Doubting Thomas(ina)

You embark on what you believe to be a life-altering experience in the Orient, untainted by hallucinogens or any other mind-altering substances. Landing on the hot humid shores, you find the climes to be nothing less than frosty from the natives. Eventually you get used to people moving away when you sit next to them on the trains, unsure whether it’s because you are fat. Or black. As one South African eloquently phrased it ‘Our blacks smell different’.

I might have to hurt somebody soon…

I don’t know which sign I currently have emblazoned on my forehead which gives random people the incredibly misguided impression that I care about their tepidly vapid existences. Because I am not sure how the menacing scowl permanently etched on my face can be translated into a come-hither -and-unburden-thyself look. (p.s. There isn’t even the excuse of alcohol!)