Sometimes I think my brother is our own kind of Forrest Gump. He was born breech, his delivery was sort of delayed and that caused him developmental problems. Slow learner they said. Stuttering badly. Always lost in his own world. Got bullied physically and mentally at school despite our father was a teacher at the school.
On his 10th attempt of repeating SPM, he told mum it could be his last attempt. On multiple occasions, he cried.
That led him to another two attempt of STPM. Led him to successfully graduated with a degree. Then another with DPLI. Meanwhile, he did oddjobs; being a guard at the hospital, schools, old folks home and helping our father at the paddy field.
On the day of his interview, he was asked about his OKU card at the end of the session. He admitted having it for being a slow learner; OKU pembelajaran. The moment he stepped out of the interview room, he went to our mother, and cried, probably out of relief, or from feeling like he was near the end of his long fight. And today is the day he is officially a teacher at a school. And he’s starting his life fresh and anew, at the age of 37.
He is still him, the older brother I’ve known since we were small. Still being as he is, just like how Forrest Gump was at the end of the movie. Still him, but he created history through perseverance and grit, straight from his own life.
It’s true that he received great support from our mother, father and all of us siblings. But one fact in life is that you can’t help a person if the person doesn’t want to be helped, even if the whole world lends a hand. But in this case, he helped himself, hence he got helped.
All the best to this new chapter, this new endeavour at the new place. We will always be there for him, through and through, as long as he is through and through with himself, as he always has been.
All the best Ed! Kijo molek!
What happens when you drink 10 oz of Magnesium Citrate?
I’m glad you asked. Buckle up.
12:05 p.m. — It begins. You down the 10-ounce bottle like it’s a lukewarm PBR at a college tailgate. The label says “cherry flavored,” but it tastes like someone described cherry to a chemist who’s never eaten fruit. Regret sets in instantly.
12:06 p.m. — You grab a handful of chips for moral support. They’ll be liquified before they clear your throat, but who cares? Life still feels okay right now. Remember this peace. You’re about to enter the darkest chapter of your gastrointestinal history.
12:37 p.m. — The rumbling starts. There’s movement in the depths. You’ve got five pounds of impacted regret in your colon, and you just drank the “human-safe” version of Drano. You think it’s go time. It’s not. You get one sad little snake turd — a warm-up act.
That’s the last semi-solid you’ll see for the next 24 hours.
12:57 p.m. — The situation escalates. Your stomach is in full revolt. You have 0.3 seconds to make it to the toilet. Running is risky business — one wrong step and you’ll paint the walls. You pray for sphincter strength like never before as you waddle at Mach 3, pants half down, whispering, “Please, God, not like this.”
12:58 p.m. — Impact.
You sit, and the gates of hell open.
The explosion is biblical. It hits the back of the bowl with such violent force it ricochets like a sprinkler system.
You ask yourself, Is that blood?
No — false alarm. Just the ghost of a cherry pie you ate in 2004. The smell is unspeakable. The acoustics? Terrifying. The neighbors think you’re performing an exorcism.
1:06 p.m. – 8:30 p.m. — Time becomes meaningless. You’ve evacuated everything you’ve ever eaten, plus a few ancestral meals for good measure. Your colon feels like it’s been sandblasted with lava. The burn is real. You’re sweating. Crying. Contemplating life. You meet Jesus briefly, but He sends you back — says your mission’s not over yet.
8:37 p.m. — You’re empty. Broken. Reborn.
Your butthole? A war veteran.
Your spirit? In recovery.
You’ll never be the same, but you will survive.
Tomorrow, you’ll rise from the ashes, slip into your last clean pair of underwear, and waddle into Walmart like a survivor of gastrointestinal warfare — to buy a new toilet brush and reclaim your dignity.
You’ve earned it.
Feeling thankful. 💩🙏