Sense

Everybody says how horrible it would be if one day we wake up deaf. We can't hear music, we can't hear laughter.
[I apologize to any reader who might be deaf but it's true]



Everybody says how execrable it would be if our eyes just decided to get up and leave. No more color to brighten our world, no more paintings to ease our souls.
[Again, but for the blind]



Everybody says how terrible it would be if we lose our sense of smell. The smell after the rain, the scent of baby's hair would be the same as the stink of rot and the foulness of feces.
[Anosmic, sorry]



But everybody, and I mean everybody, takes talking for granted.
The Art of Articulation.
The Gift of Gab.
The Splendor of Speech.
Nobody really appreciates it, not really.


I made a pact with God, once.
If I get something, I'd stop talking for 24 consecutive hours.
I got what I wanted.
I tried to fulfill my end of the bargain.
I failed.
Again.
And again.
I still haven't done my part.


I have since learned the Dazzle of Dialogue.
The Effulgence of Elocution.
The Sex Appeal of Spiel.


So, this is a show of gratitude for the blessing that I've never heard being thanked for.
Thank you, God, Nature, Evolution, Society.
I love language.

Stigmata Bertudung

[Stole the title from a friend]

The most racist, or rather religionist, thing I've heard in a while was, "Wah, she wears tudung ah? Iyerr... Not nice la like that."

I was speechless. But then again, how long can you keep Johan speechless? I was speechless for 3 seconds.

Tudung. Hijab. Headscarf. Chadri. Whatever you call it. It's moving closer and closer to the line that borders derogatory terms every day.

Some of the worse myths I've heard about covered girls: They're actually bald underneath. Their hair smells like crap. It's an example of Islam's championship of male dominance. They're better muslims than uncovered girls [a view by the covered themselves, though, admittedly, not all. Just about 95%]

First two myths come from non-muslim guys, usually. Let me assure you, girls are not like guys. They generally take care of their body hygiene much better, for one. Just because they wear tudungs, doesn't mean they don't shampoo and condition and oil. Hell, if anything they do it more often than those who don't.

Secondly, the wearing of hijab is not an example of male dominance. If anything, it's the Quran's low expectation of the stronger [?] sex. It borderlines insult to those with johnsons, it is.

Us guys view almost every inch of the female human organism as sexual. Serious shit. Well, any given guy don't view everything as sexual objects but I'd say a collection of ten random guys would cover like 80% of fetishes. It's an evolution thing.

The way I see it, the Quran has given up hope with men limiting their lust, so they/he/she/it implores the real stronger side to do their part more than the men.

Us guys are going extinct anyways. It's an inevitable part of evolution.

And the girls who think they're better than those without tudungs, can suck my salty left ball.

Concerning most malays, it's not a sign of piety, no, not anymore. It's a sign of misplaced superiority. It's a sign of blind faith. It's a sign of tradition. It's a sign of lemming-like conformity.

Islam is not in the way you dress. A girl who dresses like a 2-dollar crab-infested whore from the sleaziest street in Pasquali of Oklahoma City can actually be your spiritual better.

I just saw a picture of a rather liberal friend of mine in tudung. I was shocked. It appears that I too view tudungs in a derogatory manner. I need to listen to my sermons more. Or perhaps I subconsciously think that the act of donning the tudung by this particular person is not an act of free-will but rather an enforced one. I dunno.

It's 1233

and I haven't started studying for Gndoyan's legendary ophthalmology concluding. I'm even entertaining the probability of shooting those damn geths on Mass Effect for a while before starting but I'd probably procrastinate further after that.

Mr Strauss is conducting the overture of die Fledermaus. It's time to start study. Ugh...

ASD

Others have ADD - Attention Deficit Disorder

I have ASD- Attention Seeking Disorder

I've not written something angsty or deep or angry for a while and I sit not tastily [Tak sedap duduk wtf!]. I feel I owe it to my sister bringing like a gajillion views to this site. You know, to catch these newcomers with the proverbial butterfly net and pin them to a board or something.

I know I should be glad that there's nothing in my life that causes me to be angsty or angry or deep right now and should just enjoy it while it lasts.

Buuuuuuuuuuuut....

Facebook Quizzes

This quiz claims that I'm in a relationship:


you loser... why did you even take this test if you have a bf/gf??? w/e your happy in a relationship, and apperantly forgot you were in one :s

This one claims that I'm a closet homosexual:


You Try to act as if you're straight, but everyone knows you're gay.

So, I implore my elusive man-lover to make himself known to me, please.

A Gift

Press play for mood



Year 0
You were there when I got home. Mom and Dad doted on me but you weren't jealous. You were no longer the brand new thing but envy took no hold on your toddler heart. You loved the pink lizardy-looking thing that I was, even though I did nothing but sleep and cry.

For that acceptance,
I thank you.

Year 5
Mom and Dad were always working, trying their absolute best to let us live in luxury. Our maids changed almost religiously. Playmates are few and far in between. You were the only constant that anchored me and Baby. You were the one who taught us new tricks and games. You were the one who took care of us, emotionally if not physically. You were the judge of the petty quarrels between me and Baby and you were the one who berated me for my wrongdoings.

For that responsibility,
I honor you.

Year 10
We drifted apart. I was a nerd/geek. You were the popular one. You had your friends, I had mine. We liked none of the same thing. We quarrel, we fight. But then, you were always blasting and singing to Backstreet Boys and Spice Girls. You introduced me to Boyzone. You brought music into my ears, my life, my soul. Life as I knew it changed forever.

For that change,
I praise you.

Year 15
We drifted even further. I hated you. I hated the fact that everyone refers to me as your brother. I wanted recognition; I wanted life to call my own. Friends that I know for so long left for their education. I was alone. I was hateful. And what did you do? You accepted me as who I am. You listened to my rants and views. You gave the right compliments, you corrected my mistakes. You made me feel good about myself.

For that sense of self-worth,
I adore you.

Year 20
We're so far apart. Thousands of people, hundreds of cities, a whole world stood between us. We meet for a measly two months a year. None of my friends, none of my colleagues, none of them or all of them put together tried harder than you to keep me in their life, to let me know that there was someone who loved me. At times, you didn't know what I was going through but you stood by me nonetheless.

For that loyalty,
I hold you high.

Year 23
You're 24. You're getting married. I know you'll try to keep things as they are but you and I both know things are going to change forever. I hate this. I wish you won't leave me. I wish that we'll stay 5 forever. I wish we could still play kejar-kejar and masak-masak and do nothing but revel in each other's company forever. I hate Him for taking you away. I envy Him for being able to spend his life with you. I love Him for making you happy. Walking forward with a blindfold on, I feel a hand clasping mine. I know instantly that it's yours.

For turning my tears into laughter,
For shaping me into who I am,
For being you,
I love you.

Happy 24th, Ka'a

Whenever a friend, who didn't have the opportunity to study/travel abroad, asks me about my experience or is listening to me talking about living in Russia, I feel like I'm boasting even though I'm not actually doing that, you dig?

I try not to say things like you can experience this only in Russia or you're lucky this doesn't happen in Malaysia and so on. I get so self-conscious when I tread these waters.

Contrary to popular belief, I actually care what people think about me. Well, some people, anyway. The rest can go screw themselves with a hot vespa tailpipe.

I feel that I'm an artsy fellow who doesn't have any artsy talent and/or doesn't know how to express himself in an artful way.

I want to play an instrument, a guitar or a violin to serenade myself but I have not the training nor the trainer.

I want to paint a masterpiece, to dazzle myself with a blend of colors so wild and yet so insightful but I am color blind.

I want to write something that changes people's life but more and more I feel like I'm a John Doe with a mediocre writing skill waking up from his delusion of grandeur.

Oh muse, where art thou?