Its almost impossible to write on an inspiration. Its even more impossible, if that were possible, to write on too much material. And that is where I am at. Its rush hour, Jakarta, in my brains.
The last few days have been a mixture of happiness, anger, joy discontentment, introspection, contentment and way too may thought provoking idleness.
This time next week, I will be sending in my law suit to Webster dictionary. The letter goes something like this.
Dear Madam / Sir,
I’m suing you for the term ‘men’ seemingly to exist in your dictionary. I’ve seen and have had to tour seven aussie men in the last few days and I am convinced because of them and looking back in memory, that the term men, does not and should not exist. It should be changed from hereon to boys.
You see, dear madam/sir, that boys never really do grow up. Not only do they still buy comics and toys, but if you ever witnessed the way these creatures behave in groups, they are far to say the least amusing. They play, push, walk off when not kept an eye on, wrestle and tease each other in public. They splash in the pool one after another despite the forbidden sign to dive and create waves in the Jacuzzi that everyone else is trying to relax in. and need I even say anything to explain the group who name themselves ‘jackasses’?
Don’t get me wrong, after witnessing this I wished I was a boy too, they seem to have more fun, contrary to what Madonna says. In fact they seem to be so unconscious around the millions of people staring as they go by that I wish I didn’t have to be a woman who had to always concern herself about being ladylike, pretty and capable all at the same time. *bleah*
Whilst I’m still a woman, unable to monkey around, I insist you at least consider changing the term men, as it is indeed non existent.
Rush hour Jakarta. I just drove past a bad accident and at the same time saw a couple holding hands behind me. Maybe ill save that for another day, after all just because im stuck in a jam doesn’t men you have to be too.