Do We Know Each Other?

Because I could not stop for Mr. Death,

He kindly stopped for me.

How would you feel if I died tomorrow? Compare that feeling to the feeling you might feel if your fuckwit boss died instead. Not glee, perhaps, but not pain either, is it?


But how would you feel if I died? Be honest with yourself. You don't have to say it aloud. How do you feel wondering where I've been and listlessly browsing Sogyal Rinpoche's book of Living and Dying for something to do - because let's face it, I take up quite a bit of your time - only to find the story headline may be a guy you know: car-jacked, kidnapped, raped and murdered in cold blood somewhere in the oil palm estates along Kesas/ withered away due to liver cirrhosis / mowed down by a bas sekolah / leapt in front of a speeding Putra LRT.


Not being alone in this city, I'll not depend on you to make my funeral arrangements. Nobody would ask you to identify the body. You shouldn't be able to; you obviously do not know even though you may have once savoured this frail yet succulent body and because of it, think you already know fairly well. But do you remember at of how I looked like in-person or via that fugly photo in my blog? For those in the category of the former, perhaps if I'm mangled enough, only the smallest detail will count. Do you remember my face enough to see it through the swelling and bruises, and feel that it was actually an improvement? What about the location of any of my scars? Do you know that I had two wisdom teeth pulled on one side but not the other just to keep me out of balance?


The men-in-blue ask how you met me and what the nature of our relationship might have been, a chanced-encouter at Mr. Marc's residence perhaps? What do you say, I wonder? How do you explain yourself and us and our secret double-agent lives? After all, dear Twilight always emphasized that we bloggers blog an illusory lifestyle , often sacreligiously hidden behind a mask of unfamiliarity or even worse, utter deceit. Perhaps they ask you to contact my relatives. Can you do it? Call up work to tell them I'm never coming back? Do you even have my number? Can you tell a mother that her not-so-fabulous blogger son is dead even before reaching his sexual-peak? And how do you explain to her just who the hell you are?


Think on that. And then tell me you know nothing of love, or do you?