Friday, March 30, 2007

I feel like I've got all the right friends sometimes.

I've just received a call from a friend that HELP has invited me for their 21st Anniversary gala ball. And, to add a cherry on top, I can bring along a partner. In a situation like this, I would've automatically brought Lynn, who'd work wonders for my image (and my hormones) if I'd brought her for an event like this...however, she's currently in Australia, studying to save the fishes. Funnily enough, I think I've gotten invited thanks to my cousin working at HELP, who, coincidentally, is also named Lynn. However, I can't snog her, because it'd be incestuous, and also because she's rather loud. The latter Lynn, I mean. I'm not sure about the former Lynn.

Are you loud, Lynn? (If I told you that you had a beautiful body, would you hold it against me? I'd very much like that, thank you.)

The irony is, I've now got to sell the ticket that I bought. For the very same ball. It's worth RM 130, and there's a free-flow of wine. And good food. And it's at the Shangri-La. And the performances are spot on.

This goes out to any friends I have in HELP. The problem is, it's only one ticket, and it wouldn't be fair to sell you the 2 that I'm entitled to. Even though I would very much like that.

Any takers? Please contact me asap. I'm not lowering the price, btw. Or giving away my bought ticket for free. It was RM 130 of hard-earned dosh.

Now I've got leverage to go up to any pretty girl I see.

'Fancy a shine and a shag at the Shang? I've got an invite. With your name on it'.

On a sad note, this would be the first assignment that I wanted to hand up on time which I couldn't. The tardy Relationship Marketing assignment from last year doesn't count because I simply didn't have faith in the course. New Product Management kicks serious ass. But I've got a funny way of showing it.

I really do pray that I won't get penalized. It's the Straight Man in me fussing over it. But of course, if I do add some ooomph to my assignment over the course of the next three days, I'd be quite happy with myself.

Two new songs on Sunday (which were already completed before this assignment fiasco, for those of you concerned enough over my priorities...thank you, though).

The worst for wear.

It's almost 5 in the morning, and I've been attempting to get an assignment rushed and ready for submission. For the last hour or so, I'd been sneezing non-stop, but that particular problem has sorted itself out now. I'm not entirely sure if it's alright to submit the assignment on Monday, but for once, I can't be arsed enough to complete it in time. I think the deal was to receive extra "bonus" marks for a Friday submission; I'd much rather forfeit that at this moment, because I feel like I've been gutted in the head...by a whirlwind.

Two cups of coffee and the promise of fulfillment aren't keeping me going. I suppose that I'm not as young as before. My abnormal sleeping habits these past few days have also kept me knackered.

In all honesty, I thought that I would've finished the aforementioned assignment by now, but I suppose I've fornicated with myself in an uncomfortable position. And no, not at the back of a Volkswagen.

I pray that my tutor/lecturer doesn't slay me. I do believe he's taken a liking to my bursts of creative and critical input during tutorials. It'd be a waste of perfectly good accumulated sucking up points if he doesn't cut me some slack.

Then again, it'd be mighty embarassing if I'm the only poor sod who submits his work on Monday.

Mayhaps he'll be forgiving.

Fuck, I hope he is.

I feel ill.

Monday, March 26, 2007

Oh, pretty damsel.

I'm a sucker for a pretty face. You'd think that men have the in-builty capacity to resist feminine wiles, but if someone with an irresistable smile or doeful eyes came along and asked for help, we'd go weak in the knees and melt. No matter how harebrained their situation would be...or their own personality.

I love talking to girls. It doesn't really matter what kind of girl it is; the spectrum is so wide that it's a pleasure to constantly bitch or listen about bitching in regards to people you may (or may not) know. It also encapsulates those girls, who're one in a million (I'm not talking about Suki) whom just genuinely tickle your fancy. I might've mentioned in the past that it'd be hard to find a genuinely funny girl, but with the 31 flavours you're given, you'd be hard-pressed to find a respite.

There's more essence to the softer sex because of the sheer amount of personalities you can find. It's as if there's a certain sophistication to the way things are run in a woman's world when viewed through a man's eyes. And once in a while, I'd like to get into that groove and be a part of it...without having to don a garter belt and stockings, or deprive myself of my dominant appreciation for vulva.

What a fuckin' wonderful world we live in. Really.

Hug your bitch today!

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Sunday, March 25, 2007

Send a Message.

I've added a new song to the playlist; I'd like to think of it as an ode to when you're 16 years old and totally unable to convince your flame of your intentions. You'd be more than happy to give her the world, but the best you can do (for then) is to leave a sweet message in her inbox.

A bit of useless trivia: the beeping means something, although it's not Morse code. I'm texting "is it alright to start" in the beginning and "it's okay to leave" at the end.

Not that anyone could tell.

Unless I told you.

Which I did.

Hooha.

If I sound more off than usual, it's because there was a small fishbone lodged in my throat for the better part of the day on Friday, and I can still feel the sore, even though the bone's more than gone. I'm also shrivelled (except where it matters most) from the air-conditioning.

N-joy!

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Thursday, March 22, 2007

When the pussy meows, give it milk.

There's this cat that frequents my street, from the early evening, well into the deep of the night. He (or she, I haven't had the chance to pick it up and probe), is black, white a white belly and white paws. The cat is clean enough as it is; otherwise I would've contracted something unpleasant from it, thus breaking out into rashes and itches (I've told the story about my first contact with a cat countless times).

For the last few months, it's been in the garage, sleeping on the car; the shed fur and paw marks have been a dead giveaway. It's been kind enough not to leave any odours or surprises, which may possibly mean it's treating the garage and the garden (if you can call it a "garden") as a surrogate home: with respect.

I came home yesterday to see it nestled beneath the atom bomb of an external water purifier that we have. This has happened once before, and just like before, I made annoying clicking noises with my tongue and it came to me. And, just as before, it rubbed itself against my leg, as all friendly, content cats do.

So I only did what came naturally to me.

I gave its head a soft rub, and sat there, letting the little mongoose chill out and bathe in the sun. It then proceeded towards the shelter of the garage, and starting scratching the tyres. Mind you, this is the same feline that makes it incredibly tedious to wash the hood of a ninety thousand ringgit car. But, obviously, I've got a soft spot for pretty pussies.

I went upstairs, and broke off a few chunks of a cream cracker, and went back downstairs and tossed it onto the ground in front of the car. The little bugger took a crack at it and didn't eat it. I then tossed it out into the garden, and then sat nearby. It took a short prowl, stretched, pawed its way to the grass and took a bite of the cracker bits. And ate them.

I locked the door, and went upstairs, quite satisfied about my good deed of the day. Even though I'm rather certain that the cat didn't need the treat. It looked very fat. Either that, or very pregnant...I couldn't tell.

The beauty of cats is that they demand service. It's as if it's expected of you. Cats are regal. Stately. Sophisticated. Dogs are fun, yes; but cats have brains. And they don't drool. And they've got sandpaper tongues. Of course, cats will run out on you once they discover that the four walls around them aren't as fashionable as they originally made them out to be, but that only makes them more relatable.

Animals are amazing creatures, regardless of whether or not we eat them, feed them or worship them.

Go hug your fucking pet today!

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Wednesday, March 21, 2007

Ferguson does 300.

Monday, March 19, 2007

Captain Beckham, again.



Funnily enough, I cried when England lost to Portugal. May Ann was with me; she obviously found it funny. Everyone else at the mamak was rooting for Portugal; they would've found it funny if they'd seen me.

Now, a few months shy of a year, I have this to say: it still isn't funny.

Nonetheless, here's an ad that takes us back to the days of yonder.

The punchline.

Sunday, March 18, 2007

The Finn Finishes First.

It's good to see Kimi on top, although it's still a bit unsettling that it's got to be in a Ferrari. Your new favourite driver would probably be Lewis Hamilton, who had a 2nd place finishing stolen to him by the cocker Spaniard, but despite that, hung on to dear life and drove like the lunatic that he's been made out to be. Ron Dennis must be feeling a tad bit of fatherly pride, no?

As usual, the FIA has lost the plot: I don't see the point of forcing teams to use both hard and soft tyres in a race. I wish they'd just let them get on with it. Fo' shizzle.

But God, you've got to admit that the Ferrari was fast. Even though Massa had to vault his way from the back (and despite being held up by a very slow Button), you've got to admit that Ferrari have got the fuckery this season...one up from McLaren. As I've been saying this season, I don't quite know what to say when it comes to team backing...should I give up my English ash grey for the Tiffosi red?

I think that'd just be convenient. But Kimi all the way, I say.

And I can't help feeling sorry for Fisichella. He might be #1 at Renault, but so far, they're not really #1.

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Thursday, March 15, 2007

You are gold and silver!

Tuesday, March 13, 2007

Did you happen to see the mare out there?

Stable relationships are for horses.

If so, then I'm a stallion. I've usually pictured myself as a mule, which could be another way of saying that I'm a really big ass. But, these days, I feel like a stallion. If not a stallion, then maybe a mustang, synomonous with the muscle car that bares its name.

Some of us would rather be an ass. An ass doesn't move much, and lazes around, languishing in the hot sun. An ass needs to have a carrot perpetually hung in front of it to keep it going. Endlessly crawling to a destination it will never reach.

Some of us would rather be a thoroughbred. Running on empty, but running nonetheless. Victory is never apparent, but the sweet taste of suceess, even a tinge of it, is the fire that burns on through. However, the fire that burns twice as bright, burns out twice as fast.

I can't decide.




But I bet that some of us would love to be hung like a horse.

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Monday, March 12, 2007

Checklist.

I was laying in bed last night, thinking about how I'd reached this point, and how easy it'd be to lose it all. I'd like to believe that I hide that side of me that constantly worries from people, either through humour or the occasional smart remark...not to a Peter Parker extent, where I'd make a great quip in the face of death, but through my crudeness and apparent single-mindedness. One drawback to being me is my list of insecurities over truly trivial matters; I'm worried about things that would normally have no consequence to other people. In other words, my priorities aren't straight --- looking at where I've been before this, I can safely assume so.

More and more of the people around me have moved on to bigger things. If not bigger things, then brighter opportunities. I fear that I haven't made the most out of my life the way that others would perceive it, and although we always stick our chests out and harp about how perceptions don't matter, there's always that part of us that recoils in shame and/or jealousy over the success of others. It doesn't help when it hits home, i.e. unbelievable levels of success attained by a close relative or a good friend. I'd love to feel happy for them (and I do), but sometimes, oh, sometimes, I'd love to print out their mugshots onto a dartboard and take aim.

Not that I play darts very well. I've never touched one in my life.

Nonetheless, the makeshift winning streak that I've stumbled upon these last few months has been a godsend. My only fear is having it slip away from me; nonetheless, the architect of my demise would be me. I can't blame the externalities. It'd be my fault if I slowed down the momentum now. I see my life as this crescendo that's about to climax...only that my hand's twitching to tune the volume knob down. After many false starts and pipe dreams, I don't seem surprised about any of this.

I'm not clawing my way out from any hole. The only thing I'm clawing myself out of is a life of lethargy and procrastination. Seeing the light of the end of the tunnel is always a good thing...even if it's neon.

Let's put things into perspective. I have a lot to be grateful for. I shan't sabotage what I've worked to achieve (I can't say "work hard" coz that'd be a lie, really).

The ball's in your court, Satan!

(I just had to say that, sorry.)

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Sunday, March 11, 2007

Good thrust.

10 things that you walk out with after watching 300.
  1. A sudden urge to go to the gym.
  2. Chanting the Spartan rallying cry every 10 seconds or so.
  3. Seeing things in slow motion, zooming in on them, zooming out and then having them sped up again.
  4. Wanting to protect your brother-at-arms on the left at all times.
  5. Hoping that your baby boys won't be thrown down a mountain for being less than perfect.
  6. Never seeing an apple in the same way again.
  7. Knowing that baldness risks leading to effiminacy.
  8. The preconceived notion that hunchbacked underachievers will always betray you. No matter how kind you are to them.
  9. Wishing your woman was a Spartan one.
  10. The desire to grow a fine, thick beard.
Women will love 300 for the beautiful men. Men will love 300 because...it's really a man's movie. As juvenile as it sounds, it's just fucking cool. There's no need for a deep review on historical (in)accuracies. There's no need for a debate on creative licensing. Let's not argue over how it's a statement on the current global climate.

It's a story about a bunch of blokes who stood up for themselves and their beliefs, and protecting them to the very end.

And that's all there is to it, in the end.

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Sunday, March 04, 2007

Love is a shallow grave.

I've posted a cringe-worthy, minute-long ditty on the MySpace page, called 'Shallow Grave'. There isn't any guitar backing simply because I don't know how to play the guitar well enough to accompany it, so be warned: the singing's a little shabby, but I'm happy with the result in the end. And it's only (less than) a minute long. Take a whiff of it, and tell me what you think.

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Friday, March 02, 2007

Eggshell thin skull.

The last time I felt so gutted about somebody leaving on a jetplane was...well, a good while back. I hate to admit it, but despite my cynical outlook on life, I can be a sentimental sap who tends to forget his desire to be a despicable cad. Not that my outlook has changed much; I'm still the same gaming-loving, arse-scratching, pot-bellied scoundrel that you knew since Day 1. However, sad to say, it doesn't take much to change my outlook from a shitty perspective to a rosy one. The worst thing about having someone worm their way through to your chewy, caramel center is that you have to start assuming responsibilities in ensuring their well-being, be it physical (whoopee!) or emotional (not so whoopee).

People tend to forfeit one for the other; I'm quite sure I've managed to find the balance between the two, because time has granted me the wisdom to differentiate one from the other.

What does it all mean? Matching His and Her towels? Cook-ins? China sets? Oven mitts? A scene resembling a Haagen Daaz* advert?

I don't know.

I can flip the bird to Foreigner and proudly stick out my man-tits and proclaim that I know what Love is.

It's a fucking pain.




*Contrary to popular belief, Haagen Daaz is not European.

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Thursday, March 01, 2007

Wipe that smug look off your face, young man.

I'm pressed for time because I've got to send my father to KL Sentral, so here's a list.
  1. My father will be in Tokyo and Taiwan for three weeks, which, of course, might naturally be prolonged to a month.
  2. May Ann's leaving on Friday night, and not on Saturday night as previously surmised. I will, however, be going to Paolo's gig...because KLIA's really far, the music should be alright, I'm a good mate, I like pins that come with a RM 12 cover charge, and I want my Jamiroquai DVD and Beatles' tracks. (Not to mention the fact that I'm petrified of her father; old men who're significantly taller than me freak me out.)
  3. In relation to #2, I really do love my girlfriend.
  4. I've passed International Business Management...with a Pass. A mediocre performance, but I couldn't care less. Three more subjects left before I'm let out into The Wild.
  5. Both my cars are fully loaded with fuel.
  6. I'm worried that I'll talk to my children as if they're perpetually 7 years old. Even when they're 25.
  7. I like Ribena.
  8. If I push hard enough, I might get a Wii.
  9. Lists are redundant.
  10. I'd do Helen Mirren. As she is now.

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