phonebooks.

Maybe freedom is just having the strength and knowledge that we have something to live for every time we reach pointlessness and ask ourselves that question: “what’s next? Where do we go from here?” Some people live on teaching, some on childrearing, some on accumulating money and power, while others are weathered enough to realize that it’s the small things that matter the most like afternoons spent reading at the side of a cup of coffee.

I’m nursing my own freedom, these days. It’s still infantile, so it’s very easy to lose my freedom’s definitions and compositions. My freedom isn’t defined by place or time, more by routine actions that are repeated in different times. After all, may it be single or married, freedom is just having and loving the things you wake up for every morning and come home to every evening.

1. I’m 100% Indonesian

2. I just a Saudi citizenship

3. I’ve been to 19 countries; at least 40 cities

4. Between those travels, I lived in Jeddah for 22 years, in Amman for 3 years, in Aceh for a year, and I'm now residing in Central Java.

5. I travel so much that I can build a nest anywhere

6. I converse in three languages, and curse in 5 others. Do you wanna know?

7. I love food and - of course - I’m fat!

8. I can't be bothered about appearances, so you don't worry about trying to impress me, I already am!

9. I’ve been writing since I was 9 years old, and my diary was my best friend since

10. My other best friend is the cigarette, but it's a one sided love, I know.

11. I love cats and dogs.

12. I'm a great therapeutic masseuse, ask anyone I've massaged

13. I used to love to booze and funny-cigarettes, but the Timekeeper told me that I can't do that anymore

14. Oh yeah, and from March 2008, he took me under his wing, so that I don't get lost anymore

15. I have a rocky relationship with my mother.

16. Which is my explanation why I have a strange self-image.

17. I think romantic love is overrated, just like everything else in life

18. My friends ask me about sex & relationship, and my advice works like wonders, just not for me.

19. For a long time, I confused sex with love

20. I used to think that I'm bisexual, then I found out the hard way that I'm not.

21. I think homosexuality should be as sublime as heterosexuality, but it's fun to tell until it's embarrassing to know

22. I think that world moves on two purposes: satisfying the stomach, and what's below it.

23. I'm always right until proven wrong

24. I don't have a plan, so don't ask

25. I'm not in a rush, so don't tell me about biological clocks.

26. I love physical activity, as much as it scares me to ache.

27. I try everything, at least once!

28. I like people, seriously, the more I know is the better I feel about myself

29. I’m comfortable with what I don’t know

30. Freedom and money and long-term commitments scare me

31. I’m very proud of my siblings and cousins

32. I'm well-aware of my neurotic tendencies; that I’m self-centered and egoistical, but the Timekeeper doesn't mind

33. I'm nice to hang-out with as long that you don't bring textbooks

34. I love stories, so tell me some

35. I think you're my best friend, otherwise you wouldn't read all of this narcissistic garbage
If you hate living in Saudi Arabia, if you hate your life wherever you are, read this.

I'm leaving the country in four hours from now. I don't know if it's permanent or not, but I'm not leaving my cat behind, just in case.

Tell you the truth, I'm as sad and terrified as I am excited about going. What if I don't make it out there? What if I don't have the stuff to keep me from falling back to this 'comfort zone' that I'm so used to? What if, after all the fuss to keep me from coming back here, I realize that this is HOME?

I've heard lots of people congratulating me for leaving in the last week. As much as I've heard people lamenting it. Everyone wishes me luck, though, I just don't know if that's all it takes: A slice of Lady Fortuna's cake.

Anyhow, even if I do come back, I know that I can at least gloat about the fact that I've tried to break the barriers and do what a lot of people wonder about. Whatever the results may turn out to be, there's no denying that what I'm doing now is just another step in actualizing myself. It could be a wrong step. But it's a step that I'm putting my whole mind and heart into it. And that's all that matters right now.

So, Mr. Head and Aadi, if you're reading this, consider the fact that it doesn't matter where you live or what choices you're stuck with. The question is, are you living your life being true to yourself? Are you sincere in what you're doing?

Because in the end of the day, the ONLY point of our life, in working, in living, in learning, is Ibadah (All acts of worship for Him).

Please take care of yourselves.

Does it take only words to destroy or build everything?

When God said, “let there be light”, did He also set the general rule to how words are going to affect His creations?

There is a bunch of powerful words used in human interactions that bonds or separates, does or undoes. Words like “I do”, or “I divorce you”, are stuck in my mind right now. I didn’t think that just by saying “I do” people automatically transfigure into the perfect couples. Just as I think that by saying “I divorce you” doesn’t dissolve a marriage.

But it does mark the beginnings and endings, doesn’t it?

One way or another, words are all that it takes to define the beginnings of beginnings, and the endings of ends. Words cannot dissolve hurts and disappointments, children and assets, memories and longing; but – boy – those things sure get fortified in multitudes with the more words spent on them. Imagine saying, “I’m a chicken” few hundred times a day, chances are that by the end of the month you’d be fainting in every Tazaj and Albaik restaurant where you see your relatives on your plate.

So the possible reason why some marriages don’t work is because some couples forget to repeat the words that they started their marriages with. “I love you as you are, and I’ll be with you till I die, whether you like it or not.”

What’s so sad is that, despite of its irreversible finality, and because they’re so filled with the sense of hollow, words of endings seem to echo more persistently than any other word every spoken or thought about. “I miss you. I’m sorry. I’m leaving. Goodbye.”

And the ultimate words of a conclusion:

Neighbor’s girl has been coming to our house every day for the past week.

Pardon my lack of posting. I have been disoriented.

Husband knows of my overly-suppressed bisexuality. So he makes the initiative to invite neighbor's girl over, you know, to use the computer and stuff. He actually enjoys seeing my disgruntled look over her presence; either I get her on the floor, or I throw her out of the nearest window.

Today, Neighbor’s girl took off her abaya and headdress as soon as she got into the house. At least today she’s not wearing a tank top to make it harder for me not to stare at those milky shoulders and arms and…cleeeeeavage.

Neighbor’s girl pulls a chair to sit beside me. She’s freaking just 20 cm away from me.

My stomach turns into a block of ice. Eyes glued on laptop’s screen, stylus furiously clicking from one embarrassing webpage to the next, and here’s this horny teenager subtly offering herself to me.

She leans from behind me and the alarms go off. I cussed quietly, “Damn bitch, this table is 180cm wide, and she couldn’t find a way to put the phone away without pressing those 34-C boobs on my head?”

She reaches to hug me. Quick! Brainstorm solutions to get me out of this!

a) I could hug her back, which definitely would lead into feeling her breasts, her ass and what’s between her legs. Then after an hour of that and some more, maybe we could feed Lay’s Potato Chips off each other’s nipples and stuff.

b) I could just gently move away from her hand, and keep all limbs and gazes limited to the handles of my computer chair. Definitely a more reasonable option.

Except that when I did option b), I almost slapped her arm raw, flipped her off the chair, and made me wish for an option c).

She notices my discomfort, but then totally blunders in figuring out why I’m so frigid in my chair. She squeals in that spoiled, seductive tone, “Hey, I’m so sorry that I’m bothering you like this,”

“Hey, don’t mention it. You’re sole purpose in my life is to take advantage of my kindness anyways. So, whatever.” Yeah, baby, throw the rotten eggs at me now!

Neighbor’s girl is taken aback from cold bluntness. She coos and whimpers, she packs her things, and is very glad that her brothers or boyfriend demand her to come back downstairs where all the genetically-no-brain-gifted people dwell.

I keep my limbs closely glued to my chair until I’m sure I can hear my fantasies walk away for another 24-hours break.

I take a deep sigh and get off my chair and walk away from the livingroom. I lucidly curse the husband for putting me through temptation, despite knowing how susceptible I am for sin. I thank Heavens for still make 'em like the neighbor's girl. If I make it like this without breaking my leash through Summer, I should get discounted mental therapy sessions for it.

I pressed my palm on a new boob today. I did it in a simple flowing gesture. For a brief, sizing, moment.

The boob owner couldn’t swallow the gesture, so she just kept talking away.

When I told the husband about it, he guessed correctly, “small boob?”


After looking at a Bang-Olufsen Catalogue, I asked the husband "What kind of job would make a person have everything in this life?"

Husband said, "Drug dealing, corruption, money laundering, withholding zakah, Jewish-style business making, to name a few."

I said, "So the question to that question is actually, do you really WANT everything in this life?"

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