September 29, 2004

For caring

For making lawak bodoh and stupid faces at me during situations of worry/tenseness/anxiety/full-blown panic attacks.

For flanking my right against the great unwashed while traipsing around in Midvalley, because my right arm hurt.

For letting me have the oranges because he knows I like them.

For putting up with my moodiness and my insane laughing fits, sometimes both at the same time.

For standing around while I'm at the computer, telling me about his day, even though sometimes it's pretty apparent I'm not listening.

For not getting mad because I didn't pay attention.

For knowing what I'm going to say at certain times, and one-upping me by replying to my reply before I've even replied. (does this make sense?)

For not holding a grudge even though I once slammed the car door against his head and he cried the entire afternoon.

For intelligent conversation.

For putting up with me bugging him (braiding his hair, poking his ears, punching his arm) while he's playing StarCraft.

For answering my pointless questions about love and the futility of ever finding a right guy with exactly the answer I wanted to hear.

For playing Barbie dolls with me when we were still kids.

For hovering behind me while I was going through his powerpoint presentation, making high-tech whooshing sound effects as his astrology topics whizzed by.

For trying not to lose his temper.

For bringing me water (and misc other food) to make up after an argument.

For not complaining even though I can be extremely judgemental and annoying when talking about certain things.

For getting my jokes.

For trying to get a single purple helium-filled balloon attached to a pink ribbon from a grand total of maybe 10 in the entire ballroom during prom night.

For knotting said purple balloon to his wrist and not caring that people laughed at him, just because I have a silly childish preoccupation with floating bits of purple rubber.

::my purple balloon. bouncy bouncy::

For caring.

September 28, 2004

Happy birthday dad!

Like the title says. Happy birthday dad, and enjoy the cake and the pressies. Not that he's actually gonna read this, but this is an event to commemorate.

Now I'm off to study more. Accounts test tomorrow and I've only covered 4 out of 6 chapters. I have a bad feeling about this...

September 26, 2004

The plight of boyfriends

Sometimes, when I'm out shopping with a female friend or my mom, there'll always be a soporose young male or two populating the very narrow walk area betwen the tweed and denim ra ra skirts and the paint splattered t-shirts.

These are the poor sods who're somehow dragged/cajoled/threatened on pain of no BJs into tagging along for shopping trips with their gfs. (Strangely enough, I don't see a lot of older men hanging around looking bored. Hint hint learn from the old masters.)

Sometimes I pity these people who really look like they'd rather be outside watching a wall of paint dry, but today's post is not motivated by sympathy. Heck no, today's post is motivated by very real annoyance. Mostly I'm annoyed because these men are blocking my path and no amount of tactful throat clearing will make them move their asses. It's hard to squeeze between 2 racks standing perhaps 2 feet apart with a lump of male standing in between them.

Which gets me to thinking, why do girlfriends insist on dragging their boyfriends along with them on *gasp gasp* shoe shopping trips? It's all fine and dandy if your guy's into looking at heels and stilettos, but most of the guys I see standing forlornly around look bored. Extremely bored. Why put another fellow human being through all that misery? Don't you have any other girlfriends you can share the trip with?

Scenario 1: dragging along unwilling boyfriend who'd rather be looking at shiny hardware while shopping for clothes to cousin's wedding. Boyfriend will stand by looking comatose and answer crucial questions like "Which one's better, the pink or the taupe?" with monosyllabic grunts. That's assuming he even knows what taupe is. (Before you start screaming "Sexist statement!" I did an impromptu survey online asking 5 of my male friends if they knew what taupe is and none of them could answer me without checking So there.)

Compare with...

Scenario 2: going shopping with a girlfriend who, when asked whether this pink lace cami is appropriate for your cousin's wedding, immediately turns around and suggests trying this on for size instead. Now that's what I call a fulfilling shopping experience.

But then that's just me. Judging from the appalling aura of boredom wafting through the aisles in MNG during sales seasons, Malaysian shopping complexes seriously need to think about getting ways to entertain the boyfriends while the girlfriends shop. This has economic advantages, you see, cos a girlfriend with a bored boyfriend will eventually give in to his puppydog whines and leave the shop prematurely, ending her excursion and depriving the store in question of a potentially big-spending customer. However, the most high tech solution in place currently is by placing a few benches on the walk area outside the stores, which is usually hogged by kids dripping saliva all over the place.

You know would be great? A nice little room located somewhere within the vicinity of the main shopping area and equipped with nice comfy chairs (These would be nice) and maybe a rack or two with guy mags. Really gluttonous shopping complexes can go a step further and put in arcade games, computers that can run FarCry at acceptable levels of gameplay and maybe an Xbox or two, and watch the cash roll in as the girlfriends shop in bliss. In fact, I'm willing to wager that it's the guys who'll be threatening their girlfriends with no oral sex if they don't go shopping RIGHT THIS MINUTE HONEY!

What a way to turn the tables. Or, if push comes to shove, maybe we can resort to this. At any rate, as long as my beeline for the slinky black top (no link this time, aren't you happy? :D) rack isn't blocked, I'm happy.

September 25, 2004

Ode to Ollie

Severe lack of updates, so again, I'll cheat by posting something I wrote a while ago. My fridge is not dead again, thank you.

10 things you shouldn't do if you think your fridge is sick...

First off, a little update. The third repairman has come and gone, and now, beyond a doubt, poor Ollie is headed for the junkyard. A side note here: Ollie is the name of my fridge, which is short for Oliver, who is the lead character in Oliver Twist, which is a book about a starving orphan. It's a pretty subtle hint on the state my fridge is in on usual days. Back on topic: Come Monday my spanking new fridge will be here, and hopefully with it my glorious ice cream-eating days will return. As an ode to my fridge (and mainly because I have nothing better to do right now, since there's no food in the house) I will be writing a top ten list of what NOT to do if your fridge threatens to break down.

Numero Uno: Don't assume that your fridge is merely grumbling if you hear it give a mechanical shiver, followed by a moaning clang. Fridges are tough creatures, and hardly ever shiver or moan unless they're near death.

Number Two: Don't screw the temperature dial all the way up, and then all the way down. In fact, don't touch the temperature dial AT ALL unless you want the blame to land squarely on your ass when the shit hits the fan. The better thing to do would be to pretend nothing happened. When the melted ice-cream starts to drip out of the fridge, plead innocence. Take acting classes if you're not confident of being able to pull it off.

Number Three: Don't put off calling the repairman in hopes that "it'll get better by itself". Sickness in fridges are like gonorrhoea in people (or animals), they never go away by themselves, no matter how much you will 'em to. Get a fridge doctor to come ASAP, and hopefully save yourself money you could otherwise spend on something more worthwhile, like a pink (gag) Hello Kitty mini-fan, instead of a new, bigger, better fridge.

Four: Don't open and close the freezer door to check the temperature. Apparently the door hinges get loose if you do that too often. By too often, I mean every 6.3 minutes. Besides, the food inside rots faster cos you're letting the cold air out every time you open the door, and rotten food is a bad thing. How bad? One word: Salmonella. *nods*

Number Five: Don't flip the main switch on and off every half hour to try and kick-start the damn thing. It'll probably hasten its demise (now I know) and besides, you could get electrocuted, have an irregular heartbeat for the rest of your life, which would result in you needing one of those pacemaker thingies for the rest of your life too. That is, assuming you don't die.

Number Six: Don't place your hands on both sides of the fridge and shake the thing (it's heavy). This is doubly important if there's heavy stuff on the top, like XO bottles, china vases, potted plants, eggs, miscellaneous breakable stuff. The stuff could fall down and break, resulting in more yelling by other people in your general direction, but more importantly, it could fall down and break on YOUR head. (Ouchy wawa) Which funnily enough also results in more yelling by other people in your general direction. You'd think they'd offer sympathy, tsk tsk.

Seven: Don't try to eat all the ice-cream in the fridge if you know the stuff's not going to make it through the night. I'm still reeling from the effects of eating 1 full litre of Cookies 'n' Cream in one sitting, although that IS one lifelong dream fulfilled...

Numbers Eight, Nine and Ten: Likewise, don't drink all the wine, cos that's definitely gonna give you something worse than a stomach ache. If you're like me and don't listen to good advice, not even if it bites you in the ass, please don't drink and operate machinery that could chomp through your arm if you're not careful. Oh, and don't drive too.

That's my community message for the week. Don't drink and drive.

The End

(Yeah, I cheated. Apparently there's nothing more I did to break the fridge. If you come up with any remember to tell me sometime)
Severe lack of updates this week, cos I've been sick. So I'll cheat by posting 'artwork' again.

September 21, 2004

I've been sick for the past 2 days. Really shouldn't have drank all that alcohol over the weekend.

That's about enough for regrets.

Image Hosted by
In case you're wondering, that's a Led Zeppelin CD cover.

I used to like Avril Lavigne a lot, mainly because she dethroned Britney Spears and stopped that caterwauling banshee from torturing my ears any longer. That was before I found out that Avril very inappropriately did a cover of Led Zeppelin's Stairway to Heaven.

Naturally, I freaked, and immediately lost a lot of respect points fo Avril. In fact, I immediately lose a lot of respect points for enyone arrogant enough to assume that he/she can touch a classic made by one of the Greats. Today, I finally managed to get a copy of Avril's cover from KaZaa (yes, I be thief), which prompted this post.

It sucks. Big time. It's even worse than I thought. This post also doubles as a plea to all the upcoming 'musicians' out there. Please don't commit further blasphemy and wreck your own material instead, thank you.

I know this is old news, but I only found the copy today, so bleh.

September 19, 2004

We (Mom and I) went shopping the other day, and we ended up in the lingerie section. Btw, Malaysia seriously needs better lingerie, ones that don't bellow "TACKY!" like a wounded whale. Black string briefs you can untie with your teeth? Oui. Red allover sheer negligee overloaded with garish sequins and feathers? Oh sweet mother of god, Non, non non NON!!

Before you ask, the trip didn't end in an entire disaster, and my mom got what she wanted, while I got what I wanted, which are some boy-cut briefs in bold multi-coloured stripes that makes my ass look cute. Now to show them off. *grins* Anyway, I was reminded again why I'm still wearing the same old bras I always wear when I go out, and why I shop in bulk when I find my bra straps fraying. It's because I don't like shopping for bras. I actually have a list, which is nicely bolded below for your reading pleasure.

Things I hate about 'helpful' sales aunties manning the bra counters:
One: Gods above, woman, back off with that tape measure!
They just have absolutely no sense of decorum. It's embarassing to be measured in public, because, well, it's just embarassing. I don't go around discussing vaginal thrush and the size of my clitoris in public, loudly, so I don't expect my chest measurements to be hollered from 1 counter to the next in the effort to find a bra that fits me. It's not a lot to ask, just a little discretion, that's all.

Of course, being that they're aunties, I've gotten used to this whole routine, so now I just rummage around in the container where they stack up the bras nicely and start the whole game by pissing them off first. Figured if I'm gonna be embarassed I might as well make em blow a gasket while I'm at it. More wrinkles on their faces, the old hags, hah!

Two: She's just a late bloomer, that's all.
I am a customer, you are a sales lady. Your job is to find me what I want, my job is to buy it from you if you don't annoy me too much. We are not friends. Our relationship is strictly business, and strictly one-off, as in, once I get my bra I'm hightailing it outta here and you can't stop me. I do not need your consolation about the size of my not-very-significant chest. My maternal great-grandmother has small boobs, my maternal grandmother has small boobs, my (maternal side) aunts have small boobs, my mother has small boobs. You can probably make an educated guess as to where I'm going with this. I'm reconciled to the fact that my chest is probably going to stay the size it is right now. Sidenote: there's always a chance I'll inherit some of the genes from my dad's side, where the women have large (very large!) breasts, but they come with a large derriere too, so nah.

I'm happy with what I have. Well, I'm as happy as I can be, since, short of surgery, there's really nothing much I can do about it, and I'm not a pain slut, so no surgery.

Three: We have a new arrival from UK/America/Italy that'll enhance your bust by a whole cup size!
...the downside is you have to strap a steel-reinforced contraption stuffed with lumpy padding around your chest the whole day. Comfort above everything else, darling, that's my motto. I don't really get this whole push-up concept anyway. If I don't have it, then I don't have it, end of story. There's no point in pretending I'm rich and can afford to drive a brand spanking new 2005 Lotus Elise 2dr Roadster in Storm Titanium when all I can afford is a pretty fugly Kancil. (tadaa!)

Nowadays, after being heckled endlessly by my insensitive guy friends, I'm fairly used to self-deprecating humour about my chest. Whenever the aunties recommend a push-up bra, I say to them, very politely, that, "I've got to have something to push up in the first place." and then laugh very sincerely while simultaneusly shooting them a chilly stare, also very sincerely. They usually get the message.

Actually, my mom's partly to blame as well. She's the one who got me onto the padded bra route when it was apparent that nature wasn't gonna give me a belated growth spurt, and in my youthful naivete, I listened to her and let her buy me all sorts of made-by-NASA anti-gravity thingamajigs to make my chest look bigger. Maybe she's passing on her complex to me. *shrugs*

Anyway, I still think my mother knows the answers to a lot of the questions in life, but one thing's for sure. I'm not going bra-shopping with her anymore.

Footnote: Astute readers would no doubt by now realise that this post is just another vain attempt at legitimising the pictures of half-naked women I've posted. Yeah, it's women in bras now, but eventually this blog'll graduate to a fully-blown porn site with women in kitschy nurse uniforms or french maid outfits doing unmentionable things. Don't say I didn't warn you. :D

Footnote 2: Clickity click for the bras featured. My favourite is the middle one in the first row. If only it didn't cost an arm and a leg.

September 18, 2004

The ghost of Mooncake festivals past

We passed by the site of my old rumah panjang on the way to dinner today, and it brought back a lot of memories. FYI, all the rumah panjang in Pudu Ulu were demolished around 7 years ago, and that was where I grew up. Since there's a bunch of kids playing with candles and lanterns outside my window right now, I'll reminisce about past Mooncake Festivals.

Usually, after school, we'd be very excited because Mooncake festival was still a big thing for us kids, kinda like CNY and the Harvest festival. I remember whiling away the hours near the drain opposite my house, playing with the tadpoles and dragonflies. Of course, that was before the construction of what is now Taman Kobena took place. After they built the flats there, the drain water, which was clearer than my tap water now, was forever changed to muddy yellow.

Once the sun set, the neighbourhood kids would be out in full force, equipped with our goldfish lanterns (for girls) and rocket lanterns (for the boys), with an extra packet of candles thrown in for good measure. My mother used to buy both Japanese paper lanterns and the wire-rimmed multi-coloured lanterns, but when it became evident that we only used the Japanese lanterns for fuel, Mom stopped buying them altogether. Anyway, armed with our arsenal of weapons, we'd then go about terrorising the slow moving bugs and slugs by dripping wax on them. It's amazing how early I developed my sadistic streak. Since kids have unstable motor skills, we'd also end up burning most of our lanterns by 10 pm. That was also when we subjected the roadside grass to torture as well, burning them when we dropped our flaming lanterns in panic. Somehow, I don't burn as many lanterns now as I did back then. ;)

My neighbour's (no. 3) mother was into Taoism, so she did the whole prayer thing during the Mooncake Festival, while we kids amused ourselves by lighting candles on the rims of the flower pots, or by the above-mentioned terrorising. We also got into a lot of trouble for our choice of candle holders, cos the plants sometimes died, but back then we still had skin made of cowhide, so no waving (or using) of rotans would scare us into behaving. Besides, they looked pretty. Our most ambitious project was writing 'love' in mandarin that took up the entire width of the road. It was crushed when my neighbour (no. 8) came home from work, driving his huge-ass truck. The wax stayed on for about 1 week though, and many a biker/motorcyclist slipped on that patch of multi-coloured wax.

To all those poeple who broke their limbs from that patch of wax, please don't look me up now, I'm sorry for what I did back then. Honest.

Anyway, there was a tree next to my neighbour's (no.11) house and we used to climb that when my granma was busy cooking in the kitchen, and that tree shed its leaves somewhere around September, so there was plenty fuel around to start a bonfire. Obviously, now that I'm grown up and mature, I realise that starting a bonfire near rows and rows of wooden tinderboxes and a Tenaga power station isn't really a brilliant idea, and I can understand why the adults came running towards us with pitchforks when they saw what we were doing. But back then, starting my first fire was wonderful. At first I didn't know whether the leaves would actually burn, and it took a long time for us greenhorns to keep the fire going steady, but pretty soon the sparks caught and the embers erupted into a full blown bonfire almost as tall as I was.

That's also when we all got into trouble (canemarks up to the thighs), but it was after we managed perform an Indian dance, complete with hooting, around the fire, and I still think it was worth it.

We used to eat the black horn-like thingies whose name I forgot, but they had to be cracked open with a hammer. I didn't really like the taste of the horn thingy, it was pretty dry and bland. It's main attraction lay in the fact that it was only on the 8th lunar month that my mom actually let me play with a real hammer without going ballistics over a smashed Matchbox car.

My favourite food was the yam that's eaten with salt. I dunno why, but I like it better than any other food. Mooncakes weren't really my idea of dessert, besides, my brother likes em more than I do, so I might as well let him enjoy those. I prefered the plate-sized mooncake about half an inch thick, made of white flour-like substance, and it was hard and crunchy. It also had a picture of a lady on the top in cheapo colouring. I guess that was what made it appealing to me. Another thing I remember was the whitish candy that came in long strips. Once you suck the outer layer of sugar off, what's left is basically a piece of dried gourd. God I hated that. :p

After we were tired out from all the running around and shouting and screaming, we'd be sitting by our parents' rattan chairs eating peanuts and dozing off. Before packing us off to bed, my mom would bring out the Cat's Eye sparklers. Up to now I still like to look at sparklers while they're still burning, and then look elsewhere and see the stars. This only works if you have the sparklers with a metal handle, not the lousy paper ones that're so everywhere now. Somehow, there'll always be some forgotten lanterns still hanging around, left to burn till the candle goes out. Sometimes it rains at night and we find the skeleton of the lantern next morning, hanging on the fugui plant.

Now, I don't play with candles anymore, nor do I like goldfish lanterns, but I light small Japanese paper lanterns, because they look pretty when all the lights are switched off. I don't remember the last time I spoke to my neighbour, and I don't know any of the kids. There's also nothing left of my old house, and the tree is dead. Instead, 20-storey blocks of concrete stand in its place, but the old Tenaga power station still stands.
(Note: Wrote this yesterday afternoon but forgot to post it, so posting it now.)

Loyal readers!

Thought I dropped dead, eh? :) To explain my lack of updates, please remember that I am actually a very san si hang (new toilet) kinda person. As in, I'm very enthusiastic in the beginning, but generally lack the will to continue projects to the end. Unless my grades depend on it, then it's a different matter.

Now that we've gotten that out of the way, I was actually stricken with disease (fever, blocked nose, headaches, general throwing up) a day before my Human Comm test, which resulted in me being very cranky and stressed. The next day I had to rehearse my sketch/play thingy, and so didn't have time to do anything but eat, rest and watch Buffy at night. The today, I'm free so I'm updating my blog and writing this very boring account of my life in the past 3 or so days.

I'll be ranting about today now. If you're not interested in reading brainless rants you should just go and click on some of the links on the sidebar for fun. If you click Blizzforums 3 million times you'll lose 1 pound!

Today we had a visitation from the USM lecturer who's in charge of Management. To explain, Taylor's Mass Comm program is actually USM's Mass Comm program, and every semester they send spies over to keep track of whether we bad Taylor's students are doing what good USM students do, which is mainly drinking and having wild monkey sex. On campus too, tsk tsk.

Anyway, I don't think anyone will believe what she did with more than an hour of my time today, cos, you know, she's a doctor and everything, she's supposed to be smart. You see, our lovely Taylor's lecturer, Mrs Malar, who teaches Management, has already taught us all the concepts from chapter 1 to chapter 16. So what does this USM lecturer decide to do? Nothing much, except to sit there in the middle of the lecture hall and read the contents of the textbook, from chapter 1 to chapter 16, to us. Of course she used her own words and drew illustrations on the board (which were, btw, also in the book) about the concepts. The same concepts, as mentioned, that have been explained to us by Mrs Malar.

Note the emphasis.

I'm sitting in the bloody cold lecture hall, hungry (it was 12, I need to eat or I get incredibly cranky) and she's just sitting there reading to me. From a book, which everyone in the class has a copy. I spent a good 15 minutes holding back my curses, cos, well, as you know, good girls don't swear. :D

But hey, I'm just getting started here. Not only did she see the need to read to a bunch of college students, who, after spending about 16 years in Malaysia's education, would presumably be able to read, she never answered any of our questions. 19 chapters is not easy to memorise in an exam, and with her being the most anal-retentive person I've ever known in my life, the exams are going to be tough as heck. To illustrate my point, allow me to bring up a question she asked in a class quiz.

Which company below was not mentioned in the textbook's example on page (insert page number)? A)Boeing B)GM C)UPS D)Ford

I was under the impression that in a Management test, they'll question you on Management concepts to see if you actually understood them or not, cos hey, that's why I signed up for the course, ya? USM lecturer, on the other hand, thinks that Management is just another word for memorise-and-regurgitate. WTF...

So later, another one of my classmates asked her if there'll be questions based on the examples and cases mentioned in the textbook. Classmate's smart, she grasped the way this USM lecturer operates. What was the answer? "I cannot tell you, because I don't even tell my own 700 students in USM." So basically, aside from every example mentioned in the textbook, we have to memorise all the examples used to illustrate a particular concept too. Most of those examples involve American companies, which do not exist in Malaysia, so she can't even claim application of concepts and theories here. To her credit, she never even tried to explain why the questions are like this. I feel a sense of deja vu, like I'm back in secondary school, only this time I'm actually paying for my education.

To top it off, something like the proverbial cherry on top of the proverbial sundae with loads of whipped cream (only in a bad way. Very bad), she tells us that negative marking will be implemented. Not news to us, since we're already aware that she's using that in the mid terms. However, there's a little twist here today. Previously, if we weren't sure of the answer, we should just leave it unanswered, because every wrong answer would incur a .25 penalty in the negative marking scheme. So it's very possible to score a negative mark if you screw up the drinking-wild monkey sex-studying schedule.

Today though, USM lecturer said that it doesn't matter if you leave it blank or answer wrongly, there'll still be a penalty. This is the first time they're implementing this, btw. Previous semesters were marked according to the old system, which is blank answer = no deduction of 1/4 mark. When questioned, she said the system was programmed that way and they can't change it. I guess of she were ever in charge, all programmers and techies in Malaysia would all be out of a job.

The explanation for the implementation of negative marking was to deter students from guessing the answer. After all, the odds are pretty good, 1/4 chance of getting it right is not bad. It's better than buying lottery, at any rate. This new rule though, I don't understand. And either the USM lecturer herself doesn't understand it as well, or it's a state secret that we lowly students aren't supposed to know, and since it only involves our grades, it's not important at all.

The culmination of all this stupidity just bites you in the ass. If it doesn't, well, it sure as hell bites ME in the ass. More than 1 hour sitting in the lecture hall and I went out with less than I went in with. Should've skipped class and ate lunch instead.

I gotta hand it to her though, she's a great dodger. I've never seen anyone deflect questions with such standard (and stupid) answers since, well, since I heard the last politician speak.

To top off a bad day, I've just discovered that I can't find my Dune and Dune: Messiah books! OH NOES! *cries*

September 13, 2004

Hope springs eternal

For some reason I've been despondently melancholic lately. You know it's bad when I start to use redundant words like "despondently melancholic".

I've been thinking back about this couple I once met. It was at a Chinese wedding dinner, and we all know how those suck. Anyway, that was the one dinner in my entire life where I came out profoundly touched by the magic of 2 people being together, and it has nothing to do with the bride and the groom. It's all about this old couple I watched the entire night.

The lady was in a wheelchair, and she was frail. It was difficult for her to hold up her chopsticks, and I could see she had difficulty with feeding herself. The man, her husband, was very attentive. He was attuned to her every need, and seemed to know when she needed what. He took care of her, cut her food into manageable portions, and helped her nudge her food onto her spoon with his chopsticks so that she could eat. Throughout the night he was sitting with her, and it wasn't like he was there in body but not in spirit. He sat talking to her, sharing jokes, and only ate when he was sure she was ok.

As is the tradition, the newlyweds have to drink with everyone, and pose for photographs with the older generation. This man didn't want to leave his wife's side because he was afraid she wouldn't be able to cope. I don't think he was away from her side for more than 5 minutes throughout the night. Near the end of the dinner, the man looked at his wife and she shook her head, but he still pushed his bowl of chilled lin chi kang over to her with a smile on his face. They held hands as he pushed her out of the banquet hall.

Later I heard from a relative that they'd been married for close to 40 years.

There's a particular dialogue that I remember quite vividly. It's with this friend of mine, who once complained to me that her now ex-boyfriend never really said "I love you" to her. They'd been together for 5 years and he never once said anything about getting married. She says he never gave her flowers, chocolates and clothes, and never surprised her with gifts. Too many Hollywood romantic comedies, methinks.

What he does do now, is buy her lozenges when she has a sore throat. He boils porridge for her to eat whenever she's sick. He drives to Kajang to buy her the satay she likes, and he lives in Cheras. He lets her have all of the Chinese preserved cabbage when they go for teochew porridge, because he knows how much she likes them. He brings along a pink sweater every time they go for a movie, because he knows she will get cold, and that she will never remember herself.

He's now with a girl who doesn't need Valentine's Day, flowers and chocolates to make her happy.

I don't see what's inside, obviously. All I can see is what the relationship looks like on the outside. But then again, anyone who tells me they've never had an argument with their bf/gf is either having a meaningful relationship with their sex toys or plain lying. Relationships were never meant to be easy, and they never work unless both people work.

Maybe that's all there is to it. Someone who sticks around despite all the problems. Maybe it's not the earth-shattering you-jump-I-jump romance, but someone who cares enough to give you the sour mangoes because he knows they're what you like.

What're the chances we'll all get what we want? To be honest, I'm a pessimist; I don't think I'll get my happy ending in the end. I'll probably have to settle for being alone and looking after my brother's kids. But looking around and seeing people like that makes me feel happy, because people like that exist, and that happy endings DO in fact happen in real life.

This is my last sappy post for the month. Actually, it gets sappier if you're listening to Sun Yan Zi's Yu Jian while you're reading this. Anyway, last sappy post for the month. Cross my heart.

This is a really beautiful site, since I'm a sucker for all this melancholic romance stuff. You'll need to be able to understand mandarin to read it, but there's a translation here. Now I'm all mushy and mellow.

The song is Yu Jian (??) by Sun Yan Zi (???).

September 12, 2004

Dare to Fail*

I've decided that denial works best after all. Just finished watching Ice Cream Show on channel 11, and that was a pretty mood-lifter. Of course, it also helped that I had a bowl of ice-cream (I don't think there's a lot ice-cream can't cure) with me while I watched them introduce Ben and Jerry's sundaes, so I didn't get any of those nasty withdrawal symptoms.

I thought of blogging about my shopping excursion yesterday with my mom, but then no one really wants to read about how much I love my new skirt, so instead, today's post is inspired by a friend who's afraid to tell a girl he likes that, well, he likes her. In the interests of my personal wellbeing, the guy shall not be named. Also, I remembered the many letters to Big Bro, so that's also my inspiration.

Everyone's probably suffered some form of rejection and the ensuing embarassment in their lives. I'll go with a conservative number and say at least 5 times, maybe? Anything less and I don't think you're really living at all, but that's just a personal opinion.

To personalise this post, I'll start by telling an embarssing story. Back when I was still in primary school, I once found out that a guy had a crush on me, and since I kinda liked him too, I managed to get his phone number after plying a mutual friend with barley sweets. After waiting a few days to gather courage, I dialed his number and waited in trepidation while the phone rang. Luckily for me he picked it up himself, so I didn't have to deal with the whole parents scenario. To cut a long story short, I told him who I was and asked him if he liked me, and he responded by saying "No." very curtly and hanging up the phone.

My first declaration of love and I was shot down like that. Sigh. The worst part was he's a popular guy, and I'm the nerdy type, so I probably don't need to go into detail about what happened in school the next few days after The Phonecall. Primary school wasn't that much fun after all. :p

You'd think that would've been a sobering lesson for anyone to learn. You'd also think 4 years was plenty enough for someone to not make the same mistake again. For normal people, yeah, but evidently I operate on different rules. When I was in Form 3 I found out from some friends that this guy liked me, and I also kinda liked him, so, utilising a very intricate network of friends, I managed to send a message to him asking him if he liked me. Doesn't take a genius to figure out what happened. :p I console myself by thinking that I saved 30 sen if I'd made the phonecall instead of using the friend network.

Obviously the term 'tak malu' has nothing on me. The point of the 2 stories is to never trust what your friends tell you, cos they're probably just bored with school life and decided to entertain themselves by watching you make a fool of yourself. If only I was a little smarter 12 years ago I would've saved myself a lot of grief.

Anyway, the real point of the story is to say that given enough time, rejection and utter humiliation means nothing. I was humiliated many times in my life, and look at me now. I'm still happily blogging away and eating ice-cream and warbling Uninvited. Sure, those 2 incidents dented my self-esteem a bit, but at least I tried. Now I can even post this up in public for everyone to read, so it's great training for public speaking. I mean, once you know you've been rejected by a guy you like and the whole school knows about it, you've pretty much hit rock bottom and from that point onwards, nothing you do in public is going to be of much consequence anymore.

Impromptu presentation? No sweat la, what's the worse that can happen? I stumble over a few words and the class laughs. No biggie, at least there won't be any of those malicious whispers around. Tripping up in public? So my legs don't genuflect that well, big deal. More laughter, but at least it's not nasty laughter. Probably the only thing worse than rock bottom is if I propose to a guy and he rejects me in public. But then again what're the odds of that ever happening?

I've wondered why I keep doing all this weird impulsive things that I do, and last year I finally had the answer. My ex came back, and I didn't ask him something I most desperately wanted to know. To me, there's nothing worse than not knowing for sure. I'd rather have brutal honesty than being dangled along for, say 3 months, wondering and speculating all the time and generally just wearing my nerves down to a frazzle. It's just not worth the trouble.

I suppose what someone decides to do ultimately depends on the scale which you rate things. I always ask myself 1 question when I'm in doubt. "Would I regret this when I'm 80 years old?" Once I put myself in that kind of time frame nothing really matters anymore, so I just go ahead and do what I want to do.

Remind me to tell you what happened in Nagisa Restaurant in Sunway Resort sometime later. It appears I still haven't grown out of this humiliating myself phase yet.

*clickity click

Protect yourself

I can't sleep. :(

On 7 September 2004 (Tuesday) the final semester PR students of Taylor's School of Communications got together to organise a campaign to create awareness about date rape. The campaign is titled Stop Date Rape: Can You Trust His Intentions? The degree students also managed to invite Ivy Josiah of WAO to speak at the launch.

Date rape is defined as "being subjected to unwanted sexual intercourse, oral sex, anal sex, or other sexual contact through the use of force of threat of force." Unsuccessful attempts are also within the term rape.

The official website is here

Being degree students ourselves, our class was required to attend the campaign launch, because our PR students have to organise something along this line during their final semester. "Think of it as practice," our lecturer said.

I didn't want to go. Sitting in the lecture hall during the entire launch was painful for me. It brought back some memories I'd rather forget, and since I've never really spoken about this, it's sort of an 'out of sight, out of mind' kinda thing I have going on. Denial of the grandest degree. It worked though, for a while.

Before I go on, a brief history lesson here would be appropriate. I think. About 2 years ago, I went on a trip to Pulau Langkawi with my ex-college mates. On the third day of our trip, we went on an excursion to Pulau Payar. I'm afraid of the sea, and I have a fear of drowning, but I decided to go after being persuaded by my friends. After all, I was on vacation, I'm supposed to do kitschy, touristy stuff like wear Hawaiian shirts and overcoming my fears. There were around 15 people in our group, and I think about 3 knew how to swim. The rest of us strapped on bright orange life jackets and jumped into the sea anyway. In retrospect, going snorkelling before knowing how to swim was a very stupid thing to do.

After fooling around for a while, 2 scuba-diving instructors approached me and my best friend while we were floating near the shore and asked us if we could swim. We were wearing ugly orange vests, so the answer was obviously no. They then offered to teach us, and in our naivete, we agreed to go along with them. They took us into deep water, to places away from the route tourists usually throng. It was there that I saw all the pretty coral and a huge blue-green fish the size of my torso. There was also a scary-looking meat-eating fish that he told me was a barracuda. At the time, I remember thinking how lucky we were to get guides, cos the coral on the 'main road' where tourists gather are almost all dead.

I also remember the guy who took me had a plastic bottle of breadcrumbs he'd use to feed the fish with. After all the breadcrumbs were gone, he threw the bottle into the sea just like that, and I remember feeling shocked, cos he's a scuba instructor whose livelihood depends on the marine life of the island, and here he is throwing a plastic bottle away like that. I can't remember his name though. It's funny what trivial things the brain chooses to focus on.

We snorkeled for about an hour or so, I guess. I had so much fun I didn't even notice that his friend had led my friend away. After a while my life jacket came loose, and I panicked, cos I have this fear of drowning. My guide then took me to this piece of rocky outcrop thingy in the middle of the sea and pulled me onto it. It wasn't a huge space, just about enough for 2 people to sit on. It was then that he started to act up, saying things I didn't want to hear and touching me. By the time I realised what he was doing, it was already too late, since I was effectively trapped by the water and my loosened life jacket. There wasn't much I could do to stop him, but I got cuts on my hands and legs for my efforts, which were futile anyway. The cuts healed in about 2 weeks, and now the scars are completely gone. The inside takes longer though.

I suppose I should be thankful that he didn't try anything else. It could've been worse, but that doesn't make me feel any better about this. I blame myself for being stupid like that, for allowing things to get out of hand. There were so many things I could've done to prevent that from happening, if only I was a little bit more alert. It doesn't help that this isn't the first time shit like this has happened to me. For some reason I'm a weirdo-magnet. I realise there's no use in crying over spilt milk, but then it's hard getting over your own stupidity. Hopefully now that I'm older, I'm also wiser.

Up to this day I have mixed feelings about that place. On one hand I loved swimming with the fish and looking at the corals and the sea cucumbers. It was something I've never done before, and it was really a lot of fun. Up to a point anyway. On the other hand, if I hadn't made that trip, I wouldn't be crying in the darkened lecture hall.

Anyway, the whole point of this story is to say that I've picked up a few lessons on the way to adulthood. I had a look at the statistics in the website, and I really don't like what I see. If this helps at least one other girl out there, then I guess it's worth it.

Lesson number 1 is to never put yourself in a vulnerable position that other people can take advantage of. It doesn't matter whether you're in a car park or out at sea. Always be alert of your surroundings and be careful if you're alone. Be aware of where the exits are, and try to imagine what you would do in case someone attacked you or surprised you. Shit happens, and it's easier to deal with if you're prepared. It's all elementary boy scout stuff.

Lesson number 2 is to never trust people you don't know. Doesn't matter if it's a doctor, a construction worker or a policeman. Identity theft is easy enough now that we're in the age of information technology. Even if it's people you know you should always be careful, because you can never gauge people's intentions. Mulder got it right when he said trust no one.

Lesson number 3, talk about it with people you trust. It may be a social worker or your parents, your friends or your relatives. Keeping it cooped inside isn't going to help, and the case study would be me. If I'd talked about this earlier with someone I would probably not react as emotionally as I did during the launch. I'm still having problems with this as I'm typing out this post. I never told my parents or my brother until about a week after the incident, cos I didn't want them to worry about me. What I did do was write a short story dealing with a similar subject matter, and I cried buckets while doing it, but it helped a bit, I think.

Lesson number 4, don't be submissive. It may be your posture, the way you talk, the way you dress, anything. Seemingly insignificant stuff like this conveys a message, and unscrupulous people are more likely to prey on women they think are weak than women who project an aura of confidence. It doesn't matter that you have low self-esteem, confidence can be faked. An easy way would be to stand up straight and look people in the eye when they speak. Record the way you talk so that you can hear yourself, and then try to practice speaking with confidence.

That's about it. This sounds paranoid, but I think it's always better to feel stupid than end up molested, raped, or worse.

What're the chances of me being able to sleep tonight? =/

September 10, 2004


Whenever you go to a bar (or some such happening place) and see a girl you're interested in, that girl will invariably be surrounded by her posse of friends, or if you're lucky, she'll have one girl friend with her. This is where the concept of the noble Wingman comes in.

What is a Wingman, you ask? (If you already know just skip to the 5th paragraph)

According to, a Wingman is a pilot whose plane is positioned behind and outside the leader in a formation of flying aircraft.

That's the military definition. The Wingman I'm talking about today lurks in social situations, mostly in bars and pubs. A Wingman is your noble best buddy who's going to be responsible for diverting the attentions of the afore-mentioned girl friend(s). Why noble, you ask? Because the girl friends of the hottie chick are usually not going to be hotties themselves, that's why. The importance of the Wingman is hence illustrated, since you can't very well sidle up to the girl you like and drag out your smoothest pickup line with a whole gaggle of girls looking at you when you say, "So, what's your sign?"

Imagine the sound of derisive female laughter echoing in your mind. Imagine the utter pandemonium. Imagine what that would do to your fragile male ego. Now you see why the Wingman is the most important asset you can have when you're buaya-ing innocent little girlies in bars. (yes, innocent little girlies don't exactly hang out in bars, but fantasies are fun)

Now, for a mighty salute to the noble Wingman, without whom many raunchy back-alley rendezvous would not have happened. The back-alley thing is usually preceded by a heavy bout of drunken flirting, so it's best if you avert your eyes when that's happening.

Okay, now that we're done glorifying the males, now is the time to illustrate the female perspective of the Wingman. Yes, we exist, although in a slightly different standpoint, but the common denominator here is we get the raw end of the deal. The sole reason for our existence is to provide eager males with the phone number/address/date of birth/vital stats of the hot chicks who also happen to be our friends. Most guys would have taken this presumably easier route to get the girl of his heart, and it works too, sometimes.

In view of the fact that I've been in this female Wingman position for, oh, 4 years and counting, I consider myself somewhat of an expert on this. However, since I'm not in a particularly good mood today, and since I am also slightly inebriated, I've decided to dedicate this blog to the stupid idiots I've came across while in the exalted position of female Wingman. By dedicate, I mean educate the rest of you on what not to do when approaching a hottie's good friend for information.

Actually, there's only 1 stupid idiot I've come across that warrants this much effort, and he will be named at the end of this blog. Please, learn from this case study. God must have put him on his green earth for a reason.

Do not try to fool the good friend of the hot chick into thinking that you really want to buy her lunch or borrow her notes. That's number 1. It's painfully obvious to a female Wingman whenever a guy approaches her to ask for information, so don't pretend that she doesn't know what you're doing, and it'll save us both a lot of intelligence points. It doesn't matter that you mask it under a disguise, and it doesn't matter how smooth an operator you think you are, we'll still know.

Number 2, do not ever go the make-her-jealous route. If you've been hit over the head with a blunt object and decide to play this game, please do not ever do it with the female Wingman. I'm sure I don't need to impress upon you the utter futility and idiocy of this jealousy strategy, but to emphasise my point, DO NOT DO IT. You'll only make yourself look bad and, in the process, lose a heck LOT of respect points.

Hot chick is not going to care whether some loser geek goes out with her friend or not. Her friend is not stupid enough to fall for this trick. Please do not insult her intelligence by feigning an interest in her the minute hot chick rejects your slovenly advances. The keyword we're looking at here is dignity. Don't lose it. The female Wingman, fueled by estrogen, is also going to ruin all your chances of ever dating a girl within her circle of friends, so you are in effect shooting yourself in the foot. Twice. With a Desert Eagle. At close range. Whoohoo and you end up a cripple.

I'm pretty good at this metaphor stuff.

Hmmm...Actually, I can only think of 2 points right now. I'll tack on more when they come to mind. Right now, I'm going to polish off the remaining wine because, let's face it, wine was never meant to be re-corked.

This female Wingman rant is dedicated to my best friend and partner in crime, who is the only person to have suffered more fools than me over the years. She's a much nicer person than I am.

3/4 of this blog is inspired by the stupidest person I have ever met in my life, Chris. The remaining quarter is inspired by the wine coursing through my veins right now. If Chris is reading this, be thankful the wine has mellowed my mood and dulled my words. I'm usually more vehement (read: spitting fire) whenever your name is brought up.

If anyone can tell me what's the female equivalent of the Wingman it would be highly appreciated. It's annoying to keep referring to myself as 'female Wingman' all the time.

September 08, 2004

Sepet The Movie

Since I've figured out how to attach pictures, they're all I want to play with now, heh heh. Anyway, pretty cool poster, ya? I like all the yellow, it makes me think of old pictures and mellowness. The official website is here, though I'm told there're still some typos around. It also loads pretty slow, so either my Streamyx is acting up again or something's wrong with the site.

Onwards with the meat. Uh, sorry vegetarians. :p Sepet is a love story between a Chinese guy and a Malay girl. I'm assuming the title refers to the typical Chinaman/Chinawoman (equal opportunity!) eyes. It's directed by Yasmin Ahmad, who's also responsible for some of the Petronas Ads we see on TV during major festivals.

According to the synopsis on the website, 19 year old Ah Loong is an illegal VCD seller who, get this, is not only an incurable romanctic, but also reads and writes poetry as well. A VCD seller, nevermind an illegal one, who quotes Yeats and writes sonnets is obviously about as probable as a hooker with a heart who loves opera, but then again I'm a girl. I fall for romantic shit like this. That's why I watch 10 Things I Hate About You (and loved it) and How To Lose A Guy In 10 Days (liked it). Thankfully Sepet has a short name. Anyways, back to Ah Loong. His life changes (for better? For worse?) when a 16-year-old Malay girl comes looking for Wong Kar Wai's films.

The synopsis ends there, tantalising us (me at least) with the trials and tribulations the couple inevitably have to go through in order to cement their love. I'm guessing it's gonna take a lot for them to get together, only to face parental objections and social rejection. I'm also guessing sex won't be part of the equation because of pesky statutory rape laws and all that. Maybe it'll end sadly like City of Angels. Oh the possibilities.

I may not know a lot, but I know I'm going for the movie!

September 06, 2004

Since I'm supposed to be studying and cramming for my Management test on Wednesday, I decided to not post anything and upload a sketch I drew a long time ago instead. Save time and sleep early, you know? At least, that was the plan, until I found out Blogger works on HTML and I only have rudimentary knowledge of BBcode, and absolutely none on HTML. Should've spent the time writing something instead. :(

Anyway, if you're interested in a clearer pic, go here

Again, thanks to Lance for patiently answering my inept questions regarding closing tags and broken tags. On the upside, I'm slow, but at least I'm learning.

Also, thanks to Arion The Good Guy (tm) for persuading me to put this up. If you feel the need to wash your eyes out with anything stronger than EyeMo, he's the guy you need to contact for compensation. Email me for his address. :)

September 04, 2004

Link section up!

Yay, finally. First off, a huge HUGE shoutout to Lance for making this happen. Thank you thank you. :)

Now for a little explanation thingy on the links. Most of them link to gaming forums, which is where I hang out most of the time.

Been there since it's conception, though as a lurker in the beginning. It's a great place to hang out, and the Serious Discussion forum is a nice place to have a frank exchange of ideas on controversial topics. No censorship, unless you're exceedingly stupid or just a troll. The gaming community's pretty active there too, and quesries will generally be answered in a polite manner. It also has a pretty vibrant artistic community, especially graphics-wise, and the literature section's also pretty cool. ;)

StarCraft Legacy
Arguably the bestest resource site for SC related stuff on the net. Used to be affiliated with the Org Network but things are a bit hazy now, so I'm also confused. Check it out nonetheless. SCL also has a section called APP where they publish (good) fanfics.

The split from BF broke my heart, but priorities shift and situations change. Here's to the best for Warboards, and may you get less idiots than BF.

Gamers Union Malaysia
Pretty grand name, but it really means Malatlou Central. Eventually every topic gets diverted to discussions about sex, goats, gays, leather-clad doms and bodily fluids. Not that it's a bad thing. Just don't be misled by the name. ;) Has a pretty active RO community, which I gather is all the rage now. If you're a local gamer and you never registered there, why shame on you, you little traitor.

TV Smith
Seriously, who doesn't link him? Don't answer that, it's rhetorical. It's not like I get a lot of traffic than I can send on his way, but at least with this link I can pretend to be cool. And because I want to be cool, I'll refrain from saying anything else in this little paragraph thingy.

As I said in the beginning of this post, this is the guy who made it all happen. A link is the least I can do, apart from other, more sordid and icky favours. :)

September 03, 2004

Something new every day

As those motivational bastards like to say, a new day brings forth new experiences. They continue on about seizing the day and blah blah blah, but I'm not going on a motivational tangent today, so I'll stop at that.

Once upon a time, on a dark and stormy afternoon, Dad picked me up from college because I'm not allowed to drive alone, and before you snicker, it's because the basement car park in college is so dark that I need to lug along a can of pepper spray with me if I'm alone, NOT because I'm a lousy driver. Remember that.

Anyway, Dad picked me up and we were traveling along the Seremban highway, chatting about class. Dad pointed out the ramp I needed to get on if I was driving homeward-bound, and we were passing under an overhead bridge when suddenly the Isuzu Trooper in front with a very shiny and sturdy iron bumper (you may wonder how I know this. It'll be explained in a moment) slammed on the emergency brakes. Dad hit the brakes as well, and the tires locked. Evidently, it was a conspiracy of nature, because locked tires and wet roads don't make happy bedmates.

You know that sorta-doomish uh-oh feeling you get when you know you can't brake in time? I got that feeling, and sure enough, we hit the sturdy shiny bumper of the Isuzu Trooper. Surprisingly though, I didn't panic. What I did do was clutch my bag a little tighter and straightened my leg against the, erm, the leg-space area to brace for the impact.

I'm beginning to think I have pretty good self-control. You know, a cool and steady head when it comes to the crunch. Heh.

Anyway, needless to say, the Isuzu Trooper suffered next to no damage. Maybe the sturdy shiny bumper was a little less shiny after being rear-ended by my dad's Wira, which has a bumper made of twice-recycled aluminium cans. Nothing that can't be rectified with a little elbow grease. Our hood though, was apparently made of the exact same twice-recycled aluminium, cos it immediately bent into an extremely grotesque angle as it absorbed the impact of the crash and probably saved us all from dying. Sometimes I wonder who the heck believes the salesman's drivel.

I could already imagine my mom screeching "How fast were you traveling?!?!" in the inevitable phone call. You see, my dad drives a little souped up Wira (from 0 to 100 in 4.8 seconds whoohooo!) and being a mom, Mom would always keep an eye on the speedometer and make little growling noises whenever it hits 80. On a highway, no less.

After we pulled over, the guy driving the Trooper, and he was a BIG guy, got out of his car, and as he walked over, he kept cursing the Iswara parked under the overhead bridge. Apparently, the Iswara was in front of the Trooper and had braked suddenly because a kid inside wanted to pee, which resulted in the Trooper having to brake suddenly in order to not bang it, which in turn resulted in my dad having brake suddenly, only it didn't work out so nicely for my dad. Poor Dad.

Thankfully the Trooper suffered no damage and dad only had to pay for his own damages. We got back into our respective cars, threw baleful glances at the Iswara and its occupants, and went on our merry way. Only it wasn't about to turn out so merrily after all. *cue dramatic DUN DUN DUN music*

As it happened, apart from Mom's constant nagging about his speed, Dad's decision to turbo boost his car came back to bite him in the ass again today. The fan that cools the car was damaged in the crash, which resulted in the temperature rising. It hit 100 when we were on the Sri Petaling section of Kesas highway, and as Murphy would have it, the ubiquitous traffic jam materialised out of nowhere and we were stuck in an overheating car.

After a period of maybe 4 minutes, we realised the car wasn't going to make it all the way back home. If you're wondering how we knew, it's because my dad's temperature reader thingy makes a rather annoying noise when the car's overheating. It sounds like a beeping bomb timer you see in Hollywood movies, which in this case is kinda applicable in a morbid sorta way. So we stopped the car by the roadside, and Dad made a call to my workshop-operating uncle to get a tow truck operator who wouldn't charge RM500 per tow. Dad also took the opportunity to practice his French. *grins*

Anyway, 4 tow truck runners, 2 inquisitive motorbike riders, and 25 very-warm minutes later, the tow truck finally arrived. The uncle was very friendly, and Dad chatted with him while I sat in the car reading the newspaper. And now, finally, after reading all those words above, comes the gist of today's post. My new and exciting experience was sitting in a car that is being towed by a tow truck. Whoohooo!

Being towed by a tow truck was really cool. Obviously, since I wasn't the one responsible for smashing up the car, I can say that with a certain audacity. If I had been the one who banged into the Isuzu Trooper, boy would I be completely mortified. My dad would probably have given me an earful too. As it turned out, we had a pretty nice chat about what to do if I ever was in the same situation. I spent the rest of the journey peering out of the jacked up windows and waving gleefully at passing motorists. Dad was busy covering his face from the onlookers with the newspaper I'd been reading previously.

And now my mom tells me there's a 1.5 litre can of Coffee Crumble waiting for me in the freezer. Life is good.

But maybe not for Dad.

September 01, 2004

Like every other KL dweller out there, and probably every other Malaysian out there, I view yellow traffic lights as a challenge. I also have an uncanny feeling that this is not an attitude that is uniquely Malaysian, unlike the practice of eating durians with rice.

Whoever said yellow lights are there so that drivers can prepare to stop their vehicles was obviously high on ganja or something, because not even the meek old lady in a small apple-green Kancil prepares to stop at yellow lights. No sirree, she chokes her puny little 600cc engine, and you hear sounds that no living human should ever hear, mainly the revving of a Kancil engine, and she screeches past the traffic-lighted junction a split second before the light turns red. I can still hear the shriek echoing in my brain. Wow.

Kiddies, if you're reading this blog, you are not supposed to! It basically operates on the same rule as pr0nsites. Or, if you really really want to read this, we (meaning myself and any other persona I talk about in here) are not good rolemodels. Pay special attention to them underlined parts.

It's actually been 2 years since I got my driver's license, so maybe I'm horrendously outdated, but sometimes I'm forced to wonder what exactly they teach driving students these days. Running yellow lights is normal, there's nothing to see, move along now. Running yellow lights right after they've switched to red is also normal, but frowned upon by Mr Policeman, so better not do that unless you're sure there's no policeman hiding inside the monsoon drain or squinting from behind a prickly bush. Of course you can still do that if you're prepared to fork over a hefty bribe. Or if you're a girl just practice crying, I've heard it helps.

Just the other day, I had the misfortune of not being able to make it past a yellow light, and had to slam on the emergency brakes, which, incidentally, doesn't happen very often. The slamming of the brakes, I mean. So there I was, sitting in my car, (the only car on the road) and warbling along to 'You Oughta Know' like a bitch in heat, when out of the corner of my eye I saw this bike zip past me. Across the junction. Where the traffic lights were glowing red like the eyes of demonic people in photographs.

So I thought, hey, it's a bike, no big deal, and then I settled back into the seats and continued my version of 'singing'. Then another bike puttered past me, an old uncle at the wheel. Shrugging, I thought that's what people on bikes do. They start playing with bikes at the age of 12, they drive around without helmets, they run red lights, they somehow manage to parallel-drive at 20kmph while chatting with each other, they ferry 5 people at one sitting (driver, wife and 3 kids hung precariously from various protruding steel parts of the bike, of which I cannot identify) and 2/3s of all accidents involving bikes aren't their fault. Sure.

And then a lorry rumbled past me, followed by a red Honda Coupe. Of course the Honda didn't rumble, it more like whooshed, kinda like a bullet but not as fast. At this point I thought maybe I had my colour-blind glasses on, and so I craned my neck to look at the traffic light one more time, just to make sure my brain registered the right colour. Sure enough, I was right. (whew, for a while there I really thought it was green but I didn't notice. That's actually a recurring nightmare I have.)

Anyway, the point is, is this some new fad where a red light doesn't really mean 'Stop', it means 'you used to have to Stop, but now you can ignore it depending on your mood'? Obviously I don't need to go into the dangers of not obeying traffic lights. It's very elementary, it's the law. Red light = stop. Green light = go. Yellow light = hazy territory, interpret it as you will. If someone from the opposing side hits the accelerator because he thought green light means go while some smart ass thought red light means go, well, that's why car accidents happen. God forbid if any one of those parties were pedestrians.

When I first got my license, my mother told me that if I'm the first car at a traffic light that has changed from red to green, always wait five seconds before stepping on the accelerator, just in case some people on the other side decide to run the red light. Fine, I agreed with her, that's very do-able, and it happens. I run red lights too sometimes, so I can understand the rationale behind that. However, if I see a green light that has been green for, say 30 seconds, it wouldn't have crossed my mind to look out for other cars. I suppose now's the time to start paying attention to that.

Somehow, for the people in KL, it seems like the law isn't really the law sometimes. Case in point, 'no parking' sign means 'let's play a game to see how many stationary cars we can cram on a one lane street without blocking traffic'. Or heck, who cares if you block traffic, we're KL dwellers. Another case in point, how many 'dilarang membuang sampah di sini, denda RM500' signs can you count that actually has no rubbish dumped around it? It's like some ironic joke the people play on the authorities, you won't find any rubbish anywhere except for the area around that sign. It's enough to make the authorities blow a blood vessel. Not that it's a bad thing, hey.

Conclusion: The roads are dangerous. There is no enforcement of traffic laws. Malaysian have a weird (crazy weird) sense of humour.

Well, this sure is a twisted, convoluted piece of...thing. If you made it this far, pat yourself on the back and have a cookie. Go ahead, my treat. *grins*