Pigs Don't Fly
As dictated by Faranza Syns
Nor do they sweat.
Well, not enough befitting the "sweat like a pig" idiom.
Now, I understand that the turn of phrase most probably came from a person who looks super (ahem) pig-like when they sweat, but come on. It's just sweat. It's a natural law of life. You sweat to keep the heat off. No need to harm the poor animal's already-battered ego.
I know, I know, sweat contains urea, and most of us educated people (namely Yish) get repelled by it (Don't you "What?!" me. You admitted it yourself.)
Once upon a time:
Okay, maybe my memory's a little faulty and I didn't respond exactly like that. I might have responded by throwing a tantrum and tossing the said-novel at his head. But my job intertwines with imagination, and my imagination is running rampant. Live with me, dear. You love me eitherways.
Please don't get me wrong. I don't have an issue with sweat, fat, or the fact that sweat is sometimes a turn off.
But wait... if it's a turn off... then during copulation...?
Do our sweat glands have an automated "Off" switch when we have... ahem? When we do the dirty, as Erin McCartney likes to word it.
All that humping, tossing, turning and bouncing is bound to work a few pounds off. So... Yish dear, eventually, you will encounter a sweaty female. It's inevitable. Okay, and maybe your issue is with fat, sweaty people, but... geeez, could you at least watch what you say?
I rest my case. A weak end to a monumental issue, so kill me.
That aside, I've done a good deal of sweating. Teehee, very unlady-like and undelicate of me to mention this, but I just feel good.
Does sweating make you glow? I sure did.
Or it must've been the light overhead.
I think I'll feel better if it were the former, so I say, former!
I'm all about narcissism.
This morning, I checked my weight.
Nearly cried in joy when I saw I lost another kg.
Then we went out to celebrate my brother's birthday. Ordered Fish and Wedges at Delifrance. My dad looked at me askance. He said the one sentence that he has never said to me before: "Is that enough?"
Like I actually devour a whole cow for lunch daily.
The thing about parents is when you're not dieting and exercising and trying to get your weight down, they nag at you 24 hours, 7 days a week. They send you scrutinizing looks across the table, counting each swallow that you take. They "subtly" pop into your room at 7 in the morning and inform you "inconspicuously" that they were going out for a run and asking "sweetly" if you were going to join them. If you just grunted a no, they'd rally a whole lot of guilt in you by reading you the riot act, and then drag you out of bed for a run around the lake, despite loud and sulky protests.
But when they walk down the stairs at 8 in the morning and find you in the living room working your arse on a workout, they start asking you if you're eating enough. Mom caught me first, but she just acknowledged my sudden "internal about-face" with grace and silence. My dad came down next.
"Hoo! Exercise!"
I looked up at him on the stairs and then I continued on. I was too breathless to say anything anyways.
"Good, good," he mutters.
I suppose it was an awkward moment for him. One of those "OMG-she's-never- done-this-before-what-should- I-say-for- a-situation-like-this" scenario. Sometimes, you just never expect it to happen, and when it does happen, you're bowled over.
I guess he still has to get used to me taking things by the horn. But he's thoughtful to the end. Giving me advice. Telling me to take it slow. Telling me that I don't have to starve myself. Telling me to not give-up halfway. And to be strong. Mom too. Gawd, I have awesome parents.
Delifrance's Fish and Wedges had 2 fish fillets. And the plate was super full to the point of overflowing. So, since my sister's plate was already nearly half-empty, I placed one of the fillets on sister's plate. In accordance to the family habit, we pass around the plates to allow everyone a taste of different dishes. When my brother asked the table in general what that brown piece of something on Jaz's plate was, my mother answered naturally, "Oh, Farhana gave her fillet to Jazmina."
Like it was sure thing for me to cut down what I eat into half. I don't know if that's good or bad. Of course, I did cut off up to half of the said fillet and dumped it on her plate for her to eat, but I'm not that much of a person who starves myself.
"Transferred, Ma. Transferred," I corrected her.
"Really?"
"Transfer."
My dad expects me to take it slow, but my mom is expecting me to go the whole nine yards.
Eitherways, they're still great.
Excerpt:
This kind of husband-wife relationship is bound to be doomed.
But we love each other eitherways, eh? ;)
How do we reverse this chemistry between us?
Well, not enough befitting the "sweat like a pig" idiom.
"Pigs do have a few sweat glands, but they're not very useful for temperature adjustment. When the mercury rises on the farm, Wilber wallows in cool water or mud, which has the same evaporation effect as sweating."- Ben Mauk, LiveScience.com.
Now, I understand that the turn of phrase most probably came from a person who looks super (ahem) pig-like when they sweat, but come on. It's just sweat. It's a natural law of life. You sweat to keep the heat off. No need to harm the poor animal's already-battered ego.
I know, I know, sweat contains urea, and most of us educated people (namely Yish) get repelled by it (Don't you "What?!" me. You admitted it yourself.)
Once upon a time:
Me: *reading a racy novel*
Guys: *roars with laughter over some thing or other*
Me: *minds own business*
Yish: You know, I don't want a girlfriend who's fat. Their arms are fat, and then they sweat. It's *shudders* disgusting, y'know.
Me: *looks up at him, eyebrow raised, smiling amusingly*
Yish: Oh. Oh, sorry!
Me: *looks away, smiling* Whatever, Yish.
Okay, maybe my memory's a little faulty and I didn't respond exactly like that. I might have responded by throwing a tantrum and tossing the said-novel at his head. But my job intertwines with imagination, and my imagination is running rampant. Live with me, dear. You love me eitherways.
Please don't get me wrong. I don't have an issue with sweat, fat, or the fact that sweat is sometimes a turn off.
But wait... if it's a turn off... then during copulation...?
Do our sweat glands have an automated "Off" switch when we have... ahem? When we do the dirty, as Erin McCartney likes to word it.
All that humping, tossing, turning and bouncing is bound to work a few pounds off. So... Yish dear, eventually, you will encounter a sweaty female. It's inevitable. Okay, and maybe your issue is with fat, sweaty people, but... geeez, could you at least watch what you say?
I rest my case. A weak end to a monumental issue, so kill me.
That aside, I've done a good deal of sweating. Teehee, very unlady-like and undelicate of me to mention this, but I just feel good.
Does sweating make you glow? I sure did.
Or it must've been the light overhead.
I think I'll feel better if it were the former, so I say, former!
I'm all about narcissism.
This morning, I checked my weight.
Nearly cried in joy when I saw I lost another kg.
Then we went out to celebrate my brother's birthday. Ordered Fish and Wedges at Delifrance. My dad looked at me askance. He said the one sentence that he has never said to me before: "Is that enough?"
Like I actually devour a whole cow for lunch daily.
The thing about parents is when you're not dieting and exercising and trying to get your weight down, they nag at you 24 hours, 7 days a week. They send you scrutinizing looks across the table, counting each swallow that you take. They "subtly" pop into your room at 7 in the morning and inform you "inconspicuously" that they were going out for a run and asking "sweetly" if you were going to join them. If you just grunted a no, they'd rally a whole lot of guilt in you by reading you the riot act, and then drag you out of bed for a run around the lake, despite loud and sulky protests.
But when they walk down the stairs at 8 in the morning and find you in the living room working your arse on a workout, they start asking you if you're eating enough. Mom caught me first, but she just acknowledged my sudden "internal about-face" with grace and silence. My dad came down next.
"Hoo! Exercise!"
I looked up at him on the stairs and then I continued on. I was too breathless to say anything anyways.
"Good, good," he mutters.
I suppose it was an awkward moment for him. One of those "OMG-she's-never- done-this-before-what-should- I-say-for- a-situation-like-this" scenario. Sometimes, you just never expect it to happen, and when it does happen, you're bowled over.
I guess he still has to get used to me taking things by the horn. But he's thoughtful to the end. Giving me advice. Telling me to take it slow. Telling me that I don't have to starve myself. Telling me to not give-up halfway. And to be strong. Mom too. Gawd, I have awesome parents.
Delifrance's Fish and Wedges had 2 fish fillets. And the plate was super full to the point of overflowing. So, since my sister's plate was already nearly half-empty, I placed one of the fillets on sister's plate. In accordance to the family habit, we pass around the plates to allow everyone a taste of different dishes. When my brother asked the table in general what that brown piece of something on Jaz's plate was, my mother answered naturally, "Oh, Farhana gave her fillet to Jazmina."
Like it was sure thing for me to cut down what I eat into half. I don't know if that's good or bad. Of course, I did cut off up to half of the said fillet and dumped it on her plate for her to eat, but I'm not that much of a person who starves myself.
"Transferred, Ma. Transferred," I corrected her.
"Really?"
"Transfer."
My dad expects me to take it slow, but my mom is expecting me to go the whole nine yards.
Eitherways, they're still great.
____________________________________
Excerpt:
Shikin: Oh shoot. There's a foreigner here at the KLCC Med Centre, wantin to check if he has the pig flu. Wonder if I will catch it. Hmm.
Me: OMG, hun, pls don't get it! Who am I supposed to send random text msgs to if not u?
Shikin: Dun worry. I think they allow phones where i'm goin. I seriously dun think I can transfer my flu 2 u thru whatever waves phones use.
Me: Oh, but it'd be so fun if it's possible. It makes a great base for fiction
Shikin: Oh shucks. It's a positive thing in a literary kinda view. Shucks, will I still be your fifth wife even if I get this damned flu?
Me: I'm sorry, but no. Since you'd be sick, I'll promote you to 2nd in rank. U poor thing, I'd say. Maybe a raise wud get u better sooner.
Shikin: Oh, how sweet of u. Dat means when I die u will get my non-existent gazillion dollars worth estates, gamblin centres, casinos, brothels, bankrupt banks...
Me: Oooh, brothels? Forget 2nd, I'll make you friggin 1st!
This kind of husband-wife relationship is bound to be doomed.
But we love each other eitherways, eh? ;)
How do we reverse this chemistry between us?
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