My pieces of luggage still laid strewn chaotically around my room, and Mother has been nagging me to clean up the act.
Did I think I was in an action film? I doubt so. After assuring Mother that this mess was not an act, I was given a deadline to clear them out. My brother would have sniggered had he heard that.
I didn't resist the commands of the lady who gave birth to me, so I picked up the pieces, starting with all the dirty laundry I accumulated from the trip to the-country-that-must-not-be-named. I was really thankful that I had the sense to at least dunk them into ziplock bags, because the moment I opened the flap, I was treated to a cacophony of my own smells, totally corrupted by days of stewing in human sweat and pherohormones. Oh the joy the bacteria must had.
That task done, I decided to cluster the remaining pieces of luggage together in one corner of the room. As they like to say, presentation is everything, so I am sure that dressing up the room would help it look less dilapidated. Needless to say, I was only just being lazy. Playing dress up to my room is definitely a tough job, though not something unfamiliar, since I had to do it many times previously in camp.
I've started on writing about my misadventures (is it the right word?). It is a series of unfortunate events (which luckily still pales in comparison to the film/story with the same name) that happened to me while I was in the-country-that-must-remain-unamed. Inside that post, you will find fairy tale stories about how a camera decided to declare independance (not unlike the-country-that-must-not-be-named), of sore eyes and broken backs, of lost disembarkation cards, road near-misses.
Starring myself, a platoon of homesick scouts, battalion HQ, the kind police of the-country-that-must-not-be-named, taxi drivers, and hotel staff whom-insist-on-communicating-to-me-in-English-when-I-could-speak-Chinese-natively.