The saying 'the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak' nicely sums up my position for the past two or three weeks. But then again, I suppose you could probably sum up my whole life in the same way. Anyway, whoever came up with that saying obviously was not sensitive to the condition of people with Duchenne muscle dystrophy. Absolutely no respect at all, I say.
Sometimes I get hunger pangs in the middle of the night. This is especially true if I didn't take dinner earlier. Or even lunch. Sometimes probably breakfast too. But let us not dwell on minor event build-ups. The important thing is that from time to time, as I am furiously typing out that case write up (which always gets done at the very last possible moment) way into the wee hours of the morning or furiously clicking away on Mafia Wars, my tummy will send out an audible noise signaling that it has gone without food for too long and if I don't do anything about it sharpish, it promises to be a pain in the arse. Now why would an empty stomach hurt my butt?
So the other night it happened again. I was just about to pull off a heist on this mafioso's mega casino when I was interrupted by a loud gurgling sound. Without so much of a thought, I shouted towards the bathroom 'Hey, since when did we keep Listerine in the bathroom?' without noticing that my room mate was sound asleep in his bed. Oh.
As someone who has done this many times, I can tell you that going out for a late night supper is akin to making a decision in what career path you choose to take. You go out into the world, all fresh faced - sometimes not, more so when you've been typing out that bloody case write up - ready to take on anything the world throws at you. But the first gust of cold wind that hits your face makes you realise that you haven't actually thought of what to do, or in this case, what to eat. And thus you are left standing by the dimly lit sidewalk, hand clutching wallet as motorists zoom by in search of the next mamak stall for another round of teh tarik.
However, on this particular night my head was crystal clear and I knew exactly what I wanted - spicy anchovy buns and a tin of Boh Teh O' Ais Passionfruit with real honey to wash it all down. Actually, that's a bit of a lie. I didn't know what to have for supper but that was what I ended up with after skimming the shelves in 7-11 for close to half an hour.
And as I slide up to the counter to pay for my purchases, a man in his late 40's walks in. I glance at him and he smiles back. A nice looking fellow, but as I was about to find out, appearances can be cruelly deceiving.
'Adik, bagi sekotak Dunhill 20. Hmm..bagi yang comel sikit la. Ha, yang gambar baby tu'
(Give me a packet of Dunhill 20's. Hmm...give me a cute one, will you? Ha, the one with the baby on it, that one)
I choked on my own spit, trying to suppress a laugh. But as I walked back to my hostel - buns and canned drink in hand - I realised that these are the very smokers who I'll be dealing with in a couple of years. So what can I expect from a chronic chain smoker who thinks that a picture of an aborted foetus is cute? Not much, me thinks.
This begs for a caption. Really, it does.