Tribute To Steve Irwin

Then again, maybe to that dingo he's on the show with.

Today

Sunny days really keep my mood high up in the air. Today everybody has decided to dress pastel-coloured, so there's a sea of baby blues and pinks everywhere I look. Some of the dudes have prickly chest hairs creeping up the ultra-low V-necks and others are showing off their skinny limbs that poke out through the holes in their sleeveless pastel cerulean.

Yes, cerulean. I saw two people wearing it today. Just like the sky, cerulean. Or caeruleus in Latin.

Examining the row of flip flops on display, I watch as a lady carts away a huge rack of winter jumpers. Running like a psychotic towards the rack to check out if there were any 'bargains', I suddenly realise, upon closer examination, that they are women's trench coats. Quickly darting for the pastel printed tees on my left, I try to avoid the stares of giggling customer assistants in the shop who apparently must have found my antics good enough to laugh about.

Myer has begun to put up their spring window displays. Like the trend of this city, everything is in pastel. Designer cookware costing $0.30 a piece produced in some sweatshop in China being sold for $69. Shits made in Vietnam being sold 1000% the cost price. Nobody seems to be looking; everybody is too busy walking to wherever it is they want to go.

Today he's dressed in a multicoloured, striped singlet. He seats me opposite a mirror and gently coaxes the hair on my head to obey his delicate fingers. I tell him I've not been conditioning lately, and he sends out a slurry of tsk-tsk-tsk to express his disappointment.

Sprays of mist falling on my nose. I feel him gently massaging my hair and applying generous amounts of water onto it to make it nice and wet. Picking up a clipper, he massacres my hairline and side burns. I can't see anything; my glasses are on the table opposite me. I will just have to trust him.

What does one say to his hairdresser while getting his haircut? Does one converse about politics? Religion? Fashion? Current affairs? I find myself telling him about gastropods and marine protists that inhabit the shores of Gippsland. He is finding it amusing that I can take interest in such 'trivial' matters, and casually laughs it away while he tells me about Oprah Winfrey and some-fat-chick's boobjob-gone-wrong.

Snip snip snip. The scissors cuts away at the split ends in my hair. Next to me a middle aged woman is groaning because her hairdresser, Guy, is pulling away at her hair with a fine comb; she must feel very uncomfortable sitting in that narrow chair with ultra tight pantyhose that causes the fat in her calves to curl up into little mountains. Guy is slowly working away at the curls in her hair and trying to make sense of all the knots and tangles that are probably the result of some cheap hair product.

Tom is massages shampoo into my hair as I lie on the inclined chair. Some sort of fruity, lemony shampoo. I feel the warm water flowing down my scalp as he parts the hair and gives my forehead a little massage. Gently lifting my head and wiping off the excess water, he leads me back to my seat and gives it a nice blow-dry.

Wax to give my hair a bit of body, and a nice powdering on the neck to ease the discomfort from the prickly bits of hair that are lodged away in my shirt.

My head feels lighter now.

~

Two sets of teeth rasping away at the biscuits that are fed to it, oozing the buttery texture underlying the chocolate coating into my mouth. I've not felt this good in ages, sitting on my bed staring at some phase diagrams and bloody stereochemistry.

Resting my head on the pillow, I feel myself doze off to sleep, dropping a few crumbs onto my bed sheet as I crawl under the blanket and curl up against my soft goose down pillow.

Bliss.

我愿意

思念是一種很玄的東西　如影隨形
無聲又無息出沒在心底
轉眼吞沒我在寂寞裏

我無力抗拒　特別是夜裏
想你到無法呼吸
恨不能立即　朝你狂奔去
大聲的告訴你

願意為你　我願意為你　我願意為你　忘記我姓名
就算多一秒　停留在你懷裏
失去世界也不可惜

我願意為你　我願意為你　我願意為你　被放逐天際
只要你真心　拿愛與我回應
甚麽都願意　甚麽都願意　為你

我無力抗拒　特別是夜裏
想你到無法呼吸
恨不能立即　朝你狂奔去
大聲的告訴你

願意為你　我願意為你　我願意為你　忘記我姓名
就算多一秒　停留在你懷裏
失去世界也不可惜

我願意為你　我願意為你　我願意為你　被放逐天際
只要你真心　拿愛與我回應
甚麽都願意　甚麽都願意　為你

Desire

It has been ages since I last stepped into a club. All the shit about exams, the guilt trips I experience when I refrain from spending my hard earned money on booze and smokes, the things I tell myself to make believe that I'm better off at home than in some venue with a hundred other cute sweaty boys dancing to Gnarls Barkley; they aren't working too well for me.

In the past seven days, I've evolved into this hermit crab, shying away from birthday invitations and parties that stretch until the wee hours of the morning. Even the boyfriend has not been getting much time from me lately; we are both mutually separated for the time being due to other more important commitments, i.e. university.

Needless to say, my sex life is like the Nullabor. Dry and desolate.

Then again, I find myself substituting these worldly pleasures with the Internet, surfing for hours on end with no respite, blog hopping and porn downloading, news reading and website editing. My best friend for now is my right hand, and my worst enemy is the bed. I've managed to refrain from sleeping and eating, not really knowing how all that extra time I've supposedly saved in abstinence has gone up in smoke.

Miss the clubs.

Miss the boyfriend.

Friday

I realise that the sun is rising earlier these days; 5.34am to be exact. I’ve seen it rise outside my window when I was crawling into bed the other day, which reminds me, I really have to start sorting out my sleep pattern before it really screws me up.

I've been up all day up to the wee hours of the morning, listening to the songs on my laptop to keep me awake just because I'm a bloody lazy fucker and I can't seem to study so I resort to reading the thoughts of other people in the blogsphere. Blog hopping is my hobby; I have an insatiable appetite to know what other people are thinking and what's going on in other parts of the world. Kepoh.

Like the fact that Frangi is charging for entry, and that my favourite Nasi Lemak stall in Cheras no longer exists.

I've never really detached myself from my homeland. I feel that my life has become so dependant on past memories that it is inevitable that I base my current way of living on whatever it is I was used to back home. I realise how empty I feel now, not being able to even feast on Bak Kut Teh or live off meals of Limau Ais with Roti Pisang at 3am because I was lonely at night.

I still try to hold on to that past, keeping “traditions” alive by taking 2 hour showers because water is cheap and plentiful and flooding the garden so that the little wormies will die and rise to the surface. So much for Stage II Water Restrictions in Melbourne.

~

Today the sky felt obliging enough to deliver a few droplets of water to the parched earth... something it has been reluctant to do for the past month or so. Yeah, so there were a few droplets of water falling from the sky last week too, but I do not even consider today's brief downpour as TRUE rain. To me, rain is anything in excess of 20mm/day. THAT is rain. Anything else is just pathetic.

Rocks in my hand and in my head. I'm studying for my geology exam and I can't make sense of all the bloody bits of earth in front of me. So, this is GRANODIORITE and that is GABBRO. So this is TUFF and that is SCORIA. So this is HORNBLENDITE and that is PYROXENITE. Makes no difference to me, really. They are just grey lumps of hard stuff placed into tiny individual boxes and stuffed into a drawer so that first year geeks like me could look at them in search of some sort of enlightenment.

~

I've not had a real meal in Melbourne. Maybe I'm just fussy, or broke, or clueless, but this city doesn't seem to offer any gastronomically challenging food. The closest they have to SWEET is some bloody diluted syrup water. The closest they have to Dim Sum is bloody DIMSIM, don't ask me where that name came from, but yes, it's DEEP FRIED in batter and tastes like you're eating horse cud.

Same goes for the bloody food I'm eating in the Union House. I force myself to swallow the dry bits of chicken in the Foccacia, telling my brain that it's really SATAY chicken as they claim it is, and not some ciplak version using bottled sauce from the local supermarket. My brain fails me yet again; I wonder why.

More chemical molecules in front of my face. Whoever came up with the idea of "examinations" for students should have been locked away into an iron chest and thrown into the sea. I don't see the point in knowing whether this stupid compound is a cis or trans or meridian isomer. I don't care about the crystal lattice theory, or why Titanium is stable at its (IV) oxidation state. These things are all gibberish to me. I don't need them to survive.

Why the hell am I learning about them then?

~

I must have dozed off. The lights are shining directly at me, and my eyes are hurting. 10.28pm. I've not eaten for the past 8 hours but I don't feel hungry.

I'm at it again, chewing my fingernails, and scratching at the scabs that are starting to appear on my arms because of dehydration and lack of moisturiser on my already dry skin.

Three more weeks to the end of the exams.

Just three more weeks to freedom.

I have to believe that I can do this.

I have to believe I’m not just trying to be.

FYI

Just so you know, my blog is not created just merely for your reading pleasure. Nor are my postings meant to be coherent, justifiable, rational or directional. It does not need to have meaning, nor continuity, nor readability in the articles I present. I do not need to pretend to BE mature, nor give the impression that I CARE for your feelings.

I do not have to post frequently or tell you what happens to me every single day of my life. I do not have to constantly change my layout and post interesting photos or bloody YouTube screens so that you’ll become a frequent visitor. I do not give a FUCK if you find my blog boring and not worth the trouble visiting again.

I do not need to post pictures of hot nude men of people including, but not limited to, myself, pornstars, filmstars, random shots from free porn sites, models, or friends, just to keep you interested. I don't have to talk about gay issues, my gay life, or post gay-friendly content, or straight-friendly content for that matter.

My posts do not need to be about happy things. I do not need to PLEASE anybody with my style of writing or content. I do not need to filter out material that is considered undesirable, direct, foul, sensitive, controversial or showing favoritism to either party. I do not write just for the sake of keeping this blog up and making sure that people visit my blog so that I get a "high number of hits" at the end of the month.

This blog is not about popularity. This blog is not about YOU.

I made this blog as a reflection of ME. Raw. Unedited. I post when I want to. I speak what I want to. I do the things that I want, take the pictures I like. Talk about issues like sex and evil thoughts. I comment about other people and their thoughts, I speak up against whatever I feel unhappy about, and I make judgments as I see fit.

I post without worrying nobody will read, nobody will comment, nobody will notice, because this blog is not about them, not about the readers, not about the people who like reading it or who just come and go for the sake of looking.

This blog is about me. And it will be as I FUCKING LIKE IT

So quit telling me what to do. You are not this blog.

I am its everything.

The House

It is 5am now and I feel sweaty. I've not been able to sleep lately; no surprise there. I've been doing a lot (or lack thereof) to prepare for the exams, meeting the boyfriend, working at the grills; so many commitments, so little time.

But just moments ago it happened again. It has come to find me.

I saw the house one more time.

Grey slate roof with few specks of lichen growing on its top. Built of very sturdy timber wood and painted in white, the first few things you notice are its funny little door and the tiny window that faces the street. I don't see anything else other than the house, the tiny white front gate, the white picket fence that runs around the house and thistles in the garden.

Thistles.

There is a gravel path that leads from the front gate and white postbox to the front door and it is covered in weeds. On either side, grass and thistles fill the garden that hasn't been mowed for ages.

The door handle is bronze and has a funny face on it. There are no curtains; you can see straight into the house from the street on a sunny day. Sometimes the house has a green door; other times it is red. But the shape of the house is always the same; rickety and run down.

I have seen this house again and again over the past year or so, sometimes night after night, sometimes not at all for months on end. And often, this house appears with a story, and the interior always changes with the story, be it Persian rugs when there was a fat man sitting on the couch feasting on roast duck and watching the TV, or tons of fine China sitting on quaint table tops when there was an old lady dusting away continuously at a book such that its cover had become worn from all the dusting, or a hay floor and pigs inside, making the most awful noise and smell, complaining to me that there was a parrot hidden in one of the hay piles.

The interior of the house has never been the same in each of my dreams, but the exterior has never changed. I've always seen a quaint white house surrounded by thistles.

I was walking towards this house, yet again, as I have been in all the reoccurring dreams I have had of this place. I can't see my hands or feet; only my eyes seem to travel towards it. The door opens with a click, as it always does, and I step into a very brightly lit room with candles.

~

Over in a corner, there is a fat cat eating cream puffs. The cat beckons me to approach it and sit on the green cushion that lies next to it on the floor. I hesitate a little, looking around to try and make sense of the interior of the house. The roof is decorated with carvings of people and a huge globe of the world hangs from one of the chandeliers. In every corner, there are candelabras full with red candles that burn in the morning sunshine that comes through the quaint window. I casually wander around the room looking at all these items until the cat squeaks.

A squeaking cat. Great. Just what I need.

~

Flashbacks. I see a man advancing towards me with a belt in his hand. Bright lights and a very strong metallic sound fill the surroundings, and as he gets closer I feel my stomach cave in. SMACK.

Spirals of green and yellow colours. I can't remember what happened in the next few minutes of my dream but suddenly I'm back staring at the mantle piece with the fat cat still stuffing its face with cream puffs.

~

The green cushion is soft and slightly smelly. I can't make out the odours but it isn't pleasant. The fat cat extends its paw towards me; it’s holding out a cookie.

~

More flashbacks. I am now underwater, the house and fat cat has disappeared from sight. I can barely make out the street light that hangs over the pool; it seems like I've sunk to the bottom of a swimming pool and nobody has come to save me.

My hands struggle to get me back up to the surface for a breath. I can't do this.

It seems too difficult.

~

Falling bricks. They are falling from the ceiling of the house, and I dodge to avoid them. Opening the front door, I realise how cold the door handle is.

Making a dash for the undergrowth, I see the fat cat sitting amongst the thistles. With a wave of its tail, it squeaks:

"想死"

~

I am panting on my bed. The sun is starting to rise, and my feet are tingling cold because I've pulled up the blanket and exposed my toes to the cold morning air. Rushing to the fridge I pour myself a glass of milk and look at my hands.

They are shivering.

Lonely

Then again, maybe not.

Rain

Tonight the westerly winds are bringing scattered showers to the Eastern Suburbs, with a possibly of rain in the Upper Yarra catchment area. A cold front is developing and moving Eastward, and two high pressure systems on either side of Australia bringing further rain bearing clouds to the coasts, particularly in the South Eastern states.

Tomorrow the temperatures are expected to drop further as the front moves across the continent, reaching a high of 21. Cloudy skies in the morning and then a sunny afternoon, with South Easterly winds easing.

Brought to you by your local weatherman who wears yellow knee length leather boots with a 1.5in heel, buckles on the top and black lace, with a matte finish.

Heat

36.5 degrees on the mercury

9% humidity

My lips are dry and they beg for water

It has been a very long and dry spring, the Melbournians say. In fact, the last time we had high temperatures like this in spring was back in 1914. And according to the record books, today is the hottest day on record, ever. Then again, they’ve only been keeping the records for less than 150 years so that’s not all that special. Not to me, at least.

I remember when someone told me that it rains cats-and-dogs in Melbourne; I was disappointed to see only "drops" of water in what they termed “rain”. This is how it’s done in Australia; fine drizzles that last for 5 minutes. I miss the long pouring torrential downpour that KL has to offer. And the so-often muddy shoes and smelly jeans because you were drenched by the water that splashed out of a drain when a car sped by and sprayed you all over with sewage.

Rain. Where art thou?

~

Walking to university has become a pleasant journey. Unlike others, I find great relief in having to finally be able to wear minimal clothing, after a fucking cold 5 months of miserable winter and hideous looking knitted tops. Hot winds at 15kmph blazing across your sunburned skin, sucking out whatever moisture it can get out of you. I've not had a drop of sweat in three days; my shirts still smell as though they are fresh out of the washing machine.

The heat reminds me of the tropical weather, minus the haze, minus the humidity. I have forgotten what it feels like to be trapped in a column of hot air, with the air conditioning of supermarkets the only form of relief for your hot parched skin.

I miss the tropics, and the heat is helping me to miss it less.

The summer sunshine has been extremely difficult to bear, especially since we have cloudless skies. Sunscreen producers are happily cashing in on our misfortunes. Everybody's doing the Slip Slop Slap except me; I don't even know what the term refers to.

Walking towards the confines of cool air conditioning in my lecture theatre today, I noticed the slight tingling sensation on my lips. I can feel the cracks making its way up the soft pink flesh, and pieces of skin slowly flaking out under the mercy of the heat and the sun. And Roaccutane to further accentuate the damage.

Generously applying petroleum jelly all over the parched areas, I notice I've just walked into a room full of people clad in singlets and thongs. I feel almost overdressed in my long sleeved black top, blue denim jeans and Suede shoes.

~

Some whitey is in the front of the class exhibiting his armpit-hair to the world, trying to mimic the movement of the tentacles of a Cephalopod by waving his arms exasperatedly. I wonder if he's ever heard of the term "trim". There must be a whole Amazon under there.

I'm falling asleep in Biology class. The droning sound coming from the lecturer is complemented by the harsh wind that blows into the hall because the air conditioning isn't working and closing the doors would only cause us to bake inside like oysters. In the front row, two pretty girls chattering away about their pastel coloured tops. The scribbles I've made on my notes don't seem to make sense; I even misspelled the word mimicry.

"mik-me-cry"

~

Bushfires are raging in the north, and scattered fires in the Prom. I wonder if they'll ever reach Melbourne.

Long showers to keep my skin hydrated. I think I'm helping them empty the Thomson Dam; we should have no water left for summer because of me. Then again I think the idiotic lady that lives across the street who waters her leafy garden to bits with sprinklers that drench the pavement can share the blame.

Nothing in the fridge to cool my throat.

Oranges.

I feel the heat penetrating past the thin layer or melanin on my skin. I could get used to this.

I hope.

Learning

"I'm learning", the boyfriend says. Apparently he prefers clubbing alone, and soon there will be a whole doctrine of things he'd like to do without me.

Which is perfectly fine, really, not that I mind. We don't have to remain adhered to each other like Siamese twins. We will have our own separate lives, stay in our own separate accomodation and do our own private things. We'll have less dinners together, perhaps. Saves money I guess. Less outings together. BUT, we are still a couple by name; a couple who doesn't do anything together because the other party is still "learning to adjust" to the duality.

No compromise, no thoughts about another's feelings. No discussion on the matter, hanya dilontarkan arahan muktamad.

Yes I get it lah.

After all I know, siapakah yang mampu menyoal kehendaknya kalau dia bengis. Siapakah yang mampu meluahkan rasa ketidakpuasan kalau dia tidak mampu bertolak ansur. Siapakah saya kalau saya perlu berpaling, perlu mengubah keperluan dan kehendak agar yang-itu memperoleh kepuasan.

Like a Barbie Doll.

Plastic.

No regrets. It's a learning process.

Women Drivers

Found these pictures at Funtoosh. If you thought you've seen bad drivers, wait till you see these pics!

Enjoy.

The Potato Queen

I met the potato queen at a bar while he was casually cruising amidst the crowd of older white men. With a gin-and-tonic in his left hand and straw in the other, his eyes were fixated at the group of white men staring at him and waving their ugly buttocks at him. Too busy to be bothered, he didn’t notice that I was looking at him. Or perhaps that’s what my little sick mind hoped he was thinking; he could have very well noticed but not cared to look and face in my direction.

It was only after I had been introduced did I get to know him. Then again, I think I must have been a prick who was prodding him for all the finer details because he always answered me nonchalantly like he had more important things to do (which later I figured, would have to be looking at his face in the bloody pocket mirror he always carried).

The potato queen has a fetish for his mobile phone. Often he swishes it out from his pocket and launches into a heated conversation in his local Vietnamese dialect. I wonder who calls him all the time. They are loud speakers, because I can hear their voices from his phone when he talks to them.

The potato queen is stout and tanned. He is probably looking at a long and suffering old-age life as a cancer patient because of the number of hours he spends under the blazing hot sun, trying to tan himself.

To him, it is immaculately important to remove whatever hair that isn't desirable. Desirable to the potato, that is. Pluck the eyebrows. Wax the chest. Shave the legs. Trim the pubes. Truth be told, he has an elaborate grooming kit with contents including, but not limited to, nail clippers of all sizes, a nail file, tweezers, razors, and possibly the odd bottle of lavender oil to soothe the abused skin on his calves from over shaving.

He is very careful with what he eats. Often, his meal comprises of a fuckload of cellulose, probably from the local supermarket. He eats like a horse; not in the vulgar sense of the word, but he literally stuffs himself with a ton of grass with every meal. The world revolves around organic food and the benefits of chewing green stuff. Farmers who use cow dung will be very happy to know that they have a staunch supporter.

The gym is his second home; he can be seen pumping iron and making all sorts of noises that remind you of men getting something really big up their rear ends in a porn movie. Pain is not an obstacle to looking good; he must have huge muscles clinging on his tiny little frame before he can sleep soundly at night.

His biceps/triceps and leg muscles are amazingly big. Whatever he ingests after workouts has the word "whey" or "protein" in it, and often it is taken in huge doses. Perhaps, 6 raw eggs. Perhaps an avocado milk shake with added whey protein. Perhaps, a fuckload of soy milk with enriched protein powder. The stuff to build big fat guns that look like bazookas.

Oh and because he has such huge chests, often his nipples are on high beam. Ting! Another added bonus to a long workout at the gym.

Occasionally after gym workouts he will reward himself with chunks of meat. Fat removed, grilled meat. Chicken breasts, perhaps. Everything in the name of muscle building, even if it means no salt no sugar, less sauce less taste. Yummy.

The potato queen has regular visits to the salon. Often you will see him reading the latest edition of Cosmopolitan while some equally gay looking guy works away at his fronds. A $150 haircut is not too much to pay for three weeks of beauty. After all, with the amount of hair products that he uses, L'oreal is able to pay its workers.

The gelling is the most important process in the potato queen's daily routine; he may take anywhere between 10 minutes to an hour making sure that every lock of hair fits into place, that every frond is carefully shaped and styled. Using the comb, he puts Clark Kent to shame, with his ridiculously gelled hair and carefully shaped side-parting. Sometimes, the potato queen adopts a military style hair cut to further enhance his value, suggesting a certain degree of masculinity to hide his soft vulnerable Paris Hilton personality. This however, reflects badly on him because of his head shape, so he will adorn elaborate headgear that includes, but is not limited to, caps, hats, visors or scarves. These headgear may not be worn unless it complements the clothes that he wears.

His wardrobe will have the usual clothes of any other funky person (quote Gucci and Armani), except that it will be ten sizes smaller. A Barbie Doll would feel comfortable in the tank tops that he wears. Some of his jeans have huge holes in them to air the fuck out of his balls (possibly to ease the rash that comes from the friction that he experiences due to the lack of hair down there) He is not shy to show off his hairless skin to the world. The ripple-effect that he causes by wearing clothes big enough for a toddler resonates wherever he walks. People turn and look at him, admire him, mentally undress him, and think dirty thoughts about him. He realises this, and he loves the attention, pushing himself harder by wearing even smaller clothes. I reckon the tension in the fabric would send any apparatus used to measure it into the scrap bin.

His taste for men, well, only the old and ugly. And they must be blond, they must be white, they must be blue eyed. It doesn't matter if the person is balding or has wrinkles. I'm not sure if the ability to perform is a criteria, though I highly doubt it after seeing the men he's dated. They must be very committed purchasers of Sildenafil.

The potato queen will do anything to keep his old white man happy; even if it means wearing a size 8 when he's really a 9-and-a-half. The potato queen is oblivious to whatever the white man fantasizes; he is the receptive bottom and doesn't need to worry about such details.

Occasionally the potato queen comes across a white man who is so dazzled by his appearance and looks that the potato queen reciprocates the feelings and the two become inseparable fuck buddies, each feeding off each other's infatuations. And occasionally, the potato queen understands the need to move on, which he does with no fuss at all, because to him there's always going to be someone out there to pick him up.

After all, with his gorgeous looks and charming smile, who wouldn't?

Then again, he'll only choose the white ones, because that's all he will stomach.