art imitating life, or vice versa?

Right now, as I'm sitting here at the office while waiting for The Diver to pick me up (gosh, I'm just too lazy to drive meself to work nowadays!), I'm reminded of the Malay dramas that my grandma and aunts used to watch on TV.

You know, the evil stepmothers, the cheating boyfriend, the deadbeat husband, the GRO wife, the wicked mother in law, the weepy dumped wife, the secretary-boss affair, the screaming bimbo catfights... all those stereotypes you can ever think of, is there in the Drama Melayu.

In my teens and twenties, I'd go... Man!!! All these are crap that some overly emotional jilted scriptwriter conjured up in his/her screwed up brain. I didn't know that in adulthood, these Drama Melayu scenarios will pop in your life as often as The Diver goes to the toilet after whacking sambal belachan.

As I grow older, nothing shocks me anymore. I'm sure most of you agree on this statement.

When I was in the twenties, life was such a euphoric phase of seeking perfection. And at that age, especially in my early twenties, I thought that adulthood was simply, people being ADULTS.

But boy, was I wrong.

In our lives today, scenes of Drama Melayu pops up every now and then. I sometimes stop to think, "I thought these things only happen in movies." And now I believe that art does, in a strange and perverted way, imitate life.