The Author Has Something to Say

Assalamualaikum and howdy.

The last few weeks, I have been having difficulty in what I do best: writing. Some of you have expressed the obvious -- the material that I presented lately are too cliche, too bland, too often and too predictable. I admit. Girls are my favorite writing subject, this fact, I do not deny. Some of my best material are about them, and I carry no shame in admitting that. To many extent, these girl-related entries are the reason many of you are here in the first place, the reason why some of you do still hang around to check this page once in a while, and some of you to look forward to a good read each day in the future. At first, I was quite taken aback by the comments in the guestbook, how true they are, and how hurtful words can be, but soon enough, I realized that there is truth to it, and I decided not to live this lie a day more. Today's entry is the last of its kind; there will be none of such after this; sorry, I am unable to finish the entry as I had imagined it at first. But I do hope you enjoy it; starting next week, I will unleash Hell.

[YBLalat]

But Lalat, You're Too Young For Me...

She is a chatter bug on Viagra; she is a dolphin that never surfaces for air; she talks endlessly. The pace of her text scrolling down and onto my chat window, her ridiculous emoticons popping up like a burrowed gopher on a summer honeymoon, she must have fingers as agile as her tongue, typing away her thoughts, like a preacher to a crowd. The likes of her are an abundance today, and I meet a new one like that everyday, but she's special, this one, and I look forward to a new tale from her books of life, and I do listen.

"Morning, you, Dinkytowner!"
"Morning to you, too -- coffee?"

The girl and I, we have never met before, but we don't care. We've chatted long hours for a few weeks now, the chemistry is creepy. The way it happened, she was the one who started it; she tapped me on the shoulder gently, and a sly but polite 'hi' came out of the corner of my laptop. I looked at her bizarre nickname; I knew no one with that name, and I hesitated to reply, but still she stood there, her fingers quiet and obedient, patiently waiting for my answer. Soon enough, I yield to her persistence, and I opened up the door for her.

"What's your real name?"
"Is it important that you know?"

I was cocky at first, I told her nothing, and I was unfriendly. Her questions I treated like they came from a traffic officer bent on writing me a speeding ticket for stepping on the gas to a hundred in a 90 zone. Her jokes made the attempt to befriend me pathetic, her curious drive for my details reminded me of how Che Guevara was interrogated by the Bolivian Special Ops, and her smiling emoticons, they were as annoying as a big bundle of car keys in the back pocket of your jeans. But she kept coming back, like a bad dream.

"Your response are slow -- are you busy today?"
"I'm always busy, dear, I have a life to attend to."

It is often said that boys and girls work on different timetables, each to his and her own speed. The first five minutes is for their hello-there's and how-do-you-do's, and the next five minutes is for their what-do-you-do's and where-do-you-live's, and after that, another five minutes more, is for their what-do-you-like's and what-say-you-on-such-and-such's; for the girl, if the boy is the type that she wants in a man, her quest for a new friend ends there, and after just fifteen minutes, and with freshly glossed lips, here she comes a-flirting.

"Which is you, Lalat: briefs or boxers?"
"I'm briefs, and yes, I have a small penis."

The boy, however, enjoys the hunt, and often, the shark plays around with its food before settling down to a serious eat. Fifteen minutes have past and the girl is at his careless mercy, and he plays the silly fool still. The more ridiculous this boy-girl slowdance becomes, if you wait a while longer and see it for yourself; it will take the hunter a full twenty minutes before he realizes that he is now the hunted -- a girl falls in love in fifteen, and a boy in twenty; the five minutes gap, a romantic comedy where the girl chases him around.