.: A little taste of obscurity :.

:: Friday, April 29, 2005 ::

they loved

Have you met this brown eyed boy?
The windows open to a depth unclear
Where he sings and paints and plays with his toys
Upon the mine fields splattered with fear

Have you met this brown haired girl?
Wind inspired little leaps and dances
Bestowed upon her fire fingers that twirl
Petrifies you into a love filled trance

Have you met this brown eyed boy?
Whispered stories and echoed lullabyes
A little coy, a two decade ploy,
All the how, who what where and whys

Have you met this brown haired girl?
Bellowing laughters and shattering cries
Ears bleed as her mysteries unfurl
How does one drown in flying skies?

This brown eyed boy met this brown haired girl
Time did not stop ticking nor did sun light shine
Fairies fell asleep and butterflies refused whirls
Between them they drew an invisible line

This brown eyed boy met this brown haired girl
He said no, she said no, but indeed they meant yes
Entwined their fingers, forsaken by the world
What worth is there to put love to the test

My dearest brown eyed boy walked away
Blue tinged sleeves turned wet hankerchief
Hands outstretched ready to pay
For his four walls of quarantined grief

My little brown haired girl walked away
Jaded sun kissed crown turned auburn
“Modern romance, I dare you, come what may
My heart does burn, don’t deny my turn!”

My dearest brown eyed boy walked away
Limbs refused with a heart that ensued
Journey back to his comfort hell kept at bay
Vomit and broken glass his only food

My little brown haired girl walked away
A different path, a thousand endings
Gentle smiles for her head to lay
Lest she loses her God-given wings

My dearest brown eyed boy
My little brown haired girl
A moment of the littlest purest joy
Hands unclasped, abandoned the pearl

My dearest brown eyed boy
My little brown haired girl
A little prayer, you’ll both find your buoys
And never ending serenades from angels

:: Another emo-ambient rambling at 3:10pm ::

:: Tuesday, April 26, 2005 ::

equally damaged

The trees lining the streets moved past me in a hurried pace. They all looked the same in this blurry glimpse, one replacing the other as the seconds ticked. I wound down the window, in the hopes that maybe if I breathed the same air as the trees, we could, for a brief moment, share the same feelings as victims of circumstance.

Wind blew forcefully against my face, causing my eyes to squint and my hair to dance quite rhythmically. The sound of the wind reverberated against the insides of my ears and tickled my lobes, triggering distant memories to return in a steady stream. In my mind I am smiling amidst the afternoon sun's rays whilst the cool grass beneath my feet balances the temperature. The smell of our packed lunches intertwine with the scent of summer, so confusing yet oddly comforting. Your hand reaches out to my forehead, to push aside my wind-swept hair so that my face remains uncovered. We look at the children chasing each other along the lake, pretending as if they were ours to raise.

A sob shattered my thoughts. I ignored it and my fingers reached out to patch the broken pieces together. But the sob grew louder, and with each increased decibel, the pieces shattered even more. Soon, I was left with a mound of undistinguishable microscopic dust.

I turned around to see where the sobbing was coming from. On my left, a girl held onto the steering wheel, crying uncontrollably. Her entire body was shaking so much, I was worried she might rip the steering wheel out of its place. Surprisingly, the vehicle kept its balance and didn't sway according to her souls.

"I can drive, you know" were the only words that instinctively rolled out of my mouth.

I knew those words meant nothing to her. She was always the driver. After all, it was her vehicle, and I knew how protective she was over it. Although she never understood the mechanics that made her vehicle jerk forth or what difference a tiny bolt will make should it ever get lost in her journeys, she always managed to summon it into submission and it would take her to wherever she needed to go.

She always knew where to go. Always.

But today, I was worried. How could she possibly see the route when her eyes were swimming in a sea of despair?

"Do you know where you're going?" I asked, feeling slightly unsympathetic with my choice of question.

"I'm ... tired of going nowhere everyday. I ... I ... was ... am ... hoping that it will lead me somewhere today" she mustered with all her energy to speak in between sobs.

I looked at my feet. They bared the etchings of a thousand miles of journey. They never knew where they were headed, but they were fated to follow each step that she took. No matter where she went, my feet were beside hers. A bond that could never break, a cycle that would last forever.

"But, a cycle has no ending ..." my voice trailed off, leaving her room to have an after thought.

As her eyes started to glaze over from the thinking, her CD player switched on by itself, as if it wanted to provide her with some answers. The speakers embedded around the vehicle's interior picked up the player's instructions and proceeded to overflow with words and music that drowned the both of us.

Oh don't cross your fingers
Sundays will never change
They keep on coming
You'll be a freak
And I'll keep you company

The tears that flowed between the two of us were continuously being replaced by thoughts that led to a stark realization.

Yes, it is fate.

:: Another emo-ambient rambling at 1:59 am ::

:: Monday, April 25, 2005 ::

seventeen syllables

You open your eyes. You instinctively reach out for your mobile phone.

5:26pm.

Seven new text messages.

That means you ran away for more than nine hours.

Again. Again. And again. Aren’t you tired? If your mind connected physically to your body you would've been the best long distance runner in the world.

Of course, that's just an idea in your head. Everything is always an idea. Everything is always an escape.

Drama queen, trauma dreams
Blue and green, aquamarine
Add some steam, maybe a scream
Nothing is ever what it seems.

"You'll be fine. You’re a tough cookie."

Scoff. Scream. Shake. Pinch. Cry.

At least you still feel. Numb, but you still feel. Contradict yourself one more time and I'll push your head to the floor. Wait, someone's done that already. Thanks a bunch, now I have to think of something original to do to you.

But you can take it, right? Tough cookie.

Why bother with the strength? So you can wake up the next day? What good is a next day if that's all it will ever be?

"Maybe it will be gloomy."

I say yes and you say yes. But we both meant no. So why bother talking anymore? You have all the questions and all the answers. You rule the fucking world. Just too bad you've lost the fingers to give any directive.

A handicapped god. How fucking hilarious is that?

Have no fear, the queen is near!
Come on peers, ensure the path is clear
Oh goodness dear, what have we here?
Dressed in tears, she's quite a queer.
Jeer don't cheer, jeer don't cheer!

Laugh. Punch. Cry. Deny. Escape.

The four walls again. Fireflies and dire cries. Or was it tired sighs and wired lies? Fake it. Fake it. Orgasm.

Sunflower blossoms
Overshadows the pebbles
Falling off your head.

Apparently writing haikus are a common trait for complicated people seeking simplicity.
5 + 7 + 5 = 0, right? Wrong.

HARAKIRI!

Some tough cookie you are.

Smile. Fall. Sink. Die. Breathe.

Wake up, it's another day.

:: You weren't fluid at 2:15 am ::

:: Tuesday, April 19, 2005 ::

random rambling part one

I've just recently discovered that this blog looks like a lumpy, middle-aged hairy man's oddly-shaped and diseased nipple when viewed with Internet Explorer on a Mac. Since I suck at all this futuristic objects such as "the Internet" and "computers", all I can say is: Too fucking bad. If any of you bothered checking on the HTML codes or whateverthefuckpukicibaikiahorseshit you call it, you'd know that I can make any geek suffer from epilepsy. Yeah, that's worse than flu, pimply boys.

So, if you have trouble reading this shit here, who the fuck asked you to buy a Mac? Don't pretend you bought it because it's better than a PC because of all those bullshit reasons that I don't bother to listen to anyways, you just bought it because it looks "cooler". Unless you want to fix the whateverthefuckpukicibaikiahorseshit thingamajigs for me to make this shit viewable on your Mac, I suggest you finish up your canapés quietly, you yuppie iBook whore you.

Also, whilst I'm still talking about this stupid blog, I'd like to tell all of you who asked me to link your site here to do it yourself. Do I look like a fucking computer genius to you? Do I look like I fucking understand what the shit GL GG HF means? It could mean "Go Lick a Gangrened Gimp, Horny Fucker!" for all I care.

"Eh, but you've linked up some sites on your blog, what. You bluff! You DO know how to link sites! HAH! I caught you, you liar! Liar liar pants on fire, tee hee hee!" you squeak like a squirrel with hernia.

Oh by Father Abraham's soiled loin cloths that flaps in the wind exposing his hairy balls that look like two hibernating gerbils, HAVE YOU NO FUCKING SHAME? Squeak like that again and I'll fucking key your face.

Okay la, I promised Keith that I would put him up here but I'm just too damn lazy to fix it up. The least you could do to quicken my pace is to tempt me with some Singaporean dollars, you stingy ass.

But seriously, why the fuck do you want to be up here? Do you really want to be associated with a person who watches cartoons all day long and has a secret stash of Euro feng tau music? A person who doesn't have anything to say except that she has furious tits and whose little toe resembles a flour-coated peanut?

I HAVE A FLOUR-COATED PEANUT OF A TOE FOR CHRISSAKES!

I walk the streets in my slippers and Chinese restaurant owners offer to buy my toe to be served to bickering families awaiting their 8-course dinners. Beggars lunge at my feet not to ask for money but to eat my fucking toe.

While we're at my physical defects, I also have teeth that resemble a fence set up by a blind man suffering from Parkinson's. And he set up this cursed fence during an earthquake. When I sink my teeth in a sandwich, I don't remove a semi circle chunk, I leave a fucking wave of destruction.

I HAVE TEETH THAT LOOK LIKE A NATURAL DISASTER! Wahlao tiu nia ma chow hai kannineh hor lang kan lim pek tneh lu eh leng dilapidating surgically implanted ning koo of a muscled pondan, what the fuck man, Tsunami Teeth.

And I've also noticed that I have a weird black mark that just appeared on the back of my right hand. I don't know if I burned my hand with my cigarette whilst I was drunk or a beetle latched onto my hand and died and fossilized there. Or I'm turning Indian.

Oh fucking pancakes. My hand is suffering from identity crisis. It won’t be long before I start dousing curry on everything and killing my children with weedkiller and setting my wife on fire. Speaking of Ah Neh Nehs, my darling friend Adrian has finally gotten married. Fucker won’t hang out with me these days, because he’d rather stay home and finger his wife. And then watch The Apprentice or some shit.

Even I’m not that domesticated. I’m only at home to sleep and shower. Sometimes to eat for free. Okay I lied. Sometimes I’m there to kick a fuss whenever my Mom decides to take off the cartoon channels on Astro. She claims that cartoons are unimportant. Then I told her that CNN wasn’t important either. Then she’ll give me that fucking Cock Stare of Death. And then I will flash my Patented Kawaii Look which she will interpret as the Death Ray of Insolence. And then she’ll look at my Dad for back-up. And my Dad will continue talking to the dog or staring into emptiness. And then Mom will emo and call her butch friends to whine. And then they’ll probably do some prayer group thing, pray for me to stop being a difficult daughter and end the meeting with some homemade cakes and tea.

So a bunch of old women get together to pray for me to stop watching cartoons.

I spent five hours on Saturday watching Gankutsuou aka The Count of Monte Cristo. If you haven’t watched it, maybe your Mom’s prayers are actually working.

Funny thing about prayer meets is, wait, nothing is funny about prayer meets. Unless you're praying for some kid to pass his exams, because it's just a subtle way to tell the kid that he's a stupid idiot who can't possibly study well enough to pass the generally low standards of Malaysian examinations. Congratulations, kid, your Mom thinks you're a dumbass beyond physical help.

Another funny thing though, is talking cock with Shaun's friends. I really love this bunch of fuckers, because they're absolutely random and nonsensical. Like the things the waiters at the mamak say to you to start a conversation. Except that these kids are better looking. All but one kid whose face shares the same physical attributes of a rare mango bred in mine fields.

My favourite is Darren's younger brother. He looks like the typical cute boy you'd meet in tuition classes, where all the girls are crazy about him, but you're too shy to do anything except stare at him from a far and quickly stare at your photocopied tuition notes whenever he looks your direction, where the empty margins on the side of the paper are scribbled with his name in fancy fonts, accompanied by lame illustrations of daisies and hearts. And finally one day, he ends up sitting next to you when he arrives late but on that day you had P.E. classes so you stink like a load of Bangladeshi cleaners wearing clothes that didn't dry out too well the night before, which will make him exclaim loudly "Wahlao, who stepped on dog shit? You ah? Cannot be la, you smell like you fucking rolled in it, stinkface. Eh, don’t waste money on tuition la, use the money to buy us some oxygen masks la". And then you'll scream with your hands in the air as you run into the window, crashing through it and falling on the wan tan stall down below, flattening out the wan tans.

And that's how sui kows were created.

:: Another pointless rambling at 10:42am ::

:: Tuesday, April 12, 2005 ::

and you will know us by the trail of dead

Despite my ever-increasing beer belly and progressively mutating face, I still manage to attract weird men(?) who were spawns of women who sinned so terribly in their past lives that they were punished with human-dog hybrids for sons. Anyhow, God should've contained the punishment within them, but noooo … He had to unleash these Sin-Spawned-Freaks upon us innocent, law-abiding, virginal and pure people who perform various benevolent activities on an hourly basis.

You see, I'm not one of the hottest chicks in town. Okay, I lied. I'm the Beast of the Orient, okay? If Lion-O had the Sword of Omens, I'd have the Face of Horrors. If Spongebob had a best friend named Patrick, I'd have a best friend named Le Freak. If Batman was the Dark Knight, I'd be the Dark Fright. You get the fucking drift.

So, if I, a girl who can make babies, little dogs and some grown men cry in horror upon sight, can STILL attract some guys, these guys must be a rank beneath rabid rats right?

Wrong. They're somewhere beneath a leprosy-ridden elephant, sniffing its ass and scraping off bits of hardened dung, searching for clues of their origin.

Anyway, in case you're still thinking of hardened elephant dung, you nitwit, I'm trying to tell you that I (will) only attract desperately horny/perverted/stupid/just plain desperate dicks on legs. To prove my point, I have compiled some of the best lines they have used on me, some of them probably used to try to get into my pants, and some of them simply used to tell God its time for them to go.

Note: Some of these lines are quite harmless when used on an average chick, but because they used it on me (Beast of the Orient, remember?) they automatically become disgusting and deserving of my cussing. If you have any problem with that, say hello to my Five Fingers On The Face manoeuvre

So, boys and girls, once you're done inspecting your genital warts, sniff your fingers and read on!

"My friend just came back from (insert random country) , and he's looking for some fun. You look like you could show him a good time, what say you?"
First of, I hate the use of wingmen. If your friend doesn't have the fucking balls to approach me, he should have whatever that is dangling under his dick ripped off and forced down his throat. Secondly, I don't give a shit about any White Man's Land and if you think you have better advantage at scoring chicks because of your country of origin, go wait by the piers for the illegal Indon maids. Thirdly, yeah I know I'm the fucking Malaysian Sensation, but I don’t provide entertainment to dickheads who think they’re white although they’re black as the Ace of Spades.

At least pay me, stingy ass.

"Can I light your fire, baby?"
You're going to need more than a one dollar lighter, honey.

"Why hello there, Butterfly, nice tattoo."
Of course it's nice, Mr. Obvious, I'd didn't pay 1500 bucks for someone to ink my ass with a portrait of your face. And if you're going to call me Butterfly on the basis of my tattoo then I'm going to call you Nausea on the basis of your face.

"Are you horny?"
Well, yes. All the fucking time so much so it's a fucking chore to drive. So, it's really a surprise for me, that for the first time, I'm about as dry as a bowl of muesli. I wonder if it’s a coincidence that it happened right after you spoke.

"I miss to see you very much"
And I is a biggest plate of sambal belacan.

"Why can't I have your number? Can I give you mine then?"
Yeah sure, please. So you KNEW I was just playing hard to get eh? Is that why you offered me your number when I declined to give you mine? I didn't know you could see through my charade! Good thing you saw through it before I had to do something drastic like smash my phone right here. Whoops, there it goes. No more phone! Tough luck, Don Juan.

"Eh, eh, call me back sweetie, I got no more credit"
No, I'm not calling you back, and no, I don't buy your "I'm just using prepaid because I don't like giving my information to mobile service providers when you sign up for postpaid" bullshit. Calling my number and hanging up after one ring doesn't mean I'm calling you back either, stingy fuck.

"So, you come here often ... how come I've never seen you around?"
I think your question should be "Will you come here again after meeting me here?"

"Ooh, tongue stud. I wonder what it's like to kiss someone with a tongue stud"
Tell me, does it sadden you that you're going to keep on wondering for a very long time?

"I know girls like you. You look like the type who acts all hardcore, but on the bed, you become submissive"
Wow, are you like, psychic? That’s so fucking cool! But yeah, I'm usually submissive in bed when I fall asleep from excessive boredom. Whassay you and I, get down to it? You look like the type to cure my insomnia.

"Can I ask you something? (Yeah, what?) Will you fuck me?"
Certainly, darling. Would you rather I fuck you with your own fist or the leg of this chair?

“You’re a Copywriter? So are you going to write a story about me?”
It’s okay if you don’t fucking know a thing about advertising, Einstein. But PRETENDING you know is asking to be kicked in the shins. Even if I were an author, the only story about you that I’d write is, get this: NOTHING.

“Hi my name is Arumugam. My friend Kalimuthu would like to talk to you”
My, my, this friend of yours must be a celebrity of some sort, that he needs a middleman to communicate with us common folk. Tell me, did I miss the red carpet and trumpet blaring ceremony? Oh my God, where are the hors d’oeuvres? Can I get a glass of champagne too?

I fucking hate it when guys send a friend to talk to a chick because “they’re too shy”. If you’re too shy, fucking stay home and wank.

“Girls like you enjoy giving men a hard time”
DO YOU REALLY THINK I ENJOY THIS?! You think I’ve been trying to run away from you all night, sweating my eyeliner and mascara way, because I ENJOY it? I fling my head to the other side so hard, I create a fucking gust of wind which blows over a few straws whenever I try to avoid eye contact with you. DO YOU THINK I REALLY ENJOY THIS?! I have to muster all the energy in me to use my alcohol-altered brains to think of caustic retorts for you every time you ask me a question/open your mouth to talk to me. DO YOU THINK I REALLY ENJOY THIS?!

In case all you desperate horny fuckers don’t know, the only line that works on me is “Can I buy you a drink?”.

As Napoleon Dynamite would say, “GOSH! IDIOTS!!!”

:: Another pointless rambling at 3:14pm ::

:: Monday, April 04, 2005 ::

the showdown at dawn aka the battle between logic and truth

"You're not ugly, but I can list 100 girls I know who are more beautiful than you are," he whispered softly, as if he wanted to challenge the residents of the night to a silence competition.

"But..." he stopped in mid-sentence, sifting through the recesses of his mind so hurriedly yet with a contradicting sense of carefulness. His eyes maintained in contact with hers, in hopes that it would hide the fact that he was trying very hard to be tactful. The still of the night amplified his nervousness, causing swear words to interrupt his train of thought.

I half-opened my eyes to peer in on the two of them. I wasn't sure if it was because they thought I was asleep or that they were so caught up in the moment that they assumed privacy. Eavesdropping wasn't a habit I liked practising, but when the opportunity arose, I could never turn away. Nevertheless, both him and her were juxtaposed in a place and time that denied my entry.

I've known her so long, I forgot when was the first time we met. What I do know though, thanks to my years of experience with her, was to never fuck with her. Anger triggered easily within her, and her ferocity would rival a herd of wild stallions. But it wasn't her ferociousness that killed, it was her venom that did the job.

So it was only natural for me to expect her to perform her trademark verbal assault, with or without a swift backhand. If he was really not worth her time at all, she would probably drop a couple of coins into his pocket, say "Thanks for your two cents worth, keep the change" and walk off.

What I didn't expect was for her to smile.

"But I'm smart, funny and kind, right?" the words escaped through the crevices in her smile. "I wouldn't spend years of my life perfecting my personality if I knew I was beautiful. Why must you justify facts I already believe in? You don’t have to justify your words to make yourself look less shallow."

Ah, she chose poison.

"You're a rude little cunt, aren't you? You didn't let me finish my sentence" he said calmly. I silently cursed my choice of clothing for the night, blood stains don't come off easily on white.

"As I was saying. But. But, how you differ from the rest, is that I cannot justify why I like you. You're not aesthetically pleasing, and in the two encounters I've had with you, you failed to say anything smart or funny. And I didn't see you spare your loose change to the nearest beggar either."

"You see, what I like about you, is that I just do. I just, very simply, do."

The only sound that trailed after his lingering voice was of their skin brushing against each other as their fingers intertwined throughout the night.

:: Another emo-ambient rambling at 10:25am ::