That Devil in Me

For those who actually do read this blog on a semi-regular basis ( and I sincerely thank the both of you, Calvin - and oh yeah, that dedicated nomad in Ulan Bator :) ), you'd know that every once in a while that peculiar devil in me just comes to the fore, making me do the strangest things.

Strange medical syndrome and I actually blame it on a particularly strict religious upbringing ( bwahahaha! ) and restrictive societal mores. So when the going gets tough, I start rolling a little oft-kilter. While the occasional conservative Malay runs amok or turns hysterics when the world's seemingly falling down, I mysteriously transform into Psycho Paul. Thankfully it's not of the maniacally cackling, bloody chainsaw wielding variety but more of the wacky crazy dude sort... which is exactly what happened when Strapping Shane happened to make a passing comment that his mother is curious about the disreputable company he keeps.

Shane : Maybe my mom would like to meet your for dinner. See that I'm in good hands.
Paul : Good hands?

Apart from having vividly illicit fantasies about adventurous hands and Strapping Shane, I also sensed the wickedly impulsive devil in me stirring. Why else do I have a sudden near-irresistible urge to don a flashy lemon-yellow wig, a scarlet mini and matching skyscraper stilletos and go with a flattering swish in my walk to meet Strapping Shane's doting mom?

No wonder Shane warned me to be casual. You think he noticed the horns sprouting on my head?