Long-Delayed Post

Okay since my blog allegedly went 'closed', I've not posted. Sorry about that my three (or less) readers. But here is is: A full post about what's been going on with me and my so-called life. Yeah.

ZENZEI GO BYE BYE... TWICE.

Once in Melaka, once in Solaris Mont Kiara. She is leaving us (on a jetplaaaane) to take care of three possibly adorable but also possibly terrifying children in the US of A.

We're going to miss her terribly of course, which is why some of us are going to hide inside her luggage. *smile* By some of us I mean me, because I am crazy like that and because I did the same thing with V when she left for Australia but I got found out and now I am permanently barred from entering Australia. No really. Check the Most Un-Wanted list. My face is there under 'Highly Deranged and Extremely Persistent.'

Yeah so hor. I am going to try to get into the US la hor. I hear security there is pretty lax because all the security guards have gone to line up outside the Apple Store for the next three months. *smiles*

So ya. Melaka! Pictures, etc etc. Proceedez, por favor.

Don't know who those brothers are but I am sure they were nice people. Nice building though. Just along Jonker Street area where we parked our car.

Zenzei, V, Me. V is photobomb but is the not work. She just looks cute and happy. Me not trying to photobomb but ended up photobombing by looking deranged -_-'

Sometimes I feel its pictures like these that make me luv my friends long time. They are mad cute together.

Super duper trishaw. Super duper blue shades on the uncle.

Jonker Street (or rather, some of it)

Zenzei: Look at that scenery! My Canon DSLR to the rescue!

V: Why can't I has Canon tooooooooooo?

Along the river. Not sure what river. I only know its right in front of the church of St Francis Xavier.

MILLE CREPE CAKE. THE. BEST. CAKE. EVER. EVER. IN. THE. HISTORY. OF. MAN. EVER. ZOMG. *drool*

DROOL

St. Pauls Church. I thinks. Hee.

We then bid Zenzei goodbye at Departure Lounge (geddit?) in Solaris, Mont Kiara. Pictures, enjoy:

We gathered at UTAR at 10am or so; Bryan was the main perpetrator of the surprise, having gone and told Zenzei that he needed to pick up a certificate from UTAR. Hee. When the rest of the gang arrived late, he went to the car (where she was waiting) storming and raging that 'UTAR messed up his certificate'. Hur hur hur.

Then when some of the gang arrived, he broke the surprise, but Zenzei was incredibly blur and didnt realise it was a farewell party until we told her. HAHAHAHA. She thought I was going to cover the Musical or whatever that UTAR was having when she saw my face. HAHAHAHAHA. Damn funny lor.

And here she is. Blur. PUN! GEDDIT??

Much sharper now with cupcake in hand.

The members of the gathering - old friends and familiar faces: left bottom to right bottom: Wan Qi (I think), Dr. C, Matthew, Zenzei, Seok Ping, Eileen and Jonathan Goh. Missing: Bra-man and JE, who arrived later. And me. Because I cannot astrally project myself into the picture.

Yet.

Departure Lounge. Nice place.

And a happy, grinny Zenzei who had a convoy following behind Bra-mans' car. Haha.

So at the end, that was successful. She received a magic 8 ball from JE and DAMN IT IS ACCURATE. More on THAT later.

But for now, this is my goodbye Zenzei post. I would have said this at the party but I didnt' wanna steal Bra's thunder so here it is:

"Everybahdy! I has speech. Okay. So. We are gathered here today to bid Zenzei goodbye. We know her as many things: Friend, student (insert Dr C nod here), and the leader of the Popcapian Zombie Association. For anyone who is blur about our Association we have brochures and we can talk later mmmkay? Ahem."

"We know her as a person generous to a fault, yet selfish in protecting her dreams and hopes. We know her to be sharp as a whip but equally as blur in many things. We know she writes extremely well and that her idol is Terry Pratchett, who is a good writer but he ain't got nothing on Neil Gaiman. Ah. Where was I. Ya. (clear throat for dramatic effect) We know her also as a great friend and an awesome person all-round. While she may have her moments of utter lameness, who said lame cannot be endearing?"

"Zenzei, you will be missed. Sorely. By all of us, but we know we cannot hold you back when so much more of the world has opened itself up to you. So we shall resolve to just hide inside your luggage and stow away with you. By us I mean me. Ya. Ahem again."

"So Zenzei, good luck. Go take care of those kiddies. And go chase all your dreams. We'll be waiting when you return with arms wide open. Cheers! To Zenzei!"

Goodbye!

Dear all!

I have decided to close my blog off! I know it comes as a shock: I am such a narcissist that to not have the whole world read my blog (by that, I actually mean I am such a loser that I only have three readers) that closing it off is surprising.

But I am going to. I want my blog to be my personal rant-space and as of such, I don't want anyone reading it. No, really. As it is, my Facebook and Twitter accounts are open for all to see. Sadness. I have no more privacy, so my blog is my last-minute and futile attempt to close it off to other eyes except for mine.

So. Goodbye everyone. Bye. Tata! Ciao! Sayonara! Ich von goodbye (sorry, I don't know any German) and les' farewelles (don't know any French either).

Yeap. They did.

So my updates have been terrible lately. Loads of drinking and talking about drinking. And about my iPhone. I apologise to the three (maybe less, I cannot be sure. When you have THIS many readers it's so hard to keep up with everyone. Sigh. *wipes tear*) readers of my blog.

So notwithstanding the fact that the ZOMBIES ATE MY BRAINZ, I am doing well. I have just returned from Singapore from the Singapore Arts Festival, and unfortunately that will have to wait until I can kumpul balik my grey and white matters from those damned zombies. Ya.

I have grown accustomed to my iPhone and cannot imagine how I could have lived all those years without one. I bequeathed my less-than-three-month-old Nokia to my sister, who happily took it.

And stuck pink bling all over the back... and on THE TOUCH SCREEN. -_-' I cannot. Then she complain cannot pick up phone and I say SURE LA YOU BLOCK THE SENSOR!

-_-' And she complains that I am strange. Sometimes she gives me that ARE YOU RELATED TO ME look? I can safely say I reciprocate often enough.

So anyhows. I am currently blogging from a Starbucks; waiting for the next assignment to start. It's probably going to be a long one, so I am stocking up on sugar. And strawberry and cream, all in a frappucino. Hee.

And but aha, more importantly, here are pix from Singapore! I will do my best to load them all up and do them justice.

Ahem. Ready when you are!

So I arrive, after a rather embarrassing incident at check in: The hotel wanted a S$400 incidental damages charge but obviously, I DON'T HAVE RM 1000 AT MY WANTON DISPOSAL. Ahem. And my credit card is all full up, thanks to my iPhone. So obviously, I didn't have it, and so obviously, they thought I would trash the room like some room-wrecking rockstar, and so obviously, I would have to call Maybank to increase my credit limit and so obviously, that would cost me heckuva lot of roaming call charges and obviously, I will go broke paying it.

Phew.

So rant over, the hotel is very nice. It is.

This is the Old Supreme Court building, which was just amazing in how beautiful the old colonial architecture was.

And after climbing some extremely rickety and windy metal stairs (I am talking the windy spiral types of stairs that people DIE FROM AND WILL DIE HORRIBLE DEATHS) we arrive at the top of the building to be greeted with a beautiful view of the city.

THIS aha, my friends, is one of the holding cells in the building, which makes sense because it once housed some of the whitest, most British High Court Judges you'd ever see - with names like Philip William Tracey Turntington the Third and such. I jest, but you know what I mean. That's a jamban, for the uninformed.

But scary holding cells aside, the view is magnificent. Rainbows over the Marina Sands Hotel and all.

This is the rooftop of the Marina Barrage, where the Singaporean government has given it's citizens a neat, clean place to have picnics. I tell you: those guys (the govt) will let you do anything... so long as you do it THEIR WAY. Lol. Which is fine. The place is clean, with not a SCRAP of rubbish in sight. In Malaysia it would have been filled with disgusting bits of old banana peel, plastic bags and leftover food faster than you can say DIRTY.

And the ESPLANADE! Which is a bloody marvel. And a bloody nice looking from the inside, even though it looks like a durian on the outside.

Some of the other press who were present: The pretty Chinese girl is Qi Qi, who is from Shanghai Daily. And the bespectacled Chinese guy is Xiao Qi, who is from China Daily. He is the most well-read guy I've known in some time. He knows and loves Neil Gaiman. I died a little inside. The four white people are: Jeremy, Tony, Steven and Karen. All Aussies from a variety of mags and newspapers. Nice bunch. Very strange. I learnt new words: Bogan and Dag. Bogan - trailer park trash with loads of money. Dag - just white trash. Lol.

And thus, we go to Wessex Village, where the Sing govt proves once again, that if you want to be creative, you can go crazy.... in a specific location. Wessex Village is home to some 30-odd artists, where they live and paint pictures for a living. Sigh. So nice.

Even the flowers in this place was beautiful.

Below and above are sculptures from some of the artists in the place.

(and more lush green. Heck, even the TREES are well behaved in Singapore)

And everyone with their Sing Slings. Because HOW CAN YOU GO TO SINGAPORE without having a Sing Sling? A MOST unflattering angle of me, but I don't mind. Everyone looks so happy.

I have more pictures, but this page keeps crashing so I have to stop here. More to come!

iPhone, baby

THIS IS NOW MINE

43 applications, about 400 songs and 5GB later, I have a machine in which I can email/sms/call/play/do funny things/enjoy life/distract myself from train ride/DISAPPEAR INTO for the next two years.

(not that I have a choice in THAT matter, I'm contracted. Lol)

But thanks to Digi, I now have it. It is mine. MINE! MINEMINEMINEMINEMINEMINEMINE.

Kthxbye.

Marjorie's Margarine PART 3

ZOMG. I cannot even remember the last time I wrote fiction for pleasure, but here you go. Been typing away for a while, strangely, and here is part 3. Read part 2 here and part 1 here .

The story so far is: Marjorie throws exploding margarine. There is a plot to eat people's ideas. Writes is a person with very dangerous ideas. Marjorie wants to stop evil, ugly monsters from eating ideas -especially Writes's ideas. Yeah, so you get the idea.

He felt affronted and made it clear by saying so: “I am affronted that you would find my suggestion laughable.”

Marjorie sombered quickly, the ghosts of laughter gone as fast as it came. “It isn’t about deleting everything you’ve ever written. No matter how, they will still find traces of it in your brain.” She paused, scootched closer to him, and looked seriously into his eyes.

“Ideas take the form of wisps. Wisps that wrap themselves around your grey and white matter and look like little bits of blue candy floss. They linger, they float, they mess around and about until you physically put them down onto paper, or use them to build great things. This is the essence of ideas.”

She paused, picking at imaginary lint (this time really imaginary lint, not body part) off the strange and oddly familiar blue shirt he finally tossed her way. Then she looked up again, and smiled. A smile that said: ‘Trust me, I know what I am about.’

“So yeah. Eat. Brain. Ideas. Regurgitate and WHAM! End of the world.”

Writes was not convinced, but he was worried. He made that clear by biting his fingers so hard a drop of blood swelled like a ruby bead on his lips. It fell, ominous, on his lap.

Writes had never, not even in his wildest dreams (and they were wild dreams, make no mistake) expected this. His endlessly churning brain-cogs whirled and worked and made whirlpools as he considered the options before him.

One. Throw the madwoman out and continue to create vivid blood-soaked imagery based upon this particular crazy experience.

Two. Listen to her and go in for the ride, the story, and the possibility of having his brain consumed by pre-margarined bits of evil men.

Three. Do both at the same time, because it is, after all, a very real dream.

He simply could not imagine how each choice could possibly not result in something disastrous for himself.

He peered at her, noting her now messy hair, her odd-coloured eyes, possibly the blood pulsing beneath her pale skin. “You said you needed to inform me of three things before I can come to a decision on what to do. What are the other two?”

She frowned, puzzled. “I already did. Brains. Ideas. Eat. Regurgitate, WHAM! End of the – ”

“World, yes, that’s not three things. That is… five things.” He ran his hands through his hair in frustration. “Good lord woman you unsettle me.” A few curls dropped onto his shirt, and stayed there as Writes, better known as Bloodlust, paced around in circles and sucked his own blood just a little bit more.

Marjorie blinked, slowly, carefully, perhaps just a little afraid to set him off and have him actually bleed himself to near-death, pick up a goblet, and then drink from his own crimson springs of life. She gave herself an internal shake: Why on earth are you thinking of this when you’ve got minions chasing after you?

“I unsettle you. Sheesh. If you think I ‘un’ (she said this with a roll of her eyes) settle you, then (she glanced out a window, her ears pricked like a cats’) –oh well, then. Those guys outside your lawn will perhaps kill you.”

Writes leapt to his feet, alarmed, and rushed to the window. There, crawling like so many ants, were the same ugly men he had seen her blow up the day before. Only this time, they came dressed in shiny white suits, and walked on all fours.

“Holy –“ he checked himself, and without another word, he banged his way to his father’s room.

“DAD! –“

But there was no Dad there, sitting at his desk, typing away what next great speech for whom great politician.

Just a charred body, bereft of both its’ legs, and much of its’ face. And for the very first time in his bloodthirsty life, Writes screamed.

He screamed as the body started to sizzle, smoke, and go up in blue-ish tendrils. He fell to his knees when these same tendrils floated out the door, whooshing past him - and he smelt a strong, acrid scent, like burned paper – and flying down the stairs in an oddly zigzag manner.

Almost instantly, the main double-doors to his home slammed open, and a high-pitched screech pierced through his ears, followed by a distinctly female war cry.

Choking himself off with a garbled wail, he scrambled to his feet, tears streaming down his face, and descended the stairs two at a time.

The scene that greeted him was beyond even his wild imaginings.

Marjorie was caught halfway between a headless, white-suited body that crisped brown-ly at the neck, and a fully-headed creature whose mouth was unhinged and poised to swallow her face, except that she had both her hands on those jaws, fighting for her life. Behind her leered six more of such man-like creatures (except that if they were men at all, they’d be better off working for Industrial Light and Magic as extra orcs, monsters and beasties in Hollywood movies), all whom were eagerly feasting upon the blue-ish tendrils that was all that remained of Writes’s father.

This time Writes didn’t scream. He threw his head back and howled in rage (he fancied himself a wolf, and perhaps maybe he was a little: The wild eyes, the wild hair and the sharp teeth), and without thinking (this day was full of surprises, Writes never did not think) he crashed his thin frame into the Monster that was trying to eat Marjorie.

His surprise attack dislodged the creature from her, but did little else.

But without skipping a beat, Marjorie spat, hard, onto Writes’ face, blinding him completely. Shocked, Writes stumbled backwards, clawing at his face. “What the -?”

The vocabulary was knocked right out of him as all the creatures pounced on him at one go, squealing with frenzy and pulling his hair.

Writes curled up into a ball, blinded, frightened, feeling betrayed and thoroughly in a panic as he could feel his skin and scalp tear, blood oozing down his face. He was too scared to even scream.

“WRITES! CURL UP! NOW!” he heard Marjorie’s voice.

He wasn’t about to disobey anyway. He was already very much in foetal position.

Then somewhere very, very close to his ear, something exploded (not before he actually heard one of them mutter “Bitch she tricked us –DAMN”) and he was sprayed by wet, chunky somethings.

This is turning out to be the worst day of my life, he thought, as he felt an arm lift him up, and gentle fingers wipe the gunk off his eyes. Yeah. So he could see again, and he was about to yell very loudly at Marjorie before he saw that she too, had blood down her face and she suffered a deep gash on her arms. Her pinkish skin also looked a bit pale. Like white clothes that had gone into the wash with red clothes.

He cleared his throat and wiped his eyes with the back of his hands. He surveyed the situation. Blood, bits and brains (he thinks) everywhere. Silence everywhere. Shit. Silence.

He rushed to the kitchen (getting lost around the pantry for a while) and found no one there. Nothing. No bustling maids, no eager cooks, no stiff butlers. No food either, and it was just near lunchtime. There should be tonnes of food on the table, but there was none. Only the leftovers of breakfast were scattered on the floor – a smushed banana here, a puddle of spilt milk there.

Nothing but sad little mini-wisps of faded blue, floating disconsolately in the air. No bodies. No blood.

And then, Writes, also for the first time in his young life, bawled. He bawled his eyes out. Not in the wailing, shrieking kind of way, but heartbroken sobs and gulps that he wanted to hold back but could not. He pressed his fists into his tightly shut eyes, his mouth twisted in a grimace, gasping out his tears.

Marjorie stood at the door, her eyes downcast, her brows furrowed. This is all my fau-

“ITS ALL YOUR FAULT!” Marjorie’s head jerked upwards, surprised.

Writes was on the floor, holding himself tightly, but his eyes were on her. They were hurt and angry, but also fearful.

“This is your fault!” he repeated. “You brought them to me. You brought them here. And now everyone is dead.”

And as he said the word ‘dead’, he stopped. His eyes widened, and he whispered, more to himself than anything, “Dead.”

And for once in her life too, Marjorie was out of words.

Writes spent a whole ten minutes just staring blankly into space. He did nothing. He said nothing. He didn’t move. So much so Marjorie, who was beginning to worry that the creatures may return, gently nudged him.

“Writes --”

And then he said it. The words that killed everyone he knew, destroyed his house, and shattered his life as he knew it.

“I’ve got an idea.”

And so that's it till next time folks. Haha. Like la anyone reads this crap. Hur Hur Hur.

I AM SO FUCKING SLEEPY

...right nao.

Possibly the combination of several cocktails in my second official drinking session with my colleagues. Considering I've worked here among these kaki botols for a year now, it's quite impressive to only have gone out twice.

(You guys know I say this with love, right? I love you guys, drunks or not.)

So the damage (or the blessings, it really depends which way you swing) is

1 Tequila Sunrise - possibly the nicest thing I ever drunk through a straw.

1 Black Russian - my favourite drink ever.

1 Cosmopolitan - Sourish, very nice, not a huge fan but its good stuff.

1 Bailey's on ice - I love Bailey's. Love it. LOVE LOVE LOVE it. Its cream and coffee and everything I love.

1 pint Heineken - which is the beer I like best.

*also, three cherries, which I don't hate but don't like.

Yeah, so the bill yesterday night was the most expensive bill I ever laid eyes on. Seriously. I cannot believe we actually raked up a bill that high. But then again.

So yeah, I was actually tipsy after the first beer, because I downed it really fast and you know how that works. Alcohol affects you faster the faster you down it. But I kind of sobered up during the cocktails, when the effects of alcohol wore off. In essence, I actually was sober, maybe a bit tipsy, but not drunk like I was on my Bday celebration.

Which is not saying much because I was WASTED that night. Hur hur. I is can hold my drink nao.

But OKAY. So on to other matters. There is more to me than drinking you know.

Ahem.

So work is awesome. Things are going great. I love my job. Somebody might shoot me for being such a prick about how much I love my job, my colleagues, and my innate ability to drink.

But when life IS good, have a drink, watch LJ dance, sing and yes, PERFORM SOME NIPPLE ACTION, and have a good laugh about nothing and everything with colleagues.

Just don't puke ya. WAKAKAKA.

Fan Girlism

'I WILL LOVE NEIL GAIMAN FROM A-FAR TILL THE DAY I DIE'

I found myself typing these words to my Sensei, who was sharing with me how her blog review of a book was commented on by the author himself. (read it here)

The reason Gaiman came up in the conversation was that I jokingly plotted to review one of Gaiman's books so he too, will comment on it.

It was at this moment I realised what a true fangirl I am: I was seriously teary-eyed at the mere THOUGHT of Neil Gaiman reading my stupid, rubbish-filled, no-readers-at-all, insignificant blog. I was TEARY-EYED. As in: ZOMG how HAPPY I will be, how FULFILLED, how I will be able to DIE HAPPY.

I am weird like that, but on hindsight (because hindsight is always 20/20) I think not.

Because there is no way anyone can read Neil Gaiman's works and not be blown away. Those who don't like his works, have yet to read his works. Neil Gaiman is the writer I want to be: Witty, clever, sincere, endlessly imaginative and at the same time, approachable.

Even in person - funny, likeable, delicious Brit accent, cool without being obnoxious, rumpled but terribly good-looking in a smart kind of way.

Remember, I want to marry his brain. Amanda Palmer may have his body, but I want his BRAINZ.

Because how can you NOT marry the brain that came up with Neverwhere? Fragile Things? SAND-FRIGGIN-MAN? American Gods? Smokes and Mirrors? Coraline? Stardust? Anansi Boys? NEVER-FRIGGIN-WHERE??? (which is my favourite book of all time, par none)

Even until the day I lie decrepit and dying on a bed, surrounded by my family, I will request for my body to be buried with his books.

Go buy your own Neil Gaiman books, grandkids. Granny's going down with literature in tow.

Because GRANNY LOVE NEIL GAIMAN LONG TIME.

*creepy music, creepy laugh, flashing lightning, flashing sound*

Okay, that bit being over and done with... and now we wait for Neil Gaiman to take a law suit against me, ordering the FIRST EVER internet restraining order, where I will be disallowed forever from typing his GLORIOUS NAME, or visiting his Journal, or reading his works, or ever even VIEW his pictures on the net.

I will still be happy. BECAUSE I LOVE NEIL GAIMAN.... REALLY. LONG. TIME. Muahahahahahahahahaha.

And On to Other Things...

So in explaining my previous emo post, I think I was having one of those pensive moments I often have.

I used to have a lot more of those pensive moments, but of late, they attack rarely, though when they do it always overwhelms me and surprises me. Kind of like Lucky, who sneaks up from behind - you think he's sleeping, because he is prostrate on the floor, legs tucked under his body, eyes closed, so you think it safe to walk past him... but it isn't. He will grab you and try to kill you with love, affection and razor-sharp claws.

Yeah. Like that la.

And these pensive moments always start with nothing more than a flitting thought - one of those random things you think of at the randomest times.

Then before you know it, your body's full of scratches (metaphorically, and literally, if your brain is still tuned to the bit about Lucky) and you're feeling thoroughly down on yourself.

The previous post, of course, is about a certain someone, as is quite obvious. About how I just want things to go back to the way they were. Because the way things were were so good, until my own stupidity went and spoiled everything. I only wish one day this person-shape hole will be filled again. Someday.

Because not having it there is almost about as painful as having it there.