January 1, 2012


Being somewhat OCD, I rarely leave spring cleaning to the first day of new year, more like I never wait to do it. So the last thing I expected to do after logging on here, is to spring clean.

I have nothing against spiders, especially google ones, but these little nasty creatures left me some 11 thousand comments. To top that of with a little cicak poop, the filter button ain’t working, same goes to the bulk actions button. It didn’t matter if i selected 1 comment, the whole page or none, the buttons brought me to an error page. That leaves only 2 ways to remove spam.

1) delete this blog

2) delete/move them to spam one by one

I did the latter… and this is what i figured out after some 20 pages of comments

#1 FOOD – this keyword attracts comment advertisement from Weight loss programs and dietary needs.
#2 GAZE – this keyword attracts comments from lots and lots of Lingerie, Watches and Italianopornography sites =.=
#3 every now  and then there will be random names which says that the blog provides good information and data, ending with ‘you should update more often’… and after 10 pages or so, the exact same phrase reappears under a different name. WordPress hinting hinting? Beats me.

Just 10,776 more comments to go. Cyber clutter IS STILL CLUTTER, begone with you!

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June 16, 2011

Dear patrons

I fell into your hands
By fate, by blessing.
i wove myself through your trends
By faith, by forcing.

Target struck
A new opening
I’d leave it there
For the rest to go through

It’s okay,
There’s a hole
In every whole

One cannot feel the hole
It’s there, and it’s not
One can fill the hole
It hurts

You made sure i was well equipped
Well fed, well grown
I am grateful, for that
We’d live a white lie

The fight for survival
The flight for survival
My fight by flight
Let not the means justify the End

So long as my ears can’t hear
So long as my eyes can’t see
I hear you yell
Your qualms i see

I am wholed.

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May 2, 2011

Be live

How can i believe in ‘this is who i am’ when i have destroyed ‘myself’ at point blank range, allowed it to happen and played Tetris with the remains?
Can i  now, say that ‘this is who i am’, having grind, sanded and reshaped the chips into new blocks, having my tools worn out to  build someone i would be proud of?How can i not step out of my workshop and announce to those close enough to me that ‘this is who i am’ with confidence, and an convinced smile?

I made myself a mask, one which i smashed ‘myself’ into. Am i so proud of my refined art, for that mask became the mold in which i melted into in the hear. Am i not proud of my refined art? Mask on or off, i can tell no difference, can you? I’m confused. Am i a mask, or a mask melt?

All i have to do, is to believe in ‘myself’, and to do that, i have to first convince myself that ‘this is me’. Simple, simply simple
Come on, say this ten times:
I believe in myself, this is who i am
I believe in myself, this is who i am
I believe in myself, this is who i am
i believe in myself, this is who i am
i believe in myself, this is who i am
I believe in myself, this is who i am
Believe in yourself, this is who you are
Believe in yourself, this is who you want to be
Believe in what you have made yourself to be
Believe in yourself to be

Until i can consistently live ‘myself’ from  a first person’s point of view, yet lose not the feedback of a third eye
Until i can live with white lies, yet not have them out live me
Until i can have no doubt in having no more masks to peel, yet carry no air about my being
Until i can have confidence in my beliefs, and believe in self-confidence
Until i can say ‘this is me, believe it’ yet don’t feel stupid saying it
Until then i’d survive, for a life be live

Status~Recovering what has been revealed, accepting that i may never heal, learning to live on.

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January 23, 2011

Flaps on your face

If you have to hang something long and flexible, how would you hang it?

Does it really take that much effort to support the two ends instead of just the middle, leaving to 2 loose ends to droop like a mustache?

I was leaning against the LRT pole, squarely facing the door (oh yes wasn’t it comfortable wedging myself between the curve poles). The train pulled to a halt at Masjid Jamek, double doors slide open and people bustled in while people waddled out. Just as the doors were closing, a hurried man tripped at the last step of the escalator, causing the girl in front of him to fall, or to break her fall by landing on all fours. Everyone stared as the drama unfolded and the curtains closed, well, really just the LRT doors. The girl’s boyfriend started yelling at the man, and the man stood helpless, not knowing what to do. It was a pure accident, something he unfortunately had to do.

The train pulled away, but the tension at the platform held our gazes. The shrill acceleration from the train tracks drowned unkind sounds. Slowly, everyone’s eye level shifted to their toes. Silence set heavily in the train, the kind which makes one think, or sets in when everyone thinks. The thinking silence you wish existed in exam halls.

What struck me most, was the emotion that followed the incident, for the couple’s face was purely sour, scrunched up to be exact, and i really wonder how can they be happy? Iif they were to laugh at the matter heartily, everyone at the platform will take an amusing glance and head off with a chuckle in their hearts; the passengers will stare, face lifted after a day’s worth of gruesome work; the man who tripped her will stand helpless, not knowing what to do.

It was easy for me to appreciate the art, details and decorations in life; to look out for the pettiest of all petty things; to find the extra for the ordinary; to be fascinated by finding disorientation in orientation. Nonetheless,  it took some effort and a considerable amount of time to to react comfortably in a manner which doesn’t make things hard for other people. If people laugh with me, well, it’s a bonus.

This is how I’d put it, if you want to spill Milo on me, go ahead, i’d laugh at myself, and then at you because you
1, can’t stop laughing at me although you are trying not to.
2, don’t know what to do
It’s better if the Milo is icy cold, because i get to squeal and jump (won’t you want to see that?).

If I’m wearing a shirt which can be stained, please be a little more artistic than just spilling 2 drops. Since you’re at it, my as well do some art, I’d take a picture of the shirt in case the brown colour washes off. If it doesn’t, that will be my favourite shirt.
Since you’re gonna splatter something on me, my as well enjoy the fun while it lasts; since i’m gonna be splattered on anyway, my as well laugh, because the expression from the person who did it will be priceless. Cheers to facial expression of unexpected bewilderment.

So against randoms and odds, how will you hang that two flaps on your face? Like a mustache under your mustache?

Some things are easier said than done,
Some things are easy to do;
Some things are easy to do, but easier not to do.

I sense two flaps twitching at the ends.

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December 3, 2010

Another Gaze

My gaze locked on a little rubble by the apartments, a potpourri of emotions drizzled in my heart, crushing into each other, joined into one. The face, that black sweet face and peering eyes which gleam in m heart. How are you now dear? Where are you? Droplets on my face were no longer that of a drizzle.

I knew a black sheep which mingled among a fairer flock. She was a little Indian who went to a Chinese vernacular school. Our paths crossed when i was eight and she was seven. That day, I was half dozing in a yellow bus, oblivious to the rowdy bunch around me until a sudden silence broke. Curious, i peeked through my lashes and saw a meek and timid figure standing at the edge of a dirt toad. She was a stick for a person and small for a midget, people on the bus were monstrous.

Day after day, she will try a different seat, for people made a point to leave an empty seat beside her. If by chance their limbs would brush past, the fair would shudder. No snacks made way to her, some which were purposely placed under her nose were snatched away quickly enough, for she was poor and she was coloured and she never fought back. I watched with my eyes closed, would i have done the same?

However, she once went absent and ill-natured gossips took plce in the bus. Some said she was ill, some wished she had an accident and I hoped that she just overslept. Disgusted by the comments, I threw my eyelids open and burned the poeple with a glare. ‘Stop this nonsense because I adore her!’ sounded a pair of lips which seemed like mine. The bus stunned and time froze for two  seconds before they bowled out a huge laughter. I could not care less because a surge of warmth gushed through my heart. I stood up for an underdog, a feeling so foreign to me.

Since then, I took initiative to know her more. I found out about her father. He was a prisoner who’d beat up her mom, sell all the jewelery for money which never provided for the family, lock her up and starved the family. Her mother was a factory worker with a monthly earning of RM300, that too was hard to live by. I learned that she was nearly sold by her father and her house was unregistered, meaning that she lives the life of a squatter. We became friends and sisters, for i protected her in the bus and she was happy clinging on to me. I was her shade and her safety, a place where the gleam in her eyes could shine.

However, soon i was in Grade 6 and would be graduating. I knew I would be leaving school and i would not be able to shield her. She had to fight for herself, win her own war, excel in her studies and stand on her own. One day, as she gaily squezed in by me on the bus, she chattered away but i remained as cold as butter, intensely observing my eyelids. She sensed my change and felt uneasy. Was I tired of being her friend and standing up for her?

That next day, the journey was silent and the next, I felt a gap between our seats. Not long after that, people started pulling her braids and break her hair bands. She lost fight after fight in my false sleep. The bullying continued but I remained cold, painfully cold, waiting for her to win her war. Finally, near the end of the term, she gained the world’s respect. She, of all colours had achieved the highest score for the Chinese subject. That stopped all her torture.

I on the other hand saw her grew behind my eyelids. I shed tears which went down my throat, I clenched my fists when she was shoved. However, I had to graduate and what happened to her since, I do not know. The squatters are now apartments and though she has grown, to this day I still wonder if I had done the right thing.

This article was written when i sat for trials, hence the hassled ending with ‘to this day I wonder if I had done the right thing. This story is inspired by a real person, an Indian girl who went to my primary school, one year my junior. She was picked up by the same school bus as mine, and tried to fit in a crowd of Chinese. Her family background is unfortunately as told and the few years i knew her was the few years that her life was in calmer waters, during the period of her father’s imprisonment.

The part about me standing up for her is a lie, i did not do that much though i wish i had. All i thought i could do was to befriend her and urge her to see the opportunities that academic excellence can do for her. All i did was talk to her.

The mentality of my peers back then at the age of the single digits were as portrayed, back when i didn’t know that there was a difference between ‘racial’ and ‘racist’, back when i thought living in a multi-racist country is something to be proud of.

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September 15, 2010


I passed door after door, brushing my figertips against the walls, all cold to the touch. Nothing differentiates one door from the other, just numbers, a digit at a  time. My wonder around this place seems to have no end, i don’t even know where did i start. Just a circular floor lined with doors and another above it with no stair. How long have i been here? I went on in the circle, feeling the comfort of the dust strip that cushions my finger tip from the friction with the walls.
13 streaks of white marked the old walls, scarring the dusty glaze this place shines in. Were there just 13? The sheen of grey overtook the older whites, unseen, but still noticable, by me.

Two holes bore my back, stung by cold fire. It was the gaze, the gaze that haunted me since i was here, the fiery gaze that burned my back for doing my rounds,
the gaze held by eyes of an annonymous stranger. A shudder ran down my spine again as i blinked, it was the only gesture that relieved the pain off my back. But no, i will not shut my eyes, i’m afraid of things that i don’t see, things that simply aren’t there. I’m afraid of the words and wishpers that lurks behind the doors,
unheard even by me. Dare i not open any? By chance I’d stumble into a reverie? My fingertip continued it’s new trail on the wall.

I dare not blink, afraid of crashing into a corner in this circular hall, but tears rushed to my eyes and blurred my vision. I turned to pad the moist off my eye,
catching the glimpse of black again. The black, that black which stood in the middle of the hall, that unknown black which sends shivers down my limbs. What does it not do? Will i be harmed for taking a proper glance? My knees buckled and the trail of the finger ended, i could contain no more. My gaze broke it’s trail, for once, to see.

In the middle of the hall stood a stand. I inched towards it, careful not to hurt the score in my back. Gingerly, i rose to read the scores, and listened to the notes
which told me to let go. For once, i listened and for the first time, i noticed that the second floor is lined with mirrors, reflecting each other, dancing lights.
I blinked. It struck me that this is my chance, i broke the trail, i left the footsteps unattended to, i took to the stand and listened. I took a deep breath and turned around, in search for the stranger’s gaze.

From the second floor, my reflection gazed down upon me.

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June 16, 2010


1) Seni Portfolio

2) Concert booklet layout

3) Concert Song (3 more) notes

4) Add Math portfolio

5) Find my pitch back

So, see ya on the other side when the race is over

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May 25, 2010

Today’s a miracle

Today was a miracle
We were all dressed
Just like every normal school day
We were all shocked for getting hand-ins back
Some dates back to January

As i browsed through my long lost essays and summaries, a descriptive writing describing my neighboring partner in class caught my attention. This, is what happens when Jeff Dunham and Twilight meet in a potato masher:

Her eyes fluttered open, revealing double-lids which I always wanted. ‘What are you doing staring at me?’ she mumbled, her healthy pink lips, slightly pinched in the center, barely moved. Ignoring her, I traced her jawline up her cheekbones (with my eyes). They were high and prominent, a sign of youth. Set in her heart-shaped face is a button nose while her ears stick to the sides of her head, rounded, like a bear’s. She gazed at me, her eyes still moist form sleep while I profiled her face in my mind. Realizing that I do not intend to answer her question, she flicked her head away from me, mopping my mouth with her hair as she went. She snuggled back into her arms to continue her long nap, unaware that her straight-cut fringe had parted, revealing a few pimples otherwise unseen. As she rest, her prominent chin protruded below her arm, as if balancing a toothpick on it.

As she snoozed on, this rounded hunk on the table, otherwise tall, resembles a meatball on a stick. Tanned by genetic pigmentation, her muscle tone is smooth, barely showing under her skin. Square by the shoulders, her upper torso though not built, can handle some weight. No wonder she;s fine with a double-bass. Her arm was wrapped around her head, the right shielding her eyes from the sun, palm flat under her cheek while the left hand stretched across the table, limp with her fingers hanging loose on the end. She does not have stumps for fingers, but neither are they long. Nonetheless, they were strong enough to click notes on her double-bass, with her nails cropped neatly to the brim of the pinks.

Aware that I am still observing her, unaware of the purpose, she gave a groan and shifted on the chair to shun from the burn that my gaze caused on her back. Comfortable, she crossed her legs, folded them back and placed them neatly under her chair, balancing them nicely in the point of her shoes. She is in her imaginary cocoon now. She looked serene and in peace with every facial muscle relaxed. Even the two troughs which clenched deeply into every one’s skull was gone on hers.

I returned my focus on the history book in front of me, knowing that she would be motionless for the time being. It is motivating to know that everyone enjoys History lessons in their own way. On my part, I do enjoy not only history, but her story as well. My neighbor is very contented now and nothing can budge her or distract her from her intense observation of her eyelids. Nothing can disturb her besides the alarm which everyone loves during a history lesson. As it sounded, every strand of muscle on her body twitched and jerked simultaneously, as if each were wired to an individual brain. Slowly unwrapping the cocoon, she extracted herself from the meatball, unfurling every muscle as it went to the top of her fingers and toes. In this position she hovered for seconds, amazingly floating in mid column with her bottom anchored to the chair and all of a sudden, she stood, propelling the chair behind her calf. She is satisfies, contented and just in time to give thanks to the leaving teacher.

As i retype this essay, an intense swell in my stomach urge me to dash to the ceramic bowl to make the remains of my dinner to U-turn. I am now pretty sure that I am sick of an assignment i wrote in some random conditions to hand it in that instant. Kudos to being a girl, for a male writing something like this would be rather ~ horrifying. Conclusion? Do not mix a meatball on a stick with Twilight (the book which i could not bare to read after 2 agonizing chapters)

WARNING: Do not read directly after meals. Ensure the toilet is free from anyone or pet for you to make a quick dash. Opps, too late.

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April 24, 2010

Making the World a Better Place

They sold beef and weapons in a package

They sold arms to disable more people

They test weapons to show support

They prove the world is flat by launching missiles

They destruct to create peace

They got their lyrics all wrong

They killed the world to make t a better place

Not for you not for me, but maybe the inhuman race

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April 18, 2010

My Last Night Out

I have always been one who can’t resist fun when it comes my way, so when Video Games Live popped out, I just had to go, and glad that I did. The night started with a blast when the ‘rombongan’ scurried about the Plenary Hall like chickens with their bottoms on fire, we were barely late.

It takes an orchestra to produce soundtracks that make the games happen with the visuals. Just like how it takes an orchestra to create cartoon music, which are one of the best music. The whole night, I was a drunken chicken, screaming at the top of my lungs, and too high for a person who doesn’t drink. However, in the midst of the tingling adrenaline, I knew that I’d have enjoyed it more if I had played half the games or at least see people playing them before. Okay, I confess, I love games, and I get obsessively addicted to them (so don’t get me started), but what really stops me from playing games which include holding a weapon, even if it’s a teaspoon is the fact that I am Scared. Yes, I just said scared, so scared that I didn’t dare play the Sims, and only did so with a very shaky and sweaty hand when my siblings coaxed me to do so. Anyway, that’s another story.

By the time we were done catching glimpses of the musicians and getting signatures, it was 12 and about time adrenaline decides to take a plunge. However, being out so late isn’t always the best thing to do, especially when gender is concerned. Although this is only my second time being out so late and the nature of both occasions being my passion for music, I afraid that I won’t be able to do this anymore. This is not some pre-exam measure or pressure, but when my actions brings other people’s discomfort, i have to make a change, don’t i? More so, when family issues are concerned.

All was great and the music was great, game theme or not, the genre of the music doesn’t matter because good music will always be good music. Even though the tickets still leave my savings sobbing and feeling empty, this is the best event I’ve been to. With half a bunch of awesome friends who willingly help people whom they considered a biatch and the other half of awesome geeks who don’t mind having their group made into a 11pro + 1 noob remix, plus VGL which made it possible for a person who hardly games to be entertained to no end too, i had a splendid night.

Hence, i can say that my last night out, regardless of other happenings, was a happy ending. I love fairy tails, don’t you? Wait, fairies don’t have tails.

Laughs of the night:

Tommy Tallarico: ‘Some people think that video games are the cause of violence’
Crowd: “Boo, kill them!!!”

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