"Man, I'm pretty."

I didn't know I could be such a bastard.
Yesterday I was helping out with my old school bud Olivia's experimental digital video piece.
I was given the role of Character #3: Eccentric, confident, ignorant.
I watched the playback at her house later that night and I was astonished at the sheer bastardliness of my character. She had the capability of defecating through her mouth more than from any other bodily orifice. That cock of a side-glance she threw to the camera made me want to squeeze every drop of ego out of her metaphorical balls. What scared me was that I can't remember even putting that much effort into the portrayal.
Maybe I should consider getting paid for being a bastard. A lot of people these days are choosing that career path anyway.

Media-frenzied, reality-bitten

So Canny Ong's murderer is sentenced to hang. That's nothing short of justified. But you know how some verdicts just seem to materialize too easily? I think a lot of people are still suspecting that it really isn't him... Like, he was forced to make a confession out of blackmail or he was paid tons to do it. Anyway, what's done has been done. Ahmad Najib, have a nice end of the world.

I was browsing through last week's newpapers when a page in the middle of a Malay Mail revealed a woman I had never before laid my almond-shaped eyes on. Lying on her stomach, tush subtly curved and head turned coyly to the camera, her perfectly symmetrical face had a smile inviting and playful, her eyes deep enough to drown in. She was pretty... nay, she was devastatingly beautiful. Her name was Fasha Sandha.

Faaassshhhaaaaahhh... 


I was entranced. She was what dreams were made of. Those kind of dreams where you would take a lady home, tuck her into white satin sheets, feed her fruit kebabs and serenade her with Michael Bolton ballads. Oh Fasha, you are the reason of reasons why I need to read newspapers more often.

I've been seeing a bit of American Idol, and this season is mind-blowing - it's gonna be a painful one to watch. The talent is scintillating, the names scream 'celebrity', the looks and fashion sense are model-worthy, and the support and encouragement displayed amongst the contestants is overwhelming. It seems the judges are also really impressed with this batch. The 4 people who have just gotten kicked out are already phenomenal performers. The producers must forfeit this season and give them all recording contracts! Isn't there a policy to do that when everything is obviously flawless?

On a distantly related note, I was browsing through the magazine stall and saw an Australian gossip magazine with the Outback Jack dude and another chick splashed on the cover, with the headline stating something along the lines of "WE'RE GETTING MARRIED!". Hee-yah. Thanks for the spoiler, New Weekly. Okay fine, so I do think the Outback Jack dude is breathtaking. Fine, I do think that he's a lucky man to marry that fugly ditz of a girl whom he picks in the end. But don't go telling it to some magazine that gets imported to a country that has delayed runs, where it's blatantly left unwrapped on the newsstands and pleading to some broke, itchy-fingered reality show buff to pick it up and check out the scoop without even buying it. Can someone say LACK OF COMMONFRICKIN COURTESY?!? Oops there goes a blood vessel. Thanks again New Weekly.

I see spots

I seriously don't understand what the stain goblin has against me but he's on a roll this month.

He has put dark grey tye-dye splotches on a spanking new Hilfiger bright yellow top, leaked some bright red patches over a spanking new Topshop light green camisole which my friends bought for my birthday, AND decided to steal the important bits to spanking new pair of silver earrings. All three items of which I have worn only once.

You're a true blue dips**t, stain goblin. I salute you.

Return of the Space Cowboy

Last Monday was just like any other uneventful Monday, except with that little extra buzz of romance in the air. My office being next to a shopping mall, it was hard to escape the vibes when I hopped over for lunch. A melting pot of hearts, expensive menus and men flocking to greeting card shops; the day was a complete excuse to go overboard with Public Displays of Affection. I thought I was taking it quite well, considering the fact that I was unattached this year.

As the hours tick by in my dimly-lit office, and after deciding to scrap the speed-dating plans for that evening, I start sending out online greetings to friends on my chat list and networking websites. Out of the blue, another unassuming little chat window pops up and blinks at me. I blink back. It's from Nick.

Nick and I go pretty far back. And the funny thing is, we've never met before. He was my first boyfriend of sorts. Quite a strange start to the world of relationships.

In a nutshell: 2001. Kuala Lumpurian Davina meets Liverpudlian Nick through online forum. Nick and Davina are hi-bye acquaintances. Nick and Davina find out they have similar interests. Nick and Davina start chatting more. Nick and Davina start growing feelings for each other. Nick and Davina start online relationship which lasts over a year. Nick and Davina correspond via chat, webcam, emails, letters, phonecalls etc. Nick decides to visit Malaysia and look for work. Davina tells parents. Parents go cuckoo. Parents stop relationship and all form of contact between Nick and Davina. The End.

Fast forward two years to 2005. So, having the assumption that I'll never be hearing from him for the rest of my days, I get this surprise message from Nick just to say Hi. The conversation starts off a little awkward but we end up catching up on families, friends, relationships, hobbies, work... you know, the whole shebang. And as we talk, that time gap just seems to erase itself. We've been talking nonstop since, just like the good ol days. The affections are still a tad lingering and so is the pain of the past, but we're older, wiser, and never happier with our lives. And just to know that he's still around, hasn't changed one bit, and seizing every day with all he's got, has undoubtedly been the best Valentine's Day gift I've ever received.

Olfactory Fornication

A few months ago I was doing my usual LRT commuting to work on a dreary weekday when all of a sudden I smelt something in the air. It was sweet... not sugary sweet but a nostril-dilating sweet. The simliar effect you get when you sniff eau de toilette straight from a freshly-pressed nozzle. It was bit of a unisex oceanic scent and maybe the slightest hint of floral top notes. But this was a lot more invigorating, more enticing, than anything else I had sampled before. I looked around wondering who brought the scent into the LRT. But when you're travelling during rush hour, the smell sort of lingers around everybody. It disappeared shortly after I detected it but I stepped off at my stop at Bangsar still feeling a little lighter-headed and thinking: If sex was a smell, that would be it.

The following week, I was doing the same thing, trying to find space between the cracks of heavy businesspeople and students listening to their discmans at full volume. The rancid stench of sweat, B.O. and cheap perfume was giving me the usual case of anosmia when THAT SMELL OF SEX hit me again. I felt like a chained sniffer dog being teased with a hidden bag of heroin. Who the heck was wearing it? What brand of scent was it? The closest I could put my finger on it was Tommy Hilfiger's True Star... with an extra douse of ethanol. It was driving me nuts. If only I knew who the scent-wearer was, I would find out the exact time and exact place she (or he) gets on and off and relish the time I could spend with her (or him) in the train, standing next to that person and bathing in the intoxicating fumes and staggering to work all flushed, glassy-eyed, and ready for work.

For the next few months I would actually look forward to commuting to work, wondering if I would be stepping on that same fateful morning LRT train which the mystery sex-smell person would also board. It would happen once in a while, but without any success in discovering the wearer.

Until today.

I had gotten off my usual Bangsar stop and was approaching those things that suck up your tickets before you leave the station when FWOOP-PAH, I got smacked in the face with the waft of a thousand orgasms. I looked ahead and there she... he... shite. There were TWO people walking in front of me. Doing their brisk businesspeople power walk. The fair-skinned woman was wearing a lilac suit and had long shampoo-ad hair, while the tanned burly man was wearing grey pinstripe. It was definitely either one. I followed their queue.

*soop!* The woman's ticket disappeared into the ticket-sucking booth. She breezed off.
*soop!* The man's ticket disappeared into the ticket-sucking booth. He strode off.

Right behind the man, out of sheer wild-eyed desperation, I shoved my ticket into the ticket-sucking slot. It didn't accept my ticket.

NOOOOO

The booth let off the temporary alarm and before I could slot the ticket in again and zoom past, the automatic even-a-toddler-can-do-hurdles-on-this barriers closed in on me. Trying to look my civilised best during rush hour, I ended up not jumping, and all I could do was stare through the morning haze, at the mystery sex-smell suspects doing their sex-smell businesspeople power walk in slow motion and disappear down the stairs to the right. The barriers finally opened and instead of stalking, I decided to drag my Made-in-Thailand corduroy pumps down my own route towards the stairs on the left. I was disillusioned. I was so close. But I was so late. For work.

Waitaminnit... I was late for work. I'd usually smell it on the LRT when I was punctual. Which meant that I had all this time been ruling out the possibility that more than one person could be wearing it on a regular basis. Which meant that my chances of eventually catching at least one person wearing the smell would actually be higher than I had ever expected.

I staggered to my office flushed, glassy-eyed but completely unprepared for work. Instead I logged on to the internet, got onto my blog and wasted the first two hours of the day telling you my wonderful story about the morning I almost found my delicately-fragranced sex fairy princess. Or prince. Whatever.

The price of beauty

I read Saturday's papers about the funeral of Goh Lee Fang, the girl who got murdered last week in her own boutique which she ran at The Curve shopping centre. It is suspected that she was killed by an admirer. The father was quoted as saying:

"Several men were trying to court my daughter but I not know if she was in any serious relationships... There is no pride in being a good-looking woman nowadays. See what has happened to my daughter... It is better for daughters to be average-looking, then at least, the maniacs would leave them alone."

That quote haunted me all weekend. Is my socially acceptable appearance one of the reasons why my own parents are so proctective over me? Is physical attractiveness more of a burden than a blessing? How much does it affect the chances of a woman getting raped or murdered? Because in some instances, a girl's looks does play a small role; in others, it can be something as simple as stepping into the wrong taxi.

In the past year, I've been getting comfortable with my newly-formed 'office hips' and in turn my fashion sense has slightly, as they say, 'matured'. But pride of my own body often gives the wrong impression. Now I've been getting into more trouble, with more men -including friends!- trying to use me for cheap thrills from left, right and centre. Sometimes, I don't even know if I'm to blame.

One of my best friends is quite heavy-boned and although she's one helluva tough cookie and I look up to her as an ideal example of a beautiful woman, she has confessed to me that she blames her entire life of singlehood on her body size and it does get her depressed. I get females who use my frame as a reference for their weight-loss progress. I get males ogling at my non-existent derriere and re-labelling it 'tight'. It's wierd and as much as I want to feel flattered, I get scared of saying 'Thank you' because I never know when I'll be taken advantage of, who will be the next to pounce...

Something more sought-after doesn't equal fewer problems. Society has given EVERY body shape and EVERY face its own set of pros and cons. Everybody lives life as a double-edged sword. If only more people these days would realize how blessed they are. And at the end of the day, noone is safe from maniacs.

My prayers go out to Lee Fang and Chinese student Li Mingqian. Their murders were sick and unjust.

Can you keep a secret?

I was at a get-together last night with some old schoolmates and in the midst of trivial conversation, a name came up which I've never mentioned to anyone else before but a guy whom had left the party earlier. It led to my friends grilling me about my private life, which I did not entertain and shrugged off. Regardless of the level of truth or accuracy to the allegations, I was taken aback by the lack of tact and I felt not only offended, but violated and betrayed. And me being the sort of person who has relatively high morals, I ABHOR being put in a degrading light.

*How could they? How could he? Why?*

He has spilled a lot of beans to me too, and being one of the closest and longest friends I've had, I would have expected him to use proper discretion to know what stays between us, no matter how close we are to other friends we share. It's amusing to hear no doubt, but honestly, unless it's important, thoroughly deserved or there's the nice chance of getting paid 7 figures to do so, I wouldn't regurgitate gossip that's hazardous to anyone's reputation. It's disrespectful.

But I'm sure whatever happened didn't happen out of malicious intent. I still love my friends to bits. I just gotta keep in mind that people might not share the same principles that I do.