How I Came to explore Thailand Breast slapping technique

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA A torpid mind made dull by inactivity and sultriness, it wonders deeper into vacuity from enervation while trying to find things to write about. There is the recently watched movie about a ghost adopting children; or the Korean song stuck in the head and won’t go away; or the ongoing battle on the other side of the island; or the acclaimed book which inspired many a cussing and grumbling. There is the retelling of a routine life; or the far-fetched Korean drama series made watchable by the eyes that wouldn’t stop looking at the handsome actor; or the mother’s trip to visit great granddad in Sarawak; or the political support to BN by Melanau-Chinese cousins whose welfare is apparently well taken care of by Satan’s spawn – Taib Mahmud. There are many things worth blogging about. But at the moment, no topic could sate the uninspired mood ever susceptible by the heat, heart and hormones. Save this. This… subject of nothingness. This pointlessness. This apathy in lethargy. This dullness in day to day drudgery. This… Oh hey. A thunderstorm. In light of the change in weather, here’s a comment about Thailand-Breast-Slapping-Breast-enlargement technique I found online.

“The Thai breast slap works but I prefer to do the Nigerian Nipple Nudge where you suck the fat from her *** up into her breast. If it starts tasting like crap, you’re sucking too hard. Source(s): Gideons Bible”

It cracked me up.  Now, if anyone’s wondering why I was googling Thailand breast slapping in the first place, I have a very good reason. Stifling heat and monotony can carve out a great hollow in the human psyche, creating an emptiness that renders the mind vacant and witless, and this in turn may lead to unbecoming and strange pursuits. Which is why I was googling Thai breast slaps.Fine. Here’s the real reason. In chronological order. It all started with a novel I read.

Garden of Evening Mists

This novel is by a Malaysian-born author. Forty percent into the story, I was bored. The plot was ponderous and lacking, so my attention was redirected to the prose. It’s rife with personification and it distracted me.

Air powdered with the fragrance of roses… torn up books were beached on the lawn… clouds marooned somewhere… foraged among my thoughts…

Written in first person perspective, the language – couched in formal sentence-construct – evokes an image of a stilted and characterless narrator. Frequent participial phrases at the end of sentences renders the prose too contrived to the point of overkill. I wanted fluidity like the flow of the mind but found none of it. To project a contemplative quality in the protagonist with descriptions upon descriptions about the movement of trees, wind, herons, fish, and things I don’t give two hoots about without much going on in the story is just taxing for someone with the attention span of a fruitfly.

And I have the attention span of a fruitfly. 

The abstraction just drags on and on. I couldn’t stop reading because I was adamant on finishing the book, like a foolish patriot. Like Hang Tuah. By the time I was done, I was fuming. I realize my dislike for this novel is only telling of my taste in reading. Considering this was shortlisted for Man Booker Prize, I decidedly decided that I am not a fan of culture-fetish fiction, even if the story is set in a historically war-riddled Malaya about the fictitious lives of upperclass Chinese, upperclass Japanese, privileged foreigners, and with a few mentioning of real evil desperate communist Chinese, drunkard coolies, and those expendable underclass people. It’s a Japanese fetish fiction. No, not the erotic kind. Just the plant erotic kind. Blah. Moreover, the muted passion between characters in the story is prosaic. While reading it, I couldn’t help but compare this to The Pillow Book, an art film based on a Japanese journal/book by Sei Shonagen. The 1996 film starring then rising-star, Ewan McGregor demonstrates a relationship of explicit robust passion that tempers the abstractions in the story. I repeat – explicit robust passion. Watching it gave me great pleasure appreciation. If there were any in the said Man Booker novel or any driving plot at all, it might make a great read. Alas… everything has to be superficially cultured and contemplative.

The Pillow BookHubba Hubba

Anyway, to remove the mental aftertaste from reading the Booker novel, I lunged for something less culturally exquisite. And Korean pop culture was it. Like eating ice-cream after a breakup, I dined on their songs, and feasted on their farfetched dramas. The experience was hypnotic. So, from an over-romanticized fiction (novel), I moved on to an even more over-romanticized fiction (drama). But the cycle of witlessness didn’t stop there. Korean Pop Idols are beautiful. During this escapist spell, I allowed myself to be swept away by those mesmerizing plasticized (perhaps a misnomer there) pop stars and be driven by inspiration. Inspiration turned aspiration, and I wanted to become gorgeous. Gooooorgeous… which then leads to explorations of Korean plastic surgeries, a series of horrifying amazing transformation pictures and then arrival at non-invasive procedures of beauty enhancement, namely Thailand’s breast slapping method. Hence the comment discovery. Laughing out loud because of the comment knocked my senses out of that series of mindless internet browsing. Had there not been any ongoing battle in Sabah, and no mention of wars in said novel, I would be re-watching Aliens, Predators, The Thing, Saving Private Ryan, Dawn of the Dead (remake), or reading something befitting my character, but alas, the miseries of war have come too close to home. Sigh, this is like an elaborate journal entry that makes no sense. And the song that wouldn’t go away. 

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