Wednesday, March 30, 2011


I was surprised to have found The Almond, by Nedjma at a popular bookstore's annual sale (it was also very cheaply priced). I had no clue what it was about - the cover was what caught my eye. That, and the title. The synopsis said something about it being erotic and written by a female Muslim author. Naturally, I bought it. Now, after doing some Googling, I find that the author was afraid to use her real name because she feared being stoned for writing such a book. Some write it off as mere pornography, others sing praises of her prose. I'm already enchanted. Pornography and prose, how poetic. I'm also bringing it along with me to Koh Lipe tomorrow, to pass the time and to be inspired to stare lustily at other backpackers.
Asking my colleague to heat up some food he was about to eat in the microwave, I am reminded that not everybody needs their food to be piping hot. I am one of those who needs my food to be hot to the point of scalding, merely so that I can salivate at it for a few minutes before furiously blowing at it to cool it down.

Yes, I was spoilt by my grandma. She'd wait till you got to her house, then only fry everything so that the food would be hot (not to mention crispy, too). She'd reboil the soup, so that she can serve you it while it's still steaming. Everything had to be HOT. Cold food? Blasphemy. Only fit for the spirits to eat.

So now, I can't eat cold food (unless it's meant to be cold, like roti canai and nasi lemak). Well, not that I can't, but it would take some difficulty holding back the nausea.

We only recently got a microwave, so my poor mom had to reheat everything with the wok because I'd ask her to. If she didn't, I'd throw a tantrum and spray soya sauce everywhere through my nostrils.

I feel inexorably loved.

Saturday, March 19, 2011

I just tried to read a book by Dean Koontz; a colleague who heard that I was a big fan of Stephen King's (although I've yet to read the Dark Tower series) lent me a book by Koontz called 'Key to Midnight'.

I tried. I got till page three when I realized that what King could do at page one was to get me feeling close to the characters, like I knew them personally (so quick like hares across the prairie), Koontz just didn't cut it for me.

I'm sorry, I tried, it's just not to my liking. And I will read the Dark Tower series one day.

Thursday, March 17, 2011

How the fuck did I write this?

I must have been drinking a lot back then.

She had always wanted to touch the space between his eyelids. His eyelids were so deep and pronounced, so incredibly sexy in her eyes. She had always wanted to do that, but when they were alone, something else distracted her, or she plainly forgot this strange desire to run the tips of her fingers over his eyelids. She only remembered when they were out with friends. They rarely went out alone together, anyhow. It was weird, walking with him, talking with him without the company of friends. They started out from that group of friends, it was only natural to them to stick to that group of friends even though their friendship had evolved to another blissful, useful level. Yet, his eyelids remain out of reach to her - always there, always when she never remembered and hiding in obscurity when she did.
She was crazy about him - she thought of him even when he didn't think about her. In the shower, in her books, in her dreams, in her sleep she thought of him. She thought of his light brown eyes, his hair overgrown like bramble bush he always smoothed it back and would not allow her near his crowning glory. She was deeply infatuated with him. Infatuated, because she did not believe in love although she told him 'I love you' many times over and over. A lie comes in handy, was her principle. A lie makes people happy.
God knew he lied to her too. She knew. She knew when he told her that he'd wait for her, that he'd never fool around. She never trusted anyone, no matter how deeply infatuated she was with anybody. There was a part of her reserved, break glass in case of emergency, that sort of thing. She never trusts. No. She'd pretend she did, and when she did get disappointed or let down, she'd comfort herself by saying she never let herself fall so truly and deeply till she trusted the fella. No, she did not trust him when he said he loved her, when he said he'd gotten over his past loves whom he talks about with lights shining from his eyes. She didn't trust him when he said he won't fool around when he went away, when he said he'd be true. True's as true as a cat in heat, calling for any Tom passing by. True's as true as that. She was a cynic hoping to be uncynicsiced, if there's such a word. She invented her own words all the time. She felt she was going schizo.
He, on the other hand. He had not truly gotten over his past, one thing's for sure. He talked about them with a sickly zest, like a victory, not as humans who felt and hurt and knew what pain was. He talked about them as if they were nothing but flowers by the roadside, awaiting death swaying with every breeze a passing tyre breathes. Sure, he felt this really, strong, inexplicable attraction for this girl. He felt this strong, physical need to be with her, to bed her whenever she came over to his bachelor pad. Other than that, he did not know of what to talk to her about. She was strange, she had strange principles. She did not like to be held on the shoulder, although he never asked why. She did not like to be called 'darling' or 'babe' because of some unknown reason he did not bother to find out. Yet, there was a strong attraction he could not deny. Yes, call it love, lust, whichever moniker you'd prefer. He felt a strong attraction to her, and that was that. He acted on that attraction, he got the girl, he got the pleasure, he did not want to end it. Yet, anyway. Everybody knew that things like these, without substance or any substantial connection, things like these they do not last. No, he'd leave her soon, and they'd fall apart then. But for now, they were together. For now he was happy with things. He was happy being with her for the moment. Strange.
Perchance he did not want to admit that what they felt together, shared together, went deeper than just animal attraction. Perhaps he was scarred from those exes he did not, could not forget. Perhaps that was why he, too, was afraid to hope, to believe in her. So these two people who were so afraid of each other, they got together and did not try to change the way they saw the world. She was albeit a little more idealistic than him. He was a cynic through and through. No love for the handicapped, says he. He was blinded to the truth because he did not want to believe. He could not, for the love of God, see that there was a sliver of lining behind dark clouds.
That was all she could hope for. That there was something beyond lust, for him anyway. She knew what she felt. She just didn't want to fall too deep, that's all. Dear God, she already had.
It wasn't very nice. It wasn't very nice would be putting it in a very mild way. She got lung cancer which was initially liver cancer because she drunk so fucking much but it spread to her lungs because she smoked, for writers are known to smoke and to take drugs. She was on her deathbed. She did not know she had that killing disease till it was too late. He stood by her deathbed. He was ready for anything, but not this.
She said "Let me go. Let me go without tears and strife. Find a new life, all of you. Find someone who can fulfill you, a better daughter, a better lover. Thank gods I'm not yet a mother. Be merry and be happy." That was all she said before she got stuffed with morphine and died the following day. Dreadful, but yes, she died. And she never did get to touch the space between his eyelids.

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

So, it does seem that smoking has a positive aspect!

"The aim of this study was to investigate the effect of nicotine, in the form of Nicorette tablets, on aphthous ulcers in nonsmoking patients. The study was prompted by the observations that smokers are less likely to suffer from mouth ulcers, that some smokers on quitting develop them, and that patients on nicotine replacement therapy are less likely to develop ulcers than those having other types of smoking cessation therapy. CLINICAL FEATURES: The three nonsmoking patients who were selected for the study each had a long history of recurrent aphthous ulcers with no remissions. INTERVENTION AND OUTCOME: Each patient was given up to four 2 mg Nicorette chewing tablets per day. After one month of this regimen each patient was weaned off the tablets. In each case the ulcers healed and new ulcers did not appear during Nicorette therapy. Two of the patients relapsed when weaned off the tablets. CONCLUSIONS: This preliminary trial shows that nicotine may have a beneficial effect on aphthous ulcers. Further studies are necessary to elucidate the mechanism."
The word 'bitch' should be officially made to apply to both sexes, and not confined exclusively as a derogatory term for females. This insult should describe people who are stuck up, rude, problematic, angry, catty, vain, conceited, selfish, full of oneself, and etc., regardless of sex.

'Bitch', if used on males, should not only apply to men in prison who are subordinate and subject to soap-picking in the showers.

For example, I can say, 'That bitch thinks he's so damn hot he makes me want to puke sandwiches.'

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

Are you an Index Finger or a Pinky?

According to Dr. Julia Tan, Ph.D. (quack) in Human Behaviour and fellow researcher in Meritocratic University of Malaysia, the finger you use to dig your nose tells a lot about your character.

People who use their index fingers tend to be domineering, impulsive, and rebellious. They cast caution in the air when their mothers tell them that their nostrils will expand if they use their index fingers to dig shit from their noses. Index finger diggers are practical, they know that the best way to reach that piece of shit embedded on the roof of their nostrils is to use their pointers. They also don't really care what you think about them. Coincidentally, they are also the sort who ingloriously seek gold in their nasal cavities whilst they are driving, oblivious to the fact that they are surrounded by see-through windows. 60% of the population in Malaysia use their index fingers. The same behavior also applies to approximately 3% of the population of Antartica and a number of penguins.

On the other hand, people who use their pinkies are dainty, sensitive, and conformists. They actually listened to their mothers when they were young. They are industrious and creative, but can be manipulative. They are very conscious of themselves. It is amazing how they can manage to use the weak little finger to reach and extract pieces of shit from their nostrils. They are also the sort who flick nose booger from the end of their pinkies to fuckall direction (doesn't matter where or at whom they are flicking at). 39% of Malaysians use their pinkies. No Antarticans use their pinkies because they don't have any (result of prevalent frostbite in their genes), while penguins simply do not have pinkies.

1% of Malaysians use their middle fingers. You should report them to the police. They are aggresive, likely to be murderers, pedophiles, and rapists.

Wednesday, March 9, 2011

I can write Chinese too!





I hate how so many things are written in Chinese in Malaysia. We're living in Malaysia, not China! I have National School Syndrome. I detest Chinese schools. I hate how so many salespersons speak to me in Mandarin. I hate how so many waiters speak to me in Mandarin. I hate how during my department's paintball competition, my entire team was speaking in Mandarin and I was left staring at them blankly. They could have been saying, "We'll send this stupid banana in first, and let them shoot at her. Then we can discover the enemy positions. We're such smart engineers!" I hate how I reply to salespersons and waiters in Hokkien or English and they still insist on speaking Mandarin to me. I hate having to glare at them and say, "I don't understand Mandarin," or "Wo pu tong hwa ywee."

This has been a very hateful post, so I'll say what I do love. I love my translators, who sometimes-not-so-patiently translate what is being said. One day your services will be repaid when we encounter French people. I can demonstrate my pitiful prowess in the French language then. Je voudrais une biere, s'il vous plait!

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

Rediscovering Suede again, I remember being 16, sitting in a cold room and listening to Sci-fi Lullabies. Waiting for that opportunity to be able to smoke, waiting to fall in love. Living with big dreams of being a writer and writing my own puny love stories.

Ten years later and I'm still waiting for life to begin when people around me are already settling down. I'm waiting for my next smoke, and I'm still waiting to fall in love. I do realize how cheesy and easy Suede's lyrics are, but I suppose not every song has to be written like The Blower's Daughter or something else as profound.

With a cigarette in between my fingers and with my tattooed wrist, I swear I'll be the coolest nun ever.

And I promise I'm not losing my sense of humour. Just last weekend, watching a bunch of stand-up comedians, I almost puked from laughter.

Thursday, March 3, 2011

I've been asked many times, what sort of guy am I looking for?

I really, tediously, have no clue.

Ideally he'd look like Adonis), he'd be witty, and he'd be respectfully rich. He'd worship the clouds I walk on. And he'd be good in carpentry as well. He'd be able to fend off a gang of twelve men, he'd be able to fend off an asshole's jibes.

So yeah, ideally that's the kind of guy I'm looking for. Unfortunately, even if he exists (he surely does), he'd be with a Gisele Bundchen lookalike, who worships the ground he walks on, who is a lean mean knitter, and knows Jujitsu. I don't have to mention that she'd be rich, they all breed together anyway.

So, realistically, I'm just looking for someone I can marry, and twenty years later look at him and still feel something. He also has to be really good with his hands.