Category Archives: obnoxiously yours

Let me in, you evil!

I hate this. Freakin’ hate this part right here.

I know it’s just an address everyone would have, consist of some cheesy wheesy characters and .com everyone have since internet came into the picture, but of which have been my very first key to get in touch with the world on the net for years. And I’m not talking 2 years years, I meant 7 blardy years! And I lost it, totally lost it. Because I took the password length for granted and that is why, I got locked out.

Oh well, maybe it’s a sign I should move on to a new one. Done my rant.


oii orang giler!

What would you do if someone you know call you a maniac in a crowded mall bustling with shoppers during the first day of CNY? Would you turn over to answer? And yes, this entry is specially dedicated to you because most unfortunately, we turned over to look, to our horror, him in a muscle tee, in ong colour summore, calling us orang giler! Goodness!!

Truth is.

A friend recommended me to Kelly Clarkson’s Cry. Listening to it cuts my hurt even deeper, though in the irony of it all, I need it badly to soothe the pain I’ve been through lately. Yes, truth hurts. But I need it to grant me strength to face my own demon.

I hate you. Because I need to get over the fact that you won’t budge an ass to make the move, so I’ll hate you. So badly wish that you would come up to me and say something that would trigger a slap on your pretty face. But you didn’t.

So I kept this anger to myself and it turns into this evil mirror ball that gradually sees me transformed into a wishing lamp at hand, where I could take chances and make the world turn against you. Yes, my mind has entered the ‘bitch mode’ during its recovery process. I was close to mix work with pleasure, inducing your guilt conscience for this hurt of mine. That icy stare at your timid puppy eyes is one of those things. That smirk at your lame intelligence display and your jackass laughter. I wondered who’s the lucky apple in your eye. Your favourite billboard model or some classic chick in high-couture fashion magazine? Grow up, dude! I couldn’t stand how you can be so calm and collected about the whole situation. Is that what guys does best? I wish you would have tendered your letter then and sayonara. Even better, I wish you didn’t exist! Poof!

Truth is, I must have cared about this relationship so much to the extent that I cry over you when it’s over. But I wouldn’t have learned about what it takes to be ready if I didn’t take the first step to fight for it, will I?

And truth is, I know that I must move on now. I just need time to get through this phase; myself. Probably the hardest part is to allow myself known already that whatever the outcome may be out of this pain, it should never ever change the love I have to give for self and others. At least I know now, what I really want that would otherwise not have worked with you.

The times I’d always ask find myself asking, when will I be ready? God showed me the answer, but I suppose I could learned a lesson with this one. Truth is a teacher that gives lesson before it teaches. What I’m learning now is this. You.

pride of a puffer fish.

My pride is a puffer fish;
I have spikes accounted for my naked ignorance,
and a big puff of self-conceited beliefs.
But when the liver is removed,
under the knife of a master chef,
my mere existence ended as a Fugu dish;
best served cold with a dip.

The end of my puffer fish.


(offline 27th March, 2008)

I’m not mad at old junk. I’m mad to have admitted it to rehab in the first place.

I’m not mad at the technician fella to have lost all the lullabies I’ve downloaded, because I didn’t bother to do this thing called backup after all. And I’m certainly not mad at the boss for saying that old junk had only few months to live, given to its weary condition. I’m well aware of that. Think I don’t know old junk any better than the boss?

I’m not mad for being prissy about carrying the weight of that old junk myself, that I have to rely over someone else’s spare time to do the job. Two pair of hands is better than one I thought, or so I thought.

I’m not mad for having no Internet access for as long as the old junk would take to recuperate. It only bothers me, greatly, that we have no Internet access at home. With that, yes, I’m technically deprived.

I’m not mad at having to throw my pain-in-the-ass temper around home. You see, since I’m technically deprived, it only makes sense that part of my sanity goes missing without my Internet fix, that should my need be refused, an apparition in a form of Tasmanian Devil called Taz (brought to you by Looney Tunes) will appear and swept me off the bounds of my insecurity with its foul-breathed wrath. And when that happens, don’t talk to me as if nothing happened because I won’t remember how much you wanted to strangle the mule out of me at that point.

So please understand, I’m not mad.

I’m only tired and sick of having to justify my pathetic self when the devil gets the better off me, that’s all.

Now let’s get over it. Pretend that I’m drunk or something. And tomorrow we could talk and laugh as if whatever happened the day before didn’t matter.

Until the next time saying I’m not mad that is, OK?

Good weekend everyone.