Degree or No Degree, It Don't Make a Difference
2 mad rant(s) » Add your own! RANDTed: Unknown at 5:20:00 PMNo, I am not discouraging you from furthering your studies to the highest level possible. I still harbour hopes of studying in the USA, thank you very much. A degree is not was it was in our parents' day - a privilege, limited to the elites who could afford to send their children to prestigious institutions of higher education in Britain, etc. Now, it is considered a must in order to even be considered for a job. No degree, no potential rice bowl. Possess a degree, and doors that were previously closed are opened to you.
However, this order does not seem to apply in the teaching profession in Malaysia. Read these: "Sacrifice of teachers that hasn't paid off" and "Upgraded in qualifications but losing out". These letters appeared in The Star 2 weeks ago, both voicing out the injustice faced, of which I'll explain of later.
Their case, as is with perhaps 50,000 other teachers, is as such: they were non-graduate teachers in the 1970's, just armed with their cert from the training colleges. They believed that in upgrading themselves by doing their degrees, they could do a better job with their newly-acquired skills, plus have better shots at higher salaries and promotions. Pretty much like the corporate world. However, to their dismay, when the pay revision was done by our Education Ministry, their salary was lower than of non-graduate teachers. Imagine!
Why I write this is because it is an issue close to my heart, involving my father, a teacher of 29 years already. My father joined the teaching profession in 1979 as a C2 teacher. He passed his STPM in 1986 and was subsequently placed in the C1 category two years later. In 1993, he attended a one-year specialist course for secondary school TESL (Teaching English as a Second Language) teachers. He was awarded his first "Anugerah Perkidmatan Cemerlang" in 1994.
In 1995, he received half-pay leave to study for his 1st degree in Universiti Sain Malaysia. Life was hard then. My brother was barely a year old (he was born in late 1994), my mum was frail after the delivery yet had to care for us - I was barely above 5 years of age, and my sister, a mere 3 years old. My father only could return from Penang on weekends. One stark memory of those years I have of that period of time was when my mum and I were down with high fever. My mother was so weak that she could not muster the strength to go to the doctor; instead my grandmother called the doctor to the house. I remember my brother crying, myself not being able to eat, and my sister being bewildered most of the time. Thank God for my very formidable grandmother, who came over and took care of us. I also remember, on a separate occasion, my parents talking about how much costs they had to cut back, financial difficulties due to his pay being halved while on study leave. Being very attached to my parents, I used to cry when he wasn't around, because there was no daddy on the weekdays to read me Cinderella for the umpteenth time at night, or make icecreams out of Play-doh for my sister and I to play house.
Despite the hardship, my father graduated in 1999. During the 4 years of his study, he was not given any pay increment. This meant that upon his graduation, he had lost out FOUR increments to his peers who had stayed on as non-graduates. Three months after his graduation, there was a pay adjustment for non-graduate teachers. He discovered that his basic pay was RM1 less that of the non-graduate DGA6 teachers (the DG thing is their pay scheme coding). His request to be emplaced in the non-graduate DGA6 scheme before the graduate DG3 was rejected. That did not deter him. Instead, he went on to receive his second "Anugerah Perkhidmatan Cemerlang" in 2002. Being a man who believed in acquiring more knowledge in order to serve his God, King and Country better, my father applied and received a full scholarship to do his Masters programme in UM. And yet, despite his initiative, perseverance and hard work, his pay is still less than of my mum, who is a non-graduate.
My mother joined the teaching profession in 1981 two years after my dad became a teacher. Like my dad, she graduated from a teachers’ training college in KL as a C2 teacher. She has been a non-graduate teacher ever since. She decided not to pursue her studies so that she could look after her children and enable my dad to pursue his career. However, all their effort and sacrifice have in fact worked against them. Even thought my mom has never received the awards my dad did, she still earns more than my dad. She is in DGA32 and my Dad is in DG41. Both got 3&4 for their PTK. How can this be? It clearly shows that the salary revisions over the years have not taken into account of teachers like my dad. Although they are upgraded in qualifications, they lost out badly terms of seniority, increment in pay and opportunities for promotions to their peers and juniors in the profession. It is downright demoralizing, de-motivating and grossly unfair.
Obviously, something is very wrong with the current system. It is extremely cowardly for the Ministry concerned to sit quietly, instead of revising the ins and outs of the enforced pay scheme. Teachers like my father have given the best years of their lives, yet they have been left out in the cold when it comes to the benefits. These are experienced teachers - a definite asset to our nation. In the light of the upcoming election, I urge those in authority to rectify this huge oversight quickly. Give them back what is theirs before you begin wondering why less and less people want to be teachers in this country.
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;;I realise that I haven't been updating here recently. Anyway, I have been working on a series. It's actually a continuation of the "Hypodermic Syringe" story, on a junkie doctor, which I put up months ago (hey, Arbitary Juggernaut!...). But since I'm too lazy and I can't spend much time on the computer now that I'm schooling:
My blog
which contains the 7 installments of the series. Happy Reading!
(Is this blatant self-promotion or what...)
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This is a video by Japanese rock/metal band Dir En Grey. Watch it and you will never have the heart to abort babies. At least I did. The lyrics are written from the perspective of the aborted baby:
"Mazohyst of Decadence"
Child that will be born of adults with no sense of guilt fallen
I who have no name, why am I here I don't even understand, but
I don't know that I only have a few months to live...
I want to love, I want to be born inside this mother's body, staring
since the time I waited for conciousness two months on I sensed something fast
yet I could do nothing that cord of ours will be...
I, incomplete, my body pierced through with hooked pain
mother's screaming voice, ringing in my ears, will not cease white coated adults scooped me up
in eyes overflowing with coldheartedness bloody, without a right hand, I am reflected
just as I was, in black vinyl I am wrapped, engulfed
while my conciousness is gradually fading, I consider quietly
if I, caged, am loved as I am, that is good it cannot be forgiven
it's better that I, unloveable, die as I am
in quiet I shall sleep without giving my first cry
just once, I want to feel a mother's love
maybe this is love thank you
a door that never opens was closing tight
but I am surely your future, and so...
la la la...
my body burned, consumed until my bones become nothing burned, destroyed
goodbye
.....and 'Mazohyst' is a made-up word. I've always felt that abortion should only be allowed if the pregnancy was caused by rape. If it were by casual sex, it's like,"Hello you blardy knew what having sex entails right?" even if it was protected sex. What do you think?
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;;Part I: Hypodermic Syringe
Editor's Note
Dr. James Carter will always be, in medical history, a pioneer in radical surgery. A talent for the most complicated surgical procedures, coupled with the nerve to perform difficult, if not impossible, operations made the good doctor one of the leading lights of medicine in his time.
Fellow surgeons, medical staff and students often describe Dr. Carter as the consummate professional. Of course, that degree of genius came with a aloofness. Yet they understood it was not arrogance on his part, just a genuine reservedness and also his viewpoint that his job was one thing, his personal life another.
Compartmentalising, Dr. Carter's forte. There were many facets to this man, and one which caused public outrage. On the 16th August 2005, Dr. Carter was charged with negligence following the death of a high profile client. Further investigations revealed that he was a regular user of cocaine. The case quickly became of national interest. The incident came to an abrupt halt when the doctor was found dead in his prison cell a day before the date of sentencing.
After his death, his secret papers and journals were released. The medical journals were bestowed to the hospital he served in. Those, and his private notes show a man of extreme intelligence and logic, and dare I say, even exonerate him of what is perceived to be a major crime. These private papers, written by a young Dr. Carter, from his childhood, provide us with the who, why, where and how of this man.
SDW
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Chapter I: Separation
June 1987. I learnt a new word today. Nouveau riche is used to describe someone who has recently become rich, and flaunts his newly acquired wealth in not so tasteful ways.
My father Gerard could be described as such, cruel as it is to say so. He struck it rich by partnering some cigar-smoking Italians in the tobacco industry. We were immediately transported from extreme poverty to filthy wealth.
Wealth doesn't buy class. I never brought any friends from school to play in my house. They'd laughed at the garish colours, the heavy drapes. Thankfully, my relatively down-to-earth mother managed to persuade the old man to allow me to decorate my bedroom as I pleased. Hence, my room was a spotless white, with the most minimal of decorations.
I was the doted-upon only son, but not so much the pride of my father. I didn't look much like him. Gerard Carter was a musclebound, sturdy man. Quite like how I'd imagined Goliath from the Bible to be. He was crass but a good man, if it makes any sense. I looked more like my mother, a quiet country rose. Our hair were the same shade of chocolate brown, our eyes light grey. My father was a swarthy guy with well-oiled black hair and flashing eyes; the macho man. I was quiet and bookwormish. Nobody ever thought I was his son, and sometimes I myself wondered too.
Well, it didn't take me long to find out. One afternoon, Tuesday, I think, I returned home to find my parents yelling at each other. It was surprising because Mother was usually demure and softspoken. Sensing that something big was going on, I didn't enter but hid near the window to listen.
Father left Mother for a few minutes. I caught the words "not mine" and "ho", or something like that (my vocab is limited for a 12-year-old I know). I almost burst with curiosity. Then, he came storming down the staircase with luggage bags and boomed,"Get out of my house!"
I was stunned an' knocked down a flowerpot. The folks saw me. Mother just grabbed the bags, walked out, took my hand and dragged me away.
I screamed for my Father. Note that I said he was a good man and I loved him, despite his lack of societal graces. Mother slapped me once, and cried after that. I kept silent from that moment.
"Mum, what's going on?" I asked her brusquely. We'd been trainhopping for the past 3 days, with minimal sleep and food = cranky me. Mum refused to tell me. So I bugged her for the entire 4 hours to Manhattan and she finally gave in.
Gerard wasn't my father. So that's why! That's why I never resembled him in any way! I was sad that I didn't know my true father, but at the same time, I felt sorry for Gerard. He was a good man to my mother and I. Mother wouldn't tell me who my true father was.
I watched the scenery rush by and thought of both of them.
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;;Hi people! Sorry for not posting as frequently as I should, considering I'm probably one of the "free-er" members of RANDTS. Anyway, this is a random thought which I'd like your opinion on...
Last night, I had a pretty good sms conversation from 10p.m. till 12a.m.. Bear in mind that I only had ONE conversation with the person previously. That verbal conversation was on mundane matters i.e. tuition, school, etc.
The question now is: will we talk as freely face-to-face like how we sms-ed? I find myself being able to chat with certain people online or via sms but have nothing to say when meeting them in person. Why is this so?
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;;He strides confidently, calmly. Well-dressed passers-by on the streets merely stare at him with dull eyes. Smog envelopes the alleyways. It does not deter him; he speeds through the urban dust like a knife through water.
His left hand clenches a paper bag. He makes sure his baggage is still secure. Once he nears the area where he calls home, he puts the brown paper bag into his pants' pocket. It is small and fits snugly, invisible to curious eyes.
The neighbourhood is gaily, pretty in its suburban colours of beige and terracotta with splashes of greenery. Warm lights are switched on; it is dinnertime. He takes in the scenery disdainfully. He knows that behind the facade of family, respectability and money, there is nothing but grey - boredom with life and the like.
Never mind. He enters his house, one of the most expensive-looking on the avenue. His pretty wife is preparing dinner with Francois, the new cook. His young children play with Lego. He dutifully kisses her and murmurs quiet approval of his son's Lego aeroplane.
"I'll be having a long shower," he says casually. "Call me when dinner is ready." His wife nods.
Once he enters his study, the veneer cracks. His hands are shaking manically, but he stills them with an inhuman effort. Out comes the paper bag. From a locked drawer, he takes out a spoon, a syringe. Needle, tourniquet - check. He meticulously arranges his kit on the study table. He empties a little of what is in his brown paper bag into the spoon. Placing the spoon carefully over a small flame, he waits. He knows that in exactly 5 minutes, it will bubble over. Then he'll take a breath and plunge the needle in.
In 10 minutes' time his grey world is awash with psychedelic colours. Sheer bliss floods his mind. He feels love for all of creation. He could dance, he believed he could fly. Piss off, he thinks of his pretty blonde wife, I don't need you anymore...
The exhilaration lasts for another 10 minutes and as abruptly as it came, it goes. He washes up, stores everything away. The steaming shower jolts him back to normality, albeit a stoned one. It doesn't matter. His mood is soaring.
He dresses, checks himself in the mirror, walks downstairs. Lamb is the main course, with smooth creme brulee as dessert. He eats with more relish than other days. Francois is satisfied and all is well.
After dinner, the family is lounging in the living room. The shrill tone of the telephone disrupts the tranquillity. His wife sighs and he moves to pick up the phone.
"Miss Scott? Your father, I see. I'll be there in a minute."
Before long, Doctor James Carter leaves his house for his patient's...
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;;Who came first, the chicken or the egg?
8 mad rant(s) » Add your own! RANDTed: Unknown at 12:37:00 PMHmmm, the world must be wondering what kind of people Malaysian are, with our politicians behaving no better than low-cultured folk. I refer to the recent event of a certain government MP who was reported to have made a derogatory remark to a female Opposition MP (read the Star article)
First thing, I really fail to see the connection between the possibility of leaks in the Parliament building and the monthly cycle of a woman. It was hell rude, if you don't mind me saying. I thought debates, especially one so important as a Parliamentary, were supposed to be intelligent exchanging of views with a healthy dose of wit, rhetoric, charisma and sarcasm. This latest episode (following on a string of other numerous verbal blunders) just shows how much more we have to go in becoming a progressed nation, mentally.
Before proceeding, let me clarify that my reference is The Star's coverage on that incident. I quote the paper: '“My advice is that MPs should be careful with their words next time,” he (Speaker Tan Sri Ramli Ngah Talib) said amidst cheers and the thumping of tables by the backbenchers.'
And that's just it?? *incredulous* The cheering and thumping of tables seems as though the other backbenchers think that making jibes as such is acceptable. Or is it because it was in their favour, and not the Opposition's?
Another from the article: 'Minister in the Prime Minister’s Department Datuk Seri Nazri Abdul Aziz said Fong should have taken the matter in her stride.
“It is normal to play with words,” he said, adding that it would be wrong if the statement had been made with malicious intent.'
I do agree with his statement but plain rudeness staring you in the face with a defiant eye shouldn't be accepted. Especially from a person of public influence.
We keep hearing of these incidents from time to time. When will our politicians learn to take responsibility for their words? We wonder why are they even there and realise, damn! we voted for them. What kind of people have we elected to lead our country? People who are merely skilled in talk (which borders on the nonsensical at times)? Which brings me to the question - who are the bigger idiots, us or them?
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;;My Slate I, 27th Sept '06. Agent A and B were assigned by their faceless boss C to find Harry Potter. Young Harry was a man..or rather, adolescent being hunted; his name placed on the dreaded Schindler's List. The 2nd part of the saga (My Slate II) showed us the bad blood between Agents A and B. Past tensions resurfaced about a Prada-wearing Devil...and the 3rd episode (My Slate III) sees the duo reconciling their pasts. Harry is found but they face a deadly nemesis in Coyote Ugly and his henchmen.
And now, taking movie titles from the 1930's...Out in the city square-
Harry (HP): Alright! There he is! M, over here!*waves frantically to The Aviator*
B: Wow! Look at the size of that plane, A! Them 'plane builders just get better an' better in these Modern Times...How is he gonna land though?
A: Those City Lights ought to help; the brightness will stop him from crashing into the buildings. When Mr. Smith Went to Washington, he kept complaining the lights blinded him...
*the aircraft lands smoothly and the trio embark the plane*
M: So, Harry, why'd you call me for? *pats HP fondly on the head*
HP: Sir, you've gotta help me!...I Am A Fugitive From A Chain Gang!
M: Bless The Wizard of Oz! How DID that happen?
HP: *leans in* Well, It Happened One Night...
-The murder of Sir Dodsworth, a rare honest politician, by powerful underworld members had caused chaos. His closest aides were given death sentences, among them, young Harry. The prison that enclosed them was a hell unimaginable to any human. Those who entered never saw the light on day again.-
HP: I was spending A Night at the Opera house, lying low from Coyote Ugly, and I met this...*pauses* amazing girl.
B: *breathes* Sally...
HP: We were like The Adventures of Robin Hood...me and my Maid Marion, y'know? We were together when I was captured but I pushed her into the darkness...and The Lady Vanishes to safety. Imagine my shock when she emerged as the Bride of Frankenstein, that is, the Pianist...the guy who arrested me.
M: *whispers* Holy shit.
HP: Sally and I communicated using the Code of the Secret Service. We'd never stopped loving each other. The Thin Man married her forcefully, to use her against me. *gets angry* By Jove, I'll kill him!
A: So the stories are all true. I overheard at Le Quai des brumes that you were in Duck Soup for creating Trouble in Paradise. If you can call being married to the Pianist paradise anyway... *snorts disdainfully* Well, it's All Quiet on the Western Front now. Let's get moving and we'll be Gone With the Wind.
HP: Where will we go now?
B: First, we'll take you to visit old Scarface. The Invisible Man wants to see you first. Take the One Way Passage, M.
M: Righto, chief...
-the plane quietly ascends and disappears into the night sky-
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Lately, I'm beginning to understand that 'thing'. A close friend started dating someone I know faintly. It's unnoticeable but my friend and I are slightly not as close as before. The jokes and laughter are still there, but the deeper understanding feels like it's being compromised.
She's from a totally different circle of friends. She's a pretty decent person. I'm happy that he's happy. Downside, she and I really don't have much in common or anything to talk about. Furthermore, I'm not one for small talk...and when I do that, it feels construed at times. So it's weird that now what we do in a big group includes her. That I have to sort of get to know her because she's the girlfriend.
I guess that's what comes as part and parcel of being friends. When you're young, you get to know their boyfriends/girlfriends. Once you hit adulthood, you have lunch with your friends and their partners. Not to mention, be the best man or the bridesmaid. To smile at the quiet but excited way he tells you about her because it's so unlike him. And to comfort when the ghost of the past girl resurfaces.
Adapting takes time, I suppose...
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;;As someone who has contemplated suicide countless times, I'd like to share my 2 cents on this issue. Imho, people who kill themselves for minor matters (getting dumped, etc.) are somewhat unreasonable. I wouldn't condemn them so quickly though. The worst part a suicidal person experiences is being unable to make those around him understand.
It's all a matter of perspective. What you consider trivial might mean the world to me, and vice versa.
Imagine losing or not being to achieve that something that meant to you so much. Even though you've tried so hard, so often, putting everything to it but to no avail. Or getting stuck in a situation that beyond fixing. Others may see you as an individual who's got something going for yourself, but really, when you're in that kind of situation, nothing else matters.
Most suicidal people don't wake up, feel horrible and suddenly decide,"Hey, life isn't as pretty as I thought it'd be, so I'll just kill myself." It takes a slow spiral down till you hit the abyss. Everything suffocates. During my Dark Ages (2005), I felt as though there were invisible walls that kept closing in on me all the time. Waking up in the middle night, experiencing panic attacks alone. It gets so bad that you see suicide options wherever you go. Like walking by the road and thinking,"I could jump right in front of that fast Proton." Or,"Look, there's a kitchen knife..."
The worst part a suicidal person experiences is being unable to make those around him understand. Some dismiss suicidals as weak-minded, but it takes a lot of guts to decide to end your life and actually do it (this doesn't mean I condone suicide). They are considered paranoid. Yet in that very depressed state of mind, everything seems dire. The suicidal descends even more, unable to communicate his fears to his worried family and friends; the friends cannot understand why the suicide case cannot see another angle to his predicament and avoid discussing it with him. It's a vicious circle.
Still, I'd say that the best way is to hang on. Somehow, the so-very-big problem will, with time, lessen. Maybe, just maybe, there might even be a solution. I can confidently say so because I did the same, and I've never regretted it.
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;;This story was created using movie titles from the 1950's ;)
The doors of the saloon swung open suddenly, its hinges creaking, interrupting the drowsy atmosphere inside. Patrons - those who were still sober - turned their heads towards the entrance. In the doorway stood a man dressed in black, a giant really. He was probably 6 feet tall, with a burly frame and bushy moustache. The patrons and the barman eyed the intruder nervously.
"Where is Shichinin no samurai?" the man roared. A customer, perceived to be drunk, was stunned sober at the sheer volume and leapt out of the Rear Window in fright. The giant snorted and cast his eyes over the people in the saloon. His eyes narrowed for a moment, then he reassumed his grim expression.
"Tell him, this Shichinin that,"the man paused for effect,"the 12 Angry Men seek him. If he declares himself a man, he will go North by Northwest and face us at Sunset Boulevard. And if he doesn't,"the giant paused again,"we will hunt him down and send him into a Vertigo of such misery that he will regret being born." With those doom-like words, the man left the bar.
The 12 Angry Men were a band of no-good rogues who had been terrorising the townfolk. They pillaged, raped and razed wherever they liked. And hell, they got away by buying the sheriff. The whole bar was silent, thinking of Shichinin's fate. Then the chatter broke out.
"I knew tha' Shichinin had a Touch of Evil ever since he came to our town!"
"That little yellow Jap is bringin' us trouble, I tell ya, Maisie. And we thought he was the handsomest young man we ever laid eyes on. 12 Angry Men, indeed!"
"Tony, where is he?"A miner in overalls asked the barman. The barman shook his bald pate resignedly.
"I don't know, Mo,"he replied. "But wherever he is, he's managed to avoid them and he'll be Singing in the Rain, celebrating his freedom. That Shichinin, he's a slippery one, he is."
Morris the miner raised an eyebrow. "But...the 12 Angry Men! They never let anyone go. Certainly not a yellow," he pronounced the 'yellow' distastefully.
Tony rolled his eyes at his friend's racist attitude and proceeded to tell Morris about the Jap's plan. There was a man, he said, Umberto D, a trickster, who lived on the other side of the hill; a mutual friend of Tony and Shichinin. Shichinin...Shiki would definitely seek refuge with him. Umberto D would help him disguise himself, in fact, change his appearance so well that if any of the 12 Angry Men met him face to face, they'd merely be Strangers on a Train...
... "Weather's terrible, ain't it?"the coarsened fisherman remarked to a smooth-looking young man. The young man smiled.
"It's perfect,"the young man said in heavily accented English. Definitely a foreigner, the fisherman thought. Latin? he wondered. "We don't get as much sun as this in my country," the youth explained.
The fisherman shrugged. "Well, Some Like It Hot." The young man nodded in agreement. "What's a young 'un like you doin' On the Waterfront at High Noon?"the fisherman pressed.
He was waiting for a boat, he explained. A long journey. This area wasn't suitable for him. The fisherman agreed. Dangerous, with outlaws and criminals running about. Thankfully, the 12 Angry Men were no more. The youth looked surprised. So the fisherman told him about The Killing of the twelve bandits. All had been shot cleanly in the throat, a method of execution favoured by the Twelve themselves. Used especially, with great delight on their part, on immigrants in the town. Bigots, the fisherman spat and cursed them. The town was better off without them.
The youth merely listened. Inwardly, he inhaled the Sweet Smell of Success. He would've liked to tell this old fisherman how simple the Anatomy of a Murder was - oh, how easy it was! Yet he could not risk having a Witness for the Prosecution should he get caught one day. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. He knew it was wrong. Those bandits however had destroyed so many lives, including his family. The important thing was that they were gone forever. And of himself? A new life far away, thanks to his friend Umberto D.
The steamer Stalag 17 approached ponderously. He could see the many peoples on the ship. He thanked the old fisherman for a great conversation and bade him farewell. Up, up, up, he walked the gangplank and onto the ship. Shichinin no samurai joined the masses and became A Face in the Crowd.
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I'm clueless when it comes to writing introductory pieces about myself. When posed with THE long-suffering question,"Use 3++ words to describe yourself..." I'm stumped. It's not that I have an identity crisis; just concerned whether I might seem vain if I used the wrong words.
However, since Jared requested...here goes:
I'm Yi Wei from Ipoh. Was from MGS Ipoh, just got my SPM results and am currently on the lookout for scholarships.
I love art, books and music. Doodling is my major bad habit but it does make my notepads more interesting. I would like to take my dad to Italy once I hit my goldmine to see all the art collections they have (it's also the birthplace of Leonardo da Vinci, whom we both admire). I read almost anything on hand, except for romance novels. I'd like to get my hands on more Tolstoy and Neil Gaiman's 'Sandman'. Lord of the Rings, the Darren Shan series...Philip Pullman's 'Dark Materials' trilogy are some of my favourite reads.
Music...I used to listen to Linkin Park a lot in Std. 6, then joined the angst crowd by plugging in to Avril Lavigne, Good Charlotte, Blink 182. I now favour Muse, the Red Hot Chilli Peppers and this Jap band named KAT-TUN. Classical music-wise, I lean towards Chopin and Debussy. I also enjoy playing/listening to Gershwin (yeah I play the piano).
Other bits of info:
1. I like organisation. Like numbering my personal details here.
2. My biggest dream is to be a nuclear physicist. However, since my Physics is barely passable, I'm forced to look to other flanks.
3. I am left-handed.
4. I'm a bit obsessive-compulsive. Certain things HAVE to be done a certain way and in a certain order.
5. I admire Vincent van Gogh both for his artworks and his personality.
Last words: I'm really glad to be invited to join RANDTS! Will attempt to post lucid entries. Please comment so that I won't stagnate. Hope to know all of you better too =D
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