Crescent Over Cross?

>> Sunday, April 29, 2007

The second most asked question for me here in Doha is: "Are you Muslim?" (the first one is: "Can I get your number?" LoL). Seriously, after asking my name or nationality, the next one is the religion question, it's like filling up an application form everytime you meet a "brother". Sometimes I want to say that I am Muslim if only to stop them from converting me.

Conversion. Muslims stress that it is your own free will to convert. However, more and more people are trying to woo me to their side.

Every month, one guy would make it his mission to win my soul for Allah. Not that it's a bad mission, but I sometimes feel that they're missing the point. I'm not religious to begin with. I don't believe in religion. I believe in God or Allah. But I find religion too contrived a set-up.

Islam is a good religion. It may even be the religion. I've read the self-help books on Islam and there are very convincing points. But then, there are the sexist issues (ie men can have more than one wife while women are expected to be faithful to their husbands), and that, for me, can never be justified by any Holy book.

Missionary Styles
Don't get any dirty thoughts. Any Muslim can be a missionary. I thought I'd recall some first-hand experiences I had with some of the more persistent missionaries.

Missionary: Boss
Style: Give and Take

It's obvious that the first person who'd want to convert me would be my boss. During my first month here, he would bring me to big lunch gatherings with his friends. I admired the locals for their hospitality and warmth. A nice plan to attract a Christian. Then came the gifts. He gave me two sets of jalabiyas so I'd know how it feels like to be conservative, clean and pure. It felt nice to wear those clothes in public because it gave me the feeling that I belong. So what went wrong with the boss' plan? Nothing. I was stubborn, he was impatient. Soon enough, he grew tired of waiting for me to say "yes" to Islam. He doesn't bring me to lunch anymore, and no more gifts too.

Missionary: Officemate
Style: Press Release

Next to try his magic wand on me (well that sounded gay LoL) is this old officemate. He didn't try hard. He just told me a story on the day before Christmas. He saw me looking lonely and he asked me my tragedy. "It's Christmas" was all I could say. Then he told me a story of how generous and understanding Muslims are. I can't remember the exact "parable" but it ended with this Christian guy supposedly being cared for by a Muslim (might be their own version of the Good Samaritan). "So, tomorrow, I'll bring you Chicken and you will have your Christmas celebration," he said, so full of passion that I could almost hug him for being so kind. Christmas came and went. So did New Year. Even Eid passed. Valentines day zoomed in a heartbeat. But that chicken never came. A tall tale, if you ask me.

Missionary: Mr. Writer
Style: Convert to convert

Probably the best style ever. I wrote about Mr. Writer in Night of Coincidences. I was ready then to become a Muslim. Problem was, he was too busy converting other Christians that he rarely shows up to convince me further. Mr. Writer is American. He wrote several books on the study of Islam. Impressive studies. And there is something about a convert that puts you at ease because he knows what it was like to be a Christian.

Missionary: PC Guy
Style: Audio-Visual

One of the PC Guys next door was probably bored that one day he came up to me and asked if I was Muslim. "OH?! WHY NOT?!" was his horrified reaction, as if I was the only one left in the world who hasn't embraced Islam.

PC Guy then shared his Sura audio tracks and demanded I listen to them even if I couldn't understand Arabic.

Then he gave me a Quran. He placed the Holy Book on my table and gave me specific instructions to wash my whole body before reading the Book. When he said "whole body" he made a hand scrubbing gesture on his private area and stressed it again: "whole body". I told him I got it.

I wanted to move the Book from the table to the shelf, but he stopped me from even touching the Quran and told me to wait till morning when I have washed my "whole body" (yet again doing the wax-on wax-off motion on his crotch).

Everyday since then he'd ask about my progress. I didn't read much. Didn't even listen to the audios (it creeped me out). Finally, I told him that it's not a far fetched idea because my mom is a Muslim and that there is a big chance. He asked me why my mom didn't convince me to become a Muslim. I told him that my mom wants me to discover the beauty of Islam on my own much like she did before. He never asked me which Sura I was reading again.

Now, the boss' brother has ventured into the conversion idea as well, but he hasn't unleashed his style yet. I'm tempted to tell him to take a number or get in line.

I wish I could just be rude and say that I don't care much about religion . But I'm sure it would only make things worse. In fact I don't care so much that tomorrow I can convert to Islam and it won't make a difference to me. But I do believe in spirituality. And I'd rather not have a religion than be a hypocrite. I'm not saying that everyone who has a religion are hypocrites (a lot of people can actually live by the Book and I admire them for that), what I'm saying is that I'm not a saint, and I don't plan to be one anytime soon.


It's My Party

>> Saturday, April 28, 2007

TUMULTUOUS. Such is a word that only has a vague meaning when you read it. It is only now that I fully understand the word. Now that I felt it. The tumultuous past few weeks, that shall inevitably lead to the climax of my life chapter entitled Doha, have been a time filled with personal struggle--of body, mind, emotion and soul.

I have kept my promise not to cry here. It wasn't easy. I had to continually remind myself that my sadness is nothing compared to the sadness of others here working in worse conditions. Still it is my sadness and I thought that maybe, I should break that promise come my birthday. It's my party and I'll cry if I want to, so the song goes. I just might.

There are so many things going on in my head and heart that any sad word or song or picture can bring me to tears. But I've developed this habit of stopping them halfway. Imagine an unconsummated orgasm. It stings my eyes. It stings my heart.

For instance, I was in Hong Kong Airport five months ago and I'm lugging around this large tube full of rolled-up Hong Kong posters. I complained that of all presents for the boss, my mom thought of such a bulky thing to give. When I arrived in Qatar, the boss proudly framed and hung these posters in every room around the office walls. This morning, I arrived at the office with a heavy feeling (which seems common nowadays) and plopped on the sofa fronting the reception counter. I plugged my earphones, listened to some recent downloads and got lost in my own sad world. Then, Jewel sang: "it's 4 in the afternoon, I'm on a flight leaving LA, trying to figure out my life, my youth scattered along the highway". And I looked ahead right in front of me and there, in it's faux golden frame, is the poster of an aerial view of Hong Kong International Airport. Cliche as it may seem, any good director or editor filming my life won't resist the urge to dissolve from my point of view of this framed image on a wall to my actual POV of the same view as I have my little happy ending with the plane touching down in Hong Kong. Now, tell me if that is not worthy of a single teardrop. But I did not budge. Not just yet.

Books, movies and music seem to offer false hope but I bite into it because at this point, believing is better than dreaming. Believing that things will work out fine. Believing in karma once again, that surely, something as tumultuous as this will have its equivalent word, one that also means vague until you actually feel it: calm.

It's my party.mp3


ONETOTEN: The Ten Pros

>> Sunday, April 22, 2007

Finally. I never thought I'd actually come up with a PROs list but my "career" situation in Qatar does have some good points. I just needed some time to screen these and make them competitive when pitted against the CONs. A heads up: you won't find "Doha has the best shawarma" in the list.

10 Sucky as it may seem, I do have free accommodation. Normally, one might need to pay 800QR (Php 11,200) for bed space or 2,500QR (Php 35,000) for a single room plus electricity and water consumption charges. That, and you need to buy your own furniture.

09 My room is on the second floor of the office. While this can lead to abuse (ie long office hours), it also means that I don't have to pay for transportation, which is pretty steep as one taxi ride is usually around 15QR (Php 210).

08 Food is cheap here as long as you don't convert it to peso. In relation to a basic Qatar salary (which i don't have, by the way), one won't have a problem with food because it's affordable and they usually have big servings in almost every place.

07 Alcohol is restricted. I like to get drunk once in a while just to let loose, but lately I found the value of non-alcoholic drinks. I get to save money by not partying and save myself from embarassment.

06 I got back to my writing and reading. No TV and less movies, I have no choice but to go old school in the entertainment department.

05 Culture. Or the lack of it. To date, it's the longest time I've been out of the country. I've learned a lot in the months I've spent here from geography to sociology and to, most of all, dealing with people from different cultural backgrounds. It's priceless education.

04 Honestly, it's weird that for a self-proclaimed rebel, I find Qatar, aka Prohibition State, closer to home than any other foreign land I've been to, thus I would prefer working here than, say, Hong Kong (no offense mom, I love you but Hong Kong is too cosmopolitan for your laid back, Brokeback cowboy son LoL). I can blend in with the crowd. I can communicate better. The weather is like a hotter, sunnier Davao (no typhoon, yey!) And the food agrees with my system (no more chicken allergy, yipee!).

03 This is a rich country so there is always the possibility of a better job with a better offer. The only question is: when will it knock on my door?

02 My boss does make some sort of effort to make the office a better place to work in. Every week there is an improvement, interior-wise, so MAYBE the staff can expect some salary increase when he's done splurging on carpets and furniture.

01 I have definitely settled down here. I have learned their ways. I have gained friends. I have gained a family spin-off even and I am not lost (in Qatar) anymore. Although it wasn't hard to adjust, I still think that such adjustment period should only come once every decade or else risk being called a nomad.

There. It's done. PROs vs CONs. I need your opinion, dear reader. Help me out. Which side wins? The Pros or the Cons? Write your name, your answer "PROS" or "CONS" followed by your reason for selecting answer and other comments you might have. I'll raffle replies and pick out a winner. A special prize awaits. ;o> OUT


ONETOTEN: The Ten Cons

>> Tuesday, April 17, 2007

It's been going through my head like an incessant house loop: I should move out of here and stop the abuse.

Today, the boss gave me yet another task and I don't know if I should be flattered or frustrated. The task involves, ironically enough, handling money. So before I do a Psycho split and take the money and run, I need to figure out things first.

If I'm really important and trustworthy, then why the small pay? But if I'm expendable then why do I get all the more important tasks?

With my mom positively offering me a job in Hong Kong, the battle between Pros and Cons gets even stiffer. Here then, to make life easier, is my list of Cons for Staying in Qatar.

10 I should move out because I hate sharing my room with two obnoxious (but extremely kind and cutesy friendly anyway) Chinese guys who sleep naked and stink the depressing windowless room with their unwashed butts, while they savor the Kim-chi-like stench of their own breaths to dreamland.

09 I should leave because even though I only have one boss, in reality, I work for a lot of people like my boss' associates, partners, guests, and clients (yes, this is why I sometimes refer to this as an abuse). I work for the immediate family too: wife, brother, kids. But I don't mind working for the family, it's not mandated, it's expected and they've been kind to me so there, don't flame me Lee LoL.

08 There's no point in staying when at the end of the month the Chinese masseur at my boss' health clinic earns more money than I do and that's all he ever has to do—massage some bodies (then he'd happily announce that he got "five ten ten ten" (QR500) as a tip from the Emir).

07 It would only be stupid if I stay because my mom has to send me money just so I can survive here. Can you imagine a guy working abroad and he's the one receiving money when he's supposed to be the one sending it? So in other words, my mom helps pay for my existence here so I can work myself to death.

06 I should take the next flight out because this job does not make use of all my skills and brain.

05 I should quit because I recently categorized my blog and discovered that all posts which were tagged as "work" were also tagged as "rant".

04 I must resign because my business needs me...or as it seems, I need my business.

03 I need to leave because my heart is aching and longing the company of my family, friends and loved one.

02 I have to move on because I'm gaining weight and I'm seeing clouds of depression hovering over me.

01 I should find a happier place and job because the one I have now is turning me into a closet smoker.

The Pros will follow soon, it won't outnumber this list because it will also be a "ONETOTEN" list LoL but we'll see which side is heavier.

But, number one—damn! I was in the closet and now I'm OUT


Quality vs Quantity

>> Monday, April 16, 2007

Otherwise known as the 1800 Abs, 300 is a movie that not only shows the battle of Sparta vs Persia but also of Quality vs Quantity—a battle that transcends time and that now exists in almost every office in the world.

I had a long weekend. A minor rebellion on my part because the boss spoiled my once-a-week off with one of his last minute symposium. Just imagine a Friday in Doha—lazy, like the typical Sunday in other places, quiet, save for speakers everywhere blasting once in a while reminding every Muslim that it's Al Juma'a—then all of a sudden, the boss drives me to the office and tells me that in two hours, at least 30 guests will arrive to attend a presentation.

I had to help set up everything from preparing the Powerpoint and moving furniture to preparing snacks and drinks. Not quite the rigorous training of a Spartan warrior but nonetheless a task that demanded every bit of skill I had to offer.

Work claimed my afternoon holiday so before it owned my evening as well, I decided to escape the boss' clutches. Only a handful people showed up, mainly because of short notice. I got my release on the grounds that I don't understand Arabic and the whole presentation would not make sense to me.

I rushed to the mall and watched Letters from Iwo Jima, a film that featured bad Japanese acting, predictable musical scoring and cliché staging of scenes. I normally adore Clint Eastwood but this one is easily not his best. I'm beginning to think that Marty deserved the Oscar after all even though The Departed wasn’t his best work either.

Anyway, I went home (to my boss' house) at around 1AM and was glad to find out that he wasn't home still. The next morning, when I was supposed to go back to the office, I stayed in bed and took the day off, hence the long weekend. In the evening, I went back to the office only to drop off my bag and headed to the mall again to watch 300.

It blew me away—the abs, the texture, splendid cinematography, heart thumping editing and superb yet subtle special effects—it was almost immaculate…until Xerxes showed up. He looked like an S&M drag queen without a wig. RuPaul could easily play the part and with more spunk and pizzazz too! 300 was a bit like Letters from Iwo Jima in the sense that both films narrated the struggles of a small army. The scene where Persian ships docked by the thousands was similar to the invading battleships of the US Navy reaching the shores of Iwo Jima. But that's the only similarity. Iwo Jima bored me a bit, 300 kicked ass, Persian ass.

So essentially, 300 is a battle of Quality vs Quantity. The same battle I face in the office. My boss would get pissed if I sometimes report at 10AM because he expects me to be in as early as eight. I work for 16 hours on most days and it's safe to say that I average at 12 hours a day. He'd get angry if I'm late. He's counting the hours and not the quality of work I put in.

Well he can complain all he wants. As far as I know, and I'm making this a semi-official announcement, my days here in Qatar are numbered. I believe six months is a long enough show of patience and resilience. I don’t aspire to become a millionaire but I only want what is fair. Like Spartans, I have my pride. And it doesn't matter if I lose this battle, what matters is how I fought it.

I'm moving out on May 27th, unless a tasty offer miraculously comes up. I will probably try it out in Hong Kong before going home to Davao. It's still a long way back but my spear is sharp and my shield is strong. Damn right I don't wear armor because I have immaculate abs. OK, I'm dreaming. OUT


The Aftermath

>> Thursday, April 12, 2007

It would be silly not to move on, but I have to admit, my little misadventure last week has started to turn feelings of hurt into hate.

Last night I felt ill just by being around the office. I had to get out. So I took off, on foot, and an hour later I found myself at the mall, drenched in sweat. I gathered myself in the washroom before retreating to my favorite spot at the coffee shop where the kind people (kabayans) allowed me in, despite the fact that they were already doing the closing ceremonies. They probably noticed my lost-and-confused look so they provided me the sanctuary I needed. The waiter didn’t even bother giving me the menu. He just asked me "the usual?" and to which I nodded in answer before the question even made sense to me. When it did, he was already at the counter mindlessly summoning the espresso factory. I felt glad to have finally found a place that served me "the usual"—a feat that took more than two dozen consecutive cups of White Café Mocha Grande before they labeled me as one of their predictable patrons (the last time I had "the usual" was at Basti's Brew in Davao).

"Bakit ka mag-isa sir?" the waiter who looked like his name was Noel or Nestor or Hernani asked when he served my coffee. Sometimes, people don't know the polite way to say "what a lonely life you have". But he can't corner me. "I'm always alone when I come here," was my lame retort. Noel/Nestor/Hernani excused himself. He probably didn’t want to play bartender to the bummed out drinker.

I sipped my coffee faster than usual. They cut off the music, there was no time to read a book, and as the last customer, I got a lot of "hurry up"-glances from the crew. What a sad night, I thought. I was ready to just sulk in the coffee shop chair and wallow in my misery. I was ready to suffocate with self-pity. I paid 18 Qatar Riyals to do just that. Then, I started to feel impatient. I started to think random things and how I hate being alone in the coffee shop, or how I hate being there in the first place. I went there because I couldn’t stand the office. I couldn’t stand the office because Arabs kept coming in and out. Then just like that, it occurred to me, I hate Arabs.

One Arab man attacked me and he turned me into a racist. They could all be the same underneath the white clothes—all violent, harmful and camera-grabbing men.

I hope this is just a phase. I don't want to be the racist in a place where I'm part of the minority.

I took a taxi home. No surprise, the driver is Indian. It's becoming a habit. I should stop it soon.

I arrived at the office and started writing this post while the Chinese talked loudly to each other. The Chinese shout when they talk, even if they're just millimeters apart. It seems to me that the Chinese either have really bad hearing, have no respect for other's ears, or they simply have cockroaches crawling up their asses that every so often they feel the urge to scream.

Maybe I'm just being overly sensitive. It's because I'm a Filipino. See, even to myself, I'm a racist. It freaks me OUT


Turn the Other Cheek

>> Sunday, April 8, 2007

I almost thought that Qatar would kill me with boredom. That was until last Thursday, when a pissed off Arab decided to shake me from my humdrum existence and threatened to place me in Doha's most wanted list just for taking pictures of a truckload of furniture.

Since this is my blog, and I am biased to what is generally right for me, I point a finger (not the finger) at my boss for placing me in deep shit.

Early Thursday morning he called me up and told me to proceed to the industrial area for a special assignment. I got there with four other men. I saw my boss already waiting on the parking lot outside a big warehouse. He handed me a digicam and told me to secretly take photos of a truck which was loaded with furniture and clinic equipment.

I only had a vague thought that maybe the owner of this warehouse didn't like the idea of people taking pictures. I started snapping secretly. It was not easy to do since a dozen eyes were trained on me wherever I went. It was just a matter of time when someone would alert the authorities.

I decided to take my last shot. I knelt behind a car and aimed my camera at the license plate of the truck. Click—the blinding flash of light slowly dissolving to reality. I previewed the shot, smiled and was satisfied. My job is done.

I was starting to get up when I saw a big man charge towards me. I have barely stood when he hit my arm, grabbed it, forced the camera out of my hand and pushed me. It was only then I knew the full extent of the secrecy clause.

The assault took less than 10 seconds. All I could afford to mutter was my boss' name. Then I found myself pointing at the man who attacked me. In an instant, my boss was already running towards the man and hitting him like crazy. People from both sides of the team converged on one spot in the parking lot. It was hard to make out who was winning. In my mind I pictured out a cartoon brawl with nothing but clouds of dust and outstretched arms and legs. I just stood there and did nothing, holding my hurt arm like a true wimp.

Finally, the fight subsided and they all went inside the warehouse to settle some things. I waited outside, worried as hell because of my clumsiness. I blamed myself for causing the ruckus. After a few minutes, one of our people came up to me and told me that we should move it right away because the police were on their way to arrest the guy who took the pictures (ie me).

My mind panicked while they drove me to a nearby restaurant to "hide" me. If I were to be given only one phone call, should I call the Philippine embassy or my mom? If I dropped the soap in prison, should I pick it up or let it slip? I was also searching for a word in the midst of all these. The word only made itself known when I finally got my bruised self safely back to the office. The word is unfair.

It is unfair that I'm bruised when I'm overworked and underpaid. It is unfair that I'm placed in a situation that could endanger my life (what if that man decided to pull a trigger instead of a punch?). It is unfair that after all the trouble, what I hear is "I should've fought back!".

And for a while I thought that maybe I should've fought back. Maybe I should've held on to that camera, took a nice square punch on that man's face, stomped on his feet, smashed his head on the car windshield, threw dust on his bleeding forehead, pushed him on the ground, jumped on top of his stomach, ran over him with a car, and took a picture of his deformed face as a souvenir while he bled to death.

But I grew up singing to Kenny Roger's Coward of the County (my Dad's idea of parenting is making me memorize folk songs), the lyrics of which goes something like:

Promise me, son, not to do the things I've done.
Walk away from trouble if you can.
It won't mean you're weak if you turn the other cheek.
I hope you're old enough to understand:
Son, you don't have to fight to be a man.

The Chinese swore they could've defended me with Kung Fu if only they were there. I don't doubt they could. Even the boss fought back. I guess it did him good because he got his camera back with the pictures still on file and he got rid of the police.

I showed my bruise to my boss and he said, not to worry, because he made that man's lips bleed. I should feel better, I suppose. But I'm sure he only did that because he was more concerned about getting his camera back.

My boss asked me the other night why I didn’t fight back. I couldn’t answer him at that time. I just smiled at him and shrugged.

But now I know why I stood still. It may sound like a sissy boy excuse but I don't care. And in one satisfied tone, albeit bruised, here's why I refused to fight back and decided to turn the other cheek: My mom raised me well. OUT


Hally Pott and Other Chinese Tales

>> Wednesday, April 4, 2007

Last night, the somehow new Chinese guy, Yang, called my attention. He wanted to show me some pictures on the Internet. I looked at his monitor because if I refused he would eventually twist my neck anyway and won't stop until my eyeballs were firmly aimed on the screen. He showed me a picture of Yao Ming and asked me if I know the guy, I mean, who doesn't, right? Yao Ming was in mid-air. The basketball that he held touched the ring while his balls found a warm spot on another player's face. Before I knew it, Yang was already pointing at random pictures and asking me if I know "Ren" (Rain) or "Hally Pott" (Harry Potter). I knew it could take forever so I went up to my room and slept, escaping his wrath. Little did I know, the Chinese curse was far from over.

For Being Thoughtful, I Got a Scolding

I woke up with a throbbing headache and a fever. I took Panadol and still went to work because it's payday. Around 10AM, the boss' wife (Chinese, just so you know) arrived. I greeted her with a wide smile because I was excited to hear her praises for a job well done on the restaurant menu she had asked me to lay out. Last night, I thought it would be nice to give the finished menu to her husband (my boss) so she could use it right away. Then, she asked for the menu. My smile turned from genuine-glee to I'm-f*ck#d. I realized that the boss probably forgot to hand her the menu, and it's probably sitting in his car somewhere in the desert, probably at the northern tip of Qatar!

Before I could say "I'm sorry", she already had a head start on a scolding. Mild but still on the totally-pissed level. She let me go with a stern warning. I took another Panadol.

For Being Helpful, I Got an Ultimatum

By noon, more Chinese came. Both the daily ration of Chinese buffet leftovers and the business people guests. I don't eat the food they deliver anymore. Like an expert on mahjong tiles, I already know what the lunchbox holds just by feeling the cover.

Abdul (Chinese, just so you know) asked if he could have some documents printed. I'm always willing to help Abdul because he's kind and generous, that is, if he's not busy and cranky. Today he had a mix of all four adjectives. Anyway, he handed me a flash disk and I told him "you already know that my computer is allergic to flash disks", because for some reason my PC cannot read the g*dd*mn things.

I found a solution for him though. Even if he didn't get to use my computer, I showed him how to print from his station using the network printer.

Glad that was over...(one)...(two)...(three), Not! Soon, the boss called me in to his office where he was just wrapping up a meeting with the Chinese. They all looked at me like they already knew what the boss was going to say. "Is there a problem with your computer?" the big guy asked.

I looked at Abdul because I was certain he had something to do with this, "there isn't a probleh.."
"Change it." the boss snapped.

I tried to argue, but the boss wouldn't let me win, especially not in front of his guests. So I just surrendered. He gave me until the weekend to change the computer to the "best" one in the office. What he really meant was change it to one that does not have a flash-disk allergy.

For Being Friendly, I Got a Youtube-News-WTF-Factor-Worthy Video

Finally, my day was ending with no more troubles. Then the guys (Chinese, just so you know) from the massage clinic arrived: Yang, the somehow new Chinese guy and Wang, the really new Chinese guy.

Wang installed a new chat program on my computer that automatically translates English to Chinese and back again while you chat. Coolness. For the first time since he arrived a month ago, I got to hear Wang's thoughts on soccer, music and more soccer which made me glad that it took him a month before he found a way to bore me. But he's sweet because he said that he is thankful that I became his friend.

And for that, he handed me a VCD, and told me to play it on my computer. Lo and behold, it's Wang's personal photo-video album--set to music, featuring pan flute versions of John Lennon's Imagine and Elton John's Sacrifice, the kind of musical scoring you can only hear in Pinoy porn.

At first I was amused to see myself in one of the photos. But after three minutes, I looked at the time left and gasped when I saw the total running time: 21:31!

Incidentally, and I'm not making this up, I was going through Rotten Tomatoes' Worst of the Worst Movie List, before Wang tortured me, only to find myself watching the most dragging video I have ever seen. Each picture stayed there for 6 seconds before slowly dissolving into another picture. It would help if the pictures were interesting. But most of the pictures were self portraits of the artiste in different downloaded frames (name of source website included on the frame).

It took around five songs (from out of nowhere, one was the theme from "Chariots of Fire") to complete the run of photos in his collection.

It was clear right then and there that I was under the Chinese Ju-on. Or maybe it was Chinese Karma for poking fun at Hally Pott and Ren.

So, as punishment, I sat through the whole 21 minutes and 31 seconds, yawning discreetly, humming through Sacrifice, and crossing my fingers wishing that such day will never happen again. OUT




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