"Hey man, what were you doing there that night... on a date, with a new girl ar?"
I braced myself for that slight familiar twinge of hurt you feel about those you have loved and lost. Or even liked and lost.
I didn't feel anything. I pushed harder.. and waited... and I still didn't feel anything.
And that felt great. It took a long time coming, but the day finally arrived anyway.
------------
My friend is going to be a dad. I'm really happy for him, at least, until he tells me that he moves on autopilot most of the time in his role as husband, son, son-in-law. And he does it so well that he doesn't think anyone realizes that he's sometimes not happy, and wishes for something else, this other person in his thoughts for the past year, somebody his alter ego thinks just might be the one.
Except The One arrived 5 years too late.
You know the other word for Murphy's Law?
It's ironic.
No, two words.
Fucking ironic.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Monday, March 23, 2009
Round #1
Ace Gang Member: Hi, I heard frm *boss name* that you're the toll road expert.
Stalwart Gang Member: *deadpan voice* No one here is an expert.
Ace Gang Member: *laughs nervously* No really.. seriously..
Stalwart Gang Member: I'm serious. Nobody here is an expert in anything.
Stalwart - 1, Ace Gang - 0.
Ding! Bring on Round 2.
--------------------------
My boss is trying to make me be polite to Ms Gymnast. I take issue with it because I didn't set out to be anything, much less rude, to her in the first place, preferring to just stick to my side of the playground because where girls are concerned, I have bad luck with them (see Village Bicycle story below).
Him: She is just damn naive and innocent..hence can come across as bimbo-ish.. she's very very innocent , its like talking to a little girl..
Cue vomit.
Cue barf bag.
No assistant vice president with 5 plus years working in this fucking dog eat dog, dog eat rat, fly, cat and everything else world can be that innocent.
Whatever. I can play nice too. See if you don't choke on my sweetness or die a diabetic death.
-----------------
My G-string snapped while I was in the little girls' room. Snapped and slid down my legs. Talk about dramatic effect. Something bad is going to happen. Either that, or I will be winning the lottery. If I buy it, that is.
Stalwart Gang Member: *deadpan voice* No one here is an expert.
Ace Gang Member: *laughs nervously* No really.. seriously..
Stalwart Gang Member: I'm serious. Nobody here is an expert in anything.
Stalwart - 1, Ace Gang - 0.
Ding! Bring on Round 2.
--------------------------
My boss is trying to make me be polite to Ms Gymnast. I take issue with it because I didn't set out to be anything, much less rude, to her in the first place, preferring to just stick to my side of the playground because where girls are concerned, I have bad luck with them (see Village Bicycle story below).
Him: She is just damn naive and innocent..hence can come across as bimbo-ish.. she's very very innocent , its like talking to a little girl..
Cue vomit.
Cue barf bag.
No assistant vice president with 5 plus years working in this fucking dog eat dog, dog eat rat, fly, cat and everything else world can be that innocent.
Whatever. I can play nice too. See if you don't choke on my sweetness or die a diabetic death.
-----------------
My G-string snapped while I was in the little girls' room. Snapped and slid down my legs. Talk about dramatic effect. Something bad is going to happen. Either that, or I will be winning the lottery. If I buy it, that is.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
The CYA Clause
I don't know if this is a company-specific phenomenon or a human race-wide type of phenomenon. The way the staff in this joint come up with all sorts of ways to cover their ass is simply spectacular.
But seriously, see if you can lift a finger to slap this.
If everything is not your responsibility, and you were just doing what you're told, then I see no need for you to be promoted to assistant vice president, you dolt.
I explained to the staff concerned on the matter over the phone, told her even, how to do her job. Next I know she sends me an email and cc's the entire world, repeating whatever I told her and asking me to confirm. Don't have much patience for idiots today because my boss shat on me, so too bad.
-----------------
I really need to get studying done this weekend, but I can't help feeling obliged to go to the wedding this time because I don't want to give people the satisfaction of thinking that I pulled out because I feel awkward and out of place.
Knowing me, I have been meowwing about it for days, but then, the bf, points out -
"Dear.. please reserve your energy for worthwhile things.. you don't have to travel a couple hundred kilometres to cut your nose just to spite your face."
Ouch. But it's true. I rant about things that shouldn't matter. Patut kena slap.
But seriously, see if you can lift a finger to slap this.Booyah!
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
most days
most days. most days you're just like any other quarter lifer, impressive track record in education and career so far, dating someone already for 6 months.
but there are the days you realize you have no idea what the fuck, why the fuck and how the fuck.
what the fuck you're doing here
why the fuck you are still doing something you don't know why you have the motivation for
and
how the fuck to get out of a mess that on the surface, isn't a mess.
that's the point. my life isn't a mess. but its somehow not full. my job, while it has its set of challenges, also leaves me with the impression that i could quit and the world would just go on the next day without noticing. my love, sweet as he is, i find myself intently looking at him, wondering if he sees me. my books just make me want to slit my fucking wrist.
it's the need to feel like im making a difference. there are many things that drive a person. sadly, this need doesn't drive me most of the time, that's why i'm doing what i'm doing.
the need to be part of something, to be useful, is entirely human. but the need to achieve greatness driven by an all-consuming need to be acknowledged and affirmed, is a plain and simple sign of insecurity. you're not sure you're good enough, so you keep doing more and more and more. and at the end, if you're lucky, you're rich, accomplished, high-flying and divorced, or your kids have grown up, life has passed you by, and you're in a deeper identity crisis than before.
or if you're unlucky, you burn out by 25 and spend the rest of your days mourning your lost glory, jadedly accept mediocrity, pressure your boyfriend into marrying you to fill the gap and spend your days tending to colicky babies.
it's time to stop this slow descent into madness. to apply the brakes before i get swallowed up in this stupid cesspool of achievement for the sake of feeding my fucking insecurities.
and find another reason for my overachieverism instead of this convenient one i've been using for so long.
but there are the days you realize you have no idea what the fuck, why the fuck and how the fuck.
what the fuck you're doing here
why the fuck you are still doing something you don't know why you have the motivation for
and
how the fuck to get out of a mess that on the surface, isn't a mess.
that's the point. my life isn't a mess. but its somehow not full. my job, while it has its set of challenges, also leaves me with the impression that i could quit and the world would just go on the next day without noticing. my love, sweet as he is, i find myself intently looking at him, wondering if he sees me. my books just make me want to slit my fucking wrist.
it's the need to feel like im making a difference. there are many things that drive a person. sadly, this need doesn't drive me most of the time, that's why i'm doing what i'm doing.
the need to be part of something, to be useful, is entirely human. but the need to achieve greatness driven by an all-consuming need to be acknowledged and affirmed, is a plain and simple sign of insecurity. you're not sure you're good enough, so you keep doing more and more and more. and at the end, if you're lucky, you're rich, accomplished, high-flying and divorced, or your kids have grown up, life has passed you by, and you're in a deeper identity crisis than before.
or if you're unlucky, you burn out by 25 and spend the rest of your days mourning your lost glory, jadedly accept mediocrity, pressure your boyfriend into marrying you to fill the gap and spend your days tending to colicky babies.
it's time to stop this slow descent into madness. to apply the brakes before i get swallowed up in this stupid cesspool of achievement for the sake of feeding my fucking insecurities.
and find another reason for my overachieverism instead of this convenient one i've been using for so long.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Psych 101
inside, i was boiling with anger. anger at having so much life and energy, yet am crippled with this weak, fluttering mind. anger at being given the chance to drive my dreams in the day, but insidiously taking me a few steps back at night. mostly, just angry that i had to come back again.
yesterday night scared me because i was so close to giving up, my mind nearly slipped. scared me to the point i jumped into a car first thing in the morning and shot like a bullet towards home to solve this crap once and for all.
i hate sitting outside a psychiatrist's office. it looks like a morbid scene where the recently deceased lie soullessly as they are ferried into the afterlife on River Styx. i remember taking a few hours off work once to take my housemate to this clinic in the building opposite KLCC. there were mothers in confinement with swollen eyes (post natal blues - some of em end up killing their babies), a scrawny girl with uncombed hair and dead eyes (maybe fail exam, serotonin imbalance, got bullied, got dumped) and old people with dementia (self-explanatory). it was hard, being so full of life, to walk through that place.
it was harder today, because it felt like i was coming back to a place i thought i'd left behind for good 6 years ago. perhaps my mother has drilled this lesson hard into me, or perhaps i'm just plain vain. you have to dress well even if its just a visit to the psychiatrist, even when you absolutely have the right to look smelly and unkempt because you haven't slept for days.
so there i was, shirt, cufflinks, jeans and belt with matching suede heels and Tod's bag. i looked like a jilted young mistress going for her monthly drug fix.
haha *cue sarcastic snort*
the funniest part of this was -
before i left to the clinic, my mom called her regular GP to see if we coudn't get sleeping pills and be done with it. the GP asked for my symptoms, said something to her on the phone and she looked at me.
"Drugs?" she mouthed.
"Are you nuts?!" I yelled.
That's how I ended up driving to the hospital hopping mad.
People are just so quick to misunderstand. Next thing they wonder if u just got dumped. Fucking predictable. All walking past, seeing me sitting outside the psych's office, i wanted to scare the shit out of them by jumping on the chairs mrowling, "My life is great, assholes. I just suffer from anxiety attacks. Eat that, stupid."
yesterday night scared me because i was so close to giving up, my mind nearly slipped. scared me to the point i jumped into a car first thing in the morning and shot like a bullet towards home to solve this crap once and for all.
i hate sitting outside a psychiatrist's office. it looks like a morbid scene where the recently deceased lie soullessly as they are ferried into the afterlife on River Styx. i remember taking a few hours off work once to take my housemate to this clinic in the building opposite KLCC. there were mothers in confinement with swollen eyes (post natal blues - some of em end up killing their babies), a scrawny girl with uncombed hair and dead eyes (maybe fail exam, serotonin imbalance, got bullied, got dumped) and old people with dementia (self-explanatory). it was hard, being so full of life, to walk through that place.
it was harder today, because it felt like i was coming back to a place i thought i'd left behind for good 6 years ago. perhaps my mother has drilled this lesson hard into me, or perhaps i'm just plain vain. you have to dress well even if its just a visit to the psychiatrist, even when you absolutely have the right to look smelly and unkempt because you haven't slept for days.
so there i was, shirt, cufflinks, jeans and belt with matching suede heels and Tod's bag. i looked like a jilted young mistress going for her monthly drug fix.
haha *cue sarcastic snort*
the funniest part of this was -
before i left to the clinic, my mom called her regular GP to see if we coudn't get sleeping pills and be done with it. the GP asked for my symptoms, said something to her on the phone and she looked at me.
"Drugs?" she mouthed.
"Are you nuts?!" I yelled.
That's how I ended up driving to the hospital hopping mad.
People are just so quick to misunderstand. Next thing they wonder if u just got dumped. Fucking predictable. All walking past, seeing me sitting outside the psych's office, i wanted to scare the shit out of them by jumping on the chairs mrowling, "My life is great, assholes. I just suffer from anxiety attacks. Eat that, stupid."
Sunday, March 8, 2009
The 10% Fight
I didn't set up another blog just to write happy, dreamy, blithe, prancy pansy stuff. You can go to this other blogs where the girls post innumerable pictures of their mug like the one where she names it after rotted milk goo (which is another word for cheese) or the one whose address is her name and ends with a -kiss.
We only spend about 10% of our lives experiencing that which is called happiness anyway. 60% spent nursing a broken heart, losing a job, and arguing with your boyfriend who turned into a pumpkin once the mandatory honeymoon period was over, gossiping about this or that person in our utterly misplaced so-called righteous behaviour. The remaining 30% spent dreaming, yearning, for happiness. Or things we think will make us happy.
It pains me to think of my high school friend who just gave birth to twins and didn't marry the guy she made the kids with. In fact, she didn't marry anyone at all. I don't judge; this is the girl I spent hours talking to every night in high school, passing secret notes written in colorful ink during class, agonizing together wondering if this or that guy liked us or not.
But not judging isn't the same as not knowing. You can know what a person is. She is pretty, sweet, can charm the socks off anyone, but has the biggest victim complex for such a small package. Her life tapdances to the same tune where everyone she first meets sees her as a tough yet soft girl who's had many bad things happen to her in her life. The guy's protective instincts go into overdrive and he promises that this time, he'll be the one to make her smile. Those are the happy times. But it won't last. It'll start off small, like him staying out too late. She victimizes herself with such electrifying force that the guy winds up like a bastard, either ways. And of course, she affects others lives with it too.
I will be forever traumatized by the memory of having to circle dark neighborhood streets searching for her after she ran out of her boyfriend's car after a tiff, chasing her down on foot begging her to get in my car and go home, the night of the final straw where she took the key to the little lock of her bedroom window (which incidentally, is my current bedroom window) and wanted to launch out like a projectile into the nevernever. And oh, who could forget her slashing the guy's feet with a knife and then turning on herself?
She blames it on the medicine, her 'unstable' emotions. I told her before. Many times. It can be controlled. It can be harnessed and channeled elsewhere.
You think I've never walked that road? Never felt like taking just one extra pill to make what's numb feel number? You think I don't know that Prozac, Xanax or Rameron lets you glide emotionlessly throughout the days, til they blend into one big glob in your head?
But they also stop you from living. I live every day feeling I have a part of me that is so dark it will eat me to death one day. Most nights the hairs on my neck stand as I feel like I'm being watched, or some newfangled baddie (usually of the spiritual kind) from yet another scary book or TV show might pop out of nowhere and try to eat my face. The paranoia that my dad's schizophrenia is somewhere deep in me, waiting to manifest, follows me doggedly.
I've been told to will my mind to rest, but in the end I find myself getting out of bed to shut the closet door properly, close the curtains so nothing can peek in and scare me in case I open my eyes, and because spirits can't enter your house if you don't invite them in, I mentally think in my head "You are not welcome here" every time I go in the main door. And sometimes, things do happen. I've literally felt my spirit trying to be pulled out of my body while I'm sleeping, and each time that happens my spirit being, now seasoned with the technique of stopping those attacks, reaches across to clasp my spirit hands and mumble a Buddhist prayer. I've felt, while suspended in between consciousness, the sound of things passing by, trying to keep my nerves calm and heartbeat slow lest I be discovered and pounced upon. One, I can handle. A group, I may not be able to.
But you live. You go on. You harness every will to subdue your screaming nerves, and you fall asleep finally, exhausted after the internal battle. And then you go to work and give it your all in another one of your endeavours, because that's how you've approached life since you could remember. Every morning is another day. And the nights are but nothing you just endure, bit by bit, every 12 hour round by 12 hour round. And you live for that 10%.
We only spend about 10% of our lives experiencing that which is called happiness anyway. 60% spent nursing a broken heart, losing a job, and arguing with your boyfriend who turned into a pumpkin once the mandatory honeymoon period was over, gossiping about this or that person in our utterly misplaced so-called righteous behaviour. The remaining 30% spent dreaming, yearning, for happiness. Or things we think will make us happy.
It pains me to think of my high school friend who just gave birth to twins and didn't marry the guy she made the kids with. In fact, she didn't marry anyone at all. I don't judge; this is the girl I spent hours talking to every night in high school, passing secret notes written in colorful ink during class, agonizing together wondering if this or that guy liked us or not.
But not judging isn't the same as not knowing. You can know what a person is. She is pretty, sweet, can charm the socks off anyone, but has the biggest victim complex for such a small package. Her life tapdances to the same tune where everyone she first meets sees her as a tough yet soft girl who's had many bad things happen to her in her life. The guy's protective instincts go into overdrive and he promises that this time, he'll be the one to make her smile. Those are the happy times. But it won't last. It'll start off small, like him staying out too late. She victimizes herself with such electrifying force that the guy winds up like a bastard, either ways. And of course, she affects others lives with it too.
I will be forever traumatized by the memory of having to circle dark neighborhood streets searching for her after she ran out of her boyfriend's car after a tiff, chasing her down on foot begging her to get in my car and go home, the night of the final straw where she took the key to the little lock of her bedroom window (which incidentally, is my current bedroom window) and wanted to launch out like a projectile into the nevernever. And oh, who could forget her slashing the guy's feet with a knife and then turning on herself?
She blames it on the medicine, her 'unstable' emotions. I told her before. Many times. It can be controlled. It can be harnessed and channeled elsewhere.
You think I've never walked that road? Never felt like taking just one extra pill to make what's numb feel number? You think I don't know that Prozac, Xanax or Rameron lets you glide emotionlessly throughout the days, til they blend into one big glob in your head?
But they also stop you from living. I live every day feeling I have a part of me that is so dark it will eat me to death one day. Most nights the hairs on my neck stand as I feel like I'm being watched, or some newfangled baddie (usually of the spiritual kind) from yet another scary book or TV show might pop out of nowhere and try to eat my face. The paranoia that my dad's schizophrenia is somewhere deep in me, waiting to manifest, follows me doggedly.
I've been told to will my mind to rest, but in the end I find myself getting out of bed to shut the closet door properly, close the curtains so nothing can peek in and scare me in case I open my eyes, and because spirits can't enter your house if you don't invite them in, I mentally think in my head "You are not welcome here" every time I go in the main door. And sometimes, things do happen. I've literally felt my spirit trying to be pulled out of my body while I'm sleeping, and each time that happens my spirit being, now seasoned with the technique of stopping those attacks, reaches across to clasp my spirit hands and mumble a Buddhist prayer. I've felt, while suspended in between consciousness, the sound of things passing by, trying to keep my nerves calm and heartbeat slow lest I be discovered and pounced upon. One, I can handle. A group, I may not be able to.
But you live. You go on. You harness every will to subdue your screaming nerves, and you fall asleep finally, exhausted after the internal battle. And then you go to work and give it your all in another one of your endeavours, because that's how you've approached life since you could remember. Every morning is another day. And the nights are but nothing you just endure, bit by bit, every 12 hour round by 12 hour round. And you live for that 10%.
Friday, March 6, 2009
Words Don't Break No Bones
Stars and stones. Sticks and bones.
A kononnya 'friend', whom I haven't spoken to since end-November 08 after a particularly nasty exchange of words via SMS, suddenly IM-ed me out of the blue over the office LotusNotes system.
I'm surprised it didn't rain pink cats there and then.
Ok I admit it. I have an ego. A huge one, and I wasn't going to give in and be the first to initiate contact. I won't say she's totally unjustified in being mad at me; after all, I somehow managed to ruin things between her and Playboy. She and him didn't work out, so she kinda went back to her old boyfriend. They've since broken up (the old bf), and a little birdie told me she's been calling him recently.
I know, I know. Dramas of the young and restless. Believe me, you ain't heard nothing yet.
--------------------
Overheard from one of my senior bosses in the department
Boss: Yesterday for the first time in my life I met two mat sallehs in one day. Bankers frm London. One at lunch and one at dinner.
Go katak. Go tempurung.
A kononnya 'friend', whom I haven't spoken to since end-November 08 after a particularly nasty exchange of words via SMS, suddenly IM-ed me out of the blue over the office LotusNotes system.
I'm surprised it didn't rain pink cats there and then.
Ok I admit it. I have an ego. A huge one, and I wasn't going to give in and be the first to initiate contact. I won't say she's totally unjustified in being mad at me; after all, I somehow managed to ruin things between her and Playboy. She and him didn't work out, so she kinda went back to her old boyfriend. They've since broken up (the old bf), and a little birdie told me she's been calling him recently.
I know, I know. Dramas of the young and restless. Believe me, you ain't heard nothing yet.
--------------------
Overheard from one of my senior bosses in the department
Boss: Yesterday for the first time in my life I met two mat sallehs in one day. Bankers frm London. One at lunch and one at dinner.
Go katak. Go tempurung.
Monday, March 2, 2009
dumb-nation damnation, whatever
For a person who has so many secrets, I really am too stupid to keep them well.
We got somewhat carried away on our first trip together, and got a tad bit shutter-happy. If you know what I mean. I also tend to download pictures from my camera and then subsequently forget about it.
So my colleague wanted to transfer something with my pendrive.
All I can do is pray that she decided not to be nosy this morning.
Otherwise. I keel myself.
-----------
Heard on Gmail today -
A : Monday's suck bolas.
Me: Why are you not on GTalk?
A: They is block my witchcraft Javascript.
Me: Exodus 22:18 - Never suffer a witch to live.
A: Sons of witches.
----three hours later-----
Me: You win. Spent hours trying to think of a 'witch' comeback. Fail.
A: Wahaha. Highlight of my day, this is.
We got somewhat carried away on our first trip together, and got a tad bit shutter-happy. If you know what I mean. I also tend to download pictures from my camera and then subsequently forget about it.
So my colleague wanted to transfer something with my pendrive.
All I can do is pray that she decided not to be nosy this morning.
Otherwise. I keel myself.
-----------
Heard on Gmail today -
A : Monday's suck bolas.
Me: Why are you not on GTalk?
A: They is block my witchcraft Javascript.
Me: Exodus 22:18 - Never suffer a witch to live.
A: Sons of witches.
----three hours later-----
Me: You win. Spent hours trying to think of a 'witch' comeback. Fail.
A: Wahaha. Highlight of my day, this is.
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