post-week post

it’s been a bazillion years ago since i wrote something substantial. i doubt i will this time cause i know i just won’t so just believe me when i say so.

i’m listening to the strokes — a band i love as much john mayer — and i’ve picked up on some really really good solos i’ve never heard before, some last notes which last nicely till the end of the song and unbelievably kickass drum parts like no other. my latest playlist had some jazz in it, a genre i hope i am slowly starting to fathom, light pop, some alicia keys, maroon 5, one kanye west feat adam levine, jamie cullum (the jazz and light pop) and goldfrapp.

this playlist has failed me tonight. i’ve chosen the strokes. they are always there when i need them to be. john mayer can’t be like that, cause i’d have to be in love to listen to john mayer. i’d have to be happy, and honestly i’ve forgotten what that feels like, cause that’s the best time to listen to john mayer. when i’m happy. then i pick up on lovely light jazz-like drums and nicely sounding bass and heartmelting guitar back ups to a melody and lyrics which will somehow seem apt for the moment.

i really have no clue why i am talking about this. i feel like i haven’t lived in so long — i haven’t read, i haven’t written, i haven’t listened to anything. well aside that playlist. but honestly i keep chasing deadlines that aren’t even mine, at least i feel as though they aren’t mine. goodness how i love the strokes. i fucking love the interaction between guitar, drums and vocals. i don’t know how guitarists seem to be able to play thirds and sixes and chords so easily. obviously this is coming from a lousy kenot play violinist who has trouble with positioning when playing octaves and sixes and thirds. so obviously when i hear thirds and chords like that how do you think this lousy kenot play violinist but aspiring musician, perhaps already musician, feels?

i just need to keep writing. i need to keep writing along to this song fear of sleep because the beat is there and i don’t want to lose it. and i’ve had such a shitty week i just wanted to express it all but i have issues writing with pen because somehow the words don’t flow fast enough or smoothly enough. but when i type it just comes out… maybe it comes (prepare for corniness) from the heart.

right now i’m wondering if — i love how the strokes end, how they sustain the last note, that’s something i’ve never picked up — my school admin has ever read my blog. cause they compelled my friend to shut down her blog because, i suppose they were afraid of the truth — that she didn’t like the teachers, that they had issues. according to her obviously. i’ve never liked blogging about school because i’ve always wanted to discard as much of it possible from myself. it’s bad enough that some weeks are six day weeks and the fact that there’s nothing much substantial done in those many hours, i don’t want school to govern me. i don’t want to blog about it. i want liberation.

plus i wonder what the teachers think of my writing. i wonder what lots of people think of my writing in fact. whenever i write a piece people tend to say, out of courtesy i feel, that it’s good. especially coming from people like my dear mother, those kinds of people unofficially vow to support their children by giving “supportive” advice, saying things like — that piece you wrote was good. but when it comes from people like my big  sister it’s even more believable. and it’s most believable and totally acceptable when i get comments like this. philip made my day that day.

happiness seems so far ago. i’ve been nothing but stressed, sad and angry this past week. i’ve gotten angry like i have never been before. i’ve been so down, so annoyed, so tired that i feel like giving up on this whole event. (this particular event happens to be the exact event of the hyperlink) then again i’ve gotten praise like no other. which was subsequently squashed by this stressful event. and then there’s (i don’t mean to blog about this but it is highly irritating so much so this compulsion. honestly sometimes my tenses and words get so mixed and screwed up i don’t know what people make of it.) nagging, scolding, bickering, arguing-over-petty-things parental figure.

i wanted to tell you something. ah yes. in this whole past week i’ve also fallen deeply in love. so far into this abyss that there’s no way out, and this has resulted something as radical as a career change, as well as a hypothesis proven wrong. the parental figure claims to support me in whatever profession i choose to take. but parental figure assumes that i will end up as dead and void of passion as parental figure. this is the deal: despite the turbulence of the week few very good things have come out of it. and i have finally realised what i’d like to do with this gift called life. i would like to pursue music.

when i approached parental figure with this prospect, parental figure vehemently objected it, rolled parental figure’s eyes and said i would never make it. i wouldn’t be able to earn enough money. the deal is also that music happens to be the exact field of this parental figure. i asked parental figure if it was because parental figure failed in this field and parental figure, trying to retain as much pride left which is kinda not there anymore, obviously said no.

i’ve never really understood why people advise against their own professions. i mean, if you do what you love shouldn’t you want to spread the love? there are two possibilities: they don’t love what they do, or they are selfish. i want to drink soya bean and water and eat tau hua. i am thirsty and i am feeling much better. maybe i’m too tired to even be annoyed or angry or worried.

is feeling

Sometimes that mountain you’ve been climbing is just a grain of sand,
What you’ve been up there searching for forever is in your hands.
When you figure out love is all that matters after all,
It sure makes everything else seem so small.

?

?

sometimes i wonder what kind of person i am; amidst all the types of people whom i categorize mentally.

when my oldest sister went to singapore i made a vow. my mother had just scolded me for something so trivial that it has slipped my memory ever since. i vowed that in the year i turn 16, i, too, would flee down south and begin a life that would be severed of as many old ties possible — especially ties with whom would one would call family. be reminded that my mother had just scolded me, so i was fueled with irritation.

when i cooled down later on, i thought that was just something i had thought of/said impulsively. as it always is when dear mother nags.

many many many months later, i found myself thinking of this particular prospect — the same way, but with even more ambition (primarily shopping).

lagi fast forward to the present day. i’ve been jolted by this one phrase so much i cried and started writing this post, out of… insecurity? i hope not though.

which also got me thinking: what kind of person am i? it’s not so much who am i? because i roughly know the answer to that one (i am an arrogant, self-righteous bitch hahaha… choose to believe the bs of this parenthesis if you must)

i’ve never considered myself as one of those factors which break a family apart. now that i think about the other elements of that vow, i’m starting to have second thoughts. (even third, fourth and fifth ones, however long this post is going to take) and also, i came up with this belief that family are the people whom you tolerate a bit more than the rest, simply because they tolerate you. and it’s just because of that.

like this: my mother put up with me when i was incapable in infancy, and i have to do likewise, only under different circumstances. like the way she puts up with her mother.

this is getting too personal. i don’t like personal.

hmmm. should have written this kind of thing for english assignments like: write an essay in no less than 120 words about the kind of person you are. but that doesn’t ever happen, does it?

say wha?

found this on thefreedictionary.com

i give up.

my room is like a boiler.

the difference between genius and… commoner

“I don’t know, I don’t care, and it doesn’t make any difference!” ~Albert Einstein

“I don’t want to know, I don’t want to care, but who the hell cares what I want or care about!” ~Amanda Yeoh

tak boleh la.

sakit.

malas.

nak tidur…

wants to watch 500 days of summer

… ever since last year:

the andy warhol irony & other similar relations

the thing i love about penang is the hawker food. that, i will miss. so if you ask me to go to some Shanghainese/Cantonese/GuangZhounese restaurant that everybody seems to be hot for, know that i will be utterly discomforted.

firstly, because it is not penang-chinese-nyonya-hawker food. secondly, just because everybody likes it, hence, the long long long queue.

so today was my grandmother’s birthday — though not once did i wish her but mama, if you’re reading this (somehow) happy birthday and best wishes — and we went to this restaurant i loathed right from the outside. the minute we walked in, i felt as though a hundred thousand spies were watching us — note that the waiters had these earpieces and microphones stuck up against their body and were making “the eagle is in the house repeat the eagle is in the house” like whispers. i didn’t even feel like i was in a james bond movie. plus, the rest of the customers were glaring at us as if we were “customers of the day”. pft.

anyway the food sucked because as aforementioned. when the last dish was served i suddenly started thinking about school and all the duties i have tomorrow and the new “to do list” of the week. mostly it was because of school obligations that i started to feel really disgusted in addition to the dreadful restaurant. so i excused myself to the toilet and took loads of time before returning.

there was this one waiter who reminded me of andy warhol. i don’t know why. randy harrison played andy warhol in pop! and they said he doesn’t look one inch like him, but i think he does. so in their opinion, this waiter might not look like andy warhol after all.

after the toilet visitation and the mini trip to the gift store (all this took place in the mall) we finally headed back to the restaurant. the andy warhol waiter was clearing my plates, as well as an unfinished bowl of soup — i don’t like soup so i don’t drink it unless it’s really good otherwise it’ll be a waste of stomach space — when he asked me in mandarin: hao chi ma? (literally: good eat ah?) meaning was the food good.

the irony was that a) he looked like andy warhol, b) the food sucked and c) he asked me a question in mandarin.

the truth being a) in their opinion he might not look like andy warhol, b) the rest of the people like the food, hence the overgrowing popularity of that horrible restaurant, even my family and c) i don’t speak mandarin that fluently, though thanks to a craze phaze (phase if you prefer) for taiwanese dramas, i at least understand what the waiter asked me. but honestly. do i look like i speak freakin mandarin?

oh right. my response. i subtly nodded. i felt like laughing (in fact i laughed to myself) out loud instead. LOL. and if i could do this in real life — ==’ — i would have.

quote sheldon cooper: coulda woulda shoulda.

p.s. i still don’t know what to write.

help i don’t know what to write.

seven addresses

strike one is for the fact that she was my IT teacher. strike two, is for making us stand for being late. strike three is for obsessing over the fact that some people forgot to bring their books. strike four, is for, well, teaching what was required, badly. strike five is for making me do my duty — sweep the floor. strike six is for demanding a thank you, by saying: where’s your thank you? in malay, of course.

and strike seven is for having judgmental opinion without letting the potato set in the sack beforehand.