This is a Fairytale (except that's it not)

“And just what do you think you’re doing?” she asked, the disdain evident in her tone as she looked down at the knight.

“Well, money’s been a bit tight lately, figured I could save you, return you to your kingdom and collect the reward.” The last bit came out a lot less confident than Sir Robert originally planned to say, and he could feel his confidence dropping as the princess snorted (Snorted? What kind of a princess just snorts at her rescuer?) and raised an eyebrow.

“I see. And you thought you could just walk in and—rescue me.” She stated, after giving him a cursory once-over. “Your armour’s dull, you’ve forgotten your cape, and from this distance, your ‘noble steed’ looks more like a donkey with mange.”

“Now come on, it’s not Priscilla’s fault she didn’t come out as statuesque as her siblings,” he gave the deeply affronted mare a comforting rub, whispering “Shh, she’s probably just having her time of the month.”

“I heard that,” called the princess from her window high up in the tower. It was the typical scene: a princess snatched away from her kingdom and obscenely rich parents and locked away in a high tower that said parents were willing to pay to have her liberated from. Except that aforementioned princess didn’t seem as enthusiastic about her rescuer’s arrival as he expected.

“Just so you know,” she added, “you’re the tenth knight who’s tried to rescue me so far.”

“Well, you know what they say; tenth time’s the charm and all that.” Sir Robert offered with a charming grin that always worked on the bar wenches but had absolutely no effect on her. “I’ll have you know I managed to save an entire village from a horde of trolls.”

“Oh, that was you? From the stories I’d have thought you’d be a bit taller.”

“Well, you’re just fooled by your position. I happen to be much taller than many of the fine ladies I’ve had the opportunity to compare myself against.”

“Charming. Well, are you going to get to it, or not?”

“And end this pleasant exchange?” muttered the knight as he unsheathed his sword.
“Right. Be there in a tick.”

---

“It is a sad day when captors resort to the tired cliché of using riddles to guard their doors,” complained Sir Robert after he downed his pint in Leonard’s bar.

Leonard, the wizard who quickly realised that there would be more financial gain in expanding his clientele to include the thirsty as well as the cursed, made a sympathetic noise as he refilled Sir Robert’s mug. “Why didn’t you just fight your way through? No shame in resorting to brute force, you know.”

“She already thinks I’m not worthy to rescue her as it is. No point in giving her the impression that I’m all brawn and no brain.” Sir Robert mumbled something incoherent into his mug at that point, which Leonard was perfectly able to hear and understand (he was a wizard after all), but had a sense of sadism that overrode his hearing skills.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“…The old man knew martial arts.”

“Could you just repeat that one more time? Ears not what they used to be and all.”

“No.”

---

The following day, the princess had the grace to feign surprise at Sir Robert’s return.

“Back so soon? I gather you managed to figure out the answer to the riddle. Or found yourself a bigger sword.”

“I am deeply wounded by your insinuations, princess. I’m more than just a pretty face and muscular body, you know.”

“Are you now? You haven’t really done much to persuade me otherwise.”

“Come now, princess. Are you always this encouraging to your rescuers?”

“Only the ones who save me.”

“Ah, a woman as clever as she is beautiful. A rare jewel indeed.”

“You flatter me, Sir Robert. I only wish I could return the sentiment in kind. Now will you be getting along with your attempt or not?”

“Fear not, fair maiden, you will be freed from your oppressors soon enough.” Promised Sir Robert as he made his way to the old man at the door with his answer.

---

“Who the hell uses three ogres in one go?” ranted Sir Robert later that night.

“I would have to agree, especially since ogres aren’t best known for their teamwork. They must really want to keep her there.”

It was a quiet night at the pub, with only one other page who was trying his hardest to sweet-talk Leonard’s barmaid into giving him a free pint of ale. Normally Leonard would watch the spectacle unfold, but he was having far too much fun irritating the knight.

“I would expect more from a wizard such as you.”

“That’s what she said.”

“You’re not helping, you know?” The glare the knight shot the wizard would have been more effective if the latter had not been busy wiping the tears from his eyes.

“Cheer up, Sir Robert. You’re just approaching it from the wrong angle.”

“That’s what she said! Hah!”

“You do realise that both jokes reflect incredibly badly on the two of you, right?” asked Rebecca once she had come back from dragging the poor lad out of the pub.

“Sorry love, but I need something to distract me from how hard this thing’s been.” Replied Sir Robert once the two men had stopped laughing.

“That’s what he said.”

---

By the fourth attempt, it had become less about the money and more about pure stubbornness.

“There was another knight who came by yesterday. He gave up after the swarm of imps.”

“Did he now? Shame; he missed out on the three-headed dog.”

“He did indeed. It looks like you’re healing nicely from all the scratches.”

“I took your advice and bathed them in fennel water. Worked like a charm. I was expecting it to make my skin peel off, actually.”

“And deprive myself of your scintillating conversation? Perish the thought.”

“Would that be praise falling from those pretty lips? Have I achieved the impossible and grown on you?”

“Like a wart, Sir Robert.”

“My heart soars with joy. Now, I don’t suppose there’s anything you can do to help me set you free? A rope, perhaps? Or are your flaxen locks long enough for me to climb up to your room?”

“Believe me, Sir Robert, if there was any way for you to easily attain access to my room, I would have used said method to get myself out. Besides, I see no hurry in escaping. It’s quite pleasant here.”

“Surely you can’t mean that, princess.”

“I do. Lovely view, well-cooked meals, and I don’t have to deal with the tedium of regal life.”

“Of all the princesses I’ve saved, you’re the most reluctant.” She was also the most familiar he’s ever been with, but he wasn’t about to admit that.

“And of all the knights who have tried to save me, you’re the most tenacious. Or stubborn; I haven’t quite decided which.”

“How many are they now, princess?”

“Twelve, actually--but you’re the first to actually return.”

“The others must not have known of your kind and witty nature, then.”

As he stared up at her slightly-amused expression (he made it a side challenge to make her genuinely smile, one that was proving more difficult than the quest to save her), he wondered whether the other knights had spent as long talking to her as he had. Unlikely, if they worked the same way he did. He was the kind of man to quickly get the saving and rescuing over and done with so he could collect his reward and move on to the next challenge.

---

“If she hadn’t seen me and called down to me I wouldn’t have even spoken to her until I had rescued her.“

“With the speech and the hands on the hips, of course,” completed Rebecca. It was another slow night at the pub, and Sir Robert was filling Rebecca in on his current adventure. “The reward must be phenomenal if you haven’t given up yet.”

“It’s not about the reward, Rebecca, as I’m sure you’ve noticed by this point. Our noble knight has something deeper driving him to rescue the princess,” Leonard pointed out, “His ego has been wounded more by her tongue than by the pit of snakes-“

“Stakes,” corrected Sir Robert, “they were stakes, and they were sharp.”

“Not as sharp as her wit, I’m sure,” rebutted Leonard, “but then, you would be well-acquainted with that aspect of the fair maiden.”

“That harpy. I’m tempted to just leave her in that tower and be done with the whole mess,” Sir Robert was trying to find out if Leonard’s never-ending barrels of ale lived up to their name in an attempt to dull the pain and embarrassment of being thrown down the stairs by a half-giant that appeared out of nowhere after he was done with the three-headed dog.

“Well, why don’t you? There definitely isn’t a lack of princesses in towers nowadays.” said the barmaid. At that, the few customers crowded around the knight and hanging onto every word murmured in agreement.

“Buy you a pint, mate, she don’t seem worth it,” called out the page.

“No, no. She’s definitely worth it. I-just. She’s worth it.” The knight finished. There was a thought floating around in his brain which was becoming increasingly difficult to catch.

“That’s because you’ve had too much to drink,” replied Leonard, “you tend to voice your thoughts when you’re drunk, and didn’t I tell you it was a bad idea to test my barrels?”

“That you did, and yet he still went ahead and did it,” said Rebecca.

“He really is a bright spark, my dear. He’s just stubborn sometimes.”

“He is a man, so that’s to be expected.”

“I’m right here—I think. I can’t feel my ears.”

“Here, let me help you with that.”

“That was unnecessary,” said Sir Robert, rubbing his now sore ear. “You women are all the same, and yet you wonder why I’m still a bachelor.”

“No dearie, it’s because you haven’t found one willing to put up with your idiocy.”

“You’re almost as bad as that princess, you know. I would have given up on her a long time ago if not—Oh.”

“I think he’s finally caught on, Rebecca.”

“It’s about time. I was beginning to think he’d never stop whining.”

“Still right here, you know.”

“Of course you are, Sir Robert. Still here in all your glory instead of at the tower getting on with saving her.”

“You could have told me, you know.”

“And miss out on the look on your face when you finally realised it?”

“That’s it. I’m out of here. I’m going to save the princess!” declared Sir Robert to a round of cheers. He leaped off his stool to triumphantly stride out of the bar and to his newly realised destiny. Or would have, if his legs had received the message in time and the room had not decided to spin at that very moment.

“Maybe in the morning,” said Leonard as he and Rebecca peered over the bar at the knight that now graced their floor.

---

“Now you’re just getting ridiculous. There really is no shame in giving up at this point-“

“Hold that thought, princess.”

Four hours, numerous bruises and cuts and a torn doublet later, Sir Robert finally (finally) strode into the princess’s room and knelt at her feet.

“Fair princess, I have travelled far and fought numerous obstacles to rescue you and return you to your kingdom.”

“I know. I was watching the entire time. I’m a little surprised it took you this long, actually.”

“I hadn’t truly realised how great the reward was for saving you.” He rose to his feet to look down at her smiling face.

---

“Once upon a time there was a princess locked away in a tower and a knight who was determined to save her despite all efforts to dissuade him. After several brave attempts fighting spry old men, ogres, half-giants, dragons and his own stupidity, he finally rescued the princess and rode off into the sunset back to her kingdom, only to discover that the princess was just as brave and adventurous as he and insisted on joining him on his quests.”

“Did the knight live happily ever after, Mama?”

“Of course. He had to battle a dragon to reach her, after all.”

Wednesday

Our story takes place in the Bangsar LRT station, a small, unassuming building just a stone's throw away from a little row of shops. At certain times of the day, the station is bustling with people, the majority of which are busy commuters moving from point A to point B, only to repeat the same process in reverse a few hours later. Those people left the station a tad irritated, as their combined levels of stress brought down its usually good mood. It also felt that their focus on the destination took all the fun out of the journey itself, but likes to keeps its comments on the evils of fast-paced living to itself.

However, this story is not about those tired, jaded individuals, nor is it about the lone woman manning the ticket counter (though if asked, she would have quite an impressive number of tales to tell about the people who use her counter, one of them in particular ending in a very beautiful wedding-- but I digress).

Instead, we shall focus instead on a certain young lady sitting on the stoop opposite the escalators. Her appearance is somewhat unremarkable, her feet resting on a battered trolley bag as her eyes scan the faces of the people coming up the moving stairs. When her eyes finally rest on a young man making his way through a crowd of preoccupied university students, her face lights up, her smile remaining in its place when he finally reaches the woman to stand looking down at her.

The words spoken during their short exchange are inaudible over the noise of traffic overlapping announcements made in weary Malay, but we see her head nod in response to the young man's question. At that, his face breaks out into a matching grin, and he takes her hand to pull her to her feet.

We may never know just who these two people are, or just what it was about that particular Wednesday that made it so special to the both of them, but if the way they held hands as they stepped onto the train is anything to go by-- Well, the station was witness to quite an extraordinary thing, indeed.

Out with the Old, in with the New

There are just under two hours until I can say goodbye to 2009 and let 2010 in with open arms. I suppose now would be a good time to look back and reminisce on times past, however, that might lead to maudlin sap about opportunities missed and the like. No, I prefer to share my emo with the near and dear (even if it may result in an unholy amount of annoyance).

Instead, I'm leaving everything behind me in the old year, and looking forward to whatever 2010 will throw at me. Mind you, this might be tempting fate a little, since it's been a pretty...interesting year, to say the least.

Happy New Year everyone- and remember, saying 'twenty-ten' is way, way cooler that 'two thousand and ten'.

'Tis the night after Christmas

And all through the house not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. Except for me, because I'm an idiot like that.

I suppose I should offer yet another explanation as to why I don't update often. In my defence, I just found out I've written twice as many posts in 2009 as I have in 2008 (making it a grand total of 45 posts on this blog, but who's counting?).

If you really want more regular access to the awesomeness that is me, feel free to check out my twitter or my tumblr. But be warned: the former consists of random, sometimes ranty, bits of useless information and the abuse of the word 'tweeple', and I like to think of the latter as your average irregular dosage of nerdiness, inspiration and eye candy.

So yeah. Maybe more tomorrow, maybe not. I don't even know guys. I need sleep. And I'm starting to get hungry.

Good night.

Mind if I bum one?

Free country.

Jesus. How can you stand this shit?

You get used to it eventually. So, mind telling me what brings you here?

Well, in the beginning was the Word, and the Word became God-

Clever. Too clever to come here regularly. So why are you here?

I don’t think I follow.

It’s simple, really. I’m out here because my bitch of a boss won’t let me smoke in the bathroom. That guy's looking for a peaceful place to puke, and that girl's about to add another notch to her bedpost. Why are you out here?

How can you be so sure that that's not her boyfriend?

Because I heard her talking to him on the phone as she dragged that guy outside. You still haven't answered my question.

You clearly spend too much time out here.

And you are clearly avoiding the question. You don’t seem to be the dark, brooding type.

You never know, I could totally be a dark, brooding person who wanted to have a quiet smoke.

Anyone who hacks their lungs out like that can hardly call their smokes quiet.

What, no comment on my non-ironic use of the word ‘totally’?

You’re a big boy, you’re old enough to realise when you’re fighting a losing battle.

I don’t know.

Do we ever?

As in, I. Don’t. Know.

Ah, having a bit of a pre-life crisis, are we?

You always this sarcastic? Helpful.

(To be continued? I don't even know, guys. I just wanted to prove that I'm not dead - Michelle B.)

“You see this goblet?” asks Achaan Chaa, the Thai meditation master. “For me this glass is already broken. I enjoy it; I drink out of it. It holds my water admirably, sometimes even reflecting the sun in beautiful patterns. If I should tap it, it has a lovely ring to it. But when I put this glass on the shelf and the wind knocks it over or my elbow brushes it off the table and it falls to the ground and shatters, I say, ‘Of course.’ When I understand that the glass is already broken, every moment with it is precious.”

- Mark Epstein
Thoughts Without a Thinker

Happy Father's Day!

Belated, I know. But take pity on me, I don't have internet in the desert. I have to travel to town on a camel -__-
It's a long and arduous journey.

WARNING-NSFW

I have. No words. For this.
I just-

*giggles*

Snapshots (But no pictures. What?)

A few days ago, the HELP Law Society ran a stall selling second-hand items and baked goods to raise money. I - being the loyal student (read: very, very bored with nothing better to do) - helped out. Sorry, I have no pictures to share right now, but instead, have a couple of snapshots:

DAY 1:

“So, all these things here are – how much?”

“One Ringgit.”

“What? Really?!”

“I know.”

“Jeez, might as well buy all these things ourselves and just go home.”

---

“You’ve got some frosting on your face. Lower. Lower. Right. Right. Ri- Oh for God’s sake, hold still.”

“ARGH. You got my shirt dirty!”

---

“Vintage accessories! Cookies! Brownies! Cupcakes! Special offer, buy two cupcakes, take home a law student! We’re smart, we can do homework among other things. What?”

---

“Are you making fun of my accent? Dude, not cool. I don’t even have a British accent!”

---

“Ladies, do we have an offer for you! Spend at least fifteen Ringgit and you can take this young man home with you for free!”

“So I’m the free gift now?”

“Yup.”

“Oh come on. I demand that I be priced for one Ringgit. I’m not that cheap.”

---

“I love shopaholics.”

---

“How about it? Two cupcakes, get this law student for free. Look at how tall he is! He could help you change lightbulbs or something.”

---

“You know, we’d probably make more money if we sold pot brownies instead. But it’d be kinda ironic, being law students and all… Not to mention illegal…”

“Or we could sell beer instead of Coke!”

---

“Wanna buy some cupcakes? We have a special offer right now. Buy two cupcakes, take a law student home with you!”

“What am I going to do with a law student?”

“Do I have to explain it to you? Look, we’re smart. We can do homework. How about this nice young man here?”

“What the hell?! I’m not gay!”

“I’m not saying you are! He’s tall! He can do housework! I didn’t say you had to fuck him, just take him!”

“Why are you so intent on giving me away?”

“Because you won’t let me make fun of your height.”

---

“Ooh, we can stand here with our cigarettes and look bad-ass. Like drug dealers or something. ‘Hey, hey. You wanna buy our stuff? It’s good shit, right here man. All the cool kids are doing it.’”

End of Part 1.

I have a cold. No, it's not an excuse as to why I haven't been updating as often as I should, and now that I think about it, it might not be a cold so much as an allergy or the result of poor sleeping habits and smoke inhalation (it's a wonder I haven't keeled over yet). Either way, I am now the proud owner of red-rimmed eyes and a nose that runs like an Olympic athlete. Every now and then, I go into impressive sneezing fits that leave me reeling and unable to decide between collapsing where I am or running to the nearest box of tissues to mop up my nose.

It's not like I can say I didn't see it coming: the first sniffles started weeks ago while I was revising for my finals, and I tried to ignore them. I was a busy person, after all, I had my exams to worry about, and once those were over I had to go about celebrating both their end and my birthday in style. But did my sinuses care? Oh no. They just clogged up like nobody's business and left me exhausting my supply of Kleenix and eyeing the toilet paper as a substitue when the former ran out (Note to self: buy more tissues, and generic toilet paper is the absolute worst way to go, no matter what you may use it for).

Currently, tissues are scattered around me as a garnish to the clutter in my room (by the by, Gerald McStackerson has been banished to a trolley bag under my bed, where he lives a quiet life of collecting dust and painting watercolours), and because I stubbornly refuse to take any medication unless absolutely necessary, I am trying to cure myself by getting lots of sleep and drinking liquids. Sure, it's easy for me to stick by a somewhat natural approach to sickness when I'm healthy, but right now all I want to do is shovel pills down my throat until my nose stops its impersonation of a faucet and I can get out of bed without wanting to crawl right back under the blanket and hack up a lung.

All right, fine, it's not that bad. It's just a case of the sniffles, not the Swine Flu or the Black Plague. I'm not dying, but I will be hiding out in my bed reading all the books I bought at the Big Bad Wolf book sale, and I was healthy enough to be throughly embarassed last night. Twice. (Thanks everyone. I love you all. Really, I do. Just remember that I know where you all sleep next time you try pull this on me again.)
I'll probably be back to my moody, emo, weird state in a few days. Cause to celebrate? Fuck yeah.

Oh wow. This is awkward...

eh, update the blog lah

been ages

-Ms Zuyin Toon

In light of the fact that my last post was- Holy Crap.

My last post was over a month ago. What the hell have I been doing since then?
Interesting question, that. Here's a summary (in no particular order):

• Mooting Preparation
• Law Ball
• DRAMA DRAMA DRAMA
• Hid away to avoid further drama
• Stayed in hiding to study
• Pushed my body to its limits
• Started Finals
• Turned 21
• Celebrated, kinda
• Started dance classes
• Got screwed over for mooting
• Took too many Facebook Quizes
  
• Learned how to be happy
• Became a little more awesome

So yeah, that's what I've been up to. Not dead, just busy, and I need some time to recover from everything that's been happening. I'm also working on another story, so expect that to be up soon.

Don't worry, I'll be back. Soonish.

nobody but you

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

nobody can save you but
yourself
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
being?
do you want to experience
death before death?

nobody can save you but
yourself
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

Antilamentation

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

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

Source

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

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

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

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:

25 FACTS ABOUT ME
(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:
"...Human?"
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?"
"Human"
"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?

Yeah...

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

My room is messy. Not like that's a surprise to anyone who knows me: I was famous in high school for having things enter my room and never coming out.

Currently, I live in a tiny little hole in the HELP residence with my roommate (another Michelle! Hey hey ^_^). No, not tiny, cozy. Or at least that's what I tell myself when I keep on bumping into my roomie while getting ready for class.

The problem with living in such a small space is that it gets cluttered so easily, especially when you are in a reading-intensive course (Ah, law school) and have a ton of books, notes, cases and other assorted gibberish scribbled onto bits of paper to decipher. I deal with all of the above by using an impeccable filling system: I throw everything out of my bag and onto the desk the minute I step through the door.

This would be a great plan, if not for the fact that my desk is about the same size as a newspaper opened out.

Currently, I have a stack of papers the height of a midget reigning over my desk with various bits of junk scattered around as its subjects. Every now and then, the stack - who I have affectionately named Gerald McStackerson- tips over on its own accord, as if to remind me of its presence.

It's not like I can't find anything in the mess. Oh no. Ask me where anything is, and I'll dart my hand into the chaos and pull it out within seconds. It's just that it would be nice to actually sit at my desk and work instead of balancing everything on my knees while I sit on my bed.

Gerald continues to sit on my desk, looming ominously over me while I go about my work, silently mocking me and my fear that he would tip over and throw the desk into even more chaos. I can hear him laughing at my laziness and how he stands as a testament to my messy ways: cruel, mocking chuckles that echo in my ears and haunt me even after I have left my room far behind me.

His arrogance will be his downfall, I think to myself. He stands next to me as I type this, blissfully unaware of what is to come. The resistance is rising, and it will not be merciful.

Oh yes, I will regain control over my desk one day. Just you wait, McStackerson, just you wait. One day, your reign of terror will end, and the desk will be mine again.