The Five Most IRRITATING Types of LRT Takers,
by Pauline Wong

The Spread-Legged Citizens of Wide Open

Typical Physical Profile: Male, of varying ages, usually less than 3 feet tall and incredibly eager to overcompensate by occupying as much seat as humanly possible.

Typical Psychological Profile: Suffers from ribald jokes of being small, tiny, miniscule, microscopic or minute on a regular basis, is deeply traumatized for life and hence must take two seats with one leg, fill two spots with one body, and possibly wear two shoes for one foot (for extra height).

Standard Operating Procedure: Sits slumped on the seat, legs spread wide open enough to knock into your knees and provide enough visual feasts to unwanted and unwelcomed displays of male anatomy. Also, often digs elbows into next person, a task learnt with great aplomb from:

The Elbow Digger, Inside a Train, D-I-G-G-I-N-G

Typical Physical Profile: Male and female of a usually past-it age. Average height. SHARP, sharp elbows. Jaw thrust out, sits absolutely rigid in seat.

Typical Psychological Profile: Inconsideration is his/her middle name. Had tragic childhood experiences of never being able to fill the spaces between life and love; hence feels the need to fill space between your sides and his/her side with healing power of ELBOLOGY. Digs into your side with every action, due to a need to feel connected constantly.

Standard Operating Procedure: Taking out phone from pocket? Dig. Looking for something in bag? Poke. Sitting around daydreaming like the rest of us during a 40-minute journey? Must sit with elbows sticking out. Does not respond to repeated hisses of irritation or to annoyed shifting-in-seat.

The Motor Mouth Monster

Typical Physical Profile: Male and female of all ages. Does not have specific nor distinct physical characteristics other than a very very very very active mouth and volumes that defy sound barriers.

Typical Psychological Profile: While it is safe to say that it gets awfully dreadful sitting in the train alone, none of the drudgery of LRT can excuse the Motor Mouth. This person talks at the top of his/her voice, past even the all-out rock melodies of 30 Seconds to Mars and the screeching of the LRT. Often dulcet, definitely unctuous, this voice is the one you cannot escape, come earplugs or earphones. He/she has opinions on everything from Najib to Never-neverland and can’t. stop. talking. Possibly suffers from severe self-love, brought about by deprived childhood. Person sitting next to this Monster Mouth is the one with the glazed eyes, flushed cheeks and KILLMENOW look. Note: Nobody talks in the LRT because it is a time for contemplative reflection on the day’s work.

Standard Operating Procedure: IgottohavethisbagItellyouthisismydreambesidesopeningashopsellingshoesandbagsIalsowantedttocelebrateNewYear’sEvebutareyoudoinganythinglaterOMGIhatemybossandheissuchaprickandAvatarissuchagoodmoviebutIwishIsawitin3DDidyouhearaboutSarahyesterdayatworkshecriedbecauseherboyfrienddumpedherandshe*DEEPBREATH*couldnottakethepressureandthensheOMGdidyourealiseIhavejustbeentalkingforthelasthalfhournonstopHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.


The BAG Lady

Typical Physical Profile: Have no idea. Bag’s too big to see past and identify the perpetrator’s physical profile.

Typical Psychological Profile: The female version of the Spread-Legged. Uses enormous bag to occupy more space than necessary, and does not bother to carry it in a less obtrusive way. After all, her psychologist told her the world is hers. Hers alone. There is no one behind, infront, next to or around her because she spent her life with an overbearing mother, and she is beyond that now. She also has a phobia of not having enough space to put her bowling equipment in her bag, and constantly needs to feel secure by carrying her garden tools with her at all times, just in case.

Standard Operating Procedure: GIANORMOUS bag, placed exactly where IT will poke, prod, obstruct and potentially disembowel anyone who comes in contact with IT.

Couple’s Retreat: Tale of Two Morons

Typical Physical Profile: Also have no idea. They are too glued together to be identified separately. Can be determined to be male and female but this is not a hard and fast rule. However, they can be found at entrances/exits of the train, locked in heated embrace and blocking the entrance/exit.

Typical Psychological Profile: Love is in the air. Love is in the train. Love is where the heart is. Love is also when they successfully make another’s life just that little bit harder by blocking the exits as the doors DING DONG to a close. Deprived? No. Enlightened and loving.

Standard Operating Procedure: Nearest exit? Check. Place bodies strategically to obstruct disembarking passengers, even though train is empty? Check. Gag-inducing kisses and canoodles? Check. Irate writer of a youth newspaper whose life is made harder when she is blocked from exiting and is SMASHED by train doors on her attempt to land at Wangsa Maju? Check. Oh isn’t this fun, darling?

On the first day of Christmas

my true love gave to me: a pile of brown, erm, excrement.

Because that is what dogs do, and Maya is just like any other dog except that her fur is an alien extension sent to Earth to scruffy-fy me to death.

But that aside.

I found myself kneeling at the church pews

... my knees slipping on the wood because I have on a pair of trousers made of a butter-smooth material. It's a Christmas midnight mass, and you can already tell I am a prude with no life: I attend church in the middle of the night and then go home to blog about at 2.30am in the morning. No wild parties Sir, I promise. No booze for me either.

But I find myself thanking Him that I made it through the year - 2009 was a year of such new, amazing, incredible experiences for me I shall be a bit sorry it has to end. I have 5 days left on it, and I plan to waste it entirely on movies and sleep.

I also found myself praying to Him that I will fall in love with a person I have not met, and then perhaps put bygones as bygones, and move on. Pray also that my family is safe, and secure, and above all else, happy. And we are happy. Mostly poor, sometimes unwise and foolish, but happy.

(I think He listens, you know. It's just that He's got this lousy-ass secretary who gives Him his messages a few years too late. So hard to find good help these days.)

But listen to me. Getting all sentimental. I blame the silent night. Family asleep upstairs. The Internet all to myself.

2009 -

I made mistakes I regret till today.

I made choices I probably will not regret for the rest of my life. I also made choices I will regret for the rest of my life.

I suceeded in many areas, I failed in equally as many. I lived through expereinces that come once in a lifetime, I missed opportunities equally as rare.

I did so many things right and wrong this year. I grew up a little, regressed a little. Fell back on old habits and got rid of some. Said the right thing and said the wrong. Put on some weight and lost some. Ahem.

Told as much truth as I could, lied also when I had to.

Helped out a few people, stabbed some in the back too.

Took some sound beatings, relished some victories.

Learn a lot, and lost a lot.

Loved and then lost it, only to have it flare up every so often when the nights are quiet.

Some things made clear, some things made murkier.

It WAS some year.


2010-

I want to fall in love; have my hands held, my feet swept and my heart stolen. I want to move on, forget, accept and stop praying for things that can never be. I want to feel special, and I want to see me reflected in someone else's eyes exactly as I am. I want to be loved for me.

I want my Mom to be okay. I want her to be healthy, and safe, and happy. More than that, I want to be able to help her be all those things.

No matter what I want to keep the friendships I have alive, and kicking, and as mad as it is right now.

I need my job to be okay.

I want to grow up and be less stupid.

I would like to say I want to be rich, but that would be pushing it because I am already asking God for Perfection. Heh.

And the night is melting into morning.

so I have to be in bed, asleep. My eyes are closing.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

And they sent me a cap. A Red Canon Cap

to of course, take the sting out of waiting a billion hours for them to come to a decision of whose picture was the best, after a catastrophic muck-up with their server systems. That was delightful. A most wonderful compensation for the hours of my life I will never ever get back. I think I will wear that RED CANON CAP everywhere from now on because I totally love it.

I thought I had lost sarcasm, but it turns out losing my precious life-minutes can have strange effects on the Sarcasmic Hormone. Increases and all that.

So okay because you guys been holding your breaths for an update (ha ha, wah, I am such an a$$) here is what's been going on:

'Change is Imminent!'

posted a colleague on Facebook. And change IS imminent. Both at work and in my personal life.

Both have to do with money problems, and both are inescapable and currently unsolvable. At least, in my position, both situations have had me helpless and floundering about awaiting orders. Both situations also involve heads that are figuratively decapitated and currently not doing what heads do - which is to LEAD, and DIRECT.

Both have also had me terribly worried and wondering: What's next?

(I noticed I just typed out the previous sentence in 'house' style of caps after a ':'. Proof that work has officially made me mad)

An odd fascination with Baked Goods

in the form of butter cookies, a fruit cake and two butter cakes. Baked over the past weekend or so and so far, devoured with gusto by non-discerning family members who clearly possess too much love for me to have much in the way of good tastebuds.

Mommy being the Number One culprit of Eating What's Not That Great Because I Love the Baker.

But my butter cake and butter cookies are good, even my own tastebuds agree. And we all know how my tastebuds have the tendency to be reliable, but slightly prone to emotional attachments. Trust me. The most horrible thing (now that I think it over) I ever ate as a child (those horrific waxy chocolates made of wax and erm, chocolate) is something I still enjoy ten years down the road.

But by Jove, those cheap chocos are god-awful beyond imagining. But I like 'em.

Back to my baking yeah so the fruit cake was a bit disastrous. Edible, but disastrous. It's kinda finishing. Mainly because Mommy eats them and says they are good.

Again, I love Mommy. It's like I painted a horrible painting of two decapitated cows (which were intended to be two cute dogs) and have my Mommy hang it on the wall proudly.

And I need to say this again, because I am endlessly lame: I love Mommy.

A Sleuth or Two

To start my Wednesday morning, with a small telling-off for going for a 'fun' assignment. I think I don't have much to say about that, but I rather feel that it's best if Editorial wasn't quite so lean. But LEAN is an understatement. EMACIATED, I think, is better.

So the sleuth, it's Robert Downey Jr. in Sherlock Holmes, and I rather think it was a fantastic effort even though director Guy Richie is dodgy at best. The actors made the movie work in such a fun way I enjoyed the movie thoroughly, even though RDJr had a strange and inconsistent British accent.

(Work on it, Rob ol' boy, and when you've got the Queen's English down to a pat, you come down here and I will 'pat' you down aights? It's a date hunny. Call me.)

It also is an incredibly entertaining movie to watch with a huge gang of friends. Good friends who don't kick your chair or talk through the movie la. Select your cinema pals carefully, folks, and you're set for life.

Anyway. Great production, classy fight scenes, all-out rolicking romp and an amazingly nifty soundtrack provided by none other than Hans Zimmer. Nice one Mr Zimmer.

Let's kidnap RDJr and make sweet music with him tied up and gagged and gorgeously helpless on the floor with NO SHIRT ON. That's crucial, you know. Let's say it again. NO SHIRT - DAMN, NO CLOTHES ON.

(sorry, but I had to just take this oppportunity to present to the world what a bleedin' lech I am inside)

So yeah. I suspect some incredibly gag-inducing gay/yaoi fanfiction will soon be written by crazy girls all over the world (and who knows, maybe a crazy BOY), because the chemistry between Jude Law's Watson and RDJr's Holmes is sizzlingly-worthy of an olden-day Hollywood bro-mance.

You know. Two straight guys who are like, 'tight' and are like, loyal to each other and like, tough but vulnerable with each other and like -

WTF Pauline you need to stop talking/writing/thinking.

Yeah, go watch it and don't let my lech ways stop you.

A beautiful gift from someone I thought no longer loves me

Materialistic sounding though it is, it takes a Swatch to make me see that maybe my brother does still love me (and my sis) very, very much after all. Not because its a Swatch (and I've wanted one forever) but because he knew I wanted one forever.

I guess I am confused. And I guess I need to learn that family really means sacrifice and not being calculative. Sacrifice I know, but calculative maybe I am still a bit in the dark. Maybe I should stop listening to people who tell me what it isn't fair or that isn't right.

Because in family, fair isn't a word that applies. It's family for gard's sake. And families eat your crappy baked goods and then say its delicious.

I need to love my family more. Because my family IS, really, ALL I have. Besides good friends la. But my friends are mad, they belong to a different category altogether.

So yeah.

I am on leave tomorrow. I am still in office, it's 6.20pm (I looked at my new Swatch to find that out) and it's getting pretty dark. It may rain, I dunno, but I am reluctant to leave because it's going to be so crowded in the train. I think I am going to wait a while la.

So I am going to load some YouTube videos, because I can and because pretty much everyone has left (and the bosses are away too) and I am going to re-watch Up or something. Then tonight, I am going to sleep like tomorrow I don't have to go to work.

Eh wait. Tomorrow I don't have to go to work.

Ooooh.

Hark the Starbucks Christmas Blend

There are two things I love this time of year.

Much the same stuff, which I like all year round, I like food and new promotions. Christmas, in all it's ho-ho-ho, is awesome. I don't care much for family gatherings (except those that involve my Dino's cooking and my mom laughing) but I do love how various restaurants and shops have promotions and sales like it was going out of style - and it always seem extra cheap this time of year to get drunk, too.

And this year, my favourite restaurant promotion is Starbuck's Christmas Blend brewed coffee. It is a work of Barista art, and can only come from the bowels of the world's most resilient coffee chain - STARBUCKs.

And I get 20% off la, since I work with ______ mah. (sorry la, confidential mah)

For roughly 8 bucks a grande cup, it isn't cheap. But it IS the most awesomest cuppa coffee I ever had - stronger than an Americano, sweeter than an Expresso, richer than a Double Expresso, and ever so much tastier than the crap produced in Nescafe machines. I have no problem with Nescafe, by the way, but let's face it: it IS crap.

But you won't hear me knocking it, coz its caffeine and I LOVE CAFFEINE.

So in tribute to one of my fav celebrations and the GLORY THAT IS THE NEWLY BORN Starbucks Cup O' Christmas Blend. (you tot I would say Jesus, didn't u? didn't u?? HAH!)

Ahem.

So here goes:

Starbucks Night

Starbucks Blend,
Christmas Blend,
All is nice,
All is hot.
Round yon' Venti and Grande and Tall,
Holy Christmas, it's thirty-percent off,
Sip in heavenly peace,
Sip in heavenly peace.

Hark the Starbucks XMas Blend

Hark the Starbucks Christmas Blend,
Glory to the Venti Cup,
Piece of cake, behold it comes,
Offspring of a Baker's touch,
Strong they make the coffee taste,
Packs a punch when much in haste,
With th'angelic hosts proclaim,
Cups are born in Starbucksland,
Hark the Starbucks Christmas Blend,
Glory to the Venti Cup.


We Three Cups

We three cups of Starbucks are,
Bearing beans we traversed afar,
Steam and presses, cream and sugar,
following yonder (bari)star.

O cup of wonder, cup of life,
Shine with fragrant coffee bright,
Westward-leading still proceeding
Guide us to thy perfect light.

Rudolph the Caffeined Reindeer

Rudolph the Caffeined Reindeer,
Had some very tired eyes,
And if you ever saw him,
you would even say it blows.

All of the other reindeers,
used to laugh and call him lame,
They never let poor Rudolph,
Join in any drinking games.

Then one groggy Christmas Eve,
Santa said to him,
Rudolph with your eyes so sore,
You can raid my coffee-store!

Then all of the reindeer loved him,
As they shouted out COFFEE,
Rudolph the Caffeined Reindeer,
you'll go down in history!

There are two conclusions in which you can draw.

First, I am stark raving mad.

Second, you feel the urge to call Starbucks to have them hire me.

Go fo the second. Thanks. Ciaaooo.

(UPDATE: Upon insistence by V-dearest, I TRADEMARK these songs. They belong to Pauline, also known fondly as Whales, and they were written while under the influence of a dangerous new drug called Starbucks Christmas Blend)

By the virtue of God

and a very generous Singaporean PR company, I found myself in the presence of my favourite author and inside possibly one of THE best public transportation systems in the world (or at least this part of South-East Asia).

Behold!

Neil Gaiman drew me a RAT. One of THE top ten moments of my miserable, unfulfilled life. XP

He also signed off that he loved me. Possibly because I buy his books and continue to contribute to his already immense personal wealth.

And here he is with his GF, Amanda Palmer (of the Dresden Dolls). Shitty angle because I was too star-struck to ask for a picture with them.

A picture of Amanda during a VERY good one-time only private gig at the Chambers, Arts House Singapore.

And now, to the proper update: Pictures that I took during my trip; not much inside the Arts House itself, but that's because one does not take pictures like a friggin' tourist inside the building that once used to be the Parliament. The Arts House is an amazingly historical place and also very sombre, a perfectly fitting place for a Writer's Festival.

Okay, so I was put into Ibis Hotel (not Peninsula, THOSE guys overbooked themselves) which is very pleasant and perfectly nice. As you can see, I started making it a mess from the get-go.

From the table of the little cafe at the Parliament area itself where I had my first meal in Singapore.

The front of the Arts House

More Arts House. Yawn. Sorry la. Pictures not so good coz I was too busy trying not to look like a gap-mouthed tourist.

People crossing the pedestrian walkways. Very, very nice walkways indeed and cars RESPECT YOU. HEAR THAT, MALAYSIAN DRIVERS?

Apperantly, Singaporeans are very serious about 'catch cheating spouse'.

The very beautiful St. Joseph's Church; I went for Saturday evening mass and got properly caught in the rain after. Damn fun.

Orchard Street! With X Mas decor edy!




More Orchard Street!

A slightly artsy picture of what also I forgot edy. Haha.

I wish I could put up more, but it's raining now and I need to complete my chores.

Let me just leave you with this:

My trip to Singapore was amazing. I saw how the other half lives. Their MRT is beyond efficient, their buses reliable and not LATE AND POORLY MAINTAINed and their people, civilised. No random spitting on the ground. No vandalised busstops.

Sure, their food can't hold a candle to what we have in Malaysia (no country in the world can, IMHO) and their people tend to be a tad hurried. I also got the feeling the GOVERNMENT IS WATCHING ME which in a sense was disconcerting.

But we have a lot to learn, us Malaysians, or at least THE DAMN BARISAN NASIONAL have a lot to learn. How can you fuck up public transport here so badly when really, KL isn't even bigger than Singapore?

I also envy how they pay a lot of emphasis to arts, and can hold water with big names like Neil Gaiman. Don't see him coming to KL now, eh?

I love my country (but not it's government). I love the food. I love many aspects of life in Malaysia. But we can do and be so much more if THE DAMN BARISAN NASIONAL would just get their heads out from whatever dark hole they've been in and DO SOMETHING GOOD.

That would be a nice complement to the fantastic satay, nasi lemak, bak kut teh, tose, and char kuey teow.

But my fingers are too tired to type out the blow-by-blow account of Singapore Day 1,2, 3 and 4, so you'll just have to wait for Parte Two; coming soon.

Ciao ya'll.

I found myself writing a letter no one will read

and after that I deleted it, because I was so ashamed I wrote it in the first place. After which I sang the entire Disney's Best Love Songs Vol. 1 in a strangely sweet, high voice. I even threw in a few trills ala songbird.

Then with a snort and a fair bit of snot (well excccuuuuse me, I've got a cold), I woke up.

I sweats-ed a bit, contemplating the world, then I went straight back to sleep. Remaining sleep rather un-eventful.

Woke up with the sun in my face, and realised:

a) The letter writing WAS real - I was melancholy that night and I wrote some things down which I feel better having regurgitated in print, but was instantly ashamed of it after.

b) I DID NOT delete the damn thing, and hence I find a Word doc on my desktop titled: To ____, in hopes you never read this.

c) I do not sing that well after all - the singing was definitely part of the dream. Shit-e.

Point being; my days and dreams have begun to meld into one.

It started with work, you know. I would have a terrifically real nightmare about how Mr H (he shall be known as that from now on) yelled at me for not writing fast enough, and how a colleague of mine who I really like and is on good terms with is secretly stabbing me in the back, and when I wake up, dazed and in my loosest, biggest pants and rotten-est T shirt, I would be completely

UNSURE

if that actually happened.

I would go to work feeling slightly apprehensive, flashes of scolding and yelling fresh in my mind, and eye Mr H with a bit of wariness. It's quite sad.

I also secretly suspect I may be having some very strange night-wanderings; my mom is grumbling I always fall asleep with my lights on, but I am

VERY SURE

I turned them off.

But alas. Until the day I install cameras in my room I will never know if I am actually

writing letters/ singing in tune/ reading books

while I am fast asleep. It's quite scary.

But then again.

MELAKA is out, guys. For my part, at least. I am most terribly sorry; Singapore will have eaten such a large chunk of my money that I will not be able to afford even maggi mee for the next month or so. It is fortunate that my mother is so supportive and has even helped me out.

I love my mom.

Replacing Melaka with L4D and makan trip hardly counts but I promise I will starve and save money to go next next month. Good for my diet also anyway.

But enough about that. Promise to bring home pictures of Singapore and hopefully some nice souvenirs - heard they are bleedin' expensive in Singapore, but I'll see what I can smuggle back.

I am going overseas alone for the first time in my life.

Wish me luck.

PHOTO Marathon - Canon's Exclusive Pissing Off Session

I begin this post with saying: the folks at Canon Malaysia had better send those who waited for nothing some pretty darned nice 'tokens of appreciation'. They had also better fire whosoever that set up the server systems.

With that, I present my own little photoessay of Canon Photomarathon Malaysia 2009.

7.00am

The sun in the sky right in front of the LRT station. Feeling quite excited, actually.


8.10am

Me and LM camwhoring just a little bit - well, a lot actually. Started very late and we decided to kill time by taking pictures of ourselves. Location is Sunway Lagoon Theme Park; we were trapped there all day!


9.50am - 3.30pm

Flag off! The start to the marathon.

Themes: SPLASH!; RED and SHOOTING IN PROGRESS.




My first shot for the theme RED. Made this poor Wild Wild West mascot dude pose for me, and used the 'color accent function' for the red effect. Most obliging guy.



Folks were a-plenty at Sunway Lagoon, and kids are so the funny as subjects.




Pinwheels. In semi-colour.



A choice I had for RED but didn't use because there were so many people at the bottom panel of the picture.



A very adorable girl with a balloon. Going crazy with my 'color accent' feature here, as you can tell.




My eventual choice for theme SPLASH! Refused to take the conventional splash of water pictures so I took a picture of a boy sitting on a float tube. Splash, geddit?




My submission for RED. No explanation there, lol. I particularly like this picture, my favourite of the bunch.




My submission for Shooting in Progress. Shot this while LM and J were off to take more SPLASH! pics, he is actually the Sunway photog.


4pm - 7pm. Server Breakdown.

No pictures here, but lemme tell you that it was just frustrating. The servers got all jammed up and nobody could upload any pictures at all. Added to that, as they were fixing the servers, some SMART KIASU IDIOTIC people were STILL uploading their pictures, despite having been told that uploading the pics would be useless; as SNARFU and TARFU and FUBAR has happened.

But as Malaysians, they don't listen, and continued to make things difficult by attempting repeated log-ins nonetheless.

So what we did was go makan at Sunway Pyramid (after a 30min walk O_o) and then drove back to the starting point of the marathon. Only to discover that they were stalling for time by showing some entries and THAT THE JUDGES COULD NOT MAKE A DECISION. By now, 10.30pm and very angry. Murmurs were going throught the crowd, and when the emcee announced that the results will be released tommorrow (today, meaning 11/10) there were howls of protest.

Followed by claps when they announced a 'token of apology' will be given out. -_-

So I left, and hitched a ride back with another friend, who stayed back and was pissed too. In fact, he took this final shot at 10.50pm, just before we left the place.



A rather beautiful ending to a tiring, frustrating day - thankfully made good with friends who were fun to be around with. :)

Its been quite a while

...since I updated.

This is because work has kept me busier than a hyperactive squirrel looking for winter nut stores and also because I arrive home every night just to slump into bed like a DEAD hyperactive squirrel looking for winter nut stores.

I also cannot take facing Christian because for the past five months now I've been having an illicit affair with my office laptop. It's quite sad, really.

Work, in all its glory, is all-consuming. I enjoy it, but boy oh boy - my weekends are like GOLD to me now. I feel like every weekend I spend NOT SLEEPING or LAZING is wasted, because my weekdays are a flurry of activity and I hardly get a moment to breathe.

But I am not complaining. I do genuinely enjoy what I do and I happen to fancy that I do it well enough to not get me the sack. Which is fine. Hahaha.

Right now, as I type, the activity is dying down just a little, and the pages are almost closed. Bad news is that the closing is a little delayed. O_o

Nonetheless, I am enjoying a slightly quiet moment and I intend to fill you in (to my best capacity) with what has been going on with me for the past weeks. Because you know you wanna know. :P

It's a story!

Having had quite a few dud stories for the past few weeks or so, I believe the time has come to pick my battered self off the floor and grit my teeth. I will shoulder on. I will write some good stories and give a message to the 50,000 readers.

I just wish that I could remind myself of it sometimes; it is in my BLOOD to beat myself up blue, black and green over failures and pitfalls and mistakes. I really should just smack me upside on the head and then move on - instead of bringing out the medieval torture devices I keep hidden in my room and putting myself through the most painful of said devices.

But then again.

Well, it's improving somewhat. I was thoroughly depressed a few weeks ago but I feel happier now that I've got my head screwed on right again. It's not easy churning out story after story. And like a very scary editor once said "Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results."

So if I continue to beat myself over the smallest of things, or continue to perceive everything negatively, I will continue to get just a little bit more suicidal by the day. I ain't saying all is roses and peaches now, but I think it's not thorns and shit either.

It's the roses!

I bought roses for my mom on a whim the other day. She was incredibly pleased, and as always, demonstrated how pleased she was by saying I shouldn't waste money like that. Moms.

Thing is, I am a Daddy's girl. Always have been, always will be. I adore my alpha-Dino to distraction, and sometimes his approval (or disapproval) of me can rule my moods for weeks. Such is the level of Daddy's girl-ism I have. Which is sad. I ain't proud of it - but don't get me wrong. I don't look for Daddy replacements or whatever (that is sooooo wrong) but I do enjoy a really really close relationship with my dad.

So.

Sometimes, I forget my Mom. I forget that she's there, watching me buy persimmons and cheese cakes for my Dad. (I buy cake for her too, but she doesn't like cake much and it always goes to my Dad anyway) She completely supports me keeping my Dino pleased (his moods rule the household too) but I think I forget her a lot.

I forget that through everything, she is the only one who I can rely on to UNFAILINGLY give me accurate, excellent advise (my bro isn't really much around anymore, and my sister's information is dubious at best) and to listen to my grouses, my dreams, my whims and my fancies without complaint.

If there was an award for World's Best Listener, it would go to her.

I forget that it was her that kept the family together, and strong all through the years while my Dad was away on his job, and running his business. For those of you who know me well, you know the details that follow la.

But it was her, all the while. Managing the family, keeping us together, worrying for us. I ain't saying my Dad didnt' do that too, but.... well, he is always the alpha Man type, so he always functions as a 'Wait till your Dad comes home' threat.

(Which is enough to scare the bejeebers out of me and my siblings anyway. No need whack also. Threaten with Daddy enough edy.)

Through the difficult times and the good times, she was there. I've never met a woman quite as strong as she is, and if I grew up to be HALF as strong as her I'd be lucky.

It is as I grow older that I realise how much I truly love my Mom. The love I have for her comes from a different, deeper place. It is mingled in with respect and understanding. It is a love that I think will only grow as the years go by and I start to understand and see the sacrifices she has made.


So I bought her roses. Just cause. She looked at me all bewildered when I shoved the bouquet under her nose.

She asked: Why? What day issit? Why you buy? and I said: Nothing, just wanna buy for you la!

Followed by her saying: How much it cost you - why you waste money liddat? Must be you buy books again and don't want me to get mad at you la.

And then she goes off to put it in a vase, displaying them neatly and prominently at the cabinet. She also smiles at the roses for a bit - she thinks I didn't see, but I did. Heh.

It is moments like this that makes me love my Mom all the more. She is like a Rock; immovable, solid, reliable and predictable. She is also like a soft pillow; soft-hearted, forgiving and comforting.

For most part, I am Daddy's girl. But I think I am a lot Mommy's Girl too.

It's a Wrap!

Back to work and no more of that soppy stuff - work, I think, has taught me more in five months than in three years of school. It's cliched, but it's true. Work has a way of teaching you to be tough and strong, fast and efficient, and is both encouraging and depressing.

I think I DO like my work. I have my ups and downs, but for what it's worth, I think the experience and level of control over my work that I have here at my workplace is amazing, and very, very uplifting.

All is good. For now. =)

Of Blackberries and Despondencies

I believe that soon the world will be occupied by Blackberry-wielding humanoids, unable to tear their eyes away from the screen until they walk off a cliff or into a ring of fire and perish with only these last words:

My Berrrrrrrrrryyyyyyyyy!!!!

*and then 'splash' or 'foooosh', depending on method of death*

I have a feeling this is how I will meet my untimely but not unexpected demise. I will be in Broga, hiking away (I will be thin by then of course) when I will receive a new MSN message from V dearest and go:

"Oh look, J, its a message from V - WARGH!"

And my friends will be left to explain why my body was found shattered in the ravine but the Berry remained intact, wrapped protectively in my poor, broken arms.

*cue sad music*

I may be Berry mad. Nay, I AM Berry mad.

But this is not an advertorial in hopes that the Berry guys will give me the sweet, sweet Berry. No. Not at all. I didn't even link everyone I know to this post.

Yet.

But I digress.

The true reason I write this post is because I am beginning to be painfully aware that work is... different... from what I thought it would be. As my editor would say, this is my first job, and so I have a lot to learn.

I love learning. I just wish it didn't have to come with a healthy dose of 'GROUND OPEN NOW TO SWALLOW ME' moments. I've had so many of those I should be nothing more than a speck of dust by now.

And Lord forbid, is that... despondency I smell???

(Despondency: depression of spirits from loss of hope, confidence, or courage; dejection. - freedictionary.com)

Maybe its not so much the loss of hope as it is the loss of confidence. My belief in my writing is getting shaky - and I have just been presented with the perfect example of why I can NEVER be a HARD HITTING journo. Ever. Par non. Never ever.

I suck.

(To those who believe they suck: you don't suck until your editor tells you your story starts 'okay' then crumbles into nothing immediately after. My editor did.)

I write best personality pieces which allow me to say nice things, write nice things, use very little brain activity and a lot of creativity. I write best stories no one will read and then I will hide them jealously away (sorry, you guys ain't getting notebook paper scans from me) so I can continue to believe I write them best.

I gots issues okay? Issues that break my writer spirit.

But yeah, despondent would be the right word right now. I love my workplace, I think my colleagues and my bosses are great, but my writing just isn't so hot right now.

As you can probably tell by my use of 'not so hot right now'. If I were normal I'd be using words no sane human being would use in any conversation/blog/article.

I ssssuuuuucccckkkk. I could not suck more than if I actually did start sucking my tabletop and then my mouse for dessert.

Ew, that was inappropriate and disgusting. I hate myself. *hides under desk*

Even as I am whingeing away, a small spot inside my head (which looks and sounds like my Mom) that tells me to suck it up and be a man. Err. Woman.

It tells me to learn from my mistakes, dig up old stories I've written so I may see that I did improve (ohohoho, I did. Hella, I did) and tuck every little nugget of advice safely inside my brain-cupboard to be used at a later date, or to be dispensed to someone who steps into a situation like mine.

Which should be nobody, really, because the situations I get myself in because of what I say are... frankly... one of a kind. No one could possibly put their foot into their mouths that often.

It also tells me that all is solved with a cuppa' hot Milo and a good night's sleep. And with keeping my mouth shut more often. I try to do that these days, but its slow progress. I think I need to have a Blackberry in my brain, to keep tabs on what I can and cannot say.

Must keep mouth shut. Must keep mouth shut. Sometimes I wonder when one of my pals will tell me I talk too much, and could do with shutting up. They should, because then maybe I will.

I also feel slightly... restless. Not the kind of energetic restless, or the physical restlessness that spurs many people to go for a jog, play the Wii, or walk the dog.

Its a kind of mental restlessness which I can feel bubbling underneath my skull like an hideous swell. I need something that will make me excited about writing again, excited about being a journalist again, excited to be out there changing the world one word at a time again.

Okay so that last one was melodramatic, but you know what I mean. I am restless for 'that story'. The one I wrote about child sex trafficking did it for a while (not in that way, you dirty people), it got me excited about writing again, and it showed.

The one I just wrote, I hated. 'Not one of your better pieces,' said my editor. I agree. I gave it my best shot (I always do, even if I cringe after) but I just don't have my heart in it. It's quite sad really, for sometimes, my articles feel like chores. Really hard, brain-crushing, heart-smashing chores.

Right down there with washing toilet, cleaning out stove with Mr Goo, kind of chore. I need 'the story'.

The story which will see me walking enthusiastically for kilometres down the streets of Chow Kit, that will have me thinking about it even as I walk, the one that will have my heart beat everytime I see it on print, and the article I will bring home for my parents to read.

I never bring home my stories unless I am proud of them. Some I am, many I am not. And I hope that that will be forgiveable for a while. I am still learning, and with time and wisdom, I will know how to write in such a way that I will make people feel 'hey, yeah, that makes sense. this is a cool article'.

I've had a taste of that, and with every taste I appreciate. I get sms-es sometimes from old friends, people I've met, or even the interviewees themselves saying how they read my article and liked it. I live for those moments. Not because I am vainglorious (though it is, just a little) but because it validates me.

It validates me as a writer, that I can write something people read and remember. More importantly, it validates me as a journalist, that I can write something people will think about. Oh blarny to those who say its not about what others think. It is always and only about what readers think.

I think I have ranted overlong here. But it feels good, though my fingers are freezing and my tummy is aching. I feel clean. Emptied. Somewhat relieved I finally can admit my all-consuming doubts.

Maybe I will go and have that hot cuppa Milo. See if the problems don't go away all by themselves.

Goodbye, ya'll.

I Didn't Get to Say Goodbye

I never saw her walking away, nor send her off with an EPIC GLOMP. I blame my job, and I blame my transport-lessness. I also blame me.

I guess, in a way, I figured if I didn't see her off then she didn't go away to another continent in the far end of the world where the deer, kangaroos and boomerangs, err, play. Or fly. Whichever.

If you don't see someone leaving, then she didn't really, and she just went on a quite long holiday, that's all. In a far off place. Like, if I didnt' see her go then she is just right around the corner, and I can retreat into my stupid little bubble world, and we can all still go Broga Hill.

(Sorry V dear. I wanted to go see you off so bad, but denial and duty destroyed me.)

Hope you can still see my blog in Aussie.

I can't get the image of Hugh Jackman half-naked on a bull out of my mind, so forever now Australia = Hugh Jackman half -naked on a bull. To me. So I can't see the place having Internet and stuff.

(I know they prolly kick our Screamyx in the nuts with their broadband over there but I AM IN DENIAL DAMMIT)

I miss you already, so this post is for YOU.

It's Midnight here, in the Garden of Google and Evil (insects). I am up to finish off some work, and my shoulders ache. I know I talk a lot of nonsense, and I know I may have not have been the most easy person to be around with, but I am good at two things: writing and erm, writing.

So I write. A poem, for you. :)


Goodbye V

Victoria, Victoria,
I think you're still in Subang.
I didn't see you go away,
And so you, erm, didn't.

You are a sweetheart,
and a really cool friend.
That Kelvin is lucky,
He is your boyfriend.

I will always remember how you burnt the chocolate
for the chocolate mousse I made.
And though it tasted pretty bad
All of it, you ate.
(you prolly threw away the rest, but that's okay. I'd throw it away too.)

You're only in Australia,
the internet is everywhere.
Who say we can't talk on webcam,
while in our underwear?

You've got a whole future
ahead of you, so go get it
Australia is no KL, but
I hear they have PORK burgers.

It's an entirely new beginning there
and I wish you all the best.
Eileen say you must come back,
and so do I
But when you do, bring along
tall, blond, and blue-eyed.

For me la, of course.

I end this non-poem now la,
its getting quite stupid.
but here's my point:
(when I finally get to it)
Your body may have left the country,
but you are always here, in our hearts, in our minds, and in our Facebooks.

And V dear, when you come back, I EPIC GLOMP you.

Cupcakes and Broga Hill

Sunday 16 August 2009: Broga Hill. Mission: To get the Top preferably without:

a) Falling off the very high cliff and subsequently end up in the newspapers
b) Falling off the very high cliff and subsequently end up in the newspapers

With that goal in mind, we went onward to the most difficult hike I ever hiked, and the highest mountain I ever climbed. It was dead tiring, but SO SO AWESOME. Pictures say a thousand words so here goes:

It wasn't a sunset, actually. But I used my sunset feature to make it look dark and cloudy.

Our triumphant fists after making it up the hill: J was photog, so not in pic.

The hiiiiillls are aaaliiiveeeeee

....with the sound of muuuusicccc

Earlier that day, however, we were at a place called Wondermilk cafe, which is located somewhere in Damansara Utama, and boasts decent food, great atmosphere and seriously pretty cupcakes. Nice place, but the reason for our being there was not so nice - V's leaving. T_T

The decor in this place consists of cute teddies too.

The very pretty cupcakes we had made specially for V!

L-R: K, V, Bra and J. The poor unfortunate guy in a box is Matthew. Lol.

K being pervy with the girl of the day, V

A group pic with me smack centre, blocking poor C. L-R: K, Matthew, Ian, Jzune, J, Bra, Bear (hidden behind my head), C, LM, V and E.

So yeah, it was a day full of sugar and rolling hills - nothing out of the ordinary at all. Cupcakes in the morning, Mountainus Enormus Difficultus in the evening. Nothing to it baby.

Heh.

Sacrifice

Sacrifice

There are some things far more important than the All American Rejects. Sorry Tyson. You are deprived your once-in-a-lifetime meet with one particular fat, Chinese, giggly journalist.

*We should all take a moment to pray for him. Hopefully he may meet her someday in the future*

I am supposed to be en route the MTV World Stage concert at Sunway Surf Beach; and I am supposed to be gadding with the AAR, Kasabian, and Hoobastank. I am also supposed to be gadding with Boys Like Girls. But I sit in front of my lappy, at home, because my mom is sick, and my brother is sick, and I had better be at home to keep an eye on them both.

Also because my brother, aka designated driver, is now relieved from his post as designated driver due to his fever/cough/cold. No worries boys and girls, its not the dreaded H1N1; he checked edy.

Plus my daddidums is going out on various projects today - so the idea of my sick Mommy at home alone does not please me.

Sacrifice.

That's what its called. After three whole weeks of feverish excitement at meeting Tyson Ritter (oh Tyson, so sorry. Call me!) I am at home, NOT meeting Tyson Ritter.

I can hardly believe I am actually still sane, typing and not screaming in agony. Trust me: if you think this is noble of me, it rather is, but it's not, because I too, am afraid of catching the dreaded you-know-what. Worse, with my mom being one of the high-risk groups, I'd better not bring home any funny viruses.

I also have two double-page articles to write, (one of which has now turned into 3-page) and a movie review to write, and bah. A whole load of stuff to write.

So yeah. Some things are more important than MTV World Stage. Family. Work. Responsibilities. Obligations. Duty. Besides, my newspaper is well-represented; what with two other colleagues going.

To think, I wanted their autographs so bad! T-T But like I said, some things are far more important, and consideration towards your family members is one of those things.


Job Update

Well, I love my job - don't kill me - and I love what I do. If I ever feel like I don't wanna go to work, it's only because I am damn lazy to wake up in the morning. But I wake up thinking, "whee. movie review. interesting people. i like."

I like people. Watching them, talking to them. I don't like THEM them. You know. Like, in a crowd. Or a wild party. But I like watching them do things, discovering their strange and wonderful ways. People are always, always fascinating to me; and in this line of work, people with fascinating characters are a-plenty.

I've talked to so many people and met so many interesting characters and I do believe I shall never be bored with doing that. I really do. I think I am going to stick with my job for a long time, and never ever change fields. I may leave for better, greener pastures, but I shall always be doing what I do relatively well: writing.

For truly, how can I deny my twisted pleasure when I see my byline, when I see little black type forming up to make words? Yeah, so some people get off on porn, I get off on typing articles and stories, alright? I am strange that way. Typing, and hot male underwear models, better yet if they come greased, topless and brooding.

(Quiet you. I did not ask for your opinion.)

But yeah.

I am blogging away here. And you are reading this. Both of us are not going to MTV World Stage. We do make a good pair. We have so much in common!

Call me. Let's do lunch.

My Solitary Heart

Poetry, really, is never my strong point.

I detest the romanticism (meh) and although I rhyme once in a while (story-wise) I have this thing where I try to be too literary to rhyme. Heh. Macam real. But this poem (sorta) came out of a time when I was feeling particularly lonely, and had some of the saddest songs playing on my Winamp.

I was also, stupidly enough, in serious 'like' with someone I have since come to terms will never feel the same way. And thats fine. Because hor, I have my eye on someone else hor, happens to be - ahem. Never mind. *sheepish* Anyway.

So here it is, I posted it because I felt this one had such a strange melancholy to it, which is quite unusual of me. (Comments, as always, are welcome.)

Just don't ask me who the poor guy is. *ahem*



My Solitary Heart

How would it feel to love you so much it hurts?
My solitary heart, in a fragile glass case wondered:
and wondered silently I did.
How would it feel to give myself to you?
To love you so deeply it consumes every fibre of my being?
What would it be like to immerse myself inside your heart,
to be caressed by your warmth, to be enfolded in your welcoming arms?

Would you hear my beating heart,
and put your hands against it?
would you take my heart, my hands, my soul,
and see my love inside it?
My solitary heart wonders and longs for yours,
And silently I pine.

How would it feel to have your hands on mine?
How would it feel if you gently kissed my brow?
My solitary heart desires; and can stay silent no longer,
Would you accept my heart or crush it beneath your fingers?

A Streak of Colour in the Sky

There Will Be Train. Its a new movie.

I took this picture as I was waiting at the Ipoh KTM station just Monday. A story to tell for another day, is Ipoh. It isn't as dark as it looks -I used my 'sunset' function to bring out the twilight look. I find it somewhat romantic.

I just took this, a few hours ago, in the car. Amazing streak of vermillion in the sky. Couldn't help but freak out my bro as I frantically whipped out my camera.

Better view of the sky. I just wish I weren't in the car! Couldn't set off my flash so the pic is not as crisp as it is supposed to be.

Dude, Where's My Food?

A funny pic of a cat. I saw it washing itself and took out my camera for fun. It gave me such weird poses! This one had such an expression to its' face I couldn't help posting it up. Its like saying: "Yeah homey. What up."

The Calm Before the Storm.. and I am Blogging

I've got Catch-22 sitting rather forlornly on my desk, next to a book that gave me eyebrow cramps and another on an illicit, torrid affair. The last book being the raunchiest ever written by the author.

Considering the author is the man behind the brilliant, twisted, moving, baffling and memorable 'Sons and Lovers', Lady Chatterley's Lover has to be the most erotic, if not the best.

I ain't got the time to finish it yet, but I will. Just maybe not so conspicuously. But its literature okay?

Nonetheless.

I am a-waiting for an editorial meeting (there is a neatly printed chart of sorts beside me, my pen resting just by my left wrist) and for now, there is calm and quiet in the office.

Until, of course, the bosses descend once again upon Planet Office and we have the usual frenzy of activity.

I have traveled far to Ipoh and come back on the very same day; spending 6 hours on travelling to stay for a 2 hour interview. I feel like I have learnt something here, but I am still trying to fogure out what the main lesson is (there were a lot of lessons I learnt on Monday that I am sure, in the future, will warn me how to deal with similiar situations).

I had a stranger cry on my shoulder.

I suppose the tale is for another day (pre-karaoke perhaps?) and maybe by then i would have figured out what I've learnt.

Speaking of k-oke, we've got to brush up our vocal chords.

Or else we're gonna have Bra-man take us to a whole new level of funny. I've got my camera ready boys. Muahaha.

This is a quick update, seeing that my last update was nearly two weeks ago. More details later, I guess.


See ya guys.

Books and Other Stuff

Books.


Have been doing a lot of reading lately. Its strange. I never used to have the time to do it when I was a student but now, as I join the workforce, I find, to my eternal astonishment, I have more time to do the things I love.

Reading is just one of the things I can do more of -despite the bedtimes of 10pm, and the load of work. I have finished, in 3 weeks, 6 books. Its quite an achievement.

Here are the six books I finished:

1. Dragons of Dwarven Depths and Dragons of Highlord Skies.

The Lost Chronicles of Dragonlance, featuring my favourite heroes of the Lance. Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman never disappoints, but I had a strange, eerie sense that the first 30 pages of the first book was not written by them but by some dimwit 16 year old with a musty typewriter.

But altogether an interesting read for a fan of the series, though not exactly groundbreaking.

Bought for a disgustingly cheap 15 buckeroos each.

2. The Painted Man

It is a new debut fantasy novel by a guy called Peter V. Brett. Excellent. Fast-paced, interesting, well-written and a good read for fantasy fans. Courtesy of Borders bookstores, who have graciously supplied me with a few books for my reading and reviewing pleasure.

3. Blue-Eyed Devil

A rom-chick-lit fluff book by Lisa Kleypas. Surprisingly delicious read, nicely paced and written, but pretty much standard fare. Also courtesy of Borders.

4. The entire His Dark Materials trilogy

A re-read, for I found the 3-in-1 volume going for an irrisistable RM 24. It was sinful not to buy it. Still as good as I remembered, albeit a little limp at the end and somewhere halfway through.

5. And, the piece de resistance -The Messenger, by Markus Zusak.

You may remember my praise for The Book Thief, also by Mr Zusak, and I found his other books stuck at the bottom shelf at Kinokuniya. Was delighted to see he had 3 other titles (which I have yet to find, and hopefully I will at Borders) and I bought The Messenger for a whopping RM 59.90. Broke my wallet, but worth it, because it is a story of life, love, and a loser cab driver.

Immensely likeable, and possesing a depth that, at first glance, may not seem like much, but eventually all makes sense. It was extremely well-written, you feel for the characters, and guess what? If I were to write I wanna write like a cross between Gaiman and Zusak. Zusak is the one worthy of praise given to over-rated authors like Mitch Albom. If toss up between Albom and Zusak, go for the Zusak. he is a far better writer with less pretension.

Zusak also has a book called 'When Dogs Cry' and another called 'Getting the Girl', so if any of you spot the book on shelves please give me a heads up.



Other Stuff.


Where was I? Oh, free time. Right. I have more now. I find myself going home to cold dinners and nothing on my agenda except to maybe check my mail (but I do that all day at work so its pointless) and then go to bed.

Its weird. I thought students had more free time, but they don't. Well, at least not MY studenthood days anyway. Lol.

But yeah.

I am trying to drop a couple of kilos too. Well, maybe not a couple. Like, a whole load. Like 30kg kinda load.

I am also trying to get healthy -eat more veggies, less sugar, keep my weight down and health up. And I know some of you are secretly agreeing that weight loss is a good thing for me and if anyone needs it its me. (Don't deny it. Lol. You guys are snorting and going, yeah, DUH.)

I know you guys think there is nothing wrong with me (at least you tell me that, and I heart you for that, yes) but there is. I cannot stand the sight of myself in the mirror anymore, and I have decided to take charge of my weight and what I put inside my mouth.

So if we go out and I don't eat anything but a lettuce leaf, please don't point it out or try to make me eat more. I know what I am doing, not gonna starve myself or nothing. SO don't worry, just support me by not making a big deal out of it. I am serious about dropping the weight.

And I need all the help I can get. I need you guys to support me. :)

Other stuff also in life. Still trying to manage expenses, and trying to adjust to work life. I dreamt of work a few times these past weeks, so thats kind of weird.

Woke up on a Sunday and panicked -OMG I AM LATE FOR WORK.

Before I told myself - YOU DUMBASS ITS SUNDAY.

Then I fall straight back to sleep. Its scary.

But yeah. Work goes well, and I am happy. Very happy. I think I have made that so obvious that some of you have even applied for a job here. It IS a good place to work, and I love what I do.

Its not something a lotta people can say, but I can, and for that, I am eternally grateful to the Big Man Way Up in The Sky. God, yeah, thats him. Good job, God. After years of torture and being the biggest (literally) loser in class and having people hate me for the sheer fact that I was weird, poor and fat, I think I found my happy place. For real.

Now if only I can bloody stop dreaming of work!

Marjorie's Margarine: Part 2


Marjorie woke up with a vicious headache and a slab of margarine in her hands. It was not a pleasant situation to find herself in, (seeing that men whose mouths split open are chasing after her and she was accompanied by a precocious, bloodthirsty child prodigy turned Dark Lord of Macabre) and she was beginning to feel that she would very much like to go away and hide somewhere, just as long as the whole family tree of Mr. Looming were not hot on her slightly greasy tail. Tail, figuratively, of course.

She glanced at the prone figure on the floor, who, despite the 10 other available and beautifully decorated rooms, refused to sleep somewhere in one of those aforementioned designer rooms. Writes would not sleep anywhere but in his room, and she would not sleep alone for fear of the Leering Men of the World.

The prone figure stirred, and bit his fingers. Three out of five of his left hand were halfway between his lips and teeth, a most odd way of sleeping she thought, before seeing him bite them several times during the night, always lightly, never hard enough to draw blood –he never tasted during his sleep. It made him cough in the mornings, if he did.

She coughed a little, put the margarine on the bedside table and threw off the light blue bedcovers, for despite his fondness for blood, his favourite colour was, and always will be, a robin’s egg blue. Writes was not the kind to dress in black and prophesy death and destruction, though he had been sorely tempted to several times throughout his childhood, just so his father would notice more of him instead of that infernal laptop.

It was only when he had his own infernal laptop did he realize that his father wasn’t ignoring him, his father was simply a helpless victim of technology.

Marjorie walked to the floor length windows (also tinted a cool, dark blue, with heavy curtains that smelled of mothballs) and peered out. She saw nothing, but when it comes to nothing, she knew that sometimes, just sometimes, it was heck everything. Everything meaning creatures from the black depths of Creepy 101 with an extra degree in Lurking for Experts.

She considered waking Writes, and telling him the whole story of what she learnt, and worst of all, how he can help. She padded in bare feet softly over to him and caught sight of his sleeping face. He was one of those guys who, when awake, looked as if the world were on his shoulders, but when asleep, slept with the child-like peace of one who has nothing to worry about and the a nice taste in his mouth. Nice taste for him being his own flesh. And blood. But no blood. Made him cough.

She changed her mind, and let him sleep instead. She picked up her tattered clothes (he lent her some of his old stuff, he really was rather too thin for his age and macabre tastes) from the floor and puzzled over them for a while, wondering if she could possibly fix them.

She poked her fingers ruefully through the enormous holes in her shorts and decided on negative –no hope for those old 501s then. It was then that he shifted from his uncomfortable position from the floor, snorted and woke up with a “Wha-?” His hair stuck out at the sides (it was curly, long and black, and had no resemblance to anything remotely in the style of the new millennium, more like the outdated, unruly mop of a child star of the 1800s) and a few curly hairs lay across the towel, in disguise as a pillow.

She turned to him and smiled –a strange smile that one made simply because one did not know what else to do with one’s lips. He stared, blinked and lifted his eyebrows.

“If I had harboured hopes that you would be but a dream, I am sorely mistaken,” he said, in somber tones. “Perhaps once you have finished telling me whatever gruesome tale you wish to share you may take to your heels and flee.”

A wild laugh stuck at her throat at the way he spoke, like a book with a really bad writer. “Do you –pfft- always talk like that?”

He frowned. “If you mean to ask, do I converse with others as in a book, or a crime mystery, yes, I always do, and I see no wrong in that.” He spotted an ant on the floor and squashed it. He flicked it aside, and turned his eyes back onto her.

Her smile grew wide, and she said: “Alright, fine. I need to tell you three things and you will have to act upon them, or end up as brain-bait.”

He puzzled over that for the quietest of moments. “Alright.” He didn’t want to be brain bait. He was, in all circumstances, very fond of his brain. He knew quite a number of people who would not share his sentiments, but nonetheless.

She blew a lock of dirty brown hair away from her forehead and took a deep breath.

“You have a brain that these creatures want. The creatures are idea-eaters. They eat ideas.”

She said these words with the air of one who has just dropped a dungbomb.

He stared. “They eat ideas.”

“Yes, they eat ideas.”

He continued to stare. “And this is dangerous… how?” he asked, all book-talk forgotten at the
ludicrousness of the situation.

She shook her mane of mouse-brown hair. “No no, you don’t get it. They eat ideas –but not just
ideas. They eat the thoughts and musings of a person and it dissipates. Poof. Dead. Gone.” She snapped her fingers.

He frowned. Hard. “You can’t eat ideas.”

“Oh yes you can, if you were those guys. They eat brains. Brains have ideas. If they eat ideas and imagination and thought and fancy, then where will we all be? Can you imagine if they ate the ideas of the great minds of the Earth –think gates or jobs.”

“Bill and Steve?”

“Yeah that gate and that job,” she said, with a roll of her eyes. “Ideas are so much more important than you think. How do you think I ended up throwing exploding margarine –“she
broke off.

He peered at her face, which suddenly had a shadow cast upon it. “You were born of an idea, weren’t you?” he asked with unerring sharpness. She looked up quickly, and her mouth hung open. She closed it quickly. “Yeah.” She savagely spat that word out. “Yeah I was. From the ideas of one twisted writer with nothing much to do, who eventually had an unfortunate encounter with one of them.”

He stood up from his cross legged position on the floor. “So why do they want my brain?” he asked, beginning to pace around the room, nibbling at his fingers as he did so, and drawing more blood than he ever did before –a sure sign of frustration.

“They want your ideas. Your more bloodthirsty ideas,” she declared. “See, sometimes they don’t swallow all of the ideas they eat. They chew it up, distort it, and save it for later. The same way you would save a gum, for example.”

“Some of the best ideas they have distorted have been the worst for everyone everywhere –but don’t go blaming them for Hitler. That one they didn’t have to distort anything,” she snorted.

“They distorted the ideas which were meant to be good –for instance, computer viruses were supposed to be little ‘bugs’ that automatically fixed the problem areas in your computer, with artificial intelligence, but they distorted it to do the exact opposite.”

It was now his turn to roll his eyes –he himself had created some of the most catastrophic viruses ever in the dead of the night and sold them to eager anti-virus companies, who would make fortunes coming up with anti-viruses. It was all a man-made scam, no need for creatures with big mouths or black teeth.

She sensed his doubt and pressed on. “It doesn’t matter now, they were always small-scale. Nothing deadly, nothing fatal. But they want a change, and your ideas can help them do just that.”

She looked downward. “They want to kill imagination. For good.” She held up her hands quickly as he opened his mouth to ask why. “Don’t ask why, if I knew, I’d be scrambling in the opposite direction as soon as I can, and never give a damn. I only fear it’s something more dastardly than just their greed for ideas. I don’t know who is involved, but I am going to find out.”

Marjorie picked up the slab of oozing margarine. “I hate my name,” she said despondently.

Surprised by her sudden shift in behavior, he stopped pacing, stared at her for a bit and went to his laptop.

“Well, then I’ll just delete everything from my computer. No more ideas,” he said, confident it will work.

She lifted her head for a second, stared at him, and burst out laughing, so hard she felt her sides cracking.

Marjories' Margarine

This is a story title given to me by J about a year ago, during Industrial Training, when I hit a really bored point. Never got down to writing it, until this morning, when I could do no work and decided to write just to get the words flowing. I rather like how it turned out, though I don't think its all that original, but for now, here is Part One of Marjorie's Margarine.


Marjorie’s Margarine
A story about nothing at all, by Pauline Wong

Marjorie woke up to a vicious headache and a slab of margarine in her hands. It was not a pleasant situation to be found in, considering she had once been arrested for vandalism (she smeared expired margarine over a much prized painting by the darling of the town, Mary Han-Lee, who was twelve when she painted that picture of a dog with six tails, shortly before Mary’s body was found dumped in the sidewalk, chopped in three parts and half-rotting) and twice for possession of an illegal substance (codeine, which was banned due to its amazing effects on coughs as well as mental capabilities, she disguised it under the pretense of a carton of margarine tubs).

To be found waking up with a headache and a slab of greasy stuff in her tiny hands on a bed that was not even hers, and with a horrendously torn pair of jeans was most dodgy indeed. She hoped, and hoped, that the cops were not around. Better yet, she hoped her father wasn’t around.

She lifted herself from the bed and placed the margarine slab (incriminating stuff, that, she was beginning to think) on the table beside her. The table had only a vase with swirls of blue and a miserable rose as companions –she suspected a slab of margarine would hardly make a difference.

She went to the toilet (not hers, for sure, this is not her blue and green room at home, and her toilet was done in pink. This one was in a dull, faded grey) and searched through the cabinet with the cracked mirror for something to swat the headache away. She was sure she would not be able to figure out what to do next if she didn’t first get rid of this headache.

She was about to triumphantly extract a battered box of Panadol when a very large shadow loomed above her. Shit.

“Marjorie. Marjorie the Margarine Mayhem. What is it with you and that slimy stuff.”

It wasn’t a question, it wasn’t a statement, it was a proclamation of someone who said things just for the heck of saying it. She knew those kinds of people. They were the ones who looked up at the raining sky only to proclaim ‘awfully wet isn’t it.’

She had two words: Bugger it.

Marjorie turned around slowly, Panadol in clenched fist, headache now reaching epic proportions worthy of intense hospitalization. The man who stood above (quite literally; he was floating six inches off the ground, how nice for him, looming made easy for him, she was sure) her was a man she did not recognize. He had a flat, flaccid face and a most unpleasant sneer on his very chapped lips. He smelled like cigarettes and like cheap beer. She has never tasted or seen beer that was cheap, but she fancied if she did it would smell like this disgusting man.

Marjorie tightened her grip on the Panadol, and wished with all her heart she had not left the margarine slab on the table.

It would get so melt-y when and if she went back for it. Nothing is quite as bad as a melting slab of margarine when a solid slab of margarine was nasty enough. She liked margarine though, but that is a story for another day, and for a time when she wasn’t confronted by a large levitating man.

“But don’t mind me,” proclaimed this large man. “I don’t like margarine anyway. I like butter really. But you wouldn’t know. You like margarine. Did you know they have a story written about you called Marjorie’s Margarine.”

She began to wish she had a name like Ylondavasaki. Just so they can’t make a pun of her name with her weapon of choice.

“No I didn’t know that,” she said, and her voice was low, smooth and warm. In another situation it would have been a voice to melt the ears of men, but this man was not any ordinary man, and this was one of those bad situations. Voices like butter (haha) would not do a thing for times like this. Margerine, though, probably will.

“I came here to ask you to hand in what you have over there. By the corner. Black bag,” he said. Then he cocked his head one side and re-pondered his proclamation. “Not ask. Force.”
She took a sharp breath. “Black bag? What black bag? I have nothing on me. As you can see,” she gestured at her torn and ripped jeans, with bits of pinkish flesh showing through (yes, she had an odd pinkish colouring about her person, don’t go holding that against her –what did you think she would be? Yellow, like margarine? Overkill), “I have nothing on me, not even the jeans on my thighs.”

He looked at her and showed her his very black teeth. It was a stereotype, she supposed. If he was already leering and looming, it must be his teeth would be of an unnatural colour. A leery, loomy guy would not have perfect teeth.

“You don’t have it. You were robbed.”

She nodded, though that sent stars through her eyeballs. “I was robbed,” she affirmed. “I was also attacked.”

His grin, if possible, got even wider. Hmm. Too wide.

“If you won’t tell me, I will have to take it from you.”

She frowned. “Take -?”

And then his face split into two, black teeth and chapped lips and all and he lunged at her with his mouth impossibly wide open, aiming straight for her face.

Screaming, she ducked and rolled away from him, and he stumbled. Scrambling to her feet, she made her way to the bedroom, ignoring the bursts of pain behind her eyes, and made a wild grab for the bed-side table. Her hands slipped on the (DAMMIT) expectedly melted margarine slab as he grabbed her feet and began to drag her backwards.

With a grunt, she kicked out at him, and to her horror, he ate her shoe. “Damn you!” she shouted. “That’s my favourite shoe!” He went on grinning in that unnatural, horror-movie-esque way, and she saw with disgust that his tongue too, was black. Damn we’re just full of stereotypes here, she thought, as she continued to fight to escape his grip.

Her feet kept at the kicking (sans one side of her blue and white Nikes) and eventually, she felt his grip slacken, just for a split second and she slid out of his claws like (pfft) margarine. She made yet another wild dash for that (melt-y) slab of margarine, managed to grab hold on to it, and threw it with all her might straight into his mouth.

It disappeared like candy at a candy shop inside that black hole he called a face, but as soon as she pointed her middle finger at him, his face exploded, spraying her with bits of Looming Man.

“Bleargh.” She flicked a particular nasty bit away from her face, and mourned the loss of yet another perfectly good slab of margarine.

Groaning, she put her hands to her head and wished that the headache would go away. Remembering the Panadol, she made her way back to the toilet (amidst the remains of Mr. Leering) and found it, very much more battered and crushed now. She found one uncrushed pill, put it inside her mouth, and poured the remaining powdery bits into her mouth. Swallowing them dry, she thought. Ahek.

She looked around the scene of damage. Bits of nasty man? Check. Painkillers? Check. Clothes? Hmm. She looked under the bed covers, in the cupboard with the spoilt handle, under the bed itself –and spied a really ratty-looking pair of shorts.

It had stains on it. Stains that looked suspiciously like blood. Grimacing, she put them on, and with a flick of her hair, she picked up the box (containing a vial of blood and an address) she hid from sight and walked out the doors of the hotel.

****

Matthew threw his pen down and slammed his not-too-shabby fists against the flat top of his very expensive table.

Maybe slammed is too harsh a word. His table cost too much to be treated with such violence.

Let’s correct the mistake.

Matthew threw his pen down and gently tapped the flat surface of his very expensive table.

Better.

He chewed the edge of his fingers (not the nail, the finger) in a very precise, mechanical manner.
It helped him think when the words wouldn’t flow through, like it always did. That, and cussing as fluently as he can in the five languages he knew.

He proceeded to do just that and earned a yell from his father, who was in the other room, also trying to write, and also not getting any. Words, that is.

His father was a great playwright with so many awards under his belt that his son was surprised it still held up pants, and Matthew had, quite obviously, took after his fathers’ word-wizardry.

Matthew earned the nickname of Writes, pronounced ‘rights’, when he was 7, in the midst of composition class for young children. He earned it for the sole reason he dared to propose to his teacher at that time that ‘ebullient’ did not mean ‘bulbous’ and as such, cannot be used in that particular sentence; which, by the way, had three syntax errors and one grammatically dubious use of tense.

He was promptly told to leave the class and go out into the hall bearing the placard with the words: I am a Know-it-All. He went home, wrote a six-page short story, showed it to his father and equally as promptly was told he needed to take down the blood content a notch. Maybe two notches.

He also won his first short-story writing competition with that story, and forever solidified himself as Writes by winning every single writing competition he ever entered (with the help of his father, who would read and pronounce either ‘bloodthirsty’ or ‘passable for mass audiences’).

But behind his back people also called him Bloodlust Writes, thanks to his penchant for extremely vivid scenes of gore, blood and violence –brilliant, they were, but also disturbing.

This, however, did not mean he was a violent person by nature. He really was quite good-natured. Tall, and rather thin, cut with a hollow look to his cheeks and a dark, brooding gaze, he was not what one would even call handsome (nor attractive, nor charming, nor sensuous, nor any adjectives used to describe aesthetically pleasing males), he was simply what one would call ‘interesting’. He gave chills to the people who he wanted to give chills to and was good to the people who he wanted to be good to.

His father long gave up trying to get him to fill out that starved look (his father was a robust man with a hearty appetite and an extremely clever wit –his works were all acclaimed for its sharp writing and insanely intelligent wit) and chose to buy him clothes that were bright in colour and always 3 sizes too large.

But Writes (we shall know him as that) has always been a good sort of person (despite the bloodlust) and he never got into any trouble of any kind. In fact, he was all round nice, with a dry sort of humour and a great smile. He didn’t have black teeth, you will be glad to know.

He didn’t have any distinguishing talents besides writing, but that, as he often told himself in the dead of night on one of his nightly sojourns into the depths of his imagination, he never found to be worth of concern or worry. To him, all he needed were his words, his imagination and the perpetuity of the Internet and the computer.

Giving up the cussing meant going back to the fingers, and Writes did just that. When he felt a tang of metal on his tongue and a sharp pain through his fingers, he removed the injured finger from his mouth and moved on to the wounded digits’ next-door neighbor.

He rolled the taste of his own blood in his mouth –a horrifying habit his father had never been able to break him of. Writes liked the taste of his own blood, and he often bit himself just to lick away at his wounds, like a dog. He was still good natured though, albeit with a fetish for his own blood.

He even had 3 ex-girlfriends, all who left him within six months, which was just about the time they found out he liked to lick his own blood. And that he eventually wrote their deaths in effort to show them how much he liked them.

He had a lot of friends too, but they knew from the look in his eyes that when a writers’ block was on the way, the blood will soon be flowing. Then they left, but they returned when he was busy writing and was all-round good to be around.

Writes then felt a sharp buzz just inside his stomach somewhere, and frantically rushed to his laptop (a state-of-the-art machine that did everything under the sun except wash your laundry for you) and began to type away so furiously that his fingers groaned in protest. The pen lay on the table, forgotten. He never used it anyway. He only used it when he needed to think –then he would hold it in his hands and push it against his forehead until an indentation appeared and he got the words he needed.

His father, too, was silent in the other room, which meant he was asleep or writing.

Writes eventually got to the end of the story he had been working on for two months, and he was pleased with how it turned out. There was a minimal amount of blood (he was sure father would pronounce it ‘passable for mass audiences with stronger stomachs than most people’) and there was a brilliant twist to the plot he himself did not know he was going to write.

He dashed to his father and waved his manuscript under his nose and earned a playful slap on the shoulder.

“Here now m’boy. Slow down. What have you got there?” boomed his father. “Another one of your stories again? Heard you cussin’ like a sailor just now.”

Writes was 23, but his father always spoke like this –like a cheesy western advertisement for ‘family fun weekends at Tampa Bay’. Wherever Tampa Bay was. He suspects it’s in the States somewhere.

“Father. I may have stumbled upon a veritable goldmine here within these sixty six thousand words,” he said. He too, always spoke like that –like a book. “I believe that once it is published it will be the making of our fortune.”

His father laughed. “We made our fortune years ago, sonny. We have enough money to buy out a government and maybe even more!”

This was true. His father made obscene amounts of money each day writing speeches for people who needed great writers to prepare their speeches. He also made money from his plays, which were always to a full house and with the biggest names attached to it.

And Writes also brought in his fair share of the dough –he made money from writing dark, underground hit movies for those who are too rich to bother with making money, but were perfectly happy paying him to help them make beautiful, dark, disturbing and brilliant movies no one but a small handful ever saw.

“Nonetheless, have a read and see if it may be palatable for the audiences.” He left the papers in his father’s room, on his equally as expensive table. His father started humming ‘Flight of the Bumblebees’. Writes left the room.

He wandered into the kitchen (it took him a full fifteen minutes to get there, seeing his house was three and a half stories high and had 10 bedrooms) and tried to find himself something to eat. He beckoned one of the many black-clad staff bustling about, and proceeded to articulate himself (with his hands) that he wanted some food.

This he did with rubbing his stomach and pointing to his open mouth. It earned him giggles from the petite little creature that joined the staff of the household yesterday and a hunk of fresh-baked bread with hand-made strawberry jam.

He ate methodically, biting himself as he did so, just because he liked to.

His phone rang (another state of the art thing that did everything as well, except what his laptop cannot) and he answered a call with a very pleasant –

“Hello.”

“I am looking for a guy named Rights.”

“That would be me.”

“Prepare two slabs of margarine. Do it now, and don’t leave it out someplace hot. Leave it in
somewhere cool in that huge house of yours. When you hear someone at the door, open it, hand her the margarine, and find somewhere to hide.”

“I think that would make a great story plot. May I know with whom am I having the pleasure of being ordered around?”

“No. And just do it! Now!”

The phone went dead. Writes pondered his actions: as he could see, he had two options. Write a story on this phone call (he could see the starting… it would be about a girl named Marjorie, who did miraculous things with butter) or do as the harassed voice told him to.

Sighing, and licking off the last bits of blood, he proceeded to do as the voice had asked. He grabbed two slabs of margarine from the cupboard and left them by the side table (it had something that looked like Faberge eggs on it, but those he casually put aside), where it was relatively cool.

When he opened the door, he found out very quickly two things: he would like to go upstairs and taste more of his blood, write a book, and go promptly mad from the brilliance of the plot, and second, he would also like to bring along the girl standing there in front of him, and probably taste her blood too.

He reconsidered option number two when he saw her fling the margarine slabs at two men who looked like they came out of one of his own stories and they exploded.

“There. Thanks for the help, Rights.” She brushed her short shorts, sending out a small cloud of dust.

“Writes,” he corrected in a monotone, still staring at the lumps of sizzling meat.

“Yes, Writes then. Nice to meet you,” she cheerfully announced. “I am here to ask you for your
brain.”

Writes took his eyes from the remains of the creatures and frowned at her. “My brain.”

“Your brain,” she affirmed, eyes gleaming.

“May I ask why and what will you be doing with my brain?”

“Simple. I plan on using it as bait.”

“Bait?”

“Yes, bait. Why am I always affirming my statements?” she wondered out loud, and pulled at
imaginary lint (which turned out to be a body part). “Anyway. Bait for them. They want to eat
your brain so they can get information out of you. Well, maybe not eat so much as digest. Like a snake. Python. They swallow and di –“

“I know what a python does and how it eats.”

She smiled. “Great, then you would know what would happen and so it will be easier.”

He stared at her –her dirty brown hair, tangled in a bob around her face, he short shorts, her
odd pinkish skin, and her bright, gleaming eyes.

“Goodbye,” he said, and began to shut the door.

“Sure,” she said, as her face disappeared behind the ten thousand dollar mahogany door with inlaid gold. “But don’t you want to know why your brain is bait –it could be a story.”

He paused.

“I’m listening.”

She grinned, white teeth showing, eyebrows arched. “Invite me in, and oh yes. Don’t suck my
blood. You won’t like how I taste.”

He grinned back, showing white teeth, with exceptionally red gums.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”