Amazing Peace: A Christmas Poem

By Dr. Maya Angelou

Thunder rumbles in the mountain passes
And lightning rattles the eaves of our houses.
Flood waters await us in our avenues.

Snow falls upon snow, falls upon snow to avalanche
Over unprotected villages.
The sky slips low and grey and threatening.

We question ourselves.
What have we done to so affront nature?
We worry God.
Are you there? Are you there really?
Does the covenant you made with us still hold?

Into this climate of fear and apprehension, Christmas enters,
Streaming lights of joy, ringing bells of hope
And singing carols of forgiveness high up in the bright air.
The world is encouraged to come away from rancor,
Come the way of friendship.

It is the Glad Season.
Thunder ebbs to silence and lightning sleeps quietly in the corner.
Flood waters recede into memory.
Snow becomes a yielding cushion to aid us
As we make our way to higher ground.

Hope is born again in the faces of children
It rides on the shoulders of our aged as they walk into their sunsets.
Hope spreads around the earth. Brightening all things,
Even hate which crouches breeding in dark corridors.

In our joy, we think we hear a whisper.
At first it is too soft. Then only half heard.
We listen carefully as it gathers strength.
We hear a sweetness.
The word is Peace.
It is loud now. It is louder.
Louder than the explosion of bombs.

We tremble at the sound. We are thrilled by its presence.
It is what we have hungered for.
Not just the absence of war. But, true Peace.
A harmony of spirit, a comfort of courtesies.
Security for our beloveds and their beloveds.

We clap hands and welcome the Peace of Christmas.
We beckon this good season to wait a while with us.
We, Baptist and Buddhist, Methodist and Muslim, say come.
Peace.
Come and fill us and our world with your majesty.
We, the Jew and the Jainist, the Catholic and the Confucian,
Implore you, to stay a while with us.
So we may learn by your shimmering light
How to look beyond complexion and see community.

It is Christmas time, a halting of hate time.

On this platform of peace, we can create a language
To translate ourselves to ourselves and to each other.

At this Holy Instant, we celebrate the Birth of Jesus Christ
Into the great religions of the world.
We jubilate the precious advent of trust.
We shout with glorious tongues at the coming of hope.
All the earth's tribes loosen their voices
To celebrate the promise of Peace.

We, Angels and Mortal's, Believers and Non-Believers,
Look heavenward and speak the word aloud.
Peace. We look at our world and speak the word aloud.
Peace. We look at each other, then into ourselves
And we say without shyness or apology or hesitation.

Peace, My Brother.
Peace, My Sister.
Peace, My Soul.

transitory – NOT a business article

Dubai is THE global logistics hub.

Because raw materials, manufacturing and production of goods are now all basically done in the Far East, particularly in China, the need for a link in the global supply chain is inevitable.

And because of its strategic location, Middle East is it.

Its greater region includes, Sub Continent India, Africa, South East Asia, and the many states of CIS, among others.

Why Dubai?

Its government is wise.

Free Zones proliferate the city like mushrooms.

A free zone is where a company can put up business with 100 per cent exemption charges on corporate tax, import and export tax, personal income tax and commercial levies. Apart from these tax incentives, operating within a free zone means 100 per cent foreign company ownership and 100 per cent repatriation of capital and profits.

Nice, no?

The most popular of free zones are those that deal with cargo, like Dubai Airport Free Zone Authority, Jebel Ali Free Zone Authority and the most-anticipated, Dubai World Central.

These are airports and seaports.

Remember those goods from China?

They are transported here, in Dubai, where there are companies within the free zones that take care of the warehousing, packing, kitting, and ultimately the distribution process of the products to the global market, including Europe and some parts of the US.

And because of the qualities of a free zone, there’s a substantial reduction in cost for businesses, as movement of goods is made more convenient, easier and faster.

And we’re just talking about cargo here.

What about manpower?

There’s a particular free zone for every kind of business imaginable.

Media City (media companies), Internet City (computer and the like), Knowledge Village (universities and colleges), Dubai Outsource Zone (call centers and such), etc etc.

So, imagine the flock of people around the world going here for employment.

And Dubai as a tourist spot is not so bad, too.

The beaches are incredible. The hotels are superb.

Clubs are awesome.

And the SHOPPING.

Now don’t get me started on that one.

I’m just saying European and Chinese businessmen are on a ‘free-trade’ agreement with the UAE government.

So, hello clothes, shoes, accessories everywhere.

Have you heard of Dubai Shopping Festival?

Slashed prices up to 70 per cent off on designer brands.

Enough said.

So, really, this city is ALIVE, man.

Everyone wants to be here.

But as much as everyone IS here, no one really ever is, ultimately.

Dubai is a breathing, throbbing business hub.

But the key value proposition of a hub is a pass-through business.

And because the supply chain demand is ever changing, which is the driving force of businesses here in Dubai, everything else is transient.

So when a Syrian guy asks you out on a date and together you spend wonderful times being ‘so different, yet so alike’ – put through your thick head that ‘this feeling’ is transitory.

And after spending amazing walks along the beach, romantic dates and endless talks, he will soon realize that ‘you’re a strong, smart woman who has her goals straight and her direction set.’

Sure, he ‘likes you so much.’

But his family expects him to marry ‘only an Arab woman.’

Transitory. Transient. Temporary.

Say it like a chant in your head.

No wonder house and car mortgages here are really affordable but leases are ridiculously high.

Everyone just passes through.

No one really stays.

Long-term investments are not wise.

Especially those that are emotions-related.

So, smile, shrug, and thank God he’s decent enough to have knocked some sense into your head early on in the ‘relationship.’

Shukran, habibi, hod balak.

And goodbye.

Because, see, Dubai is a transit.

And ‘you and me,’ like everything else, is transitory.

First day high

I cried the minute I saw my friend Jat at the Dubai Airport. God, I was sooo happy to see her. She was too, but had a unique way of showing it.

 

“Tangina bakla mukha kang ginahasa! (Fuck, bitch, you look like you were just raped!)” Then she hugged me tight, and mumbled something about missing me so much.

 

And so we arrived at the flat in Sharjah. See, the house is Jen’s – another friend who at that time was still back home for a vacation. So Tin, Jen’s flatmate, was the one who welcomed us. Jat – no she doesn’t live there, she also just crashes in because her own space is too crowded on account of her shoes.

 

So, anyway, I brought with me Jose – straight out of DDF (Dubai Duty Free). And you know my relationship with Jose, right? I haven’t, up to this day, conquered this fine Mexican creation. But I went ahead and devoured him anyway – all 1 liter of him. I talking senseless Arabic by the time I went to bed. This was around 3am (7am, Manila time).

 

The next day I smelt of tequila and cigarettes but had to go to work to acquaint myself with my new environment and meet my new boss (who from now on I shall refer to as Mr. E).

 

“Hurry up male-late ka!” I heard Jat shouting from outside the bathroom.

“UWAK…” I hugged the toilet bowl as if it was my bestest best friend in the whole world.

 

By 8 am (12 nn back home), with my body screaming SLEEP, Jat and I set off to find my new office.

 

Sharjah is around 20 minutes away from Deira, Dubai (my workplace), but with traffic, it’s best to allot an hour for travel.

 

My insides weren’t helping; I was all jittery and dizzy. Intoxication, coupled with headache and anxiety, and any drunk would know this, is just.plain.bad man. Then add the crazy roads of Sharjah, with all its bends (think Baguio), and the pungent smell of the whole bus. Gawd, what the fuck am I doin’ here???

 

“Jat, nasusuka ko…” (Jat, I’m about to puke…)

Jat, who was sound asleep, said: “Ay, putangina mo!” (Oh, sonofabitch!)

 

“Fuck, it’s Ramadan, you can’t eat or drink in public! And I don’t have candy. Shit. Shit. Wala kong plastic. San ka susuka?!!!!” (Now, where will you puke, I don’t even have a plastic bag?!!!!)

“UWAK…” Argh, my mouth tasted vile!

“Putangina!!!”

 

Jat then threw the contents of her bag on her lap and shoved the empty container in my face.

 

“I can’t. It’s your favorite bag.”

“Shut up and hurl!”

 

“UWAK…” nothing. Everything just seemed clogged in my throat. It was disgusting. “I need fresh air, Jat…”

“Putangina ka talaga, Leng-Leng ka, pabigat ka sa buhay kong hayup ka!!!” (#$%^&*$%^&#&@!*T&WE^QR%$#@%^%!!!)

 

“My friend,” I said to the driver, “Stop the bus now. Please.”

“Yallah (or something) parrrking is not yet!” pointing angrily that the next stop was few more blocks away.

 

I was cold and sweating profusely by the time Jat and I got off the bus. Then… pooooofffffft. Yep, I farted – a big, repulsive, skin-sticking stinky fart.

 

Jat, whose eyes are normally round, looked like her eyes would pop out when she did a double take and stared at me disbelievingly. She then opened her mouth to say something (to curse me probably), but coughed uncontrollably when she actually GULPED (and tasted possibly) my fart.

 

HAHAHAHA

“Hayup ka! AMABAHO pukingna ka!!!”

 

Just a then a cute Pinoy was walking toward our direction. “Yuck, JAT, kadiri ka! Ambaho ng utot mo!” (Yuck, JAT, how dare you fart in the streets?! So gross!)

 

Jat, who was busy coughing and shooing away polluted air, could not do anything but look at me with loathing eyes.

 

I smiled at the cute Pinoy apologetically. “Pasensya ka na ha? Baboy kase yang babae na yan eh.” (Sorry, but, see, my friend is really vile.) He smiled back but pretended to gag at the stench. Or that wasn’t pretend? Whatever.

 

Anyway, when we got in a cab, it was Jat’s turn to laugh.

 

“You do gym ha?” said the cab driver, looking at me in the mirror.

“What?” I asked, confused.

“You, instructor? Big muscles ha?” He continued, holding his biceps for effect.

“What the fuck?!” I shouted. “tangina mo, anong ibig mong sabihin, ha?” (Fuck you, what’s that supposed to mean?)

 

Jat, as if on cue, burst out laughing. “Waaahhhh, gym instructor ka daw!” NYAHAHAHAHA

“Shut up!” I slapped her on the arm.

 

“No, please, don’t angry! I’m like… I’m like muscles,” explained the driver.

“Pukingina ka, wala kong pakelam kung ano gusto mo, hayup!” (Fuck you, I don’t care what you do or don’t like!)

“No, really, I like Filipinis – they are kind and clean.”

Jat laughed some more – holding her chest like she was going to die or something.

Despite myself, I joined in.

 

When we got to my office, it was past 10am – I was more than an hour late.

“Hi, it is nice to finally meet you Lachelle,” said Mr. E, my new boss.

“Hello, same here… May I use the bathroom,” I said stupidly.

Pause.

“No, you may not… you’re not an official employee here yet. You haven’t signed the necessary papers.”

Pause.

I looked at him incredulously. Then he smiled.

I breathed a sigh of relief. He was joking!

I liked him already.

 

He must have realized I was in no shape to work because he shooed me away after a few minutes of the must-have-first-day-at-work talk.

When I got to the reception area to meet up with Jat (she waited because she was sure I was going to be sent home anyway); the Filipina receptionist said: “Siguro girlfriend ka ng Editor mo noh? Imagine, imported ka from Pinas! Ikaw lang ang binigyan ng employment visa sa lahat ng Pinoy dito! At sagot pa nila ticket mo! Ang lakas mo ah!” (You must be the girlfriend of the Editor to be hired straight from the Philippine. You’re the only Filipino here who was given employment visa; plus they even paid for your ticket! You must have connections huh?)

 

I looked at her with disgust. I said, “Oh, so you’re one of them typical crab-like ones huh?”

She looked at me blankly. Go figure.

 

On the way home, the cab driver kept looking at me from mirror.

“Jat, ano problema nyang hindot nay an?!” (What’s this dickhead’s problem?)

Jat said, with a knowing smile: “Type ka nyan, bakla.” (He likes you.)

 

When we were about to get down from the cab, I said, “keep the change.”

He faced me and took hold of my hand, and said, while blushing, “No, please, no pay.”

I snatched my hand away and shouted, “Oh, fuck you, just take the freaking money!”

 

Fuckin’ perv. PAKSHET.

the airport scene

I hate going to the airport – it has always meant someone I love would be leaving me. At 4^th grade, my brother left for Riyadh. At 14, my sister left for the States. Soon, my parents followed suit. Then my other brother went to Japan. Then my other sister left for Saudi Arabia… and each time I’d tag along to the airport, as I waved goodbye and shouted out my endless wish list, I really believed I’d die crying…

 

Obviously, I lived to experience being the traveler. My sister, brother-in-law and their 2 children, Nico and Nica; plus my friends Sheila, Rod, Budoy and her husband Reggie took me to the airport. Oh, I was raring to cry like anything, I'm telling you – that is, until Rod decided to do a Gary V.

 

He, of the posh Ballestra clan who is friends with the Marcoses (yes, Borgy), decided to SING the old, pathetically ridiculous OFW song, "Babalik Ka Rin." Not only did he sing in front of the multitude of Koreans, Thais and Pinoys at the airport that day, he also did a DANCE number as he sang. A Filipiniana dance number at that, mind you.

 

So, needless to say, I, together with the airport audience, laughed so hard that I forgot I was actually leaving and won’t be seeing them for years.

 

This is why I love my friends – for stepping in when I’m about to screw up… or something. And so Rod saved me from ruining my make-up by making a total fool of himself… I just love him.

 

Then I checked in my luggage – I knew security was going to be tight – but I didn't think my belt would be so much tighter. As if playing a character in a slapstick movie by Tito, Vic and Joey, I couldn't get my freakin' belt off of its loop!

 

"Ma'am paki dalian po, may pila na."

"Wait lang, I can't take this thing off!" I said, while yanking at the freakin' belt.

 

After an American guy loudly cleared his throat and some Taiwanese woman snickered, I finally got the belt off.

 

"Ayan pukingina." Throwing the belt and swearing like a sailor.

 

Of course, the same thing happened at the Hong Kong Airport.

 

“Ma’am, you don’t have to take off the whole thing, just the buckle,” said the guy at the X-ray thingy.

The buckle, by the way, is a HUGE silver flower. Think Kamiseta – the old logo. But bigger. MUCH bigger.

 

And so I did as he suggested… to no avail, of course.

“I can’t. I’m sorry.” Biting my lower lip and wishing for the ground to open up and eat me.

 

After 10 million minutes, and several muted chuckles from behind the line, I was able to take off the cursed belt.

 

Fearing the same embarrassing nightmare would happen at the Dubai Airport, I decided not to wear the belt anymore and thought of creative ways on how to smash the damn thing to smithereens.

 

Tugging at my dropping pants, and limping with my 40-kilo luggage, I arrived at the Dubai International Airport, Oct 4, 830 pm (12:30 am, Oct 5, Manila time).

 

I stepped out of the plane and, GAWD – the heat and the stench – oh my, it was awful! And because the airport is humongous, I had to take an Indian-and-Pakistan-full of bus up to the front gates. And boy, was it hot… Like the air was coming out of an exhaust fan.

 

And so there I was, the modern Filipino hero, ready to take on the Arab world – with armpits wet, hair oiled with sweat, and panties showing… and I’ve never felt (and looked) so ‘IN.’

 

Saan ka man naroroon ngayon, Saudi, Japan o HongKong; Babalik ka rin, babalik ka rin, babalik ka rin. Ano mang layo ang narating, Singapore, Australia Europe o Amerika; babalik at babalik ka rin. 

 

Putangnang kanta yan.

The Dubai Chronicles: First Semester

So, my Multiply site is blocked. Welcome to the Arab world, LoLa…

 

Good thing I can still post blogs – I just can’t change details in my profile. How odd. Then again, so is everything else here…

murphy's law

My flight to Dubai is set.

I am set. Or so I thought.

 

Oct 1 is the day. Sunday.

I’ve cried and sulked and attended/hosted several series of bye-see-you-soon parties with all of my friends.

 

Wednesday, I got my new passport.

Ok, so I look 40 pounds lighter back in 2002 – my passport ‘06 picture looks… bloated.

Whatever. Passport – check.

 

Luggage – check.

All my fave tops and cutie shoes have all been packed.

I went to bed with a smile – oblivious to the heavy rains that seemed to scream havoc.

 

Thursday, I was scheduled to go to POEA for documentation.

 

I woke up with a tree branch banging my bedroom window.

What the fuck?

 

I could hear strong winds making whooshing sounds – like a thousand kids with no front teeth whistling. (Yeah, well, something like that.)

 

Then, like in the far distance (more like a bedroom away), I could hear my sister shouting at her husband, “AYAN NA! PAPASOK NA ANG TUBIG!”

 

What the fuck is going on?

Then, like in a bad movie, just as I sat up in bed, my eternally-on TV went dead and my rusty electric fan stopped moving.

 

Then my sister, clearly harassed, knocked my door open and announced, so jologs-ly, I might add, “May bagyo, di ka makaka-alis.”

 

OK.

 

Then I consoled myself that tomorrow (which is today, Friday), everything will go back to normal and the typhoon will go away and that I will be able to go to POEA and fly to Dubai on Sunday as scheduled.

 

I spoke too soon.

 

I woke up today with the sound of what I imagined to be a battery-operated-AM-radio station, announcing that ALL government offices are still closed and won’t open until Monday.

 

So much for my optimism. I got up from my bed, resigned that I’d have to re-schedule my flight.

 

Then, like in Ground Hog Day, I heard my sister again screaming, this time, at her son, who apparently, was bitten by a stray dog.

 

And the hits just keep on coming.

 

It could be worse, I thought.

 

And boy was I right…

 

Facing myself in the bathroom mirror, I found two burgeoning, UGLY, zits on my chin and my nose.

 

I should put my foot where my mouth is.

be careful what you wish for...

i want this.

i've always wanted this.

for the longest time i've dreamed of going abroad to be a journalist.

and now, it's here.

today, my visa arrived.

woohoo, right?

... i didn't think having a dream come true could be this heart-breaking.

i met this guy...

Sunday night. 3^rd of September.

I had nothing better to do so I watched a movie with my friends.

It was ok. Loved the outfits. As always, Streep was fab.

Anyway, my beer-insatiable self was awake last night so we went to a nearby bar.

After a couple of beers, my friend’s boyfriend, who is also now my guy friend, calls up his other guy friend so I wouldn’t feel or look like a third wheel.

But I couldn’t care less. See, beer is my friend. So…

 

Then I saw him.

My guy friend’s guy friend.

God.

He’s freakin’ HOT.

 

It’s been a while since ahm, you know, and my hormones were like REALLY out of control.

Waiter, one more round of beer here please.

 

Whew.

It was really getting hot.

By this time, we’ve been introduced.

He shook my hand and flashed his Sam Milby-like-close-up-tv-commercial smile.

God.

I am such a sucker for men with nice teeth and boyish grin.

Damn he’s hot.

 

But I didn’t catch his name.

This band was playing and it was really noisy and shit.

 

But man, that smile.

 

His body was not that bad, too.

He was wearing a dark blue shirt that was “unintentionally” hugging his biceps.

And his chest is, uhm, let’s see here… oh, I got it, like Polo Ravales’.

There, a hot guy who looks like Sam Milby with Polo Ravales’ chest.

 

He’s hot, I’m telling you.

 

His hair is something Kayan of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy would style – it’s straight out of a freakin’ fashion magazine.

So, aside from being hot, the dude’s got style.

 

Shriek.

I am sooo dying here na! Down girl, down. I shushed myself.

 

Then he whispered, “Kanina pa kayo?”

I said, mustering normality, “Nah, just got here.”

Then I continued, “I didn’t catch your name…”

He said, almost nonchalantly, “Rap-Rap.”

 

WHAT?!

 

What kind of a MAN calls himself RAP-RAP?!

Rap-rap is… for dogs.

 

Oh no.

 

Not this one please.

 

God, no.

 

Alas, as the night wore on, he proved to be what I feared most – a ditz.

 

My dreamboat is a male Jessica Simpson.

An A-list ditz, who is cute and funny… and stupid.

 

God, you don’t really give it all, do yah?

RED

Boredom leads to creativity… or insanity?

Whatever.

It’s Kelly Osbourne’s fault.

 

On surprise parties and happy thoughts

Sappy – not my style, which is contradictory to my drama queen persona and so, maybe yeah, alright, I’m sappy – but only when it comes to my friends. And surprise parties.

 

Last Saturday, the 22^nd, one of my supposedly depressing days, turned out to be one of the happiest.

 

See, it was my last day at work and it was heartbreaking because I really loved my job and the people I worked with. The waterworks started around 3pm – when I was handing over my stuff… this is finally it, I thought, game over.

 

I was still sniffing when one of my bestest best office friends, Ria, dropped by. Seeing how miserable I was, she decided to take me to this posh spa place in Malate, Sanctuario.

 

So we were talking while we were having our nails done – then I noticed how she was really edgy, looking at her watch and asking if I wanted to go drinking already. She said she had texted Judd, our close friend and my PR colleague, and that he’s waiting in a bar somewhere.

 

OK, I thought, something IS up.

 

So I smiled and readily said, let’s go!

 

What bowled me over was, when we got into her car, she put a blindfold over my eyes – like really expertly! And like in the movies, I only had time to shriek!

 

But it was a happy shriek – like OMG it’s a surprise party! FOR ME!!!

 

And so we walked – me blindfolded, she holding my hand – around Malate. We were both laughing so hard! I was shrieking most of the time, and she was shouting to everyone “we’re not lesbians, she’s my best friend.” Then I’d counter, “we are! we are! she’s just shy!” Even then, I was already high.

 

We were mostly shrieking and laughing until I felt Ria let go my hand then some person touched my elbow, as if leading me forward. Then Ria yanked the blindfold and – SURPRISE!

 

OMG! I couldn’t believe my eyes! The place was packed! I thought it was just going to be a few officemates – but NO! My COLLEGE friends were there!

 

A send-off party! WOW! God, the effort (and money) that Ria and Judd must have put in for this! FOR ME!!!

 

I was so totally happy! I didn’t know what to say – I saw my former boss, John; officemates; friends from the media – basta everyone that I cared most for was there!

 

I was so ecstatic that I didn’t know how else to deal with my emotions than to drink. And boy did I drink!

 

I was sooo super smashed (the happy kind) that I forget the details now. Basta there were a lot of hooting and crying and laughing…

 

But what I do remember most is the feeling – this warm, warm feeling that envelops me every time I recall the happy faces around me; the hugs that were so openly given to me; the I’ll-miss-you’s; the I-love-you’s; the take-care’s…

 

Sigh. Now that’s a happy thought right there.

when my clock strikes three

.a goodbye letter to my ATS family.

 

And so it is official – today is my last day at work.

I’ve always known this day would come; as I’ve always imagined myself to be somewhere far from here.

I never intended to stay longer than this.

I’ve mustered indifference, and planned smartly enough to bid adieu when my imaginary clock strikes three years.

 

Who am I kidding? It’s not even that long yet.

 

But it sure does feel longer. Yep, waaaaaay longer.

 

And you know what’s odd? I wish it was.

 

Why? Then it wouldn’t be this hard to say goodbye.

 

Apparently, no amount of indifference or any degree of intelligence can stop one from falling in love… and I’ve fallen, alright – as deep as only a passionate ATS employee can.

 

See, they say it’s easier to let go when you’ve exhausted the years and jammed all the memories you can keep…  

 

And I want that. Now. Here. With YOU.

 

But not even the most stubborn brat can get everything that she wants.

 

With a heavy heart, I quit stalling my exit from this company… and from this portal as EIC.

 

And so it is official – today is my first day at work when going home means the start of another chapter in my life.

 

… and I can only hope to see you again when my clock strikes three.

Frustration

frus∙trate; frus∙trat∙ed; frus∙trat∙ing

1 to balk or defeat  in an endeavor 2 to induce feelings of insecurity, discouragement, or dissatisfaction 3 to bring to nothing – frus∙trat∙ing∙ly; frus∙tra∙tion

 

waaaahhhhh

 

today is SO NOT good.

 

hate it.

 

****

i’m one who changes moods in a snap. like now.

i’ve decided to vent my, uhm, yes, frustration, on FOOD.

lesley (yes, you Lekky), kindly count the calories in my Palabok and Turon.

 

yum. nothing beats Pinoy merienda.

 

ok, now I’m sleepy.

 

****

it’s just so elusive, this ‘thing’.

fuck it.

 

one more Turon, please.

 

****

fuck.

 

****

pardon my french.

Taken in by Magni

Rockstar Supernova. Wednesdays and Thursdays, 8.30 am, with primetime encore same night on Star World.

 

I caught the live episode this morning. Magni did STP’s Plush. Man, am I hooked.

 

Yes, I arrived late in the office again. Sue me. >:|

Going to odious lengths for love

Desperate? Or downright stupid?

 

I just read a story on Yahoo! News about a woman who dialed 911 to hook up with a guy. C’mon I’ve heard of dating services but this is ridiculous.

 

Apparently, 911 police thought so, too.

 

See, the woman initially called 911 for a legit cause – and naturally, a policeman came to check on her concern. Immediately, she thought the officer was HAWT.

 

And after the incident, she decides to call 911 again – but this time, to ask for the policeman’s name, apparently hoping she may get him to come back to her house. And he did… but only to arrest her for “taking up valuable time from dispatchers who could be taking true emergency calls.”

 

The woman was then charged with “misuse of the emergency dispatch system,” and sentenced “to a year in jail and a 6,000-dollar fine.”

 

Wow. I know I’d do for love what I won’t normally do, but this.is.stupid. REALLY.

 

But then again no one is really sure what goes on in another person’s mind.

 

This story now sorta reminds me of an anecdote I heard some years back.

 

There was this man who attended a funeral. He saw a woman and immediately fell in love. Just as he was about to make his move, another man suddenly appeared beside the woman and kissed her.

 

The next day, that man who kissed the woman was found dead.

 

Naturally, the killer was caught by the police. Question is, why do YOU think the man committed the murder? Now, think real hard before you answer – as if trying to get inside the killer’s mind…

 

Now, most of us would say, it’s jealousy that pushed the other guy to kill his “rival.” But, for the killer, his reason was simple: he killed the guy so that there would be another funeral where he would get a chance to see the woman again.

 

Genius? Out-of-the-box? Or plain psychotic?

 

And if you’re one of those who just whispered “YES! I knew it!” to yourself, and figured out why the killer committed the crime, then do me a favor, will you? Click on my Contacts and delete yourself from the list – you’re one of the ingenious, SICK minds who walk the earth, ready to coldly plot and actually execute a murder over the most mundane of things… even over something as fleeting as love.