Nuggets

I'm feeling close to completely foul, and having no-deserving-
where to let it out is doing its worst. My body is making a prolonged point at how unwell I am; I'm moody about leaving tomorrow, though for no real good reason; the thought of resuming life and shifting into responsible-adult gear (and all the so-not-wonderful complications that come with it) is giving me a pounding headache; I'm being wishful, and being wishful never did any pessimist any good; am hating the curse-masquerading-as-
an-ability of missing; wanna smash... any something, having to deal with people here who are so beyond stupid they aren't even bright enough to get it when I verbally rip their heads off; contemplating the near future of practically no dough is worritating me; am very bloody tired, but of course, I'm restless;
I could go on...

Really, I'm in no mood to blog, but I'm gonna spew all, so to speak, since sleep eludes me, spent as I am, and well, there's heaps to blog about before their time expires. That, and sometimes going on about things helps one forget about things, ironic and all.

* * *

Girl germs and everything, I lugged myself to Taipan for Mexican with Steph, Kush and Aaron, where I almost-begged for hot water, all the less fun with the wait staff pushing for margaritas.

Kicking back at Oldtown Kopitiam afterward -
complete with hot honey lemons, and
spastic faces underplaying unwell-weariness.

Aaron gives his "cameras again!" look; the boys' inner spastic; Kush hypnotised at Steph's giggle fits; K doing his best cute; A doing his best cute; "gimme that!"; look who's caught in the act now, ha! Long live photo madness :)

The favourite topic of the night included lots of interesting vocab: sexploits, sexcited... There were more, but I forget. Anyway, you get the idea. It comes across a bit crass now, but it was hilarious then. All the more coming from I-won't-say-who!

* * *

Nachos and chit chat with Cheryl is refreshing. Finally someone who feels similarly about life's assumed progression to rant on with. Short and sweet, though her doggy-radar overcame her the next day, heehee, and she came over for me to see her more!

I like this pic, because I'm (falsely) fair!
That was until I saw how nice her photo came out.
Bugger, I want to camera-upgrade!

* * *

And then I saw Wanya, and Nathan, and Shawn. Now I'm normally not a gusher, but especially for some people's sakes, I shall. After all, the Boyz did redeem themselves reasonably.

I'm not sure if it was the second row seats.
Or that we were close enough for personal eye contact, and returned flying kisses.
With roses tossed, aimed at us, despite the uncouth, crudely appearing crowd.
Or that the sound system was not thrown to the dogs.
Or the fact that they had some sort of plan to their performance.
With choreography.
And costume change.
Or because, as a whole, the entire management and handling did not suck ass big time. Like it did - and more - in Melbourne.

Or, simply, that I got pictures this good. This clear. Head to toe, obstructing heads bar none.
(Commentary on Day 2 and costume comparisons here.)

Hello Wanya ;)

I can see you belting out there.
Heck, I can see you breathe.

Can I get a "Hell, yeah!"?
You don't see it here, but we were in prime position to see lots of
this um, one implicative hand positioning.

If Shawn can do hands in the air, so can I.

Hands to the side...

...and then to the front.

The fold-lean back-tilt chin...

...then f'ward with back o' palms.

"I'm down on bended knee."

Comfy change.

"Although we've cooome...
To the end of the rooooad."

"And I'll hold you tight...
Baby, All. Though. The. Night."

"Don't let real love pass you by."

Friends from times past, with songs of old.

One with the rose.
I'd like to say for the record we had more thrown at us. Twice.
And the scumbags from front and behind - guys, mind you - have no shame.

Three little letters make...
Joe Bel Bah Joy :D

* * *

Mister so-and-so, and misters so-and-so, there you go. The Boyz for one, and the you-know-what for the easily excitable others. As luck would have it, y'all ada rezeki also. But it's not my fault you took one (one!) measly photo that other day that didn't turn out so good.

Beside myself

"I hate hope. Except, maybe, when it comes to you."

Although you and hope live on planets that cannot coexist.
And so that cycle of hope renews.

Saturation and Silence

I wish you weren't saturated in every damn thing I see, smell, hear and think about. I wish you didn't saturate my every memory.



And you, you don't know what to say because there are no right words.

Corinne Bailey Rae

is good for unaccompanied car rides over niggling sentimentality and knotted emotion.

Summer Holiday Nights

Good grief, I don't know what to call that completely sober, half drunk look. Like I said, I was sompletely cober. Humbug.

The black top makes its second appearance.
It's not a LBT for nothing.
I dressed the girl too, teehee, though you can't see it here.
Goodbye Velvet, I suspect this is the last time I'll see you.
For a while. Til next time.

Can you tell I'm going on about nothing because I can? I'm killing time, bite me.

Pop goes the people

I know these aren't exactly the revealing photos you had in mind, J, but I can't give you those. At least not here. First because the revealing (read: unflattering) ones are of people I don't know know, and it's not very me to just put them out there like that, and second, because those of that someone I do, are well, revealing (read: bad).

Not that that's an issue per se. Bad was after all part of the unspoken plan :D But in reverence to "an eye for an eye", I think I'll sit this one out. So mister the-other-side-of-the-world, if you don't see you, you know why.

He made it!
As though it were him we were shooing off...
I mean, celebrating ;)

Care to shed some light, G?
It's not a 'I see a sex goddess' face nor a
'what the hell is that?' face, so I'm stumped.

The place was nice, though I think, far too hot.
And not because there was drool-material.

Cranky about crap

Everyone who knew thought it mad. The irony about the fact that my business is about writing, words and language - the English language, to be exact - was not lost on many. But one's gotta do what one's gotta do, so I tottered obediently over to IDP for my IELTS exam - because one should never be too confident, or get cocky about her (in)abilities, and just so I could say I have done it twice, all five wonderful years apart. Never mind the blatant money-making scam it is. Never mind that I was meant to be there at bleeding 8 in the morning for an exam which wasn't to start til a good hour or so after. Never mind that the doors were far from opened at 8... or 8:05... or 8:12... or 8:20... Never mind that I had been there already two days prior, having jammed there a good part of the day under the merciless sun for the disgustingly short interview bit of the exam.

But here I get bitchy, and don't say they don't have it coming.

The head invigilator was how shall I say, a pit bull.
She was short.
Her hair was very short.
Her manner was really short.
Her English-speaking skills were considerably short.
Her etiquette was non-existent.

If IELTS wants to take on such representation, then that's their funeral, but I think even the most understanding contractors won't be smiling if they heard her bark (in her super cina, ego-tripping, exceedingly crappy-diction style and voice): Okay evibody welcum ladies and gentlemen to IELTS test MY004 conducted by IDP Education P-T-Y L-T-D (wtf?) is a nice holiday you do your exam then you can go home you won't have to see our faces anymore...

She went on, by which time I was so appalled I cannot now remember what else she said, though I recall thinking she seemed to think she was talking to a bunch of pre-schoolers. Ok, I also remember grumbling inwardly about how condescending her behaviour was, and rolling my eyes at how she must think we are a bunch of dumbnuts and she, the champion of all the IELTS earth.

I do have memory of her choice of style in running everything: distastefully unprofessional.

First, there was unceasing emphasis in literature that we were not encouraged to bring anything valuable with us to the exam. No mobile phones in the exam hall, no pencil cases, lost of anything of value was to be at our own risk, yadda yadda bullshit.

Like anyone listened.
Not because we revel in rebelling - just how prehistoric a business do they think they're running?
Stupid unrealistic morons.

There are things of value we modern day folk carry about with us each day as a matter of necessity, but no... "Put your warlets and your kar kees on the floor under your taybers evibody!" Mobiles were long thrown out of the bargain, having been self-bagged and tagged in recycled envelopes and surrendered to invigilators to be unceremoniously thrown in a big pile on the floor outside the exam hall.

Now mind you, the place where the exam was conducted was one specifically created to be an IELTS centre. It wasn't some makeshift place the conductors had to rent like it was five years ago. There were at least a hundred candidates that morning, and I dare say, the exams run pretty bloody frequently. No one sets up an IELTS centre for IELTS exams that run just twice a year now, no?

The thing which irks me most is the fact that they know beyond a shadow of doubt that just about every candidate would be ignoring their advice. And why? They clearly prepared a gigantic stack of envelopes, marker pens, and paper for those who brought bags to write their names on and have the paper stapled somehow onto coresponding bags. All of which were also unceremoniously dumped with the envelopes.

Evidently, some people don't believe in lockers. Or order. Or taking care of other people's property.

Or developing a half-decent system.

They had no clear system to the registration, and every random victim or so fell prey to she-Hitler's booming voice and public embarrassment for seemingly undermining her authority and bypassing certain steps of protocol. Hardly surprising (but still very irritating) that they withheld us after the exam was over to pick up enevelopes and bags one by one by one by one and call out the name on each over each others' voices, outside the entrance door at the side of the exam hall, whereupon the owner was to produce his or her IC to prove ownership of belongings.

All that and only just about the before-and-after's of the exam. Ask me and I will act out in person how she underminded her colleagues, embarrassed more candidates and power-tripped her way to the top all the live-long day.

All I can say is she better fucking not be an examiner correcting anyone's paper. Especially not mine.

NB: I often get flak from dad for having a go at my very wanting home country. But I think they deserve it for being so very stupid at times. Don't get me started on how those in the service-line are incapable of taking the simplest instruction repeated in English and Malay, and their pathetic response to a problem. Clearly, common sense and logical thinking don't factor high in the industry here.

Marked

Went for a massage - the usual.
Got told to strip - ok, that's standard.
Climbed onto the table - face down, getting relaxed.
Was prompty kneeded with powerful hands - magic.
In fact, she was stronger than many and generous with both power and overall massage area.
Pointed out that I was hurting in particular spots - nothing strange there.
Was asked if I would consider having a... *splutter* just realized how this is going to sound, but was asked if I would consider having a bone used on me. I said ok, of course! Would I ever pass up something like that?

But seriously, it's some flat ebony-like thing shaped like a fin made of some kind of animal bone - I know because mum has several versions of them, but ivory - and I thought she was going in for the kill on those particular spots - my upper back.

She did, this is true, but she did much more.

She spread my legs apart, climbed up between them and put her weight into it. Working with the cursed guat, that is. I know it all sounds a bit... suggestive, but her position is nothing new really, not when it comes to getting worked on by eastern not-so-privacy-bothered masseurs.

Now normally I would consider myself someone with high pain tolerance, and as a rule I don't let on if any massage work may lean more to pain than comfort. It's some funny mentality that if you say so, they will ease up on the pressure and not give me my money's worth, on top of which I think there is such a thing as good pain. That, and I actually like some decent pressure.

This time, I was feeling it enough to tell her so.

She told me to bear it.

Which is all part of tolerance anyway, so I did.

The thing is she went on and on - so there I was, in that very vulnerable position, and her with her torture tool and dead-set insistence working to earn her keep by far more than even I expected of her.

That was my upper back.

Then there was my spine, and my lower back.
The sides of my body.
My waist and below.
My neck on both sides.
The area below my collarbone.
She had me flipped and turned and flexing every fifth degree.

I'm sure I told her it hurt more than once. A new personal record.
Each time, she said to bear it.
For a lot of it, she had one or both arms pinned to my back as well.
Now this is starting to sound more and more... S&M.
Prolonged S&M.

If I didn't know better, I'd think she were making geographical markings of conquest.

The end result, as T points out, is that were I to walk in to any Australian hospital with less than a word of abuse, he'd be long hunted down, beaten and locked up, no matter who said what. Yesterday.

If you see some diseased-looking person with dark purple bruises down the length of her arms who looks a lot like me, don't discriminate!

Lazy hello, and some photos

Been up to this and that of late, most of which I'm not unhappy about, though in a lazy sort of contented way. What a long-winded way of saying I can't be arsed to blog about anything really, ha! Few and unimpressive photos marginally play a part.

I do have some of the Angs' KL wedding dinner at Vincenzo, Bangsar One.

Couples standing pretty.


We're not as blue as we look.


As she would say, it's self-explanatory ;)


Me and the boys.


We're the intertwined pals.


With the Bill Keithed bride.

I can't resist saying I just don't get why, but I always look more spastic back in KL. I'm convinced the weather doesn't help, but surely it's not just that? Anyway, spastic, and I have photos to prove it. Everytime.

Humbug.

And. To nip it in the bud, let me clarify that I mean I think I look sucky comparatively. No stupid rebuttals, thanks.

That's it. I did say I was rather uninspired at the blogging end of things. Someone's gotta embrace this Chinese new year's zodiac of choice - and no one better than she born in a year of the same one! :)

I want to travel, but not just in mind

I try not to dislike that friends have work and try even harder at it for those who work the crazy local hours and resent the way I held higher regard for some things than they now seem to be worth and can't believe that mum would ever fuss about my hair being too dark! and love that I have half-baked excuses to semi-dress up here and like very much that I am now training the trainer and can't say enough times that desire is a bitch and beam everytime I recall I've been Farragamoed and dream of when I might be Guccied and am very annoyed I don't have my camera wire and enjoy the company of people who let me be me and let me get wonderfully carried away being unrepressed and am totally fed up with my completely stuffed nose and share in the joy of happy news and stare mouth agaped at the announcement of shall I say interesting info and adore Audrey Kawasaki and Stella Im Hultberg for their talent at moody brooding and suggestion and hate that you suddenly have morals and admitting how much it cuts and am tickled thinking of what we talked about last night and want to know when the next time will be and wonder if I really have to give some things up at the expense of gaining others and can't stand just how much he is on his own planet and read the postsecret blog regularly and wonder what life would be like if I had taken the path she did which I encouraged but wonder too if I really have in me to have done it myself or am merely chewing on bravado and cling to the fact that he makes me laugh and wonder as well if I will ever really write again and worry about work to come and care but don't want to and can't be fucked but feel bad and know that sometimes, sometimes rambling is all one can do.