The Life of Zoë

"I think we are drawn to dogs because they are the uninhibited creatures we might be if we weren't certain we knew better. They fight for honor at the first challenge, make love with no moral restraint, and they do not for all their marvelous instincts appear to know about death. Being such wonderfully uncomplicated beings, they need us to do their worrying."

Troubles With Bird Dogs and
What to Do About Them (1975)

by George Bird Evans 

The day after Benji's tragic and untimely end, Cheryl visited the local animal shelter where we rescued him in search of some solace. Was it too soon? Probably, but there is no salve for loss as soothing as the replacement of the very thing we lost. That is not to say that Benji is so easily replaceable, but we had so much love for him that it would be a shameful waste to direct every ounce of it to grief. Instead we sought to give that love to another creature which deserves it, if only because it is still alive.

On 23rd of August, exactly three days after Benji's passing, we brought a new puppy home.

At the shelter.

On the way back, Cheryl christened her Zoë, apropos of nothing. When I looked it up later, I found that it is Greek and it means "life" or "alive", which is thought is delightful serendipity. There is nothing more antithetical to the deathly, funereal pall that have settled over our family than bounding, barking, warm, furry life. We needed this. I needed this.

Zoë, in her crate, in the middle of crate training.

Zoë was very different from Benji, both in personality and temperament. To get the most obvious things out of the way first, she was female and was only about 2 months old (compared to 4 months old male Benji). While Benji was calm, confident and deliberate, Zoë was a firecracker - a wilful, hyperactive little bitch. The only time Benji got really excited was when he saw the cats, which he would chase in delight. Zoë however, have never shown any sign of noticing her feline housemates' existence at all. House training her was a more strenuous affair because of her weak puppy bladder so I was forced to wake up every 2 hours at night to let her water (or fertilise) the garden.

While Benji happily accepted his usual mealtime kibbles as training treats, Zoë proved to be a fussy, picky customer. She wouldn't even touch her dry puppy kibbles unless I mix it up with a spoonful of meaty wet food first. And since training treats have to be equal to or more "valuable" than her usual feed, I was forced to train her only at mealtimes, giving her spoonfuls of her food for each time she complied with commands. Eventually, I resorted to baking chicken liver for this purpose and thankfully, she deemed it a worthy enough payment in exchange for tricks.

Sophie, already plotting Zoë's downfall from day one.

Fortunately, with a bit of persistence, she was house trained and became "accident-free" within 3 days and could even hold it in through the night. Within a week, she learned to sit and lie down on command. She could even stand on her two hind legs for 1 to 2 seconds when asked, a trick I could never get Benji interested in.

Last Friday, a day before my son's one year old birthday, Zoë died. If this came as a rude surprise as you are reading this, it's because it was for us too.

Pretty girl.

On Thursday, 4th of September, Cheryl went to take her out for her evening toilet visit but noticed that there was something very wrong with her. I saw that she was holed up inside her crate and stood up, wagging her tail when I approached. However, I noted that she was not leaving her little sanctuary like she usually did. I peered inside and noticed that she was leaning on her left, her left wrist slack and floppy.

I reached in for her but she freaked out and scrabbled backwards, something she had never done. She had a sweet, outgoing and confident disposition, and had never displayed any neuroses prior to this. I carried her out gingerly and placed her on the floor to get a better look at her - and she immediately panicked and began running in circles, persistently falling to her left. She was also drooling like a faucet. I studied human medicine, but what Zoë exhibited were unmistakably neurological symptoms. But why? Cheryl just took her out a few hours prior but she was perfectly fine! The only thing that happened that day to her was her 2nd ivermectin jab, which she was on because she brought mange home with her from the shelter which had left her mostly bald with lots of sores from scratching (quite unlike her pictures here), but was otherwise completely well and active. We fully expected her to recover from it.

We rushed her to a nearby vet who found that her pupils were also dilated and she was exhibiting what he called "knuckling" where Zoë's doesn't notice when her paws were placed in odd, uncomfortable positions - indicating a loss of proprioception. He diagnosed her with ivermectin toxicity, gave her a shot of corticosteroids and a bolus of subcutaneous fluid between her shoulders because she was not eating or drinking. The vet also gave me a syringe loaded with diazepam, in case she started fitting that night. And that night, I learned practically everything there is to know about ivermectin sensitivity in dogs, how it afflicts certain dog breeds that happen to carry the MDR-1 gene defect which impairs a dog's ability to transport certain compounds out of their brains, leading to a build up. I slept in the living room as well so I could hear it if Zoë starts fitting. I fed her some of her favourite wet dog food from a can using a spoon, and was heartened to see that she could still lick it up and swallow. Her tail still wagging like a windmill, which I understand doesn't necessarily meant that she was happy. When I carried her down to the garden to pee, she could still do her half-crouch.

We brought her back to the vet the next morning as advised but found that Zoë's condition worsened. She had started making chewing movements with her mouth. The vet look at that odd behaviour thoughtfully and then swabbed some of the tears streaming out of her eyes, pipetting some of it onto a plastic cartridge that resembles a urine pregnancy test. He showed it to me and told me that it was an antigen test for canine distemper. One very bold line showed on it.

"One line," I said. "That's good news right?"

"That is the 'test' line you are seeing. The 'control' line have yet to appear, but you can see it forming faintly now," he said sadly.

Oh no...

Now all my confusion made sense. Why Zoë did not react to the first ivermectin shot, why she was suddenly struck with very severe generalised mange - which indicated that her immune system was failing. "But she already received her 1st shot of vaccination!" I told the vet but I knew the answer before he even answered. She had contracted it at the shelter before she was vaccinated, and the virus must have been incubating till now.

I am a doctor myself and I knew that we were at a crossroads of hard decisions. "When should we give up?" I asked calmly.

"When she fits non-stop," he told me. "Or when she is completely unable to eat or drink."

By noon, Zoë was a shambles of her former self; blind, highly nervous and likely delirious. Her jaws have started locking up and it was difficult for me to pry them apart and syringe some food into her mouth. Cheryl received word from the shelter that Zoë's litter mates have also started displaying signs of distemper two days ago, which pretty much proved that Zoë was exposed to the canine distemper virus before we took her home. She was a time bomb ticking to heartbreak, but we were completely unaware. I did more reading (as I am wont to do in times of crises) but the more I read, the more hopeless it seemed, and Zoë, at this point, had deteriorated to a state where she couldn't even crouch to urinate. It just dribbled out as she stood there seemingly oblivious to her own bladder movement. Finally, Cheryl and I decided on what we felt was right: we decided to put Zoë to sleep.

We took her back to the vet, who seemed to have been expecting us. This time, we were directed to a different room and in the middle of it was a large stainless steel table. We were asked to sign some papers and after we gave Zoë her last pets, the vet gave her a lethal dose of pentobarbitone - and just like a robot powering down, she slumped down gently onto the table surface, her head flopped to one side unnaturally. The room filled with the smell of faeces as whatever that remained in Zoë's rectum oozed out. Cheryl cried. I was too numb to follow suit. After a minute, the vet checked her for any signs of life and finding none, asked us if we would like him to dispose of her for us.

"No thanks," I said. "We are taking Zoë home with us."

The orderly there offered us a plastic bag - and we refused because it just didn't seem right. I put her back in her crate and drove her back to our house. There, I dug her a grave beside Benji's, and after wrapping her in the blanket she always slept on, buried her with her bright blue collar. I comforted myself with the thought that at least Zoë did not suffer long and had spent her last hours with people who loved her most instead of a cold, harsh metal cage at the animal shelter. In the last two weeks, she ate better than she ever had in her life and had toys (and feet) to chew. Her weight almost doubled under our care. We did everything right by her and told ourselves was not our fault she was already doomed from the get go.

But it was still painful as hell.



Zoë's human,
k0k s3n w4i

I Killed My Dog

"All his life he tried to be a good person. Many times, however, he failed. For after all, he was only human. He wasn't a dog."

Charles M. Schulz

"I want a dog," Cheryl said and that made me realise that I wanted one too. The last time I had a dog was when I was 14 years old - and that was 14 years ago. My dad brought home a brown Cocker Spaniel when I was 11 but now I wish he didn't. I was expected to be responsible, to care for another living being on my own but unfortunately, I was just a stupid kid with two escaped adult hamsters, a litter of dead hamster pups and half a dozen tortoise carcasses on his permanent record. I was clearly not ready and predictably, that poor little spaniel lived its short miserable life in the driveway of my grandmother's house, its long beautiful curly fur in mats with a thousand grey bloated ticks draining its life blood. I also failed to train him and sometimes, I even made him jump at neighbourhood kids I didn't like to terrorise them.

One day, when my mother picked me up from school, she told me that my dog was dead. I was told he chose a nice sunny spot beneath a jackfruit tree in front of my grandmother's house earlier that morning and went to sleep forever. He was just 3 years old. My mother took me to a large deserted bridge connecting the mainland with a man-made island called Pulau Melaka and had me dump my dog's body right into the sea with my own two hands.

"I hate animals," my mother told me. "But if you had let me know that the dog was sick, I would have taken him to the vet for you."

But I didn't know. I had no idea because I was just a stupid kid and my stupidity and irresponsibility killed Pixel. Pixel was the name I gave him. That name is a stain upon my conscience; a badge of shame and regret that have followed me all my life since.

Now at 28, I am twice as old as I was when I lost Pixel. We have a baby fast approaching his 1st birthday and two mostly intact cats, and we just moved into big house with an even bigger garden. I thought there was no better time to give myself a second chance.

So, Cheryl, Darwin and I went to the local animal shelter together to look for the newest member of our little pack and that's where we found this little white puppy sitting in his cramped cage atop his own excrements - and even though he had every reason to be miserable, he wasn't. He came right up to the side of the cage to sniff at my fingers and lick them, his tail wagging up to nines. Having spent the last two years being licked by Sophie's sandpaper feline-tongue, the softness of his tongue surprised and delighted me.

But he wasn't a good looking pup. He was recovering from a bad case of mites and had bald patches all over his body. His large bat-like ears were completely hairless and flea-bitten. Besides, I was also worried because he looked a tad too old - about 4 months old - and I read that the older a pup starts training... well, old dogs, new tricks, y'know.

We also saw a trio of pups in another cage which looked far healthier but Cheryl said, "Those cute ones will get adopted." And we might very well be the only chance that that hairless little dog had to leave the shelter so we did what felt right. We took that sweet but mangy-looking pup back home and on the drive back, I christened him Benjamin Sabrecat.

Or "Benji", as we came to know and love him.

4 days before we brought Benji home, we went and applied Frontline® on him.

Benji given his last bath at the shelter by Cheryl before we took him home.

I was determined to do right by Benji in a way that I never did for Pixel. Before bringing Benji home, I studied several dog care and training books to make sure I was truly ready this time. Cheryl thought I was being obsessive but she didn't know just how much this meant to me. Quite early on, I was determined that Benji would not be sleeping out-of-doors so that meant house-training needed to be instituted pronto. Every 3 hours, I would take Benji out into the yard to eliminate and learn where his toilet was suppose to be and I somehow managed to stuck to it, even waking up in the middle of the night at 3AM just to take Benji out for him to make his little doggy deposits back to nature. There were a couple of oopsies in the beginning which necessitated some vigorous cleaning (and cursing) but in less than one week, Benji got the hang of it! I was ecstatic. It felt like I was finally doing something right.

But I can't take all the credits for myself because Benji was, we believed, no ordinary dog. He was very smart and empathetic. We thought night-time whining would be a problem but he ceased that on the first night after only a few shushes. In the same week he was house-trained, he quickly learned to sit, shake paws and lie down on command as well. Initially, he barked and bounded after our two cats but he quickly stopped doing that as well after realising that his overenthusiastic approach would only draw disapproving hisses from me (and the cats). He was gentle with Darwin and never leapt up around him as dogs are wont to do when they are playful and excited. Benji was so responsive, so eager to please, so perfect. I cannot even begin to describe how proud I was of him.

My favourite memory of him was last Sunday when we spent some time together in our yard as a family. I was weeding the garden while Darwin frolicked in his inflatable pool filled with colourful plastic balls. Benji was let off leash and he went to and fro between checking Darwin out from the side of the pool and watching me work quietly without getting in the way at all. His fur had begun to grow out and his ears were covered in a new growth of white fuzz. It looked like he was going to turn out to be a handsome dog after all. Cheryl took pictures, so we we will always have Sunday.

Family.

Last Wednesday, I came home during lunchtime because I forgot my phone and while I was there, I let Benji out in the yard and after he watered the grass, I noticed his reluctance in stepping back into the house. It was a beautiful afternoon so I thought, what the heck, I would let Benji enjoy his day in the sun a little longer and reminded Cheryl to bring him in again at 3PM. Then, I busied myself hanging up some bird feeders I put together clumsily on a couple of trees in the bottom of the garden. The last glimpse of Benji I had was him going right down to the woods that bordered the edge of our garden to poop. "Attaboy," I thought to myself.

After a short nap, I left home to return back to work in my car. I went to the surgical ward to interview an alcoholic who was brought in because he vomited blood and was having the shakes, and after that, I dropped by at the clinic to assess an old Malay lady who was referred to me for dementia (she wasn't - the referring doctor screwed up the ECAQ). That was when I received a call from Cheryl. She was weeping piteously on the other side. It was wrong. She shouldn't be crying. There was no reason for her to... Oh no... No no no no no no no...

"He's not moving," she told me through her sobs. "There is so much blood. He's dead. Benji's DEAD."

I don't know how but I knew immediately what had happened. It felt as if I had fallen into a deep, dark pool of unreality and its chill had frozen my mind in rigid disbelief. I automatically told Cheryl to calm down, hung up and concluded my session with the not-demented old lady. Then, I went to my Head of Department to ask permission to return home early, which he granted after I told him what had happened. On my drive home, I raced through all the rooms in my head and rifled through all the drawers, searching for a memory, a clue, an explanation for this crazy living nightmare I am living through... and I just lost it. I broke down at the wheel and cried my heart out. I cried for Benji. I cried for Pixel. I was a little boy who lost his dog all over again.

When I got home, I espied a metre-long monitor lizard crouching in the grass and staring greedily at my driveway. What it was eyeing was a small, white, furry body lying on the concrete floor in a large, thick pool of congealing blood. On its fur, I could see the black marks where the car tires made their cruel prints on him. There was a trail of feces coming out of Benji's rear end, telling me that he crawled about a feet, shitting uncontrollably in his death throes before he stopped moving. The blood clots were disturbed, which meant that Benji was alive for at least a few minutes - maybe up to an hour - before his suffering ended. I can't imagine what he could be thinking in his last moments or how much pain he must have endured before he could finally rest. He would have been so confused, so alone at a time he needed his family the most, and the thought just breaks my heart.

I killed my dog. I couldn't believe it. I did this. I am a murderer. Benji slept under the car and I drove over him, not even knowing what I did as I was doing it. At that time, I thought I would go mad from the guilt.

It was almost 5PM so I told Cheryl to pick Darwin up from daycare. I would deal with Benji, I mumbled even though I was having trouble knowing where to begin. I took his collar off and wrapped his little broken body in the blanket he usually sleeps on before carrying him to the forest bordering our garden. There, between a clump of banana trees and a bamboo grove, I dug Benji's grave with a trowel and a weeding fork. I don't know why it mattered but I remember thinking that I should dig a hole big enough for him to lie down in.

Before Cheryl left, she came to me to hand me Benji's red collar and the small aluminium candy box I kept his treats in.

"He owns the collar," she told me fiercely. "This means he has a family and not abandoned. Give it to him. Let him wear it."

And I did. I put his collar around his neck for the last time and nestled his treat box by his side before putting him back into the earth. Then, I went inside and cried into my hands until my head hurt. Till now, I am still seeing flashes of his motionless tiny body in the driveway throughout the day and I still feel my heart race every time I put my car in reverse. I kept replaying the day's event in my mind, wondering what little things I could have done differently so that innocent, blameless Benji wouldn't need to die such a violent, lonely death. There was a million things and one, and I missed every single one of them. If only I have brought him back in instead of leaving him outside. If only I put a chain on him when he was out. If only I didn't forget to take my phone to work, causing me to return during lunchtime to retrieve it. If only I looked for him before I backed my car out of the driveway. It was a bottomless spiral of what-ifs and if-onlies; so many chances were there for me to save him that I can scarcely believe he could even have died.

Goodbye, Benji. I will miss our walks late at night, your soft gentle licks and your huge floppy ears. You were a good dog.

You were too good for me.

You will always be family, Benji. I am so sorry.

Benji exploring our backyard.

Benji's first visit to the vet for his kennel cough which he picked up from his time at the shelter. He was told to sit so he did. It was less than a week after he came home with us.

An already house-trained Benji pooping outdoors.

Benji meeting and greeting the other baby of the house for the first time.

Benji and Darwin on our last Sunday together.

Darwin, Benji and me.

Murderer,
k0k s3n w4i

Monster

"And you can't fight the tears that ain't coming

Or the moment of truth in your lies

When everything feels like the movies

Yeah, you bleed just to know you're alive

And I don't want the world to see me

'Cause I don't think that they'd understand

When everything's made to be broken

I just want you to know who I am"

Iris (1998) by Goo Goo Dolls

Have you ever attended a funeral of someone you knew all your life and not feel even a twinge of sadness? And all you felt were detachment and you wondered if there was something wrong with you? Have you ever, in the heat of a fight with some one you love, step out of the crossfire in your mind? And you watch disinterestedly as the two of you kill each other with words? Have you ever have thoughts so dark that you bury them where you buried your soul because you are afraid that people will see you as the monster you secretly are, and they would cast you out in the wilderness with the other beasts that prowls in the shadow of humanity? That you just want to hold down a pretty girl who spurned you and force yourself on her? That you want to strangle your baby because he refuses to sleep and wouldn't stop crying? That sometimes, you wish you can just stop pretending to care about others and fulfil all your selfish desires or to live free of inconveniences and pain?

Do you feel as if you are somehow different from everyone around you? Do you smile and greet your friends, your colleagues, your neighbours, hoping desperately they wouldn't know what you really are and burn you at the stake? Does it seem like you alone can see all the ugliness of the world in stark black and white, while all others wander stupidly like farm animals through life in a dream, a fantasy? That there is goodness? Hope? A good God who loves you no matter what and listens to your tiny, whiny prayers as if they were at all important to the grand spinning orrery of the cosmos? Isn't that what God is? A lie you tell yourself to feel special, that the most important being in the universe cares about you, has a plan for you and had prepared a heaven for you to spend eternity with him while he casts everyone you dislike down to hell to burn? You'd like that don't you? You'd pretend to feel sorry for them, and you'd even blame them for all the delightful torture you have imagined for them for daring to disbelieve in your special imaginary friend. Serve those bastards right! All while thinking you are righteous and adored by God.

Do you feel like you are always pretending so you would not scare your friends or family away by that gaping bottomless void inside you? That there is no one home? Just yawning emptiness stretching miles and miles with no oases, no horizons and no daylight? Unlike the schizophrenics and psychotically depressed, you have the opposite of voices talking to you - you hear the deafening roar of silence. Not the silence of a library or that of restful sleep, but the silence of a predator stalking in the long, tall grass right before the red chase and the death of prey.

I sit in my office, behind a large solid wooden table, in the Psychiatry clinic everyday. And across that table - no, diagonally from where I sit so my patients would feel less of a barrier between them and I as what the handbooks say - I listen as they tell me their innermost anguish. I heard how ugly husbands and wives can be to one another in spite of their sincerest vows. I get all the most sickening details of how they were sexually violated, how they were brutalised by those they love. I see the carrions of families, their festering entrails laid out before me in various stages of being torn apart by diseases, drugs, money and the basest passions. No wonder all these poor wretched souls need their prayers, their blind unquestioning faith and their flimsy origami gods, folded in exactly the shapes they want them to be. And I, in spite sharing none of their beliefs, encourage them to do just that even though all I really want to do is tear it down and tell them how stupid they all are. I would say: Go to church or your mosque or your temple and be with people. Feel supported, feel the safety net on your soles. Live the delusions that hold you together and make you think you are whole. They need these things and they need me to play my part. And I play it so well that some of my patients would even tell me what a great, caring, understanding doctor I am. One woman told her mother, whom I was treating, "You must thank God for giving you such a good doctor!" I put on my smile at that praise even though I really wanted to laugh.

Even though I want to reach across that table of mine, grab my patients by their shoulders, shake them and scream: "I am just as broken as you! Can't you see how broken I am?!"

Half the time, the mask feels warm, like soft flesh with pounding pulse beneath it. When I feel the sadness and grief of others, when I try my hardest to help them, was it empathy? Or was it something that walks like it and quacks like it but is far more hollow? Maybe I'm so good that I fool myself. I don't know anymore. I think I used to but what once was certain just faded like a dream in the morning, no colours or details whatsoever - just a vague sense of something missing. I want to be a good person, a good doctor, a good husband and a good father. I want to do right by all of those beside me. I want to love and be loved. But right now, I am so tired of failing I just want to shut everyone out, lock myself away and throw the key down the deepest well of self-loathing and self-pity I can find.

I hate that I can't change the world. I hate that I can't change even one person. I hate most that I can't, no matter how hard I try or how loudly I cry, change who I am inside.



Monstrous,
k0k s3n w4i

At the Shore of Peace

"At the beach, life is different. A day moves not from hour to hour but leaps from mood to moment. We go with the currents, plan around the tides, follow the sun."

Sandy Gingras

Do people still keep photo albums or are all our photographs squirreled away in the clouds of the internet? Have they gone the way of the VCR, pen-pals and immoveable house-phones - in the museum of yesteryear and obsolescence? Would my four-month-old son understand the crescent phone receiver symbol on our smartphones and the sealed envelope in our e-mails, when neither of these objects have features that look anything remotely analogous to those symbols? I remember weekends when I would make my great-grandmother show me her yellowing photo albums filled with sepia memories and have her explain the story behind every picture - because photography used to be expensive sorcery that people employ to capture the light that important moments reflects, so there are almost always stories.

Just before I bought my new digital camera, I dug up my old one to see what I could scavenge from its carcass. I was delighted to find my old 8-gigabyte SD card entombed within it and after plugging it to the resurrecting electricity of computer, I found that it was still holding on to the last pictures I took before my old camera turned into a paperweight. It felt as if I just re-discovered a long lost photo album. It felt as if I restored memories I never had like some kind of amnesiac time-traveller.

Amongst the pictures were some I've taken one morning at the Damai Beach at Santubong, just half-an-hour's drive outside of Kuching. The Exif data embedded in these pictures dates them to 28 December of 2011; another testament of the superiority of data over human memory.

Santubong River on the way to Damai Beach.

I thought some of the pictures were none too shabby and wondered why I had let them languish in data hell for so long until I came across some pictures of Ex-Girlfriend the Third™ interspersed among them, but she dumped me about one month after these pictures were taken. What you won't see in the Exif data of these photos is information telling you that she was standing just outside of frame in all of them.

Maybe that's why I hadn't bothered to take them out of the SD card in the first place. Maybe that person who was me two years ago was grieving. Maybe I was just lazy. Just two years have past and I can't remember which.

Damai Beach. "Damai" means "peace" in the Malay language.

A lot have happened in the two years since that morning at Damai. I met someone else. I got married to her. We had a baby boy together. Now, our kid is four months old (but has the build of a six-month-old and the drool-producing capacity of a full-grown adult St Bernard). At the time, it felt like I would never move on - the same as how I felt when I broke up with the girlfriend before the last (the one I dubbed the Ex-Grrrfriend™). We are really myopic, aren't we? Why do we get so hung up over things which we probably wouldn't care about just a few lunar cycles down the calendar? Why do they throw our lives into disarray? Why do we throw our lives away on account of short-term miseries?

Small blue-and-purple crab spotted at Damai during low tide.

HALP, I AM DROWNING.

At that time, I had just moved to the city of Kuching for my first real job as a House Officer at the state hospital and after I had settled down, I invited my then-girlfriend to come and visit for Christmas and to celebrate our fourth anniversary (which is on Boxing Day as the Exif data on one of the other pictures in the SD card testified). I have taken these pictures for keepsake and remembrance, for when I need help to reminisce about our brief time together at the end of 2011's December that punctuated the marathon of our long distance relationship. These pictures meant something to me back when they were taken. They were important. They had stories to tell a future me.

A tiny hermit crab.

Now, they are just some pretty pictures.

Without a second thought or even much of a first thought, I had deleted all the pictures that my ex-girlfriend was in. I held shift and pressed delete and just like that, they are gone beyond recovery to the Great Big Data Sink in the Sky. Doing that might have pained me two years ago because they were precious and irreplaceable - they were the only evidence I have of the four years I have spent being with this girl - but now, I couldn't even pretend to care. They were relics of another life and I have trouble believing that that life was ever mine.

Perhaps, after the passage of another two years, I wouldn't even remember why I was at the beach on the 28th of December, 2011.

A goby of some persuasion.

Time and tide. We pair them in our proverbs and aphorisms because they are a bit like each other - they represent the relentless erasure of the past. Memories are but lines in the sand. With enough time and enough tide, they would disappear without a trace, only leaving behind salt-washed blankness. It would be as if they were never there to begin with.



P.S. All pictures taken with Panasonic Lumix DMC-TZ15.



A frequent forgetter,
k0k s3n w4i

Devils in the Emergency Room

"Men never do evil so completely and cheerfully as when they do it from a religious conviction."

Blaise Pascal

Mr Pascal's Wager himself.

Yesterday night, at the beginning of my graveyard shift in Emergency & Trauma, a trio of police officers frogmarched an 18-year-old Malay young lady into the Yellow Zone. She was clearly in a state of extreme agitation, struggling, kicking and screeching glass-shattering notes at the top of her lungs. Getting the savage screaming girl down onto a bed and restraining her consumed my attention for five whole minutes and by the time I looked around, the policemen were nowhere to be seen. So there I was, left with a very disturbed young woman tied down to a bed who continued to yell abuses at me and I had no idea what transpired, where she came from or who I could contact to find out. Our tax money well-spent right there. Thanks a lot, our boys in blue.

After taking a deep anger-purging breath, I had the medical assistant take her vital signs, shoved an IV cannula into a vein (she tried to bite me in the bid) and took some blood. I turned my back for a minute to run some initial tests on her blood but when I returned, I found two strange portly men wearing songkoks and ankle length robes standing by the patient’s side. 

Must be her family members, I thought. They recited Arabic prayers at her while she barked curses back at them. I rolled my eyes at that and left them to it, thinking I could interview them when they were done – because Muslims in our country can be real explosive when you interfere in anything pertaining to their Religion of Peace™. I didn’t want to make the news. I could already see the headline in my head: ATHEIST DOCTOR FORBIDS MUSLIM FAMILY FROM PRAYING FOR THEIR LOVED ONES IN EMERGENCY ROOM. 

I returned shortly after and found that the men had drawn the curtains all around her bed. A whole lot of commotion and noise were coming from within so I took a peek. One of them was hunched over her at the head of the bed. His hands were clasped around her face and he was shouting angrish at her while she shouted back. He was trying to get her to recite something Arabic but that was to no avail. At one point, he even threatened to murder her (or what he believed was inside her). As he became increasingly more flustered, I saw his fingers pressing harder and harder onto her mastoid processes - those are the bony bumps behind your ears - till his knuckles were white and trembling. The girl started whimpering in pain and cried out, begging him to stop hurting her.

"What is your name?" the man asked again. Eyes screwed up in agony, she said it. He appeared satisfied at her response and lifted his fingers off her mastoids. Then, looking at me and smiling a winning smile, he informed me that everything was under control. He casually gestured at the IV canulla I inserted earlier and said: 

"You can pull that out now. You won’t be needing that anymore."

It takes a lot to surprise me but for I confess that I was stunned for a second by what he was telling me to do.

"Who are you?" I finally asked, my hackles rising. Who the fuck are you?

"I am Ustaz Aladdin and my companion here is Ustaz Ali Baba," the spectating partner of the pair explained in Malay. The names had been changed to minimize my own risk of getting sued. "This young lady here was possessed by an evil spirit. It was a difficult battle but we finally cast it out."

"Oh really?" I remarked acidly as my eyebrows climbed my forehead. "Are you related to her?"

"No, we just wanted to help."

At this point, the girl hulked out again and renewed her commitment to contact space aliens using only the strength of her voice alone. She struggled so violently against her bonds that I was afraid that she was going to dislocate something or worse, damage our expensive bed. Ustaz Ali Baba clamped down on her face again in a hurry with his fingers positioned behind her ears, ready to unleash torture anew. He began murmuring something Quranic.

From right to left: the patient, Ustaz Ali Baba, Ustaz Aladdin, and
the beer gut of the security guard I brought with me to confront them.

"Please unhand my patient," I told him. "You failed. Whatever you did to her is obviously not working."

Also you shamans are not part of hospital personnel and are of no relations to her – how dare you curtained yourselves off alone with her without any chaperones and manhandled her without her or her family’s consent? What you motherfakirs were doing is called assault and battery, and that shit is highly illegal. And who died and made you King of the ER that you deem yourselves to be in any position of authority to order me to remove my acutely psychotic patient's IV cannula? Also, if you claim to represent and speak for Allah, you better have papers bearing his almighty signature to prove it, you goat-bearded wizard-robed balderdashers.

Besides, isn't it haram to touch a non-mahram stranger of the opposite sex based on what the Prophet Muhammad said? These two ustaz (ustazes?) clearly didn't think so.

While I was addressing them, my patient started retching. Ustaz Aladdin cried excitedly, declaring that the young lady was about to cough up the demon possessing her. I ignored him and quickly turned her on her side to prevent her from aspirating her vomitus. When she stopped dry heaving, she - surprise, surprise! - remained aggressive and unruly. I stared daggers at the pair of defeated exorcists and said, "Please leave now."

To calm her down and to prevent her from injuring herself and her caregivers, I gave her 5 milligrams of midazolam. In just a moment, she winked out like a light (something I couldn't have done without an IV cannula).

It must had been a strange sort of ghost, demon, or djinn that can be subdued by a sedative which only affects her brain and not her body. It's almost like her psychotic actions were, gosh, all dictated by her own brain! I wanted to point this out to our Saracenic Tweedledee and Tweedledum but they had already evaporated from the Yellow Zone. Got it under control, they said. Pull out the IV cannula, they said.

When the sedative wore off and she came to an hour later, she was acting normally again.

More than even the belief in superstitions and the insistence on blaming mental illness on demonic possession, I was shocked by the gall and presumptions of the two Muslim clerics - civilians all - who thought that it was okay for them to walk into a restricted area of the Accident and Emergency department without authorisation, impose themselves onto an ill patient whom they do not know, commit assault and battery on her, and then somehow have enough nerve left in them to tell the patient's doctor what to do in regards to her medical treatment. No one, not the security guards, not my colleagues, not even my senior officers dared to reproach them for their highly unethical and unlawful actions towards a patient that was entrusted to our care. It is because they are afraid of offending the religious over-sensitivities which certain people professing to certain faiths wear around themselves like some sort of criticism-proof Kevlar jacket. It is because they afford certain people far more respect that they rightfully deserve, as their deplorable conduct showed.

It is this same misplaced respect and cowardice of standing up for what's right that led to this brutal attack orchestrated by an imam on a poor innocent Muslim woman in the UK, and this fatal exorcism in Belgium conducted by a "sheikh" and his acolytes in Belgium which ended in the death of another Muslimah.

It is high time we point out the painfully obvious fact that these self-professed spokespersons of their respective gods have no fucking clue what they are doing. Two such lowlifes attacked my patient, and I had a responsibility to protect her so I did what's right. Also, mistaking mental illness for demonic possession was something medieval yokels would do, back when trepanation and having holes in the head was still in vogue. Now that we are living in the age of smartphones, the internet and self-flushing toilets, I can't believe that people can still be this stupid.



P.S. When I related this incident to one of my colleagues who witnessed the whole thing, she told me she thinks that my patient might be possessed for real - but she disapproved of what the two ustaz was doing and probably thought that a Christian exorcist would had been more effective given her own beliefs. I just laughed loudly at her face and walked away.



Buster of ghostbusters,
k0k s3n w4i

What Would Jesus Do in El Salvador?

"It is now quite lawful for a Catholic woman to avoid pregnancy by a resort to mathematics, though she is still forbidden to resort to physics or chemistry."

H.L. Mencken

The República de El Salvador literally means the "Republic of the Saviour". With a population that is more than 80% Christian (52.5% Roman Catholics), one can easily surmise who that saviour is. Naturally, the laws of the land tend to reflect the values of the population and there is a law in El Salvador that completely and inflexibly forbids the abortion of pregnancies, no matter what. A Sith Lord can be proud of that bit of absolutism. A zero tolerance policy towards abortions had always been part of Catholic doctrine.

The problem with moral absolutes is that they operate on the assumption that there cannot possibly be moral exceptions to the rule. Even at face value, it sounds wrongheaded and the Catholics' stubborn dismissal of those possible exceptions had been tested to its limit in El Salvador recently by the story and struggle of Beatriz.

Beatriz is a very ill woman. She suffers from a condition known as Systemic Lupus Erythematosus (SLE) which is an autoimmune disease in which her own body's immune system is destroying her. She also suffers from kidney failure which, presumably, is a complication of her SLE. To further complicate matters, she is in the second trimester of her pregnancy and her doctors are recommending that she abort it due to the threat her pregnancy poses to her life. While it is not unheard of for SLE mothers and their children to survive at the end of their pregnancies, I do not have access to Beatriz's medical records so I will accept her doctors' prognostication - that this pregnancy will probably kill her. Naturally, she and her doctors sought to have an abortion legally sanctioned to save her life because going forward without permission can result in a 30-year jail sentence. The medical committee at Beatriz's hospital and the Ministry of Health also backs her request - therefore it would not be hyperbole to say that almost every doctor in El Salvador thinks that aborting the pregnancy is the right thing to do.

On the 30th of May, the Supreme Court of The Saviour El Salvador voted 4-to-1 against Beatriz's request to terminate her pregnancy. One of the four judges who ruled against allowing Beatriz to abort her pregnancy, Judge Rodolfo Gonzalez, said he had not been convinced Beatriz was at risk of dying if the pregnancy was allowed to continue. Yes, this pompous fucking jackass thinks that his medical expertise trumps that of all the doctors in El Salvador who supported the abortion. This is the problem with people thinking that they have a valid opinion just because they can string a bunch of words together into a coherent sentence. It is the same problem with evangelical Christians who think that they can reject the theory of evolution because they think it is wrong when there exists a robust consensus on evolution as the fundamental principle of biology amongst biologists - you know, the experts who spent their life's work studying the subject? There is simply no humility any more (but then again, I suppose it's my fault for expecting humility from people who think they can talk to God by just clasping their hands together).

Of course, why would doctors in a heavily-Catholic country with an absolute law criminalising all abortions be so ready to broach the subject of terminating Beatriz's pregnancy? Here is the punchline of this entire circus of jokes: ultrasound scanning had revealed that Beatriz's baby has a condition called anencephaly. Do not Google that if you value your sleep.

The reason why Catholics think that you can still be a person deserving of full rights when you are missing most of your brain is because they function perfectly well without cerebral cortices anyway.

Due to a neural tube defect, the baby is missing most of its brain and what little brain tissue it has is exposed (because most of the skull is absent too). What remains is the brainstem which ensures that the basic life support of the body (the heartbeats, blood pressure, breathing, et cetera) remains functional but an anencephalic baby is blind, deaf, does not feel pain and does not have any consciousness - hence no memory, thoughts, personality or emotions. Basically, Beatriz's baby has a functioning physical body but there is no one home. Most anencephalic babies dies in the womb or shortly after birth, though one can theoretically keep it alive indefinitely when hooked up to artificial life support. Cases like Baby K and Nickolas Coke are outliers in that they survived two to almost four years with anencephaly but even they eventually expire in spite of every effort to keep them alive. We in the medical community call it "incompatible with life".

So yeah, the El Salvadoran Supreme Court ignored a very ill woman's pleas for them to allow doctors to save her life so that she can continue to be with her living one-year-old son who actually needs her. I didn't mention that she has a son, did I? Now, the judges have condemned her to risk death for the unborn human husk growing in her which would definitely die anyway even if she made it to term to deliver it.

The real reason the Salvadoran High Court forbade #Beatriz from aborting her brainless fetus is 'cos it's trying to protect one of its own.
— Kok Sen Wai (@KokSenWai) May 31, 2013

This is why moral absolutism is stupid and immoral. This why the Catholic Church is stupid and immoral to be absolutely opposed to abortion no matter what the circumstances are. This is why all Catholics are stupid and immoral to continue following and funding this international two-thousand years old temple to stupidity and immorality. Their assertion that they support the sanctity of life is a lie, because Beatriz's life isn't worth shit to them.

However, the court also ordered her doctors to continue monitoring Beatriz's health and to provide her with all necessary medical treatment (so long as it is not an abortion, which is what she actually needs). Luckily, the El Salvador's Health Minister, Maria Isabel Rodriguez, is actually going to try to live up to her country's name. A day after the court's verdict was out, she approved of an emergency Caesarean section for Beatriz which will essentially achieve what an abortion does but sidesteps the abortion controversy. Because El Salvador is so pro-life, Beatriz will have to undergo major surgery with major risks instead of having a much less invasive abortion. This what Jesus would have wanted, isn't it?

For her son's sake, let's hope that Beatriz makes it through okay.



P.S. It is interesting to note that just like the case in 2010 when a woman had to undergo an abortion to save her life. In that case, a woman (a nun) who was on the ethics committee decided on aborting the pregnancy. A man (the bishop of the Phoenix diocese) was pissed that the hospital and all the doctors did not recognise his authority as the final word on the matter, even though he does not have any medical qualifications whatsoever. Now in El Salvador, a woman steps in while a man who does not recognise his lack of any credibility in the matter stands in the way.



Advocates the abortion of the Pope,
k0k s3n w4i

Monsters in Our Midst

"If only closed minds came with closed mouths."

Anonymous

It's now two days after the 13th Malaysian General Election. Pakatan Rakyat lost the majority of parliamentary seats (89 to Barisan Nasional's 133) but won 5.489 million votes to BN's 5.220 million. What this basically means is that PR is more popular with the voting public than BN as a whole, but BN gets to shamelessly rule us anyway because they managed to magick 46.5% of the totality of Malaysian voters into 59.9% of the parliament's seats.

I like how government-controlled newspapers like The Star and News Straits Times reported BN's 46.5% but carefully avoided mentioning the far more pertinent and mindblowing story that PR received more overall votes than BN did. They also craftily avoided tallying the votes that PR's constituent parties received in their breakdown, preferring instead to list them individually. I would love to have a been a fly on the wall in their meetings when the editors of these papers discussed how they could spin doctor the numbers to make BN look good.

In other propaganda news, Najib blamed their unprecedented decline in popularity and seats on the so-called "Chinese tsunami" of voters jumping onto the PR boat which proves once and for all that our unwelcomed Prime Minister does not understand percentages or even simple mathematics because even if every Chinese voter in Malaysia voted for PR, they will only make up half of the total number of people who voted for PR.

Yes, we as a race is a natural disaster. I can't wait till the day we become the "Chinese Question" and hear Najib's "Final Solution".

Compounding the racial tension is Najib's UMNO-owned paper, Utusan Malaysia, which characterised the Malaysian Chinese electorate as a greedy, ungrateful group with political aspirations of robbing the Malay people in their article: "Apa lagi orang Cina mahu?" ("What more do the Chinese want?").

More disturbingly, pro-UMNO blogger Papagamo had been arrested today for hate speech and for trying to incite the Malay people to take violent actions towards the Chinese people in a twisted reenactment of the bloody 13th May race riot of 1969. My wife was one of those who made police reports against him and one of Papagomo's fan, Shahrizad, who proposed that the Malays should take to the streets to "kill all the Chinese scums in Malaysia" and to "slaughter all Chinese like pigs".

Terrifying, isn't it?

Today, one of my friends shared a screen-cap of a Facebook conversation in which one of the clerks working in my old medical school repeated some deeply troubling racist sentiment stirred by the people who demonised the Chinese in this election. It hit hard for MMMC alumni (which is a pretty equal mix of Malay, Chinese and Indian doctors) because we have always seen her as one of the most friendly and helpful staff members of the admin office,

It's the second one from up top.

What she said, translated fully into English, was essentially,

"For those Chinese who are not satisfied with the Malaysian government, you are welcome to go back to your own country. Don't stay here because you are not welcomed here. Go back to China, work for 8 hours and be a billionaire. You are merely living in other people's country yet you are so ill-bred. Can't even speak Malay yet you complain so much."

This is a longstanding racist canard describing ethnic Chinese people in Malaysia as mere immigrants when in actuality, we are full citizens holding legitimate documents certifying our citizenship. It suggests that we shouldn't exercise any of the rights that we are entitled to. I speak Malay just fine, and I can't even write in Chinese. And I can't go back to China because I would actually be a foreigner there. Her outburst really came as a rude shock to me and my old med school friends. Many are now petitioning for her resignation.

I mean it's not uncommon. Just today, I got told on Twitter by a separate person that I should go back to China for making the image macros above contrasting Najib's statements.

But then again, this isn't the first time a beloved MMMC figure had her darker side exposed. In 2010, our sweet motherly cafeteria lady and her son were charged with beating their Indonesian maid to death (and rumours surfaced about her longstanding abuse in their hands). There are monsters in our midst and it is frightening how seamlessly they blend into normalcy. I guess you just can't know, can you?

Anyhow, amongst the alumni in the Facebook discussion thread that are branding her racist and screaming at her to resign, there are some of these witchhunters who have made racist remarks about the Malay people to me in private in the past. There are also some of them who have openly made racist remarks about the native Indians in India back when we were in the Manipal campus on the subcontinent - I am itching to call them out. I wonder how they can feel so righteous in calling repercussions on that admin clerk now, having done basically the same thing themselves but escaped the witch-hunt.

Monsters in our midst indeed, even amongst those hunting for monsters.



Is an unstoppable, coast-devastating force of nature,
k0k s3n w4i

My Live Tweets during the 13th Malaysian General Election

"Mister Blue, you did it right
But soon comes Mister Night creepin' over
Now his hand is on your shoulder
Never mind, I'll remember you this
I'll remember you this way"

Mister Blue Sky (1977) by Electric Light Orchestra

Yesterday, the ghost of democracy swooped into our country. It heartened the spirits of those who believe in it and gave the powers to be a scare. Then, it swoops out again without doing much more than that because just like any other sort of ghost there is, democracy doesn't really exist - at least in the context of Malaysian politics.

Now, full disclosure here: I didn't vote.

Well, I am not voting. Hardly see the point when the game is so rigged as to render my vote to obsolescence. #Ubah #PRU13
— Kok Sen Wai (@KokSenWai) May 2, 2013

I didn't register early enough to qualify for this General Election. I also hold the very Chinese practical view that it is not going to be worth the exorbitantly priced air tickets to cast my ballot, which I feel would be diluted to the point of irrelevance by all the alleged Bangladeshi ghost voters (which apparently exist) that were illegally given identity cards and were bribed to vote for the reigning coalition, the alleged undisguised buying of votes in broad daylight, the suspicious alleged 11th hour blackouts and the alleged attempts to smuggle extra ballot boxes into the counting stations, and the frankly admirable work of gerrymandering and malapportionment that translates 50% of the citizens' vote (the real ones plus the allegedly real ones) into 40% of the parliamentary seats. For those of you who are weak at maths, Pakatan Rakyat reaped the majority of the all the votes in Malaysia but only got about two-thirds of the seats that Barisan Nasional got. I never thought that the Pakatan Rakyat had a ghost of a chance at winning because like I said, I don't believe in ghosts.

Just sent my wife to the airport. She's going back to vote. Anyway, I already know the winner of this election. It's the airlines. #PRU13
— Kok Sen Wai (@KokSenWai) May 3, 2013

I have been told that since I am not voting, I don't have a right to comment on this General Election. Well, fuck you and your little dog too. Who taught you your constitutional rights, dumbass? How does not voting disqualify me from my right to free speech? It is my right to abstain from voting. It is also well within my rights to vote for BN in the next GE just to spite you.

Of course, my response to being told I should shut up is to speak even more loudly on social media, because actually shouting from my balcony wearing nothing but my boxers just makes me look like a crazy person.

For the first time in ten years, I turned on the TV to watch for updates on the current #PRU13. This is how you know I give a fuck.
— Kok Sen Wai (@KokSenWai) May 5, 2013

Now, for the first time in my life, I am genuinely interested in the electoral process and happenings. I even broke my decade long abstinence from television just to have propaganda blaring into my living room to set the mood while I followed the live updates of election results online as fervently as I sometimes watch the fluctuating download speed of my torrents. I was also guilty of driving a keyboard while under the influence of too many homemade Old Fashioned - hence my unprecedented output on Twitter.

Here are some selected tweets from last night.

On accounts and videos of vigilantes profiling, harassing and beating up Bangladeshi ghost voters,

You are against BN's racism, but considering the things you say and do to Bangladeshis, BN had already won ideologically. #PRU13
— Kok Sen Wai (@KokSenWai) May 5, 2013

On the indelible ink which was only allegedly indelible,

The indelible ink is useless even if it works the way it's expected to. It's like the age warning you get when you access porn sites. #PRU13
— Kok Sen Wai (@KokSenWai) May 5, 2013

On the ongoing online petition to the White House asking the US to intervene,

The US carpet-bombs us tomorrow, depose our overlords & install a puppet who will give them ALL THE OIL. SURPRISE. wh.gov/z8SE
— Kok Sen Wai (@KokSenWai) May 5, 2013

On the Pakatan Rakyat leader's very premature claim that they have won the election. To quote him, he said this on his Facebook page: "PR has won. We urge UMNO and the EC to not attempt to hijack the results. #ubah"

Anwar's statement is a cool Delphic trick. If PR wins, he is right. If PR loses, then UMNO & the EC must have meddled. Prophecy 101. #PRU13
— Kok Sen Wai (@KokSenWai) May 5, 2013

On the advice that's going around urging people to stock up on essentials like food for fear of massive unrest on the streets,

Stocking up in case of post-election unrest? Don't bother! Just call 1300-13-1300 McDelivery for all your siege survival needs! #PRU13
— Kok Sen Wai (@KokSenWai) May 5, 2013

On deciding what to have for dinner yesterday,

Can't tear my eyes off the live updates! Which home delivery service should I vote for? 1300-13-1300 or 1300-88-2525? #PRU13
— Kok Sen Wai (@KokSenWai) May 5, 2013

Tonight, I vote for McD to occupy my gastric seat! Smokin' BBQ Beef Burger ini kali lah! #PRU13
— Kok Sen Wai (@KokSenWai) May 5, 2013

On the Pahang's Menteri Besar's promise that he would cut off his ears and jump into the Pahang river if PR wins the Bentong constituency and the subsequent reneging of his promise, claiming that he didn't meant it literally,

Once, a friend said he'd eat 10kg of his own shit if I could get a certain girl to date me. That shit was figurative. tinyurl.com/d9cod3l
— Kok Sen Wai (@KokSenWai) May 5, 2013

On BN's sweep of most of the constituencies in the kingmaking state of Sarawak (Disclaimer: I don't actually know how many seats are up for grabs in Sarawak, or the difference between a state and a parliamentary seat either but I heard the real number is like 31 and that 's 14% of the total),

Sarawak is like Australia in the Risk board game. 71 out of the total 222 seats are there. Win Sarawak and you win Malaysia. #PRU13
— Kok Sen Wai (@KokSenWai) May 5, 2013

On the passion I see from the more reticent demographic groups in Malaysia,

I like election night. It's the only time I can see women & old folks talk and act like English football hooligans. #PRU13
— Kok Sen Wai (@KokSenWai) May 5, 2013

On the BN statesman Ali Rustam, the incumbent Chief Minister of my home state of Malacca, who I later found out unexpectedly lost his Bukit Katil seat by just 44 votes,

Ali Rustam's kid was my classmate in high school. That means I must support Ali Rustam. I can't remember his kid's name now though. #PRU13
— Kok Sen Wai (@KokSenWai) May 5, 2013

On how PR supporters can win no matter what à la Anwar Ibrahim's prophecy style,

To PR supporters: Put money on BN in a betting pool. That way, no matter who wins, you will still feel like a winnah. #PRU13
— Kok Sen Wai (@KokSenWai) May 5, 2013

On masturbation,

If you stop masturbating because of the general election, then the terrorist wins! #PRU13 #LouisCK
— Kok Sen Wai (@KokSenWai) May 5, 2013

On the renewed cries for the US to intervene after it became clear that PR wasn't going to win,

Tell the CIA that there is a shit tonne of WMD's hidden in Rosmah's walk-in shoe closet. That should do it. #PRU13
— Kok Sen Wai (@KokSenWai) May 5, 2013

On the naïveté of PR supporters who were praying to God for a miraculous turning of the tide. Amusingly, this tweet was re-tweeted by BN supporters who completely missed the point and clearly did not understand what the word "atheist" means in my Twitter profile,

Look, both PR & BN prayed to God. Now that BN had won the majority, clearly it is the party that's right with God, isn't it? #PRU13 #Logic
— Kok Sen Wai (@KokSenWai) May 5, 2013

On always looking on the bright side of life,

I won a tidy sum from a betting pool. I wagered that BN will win but PR will deny them 2/3 majority. Lobster dinner tomorrow! #PRU13
— Kok Sen Wai (@KokSenWai) May 5, 2013

And here is a bonus Facebook exchange between a colleague of mine and I after he expressed disappointment at PR's defeat,

And at some point, Najib will reveal to Anwar that he is in fact his father.

Here's another one in which my wife, after discovering that PR had lost, blames me for it,

I am monster!

Hope you enjoyed my tweets. Or got enraged off by them. Whatever man, I don't really care.



Is somehow responsible for PR's lost,
k0k s3n w4i