Sunday, December 30, 2012

Something like Love


I'm just going to calculate some numbers and figures to make this one go away. Too tired to argue with myself. These are the last three Internet boys that I mistakenly marked as the one — you know, that so-called "true love". In chronological order:

CEDRIC
Found me from a pen-pal site in September 2007.
Leo. One year and seven months younger than I am.
Started with his IM chat.
On our second chat, we discussed Dorothy Parker and Jack Kerouac and books and scripts and so many other things. I began to feel so happy for finding someone who likes writing as much.
On the fourth conversation, based on mutual attraction, we decided we were "being exclusive". THAT dumb. But we were two emotional idiots. Illogically, things like that were bound to happen.
He promised to meet me and marry me. I believed all that with all my heart, when all he wanted was a skinny Internet slut who is willing to have animalistic sex with him without marriage. I'm not that kind.

STEVEN
Found me on Okcupid in January 2009.
Pisces. Four years and four months younger.
Started with my email to him.
I didn't have any romantic delusion concerning him until October 2010, when he kindly talked to me after Cedric betrayed me for that Chinese girl.
Talking with Steven was almost like falling in love. That giddy feeling like being on a rollercoaster ride. He's quick-witted and can always calm me with his understanding.
But, he wants a herbivorous girl and I'm too in love with seafood to go back to being a vegetarian.

JAMES
Found me from a British dating site in August 2012.
Pisces. Four years and four months younger.
Started with his email to me.
It's scary how he reminds me much of Steven! Nothing happened until that strange night in December of the same year. I swear I felt the same sedative feeling like what I felt in my true love dream when we talked on IM. Exactly the same. Not more, not less. Identical. When I fell asleep after, I knew the boy in my dream would never materialize anymore since I could just talk to James to capture the mood.
But of course, like any other ill-fated story, mine doesn't end well. He doesn't feel the same sort of intensity. He's not in love with me because he never met me and we only started chatting. WHATBLOODYEVER. Nothing will ever be right for me!

Somehow I still believe in my dreams and premonition. I don't feel anything like that every day. Just on that one particular night. Something happened. Once in a lifetime. Fate. Madness. Superstition. Whatever you may call it. I call it love.



Friday, December 28, 2012, 11:01 PM –
Sunday, December 30, 2012, 7:24 PM

I Thought I Found the One a Million Times


Why can't some ferocious erotic poet elope with me to Italy like what DH Lawrence did with Frieda? WHY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I wish to elope with a man, like my mom who tried to elope with her married professor. Would be fun. Extraordinarily romantic. Life is too tedious talking to myself for years like this. I'm going insane.

Yes, I am again obsessed with the quest of finding my true love after what happened with James. The feeling was real. As real as it gets. Authentic. All of a sudden, on that curious Sunday night, he became my Universe. No one else existed. Everything revolved around him. I intoxicated my blood with his presence. Why can't he feel the same?

Something's not right.

It's not like I wanted for the premonition to occur that night. I don't even know him as well as I know Cedric and Steven. He was just a stranger who emailed me many times. Still, it happened. Unasked. Inexplicable. Out of nowhere. 

Perhaps my brain was so damaged by acute loneliness that it gave in to a desperate plea of creating something soothing. Perhaps I'm too crazy to feel anything factual. Is love a fact? Must it be reasonable? Must everything be carefully planned?

When I offer true love that lasts for a lifetime, men run in horror. But when some Internet slut lures them with casual sex that has no attachment whatsoever, they flock around her like moths to a flame. Men prefer sex to true love. It's true.

What is wrong with people?


Mine would be four dirty kittens and four cats.



Friday, December 28, 2012, 10:22 PM –
Sunday, December 30, 2012, 6:41 PM
I thought I found the one a million times is from Darren Hayes's song "Void".

Everything I Want to Do Is Illegal


Things I love, in order of importance:

1. Poetic composition, in any form, classic and contemporary, reading and writing it.
2. Death, suicide.
3. Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, Dorothy Parker, Marjorie Allen Seiffert, Oscar Wilde, TS Eliot, and some other writers.
4. Darren Hayes, Chris Colfer, and gay men in general (poetic, fashionable, refined — what else would a girl need?).
5. Manipulation: I will use your words against you. Beware.
6. Prophetic dreams.
7. Hot, spicy soup, seafood, nuggets, sausages, milk tea.
8. Kittens.
9. Unpredictability.
10. Contemplations.
11. Rain, when I am safe at home.
12. Perusing the idea of meeting my true love.
13. Silly, stupid kids like my twin nephews who keep saying the weirdest, most hilarious things.
14. Swearing (to shock people).
15. Makeup and Gothic dresses.
16. Cardcaptor Sakura (books and cartoons).
17. Unusual colors.


Random things I hate:

0. Rats, mice, anything similar. PHOBIC!! Kill 'em all!
1. Egocentrism. Who died and made you God?
2. Feeble arguments.
3. Many movies.
4. Internet people who misuse their anonymity to assert lawlessness.
5. Anyone aged twenty-one and over who refuses to communicate openly.
6. Repetitions.
7. People who don't pay attention.
8. Vegetables.
9. Bullying.
10. Crowds.
11. Greed.
12. Dishonesty.
13. My psycho, violent brother (exists for no reason but to burden everyone!).
14. Facebook.
15. Loud noise (particularly moronic fireworks in the middle of the night).
16. Adults who don't finance themselves.
17. Poor usage of language.
18. Plagiarism: Buy your own damn brain!



Sunday, December 30, 2012, 4:31 – 5:12 PM
Everything I want to do is illegal is the title of Joel Salatin's book.

Friday, December 28, 2012

Dream Destroyers


Well-played. Very.
This time you sparked your magic
outside my rationality — I was dreaming awake.
                  You treacherous evil.
How many messengers did you send? Three?
Three thousand? Did you
gnaw on their wings when they weren't looking?

Give me back my soul.
I am done collecting your Devil-sent hints.
This hide-and-seek game grows dull
after two and thirty years.
Your last decoy — oh, he was loveliest. Easiest.
Marked him after six days and six nights.
I am getting old and so good at this.
No need to wait for another two years!

Fool. Your setting is the wrong era:
Men today will never wait for true love the way I will.
No one believes. Three wrongs won't make four right.

Alone I believe. Alone I roam. And you —
you are nothing but heaps of crumpled tissues
scattered on my floor — absorbent of tears,
never romantically-functional. You are
saline as a bad deed. I do not leave you sweet.
And how many more must I weed
until it truly is your bitter, bitter heart?
How many of you, lost child?
Enough with the signs.

                                           Come out, come out —



Thursday, December 27, 2012, 11:13 AM –
Friday, December 28, 2012, 8:31 PM

Monochromatic Prophetic


We met in black and white —
why is that so, my sour crow?

                  For you may be anyone,
any who is willing to sell me comfort
and offer me half of his heart.
Anyone with as much pride.
The peasant from a foreign village,
the illustrious and cocky bard.
The reticent neighbor next door,
the artist too suicidal to perform his chore.
Your hair billows from dark to light,
your frame mediocre to majestic.
The voice that medicates my blight,
the embrace softer than a thousand clouds.

Our love is absolute. When it cracks,
we glue the hole in rustic certainty.
When I break, you are my decency.
I am the imagination to your punctuality.
Unquestionable supremacy,
my red in your indistinct shade,
there is no bargain to our story. We simply be.
Sailing through miles in a test of destiny,
your plainness pulls me close
as you sink yourself in my misery.
Was there ever a pain this pleasurable?
A prophecy so wrong?



Friday, December 28, 2012, 2:51 – 7:24 PM

Tasting James


He found me through the gate of Hell. Most unethical, most corrupt, criminal dating site, he said. But he found me.

It was the end of August 2012. The shady site will be a little secret for James and me. I composed a brief profile with my latest photo, including my blog URL. Miraculously, the paid dating site didn't censor my blog address.

From the email on my blog, James reached me. All others didn't mail me properly the way he did. Other than the site requires a paid membership for mails, most men are as dumb as not going to my blog to get my contact details.

Eighty to one hundred mails. I didn't feel anything special. He was just another Internet stranger who seemed to enjoy writing me. I asked to chat on YM for the sake of a poem. He agreed.

Not until the night of the apocalypse did something occur. The magic, the question, the curiosity.

As usual, I was beyond depressed, miserable with my misfortune and a lifetime of loneliness. I needed to talk to someone and he was the only one available to do it for hours. I also texted my ex-colleague, a female, but she went away after the first five minutes. James stayed.

We talked and talked and talked from December 21. Somewhere along these days, I believe it was December 23, I felt it. That serene acceptance coming from the boy in my second dream.

James was like falling into a dream. When we talk, we have no expectations, no demands, no rules. Everything is going to the beat. We discuss anything from a fake profile on Plenty of Fish, how alone we are, families, childhood, everything that comes into mind.

Fatalistically, with that serenity reproduced only when talking with him, I convinced myself he was my true love.

He doesn't feel the same. He doesn't remember that we met in another lifetime. And he has Emily, this elusive image of the perfect girl. I told him that Emily is the English name for Amalia. But what does it matter if he doesn't feel what I felt?

I had to stop my shenanigans of coaxing him into believing what I believe. True love only works when it is equally mutual, not when one loves more than the other.

Again I am alone and abandoned, searching for the one. The boy who lives in my dreams.



Friday, December 28, 2012, 12:30 – 1:43 PM

Does True Love Exist?


I believe in it.

A person must only love and marry once in her life instead of testing multiple partners. It's what I've been doing for thirty-two years. I'm looking for the one — unsure whether the man exists or not. Have you found yours?

I poison my mind with too many fairy tales. My perception is distorted as experiencing prophetic dreams. I dreamt of my true love, twice. He's a stranger — no one I know from anywhere in this life. I cannot visualize his distinct physique. In the two episodes he appeared quite different. I cannot even recall his voice in the dream. I do recognize he's the one for the blissful punch that lasts until today. He exuded that particular serene feeling unlike anyone can ever give me.

Are these dreams really prophetic, or wishful thinking? A kind of escapism to divert extreme loneliness.

The first dream happened in 1999. I was chaotic. I failed my psychology major after a year. It ruined me. Too depressed to change schools, I stayed at home doing nothing but reading, writing, and housing stray cats. I began to develop suicidal tendencies. Every night I cried and told myself to slit my left wrist. There was no point in living. I wanted to die.

And there he was.

Unexpected, unprecedented. He emerged in a short dream where we met in a hospital alley. The hospital where my sister was born and later I had six stitches in my arm from a childhood accident. I ran throughout this alley in 1988 when the nurse tried to inject me with some sort of medicine and I was afraid of the pain.

I was nineteen in the dream, so was he. Short straight black Indonesian hair, around 180 centimeters tall. Fair skin, slim built. Unknowing, we gazed into each other's eyes and we knew. We knew that we found the one. No words uttered, no sounds but the lazy afternoon and the creaky swings in the hospital park.

I woke in a most curious feeling. Mental ecstasy. But soon, I forgot the dream cause I wasn't interested in having any boyfriend. There were other pressing things to solve.

The second dream in July 2012, I was dejected for having to leave the house I knew all my life. My only home. My only friend. I prayed to die in the house. And he came to love me.

The boy and I were in the same class in high school. It was morning before our national exam. We were seventeen. Ready in our school uniform, we stood in front of a mirror in my grandmother's house. I measured my height to his chest, and said, "You're not that tall."

I'm 168 centimeters tall. The top of my head only reached his chest, which means he was thirty centimeters taller. I don't know anyone that tall.

"Right," he answered in his accepting voice. His hair was rowdy and lighter than black — brown? Surely he was Indonesian if he went to the same high school as mine. Chubby without muscles. I can't remember his voice. We felt innocent, non-sexual love for each other. He would tolerate ALL my absurdity with mature acceptance that it felt like living in a dream.

Being with him was the most peaceful existence I know. Nothing would go wrong cause he would make it right again for me. He was my everything and I was his.

I woke with an unforgettable heaven. Moved to the new house in Cinere. Lived my life as it should until December arrived. Then, there was James.



Friday, December 28, 2012, 10:50 AM – 12:11 PM

Thursday, December 27, 2012

Decemberists


Rainchild,
why do I always smell like pain?
Strong acidic pain that corrodes the flesh.
It is rotten; it is rest.
When December ends, life also closes,
like your death and the death of my dreams.
Everything falls apart by the exit of a solar year.
I spend my day looking out the window,
counting the perfect colors of my sky,
watching them glide from white to blue
to indigo to magenta to pink to orange
to a loneliest sunset without any friend.
Days of tears lie ahead of me.

You should have loved me when you could.
You should have forsaken the boy
who called you Goldfish so endearingly
that I blazed in eternal envy.
I want someone to call me Goldfish
with so much love I cannot breathe.
But love does not mix with my pain.
Love is for the blind. Love sings for the empty.
I exist for no one.
Everyone has someone on his mind
and that someone will never be me. I exist solely.

I shall lie next to your fresh skeleton
and read you poetry. When I sleep tonight,
will you pull me underground into your death bed?
Pull me ecstatically that I will die smiling
and no one will question my suicide. I wish
to journey in our ghostly bus as we used to in 2002
with you, with you, with you —



Thursday, December 27, 2012, 9:01 – 9:26 PM

I Cannot Be


Men and psychology articles bare their necessity: A woman must show some weakness to be desirable. But I cannot be.

I raised myself as an alpha male. I am so proud of this. That I did not cower in the face of adversity, I did not run from physical and emotional abuse, I did not hide. It is understandable that men need to feel needed. But I do not need one. I am self-reliant, autonomous, self-fulfilled. I can survive for thirty-two years without any man. What does that tell you?

Once, my male classmate who had feelings for me told me the most comforting thing. He praised me for my independence. He adored my masculine strength that I never require any male to make me whole. I never need anyone to escort me through risky situations. I am there for myself and no one is expected to rescue me like some sort of fairy tale's damsel in distress. I know how to save myself.

That alone must make me appear intimidating. To anyone. I think I am the strongest, most assertive, most decisive, most detached compared to everyone I know. Oh, and most belligerent. Goddess of War personified.

I cannot be soft. I cannot be feminine. I cannot be one I am not. There is no part of me fragile enough to protect. I am my own guard. A shield against any harm. I may as well be a man, if not for my physique. Have I ever been feminine of some sort? Perhaps the slightest proof would be my phobia of mice and rats. I can always shout and instruct someone to get rid of the damn thing for me. No big deal.

My father who forced his way to marry my mother in an arrange marriage is an alpha male. He is short and skinny; he is emotionally incompetent and communicatively impaired. But he won the prettiest female of the bunch. That's an alpha male for you. Someone who fights his way to secure the fittest mate, produces offspring, and maintains the stability of his nest.

He raised me as an androgyny. He doesn't believe that a girl must act like a girl. In his hippie open-mindedness, I learnt a lot. That it is not wrong to be who I am. It is not wrong to be this masculinely strong. I am as pushy as he is. I knew how to defend myself when my violent brother brutalized me. I know how to be an alpha male.

Even when my manliness deters men to pursue me, I don't want to change. I don't want to adjust my personality for the sake of luring a mate. That is not me. Let all the dumb girls do that. I am content with asserting my authority. Pleased to offend everyone.

The man who is capable to win me should be a younger alpha male than my father. Someone who is not scared to approach me even when I am aggressive as fuck, obscene, vulgar, shameless, and unyielding. But is there anyone of my kind?



Thursday, December 27, 2012, 6:44 – 7:33 PM

How Convenient


that Fate spoke to you in my English name
while mine is weightless through this unequal rivalry.
My heart is breaking, wrecking
                  for the millionth time and you,
you are asking about her. How is that possible?
How is selfishness a trend among young men?
How are all of you so similar
that I am living a recycled nightmare?
Different names, different faces,
but the theory always dies the same:
with the quietest sound of my bleeding insanity,
the decapitating of my dream,
the cut through the center of my brain.
There is no confirmation; this is all a game.

What did Saint Nicholas leave you this Christmas?
Just another psychotic maiden convinced
she was your true love — her monomaniacal fixation
would melt Antarctic icebergs and
drown Earth in its watery Hell.
Wasn't her abusive extremity the loveliest you see?
                                Or was it her remedy?



Thursday, December 27, 2012, 1:57 – 11:01 AM

Speechless Ego


Welcome
to a province of peasants and princesses.
I am a tree personified,
raw but feigning to be ripe.
You are my feast: inconsequential on your own.

Let me tell you a story.

There was once a maiden who loved too much
that Earth repelled her. She thought he was the one.
She, too, would suppose you were the one.
Round and round she went —
till the planet became dizzy with her commotion.
When she decided to die, she buried herself
for no one wanted to be there for her.
She was unable to attach to another human
and so her ashes bloomed into the reddest rose,
the only in Asteroid B-613,
glittering in stardust yet still without her little prince,
without the fox to be her friend,
without anything but eternal dust —
for she tried and she tried and she tried
but seemed to be too lethal for life
and too little to recall Death's emptiness.

Her words mute, her ego speechless,
she is now contemplation minus its satisfaction.



Tuesday, December 11, 2012, 6:28 PM –
Thursday, December 27, 2012, 3:14 AM
References: Antoine de Saint-Exupery's novel The Little Prince 
and Marjorie Allen Seiffert's poem "Priedieu".

Slanderous Joy


                             It was Monday
when she wished to be your Emily.
Morning began to warm in idle buzzing
of faraway labor and lull.
Was it hope she saw outside her window?
Burnt sienna perfumed her little town
in such oddity that she thought
she was in another body, another realm
that was not so contradictive to her beliefs.
One plus one equals affliction.

You tended to Thor's antique bakery.
You were oblivious.
She crafted her wicked plan, her slanderous joy.
Her everything you could not surmise.
Yes, yes, three cups of devotion,
a dash of dedication,
and generous makeup but not too much.
This was the day of rightness —
where she did not wake to an image
of her slit left wrist and blood

everywhere she turned. She turned to you.
You, who left the taste of dream
in her fatalistic tongue. She knew
what she alone knew: the simplest certainty
nobody seemed to actualize.
Her afternoon enrolled in lacy curtains,
a blast of versified metaphors,
an aching in her head, white acetaminophen,
and her hair twirled in a negligent bun,

wanting — waiting for you to come home
to her, to find her as you found her
on the night of The Apocalypse.
Her affection unasked. Was it wrong for her
ever to love you that much?

Come back
when you are able to restore her hope.



Thursday, December 27, 2012, 12:11 – 1:23 AM

Monday, December 24, 2012

Let Me Be Your Emily


You: the lad in the mirror,
        you are like falling into a dream

The only sedative in store
when all others expired their hypnoses
when patience became out of date
and friendship a mere two-week fad

You are the wintry snow's white glow
touching without desecrating
soothing without desiring
and I am the hexagonal flake you thaw

I am these newly-found tears
running away from sadness, biting
their way into forgiveness
A fight for farewell — knowing
the boy in the prophecy loses his illusion
remerging into your virtual delusion

And there you were
fetching me through the gate of Hell
to exchange twelve hours of inertia
that metamorphosed into a shade
of nocturnal infatuation
Was it pink? Was it violet?

        Now it's jazz —

You are the apocalypse that saves
when everywhere people rush
onto the stage — actors, destroyers,
non-believers in their reenactment
offering imitations of love

Your realness is the opposition
to everyone's fabled pedigree
shooting inwards
growing roots of maturity

You are anti-gravity
Your elements coaxing me
to wake from a lifetime of insomnia
     — awoken, I plead
to monopolize your history
in a ploy of Scotland's independence
and queer loathing of cars

Can you hear it, Mr Hare?
Can you hear our cosmic awakening?
In the ticking of the clock
in this surreal beginning
of everything —
        everything is going to the beat



Monday, December 24, 2012, 10:52 AM – 6:31 PM
Now it's jazz and everything is going to the beat is from Jack Kerouac's play Beat Generation.

Saturday, December 22, 2012

Poetic Beauty


Internet males are all dented — at least the ones I talked to. But then again, I am too lazy to go out cause I don't like meeting people. So it still is the easiest way to study men. I've no other choice. I'm doomed.

So far, my most desirable Internet man is the one I read from Okcupid. He's British and he conjured the most poetic profile about a poet-shop owner dealing with a returned poet from his shop. Cute, romantic, literary. Best profile I've seen. I can't tell you his username there. That'd be an unwanted exposure for him.

I still think about him sometimes — imagining that we would be so perfect if he would just reply the mail I sent him. He never accessed his Okcupid account by the time I found him online on May 2011. It was just ill-fated — even when we matched for 99% with a 15% enemy score.

He speaks French and intended to teach ESL to some French people. And he reads those classic authors! I read ALL Shelley and Byron and Keats. One of his photos was taken in front of racks filled with books. Two years older than I am; 191 centimeters tall; short blond hair. I don't really admire blond hair but all other features seem just right for me, especially cause he wrote beautifully. So poetic and exceptionally creative. I wish we could talk somehow... Life is so unfair.

It's funny how Internet men who LOOK creative are usually not artistic at all. I have this fetish with a certain grunge rebellious appearance on men — you know, long messy dark hair, unshaven, old clothes, boots, trench coat, tribal tattoo, leather cuff, a guitar or sketchbook or journal. Unsmiling. Old-fashioned. Pretty much like Hugh Jackman's Van Helsing (yes, I adore Hugh Jackman).

There are four men that matched the image: three from dating sites, and the last is the French bastard who stole my 1996 rainbow postcard. Stupidly, he's also the most artistic.

This is his photo taken in 2009 for me, when his hair was still gorgeously long. I promised not to post his pictures online but since he refused to resend my card, why should I comply with the past. Let's break all the promises. Who the Hell cares.

Like all other humans, he has good and bad angles. This shot is definitely his best. He's not always this beautiful. I love how he seemed annoyed, unfriendly, unhappy, uncaring, murderous, mysteriously dreamy. So enchanting. Like a warrior or a poet. I call it The Brooding Artist. And yes, he draws extremely well. I've seen his works.

Nonetheless, he's heartless. His attitude messed up. He betrayed me for a nobody — even when I was the one who loved him most.



Saturday, December 22, 2012, 3:00 – 3:56 PM

Milk and Toast and Honey


This is the second slice of interpretation for my result on Plenty of Fish's Seduction Style Test. Get dirty for some sex scenes.

1. Both sexes enjoy fantasies involving threesome (whatever the combination).

No, Hell fucking NO. Threesome is for lewd, unfaithful sluts. Not interested. I am more exclusive than most. I will not approve another person joining the act. Group sex is GROSS.

2. Women's fantasies are heavier on new lovemaking positions, sex in exotic places, being "forced" to have sex, bondage, being found absolutely irresistible, sex with a new lover.

I will agree to exotic places that are NOT public. Being forced... very, very arousing. Don't know what bondage really is, but I like the idea of being restraint, either with the man's body, or handcuffs, or tied up. New lover? Not interested. One man for a lifetime is enough.

3. Most women like scripts: a sexy story line, with a good setting, context, and feelings, to get carried away with. Romantic fantasies in which they surrender themselves in a tender way to a mysterious lover or authority figure (passionate strangers who meet through destiny) are quite popular. They love fantasies that involve their own attractiveness to a partner, the emotional context for such lust, and her role as her lover's "toy".

Oh, yes. Stories, as elaborate as possible. This is why I am adept at creating erotic literature. I fantasize in vivid details from the start to the resolution like in a novel. The leading man is fictional, based on Hugh Jackman's Wolverine character, or an imaginary authority figure I have contacts with (therapist, doctor, boss). Or, as sick as it gets, an adult student over twenty-five. Meeting through destiny is always a common theme for fated love. Being a toy is silly, yet essential for my submissive nature.

4. Appealing fantasy locations: kitchen, barn, time travel, office, doctor's office, shower, sofa.

I would basically go with the man's house, or my place. Bedroom or floor is staple, somewhat mandatory. Secluded public places should be fine, like a parked car, cave, waterfall, forest, dark alley, boat.

5. Sex play I find especially unappealing: any fetishism like rubber/ latex, leather, fur, torturing devices, feet, costumes, hot wax. Sex play I might like: biting/hickeys, food, reading erotica together.

The only reason I love Edward Cullen is so he can bite me. Really. Erotica would mean explicit use of words, in speaking or writing.

6. Women tend to like sex play that fosters intimacy and a sense of "surrender" to a partner.

Mine would be rape fantasies. I am NOT asking men to rape me — that's traumatizing. But I must admit that I classify as most sexually submissive women who crave for male dominance. It can encourage slapping, pushing, or ripping clothes. Nothing sadistic. More like an exhibition of his masculine impulses: a man who is too impatient to wait and just grabs me to have sex.

Since I am socially dominant, I need a man more aggressive than I am. Someone who won't ask for my permission to touch me. Sex is more like an instant command that he makes me scream: "No. Stop. Please don't. NO!" Feeling violated would be so hot.

And that is why my ideal man is Wolverine and not John Keats.


First section of the test explanation.
Original article for the test result.



Saturday, December 22, 2012, 9:49 – 10:56 AM
Milk and toast and honey is from Roxette's song "Milk and Toast and Honey".

There Are No Facts, Only Interpretations


To show young James that Indonesians can't join the racist dating site Plenty of Fish, which claims Indonesia and several other countries are spam-infested, I recently tried to create a profile there. It failed, as I knew it would. However, I did take the Seduction Style Test available for non-members.

This is a long questionnaire designed to determine a person's sexual, communication, and dating preferences. Let me dissect my substantial results for you.

1. Amel is not necessarily a prude or a "saint", but the overall answer patterns suggest that she is probably very cautious about to whom and under what circumstances to surrender to romantic urges. People in this category may be inherently careful and skeptical by nature, or may just prefer taking things slowly in making someone's acquaintance or in getting involved in a relationship.

I AM a prude, though not a saint. I am easily disgusted by people who attempt obscenities without marriage. It really is your choice, but I will NEVER sexually touch any man I am not married to. Note that I never kissed anyone, nor did I try to date anyone for the sake of touching. Carnality is NOT my main concern. Emotional attachment is.

2. Amel may be relatively naive — a "clean slate" for romantic and sexual experiences. Don't be sexually explicit. Don't come on too strong, too fast. Do show class, patience, reasonable amount of self-disclosure. It's important not to play games with this person. Don't be afraid to flirt with this type.

A clean slate, yes. Naive, no. I understand sex as raw as it gets, even when I never practice any of it. Cause you know what, I elaborate the most vivid sexual fantasies beyond your imagination. I prefer a sexually explicit man who is confident, assertive, strong, and most effectively, FORCEFUL. Male domination is sexiest. Flirting isn't. If you wish to have sex with me, say so. But I'm sticking to the ground rule of marriage.

3. There should be a good response to someone whose attitude or temperament is rather esoteric. Show your intellectual and especially creative side. Do not come across as too cliched or sappy. Show that you have and use a fully-functioning brain.

What do you expect, I am a studious English teacher. When a man fails to reason coherently, he appears too dumb and unattractive. That's why reading is most important. It gives you ideas.

4. A first date should last however long it makes sense. Go with the flow, totally spontaneous, and suggest a spur-of-the-moment get-together. Favorite dating activities: museums, walking, photography. Least favorite dating activities: sex, meeting the family, exercising. Assuming the first date goes well, Amel may take it as far as a kiss goodbye on the cheeks.

Dates shouldn't be planned like scheduled classes. Surprises are much more intriguing. I really enjoy museums (archeological and cultural), walking anywhere in the city or the countryside. Oh, what would be dreamy is to observe a man while he's drawing or taking pictures. It's like he has this artistic ambition that I can adore.

5. Major turn-ons: artistic, contemplative, emotive. Major turn-offs: silent, opinionated, childish.

I am only attracted to creative men with poetic/artistic/musical tendencies. This is mandatory. The contemplative poet or the brooding artist sounds like the best match. I need constant flow of emotions. Men who are unexpressive, especially with words, won't impress me.

This is getting too bulky for my deficient blog. I'll just post the sexual fantasy section on the second article.

Originally, the test result can be accessed here:



Saturday, December 22, 2012, 7:54 – 9:09 AM
There are no facts, only interpretations is from Nietzsche's notebooks. 

Friday, December 21, 2012

Psychoanalyze the Ghosts Away


High noon:
Music rhymes; car honks; desolation soars;
I sink — lower into nervosity,
tomorrow's maddening paucity
Where do I find you, separated heart?
Not here, nor there —
pass the meadows of futility and despair
        under the stair
leading to a secret thought called Neverwhere
You were the maggot eating the pea
beneath my mattresses, young and restless,
telling me of undesirable caresses
Famished, I searched far and wide, a quest
from Atlantis to stoicism —
every pang and miscreation —
Hidden, abandoned, remedial errors flocked
together with the pink flamingos of Firenze —
                                  I was there

Come dusk:
I slay wolves at night, but you cannot see them
Only one of us, the cursed —
too unfeeling to look at both sides
Bloodthirsty, grief-stricken, they crave
for the fixation, this sleazy survival,
when fear molds into unspoken warfare
Our suspense is everywhere, yet you cannot sense us
You delve in justifications,
not these apocalyptic miscalculations



Friday, December 21, 2012, 12:20 – 1:35 PM
Psychoanalyze the ghosts away is from Marjorie Allen Seiffert's poem "The Old Woman".

What If Love Were Stronger Than Gravity?


Is it time to work again, to write all this rubbish no one cares about? I am waiting for the apocalypse on December 21, 2012. ONE hour from now! I really, really wish this Mayan prediction would come true. Life has evolved in such a way that everything is insignificant.

Except for coffee.

Coffee is the true elixir of life. Seriously. Look at my work yesterday: two diary entries and four poems after starting my morning with coffee. And a shower.

I'm just too sleepy today to do anything worthwhile. No, I haven't taken my share of coffee cause I woke with some annoying headache even after twelve hours of bad sleep. Had dinner with savory creamy chicken corn soup and fried mashed potato and rice. I LOVE soup. Read classic poetry just to make me feel pretentious. Scanned the news for the motive of the latest school shooting. Nothing satisfying.

With this much of boredom, I had to turn to movies, trying to watch Upside Down but quit it for finding even more boredom. How useless. Movies are worse, much worse, than books! It was so slow and uninteresting that I fast-forwarded it to the last scene. And it wasn't any better.

I liked the idea in the movie that each of us is born with a definite soul-mate that has been separated at birth, and so we spend our lifetime to find this person. Much like what I believe about the concept of true love. But then again, the movie sucks. Too boring to watch.

Maybe I'm just turning into one of those grumpy adults with nothing amazing to say. I'm so sleepy. This isn't good. Maybe the apocalypse is coming.



Thursday, December 20, 2012, 11:35 – 11:56 PM
What if love were stronger than gravity is from the movie Upside Down.

Thursday, December 20, 2012

Emergency Exit


We select reality
piecing fragments of selves in the faces of many others.
Hearts too frightened to be alone, left without a home.
Eyes reflect, but love does not speak.
How much must we amplify? How long until we die?
We are a sum of identities interacting
through lazy airs — rendered undelivered.
The fiercer we fight, the harder it haunts.
We float, we float, we fly — anywhere far up
                                          to tranquility.

And when we grow tired
of so much wonderfulness in another galaxy,
gravity summons us back to banality.
A planet rotates. Fate turns. Condemned to continue,
leisure competes against survival.
Some lose dignity; some stop; others try —
not knowing how to give up.
Aren't we all euphemistic animals?
Stuck, reverse, rewind. Sinking in roses and rust.
We decline.

How vague, how foul, how we are inarticulate
to represent prehistory in its foreign actuality.
Individuals merge into societies, countries
evaluating souls, weighing their worth, replacing them 
with homogeny: Life is short —
                                                 suicide shorter.



Wednesday, October 10, 2012, 3:12 PM –
Thursday, December 20, 2012, 3:56 AM

Electric Solicitation from Dr Brain


You are involatile, a coward
who masks grime in a gram of rhyme
Involuntary deceit in your left hand — I see it:
humanist horror is what you are
Resilience mixes with boyish greed,
something sweet,
and tactfully you experiment with trust
Malpractice that simmers in love —
animalism is more like it
When rustic ambition stalks, how much
is for your vice? How many were victimized?
I do not appreciate your sardonic sympathy
even when you have mastered subordination,
a licensed manipulator
Why am I falling, buying all of your charm?
Oh, naivety left me long ago — it resigned!
I am stronger, stronger than your crime
this bothersome game of breaking an entrance
A kiss stolen, your smirk ignorant
brutally luring me in breathless intemperance
What do I know of mutual indulgence?
I am a refundable item
that you may dispose any time you wish



Wednesday, December 19, 2012, 4:45 PM –
Thursday, December 20, 2012, 12:39 AM

Wednesday, December 19, 2012

Previously Known as Indonesian Whore


Then why are you here —
in my office? A research. Of course.
Why didn't I think of that? Brilliant,
as always. Nature endows you too much boldness
that it eludes my years of professional training.
The little mouse, submissively suicidal,
seducing her serpentine predator in his pit.
Imagine the adrenaline rush satiating your curiosity,
seconds before I slash your throat.
Did my saliva burn your puritan ecstasy?
Your insolence wet from unconscious imploring,
reaching for the venom inside my fangs —
so much filthier than I shall ever be.
I am reading your dream of decadence,
how it lights up your sad, sad eyes into red tinder.
Your flesh boils like a fireplace ready for my winter.
How many sequences did you re-enact this
in your metaphorical fantasy? Infinite weaknesses
emerging in a novella of cheap romance,
you are tailor-made for my dominance —
your nervous acid reacts to my ego, our story
: the master and the slave.



Wednesday, December 19, 2012, 5:16 – 9:22 PM

Secondhand Skin


Can you listen
to those shapeless clouds behind me?
They murmur of love and loss and
lonesome levity — so peek with me
as I guess each dispersal of sun-like nimbus
from the perversity of my screen
I want to feel special
to show that I am not who you are
to contend the exactness of true love even when
I must trade my life with merciless despondency
to believe that you are somewhere
beyond the dreams that never care —
the subconscious that tells
And I found you (I found you!) twice
when he was there:
I did not need to dream — but it ends
like everything must end
like I may not be anyone's burden
Comprehend that I have no right to feel
Hope is a vending machine for the lucky
the ones who can afford a smile in times of tragedy
I only get thrills from surfactants and coloring —
a tiger fly entrapped by the unreal
Life is easy — as you endure
coerced into your sacredness by a duressor
whose ideals remind you of childhood —
not to waste on those who bear no will to wait
not to be defiled by someone else's used goods
What would be the point when you are
treating people as objects? Am I a refundable item?
Another episode of your experience?
This is resolution — unlike you, I am not afraid
to cry alone, not afraid to contract deviance
No one is selfless enough to glue the cracks for another
There is always a price



Thursday, December 13, 2012, 10:31 PM –
Wednesday, December 19, 2012, 4:36 PM

In Goat We Trust


I am planning to tackle the forty bloody blog posts, grudgingly, by submitting three articles a day to this page. One will be a poem, one a diary entry, and another is some dumb ramblings I call insensitivity.

Poem. Diary. Insensitivity.

This is an example of Insensitivity. Read and puke.




When you feel lonely and depressed and no one is there to console you, when you are angry at the world and there is nowhere to turn to, do NOT harm anyone. It is very cowardly to go to a public place and start attacking people. Instead, do this:

Eat chocolate. It's proven to be endorphic. You will feel a surge of temporary happiness. It's fake and fast, but still counts.

Drink a cup of coffee. It's an anti-depressant and will make you more productive.

Write, and write and write and write. Poetry, diary, stories, hate mails, anything. Writing is calming and therapeutic and it will lessen your depression. Evidence A: I am able to stall my 1999 suicide since I pour all my suicidal thoughts into writing. Thirteen years. That's huge. If you really need escapism, try fiction. You can be anything you want; do anything you want. And you're not responsible for any of it since it's fictional.

Play with a baby and make her laugh. Babies are cute. Really. They make you happier.

Do a creative diversion that can turn into a hobby, like photography, cooking, drawing, handcrafts, crochet, carpentry, graffiti, hair styling, website construction, composing music... Much like writing, it takes time and effort that you focus your despondency to something benign. No one can intrude when you're doing your hobby. Tell people to leave you alone cause you have better things to do.

Nurture an obsession that does NOT harm anyone. Be an advocate. Say, you research on the debate between theism and atheism. Make it thorough and write a book, or a blog, and present your decisive opinions on the subject. You can also find other controversial topics like wars between Israel and Palestine, homosexuality, or whether we should ban Justin Bieber from the net or not.

Kill yourself. I have nothing against suicide. I know how it feels to want to end everything. My chronic depression goes back to 1991. It's unfair when everyone else is so lucky to have friends and lovers and everything we can't get. But no one is to blame. Rather than going out there to shoot at kids, shoot yourself. I'm not saying that you must end your life. I'm saying, don't burden others with your little whiny heart and feeble brain. Die with bravery. Die alone. Suicide is still a much better option than mass murders.

I am not a positive person, and I will never tell people to be positive. Optimism is the dumbest thing after Facebook. Others will advise you to be happier by making friends and exercising and affiliating yourself with a community or something lame like that. Good gracious, they will tell you to SMILE and to HOPE. Don't listen to these morons. They're naturally happy, so they don't know the struggle we have with daily, or hourly, depression. I UNDERSTAND. Listen to me.

I buried two suicidal years without school or jobs, where I pressed a fresh cutter onto my left wrist every night wishing to die. I know how that feels. Happy people won't understand you. I do. There's nothing wrong with depression or self-destruction. What's wrong is when you endanger others just cause you can't cope with yourself. That's weaker than suicide.



Illustration by Fil Dunsky

I Love You but I'm Letting Go


Good morning, my artificial Universe where everyone pretends to be someone she's not.

Fine day, isn't it? I woke at around seven to feed the noisy cats -- just to sleep again until ten BECAUSE I CAN! Washed my hands and face, brushed my disgusting dead-rat teeth, had hearty-meaty breakfast, and came back again to bed. Yes, yes, best day ever. Always start your mood with laziness. Most rewarding.

I am still compulsively checking the Internet news to see if the FBI can find anything from the damaged hard drive of that Connecticut shooter. You know, since he never exhibited any public violence or vitriol against society, I'm starting to think that he was goaded into attempting the murders.

This must be the life of a writer: contributing absolutely NOTHING to the community. Refusing to shower or to leave the house. Having some sort of a lesbian dream that I shall not elaborate.

I hate how I impose writing targets and deadlines on myself. I need to compose at least four hundred poems until the end of 2012. Only eight more to go, not much, not burdening. What would be stressful is to come up with forty more posts to construct the seven hundred I so wish to achieve for this year. I don't even know what junk I want to fabricate, now that I have no character to play with.

Should I obtain a handsome, younger, naive lover that I can easily manipulate? Would be fun. Or pointless.

And the poems... the poems are feeble. I know nothing of poetry. Nothing good enough for some vivid imagery that I can be proud of. No, writer's block does not exist in my world, only sheer laziness. After years, reading poems and stories becomes too mundane. Everything I do bores me as if I were another jaded teenager not knowing where my life leads. How pathetic!

Be content: I have everything I need.



I love you but I'm letting go is from Maroon 5's song "Nothing Lasts Forever".

And I Start to Complain That There's No Rain


Sometimes it's hard to write. Every word exhausts and every thought belongs to yesterday. I have nothing to do but whine and wallow. No job is satisfying enough or compelling enough to do. With no need for extra cash, I can afford to be lazy, or laziest. I can be a liberated underachiever, not that this is any good. Caffeine, help me!

There was sadness, as always, in the past two days. I cried for there was nothing else to do but to feel it and to let go. But nothing of it will ever be important. Just another day of being useless. Writing does help, much in many stories. And when it blocks instead of builds, that's where I give up, temporarily. That's when I allow sloth to take over me.

I make sure I read poetry each day. I make sure I gaze at the sky and distinguish its nameless colors. I read; I listen to popular and classical music; I contemplate. Anything to make me feel like a Victorian lady misplaced in the twenty-first century. To foster pretension, to contradict. I am part of the masses. I am another face in the crowd. And no, not everyone makes a difference. I certainly don't. I don't view life as something meaningful or fated or consequential. It's hollow, like any other tomorrow. Like you are born one day and gone the next. No trace of attachment. I am alone.

Right. I have just strayed for two or three hours, again, scanning news items for updates on the motive of the recent school shooting in America. Perhaps it's time for me to adopt an imaginary friend... or am I too cute for that?

I started to get lazy to write poems after taking one hundred photos and choose one for my blog. DUMB! But this is the second picture from the series (the other one is used as my current Blogger profile image).

Tell me that I look as brainless as those Asian girls who have nothing to do but revealing their daily pictures on the net. Seeming ridiculous gives the impression that I am harmless, right? Must write three posts a day so I can complete my seven-hundred-articles-in-a-year plan. Stop being lazy. And shower!



And I start to complain that there's no rain is from Blind Melon's song "No Rain".

Tuesday, December 18, 2012

Lazy Pills


ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED

Days without shower: 2.
Days without introspective writing: 3.
Self-loathing: 1 zillion.
Laziness: 2 zillions.


Since Saturday night, I have been obsessed with reading articles and other Internet sources about the latest school shooting in Connecticut and other similar cases throughout the history. Hours and days spent on absorbing the knowledge of why these murderers attempted their brutality.

For the Columbine carnage, it seemed to me that the teenage shooters (if all the presented evidence is true and unmodified) were harboring hate for years, the same as the motive for the Virginia Tech shooter. They all felt victimized by the society and thus went to their campus ground to avenge their hurt, as these school members represented society closest to their daily life. Nonetheless, the killers were not in any way bullied or targeted by anyone in particular. They simply felt ostracized and that was enough for them to justify the attack.

The perpetrator in Connecticut, even when he showed signs of mild behavioral disorder such as withdrawal, was not bullied, either. And he had no records of violence. No one thought he would be able to commit anything as shocking as that. Until this afternoon, I haven't found any article stating his relevant background to act on the murders. His computer hard drive was smashed and nothing could be retrieved. The elementary school is not even currently or closely related to his life. Why, then?

There is the theory of imitation. Columbine scenario is so notorious that there are many movies about it. Was it possible that the Connecticut shooter copied this idea and went to the nearest school so he could end his life "in a blaze of glory"? He chose little children because it would be an easier target to achieve? Because he wanted to outdo Columbine?

I remember watching the movie Elephant years ago without knowing that it was based on the Columbine incident. Just seeing the shooting in the movie was disturbing enough for me that I have no need to rewind it. I can't imagine being in an actual gory scene.

It appears that Columbine is wrongfully glorified by some juvenile loners that they would do anything to regain similar infamy. I, being chronically depressed since I was eleven, understand that loneliness and alienation can cause suicidal thoughts. That makes sense to me and I have no opposition against suicide. However, why the need to kill without the provocation? Were they so frightened to die alone that they required to take others with them? Just so it would make the news? Why would you need to inflict violence on another when this person hasn't done anything to hurt you?

Is there such a thing as "pure evil"? That someone would assert cruelty on others without any clear motive, without logical justification? Simply because he wants to? Because it's "fun", because it's in his nature? Natural-born killers?

I have no need to exploit others' sufferings and I will not discuss these shootings any further. Sociopathy and abnormal psychology does have its charm and it fascinates me to learn about unconventional behaviors. Still, it is wrong to imitate or celebrate them just so you can be "different". Is it ever possible to create a civil society where everyone only works, sleeps, eats, and minds her own business? No violence, no conflicts, no need to violate others. Or must evil exist to contrast the good?



Saturday, December 15, 2012

Diary of Diminishment


Blithe blue, hot white —
ataraxia wakes me to an afternoon without anyone
I discern the liquid sky:
not one to talk but placidity
no aspect to ponder — gone, gone is the memory
no icon to marvel, save the animals' five o'clock party

Forlorn is where I am and where I am supposed to be
Time winds far slowly
in occasional boredom that chimes like home
Excitement is adversity — I belong with dispassion,
part of it growing old and the other is who I am

Unrushed, sleep suffices my mental appetite
Let profit be someone else's demand
Let deadlines extinguish their reprimand
Ten million wage slaves — I am not one

Calmness within funnels me
to be one with air and grass, to halve the sunlight
and flip the ground beneath terracotta mists
I am pleased to go unnoticed —
Nutriments warm my dirty blessing:
a reminiscent artisan in contemplative luxury
imbibing the shallow sounds of the Universe
as I gloat in being ugly

Attainment costs only five dollars these days
Without wants, life is replete



Saturday, December 15, 2012, 4:55 – 6:43 PM