Diary of a Delayed Broken Heart

DAY 1
I’m supposed to attend the CLEO Bachelor Party at Zouk to support my guyfriends tonight, but something is holding me back, and I can’t put my finger on it. I plan to have an early night but a friend asks to meet up for a drink. When she picks me up from my office, the first thing that comes out of her mouth is:

“D, I have bad news for you. I found out that R really did cheat on you…”

The rumor was true after all. Turns out it happened on a Student Council trip to Penang, sometime during the last rough months of our relationship. It was with a chick whom I had completely and utterly trusted him with. I laugh out loud as I recall what I last said to him before he left:

“Make sure you go have fun – heck, don’t even think about me!”

I didn’t expect him to take it so literally.

My friend tells me “Don’t worry about it, it’s long over. He’s a bloody jerk!”
She’s right, I shouldn’t let it get to me – after all, it’s been almost a year since the breakup. I am hit with nonchalance, but then comes disbelief... then disappointment… before belly-flopping into that lovely pool of devastation.

He CHEATED on me. That good-fer-nothing sonnavagun.

The entire night, I am haunted with his words of joy, of love, of promise, and wondering how much of it he actually meant during those nine months of our rollercoaster ride. Infidelity, that one word he actively preached so much against, ended up getting the better of him.

As my friend chats away with her other friends over a game of Cho Tai Tee (Chinese card game), I’m left gazing into the distance, visualizing myself driving over to his house, puncturing his beloved basketball, pelting his windows with manure, and scratching his car with creepy-looking repetitions of the phrase “YOU DAMN RIGHT I KNOW WHAT YOU DID LAST SUMMER”.


DAY 2
Don’t you just love those 30 innocent seconds that you experience first thing in the morning after sleeping through a day that screwed you over? It’s the all-too-familiar process of opening your eyes, trying to remember why you feel so odd today, then suddenly groaning a “Sssssshhhh-IT”. Ah, ignorance is a short-lived bliss.

I spend the day with my family, trying my best to mask my mental meanderings. He himself told me once that good people do bad things for a reason, but I can’t grasp the concept right now. It’s further crazily ironic how he was the more possessive one in the relationship. He always sulked whenever I made a mere mention of my guyfriends, even becoming suspicious of one of my best buds who is gay. But I never held him back when it came to chilling with his mates. I thought it was only fair to let him have his own space and treasure platonic relationships, like how I did. One of his close galfriends had a pretty tainted reputation in college, but I never thought any more of it. Disregarding the pun, I don’t know why I never saw it coming.

I guess I didn’t notice his frustration over my steadfast belief in abstinence before marriage. He said he would be willing to wait for me because he loved me…

Douchebag.

But tonight isn’t the night to mull over the past: I’m still going ahead with an appointment with a friend, who happens to be rather breathtaking.

He takes me to a play, which is a riveting watch (blame my partial bias towards the appearance of thespian friends), and after throwing around countless options in the car after the show, we decide on staking out one of the swankiest bars in town - reflected in the ridiculous cover charge. But it is definitely worth the mindblowing view of the city skyline and equally beautiful chillout music. (Hey, ANY place in KL that plays Jamiroquai always gets in my good books.)

It is here that my concerned friend notices that I am acting “uptight and self-conscious”. So much for leaving my vexing at home. I make my confession, start crying, then run off to the bar counter to grab some serviettes. It’s times like these that I regret I don’t drink.

He listens intently, offers his two cents’ worth, then suggests that I dance away my troubles to RnB at The Loft in Zouk. In my current state of mind, he could have taken me to a Milli Vanilli party and I would have just been just as gung-ho. So to The Loft we go, and it’s virtually empty, but we decide to stay for the grooves. With some hip-hoppers eventually taking to the dancefloor, he takes my hand and grinds with me sexily enough to make me forget not only my worries, but also the fact that he is unavailable.

Nothing eases bad times more than good company. Especially when it’s in the form of a fellow who escorts a woman with an arm protectively draped around her shoulder, surprises her with a mocktail, gives her a kickass hand massage in the middle of a bar without a second’s thought, and literally carries her out of a mud patch she unwittingly sinks her stilettoes into. He’s living, breathing proof that having a girlfriend doesn’t necessarily keep a guy from being any less of a gentleman. Thank you David for making me feel brand new.


DAY 3
I wake up with the routine Shhhhhh-iteness, only that it’s buffered with feel-good memories from the night before. But the effects diminish as the day wears on, and by late afternoon I’m already writing expletives all over paper to vent my frustrations. It’s not working, and my eyes are welling up again. I’m in severe need of more emergency relief counseling. But no more of the male-bashing stuff. I need someone with a great sense of judgment and introspective. A friend of both parties who is not one to gossip is a greatly sought-after bonus.

Only one person comes to mind: Shern.

I call him up and I pour out my feelings. A steady flow of saline is messing up my profanity sheet. Shern’s mood immediately deepens, a sign of good advice to come. He empathizes by sharing his own experiences about maintaining trust in a relationship, and how love can’t prevent people from being vulnerable. He soothes and inspires me with his fortitude and serenity. He then parts with a Baha’i Hidden Word which has helped him get through many bad times:

“O son of man! Should prosperity befall thee, rejoice not, and should abasement come upon thee, grieve not, for both shall pass away and be no more.”

I thank Shern profusely and after hanging up and reading the quote, I toss my soiled swearing paper. This makes so much more sense. I have an unperturbed dinner and a restful slumber.


DAY 4
I’ll probably never hear anything about it from him, and maybe I’d rather not. The pain has almost washed over. Today, I can smile when I think of the time I cried happy tears on his first attempt at cooking pasta for Valentines.
When he defended me so valiantly when I was verbally attacked by a salesgirl.
When we would frolic with his late pet dog for in his front yard for hours until the sun went down.
When his eyes screamed “I love you” and most certainly meant it.

Those were good days. I still have no regrets, but I’m definitely still a strong believer in karma.

Watch your back, dude...
Best of luck, bitch.

Sister support

After the magazine hair shoot, Calvin took Samantha and I to a cafe right next to his salon for lunch. My hairstyle, still looking pretty nifty, was drawing curious glances from fellow diners. It also caught the attention of one of the waitresses, who bashfully asked that million-dollar question consistently posed to me and something even the Grandfather Of All Knowledge probably wouldn't be able to comprehend.

"Are you Japanese?"

I laughed and asked her why, apart from the manga hair, did she think so. She replied that I had "good skin". Me? Good skin? It almost made me swear out loud.

"It's just a LOT of makeup, dear. This woman can work miracles," I quipped, pointing to Samantha.

After Calvin gobbled his lunch and ran next door to finish some errands in his salon, the waittress sat down at our table. I was unsure if she knew Samantha as a regular patron, but the young girl started talking about how insecure she was about her looks. She talked about how she was going to start university soon and that she was afraid that her self-consiousness would heighten there and affect her studies. She admitted that her appearance would bother her on a daily basis, and that she was considering professional counselling.

I was flabbergasted. All this was coming from a girl who had a healthy physique, large brown eyes, cute button nose, gorgeous smile and a fresh, rosy glow to her face.

Restraining from immersing myself into a monologue about my own disorder and other body issues, Samantha and I praised her looks, explained how her concern was a normal part of growing up, and assured her she had absolutely nothing to fret about. She wasn't really buying it, and I wanted to smear off my makeup there and then to convince her that I looked even more average than she did.

Samantha had to leave quickly to join Calvin at the salon, which reminded me to also wait there for my mother to pick me up. I asked for the waitress's name (which I can't recall at the moment) and wished her the best in her studies and to take care of herself.

I stopped in my tracks halfway to the salon. Something just didn't feel right.

I stepped back into the cafe, where the waitress was still sitting at the table we were at. I went up to her, gave her my business card and asked her to drop me a line if she needed anyone to talk to. She was pretty shocked at my gesture and burst into shy, infectious giggles. I then gave her a big hug and told her she was beautiful. She couldn't bring herself to do anything but gratefully thank me and blush a lot in between.

I could still hear her laughter as I left the cafe, thinking Whoa... so this is what it feels like to be Oprah.

Hair & Now (Part 2)

My day of hairstyling insanity has begun at 7.30 a.m.

My hairdresser, Calvin, picks me up from his salon (which coincidentally is 2 minutes away from my house) and takes me to the Wella headquarters, but not without taking a detour or two.

We arrive 45 minutes later at the office, and we are ushered in by Wella staff into this large room that looks like one huge salon. There are large posters displayed outside, showing the different themes of the season. My eyes fixate on the theme, 'Being Constructive'... I remember Calvin mentioning that to the agency rep during registration. Looks like I'm in for a pretty big makeover.

Calvin smothers my hair in bleach and puts this steam thingamajig over my head to hasten the process. I'ts going to take a while... and the magazines on my dressing table are in Chinese. Shucks.



My 30 minutes of looking like a pirated DVD seller.


After some blowdrying and shaping the basic cut, Calvin goes so crazy with the dyes that when I ask him what color he has put where, he has already forgotten. But he tells me he has used ash blonde, dark brown and a little bit of purple. My scalp burns like hell.

A heap of foil showing signs of life


Mmmm... Peroxide.


After painstakingly removing the foil, a hair wash, 2 treatments, blowdrying, hair ironing and a few more snips, I think my half-day ordeal is over. Calvin analyzes my hair in the mirror, picks up a bit of my new blonde fringe and asks, "You think I should put more purple here?"

I am going to disapprove out of sheer fatigue, then I look around at the other models.

Silver hair. Green hair. BLUE hair.

This means war.

---

My second day doesn't start at such an ambitious time, but what is expected to be a quick day ends up dragging on just as long as the day before.

Calvin picks me up again from his salon, this time together with his makeup artist Samantha.

On the way to Wella HQ again, I get constantly blinded by the glints of the metallic makeup box sitting next to me. On top of the box is a ghastly looking piece of animal print PVC.

"What's this, Calvin?"

"That? Oh, that's a tube. You'll be wearing that just in case we don't like the clothes that you will be given. It's very nice, yaaa?"

Erm, yaaa.

We make our way to the salon room again and knowing the drill, I resume yesterday's position and Samantha starts weaving her magic wands and brushes. But not before checking out my eyebrows and then whipping out her razor.

God, I HATE it when they do this. It takes months to grow them back!

I scream silently as she shaves off at least half of my big bushy beautiful caterpillars. They have been reduced to pencil-thin larvae worms and she's halfway drawing them in when the makeup supervisor comes over to her and says that all models under the Constructive theme are supposed to have artificially thick, dark brows. Which is what I naturally had to begin with. I pinch my thighs until they tremble.

Samantha stops working halfway and suggests that I go for my garment fitting first. I walk around a few corridors and enter a room with bustling fashion design students and their creations hanging from every knob, nook, chair and table. My clothes are black and white, pretty stiff, and sort of revealing. Think The Jetsons meets Barbarella.

My miniskirt consists of two small pieces of cloth held together by thick string weaving down the sides. The students are trying to lace me up but my undies are stubbornly flashing.

"Looks like we'll have to sew her in," says one of the students.

Note to self: NEVER lie about vital stats.

I robot-walk back to the salon room and as my shooting slot creeps nearer, Samantha hurriedly finishes my makeup as Calvin commences the hairstyling. He uses the hair iron and I wince as a combined result of a few strands getting yanked out and the smell of something burning.

My hair and makeup is finally completed, Calvin drapes some jewellery on me, and I am called over to the shooting studio for my turn. There are thin custom-designed foam boards overlapping each other to create a stylized concrete jungle, and I have to stand somewhere in between, strike a pose and look 'serious'. Crap. Serious is a territory I daren't tread. But the photographer is patient and encouraging, guiding me through the shoot.

"Place your arms closer to your body... Bend over a little... Look up... Tilt your head... Close your mouth... Look more serious... Yes!"

Four hours of preparation for a shoot that is over in less than ten minutes. Constructive indeed.

I don't have my Wella hairstyle anymore (the moment my boss saw me, her jaw crashed to the floor and Calvin got my color and cut adjusted the very next day) so for memory's sake, here is what I looked like for 2 days.





Remind you of anything?


If all goes to plan, the actual shoot will be published in June in a Singaporean Chinese magazine called 'Sisters'.

Thanks and big love to Calvin,

And Samantha.

Hair & Now (Part 1)

I've always been one who is pretty dubious about being part of the modelling circuit. My one and only whimsical shot at penetrating the industry happened last year, when I entered a small unisex competition.

For the first segment, the girls were asked to wear a sleeveless top, shorts and sandals.
I wore a sleeveless top, shorts and sandals.
Everyone else wore tubes, hot pants and stilletos.

For the second segment, the girls were asked to wear a casual knee-length dress.
I wore a casual knee-length dress.
Everyone else wore evening gowns with soaring hemlines and crashing necklines.

Guess who made it to the finals? I'll give you a small hint: it wasn't me.

Several months after taking a vow to stick to my infallible tee-cargos-trainer formula, I get a call from an agency asking me to attend an audition for a magazine hair shoot. A hair shoot? That would mean they'd only be judging me for my hair, right? And I am in dire need of a trim anyhow. So what the hell, I might as well give it another shot.

I board 2 trains to get to the middle of town, and on the second train there's this girl who comes on a few stops after I do and sits right next to me. Her height, clothes and makeup give me the impression that she'll be attending the auditions too. But I'm scared of asking her just in case I'd make an idiot out of myself. Turns out that we get off at the same stop, head in the same direction, enter the same building and take the lift to the same floor... All without saying a word to each other. Oopsie.

There's this woman at a desk and she's got a checklist and a handful of comp cards in her hand, I go to her and she asks for my name, which she subsequently crosses out on the checklist. She then tells me to wait in a room behind her. I open the door and it's full of girls. Most are tall, lanky, toned and have symmetrical facial features. It's as though all the models in a beauty magazine have come to life and are crammed into this little room.

I never before feel so ugly or overweight in my 22 years of existence.

I walk over to an empty seat in the front row. With every step, I sense eyes stripping me from all corners of the room. I sit next a professional-looking model reading a novel, who gives me an obligatory meek smile and tucks her face back into the book. I guess I’m giving off vibes that I’m a newbie.

Behind me, there are girls who are gossiping away. Behind them, looking pretty jittery and self-conscious, are girls dressed not as sexily and not pouting as much as the others. I probably fall into this clique.

After some substantial thumb-twiddling, the woman from the desk outside the room comes in with the thick deck of comp cards almost spilling out of her hands. She tells us to pass the deck around after taking out our own cards.

The deck never reaches me and they get passed back to the desk outside. I go out to collect mine and someone calls out my name. An old college mate! I shouldn't have been surprised to find her here; she has had a good amount of experience behind her, and she took part in this same show last year.

While my face is looking down at my comp card shuffling, a card falls but it's not from my hands. I reach down, grab it and I stand up in front of a woman. Oh, not just any woman. She was a woman I fantasized about after she shook her tush on the catwalk during a fashion show I watched last year. She smiles at me and says a shy 'Thank you' as she takes her card from my hands, and all I can do is gawk back like some stupefied wanker.

Upon my return to the room, the girls are asked to split themselves up: girls who don't mind getting their hair cut shift to the left, while those who do shift to the right. Shortly after, loads of hairdressers parade into the room. The checklist woman comes in and tells them that they could start picking their models right away. They are encouraged to feel our hair if need be.

Many girls start giggling and sit up with their prettiest eyes, poutiest lips and perkiest endowments. Some hairdressers start making their rounds around the chairs, while others just survey the room from the front and point at girls they are interested in.

Now wait a minute, where's the audition bit coming in? There is no need for proof of worth. With the girls looking oh-so-willing, the hairdressers looking oh-so-eager and the checklist woman looking oh-so-matronly, at this stage it feels like I've stepped into a function of slightly different expectations.

I stick around regardless, and one by one girls get called up to let their hair be fondled with and immediately approving of every styling whim and fancy. However, an established few get a say in how they want their hair to be in order for it to not affect their upcoming modelling gigs. Those who have been picked can leave after registering their names with the agency representatives. The quickest to get snapped up are the cool, calm and quietly confident ones. The ones who already know that they'll get chosen no matter what because of their pliable iron-straight tresses or romantic waves. The second to go are the die-hards, the ones who look like they're trying for Drag Queen Idol. The ones whom anyone rarely casts a glance upon are the ones at the back, stiffened up and looking more uneasy than ever.

One third of the room is gone and I'm still playing it cool and chatting with my friend next to me. Then she gets called up. The girl who sat next to her moves a seat up next to me and introduces herself. Then she gets called up too.

The numbers are dwindling. The 'audition' is wrapping up soon. And I'm catching a bout of anxiety. I rub the back of my neck and look behind my chair at my jittery homies. At least can all celebrate our rejection together over a tub of Baskin Robbins, I try to telepathically tell them.

I'm moments away from declaring my hope clinically dead when I get a gentle tap on my left shoulder. It's a bespectacled man adorned with enough jewellery to put any bling-blinger to shame. He's running his fingers through my rough, frizzy and possibly greasy locks. I feel sorry for him.

"Can I cut your hair up to your ear maybe, and give you bangs? I also think I'll dye your hair blond or brown..."

It sounds radical, but if I back out now I'll be spending the rest of the day leaving shoe prints on my forehead. So I agree to it and the guy tells me to follow him to an agency rep to register. I stand up feeling surprised at my capability of cinching my very first professional modelling gig. Especially when I have to credit it to that tuft of frayed broom bristles that is my hair.

I look behind at the remaining girls who are looking back at me, their eyes reminding me of those that are worn by street beggars. I feel a pang of guilt as the hairdresser coaxes me to walk with him through the crowd plugging the exit.

My hair preparation and shoot dates are set and I'm asked to leave. One half of me walks down the corridor feeling like she's queen of the world. The other half stays in the room sitting silently with the unchosen girls... still waiting, like countless other days, for that one shot.

Shall We Dance

My good friend Razzaq had invited me to the Malaysian Millennium 2005 International Open Dancesport Championships. With the dress code being 'Elegant', I figured it would have been fun to dress up like a diva and rub shoulders with people trying to keep up with their elite image. I prettied myself up in a maroon velvet gown and some makeup I excavated from the recesses of my dressing table drawer. Suit-clad Razzaq was a little late in picking me up, but he is one of those people who look ravishing even when they're flustered. I jumped into his car and the first thing I noticed was a little blinking sign on the dashboard.

"Razz, shouldn't we pump up before we go?"
"No need, it should last me until tomorrow."

We made our way to the Shangri-La hotel in town and arrived at the Grand Ballroom just as starters were served. The dinner tables surrounded a large dancefloor in the middle, with a long panel of judges flanking the right side of the room. Razz and I were guided to our table number, which provided a relatively good view of the dancefloor. The strangers already seated at our table, particularly a woman who looked like she had been cursed with the face of a cocker spaniel, welcomed us with an wierd glare.

All night we pigged out on the 10-course meal and watched couples from the world over twirl around in their flowy costumes to various ballroom and latin styles. The competition was ridiculously fierce. Us and our friends have recently considered taking up latin dance classes, and by the end of this event Razz and I were not only inspired, but ultra determined to master some arse-shaking.

On the slow drive back to my house, we were discussing how to fit classes into our schedule, when Razz mentioned something about the car not having gas and I was going to bombard him with my self-righteousness before he switched to panic mode with these words:

"Woman, I am serious - The car is SLOWING DOWN..."

He pulled over to the nearest bus stop and started cranking the engine. It didn't budge. I started getting a laughing attack and he told me it wasn't funny. Then he started laughing and I also told him that it wasn't funny. But we both knew that it sure as bloody hell was. Especially when he called AAM and told them the honest-to-God reason why we his car broke down.

While we waited for help to come in the next hour, we enjoyed the aircon until it died out and we were planning to keep ourselves entertained with the radio until that died out on us too. Stranded by the roadside with just Malaysian-weather-incompatible evening wear to maintain our dignity, we ended up prancing around the bus stop with our appalling attempt at the foxtrot and filled Razz's digital camera with typical pictures of buffoons driven to the brink of despair.

The AAM service guy finally arrived and only after making doubly sure that we weren't bullcrapping him did he go off to get some petrol, which took him another 20 minutes. Three hours after leaving the hotel, Razzaq dropped me back home at 3am. It wasn't a perfectly glamorous night as we were expecting it to be, and we both agreed that the incident would proudly go down in our annals of shame. But knowing this guy for more than half my life, I wouldn't want to have spent it with anyone else in the world.

Rootin' tootin'

I was watching some anime from a friend's computer the other day. I wore his headphones and had my eyes glued to the monitor while he lazed around and read a book on the living room floor nearby. In the middle of a non-crucial scene, I thought I heard from beyond the speakers, what faintly sounded like someone stepping on a duck. I was going to ignore it when my friend blurted out an "Excuse me!" I removed the headphones and turned to him.

"Huh?"
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do that..."
"...Oh! Naaah man. You my brutha, I'm your sista. We cool, we cool!"
"Haha, ok."

Dude, no-one ever means to break wind in front of other people but you can't exactly subsitute it with anything else. Even a 'perfect' guy like Jon Jonsson can bring this topic up in his blog. It's apparently taboo, but come on. I respect anyone who has the audacity to be human. (Unlike myself, whom only ever had the guts to do it once in front of my then-boyfriend of nine months, after which he looked up into the heavens and cried out a rapturous "Thank You!") Besides, my friend had let off a teeny inconsequential parp. If it was a thunderous cheek-flapper with enough potency to choke a camel, then it might have been a different case altogether.

The Art of Phwoar

I just recieved some pics from the informal theatre workshops a friend held with his mates in KL before returning to his studies in Melbourne 2 months ago. (An awesome fellow - during his summer breaks he immerses himself in theatre classes and then comes back to share what he's learnt.) The last workshops he conducted involved a some pretty extreme physical theatre training and a bit of telepathy too. I asked him to try it out on me. All that freak did was look into my eyes, and my right arm started feeling tingly and floated upwards by itself. He stopped and revealed that he had instructed me to move my right arm. I was relieved he made me stop there.

Amongst concentration and role-playing exercises, the physical segment involved 2-3 people finding equibrilium between each other through various positions. I was frequently picked as the subject of many amusing experiments as I was the only girl in attendance and hence apparently the lightest.





The session lasted a bit past the usual closing time of the studio space and the security guy had shut down the electrical power to chase us off. He wasn't very successful.


Thanks for the radical time, guys! See you at the next round.

Love note

"Mel & Davina
Don't forget to take cod liver oil
Lots of Love
Mummy"

On another sad note (don't mind the pun), Wilfred passed away in his sleep 2 weeks ago. The funeral service was uncomplicated and quick, the only person in attendance being a weird-looking girl sobbing on bended knee. Wilfred is survived by his only daughter, Prudence (pictured below).

Wilfred was a star in his own right, and touched the lives of many during his short existence. A dear friend Ui Hua has been doing research and has come up with an intruiging conslusion. (Just a warning to those who don't know, his religious outlook isn't very conventional!)

Aren't we courteous?

There's a civic consciousness campaign currently airing on TV, courtesy of the prolific Yasmin Ahmad. It's entitled 'City Fable'. It features a man boarding the LRT and being an apathetic turd towards people who would need his seat more than he does: an elderly lady, a pregnant woman and a handicapped dude. I'm really glad someone has created awareness about this one of many disgusting Malaysian habits, although it also saddens me how we actually have to watch a bloody public service ad to remind us to use our common sense. This is also considering that there are signs stategically plastered all over each train in both English and Malay:



(My friend Albert and I wonder if the last line is set in capitals for sarcastic effect or otherwise.)

Whenever I get up and offer my seat to people on the LRT, I get glared at. A spiteful glare, like they're saying, ooh you think you're all kind and everything and I'm supposed to feel bad now, ooh I'm so scared. I suspect people are especially surprised at my actions becuase of my fashion extremes of looking like a punk or a priss. There was this one time I saw this heavily pregnant woman with no seat; I didn't have one either, so I bent over a corporate-looking lady in the nearest seat. She looked offended when I interrupted her cute girly talk with the friends sitting next to her.

"Excuse me, but I'm wondering if you could give your seat up for this woman next to me."
"Why?"
"Erm, because she is pregnant".

She jerked up in astonishment, grabbed her black folder bag next to her and plonked it in her lap to cover her abdomen.

"I'm pregnant too!"
"Oh, really? How many months?"
"...Two!"
"Erm, ok... Sorry."

I turned away, but not before I caught her sniggering with her friends. I almost wanted to shove my hand up her and grope around her uterus for this so-called 2 month baby, but that wouldn't have been very nice. Then again, neither was she.

While I constantly do my part to alleviate particular folks from the rigors of standing for extended periods, that one incident has fuelled me with frustration to this day.

A few days ago, I boarded the morning LRT. This train unfortunately had half of its seats uprooted to seemingly make more standing space. 99% of the seats were already taken, so I leaned against the wall. A girl in front of me had beat an old-timer to a seat and she nestled in her contentment. Just when I was going to bore holes into her head, I turned to the opposite end of the train to see this hunched century-old man struggling to lean against a pole. The train passed a few stops and he was still there. I was thinking gosh, that dude seriously needs to park his arse somewhere.

Before I could even start scheming, someone had gotten off her seat at the next stop. Another guy who'd just entered had his eye on it.

The image of the sniggering 2-month pregnant fathead rolled in slow motion in my mind. A rage burned from my ears to my toes. I NEEDED that seat.

Mustering all my inert Malaysian selfishness, I ran like an oaf and threw my bum over the vacant spot. The guy looked a little taken aback but shrugged it off and leaned against the wall.

The train took off again. I edged my derriere halfway off the bench, my eyes fixed on grandpa. How on earth was I going to get up and approach him without someone grabbing the seat behind my back? Ah, my good ol' CLEO magazine (yes, I still patronize the magazine I used to work for, and for a good reason this month too).

I got up, opened the magazine and splayed it across my seat. Then I wobbled across to where grandpa was and asked him, in whatever limited Malay vocabulary I posessed, if he wanted to sit down. He gracefully turned down the offer, but after doing everything I had just done in the five minutes just passed, I was not going to take 'no' for an answer. After my insisting, he finally accepted and stooped over to my seat, with me watching his steps closely behind. The lady sitting next to the seat lifted up my magazine and passed it to me with a faint smile. I thanked her. Grandpa thanked me. I nodded him a 'You're welcome'. I walked over to the opposite window to embrace the glares, stunned with the dangerous realization that abusing local mentality can actually be... sorta fun.

"You don't eat or sleep or mow the lawn..."

Not many ringtones start off as

"You f*** your uncle!"
"YOU f*** YOUR uncle!"

My colleague's cell phone spewed that out the moment I stepped into the office today. Although wasn't the most encouraging thing to hear to get me through a Friday, it did bring back fond memories. In fact, had my colleague not picked up the phone so promptly, I would have started chanting along.

Get your holy water ready: I was once crazy about the South Park movie. I once told a random chatter on ICQ that I had memorized half of the entire dialogue; as a naïve 15-year old I didn't understand why I didn't receive a reply nor hear from him ever again.

When I first watched South Park: Bigger Longer & Uncut, I had no previous exposure to the show. And by the time I reached Terrance & Phillip singing Shut Your F***ing Face, Unclef***er, I was ROTFL. And this isn't ROTFL, like, when you're chatting online and your friend says something funny and you type out that acronym without actually enacting it just to reassure the person that you appreciate the joke. This is hardcore Rolling, On The Floor, Laughing. My mom whom had happened to be passing by when that song began just stopped in her tracks, lost in complete and utter disbelief. I didn't care, to me it was grape-juice-dribbling-from-my-nose funny. Never mind the fact that I didn't even know what 'boner-biting' meant, I had never cried so much since watching Simba coaxing his dead dad to get up. Screw Prince and his pansy synthesizers, I had a new anthem for 1999.

So yes, today, to pay tribute to a life-changing event, you can suck my balls.