tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54423659774271488492024-03-13T09:49:16.321+08:00El JuliaI am the walrus, goo goo g'joobAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05174031052423171414noreply@blogger.comBlogger196125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5442365977427148849.post-3678140529249869682012-06-08T03:40:00.008+08:002012-06-08T05:12:02.584+08:00You are OxfordWalking down Pullens Lane one last time, I say good-bye to the potholes on the ground. I remember a time when I was so afraid to walk down this road at night. Light rain falls, as is right. A woman struggles with her luggage. I walk as close as I can to the side to give her space. A gust of wind blows, and the branches of the trees by my side sway as if they are waving good-bye to me. I can hear them rustle through When You Were Young. The Killers has always helped me with leaving. I walk past the undergraduate halls, down John Garne Way to the corner shop. I buy two packs of cigarettes -- one is a spare. As always. I tell the shopkeeper that it is my last night here. He asks me where I am going. I tell him I am moving away. He smiles and says okay. I walk home, take a long look at the pond outside my hall, open the door to my flat, go into the kitchen and grab a beer -- my last.<div><br /></div><div>We remember, then eventually we forget to remember. I have forgotten what it is to be cold. Through my tears, I will begin to remember. Yes, reader. I do cry. I prefer doing it when I am alone. Sometimes I fail, but I am human after all.</div><div><br /></div><div>I will forget this place. When I am home, I will forget. That is a promise. I will forget wishing for the hand reaching for my shoulder, asking me to stay. The hand that never came. I watch the trees sway ominously outside my window. I hear my door clatter with the wind. But I will forget these images, and in time, I will forget Oxford.<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Doy_cT6xJk0/T9EJIi-DSXI/AAAAAAAAATE/1qYcd01rx2Y/s1600/2012-05-22%2B11.06.49.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 299px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Doy_cT6xJk0/T9EJIi-DSXI/AAAAAAAAATE/1qYcd01rx2Y/s400/2012-05-22%2B11.06.49.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5751388241559505266" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><i>One full circle. View from my window in Spring/Summer</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;">But we never really do what we tell ourselves to, sometimes, do we?</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05174031052423171414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5442365977427148849.post-57838499055941081012012-06-06T12:26:00.003+08:002012-06-06T12:29:27.320+08:00On insomniaSleepless night? Tried to go to bed at half-past three in the morning but failed to do so? Tossed and turned? Felt like your brain was about to explode with all that thinking? Watched the walls of your room get brighter with the rising sun?<div><br /></div><div>Crawl out of bed and write! I will reach seven thousand words tonight! Well, this morning, actually. Seeing that it's half five and all. Damn birds won't shut up. </div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05174031052423171414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5442365977427148849.post-51406272937068533352012-05-31T02:36:00.003+08:002012-05-31T02:57:27.381+08:00On This River is Wild<span class="Apple-style-span" >Sitting on the no. 13 bus -- it's a little red bus, single storey. Watching life race past, the people, the roads, the shops and the grass.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >So I'm sitting on the no. 13, listening to This River is Wild by The Killers. I feel better if I put the video here:</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VaU4tCrll0c"><span class="Apple-style-span" >http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VaU4tCrll0c</span></a></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >And I'm thinking, this song defines me at this moment:</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >This town was meant for passing through</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >But it ain't nothing new</span></div></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Oxford's just Oxford. Everything will be as is even if I came back here years and years from now.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >But then there's that whole zombie scare in Miami:</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Run for the hills before they burn</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Listen to the sound of the world</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Watch it turn</span></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Yeah we must run for the hills, as paraphrased from Max Brooks' Zombie Survival Guide. Brandon Flowers knew what he was singing about.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I don't think I ever seen so many headlights</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >But there's something pulling me</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >The circus and the crew</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Well they're just passing through</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Making sure the merry still goes round</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" >But it's a long, long, long way down</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >It's a long, long way down. God speed you boy. This river is wild.<br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Someone told me that that's the problem with people these days. They pay too much attention to the lyrics. Well I must apologise. It's almost eight at night and it's still bright. I'm from warmer climes where dusk falls at seven. Does something to me.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >So, yeah. I pay much attention to the lyrics. But if you ignored it, This River is Wild is still a wicked song.</span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05174031052423171414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5442365977427148849.post-50488772899761201322012-05-27T06:06:00.006+08:002012-05-27T06:37:17.835+08:00On leaving Clive Booth<div>I tend to form attachments with certain places. I get unbearably sad when I leave places I've come to be fond of, especially if I've been there for quite some time.</div><div><br /></div><div>Eight months isn't very long, but I've become attached to my room. It's a nice little room. It's warm, it's cosy, it's bright. I have people living opposite whom I've taken to spying on, and the view's quite pretty. I love it that the sun has changed direction since I moved in here in October, and during sunset, the light hits my window and I get streaks of vermilion streaming in.</div><div><br /></div><div>There are so many memories here. I've had two flatmates, both of whom I got along with. I've written (or at least attempted to write) stories. I've been extremely happy and extremely sad (the latter of late). I've been elated and depressed. I will miss this chair, which I was sitting on when I said that conversation's the first thing to go. This chair that can hold the weight of two. The tiny bed that can fit two sleepers. The electrical sockets that don't really make sense. The bathroom light that keeps on blowing. The upstairs people who have bumpy sex. The windows that can't open fully. The view from the kitchen. I know that I'll probably come back to Oxford in the future, but this room I can never come back to.</div><div><br /></div><div>I must be able to deal with leaving. They say that age hardens you, but I find myself getting more sentimental instead.</div><div><br /></div><div>Most of all, I guess I am sad about leaving because it will mean that a part of my life is over. Student life is over, and it is time to get back to reality. Someone said that it's as if my room's another dimension. It is. To me, it will always be a magical place -- a little room were memories and art were made.</div><div><br /></div><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iFmvA9KWQ7I/T8FaS9Z2g8I/AAAAAAAAAR4/Wd9rawgaoOU/s1600/2012-05-26%2B19.05.31.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iFmvA9KWQ7I/T8FaS9Z2g8I/AAAAAAAAAR4/Wd9rawgaoOU/s320/2012-05-26%2B19.05.31.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5746973881268601794" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span">Flat I4B</span></i></div><div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05174031052423171414noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5442365977427148849.post-7760072130976164852012-05-07T08:23:00.003+08:002012-05-07T08:34:12.884+08:00On Before SunriseI can't bring myself to re-watch Before Sunrise. I don't want to ruin the memory of what had been an extremely good film to me. It had happened with 500 Days of Summer -- I loved it when I first watched it. It was smart, quirky and heartfelt. When I tried to watch it again, I thought that it was trying too hard. I couldn't get past the first fifteen minutes. Unfriend me if you worship the film. French Kiss was also a similar experience. I watched it a million times after a bad breakup. It was very good therapy. Years later, it has become a placebo I no longer need.<div><br /></div><div>Now, trying to write about a chance encounter, I know that Before Sunrise would be the perfect build up to the emotions required. But I can't watch it again. I can't even remember the details of the film, but I just know that when I turned the TV off, I just went, 'Whoa. What a script.' I don't want to ruin that moment encapsulated in my mind. I'm afraid that I might find the film pretentious.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'll re-watch Before Sunrise when I'm ready. I might just find it as magical as back then. And yes, I do realize that my last post was a pretty damn long time ago.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05174031052423171414noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5442365977427148849.post-40996387124436599372012-03-14T08:40:00.000+08:002012-03-14T08:41:15.794+08:00Because I didn't manage to submit my poem in time...... for class, here it is.<div><br /></div><div><b>Icarus</b></div><div> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US">i watched your shadow<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US">in the long evening sun<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US">golden and black<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US">i heard your laughter<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US">as your shadow grew wings<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US">and flew away<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US">when the sun went down<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US">we walked<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US">when your skin turned blue<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US">we walked<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US">when my skin turned cold<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US">we walked.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US">My hand in your pocket<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US">you spoke of great things<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US">i smiled and nodded<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US">don’t burn out<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US">keep your shadow<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language:EN-US">don’t burn out.<o:p></o:p></span></p></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05174031052423171414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5442365977427148849.post-51070189792635406862012-03-02T09:20:00.005+08:002012-03-02T09:38:00.392+08:00On smoking habits<span class="Apple-style-span">Who else does not drag their first puff of a cigarette, but instead, after lighting it, immediately expels the smoke? I don't remember when I </span>first <span class="Apple-style-span">started doing this, nor the reason. I've been smoking for so many years. It's one of those habits you acquire along the way, like keeping your lighter in the cigarette box, or always having a spare box at home, just in case.<div><br /></div><div>When I started smoking, I was so afraid that the smell would stick to my fingers, so I devised a new way of holding my cigarettes. I'd hold it like a joint, but inversely, so the burning end would be facing me, then I'd turn my hand around so that my three remaining free fingers would be cupping the side of my chin whenever I took a drag. Sure it looked ridiculous, and sure a number of people commented on it. The exes I went through during that period were not particularly fond of it, but did I care? Anyhow, I realized that my mom wouldn't sniff my fingers, so I stopped doing this eventually.</div><div><br /></div><div>I used to hold the lighter well away from my face when I lit it up, then slowly brought the flame to my cigarette. Pretty sure my close friends would remember that habit, because they still bring it up once in a blue moon when we're all talking about my peculiarities. I guess I've always had a fear of getting my eyelashes singed off by an unruly flame. I also stopped doing this after a while. It's not very effective when there's a strong wind blowing, and it's a waste of lighter fluid.</div><div><br /></div><div>I chain-smoke when I'm in a social situation, which is why I tend to be a hermit.</div><div><br /></div><div>And contrary to popular belief, I will quit smoking one day. Someday.</div></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05174031052423171414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5442365977427148849.post-92133955940557924692012-02-23T21:36:00.003+08:002012-02-23T21:39:06.226+08:00On the mother of all dream quotesAs he lay with his head on my lap, hurt eyes looking up at mine, he said, "I don't mind if you fool around, as long as (you don't let me find out)."<div><br /></div><div>Brain, why you give me weird, vivid dreams.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05174031052423171414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5442365977427148849.post-72303342907960587032012-02-19T11:23:00.010+08:002012-02-20T04:26:55.859+08:00On my bed (Y U NO PUN)<div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VsJhT-LuXAM/T0Bt-COdS4I/AAAAAAAAARc/mc3qD-zArSw/s1600/y-u-no-guy.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 250px; height: 254px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VsJhT-LuXAM/T0Bt-COdS4I/AAAAAAAAARc/mc3qD-zArSw/s320/y-u-no-guy.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5710685240022616962" /></a></div>I have realized that it was not the banality of William Boyd's Restless that constantly made me doze off. It's my bed. Today I tried reading Stephen King's Gunslinger whilst lying on my bed, and promptly fell asleep. Me, falling asleep reading Stephen King. That's like fish walking on land. <div><br /></div><div>Wait, what, they do? </div><div><br /></div><div>Oh damn.</div><div><br /></div><div>Me, falling asleep reading Stephen King. That's like ... something unimaginable anyhow.</div><div><br /></div><div>I think my bed is packed with, well, germs, definitely, but I prefer to think that it's packed with a load of sleeping powder. You lie on it and BAM you're under. The very thought of it actually makes me drowsy. And it's just me. This bed and I, we have a very special relationship, alcohol notwithstanding.</div><div><br /></div><div>This has been a post written by someone who is neither here nor there.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05174031052423171414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5442365977427148849.post-18534675885734778712012-02-10T09:56:00.004+08:002012-02-10T10:04:50.722+08:00On opening a Malaysian pubBecause there are simply too many German/Irish shit pubs in Penang.<div><br /></div><div>My partner and I will call it BUBBA CHILLS. It will be at Kelawai Road, right next to Gurney Paraporn. Well, somewhere near that vicinity anyhow.</div><div><br /></div><div>It will have records of classic 60's and 70's bands/singers all over, and it will play the funkiest tunes of the hey-days of rock. If anyone wants, and if they don't play shit music, they can play live at BUBBA CHILLS.</div><div><br /></div><div>Smoking will be allowed. Matter of fact, it will be an absolute must.</div><div><br /></div><div>There won't be peanuts served, but prawn crackers. Less messy.</div><div><br /></div><div>We will serve good old pub food. BUBBA GRILLS. None of the inedible spaghettis and whatnot. We will serve steak, bloody and true, with a good serving of chips. We will serve Ramli burgers for just twice the price. Fish and chips, none of that Dory shit. We will serve you fish from the market if we have to!</div><div><br /></div><div>Partner has requested for desserts. BUBBA DESSERTS. Doesn't exactly rhyme, but I haven't come up with one yet. Best I've got right now is BUBBA MEALS. For lunch, you know. Pretty neat.</div><div><br /></div><div>And our beer will be inexpensive. None of the unpronounceable German stuff. We will serve you manly beer! Tiger! Anchor! And if possible, Buds and Red Stripes and Fosters. If you want expensive beer, go somewhere else. We just aim to get you tipsy and happy.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now all we need are investors. Call me.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05174031052423171414noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5442365977427148849.post-36068563626274038302012-02-10T09:04:00.005+08:002012-02-10T09:21:40.643+08:00On waitressing part twoYesterday was a bad night for me. I was daydreaming most of my shift, I couldn't concentrate, and for all the run-in sentences in the world, my nose was giving me a bitch of a time ('flu). My senior was upset with me because he had to take some orders from my table, I had no idea what 'chow mein' was, and I took orders from diners who were halfway through their starters. Not very polite.<div><br /></div><div>But things improved in the end. They had to, otherwise why did someone tip me personally? And before you can say 'because you're female,' there were other waitresses there as well. Maybe it was the refill of tap water, or my insistence that they needed another bottle of J20. I don't know, all I know was that I was behind the bar drying glasses when they were leaving, and the guy just shoved some money in my face. Really. He just waved his fist full of change in front of me, and at first I had no clue what was going on, till he said, "Take it." Embarrassed much, because my bosses and my senior were watching. Oh, the teasing afterwards. Best thing was, the tipper was Chinese, and we all know how stingy we can get.</div><div><br /></div><div>Ego boost, definitely. Made me smile the rest of the shift away. Still brings a warm feeling to my heart now, actually. Makes going to work tomorrow something to look forward to.</div><div><br /></div><div>Afterwards, not only did my boss offer me a cigarette at the end of my shift, he offered me a beer as well! The cigarette was nothing new, but the beer was. It's pretty common here, I guess, but free beer for Julia means eternal gratitude. Dear younger boss, I will slave for you. Just don't mind me day-dreaming, as long as the beer keeps coming.</div><div><br /></div><div>Edit: And I know that this post had nothing to do with multitasking whilst defecating. My apologies. Next time.</div><div><br /></div><div>Edit edit: It's still snowing, bitchesssssssss.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05174031052423171414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5442365977427148849.post-17309847807938727062012-02-07T09:18:00.002+08:002012-02-07T09:28:56.126+08:00On foggy nightsI am reminded of walking through South Park, half-drunk but scared shitless nonetheless. And yes, Jo, I will not walk in parks after dark anymore.<div><br /></div><div>I was supposed to go to London today, but changed my mind when I woke up. The weather was too depressing, and besides, I'm trying to save up. So I went to the accommodations office to see if I could move out (would save me a lot on rent each month), but unfortunately it appears that I've signed a contract with the devil. No moving out until June. Even if I did, I'd have to pay till then. Aw hell. Pun intended.</div><div><br /></div><div>So I came back to my flat grudgingly, made a mess in the kitchen cooking spaghetti, and took a nice, long nap. The way a pacifist rebels. Ain't no better way. Watched two Studio Ghibli films back to back. Could have been mistaken for John Lennon's bed protest had I had round glasses and a Jap lady with crazy hair by my side.</div><div><br /></div><div>Pretty pointless post, taking a break from writing my utterly depressing story about a mad, mad woman.</div><div><br /></div><div>Tomorrow's update:</div><div><br /></div><div>Multitasking: How to defecate and change your toilet roll at the same time.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05174031052423171414noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5442365977427148849.post-62027662604437252792012-02-05T00:52:00.002+08:002012-02-05T00:57:00.434+08:00On my fourth month hereKate Walsh playing in the background, a cup of tea in my right, a cigarette in my left, watching the snow fall outside my window. This is a moment I want to remember forever.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05174031052423171414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5442365977427148849.post-18245623137984829632012-01-27T09:33:00.005+08:002012-01-27T10:02:48.041+08:00On Chinese New Year 2012<div>I went to a place called Opium Den. It's actually a restaurant, and I found the name to be on the same page as Penang's 69 by the beach. Misleading.</div><div><br /></div><div>That was for dinner, and I paid good money for below-average crispy noodles. I don't want to start the year complaining, but damn, that was one lousy dinner. I had myself a bottle of Tiger beer, the price of which could buy two back home. But then again, I earn in an hour roughly what part-timers in Penang would earn in five. You don't convert, sometimes. For the greater good.</div><div><br /></div><div>Walking home was fun. I tried to think of a story in my head but I guess I was having too much fun watching my own shadow. I need to get back to writing after a month's break, but I think that my New Year's resolution of writing more might have just jinxed it. Touch wood.</div><div><br /></div><div>Halfway walking, as usual, Ms. Tan needed to pee. So she popped into a pub on the way back, had an uncomfortable pint of beer, and rushed to use the toilet upstairs. Funny place, this is. They like to put their toilets on the first floor and make you walk up flights of narrow stairs. Sadists, pure and true.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then, because it was still early, I popped into the library to collect a book I'd reserved. There were about four other people in there, it was pretty empty for a Monday night. Normally, the lack of people and the amount of dark corners would have scared me, but I found it to be pretty cosy. Went against my jittery nature, for sure.</div><div><br /></div><div>After that, because I didn't feel like being alone on Che Eet, I went to another pub down the road from the Uni. Had another uneventful pint, and retired home.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sounds pretty sad, I know, compared to what people were probably doing back home. Firecrackers and gambling and stuff. But over here, it's just another night. Like what my Mongol colleague said when I wished her Happy New Year: "It's the New Year? Doesn't feel like it, huh?" On the head, girl!</div><div><br /></div><div>Oh, and this has been my first post for the year! Dong dong chiang!</div><div><br /></div><div>Edit: Some guy who used to live in England would have said that I lead a sad life and Manchester's a much better, happening place, but buckaroo, I've been there, and I do not like that place. This hobbit prefers more quiet, picturesque locations.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05174031052423171414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5442365977427148849.post-73195021068628658872011-12-11T00:28:00.003+08:002011-12-11T01:01:28.252+08:00On saving up for a FerrariBrowsing through Facebook, I saw on Lim Guan Eng's page photos of the opening of a Super Car Club. At first, I thought, '<i>Supercar? Do they fly and are they allergic to kryptonite? Do they wear their engines inside out?</i>'<div><br /></div><div>Then I saw a photo of a fleet of Ferraris, and I realized that 'Super Car' actually meant super expensive cars, not cars with super powers. Silly me.</div><div><br /></div><div>I saw a photo with a group of middle-aged men, presumably the owners of the super cars. I said to myself, 'I need to bag me one of those.'</div><div><br /></div><div>As I rolled about in bed, I scolded myself for my shallowness. Bag me a rich man just so that I'll have my own Ferrari? Christ, I don't want to do that. I'll just buy me a goddamn Ferrari with my own money. Much more gratifying.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'll just have to take on about ten jobs, work 24 hours seven days a week, not eat, and camp in a cave. I guess I could eat, I could trap pigeons and stuff. I might even grow my own tobacco to smoke. Ferrari, you will be mine one day!</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05174031052423171414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5442365977427148849.post-2533531441808730672011-11-27T11:01:00.004+08:002011-11-27T11:37:24.006+08:00A bit of a rantIf you must know, the irony was that when I was in Penang, I could not write above three pages. Now that I am here, I cannot write below three pages. Half of it might be drivel, but one stays hopeful nonetheless.<div><br /></div><div>I am only halfway through my assignment story, which has a quota of 4,500 words, and I'm already at 5,210 words. Damn. Much editing to do. Snip snip.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05174031052423171414noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5442365977427148849.post-36491580700421273382011-11-22T08:29:00.002+08:002011-11-22T08:40:09.520+08:00My glasses and II'm not used to wearing glasses, although I think I might need them all the time (and friends tell me that I need them every time I say I see a cute guy). Granted, when I was a child, I begged my mum to buy me glasses because they somehow had this cool factor to them. So we went to the optometrist, where I lied a bit during the eye test, and got me my first pair of glasses. I think I was nine. The frames were reddish-pink. I wore them a few times and forgot about them.<div><br /></div><div>I turned twelve. Same story, same ruse, and I got me a pair of silver-framed glasses. Wore them a few times, then forgot about them.</div><div><br /></div><div>Might have used the same ruse in secondary school.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then I started work three years ago, and realized that all that staring at the computer screen couldn't be too good for my eyes. So I got me a pair of computer-screen glasses. I wore them at work every day.</div><div><br /></div><div>I suppose it's all that screen-staring, or perhaps I'm just getting old. I started noticing that my eyesight wasn't too good at night, especially whilst driving. Not to the point of entirely missing the tree in front of me or anything, just distorted lights. So I went and got me a more powerful pair of glasses.</div><div><br /></div><div>Which I'm wearing now, at this very moment. When I take them off, I tend to squint a bit. Glasses make life somewhat easier, but I always forget to wear them out. Guess I'm just self-conscious, but maybe I should start wearing them all the time. I'd probably say, 'Oh look, cute guy!' less often, if I started to, but self-delusion can be fun. Keeps ones hopes up.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05174031052423171414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5442365977427148849.post-27733983789858048422011-11-20T09:37:00.002+08:002011-11-20T10:00:55.102+08:00Now, why don't I speak Chinese again?I started work last Monday at a Chinese noodle bar. They were amused when they knew that I didn't speak Chinese. Embarrassing much. My protest that I spoke Hokkien was futile when they introduced me to a chef from Fujian. I had to quickly explain that Penang Hokkien is different from the Mainland variety. Bummer.<div><br /></div><div>Then they asked me, which part of China was I from? I said I'm from Malaysia. They said, yeah, but which part of China did my family come from? I said I... didn't know.</div><div><br /></div><div>They were shell-shocked. Didn't know? DIDN'T KNOW?</div><div><br /></div><div>I said, yeah, it's been a while since my ancestors came from China... I don't think we have any records, but we guess it's Xiamen or somewhere near that vicinity.</div><div><br /></div><div>They shook their heads slightly, I could tell they pitied me. Not knowing where your roots were in the great middle kingdom, I suppose, was like cutting your queue off. Oh wait, we already did that during the turn of the previous century. Anyhow, I gleaned that it was really important to know which part of China you were from.</div><div><br /></div><div>In conclusion, I maintain that I'm not a banana. I speak Hokkien, which is a form of Chinese. AND I'm Malaysian. But if you want to call me a banana, I'm fine with it, although I don't particularly fancy the fruit. Too sweet.</div><div><br /></div><div>And one day I'll save up enough money to get my DNA tested to find out which damn part of China I'm from, OK? Blame faulty records, don't blame me! Tch.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05174031052423171414noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5442365977427148849.post-23181226227435116462011-11-15T07:59:00.002+08:002011-11-15T08:12:06.437+08:00On waitressingAfter five years, I find myself busing tables again. Previously, I worked as a waitress for ten long days in a quaint English-style cafe in Penang. Of course I didn't take it seriously, I didn't really need the money. Plus it was World Cup season, and in the end I decided to quit the job to sit down in the pub next door to watch football instead. World Cup > Waitressing.<div><br /></div><div>I wasn't a very good waitress, I must admit. I lacked the dedication. Not to say I was unenthusiastic for work or anything -- I received an RM15 tip once. Unfortunately it had to go to the tip pot. I just got lazy, decided it wasn't worth it, and quit. 22 men chasing after a ball, hey.</div><div><br /></div><div>This time around, I actually need to money? So I really need to go to work even if I just feel like experimenting with growing fungi on my head in the darkness of my room. I need to walk the half hour trek to work even if it's -10 degrees Celsius.</div><div><br /></div><div>And waitressing here is a whole different ball game from Penang. Back home, you give the customer the menu, wait for them to signal to you (sometimes they have to signal manically, especially if they are dining at Dome), take their orders, don't bother repeating it, send it to the kitchen, bring the food out, and if they're seated outdoors, bring them the bill as well. When they're ready to pay, they will begin the signalling process again, and will be lucky if they get their bill before the second coming of Christ.</div><div><br /></div><div>And if you get a Bangla or Indon waiter, be ready to perform some hand signals. 'No spring onions' would be a tough one.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05174031052423171414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5442365977427148849.post-66729593144853443042011-10-31T08:41:00.006+08:002011-10-31T09:02:34.233+08:00On daylight savingsLet me write in detail about my second experience of bizzare, Twilight Zone-ish daylight savings time change. My first experience was in Ireland four years ago, but I was mighty prepared for it. I can't remember why, I'd probably heard about it already. All I remember was, instead of the sun setting at 6pm, it was still bright at 7pm (March, turning the clock forward an hour). But the time change yesterday? Absolutely uninformed. Left me feeling like I was in a different dimension, like I was still dreaming.<div><br /></div><div>Saturday night, I had a late night. I set the alarm on my smart phone (thank god it's smart) to wake me up at 10am. So I went to bed at 4am. My last few thoughts before I totally comatosed was that I'd only have a miserable 6 hours of sleep.</div><div><br /></div><div>I woke up, rolled around a bit, turned on my PC, and went into the shower. After that, fully awake, properly dressed, all doll-ed up, I turned on Skype, hoping to call my mum. I looked at the time on my PC. 7:18pm. I looked at it again. 7:18pm. Local time in Malaysia. I got a bit confused. It must be 12:18 noon, English time. But... I woke up at 10-ish. Had I actually spent almost two hours getting ready? It didn't feel that long. I looked at my watch on my study table, it said 12:18. Impossible. I counted the hours. Insane.</div><div><br /></div><div>I grabbed my phone, it said 11:18am. I grabbed my watch. It said 12:18pm. Why the hell was there a one-hour difference? My watch seemed to be working, it was ticking smugly. Did I happen to wake up in the middle of the night and subconsciously changed the time on my phone?</div><div><br /></div><div>At that moment, 11:19am, I felt like a lunatic. I felt like I must have done something over the night to my phone.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then, slow enlightenment swept over me. Daylight savings. Must be. Must.</div><div><br /></div><div>So I Googled the time. I keyed in, "Time in England." It said 11:20am. After confirming the time, I Googled "Daylight savings change 2011 England." I held my breath as the results displayed. 30 October. I almost giggled with relief. My sanity was intact!</div><div><br /></div><div>Elementary, dear Watson. My magnificent smart phone had changed the time by itself. And instead of a miserable 6 hours of sleep, I had in fact gained an hour and had 7 wonderful hours of sleep instead. Totally recharged, I trekked half an hour to the city center, pelted by blissful autumn rain.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05174031052423171414noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5442365977427148849.post-79908122318078262682011-10-29T06:19:00.005+08:002011-10-29T08:09:44.297+08:00On Chinese Odyssey 2002<div>Almost ten years ago, I went to the cinema with my girlfriend, one of my best friends back then, to watch Chinese Odyssey 2002. And I'll never forget it.</div><div><br /></div><div>The movie was really good, no doubt. Tony Leung and Faye Wong as the leads again, after Chungking Express. Lots of references to Wong Kar Wai's work. Simply delightful.</div><div><br /></div><div>But what made this movie even more memorable was that we went to watch it during Valentine's Day. Two single date-less girls. When we were buying the movie tickets, the box-office cashier asked us if we wanted to buy a couple teddy bear. What the fuck. As if our Valentine's wasn't miserable enough, he had to rub it in. I'll never forget that incident. Nor the movie.</div><div><br /></div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kqjb_iIcpxw/Tqsqk3EwsiI/AAAAAAAAAQs/eb6-oDtJmZU/s1600/chinese_odyssey.png" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 155px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kqjb_iIcpxw/Tqsqk3EwsiI/AAAAAAAAAQs/eb6-oDtJmZU/s320/chinese_odyssey.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5668671368723477026" /></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span">One of my favourite scenes: Tony Leung, Zhao Wei, and their gang of good-for-nothings staring agape as Ro-Man-Ti-Que introduces himself</span></i><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></i></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">"The most painful experience in life, however, is waiting."</span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05174031052423171414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5442365977427148849.post-82801713346100862712011-10-26T05:22:00.002+08:002011-10-26T05:36:14.770+08:00Stay (Faraway, So Close)Ten years ago, I could play this song on the guitar:<br /><br /><iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/w3178rqDthc" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe><br /><br />Granted I could only play the chords (it wasn't that difficult, I think there were only five chords involved). Back then, I was really, really, <span style="font-style:italic;">really </span>into U2. I wanted to marry Bono. I was a bit dejected to find out that he was already married with four kids, but I was young, and I hoped to meet and seduce the man who was The Fly.<div><br /></div><div>Plus, there was a camp at the end of the year, and I wanted to impress random strangers with my five chord guitar skills. Also, my neighbour was into guitar playing as well during that stage of our lives, and we happily swapped five-chord guitar stories.</div><div><br /></div><div>I developed callouses on my fingers, I practiced that much. I refused to ask my parents to enroll me for guitar lessons because I thought, 'Hey, Hendrix didn't go for lessons, did he?'</div><div><br /></div><div>Then, as with most teenagers, I grew out of it. The end of the year came by, camp ended without me showing off my tragic guitar skills, and The Lord of the Rings debuted. My neighbour and I rushed out to buy the trilogy, and we swapped LOTR stories instead, heaping praise on Peter Jackson and bitching about how Tom Bombadil had been left out. Bono became a distant memory, replaced by the beautiful Orlando Bloom instead.</div><div><br /></div><div>The guitar collected dust, and the strings fell apart. It's actually still there in my old room, ten years later, the relic of a more carefree past.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05174031052423171414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5442365977427148849.post-3141848666766625412011-10-24T04:54:00.002+08:002011-10-24T05:09:36.933+08:00On rice"Master or worker, in China or Malaya, a Chinese needs his rice. Fortified with a bellyful of rice, he is prepared for any contingency."<div>-Yeap Joo Kim, Moon Over Malaya</div><div><br /></div><div>How true is that, we southern people of the rice culture. We see a person who is weak, unable to perform their duties, and we say "Aiyah, never eat rice meh."</div><div><br /></div><div>Although nutritionists and know-it-alls would say that energy comes not from rice (which is actually just grain after grain of carb) but from meats and fruits and whatnot, deprive me of rice and I WILL turn into a skeleton. You know why?</div><div><br /></div><div>Because without <i>rice</i>, I am unable to eat the accompanying dishes, e.g. sweet and sour chicken, pork ribs cooked in sweet sauce, steamed herbal chicken, baby kailan sauteed with oyster sauce, waxed duck, and etc. Fact.</div><div><br /></div><div>Also, I used to be able to down four bowls of rice in one sitting, and I actually still am able to; however, all that food goes straight to my happy belly and ends up being stored as bouncing, delightful fat. Fact.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05174031052423171414noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5442365977427148849.post-60295817545717015812011-10-21T21:04:00.002+08:002011-10-21T21:13:43.408+08:00If only farts were as minimally embarrassing as burps<div>Yes, this might be disgusting.</div><div><br /></div>I had a flatulent day yesterday, and because it was a full day of classes, what could one do but to keep it in? I have yet to master the skill of farting silently, see, and I was afraid of miscalculating and letting it out loudly instead. I was afraid of being the butt (no pun intended) of all jokes for the rest of the year. So I kept it in. For roughly 7 hours, I kept it in. We only had very short breaks every hour or so, and I took those opportunities to 'go for a walk' to try to relieve myself. Nothing came out. Not a squeak. Maybe I was over-pressuring myself.<div><br /></div><div>So by the time classes were done, because of all that gas inside, I had developed a tummy ache as well. Plus the cold walk back home, suffice to say, it felt like an eternity in hell.</div><div><br /></div><div>Over dinner, I had a thought. If farts were like burps, and strangers would just maybe glance at you if you burped out loud in public as opposed to holding their bellies from all the laughter, I suppose I would be a much happier person.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05174031052423171414noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5442365977427148849.post-34906084646872921952011-10-18T06:24:00.005+08:002011-10-18T06:53:00.879+08:00Alright, I need to buy me a donkey<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fRraspPx0Dw/Tpyt5E_4eDI/AAAAAAAAAQY/btR0vqjWGvs/s1600/donkey.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 264px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fRraspPx0Dw/Tpyt5E_4eDI/AAAAAAAAAQY/btR0vqjWGvs/s320/donkey.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5664593627431073842" /></a><div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span">"Hee-haw, I'm your friendly grocery-carrying mule"</span></i></div><div><div><i><br /></i></div>When you don't have a car, you're living alone, you're buying a shit load of groceries, and you don't exactly live around the corner of Sainsbury's or the city centre, you've got a bit of a problem.<div><br /></div><div>I don't know how people do it. Probably they're not as ambitious as me as to carry 40kg worth of food and amenities. My wrists are still shaking from the trauma earlier this afternoon, me lugging five bags full of heavy groceries, trying to catch a bus home, being told by the driver that I'm on the wrong damn side of the road (I waited at that exact same bus stop two weeks ago dammit!), getting off the bus sheepishly and running across the street to the right bus stop. People here probably make several trips to the grocer's. Probably they're fit, they have muscular, hairy arms. Perhaps they have a partner willing enough to be their mule.</div><div><br /></div><div>More often than not, I see parents hand in hand with their reluctant toddlers, while their prams are cunningly laden with their grocery bags. Maybe I need to get me a pram, but a donkey's much more fun. You get to prod it with a stick. It would probably sound like Eddie Murphy, and it could sing me lullabies to sleep. Maybe in time I'll turn into a big, green ogre. My tummy's halfway there already anyhow.</div></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05174031052423171414noreply@blogger.com0