FuckyouworldImawesome

That's actually the name of the latest playlist I made. I got inspired to compile this after taking one too many stabs at one of the things I secretly am sensitive about.


Now, I suspect I'm very easily affected by music and maybe I am but seriously, after a week or two listening largely to this playlist, I can honestly say I've never felt this good about myself ever since I hit puberty. Hell, ever since I entered high school, I'd say. I feel like sharing this.



The spearhead of this playlist and, indeed, its avatar must be Beautiful by Christina Aguilera. Other songs sing of saying no more or standing up for who you are/what you believe in or believing that, in the words of Bon Jovi, "Yeah, I'm down but I know I'll get by." Or at least that's my interpretation of some of the songs that don't seem to fit this category.

So, here goes:

Ten Things You Know About Me

You know what's overrated? # Things You Don't Know About Me. It's everywhere: tv, blogospheres, youtube, facebook, hell, I even saw a rendition of it on Twitter! What is up with that?

Another thing I wanted to blog about but kept on procrastinating is the hatred I have towards the phrase "I know you, Johan."

Well, hatred is not the right word. It's somewhere between amused and annoyed. That's right, I'm ammoyed. Every once in a while, often enough for me not to be caught unguarded, I'd surprise myself. I'd surprise myself with my brilliance, my idiocy, my kindness, my perversion, my misanthropy, my hippiness... Basically, anything.

I do not know myself a hundred percent.

What right have you to say you know me?

My mom just found out that I'm somewhat averse to tom yam. My mom of 24 years and I'm a Momma's Boy, if there ever was one.

Again, what right?

I'm somewhat private. I divide my life into categories and everyone fits nicely into their own categories. Some might belong in more than one group, if they're lucky. Hell, two out of my three housemates don't even know I've been attending the gym for the last, what? 4, 5 months? Though, I think they have a vague idea about it.

I have friends whom I do silly stuff with. I have friends with whom I argue philosophical points of views about everything. I have friends to go watch stupid movies together. I sound like I have a lot of friends. I don't. I have very few friends, comparatively.

So... yeah... Things You Don't Know About Me. It's such a tired concept, isn't it? And vain too. Like people want to know about your nasty no-longer-secret fetish with strawberry jam.

I say, let's start a new thing. Start posting Things You Know About Me.

There's only one Rule:

• Nothing obvious physically as in I have a nose! I've got a penis!

You see how I made the Rule so ominous and daunting by using a capital letter?  The Rule! You see, you can't use all capital letters, like RULE, because that just seems retarded and uncouth because you're randomly shouting a word. No, just the first letter would do nicely. Write that down.

So, we segue back into my Ten Things You Know About Me. See there? It's all daunty and ominousy now.

Ten Things You Know About Me
1. I think people view me as vaguely Muslim. Their interpretation, not mine. Also, the word vague sounds so dirty to me right now.

2. I've declared myself to be not a homosexual, not a heterosexual. I'm an autosexual. I think I'm vain enough to want to tap that, meaning myself.

3. I'm quite generous when it comes to money and people I consider as my friends. I probably won't ask for that tenner you borrowed unless I am really desperate.

4. I'm a dork. Geek. Nerd. I could play computer games all day and read fantasy and know quite a bit about computer stuff. See, I'm so generous that I gave you 7 in one.

5. I don't party. Mainly because I don't know how to dance and I find clubbers look silly when they dance. Also, refer to point 4.

6. I do not actually abhor sports, though I say so. I can watch and comment on most sporting events. What I abhor are those really, really fanatic fans.

7. I'm very easily irritated. If you see me giving a fake smile, I'm irritated. If I do not answer you straight away, I'm irritated. If you smell, I'm irritated.

8. I'm in infatuation with the Link girls. I find them adorable to the point of giggling uncontrollably like a little school girl.

9. I'm in love with music. I have different playlists for different moods. Hell, if something pisses me off while I'm listening to my walkman, I actually take the time to change the playlist to my angry playlist.

10. I think people think I'm confident.

So, yeah. Ten things you know about me. Nothing new, right? So, Pikachu, I tag you. Do it.

P.S.: Oh, and if you decide to do this in your blog/facebook account/twitter/anywhere, leave a link in the comment.
P.P.S: It would really make my year if somebody would buy this for me.

Hikayat Merong Mahawangsa

This fills me with great hopes for the Malaysian movie scene. But I just now they're gonna get dashed. Prove me wrong, KRU.

Anybody has any info about this movie? Comment!

Rant?

I haven't ranted in a long, long time. Time to break the rant-fast, I think.

Why do people reply with a smiley? I mean, I am neither for or against the usage of smileys. I do it myself to an auto-annoyance level.

And, yes, I do admit there are times when it is appropriate to use a single smiley as an answer:

Exhibit A
Dudette: Eh, how you walk around the house if they always Hunt Mouse with Electrical Traps?
Me: =.=

But when every random thing is answered with a smiley, often unrelated to the prior question/sentence, there's only one word that comes to mind: wtf?

Exhibit B
Dude: Bust a Move
Me: Mr Schue?
Dude: :P

Exhibit C
Me: Wah you going on a video streak, ah?
Dude: :)

Me in both instances: wtf?

Are you happy when I ask that? Are you so angry that I cracked where you got that quote that you stick out your tongue? What, man? What?

This rant is weak. I'm all out of shape, haih. I need to be bitter again.

Pragulka

I have two things I'd like to share today. Two very, very unrelated things. Let me try to do this. Let me try to connect the two things.

Thing One.

Russians do this thing that I find very interesting. What they do is get together with a couple of friends, of either sex, and go out for a walk in the park. They'll find a bench and just sit and talk. Maybe have a couple of cold ones while they're at it but that's the gist of it. They sit and talk. 

Weird, isn't it?

They sit and talk. In parks.

Holy Shit! New Post!

Blames. I've got plenty of that. So, that's a gajillion to you, Twitter. A bajillion to my non-existent Muse. Twenty mega-watts of it to the absolutely non-demanding cycle. But the bulk of the blame goes to the lack of drama in my life.

Yes, a good writer should always have drama in his life, as to fuel him with inspiration. Don't tell me otherwise, shut up! Shut up! Shut up!

Gah! I need to write more. I used to be able to write about nothing and people will still read it. I once wrote a 400-word debut article for some online paper about how I was deciding on what to write as my first article. I found it quite brilliant, though other creative forces on the team weren't as awed by it as I was. Oh well.

New New Year's Resolution: Once a week. I'll write once a week.

As I have no real substance to write on, I'll leave you with a nice song.


I Thought You Were My Boyfriend - Magnetic Fields




Yes, that's a guy singing. No, I don't watch the office. No, that doesn't make me gay.

The Ultimate Showdown of Ultimate Destiny

For the whole of the last week till this moment, my pride in calling myself a Malaysian was renewed.

Yes, we have fucked up politicians and politics.

Yes, we have screwball theologians and theologies.

And yes, the fatness of our city rats, both literal and proverbial, disgusts the living hell out of me.

But the week leading up to the 14th of February 2010 filled me with nothing but pride. 

It was the Ultimate Showdown of Ultimate Destiny, as Neil Cicierega would say. The Eastern Metal Tiger was up against the Western Homicidal Flying Baby. 

Just imagine.

A ring where the two combatants fight, thirsty for each other's blood. Metal Tiger, equipped with nought but its claws and fangs, pacing the arena. Its eyes never left the smug look on Homicidal Baby's face. Its throat thirsts for Homicidal Baby's blood.

Homicidal Baby is not worried. He can fly. To counter Metal Tiger's primitive claws, he has the all-new and latest equipments of Archery. Why, he could fly to dizzying height and rain death upon the silly feline. He could zip around the tiger, tiring it before delivering the coup de grace. He could...

... be Metal Tiger's dinner. In fact, now, he is.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, lords and dames, children of all ages, Oriental Imperialism trumped over Western Imperialism this year! 

All over Malaysia, the malls were bathed in Red, the symbol of prosperity and, I imagine, the blood of the dead baby. People were deafened by the Dong Dong Dong Chang, instead of being fatally nauseated by over-sweetness of cliche love songs. 

In short, we won.

Congratulations, Malaysians. You make me proud.