El Julia

On opening a Malaysian pub

2012-02-10T09:56:00.004+08:00

Because there are simply too many German/Irish shit pubs in Penang.

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.

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.

Smoking will be allowed. Matter of fact, it will be an absolute must.

There won't be peanuts served, but prawn crackers. Less messy.

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!

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.

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.

Now all we need are investors. Call me.

On waitressing part two

2012-02-10T09:04:00.005+08:00

Yesterday 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.

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.

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.

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.

Edit: And I know that this post had nothing to do with multitasking whilst defecating. My apologies. Next time.

Edit edit: It's still snowing, bitchesssssssss.

On foggy nights

2012-02-07T09:18:00.002+08:00

I 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.

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.

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.

Pretty pointless post, taking a break from writing my utterly depressing story about a mad, mad woman.

Tomorrow's update:

Multitasking: How to defecate and change your toilet roll at the same time.

On my fourth month here

2012-02-05T00:52:00.002+08:00

Kate 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.

On Chinese New Year 2012

2012-01-27T09:33:00.005+08:00

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

Oh, and this has been my first post for the year! Dong dong chiang!

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.

On saving up for a Ferrari

2011-12-11T00:28:00.003+08:00

Browsing through Facebook, I saw on Lim Guan Eng's page photos of the opening of a Super Car Club. At first, I thought, 'Supercar? Do they fly and are they allergic to kryptonite? Do they wear their engines inside out?'

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.

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.'

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.

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!

A bit of a rant

2011-11-27T11:01:00.004+08:00

If 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.

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.

My glasses and I

2011-11-22T08:29:00.002+08:00

I'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.

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.

Might have used the same ruse in secondary school.

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.

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.

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.

Now, why don't I speak Chinese again?

2011-11-20T09:37:00.002+08:00

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.

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.

They were shell-shocked. Didn't know? DIDN'T KNOW?

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.

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.

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.

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.

On waitressing

2011-11-15T07:59:00.002+08:00

After 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.

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.

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.

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.

And if you get a Bangla or Indon waiter, be ready to perform some hand signals. 'No spring onions' would be a tough one.

On daylight savings

2011-10-31T08:41:00.006+08:00

Let 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.

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.

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.

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?

At that moment, 11:19am, I felt like a lunatic. I felt like I must have done something over the night to my phone.

Then, slow enlightenment swept over me. Daylight savings. Must be. Must.

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!

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.

On Chinese Odyssey 2002

2011-10-29T06:19:00.005+08:00

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.

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.

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.

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

"The most painful experience in life, however, is waiting."

Stay (Faraway, So Close)

2011-10-26T05:22:00.002+08:00

Ten years ago, I could play this song on the guitar:

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, really 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.

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.

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?'

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.

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.

On rice

2011-10-24T04:54:00.002+08:00

"Master or worker, in China or Malaya, a Chinese needs his rice. Fortified with a bellyful of rice, he is prepared for any contingency."

-Yeap Joo Kim, Moon Over Malaya

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."

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?

Because without rice, 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.

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.

If only farts were as minimally embarrassing as burps

2011-10-21T21:04:00.002+08:00

Yes, this might be disgusting.

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.

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.

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.

Alright, I need to buy me a donkey

2011-10-18T06:24:00.005+08:00

"Hee-haw, I'm your friendly grocery-carrying mule"

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.

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.

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.

Minor observations

2011-10-14T05:08:00.002+08:00

(Regarding the title: Yeah I went through The Oatmeal again today)

Most people already know this, but I'm still fascinated. You know how we shuffle cards, we do it with the deck facing down in our hands, and we take the bottom and stack it on top, really quickly and very pro-like (unless you're a child playing cards for the first time). People here, they do it with the cards sideways, and sort of just jumble it all up. Pretty strange. A bit inconvenient for me, I tend to spray cards everywhere when I try it their way.

Another thing is (it's rather hard for me to get over this), is that Europeans tend to eat their rice with their forks. How do they get everything onto a fork? They do like to make things difficult. Here have you a spoon, which scoops up your rice like a pelicang does a fish, yet you pick the fork. It's like cutting a steak with your spoon, for me. Works, with 6x the effort.

My second week was more exciting than the first. On Monday, my shower got clogged up so I couldn't shower the entire day. I basically donned a cap whenever I went around because my hair was monstrous. On Tuesday, my flatmate had some friends over and we drank and smoked the night away. I retired early, at 4am. They were up till 5:30. Oh, and by the way, if ever you visit me, steer clear of the kitchen sofa. A boy puked all over it. Nasty stuff.

Yesterday, because of the late night before, I woke up at noon and decided to just chill the day away, with a lot of writing done at night. Today, we had a guest speaker during class who totally sold her books to me. I'm on the brink of going to amazon.com and just look for them. I will do that if W.H. Smith doesn't have her.

I took the bus home after class, which made things 70% less scary. There's still a relatively dark area I have to traverse before I get to the bright lights of the entrance, but I guess I could always run through it. It'd take me 30 seconds as opposed to the 5-minute run the week before. Through the woods. I guess it was what one of the boys told me about last Tuesday, about a serial rapist going around campus. The rapist is an Albanian guy, by the way. At least that was what the boy told me. Wonder how he knew.

So tomorrow, I shall take the 12:15 train to Reading to visit my sister and enjoy her bathroom, which, unlike mine, you don't have to bump your elbows on the wall with every move. Also looking forward to the nice 46" TV.

Weekend!

2011-10-10T03:32:00.003+08:00

I spent the weekend in Reading with my sister and her husband, and I tell you, there's something in the water because I just felt like sleeping the entire time I was there. I really wanted to finish watching Eddie Izzard, but goddamn I fell asleep in front of the TV. The same goes for my dad and my mum when they're there too, apparently. We all just pig out. Maybe it was the jetlag, but I feel extremely rested now after all that good sleep.

Sis and brother-in-law (BIL) took me shopping for my necessities, and now I'm equipped with a water filter. Don't have to worry about kidney stones anymore from all that tap water.

I also ate a damn lot of rice (because the rice I cooked last Wednesday turned into porridge). Now, I'm also equipped with a rice cooker, so no more worries about that. I also have enough toilet paper to last me till the end of the month, or longer, I hope.

Well-fed and well-rested, I'm ready to begin the week. Time to catch up on all those assignments and readings!

Day 04.2

2011-10-10T03:21:00.004+08:00

I heard my flatmate at the kitchen, so I decided to pop out and tell her that I'd be away for the weekend. After some conversation, I asked her if she wanted a beer, and she did, good girl. I found out that she's actually Bulgarian who studied in Paris. Then, because we aren't allowed to smoke in the dining area, she invited me over to her room for a smoke. There, we chit-chatted a bit, me, her and her boyfriend.

And I tell you, for a room inhabited by two, it was pretty damn clean. Compared to this:

Bless my mess. Then, they came over to my room where we talked a bit more, and we went back to their room to talk even more. I had lost track of the time, and rather stoned, I retired back to my blissfully messy cell and slept.

I'm glad I made good friends with her and her boyfriend, they're pretty neat.

Day 04.1

2011-10-07T06:08:00.003+08:00

And I had the shitass scariest walk back home from class.

Class took up the entire afternoon and evening. It was very enjoyable, I had to write my imagination off. And imagine me trying to read out loud with an English accent so that everybody else could understand. That's one thing to work on.

Anyhow, we had an established writer give us a workshop in the evening. Her name is Bernadine Evaristo, and from the sound of it (I didn't get a chance to read her works because I arrived late and had no time to source for her books), she's incredible. And I learnt a lot about writing characters.

By the time we were done, it was 9pm. I managed to make a few acquaintances, but me being too shy, I didn't ask if anyone was going back to my hall. So, I took the 10 minute trek back home.

I'd been on the path several times now, but all the time during the day. On that narrow path, one side is a high wall which separates the houses, and on the other is a sort of organic-y vegetable farm. It's really lovely during the daytime, the air is fresh and there's the sound of rustling leaves. Many students use that path as well. But at night, it's the perfect scene for a horror movie. It's disturbingly quiet, nobody uses it, it's lit with dim, orange lights, and the goddamn streetlights are the energy-saving ones. The sort that turn off by themselves if nobody is nearby.

And I ran all the way back home, this little piggy did. All the time, I kept on turning back, half-expecting the hound of the Baskervilles to be on my heels.

I stopped running once I saw another person, and by the time I reached my hall, I was half out of breath and my mind was a circus. There was this guy waiting outside the door, and he was asking me if I could scan him in. The problem was, he looked exactly like an Italian guy I knew, which sort scared more bejesus out of me. My first thought was, would that Italian guy stalk me all the way here? Then, at a closer look, he was slightly different, more Arabian than Mediterranean.

So here I am, same and sound, typing away. Next week, I will either use the bus, or the long route home.

Edit:

Well, day four didn't quite end that way. Let's continue to day 04.2

Day 03

2011-10-06T04:04:00.002+08:00

Well I finally met my housemate, during what could be one of the worst first impressions ever. I was cooking Bak Kut Teh. To those who aren't familiar with this dish, it's one of the heaviest herbal-smelling dishes I know. In a nutshell, it stinks. It stinks like a Chinese medicinal shop rolled into one small pot of blackish stew.

So there I was, trying to ensure that my rice doesn't turn into broth, one hand stirring the pot and one eye on the evil looking stew. She walks in with her boyfriend and I damn near peed my pants. See, I thought that I would be staying alone, despite the stalk of dried-up celery in the fridge and other miscellaneous foodstuff. I had been having suspicions that my housemate was actually decomposing in her room, due to the undone dishes in the sink (as though the killer left in a hurry). And here she was, walking in the front door. I hope that the stench of my stew didn't scare her off too much.

She's French, she smokes, and she drinks. Good girl.

Day 02

2011-10-05T04:54:00.003+08:00

So far, I've met more nice people than not-so-nice people. I went to open my bank account today and the bank manager was a Malaysian lady who promised to invite me over when she made sambal. I'll hold her on to that, and if she doesn't call me up, I'll know where to find her,

Then, I went to the library, after three years. Libraries are pretty much the same everywhere. Pretend silence, droning of turning pages, stilted footsteps, and the regular annoying loud person on the phone somewhere far off. I wanted to check out two books, but because it was my first time there, an elderly lady helped me to use the self-check-out counter. Same damn thing they used in USM. It was nice of her anyway.

Which makes the count of people I spoke to at length today (minus cashiers, bus drivers, and mum via Skype) at two. And so, I begin my hermithood. Till Friday, anyhow. Then, I think I will make my sister's ears vomit from all the suppressed talk.

Day 01

2011-10-04T06:22:00.003+08:00

Twice I've flown alone long haul, twice I've sat next to pleasant elderly couples. God bless pleasant elderly couples, they make travelling... rather like being mothered. The previous elderly couple back during my 2007 escapade kept those MAS peanuts for me. Very sweet.

This time round, I was sat next to an elderly Australian couple, en-route to visit their daughter in London. Elderly lady and I spoke of our favourite writers (she spoke a bit about a book called The Slap, which from her summary had very interesting content albeit a rather boring cover). Then, due to the flight delay and my worrying over the taxi service actually picking me up, they volunteered to stay behind to ensure that I got transported to Oxford. For a couple of strangers, they really impressed me.

Not only that, elderly lady (I really, really, really suck at remembering names) helped save me from the muck called customs. The customs officer was gearing up to dismantle my carefully taped box when she, with all her elderly lady power, stood up for me, saying that I was a student, and I was under her temporary supervision. Customs officer meekly backed down from that awesomeness.

I managed to call my taxi driver, and he said that had almost arrived to get me, so I told the elderly couple that they didn't need to bother with me anymore, when elderly lady told me the most touching thing of the day. She said, "No! Of course we'll wait with you. I would have done the same if you were my daughter!" This, from total strangers. God bless sweet, pleasant elderly couples.

Then, I befriended my taxi driver. He was an Indian-Muslim who had spent, I quote, 'A great many years in the country.' He loved cricket, football (only international matches), and recently, snooker and pool. He used to be a bouncer but decided to venture into the ferrying business. Had not stepped into a gym for more than 10 years. I gauged his age to be about 36. Lovely fellow.

Next, thank god for sisters and their husbands to be there for you. Despite jetlag, they drove to see me, a good hour away from them, just to help me find my way about town, helping me to buy my groceries, and then treating me to a nice Chinese dinner. The life.

On a weird dream

2011-09-10T01:31:00.003+08:00

Yesterday I dreamt that it was the end of the world. There would be a great flood. I lead an immense group of people to an island sanctuary, and there we took shelter for some time. And on my bed, there were woodworms, and someone I can't recognize helped me to get rid of them. It was a sort of resort island, with enough food to go around, but after a while, I knew that we had to get moving, so me and my group of trackers went a-galavanting to look for a new place where we could settle. There might have been zombies.

Too weird a dream not to write down. Anxiety maketh my subconscious wander.

On the last day at work

2011-09-02T13:27:00.002+08:00

Here I am, in my cubicle. The next 3-4 hours will be my last here. No more braving the immensely insane and kiasu Bayan Lepas traffic. No more traversing the car park on tip toes and with heart jumping out of throat because of my fear of my many-legged friends. No more riding the slowest lift in the world. No more walking four steps to the left and 45 to the right to head to the pantry for my morning drink. No more waving my cigarette box at my colleagues through their peep hole to invite them for a smoke. No more FrameMaker (for the time, anyway). No more trying to avoid being seen after returning late from lunch.

I've had a great time working at A company. I honestly do feel like I've been spoilt. Although three years hasn't been that very long, for a person who not-too-recently realized that she actually quite loves routine and of late (or many all along) has been having problems accepting change, I'm actually feeling pretty sad. The older I get...

But life must go on. I believe I'll always remember my first job. The click-clacking of keyboards. Chatter in Mandarin from afar. And colleagues who became friends.

On a random childhood memory

2011-08-08T14:59:00.005+08:00

I remember when we were younger, whenever my dad was fixing something, be it the sink, the car, the garden, the pond, pretty much everything, my mum, my sister and myself would try to make ourselves scarce. Really scarce. It wasn't a terribly big house, and yet we managed it. For a while. Till we'd hear him holler blue murder and be forced to come out of our hidey holes.

Why'd we hide? Because the moment he sees you, he'd instruct you. Bring me hammer. Bring me screwdriver. No, not this one, the smaller one. No, no, the flat one. Hold this up.

Then you'd end up standing there, holding a pipe or a wire or the chair he was standing on for a good half an hour before he'd say OK, let go, only to be asked to hold another inane object for the next half hour.

Which is why god gave us women and men who aren't very handy at home repairmen. If he wanted us to fix something ourselves, he'd have given us three arms and the patience of Hiroo Onoda.

Hiroo Onoda, the Jap soldier who didn't receive the memo that WWII was over till 1975. Epitome of sheer discipline and patience.

On nicknames

2011-07-27T16:35:00.005+08:00

I think most of us have childhood nicknames we'd rather forget, till we meet that childhood friend or obnoxious relative (like me!) who would rather die than to let you forget it. Especially us Chinese, who seem to lack ALL political correctness and give each other insulting nicknames.

I have a cousin, he has a proper name and all, and he's all grown up now, but everytime I see him, I never fail to embarrass him by calling him "Ah Boy". It pretty much sends him back to being 12 and covered in snot. Best thing is, we went to the same university, so imagine him walking along the foyer, all popular and hip, girlfriend in hand, surrounded by groupies. Then somewhere from far behind him, someone shouts, "AH BOY!!!!!" Oh I truly enjoyed the pure embarrassment on his face as he turned to acknowledge me. If I were him, I would have just ignored me and ran the hell out of there, but he's a nice guy and all, and he wouldn't bully his cousin this way. I think this is the mildest nickname of all, albeit a little childish.

Then there's my neighbour, Kevin. We grew up together, buddies and all, and we used to call him "Ang Tua". It's Hainanese for leader or something, except that somehow, the term brings to my mind the image of a turtle. I blame him for it. A more degrading nickname for him was "Mong Kang", which meant something like fool in Hainanese. I still occasionally call him that. Why all the Hainanese nicknames? Because he's Hainanese.

One of the best nicknames for another childhood friend would be "Or Too", which means Black Pig. Why? Because he used to be chubby (think he still is), and he has a very dark complexion. Until today, I still think of him as Or Too, although I have since discovered that his real name is Kenny. He's getting married too, I think. Wonder what his wife would think if she found out his husband used to go by the name Or Too.

And my list of childhood nicknames: "Kau Ka Cheng," which sorta means little destroyer. Then there's "Ito Tan," 'ito" meaning to play, because I didn't really like going to school and all, preferring to play with Ang Tua and my toys. "Junior," which Ang Tua used to call me because I think he had a problem pronouncing his Ls. And, probably the most embarrasing one, "Ah Gu," which means cow, because I was born in the year of the ox. Sometimes accompanied by a low moo-ing. Most used by Or Too, I suspect in revenge for calling him a pig. A black one, at that.

On Su Tong

2011-07-24T01:41:00.003+08:00

The moment I open Raise the Red Lantern, I feel like crying and slitting my wrists. That's what it does to me. I ought to stay away from Su Tong.

Just for the sake of updating my blog.

Anyway, if you feel like falling into a fit of depression, try Su Tong's Raise the Red Lantern. My god, it sure as hell puts me into a mood.

On being awkward with people I hardly know

2011-07-07T15:01:00.002+08:00

I am quite a shy person, really. Refer to below post about making the first move. It doesn't have to be a romantic first move, even friendly first moves have me tongue-tied and unable to make coherent sentences.

Here's an example. Earlier today, I was waiting for the lift with a colleague in the same department. I have never said more than a sporadic 'Hi' to him. The lift arrives. We enter. There is the silence no grave can match. Best thing is, our office lift takes a millenia to move. We wait. I give no inkling that I acknowledge his existence. I stare at the panel that indicates the floor number with the interest one would give when watching George Clooney doing karma sutra position #14 with Scarlet Johanssen. Then suddenly, Colleague decides to make a chirpy first move, despite the fact that more than three minutes have elapsed from the time we waited for the lift to the time we actually entered it.

Colleague: Hi, Julia!

Julia: Ohai.

Julia looks at the floor and shifts her feet in embarrassment.

Colleague: How are you?

Julia: Fine, thanks.

A second passes by painfully.

Julia: (mumbling) The weather... haze. (Points at the ceiling of the lift)

Colleague: (Didn't catch the last bit about haze because Julia was swallowing her tongue) Oh yes, very hot.

Julia: (Very uncertain about what to do now) Yes, also got haze... (Points at the ceiling of the lift again)

Colleague: Ya, today very bad.

Julia: Ya, today is the worst.

Finally, sweet finally, the doors open and we walk out, both hurriedly. I suppose my awkwardness is infectious. As we part, I half-turn to him and say at an audible level suitable for a mole, 'See ya', and walk to my cube where I proceeded to dig a hole and die inside.

On piano classes

2011-06-22T15:37:00.002+08:00

I hated piano classes. My parents forced me to take them, and for 12 years, I endured it. My piano teacher hated my guts, swear to god. I, to her, was a fork in her eye. She, to me, was a toadstool growing from my anus.

And I still don't know why my parents forced me to it. I threw tantrums, I cried, I tried to murder the piano, and yet they prevailed. They said, once you start something, you have to finish it. I took the exam for Grade 8 twice. I failed twice. Only then did they say, 'Fine, enough.'

They didn't get the idea that I just wasn't any good at it. My left hand and my right hand were at war with each other. They just weren't synchronized when it came to those ivory and ebony keys. Scales? More like Prelude to the Apocalypse. I had no rhythm, I was very bad at memorizing notes, and I tended to play Fortissimo even when the piano sheet screamed Pianissimo.

It didn't help that my piano teacher, a spinster in her forties (at that time) truly loathed me. She'd hit me with a ruler she kept on her side of the piano. She'd hit me right at the knuckles, the loathsome bitch. She whack my back if my posture wasn't straight enough. She'd air her armpits and flap them with one hand, making phap-ing noises (honest to goodness, she'd do that). She'd shout at me in front of everyone, and she once commented that I was turning into a boy because I cut my hair really short. What did that have to do with playing the piano? Political correctness, some? Lost on her. She, too, endured me for 12 years, a student with absolutely no interest in what she was teaching. Perhaps that was why she hated me. Blame my parents!

Looking back, I'm thankful that I'm able to read notes. I've forgotten a lot of what was taught, especially those alto clefs and whatnot, but I'm still able to read a sheet when I see one. During my heydays, I was able to play Richard Clayderman's Ballade Pour Adeline by heart, and I'm still able to play the intro to Beethoven's Sonata Quasi Una Fantasia (aka Moonlight Sonata) without looking at the sheet. I'm bragging now, I know. So yes, I'm thankful to be able to read notes, but am I thankful for 12 years of agony? Hell no.

On making the first move

2011-06-14T13:28:00.003+08:00

It's not that I don't want to make the first move when I see a cute guy, it's just that I'm not goddamn bold enough. I'm actually quite bashful, even more so when I meet people for the first time.

(Disclaimer: Only when I'm sober. When I've had some to drink, I can talk Chong's head off and meet the randomest strangers)

So last Saturday, I had dinner with my mum and my aunt. We walked to a nearby kopitiam, and on the way back, we decided to stop by at 7-11 because my mum wanted to buy some drinks.

Lo and behold, there was a cute guy paying at the counter. He was tall, a bit Japper-looking, complete with a biker hat and man-boots. Sexy. Boy, could he pull it off.

And by jove, he was looking at me. I don't know if this was because I'm naturally hot, or because of the outfit I was wearing. I had on my bright red singlet which I use to go to the gym with, and my blue and red Hawaiian bermudas which I use to go to sleep with. (Refer to an earlier post in which I mentioned that I am able to go out in my pajamas. Here is one occasion I absolutely regret having done so). I kid you not. That was what I was wearing.

I suppose I should have attempted to smile, but I was afraid he might mistake me for a panda (I had absolutely no make-up on, zilch). And so, he walked out after paying, leaving me staring longingly whilst he zipped past in a black Honda City.

Yes, yes, I know I should have smiled. Making the first move shouldn't be equated to skinning oneself with a rusty spoon or taping one's eyes open for 78 hours.

So I did, today. I saw a cute guy at Borders (an intelligent hottie, how exquisite!). Although he smiled first, at least I didn't immediately turn away and ask to be excused while I run to the nearest toilet to barf out of anxiety. I smiled back :)

SPAT

2011-06-13T22:16:00.004+08:00

I'm thinking of starting a Single People Alone Together club (a rip-off of About A Boy's Single Parents Alone Together club). It's where we single people come together and drink and smoke and socialize (so if you don't drink and you're anal about smokers, fuck off and start your own SPAT).

We'll meet up every weekend and try out pubs and clubs and bistros and cafes, and have witty, slap-stick, funny, and sometimes intelligent conversations, and basically have a good time (minus the emo-ness, you can join an emo single people club for that). What say you? Are you in?

Oh, by the way, the chances of getting laid are very minimal. For that, you probably have to start your own We Only Want Sex (WOWS) club.

How addicted are you to Angry Birds?

2011-06-10T16:51:00.002+08:00

Do you actually feel like staying home on weekends just to play Angry Birds? This means forgoing your miserable social life just so that you can launch birds on little green pigs.

Do you feel like pulling your hair out, throwing your phone on the floor, and stomping on it whenever someone texts you whilst you are playing Angry Birds (especially when you've just launched a bird that has the ability to shit a bomb or split into three useless tinier versions of itself)? Not to mention an intense urge to go to the person who texted you to kick him/her in the shin.

Either I'm very addicted to Angry Birds, or I've got anti-social & anger issues.

Men and hardware shops

2011-06-10T15:10:00.001+08:00

Disclaimer: I'm speaking in general. One broom sweeps all.

When men enter hardware shops, their eyes light up as though they see Megan Fox naked. Honestly. Like how I am drawn to a nail bar or a shoe shop, there's this magnetic pull which draws my dad (I go window-shopping with him every week) into the hardware shop in Queensbay Mall. I try to avoid the wing with the damn shop. If unavoidable, I follow him in equipped with enough yawns to last me a year. Yes, he can stay in the place, enraptured, for hours.

Drills, paint, screws, nuts, bolts, hammers, brushes, and a plethora of hoses and watchamacallits. I view these objects with the disdain a cat shows bowl of salad. If I could, I'd pay someone to change my goddamn lightbulb. Leaking tap? Put a bucket underneath. Shaky chair? Buy a goddamn new one. I'm practical that way.

Now, if I were a man for a day...

2011-06-03T14:23:00.005+08:00

First thing I'd do, I'd fondle my genitals, naturally. I mean, come on. It would be impossible to resist the urge to stick my hands down my pants to check if the plumbing works. You know, spank the monkey, stroke the dolphin, tickle the gorilla, and whatever else animal associated with self-appeasement.

Next thing I'd do, I'd walk into the gent's. It's always fascinated me, how men can pee next to each other in the open. Yeah sure there's this itsy bitsy little urinal sidepiece, which serves as much purpose as Paris Hilton's panties.

Back to the topic. I'd take a piss. Next to another guy. And peep at him. Good god. I suppose I'd have to prepare to run like hell if he decides to be offended.

Oh wait, now that I'm a guy, I can get into fights because my physique (I'm imagining being turned into a fit, 6'2" male with badass facial hair) would allow me to better take hits. I'd probably get into a fight, just for the fun of it. I always tell my mum anyway that if I were born a guy, I'd probably be covered with battle scars.

Then I'd go to the nearest KTV lounge and pick a companion. I'd like to know how it feels to be served hand and foot by an illegal sex worker. Apparently they'd even feed you, how nice. After the party is over, I'd pay her extra to fornicate.

Ooh, I'd also like to know how it would feel like to sit with my legs crossed, you know, testicles and all.

This post is rather vulgar, isn't it? I think I should post warnings at the beginning.

More about hair

2011-05-31T15:32:00.003+08:00

My hair has always been stuck at shoulder-length or collar-bone length. It takes a millennia for it to grow any longer, so I get bored eventually, and chop it all off. However, lately I've been very patient. Mayhaps it's because of the whole waiting for life to begin thing I'm telling myself. Life has yet to begin, so be patient.

And so my hair grows, super-micro-millimeter by super-micro-millimeter. It's finally reached below my armpits. I'm not used to long hair, which is rather paradoxical because my hair didn't just suddenly become long with a snap. I should be accustomed to it being stuck to the straps of my bag, or clamped between my armpits (somehow it happens) by now, but I'm not. The last time my hair was this long was when I was ten -- a lifetime ago.

I'd like to see how long it would be before I get bored again. I'm trying to see if they'd reach my waist or something. It's a bit of a bother to keep, especially when it's wet. I also get a bit worried when I stand near a fan. I believe it was Final Destination part something or other, in which the girl gets her hair stuck in a blender and she is horribly, most horribly, sliced to death? Or was it some other teenage horror movie? Well, the image has been stuck in my mind ever since.

Oh, and last week as my mum was helping me color my hair, she noticed strands and strands of white hair. Woe.

A bit of a continuation from the previous post: I don't care if my uber-hot perfectly hairy guy is poor as balls, I will support him. He can eat my food and I can survive on dust and something that rhymes with mex. So if you see any guy resembling this:

Do let him know.

We can all dream...

2011-05-30T11:21:00.003+08:00

I've decided to create a point system for when I choose a man, just for funs.

Height: 10 points for each 5cm taller than me. So, if he's 170cm, he gets 10 points. 175cm, he gets 20. And so on.

Body: 20 points if he is lean and mean, with a hint of body building. 10 points if he's just lean and mean. 5 points if he's skinny. -10 points if he's anorexic. -20 if he's got Arnie's hey-day body (over-the-top much). -50 if he's got a huge belly and much excess fat.

Hair: 20 points if he's got long-ish hair (which must suit him, of course). 10 points if he's got a mop on his head (which, again, must suit him). -20 points for a crew cut. They remind me of my neighbor.

Facial hair: 20 points if he's got a nice, well-trimmed set of mustache and goatee. 0 points if he hasn't got any. -20 points for chin beard or six strands of hair on his chin.

Hairiness on limbs: 10 points if he's evenly covered with hair. 5 points if it's only his arms and legs. 0 points if he's got even less body hair than what I've got.

Back hair: -5 points

Chest hair: 20 points for a comfortable carpet. 5 points for a meager covering. 0 points if none. -5 points if he's got six strands there which he refuses to a) cultivate more or b) shave off. -20 points if he's covered like King Kong.

Arse hair: -50 points. I know, I know, you can't help it and it's hard to shave there. But it's my point system and I'll rate it as I wish.

Use of facial products: 20 points for nice, sexy, musky aftershave. 0 points if none.

Self hygiene: 20 points if he showers twice or more times a day. -100 points if he showers only once in two days.

Drinking: 20 points if he drinks wine, brandy, whisky, or any of those, you know, manly drinks. 15 if he only drinks beer. 0 if he doesn't drink at all.

Smoking: 10 points. Period.

Tattoo(s): 50 points per tattoo (if nicely done). -100 points for tattoo of an ex girlfriend's name. -500 points if he's got Winnie the Pooh or some other cartoon character on his skin (especially on area above butt).

Personality: He can be a total airhead for all I care if he fulfills all those points. I've got brains enough for the both of us. However, I'll give him 100 points if he actually reads (Dan Brown not included. I don't know why, but I've got something against that guy) and listens to good old rock music (Hoobastank and Nickelback NOT inclusive).

You know, at the end of the day, the chances of me meeting someone who can score highly is pretty much non-existent. And yes, I've got a thing for hair.

Oh hot, cultured men, where art thou hiding?

On facial hair

2011-05-25T15:30:00.008+08:00

See, I'm watching a show right now in which the main actor has the sexiest, sexiest facial hair growth. I wasn't really a big fan of facial hair before this. I guess it's because Chinese men who try to grow facial hair usually end up with six strands of hair on the chin. Very disturbing. Also, many of my friends who have graduated from six strands to twelve, tend to grow what I have found out to be a chin beard:

Chin beard, a.k.a. facial pubes

Looks embarrasingly like pubic hair, yes.

Men who have just the moustache tend to

a) Look like old men

b) BE old men

c) Look like pompous bourgeois asses

This example portrays all three options combined

So I've decided that my idea of perfect facial hair has to be not over the top, you know, and proportionate. Not too heavy on top, not too heavy on the bottom either. Keep it clean at the sides. Like this:

Bad boys so rock my world

Or this:

Boho-chic

The only exception to bottom heavy is:

Not unless you're Brad Pitt you don't

And, well, if you can't seem to grow any facial hair, do shave off those six strands because they kinda spell M-E-A-S-L-Y.

Power outage Julia outrage

2011-05-18T15:30:00.006+08:00

In the span of just one month, my house has been hit by power outages three times. It used to be once a year, but three times within a month is just too much. It made me feel as though I were truly living in a third world country where I had to carry water from a well and light candles at night as a source of light (well... it is still true for certain parts of the country methinks, e.g. Sabah and Sarawak, poor natives). I swear, one more power outage anytime soon would see me calling up the Tanzanian embassy asking them if it would be possible for me to migrate there. I'd just need a flint, a gun and an endless supply of bullets (for lions and hyenas and whatever else that wants to eat me alive), and toilet paper. Hard to imagine life without toilet paper. Since the electric supply is so erratic, what the heck, Tanzania sounds plausible. You don't need electricity in the savannah. When I get bored of running for my life, I'll just head to nearby Zanzibar. Perfect. Screw you, TNB.

After years of living in the savannah, I predict I would have devolved to this.

It's been raining the whole day...

2011-05-12T15:27:00.000+08:00

I wish I was on a (clean) beach under clear blue skies, dipping my feet in the (clean) ocean. This week really flew by, but that's because I've been so terribly busy.

Yesterday, I had back-to-back meetings from 7am till 9am. Too lethargic, I went to the games room to take a power nap at 10-something. It was too quiet for my liking, just the erratic buzz of the central air-conditioning, so I put on some Sergei Rachmaninoff and I fell asleep. The piano's fortissimo (I believe it was Prelude in C Sharp Minor) woke me up an hour later, and had me wondering where the hell I was. That power nap also gave me strange dreams -- that was the extent of my lethargy.

So, the conclusion of this post is, if you want to sleep, and you want some instrumental music playing in the background, Rachmaninoff is NOT the way to go.

Now, back to (a coupla hundred pages of edits) work.

I swear one of these days I'm gonna quit reading the news

2011-05-09T14:21:00.003+08:00

The whole "We're gonna turn Malaysia into a Christian state!" bullshit had me spitting in anger. It's like people are purposely trying to be stupid. Those who believe what Utusan wrote are even stupider. And you know who are the stupidest? Those who believe what Utusan wrote and threaten to take action, giving warnings that they will breach our national security. Man... there goes like a couple of investors? I don't know. All I can say is, I can't wait for the elections.

And then I go the The Star Metro, and I see this:

Forced to cough up RM50 parking fee

THIS is a real case which happened in Penang. We went for dinner in Tanjung Tokong but as the restaurant’s parking lot was full, we parked our car at a nearby food court.

The car park staff took us to the food court’s parking space and as he did not ask for any parking fee, we walked to the other restaurant.

Upon returning to the parking lot, we were stopped by a group of men. One of them told us to pay RM50 parking fee since we did not eat in his food court.

We were shocked over the RM50 parking fee. The man then told us that it was written clearly in the banners that those who refused to pay would have their car wheel chained up.

One of the men then started to ‘lock’ our car wheel with a thick chain.

My friend tried to stop them, asking why they did not inform us earlier since they knew we were going to the restaurant next door. Now, you are just waiting for us to come back to pay the high fee.

The man replied that he had no time to see where the customers were going and scolded us for not seeing the notice.

But since he said the parking space was for the food court customers, we wanted to avoid paying the RM50 fee by going to the place to buy some drinks.

However, he did not want to accept it and ordered his staff to lock up our car.

He also shouted: “I am not scared if you ask state legislators, journalists or even a lawyer for help. You still have to pay!”

In such a helpless situation, my friend surrendered and paid up. This amounts to bullying but what can we do?

I believe we are not the only victims. It could have happened to your friends or relatives but they might not know where to channel their grievances. Please help to publicise this incident.

XINZ,

Penang.

I mean, after going through the superlative of 'stupid', I'm out of words to describe this person! It's not like she went to Tanjung Bungah and got bullied into paying RM5 to some bum in order for her to park by the roadside because she wanted to go the beach. That, my friend, is retarded. No, she parked her car at a private property (for over an hour, mind you) and skipped off to the restaurant next door.

To me, that is equivalent to going to visit your friend, realizing that there is no place to park in front of your friend's house, and parking your car in front of some hapless stranger's house instead. I will publicize this incident alright. I will publicize her stupidity. Why am I so angry? This is because I have been the hapless stranger before. Idiots who want to frequent an eatery nearby sometimes park their car in front of my house, thus leaving me with no place to park my car. Even if I didn't want to park my car there and then, I still don't bloody like it if you park in front of my house! Idiotic.

That's not all. A few weeks ago, I read in The Star online that a woman was slapped because she double-parked her car in KL. Be it woman or man, whoever double-parks and is not attentive to whether the car inside wants to get out, should be slapped. Twice. Again, I had another personal experience with double-parkers. I'm really fine if you double-park, as long as you are there to move your car when I honk or whatever. I parked inside the compound of a shoplot near Queensbay and went for lunch. Lo and behold, when I got back, there was this white car in front of my car. I honked. Nobody came. I honked the shoplot down, and still, nobody came. In the end, I had to maneuver my car out of that parking space with skills my dad would be proud of. I tried to scratch the white car with my keys but didn't have the knowhow to leave any marks.

I don't know why I bother reading the news these days. Everything I read pisses me off.

Gnossienne No. 1

2011-05-05T11:13:00.003+08:00

There were dreams we had when we were young, ambitions. When I was a child, I wanted to be a Paleontologist, I was obsessed about dinosaurs. I used to watch The Land Before Time every single damn day, till the VHS wore out. When Jurassic Park came out, it was like the event of the century for me. Top of my head, I still remember the name of the dinosaur with the longest neck (at that time, circa 1995), Mamenchisaurus. My favourite dinosaur was Triceratops, because it looked so badass with those horns.

Then I grew up a little, and I decided I wanted to be an Egyptologist. I was in absolute awe of a culture carved into the eternal rocks of history, so ancient and enduring. Also, reading The Mask of Ra by Paul Doherty influenced me further. However, home is pretty far from Egypt, and after a while, the sands of this dream blew out of my eyes.

After that, I wanted to be a historian, till I realized that there wasn't much to be made out of being one. So I did more growing up, and decided I wanted to go into journalism. I wanted to pursue a degree in Mass Communication. My mom hated the idea. She didn't think you really needed a degree to be a journalist. I suppose she's right, in a way.

After Form 6, I applied for local universities, and amongst my choices was English Literature. I've always loved reading, and literature was fun for me. And thankfully, it was the course that I got. I breezed through it, although the linguistics part was a pain in the ass.

But in all, what I'm trying to say is, it's a far cry from paleontology, literature is. And at this age, I don't know if I have any dreams left, because I've realized that dreams involve a gratuitous amount of money.

Listening to Satie's Gnossienne No. 1 just makes me so damn depressed. Actually, I believe all the Gnossiennes are depressing.

2011-04-25T13:39:00.002+08:00

Recently, my colleague sent me a booking confirmation for our room for our Borneo trip. The content said bla bla bla, and it ended with a (bold) font size 12 We Look Forward To Welcoming You!! (in Verdana, no less), which gave me an unpleasant flash of Psycho and The Shining. It was too happy. It read like something from a Stephen King book. I would be slightly unhappy if the innkeeper looked like an Asian version Jack Nicholson.

Straits Chinese v Mainland Chinese

2011-04-22T09:46:00.007+08:00

Is there a major difference? I don't know, I've only been to China once, and just a small part of it at that (actually just Zhu Hai and Macau, I went to Hong Kong when it was still part of Britain so I don't think it counts), but I sure didn't like it there. People were pushy, rude, and boy were they loud. I even gave a small girl a back-kick because she was pushing me to go into the lift. Honest to god. Did I feel bad about it? No, on the contrary, I felt smug. Yes I'm a big bully, but she was bloody pushing me! They spoke at the top of their voices, and woe be your ears if you were to pass between two talking people. Stereo surround. Ouch.

I'd like to think that we Straits Chinese, who have been here for generations, have adopted Malay gentleness and English courtesy. My view is that we are more soft-spoken than our mainland counterparts (except when there's alcohol involved, or when my aunts and my mom converse in Cantonese). We queue, goddamit. We say 'excuse me' (or just 'excuse') when we want to walk past you. We only spit when we are at the wet market, or if we're old men, or if there's a drain nearby, or if we've got a really, really bad case of the phlegm. We try not to litter. We've stopped eating dogs, bear gall, tiger penis, pangolin, monkey brain, although animal parts like shark's fin and miscellaneous pig, chicken, cow, and goat parts (bishop's nose and bull penis come to mind) are still part of the select menu. We look at goods made in China with caution (melamine comes to mind).

I'm pretty sure I'm biased, I'm damn sure that what I've written is not entirely true, I've not sampled enough of the population to know, and I sure as hell know that there are exceptions to the rule, but I'm Straits Chinese, and I'm also Malaysian, so I'll stand by my points. Also, I have this nagging thought that I feel so because I can't speak Mandarin.

I know they have the Great Wall and a three-thousand-year-old civilization, but do they have Nyonya kuih in China?

Also totally contradicted my previous post on driving. Heh.

Driving in Penang...

2011-04-21T10:41:00.004+08:00

... is a total bitch. We are selfish, inconsiderate, retarded drivers. Most of us only got our licenses by giving coffee money anyhow. So here's a tip when driving on the island's only highway. Keep left. It gets you to point B faster. Let me explain in Figure 1 below.

Figure 1: Usage of a three-lane highway

As you can see, the right-most lane ought to be the fast lane, but in Penang, it tends to be the slowest. This is because everyone wants to go fast. Everyone thinks that they're going fast, from beat-up old rust sacks to 60-wheel timber trucks. They drive at 60 km/h and their adrenaline's a-pumping, their hearts a-racing. Oftentimes, I see one tiny little Kancil doing 60 km/h on the fast lane, with a loooooong almighty long line of cars following (seemingly) patiently behind. This lane is also for cars who want to overtake the really slow cars moving on the middle lane. However, they overtake by doing 2.5 km/h faster than the middle-lane cars. Not very efficient.

The middle lane is arguably the slowest. The mentality of drivers doing the middle lane is that they're going moderately fast. I mean, 40 km/h on a highway IS moderately fast, innit? They sneer at the ones going really slow on the left-most lane, and they sneer at the ones going really fast (remember, 60 km/h) on the right-most lane, thinking they're such speed demons they'll crash and burn someday. The middle lane however is the most efficient when you are weaving in and out of traffic to overtake retardedly slow drivers. Middle-lane drivers are at least constant, you can cut between them with a space of less than two meters and rest assured, there will still be enough space for you to do that trick.

Then there's the left-most lane, which is the fastest. This is because nobody likes to think they're moving slowly, and the left-most lane is after all the slow lane. Therefore, nobody uses it, except for considerate garbage truckers, good bus drivers, and occasionally the old granny drivers. This is by far the best lane to drive on, because even if you do encounter those really slow cars, you can still cut to the middle lane (remember, middle-lane drivers although slow are constant drivers) and then cut back.

Why I watch football

2011-04-14T14:54:00.002+08:00

Okay, some matches can be thrilling to watch--the excitement, the intensity, the strategy. The thrill is one of the reasons. But the bigger picture is, you have 22 very fit men on the field, running after a ball, groping at each other, testosterone-charged and antsy for a fight.

I repeat. 22 very fit men. Some with very, very tight shirts. And I so love that thing where sometimes they take their kit off after a goal. Awesome. You're wishing that Maria Sharapova did that too, huh. Too bad. Don't mind me whilst I wipe the drool off my chin.

Granted, some of them might look like Tevez. One of them might actually be Tevez, but the probability is that there'd be at least one cute guy out there running in the green. Kaka, Ronaldo, Torres, Muslera, Pique, Fagbregas (oops did I spell it wrong?), Higuain, Forlan, Suarez, Ibrahimovich, Heinze, Robin van Persie, Messi, Casillas, amongst many others.

And anyhow, what's wrong with Tevez? He exudes this raw... caveman aura. Very primitive, very animalistic. Hence, very sexy. Yes, I like them that way too. Puyol, Ozil, Ronaldo (the ugly one), Ronaldinho, Gattuso. Oy, when Gattuso's shorts came off after he slid forward on the grass to tackle a player... that was a sight to behold. Also, youtube football bulge. Nosebleed.

It's like getting all the contestants of America's Next Top Model to play beach volleyball in their tiny bikinis. I get the thrill of a football match, including 90 minutes of pure ogling to boot. Life can be sweet.

The process of forgetting

2011-04-05T10:20:00.004+08:00

First, you forget what you used to say to each other in the silence of a car, over a meal, over a cigarette. You forget the topics that ran through your tropical mind, you forget the random things he used to say. You forget how you used to talk to him, and you soon forget how to talk to him that when you encounter him again, you are at a loss for words and he would think that you've changed. You haven't. Only your memory has.

Then you forget his voice, and even though technology has made things so much easier, you still won't pick up the phone to call him, because you can't. You forget what he sounded like, his tones and thrills, how his voice would be at a higher pitch when he was excited, and short and curt when he was annoyed. You forget how sad he sounded when he called you late one night when things were still good between the both of you, you forget how depressed he always sounds anyhow.

Slowly, you forget how he looks like. You forget how he looked at you with an irresistible melancholy, you forget how many moles he has, you forget which direction he parts his hair, you forget how surprisingly soft his hair was, you forget how rough his stubble was against your lips, how it made your mouth red like you just smeared wine all over your jaw. You still remember the sort of clothes he used to wear because it's always the same damn thing, you remember details down to the color of his laces, but you can't remember how tall he was.

Lastly, you forget those little things, the sound of his footsteps, his stupid idiosyncrasies, his dreams, his favorite food. You forget thinking about how things could have been if you had handled it differently. You forget to miss him, and you forget to regret, but on bad days, you wonder if you've even forgotten anything at all.

How he smells like, you'll always remember. Stale cigarette breath and a scent like comfort.

Wordsworth under the stars

2011-04-03T14:22:00.006+08:00

Oliver and I tried out best to wipe the deck chairs dry (it had drizzled earlier during dinner but the stars were out now) and laid down to just look at the sky. He had studied literature as well, and I was enthralled by being quoted Wordsworth under the stars, absolutely enthralled. I counted four shooting stars, and made more wishes.

We couldn't stay out too late because we had to wake up early to check in at the immigration hut the next morning, so after goodbye hugs, Mann Chyun and I went back to our room and slept. With the light on. Because I was too scared to turn it off.

(On a side note, at night, the hotel's CCTV looked like the eye of Sauron, all red and burning with eagerness)

The next morning, we checked in, had breakfast, took our showers, and checked out. I dipped my feet in the clear waters of Lipe for one last time, and climbed in the boat. I'm a sucker for clear waters and meeting travelers who can quote poetry. I loved Lipe in 2011.

So long, farewell, it's time to say good-bye

In which we make a new friend and discover that politics and alcohol don't gel

2011-04-03T13:34:00.004+08:00

Our new friend was German, and had been making nearly annual pilgrimages to Koh Lipe. He had been on the island for two weeks, and said that we were absolutely lucky because it had been raining all the while. We settled on a beachside bar, lying down on Thai mats with a beer in one hand and the stars in the other. That was when I vomited the bile of Malaysian politics to a foreigner in a foreign land, entrenched in alcohol and uninhibited. The morning after, I felt that I had talked too much cock, and felt abashed.

We decided to go on an island hopping tour the next day, if the weather permitted. It did. It was drizzling on Koh Lipe when we boarded our private longtail boat, but by the time we arrived on the designated snorkeling spot, the sun was shining albeit weakly through the clouds. We snorkeled, and discovered that there were invisible organisms nipping at us all over our bodies. Fellow male traveler and I were stung, whereas fellow female traveler claimed that because she's a bit darker-skinned than us, she wasn't affected. It's a rather creepy feeling, you start to get paranoid because you're getting stung all over by things you can't see. Later on, German friend would explain that he had no idea what it was either, but the more splashes you made in the water, the likelier you are to be stung. I made a fucklot of splashes whilst clinging on to male traveler out of fear of sharks, which might explain why we both got stung.

We spent two hours on Koh Ravi because there were so many fishes and we had too much fun playing with them to leave. By then, we were tired of swimming, and decided to skip the next snorkeling spot to head back to Lipe.

Male traveler and I had another massage, while female traveler pigged out in the room.

After taking a nice, long shower, we all took a nap from which male traveler and I woke up realizing that we were both sunburnt (fellow female traveler said that she was too dark to be sunburnt, lucky her).

We went for dinner at a family restaurant where we sort of said that we'd rendez-vous with German friend, and pleasantly enough, there he was, having some pla-muk (I can't get over that word, it means squid).

After dinner, we invited German friend over to our hotel because we bought beer from Langkawi and couldn't possibly finish it all by ourselves. We passed by a lady selling paper lanterns usually used for Tet, and decided to buy one and release it for a wish.

Oliver and lantern

I wished for luck, Oliver wouldn't tell me what he wished for

We then decided to settle on the deck chairs by the beach, whilst Mann Chyun decided to hunt for souvenirs and Kevin went back to our room to grab the beer.

End of part two.

How anyone can get lost on a tiny island such as Koh Lipe is beyond me

2011-04-03T10:57:00.015+08:00

The immigration office is a hut

But that was what happened to us anyway. Upon arriving and checking in at Koh Lipe, we decided to go for a dip in the sea. But genius Tan here decided that the beach in front of our hotel might not be good enough, and suggested that we look for the other two beaches: Sunrise Beach and Sunset Beach. So, we took a walk past Walking Street, on the advice of a friendly traveler who said that everything is goddam nearby. You just walk to the end of Walking Street and voila, you will hit the next beach. Bullshit.

Guy with his back turned to us, partially hidden. He said 'Just walk straight and you'll reach the other side of the island.'

We got to the end of the street alright, where we were met by a fork in the road. One side said Sunrise Beach, the other Sunset. Seeing that it was already late afternoon and we had good weather, I decided on Sunset Beach, with hopes that we might catch the sunset there. So we walked. And walked. And walked.

Still no beach. And it's a tiny island, mind you.

The sun was beating us down, we had to climb uphill and downhill past tsunami evacuation points (at least we got that covered). After some time, I saw that the ground was filled with the dead bodies of my many-legged nemeses. I started to panic a little. Then, further inland, we started seeing live ones. Big, huge, motherfucking live ones. Screams came naturally, as well as digging my nails into a fellow male traveller.

Finally, the path ended at a construction site. No more path to walk on. Asking for directions in minimal Thai, the lady pointed to somewhere down the road, so we decided that was where we were going to go. Retrace our steps, surely there'd be a sign somewhere (road signs are non-existent, all you get are scribbles on wood). We passed by a village which we had ignored earlier on, and decided to take a turn into it, walking past the stilted houses of the Chao Ley, hoping and praying that they won't machete us for trespassing.

Then we found the beach. And it was a sorry sight. Mayhaps it was due to the rain, but rubbish littered the coastline. Planks with nasty nails from a misconstrued BDSM nightmare glared at us from the sand. A few weary travellers asked us if we knew any nice hotels, they must have hiked here to be disappointed as well. So, we trudged back, over hill and dale and nemeses galore, till we finally reached our beach and plopped on the deck chair and died.

Pattaya beach, our beach

And revived and went for a dip and then a beautiful oil massage.

We had two beers (male traveler and I; the other female traveler wisely avoided drinking on an empty stomach), then proceeded for dinner where male traveler and I had another big bottle of beer. After dinner, we stopped at a pub because I needed to pee, and we had yet another mug of beer. By then, I was properly tipsy, and walking back to the beach (we wanted to look at stars, by god they were beautiful), on a street nearly devoid of tourists, we bumped into this nice looking guy, and because I was properly tipsy, I asked him to join us for a beer by the beach.

Slightly desolated at night

End of part one.

Nedjma

2011-03-30T22:38:00.004+08:00

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.

2011-03-30T14:13:00.003+08:00

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.

2011-03-19T02:44:00.003+08:00

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.

How the fuck did I write this?

2011-03-17T23:06:00.001+08:00

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.

2011-03-16T16:23:00.003+08:00

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

http://www.21stcenturydental.com/smith/education/ulcers.htm

"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."

2011-03-16T15:40:00.002+08:00

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.'

Are you an Index Finger or a Pinky?

2011-03-15T22:17:00.003+08:00

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.

2011-03-09T10:27:00.003+08:00

I can write Chinese too!

我很认真地无聊

我敢打赌，你谷歌翻译它

如果你没有，你真行

谷歌翻译，无论如何吸

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!

2011-03-08T16:00:00.003+08:00

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.

2011-03-03T09:27:00.003+08:00

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.

2011-02-28T15:20:00.003+08:00

Why you should never trust Wikipedia.

2011-02-24T14:23:00.002+08:00

No, I won't consider today a good day. Breakfast was good enough, I had my Chee Cheong Fan with my mum and dad. Coming to work was good enough (except for this lady in a blue Atos who honked me because she wouldn't let me cut into her lane, I suppose I deserved it even though I signaled). I opened my Outlook and the e-mails were tame enough. I almost fell asleep (actually I did fall asleep) during a meeting, but it was okay, I pretended that nobody saw. That was fine enough.

Then at eleven a.m., I headed to the gym. I put on my socks and was rummaging through my bag for my shorts when I realized that I brought two shirts instead. I believe I laughed out loud at my stupidity.

Miffed, I trudged back to my cubicle, where all of a sudden I was inundated by a tsunami of nostalgia. Yes, I must delete nostalgic e-mails. I must.

Now I'm drawing a bloody complicated diagram for work, with this stupid song by Good Charlotte blasting in my head. Silly thing is, I refuse to listen to or think of any other song. And I really should get back to work.

2011-02-18T18:23:00.002+08:00

Lying spread-eagle on my bed, I remember something I used to do as a kid. I used to lie down stock still, eyes open and unblinking and fixed at a spot, pretending that I was dead. Then I'd lie there and wait for someone to pass by and notice. By the time anyone did, my eyes were red and dry and my limbs were already aching. I don't know what I tried to achieve back then. Probably a cheap shot at attention. Maybe I was practicing to be an actress, or a professional cadaver. I was a pretty morbid child, I think.

2011-02-18T10:38:00.003+08:00

You know, I should really get rid of mementos from past relationships and non-relationships (the ones that almost materialized but we spoke too soon of the end). I do throw out a lot of things, texts, e-mails, chat histories, but there are still remnants that I ought to SHIFT+Delete. Some of them are old enough for me to feel anything except a tinge of nostalgia. Some of them are pretty recent but I wasn't that in love to feel anything except a tinge of nostalgia. Some of them are old enough but I still get knots in my tummy, breathing in shadows. Some of them are quite recent and I get knots in my tummy, shrapnel under my skin.

Decisions can suck sometimes.

2011-02-16T10:36:00.003+08:00

Yesterday night, a cockroach which I shall name Darcy appeared in my bathroom whilst I was about to take a shower.

Naturally, I screamed for my mom to kill it, but by the time she arrived, Darcy had already scooted to safety. Perturbed and disgusted, I took my shower anyhow, eyes always on the floor just in case Darcy decides that he needs a shower as well. He never showed, thankfully.

Later on, my mom went to use the bathroom, and after that she told me that she had successfully managed to kill Darcy. I was skeptical. I told her, I didn't believe her, she was saying it just to make me feel better. She asked me if I didn't hear the whopping sounds of a roll of newspaper continuously hitting the floor (because cockroaches are so goddamn hard to kill), I said no. She said well she kilt it anyway and flushed it down the toilet. I was still skeptical.

Darcy might still be alive. You know how they never really die. How about Darcy's 289 wives and 5000 children? They're all there, waiting, watching. One of these days, as I sit down on the toilet bowl, they might just jump out and greet me, ultimately causing me to make a mess of myself.

Note: Whilst googling cockroach images, I had to hold back my vomit. NEVER google images of cockroaches. Brrr. You've been warned.

2011-02-11T21:20:00.003+08:00

I am capable of listening to the same song over and over and over and over and over again, yes I am.

2011-02-10T14:18:00.003+08:00

I could go to a mall in my home clothes aka pyjamas. Here's proof:

That was about five years ago, and we went to Red Box. And I could still do it now. Matter of fact, I just did it last week. The trick is to pray really, really hard that you don't bump into anyone you know. Also, profusely keeping one's head down helps to avoid stares. I could go anywhere in my pyjamas, really.

2011-02-09T18:56:00.003+08:00

All these years of frying, steaming, and marinating fish, and I never knew that I was consuming something that was mind-altering.

Methinks the writer took some mind-altering substances before he wrote that.

2011-02-08T23:50:00.002+08:00

I reckon that I've got a very bizarre sense of humor. For example, I just laughed out loud at this line from Rankin's Retromancer:

"Achtung! Achtung! Achtung!"
"What is all this achtunging?"

And I laughed so loud it made my mother turn and look at me strangely, for the TV was on and what was showing wasn't in the least funny (it was a Korean talk show and I understand jackshit Korean). So I guess that the older I get, the stranger my behavior becomes. Laughing at not-very-funny-things, being averse to door handles, being obstinate about using the online banking service to pay my credit card bill. That's just the tip of the iceberg.

2011-02-06T18:27:00.003+08:00

Some movies, watched under certain circumstances, make you feel like sitting down and reflect on life.

I woke up after one p.m. today, and by the time I ate and took a shower and finished farming on facebook (whatever), it was already three p.m. So, remembering that I downloaded The Painted Veil (which I read before I watched it almost five years ago), I decided to watch it. I remember the book was somewhat different from the movie, not romantic at all, but it was a good read nonetheless. The movie had much more romance, and with the soundtrack and the brilliant acting, by the time it ended I was crying. And it's the type of movie which makes you hate the ending because you fell in love with the characters, and it had to end tragically.

So yeah, it made me feel somewhat emotional and depressed. After watching the movie, I came out of my room. This was about five p.m. and the house was dark because nobody had bothered to turn on the lights. The sun was setting, plus it was rather cloudy outside, so there was this melancholic feel to it. To add to that, it's CNY season, and I always feel melancholic during this time of the year.

So some movies make me want to reflect on life. If I could be arsed, I would of driven to the beach and sat down by my onesies. But I'm ageing, therefore I'm getting lazier, so I'll just sit at the swing on my porch. That would suffice.

2011-02-04T02:20:00.001+08:00

Whee wang wang?

2011-02-02T00:20:00.002+08:00

So yeah I'm sitting here wondering why I'm alone, listening to stupid sad songs, a bit of wine and more beer waiting for me. 26 this year, each passing day reminds me of how dear life is. I just want to quit everything and go pick apples in a place where they grow them. New Zealand, maybe. Maybe I watch too many movies, maybe I read too many books, on one hand I am comfortable where I am, and on the other I feel that life is too short for trivialities.

I could pick apples for half a year, then move to another country and be a fisherman for another half a year. Somehow, I don't know which movie or book it was (could have been the one that starred Julianne Moore, Shipping News or something, I'm too lazy to google it), I've always wanted to be a fisherman in Newfoundland or Norway.

And I'm thinking to myself, 2011 started off with such a bang, all that travelling, why the sudden let go of steam? Fucking hormones.

2011-01-18T14:17:00.002+08:00

My phobia of millipedes have worsened so much that now I have to resort to parking at the multi-storey car park at work because the outdoor parking area at my building is simple INFESTED with them.

I always thought that as I grew older, these phobias would lessen. Just like my phobia of the dark and my phobia of ghosts. Now, I only get seriously creeped out if I read a Stephen King book or watch a mildly scary movie (I don't even bother watching those really scary ones, I just end up reading the subtitles). I used to be unable to sleep on my own or stay alone at home. At least, now I can. Most of the time anyway.

But millipedes. This phobia has grown absurdly worse. I blame it on my sister, who infected me with this phobia as a kid. She was the one who was afraid of them first, then she made me afraid of them too, somehow. It's her fault anyway because she's older.

I used to be able to go running about on a grassy field, blissfully unafraid. Now I avoid grass (which probably hide a few thousand millipedes) like the plague.

I recognise the scent they emit if you disturb them, and if I ever smell it around me, my hair will rise and I will start to mildly hyperventilate. When I used to park at the outdoor car park, every morning without fail my palms would get sweaty and my heart would race to 200 beats a minute. I'd have to close my mouth so that my heart wouldn't jump out.

So I predict that by the time I turn 50, I would never leave my room on the 101st floor, and if I ever do need to go out, I'd be walking on specially made stilts. Either that, or I'd have migrated to the North Pole.

And oh, my ultimate worst nightmare: millipedes with wings. God. If they ever evolve wings, just kill me.

2011-01-17T23:35:00.003+08:00

This is pretty amazing. I know a guy who knows me so well, he can help me recall a lost memory. An example is, I was telling him that I'm paranoid about people chopping me into little pieces to make char siew pau (which is true, by the way). Then he said he's afraid of that as well, but he'd probably be dead by the first chop. And I replied, you never know, like that movie with movie with whatshisname (I couldn't remember the movie title nor the name of the actor), and I told him that my memory is very bad these days. And he immediately replied, "That Jerry Butler movie?"

Wow. It could have been so many movies and he got it right. And I don't recall ever telling him that I watched that movie. I'm still reeling with amazement. People are so funny sometimes.

2011-01-11T18:47:00.005+08:00

Those little things I hate:

Bad breath.

Morning breath.

People who don't brush their teeth before bed. Gross. The only time I don't brush my teeth before bed is when I'm piss passed out drunk.

If you yawn in my direction. Refer to bad breath.

If you sneeze in my direction, after which I will give you the very evil eye.

Eye booger. Gross.

Nose booger. Gross.

Wiping eye booger and nose booger on things other than a tissue. Tissues were created for a purpose, use them!

Door handles.

Eye booger. Worth mentioning again because for some odd reason, I really, really find eye boogers disgusting. Mayhaps it's the greenish, yellowish, or whitish colour, which reminds me of pus. Mayhaps it's the sticky, gooey, texture. Anyhow, eye boogers are numero uno gross.

Pus.

Millipedes. I hope that they all die fiery, torturous deaths.

2011-01-07T14:45:00.004+08:00

Here's a recap of 2010.

I broke up with my boyfriend of three years. I'm loving the freedom as well as the boredom that ensued. We're still great friends, at least I hope we are. I'm not ready for any relationship yet, and I don't see myself being ready in the near future. By the time I'm actually ready, I might look like this:

But it's cool. I'll just have to pick up table penis. Tennis.

I went to England to visit my sister, and I'm determined to do my Masters there. Hopefully write a masterpiece while I'm at it as well. Great dreams I have.

I won in a group office pool competition! And I really suck at the game! I guess some people suck even more.

I broadened my horizons and experienced new feelings with new people, which did not end favourably. But we live and we learn.

I got another tattoo.

I went on a trip to Langkawi with my besties and drank copious amounts of beer.

I went chasing after a Korean actor in Changi airport and got into a scuffle whilst trying to get his hand print, all the time wondering what the hell I was doing.

I made a promise to myself to try to meet new people every weekend. So far, the going's been good. It's fun to meet random strangers and talk and drink. Like that time during Oktoberfest where we met this old German guy. Really random.

My best friend gave birth to a beautiful boy, who will turn 1 in less than three months! Here's a picture I stole from her Facebook:

I had my first ever surprise birthday party, and my friends damn near scared the shit out of me. I was so happy I almost cried. Could have been the aftershock, but meh, it was all good.

Christmas gets less and less exciting every year. I suppose it will stay that way till my sister has kids. Children are so much more excited about fat men in red suits and a green tree with boxes underneath. Christmas made me want to be a child again - I remember sitting on the porch with my parents, drinking reindeer shandy, and waiting for midnight to put baby Jesus in the nativity set we had. What happier times.

I found that I lost something dear to me, and it's true how they say you don't realize what you have till you lose it. It's the ship that I wish I had got on, even for a day.

I had my fourth trip to Korea and absolutely loved it, so much that I'm considering actually working there. That would make my mum very, very happy. I had my soberest New Year's eve ever since I discovered alcohol. I also 'upgraded' my tattoo, and I'm already wondering what I should get for my next one.

And now I'm back to work! Oh wait, there's that Siem Reap trip next weekend. Heh heh. Beautiful start to 2011. One year left to the end of the world, according to my sister (who badly wants to pair me up with a friend who has four Ks for his initials). Her randomness is absolutely uplifting. She should realize how much happiness she brings to our lives and STOP WORRYING ABOUT THINGS.

Tonight, I will drink to a great 2010, and an even greater 2011. May you smile a lot this year.

More dreams

2010-10-08T14:49:00.003+08:00

More randomness. I dreamt of being somewhere in America (because that's where things like this happen), wide-leaved trees, and a small town. I dreamt of being inside a random old man's house, and there was this wicked strong wind blowing outside. He asked us (there were several of us, although I cannot remember if I actually know these people in real life) to go inside the tornado shelter underground because the wind was so strong it was ripping young trees off the ground. The shelter was connected to his neighbour from across the street's shelter. Then I woke up, mumbling something like 'Ignore.' Weird. Just had to put this down in words, because I will forget about it.

2010-10-01T10:14:00.003+08:00

How I ended up dreaming of being on a cruise ship and getting stranded on a rock, almost being eaten by a bright blue Mako shark, and a hot Italian guy saving me and serving me dinner on said cruise ship.

Earlier in the day:

I was marking an essay my 10-year old student wrote about his holiday. He spent it on a cruise ship with his family.

I was looking through some Facebook profiles, and came across this Italian dude who looked like an Adonis. Also had pictures of his fab body in speedos. Nice.

The shark was totally random. Bright blue, at that.

2010-09-01T10:32:00.002+08:00

I've always had a pet peeve with the term 'lai sa sam', loosely translated as 'dirty discharge' from Hokkien. In many cultures and religions, the female menstruation is regarded as unclean, dirty, et cete-fucking-ra. Okay, it's blood. It's just blood. It's not like we're excreting shit from our vaginas. Now that's dirty. Shit's dirty. You die from eating shit. I've yet to hear of anyone dying from consuming menstrual blood.

I wonder where this idea of lai la sam came from. Was it because men didn't fancy the idea of having sex with a woman who was bleeding from her vagina, and were so frustrated that they had to abstain from sex for a few days every month that they decided to term this very natural phenomenon of the female body as dirty? Or did women have worse PMS back then? Suffer the men.

Granted, a pad full of blood is not exactly a sight to behold, but neither is an underwear with skid marks, or a toilet bowl full of shit. Personally, I'd prefer looking at blood to shit.

2010-08-02T14:59:00.001+08:00

There are times when you clench your fists and hold them high in the air atop a mountain in your head and shout, "I will not give in!" only to find yourself in a deep ravine the next day because you did.

2010-06-22T10:05:00.003+08:00

I've been listening to Rachel Yamagata's 'I Wish You Love' the entire morning, and it brings me back to a cold winter's night, a smoke, lost hope, and the anxiety of seeing someone again.

I got to thinking yesterday, and I came up with an analogy: love and relationships are like ships. Some you get on, find that it's not what you like, and get off at the next port. Some you are comfortable with, and you know you'd brave storms and hurricanes on it because it's a good ship. You'd fix it if it leaks, paint it when its colours fade. Some are big ass cruise ships, with a pool and all. Some throw you off board with a life jacket. Some throw you off board without one. Some you'd rather jump off of.

And then there are those you should have gotten on, but you didn't, or rather you screwed it up by buying the wrong damn ticket or something, and you can only watch and wave as it passes you by.

2010-06-15T13:00:00.002+08:00

I remember questioning myself with another friend four years ago. I told him that I wondered if I'd still be shouting at the players during World Cup matches four years from then, because I'd be 25 and older. He replied that it's not you stop having fun because you grow old, you grow old because you stop having fun.

I guess he had faith in me, because I think I'm louder now. Go Brasil!!!!!!!

2010-06-09T09:40:00.002+08:00

Whenever I read anything in English or Malay (and to an extent, French), I can imagine the sound of the word in my head. I can picture how my tongue would move in my mouth to make that sound.
But whenever I see a text in Chinese, all I hear in my head is white noise. Kinda like fshhhhhhhhhffffshhhhhhfssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhffffffffshhhhhhhh. Dang.

2010-06-01T10:23:00.002+08:00

So, what does 'piri' mean in Juspeak?

Piri is basically a chirpy 'Hi!'

Piri-piri, on the other hand, is more of a cry of success. You go 'piri piri!' after surviving a gruelling day of work.

Anyhullabaloo, singledom is an exuberance of freedom. When I want to go out, I'll call out everybody and see if anybody's free. When nobody is, then I'll just stay home and sulk. I don't have to commit to any single person, and I'm lucky that I have awesome family, friends and colleagues.

The best thing is, after much contemplation, I'm not afraid of ending up alone at 50. Easily said when I'm still young, and most of my friends are still single. However, being alone is fine, because I won't be lonely. I'll always have Stephen King, Haruki Murakami, Roald Dahl and etc. to keep me company.

And I hope that Corsica has a nunnery. Or an old folk's home.

2010-05-13T14:11:00.001+08:00

Bagus, next month World Cup starts. Six-hour time difference. Time to stock up on sleeping pills, sleep at 7pm and wake up at 2.30am for the matches. Yahoo! Go Brazil! Go North and South Korea! Go Malaysia! Malaysia boleh!

On getting a second tattoo

2010-04-12T13:33:00.002+08:00

After swearing off tattoos upon getting my first one, I conviniently forgot about the pain and went and got a second one. Some people never learn.

However, in retrospect, the second one on my outer thigh did not hurt as much as the first one did, which is on my shoulder blade.

I even had some colouring done! The tattooist, Fun, put in some white to make my tattoo, a dragonfly, more lifelike I suppose. But anyhow, it's gorgeous and I love it.

Plus, it's cheap. Stretch your fingers from thumb to pinkie. My tattoo is relatively that long. All for RM200+. It felt less stressful and less painful because I had a friend there to chit chat with me and basically distract me from the pain.

I received some comments about getting a second tattoo. Someone asked, what if I'm 50 and decide that I don't like it anymore? My answer to that was it symbolizes something to me. It's not just some random tribal design. Penny the Phoenix means perseverance. She's also my good luck charm. And yes, other people might have the same design, but it's just like owning a cocker spaniel. There are thousands upon thousands of other cocker spaniels out there, but your own merry cocker is special, innit? Draco the Dragonfly (bear with me, I know they're corny names) means freedom, you know, life is short. It goes deeper than that but I won't go into it.

Someone else said that the thigh area is not lady-like. Whatever.

Other friends and my mom herself said that getting it on the thigh means that I can't show it off to the world. I'm not getting it to show, unless I happen to go swimming. At least I can see this one. I have to crane my neck just to see Penny, and even then, I can only see the tips of her right wing.

So maybe my next one, I'll get it to show. If I do get another one. Bad thing is, the dragonfly didn't really hurt and it sure as hell did not put me off getting another tat!

2010-04-09T17:22:00.002+08:00

It's one of life's little idiosyncrasies. When you're too early to get to some place, all the lights are green and the traffic is a purring kitten. You try to drive as slow as you can and yet you're half an hour early.

But when you're late, you forget something important and have to go back to get it. Then every damn traffic light you face turns red. Not only that, but the drivers all seem like they're driving on a Sunday morning. Jams occur for no damn reason, and by the time you arrive, you've missed the train.

On doors

2010-04-07T16:02:00.001+08:00

Don't slam unless you're pissed.

Some doors don't stay closed, no matter how badly you want them to. They're supposed to be shut because they lead nowhere, and them being adamant about being ajar, good things tend to slip through, like cool air from the air conditioning or a bit of your heart. These doors, keys don't work. So after numerous attempts of trying to keep them shut (from putting up obstacles to pretending that the damn door don't exist), you give up and end up walking in and out of that door, eventually cultivating a habit out of it. And each time you pass through that door, a big ass splinter impales you on your cheek. You just hope that one day, that door will lead to somewhere and you don't have to unsuccessfully try to shut it anymore. Hope kills. Watch that cheek.

Some doors you close them and you forget what it was like being inside that room. You forget about the fuzziness and wonders of it. And it slips to the back of your head. Some days you are reminded of it, but just as soon forget. Some doors are not worth remembering.

Some doors remain open for some time. Like a trapdoor spider, it hopes to lure you in and steal a bit of you. Stay away from this open door, it will eventually, as is normal, give up on you.

Some doors remain open all our lives, till the hinges rust and the wood rots. It will never be closed to you. Every time you are sad or feel pathetic, pass through this door and everything will seem fine again. And although you can't stay forever, it will always be accesible to you.

And some doors have been locked to you. They say this door will never open. In which case, buy a chainsaw. After all, humans are curious beings, neh?

2010-04-05T14:11:00.002+08:00

I was once told a story about a boy I knew who sniffed his mother's panties when he was a young boy. Years later, and I still remember this story. I doubt that I'll ever forget it.

Recently I've been seeing his pictures all over Facebook, and although he's grown up not too bad looking, lovely long hair and all, Christ, this guy sniffed his mom's undies. How fucking gross is that?

You know, I don't want to know if he sniffed them clean or used. It's waaaay too deplorable to imagine.

2010-04-04T14:36:00.006+08:00

I was curious if Penang had any cute guys left. Below was the result.

Sigh.

2010-03-31T18:45:00.002+08:00

You know, it's amazing, these social networking sites. Especially Facebook. Now we're all a certain degree of stalkers. You can find anybody, you can see anybody, and you can know so much about anybody.

And the thing is... there are so many hot chicks on Facebook.

Okay maybe it's the make up or camera angle or lighting. Whatever. They still look damn hot on those pictures. It's not like they're ever going to meet everyone on their friends list, so I'll assume that those who rely heavily on superficial effects to look hot in those pictures are deluding a lot of people whom they've never met.

Today, out of boredom, I clicked on an old friend of mine, and holy cow has he got a superhot girlfriend. She's so hot, I OD-ed on her hotness and puked. Yeah. I'm not gonna share the link.

Anyway, one of the first few things that popped into my head was, 'A man-whore I know would most definitely do her.'

And then I realized that lately - or maybe it's been going on for a while and I never really noticed - oftentimes I see a gorgeous girl on Facebook, I'd think that way. And if I see a not-so-hot-girl-trying-real-hard, I'd think, 'Nahhhh... he won't. Well, maybe.'

It's not healthy to think that way! And it's not healthy to stalk people either!

But goddamn, it's so easy.

I'm watching you.

Because I'm a nostalgic pig.

2010-03-29T16:24:00.002+08:00

I was looking to rediscover myself, so I decided to revisit my old blog. I was funnier back then.

When you sleep in class, always close your mouth.

Monday, July 24th, 2006

It was a boring lesson. Badly lit hall. Lecturer was speaking too softly. He had his funny moments, though. My eyes I’d blink and they’d stay closed. So I rested my cheeks on my palms, elbows on the table. Promptly fell asleep. Woke up about quarter of an hour later and the page in front of me was pretty darn wet. There was still a trail of saliva from my mouth to its destination. Thank god I was sitting alone. Honestly.
An observation. Body language is interesting. Why do people, particularly males, have this need to assert their dominance over others? This morning we had class with a group of teachers who were ‘back to school,’ so to speak. These were some old birds. Our lecturer, male, could call him experienced, asked one of the teachers to stand in front of class to present some stuff on morphology and morphemes. When the old bird was up there, said lecturer, who was still standing, put his leg up on a chair, posing ala Legolas or Will Turner. Doh. Maybe I misinterpreted it. Perchance he was just airing his balls.
But even in normal conversations. We can only be comfortable with people once the dynamics of dominance and submission are established. Only when we fit into the roles we subconsciously set for ourselves, can we truly say that we belong to a particular group. Human nature. Strange shit. Boring post. Boring days.

-- end

So if you are too bored, do visit http://crazyfrog.blog.friendster.com/2006/07/ for some laughs.

2010-03-27T02:59:00.003+08:00

So I'm home, after two lovely weeks of holiday. I did so much. Went to Cornwall, went hiking here and there with my family, had a great time. The coast is so beautiful, the views spectacular. We relieved boredom at night by playing Road Rage on the console or watching Lord of the Rings, 1, 2, and 3. The days flew by so quickly, it was unbelievable.

Then I went for a rock concert at the Royal Albert Hall, alone, and it was a wonderful experience. Would have been perfect if I had someone with me, but it was nonetheless awesome.

The next day, slightly hungover, I went on a train ride to Manchester for a measly 5 hours just to visit Dan, who thought that I would be staying for the night. We had some confusion there, heh. Dan, I'm still waiting for those dumplings.

The day before I had to come home, we went shopping at The Oracle, and I went bonkers at Primark. Yes, I'm cheap. Whatever. We had a Dog Whisperer marathon at night, and I totally respect Cesar Millan. I'm going to get his book when I get the chance to do so.

And finally, the sad day came to leave England. My sister, my dad and I ended up playing Big Two the entire afternoon in some sort of bonding session whilst my mom sat at the living room playing with her iPhone. I guess it was a dysfunctional family moment. We had a really early dinner and we were off to the airport.

And here I am, home. Hot, jetlagged and swarmed by memories. Will I go back? Without a doubt. I'll need to work crazy hard for it though, and I will. God willing.

2010-03-21T16:00:00.002+08:00

The lousy thing is, here, at this time of year, it gets light earlier. So every morning I wake up, look at how bright it is outside and think that it must be quite late.

I'm usually wrong. It always turns out to be 6-7am when I check the time. And I usually can't go back to sleep again.

2010-03-14T06:52:00.003+08:00

I'm in England again, and either it's a damn cold year or I've gotten older, because I feel really really out of my brains cold. Nothing much has changed in Reading. I'm just trying to take more pictures to better document my trip, but it's so cold, I am wont to take my hands out of my pockets.

We spent the whole day travelling today, getting to St Ives which is in Cornwall. It's right at the south-western tip of England and it took us an entire day to get here, with the constant stops and the very long stop at Wells City to have a look at the medieval Wells cathedral. More about that when the pictures are up.

Unfortunately, by the time we arrived at St Ives, it was already dark and I couldn't get a good view of the Atlantic ocean and the surrounding environs, but there's still a week to go. We're lodged in a comfortable town house but it's sorta funny shaped so we gotta watch our heads to avoid banging against the awkward angled beams. Casualties so far: Mom, 1. Josephine, 2.

I'm just told the itenarery, and we're going to some outdoor theater tomorrow for a look see. Maybe we could explore St Ives a little as well.

Note: On the highway, everybody keeps to the left-most lane; the middle lane is used when you are travelling moderately faster than a truck, and nobody keeps to the far right lane for long. You just cut and move back to the middle lane. The entire damn stretch of right lane is always virtually empty. Awesome, innit.

2010-03-10T19:17:00.002+08:00

I've been so busy these past two weeks. Although I planned to stay home at night, I always failed to do so. Except on Tuesdays that is. I teach tuition to a bunch of kids on Tuesdays.

8 o' clock morning meetings. Two days in a row. Subsequently followed by a 9 o' clock meeting. Then another meeting in the afternoon. I feel busier than the goddam Prime Minister.

Well, thank god for my two-week break. Hallelujah!

I'm really, really, really dreading the 14-hour flight though. Sigh.

UK here I come! Strawberries and cream, FTW!

Moving forward

2010-03-03T16:32:00.002+08:00

I wanted to start conversational French classes, but the secretary told me that I need to be enrolled in a normal class before I can take conversational classes, which are to be treated as supplementary classes. The fuck? I just want to converse in French, which I can already haltingly do! But anyways, a friend is helping me out to talk to la directrice, so fingers crossed that by the time I get back from England, I will be parley-ing.

That aside, I've been going to the gym for two weeks now to improve my health and my poor lungs. My secret wish is to have Jessica Biel's body, but I'll tell everyone that it's for my health. Shhh.

I think I'm going clubbing this weekend? I hope so? I'm not too sure. Torch is getting nauseatingly monotonous and sad, so I think that clubbing would be nice for a change. But clubbing! Paying a bucketloadofcashforwatereddownbeerjusttowashmyeyes is painful. It better be worth it.

PLUS... I'll be going to England next week! Cornwall... TCV... and, still tentative, Manchester to visit my asshole ex-boyfriend who is actually a nice and funny guy. I hope he never reads this, because he'd be infuriated over being called an asshole, then his ego would be inflated because I admitted that he's nice and funny.

After that, I can start planning for a trip with friends to Perhentian in May. Then comes World Cup. Then, god knows! Just not a nunnery in Spain, I hope.

Life is good when you want it to be. So I'll be good and fantasize about other things instead, like owning a French bulldog:

Dogs. Way better than men.

2010-02-27T01:15:00.000+08:00

In a spate of inspiration, I shall predict what will come in five years for me.

I'll be 30, oh my god! I'll be helping to look after my sister's child(ren) and trying to enroll in the most remote nunnery in Spain.

I'll also be trying to write my first novel. Most probably, I would be at the first page of my glorious novel about Malaysian life, struggling to finish writing the first paragraph.

I might still be working where I am, turning into this human prune. Or, I might be in KL, turning into a major human prune.

I would also be a weekend alcoholic, and a closet weeknight alcoholic.

Seeing that I will be in the start of my thirties, my metabolism rate would have slowed down and I'd be fat, at the rate that I eat. The amount (or lack of) facial care that I use would mean that I'd look like Winston Churchill.

That is, if the country hasn't yet erupted into a civil war. If it does, I'll most likely swim to Phuket and seek asylum.

2010-02-27T01:10:00.001+08:00

Almost two weeks of being single. Let's see... If I was still with Larry, at this moment, I'd probably still be in front of my computer, bumming about. No difference. So, no regrets there.

After so long, my friends and I went to Red Box for a round of serenading to each other (sometimes not very pleasantly). We took the package for 5 + 1, and all of us struggled to finish three jugs + one mug of beer. By 4 o' clock, most of us were slightly wasted.

End of story. My poor liver.

In retrospect

2010-02-25T12:42:00.000+08:00

I've been doing a hell lot of thinking lately, and some soul searching. I guess this led to the break up between Larry and I. I called it quits because of a plethora of reasons.

I've told this story so many times that I'm actually quite sick of telling it anymore. We've been dating for almost three years, and it's not like I woke up one morning and decided to end it. No. I thought about it long and through.

Like I told him, I guess we both didn't put enough effort into the relationship. Especially true for a long distance one. I mean, the distance and all is already hard enough, yet I have to face seeing his pictures on Facebook arm in arm with another girl? Wait, I should correct myself. Other girls. Just because his friends are doing it too, that doesn't mean I'm OK with it. His friends do drugs too, why doesn't he do that as well? Dumb. Never use blain. Skewed principles.

And I guess I got sick of him rushing back to KL after visiting me for the weekend, only to hear of him going for drinks the moment he arrives back there. Stupid me, always buying the late flights home because I wanted to spend an extra hour or two with him. Stupid me, for taking leave on Monday morning so that I could spend Sunday night with him. Ah, I thought that was love.

I recently met up with a relative, and her husband's working in KL. They've been married for years and years, and yet, every weekend he would fly back to be with her. Every. Weekend. How sweet is that? I mean, I guess if you're in love and all, you'd want to spend every opportunity to be with that person. And fuck me, they're married! Aren't you supposed to be more complacent and boring after marriage? Jeez.

Plus the distance made me independent. I realized that hey, I had a life too without him. I stayed home (usually) on weekdays, reading or playing games and most of the time hanging out with my dog, and on weekends, I'd go out with my friends. I was having fun without him most of the time, as was he without me. So... why were we still together? Some weekends I'd go to KL and some weekends he'd come to Penang, and I realized that this disrupted my routine. I dislike disruptions to my routine. I couldn't wake up too late on weekends because I had to spend time with him. I made myself cook for him because he likes spaghetti. All the while I'm toilling downstairs, he's upstairs playing DotA or something. The life, huh.

And I guess we both love our hometowns too much too. My friends, they're down-to-earth. We're real. And we certainly don't get inspired by TVB to give ourselves fancy names like Bosco or Durian or, fuck, Fish. Larry says that we are too sensitive because we don't take insults from each other (for example, we don't call a friend pussy or chicken just because he can't drink). I guess it's just mutual respect. I don't know.

I'm also sick of his prioritizing his friends. Yes, friends are really important, but like a colleague said, friends should understand that family and loved ones come first, else they're not your real friends. I mean, I don't even have to give the 'your friend and your mom are drowning in the middle of the sea and you have only one rope to save them and you won't have time to save the other because a great white shark is about to attack which one would you choose' situation. It's a very simple question of: 'Would your friend feed you, clothe you, care for you, pay for your education, give you shelter, and when you weren't able to, wipe the shit off your ass for free for an average of 17 years?'

Didn't think so.

Plus, the love fizzled out. Out of sight, out of mind, as they say.

I imagine him, wallowing in his self pity, thinking why did I leave him, he, who is such a great guy, an all-rounder, a patient, loving, attentive, sweet, good person. Couldn't figure out what he did wrong. Came from a good family too, not like my broken one (makes me realize how utterly dysfunctional a 'good' family can be). I imagine him blaming me for giving up so easily, for throwing such a good person away. Thus, he himself gave up on me, for being the one who was always calling it quits. He gave up, and felt self-righteous about it. You can bet your bottom dollar on that. Then I imagine his friends, rallying around him, telling him life's still young, she doesn't deserve you, bla bla bla. Let's find a new chick for you. She wasn't hot anyway. She doesn't know what she's losing.

So hi, people. I know what I'm losing. I see it with clarity. And I'm happy.

I know he won't change. I've asked for a change before and I still don't see it. And it's unfair to ask him to change.

Thank you for the memories and the good times, Larry, and I wish you well.