They who created me

"Damn it! Deal with it! Learn how to like it!" he shouted as he pounded on the dining table. "It disgusts me to see you disliking this and that. Be a Malay, will you?" I stared at the nasi lemak in front of me; a meal I don't even like.

It's not my fault I don't like it. I don't like it, so I don't like it. What the hell do you want me to do? Why don't you like pizza or pasta? They're all foods. It doesn't matter which culture made it. I never denied my Malay heritage, even though I don't eat 'Malay foods'. Heck, I keep boasting that I'm Malay. I am damn proud of it, but how would you know what my thoughts are? We don't talk. You don't know me. You say you do, but you don't.

After all my 20 years of existence, you still don't know what I like and dislike? It goes to show how much we actually take time to communicate with each other. Same goes to your wife, who keeps serving me foods I don't like, more than those I actually like. Speaking of her...

"What do you want to do next? Do you want to marry?" she asked in a kind voice. I almost broke out into a grin to say, "Yes, I want to wait for him," but she cut me off. "I'll find you a nice, rich, non-criminal man for you to marry." She said all this while stroking my head gently, like it's a good thing. How could she? "He's not a criminal," I muttered, as she left.