firewall

I think the management may have banned all pc-users from logging on to MSN Messenger. This is so sad. I'm losing motivation to work. Already the studio's like a graveyard, now we can't keep ourselves sane by talking to "friends" (but due to political reasons cannot be seen as too chummy in public) in the office, or friends from the outside world. Yesterday was the first trial of a day at work without Messenger and already there was a low steady drone of bewilderment and dissatisfaction. Today, speculations are flying.

"Did the company firewall us?"
"I saw this IT guy coming to fix the server... maybe it's him!"
"Why why why why why..."

But all Mac users can still go online. That's right.
This I don't know how to rationalise also.

What a pity. I used to be able to brainstorm with folks from the sister company next door over the net. Now we have to call each other. I used to be able ask my friends outside to help with simple translations. Now the company has to pay for a 5-word sentence translation. Makes perfect sense.

Of course I have to look at things from the other point of view. Was I exploiting my privilege? Has it interfered with my work? I don't know, I do deliver my work on time... quality-wise, it's very subjective, innit? Ah well. Maybe we'll all get over this after a while. Maybe some will cite this as a reason to leave, haha. But one thing's for sure... the graveyard just got darker and colder without occasional cheer-up messages and snarky-funny comments from colleagues and friends.

Fuck, this mushy-whiny shit is pathetic. I don't even know if the company really firewalled us in or something's fucked up with MSN in general. I need a sex life.

lazy sunday

Lazy weekends are the best. Of course mine would be better if I wasn't sporting a skull-cracking eyeball-popping headache, but hey... beggars can't be choosers. I'm a tad worried about my horrible headache. Could it be from my mini-fridge in the room? My computer that's never turned off no matter what? Some microscopic fungus releasing pores from the ceiling (hey I had that in my old house)? Or just some plain old virus combined with the crappy weather?

I must be watching too much CSI.

Anyway, highlight of the weekend is my lazy Sunday lunch at Zipangu. Does appetite diminishes with age? Or am I finally graduating from the school of urbanite? Nowadays I can't seem to eat as much as I could at buffets. Daaaamn. My inner small-town Chinese self is groaning at the wastefulness. I only had ONE helping of everything! How can!

More yummylicious pictures here.

epitath

What does your epitath say? Find out at QuizGalaxy.com

Awwwwww.
Here's a big sorry to the boys of my rock band.
Here's another big sorry to the 27 men waiting in line for their turns after my 56th.
Muahahahahahahaha.

angels & demons

I vomited a little in my mouth. I swallowed because I have to walk 20 steps to the toilet. What's 20 steps you may think. Well you are not bleeding heavily from your nether region.

Anyway the bile tasted bitter and sour. Hmmph at least that's still normal. Me only eating a few spoonfuls of porridge for lunch wasn't.

This super-heavy-a-month, almost-nothing-the-next period cycle is really getting on my nerves (and my poor stomache). Someone, for the love of mankind, please drag me to the gynae after my period's over. Because I'm 2 years overdue for my check-up. And the best time to get a clear ultrasound is right after the period.

Am supposed to give someone Angels & Demons. But when I was flipping through the first few pages to find some space and write a personal message... I somehow ended up reading a bit of the story just to refresh my memory... and then I read some more. And then I decided to finish the book before giving it away. So if someone receives the book in slightly dog-eared condition, have comfort in the knowledge that I really, really like and recommend the book. Better than Da Vinci Code. You're welcome.

summer bliss

2 weeks ago, I went for the Summer Bliss garden party at Valencia.

The homes there are nice. In a not-gonna-afford-it-unless-I-marry-a-102-year-old-tycoon way. Siiiiigh. I don't have Anna Nicole's jugs.

I went on an empty stomache. Luckily they didn't just serve pastries (tasting like nothing else but dough and sugar) like the last party. I had spaghetti, potato salad, mini lamb chops, fried chicken, fish fillets, chocolate cake (hard like rock, man) and bread pudding. They had really funky-looking young magicians walking around showing people their, ya'know, wares. Too bad the audience were either too shy to respond warmly or too engrossed in their food (like me) to pay them much attention.

There was a jazz singer and a swooning pianist. I was devilishly trying to catch her accidentally stepping on one of them furry rabbitses. There were so many bunnies clamoured around the pianist's chair and the lightbox. Lightbox I can understand, it's warm. Pianist chair? For what? Enchanted by the tinkling musical notes?

Suddenly the loudspeaker gave a loud squawk. And all the bunnies around the piano jumped into the air in fright. It would've been a ROFL moment if I wasn't more concerned about their eardrums and bowel condition.

Then I saw her. OMG KAWAIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!

SO CUTE CAN DIE!!!!

stress!

So stress can die. Work. Freelance work. Christmas performance. And my stubborn, defiant resolve to have a social life on top of all those.

Went for Bren-Bren's birthday gathering last night with my A-Levels classmates whom I haven't met for 8 years. Everyone seemed to have blossomed. Prettier, slimmer, successfuller... and on and on. For the past 8 years they've all kept in touch, except me. Luckily those sweethearts didn't make me feel like a leper at Shangri-La. 8 years didn't exactly melt away within that 3 hours (I think it's got something to do with the cool front I maintained during A-Levels... it's totally not me) but we had a good time. I suspect the bottle of wine loosened their inhibition somewhat. I had two sips and was ready to hurl my RM98++ dinner.

Rushed off to jamming session with the boys once Bren-Bren blew her birthday candles. Didn't even stay to savour the cheesecake. GAAAARRR! Then I was late by an hour because of the FUCKING unpredictable unbelievable traffic jam on Genting Klang. I just DETEST that stretch to the marrow. Luckily we had a rocking good session. And supper which I insisted on buying.

I don't know how long I can pull off these midnight oil-burners. Feel tired to the very core of my soul. Days and weeks zoom past. I really need some quality me-time. My room and car needs my loving attention also. Lisa hasn't been washed since a month ago and my toilet's starting to develop an interesting orange-hue ring.

Please leave me alone this weekend.

3 weeks

3 weekends. 2 wedding dinners. 1 passport-stamping trip. 0 weight lost.

3 weeks being absent from the gym. I think I only went once last month. All the membership money down the drain. But. Work and freelancing had been very time and energy consuming. I hadn't been well also. Excuses.

2 weeks of food-poisoning and indigestion. Haven't been consistent with medication. Pop pills when gastric pain gets acute. Maybe I'm indulging in the pain and vomitting a little. Maybe can lose some weight. Great time spent with colleagues, high school friends, college friends, new friends. Stopped smoking. Stopped writing songs. Still postponing a thorough health check-up including long-avoided gynae visits. Excuses.

1 month to Christmas. End of the year. End of being 27. 1 month to dish out songs with the band. 1 time a week when everyone can meet and practise. 1 reason I'm doing the performance - I love my band boys and I love music. Meaning of Christmas? Blurry and hazy. Excuses.

0 excuse for not blogging and posting pictures. So go to my Multiply page like my friends do.

the decay

When I slam the door and run from you, my heart dies a little.
When I scream in exasperation and hang up on you, my heart dies a little.
When my heart dies a little, my tears and fears resurface.
I don't want to cry anymore.
Please let me go.
Please don't look for answers you can never find.
Please let yourself go.
Please.

stress

The past week has been hell. Was stressed beyond all thresholds of my working life. Wait. Except that time when I was in KPMG and the new accounting standard came out requiring auditors to compute backlogs of deferred tax and I didn't know how to do it and nobody wanted to teach me and I was working till the wee hours in the morning sobbing in helpless agony. Oh and the crazy deadlines of my first ad agency. And and. Ah, fuck it. Work has been stressing me out full stop.

My home computer is resurrected! Alive and kicking dawgs and bitches! Now if I could just figure out how to get my sound card to work... But then that's what little brothers (not part of my anatomy excuse me) are for. So I shall wait for him to come (by car you moron) this weekend.

So what reports do I owe? Let's see.
(1) Bangkok trip summary and pictures. Boo has already posted lots in her Flickr. Albeit my strict warnings not to put up pictures with me inside just in case history bites my ass 20 years down the road at the wrong time. No there're no nekkid pictures so no need to bribe Boo.
(2) Meeting Pinkpig before she flew off to Taiwan from Australia. Hmm but I think I wrote something about that already but the haze is making my lungs as black as Wesley Snipes and my brain is suffocated from lack of oxygen.
(3) The haze. The fucking haze.
(4) The violation of my left nipple.

I think I'll cover (3) and (4) since they don't require accompanying pictures. Especially (4) you pervert.

I'm smoking again. I'm gonna blame the stress working 3 jobs. And the haze that's gonna be around till end of the year, killing my eyes, scorching my throat, and blackening my lungs. The monumental pack of Salem Lights sitting in my pen holder that used to proudly mark my indifference to ciggies suddenly became... rational. Ah whatever.

My masseur in Bangkok molested me. It was my first Swedish Oil Body Massage (and last thank you you asshole) and I thought there wouldn't be any problem with male masseurs (why the fuck did the counter-lady give us male masseurs? Because we're meek-looking, polite Asians is it?) because, hell, they're professionals innit? I suppose they've seen thousands of women half nekkid in all shapes and sizes, doing what they do. And Boo didn't hesitate after the initial exchange of "what! we gonna have male masseurs!" looks with me. So I excitedly prepared for my pampering.

I didn't like it. He was pressing too hard even after I told him not to. My spine felt like it's gonna break or pop out of my skin like that female alien show with the 30-second full frontal. I told myself to get rid of the massage-virgin worries and damn well enjoy it since I paid. Then his hands wriggle beneath the towel covering my breasts and started kneading them. Hard. OUCH FUCKER. I looked over at Boo. Her male masseur wasn't doing that to her. But then she started a bit later than me so maybe he'll start later on her too. And maybe I'm just acting like an Asian prude, the foreign ladies who come here are probably okay with this. Breast massage is said to lessen the chance of breast cancer right? Right?

But I still felt uncomfortable. And I guess I was in too much shock to actually ask him to stop. (any of you who think this might be a chuckle-inducing time for the opportune "maybe you're enjoying it, heh heh heh"... don't. I've always wondered breaking fingers sound like and this seems like a good time for me to find out) Then the fucker pinched my left nipple. My hands shot up in reflex, smacking his hands away. Macibai. Maybe I should've made slapping guys part of my usual habit so I could slap his face 30 times in reflex. And strangle him with my bra then plead temporary hysterical insanity.

I sat up. He immediately set to work on my shoulders and back without saying anything. Again, I was too shocked to do anything. My mind was racing and trying to catch up with what just happened. I guess I zoned out for a bit because when I came to the massage was over. He watched me put my clothes back on, handed me my slippers and asked me to come again tomorrow. Smiling.

It wasn't until the walk back to our guest house and I complained to Boo and she said her masseur didn't do anything of that kind to her, that I realised I have been molested. Gaaaargh! And I actually paid money to get molested! STUPIDITY TO THE MAXIMUM! Come to think of it, he was massaging my thighs a lot. And let his fingers slip into my panties up my ass cheeks a few times. And I thought it's because his hands were too oily. Bugger!

But, being the demure and cincai Asian that I am, I didn't storm back into the shop and kick him in the groin. I just swallow the humility and whine to anyone who would listen. And blog about it.

FUCK I FEEL SO STUPID.
I'll not be having any oil massage for a long long time.

long time

It's been long. Meaning to post a bit from Bangkok but didn't even have the chance to go near a computer. And my home pc is still dead. So no pictures for now. BUT there're stories to tell. Oh yes plenty of interesting stories.

Today's Friday the 13th. And we're going to a carnival. (cue Final Destination 3 scenes) And it's gonna be fun. I haven't been to one in decades!

I'm broke. Pulling my hair off trying to itemise where my money gone. My Europe backpacking fund has been stagnant for the past 3 months. I can barely scrape some together to send my momma off for her annual vacation.

Yes. I'm ashamed to tell people I have a financial accounting degree.

boy boy

Boy-Boy is BACK!!! He's not dead!!! I don't care if the lady from the market abducted him. He's BACK!!!

And I'm going to Bangkok tomorrow for a week!!!

And, and...
Life is good.
I love life.
Aaaaaaaaaah.

fucking sick

Last night I received damn disturbing news. Boy-Boy has gone missing since morning. Never happened before throughout the 13 years he stayed with the family. Calvin opened the gate for him when he wanted to clean the courtyard. Usually Boy-Boy would just wander around outside for a bit, then bound happily back into the courtyard again. Not yesterday.

20 minutes later and no sign of Boy-Boy, Calvin went on a search around the neighbourhood. Fruitless. Maybe he went home, Calvin thought. He headed home and stayed a while, waiting for Boy-Boy. Still no sign.

Calvin then went on a search again. What he found disturbed me more than any apparition or monster did, or could, I believe.

In a huge neighbourhood garbage bin, he found a dog's severed head. With all the fur yanked out. And the lower jaw torn off. And some smaller body parts.

WHAT SICK FUCK WOULD DO THIS KIND OF THING!!!!!!

I gagged and nearly vomitted when I heard about this. No animal deserves this kind of inhumane, sadistic, fucking freakingly SICK... end. If I know which fucker is the butcher, I'll... I'll... I don't even want to put into words what I'm going to do to him. FUCK.

I wanted to post a picture of Boy-Boy here, but my damn cellphone won't connect to the pc. Anyway, he's white. Looks like a huskie. Very friendly. Always smells a bit damp, and masculine. Likes to sit outside the living room door and watch what's going on inside. Loves fresh-out-of-the-fridge mandarin oranges.

Oh God I'm gonna cry again.
Oh God please don't let the butchered dog be Boy-Boy.
Please let him be found in the nearby pound or SPCA. Or someone's house.
Please let him die of old age. Dreaming happy dog dreams.
PLEASE.

vodka

I just had Manhattan Fish Market for dinner again! Two nights in a row. Can't help this weakness in me. Their baked dory is excellent! But I'm damn thirsty now, so the tastiness of their fish dish might be all artificial. Oh well.

Everyone, meet Vodka my goddaughter. Vodka, meet everyone. And stop staring at the handsome black-and-white he-bitch already. He ain't real. Actually, a lot of male species out there ain't real, but I'll lecture you when you're older.

Vodka likes to sleep like this. I wonder if her throat/neck hurts when she wakes up. Now Vodka's mummy's got her a nice big fluffy cushion to sleep on so it's much better.

Vodka and I sharing a moment of bonding and closeness. In silence. Just look at her sombre, deep-in-thought expression. Fwaaaah. Or it could be sleepiness, because...

...Vodka didn't wanna camwhore with me no more after a while.

weekend

The weekend was a flurry of activities. Ball-busting but totally enjoyable. Supper with the boys from Pathfinders (my ex-but-potential-current-band) Friday night. Spent the entire Saturday with Shummy. I was planning to get my car serviced in the afternoon but we were having too much fun to quit (oh I can just imagine homophobes raising eyebrows here). Payless Books Sale was good. The impulsive shopper inner child in me kicked in full gear and I bought 25 novels.

This is 2 years' worth of reading materials in the shitter for me.

On our way back to Shummy's shack, something very interesting happened. It rained cats and dogs. Not wanting to be caught wet and clinging to each other (from the cold, but wahahaha this is so fun) we made a split decision to stop by Amcorp Mall instead of going straight home. Then the rain stopped. And we decided to go home after all. Then it rained again. And we took another detour to get to Amcorp Mall again. Then the rain stopped.

Fuck me.

We went to Amcorp Mall anyway. And it was a good decision. Because it poured again while we're nice and cosy and cradling steaming mugs of Starbucks coffee witnessing the absurdly unpredictable (either that or it's got something against indecisive people with nothing to do on a Saturday) weather.

And I finally got to watch telly. Have almost forgotten how the dials and buttons work. Shummy's got an awesomely cosy TV den. So cosy I can forgive the piddling supply of goodies in the fridge. Good thing we got nangka and rootbeer earlier. And Project Runway.

Is this the end of Saturday? Nooooooo way hombre. An old high school friend called for supper with some other high school friends whom I haven't met since I was 17. The gathering was a bit stiff and formal initially, with chat topics mainly surrounding work, who's dating who, who got married... until I started my boob jokes and snarky comments... and everyone embraced me in guffaws and exclaimed how I haven't changed since 10 years ago. I'm popular again. *gloat*

THEN Brandon called and said he's on the way with Pinkpig to pick me up for our midnight singing session. Being the gracious hostess and proud citizen that I am, how can I refuse the chance to show a foreign visitor our culture and way of life? So we sang till 4 in the morning. And Pinkpig proved more entertaining and friendlier than I thought.

Spent the entire Sunday with Pinkpig and now I'm speaking Mandarin with a heavy Taiwanese accent. She's backpacked to the northern regions of Malaysia and will be back this weekend. I miss her already. Our snark levels are totally complementary and it's so much fun cornering innocent, soft-spoken Brandon into a stammering, spluttering wreck. Woo ha!

TGIF

Thank God it's Friday.

The fries that come with the burger there is waaaaaay better than Chilli's. And today's lunch is FREE! Wanted to go Ikano to renew road tax for my Lisa, but the bosses saw Shummy and I walking out and decided to join us. So my Lisa had her fill of two men inside her once again, after a long hiatus (since I disbanded myself from the band and chauffering the boys). I was damn glad she didn't creak and moan too loud, it'd be tres embarassing.

Lunch was good. Very entertaining. Very fulfilling. And it's FREE, thanks to Boss Juju. I don't usually interact with him much, Shummy's the writer who deals with him. And Papa Whale is such a joker-lah. Totally brightened up my day with his snarky remarks. Hush, you're gonna freak Boss Juju out with the blatant reference to my sexual preference yo!

I love my job.

drumstick

Met up with the ex after gym. She was done with dinner and looking through some documents. Wow, did you purposely leave the fried chicken thigh for me, I asked teasingly. Not really, but you can have it if you want, she replied.

And I did have it.

And I know she knows I like drumsticks. And I know she still loves me and doesn't know how to stop and it's killing her. And for a moment, I felt like crying.

Then the arguing started. Inevitably. And then she left in a huff, only to call and call and call to argue again at midnight. And I hung up on her after 2 hours. And switched off my phone.

I HATE hanging up. On people. And people doing that to me. And I feel like crying again.

RATS!

Motherfucker. My housemate asked me to come out from my room and help him chase a rat in the house out. All excited, I opened my room door and stepped outside to the dark staircase, and promptly... kicked the rat down the stairs.

I did scream a little. Out of shock mostly. I'm not scared of rats. Hmmph.

The rat was HUGE. With a thick long tail that grossed me out in a strangely interesting kinda way. And it clawed at my foot a bit when toes connected with soft furry stomache. I'm damn glad I didn't STEP on it, I am. Don't want no rat shit rat intestines just outside my door.

Hello, Rat? What the fuck were you thinking waiting outside my room? Trying to burrow your way inside and share my depression? Or roll about in my dirty laundry basket?

rock bottom

I've hit rock bottom.

You are emotionally torturing me. I know I'm irresponsible and manipulative. I know I fucked up our relationship. I know I cannot keep using the excuse of my fucked up childhood experience to run away from problems. I know I'm confused as fuck right now and I'll try my darndest not to fuck up other people's lives. But you don't have to force these on me 3 times a week. It's been more than 4 months. I know I can never make up to you for all that you've done for me, that I will owe you for the rest of my life. My self-worth has diminished to the size of the smallest paramecium.

I smile when I'm angry.
I cheat and I lie.
I do just about anything to get by.
Yes you have succeeded. I hate myself.

And when I don't even like myself, nobody else does.
Nobody.

damien rice

there's still a little bit of your song in my ear
there's still a little bit of your words i long to hear
you step a little closer to me
so close that i can't see what's going on

stones taught me to fly
love, it taught me to lie
life taught me to die
so it's not hard to fall
when you float like a cannonball
stones taught me to fly
and love taught me to cry
so come on courage
teach me to be shy
'coz it's not hard to fall
and i don't wanna scare her
it's not hard to fall
and i don't wanna lose
it's not hard to grow
when you know that you just don't know

I love Damien Rice. I love Cannonball. Makes me wanna cry every fucking time I listen to it. Fuck the late-night latte and drifting into fitful naps for 2 hours before coming into work. Fuck this torturous yearning.

starbucks

Dammit. I so shouldn't have tried the Pumpkin Spice Latte at Starbucks at 10pm. Now it's almost 4am and I'm as awake as... well... awake. I'm gonna be so dead at work tomorrow. Sigh.

Angst-ridden unrequited love.
Face I want to see in the morning.
Lips I want to kiss into the night.
Subtle nonchalant despairing rejection?
Buttons zips clasps I want to undo.
Skin I want to trail fingertips.
Obsession obsession obsession obsession.
I'm drowning.

This whirlpool of mixed emotions and yearning sure doesn't help.