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.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
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.”
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.”
Thursday, June 25, 2009
There has to be something interesting I can write here -but the fact of the matter is, I've got nothing. Nada. Zilch. Zip. ASTALAVISTABABY.
I have no idea how that last exclamations fits inside this blog post.
I was toying with the idea of putting up a a short story here but my ideas have run dry, much like the River of -nevermind.
Meeting up with V and K this Sunday, can't wait, because I ain't seen them in what, a month?? Sad. Very sad. Plus with the fact (I announce here first ahhh) I AM NOT GOING FOR OUR GRADUATION CEREMONY.
No one is going to stop me. Because I can list you EASILY at least five good things about NOT going for the Graduation Ceremony.
First: I won't have to sit through hours of the MOST BORING old people in the world talking about what a bright fututre we are going to have, and the impact we will make in the working world.
Because I already know I am going to have a future that is semi-luminescent (at least) and if I work hard I can make an impact anywhere. Don't need to pay some old coot to tell me that.
Second: I can put that RM300 (roughly) to good use -and the use DOES NOT involve playing dress up in a robe that will be a) dusty, b) ill-fitting, and c) smell slightly like old people and cupboards.
I can use the money to pay for my transport as I go about MY JOB. Thanks very much.
Third: I refuse to be involved in something that requires me to pose, smile and be permanently frozen on a photo. End of story. Because I hate being photographed, and I refuse to bend to ceremony.
Fourth: Its a WTF. I STILL have to pay RM198 for my certificate, so no need to add to the expense. I refuse to indulge in sentimental, traditional ceremonial mumbo jumbo.
Fifth: I do not need to go to the convocation to meet up with my friends or say goodbye! I don't even NEED to say goodbye. There is something called Facebook, you know. And MSN. And Yahoo. *rolls eyes*
I know there will be some horrified gasps. I don't bleedin' care. I dare you all to try and change my mind. HAH. J has already tried and was unsuccessful.
Ahem. Anyway.
So back to my ideas -of which I have none. I want to write a good short story someday but I reckon I would need a good story first. I have yet to have lived long enough to decipher the meaning of life -and in fact, I don't think I ever will.
But I damn well will try. ^^,
Owh.
I think I do need to post up some explanations for my silly 'How well do you know Pauline Wong' Quiz. Heh. Lotsa you scored kinda low -but wait! Its no fault of your own!
Because:
a) My favourite colour is blue, so for those who got this wrong very the sweat lor. Hahaha.
b) I listen to Coldplay obsessively, but they're not the only people I listen to: I like mostly alternative bands and any and all epic score from movies. In fact, some of you may know that my favourite piece of music ever is Vide Cor Meum from Hannibal.
c) If I were to run out of a burning house -I would never leave Christian behind! Books I can buy again, but if wallet don't bring along, how can I do that? Lol. Replacing books is easier than IC and bank cards. And my dog, well, K is right, she can run, but she isn't the smartest dog to have existed, and would probably go lick the flames instead of running away from them.
d) I absolutely adore the Bridget Jones series, and I hated Elizabethtown, which is an Orlando Bloom movie. It was boring and even his puppy dog eyes couldn't save the show. Johnny Depp I love too but I don't love eveything he was in.
e) I would NOT eat chocolate for a month non-stop! NOBODY can eat one type of food for a month NON STOP! LOL.
f) I have always secretly wanted to be a guy -though V points out I hang out with them long enough to know what THAT is like. Haha. But for a DAY, I would wanna be a guy. This is because I've always wanted to know how it would feel to be able to burp, fart and be disgusting and totally hilariously funny just for a day and get away with it. Girls can never get away with doing things like that.
Btw, I want to be a famous novelist for LIFE. Heh.
g) I am always, first and foremost, attracted to a guy by his humour and his laugh. Its sad, but there you go. Its always the funny guys that get my attention, because there is nothing so good as a guy who can make me laugh, and likes to laugh. What kind of laugh, you say? Simple: a good, hearty one that is not fake or forced.
h) I am known for nothing at all, really. If you were to ask me what I were known for I'd say nothing, though in fact, people usually associate me with two things: tall and funny. But hence the hint: think of what I would say.
i) My greatest fear is the death of someone I love. I am deathly afraid that harm would befall my family, or my friends. My angry Dino I can handle. Eventually he'll forgive me and sayang me as always. (I am his favourite, after all, hahaha.) But losing my family? Or my close friends?? Never. It scares the heck out of me just thinking of it. Snakes don't even come close.
j) Ehe, I do admit I put questions 12 and 8 just to mess with you guys. NYAHAHAHA.
So thats it la. I am glad to know that most of you weren't at all far off. I heart you guys! ^^,
Bye now.
I have no idea how that last exclamations fits inside this blog post.
I was toying with the idea of putting up a a short story here but my ideas have run dry, much like the River of -nevermind.
Meeting up with V and K this Sunday, can't wait, because I ain't seen them in what, a month?? Sad. Very sad. Plus with the fact (I announce here first ahhh) I AM NOT GOING FOR OUR GRADUATION CEREMONY.
No one is going to stop me. Because I can list you EASILY at least five good things about NOT going for the Graduation Ceremony.
First: I won't have to sit through hours of the MOST BORING old people in the world talking about what a bright fututre we are going to have, and the impact we will make in the working world.
Because I already know I am going to have a future that is semi-luminescent (at least) and if I work hard I can make an impact anywhere. Don't need to pay some old coot to tell me that.
Second: I can put that RM300 (roughly) to good use -and the use DOES NOT involve playing dress up in a robe that will be a) dusty, b) ill-fitting, and c) smell slightly like old people and cupboards.
I can use the money to pay for my transport as I go about MY JOB. Thanks very much.
Third: I refuse to be involved in something that requires me to pose, smile and be permanently frozen on a photo. End of story. Because I hate being photographed, and I refuse to bend to ceremony.
Fourth: Its a WTF. I STILL have to pay RM198 for my certificate, so no need to add to the expense. I refuse to indulge in sentimental, traditional ceremonial mumbo jumbo.
Fifth: I do not need to go to the convocation to meet up with my friends or say goodbye! I don't even NEED to say goodbye. There is something called Facebook, you know. And MSN. And Yahoo. *rolls eyes*
I know there will be some horrified gasps. I don't bleedin' care. I dare you all to try and change my mind. HAH. J has already tried and was unsuccessful.
Ahem. Anyway.
So back to my ideas -of which I have none. I want to write a good short story someday but I reckon I would need a good story first. I have yet to have lived long enough to decipher the meaning of life -and in fact, I don't think I ever will.
But I damn well will try. ^^,
Owh.
I think I do need to post up some explanations for my silly 'How well do you know Pauline Wong' Quiz. Heh. Lotsa you scored kinda low -but wait! Its no fault of your own!
Because:
a) My favourite colour is blue, so for those who got this wrong very the sweat lor. Hahaha.
b) I listen to Coldplay obsessively, but they're not the only people I listen to: I like mostly alternative bands and any and all epic score from movies. In fact, some of you may know that my favourite piece of music ever is Vide Cor Meum from Hannibal.
c) If I were to run out of a burning house -I would never leave Christian behind! Books I can buy again, but if wallet don't bring along, how can I do that? Lol. Replacing books is easier than IC and bank cards. And my dog, well, K is right, she can run, but she isn't the smartest dog to have existed, and would probably go lick the flames instead of running away from them.
d) I absolutely adore the Bridget Jones series, and I hated Elizabethtown, which is an Orlando Bloom movie. It was boring and even his puppy dog eyes couldn't save the show. Johnny Depp I love too but I don't love eveything he was in.
e) I would NOT eat chocolate for a month non-stop! NOBODY can eat one type of food for a month NON STOP! LOL.
f) I have always secretly wanted to be a guy -though V points out I hang out with them long enough to know what THAT is like. Haha. But for a DAY, I would wanna be a guy. This is because I've always wanted to know how it would feel to be able to burp, fart and be disgusting and totally hilariously funny just for a day and get away with it. Girls can never get away with doing things like that.
Btw, I want to be a famous novelist for LIFE. Heh.
g) I am always, first and foremost, attracted to a guy by his humour and his laugh. Its sad, but there you go. Its always the funny guys that get my attention, because there is nothing so good as a guy who can make me laugh, and likes to laugh. What kind of laugh, you say? Simple: a good, hearty one that is not fake or forced.
h) I am known for nothing at all, really. If you were to ask me what I were known for I'd say nothing, though in fact, people usually associate me with two things: tall and funny. But hence the hint: think of what I would say.
i) My greatest fear is the death of someone I love. I am deathly afraid that harm would befall my family, or my friends. My angry Dino I can handle. Eventually he'll forgive me and sayang me as always. (I am his favourite, after all, hahaha.) But losing my family? Or my close friends?? Never. It scares the heck out of me just thinking of it. Snakes don't even come close.
j) Ehe, I do admit I put questions 12 and 8 just to mess with you guys. NYAHAHAHA.
So thats it la. I am glad to know that most of you weren't at all far off. I heart you guys! ^^,
Bye now.
Friday, June 19, 2009
A Chef in Black and Other Stories
A Chef in Black
By Pauline Wong
He was not dressed in black, actually. It was a grey vintage-feel T-shirt purchased from the depths of a store called Ed Hardy (now in residence in our fair country at KLCC) , and a nondescript pair of pants. His name isn't 'Something -something Black' either. Its Emmanuel. Stroobant. He's Belgian.
His moniker is virtue of his black St Pierre uniform, (I think, I am just making a wild guess), which he wears on his TV show 'Chef in Black I' and 'Chef in Black II'. He's head chef there -a position he enjoys because (in his words) 'he cooks, and I do all the talking'.
'He' being his creative assistant. A rather quietly sexy French guy (ahh the French, their men can make slicing tomatoes look sexy) who I'd love have cooking in my home. Antoine, his name. He gave me better poses during the live demonstration at 7AteNine, The Ascott.
Nonetheless, he was chatty, friendly, a great sport (with multitudes of press descending upon him, it is amazing and a testament to his tolerance that he didn't throw his hands up and curse, with alacrity, the Malaysian press in very colourful Belgian), and an all round charismatic and funny guy. Short blond hair and all.
Nothing appeals to me so much as a man who cooks and makes jokes while he does so, so I had enjoyed my (very brief) interview (with 5 other journos) with him. I don't fancy much places that 'posh' -food too small and prices too big.
When the World Works, You Work
By Pauline Wong also
Work has been all consuming, she thought to herself, sitting at the corner of her bed, reaching over to pluck that pesky wire off the floor. She plugs it in viciously into her handphone, and proceeds to flop onto her bed.
She missed her friends. Still do. Misses, then. She misses her friends. She missed their infinite freedom to just 'hang' whenever they wanted to, wherever they wanted to. Most of all, she wanted her 3am bedtimes... okay. Maybe she doesn't.
When the world works, so does she. She types away at her laptop (supplied by her office): she enjoys what she does but sometimes her freezing fingers hurt.
She likes her colleagues a great deal. She likes her job. She is happy.
...but there is something to be said for being able to kick back, relax, and wear ratty T-shirts everyday and talk utter perverse nonsense with equally perverse and nonsensical friends.
By Pauline Wong
He was not dressed in black, actually. It was a grey vintage-feel T-shirt purchased from the depths of a store called Ed Hardy (now in residence in our fair country at KLCC) , and a nondescript pair of pants. His name isn't 'Something -something Black' either. Its Emmanuel. Stroobant. He's Belgian.
His moniker is virtue of his black St Pierre uniform, (I think, I am just making a wild guess), which he wears on his TV show 'Chef in Black I' and 'Chef in Black II'. He's head chef there -a position he enjoys because (in his words) 'he cooks, and I do all the talking'.
'He' being his creative assistant. A rather quietly sexy French guy (ahh the French, their men can make slicing tomatoes look sexy) who I'd love have cooking in my home. Antoine, his name. He gave me better poses during the live demonstration at 7AteNine, The Ascott.
Nonetheless, he was chatty, friendly, a great sport (with multitudes of press descending upon him, it is amazing and a testament to his tolerance that he didn't throw his hands up and curse, with alacrity, the Malaysian press in very colourful Belgian), and an all round charismatic and funny guy. Short blond hair and all.
Nothing appeals to me so much as a man who cooks and makes jokes while he does so, so I had enjoyed my (very brief) interview (with 5 other journos) with him. I don't fancy much places that 'posh' -food too small and prices too big.
When the World Works, You Work
By Pauline Wong also
Work has been all consuming, she thought to herself, sitting at the corner of her bed, reaching over to pluck that pesky wire off the floor. She plugs it in viciously into her handphone, and proceeds to flop onto her bed.
She missed her friends. Still do. Misses, then. She misses her friends. She missed their infinite freedom to just 'hang' whenever they wanted to, wherever they wanted to. Most of all, she wanted her 3am bedtimes... okay. Maybe she doesn't.
When the world works, so does she. She types away at her laptop (supplied by her office): she enjoys what she does but sometimes her freezing fingers hurt.
She likes her colleagues a great deal. She likes her job. She is happy.
...but there is something to be said for being able to kick back, relax, and wear ratty T-shirts everyday and talk utter perverse nonsense with equally perverse and nonsensical friends.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Reticulating 4D Splines
And so begins yet another long-term affair with The Sims: this time, they are BACK for the 3rd time.
You would think that after the mega-mad success of Sims 1 and 2, they would sit back, relax, enjoy their profits (gained from capitalising and exploiting the inner megalomaniacs of the God-Playing community) and never work a day in their lives again.
Yeah, EA guys, I am talking to ya'. You and your madly addictive games and greedy over-taking of smaller, independent game developers. You are supposed to be sitting by some nude beach somewhere (you and your whole Sims-developer team), sipping apple martinis and turning yourselves over like tempura fried chickens under the sun as you try to make up for years of getting pasty under the glare of your computers.
Ahem.
Maybe I am just jealous I didn't think of creating a game where you can play God and make your Sim drown in a swimming pool by taking away the pool ladder.
Maybe I will create a game where you can play God in a youth NEWSPAPER company and have your writer+Sims drown from drinking too much free guava/mango/orange juice. Hah!
Ahem again.
But while they should be doing aforementioned things, they are not. They are going about thinking of MORE ways one can play God, and of MORE ways they can make the God-experience even more fun.
Because with Sims 3, you can now play God ALL OVER the neighbourhood, and not just in your house.
Because controlling your Sim going toilet/eating waffles/sleeping/woo-hooing/practically every detail of his/her life inside the home YOU built just simply isn't enough.
Now, Sims 3 allows you to control what they do at work, too -whether its 'Business as Usual' or 'Work Hard' or 'Take it Easy'.
Sims 3 also allows you to go to the beach, for the first time ever, because sun tanning in your own backyard is not enough.
Sims 3 allows you to PLAY GOD to a whole new level. And guess what, there isn't even any expansion pack yet.
So yeah, EA guys. Here's to you. Lets reticulate the HECK out of those 4D splines and ascend those Maslows' hierarchies.
Because come 2015, there will be Sims 4, non? And this time, we control-freaks can play God all over THE WORLD!!!!!!!!!!
You would think that after the mega-mad success of Sims 1 and 2, they would sit back, relax, enjoy their profits (gained from capitalising and exploiting the inner megalomaniacs of the God-Playing community) and never work a day in their lives again.
Yeah, EA guys, I am talking to ya'. You and your madly addictive games and greedy over-taking of smaller, independent game developers. You are supposed to be sitting by some nude beach somewhere (you and your whole Sims-developer team), sipping apple martinis and turning yourselves over like tempura fried chickens under the sun as you try to make up for years of getting pasty under the glare of your computers.
Ahem.
Maybe I am just jealous I didn't think of creating a game where you can play God and make your Sim drown in a swimming pool by taking away the pool ladder.
Maybe I will create a game where you can play God in a youth NEWSPAPER company and have your writer+Sims drown from drinking too much free guava/mango/orange juice. Hah!
Ahem again.
But while they should be doing aforementioned things, they are not. They are going about thinking of MORE ways one can play God, and of MORE ways they can make the God-experience even more fun.
Because with Sims 3, you can now play God ALL OVER the neighbourhood, and not just in your house.
Because controlling your Sim going toilet/eating waffles/sleeping/woo-hooing/practically every detail of his/her life inside the home YOU built just simply isn't enough.
Now, Sims 3 allows you to control what they do at work, too -whether its 'Business as Usual' or 'Work Hard' or 'Take it Easy'.
Sims 3 also allows you to go to the beach, for the first time ever, because sun tanning in your own backyard is not enough.
Sims 3 allows you to PLAY GOD to a whole new level. And guess what, there isn't even any expansion pack yet.
So yeah, EA guys. Here's to you. Lets reticulate the HECK out of those 4D splines and ascend those Maslows' hierarchies.
Because come 2015, there will be Sims 4, non? And this time, we control-freaks can play God all over THE WORLD!!!!!!!!!!
Thursday, June 4, 2009
WRITERS BLOCK (letters)
TODAY, IS CAPS DAY.
THIS IS BECAUSE I HAVE WRITERS BLOCK AND I DO NOT WISH TO DELVE INTO THE INDIGNITIES OF PRESSING THE SHIFT KEY. I INSIST ON WRITING EVERYTHING IN CAPS, SO AS TO BURST FREE OF THE CONSTRAINING ERM CONFINES OF SMALL AND BIG LETTERS.
I HAVE WRITERS BLOCK.
I AM STARING AT MY COMPUTER SCREEN (SOMEWHERE SOMEONE IS HAVING A BLAST WRITING AWAY AND ABOUT THE MOST MUNDANE OF THINGS I AM SURE OF IT, DAMN THEM I CANT WRITE) AND I AM ACTUALLY SUPPOSED TO BE WRITING ABOUT MOVIE CARNIVAL AND ABOUT A UNIVERSITY THAT JUST OPENED AND WANT TO HAVE FREE PUBLICITY WITH US BECAUSE THEY CAN CALL THE SHOTS.
I AM ALSO SUPPOSED TO BE WRITING ABOUT KIDS WHO'VE FOLLOWED IN THEIR FATHERS' FOOTSTEPS BUT I PERSONALLY DON'T KNOW ANYONE WHOSE FATHERS ARE WRITERS OR JOURNALISTS OR ARE ANY WAY INSPIRATIONS FOR MY FRIENDS DOING ANYTHING THEY DO. EXCEPT ON EATING. BECAUSE I AM SURE (I CHECKED) THAT EATING IS NOT A PROFESSION ANYWAY. NOT YET. IT SOON WILL BE. AND IT WILL BE UNIQUE TO MALAYSIANS ONLY.
I DIGRESS.
I CANT SEEM TO WRITE ANYTHING THAT MAKES AN OUNCE OF SENSE AND YET I AM SUPPOSED TO SELL THIS UNIVERSITY WITHOUT ACTUALLY IT READING LIKE AN ADVERTISEMENT.
THIS SUCKS.
AND, TO TOP IT OFF, I AM ACTUALLY HAVING A GREAT TIME AT WORK. ITS JUST THAT I AM SO SO SO STUCK.
I THINK OL' SCROOGE HAD A POINT: BAH, HUMBUG.
THIS IS BECAUSE I HAVE WRITERS BLOCK AND I DO NOT WISH TO DELVE INTO THE INDIGNITIES OF PRESSING THE SHIFT KEY. I INSIST ON WRITING EVERYTHING IN CAPS, SO AS TO BURST FREE OF THE CONSTRAINING ERM CONFINES OF SMALL AND BIG LETTERS.
I HAVE WRITERS BLOCK.
I AM STARING AT MY COMPUTER SCREEN (SOMEWHERE SOMEONE IS HAVING A BLAST WRITING AWAY AND ABOUT THE MOST MUNDANE OF THINGS I AM SURE OF IT, DAMN THEM I CANT WRITE) AND I AM ACTUALLY SUPPOSED TO BE WRITING ABOUT MOVIE CARNIVAL AND ABOUT A UNIVERSITY THAT JUST OPENED AND WANT TO HAVE FREE PUBLICITY WITH US BECAUSE THEY CAN CALL THE SHOTS.
I AM ALSO SUPPOSED TO BE WRITING ABOUT KIDS WHO'VE FOLLOWED IN THEIR FATHERS' FOOTSTEPS BUT I PERSONALLY DON'T KNOW ANYONE WHOSE FATHERS ARE WRITERS OR JOURNALISTS OR ARE ANY WAY INSPIRATIONS FOR MY FRIENDS DOING ANYTHING THEY DO. EXCEPT ON EATING. BECAUSE I AM SURE (I CHECKED) THAT EATING IS NOT A PROFESSION ANYWAY. NOT YET. IT SOON WILL BE. AND IT WILL BE UNIQUE TO MALAYSIANS ONLY.
I DIGRESS.
I CANT SEEM TO WRITE ANYTHING THAT MAKES AN OUNCE OF SENSE AND YET I AM SUPPOSED TO SELL THIS UNIVERSITY WITHOUT ACTUALLY IT READING LIKE AN ADVERTISEMENT.
THIS SUCKS.
AND, TO TOP IT OFF, I AM ACTUALLY HAVING A GREAT TIME AT WORK. ITS JUST THAT I AM SO SO SO STUCK.
I THINK OL' SCROOGE HAD A POINT: BAH, HUMBUG.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Quik-ee Update
I have a few cents worth in opinions to hand out. And, whether YOU like it or not, you're gonna read it. HAH!
Its a Sad, Sad day for the Insurance Business
.....when a certain lifeform of little to no intelligence is tossed (to the horror of insurance salespeople everywhere; I can hear the keening wails of agony) into the world of selling someone something that could potentially protect them from unfortunate twists of fate.
At least the world of Journalists can breathe a sigh of relief.
Its a Good, Good Day for Quiz-taking
....IF the quiz makes any sense at all, that is. While Facebook quizzes are fun, many of them have either answers too obvious
-what kind of o-holic are you: answer to questions given are DOH obvious.
...or completely stupid:
- how will you die: what is your favorite colour, it asks- to which answers are blue, green, etc etc... how the HECK is your favourite PIGMENT supposed to determine the one certain thing in life??
Its a Great, Great Day to Watch Coraline
.... fav biscuits? Check. Milo? Check. Parents fast alseep and are not about to walk in, hoping to catch me watching something I shouldn't (*koff* YAOI* koff*)? Check.
Okay, my opinions are done now. You may resume your work/play/porn (ahem)/surfing now. Hee.
Its a Sad, Sad day for the Insurance Business
.....when a certain lifeform of little to no intelligence is tossed (to the horror of insurance salespeople everywhere; I can hear the keening wails of agony) into the world of selling someone something that could potentially protect them from unfortunate twists of fate.
At least the world of Journalists can breathe a sigh of relief.
Its a Good, Good Day for Quiz-taking
....IF the quiz makes any sense at all, that is. While Facebook quizzes are fun, many of them have either answers too obvious
-what kind of o-holic are you: answer to questions given are DOH obvious.
...or completely stupid:
- how will you die: what is your favorite colour, it asks- to which answers are blue, green, etc etc... how the HECK is your favourite PIGMENT supposed to determine the one certain thing in life??
Its a Great, Great Day to Watch Coraline
.... fav biscuits? Check. Milo? Check. Parents fast alseep and are not about to walk in, hoping to catch me watching something I shouldn't (*koff* YAOI* koff*)? Check.
Okay, my opinions are done now. You may resume your work/play/porn (ahem)/surfing now. Hee.
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