7 a.m., sharp.

I woke.

Just like that.

Initial and foremost reaction; snooze alarm, wait till the next ring 9 minutes later, get arse off the bed and prepare to spend the day in a boring stupor and render myself completely exhausted once again…

Only that I didn’t arm the alarm, and it was Saturday. Means no class by default, and no motivation to attend replacement class at 9 a.m.

Back to sleep I went. Woke up 3 hours later.

The lethargy took time to sink in. Halfway through the curry noodle breakfast I could feel the clawing, scuttling ascend of laziness creeping into the muscles and seeping into the bones. By midday I’ve subjected myself to curling up comfortably in my room, avoiding any dodge-able chores and complacently satiating my fan-boyism by downloading a buckload of anime wallpapers.

I deserved this break was vividly hovering in the mind, justifying my irresponsible loafing and lazing. Conscience made a futile tug to get me into working mode; the photo assignment’s not done, and I’m inches away from the finals without any revision whatsoever. But what the fuck? I’m tired out, thanks to the past 3 days, with yesterDAY doing most of the tormenting work.

But I did spend a considerably large amount of time alone with Michelle. That almost made it all worthwhile. Almost.

Well, it’s VERY worthwhile, if I’m being honest. Look at it this way; I get to spend hours upon hours, alone, with a hot and pretty gal that literally is so randomly bizarre it made her nonchalantly eccentric. Fun? Not even close. Bliss describes it with utmost precision.

We’re both supposed to do our photo essay on Pudu Prison, currently Hang Tuah Police Station, and we went miles around to know enough of the procedure that’ll get us in to do it. It’s actually simple in sound, as according to the beefy corporal at the prison, all we have to do is get a permission letter from the college, get it chopped, diced and verified at the Dang Wangi Police Headquarters, bring it back and Open Salami! Snap some pics, trade them with each other and home we go with the biggest pain in the ass gone and done for good.

So we got the letter, which was done on Thursday, and flitted down to the Dang Wangi Station, only to find that office hours are up and the head is back home to screw his wife or whatnot. Alright, nevermind, we have tomorrow. Go home, tired as an ass dragging his farmer’s obese aunty on a tow-cart, to rest up and head for college tomorrow.

The next day, we head down to the station once again to discover that we’ve made a mistake and that the headquarters, similarly named according to its area, is a few monorail stations away. Yeah, thanks police-lady at the counter, and if you’ll be kind for us again please tell the policewoman we met yesterday who oh so conveniently neglected to tell us that we were at the wrong station to go eat a boxful of stale doughnuts. Helps clear the bowels, you know, only painfully so.

So we head down to the Dang Wangi police headquarters, and was instructed to meet with the Chief Inspector. Only that the Chief Inspector decided to go have her morning mamak fix. Dia pergi minum. Mmhmm. Think of the impression that it gave.

Well, we were spared for waiting like a fool at the place by a portly, friendly policeman who told us that we need to get the authorisation at the Bukit Aman headquarters, since Dang Wangi is under it anyhow, and then bring it back here. Aw crap. But whatever. So we paid a taxi driver and he got us there in a jiffy.

Bukit Aman is huge. It reminded me of those royalty residential grounds, up in the hills amongst the thickest jungle growth you can find at the heart of the city, and you have to drive through some fancy winding road to get to its brazen gates boldly intimidating with gold and static bodyguards, so you’ll turn away and leave them be. To get to the department we were directed to go we had to walk down the path, past the armoury, police quarters, logistics building and criminal investigation department, into the tall building, change our visitor’s pass to Class 2 (or something like that) and wait for the clerk to buzz the department’s head. Michelle said this feels cool. I couldn’t agree more.

We couldn’t meet the department’s head in person (away to minum, I assume), but the authorisation got through in a matter of moments. We were just asked to sit at the waiting hall, approached by an officer asking us our purpose of the assignment and before we knew it the letter was signed and copped by someone. Good. Our prospects were growing better and great expectations were flaring up to maximum optimism. We returned back to the entrance gates, got our ID checked out for the 4^th time of the day and luckily enough managed to hail a cab the moment we walked down the main road.

We stopped by the Heritage Hotel to get Mich’s bus tickets back to her hometown, and headed back to the Dang Wangi headquarters. It was almost noon by then, and apparently the chief inspector wasn’t back yet, so we sat and waited for her return. Past noon, and we approached the office. Everything did seem fine when we were asked to sit by the chief inspector, a woman in her late 30s by my guess. I stared at the stars at her shoulder, pinned to her uniform. 3 stars. Chief Inspector, according to the chart on the wall, which showed which ranked are which based on the stars on the uniform.

I was too busy with the dazzling stars to be concerned with her face. Too late.

The face practically spells HEAD BITCH: I’M HERE BECAUSE I BITCH. GOT A PROBLEM WITH THAT?

Well, apparently we needed to submit the letter of permission at least 2 weeks prior, in order to get it properly authorised so that when we get decapitated by a madman criminal at the cells, the responsibilities can be sorted evenly.

1) No one told us that, not even Mr.

Beefy Corporal,

2) we needed authorisation from the District Head Police, who was on duty someplace else (no one told us that either) and

3) HEAD BITCH could be nicer when telling us that (while we can’t deny the fact that she’s HEAD BITCH), but instead she chose to make us feel like juvenile idiots that doesn’t know the ‘common’ in common sense.

So she flitted between being bitch and dastardly bitch, stern and intimidating, sounding angrily exasperated and slam-dunking a load of crap on our head as though it’s the most obvious thing to do. She then grabbed our letter, said that she’ll file it to her boss, not guaranteeing that he’ll see it, and then passed it to her secretary. I had the impression that it was the last of daylight our letter would ever see. It’ll stay moulding under some drawer somewhere until some cockroaches feast on it.

We had REJECTED slammed at our face. After all the stinking trouble. And by HEAD BITCH.

I’d chucked the stapler at her face if it wouldn’t get me pounced on by a dozen of roti-canai-and-teh-tarik-filled coppers and whisked into the lock-up cell where I’ll get my nuts under therapy of a very eager buzz-baton.

I didn’t mind the utter shittiness of it all, but disappointing Mich was the last thing I wanted to do. We came under a stunned dazed, and spoke little. I had the urge to punch every car at the parking lot, and Mich was buried so deeply into her cell phone that she was in danger of becoming car fodder without even realising so until she went to heaven. It took sometime for us to calm down and not drift off on our own. We took the monorail to Times Square and had KFC.

What happened after was a couple of unperformed ideas that we cooked up, a lot of ranting, a tonne of frustration-wallowing and enough sighs to fill a whole new planet with carbon dioxide. We stayed for an hour or more at KFC, where our discussions shifted from worry to love predicaments (funny how it went that way).

In the end, we couldn’t do anything about it at the moment, so we headed to Borders to grab 3 Neil Gaiman novels (it was on promotion). Then we went around looking for the boots that Mich had her eye on during our previous outing there. Things calmed down considerably there, and it was good to see Mich smiling again when she tried on the boots and looking at herself in the mirror. She looked good, but insisted that she wouldn’t know how well the boots will go until she’s wearing a skirt. Then to Sungei Wang to hunt for some DVDs, but piracy raids were on and the shops switched to their legitimate counterparts. So we just walked. And talked. It was great.

I watched Michelle board the train to the KL station, where the bus will take her back to Penang. She waved a small goodbye in the throng of passengers. I went home and got myself stuck in traffic. It rained like mad. I had to drive dad and bro to the restaurant for our dinner, in which I got nagged and accused of driving like a madman (which I do). Dinner wasn’t all that bad, nor was it any good.

I slept at 10 at night.

It’s Sunday morning now, and Arsenal is playing Liverpool in the FA Cup as I type this, wondering how to end this entry. I guess I better settle for the usual.

Goodnight people. Pardon the mess of it...

Ever the same.

I began the day hoping that it wouldn’t come. And sure enough, my prospects were considerably good. The sun was bright, warm and strong enough to dry the laundry, and though there ware the few distant glooms that hovered ominously over at a distant; the afternoon was completely dry and positively hot.

Perhaps it may never come. Perhaps this New Year would’ve been different.

Perhaps things may be different for a change.

But came it did. The rain.

I was out to buy tonight’s dinner, and just before exiting my mosquito netted door I saw the tell-tale signs of imminent shower. The damned grey sea of clouds, the rumble of muffled thunder, and the cold winds that whip chills to the face. I managed enough sense to grab my cap before heading out to the food courts.

It wasn’t a heavy rain, and a drizzle might not even be a proper description of it. It was more like a scant, falling curtain of mist, and with an occupied mind one might not even notice that it was raining, until they realised that their clothes were damp and dew were caught at the tips of their fringes. I’d prefer something like this during quiet evenings at home. But not now. Not during today.

Thus, walking back to dad’s crummy old Land Rover, the usual stuff took hold once again. Looking up at the dull sky, feeling the droplets of water tap onto my face, and wondering why it has to rain again this New Year. Then wondering about myself, or what I’m going to do, etcetera etcetera…

It’s another New Year under the rain.

I’m 20 years old now.

Well, technically speaking. I’m still 3 months and 3 days shy if we want to be more specific. 20 years old. Funnily enough, those figures hit me just as hard as guilt does to conscience. I’m 20 years old now, one year away from emancipation, and one year apart from teenage frolic.

Why does being 20 makes you feel like a worthless piece of crap, decaying under a decadent stretch of barren junk?

Thinking back, it feels as though time had passed relentlessly quick, and yet the memory feels the sagging weight of gathered reminiscence. Almost 2 years now, 2 years since I began bounding towards a foreign, new life on a train everyday, meeting new people and facing new experiences that rendered my naivety more profound and obvious. Finding courses in life, understanding passion and dreams, falling in love… 2 years now, since I last called Jansen, or chat up with Albert, or spend quality time with Chin Liang and Yuen Ho and catching up with each other.

2 years… what have I achieved, and what have I lost?

I haven’t change, or rather, I did change, but the changes were insignificant as they are irrelevant. I’m still fat, and short, with a love to do things that I can never do well enough, perpetually stuck with a mentality and intelligence befitting an oblivious 12 year old. I haven’t been striking mutual discipline while handling things, and still the slacking procrastinator that does nothing and goes nowhere. My love life… well, let’s leave this out.

Things did change, however, only that I’m not changing with it. It feels like standing in the middle of a revolving room, where the walls rotates and distorts, shifting and changing into various whatsits, while I’m rooted at the middle watching it change. I see how my brother steadily grows into an adult, whilst maintaining a mischievous shadow that bears his childish demeanours. I observe my friends, and how each new revelation makes them seem older, more matured and disciplined. I gaze as my younger cousins slowly embracing their teenage years, learning new lessons and gaining new experiences.

And all the while I stay in the middle of it, idle and never moving. Never changing, never learning, never living.

Today, I had the choice of accepting a pretty gal’s invitation to go on a new year’s night clubbing, or saving the cash and buy myself 3 new novels. I chose the latter. They say that people regret more of what they didn’t do compared to what they did. I sit here, somehow regretting not grabbing my jacket and flaunting down to Bangsar to some random club, tasting cocktails or dancing off into the night, or maybe even observe some development between me and a certain someone. And after, heading off to some Mamak stall and replenish ourselves with whatever we can feed ourselves all the way until morn, then head home with a heavy head and insufficient sleep.

Instead, I had chosen to save the cash and head out to Borders the next time I’m able to, and grab 3 of the Neil Gaiman novels that I want, and after spend every possible idle time I have delved deep into it, ignoring the world and ignoring myself.

Does it mean that, inevitably, I have once more chosen to stay within my circle of safety rather than head out and feel something else?

20 years old…

And things still stay the same.

It's funny to think that I'm here, finally able to blog, sitting in front of a less competant PC at the college CIT and downloading advertisements that're way too large and far too long to copy (why are things way harder to deal with when it comes from Sheetal?).

I'm utterly sleep deprived at the moment, owing to the cascade of assignment deadlines that are relentless as they are insane, and it's rather a miracle that i can type under the weighty influence of a can of RedBull and a lot of bullshit from teammates that annoy the veins out of me. I haven't been updating in a while, and i guess i won't justify myself with reasons i'm sure you know... that is if you know me enough. I best spare you the cliches i use in my vindication. Let's just say that i'm busy enough to shun away from a few blissful hours of blogging.

i'm surprised i haven't puked out a murderous amount of blood at the moment, and if you're one who is weak of mind and heart you'll most probably try and find various ways to utilise your bottle of Dettol that can cause you grievious bodily harm if you're here in my place. Pardon the pompousity; this is mere pressure and strain from a few days of crazy assignment workloads and horrendously irresponsible teammates, and honestly nothing compared to whatever mid-life crisis some poor individual might be under. But things are getting very out of hand at the moment, and if i survive this gallow of bloody-as-hell assignments i'll treat Michelle to Nando's and Eragon.

Meh, what am i to complain about? This is brought upon myself; hammered down by my own laziness and perpetual procrastination habits that never does seem to learn. What's crappy enough is that my usual teammates are also subject to such irresponsibility (even more so than I), and things never does get a head on unless I start panicking enough to start work. It's as though the word incentive and initiative never existed in their dictionary (maybe it doesn't, i mean, once you think of their grasp of the english language) (man, i'm mean).

Now i face 2 deadlines and incomplete work that doesn't look like it even started. Ladies and gentlemen, i present to you my Death in glorious Technicolour and Dobly 5.1 surround. Popcorn sold at the outside booth.

It sucks. Someone taser me at the balls. No, just kidding... really...

How often do you get someone telling you that “you need to get a grip of your life”?

As far as I can remember, or even if I do try to remember, those words have been shovelled into my conscience just as much a juvenile delinquent would receive from doting parents. Every time it struck the heart, sinking a rusted anvil down my gut. It was funny how I wouldn’t develop immunity towards it, much as I often do to things that were constantly bulldozed over me, and the familiar feeling would clog my throat until I mentally whisper enough consolation to myself. Consolation... hah! How proper that word fits… I console myself that I need not rise to grasp my life into perpetual order. It’s pathetic.

Yeah, perhaps it’s about time to grab life into a Russian chokehold and drop it with a German suplex. Much as I hate to admit it, I am a pampered brat. Pampered by the existence of a maid, and pampered by my own optimistic thinking… words that I fill myself with that tell me that life would in fact unravel peacefully like red carpet, and all I have to do is strut like Jude Law towards the opening night of Cold Mountain. I’ve allowed sheer naivety to govern what I decide, and haven’t most of my decisions faltered shatteringly into shards of disappointment?

My brother had issued me the newest “you need to get a grip of your life” line a few days back, successfully drenching me with a cold bucket of reality and realisation, after dad nagged me for not getting my hair cut over the week when I promised I would by Thursday. I’ve been telling myself that there were circumstances to my not going to the barbers, but all I did was feeding me with concocted excuses for jumping into decisions that were selfless in a less fancy manner. And after that I didn’t what to think. I didn’t know what to tell myself. I was, once again, in a loss of answers.

And until now, I haven’t even answered myself.

I still haven’t overcome my pride and admit my arrogance to tell myself that my life needed a whole new overhaul.

People, as far as I saw, find it hard to change. It is always easier to raise a barrier than to break it, though the phrase that I should go is: it is always easier to gain weight than to lose it. To lose weight is not exactly hard, in fact (as my brother had pointed out); all you need to do is just starve yourself. But there were a few things to vault over when you intend to lose weight; hunger, temptation and habit. It’s always hard to fight hunger, just as it is hard to fend off the dangerously sweet voice of temptation. Over the years you raise your mind with habit, and stays in the vicinity of the habit without will to leave.

Healthy people would tell you that you need 3 general things to lose weight; discipline, willpower and determination. Sadly, when your life revolved around hunger, habit and temptation, those 3 things either never come or come in short temporal moments.

Just like me and life.

When they say that it’s hard to break out of old habits, they weren’t just giving a half-assed attempt at philosophy. Discipline. Willpower. Determination. These never came to me when I do things for myself.

Senseless selflessness. Someone told me that sometime.

I’ve… known the lessons and what there is to learn. Just that I’ve never gotten around learning them. Like reading your course layout, knowing the chapters and topics but never studying them anyhow (it’s what I do, until my exams). No lessons learned.

What the hell am I playing at?

How do I suddenly come to despise the one subject that I’ve been looking forward to since last year? It was as though I was kid eagerly waiting for Christmas to come only to find that Christmas is nothing more that a day at the gas chambers in a POW camp (which is not, I apologise, and Christmas is still the best celebration ever Christmas is good Christmas is cool deck the halls with boroughs of holly mistletoe nice jingle bells please don’t hate me…).

This is the deal here; photojournalism. Sounds cool? Heck it sounds cool. It sounds like Linkin Park bashing it up at the KLCC Park, and if things don’t sound cooler than that, Eminem decidedly joined in the party with Snow Patrol and Sum 41 bringing up the ante. So here I was expecting things to be cool, and I mean COOL baby, and yeah is it COOL. In the other sense, that is.

Because I was freezing off my buttocks as I sit waist-high in utter boredom while trying to fend off the bloody swarm of exhaustion and starvation, all while the lecturer thought it was a great time to tell us his daring(!) and amazing(!) tales of his as he tried to survive his campus days with crappy meals and antique cameras.

And that’s what we need, don’t we? We need grandmother stories to further fortify our knowledge and talents as we brace the cruel harsh world of journalism, and the boredom of listening to it is only the easy part my son, for when you face the reality of the cold barren lands of adulthood you will be a man for all to see…

One word: Fuck you. (Oh wait, sorry, there were 2 words).

No, I’m not exactly glad to sit myself under the insane cold of the damn air-cond (who in the right mind would blast it to full? It’s the rainy season for sakes of sakes) while the lecturer thought it would be cool to share a ‘little’ experience of his own. Oh well, I shouldn’t really mind too much, well, one can’t normally help but to tell a story, no? I mean, yeah sure, numb our minds with a tale as long as The Long Walk itself and wow us with the intense(!) and insurmountable(!) adventures(!) you had when you were young, and by all means help yourself thank you very much, because we really care oh we do we do we love it I want to know what happens next yay joy someone ask him to freaking shut the fuck up before I ram the damn keyboard down his throat…

Sigh, I’m not saying that he’s bad, because he’s not, really. Still, I’m not glad to have to put myself at risk of hypothermia (first of its case involving an air-conditioner) and having to listen to stories that I don’t think is very relevant, and especially after having to sit through a gruelling 8 hours of class before. I love the pics, and sometimes stories are good but I don’t really need to know what happened when you went to Indonesia and saw a natural monument that tells the tale of Si Tenggang the Dastardly Asshole and having to listen to you to tell us the whole Tenggang folklore yourself…

Honestly, if I take any more of this, I’ll pull a Di Caprio and shout “Give me a bottle of scotch and a freaking handgun to blow my fucking head off,” at the local psychiatrist so that I can get a prescription of anti-depressant drugs.

Things can often feel like a painting, sometimes. I would usually stare at one trying to understand its complexity (as well as things I only to know), wondering what’s within…

What’s it trying to tell? What does it mean? What’s that thing that dwells beyond the confines of the colour and strokes, that thing that keeps hovering in your mind waiting to be deciphered?

I didn’t realise that sometimes simplicity is the answer.

Sometimes the answer is just so simple, almost as simple as answering yes or no. The complexity and befuddling thoughts of the human mind has ways to make things intricate. We often think that the hardest, most profound answer is the best, but just as powerful (in all of its simplicity) are answers that are, well, simple.

Last Friday, during PR tutorials, the tutor gave the class a question; “Why does the source need not pay the media?” (Perhaps not the actual question, but it went like this). The class went into a state of confusion, browsing notes and leafing through the text book. My poor friend Derwoei was tense as he was clueless, uttering answers that were neither wrong nor right. Sometime later the tutor leant close to Amanda, and she said “The media need not be paid because it is free.”

Oohs and Aahs left the mouths of my fellow classmates, and I was stumped by it in a way. Free. It was simple… why didn’t I think of it earlier? Plunging through and through into confusing definitions and lacklustre descriptions hoping the find the answer, only to discover that it is merely free. Simple. And when you think of it properly, yeah, it IS free. Everything opened up, and the light from the doors poured seamlessly into the mind. It is free because the source merely needs to announce, and media will gather by itself. One simple answer would open up into the proper more definitive one.

The trouble is that we, just as often as we can, tend to complicate things.

Like falling in love… love, simply, is just a strong feeling of affection for one another (ie; I like you, you like me. We happy). And yet we just complicate it. I shan’t go into details regarding it… I’m sure you know the complications we seem to create when it comes to love.

Now I sit here with a strangely gentle regret… for not seeing things as something simple. If I had forsaken the complexity that I had slowly built around me, perhaps things would be different from now. For better or worse, I wouldn’t know, but one can’t help but to wonder. Wonder about that question that is always there, that question can both spawn bliss and lament. What if?

What if?

But had it actually happened, perhaps, I wouldn’t be able to see things as it is now. Had I departed myself from the course that I had chosen now, what I feel now never would’ve been stronger and heartfelt. I never would have realised what I’m feeling now, and I never would’ve known the magic of it. The realisation, the discovery… the understanding. Things that had happened, and are happening, were in a way forming into something amazing.

My decisions from the past had formed something powerful here. And I don’t think I should hesitate on this one. I hadn’t seen it as it is before, but now I see it in all its beauty and grace.

My apologies if the above are beyond comprehension, for I have not the ability to makes thing comprehensible. But if you see it, or understand it somehow, then I must applaud you.

For you may see what I see. And boy is it beautiful.

Bla bla...

I beg pardon for somewhat abandoning this blog, and also from ignoring a few well-meant messages from friends asking if I’ll update soon enough. The past week had been rather eventful, though I believe I shall blog about it when I feel that I should.

I haven’t been purposely ignoring my blog entirely, because I had been somewhat occupied by typing down my Nanowrimo novel; something which I had neglected to inform due to a few circumstances (mostly involving the thing we call laziness). There’s supposedly a participant icon at my sidebar symbolising my, well, participation, but apparently the HTML is screwed. Perhaps I should consider putting it in place of my picture instead.

Progress is extremely slow, in case you’re wondering. I’ve only done 3000 words in 5 days, which I blame it on a strew of things that somehow got in the way (like cleaning out my room… geez, leave me in peace), and there’s also that time when I discovered that I was typing without direction + care and thus causing the damn thing to sound idiotic (it still sounds so, only severely less). So I retyped the whole thing, and now i'm twice slower than the average participant.

Still, I am glad to say that I’ve been having a great deal of fun with it. Nothing beats a good run of uninterrupted, inspired typing/writing (that is if I don’t count in eating, and also a great sleep after a long long day). The novel’s pretty rough, and I am doing it impromptu with barely some planning… only the basic plot’s fleshed out, and no other characters planned apart from my lead and his mother. I read back a few lines earlier and it gave me shudders. No time for editing, by the way.

I’m ‘bout one of 102 people in Malaysia participating in it, and most of them already have great progress. 24 more days and 47000 words left… my future seem doubtful.

I guess I’ll crash in earlier tonight, probably waking up to see if I can make some progress. And I don’t want brother to occupy the whole mattress… our new double-decked bed is coming on Tuesday, so on the meantime we’ll be sleeping on the floor. And we’ll have to share a mattress. Shit.

Goodnight people.

No Offense, but...

I hate dentists.

It’s more than a mere dogmatic creed, no, my hatred towards dentists has long since escalated to beyond loathing (and possibly further beyond).

Today, my abhorrence is at someplace we call infinity. Another trip there and I’ll be sure to quote Buzz Lightyear. Throw in a third consultation and I’ll murder anyone who utters the word dentist, orthodontist and teeth. I’m serious. Dead serious.

I have many reasons to dislike dentists, and perhaps I should be well inclined to inform you first that my hatred is purely irrational repugnance over several horrible experiences. It all began when my primary 3 dental nurse harshly forced me to brush my teeth with my fingers during an annual school teeth-brushing demonstration. Hey, I was a kid, and I happen to forgot bringing a toothbrush despite 14 reminders from my mother. Big deal. The nurse must’ve had a very bad day with a guy friend and that monthly thing to scold – yes let me repeat that obviously repulsive word – SCOLD at me for forgetting a stupid toothbrush. And she wants me to brush my teeth with my fingers, something I’m feeling uncomfortable doing because I happened to be the only boy apparently dumb enough to forget my toothbrush. Hence I stated my refusal, but no she can’t have any of that. So toothpaste on your forefinger, boy, and brush like I TELL you to.

And suddenly my entire vision and sugar-coated imagery of grinning dentists swirled into a revolting painting of sneering she-devils and a rather large beaver with a chainsaw for a toothbrush. If you ever wondered what The Ring video actually reminded me of, it’s dentists.

Then there was that dentist I had a couple of years later, who didn’t do anything particularly spiteful until I had the misfortune of watching him treat my brother. Which wasn’t so bad actually, but when I look at his EYES and I was like holy shit! Is he looking like he’s actually enjoying it? My brother was there squirming in pain, panic and fear and he looked like he was having the best freaking time of his life (I was too young to analogise it to orgasm, but I swear I remember him looking like he had his third coming). It’s traumatic, man.

A psychotic, insanely orgasmic looking dentist took his place beside the large beaver, sniggering while putting on his rubber gloves with a snap. The beaver revved the chainsaw.

Today, I almost deflated into a lumpy mash of skin at the sight of the dentist and that chair. He was a balding, meaty man with a belly the size you could only get by being pregnant or consuming 5 pieces of roti canai every morning. He looked jovial and kind enough, but it didn’t stop me from refraining myself from sinking a fist into his crotch when he started work on me.

OH MY GOD IT FUCKING HURTS. Bastard.

“Don’t panic,” he said. “Relax.”

How the fuck do I relax while having something that sounded like a miniature chainsaw plunged into my mouth? (Images of beaver rather vivid here)

“Relax. Open your mouth.”

Oh my cow from the plains of Minnesota, I want to punch him.

“Oops, there. Just relax.”

Tiu nia ma chiu chee bet…

“*mumbles*”

Am I dead? What’s he saying to mom? OMG I’m dead. It explains the numbness and the light I see shining so brightly to my eyes. He must’ve dropped that whatever thing into my throat and I’m immediately killed. That’s it. I’m going on a ghostly rampage on every damn dentist in town. I swear I won’t rest my soul unless I haunt off every single…

I walked out of the room feeling like a virgin sexually desecrated by a bubbly old man, and I had to pay for it. God damn, dentists not only operate on teeth but they slit your throats as well with paper cut from a very hefty bill.

God I hate dentists.

Oh, please note that I only hate dentists while they’re working. I’m sure they’re mostly fine, respectable people with a loving family and a Mercedes Benz in their car porch parked beside a Toyota Altis. Not to mention doing a great deed to the society by solving our tooth problems (for a price) and cleaning off a cavity or 2. Props to you!

Now leave me alone. Please. For your sake…

The over-protective me.

Is it alright to be particularly protective over a female pet dog? I’ve had Lanna for a couple of years now, and I don’t think I’m ever more affectionate towards a dog. And now I’m feeling a tad… father-ish. In the sense that I don’t want certain things to happen due to a personal stack of selfishness, much like a father unwilling to see his beautiful daughter marry a man he deems a malevolent pig under the skin of some random handsome dude.

The premise is this: Lanna had her period today. Dad has been going on for months now about letting her and Max, my pet Boxer… well, get married? Which is for the sake of the ‘next generation’ (of little Lannas and Maxes). To be honest, I’ve always expected… wanted, rather, for Lanna to bear the sons of Maximillion ‘Max’ Maximus De Moreallis (the full name for Max, which my brother gave). But somehow I can’t seem to stomach the fact that it’s happening now. I don’t know how, but I have this feeling that Lanna’s just not ready for it. Or rather, I’M not ready for it. In a naïvely idiotic way, I’m afraid that… that Lanna will change, and I don’t want her to change. I love the way that she’s incredibly hyperactive, overly enthusiastic and bursting with enough spunk and personality to drown Avril Lavigne in slobber (exaggerated).

But there’s nothing I can do to change my father’s mind (like something ever would), and I DO have to think on behalf of Max, who is getting rather old on his dog years. And particularly after those incidents where he managed to bust his testicles, perhaps he should quickly have a descendant or 2 before becoming permanently impotent (and with dad threatening to rid of those ‘manly-hoods’ if he damages either one of them again, I guess things should happen with haste).

And hence, under the dimming crimson sunlight of the evening, I led a surprised Max into Lanna’s cage.

It was a peculiar moment for me later when I went into the house. I found myself feeling restless and oddly anxious, and strode around the rooms in unease. Dad was retelling his story of X, one of our previous dogs, and its painful injuries caused over a female stray and a pack of some junkyard macho-hounds (with some added information, presumably exaggerated). Brother was thoroughly carefree. Mother was watching Chinese dramas in the room. The maid shot me a look whenever I happen to pass her in my strides. The dogs were noisy at first, barking and whining and rattling the cages (my imagination ran wild), and then… silence… (At this point the imagination is close to hysteria, fortunately subdued with television and The Simpsons).

Dad didn’t ask me to check to see if they’re ‘stuck’ or not until it was 20 minutes past contact.

And when I went to take a look…

I saw both their bemused head poking above the gates, hoping I would let them out for a game of catch.

Whether or not something happened during those 20 minutes, I doubt I’ll ever know (until a couple of weeks, if Lanna’s body undergoes some changes). But from what I saw, I don’t think something did, and I certainly hope that nothing had ever occurred

Anyhow, dad wanted to leave them there until morning, which is something I can’t have (I mean, both of them, in a cage together… heck, even wet wood would catch a fire in that situation). So I (secretly) tried to place them back to their respective cages only to have them barge into the garden (prompting dad’s discovery) and causing a massive bruise to my maid’s arm when she was trying to help.

Got a “WTF are you being such a bothering bother?!” scolding from dad, almost got into a quarrel with bro who was being an ass and now I’m riddled with guilt for causing injury to my maid because of my something somewhat ridiculous.

But can you blame me for being stupidly protective?

Hate, abhorrence, loathe and irrationality.

How often do you find someone which you loathe so much, that despite not seeing them for almost a year now you still find yourself flaring just by listening to their voices? Why is it that despite understanding my own reasons for such an enmity, and the silent efforts I make in order to forsake such a creed, can shatter explosively just at the very sight of her? Where is the forgiveness I normally reserve to people I believe that on second chances can make me overlook their fucking crappiness? If I may answer that myself perhaps there may never be certain forgiveness for her.

I guess now the answer is simple: I hate her. I abhor her. I loathe her.

Screw conscience, for once. I’ve been reflecting with myself for sometime now, and I admit that at times I may have been inconsiderately ticked at her for naïve and brash reasons. Now I can say they somehow fucked off into an orgy honeymoon at the Haiti prairies. Gone is my rationality. Hello late-teenage angst.

You may be wondering who this particular person is, and if you’ve been reading this lacklustre blog for a while now you might remember a certain fiery rant regarding a lecturer I dubbed as TMJ, and you’ll know that I have been rather relentless in verbally abusing her. Why? I sense you ask. She’s personally the WORST lecturer I ever had, the WORST tutor I ever know, the WORST teacher in my short history in life, and now she claims the only spot as the THE bitch-head of the century. That a good enough answer? Let’s get her a trophy, someone.

Pardon my being unduly harsh on her, but there are times when you can’t resist yourself.

Sigh… I thought I’ve seen enough of her and her annoying face to last the turn of a new millennia, and now she’s lecturer cum tutor for my Production & Publication subject. Great. Smashing, in fact. Here’s a pumpkin, knock yourselves out.

The same infuriating voice… the familiar, constipatingly excruciating boyish look… the gender-confusing appearance… the jokes that makes sure the Antarctic freezes twice over… and God forbid that now it seems like she’ll repeat the her exact crappy, pathetic, incomprehensibly un-understandable form of teaching.

What is she, like, a demon or something sent to mentally torment me into a worthless lump of potato (as if I do not resemble one enough)?

“With the power of Soap, cleaner of all that is dirty, bane of all that is disgusting and purifier of all that is stubbornly oily; I compel you, Demon of Immense Crappiness, to LEAVE and forsake the evil deeds in your dastardly planning!”

Gargles of agony and hisses of hatred left the snarling mouth of the Demon, her eyes wide with the very enmity that plagues fear and darkness into the minds of men as she writhes in pain of the overwhelming power cast down upon her cursed existence.

“BEGONE, demon, incarnation of all that is Annoying, physical form of all that is Irritating, origination of all that is Exasperating! I command you, Boredom personified, to BEGONE from this world!”

With the final phase of the spell cast, the Demon released a final howl of angst, and the world shook and trembled as though fearing her undying loathing. Its skin melted into mud most foul, with a stench so thick it killed 2 squirrels making an untimely detour. Her bones slowly crumbled into ash as dark as night itself, and the winds scattered her wretched remains across the ocean so that it shall never recover. And the world lived in peace ever since.

Well that was childishly fun.

I’ll be seeing her a hell lot more in this semester, and I guess I’ll just have rely on a little bit of imagination and a lot of daydreaming to get those days by.

Goodnight people.

Word of the Day:

qua
In the capacity or character of; as.

Song of the Day: Nami Kaze Satellite by Snorkel (Naruto OST)

Currently playing: God Hand (ps2)

In the morning…

The glare was killing, the hunger staggering (had I been on my feet at that time) and the music irritating. And I thought I caught wisps of my brother singing as well. At 6 a.m. in the morning? You got to be kidding me.

I tried turning away, shifting to positions with hopes that the light would not reach my eyes. But sleeping on the top bunk of a double-decked bed 3 feet away from the dazzling light… sometimes it’s just too much. I’d plunge my face into the pillow, but if there’s something I hate while attempting to sleep under difficult circumstances is restricting my breath and ultimately suffocate myself to ‘sleep’.

And I’m hungry. Very hungry. Stomach-dissolving sort of hungry, where you can feel the digestive juice literally slopping against your interiors anticipating your very first morsel of food. Which is rather, erm… rare, if I may say, for someone of a massive gut like me (or is it the other way around?). But wait, I had not eaten anything proper apart from a late-night cup of chocolate yesterday after my late lunch/early dinner of sate. I guess that explains it.

Michelle and Amanda had dropped by yesterday for some Kajang food (possibly the only good thing in this town). We didn’t eat until 4, though, because the H.J Samuri restaurants don’t serve until then due to the fasting season. In the meantime I took them to my home, and dad even got to meet them (Michelle looked stunned at dad, and said that he looks very young O.o). We spent hours at the restaurant, eating and chatting like we always do, and then we went off to hitch Pei Ling to another restaurant and had a drink there. The girls didn’t leave until after 8, and we had time to pay a short visit to Pei Ling’s house. Perhaps the best day I had in this Goddamn holiday.

Eventually the lights went off, the music died and my brother exited the room in reasonable fashion. Sleep should’ve come in torrents of bliss, like falling into the greeting arms of Pamela Anderson as she holds me to a makeshift water pillow of her enormous bosoms (albeit synthetic ones… what’s synthetic?). But curses. Bubbles of colours were dancing around my closed eyelids, occasionally morphing into shapes that strangely resemble Powerpuff Girls. I Write Sins Not Tragedies (by Panic! At the Disco) is annoyingly stuck in my head. And I’m hungry. Very hungry. Stomach-dissolving sort of hungry, where you can fee- wait I said that before. Ignore.

Panic ran through my veins as my dick suddenly disappeared. WTF I uttered.. fuck… what the fuck is happening. It must have been my imagination I thought, but nevertheless… it is real. I’m a dickless bitch now. And without my dick, my balls hid behind my pubes in desperation to cower from the sudden emptiness.

Fuck bro, GET OFF MY LAPTOP!

*ahem*

Anyhow, sleep had eluded me, so I thought it best to wake and perhaps have a glass of milk to stifle my stomach’s groaning demands. Rachel had popped me an IM sometime at 2 in the morning, which I had not been able to reply. Sigh… I haven’t been able to properly chat with her for more than 5 minutes since the holidays, thanks to a bout of untimely bad luck. Sorry Rae. I shunned the milk idea and had a cookie instead.

It was still too early for me to drive to town and get breakfast for the folks, so I took the time to read the online Powerpuff Girls doujinshi.

Before you barf about due the idea of it, let me first tell you that it’s very much unlike the TV series (or that Demashita! PPG Z version). It’s very much darker, anime-style artwork and with a ton of other Cartoon Network characters thrown together. Can’t picture it? Let’s imagine Samurai Jack as the school gym teacher, an older Dexter who’s cool and LOOKS cool, Invader Zim who’s forced to do some servant labour and a plethora of major cameos from others like Time Squad, Megas XLR, etc. I’m glad I knew enough of them to appreciate it (it’s been years since I watch something from Cartoon Network… dad cut it from Astro years back).

I also took the time to watch the anime Michelle borrowed me… and it was… graphic …

If I said I enjoyed it, I may be severely misunderstood. Very severely.

The haze was light this morning as I drove mom to the market, and on top of Bukit Mewah the town looked like a quaint neighbourhood engulfed by fogs of a winter morning. Had my early morning bliss at the chee cheong fun stall, which was so busy I had to cut the stuff myself (it wasn’t as easy as it looked). I practically ate under people’s arm flitting above me to passing plates of their selected yong tau foo picks. I was rather surprised by the chee cheong fun auntie’s English. Pardon me firstly, for I had a shallow speculation that above middle-aged Chinese ladies selling goods/food at the morning market only know enough English to state the prices of their products. But auntie proved me wrong, because she spoke very well indeed. I wonder if it’s because a good bulk of her customers are Indian uncles and aunties.

The hustle and bustle of it all, coupled with my immense sleepiness was soon too much to bear with my pathetic blubber of a body, and by the time I got home I slept all the away into noon.

Thus ends my morning, and the beginning of a noon/evening/night as dull as grey in a shade of grey.

College is another day away, and the time table is crap this semester. Sigh.

Goodnight people.

Word of the Day:

concinnity

1. Internal harmony or fitness in the adaptation of parts to a whole or to each other.
2. Studied elegance of design or arrangement -- used chiefly of literary style.
3. An instance of concinnity.

Song of the Day: Country Roads by John Denver

Movie of the day: Whisper of the Heart (a coming of age story about discovering yourself and the hardships that follow the path you choose, all told in glorious animation and colour by the great folks of Ghibli Studio. 5 out of 5).

A random post of musings…

It’s well into midnight now, and I sit alone in the quiet serenity of my gloomy dining table (also my study table, my laptop table and my PS2 table) as I’ll Be by Edwin Mccain softly soothes my rather frustrated self. I’ve been on the PS2, having my usual romp at Pro Evo Soccer 5 and almost breaking the DVD in 2 due to immense exasperation; I lost to the same team for 3 times in a row. (Ok, I can face it. I SUCK. But the CPU is CHEAP. Dirt cheap I tell you! It’s injustice! Where art thou fair gaming?*@&#@% Konami…)

I’ll Be, the song, has a spot somewhere deep in me. A song I reserved for an occasion that my or may not come, depending on my competency. Every time it’s soft, entrancing tunes flood into my listening I’ll drown myself in thoughts of it. On some days it may become more vivid; closer and real, until its taste can grasp my vague senses… and I’ll be lost to it. Deluged under a self-concocted sweetness numbing in its wake, and blissful in its melody

(That, my friends, is what I call fantasizing).

Today was a rather peculiar day, in a way I can’t really describe. Perhaps it was a slight departure from the monotony of my dull, colourless holidays, yet everything did feel the same. The same awakening. The same food. The same form of entertainment. The same means of passing time. It felt like the usual, yet all the same unusual. Weird. I guess I’ve eaten sour Skittles a packet too many.

I woke up to a clay pot of leftover chicken porridge, which I shared with my brother while watching Lee Rock on DVD (not the Rock Lee Naruto character, but the 1991 movie starring Andy Lau). I just realised that despite having known the movie for ages, I haven’t actually sat down and watch it till the end. It was surprisingly good, I have to admit, though rather odd at times (typical of early nineties Chinese movies). A grittier and darker remake would be nice, but I concur that at times classics should be left classics.

Lunch was instant noodles with an egg… not exactly a healthy diet but I guess a poor student on his semester break shouldn’t complain much. Dinner could’ve been much better; I was initially rather enthusiastic to be able to cook sweet and sour pork (with a newly procured instant packet of the sauce), and cooking can be immensely satisfying on good days. But dad decided to come and ruin it by mixing the sauce mixture to be fried together with the pork (T-T), and the gravy is done instead with ketchup. What came out was an overwhelmingly sour + salty + sweet rendition of Cooking Gone Bad (and very shocking coming from my dad). It was horrible to honest, and I was close to barfing at every piece I forced to eat out of gratitude for my dad’s hard work. Mom complimented it after a small piece, and I never seen her touch another one after. Dad was utterly convinced that he made something innovative and good, albeit a ‘tad’ out of hand, asking me if it’s good at times and then just noting that it’s good anyways. I noticed he never actually eaten any. I abandoned after a 4^th piece, and the dish looked untouched. Great. Lousy leftovers.

(Well, the good thing is that a somehow failed attempt at a ‘salted-egg fried cuttlefish’ was completely devoured by everyone).

The 3 pieces of tofu I bought just turned bad today, thanks to a lot of dad’s interfering, so I guess I won’t be cooking anything for the week. So much for having an experimental dish in mind… sigh.

Argh, my terrapin died. The maid found it ‘white and completely severely dead’ this morning. I wonder if dad plans to get another…

Alright, it’s rather late now, so I guess I’ll be turning in. I have a movie with my aunt and cousin to look forward to in the evening (finally!). And Michelle said that she may be planning to come down to Kajang for a sate lunch with Amanda and another friend. I hope H.J Samuri is open for lunch during the fasting season.

Goodnight people.

Word of the Day:

hypnagogic
Of, pertaining to, or occurring in the state of drowsiness preceding sleep.

Song of the Day: Snow, the original soundtrack for Noir (anime).

Movie of the day: Lee Rock Part 1 (Eh… no comments).

Currently reading: The Eldest (0% progress since last reading… which was last week today).

Currently playing : Okami

Well, following Rachel’s title on this particular post:

Warning: The following does NOT bring any meaning to you whatsoever. NOTHING. In fact, watching your cacti grow at the window sill bears more significant meaning than this (be there for its first prick!). In an event where you actually found the following actually MEANT something to you, you should 1) Call an ambulance, 2) Down a bottleful of aspirin while waiting and 3) Watch the entire set of Dr. Hibbert’s Psychological Miracle! Healing Your Mental Trauma in 10 DVDs after you’re discharged. Remember, YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED. Read with caution.

Okay, now to the subject at hand:

This post is a book survey, which had been tagged to me by mon belle ami and delightfully fascinating junior Rachel (sorry for taking so long to get it up). May I first point out that despite having a liking for reading, I’ve not exactly read a lot.

1) What is your favourite genre?

- Fantasy with a dash of Sci-fi

2) Name some of your favourite books and give some explanation as to why they are your favourites.

- The Amber Spyglass by Phillip Pullman. While the previous books in Pullman’s His Dark Materials trilogy are great, The Amber Spyglass is simply phenomenal. What I feel about it is ineffable… I just simply love it. At the end of it I was shouting WTF!?, and was deluged in a flood of certain wanting which could only be vaguely subdued by mindlessly surfing the net for everything about it (even fanarts). This book is classic.

- Artemis Fowl and The Lost Colony by Eoin Colfer. The newest book I’ve read in this list, possibly. I only finished it a week back or so. It has everything the previous books in the Artemis Fowl series bear: an intensely paced plot, cheeky humour and dialog, great characters and the winning mix of fantasy elements and high-tech gadgetry (all of this great enough already). What made it better was how much darker it the story got, and the plot is simply amazing IMO. And a possible love interest for our juvenile criminal mastermind? Whoa yeah!

- Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire by J.K Rowling. I don’t know why I actually preferred it over the others. Perhaps because it has more action, and the tournament thing got me pretty excited. Or maybe because it seriously marked the series’ transcend into the dark territory. I don’t know.

- The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time by Mark Haddon. I have only one word for this novel: Genius. Everything, from the cover to the narrative utterly brims with it. Very well written in the perspective of an autistic boy, and the book is filled with interesting stuff like chapters in odd-numbers, puzzles and maths solutions that I understand nothing of and pictures that are just plain odd. One of the non-fantasy books that completely drew me into its world, and so funny yet scarily true.

- The Green Mile by Stephen King. I don’t know how to explain it, but this book left me shivering for a moment. Not out of fear, no (just to clarify things up, cause King’s name is more widely associated to the horror genre), but everything is just so powerful about this book. How it deals about life and death, and how it gets by with its characters and plot… I don’t think I’ll ever know why, but this book is simply amazing.

3) List 10 of your favourite authors. (I don’t think I have ten…)

- Philip Pullman.

- Neil Gaiman

- J.K Rowling

- Eoin Colfer

- Stephen King (though only 2 of his books)

- Tom Holt

- Mark Haddon

- Dan Brown

- Diana Wynne Jones (erm yeah, only 2 books as well)

- Roald Dahl (I haven’t exactly read something from him, but I know I’ll love him. I’m SURE)

(Okay there’s ten XD)

4) There's always that one book that you could never finish... what's that one book for you?

- The Harmony Silk Factory by Tash Aw. I guess people should this book as the one written by a Malaysian and it sold pretty well. It’s a good book, mind, but I’ve tried 3 times now to finish it and never got pass the first 5 chapters. It’s not bad, but after a while I found myself with a fresh fantasy book off the college library. I fear I may never finish it.

5) What book did you hate the first time you read it, but grew to love as you read on?

- The Land of the Blind (cripes I forgot the author). NOT related to an upcoming movie of the same title. I got the novel during a stock clearance at some mall, and it was RM6 for a novel (pretty damn cheap if you asked me). I didn’t read it until I went up to Genting Highlands with my uncle to help him with his shooting. At first the book was pretty darn boring, and the plot isn’t getting anywhere. And then the first funny part came, and I was laughing myself silly. Then the plot thickened into something interesting. For some particular reason the humour got me, often sarcastic, vulgar and crude, but I was sniggering off when everyone was working late into the night (they though I was reading a comedy novel, and were shocked to see that it’s a crime thriller). It didn’t end as well as I hoped it’ll be, but overall it’s good and I liked it since.

6) Which type of character appeals to you the most?

- Characters that contradict what they seem to be… how do I put it? It’s like they in one way are portrayed to be villains and evil but in another is revealed to be kind and respected all the same. Like Lord Asriel and Mrs. Coulter in the His Dark Materials trilogy, or Artemis Fowl. Lady Eboshi in Princess Mononoke would be the best example, but it’s not a novel…

7) Which book completely changed your point of view? Why?

- Shite I don’t think I have one that gave such an impact… let’s see… well The Amber Spyglass changed my view on how a great story should be; memorable characters that you care about, a complex and epic plot that deals with many other perspectives… how death could be viewed, about religion, or what is indeed the true good and what is true evil. My copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray taught me how words could be played, and how beautiful a sentence could be if you use the right words and the right angle. I have yet to read one that’ll change the very way I live and think.

8) Which book did you read as a child that made you fall in love with the literary world?

- I don’t think I can quite remember, but the book that got me into reading was a toned down version of The Swiss Family Robinson which my mom got for me when I was in primary 3 or so (one of those with illustrations in it, and revamped so that children can read with ease). I think it’s the first ever English novel I read, and I’ve been reading anything since.

9) Who is your favourite character of all time?

- Erm… I think I have the tendency to like every main characters from their respective novels, like Harry, Hermione, all the Weasleys, Dumbledore, Sirius, Lupin from Harry Potter… Artemis, Butler and Holly from Artemis Fowl… Lyra and Iorek from His Dark Materials… but I think my favourite is William Parry from His Dark Materials. I like his determination, his maturity when facing situations, and also his will to protect the ones he loves. Most importantly is his selfishness; that form of selfishness where he sets everything aside to save the ones he care, and also to achieve his goals.

10) Finally, who is your least favourite?

- Eh… Delores Umbridge from Harry Potter. For some reason she reminds me of my Form 5 chemistry teacher, and boy do I want to bitch slap her.

Haha, here comes the fun part where I tag the poor unfortunate souls…

1) Amanda Lee! (Roll out the Stephen Kings!)

2) Ma Dearie Diane

3) Pei Ling

4) Wai Y33

Inspired, since sometime.

I apologize for my previous post, if it somehow managed to lobotomize you and cause a few disruptions to your brain and nervous system. I don’t think you can sue me for it, but you can, of course, drop in a comment or 2. Flame, frame, blame or phlegm me all you like; I’m just glad I got feedback =)

Sorry for not updating consistently, despite my being in a holiday now. I have no excuse for it, apart from utter laziness. And Okami, which is turning out to be one of the best ps2 games ever (I’m clocking at least 3 to 4 hours on it daily). I’ll blog about it sometime, if possible. Though I guess it won’t become something of your interest anyways (as if this blog is, but I’m glad I have a couple of readers. Thanks).

I owe Rachel two tags, which I haven’t been getting around doing. I promise I’ll get it up sometime soon. Here’s my apology first, and a hopeful smiley =P

The holidays are faring better this few weeks, thanks to Okami and a few good hours of writing/typing. I have another to thank; Finding Neverland, the 2004 movie starring Johnny Depp about J.M Barrie and how he came to write the famous boy who never grew up. Hands down one of the best movies around, IMO, and well into my list of Inspirational Thingies (among Big Fish and Whisper of the Heart). The movie itself is beautiful, touching and warm, etc, but what got me most is the theme of Unlocking Your Imagination. Something Johnny Depp (as Barrie) said:

(Not in actual script. This is a vague reconstruction. Finding Neverland and script is copyright to the studio that published it).

J.M Barrie: (Johnny Depp in Scottish accent) Write about it, about flying the kite today with your brothers. Write about that talking whale.

Peter: (acted by Freddie Highmore, Charlie in Charlie and the Choc Factory and soon Arthur in Arthur and the Invisibles) Talking whale? What talking whale?

J.M Barrie: That talking whale that is bursting in your imagination. Write it down.

After the movie, I sat down in front of my laptop and got to work on the 2 junk you read below with a rekindled joy in writing.

I’ve been so often plagued by the dogmatic fear of messing anything I though out by writing it down that I’ve been afraid to write. But I guess I should take a step in writing it, make it my best and learn from it. I’ve been fearful of criticism, wanting to live in a cocoon that tells myself that my stories stay however I like it if none shall read it, and undermining the very basis of being a writer; What is a writer without a reader? What is communication without feedback, or an expression without an impression? (Pardon my immense corniness).

I’m set to improve, so bear with me =)

Goodnight people, and whoever that is reading this, I thank you.

And Mr. Barrie, thank you (though I’m aware that Finding Neverland is merely based on actual events and bears a probability to be untrue, I’m pretty sure you live by the same philosophy of imagination and you weren’t smoking weed when you wrote Peter Pan. But, I mean, a boy flying around in green leaves/tights? You leave me wondering…).

Word of the Day:

indomitable
Incapable of being subdued or overcome; unconquerable.

Song of the Day: End of the Innocence by Don Hedley.

Currently Reading: The Eldest.

Currently Playing: Okami

Movie of the Day: Finding Neverland (5 out of 5 stars. ‘Nuff said).

Outer Sanctum Security Post NR755.

Peninsular Malaysia.

Personnel Log

Name: Cajun Hans Kar Chun

Age: 21

Status: Class 3 Transport Personnel

Entry: 0016 Hours, 20^th September 2011, Friday.

I’m beat today. The Chief rounded us up to clear the unused supply crates at the facility storehouses today to make way for the transport and supplies. It was a big mess, and we’re not only dealing with supply crates. There were also cargo containers, broken machinery and two unused big ass water tanks (why it was in the storehouses still baffled us). There were several bodies too, found trapped behind wooden crates and inside most of the cargo containers. Most of them were military personnel, but we also found a few bodies that we presumed were some of the Demented killed during the March 3^rd upsurge. Jim found a poor soul that seemingly had gnawed at his own wrists till death. I figured that he must’ve been infected, but the chief said that sometimes someone can become a Demented without an infection. I couldn’t agree less.

We discarded the bodies into the incinerator alongside with a few others found scattered around the post. NR755 was said to be housing 200 or so soldiers before its capture, but there were only 32 dead bodies found and 21 of them were military personnel. I believe the remaining 168 soldiers must’ve become the Demented, and had left.

We caught up with a couple of the tech guys at the canteen who wanted some of Lawrence Hanky’s VIVID videos (which I traded in for some Pall Mall). Since they had to re-wire up the entire facility, I asked them what’s our superiors hiding from us, but they said the re-wire work was only at the basement and main control panel at the entrance which is nowhere near the interior. They hinted that their chief knew, though, which prompted me to badger the Chief later when we were parking the trucks into the storehouses, and he made me wash the bunker toilets for asking.

Carl from the infantries stopped by our bunker to trade out some booze he found at the A bunkers (a six-pack for the Playboy Playmate specials, and I threw in a Devon movie for good measure). Apparently the infantry guys know nothing about the facility too. The secrecy is bugging me somehow, like there’s some secret experiment of sorts or something. I mean, there are the scientists, and the unknown cargo we transferred. Maybe they’re working out something about the Demented, but don’t they have a lab somewhere at the Haven?

Sometime at 10 p.m. some rogue Demented hammered at our eastern walls. We could hear the howling from the bunker, and then the gunshots when the snipers picked them off. It was unsettling, and what followed was a silence that lingered like after a funeral… hymns from the great beyond. It struck me that the Demented were once humans… in fact, they are humans in every way. Just soulless, and mindless. The monster within all of us, when the mind and soul fails to govern our bodies.

I miss Emily, and I hope that she’s alright. The satellite phones aren’t fixed yet.