:: Thursday, December 11, 2008 ::
There she was – standing under the mid-afternoon sun, her feet planted in between blades of grass that danced under the control of the wind. Except that they were mostly weeds, and the occasional Mimosa pudica, (less glamorously known as the Pokok semalu) but it always sounded better if you said ‘grass’ instead of implying a plant that doesn’t belong in a pretty picture.

I ran up to her, crushing whatever existed underneath my shoes.

“What are you doing? Well, if you’re getting a tan, I’d say it’s kinda pointless because you look weathered as it is already!” I wondered why I answered my own question.

She looked at me for a few seconds, her eyes squarely at mine, as if she were willing information to flow through our line of vision. For a brief moment, she broke her stare and a sigh escaped. But as soon as I figured that out, her eyes maintained the same stare.

After a while, I felt uncomfortable. A lump formed at my throat and my feet were shaking slightly, awaiting the signal to escape at any moment. But before I could say anyth---

“I like the feeling of grass brushing against my knees... I like thinking they’re beautiful wildflowers that just adore being at my feet,” her voice latched onto the wind and trailed away.

Suddenly, it boomeranged. It hit me on the side of my right cheek.

“But it’s all bullshit, isn’t it?” her words slowly disappearing and returning again in a violent echo. This time, I nearly fell over.

Should I say something? I’m her best friend after all, it’s my responsibility. “Listen baby, what’s wrong? I’m your lover, you can tell me anything! Wanna fool around for a bit?” I said with a grin.

She looked down at the weeds, touched them with the tip of her feet, smiled, and suddenly sat down. Then, she tapped her fingers on the tips of the plants, as if they were a xylophone. After a mini-symphony, her gaze locked with mine again. This time, I wanted to run away.

“I’m not your lover. I never was. At most I was only your best friend. And you know what? I am fucking tired of being THE best friend. THE second best. THE one with the personality. THE one whom you didn’t mind if the world was coming to an end and you needed to breed.

I keep pretending as though the world is a fucking field of flowers under the fucking warm sun. I keep telling myself to look at the bright side – to appreciate whatever is given to me. But you know what? Fuck that. Fuck everything. Tell me now, who am I to you?”

I am already running. Before she could finish her speech, my feet were already on its way to the main road. What was I to do? If I told her she was right, she’d attack. If I told her she was wrong, I had to live up to her expectations. Either way, I would kill me.

I ran and I ran. To where, I didn’t know. But when I finally summoned the courage to look over my shoulder, she was gone. All that remained were weeds.

I’d like to think they were wildflowers, though.

:: Another emo-ambient rambling at 3:57am ::

:: Tuesday, April 01, 2008 ::
last words from a listener (if you have the ear)

I run my fingers through your hair as your lips correspond to the words that meander into my ears. Your eyes are at a place unbeknownst to me yet I am sure I have been there before at a different time. I want to go there now though, but I don't want to intrude. So I just settle with watching you from afar, making sure my fingers continually stroke your scalp and behind your ears to keep you there.

Your choice of music does nothing to me; I have never been a fan of aged men crooning about love or the lack of it. Yet oddly it seems to complement your stories. You told them in a tone of voice that was barely audible, but only because it was drowned by the echoing sounds of shattering glass reverberating between you and I.

I shifted my focus to the crackling of ice reacting to room temperature whiskey. It's not that I don't want to listen to you but nothing breaks me more than to see a broken down man trying his best to look unscathed. So I put on the same mask.

You tell me whatever you want me to hear. And I had the tough job of listening - I am reading between the lines. I am picking up key words. I am flipping through textbooks and old notes to understand your character.

Suddenly, I'm in there where you are. And it sends a quiet shiver coursing through from the tips of my fingers to the awkward shuffle in my toes.

Your stories bear too much information. I don't know what to make of it but it sure as hell is telling me to get out of this place NOW. It's not safe here, not in this area code, not in this room, not with you. My mind tells me I've seen you, read you, I know people like you. But my heart is feeling empathy to that lone tear in your eye you're trying so hard to hold back.

Damn it, why did I drink so much whiskey? Now I'm in a room with a serial killer.

Ironically, my solution is to down another swig.

Now you're scared. You realise you've told me too much. You opened that door, ushered me in and now we're both here under the unassuming ceiling fan that has captured everything in between its blades.

Suddenly, with the acquired courage from good ol' Johnnie Walker, I speak.

"What are you going to do now? Are you going to kill me?"

You didn't even look at me when you answered. "I was going to kill you when I realised you had taken the liberty to dig up my past. In fact, I had already planned my alibi. And then I would celebrate by adding a drop of your blood to the next 100 drinks I toast to. You see, I get easily intoxicated by victory. But. The plan fell through---"

"Because that's taking Bloody Mary a bit too far?" I smirked at my own drunken joke.

"Can you stop being a fucking cunt and not interrupt me?" his head turned to put his eyes in line with mine.

Suddenly I am sober. This was how I was going to die - my last words being part of the world's lamest joke.

"As I was saying, the reason I didn't want to kill you, is because you're a good listener."

While I was relieved his hands weren't squeezing around my neck , I wanted to argue. Were you serious? What did I do that made you think I dug up your past? How were you planning to end me? When were you going to do it? Where were you planning to hide my body? And why the fuck did you give me this huge fucking responsibility?

But I kept my mouth shut. Maybe because I didn't want to die in this place. Maybe because I felt bad for you. Maybe because I'm a good listener.

So this is the burden I have to bear. For the character I chose long before I thought of its repercussions.

And this is what you will know should I die tomorrow.


:: Another emo-ambient rambling at 3:45am ::

:: Tuesday, March 11, 2008 ::
real jobs are for losers

The five of you who are reading this blog are probably tired of my emo stories and/or have gone cross-eyed from wondering if they were real or fake or fake-but-not-as-fake-as-the-stories-the-drunk-Indian-man-tells OR frustrated that the blog address is misleading because there aren't pictures of my cleavage OR wondering if there really are people reading this shit anymore. Whatever. I'm writing this post now so I can keep track of what's going on because diaries with tiny locks on the side are just plain gay. Also, I can't stand that cheap perfume they lace on the pages. I'm classy that way.

So anyway, I've been in and out of jobs the past seven months. During August and September, I was helping my mother ware her gypsy goods. My customers were:

1. Arabian cunts who want a discount for every fucking thing. They'd pick something up, ask me the price, then say "Last price?" I'd grit my teeth and give them a couple of bucks off. Then they'd say "Too expensive! I see this half price in Chinatown!" And before I could answer them with "How much for your daughter? 5 bucks? Too expensive! I see this half price in Carrefour, just buy a sack of potatoes and wrap it in a garbage bag!" my mother steps in and handles them. Killjoy.

2. Rich aunties.

3. Aunties who pretend to be rich but try on every damn thing in the shop then complain it's too expensive / they saw the damn thing in Vietnam or Thailand or wherever the fuck Airasia takes them to / say they'll come back later. To which I always answer "OH REALLY!!" then sit back on my chair and stare into emptiness until they walk off with a pissed off face. In reality, they don't buy anything either because they don't have the money, or they haven't found anything glaringly disgusting to bring the attention away from their melting faces that look like they used oatmeal as foundation. Or kuah satay if they're dark skinned.

4. Some random people who are nice.

5. Smart ass fuckers who pull the Okay-I'm-walking-away-now-you-better-give-me-a-good-bargain trick. I say goodbye to them and five minutes later, they'll return, hoping I don't recognise them and ask the price again. Look, you dolts, unless you invested in a fake moustache or got yourself an A&W Bear mask, I'm not that stupid. At least get a pair of Clark Kent glasses. Then I'll be all like, "Whoah, this can't be the same person five minutes ago, this guy's got glasses!"


In October, I went to work at some stupid ass idiotic "ad" agency (Let's just call it SpasticAd). At first I thought, "Hey, so what if the place is kinda small and they do amateur ad work, they can pay me well!" Of course not in that corny thought bubble, you non-advertising nitwit. That would just make me as unimaginative and pedantic as people who read C.W. Kee and Reggie Lee.

But now I know why they paid me well.

The pantry consists of a kettle, some mugs, a canister of coffee and sugar, a sink and a couple of packets of (expired) Chinese tea which were the exact ones that Yap Ah Loy brought over to help him feel at home in Malaysia.

While other offices argue about who should refill the water cooler, people at SpasticAd sit and wait for boiled water to cool. There's nothing quite like watching water cool to get that adrenaline pumping. People tell me I live life too dangerously, but I say excitement is the breath that keeps me alive! Or was it breathing is an excitement that keeps me alive? Whatever. When you're a wild child like me anything you say goes. Or was it anything you go says? I'm such a wild child.

Colleagues in my old offices would open the refrigerator and find mysterious containers that could either contain:

1. Tapao-ed Maggi goreng
2. Leftover Spaghetti Bolognese / Aglio Olio from a restaurant that wants to be classy
3. Some random crap they cooked at home and brought to work in a bid to eat healthy but after a couple of bites they realise healthy food sucks and buy themselves proper food which result to (1) and (2) being in the fridge

Since there's no refrigerator at SpasticAd, employees take bets for how long it'll take a can of Coke to become cold when placed in front of the air-conditioner. Some people cheat and buy ice from the mamak stall. When they're found out, they get disqualified and their money will be used to buy more ice to cool the boiled water faster. I guess sometimes thirst overrules excitement.

In my old offices, I spend the entire day downloading and sharing new music, and at night I'll leave the torrents running so that I can listen to the latest Indie shit in the morning when I'm surfing useless rubbish instead of doing work. (Work only begins after a 2-hour lunch)

SpasticAd gave me a Kuno Textnator BC. It's so old it was probably Abraham Lincoln's gateway to porn. So old that the only keyboard compatible with this shit is a block of stone and a good chisel. Forget Radiohead's new album or Sigur Ros' DVD (Shut up this was 3, 4 months ago), I can't even log on to gmail or open Powerpoint without the damn thing crashing. My thumbdrive holds more wonders than this piece of Caveman footstool can even begin to comprehend.

Yes, I should stop complaining. I'm just a big fucking brat, aren't I? I'm just a Copywriter, I don't need fancy machines i.e. a computer that didn't go through World War II, right? I'm so spoilt. Back in the day, Curry Mee was 20sen and kids had to walk to school! Tiuniamachowhai hor lang kan pukimak lanciao son of a crippled whore with acne and a fetish for halitosis, all I got for my birthday back then was a chicken drumstick! These days kids get some newfangled PS2 thingamajig y'know whatever happened to good ol' Batu Seremban or Police 'N' Thief or Let's-Lip-Sync-To-NKOTB?

Damn boss is delusional. Thinks pop-up ads are the best way to market a product. Thinks a concept revolves around the choice of colours. If you're a non-advertising person and think a website is cool and because of its crazy ass colours, and you couldn't give a shit about its content, then please email me for my boss' number and I'll hook you delusional dumbfucks up so you both can find an alternative to drugs. Because y'know, drugs are bad and all that bullshit MTV tries to tell you so redneck parents won't blame music for influencing the youth to commit awful sins. And that's why I'm offering to set you up on a drug-free hallucinatory trip.

Sometimes, dumb boss is also a thief. First, he'll be a fucking lazy rempit and ask me to do his presentation decks. Now, it's not that I've an IQ of a moccasin that I can't fucking do up a presentation deck. It's just not my fucking job.

It's like hiring a prostitute for a night then asking her to discuss the theory of relativity or discussing her opinions on democracy versus capitalism and its pros and cons during this day and age. If you think it is okay to hire a whore to talk clean with you an entire night, then you're a fucking bastard birthed from the loins of a decapitated fuckface who believes his finger can substitute a penis.

Because I believe you should treat a whore humanely.

She's hired to be fucked / wear school uniforms / accompany you at the Mamak stall where you think dozens of people are envying your catch when in actual fact they are disgusted by that grotesque mole on your face; not fucking hired to listen to your opinions or to state hers.

And, (just when you thought I was digressing into another topic HAH!) secondly, dumb boss is just plain yong sui. Kinda like how dudes with nice cars look like, except I want to drop kick his face instead of the usual yong sui punch.

I wasted one month's worth of time that could've been used for more productive things like hibernating or seeing how much santan I can down before I get nauseous. And just when I was about to get down with the santan, I got myself another job during November to January. And this time it was a proper place, so nothing dramatic happened except that I learned:

1. How to shut the fuck up when your client is an angry German.
2. The average time it takes for my stomach to retaliate after a combination of Tom Yam Bihun, Teh Ais and a cigarette. About 5 - 6 minutes. Which is also adequate time to haul my fat ass to the toilet.
3. That old people who are short get emo real fast.
4. Cheers in Jalan Batai is the perfect place to go drink by yourself without having random uncles bug you.
5. Wearing a t-shirt that says 'Lower Taxes for Cigarettes and Alcohol NOW' warrants random uncles to bug you.


Now I'm at a cipet agency which I will call CipetAgency. Work revolves mainly around property ads and well, that sucks. It's like working at McDonalds and forever getting Deep Fryer duty. Or going to the movies and it's showing Impak Maksima every fucking time. Or finally getting a parking after circling 20 minutes around the block, only it’s a tight spot next to the garbage from the market and random Banglas are using the bin as a musical instrument whilst drug addicts are looking at you like you're a bottle of Benadryl.

If that's not bad enough my colleagues are from fucking Kowloon central. While they're names are so damn glamorously English, like (I kid you not) Rainbow, Kitty, Angel, Jimme, Cazz, Harriet, Kat, they speak in tongues or sub-standard English. And by sub-standard I mean one of them (Lord knows what the hell her name was, could've been Stapler Phang or Jaundice Lai) asked me "What you call the yellow of egg?"

Oh, and there's an Amos. Of course, that's a normal name if you're black with a huge smile and love cookies, but this one is a chick. Man, I sure hope Kitty is not an obese hairy dude.

And if THAT'S not bad enough, then well, fuck you hope you swallow yellow of egg and die.


:: Another random rambling at 3:11am ::

:: Sunday, March 09, 2008 ::
what happens when you lose control

I got caught in the rain. I ran as fast as I could but every step splashed more rain water on me. Of course I only realised this important piece of information once I arrived under the shade.

As I turned around and looked upwards to stare at the droplets of water running down the roof, I silently surrendered to the weather. "You get me every time," I said. And then I realised there were people around me. There were maybe a dozen of them, all sheltering from the rain as well. Each one of them wrapped their arms around themselves, creating some sort of perceived warmth. Dumbasses. What good is wrapping a wet arm around a soaked shirt? Like trapping moisture is going to help warm you up.

I walked to the end of the walkway, weaving myself in and out of damp-smelling people, careful not to brush against anybody along the way. I hate touching strangers or having them touch me. It's hard enough trying to keep myself clean without having grubby people introduce their bacteria to me. To hell with all this 'hug someone today' crap. Unless there's a can of Lysol and everyone is cling-wrapped, fuck charity.

"My, my, aren't we a little hostile today?" said some girl with far too little makeup. She wore a cream-coloured top and … well, I couldn't be bothered to eye her from top to bottom so that's about all I noticed.

I glared at her. "It's a wet day. Can't you see I'm the fucking sunshine bear? I'm incapable of compliments when it’s gloomy, and by gloomy I meant your face. Really, what the fuck is that look? I didn't know au naturale meant naturally ugly."

Blink blink.

A few hollers pierced through the curtain of rain to get my attention. I looked up and suddenly there was an apartment before me. Two guys were by one of the balconies on the 2nd floor, thrusting their beer upwards as they continued cheering (or jeering) me. My eyes squinted in trying to make out who they were and what was happening.

There was a pub here and I didn't know of it?

"Ah! An alcoholic. I love you already!" a deep voice with an equally deep British accent dashed past my shoulder.

"Wow, you love other things besides making assumptions about people you've yet to meet," I said as I turned around, prepared with a dagger stare.

Except that I've met him before. In a distant time and place. Wtf. And now I am the narrator of Dungeons and Dragons.

Blink blink.

I followed him into a pub/bistro/café/whatever the hell marketing people have christened these places. There were a few wooden benches and tables, arranged neatly across the cement floor. Some ethnic ornaments dangled from the ceilings, overshadowed by the lanterns that were the only source of light in the place. It was one of those places that would say:


(headline)
Caught between yesterday and tomorrow

(bodycopy)
Tucked in the heart of the bustling city lies a sanctuary that offers you the best of both worlds. An infusion of traditional and contemporary elements, [insert name of place] offers you the best of today. So come forget about tomorrow's worries and relax over some good ol' memories.


OR

(headline)
Tired of feeling old? It's time to get young again!

(bodycopy)
Here at [insert name of place] we've ensured that everything remains the same as your memories of youth. From the décor to the relaxed 'kopitiam' styled ambience, you'll return to the sweet days of yesteryear. What's more, you'll also be glad to know that if visit us between 3 - 4 pm everyday, you'll get a FREE drink* on us! So put on your old clothes and join us for a new revolution!


OR

(headline)
Some drink to forget. Our patrons drink to remember.

(bodycopy)
While others drink to escape, we'd rather you drink to return to the old days. [insert name of place] is a haven of memories. Relax with an old friend (Mr. Walker, in this case) and reminisce about the good old days when men were men. Or toast to the marriage of a good friend before everyone exchanges embarrassing stories from high school. Whatever it is that you've lost to age, comes alive here. And don't worry, we'll keep last night's episode a secret.



Depending on the Copywriter, of course. But nobody here seemed to care about advertisements. They were talking very loudly, trying to drown out the Café del Mar CD playing in the background.

Most of the girls wore tube dresses that did nothing to accentuate their figure. They were either too fat or too flat. But most had a face that resembled an odd dumpling.

After a quick scan of the room, I noticed not a single guy. Well perhaps there were a few, but I'm not in the mood to lower my standards tonight.

Blink blink.

He's behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. I'm wearing a short skirt and I can feel my panties rubbing against his hardened crotch. Of all the anti-sexual harassment manoeuvres I had in mind, I was also thinking of taking his dick into my mouth.

I'd start from the base, slowly trailing a slithery film of saliva across the length of his dick. As the tip of my tongue softly brushes against his twitching member, every response from his dick will set off yet another mischievous lick. I’d go on pretending to be a kitten until his thighs lift themselves of the bed. Then I'd slowly devour the head of his penis and wait for my wet mouth to slowly slide its way down his shaft.

And then I'd tighten the grip of my lips and suck my way upwards until I hear the familiar popping sound of a dick released from my mouth. I'd do this until I notice he's stopped biting his lower lip. Then I'd run my fingernails across his balls whilst my mouth continues on his dick, the sounds of saliva and suction becoming louder than the hum of the air-conditioner.

Just as he lifts his head to see me giving him a blowjob, I wrap my fingers around his dick. The wetness allows a slick, smooth motion as I slide my squeeze. My lips stick to my index finger and thumb, giving him a blowjob and a handjob simultaneously. I tighten the grip of both my hand and lips as my tongue cheekily darts forth to rub against the tip of his penis.

Now it's time to suck harder and squeeze tighter and move faster. I'm pretty sure the sounds turn me on more than it does him.

As his hips thrust according to my movements, I prepare myself for the ending. He digs his fingernails into my shoulder and I push his dick to the furthest ends of my mouth. A thick trail rushes towards the back of my throat and slithers down before I swallow. My hand moves to my face to wipe the excess moisture from my mouth as I coyly look at him for affirmation.

Blink blink.

She wore far too much turquoise eye shadow. Her eyes were in tiny slits, perfect for the typical stand-up comedy routine on Chinese people. And she had a face that made you take a second look, only because you couldn’t believe how ugly it was at first glance. Yet she draws so much attention with that outlandish colour.

"If you don't have a face worth looking at, why make people look at it?" I asked, only this time out of genuine curiosity and not sarcasm.

Miss Bananarama laughed a long, hearty laugh. I had to wait until she stopped; not only get an answer, but also to find out what was so funny. Or to see if she was retarded.

"You're talking to the wrong person! She's over there!" she said as she pointed to a girl sitting on the adjacent end. I looked at the other girl. And then I looked back at the one talking to me. They both looked exactly the same.

Maybe they were Chinese.

I looked at the other girl again and back at Miss Bananarama. Though it really did nothing than confirm that they were the same person - right down to the damn turquoise-dusted eye slits and straightened hair.

Blink blink.

My head rests on the pillow and a faint sign of a sunshine creeps through the gap in my curtains. An oblivious snore reminds me of where I am. I reach out to touch his chest and snuggle into the crook of his neck. I can feel his pulse against my cheek.

Blink blink.

The soft sunshine, room temperature and the warm duvet remains the same. Davidoff Coolwater lingers in my nose and my hand moves according to his heaving chest. Nothing has changed.

Jeng jeng jeng!


:: Another pointless rambling at 6:12am ::

:: Tuesday, February 26, 2008 ::
a saturday with simple simon

I was stirring a pot of pasta sauce when my phone rang. It was a stark contrast to the Silversun Pickups song that was permeating its way from the speakers into every corner of the house.

I was talking about the stark contrast of my phone's Oh Mandy ring tone against Lazy Eye, not the pasta sauce.

The pasta sauce was Carbonara: a mixture of garlic, cream, bacon, some chicken (I like adding textures to my food) and a pinch of herbs sat in a pot and simmered slowly. I hated being interrupted whilst I was cooking, partially because it needed my full attention and mostly because none of my phone calls were ever important.

So I let Spinto Band play until it got tired.

A thin layer of curdled cream rose to the top and started to harden. It was then that I realised I wasn't paying full attention. Too caught up narrating your own life, as usual.

I stirred furiously to break up the formation, like the police force would to a messy protest. My quick reaction had successfully broken up the thin layer that formed, and I took great joy in watching the 'mess' clear up. Although... it was an odd sort of joy, almost unspeakable. One no one would understand. One you wouldn’t tell your best friend for fear he'd laugh at you or worse, look at you differently and things would be awkward from then on. One that sometimes made you wonder if you were a start to slowly being labelled 'mentally disturbed'.

Like your unexplainable satisfaction from extracting a blackhead, perhaps.

Or the time you clutched onto a stick and smashed all the barnacles on a rock by the beach.

Or how you go grocery shopping and unconsciously turn cans of processed foods around so their labels face the front.


It's not a mental problem, is it? I've been reading up on histories of criminals and the various psychological issues they harboured. Am I going to turn into a serial killer who murders people who are 'not in order'?

Might as well throw in an orchestra to perform the appropriate thriller soundtrack, dammit. It's just pasta sauce for Christ's sake. How the hell did I come to this conclusion from cooking?

I dragged my gaze from the black and white film it was watching and forced it back onto the sauce. Add the egg yolks then stir until it's done. Turn off the fire, and your stomach will growl on cue.

It was only then that I realised - I forgot the damn pasta.

What the fuck?

I looked to the left of the kitchen counter and a packet of spiral pasta stared at me. (Okay, so maybe Fusili may not be the conventional choice for Carbonara, but I like it that way. Furthermore, the more important issue at hand was the absence of pasta while a pot of pasta sauce was ready, not the damn pasta.) It had positioned itself on that part of the counter and seemed to look somewhat smug - like the fat kid happily seated on the bench when he didn’t get picked for basketball. There it was, sitting there, secretly laughing at the other ingredients who were happy they were first choice, but look at them now - sweating and suffering in the heat.

Suddenly, it became apparent that I really needed a television set. Here I am, spending a gloriously sunny Saturday afternoon giving life to inanimate objects. Was my life that boring I had to create characters out of pasta packets? And to think I ignored a real life human who tried to call me.

Might as well get to the phone before I start comparing it to a dejected woman whose cries are left unheard by society.

When I stepped out of the kitchen it occurred to me that the heat I ignored during the cooking session didn't just come from the stove. My entire house was drenched in the afternoon sun. Its rays were trapped and glowing between the walls, creating a reverberating ringing sound that sounded like a swarm of muffled crickets. A sound that was distant, yet close enough to perturb your eyebrows into a scrunch.

The scrunch gave way to a bead of sweat to run down the left side of my face. My hand instinctively reached up to wipe it away but it disappeared within the dark strands of damp hair that clung to my hair far too tightly than I would be comfortable with. It also brought me the knowledge that my entire body was covered in a thin film of moisture.

Great. Now I have to shower again and wash my hair again.

And where is that damn phone? The tinier they get the harder they are to find. I could've sworn I placed it on the dining table, right next to my pack of cigarettes. The cigarettes were still there trying to look as inconspicuous as possible but failing miserably as if afraid I was going to blame it for not watching out for my wandering phone.

I lifted up the newspapers and looked. I shifted the cookie jars about and searched. I scrutinised every chair at the table and I even moved the salt and pepper shakers for good measure. Nothing.

Though I did find ten cents hiding under a loose packet of sugar I probably nicked from some café.

Frustrated, I pulled a chair and eased myself down. I reached out for that guilty looking pack of cigarettes and opened the box to pull out a stick. My gaze darted all over the room looking for the prodigal phone but my fingers knew exactly where the lighter was and managed to pick it up and lit the cigarette between my lips. Maybe it was an easy find because I never place my lighter far from my cigarettes.

But I never place my phone away from my cigarettes either. Even in my handbag, they're always together. So why isn't it right next to the Dunhills?

A puff of smoke rushed past my lips and formed momentarily in front of my face before the dining table light consumed it. And then suddenly, Spinto Band blasted out loud, sending me a surprised jolt. My head knew that it didn't have to wait for my currently paralysed brain and turned to the right without command. And there it was - vibrating, blinking, singing (could've been doing back flips for all I care) - my phone now suddenly in the centre of attention like a washed out superstar who decided to make a comeback.

Before the barrage of questions crashed right through my head, I picked up the phone. It was Simon. I said hello by reflex.

"I'm going to arrive at your house in two minutes. Let's go have a beer." he said, without even replying my greeting. Wait - that's not important. I need a shower and my hair needs a wash and I need a change of fresh clothes and there's the pasta sauce!

"What the fuck, Simon? You have to give me at least a half hour notice! I can't leave the house looking fucking deranged!" I shrieked.

"It doesn't matter. What's the fuss with looking your best anyway? You're not trying to attract random losers who drink in the afternoon, are you? Besides, I tried calling you earlier and you didn't answer so I figured - why not just drive there. Anyways, I'm outside. Come out, come out!"

Oh shit.
Do I let him wait outside while I freshen up or do I go out looking like my husband just died? Shit shit shit shit shit.
Well you can't spend time pacing about either.
SHUT UP!


"Oh c'mon, you look perfectly fine sweetheart" he let a kiss slip in between his words.

So here I was, watching trees and lamp posts whiz past unceremoniously. It was in sequence: tree, then lamp post, followed by another tree and lamp post. There were several cars in between, some silvers, some blacks and few other bright colours that did nothing to attract my attention.

But by the time I decided to do a head count on involuntarily moving objects, everything came to a standstill. There were lots of trees, some intricately fashioned lamp posts and a few old cars juxtaposed awkwardly between the frames of the windscreen and windows. But none of them were blurry as before.

I followed Simon out of his car as my fingers slipped into his. My footsteps instinctively followed his and it wasn't long before I noticed a cool feeling engulfing my toes. It seems the evening sands of the beach were reaching to greet me.

The skies were painted with a generous splash of grey. There probably were some streaks of vermillion and blue, but I wasn't in the mood to establish anything.

As I closed my eyes, a blast of cool breeze sliced between my ears, sending my hair into a chaotic frenzy. When I opened them, the sound of a camera click invaded my ears. Gasp! A sneaky little Trojan horse that entered when my guards were down!

...
...
...

So fucking what?

At this moment, I didn't care if someone took my picture. I didn't care how I looked. Fuck the unruly hair. Fuck the unattractive body. Fuck the stupid look on my face. The only thing that mattered to me was this worriless moment. And that's where I wanted to be.

As the camera click dissipated into the crashing waves, I'm suddenly brought back to the dining table. My phone was snuggled in the palm of my hand, looking comfortable as ever.

The table fan positioned towards the dining table that creaked, creaked, creaked as its blades moved, moved, moved. Every swish, swish, swish dissipated the need to find out whether I had left the house.

I walked into the kitchen. Without a single thought, I lifted the lid of the pot and scooped a portion of the sauce to fill the plate I held in my hands.

Here I am; shoving spoon after spoon of pasta sauce into my gaping mouth.


And everything's alright.


:: Another emo-ambient rambling 6:01pm ::

:: Monday, February 18, 2008 ::
sweet dreams

Sweetheart, since today is Valentine's,
Could you make it extra fine?
Worry not, a brat I certainly am not
You really won't have to spend a lot

I won't request for promises aplenty
Either way your words rarely tally
Oh dear, I didn't mean to make you sound vile
Sometimes my mind wanders off a mile

I don't need favours or a home cooked dinner
Though once in a while I wouldn't mind either
I won't ask for great sex--- wait, what did I say?
Who put the King James Bible in my way?

(Anyway...)

Since it's an overrated marketing ploy
Could you bring an advertiser a little joy?
Don’t do a Bon Jovi and say you'd die
All I actually want from you are some lies

(Yes, oh yes, some good ol' fashioned lies
Lies, oh lies they do help me get by!
)

Give me some honest to goodness untruths
A little exaggeration makes everything better
I'm not joking, please shower me with fallacies
Dishonesty sometimes, is the best policy!

So tell me I'm beautiful
Tell me I'm different and special
So tell me I'm unusual
Tell me I'm unique, a great deal
So tell me I'm who you want
Tell me I'm not an angry rant
So tell me I'm the best thing
Tell me that I'm not a fling
So tell me I'm that old oak tree
Tell me I'll grow your memories

Just lie to me on this marked day
Though "I'm God's child" you will pray

All I want is a moment of tall tales
All I want is a moment so unreal
All I want... is a moment to feel

If you love me, tell me what I want to hear
And if it makes it easier, I'll get the beer
After all, love is a feeling, not part of the mind
And it's best experienced with a good pint!



P/S I know Valentine's is over, shut up already.


:: Another pointless rambling at 4:27am ::

:: Friday, January 25, 2008 ::
unscrambled

She groggily snapped her phone shut. It was one of those fancy, thin, light-weight clam phones that were all the rage a couple of years ago. (Ironically, the phones these days are becoming bigger and bigger, getting closer and closer to the size of the old phones that they're ashamed of) And every time she heard that clap-like snap, her senses would jolt themselves awake.

The usual echoes in the space between her mind and skull:

1. Oh no, did I break it?

Followed by:

3. I’m sure it’s made to withstand that sort of pressure.

Right before:

2. You’re such a fucking klutz.


Only this time, it continued with:

4. He’s here!


So she kicked off her blanket and forced her body to sit upright. Her mind moved faster than her right foot could and she only managed to jerk her waist. But she must've done something right because she was out of her room before she realised it.

It was only when she was running down the staircase that her mouth called her a spastic child. And before she could retaliate, her fingers had unlocked the padlock that kept intruders outside.

(Except of course, the padlock was more for keeping the dog from the outside.)

"You're here!" she exclaimed, almost by reflex.

1. Like, duh.

2. Which part of 'he's here' did you not understand?

3. You didn't even brush your hair, you supermodel, you.

4. My God. He's HERE.


“What a gorgeous sight” he said softly. She watched his voice solidify in slow motion. It gracefully took the form of a trail of cigarette smoke birthed to dance its moment of existence away. The type of dance so seductive, it commanded your attention and kept your eyes in a state of blankness that would never make sense. And it would slowly penetrate your skin and you would only find out much later of its advances when you smell your clothes.

She remained in that state of hypnotism even after the smoke had disappeared. Maybe she was sleep-walking. Or wake-sleeping. Either way she couldn't feel her legs. Was she even standing up? Was she in dire need of exercise? Did she lose her senses overnight?

His lips left a thin film of a kiss on her forehead. Normally, the thoughts in her head would be racing:

2. What did he eat just before this?

3. Did he brush his teeth?

1. Fuck, did I wash my hair last night?


But right now, all it said was:

4. He’s here!


She ushered him in without a single word. She knew he understood her gestures, and he knew exactly when he was invited. And she knew he knew that she knew what he knew. It was always like that, but none of them knew how long it would last.

No words escaped as he followed behind her up the stairs. Their footsteps creaked against the parquet staircase, creating a most cluttered orchestra that was easily forgettable but you’d remember it because of its resemblance to a Bloc Party song. Sometimes, confusing drumbeats can be overcome by an overall brilliant song, right?

The sound of steady streams of water crashing against bare skin finally registered into her mind. So the natural steps she took were:

1. Shampoo hair. Rinse.

Don’t forget to keep your hair up as you:

2. Soap and scrub body.

Behind the ears as well! Followed by:

3. Condition hair. Rinse again.

And finish it all off with:

4. Brushing teeth.

So you’ll be like Alright like Supergrass!


Dripping wet, she clutched onto her towel and walked into her room where he was sprawled on her bed. The soft morning sun bounced off his face, radiating a glow that reminded her of summers by the park, marshmallows at the funfair and holding hands during long drives to nowhere. Whatever happened to those days? Did they dissipate along with memories of Thundercats, Barbie Dolls and kidnapper-free playgrounds? Did our generation grow too old too fast? Are we just jaded? Cynical? Pessimistic? Maybe bills and instalments took up too much energy for anything else?

"So what do you want to do today? A picnic, maybe? Or we could watch a movie - what's showing? Hmm… we could go to the flea market also …" his words drifted along with his eyes. And when his wandering brown eyes returned, he noticed her smiling at him.

"Or y'know we could laze in bed and later you could cook for me hehehe …" he tried to break the awkwardness with his cheeky grin.

This time, she didn’t have to wait for her mind to clear. Calmly, she replied, "It doesn't matter."

And it really didn't. Because:

5. All that mattered is that you're here.


:: Another emo-ambient rambling at 11:44am ::






"Life is everything and nothing all at once..."
- Billy Corgan



|the author|
disgruntled, distasteful, disdained, disillusioned and loves to diss.

usually drunk.
|where|
KL, Malaysia. Likely stuck in a traffic jam or amongst idiots.
|musical inclinations|
The Smashing Pumpkins
Radiohead
Portishead
Blonde Redhead
Postal Service
The Beatles
Nine Inch Nails

65 Days of Static, And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of Dead, A Camp, Album Leaf, Air, Aphex Twin, Aqualung, Arcade Fire, Art of Fighting, Ash, The Bird and the Bee, Bjork, Caroline Lufkin, Cat Power, Catatonia, Chemical Brothers, Cocteau Twins, CocoRosie, The Concretes, Cure, Damien Rice, Dashboard Confessional, David Kitt, Death Cab For Cutie, Deftones, The Ditty Bops, Dntel, Dust Brothers, Emilie Simon, Emiliana Torrini, Flaming Lips, Goldfrapp, Handsome Boy Modelling School, HIM, Hooverphonic, Interpol, Lali Puna, Massive Attack, Mew, Modest Mouse, Mogwai, Mono, Mum, Muse, My Vitriol, N.E.R.D., Oasis, Paul Oakenfold, Peter Bjorn And John, The Pillows, Placebo, Prodigy, Rachael Yamagata, Regina Spektor, Rialto, Royksopp, Sigur Ros, Silversun Pickups, Sneaker Pimps, Sparklehorse, Super Furry Animals, The Strokes, Telepopmusik, Tenacious D, The Robot Ate Me, Thirteen Senses, Turin Brakes, Unbelievable Truth, Wheat, Why?, Wolf Parade, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Youth Group, Zero 7, The Zutons, Zwan
|bring out the stalker in you|
e-mail me
|blog mates|
pazuzu
kan53r
sow
nympho
tim
mike
kit
leroy
jiameei
audrey
gizmo
|archives|
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