.: A little taste of obscurity :.

:: Monday, January 31, 2005 ::

give me time to whine and dine

The workload doesn’t seem to be getting any lighter at all. And when I say ‘work’, I don’t mean my day job as the Tits of Fury, but my full time night job as the industry’s top Copywriter. If you’re in advertising, you’d understand what I mean when I say ‘night job’, and if you aren’t in advertising, then well, just get back to gossiping in the pantry and getting brain-washed by advertisements.

After the hellish seven day nightmare a couple of weeks ago where our brains refused to register sounds at 6am and our feet trudged into the office at 11am, finishing work before 1am for three consecutive days last week was a fucking luxury. Hell, for me, not bumping into a scuttling cockroach is Heaven.

This, is advertising. Therefore, one mustn’t whine about late hours. One should be grateful for going home before sunrise or even having a spare moment to blog. And others who aren’t in advertising should leave me alone whilst I act pretentious, conceited and selfish as I dismiss all clients and the general public for being stupid, annoying and conservative.

But I get complaints from people about my lack of blog updates.

What the fuck? I didn’t know people complained about such things. Since when did blogs become a fucking COMMITMENT? Going to work five, to sometimes seven days a week, yes. Paying monthly bills, yes. Laughing at less fortunate people, yes. Making out with your friends at clubs when you’re obscenely drunk, yes. But updating a blog at least once a week?

I started this blog about two years ago. I didn’t start it because I ‘needed a space to express my personal thoughts and opinions’ or to ‘record important events’ or to ‘give people an insight to a life of a young adult grappling with the daunting task of becoming an adult whilst finding love and acceptance in this cruel, cruel world’. You want to know how this blog came about?

(insert movie Dream Reverb sound effects)

Sometime in late October 2002:

Sue: It’s so fucking boring in Canberra, whine whine whine alcohol doesn’t quite cut it anymore, bitch bitch bitch why can’t I get a man whinge whinge whinge how come I only attract weird stalkers is it because I’m ugly complain complain complain.
Adrian: Shut the fuck up, do I look like I care?
Sue: If I don’t whine to you, then who can I whine to?
Adrian: Get a fucking blog and whine there.
Sue: I don’t know how to start one.
Adrian: Use some fucking mainstream bullshit provider like blogspot or pitas. Fuck, I’d start it for you if you promise to stop whining to me.
Sue: Don’t I need to know HTML and all that geeky shit?
Adrian: Stop being a bitch and go fucking learn. I started mine after studying other people’s codings. Now, go away, I want to get drunk and act stupid, whichever comes first.
Sue: I love you, you freakishly handsome little Indian boy with intelligence, a great sense of humour and a porn star dick.
Adrian: I love you too, you smart, talented Chink with an acerbic wit and the looks of a goddess with a great pair of tits.

So that was it. It was just some place for me to whine. Back then, less than five people knew about my blog, and I got a whopping two visits per day. One from me in the morning and another from me at night. I got an email from the Almighty Quake God Nael and I nearly died of joy, because someone else other than myself visited my blog. Nevermind that he mainly talked about The Smashing Pumpkins and didn’t say jack about my blog except ‘I stumbled upon your blog’, but hey, NAEL THE PIONEER MALAYSIAN BLOGGER emailed ME, okay?

But these days, random strangers visit my blog and it feels so surreal. I mean, who the fuck really wants to give a shit about me whining? Do people like being exposed to another person whining? Some people do, apparently. Ohhhh, so that’s why people enjoy listening to Simple Plan and Avril Lavigne! Now I get it!

Anyway, people do want to read about my drivel, and the weirdest thing is, they want it on a weekly basis. They even take the trouble to email me and ask me why I haven’t been updating, is it because I’m locked up in a dank basement reeking of urine, bound in leather and chains, serving as a full time sex slave to a hairy, oily, middle-aged man with self-esteem issues who goes by the name of Ernie?

Have no worry, my four furry readers, nothing of that sort has happened. If that happened though, I’d stop whining because I would’ve found true happiness in Ernie the hairy, oily, middle-aged man with self-esteem issues .

The point to this bullshit prelude thus far, is to let you know that I don’t want this blog to be a weekly task for me. Everyday, I have to write brainwashing material for specific target markets to help my clients get richer and richer, because money is the only thing that helps them get laid, the poor ugly creatures with IQs lower than a rice Honda’s suspension. I am pressured to write good shit for them, because well, I’m paid to. Of course, I’m also paid to chat, surf the net and laugh at unfortunate people during office hours, but that’s beside the point.

Basically, I’m the type who loves giving blowjobs, but get turned off when you ask me to give you one. I don’t want to update my blog weekly because it’s my job. I don’t want to have to force myself to come up with something good to write about when all I want to do is get drunk and make out with friends. I don’t want to write because I have to.

I’m a Copywriter and a whore (or is that the same thing?), so I’ll be the last person to say stupid drivel like “this blog is mine, I shall write whatever I like and update whenever I please, because it’s MY blog, if you don’t like it, go and fuck your uncle’s rabid guinea pig, my blog, my life, my rules” or threaten people with useless shit like “I don’t know what this blog has become, I no longer have control over it boohoohoo if people continue to pressure me, I will have to shut down this blog, fuck the world!”.

All I ask for, people, all I really need from you, is that you read my archives.

(Oh come on, they’re good too.)

:: Another pointless rambling at 10:37am ::

:: Tuesday, January 18, 2005 ::

behold the glory!

Look, since last week, I've been fucking tied up with so much work, I haven't even had time to read about Lainie's sexual adventures. So stop asking me why I haven't updated my blog.

I think the work is making me slightly insane as well. Hell, over the weekend, I slept in the SAME ROOM with THREE different men INDIVIDUALLY and absolutely NOTHING happened. And one of them was drunk too, and he was an avid indie emo-rock lover too. (Incase all two of my readers are wondering whether I went around knocking on the doors of random strangers' rooms, you're unlocking my fantasies again. Actually, my agency booked a couple of rooms at a hotel in town for the Creative team to crash at, because the boss is worried we might drive home sleepy at 6am and crash and die, rendering us incapable of submitting our advertising pitch by the deadline.)

"Su-Yin, what the hell is wrong with you? You had 3 different occasions to sleep with three different guys and all you did was pass out?" you yell whilst holding a tube of KY Jelly in the nude.

You expect me to answer that question whilst you're holding a tube of KY Jelly in the nude?

Anyways, here's a picture to keep you people busy whilst I fight for my sanity.

They don't call me the Tits of Fury for nothing.

:: Another pointless rambling at 12:15am ::

:: Monday, January 10, 2005 ::

too legit

No matter how many times it has happened, I still feel weird that random strangers know me as ‘the owner of su-yin.blogspot.com’. I’m okay when people refer to me as ‘the hot chick with a brain’, ‘the weird chick who likes emo music’ or ‘a couple of tits and a pussy’ but when I’m referred to as some sad loser with an even sadder online life, I just feel … so … Nael. (Just kidding, I love you baby, I really do)

And it’s even weirder when the random stranger’s name is also Su-Yin. And no, I wasn’t talking to myself again, goddammit. I only do that when my friends start rambling on about girl problems.

Bangsar was good, though I was pressured because everyone was already having a “freakin’ headache!” and I arrived late so I had to catch up. As usual, a drunk old man with bad English found the need to talk to me.

“Where you been? Just arrived ah? Been waiting for you la!”

Bastard didn’t even ask for my number.

Anyway, because the Malaysian authorities have nothing better to fucking do, they have imposed a law for most bars to fucking close at 3am. Forget about more important laws like destroying all motorcycles in the country or banning ugly people from breeding or leaving their houses between 7am – 3am, just disallow young, virile folks from helping the economy by spending obscene amounts of money on alcohol after 3am. I say everyone vote for me to be Prime Minister come next election.

Just as I was about to drop to my knees and thank God for after-party pubs like Barcode, a copper barged into the toilet to feel me up. Usually I’d also thank God that someone willingly wants to feel me up, but at that moment, I was doing the usual ‘hover and piss’ manoeuvre that most Malaysian girls are accustomed to. So I just thanked God I didn’t have diarrhoea then.

Yeah, it was a drug raid. Fan-fucking-tastic.

The last time I was caught in a situation where the guys and girls were segregated was back in primary school, during the annual Kotex school-visits, when old hags came to lecture pubescent girls on the Mysteries of Menstruation and give away free samples of Kotex sanitary pads which the girls would embarrassingly stuff into their pockets quicker than the time it takes for a whore to expose her tits when introduced to a bunch of rich old men, for fear that the boys in class will laugh. Weird that no one laughed at the boys for finding humour in wads of cotton.

Also the last time I peed into a cup was at the doctor’s when I needed to know whether I harboured the spawn of an eccentric idiot with a dick so large the condom tore whilst he called out to God and rolled his eyes.

And the last time my test results were positive was when I squirted some orange juice onto a sheet of litmus paper with about 5 other pimply teenagers watching closely, whilst wondering why nobody understood us or why life doesn’t just end for us or why exams existed, much like Simple Plan today.

So I spent my Saturday morning telling a copper that his tests were stupid and incorrect because I’ve been clean for 6 months. It fucking sucked big black horse dick because I really didn’t do shit, but I had to sit amongst 6 other chicks who were tripping on drugs weirder than my second aunt. I told the copper that I felt insulted I was amidst people who kept asking for water because they were “dehydrated” and annoyed that the lights were “blinding them”.

“I am emotionally traumatized and extremely embarrassed because I am a woman of dignity and I do not appreciate unsubstantiated claims that I consumed illegal drugs.”

For the first time, alcohol made me eloquent.

But hey, I managed to escape a wonderful session of wanton molesting in a jail cell. The dyke copper who yelled non-stop because her tits were bound too tight causing her chest to concave totally turned me off. Sometimes some women need to be ass-raped by a big black dick to shut them up.

Another fucking gorgeous night for the Tits of Fury. Oh yeah, quit laughing, I AM a woman of dignity.

:: Another pointless rambling at 2:32am ::

:: Monday, January 03, 2005 ::

The Canned Peaches get death threats

Ever since the day I fell in love with alcohol, I have spent all New Year’s countdowns getting drunk or too drunk to even fucking count. Hell, I don’t even need a lame reason like ‘New Year’ to get sloshed, but I guess it makes my friends believe that I don’t really have an alcohol problem, I just ‘want to celebrate happy occasions’.

And every fucking year I spend it at some club, spouting numbers at obscenely deafening decibels with random strangers whilst performing alcohol-homicide on my brain cells and starting fights with people who tip over my drink or exchanging phone numbers with guys who looked good in my state of inebriety, only to look like Blanka from Street Fighter the next day.

But this year I decided I didn’t want to attract Blanka-lookalikes. So we brought the party down to Cherating, courtesy of Mesh the Furry Organizer and his chick Sharon the Twilight Tapir. Of course we all knew that ‘New Year celebration in Cherating’ was just another name for ‘Shag Fest: Cherating Edition’ for the two mating animals.

Anyways, we arrived on Thursday night, and after Mesh’s brief rekindling of the old flame with Kak Zar, we set right down to guzzling Absolut Kurrant whilst playing stupid games to increase the pace of alcohol consumption. By the end of the night Mesh the Microsoft prodigy couldn’t count anymore, Sharon decided that a random plant in the garden was Pandan and Romz wanted to climb a coconut tree.

I swear I saw the tree shake a little when Romz announced her plan.

The next day Nael the Quake God with an Unkempt Mohawk tried to seduce me by writing an emo poem by the poolside whilst baking his nipples under the sun. I think I was more turned on by Michelle the Big-Titted Lazy Eyed hoe accidentally slipping into the pool twice like an absolute retard. Maybe Nael makes me have lesbian tendencies, I don’t know. Of course we brought alcohol to the pool, but we couldn’t get drunk because we had to meet Mesh’s parents. Apparently, it’s like part of some custom to be sober when you meet your friend’s parents.

After we stuffed our faces in buttered prawns with his parents (of whom the father looks scarily like Adrian 30 years down the line), we got wasted on Chivas. The night saw:

1. Nael being a slut to Romz, Michelle and I
2. Romz having her face licked by Nael
3. Michelle swimming on the floor
4. Mesh biting his toe nail
5. Sharon biting Mesh’s toe nail
6. Me pretending I’m a frog and leaping from the floor up the bed
7. Romz and Sharon doing the Running Man dance from the eighties
8. Mesh feeling threatened by Nael’s infamous big dick
9. Michelle, Romz and I jumping into the fucking freezing pool at 2am
10. Romz still wanting to climb the coconut tree

And no, I didn't get to participate in any hot New Year sex, because Mesh is in love with a tapir, Nael's unkempt Mohawk turned me off (because I'm a perfectionist) and Romz is gay. And Michelle didn't want me either, she wanted Romz.

On the third night, we failed to have any drunken stupidity because we all passed out from all the swimming and acting like leprechauns with extra chromosomes and a pocketful of lucky charms, whose full time jobs were being extras in Chow Sing Chi films. But we managed to wake up bright and early the next morning to listen to Nael whine about the peanuts in his porridge. We also managed to catch a couple of tapirs during a courting ritual.

Yep, it was a fucking fantastic long weekend with great mates, alcohol, a swimming pool, food and a violently foamy, choppy beach. Michelle and I took heaps of pictures because we have digicams and we just have to act like pretentious artsy fartsy artists who capture pictures of sunsets, dead trees and old people to complement some emo poem.

But we ended up taking pictures of our cleavages, asses and Nael's nipples.

I just might post up the pics in my blog and break my 'text-only blog' rule. Simply because I know you all want to see Nael's nipples.

Happy New Year guys, and again, I tell you, fuck New Year resolutions - they're for sad fucks who enjoy reading Chicken Soup for the Soul and watching Oprah Winfrey throw her weight around (literally). I'm going to force cigarettes and alcohol down your throats anyway, whether you resolve to quit or not.

Thanks for everything mates and see you all at The Loft, if we don't die first.

:: Another pointless rambling at 11:36 am ::