woodland nymphs and starry nights
I'm undecided as to what I should call my brand new shiny curls; it's pretty much a toss up between ramen noodles or Roman goddess. Well, then again, it does quite stick out at odd areas when I wake up in the mornings giving me the fashionable look of a grumpy, dark-haired sheep.
Although, I must say, the long, luxurious curls does tickle the imagination--think along the lines of woodland nymphs sprinting through the forest glowingly naked before playfully albeit cautiously basking in the sparkling, cool waterfall amidst the musical chimes of their laughter.
Besides that, this was pretty much intended to be a picture whoring post with the usual fare of redundant commentary. Enjoy :)
Our night started with dinner at Oriental Cravings:
Happy bunch of folks: (L to R) Liam, Yas, Pau and Jason
Happier bunch of folks: (L to R) Giggly Cina, happy Sun, "drunk" Liam and laughing Yas
Mei and June. No July :x
The Trio. Gosh, aren't we happy ;)
Note: we're all extremely happy because these pictures were taken after dinner.
After dinner, we decided to work off some of the carbs by looking for shoes... or rather, Liam's shoes since his is a tad bit worn in. Unfortunately, every Converse shoe shop we went to had ONE pair of size twelve shoes in stock. ONE pair.
Yes people, for every Converse store that carries a pair of size twelves, there is only one person in the city that has size twelve feet. Honestly.
No shoes for Liam, no luck for Yas either (after jumping from Nose to Vincci). I oogled at the shoes but that was about it because I met my shoe quota when Yees was back ;) One could argue that there is in fact no shoe quota; it's absolute rubbish to impose such limitations on an in-built female mechanism to naturally want more and more shoes for no particular reason at all besides the "want".
Men will never understand this concept... and neither will my dad seeing as I'm running out of place to keep my shoes lest I start arranging them under my bed.
After our fruitless shoe hunt, it was off to Mont Kiara for a little soul reclaiming (and rainforest saving) jazz rhythms.
A tad bit more camera loving:
To the ladies... and the motion blur effect
Cheers! More beer, happier Liam ^^;
The day would not be complete with another trio shot:
Liam whoring up the camera a notch :p
And finally, aren't our guests from Oz looking so sweet together?
Liam and Yas
and until, finally...
Not really, mom mentioned I was born sometime in the evening.
Did I mention that CSS Opacity inherits (on a related note, EFFYOU inherits, DIAF) are almost as fun to meddle with as juggling semi-solid stinky balls of dung? No? Well, now you know.
Another year, another flower of bitterness :p
That is all.
almost, but not quite yet
It's another sunrise I will never wake up to and one more sunset I'll see while stuck in the LDP traffic jam before I magnanimously face a new age cycle. Exciting, isn't it?
Turning 23 isn't as exciting as it was turning 18 or 21... but it's all in the mind, really; what was once a procession of musical magic and effervescent fireworks has become the imaginary tinkle that accompanies the clock which makes a rotten, breaking creak of a tick every once a year.
What did I do as a 22 year old?
Come to think of it, anything past 21 feels like flat, chunky, overcooked creme brulée (or room temperature char kuay teow for the uninspired).
Some would scoff and say that turning 23 is nothing, nothing at all. Just another year that whizzes by until you hit the big THREE ZERO. God forbid I'd still be lamenting like I currently am when I hit 30. Heck, the only thing I want to be complaining about when I hit 30 would be random bits of fluff like... my relatives not staying off my ass because they're prying for a niece, nephew or two (how much more Asian can you get)? Only because I'm too busy galivanting around doing something else with my life. Yes, I have such extravagant hopes.
But I digress. What did I do as a 22 year old?
I met Mo. LOL. <3 Good times ^^; I got addicted to WoW. Although, I still think I never really got past the whole addiction thing. I mean, if I don't have it, I'll live... but if you thrust an activated account under my nose, I'm all over it like a dying swimmer on a life raft.
I met a fantastic bunch of people online (you non-believers have to just suck it up and skip the next two paragraphs if need be). Much, much love to Christy and Mark for keeping me sane through most of my e-drama period. And just incase people are going to start pelting dirty soap at me for skipping their names, I'm just going to give a big hug and much love to (not in any specific order!): Randi, Josh, Scott, Alex, Nico, Nate and Geneen (hope your baby is okay!), Dave, Dabby and everyone else in ex-Prophecy on Illidan. I am such a nerd, it's unbelievable.
On a side note, not everything is a field of rainbows and an unlimited supply of strawberry cotton candy flosses. I know, I know. It's the internet. But I'd just like to point out I also the met the biggest (and I mean HUGE) Dr.-Jekyll-and-Mr.-Hyde ego persona ever, Calis. He could be your best friend (and then some) but could also at a blink of an eye and a shatter of an ego, morph into the biggest bridge-burning-asswipe known to the solar system.
I'd suppose in retort he'd call me the vile, deceitful (insert colorful expletives here) Asian bitch, eh?
But ah, memories. It's always nice to have a flicker of those that mattered the most while in its time and place.
Moving along. Well, speaking of moving, I came home.
After four long years, I -finally- made my way home to Malaysia. Besides the weather, hellish traffic coordination and the fact that people don't smile enough here (we all can't be loonies now can we?) I suppose I didn't have a hard time adjusting back.
Oh yes, I became a pseudo interior designer and power drill waving D.I.Y. fanatic. It was a rather powerful and manly sensation, waving that power drill about. And I have to say, I'm damn good with the drill ;) Don't ask for room pictures, I'm working on it :P
And finally, who could forget: I started this blog. For my fantastic, dedicated readership of five ;)
Is there anything I regret this past year? Could do with less drama and stress factors but other than that, I don't regret a single thing. I wouldn't be this little sarcastic, potty mouthed, Asian feline from hell if I did :)
And did I mention? I fell in love this year.
But it happens every year... over and over again, with my mago :)
sold to the devil
Some would argue that World of Warcraft (WoW) is a more than "just a game" and besides the addiction of bashing other pixels into a distorted heap of unrecognized origins, it breathes, lives and integrates human emotions with smashing modern day technology into a bizarrely real dynamic society.
I personally disagree.
WoW is not a "feeling".
WoW is a fucking drug.
It's so addictive that freedom of choice is a mere illusion deeply harbored by those who desire to break free. At the moment, if you ask me what WoW is, I'd say it's the five lines of coke you snort every hour from the minute you log on.
Before you know it, even though you've just had your "fix" an hour ago, another 800cc of WoW please. Straight into that plump, pulsing vein in the side of my head.
Talk about a perpetual needle in your neck.
In short, I started playing again the two whole days my account was active -_-
I'm in a state of disconcerting bemusement as to whether to admit that it was somewhat satisfying setting other pixels on fire or to transfer my copy of WoW into a DVD so that I can physically break, shatter and microwave that thing into oblivion.
I might just need gaming therapy.
I didn't give it much thought when the burning ember end of the cigarette met the side of my arm. I turned to activate my evil eye and piercing glare only to get a half-hearted apology. Then again, it's not to say I was expecting an apology at all. Although, if he didn't even mutter his poor excuse for an apology, I must say that would've given me a good reason to take his cigarette, extinguish it in his drink and saunter away... after I tell the girl he's picking up he secretly loves wearing garter belts and fishnet stockings.
But I digress. What's a little burnt flesh amidst the dense fog of smoke, alcohol and sweat really? Besides, it was a small red patch. I wasn't going to spoil my night by morphing into super-bitch mode to flay the pride out of some unimportant male who was too irresponsible to watch where he was waving whatever he was smoking.
At that point in time, the only thing that did tick me off was the fact that the damn place (Poppy) was almost as comfortable as weaving through a compressed pack of sweaty hounds with their tongues hanging loose trying to outdo each other's saliva puddle capacity. In essence, it was quite a pain to move two feet without having the side of your arms graze some other individual's damp, sweaty skin (or in the guys' case, a whole back of sweat, ick).
However, my opinion has vastly changed. I woke up Monday morning and to my horror, the innocent red patch had grown into a flower bed of blisters, with an outstandingly sore and broken one smack in the middle.
No, I've never been burnt by a cigarette before.
How was I supposed to know it was going to break out in mutilated blisters?
To that asswipe who was too busy picking up some girl at the bar to realize that he shouldn't be waving that piece of shit around in a very, CROWDED club:
I'm sorry that I never got the chance to personally -accidentally- wedge my three inch heels into your parts where the sun doesn't and probably will never shine. I hope you went home alone and that the burning end of the cigarette you were smoking gets jammed up your asshole. Oh yes, go fuck yourself and die of lung cancer should you burn another girl's arm ever again.
dinner for three
I really don't know WHY it's such a bloody hassle to find parking in One Utama. It can be a weekday, weekend, holiday, hazardous viral outbreak or the apocalypse and I'd still have to find some illegal corner or flat out drive to the rooftop to park my car -_-
Of course, if it's the weekend, you get the additional stress factor of the mad rush to stalk every poor individual/couple/family who've just exited the brightly lit complex into the dusty parking lots riddled with industrialized engine noise (with the occasional impatient beeps) to search for their cars and avoid being the cause of a massive traffic hold up.
And to think my dad was chidding me about going out during week nights. "Who goes out during a work night?"
Apparently everyone else in PJ.
Thirty minutes, five rounds and one desolate parking spot later, I ventured into One Utama to look for Yees, who had already combed the whole of Miss Selfridge.
I had catching up to do!
*insert the same imaginary elevator music guys hear looping through their heads when they have to sit and watch their girlfriends shop*
After sweeping through the multiple UK branded shops that were non-too-sparsely decorated with fluorescent signs to tempt the dying female resolution to not blow another hole in her credit card, Chris (yes, she ran out from work early :p), Yees and I popped by Vietnam Kitchen at One Utama for a late dinner:
Our cozy spot: inside looking out.
Dining amidst ethnic pieces.
Granted I've had Vietnamese food before (pretty frequently too while in Madison I might add), the food seemed *exceptionally* deliciously colorful yesterday night:
Yees and her dry noodles.
Chris and her soupy noodles.
Sean and her uh, spring rolls.
If anyone is wondering, I already had dinner before I decided to dive head first into the whole Miss Selfridge/Topshop/Dorothy Perkins sale. After all, you'd burn off the extra carbs sucking in your gut trying to squeeze into that cute pair of jeans... and hope the seams don't split open when you take a breath ;)
Speaking of dinner, what's dinner without some shocking, scandalous, steamy news?
Curious about what they were talking about? ;)
some of these days
Random thought one:
It's a little belated but congratulations Italy!
Oh, and grats on the headbutt Spanish bull style to Zidane as well ;) Along with the Golden Player award, Zidane nabbed himself a spot on YTMND as well thereby glorifying and immortalizing him in the frivolous hall of internet pop culturism.
Here are a few shots from our night out at Plaza Sunrise:
More people; waiting anxiously for the match to begin.
I'd like to just point out that hiring Ferhad (local Malaysian artiste) to some-what-sort-of kick off the World Cup finals was almost as ironic as having Charlotte Church perform before the announcement of the Soul Train Music Awards for Best R&B/Soul Song of the Year.
Honestly people, was there NO ONE ELSE you could hire?
Out of the vast pool of celebrity hopefuls that could juggle balls, tap dance and breathe fire all at once, why-OH-WHY for the love of anything and everything that is holy and dear to you, did you have to hire Ferhad?
Granted Ferhad could be the nicest guy around (not that I'd know and could really care less), he was just out of place. Really.
Although, I give him a short salute for trying to generate enthusiasm for a sea of people in a crowd that was too drunk to care or too busy giggling uncomfortably but yet openly mocking his rather ah, sad attempt in trying to engage the crowd (read: yours truly).
Fragmenting thought two:
I've sold my soul to the devil. Or rather, I've caved in to the undying, roaring bonfire of commercialism and placed a Google Ad on my sidebar.
Satisfying thought three:
I finally saw Take the Lead.
My love for dance has been ignited ten-fold; as did the aching, blossoming desire in my chest to move and whisk myself to the nearest ballroom dance session while I watched Sasha transform the already sensual tango into a raw, unbridled ménages à trois of primal lust.
Well Terry, even after watching Antonio Bandares, I'd have to say I'd still rather watch you strut your stuff on stage. Now dazzle us! ;)
Random Public Announcement thought four (applies to 20% of the road blind vermin who never should've obtained a driving license to begin with):
My head feels like it's making fast friends with an iron skillet and enjoying the pleasures of a cacophonous symphony of shrieking banshees. I can almost feel the devil's grasp riddling with the squishy matter (or what's left of it) as a prelude to an intensively bitchy albeit gratifying tiraid regarding the horrible LACK of use of the signal indicator in the average Malaysian driver's car.
In short, if you still have two functioning hands from not tossing off every other waking hour and realize that even though your worthless life may only be hanging by a delicate, twilight-spun strand of awareness, PLEASE use that damn signal indicator so that the people around you on the road aren't getting their panties in a twist worrying about a premature death when they see you recklessly weaving in and out of traffic ala the latest version of EA Games' Need For Speed.
Put down that cellphone and concentrate on letting the people around you know that you're not going to attempt a kamikaze swerve into their lane lest you want to be a paraplegic and be forced to have someone drive for you for the rest of your miserable, irresponsible life.
You'd think after being Malaysian for nearly 23 years, I'd have a good sense of which local food combinations to take versus which I should stay away from lest I feel like taking a swan dive into digestion hell.
So once again, I am forced to swallow (or purge, depends) another chapter of what it feels like to consume excessive "heaty" foods (I'll get to that soon).
Introducing the durian in all its prickly splendor:
Prick me not; the sturdy durian shell.
You crack that open to reveal a tiny sampling of ambrosia:
One man's meat is another man's poison.
Ambrosia or not, that's really subjective. I've seen grown men keel over and five seconds later, watch their faces crumple into a distorted mass of agony and in drastic cases, say hello to their previous meal upon getting a whiff of the durian's magnificently pungent odor.
The more polite comments I've heard about the durian scent run somewhere between "extremely disagreeable" or an incoherent "too pungent...-strong-".
The more colorful ones sound somewhat like: "that's rotten", "smells like something died", "uhm, did your sewage piping burst?" and notably the classic face scrunch accompanied by a horrified "what the FUCK is that?!"
The durian is classified as a "heaty" fruit. Now what on Mother Nature's green earth is a heaty fruit?
It's not actually a proper term and the knowledge of what types of food are heaty versus cooling mystifyingly pre-dates historical records and are seemingly only known by your elders. Naturally, the knowledge will be force fed to me and eventually passed down to my child, who will undoubtedly ask me the origins of a heaty piece of food versus a cooling one to which I will have no answer to.
As far as I'm concerned, if you take heaty stuff, your inner body well-being "rises" upon consumption, causing an imbalance. An overdose of "heatiness" include (but is not limited to) having stored up too much "energy", sore throats, fevers, headaches and all that jazz.
Mind you, this heaty/cooling business is in no way related to the temperature of your body. The concept (according to my mom) is based on the yin-yang theory: you fall sick when your body falls out of its equilibrium. So, too much "heaty" food (yang) upsets the body as much as too much "cooling" food (yin).
Right, today's post was about gluttony but it transcended into a cultural food post...
Now where was I?
Oh, right. So that was the durian.
The other half of my meal consisted of the sexy, sexy satay, shamelessly lathered with generous helpings of peanut sauce.
Again, satay is classified as a heaty food. As a matter of fact, so is the peanut.
Lesson learnt: three heaty foods equals one sinfully satisfied piglet and makes for one volcano erupting, bad ass combination.
How bad ass? Let's just say I spent the most of my morning either in bed or paying my deepest respects to my toilet bowl while feeling my intestines turn inside out and watching yesterday night's dinner (or what's left of it) float about in water. Don't even get me started on the taste or smell of the murky, pale green durian flavored bile.
By the afternoon, my tummy, feeling less mutinous, allowed me to nurse a small bowl of hot, steamy chicken porridge as I winced every time I heard my mom say the words durian or satay.
Unfortunately, I'm still feeling the heaty side effects up till now; hot, sweaty, sticky and the gentle rumble of nausea once so often coming from the deepest pit of my stomach to remind me of my foolishness.
And my only method of combat is a gallon of water every hour or two accompanied by excessive showering.
T'was a bitter lesson learnt.
Dialing for Dummies
I'm beginning to suspect that the previous owner of my cellphone number was either some modern Messiah with godly charm or was pretty much the common cellphone whore. I have people calling me at queer hours from seemingly every corner of the world looking for random people (boyfriend, relative, spouse, child, pastor, stalkee, etc.) in a myriad of languages.
This incident happened a few months back when I had just signed up for my number.
Silly me, there I was worried about how no one had my cellphone number and I had to embark on a crusade to call each and every person I knew to make my brand spanking new number known.
A girl called while I was happily chewing away at my mango kerabu in a dimly lit SS2 Thai resturant and asked for some guy. Actually, I've received a few missed calls from her number before but I've never called back. I figured, if it's a number I don't recognize and it's a royal deal of an importance, I'd have about ten missed calls before they decide to text in glaring capitals. I digress, back to my call; I know, pretty generic yes? But my life isn't all that promiscuous. I couldn't have been so lucky as to be on the receiving but mistaken end of a secret apocalyptic plan of world domination. Instead, I had to deal with some guy's jilted ex, some chick he's been trying fervently to dodge (and apparently still is) and/or stalker. I tell her politely, "I'm sorry, I think you've got the wrong number."
We hang up, I go back to my food.
Just as I'm about to plunge my fork into the yellow mass of deliciously sour shredded mango strips, my cellphone rings again.
And it's the same person.
I sigh and hang up.
Five seconds later, an electric blue light blinks from my cellphone and huzzah, it's the same number! Persistent little chit, isn't she? I answer it this time.
Again, she asks for the same person.
Slightly irritated, I tell her she's got the wrong number -again- and that I have no acquaintances nor do I have any blood ties to this Ah Kau, Abu, Ah Ling or Ali Baba kid she seems to desperately want to track down. Look, if the man didn't call you when he changed his number, he obviously has his reasons.
Not discouraged at all, the girl pressed on launching into a dizzy wave of twenty STUPID questions asking things I'm obviously not going to disclose to some looney over the phone like where I currently stay, which hole in Malaysia I'm currently answering the phone from, how long I've had the number and where or whom did I get it from.
I bluntly told her I am in Malaysia and I'm having my dinner... to which she paused (and NOT having taken the hint), giggled and asked again where in Malaysia.
Do I look like I'm going to give you my fucking location coordinates?
I replied in my sweetest and patience-strained voice that I really don't know the person she's looking for and it would be nice if she stopped calling. In actual fact, I had wanted to say "Look bitch, I don't know him and I don't know you. Obviously, he doesn't want to know you either because he has taken lengths to make sure you don't get your grubby paws on his new number. So move along, stop fucking calling and let me eat in peace, please."
She hung up, not entirely convinced I wasn't in on some conspiracy to keep him away from her. However, she has never called since that day.
And peace is restored.
That is, until the next asshole decides to call and talk to me repeatedly in a foreign dialect even though I've answered in English with a casual "Wrong number, sorry."
Don't read too much into it; it reads and sounds what it means: hang the fuck up.
As the cheering, roaring, screaming and hooting subsided at our little mamak corner in Sri Hartamas, I can only say that Portugal was (and still is) AWESOME.
Each penalty kick was an orgasm and a half ;)
And to think, when we first sat down, we had harbored fears of getting tables flung at our faces for cheering on Portugal. England football hooligans, tsk tsk!
Alas, England got owned and is goin' home because their luck just ran out ;)
previously on nekomatta.com
Sean Sean Tan;
sarcastic wordsmith, dirty in oh-so-many ways, fun-loving IE-hating CSS worshiping markup "engineer", anime-styled arm flailing expressive communicator, proudly self-initiated member of the cult of milk and caffeine, snotty pink crayon lover, tree hugging hippy organic designer, pole dancer wannabe, swing-a-ling lindy hopper, rabid arcane mage/bitchin' disc priest/annoying resto druid--sometimes spazzy, often giggly, always loud.
20% sugar, 80% kink.