Because I Rule

auguries of innocence

2008-12-11T03:54:00.001+08:00

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 ::

last words from a listener (if you have the ear)

2008-04-01T03:57:00.001+08:00

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 ::

real jobs are for losers

2008-03-11T03:14:00.001+08:00

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 ::

what happens when you lose control

2008-03-09T06:12:00.006+08:00

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 ::

a saturday with simple simon

2008-02-26T17:51:00.003+08:00

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 ::

sweet dreams

2008-02-18T04:22:00.003+08:00

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 ::

unscrambled

2008-01-25T11:43:00.000+08:00

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 ::

a reply

2008-01-20T06:47:00.000+08:00

a reply

Justice. That was what his name was. Perhaps his parents had drawn up a great plan for him – a plan without many exits or secret underpasses or excuses – so he’d be lifted onto great pedestals. And perhaps they forgot about the freedom of option, much needed escapes and the difference of white lies.

Or perhaps they didn’t like the colour gray.

And I was given two options: either him or a little girl named Charity. Now, Charity is not someone you’d remember. She was plain-looking; she was that girl whose personality and face wouldn’t strike a chord. The type you’d be introduced to, and you’d participate in small talk with and within the next couple of days, you wouldn’t remember what she did for a living. Your only trigger would be her unusual name.

But I couldn’t choose. While he was important in the laws of the world, she ruled the laws unseen. While he sentenced people to death, she gave life to others. And while I understand why some people deserved to be punished, others shouldn’t even be judged.

Should Jesus have died on that cross? Should Robin Hood be worshipped as a hero? Should that accident kill the irresponsible person that I am?

Whatever your answer is, neither Justice nor Charity played a part. It was the in-between. The Diplomat. The Gray.

How then am I supposed to choose?

And Justice once told me, “I’m sorry I didn’t call. I’m a dick that way”. By your reasoning, this treatment is given because I deserve it. Pray tell, what have I done wrong?

Charity tells me to forgive and forget. Though no one remembers, let alone care about me, she says to call you and let you know that I still care.

By your principles, I should return you the same treatment you gave me. In fact, by anyone’s beliefs, I should abhor you.

But I don’t. In fact, it’s the complete opposite. Again, I ask you, how then am I supposed to choose? If you’re tired of wanting, I’m tired of waiting.

I’m still waiting for that call. After all, hope is what Charity is all about.

:: Another emo-ambient rambling at 6:49am ::

videotape

2008-01-09T04:02:00.002+08:00

I wanna say hello
In case you didn’t file
My name in the damn pile
It’s okay it’ll take a while

I replay records
Of times you claimed to like
Different flights, passion fights
But now you’re out of sight

Sometimes, most times
I think of you, miss you
Most times, every time
I want you, await you

But she’s more important (Oh yes she is, the little bitch)
I do know, don’t tell me (She’s not a bitch, I’ve just an itch)
When I’m finally gone,
I’ll leave you my videotape
So instead of the fridge
You’ll listen to my tireless pitch

You should know
I want you for my own
No way you’re up for loan
Please tellwhatshername Joan (for lack of a better rhyme)

(While you continue to mime)

You should believe
How much I want to kill
Every motherfucker till
Mephistopheles stills

(Because you do understand,
You do understand,
I thought there was something,
There was something,
There was something,
There was something,
There was something,
But I was wrong.)

:: Another emo-ambient rambling at 4:03am ::

fade out

2007-12-13T05:03:00.000+08:00

fade out

What if I told you I liked you?
I want to be the sound of the buzzing fridge
Or the drip-drip-dripping of the leaky faucet
How it used to annoy
Now it's a lullaby

What if I told a bedtime story?
Of bi-planes and talking elephants and vast fields
Or mansions and fast cars and your fave bands
Would you fall asleep
Or fight for a peek?

(And if you surrendered)
What if I said you kept me awake?
Your yesterday's eyes and tomorrow's smile
Keeps me up as a motorcyclist proving a point
No point dreaming
It's only a feeling

What if I told you I never want to sleep?
Faraway some other time and place
Your voice won't echo and your face won't shine
Between now and never
In my eyes forever

:: Another emo-ambient rambling at 5:04am ::

everything where it belongs

2007-09-27T21:29:00.000+08:00

everything where it belongs

It was late in the afternoon. Judging by how sore her arms felt, she assumed that she swam for about two hours. That would make it about 4 o'clock.

As she neared the edge of the pool, she stretched her arms to touch the tiled edges of the swimming pool. She pulled herself up and poked her head of out the water. The sun was brighter than she had perceived, and the sudden glare made her eyes squint. She looked for her boyfriend and found a familiar silhouette on the deck chairs. After her eyes adjusted, she saw him engrossed in a book. She assumed it was the book he found at the bookstore bargain bin just a couple of days ago because she didn't know of any other books he would want to read at the moment.

"Aren't you coming in?" she shouted whilst waving her arms about. Suddenly she felt aware of her breasts and lowered herself into the water, hoping no one else noticed her. "Aren't you coming out?" he answered monotonously, his eyes still glued to the book.

"One more lap" she said and dove back into the cool water. Her hands parted the waters and her body glided through. She felt a million tiny bubbles tightly surrounding her, orchestrating a well conducted symphony to lift her to the surface every time she needed to breathe.

She allowed the gurgling sounds of water engulf her in a muffled wonderland. Whatever she heard she just made out its origins depending on the level of imagination she wanted to get into. Today, now, she heard a king proclaiming a holiday and his citizens were rejoicing. She heard their resounding joy piercing into her damp, pruning skin and she felt herself smiling. (Of course she wasn't really smiling, she was balancing between breathing at the surface and holding her breath underwater)

The claps and cheers served only to rile her up. It was like an overly excited speaker giving a motivational talk that did nothing to motivate but made you feel like jumping up and down nonetheless.

Her eyes were stinging from the chlorine so she closed them. A grey layer settled between her vision and eyelids, turning into a brighter shade every time she lifted reached the surface.

After a few gasps (she didn't count), she saw her boyfriend and her on a beach. Both of them in matching white outfits, her dress short enough to avoid the sand. And it displayed her intricately sequinned sandals that looked elegant and expensive but nobody knew she got it at a great bargain when she backpacked to Ho Chi Minh.

There were people behind them, most of them seated and smiling, the others busying themselves with the food arrangements. The smell of seawater and dozens of tiny cheese croissants filled the air. For some reason, they seemed to compliment the song playing in the background.

She had initially requested for 'Luna' by Smashing Pumpkins. She had wanted for a live band to play it, but their fee exceeded the budget. Actually, she would've gladly sacrificed her two months salary had they been good during band practise. But she stuck to the fee issue excuse because she didn't want to make it look like all she cared for was her music and not the proclamation of love and commitment between two people and the rest of their lives.

That was her romantic outtake on weddings, anyway. At times, she felt it was just an overpriced affair to appease both sets of parents while friends could have fun eating, drinking and taking lots of pretty pictures of themselves so they'd look amazing on their online profiles.

Today's background music was from a CD. She specifically informed the DJ to play the song she had wanted, and he told her not to worry, he'll make sure it'll be the best day of her life. But the idiot had brought a different album which she strongly suspected was the only Smashing Pumpkins album he had. She was frustrated but didn't make a fuss, not today of all days.

So the song at that moment was 'Northern Lights' by Lux, a song she picked out from the DJ's Café Del Mar collection. It wasn't a song that particularly represented the relationship or her feelings. It was just a nice tune and it reminded her of happier times.

That's why she's marrying him anyway. The promise of happier times. They had planned everything: She would give up her day job as a proof-reader at a magazine publishing company, and he would accept the raise his automobile company was offering. He would have more responsibilities, and probably would have to extend his usual working hours, but it was a small sacrifice in comparison to the lifetime they would have together.

She would wake up to his early morning mumbling about how he didn't want to drag his feet to work and then he'd bargain with her to allow him to take a sick leave. She'd be sympathetic and tell him to do just that, then rattle off about the day they could spend in bed without a care in the world and what they would have at their favourite cosy restaurant in town (She'd have bacon and scrambled eggs and he'd have baked beans and fried eggs on toast). Plus, there were DVDs lying about the house that they haven't watched.

But he'd always be sensible and tell her that he needed to go to work, or else there wouldn't even be food on their plates. Because, as he would put it, he'd have to bring home the bacon. He'd giggle and she'd roll her eyes.

Then he'd clamber off the bed and into the shower, possibly to pat his back for the great joke. The sound of the water crashing onto the cream coloured tiles would whisper accusations that her expensive tastes forced her husband to work while she sat at home. Not that she didn't work at all; there were a long list of housework waiting for her each day. But she could always sneak in a daytime TV drama or a few chapters of her current book or leave the washing for tomorrow when the Internet took up too much time.

So while he showered, she'd be filled with guilt and fly down the stairs to the kitchen where she'd whip up a breakfast for her husband: a steaming bowl of baked beans, two fried eggs sunny side-up with its edges extra crispy and two pieces of bread lightly toasted and covered with an uneven layer of chunky cold butter.

And she'd sit on the dining chair waiting for him, wondering if she should change out of her tattered t-shirt and brush her hair just to show that she's still the pretty girl he met three years ago.

As she's running up the stairs she starts thinking that she should've fried sausages as well. The food on the table suddenly lacked lustre without the meats.

'It's okay,' she told herself. 'Just run to the freezer, pop the sausages into the microwave, defrost them, chuck them onto the frying pan and it'll all take---'

"Where're you going, gorgeous?" his voice broke her train of thought. She looked upwards and saw her husband stand at the top of the stairs. Look at him, all dressed for work - his finely tailored shirt and trousers, both meticulously ironed by her during the day, all nicely topped off with the cream and grey tie she bought for him last year. At that moment all she wanted was to throw him back onto the bed. The sick leave now really seemed like a great idea.

Just then, her hand struck a hard surface. Suddenly everything became blue and blurred, and she realised that she had come in contact with the swimming pool tiles. Overcome with an almost dizzying bout of excitement, she clung onto the tiles and pulled. In almost immediate reaction, her right foot swung upwards and gripped onto the edge in a bid to lift her out.

Before she could comprehend what was happening, she was slipping back into the water, her chin barely missing the hard edge. She saw everything move in slow motion, like a typical car crash sequence in a big budget movie. But unlike that car crash, she wasn't the hero who could summon the power to perform a brilliant counter-manoeuvre that would dramatically save her life.

Her nose stung from the rush of water and she instinctively opened her mouth to gasp for air but only to swallow chlorinated water.

At that moment, of all the things she should be worrying about, she wondered about the different people who swam in that pool - whether they had open cuts or some disgusting skin disease or whether they had spat in the pool. Worse, someone probably urinated in here too.

'Oh God, so this is how it ends,' she thought.

'If I die, I'll miss my wedding day and if I don't, I'll be at my wedding day haunted by this image of me swallowing piss of some fat bastard who got a gash on his knee after slipping in a public toilet.'

In the midst of her cluttered thoughts and chaotic struggling, she hadn't noticed that a sturdy arm had latched onto her arm firmly, lifting her body out of the water. The fat bastard disappeared in a stream of light that barged into her eyes and immediately forced them to close shut. It was as if they were hurrying to prevent secrets from spilling out.

When she finally managed a slight squint, she saw that familiar silhouette again. And she realised that she was out of the water and gasping for air on a warm sunlit floor.

"What happened? Are you okay?" his warm voice soothed her heart that was about to tear through her chest seconds ago. She wanted to answer him but she simply couldn't find the energy.

Her breathing finally calmed down after a couple of minutes but instead of telling him she was alright she blurted, "What if all the world you think you know, is an elaborate dream? Wouldn't you want to make it come true, so it doesn't drown into a sea of memories?"

She must've looked insane in his eyes - with her limp hair clinging around her face, short of breath, wetting the floor around her with her damp skin whilst asking semi-philosophical questions.

"What are you rambling about, you insane woman..." his voice trailed off before he realised his mistake, "...who still manages to bowl me over with her gorgeousness everyday?" He smiled at his quick save.

She didn't notice his attempt at complimenting her. "You see, while I was swimming, I was surrounded by images of us in the future - we were at our wedding day at the beach, and then we lived in a nice double storey house with a cream coloured bathroom, and a huge kitchen where I made breakfast for you... but it was all just of a dream! And as quickly as it unfurled before me, it disappeared.

"What I'm trying to say is, if all the world you think you know, is an elaborate dream ... why don’t we do something to make the dream come true? Something that you can hold instead of it flowing through your hands, reduced to nothing more than a distorted underwater experience that drowns you in the end?"

No sooner than those words rolled out of her mouth had she began to cringe. It was cornier than a typical poem in an online poetry website; designed for sixteen year olds who needed to vent their frustrations with first loves and school pressure, unemployed losers who can’t get a real job because (they think) they're artists at heart, and corporate workers who think they should've realised their writer dreams.

"So you had a wet dream, huh?" he ended his sentence with a juvenile giggle. She rolled her eyes without even realising it.

He kissed her forehead. She wasn’t sure if it was a loving kiss shared between adults or the type you'd give to small children who tried to make sense of the world through their naïve eyes. She looked at him looking into her eyes, waiting for his answer.

"My dear, what if all the world you think you know is an elaborate dream... and don't think I didn't catch that Trent Reznor line,"

Oh God, it's true. All she cared about was her music.

"Anyway, if it was a dream..." his words trailed off with his eyes.

"Then we should appreciate what we have at the moment."

That was it. Their relationship summed up in ten simple words. Suddenly, that fucking elaborate dream was nothing more than a distorted underwater film. Or one of those amateur poems on that stupid poetry website.

She wanted to kill every word that left him. She wanted to hit him repeatedly, crushing his beauty just as he did to every dream between them. She wanted to ball her hand into a fist and let it fly into his smug face. She wanted to lift her leg and let it strike his all-knowing smile.

And for some reason, she suddenly felt like bashing every motherfucker that contributed to global warming. Hell, even every idiot who isn't concerned about the earth deserved her abuse right now.

Tears welled up in her eyes. 'Don't cry now, don't fucking cry now' she commanded herself. But she really couldn't help it. She turned her face away from him and hoped the droplets of pool water on her face camouflaged her tears.

But it was no use. Of course he could see her sadness. Only he couldn't see why she suddenly got upset.

He brought her into his embrace and whispered, "What's wrong?" The ignorance in his words tore through her skin and violated her bones. It felt as though a stampede of rioting bulls were forcing their way through, their horns leaving a series of sharp tingles through her spine.

She could only lay there motionless. After all, she knew that they lived in different time zones. She knew. She just didn't want to say it because she was the type of person who believed in the power of speaking things into existence.

"I'm here and you're there. Sometimes we're neither here nor there..." she said in between soft sobs.

The breeze around her became a thick chunk of humid air and the pool froze into a jagged block of concrete, forever trapped in a photograph that she would keep in a tin that she would find whenever she spring cleaned.

"But somehow we always meet," he said with an assuring smile.

She opened her mouth but the words just wouldn't come. Maybe she should just stop forcing it.

Because to stop forcing is to stop believing, and to stop believing is to stop hoping.

That's where appreciating the moment comes in.

Finally, she returned his hug.

:: Another emo-ambient post at 9:34pm ::

butterfactory

2007-08-30T15:57:00.000+08:00

butterfactory

The sun streams through these opaque curtains, its soft rays fluttering over my eyelids. My fingers roved under the covers as if in search of something. I wasn't sure what I was looking for but when they came in contact with your hip they stopped travelling. An army of alphabets took position at the edge of tongue, waiting for the right moment to spill out of my lips. But my lips remained pursed and funnily enough, I wasn't bothered.

Because all that mattered was that the sun was up.

As the jumbled words swirled in my mouth, I stared at you because I wasn't quite sure what to do. Pretty soon it unceremoniously turned into a competition to see who would speak first. "What time is it?" I was so overwhelmed when I won that I completely forgot to answer. And then you turned to look at me through your groggy eyes. But I knew you didn't need the answer.

Because all that mattered was that you and I were awake.

You slowly clambered off the bed and even as my head was buried in the pillows I could hear you showering. It was the usual - either you or me first, then the other. In less than 30 minutes we were both at the bus stand, enveloped by the warmth of the sun and its accompanying breeze. A few strangers gathered around us, their eyes half-hiding their separate lives. I wanted to strike a conversation with them - to share thoughts and opinions and beliefs, and maybe just simply ask where they were going. But I merely put my head on your shoulder.

Because all that mattered was that we were waiting for the same thing together.

The bus didn't arrive in the next ten minutes. I turned to look at you, with the intention to ask you what to do next. "Wanna just cab it?" you asked me, giving an answer before I could question. Earlier I had wanted to start some philosophical debate about waiting, and how it was the one common thing everyone had (besides basic human needs and the different debatable levels of desire and fulfilment) but all I could muster now was a goofy smile as you hailed a taxi.

Because all that mattered was that in the end, we always agreed on something.

Before I could register where we were, my taste buds were introduced to a Double Western Bacon Cheeseburger. I wanted to get on my feet and jump onto the table. I wanted to tell you and everyone else around us that this was what we were all waiting for, and to some extent, this could achieve world peace. But all I did was gaze into your glazed eyes.

Because all that mattered was that we had the same taste for everything.

And then we took a walk along the shallow lake, watching kids laugh and splash water at each other. There were couples lounging by the benches, and some pseudo-intellectuals reading under the shade. The bright midday sun made my eyes squint and you thought it funny to take pictures of my undeniably Chinese eyes. But I smiled excitedly and posed nonetheless.

Because all that mattered was that you thought I was beautiful under any circumstance.

I had a bottled Frappucino in one hand as the other held yours when we walked along the beach. We had been underwater just a moment ago, clapping hands as we watched the dolphins play. The pain in my ankle became more apparent and the path ahead began to scare me. "You alright?" you asked. I knew sooner or later it would become a nuisance. But I nodded my head and continued walking.

Because all that mattered was we were taking this journey together.

Before I realised that the sun had set, I was already sprawled on the bed. My feet stretched to search for the cool bits of bedsheet. I felt my face contort to resemble that of a retard (is there such a thing as an elegant stretch?) and I could hear your soft giggles sneaking in from the corner. Though instead of calling me Spasticus you asked if I was okay for a night out, as if you knew I was hiding my pained ankle. There was no way I was going to miss tonight's drinks, even if I lost my legs. When we're on such great heights (I'm not unoriginal, I just love Postal Service), nothing could make us return to the bottom. But as usual, I didn't speak a word.

Because all that mattered were those three words you knew I wanted to say all along.

:: Another pointless rambling at 3:57pm ::

2007-07-01T13:40:00.000+08:00

mars VS venus VS my fist

Of all the genders, women annoy me the most. Hard butches annoy me as well, but at least they make good laughing material when the bad shape people are at home exposing their bad shape genes to radioactive lamps they've installed to mutate themselves even further. Fags … well I can talk to them endlessly about the joys of giving a good blowjob so that's a plus point. And all I have to do to shut them up is threaten to beat them up. And then I get some entertainment watching them squeal, stammer and quiver in a semi-high pitched, badly disguised man voice. Much like Mika.

Women on the other hand, provide me no sort of entertainment. Unless entertainment to you means listening to Linkin Park whilst clawing out your eyeballs and replacing the sockets with lime halves. And salt. And maybe a dash of acid.

The High Pitch Bitch
You know those squeaky hoes with the Doraemon-sounding voice? Yea those bitches with the thin slits posing as eyes and 5-inch stilettos to help them appear to be five feet tall. The ones who appear every 10 feet no matter where the hell you are. They talk as if they've permanently lodged a midget named Alfalfa up their ass, who retaliates towards his unfortunate entrapment by squeezing her ass every time she talks. I mean, the poor midgets. Wouldn't you be disgruntled and vengeful too if your whale sized mother thought it would be cute to name you Alfalfa?

So anyway, these bitches KNOW they have the ability to talk to Chihuahuas yet they chose to talk incessantly to humans. And when I say talk, I mean seriously tempt me to walk up to them, tear they eye-slits apart and scream "Now that you can see the hundreds of people bleeding from their ears whilst dogs roll over and die, shut the fuck up!" Because I care for people and animals. I'm a saint that way. Some call me an angel from the Heavens. Others, simply worship me.

The Pious Pussies
These women spout so much self-righteous / religious drivel they'll say Mother Theresa is like an aging tranny who wears raunchy petticoats under her nun garb and enjoys filming herself having anal sex with thieves and adulterers. All because she 'dabbles in dirty sin' when she's shaking the hands of 'those filthy beggars'.

And they'll go on and on about how placing one's Generation Multiplying Organ ('dick', 'cock' and 'penis' are words that shalt never be spoken from thy mouth of holiness) into the orifice other than that Private Place Where Tampons Are Forbidden (because it'll take away your virginity) is equivalent to spraying fire extinguisher foam on a double leg amputee gay orphaned Christian Indian living in Kelantan. (Because it's like the biggest sin to victimise the loneliest person in the world)

Well I do understand that different people have different opinions about things. Actually I don't. Do the world a favour and suck some goddamn dick. Or do Tim a favour and suck his now turned celibate dick.

The Chronic Bimbotic
One time when I was guzzling beer like a motherfucker with a bunch of colleagues, the conversation went on to the plight of the Sumatran rhinos getting extinct. And this Einstein, with her fake 'brown' eyes, took 0.0002986 seconds to think and said "Why should we save the rhinos? They're so ugly. How about we save penguins instead, they’re so much cuter!" (I'm not exaggerating) My God. I felt like asking her about her thoughts on quantum physics but I was afraid her theories may be so awesome that I may just implode.

Why do these people exist? They are the reason I believe oxygen should be rationed. Instead of allowing these bitches to live, spend their father's money, commit a DUI, go to jail and use claustrophobia as an excuse to get out of jail time, we should just cut their oxygen.

Me: Okay, if I have two apples and I give one to Muthu and he gets drunk on toddy resulting on him beating up his wife, how many apples do I have?
Paris Hilton: I like, had a sex tape okay, like, do you have one?
Me: There are about five Cambodian children who need to live so they can go to school and learn to write.
Paris Hilton: (suffocating) How come ... (chokes) you can still (chokes) live without air?!
Me: I could tell you but the whole world would explode to smithereens because of my incredibleness.

And then Paris Hilton would cease to exist and we'd have actual news on the front page papers.

The Camho Crew
You're at a club / bar / mamak / shopping mall / gig / boutique / party / lok-lok truck / pasar malam / wet market / Cosplay convention / Taichi gathering / line dancing class / lion dance event / sugar cane and coconut juice stall / whatever random place you can think of and suddenly the flash of a camera appears out of nowhere. And you see bunch of dolts who think that because their faces haven't cracked camera screens yet, they deserve to have their photos taken. Never mind that some of them look like Michael Jackson on a good day, no actually, that is a big deal. Why the fuck didn't the Americans kill these motherfuckers already? I mean, if you look like you could cause buildings to collapse with your smile, you shouldn't be allowed to live, let alone pass airport security.

They're always a bunch of girls in dresses that cost their entire month's salary (because other living expenses can be handled by Daddy Dearest) who must fucking pull out at camera no matter where the fuck they are. And for some reason, their picture will have the odd obscure poser dude who probably hangs out with chicks because other guys would punch their stomachs every five minutes.

If the stupid fucking flash light doesn't annoy me enough to the brink of smashing your stupid face with a beer mug, your ugly undeserving face should. Unless you look like Aud or Jia Meei. Then again, I wouldn't smash their faces in because they're so small. It's a sin to bully midgets wtf wtf.

Look, let's just make it simple. If you have ovaries and you look like a rabid dog or you're above five feet, then you shouldn't be allowed to have a camera. Simple.

The Punk / Emo Pundeks
Avril Lavigne, Ashlee Simpson and every other chick who listens to Good Charlotte, My Chemical Romance, Evanesce or any other fucking band who sings about the dying trees or the falling leaves or nobody understanding them or how exams are damn stressful, should just very simply, die. I'm not picky: death from suicide, car crash, nuclear bombing, kidney stones, cancer of the fingernails, stabbed by their spiked wrist bands, whatever. Just. Fucking. Die.

Look, your stupid spiked chocker does not signify the punk movement. Especially not when you bought it out of Daddy Dearest's allowance. Black eyeliner doesn't signify anything except, well, black eyeliner. It doesn't fucking tell the world of your allegiance to the dark forces. Even if it does, then your picking up smoking or not abiding to your parents' curfew doesn’t exactly make Lucifer raise an eyebrow. (Does Lucifer even have eyebrows? Wouldn't it singe off from the hell fires?)

What pisses me off more than chicks who act punk and emo and / or goth, are dudes who do the same. Fuck, I thought they were supposed to be the oppressive gender. Why bother fighting for equal gender rights from 'men' when they ovulate more than I do?

The chicks: Stop whining about how the world is against you. How about you start earning some damn money to pay off your monthly Internet access so you can go on writing 'dark' poetry on Xanga?

The dudes: Grow some fucking testicles already. You can take some of mine.

In case you morons want to display your keen sense of observation by leaving comments like "But you're a woman too… ^_^" , I'd recommend you save yourself the energy (and my sanity) and go become a Super Awesome Detective or something. You know, with a hat and magnifying glass.

I KNOW I'm a chick; I have ovaries (with a cyst too, bitches), tits bigger than your girlfriend's and a pussy that's been fucked more regularly than you assume. (Don’t think that I don't know how you idiots, when in lack of argument, just end the debate with stupid shit like "I bet she got no boyfriend!" or "Hasn't gotten laid lah that’s why she so angry!") Please, spare me your 0.0002986 second of thought.

I am a girl but I hate the majority of women. Sexist and proud of it. Deal with it, mafuckers.

:: Another pointless rambling at 1:41pm ::

can you at least warn me if you’re being sarcastic?

2007-06-28T12:44:00.001+08:00

can you at least warn me if you’re being sarcastic?

It fucking annoys me when more than half the population I share the air, water, roads and Internet with are a bunch of fucking morons with half the IQ of a saucepan. And even more of them have less purpose than a 2-dollar store porcelain cherub with the face of Death, hand-painted by a short-sighted, Parkinson's disease-ridden, boar-faced woman who was always cast as a rock in high school plays.

If you don't know something, fucking go and find out. We're not in the damn day and age where you have to cycle 20 kilometres to the nearest library to borrow a book and risk having to pay a fine of 2 newborns if your tyre busts on the due date. In case you're still trying to figure out whether FallenAngel^22 is really 22 years old or not, then let me introduce you to a site:

Why didn't my parents abort me?

You motherfuckers have the Internet in front of your fucking ugly faces nearly every moment that you're unfairly allowed to breathe. Instead of asking me random shit like whether birds fly south during the winter or not, or whether you'll get pregnant if you have sex upside down wearing a clown costume whilst thinking of yong tau foo, or why you can't marry your palm, go research on the Internet.

And while you're figuring out how to navigate to places other than pink coloured blogs or Friendster or cartoon porn, know how to fucking distinguish between what is true and not.

OMG U MEAN D INTERNET HAV LIES?!!

Yes, it's true. When your online friend KrazyKandy said how you look doesn't matter, she, no wait, he, obviously hasn't seen your face. When your Mom told you that you were special, she was drunk or just wanted you to go away. When your boyfriend saw that hot chick walk past and he said, "She's pretty lah, but not my type", he probably either knew he looked like a crustacean, or he just wanted you to put that hole in your face to better use.

When you don't have the capacity to understand that the Internet is made up of billions of people's opinions, then you really ought to die choking on a bowl of tau foo fah whilst Stevie Wonder looks on at you puzzled wondering which stupid moron can't even eat tau foo fah without dying. And then he stuffs a spoonful into his nose.

One idiot may claim that Norah Jones makes 'awesome jazz music' and another might say she sounds like knives scraping against plates, interspersed with the bawls of ugly babies and sounds of Paris Hilton having dirty sex with David Hasselhoff. While yet another might put up photos of her boyfriend wearing her hairband wtf.

Learn not to take everything as the fucking truth, unless you're still 18. Otherwise, keep it up: feed on what people say, worship it and go fucking ballistic when someone says something different. Then get defensive and threaten to cut yourself.

(Leroy, if you're 18 or turning 19 or whatever, you're still my favourite underaged chef wtf wtf)

That's the same for blogs. Whatever character that person perceives to be, could possibly just be your geeky little brother sneaking in to use the computer late at night. Some stupid random emo poem you read on a blog may not be written for you or him or her or Gaban, it could've been written with Mr. T in mind. So next time when you read something like this you'll know who it's written for:

Wind-up smile
Played it cool
A never ending mile
I pity the fool

Like whatever I say here could possibly be bullshit, except it's not.

:: Another pointless rambling at 12:45pm ::

blank

2007-06-17T06:27:00.000+08:00

blank

The thick slices of sea water keep my eyes in submission to its erratic movements. Each deep green slice fights to go higher than the other; collapsing in a froth of white. Its pointless battles rock me back and forth, persuading me to join their spar. But I resist; for fear of the unknown or I'm uneasily moved by things around me, I wouldn't know.

I take a deep whiff of the air that thickens around me, hoping that it would jolt the life back into me. All I register is the level of salt that tickles my nose and smites my cheeks. My face wrinkles up and I hope no one notices my reaction. But the sounds of war crashing against this ferry becomes louder and louder, heightening with the amount of lines forming on my face.

Before anyone sees my expression, I divert my eyes towards this open notebook on my lap. I had earlier wanted to pour my feelings into these white sheets.

1. To write stories I'd reread at a later date and smile to myself.
2. To create stories that would baffle me years later as I try to determine its inspiration.
3. To remember stories that happened before, and how I've changed from it.

Maybe I shouldn't look at life as a marketer. Forget lengthy explanations and logic and expectations. Forget Powerpoint slides, colourful charts and ROI. Just feel, dammit. For once, just feel.

By the time I've decided to end the monologue-debate, the ferry has docked. And the sound of the waves become more and more distant with every step that I take.

Maybe I'll write tomorrow, if something interesting happens.

footnote: I can write like you!

1.
Its 6am and I'm not one bit sleepy. These eyes probably want to sleep, but my mind is not willing. Frustrating, yet I think deep down inside this choice was made long before I decided.

2.
I spent the last two hours on the guitar. Not the nice acoustic one that sounds like God Himself crafted the instrument, but the old hand-me-down folk guitar from my step-brother. (Who incidentally, has passed away from pneumonia) Feels a bit weird playing it now.

3.
I realised that I'm not tone deaf after all. I just don't know how to adjust the chords (Or is it play an octave higher? Or tune the guitar differently? Fuck, I wouldn't know, I'm not Steve Vai) accordingly when my voice doesn't dip like yours.

4.
I'm not sure which I despise more: barre chords or my stumpy fingers. Give good hand jobs, but isn't fucking flexible enough to play Bm.

5.
Radiohead's Fake Plastic Trees, Smashing Pumpkins' Muzzle, Sarah McLachlan's I Will Remember You, Ocean Colour Scene's Robin Hood and Alanis Morisette's Head Over Feet; only because I play and sing them decently. (No little children cried, no dogs rolled over and died)

6.
My fingers are sore, but it feels liberating. Jiwang habis.

Thank you (",)

:: Another pointless rambling at 6:28am ::

through the cracks in my heart you got right in

2007-06-12T12:54:00.000+08:00

through the cracks in my heart you got right in

A lanky man with wavy black hair walks past me hurriedly. 'Must be off to catch a bus' I thought out loud. As the breeze whispers over my shoulder, I am reminded of you. And I still don't know if you exist, or if I had made you up.

I know this feeling as if it were etched into my making. I miss you dearly, yet I have never met you. I don't know who you are or how you look, but I am certain that solid voice is yours.

That voice. Oh God, that voice.

It took me across hundreds of abandoned fields, where I hovered over the crescendo of thin grass blades rustling to the whistle of warm winds. It took me to the highest mountains, where I yelled out your name so it clung onto the skies and formed an aurora to accompany my sleep. And it showed me again and again, the dusty photo album that kept safe the pictures I had forgotten.

There are so many places I want to take you to: that old playground where my Dad chased me whilst I rode away on my bright green tricycle, that car backseat where some boy gave my first kiss, that tiny cold room where I grew ten years older every time I entered.

I looked at my palms. They were etched with tattoos of people and things that ever came in contact with its touch. I find your name, but it doesn’t have a face.

So I surrendered to the way that I remembered you. That's all there was, really.

:: Another emo-ambient rambling at 12:57pm ::

my vitriol

2007-06-11T17:38:00.000+08:00

the minor lift, the major fall

I held up my palm and watched the sun's rays outline my fingers in a red glow. For a moment I was translucent; for once my hands were that of a lover's.

It was also at that moment that the room in my heart turned into a vanishing hallway. The sound of your laughter reverberates so hard, it almost knocks me off my feet. But I stand here with my eyes squinted slightly, consuming the exhilaration for as long as it allows me to.

I sit down on the warm pavement because the tumultuous stampede running within my skin threatened to bruise my knees. The whispers of the breeze decide to join in the harmony of my reverie. Stories of people far away flirt with my ears momentarily, but my ignorance drives them into the shadows between the tufts of grass (which owed its existence to a landscape architect) that line the pavement.

But I don’t hear a single thing about you. My mind contemplates on making up a story befitting of you:

1. You are a King in some country, spending all your time protecting your people from famine, poverty, illiteracy and possible invasions. (The first thought is always the five-year-old's)

2. You are busy with work at the desk. (The second one is always the adult's)

3. You only allow me to exist in your mind as and when you have the time. (The third is the one that simply won't die)

A single tear meanders down my cheek. It clings onto my chin, hoping to prolong its lifespan. The cigarette in my hand is drawn to my lips, and as I inhale its toxins, my mouth speaks without instruction: "How ironic, the lover who isn't loved."

As if on cue, the lone tear drops into a place I'm not bothered to know. I suppose it vanished with my hope.

no credit

"I still think of her---". His voice evaporated with the mobile phone battery. The silence in her phone comforted her disorientation.

She put her phone on the table and took a deep breath. Her mind was a riot - she couldn't make out the messages it was shouting. Beer slithered across her tongue and past her throat. She was in a mess, and her face did nothing to hide it.

Her eyes were deadened and her lips clung precariously onto each other. She looked like she was summoning herself to burst into tears, so she could get over with the feelings that raged within. But the tears wouldn't come.

"You can cry if you want to, you know. No one's looking," I tried to assure her.

She brought a lit cigarette to her lips, but didn't inhale its offering. The cigarette smoke swirled around her face and hair. Maybe that was how she was going to start crying - by irritating her eyes with smoke. I didn't dare clarify it with her, lest she introduced the beer mug to my forehead. Then I'd be the one with tears (and glass and blood) in my eyes. She looked at me with a blank stare.

"I think ..." Her eyes hopped from my eyes, to the ash tray, to her cigarette, to her beer, and back to my eyes. "I think ... I will ... hold on". Her eyes fell onto her lap. "Maybe one day ... he'll think of me, the way I do for him …"

And I held her as her sudden realisation of hopelessness seeped into my sleeves. My heart broke to the rhythm of my helplessness. The only thing I could do was offer my phone.

"I'd rather not have the truth reiterated" her waning voice slit my arm.

Her words silenced the entire room of faceless strangers. I wanted to question God on why He made her this way; overweight and unattractive, incapable of getting wanted attention.

And then a pang of guilt struck right through me: I didn't feel for her as I did for so many other women here tonight. The entire room stared, awaiting an appropriate reaction from me.

But all I could muster was, "I'm sorry".

:: Another emo-ambient rambling at 5:44pm ::

weekend tea

2007-05-08T10:50:00.000+08:00

weekend tea

She closed her eyes and turned the knob. She jumped a little as a spray of icy cold water fell evenly on her body. It was about 7:15am, the usual time she'd spring out of bed and head straight for the bathroom.

After that, she'd open her cupboard and let the smell of mothballs awaken her a little more. She'd pull out a set of neatly folded and ironed clothes and put them on before brushing her hair. Then she'd sigh a little at the mirror when she sees the white overtaking the black on her head.

But it wouldn't bother her for long, because she knew she had far better things to worry about.

She'd hop on her trusted bicycle and take a nice ride to the market. The morning sun would focus on her hair colours, but she didn’t care because it also brought out the beauty of the flowers on her blouse that danced in the breeze.

As she cycled, the usual line-up would greet her: Mrs Tan who lived down the road and always wore far too much brown; Mrs Michaels the resident 'ghost lady' or otherwise known as a Caucasian in the other parts of the world; Uncle (nobody knew his real name) who spent most of his time pruning his bonsai into an animal army; and Miss Judy whose colourful lifestyle put her on the tip of the neighbourhood's tongue.

And of course, there were also the birds she could never see but whose chirping would make her feel incomplete had she not hear it for a day.

She'd push her bicycle through the market and stopped at the stalls she that sold the things she needed. That morning, she bought five kembongs to be stuffed in chilli paste and then grilled, a nice bunch of kangkong to stir-fry with garlic and dried prawns, a chunk of lean pork to stew in dark soy sauce, an assortment of potatoes, onions, tomatoes and chicken carcass for a steaming pot of soup and a whole chicken to be made into a curry for lunch. There was also the odd char siew pau she bought to give to the stray dog that always loitered near the house.

She'd always arrive to an empty house. The father and mother would go off to work and the children to school. Unless it was the occasional time where one of them fell sick and couldn't go out, then she'd have to spend some time to nurse them a little. Otherwise, she'd start on the usual housework: the sweeping, dusting, scrubbing and tidying.

Whenever she had the free time, she's sneak into the living room and watch some television. It wasn't that she needed an escape, she just enjoyed watching other people live. Sometimes, she'd also imagine herself in their lives. More often than not, she imagined her son's life which she was detached from.

He brought her the most joy she could ever want. She had watched him grow from a stuttering toddler into a full-grown opinionated young man. From a baby who couldn't pronounce 'Mama' into a man who wrote stories that could touch people from different walks of life. From a boy who would use his hands instead of a spoon to eat, to a man who could use the guitar to tell of stories she never heard of.

He told her many times to sit back and relax. After all, she's old and deserving of leisure. But she'd always reply with a smile. And follow it with "I know you care a lot for me. But I like it here. I treat them as family, and I'm so used to this lifestyle anyway. What if I were to watch television all day? It would be so boring!"

That was what he loved so much about her. She was so complicated yet so simple. And she had so much to tell but so little to say. And she was so weathered yet so young at the same time.

How does one tell this woman that she is so extremely special?

He didn't know what to do, really. There is nothing in this world you could possibly give or do for her that could equate to her.

All he could give her, in the simplest act of giving, was a nice cake every year. He always took the time and chose a cake that represented her most: the one with a rich base and without an extravagant topping.

She always wanted to tell him that the cake really didn't matter. All that mattered was him.

But she could never find the right words to say. And she'd always end up giving him a smile and a tight hug. And she'd share the cake with everyone.

This year, she finally found the courage to tell him. That instead of the cake, she wanted to imagine herself in a different time and place. A time when she didn't have all these responsibilities. A place where she didn't have all these social obligations.

All she asked for were ten sticks of satay. Between you and me, it's nothing much. Hell, they were nothing.

But they were the epitome of her carelessness. A snippet from the past when she could do as she pleased. When charming young men would take her out for dinner. And she could order whatever she wanted and not worry about money or people or her weight.

And this year, it was all she wanted. To return to a time and place and life that held more importance than anything else.

Would you help her get there or would you rather give her what's best?

:: Another emo-ambient rambling at 10:48am ::

staralfur for you

2007-05-01T16:45:00.000+08:00

staralfur for you

Her eyes squinted themselves in a frustrated confusion as she smoothed her tongue over the top row of her teeth. It was a natural habit she performed whenever she was in deep thought.

"You're trying to read my mind, aren't you?". He always seemed to know.

"No!" she screamed before worrying that he could see through the amount of energy she used to create that indignant tone.

She stopped flipping through the pages, in case he closed his book. Then she'd never be able to sneak a peek again.

That's what the diary stated anyway.

She continued reading the diary. Each page told her a story which was laced with a distant familiarity but she simply couldn't conjure up the exact images to respond to the words. It was confusing - it all seemed like it was hers, but no matter how many times she licked her teeth, she couldn't persuade her mind to agree that it was indeed the stories of her life recorded within that slightly tattered notebook.

Earlier today, she had decided that she wanted to clean up her room. Everything was in a mess; CDs strewn all over the hi-fi and on shelves whilst their dusty covers stacked themselves against the wall, pieces of paper filled with scribbled ink covered her desk and articles of clothing bathed the room in a sea of colours. During the process, she had found a shoe box tucked neatly under a blanket of old lecture notes that she had meant to forget after university.

As she held the box in her hand, she tried with all her might to figure out its reason for being. When she finally gave up taking shots in the dark, she lifted its cover.

That's when her fingers were introduced to the diary, along with a jumbled assortment of movie ticket stubs, receipts and packets of sugar. Studying the contents, she concluded:

1. Some of the movie tickets came in pairs, whilst the others were singular tabs. Either way, they totalled to a huge sum of movies watched in a span of two years. Most of them the usual artsy foreign films with little substance but ironically made her slightly taller than everyone else.

2. The receipts were for meals at various restaurants, each of them ringing up a bill enough for two. And they all included at least one snack meant to share: deep fried calamari rings, chicken nuggets, stir-fried anchovies with chilli and the occasional apple crumble (She could never finish a serving of dessert by herself).

3. Each of the sugar packets had a name printed on or otherwise scribbled in handwriting. She assumed they were names of cafes, as they had glaringly obvious café-esque names, like Latte Rendezvous or The Brewery or Starbucks Coffee.

And then there was the damned diary. The other contents and its origins were arguable:

1. Someone else could've placed them there.

2. It could've been someone else's shoe box.

3. For fuck's sake, it could've been the props for some random foreign movie.

But the diary, there was no dispute. The handwriting. The haphazard sketches. The doodling. It was definitely hers.

So why couldn’t she recall anything?

Her head was spinning and her entire body ached. She assumed they were symptoms of a typical night out with her friends where they slammed glass after glass of whisky. But she needed another one right now.

"At least I remember you, good ol' 12 Year Old Chivas" she smiled as she talked to herself. Her hand dropped precisely five cubes of ice (it fills three quarts of the whisky glass) and poured the whisky to fill seven eights of the glass.

She took a sip and let its burning contents slide across her tongue. As usual, after the first sip, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

The words and drawings from the diary kept animating itself in front of her eyes. She tried to blink them away, but they kept appearing in different neon colours.

"We all live in a yellow submarine, don't we?" she asked an amoeba-shaped blob of pink.

Her feet instinctively walked her to the pile of CDs. Red House Painters, no. Team Sleep, no. Samurai Champloo OST, no. Mono, no. Modest Mouse, hell no.

Then her fingers stopped at one grey CD. An alien with wings sprouting from its shoulders stared at her. There was no band or album name on it. She could take the time to search for the cover, but she couldn't find the conviction. "Just play the damn thing, okay?" she said no one.

1. Turn on your Philips mini hi-fi system.

2. Press the Select Source button and choose CD.

3. Press the Open/Close button.

4. Place desired CD into deck.

5. Press Play.

The familiar high pitched voice slithered into her ears. It was Sigur Ros, definitely. She could never mistake the sound.

As track number two played, she remembered her good friends. She remembered how she introduced that song to so many friends, and all of them liked it. For once there was a song that none of them could understand, but they all related to it somehow. One of those unexplainable connections.

Her feet felt no more weight. She touched the ceiling and hovered above the floors. The colours that accompanied were of names she couldn’t decide - Fuchsia, Tangerine, Cyan? Who the fuck knew?

Most importantly, who the fuck cared?

Even as the song began fading away, she continued running in the field of green. Her hands outstretched, mimicking a plane, exploring every inch carelessly.

All of a sudden, her eyes opened with a jolt. It was track number three. And it brought with it a whole stream of images.

1. She was in a dark room albeit for a naked bulb hanging precariously over someone playing a guitar.

2. "I believe a lot of stories can be told / without Shakespeare flair and your pretentious verbs / But we're all caught up in this need to impress / in this need to tell a compelling story, that we forget / sometimes, to tell long story / it should be told short".

3. Short clips of every foreign film they watched.

4. Photographs of them talking over coffee in hundreds of cafes.

5. Plates and plates of dinners that could feed a starving third world country.

And then she saw it - in all its horrifying glory - a collision of two steaming piles of metal. The screams, the shards, the blood. The hissing, the murmurs and the sirens that followed.

He lost his mind for two minutes, and she, two years.

Fuck. It all makes sense now.

Her hands instinctively reached for her phone. But she couldn't remember the number to dial.

1. Meet Peter. Meet Jane. They're wanderers.

2. Along the way, they find each other.

3. They play games together all day. They don't feel lost anymore.

4. Something tragic happens. They lose each other.

5. Lather, rinse, repeat.

She stared into emptiness for thirty five seconds. Then she melted into her chair as she surrendered herself to the usual sequence. And took in a deep breath before the next began.

:: Another emo-ambient rambling at 4:50pm ::

happy valentine's day

2007-02-15T04:05:00.000+08:00

happy valentine's day

"Do you have a girlfriend?" the curly haired seven-year old asked. She was fiddling with her fingers as her eyes tried to focus on his. You could see that her mind was distracted by the plethora of sounds and colours in the playground, all neatly arranged on an elaborate silver platter.

"Why yes, of course. In fact, I have ten girlfriends!" he said excitedly. His gestures were exaggerated to complement her animated eyes.

She squinted at him. "Ten?" she asked. Before he could repeat his answer she continued, "You must be very lonely then".

This time it was his turn to squint. "What? I said I've got TEN girlfriends. Ten girlfriends to spend time with! How can I be lonely, huh?" He even waved all ten fingers in front of her to affirm himself.

She touched the hem of her knee-length dress. It was her favourite white dress that she wore when her mother wanted to take photographs of her, or when she was to attend a dinner. It was also the same dress she wore when she had to drop flowers on the ground on her sister's wedding.

Then she remembered her mother warning her about getting the dress soiled if she wore it to the playground. Quickly she started looking for mud stains on her dress.

"What happens to the girlfriend after Sunday? Will you go on a date with her when it's also Miss Monday's turn?" she asked as her eyes scanned across her dress.

Again, her questions pushed his head back. How could a seven year old think so deeply? "Uhm, well ... I ... think it's about time we went home now. Mummy is probably very angry now that you're not home for dinner. C'mon, let's go back". That was the best possible retort he could muster.

"I've got two daddies. But I still feel lonely. Because there are many day they have to spend with my step-sisters. I still have Mummy ... but shhhh don't tell her, I love my daddies more. But they can never spend all their time with me" she smiled as she talked.

I watched them from the swings that I had pushed myself on. The innocence in her face started to wrinkle and suddenly she looked like me. To my surprise, it wasn't the least I had expected. My feet continued pressing into the sand, swinging higher and higher, further and further from their voices.

But try as I could, my senses couldn't escape them. The pale scent of a wildflower greeted me as I watched her squat to pluck a yellow blossom from between the blades of grass. Her outstretched arm offering the gift unthawed both him and me. And I closed my eyes as bittersweet trails lingered on my tongue.

"Happy Valentine's Day" her voice resonated in the walls of my being.

:: Another emo-ambient rambling at 3:55am

i'm okay

2007-02-06T02:55:00.000+08:00

i'm okay

They sat in the car quietly for a whole five minutes, not knowing what to say to each other. The steady humming of the engine sliced into the still night air, causing the neighbour's dog to bark aimlessly. Her eyes stared at the moon that hung precariously from the upper right corner of the windscreen. In the piercing silence she imagined the moon to come crashing down on the ground, pulling a trail of blue curtain dotted with sparkles.

She blinked to erase the image, afraid if it stayed long enough it may lodge itself into her mind.

It was the final goodbye. They both knew it but tried to distract themselves by looking at their surroundings. As if they had never seen the night before.

"The moon really is full tonight, huh?" he broke the silence as he lifted his head.

"If love is such a wonderful feeling, then why is it so wrong for both of us?" she suddenly blurted. She swallowed a sob as the memories threatened to spill from her eyes.

The times they spent together: having dinners after work, watching movies on weekends, sipping coffee at over-priced cafes, going on long drives to nowhere in particular and the endless hours they spent at roadside eateries when they were on a tight budget.

The stories they created, the things they talked about, the songs they sang along to, the fucking dreams they shared. It wasn't supposed to end here.

"Well, sometimes, social obligations restrict our lives" he said, trying to sound as smart as he could.

She looked at him, scanning through his eyes and latching on to every strand of truth they held. He reached over to kiss her cheek. The dog had stopped barking, but the deafening sound of his choked sob as his lips touched her face shattered every piece of glass in the car.

"You know, I used to be afraid of dying. But now, I'm more afraid to live". The words escaped her.

Without a word, they looked at each other. Simultaneously, they blinked.

And then she opened the car door.

:: Another emo-ambient rambling at 2:54am ::

of all the forgotten summers, I remember yours the most

2007-01-31T01:51:00.000+08:00

of all the forgotten summers, I remember yours the most

Do you remember the time when we'd open our eyes only after the sun touched our heads?

It could be any day of the week and it wouldn't matter as long as your hair had a tinge of brown. Specks of dust would dance around the room, suddenly aware that it was in the limelight. I would squint as the sun crept into my eyes, and shield them with my hand. But we both knew it was just an excuse, as I loved seeing the red glow surrounding my palm and fingers when held against the light.

Do you remember? I do.

Do you remember the time when the sun would remain still as we shifted our weight to get the perfect spot on the bed?

The sounds of dogs barking and birds chirping would meander into the room, like a haphazard orchestra playing for an unidentified audience. I nuzzle my head on your chest and allowed your heart beat to further complicate the symphony. And you'd ask me what time it was, and I would reply with "Not time to get up yet". But we both knew I couldn't find a better way to tell you that time had stood still.

Do you remember? I do.

Do you remember the time you'd suggest a range of different things to do for the day?

It was just out of protocol, of course. We could be lying in bed all day long and it would make sense as long as we said it did. I would lazily crawl out of bed and into the shower. In the midst of the war between crashing droplets of water and thick dollops of shampoo foam, my voice struggles to surface: "Let's go have roast pork and garlic rice!". But we both knew I suggested it because it was your favourite dish.

Do you remember? I do.

Do you remember the time we'd spend sitting on a patch of grass covered in a silhouette of leaves?

I don't know why I liked doing that though. I hated having dirt on the back of my knees and insects were (and still are) my greatest intolerance. The illusion of bacteria makes me tense but every make-belief problem dissipates under this big, old, shady tree. Someone would be walking his dog and kids would appear irregularly, laughing and talking animatedly. And I would lie on the ground and remain still to absorb the scene. But we both knew I did it in the hopes that tomorrow would overlook me instead of taking this moment away.

Do you remember? Unfortunately, I still do.

:: Another emo-ambient rambling at 1:53am ::

be be your love

2007-01-29T03:20:00.000+08:00

be be your love

"How come you never buy me flowers?" she asked as the character on the television received an enormous bouquet of red and white blossoms.

He breathed in somewhat heavily. She could feel the heave of his chest from the wave beneath her right ear. He shifted his eyes to look at her. All that met his eyes were swirls of hair.

Now comes the tricky part: Should he wiggle about until she lifts her head to look at him, or talk to the top of her head?

She just lay there motionless, watching the movie unfold itself with its characters and music that seemed to tell her what her life should be. The ceiling fan rotated its blade monotonously, making little gusts of wind that sent stray strands of her hair into an unsynchronised dance. In the flickering light of the television screen, the light blue walls offered not a sense of tranquillity it meant to give. In fact, the clock that hung precariously on the 'artistic' right side of the wall ticked so loudly that the Zen waterfalls in his mind instantly evaporated. Somewhere in a distance, he haphazardly furnished his thoughts with images of drinking in a smoky bar with the guffaws of his friends.

He decided to talk without her longing eyes staring straight at his: "Well, for one, it seems really pointless to buy you things that will eventually wither away in time. You've nagged me many times not to waste money anyways. And two, I don't need to buy you gifts to prove my love to you. I mean, you're not a materialistic person, you've said so yourself a million times."

She scrunched her brows and pursed her lips in thought. The annoying drone of sounds seem to become much louder - the television, the fan, the clock, the damn waterfalls. He was sure the pounding of his heartbeat worsened the dissonance.

Suddenly, she let out a soft giggle and said, "I simply asked a question for fun, didn't think you'd give me such a thorough answer! You silly little man!". She followed it with the quickest and tiniest peck on the cheek that more than gave him all the reassurance he needed.

A round of thunderous applause echoed in the walls of his head.

And it took all of three hundred and sixty four days for the echoes to finally die down. Today, the sounds of the rustling leaves and oblivious chirping of the birds offered no sense of comfort to the tumultuous rage within the walls of his chest. He breathed in a tear as he slowly gave a beautifully arranged assortment of red and white roses to her.

There wasn't any heart-warming music or gentle breeze running through their hair or tiny butterflies fluttering away, like the movies she watched had painted. She didn't smile nor fall into his arms either.

In fact, all she did was lie motionless again. Only this time, she was six feet under his. And all he could do was talk to a cold slab of stone that held her name and the length of her life.

Funny, how all his beliefs dissipated at this very moment. All the reassurance meant nothing more than a stupid fucking applause from no one.

Maybe little gestures could have made a difference.

But maybes are merely consolations for the Too Lates.

:: Another emo-ambient rambling at 3:19am ::

gabriel

2007-01-20T05:05:00.000+08:00

gabriel

I really miss you. I'm at the worst state I could possibly imagine myself to be, and I have no one.

I want to see you, or at least call you, but I'm afraid you might be busy with your new girl. Trust me, I AM happy for you. But sometimes, I wish you'd remember me.

Most of the time, I wish you knew I'm not the person you think I am.

You know what I remember most about you? That time when you were depressed, and I was so worried that I drove straight to your house. We talked and drank until I got sleepy. And you asked me to sleep on your bed whilst you crashed on the floor. I started up a fucking protest because I was a guest, no way was I going to kick you out of your bed. You then decided to just sleep on your bed with me.

Being the considerate bitch that I was even though I was pissed drunk, I kept myself close to the end of the bed. As much as I was the infamous slut, I never touched you nor led you on. You and I can both attest to that.

However, I do remember taking off my earrings. It was a gift from another boy I cared about, more than he knew of. The thing is - it wasn't so much I was afraid it would get damaged from my sleep-toss; my ears are allergic to silver, so I pretty much HAD to take them off.

That was a bad decision on my part.

Your (ex?) girlfriend naturally blew her top when she found evidence of my sleeping over. Can't blame her. If I were in her shoes, I would too.

What saddened me, was you never bothered to back me up.

And I ended up being the usual Slut Who Steals Men Away. No big deal, really. I don't care what people think. It's just quite upsetting that you don't stand up for your own friends.

Maybe that's just the way you are. In the end, I can't blame you. I guess.

But.

Right now, I need you more than anything else. But I daren't call you, for fear your new girl will ask you questions you don't need to answer.

I can fly,
But I want his wings
I can shine,
Even in the darkness
But I crave the light that he brings
Revel in the songs that he sings
My angel Gabriel

Darling, I was there for you. Why can't you be here for me?

:: Another emo-ambient rambling at 5:05am ::

some dying kid in somalia hates me

2007-01-14T06:35:00.000+08:00

some dying kid in somalia hates me

I'm sure, somewhere at a certain point of time, I dreamt of arriving here. Now that I am here, it is nothing more than this: a couple of fake roses half-heartedly placed in the center of an acrylic green blanket, a few balls of cotton hanging precariously over my head and an 100W light bulb in the corner.

I was made to believe that there was going to be fulfilment. Final-fucking-ly, it was supposed to come. But nothing has changed from whence you were trying to understand things.

I'm earning more than enough. I have more friends than I deserve. I have love to move more than a fucking mountain. Tell me all the bullshit I need to be grateful about; I'll listen. It's not my problem someone in this room refuses to listen.

Tell me I'm a spoilt brat. Tell me that somewhere in this fucked up planet, there are more than a million people dying to trade places with me. Tell me I have all the at leasts you think I need to know.

You done? Feel better? Done your bid for charity?

My turn:

Shut the fuck up.

:: I am pissed off at 6:34am ::

i never tried to reach your eden

2007-01-14T06:00:00.000+08:00

i never tried to reach your eden

I'm watching you from afar. You're doing the usual after-morning-shower routine. You turn on the music before having a sip of water. Today, you didn't light a cigarette. You pick a pair of white bra and panties, and a black polo tee paired with a pair of blue jeans. Don't tell anyone, but those panties have been around for ages.

And then you brush your hair, trying to get it in place. The look you take far too long to be called an "Out-of-Bed" hairdo. You take a good long stare at the mirror, as if you were expecting it to do something. "Miracles don't happen in front of your very eyes", I mutter.

As if you heard me, you shrugged. At that moment, thousands of tiny stars flowed out of you. A milky way attached to your shoulders. After a good five minutes, I wasn't sure if there were a seemingly infinite number of stars, or I was so captivated by the sight that time stood still.

For God's sake, get away from the mirror. It's not that you can't handle truth; you take more than you are allowed to know. This may sound weird, coming from a person who merely dedicates his life to watching your every breath yet is a stranger from what could have been.

I see how you spend each waking moment thinking of what it would be like if you were his. I see you in your dreams, sacrificing everything you hold dear to please him. Only to be thanked with an indignant tone.

Don't you see? I'm waiting here for you. A hundred roads lay before my feet, awaiting your hand before embarking on its journey.

But you don't know I'm here, waiting for you. Every day you refuse to acknowledge me. And every hour I drift further away.

The time will come when you are finally devoid of stars. And I will no longer exist.

:: Another emo-ambient rambling at 6:01am ::

forever

2007-01-12T05:06:00.000+08:00

forever

You make me sing
With your words
If only you knew
If only

You make me laugh
With your smiles
If only you knew
If only

(Chorus:)
Sometimes all I ask for
Is for your acknowledgment
Most of the time, I only want
For you to see me
I'm not dead
Nor am I alive
I merely exist
For your gaze

You make me wish
You weren't blind
If only you knew
If only

You make me kill
None but you
If only you knew
If only

(Repeat chorus until life seeps into the sheets)

:: Another emo-ambient rambling at 5:06am ::

2007-01-12T04:25:00.000+08:00

what are you thinking of?

She knows she means nothing compared to the other girls. She's not your typical attractive girl. The girl with the personality, you might say.

I must commend her for her perseverance, though. She tries, and by Jove, she DOES try. So much, she makes the devil cry. No kidding.

She buys me heaps of things to make me happy. She takes me out to impress me. She writes stuff to win me over. She does things she doesn't like, as long as it makes me happy.

I can't say it's not flattering. But I can't say it's worth a brag either.

It's like getting a birthday card from a baboon. You're not quite sure what to do with it, but Oprah convinces you to appreciate it nonetheless.

Thought I must admit it's nice to bask in the attention. She gives it like she fucking worships my toes. Even if they're encrusted with dirt.

Ah, there's no joy that can compare to that of being loved unconditionally.

:: Another emo-ambient rambling at 4:24am ::

omnicycle

2007-01-12T03:27:00.000+08:00

omnicycle

When do you fucking decide you've had enough? Right after you've spat out a pint of blood? Or right before you collapse into an indistinguishable mass on cold gravel? Or just when you walk in on your husband fucking that one girl you've had every damn reason to hate? Or after a loved one dies in a horrific freak accident AFTER all of the above?

Different thresholds of pain my fucking bleeding ass. Don't fucking talk to me about the higher level of your pain you fuckface. Pain is pain is pain motherfucker. Don't forgive me because I lost a fucking car I bought from my own damn money when I was 23. Don't forgive me because my face is permanently disfigured from a near-death accident.

Fucking forgive me because I go through every fucking day forgetting everything.

I love the taste of alcohol. But I love the taste of amnesia even more.

Everyday is a marathon. Hello, nice to see you again, goodbye, who are you? Meet, run, don't look back and forget. Go forward.

If I mean nothing more than a social companion, don't tell me I mean the world. I've said things I don't mean too. The difference is I do it after 8 glasses.

If my work sucks, tell me the honest blatant truth. Lying is very unprofessional, dear boss. Don't think I haven't read The Idiots Guide to Successful Management.

If I'm a bad lover, don't fake an orgasm. I can moan and groan in ecstasy whilst I'm on an elevator. Don't think I never practise.

Time is running out. Please fuck off.

Oh hello, you're back again.

:: Another emo-ambient rambling at 3:26am ::

the end is the beginning is the end

2007-01-12T02:57:00.000+08:00

the end is the beginning is the end

'This has to be the last mug' I tell myself. It's the last of a never ending line of drinks. You know it, but you never acknowledge it. And when you do, you drown yourself even further. I sit here awaiting someone that never appears.

Maybe you'll be late. So I look above. The twinkling carpet above greets me. 'Hello there!' I reply to the emptiness. Sometimes I wonder if I only befriend inanimate objects.

Most of the time, I know it's because they never answer my questions.

And I'm forever stuck here, in this gap between yesterday and today. Moving forward but always staying behind. Paradoxes work a treat. They make me sound clever by merely twisting words around.

It's time to throw the envelope away. The contents were meant for a different person at a different time - they spoke of an old war that ended before I learned to have expectations. Today I am writing stupid fucking sentences to calm the battles.

I look over my shoulder. I've aged another twenty five years. I still haven't reached the absolute last mug. Maybe you came over but didn't see me. Maybe I was asleep. Maybe I was fucking some other person.

But.

We both know you never did appear. And you never will.

The next question is: Should I be realistic and accept the fact that I will never meet you, or should I be optimistic so life would be an easier fucking trudge?

Spit the blood out. These teeth have gritted far too long. Goodbye you, who has never existed.

:: Another emo-ambient rambling at 2:57am ::

copywriter? that means you copy what people write issit? hehehe

2006-08-24T21:36:00.000+08:00

copywriter? that means you copy what people write issit? hehehe

Getting a new job is quite a bitch. There are so many fucking things you have to go through I swear I'd rather be a full time prostitute. Wait, that's the same thing as working in Creative.

Stage 1: The Convincing

First you have to be filled with enough rage and/or spend at least 2 hours straight with an idiot of an Accounts person. Then you have to melodramatically heave your chest (which also helps to remove stray crumbs from breakfast left on your shirt), slam the table a little with your fat fists (not too hard lest the coffee spills), mumble something about being paid too little for too much work ("I work like a fucking dog and all I get in the pantry are stupid limp chocolate wafers and fucking CREAMER for my coffee what the fuck is creamer but a plebeian's answer to milk why don't you just fucking give me condensed milk instead since it's like bloody Somalia in here anyways you fucking tightwads?!") and then proceed to type out your resignation letter whilst chatting to your friends on MSN about how much work you've been given that you have no time to chat on MSN.

Then your friends have to say the obligatory "Yeah yeah you should quit, you deserve a better place" but we all know they meant "Just shut the fuck up bitch at least you have chocolate wafers". But you are moved nonetheless by their fake encouragement, and you then thank them all and promise them something in return for their kind words i.e. a drink, a diss-free day, a nice blowjob or a backhand to the face after you find out all they said was bullshit.

Next, you print out a few copies of the letter (using the office printer, no less, because nothing affirms your displeasure more than a blatant rebellion of using the office facilities for personal use, you gangsta you) and gallantly place them on the tables of the recipients. Although in a fit of rage you may have the urge to fling the letter on the table whilst scrunching up your face unattractively, but do bear in mind that it is light, and may fly off the table, resulting in an embarrassing moment where you have to undo the scrunch on your face, bend over to pick the damn letter, display your sexually unappealing ass crack, put the letter back on the table and scrunch your face again. Too much effort I say.

Stage 2: The Regretting

After you step out of their rooms, you panic. You tremble a little whilst making a cup of coffee to soothe the nerves, and you end up piling on more of that disgusting low caste creamer.

Walk to the stairwell to have a smoke and accidentally spill hot fucking coffee on yourself before you realise your damn lips don't work the same way as they used to after the accident and that's why you can only drink off a straw or just have cold drinks instead because spilling that won't result in the same epileptic budgie / effeminate man suffering from burning piss / Mariah Carey impression you just did after the scalding.

Then you start debating with yourself on the effectiveness of the decision. Like whether it was a smart choice where everyone is going to buy you a beer, or another one of things you're going to regret much like the time you dated that psychotic dude who had a weird affinity to raw eggs and baby oil (Tapir, I know your shoulders are shaking from stifling a guffaw) or just a thing that no one gives a shit about, like whether you had a great shit today or some fucking random jazz / indie gig in some twat-stifling Yuppie joint somewhere last night because REALLY MOTHERFUCKERS, I DON'T FUCKING CARE WHICH STUPID BAND PLAYS, UNLESS THEY'RE GOING TO BUY ME ALCOHOL, THEY ARE NOTHING TO ME.

Once you start getting cross-eyed from the inner monologue, you have yourself a drink. Because alcohol is the solution to all the world's problems / uncertainties / sexual deprivation. It is also the reason some stupid white boy with a blotchy Red Hot Chili Peppers tattoo on his arm passed out on your bed, after your friends coerced him into paying for their cab fares. But let's not blame it on the alcohol. I say it was for the benefit of mankind, me being the benevolent motherfucker that I am.

And songs of praise echoes throughout the land as a ray of sun light pierces through the clouds to surround her being, illuminating her in an aura that transcends time to immortalize her grace for as long as the wind blows and the sea rushes to shore and a baby is born every 2 seconds and a mamak waiter fucks up your order.

Stage 3: The Questioning

The next day, the Bosses call you in. Gwai Lo Creative Director asks you why you're leaving. You tell him you got a better offer. He tells you in his half British accent, "Oh fair enough. Who wants to stay in this bloody dump anyway," before launching into a full fledged mumble about his experience as a young Creative back then. Or about working in Australia. Fuck, it could've been about having bangers and mash whilst watching Eastenders and hearing Nat, the next door slag having a bloody good shag with Declan the milkman during a Tetley tea commercial, but it all sounds the same when an old English man mumbles.

The bigger bosses decide to play Good Boss, Bad Boss on your ass. Good Boss tells you about the scary world out there that would maliciously hurt a young Creative such as me. He ends up looking like he's about to sob all over his paperwork and his gaudy yellow neck tie, but what catches my eye most are his bad ass moles that keep persuading me to scrape them off with a hot knife.

And then I go see Bad Boss where he acts like my father and tells me to go out there and find out for myself how mean the big bad world is, and how I'll regret and later appreciate what a good life I had here. And all I could think of was how badly I wanted to scrape the fucking moles off with a hot knife.

I remain adamant about my decision and he tells me to see him in a couple of days. When I return, I am still the same, albeit a bit fatter and less coherent from alcohol overdose. He says he'll raise my pay if I stay. A whopping two hundred fucking bucks. I chuckle. He's insulted and defends himself by saying that 200 bucks a month amounts to 2400 bucks in a year. I feel like placing 200bucks on his table and saying "Here, boss, I think you need it more than I do", but being the kind and gentle motherfucker that I am, I just let out a meek chuckle and thank him.

Then I go bitch to all of my friends so they can laugh about my worth in the agency. Normally I'd introduce a pavement to their faces, but The Idiot bought me beers and The Tai Tai bought me a beer that she owed me since last time, The Tapir promised to buy me a vodka spanking board and The Machan for some reason didn't dare laugh at me (maybe because he understands the hardships of being jobless, hur hur) so no violent incidents occurred. BORING.

Stage 4: The Emo Corner

Now is when you start worrying you can't get another job in time before the bills start piling in. You accept as many freelance jobs as you can to support your crazy drinking habits and fatty treats, but any free time you have you start to emo like a menopausal bitch.

One, because freelance jobs take fucking forever to pay, including from people who claim to be your friends. And Two, all the freelance work that you've been offered lowers your self-esteem because it revolves around selling a stupid Cheap Printer Carnival at Low Yat or some millionaire Condominium whose developers think the word 'grandeur' is too bombastic to be used in the brochure. Might as well fucking ask me to do a radio ad for a re-usable sanitary napkin.

Then you whine dramatically to your friends about how you won't get a job and thus will be reduced to nothing but a road sweeper who goes around correcting typos on the graffiti of the walls. And your friends, being the pretend-nice people that they are, half-assedly tell you that you'll get a job in no time, because you're a good writer, don't worry, if idiots like Gary Clayton John and every motherfucker with good grammar skills think they can be a Copywriter, surely you'd be able to get a job too. But of course, what they didn't realise was that they were comparing me, THE ELITE ASS VERBAL SAMURAI ALSO KNOWN AS THE ALPHANUMERIC NINJA, to the fucking Evanescence-equivalents of the industry. Niamahai pukimak lanciao nail your mother to a coffin and parade her in Chow Kit.

Stage 5: The Interviews

You get your first call for an interview at one of the leading agencies in the country. You palpitate for a bit because you cannot believe your fucking good luck. You haphazardly compile your portfolio and go meet the Creative Group Head, where the first thing he says to you is, "So I've heard a lot about you, apparently you're one of the best bloggers around." And in a dazed stupor, you reply, "No, I think you got me mixed up with Kennysia, I don't have a blog."

Because in any case, you're a fucked up elitist bitch who would never, ever admit to being a blogger. Remember, you're a WRITER, none of that bandwagon-jumping, gathering-loving, camwhoring, fame-chasing, award-giving bullshit labels like "blogger", "blogmeets", "blogrolls" and "Kennysia". Oh I'm so full of myself and crazy delusional and I'm loving every minute of it.

Until the low self esteem emo bullshit crops up again, of course.

Which comes in the next 10 minutes when you realize he's not really interested in your style.

And then you lament and ramble incoherent murmurs reminiscent of a senile wildebeest lost in elephant territory. And then incessantly whine to The Machan that you have no talent in writing and should go back to serving coffee at Starbucks, to which he listens patiently until his left eye starts twitching and he slaps you in the face and yell, "It's only ONE FUCKING INTERVIEW lah! YOU HAVEN'T EVEN SENT OUT YOUR RESUME TO OTHER PLACES ALSO! Stupid whining bitch, can you shut the fuck up and just fucking get to the kitchen and cook me some goddamn dinner for fuck sakes!" (The last line is absolutely true and no alterations have been made to the original quote.)

The next few calls and interviews you get all have the same thing in common:

i) "Wait a minute ... Su-Yin? You're the Tits of Fury right? I used to read your blog until you stopped updating!"
ii) "Could this be? Oh my God it is! This is the Tits of Fury!"
iii) "Hi, are you the Tits of Fury?"
iv) "You got into an accident, right? (Um, how'd you know?) I read about it in your blog. You're the Tits of Fury right?"

Like, how the FUCK do these people know me? And how the hell did they figure out the same Su-Yin Chong in the resume is the same bitch who spews rubbish all over the internet?

Fucking weird shit.

Stage 6: The Hire

Finally, after 3 interviews in 2 weeks of searching, one unsuspecting motherfucker foolishly hires you, absolutely unaware of your idiotic behaviour and random lunch-time drinking. You can't believe how the stars and the moon and the horoscopes and how Mars aligned itself against Pluto to create a seamless flow of good luck onto your fat ass, because the fucker is actually paying you quite a good sum of money for your lack of talent.

And then reality kicks in.

He's paying you much more than you deserve because you were hired to handle the shittiest, most demanding client managed by the ugliest, most annoying fat bitch of an Accounts Manager.

And then it's back to being stressed, repressed and depressed. And you still get that low caste alternative for milk they call Creamer in the pantry.

And what's even shittier? A couple of months after you unknowingly sign the contract to sell your soul to the fuckwit clients for the next 6 months, you get not one, not two, not five, but THREE calls from other leading agencies who absolutely loved your resume and were still giggling when you picked up the phone, much like a bunch of high school girls calling up some random lengchai who will grow up to become an ugly, obnoxious fuck and absolutely taint your memories forever and ever amen.

You know what? Fuck advertising. Fuck servicing people, fuck clients and fuck ALL YOUR STUPID LOUIS VUITTON BAGS AND PRETENTIOUS LUNCHES AT JARROD & RAWLINS THAT CAN EASILY FEED AN OBSCURE TRIBE WHO'S LEADER'S NAME IS N'DUGU BIMBIMBIE WULU WULU.

I really hate creamer.

:: Another pointless rambling at 9:25pm ::

little black book

2006-07-22T17:37:00.000+08:00

little black book

Whatever happened to careless laughter?
These days all we do is hesitate and filter

Whatever happened to the senseless drinking?
When we never had to justify our thinking

Remember the times
We'd sit by the pavement
Talking, laughing, abiding to nothing
Exchanging deepest sentiments

Remember the times
We were under the fireflies
You read me Edgar Allen Poe
As I slowly closed my eyes

Remember the times
Of escape to instant holidays
Meals at faraway places
Our worries we laid at bay

Don't you remember?
It's all written here
Don't you remember?
Stop blaming the beer
Don't you remember?
When we were near
Don't you remember?
It's all written here

Whatever happened to those days of glee?
When nothing mattered except you and me

Whatever happened to our technicolour fantasies?
All that is left are these engraved memories

:: Another emo-ambient rambling at 5:32pm ::

wandering star

2006-07-22T02:02:00.000+08:00

wandering star

There she goes again, clutching on to every bit of thread she can grasp onto. The multi-coloured weaves of his cloak tear away slowly, stretching themselves to the limit before ripping apart to become the remnants of her memories.

Funny, how initially she knew it would inadvertently detach itself from her, but she still allowed the threads to entwine in her hair, her fingers, her words. And now she desperately summons everything within her to cling onto every bit her lithe frame would allow. It's futile, my dear girl. You know it.

Butterflies come and they go. Spread their intricate wings for a moment and flutter flutter away they fly. It was nothing but a stopover.

Tatter you rest upon her shoulders
Titter she gives you some shelter
Flitter away with the alimony
Bitter she's alone in the balcony.

He was gone the moment you started caring.

:: Another emo-ambient rambling at 1:58am ::

blind

2006-07-22T01:06:00.000+08:00

blind

If you would see how much I'd sacrifice
Then materialistic dreams wouldn't suffice.

If you would see what I try to comprehend
Then broken seams wouldn't have to mend

If you would see how tirelessly I chase
Then Sundays can choose to end in haste

If you would see what eats into my being
Then these scars would hold a meaning

If you would see how hard I fight these battles
Then all imperfections would cease to rattle

If you would see what you mean to me
Then everything can disappear completely

If you would see me for just one second
Then I wouldn't have a reason to pretend

:: Another emo-ambient rambling at 1:02am ::

Ágætis Byrjun

2006-05-12T19:12:00.000+08:00

agaetis byrjun

I had a talk with a friend about music. And she proceeded to unabashedly tell me her entire fucking life story about how she came about to her current music choices. You know, one of those stories about how as a child your father would impersonate Louis Armstrong and sing "What A Wonderful World" in that deep soulful voice of his, and then proceed to yell at your ugly face "Eh you think easy to do is it? My throat pain already lah!" after you make him do it about 200 times … and your mother would make you watch the Yellow Submarine movie because "ENOUGH OF JUNGLE BOOK ALREADY. I'M TELLING YOU IF YOU IF I COME HOME FROM WORK AND I HEAR THAT STUPID SNAKE SAY 'GO TO SLEEEEEP' ONE MORE TIME, I WILL THROW THAT VIDEO TAPE AWAY!" and that's how you came about to liking oldies this day? Yeah, that kinda story, except that was MY musical story, and also my abused childhood story as well.

Anyway, my current musical choices and how they came about has nothing to do with you fuck faces. Though if you find some bad show Thai pop CDs in my collection, it's because I dated a Thai dude once and I had a Thai neighbour who would loop his Thai rap incessantly, so much so that I actually miss it these days.

But one thing I want to make clear is, along with about two thousand other fucking things, is that I am no music elitist. I've never said I only listen to weak emo Nordic bands who use dustbins as percussion sets and sing in tones reminiscent of Mariah Carey getting gang banged by six burly rubber tappers from Sentul, nor have I said I only listen to Indie bands with names like Mel Gibson and the Pants or I Love You But I Have Chosen Darkness or Kak Fatimah's Cucur Udang Is The Bomb.

Just because I diss motherfuckers who claim to know all Indie bullshit from Iranian Trip Hop to Vietnamese Experimental Industrial Electonica, it doesn't mean I have to know better. Just because I call you an ugly fat fuck who will be the main reason for world wide bulimia, it doesn't mean I'm Jessica Alba. Just because I call your mother a menopausal dugong-faced auntie who wishes she adopted a pet donkey instead of giving birth to your retarded face, it doesn't mean I don't like her freshly baked banana cakes.

All you Malaysians and sanitary napkin wearing public need to fucking stop being so sensitive. People diss your stupid face and you sue for slander or lock them up in ISA. Diss a few people in some miniscule, obscure blog read by a grand total of two people of which one of them is the owner herself and her alter-ego Petite Patricia, you get your panties in a fucking knot and proceed to spread your estrogen all over her comments box.

Actually, she's only pissed off because she's paying for the comments space and too many idiots are spamming their worthless thoughts again. No, Leroy, I'm not talking about you.

I especially love laughing at people old enough to legally organize sweaty sexual orgies with colourful dildos and furry costumes but would rather whimper "I never diss you also why you disturb me first?" or "Stop wasting your effort giving shit to people who love what they are doing" whenever I diss them to their faces.

Let me remind you again. You are old enough to participate in wanton debauchery, and you'd rather waste your time whining about some stupid hoe who is feigning an epileptic fit because your head looks like the back of her big toe scribbled with two dots and a curve on a magic marker? Really now. Don't make me go there and feed you a fist burger.

What you all need to know is this:

1) I am angsty because I'm sex-deprived. And when I say sex-deprived, I mean I haven't had sex in more than 2 hours.
2) I don't care what you think. If you want to rave about your worthless opinions, get your own blog and wank there. Don't do it all over mine.
3) I contradict myself every 5 minutes because I'm perpetually drunk.
4) Yes, you are ugly and deserve to be dissed on a regular basis.
5) I need a drink.
6) With lots of sex.

Okay anyway. I finally have the time to update this piece of shit of a blog because I finally handed in my resignation letter and I'm acting like a true gangsta at work now. I mean, I can come in to work fucking late and leave fucking early, but what are you going to do about it? FIRE ME?

So in about 3 weeks time, I will be jobless and thus there will be two Hatims. Except that one will be classier and cooler and you'll all want to hang out with her and shower her with gifts of praises and loving adoration.

Only because Abu Hatim Azizan has better dance moves than Su-Yin.

:: Another pointless rambling at 7:06pm ::

perfect ten

2006-03-18T17:25:00.000+08:00

perfect ten

Fruit flavoured skies
Another morning died
Little girl hello, girl

Hand stitched arm
Million dollar charm
Little girl plastic girl

Sun baked skin
Paper thin fins
Little girl misplaced girl

Wind up smile
The broken dial
Little girl tired girl

Worn out realms
Caught on film
Little girl puppet girl

Leave those dreams
Tear its seams
Little girl broken girl

Breathe the curse
This sugar palace
Little girl tragic girl

A detached heaven
Is fate written?
Little girl forsaken girl

Clutching twisted ropes
Frayed glimmering hope
Little girl waning girl

Passionate artificial bliss
Death doesn't tease
Little girl goodbye, girl

:: Another emo-ambient rambling at 5:25pm ::

i listen to hindi music just like you!

2006-03-11T19:04:00.000+08:00

i listen to hindi music just like you!

I am really not cut out for the jazz crowd in Malaysia. I mean, fuck me hard if I hate jazz, because really, I like jazz (but fuck me hard anyways, thanks). In fact I fucking listen to any type of music except country and your little sister's kindergarten choir. Sure I don't look as learned as your regular high blood pressure suffering father with a pot belly that pushes his pants' waistline down to his knees to appreciate classical music, nor do I browse magazines from Harajuku diligently whilst showcasing my entire coloured plastic bangle collection which complement my knee high rainbow socks to render me worthy of listening to Euro trash feng tau music, but hey, just because I look like a drunken sohai who's permanently clad in jeans, it doesn't fucking mean I cannot enjoy different types of music.

Yeah so I was all glammed in some pseudo goth outfit one Friday night but instead of singing along drunkenly like a mahai to The Cure in Loft, I became a full on DJ Krush aficionado by busting out some killer trip hop moves whilst the rest of the Velvet Underground crowd sat there sipping Moet, shaking their heads at the stupid emo goth bitch who was dancing to something other than House or Trance. Yeah so it's quite amusing for you fuckers to go through my MP3s and find that I have Bach tracks somewhere in between Ash, Azure Ray, And You Will Know Us By The Trail of the Dead, Badly Drawn Boy, Beatles, Bjork, Bright Eyes, Boa, Boards of Canada, BT and Busta Rhymes. And that's just A and B. But you know what? Fuck all of you. I listen to whatever the fuck I fancy whenever the fuck I feel like looking however the fuck I want to, because I like being cock eyed.

So anyway, back to the bitching topic at hand. I hate the jazz crowd here, because fucking 95% of them are pretentious little wankers, very likely making up half the Advertising industry. Nothing fucking annoys me more than a bunch of 20-somethings sipping cheap Chardonnay with an expensive price tag, thinking that by merely stating their preference for jazz, they immediately fit in the high society lifestyle. A big part of their jazz appreciation is embedded in a joint owned by a really obnoxious faggot who treated me like an under aged peasant just because I said "Seriously, I don't care for your wine list, I want you to give me a good deal for bottles of liquor instead", and just because you told me you don't cater for "that kind of crowd" you motherfucker, I took my party with a ten thousand buck limit to another joint instead. Fuck you Alexis, just because I prefer whisky to wine it doesn't fucking mean I don't have the money to blow. I'll buy all your caviar and pate and mix it with some roti banjir dhal sambal and throw it all over your stupid high society ass.

I mean, take the same jazz band and let them perform in Kotaraya, I'd see if the same crowd would get their ass down there. A big fucking no. I'd like to see if you'd stand in a crowded street walk under the blistering summer sun to listen to some random Japanese jazz/blues busker simply to appreciate the art of his music. Hell NO. Well of course I did that because he was cute, but that's besides the point. The point is, you wankers like jazz simply because it's associated with a 'better standard' of life. And you're all the same bunch who suddenly picked up Damien Rice when his song went into some gay ass soundtrack for some gay ass movie that supposedly is for the modern urbanites, five years after Lennonist was emo-ing to Damien's bathtub suicide music.

Actually, what pisses me off more (fuck you if you're going to say "What DOESN'T piss you off Su-Yin?") is that people associate different genres of music to different types of lifestyles. If you're rolling in cash then you're supposed to listen to classical, orchestra-esque performances of Mozart pieces or go up to Genting Highlands to listen to Lionel Richie. If you're an acne ridden high school kid who is in love with the popular girl in school but daren't approach her because you have your father's ugly genes, you're supposed to listen to Simple Plan and whinge nasally about how you can't be perfect. If you're an average earning person with a comfortable life filled with good food and copious amounts of alcohol, but you're stuck in the 'creative' line of Advertising and therefore it is amiable to hang out with each other and whine about your lives, then you're supposed to exchange 'cool' indie shit like Bloc Party, Interpol and Death Cab For Cutie and then give shit to the rest of the people who listen to mainstream crap, easily forgetting that you yourself listen to The Killers, Kaiser Chiefs and Franz Ferdinand like the rest of the foosball college kids.

Music is music (Too Phat, Reshmonu and Pop Shuvit are circus performers not artistes, get that right). No matter what category. No genre is better than the other, except of course MY selection of music always kick ass. The rest of you can go suck cock. Yes, even Twilight Action Girl of The Loft @ Zouk.

"Goodnight pumpkin truffle... but my suspicion is The Loft no longer has that old magic from our days of wasted youth!" read a SMS from my favourite Smashing Pumpkins fan.

"Tell DJ Bunga to get a real girlfriend and stop conning little kids lah" said one Pussy Willows guitarist.

That's right kids, The Loft @ Zouk has reached the height of mainstreamness that warrants them a slot in hitz.fm. Twilight Action Girl has sold out so much they might as well fucking endorse the brand of soap they're using. (In case any of you dripping cunts wrapped in purple layered frills are wondering, go pick up a copy of Juice magazine and find out what your favourite style guru indie god is recommending you to buy this month.)

Back then, it was our cosy little hangout. It was a bunch of greedy idiots pushing the One for One promotion to its limit. Our table surface never had an empty inch because it was two jugs of house pouring liquor / beer for the price of one. Obviously, because we were cheap ass tightwads.

And we'd drink and talk to every motherfucker in the joint, doing John Lennon proud for spreading the word of love and peace, only because every one didn't give a shit about nothing or no one and we just there to have fun with the Common People, hur hur I made a pun. Some drugged up mahai will steal a glass or two from our table, but we'd be too fucked to do anything about it, and one of us will probably offer a cigarette to the fucker or something.

Every time I'm there, I'd wassap wassap practically every motherfucker in the joint. Not because I'm popular or anything, but because I'm usually drunk and horny. People would offer me drinks left and right and I'd likely offer a drink to the Bangla cleaner, if I'm not busy attracting furry men. I was there every fucking Friday so religiously; they reserved me a table every week. Of course, not many actually knew me by name, they'd just refer to me as "that crazy bitch with the huge ass tattoo on her back... there, that chick who goes psycho every time the Smashing Pumpkins comes on", but it was all good because everyone had a label too.

There was "the short fucker who lurks in the corner", "the guy with the dreads that reek of salted fish", "Romie's boyfriend", "fat ass Helga", "abominable hoe", "drunk Keling", "the CM clan", "Interpol hoe", "bad shape hoe", "mole hoe", "the guy who looks like Tom Chaplin from Keane", "midget hoe", "Shogun", "the fairy chick" and the all revered Queen of Loft, "Megatron".

But all the original Lofters have disappeared these days. Because all of us are tired of The Loft catering to the Yuppies. First, they raised the price of alcohol 200 fucking times, then they started reserving tables only for people who purchased bottles of hard liquor, and now they're fucking imposing a goddamn cover charge. That fucking did it man.

For a place that upholds the whole 'indie' idea bullshit, this is laughable to say the least. It's like your Mom's favourite vegetarian food seller in the market selling crocodile leather shoes and fur coats amidst the fake mutton and duck. Whatever happened to "it's all about the music"? Don't give me all that "Well you know, this is a club, we're just doing what they make us do, we still play good music what". Fuck you. That's like the hippie auntie saying "But I still sell tasteless soy bean crap what! Who says vegetarians can't look like P. Diddy!"

You want to play good music and still place indie on your sleeve? Play in a fucking car park.

Please. You're not indie. The reason we went to Loft was for the atmosphere and the friends, not because we think you're damn non-mainstream. If I wanted non-mainstream, I'd go listen to Tim's drug induced bootleg recordings.

But I won't anyways because they're all crap.

:: Another pointless rambling at 7:04pm ::

buttered afternoon

2006-02-24T09:29:00.000+08:00

buttered afternoon

Do you know what I'm thinking of? I'm sure you do. It shows on my face, doesn't it? I'm thinking of a sprinkling of white and yellow flowers on a bed of wild grass, going for miles until it reaches the tips of the skies.

A light gust of cool breeze animates the dancers in this field. Its attention fleets between the flowers, the grass and my hair, but it wouldn't matter because all is fair in this place.

As I move my gaze upon the skies, I squint because sun rays try to creep into my eyes. I look more Asian than I already do, but it wouldn't matter because all is beautiful in this place.

Sounds of leaves rustling in the wind, distant cars and your whispered words resonate in my ears. It is an elaborate medley of mixed choruses, but it wouldn't matter because all is harmonised in this place.

After we're done absorbing the sights and sounds of this place, you spread a plaid tablecloth on the ground. We snicker to ourselves for a moment because we spontaneously remember how we quickly swiped the tablecloth from your mother's house when she was in the kitchen cooking up a late lunch. We'll think of some excuse for her later, don't you worry.

With remnants of our laughter encased in our smiles, we sit on the tablecloth turned picnic mat. You turn to me and ask what's for tea.

I baked banana muffins and peach tartlets earlier today because you like bananas and I like peaches. They won't be as oven fresh as they were, but it wouldn't matter because all is sun kissed warm in this place.

You brought hot, milky tea in a big red flask which you had brewed at the very last minute before we left. We take turns sipping its delicate, creamy sweetness as you forgot to pack separate cups, but it wouldn't matter because all is shared in this place.

We partake in our home-made snacks until our hands reach for the last muffin. Giggling, we offer it back and forth to each other. We end up dividing it, but it wouldn't matter because all is abundant in this place.

When your tummy starts to feel its fill, you'll collapse on your back, spreading yourself evenly onto the mat. It wouldn't bother you that crumbs will get into your hair. I'm more careful with my hair, so I lay my head upon your chest. And the day will unfold before us.

Idle chatter fills the air, intercepted by sporadic laughter and maybe a song or two. Our conversation will revolve around nothing in particular but it wouldn't matter because all is important in this place.

The concept of time will catch up on us as we doze in and out of unintended naps. We peel ourselves off the plaid carpet and slowly pick up our things. Our lazy picnic is coming to an end, but it wouldn't matter because all is remembered in this place.

We walk away holding hands as the landscape changes. The sun has turned into a deeper shade, the colour splattered field has subdued its radiance and the breeze has slowed down. The scent of evening is taking dominance, but it wouldn't matter because all is perfect in this place.

I'm sure you're thinking of the same thing too.

:: The Robot Ate Me at 9:37am ::

dedicated to me

2006-02-20T02:47:00.000+08:00

dedicated to me

Alright updates that no one in particular gives a flying fuck about, except for me. Ten years down the line I'll open up this stupid blog and read the archives and go "GODDAMN this is one fucking good blog yo!". And then I'll realize it's my own damn blog and start wondering why no one made me a celebrity / international hero / national treasure / blow job queen, and then I'll go around fucking starting some petition to make September 15th an international holiday for the world to spend the day reading my archives and giggling slightly. Only slightly, because it is fucking absurd to be laughing out loud on Su-Day. Why is it absurd you ask. Because I fucking say so you dumbass. Any discrepancies and I'll drop kick your ugly mug.

So it's been three weeks since the mega fan-fucking-tastic one week holiday of 2006. Nothing beats having one week off work man. Well, of course, if you have six full fucking months off you completely kick my ass in one swift hard motion, but you know what? Fuck you, I'm talking about ME and how I deserve to get a one week holiday on the basis of my race, my respect for another religion and my work based superiority.

So it was the obligatory Chinese New Year, some random Muslim celebration and something to do with working in Kuala Lumpur holidays that totals up to four days of work leave. And since my agency knows that we're all motherfuckers who'll either take leave on Friday because we couldn't be fucked to drag our asses to work for one day then continue holidaying the weekend away OR; we'd drag our asses to work anyway to save the leave, and go to work looking like a sleep deprived whore who went to the Annual Cosplay Gathering (also known as the Convention For The Pimply Virginal Geeks Of The World) dressed as Faye Valentine only to end up passing out on our keyboards whilst using up all the bandwidth to download some random experimental Baghdad industrial electronica albums instead of producing some pathetic half assed press ad for some apek company, so the agency gave us Friday off as well.

But of course, when they are holidays, there will be all too many bitter resentful parents out to destroy the earth by unleashing their bad shaped little demon minions with severe speech impediment on our peace loving asses.

Everywhere I went, I heard the little brats using their mouths like they were competing in the Motor Mouth Championships. If they're not asking useless inane questions like "Mummy why is the sky blue?" or "Grandma why do you smell of alcohol?" or "Daddy, why were you dressed up in a leather costume last night and why was Mummy whipping you whilst you were licking her toes?", they're running around screaming and/or kicking like some possessed Japanese bondage porn star about to get a round house fucking from a God-forsaken bad shaped cross breed of Busta Rhymes and Whoopi Goldberg.

And I cannot decide if I'd rather:

i) Retard the growth of the stupid kid by giving a swift steering lock backhand to the cranium; or
ii) Prevent the father from spreading his gene pool any further by destroying it with a Super Detaching Testicle Combo Power Move using The Insidious Crowbar of Malice; or
iii) Punish the wretched mother for even thinking of raising that little piss face of a child by bludgeoning her ovaries with my Golf Club of Justice.
iv) Do all of the above and later force them to semi-consciously wash my blood stained clothes with their tears as I have a drink of teh ais.

Niama chow fa hai pukimak londeh hor lang kan bastard son of a three legged hermaphrodite whore with a pickled cucumber of a penis and a Big Mac for a vagina, it's the fucking holidays you dickheads why can't you just fucking spend time at home playing Let's-See-What-Happens-When-You-Stick-Your-Tongue-Into-The-Electric-Socket with your goddamn kids instead of bringing them out to 'see the world'? Fucking see the goddamn world on the television, dammit you don't have to let them scream / puke / run around / fall over / cry / make stupid jokes that aren't funny all over the world too.

And seriously, if your child with an IQ of a saucepan cannot fucking eat ice cream without spilling it all over themselves like that amateur home made 'Wanna Lick My Cone?' porn you did with your toll booth attendant ex-boyfriend back in college, either offer your child a fist burger or just don't let the damn child eat anything except broccoli and brussel sprouts because nobody gives a shit about weak veggies anyways.

On second thought, just give your child a fist burger anyway. When his face turns blue and purple, tell him it's the colour of love.

On another note, I missed the Bangkok 100 Rock gig. Bought the damn tickets and everything, planned out the fucking trip and hey guess what, super loud mouthed bitches don't get anywhere in life. Fucking stupid gwai lou boss didn't approve my leave because I should be fucking thankful they kept me at the agency for a full four months as I was recuperating after the accident. Sure, you may tell me you kept me here because I'm a fucking killer superstar kick ass copywriter who will change the face of advertising for years to come with my mind-numbing, awe-inspiring, award-worthy work and face-slapping tits, but look, we all know you HAD to keep me here because you sure as hell can't fire my ass when I have the damn medical certificates that warrant my work leave, or I'll haul you and your health hazard of a pantry with me to industrial court.

So I'm damned pissed off about the whole thing. Any of you motherfuckers who went to the rock fest, keep it to yourself. Talk about how fantastic Placebo was and how hot Brian Molko was that night, and I will key your face. Franz Ferdinand rocked real hard that night? Fork into your thighs. Liam Gallagher was the usual drunken lanciao who did jack shit on stage? Ball point pen into your neck. Ian Brown did a Stone Roses track? Pavement into your teeth. If you are any smarter than a shoe, I'd suggest that you just shut the fuck up and go brag about the rock fest to someone else.

Other than me being pissed off, nothing much has happened. Shaun left for Melbourne and I was damn emo about it. That's one less intelligent motherfucker to talk cock with. One less guffawing sohai to watch Family Guy and American Dad with. One less moron to download happening anime for me. One less kid for Adrian to bully into downing crazy whiskey packs. One less cibai to tell the whole world about my OffTheLightsGaoGao(TM) stories wtf. No one left to take care of, no one left to buy clothes for, no one left to pig out on Japanese food with, no one left to haul my drunken ass into the house.

All the Brem Park fuckers are gone. Didn't get to say a proper goodbye to all of you but...

Yeff, please don't poison Shaun with your cooking. And please, please, PLEASE cut your hair. That's a limp wombat on your head.
Leroy, leave the mounties alone. Leave the Pakis at Walmart alone too.
Arnie, please just keep the nipples under a shirt, thanks.
Chris, Shaun is not your girlfriend wtf. You may be Mr November but Shaun is Miss December wtf.

*emoes*

Everything else is the usual: my pool skills deteriorating more and more each day ever since The Kok stopped coaching me, participating in random drunken jokes, dissing Tim's face, getting dissed by Adrian, worshipping Tsau, bestowing the world with the opportunity to read my time-stopping writing and craving for dick, as always.

If you think my life sucks, you may be right. But fuck you anyways.

:: Another pointless rambling at 2:52am ::

eleanor rigby meets nowhere man

2006-01-31T18:53:00.000+08:00

eleanor rigby meets nowhere man

A group of people lay before my eyelids. None of them seemed particularly familiar, but their presence knew me for years. They each had matching faces that didn't stand out even if a bright yellow spot light surrounded a singular face, the type you'd dismiss as easily as the brown sparrows that hop across the pavements everyday. The air in the room was grey and thick; and it smelt like preserved food.

Everyone was seated around a large round table, engaged in conversation. Judging from how tight they clutched their forks and spoons, the pre-meal anxiousness must've reached its peak. Without any invitation, I sat on the one empty seat left. Still engrossed in their mindless chatter, not a single greeting or a hint of rejection came my way.

I stared at the grey mass that struggled to solidify itself on my plate. Without a thought in my head, I picked up my fork and scooped up a bite-sized chunk. As it touched my tongue, the chunk disintegrated into a miniscule storm of dust, swirling in my mouth. The stale, dry taste instantly triggered my mind to think of week old cigarettes.

Or maybe I didn't put anything into my mouth, I wasn't quite sure.

Around me the unappealing people kept talking. My eyes squinted as I tried to catch bits of their conversation, an unexplained natural reflex I perform whenever I wanted to listen carefully. Unfortunately, nothing registered in my ears.

Was I losing hearing as well?

Almost suddenly, my legs pushed my chair back and lifted my body off. The awful scrape of wood against marble jolted my shoulders slightly. I guess my hearing wasn't completely gone. I whispered a thank you and walked away from the table. I wasn't feeling ostracized, or annoyed, but my body just wanted to leave.

Through the thick grey clouds I tried to find my way out of the room. My feet were on a course of its own, not dependant of commands from me. As I walked further, the air began to clear, as if it were making way for my journey. In the distance, splashes of green and blue and yellow and red conquered every possible angle, announcing its arrival to anyone who bothers to acknowledge its looming existence which was adorned with a string necklace of passion.

Before I could accept its invitation to enter its house, my skin was already covered in the caress of warm velvet. The colours engulfed every square inch of my body, trailing a wave of sparkling tingles with each breath that it took. Sounds from the stampede of rushing colours resonated within me, causing my feet to lose its balance.

And I fell, oh how I fell into this soft velvety comfort of freshly baked dreams and sun tanned memories!

And I danced, oh yes I danced to this haphazard concoction of illuminating laughters and echoing heart songs!

And I flew, oh wonderfully I flew within the intricate palette of technicolour skies and multi dimensional clouds!

The circumstances that surround seduced me endlessly, spreading its jurisdiction into my posture. I was surprised that my body along with its nerves and senses didn't mind being pushed to its limits. The sensory overdrive placed me in a tumultuous state of overwhelming pleasure that denied me the consciousness to trigger an inkling of realization that the colours had already materialized into a boy.

"Hello there," it was only after those words soothed into my ears that I registered his presence. "It seems to me that you are truly enjoying what I am doing to you" he spoke with a funny accent, allowing the colours within him to grow brighter with each word that rolled out of his smile.

As my mind scrambled in panic to think of a response, he stood there still smiling whilst his fingers weaved themselves into my hair. It wasn't that I was struggling to find the appropriate words, but I was simply trying to conjure a word, any word.

I decided to part my lips from its pursed position, hoping that by leaving my mouth open it might speak by reflex, without an approved directive. Just as my lips began to move, his head swooped down in one swift motion. In that same instant our eyes were juxtaposed and our breaths shared.

Completely struck by that state of immediate shock, all I managed to accomplish was to embrace his kiss.

And as quick as it started, it ended abruptly. The only evidence of his lips against mine was the residual warmth lingering in my mouth which tasted like a mixture of strawberry flavoured candy and creme brulee with thick streams of caramel.

I cannot quite describe the feelings that consumed me, but I knew this for sure: it was so irreplaceable that it obliterated all significance and value of everything I held dear. In fact, I am ready, at any moment, to discard all my cherished treasures for a repeat of that brief engagement.

As if he could read my desires he said, "You know, if you take my hand, I can lead you to an infinity of moments such as the one you just experienced", whilst I stared blankly at the tempting colours of his outstretched arm.

Still in the state of semi-consciousness, I allowed my hand to fall into his promises, absolutely unaware of my actions and its consequences. He smiled as he tightened his grip and began pulling me in his direction.

But I couldn't move.

My feet attached themselves to the ground, and I could feel the surge of cold concrete rushing into me; forcing my knees to shake at its shattering emptiness. I tried to lift my feet off the ground, but they wouldn't move. I struggled and then I fought and then I pleaded and then I cried, but I no longer had control of these hapless limbs. What is happening?

The heavy tears stained my cheeks, diluting the remnants of distorted youth it held. Streams of tainted laughters and choking loneliness flowed in a steady hurry, its droplets ricocheting off the ground onto my knees. Soon I was standing in a pool of images and sounds reminiscent of the distorted times that past; the tired suns and sighing moons, the jaded smiles and silent cries, the scarred open arms and hidden burdened shoulders, the forgotten dreams and deafening realities, the four walls and borderless space.

I looked at him longingly as the thin long spear of acquiesce pierced through the both of us. He offered a complying smile and sang softly:

"Hush
It's okay
Dry your eyes
Dry your eyes
Soul mate dry your eyes
Dry your eyes
Soul mate dry your eyes
Cause soul mates never die"

My sobs evaporated into his shoulder as he consumed my head in his arms. And we stayed here in this inert transition until his colours seeped into my skin, engraving a tattoo that would forever remind me of the brief encounter that transcended beyond the confines of time and space.

:: Another emo-ambient rambling at 7:01pm ::

of intended unintended moments and frozen vapour trails

2006-01-23T13:47:00.000+08:00

of intended unintended moments and frozen vapour trails

"Tell me, do I lead you on?" I asked for what was probably the fifth time in the span of five months. I didn't mean for it to be that way, but somehow my internal clockwork synchronises itself with the calendar, making me utter those words once a month.

Maybe it was my subconscious' way of commemorating the amount of time spent with her companionship.

And for about the hundredth time, she answered the usual almost immediate "No".

So here we are again, in her cosy basement den. The walls are painted with a soft, almost fading cream, interspersed with photographs of her relishing in some happy moments that past. An odd few posters cleverly plastered in random positions seem to complete the raw and nonchalant look, though its original role was to cover the unsightly cracks in the wall.

Dim orange lights of different shades bounce off the walls and blend together to create an almost perfect colour, one that brings the aroma of roasted marshmallows to your nose. And if you immerse yourself in this light long enough, the memories from long before rush in a torrent of floods to materialize before you. Today, I'm thinking of how I used to sit on my grandmother's lap and have her stroke my hair as I regale her with an animated reiteration of my day at school. Suddenly, the air around me is laced with an infusion of smells; Lavender, freshly baked cookies and mahogany wood.

We spend most of our lazy afternoons down here in her basement den, watching the static that interfered with any program that projected on her old 70's Grundig television. On quiet nights, she'd put on an old Francoise Hardy album and I'd sprawl across the hammock looking at her dance because it gives me an unexplainable sense of tranquillity just consuming the image of the ruffles of her skirt swaying uninhibitedly to the music.

Other times though, I'm content just sinking into the paisley beanbag with her, our fingers entwined as John Lennon serenades us from a distance. The smell of her hair would blanket me with the type of warmth that would linger in my senses to conjure pictures that would make me smile even in the most poignant of moments.

She smiled at me begrudgingly. Her eyes which were usually a clear blue hue, were now covered in an opaque finish, denying my reflection from appearing upon them. Glazed in what seemed like a haphazard concoction of frantic thoughts and diluted emotions, she was beyond my reach.

"Any normal person would've thought that your answer came all too quickly because you didn't even think it through. But I know you." I said with a knowing smile.

"Oh yeah? What do you know?" Her voice came to me in a slow drawl, scraping across the floor with its wry undertones, each of its sneering slivers sending small shocks like cold spoons to the skin.

There was an insignificant battle between two asphyxiating egos; the thick, clammy fingers of my overwhelming pride and the increasingly convincing persuasion of gravity's soft cradle. As unimportant as its phantom presence meant for it to be, I am left clawing the air, desperately pleading for breath.

After regaining composure in the split second that followed, I answered her smugly:

"Well, I know that the truth is, you have been thinking this over. Every fucking day. You wonder what tomorrow brings for you, for me, and for us. But, you are the type who, when presented with a notion that has even the slightest hint of failure, will immediately kill any misconception of hope. And that my dear, is why your 'No' comes into existence even before my question is birthed."

All the songs from the album which had earlier fought to spread its influence to all the corners of the room finally reached the end and have now started playing from the first track. The overflow of conversation and thoughts that clogged the air have begun to dissipate, slowly allowing the music to seize territory all over again from scratch.

'It must be late', I thought. I lifted my wrist so that I could see the time. In that same exact motion, the orange lights flickered ever so slightly that I wasn't sure if it did, or I simply blinked.

8:00pm.

That's odd. We caught a fuzzy version of the 8 o' clock news just before we decided to listen to music instead. My eyebrows scrunched themselves together as my mind tried to comprehend the absurdity of time. Bewilderment masking my otherwise complacent face, I turned to her for answers.

A tiny smile peeked from the corners of her lips before she moved them.

"Didn't you know? There won't be a tomorrow for us."

The words that eased out of her lips left a thin line of vapour trail that weaved itself into the crowded breaths between us. It slowly encircled its fragile grip around us, binding our bodies so close I felt the friction of her tattered past against my smooth skin.

And we were locked in this memory forever: her head against my shoulder and my hand in hers.

:: Another emo-ambient rambling at 1:55pm ::

sexybeast

2006-01-10T21:40:00.000+08:00

SexyBeast2005

In about three days, it'll be the 1st year birthday of the SexyBeast2005. The only problem is, the ill-fated little bitch would be celebrating it in the scrap yard, wondering what the fuck went through it's then owner's mind when she smashed it through a tree.

The only piece of memorabilia I have of the baby is the 6-disc CD changer I cleverly installed under the passenger seat. Clever because if I had put it in the boot like every other Ice Boy motherfucker out there, it would've been posing at some rempit's plastic mat on the road in Damansara Uptown, with a RM50 tag made out of manila card slapped on its front. So now I have a slightly scathed 6-disc CD changer collecting dust in my room, wondering what the fuck went through its then owner's mind when she smashed the car through a tree.

I shall name the CD changer Supersonic Phonic Invasion. I actually wanted a shorter name for it, but the only thing that came into my mind was Supersonic Phonic Invasion, which now, come to think of it, completely obliterates the reason of its existence. So for the benefit of me and my make-belief readers, I'm going to name the fucker Eddie.

Now Eddie, the cheeky little bugger of a name, absolutely reflects the personality of the player. Because that twat still has six of my CDs still poised comfortably in its chamber. I wonder what those CDs are. Six months after the accident, I still don't know what lays in there.

It still pisses me off because I lost some of my favourite CDs to the accident. Take my fucking cash, credit card and phone. Don't forget to nick the Adidas kicks as well, motherfuckers. Oh wait, upon closer inspection of my feet, I realise that you fuckers DID steal them. I hope you get dick gangrene.

Take every fucking thing. All I ask is that you leave my CDs alone. But NO. Karma enjoys holding massive anal invasion weekends on me. You act like a mahai, karma mahais your ass. Simple as that.

So anyways, one of those shitty emo nights, I actually sat down, forced my imbecilic brain to remember, whined for a bit, and compiled a list of the CDs that I lost:

The Beatles - White Album
The Beatles - Magical Mystery Tour
The Beatles - Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band
Smashing Pumpkins - Siamese Dream
Smashing Pumpkins - Gish
Smashing Pumpkins - Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness
The Zutons - Zuton Fever
Keane - Hopes and Fears
Dashboard Confessional - A Mark, A Brand, A Mission, A Scar
Massive Attack - Mezzanine
Portishead - Portishead
Portishead - Dummy
Beck - Odelay
Bjork - Greatest Hits
Oasis - Heathen Chemistry
The Killers - Hot Fuss
Yeah Yeah Yeahs - Fever To Tell
Sneaker Pimps - Becoming X
Modest Mouse - The Moon And The Antartica
L.A.M.B. - Gwen Stefani
Jay-Z - The Black Album
Super Furry Animals - Songbook
Radiohead - Amnesiac
Muse - Absolution
Various Artistes - Fight Club OST
John Lennon - Greatest Hits
Rialto - Rialto
The Strokes - Is This It
The Times - Soda, Pop, Rok 'N' Roll
Beth Gibbons & Rustin Man - Out Of Season
George - Polyserena
Catatonia - Catatonia
Massive Attack - Danny The Dog OST
The Pillows - Furi Kuri OST
HIM - Greatest Hits
Red House Painters - Songs For A Blue Guitar
Turin Brakes - Ether Song
New Order - Get Ready
Arcade Fire - Funeral
Chemical Brothers - Push The Button
Flaming Lips - Yoshimi Battles The Pink Robots

On the 13th of January, I'm going to drink goat's blood, stick random chicken feathers in my hair, don all my spikes, clasp some ankle bells, wave a broom stick pretending to be a make shift Mystery Voodoo Cane whilst chanting some magical words which sound suspiciously like Sigur Ros' gibberish and worship the almighty sitting toad outside my house, who is all-knowing and just, amen. And if I jiggle my fats correctly and pleasing to him, he shall smite all you motherfuckers who stole my shit with a disastrous, incurable rash on the roof of your mouth. And if I do Sven-g-englar with the right amount of Nordic eccentricity, he will remove your tongue as well, so you can't fucking tongue your itchy mouth roof.

Meanwhile, I will sit in some random apek coffee shop and waggle my dilapidating tongue in the air as I consume a tonne of siew yoke, moaning and groaning at every bite, exclaiming "Ah! How wonderful it is to be able to taste!". And if the roof of my mouth itches, I shall run my tongue over it a couple of times before announcing it over the loudspeaker with its amplifier positioned about 3 inches away from your ear, "It truly is a blessing that I have a tongue to ease the itch on the roof of my mouth! Oh look, the itch is all gone!".

Goddamn mahais.

I still have to stop my foot from kicking my own ass every time I realise that I never took a single photo of the car. Actually the only photo I have is one of my bonnet doing some crazy ass catamaran disguise and another of the broken steering wheel looking like that mangled cat your ditzy mother rolled over in your father's sedan, and yet another of the engine making love to the tip of the dashboard, all taken after the accident. Great photographic timing, Su-Yin. Meanwhile, in some obscure hidden village in Mongolia, a bearded dark skinned man who smells like a mixture of mud and fried anchovies, whips out his digital camera to take a time-stopping photograph of his horse giving birth whilst a couple of squirrels jump on its belly to aid in the extraction of the baby.

In case you're wondering, I do realise I sound damn fucking emo about a material item which I lost six months ago, showcasing my weak capabilities in moving on. But you know what? Fuck you. This is MY not-so-secret blog. If you don't like what you read, kindly send your hate mails to me, and title them "Please delete this e-mail because I am a faggot".

I still wonder what CDs are inside Eddie.

:: Another pointless rambling at 9:40pm ::

balok

2006-01-08T04:44:00.000+08:00

balok

I've lived in KL for 24 fucking years and spent half of it in traffic jams where a quarter of it were allocated to purposely trigger my anger during New Year's, changing me from a docile, shy and pleasant village girl whose hobbies include stamp collecting and washing loose fitting white blouses with pink embroidered flowers emblazoned across its bosom, to a loud, angry, cussing girl with quivering tits more widely known as the Tits of Fury.

So after last year's infamous debauchery laden, alcohol filled, nipple baring, kung fu showcasing, alien hunting, economical dining, cleavage mania also known as Shag Fest: Cherating Edition or SIZZLING! Secret Rendezvous By The Beach where I was introduced to a rather peculiar concoction of Asparagus and Crabmeat soup, I decided to return my Reign of Terror, Mayhem and lawak bodoh to the unsuspecting slow paced folk of Cherating, whom I believe suffer from a severe case of Shoe In Tongue (S.H.I.T.) which renders them incapable of cooking anything delicious because they can't fucking taste their own cooking anyways. I mean, if you dine at a restaurant by the sea, which last I was told, is where fish and other sea creatures live to get caught by smelly fishermen, I would expect nothing less than fresh fish still reeking of seaweed or some random sea gunk on my plate. NOT wads of tissue and paper mashed together into a shape of a sting ray slathered in a thick chunky sauce making the whole dish look like your younger brother's pimple ridden face.

Anyways, bad show food aside, it was a fan-fucking-tastic weekend. Of course Su-Yin has a fan-fucking-tastic weekend whenever there's an abundance of alcohol. Especially when you're allowed to drink the entire fucking day with the view of some mahais running across the shore in front of your eyes. Okay I exaggerated the drinking bit. I didn't drink the ENTIRE fucking day, I stopped for a couple of hours to have lunch and go to the shop for smokes.

"*GASP* You went to Cherating? And you never told ME?!" I hear you flinging your hands in one swift motion to your chest with your jaw and eyes wide open as if you're about to give a blow job to that huge ass scary looking motherfucker who carries a briefcase full of fake gold watches and belts trying to sell them to you, only to fail miserably because his crooked teeth coupled with his rancid odour have assaulted you with a Super Awesome 34 Hit Bad Shape Tiger Uppercut Combo rendering you incapable of any cerebral activities, let alone purchasing power.

Well, I didn't tell you about the time I had mad sex in the back seat of a car and a fucker of a kangaroo hopped by and stopped to look in, but I don't see you getting your knickers in a twist because I left you uninformed.

"*GASP* You went to Cherating? And you never invited ME?!" some of you holler at the top of your lungs with your arms flailing about in the air causing the hidden fats under your arms to come out of hibernation to jiggle and traumatise the fuck out of the stray dog picking at the strand of Maggi Goreng on the tarmac, much to the dismay of the people at RSPCA because HEY, animals have feelings too you know.

Well, I didn't want to tell you this, but, you stink. You're a friend and all, but I couldn't possibly spend an entire weekend with your aromatically incorrect ass.

So anyways, the obligatory social explanations aside, I had a fucking good time and no amount of your gay ass whining is going to make me feel guilty or bring me down. I'm the most annoying bitch I know and if you have an issue, kindly go tell it to Big Bro or Dear Thelma.

And to be more of a bitch, I won't tell you fuckers who I went with, so that it sounds like some Covert Operations Power Scandal Consumption of Alcohol and Foods Ultra Cherating edition Kannineh Ohmygod Fuiyoh Fantastic weekend (C.O.P.S.C.A.N.F.U.C.K.O.F.F).

List of attendees for C.O.P.S.C.A.N.F.U.C.K.O.F.F weekend:

1. Budak Hensem Bangsa Sesat Dengan Nama Budak Pompuan Korea a.k.a. Glowstick Man
2. Amoi Satu Hari Dok Dalam Selimut Layan TV Tak Nak Minum a.k.a. Bihun Sup Queen
3. Bapuk Suka Jatuh Merata-rata Secara Lawak Tapi Kiut Jugak Lah a.k.a. Cologne Head
4. Minah Gemuk Contact Lens Basi Tapi Nak Jugak Kutuk Orang a.k.a. Useless Pariah Drunkard
5. Pajero Tak Pernah Kenyang Minyak a.k.a. The Tinted Oil Guzzler
6. Kain Bapuk a.k.a. That Piece of Gay Ass Cloth Which Was Cologne Head's Best Friend
7. Radio Barai Tak Guna Cipet Pukimak Lanciao a.k.a. Paperweight
8. PS2 Hero Sedunia Yang Reti Main Kompilasi Lagu Rancak DJ Botaq a.k.a. Not A Fucking Paperweight

Guests of Honour:

1. Mr. Chivas Regal
2. Senor Conquistador
3. Midori San

I don't have to reiterate the fucking crazy orgy of sin that happened, because if any of you have any semblance of a brain at all, you would know that with a happening selection of attendees and the holy trinity guests of honour like that, it would've been a weekend that I can't possibly remember because I'm suffering from a memory lapse from all the cock jokes and alcohol. So how to tell you what happened?

Ah, good times, good times.

:: Another pointless rambling at 4:45am ::

so young, so bitter

2006-01-07T15:40:00.000+08:00

so young, so bitter

So the old man found my blog. Seriously, I dont give a flying fuck he reads my shit. I just don't like the idea of him sneaking around behind my back, reading up on the misadventures of the Tits of Fury when he wants to know what I've been up to. You want to know how much alcohol I intravenously consumed last night? Fucking ask me. You want to know why the fuck I came home with suspicious bruises that highly indicate a bad show bar fight? Fucking ask me. You want to know how many dicks I've sucked the past three years, wondering if I'd fuck one of your old man friends for a fee? YOU FUCKING ASK ME.

Frankly, I've lost even more respect for you. When you used to make Mom cry because of your disgusting little affairs with the weirdest of bad shaped hoes, I still had some sort of admiration for you. In my twisted pre-pubescent mind, I thought you were the man. The pimp daddy playa motherfucker of a gangsta who didn't give a shit about anything or anyone and wouldn't have any qualms about showing it to your face if he didn't like you.

But now look; snooping around your daughter's blog. Tsk tsk tsk. If you remember what you raised me to become, I'm a confrontational loud mouthed bitch, and I don't hold any regards for people who gossip or sneak around. If the alcohol hasn't killed half your memory yet, I think you'd remember why you left your ex-wife in the first place. Because she was a sneaky little sly cunt.

And how are you any different? You're just getting damn old and senile or you've given up being a man. Either way, I don't give a flying rat's ass if you find this space too.

Just fucking tell me if you did.

:: I owned your ass at 3:56pm ::