If I said that this is actually my THIRD blog post in the last 15 minutes, would you believe me? If you need to SEE it to BELIEVE it, then you're a moron. This is indeed my third blog post, the other two just isn't on Rachel's Life. With the new MPU course that started 3 weeks ago, we are required to create an e-portfolio or blog or whatever you want to call it, to track our progress at the Canadian Pre-U (CPU). I am supposed to take it seriously. Take. It. Seriously. Hah! NO! NO! NO! I WILL NOT!

Taylor's College, a prestigious 6-star college... Let me rephrase that: a kiss-ass 6-star college. They want to produce graduates who are DIFFERENT than those of other universities. The other day when my MPU(I honestly do not know what the hell this stands for) teacher was blabbering at the front of the class with her sweet and genial voice about how the college wishes to produce graduates who are able to ... I sat slumped in my chair, thinking: you can't change a person's ways by enforcing a certain code of learning and you certainly will not be able to 'produce' a school of graduates with the capabilities that YOU want them to have! That is just plain ridiculous! I am a student, not a lump of meat. Even the word 'produce' insults me. I think of cows in a barn and the milk that they produce.

It's not a bad thing that the college tries hard to... you know, PRODUCE high-quality graduates (now we sound like organic or vitamin-infused eggs), but they can't expect everyone to become arrogant assholes. The way they phrase it is as if they expect us all to become proud leaders full of optimism and energy. How is that a bad thing? I'm not saying that it is, but some people just don't like it. People like me. I prefer subtlety. Perhaps I belong to a group of people who silently acknowledge our own qualities, instead of wearing them by our lips. Of course I get aggravated when people look down on me, but that doesn't happen often with people I work with-- strangers are excused, because I look homeless with my uncombed hair, dark circles and simple clothes. There's no need to reflect the light when you're shining from the inside.

Another senseless post this has been, it seems. I haven't been writing much lately, save for my assignments. They are enough to entertain me, I suppose. Hmm... Haven't been able to write much about what's been going on or how I feel. I tend to rely on songs these days, sing them out loud, though, nothing can really describe how I feel other than my own words. There's always so much on my mind, but so little that I can, or want to write. Stories, dramas, research analysis-- these are what I've been writing. I incorporate my feelings and thoughts into my stories and plays, the frustration and love, the hate and senselessness, the things which I can only want as a character, the truths which I can only reveal through another person.

If you want, I could upload my works here. Also, I'll be writing a novel in November as part of the National Writing Month. Wish me luck!

What we desire most, we cannot simply achieve. There, sacrifices have to be made. In many ways, it's comical, how throughout history, people fight and die in vain for the same things. Money, freedom and equality. We don't learn-- we NEVER learn. Though the latter may seem to be for the greater good, they are not-- not in the slightest way-- for their roots also stem from the damnable seed of selfishness that bloom within every single one of us. Ask yourself then, why are people willing to shed blood for money? Because of the power that money brings? If so, ask yourself again, why do we strive to break free from whatever that's holding us down? So we could become more, do more and live however we want to, be our own masters? Isn't that the same as being greedy, yearning for money to be powerful, to rule? Equality, too. It doesn't exist, and it never will, for equality doesn't mean justice. It's just another excuse to be acknowledged.

If the world is indeed a stage and we are all but muppets and fools, then I curse the puppet master who wields the strings. It is not funny. It's not-- that's what I have to tell myself, anyway. Even so, I find it hard to keep my inappropriate laughter to myself. Ridiculous, absurd and undoubtedly maddening. It seems as if it is embedded into our very nature that we strive for what we know will never be ours. It's sickening. At the end of the day, I ask myself again, why... Why do I have to be so selfish? You too.

Because nobody will have it any other way than their own. I will not compromise my pride, nor will you. An understanding cannot be achieved when neither wishes to point the gun at themselves. What for do you fight with a being who will bring about its own destruction? Violence is not always the answer, but then, peace does not exist. Then, we follow in the footsteps of the other, which is to use their own weapons and weaknesses against them, the way they do to us. How... However is that productive..? Another man's meat is another man's poison. And though I prefer my own poison to your meat, your taking to my preference is ludicrous. 

If I am to admit defeat... That is very unlikely. The same seed of selfishness and pride dwells within me, and it is forever blooming, all the more so with the extra raging fertilizer that's been supplied to it in the recent months. If pain is a sense of glory, then I would kneel before my own flag and shed plain tears of defeat of yet another loss that I have brought upon myself. I am never satisfied, that much I know. When you can't love right, you're going to be the only one left-- that, I know too well. But I don't mind. Solitude, and the touch of the soulless breeze could be so comforting, yet intimidating at the same time. At that, I shall shudder as my regrets come by me once more. 

The same problem persists. Neither will let their guard down. 

Suffer on... Suffer on... or end it, only to get caught up in the cycle anew. 

It's Not Much of a Life

It's all so perfect. Yet circumstances can make it even more painful that it is now. It's not up to me. It's not up to you. It's not up to us. It is our lives-- yes it is-- but it is not in our hands, what we can or cannot do. So then, is it still our own lives when the choices are not up to us, when we are powerless against power, when our hopes and dreams are taken away from us right before our very eyes as we are held down by weighted chains of the perspectives of other people? If it is, then it is not much of a life we are living. I never said we were living very much to begin with.

So what if warm blood flows through these veins? So what if I breathe in this filthy air through my nostrils every second of my so-called life? So what if my heart beats and my brain works without fail each and every moment? What use am I, what is the point of my existence if I am told what is right and wrong, what I should and should not do, the way I should and should not behave, who I should and should not love. Why am I still alive when even my right to trust and love is stripped away from me.

You believe in God. You love jesus. You thank Him everyday.

You think it's wrong to be gay. You think it's wrong of me to be in love with him. You think it's wrong of me to even be talking to him. You don't trust. You don't believe. Yet you are a believer. If it is possible for you to love something which existence you cannot prove, then why is it not possible for me to love someone who I am sure of?

It is unfair.

Nobody said the world was fair anyway.

Disappointment overwhelms me.
I am upset-- that much I know.
It comes from the insecurities which I own, the fear of losing a seemingly strong yet fragile relationship which lives on waves.

The day our gap is finally closed is but weeks away.
Yet it is not my choice to make, whether or not our hands touch.
In my mind, things are laid out perfectly: you are holding me close to you, whispering into my ears how you would never let me go while a teardrop escapes from the corner of my eye and a rivulet trickles silently down my cheek in the middle of the night.

In the dim lamp light we would lie,
Staring at the plain ceiling the whole night.
Admiring the warmth and the surreality of each ticking second,
Appreciating the silence of each other's company.
...
It is all possible,
Yet it is too much to ask for.
Close to reality it may be,
but do not forget, my love,
it is not up to me.

As upset as we are,
Nothing will change.
Young and foolish they may say,
Inexperienced and naive they may scorn;
Forever indeed I shall never be granted
The gift bestowed to the oldest of us all:
Of freedom, of rebellion, of trust.

You know what?

I give up.

Why Would Anyone Want to Leave?

I looked up from my drink, the straw still between my teeth as I mindlessly chew on it out of habit. I saw the waiter making his way steadily towards our table, supporting the weight of four freshly boiled bowl of noodles on a metal tray. Somehow, his clumsy, careful image reminded me of the many stories I've read, the heart warming visual novels that I've played. The blinding midday rays of the sun flooded through the doorless storefront where the battered bamboo blinds hung limp, half-raised, as if they have given up on shielding people from the sunlight after years of failure.

I began to think. The words of my would-be story flowed flawlessly, though they were without a beginning and lacked an end.

One by one, our noodles were served. Lisa slid mine over to me. As I picked up the chopsticks, clutching them like how a normal person would hold the Chinese calligraphy brush, and dug into my steamy hot bowl of brunch, strangely, I felt the need to burst into tears.

Why is that, I wonder?

The dark brown sauce, yellow noodles; slices of char sao scattered across the sauce-stained noodles which was complemented by the few limp but crunchy tao geh that lay helplessly among the abundance of springy noodles, while green and purple spring onions topped the lot. I mixed them all. Clumsily. My technique of using the chopsticks never did improve, and I never got it right. Not even once. Not even now.

I wanted to cry.

It wasn't because I haven't eaten konlo mee since I moved to the city. It wasn't entirely because I missed the food here, back in Sitiawan. No, not at all.

The scarcity of people, the serenity and the simplicity. It is surprising, how the genuineness of small town folk could touch a person. The superficiality of the people you see in the city, crowds of frowns and faces thick with powder and colour, they don't exist here... No... Not here, where excess modernisation have yet to mar the innocent, somewhat primitive civilians. It's only a matter of time though-- I frown at the thought.

Who would ever want to leave this place?

There is a man in a faded dark turquoise shirt leaning against the wall as he scrolled down the display of his smartphone. A tall, lanky figure, with pants that are too big for his thin legs. Though he may not seem like it, that man is a doctor.

A mechanic walks in. Black hair, dyed a golden shade at the tip. He must be from the motorcycle shop next door, hungry, starving, from work. He picks up a thick bundle of noodles between the plastic chopsticks, and shoves it into his mouth, slurping in the rest. How his cheeks shrink as he sucks the noodles in.

The few people that sit here in the shop, it's calming. There isn't an excess of humans talking, laughing and gossiping through artificially painted lips. We're all just... Caught up in our own thoughts.

I remember now... The eateries in the city. Breakfast in an air conditioned dim sum restaurant in Taipan. Chairs so close against each other, chatter suspended in the air, making my head spin. All the painted faces, the fancy clothes and expensive bags... I may not have noticed it during then, during the times I awkwardly force myself to sit in places I know I don't belong, but now that I am back in this comforting town of dullness, I realise that I am afraid of it all. I am a confined animal that has been released into the wild. All my life I have lived in my cage where things seem so normal and effortless, and suddenly...

The city is worse than a jungle in many ways. The most dangerous animal is not incapable of rationality nor does it walk on all fours. Humans are the most dangerous creatures you will ever come across.

It gives me nightmares, the place I am now in. Everywhere I turn, I see thick lips in unnatural shines; faces in layers of powder; eyes drawn out of shape and expensive clothes with the appearance of cut rags-- how the burn my eyes!

I don't want it I don't want it I don't want it

Slowly, it creeps up on you, the culture. Day by day, it worsens, numbing what humanity that exists within. It's tiring, the way you have to blend in and become one of them, of pretense, of farce and of contempt...

And so it is... I walk around empty malls with quiet halls, of deserted tiles, not shuffling feet. It is depressing, but I am not complaining. This, is better than a room full of people who put up lies.

The roads are empty, the cars are slow. Wide are the tarred paths, impatient I have grown.

Why would anyone want to leave this place?

I wanted to leave once, but not to where I am now. I still want to leave, but not to where I am now. If I could, I would sail away and never be found.

Why do I like to visit the things that upset me? Even if it doesn't snap a chord at first, I am not content until it does, and I fall into a state of dissatisfaction afterwards. If this isn't insanity, then I don't know what is. Angering yourself, time and again.

Is it an innate trait of humans, to revisit those that they ridicule, and find absolutely ludicrous? Or it is just the natural behaviour of Rachel Cheong?

I am a cynic. A bitter existence; eccentric. I find disgust in other people's... How should I say it? Never mind. You would hate me for it, if I said it out loud. Let's just leave it at that.

As much as I would like to snicker, scorn at those who claim that they are deeply, MADLY, in love with his or her "significant other", I would refrain from doing so. I don't have the right to do that, I suppose. I am in love too, I suppose, though, I do not tell the world about it in smiles, with rainbows and butterflies that make me sound like a four-year-old girl who is foolishly drawn into her own fantasies; she, a princess.

Have you ever come across the story of how, and when 'we' first 'met'?

I don't believe so, unless, it is in one of my handwritten journals, my diary, that is supposedly private. For you are the one who violates that privacy, then there is no right to say that I too, share the stories of my love in the open. I rarely talk about it even. I don't see the point.

Everyone is entitled to their own opinions, of course. They can do whatever they want, and it is not against the law to upset minorities-- bitter minorities. Also, it isn't a crime to be cold and disagreeable. If you can tell me to loosen up, let it go, and smile, then I can do the same: tell you to shut up, get lost, and leave me alone.

Why can't I just be HAPPY for people?

I do not go "awwww" and "I am happy for you". Whenever I do, it is a lie, it is something that I do out of common courtesy. Once it comes from me, you can be certain that it would be the last time I would ever talk to you. I don't fancy lying to people, but in some cases, fools cannot be rejected.

You are excited. You are nervous. You wonder how it will go. You tend to not share your thoughts aloud for fear that people might think you are petulant, annoying and stupid, so you find a place, a place which community is originated from people like you-- lonely, excited and head over heels in love. You share your excitement. They congratulate you. They embrace you. You have become a part of them, a community of scatter-brained idiots. You feel welcomed, you feel loved. There, there is that sense of belonging which every human seeks.

Feel offended, as you like, for I am calling you a worthless being.

"My goodness! Rachel, just stop!"

"No."

It runs in the family, this undying fire that strives to burn everything that it deems spiteful.

Brrrr...

Why is the CPU building always so cold? I know it's a Canadian-based curriculum and all... BUT THEY DON'T HAVE TO IMITATE THE WEATHER AS WELL! AHHHHH! Shiver. Shiver.

This is Reality.

A gift. It always starts out with a gift. A small one, mostly. A colourful box, printed stripes of green, blue white and pink lines its body. Neatly, a ribbon of glittery gold is tied into a fluffy bow, its legs dangling by the side of the box. Pull it open, see what's inside. No. I should just leave it, and give it back. After all, wouldn't loosening the seal be a sign of acceptance? I can't possibly have that.

Fantasy and reality must be separated. To stay sane, I shall let my rational mind make the decisions for me. Reality is a boring place. The truth is an ugly thing, revolting at times. Fantasy however, it shall always be sweet. Sweet sweet reverie. Even if it involves the forbidden practices of everyday life, actions absolutely perverse... It shall never be wrong, for it is only fantasy.

A world without boundaries, a universe without truths, where you make your own conditions, and bend the elements to do your bidding. Events, people, places. Love, infidelity, reflections.

I could be whatever I want. Do whatever I please. Come up with excuses, make people forgive me. It's entirely up to me.

Spoiling myself to the core. Blackening my body, my heart and my soul thoroughly, until every vein, every drop of blood that runs through them are blacker than the night, viler than poison, soot and smoke.

This is reality. Where I abstain myself from certain things, to make sure I am a presentable human being that can walk among the other self-restraining psychos and be a part of this superficial society.

It is tiring. It is getting old. I am sick of it.

When a person fully lets go. Is it happiness? Or utter sadness? Do people laugh when they are happy, or when they have lost their minds?

Just this once maybe, I would make a mistake. Deliberately make this mistake, because I want to be wrong, to feel guilty and the rush of adrenalin that comes with it. The pleasure of guilt. There certainly is pleasure in feeling so.

I don't mind.

At this point, I hardly mind anything.

Hah. What am I saying? This is reality. And in reality, there is no gift, not even a small one in a colourful striped box, with a fluffy gold tinged ribbon holding it together.

The truth of the matter is, I am going to bed. There is no story to be told.

The Night Before I Start College

Between reading, and writing, I think I will do this, for now. I should sleep soon. School tomorrow. Hah, after three months, I am finally making use of my alarm, waking up as early as I used to, making my way to the bathroom when I am still groggy with sleep.

I don't know what to expect. The people I will meet, the students I will work with, and the lecturers in my course. It's all so scary. People. I have never been good with them, though I remember, at one point in my life, I referred to myself as a people person. It's all laughable now.

You wonder why I'm here. Surprised? I am not here often. Only once, every so often.

I wouldn't say that I am in an emotional turmoil. No... Not at all. Perhaps. Just a little. Period? Hah. I can't blame it all on my hormones, now can I?

What's the first sign of being crazy? Talking to yourself. What's the second indication? Replying yourself. I am doing both at the moment, I think... Maybe... I am just lonely.

It does that to a person.

One so used to having the companionship of the other, then suddenly, you find yourself abandoned. Pushed to the side, for there is more to the other's life than to entertain you, your miserable highness.

In times like these, my sisters keep me sane. Where are they now? My refuge when I am in doubt of my relationship with someone of the opposite sex. They are... Hours away from me. Home. Our home. My old home. The one sitting idly in KDSK, with overgrown weeds lusciously spread over the compound where the three remaining dogs would run, and play about.

My sister, Sarah, just called. I could hear Lisa giggling in the background, as her younger sister wishes me good luck, on my first day of college tomorrow. It's so typical of their older sister, to respond at their seemingly harmless little tease with the family's favourite swear word.

I missed their voice, I realise.

I love my sisters. Though they are annoying little bitches-- I cannot deny.

The Complete Horowitz Horror. It is something else. Different from the styles of other horror stories I have read. This one, it grips me. I have only read the first story though. Before coming here, I was arguing with myself, whether to continue with the second short, or to... Rant about my life, feel miserable about myself, my mind making up scenarios that are non-existent.

I don't update my blog often. Treat this, as a treat, I suppose. Read it slowly, word by word, for I doubt that I will return soon. Unless of course, this shadow of doubt and self-induced misery continues to loom over me. Then, I will be here very often, rest assured.

Writing can never please my agitated heart. Nor can reading. My last resort, is music. But I got to be careful, to stay away from the songs that we share, that we both love, sing along to. It is rather hurtful, to be reminded of you, when I am longing for your company, despising you for leaving me here. We are all selfish beings, after all. Muse. Oasis. They all sound so good, but then... You could be my unintended, choice to live my life extended, you could be the one I'll always love... It doesn't comfort me. Not at the moment. Right now. It makes me want to tear my heart out and throw it at your face, screaming.

I am this close to snapping. Becoming what I was before. A nightmare.

It takes too much effort to hide the beast inside. It's tiring. And when I let loose just a little, I never want to stop. I can't contain it. And if... Just if, things continue to stay the way they are now... I will have you stabbed, again and again, until you cry, not almost cry, but really cry.

At the end of the day, it all comes down to pride and selfishness. I do not want to admit that I love you, that I am a soft creature, capable of turning into a furball of utmost cuddly-ness.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

I just have to force those three words into my thick skull. And all will be fine. I need to breathe. You you what? Fuck this shit. I need jesus in my life.

BREATHE RACHEL, BREATHE!

Argh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Fuck!!!!!!!!!!!

Gosh!!!!!!!!

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!!!!!

Sorry. I need to be more composed.

If You've Known Me...

If you have known me for long enough, then you would know, that the quality and quantity of my writing increases drastically when I am left aside, to chew upon myself, after having spend almost all of my time pouring my emotions into one single person.

To see so much words, pages after pages of once traceless papers, inked with the handwriting that gives body to my thoughts, is often not a joy. Like I said, if you have known me for long enough, you would know why I stain the finely processed skin of dead trees with ink. I frown when I see the stacks of newly written thoughts. Albeit so, focusing solely on what I want to write is happiness. It is a sweet escape for me, that brings me closest to heaven.

You know, my friend, how lonely I can get. You know, the worst is when I am unable to sleep at night even after replacing the cap on my pen, finishing tens of pages of what I thought would satisfy a void in the chest. Frankly, words would never suffice. That is the sad truth I have come to realize over the years. But I don't mind; it doesn't matter-- that's what I tell myself, anyway.

It's why you are even able to fix your eyes on this right now. My thirst for solace. In the night when I have had enough of sitting at my desk, scribbling away, I come here, in hopes that I will ultimately write enough to admit to myself the naked truth that I don't want to accept. It's not hard for me to say it, because I already acknowledge it, that I am in fact happy. That's just what I want myself to think, of course.

Beneath this plaster mould of a loner, somewhere deep within my soul, I feel a mourning a cry. A knife, a thin one, with a blade long and slender, is being pushed deep into my heart. It goes in with ease, as the pink tissues have no intention of pushing the blade away. The malevolent shadow that is torquing the knife ever so slowly is a sadist indeed. What are you trying to get out of me?

I will admit that it hurts, but I won't scream. I can't. My voice, has been taken away from me. The only telltale fragility that is capable of giving me away, is lost, somewhere in this pool of pride that unknowingly, I have pledged to.

At the end of the day, it's still about doing the right thing. In Counting Stars, Ryan sings: I feel something so wrong, doing the right thing...

I feel wrong.

But, who am I to tear apart two people who have lived their whole lives alongside each other? Even if it would certainly satisfy my unreasonably selfish yearnings, it's not worth it.

Aside from all of that, I failed my driving test and the aftertaste of this afternoon still burns at the back of my tongue. The wait, the anxiety, and how I actually failed everything that I could possibly fail... It's making me sick, and yes, I want to cry. And yes, I am thinking: "Fuck driving. I will cycle for the rest of my life"

New Isn't Always Better

My laptop sure knows when to die on me. During my months of idleness, with absolutely nothing to do at home while I wait for my wretched SPM results to be announced and ruin my life, it left me to face the pink, lavender walls of my room alone.

As usual, I am blogging from Shiro-San's five inch screen. Virtual keyboard, taking half the space of my blank page, vibrating with each tap... Touchscreen, It takes the life out of everything.

I wish they would stop making everything touchscreen these days. You know what really grinds my gears? That even laptops are slowly turning tablet-like, with touchscreen functionality, detachable from the keyboard to actually make them into a tab. Really, people? I want a freaking laptop, not a tablet! Something else that frustrates me is that new laptops run on Windows 8.

New doesn't mean it is better. Stop making laptops touchscreen and run on Windows 8! Frankly, nobody likes it.

I own an Android. I look at it every single day. My eyes, they don't always leave the screen, probably even fixed on it for more than half my day. I get tired of it. The touch, the look, the feel. I can't possibly live with a laptop that works like a smartphone. Swipe to unlock? Fuck you, Windows. Stop wasting my time. Sliding to unlock my phone every thirty seconds of inactivity is annoying enough. I sure as hell don't like the application grid either!

It's always like this, looking for a new laptop. It feels as if I am picking a life partner, which I sort of am. It has to be perfect for me, from the design to how it runs. We all know I am going to be bias, when it comes to technology. Sony will always be my first choice, considering I am a fangirl, and their designs are unrivaled. It's not hard for me to pick something that works right. I am not a hardcore gamer, and what really gets me going are just point and click hidden object games. Either that, or those classic, Japanese-style RPGs like Aveyond. I am girl after all.

Chinese New Year has arrived. I am not expecting a whole lot of ang paus this year, but I hope I can get a few hundred dollars, at least. Even though I do have enough cash in my bank account to buy a laptop, I can't withdraw everything at once! I should start looking for a job after my four days at Kenneth's. Sony isn't exactly generous when it comes to its price.

I am not getting a Mac. Kill me if I do.

At Least Someone Visits Here

I don't get many readers. Sometimes, I wonder if I have any at all. Then once in a while, you remind me of my blog and ask why haven't I updated it in so long. I still check your blog sometimes, even though I know you don't update it, you said to me.       It is not everyday that you pester me to write-- usually.

Remember what I told you last night, in our sleep? About past mistakes, the people involved and how in their eyes, we would still stay the same, be that memory that everyone wants to forget even though we have moved on, and changed? I wonder indeed, if you remember, or even paid attention to my midnight ramblings.

You are asleep at the moment. I can't possibly bother you with my questions, or my voice. You are a person who takes life seriously-- the physical aspect of it anyway. As for the things you can't see or feel with your body, you couldn't possibly care less, because you already give zero fucks about them. Like what? Life, of course.

Now, back to the thoughts I left half hanging last night. 

I wanted to suffocate myself with the pillow my head was resting on. Trying to sleep, my brain decided that a flash back of my embarrassing mistakes would be a decent story to relax me and make me fall asleep with a smile on my face. Oh, brain, sometimes I wonder why I even have you! Perhaps seeing a certain someone earlier that evening triggered a reaction in you which temporarily screws around with your compressing abilities.

What if life was reset everyday? Or every year? Ah, then there is a reason to celebrate new years. We wouldn't forget what we've learnt in the past. We could choose what we want to forget, and wipe that memory clean from our own minds, as well as everyone else's. Wouldn't that be nice? If we only had 365 days to live, would we cherish each and every day, live them to the fullest? Or would we stay the same, wasting the hours and days away staring at screens.

I don't usually wake up this early and stay awake, without going back to dreamland until my mum comes knocking on my door, telling me to go downstairs for lunch.

In the first place, I didn't think of blogging and I certainly didn't want to do it. It wouldn't be fair if you kept checking for updates and I don't update this site! I am a horrible writer. Which reminds me, a friend of mine told me my email address stated on my profile is wrong, but I haven't changed it yet. He told me about it last year... I I I I I I I guess I will go change it now.

Thank you for being my only reader. Well maybe someone else reads my blog too, but I certainly don't know it!

I know I won't update my blog often. You know that too.

New Year

New year, huh?

It's just another ordinary day. It's not like your life will automatically reset itself and you can start over. I see. That's why people countdown to this day, drink beer, and party till the Sun comes up. They get drunk, and dance to forget all that's happened in the past-- some dance to remember-- as a symbol, to start over fresh the next day; a new year.

January 1st, 2014

I still feel the bluntness, and how almost nothing is worth the excitement. I'm hiding again, away from the people that call themselves my friends. You could say that I've been looking forward to this for a very long time now, the day I finally am able to slide away silently, and disappear from their lives forever. Total detachment.

No calls. No messages. Besides, my phone is always on airplane mode. Now, you'd wonder why I even own a cellphone if it's going to be unreachable almost all the damn time-- I don't play games either. I'm not sure either. There are two people which I will continue to keep in touch with. Wei Wei and Wui Ping.

For the coming four months, I'll read whatever book I fancy that's collecting dust in my shelf-- after I get my driver's license, of course, but before I start college. 

Sigh.

I wonder how things will be like? I'll be alone, but living with my brother who says I'll be his personal chef. No. I don't get paid. The difference between the two of us is so great, how are we even related? That social butterfly shared his ridiculously absurd dream with me this morning. How I was the kind of girl who parties hard, went to clubs and head banged like crazy. We both laughed at that idiotic dream--or perhaps nightmare-- of his. It seems that it is obvious to the world, even to him, that I'm a boring person who prefers to stick with books. Even when choosing curtains for me the other day, Dennis picked out a plain one for me, without even a dot on it as decoration. She likes it plain, he had said to mum.

I always thought I'd never grow up. How wrong was I? Of course, I'm still gullible in ways so ridiculous that you wouldn't even start to believe that someone with such a negative and sombre perspective of the way things are could be so naive, and stupid.

Aunt Mun handed me a piece of chocolate from After Eight. As I was about to nibble the square piece of dark brown sweetness, she said it'd taste better if I ate it after eight o'clock. I took it away from my lips and stared at her. Even Lisa had processed aunt Mun's words as mere lies, right after they came out of her mouth. But there I was, leaving the chocolate to rest on my belly, not even one bite. Secretly, I wanted to believe in the magic. I took my first bite at around nine o'clock that night-- it still tasted horrible. Minty and sweet. Disgusting.

Ask Jor, and he'd tell you about the fun he has saying unbelievable things to me that I'd always believe. Fuck you, man.

My life will continue as usual. The Sun will still rise in the east, pigs won't fly and chickens will remain flightless and whether or not the egg comes first will still continue to stir the mind of many people.

Happy Life no.3 still has a few pages left, thanks to my forgetfulness of leaving it Home while I went to KL.

Very soon, I'll be listening to the song Highway to Hell as I speed down the roads leading to the big city. It shall become my regular routine.

Maybe this new year might be different after all.

Beer, anyone?

Cheers. And although I don't care, happy new year.