Skip college, stay home.

Halfway into my first week of the semester and I’ve already played the truant. I know I can’t justify myself, nor can I drown out the nagging guilt clinging to my neck ever since I made the decision to tell my parents that I’ve no more classes the entire week. The least I could do I reassure myself that today’s class is a mere 2 hour lecture, in which I would less likely be missed by my new lecturer or my fellow classmates. I’m not quite ready to pay 15 bucks and trudge an hour an a half to college, sit under the boring crooning of a stranger lecturer and ride myself back home. No.

But then again, Pei Ling lives where I live (my town) and she paid 15 bucks, got to college, listened to the crooning, and trudged back. So yeah, there’s no comforting my conscience. I’m so going to hell.

There’s another 2 hour class tomorrow, so be assured that I wouldn’t be there. Blam me of you need to.

To be honest, really, really honest, honest beyond the utmost sincerity of my underlying truth and frankness that blossoms in my zenith of non-lying honestly, I skipped class today so that I can wallow myself in the couple of games I bought last Saturday, which I haven’t touched save for the 15 minutes I stole out to test them (see, I’ve been totally honest with you). Ah, but fate would not have it (or rather, I’ve taken a turn at the karma thing) because I had to spend the day helping my brother revise for his upcoming exams.

Let me be frank with you (once again), helping a temperamental brother revise Law, one of the very most horrendously insane branch of education that had ever graced the lives of our human civilizations, can be rather crazy-inducing. And it drags long (just so damn many things to memorize), so long that time actually passes like mad but still felt like a millennium. Not that I mind it all that much (I’m helping my bro, for crying out loud; I’m not that much of a jerk), but it can get dull; dull like black and grey pages of the newspaper classified, a jumble of incomprehensible, indecipherable images that does little to entice the senses and does a whole lot to confuse the mentality. But hey, I might get rewarded for it, so shut up JE and leave it be.

What I basically do is help my bro memorize his statutes, notes, cases, decrees, whatever other stuff law is incorporated to and etc. And while it might sound pleasant (perhaps to the stoned individuals that I wouldn’t know why they’re reading this instead of hentai manga), it’s not. The factors are:

1) Words that are somehow hard to pronounce (or at least for me. Wait. Yeah, only me).

2) Sentences that I can’t understand, even when my brother took the time to explain.

3) Sentences that I may or may not understand, but still confuses the heck out of me.

4) Sentences that both me and brother can’t understand. I don’t know why but it annoys me, somehow.

5) Freaking English names that are either too hard to pronounce, too hard to read or too hard to remember.

6) Things that somehow seemed to loop back, despite how long it is, as though repeating its own crap-circle (it’s just me).

7) Reading those really, really, really long sentences/points/cases/notes that contain everything of the above.

8) Not knowing what to read, which to read and when to read.

I have to deal with it all the way into the 13th June or so (I might’ve listening wrongly, which could be good or bad). Guess I just need to tolerate through it.

Goodnight people.


Word of the day: Evince-To show or demonstrate clearly; manifest: evince distaste by grimacing

Still reading: American Gods (slow progress).

Anime of the day: Tsubasa Reservoir Chronicles (2nd season) ep 29.

Sighing at dinner.


I’m pretty much screwed right now, but strangely the feeling of exhaustion that usually accompanies the plethora of regret and inner-suffocation is absent. Still, the numbness still resides and weighting the mind and it’s nothing short of awe that I can still manage to type right now.

It’s pretty hard to control myself and shouting “FUCK!” at every single thing I can place my blame on, but I know in the end all I could do is just blame myself. I don’t want to heighten the fucked-up feeling welling in my stomach, and I don’t want to place myself in a swirl of regret and remorse and make the day worse it could’ve gotten.

If you’re wondering what big-ass thing I’ve managed to get my pretty much useless and pathetic arse into, let me first tell you that what started off as a crappy dinner is now unfolding itself into disaster night episode 114. Nothing serious, really, nothing life endangering or horrendous enough for me to empty a bottle of febreeze into my guts with hopes that I’d pass out and lose my ability to think so that everything will become oblivious to me as I am oblivious to them. No. But I’ve screwed up bad enough; bad enough to warrant me a hefty load scolding from dad. God knows how much more I could take, not when dad’s already pissed since dinner.

Dinner today consisted of fried chicken wings (self marinated with those RM1 packets of frying flour), a fish fried and served with garlic soy sauce and a plate of fried Okra (lady finger). I believe it may somehow sound alright, and that it’s what regular household dinner would offer to the everyday family. But trust me when I say this; it SUCKS. The chicken turned our rather tasteless; the fish became some flaky monstrosity with crappy sauce all over it. Only the okra was alright. And as the very feisty eater my dad is, complaints were soon all over the dishes (accompanied by the trademark curses and cusses). “What the fuck fish is this? The chicken taste like shit! Where’s the otak-otak? Tiuniama chew chibet.” What could’ve been a warm, quiet dinner turned out to be a round table engulfed with bad moods and horrible temper that hovers above dishes. Dad lost his appetite. His continuous nagging lost me my appetite. Dad left his half of his plate untouched. I finished everything to cover my guilt. Brother had to take swipe at me. Sigh.

My maid does the cooking, so basically everything my dad was hollering at is indirectly directed at her. What he didn’t know is that every evening the maid would confide to me regarding what should be cooked. Thus, the one who gets all the blame is me. It’s bad enough already to silently take the blame for what my maid did, who went on a long line of excuse that the fish should be cooked instead of the otak-otak that I suggested. It’s hard not to blame it entirely on her. I’m still rather pissed at her, especially when she looks cool about it. But I could’ve insisted, and I could’ve made the dishes well much better. Never mind. It’s not like it never happened before.

So what continued is that I have to take the car, under the soft serene rain, to the nearby restaurant and get dad some noodles, and wait a full 20 minutes for it. It was freaking dark, the most of the streetlights were pretty much out, the car’s headlights had to be dim, and I had to scrape the front bumpers to the side of a signpost while parking. Shit. I checked. A lot of paint is scratched out. A whole damn lot. Nothing I could do to cover my crime, apart from brushing off the paint that got lodged at the signpost. I haven’t told dad. What I could do now is either feign ignorance and pray that dad won’t notice it till he went to work, or tell the whole damn thing and brace the scolding along with the humiliation for scraping the car during the one manoeuvre which I perform without fail every fucking week. Fuck. Another thing is to lie; tell my dad that he has a scrape to the bumper when I lock the doors tonight, and pretend that some rogue, reckless driver had scraped it when the car was parked, then feign ignorance. I’d hate to have the guilt, but now it seemed the best choice of action. Damn it.

God damn this fucking dinner.

Green fields beneath the greying sky.

I took this picture sometime back in January, on the way down to Penang for weekend break. Finally fished it out of my neglected picture folder, so I thought I’d post it here before I delete it sometime in the future to make way for upcoming anime episodes.

I was chatting with this girl once, I remembered, sitting at the side of an empty hallway listening to whatever
crap songs my MP3 player was spouting. She told me that she wanted to see the world, and perhaps go backpacking across the continents one day (or something like that, my memories don’t stay fresh). The idea was dead appealing; carrying a knapsack filled with clothes and coffee mugs, striding pass the square courts of London, or walking the open tracks of the American countryside, or standing at the cliff somewhere in New Zealand (preferably around the film locations of LOTR) tasting the wind and embracing the scenery, and forever capture the beauty of every of this locations into the frames of photographs.

This picture, somehow, reminded me that Malaysia has still so much to show, and I have yet to witness every of this spectacles. Perhaps, one day, what I should really do first, is walk across the padi fields of Kedah, or kayak along the blue waters between the islands off Terengganu, or marvel the Mulu cave, or scaling Mount Kinabalu.

Perhaps one day… I should save money for a vacation.

Where’s my piggy bank? Oh right, I don’t have one, not since 6 years old.

Goodnight people.

Word of the day: vis-à-vis -
1.Face to face with; opposite to.
2.Compared with.
3.In relation to

Currently reading: American Gods by Neil Gaiman.

Anime of the day: The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya (Suzumiya Haruhi no Yuutsu) ep 8.

Monochrome.

Don’t ask me why, just that somehow after catching an eye of a monochrome portrait sometime back, the word kind of got stuck around me. Perhaps it signifies a certain relation, or a similarity, to what I sometimes perceive what life and living as (as much as my cumbering intellectuality can procure).

No, I won’t say my life is dull or colourless as any certain teen or young adult lumbering through college, claiming that life is just as lifeless as the dreary shades of grey in the darkening skies. Bullshit. Look everywhere and the rose is just as red and the skies are just as blue, the grass just as green and a 24 inch high-def plasma TV can still make my 16 bit games look like X-Box quality (exaggerated).

My apologies. It’s just that people who disregard the world just because they disregard themselves can get on my nerves sometimes.

No, monochrome, somehow, signifies equivalence. Just two of something; light and dark, black and white, good and evil, yin and yang, roti canai and thosai, all that jazz.
But then I’m a sucker for the light-and-darkness-equivalence sort of things, so render me coco puffs. It’s just that it’s a simple way to put things. You get the 2 things. If one increases, one decreases, but sometimes it goes in reverse. Like walking towards a light source, and the shadows grow longer (this plagiarised off Kingdom Hearts). Something in increase will both decrease and increase something else. And you also get one of something within another… something. Light within darkness. Good within the evil. Get it? Don’t bother. It’s just tish-tosh of a boring, dull-minded individual with affections for monochrome pictures, and it won’t make sense in life anyway.

Ah… my idiocy, once more, startles me.

Goodnight people.

Word of the day: Marquis- A nobleman ranking below a duke and above an earl or a count.

Currently reading: American Gods by Neil Gaiman.

Anime of the day: The Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya (Suzumiya Haruhi no Yuutsu)

Blog overhaul.

Been wanting to do it for a while now, and finally sought the will to do it.

Nothing much, just thought i'd change the blog title to something else, despite my peculiar obsessions and similiarities towards the artic blubbering creature with tusks.

Finally placed some links. Inform me if i left out any.

I'll shape it out a lil more, once understand what the hell is HTML.

Maybe upload a picture...

What day is it today?

What day is it today? A bad day or a good day? I don’t know. Somehow beneath my exasperated and somewhat exhausted spirit, both seemed so likely, and yet so unlikely as well. The disturbing, familiar heat rising to my face-a sign of getting caught in the rain-is uncomfortable and disconcerting (while promisingly tempting, getting a fever during the last week of college break sucks). By right I should be pissed at the day; getting caught multiple times under the rain, getting screwed for pathetic reasons, somewhat making myself a fool in front my course juniors (Quiet and Serene? Wrong words, pal), and just tiring the crap out of my wide disgusting bottom. But what is this uncanny feeling of satisfaction settled warmly at my stomach?

Today is the college Mass Call day (or maybe another name, but I’m caring less about it), the day in which the new batch of students from this year’s May intake heave their arses to attend a whole day of non-prolific crap at college (yes, from my own personal experience). Being a senior now… wait, where’s the pride of being so? How come I feel degraded and pathetic and a total loser? Oh right, that’s the feverish feeling kicking in. Sorry. I was caught a rain too many.

Anyways, us senior need to introduce the college to the juniors, just as our beloved seniors did (“beloved” is a candy-coated lie), so today us senior committee members and a few other course mates which is enthusiastic enough to come have to tour the newbie batch around the college. Honestly, I’m not obliged to do so. But I’m obliged to choose to attend to do so. I don’t necessarily need to go, but I have to go, get it? It’s ok if you don’t, because I’m in a class 3 blur-case right now, and things are getting fucked-up.

I have to admit, it’s kinda fun feeling slightly superior to someone else (particularly for someone with inferior height, such as I), and it’s amusing to see the uncertain, quiet and curious but unenthusiastic juniors herding along like sheep in red woolly t-shirts (college t-shirt’s red this year). But it sucks when you get the feeling that they aren’t all that interested in what the heck you’re trying to tell them. And that feeling that you’re somehow deemed a loser and lamer in front of them. Unnervingly perplexing. But I can’t blame them if they do. I did my seniors too. But that’s not the point.

You know what? Scratch the second sentence of my first paragraph. Because today is undeniably a bad day. Why? I can’t elaborate further. Why? Because once more I’m deprived of rest and leisure and sleep because I chose so, which is because I don’t want to be a jerk.

Today sucks.

Pardon this entry.

Please leave me in peace. Crap-damnit.

Flowers of the misty hills, or the coke machine.











Which would you perceive as the more interesting object?

Months back, during a time in a highland theme park, I found myself in the company of a peculiar girl (a friend of mine) who set about taking random pictures with my Nikon Digi-cam. From signboards to broken railway tracks to electrical pipes at the ceiling and the above coke-machine, she was –how should I put it- enthralled by them (or so she seems). I was used to such behaviour in photographing; I myself being a person who would suddenly bolt out to take pictures of an interesting chair that resides on the outside of a public loo, still, I couldn’t help but be slightly intrigued and humoured.

Later in the day, while she was on a ride my weight restricted me to participate in (sadly, but a truthful reflection of my pathetic condition), I strode off to a nearby greenhouse that held somewhat exquisite flowers. Being a terrible photographer, but a photographer nonetheless, I spent a great deal of time attempting close-ups of the flowers and (what I hopefully hope would be) artistic shots. As we were on the way back, I showed her the pictures I took hoping to gain her interest, but at a glance she said, “I’m not interested in pictures of flowers,” and walked off to examine large branches arranged as walls for a restaurant, leaving me quite confounded (and disappointed, as I would’ve liked to impress her).

So it got me wondering, months after as I finally uploaded those pics into my com; if photography shows beauty and what we perceive as beauty or intrigue, then does preferring to photos of different expression of interest show how much someone perceive the sort of beauty they would, well, deem as beauty?

Perhaps people who find the flower beautiful would see beauty as beauty portrayed, or perhaps they’re one who deems beauty as beauty deemed by others (flowers being an object of beauty). Perhaps people of this group would find beauty of the outside, beauty deprived from the first impression.

But the coke machine, well, at first glance, it’s just a coke machine. An old object that once had the privilege and pride of vending the world’s most famous carbonated drink to anyone with a ringgit and 20 cents (alright, I was being exaggerative), standing solitarily and ignored by the oblivious eyes of the ignorant. But perhaps someone else might perceive something different from it, something deep within the initial portrayal and the outside look. Perhaps the machine signifies strength in standing amidst change, or solitude with a side that cannot be perceived by the normal eyes, or cokes in bottles are once vended such as this (I didn’t know that, serious).

Then, if you imply it to life and humans, which beauty captures you? The flower; such as the girl that’s pretty, sexy and beautiful and much adored by everyone else. Or the coke machine; the solitary entity which intriguing side is obscured by the ignorant eyes.

But then, when you come to think of it, everyone perceives beauty at first portrayal. But sometimes, someone might just look harder, and see something completely different in something else.

So, which would you deem is the more beautiful picture?

Heat...

It’s freaking hot today. I don’t know about everyone else, or perhaps I’m under a spell of heat. The days before had been a routine of overwhelmingly hot afternoons and menacingly heavy rains in the evening (alright, not constantly menacing and there were quite a few gentle curtains that Amanda might deem “the perfect rain”), but today was exasperatingly stuffy all day long. The refreshing chill of the late winds were absent, and boy was it dry. I remembered vaulting up my mango to pick of a couple ripe mangos in the evening, and the winds were a gush of dry, warm breeze that does little to entice. Gosh, how long has it been since I actually climbed a tree? I never really did climb much when I was younger, though I did get a kick off swinging on the small jungle gym that used to occupy the recreational park opposite my uncle’s house in PJ (which was my former residence till I moved here, to Kajang, when I was 8). 11 years later with a lot of fat sagging off my bloated body, climbing has become slightly constrained. Time to get in shape.

It’s been a good 2 weeks, I presume, since I posted something here. Not that I intend to neglect it… but then I did, in light of my cousin’s stay with me here for the past 10 days. I could’ve make time doing this, but somehow I thought I’d spend it better by keeping my cousin from eroding under total boredom. These 10 days had been alright, 10 days with good company and some fun, though these 10 days could’ve been very much better with proper planning. 10 days, and all we did was; watch 3 movies (Hills have Eyes, MI:3, Poseidon), visit the arcades on every mall we got into (except Metro Kajang, because we thought the time was better spent on the ps2 at home), played badminton on 2 accounts, worked for a day at my aunt’s, went on a 3 hour karaoke session, played a good amount of card games and… wait, that’s all.

I couldn’t even take him ice-skating as I had promised before he came (we had badminton instead for the evening), and I had actually intended to take him to Genting Highlands (which didn’t work out because we couldn’t get anyone else to go, and the idea of 2 guys going to a theme park either sounds boring or gay). So yeah, forgive me my cousin, because I had officially ruined your 10 day holiday. Better luck next trip.

Cos i owe you one.

The Hills have eyes, and the trains have crappy doors.

The sleep was uneasy. So many nights snuggled comfortably under the blankets of my top, cozy bunk, I had already forgotten the feeling of sharing a bed with my brother. Not to mention that I had grown so much in size (fatter and taller, though only a little tall). Everything familiar was there; the blankets caught under my brother, my rolling to the center of the bed due to the bent mattress, the inability to turn to any position I’m comfortable with. Include the weird noises screeching from the top bunk (yes, screeching) and the sudden and unnerving sleep-talk from my brother (“What Jeff bluah bla Zzzz…” “I can’t believe mmmhmm mumble mumble..”), it was particularly difficult to even relax the mind.

Picture yourself trying to sleep in a cramped coffin under creaking cogs at work with a ghost spouting incoherent and incomprehensible lines every now and then.

Throughout the night I was caught in a sleep that doesn’t feel like a sleep at all, as if the same dream or situation kept occurring again and again and all I could do is either lean left or right and feel discomfort from both. But I have a guest; my cousin brother whom I invited to stay during his 10 day break from college, and I gave him my bunk and shared with my brother. So I shan’t be complaining. Whack me if I do.

I took Ivan to watch The Hills Have Eyes at Mid Valley, which turned out to be a flawed but somehow worthwhile watch (a review, possibly, sometime in the future). Played a round of Time Crisis 2 with him later on, after I got myself a game for the old ps2 and checking out some books (Neil Gaiman, I’m gonna get something of yours), and then we head home.

Trip back was… fucked-up. The train was packed, and I got separated from Ivan and had him cramped alone between a couple of men, so I was feeling rather guilty for placing him in that position. To make matters worse, there was some pathetic technical problem with the door at my train compartment; the door wouldn’t close. We were stranded, stopped dead at the Seputeh station while the commuter authorities tried to keep the door shut. In the end the train had to be emptied at the Tasik Selatan station, which was full with people returning from work to home and hoping for a quick train. We had to wait for the second train that came to avoid becoming canned sardine in a train. Thankfully the 2nd train was an express train, which got us home quicker than usual.

I guess we won’t be going out tomorrow, and I’m rather thankful.

Goodnight people.

Raining until 6

No, I haven’t really been neglecting this blog. Days after my exams were free and relaxing (albeit quite dull and boring, as holidays could tend to be), but without much vibe to write anything decent I’ve been leaving it aside. There’re a couple of entries which I’ve prepared, but it’s not worth posting (all of them nonsense, like this one, only more nonsensical).

The rain had been very intense these few days, full of vibrant rage and immensity. This evening at 3 the sky turned dark, the most maleficent clouds I’ve never seen in a long time shrouds the supposed zenith sun in a swirl of dark menace. The rain lasted well into 6 p.m. or so, its dregs of soft drizzle and occasional rumble of thunder left in its wake. Multiple times the house was thrown into darkness, the power jumped as lightning tore across the sky (thanks to the increased sensitivity of our fuse), and my car alarm was constantly blaring as thunder pounded like a mad elephant with paranoia (stupid sensitive car alarm). Astro became incompetent to provide any service at all, leaving my dad in a cursing state for voiding us of our American Idol and Thomas Cup coverage. Thankfully we still managed to catch The Simpsons at 6. Laughter could lift the grimmest of gloom.

Amanda was having a debate today (I believe). I just realized I haven’t called. Ju Ee had asked if I would go and watch the debate. I didn’t, but suddenly I thought I should be. Then again, my presence there wouldn’t mean anything. It’s not like I’m someone significant anyways. Still, there’s a certain weight whenever I think of it.

Goodnight people.

............................

To be truthful, I’m supposed to be studying here, now. This Saturday’s my MMS, and I’m still clueless of what it’s about. And for the past few days I’m not making much of a progress. Here’s a way to illustrate it:

Study Progress.


(Dead pan) (Still passable) (Definite A)
l------------------------------l---------------------------------l
A fish ME Joe Chimpanzee The whole class


I’m so dead.

I’m being immature, but what the heck, I’m just gonna blame my lecturer for this (miss TMJ, which I have been very, erm, elaborative on one particular post). But what’s her fault? For starters, she made me hate her, which made me very less interested in this subject. Man, I still hate her, that bitch.

Nah, I can’t blame her, no. I mean, even if she is a crappy teacher I’m still supposed to go and pursue stuff myself, which I very well didn’t. Nope, blame it on stupid and lazy self (which sadly never learns. Sadly).

All I do now is read the notes I photo-copied from the guys and hope that one year wouldn’t change a subject too much (the notes were from a senior, complete with footnotes. Sad the language isn’t perfect. But who am I to complain?).

I must apologies for this post. It’s a diversion, for a moment, which I deduce is definitely better than me settling down to o2 jam. Sorry for the useless read.

Alright, time for me to return to my notes, which I’ll probably understand 0 tonight. *sigh*

Goodnight peeps.

P.S: Isaac, if you’re reading this, get a blog back. I only have a small gist of what happened, but I still think it’s waste that it had to go down like that. Pardon my intrusion.

Once more, a useless post

I ought to be studying, I really do. Yeah, well, I can’t concentrate and focus, so I’ve taken myself to type a little something here, just to divert myself for a moment.

Ok, I mean, I really OUGHT to study NOW. I’ve barely touched my Translation notes (literally, BARELY, touched) until a few minutes ago, then pushed it aside after a quick browse because I just found out that for I’ve jumbled out the notes into a confounded order. Yep, I’ve been reading stuff from the 1st and 3rd chapter (are there chapters? I don’t even know) back to back and got myself confused (and feeling stupid). I’ve got a little sorting out to do later, but this first. It’s been a while since I just wanted to type (funny how it always comes when I’m trying to refrain from it).

The past week had been relaxing. Too relaxing, in fact. I skipped 2 college days, and for those days all I did was play Kingdom Hearts 2 and watched DVDs. And I even managed to get myself addicted to O2 Jam (the online rhythm music game, think Dance Dance Revolution on keyboards MMO style). I suck in it, hands down, never been good with rhythm games anyways. But I LIKE rhythm games, sadly, so I’ll be stuck playing it for a while (perhaps longer than Maple story, which I deleted to make space for o2). That is, if I can download more of the song files (I have 10 currently, and Fly Magpie is getting very, very stale).

A little note here to all: Toy Story 1 & 2 (the Pixar movies, the pioneers of CG animated features, don’t tell me you don’t know) is freaking GREAT. I couldn’t appreciate it better when I was younger, and God is it hilarious. I’ll probably post something about it in the future, if I run out of topics to post. In the meantime, if you haven’t watched them, go check them out. I can guarantee that you’ll enjoy it in whatever way.

I’ll most possibly go to college tomorrow, to study with the guys. Last hope to make sure I can get it right.

-When the heart falls into Darkness, the body becomes nothingness. A Heartless forms a Nobody-

The logic behind the crazy banter of Kingdom Hearts 2.

Goodnight people.

Losing my will.

Months back, sitting here in front of my beloved laptop and typing away, was the greatest bliss one day could procure. Now, it seemed like that will has been locked behind the chains of woes and lament that bound this pathetic heart of mine. You might ask the reason of this post here, which obviously contradicted with my above-said reasons, so let me tell you this; for the first time I’m typing something for the sake of maintaining the welfare of this blog, which is under threat of once more dropping itself into an empty and meaningless site.

Funny, though. I’ve always constantly told myself that pain is the greatest drive to write; under the suffocating torment of depression the greatest way to breathe freely is to express oneself, and in my case, with words. But now I’m losing my will to write/type, and the main cause of it is due to my constant barrage of misery from these few days. The ideas are not coming, and the older ideas were cast under a shadow of obscurity so that no light can be shed to it. Even stringing words together is losing its flow, the beauty of it somehow marred by the muck that draws it back. Losing this will is adding on my depression as well. What is happening to me?

Come to think of it, it’s pathetic. The problems I’m facing are merely kindergarten compared to the crisis one faces in the age of adults & maturing teens. It’s no heartbreak. It’s no money-crisis. It’s no I-want-to-down-a-bottle-of-Dettol problems. And yet I’m depressed over it. Wuss.

Her smiles don’t seem to have the same effect anymore. That is, because she doesn’t seem to smile at me that much anymore (and why should she? I’m disgusting). Perhaps her seemingly eager to ignore me has drowned her smile, making it distorted. I’m annoying her, perhaps. Or maybe I disgust her. Maybe I just piss her off by standing around trying to make conversation. Feels like I’m faltering below regular friends. Feels like I’m merely just a friendly classmate, whom she can have a couple of jokes about and walk away, whom she can ask if she borrow something or do a small favour and then say a thanks. I can’t blame her. I blame myself. Me and my chicken-ass guts. Me and my idiocy. Me and my inability to just have a conversation.

Cousin Ivan said I should just go on and confess, ignoring the answers and just let the consequences come what may. I’m still under an illusion that I can still make her see, and somehow notice me. But then, suddenly, both seem so irrelevant. In fact, I don’t really care anymore. Yes, I still have her in my heart, and once in a while my mistakes stung. It’s just that her face doesn’t appear within so often as before, and I can tell myself, “So what if I don’t have her?” Perhaps I should just let her slide away from my feelings. Still, I’m tempted (or disillusioned, perhaps) to just walk up to her and tell her, then without caring for an answer, let things come what may. My friendship with her is faltering badly enough already. A little more won’t change a thing.

So tell me, my dear readers. Confess or let it be?

Dad’s been comparing me to Jasmine, my cousin, super-study person with excellent exam results and highest academic future in the history of my family and relatives. She recently won some poetry recitation at UTAR, and appeared on the paper. Dad said “Look, people achieved something. What have you done?” as usual. Normally it’s OK (he’ll compare me to teenage geniuses that managed to invent the first prototype solar toilet-paper refilling canteen, or something of the sort), but it’s my cousin now, 2 years or so younger, perfect student, perfect academic achievements, perfect family nerd (sorry, I dun mean that). If he was trying to fuel me to achieve something better, he failed miserably. I doubt my abilities to do better. But I’ll show him one day, something that’ll make him see that what I’ve set out for, no matter how improperly irrelevant to him.

I can’t seem to study as well, not unless I bandage my hands as a reminder that I have things to mend (which is starting a debate within my family that I’m going mental, or becoming increasingly weird). I don’t care what they think; it works, that bandage thing. Who said anime never teach you good stuff? What the heck. I’m going crazy.

I just realised that I have yet to complete my April’s Fool story, and I have 5 unfinished ideas. My writing is not improving. It’ll be a long, long time before I start on novels…

Have a nice day, people.

Mistakes were made.

Damage is done.

Hopes were shattered.

Dreams were forgotten.

Vendetta is born.

Love was lost.

Life is death.

What’s left is to restore what was lost, regained what was gained and repair what was broken.

What’s left is a path to endure.

What’s left is life itself. A life to be lead.

And everything lost and gained as we go.

If you’d stop and look…

I didn’t know what came over me today. With a Tom Holt novel freshly borrowed off the shelf of the college library, I was set to read myself home. Instead, I cast it into the bowels of my bag, stacking in under my bilingual dictionary and Dan Brown’s Deception Point after reading only one paragraph. It’s not to say that the novel sucks (or I wouldn’t have borrowed it), but somehow I thought I’d just stop -for once- and look.

Who knows the reason for my sudden change of endeavor to entertain myself in the long, lonely trip home in three separates commutes. Somehow the man with the newspaper looked interesting, and the college student leafing through his notes between disgruntled ladies fascinating. Perhaps I was influenced, inspired probably, by Amanda’s liking of looking out of the bus windows and observe as the world of humans and buildings unravels itself into a portrait of subtle magnificence. I found myself staring, staring at the people, their behavior, their looks and appearance, their attitudes, their gaze; every gaze is so different, so diverse that it borders beyond the comprehensible, beyond imagination or dreams. If you’d just stop, look and observe, the world is a gorge of depth and beauty.

And as you stare at every individual within my range of sight, it reflects upon yourself; how different are they from you? Beyond the faces (and masks, for certain people) lies a complexity so interwoven and varied that it gives an air of life and living, and I found myself inevitably learning, absorbing the light they reflect and asking the questions you asked. Every person here has a different tale, a different thread of fate.

There was that couple nearby, and they’re unusual; delightfully unique and beautiful. One is good looking; handsome and tall, a typical-looking entity among the likes of the la-la community. His partner, his lover, is short, plump and though offensive I am to say this, but truthful nonetheless, she’s what most people would classify as unattractive. Yet, this unusual coupling brims and exerts the warmth and affection, portraying love more than most that I had come to observe. The mutuality, the closeness, the affection, an understanding that between this two people their eyes between each other are staring at the heart and soul but not the misleading likeness of the face and appearance. The matching green t-shirts, the similar trousers design, the mutual act of brushing and tidying each other’s clothes, the comforting hold and contact of their hands, the pure sincerity of their smiles and the soft traces of their eyes among each other; within a society of superficiality and shallow sights, they’re the sun among the a sea of clouds.

Looking at them I questioned myself; could I be that lucky? My thoughts diverted to her, my affection, my love unannounced and unreturned, and I saw her face and smile and stare, and wondered how they would seem if I’m ever so lucky. To see them close, to feel her touch… it’s not fantasy, not longing. It’s passion, perhaps. Or simply put, a love. But could I ever attain such a treasure, a person such as me, someone with nothing to provide, someone who never was handsome outside or inside, someone bizarre. Perhaps time will tell, or luck, or fate and destiny. But I shall remember this couple, these lovers, and give the affection they give each other to her, if I ever will.

There was soon a pattern in my observation, a method of workings. I would study, and then ask questions that can never be answered, and as I studied longer I would look and see if they themselves can provide me with answers. In front of me was another couple, both beautiful people, but between them the compassion of the earlier couple of lacking. Somehow, it seemed, their gaze upon each other never bore deeper to the deepest depth of the heart. Beside them was a college girl, sitting with her head resting on the plastic barrier separating her and the people standing by the door as she stares intently somewhere on the floor in front of her, apparently lost within her forest of thoughts. Within her eyes bore a certain sadness, or remorse, perhaps, and a sense of wanting something (or someone) without having lingered among her looks. What is her sadness? Or is the look just a typical look of intense boredom and routine?

Beside me sat a married couple, the husband carrying a child of 1 or 2 years in his hands. A working man with a rough complexion but genial friendliness within his eyes sat beside him, and the man muttered something that the screeching sounds of the commuter tearing across the tracks drowned before my listening. The father replied, in an air of pride and happiness as he smiled at his baby while the mother stroked the infant’s hair. The working man started making faces at the baby, obviously a father himself, and his antics simple yet alive with animation. At one point the infant looked at me, wide eyed and curious (at the fat monstrosity staring at him). I gave him a smile. He turned to his mother bearing the exact same look, and she smiled. I wondered when I started hating kids. Oh, yeah. When they become obnoxious as they grow. Pity.

And everyone else is just as subtly fascinating themselves. The girl standing far down the carriage, casting a look around as though waiting for someone. The man with a weird haircut, and with clothing that make him look feminine despite its formality. A girl offered her seat to an elderly lady with a child, and then returned to her Mp3 player with a soft smile on her face. The lady I gave mine to said a soft thanks, and looked around the commuter with a gentle stare. Everyone else is brimming with life, and I have never noticed it before.

Obscured under my headphones, barricading myself behind a book, and dreaming past oblivion, I have missed out these little pleasures.

I guess moving at the speed of life, the surroundings becomes a blur of ignorance as people strive by without colliding, or facing a dead end, and yet these doings are what that exerts the detail and subtlety one can observe if they’ll stop and look.

I believe life is beautiful. If we’d only stop and look.

Warning: Teenage ranting.

Yeah, well, I’m disappointed that I didn’t get any comments for the story I posted previously (though I did get myself 3 reviews at the Great writing site). This comes to show that either no one reads this (even she who said that I should regulate on blogging). Or maybe my story suck so much it’s sympathy that I didn’t get comments. But what am I pouting and complaining here for? I know very well the reasons for my lackluster blogspot, so what I can do now is make it a better place. But every writer wants a little feedback anyhow, so yeah; I’m lamenting my arse off like a pussy boy who lost in
Boggle.

Sorry for being irritating. Blame it on short fuse, or pent up frustration, whatever. It’s been a while since I angst myself up in this darned thing, so I’m going rodeo with guns
a-blazing.

Let’s see, who do I verbally abuse first? Ah, yes, that Dog-garn stupid lecturer of mine, TMJ. Yes, I still don’t know her/his/it’s gender, and despite somehow accepting that she’s female I’m still having my doubts. Wait, it’s not fair, is it? I’m raging over her confusing gender, which is not her fault I daresay (not unless she wants to pull a Mulan to preserve her family honor). Yes, what I ought to be flaming about is the fact that she sucks in teaching. To all you possible fans of TMJ out there, go suck lollipop. She’s not that good. No proper notes, no course lay-out, freaking annoying attitude and LAME, I repeat to Houston, LAME jokes! Close to par with the lamest joker I know, ever, in my sorry life, and God help that I don’t get exasperated enough already having to hear nonsensical and FREEZING jokes EVERY CLASS SINCE COLLEGE STARTED. Ah, right, I remembered a certain lecture this year when TMJ mentioned that ranting in a blog or journal is –what was it?- oh right, MENTAL. Yeah well, maybe it’s psychologically unnerving to the simple minded such as yours, but excuse me you gender-confusing tart-turd of a stinking lecturer if I may have your obviously shallow attention, if I don’t fucking do this I’ll fucking EXPLODE in your face. Yes, call 99999999 people around the world who write to release their tension mental and mock the very basic of the course I’m setting down; JOURNALISM. Fuck you. Keep your impertinent and shallow remarks to yourself. If you can’t say anything NICE, don’t say anything at all. Even a thumping cartoon rabbit from Bambi knows that. Stop making me hate your already abhorring classes.

And to the lamest joker I know, shut up. You’re lame, face it and keep your hypothermia-inducing jokes to yourself. And yeah, for a little extra information, take notice if people laugh with you or not, because it never was. That’s perceiving things, and if you can’t do that I seriously doubt your future career. And don’t confuse between people who laugh at you. AT YOU.

To the friend most people call Soft Drink, I know you won’t be freaking reading this shit, but seriously for goodness sake THINK of your fucking future. You’re 20 years old and you can’t even attend classes for your own sake, not to mention that you’re facing multiple examination failures and a horrible attendance record. Think, dude. You’re here for education. You’re here, on your own will, to learn about the things you intend to be your future. So fucking attend class and study. Skipping classes with pathetic excuses such as having lack of sleep or lethargy is dung-pot. Stop whatever crap you do up all night; playing mahjong or toxicating yourself with cheap beer or whatever, and study for a change. And you have a girlfriend in the same course you attend, and if you have any pride in yourself COME for her sake, not humiliate her by being the most pathetic student of the class. Yes, I know I’m not in position to talk all this shit to you; I’m a lazy-ass moron and hardcore gamer idiot, but if I can finally see doing something to yourself and your loved one’s worth and changing for the better, it doesn’t mean you can’t. Wake up and smell reality. You’re 20. Act like one.

To Teh Derwoei my good friend and course mate, I have nothing to say to you except to ask if you’ll be kind enough to stop your excessive gaming at night and study seriously for a change. I wonder how you could face another Re-sit, because I seriously can’t.

Diane, call your friend. Just do it.

Ju Ee, UPDATE BLOG!!!

Isaac, a computer CAN’T DIE. Not unless you affectionately want it so.

Oh, and Isaac, sorry for saying this, but you basically gave me 57% for my translation exam. Confetti!!! Champagne and sushi on ice!!! Where are my bloody fireworks?

My brother! YOU’RE TOO HEALTHY! You’re scaring the crap out of everybody. But good for you. At least you’re happy.

Dad! Please be more considerate.

Mom, stop digging my dandruff.

Max my lovable pet dog, for the sake of your male-hood over your need to chew on the football, STOP BUSTING YOUR TESTICLES. I have had enough of spraying your balls with red medicine.

Amanda, I’d appreciate it if you could, you know, tell me when you’re upset and stuff. I get worried...

Michelle, we need to watch V for Vendetta, pronto.

And finally to myself, Tan J-E, FUCK YOU.

You’re a sorry loser. You’re an idiot. You’re slow and not sharp. You’re lazy and fucking playful. You’re packful of Sins. You need to CHILL. You need to learn to talk, to socialize, to crack open the shell and be outgoing. You need to be brave and shit and stuff. You need to know how to fucking express your fucking thoughts properly and just fucking say I LOVE YOU and have fucking confidence!

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRGGGHHHH!

FUCK.

Huh.

At last. All my rage expressed and released. Up yours, TMJ.

My deepest apologies to anyone unfortunate enough to read this mindless and resentful ranting of a 19 year old, and sorry to everyone I managed to tick off. You can flame me or beat me up at college or whatever. Just let me return the favour. It helps with my anger management.

Goodnight, people.

April's Fool.


This is a short story i submitted to www.greatwriting.co.uk as part of their new "Lazy Writers" program, which provides a new topic per month as 'homework'. The topic this month is April's Fool. I only found out about this program today (having been deprived of my internet for 2 weeks), so i came up with a shoddy, cheesy and typical short story. Due to limited time i could only manage to finish half of it, so here's part 1 (part 2 will come shortly if the story gets an ok reception). Do comment, alright?


April’s Fool. -by Hafutota_no_JE


Matt, as many may put, was truly April’s Fool.

Born on the 1st of April, the amount of practical jokes he received surpasses his birthday wishes by 100 to 1. He wasn’t all too surprised, really. In the eyes of the teenage entities that revolves around him; his friends, classmates, enemies and cousins, an April’s Fool laughter is definitely more fun than greeting Happy Birthday. And in the teenage society that Matt revolves in, greeting Happy Birthday among guys is deemed “gay and pathetic.” In Matt’s society birthday greetings come in the form of free back-slaps, a cake to the face and stuffed in the pants, a bagful of flour on your body after being hailed by chicken eggs and toothpaste spread across your crotch.
Thus in Matt’s case, since he was born on the 1st of April, those greetings became relentless and cruel practical jokes. An ambushed onslaught of water balloons filled with drain water. A maniac bulldog belonging to the local junkyard set after him. An excellent workmanship of taking his bike apart and rearranging them so that it looks like junk-art. A widely published scandal that was posted on every notice board in school stating that Matt is recruiting members for a cult named The Brotherhood of the Toilet Bowl (in which 65 students turn up in order to worship the fictional Satan-Tahi). Good old times.

So now, sitting in a hole half-filled with a thick, brownish muck with a horrendous stench, Matt knew that he was once more a victim of mindless and insensitive youths that sought only to humiliate and shame others, so that they may be announced as cool and unruffled. The usual anger and resentment erupted within him, amplified and fueled by the typical roaring laughter that filled the air after a well executed joke. Tears of rage and humiliation fought to escape his tightly shut eyes as the laughter burn into his skull and mind, embedding a scorching a mark which Matt will one day refer back as a terrible memory. He was angry, loathing, fuming beyond his widest abhorrence while fighting back the hundred of questions floods into him whenever this occurred. Why? Why? Why? Why?

But Matt knew the rules of the game. He remembered the law of the day, the crossing line that one should tolerate just for today and today only. It was the 1st of April, his 15th birthday. And it was April’s Fool; he was the fool, as usual, and there’s no fool like an April’s Fool. There shouldn’t be an utter of anger sparked by an overdone joke; no outburst, no cursing, no physically impairing form of revenge. Just smile and accept the fact that you were fooled. Just grit your teeth and bear the pain of humiliation. Just pretend to laugh and act as though you deserve it. Abide the rules. Stand the pain. Survive the day, and tomorrow it’ll end. Just for a day. One day.

Matt blew away the muck accumulating on his lips, trying to brush it away from his eyes. The stench was intense, nausea building within him as his lips threatened to break apart in order to gulp the air without having to smell them. He didn’t dare think of the stuff his jokers mixed into the substance. The laughter went on, and through the curtain of muck he saw that the group gathered to observe his embarrassing demise was growing slowly. The hole was about 5 feet deep, halfway full with the damned muck and littered with broken twigs and leaves. Matt was covered from head to toe in it. The Yellow Man, he heard someone shouting. He must’ve looked pathetic. The intense and unforgiving feeling of pure shame settles in his stomach, and he felt like vomiting.

“APRIL’S FOOL!”

Laughter. Cynical, cruel, relentless, inhumane, evil, malicious. It pierced Matt’s heart like a stake of rusted nails. Cold and brutal.

Matt planted his hands into the muck and pushed himself up. His body felt heavy; heavy from the thick muck, heavy from the growing laughter, heavy from sadness dropped down his lungs. He was standing in the hole, trying to dislodge the stubborn muck. He felt worst than a fool. He felt like a corpse, left to rot in a barrage of hungry bacteria in a cold tomb where laugher echoes for eternity.

“C’mon, let’s get you out of there,” someone said. Above of Matt crouched Steve, the class bastard. “My God, Matt. You look like my grandfather’s crap!”

The crowd laughed harder. Someone was wheezing like an insane hyena. Matt felt his anger intensified, and for all his life he wanted to punch that entity crouched at his face, that entity that no doubt had set this joke up. And it was well executed, Matt thought, though he was abhorred the fact they had used Michelle to set him up. She had agreed to help, Matt lamented. My crush agreed to aid in humiliating my arse out of me. He remembered her asking to meet him beyond the field, and him walking towards her with a feeling of confusion and budding hope. Then the initial drop happened. The hole was well hidden under a perfectly constructed camouflage of twigs and leaves.

“C’mon. Take my hand,” Steve said, offering a hand. Matt wasted no moment to grab it. He wanted to get out quick and fast, then leave this torturous state. He couldn’t bear the laughter any more. But Matt should’ve known better. He really should.

The other hand let go. Matt was half-way from vaulting out of the hole when it happened. Oh dang.

The drop, the stumble, the splash. And then the laughter. Matt wanted to die.

“I’m sorry Matt,” Steve said smugly, wiping the muck on his hands with a tissue. “Muddy fingers, Matt. You can’t blame it on me, though.”
Everyone laughed again. Matt stood up, bracing the stabbing shards of the laughter. No one noticed the tears forming in his eyes.

Steve gingerly smelled his palms and made a disgusted look. “Matt! You smell like dung!”

Matt wanted to shout. To scream. To slaughter everyone there with a chainsaw. But there were rules to abide to. Rules of the day. So Matt, against all odds, forced a smile and looked at Steve. “You sure you smelling the right hand?”

The following laughter lifted Matt a bit, and he gingerly planted his hands to the edge of the hole and hauled himself out. The crowd backed away warily, avoiding the splattering muck. He brushed he muck off calmly, making it seem as though it was as normal as drying oneself after a bath. His entire body was brown, even his hair, and his denim blue jeans was barely recognizable. He heaved a sigh, and said cheerfully, “And if you all would excuse me after this excellently well executed joke, I intend to go home and change myself into a better attire so that you may all soil it with filth once again.”

And with that, he left the crowd and the hole, striding across the field towards his home. Tears mingled with the muck, rolling into miniscule brown streams down his cheeks. He stalked past his gate, but instead of heading off to the showers, he paced towards his backyard and threw himself under his mango tree. Nobody that walked past that old terrace house noticed the newly-turned 15 year old weeping silently under the shadows of the tree.

Matt couldn’t help it. The tears wouldn’t stop, the sharp breathing wouldn’t cease. Sorrow had completely deluged him, drowning him a never-ending swirl of bitter torment and suffocation. The questions came pelting into him, and he fought them off. They hurt terribly as he answers, because the answers brought him to realize the painful cause of his pitiful state. He found that he couldn’t blame. He couldn’t accuse. He was hopelessly lost in his own inflicted cause.

“The boy weeping under a tree,
In a day and time of glee!
Shameful, shameful oh he is,
Like a little girl he cries, tsk tsk!”

Matt started. He cast a nervous glance around. The backyard was deserted, save for him. Except for the tree, the backyard was empty, and hiding was impossible. Matt stood warily, and with a careful approach, took a peek at the other side of the trunk. No one was there. Odd, he thought. Was I dreaming?

“Oh, looking for me he is,
Not with that stupid head of his
Find me he shall not,
Not even if he calls for Tom Tim Tot!”

A rush of fear fell on Matt. The voice was high-pitched, inhuman, and it was coming from nowhere (apparently, to Matt’s eyes). He backed himself to the tree trunk, staring about in panic. What was that? “Who are you? Show yourself!” he shouted. And then he heard it again.

“Ah, brave this little boy may be,
Cowardice and stupor is what I see
Asking me to show myself, did he?
Wishes come wrong, though you get three.”

The voice let out a malicious cackle, sending every hair on Matt’s neck standing. He felt his feet weakening suddenly; the fear of facing an entity of enigma and unknown possibilities was too much for him to bear. Humans fear what they don’t know. Hold together, Matt. Hold yourself together. “Show yourself!”

“I sense persistence in his thoughts,
But see me still he shall naught,
But wait, I’m bored, so why not?
Beware what you ask for, boy, you may rot!”

Matt couldn’t believe his eyes. He couldn’t believe his own mind either.

And he wouldn’t believe in a million years he will be looking at the one, true April’s Fool.

Part 1 (end)

Finally….


How long has it been? I counted… 2 weeks since my internet breakdown and my last update. I missed blogging; it gives me a reason to type, something which is the next best possible form of expression and entertainment for me. For these weeks I’ve resorted to starting a personal journal in my laptop, which isn’t just as enjoyable as this is. Yes, I do get to type down more personal and private stuff (stuff about her, or complains about my bro that I don’t intend for him to hear :p), but don’t get feedback for it, and if you remember I once quoted that writers are writers when what they write are read, so the joy and fun of getting feedback regarding the stuff you write (bad or good) is part of the writer’s bliss.

So here I am now, finally posting one of my many useless, boring, repetitively mundane and dull-inducing posts (sorry my dear readers). Ah, I miss the fact that I can (yes, I can actually miss it) bore the socks outta people (unless you’re barefooted while reading this, or wearing sandals. In that case I bore your nails of your toes. Metaphorically).

2 weeks without the internet. Well… I’ve missed… 2 episodes of Bleach, 3 episodes of Mai-Otome, 3 episodes of Kage-kara Mamoru, 2 for Naruto… countless of info regarding the just-released Kingdom Hearts 2, my friend’s blog entries (Ju Ee, UPDATE. 2 weeks and I still read your goth thing. Lolz :P), Google and Yahoo when I needed them for assignment (I don’t think they’d help, though), the delight of chatting with your pals online and blogging, yes, let’s not forget that… and… yeah, I guess that’s all.

Yesterday morning, very early in the morning, I was struck with the largest revelation I believe I ever had while working on an assignment that robbed me of my sleep, and I went for the long-awaited badminton game between my college coursemates. Michelle, I owe your RM 3 or so, for the court bookings. I’ll make sure the guys pay, too.

Quite recently, I have a tendency to start writing songs (my previous post are songs, really, with LAME notes and LAMER lyrics. Sorry). Mild depression and sadness seems to be the cause (since the theme of these pathetic songs of mine is all the same). They do lift away the pain, mind. They do a whole damn lot of lifting pains.

Alright, gtg hit sack now. Having a translation exam tomorrow and I’m still unsure whether or not the theories are in the paper. I sure hope they don’t. I can’t remember Savory that well, nor do I understand him.
“You had a bad day,
You’re taking one down,
You sing a sad song just to turn it around.”

-Daniel Powder, “Bad Day.”-

She Won't see me.

I sit around the usual place,
At the corner in the train,
Wishing that these things would be,
A little more of what i dream

I just want to se eher smile,
Nothing more is worth that while,
Hug her when she's sad and down,
And joking when i see her frown

but

Why won't she see.....
Why won't she notice me....
Why won't she smile....
Nothing else is worth that while.

Take me away,
Take me away from my mistakes.
All i wish are things would be,
A little more of what i dream

but

Why won't she see.....
Why won't she see me.....

(cause i suck....)

All i want is just to say,
"I miss you every single day."
Hold her hand when we are close,
Cover her when she is cold.

Help her out with college work,
Laugh when she says i'm a jerk,
Stroke her hair when she's asleep,
Hold her gently as we kiss

But

Why won't she see....
Why won't she look at me...
Why won't she smile...
When i'm close around...

Take me away,
Take me away from my mistakes.
i know that we could never be,
At least, God, please notice me

but

Why won't she see....
Why won't she see me...

Day by day,
I look your way
And i hope
That someday
Just someday
You would say

"heys"
and smile....

And here i'm now, off this train,
Walking down this solemn rain
Wishing that these things would be
A little more of what i dream

but

She won't see....
She won't notice me
She won't see
And she will....oh she will (God no)...she will never...

love me....

Take me away,
Take me away from my mistakes.
Hug me when i'm sad and down
Kiss me when i wear a frown

But

She won't see.....
She won't see me.....
Cos she can't see....
Someone, oh someone

Like me......

(written by: Hafutota no JE)
15th March, 2006




I'm there, looking.

As i stand up on the stage,
I look on down and saw her face
She was there; she stroked her hair, she glanced up but didn't care.

The won't went cold,
I lost my soul
I'm drowning in a sea of coal

I lost my mind,
She wouldn't mind,
She'll never look even if i tried

No words,
No laugh,
Nothing really matters much.
No song,
Nothing's wrong,
Nothing will ever let her know

i'm there,
looking......

Now she went up on the stage,
She looked down, but not my face,
i was there, i couldn't bear, for all my life i spent to care

World went slow,
And then it snowed,
And i'm drowning in her cold.

she made me cry,
i lost my fight,
She'll never look even if i tried

No words,

No laugh,

Nothing really matters much,

No song,

Nothing's wrong,

But nothing would ever ler her know

i'm there,

looking....

kill me
Kill me,
rid me of my fantasies,

kill me
kill me
Just fucking kill me......

no words,
no laugh,
Nothing really matters much
no song,
nothing's wrong
But nothing would ever let me know

i'm there
looking......

(written by: hafutota no JE)
15th March, 2006


"One glance would mean a million bliss,
One smile would mean a million kiss."

Today, i'm nuts. So am i now.


I woke up to the familiar, serene hum of my aged air conditioner, breathing in its artificially cooled air. I sat up blurred and bleary, getting my bearings straight and recalling whatever that was forgotten in my slumber. Things didn’t seem right. I remembered setting my hand phone alarm to ring at 6 a.m., and sunlight was forcing its way through my blinds. My reached for my hand phone to see the time. 10.33 a.m. Cripes. I’m late for college.

Oh Damn, I must’ve turned the alarm off instead of snoozing it when it rang under my sleepy stupor.

I recalled sitting on my bed for a moment, remembering that I was supposed to meet Amanda for breakfast (I didn’t tell her I would, but I intended to) and that I had probably missed my first ever tutorial of the semester (and wasting one of the three days I could spare playing truant). All because I had killed off my alarm and went back to sleep like a freaking lazy-ass. Ah, what the heck. The world hasn’t end, I won’t be expelled from college and I have 6 weeks to ask Amanda for breakfast before semester ends. Plus I have a full day to look forward to. A full day spending time at home. Excellent, if not good.

So begins a usual routine of me watching some anime whilst dressing up, eating an unhealthy lunch while watching a movie with Kak Yun, pumped a good couple of hours on the ps2 and surfing the net mindlessly.

I even made an effort to type down my lecture notes into the laptop. OMG I’m typing my lecture notes into my laptop WILLINGLY. It’s a miracle O.O

My writer’s block remained plagued inside my joke of a mind (thus this meaningless, unnecessary post of random and useless things). I tried Amanda’s way of curing it, pushing away this laptop for a sheet of paper and with my Papermate Kilometrico MED Point ball pen held in my hand. 20 minutes later the sheet is full with whatever crap manga I could draw, the terrible sketches of evil grins and big anime eyes mocking my own stupidity. The sheet of paper found itself torched into ash on my lawn.

I got screwed for burning the paper. And now my dad thinks I’m pyro-psychotic. Great.

Sulking from the scold I stayed a little while on the lawn, staring into a starless sky and placing myself as mosquito fodder. I made a stroll to the dog cages and found it literally surrounded by a small number of slugs. No wonder the bougainvilleas were losing their leaves (maybe it’s another cause, but that moment all I could do was blame the slugs).

The slugs were cute, like snails without shells. Thinking of snails reminded me of Maple Story, and in Maple Story I slaughter snails for measly Mesos and snail shells. Too bad, slugs. You’re pests, and dad doesn’t like pests.

I massacred all the slugs that I could find, turning them into liquid entities of themselves with the fine salt I got off the kitchen (the very same salt I used for my omelet). May you all rest in peace, and reincarnate into something better than sliming invertebrates. Somehow I get the feeling that I will go to hell.

Scanning the net for soundtracks I somehow stupidly ignored the advice against visiting this particular site which is rumoured to infect random visitors with Trojan and spyware (should’ve listend to you guys at www.gamefaqs.com). The PC got a major jam/lag/slowdown breakdown, so I shut it down and restarted it only to enter a screen saying that my PC will be deleting virtual memory spaces. I restarted the PC (all the while muttering OMGWTH WAS THAT!!!1) and everything turned out ok after. 5 minutes later I was online looking for any free Adware and Spyware blocking softwares (or rather, brother did, but I looked for some after he slept. Better ones, that is. Found none though).

I cooked omelet for dinner tonight, trying to mimic those telur dadar that you can order from those tom yam stalls/restaurant. I fried some mixed vegetables (diced carrots, corns and peas) with garlic, oyster sauce and some soy sauce (and adding some corn starch later to thicken the broth). Then I fried the egg on dad’s brand new flat pan, making the most perfect omelet (no burns, no holes and not looking like sunflowers battered by raging bulls) I made in a long time on the large wok. Then I attempted to wrap the egg over the mixed vegetables. The end product is 16% similar to the telur dadar in looks, and 35% similar in taste. A good improvement over the -21% similarities my previous omelet did. Dad didn’t eat much of it, though. Or maybe he didn’t any of it at all. I wasn’t looking.

I’m currently mosquito fodder by my dining table as I type this. I guess I’m really worth calling JE. Maybe I’m diabetic; my blood can’t be all that tasty. Perhaps if I’m in a vampire movie, I’m one of those people who die first and most uneventfully. Maybe it’ll go like this:

JE: OMG it’s a giant bat that looks like Brad Pitt in Interview with the VAmpire! Where art thou my garlic? Oh, I ate them in dinner before my Clorects. Damn.

*cheesy horror music. A scream, crashes of furniture. 100 galleon of blood artistically splashed on the wall for a grim effect. The heroin comes in the room to find a lump of fats and skin. She screams. My name appears at the bottom part of the end credits.*

Random Token Black Guy: Man That Sh*t is Whack!

Homer Simpson: Operator! Give me the number for 911! (character and quote copyright of Fox and Matt Groening)

(Forgive my insanity, people. It’s the TV, I swear it’s the TV)

I have no classes tomorrow. And what do you know? Class today was canceled. Luck?

MUAAAHAHAHAHAHHA! MUAHAHAHAHHA! MUAHAH-HAHAH-HAGH! *COUGH* *SNORT* *DEAD*
(Sorry people. It happens when I have writer’s block. It’s the TV, I swear. And the rap music. Blame it on the media, people!)