'Who am I' she asks : A creative explosion of paradoxical remarks the student replied.



Let Me Humiliate Myself

Father, Mother, Sister, and I, let me humiliate myself for one more day.

Let me ride a bicycle, wobbling though it may be, with no support. Let me thrash in the swimming pool and scream high heavens while you step backwards. Let me be a child and praise me for writing a whole page detailing you my dream room. Let me humiliate myself for another day, so that one day I can look back on it and laugh, and maybe somewhat learn, the lesson of humility.

Have me fail – forward – while I still have the bare guts to, for sooner or later, this will all be over, and I will not have done much.

Father, Mother, Sister, and I, if I seem assured, absurd, you must know of my 80% truth. This is the girl that ‘dreamed’ of an average life. This is she, who said, “I don’t want to be anything big in life.” And she never found that sad, until a comment a later ago. Right now, she wants to do something big, and being something great has never been easy. Call it my petty streak, but I want to be significant too; I want to live a life of value, if I might as well have to.

Remember those days of my insane youth; I played basketball, and climbed trees and raced boys because I wanted to be better. And I became. Not because you did not tell me the calluses on my hands were ungraceful, or that the scraps on my knees were unflattering, but because I played and played, until one day someone would shout out my name to say, “Good Job Sarah !” And at that time, though I did not mind it, I grew muscles and lean arms, I ran fast – I practically flew on air – I remember, how it felt to be so liberating, to be rewarded with something you never even knew you were working towards, but in the process of doing something you loved and wanted, it just happened.

I’m sure, when I first began, I was not anybody’s first choice. I’m sure I still cannot aim. I’m sure I was definitely not the best player. Yet somehow, I became something slightly better than average, because I maintained to play. It was a team work, for if you could shoot and score, I could steal and pass. And because I did not sit aside with the other girls in the shade to watch you guys, and because I threw myself towards the ball in the same fierce animalistic way that made us friends; because I did not feel the effort, the work that went into it. So even when I missed a ball, or a catch, or a goal, or a steal, it was strengthening, urgent for me to go on and make the next one.

For that, I miss being a child. If not only because you would never say it wasn’t okay, or tell me that it was inane, but that I did not mind failing, and making a fool of myself and laughing it off. I did not develop the awareness that we have over-cultivated to make us feel ashamed.

I miss being a child, because I had wanted to just win. So let me humiliate myself for one more day, and so be it, if I can make it or not, to win or fail, I did something great.


Inspiration – Two Parts Movement, One Part Fuck It.

If one were to reminisce on the good days of rooty-toot cartoon, one shall always remember the dramatic symphony accompanying the bad guy tip-toeing to ever lasting doom of failure to our entertainment. He’ll be walking real slow, then speeding with such toe pointed perfection, it’d make a ballerina hurl. That music, ladies and gentlemen, is about how I feel right now.

Before everything though, this post was for the very inspiring blogger award, given to me by Gabriel Lucatero, another cool name that I’ll just never have. But like we all like to tie slightly relevant things to our posts, let’s talk inspiration.very-inspiring-blogger-award

Quite frankly, my inspiration could be as far- or close – fetched as digging for my cats hidden poops in his litter box. I make life fun that way. Yesterday however I just got a call and confirmed that I will be going to Quebec for 6 weeks this summer, for a YMCA summer exchange program. Before I lay out all else, get this – it’s $75 in total round trip – plane then train. Oh, and might I add that you get hosted by a family, so food, shelter and all that, plus a job there while you try to immerse yourself pathetically into the accented population. Course making new friends. Blah. I’m sure I’ll be the height of the party there with my no-nonsense one shot jokes, the punch line being Pu-Ha ! I’m sure all my french lessons has done me good thus far.

The situation had been a last minute one as my family could not host so I was put on the waiting list, but thankfully, or not quite (in their remorse), someone dropped out at the last minute so there the Duck will make her unsuitable enterprise!

Now if you must ask and remind me, of course I’ll be just heart-stricken to leave my darling fattyfats behind. In fact, I might even miss the alarmingly disturbing wake up call of having cat saliva drip down your lips. It was refreshing to say the least. I’m awake now.

Worry not though, apparently my host family has a dog, a cat, and chickens. I’ll finally have my barn festival. I’ll be Texas-Francophone.

Life shall be interesting in plucking me off the city maps into the almost-countryside. I think I’m more excited to pull an egg out of a chicken’s uterus. One simply must experience the authentic lifestyle of the countries. Then of course, pull out that bread and butter and smoke on a French cigar. I feel like I’d come back with that little round one glass that butlers wear for a souvenir.

As for the fuck it?

Hell am I not afraid of not just sleeping somewhere foreign. But the dreaded weather.

The east side will surely be the death of me. It was only slightly sunny yesterday here and the Duck felt trepidation regardless. My mother’s boyfriend has not failed to mention how wonderfully I’ll enjoy the blistering sun there now that it’s the dry season. There goes my plan of not burning like a bumpkin like my mom. Fat good that’ll do me to make fun of her when I come back the same.

Nobody here thought of “like mother like daughter.” Nobody.

While it’s about 1pm here, I ought to get packing, and cleaning, do my laundry, change my bed sheets.. and everything else that I’ve just abandoned to the wind over the mere course of 1 week into the summer. Here’s some notable people that’ll keep you entertained while I’m gone. That was a suitable ending wasn’t it? Humble in the haughtiest sense – the Duck’s only way.

Evan Sanders – Always an inspiration; he’s come far from the time I’ve begun to follow him.

Katie ( I just realized I don’t know your last name) – I know I’ve been spamming you alot, but I’m hauling ass getting there to 20, and sass is a trait needed in this world.

Bitter Ben – the terrible inspirational fuel for all the 21st century.

Tracy – What I look forward to when I get to hap-hazardously scar my kids with the memory of all that is good and holy for a mother.

Dr.Bill Wooten – A classic for the most poignant kind of inspiration.

Kiwi – One of the first to always push me forward. With food, of course.

Rohan Healy – For his heartfelt contribution to stop my fear of anal leakage as of recent.

Scott Williams – Trusty guidance with the papers and all to back it up.

Everyday Guru – Ever peace lover that I do not annoy with. P.S kids’ have the cutest chubby cheeks to die for.

Eric (Le Clown) – I’ll be visiting that poutine-singing, pot-headed, steam hyped town in 4 days. Good luck to me. But that latest with Brenda was cool. Tiny Geek’s alright. She can take you down a notch.

The Day Before I Hatched…

Otherwise known as Mother’s Day.

Yes, that’s right, the Duck will be spreading all her rightful sovereignty over the blogosphere tomorrow – see she had wanted to be fancy with that word, but she probably didn’t even use that right. But what the hell, this day is for the mama’s, so I can afford to be an idiot for today. Just today. Like I’ve never done so before.

So remember how the Duck waddled around about how she never got to finishing up that CD she was going to belt out her beloved cackles last Christmas?

I did it.

But now it won’t play on a CD player because apparently all the softwares, virus, internet, computer junk simply did not cover the portion of codecs. I hadn’t even known what they were until 20 minutes ago. And I had almost downloaded a false file 15 minutes ago. The Duck was not meant for the 21st century.

It’s the thought that counts right? Yeah.

This year, I didn’t even bother writing an English translation on the other side of the card anymore. My mother’ll never get around to reading it. She took 10 minutes trying to decipher through the Chinese. Let’s not get too optimistic. It cramps my style. But if I may say so myself, for someone who’s never written a word of Chinese since last Christmas, the Duck’s penmanship is surprisingly remarkable. No bragging of course. Just remarking. The phenomena that never happened last Christmas when I was using that black pen..

Regardless, I am proud to not conform. While my sister praised my mother to be the best, as I believe you fellow quails would. Ha! – and I had actually eaten you all for dinner. Wrapped in bacon. –  I wrote to my mom , you like to party and you suck with sentimental issues. Sometimes I feel like you’re a child.

The rest of the 3 paragraphs be darned.

She did get me back though. On the other side of the card I put a baby picture of me, where even the mini me knew to flap her wings and pose before she attempts to fly off the side of the balcony in an airport. Instead of commenting remarking on how friggin unbelievably adorable baby Duckling was, she dared to ask me – next year, can you put a picture of Milo (my cat)?

I’m bruised. My ego has been crippled. It’s like shaving away from my bountiful plumage.

I swear next year I’ll put a picture of my baby cat alright. Have him soaking wet so that he’ll look like a rat. His fur will stick down, allowing us the sight to marvel at his, ahem, bountiness. Then he’ll be like a fat rat. And of course I knew all of this not from experience. Just pure imagination of the wild mind.

Now the Duck must retreat back to her duck pen to strangle the CD she created. Or she just has nothing to say for this because she’s way too excited to, ahem, remark about her birthday tomorrow. For now, she can afford to celebrate for being young. Ha, how devious was that? IMAG1464

You see that big ball of meat? You guys do taste good with bacon. So does salad.

Quacking My 2-Cents – Book Review Of Gyaros Book One: The Mice Eats Iron

gyarosGot to say, without my usual dose of bullshitting, when I first laid sight on the title I thought to myself, what a sick and ironic title it was. How cool would it be if I were able to read it?

And who says the Duck never gets whatever she wants?

Put on a little bit of completely genuine kindness in offering the co-authors a chance for your’s truly to pour over your words in vehement determination and a slanted eye for faulties. The everydays of my life, brightened up by the bopping daisy of which normal people would refer to as Rohan Healy, with the cool accent and all. And whom I would refer to Happy Ol’ Ro. – Ahem, I’ve finally found a nickname for you equivalent to your’s for mine.

But I know half of you here aren’t really interested in what I have to say, not without that priceless accent no less, of which I am so not jealous of. Ahem. Yeah, I did not try to imitate it while reading the story aloud at all. That’s too shameless, even for the Duck.

What the Duck isn’t shameful of is spreading herself all over the story of Gyaros.

Summary a la moi : Timid middle aged man works in non-inspiring job who can’t stand up for himself enough to probably have lasted an entire conversation with le Duck had she not been asking him to lay off on the electricity bills. Cause of course this sort of an ‘office meat’ would be mulling his days in that sort of a place.

With my blessings, and much anticipated disaster, he was sent to hell. – How evil am I?

It was red, it was ugly, it was hot, it was scary. It was totally worth it.

Carthage is like high school. Your perfect green planet. It’s the prom, the cafeteria, the post popular well-known, best-dressed, acing kids in school, that nobody but themselves and each other love. The Duck thinks so anyway.

Gyaros is like, a life. Your ugly red zit – that sounds about grotesquely right, good enough to keep those home coming queens away from it. It’s my alternative fantasy, sort of-ish, or just the people that I’m fascinated with. It’s a little bit of a personal bias when I say the characters of Gyaros really hit me as the ones in our daily lives who may be looked down on and judged without a second thought. The tough cookies. The mushy chocolate fudge fillings. I’d die for the real thing or the metaphor. But don’t let that stop you from thinking they’re any less badass than how Gyaros was made out to be. A triple-fattening formula like that is called badass. The irresistible charm of ‘I must have you now’ .

That’s a bit too far.

Let’s say I got choked up and tensed while eating my dinner in bed (so bite me, I’m lazy) as I was reading an intense and monumental moment the other night. I hadn’t even realized it until I sort of lost my appetite, and the Duck does not ever stop eating.

That is basically me, with the looking up. Belly and all, too.  I'm proud.
That is basically me, with the looking up. Belly and all, too. I’m proud.

An even better example would be to appeal to your audience, typical. When I get into a book or a movie, my head automatically wants to meets chin to second chin with my chest. Therefore my eyebrows would wrinkle up to let me see. And damn was I doing some good review of the somewhat Pug face.

My forehead has probably aged 10 years and my neck 5. Ladies and gents, this is wisdom I say.

As per usual, I am upset with the ending.

Not because it was bad. It was just, the ending. My chin was halfway to drooping, my eye sight to glaring when I scrolled down to the next page, only to be met with ‘The End’.

Kill me now.

At least Rohan had the courtesy to plug in some epilogues. Cruel also, cause they were good – which is bad.

I also wanted to take a step aside of my alter-ego and give big congrats to Rohan’s brother who co-authorized Gyaro’s first book, he’s only a few years older than I am, and now I feel small.

If you made it thus far in reading my writing, you’ll survive Gyaros. Or not. The Duck only wants her meat medium-rare.

Taking Arrogance To The Next Level

liester blog
W.O.W I have no words. I remember when I had first started this blog just about 3 months ago and I had no idea what I was getting myself into. I even a brief period of time when the fat elf got to me and I just wanted to forfeit the entire idea of continuing on with my nonsense and lust with envy and perhaps a bit of jealousy – but of course much applause for those who got the recognition they truly deserve. But the cliche award speech stops here. I didn’t win anything, at least I don’t think this is what it’s for… If you happen to read Nick’s post ( ) on passing this award on to fellow bloggers, I think he really hit the shit talkin jack pot to include me for nominations..  but I am still immeasurably grateful and humbled to be nominated by him, so if you get this read this NIck, and if you haven’t already read my comment on your page, a thousand thankyous and curtsies (:

And to formally begin my trip of seven minutes in heaven : 

post 11 random things about myself;

answer 11 questions from the person who nominated me;

pose 11 new questions to other bloggers (and let them know I’ve done so);

11 Random Things About Me

1) I love tattoos and piercings.. much as I obsess with my cat’s paws and abuse him (with love) to infinity, in which cases I don’t even think are probably legal in most states..

2) Just so I can fulfill the rebel image to a slack, I got my conch pierced yesterday – proceeding to add the newest addition to my tongue and rook to hide from my mom – wishing to break the ignorant stereotype. But no I don’t drink or smoke pot. Ever. Sorry guys.

3) Though I say what I said above, I’m also a huge book worm with OCD regarding my books; so no 90 degree angles or dog ears or I will play SAW 1-7 with you.

4) Gigantic wuss to the next level – still working on not being scared of the witchy part in Sleeping Beauty.. but I tell myself I am just very thoroughly empathizing with the music in the background. Did I mention I’m a band geek? Guess what instrument I play.

5) Yes, I love the classic old Disney. And if I could I would turn all my pals gay on my marathons – working on that too.

6) I still pride myself for being stronger and faster than all the now-football guys back in elementary, because nowadays my most recent achievement is devouring the amount of chocolate I do on a day-to-day basis and getting whipped on my 7th push up.

7) I have a very wicked sense of humor and if you were to see me, then get to really know me, you would not believe half the things that I say.

8) Absolute laziest person you’ll ever meet. The most I do with an exercise ball is bounce on it, then proceed to fly like superman. Bless the faeries for my metabolism.

9) Love cute things and chocolate. But I hate cute drawings. Art to me is Tim Burton style. With a few exceptions.

10) I’m Asian and math is my worse subject. Not just 92% bad; Get made fun of on a day-to-day basis.

11) I once thought Amazon people were tall blue people. Maybe 5 times was too many a time to watch Avatar.

Answer 11 Questions

1)  What was the last thing that made you cry? Oh this is depressing; arguing with my mother about tattoos, then she told me to get one when I grow up and not see her if I chose to do so. 

2)  If you had a super power, would you share it with anyone? Definitely; share it with my few favorite people and live like kings.

3)  If you could talk to anyone alive or dead, famous or not famous who would it be? I want to say my father out of respect, but as the wuss I am, I don’t really wanna see anyone I know that should be dead and I’m sure my father would love it if his last image of me was not me whacking his ghostly figure in the face.

4)  Would you rather go back in time or travel to the future? I’d rather go back and enjoy some simple children things; the future seems a bit depressing. 

5)  If the person you loved was dying and the only way you could save them was to press a button that would kill thousands of people you have never met before, would you do it? No, because if I were to love anyone, that person would know better than to fear death in exchange for thousands of innocent lives. Unless this was a thriller, then maybe just so coincidentally, all the bad guys.  

6)  Would you rather 10 minutes of love or 10 minutes of lust? 10 minutes of lust ; love can last longer than that. A moment will always just be a moment thing. 

7)  How many fingers am I holding up right now? Three. what’s a loss of three for an  incredible driver, which in his name I’d suppose would also possess impeccably dexterous fingers. 

8)  If you could change the topic of your blog what would you change it to? It has no ultimate purpose, but if you were to put a label on it, probably something lame like my diary which I abandoned 3 years ago. 

9)  Whats the first thing you notice about the opposite sex? Their aura. Does that make sense? You just know when you meet one of ‘those guys’.. and immediately walk the other way. 

10)  Dogs or Cats? Cats, since this is my first one, and you never knew how fun it is to cuddle something so flexible. And it drools the same amount. 

11)  Whats the last thing you regretted doing? I regret having ever mentally noted that I shall stop looking/following more blogs because I want to read practically every single one of your’s and won’t do justice otherwise. But that’s stupid; in thanks to all the people who gave me a chance. 

Ask 11 Questions Of Your Own

1) Who’s your favorite Disney character and why?

2) Forgive and forget or get even? If you’re going to be nice tell me how you got there.. if you’re evil like me, give me ideas.

3) Biggest laughing spree – constipated face and epileptic appendages.

4) If you had to save someone significant, would you give up your life? And not be a bitter haunting ghost about it.

5) Crazy 1940’s dancer or a shower singer?

6) If you had a choice, would you choose to be the opposite gender? Why and what would you do if yes.

7) Vacuum, sweep or mop?

8) First kiss – disappointment, butterflies, or fainted cause you didn’t wanna breath on them.

9) Biggest motivation/inspiration/aspiration in life.

10) Ever insecure about yourself; how did you get over it, or still currently working on it?

11) Laughter is the best medicine?

Spreading The Love – in no particular order cause love does not know a number or a face
( sorry guys I don’t know how to shorten a link and rename it, pointers anyone? ) – If there’s a definition for a writer, it’s the one who not only does it and knows it, but the one who can write about it so people who aren’t even writers feels like they’d been one too. – Whoever said mums’ have no sense of humor. Living proof. – Ever popular and sarcastic. Bringing my attention the most randomnest things in life and giving them depth and significance. It’s like a lecture. With a bit of sass.. and balder dash.. – Neurotic, charming, madwoman; I fell for it. – Read it, I’ve got no words – there’s a sweetheart beneath the cursing. – You already know.. if you don’t, you do now. – As a selfish request, and perhaps a compliment, your single life should make money as a reality show over the ones we have nowadays. – Encouraging and personal. Sometimes he’s so positive I kinda hate him on my lazy days. Sigh, but I know he’s good. We need more guys like him. – Honestly, the first time I read his blog. I died. Of laughter. And even now he can masterfully orchestra humor to my still wet eyes down to soberty in undulating patterns. – One of the initial supporters when I had started; what can I say, a counselor who doesn’t suck and possibly a hired gun ! (No I’m not his client so I don’t get any special discounts or anything like that) – The total package. – Cannot get enough of this guy. Went through a stalking fiesta on his blog – and still wasn’t sick by the time I got out. I call that charm.

And with this I believe I am finished my over stayed welcome in heaven.

Guilty By Association

If you were to see me in real life, and if I were to do nothing but smile at you, would you already have a predetermined misconception of me? Perhaps something along the lines that are docile and nice – I suspect this Asian stereotype thing has something to do with it.

Today I had to watch a very emotional presentation by the Abbotsford police on abusive use of ecstasy at my school. They featured two teenagers whom both police officers had personally known; the two had one year from a few days before today and in the 22nd of december died because of their overdose. Now, it is needless to say there are plenty of much better quality and well-informed documentations regarding teen use of drugs, but for me I just wanted to point out the irony in what I saw of the two deceased teen’s friends and family member.

They were normal looking people. Attractive. People I probably would have judged – party hard, snobs, jocks, snooty popular girls, any selfish terrible thoughts; hence disliked.
But they had a history.

They looked like people who I usually avoid. Just for my social uncomfortableness. The louder, well-liked, popular, grouped kids that joined teams and joked around in class. Today I sat with a few similar boys in my class, whom I’d never though I’d ever share a laugh with, but I did. They were not rude, they did not judge me, did not ridicule me because of my race or age or the fact that I never spoke to them before. In fact, they were probably the most accepting people I’ve found in this entire school. So what had they been previously guilty of in my head to receive a faulty penalty?

— After the presentation we were asked to slowly exit the theater and each given a chance to share a handshake or hug with our fellow young peers on stage. I’d like to add beforehand that I had always had a bad image of people I dub playful obnoxious. I simply don’t like them – they deserve the consequences right? They knew, saw it coming ( well godamn that concept just doesn’t cut it when I get a bad grade though ) But I never cared enough to comment, cause, who cares right ( or maybe because I don’t want to be criticized for being what people my age would call lame ). But near the end of the video shown above ( and please do watch, it’s 18 mins of your time and definitely well worth it ) I started to cry, despite the large gathering of audiences, for this young teenager’s poem speaking of his feelings after his best friend’s death. I cried, not just tear-tear, but such a dramatic rush that my friends thought I had gone mad. He was a senior. A well-built young man, lean, attractive and never would’ve been suspected of being capable of such emotion, depth and honesty into his work. Beyond his strikingly pure words, it was the fact that his voice was cracking, and sobering and desperate to continue on. And it kept going, in a none wavering way, regardless of it’s precarious faltering form. And I absolutely adore and admire him for doing that. I gave him a hug and I told him his poem was awesome. And out of all the young peers I interacted with, I felt he was the most genuine when he said , Thank you, that means a lot, and gave this gravely humbling smile. He learned his lesson.

Then watching his example, trying to learn myself, I decided to talk to an adult there about the fact that my cousin has decided to start blazing. Which I found out is smoking marijuana – of which is also often laced with meth to make the experience all the more addictive. If you had read my previous post of ‘Sexy Can I’ then you might recall the part about indulging in certain activities with ‘safe’ people. Hell all the teenagers on stage today had been drugging up with their best friends too. They thought they were safe. Same dealer, same drug. My cousin does too. And though I cannot change her mind with coerce, I do hope that if I were to bring up this topic, with the courage that I lacked before when she had previously confessed this, be able to somewhat convince her to make her own decision to stop it. It’s not fun. It’s not worth it. Imagining her on the hospital bed embedded with tubes, in exchange for her to get high for a few hours? It was all a set back for my father’s death.

Now if you were to look at her, same as me, you might also think nice things. But see, you never know. One of us does partying and explores drug use and one of us doesn’t. Neither of us having extreme body arts, or piercings. But if you were to look at someone who had such an unique and expressive form, what would be your first impression? Funny how society warps your view. But I’m not in any way trying to compare my cousin and I to make one out as the bad guy because I know so much more to her then to bring myself to judge her as I would any random stranger. Cept for the fact that, you’d never have guessed. Because the way we look, act, speak, are naturally categorized by society and associated in your mind with something nice.

In hindsight, I thought of a young man that had shared the school bus with me last year. He was a BASE kids, more higher functioning, and really, just any other regular school kid. He turned around in his seat and told a joke. His eyes appeared to be bulging because of his thick glasses. Two enormous pearls of swirling blue-green that looked between me and my bus mate. His smile large and only more emphasized by his large teeth. He had told us a joke. But I had not laugh because I held the idea that I would not laugh with this kind of person. Then the girl beside me giggled. And then it felt alright to laugh. Why? Because someone ‘normal‘ , ‘higher-standarded‘ had laughed so now its okay for me to also express something genuine? I thought of him today, and I apologize.

So again, if you were to look at me, and I have not spoken yet. Had my first words been to confess I had gotten an C+ in math, would that surprise you? Or if I had said I do all of the terrible hard-core things known for teenagers, what would you immediately think then? I am constantly, and very pleasantly surprised by the well mannered greeting of a peculiarly dressed man, or authenticity of heavily tattooed/pierced people. When you think of them, what are those ‘kinds of people’ like, how did they come about like so.

Am I judged because I’m guilty by association?

Rx For Survival : Global Health Challenge

29-year old and a mum. Her son at the peculiar age that thrives off mum’s love and affection. “Why are you always so cold and mean to me?” She tells him “No, I love you. But mum is sick and she doesn’t want to infect you.” – “But I don’t care if you infect me.”

That woman suffers from a Multiple Drug Resistant (MDR) Tuberculosis (TB) in Peru. Her husband left in fear of being infected; she relies on her elderly mother for shelter and rarely goes out. She fears her friends knowing about her disease because she does not want to be ostracized, much as she is used to being rejected.

A courageous young nurse braves the possible dangers of visiting very infectious patient’s home for treatment and voluntarily refuses to wear a mask around them – “It’s like speaking with someone through a glass.” Her greatest project is in earning her client’s trust; to convince a bleak young man to take experimental drugs for the course of an intensive 6 months in hopes that one of the many antibiotics given will treat the mycobacterium from multiplying and surviving inside his body. These medications are experimental, they are expensive, and they are toxic.

Two determined doctors set out on a none profit business to cure patients rejected by their own government the right to possible treatment , on terms of liability and expense- to even begin developing a new antibiotic, half a million is easily blown off with no significant result. These two doctors contribute by developing a personal clinic to hopefully find the cure. They resort to ‘borrowing’ these expensive antibiotics from their faculties in their own countries and importing them to Peru, at risk of their career and lively hood.

A healthy, athletic, elite football player died one week after his championship. He was infected, flushed with antibiotics, examined by specialists of almost every vital organ; His father was confident “My son is ——–  ——– , he will not die of some minuscule bug. The young man died at the age of 21.

My teacher’s fiancé went blind for a few months from a bacterial infection on his hand that disrupted his spinal fluid, multiplied to such an extensive state that it pressed upon his optical nerve. Imagine your spouse, waking up one day upon a few sore back days “Honey , I can’t see you anymore.” – He was lucky.

A grown man in the United States, weakened from his surgery for his removal of his bacterial infection that had engorged into such an overwhelming size in his abdomen, it resembled the size of an adult’s hand, quietly wept as he voiced his biggest fears upon agreeing to intake an experimental treatment. “There is nothing you can really say when you’re at the point of choosing whether you want to be a guinea pig, or just die; I’m afraid this experimental drug won’t work. Bacteria are getting smarter and smarter and I never thought I’d have to fight this hard a battle.”

The Peru government had begun action in acclaiming all patients of TB to follow a strict regime of antibiotics supplied. Of most 2/3rds are cured of their disease permanently. But there remains those who have a highly drug resistant form of the bacteria, and in lesser words, they are left to die. It is not a public save, but a public death as this transparent infection is carried on through each generation, waiting to harvest into something destructive. Beyond the boundaries of one city, or a country, nation, nor continent. It is everywhere.

It’s all a merry-go-round

Rx for Survival : A Global Health Challenge

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Tigers not daughters

celeste lee cloud

writer & artist

BREVITY's Nonfiction Blog

(Somewhat) Daily News from the World of Literary Nonfiction

Coach Daddy

Fatherhood | Futbol | Food

Bespoke Traveler

Immersive Tales for the Curious Traveler

bluebird of bitterness

The opinions expressed are those of the author. You go get your own opinions.

Ned's Blog

Humor at the Speed of Life

Bad Cat Chris

The Baddest Cat You'll Ever Love