One Fear At A Time
Past love, frustration and rage, something had snapped inside my conscience yesterday. After dodging rapid firing emotional shots, I had gone to bed with one resolution: if it does not cross the line of being potentially hazardous to my well being (and the people around me) or borderline stupidity (and I mean obnoxiously stupid), do one thing you're afraid of every day.
I woke up today, strong and determined to do one thing that scared me. That is, if the opportunity presented itself...
Actually, I had gone to bed without remembering I was supposed to drive somewhere today.
Let's get something straight. I'm not afraid of driving. As badly as my execution could ever be, I love to drive. I love playing in traffic (when it moves that is), the speed, the adrenaline rush, the fast and the furious! Well hey now, I just ripped off a movie title, fancy that.
And some might argue that I've nearly killed them in the process in my thrill to satiate my need for speed. List of near-casualties include (but is most definitely not limited to): Chris, Cina, Yees, Vee, Mei, Joo, Melisa, Noel, Paulo, Nico and uhm... well, basically anyone who's sat in a car with me as the driver and has screamed out loud or have visibly lost a healthy dose of color by the end of the journey ;) Oh yeah, Josh and Gary don't really count. They're too busy nodding off to the rhythm of their yawns for the most part to realize they've even boarded a moving vehicle. Which is quite a feat if you think about, considering they have to walk to my car.
I don't think I'm as scary as Aaron though, really.
No, it's got nothing to do with the fact that I'm an Asian woman.
But I digress! Granted, changing lanes on the highway in the midst of Malaysian traffic itself gives you the same five nanosecond heart-stopping action you'd get from initially getting dropped free fall off a twenty storey building. Think I'm bluffing? Have you ever tried changing lanes while a Kancil is seemingly blocks away? Just as you hit that signal... before the circuit even has time to react, the Kancil flies past you at vehicle rattling, earth shaking sonic speed fueled by unseen demonic forces that leave an imaginary trail of blazing hellish fire... missing you by a pitiful hairsbreadth.
So keeping in mind the latter condition of my resolution and promptly forgetting my first one, I embarked on my adventure.
The only problem with today's route: the bloody, god-forsakenly chaotic Rothman's ROUNDABOUT.
Clashing with modern thoughts of sophisticated infrastructure and the civility of unambiguous architecture is the abominable, bastard-child of a roundabout.
Despite being spoiled by avant-garde quality highways and effective traffic control systems, 80% of the Malaysians who drive STILL have piss poor road manners. Keeping this in mind, I clung on to the steering wheel for dear life as I approached the roundabout. During lunch break too.
Ah, the traffic at the roundabout can only be described as a symphony of semi-coordinated confusion.
I swear to God and whatever else is holy and dear to you, driving in Malaysia requires telepathy to know who plans on going where without leaving a fat dent on every car that passes by.
Also, keep in mind it's been four long, blissful years since I had encountered a roundabout.
After fifteen seconds of watching traffic pass and a dully calculated risk of entering without incident before the dusty white Mercedes 240E could swing into my quarter, I had let go of all inhibitions and proceeded to enter the swirling mass of cars.
It was a living, moving, breathing piece of art. No car horns or nasty looks yet, I was proud of myself.
Now leaving this living, moving breathing piece of art was another problem.
I had to take the junction right opposite where I entered the roundabout. Naturally, this meant making way for the cars who wanted to exit sooner... which also meant that I was on the second inner lane... which ultimately meant that I had to switch lanes. In a roundabout.
I nearly made it out without even blinking (or breathing) but alas, at the final moments, when the satisfaction of a miniscule sense of achievement was just within grasp: a sleek and shiny, black Toyota RAV4 decided not to take the exit before mine (as I assumed he would since he was on the outer lane) and headed straight my way.
No, no. There was none of that frantic, intense and abrupt brake jamming that would've undoubtedly leave a hole where the pedal was supposed to be, loud cursing or nasty flip offs.
I had cruised to my exit despite the single short and crisp horn from the RAV4 who was forced to unwillingly albeit gracefully yield and slow down a teeny bit. At the sound of the horn, I had winced inside, silently apologized and went on my way seemingly cool and unfazed to the untrained eye.
There. My first roundabout experience in four years.
To my credit, the trip back was as smooth as a baby's bottom.
Beautifully executed with no mess and no fuss.
After one gentle horn, I had become a poser veteran roundabout goer.
Regardless of how proud I am to tackle my fear of the day and sticking to my resolution, giving it a memorably smashing initiation, I don't ever want to cross that roundabout EVER. Only unless they've paved it down and replaced the concrete block of circle with flashing lights; namely the red, yellow and green.
Until then, there will be alternatively longer routes to take but happier people on the road.
What else could a girl ask for?
The Gym and You
For starters, don't even ask me which gym I go to. For good reason I might add.
Number 1, I don't have a gym membership. I'm sorry Max, I just can't do it. Why? See reason two.
Number 2, I don't possess enough discipline nor do I foresee myself shuffling in enough commitment to haul my lazy ass away from my lappie long enough to make it up to the bathroom and climb into a pair of sweats. I will however, being me, trip over myself if I'm asked to go out clubbing without hesitation. Shallow, really.
Number 3, since I lack the motivation, I shouldn't really even bother investing in a gym membership to begin with.
Honestly, I think I'm just intimidated by the prospects of imagining a hippo bouncing on her treadmill while gasping for oxygen in a non-too-ladylike fashion while realizing that everyone around her is watching (in choked fear) to make sure she doesn't inevitably collapse and/or make her audience one, huge fleshy cushion.
Despite not being physically present in a gym, I've heard interesting stories about the people who frequent them. Of course, it's doubly as interesting if that person is someone you personally know or has reached celebrity status.
According to a friend, let's call him sexyNate (he wanted to be known as Hottie McHot; I balked and proceeded to laugh myself into a hysterical fit as pigs flew), who said:
(mind you I'm just joining up my MSN conversations; not that I really give a flying fuck but sexyNate is delicate, so be gentle on the grammar)
Marion C of OSIM uZap fame? Work out? Poppycock!
"I have hot gossip on celebrities... for example, Marion C goes to the gym not to work out... she puts on piles of makeup and wears designer workout clothes like Nike and Adidas... which look like she just wore them off the rack.. they DO NOT LOOK USED AT ALL... and she smiles, and walks around the gym... waving at people... and you never see her working out ONCE."
She doesn't need to workout, that's what that abdominal vibrator is for. If anyone is wondering, I couldn't Google Marion C, heh. As to why I didn't put a direct product link; OSIM International is a donkey ass flash site, 'nuff said.
As to whether that POS actually works: no.
I own one. Don't ask.
But I digress. So sexyNate rants on:
This scenario does remind me of my Organic Chemistry TA bitching about students coming up to him while he was working out in the gym and asking him for exam/discussion question answers. The exasperated look he had while standing in front of an auditorium full of students either blinking sleepily or in grand slumber hidden behind strategically placed newspapers was absolutely priceless.
"Well she does la.... she will use the machine for like 2 seconds then she'll stop.... walk around... and i saw someone actually went up to her and asked to take photograph, it was HILARIOUS!"
I got derailed again! Back to sexyNate's adventure:
"I was staring in disbelief but it was probably Marion's dream come true... she was probably waiting for that... and then Adam C is a skinny little bastard with a big head... his arms are the size of toothpicks.. its highly disturbing and its disproportionate to his body."
It's only Marion C who goes to the gym not to work out but to be an exhibitionist:
"So the total is: Jaclyn Victor, Marion C, Adam C, Tony Eusoff... and apparently some guy who was in 'The Young and the Dangerous'."
As a final note, I would like to add this is what sexyNate said about Tony Eusoff:
"hahaha Marion fool... oh yeah she's really loud too... she has a 'trainer' but really they dun do anything... she just goes 'ARGHH IT'S SO HEAVY' and whines... i had my headphones on listening to music and i could hear this high pitch screaming... i took out my headphones and i was like... oh it's marion whining"
Celebs and all that jazz. UNF.
"Yeah tony eusoff is FIT. Uh. That came out wrong."
The Brownie Affair
I shall not crucify myself for loving, desiring and basking in the satisfaction of feeling complete and whole. Nor shall I entice others to ultimately join me in my temporary lapse of self control (<3 gimpiedoodle).
But really, what is a girl to do?
Two inches of thick, moist, chocolate goodness sitting a scant inch away from her fingertips. Tempting, teasing... almost begging to be tasted.
What's a little dark chocolate icing on the tip of her tongue and the warm sensual scent that lingers on her lips? Can't you already feel the sweet, rich, creamy texture of dark chocolate trickling down your throat, quivering your insides as you swallow?
And that warm, pleasureable cascade of rapture from the rippling after effects of sampling a tiny piece of heaven.
Ah, the simple ecstasy of having a brownie in the middle of the night while ignoring your socially pre-conditioned subconcious mind screaming at how the brownie is indeed the spawn of satan.
In retrospect, it is quite an ugly sight watching a fat person shove forkfuls of brownie cubes into their mouth. Even worse if it leaves a glaringly telltale icing trail on the side of their cheeks. However, it's strangely adorable if you stick a cute, petite little girl with sickeningly sweet frills in that situation (Randi, lover, are you up for some modelling sessions? ;)). Boggles the mind, really.
Mmm, I believe it's time for a nice, hot cup of tea to compliment the brownie I've just so shamelessly inhaled without any reservations.
Ignorance is bliss.
The funeral is done. The body is in the ground.
It's a strange culture we Chinese people have. It's perfectly "okay" to watch a man take his last breath on the hospital bed. "Okay" to watch the skin on his face turn translucent as you watch his chest struggle to rise and fall one last time. Nothing "wrong" with watching his heart rate painfully dwindle and finally flatline. It's still not "taboo" to look at his casket, to see if it's been positioned properly before they start heaving dirt over it. But it's completely forbidden to watch my grandfather's casket being carried in and out of the funeral wagon (whether it's from the house or to the burial spot) and lowered into the ground.
To be honest, these past three months has been extremely exhausting. These past three days escalated everything up ten-fold; crying was acceptable together with the sleepy wake of legitimate reasons to unleash everybody's personal vengeful demons. Every moral virtue frowned upon (almost all, but not quite) reared its ugly head only to be defended and amended with reasons of grief and consolation.
This morning, as we did the funeral march to a garbled, cacophonous tone of "Amazing Grace" and the relatives' grieving wails for the dearly departed (with my aunts setting the pace), my eyes were strangely dry.
I could feel the tears well up... even compelled to explode given the somber situation I was in. But just as quickly, with a small bite on my lip and a look to the ground on my left--the tears, the urge and the reason went away.
I am strong. I have to be. And I can't cry these tears anymore.
On a side note, I am pretty glad the funeral is over and done with. He is in peace and everyone can take their nosy, cotton-picking fingers out of the big family drama pot and get on with their lives.
Cold-hearted bitch? Well, all the high-strung bickering was more than what I wanted to hear. My mom's family tree carries with itself deep, dark, twisted secrets which I caught hushed whispers of during the big family lunch gathering today. Considering I don't speak Hokkien all too brilliantly (i.e. the relatives don't bother talking to me and quiz my parents instead while I flash my pearly whites periodically, it's both a curse and blessing really) I still end up asking my parents what on Mother Nature's green earth were they whispering about.
The interest of the day came in the form of an old, buried story from a long, long time ago, regarding "stolen" inheritance from my great-grandfather which got swindled away by another family member... just means that my recently departed grandfather didn't get squat but his brother (who isn't really his brother, but is my mom's grandfather's daughter's son... go figure O.o) manipulated the situation at that time and inherited the millions in land property from my great-grandfather. In essence, everything went to the grandson.
Sigh, the old cobwebs tangled with resentment that runs deep.
I suppose drama is a genetic trait that runs in the family, down to my generation; my genes are laced with a superior essence of drama compacted and refined through the generations.
Finally, a little dark humor amidst the depressing, lonesome mood I've set: I found this in my cousin's place and since it would be excessively awkward to carry a camera to a funeral, my grainy phone cam caught:
New packing too.
I'll leave it open to interpretation.
I've never walked into a hospital feeling so detached from the world I had long ago made my playground. I sit on a swing which is now rusty and dangling precariously by a decrepit chain while looking around just to realize the slide is bent and broken and the see-saw splintered into a grotesque mass. Suspended in a heavy shroud of desolation, all I can do is sit on my swing and watch the dying leaves eddy about on the naked concrete. I had come prepared too; all decked out in white, evil red eyes, long black flowy hair... the very makings of my own J-Horror flick. I was the Angel of Death lost in her own complications and at war with her emotions.
So lost in my thoughts, as I was walking down the stairs, I slipped and gracefully landed on my ass a few stair steps later. Despite my right arm taking most of the impact, my right ass cheek (and my pride) now sported a nasty, stinging bruise. Bruised ass cheek, broken wing... same thing.
One delicate step at a time, I made my way to the elevators and bleakly watched the floor numbers light up on the shiny metallic control panel.
I watched my despondent features disappear as the heavy doors slid open, beckoning me into a dimly lit hallway which walls were coated with a fallaciously bright and calm layer of fresh green paint. My nostrils were overpowered by the sterile scent of death that lingered patiently around every corner of the floor.
Have you ever cried so much, or tried to hold your tears in so bad your face hurts? Don't laugh.
For every tear you attempt to keep pooled at your eyes, but would traitorously leave a warm trickle across your cheek every once so often, there are a few muscles in your face that scream in protest to force the expression. Multiply that by a frequency of once every one minute.
To be extremely honest, I didn't really know my grandfather THAT well.
But just when you thought you could cry no more tears, you walk yourself into the hospital accommodation of four hospital beds in one cramped room with all its occupants just waiting to die, the composure you've valiantly fought to keep just shatters. Walking up to my grandfather, standing at the corner of his tiny bed... I stood there unmoving, unsure of what to do.
Will he fall apart if I touch him? Does he even remember who I am? I just saw him a few weeks ago.
And then he held out a shaky, wrinkled, fragile hand towards me.
And the tears came.
Together with the twisted knots in my chest and that one shaky, uneven, suffocated breath.
My grandfather sits there, holding my hand not realizing that the cancer and the dangerously slow but steady internal bleeding is killing him softly.
Several pulled facial muscles later, I joined my cousins in the waiting hall while my parents, aunts and uncles "talked" downstairs. I looked at my cousins. If they're not pacing about restlessly, they sit there quietly with red eyes and dried tear-streaked cheeks zoning out. We are all so different in every way possible but today, sitting on the chairs well worn in by previous occupants praying, hoping and crying past desperation for their loved ones, we are all unified as one big family with one heart-wrenching concern.
It is true though that sitting together, we are all kited into the gloomy web of forlorn despair we've spun and we ultimately feed off each other's depression causing an intensely emotionally charged atmosphere.
Emotionally hanging by a gossamer thread of hope and with nothing else to do, I gazed past the nurses' station, past the long row of files which held vitals of who would die and who would live, past the murky white window frame and into... an abyssal, obsidian tunnel of nothingness.
The lucky ones on this floor get to go home with their loved ones through the two big doors at the entrance downstairs. The unlucky ones (subjective, really) get fearlessly spirited away in the middle of the night out the window into a different time and place. In a sense, the hospital is the exchange terminal. Life is brought into the world here and cruelly enough, life is taken back a mere tower away.
It was awhile before the "adults" came back up. Listening to them talk had transformed me into the seven year old sitting on plastic chairs years ago while looking at my first aunt sleeping peacefully in the casket in front of me. Whispering furiously to my cousin, I could only ask why our aunt was sleeping there unmoving. Yes, it didn't really hit home that she was not waking up anymore.
It did a few minutes later when I saw my mom and other aunts start to cry. At least, my seven year old brain finally grasped that something was very wrong.
Transported back into the present, I'm not sure if I should be inspired by the adult practicality or a little shocked. They were talking about funeral arrangements. Technically, he is going to die but for crying out loud the man is still alive on his bed and they were already disputing about how much his casket would cost.
My mom and second aunt stayed behind.
I came home with my dad.
On the way home, my dad darted a glance at me sideways while I looked out the window at nothing in particular. He reached over and gave me a solid pat on my head saying, "Be strong."
And I cried to myself.
World Cup FEVER!
The crowd is restless, high on adrenaline and pushed to the edge of frenzy excitement. The players are vicious; in both skill and the drive to win (the non-too-subtle dirty plays, eh?). The goalkeepers are so determined they dive face first after the incoming football approaching at comet-like speed and hang on to it while embracing it in a protective, fetal position cocoon. So much so you could mistake the football for their own jewels as they desperately hang on like the very continual survival of the human race depended on it. Salute! ;)
Don't really expect anything but "GOAL!" and/or a mouthful of profanity since I've jumped on the merry bandwagon of borderlining a football hooligan as the hectic, giddy buzz of the World Cup tournaments rumble onto my TV screen at the wee hours in the morning.
The only thing less exciting and horribly uninspiring during football matches are the OSIM ads. Or rather, the one OSIM ad that's not entirely arousing but particularly disturbing being shown over and over... and over again. Really, iGallop? OSIM might as well be trying to sell a sybian masquerading as a "Core and Abs Exerciser" for the whole family.
In all honesty, I've actually sat on one of those before... and I'm referring to the OSIM iGallop, not the sybian ;) The promoter sat me side-saddled on one of those contraptions (which, quite frankly takes the term "grinding at inanimate objects" to new heights) while chatting me up. Thirty minutes, one interesting conversation and a graceful dismount later, the only thing that got a work out was my stiff backbone as I tried to keep a proper posture while attempting to keep my body from flailing about too much and to NOT fall off the iGallop like a clumsy twat.
Needless to say, I didn't buy that poor excuse for a sybian/horse/exercise machine.
I do not need a machine that bounces me up and down which ultimately just looks like I'm trying relentlessly hard to seduce the empty, sweaty air in the room around me and be oh-so-naughty and intimate with my exercise equipment. But I digress.
Actually, I really don't know why I'm still blogging.
Back to World Cup xD For the record, England didn't deserve that goal. Suck it up you England fans, that match was intensely rotten :P
Can't wait for tomorrow's match: Japan vs. Australia! However, I think I may just cry when Japan goes up against Brazil.
I'm pretty much braindead, more than the usual, tonight.
My left eye is twitching profusely, quite possibly from the lack of blinking earlier in the day.
Web host migrations are a pain in the ass, really.
Templates? Helpful, but alas, still not automated enough.
To top it off, some of the pages are in Malay.
I swore I heard the plastic of my mouse squeal when I found out I had to translate.
Speaking of monitors, I need another one.
Tabbing between Fireworks, Dreamweaver and Illustrator gets to you after awhile--like that itch you want to scratch but you know if you keep going gung-ho at it, you're only going to end up taking off a sizeable chunk of your skin. I've been thoroughly spoilt by the BNMC Lab <3
It doesn't help that my neighbour's kid is a spoilt little brat glorifying in the midst of his teenage angsty years. He stands at the bloody door and screams at his maid (who's too nice of a person to be babysitting those rascals if you ask me), sister and/or mommy in his semi-distorted nasal voice like he's about to blow their heads to bits... or something to that effect, to open the door for him. Every. Single. Time. When he's out, it's a double-edged sword really: relieved that he's no longer forcefully attempting to command the gates of his castle down or waiting to painfully puncture my eardrums for when he does come back so that I don't have to listen to his volatile tantrums?
For fuck's sake give the boy a key.
Did I also mention that his sister, without fail, cries every day? At a specific time too, somewhat close to dinner. How old is she? Old enough to play badminton, open the door and retaliate (if the planetary alignment is right) when her elder brother gets all too pissy.
I have songs from the Alice in Wonderland play (from back when I was in Coventry <3) whizzing through my head and I'm singing along to them like I sang to them yesterday in the choir. It's peculiar, nostalgic and to a point that it's warmly comforting.
If you're wondering, I was the small door in the play xD
Doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out why: I was the only and shortest Asian kid amongst my tall, big-eyed, sharp-featured classmates. I'm squeezing what's left of my shriveled brain to see if I can remember their faces. Gemma, Becky, Simon, Paul, William, Anna, Michael... I'm sure I have a class photo somewhere xD I don't believe Simon was in my class O.o I just remember him having brilliant, fiery red hair. At that age of innocence and curiousity, it was a fascinating sight: liquid rubies dancing in firelight every time he stood by a window. Oh yeah, he played a tree/the Cheshire Cat in the play, that's probably why I remembered lol
I should just stop posting for the day before I completely derail my thoughts all the way down to the mental ward.
Oh yes, due to popular demand (AHAHAHAHAHA, such a fib said with grossly exaggerated grace) and because people are bitching/whining that I don't have any pictures of myself on my blog (ironic, isn't it?), here are some shots I took for my baby... which he promptly laughed himself into fits upon seeing them, mind you.
Sean. Taken before the big room cleaning session.
Sean 2 minutes later. Trying to be cute eh? EMO.
And that's about all the camera whoring I'll be doing this year.
Before I leave, here's a naughty, dirty little gift from Mark. She's so good it shames my writing back down to a plain, vanilla-flavored popsicle.
Through the looking glass
Away from the busy streets of modern city civilization, past the murky retention pools off the side of dangerously small muddy roads and into a small spot in the jungle untouched by mobile phone reception lies a small jungle retreat by the name of Sekeping Serendah. This past weekend, we (Keong, Eric, Joo, Cina, Pau and I) decided to whisk ourselves to this serenely (how serene you'll find out later :P) quaint jungle retreat.
We actually got lost on the way there.
Completely missed the little dirt turning to the left and headed all the way to the waterfall area where, and I kid you not, the bloody engineer/architect who constructed the parking area had his head up his ass and was smoking too much weed when he decided to map everything out. Who the their sane, logical mind would make dead ended parking lots with lanes the width of my pinky fingers?? It's like driving into a skinny fork.
After maneuvering out of that mess, we made it to our little retreat which was blocked off by a fancy gateway (obviously, this was taken when I got out of Eric's car after we got into the compound):
We all happily unloaded:
The girls unloading.
The single boy.
And this is how rugged we were:
Joo carting Cina's bag of goodies up the walkway.
We trekked through the rather short walk:
To finally arrive at the fabled "glass" house:
Pretty isn't it?
Pau and I went trigger happy with our cameras trying to capture the glass-wood-and-zinc house in every angle possible. We snagged a few sexy models to boot too ;)
Lazy hammock and mini kitchen.
Living room and deck view.
Keeping cool with IKEA products.
The most spectacular area of the house; the open-air shower:
Taking a bath with nature.
Stairs to the top floor.
Joo and Pau on the bed. Needs more scandal imo ;)
Cina on the log.
Shutters at the top of the stairs.
Remember the open-air shower? This is how open-aired it is; behold the view from the bedroom patio:
Theoretically speaking, this trip is supposed to be some sort of a jungle retreat--escapism from the conveniences of modern life. Yeah, a jungle retreat with a microwave, electricity and plumbing. Doesn't get any better than that amirite ;) Of course, being the piggies we are, we had decided to stock up on food for our overnight stay:
After unpacking, we decided to chill out:
Our DJ for the stay.
It was so peaceful it wasn't long before Eric succumbed to the wispy lull of Mother Nature's embrace... and decided to let the hammock embrace him as well:
While Eric fell into a deep slumber, the girls decided to go for a dip in the pool:
They had creatively funky looking chairs which I'd imagine would be as comfortable as sitting on a waffle iron on an extremely hot day:
Mesh inspired chair.
And no, there are no bikini shots you perverts ;) Today's blog theme is jungle serenity, stay with me here.
After a nice refreshing dip with female gossip, friendly catching-up amidst Cina's diving bombs and an ice cold shower in our beloved open-air bathroom which had a "heater" switch just apparently for shits and giggles and had moot functionality, it was time for dinner!
Looks fabulous, yes?
But really, what bbq would be complete without rain? :/
Keong trying to salvage the fire.
Despite Keong's attempts at trying to keep the rain off our food, we had to shift indoors. Not to mention, We did run about like chickens with their heads cut off closing doors and shutters, good times <3 Cina meandered out a couple of times to try to cook a few chicken wings over the dying embers before the sky decided to take a huge piss over her. I just have this to say: Hallelujah for the microwave! Or we'd all starve to death :P
We made smores too! We didn't have Graham crackers or Hershey's chocolate so we made do with Jacob's breakfast crackers and Cadbury's ;) Once again, bless the microwave.
Our water supply got hacked off too when it started raining. When it did come back on, it was still ice cold (if not freezing) as Eric had found out. He now holds the world record for jumping in and out of the shower in the shortest amount of time (in order to avoid any unnecessary ah, shrinkage of parts ;p).
By the time the rain had subsided and when we had our fill, it was night time. Plunged into a sensation of otherworldliness, we watched as the glass house, basked in golden light that bounced off the glass doors, came to life illuminating our little spot in the jungle with a warm, fuzzy light.
Cam-whoring the house up a notch; indoor shots:
Outdoor shots (if you can't see anything, it's Eric's fault because he took the shots :P):
Joo, Sean and something fascinating on the ground.
The atmosphere was spellbindingly tranquil everyone was falling asleep by 8pm. Cina busted out the candles so we had something to do:
Candles on the deck.
Wasn't long until the unruffled jungle comfort stole over us again and we decided to shift a mattress out to lay under the stars in the midst of candlelight flickers (the real, less imaginative reason was that the metal piece we were sitting on were making little tic-tac-toe square imprints on our thighs and asses):
Takin' it easy.
We had extensive conversations ranging from work, ladies and gents, how small the world was, deep sea diving, people we knew/know and to my obscene usage of acronyms. At one point, our conversation regarding the people we knew/know, led to the conclusion that since light travels faster than sound, people appear bright until they speak ;)
El Oh El <3
Ssshh, it's our little secret!
Very soon, sleepiness drifted over and around us (minus Keong who was already fast asleep on the floor :P) forcing us to call it a night. Did I mention that peeing in the middle of the night in the open-air bathroom was really, really frightfully disconcerting?
We woke up in the morning to the delicately sweet sound of ruffled leaves and the invigorating smell of fresh rain. Well, yeah I'm sure the burning charcoals (indicating that there's food around) was a plus factor too.
We had our version of toast:
Zooming in, the remnants of yesterday night's activities are quite visible. We decided to roast everything we could get our hands on--peanut shells, peanuts, a banana and rice crackers. I'm sure it added some flavor to our bread xD
Since we had so much fun doing that, we decided to roast a banana and melt some chocolate (and Cheezels, but that was later on):
Tasty albeit slightly unrefined presentation wise, we present chocolate bananas for breakfast:
Soon, it was time to pack up and leave :/
Here are some morning shots of the place and the happy people:
Let the morning light through!
Pile of rubbish cameo.
Keong and Eric washing up.
We did take some group pictures but they're all housed in Pau's camera. So I'll add those in later ;D
At the moment, my head's swaying from side to side from OD-ing on Panadol (fever, sore throat, the works... yeah) and I don't think I can muster up anything else to say that won't come out sounding retarded and illogical :P
It was a fantastic weekend and I'm sure we'll go back ;) September kids' birthday rendezvous, yes? <3
The Room Chronicles (1): Down memory lane
(Incoming long ass, picture whoring post :))
As I'm typing this post, my fingers still STINK of garlic from marinading the chicken for our trip to the glass house tomorrow. I even used a whole lemon to scrub my hands to the point of prunesville and they are still glorified in the stench of garlic.
Before my excellent night spent at the kitchen sink molesting a few chicken wings or so, I had finally gotten round to starting the second step of my room project: moving out and clearing the pile of ancient artifacts buried deep within the shelves of my room. At 1:30pm, this is how my room looked like (and how it's looked like since I was 12):
My room, authenticly dirty since 1995.
A different angle.
My secret stash.
My dad mentioned once that I shame the entire female population of the world by being such a messy little brat. I disagree, I call my mess an artistic tempermant. But yeah, I'm lazy as fuck.
The first place I decided to blow to bits was the lower part of the glass-windowed shelf. And what do I find? Sailormoon gift bags lol :P
In the name of the Moon, I will punish you!
I admit it, I was the biggest Sailormoon fangirl back then. I think I still am though, only not as severe. Next to the bags were a pile notes from my Psychology 201 class. It was an interesting read--interesting enough that I found myself pouring through the pages and ultimately meandering away from cleaning. I suffer from A.D.D., so bite me.
With the bottom shelf done, I moved to the other shelf:
I love candles. And essential oils, yes mmm. I'd grow my own herbs if I could but any plant I touch has the tendency to crumble into a little heap of compost.
For those who are wondering, I run a cult too: Circle of the Mystic Nekos. Yes, the truth is out! I'm not some fancy James Bond spy vixen, I'm just a plain old witch :P We're holding rites of initiation sometime this month, all who are interested are welcome to attend our promiscuous frolick under the moonlit night...
I'm kidding <3
No offense to any Wiccans reading ^^; Much love and respect to you all <3 The selfish little stab I made was meant for simple minds of diluted realities.
I shifted my attention to the covered portion of the shelf beside my bed. What do I find? More Sailormoon.
Odango atama and the scouts.
And my little treasure trove of trophies:
To think I was hardworking and a bloody kiasu little overachiever geek back "in those days". I'm almost convinced that it was some alternate reality I had completely fabricated to escape the cruel, jagged teeth of reality. Sigh, don't we all live for melodramaticity? Oh look, I'm making up words along the way. Too bad, as current reality stands, I'm a useless bum :P
Hmm, what else did I find? Besides Aunty May's ISIC card (good times at the Cardinal by the way *hugs* ;p), I found these nested comfortably between stacks of scratch paper:
Differential equa... wha?
Geeky math books (not one but TWO) by my fucking bed stand, seriously. Where did that part of me die off to? I blame Chemical Engineering. Well, no. I blame the people in that deparment, the ones that made me despise studying altogether. So here's a royal fuck you to the little bitches who strove to make every one of my course mates in my year (and so forth) miserable.
On a brighter note:
The neck bone is connected to the head bone!
Yay! Memories from England! :D I think this was my final Science project of some sort. As I flipped through the pages, I came across something that made me laugh out loud. It was a fingerprint exercise (to learn the different patterns etc) and for the exercise, I had to fabricate a "bad guy", draw a picture of him/her, come up with a background story and fingerprint the "bad guy" as if he/she had been caught (i.e. my own).
Take a guess what I named my baddie alter-ego? (to my own credit, this little fact only proves that I've loved cats since the beginning of time :P)
I can't believe I called her Pussy...
Ok, when you were ten years old, it's all nice, innocent and that's a good nickname for a baddie who's got the word "cat" in her name. Now that I'm a bloody shameless pervert at the age of twenty-two, it's beyond horrific :P That's so going into my treasure trove.
Ugh, all this procrastinated cleaning is taking a toll on my trash bags. Barely two hours and I'm running out of trash bags already. As I'm bouncing back and forth my shelves, I find more strange/interesting/memorable stuff that include: old make-up that I bought to apply for one occassion (fucking peer pressure :p) only to forget about when the next event cropped up, an enormous stack of pictures, guitar strings, an old guitar chord book, all my ancient government exam papers (from year 12, 15 and 17 :p), kindergarten progress report books, all three years worth (I was pretty much already a kiasu brat back then LOL) and lots and lots of CDs.
Hurricane: in the midst of sorting.
What else... oh yeah, seemingly neverending stacks of calculus notes >_< The pile has grown up to about one and a half feet tall :/ And oh oh, *the* Theatre 101 script for our first play.
Fuck Drama class. That class was filled with fucking ass kissers (yes baby, that includes you and your merry gang of butt kissers :P) that were more interested in sucking than acting. Ooh, zing!
I had also found the musical box I had to make when I was 15 for a "living skills" class project. I know, a musical box is just so practical in every day use that we simply HAD to make one from scratch. I aced the carpentry and electrical circuit part. Failed miserably when it came time to make a quilt cover for my box. Says plenty about my feminine domestic skills eh?
Dance, magic dance!
The biggest discovery of the day: a Backstreet Boys CD.
I am going to drown myself and repent for the rest of my life for even having that wretched thing in the sanctity of my room. Burn!
All that excitement aside, I went through my stuff from Japan <3 I spent a good time just looking through them feeling awkwardly nostalgic... and reminiscing :/ Oh! I found this curious thing buried deep within my photo albums:
Keeping deliciously warm.
What is that you ask? If memory serves me right, it's a pouch filled with sand that heats up after you shake it vigorously. I'm sure there's some simple chemical reaction going on but the darn thing is in Japanese and I can't read Japanese. I mean, I can read hiragana but won't have any clue what the fuck I am saying. So, yeah.
I had tons of fun shaking that thing :)
The pouch's insides had nearly solidified (guess how long it's been hidden! :P), so no more shaking :/
I'm done with most of the room, just one more cupboard to clean out >.> Although I suspect I'm going to throw out 90% of the things in there. At the end of the day, I came out with two piles (minus the stack of calculus notes and random magazines which I've already carted out :P), the pile to keep:
And the pile to dump for good:
Besides my stinky garlic-smelling fingers from massaging chicken wings, it was a memorable day indeed :)
previously on nekomatta.com
Sean Sean Tan;
sarcastic wordsmith, dirty in oh-so-many ways, fun-loving IE-hating CSS worshiping markup "engineer", anime-styled arm flailing expressive communicator, proudly self-initiated member of the cult of milk and caffeine, snotty pink crayon lover, tree hugging hippy organic designer, pole dancer wannabe, swing-a-ling lindy hopper, rabid arcane mage/bitchin' disc priest/annoying resto druid--sometimes spazzy, often giggly, always loud.
20% sugar, 80% kink.