Butterfly thoughts

My internet connection in Indonesia is a bane to my existence. I was close to putting my fist through the desktop screen after continually staring at a loading bar that loads at a rate of one bar per minute. I've exhausted my expletive library, so I won't even try.

Sometimes it's easier to be a stranger in a foreign land than to come back to a homeland that feels familiar yet foreign at the same time. Sometimes meeting people who knew you when you were a kid can be such a social minefield. And the barrage of questions, my God, they were like having your teeth drilled.

Some things are better kept offline. Why on earth would people want to broadcast their unrequited love to about 500 friends, and possibly a million second and third degree whoever? It reeks of desperation, narcissism and a chronic need for electronic peer support. And if I wanted to know your mundane daily activities by the minute I'd have signed up to be your stalker.

The quality of Indonesian sinetrons has fallen off the cliff in the last few years. Too many pretty faces that have the emotional range of a teaspoon. Too many profit-worshipping production houses that churn out sub-standard fare like an assembly line.

Too many pretentious people out there who can't write for nuts.