Some people have their morning coffee, some people have a piece of toast and if you have friends like I do, some people have a shot of whisky for breakfast. Regardless, everyone has their morning fix to start up the engine. I usually just take a piss.

However, two days ago, I had my fair share of a wake up call.

I wish I could say it was gin and tonic, but it was another kind of ton something.

My toner.

I fill my toner up in a spray bottle because I'm lazy that way. Lazy being the operative word here. For when I was back home, I filled it up with Nivea toner whilst I'm using Neutrogena here. Nivea was running out and I wanted to make sure it was entirely empty before I filled it up with a different brand of toner. Lazy lazy me was thinking about not washing the bottle. So I tried my best to use up every drop left.

If you're as cheap and lazy as I am, you'll know that when there's not much liquid left in the bottle and you keep applying pressure to it, it gets rather frothy.

So there I was, getting ready for class. Lazy lazy me mastered the art of multi tasking because that extra 5 minutes in bed is as good as a puff of cigarette for a smoker who quit 2 years ago.

*spritz spritz* goes my toner.

I put on some clothes while the toner sets in a little before I pat it all over my face. Once I'm done, I walk into the bathroom mirror to prep myself for my skin regime.

At a glance, what I saw under the bright light and big mirror immediately took 5 10 years of what's left of my youth.

All that frothy toner on my face looked like someone jizzed on my face.

There it is.

Good morning, Koe.

You know how everyone's all hyped up bout how dependent we are on technology these days?

I used to believe so. I never could leave the house without my cellphone. I never could go to bed without going online first. I can't drive without the radio on.

We're so fixated on technology that we forget the most trivial things in life. I had to learn it the hard way.

Here's what happened. I was due to fly a 22 hour flight and I knew apart from crying and wanting to slap the pilot to turn the airplane back, I needed tons of entertainment to keep myself occupied.

So, I charged up my pod, my laptop, and bought a R4 and micro SD for my NDS. Geared and armoured, I walk into my battlefield of boredom.

Here's the thing, midway through my flight, I decide to pass out. So, I positioned my glasses nicely on this compartment made for you to hang your shit. They forget, their aircraft is as big as my exboyfie's penis a peanut and fatty chinamen squeeze themselves between seats.

Needless to say, he crushed my glasses and one of the lenses popped out of its frame and got kicked somewhere between aisles 21K to 59 D,E,F.

I was blind as a bat who's like, really blind to begin with when I arrived at JFK.

So I walk out, sees a board with two lanes. Visitors (Arrow Right). US Citizens (Arrow Left). I check. But somehow I see ALL the Asians heading towards Arrow Left, an all the white people walking into the right lane. Either the board is lying, or I'm being a racist bitch. Probably the latter cos this white lady in uniform said if you're a visitor please head right.

Then this nice Chinese girl in front of me tried to be friends. I don't remember how she looks like anymore. And she probably hates me and think all Malaysians are assholes cos I swear she smiled at me when she looked back while I was in line and she was at the counter. But, I just pretended my face in my passport was far more interesting than hers.

So there, I think all five of my senses were taken for granted all these years and I would like to say I'm sorry and I love you guys. Long time.

Full moon alert. Everyone is nuts. At least my friends are. Random conversations that help me get through the day.

Firstly, we have Nigel.

Part 1


Part 2

After showing it to Matthew,

45 days baybeh!

I was so nervous and anxious about the interview I forgot the most vital document.

My passport.

Twat.

So I had to endure another 24 hours of agony. This is not good for my mental state.

However, I should look on the brighter side of things. Example, things happen for a reason. For all I know, she might get laid tonight in Rum Jungle and be in a better mood tomorrow.

You know you need character adjustment when you inform your friends of your interview with the American consular officer tomorrow and they all say the same thing on separate occasions.

"Be nice"

If you were raised in a Malaysian public primary school, I am pretty sure you've experienced one form or another of what I'm about to tell you.

Firstly, I was in an all girls school. It's supposed to be a convent but we know how that works out here in Malaysia. I would like to point out that it's true. You tend to experience more drama in an all girls school. There's just something about placing eight thousand girls in an enclosed area for more than 5 hours a day that causes unnecessary drama. Reference : ANTM.

However, we were 6 to 12, so the only drama we knew were either bullying or making up and spreading rumours. Today, I shall talk about the rumours that ruined my life in primary school.

1. The School That Is The Hospital That Is The Japanese Occupation

Why would someone say that? Oh, because there was A telephone in ONE classroom throughout the WHOLE floor. Nicely done, asshole. Who died and made you the hospital expert?

2. A Celebrity Is Buried In The School Backyard.

Refer to #1. This piece of rumour derived from the fact that the school is a hospital, some empty lot is automatically a graveyard. It started of with doctors and nurses burying dead soldiers from the hospital and somehow led to a very public figure.

Cinderella.

I remember this girl once insisted that I follow her on the quest to find Cinderella's dear body. Some other kid on crack mentioned that you can find her because her hand is sticking out of the ground and you can't miss it because that hand is still wearing them white satin gloves. Like the one she wore to the ball. Right...

3. The Library

The library is ALWAYS evil. I think someone must've made it up so she didn't have to go there. But I have to admit, when unoccupied, it's pretty creepy. Dimly lit lights and the silence is just haunting.
Word is, there is this one special painting that's haunted. It's a painting of a girl with an umbrella. On some days, her eyes would be looking right and on others, left. Another genius added pepper into this soup of lies by saying that it cried when our decade long principal finally retired. What's your point? That they were having a star crossed love affair?

4. That Fucking Feather

This is a classic personal dumb experience. Bear in mind, I was young and very much stupid. The early years of conjobnism and sneaky bastards begins here. Some money minded swine decided to make extra cash by telling people that she has a special feather that when waved 5 times, you will float and you can fly. Yes, sadly, I wanted to fly so bad I bought it. Both, the feather and the bullshit. The best part is, these people are no amateurs. They worked in pairs because she got a friend to give testimonials that she really did fly! Like totally WHOA WHOA, right? So I bought it and so did my friend. Sucker since the 90s. Friend informed me the next day that she drank up a 1.5 liter water bottle from waving her arms the whole day trying to fly. Moral of the story? There's always someone dumber than you.

5. My Toys Are Alive.

I've been reading Enid Blyton ever since I knew how to read. She talks about fairies, goblins and toys that come to life after 12. See, I forget that other people knew how to read too and chances are, you're not the only fan out there.

So this girl comes to us and tells us that she talks to her toys. That was the first sign that she's a nutjob and that you should run the other way. But you have the Trekkies and the Barry Fannilows, and then you have me, Blytonologist, young and very much stupid. All I did was

"OMG! Thank you Ms Blyton!"

So, the five of us decided to go check out her talking toys. We had our parents drop us off at her house. Her parents were such great hosts. Serving soda and cookies. But then, she comes over and whispers.

"Don't say a word to my parents! They don't know and if they did, The Toys will never come to life"

She puts off bringing us into her room. We got really impatient and she knew she'll be having lunch alone for the rest of the year if she didn't take any action. So, she brought us into her toy room. We waited. And then she goes

"I think they're shy"

What kind of fuckery is that?!
She must've been a very very sick girl. Or on acid.

6. "I Will Kill Your Family!"

In every school, there will be a bully. Someone started spreading rumours that this bully of ours is some sort of witch and that she is capable of killing your entire family through spells, magic, voodoo, chants, you name it. She was always picking on 'lil ol' me. And I would be terrified that I'd lose my parents.

One day, she walks up to me and demands

"Follow me to the washroom and guard my door!"

Probably a dyke now.

However, thinking that I'm part of the Secret Seven and crime solving team, I thought I could question the truth out of her. I did a test.

I said "If I do, please don't kill my family". I was hoping for a confused look or even better, a No. But that bitch had no clue what I was talking about and needed to pee so badly that all she could say was "OK! OK! I need to pee!". I cried the whole night, worried for the safety of my parents.

Revenge is a dish best served cold. I had my revenge 2 years later. But that shall be another story.

7. That 'Lil Forest I Was Telling You About.

There's a forest right next to my school, where we wait for our school buses everyday. Every once in a while, you will see 2 or 3 girls walking out of this forest. And I would always tell myself "Oh how brave!". Just the idea of walking into a forest makes me want to fill a cup. Nothing much has changed, I'm still afraid of jungles and forests to this very day. However, these few girls knew that almost everyone shared my thoughts about unguided jungle trekking. So what more but to polish their badge of bravery with a bunch of bollocks. They started rumours about how there's a waterfall deep in the forest and it was the fountain of youth. Not only that, it was so magical that there was a white Siberian tiger (not so smart then, just white tiger would do) that drank by the waterfalls and would just chill out by the waters. It's so tame you could even pat it.

Conclusion. Whoever said that kids are honest, pure and innocent are in such fucking denial.

During one of my trips to New York's infamous sneaker store, Fight Club, I experienced my first celebrity sighting. Time line's kinda vague. It was between Dec '08 and January '09.

See, when we sighted Chris Brown, we were pretty excited and I guess it showed all over our faces. Because when I turned back for like the 27th time, I saw a big black burly man looking at me.

I'm thinking, "Just 'cos you're a big man doesn't mean you can hit on me when my boyf is just right next to me!". So I alternate glances between Chris Brown and Mr. Big Black Burly Bloke. He was still looking. But he wasn't smiling.

By the 43rd glance, I finally realized he's Chris Brown's bodyguard. I forgot, people like him are incapable of walking around alone. *rolls eyes*. Thanks to Mr. Big Black Burly Bloke Boobietrapme and his dagger eyes, The BF and I just hung around 'cos we left our balls in the court. So no picture of Chris Brown. Plus, I was hoping he'd turn to me and say

"Daaayum girl, you so fine! I need an Asian for my next music video."

'Cos I'd love to say

"Nah son, me no video ho, yo!"

I kid.

So I was going to come home to brag and gloat about standing next to a celebrity. And by standing next to, I don't mean life size doll or front row in a concert.

And then he had to deck Rihanna in the face and pummel her to the state of unconsciousness.

What happens now is when they ask if I saw any celebrities and I say Chris Brown. They cringe and say shit like

"Did he punch you?!"

So not funny. So thank you Chris Brown, for ruining it for me too.

La Douche Ultima and I have always shared similar taste in music. So it's only natural that my iPod consists more than one of songs sent by him.

LDU has been exceptionally dooshie these past weeks and more than ever yesterday.

So, apart from people watching while waiting for a co-worker to pick me up at the LRT station, my iPod is my only companion. Everything was fine and dandy till a song of LDU's started playing. I cringed.

Next.

And another one came on. You see, I have over 400 songs in there, probably 10 of it is his. So that's like a 2.5% chance of having 2 of his songs playing back to back. The disgust flared up in me so bad it was beyond control - like farting. So I went

"Bleurgh!". Tongue out barf motion and all.

Then I realized people were looking at me funny. Yes, my headphones were on and I couldn't gauge my volume through the nausea and Britney Spears warning me he's a womanizer, woman-womanizer, you're a womanizer oh, womanizer.

Spelling errors that annoy the fucks out of me.
I may not be the greatest speller in the world but you're not a qualified therapist to give advice to your friends either.

1. Cox.

As opposed to Because, Cause, 'Cos. Unless you're trying to mention more than one penis, I really think it's inappropriate to drop it in during casual conversations.

Don't talk to me about how my cooking is great (more than one schlong) I am a great cook.

2. Bugs.

"Damn, I really need that 100 bugs back".

Why? You an entomologist now? Who the hell steals 100 of your bugs?

"Are you dumb? It's a term for money."

Really? I got to ask my grasshopper.


Oh, and then there are some who thinks it's funny and smart to spell it as bux.

No.

3. Chic.

Okay, firstly... to call a girl chick is sort of derogatory but I guess it's pretty acceptable now. So do not, and I repeat, do NOT insult fashion as well. I hate it when people say shit like

"I met this chic the other day. She was bla bla bla..."

Either way, it's French. You pronounce it as sheek.

Like what I call you behind your back. Sheethead

4. Mua

Speaking of French, this runs in 4 on my list. When someone says mua, I'm expecting a continuation of hahaha. Apparently I wasn't funny. Cox Because what they really meant was moi.

"This is a pic of my mom and mua"

Ha Ha HA, bitch!

5. WALA!

I'll pay you 3 bugs bucks if you can tell me what this is.
Here's a clue. A moron trying to say 'Ta Da!'.

6. Whank.

Okay seriously, unless you're planning on slamming your genitalia against a brick wall, it's w a n k. When you put an H betwen W and A N K, it somewhat connotes a fusion between "Whack" and "Wank". So I suggest you whack your head (the bigger one, s'il vous plait) for not knowing how to spell what seems to be the most basic method of self satisfying. But you know what is even more self satisfying? Knowing how to spell so no one will actually make a post about it.

Feeling very profound lately.

'The irony of things. I need a car to get a pair of shoes to walk'.

I want a pair of heels and like all store owners tell you when you enquire online or on the phone, it's the last pair. I don't know if I want to risk it but I do wish I had my car.

I'm sorry I called you a Milo tin. This is my karma.

Taking the LRT daily has given me some rather interesing insights. My last train ride was in 2002. I then owned a car and thats when the LRT became beneath me.

Night before my big LRT comeback, each song was selected with care and uploaded in to my iPod. This meticulous selection had to keep me awake and it had to sound cool in case someone beside me could make out what song it is. Then it had to be charged up. Don't want it failing on me, like my daddy's condom the night I was conceived.

So, there I was, proudly flashing my iPod because Apple products own, when I realized something rather tragic. Everyone was on their mobile phones. We're not talking bout texting or calls here. I'm so yesterday Hillary Duff would've been proud.

Next, racism is pretty evident. A Chinese girl once sat across me, next to a Malay man. The moment another Malay man next to me got off the train, she waited 10 seconds, got up and sat next to me. Yeah genius, like we so couldn't tell. Then a Malay lady was standing when a seat next to a Chinese woman became vacant. She chose not to sit. Thinking her stop is coming up next, I told myself to stop calling people I don't know stupid at the back of my head. Turns out, this Indian woman next to me got up and the standing lady walked over and sat next to me. Moral of the story? People can't make out what the hell I am.

And then I have this issue of what to wear to work cum LRT ride. You see, the air conditioning in my office is nothing more than an airconjob. It blows air according to the weather. You can't spell Malaysia without 'SIAL' in regards to its weather. So, if I wear T-shirts and blouses, I'll be greasy enough to sauté your vegetables by evening and if I show slightly more skin than usual to ease the heat, people stare like I'm a morning hooker. Predicaments, predicaments.

Also, owning and using the Touch & Go card automatically makes you better than the rest. By 'the rest', I mean single trip passes.

Lastly, this always happen to me. When I don't have a seat, and am forced to hang on to the metal pole, Benny Benassi's Satisfaction will somehow play on my iPod and for some odd reason, I feel like a damn stripper.

Discovering that your brand new flats do not cut you is like finding a man who'd go down on you.

I'm getting foot cushions nonetheless. You know, just in case.

Have you ever placed a plastic rectangle into a plastic round hole and realized it doesn't fit? No, we're not talking bout ex boyfriends. It's some educational toy you played as a kid. Learning and matchings shapes. That was my first exposure to the word 'match'. Okay I rephrase, that was my second. The first being

"A match causes fire, stay away or mummy will rotan you".

Then came my addiction to television. My favourite TV show was Sesame Street. The fact that I can remember this to this day shows how much of a loser impact it has made in my life. There will be a section on that programme where four objects would dance on the screen and you have to point out which one does not belong in the group. I had to play baby gumshoe and think

"Do apples and tomatoes match?"

This is where I fast forward to secondary school, where going out on a date with a boy was like planning your wedding. You'd call your girlfriends to whine and it'll sound something like

"What the *#$% am I going to wear?!"

That's when you open your closet, stare at it for a couple of minutes and begin picking an outfit. And shoes to match. And a handbag to go with the outfit and shoes. And eyeshadow to match the colour of your dress. And accessories to match your outfit, shoes, handbag and makeup. Now isn't that exhausting? But what's the point? My mother would call me every hour to check on me and whenever there's an opportunity, you will hear these words coming out of her mouth

"NO boyfriend! Finish your studies first!"

Then you turn 29 and if you're still single. Your parents begin to worry as to why haven't you found your perfect match. By 33 and your parents will start playing match maker. And if you have found your other half, you'd have to determine if your personalities match before that ol' ball and chain.

If I charged a dollar for every Match word mentioned here, I'd be RM11 richer. So why the emphasis on it anyway?

Matching has always been a part of my life so it's only evidently clear that Malaysia Airline's (MAS) Premium Match stimulus package is the best for me. I get to search for the lowest air fare and MAS will match that fare. It's like stepping into a cab and seeing Javier Bardem behind the wheel.

I did an online compatibility test last night. Apparently MAS's cabin crew and I are a 98% match. I guess it's because they know what I need and what I want, when I need it and why I need it.

Is this a match made in 'air-ven' or what?

A convo between marcie and I.

I am amazed at the talent I have in cyber stalking.

I've never been a fan of Skype. When I was a PC user, MSN Messenger had an in built video conference function so I never really needed an external programme.

Also, I'm pretty camera shy. So unless I plan to seduce you with the upper half of my body, I'll deny having a webcam.

Then came the Macbook, and I had no choice but to install Skype in order to keep in touch with my PC user friends seeing that is the only PC-Mac video chat compatible at that time.

I repeat, I'm camera shy so unless I need to, Skype is just a waste of megabytes.

My Skype status is constantly on "away" or "busy".

So today, fel requested for my Skype tag. I couldn't remember so I opened the underused folder and ran the application. I started to fiddle with the options and functions because it's been awhile. I thought I'd try something new, instead of my permanent "away" status. I switched to SkypeMe(TM) with a little smiley face.

"Aww, how cute"

*click*

In less than 5 minutes, a K e l l w i n n IMs me a "Hi" on Skype. Before I could even type W T F R U, I heard a ringing. I looked up and saw an incoming call. For a moment I thought it was an ex class mate from high school. Same name, different spelling, but you know how people love being creative with their names. Doubtful. He's never been this excited to talk to me.

I canceled.

It rings again.

I asked if I knew him, he just gave me the most basic cyber foreplay reply.

im 30 m
from cyprus
can we talk?
on web

I canceled it and blocked this motherfucker.

I was immensely irked. How did this manwhore find me? My settings are always set to private.

Just as I was complaining to Vince, some 'Pollub' tried adding me.

This is where some MTV guy jumps out, dances and yells "HA HA! You hot tempered bitch. You lost a hundred dollars!"

So, when did I turn into a Skype hooker?

Late night.
Dim LED lights.
In a dark corner, parks the alphabets e k l h, idling with fishnet stockings and a neon pink leather tube top smoking a cigarette.
Mr. im 30/m/cyprus scrolls pasts with sleazy Hawaiian shirt. Sees her and stops.
"How much?

some Pollub surfs past.
Brakes.
"Sexy time?"

/ping timeout

I found out that SkypeMesmileyface is a cyber rape open invitation where all privacy settings are turned off! All Skypers online at the same time can see you.

Moral of the story? Just because it's a cute icon doesn't mean weird old pervy men won't say hi.

Since when was blogging the bible truth?

Teacher - student, nurse - patient, boss - secretary.

These are the first few things you pervs think about when you hear the word Roleplaying. Let's pay Daniel Day Lewis a visit and go back to the age of innocence.

Poofy skirts are back in fashion but when I was 10, I wore it first. I wanted to be Alice in Wonderland, so I'd wear my puffy skirts and tuck a handkerchief right at the elastic below my belly. This is to have Alice's apron-like effect.



Then, I'd sit in my garden with the poofiness of my skirt around me like a doughnut and I'm the hole. Angry ex boyfriends call me that. In order to have that effect, I had to kneel and sit on my legs. The grass played acupuncture and my knees would turn black. The Mother always wondered why. Next, in the Disney version, she makes a wreath out of some white flowers. Alice made it so easy, but I should've known she's a stoner. I tried weaving the ixora flowers from my garden. I could never make it past two. I honestly believed it was the flowers and if I had the same ones, it would work.

Also, I worked the headband before Blair Waldorf did.

As much as I wanted to be Alice, I wasn't as nuts to talk to cats and teapots. I retired when I decided to be a ghost buster.

My late 80s backpack was as such. It was square with two plastic buckles on each side where you press it and it slides open. It was navy blue with penguins on it. I carried it on my shoulders, put on a cap and held a broom stick. I traveled my house and gardens in search for ghosts. When I think I'd found one, I'd throw a frisbee imagining ghosts getting sucked in.

I too retired when my bubble of Casper and marshmallow sailor ghosts was burst and replaced with Poltergeist and The Exorcist.

Whenever the cousins gathered for family events, we'd pretend to be Justice League. There were four of us. The older siblings vs. our younger siblings. Because we were older and bigger, we bullied. We were the super heroes while our younger siblings played villain. Always. Boy Cousin naturally played Superman while I, who apparently started slutty young, played Wonder Woman. I would've walked around like an underaged hooker, but decided to stick with what my mom put me in; Osh Kosh B'gosh overalls. With skipping rope in hand and The Father's sweaty sports band around my forehead, we owned. I too, walked around pretending I'm in my invisible helicopter while the Boy Cousin tied a towel around his neck and walked with his arms vertically in the air. We'd fly side by side while plotting to destroy the bad guys. We were the ugliest super heroes to save the earth.

We outgrew cartoons and started reading books. We pretended to be Enid Blyton's Secret Seven characters. Thing is, there were only three older siblings vs. three younger siblings. A new name is required. We looked up the dictionary for a fancy word that began with the letter T. The best we could come up with was "Tropical Three". We were 11.

Unless there are mystery cases by the name of "The Case of Mama's Missing Mah-Jong", our task is to solely spy and discover our opponent's password so we could enter their secret tree house. A.k.a the room opposite ours. We'd do amateur CIA things like send a member over and tell them he's been kicked out and request to be recruited and once he gained the password, he'd excuse himself to take a piss and reveal the password to us. They were 9.

My point? Kids these days lack imagination.

Ever felt that your mom has ESP and could feel what you feel?

Was having this conversation with marcie where his mom came home one day and handed him the greatest CD on earth. A.K.A Disney movies soundtrack. He was delirious because he had been talking about Hercules, The Little Mermaid, Sleeping Beauty and other Disney princesses for awhile now. I doubt he discussed Disney Princesses with his mom. He must've prayed to Lord Walt, for somehow the ghost of Walt Disney spoke to her in her dream and convinced her to support his products and keep his royalties rolling and also because her beloved son needs it.

Somewhere across the map on sunny Sunday afternoon, I woke up and craved for KFC. I must have been 6 months imaginary pregnant because I would tell anyone who would listen than I want them fried chikins. Thing is, you can never find a KFC at every corner like the Golden Arches, so it would have been inconvenient to make such a request from my mother. However, she came home carrying a red and white bag. I have never been happier to see an old bearded white man smiling sleazily.

Today, I was rather sleepy at work, for my Circadian rhythm is still out of sync. So to keep myself awake, I needed to munch on something and all of a sudden, I had this strong craving for keropok. It didn't help that I was whining about it in the office and my colleague started sending me pictures of them. So you don't have to guess who came to my rescue but good ol' momma. She picked me up and I was moaning about being hungry and she said look through my bag. I have food. She was my Doraemon. I found a bag of keropok and if I didn't have such a hard time tearing it open, I would've shed tears of joy.

So I have a theory why mothers can be such great mind readers.

They lied to us. They never really did cut our umbilical cord, which is why we experience this strange connection with our mothers.