last day...

Recap of the final week of college:

Monday.

We had a fun lab. Which is strange. Only one other lab had ever been fun, and that was unintentional. This one, was a basic cooking class. We made peanut brittle. Damn cool.

The funny thing was that the procedure referred to peanuts as protein pellets.


Tuesday.
Theresa didn't come. This basically fucked the entire running for our presentation. So now a few of us have to go back to present. This is so frustrating. Seems that this is her first and last semester here. No shocker, really.

Wednesday.
Did random things. Camwhoring in class is fun, I suppose.

Praxter got people to scribble on this shirt. Now he looks like a hobo. Someone shoot him. Mwahahaha. In other notes, I felt that this was quite pointless a day.


This is Bryant. He was the feller I was 'smooching'.


Oh. I saw a chicken crossing the road. Literally.

Today.

More camwhoring. Well, not really, but at least we got class photos together. Better ones than what we had. I'm thinking of swapping the photos in. Hmm.


Also, I decided that the lecturers are acting like little children. Especially over the yearbook. This is bloody annoying. And is also the last time I work with 'grown-ups'. What the fuck. They seriously should learn to be more enthusiastic about taking photos. One thing: you're not gonna live forever. Make sure you're not forgotten. Kinda wish Ms Karen was there. I'm sure she'd 'compel' them to take pics.


Also had a briefing on procedures for graduation. Sounds like fun. We get to play with fire! Mwahahahaha.


Wasn't as good a final day as a final day of college should have been, but I really can't complain, in that sense. I guess expecting too much out of life leads to disappointment. Just I have so often been disappointed, and disappoint. But that really isn't an immediate concern.

Tomorrow.
ENG4U paper. Don't know what to think. It's hardly going to be an interesting paper, for one. For another, I'm pretty sure I don't want it marked. Theresa isn't exactly known to be an efficient marker, for one. Sarno shoulda taught 4U this semester. Life would have made so much more sense.

Tis the beginning of the end. Sigh.



Enough about the diary-like entries. So filled with the essence of curdled milk (a.k.a. cheesy). A review!

Went to Restoran Kong Mah Sdn. Bhd. A little dim sum shop in Sungai Buloh. Nice, relatively clean.

Got lotsa stuff. I don't know what they're called, or maybe I'm too lazy to remember.


Steamed stuff. I like the curry beans and fish-things. And foo-chok. Or fcuk. Same la.



Fried stuff. Radish cakes and yam cakes are nice.



Century egg porridge. Damn good. Lotsa meat and fried crispy things and egg. They also have long sticky noodles (chee cheong fun), but didn't order.


Jelly. The black one is supposed to be good for blood circulation or something. Tastes bitter.


How to get there from Subang via NKVE:
Take the NKVE to Exit 113. Make two immediate left turns, go on straight. Turn right just in front of a BP. Follow the road straight down until you reach an RHB branch. Turn left. Park anywhere there. Kong Mah is on the same block, at the other end.

Using Old Subang Airport road, just keep going straight pass Terminal 3 and all those other weird random restaurants like Papa Chop Mama Grill and what have you. Keep following the road, until you reach a Caltex. Turn right at that junction. Follow the road on straight until you come to BP, then turn left. Follow straight down to RHB, turn left, park anywhere.


Relatively cheap. If you don't get unnecessary extras that is. Averaging at 2.20 a dish to 4.00, I'd say it's a good deal for dim sum, if a bit far to travel. But then again, doesn't matter no?

I seriously don't know how my dad parks so close to the lamp post.


Meh.

incompetance...

I swear. I have never come across such incompetance in my life. How can so many intellectually challenged people exist in such a small space? It's statistically impossible.

First of, the yearbook people are total worthless dipshits. There are a few exceptions, but in general. Ergh. The rest are fine, but it's the fucking design team that pisses me off. What the fucking hell is wrong with them? This isn't the first time and it won't be the last that I'm ranting about them. And why shouldn't I?

The lecturers are really starting to get on my nerves. In general, I used to think quite well of them. Then, things started to break down. First of, ENG4U isn't meant to be taught by someone less organized than the students. Next, when a teacher runs out of time to complete something, she should just scrap it, rather than make people come back to complete it. To cut some slack, she is a fresh graduate and everything. But I never forgive incompetance. Such stupidity is only to be found in organisms without brain stems. And another. You'd think for a program being promoted as one where the lecturers are outgoing and fun and whatnot, you'd think they'd be more receptive to photos. The rather undead look they give me everytime I want a photo done is too frustrating to describe. I should bring holy water.

I'm feeling extreme hatred for many things. Right now, it's a fuel. However, should temperatures rise, it will become an explosive.

Bring on the libel suits and what-have-you. You can't win. It's definitely not slander or libel or whatever, if it's true, no?

Meh.

help...

I'm not myself lately. That much you can tell. At least, from the fluctuating moods to the random annoyances to the easily-pissed-off-ness. Plus, I'm eating a lot less, but somehow am feeling fuller.

Next time, when I join a yearbook, I'm going to make sure that the team that pushes through the final result has skills above the category Motor. Fucking retards can't even come up with a plausible excuse from trying to escape meetings and save their asses. At least Ms Foo is gonna cut their marks and give them a bad report for fucking everything up. Haha. She's so cool.

Boy. I'm getting fat. Everything is becoming jelly-like again. Either that, or the fat is reducing so that it's less packed, meaning more wobbly. Whatever it is, hope it goes soon. Very annoying walking around like an unset jello.

I'm thinking of putting myself back on the market. But before selling a product, we must first see if there's a demand. Is there? Anyone?

Meh.

a property of light...

I was going to write reflection, but it's been used already. So I say property of light, which is more general, but encompasses reflection.

Another examination of my situation does indeed confirm that in my family, I am indeed the fugliest. All the cousins on my mother's side are of above average appearance, while I am either of just average, or lower, appearance. That is mostly my fault, I can say, but it does not mean I am not frustrated. On the other hand, the cousins on my father's side are mostly intellectual giants (okay, fine, relatively) or have this annoying trait of natural dilligence. In comparison, I have nothing from both sides, or if you choose to look at it the other way, I have a bit of both. Which leads me to a half baked potato situation.

Some Mormons rung the doorbell this evening while I was burning away holes in the enemy defence with a particle cannon. They may be quite inspiring, yes, with all their faith and stubborn, er, stubbornness. But they're bloody annoying. They think nothing of interrupting you in the middle of meh to tell you something you'd forget 5 minutes after they leave. Buddy, if I need someone to tell me how to get to heaven, it certainly isn't someone who will disturb me while I'm slicing my way through enemy ranks with a bright pink laser shooting from the sky.

What's with the name Latter Day Saints anyways? Are they always late? In which case, when the Pearly Gates snap shut, they'd be kinda left out, won't they? The whole point is defeatist. And, I don't need a prophet leader. If I'm going to hell, let it be on my own account, not because someone decided that annoying me in the middle of a well planned skirmish was justified because they wanted me to join their cult.

And they talk funny, too.

I just realised that you people get all a-scared of me when I'm pissed. There's a whole lot of "was it me?" "did I piss you off?" "what's going on?"

Basic fact is, someone pissed me, and I became pissed as a result of being pissed. And for once, I allowed a minor lashing. Very small, almost unnoticable. But it was anyways. And that should be taken as a sampling of what I'll do, except with greater magnitude, the next time I am pissed.

Funny thing how there's a don't hit girls policy going around. Okay, to be frank, I don't like hitting girls. I love girls. Without them, the world would be one testosterone pot. That's fine, no? You feminits amuse me.

It's those that insist that girls are equal to guys that ask to be walloped. Understand this: if girls were equal to guys, they'd produce sperm. And be less sqeuamish. The fact is that you are not equal. Hell, we're not even playing the same game. On what basis do you ground equal gender rights?

If you want to be treated equally, fine by me. Also expect to be smacked around equally. And embarassed equally. And humiliated equally. You don't get to choose which nice bits about being a guy and discard the rest, if ever there WAS anything great about being male. Take it all, or shut up.

Feminist bra burners should all be beaten to a pulp. Prove them right. Then they will be begged to be proven wrong.

Don't get me wrong. I love girls. I wouldn't hurt one. Unless they piss me off. Anyone assuming that gender is protection is sadly mistaken. You see, I'm a feminist too.

And I love guys. But you don't see me NOT bashing them up periodically, no?

There are two things you can do when you're depressed. Mope, or lash out at other people. Talking isn't one of them, because if your sense of reasoning was at that level, you'd hardly be down enough to qualify as depressed. And I think I am. If you think all this is a personal attack against yourself, then it is. If you think I'm just hormonal and need to get laid so I can just shut up, then I'm just hormonal and need to get laid so I can just shut up. If you think YOUR underwear is too tight, you'd better change it.

One reason why I haven't yet physically assaulted a female yet is because you girls are just better for cuddling than guys. Another would be that it takes a lot to piss me off to that level and you girls are just too adorable most of the time.

Patronizing? Me? I wish I was that approved of.

Meh.

greenhorn...

Just something hilarious I suppose I should share. You're probably too annoyed with the angry posts lately.

Keith is a constant source of amusement. Today, we were talking about sex and sexuality (aiya, we always talk about that, when I'm not twisting his mind over reality), and I said something about him not gonna be able to get laid with the way he thinks.

Keith: Well, I don't think I'll get laid anytime soon. My parents wouldn't like it.

Me: What the fuck? You're gonna ask your mom if you can fuck that girl first issit?

*imaginary conversation*

Keith: Mom, there's this girl I'm interested in fucking. Would that be alright with you?

Mom: No.

Like, what the fuck.

He's probably that green about sex la.

Then Kailash came into the conversation.

Kai: Hey Keith. I think we need to go get you a video la.

Me: Yeah, show you how to do it la. Hell, give me a pencil and paper right now I give you illustration.

Kai: No need! Just remember! Angkat, tolak, masuk, picit! (with visual illustrations using hands)

What the fuck.

Sex education. Leave it to the professionals.

On another note, I forgotten why I was so pissed, so I will stop being pissed. But if I remember, I will continue being pissed.

Meh.

happy thoughts, eh...

According to the O.C., tis the time of year for happy thoughts. Apparently, my brain didn't get the memo.

Happy. Hardly. I'm still pissed. But I don't remember why. Those long dead people who first said "forgive and forget" have obviously been forgotten, but as to whether they have been forgiven is another matter entirely.

I'm going to have to make it a point to be more violent. It's high time I'm taken seriously. You think I'm joking? Good.

To prove someone wrong, first prove them right.

People hate a smart alec. Fortunately, my name's not Alec.

Meh.

this is just the beginning...

You know who you are. That is only a taste of what I can do.

Do not piss me off again. Next time, I will smack you upside. I don't have qualms about hitting girls. Being physically weaker doesn't make you safe. And morality are for those who are weak and stupid.

Piss me of again, and you will see what happens next.

your face...

...is your fortune. Or so they say.

I'm broke.

Apparently, according to my mom, my grandma cries herself to sleep because her oldest grandson that can pass on the family name (me, that is), is ugly. I suppose it should comfort her by telling her I don't plan to have kids. Or get married, for that reason. Maybe I should tell her I'm gay. That should provoke interesting response.

My mom ain't helping much either. She took a look at this pic:

"Who is this girl?"

What the fuck?

I have a new cousin. I can't remember his name.

Let's hope he can fill in the big shoes that a grandson should. I failed. And if my brother turns out anything like me, he'll fail too.

I'm quite pissed. I hate it when my parents tell me off for anything, especially in public. Sometimes, I wonder if it's me. If I'm the childish one to sorta deserve admonition the way you'd scold a child. And if so, is it my fault? Can you expect me to behave any more adult if you insist on treating me like a child? I suppose not. At any rate, I don't act. I don't pretend. At least, not all the time. But the treatment continues regardless.

I'm so fucked. A look in the mirror confirms that my grandmother probably isn't wrong. A look at my mannerisms also confirms my parents opinion of me. And a quiet sit down alone shows that inside, I'm probably equally fucked up.

Walking in the Curve today, I almost wanted to ask my parents: if I died tomorrow, what would you do with the money you plan to spend on my Uni fees? The more I look at it, the less point I see in continuing this course of existence. I will never accept the life of a desk jockey, and I don't think I could actually do a business of my own. Any money spent on me from this point onwards seems like a pathetic waste.

It turns out that the downpayment for this house was paid just after my dad paid 6k for my first piano. It seems he's still not too happy that I haven't gotten anything tangible out of it. As I know it, he's a man to get the most out of his investment, and frankly, this one is sort of the kind that will keep taking, and has no dividend. And, I'm talking about me.

Went out for dinner with Tjit and Darien. SS2 after 7 in that food court place is teeming with chicks. As in, hot chicks. Plenty of eye candy for Tjit. From his eyes alone, which were basicaly glazed over. Darien was quite used to it, since he comes here almost all the time. Me, I dunno. I just sat there. This chick in a Hotlink staff uniform comes up to sell us phone numbers, I just wave her off.

Darien: What la you, chicks come, chit chat a bit la.

Me: Want to say what? I don't need a new number, but I can certainly do with yours?

Tjit: Yeah! He he he...

Me: *swt*

I make this most weird of statements.

Me: Strange thing is, I'm not attracted to girls who are attracted to me. But I'm attracted to girls who aren't.

Darien: So, you weren't attracted to Evon.

That hit me like a brick. I was. And probably still am. I know for certain I loved her. Any maybe still do. In a way, how she was, and is, special is that there was a mutual attraction. In general, that doesn't happen all the time. For me, it was plain unique. As far as I know, nobody ever loved me that way.

Why do I wax lyrical over the past? It's driving me insane. I know I'm fucked. I know I'm likely to have a nervous breakdown by my next birthday. I know I'll likely have a suicide attempt sometime in this life, and fail miserably at it. And I know that I'm not helping anyone here. Sigh.

People are telling me to just get laid so I can shut up. Maybe just skip that, and shut up. The more I talk, the more I seem to screw things up. Liz says I look so happy in my pics. Maybe, it's the fact that I'm so good at lying about everything, that even my outside is starting to believe it. I'm a most convincing actor. I can even act that I cannot act. And best of all, I never knew I had the talent.

My marks are fucked. Verily so. Anything less than a 90 is not useful for my purposes. And I won't likely have that 90. My marks have fallen so low, I need an oil rig to dig for it. If it isn't, it certainly feels that way.

It never rains but pours. The bottom of the cycle is followed by the downturn of many unrelated things. I normally wouldn't give a fuck about the opinions of others. But it seems, that in the past year, I've changed. And not just once. I think I'm becoming normal. And for that, I fear for my soul. Finally.



Meh.

steak...

Forgive the photography. Handphone cameras aren't exactly ideal for this purpose.

San Francisco Steakhouse. Classy setting, very American bistro. It's a dim, almost cave-like ambience, kinda like a hacienda.

Oxtail soup was good. Thick, creamy, and a generous portion of meat. The soup part was a bit too low on volume, though.


Lime juice. Very sour, as expected. Nothing extroadinary.


This is a whole fish. The bones are all there, but apparently it's sweet. No idea what it's called though.


Lamb shank. As in, whole hip of lamb. In a stew. Not too bad, but I prefer my lamb roasted or grilled.


Highlight, and most expesive, dish: Magyu beef cut.

120g costs a whopping 88 bucks. Whether it's worth it or not, I can't say. But I can say this: It's freaking good.

The meat is still red inside, so it's really soft and tender and fleshy.

Juices are flowing, and the sauce leaves a lasting impression on you. Kind of how your first sex should be like.

Also available: Live American lobster. Nobody had it, mostly because someone decided she didn't like seafood. At least you know it's fresh enough that it's staring at you.


Live music. These guys were good. Twas a shame there were so few people in the house. A good repertoire, and I think they're from Sri Hartamas, or somewhere.


Only real complaint is that the maitre' d was a bit blunt. Maybe she's out of practice.

Verdict: 4 out of 5. Worth a try, if you've got the cash lying around. Pricey, but you get a few unusual things on the menu. If you want to stick to more conventional fair, I suggest you stick to Victoria Station, or the Ship.

Next time, I bring the D70.

Meh.

ruminating...

I think it actually means something to do with cows, but I forget, so, meh.

The last time I felt this drained was when I had that surgery and they had to basically wash out my blood. That was a weird time.

Had the most delectable piece of cow for dinner. Like, good. The Japanese may be short and kinky, but they sure know how to make good beef. Magyu beef, which are basically Japanese cows grown in Australia. Yeah, okay fine. Whatever. At any rate, it was good. San Francisco Steakhouse. The place in the Summit is kinda fucked, cuz it's quite empty, but the food is good, service prompt. Maybe because it's empty. Anyways, blur pics soon to come. Forgot to bring camera. Like, camera phones seriously have to NOT be VGA phones.

I'm going to make it a point to wake up insanely early and go for walks. Then come back, lift weights a bit, then maybe run around some. The point is to work the body to exhaustion. Time to break it down into tiny bits, then reconstruct it. Especially the brain. It's beginning to malfunction lately, as you can see with my most recent posts.

Drastic situation I'm in. I'm no longer top in anything. My chem's fucked. English even more fucked. And I'm short of 1 to be top of geometry. And those of you tearing out your nipples in outrage at my seemingly ungratefulness of my position can go right ahead. Once you've tasted ambrosia, you don't go back to downing air tebu. So, make sure you have the number of a good plastic surgeon to reattach your detached mammary glands.

I've lost touch with myself. And other people. And I don't miss it one bit. It's hard to, when it doesn't quite miss you either. Time to move on, eh? I'm getting quite emo lately. No idea why. Maybe it's the emo component of me finally coming out? Quite strange, can fell all sorts of pangs for stuff I don't normally even think about. And songs can make me stop dead in my tracks because they remind me of things, even though I've never heard the song before. One particular one is Utada Hikaru's Final Distance.

As of yet, there are no applications for that smooching post. Oh well. it is not crucial, and I do not have the time to finance such a position, so, I suppose it's a good thing. There are more important biological voids to fill, such as my renewed compulsion for eating all the time. This is proving expensive, since my choice of nourishment has attained somewhat loftier positions ever since I started eating less, but higher up the scale. Must starve into insanity. That usually rebalances the checkbooks. Of course, the more obvious option would be to eat cheap, but obvious is boring, isn't it?

Emo kid, maybe that's what I've been unconciously all this while. Lucid thinking seems to be the predominant trait and can somehow override more pressing emotional concerns. Crying is hard still, but I'm letting loose the twistedly insane cheerful streak so often that I think I may have gotten someone to somehow change his sexual orientation. Coolness.

I read this story of this boy who had long silver hair, one cybernetic eye, and apparently full of life. He had this quirky trait of being so inanely cheerful that everyone had no choice but to live to his level of enthusiasm. He had this problem, similar to epilepsy, that could only be controlled through the ingesting of some addictive, mentally eroding drug. And of course, another guy falls for him and something something. Of course, this is a lemony bit of fiction, but it was a good one with a real interesting story. You can read it here. The weird part is seeing my name in the story. Repeatedly.

Such an emo character I am. And then again, not. The manner in which I can instantly regain composure is so unsettling to me that sometimes I question my own intentions. The sad part is not being able to answer for sure. I pray somehow that out there, someone can finally fix me up to perfection, or deconstruct me so completely, that fixing would never be an issue.

Ah, emo kid am I.

Meh.

fucked both ends...

There's no doubt about it. The yearbook has been run by incompetants all along. Design team is absolutely retarded if they expect these designs to be passable for a yearbook. Mr Meagher is right. It doesn't say very much about us if we don't even have the organizational skills to get something as simple as a yearbook out. And even though I don't think much of people in general, I certainly am out to increase the value of my shares.

To be associated with such idiots is mind boggling. How on earth such retardedness has been allowed to fester for so long is beyond me. The people in charge of such a mess should be drawn and quartered and fed to rabid platypi.

Okay, fine. Not ALL the designs suck so badly. Some are, perhaps, usable. In a vague sense. But all in all, the use of clipart in a Word document does not constitute yearbook material. Throw in wordart, and you're screaming bloody murder. If you do not possess the slightest nuance of the use of Photoshop, or any similar designing tool, do not presume to place yourself on the design team. Had this been an established publication, maybe you could have had on job training. But the very fact that you've been too rock-like in your motions and very much the same in your brains, is reason enough to have you crushed for road gravel.

The book will come out. That much is sure. I will see to it that it DOES NOT SUCK. At least, if it does, it won't create a space-time vortex that the current mostrosity does. It is not excusable to be this retarded. Ever.

I think it's pretty stupid to take on a double edged sword, especially since I don't like pointy things. But swordfighting is fun, and when you have the cutting edge to unhedge careers and reputations, the lure to play with sharp point objects increases. Just hope I don't poke my eyes out.

Meh

gullible...

That's what you people are, if you believed that particular smooching thing from the last post. Can you imagine any guy wanting to kiss me? Hey, if there are, I'd be happy to go along with it. So what if that's gay? You discrimnating against fags? Well, you can just take your bigotist homophobic anus padding somewhere else. Me, on the other hand, am quite willing to get a good smooch from just about anyone.

Want to apply? You gotta match a few things:

~Be of reasonable appearance. I'm not gonna kiss anything that broke a mirror lately.

~Don't have bad breath. Garlic and onions are fine. I like spicy. But morning breath and severe halitosis should be treated with a double shot of 200 proof (read 100%) alcohol and lit with a blowtorch.

~Must have chocolates on hand. Smarties don't count.

~Must not be out for a relationship. I just want to see what kind of kisser you are. Anything further than that is unwarranted and will be rewarded by instant molecular decomposition. Of course, if you want to buy me dinner, that will be most welcome.

I think there was once I mentioned in a most nonchalant manner to a particular someone that I had a footlong cock. The interesting thing was that for the next few days, I found that many people were staring at my crotch in school. If I recall correctly, there was an attempt to put hands there to confirm the fact.

Gullible bastards. If I had a footlong cock, I'd be wearing shorts to school everday. Mwahaha.

Seems that the new in-thing to do is write like Maddox. And no, he does not have the best page in the universe. And yes, I'm too lazy to hyperlink. He just happens to have a particularly vapid readership of depressed wankers, suicidal bimbos, homocidal maniacs and Malaysian politicians. Maybe I have to change my ranting style to something distinctly me, namely writing out whole dialogues. Too bad I don't have the attention span to pay attention to most of your pointless shenanigans.

The Irish are weird. Who else would eat potatoes and wear green all the time?

Apparently, I'm not that funny. But I don't really care. If I was funny, I'd laugh at myself. And that would be stupid.

Yearbook arrangements are getting fucked. I am extremely annoyed at all this. Honestly, is it too hard to find competant designers these days? Ah, no. That's not the only problem. Now it seems that I may somehow be pointed a finger at. Fucktards. I don't owe any of you anything. Least of all since I'm probably one of the few who actually got their jobs done, and probably the only likely to be able to help you out of this bind. And in all honesty, I am pretty much looking forward to the potential carnage that WILL happen sooner or later. Last man standing is a bitch. And anyone who believes that it's all gonna happen nicely is a gullible bitch.

SPM for you spammers. Having fun? I'm sure you are. Since it's only a few more days before the living hell of pointless anticipation ends. You'll all go off on your joyful randomness and stuff. Then the results will come out, thereby refreshing the stale browser of panicked reality. The tizzying frenzy is music to my ears. Killjoy, that's what I am. Brutal fact. Not that you can ever escape it, at least not the way you're trying to. Only a fool would believe he could.

People hating each other is annoying when I'm caught in between. And then there's also multiple cases to face all at once. And misunderstanding is particularly exasperating when you're supposed to be the one at fault, and I take no blame for anything. If it IS my fault, then boohoo for you, because you should have realised earlier that I owe you nothing, least of all an explanation. When I get nothing out of it, you can count on it that I don't really give a fuck what happens to your precious cargo. You want me to care, then give me something to gain out of it. Charity begins at home. They never said where it would end.

I'm not a very prejudiced person. I have only ONE prejudice, and that would be against stupid people. It's just plain coincidence that almost everyone is stupid. So, boohoo, too bad, I'm prejudiced against you. Those of you who debate by saying stupidity is relative, well, guess what? You're stupid.

Always court Disaster. Her sister Adventure might decide your flirty advances are enticing. Who knows, you might even bed her. The problem is when Disaster decides she wants a piece of the action too. Then, you're fucked. Literally.

Meh.

reflection...

Normally, you'd need a mirror or some sufficiently shiny and reflective surface to reflect upon, but I don't really like my reflection. Yes, I look in the mirror a lot, but it's only to see if the fucked-upness has faded. Unsurprisingly, it hasn't.

Normally, I'd write about how come this is so, but I presume you've heard enough. Besides, since you're doing it purely for your own amusement, you might as well come ask me in the face, and I'll give you a full account of it. Rather, I'm going to tell you how fucked up the people AROUND me are. Yeah. That means you! And if you're offended, then like, maybe you should go take a shotgun and blast your brains out, because I'd do that, except it'd inconvenience me.

First, there's these two people that I sorta met online. I don't like naming because it's tiring, so I won't say it's Darien and Liz and I won't say that they're probably arguing over something totally irrelevant and I also won't mention that it's almost hilarious if it wasn't so annoyingly, erm, annoying, for a reason I cannot explain. Nope. I won't tell you that. Rather, I'll say that it probably will prove amusing how it turns out and that I'll sit back and watch the fireworks except that fireworks are dangerous and probably illegal too but that doesn't really matter because most of us are probably criminals anyway. So, make sure you're not wanted for any major crime like murder, rape, or wearing pink undies on the outside.

I think I probably made an interesting embarassment of myself in 4U today. People were rambling on and on about something irrelevant that I cannot recall, but I DID remember that I was extremely hyper, bouncing around, talking very quickly, almost like rambling but somehow what I said makes sense, and I'm getting the feeling that this Keith guy sorta worships me but that's getting way ahead of myself. No, I think it's my breath that made them so, erm, attentive. *sniff* Smells like garlic. Excellent.

This dude, not sure how to spell his name since I don't think we pronounce it right anyways, erm, Saraunan, or summat like that. Meh. Anyway, he has an interesting suicide attempt history. He's quite ditzy, maybe even more so than Kian, though that's hard to imagine. I presume it's probably all those attempts that sorta fried those already overheated neurons. I have the vague feeling that it's all an act, but somehow, it's a bit too convincing. At any rate, the scar in the shape of an E and the numerous slash marks on his arms, and not to mention the absolutely baked appearance of his sorta persuades me to think he might be telling the truth. And to think all I ever tried was to stand in front of a moving bus. Meh.

Fuck this keyboard...

People who designed the yearbook the first time round, I think, should be submitted to 5835236 hours of inane talk by some inane talking feller. Fuck. They're so unable to do a straight design, it's so frustrating. To be kind, I just say that I wouldn't pay 50 bucks for a book like that. Still kind, I'd say it's a waste of colour pages. To be relatively nice, I'd say that they should really try looking at the pages while designing them. To be polite, I'd say their tastes, assuming that they WERE looking at the screen while working, are in question. To be honest, I'd say they should be hung by piano strings and meathooks, be tortured with 5112436224125 hours of Malaysian political speeches, drawn and quartered, have their eyeballs gouged out, and their twitching corpses flung over a collapsing cliff into a pool of iron spikes and flaming liquified reindeer shit. And that still wouldn't have done justice to how they squashed my photos.

Thank God for someone who is on too long a holiday and is too religious to wank. Thanks, Ooi Keong, lolz.

Geometry is fun. I can't really complain about the people. Sure, half the class are noobs, meaning 5, and the other half are dorks. Me, I'm just visiting long term watching the noobs and dorks dish it out, cuz I'm a hot stud looking for a good fuck *says the oblvious nerd who dresses in dorky clothes with noobish hair*. At any rate, I get to gloat cuz I'm the best at geometry ever! Tralalalalala. Note: If I ever did that in front of your face, your ancestors would turn in their graves so fast that if you wound copper coils around them and replaced their tombstone with a magnet, the electricity they would generate would overload the national grid. Note about the Note: If you didn't get it, you're stupid.

Damn you Prax. You gave a good rating for my blog. Now people are gonna expect some genius writing here and find only some scribblings of some ugly fat guy that poses in stupid kawaii poses because he's an ignorant camwhore. For YOUR information, that deserves a godly rating. Meh.

This sounds ranty. It's not. You only think it's ranty because you're a degenerate and couldn't understand it anyways. Ranty is more like: OMFG I'm gonna die because that stupid fucking bitch stole my nail file!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!111111111111oneoneoneoneone That's ranty. Now, this. This is deep introspective observation coupled with a witty tongue lashing topped with a generous creme de spite. Or something. I can't be bothered to look up weird sounding French vocabulary. In the words of a Professor Henry Higgins: The French don't care what they say as long as they pronounce it properly.

I sound like Maddox. But I am not. Because Maddox has small balls, and mine are not. Of course, Kenny Sia has coconuts, but hell, I'll not be forced to go pants shopping again so soon.

I want to call Evon to ask her something, but it will sound stupid over the phone and I'll forget what I'm saying. And the weird thing is that Perlis has a better internet connection than SEA Park does. Anyways, E, if you see this, like try to get me online. It's too random to ask face to face or over the phone.

How much gayer can I get? Very. I've been smooching Bryant in the cafeteria the whole morning while helping him with his project. Well, I suppose it's not technically, since smooching requires some sort of physical contact. But apparently Keith gets freaked out by this (and strangely he's taken to playing along. Gross...) it was well worth the rather weird feeling that comes with making out with a guy.

If you believed anything up there, you're stupid. If you don't, you're also stupid. Mwahahaha.

Meh.

some art...

I discovered I could do real cool art today. Take a look and tell me what you think they are!





Obviously, you can cheat. But then again, you'd gotta be a real wuss, or have taken too much time off wanking to do that.

Meh.

curry in my coffee...

SOMEONE finally claimed his coffee today. Finally.

Waking up at 10 in the morning is pretty invigorating. Especially if you've been up the whole morning observing a pretty interesting exchange between a 15 year old emo-kid, a sesat 15 year old friend of the emo-kid, some hot chick and her sadistically twisted boyfriend (both out to score some karma by twisting the fucked up brains of 15 year olds).


Anyways, made my quick way to KTM Subang. Strange thing today. I got trains as soon as I arrived at each station all the way. The fucked up part is that the trains moved especially slow. Seems like some anal retentive manager decided to save on electricity. Probably siphoning it off for his/her/its sadistic anal-electro-sex fetish games.

Reached there, found the O.C. standing behind me (I really gotta try looking behind sometimes), and went for lunch. This was supposed to be a review of sorts, but I don't have the attention span to try the variety of food, so I'll just show what we had today.


O.C. had nasi lemak. Very original. But I suppose if people would quuee qeeu queueu (shit, my England si liao) line up 40 person thick, it must be very good. By his account, it was. For one, I have never seen anyone so focused on egg yolk, gross-maggoty-sea-crustacean floss, shreds of denatured bird breast and pickled green stuff before.



Nasi Bojari for me. This stuff is good. Normally it comes with some tamarind seasoned maggot-ish sea crustacean, but I find their grub-like countenance positively nauseating. So I got some denatured protein torn off the chest of some avian (probably had flu), soaked in a burning sauce reminescent of vomit.

Nah. Really, it was good. Especially the dessicated flesh of cattle broiled in coconut and spices and the disembodied leg of probably the same flu-infected avian. Not that you could tell, lolz.

They had cute little strawberries in the water jug. Might explain why lunch was so expensive.


Verdict: Bolehlah.

And so the prize was awarded. Here's proof:


That's code for two Blackforests, Regular.



Ah, Arabica blend, moraschino cherries and chocolate espresso beans. Blended in ice with a whipped cream topping. Orgasmic.

Suddenly, Eva Thong decided to show up and pose until so chio.


Sugar + me = sugarhigh. Sugarhigh person + Eva Thong = Serious camwhoring session. Not really, but we need something to blame, lolz.

Ignore the dweeb in the shades.


Super kawaii! Haha...


Ewww. Gross...


My shades, weh...


Like, meh.


Posing plak...



Think what until so hard?


I THINK this was supposed to be seductive. Somehow.


Moved across to DeliFrance to continue.

Caught on film. Eva stole my sandwich.


They make a weird couple (*wipes image from mind with sand-jet abraisor*).


Definite sign of too much sugar. Ergh...


Got on the train.


People were abnormally normal on this particular one. Weirdness.


Feeling pretty ignored right now. No idea why.

Got this pain in my mouth after getting home. Ergh. Wisdom teeth coming out. Hmm, not seeming to get any wiser. What a misnomer.

Just to see how sad it is being me, here's photographic proof that I even visit my blog from Taylor's.


Ooi Keong just called me lala. Like, what the fuck? Wearing a black singlet that lala meh? Gay, maybe. But definitely not lala. Hell, if I'm any shellfish, I'd only settle for bao yue, okay? The rest of you are see ham.

Got a problem? Talk to the fingers, cuz the hand finds you stupid too.


Meh.