Wednesday, November 29, 2006

Some things are worth a running nose.

The highlight of my day was playing a crude game of futsal on a basketball court with a bunch of neighbourhood boys who're significantly younger than me. While most of you might probably chuckle at the mention of the age difference (and I know a number of you might be doing so for altogether sadistic reasons), I felt that it was entirely liberating and just a throwback to the days when I could have good, clean fun. I feel energized when I'm surrounded by these idiots, who're yet to realize their potential in the world. Not that it matters; when you're trying to kick a ball at a single, solitary cone at the other end, you don't really think about your place in the world.

What made it even better was that it started to rain. I'm usually adverse to the rain, but the transition from a sun-soaked day to a sploshy one absolutely nailed it. I walked back, and hung outside my garage for a few moments to enjoy the rain before I caught a glimpse of my neighbour staring at me from her sofa...despite my stand on how it's a great thing, I suppose that everyone feels embarassed.

Maybe I should find more things to do with my life, but for those few minutes in the rain, I felt content and free.

At the pace that we live in now, we don't have time to stop and smell the pollen...and I guess that if you saw me, you probably would've thought that I was a freak of sorts...an overgrown baby who can't grow up, biding his time playing with the boys. Maybe I am...but for that hour or two that I spend, I don't have a care in the world, and it's just as good, if not better, than the solitary Me-Time that I get when I smoke in college.

We're too myopic at times when it comes to being "proper". We should really try to accept the fact that it's okay to act a little bit younger than our years, and understand that it's alright to turn a blind eye to maturity once in a while. It's good to look back at where you came from and just jump in every now and then.

For fuck's sake, relax.

Monday, November 27, 2006

Space monkey see, space monkey do.

No matter what you do or how hard you try, there're always going to be obstacles in your way; little gnats that you just can't overcome without taking out a massive can of Raid, while throwing in a little bit of wishful thinking and nuggets of a conversation with God that you should've kept for better use. But, lo and behold, if you're like me and believe in delayed gratification and the concept of now! now! now!, you'd probably spend your time scratching your head, trying to figure out the best (and fastest) course of action to take.

You plot out a flowchart so complex that you think twice and wonder if the obstacle is worth overcoming...if you'd fooled yourself into thinking that the initial objective was even feasible in the first place. All your best-laid plans, numerous dreamt-up success scenarios and happy vibes are dissipated into vapour for someone else to grasp and enhance, thus enlarging the circle of disappointment.

But we still try, mainly because we don't like getting told the odds, and the fact that we're too stubborn to ignore the sensation of the overcrowning achievement that comes from fulfilling the aforementioned objective.

There isn't anything worth feeling forlorn about. What's important is leaving the door open for future opportunities.

And sometimes, better opportunities will come your way.

Saturday, November 25, 2006

The Rebel Sell.

In a moment of inspiration, I finally conceded towards my impulse to purchase The Rebel Sell: How the Counterculture Became Consumer Culture, by Joseph Heath and Andrew Potter. I know myself too well; I'll probably never finish this book, let alone start it. I have to promise myself that I'll try my best to make use of my investment... I'd been longing for it for so long, and the irony stems from the fact that I don't quite know what to do with it now.

Except for to read it. And in a twisted way, at the end of it all, I can come to terms with my own inabilities to find my place in the world.

The rear blurb:
It is hard to ignore the growing tide of resistance to the corporate-dominated world. But do vocal opponents of the status quo offer us a real political alternative?

Joseph Heath and Andrew Potter shatter the central myth of radical political, economic and cultural thinking. The idea of a counterculture - that is, a world outside of the consumer dominated one that encompasses us - pervades everything from the anti-globalisation movement to feminism and environmentalism. And the idea that mocking the system, or trying to 'jam' it so it will collapse, they argue, is not only counterproductive but has helped to create the very consumer society that radicals oppose. Heath and Potter offer a startingly clear picture of what a concern for social justice might look like without the confusion of the countercultural obsession with being different.
--------------------------------------
Goodness, I feel pretentious.

On a stranger note, if you'd like to read an extremely eloquent account about the highlight of my day, click here.

Friday, November 24, 2006

Strobe lights are a sacred cow.

I love clubbing. I don't go clubbing enough to back up that statement but I absolutely love it. It's dark yet lucidly lit, you're surrounded by a horde of beautiful people, the throb of a steady, pulsating bass beat feels soothing, you get your feet to move and you sweat off the day's worries. Once in a while there's the odd faggoty Hongkie who explicitly tries his utmost best to only pick up guys, but besides that, there's nothing really wrong with just dropping by and enjoying a night of dancing and debauchery with your mates (and their mates).

I can't differentiate between House and Techno, though I can probably identify a Jungle record and a Drum 'n Bass track. I saw Viva become Rush. I've popped by Emporium before it became Esplanade (Espanade?...feh). I've visited Thai Club and its fantastic selection of Sam Hui songs and its No Doubt cover band. I've been in Zouk a couple of times...nay, I've fucking performed in Zouk (though it didn't help in broadening my mass appeal). Malacca was an incredibly refreshing experience. I even remember that trip to Molecule back in my first semester in Taylor's (you can say the magic happened back there). And I don't think Laundry counts as a clubbing visit since it's more of a bistro...and the fact that my visit there was to watch indie music as opposed to pumping up my fist.

Somehow I don't feel that I fit into the whole clubbing scene. For starters, I rarely go clubbing...visits only tend to happen once, twice or thrice a year for me. Secondly, I'm more at home at an uppity bistro listening to incredibly horrible up-and-comers at Open Mic nights. Thirdly, I haven't really had a significant other who was really into clubbing. It helps when someone's rubbing their bum against your crotch.

(Well, it helps me.)

Tchaaaaa, as I look back and reflect upon the rubbish I've done, almost none of it has been done at a club. I'm just a nice, civic minded guy who tends to smoke a bit too much and just dances. I've never had someone come up to me and just dance with me, I've never had the opportunity to run my hands over an incredibly nubile body of someone I totally didn't know and I've never had the chance to get to know anybody incredibly amazing at a club (but you never do). Most outsiders would probably look at clubbing as something...dirty, but it's really not. You don't get to experience half the shit that people warn you about. Those fucking right-wings.

I'm not saying that clubbing's meant to be a family affair, and you always have to be wary of Chef Wan rubbing your thigh at Zouk (that's the second time I've mentioned him in the last month), but it won't kill you. Just drink responsibly, light up a Light every now and then and enjoy yourself. It's really that simple. It doesn't matter if you're flatfooted, or if you're the best Shuffler in town...clubbing has done one up over the Internet: you can be a King for a day (specifically, a good three to four hours).

I'm not a Liberal...I do believe that there's a certain limit of what you can pull off in any social situation. But clubbing seems to blur the lines. It's as if you've got an excuse to do whatever you want just because you're supposed to. And that's what we're meant to buy into...because that's the way it is.

Jesus. I've just read the first two statements I'd made in this post and realize that I'm coming across as a fucking Townie. And I also feel that I might be admitting to have hit a social rut (coz we're all peered to believe that clubbing is one of the foundations of Cool). And there's a sickening amount of positivity seething off every word.

I'll try my best to bottle my euphoria.

But I do like 'em nubiles.

Wednesday, November 22, 2006

The spark before the boom.

Two couplings took place in college within the week that I've been away, and I was feeling pleased that I'd predicted for one of the couples to come together.

That sounds dirty.

Finding someone usually happens accidentally...it's as if you stumble towards it and fumble to a destination, speed bumps and all.

Most of us would probably wish for something incredibly dramatic or arresting to happen in order to find a partner...a meet cute scene. Say for instance a woman being saved by her future lovemate while clinging for her dear bejeezus off Mount Kinabalu. Or what about (you know this one) a man and a woman each taking one half of a pair of gloves and making their way in getting to know each other from there? How about someone accidentally throwing a cigarette from her car into my convertible, which inadvertently causes me to crash?

Most of our experiences aren't as inspiring; I suppose that it's a good thing...we don't set our standards too high and we don't get let down by anything. As you get older, the avenues for finding romance get slimmer...it's always stressed on how imperative it is to expand your social circle and dip your hands into the cookie jar before it's too late. (Just make sure the cookies aren't rotten, if you know what I mean).

The Internet. Your friends' friends. Classmates. Workmates (I swear I'll try my best to never stoop to the point where I'd have to date someone from work, no matter how appealing). Social clubs. Gyms. The Neighbourhood Hottie. It's as if the pool gets larger but there's nothing filtering the sweet from the sour.

I wish Life would be fair to us all and let us fall in love under extraordinary circumstances. But not all of us are so fortunate.

Who doesn't want to be swept off their feet in the best possible way?

Tuesday, November 21, 2006

Lemon.

I'm proud to say that I'm incredibly humble; that modesty is my M.O. and that I'm never one to make big claims or loud boasts. Or at least I don't try to...sometimes we can't resist but to let a bit of ego slip out once in a while. But in general, I don't let my head get swollen over my success, even though "success" comes to me as often as wax to an Italian woman's armpit does. Big talk needs to be backed up by big balls...I have a big mouth but all it ever does it wax lyrical over nothing and everything at once.

However, I've always wanted to be the cavalier, maverick jock who'd skirt the line between confidence and cockiness. The guy in school who'd you want to punch out if only because he had that "X-factor" (and I don't mean the mutant gene). He spoke his mind (which would've been really about himself), yet managed to cultivate such a following that nobody would mind his shortcomings because his ego overcame everything and made him infectious (not to say that I was a wallflower in school, but people usually shun the music/sci-fi geeks).

Is this some silent call to be popular? Maybe. Being modest is a two-edged sword; people might grow to like you, but at the same time accuse you of being a poseur. As you inch closer and closer to the promise of notoriety, don't forget not to step over bodies along the way that'll haunt you further on down the road.

Everyone wants respect...and a small favour from you to not escalate their feelings of inadequacy.

God. To be honest with you, I despise humility. Forcing yourself to hold your tongue after a massive score is probably the hardest thing you can do. But the sad truth is, out of everything you've done, there's probably one other person who's done one better. You're never going to be able to reach the top. So where's the use in passing a royal decree when you're not even the King?

No use. No use at all.

Sunday, November 19, 2006

Breaking even.

The stereotypical misogynist is a man who will never have a meaningful relationship with a woman (throw in a few pinches of a desire to control and dominate based on mistrust and hostility), due to a longing to resolve longstanding oedipal issues.

Troubling, isn't it, when your inclination to treat women as objects and commodities stems from the fact that a small part of you had a obsession with getting into your mother's pants as a child?

I don't think I had that problem. No, granted, I was beaten around like a grain sack during my developmental years but I don't feel that it's warranted my strong disdain for commitment. But it's interesting to think that it was my mother's fault. I would've been scarred for life with the fear that all women were out to get me and abuse my fragile male physiology.

I'd then place shields around my cold, cold heart and adopt a frosty, manly, macho facade to create this air of mystery and intensity around me. If it was done right, I'd be the musky, stubbled male model in those Giorgio Armani men's fragrance ads and not a happy, slightly offbeat, fat chinese boy writing about a man's childhood fantasy of getting into his mother's knockers.

Oh, no, I'm not.

I love women. They make great succors in times of great distress, and often dispense good advice while being able to become a conscientious sounding board when the male perspective is a little bit more than biased. But I also have this opinion that if women aren't going to be put in their place, they're just going to take over and terrorize the world (they already outnumber us).

Families have become more matriachal than patriachal in nature. You've got a Mamasan running the joint as opposed to a Major Domo. I feel threatened at the prospect of being dethroned from my kingdom; my role as a man is being blurred because in the near future, I might not even be needed.

I secretly hope that there isn't a Battle of the Sexes as foretold, because even though men have the cunning and wiles to keep it together, women are better at it. And lest you forget about the spermatoza side of things, women are self-sustaining baby factories. All you need is one man and a tube, and you've got a cabbage patch.

With a dystopian, post-apocalyptic world ruled by women looming on the horizon, it's no wonder that I can't find the heart to repeatedly harness my inner New-Age Sensitive Man, and instead rely upon my seething desire to become a fat, Lothario sexwhore.

I think it's time to stop the clocks and rewind them a bit. Remember, there was once a time when all a girl wanted was to be dominated. There's only so much you can do by playing nice. Figure out where to draw the line between dominance and compromise and you've most probably stumbled upon a very fruitful, satisfying relationship (sans dominatrix gear, candle wax and whips, of course).

If not, we've still got Paris.

Saturday, November 18, 2006

la la la le le le lei lei lei.

the last few days have been fatigue infused, due to my reversed sleeping patterns. out at night, in during the day...it's good to be on vacation. granted, i don't do much when i'm out other than eat or hang around somebody's house for the whole night, but it's a change from being cooped at home and being cock-pecked.

i use that term warily. cock-pecked. heh.

never mind.

i've just come back from a trip to klang. what'd i do in klang? nothing. the masterful surprise and i were debating over where to go for a road trip. it came down to ipoh, melaka or the mcd's drive-thru in centrepoint. we settled for klang somehow, and proceeded to find a free trunk road that he had been on once.

the toll-free way to klang.

basically, take the subang jaya turn-off to gleneagles, head straight to shah alam, get back onto the federal and exit at the padang jawa turn-off, pass the jpj building and take the next right and go all the way straight until you hit the klang outskirts.

boom.

it took us about 2 hours of unnecessary driving. shah alam is full of roundabouts.

oh, joy.

ugh. i'm wonked.

Friday, November 17, 2006

buy bonds.

okay, to cut things short (i have a prolonged, sustained case of writer's block), casino royale is good. it's really that good.

alright.

i'm done.

Random musings about wearing pants.

I remember how a friend once told me that girls who're slightly less attractive (I'm being quite generous here) tend to compensate for their lack of physical appeal by simply knowing too much. Similarly, most airheads tend to be airheaded because they don't really need anything else. Personally? I feel that an attractive, smart woman doesn't exist...it's a media-generated stereotype that was created to sate the feminists out there in the 90s.

Oh, I'm going to get staked for that. To be fair...I know a few who're smart. And attractive. A few.

And I know that somebody's bound to remind me that I have nothing to offer the world. No worries.

What's the female equivalent of a misogynist?

Oh, well. It's amazing how we create certain insecurities and blame the other half of the species for it. For example, most men don't really see the need for breast augmentation. Just like how most women are content with their partner's size. The projection of our self-perceived shortcomings, added with a cynical/fatalistic view on things equates to the slightly menacing undertones the world has developed in the last two decades.

Can I be honest? I'd much rather wear the apron and cook for the kids at home, if it meant that my wife was out, breadwinning. Certain countries in Europe (I'd have to ask an ugly girl which one because I can't remember) even have stipulations that make it compulsory for men and women to work for equal periods during the year.

Hoorah!

I have this feeling the the first lesson that the Bible taught us in Genesis is that faith in women will eventually lead to a downfall for Man. Man, not as in the human race, but in the gender. I mean, face it...if Eve hadn't listened to the Serpent, I wouldn't have a lump in my throat.

Now I have the feeling that a zealot's going to come along and target me for blasphemy.

We're all sensitive, sensitive creatures, aren't we?

That adage about how there's a woman behind every successful man and how there's a man behind every unsuccessful woman...do you believe it? Does it make a difference anymore?

Spousal abuse runs two ways. Sexual harassment should run two ways. It's time to throw back that prehistorical thinking that women need chivalry. Chivalry is dead, and it's not because of a lack of "gentlemen"...but simply because it's not needed anymore. The field is getting more leveled everyday.

Who wears the pants now?

Everyone.

Anyone who tells you otherwise is, sadly, an airhead.

Wednesday, November 15, 2006

see it in a boy's eyes.

check our jamelia's track, see it in a boy's eyes, written by chris martin. weird, no? the things you learn.

my father has left for singapore. i'm free for two weeks. besides helping out with a HELP business department website, i'm pretty much free for the first time in 2 years. no obligations. just me, comics, video games and movies.

hooorraaaahhh.

While Malaysia fiddles, its opportunities are running dry.

By Michael Backman
November 15, 2006
The Age, Australia


MALAYSIA’S been at it again, arguing about what proportion of the economy each of its two main races — the Malays and the Chinese — owns. It’s an argument that’s been running for 40 years. That wealth and race are not synonymous is important for national cohesion, but really it’s time Malaysia grew up.

It’s a tough world out there and there can be little sympathy for a country that prefers to argue about how to divide wealth rather than get on with the job of creating it.

The long-held aim is for 30 per cent of corporate equity to be in Malay hands, but the figure that the Government uses to justify handing over huge swathes of public companies to Malays but not to other races is absurd. It bases its figure on equity valued, not at market value, but at par value.

Many shares have a par value of say $1 but a market value of $12. And so the Government figure (18.9 per cent is the most recent figure) is a gross underestimate. Last month a paper by a researcher at a local think-tank came up with a figure of 45 per cent based on actual stock prices. All hell broke loose. The paper was withdrawn and the researcher resigned in protest. Part of the problem is that he is Chinese.

“Malaysia boleh!” is Malaysia’s national catch cry. It translates to “Malaysia can!” and Malaysia certainly can. Few countries are as good at wasting money. It is richly endowed with natural resources and the national obsession seems to be to extract these, sell them off and then collectively spray the proceeds up against the wall.

This all happens in the context of Malaysia’s grossly inflated sense of its place in the world.

Most Malaysians are convinced that the eyes of the world are on their country and that their leaders are world figures. This is thanks to Malaysia’s tame media and the bravado of former prime minister Mahathir Mohamad. The truth is, few people on the streets of London or New York could point to Malaysia on a map much less name its prime minister or capital city.

As if to make this point, a recent episode of The Simpsons features a newsreader trying to announce that a tidal wave had hit some place called Kuala Lumpur. He couldn’t pronounce the city’s name and so made up one, as if no-one cared anyway. But the joke was on the script writers — Kuala Lumpur is inland.

Petronas, the national oil company is well run, particularly when compared to the disaster that passes for a national oil company in neighbouring Indonesia. But in some respects, this is Malaysia’s problem. The very success of Petronas means that it is used to underwrite all manner of excess.

The KLCC development in central Kuala Lumpur is an example. It includes the Twin Towers, the tallest buildings in the world when they were built, which was their point.

It certainly wasn’t that there was an office shortage in Kuala Lumpur — there wasn’t.

Malaysians are very proud of these towers. Goodness knows why. They had little to do with them. The money for them came out of the ground and the engineering was contracted out to South Korean companies.

They don’t even run the shopping centre that’s beneath them. That’s handled by Australia’s Westfield.

Next year, a Malaysian astronaut will go into space aboard a Russian rocket — the first Malay in space. And the cost? $RM95 million ($A34.3 million), to be footed by Malaysian taxpayers.

The Science and Technology Minister has said that a moon landing in 2020 is the next target, aboard a US flight. There’s no indication of what the Americans will charge for this, assuming there’s even a chance that they will consider it. But what is Malaysia getting by using the space programs of others as a taxi service? There are no obvious technical benefits, but no doubt Malaysians will be told once again, that they are “boleh”.

The trouble is, they’re not. It’s not their space program.

Back in July, the Government announced that it would spend $RM490 million on a sports complex near the London Olympics site so that Malaysian athletes can train there and “get used to cold weather”.

But the summer Olympics are held in the summer.

So what is the complex’s real purpose? The dozens of goodwill missions by ministers and bureaucrats to London to check on the centre’s construction and then on the athletes while they train might provide a clue.

Bank bale outs, a formula one racing track, an entire new capital city — Petronas has paid for them all. It’s been an orgy of nonsense that Malaysia can ill afford.

Why? Because Malaysia’s oil will run out in about 19 years. As it is, Malaysia will become a net oil importer in 2011 — that’s just five years away.

So it’s in this context that the latest debate about race and wealth is so sad.

It is time to move on, time to prepare the economy for life after oil. But, like Nero fiddling while Rome burned, the Malaysian Government is more interested in stunts like sending a Malaysian into space when Malaysia’s inadequate schools could have done with the cash, and arguing about wealth distribution using transparently ridiculous statistics.

That’s not Malaysia “boleh”, that’s Malaysia “bodoh” (stupid).

Tuesday, November 14, 2006

There's an inverse relationship between work and play.

I don't see the point in being assessed. Examinations, mid-terms, assignments...there've got to be better ways to test a person's merit.

I've obviously had a bad, bad two days of finals. No matter how hard I try, I can never escape the stigma of repeating the two papers I've sat for. Repeatedly. I actually did put effort into it this time, but...but...I feel that I haven't done enough.

I can take solace in knowing that I can have some fun and recreation time before the results are released, and all I want are two fat Ps. I don't want a Distinction or a Credit because I know I won't get it. I just want two fucking Passes.

That's all. That'd be my Christmas wish. I can't really pray to God or Buddha for it because I haven't been the best Christian or Buddhist.

All I can really do is just wait. And the anticipation hurts...more so if there's this feeling of trepidation that comes with it.

Fuck.

Monday, November 13, 2006

worst. exam. ever.

god. stats was bad. i answered half of the 4 questions i knew were coming out well. i answered none of the 2 questions that i didn't particularly like well at all. i might have to beg my way out of this.

what's worst is that i did actually put effort into it.

futile? in vain? my aching head.

stats ho ho ho.

one and a half hours left. it's half past dawn right now, and i wasn't able to sleep all night.

must be the nerves.

i really, really, really don't want to fail it...this time.

i wish i had a smart clone or twin. it'd make things remarkably easier.

Friday, November 10, 2006

Breathe in and zen.

Here's an anecdote a friend shared with me.

There were these two pious monks, who'd both taken a vow of (what else?) celibacy. (On a side note, are monks really that deprived?) One day, while walking, they encountered a woman at a stream. The woman was afraid to cross it. One of the monks (let's call him Ong) offered to carry her over the stream, and the woman accepted. The other monk (let's call him Bak) kept quiet. They crossed the stream, the woman thanked Ong and they went their separate ways.

After a few more hours of walking (because that's all monks do), the two monks sat down for a rest.

Bak asked Ong: "What was up with that woman just now? You know that we're not supposed to even touch them!"

Ong responded with this: "Why? Are you still carrying her?"

The message that this conveys is that we should never keep things in our hearts. Keeping a load of shit from back then, no matter how long ago, will only make things worst...as Bak has shown. It's always better to loosen the burdens that clutch onto your heart, so that you can focus on the future, as opposed to wallowing in the past.

I'm typing this all out myself, I shit you not.

Which is why I can say that I love holding grudges. I don't know why. I can't let things go. I love feeling miserable, I love berating about things that happened a long time ago, and I always, always, remember the bad and never the good. I like directing my rage at those who've scorned me; I keep my hidden desires for their destruction to my self, because the only person who should rightfully feel any pleasure from their demise would be me.

And it'd be really rude to predict someone's downfall in front of someone else.

As they say in Chinese...choi!

Not all of us are monks. It's okay to feel angry, to even outrightly hate someone. Because I'm quite fucking sure that there's someone you absolutely despise right now whom you want dead. For real.

Worry not, my friends. Everyone dies. It's just how badly you want them to...apologies...how we want Death's plan to be executed upon them that differentiates us. What's your preferred method for getting a message through? Electrocution? Getting hit by a bus? Kitchenware decapitation?

Life is grand.

But, obviously, you should keep all these dark desires to yourselves. Or at least keep the names of those whom you want severely, brutally punished to yourselves.

Christmas is coming.




Unless you want Santa dead.

Thursday, November 09, 2006

only the ball should bounce, anna.

it seems that things have quietened down around here, haven't they? my blog is a desolate ghost town of assurances from yours truly. no matter.

if anyone would like a copy of final fantasy 12, please tell me. i'll burn it for you, but you gotta pay me...3 bucks.

i hope the authorities don't see this.

anyway, exams on monday, tuesday, you've read it all. just blogging to fulfill the imaginary quota in my head.

The redundant manwhore.

Where do you draw the line between being caring and being possessive? I don't know if this is a common thing amongst guys, but from what I've seen and from what I've been told, I worry too much to a point where it becomes obsessive.

Does it have to do with my old-school values? As modern as we like to think ourselves to be, there're still certain inhibitions or (dare I say) values that we keep. I've been known to be a great chauvinist; but there're a lot of things that I don't like to see women (particularly my own) doing. Fantastic. The feminists among you are probably going to flip after reading the parenthesis in the sentence before this.

But let me ask you this...well, let me ask the ladies this...doesn't it feel good when a guy really does his best to look out for you? I mean, yes, it might look like he's cramping your style, it's probably utterly embarassing in front of your friends and the two of you will probably be the subject of inane gossip, but the truth is, despite your cries of independence! independence! and I can do what i want!, it flatters you to know that your guy does go out on a limb to show some concern. Unlike most of the other guys out there who don't.

The ones who tend to worry never get the credit and tend to be seen as a nuisance, simply because girls take the high road and have this preconceived notion that they automatically know better. It happens so much that a guy might have to just come to terms with the truth: if he isn't needed, she might as well be in love with herself. I mean, sure, it's great to be needed for certain physical pleasures, but there's nothing better for a man than a girl who needs his protection. In whatever way possible.

Can you at least feign to be a damsel in distress?

It keeps the self-confidence up. It assures us that we're not so useless.

And that you stupid bitches aren't so smart.

But, seriously, jokes aside; between women thinking that they know better and men thinking that they should have a say in what the women know, there's got to be some sort of middle ground that can be reached.

I think guys don't mind taking up some sort of responsibility when it comes to who they care about, no? I mean, it's in the job profile...otherwise we'd be redundant.

I wish more of you would make more effort to make your men feel useful. Sometimes, just sometimes, we need you more than you think.

Fucking wenches. Think they rule the world and all.




I'm kidding.

Wednesday, November 08, 2006

Whirlwind kicks in birthday suits.

This is for the boys. Strictly for the boys.

Hands up for those of you who'd wished they could've done a girl from the media...and I don't mean the movies. I mean the print media, cartoons, video games...you get my drift.

The best thing a man needs is a perfect woman. Whether or not it's Lara Croft (not the Jolie version), Fairchild from Gen13 (superb comic), Jill Valentine, Maki...there's no doubt that these avatars would've brought hour upon hour of some sort of sick pleasure for the average gamer.

They never fussed, never looked like they had a bad hair day, and best of all, they were around every time we needed them around. Just flip open a book, or pop in a cartridge or a cd and voila. Instant joy!

Reality's obviously played a mean trick on all of us. I can say that I'm socially adept at surviving, but not all of us may have made it out alive.

This is for those of you who're still cocooned in your games, your anime and your comics (among other...dubious...options).

Would you like to see the shower scene of a nude Chun-Li from the Japanese animated Street Fighter II movie? Just click here. I feel for you, I really do. But don't feel bad.

I've seen it, too.

The pantyhose and bun-tied hair will never be the same for me.

Tuesday, November 07, 2006

faith, fateh, faith.

jesus. advanced statistics on monday, relationship marketing on tuesday...this will be the semester that either kures me or kills me. i'm looking forward to clearing this semester, and i can't fail...not "can't" as in "i'm doing too well to fail", but "can't" as in "my life will end as i know it if i don't clear these two papers after everything i've gone through these last 3 years".

yes. it's really that bad.

i'm taking a short break right now (those of you who read the other blog will learn that it's quite the contrary), but yes, i'm just here telling everyone that i'm okay. i'll hopefully be able to complete downloading final fantasy 12 by tonight, or if worse, tomorrow. and then i'll go straight into d/l'ing nfs: carbon, fifa 2007 and mk: armageddon. hopefully, it'd all be done by the time my holidays start, and i'd have pure, unadulterated gaming fun.

though there're still the series and comics and the massive load of movies that i have to sift through before my backlog becomes a backlag.

lord. i really want to pull through this time, for at the very least, to enjoy my summer semester without any worries.

I'm (not) only sleeping.

People who misinterpret the Beatles' I'm Only Sleeping as a song about an acid trip are sadly mistaken.

It's a song about the joys of lazing around in bed and getting nothing done.

Sadly, with the finals coming up next week, I don't think I can afford such a luxury. I remember a father of a friend telling me once about the pleasures he had whenever he woke up at 5 in the morning. He seemed to be able to accomplish so much, and to get more things done to fulfill his to-do list for the day.

I wish I had his voice in my ear right now.

I'd woken up at 5 (through no fault of my own), and proceeded to recite the 4 criteria needed to implement a successful internal marketing strategy. I shit you not. I'd forgotten them the morning after I successively recalled them. I shuffled through my study manuals and my textbook, and then ran Counter-Strike with bots, simultaneously reading whenever I got fragged. Which was often. (Not that I'm being modest or anything, but I was being distracted by the need to read).

I closed Counter-Strike after sensing that the distraction was having a detrimental effect on my game (I'm a renowned bot-killer in my neighbourhood), and visited that hunting ground for trivial information (items that I'm a legend for knowing), Wikipedia. On a whim, I entered "loving you" and found out that the song was performed by Minnie Riperton, who had passed away at the age of 31 to cancer, and that she was Maya Rudolph's (anyone watch SNL?) mother. I downloaded the song, let it play repeatedly and...here I am.

All this whilst reading up on the intricacies of how to build trust with customers. Mind you, this is for a subject I've failed for on numerous occasions.

I suppose that there's a lot of work that goes into procrastination. Or...multi-tasking. I really should start proper revision (i.e. answering previous semester questions, tutorials, etc.) for Statistics (re: pass or get kicked out of college) but I had this sudden urge to post something about my lack of drive and surplus of distractions.

Did you know that Christina Aguilera has a three octave voice?

Wow!

Ditto.

People take time to reinforce the fact that proper time management is the key to anything...success is based upon the amount of time we invest into it. I suppose that my problem is not being able to identify what success means to me.

I have a very, very big problem.

Cheers to John Lennon. At least he knew how to get things done.

Monday, November 06, 2006

Coming up short.

There's this Chinese belief which states that your balls grow enormous if you eat a hard boiled egg that's been left in the open for more than a day. Supposing that this is true, would having bigger balls increase the pressure in which semen would be rocketed out? Or would it be the male equivalent of a camel's humps: maximum sperm storage to last you all the way?

Ultimately, bigger balls would mean a dwarfed penis in comparison.

Hey, it's just a thought.

In the past, the Greeks had an adoration of an underdeveloped body. Meaning: "an uncircumcised and small penis was desirable in a man, whereas a bigger or circumcised penis was viewed as comical". Or so Wikipedia says.

I get insecure when it comes to the mighty phallus. I suppose that I more than make up for it with my dashing wit and smothering charm, but sometimes, just sometimes, I'd dream of having a Dirk Diggler of my own. As a result, I'd ooze machismo (figuratively), have more self-confidence and give Ron Jeremy a run for his money. Okay, maybe not a tool of Ron Jeremy standards (I don't want to kill anyone), but something that could be considered a good size. Or something that would at the very least make my current package blush...too much is not enough, after all.

I suppose that this is all in my mind, and in the minds of all deprived young studs everywhere. After all, most girls don't really bother with their partners' pecker sizes. It's the partner themselves who make them feel better. Which goes to show that sex isn't on the agenda for Woman as much as it is for the common Man.

So cheer up, if your willy isn't as free if you'd like it to be! If your one-eyed monster needs some contacts! If your hot dog needs some serious steaming! If your trouser snake doesn't rattle! If your pecker's been pickled! If your twig isn't as long as the bark! If you can't get a Congressional Medal of Honor for hooking it up as quickly as you should (I don't really know what that means)!

Just relax, and remember: if you're humping as opposed to pumping, you're certainly in good hands.

Sunday, November 05, 2006

Famous faces, lots of places.

Sometimes I wonder if my life prior to being a superstar would come back to haunt me. I wonder if there're any skeletons in my closet that might justify the media crucifying me. Although I'm hardly even at the fringe of breaking into third-rate stardom, I never fail to wonder about the trappings of fame and the amount of prying that would be done on behalf of the hounds and wolves.

Even my own blog can be used against me.

I suppose that my life has been quiet. I have no lovechilds. I've never used drugs in my life. I tend to be sober 99% of the time.

Yet there's that niggling feeling that somebody's got something incredibly trivial, yet controversial, to say about me if I ever break into the big, big leagues.

Firstly, there's probably Sreeman, the rather rotund and short Indian who stays behind me. He'd probably start sprouting rumours about my being a racist because I tend to crack the most tasteless Indian jokes and insults whilst playing football/basketball against his tubby being.

Secondly, ex-girlfriends might suddenly pop up. How about that one-time, two-week thing I had with the Internet hookup? I swear, there's an inverse relationship between a cutesy voice on the phone and the actual reality of the face behind it.

We could also talk about my failure as a Christian. I'm sure that it'd stop some hardline chuchgoing parents from allowing their children to buy my albums or to watch my movies. Studies have shown that it's hard to be a matinee draw when you're jumping on couches or insulting Jews (though I'd do the latter, too, only if I didn't find being a Jew to be a somewhat bittersweet experience).

Whoops. Someone could use that last one on me. Save me, Tom Cruise! I still love you, but I've got to admit, Scientologists are whacky. Ooooh.

I can think about someone who'd be willing to dish dirt on me for a price. Even if the dirt isn't even grainy. Someone with a totally big mouth. Someone who'd suddenly become my close friend again after years of not even being in the peripheral. Take a bow, Josie!

You still owe me a hundred bucks.

And who knows? Maybe those nice folks at the Malay Mail would find an ex-girlfriend or two to talk about my...never mind.

Then again, being a male celebrity in Kuala Lumpur isn't all it's cracked up to be. There's a good chance that everyone would think that you're gay. The highlight of my week would probably be telling my friends about the grand ole time I had, having Chef Wan try to pick me up while dancing at Velvet.

Man-tastic!

No, I seek fame at Bono-fide levels. Mega. This country isn't big enough for my dreams. But there's no use in having dreams without acting upon them, no?

I had this plan once: to get the Girl That Got Away by becoming this major rock god (perhaps with band in tow), securing a gig in Coventry and then showing up at her doorstep, whisking her away with me to see the sights of the world, whilst sleeping out of our suitcases. I would've given her the world. Nowadays, I'd probably only give her syphillis.

I kid. I kid! I really do. (Lord knows they'd use this one against me. The shrimps.) Firstly, it's not nice to curse things like these upon people you really do care about; secondly, I'm not even getting any action whatsoever that requires me to get tested for anything. (I can see it now: "Tai denied entry into the Hard Cock Cafe!")

Nevertheless.

Oh, well. Fame will probably come my way once I find Death at my door.

If all else fails, go out with a bang and nobody'll forget you.

4x01 - the avengers.

you always know that ryan atwood's coming home to the cohens, no matter how dire the straits he's facing may be. 5 months after mischa barton chucked it out, everyone's still coping: julie's hooked onto antidepressants, dr. roberts is hooking up with summer's stepmonster, summer has become a hippy (but lord i love how she shakes when she shakes a shaker), seth is working at a comic book retailer (naturally), caitlin is annoying, the cohens are still the cohens and ryan's living in whatever resembles fight club in orange county (even seth agrees).

first episodes of new seasons are always weighted with high expectations, especially when you've got dangling plot threads. at the end of 4x01, it appears that ryan's going to go chino on volchek. wherever volchek is.

but yes, he's back with the cohens after living in the back of a bar for a few days. and he's got a new car (nobody's going to explain that one, eh?). oooooh. sandy's driving a new lexus suv and kirsten's driving a new....um...it looks like a jag. and wait til you see what luke's twin brother's say about her. how very apt.

anyway, this episode's music was on par. i checked and the two heavily featured tracks are placebo's "running up that hill" and keane's "a bad dream".

Saturday, November 04, 2006

Life blows.

I'm terrified at the prospect of dying. The thought of not being able to be...here...it rocks me to the core. One day, there's a possibility that everything you've worked hard for, everything you've been through...it all becomes meaningless in a blink.

For the time being, I don't care if there's a life after death, a Heaven or a Hell. It feels so much better being here. I'd even be happy to be kept in Purgatory for a few years, if it means just becoming a spectator. I really wouldn't mind.

People would have you believe that the grass is greener. This, at least, is debatable.

I'm scared about where we all go. I hate to think that we all live our lives in vain, that nothingness is inevitable when we're all meant for greater things. We are all meant for greater things.

Aren't we?

Sometimes I wish someone could provide me with some clues about what it's like. But since nobody really can (I can't really buy into the whole "I saw a white light" scenario), I suppose that life has to be fulfilling in whatever way I see fit. Which is quite difficult, seeing how I don't live a terribly fulfilling life.

Does all this really matter in the end?

I don't really want to find out.

Friday, November 03, 2006

Get the ball rolling.

I suppose that it's only fitting that Datuk Zakaria was made to step down as Klang Municipal councillor; there couldn't have been any other logical course of action to take. (Would stripping him of his Datukship have really made a difference?)

“I thank the trust given to me in allowing me to serve the council all this while,” he had said. Trust that'd been rightfully abused.

Aside from running DZ Satay without a license and demolishing his (licensed) competitor's illegal extensions, contructing his "mansion" upon land zoned for low-cost housing and being a flagbearer for rampant nepotism, it's not difficult to imagine what other offences that may have gone unnoticed during his years from power.

I wish I had an architect to blame for my complacent attitude.

Kudos to him, however, for being a true rags-to-riches story. I doubt that he's really lost anything from this whole debacle.

Want a bad pun? DZ Satay can be serving up a new dish soon: humble pie.

The sad part is, there're probably a lot more of those abusing their powers than just DZ and the two other councillors brought into the fold. Hopefully, this case can bring about an initiative to highlight others who've decided to flip the bird to the rules that they're meant to help govern, no matter how high up the in the pecking order they are...likewise, also discouraging other PowerBumis from playing dirty.

Hmmmmm.

Wishful thinking? You know the answer.

a community service announcement.

don't worry. you haven't stumbled upon a retrofitted funkyhippopotamus site with bad poetry.

okay, maybe you have, but that's regardless of the point.

once upon a time, not too long ago, i maintained a blog on friendster that was meant for strange ramblings and bad poetry, dedicated to full-on stream of consciousness threadings. i then shifted the stuff to the spunkyhippopotamus link you see down there on the right, and now i'm clearing out the other blog of the stuff and have decided to post it all here in one, big galloooop, below this particular post.

that's galloooop, not "gallop". maybe it should be spelt galuupe. i don't know what it means.

so, here it is, all my irreverent and irrelevant ramblings. i'd just like to emphasize that these little ditties shouldn't be taken literally, and were the work of a guy who truly had nothing better to do. some of these are personal little snippets.

i hope you have fun reading them (though i have to admit that the newer ones aren't as good as the older ones, and i know that nobody's going to bother backtracking and reading the older ones).

from now on, if i have anything incredibly pointless that i want to unleash upon the world, you'll see it here.

hooray!

touch me, touch me, touch me, please.

touch my body,
i know you'd like to,
all this gluttony and fat.

touch my body,
i double dare you,
i'll make you feel good, that's a fact.

touch my body,
touch me gently,
touch me like you never have.

touch my body,
come on baby,
pour that cream up on my ass.

we're gonna
we're gonna
have a g-g-g-goooooood time.

yeah, baby!

don't run from me, baby...
don't run.

....

phooey.

wheat!

the cows go moo as the rooster roosts;
the swine in mud get their power boosts;
the sheeps are led by the sheep-humping dogs;
while the horses stand while sleeping like logs.

on the farm is where i should be;
with straw in teeth and hat on me;
on the farm is where we'll go;
river high, valley low.

what a rip-off.

home run!

take your panties off!
ooo ooo ooooo!
take your panties off!
ooo ooo ooooo!
we're gonna celebrate!
we're gonna....yea.

i wanna see your boobs!
ooo ooo ooooo!
i wanna see your boobs!
ooo ooo ooooo!
i'm going down tonight!
i'm going.....yea.

i've gotten through three bases,
and now i'm feeling aces,
will you let me in tonight?

i've been with you forever,
and now a while longer,
if you'd let me in tonight.

it's not your heart i'm after (even if i say it is),
i really like your laughter (but i love something else even more),
it's not like i've been cheatin' (porn doesn't count),
it's always you i'm eatin' (maybe after you mount).

yea!

whooo!
whopppppeeeeee....here we goooooooooooooooooo.

la la la la la la.

oooooh.

damn. that was good.

where's my goddamned cigarette?

if i land on my head, keep my cd collection.

maybe someday i'll get it right.
it's relatively easy.
a few words. a conversation.
things might pick up.
so few things to say.
even fewer ways to say them.
it all starts with winning half the battle.

why's it always half the battle that's the priority?
can't we go for a winning stretch?

the idiots who made the rules were ultimately...idiots.

i wish that i could talk to you now. it'd solve a lot of problems.
but you run.
and come.
and run off again.

it's not like i need a fucking net.
then again.......

it'd help.

to keep you in one place and to make sure you don't vanish without a trace.
coz.
talking would be fun, no?

then again. this is, once again, rather one-sided.

i really should stop talking to myself like this but...it's fucking fun.

so...a list of things to do:

  1. get a hold of you
  2. say hi
  3. carry a conversation that doesn't involve the weather
  4. not be too much of a nervous wreck in such a way that it's annoying but enough of it that you find it endearing (lame jokes unapplicable)
  5. sweep you off your feet

it's so easy, when put on paper (or onscreen, if you're being nitpicky). a practical, 5 step guide, to a whole new me.

wait. that'd be:-

  1. lose weight
  2. cut hair
  3. buy clothes
  4. shut mouth
  5. look cool

yes.

i know that i might not be your type of guy. strke that. i know that i'm not your type of guy at all.

but. but. but.

would you like to share a bottle of orangina with me?

demons!

demons in my head
demons in my bed
demons everywhere!
demons in my hair!

demons all around!
demons in the sounds!
demons on the grass!
demons on my ass

demons in the sun!
demons on the run!
demons fill the skies!
demons in my lies!

demons running free!
demons killing me!
demons in the sand!
demons on the land!

everywhere you go
a demons starts to show
but only you could see
the biggest demon's me.

5:1 & 2:1.

5:1

i'd be happy.
so happy.
if you were mine.

i doubt i'd touch the sky.
that's physically unreal.

i doubt that my face would turn red.
i can't drink alcohol because my liver's fucked.

i doubt that i'd smile for a whole day.
people would think i'm mad.

but what i would be would.
um.
be.
happy.

god.

happy's such a general term.
it's like how everything's "nice".
it's bland. it's an absolute.

only a sith deals with absolutes.

but let's be realistic here.

i like you.
you might.

does she? doesn't she?

the math, my friend. it's in the odds.

they look quite bad.

but i'm still here. waiting.


2:1

like she would want it.
as if.
i think not.
no amount of charm would hide the truth.
dry wit can only go so far.

what's the point in waiting when there's nothing worth waiting for?

it's all in the math. the odds.

she might. she just might.

does she? doesn't she?
do i? can i?
will we? does she?

nobody cares. except for me.

it's been days. hours. weeks.
nothing.
nada.

place your bets. something bad's going to come out of this.

who's in control now? you or the odds? both are infinte.
and both cause massive headaches and hearburn.

like too much salsa. the sauce, not the dance.

i just want to touch you.
feel your head on my shoulder.
talk to you about how crappy my day was and how much better it would've been if you were around.

close.

far.

no cigar.

the further i go, the farther you are.
the faster i go, the quicker you run.
i'm running in circles but you're standing outside the loop.

the odds.

those eyes.

still waiting.

one is shit lonely.

i like the way my life's been lived.
i mean, it could use some tweaks here and there, but it's been alright.
i wish i had a brother to kick around.
i wish i had a sister to kick around.
better yet.
i wish there was an infant to kick around...like a soccer ball!

goal!
score!
hat-trick!
milestone!

poor, poor baby.

but seriously.
i wish i had a sibling.
things would be a lot less boring.
a bit of normalacy would be brought.

and i wouldn't be making stupid quasi-rants like these.

my little brother,
oh where art thou?
i really need to know!
the go-karts are waiting,
the go-karts are waiting!

daddy might've not been there,
but you could've seen it through,
i would've found strength in family,
we're family, me 'n you.

but you're not here...you don't exist.
there's really nothing there to miss;
in the end,
i'm alone.

just like at the beginning.

#1, #2 and #3.

#1

it just feels good to be around you.
you're infectious.
i mean...i guess you're the way you are to everyone.
so i can only assume that everyone finds you infectious.

it's unfair, because i'd love to stake the claim to feeling that the most.
but, yea. i just can't.

i know that there're issues.
it probably wouldn't look too good on paper because of it, but...
when did paper ever play a part?
when did logic ever play a part?

i mean.

there's got to be more than just the rational involved in things like these.
otherwise, there wouldn't be things like these in the first place.

i wish you'd say something about it. you know how i feel.
you know what i'm thinking.
i know you know. it's just too obvious.
i wish you'd help me out with it.

if you don't want it, say no.
if you do want it, then...tell me.

time won't wait.


#2

there're possibly a hundred ways to say it.
but it all boils down to this:
"i want to start something with you".
that sounds awful, doesn't it?
it's like a dirty little secret shared between two people.
it sounds sordid.

intimate.
personal.

however;
isn't that how it should be?

why won't you say anything?
where are you?

half a world away?
staying on my street?
silent?

alone?

how overly dramatic.

no one's really alone. i know you're not.
you're surrounded by people.
i mean.
i hardly know you. i mean...
i bet that there's something special underneath.
and i don't mean that.
coz there's definitely more to it than that.

i'm fumbling here. i don't fumble.
i am not a casanova.
i'm a simple fat, chinese kid who just speaks better english.
who'd...like to know you better.
i mean...no one really knows anyone.

but still. it'd be nice.

where are you?

i wish we could talk.
this feels absurdly one-way.


#3

people can't be described in single words. single words don't do people justice. single words don't certainly do you justice. you're far from perfect. but so's everyone else. you're normal. you're human. you're certainly you.

i won't put you on a pedestal.

i won't shower you with love and affection.

i won't buy you expensive things.

i won't call you silly names.

i probably wouldn't even bother you with calls every night.

but what i would do would be to give you the support and respect you deserve.

sounds so serious, doesn't it? so...mature.

maybe i should retract it all.

i'm here.

i'm waiting.


what do i have to be scared of?

ooooo.
fried chicken!
who cares about the bird flu?
if i die, i won't die alone.
coz everyone's eating chicken.
you, you, you, you, you and especially you.
what've i got to fear?

they flap their wings but they can't fly!
chickens we have heard on high!

so, anyway. now that the flu really is in malaysia...
let's just buy all the chckens we can.
we'll roast 'em.
we'll steam 'em.
we'll fry 'em.
damnnnnnn.

do i have death wish?
excuse me?
no. i just like cheap chicken.
hail the poultry!
hail the poultry!

fish is rubbish.

shavenmaiden.

so what if i'm unorthodox?
i doubt your parents were in only one position when they made you.

lighten up.

you're such a ninny.

she's like.....le sigh.

six months short of graduation,
and then i saw her:
someone who made me want to finish much, much later.

now...i'm rather screwed.
coz she doesn't know.
but i do.

i do. and it scares the shit out of me.

it doesn't burn.
there's no such thing as "burning love".
(unless you're elvis).
but man.
i could tell you.
she's just right the way she is.

chicks and dudes.
boys and boobs.
but this.
is.
so.
very.
different.

i swear.

oh! the shame!

love's like bacon and eggs; a perfect fit.
love's like dead roses; it smells like shit.
love's like superman; he flies too fast.
love's like commendation; it doesn't last.

i am not in love with you;
coz that wouldn't be the same:
as saying that i dream of you,
that i only say your name.

i want to hold you til your eyes pop out,
coz you know i'd place them in...
i want to be at your side...
coz only your team wins.

but ultimately...what i want to say...
is that since the first time i met you...
my skies have been less gray.

i know it's really soppish,
but i'm aiming for a lot of sap.
coz i think it's that time of day again,
where finny's has high tap.

until then, my love.
don't wait up.

hicksville revisted.

cheetos
have been good for me
chester cheetah
i believe in him
i like cheetos
they taste cheesy
real, real cheesy
and i don't mean lame.

nachos
oooooh. sour dip.
i like nachos.
oooooo. like 'em dipped.
you need nachos.
i need nachos.
let's have nachos.
all the time.

i don't have time for fish....
coz i don't see how you get smart from them.
my mama used to tell me that.
she wasn't too clever herself.

twisties.
it's not just a malaysian snack.
at least i don't think so.
but i love it in chicken.
and BBQ.
mmmmmmmm.
the barby.
need some steak.
but let's not get into that.

these are a list of some of my favourite things:

girls girls girls
video games
crotch scratching
rifles
beer
tiddly beer
yaaaaaa!

damn, i'm on fire. catch me if you can!

the hot shit right here.

i have a heterosexual lifemate.
we're best friends, but not fags.
it's not that i have anything against fags.
i thought i was a fag once.
but somehow, i dug chicks even more.

anyway, this heterosexual lifemate of mine.
he has this girlfriend, right?
she's hot and shit and she's got it going on and shit.
i like her. a lot. i think she's...really hot.

but it's like that song says...she's my best friend's baby.

so i wait.

and i wait.

and i wait.

and then it happens...one day, out of the blue, she calls me, and goes:
"yo".

i am overblown at that point. it's fricking awesome and unbelievable...to an extent. she said "yo"!

and then she says:

"can i borrow your pirates of the carribean dvd?"

and i go:

"hell yeaaaaaa!"

and she goes:

"uh.....thanks."

and that was that. man.

that's the hot shit right there....that's what i'm talking about!

mclaren, where art thou?

one more year and then vodafone,
i miss the black grey smoky tones,
kimi will go to the tiffosi,
and the reds will get valentino rossi.

where did it all go wrong?
why?
oh, why?

goddamit.

bengdom, part I.

y u haf to b so bad?
y u wan to make me sad?
wut i eva do 2 u?
y u wan 2 make me blu?

i say i will b urs 4eva
but u say u dun wan
i say we will be 2getha 4eva
like the rick astley wan

i luv u
sweetie
i really do
sweetie
i luv, luv, luv u
wahlau

if ne1 luv u the way i do
u double fatt choy

bebe
i luv u
plz say u luv me

can u hear my heart sing?
from your precious beng beng

newfound hope.

i had a diet coke. and she had tea.
she clasped her hands around the mug, and took a small, polite sip.
she made it a point to be neat. not for my sake, nor to make a good impression upon me...
but because it was who she was.

no. not prim and proper. i knew that she could let loose.
i mean, i hadn't seen it, but i had the feeling.
and not "loose" to the extent that it would be extreme.
maybe...someone who could...lighten up (?) in the right situation.

i didn't know what i was getting into.
i had a good feeling.

so...we started going out. not as a bundle, but...as...friends?

it was strange. there's a certain allure about taking time to get to know a person.
you put on your best front.
you try your hardest to make a difference.
to give that extra something.

you take for granted that it's all they need.

but...isn't it?

it was a grand scheme of things.
my new outlook on the world...with someone new to share it with me.

it...could've...worked. i think.

isn't it funny how guys are really the ones who fall the hardest?
i mean...
i mean, you hear how girls always talk about their problems and issues.
i don't want to be some kind of new-age sensitive prod, but...
it was...painful.

it hadn't been that long, but it was painful.
maybe i put too much into it? too much hope, too much of whatever?

damn.

honestly? it felt like it was a good thing.

then again, i think back and i look at it this way:

i had a diet coke. and she had tea.

light shines eternal. or not.

back then, we had a dream. sort of.
a yard. house. cat, dog, whatever.
kids.
yeah, kids.
shrubs.

you'd burn the food and we'd have to order takeout.
funny moments.
but, y'know...nice ones.

it's funny when things end and fall apart like they do.
i really thought it would've worked.
like...it would've lasted long enough for a ring on someone's finger.

dreams. funny things, dreams. they end. like how everything else does.

i failed you. i don't know how, but i did. and for that, i'm truly sorry.
i mean...

you'd say that it takes two, but, honestly, i failed you.

i cried. and i cried. it didn't work. you weren't coming back. it pushed you away.

i'm an idiot, right? only an idiot could be that foolish.

cripes.

we'll never see the dreams through now, will we?

we'll never make new ones, will we?

well. time.

you can't compare to me, lil' twerp.

o,
you might be my kid brother's girlfriend,
but you're kinda hot.

o,
why don't you ditch him and be with me?
you're kinda hot!

i'll take you to places where you've never been,
where the food is costly and the plates are clean,
no more Mc-isms for your empty tum,
coz now you're going out with a real someone!

i mean,
i do love him...he is my brother.
it's just that i can do more for you!
i mean,
it's not cheating...it's like appropriation.
if you like me, i'll buy you some shoes!

bollocks to your daddy.

"my daddy's richer than your daddy."
"my daddy drives a silver benz."
"my daddy's on the board of trustees."

that wasn't the worst of it.

"at least i have a mom".

that pissed me off.

who're you to say it? i mean, seriously...
what kind of creature are you?

judgemental.
damning.

if i have children, they're going to grow up to be nothing like you.

nothing.

that's what you are.

a fly on the wall, constantly peering. annoying.
d'you know something?

they've made things to get rid of you with.

an ache on the body. ever-present, sometimes stinging.
d'you know something?

they've made things to get rid of you with.

kitchen stains. lying around, aimlessly, with no purpose than just to be...there.
d'you know something?

they've definitely made something to get rid of you with.

you better watch out.

i'm coming.

a haiku for _______.

i hope you are fine.
we really should meet up soon.
you don't know me now.

gorgeous.

i dream about you from time to time.
sometimes even when i'm awake.
in my dreams, everything's still the same.

you're like an autumn day.

your hair falls to the side of your face.
you don't need to open your mouth to smile.
i already know you're happy.

you're only happy without me.

i didn't ask for this.

it's not like i asked to be shot.

you're such a liar.
you said you'd wait.
you said you'd care.

you lied.

i died.

who won?

true love doesn't wait.

she comes in,
glistening,
like sunlight piercing through treetops.

love walks in,
listening,
as my heart stops and falls prey to attack.

i surrender.
i quiver.
i remember.
and i shiver.

i should be so lucky,
if she would only confide in me,
it felt like love at first sight,
and we were doing the locomotion.

the world moves in slow motion,
as waves cascade from cliffs on high.
up above, i hear a chorus of angels singing.

oh! how divine!
they tell me,
that i am a pogue...
for i am in love with kylie minogue.

eva longoria.

eva
eva longoria
each time i see her-ahhhh
i scream "gloria!"

my nights are made complete
won't you be desperate for me?
eva longoria
you are euphoria!

eva
eva longoria
please come to malaysia (note: malaysia as in "MUH-LAY-SEE-AHH", not "MUH-LAY-SHUUUH")
and be my bohsia!

my days are running dry
without your form, babe, i would die
eva longoria
you are euphoria!

whore me.

i wish i was a hunk of asian meat
instead of a hunk of asian flab
you'd line up for my loving
and i'd get paid for my loving.

i wanna be a whore
no, wait...
yes, wait...
yea, i do.
being paid for what i do
literally.
no, seriously.

la la la
you'd say it's wrong
i'd say it's right
who's right?
not you
i'm always right.

think my head needs checking?
go ahead
take the flashlight, go thru my ear
journey to the centre of my being!
you'd only find rotten cheese
and chicken floss

that's right.
chicken floss.
how's that for essence?

i wanna be a whore
i wanna be adored
i wanna be a-whored.

if i was only thinner.

boo hoo. boo hoo.

now, sod off.

feigned madness or mad feigning?

"oh, no", you say, "it's mr. offbeat again!"
"he thinks he's so cool by making sick rhymes!"
"he makes me sick, he does, he does!"
"that lame-o makes me sick!"

"that lame-o can't get it in his head..."
"that he's a pervert, a pervert!"
"he makes me sick, he does, he does!"
"that lame-o makes me sick!"

i must disgress and disagree,
about your foregone conclusion of me,
never before has there ever been,
a more saintly boy so free of sin,
who rubs his nose with a handkerchief,
who donates money to disaster relief,
who stops his car for pedestrians,
who sings the hymns of christians.

i am a saint, i am, i am!
i am a saint, i am!

"he makes me sick, he does, he does!"
"that lame-o makes me sick!"

i cannot change a view of one,
so willing of me to be shunned,
i'm sorry for the mess...
i guess that you are blessed.

"he makes me sick, he does, he does!"
"that lame-o makes me sick!"

=(

you bastards.

that girl!

there was this girl i used to like,
she helped me learn to ride a bike,
a bike wasn't the only thing i rode,
i rode her pony til it'd explode,
it'd blow up right there in her eyes,
it'd smell like shit and farted flies,
she ran on home and told her mom,
her mother spanked me...it was fun.

cry of a fat boy.

lord, i beseech thee,
help me lose 10 kgs,
we'll start small and i'll eat less,
help rid me of my man-breasts,
i can't fit into my old 32s,
i stare down and i can't see my shoes,
my calves are bigger than before,
i can't keep on going to the store.

maybe if i went omnivore,
then i could fit in through the door,
lord, i think i'm supersized,
i love hash browns and curly fries,
i like my chicken fried and fat,
you can tell by the amount i shat.
my dad's diabetic and he's so thin,
lordy lord lord help me be slim!

i need a size that fits my hair,
charming, striking, debonaire,
i need to look good when i'm unkempt,
i want to look scruffy, rich and lent,
i want to look good for my old chick,
turn her on to suck my ______,
i wanna be indie, i wanna be fly,
i wanna be another skinny guy.

hear my prayer,
hear me now!

if not,
then i'm just another cow.

yelow supernigga fantastico.

i have an alter ego
i am a superman
i'm partly chink and partly white
each part has its own fans
when you put the two together
the result's pure DY-NA-MITE!!
you stir them up and grind them in
i'm partly out of sight

some people say i'm crazy
that i lack longitude
but what i lack in length my dear
compensates in attitude
some people say i'm logical
that i'm always at wit's end
but if that was the honest truth
i'd have a lot less friends

i guess that's all i'll say
i don't like writing for myself
i'll get carpal tunnel
it's detrimental to my health
i'll leave you with these few words
and i hope you let them in
you can run the fastest race
but you'll probably never win

sobriety.

i am not a teetotaller, though i've tried my best to be one in the past. i find a quiet pleasure in sipping a caiprinha in la bodega whislt enjoying a game of wild taboo or perhaps chor tai di

with friends. this is the life i live; the life of a simpleton.

oh, woe am i, a victim of some delusional imagery in my head. each time i go to la bodega i feel as if i'm in some kind of myopic yuppie terrain. that i belong to, no less. and yet, i must digress --- i am no yuppie.

i am a rebel.

an outcast.

a part of counter-culture.

but yet, counter-culture itself is a market.

nothing is sacred anymore.

not even sobriety.

down on the days.

dragged my ass out of bed into a shower with no hot water.

turned the heater on and it wasn't hot enough.

exited from the bathroom to find that i had no more boxers left.

proceeded to wear briefs.

which were too tight.

put on my jeans to realize that they were loose. weight loss is good.

then i realized the jeans were new.

bastards.

death and baldness.

fear these two.

in the words of a friend, everything else is irrelevant.

i miss the old days of living free.

debauchery.

come back to me.

come back to me.

put a sock in it!

if he says too much to you,

tell him to put a sock in it!

if he pouts and makes you blue,

tell him to put a sock in it!

no rapscallion shall chide a daughter of mine,

tell him to put a sock in it!

oh, i'll get my smith and wesson ol' fifty nine,

tell him to put a sock in it!

young man, young man, you're so full of life;

you've got to be a gentlemen if you want her as your wife.

you can't go around scolding her for every little flaw;

if you do so any more, sir, i'll show you my own law.

if he says too much to you,

tell him to put a sock in it!

if he pouts and makes you blue,

tell him to put a sock in it!

no rapscallion shall chide a daughter of mine,

tell him to put a sock in it!

oh, i'll get my smith and wesson ol' fifty nine,

tell him to put a sock in it!

put a sock in it!

the deadpan chicken.

the deadpan chicken,
is a very dead chicken,
a very dead chicken indeed.

he clucks and clucks,
nonsensically,
but he never consumes his feed.

the hens all love him,
oh!, how they adore him,
the hens, they want his seed.

the deadpan chicken,
is no ordinary chicken,
oh, what a deadpan chicken is he.

Thursday, November 02, 2006

snobs, we be.

d'you know what annoys me sometimes? people who sit in the back when they're in the car with you, when there's nobody else around. i can't stand it...i'm not anyone's fucking chaffeur, unless i was being paid to be. then again, it doesn't look excessively impressive, does it, when you're riding in your lap of luxury that just happens to be an iswara?

you could do better if you are, boyo.

nonetheless, unless you're a taxi driver or a chartered driver, it just looks dodgy when you've only got one person in the car who just happens not to be riding shotgun.

not that the rider minds. oh, not at all.

keep your dignity, drivers. only accept frontrow sitters. at all times.

Wednesday, November 01, 2006

drat.

oh, drat. i've lost the post.