My dear is caught in the glare of her own headlights,


signals sent to an approaching hunter, too scared to flee approaching danger, too glad to be noticed in the passing crowd. Asian women are born to bear and bred to breed, the weight of centuries pinning them down to the bed of forgiveness. Tang is in way over her head with a husband trying to inspire her to self-fulfillment and professional achievement in a country where the highest goal of most women is to be a housewife. It’s a time warp, like ‘Pleasantville’ or something; wives stay at home and so do many of the men, too, if they’ve got activities they can do there. It’s not like there’s zoning or anything fancy like that. The cost of living is so low that middle-class Thais can hide behind their locking fences playing with their kids like fat cats playing with their chew toys. Their only problem is me, expecting life to have some meaning or something, a path to glory, or at least a life’s work, or something. Everybody’s scared to take initiative for fear of what everyone else will think, so everyone copies everyone else’s work rather than create something new. It’s almost like Tang doesn’t even see herself as an actor in her own life, as if she were watching a movie about herself. Conformity may save Asia a lot of Latino heartache, like protests in the street and revolutions per minute, but at what cost? Asia has cast its lot with business at the expense of politics, while Latin America wrestles with the decision, looking with alternate jealousy and disgust at Mexico, sleeping with the enemy US and the FTA Fresh Tits Agreement, to see who gets fucked and who gets sex.

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