Infinite Hate

Thursday, April 8, 2010, 2:19 PM (TOEFL class)

I just realized how strong my writing was when I was seething with fury. I need to rant and rave much more. To hate infinitely.

I can't write cause I'm dumb and talentless. Also friendless. People have stopped talking to me unless they need to ask something, which is likely to be related to English usage. Ced still asks me about my day, but then again it's always insincere. Like an obligation for him to do that. It will last for five minutes and then he will do something else, forgetting the conversation.

Better Mad Than Not

Wednesday, March 24, 2010, 10:46 AM (Writing 2B class)

I hate this God damn bloody stupidly horrible class. I told them just to write THREE simple God damn sentences and two examples of each, and what did they write? Mistakes and freaking mistakes.

Don't they have working brains inside their spoilt little heads? What have they been doing in all their stupid school years that they know particularly nothing of these blasted SIMPLE tenses? And why, oh God forbid why, do they major in English?!  These brats have just convinced me to stop teaching.

I am going to apply for writing jobs as soon as I'm home. Teaching is cursed. I am not doing this anymore. How on earth can college freshmen — in an English department — not know how to write SIMPLE tenses in English? It's called simple cause it IS simple.

Bloody lazy losers have caused me perpetual headaches for two insane semesters. I am seriously quitting. The stress isn't worth my effort. These classes are Hell.

Nothing to Be Thankful

Tuesday, February 28, 2012, 8:30 AM

In class. Waiting for the students finishing their personal letters before we go to the speaking session to discuss their future plans.

I was only late for around five minutes for the first period. Plus, I got the wrong schedule from that careless secretary. Disturbing the morning session of two other confused teachers. Not cool. But anyway, the students have been cooperative so far, so I won't complain. Handling high school is much, much better than middle school. No disruptive lots refusing to do their classroom tasks.

Can't wait for the day to end. Get home and type. Have I grown into a more unsociable misanthrope? Meeting students doesn't excite me anymore. In fact, I dislike interacting with people that I prefer to write alone, more than anything else. To be as far away as doable from humanities. Reading is also a pleasure. Just not having activities with a crowd. I hate people. They annoy me too much. Except for Steven, of course. Steven is a unicorn. He's all right.

The next time the secretary asks to substitute for some absent foreign teacher, decline. Decline with all my heart. No more pity. Even when she sounds desperate. Writing is better than teaching. Better than everything else.

2:44 PM

In the school car, going home with the same two people. The driver and the other teacher.

The five classes of tenth graders were okay. No complaint from me. No headaches. No fatigue. Nothing to be thankful, either. Sleep is all I desire.

Roads nesting puddles after the rain. A fading mall with blue taxis guarding outside. I start to soak in the chill of the car's air conditioner. Reminding me of those foggy nights I had when staying in a villa near the mountainous area in West Java. High school holidays with my extended family.

Nearing downtown Jakarta, the sky looks so blue when I rest my head next to the car window. Time to dream away.

Passing the bank where I taught in recent months.

Frustrated Inc.

Tuesday, February 28, 2012, 6:22 AM

In the car going to work, substituting for another undependable foreign teacher. Yea. I'm sure we're going to be late. Not another idiot.

Why are all the foreign "teachers" that work in my school so freaking irresponsible? Deport them already. That'd be the day. No more evening phone calls (or emails) from the secretary begging me to substitute for the next morning at seven.

I woke at 4:30 and left home at 5:35 with the school driver and car to pick up this other foreign teacher. We arrived at the meeting point at 5:45. Waiting for him till 6:15. American, it seems. Younger than I am. Smelling like a pack of cigarettes. Forty-five minutes from Puri Indah to Cibubur by car? NOT GONNA HAPPEN. Coming late to class will ruin my mood.

And my poor blog. Hgghhh. Nineteen more articles left till tomorrow! They will be hard enough to complete without having to teach. I'm also teaching tomorrow for a whole day. Ninety-five posts in total should be excellent. More than expected.

Neat: 120 kilometers per hour. If we crash and die, I'll make sure I'll haunt this tardy teacher's entire family as my ultimate revenge. It is his fault. And I'm not using my damn seat belt.

Trees flash outside the car window. So many more cars queuing in the opposite direction. I wanted to take photos of downtown Jakarta when we passed the freeway flyover. But I couldn't. The car is going too fast. Only blurry sceneries are visible. I'm just going to write on this book journal in the car, to reach my personal deadline. Though I'm not sure what to write when I'm not concentrating like this. Sleepy. Only slept from 1:30 to 4:30 this morning. Three bloody hours. Purple flowers adorning the side of the road. Cute.

Whew. It's 6:44 and we're nearing the school. Awesomeness. Looks like we're not late after all. The power of reckless speeding, everyone! Useful to deliver teachers on time. Still sleepy. Need to brew my coffee. Shouldn't have agreed to teach today. I wish to fall back into my eternal morning slumber.



Frustrated incorporated is from Soul Asylum's song "Misery".

Sex and Other Dirty Thoughts

Can't I just act lazy like everyone else for one day and talk about my breasts? I think I will write about how pleasant it feels to squeeze my plump breast with my bare hand. That would lure many of those brainless Internet boys looking for "Indonesian whores" on my blog. Right?

The Internet is over-sexualized and men have become much more primitive than their ancestors have. Simply because they think they could always be anonymous. Wrong. There's this thing called Google Analytics. Your keywords reveal much about who you are. Only very rarely do people visit my blogs for poetry or writing. This makes me feel like a hoax.

But life revolves on its own whether I agree or not.

One curious thing I noted recently was the fact that I am neither jumpy nor anxious anymore when Steven contacted me. A miracle that emerged as a direct consequence of my rage. After I felt furious and scolded him in that January email. Before this, I would always feel... umm... a little worried when I chatted with him on IM. I used to think that something would go horribly wrong. Like his computer could blow up and he suddenly became amnesiac, forgetting things about me. All sorts of speculative paranoia.

And then, whenever he emailed me, my heart would drum so very loudly. Adrenaline rushing through my veins. Just from getting an email! How juvenile. Reading that tiny pop-up email notification blinking briefly on the bottom right corner of my screen, with his name on it, would make me all sprightly. Everything intensified.

Those feelings died out, little by little. I would like to think that I neutralized my "Steven mania". Knowing I can be so mad at him makes him familiar. Human, like we all are: neither good nor bad. And that inner illumination of knowing so much more about myself after going through a moment of rough turbulence. I still adore his mails, but nothing is uncontrollable. My frenzy is now sedate maturity.

Monday, February 27, 2012, 6:54 PM –
Tuesday, February 28, 2012, 8:31 PM
Cherries

Facebook Sluts

HA. Superwicked. I totally agree. People are only using Facebook to post vainly irrelevant photos of whatever it is they're doing every hour of every damn day. Seriously. Who bloody cares? I know I don't.

I'm so glad I am now off Facebook since I had to deactivate my personal account. It was hacked by my blog stalker and I didn't want her to reach my contacts. Besides, I kept getting game requests even when I didn't have time to respond to all of them. Wasteful. I much prefer focusing on my writing craft. Blogging. Whining on my own.

But today I got bored of writing. And found this image on one of those Internet meme sites. No, not going to tell you which one. Just click the link at the end of my post. Honestly, I hate Internet memes. Childish and trivial. I knew this site from those boys who pasted its links on my Twitter timeline.

This day is legendary. Historical. Monumental. It's the day I finally understood Internet humor. The benefit of slacking once in a while. And guess what? I made a profile on this particular meme site cause I want to read the not-safe-for-work posts. Give me all the dirty jokes.



More memes

Like a Scream

You want me mad

You want me

draped in wrath,

sizzling with insanity,

shoving your helpless body

My lurid breasts

choking your chest

Starving mouth

sucking your breath like

an undercover succubus

You want me

You want me tamed:

docile as a diffident child

in her pink ribbons

and Lolita lace

Answering to every

of your controlling spell

with yes, sir

But you want me most

when I don't want you

You have to want me

alone, secretly longing,

fighting the urge

to want me

while preserving

what's left of your dignity

You fail not to want me

as my ferocity

gouges your eyes

and fidelity seduces

My words slither

in your ears

like a scream

Monday, February 27, 2012, 4:10 – 5:09 PM

You Are an Actor. Act like You Love Me.

Soon, when I fall asleep listening to an Internet radio-streaming site, these soft black headphone cables will strangle me. I will wake up dead. The tragic end of a suicidal poet. To die in her sleep executed by a pair of blue metallic headphones playing Soul Asylum.

I daydream of Death too much.

When I should be writing and writing unstoppably to prove myself punctual. To give an eternal impression of steadfastness on my blog. Although I have no one to astound but myself. That's the beauty of writing for emotional gain. No one tells me what to write or when or what to do. Life is contentment.

Starting last week, I'm reading this poetry compilation by an American poet whose book Sparrow was nominated as a finalist for National Book Award. Caroline Muske-Dukes. Her voice is okay. Nothing new. Just like any other contemporary American poets with modern melody and dozy melancholy. Jaded. Sounding like everyone else. I can write better than that. Hah. Conceit and vanity. Haven't finished all her poems, however. I did copy her lines for the title of this post.

I have to say I prefer my own poetic fabrication, where things are darkened and moods are violent. Like a scream. I want anger and passion and intensity. Not peace. Death, temptation, and brutality. All the pessimistic tendency I can spew. Like my Sylvia.

When others fail to interest, I will have to amuse myself with my own experimental phrases.

Monday, February 27, 2012, 3:39 – 5:43 PM
You're an actor. Act like you love me. is from Caroline Muske-Dukes poem "Heart".

Seeing Red

Blood colored the water. The girl was swimming in a murky blue ocean when a great white shark devoured her alive. How did I dream of watching scenes resembling the movie Jaws? I can't stand seeing that much of graphic violence and blood. Too nauseating.

And then I woke with severe tummy cramps as if Godzila had punched my stomach. What atrocity. Dreaming of gruesome blood and waking up with my period. Could my dream be some kind of a psychic premonition? The blood in the sea referred to my own. Interesting pseudo-Freudian analysis, eh? Just add a dash of sex in it.

Hmmhhh another lazy, allergy-inducing, tropical afternoon. I hate getting itches from the prickly heat. But using a cooling air conditioner will not be beneficial for me, either. Maybe I should sell my voice to the Sea-Witch in exchange for a mermaid tail? That way, I could swim all day in the pacifying ocean and play with the dolphins. As long as I wouldn't have to encounter a great white shark, I'd be fine. Though I wouldn't be able to blog...

Still need to collect my clothes from the drying lines next to the storage room upstairs. Too embittered to do it yesterday. Shower: done. Breakfast: done. Complaining about irresponsibly idiotic people: done. Now I need to write a total of twenty-three posts to complete one hundred articles a month. Deadline Wednesday, the closing of February.

What to write, what to write? Poems become rather repetitive now, and stories are ... demanding. I have not been able to compose any solid plot. So depressing! Fiction, fiction, wherefore art thou? It feels scary to force myself to write flash fiction these days. Everything ends in futility. Blaming the Muse is very imprudent. I shall not blame anyone else but me for my lack of resourcefulness. I'll just go with more journal entries. Badmouthing people. I'm so good at that.

Might you still miss me on a Monday?

Monday, February 27, 2012, 2:06 – 2:59 PM

Four-Letter Word

Blessed was Saturday

for I missed you so

I missed you

a hundred times today

And I love you still

                tomorrow

Or at least I thought

I would still love you so

Only these eyes,

my brain, the sentiment

that perceives your length

Not yours, nor theirs

No one else's

catches your chemistry

Your secrecy belongs to me

and to me only

We longed for each other

on a Saturday, but never

on any other day

What have become of us?

I cannot form your face

Its remnants belong

to many a season ago

Absence, like pertinence,

punishes those who grovel

Scouring to approximate

whether to reminisce

             or to let go

Sunday, February 26, 2012, 6:53 AM – 11:32 PM

Possibly

We were possibly

two petals of the same flower

Two dandelion seeds

of the same head

Blown by the wayward wind

to find a new home

You drifted to the West

and I roamed the East

We grew and we grew

farthest apart from each other

But we knew and we knew

one day we would greet the other

And in our hearts lies the map

to the land that swallowed our past

Perhaps we would unseal its code

Perhaps we would remember

             who we once were

Sunday, February 26, 2012, 8:44 – 9:03 PM

Ninety-Seven

What were you doing

in my dream last night?

Such stony face, faint

Haunted, like a ghost train

And your stony heart,

not wanting to take a part

I permit no trespasser, nor

do I welcome your sight

In those longest days

you forgot me: Between

ninety-seven and forever,

I dislodged your injection

of happiness —

Oh, should I would I

                   could I?

Sunday, February 26, 2012, 7:22 PM

Before Rain

Comes thunder

Comes lightning

Comes the darkening

            of clouds,
of your hearkening

But you have been reading

all the wrong signs

and the false warning

It is the heat that wets

your ingenuity and

confiscates your body

Sweats suffocate the air

when abundance

is all you see

Turn the page left,

             not right

Turn your life

counter-clockwise

and listen:

Listen to your heart

Listen to it hard

Not your pride,

not your pride

The music

is in the savagery

not the melody

Nor two drops

of such alchemy

You have been hearing

all the calming notes

Unchained as they are,

they are not me

I am the softness

of a storm; velocity

you wish you did not seek

As I fall before rain,

I fall to sear you

Unsought as I am,

I am within you

Reflected, never true

Sunday, February 26, 2012, 3:21 – 6:23 PM

Bloody Celsius

Is killing me. Literally! Isn't this supposed to be still February or am I trapped in a time warp zone? As I recall living all my life in this blasted tropical town, February means rainy season. Not some stupid deadly heat.

Theoretically, Indonesia experiences two seasons in a year: dry and rainy. March to October should burn us alive, while October to March means unhygienic floods. That's all we get here. Either sun or rain. I don't think we have had any cool weather. Always the extremities. Every Indonesian climate is a vexation.

Rain brings considerable chill. Nothing freezing, just enough to make us feel cozy. But of course, the fact that Jakarta's city plan is so messed up will always result in flooding in many areas. That's unhealthy and troublesome. But heat, well, the Sun is simply showing off here in my city. No day is moderate when the Sun decides he needs to shine. Always, always, always hot as the burning Hell. Maybe this is a preview of my afterlife? Hgghhhhhhh.

Like today, I woke in the morning, at around four, and I had to hand-wash my clothes and hang them to dry since the freaking washing machine is broken and my darling mother won't let me buy a new one. Even at night, or a moment before dawn, the temperature is that hot. When it indicates twenty-nine degrees of Celsius, it feels like thirty-four. When it's thirty-three, it surely equals thirty-eight. Boiling itchy hot. As blisters.

And it does cause itching allergies on my skin. Every time I wake, there's this crazy uncomfortable irritation like some invisible, microscopic, disgusting worms crawling all over me. It has occurred in the last year, I think. When the heat becomes unbearable. Even when I'm utilizing two electric fans in my tiny room. I can't use an air conditioner because, oddly enough, I cannot stand the cold. A true tropical island girl, I prefer to lie around on the beach and swim in the warm sea than to go to the cold mountain.

I wish I could live in a virtual world where I could set the weather to perfection. No need to use a cooling or warming device. I could wear any clothes I want. And the heat wouldn't put me to sluggish drowsiness all the time. I feel so unenergetic and tend to doze off. Worst part is the death of creativity. Sunshine kills my poetry!

Sunday, February 26, 2012, 1:17 – 2:04 PM
Hot/cold

And You Miss Me, Too

As you and I lie

waiting for our forever

                       to end

You, there

tinkering your rocks

while I am here

tinkering my words

Your martyrdom

sways you to sail

My tongue: corrosive

as sulfuric acid

Who will stop us

from fighting forever?

I will be your starlight

making love with a cold, cold night

You will be my sparrow

gleaming under the morning glow

And when I cry,

your arms will enfold me

telling me it will be all right again

like you would always do

When you are lost

and refuse to be found,

I shall find you

under those dreaming clouds

When I am dying

calling for Death,

you will oxidize me

into a partial paper-doll

Like the Knave of Spades

your sword begets decorum

My lachrymose ink your doom

We halved our hearts

and tossed each

into the nearest stream

their ends shall reach the other

when forever begins

Sunday, February 26, 2012, 12:29 – 1:09 AM
Cards

I

missmissmissmissmissmissmissmissmissmiss

missmissmissmissmissmissmissmissmissmiss

missmissmissmissmissmissmissmissmissmiss

missmissmissmissmissmissmissmissmissmiss

missmissmissmissmissmissmissmissmissmiss

missmissmissmissmissmissmissmissmissmiss

missmissmissmissmissmissmissmissmissmiss

missmissmissmissmissmissmissmissmissmiss

missmissmissmissmissmissmissmissmissmiss

missmissmissmissmissmissmissmissmissmiss

YOU

How It Feels to Be Lonely

Oh heartache, I wish
I could admit

how much I miss you.

Whenever a thing

                 went amiss,

I kept searching for you

throughout

    these memory lanes

and unforgivable banes.

But I cannot do that

                 anymore.

I promised to be stronger.

Everything seems languidly

distasteful without you.

Like watching the grains

of sands passing through

the connecting tube

             of an hourglass.

It slows down emotions.

Time slips

       but agony remains.

You would not answer

                     my prayer.

Would not rush to

                     my rescue.

Would never sing me

                     my lullabies.

Nor would you call me

your undeserving baby.

It makes me feel

          like a photo album.

I safeguard your past

but may never be

your present. Trifles.

What you stash 

under your bed and

never aim to see.

Cockroaches dance with me.

They know

      how it feels to be lonely.

Saturday, February 25, 2012, 11:14 – 11:46 PM
How it feels to be lonely is from Inspiral Carpet's song "This Is How It Feels".

Shameless, Gory, but Still with Professional Integrity

Saturday should be restful and uncomplicated and gracious. But no, not this Saturday. Drama ensued.

I am hired to work as a text editor for this new Indonesian Internet magazine with a small team of five boys and another girl. The three-month agreement was for me to proofread and enhance messy original English articles from the other writers. And guess what? What I received in my inbox today were links to articles and wholly copy-pasted pieces from another person's blog. WHOAAA. Talk about plagiarism.

Shocked and appalled, I intended to quit the job that early afternoon. That's deliberate plagiarism: everything that is against my professional and personal integrity. I told all my students that plagiarism is brainless. It will only destroy their creativity. Too lazy to write and work, unwilling to put real efforts into shaping newly invented ideas. No originality!

One of them called me to ask when I could finish all the editing duties for those eight plagiarized items. I vowed I would never do it. He was upset and hung up immediately. So, I called another person to tell him I was about to decline the job. Stealing others' works is not my style. But he said he would fix the problem and would call me later. He didn't call.

What I discovered next in my email were two new articles. This is how they did it: They quoted lines from two Indonesian texts and drafted them into a shorter English piece. With links to the original publications.

Hm. Still not satisfactory. But I did edit one passage, modifying redundancy and insignificant ideas and lame grammar, and at the end I added the rightful author names and access dates of when the sources were retrieved. I emailed my work to four people and demanded that they include the author names and access dates on their website. If they refuse to do so, I can always quit. I'm not doing anything that my conscience will never approve.

Has any of them responded to my mail and proofreading? NO. What tardy, unpunctual snails. The least they could do is to reply me instantly. So disrespectful. I haven't seen anything admirable from them. Looks like I'm quitting after a day of their shambolic coordination. Yeah. Good job.

Saturday, February 25, 2012, 7:15 PM

Ctrl-C

Dogstar

The band that will always be known for Keanu Reeves' involvement, unfortunately. I love their 1996 album. Bought it in a cassette version in tenth grade, playing it repetitively in my ancient tape player for days. Forgot the one song that made it to the radio. Not this one. This is "No Matter What", my most favorite song, probably of all time. I tried listening to its original version on Youtube and hated it. Super-horrible. So geeky gay. Dogstar did it much, much better. More modern rock. Thank Heaven I lived in the nineties.





It was stupid to throw away all my childhood and teenage cassettes that I had saved since fourth or fifth grade. NKOTB, Tommy Page, Guys Next Door, Color Me Badd, Bed and Breakfast, Code Red. Many others. Oh, I so love the nineties and their cute boybands. Should have kept everything in my cassette box! So very reckless of me. I didn't think I would long to see primitive tapes when I'm old and nostalgic like this. I miss those good days of being home after school.

Someone build me a time machine.



Saturday, February 25, 2012, 1:14 AM

Oh, Pooh

Didn't know that Pooh bear could be this mischievous. Poor Piglet.

As I recall, years ago, I read one title of Winnie the Pooh children's picture book with the quest for a red balloon. Everyone was busy looking for that balloon all over the woods. Pooh accidentally flew with it, I think. Not so sure. Too obscure to retrace.

But I do know that no one in the story was portrayed as selfish. Not like Pooh on this movie poster. He looked like sacrificing Piglet's safety for the sake of attaining honey. Was he ever anything of such in other stories? Need to see the whole movie to validate if it actually contains this callous characterization of Pooh. Should be new.

Shameful to admit, but I did find the image from... 9gag. That despicable site full of thoughtless time-wasters. When I feel so horrendously bored with writing and poetry and other contemplative pursuits, I visit asinine sites like that one. Sometimes Cute Overload. Everything becomes monotonous after a while.

Friday, February 24, 2012, 11:38 PM

Pooh

Most Idiotic Men

Ah, look, who gets that exclusive red Okcupid button that says replies very selectively? I do.

Thank you, boys. For the three-hundred-something emails that I will NEVER reply. For your brainlessness. Insults. And unsolicited sex proposition. With all that, I can always defame you morons on my public blog.

For instance:

Hello.

Illiterate idiot. Next.

Hello, how are you?

What is this — Twitter?

You have sexy lips.

And you have a shallow mind.

Beautiful but scary.

Have been labeled worse.

This is my number: 62-811-desperate. And my email: hotguy4u@idiotville.com. Call me.

You do realize (if I am meaner than I already am) I can publish both contacts on my blog and Twitter, don't you?

Can we have webcam sex?

Reported for overtly sexual message. Blocked.

Everyone wants sex. You're a hypocrite.

Might you be the heir of Satan?

I don't believe you've never touched any guy.

Unlike you, I don't waste my life touching guys.

I can send you my sexy pictures if you want.

I'm more interested in staring at a semicolon, thanks.

I'm coming to Jakarta next week for business. Looking for a friend to have fun with. This is my number: 62-0812-foreignslut.

Go to Google and enter the keywords "professional escort service in Jakarta".

Imagine reading 350 messages similar to those. I'm not sure why men still email me even when they see the red button on my Okcupid profile. Judging from their laziness, they must email ten random girls daily to see which one replies. I'm not intrigued.

Also, many of these primates kept asking why I stated that I am overweight but I don't have a full body picture to justify that. Seriously, people, is the first thing you check always a girl's body photo? Are you really, truly that shallow?

I look like this webcam shot I took last Wednesday at work. Not going to flash a body picture on a dating site since it will only generate more obscene comments, especially cause I now have D-cup breasts with my 36 BMI. Which proves that I am overweight.

The only reason I keep my Okcupid profile active is to source writing materials. Idiocy is always good for satire. Now you know.

Friday, February 24, 2012, 8:10 PM

Wednesday: Triteness, Unholiness

Wednesday, my only teaching day of the week, could be both draining and delicious. I loved the peaceful morning or afternoon when I didn't have any student (cause most of them were too lazy to go to class, or too busy with work). This was when I had the chance to look out the balcony and dream my life away in poetry. So heartening.

Of course there were irksome times, like when I felt too tired after the whole day at work. Or when a participant came to class with no motivation and turned the whole session useless. Or when I just had to wait and wait in my room. Sometimes I took webcam pictures, just to amuse myself. It's great to waste time being dumb like this. Like all others with no purpose in life. Isn't life purposeless? It surely feels like that when no one loves me.

By the end of the day, I left at fifteen after five. Heading to the highway outside the building. Waiting for a taxi to take me home. I'm not sure what went wrong, but lately it's so difficult to get a taxi in Slipi during the rush hour. I had to compete with five or six other people who stole my cab last week. How annoying. It wasn't like this one or two months ago. The road used to be so much friendlier.

I also love the time I sit inside the taxi, looking out the window from the back seat. The city revolves in tired hastiness. And the orange sun setting above us. Warm and beautiful.

Afternoon from the bridge above the freeway in Kebon Jeruk,
West Jakarta, five minutes away from my home.

There's still one more Wednesday next week where I have to teach. In February. Not sure about March. I may have to focus more on that editing job if it does take much time with six to eight articles a day. I'll see what to do once the writings start coming to my inbox. Nothing too nonsensical, I hope.

Friday, February 24, 2012, 6:22 PM

How to Disgust People in One Paragraph

Remember the day I decided to pose as a lollipop whore? I didn't finish the sour fruity candy and kept it in a tiny plastic jar where I had put garlic peanuts before. Now I'm sucking it again. With morsels of fried garlic on it. Still tastes as sugary as it was. Mmhhhmm. Sticky one week old lollipop melting in my dirty mouth.

Since I always wake up lustful during my PMS days, I was again plotting a scene of erotic fiction the moment I opened my eyes this morning. Now, which untouched virgin poet wants to be my love slave? I can feature you as the leading man in my sultry story. Should you be interested, dial 62-21-555-SERIOUSLY.

My peaking estrogen knows how to visualize nasty scenes much better than your unimaginative testosterone ever will. I can suck you sensually slowly like a lollipop. And do a million other things you didn't think exist. And when my suggestive posts arouse you, that only means I have upped my demivierge XP to Unbeatable.

You're all the victims. Remember that.

Between my lollipop-whore photo and this one I titled "I'm trying to be a lifeless virtual doll", which one attracts you most?

This was where I tried to appear as normal as possible. You know how those juvenile Facebook girls publish myriad vain shots just to boost their ego? I'm doing the same. But only with one webcam picture.

A thousand candy kisses.

Friday, February 24, 2012, 12:20 PM

Seeking Unhappiness

Grrgghhhhhh what is so wrong with my PMS days? Since yesterday I haven't felt like writing. Come on! My life depends on this. That bloody headache won't go away unless I take one blue Panadol pill. The only alleviation to get me some sleep. This is not right. I cannot depend on some stupid medication.

Also yesterday, I met the team that started a new Indonesian Internet magazine based in Jakarta. The publication is all in English, so they needed a meticulous editor to polish the articles. I was offered the job for three months, and I took it, even when the meager payment for one whole month equals to what I make in TWO (or two and a half) days of teaching. Let's see how this goes. I always told myself I would be happier writing and editing compared to teaching. But must it come with such an absurd price?

The meeting was at the mall where I used to buy literature books, near the college I worked for in South Jakarta. I bought some copies of poem anthologies and my favorite novel The Little Prince. Mine was lost some time ago. I think my crazy brother burnt it without my knowing. He must think the book is anti-Islam or something. Hgghh. Living a life with a cultish egomaniacally violent brother is very unnerving.

Apart from that, the bookstore hasn't stocked anything new for its poetry section. Damn it. I want to buy May Swenson and Sara Teasdale and Ezra Pound. I also lost my tiny Cupid and Psyche, the Penguin edition (presumably was burnt as well by the psycho). But the store doesn't have it anymore.

Am I getting more headaches just by feeling miserable like this?

Friday, February 24, 2012, 11:30 AM

The Rules of Complaining

4:51 AM

Sleep, oh sleep, kind sleep, cruel sleep, wherefore art thou?

Seven and a half hours for working, one and a half more for commuting, still owing myself at least six articles for the day, coming home with a brutal back pain, the swelling of my monthly curse, and the worst kind of digression of loving. Did I complain? No.

I turned to sleep. But now I am a bad child defying desire. There is still something I must do. Telling stories. Wrapping up the chain reactions into jumbled confusion.

9:17 PM

Headaches. Again. Menstrual, I assume. I have been wasting the day with nothingness. Reading everything irrelevant. Feeling so depressed when the twins asked me to where I want to move, since my parents are selling the house. Oh, God, good God. The house I have been living in since I was a tiny embryo.

MY ROOM!! The place I wanted to slash my left wrist. My room, this room, my only best friend. I don't want to let go. When we finally move out, I will cry endlessly for days.

I know my parents need the money. But it really is my sociopathic brother's fault, for refusing to support his damn family. If he were willing to work to fund himself and his family, we wouldn't lose the house. I really don't want to go, even when the ceiling is falling apart and everything else looks moldy. I want to live here forever till the day I die.

And I have no one to talk to. No one listens to sad problems anymore. Too depressing for them. Everyone only searches for happiness.

I stopped missing you a long time ago. But you knew that. Did you complain? No. You never miss me, anyway.

When Words Mean Nothing at All

Tiny, pesky, winged horror
ruined my slumber. I couldn't.
Night and light pulled me apart.
Waking and re-awaking.
Blood on my hand.
Before the dial buzzed,
I was already alarmed.
Enflamed eyes glaring
into the beginning of dawn.
Heaving opposition.
Heavy as a neutron star.
Limping as love.
Hold me in your unwilling arms,
I begged.

The bulk began to transfer.
Disinterested cleanliness.
Nutrition. Racing with Time.
All things set and ready,
the roads beckon:
Come to me, child.
Their filth, their crime, my dime.
Lithesome heels, armored form,
limbs resilient enough
to carry a ton of gravity,
I run with the children of Sun.

Every one of us has a purpose.
Be it genuine or grumbling.
We run. We run.
And the whole nation runs with us.

Wednesday, February 22, 2012, 12:13 – 9:02 PM
When words mean nothing at all is from Inspiral Carpet's song "This Is How It Feels".

Windmill in the Sky

Every melody of a highway vehicle
oils our overused city. Buses honking
unholiness. People slightly shimmering
under the sky. Milky warm pollution
makes habitual love with the sun.
Yellow corrupting the greeneries
cupping butterflies. The blackness
of the birds. Their valiant isolation
discounting my kind. A windmill,
the very symbol of old colonialization,
spirals its red-white-blue arrogance.
Always to the right. To where
all the goodness go. I rock my chair
to that untamed squeaky spring.
Flirting with countless orange
koi fishes four floors below. Were I
one of them... always lulled
by the thickness of slimy pond water.
They, too, dream to fly. Like us.
The little worker ants moving up
and down in our metal elevators.
How tall can our skyscrapers be?
How tall must we build
to reach Heaven? Dirt everywhere.
In our eyes, our brains, our lungs.
Grimy soot enfolds our skin.
Monochrome, still-life bright,
we hoist our red-white flag
celebrating its victory. We ripped
its native blue once, and we will
do it again a thousand times.

Wednesday, February 22, 2012, 10:47 AM – 12:02 PM

Thoughts without a Word, Sounds I've Never Heard

I'm beautiful in an ugly kind of fucked up way

My face is not a cliche

And I complicate in a disconcerted heartfelt way

But I have good intentions

I don't care for shiny things

I don't wear a puzzle ring

I'm always listening to a seashell

But you have this tiny light and no one else can see

It pulses randomly and I can feel it

I'm sending all my love

I'm calling all the universe

Can you feel the frequency of this random blinking light?

Title and lyrics are from Darren Hayes's song "Random Blinking Light".

Where the Poets Grow on Trees

Another old song from my past. Been looking for it for some time. No lyrics found on the net. But I did find the band name and the song title. It was kind of famous here on Jakartan radio stations. Wonder why no one else made any attempt to transcribe the lyrics? Nothing long and difficult. Only short lines that surface as imagining the life of Helen of Troy. Hope I didn't make any mistakes in typing the words. Let me know if I did. Here it is.

Me as Helen of Troy

: Cinnamon 

Does it make you feel this way?

How does it feel?

You try not to act, not to interfere

These days you wish to count

And summer dream is close

I want to be where the poet grows

on the trees

Every day, every night

Trojan heroes let the city fall

These days you wish to count

And summer dream is close

I want to be where the poet grows

on the trees

Every day, every night

Trojan heroes let the city fall

Every day, every night

Trojan heroes let the city fall

Every day, every night

Trojan heroes let the city fall






MP3 files: Dropbox, Google Docs.



Where the poets grow on trees is from Cinnamon's song "Me as Helen of Troy".

Secret Threesome Fantasy

Cedric versus Steven — who won? Me. It's all about me.

My love-triangle draft in my book journal is still untouched for so freaking long. Inherently lazy to write fiction lately. What is wrong with me!! How am I supposed to be the greatest storyteller known to humankind? Too many drafts; too little ambition.

But I thought, I had to study Cedric's personality a bit more to reflect his typical wording and reactions. Useful for the development of his character in my flash fiction. So, sometimes, I annoyed him just to see how he would respond. I am the most manipulative Internet persona, am I not? Why, of course, I certainly am.

And then I thought, why include Sally in the magical tale when I can have the two lads for myself? Let's turn it into a dirty threesome fantasy, instead. We all know these underage boys always fight over me. They secretly or overtly want me. I have all that irresistible charm too fatal to younger men. I wish.

So, their character sketches:

C e d r i c

Last name: Merde.

Age: 29.

Nationality: French.

Found me on: a pen-pal site. He texted me first.

Since: September 2007.

Sees me as: a sex object.

I see him as: a very offensive cyberstalker who is only good for a reluctant writing partner. Or a character in my story.

Romantic attachment with me: October 2007 to May 2010.

Didn't have a happy ending because: He only wants a sex partner, not marriage.

Current communication media: IM text.

Previously: email, postcard, voice chat, webcam chat, phone message, phone call, Facebook, my blog, Okcupid.

I fell for him because: He used to write me the most heartbreaking emails and was unable to detach himself from me; promised to give me his first kiss in Monas (but never happened cause he preferred to kiss other girls); was considering to marry me (but never did).

I stopped loving him because: He chose another girl whom he thought would be better than I am. Betrayal at its worst.

Last contact: today, IM, talking about my true-love dream.

Behavioral tendencies: super-jealous of any man I talk to (particularly of Steven whom he would call "asshole"), always explicitly sexual, promiscuous.

Best physical features: messy almost-black hair that he used to keep very long cause I asked him to (but now he has cut it ridiculously short), French accent.

Reminds me of: Jake Gyllenhaal in Prince of Persia, but only when Cedric still had his long hair. Without it, he lost all his cool factor. Seriously.

Kind gestures: pasting me Chris Colfer's new movie trailer.

IM typicality

Amel: Ced, are you online?

Cedric: Why, you wanna show me your boobs on webcam?

Amel: No. I need your opinion on my latest blog post.

Cedric: Show me your boobs first!

Amel: I don't want to.

Cedric: You're so not fun! How about showing me your butt?

Amel: No. Can't you just please read my blog post? I need to know what you think of it.

Cedric: Open your webcam! I'm so horny.

Please note that I've never shown him my breasts, butt, or other sexual body parts on webcam or photos.

S t e v e n

Last name: Cullen.

Age: 26.

Nationality: American.

Found me on: Okcupid. I emailed him first.

Since: January 2009.

Sees me as: a friend.

I see him as: a very detached, undesirable friend (occasionally a huge crush). Also the rebound boy, thank you very much.

Romantic attachment with me: never. But he subconsciously has it. I mean, who wouldn't?

Never happened cause: He only wants to date herbivorous girls and can never be in love with me.

Current contact: email.

Previously: Okcupid, IM text, Facebook, my blog, Twitter.

Why I adore him: Talking to him feels like... a dream. Like my heart fizzles with soda pop bubbles. And he showed me more kindness than others do.

I stopped loving him cause: I had to. No other choice. I don't want to burden him.

Last exchange: few days ago, email, talking about the time I was so mad at him and how I love him.

Known habits: pasting me fascinating music videos. Using flowery sentences. Distancing himself from me when he feels I have become too attached to him.

Best physical feature: none that I know of. I never saw him on webcam. He does look cuter with facial hair, but he shaves it often I assume.

My fictionalization of him: Mad Hatter, cause I featured Steven as the male character in my dark tea-party story.

Oh-so-sweetness: Willing to accompany me when I was super-sad even when he was still too sleepy to wake.

The chat

Amel: Steven, Steven, Steven.

Steven: Amel, Amel, Amel.

Amel: Have you met any kitten lately?

Steven: No.

Amel: Are you really busy?

Steven: Yes, I am.

Amel: What are you doing?

Steven: Missing you terribly with what's left of my dilapidated heart.

Okay, okay, I made up the last line. He would normally say "making slides" or "research".

Coming soon: our love-triangle threesome obscenities. Because fiction is made for revenge.

Monday, February 20, 2012, 6:37 PM –

Tuesday, February 21, 2012, 10:49 PM

Jake G | Mad Hatter