Are you an Index Finger or a Pinky?

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

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

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

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

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!

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.

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.

Why you should never trust Wikipedia.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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