a kiss with a fist is better than none

34

i promised erica that no emo post should ever be written on this page(unless i am undergoing severe pms). so i am back..trying to blog as soon as possible..cant promise daily(or even weekly) updates but i am sooooooo active on my tumblr. i swear i log on more than 5 times a day and can spend the whole night browsing through it like an addict. it’s so interesting, very pretty and different.

exam starts in less than a week. i have paper 3 of all science subjects next week and i am freaking out and screaming in my head. trying to cram as much experiments in my head and in between that, trying to revise and not fall asleep. stress! i am terrible at add maths. i really cannot do it. no matter how many exercises i do, how many of the formulas i memorize and how prepared i feel i am, when the question is in front of me, i blank out. and i make some of the dumbest, most careless mistakes ever. my workings are often everywhere, crossed out, and scribbled over. at this point, i cannot remember how to do logarithm, coordinate geometry, circles or statistics aka all the chapters after quadratic functions. i will die. i have to crash course my add maths in 10 days or i will die. i will die.

and no, i dont care abt my physics. i still dont get it + never will.

i am obsessed with diamonds. on wrists.

so yes, started my revision. started the stressing and worrying. will not be breathe easily until finals is over, and i get my paper back and then it’s bye bye malaysian education system. bye bye to sejarah and all those obscenely long arabian names, bye to the absolutely ridiculous, appallingly redundant and useless formats for pmoral, bm in general and lousy ict. (still cant believe i am leaving btw)

been doing some fun stuff in school to cool off the building stress over finals. like, havent sat in my designated place for more than 15 minutes. everyone’s kinda moving arnd, chairs everywhere, papers float arnd randomly and table are so haphazardly arranged that no one can walk arnd without turning or twisting their bodies. four, five, sometimes six, people crowded arnd a table. alot of chatting, listening too and talking abt ominous finals with our teachers. writing big big confessions and deep dark secrets, collecting photos, doodling caricatures and composing/copying poems for our time capsules. played with rabbits and mass ordered tehcpeng, fun. we ordered mcd yesterday.. more like i did and we printed our hand and footprints in paint for charity. we tried to dance to beyonce’s single ladies and we also have been migrating frequently to the unused, haunted block because it has practically the most cleanest and toilet-paper-abundant restrooms in the entire school. those 15yearolds are sitting for their pmr tomorrow. best of lucky, you lucky bastards. wish i could got back to last year.  everything was so much simpler and got scared over pmr for no big reason.

okay so, this is my none emo post. yay. gossip girl episode 3 out today. go dwld people. :)

will leave you with some pics of diamonds(because i will one day permanently print one on my wrist) and crazy friends and love and how it’s october again.

WTF IT’S OCTOBER AGAIN. :O :O

 

For a few months now, i’ve been questioning why i love writing.Why, penning words and paragraphs appealed to me and why i get excited whenever i see books, or feel the crispness of pages. Why i believed vehemently that no form of writing should ever be regulated or disallowed. Writing to me seems as natural as talking, only everything i write or type is printed out in black and white.

And for a few months now, i realize why i loved writing. Not because it’s a hobby, or a sport, not because it’s something that i am fairly okay at and not because i wanted to win prizes and make others feel redundant.I write because, like Anais Nin said :

"If you do not breathe through writing,
if you do not cry out in writing,
or sing in writing,
then don't write,
because our culture has no use for it."

Why write if you are going to see the worst in others writing? Why write if you do not use your heart or promise yourself to it? Why judge, if you are not one who would try to understand another person’s perception and vision? I am in love with words, and i will wait, with cupped hands, for them to overflow.

Words cant save us, i would admit. Not all things make sense and sometimes words fall short of the bigger picture. But i see how people around me are bounded and tied up in all types of predicaments and dissatisfaction. It scares me to know that whatever i say, whatever words i write or try to reason with, it wouldnt make a small dent of improvement to how they are feeling.

I see sacrifice in most of their faces and then i see the faces of those who have changed.Those who i cannot seem to speak to without feeling like i am talking to someone else entirely. There is almost nothing i can say or write or offer to try to make all of these things clearer. All i can do is watch everything unfold, like a terrible nightmare as every part of the road we’re walking on, is peppered with potholes and traps.

Do we have what it takes to let the past go and move on? Do we know each other and ourselves well enough to make all of this better? Are we strong enough to brave the undertow together? No one can fully justify who we are, no one can ever take our purposes away from us.

There are so many parts of the things that had happened, and are happening now, where you can see right through all the obstacles.

This time everyone has the best intentions. But everything’s lost in translation. Two years from now, would of all these things that are happening matter to you? Would it shape who you are, mould you and make you a person you will be proud of? Would it matter if you won or you lost, if you are belittled in other eyes, others who are not inclined to even remember you after you leave, would it matter if you gave up, would it matter if you emerged on top or kept to yourself or if you fought for your own right? Would it matter if you got what you wanted, if you wore a red tie, if you have a badge on your blazer or a position under your name? Would it matter?

Or are the people who actually know you, who cares abt everything you are and made of, the ones who would make all the difference to you?

I cant watch this, and feel nothing. I feel everything.

33

 

under the spot light

neither black or white

it doesnt matter

:)

32

okay update. short one.

Damai was extravagant-bestest-awesome-i-love-every-minute-of-it-ness

doing lotsa stuff for Interact night. woohoo.

NEON, PEOPLE!

that means BRIGHT, FLUOROSCENT, INCASDESCENT, STUNNING & STRIKING.

we’re giving you a chance to STAND OUT.

so dont try NOT to go in black or white. go wild. use your imagination. it’s one night to live in technicolour and watch the room combust into millions of sparks and glitter and luminosity.

i cant wait. the music, the decor, the dancing, is gonna be off the hook!!! :D

Omg..what a masterpiece.

Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out--Richard Siken

Every morning the maple leaves.

                               Every morning another chapter where the hero shifts

            from one foot to the other. Every morning the same big

and little words all spelling out desire, all spelling out

You will be alone always and then you will die.

So maybe I wanted to give you something more than a catalog

         of non-definitive acts,

something other than the desperation.

                   Dear So-and-So, I'm sorry I couldn't come to your party.

Dear So-and-So, I'm sorry I came to your party

         and seduced you

and left you bruised and ruined, you poor sad thing.

                 Your want a better story. Who wouldn't?

A forest, then. Beautiful trees. And a lady singing.

Love on the water, love underwater, love, love and so on.

What a sweet lady. Sing lady, sing! Of course, she wakes the dragon.

            Love always wakes the dragon and suddenly

                                      flames everywhere.

I can tell already you think I'm the dragon,

                that would be so like me, but I'm not. I'm not the dragon.

I'm not the princess either.

                           Who am I? I'm just a writer. I write things down.

I walk through your dreams and invent the future. Sure,

             I sink the boat of love, but that comes later. And yes, I swallow

         glass, but that comes later.

              And the part where I push you

flush against the wall and every part of your body rubs against the bricks,

            shut up

I'm getting to it.

                                    For a while I thought I was the dragon.

I guess I can tell you that now. And, for a while, I thought I was

                the princess,

cotton candy pink, sitting there in my room, in the tower of the castle,

          young and beautiful and in love and waiting for you with

confidence

            but the princess looks into her mirror and only sees the princess,

while I'm out here, slogging through the mud, breathing fire,

                       and getting stabbed to death.

                                    Okay, so I'm the dragon. Bid deal.

          You still get to be the hero.

You get the magic gloves! A fish that talks! You get eyes like flashlights!

                  What more do you want?

I make you pancakes, I take you hunting, I talk to you as if you're

            really there.

Are you there, sweetheart? Do you know me? Is this microphone live?

               Let me do it right for once,

             for the record, let me make a thing of cream and stars that becomes,

you know the story, simply heaven.

                   Inside your head you hear a phone ringing

                       and when you open your eyes

only a clearing with deer in it. Hello deer.

                               Inside your head the sound of glass,

a car crash sound as the trucks roll over and explode in slow motion.

             Hello darling, sorry about that.

               Sorry about the bony elbows, sorry we

lived here, sorry about the scene at the bottom of the stairwell

                                    and how I ruined everything by saying it out loud.

            Especially that, but I should have known.

You see, I take the parts that I remember and stitch them back together

            to make a creature that will do what I say

or love me back.

                  I'm not really sure why I do it, but in this version you are not

feeding yourself to a bad man

                                       against a black sky prickled with small lights.

            I take it back.

The wooden halls likes caskets. These terms from the lower depths.

        I take them back.

Here is the repeated image of the lover destroyed.

                                      Crossed out.

            Clumsy hands in a dark room. Crossed out. There is something

underneath the floorboards.

                   Crossed out. And here is the tabernacle

                                    reconstructed.

Here is the part where everyone was happy all the time and we were all

               forgiven,

even though we didn't deserve it.

              Inside your head you hear

a phone ringing, and when you open your eyes you're washing up

            in a stranger's bathroom,

standing by the window in a yellow towel, only twenty minutes away

                           from the dirtiest thing you know.

All the rooms of the castle except this one, says someone, and suddenly

                                    darkness,

                           suddenly only darkness.

In the living room, in the broken yard,

                           in the back of the car as the lights go by. In the airport

          bathroom's gurgle and flush, bathed in a pharmacy of

unnatural light,

             my hands looking weird, my face weird, my feet too far away.

And the the airplane, the window seat over the wing with a view

           of the wing and a little foil bag of peanuts.

I arrived in the city and you met me at the station,

          smiling in a way

               that made me frightened. Down the alley, around the arcade,

          up the stairs of the building

to the little room with the broken faucets, your drawings, all your things,

        I looked out the window and said

This doesn't look that much different from home,

            because it didn't,

but then I noticed the black sky and all those lights.

                                    We walked through the house to the elevated train.

            All these buildings, all that glass and the shiny beautiful

                                mechanical wind.

We were inside the train car when I started to cry. You were crying too,

            smiling and crying in a way that made me

even more hysterical. You said I could have anything I wanted, but I

                           just couldn't say it out loud.

Actually, you said Love, for you,

                              is larger than the usual romantic love. It's like a religion. It's

   terrifying. No one

                       will ever want to sleep with you.

Okay, if you're so great, you do it—

                  here's the pencil, make it work . . .

If the window is on your right, you are in your own bed. If the window

            is over your heart, and it is painted shut, then we are breathing

river water.

            Build me a city and call it Jerusalem. Build me another and call it

              Jerusalem.

                  We have come back from Jerusalem where we found not

what we sought, so do it over, give me another version,

             a different room, another hallway, the kitchen painted over

and over,

             another bowl of soup.

The entire history of human desire takes about seventy minutes to tell.

             Unfortunately, we don't have that kind of time.

                                    Forget the dragon,

leave the gun on the table, this has nothing to do with happiness.

    Let's jump ahead to the moment of epiphany,

             in gold light, as the camera pans to where

the action is,

             lakeside and backlit, and it all falls into frame, close enough to see

  the blue rings of my eyes as I say

                                      something ugly.

I never liked that ending either. More love streaming out the wrong way,

             and I don't want to be the kind that says the wrong way.

But it doesn't work, these erasures, this constant refolding of the pleats.

     There were some nice parts, sure,

all lemondrop and mellonball, laughing in silk pajamas

             and the grains of sugar

                         on the toast, love love or whatever, take a number. I'm sorry

                                 it's such a lousy story.

Dear Forgiveness, you know that recently

                     we have had our difficulties and there are many things

  I want to ask you.

I tried that one time, high school, second lunch, and then again,

             years later, in the chlorinated pool.

                               I am still talking to you about help. I still do not have

             these luxuries.

I have told you where I'm coming from, so put it together.

We clutch our bellies and roll on the floor . . .

             When I say this, it should mean laughter,

not poison.

                  I want more applesauce. I want more seats reserved for heroes.

Dear Forgiveness, I saved a plate for you.

   Quit milling around the yard and come inside.

We were talking about Michael Jackson

It’s so tragic, I said.

I know, he said, I can't shake it. 

Pause..

He continued, All of us who feel this way, you know what it is.

I glanced at him

It's guilt.  We made fun of a tortured and ill person until he died.  And then we honoured him.

i am supposed to type
like as if i know what im talking abt
but i dont
i am as blind as a bat
and a bat can at least fly in the dark

but i cant even walk
in a straight line
or do anything i am told to do
without smacking forehead first
into the rearview mirror

and that was before my elbow
bruised itself
against the dashboard
and i cry out because
my embarrassment was redder
and was as more scarlet
than the broken veins
throbbing under my skin

ouch.

31

Anna Sui does Gossip Girl inspired line for Target! :) overall very cute and classy.

these are my faves. i think they are so cute. very Blair dont you think? cant wait for the show to get back on air.

check out the rest of the collection here

30

OOOOH. i love this blog so much, guys. purely based in Singapore(but encouraging people from all over to do the same), this site features inspiring/adorable post-it notes that are stuck here and there at random corners and street objects. we should start one, no, i should start one here. it’ll be fun.

my favourite :

(kinokuniya, singapore)

(the tiffany and co store at beach port, singapore)

(china street, singapore)

GO CHECK THE BLOG OUT IF YOURE FREE AND JOIN THEIR FBOOK GROUP. LET ME KNOW IF YOU LIKE THIS TOO AND WOULD WANT TO HELP ME EXPAND THIS IDEA IN KUCHING. LEAVE ME A TAG OR MSG ON FBOOK. IT’LL BE TRES FUN! THAT’S ALL. THANK YOU!

FIN.

writer / CC BY-NC-ND 3.0

29

 

<---- Charmaine during exams.

You know it’s a good day when you pass your science papers;