the title is i can't fucking sleep well
(Friday, June 30, 2006)just because i have been dynamic and i do not update my blog anymore does
not mean that i'm dead.
and i'm not one of those weird little shit that calls a hiatus every once in
a while for the sake of their attention gratification. sort of like one of
those 'HIATUS - need to have more sex. blogging kills my desire for sex'. it
doesn't fucking work that way. blogging by itself is a self-sufficient
indulgence. it doesn't need extra 3rd party attention or anything else to
justify my love for it. nontheless, it's a fucking free country. so you're
entitled to do whatever the fuck you like. so i'm also entitled to call you
a cunt if i like.
i'm not extra vulgar today. neither have i rediscover the joy of cussing.
incidentally, i suspect the amount of alcohol that flows through my veins is
doing their job pretty well. according to a very close friend/ex-drinking
buddy, i talk black (which is completely normaly) and i cuss at an atrocious
rate when i'm happily high/drunk. due to various legitimate reasons (such as
i love to drink very much), i knocked down a couple of downers when i was
travelling last week.
there is absolutely no way of rejoicing what sort of stuff that i've had
till last sunday. so much of my drinking melanoma resurfaced because i had
trouble with sleep. the sort that i could sleep without problem but wakes up
3 hours later, with a mixed feeling of rage, exhaustion and confusion.
having a few crates of beer at my mercy last sunday, i sort of knocked down
two cans in a row at warp speed. anyone with the slightest clue on the
semantics of beer know it makes people sky high fast. i slept but i woke up
at 430 in the morning. fell asleep again, the up again at 450.
being tired on a monday is the last thing proletariat would need. unwilling
to accept the harsh fact that i'm having sleeping disorder (and zoe her
salary the same day), zoe and i took another venture to boathouse and drunk
the fuck outta ourselves. in our very very fucking sad case, drink the fuck
out of ourselves meaning about a bottle of wine due to global inflation
inferno and our very small salary cap. i zoned out as soon after i touched
my doorknob but i fucking got up at 5fucking30 in the morning. it was not
funny, ok.
on wednesday i looked wrecked. looking at a garbage bin combine with the
foul smell for an hour would be less disconcerting than a milisecond of
glance at me. if there's one thing i could always fall back on, it's
alcohol. never has time favour me so much, G and Daniel came from wherever
they should come back from and we went out for a long chat (long chat to
masquerade our oblivious love for alcohol). yet again, some wines and beers.
yet again, i woke up at 5. if i had a gun, i'll go to the nearest mamak and
run amok. then eat some roti canai so i'd be so fucking tired i could sleep
like a baby.
yesterday, i slept approximately at 10. i woke up at 8. i feel like a happy
muthafucker. and it was simply done without the conjugal of any form of
alcohol. maybe the vast amount of nangka i ate helped. last note: put your
money on argentina for tonight's match.
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pretty please.
(Thursday, June 15, 2006)Dear Santa,
it's not christmas yes and my birthday is over, i know.
i hardly ask for anything.
actually, i never ask for anything (well, other than a drink of course...)
but i really want this. check your list, you know that i've been a good boy. good-er than any other buys.
thank you,
Liew
p/s - i'll put in some extra in the hot chocolate if you can deliver by end of this month. oh, and if brazil doesn't win the world cup, it's totally fine with me. better if you can chuck in an italy win with the poster. thank you very muchos.
pretty please.
()Dear Santa,
it's not christmas yes and my birthday is over, i know.
i hardly ask for anything.
actually, i never ask for anything (well, other than a drink of course...)
but i really want this. check your list, you know that i've been a good boy. good-er than any other buys.
thank you,
Liew
p/s - i'll put in some extra in the hot chocolate if you can deliver by end of this month. oh, and if brazil doesn't win the world cup, it's totally fine with me. better if you can chuck in an italy win with the poster. thank you very muchos.
delicious apocalypse
(Friday, June 09, 2006)smashing pumpkin's today is the best way to depict my mood now. today is a
beautiful day. see, i can easily apply the term when the circumstances
assemble the glory of the moment.
you don't need to be reminded today is the beginning of the world cup. the
premier football tournament which only happens to countries plays brilliant
football and converting it at the same time. (note: my neighbour's dog plays
a swing of a footbal but the bitch doesn't have a clue about conversion).
never in malaysia though. it's international stage football but malaysia,
timor-leste and another bunch countries that major football arena includes
playing barefoot. we suck. we know we suck, but we can't help it.
anyway, if you don't get the world cup bug, you probably think it's a vile
caveat. the world cup is everything.
it's not actually the game nor the betting. it's not due to a chance where
the footballer's wife might go topless after the husband converted a goal.
it's bigger than that. everyone talks about it. the only time where the
world stop at the same time to appreciate a moment is during a world cup
opening match.
incidentally, have you see your any of your old fart neighbours endure in an
endeavour to stay awake at 3fuckingpukimakAM if it's cricket world cup
finals? do you know how bad it could be for his heart? he'll probably walk
his grumpy ass to your house to, breaks in, smash your tele with his 9 iron
(that's got this whack sticker written 'Baddddd MUTHAFUCKER!!!' on it) in
order to reconstruct peace in the neighbourhood if you were even watching
it. don't you expect old people to be nonchalant.
as we all know, al-Qaeda's top man, al-Zarqawi was murdered in an air-strike
yesterday. would a fish go to the surface of the water to hang-out and pick
up hot female fishes? no he won't. he went to the surface to catch a breath.
in other words, he to get some addendum for his world cup fever. cable tv
perhaps. darn those fucking yankees. them fucking yankees only got him cause
they're don't watch soccer. FOOTBALL, dammit, FOOTBALL yer fucken' slimy
cunthead. them fucken' americans don't dig football.
so, if a man as important and as powerful as Mr. Abu Musab al-Zarqawi has a
wee bit football fever, then it's time to realise how very important world
cup is to the society. and the americans. given the choice of their
president, i think any of their fucking suggestions should be taken into
deliberate consideration.
last but not least, if you're not a football fan, you've got no friends this
month.
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one plus one is two. two plus two is many
(Wednesday, June 07, 2006)i think i might have to live longer than i want to.
ultimately, dying at a young age has it's perks. for one, you'll still look
youthful by the time death swings the scythe at you. that's not exactly my
point but why die of old age and alzeimer's and a pain on everybody's ass
and everyone just so wish you could speed up your judgement day when death
can make you look more spectacular than ever. kurt kobain passed away
gracefully. hell, his album sales went up more than a double-fold after his
memorable expression-art he merely painted on the walls with his brains. and
i don't even want to mention marilyn monroe. and bruce fucking lee.
not a beautiful death compared to those who manage to gravitise themselves
on sick bed before taking the long rest. i do not take death as vitrolic as
it might seem. c'mon c'mon, if you're religious, you'll have a place
reserved in heaven specially for you with a cocktail on a white table, white
name tag with your perfectly name written in black on it. drink it up, give
St. Peters the password (i seriously doubt it's 'Open Sesame') and before
you know it, you have a halo on your head looking at Gandhi and Kennedy
playing chess while arguing about politics, which might have mattered aeons
ago. the insipid life that you own is no longer applicable. you're happy,
and it's pretty clean up there too, i heard.
if you're a true satanist. well, IF YOU ARE A TRUE SATANIST, whatever the
fuck happened to worldwide domination yesterday, you fuck?? Go to hell! (not
intended to be a pun)
in any case you are like me, an aetheist. you just fuck off after you die.
no prolong life-after effects. no ressuruction and no secret-of-life.
so, anyway, mom ballads around the health food products and everything that
goes with it. sincerely, i think some university should offer her a
university degree for it. it's not bad at all, you see, just that investment
in healthcare will contribute to a wealthy advancement in mortality. so i
have a higher chance of living a longer natural life. Malaysia. the country
of congested rain forrest and natural life IS a factor of lacking pollution
and industry discrimination. another plus point to an uncanny life.
then i neither smoke, drink (like a fish) or abuse drugs. plus one.
neither do i hang out in the mamak that food is perilous with bacterias and
inhale sufficient amount of severe 2nd hand smoke. plus one.
unintendingly exercising regularly evokes a primacy touch of health
reliability. whatthefuck!plus one.
silly me of depising junk food because it's just not a habit. sorry. sorry.
plus one.
likewise, it doesn't take a bloke with tangent brain developement like
einstein to understand one plus many ones is many. to build that sort of
intelligence in a rat would be easier than feigning a false call to the
local pizza delivery chap.
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the pink brothel
(Thursday, June 01, 2006)i'm bored. B-O-R-E-D. for all i know, the possibility of an unknown comet
could be going a zillion miles per hour, smashing the earth into an infinite
of tiny scraps of shit is higher than me uncharacteristically caged in the
boredom zone.
it's not me fault actually. the feeling sort got heavier in the anxious end
rather than bored. i'm waiting for a mail from singapore which is very very
important to me and it hasn't come yet. my whole life (at least at this very
moment, it does!) depends on the content of the mail.
and the fucking clock is not doing it's job very well indeed. perhaps it
took a few catnaps in between minutes, that really justify the slug in terms
of time around here. call me a person with a bad sense of humour but i do
not understand the rotten jokes that time pull on us all the time. i'm at
the verge at shooting myself for what it feels like 3 hours but it really
only has been 20 minutes.
few more torturous hours, and i'll temporarily unbolted from this horrific
spell of routine and continuity that plagued me. this is the part where i
use all the imagination i have to relocate myself in large field with
endless green grass. with a few trees that bears fruit of liqour instead of
the occasion a-p-p-l-e. during the sunset, shadows of vixens parading in
skins replaced the green backdrop.
damn, i need to fucking get a shower before i lose my head
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