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there's also that thing about Tron.
(Saturday, December 18, 2010)there's just this thing about honesty that goes like i'd be fucking with myself if the movie is in contention for epical. if daft punk were not there, it'd probably will rake ok.
the old Tron was to simply put, better with all the flaws and lacks.
but daft punk is damn fucking good. just the ost lacks length in track to build drama.
Derazz.
()last written here about a month ago. so much for trying to write again. meh.
so this is going to be one of those year where a lot of things come to an end. Anna is ending her saga here and going to return to assume the role of the prodigal daughter, Zoe is rebooting her life again in Singapore, Dre is getting back on track, good for him, Rachel will be looking into accelerated adulthood, and the rest of us, though, not lavishly revolutionary, are changing, for the better or worse. i guess for all these while, it's best to say things never stay the same for an extended period.
'another day, just believe...'
Romance.
(Monday, November 22, 2010)there was a point i do things own my own. then there was the sid's season. after that there's no time anymore. there are time to read about investments. time to plan for what i am going to do at work tomorrow. time to spend with rocky. time for hunt for acoustic music. time to read.
it's just now me chasing for the next rush.
being an adult is just about losing part of oneself more and more. the small parts that makes me, me, slowly gets shreadded unknowingly. painlessly.
just i want it back.
real bad.
i want it all back.
Totally.
(Wednesday, November 03, 2010)it must have been a long long time since i last wrote anything cause when i went to blogger.com, i saw a cobweb icon. google won't let me log in despite i know that i had a blog. fuck you, google was on chorus in my head. in the age of technology, the problem is, you can fucking cuss your hearts out and the laptop is just gonna stay a laptop. it doesn't overheat cause you hurt their feeling, google don't lose any sleep from your outburst. though relatively insane, despite all the logic we were brought up with, we have to fucking do it anyway just for kick.
the thing about technology is, it's awfully good. i am in love with them cause i don't generally like people. they are from penang, they talk too much, they have herpes and all kinds of weird shit them fuckers bring to the table that makes you not wanna know anybody. human should come with specification like computers and they should never ever ever lie about it or they just, you know, mysteriously die or get sued. in life, if you know enough lawyers, you fancy the former, believe me.
there i was in one of my favorite pubs of all time, feeling sickly with Rachel cause she just graduated and wanted burger of some kind. the kind of burger that the damn writers in how i met your mother made a special tribute episode to. so this waiter came with my beer and it looked cloudy as london. the fact that i was in and english club doesn't quite justify the cloudiness in their beer. the damn beer went passed 1 bar manager, 1 bartender, 1 waitress onto my table and nobody cared enough to wonder why the beer is so ballistic that it looks impossibly cloudy. they were all just asshole humans.
so we come out with a term that human makes mistaken, the kind of script to get us out of sticky situations. some cunt uses it more often cause he's got allowance for mistake. my ass. we made computers, they hardly make any mistakes. Like a clockwork, they'd call it and we made that too for god's sake. we don't make mistake. we either lose focus or we just don't care enough.
so this morning, after spending approximately 10 attempts on login, and hell lot of cussing so foul, it makes malaysia river smells like eden (not the fucking restaurant, mind you), i changed my login id. and the gatekeeper magically let me in. good part it, my laptop wasn't mad at me. she took it like a warrior.
Testing the blog with iPod
()This is odd, for some weird reason it doesn't spell correct. Oh fuck a duck.
Anyway, I am in the Zone. can't stop writing. Ok this is it. Fuck it. Getting my laptop. Jeez...
Anyway, I am in the Zone. can't stop writing. Ok this is it. Fuck it. Getting my laptop. Jeez...
liewxxx.
()i love it.
i feel dandy.
what does dandy means.
anyway, in the course of my year, i have to say that i have not much time to blog anymore. of my collective thought are not being profaned in, say a pub in Damansara Heights every saturday afternoon, rather?
no. it's not the same. writing makes me feel at ease. the little quarrel i have within myself gets solved. the eccentricity gets littered profoundly. if my thoughts have a mother, she would be quite proud of the way i handled this.
talking about writing i have recently dwelled into the world of twitter. i call twitter say what you want, in as few words as possible. make reading blog like reading a book. the thing is, we are slowly poisoning ourselves. no such thing as a beautifully written sentence or play or words, just 'i am currently having lunch in xxx location'. we all have our lunch and dinner, we need not speak about it. if the lunch sucks, it's just a meal. if service is bad, there's certainly more than 160 characters to describe them. funny we voluntarily imprison our own mind and encourage shorter thoughts.
the way we are killing ourselves, we don't need no big waves or huge rock from the sky to hit us. from the way it's going, we are doing it ourselves. pretty damn good job too.
but i love the part where i get police roadblock updates.
Weeds.
()my friend just posted some link in facebook on how different kind of weed you know makes you a different person.
ON FACEBOOK, where everyone can see it.
i so qualify for lamebookdotcom now.
The Serial Dater.
(Saturday, September 12, 2009)Balls.
my best friend's ex just tagged a photo of a receipt he found in my favorite bar yesterday in the table. aside from who the fuck looks at random receipt in a bar instead of shooting up alcohol, the fact that the city is littered with ex(s) affirmed an unholy decay in the city that i live in. not being cool is the new cool. it's puny, the fucking city, yet i have always get around uninspiring backdoor places (not gay club pun, please) which is reluctant to most. the invisible boundary which separated me from them so far is recklessly breached. does that make me one of them now?
the thought that i would bump into anyone is beyond comprehension. the city is personal. that's why i love staying in the city, there's always something new going on and i am and has always been far separated from the hip roller coasters of it. i go to the mall on weekdays to avoid the traffic. i watch movies in the morning cause i want to sleep at night. i hate places with too many people because people that are not my friends are just generally too tiring to deal with. but the city has room for eccentrics like me. a simple truth is, the city is a big fucking place and it caters to everyone without prejudice. and people that is not on the same mind train will usually not run onto each other.
my claustrophobia came has became a reality. the city is becoming smaller and smaller each minute.
Noise
()it is perfect.
i do not recall a time that it has been so quiet for the longest time. there so no sound of kids crying, water pump, washing, cars, alarm, nothing...nothing bears a noise now. this moment needs to be treasured, for in another while, hell breaks loose again. i love the simple lack of intrusion of sound in the morning.
a little bit of rain would seal the deal. but the would mean the rain would crash into the roof and give me what i do not need, noise.
burger is not better than mango.
(Tuesday, August 25, 2009)fuck.
last published in February. then my fucking life collapse. but who the fuck cares anyway?
xxx
the last time i picked up a sport, it was football. i fucked up my back.
then i involuntarily picked up car surfing, i fucked up my knee.
then after that it was fucking basketball, i can't fucking remember how many times i sprained my fingers, my ankle, my knee and back.
now i'm trying out jogging so that i can do marathon by next year.
i am so fucking gonna die while running.
it's the morning again.
(Tuesday, February 10, 2009)there's not way that i can explain how much i hate asian literature. every single book i've read written by anyone asian, i can never fucking finish it. or if i did, it probably took somewhere around 6 months to a year to digest. and it made me felt hungover, bad aftertaste and nauseating. personally, i think it's too fucking asian. mellow and depressing. one dimensional. lack of depth. whatever.
in my very lack of exposure point of view, for the life of me, i've not met anyone that got buggered at a young age or a child that gets sold to a brothel masqueraded as a social lounge then falls deeply in love with a man that she claims she didn't have sex with. she's got dignity, that one. then there's this drug addict with history of drug abuse, and she tells her story with such shame and disgust. we, asians live a fucking tragic live, and there's no two ways about it.
if asians are what the fiction says we are then we're just a bunch of weppy queers that couldn't get over our chillhood plight. it seems like Billy Holiday's baneful existance can't even hold a candle to any ordinary asian's life. To us, Christ's crucification is merely as painful as getting an ear pierced. asian's woe hurts a million times more than any living thing has every experience. we are, the sole master of torment.
ironically, our romance with pain single-handedly drowns the rest of the numerous but sensational emotions anybody normal would have. hence we fail to live an existance that does not relate to agony. we're one dimensional and broken yet we could not understand or find relieve in it.
surprisingly, last week while poaching for materials to read last week, i came across a book, the cover was a sketch of a gingerly stick man with a slab of blood smacked right on where the penis (all stick men are male, mind you) should be at accordingly to the right human anatomy. i can too, be a victim of marketing if it's competent enough, and the cover stuck out from the shelf like an erect dick in a women that loves other women convention. as soon after i dug the book out from the shelf, i couldn't get my eyes off it. with the eloquence of guy ritchie story telling, localised humour which is can be funny too and none of the (asian) melancholy weighing it down. the author, Brian Gomez did pretty good i must say.
