Badfinger

I was just looking at my digits dialing the office phone and HOLY DA-YAMN, my hand can grace the poster of a bad horror flick. My fingers are long and skeletal; compulsive knuckle-cracking has given me huge knobbly joints; play-fights with my dogs have given me small brown splotches; my skin is corrugated with tendons, lined with deep-set wrinkles and embellished with random streaks of green and purple. If I stretch out and curl my fingers and pull my thumbs back, my hands look like the appendages of a mutant canary.

I wonder what they'll look like when I'm 80. I hope my grandkids will understand the concept of unconditional love.

Elegantly Wasted

The liquid swirled underneath my tongue and ignited a blaze of unpalatable sensations.

"This is NOT ginger ale!" I managed to sputter through the bitter burn.

It was assumed that everyone in attendance was to revel in the free flow of Hennessey. Amidst the haze of smoke and inarticulate banter, I stooped over and gasped for air, one hand keeping a slippery grip on the icy rim of the bar.

"I am SOOO giving you the keys!" Mark said uproariously with a slap to my thigh.

"Erm, yeah, you can say that again..."

I had never seen Mark so jovial. He was downing one drink after another, getting more giggly with each gulp. I sat placidly on my stool. It was a long day and all I was thinking about was how great it would be to rest my head on a pillow.

"You know, daaah-ling, when I get high, I start speaking with this British accent, dyenowo'imean?"

I laughed nervously. I had never driven from the middle of town right back home, let alone using someone else's car. To top it all off, I currently possessed the alertness of a pothead. I turned to Mark's friend.

"Neesh, who is better off behind the wheel: a drunkard or a narcoleptic?"

"The latter. Definitely the latter."

I walked through the carpark half an hour later with a man staggering to keep up with the arm that he wrapped around mine. While he made his way to the front passenger door, I took out the keys he gave me and clambered into the driver's seat.

I sat goggle-eyed at the dashboard. I cranked the engine, a commendable start.

"Okay, shouldn't be too hard..." I muttered to myself.

I tapped the accelerator and felt the car inch out of its parking spot. By the time I was about to drive out onto the main road, I was beaming with pride. I pompously flicked the right stick to signal my right turning. A pair of robotic arms attacked the windscreen instead.

"Godaamn you, foreign cars!"

Kuala Lumpur looked like an entirely different city behind the wheel. It was as though street signs had conveniently decided to tuck themselves behind the local roadside foliage.

"Mark, from here, do I go left or right?"

Mark, head hanging over the seat and now emenating an alarming amount of warmth, replied with a slow blink.

With our fate in the Lord's hands, I managed to get to my house without any detours. I slowed down near my house, wondering where to park, when Mark let out a strange demonic noise.

"BLEAGH!"

It sounded exactly like how it is spelt.

I looked at Mark. His eyes were closed, his body remained slumped in his chair. I almost dismissed it as a figment of my imagination.

"BLEAGH!"

My face froze. I was terrified. Mortified. Petrified. Stupefied. The dude was going to mess up his own car.

I pulled over a few houses away from mine, got out of the vehicle and swung open the opposite door. I bent over and in a hushed tone, asked him if he wanted to go to the drain. He fluttered his eyes, bleary and unfocused, and nodded.

I dragged him out to a cement slab overlooking the open drain and turned around just in time to not see anything. The noise was disturbing. It could have been enough to make children cry.

After he was done, Mark sunk over the slab and laid his head there. I paced up and down, shaking my wrists and grinding my teeth.

Think, retard. What do you need when you're drunk?

Oh wait, you don't drink.

D'oh.

Putting the remains of my rational thinking on overdrive, I got my water bottle and some tissue out of the car. I placed the bottle by Mark's side and lovingly tucked the tissue into his limp hand.

"Here you go, Mark. Clean yourself up..."

"...Mark?"

So there they were. A guy in a dapper dual-toned maroon top, snoozing peacefully by the drain. A teetotaler in a dainty corset sitting next to him keeping vigil, twiddling her thumbs, trying to get her naive head around the bewildering situation, having a first taste of what it's like to take care of someone after a hard day's night.

It was, dare I say it, a Kodak moment.

Bygones

"I think we could have lasted," he says, his lowered voice sounding evidently rueful. His shy eyes stay on the short stretch of road ahead.

"...You think?"

"Yeah. It wasn't like just... you know... yeah."

She nods knowingly.

They were once inseparable. Both of them forgot how they lost touch, but tonight makes them remember how much they've missed each other. His jittery palm rubs unruly hair carpeting the back of his head.

"I'm sorry! I shouldn't have told you anything... I feel so awkward now!"

"No, I'm sorry! I shouldn't have been so curious."

They look at each other reluctantly. The mutual affection that was left untended for too long, now resuscitated, breathes gently on their faces.

"Everything happens for a reason, I guess."

"Yeah. That's true."

The engine of the car parked outside her house grumbles impatiently. It's getting late. They thank each other for the evening. Their embrace is long and tight, infused with understanding, complacency, and heart.

She loosens away with a tender countenance.

"...Now go see your baby. She's waiting for you."

He smiles graciously under the amber glow of the streetlamp.

Dizz(n)y

I have to tilt my hat to retail assistants; the job does require a hefty chunk of tolerance. In particular, the guys who apply for a job at the Mickey Mouse apparel store at Midvalley must be asked off the record during their interview if they have a soft spot for Toni Basil. Every single time - and this is on a regular basis - I want to stop by the shop window to watch a Disney cartoon classic running on the display TV, I am left mortally wounded by the auditory shrapnels of a one hit wonder.

And it's not just the original tune they play. They've also got remixes.

OH MICKEY, YOU'RE SO FINE
OH MICKEY, YOU'RE SO FINE
YOU'RE SO FINE
YOU'RE SO FINE
Y-Y-Y-Y-YOU'RE SO FINE

Indeed, I'm sure Mickey is just frickin' dandy.

Doncha wish your girlfriend was daft like me

If you're a ultra-hip and super-happening social butterfly, you gotta have the poser facade that goes with it. But the denizens of Retardation Nation, bless their selfless ways, don't abide by this rule to keep the rest of the world looking good. At events where the press are invited, photographers are trained to be ruthless with their triggers and may catch you in the most unflattering angles and expressions. Let's give 'em what they want.

EXHIBIT A
Awww, lookie here. Someone's been honored as 'Creature of the Night'. Man, those eye bags sure come in handy.

Now, look closely. What is wrong with the pose in that picture...
Perhaps, nothing?
MY POINT EXACTLY.
The classic hand-on-one-hip pose is sassy, demure and irritatingly mediocre. In fact, it's so banal, check out the other chicks on the page:
I went on a depressive 3-day Pringle binge after the photograph was taken, knowing that I did absolute jack to promote my culture. Time for an overhaul.

Tips:
- An attempt to blend into your surroundings is a wasted trip out of the house.
- Do not contradict what you wear.

Anti-poser rating: 1/5 (Credit given for cowprint pants)


EXHIBIT B
Here are a bunch of happy campers at the Malaysian MTV VJ Hunt.
What's the first thing you notice in this picture?
a) Guy with cool afro
b) Guy with cool pink tee
c) 'SUAKU' RETARD HOLDING GIRL WITH BIG BOOBIES
(Yes, that was a rhetorical question.)

I was elated when I created enough of a commotion to be featured twice.
VJ Denise only got one picture. Which means I got double the exposure than a celebrity herself. Sometimes it's hard to believe how much I rock.

Tips:
- There is no such thing as embarrassment at a public audition.
- Learn to accessorize to the best of your ability. Badged-up sling bags are out. Ample-chested sisters are in.

Anti-poser rating: 3/5 (Vast improvement, can afford to loosen more screws)


EXHIBIT C
Yet another generic beast unleashed from the fiery gates of hell. Where is that darn Buffy when you need her?
The photographer guy actually ran in my direction the moment I initiated my crazy frog riverdance routine. Revelling in my commanding presence, I felt like the world was putty in my robust hands.

Tips:
- Androgyny demands attention.
- Experiment with the versatility of the classic white shirt.
- The bid to promote mineral water at a beer-sponsored event is a lost cause but a commendable effort.

Anti-poser rating: 5/5 (Trust from Retardation Nation regained.)

Matinee

One of the perks and also pitfalls of working next to a shopping mall is the convenience of it all. Everything I would need would be attainable within minutes, be it printer ink, teatime spring rolls or a disillusioned prairie dog. It's been a while since I ventured out for some midday browsing, so I did just that today.

Extended lunch breaks are not forbidden but highly discouraged, unless you get a kick out of recieving earnest stares from the manager. I left my mobile at home so I had no record of the time except from, perhaps, the details printed out on a fresh receipt. So I did the most practical thing...

(Window shopping is unheard of in a woman's world.)

I bought a few items from the pharmacy and then got so carried away at the perfume section in the department store that I had forgotten to set aside some time to eat. I hurried to the food court, wolfed down an economy meal and ran as fast as my little kitten heels could take me back to the office.

Settling down into my chair in the still, silent air enveloping my cubicle, I've just realized that coming in 45 minutes late from lunch break wearing ruffled hair and the scent of a man does not give the most immaculate impression.

Discovery

I never expected to bring up family affairs in my blog. I feel there's more to life than just ranting about how much the world is against you. But, if I can correctly recall the hackneyed saying, Sh*t Happens.

My family has found out about my blog.

I don't know how it happened. I have only made references to my name here on extremely rare occasions.

Not that I have anything to hide; besides, blood relationships are encouraged to be of optimum transparency. But there are some things which I’d very much prefer my family to not know about, simply because I want to lessen the excessive concern they show for my welfare. They don’t trust my choices in life: from my friends to my investments, from my career to my eating habits. The differences in views are overwhelming, and attempts to express my views only strengthens their bone of contention. Blogging is my oxygen in a suffocating environment. This is my soapbox, where people are never indebted to listen but are always welcome to stick around and chip in their two cents’ worth if they fancy.

And now my sanctuary has been violated.

I have three choices: to censor myself, move my blog, or be an obstinate boob and stand my ground. Since censorship defeats the entire purpose of blogging and I’m too lazy to create a new domain, it seems apparent that I have come to my decision.

I, however, would like to lay down the conditions to any family member who does feel an itch to come by and invade my space once more.

1) May this blog help you to understand me better as a person. I trust that you will NOT use this blog as an excuse to enhance your self-righteousness and your belief that I have issues.

2) I do not wish for the contents of my blog to serve as gossip fodder in the house or anywhere else for that matter. To allow you to read my blog is already considered an extremely noble decision on my part. The least you can do is respect my intentions.

3) Do keep in mind that I do not need a fake reassurance that my life is pathetic, weird and/or hunky-dory. It would be great if you could also leave your own placebos at the door, and visit this space with a tolerant mind and open heart.

If you didn't comprehend the repetitive lines above, here is the undissected version: Please let this be. I would infinitely appreciate your cooperation.

In particular, there has been a constant struggle to refrain from indulging in tirades about my elder sister. I never wanted to mention how spiteful, heartless, insolent and ultimately immature she can get. Ironically, she has saved me the trouble. She is 'guess who stupid' who left the catty comment in the previous entry.

Good grief, Melanie. Do both of us a favor and get a life.