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.

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.

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.

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!!!!!!!

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.

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.

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

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!

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

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?