Unreal.

It feels a little like how it was when you left me.

The rain makes it look unreal, like I could wake up at any moment and tell you all about it soon.

Like this is all just a dream.

He loves them, he does.

He wakes up to the smell of fresh nasi lemak in the mornings.

As his wife is frying the eggs, he gently wraps his hands around her and whispers in her ear, "Sayang awak."

They giggle and she playfully pushes him away.

They spend their day at the zoo, and as their daughter munches on a pillow of cotton candy, he picks a flower and wedges it in her hair.

Dinner was assam laksa that the wife spent an hour cooking. The recipe is difficult, she says. But she's glad he's licking his fingers.

As the wife finishes reciting the ending to Puteri Gunung Ledang, the daughter's eyes gently close.

The last thing she hears is, "I love you sayang. Very much."

He pulls the trigger, and the room is bathed in crimson.

The daughter dies in her sleep, surely with a smile if she still had a face.

The gun barrel feels cold against his temple.

Babies don't sleep this well.

John Cage and Ally Mcbeal.

It's funny how these things happen.

You go on weeks, no, months feeling good, feeling great even - you find parking spots without problems, you hand in work on time, you get invited to parties...

You have fun. Sure, you don't feel on top of the world, but then again this place, where you are now, it isn't too bad. You could live with it.

And then one day, at the oddest of moments, at the most common things, it hits you.

You wake up with that song in your head. Or you remembered sitting there before. Or you just tasted that apple pie.

And you remember.

And my imagination will make that moment live...

To Miss Junkiemonkey,

I think what I really wanted to do before I left was to say goodbye to you personally. I wanted to call you and tell you I was leaving and that I'd miss you, and maybe a little part of me would like to hear you say that too.

But I didn't, because I heard that you loved the single life and I knew you were enjoying yourself and keeping yourself busy right now, so I figured I'd better let you be.

Just to be fair to me though, since I'm leaving on a jetplane, and I don't know when I'll be back, or more accurately I don't know if I'll be the same when I get back, I'd like to take this tiny piece of opportunity to say Goodbye to you, and thank you.

Thank you for making my life the past few months a little more interesting than it would be if I hadn't met you, if nothing else Ms. Starbucks.

But also thank you because:

=)

K.

If I'm going to be up ranting, I might as well.

Let's make this clear; there are very very few things that utterly annoy me in my life, and off the top of my head, there's how people seem to think that calling me a virgin is like some sort of derogatory insult that's supposed to get me. So let me get this straight; virgin = non self validation?

To these people: You're a fucking moron.

First of all, If you're running around calling me a virgin, it means I don't tell you stuff which means you're not in my personal space. I didn't think you mattered enough to tell, which also means; stop fucking assuming. You could be wrong, or you could be right; either way, I'm not telling you shit because I think you're a stupid fuck.

Now, even if I was, how, can you tell me, the act of sticking your penis into some bitches vagina (for the he) or the act of getting stuffed by a man dong (for the she) makes you a better person than I am in any way? Oh, congratulations, you have performed the act of fornification and now you're MORE REAL because it. Would you like a fucking certificate?

I would love nothing more than to point out that you have just stated that the sole purpose of your existence, the culmination of your being, would be that you have sought, for the 20+ years of your life, to look for the magical plum to stick your penis into or to get stuffed. Yes, let me point that out very clearly; you pushed yourself through your mother's vagina, went through school, somehow made it through tertiary education, all to equip yourself with the one knowledge of doing the old bump and grind.

Pathetic.

I don't even want to talk about how sad I think you are for thinking that getting fucked is the one sole achievement in your life. You're really lacking in the self esteem department aren't you? Let me ask you this; if you HADN'T fucked, would there be anything you can be proud of in your life? Would you? No?

Didn't think so.

You are sad, because, well, now your life is just that; sad. I won't even bother myself with you cause your life is pretty much fucked now. And you wanted to live off welfare, so I'm automatically better than you.

You are sad because you stated TWICE how the only thing you've wanted to do in life is fuck. I get it, you got to fuck, and now you can die happy. The crowning achievement of your life, yes, well done. Could you please sit down and shut the fuck up now?

And YOU are just sad because at one point you wanted to sit down and cut yourself to death. Or swallow some pills. Fuck, I don't remember which emo/goth way you wanted to die, personally I don't care. The point is, I'm not about to take "validation tips" from someone who didn't care enough to live. Go curl up in some corner in a foetal position and die; just make sure you do it in the garbage can so the rest of us with more important things in life are not bothered by your insignificant existence you little piece of turd.

Fuck you annoying people.

Unreal.

Today I didn't feel quite so real.

Ms. Starbucks. (part 1)

He had never really bothered wondering what ‘Love’ was. To him, it was something abstract, something individualistic and subjective, something that a hundred different people could give a hundred different answers for.

He found himself however, looking through dictionary.com searching for its meaning one Tuesday afternoon.

Love –noun
1.a profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person.
2. a feeling of warm personal attachment or deep affection, as for a parent, child, or friend.
3. sexual passion or desire.
4. a person toward whom love is felt; beloved person; sweetheart.
5. (used in direct address as a term of endearment, affection, or the like): Would you like to see a movie, love?
6. a love affair; an intensely amorous incident; amour.
7. sexual intercourse; copulation.
8. (initial capital letter) a personification of sexual affection, as Eros or Cupid.
9. affectionate concern for the well-being of others: the love of one's neighbor.
10. strong predilection, enthusiasm, or liking for anything: her love of books.
11. the object or thing so liked: The theater was her great love.
12. the benevolent affection of God for His creatures, or the reverent affection due from them to God.
13.Chiefly Tennis. a score of zero; nothing.
14.a word formerly used in communications to represent the letter L.

He decided that none to the 14 entries on the word 'Love' described what he felt the other day, walking past Starbucks to work and seeing Ms. Starbucks for the first time. Within the 5 seconds that he had walking the length of the coffee shop, he noticed her at the checkout counter; she was tall, had short hair, big brown pretty eyes, and a beautiful smile. Of course, he stared at her without breaking his stride, (he was sure she gets these intrusive stares on a daily basis) and thought nothing more of it the next day.

The practice actually went on for 2 weeks, him walking to work at the Cineplex nearby, noticing her almost every day (she was off on Thursdays and Sundays) in that same invariable starbucks suit; the green apron and black shirt. Sometimes she'd be at the checkout counter, and he'd enjoy that brief 5 seconds he gets to see her flash her smile to the customers, and sometimes she'd be preparing coffee at the back, and he'd only get to see the back of her head - on these days he'd slow down, only ever so slowly, to see if she'd ever turn around and he could see her.

2.a feeling of warm personal attachment or deep affection, as for a parent, child, or friend.

...was probably closest. He was not gripped and carried about in a whirlwind of Love at first sight; it crept up on him, ambushing him when his defenses were at their most unsuspecting. He had no idea.

The first time his emotional guards suspected something was wrong was when he found himself, one Sunday morning, (he'd decided to take Sundays off, coincidentally) waking up and thinking of Ms. Starbucks.

Ms. Starbucks. He didn't even know her name.

Ever since then he grew wary. He rationalized; she's someone I see every day, she's pretty, it’s only natural for me to think of her, and decided to think nothing more than that.

The next morning, when he walked to work he decided to not look at her. If I can ignore her, I won’t think of her he rationalized. So he kept his eyes looking straight ahead as he came up against the coffee shop.

Only 5 seconds.

He marched forward, focused on looking straight ahead.

5.

He looked at his watch; 11.32 am.

4.

Cough.

3.

Clear throat.

2.

Ms. Starbucks smiling at customer while she gives them their coffee.

1.

…Shit.

He was in trouble.

The record player.

It was an old record player, the kind that played the subtle static in the background as it hummed the classic tunes of Billie Holiday. That became the center of his existence lately, coming home after a long tiring day at work, walking in at 11 pm sharp to this old run down bar in the middle of nowhere; the wooden chairs and tables falling apart at the seams, creaking under the weight of old age.

It must've been last week that he stumbled onto this place unknowingly. He was not particularly looking for anything, not consciously at least; he just happened to be drawn into this rundown bar, a place that no one wanted to go to. Maybe that was the attraction. The fact that everything about this place, the inconspicuous sign board that obstinately refused to attract customers, the cracked and chipped paint on the creaky swing doors that refused to look pretty or artistic in any way, the dust and cobwebs that stubbornly clung on despite having been wiped away a million times; all this that was seemingly designed by the invisible hand to ward off people inexplicably drew him in, so strong was his need to be somewhere where he was not wanted.

He remembered walking in to the bar, much to the surprise of the bartender, who seemed to be looking at him twice to verify if he was not a solicitor. Upon discovering he was a patron, the bartender looked almost disappointed, reluctantly asking, "What'll it be?"

When he had settled down on one of the worthless antiques that looked like chairs, it was love at first hear. The small record player, hiding in one corner of this resentful haven captured his heart like love captures the unsuspecting youth, still vulnerable, still unprepared to pay the price of the inevitable demise of a first love's naiveté.

He stayed till 2 am that first night.

And so it became a habit, or more accurately an obsession. When he was slaving at work, all he could think about was being there, relishing the heavenly sounds of Billie played by that essential record player, being the midst of all the other relics that had only the guise and half-heartedness of invitation. He was not welcome, not at all, but still, all he wanted to do was stay there. When there were no other sounds to interrupt his thoughts, he'd replay Holiday's psychologically remastered 'The very thought of you' complete with each endearing static, closing his eyes and sighing in genuine rapture.

And then, after work, that's when he'd make his way to the bar, sitting down at the exact same chair, and ordering the same neat whiskey, listening to the same song on loop, until the bartender had to switch off the electricity to shoo him away.

This went on for a week.

It seemed to be all going perfect until one day the Bartender gave him the worst possible news:

"I'm sorry mate, but someone bought out the establishment. I didn't think I'd find any customers here now, hell you're the first person who's come in since 2 years ago, and I wished there were more like you around, but the fact is, this place is a dump and I'm going to have clear it out by the end of the week for the new owners. I know how much you like it here, so if there's anything I can do just say it now buddy,"

There was only one thing he could think of. The record player stays. Let him come in until the end of the week to listen to it, that's all he wanted.

"Hell, I'll sell it to you buddy, you seem to really like it,"

But it wasn't the same, no. The record player belonged reluctantly to this place, as was everything else here.

He didn't tell the bartender that.

"Sure, have it your way. Enjoy."

Tuesday, change crept up on him. The old decorations were gone; the painting of the roses was replaced by its outline on the wall, the antique vases weren't where they were supposed to be. Wednesday, the bartender moved half the furniture, (though thankfully, not the half with his favorite table) and the place looked bare, only half as resentful as it used to be. By Thursday, the dust and cobwebs that decorated the walls of the place were gone, and Friday and Saturday breezed through, each time appearing less endearing than the day before.

On Sunday he walked in, and everything was gone, except his usual chair, table, and of course, the old record player.

The bartender looked at him, shook his head in a sympathetic gesture and went back to putting the glassware in moving boxes.

“You know, you’ve scratched my curiosity buddy. This place is a dump. What is it that you like about it so much?” he yelled from under the counter.

It’s just a place to go to, he replied.

The bartender stopped packing and looked up.

“Bullshit man. No one comes here cause it’s just a place to go to. Two minutes down this road, there’s a bar that’s overcrowded every night. No crappy record player, no dust and cobweb, no creaking crappy chairs and tables, just digital hardware and hot women all night long. That’s a place you go to. Not this one.”

The record player isn’t crappy.

The bartender shrugged his shoulders and went back to packing.

Four hours flew by, and before leaving he did something he had never done before; he stood up, and ran his hand by the side of the record player, lovingly feeling the smooth texture of the mahogany woodwork, the cool brass of the loudspeaker, as though saying his last goodbyes before finishing his whiskey and walking out.

Once outside, the abandoned, snowy pavement greeted him with a dark chill. He pulled the instrument out, and felt the cold steel against his hand, biting into his skin, but he didn’t care. Leveling the gun right below his left breast, he took a deep breath and pulled the trigger.

Inside, the sounds of Billie Holiday continued playing, the psychologically remastered 'The very thought of you' complete with each endearing static.

I’m living in a kind of daydream,
I’m happy as a king,
And foolish though it may seem,
To me that’s everything.

Everytime I think of you I get shot right through into a bolt of blue...

I've wondered whether you'd still affect me after so long.

Today I got news of you, and it's left me, once again, in pieces.

But I've grown up a bit, and perhaps I'm just lying to myself, but I am honestly glad that another fond memory of mine is there with you.

I would love nothing more than to be there for you, but the best I can do for you is to make sure we never cross paths again.

I'll pray for you.

Everytime I see you falling,
I get down on my knees and pray,
I'm waiting for that final moment,
To say the words that I can't say.

This morning I woke up and felt despair...

...because I realized I live in a world where one human being can kill another.

Hehe.

I can't but help to snicker a little when I found someone on facebook named 'Ai Slow'.

Perhaps if I should ever have the fortune to meet her, I shall introduce myself as 'Mee Slow Tu'.

Hehe.

4 unanswered questions.

It is an undeniable fact that we as humans, are gifted (or in another perspective, plagued) by curiosity. There's always something that we must ask, or some mind itch that we just have to scratch without which we would be perpetually tormented by wonder.

Of course, I am no exception.

I've struck people with random questions before, and few, if ever, manage to provide me with a satisfactory answer, so I've decided to put it out here for people to read and if anyone should happen to know the answer to a particular question, please feel free to answer it.

Question 1: Why are there gay bars, and there are lesbian bars, but there are no homosexual co-ed bars?

I asked this question just last night to a couple of friends at a gay bar, and none of them could really answer it, save one; and he says that it's because most lesbians are men haters. This is probably a stereotypical answer, but it does so far provide a rather solid explanation. I mean, you see gay men getting along quite well with women (straight or otherwise) but I have not as yet seen the opposite. Answered? You tell me.

Question 2: Since this relates to the first post, I'll ask it first; Why is it that its almost normal to see heterosexual girls kissing other heterosexual girls, but you'd need to cut an arm to see a straight dude kiss another dude?

My personal answer is because men are quite knocked up with testosterone; the hormone that makes you punch your best friend in the face to tell him that you love him. Ask any guy to pat another guy on the shoulder for more than 10 seconds, and they'll get awkward. Don't even talk about lip to lip action.

Why girls are okay with it? Still a mystery to me.

Question 3: Where would you go in the case of a zombie outbreak?

No seriously. Think about it. In case Malaysia suddenly had a zombie infestation, where would you go for safety? A friend of mine answered "the mall". Obviously, if he was in a zombie movie, he would be the first to go. Look, I don't care what Dawn of the Dead said, but if there was a zombie outbreak, I highly doubt that going to a building that's always full of people is suicidal. They're the zombie factories, genius. Imagine walking into midvalley and having a million zombie shoppers charge at you. Dead meat buddy. Try again.

Another friend of mine suggested getting into a plane and flying to some solitary island. Yeah. Imagine Pangkor, Redang, Perhentian or Sipadan empty. Uh-huh. Maybe if it was some dead land in the middle of nowhere. You'd need a pilot, and a plane capable of landing in the water.

And assuming zombies can't swim/walk underwater.

Maybe.

My suggestion? Camp in some forest somewhere. You may encounter some other zombie campers, but hey, if you can't deal with a bunch of dead campers, there's no hope for you buddy.

Question 4: What happens if you were to cut off an erect penis?

It was a question for a story I was thinking up. Since the penis is boneless and simply made up of blood vessels that become erect with increased blood flow, I estimate that it'll gush gallons of blood, kinda like firemen water hoses. Which would kill you pretty quickly, from the blood loss, and if that doesn't do it, then the knowledge of just being castrated of your manhood will.

Feel free to answer any of the above questions, I will be grateful to you for having scratched my brain.

People do and say the dumbest things, I swear...

...it's true. Let me list some of the things I've heard or personally experienced myself.

1. The Microbacteria.

I was walking out of the gym the other day when I saw three gym employees. A woman was walking along telling this other guy, "You know, there's a thing called microbacteria..." before they entered gym and the conversation was cut off.

I would've loved to listen to their conversation, since of course, everybody knows that all bacteria are huge, macrosized giants.

2. The address.

So a friend of mine sent an email to all her relatives to ask for their home addresses, to send them celebratory post cards. She probably failed to mention that she wanted home adresses, but nevertheless, her relatives did send an address back; the same email adresses she sent out that email to.

3. This conversation happened to my friend and her friend and I was in the car.

"What is this building?" *pointing to a hospital*
"A hospital."
"Oh."
"Yah."
"....is it 24 hours?"

4. The Devil wears Prada.

I went to watch a movie (The Devil wears Prada) with a friend once, and she's nice and I like her, but I'll never forget this little conversation we had after the movie.

Me: How did you like the movie?
Her: Oh it was nice. Just that it wasn't what I thought it would be.
Me: Oh? What were you expecting?
Her: Well, I thought it would be a movie about the devil. You know, with the horns and pitchfork.

5. How would you like your steak?

A friend and I had dinner at TGIF once, and he ordered the steak. Naturally the waiter asked, "How would you like it?" before my friend gave it some thought and said,

"Small, please."

Feel free to share more stupid stories with me.

Let's suppose that we'd want to save the world...

...can anyone tell me where the hell do we start?

I think...

...that I've fallen quite in love.



Who else is a combination of complete narcissism, a healthy amount of eccentricity, astounding musical talent, and stunning good looks?

I won’t tell you that I love you, Kiss or hug you,
Cause I’m bluffin’ with my muffin,
I’m not lying I’m just stunnin’
with my love-glue-gunning...

How can I claim to have any friends...

...when I feel down and depressed and have absolutely no one to call?

Where art thou, my Dulcinea del Toboso?

Ye trees and herbs, so green and tall,

That shade this meadow, and adorn,

If you rejoice, not at my thrall,

Give ear unto a wretch forlorn;

Nor let my grief, though loud invade

Your peace; but by Don Quixote, be a

Self-offer'd tax of sorrow, paid

In absence of his Dulcinea

del Toboso.

These are rocks, to which he's driven

By her who seems not much to care for

The truest lover under heaven:

And yet he knows not why nor wherefore.

By love toss'd like a tennis-ball,

A cask of tears, will not defray a

Whole day's expence of grief and gall,

In absence of his Dulcinea

del Toboso.

Among these craggy rocks and brambles,

He hangs alas! on sorrow's tenters;

Or curses as alone he rambles,

The cruel cause of his misventures.

Unpitying love, about his ears,

With scourge severe begin to play a

Most dreadful game that made his tears

Flow for his absent Dulcinea

del Toboso.

I don't normally like classic, literary poems, but I have to admit:

Don Quixote is the shit.

I think personally, this is the best book I've ever read in my life. There's nothing obviously spectacular about it, I just believe that in a previous life, I was a Don Quixote.

I'm even considering not finishing the book because I don't really want the story to end.

.....yeah right.

Back to the book!

I have decided tonight to...

...forfeit our date. At least, for the time being.

Don't get me wrong, I still like you.

But it seems that we've run out of the magic we once had, and I can't say for sure but perhaps its due to the fact that you're hurting.

And it's not the futility of the whole enterprise either, (because you know my love-hate relationship with futility) but it seems rather disrespectful to be going after you while you're still grieving over what seems to be a tragic, unrequited love.

I'd like to be a consoling friend, if nothing else, but very much like Love, Friendship isn't something you can force either.

I still owe you some good karma for my birthday wish, and until I can repay it in full, I hope my sincerest wishes that at the very least you don't hurt alone would suffice. Never underestimate the power of company, I say.

Until then, I shall be satisfied with this;

...which I still smile about sometimes. =)

The way you wear your hat,

The way you sip your tea,

The memory of all that,

No no, they can't take that away from me.

There is...

...a very huge difference, a gaping chasm in fact between "You can do better," and "You deserve better."

And I'm in some ways quite crushed that the best you can give me is the latter.

Of Infidelity.

Perhaps due to my skeptical/pessimistic nature, I have never had much faith in mankind's ability to be monogamous. We just weren't designed to be that way. It doesn't take much; that second glass of wine after a candlelight dinner, that extended gaze into the eyes, that closer than intended dance... and we indulge. And I know the thrill, the magic of the forbidden fruit and its influence, and I'm not even in a relationship.

Somehow the idea of unconditional devotion and loyalty is just a tad too difficult, too above the bar. Someone should lower it a bit.

Tonight csa and I had a talk about infidelity and I told her that I am utterly skeptical about monogamy. To me, I said, infidelity is not a possibility, but an eventuality. It was a little unnerving to hear her say "of course!", which is why she conveniently doesn't believe in monogamy.

It's a little hard though, no matter how open minded we think we are. I have always wondered, if I could choose, would I prefer to be betrayed by the drunken, meaningless sex, or that sober kiss? On one hand, waking up convinced that the night before was a mistake means it was just that: a stupid mistake. The sober kiss however, means that there was something there that doesn't need alcohol or any other catalyst, he, (or even a she, how would that work out?) just needs to be around for sparks to fly. Or am I merely underestimating the power of having someone close to you deceive you? Does there even need to be physical contact?

I would like to think that my pessimism is nothing more than a sombre delusion, although I've rarely been proven wrong before.

Sigh, cest la vie, no?

Although if it was not for those little flirtatious escapes, we wouldn't come up with songs like "Me and Mrs. Jones," so I suppose its not all that bad.

To my friend(s): I will be there for you when they cheat on you, and I will most definitely need you when they cheat on me.

Me and Mrs Jones,

We've got a thing, going on,

We both know that its wrong,

But its much too strong,

to let it go now...

I now have proof that...

...though some of us may hate musicals, all we really wanna do is break out into song and dance.



How fun.

Luncheswiththechingching.

I was reminded of how fun lunches with you were, bitching and gossiping endlessly about other people and how we've come to realize that many Monash material students are really, at best, sub par.

"We" (a.k.a you) must've eaten the karma doughnut, literally because...


But I know we'll never stop, because bitching about other people with you is FUN.

To the divine one,

Please do cut everyone some slack.

You have another 10 months to spread misery on us.

At least, let us sail through the early part of the year smoothly.

Your smallest admirer,
Khairie

Dancing on your grave.

It's been a while, but I remembered once, a million days ago, when counterstrike was still a novelty and cybercafes were scarce, I learnt one of the most important lessons that I have ever learnt in my life.

It so happened back then that there was only one, solitary cybercafe near my school, the only one with counterstrike capable hardware and every schoolboy oozing with testosterone wanted to be one of the lucky players in one out of the only 8 computers there. Each computer was partitioned by one of those office partitions, and rather than one design or edition of the PC, it was more of a junkyard of various old second hand PC's linked together by one wire.

If you wanted to be one of those lucky 8, you had to call in advance, make a booking, and if you didn't, you had to wait in line. I remembered they had this whiteboard up front where the waiting list stretched for columns, and there were lines of boys just looking at other people playing for hours while waiting their turn.

Of course, being a young gamer myself I was not spared from this fad. And it so happened that on one afternoon, I was one of those who wrote their names on this whiteboard, waiting impatiently and eagerly with that tingle in my spine, just aching to get my hands on the mouse and hear the roar of machineguns.

I remembered watching as it took forever to get each name crossed out and see myself slowly rising to the top. And finally, after being the next in line, I watched, focused, as one guy packed his bags, and got ready to leave.

My eyes must have been shining with enthusiasm, which proved to be short lived once I saw the guy talk to his friend, and agreed to let him take his place. He went up to the cashier, paid his time, and then walked out. Of course, I was called next in line, and as I pointed out that there was someone else in my seat, the cashier went to talk to the guy. The conversation of course, is not exact, but I remembered the gist of it.

"Excuse me, but there's a waiting list here. You have to put your name on the waiting list."
"Oh, no, my friend let me sit here."
"I'm sorry, but it's his turn now."
"No no, my friend let me sit here.'
"Well, if this guy agrees to it, then you can stay, but if he says no then you'll have to leave."

It was at this point that the both of them looked at me, expecting an answer. I know, I should've said 'fuck off' or told him to get out, but I remembered how gangsters were prevalent in my school, and this guy looked pretty dodgy. Perhaps out of fear, or meekness, or simply exemplifying my father of always letting things go, for whatever reason, I said;

"It's okaylah, I'll let you have it."

Having said that the cashier walked off, and this guy, exhibiting his alpha maleness spat back, "You didn't let me have it, it was mine."

Reflecting back on this incident now, I realized that there are some things in life that you just have to take, some things in life that you just have to do in order to get what you want. I don't blame the guy now, although I have no doubt in my mind that if I could remember what he looks like and if I were to ever bump into him again, I wouldn't hesitate to screw him over, however way I can.

Today, I'd like to say that I am cold hearted and calculative, that I'd like to exact my revenge whenever I can, but at best I am merely non interventionist. A famous quote by Napoleon Bonaparte goes "Never interrupt an enemy while he is making a mistake," and this is a quote I carry religiously with me, perhaps added with a bit of malicious wishing.

Which is why sometimes, when you pay me the compliment of saying that I'm a nice guy, look out for the skeptical smirk or some other form of scoffing because while I can see why you would say that, you only say it because you don't know me. There are some people whose graves I would dance on, if only to celebrate their death, and I swear by everything I know to be true that I would do it.

And as for you, I tried, for the longest time, to give you the benefit of the doubt, but today I realized with a certainty that I've never liked you. We've had some good times, sure, but let me tell you now that if I should hear about your death, or your beloved, I shall try, perhaps just to evade curious questions from our common friends, to feign some form of grief at your passing. But honestly, I won't be surprised if I couldn't care less, or even be slightly happy inside with the thought 'good riddance' running through my mind.

As a matter of fact, right now, right at this moment, I actually have more sympathy for the guy who stole my wide screen tv last night.

Little mistakes.

There was a fire performance at the restaurant we ate at last night. This guy, he'd light up his sticks and he'd swing them around, eat flames, trail fire across his chest, that kinda thing.

He isn't a fabulous performer to be honest, his face is pretty much concentrated and unexpressive, leaving the flames to pretty much do the talking.

If you catch him at the right moment though, sometimes he screws up and burns his hand. It's at this moment you'll see him furiously shaking it, and then he'd look at the audience with an apologetic and embarassed laugh, and everyone would be laughing along.

I like those moments. It reminds me that sometimes, it's okay to make little mistakes.

...of course, it doesn't apply if he burns himself or the store down.

On another note, I saw you today. I wanted to talk to you, to tell you the painful advice you'd hate but so badly needed to hear, but then I realized we aren't friends anymore. Did you realize that?

You're digging your own grave, but this time, I'll let you. I don't owe you anything anymore, and I'll be perfectly content never seeing you again.

Perhaps someday I'd consider saying 'Goodbye' but I don't think its likely.

I think so too.

"You shouldn't have planned your own birthday."
"Why not?"
"Because you should've taken one day, just one day off from taking care of everyone else."

I wanted you to know, I think so too.

Movie night.

"See, it's not about success, dying in the streets, who's better and who's not! I just want to be a part of it! I realized that even if I've no connections, no talent, even if I'm one big loser, I want to use my hands and feet, to think and to move, to shape my own life!"

I cannot admire the movie Mind Game enough. It's one of the most beautiful movies I've ever watched, and nothing has reminded me that I'm alive and living more than that movie.

On another note, after watching a movie about a tragic love drama, political intrigue, and community and camaraderie, me and the boys have unanimously agreed that -

1) The lead heroine in the movie 'Shinobi' is hotter than any other girl in that movie.
2) The coolest (and best) superpower to have is the ability to stop time.

What can I say? Boys will be boys.

R or L?

I am of the opinion,

that,

if you cannot get love,

then,

get respect.

It is worth far more its weight in gold.

Am I still dreaming?

I remembered when you said goodbye.

It didn't hurt, not at first, just a sort numbness that crept inside, as though someone had applied some emotional anaesthetic.

And things just became all so surreal. I wasn't sure which was reality and which wasn't, and everything seemed to just blend into each other. It was as though suddenly, I was no longer myself, like I had been thrown far away and I was watching myself eat, sleep, drink, laugh and cry, going through the motions but not really there.

It was a dream, you leaving me. One I wasn't sure I was going to wake up from.

Looking back now, I find myself surprised that it was me who cried over you, it was me who argued with you, it was me that spent those long rainy hours talking to you.

I didn't forget, I never have, but I keep thinking; was it really me? Did I really go through all that? Had you and I really existed in the past?

If it was and we had... then why does it feel so unreal? Why do I feel like some parts of it slipped away so quietly, while other parts kept growing?

I've grown a little now, and though I don't think about you as often or as destructively, I secretly come back to you whenever life deals me a bad hand.

But worst of all, I suppose, is that now I can't seem to figure it out.

Am I here now, or am I still dreaming?

Durian Love.

I've been living in this quiet neighbourhood for almost 13 years now, and though it may seem like such a long time, I spent most of it within the comforts of my room. I don't go out much, and honestly there isn't much to distract a person from a hermit existence here, if you really wanted to indulge in it. So I must shamefully admit; I don't really know my neighbourhood that well.

Nevertheless, like people, my neighbourhood has its funny quirks and interesting idiosyncracies, ones that are hard to ignore after living here for 13 years. For example I know that on most mornings, at the very least, when the sun has just come up, I see Mr. Gentle Giant.

Mr. Gentle Giant is this man with a kind face, wears spectacles, has fluffy hair, a moustache and possibly a stubbed chin, though I can't be sure - I'm never close enough to make out his face clearly, and is ridiculously tall. He sticks to routine, and if you should happen drive by my house one day at probably 8.30 am in the morning, you might chance to see this thin, tall man, with shorts and slippers, carrying his dog in the mornings.

That's right. I think I remember noticing a leash, but he would always have his small dog in his arms (carrying it like a baby) and walk serenely by the roadside every morning. Of course, when I see him, I'm either too late, or too early for something I'm supposed to be doing somewhere and chances are I'm rushing, but when I do notice Mr. Gentle Giant I can't help but smile to myself.

Then there's also the Durian lovers.

The Durian lovers are these married couple (I think, but I might be wrong) who happen to sell Durians every wednesday nights by the roadside at the night market near my house. They drive a van with them, the ones with the flaps by the side, and they set up a small stall with generator lights, lay out durians, and sit down on plastic chairs and wait for their customers.

Every time I see them, I almost never see customers, and instead I see them talking with each other. They'd look at each other, making jokes, and they'd always be smiling or laughing, and at other times, they'd just sit next to each other holding hands looking exactly like those new couples you saw when you were 16 and in high school.

And all this actually makes me wonder sometimes, If I can actually do without the zillions of dollars I should be making, and all the beautiful supermodels I should be marrying, without the bungalow houses, the fame and fortune and whether I can live out the rest of my days with something just as simple as carrying a dog in my arms in the mornings, or just sell durians with my wife every wednesday nights.

Strange, isn't it?

Learning the Blues.

There is something to staying up till 4am in the morning, doing what Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong call "learning the blues".

It's not pleasant, nor happy.

But definitely some kind of fix.

At least, when nothing else is.

Otanjobi Omedetou!

Perhaps this birthday, I shall try celebrating it with a little more gusto and a little less self-sabotaging.

=)

If only to say what I really mean...

Dear Father,

I know I was not the son that you dreamed of. You wanted someone simple, someone who didn't think too much, someone who was not overly ambitious. Perhaps you wanted your son to continue the legacy of you and your father before you, living out simple lives, close to the people you love. Perhaps, I shall even go so far as to say, you would have probably wanted a son who was a little less eccentric, someone who didn't think about the world and beyond and focused on the here and now.

For all that its worth, I am truly sorry dad. Your genes could've given birth to someone a lot like the person you wanted, (indeed, I see them all time) perhaps 9 times out of 10; but you won the unlucky lottery and ended up with me instead.

I believe someday we will look back and say, "We did the best we could under those circumstances," and though it may not seem like it, I have appreciated every little thing you have done for me. It doesn't go unnoticed dad, the cleaning of my room, the bits of money you leave for me, and even the eventual appreciation of my need for privacy. Again I reiterate; I am not a good son, and I've said some horrible things to hurt you, but I have always always appreciated everything you've done for me.

Just to let you know, that while I was growing up, I have only fond memories of your raising me. I remember the time when I was hungry in the middle of the night, and while arwah was too grumpy and sleepy to cook me something, you led me downstairs and made a plain omelette with rice, which tasted lovely at that time. I remembered you reading to me bedtime stories of the Wright brothers, the first men to fly, which I keep as inspiration up to this day.

I try to think of a bad memory I have of you dad, but I can think of nothing. You have been a good father and if your son isn't what you hoped he would be, it is not due to your failure as a parent. Sons simply don't turn out to be what you hoped them to be, and someday, when I am a father, I will grow to understand that too.

Thank you for everything you've given to me dad. I can never repay such a debt that I've owed you, but in the words of a famous poet, the plan is to let you know that I understand what you've done for me, what you've gone through, and I intend to say with all sincerity,

Thank you. And I love you.

Yours truly,
Khairie

To you.

I was considering on writing you a text message, just to let you know of this strange twist of fate that will bring us together (in 1 hour and 40 minutes to be exact), but on second thoughts, I decided not to. Perhaps, it is best that we apply the default setting of life, and maybe it will not be uninteresting to see how you would react if you should happen to bump into a stranger who seems and sounds familiar. I wonder, and it is not without the curiosity of a greatly excited boy/scientist - how would you react? Will I be good enough an actor to fool you? Will you recognize me through my facade?

We've never met before although we have been friends for a very long time. I keep trying to remember things about you, what you looked like, how you spoke and what you felt. I knew we would meet someday, although it was not a prophetic conclusion. Merely a hypothesis riddled with skepticism, though it was something I kept thinking about.

We've grown in very different ways and I am certain our keeping out of touch is no mere coincidence. We love each other dearly, of that I am certain - but the question is, could we love each other more if we knew more about the other? Or would we grow to love each other less?

Rather than face something that real and tangible we both decided to do what seemed the best way of dealing with our differences - we froze our relationship in this cryogenic container, letting our ideals of the other grow in our minds and know as little about the other as possible, occasionally putting in a greeting or two just so we know that the other is alive, but never exploring the other, not like we used to at the very least.

What I find most fascinating however is that although we've grown up in very different ways, but by us wanting to save the world with our own methods, we have, amazingly, arrived at one, significant, point - today. Our first meeting. The coincidence that I will forever rationally dismiss yet subconciously can never let go. Fate, Destiny, the very things whose existence I doubt, yet whose occasional occurence will continue to haunt me, you, you, my dear, living contradictory proof of the weakness of my logical thought.

I don't know if I've told you this, but I thought of a phrase that day, and could think of no one to dedicate it to. I wish I could tell you this tomorrow, but perhaps, rather than break open our cryogenic container and risk losing it all on one go, perhaps I could act out that Khairie that you know and remember. Whatever happens my dear, when you read these words, know that I was glad to have met you, if only it was my first and last time doing so.

And in case I haven't told you, I wanted to say:

If life was a symphony, then knowing you would be a peak cresecendo in its midst.

Yours truly,
Khairie

Perhaps my only wish this year for my birthday, is that I catch some light that reflects off people like you.

Dear God,

Dear God,

If you truly exist, and are truly omnipotent, then I will be glad to know that you will get this letter. I am writing to you to complain about your appalling incompetence, and your massive hypocrisy in the creation of this world.

Today I read a friend's blog who wrote about Rachel Corrie, an activist who died while standing against a bulldozer that tried to break down a palestinian home.

In her words, she wrote "She died at age 21 in 2003, crushed by Israeli bulldozers when she tried to prevent it from demolishing a Palestinian home."

So young, and to have died such a horrible death.

The current events in Gaza have led me to believe that you are, at least, a hypocrite. You send your prophets and your angels to preach that we should be good to each other, and that we should be kind to one another, and yet, for all that power you wield, you let thousands of people die horrible, unfair deaths everyday. You promise a wonderful afterlife, but I am not bought, dear God; You seem to have put a neat category of Heaven and Hell, but exclusively reserve judgement to which we have no part in.

I then ask you, dear Divine one, to lend me your power, and let me take over your job.

With such power in my hands I will redesign your creations, I would create a shining new world that everyone can participate in. I will change the very nature of Man, and if Man truly cannot be happy, I will snuff out our existence with one stroke.

I will eliminate pain and suffering, and no one shall, or can challenge this notion. It is a twisted, poor display of logic to say that some exist merely as a contrast to what happiness is, and I will not accept it. I will have no one suffer merely to make others happy.

If you cannot, or will not, change the world, then it is time you stepped down and let me be heaven's justice. I will undo the wrongs that you have committed.

Amin.
Khairie

Perfection.

I wake up and she's already dressed. I ask her, where are you going? And she replies that she's going to meet Eric. A sunday spent with another guy other than her boyfriend, I'm altogether impressed and annoyed. She looks at me, realizes it and smiles. She leans forward, kisses me on the cheek, and tells me I should go see Di, a girl friend of mine. It's been a while since you guys met, she says. She finds no qualms about me hanging out with another girl; her look portrays that confidence and trust that makes her completely secure with everything.

She walks out the door without looking back, and I spend the day with Di. She keeps no contact throughout the day, she's annoying that way; she is immersed completely and entirely with what she's doing at that time, and has no room nor time to be distracted by something else. I try to do the same with Di, but find myself stealing a few seconds throughout the day thinking of her; I never initiate first contact though - my time now is with Di, and it would be rude to deny her that time. Besides, she hates checking on, and being checked on.

We finish hanging out and I come home to find her still out. I pick up a book and start reading, while waiting for her to come back. Finally she walks through the door and comes over and again that kiss on the cheek. How was your time with Di? she asks. I tell her it was fun, and she tells me about her day with Eric. It does not become a battle of who had more fun or who missed who more - she is simply too mature for that.

She walks away and she tells me we're going out to have dinner. Again, I feel annoyed that she would assume I would be free to go out, but the annoyance is short lived. She says she's already made bookings at this restaurant. I want to tell her off, to say that she shouldn't have done that, but what I'm really annoyed at is that she knows exactly what I want to do. She doesn't feel like she has to wait for me to make things happen - she can move mountains without my help.

We go for dinner, and we talk. We talk of politics, of science, of religion, and also the little gossip here and there. Time seems to simply fly by - 2 hours flow naturally. She picks up the bill.

We then decide to go to a jazz bar for drinks and good music. Again, her attention is focused on the performance and the music, and she pays no heed to me. She immerses herself within the hypnotic tunes of the performers, and finds no real need to speak. She is completely in her own world. I try to do the same, but find myself observing her. Without looking she holds my hand, and we sit in the dark, not speaking, but enjoying the music together.

The performance ends, and we head home. The day is perfect, but we both get the feeling it must end. We find no reason to stretch an already perfect day by having sex at the end, and we both knew it without saying a word. We change, and she leans forwards, kisses me, tells me she loves me, turns off the light and goes to sleep.

To my perpetual muse.

I still remember the first time I saw you.

It was thousands of days ago when all 3 of us boys got the call that your sister was bringing 'a friend' and us being boys, speculated on how hot you'd be.

We were all faaar from disappointed. We still remember the green thong, the cool yet funny charisma, the long flowing hair, the sexy tattoos. On some occasions, we still talk about you, and how each of us made a fool out of ourselves in front of you.

Growing up as a hopeless boy with a massive crush on you I did plenty of stupid things that I can remember. Writing that story about how big your boobs were and trying to come up with our own 'song', sending you those flirty messages at 8am in the morning, bringing those 'kiddie girls' to go out clubbing with you - at each juncture you could've been every other girl and dismissed me and left, but you never did. I can imagine you just shaking your head and smirking and saying "boys will be boys," and then still keeping in touch.

At this point I can close my eyes and random bits and pieces of memories, (ones I know you won't be able to remember) come trickling back in. That talk we had about drugs, about girls and body language. That night I sent you home drunk and puking, and then me delivering the keys to you the next day while you were having a hangover at work. You sitting at the passenger seat of my car with your legs hunched up telling me why you'd have to turn me down, while smoking your cigarette, nestling it gently between your two index fingers.

I remember you being unbelievably hot just doing that.

The funny posts you had on your shared blog, the karaoke sessions. That night the HUGE fat dude tried to pick you up and you had to flick the finger to tell him off. Another thing I remembered that I loved doing while I was out with you was checking out other guys checking you out.

It made me feel like the coolest guy on earth doing that.

They say that 'Love at first sight' doesn't exist, but I still feel the same way about you now, several years later after I first saw you. There's still that desire to just put my arm around you and pull you close and just kissing you, but at the same time, there's also that boyish hesitation.

You've always called yourself my older sister, and for the longest time I've rejected that notion. After all, you don't normally want to kiss your older sister, but now thinking back, if I did have an older sister, I'd like her to be exactly like you.

And now you're getting married to FB, and again, there's that boyish voice in my head being bitter. But it's been a while since we've met, and this boy has grown up a bit. If you can picture me with a slight smirk and just a hint of resentment in my eyes saying, "Congratulations Diana, I'm happy for you," then you would've known everything I've wanted to say already.

And I really do mean it.

Have a great one, my perpetual muse. And don't you dare slip out of touch.

p/s: Maybe his new nickname should be F.H eh? Lol.