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    Sunday, March 29, 2009

    nobody but you

    nobody can save you but
    you will be put again and again
    into nearly impossible
    they will attempt again and again
    through subterfuge, guise and
    to make you submit, quit and/or die quietly

    nobody can save you but
    and it will be easy enough to fail
    so very easily
    but don't, don't, don't.
    just watch them.
    listen to them.
    do you want to be like that?
    a faceless, mindless, heartless
    do you want to experience
    death before death?

    nobody can save you but
    and you're worth saving.
    it's a war not easily won
    but if anything is worth winning then
    this is it.

    think about it.
    think about saving your self.

    - Charles Bukowski


    Regret nothing. Not the cruel novels you read
    to the end just to find out who killed the cook.
    Not the insipid movies that made you cry in the dark,
    in spite of your intelligence, your sophistication.
    Not the lover you left quivering in a hotel parking lot,
    the one you beat to the punchline, the door, or the one
    who left you in your red dress and shoes, the ones
    that crimped your toes, don't regret those.
    Not the nights you called god names and cursed
    your mother, sunk like a dog in the livingroom couch,
    chewing your nails and crushed by loneliness.
    You were meant to inhale those smoky nights
    over a bottle of flat beer, to sweep stuck onion rings
    across the dirty restaurant floor, to wear the frayed
    coat with its loose buttons, its pockets full of struck matches.
    You've walked those streets a thousand times and still
    you end up here. Regret none of it, not one
    of the wasted days you wanted to know nothing,
    when the lights from the carnival rides
    were the only stars you believed in, loving them
    for their uselessness, not wanting to be saved.
    You've traveled this far on the back of every mistake,
    ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a house
    after the TV set has been pitched out the upstairs
    window. Harmless as a broken ax. Emptied
    of expectation. Relax. Don't bother remembering
    any of it. Let's stop here, under the lit sign
    on the corner, and watch all the people walk by.

    - Dorianne Laux

    Wednesday, March 18, 2009

    High Heels and Gasoline

    When they fight, it's with the familiarity of a practiced dance, screaming and stamping through every room. She throws things, and he tries to remember not to yell that he loves her after telling her how much he's regretted meeting her. In the morning, she will leave and stay elsewhere, and he will live as though he was the only person in the apartment the whole time.

    That night, they don't sleep in the bed. She curls up on the sofa and he stretches out as comfortably as he can on the floor. In the morning, she wakes up first, and covers him with a blanket before stepping into the shower. Her bag's already packed, clothes randomly thrown into one of her largest handbags in between curses, and when he steps into the shower a few minutes after her she lets him wash her hair and closes her eyes at his whispered prompt, letting the suds wash down her face.

    She can smell the familiar scent of his shampoo as his fingers gently massage it into her scalp, deliberately packs his toothpaste into her bag so that he has no choice but to use hers while she's gone.

    She's standing by the door when he comes out, bag lying at her feet while she fiddles with the deadbolt. Sometimes she would ask him to carry her bag for her, he would oblige. Today, she leaves without a word.

    While she's gone, he spends a lot of time with his friend. They watch sports and go out for drinks and he doesn't have time to think about her. He does, however, have time to remember that his heart is beating, and that he wasn't as aware of it as when he was with her.

    When they fight, their movements are in time, even on opposite ends of town. It's a series of complex steps held in smoky bars and dark alleyways while the dust from their crumbled hearts and wills settles around them. They think it's to rub it in the other's face, to show that they're above the other, even though they are so close that they could touch, in the exact same position, even though they can't see it.

    He buys a girl a drink, she lights a cigarette. The lighter is engraved with initials that aren't hers. Three hours, two drinks and a phone number later, they leave with swollen lips, napkins in pockets ready to be thrown away in the morning. It's about pain. It's about domination. They aren't sure whose, though. She knows that she could break him, he revels in the fact that he could make her come back anytime he wanted.
    When she stumbles into her sister's house, the woman takes one look at her. Places two aspirin next to a glass of water on the nightstand. She doesn't say anything. There's nothing to be said.

    She calls him first thing in the morning, reminds him to take his vitamins. She doesn't say hello or goodbye. Just reminds him to stay healthy. Her phone rings later that night, the sound of familiar breathing making its way down the line before a whispered Goodnight.

    When they fight, it's violent, each letting the other fall, catching them at the last minute, holding them up only to let them go again and turning away so that they don't hear the inevitable splat made when a body hits the cold ground.

    She comes back a week later. She cooks his favorite dish for dinner, adds chilli so that he can't eat it. He does the laundry in the morning, rips her favorite T-shirt after taking it out of the dryer.
    They're watching a movie; she says you smell like smoke, then lights a cigarette. He replies you look like a man, whispers I would go gay for you.

    It's another week before she starts to sleep in the bed again. He joins her the next night, pulls her close to him, tries to wrap his arms around her. She kicks him away, then quickly rolls over to cling to him. He rolls her over so that she lies on top of him, but soon after that they slide to opposite sides of the bed. Their heads are on the other's pillows. It's the best sleep they've had in weeks.
    The next night, he wakes up to the bed dipping next to him, but when he tries to touch her, she pulls away. She tells him to fuck off, he responds by wishing he didn't have a girlfriend who was so cold. Later on when her breathing evens out, he leans over, whispers I've always loved winter better than summer, returns to his side of the bed, and waits for sleep to come again.

    It's hot the next day. She says she hates the heat. He says he hates her.
    They fight again, this time to the beat of their sobs and breaking hearts. I'm not sorry, he mutters. He neglects to mention that he can't even remember why they were fighting in the first place, so why should he be sorry? She can't remember either, but she does remember how much of an asshole he was, how he could fill her heart and break it in one move. It doesn't matter that she's done the same. I'm not sorry either, she grits out.

    There are so many out there better than you, she screams. (I would have chosen you over them every time, she thinks to herself)

    I wish we had never met, he shouts. (Only so that I could find you again, he adds silently)

    She throws him out of the apartment that night. Instead of going to a friend's place, he decides to sit on the cold sidewalk, a cigarette in his hand burning down to the filter. He only realizes that he had fallen asleep when she sits next to him, arranging a blanket over their legs before laying her head on his shoulder.

    When they fight, they're synchronized in their heartache. She knows that he makes her feel things never felt before, pain and sorrow included. He's fully aware that she has him wrapped around her finger, even though the string may be a bit loose at times.

    I don't forgive you, she says as she sips her coffee over the sink. She turns around, tries to touch his arm. He moves away. I don't forgive you too.
    She sets her mug down, starts to leave the room, but he turns and pulls her into his arms. They say nothing, they just hold each other in the stillness of the kitchen.
    It's beautiful. It's fucked-up. It's what they are, and that is how they always will be, never forgiving, never regretting. But then again, when no-one apologises, what is there to forgive? They just continue to dance their dance, holding the other up, breaking them down, and pushing them away before returning to their side. When the music stops, all that is left is silence, the calm after the storm. This time is no different.

    Inspired by this dance:

    You won't find this on Craigslist


    Tuesday, March 17, 2009

    The Quiet World

    In an effort to get people to look
    into each other's eyes more,
    and also to appease the mutes,
    the government has decided
    to allot each person exactly one hundred
    and sixty-seven words, per day.

    When the phone rings, I put it to my ear
    without saying hello. In the restaurant
    I point at chicken noodle soup.
    I am adjusting well to the new way.

    Late at night, I call my long distance lover,
    proudly say I only used fifty-nine today.
    I saved the rest for you.

    When she doesn't respond,
    I know she's used up all her words,
    so I slowly whisper I love you
    thirty-two and a third times.
    After that, we just sit on the line
    and listen to each other breathe.

    Jeffrey McDaniel

    Monday, March 16, 2009

    Dedicated to my in-laws (and the lecturers, just for the lulz)

    Friday, March 13, 2009

    For the lulz

    What Is Your Battle Cry?

    Striding amidst the wasteland, attacking with a thorned whip, cometh Michelleiam! And she gives a low howl:

    "You in some shit now, muhfuh! I swear that on this night, you shall dine in hell!!"

    Find out!
    Enter username:
    Are you a girl, or a guy ?

    created by beatings : powered by monkeys

    When I entered in Michelle B., I got this bit of nonsense:

    What Is Your Battle Cry?

    Sprinting amidst the candy store, attacking with a bladed baseball bat, cometh Michelle B.! And she gives a booming scream:

    "I'm going to hump you into a fine spicy powder!!!"

    Find out!
    Enter username:
    Are you a girl, or a guy ?

    created by beatings : powered by monkeys

    Sunday, March 8, 2009

    25 more facts about me

    Seeing as how I can't think of anything to type out at the moment, I thought I'd just redo a meme I posted on Facebook the other day for the sake of updating (hey, an update's an update)
    Not that anyone reads this thing, anyway...

    Without further ado, I now present to you:

    (The sequel)

    1. I have this huge-ass red shirt that used to belong to my mother when she was pregnant with me. I later 'borrowed' (read: stole) it from her, and ended up taking it with me to college. Sometimes, when I get a little upset of homesick, I wear the shirt.

    2. My relationship with my mother is very complicated. While we will end up screaming at each other over some stupid reasons (with her often disowning me and me on the verge of tears because she's the only person I would never dare to answer back), the next days sees us being the best of buds, shopping and having coffee together while gossiping away. Maybe it's not all that unusual, but it still weirds me out how volatile our relationship is. I'm still trying to figure out if all daughters have that kind of relationship with their mothers, or if it's an odd result of the Chinese-Eurasian-Arab-What the fuck ever mix we've got going on.

    3. My heritage is so mixed that it tires me to fully explain it to strangers. So whenever someone asks me what I am, I just roll my eyes and reply:
    Ever since I've moved to Malaysia, I've been asked the question by just about everyone I've ever met. Even the non-Malaysians.

    "So what are you, exactly?"
    "No, really. What are you?"
    "I told you. Human."
    "Just answer the question lah!"
    "All right, ALL RIGHT. I'm part succubus. There, it's out. Happy now?"

    4. Say what you will, but the one thing that will offend me is being told that I'm not Malaysian or Lebanese. I strongly believe that my nationality is such a part of my heart that to be told that I have no right to belong to these the country of my parents is the biggest insult you can ever personally aim at me. I may not look like a national, I may not speak the language (goddammit, you can't fault me for not trying!), but the fact still stands that both Lebanon and Malaysia are my homelands. I spent my entire life defending where I came from, and while it may make any sense having two homelands, I still do.

    5. Yes, I grew up in Oman. No, I did not ride a camel around. I did, however, manage to convince three of my friends that it was an alternative form of transport due to the lack of decent roads. It was awesome: I managed to keep it up for over ten minutes before I felt bad and 'fessed up. (seriously, I had a name for my camel and everything!)

    6. I owe my infamous powers of bullshit to the large amount of useless facts that I keep in my head. It also doesn't hurt that I used to act and do Public Speaking when I was in school, so I can make a pretty convincing argument whenever I need to (a lot of the times I'm just too lazy or caught off guard)

    7. Most of the times I can come up with the most amazing come-backs ever. Unfortunately, they only occur to me at least an hour after the last word has been said. It's not just the come-backs that tend to escape me. If you ever see me perk up and shout out a random word or phrase out of nowhere, it's because I was trying my darnedest to think of it during some conversation earlier in the day.

    8. I have the weirdest selective memory known to man. I may not remember my best friend's birthday, but I can tell you in a flash what she's thinking just by the way she writes her notes. Hold a gun to my head, I still won't be able to recite Bingham's Rule of Law (I am so sorry, Mr. Lua), but dump me in the middle of a pub quiz, I'll walk away with the prize. Again, this could be due to the copious amounts of useless information I squirreled up in my noggin.

    9. Not only do I know a ton of weird facts, I will often side-track myself when talking. (for example: Eros (aka Cupid) was originally a virile, muscular god of erotic love, and the original Valentine's day was a festival celebrating fertility and sex. The chubby little baby we know today was an image created to appeal to public sensibilities by de-sexualising it in an example of just how unhealthy today's attitudes are towards sex. Come on, would Psyche be willing to scour the Earth for him if he looked like some aerodynamically-challenged cherub?
    In addition, his daughter was known as Hêdonê, whose name is the etymological root of hedonism. If you're following Roman mythology, the daughter was known as Voluptas, the goddess of sensual pleasures. Go on, wrap your head around that.

    Where was I? Oh yeah-)

    ... I think you get the picture. If I'm in a good mood, try and strike up a conversation with me. On a good day I'm like a Wikipedia page. On a bad day, I'll just give one-word answers until I either warm up to you or I yell at you to go away.

    10. I have a great interest in mythologies, most notably Greek and Roman. However, I had to put my interest on hold for the time being so I can utilize the brain cells for my exams. I've also found Celtic legends very intriguing, and have been interested by fairies and the like ever since I was a child. I actually forayed into Wicca for a period of time because it seemed so like something out of my childhood imagination (yes, yes, let the hating begin).

    See what I mean about side-tracking myself?

    11. ?????

    12. PROFIT!

    13. If you got the last two points, congratulations: you're as twisted as I am. Leave me a comment so we can be together-gether in our depravity.

    14. I spend way too much time on the internet. (ORLY?! YA RLY!)

    15. I cannot dance for shit. Honestly. Try and find me in a club, I'll be the spaz doing what looks like a cross between a whale having a seizure and the peanut butter jelly time song. It's embarrassing.

    16. The touchpad on my laptop has a very annoying habit of going into fits while I'm working. I could be reading something or having a conversation, when the cursor decides to flicker across the screen in a high-tech version of St. Vitus' Dance. It's really annoying, because due to my multi-tasking I often have several things going on: downloads, multiple windows and conversations, programmes... On one hand, it doesn't really bother me because I know a ton of keyboard shortcuts. On the other hand -- dude, my touchpad has epilepsy! WTF?
    One of these days I'll get it fixed. No, really.

    17. My lecturer reads my blog. Yeah, I know. Weird right? Sir, GO TO SLEEP. You need your energy to bore us to death in class!

    (I'm kidding! I'm kidding! Please don't fail me, I love Constitutional and Administrative Law! Really!)

    18. I love doing crossword puzzles. I haz a shiney new book full of 'em ^_^
    Seriously, crosswords pwn sudoku any time of the day. There's something so satisfying about scratching out a clue afterI fill in the little white boxes. I stopped doing them for a while when I started college, but decided to revive the hobby when I relalised that my English was going down the toilet.

    19. I tend to sign up for dozens of sites with every intention of being an active user. As of now, I am a member of:
    • Dailybooth
    • Facebook
    • Blogger (AHAHAAHAHAHAA)
    • Tumblr
    • Livejournal
    • Forumwarz (which is actually a really interesting game, especially if you get half the jokes used on it)
    • FriendsorEnemies
    • Twitter
    • Def Jam Records
    • Stumbleupon
    • Youtube
    Yup, I spend way too much time online. I need a life, people.
    Half of these sites are either for the sake of lurking or joined with delusions of active posting.

    We can all see how that's coming along.

    20. Even though I could probably fit him into my back pocket and walk off, with him I have a huge thing for Andy Hurley, the drummer from Fall Out Boy. Don't ask me why, I don't even know.

    Wait, never mind...

    21. Uh... Oh yeah. Um... Guh... Oh God his hips...

    22. As of tonight, I have 3626 songs on my iTunes. This does not include the various CDs I have scattered around waiting to be ripped. I'm still looking for more, so if you have any suggestions, feel free to drop me a line or pass me a CD or thumbdrive next time you see me. I'll try almost everything once.

    (Yes, that is Zac Efron you see there. Shut up
    And yes, I have listened to all the songs.
    Shame on you for thinking otherwise.)

    23. I absolutely love the smell of durians, because it reminds me of summer holidays and being young. When I was living in Oman, we would go to Malaysia to visit our family during the summer. Because my mother loved durians, she took the opportunity to eat as many as she could. As a result, the whole house would smell of the fruit.

    It was only a few months ago that I started to love the stuff, and ever since then, I can't get enough of it. Such a shame it's fattening.

    24. I used to write when I was younger. The whole reason I started this blog was to get back into it, because law was taking over my life to the point where the only thing I wrote was my essays and assignments, and I missed the fun of it all. Nothing ever compared to the thrill of writing down the final word of a piece I was working on. Of course, I never was entirely happy with my work, but then again, who was?

    Even if I had put my whole heart and soul into some short story or poem, the next day would find me ready to rip it into shreds because it always seemed to fall short of what I had in my head. Call me picky, but the only reason I handed in my English essays in on time was because of the deadline. If not for that, then I'm pretty sure I would still be working on my fictional interview with Rowan Atkinson (yes, I still remember that. And the children's book that I wrote. I should re-write that and work on the illustrations some more...)

    25. I am currently wearing Super Mario pajama pants. Truefax.

    Wow, that was long (that's what she said! AHAHAHAAAHAAAAA!!! Sorry... I have no excuse for that). A post of this length should be worth about two more, right?


    I'm just gonna go into hiding for a while and re-acquaint myself with my textbooks.