Bangkok XI

"It's late, why aren't you asleep yet?"

"Because, you always need someone to talk to at night."

I suppose some people understand ourselves better than we do. Tonight, when my lifeline is out of service, I am left with only one subject of confrontation: myself. The nighttime peace augments my melancholy, and I feel my breathing becoming heavier, though my eyes have already dried up.

Why do I continue to listen to Back Number at times like this, when my chest already hurts. His voice is drawing out the desperation that I wish I could suppress, and waste away without acknowledgement. Even if I turn down the volume, the melodic streams still penetrate into the deepest part of my heart. Like thick wreaths of invisible clouds, this pleading voice coils around my limbs, tearing me apart.

胸の奥の奥が苦しくなる…

I resonate with your regrets and unspoken words. As you watch her back disappear past the ticket barriers, joining the faceless crowd, the cowardly silence that has kept your lips sealed now sinks its teeth into your delicate wound. The ripples of regret spread their electrifying rings, and you feel yourself tremble in the night wind.

Nobody is there for me to wave goodbye to, and I don't have to see their silhouette swallowed up by strangers. But when I close my eyes, there is someone walking away from me. Powerless, I can only watch them dissolve into a faceless sea of wandering souls as I stand behind the steel grille.

So I talk to exhaustion every night when the skies are clear, without watching anyone leave. But tonight... To-night...

Bangkok X

Souvenirs, I think, should be as useless as can be, like a magnet or a key chain. One may carry a coin pouch in their pockets but key chains! Who would buy such trash on their own? I remember receiving one too, in the shape of a turtle.

Buying such a worthless souvenir puts my mind at ease. A coin pouch may never be used, but a key chain may always be hung, somewhere, not necessarily on keys.

Other than this trinket of little significance, I've bought another one that is not only smaller in size but also more impractical in nature. If something can be said to be lesser than a key chain, then its significance wouldn't differ from that of a rock by the roadside. Nonetheless, I paid for it.

Cabbages and Condoms is a restaurant catered to white people. If you're Asian, you'll be disappointed by the food. Sweet, and not spicy in the least, my last supper in Bangkok left me dissatisfied, craving for Tom Yum that would leave my lips swollen, nose dripping.

The Lovebirds have gone off to some night market around Siam Square. Too tired, and a little short on funds, I've retreated back into the cool space of the hostel.

Lazing around the common room, I smell the sweat drenched socks of a Japanese man. From the sheen on his uncut hair comes the betrayal that he hasn't washed it for a day or two now. I'm reminded of how Yoshioka and Nagashima lived during their university days, submerged in filth and only visiting the public baths every so often.

That oily sheen could really just be his hair styling product, but that's none of my business. I just wish he'd change his socks.

Another American movie that I've already watched is being screened. It's the one with Matt Damon and space travel.

For once I see the receptionist away from her post. She's lying on the couch, playing a phone game. Even while resting, those eyes are peering into the blue lights of a screen.

Nobody is paying attention to the movie.

Bangkok IX

It's my second last day in Bangkok. Up until today, what touristy activities so common on the Bangkok tourist's checklist have I crossed on this trip? To the me from neighbouring Malaysia, I don't see the need to dress in a singlet and loose elephant-print trousers when I come to Thailand. But, I have of course gone to markets, and massage parlours.

People might say that Thailand is cheap, but with the economy as it is, Malaysia is in actuality cheaper than Thailand now. While they celebrate this haven for shoppers with its tempting prices, they leave out the fact that Bangkok is a city where one will undoubtedly overspend. I see myself holding a papercup, squatting by the street in disheveled hair and smelling of piss.

Indeed, the only touristy activity I've busied myself with in these 3 days is overspending. Just now, I bought some soap at Terminal 21 from a cute Thai man more perfect than the member of a K-pop group. Whenever I scrub my dead skin, I shall nourish the lather with the tears I shed for my fate that has been written without pretty boys. Perhaps when the matchmaking diety was scripting my path of love, pretty boys had not yet existed.

As a boring person whose only excitement stem from unrequited love, my day alone was spent browsing the shelves of secondhand book stores and reading Korean Manhwa while waiting for the rain to quiet down.

Bangkok is a cauldron of melted culture. There are street vendors, and hipster cafés, exuberant malls and dirt cheap markets, but the one place where all traces of identity are wiped clean is a secondhand bookstore. The doors aren't just ordinary doors, but ones to a different dimension.

English books, Japanese books, German books, French books, Scandinavian books...!? With English songs playing on the speakers, I had to wonder if I was really still in Bangkok. The traffic outside remain unchanged, and the honks indicated reality.

If like me, you are a worm, intolerable and likes to be holded up, I suggest you visit Dasa Book Café when you're in Bangkok. The closest BTS station is Phromg Phong, but Google Maps will lead you straight to it. An old wonder of creaking floorboards and 3 floors worth of books, one can easily spend half a day there. To complement the cozy experience, they serve coffee and tea, since they are after all a café. The third floor, which holds the foreign and horror sections, is painted purple, and the most quiet floor with the least visitors.

For Japanese books, go to Sun Books. It's unassuming entrance made me walk past it, but I reconsidered and turned back. This was one of my best decisions since coming to Bangkok, as I found several Ogawa Yoko novels. For those of you who don't know, Ogawa is the first Japanese author whose book I came across, and who opened up the world of Japanese literature to me.

A quiet day well spent, I am now back under the blankets; content, but starving.

Bangkok VIII

I don't suppose this bag of 20baht guava shall be tonight's dinner. Adding to the list of things that gives me a headache, is eating guava on an empty stomach, nearly dehydrated. An even more peculiar reason that sends my head throbbing is walking under the sun while wearing sunglasses-- don't ask me why.

「青春ですね~」is what I gathered from eavesdropping on the table of Japanese guests playing board games. I'm seated at the counter, same as yesterday.

Do you know why I prefer counter seats? It's because each individual seat is designed for the lonely, facing the empty kitchen space instead of guests never lacking of company. Here, it's also closest to the water dispenser.

Clutching my bottle of warm water in hopes that it would keep my fingers from hardening in the cold air, I'm reminded of my student who would always come to my table and similarly wrap her hands around my bottle in search of warmth.

"Why don't you fill up your own bottle with warm water?"

"Because I only like touching it, not drinking it!"

Kids.

The receptionist has already become accustomed to the temperature at which the AC is blasting for she's seated comfortably wearing a t-shirt. I'd have wrapped myself in two blankets, slipping on feet warmers and winter gloves if I had to sit in this room for 8 or 12 hours a day. Having just come in from the rain, my defense against today's artificial blizzard has been considerably weakened. Heck, I just realised there's 3 super ACs working on this winter simulation in the reception area that's about the size of my bedroom!

This evening's playlist is comprised of cheesy love songs from the 90s by those blond-haired boy groups who all sound the same. After a lazy Google search of what lines of lyrics I could remember, this song is identified as Soledad by Westlife.

Actually, last night, one of my readers complained that my Bangkok posts were quite... I can't remember exactly what he said, but I interpreted it as lousy. Of course, I'm not a professional writer, but I do try my best. My "immature techniques" are something that I'm working on improving with each book I read, and each time I attempt to write something.

Thank you for reading until today.

Bangkok VII

The receptionist is always at the front desk, behind the monitor. When we arrived in the evening yesterday, she was busy clicking away. After coming back from our evening excursion, she was still there, smiling. This morning too, as we left the hostel, she was already seated, freshly groomed. And now, at almost 9PM, she's still sitting on that black desk chair of hers, looking at the screen while I placed myself by the counter with my 40baht chap fan I'd bought from a street vendor with dreadlocks and piercings.

I stopped in front of his cart, looked at the dishes, then up at him and said "Well, I've only got 40baht left!" I wonder how this tourist with the bowl bob must have appeared to him.

My companions have gone off to eat Moo Kata. If I were to describe what happened with historical accuracy, then it would be more appropriate to say that I left them on the train and came back by myself. It isn't that I'm being a considerate sister who knowingly leaves the lovebirds at the peak of their youth to their own devices, rather, they had already spent what little tolerance I have in me. With the Moo Kata, it was because they never bothered looking up the address of the restaurant properly, and relied on me to lead the way, the me who similarly haven't a clue as to where the place could be.

Google found me an article of how to get to this 36 Moo Kata On Nut, and so we rode 9 stops from Siam Station to On Nut. A barbecue place called 36 Moo Kata On Nut would obviously be in On Nut, right? Well, the Thais need some education on logic and rationality because the restaurant wasn't there.

I suppose it was partly my fault for failing to check the date of the article, but it should have been their responsibility to double-check before we left, mainly because it was where they wanted to go. Like After You and the 100baht wantan noodles that were drier and lumpier than my expired love life-- they just had to go dine at the places their friends, and the rest of Malaysia have visited. In my experience, hyped up food is never worth the wait nor the price so I never bothered looking up restaurants.

Young people these days are the sheep that God has dreamt of, but they seem to be worshipping social media instead of this great diety. He's going to have to make it rain for 40 days and 40 nights a lot sooner, and drown this hopeless generation of pampered hype beasts.

The receptionist is probably a Rihanna fan. Tonight's playlist is Rihanna, Rihanna, and oh, Rihanna.

Having finished my peasant dinner, I'm chilling--literally having my body slowly frozen underneath the flow of the air-conditioning--in the common room where a huge flat screen sits above wall racks of DVDs. Someone is watching an American movie that I've already watched. I've forgotten the title but it is one of those dramatisation of real-life stories. This one in particular is about how a few men made millions, or billions, off of the housing market crash in the US some years ago.

A bookshelf stands upright in an unlighted corner two steps away from the TV. Surprisingly, there is a selection of old Japanese novels.

Rihanna's Te Amo is playing in the reception hall. It's been a very long time since I've heard this one. A little more, and I'll move my icy feet to climb up three flights of stairs.

Bangkok VI

I doubt that there's a mall more crowded than Siam Paragon on a Tuesday afternoon. Tourists, of different colours and alien tongues wander about like dumb prey who have forgotten the dangers of the world. If every one of us could walk about with such carefree expressions, the world would be at peace.

After You. Have you heard of this dessert café that's born and Thailand? Their logo is of a mountain goat with its horns curled up, resembling puff pastry, or the snails Kindergarteners draw when they're given instructions to "draw your garden" during art class.

I must tell you never to come here. The quality and taste of their dessert is unknown to me and I am not curious to find out. Yet, here I am, waiting in line among tourists for our number to be called. It is quite ridiculous how people fly here to eat Bingsu. Eating it is alright, but waiting in line for 18 tables just to eat it? I cannot understand what goes on inside the minds of 19-year-olds.

Unhappy, my back is turned towards my sister and no attempt at communication has been made. It is easy to sense my displeasure. Growing up with me, she's very clear about my temper and how trivial details like waiting in line for something I never asked for elongates my face. The edges of my lips sink downwards as the seconds continue to tick.

Compromise... Compromise... Compromise... This word, in my brother's voice, is somehow ringing in my ears. Funny how I should think of such a word in such a selfish person's voice! It makes me less willing to compromise. Unsurprisingly, this family is made up of only the finest brats. On certain occasions, we are nice, and our commendable sides differ greatly.

On this trip, the thought of buying souvenirs never surfaced much. When I chanced upon a coin pouch with the print of a tuna smack in the middle, the name of such a friend who appreciates quirky designs surfaced. So I picked it up and reached for my wallet.

My hands never reached the zipper of my bag, and I put the souvenir back.

I walked on. The image of my friend's coin pouch was drawn from the memories of us going shopping. What good is a coin pouch when they've already got one?

We have been given a seat at the café, though a rather tiny one by the outer wall. The wait continues however, as their dessert will take 20minutes to be served.

Bangkok V

Sitting by the stone steps of Krung Thong Plaza entrance, I wait for my sister, empty-handed. Having bought not even half a piece of rag, I sit here, breathing in thick discharges of carbon monoxide and wonder when my enthusiasm had died.

There is a semi-blind lady with a speaker hanging from her neck that's blasting Thai music. An empty plastic container rests a top the speaker. What else can she be but a beggar? One of the many who lie, and sometimes roam, on the busy streets of Bangkok like discarded garbage being pulled along by drafts of soot-filled city wind. Theirs is indeed a pitiful situation, but the us who come to this city in search of a getaway that doesn't demand too much of our nearly emptied pockets, are but beggars with a roof over our heads. As these disabled citizens have chosen to roam the streets with a paper cup in hand, we, a little more able, have chosen to sell our existence to our faceless masters whose feet we grovel at for money.

Bangkok IV

It is a little past nine in the morning and I can hear the soft snoring of my companions on the beds across the room.  The air conditioner hums gently, a steady stream of cold air spewing forth from its mouth. Outside, I can hear the faint chirps of lively birds. From the gaps between the blidnd, a greyish light filters into the room. Is it a cloudy day, or are the windows tinted? Coupled with the tenderness of the duvet that I've cocooned myself in, this morning that greets me makes one very lazy indeed.

I notice that my sister and her boyfriend are sleeping on different beds. What an odd couple! If it had been Sarah and her boyfriend, they'd no doubt huddle close to each other under the same blanket.

What am I doing here? Aren't they absolutely fine on their own? The boyfriend has been here four, or five times already so I found it odd that my sister should ask me to come along. Perhaps, I am the excuse, the object placed between the intimate space of the two so that my father wouldn't question this trip. Suddenly, a kind of sadness has overtaken me as I realise that to my sister, I'm only a flimsy piece of condom. The distance between our beds seems to have stretched further, and I hear a tear somewhere, the rift between us an oblivion with jagged teeth.

I should just wake up and leave.

Bangkok III

After an evening of walking along Sukhumvit, we're now back at the hostel, sipping cultured milk drink from a local brand. What is it called? I certainly can't read Thai. But it tastes better than Yakult, and even Vitagen! The bottle itself looks cheap, with faded print in red and light blue. If it wasn't for my sister, I'd never have bought such a thing.

Our first day at Bangkok didn't go as planned, but I suppose it was a satisfactory evening. If we had gone to Asiatique, I reckon I'd have spent and bought a lot more, feeling 2-times the guilt, but also 2-times the happiness. Instead, we headed over to Central World because Lisa came across a Facebook post about a much hyped-about bazaar (which later, when we got there, she admitted that she never bothered reading the post and only looked at the pictures). Sure, we found grilled pork, a variety of seafood and Pad Thai, but we also paid 70Baht for a cup of coconut water. I wanted to vomit it back up and ask for my money back.

Long bored of international fast fashion with price tags that aren't on par with quality, we wanted to leave the monstrous heart of consumers as soon as we finished our business. Due to the convenience of everyday life, details such as incompatible plug points completely slipped our dull brains so we had to find an adapter-charger to resuscitate our phones. Since our phones are directly linked to our livelihood and wellbeing, leaving them alone and actually bonding with each other is most unfathomable.

In hindsight, we should have just bought a random one at the Godsend 7-Eleven instead of browsing through Central World for a "proper" one. So we paid 400Baht for said "proper" charger, and on the way back, as we browsed through the shelves of 7-E for shampoo, we saw a whole section of adapter-chargers selling for 129Baht. Those 129Baht ones also came with Hello Kitty prints. But, of course, our malnourished brains didn't think that far ahead.

Have you ever put a sweat-soaked bra to your nose and took a deep breath? Even now, I can taste the sourness in my throat.

We circled the floors to find the exit, stepping into a few boutiques and felt for the price tags before kicking ourselves out of the overpriced stores. Elaborate malls tailored to extravagant tourists, in all their bright glory, is not where a 22-year-old wearing a thin linen dress from UNIQLO should be shopping at. Even the scents in that enclosed space of luxury smell more expensive than my tuition fees.

Hurrying to the exit, that's when I saw it. Matsumoto Kiyoshi. I've never been to Japan, but shopping there, at this over-lit drugstore blasting Japanese pop music by some tactless boyband, I felt as though I was no longer in Bangkok. I had never intended to buy anything, nor did I expect them to stock the LuLuLun masks that I've been obsessed with but there they were, hanging at the masks section with cheap price tags overhead; even the limited edition ones! I wanted to cry, because we never booked check-in luggage.

I hung all three packets of LuLuLun back where they waited to be taken home and walked out of the store.

I went back inside.

After further deliberation and discussion with my sister, I decided to buy just one pack. If I didn't buy at least one, I would have troubles sleeping tonight, and for the rest of the days I spend without LuLuLun.

Where am I? Indeed, I'm in Bangkok, yet my heart is elsewhere. Whenever I tell people that I've never been to Japan, they open their eyes so wide as if inviting me to gouge them out of their sockets. More than anywhere, I'd like to go there, but more than anything, I'm also afraid of going there. It's funny, but I'm scared that I'm not good enough for Japan. That's why, until now, I've only flown away from the land of the rising sun.

Bangkok II

There was an Ojii-chan travelling with two younger companions. I stared at him for quite some time, at his head of wavy hair that flowed past his broad shoulders, trying to discern whether he was indeed a man. As he hunched over to put his belongings on the floor, the fat around his chest, following the pull of gravity, seemed to sag further until I could see two distinct points forming beneath his pattern shirt.

"Ah, so he was a woman after all!" this is a blunder that anyone would make, I suppose.

I continued to observe this eldery being of a somewhat massive build that was seated diagonally across me two rows away, for lack of anything else to do while I wait the time to pass.

Then he spoke.

"Ah, so he is indeed a man!" I've just reconfirmed this fact with myself, because nobody else seemed to have noticed. Neither did they care, eyes glued to their phone screens.

I wanted to know more about Ojii-chan and his two companions, which dressed very differently. All three of them were travelling together yet their attire betrayed no hint of why they were together, as well as the purpose of their trip.

Ojii-chan looked as though he'd spent far too long out in the sun, living among tribal communities, while the potato seated next to him was in a proper long-sleeved shirt, buttoned right up to neck, complete with pointy leather shoes wrapping round his feet. The third man, one of a slim build, was in a simple black t-shirt which looked expensive to my semi-blind eyes. He most likely enjoyed baseball, beer, and soccer. But this all was none of my business.

As they continued to scroll through their phones, so did I, while keeping an eye on them still.

After they boarded, I didn't think I'd see them again but as I was walking down the aisle, there! The three of them were huddled together in three narrow seats. By the window, the thin one seemed to be enjoying the sunshine. Ojii-chan and the potato looked quite troubled as their layers of fat are coming close to overlapping, like unevenly kneaded dough.

It is rude to stare, so I kept walking, in case I should laugh.

I never saw them again after we landed, but I encountered different hordes of Japanese people at DMK airport all the same.

Bangkok sure is popular, huh?

Bangkok I

I used to never leave the house without a pen, and a book. The dread of not being able to fidget with the cylindrical tool as a distraction for my anxiety at times weakened my knees and tore out my vocal chords. Not even a squeak, while my body melted into the bustling crowd.

Yet, here I sit, on this cheap seat that's straighter than a board, without a pen. If I had given in to my greed and stuffed my face like a pig for the past few years, then undoubtedly, my fat would spill over the armrests and encroach upon the narrow territory of the traveller next to me, and the even narrower space of the aisle.

It has been a rather lonely flight, with the two passengers next to me failing to show up. At least I could cross my legs freely, and look outside, not that I would want to anyway on this 2PM flight where the sun burns fierce, hours before its descent into a warm glow.

Something is eating at the innermost corner of my chest. Slightly irksome, I think I have annoyed my intolerant self by not slipping a pen into my travel pouch. How stupid can one be? Stupit. Real stupit.

Not only is tapping, tapping, tapping on this smooth surface unfulfilling, but it would appear as though I am another one of those modern beings who have fallen terribly ill, contracting the chronic disease of technological obsession.

Kakak and Recess

The Kakak here is so good to a glutton such as I. Without realising it, I've started going down for recess as soon as the clock hit 10:30, or earlier, on days where the kids are behaving and I'm starving. Once downstairs, I simply sit in the kitchen and wait. Wait, waiting for the Kakak to come in with the plastic containers that hold the leftover snacks the Kindergarteners couldn't finish during their break.

Sometimes, she doesn't show up, or if she does, there'd be nothing left of the sugary treats that schools shouldn't be feeding our already hyperactive young. My greedy self would of course feel a pang of disappointment when my stomach growled, but the Kakak is also the only staff that bothers talking to me so our brief chat, in place of biscuits, acts as the refreshment before another round of sheep herding.

I don't think I've asked for her name. Actually, I have never asked for her name. The other teachers here, do they even know what her name is? Kakak, it's always Kakak. Kakak sini, Kakak sana, Kakak minta mop-- just Kakak.

She never asked for my name either.

Perhaps names aren't important, or they may be too familiar an address between two people who only talk to each other in the kitchen for a few minutes each day. Beyond her name, I know how many siblings she has, how she lives in a long-house back home, and the fact that she sent her adopted child to a Chinese school. But her name, I still haven't a clue about that.

I grabbed three pieces of Chips More Mini from the container when she took the lid off. They were crunchier than I had expected, so my hand went into the container a second time, then a third. Quite content that I've had my little fix, it was time to clear my bladder and go back upstairs.

Kind as she is, Kakak filled up a tiny takeaway container with the cookies, saying that they're for me. Just the other day, she stuffed one Taufu-fa sized container with Bayam for me to take home. They're still sitting in the fridge, unopened, since last Thursday. Nobody but the general waste bag is going to eat them now.

Six or seven pieces of Chips More Mini can't possibly end world hunger. But lunchtime is nigh, and my suffering shan't last for long.

Saturday Morning

I don't have much of a social life. It's a beautiful Saturday morning, where the clouds in the sky are fluffy enough to absorb most of the Sun's heat, allowing only the golden hues to shine through. Yet, here I am, alone in bed, listening to the flow of water filling up the toilet's flush tank and the sounds of unnecessary construction works nearby.

Get dressed, go out, stretch, and go about town in search of breakfast! If I were the kind of positively charged individual who would bother stretching my feet beyond the threshold of my cheap mattress, I would gladly do so and look forward to a productive day ahead where I'd also hear the voices of other people. As much as this bed is terrible for my back, I don't have anything else to laze on in this narrow student accommodation. There's a yoga mat under the table, somewhere.

What's a slothful lump of fat to do on a Saturday? Melt, in the heat of this tropical country. I said I would read Endo's The Girl I Left Behind, but I wonder if I could bring myself to reach the table it's lying on. Am I also someone who is left behind? I think so. If I read it, maybe it'd tell me something about the kind of woman, or girl, that men will undoubtedly kick off the boat. They say that if you throw someone or something into the sea, it'll be difficult to find them again.

Back Number is my number one go-to band recently. Can't the karaoke parlours here provide more than two of their songs? I'm grateful that they at least have two of their greatest hits, whereas they don't even bother with Spitz. Perhaps I should spend this day YouTubing Ayumi Hamasaki's songs in preparation for the next time I visit the karaoke parlour.

After a good six months or so since being with my Huawei Mate10, I still don't know whether I hate it, or love it. I've got no qualms about its overall performance, however, its lack of attention to the music and sound performance sector is a thorough disappointment. Such a huge phone, one that I can barley hold with one hand, one which I use as a stretching exercise for my thumbs in hopes that I can reach beyond an octave when playing the piano, its speakers, its lowly speakers, tiny and inadequate, sound like those RM10 ones they sell at the pasar malam. How now do I enjoy some quality time snuggling up with the lovely voices of my favourite vocalists? The sound quality makes my hair stand, in a bad way like that of a screech, where the longer I hear it, the higher my blood pressure rises. Having left my portable speakers at home, I suppose I should just listen to construction work instead of Back Number.

Why leave the portable speakers? Well, they're called portable speakers, but they're still bulky and weigh as much as my arm, probably. It's already been known that I make terrible decisions anyway.

So much complaints on a Saturday morning; tsk, tsk tsk! My eyes are starting to grow heavy again.

An Afternoon Where I'm Not By Myself

I had been silently planning my Friday afternoon activities inside my head. Scrubbing between my fingers, scenes of my usual shopping trips lined themselves up and I thought of the order in which I should go about today's lonesome outing;
which shades of Urban Decay's latest Lo-Fi products I wanted to swatch, whether I should make my leisurely rounds at the ever so welcoming Sephora; how many hours would I sit at dal.komm today, writing, since I don't have a book in my bag. The suds have receded, I don't suppose I've been lathering my hands for too long?

Flick. Flick. And I dried my hands with some disposable napkins.

Absent mindedly with my spirit browsing through Sephora's shelves, I walked out of the kitchen. The Kindergarteners were still having their lunch, one boy chewing his rice painstakingly slow as my aunt sat opposite him, monitoring his eating behaviour.

Looking at these sprouting beings serves as a wonderful dessert after a teacher's lunch. Before going back into the classroom, trapped, facing the children of Satan, I want to have my fill of toufu-like kids. Some of them have deep, dark eyes, like an endless well of soy sauce. Their innocence is adorable, though their personality is less so.

"Where are you going after class?" my aunt observed today's dressing, and my over-blushed cheeks.

"Oh, to ioi," I mumbled, still walking through the Sephora, of which layout is already ingrained into my soul.

"I need to go to the pet store to get some supplies," with this, perhaps I wouldn't sound like someone who is totally alone. A necessity, a chore, yes, that ought to mask my intention of spending 5 hours alone at the mall.

Well, it didn't. Somehow, my aunt managed to make plans with the other teacher and the three of us, along with both of their children, ended up in the same car, driving towards ioi.

Caring Samaritans have barged into my alone-time! Perhaps I was a little disappointed at first, since I did plan on writing the afternoon away while inhaling the aroma of freshly ground coffee. But company, being together with people, humans who speak the same language, an opportunity to talk to PEOPLE, and not myself or Teddy boi (the guinea pig of my sister's friend which has now come into my co-posession), is also a vital factor in improving my mental health. Physical health however, is debatable, for we end up eating too much, everytime.

We talked for a good hour or two during our meal, mostly about our colleagues, the school, and the children. But I suppose that's how conversations with colleagues go? That's the link between us after all, that prevents us from being total strangers. I won't go into detail here about the issues we discussed, save for the frustration that we wish the kids themselves would start to realise the importance of their own education and willingly do their work so that they can move on and graduate! I'm not in a position to criticise them though, for I am also a brat who lacks motivation when it comes to my own studies.

I offered some of my coffee to the other teacher. Declining it, she told me that she's sensitive to coffee and gets sick after drinking it. It was at that moment that I realised the best way to abduct someone of Hakka descent is to feed them coffee. Perhaps the children of God are blessed with weak immunity towards coffee so that as we wait for the ultimate judgement, with coffee being served, they'll send us drowsy ones straight to heaven.

Walking around with kids is much more leisurely, because they've got tiny legs that can't function well enough. I wasn't unhappy in the least, and I even thought that Jay Chou's absolutely stupid newest single sounded a little less cringey.

Sunshine in my eyes, stupid kids by my side, I let my fantasies slip and thoroughly enjoyed the presence of those other than myself. Sharing and accepting the goodwill of others is sometimes a necessity, even though we prefer to be left alone.

I should also rest, while I wait for the coffee to clear out of my system.

Udon, so Slippery

And so I turned into a back alley, looking for a way out of this clustered maze of shoplots in a town long established. How would I get back out onto the main road?

The food court, with its glaring florescent lights calling out to the lost and hungry, gleamed at the unevenly paved corner. That corner, which I have been circling to find again, seemed to retreat further into the sights of nighttime the longer my foot pressured the accelerator until finally, I lost it completely as my car shone its headlights on a narrow alleyway where old men gathered. Ah, I've never been good with directions but sometimes I wish that I could stop myself from being pulled by the force of oddity.

Backing away slowly, I slid into an available parking space opposite of an udon shop.

Why is there a cheap Japanese restaurant hiding in this alley? Situated right next to a dodgy motel which I assume caters to old men with an interest not in their wives, I wasn't sure if I should turn off the ignition. But the waitress waiting by the counter, wearing a bored countenance, is likely a university student waiting for her part-time salary to flow into her pockets while she leans against the counter, texting.

With ochre-tinted bright lights, and Sakura prints on its sign, I braced myself for disappointment as I grabbed the stainless steel handle of the glass doors, pushed it open and took a step into this empty establishment. Hisaishi's music filled the atmosphere, and I thought to myself, how generic can this place be?

Sliding away from my grasp, the slippery Udon dives back into the kimchi broth, and I am taken aback by the orange sprays that have splattered against my glasses. I sigh, and pull a piece of tissue out from the dispenser. Everything I try to hold onto, struggles to be free from my grasp. I wonder if it is a flaw, undeniably fixed, that my hands should never be able to hold whatever that may come into their reach.

Again and again I try to firmly hold them between my chopsticks, but each time, they effortlessly slide back down into the fishy waters. I sigh, and pull out another piece of tissue.

I'm reminded of the time I went on a date with a Japanese guy. After I greeted him at the station, we walked around in search of dinner and came across Hanamaru Udon. He said he wanted to try the Udon here in Malaysia. It wasn't until my udon slipped from between my chopsticks and fell back into the thick curry sauce with a higher than expected splash that I realised, sitting across my date who was leaning in to slurp his own udon, was a terrible idea. In general, eating noodle soup on a first date is a disaster. I never saw him again. Perhaps my chopsticks skills were unacceptable.

Having downed my third cup of green tea, I suppose I should pay and leave. They close in 15 after all.