Bored Red

How busy can you be, little bee?

How much aphrodisiac?

A most boring life starts after Monday midnight,

a little before light. Then

it goes on and on without questioning.

Days become a forgotten flight; dark is delight.

Everywhere ideas drip, but the mind cannot delegate.

Little vexing gestures of copying,

or immaculate impersonation,

bring nothing but simplified sensations —

like yes and no and maybe I should go.

Whatever happened to Tuesday?

Every bit of memory is gone!

Eaten by the brown boughs of I don't know,

the pretzels of all that is unheard of.

Her calculations of Spectric meters,

far grander than I can ever be, soothe and spindle.

I am but thoughts that dwindle. Winds take me high.

Saturday, January 26, 2013, 5:26 PM –

Thursday, January 31, 2013, 7:51 PM

For Fate's Return

The sleepiest Saturday

contains pieces of everyone home.

We move away from our dilapidated past,

that house of ruins I love most.

Vastness garners peace.

Airplanes drum mechanic clouds to coax our souls

— there is no need for a definite time.

                       Only languor survives.

As dark begins to smother,

I turn to artificial plights and neon lemons.

An ensemble of strings plays

a soft concerto to tease my drowsiness.

Oh, nothing seems to wheedle anymore.

Ravaging too long for Fate's return,

a comma forms and things are crowned.

Must force extenuate its ploy?

Once more when I am fiddling

by the gate of doom and melancholia,

a choice is never a chance.

It is sanitary impulse of survival,

like the one bestowed by a charitable goddess

in repay for a virginal sacrifice.

Shame mollifies into adequate camouflage.

Comfort is a waste of time.

I shall not conform to all these sublime qualities

that plague the world.

My eyes a prism for screams,

dirt and malicious mirth their staple food.

Should I not ride my winged horse?

Saturday, January 26, 2013, 4:08 PM –

Thursday, January 31, 2013, 7:40 PM

Rumors of Loving and Loathing

I am water; I am rain.

I do not stick to flame.

Why is the Moon hot?

With minimized ache, I greet my Sun.

Everything is of glory.

I have not idealized my thoughts in five nights

for loving and loathing you,

for exchanging a sum of depression

with something new:

a thing of mediocrity, a slice of want.

Without controversy, the mind sleeps.

Only heat and freeze my company,

only the itch sprouting in my throat

in a bedraggled fancy. What of it?

I have not seen enough to tell this much.

Studying one that is most womanly,

I become a mother to anyone,

spreading cheer with slight distraught.

We gather all we need in this house —

width and greed. The flowing of spite

disperses into branches of bricks

and humble storage. The voice is scant.

Only fountain triumphs with dignity.

We are of wizened envy —

slow-motion tragedy that fails to rise.

Saturday, January 26, 2013, 3:41 PM –

Thursday, January 31, 2013, 7:28 PM

Observations in Pink

I seized your vow and make use of it.

Was it not the only path I obligate,

the only craving I seem to hate?

         Then why must I contemplate?

In anticipation I woke: I used to wait

for you to come home to me —

the briefly lasting lust, fun I fear to trust,

and so remotely I dived to the center of anarchy.

You are a thing of deadened desires,

the leftover love feeds me

with all her little tricks and inviolate abuse.

You are days pining without regret,

but acoustic outbursts I cannot seem to obviate.

You are made of sea cobbles,

two bitter cups of wintry duplication juice.

You pop with excitement and reduce

rapidly to a misaligned lethargy,

like the edible enchantment in a Russian aria.

I cannot write of you.

Investigative in my alphabetical dreams,

I am icing truce without fearful measurements

— furtively recording your voyeuristic distortion

of licking pink ballerina shoes.

Thursday, January 24, 2013, 4:26 PM –

Tuesday, January 29, 2013, 9:52 PM

Seventeen Shots

                                  Young man,

I am too antique for your misadventure,

too fickle for your grand romance

My breasts are nothing but hunger,

nettling their fat and chorusing dismay

The red bite on my cleavage is self-stained,

not the ardor spilling from your mouth:

all blight, all blight

Fingers savor sour sweat,

rubbing my infertile tongue to impunity

What I taste is the flavor of some sorry memory

— things existed before you

You believe in wants and wonders,

worldly attachments that I shall never endure

Neither you nor a thing will rejuvenate my fatality

I am of discontinued synchrony

No one shall ever remarry me

My death is near; my life is scarce

I sit and watch catfishes sway

in tranquil dark waters, growing old while

satirizing pesky ants in their pinched casualty

You are nothing but jealousy;

you serve no justice for me

Of anyone, why must you earn my trust?

Wednesday, January 23, 2013, 3:29 PM –

Sunday, January 27, 2013, 8:16 PM

Earthy Footprints and Such

Tropic drizzle warns in dampened feat,

always a notch more stifling than it should

A young handyman whisks the pond

outside my window while wind

teases its pasty lace curtain, blowing

some of the dreams playing in my heart

I blink sensing a threat, tossing

a blanket to veil my half nakedness

My mind disallows intrusion —

a pitch too black, it is asleep,

and its purported funk is but a sound

I make poems of pain for sheer blunt fun

Like dragon lungs grilled on Burmese charcoals,

a maiden who knows no forgiving,

I gain momentum to risk without remorse

My meat a container for gluttony,

a gatherer of sloth —

my hands only good for scrubbing grime

and Life returns out of nowhere to claim its toll

I heed the waking of January's fiercest rain —

its discord my genuine jazz,

engorging young leaves

from the house's molding body —

              but am I alive?

Wednesday, January 23, 2013, 3:22 PM –

Sunday, January 27, 2013, 6:13 PM

Obverse and Reverse

How pretty are the scents

of these gelatinous fragrant squares:

jasmine green contradicting orchid pink.

Mine is indelicate as illness —

of bacterial infection

congealing into white yellowish pus.

Touching it is like realizing

the imperfection of my stuttering life,

reeking of infant death.

Daylight disturbs its Sun and pours

some sympathy over my sleepless body.

But I am anorexia, overeaten with distress,

dyslexic in my duress. My backyard ripens

with bulbous Jamaican cherries

blushing in their virgin red.

I am but ashen stillness: all gripes.

Accuse me of theft for stealing your sanity

and selling it at a quaintest square

where villagers gather to witness The Lottery.

Stone me and sip my blood. You may.

Monday, January 21, 2013, 10:18 – 10:46 PM

Reading Marjorie Allen Seiffert's poems "Obverse" and "Reverse".
The lottery is from Shirley Jackson's story "The Lottery".

Clingy

Whose vow shall recant my suicide?

Whose will is to neutralize my cyanide?

Who shall memorize my heart?

Stab Fate in her jealous eyes —

make her blind, make her blind

that the Universe runs on Chaos

that I am nothing but falsity

Slay God and remediate His decree

Undo me; extract me from His felony

I make no turn to flirt with Fear

borrowing three of another year

And you, stranger, will you sail with me?

I may spare you a first kiss

that speaks of dreams and tastes of bliss

I may teach you to reminisce

Green lava sucks the heat of misquoted zero

in some bland expectations, ineffectually

puts a chain around your root

And when the nothingness of everything

enacts December's Muse,

nurture some obsessive obscenity until

Time shackles you back to me

I am the spiritualized orient to your heavens,

the only object your compass aims

Let me not love the less, nor best

Let me love equally for

I am always stronger; I am always found

Monday, December 24, 2012, 7:00 PM –

Monday, January 21, 2013, 9:53 PM

When the Night Sky Blinks

and the color-blind chameleon sings,

when all the celestial beings

align in one harmonic transfiguration,

you shall bid me again,

and again and again and again.

Cyclic as budding icicles, rhythmic as a ruse,

we are two homeless souls

meant to arbitrate each other's fuse.

We make a bargain for the blobs of

our half-eaten moss: green, gaudy, and glossed.

I love you, I hush to them —

those golden flashes like minor eroticism

blinking in my northern sky. Erratically startling,

somewhat fascinating, they dance

to cancel my flight in surprising flickers

that almost mar my caffeinated countenance.

Those are your charm, are they not?

Signs separate your world from mine.

You, lost child, my darling doll,

you cannot help but to sense me,

in your decadent dreams

and your impromptu symphony in D minor.

How apart we are

after these thirteen episodes of life

that do not accord in accolade.

Wishes weary me down, watering the parts

where I am densest, tensed by tremors.

Still, they become my occasional friend,

one whose gravitational neglect

should complement our passionless fright.

Seasons lend me time

to sniff your decaying reply

to every atom of my immobile I love you.

Sunday, January 20, 2013, 11:14 PM –

Monday, January 21, 2013, 6:17 PM

The Hermit

To rise and elevate into an enlightened hermit

is an easy task should you practice

how to rid yourself of passion the way I do.

Listen to Haydn's "The Clock"

as you rear three pacifist spiders that clutch

and click onto the gloomy glow of your ceiling.

Dead dusty webs design a nice decor for you to adore.

Speak to your mind more than anyone's.

Your mind is the key to sanctuary.

Be free, be free. Breathe aquatically.

Conserve cold in your knuckles

and craft some classic romance, novel-length,

without its promiscuous dalliance.

Your chest is now crackers;

your pulse milky chocolate wafers

that melt with the Renaissance.

You may not impersonate an absurdist play;

you shall only gloat over your past victories,

your mnemonic constellation

stored in your pungent tower of breach.

Whistle with your colic mice outdoors —

tame them to be your loyal chorus.

Equine grace enshrines half of your face;

the other your Mr Hyde. But you cannot,

must not collide with another Earth

the size of your ill-informed phantasm.

Wiggle your feet in jubilee

when your intestine is hungry,

yet never eat — never feed the needy.

Simply grease your archenemy: the society.

Sunday, January 20, 2013, 9:27 PM –

Monday, January 21, 2013, 12:25 AM

Metamorphosis of a Flesh-Eating Maggot

Eternal love, we met in a bet, when

I was darkest and you mildest.

Your provocation, my nightly medication,

twisted like yarns on white lined sheets

of two briny diaries. You were my one thousand words,

my solitary compilations of teenage determination.

Was I too weak that you left?

Too strong that you adjourned?

Yet, I love you still after all those years.

You blurred your blood-red wings with sleaze,

in monotone gradations of gray, comforting like clay.

Too young to suspect, I forgot and fell into your trap,

misplacing your name with someone else's.

Illusion to disillusion,

you slipped into the brittle minds of three young lads,

allowing me to sip your semblance,

to turn all into some inconsolable shame.

I was in pain

when you caught the crumbs of my brain. Wanting you,

reaching to return to you — the one

whom I always call for calibration,

your sweet dead black as my tomb.

My only smile reflects your deception

in my unhinged complexion,

sighing to sail in future years, to bite your bait

as I find your truest touch: a kiss on my left wrist, love

                                         — like you used to.

Sunday, January 20, 2013, 6:03 – 7:53 PM

Every Man's Wrong

Why do I not deserve you?

Have I not been fair all my life?

Haven't I tried so hard? Haven't I given all I could?

But where is my worth? What prize is there to hold?

So much I sanctify that it should breed some treasure.

Something that does not slap my face with rejection,

or discrimination, or betrayal —

every and all forms of verification

to announce how mislaid I am for my time.

Is it bad to be good? Foul to be prescribed?

What curse am I? What jinx could I be?

Oh, just a loveless kind, another element of tragedy.

Luck seems to loathe me; Fate my enemy.

Whose am I? To whom must I plea?

An infidel to dear God,

too hostile for the broken heart.

To the Devil, I lack some sins — lust is absent,

but abstinence that opposes desire.

My heart is a stone; my body some bones.

Death hides someplace in my essence

when all it seeks is love, purest and smallest,

the only genre that does not complicate.

I am all dream without justification —

a missing chapter of a forgotten fairy tale,

                           wrong to any man.

Saturday, December 29, 2012, 4:54 AM –

Sunday, January 20, 2013, 3:04 PM

Things That Cannot Feel

I have sunk into where light cannot touch.

The self I have forsaken

freed her worries from the hunter: Sorrow.

Woe that tastes like rain conflagrates

to fix itself and pays a ticket to doom.

Claws scratch their wet sand —

invisible as the morrow. I do not like you,

but is it hate? Must I denigrate today

and yearn for my nostalgic yesteryears?

Where I was once a queer, a crank,

everyone that did not match.

Now I have deviated from abnormalcy

and returned to dormancy —

a state of abandoned might, not needing

what I have got. No more depressive drops,

no weeping, nor internal bleeding

from the shapeless heart.

But indifference, eternal as Hell's fire,

a boorish mind letting its powers go

to a conference of electric lust.

Not love, not love. Not the chiffon clarity

filling its center with rude softness,

I end in a stump, a body sliced in two,

nursing things that cannot feel.

Friday, January 18, 2013, 12:24 AM –

Sunday, January 20, 2013, 3:22 AM

A Transfixed Gaze

You can see my broken wings — black as ink

You can see everything:

the page where I was born

the undersea home to where I once belonged

Death's kiss upon my teenage wrist

the bubble that wraps me inside a womb

Escapism bandages these blisters

that will not accuse their perpetrators' names

Things unsaid when heroes parachute

off an explosive plane, down to their rabbit holes

where girls are prettier and daintier

where my fated part is the Queen of Hearts

Departed, deluded, my crime

hungry for everyone's blood — insatiate

My prime — a chariot wheeling on its own

lusting for slimy sweetness that bleeds

off your tongue — granular gray

Did you not promise to be my lover upon

our transfixed gaze, when things were made

for each other? Our eyes confessed

But was it sin that we sensed? Of

two prophetic dreams and a false premonition,

my hands have learnt their profound skill

for wiping tears as quick as they can

Friday, January 11, 2013, 8:31 PM –

Saturday, January 19, 2013, 7:44 PM

Crazy Carnivorous Cravings

Mhmmmm Monday... I finally showered, and cleaned my room. That's how dirty I had been since Saturday.

I am glad that I don't have to do six stupid hours of daily commuting under the nasty rain in Cinere and Jakarta (seeing that I refused to teach since November). But the rainy season in Cinere is colder than what I experienced in Jakarta. The tap water can be too biting for my tropical body temperature. Thus, I skip shower a day or two so that I don't get any weird headaches that need some analgesic pills. Excuses! Just another sample of my legalized laziness.

Yesterday went with afternoon slumber from two to six. I love how cool and breezy the weather is in recent months. Perfect for sleeping. Mother brought baby Krabby Patty into my room when I was about to fall asleep. I usually babysit her in my room in the afternoon, to take cute webcam photos, but I was too sleepy.

My dream ended with queuing to watch the latest Twilight movie in a theater. I wanted to buy hot spicy cassava snacks for the viewing. And then I woke. That food looked SO delicious in my dream. It's embarrassing how I often dream of spicy food. Proves enough that I'm even gluttonous in my dreams!

Lately, I dream of food more than teaching troubles or being chased by murderous creatures. Spicy meaty food is much more comforting than chocolate for me nowadays. Crazy cravings. I am turning into... a vulture? Or flesh-eating maggot. If a poet is to French-kiss me, my tongue will taste of spicy jalapeno sauce and greasy toasted chicken nuggets. So sinfully hot.

Now, poems, poems. Write them.

Tuesday, January 15, 2013, 12:21 – 12:54 AM

Demonic Swine

Being the coolest, wackiest, most irresponsible aunt to nine-year-old twin boys, I have taught them my profound legacy: foul language.

They started it. Really. As we fought our daily sibling rivalry (they treat me like their nightmarish older sister), Rifa called me dog — which is one of the rudest insults in Indonesian. They watch cartoon DVDs and Youtube. I assume they learnt the degrading term somewhere there.

Naturally belligerent, I called him monkey — not as coarse in Indonesian, but still harsh when delivered with a mean intonation. They laughed, of course. Somehow, sounding offensive is more amusing to them than being courteous.

Rifa asked, "Will Mel-mel be happy if Ipa is nice to you?"

"Yes," I replied.

"But Ipa wants to call Mel-mel dumb!" he argued. What an idiot.

"YOU'RE DUMB!" I yelled at him. They giggled uncontrollably.

"What's another crude word to call people?" Rofi inquired.

"Demonic swine," I said. Again, they shrieked, knowing that the word swine is a bad slur in Indonesian.

"What's a demonic swine?"

"You know, when someone made a deal with Satan to become rich, the person will turn into a demonic swine at night." Indonesians believe in such superstitious myths.

The next time I bickered with the twins, they called me dog and monkey and pig. Too much impropriety for little kids. Their mom and my mom were furious to hear that. Scolded them twice. "Mel-mel started it!" was their defense.

But since they are the ones who keep annoying people with their juvenile misconduct, no one cares if I introduce the vulgarity to them. They will still get the blame in any situation — to which I jeer with indecent smugness at their face.

Oh, the hilarity of ridiculing two naive boys with their combative eloquence. So much merriment in this madhouse.

Sunday, January 13, 2013, 7:53 – 8:41 PM

Cute pig

Crying Krabby Patty

With no dumb Internet boy-toys to vex, I turn to playing with my bouncy D-cup breasts while typing this rubbish. Have I made myself sound sluttish enough for your mellow eyes?

The best part of being an old fat female is none other than having juicy pornographic breasts. I shall let your desirous hands squeeze them if you present me your very own authentic Pulitzer prize in poetry. No, seriously. I am not joking. My breasts are too precious to be the source of sarcastic jest.

I'm sleepy. That's enough news for today. I also refuse to shower since Saturday is only perfect for another philosophical retreat where I stare into the blankness of a dream that will never come true. See my wordy phrasing to legalize laziness. Admire it with all your heart.

Besides, what is the use of twenty-four hour antiperspirant deodorant if not to delay shower? I still smell like my melon-scented perfume. Now you wish to sniff the dewy skin around my neck.

Maybe the two slices of chicken fillet I just ate are so hypnotic that they coerce me to sleep without finishing this diary entry. Or maybe, I'm delusional.

But I am an underachiever with a motherly achievement, for this afternoon I bottle-fed my baby niece to sleep on my lap. I secretly call her Krabby Patty cause she's so soft and delicate with the cutest plump baby face. I carry her into my room to take webcam photos together, nurturing vanity as early as possible. She even looked adorable when crying to ask for her milk.

More frivolous baby pictures to come!

Chicken Nuggets Is like My Family

As what I told Jonathan in an email, after reading his blog, I will drown myself with as many chicken nuggets as my stomach can contain. Gluttony is suicidal, yet highly entertaining.

I will be the recluse weirdo who never leaves her lair but to buy chicken nuggets. I will dream of chicken nuggets.

But it's been raining since November in Cinere, and I am too lazy to walk the seven minutes to the nearest shop. Dirty streets and windy weather: too bothersome to carry all those yummy processed meat in plastic bags. So I will ask my mother to buy some for me.

My parents are one of those cute aged couples who go everywhere with their silly old car, to the market, to their relatives, anywhere. I will hand a large sum of money to Mom so she can buy the nuggets for me. As many as four large packages that will serve around one hundred to 140 chunks.

Oh! Just imagine the amount of fat and murderous intent in my plan. Deep-frying the meat in unhealthy greasy oil till it turns crispy brown with all the greedy delicacy. And how many poor chickens must suffer torturous death so I can satiate my voracious taste buds?

One of you will think I make bad choices that lead to my diabetic death and I can never be happy by being fat.

One of you will subconsciously deem me a murderer for eating meat and regret that I rob animals off their rights to live.

One of you will never care.



Chicken nuggets is like my family is from some Internet meme I am too lazy to cite properly.

January Seventh, Where Are You?

It was yesterday when we met

by Cupid's arrow and silly beams that glow

You were my everything

(but you heard of it, didn't you?)

You are that uncanny indulgence

I crave after one bite

You who speak of my darling dreams

the idiolect of the incumbent

You are made of diamond's rust

You who cannot love me

You who dare not to care

You, you, my equivalent

And so I must not love you

nor must I care

You

and your half-selfless circumventions

Your jest for my sinister stare

Where is our supernatural beginning —

lost in a comet tail's soliloquy?

Life is a game and I keep losing

the way you keep eluding

the way we keep our little magic

the magic that no one knows

the magic that only we apprehend

but quietly choose to let go

What is magic when it is untold?

Tuesday, January 8, 2013, 3:04 AM –

Friday, January 11, 2013, 9:07 PM

Chimes of Purplish Pixie Dust

An electric train smashed my body

as I crossed the railway leaving from work —

how many times?

A speeding vehicle orchestrated me

into fleshy pulp — how many times?

I flung from such steep height

into a sea of fractured red — how many times?

How often did I drown

                        and drown

                               and drown?

Not enough to set sorrow free

Not enough to procure a vial of cyanide

I am only capable of masking sadness as strength

garnering virtues mythical as tales

yet crumbling in the end

Not snatching the only aim I hanker:

love so pure and unreasonable

love that does not question pain

And I am left talking to unfaithful rain —

who is too busy flirting from town to town

Then I engage some glistening wet stones

in mutual conversations

They seem to fancy my conflicting nature,

my inbred complications — comely, are they not?

I am too masculine to be your archetypal woman

too feminine to avert tears

I am one in everyone; no one in particular

All my life the false friend you so spuriously evoke

Thursday, January 10, 2013, 3:57 PM –

Friday, January 11, 2013, 12:25 PM

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

Who's the vainest of them all?

You, who desire to be fair as Snow White
whose beauty possessed a curious man's heart
You, who envy feverishly as a middle child
wanting the one you haven't got

You, my darling, you
whose only confidant goes by the name of Sorrow
who grow witchery in every inch of your bone marrow
Your words are wicked thorns to anyone
(while secretly you revel in so much fun!)
You, whose protection against world's wiles
is half resilience, half belligerence
whose solution to any broken imagination
always sounds like attempted suicide
You warrant your own competition
with wreckage fiercer than fire,
gorier than a pack of hungry wolves

You who deceived the lioness in her own snare
You bid love so true — it can only be wrong
You are the melody to no one's song
Your fingers spark libels; your mouth slurs
You are the absence to everyone's presence,
the dreams that never evade the dark
Parked in partial inconstancy, your vanity is
your remedy — like ice, like ice, like ice



Thursday, January 10, 2013, 4:19 PM –
Friday, January 11, 2013, 11:37 AM

I Just Sold My Soul

And choose to be forever dumb. I will spend my nights taking hundreds of ultravain photos and post them on my useless blog. What is more to life than looking pretty, really?

So, after 245 webcam shots yesterday evening, I decided that this one is where I looked most like an Asian Sleeping Beauty (even with weirdly saturated colors). I love how my hair fell to soft, feminine curls. Yes, I am aware of the fact that I'm not starkly stunning as those gorgeous model girls. But at least I know how to wear the right corrective and decorative makeup to accentuate my eyes and lips. It takes more effort for my face and hair to appear presentable, and I will try to make them so.

People (mostly antifeminist unfashionable men) deem girls with makeup shallow and brainless. Can they make an unattractive female look seductive in thirty minutes? Course not. But I can, and so can other people who know how to apply makeup artistically. That is to say, wearing makeup requires training and heightened sense of visual sensitivity, just like art and design.

Proof is, I started experimenting with makeup in 2001 and trained myself for years to know what works best on my average face. Most importantly, I feel better when I look prettier, more confident. It's also psychological, see?

Might as well shift to be a makeup artist rather than trying to win a Pulitzer in poetry. Should be more fun. I'm so bored with writing poems: Nothing is ever good enough. Nothing is rewarding anymore. I want to waste my time doing nothing. Living aimlessly and feeling good about being lazy. No one reads junk poetry. No one.

Isn't the purpose of life to pursue happiness, even if it's inconsequential to others? To be selfish for my own needs? Sure, as long as I don't burden anyone — and I don't. I support myself just fine. Hail idleness!

Thursday, January 10, 2013, 8:53 – 9:28 PM

I just sold my soul is from Darren Hayes's song "Popular".

Define Me

My heart is a prostitute,
as it strays from one man to the next,
diverting loneliness and evaporating tears.
Prove that I am wrong.
Define me according to your song. What am I?

Most envious,
when each and every girl wholly becomes a woman,
finding love and being found. But never my turn.
Fumbling from audition to audition
without earning the lead role.

I am sitting in the farthest back of the audience.
The dirt everyone sweeps away for staining his stage.
The uninvited. Unnoticeable. Untimely.
Reason that does not fit. Anywhere, I fail to rhyme.

Most grudging,
for proclaiming the one too many times.
My timer rewinds a bit too wild, an impatient trick.
Its premonition a definite deterrent for the frail,
a terror for those infirm.

                                    Quick, everyone, hide!

My love is small, faint, and unheard —
yet pure, purer than an infant's thought.
It never begs; it never tolls.
But is it wrath, is it everything bad?
Superfluous, I antagonize pity: cleansed of all wants.



Sunday, December 30, 2012, 6:01 AM –
Monday, January 7, 2013, 9:16 PM

Celebration of Shallowness

The poet is dead. Now I am only a blogger, no different from any other Internet poser, taking two hundred webcam pictures so I can select one where I looked amazing.

On the second day of my period, last Saturday, the headache was stronger than ever. I woke with so much heaviness in my head that I could not focus nor attempt anything that required high concentration. Even walking out of my room to get some food was torture.

Said goodbye to that gay pink puppy (also known as James) on YM. Brushed my teeth. Washed my face. Had breakfast. Bickered with the twins. Cleaned my room. More headaches. Typed an email. Power cut. Babysat my cute, cute niece. Finished typing the mail.

This month's PMS and menstrual days have been so atrocious. Pain and ache and sloth and too much lust. I cannot feel like myself. Too easily tired to do anything. Sleep is longer, and rather good. But waking up means turmoil. I cannot even force myself to read and write poetry.

I am unsure whether I feel fine or simply content or hiding undetectable dissatisfaction. Saturday's headache was insane. All I could think about was shallow trifles, like putting on makeup just to make myself feel superficially better. I needed something to divert myself from the discomfort.

This was how I looked after and before. I know some people find makeup ridiculously dumb, but I love it. LOVE it so much that I wear it whenever I leave home. It makes me feel confident and self-assured. Do I appear any different on these two photos? Fake, perhaps? Ugly? Particularly vain?

Saturday, January 5, 2013, 11:14 PM –

Monday, January 07, 2013, 8:20 PM

Lesbo Whore Pornstar

Hi! I'm Amel, a thirty-two year old lesbo whore pornstar from Indonesia. Today I will guide you to smear excessive makeup on your plain face to make you appear sluttish. And then, you should be able to sell your body in exchange for an Aston Martin V12 Vanquish. Isn't that exciting!

To get the look, follow these steps:

1. Instill sufficient immorality inside your tiny brain.
2. Strip yourself off all virtues.
3. Shun chastity.
4. Kiss anyone you meet with your juiciest tongue, men and women.

Now you're good to pose as a lesbo whore pornstar. But you'll need trashy makeup on your $1 face. How to achieve that:

1. Wipe your filthy face with antiseptic wet tissue. Leave it a minute and lightly pat your face with your seductive slender fingers.
2. Apply BB cream on your face and neck. Moan while you do it.
3. Rub creamy foundation on your face and neck, ensuring to blend it thoroughly with the BB cream and cover your skin evenly.
4. Use a white highlighter pencil on the center of your nose, below your brows, and under your eyes. Blend the mark with the tip of your masturbation finger.
5. Cover the areas below your eyes with liquid concealer. Also cover acne spots should you have any.
6. With a big, round, soft face brush, apply translucent face powder to your face and neck.
7. Darken your smoldering eyes with inky black eyeliner. Draw it around your eyelids, upper lash lines and lower lash lines.
8. Even naughtier, smear black eye shadow on the top of your eyelids and rub it out to the outer side.
9. Coat three layers of black lengthening mascara on every set of lashes, only the upper part, not the lower.
10. Define your brows with dark brown brow pencil.
11. Contour your nose with brown shading powder, blending it on both sides.
12. Highlight the center of your nose again with white eye shadow. Use small straight brush.
13. With your pornographic fingers, circle the apple of your cheeks with pale peach blusher, and also smear it extra lightly on your chin.
14. Dust the translucent face powder once more all over your pouting face with the big face brush to set everything on place (do not touch the mascara). This gives a matte finishing touch.
15. Smear nude beige lipstick as the base. Top with a soft pinkish lipstick. The resulting color should be very pale bubblegum pink.

For Internet publication:

16. Tousle your messy hair and dampen it with something rather wet like hair wax or tap water.
17. Tilt your empty head to the right.
18. Never smile to the camera. Think dirty thoughts.
19. Take two hundred webcam shots for sheer vanity.
20. Choose one that is most suggestive and post it on your X-rated blog.

And that is how you become a smutty Internet prostitute.

Amalia van Helsing

In Indonesia, most people don't use family names. Only certain tribes adopt such a custom (like Batak and Manado). My last name Annisa is solely my own, not inherited from my father's name. And if I marry a man, I have no obligation to use his last name. How pro-feminist! I love my Indonesian heritage.

I understand that this norm may trouble one's genealogical trace, making it difficult to find relatives. But it still is enchanting, uniquely Indonesia. I feel like I am a free spirit, without any attachment to anyone. Complete liberation.

Now, if I were to change my last name into something else, something lethally evil, these are the candidates I'd like to marry:

Gabriel van Helsing

Any brooding suicidal poet would love to marry a fallen angel, even if he has no wings. Most especially true if this angel has the handsomeness of Mr Hugh Jackman. Really, who wouldn't want to marry a vampire hunter that carries bow and arrows anywhere?

Sirius Black

Escaped from Azkaban! Come on, people! Thought to kill a large crowd with his curse. A fugitive on the run is sexiest.

Darren Hayes

Poetic, pretty, fashionable, cultivated, and sings most beautifully. Just the perfect man for me to marry (except that he's oh-so-gay). Even in my dreams, he's my true love. Spelling this surname as Haze would be even more mysterious.

Oscar Wilde

His diction alone is enough to make me pine for him. And his insolent wit, unlike any other. Why are the most poetic men always gay! Earth is so unfair for me.

The best pairing would be Amalia van Helsing. Classic. Gothic. Feminine and masculine at the same time. Unfortunately, I cannot find any eligible bachelor whose last name is Van Helsing. It's an invented, fictional name, not factual. Why didn't people think of using this enigmatic name?

Another option is to coin my own. I would choose St. Hell. Weird, yes. But using Hell alone as a surname is even weirder. Or using some chemical element, like Argon (though this won't sound good as in Amalia Argon), or a darkening word like Raven.

Other last names I like are Cullen from Edward Cullen and Byron from the poet. Dante is also charming (I know this is a first name, but would be better as a surname).

Amalia van Helsing

Amalia Black

Mel Hayes

Amalia Wilde

Amalia Byron

Amalia St. Hell

Amalia Raven

Tuesday, January 1, 2013, 9:50 PM –

Wednesday, January 2, 2013, 1:28 PM

Van Helsing

Some Are Born to Sing the Blues

Why am I writing? I don't want to write. Stop me from writing. I'm the worst writer there ever is. Writing is my crime.

So, according to some lousy convention created by some unimaginative solar worshipers, today is the new day in another beginning called 2013. Like I care, right. But, since I've nothing better to do but to show off, allow me to point out my self-proclaimed achievements from 2012.

1. Wrote 683 blog posts, including 404 poems. How wicked is that? I know around ninety percent of my poems are nothing but junk, but still. Value the discipline and the commitment. Writing is still my obsession since 1991.

2. Worked a full time job, even as short as two months, in a bank in West Jakarta that takes FIVE BLOODY HOURS of daily commuting from my house in Cinere. The teaching workload is trivial, but the commute is insane. Inhumane. Constant fatigue, muscle strain, scraped knee after falling from a fucking bus, callous feet, lacking much sleep, horribly depressed. Definitely a superteacher, if not masochistic.

3. Had the second prophetic dream about my true love. Being forced to move from the home I had loved for thirty-two years, I was half-mad with grudge and tears. On the last day I slept in my room there, he emerged in my dream. Loving me more than anything. I was saved from my second suicide.

For James.

4. Found my newest Internet boy-toy James, or being found. He happened to be the only one who was able to reproduce the sedative feeling I received from the boy in my true-love dream. That is something. And he craves to eat everything pink. SO dirty.

5. Survived two phobic shocks of dead mouse and rat encounter. Thanks to the stupid mother cat who thinks she's a good mother for hunting and bringing home raw food for her stupid kittens. Luckily, my mother was home, so she got rid of the carcasses after I shrieked in terror.

6. Got older, fatter, and grumpier. Definitely twice uglier. A thousand times more antisocial. Life is good.

Tuesday, January 1, 2013, 8:56 – 9:22 PM

Some are born to sing the llues is from Journey's song "Don't Stop Believing".

Pink cupcake