Oh happy happy me. In 2 days time (or 1 day, depending on the lunar sighting), the fasting month of Ramadhan will end. I fully intend to indulge myself--thereby regaining the 15 pounds I've managed to shed!

You only live once, might as well die in this one . . .

Lately it seems I'm headed to a downward spiral. Of course, by this I don't mean suicidal---just that my meager jottings have become a bit . . . sombre.

Some have noted that I've turned introspective. And those gentle readers wish to see the volatile, acerbic Frosty of old---he who dispenses insults and comebacks with such rapid-fire panache one could swear he was a Wild West gunslinger in his past life. Of course, I would probably be wearing a corset and stays but that's another thought for another day . . .

I would like to say I've matured but the cynical side of me would disagree. It would say that I'm just displaying a more sedate aspect of my persona.

And this sedate pace is what I attempt to maintain during this Ramadhan season. A time of reflection and contemplation, of taking things in moderation and slowing down from this frenetic rat-race we usually find ourselves pacing to keep up.

Alhamdulillah . . . It is a time to give thanks for our little blessings and to look with compassion upon those who are lacking. Such profound thoughts do not occur to me often but when all is said and done then yes, I would agree that my lot in life is better than most---despite my so-called travails, I could hardly compare myself to the father of ten struggling to put food on the table with his three-figure salary.

Huffy, finicky, persnickety, anal-retentive me.

Oh woe of woes. Calamity. Alas and alack.

It's hard being misunderstood I tell you. You keep to the rules and you're not a threat. You play by the contstrains of polite society and you're a stick. You cut others slack and they walk all over you. You give others the cut direct for being rude . . . and you're the heinous bastard. Sometimes it's much safer to just stay in. And wallow in your misery and self-pity as you rock on your heels (while clutching your head), moaning to yourself, What does this all mean?!?

At which point, the saner more jaded part of your mind will calmly state, It means you're an idiot.

Then you step out of the house with a new attitude--or a makeover to take care of the puffy eyes--and a determination to not be such a weakling. Which you curiously aren't . . . You dispense with empty vacillations and stood firm to your decisions. You keep to principles. You nip things in the bud before they could grow to an entirely new set of problems, issues or dramas. And you still get to be called a heinous bastard.

We are people. People with various interest, ethics and other countless idiosyncrasies that makes us, us. In theory it sounds good but hardly anyone places much stock in mutual respect of each others' differences.

Which is why you get people who owe you money but dither--or sometimes never--paying up.

You get people who haven't seen you in ages and yet greet you with "You've put on weight!/You're fat!" as their way of greeting. To you gentle readers, when faced with jerks like these try to reply with "Ohmigaawd! You, too!"  Let me know what reaction was displayed. I am most curious.

You get morons who can't seem to say anything nice . . . constantly carping away about how inadequate or strange or 'just-plain-wrong' you are.

You get come-latelies who have to spout on and on about how grand they are as they're extolling abot the virtues of their company's new laptop, or company credit card . . .

It all goes on and on and on. Ad infinitum, ad nauseum. Wash, rinse . . . repeat.

I've always endeavoured to go against the grain most of the time. Being practical however, it doesn't mean I won't conform when the choice will benefit me in the long run. I am adaptive that way. But of course, others see that as me being "confused."

It's been a good two weeks. Work is fine. Have new social circle added. Asserted myself without being labelled "a total bastard" behind my back. Lost 3 pounds. Managed to control my nicotine intake.

Okay, maybe that last one is a little optimistic, but I persevere.

**************

Ugh. There are certain people who can't seem to leave well enough alone. Perhaps they feel underclassed. Perhaps it's a feeling of resentment that boils over once it reached its zenith. perhaps they are, simply put, complete bastards.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps . . .

Iamgine playing a game with friends and you ruled in favour of a rule that was explicitly written in one of the core rulebooks. One player stated that there are supplemental rules in one of the supplements (outside sources) that supercedes that. You rule in favour of the core rules . . . and the player tossed a bitch-fit. Complete with table slammings and book thumpings, sulky faces, disgruntled expressions, and snarls . .  . I half expected to see claws and fur growing from him next.

I moved on with the game . . .  and we fast forward to the next day where when I opened the e-mail first thing in the morning (at 630am, mind you) and lo and behold . . .  there was an e-mail from a certain player pinpointing the exact reference material, page, paragraph and line . . .

But all that I tossed aside since news at work is even better! I am now a confirmed, permanent staff, with a salary raise and brighter prospects!

So, what is the deal with a sour-grape player? Nothing there . . . Let's leave it at that. We don't want a drama-trauma, do we?

We've often been told that to give in to our emotions would leave us stranded in a position—that while journey is enjoyable—most people would pay good money to void. We've all been in that place. That crucible where we have the almost painful temptation to give in to our whims. We know it's a path better left alone. But the weed-choked alley somehow caught our fancy. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad to take a short traipse down that path…

And therein lies my undoing.

I would risk calling myself a weak hedonist. A glutton, a sensualist. A greedy little sponge. The list of pejoratives goes on and on. Even if I were to exhaust my formidable vocabulary I would still not have the words to describe my moments of weakness.

My contemplating my state of mind—if you can call it that!—is not a signal of depression, I assure you. Nor is it another promise (yet another one!) of turning over a new leaf—which I probably have no intention of keeping. Perhaps I like picking at scabs.


Who doesn't?