Two words

Customers, indiscriminately, should friggin understand that they stand in the position of a guest. But that doesn’t make whosoever’s serving them their fkin servant. Having that much self righteous self-respect should reflect equally with how you respect others. It doesn’t matter what color you are, or what language you speak but if you have problems with the frequency that we are working in, you’re just a ticket away from where you flew from. two words. fuck off. (:

x+1 (the endless possibility of a bad day)

On some days when it can be so potent, you can almost feel it coming swirling in your system. It could be how your morning had dissolved leaving you blind to your own intuition and impulses. It’s like walking on wet floors with slippery soles, shouldering an innate sense of insecurity that hits you right at the back of your head like you’re gonna slip and fall at every single step. It doesn’t matter what you preconceive, the deal is usually signed, sealed, delivered and almost if not always, inevitable. Surely, every bad thought can fester into a bad day. And it doesn’t take much but a tiny catalyst that will paint your face yellow insulted and sallow. On days like these, you feel almost inadvertedly like a living neuron layered with receptors at every end and the trajections that the world impose is so hard to miss that the truth on several accounts do not emancipate, it simply thickens and amplifies, weighing down on every single logic possible. Yes, if ever my own philosophy over my bleakest day could ever triumph biology, tommorrow I will be a mimosa plant and maybe I will be stepped on even when I shy myself defenseless.

I admit. I am not the rainbow of every optimist.

But like every dark cloud, there’s a silver lining. Me, you, we could all be blind to it and perceive the billowing darkness like a looming storm but if we look hard enough, we’d be impress on how such beauty can outline something indefinitely mortifying.

On days like these, when I’d needed my friends the most to lift my spirits, you guys were there. And I’d hug you the same like how I had hug my beloved sister goodbye at the airport for being my silver lining.

Thanks Mel. Thanks Nisha.

you and me could write a bad romance

you know, i’ve never actually understood Lady Gaga’s songs. sure, they’re as catchy as a potentially regretful trend can be (marrep – yes, roll the Rs – tapered pants, WTF) and often i sing (badly) in a fervent macam paham manner but seriously, what the hell is leather-studded kiss in the sand?! did someone stud his lips with croc hide and then smooch Gaga on a beach? or maybe it’s i want your leather-studded (pause) kiss in the sand.. which makes me think of a tough (as old leather) stud.. sex on a beach.. *cues porno music*..

turns out aku tak paham pon.

i guess you don’t have to write coherently to make it big. maybe Lady Gaga should hire me, i’ll just make up some garbage she can warble and we’ll both label it Art. and then brand ourselves Musical Maestros or GiG Genius or Power Pops.. something erm, catchy like that. how’s that for (blonde) ambition eh.

but ahh, i’ll just settle as a guest writer in this humble bulatankecil for now.. i might as well call myself the Gas Writer instead, cos i foresee that all i’ll be writing is full of shit and hot air.

*crickets chirp*

..hokaayyy, not really haha funny, but not completely 😐 either. i amuse myself sometimes.. not necessarily others.

anyway.

i’ve booked a little vacation for myself and Nisha this weekend – wow, that sounds pretty sexcapade-ish actually, like i’m the guy surprising his girlfriend with a 2-night stay at..*drumrolls*

Kuala Lumpur. ok, bad romance.

pretty hasty decision, but hey it’s KL. if shopping fails (unless i’m crazed enough to WANT a Prada-at-Petaling bag), there’s always food, even if it’s the same kind of keropok lekor found at the bazaar in Sembawang. i’d like to think that we all like to have a semblance of home even in a foreign land, even if that foreign land is just a 45-minute plane ride away. because that’s all we can afford for now, after forking out almost two grand each for..

..education.

(i wish i could truthfully say an LV or a pair of Jimmy Choos or something frivolous like that. not saying that people who have those things ARE frivolous.. it’s just that.. really, thousands on THAT? for.. some validation, a type of boost, an instant gratification? i don’t know what kinda club this is, but it’s one i don’t want to have a membership in, thank you very much. yeah well i have my opinions :p)

it does sting a little, especially since the cash we’ve spent CAN get us a trip to Europe and especially since the idea of paying for our own studies – when every other person is funded by parents – is a bit too bigforustograsp. but i guess it’s for the best huh.. at least that’s what i tell myself.

so, KL.

Nisha and I have has this lofty idea about making videos of ourselves – nope, not the Peterporn kind cos that will Never Never have a Happily Ever After. just spoofs of Single Ladies or.. yep, Bad Romance. maaaybe we should make ourselves up as drag queens. or SIA Girl rejects. or just take me without my makeup – that’s Nightmare in Petaling Street already.

wow, ideas. Nisha, don’t forget your batt charger.

i haven’t packed, not surprisingly. it’s not as if i need to get silky lacy racy negligees to impress Nisha aaanyway ha ha ha that’ll be a sight to see. or maybe i do.. hrm. *cues porno music*

suspek kuat lepas tu Nisha Sleepless in KL.

ahh well, i think i’ll just summon the Spirit of Last Minute Packing to help on Friday night. and maybe reward it with hot crispy keropok lekor.

– Liz

you want me to what?

Recently I was recruited as a mentor at AMP and it tore me up when the executive manager introduced me and two others as models of success. Coupled with his rehearsed voice, I was very convinced that every child in the room had an epiphany of this program being a complete joke. Success…yes… gray, like prison walls and I looked around the room examining the morning faces of these kids for traces of diminished hope.

Like every other clichéd team building exercise, we were made to introduce ourselves. I was a nervous wreck spouting rubbish about being a platoon commander and all I could do was flex that meagre meat on my chest to reel them into believing that I was some fucking hero. I may have fooled everyone in the room but anyone who had been a part of my organization would know that I was no more than a face for ex-offenders and potential convicts.

I did not have a good piece unlike Mahathir. This man was born to inspire. Yes, pardon the crooked tooth and you could see angels sitting, swinging, pole dancing, on the tendrils of his beard. Mahathir was a martyr in his own right. Having been incarcerated for drug abuse at an early age, he was thrown into rehab and there he had learned of Islam and embraced the religion. That killed me. How many people could go around and say,” drugs brought me closer to god”.

As the morning progressed I was indubitably turning hysterical in my head. As it turned out, unsurprisingly, in light of the world cup and the impending youth Olympics, our class discussions and activities would centre on the theme a healthy lifestyle. My thought bubble exploded, “you want me to what?! hahaha. alfian, tell me you’re fuckin kiddin.” But he wasn’t. If it wasn’t for the abundant amount of self control that I’ve attained under the tutelage of that fat ugly fuck called subra and admiring his bald black head, I would have burst uncontrollably in laughter and got myself fired.

What baffled me was that it never occurred to him to ask me if I smoke or eat healthy or live a healthy lifestyle during the interview. I would have laid down the entire truth. The future that I envisioned is one where I’d be able to go to starbucks and order an apple strudel cheesecake with a sprinkle of tobacco or celebrate my 25th birthday with 25 chocolate scented cigarettes on my birthday cake. Yes, I do go to gym on a regular basis but I do not thrive on tofu, gargle green tea and break my fucking back doing yoga. I looked across the room; the other two mentors didn’t look like sportsmen either. She was a beautifully wrapped up moth and he, suffering from the virtue of his charm and size was a gentle giant. And I was on the brink of being a bad influence.

Being the optimist I’ve learned to acknowledge myself as the right person for the job. Yes, I may not be a profoundly healthy boy. But I grew up in a household of fat cousins and I know more about the irresistible diet than anyone else. With the amount of laxatives in the cupboard my mom could have easily been the queen of Africa and with my life story as a stricken fat caterpillar that metamorphosed into a smoking athlete, no one else is more qualified of an opinion on the subject than I was. I have a few chubs in my class and I certainly know what to say to give them a head start in life. All you need is a square chest, a good set of brains and every god damn person whom you will encounter in life will think you’re a healthy stud and if that doesn’t work don’t fret, because as a fat kid you always have the thickest middle finger to rely on.

-nadzim