Creating Dreams

I feel the soft bed against my back as I lie on it and sink into the foam underneath me. Scents coming from the aromatherapy burner and amber lights, heat radiating from the heater in a distance, dance tracks playing softly in the background to help mask the noises that we are making so that the neighbours don’t get to share in our little private conversations… Everything feels dreamy.

The smell of avocado Palmolive shampoo fresh from the shower. Blue eyes that look into mine with a sense of comfort and love, blond hair messily waved with the tips of my fingers, his hand around my hips in an embrace. My mind does its thing again; it wanders.

Once upon a time over glasses of white wine, two strangers converged in an obscure part of town where the clubs chime away disco music and the hippy Aussie lads do their stuff on the sideways. Amidst the noise of the bustling nightlife, they were absorbed in a world of their own; discussing politics, religion and sexuality, expressing dreams and hopes for the future, building a foundation that would ultimately lead to something beyond anything that they as individuals imagined was possible

Something called love

We never saw ourselves being in a relationship. He's happy being single and likewise I feel the same; I certainly do not need the extra burden of a relationship at this point in my life when I have to worry more about Crassulean Acid Metabolism and the Semi Conservative Replication Theory.

The love that I have for him is not a sexually perverse one, nor one that sees myself pursuing him for a relationship. Genuine, pure, undemanding and unobtrusive love. To wake up in the morning and think about him over coffee and toast, to have the urge to give him hugs and a kiss on the cheek just for the fun of it, to want to hold his hand and make myself comfortable in his embrace, to pray for him when he is facing difficulty in his life and to lend an ear to him when he needs a listener. To do all these and more, without having expectations or agendas, to be pure in intention and genuine in thought.

Two strangers from two different backgrounds and mentalities somehow managed to meet in the right place at the right time, two strangers coming together to create dreams.

I never thought that I would be accepted in Melbourne when I first came. My views about life were radical, my opinions different from the typical Asian stereotypes. I didn't have the qualities of an average Malaysian, rather was more accustomed to my own weird way of thinking. I thought that people would stay away from me and that I wasn’t good enough as a person for anyone to want me as a friend.

And then he came along and changed all that, changed all my perceptions, changed all my pessimism into something beautiful.

He showed me things that I never thought existed and taught me lessons that I never would have learnt on my own. He made me re-examine myself as a person, and taught me to give myself a chance when I was too hard on myself. In the hardest of situations, he gave me the space I needed to develop my own feelings and opinions, to come to terms with the situation, and to make a suitable decision to deal with it on my own.

He was there when I needed him the most, and I took great comfort in knowing that I was loved.

I felt my feelings converging into a multitude of possibilities as we lay there on his bed in each other's embrace. With the night sky as the only observer, I felt secure in that spot and I didn’t want that feeling to go away.

I felt whole in his embrace, because I've never been loved that way before.

Perfect

Sometimes we complain about the things that we lack in life. We are not satisfied with what has been given to us and we want to have more. Perhaps it lays within us the very human quality of ungratefulness. We always want to be better than what we already are.

I came across these pictures of disabled athletes and I thought they were an honourable mention. These people were portrayed so beautifully despite their disability, and I feel that the message really touched me. Perfection in the less-than-perfect.




















[Image Source]

Cravings

Feeling the recoiling effect from starvation and malnutrition. I have been trying to cut back on my spending and the only obvious way for me to do so is to forsake my eating habits.

I MISS MALAYSIAN FOOD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Char Siew Fan (叉烧饭)
Char Siew Pau (叉烧包)
Chau Koay Teow (炒粿條)
Chow Tow Fu (臭豆腐)
Hai Nan Ji Fan (海南鸡饭)
Hak ka Ka Lei Chuu Kyok (客家咖哩豬皮)
Hei Hu Jiao Dun Ji (黑胡椒炖鸡)
Kung Po Kai Fan (宮保鸡饭)
Laksa (叻沙)
Loh Mee (撈麵)
Nasi Briyani
Nasi Lemak
Papadam
PeiTan(皮蛋)
Roti Pisang
Rendang Ikan
Siew Loong Pau (小笼包)
Siew Mai (燒味)
Wan Tan Meen (云吞面)
Yee Meen (伊面)
Yong Tow Fu (酿豆腐)


Waaaaaahhhh

The Cravings... I can't beat them...

Help me...

Touch Me

The dim lights were the only things that I had as reference to the room. It was a cold dark night and there was frost all over the windows. I could hear the commotion coming from the street below, some girl talking about her mother and an old man complaining about a car that's in his parking spot.

The familiar smell of lavendar and rosemary coming from the foyer. The housekeeper must have a fetish for chemicals; the dirty rug on the ground oozes these synthetic scents. I catch sight of a crack in the wall. The plaster is peeling off, I told him, but he said that it was okay, it gave the wall character.

I could hear him in the kitchen preparing some sort of dessert. He said the mud cakes on Chapel St don't do his desserts justice, so while I left him at it I walked around the room and examined the pictures on the wall, gently passing my fingers over the thin layer of dust that had accumulated on the table tops. Images from a not too distant future when he was far more handsome, places he'd been to, people he knew...

Pancakes and dustings of icing powder on a 5 degree night, in front of the fireplace with Aretha Franklin on vinyl.

He has strict rules about affection. No kissing. No hugging. No fondling. Only handshakes and pats on the back. Too beyond him, he says, though at the time he said it I thought he had a tinge of insecurity in his voice.

The TV was blaring loudly as we dug into our dessert but neither of us was watching it. In a distance, an opened bottle of wine and two glasses ready on a tray. Casually reaching over his shoulder he picked up the bottle and set out to pour me a glass. How sweet of him, I thought. He knew exactly what I was thinking and understood my need for alcohol when someone refused to give me hugs.

My feet were begging for attention as they lay on the cold stone floor. He said that he never got carpets for the hall because it was such a hassle to clean it up, especially with Katie in the apartment. Katie is his beloved dog who is rarely seen; I think she hides under his bed most of the day gnawing away a dirty dog bone. I’ve heard noises coming from under there and as much as I’d like to think there’s some handsome twink hidden away under there, I knew it was Katie all along.

Scenes of World War 2 were playing over his Foxtel and I started to feel a bit queasy so he shut it off with a flick of the remote. This guy was amazing; he reads my mind like an open book. Putting down the dish after subconsciously licking up every smear of maple syrup, I felt myself relaxing my head against his soft cushions. They must have been velvet, because they held on to dog hair pretty well.

Just him and me in the hall, empty glasses and plates on the floor, a crackling fireplace in the distance, the flickering flame reflected off the beige ceiling; we were two coherently independent individuals sitting in front of a fireplace. I was gazing at the creases on his forehead while he was busy mocking me about my Mickey mouse shirt that I got from some cheap discount sale sometime ago.

Then I felt his hand on my head, holding me in a warm fuzzy embrace. Planting of a kiss on my forehead, and a stroke of my eyebrow, I felt like the day was never going to end.

That’s when I heard the front door open with the turn of a key and a familiar voice speaking in an exasperated manner.

“Steve?”

Ashamed Of You

A lot of young gay people I’ve met on Axcest are a tough lot. Not only do a vast majority of them look ugly to me, they also have certain attitudes that I just cannot tolerate.

For instance, some of them don't upload pictures. My question is, why bother having a profile if you do not have any pictures of yourself? Some people say it is because they are discreet or because they are shy/closeted gays. Don’t bother opening a profile to snag people if you can’t show your face to the world but expect a decent shagging from cute hunks.

And some of them are even better, they lie. Ah, the good old lie. They use other people's pictures, steal intellectual property and put it onto their profiles without quoting the source or author, put fake ages, fake information about themselves... anything to increase their “market value”. How low can a fucktard go in order to achieve "fame"?

Then there are others who shove Mandarin down your throat. Some of them think that just because they blab and yap in the language that everyone must necessarily follow them. My strengths are English whilst other people are better at sucking cocks. Don’t hate me because of my abilities (or lack thereof), and if you can't speak English but insist on a Mandarin yap, go find someone who speaks your language and have mutual respect for the people who don't.

A few have no form of etiquette when talking to a person. "Hi. asl. pic?" these are the three words that they utter when they chat with you, and they make it seem as though you owe it to them to oblige.

But the most profound characteristic that I find in many Axcest users is the fact that they are childish. I mean, come on, just take a look at the Hotshots page and you'll understand. Look at the comments and you'll see a high degree of immaturity. References to the phallus and underwear are all too common, but the way in which they are written is an insult to their age.

They even speak like kids although they are waay into their 26 year old birthdays, and they don't have any sense of adulthood or responsibility. All they think about is their childish “I-friend-you-and-you-friend-me” games, something I haven't comprehended at all.

Compare this with the people of Fridae.com, Gaydar and Gay.com and you’ll get the gist of what I’m trying to say. Malaysian twinks seem to stereotype themselves as being the “childish” sort.

Then again, I’ve met wonderful people on Axcest who have taught me more than I could ever have learnt on my own, so there are people who go against the stereotypes which I have mentioned above.

At least in Australia the gay people around my age are very matured. Heck, don't talk about gay people, I'm talking generally the people who are young adults are very matured. They speak up for themselves, can address a matter in the most diplomatic way they see fit, and do not talk about childish issues like their counterparts in Malaysia. I take my hat off to Aussie lads.

If you are an Axcest user, don't get offended because I speak generally of the profilers. You may not be one of them. But if you identify yourself to one or more of the stereotypes in which I've mentioned, all I can say is, you decide for yourself what you want to be. I am not your mother.

I am merely putting my anger and frustration into words, because I CAN.

As for me, I’m more comfortable being around people who know that the word "phallus" is not the name of a wine glass and a “tampon” is not a springy board that you can bounce upon when you are bored.

Dear Dad

Dear Dad,

I know that you chose this path for yourself and you have made it clear that your decisions are none of my concern. I know that you want to live your own life and don't want me to bother you with my incandescent need for attention, and you don't need me telling you what you should and shouldn't do.

But you must understand the feelings I have when you sleep with my closest of friends. The thoughts that run through my head, the feelings that pulse through my heart when I see my best friend in OUR house sleeping in YOUR bed. Do you get me? Do you know how I feel? Or is this all just jargon to you??

Perhaps you are open about your preference and you know what you want from your life. Perhaps you are stable career-wise and now wish to seek the "pleasures" that life has to offer for you before you get ready for your funeral. Perhaps you know nothing better than sucking another guy's cock or bunking around with your own son's best friends.

Perhaps you don't see me eating bread and water everyday to make do with the absence of your financial support, or the wrinkles on my forehead due to the self-inflicted punishments to force myself to study just so that I can finance my own education which you chose not to pay for.

Perhaps you didn’t know that I am seeing counsellors to manage my emotional issues and that suicide is a very real threat to my existence. Perhaps for you, giving me gifts is a means of replacing the fatherly love and concern that a parent is obliged to provide to his or her child. Perhaps for you, ideally I should be left to rot on my own because I have no longer become your concern, ever since you independently decided to “free yourself from all responsibilities as a parent”. Perhaps for you, there is nothing more important than your idiotic need to deny that there are problems in our family due to YOUR choices.

But do know that in making those choices, you are not the only one who pays the consequences.

I still remember lying in bed when I was 9 on a cold night hearing sobs coming from the master bed room. You were nowhere to be seen and all that could be heard were the wails of a woman who desperately sought the attention of her husband whom she chose to marry sometime in the past. I still remember coming home from school one day only to be shocked when I found mom in a foetal position, not responding to any of my prompts or cries. I remember you walking out that door into some other man’s car, whom I’ve never seen or heard of in my life. I remember when I was a 10 year old boy, I saw mom lying lifeless in that wooden case before she was put under a pile of earth, and I remember the look of indifference on your face as though all this didn’t mean anything to you.

Did you also know that mom used to come home from work and the first thing she’d do is cane my behind with a bamboo stick because I refused to kneel down in front of the family altar and pray for you? Mom had an erratic behaviour. She told me that you were in some kind of trouble and that it was my responsibility as a son to pray for your “sins”, without actually telling me what they were. I was punished because of the things you did when you thought nobody was looking.

That guy never cared a rat’s ass about our family, he never bothered about the vows you made when you tied yourself to mom in holy matrimony. Child support was heresy and I was kicked out of the house so that you could turn OUR family home into YOUR fuck-shack. Yet you gave him all the respect, attention and love you never gave mom, and you told me at the age of 8 that I held you back from pursuing your “ideal lifestyle”. You told me that I was a “mistake” and that “the only person who ever wanted to have kids was mom”

I do not know your childhood because you never spoke of it to me. I do not know whether you suffered or whether you had a good life with granddad, and I do not know the pressures and tribulations that you faced as a kid. But I do understand that you are well aware of what it means to suffer, you are well aware what it means not to be loved.

I gave you all that I could. I did all that a filial son could do for his father. I excelled in my studies, did well in my extra curricular life, joined societies and contributed to the community, stayed free from drugs, had a decent teenage life just like any other kid despite the fact that you had no role in my upbringing or financial support, and moreover I managed to come out of the loss of mom single handedly and turn out to be a person who is neither a hopeless case nor a serial killer.

And yet the best thing you could give me was your unending indifference to my needs and my dreams. You said that I was holding you back from your dreams without realising that you were crushing mine with a sledgehammer by deciding to do away with your responsibilities as a father.

Guess what dad, I don’t blame you for the choices that you’ve made, nor am I angry at you even though I know that it was you who drove mom towards taking her own life back then. I only feel sorry for you because you do not realise that you have a very brilliant son who has come out of the atrocities that you inflicted upon him to become a successful and unique individual, and that you will die a very lonely man one day when your sons start turning their backs on you in the very same way that you turned your backs on them the minute you walked out that door.

I am giving you my greatest sympathy for your lack of understanding of these facts, and the failure to realise that unbeknownst to you I have already decided that the only person I will allow to stand near me during my graduation photo shoot will be the photographer.

I will not do so much as to let you take credit for my success, nor to let you bask in the spotlight that I have earned with my own blood and tears.

Do quit telling me what I should do with my life so long as you have your bed warmed by a different man every weekend, especially if that man happens to be one of my many friends. I find it disturbing that you can so casually push aside the guilt of this offence, yet I understand that you are a very decadent person and it is beyond my capacity to comprehend or question your actions anymore.

Besides, you don’t want me to finance you when I graduate, and I take great comfort in that. At least I’ll have spare cash to splurge on Prada.

Yours truly,
A son who doesn't acknowledge your existance.

Grocery Shopping

I think I have a very high affinity to milk. Mom always said that I was a sucker; I'd never let go until I had more than my fair share. She hated breast feeding for the mere fact that I couldn't get enough of the good stuff. I'd like to imagine I've carried the sucking trait up until now because I certainly do like to suck on things (and no, I don't mean that THING you must be thinking about right now... I personally find dicks repulsive) Perhaps that's why I was put on baby formula at a very young age. Mother never saw the need to breast feed anyway; babies only need the milk in the first two years and after that anything that has the word "milk" on it whether it came from a sheep or a cow's behind it really doesn't matter anymore. Protein is protein, wherever it may have come from (now now, please take those dirty thoughts off your mind)

I have been drinking cow's milk even before I could walk and I love the stuff. It's creamy and has a twang to it, much like alcohol only minus the hangover. Milk in Malaysia is very expensive; I think 1L of decent cow milk sells for around RM4, not something you'd buy everyday.

But when I came here to Australia I found that the stuff is cheaper than bottled water. A typical 1.5L bottle of mineral water costs around $3 here, and a 3L carton of milk costs around $3.50. Australian cows must have it good in the farms; they certainly know how to deliver the goods.

I ran out of milk today probably because I've been drinking the stuff everyday twice a day for the past week. I think the exam is taking its toll on me; I've resorted to having milk as my comfort food to help me forget about Markovnikov’s Rule and Independent Segregation of Homologs.

I decided to visit the local grocery store to get a fresh supply. The day was certainly obliging, cold as hell and gloomy like there was no tomorrow. I felt as though I was naked out there; with only two layers of clothing protecting me from the chill I swear I could feel my balls freeze in its sacs.

The supermarket was really empty today; my best guess was that nobody shops on a Wednesday evening. There were crates of fresh apples being sorted out by a few store attendants, fresh vegetables being carted to the shelves and the smell of roast chicken coming from the counter. The place was full with life.

I headed right to the back of the supermarket to get the goods that I wanted. If you live in Australia you'll know that there are a gazillion types to choose from. Whether its full cream milk or Lite milk, whether soy or dairy, low fat high fat vitamin additives chocolate vanilla flavours long-life high-calcium low-cholesterol skim homogenised or powder form, across a whole range of different brands pretty much offering the variants of the same thing, milk.

I don't get why people like to drink Lite milk because it tastes like urine. They did something to remove the fat and milk solids in the milk and as a result the milk ends up watery. It does not have the full flavour or smell of natural full-cream milk and tastes awful when eaten together with cereal. It is not fat free as most people assume, but LOW FAT, and it actually costs much more than full cream milk.

Then there's soy milk with all its benefits; anti ageing, antioxidants, anti-dairy, anti everything. Too radical for a sucker like me.

I took a 3L carton of full cream milk and headed to the cashier. There must have been three other people before me with four registers open. As I placed my milk on the conveyer belt I noticed that the guy in front of me had a pile of groceries the height of Mt. Everest.

There were muesli bars, cereals of all sorts, yoghurt, apples in the dozens, lean beef, some odd type of cheese I've never seen before, a couple of greens, potatoes, oh potatoes, there must have been five kilos of them... Lean CuisineTM boxes, free range eggs, some instant pizzas, bread, a couple of canned food and some other stuff I hadn't seen as the lady behind the cashier had already tucked them into his green save-the-Earth canvas bag.

While I was fixating on the goods he'd purchased I didn't realise that he was fixating his eyes on ME.

I was thinking to myself what awful things I should say to this prick when I noticed that he had a smile on his face… ugh...

The cashier apparently noticed our little eye-to-eye stare as she nonchalantly went about her robotic business scanning items across the red blinking light. I could have paid her to say something to this man in front of me but she was too busy attacking the groceries with her itchy fingers.

Again, I got that fucking smile from him. Ugh. Thankfully after he swiped his Visa and got his receipt he walked away faster than I could say "MOO". I was so embarrassed it must have shown because the lady behind the counter gave out a laugh. To my disgust it wasn’t one of those friendly laughs; it sounded very patronising... Think Paris Hilton and menstruation.

I remember holding my milk in the tram thinking so hard about this meaningless encounter that I missed my tram stop and had to walk an extra 700m back home.

Cruel

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Chad White

Chad White is a 21 year old who was born in Portland, Oregon. He played baseball in college and was drafted for Major League Baseball but had to withdraw after succumbing to a hand injury. As you can see, he didn't have much to lose as it spearheaded his modelling career. Enjoy the pics.

Fruit Cake

My mother was a great cook. Her signature dish was brandy fruit cake. It was customary that whenever Christmas was round the corner, she'd promply bake two cakes. One for our family, and another for the Christmas Party.

We were never too fond of Roast Turkey. It was not customary to have any roasted birds on this holy day. We did, however have elaborate dishes made of pork beef and chicken, but no fish. My ancestors came from inland China. They never taught my mom how to cook seafood.

She always used the same type of flour when baking her signature cake. It came from the grocers in our neighbourhood and was wrapped up in a brown paper. The flour was unbleached so you could still make up the yellowish stain that came from the wheat. Mom said that bleaching kills the taste. It's like cooking with rotten meat.

I thought she had a peculiar way of mixing the ingredients. Always ten turns clockwise and one turn anticlockwise. She held the wooden spoon very gracefully and yet kneaded with such strength that I could hear the spoon scraping against the green plastic bowl from yards away. That plastic bowl was classic too; I don't think there was a time in my childhood that she'd bake using any other bowl.

Come to think of it, she never bothered buying an electric mixer. At a time when household appliances were undergoing a Renaissance, she was still using the old fashioned wooden spoon. My aunts never understood why she would toil away folding the flour and butter rather than dumping it into an electric mixer and pressing a button. Mom argued that it had to be made with love, and no machine can give the cake the love it needed.

Soft and comforting words from my mother. She was very diplomatic in her arguments.

Sometimes I'd forget to stop her before she put in the eggs. She'll only allow me to taste the mixture of butter and sugar before the eggs went in. I didn't care really, it tasted just the same. Sweet and fluffy were the right words to describe it.

The mix fruit and brandy were added last. Mom was very stingy with the brandy. She said that she'll only add more when I "came of age". She didn't want to raise a bunch of drunkards. I loved to grease the pan; mom always let me do it. I secretly licked my fingers every time I dug into the chunk of butter and spread it all over the surface of the pan. Mom must have realised this but she never really cared. Hygiene was not a concern, love was.

The baking would take two whole hours but it was the best part of the process. You could smell the cake from a mile away. I remember my brother and me camping in front of the oven just to inhale the scent of freshly baked cake. Mom found this amusing because the heat of the oven always made us sweat until we looked like we just came out from a shower. We kids argued jokingly that we were there because someone had to watch the cake in case it burnt, but I knew deep down inside that mom always got the timing right. We never had a burnt fruit cake.

The cake looked less than impressive when it came out of the oven. And mom insisted that no icing should be placed to mask its unpleasant appearance. It would have cracks and the fruits that broke out from the crust made it all uneven. It looked like my best friend’s face which had heaps of pimples on it. But mom insisted against touching it up.

She taught me that it was not the appearance that mattered. It was the taste. Even until today I still look out for cute boys and pay no regard to their “taste” howsoever bitter it might seem. Mom taught me personality was more important than looks but I guess I just haven’t learnt my lesson.

How can I describe the aroma to you? Sharp and crisp, rich and buttery. Words fail me.

The cake would keep for 3 months in the pantry but it never lasted that long. Me and my brother made sure it never got past 7 days.

Christmas at my house was never about the presents. It was about the cake. My mother would lovingly take it out for guests, lovingly serve the relatives who came to visit, lovingly cut up the slices into small bite portions for me and my brother to eat with hot chocolate.

She took the recipe with her when God called her home. Nobody in my family has been able to come up with a fruit cake that could even compete with mom's. Hers was divine; everything else was mediocre.

Today I bought two slices from the local supermarket. $2.50 for a slice, a price that would send my mother screaming if she knew about it. And yes, it was not as good as mother's but it sure did remind me of those days when I'd sit in front of the TV and gobble up the little bite sized portions of cake that was made with love. Not just any love, but my mother's.

Prozac

Relapse. I find myself crawling up from under a mass of tangled sweaty bodies. The heat of the night must have taken its toll; I can feel the sweat oozing out from my forehead. My clothes are drenched with sweat and smell of cigarette smoke. My lips taste of Bourbon and my hands smell of soap.

I am dizzy and I don't know where I am. I don't remember how I got here.

Techno music in the background. I can see lights flashing all around me. Someone grabs my bottom and I politely turn him down. I am in no mood for foreplay. My eyes are red from all the smoke and my pupils diluted from all the heavy music.

What is that music doing to me??? That pounding I hear, it hurts me.

I casually flip open my hand phone and there are 4 unread messages. Text messages that have been left unread since dinner. I don't remember what I was doing before this. These messages do not make any sense to me; I don't remember asking Danny to meet me at Crown, nor remember promising Mike that I’ll email him the forms. I realise the time is now 4.20am and my legs feel weak. The carpet on which I stand is filled with stains. I'll bet it smells as funky as the sweaty boys dancing avidly on the dancefloor.

This place. I am not aware of the surroundings. The paintings on the wall and the plasma screens flashing images that I am not familiar with. Blinking lights again. People chatting heavily and happily. Where am I?

The cold pavement outside is not very hospitable to my bottom. I realise I slipped on a jock on a 4 degree night. My bottoms come into contact with the cold concrete surface but I couldn't be bothered to sit anywhere else. The benches in a distance are occupied by drags; I don't want to mess with their silicone implants and wigs. I have no mood.

I dial the first number on my handphone. Nobody answers. Nobody is going to come to take me home. My wallet smells of Coke. I must have spilled some onto the leather when I fished out notes to pay the bartender. I don't have enough bills to pay for a cab home. All I have is a handful of spare change and faded supermarket receipts that I had casually slipped into my wallet after walking away from the cashier days ago.

The walk back is painful. My head is dizzy and I can feel a tingling sensation in my fingers. The cold is getting to me. I need relief. I need warmth.

I catch sight of a bar in the distance. There’s no music coming from it, only wild barbaric chants and songs that sound like Waltzing Matilda. I can barely make out whether there are people inside. The windows are too frosted with dew.

I had forgotten that it is soccer night. A sea of green and yellow people greet me inside. Roars coming from the crowd, beer being poured like there was no tomorrow, girlfriends casually bitching about their love life as their boyfriends huddle up close to a small telly attached to the wall on one of the pillars.

Sorry mates. I don't like soccer. I've never understood the game. I'm too sophisticated for simple games such as this.

Nice warm Mocha in my hands. I feel the taste of slightly burnt coffee on my lips. Idiot. My grandfather could have made better coffee. A man walks past me and gives me the grin but I just return a nonchalant sigh. I manage to smile slightly though, as I hand three greasy dollar coins to the cute waiter. He must be Jewish; his haircut looks like something out of the 50's.

I find myself braving the cold once more. More shouts from the alley ahead. They must have scored a goal.

Someone forgot to sweep the front porch. Maple leaves strewn all over the cobble stones make a rustling sound when I step on them. The front patio is illuminated with the glow of the sodium street lamp and the shadows in the distance startle me. Stupid cat. Get the hell out of my porch.

Warm water in my face. Fuck the water saving rules. I know what's best for me and that is a 30 minute hot shower. Scents of avocado and lavender from my shampoos.

What am I doing here?

Sitting on the floor of the shower booth I realise that I'm at it again. I'm crying.

My room mate must have been sleeping for ages. That drool on his face is not a very welcoming sight. As I slip into my bed and tuck myself tight under the sheets, I remembered what I had set out to do and how I had landed in that noisy place. I remembered the sequence of events that led me there. I remember my naked body pressed against his. I remember him promising me that he’ll make me happy. He must have broke his promise.

Prozac to give me chemical confort. I hope I don't remember any of this when I wake up. I hope it will all go away.

Ryan Wood

Studying can be very stressful especially when you've been at it for weeks. To relieve stress, I've been surfing around and checking out websites and I came across very good pictures of Ryan Wood

Very strong arms and defined chests, I like the shoots as much as I like the model himself. And as with many other models you notice instantly when he lifts up his hands; there's really not much hair under there or down a little lower. Ryan is a 6'1" model with blue eyes and brown hair. Hope you enjoy the pictures too.

2006 Melbourne Commonwealth Games Anthem

As promised, Delta Goodrem. The video quality is not that good but it still gives the effect. Enjoy.

Delta Goodrem

So far I have received a lot of requests from people visiting this blog regarding the songs that I use on this site.

Previously I have neither listed down the name nor the artist of the song which I upload onto my blog, so I am going to make it a habit to tell you guys where I sourced the song from.

The current song is sung by Delta Goodrem, an Australian singer who was a star in the drama series "Neighbours" and who is currently dating Bryan McFadden from Westlife. She performed this song for the opening ceremony of the 2006 Melbourne Commonwealth Games and I was there to witness it. The pyrotechnics were awesome and the song was well choreographed. The song is composed by Bryan McFadden.

I will link the video clip soon. Enjoy the song.

Discrimination

I came to Australia with the realisation that this country would be far more liberal and accepting as compared to conservative Muslim-majority Malaysia. I looked forward to being accepted for who I am and what I stand for, and for cultural diversity.

However my views have been side winded by the apparent absence of any form of tolerance for my sexuality and race, as outlined in comments posted in The Age Blog in response to the disallowing of gay marriages in Australia by the Howard government.

For your viewing pleasure, I quote from the blog, two posts that significantly impacted my view about Australia and have made me review my thoughts about this country.
~
Good work G-G! A smart political move. Although I do not support your office exercising any sort of discretion whatsoever, especially contrary to the wishes of a parliament (as representatives of the people) I must praise your decision on this account.

Gays: if you think that a civil union is going to change ANYTHING, think again! We will still be disgusted by your lifestyle! We will still dislike you because you are different, because you don't conform. Though you may have substantive legal equality, you will never BECOME one of us. You will still be, and always will be an outsider: a 'gay' man/woman.

Note this interesting point: 'Gay' is a term which now connotes disgust and abhorrence rather than the 'joy' it once did. WE have changed the meaning to better represent the word. Let me demonstrate:

John says: "I have to forfeit all my property to the government."
Brian says in reply: "That's really GAY!"

Gays, realise this: the problem is not in us not letting you have civil unions. The problem for you is that we will NEVER recognise YOU as one of us. We will NEVER accept you as a brother. This will be the case whether you get your union or not.

Posted by: Stephen Castlemaine at June 13, 2006 03:47 PM

~
"This is an excellent decision by our PM, however I must ask, is he doing enough?

I believe firstly, we should ban gay people from all forms of parenting. Children require a traditional family network of house wife mother, and bread winner father. Single, 14 year old mothers are okay though, that's why we pay them $3000 to get knocked up. But we all know homosexuals can't parent children, because they're evil.

Secondly, gay people should be arrested for showing affection in public. They are forcing their lifestyles on us, and it is unacceptable. I would also like to add that aboriginal people should be arrested for any public appearance at all, unless they cover their skin with something white. I don't appreciate them forcing their race on me. This goes the same for those towel heads. Take off your stupid clothing and only speak English in public, damn multiculturals.

Our country has a long and proud history of doing the 'right thing': keeping women in the kitchen, where they belong - not allowing them to vote - not allowing those evil black people to vote either - jailing those evil, evil fags for doing stuff together in their bedrooms... the list goes on and on. Unfortunately, we keep having to give away our outstanding morals due to these radical, pot-smoking, liberal hippies.

Posted by: dan at June 13, 2006 04:54 PM

I think that this blog is a good indicator of what REAL Australians think about the world in which they live in. Congratulations to these two people in helping make their country "friendly". And just so you know, we, the international "non-whitey" students that come to study in your country pay for YOUR children's education, YOUR extravagant whitey-ass lifestyle and YOUR fucked-up country's economy. Your way of thanking us is very "hospitable", and I feel so happy to be welcomed into your "accepting" society.

Then again, I understand that these narrow-minded whitey views do not reflect the general opinion of Australia. As for the Aussies who don't discriminte, I take my hat off to you.

The blog can be reached at:
http://blogs.theage.com.au/yoursay/archives/2006/06/gay_marriage_la.html

Welcome to Australia, the land of “equal opportunities” and “tolerance”

Yeah. Tolerance my ass.

Madonna - Get Together

Madonna has released her new single, Get Together, from the album "Confession On A Dancefloor" (2005) . Enjoy the video clip.

Tears

A face is the portrait of a person to the world. It is the window to a person's soul and emotions; the first point of reference with a stranger and the only part of the body where one can express his or her feelings effectively.

It gives another person comfort or creeps, love or anger, happiness or sadness.

I've been known to contort my face whenever I reach an orgasm. I squint really heavily on one eye as though I am in pain. In fact, when I'm feeling high I automatically spring into squint-mode; some people get really afraid because they wonder whether I'm actually enjoying myself or feeing pain. But that's just me. I'm a squint-squint-shoot type of person.

And I do it oh so naturally. I'm very good with my facial expressions. I can contort my eyebrows in any direction that I wish. I am also blessed with the ability to contort my lips to suggest sulking or happiness very effectively.

I can mimic people if I want to and I certainly know how to "put on a face"

But I cannot fake tears. I cannot force myself to cry, or to feel sad up to the point where tears start flowing.

Whenever I cry it would be for genuine feelings inside me; usually something has to be really tragic to incite such feelings.

When I cry, I really do mean it.

As a boy I used to be slapped in the face whenever I cried. Boys didn't cry, that's what my father said. Then again he also said that men were designed by nature to fuck other women but he has a boyfriend and lives his happy gay life very openly right now. But anyway, back to the slapping; I used to get really angry at my father for giving my cheeks some attention with his hot palms. I knew that it was perfectly NORMAL for a person to cry whenever he or she was sad, and there was nothing to be ashamed of.

But I was brought up in a family that scorned crying. It was absurd to think this but I had to cry in silence whenever I did because if I made any noise I'll know the punishment that awaited me. I came up with nifty ways to overcome this; crying in the shower, walking to the backyard and curling in a corner to cry, turning on rock music to drown out the crying, crying under my bed (albeit being the least effective of them all)... the schemes I used to develop to allow me to express my sadness were odd but they certainly did what they were intended to do.

As a young adult I find that crying occurs very rarely. Even when I'm extremely mortified or upset, I cannot shed tears. I cannot cry if someone in my family dies (clearly that was the case when I attended my grandfather's funeral), I cannot cry if I fall down and bleed my sorry ass off on the pavement, I cannot cry when someone hurts me physically (ok maybe that has something to do with me and my fetish, but anyway...), I cannot cry when I am lonely or desperately in need of some form of support.

Funny how I found myself crying today. And again, instantly, I jumped into kid-mode; I did it in the most concealed manner possible. No sounds, no public displays of emotions. "Silent Weeping", I'd call it. Cry but not make a sound.

I just hid in a corner and did all the crying I needed to do.

I cannot say for certain what would incite such feelings but they must have been great because I did spend a long time in that corner. It could have been anything; one of my many problems, my trials and tribulations, the difficulties that I faced, the people who have hurt me emotionally, and those whom I loved so dearly but couldn't express my feelings to because they were after another person other than me. Any of the above, or it may be something else I've never really thought about.

But the tears flowed like they never have and I myself was surprised at my capacity to let it out. I've never cried in a long time.

I walked away from the spot as though nothing ever happened, just like Bree van der Kamp would have done. I put on a smile and instantly noticed how good I felt, how relieved, how renewed.

The autumn flowers I saw on my way home were especially beautiful today. I wonder if it had anything to do with the crying.

I know

Many great things have been happening in my life but I have had little energy or vitality to write about it.

It's just one of those bad streaks I'm going through, unable to compose anything of virtue or sustenance.

Forgive me if I have been silent all this while. I will awake soon.

At least, I hope it will be soon.

Again

I knew that I was prepared and I was right. Chemistry was a breeze. I know that even if I did bother to study any more than I did I wouldn’t have done any better. Not that I'm stuck up or any of that sort. I knew that I was as prepared as I could be and that there was no upside to improving my standards.

Many of my friends didn't find it easy, and some didn't manage to finish the paper. Good for me, I secretly and selfishly told myself. In that case, may the graph be lowered and the bell-curve approximation work for me. I need to get as high marks as I possibly can not so much for ego but for my scholarship.

But yes, Chemistry took its toll on me. I was extremely tired after the 3 hour paper. Not to mention the cold weather wasn't really helping. Although you could feel the feeble sun rays penetrating through the dense fog every now and then, the air was just filled with misery. By nightfall I had developed a severe headache and the bones on my back were so painful I wish I could take them out and leave them on the sidewalk.

I strained as I got onto the tram on the way home. I can remember that intoxicating feeling. Friday night blues, Chemistry paper over, long holiday before my next paper, lack of sleep and proper nutrition. I felt as though I had a few lines of coke stuffed into my nostrils. My head was spinning so wildly that I couldn't even tug on the cord to signal the tram to stop.

I had a fever by the time I got back and the warm shower that I had just made it worse. I jumped right into bed at 9pm and the ground below me seemed like it was shaky. I couldn't block out the pain that I was feeling at that moment, it just overwhelmed me.

~~~

2pm. I slept for more than 13 hours in that bed. It must have been ages since my room mate got up; his neatly tucked blanket and stacked up pillows indicating that he was already up for the day. Outside the mist was still there, 10 degrees and below perhaps. I don't know, I never stepped out.

The room was warm because I left the fan heater running on timer mode. It had kept blowing hot air for five minutes every hour, just as I've predetermined it the night before. Amazing how technology works for you; you don't really have to worry much about anything else.

But I was worried about myself and what I have gotten myself into. I was back in the "mood". The very feelings I thought I could get away by coming to Melbourne, the very feelings that I was afraid to deal with and the only way to get myself out of it was to take an 8 hour flight south to escape it.

I know what it was like back then, for the people around me to deal with these emotions of mine. My friend described it as sporadic; ever changing from one extreme to the next. I never settled down with one feeling. One minute I could be Madonna and the next I was the Grim Reaper.

I'd blame the fever but maybe that's just an excuse.

I need some comfort food now... Crème Brule and Chocolate Fondue would help.

Crown

Sometimes I get thrilled going over to Crown. Ever since I went there for the first time, I've never failed to be charmed by the place. It is like an addiction, the word “Crown” sends shivers down my spine. I’d willingly trade my nice warm bed and chocolate snacks for a trip over to Crown Casino.

Not that I'm a compulsive gambler or anything. I've only ever used ONE dollar coin in a pokie (and yes, in case you are wondering, I lost it) and I've never considered using the paltry sum that I receive every month (which I solely depend on for mere survival) as a generous donation to an already cash-rich establishment.

I find it fascinating because of the mere idiosyncrasy and yet fundamentally simple way in which it operates.

There's not a single square cm on the carpet that you walk on that doesn't have some reference to the image of gold coins. Flashing lights mimic gold coins. Posh BMW's on display with the words "WIN ME" directly overhead. Dollar bills on the vests of Casino attendants in all sorts of colours that would make even Versace seem modest. Dollar signs splattered all over the wall. Sounds of dollar coins falling into the coin collection chute. Numbers spinning, cards dealing, balls rolling... all pointing towards the prospect of winning some quick easy cash.

It's all about the money.

Psychologically it tells you that you CAN win. It tells you that MONEY is there, HUGE sums of it, up for grabs, and you just might be the lucky one to win it. Kinda like the same way that Mackkers tells its already obese customers to gorge down another Big Mac by putting the words “I’m lovin’ it” on the packaging.

Our brain is marvelously simple to manipulate.

I find it funny to see people sitting slumped over pokie machines obviously absorbed by the whole thing. Pushing coins and notes through the slots and frantically hitting on the buttons that lay before them. What's more amusing is that the animations and the sound effects that they use is superb... if you are talking about some educational program that teaches a 4 year old kid how to spell the word A-P-P-L-E.

Sounds which are familiar to Barney and Sesame Street, dancing frogs and mooing cows.... In a society which prides itself in being “mature” and “grown up”, it doesn’t make sense. Then again nothing about this place makes sense.

Asian people seem to love this place. There are heaps of them walking around all day everyday. And old people too, you’d imagine that they are too old and too crippled to get out of the house but they’ll crawl on their four limbs if they could if it meant getting to the casino. I’ve seen frail old people with spindly legs in strollers punching buttons on a slot machine; I don’t think it is very uncommon. Also you’d find many long faces in the crowd, with wrinkles looking 10 times worse than they actually are. You can tell by the worn look on their face that they're obviously not having a good day. In fact, not even a SINGLE person looks happy. They all have this gloomy look to them, something I've never really been able to explain.

They go to Crown, donate away their life savings and end up looking like a fuck face at the end of the day. Sounds worse than smoking weed if you ask me. At least weed makes you feel happy.

I've never really come to terms with the way in which people spend their money at the Black Jack or Baccarat table. You'll see hundreds of $100 chips being snatched away by the casino attendant with the gambler looking oblivious to it all as though the money was merely spare change. You'll see people hitting the table with stacks of $50 dollar bills at one go, amounts which would buy me enough food to sustain me for 6 months.

Here these people are, trying to make a quick buck, getting the thrill out of winning a dollar after losing $1000, hoping that perhaps someday their “investment” will earn them that swanky BMW or Eureka apartment.

The last icing on the cake for me was a glimpse of a signboard on top of a poker machine that read "The odds AGAINST you are always the same with each bet".

And right below was an old man oblivious to it all, gambling away what would possibly be his monthly pension to a machine with cute cuddly bears and spinning ducks on its screen.

Tadpoles

Can't sleep at night. Thinking of several things aside my exam which is in several hours, and my feet which are freaking cold.

I'm thinking about the days that I used to play in the mud after the rain. There was a large grass field right in front of my house and whenever it rained all the sand turned into mud. I would then faithfully head there barefooted and walk right into the pools of water. Joining me would be a hundred or so frogs croaking away, possibly fucking one another and squirting billions of sperm into the water that I just stepped into, creating little babies we humans call tadpoles.

Sometimes when I had the mood I would take with me a glass bottle to catch a few tadpoles. The favourite seemed to be those jam jars that mum always chucked into the bin. I loved them; they were clear and resembled a tiny aquarium to view all the unfortunate specimens that Mr. Hyde had fished out evilly from the pools.

I never caught it with a net; the favoured method of capturing tadpoles was to use my hands. I was really good at it. You'd place your hand on the mud and lay there as still as a log of wood, waiting for the tadpoles to swim onto your hand. You then lifted the tadpole out of its watery habitat and slipped it into your jam-jar-prison. Sometimes I'd use the finger-waving method; I'll move my fingers like little tentacles to encourage the tadpoles to swim into my palms and then SNAP. Another victim for the jam-jar-prison.

Occasionally I'll find more than just tadpoles. Sometimes, disgusting creepy worms would come up to the surface when their burrows were drowned with water and I always thought that the reason for them emerging was because they liked to swim. Needless to say I’ve drowned many worms but that’s another story I shall not elaborate here. Other than that I’d find crickets, grasshoppers, mosquito larvae and weird beetles which I never knew the names of. Some were easy prey to my nimble boy fingers, but some were just too quick that it was more enjoyable looking at them swimming in the pools of water than actually catching them. I'll catch a few of the creatures I found interesting and put them together with the tadpoles, yank a handful of grass and chuck it inside to keep the tadpoles happy and trot back to the house with my catch of the day

Some of the tadpoles would grow right into adulthood and become frogs, which I later released back into the field. Mum always said that it was cruel to kill the frogs as not many make it to adulthood. The reason I put them back, however, was because they were no longer interesting to look at and just hopped around inside the jam jar like little bastards.

There used to also be many drainage pipes that formed a huge network under the field. In the tropics where I live, rain is abundant. You'll either see lots of it or none of it. There's no such thing as a pathetic drizzle like the ones we have in Victoria. When it rains, it really pours.

So the local council decided to build drainage pipes to channel all the excess water that accumulated in the field to avoid algal growth and mud (the field was also used for football so drainage was important to keep the pitch in tip-top condition for the hoards of ugly Malay men who came to play ball every evening). Because the field was raised, i.e. higher than road level, there was a slope that ran all around its perimeter and the pipes would point right out of these slopes and straight into the drains that were built to encircle the field. Sometimes there was so much of water coming out from these pipes that a kid like me would be fascinated enough to stand under one of them and take a bath.

No such thing as worrying about microbes or deadly chemicals those days. If there was anything that would have killed you, it was curiosity.

I loved it, cold water all splashing around me. And this was no ordinary water; it was rain water that had filtered through the layers and layers of earth. It was crystal clear, had no odour to it and was the sort of colour you would get from water right out of your household tap. I'd run along the little waterfalls that formed along the edge of the park (and yes, there were dozens and dozens of them) and put my head under those weird pipes to give my hair a nice wash. Top that up with mud on my feet and a jam jar full of tadpoles in my right hand... I was the luckiest and happiest kid to be alive.

Except when mummy spanked me for catching a cold, that is.

And when I started growing up, so did the city around that park. I no longer played in the mud or caught tadpoles. I'd hide indoors when it rained, because it was miserable. I would curse at the sky at the slightest tinge of darkness and I would complain when my jeans were soiled with mud.

I became an adult when I was 10. I hated the simple pleasures in life and couldn't laugh and play like a kid any longer.

But now as I approach my 20th birthday I find myself walking through the rain again. Funny how life little surprises sometimes seems so irrelevant, so inconspicuous that you miss sight of it.

I don't mind the rain falling all over me anymore. Nor the 10 degree air in Victoria that comes with it. I'd play in pools of water if there were any, but the stupid sky in Australia will never oblige to send down enough torrents to fill even the shallowest of pools.

And they don't have frogs coming out and singing after the rain here too.

How I miss those formative years, those days of playing in the mud as if there was nothing more important in the whole wide world other than getting your clothes soiled your hair filled with muck and weird creepy worms crawling all over your skin.

It was a time when all that ever mattered was to be happy; to be able to enjoy what I had and make the best out of a storm, even if it meant getting your head wet with drain water.

Rail

It is just one of those Sunday evenings where you find yourself bored and without any thing to do. I know that tomorrow I will be sitting for my Biology exam, the first paper I've ever sat in University and yet I'm still nonchalant about it. Not that I'm lazy or anything, perhaps merely because I have been toiling in the past several days that any references to Mitochondria and Haemopoietic Stem Cells will send me into fits

The internet is back on at full 2mbps again. They have reset the counter for this month so we are no longer capped. Funny how these Australian people make us pay $80 for the internet and only allow us 25GB download per month, after which the connection effectively drops to 64kbps. It would be fine if the line was my own but I'm sharing it with five other dickheads who can't get enough of porn or mp3's; the other five computers in the house have Bittorrent and eMule actively grabbing packets of data from all around the world to satisfy these people's insatiable appetite for piracy.

Needless to say, we are back on broadband speed but just like every other month the line will be capped again within 2 weeks because these bastards can't stop downloading.

So while the broadband is still running I've been looking up holidays and a couple of interesting places to visit while I'm in Australia and then I came across the Indian Pacific Railway that goes across the Australian continent from Sydney to Perth and vice versa.

It earns its name from the fact that you will be traveling a total distance of 4352km from the Pacific Ocean in the East, to the Indian Ocean in the West. There is also a straight section of rail through the Nullarbor Plain that runs for 478km, the longest straight stretch of rail in the world.



The price, $1690, includes all meals and a bunk bed with en-suite bathroom facilities, full views of the Australian Outback, Blue Mountains and all sorts of different geographical features characteristic of the Australian landscape, and above all, stops at selected cities such as Adelaide and Cook which is really just a dusty town right in the centre of the Nullarbor Plain.

Then I thought how nice it would be to have someone to go with. Someone whom I can hug and hold the whole way, spend the night with in that cosy little bunk eating scones and hot chocolate, someone to sit opposite me as we dine on smoked salmon and red wine with the vast expanse of the Outback flashing across the windows of the dining cabin on either side…

How nice it would be if I had a boyfriend to take along to this trip, to explore the cities of Adelaide and Perth at our own leisurely pace without a thought or care of the rest of world. Every time I think about it I feel warm inside, that feeling of having that experience with someone you love just melts you

I'm determined to get someone to go with me because doing it all alone just isn't worth it.

I hope that I'll be able to save up enough money for this trip and I hope that the person I have in mind will go with me.

Realisation

When I took up this scholarship, I saw it as a way to get out of my country. Anything to leave the shores of a land where I had experienced a traumatic childhood, anything to take me away from my tormentors, anything to give me a new chance at making a life of my own.

What I didn't accept, however, was the fact that this scholarship was not a vacation to Australia but rather one that will legally bind me in a contract and will cause me much unneeded stress because of the high minimum grades set by the scholarship provider.

I wanted so much to get out of my country that I ignored the responsibilities and the repercussions that came with me signing all those papers in black ink.

I can still remember the feeling I had when I received a phone call from a lady I've never met or even heard of prior to that phone call, telling me that I was successful in obtaining the scholarship. I was working then as a Laboratory Assistant and I had just snuck out of the lab to answer my buzzing phone, still clad in the geeky lab coat and latex gloves.

The rush of adrenalin and the sequence of blank stares and huge gasps of air that followed were definitely new to me.

I can remember telling myself, "this is it; this is your chance..."

I will never regret signing those papers. Australia has given me an insight into a different spectrum of humanity. I have never seen anything like it, this place Down Under. I've never before lived in a country where people worked at their own pace and used the phrase “available in so-and-so working days” as an excuse to their inability to process things efficiently, drank beer like their life depended on it, sued local councils because they placed their foot into a hole on the sidewalk and found that it actually made them trip over, and have never heard of the name “Lee Kuan Yew” or “Aung San Suu Ki"

I've never experienced hail sunshine rain hot wind clouds cold wind and thunderstorms all in the span of one hour. I've never been able to drink water straight from the tap, or pay AU$4.50 for a piece of roti canai.

I’ve never seen the Southern Cross, smelt a daffodil or seen a drag show.

I’ve never had these experiences prior to coming to Australia. But the most important experience of all is that I've never felt so happy to be away from the constraints of my fucked up family (or lack thereof).

I've never known what it was like to feel free.

And so I did enjoy life for the past 3 months. My exam is in a few days and I am still enjoying myself, eating chocolate and having soy milk with yoghurt and fresh raspberries. Thinking about the movie X-Men 3 and the Da Vinci code. Spending countless hours checking out the latest Winter fashion. I'm still chatting profusely on MSN, still wasting time online doing whatever it is that people do online, and still sitting around not worrying that the next few days are going to be hell.

I've told myself ever since I received that phone call regarding the scholarship that I will not get into a relationship. Not in Malaysia because I'll be leaving for Aussie, and not in Aussie because I'll be leaving for Malaysia. I'll not be able to stay permanently in both Malaysia and Australia until I graduate and I'm not in for a long distance relationship either.

Somehow my views on that have changed and I have since become desperate to look for some kind of support. Not a relationship per se, more of emotional and physical support. To feel safe in another person's embrace, to feel the soft kisses upon my neck, to feel the warmth of another person's naked body pressed against mine...

I find myself seeking ever more opportunities for me to fulfill this desire of wanting to be accompanied.

Recently I have become emotionally dependant on people, and the mere sounds of these two words seem to ring an unpleasant notion. I know that I've done this before; I was emotionally dependant on my ex when it came to my mood. He became my life and my world; my moods revolved around him. I would become upset and show it to every one else who was innocent and I would slaughter a few friendships by being the bitch I was back then.

What am I doing now? I'm emotionally dependant on another person to make me happy. Even though that "dependency" may just mean begging a person to stay online for another 5 minutes so that I won't feel lonely and will have someone to chat with. Even if it means, inviting people over for dinner so that I will have company and wouldn't have to eat alone.

I know myself and I know that I am not a very clever person when it comes to relationships. I used to rush into something and put all my eggs into one basket. When I find that the relationship is not even close to where I "envisioned" it to be, I plummet into withdrawal mode and totally cut the person out of my life, banning him from MSN, deleting his number from my mobile and severing all ties with mutual friends. I do all these things casually without really noticing and I do it with force to show that I am in control.

Really, all I'm saying is, "Hey you, I can't handle you right now because you don't meet my expectations so I'm going to have to cut you off because you've become cancerous"

Am I still doing that now?

I have started to depend on a few people and begun to consider a relationship. I have begun to start day dreaming and wasting time "pursuing" these people when I know what I really should be doing is opening my books and trying to remember the difference between cyclic photophosphorylation and the Calvin-Benson cycle.

They sent me here to obtain a good degree and all I'm worrying about is whether someone will accept me, whether someone will look at me and say that I'm boyfriend material, whether someone will notice me and my petty issues about life which I seem to claim I know so much about.

I am so much more than this. I am so much more than this. I have to remind myself that I am not here to relax and have a good time. I'm not here to indulge in all the pleasures that a First World country has to offer. I'm not here to worry about that person I met on MSN and whether I am worthy to be his boyfriend. I am only here for one purpose alone and that is to get my degree. As harsh as that may seem, that is the only thing that I must achieve in excellence. Everything else is secondary.

Why then do I find myself doing everything else but that???

Why then am I up at this hour, not getting enough sleep, ranting away about my pathetic little life to some stranger (namely you, the reader) who reads my blog and knows that I'm an asshole to begin with?

Perhaps because I'm tired of studying, or perhaps because I've given up on staying focused.

So the question now is, what comes next?