Length has nothing to do with it. It has nothing to do with anything.

Let it be a known fact that if you put two Very Cool People and a newbie of the class together in an air-condition hall full of noisy people, the results will be The Most Hilarious Game of Hangman ever Played.

And it was. God, I haven’t laughed so much in a very long time.

Let it also be an undeniable course in reality that ‘3 guys and 1 hot chick’ at work on a story (where each person will write 3 words and pass on to another) will inevitably give birth to a story of utter randomness, complete with Depressed Hamsters, Prosthetic Sexual Organs ™ and a rock named Tom (which had nothing to do with the story at all, apart from being mentioned twice, and that was the extend of it).

Amen to that.

And, lastly, let it be an undoubted truth that a can of mayo tuna left opened and untouched in the fridge for approximately 4 weeks should never be eaten at all, lest you wish to die a very agonising death on top of a porcelain seat in your toilet, and this writer here assures you that there are other less painful ways to commit suicide.

(I didn’t die, but I think I almost did; there was one moment where I saw myself drifting across a plain of ice until I arrived to an Eskimo fishing at a hole with a bamboo rod. He looked at me, cocked his head, made a sucking sound and said, “It’s not your time yet”. And then I was back in the toilet.)

* * * *

Dad and bro left for their vacation yesterday, on a trip to China in an eating tour (where they take you to feast on popular dishes, with plenty of sightseeing in between). Like any other ride to the airport, there was the familiar loom of farewell melancholy. It was nothing big, them leaving, but the loom was there, and it made me fiddle with it for a while, not unlike the manner of a boy absently picking at a ream of the sofa.

So I watch them heave their backpacks into the terminal in the rearview mirror (I drove the way home, with mom as navigator), and felt something stirred, though I don’t know what it was.

It was the second time I drove on a highway stretch, and the longest distance I ever driven. From KLIA to home.

But it was a cool drive. Mom and I chatted, with DJ Simon genially giving us good music on Light and Easy. I was a tad nervous; my legs were somewhat tensed, but it was alright after a while. And quite something to drive at night. The serenity, the subtle dance of unnoticed beauty. Rain drizzled onto the road and the windscreen, turning the streetlights into hexagonal ambers that lit the way home. It was gentle fun, and I liked it. I have to do it again on Thursday, when dad and bro reaches home.

* * * *

When facing the prospect of having a dad-free and bro-liberated week, know that:

1) There won’t be anyone to feed the pets when you couldn’t make it home in time.

2) If you have a punctured tyre, you’re going to have to deal with it alone. It didn’t matter that you’ve dealt it yourself before in past incidents, because this time around there isn’t any assurance that if you fucked up you can still call dad.

3) The fishes are under your utmost and complete responsibility. The ecology of the aquarium and tanks are under your hand; the distribution of food, the management of popularity, the care of the diseased and the deceased and, most importantly, the state of the water.

4) You do not have to make coffee every night.

5) You do not have a brother to massage, and thank the week for that.

6) The brother’s room is a Class 5 No Entry unless required, which you know you don’t have to obey provided you make it seem like it wasn’t intruded upon.

7) You’re free of the 80% of the nagging in the house.

8) The TV is technically yours to command, unless mom decides that she wants the captaincy, and if this happens just retreat to your room and pretend you didn’t hear what she puts on.

9) You’re locking all the doors, so make sure you do it right.

10) You’re going to have a dad-free and bro-liberated week. DO SOMETHING YOU DON’T DO ALL THE TIME. Like singing Beyond the Sea in the living room with a broom and plastic teacup as your hat.

If you understand and acknowledge the above, rest assured; you’ll have a fine and safe week.

(JEOpardy Self-Help titles are not to be held responsible for any damages caused. YOU READ OUR STUFF. WE DIDN’T ASK YOU TO. DON’T BLOODY BLAME IT ON US.)

* * * *

………

………………….

…………………………….

Goodnight People.

It is the innate capability. The fundamental working of things; the intrinsic nature of behaviour. It’s all about attitude. Beliefs. The things you tell yourself.

Optimism.

Pardon me; I’m never that good at the limning of things, if you can call that limning. I try to make things comprehensible, though by right it is very comprehensible to me and the hand in which I hold my pen (or type the words), but at the end of it, it boils down to the known and undeniable fact that being a writer and a teller of things, it is whether the message is understood or not.

(So if you’re reading this, scratching your head and deciding that a bottle of chicken stock and all of its so advertised power to enhance the thought should come in handy right now, take a sit and relax. I’m not worth the understanding).

Today was a day where everything seemed to go wrong. I wouldn’t call it a Disastrous day, or Catastrophic, or even Bad at that manner; but it was pretty obvious that Lady Fortune had decided to mar my day by pouring a bottle of Very Slippery Detergent Sludge down my alley.

I don’t have the energy to relate every wrong thing that happened today, but lets just say that it includes a lot of malfunctioning devices, a fair few of “What the fuck are you doing?”, a considerable lot of “Sometimes I don’t know what the fuck you’re doing…”, the usual “You just had to PISS. ME. OFF! *flails arms angrily in aggravation*”, a lot of cash gone and the most despairing, most dejecting of them all; the Sigh. A lot of Sighs. The ones you get when you’re doing nothing right even if you wish it right. Condescending, and riddled the sort of belittling pity.

Argh.

To cap it off, I burned some toast. Which the dog didn’t even want to eat. So I thought it’d make a good Frisbee of sorts, and decidedly spun it out of the garden. I watch it disappear into the darkness, across the road where the light couldn’t reach, and judging by the way the toast spun towards the left, I think it landed on the neighbour’s roof.

I just hope that birds like toast in the morning.

Happy Birthday, Mich. I hope the flowers are fine.

Goodnight People.

It came to a another time in life where I wake up and realise that Oh, ok, it’s time for a new chapter in life to begin, and I better get my arse off bed or suffer the consequences of missing my train. The difference with this time around, I didn’t feel the usual accompanying excitement that normally gouges out your guts with excitement and anticipation just by thinking of it. There weren’t any euphoria, or new-environment anxiety, or even a sense of fulfilment. Oh, well, there IS a sense of fulfilment, only not as much as one would hope, and one does hope for something more of a Swiss Bank rather than a pink piggy with a hole at the bottom.

Perhaps it is due to the fact that I barely had a month’s worth of a break before transitioning into University. Or perhaps it’s because I’m starting to feel the drag of the studying life, the humdrum monotony and expected expectations that spells itself with B-O-R-I-N-G. University, it seems, feels nothing more than doing the same thing at a different place, which isn’t entirely different either.

But still, I’m flipping into the next chapter of a very long book, and yeah, maybe every chapter doesn’t differ or divert itself from this cycle of repetition, but it moves the story anyhow, and I guess I can only wait to see what happens at the end of it.

And thus, Chapter 20 of the Book of HafutotaJE (the melancholic walrus in disguise of a Chinese guy with boring hair) begins with the word appellation.

Word of the Day for Monday, May 28, 2007

appellation \ap-uh-LAY-shun\, noun:

1. The word by which a particular person or thing is called and known; name; title; designation.
2. The act of naming.

So, under definition 1: the appellation of the first day in Chapter 20 is: Crappiest Weather Ever in the Histories of First Days.

And nothing quite like waking into a drizzle, getting whipped by some nasty wind while waiting for the train, got stuck at university because of impending rain and having to run to the car in Croc shoes under a thunderstorm and getting my socks soaked.

It wasn’t even technically the first day, as there were no classes on May the 28^th, but I’ll just deem it as it is.

Day 2 begins with the word fecund, which was nowhere near describing the state of mental numbness I was in, thanks to insufficient sleep and a night spent helping brother prepare for his examinations, in which I serve in helping him memorise every damn thing in his notes, as well as being something for him to punch in frustration (worry not, I’m well padded) (and yes, this is merely a fictional depiction with mild slanderous intentions).

I rode to college with John Austin, Karl Marx and Hart mumbling the various points of their theories into my head, and occasionally having a squabble over a piece of macaroni and cheese.

So much for the hopes of trying to make top student at UTAR, I found myself drifting off during the first lecture, held in a hall that resembled a tuition class I attended years ago and equally as successful in channelling good studying environment with the best of desks and chairs. Mich was so quickly adapting to the change in environment that it left me to wondering why she had been so direly worried about university. Sure, she stills (loudly) rants out the many flaws of our new but somewhat deplorable institution, but on the whole, she’s getting herself accustomed to it quicker than a parasitic virus.

I, on the other hand, felt like I was in college, attending the same lectures and groaning at the same reasons. With the absence of many a friends.

There was what Amanda describes as “a break you’ve been waiting for… small, but a break nonetheless…” when I got unwittingly and rather suddenly elected as the class representative for Journalism Year 2 sem 1 students (just for walking to the lecturers for some enquiries). Now I’m responsible for seeing over the lecture notes of 3 individuals, myself included, and make sure that I photocopy very immaculate and complete sets of notes for them. A break indeed.

It is merely Day 2, or Day 1 in technicality, and I’m feeling bored and tired already.

I can just hope Day 3 would be more of an improvement, and to make sure of that, I’ll be settling to sleep earlier tonight and be rid of this aggravating sleepiness.

Goodnight People.

A Spot of Indecision.

The UTAR offer letter came today, through courier and all, in a white envelope that was a little crumpled at the edge when I first saw it (it also came with a considerable amount of nagging from dad who, quite by his right, is proud to the first receiver of the letter and also aggravated with the fact that he had to sign for it and I didn’t, because I was asleep).

I wasted no time ripping it open (under an imaginary ceremonious musical score). Found out that I have to pay a fee deposit of RM500 by Saturday, quite manageable, and altogether with the Degree 2^nd year subjects I have to take, I’ll also be taking two extra subjects from year one (one LAN paper, one Interpersonal Communication). Things are looking good, and classes commence next Monday, so I’m having my break cut short.

Anyhow, through an accompanying schedule included with the offer letter and Ling’s impeccably timed sms, I learned that the orientation is tomorrow.

And I couldn’t, for the love of sugar, spice and everything nice, decide whether I should go or not.

I have no doubt that orientation is more prominent than any other thing I had planned for tomorrow (Ps2, Good Omens, Stephen Chow movie collection, Gone With the Wind and activities befitting a true and honourable couch tuber-plant), but I’m quick to remember that orientations never really do sit well with me. For one; I never listen to speeches. For two; my ability to absorb, understand and remember things are similar to that of a sleep-deprived puffer-fish. For three; I have the Thursday and Friday planned with outings, which means I have to be financially cautious if I am to go.

8 hours later and after several unbeneficial conclusions later, I was indecisive enough to decide that I didn’t need to decide at all, and just choose to sleep it over and wake up, drink some tea (with advertised metathepahnine or something) and then rough out my options and evaluation, and hopefully by the time I’m done the orientation is over by 3 months and I’m already taking my exams.

So I took it to my family members, to help me decide.

Being rationally the safest bet, I brought it to mom first.

“Mom, I can’t decide whether or not I should attend the UNI orientation,” I said, and gave her my reasons and excuses.

“Well, if it’s important, then you should go. If it’s not important, don’t go. So if you feel like going, just go, don’t worry, but of course, only if you feel like going. But maybe you should go, you know, though if you don’t want to then you can just stay at home. But it’s an orientation, right? I thought you have to attend that. It’s optional? Then don’t go la. But you go it’s good, because it’s orientation. But only if you feel like going.”

Feeling that nothing was actually solved, I moved to my brother.

“Orientation?” he said, pushing up his glasses. “It’s stupid. There’s nothing in orientations. You go there and you listen to the stupid principals giving stupid speeches, and the stuff they organise there are crap. I’ve been part of the organising committee for, like, what? 6 orientation activities and they’re all crap. You only go to orientation if you want to meet chicks; there’re a lot of chicks in orientation.”

Yeah, chicks. One more reason for me to attend orientation; the ultimate chance to meet someone cute and petit, with dazzling eyes behind her glasses and an adorably shy demeanour. Oh, and pony-tailed hair. What’re the chances?

Sensing that I’m dangerously hovering back to severe indecisiveness, I took a plunge of courage and took it to my dad.

“Orientation? Didn’t you say you didn’t want to go?” he said, and without waiting for an answer, returned to his Heroes, Episode 4 (DVD collection set)

I thought it better than to bother him any longer and retreated to my room.

Without a decision.

So I did the unthinkable; the lame; the ridiculous:

I flipped a coin.

Got heads.

IMed Ling on MSN and told her that I’m going. I told her I’ll be meeting her at the station tomorrow.

Problem solved. I even have time to blog about it.

I was, in greater intention, blogging about a heap of things regarding the weeks prior to this, but currently my thoughts of those (accumulated in good measure) seems to be avoiding me like a very stubborn trout. And like stubborn trout would inflict to unwary fishermen, my exasperation is doubled up with everything synonymous to I’m-Pissed, so I guess I’ll tackle something different tonight.

And different would be Pei Ling’s tag; one that I haven’t come around to do (misled by my befuddling memory).

Let’s see… the question is;

People who are tagged should write a blogpost of 6 weird things about them as well as state this rule clearly. In the end, you need to choose 6 people to be tagged and list their names. Don’t forget to leave a comment that says ‘you are tagged’ in their comments and tell them to read your blog.

1) I’m a lazy gamer.

Who’d thought one can be lazy at gaming as well? But that’s what I am. When I game I tend to dive right into it without checking out certain things first, the controls in particular, and I prefer to learn them as I go. If you know RPGs and the whole mess of menus, lists and skill branches (all that in-depth jazz), I never really bother to check them out thoroughly. Side quests, explorations and more cumbersome but quite unnecessary optional tasks are kept at the minimal side, and I play them only if I feel like it or if there’s a prominent need for it (getting the most powerful weapon, etc).

2) I sometimes narrate things as I go.

This is more sick (psychotic, crazy, nutmeg, Chihuahua, demented) than weird, to be honest. It’s an innate thing which has developed over the years of reading and writing; sometimes when I was walking or tending to something, I narrate in my mind. I do that in different POVs, I try and describe things, and whatever thoughts, notes or lines I make I remember, and one fine day everything will go onto a piece of paper. Upside to this; I do occasionally snag a good, literarily competent line. Downside; I can be too engrossed in it that I lose tracks of many a thing.

3) I remember and think best by walking back and forth.

The best way to realign my thoughts, memorise my material and plan out whatever I’m planning. I avoid doing this in the house, unless everyone’s asleep, and until then I would prowl the garden or wander around my kitchen. My mom would think I’ve gone spastic.

4) I plan stories whenever possible.

While sleeping, or slouching on the train, or during an immensely dull class (whatever moment in which I don’t have to worry about other things). Trouble with this is that I often just repeat a segment of that story and work on it, and never have I actually completed a story in one daydream. Sometimes the stories don’t even have words at all. Just pictures.

5) I cannot stop myself from reading the ending of a book.

Even when I just started or haven’t completed it. Halfway through a particular boring chapter, or when I’ve gotten bored, I’ll flip to the last page and read the last sentence (or word). Sometimes it spoils the story. Sometimes it does nothing but make me shrug and continue reading from where I left off. Once, it made me return a book to my cousin sis after only 2 chapters because it told me everything. It’s unhealthy reading, but it’s something I can’t resist.

6) I like climbing things.

If only I’m not physically incapable… anyhow, I climb trees, hills, scalable cliffs (nothing death defying) and rocky paths. I don’t enjoy stairs. I do, however, like ladders. And games with a lot of climbing around (Prince of Persia, Shadow of the Colossus) are my adoration.

And something my brother saw fit to say;

7) I live in my own fantasy world.

Or so my brother believes. He thinks I have my own Ivalice, my backyard is Terabithia and my room is Tatooine (or Lyra’s Oxford, depending on my mood). My ruler is the Blade of Alacrity, my notepad the Shield of Dendyn and my hand phone, whatever model, can the turned into the GPX99095 intergalactic dimension transmitter (capable of homing into any communication signal within a 17 plate dimension cluster and hijacking any communication line. It also comes as a 16G Mp3 player and a Wasabi dispenser). My bed, when I go to sleep on, becomes a moving castle powered by a flame demon, and it will traverse across every land and time and space that I want to. And I have Shinigami powers. How cool is that?

And I tag everyone listed on my link list, with the exception of those who has done this particular tag.

And if you’re not tagged and somewhat interested in doing this tag, please, by all means, be my guest.

Anyhow, it's time i scoot off to bed... i have to give the dogs a bath tomorrow.

Goodnight people

I keep telling myself – over the past few weeks – that if I don’t start blogging again I’ll never be able to forgive myself for breaking an oath I made, rather hurriedly (but with every ounce of conviction), to a dear friend. And it was, seemingly, an oath that would’ve been broken and shattered twice over with a sledgehammer and a block of cement, but I intend to keep that promise; so here I am, my dear friend, and stop harassing me to update. It’s starting to get annoying =P

The previous blog template is starting to get depressingly dull, so I changed it to Scribe for them time being while I prowl the net in search of something brighter and cheerier. Or, if I’m conveniently denied of one, perhaps I might just keep this one a little longer.

Anyhow, this will just be a short update. I’m currently too distracted to type anything more than a few paragraphs of nonsense, because I typing a bunch of nonsense to a bunch of other people (who, apparently, couldn’t take my nonsense anymore and starts giving me a few of their nonsense). And as nonsensical as this may sound, it’s purely and utterly nonsense, so ignore me if you may.

To make this as brief and as comprehensible as possible, I’ll just highlight the important stuff that happened over the past few weeks;

1) My exams were finally over… a week ago.

2) Said exams were my final exams in my Diploma course.

3) Which technically means that I’ve just completed my Diploma studies.

4) And I’ll be sending in my application to UTAR this coming Friday (horrendously late). (Ok not exactly something that has happened).

5) Had a nice farewell dinner with the class after the exams.

6) I wrote my first fantasy short story that didn’t stay somewhere in my laptop collecting digital dust, which is later submitted as my Creative Writing assignment short story titled Madea.

7) The English creative writing class compiled their short stories into an anthology, which is titled Magnum Opus (following Amanda’s short story title of the same name).

8) I’ve taken to drawing Oekaki whenever I chat online. I suck in it, but it can be somewhat fun.

9) Erm…

10) Erm….. ah…

11) Wait that didn’t count.

12) I

13) Haven’t

14) Watched

15) Spider-man

16) 3

17) I’ve gotten fatter.

That’s about it, I guess.

I’ll be updating in more details in the coming days, but I guess tonight was just a tad hectic. And I’m itching to post something new in Monochrome Smogs.

And so, to end this lamely;

Goodnight People.

To the Brave Souls to whom this letter is addressed to,

You are about to embark on a great crusade. A journey of vast proportions, a path of unrivalled peril and depressing shrouds of mental failure. You will be sorely tested, placed on a course of challenges and trials that will undermine the strength of your will, weaken your heart and crush your spirits, so that you will be left defeated and abandoned by the dreams that you so determinedly grasp.

But you will not fear it, nor shall you look upon it as an entity of despair. Arouse your spirits and summon your strengths, warriors. Yes, you are warriors. Warriors who defend the core of their love, who fight for their freedom and the sanctity of their minds. You will stare it in the eye; the dark chasms that threaten to pull you within, and you will fight it, and you will prevail.

So pick up your pens and pencils. Organize your notes and dust out the text books under your desks. Revise and research, study and learn, for knowledge is your greatest strength, and the pen your sword and armour. Remember your dreams, and know your love. Seize victory, and you seize future. Fight for yourself, and you shall fight for others.

Fight, and win.

And a diploma is forever yours.

With deep regards,

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

My sanity is degrading. Considerably.

But I am not so arrogant enough as to claim that I’ve been poring endlessly over notes and text-books, plunging myself deep into immeasurable pressure and depressing hours of revision; the most I’ve done is sum up a bunch of last minute notes to throw at the examiner and pray for a marginal pass. The procrastinating plague is still strong in me, and it takes a little more than some panic-stricken moments and jovial inspirations to siphon it.

Hence it is not the pressure that is robbing my mental health, but the gloom it manages to cast over the workings of the world that I reside in.

Everyone is in a snappish mood; aggression mounts to cautious levels and the pressure they bear weighs down under their eyes, forming grim shadows beneath weary pupils. I see smiles, but they project an unbreakable barrier of dismal trepidation that unwittingly turns me into a wrecking circumspect.

Argh. I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore.

Chill J-E, chill.

It only means that you, too, should be picking up your books and start bloody revision.

After this blog, my precariously wary shoulder angel. After this post.

Now, you said it already. Don’t go back on your words.

Yeah, yeah. I promise I won’t.

Good. And don’t forget to say what I always told you to say.

Yes, yes, I’m not forgetting it. *ahem*

Goodnight people.

(There. There’s a good human. Aren’t you glad that I’m your conscience? Hm? Hm?)

(*&^%$!%I’’llshowyouconsience@&^!&*)

I could really imagine…

I could smell her hair; the same, familiar scent of sweetness, like a chorusing whisper of a million flowers.

I could feel her close to me, feel her feel my heartbeat. Feel her warmth, and feel her cold dissipate in my embrace.

Feel her cheeks soft onto mind.

Feel her filling me. Feel her coursing into every corner of my body and soul that never knew the things that she could give me, and feeling whole. Feeling full. Content. Blissful.

Feeling loved.

I could really imagine…

But that is as far as imagination would go.

And at its wake, I only get a longing. A very strong longing.

The rain was crazy.

It came down in sheets, and if I tried to divert myself away from the gentle music in my ear I would’ve managed to deduce a certain form of rhythm in their falling. Like waves. Like billows of velvet curtains under a benign wind. But it was heavy. It was rough, violent, wrathful. It was scary, to be honest. That was why I took to stop myself at the shops to wait for the rain to subside. I had the window down a crack, and through it stray strands of the tearing squalls outside made into my car. I put my fingers to it. Chilly.

I was lucky. I reached my car when the rain took the heavy turn, and it wasn’t until I took the road back home when the rain became a storm. Had I went to the photo exhibit at KLCC like I planned earlier, I would’ve ended up stuck at the station, waiting for the downpour to stop.

It was crazy. I couldn’t see anything a few meters away. Somewhere up Bukit Mewah I saw palm leaves literally ripped off their barks by the winds. Waste baskets were tossed onto the roads and I had a Chinese lantern rolling after me. At one point I had branches falling on the roof of my car. Nothing big or damaging, but it unnerved me enough to make a detour towards a row of shops at Taman Zamrud, where I stopped to wait.

I had my Mp3 on, which quite conveniently had run itself into the English-songs half of my playlist (the first half jam-packed with J-rock and anime tracks), so I could sing along a bit. It ends tonight (All American Rejects) flitted through, and I hummed together with David Bowie’s Heroes (not knowing the words). Then Confidence (For you I will) played.

And I felt myself falling silent, glancing out at the lashing rain.

I felt sad.

I felt like I’ve seen her tearful. Three times in my lifetime now, and every time it was battle with self-control to not fling my arms over her, soothing her (I’d imagine her going into an epileptic shock, then throwing me a jaw breaking punch).

I hate to see her cry.

Not that she ever did. The most I caught was a glistening of tears she must’ve fought hard not to well. But it was enough. I would become a useless, petrified person. I would try to cheer her. I would think of consolations, but what use were those, when I know not the things I had to console. All I could do is say a few words. Hopefully get her talking. A smile, at best. Then I can pretend that she’ll be fine for a mo, or at least not as desolate.

Pretend. Huh. A soothing of my own troubled thoughts. What good is pretence?

I mouthed the chorus.

For you I will.

The rain dimmed a little. Enough for me to make a run for home. I started the car and drove slowly back. And then the rain stopped completely.

The sun was beautiful at that time. But I think no one noticed. No one really looks up to the sky after a rain, and understands that after a downpour, the sky is most beautiful.

After the rain.

I guess I’ll wait.

Sweet. Definitely with an authentic taste, of not vaguely so. It lacked a certain punch, though, like a half-thrown uppercut with little effort. And I daresay it had nothing to do with the packet of fried onion garnish I forgot sprinkle on it. But I have to applaud its effort. It was instant noodles after all. Prawn-noodles flavour. Over a horrendously tedious movie. One can only complain so much. If any more, the world will lack colour and dive into nonsensical pandemonium.

It was a quiet day. Peaceful. It feels like one of those perfect days to wake up and realising that you’re living on your work pension, and all you have to do is feed the birds and bask in some placid, comfortable rest at the armchair. Sip a glass of juice or two. Like I did. While stretching out on the sofa, having the fan billow genial winds down on my flabby back over the serene chirping of birds outside. I could’ve done with a little more sleep, but an entire morning alone at home, dad-free and everything alluring, how was I to resist the call of les Ps2 and a good movie?

I was supposed to go ching ming with mother today, but there we didn’t count in the possibilities of my fifth uncle going this year, so I stayed back to make room in the car. I spent a few moments wondering why I didn’t take up Mich’s offer to go on a movie spree, now that I had to stay home and do nothing anyway. When I volunteered to stay home a little walrus in me gave a histrionic “AAAAAAAArrrrggghhhh!!!!....” and spread itself under a spotlight. So much for going to the Nirvana cemetery every time I was capable to. I was home alone when I could’ve gone to The Reaping with Mich and Amanda. Jolly.

So I thought I’d redeem myself by watching some DVDs I haven’t had the time or mood to sit through. I started with Dreamgirls, which was pretty good, though I find it pretty weird when some of the characters began singing out of the blue. There’s no hint to a start of a song at all, and suddenly the character goes into a vocally charged fit, singing out loud as though people wouldn’t find it incredibly unnerving to have a woman falsetto-ing in the middle of nowhere. But then maybe I haven’t watched enough musicals to know how they work.

After that I sat down for After This, Our Exile (or Fu Zi); a Chinese movie starring Aaron Kwok. The movie was a big deal because it was shot in Malaysia (Ipoh) and Aaron Kwok won the Golden Horse award for his performance. Halfway through it managed to bore the crap out of me, and I couldn’t find a single explanation to those supposedly artistic shots (which adds to the aggravation). In the end it was a big deal of crap, but not entirely without its worth. So I shrug and go do my chores with a quiet tinge of regret knowing that The Reaping will – at any rate – definitely do better than this tedious movie.

And I still feel that now, despite whatever the reviews said about The Reaping (D+ rating on yahoo!movies). At least I’d have some visual effects of locusts devouring them puny humans...

Goodnite peops.

It has been a crazy week. Demented, more like, or should I say psychotic? No, trying to personify it with synonyms of madness doesn’t seem to emblazon it properly. Let’s just say that it was a quite a week. Not bad, but just messed up. And it’s making me nuts.

If I think hard about it; I mean, really really hard, I think I can remember that in the course of 5 days, I’ve had nothing but a continuous streak of assignment deadlines. But I can’t remember well. Doctor said my brains were fried, a result of excessive critical thinking (a feat for the likes of me, he said) and insufficient sleep. I went on a complete meltdown for a whole day. I didn’t remember what happened, but mom said I sang “Can you feel the love tonight,” while waltzing with the kitchen mop for an hour or so. She then knocked me unconscious with her tazer, because she was afraid I might do something dangerous, and because the mop was a good mop. It lost half of its hair when I was done with it.

Anyway, the doctor said I should lay off with thinking more than I should, so I’m stuck to Bugs Bunny cartoons the whole week and I’m not allowed to eat carrots. Oh, I’m also not supposed to write, but the doctor doesn’t need to know.

There’s also the matter of losing my Sony E. K700i handphone.

I dropped it at Alpha Angle and it got nicked in an instant (I didn’t manage to see who). And it was a perfectly good phone, despite the memory size and the shitty joystick. Now I’ll have to settle with an old Nokia, and with all my contact numbers lost. Tell me your handphone numbers, ya? I’m very keen on refurbishing my list. Unless I owe you cash. Then I don’t think I know you.

There was one morning where I woke at 3 a.m., thanks to my nefarious brother who quite conveniently forgot to re-switch my air-cond on after taking a midnight shower (the conditioner in my room uses the same port as the shower, so you can’t have them on at the same time or it’ll be short circuit). And being the small room that is mine, it grew immensely stuffy, so I was forced to wake and wash my face. Then I saw that Michelle had IMed me 4 minutes before.

And I replied (O.o). And we chatted for an hour or more. And she asked me something that kick-started an engine roar of questions, which I predominantly repeat over my head until now. And then I really started to wonder about something that bro said to me, very constantly. About knowing that I wanted in life.

I knew what I wanted then, but I didn’t understand why I’m so fickle. I didn’t understand why I didn’t pursue things wholeheartedly. Apart from a few exceptions, but then again those exceptions didn’t stack up in significance.

Maybe it’s really time I stop being so indecisive, and let the future worry itself when I get there. Maybe I should really get what I want.

No fear. So said the T-shirt.

Goodnight People.

I must, quite frankly, apologise for my previous post. I shall throw in my very best squeezy-eyed emoticon, to show my sincerity.

>.<

Because that was no way anywhere near a proper description of a great visit to a paintings exhibition (which, admittedly, had been a fantastic but befuddling show… on my part, at least), and I’ve been in a rather ridiculous mood of wariness when it comes to writing, hence the forced and ultimately pathetic post.

I figure that this might look rather faltering in terms of necessity, but I very truly felt that I’ve ruined it.

I’m sorry. >.<

*ahem*

I’ll move on to today, shall I?

Today had been, quite possibly, a genuinely sort of mix-up in flavour. Like a cotton candy doused with Paddle-Pop ice-cream, lime, chicken rice chilli, belacan and buttons.

Or perhaps I shall say that if I intend to describe today with taste, this is the monstrosity that comes;

First there was a taste of driedtongueandphlegmsaliva, the regular early-morning tang that never failed to greet me every cursed morning, and which requires a little more than Colgate to throw off.

Secondly came the taste of Idiocy, when I boarded a bus without looking and ended up at Genting Kelang instead of college (I shall justify myself by saying that I was horrendously groggy at the moment, and it was 7 in the morning and I had awakened at 5. I’ll leave it for you to judge). I walked all the way back to college, and thankfully the air was cool and dewy as certain mornings are, so that the walk couldn’t get anywhere worse than thick smog and recurring pangs of shame.

Thirdly was the taste of Nothingness, which was the taste of the nasi lemak I ate at a stall (at TBR) before heading for lecture. Well, except for the egg. Which tasted like egg. Fried.

Fourth was the taste of IMMENSE & UTTER BOREDOM, but it was to be expected from a Miss Neoh lecture. What would my parents say, though, if they discover that I spent the lecture drawing comics (strips and all) on my notepad?

Fifth was the blissful taste of Relieve (which incorporates the mix of sweetness, cocoa and Prozac), which came when I saw that I’ve passed my examinations.

Sixth was the fetid lingering aftertaste of Bitter, when the guys discovered their respective results.

Seventh, the taste of Nostalgia, having managed a few moments of Unreal Tournament before heading for class (M-M-M-Monster Kill!!).

Back in class with Miss Neoh was a recurrence in Taste No.4, but at the meantime I had what that was the Eighth taste; Candy, which I bought at the store beforehand.

The Ninth taste was Best-Sweet-Sour-Pork-Ever. At the usual mixed rice spot at Wangsa Maju, where it was sold at a house.

The Tenth taste was the taste of Intimidation. I spent the train ride home reading up the short story drafts of my classmates, and I have to say that I am more than impressed. I am stunned and amazed. I inevitably made comparisons to mine, and had felt, very honestly, jealous and pressured. I guess the competition is tough, if there is any at the first place. Every draft had been a good read… save one, which I shall not reveal here (it is a story that reminded me of something I wrote back in my primary school, and the teacher had commented, in a most polite, gentle and truthful way, that my story was mountains over-the-top).

I haven’t made to check whose story that I hadn’t read yet, though I’m most eager to get my hands on whatever Michelle wrote =P

The Eleventh taste was the taste of Disappointment, because God of War 2 isn’t out yet (on pirate DVD) when I went to check at the stores in town, risking a very probable ticket for parking without paying.

After that I had a taste of Just-Tea (Green Tea with Grape), and I shouldn’t have had it, because I’ve already consumed half the stock we have. Add Guilt to Taste Twelfth.

Now I’m currently tasting Taste Thirteenth, and that’s Regret, because I’m here typing this instead of reading 6 chapters of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, to be discussed at class tomorrow, so I’m pretty much going sit and mouth wordlessly as everyone throw in their best perceptions of the novel. And then I’ll be wondering about lunch, or whether I shall try checking the stores for God of War again, or whether Isaac understands everything that he will inevitably say.

And then I will wonder why I didn’t read the damn book in the first place.

Oh yeah, I was blogging. And the book bores the crap out of me.

Goodnight people.

The painting hung over the ebony piano, which was – to my small dismay – surrounded by velvet ropes that meant my presence there was only welcomed at 3 feet away. On the contrary, however, watching the painting reflecting itself on the dark surface of the piano gave it a vibrant air of classy grandeur, and I thought, perhaps, that the painting comes together with the piano as a complete picture, and were meant to be viewed together.

But the painting was the one I was most interested it, so I got myself as close to it as possible, and I looked at it like I’ve looked at every painting before it.

The title of the painting was “Dita-Summer”.

The ground was red and barren; crimson from the relentless sun. Above, the clouds bore the golden glory of the sunlight the reflected on its misty form, solidifying it into a golden mould of light. Streams of the golden paint flowed gently down the canvas, as though the clouds were raining down on the land…

The clouds were pitying the land…I mused, and I didn’t know why I did. A smile coursed over my face.

It was quiet at the gallery. Like a gallery should be.

Fresh from the 300 movie, Amanda, Teh and I made an unusual drop-in at a KLCC gallery that I never knew existed before. Amanda said it once housed a photography exhibition, which she visited sometime before. Now it was a painting and poem exhibition; works by a man I only remembered as Latiff (from his signature that occupied the bottom of his paintings).

The admission was free. They only needed one signature.

We went in. I didn’t read the title of the first paintings we encountered, and we didn’t exactly spend a long time trying to understand it. The paintings were ones that doesn’t seem to take any certain objects or pictures, and at first glance one can decipher it as merely random swirls and patches of paint. The three of could only guess what it was. Amanda said something about a sheep. Teh said it looked like sailing boats in a dark night. I thought it looked like nonsense.

It wasn’t until I started lagging behind while replying a SMS, and being further apart from Amanda and Teh, when I started spending more time on each picture, and realising that I could only make out the colours that created it (that’s indigo! I know indigo. And yellow. Like bananas. And lemons).

Away from the guys the gallery turned into a corridor of resonating silence. Footfalls echoed and died like coming breezes of wind.

I stood at a painting, gazing at while wondering how the heck one could admire paintings such as this. Subliminal meaning?

What am I looking at? I’m looking at shades of red and magenta, a coursing of green and minuscule droplets of purple and blue, a blending of 3 colours into a certain shape… a man? An old man, hunched and weary, his hands grasping something, a stick perhaps, to support his weigh. His face was long, his nose large and crooked. He was weary. The sun was tormenting him, engulfing him in the crimson fury of its rage. The colours of his face formed streams that swivel down, like sweating, and above his hunch bore the weight that seemed, somehow, cursed upon him…

Huh.

I never knew why, but somehow, it felt like it was the right way to look at the paintings like this. It’s no more different than trying to determine the obscured theme to a story, or deciphering a photograph in whole. Losing oneself in it, and limning the things that we see, regardless of right or wrong… for there never seemed to be one. The painting only provides the colours and the shapes. You make the picture.

And then everything seemed to be fun to look at.

I was soon seeing caves with gorges of swirling water, forests of burning fire that swayed to the winds, waves beneath the surface of the ocean, streams that ran alongside watchful storks, a tower at a distant land that basks in illuminating rays of sunlight and a solemn face of a woman (most of them with little or nothing to do at all with its title).

At the end of the gallery was a book, filled with signatures and comments of visitors. I pondered for a moment, took up the pen and scribbled (as nicely as I could): “fascinating”, and put a J-E underneath it. Teh wrote that he didn’t understand anything of it but he thought it was nice. We left to get our bags.

Alright, I’m going to begin today’s post with a huge

THANK YOU!

To:

1) Michelle and Diane, for getting me the Good Omens novel!

2) Farah and Pei Ling for getting me that cake (tasted great, though it got mashed up on my way home).

3) Ju Ee for –despite the immense amount of pushing and shoving and disagreeing and protesting and exasperated “woi!”s– still allowing me to pay for her meal.

4) Everyone else at the lunch today, which includes Amanda, Wai Yee and Geetz, for wishing me a belated birthday.

And if you’ve noticed, I’ve just been out to lunch with 8 fantastic ladies and having my birthday celebrated. Mmhmm, on different circumstances, I would’ve been the luckiest 20-year old in the world. Currently, I’m only the happiest 20-year old of Today.

I didn’t expect my birthday to be celebrated as well; for all I knew, I was merely tagging along a luncheon trip to commemorate Ju Ee’s birthday (which, rather incidentally, falls a day after mine). Having no personal gift for her, I figured I would buy her lunch, only to get my share of the celebration nicely set for me.

Thanks girls. I appreciate it, very, very immensely.

My birthdays for me never do seem like a big deal, but nonetheless a day I look forward to exceptionally since the beginning of the year. It’s a day in which I find myself in a contradictory situation; on one hand, I’m very clearly excited about it, and like most people (I figure) wants it to be the best day of the year, and having gifts and a grand dinner and a cake, with the appropriate candles. On the other, I can’t discard the feeling that I don’t actually deserve gifts, or cakes, or a particularly expensive dinner, mainly because I’ve never done much for anyone else’s birthdays, or maybe because I feel that it’s a day where the thought counts most and getting wishes is more than enough.

So I keep telling my parents not to buy any gifts (well, maybe a few exceptions), or waste on cakes, or eat something that’s too extravagant. I never, unless prompted or happened to mention, deliberately tell my friends or remind relatives of my birthday. And honestly, a wish is always enough for me to feel appreciated and remembered.

Thus I never do expect much from my birthdays, and sometimes in birthdays I never expect any more. Like today J.

I’m going to be truthful here; I did find it kind of fishy that Michelle and Diane never showed up after our visit to the bookshop, and when they said they were at the toilet I was pretty stumped out because I never saw them leave, and I’ve been keeping watch at the entrance for several times in case I was too engrossed with browsing. When I called Michelle and asked if she’s alright, there was a strange sort of forcefulness in her voice that made me go O.o for a bit. But then I never suspected that they went to get me Good Omens. Thanks so much =P

Here’s another large

THANK YOU

before I end this post.

Sweet dreams all.

And goodnight people.

Oh noes!

Say it isn’t so!

Dad has once more sought the need to increase the amount of animals at home, and this time it’s…

2 of them! (I can’t get the 2^nd one to sit tight while I take its pic). (The second one is similar in look by the way. Only less greyish).

It’s as though dad never got the hint that I’ve been plagued enough with animal predicaments, which technically fill most of my time and responsibilities. Perhaps I shouldn’t hint, you know… maybe I ought to shout it in the house with a bottle of vodka and my BB gun in my arms… just to prove a point…

But I can’t deny that they’re cute and cuddly… damn.

Dad hurriedly named them Happy and Lucky. Brother wanted to name them Thumper and Humper (-_-). I personally preferred Yarn and Thorn, but then again, they don’t sound anywhere near pleasant anyway.

I’ll call them that when no one’s around…