PART 1
"At lunch today, the kid tried to eat his corn dog while it was still too hot and almost swallowed it whole, but it got stuck and he couldn't breathe or talk until the Mommy charged around from her side of the table.

Then two arms were hugging him from behind, lifting him off his feet, and the Mommy whispered, "Breathe! Breathe, damn it!"

After that, the kid was crying, and the entire restaurant crowded around.

At that moment, it seemed the whole world cared what happened to him. All those people were hugging him and petting his hair. Everybody asked if he was okay.

It seemed that moment would last forever. That you had to risk your life to get love. You had to get right to the edge of death to ever be saved...."

PART 2
"This never takes very long. The whole adventure lasts one, two minutes, tops. That's good, since that's about how long I can hold my breath with a mouthful of food.

My first choice would be the older man with the thick gold wristwatch, somebody who will save the day and pick up our check for dinner. My personal choice is the little black dress for the reason she has nice tits.
Even if we have to pay for our own meal, I figure you have to spend money to make money.

Shovelling food into his fave, Denny says, "Why you so this is so infantile."

I stagger over and kick him, again.

Why do I do this to put adventures back into people's lives.

Why do I do this to create heroes. Put people to the test.

Like mother, like son.


Why I do this to make money.


Somebody saves your life , and they'll love you forever. It's that old Chinese custom where if somebody saves your life, they're responsible for you forever. It's as if now you're their child. For the rest of their lives, these people will wrtie me. Send me cards on the anniversary. Birthday cards. It's depressing how many people get this same idea. They call you on the phone. To find out if you're feeling okay. To see if you maybe need some cheering up. Or cash.


It's not as if I spend the money phoning up escort girls. Keeping my mom in St Anthony's Care Center costs around three grand each month. These Good Samaritans keep me alive. I keep her. It's that simple.


You gain power by pretending to be weak. By contrast, you make people feel so strong. You save people by letting them save you.


All you have to do is to be fragile and grateful. So stay the underdog.


People really need somebody they feel superior to. So stay downtrodden.


People need somebody they can send a check at Christmas. So stay poor.


"Charity" isn't the right word, but it's the first word that comes to mind.


You're the proof of their courage. The proof they were a hero. Evidence of their success. I do this because everybody wants to save a human life with a hundred people watching.


If I can't be a great doctor saving hundreds of patients, this way I'm a great patient creating hundreds of would-be doctors.


Closing in fast is a man in a tuxedo, dodging between the onlookers, running with his steak knife and his ballpoint pen.


By choking, you become a legend about themselves that these people will cherish and repeat until they die. They'll think they gave you life. You might be the one good deed, the deathbed memory that justifies their whole existence.



So be the aggressive victim, the big loser. A professional failure.



People will jump through hoops if you make them feel like a god.



It's the martyrdom of Saint Me.



Denny scrapes my plate onto his and keeps forking food into his mouth.



The wine steward is here. The little black dress is up against me. The man with the thick gold watch.



In another minute, the arms will come around me from behind. Some stranger will be hugging me tight, double-fisting me under the rib-cage and breathing into my ear, "You're okay."



Breathing into your ear, "You're going to be fine."



Two arms will hug you, maybe even lift you off your feet, and a stranger wil whisper, "Breathe! Breathe, damn it!"



Somebody will pound you on the back the way a doctor pounds a newborn baby, and you'll let fly with your mouthful of chewed steak. In the next second, you'll both be collasped on the floor. You'll be sobbing while someone tells you how everything is all right. You're alive. They saved you. You almost died. They'll hold your head to their chest and rock you, saying, "Everybody get back. Make some room, here. The show's over."



Already, you're their child. You belong to them.



They'll put a glass of water to your lips and say, "Just relax. Hush. It's all over."



Hush.



For years to come, this person will call and write. You'll get cards and maybe checks.



Whoever it is, this person will love you.



Whoever will be so proud. Even if maybe your real folks aren't. This person will be proud of you because you make them so proud of themselves.



You'll sip the water and cough just so the hero can wipe your chin with a napkin.



Do this to cement this new bond. This adoption. Remember to add details. Stain their clothes with snot so they can laugh and forgive you. Cling and clutch. Really cry so they can wipe your eyes.



It's okay to cry as long as you are faking it.



Just don't hold anything back. This is going to be the best story of somebody's life.



What's most important is unless you want a nasty trache scar, you'd better be breathing before anybody gets near you with a steak knife, a pocketknife, a box cutter.



Everyone in the restaurant, sometimes they'll stand there and applaud. People will cry with relief. People will pour out of the kitchen. Within minutes, they'll be telling the story to each other. Everybody will buy drinks for the hero. Their eyes all shining with eye juice.



They'll all shake the hero's hand.



They'll pat the hero on the back.



It's so much more their birth than it is yours, but for years to come this person will send you a birthday card on this day and month. They'll become another member of your own very very extended family.



And Denny will shake his head and ask for a desert menu.



That's why I do all this. Go to all this trouble. To showcase just one brave stranger. To save just one more person from boredom. It's not just for the money. It's not just for the adoration.

But neither one hurts.

It's all so easy. It's not about looking good. at least not on the surface - but you still win. Just let yourself be broken and humiliated. Just your whole life, keep telling people, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry..."

PART 3
"The old woman pulled her face away from Dr Marshall, tonguing the string and bits of bloody food out of her mouth." SHe looked at me and said in her creaking voice, "I know you"

As automatic as sneezing, I said, I'm sorry. Sorry I fucked her cat. Sorry I drove over her flower beds. Sorry I shot down her husband's fighter plane. Sorry I flushed her hamster down the toilet. I sighed at her and said, "Did I forget anything?"

And Mrs. Tsunimitsu said, "I was with my son's family, dining out, and you almost choked to death." She says, "My son saved your life."

She says, "I was so proud of him. He still tells people that story."

Paige Marshall looks up at me.

"Secretly," Mrs Tsunimitse said, "I think my son, Paul, always felt like a coward until that night.

Paige sat back and looked from the old woman to me, back and forth.

Mrs. Tsunimitsu clasped her hands together below her chin, closed her eyes, and smiled. She said, "My daughter-in-law had wanted a divorce, but after she saw Paul save your, she fell back in love."

She said, "I knew you were faking. Everyone else saw what they wanted to see."

She said, "You have an enormous capacity for love in you."

The old woman sat there smiling and said, "I can tell you have the most generous of hearts."

And fast as sneezing, I told her:

"Your're a fucking wrinkled lunatic."

And Paige winces.

I tell everybody, I'm tired of being jerked around. Okay? So let's just not pretend. I don't have a fuck for a heart. You people are not going to make me feel anything. You are not going to get to me.

I'm a stupid, callous, scheming batard. End of story.

This old Mrs. Tsunimitsu. Paige Marshall. Ursula. Nico, Tanya, Leeza. My mom. Some days, life just looks like me versus every stupid chick in the whole damn world.

With one hand, I grab Paige Marshall around the arm and yank her towards the door.

Nobody's going to trick me into feeling Christlike.

"Listen to me," I say. I shout, "If I wanted to feel anything, I'd go to a frigging movie!"

And old Mrs. Tsunimitsu smiles and says, "You can't deny the goodness of your true nature. It's shining for everyone to see."

To her I say, shut up. To Paige Marshall I say, "Come on"

I'll prove to her I'm no Jesus Christ. Anybody's true nature is bullshit. There is no human soul. Emotion is bullshit. Love is bullshit. And I'm dragging Paige down the hallway.

We live and we die and anything else is just delusion, It's just passive chick bullshit about feelings and sensitivity. Just made-up subjective emotional crap. There is no soul. There is no God. There's just decisions and disease and death.

What I am is a dirty, filthy, helpless sexaholic, and I can't change, and I can't stop, and that's all I'll ever be.

And I'll prove it."

I apologise for the crude and perhaps to some, offensive language. But it seems as though I blog best through the voice of another. I'll be the greatest plagarist in uni i think... The above 3 parts are taken from the novel Choke by Chuck Palahniuk, author of Fight Club. I'll leave you to do your own interpretation and understanding....

Haven't blogged since I've touched down. Twenteen alr.... but unfortunately dun feel tht old... lolz... Just coming upz for some air... So dun expect regular posts... not just yet.... I'm a bloody mix of love, anger, fruastration, happiness, hope, zen, peace and so on and on... In short, I'm confused......