I may have romanticised the writer’s life way too much. I’ve always pictured the typical writer as a broken but attractive soul, shelled up in his (or her) study, surrounded by books and way too many mahogany chairs. He’d stare out his window, lift his finger in exclamation, and break out his trusty typewriter (a Remington, of course).
This is me on a good day. You wouldn’t want to see what I eat on the daily.
So it’s been more than three months since I’ve turned vegetarian. I figured the one month mark wouldn’t do it justice, so I held on for a bit before starting on this post.
The first thing that you’d probably ask—especially if you’ve known me—is why? Why succumb yourself to such torture? Have you found a new religion? Are you a PETA member now?
Behind our smiles lay the seeds of doubt.
He took a failing airline company and turned it for profit. Then he was thrust upon an international disaster, to which he showed the world what leadership meant. He’s also my new boss, and today, I’m about to give him a haircut.
My tools clatter in my trembling hands. Wait, did I say tools? I meant a shabby kit made out of office scissors, a wooden comb, a women’s disposable shaver, and a bottle of mineral water. Tony Fernandes looks at me, a stretch of bubble wrap hanging off his neck at an angle.
This is going to get messy, I say to myself.
Your Friendly Malaysian Writer 