Happy Birthday

Today is my birthday. In celebration, I opened a bottle of wine by myself for the first time. I took the bottle out to the garden, and — having sufficiently restrained the dog — proceeded to google 'how to use corkscrew'.

Google told me to insert the worm into the centre of the cork. I did so. As I did so, I entertained vivid images of the wine bottle exploding underneath the neck, sending flying glass shrapnel into my nether-regions, shredding my balls, rendering me impotent for the rest of my life.

I kept screwing the worm into the cork. It was dark and my sister was feeding the dog. She has carefully kept a pillar between herself and me, in the off chance the bottle explodes.

Opening a bottle was scary.

I have never opened a bottle of wine on my own because my friends have had more experience that I have, and they have always been around to open bottles for me. My sister and I are suitably impressed by all who are brave enough to open wine bottles. When I was little, my dad opened a wine bottle at my grandfather's house. The cork shot out of the bottle and hit a fluorescent light bulb directly above my grandfather, which exploded and showered glass over the dinner table. My grandfather had to be taken to the hospital, where he had to have stitches in his head.

I was little then, and down with a fever, so I wasn't in the dining room with the rest of the family. All I remember was a sound like a gunshot and a crash of glass. And shouting. Lots of shouting. It left quite an impression.

I finished screwing the worm in, and started to pull the cork out. I entertained vivid images of the cork shooting out of the bottle, ricocheting off the car porch, and killing my dog.

The cork came out after more reverse screwing. I breathed a sigh of relief. My sister laughed at me (she was at a safe distance, holding a flashlight) and I noticed for the first time that I was sweating.

I took the wine into the kitchen and proceeded to drink a lot of it.

I am now 22. I must admit that I feel suitably accomplished.

Next year, I hope to open two bottles of wine. Hurrah!

Yoghurt

So we're at dinner, and my mum has tapau-ed food, and my sister and I are back from a run. My mum's dinner is mango with yoghurt.

"Why is organic food so expensive wan?" my sister asks. She opens the fridge and takes a tub of yoghurt, and my mum passes her a smallish container of dried blackberries.

"Good food is always expensive." mum says, and she points to the blackberries: "This is RM9.90 ... which is just crazy right?"

There's a pause. I eat my rice. Then my mum begins telling us about this awesome greek yoghurt they found in KL, and how rich and creamy and hard to find it was, and how her friend who normally hates yoghurt took a taste and loved it and how we can't find it in Kuching (tell me the name, I say, and I can buy it in Singapore; but nooo, fates be damned, she's forgotten!) and how she wish us kids could try it but instead they missed the chance to buy one tub on their way to the airport.

"I tell you, if I were living in a Western country, I'd eat yoghurt and fruit everyday." A pause. "The fruit there would be so cheap! This - " (and here she taps the container of blackberries) "- would be so cheap!"

"Oh really?" I stop eating for a bit. "If we were in a Western country, we'd be longing for bananas and papayas! And then we'll complain how come the fruit over there so terrible wan -"

"You mean there are bananas over there ka?" My sister, she has taken a pack of dried apricots and is now mixing one in with her yoghurt.

"Yah, they freeze them and ship them over, with carbon dioxide to ripen them ... or something," I say, "Akong has this friend - a priest, I think, by the name of Father Melling - who always complains that the papayas in England suck; they taste terrible over there. So we've actually got a lot to be thankful for."

And now my mum pauses for a bit. "Yahor. Come to think of it, there are more choices over here. Because we're tropical. And I think I prefer tropical fruits -"

"Exactly!" I say, "So we don't need dried blackberries and apricots right! So expensive. Might as well get some bananas and dry them -"

"Why need to dry?" My sister asks - she has tried the apricot and doesn't like it, "can't we just cut the normal bananas?"

"Because if it's dried you only buy once and then you can keep it for a long time?"

"No la," sister cuts in, "Too much of a hassle. Just buy when you need the bananas."

"And then you put it with yoghurt and blend it -" my mum says,

"But why is he called Father Melling? What a funny name!"

"... and you add honey to your bananas and yoghurt and ... yum!"

I grin. "See? So we don't actually have to buy all these expensive dried fruits! Just local fruits would do. I think it's just because we want what we cannot have -"

"Yes," my mother says, and she gets up from the table. "Now finish your dinner and then help me wash the plates."

And that was dinner conversation for today.

Work Work

Henry graciously offered to give us a lift back to our residences, and so Adhi and I are in the car, talking.

"You know the irony is that the weekends are less free than the weekdays?" Adhi is saying, waving his hands in the front seat, "On the weekends we have to do this, but on the weekdays it's less busy because we have other modules to worry about. Now what kind of twisted logic is that?"

I murmur my agreement. We had just spend the evening discussing our app's implementation and there was still a lot of work to do.

"Sometimes I wish we had extra hours in the day." Adhi continues. I see Henry smiling in the rear view mirror as he turns the car past the Mochtar Riady building - we're only minutes away from the bus terminal, now.

"But why just extra hours?" I say. "You know, there's this comic called Dragon Ball, and there used to be a room in the comic where one minute is one hour, or something like that. I sometimes wonder what it'd be like to have that room - imagine preparing for your exams 20 minutes before the paper, or even 5 minutes ..."

"Sure from Dragon Ball?" Henry asks. "Sounds like something from siaw ting tang."

"Yeah sure." I say, and then to Adhiraj: "But why would you want extra hours? Why have hours when you can have days?"

"Oh no, that won't work." Adhi says, "We'll still have only two free days per week."

"What? Wait ... why?"

Adhi turns round to look at me. "Because NUS would take away the extra days from us." he says, in all seriousness. "They'll take that for themselves and just leave us with the two normal weekend days to relax."

I pause.

"Damn, you're right."

"Uhhuh."

"You're absolutely right."

And so, with that disturbing thought in our heads, we left the car and walked to our rooms and got right back to work.

A Sunday In The Life

I wake up at 8.30am and swear at my alarm clock. I lie in bed. Church starts at 9. I briefly consider going back to sleep and skipping church but I kill that thought immediately, out of reflex. I go to the common bathroom to brush my teeth. It’s raining outside. I consider going back to sleep again – the skies are grey and the weather is cold and the thought of chasing down buses and huddling under bus-stops isn’t an appealing one. I kill that thought a second time. I don’t know why I do so. I’m probably going to be late anyway.

The walk to the bus stop is nasty. I make the mistake of wearing new sneakers (bought for running, and white) because right away I am presented with the basketball court: a no-man’s-land of little rivulets and sploshy yellow puddles. It’s still raining. I hop from one dry spot to another, clutching at my umbrella like a grandma, and then I reach the gravel path, which is dryer, but slippery. I slow down. The rain is doing that funny thing it does when there’s lots of wind and you’re walking exposed and your umbrella is too small: your head and shoulders remain dry but everything below your waist is obliterated. I feel water trickling down my feet and into my socks. I try not to think about my white shoes.

The bus arrives at the stop a few seconds after I do and I get in – possibly the only good thing to have happened so far – and I sit under the air-conditioning with the vain hopes of getting dry. There are no old people in the bus. Thank God. On normal Sundays there are so many old people entering and leaving I cannot sit for fear of offending them. But then I reconsider: nobody in their right mind would take my seat anyway - I’m wet, and my seat’s probably damp if and when I leave it.

I get off the bus at the Clementi MRT station and board a train. The wait is 2 minutes. I take out my earbuds and listen to Grizzly Bear. The train arrives and we hop in. I like the sound of the doors opening: it’s like the pneumatic hiss one’d imagine on space shuttles and the like, spoilt only by the annoying female voice telling us to ‘please mind the platform gap!’ in an equally annoying angmoh accent. There are four people reading bibles on the train: three Christian and one Stockmarket. The aunty nearest to me (Christian) has her bible up and directly in front of her face, and her lips are moving soundlessly as she reads. She looks funny, but not as funny as the uncle opposite and a little further away: he’s sleeping head bowed, body slouched, with the bible open on his chest. You’ve got to wonder what he’ll do at the sermon later.

I see nobody my age, and proceed to stare out the window.

I arrive at City Hall MRT station 10 stops later and enter St Andrew’s Cathedral via the underground exit. The praise and worship session is over. I am, however, in time for the sermon … which starts a few minutes after I sit down and turns out – 10 minutes in – to be about death.
I sigh and try not to think about the trip back.

After service (there is no communion) I eat a couple of miniscule burgers at the church Welcome Centre and I head for Suntec City Mall. There is an Epicentre store there and I need to buy an Apple keyboard. (I spent the whole of yesterday programming, and decided then and there that my aunt was right – 4 hours of being hunched over the laptop = not good for neck and back). I make my way via the City Link underpass (which is in reality yet another mall) and I spend the next 20 minutes or so navigating the mass of shops in Suntec. The bottom floor is uninteresting: Topshop and Rubi Shoes^[1] and New Urban Male^[2], and finally I find the store and I go in and I ask for the keyboard and I make my purchase.

I eat my lunch at Food Republic. They have Lui Cha, and I miss Lui Cha like I miss Kuching. Food Republic calls it Thunder Tea Rice, though, and I find this so funny that I have to stop to take a picture with my phone and I think of other funny and suspiciously lame jokes on the naming of food before I queue and order a bowl. S$4.00. The soup is very green and not very bitter. Kuching’s is infinitely better. Oh well.

I make my way back via City Link, because the sky is still grey and unhappy and the puddles don’t look very agreeable to me and my shoes. There are many skinny girls with DSLRs wrapped around their bony arms.^[3] Two Singaporean kids press their faces at a glass display, and two white kids stare back from the other side, their parents busy in conversation with the sales assistant. HMV is playing Zee Avi's Kantoi. One store, selling slippers and big furry plushies, have their SAs lined up and they're all hugging one plushie each, for God knows what reason. There are no customers in that store.

I finally arrive at the City Hall MRT station and I take a train back to HarbourFront and another bus back to campus and I hop through the basketball courts again and into my room and I study mathematics and now I am typing.

Hello. Hello. Goodbye.



^1. Slogan: ‘Shoes make me happy. I’m superficial. Whatever.’ ↩

^2. NUM’s logo is a swimming sperm, and their HIRING/SALES-ASSISTANT-WANTED ads ask potential employees: SHOULD COWS WEAR BRAS???? Their bags are printed with the NUM logo, sperm-head upwards, and are rather funny: if you are female and you hold the bag between your legs (which girls occasionally do, in trains) you look like you have a sperm swimming up your - nevermind. ↩

^3. Their not-so-skinny boyfriends are the ones carrying the bulky and rather unhip camera bag for them. Poor things. ↩

Did I Mention That The Internet

is a good escape for Writer's Block? This is Boxxy by the way. She's 16, she's hyper ADD, and she's caused a civil war on the Internet.



She's also really cute. Yes odd post this, by my standards. *suppresses urge to include cute pouty emote* Normal content coming back as soon as I can start writing properly again. Le sigh.

Ida

This is her tag. The rules:

• Take a recent picture of yourself or take a picture of yourself right now
  
• Don't change your clothes, don't fix your hair ... just take a picture
  
• Post that picture with NO editing
  
• Post these instructions with your picture
  
• Tag 5 people to do this

The rules were simple enough, though Ida, being Ida, challenged me to do ahlien. 

Which I did.

I tag: Tracy, because all girls have a camwhore gene somewhere in them, though I have NEVER seen her camwhore; Daniel, because I know his gayness is crying out for it; Wen Qi, because then I won't have to look at all the fantastic food photos whenever I visit her blog; Tze Lun, because he never updates his; and ... Alex. Because it's Christmas.

Lousy

Dear HFM,

You really have good timing, don't you? I mean, you could've picked any number of days in the year to attack me. Like Hari Raya, for instance, where I was busy getting fat. Or Chinese New Year. Or the two mock exams. All of these wonderful, valid times to prevent me from stuffing my face/stressing myself out.

And there's also the sticky issue of my age. What are you - blind, or something? Last I checked, I'd lost ALL of my milk teeth! And gained four headache-causing wisdom ones. I'd write a letter to them, too, only they aren't viruses. George Chan (yes, he of the frog face) says adults are immune to the virus. HAH! Go visit him sometime, won't you? Cocky little idiot probably thinks he's immune to everything, seeing as he survived the last butt-kicking elections.

Okay, okay I get the idea. I suppose I should be grateful: I'm feeling relatively okay, apart from the mouth-ulcers and the hand and foot sores. And the horrible bone-ache I woke up today with. But there's no danger of me kicking the bucket. Or pulling the plug. Or whatever you call it when you win and I lose and you laugh all the way to the grave. (Dr Chan might call it losing an election. Hyuk hyuk.) I am very grateful for that. No kid.

I think I'll choose to look at the bright side of things. Like being able to study at home. Or the way my sisters are treating me like the plague (because, like, you know, I am the plague). Or the sight of mum pouring hot water over my plates and spoons and forks, or dad going: "Why you touch the wall? Now you infect the wall. Don't touch the wall. And don't touch the rice. And why you sit in that chair?"

Okay that's not really funny.

They say when life gives you lemons, you make lemonade. Now I wonder what you'll taste like.

Bleeurgh.

PS: This is, until further notice, my last post before STPM. Unless something big happens that grants me Internet access, that is. Like a 5km asteroid smashing into earth. Or the abolishment of the Malaysian Examinations Council. Or Anwar getting sodomized. Again. You get the idea.
PPS: I'm wondering if my dog contracts HFM from me, what would it be called? Paw, paw and mouth disease? That would be ... cute.

Dreams

I am having my mock exams. The teacher passes down the Chemistry Paper 2 question papers and I ready my pencil. My watch is in front of me, my calculator is on the ready (that little underline thing blinking on off on off), my mind is set on Go.

"You may begin," she says, and I open the booklet.

The first question is about the periodic table - I see the familiar four-group diagram, and I am about to write when I realize that the question is in Chinese. I blink; and then I turn the pages, hurriedly now - and I discover that ALL THE QUESTIONS ARE IN CHINESE.

I am horrified. I turn to the front page, where all the instructions are, and I realize that it says there, right in the first line: 'This paper is bilingual. Students are expected to answer in their mother tongue.' I look around at my classmates and I find that they are all scribbling away at their answer scripts: Teck Chaw is biting his pencil as he thinks, Tay is making clucking noises at the first question, and I realize that I am alone in this -

I wake up in cold sweat.

A few days later I receive my Macbook in the mail. I open it, remove the instruction manual, the Apple stickers, the adapters, and then I tear open the bubble wrapping of my new Mac. I am happy as it chimes on, I type my name into the necessary fields, and I marvel at the beauty of OSX.

Then I go downstairs.

I cannot stop myself. There is this magnetic compulsion to leave my mark on my new laptop - as strong as whatever drives dogs to pee around their property, so I go downstairs and enter the kitchen and take a knife. And then I return to my Mac and I take out the knife ... and I carve my name onto the soft white plastic, under the lacquer Apple logo. As the cover peels under my fingers I am silently screaming in my head, unable to stop myself, but the knife keeps going on and on at the C of my name, deeper into the laptop -

I wake up in cold sweat.

We are in school now! St Thomas's is under monster attack! A dragon-creature lands right smack outside our classroom, sends a couple of cars flying, and starts to blast fire at the nicest vehicles in the immediate vicinity. My classmates go crazy and begin running about, screaming, and quickly I am enveloped in a throng of scared, brainless plebeians who want to get as far away as possible from the monster. I stare at it, and as I am wondering how best to bring it down and kill it my friends start to point at something running helter-smelter right at the monster.

It is my Physics teacher Pn Loh. I am about to shout a warning at her when she stops and rummages in her handbag. The monster turns its fearsome head to look at her; I see its red pupils contract into angry maroon pinpricks. Then - and this is the most improbable thing ever but I swear to you I saw this happen - Pn Loh takes out a plastic star and puts it on her forehead.

And she turns into Ultraman.

I wake up in cold sweat. Exams are not a good time for me to dream in.

Heavy

I found out I was 64kg today.

That made me feel very bad. I went downstairs and opened the fridge and took out a bar of Elvan chocolate and finished that, and then I opened the larder and took out a bag of sugared cookies and finished that, and then I went to the dining room and opened a packet of Mentos and sucked on that.

Then I was better so I watched the Olympics until I felt thinner, and then I went back upstairs to stare at my Physics textbooks for the next four hours.

Which is all a lie.

But here's the sad fact: my lie isn't too far from the truth. Over the past 2 months I had been doing all of the above, only over the space of weeks, not hours. I hadn't been to the gym, played Judo or ran in those 60 days, and I had a bad shock when I stepped on the scales in the afternoon.

Let me clarify. Weighing yourself isn't as easy as jumping on a scale and screaming your head off. I stripped down to my underwear and distributed my weight evenly on the metal surface, and then I stared as the meter swiveled up, up past the 60 kg mark and onwards to the half-point. I was in my parents' bathroom - a completely weird thing to do and probably even weirder had they barged in. Imagine finding your teenage son near naked and staring at an analog meter.

Totally freaky.

(Oh and by the way, if you ever get the opportunity to play at a national level Judo tournament be sure to bring nice underwear. The weighing-in ceremony takes place in a roomful of opponents, random coaches and fierce-looking officials - in your underwear - so it makes sense to leave your pink playboys at home. I find it really distracting to fight against a guy in a thong - don't you?)

So anyway I found out I was 64 kg. Which meant that I was 4 kg overweight. I figured that at least 2 kg of that was water (I sweated out as much the last major tournament), and since I had not being gaining muscle in the past 2 months .... the other 2 kg was fat.

Damn.

I started running. I knew what I was getting myself into, but I strapped on my shoes and plugged in my iPod and got my dog all excited at the prospect of a walk. She rushed out wag wag wag. Poor girl.

And everything came back to me quickly. The slap of rubber on cement, the steady thump of beats from my earbuds, the smell of sweat as it trickled down my chin. And the pain! Oh how welcomed the pain was! A burning sensation reached out from inside my chest and spread its fingers down, past my solar plexus, stabbing right into the stomach muscles. It hurt so badly! Breathe. Stabofpain. Breathe. Wobbly legs. I thought back to the afternoons being yelled at by Sensei and kept at it.

The idea behind running is to maintain a rapid pulse, and to keep at it for a good period of time. 1 kg, for instance, takes approximately half an hour of aerobic running to burn. And my metabolic rate had skyrocketed after training this year - while my training intensity had gone down my hunger hadn't. I can now eat two packets of rice and still forage for cookies. D'oh.

I came back and stripped down and weighed myself again. The analog meter swung right up, up, past the 60 kg mark, and it settled at ... 64.

Dammit I'm fat.

Interview

Am being interviewed in The Malay Mail for my work on Novelr. The only problem being that I don't want people recognizing me, especially since Novelr is so community driven. So I got my sister to take out the camera and frame a photo where nobody can see my face.

She now thinks she is the greatest photographer in the world, because she's made her Iban-looking brother look like an Eurasian.

My sister is crazy.

[Update]: Tze Lun just sent me a clipping of the article (thank you Tze Lun!). There's a lot cut out from the original interview - but hey, space constraints and all. I'm not complaining. I am one very happy boy. The article's below if you'd like a read. Just click.

[Update 2]: I have died and gone to heaven.

Shenanigans

It is MUET class again and the whole class is involved in a lively discussion about the lower six. We do this in order to do as little class work as possible. It succeeds every time.

"I think the girls this year are more beautiful." Mdm Kong says. She appears not to notice the girls in my class; they stop whatever they're doing to stare at her. "Look at L6S2 - some of them very sweet looking."

"Yah." says Teck Chaw, "the girls in our year all so ugly wan."

The class erupts into protest and laughter and Nyuk Choo shouts "KILL HIM!" in Mandarin.

"Teacher we still haven't seen your niece." I say. This is pure cheek - she was boasting about Melissa's beauty before the mid terms and naturally we were all curious as to what kind of beauty this was. (Later we find out that it is the fair skin, big eyes, slim and willowy kind, but for the moment we have only a description to work with).

"Eh?" Mdm Kong says. She does not understand the angle I'm taking yet, but the rest of the class are grinning like idiots, even the girls.

"Teacher I think I fall in love already." says Teck Chaw.

It clicks now and Mdm Kong lectures us about the futility of relationships in Form 6 ("You know all the - what yuu call it? - emotions. Very distracting. Yes."). She tells us it affects us emotionally and she hopes Melissa will only get a boyfriend after university. Then, after we have exhausted the topic, she starts on how she doesn't like men who sweet talk.

"My mother always told me don't trust sweet talks -" (Tay chuckles as she says this) "-my husband never say I love you. Of my two boyfriend last time the first one like to sweet talk a lot. Don't like it."

"So teacher you only got two boyfriends?" Teck Chaw asks.

"Yes."

"And the second one become your husband?"

"Yes."

"So when did you have your first boyfriend?"

The features on Mdm Kong's face suddenly rearrange themselves: they switch from surprise to discomfort and finally settle on embarrassment.

"Uh." she says. "In Form 6."

Vivian

This is her tag.

游戲規則：被點到名字的要在自己的博客裏寫下自己的答案，然後去掉一個你最不喜歡的問題再补上一個你的問題，仍然組成20個問題，傳給其他10個人，列出其他10個需要回答問題的人的名字，還要到這10個人的博客裏留言通知對方----你被點名了，被點名者不得拒絕回答問題，完成遊戲的人將會永遠得到大家的祝福。這10個人要在自己的博客裏註明是從哪裏接到的，並且再傳給其他10個人，讓遊戲繼續下去，不得囘傳。被點到名字的人將會得到大家的祝福，並且所有美好的 願望都會在不久的將來實現。

1. 如果你有特异功能， 你会干什么？
Ching chong ching chong ching.

2. 最满意你身体的哪一部分？
Ching? Ching chong chong chong.

3. 认为自己哪一个优点最讨人欢喜？
Ching. Chong.

4. 希望有个怎样的恋爱？
Ching! Ching chong chong ching!

5. 你最想去哪个地方？
Ching ching ching chong.

6. 最受不了自己哪个缺点？
Chong.

7. 如果有不开心的事情，你会怎么办?
Chong chong chong chong.

8. 最害怕失去的东西？
Ching ching chong.

9. 现在最想做的事？
Ching ching ching! CHONG CHING CHONG!!!!

10. 若遇見喜歡的人，你會怎樣做？
Ching chong chong ching?

11. 说出点你名的人的3个优点。
Ching lol. Chong chong chong lol ching.

12. 你最希望你的另一半对你做的一件事？
Chong chong chong! lol

13. 爱在心里口难开时, 你会怎么办？
Chong chong ching ching! XD

14. 你最讨厌怎样的人？
Chong.

15. 你最难过的事情?
=( Chong chong ching ching.

16. 你觉得最美的事物是什么？
Ching ching chong!! Ching chong?!

17. 你认为遇到什么样的事情才会令你觉得人性很黑暗？
Chong. Ching.

18. 如果能让你实现一个愿望，会是什么？
Ching ching chong chong ching chong chong chong ching! Chong chong chong.

19. 至今，你最遗憾的是什么？
Chong chong chong cilaka chong.

20. 觉得人生最重要的事情是什么？
Chong chong ching ching chong chong chong ching. o.O



Ya. Saya seolang Cina.

Perfection

Abraham and I are at Math tuition, and we're bored out of our minds because we have forgotten to bring graph paper and the whole class is doing ogives. I cannot remember exactly what we were talking about before, but somehow Abraham says: "There's a lot of BL students in this class."

I look around. There are two girls busy sketching their graphs behind Abraham, there's a noisy bunch at the back joking in Chinese, and then there's Nicholas in the front, busy and hunched over his desk.

I lean over to Abraham and say: "BL produces a lot less jerks than Green Road."

Abraham makes a face. He is the head boy of Green Road so he cannot reply to that without incriminating himself.

I cut in: "You don't count, even if you're head boy - you're not a pure Greenian."

Abraham stops making the face.

"And anyway, it's the same with how Thomians are gays and Thresians are snobs and Marians are bitches."

"And Josephians?" Abraham cuts in.

A pause. I rack my brain for a generalization to apply to them.

"Shit." I say, comprehension dawning, "they're perfect."

And Abraham cannot stop grinning at me.

Times like this and I wonder why I'm a Thomian to start off with.

Pak Lah Is Nice!

I am in my aunt's car, on the way back from Judo, and I am sweaty, smelly, and bandaged in all the usual places. I tap the white cloth tips of my fingers on her dashboard and the conversation turns to politics, as it usually does these few days after the opposition's unprecedented win in the parliamentary elections.

"It's such a pity about Khairy, you know." she is saying, "Everyone was hoping so much from him, and he still had to play the race card."

"It's easy." I reply. "You get instant support from the ultra-Malays that way."

"Yah of course it's easy. Even the dap does it -"

"The what?" I say

"D-A-P."

"Oh."

A pause. My aunt turns into Tabuan Jaya. Then: "Well the current hot topic now seems to be Badawi stepping down."

"Mahathir, right?"

"Yeah. It's Mahathir who wants him to step down."

"Which is kinda stupid! I mean, who else does he expect can take over? Najib?!"

"But Mahathir wants Najib to take over!" My aunt says, taking her eyes off the road for a second.

"What!? But Najib's an asshole!"

"And why do you say that?" Eyebrows raised.

"He's ugly!"

"And ...?"

I rack my brains for an answer. "He once said 'Parliament does not need opposition party because government MPs themselves can raise issues in sittings.' What kind of a stupid immature remark is that? Pak Lah will never say that!" I pause. "On the other hand, he never does say anything ..."

My aunt chuckles. "Well they do say he's weak and all. The nice guy ..."

We are turning into my lorong now, and there is silence in the car for awhile. Then:

"I just realized I said something very immature."

"What?"

I feel a grin spreading itself over my face: "Najib is ugly."

I Is Bimbo

Okie. Tht day I wuliao nth do so I find readibility test 4 blog. N hw I noe my blog score tiok Post Grad ei. Scary man. Even I oso shock tiok my hair stand up thn chao da lyk kena electric shock lyk tht. So lyk tht la I don lyk to speak so keng wan english. I try write lyk ahbeng/xiaxue!

Come out showr take picture! Hahaha! Lolx! Try bimbo blogging! Eeee! Nice wor! =)

Haha! Is me!

Is also me!

Is me again!

lolx!!

No towel! hahahaha lol!

Is look emo! Is cute? Hahahaha!

Lol hahaha! I smile!

Wish you all happy everyday! Muaks!

Note: This is satire. I am not responsible for any brain damage caused by this post. If you wish to see more, head over to Friendster and knock yourself out.

Gastric -The Malaysian Parable

My family has left for KL, and i'm home alone (well, technically my dog is still here, but only because i couldn't convince my parents to package her and place her in cargo).

I'm supposed to be doing Sejarah, but got hungry and decided to cook maggi mee and do a little blogging. Was feeling a little queasy, anyway, for not eating - i could easily get gastric and roll all over the floor.

Speaking of which, i did get gastric a week before the prefect camp, and i promised myself that when i recovered i'd blog about a story i once read from some dumb educational magazine in circulation around chinese primary schools.

It goes:

There was a young boy who had been born into a wealthy family. He loved nothing more than to sample many different types of food, from all over the world. If he ever wished for any dish, his parents would readily have the food flown from wherever it was to their mansion.

Then one day, the boy felt he had tasted everything worth tasting, and stopped eating. His parents were worried sick. They offered a reward to whoever it was that could introduce a dish worthy of their young one's palate.

A wise old man took up the challenge. He said:" Starve your son for a day. After that, give him nasi lemak."

The parents were a little worried at first, for nasi lemak was not 'high class' food. Nevertheless, they followed the old man's advice. To their surprise, their son ate the rice offered and asked for more.

"How did you do it?" asked the parents.

"Simple," the old man said. "Only after experiencing hunger can you truly appreciate food."

Sounds like one of those corny little fables, doesn't it. Well, duh. It was meant to be. The moral of the story here is "Only when you have been in the lowest of valleys can you enjoy fully the highest of mountains".

But i had gastric then when i recalled the story. So, my pain-influenced mind grappled and decided on this:

Once upon a time, there was a boy who had been born in filthily rich family. They were Malaysian, so he loved food. His parents brought him up to eat everything from anywhere in the world (well, almost everything. His was not allowed teh tarik, for his parents once read in a respectable Malaysian paper that this caused strokes. But that is beside the point)

Then one day, the filthily rich boy felt he had tasted everything worth tasting and refused to eat. His father, instead of saying "My, what a windfall! I can save on the 30 cent increase of petrol!" became worried, and both his parents offered a reward to whoever could introduce a dish worthy of their boy's tastebuds.

A wise old man took up the challenge. He said:"Starve your son for a day. After that, give him nasi lemak."

The parents were a little worried at first, for nasi lemak was not 'high class' food. Nevertheless, they followed the old man's advice. To their horror, their starved son had gastric and died on the spot.

They sued the old man and had him arrested for manslaughter.

Nobody lived happily ever after.

The end.

The moral of this story is that you should never feed a hungry child nasi lemak. Or, in my case, you should not eat three bowls of laksa for breakfast.

Come to think of it, there should be another moral to this story:

Never stop eating.

Now that's what i call a true Malaysian parable.