.: A little taste of obscurity :.

:: Friday, July 29, 2005 ::

tiuniama lali puna

Sitting at home may be a fucking luxury for most normal non-deformed people, but when you can barely sit properly, being at home all fucking day is quite a chore. Watching TV hurts after a while because your shoulders and spine start to protest and start acting like whiny girls on PMS. Walking from the living room to the bed room is like climbing up Mount Everest barefoot with Romz tied to your back demanding for Nasi Lemak with Babi Masak Kicap Pedas:

"Eh, you've been walking so long still no restaurant ah? Ish, lapar ni. Tadi the Banana Leaf Rice sikit je, alas perut je. Hungry ah. Dammit, what do I have to do to get food around here? Eh, faster la Su, I dah lapar dah ni. What, you're tired? Tu ah, tak berstamina. Eleh, want to blame the injuries some more. It was just a road accident la, don't be so dramatic. I jatuh staircase also can still walk to the mamak okay. Mmm Garlic Cheese Naan dengan Tandoori right about now would be damn good. Kalau cicah dengan Kari Babi lagi best. Oh man, where can I get Nasi Lemak with babi ah? Must ask Abang Khairul, sure dia tahu gerai babi yang best-best. Sure some Apek coffee shop got. Jom, let's go Pudu and search. What are you cock staring me for? You ni tak adventurous langsung. Come on lah, climb faster. Maybe at the top got some happening restaurant. Quick ah, I lapar ni."

All this while munching on a leg of lamb and accidentally spilling mint sauce all over my back and neck brace.

The only time I get to out of the house is when I've got an appointment at the hospital. And that ain't exactly a Fun Day Out like the illustration of a happy picnic that they place at the back of the old skool Double Decker junkfood, either. I had more stitches removed yesterday, but this time, the doctor was sarcastic and gave me anaesthetic because she got tired of seeing me wincing. Stupid bitch. OF COURSE I fucking wince when you stab me in my injured mouth with sharp objects before you decide to pick at the fresh scabs on the gash on my chin.

"Get me some local anaesthetic please, she's so scared of pain."

Mahai. How about I killer 32-Hit Combo Punch you in the ovaries? If you don't fucking flinch, I'll let you re-lacerate and re-stitch my mouth without anaesthetic whilst you're drunk on cheap wine.

The Libyan doctor who stitched me up the first time in the Emergency Room had to explain to me in full details of how fucked up I looked when she attended to me that morning right after the accident. Seriously, having some foreigner tell you the laceration was "So big I could fit my whole hand in it, through and through! And your tongue looked like a freshly cut slice of raw meat!" whilst you're getting your wound cleaned out by an old sarcastic naggy bitch whose face could've rivalled Dali's melting clocks, is not my idea of a Fun Day Out.

Right now, a Fun Day Out to me is swallowing cyanide.

Alright, I admit, I'm fucking emo these days. Hey, I can't fucking help it okay? I cannot consume any alcohol or nicotine for at least 6 weeks, OF COURSE I'm on the edge. I can't even walk straight without moaning like a 78 year old Britney Spears has been trying to do a dance step, for fuck's sake.

I'm so fucking emo people have to show me their love:

1. Adrian says it's a perfect time to get back to religion and start appreciating the people around me, like all clichéd Near-Death Experience victims. And asked if I wanted him to arrange a prayer group meeting for me. Fucker, you're going to get some karmic ass shagging, just you wait. I'll be the first one laughing when you make some bad shape hoe pregnant with twins.

2. Tim and Michelle are going for some major drinking fest on the weekend, but claim it's not going to be fun without me. Eh, fuckers, the accident didn't destroy my memory, okay? I still remember that alcohol is fun regardless of the company. That's why they serve alcohol at blog meets.

3. Daniel left me a note that read "Who's hardcore NOW?" to make me feel macho about the whole thing, but Dan, I always feel macho around you anyways.

4. Justine wants to piss a certain "celebrity" off for me. Awww ….

5. Fip and Lainie want to come to my house to laugh at my bisexual dog, Ben. Girls, bisexual dogs have emotions too.

6. Seng Tat emailed me and asked me to recover soon, because he despised disables. Hey, if your next movie needs a drooling, limping and lisping whore, you'll be begging me okay.

7. Romz and Mega made me trifle because nothing cures an injured mouth better than lesbian dessert.

8. Camilia promised to buy me Chivas once I've recovered. Damn, with propositions like these, I'd get myself into an accident every damn week.

9. Darren gave me a list of fun things to do whilst I'm resting at home, like knitting him a sweater, baking him a pie and washing his car. Thanks for making me feel useful in this cruel world, baby.

10. Jae Sern ordering Roti Tampal as a subtle dedication to my stitched mouth.

Thanks guys. I'm so filled with joy and medication right now, I spew my unabashed love everywhere! Check out my happening, scandalous love life:

Scandalous SMS banter with STYLE™ Keling Designer aka Love Of My Life:

Love of My Life:
Tiu nia seng, what time you sleep one?

Tits of Fury:
When the meds kick in. Or when I get bored of TV. Why whassup?

Love of My Life:
Thought wanna drop by to laugh at you and layan Ben. Well, mostly layan Ben lah.

Tits of Fury:
Ben tido in parents room already lah. I'm like woozy from painkillers. See u tomorrow nite lah, okay? I LOVE YOU DON'T GET ANGRY I LOVE YOU!!

Love of My Life:
WTF!!! Stupid high on medication ho!

Tits of Fury:
I love u, u take care drive safely. Goodnite baby muakz!! <3

Love of My Life:
Liama kuey teow, stop sending me smses meant for tim.

Tits of Fury:
Sweet dreams sayang, I promise to dream of u ^_^ love u!!! *kisses

Scandalous phone banter with Balak On-The-Side aka Phantom Lover:

Phantom Lover:
Hey babe, what you been up to today?

Tits of Fury:
I hobbled to the hospital to get my nose checked. Doctor wants to break my nose again and fix it up. Tulan. What about you?

Phantom Lover:
I just got back from the concert.

Tits of Fury:
Huh? What concert?

Phantom Lover:
The Billy Corgan one.

Tits of Fury:
Fuck you.

Phantom Lover:
It was good, he played all the songs from the album.

Tits of Fury:
Fuck you. Go and die. I hate you.

Phantom Lover:
No you don't...

Tits of Fury:
Yes I do. Fuck off. Enjoy yourself with your happening concerts whilst I get into more shitty accidents.

Phantom Lover:
So emo. Over-nya. Oh yeah, I'm going to the Sigur Ros one too.

Tits of Fury:
Which part of Fuck You don't you understand? I hate you. Go away. Fuck off.

Phantom Lover:
I'll get you a concert t-shirt.

Tits of Fury:
I love you.

Scandalous MSN Messenger banter with Idiot aka Pseudo Lover and Lazy/Emo Left Eye aka Lesbian Lover:

Tits of Fury:
I can’t nod in this neck brace.

Lesbian Lover:
Why don't you just move your body up and down? That'll be funny. I'll bring my video cam to record THAT shit.

Tits of Fury:
Yeah, laugh at my disabilities. Make me look like an idiot, thanks. Dammit, I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE THE IDIOT. That's Tim's job.

Lesbian Lover:
Oh yeah. There can only be one idiot.

Pseudo Lover:
Fuckers, I saw that.

Lesbian Lover:
What are you talking about?

Tits of Fury:
Saw what?

Pseudo Lover:
You guys referring to me as the idiot.

Tits of Fury:
Loveeee youuuu

Lesbian Lover:
<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 TIM

Tits of Fury:
GROUP HUG!!!

There is so much love in this fucking house without the aid of alcohol it's making me sick but I can’t puke because it's too difficult to bend over.

Someone shoot me now.

Please.

:: Another pointless rambling at 1:04pm ::

:: Tuesday, July 26, 2005 ::

what happens when an emo writer is hospitalized from an accident ...

1. gets high from medication

lucy the pixie

Hello. My name is Lucy and I am a pixie. I like how my name rhymes with my species. Cute, don't you think? Lucy the Pixie. Rolls off your tongue like a butterscotch toffee before it melts in your mouth.

Unlike most pixies, I don't live under a polka-dotted mushroom or in a pink flower with long petals. It would be nice if I did, though. Basking under the sun with the caterpillars and playing hide and seek with the long blades of grass. Singing with the sunflowers and comforting the lonely lizards.

Bah! I say to those other pixies who live fairy tale lives. When a strong gust of wind sweeps all in its path or a heavy summer's shower threatens to wash everything away, what are they going to do? Hike up their rose petal skirts and hope that pretty boy elf would promise to save their tiny lives?

I, on the other hand, breathe a much more complicated tale.

In the darkest hours, in the deepest recesses of your mind, there is where I reside. When you dream, that is when I dance. My only friend is your mind. And your only friend is your mind. Hey, we have a mutual friend.

In here, there is no sound, no colour, no life. Everything here goes into hibernation when you lay awake. But once you give in to the still of the night, that is when my smiles sing!

Away I dance, sprinkling my magic dust into every corner. Past memories harmonize with your imagination as your deepest desires spring to life. Bright turquoise fields blend into deep purple skies and single-winged birds encircle faceless people. Whichever scene you fancy, whomever you want to meet, whenever time you please, whatever you desire, I liaise with your mind to fulfil all your needs.

If tomorrow morning a smile is etched upon your face and another memory engrained into your waking life, I in turn go to sleep with a smile upon my freckled face.

Not many know of my existence. It's alright really, sometimes it's much less pressuring working behind the scenes, furthest away from blame when situations turn sour. Once though, four men acknowledged my dedicated work by naming a song after me. You know them as The Beatles, but they always appeared as Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band to me.

But today, I want everyone to know who I am. As the years go by, every part in me dissipates into the wind quicker, like a dandelion at the edge of a child's mouth. Many of you do not believe in me anymore, you've crushed my home with your concrete jungles and spineless religions. Your ever changing technologies and long standing beliefs. Your harmonious hatred and discriminating love.

Today, we need each other the most, as our existences depend on each other. For I am Lucy the Pixie, I exist to make your dreams lucid. And you exist for my existence.

2. plays favourite emo songs in her head

five songs

one
No, we're not the best match.

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee must greet me every morning, but you're the owner of a tea plantation. Your face appears on the covers of shiny magazines, burying the novels which I write anonymously. My frequent reminders of caution will cramp your day dreaming hammocks. Your love is real, mine a rumour. We're just two strangers juxtaposed in a room.

But we can always pretend everything is alright because we're madly in love with each other.
Because Cocteau Twins said;

"This love is a strange love."

two
No, we don't have the same tastes.

My Haruki Murakami is as tasteless as your Danielle Steel. Your Macbeth is nothing to my Spongebob Squarepants. I want to stomp out your cigarettes and you want my CDs burned. Mine is blue and yours is pink. I couldn't care less for the things you like, and you hate what I love.

But we can always pretend we're on the same wavelength because our radios are broken.
Because the Beatles said;

"We can work it out."

three
No, we are not made for one another.

I am not the culinary achievement to your fine china. You are not the single malt whisky to my low ball glass. I am not the visually heavy movie to your wide screen television. You are not the paper to my pen. We're not pieces to the same machinery.

But we can always pretend we're a perfect match because we gave up on jigsaw puzzles long ago.
Because Dashboard Confessional said;

"Just bend the pieces till they fit."

four
No, we don't have each other.

You are God's delicate creation and I'm a thousand sins. I live in a white mansion with dozens of cars and you dedicate yourself to happiness. You're on the other side of the Equator and I'm on another planet. I'm here, you're there. Distance draws a line between the two of us.

But we can always pretend we'll be together someday because we've both set our clocks on the wrong times.
Because Radiohead said;

"True love waits."

five
No, we're not the perfect couple.

Your dreams span a hundred miles, and mine appears when intoxicated. My thoughts drown me endlessly, and yours forgotten in a second. Your principles challenge mine, but I trample over yours everyday. My opinions revered, yours severed. Your heart is twisted, mine discarded. In the real world, we despise each other with a passion.

But we can always pretend we collided paths because we're both reading our maps upside down.
Because Smashing Pumpkins said;

"I promise we'll be perfect."

3. asks too many questions

eight too late

You're dreaming now, aren't you?
Just when you said I subdued your nightmares.

You've let your heart beat again, haven’t you?
Just when it skipped a beat whenever I was around.

You're lost in a sea of paths, aren't you?
Just when you asked me to walk with you.

You've found logic now, haven’t you?
Just when you said I drove you crazy.

You're going around in circles, aren't you?
Just when you said I filled all the empty corners.

You've sunken me further in your memories, haven't you?
Just when I was the one who kept you afloat.

You're saying goodbye, aren’t you?
Just when you couldn't wait to say "Hello Sunshine" every morning.

You've lost me, haven't you?
Just when you said my words were echoes to your thoughts.

:: Another emo-ambient rambling at 11:44am ::

:: Sunday, July 24, 2005 ::

apple juice

Yes, fuckers, I'm finally fucking back. For those of you who didn't know, I was away for more than a week because I was busy cheating death / avoiding paralysis / wrecking my car / giving actual work to firemen and policemen / acting macho / looking even more bad shape.

So I gained consciousness to a mouthful of pain and blood. I remembered seeing a gloved and bloodied hand stitching my tongue, shrieking like an auntie when she finds out the expensive diamond she bought was fake, and collapsing back. When I opened my eyes again, I knew it wasn't a dream because my mother was howling as if she was testing her pitch and my brother and friends were holding my hands whilst looking sombre.

I seriously cannot fucking remember what the fuck happened but until the day I finally die, I will remember the pain. So fellas, my word of advice: Don't fucking doze off and crash your car into a tree at high speed. Or try on a pair of 5 inch stilettos on the top of the steps at Batu Caves. Or get 30 fucking oral piercings simultaneously so that you can change your name to Garden Sprinkler Mouth.

And always keep a little card in your pocket that says: In the event of an accident, please for the love of Jesus Almighty who saveth mine and your souls and the rest of the people, yes including Ashlee Simpson and her mannish sister, please send me to any hospital which isn't named University Hospital.

Unless of course you enjoy letting some saggy old hoe stab your injured mouth with random sharp tools without anaesthetic because according to her, "Sometimes you have to let them feel the pain mah". Fuck, I swear I wanted her to swab me with the stinging alcohol to take away the pain of looking at her gravity complying face whilst getting my stitches yanked.

So yeah, that was my fucking week, how was yours?

Injury List:

1. Laceration right across the chin, pulling my lower lip into my mouth thus exposing my lower row of gum, teeth and freaking jaw bone when the cops found me. Adrian counted about 20 stitches there.

2. A chunk of tongue got bitten off (and possibly swallowed or posing as an ornament on my dashboard). That had a few more stitches and a taste of dried blood which just wouldn't fucking go away.

3. Lacerations inside my mouth to give me heaps of dangling ends of stitches that Barbie could use as a cheerleader pom-pom.

4. Three funky bones (Fuck if I know what they are called scientifically) on my spine got fractured and misaligned. That means I'm a fucking lucky twat who escaped paralysis, but ended up with a gaudy neck brace for at least 6 weeks.

5. Multiple fractures all over the face and mandible, which swelled my face enough to make Japanese school girls want to shriek and hug me and hang me from their bag zippers and call me MashiSuyinmaro.

6. Hardcore boxer style broken nose bridge which is making my glasses slip off quicker than a condom on a man who finds out his chick is on birth control pills.

7. Lacerations on both knees, thighs and hips which Daddy dearest said resembled sliced spam.

8. Tissue damage all over the fucking place to weaken my movement and distance my chance for victory at the Paralympics.

9. Funky huge bruise on my lower back which is the same colour as my blue and purple tattoo.

10. Bad shape face so ugly, it made family and friends cry, shriek or pose with mouth agape.

As much as I really am thankful I didn't die, I also know fuckers like me will die old, because Death is God's greatest gift of kindness, remember. I will probably die when I'm ninety fucking eight years old, after 25 more accidents, liver and lung cancer, some happening STD and 10 more Simple Plan albums.

According to doctors, policemen and random Lumba Haram Kakis, I should've either died, suffered paralysis, had some brain damage, or at the very least got both my legs broken, judging from the wreckage of the car and my injuries. Of course I'm like thankful and happy and Hallmark shit like that, but hey, let me fucking WHINE, okay? I want to emo without having to cover it up with some funky ambient style writing to impress the writer in me, can or fucking not?

I lost my car, the ultimate SexyBeast™ 2005. My pride and joy although it looked like a sad mod job, but fuck all of yous because it's MY car I bought with MY money, bitches. And now it's ending up in the scrap yard along with random crap metal objects like your ditzy younger sister's old braces. It's actually fucking hilarious that I spent money installing a complete body kit and 6-disc CD changer on the car instead of putting it to good use like on say, a pair of fucking AIR BAGS maybe?

Also, whilst I lay unconscious in a heap of blood and torn skin, some fuckers stole my mobile phone, credit card (and CHARGED it immediately on petrol), 90 bucks in cash, and my fucking seasoned Adidas trainers. Now why the fuck would anyone want to steal a pair of used and bloodied shoes I don't fucking know. Cibai pukimak kannineh hor lang kan tiu lei ger lou mou ger chow far hai pei tai chek malau kaan pantat berkudis lanciau of a three assed baboon who passed leprosy to your uncle, I hope once you wear those shoes your feet will instinctively reach into your ass and come out of your mouth whilst your helpless knees graze the tarmac covered in glass shards as a truck carrying salt and lemon juice crashes into you, motherfucker.

All this material losses whilst I'm emoing on the hospital bed about how fucked up I must look. Get this, I must've looked SO fucking bad because all who came to visit me kept saying "You look good, Su" or "Don't worry, you look fine" or "Erm, at least you're not as bad as THAT OTHER bad shape hoe".

AND, this is the fucking SECOND time in a row I've been hospitalized okay?! This is major fucking karmic anal raping orgy with black black hairy dicks.

Anyways, since I'm still on emo mode now, I might as well do my Thank You list now:

1. Dad, Mom and Shaun for being there and um, paying for the bills first, heh.
2. Romz for being my mother's pillar of strength and like, buying me stuff, heheh.
3. Sue-Ann for helping me go to the toilet and the multiple Hallmark moments.
4. Tim, Michelle and Jae for the CD player, CDs, lawak bodoh magazines and writing materials.
5. Pix for the Ipod and random food.
6. Adrian for telling me the truth, making me laugh and waking me up from my sleep.
7. Daniel for drawing me fantastic awesome great pictures and doing up an activity sheet to entertain me.
8. Justine for making me feel damn macho when she squirmed after I told her of my injuries.
9. Yoke for trying to stop the doctor from slicing my skin, a pack of Haw flakes and stealing Tim's charger.
10. Tsau Da Man for understanding my incoherent sounds.
11. Kevin, Will, Esther, Richie, Cutest, Kean Chee, my old and current agencies and Lynette for the ultra happening flower / fruit baskets to make all the nurses damn jealous.
12. Emily, Brian, Mega, DJ Bunga, Daryl, Elisha, Bee, Desmond, Fakhrul, Eza, Sharon, Ramesh and other random friends who popped by to make me feel damn popular and shit.

If I forgot to thank anyone else, don't blame me, blame the um, temporary memory loss from my head against the steering wheel.

Alright fuckers, as much as I can’t wait to get to the celebratory drinking and random acts of debauchery, the doctor has ordered me to be a good girl and recover fully.

Plus, I don't want to fucking be moshing at the Loft with a neck brace, a torn mouth and limping legs because that just ain't cool.

Also, it cramps Tim's style.

:: Another pointless rambling at 5:17pm ::

:: Sunday, July 10, 2005 ::

modern romance

Her eyes opened with such a sudden jolt that even her shoulders jerked. The shock immobilized her momentarily, leaving her to stare at the white ceiling above helplessly. Questions fled through her mind, leaving no space for an answer to form.

Where am I?
How did I end up here?
What am I doing here?
Was I sleeping?
How long was I asleep?
Is that a bug on the ceiling or a spot of dirt?

The battle of voices took place in her head again. This happened nearly every morning that she got so accustomed to it she couldn't even remember when the routine first started. Her typical response to the mental flood would be to force herself up and look for her cigarettes.

Her lips pressed against her cigarette as she took a deep, long drag. As she exhaled, a series of short coughs escaped her lungs, disappearing amongst the thick cloud of smoke lingering in front of her aquamarine blue eyes.

After her cigarette, she rummaged around the room for her clothes. The room dripped of cheap perfume trying desperately to mask the smell of post-sex musk, but that wasn't a surprise to her. For fifty bucks a night, you can't be expecting a waft of Summer Evening Rose and Lavender air freshener to relax your senses.

As she walked out of the motel, the drowsy old man at the reception counter allowed his straying eyes to slowly follow the movements of her body. She noticed him looking, so she flashed her trademark smile and wink, and continued walking out.

She crossed the street to a cosy little café. It was her favourite café, as it was the only one who knew how to pull two perfect shots of Espresso, to fill the bottom of the mug before a properly foamed portion of steamed milk reached the brim. Plus, the place also stocked up on issues of Expatriate magazines, so she could catch up on the latest hangout joints of her favourite type of customers.

She was a prostitute. She couldn't care less for a politically correct term like sex worker, for she didn't need your respect, nor your sympathy. She chose this way of life and she isn't ashamed of it. But she always knew when to be subtle about her profession and to lose certain secrets in the closets of her memories.

"I don’t need to impress anyone, or embarrass people whom I hold dearly. I do not force myself down someone else's throat. Funny, hundreds of men force themselves down my throat" she would say cheekily.

She sipped on her hot café latte before her head jerked back a little. The first sip burned her every time, but that was just the way she liked it. Placing a cigarette between her lips, she lit it and sat back to inhale. Swimming in her head was a congregation of thoughts, each of them fighting for her attention, as if two seconds of her time gave them reason to exist.

"Excuse me, miss, but I'm in love with you" a soft voice broke her trail of thoughts. Still staring at the magazine she placed in her lap, undisturbed by the conviction of his sudden statement, she answered him without a slightest doubt in her voice.

"You are my perfect imperfection, and I love you with every bit of irrationality in me. I cannot explain how is it possible I feel this way about you just by listening to your voice. Neither can you explain how it is possible that you love me despite how I'm dressed."

She turned her head to look at the owner of the soft voice. His eyes were a warm brown, his hair held in place by an expensive hair product. He was well dressed, in a fashionably approving suit and tie. Anyone could tell he spent a lot of time and effort to create that façade, maybe because he had a face which you wouldn't turn for a second glance.

The two of them stood there side by side, him standing and she seated. Their eyes transfixed on each other, painting a seam of dreams that laid before their lives.

He would have her smile greet him every morning, before she helped pick out his clothes to work. He would compile songs he knew she'd like into a CD, and place it in her car so its music will calm her nerves in traffic jams. She would write little notes for him and slip it in his pocket, so that he'd have a reminder of her love to perk him up whenever situations at the office were depressing. They would spend their evenings eating home-cooked meals, claiming that they both liked her cooking, secretly denying that they wanted to save money for a bigger TV so he could watch his favourite movies without squinting. Every night, their steady rhythmic breathing would lullaby each other to sleep, and the two of them would never suffer from insomnia again.

"Unfortunately, this dream might never come true. Judging by how clichéd this story is going, you're going to board a plane, to fly to another country to work or … whatever. And we won't say our goodbyes, because we'd both hope with all our hearts that someday fate will bring us back together again," she said solemnly before breaking out in a smug smile, having figured out the Storyteller's plot.

He looked at her silently as he digested her words slowly. He flipped the pages of the book in his mind furiously, before he slowly uttered:

"You are ever so lucky, for in the last chapter, you will have me again, and that may last forever. But I, will never have you. For all your secrets will remain untold to me, even after the end of the story."

He turned away his gaze from her eyes, as tears had started to form within his own. He weighed himself down on a seat next to hers, and they held hands and kissed each other, oblivious to the passers-by and café patrons.

And they surrendered themselves to the laws of modern romance.

:: Another emo-ambient rambling at 3:18am ::

:: Wednesday, July 06, 2005 ::

the first and final explanation

I come back from the hospital, and what do I have to fucking endure? Some bad show idiots on my comments box. As much as I hate to disagree with the infamous comment box flamer INTERNET POLICE (he's just too damn funny to hate), Lainie is right, there are too many idiots reading this blog. But fuck, you all can argue for as long as you like, diss me all you want, infact, diss whoever you want in my comments box, because forums and chatrooms are so hard to get the hang of, what with all the tedious signing up process and filtration procedures.

And please, get the facts straight, I particularly dissed ONE cunt. I don't have any beef with minishorts because she's been around even before I learnt that I can drink ten shooters before I start molesting random geeks, so it's about fucking time she's gotten her taste of "fame". Nor do I have any shit against TV Smith (who looks like Hentai Otaku of the Year) or Jeff Ooi (whom my father adores actually). I don't like their blogs though, couldn't give a shit about satire or politics or whatever the fuck they used as condiments for their scrambled eggs, but I don't dislike them that much to put effort into dissing them. The other twat however (whose name I shall not mention, because I wouldn't want his grandkids to google his name and find their beloved 45th time Blog Award winning grandfather here), is a try-hard whom I just very simply, don't like.

I just DON'T LIKE lah, dammit.

Why is it that I stalk kinkybluefairy's blog and buy her a beer upon meeting her at the Loft? I don't fucking know. Why is it that although Lainie rambles on and on and on about nothing in particular I still like her blog? I don't fucking know. Why is it that when everyone thought the great Nael was an internet serial rapist who preyed on innocent little girls with blogs, I still sat comfortably without a worry across him as he stuffed himself with Nasi Goreng Cendawan? I don't fucking know. Why is it that I read Josh Lim's blog and I immediately feel like serving him a fist burger? I don't fucking know. No wait, actually I know that answer but that was already explained thoroughly in an old entry.

Sometimes, I just don't fucking know why I like or don't like something. Why do I like coffee? Why do I hate kai lan? Why do I like extracting blackheads on my boyfriend's face? Why do I have this great urge to kill all cats and cockroaches off the face of the earth? As sure as fuck I don't know the damn answer, why don't you pull a Freud and tell me.

I don't make sense, I talk shit and I contradict myself all the fucking time, tell me something new. And, this is MY goddamn blog so I diss whatever and whomever, whenever I fucking like to. I diss MY OWNSELF here too, fucking hell.

But NO, the best retort you wankers can come up with is "If you don't like don't read lah" of "If you have nothing nice to say, don't say anything". Well if we're all going to live that way, say goodbye to movie/music/food critiques. Say goodbye to Chris Rock and Dave Letterman. Say goodbye to South Park and Family Guy.

SAY GOODBYE TO GOOD SHIT.

Go back to watching your politically correct collection of America's Funniest Home Videos and re-reading your Sweet Valley Twins series. I hear Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen have their own TV series now, go catch up on that, morons. While you're at that, go make a damn daisy-chain and befriend some fucking leprechauns.

About my writing style being similar to Maddox, I don't know what the fuck you dolts are rambling about. Nothing you tell me is even coherent to begin with, and this goes to the people "standing up" for me too, at least do a quick cranial check before you click 'Submit'. I've checked his blog and compared it to mine, and the only fucking similarity I find is that we both hate idiots. I don't know man, I've been writing like this for fucking ages, maybe I don't see what you see. Plus, I don't see this Maddox fucker writing emo posts or random shit like I do.

What I DO see though with these fucking incompetent eyes of mine, is that there aren't many blogs out there bent on dissing shit half the time. So these blogs stand out from the rest of the "today I had two pieces of toast with a sliver of margarine and a cup of tea with a spot of cold milk", "the shadows are calling out to me, and it feels so safe here I want to slit my wrists and stay here forever" and "today's restaurant up for review is Warong Sup Istimewa Pak Kundur where I had the Sup Sakti Jubur Lembu Padu Maut Terkenal" blogs. Therefore, it's easier to spot fucked up blogs because their 'similar' style is evidently different from the usual blogs.

What the fuck man, why do I even bother? Let's just say we're similar because you narrow-minded morons won't have it any other way. So what if two blogs have similar styles in writing? So fucking what? Thirteen Senses, Bright Eyes and Aqualung sound similar, so what? Veruca Salt, Hole and Yeah Yeah Yeahs sound similar, so what? Kaiser Chiefs, The Bravery and The Killers sound similar, SO FUCKING WHAT? I can play a Godspeed You Black Emperor track and mistake it for Mogwai, WHO GIVES A FLYING FUCK? Only the real fans will know the difference, and even if they do, WHO THE FUCK GIVES A SHIT?

In any fucking case, just for argument's sake, everyone needs to derive inspiration from somewhere. Every damn band out there today were inspired by The Beatles or ABBA. Pieces of art you spot are influenced by Dali, Warhol or even comic artist Mignola. Stuff you read have an inkling of Shakespeare, Wilde or Daniel Kee. So, basically, every shit you see today, somehow or rather, will be similar to something else. Nothing is new. Any creative person will know that.

My inspiration comes from my friends. Every fucking day, we gather and bitch for hours. Every fucking day, Adrian calls/messages me to rant. My friends let me practise my leet dissing skillz on them all the time. So much so, my beloved Michelle has to ask me to appear at random Ex-Boyfriend VS New Boyfriend dinners to make stupid insulting jokes so that the situation is less awkward. Like any other damn writer, I pick shit up from my everyday life, morons.

And my emo posts? I'd say the best bet you can make is Haruki Murakami. But that shit is done with real emotions and real situations, so it's mostly writing whatever the fuck comes to my head. Yes, I can stop my car by the side of the freakin' high way to write something that pops into my head. If during some rough sex with a stranger I picked up at Jalan Alor whilst eating Lok Lok, a kinky dirty line is exchanged which I think can be used in my writing, I will fucking untie the raffia strings around my wrists, pick up my notepad and pen and immediately write it down.

And to make another point clear, I NEVER FUCKING PLAGIARIZE. You want to accuse, you fucking provide the damn evidence. Before that, go look up the word in the dictionary.

This is me, this is how I write. Don’t like it, TOO FUCKING BAD.

Chrissakes, get a fucking life. Life doesn't revolve around blogs, about whose is more interesting, whose deserves an award or whose is absolutely fake. Sure I bitch about other blogs which I find stupid, but I do it in my OWN SPACE. I don't go to other people's places and launch a Molotov Cocktail there you know. It's about as stupid as a Liverpool fan going to a Manchester United fan club gathering just to diss the fuckers there.

There are all too many dickheads going to people's blogs just to make incoherent retarded flames. Take Maddox or Xiaxue or that SPG hoe. Or on a more Malaysian level, since you motherfuckers are so Malaysian-ized you think swear words only revolve around 'mahai' and 'puki' that the words dumbfuck™ ©Maddox and dipshit™ ©Maddox solely belong to one kwai lo, take Lainie (the idiots who go there to diss her sexuality), minishorts (some saggy old hoe telling her that 'fuck' is the Devil's nickname), The Hustler Diaries (fuck twats suffering from dementia after finding out that he's got sexual fantasies) or Nael (me going there to call him a lesbian).

Sure, I myself can go get a fucking life and stop blogging. But I fall under the category of "Unaccomplished Writers" and/or "Failed Novelist/Poet", so I need this fucking place to get my orgasms. And what's more contradicting is that I DO have a fucking life, that's why I update this piece of shit irregularly.

YOU have an issue? Get yourself a damn blog and rant there. Try Blogspot, its so damn easy to use even you extra-chromosomed fuckers can take less than 30 minutes to sign up.

Now look what you've done. Instead of resting after taking my medication, I'm getting my panties in a twist. Dammit. Goodnight.

:: Another pointless rambling at 4:41am ::

:: Tuesday, July 05, 2005 ::

stanley

Last weekend and the past couple of days were spent in a hospital. Contrary to all my fucker friends' beliefs, I wasn't admitted due to alcohol overdose. Not drug overdose either, as the doctor in the 24-hour clinic kept saying despite me whimpering a pathetic "No". I had to be rushed to the hospital due to some chronic high fever which left me looking like I was posing like some war child poster. The fever came from some damn infection, and no Tim, it wasn't caused by having mad sex with Babu Basha atop an elephant crossing the Ganges River.

Anyway, during my stint at the hospital, I made a new best friend - Stanley, the I.V. Drip Stand thing (or whatever the fuck you call that pole on wheels with them hooks to hang that bag filled with saline (when it should be filled with Vodka) attached with tubes to intravenously drown you to death and/or numb you with a happening pain when the nurse accidentally leaves the fucker to flow on full force). Well, Stanley followed me everywhere even during the times I snuck out to grab a ciggie where he had to be wheeled across the tar road outside the hospital compound. Yes, people stared at us, wondering why the fuck would a lean stud like Stanley be doing with a sickly hoe dependant on a bag of saline of all fucking things.

One ditz of a nurse forgot to change my bag when she said she would. When I awoke, there was some serious fucking backflow going on, with blood starting to move its way upwards inside the tube. So I called the nurse and the stupid bitch goes "No wonder I keep thinking I forgot something! This must be it!" before she replaces my bag. Then the both of us stare at the blood-filled tube for a bit before she realizes that her staring power wasn't going to force the blood back into my veins, so she detaches the tube and nonchalantly squeezed the blood out into the waste bin next to my bed. Why don't you hum the Smurfs tune while you're at it, you dumb broad.

I also experienced some psycho lesbo action. This nurse comes in to check my blood pressure and temperature right, and:

Psycho Lesbo Nurse: Wow, Miss Chong, you are so pretty lah!

Drugged Up Tits of Fury: Huh?

PLN: You're so pretty you know!

DUTOF: Uh … okay …

PLN: No, really! Wow, I wish I had your face.

DUTOF: Uh … okay …

PLN: Why, you scared issit I say things like that?

DUTOF: No, I just uh … didn't expect it.

PLN: Well, it's true lah! You're so pretty. Look at your hair, so nice lah! So straight.
(*proceeds to fucking run her fingers through my hair) I want your hair lah. SO nice!

DUTOF: (obligatory anti-compliment reply:) No la, it's all wavy and shit.

PLN: WHERE GOT! It's so nice! I love it. Wah … you pierced your lip here ah? Wait ah, let me take your temperature … WAH! You pierced your tongue also ah? See see! Wow, looks so cool! I also want one! You're so cool.

DUTOF: I can recommend you my piercer if you want.

PLN: Doesn't matter lah, but you go with me okay? Wow, so cool. Can we be friends?

DUTOF: So, my temperature's alright?

Seriously, man. WHAT THE FUCK. Do they not fucking screen these dolts before letting them in the hospital? For all I know it could've been some nut job from the psychiatric ward posing as a nurse. What if she really was, you incompetent fools at Subang Jaya Medical Centre? What if she really was some psycho? All I had to defend myself was a plastic fork and spoon. What the fuck am I supposed to do with that? Tickle her sides till she dies of laugher? Next time I'm warded again, I'm bringing in my Steering Lock of Death.

Thanks to (in no particular order so don't be little bitches who'll ask me to put your stupid name on the top of the list. I'll buy you fuckers drinks when I don't look like a Benetton ad):

1. Tim who brought me a fresh supply of cigarettes.
2. Sue-Ann who came with an Iced Caramel Latte, a girly magazine and slutty conversation.
3. Romz who brought proper food and stole my bed before demanding for Nasi Lemak.
3. Pix for bringing me Erotica, out of all the fucking literary works to let a sick person read.
4. Adrian for calling me up to diss me, laugh loudly at my predicament and ask me to help pass his number to hot nurse hoes.
5. Daniel for calling me at 1am to whine about his car and laugh at my I.V. backflow incident.
6. Michelle for her SMSes of concern, as to whether I can still have Sex On The Beach, and she ain't referring to the shooter.
7. Yoke, for asking whether I was still alive, and wanting to come visit me with a bunch of oranges in a translucent pink plastic bag despite me telling her not to.
8. Tubby, for being a brave motherfucker by sending me a concerned SMS although he knows I hate his guts. Really, Tubz, thanks for growing one testicle.
9. The overworked fuckers in my agency for the fruit and flower basket.
10. My phantom lover for calling me up at the most happening of times especially just when nurses are about to inject a dose of antibiotics into my catheter so that they can eavesdrop on our conversation and smirk to themselves like stupid high school girls watching some sappy Korean drama with a Takeshi Kaneshiro cameo.

I have finally been released from the Mysterious Land of I.V. Backflows, Psycho Lesbos, Happening Wheelchair Transportation from Clinic to Bed and Soggy Cardboard Posing As Food, where nicotine and alcohol is forbidden.

Round up the posse, fuckers. This bitch is back.

:: Another pointless rambling at 4:33pm ::