Eleven months and two days ago, I visited a small snake farm in Bangkok as part of a tacky tourist package that ripped me off. Aside from allowing a local man to wrap a giant python around me for a fee, I also cradled a diaper-clad baby monkey in my arms for the sake of a nice picture I would soon post on Facebook. The monkey held me in a tight embrace and his fur brushing against my neck gave me goosebumps. After a few seconds it lunged at my chest and its hands frantically looked for my breasts. It was hungry. I felt so insulted, but downplayed my hurt feelings because it was pointless: the only witnesses were a white couple and the local man who owned the monkey, its father. And at that moment he could well be my husband, if the monkey really thought I was going to nurse him without objection.

Number 1, I was and still am NOT lactating.

Number 2, I am not a monkey.

Never did I think that I would look back at that time and say to myself "There goes one of the happiest moments of my life." But compared to what I am going through right now, I think I was better off then, in a place where no one knew me and at a time when I couldn't care less about anything.

It's been a year since I have been mistaken for a monkey. By a monkey. Given the circumstances now, I'm more than happy to mother that chimp. Where's that monkey when you need him.