自強街87號

Neuschwanstein can be auctioned, but not your nest.

After I conceived a subjective, objective, forensic, retaliatory, but never original issue about the interaction, or, let me put it STRAIGHT, manners between a man and his woman with all my recollections, meditaions, recognition of females, inductive perceptions, and deductive patterns of gender dysphoria, amassed plus carefully integrated to the accumulations of the past three years' realization of theological connaissance, I would rather depict thethe very initial yet prennial incentive of my portrayal I've long been hereto acting as, the reason, its theoretical logic basis as well as its citations to be one of the most consequential memorabilia as proof to the obligation and compulsory acquistion over female conpliance, where the subordinated, the assistant, the aide, the consultant, and the servers should be aware of how their rights, welfare, and responsibility are supposed to be arranged and alloted by their masters, the dominant, the preeminent oracle- franchised, to whom the pathetique feminists are ought to offer awe, at each spur of moment of human civilization, whichever senario of all epochs, and for good thanks to the indisputable codes and axioms of commandments as followed:

And the LORD God said, It is not good that the man should be alone; I will make him an help meet for him.  Ge 2:18

As I sat wondering how and when my clique would be engaged together at midnight today, the blatant buzzer bluffed off, which always gave me a thrill. Judging from the way it went off, I wager it must be from a mail carrier, who brought mostly nothing more than some credit card notice or the embarrassing ultimatum of due date of my insurance payment. The last thing I would expect from a postman was a surprise, even a trivial one. Yes, here he was, passing me a B4- sized package, smilingly but quite disingenuously, seeming that something bad would knock on everyone's door sooner or later, or at least it would be he that was given carte blanche to be a damned black angel, and he was rather amused within the rejoice over other's calamity. Sht, I hate postmen, who brought me no more than bad news as my failure notice in various exams recently.

Thickly printed, I fingered through the margin of this package, light green in color and well sealed, quite a load, stamped address as Ban- chiao Post Office. 'Bu-shi-ban?' I thought to myself. Perhaps. 'A friend of mine?' Likely, and he knew my quarter exactly. 'Some mandatory document from the government to prove me to be defrauding  the revenue unless I got a presidential pardon?' Rare but still possible. 'An ex-girlfriend's souvenir of indigenous snacks in Deutschland?' Hopefully not, or it would be another dominating temptation to invite me for the carnal world once again, with bounty of gratuitous vouchers and rebates! It is really a matter of being a voluptuary or a decent Stoic. I needed to end my suspense at once, binge or bristling.

Unpacking it, I found it had an inner layer. The sender would either carefully protect the object or want to provoke my desperate curiosity. (Maybe the guy knows me well.) This time it could be more confirmative to be a pamphlet, maybe a book. Tearing off the layer, I saw an edge emerged, a book, no, two books, brand new, a gift, a surprise! Beaming with delight, I was looking forward to and enjoyed the outcome I dug further into. I dare not say that I'm a bibliophile, yet, strangely though, I do have love affairs with books. I have a passion for books. Old books are like experts, ready to conduct  an impressive lecture I was eager to acquire. However, new books are something else. They are like virgins, pure and naive, like a cute, pretty, and attractive ingenue who can always awake my vigorous potence, waiting quietly and gracefully for my exploring, regardless of my covetously devouring and slurping her, again and again...

1. Wear's Your Brain?