The correct answer to that question is: Sometimes. Most of the time, I'm a bubbly, charming-the-paints-offa-wall, kind of guy. The type that doesn't get the girl or gets the wrong one. I need to lay off the sauce. The past three posts were about girls. I can talk about advertising, but that would be a major bore. The man behind the talk, agrees with the girl.

Time: Ten to eight or thereabouts. Location: Onboard a moving train, Klang-bound. It's wets, cold, really cold since the Equinox. I'm sitting adjacent to a Malay woman that I saw minutes ago before the train came. She's medium built, small breasts, wearing a red t-shirt with a Chinese letter printed on the chest and paired with a matte black cargo pants. She's wearing the most unassuming sandals I've ever seen on such a stunning woman. There's a pair of sunglasses perched firmly on top of her treated black hair (I question her taste in hair color: Honey, shoulder lenght black hair looks awesome on you, trust me. And take off those shades, the sun's already set, it's dark and I can't see you).

Since I'm sitting close to her and her gwailo boyfriend (I'm assuming he's the boyfriend since he seem to have been granted access to her knee and thigh and keeps caressing her knee with authority, lucky man, I geddit.) Her phone rings silently and she fumbles with her hand bag that slung low and now it's resting on her lap, finds her Nokia and speaks in Malay; fluently and peppers her conversation with "umms" & "aahs"; it ends a few seconds later.

From what I can hear, her voice reminds me of the girl from The Cardigans and she speaks in hushed notes, must be a private person. Her brown skin is clear and her lips are naked without lip gloss, full and inviting. And she has deep penetrating eyes. I like that. I really like that. This update is almost masturbatory. I like this too. But she's not beautiful. She's attractive, the type that drives me up the walls everytime I see one. She notices that I'm reading a book (Frank McCourt's "Angela's Ashes", have you read that? If you haven't, then you should be). From the corner of my eye, I saw her staring at the cover of the book, trying to make out the words that form the title. After about 3 seconds, her must have emerged victorious and looked away.

Minutes later we arrive at Subang and she and her gwailo boyfriend alights from the train. I wonder if that's the last time I'm going to see her. I'm pretty confident that I'd freeze like a dear in headlights if I do see her again. She belongs in my fantasy, just like the others before her. I'm not looking for answers, I'm just throwing the question out into the void. Good night, void.

This was supposed to be posted a couple of weeks ago but I've been swamped with work (read: lazy) and this gets shelved. Okay. Let's call her Amelie, shall we? So, Amelie, in one of our rare Yahoo Messenger conversation asked me for some help on behalf of her blacked out writer friend who, apparently had 15 minutes to prep for a meeting with his Creative Director regarding the Buttercup print ad. I said, I don't know if I could do this stuff for real, she just said, shoot Zafer and that's all it took: Shoot Zafer. Off I went racking my brains for a few minutes (I was in the middle of deadline rush, so bear with me) and I came up with this cliche of a headline: "Spreadable delight" with a the viz of a 5 year old kid with curly brown hair (it needs to be brown since Buttercups are, yellowish-butterish color, brown is excellent for contrast).

She said it's nice (read: you dumb, talentless-washed-up-has-been fuck, well I can't be a has-been if I'm a never-was) and resumed her conversation with her previously-blacked-out-now-rescued copywriter friend. A few hours later, she told me, "Hey, guess what..they like the headline but it's changed a bit, to 'Spreading delight' and the viz is the headline written in butter". Yay. Bravo. Not even a thank you. Fine with me. You see, she has this thing where she likes to jump off the page, never to been seen again on the same topic. She does that regularly and that makes it a pain for me to deal with since I don't know what to do to get her on the same page again. And for that inability, she thinks I'm lame. Very lame. Fine. But there's something about her that irks me to no end, I think she's a liar. The whole thing was made for some purpose. I can't tell a lie from the truth, I'm that slow. But that's what my gut is telling me: She lies and she can't help herself from doing it. "Ey Mikey... I think she likes it." You like it when she lies to you too, huh?