Unreliable Narrator

Possibly

2012-02-26T21:08:00.001+07:00

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

Before Rain

2012-02-26T18:39:00.000+07:00

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

2012-02-26T14:57:00.000+07:00

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

2012-02-26T01:44:00.000+07:00

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

2012-02-26T01:34:00.000+07:00

missmissmissmissmissmissmissmissmissmiss

YOU

How It Feels to Be Lonely

2012-02-26T00:02:00.000+07:00

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

Shameless, Gory, but Still with Professional Integrity

2012-02-25T19:33:00.000+07:00

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

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

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

One of themcalled me to ask when I could finishall the editing duties for those eight plagiarized items. I vowed I would neverdo it. He was upset and hung up immediately. So, I called another person totell him I was about to decline the job. Stealing others' works is not mystyle. But he said he would fix the problem and would call me later. He didn'tcall.

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

Hm. Stillnot satisfactory. But I did edit one passage, modifying redundancy andinsignificant ideas and lame grammar, and at the end I added the rightful authornames and access dates of when the sources were retrieved. I emailed my work tofour people and demanded that they include the author names and access dates ontheir website. If they refuse to doso, I can always quit. I'm not doing anything that my conscience will neverapprove.

Has any ofthem 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'tseen anything admirable from them. Looks like I'm quitting after a day of theirshambolic coordination. Yeah. Good job.

Saturday,February 25, 2012, 7:15 PM

Ctrl-C

Dogstar

2012-02-25T01:22:00.002+07:00

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

2012-02-24T23:46:00.000+07:00

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'spicture book with the quest for a red balloon. Everyone was busy looking forthat balloon all over the woods. Pooh accidentally flew with it, I think. Notso sure. Too obscure to retrace.

But I do know that no one in the story was portrayed as selfish. Notlike Pooh on this movie poster. He looked like sacrificing Piglet's safety forthe 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 callouscharacterization of Pooh. Should be new.

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

Friday, February 24, 2012, 11:38 PM

Pooh

Most Idiotic Men

2012-02-24T20:29:00.000+07:00

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

2012-02-24T18:48:00.000+07:00

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

2012-02-24T13:25:00.000+07:00

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

2012-02-24T12:14:00.000+07:00

Grrgghhhhhhwhat 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 Itake one blue Panadol pill. The only alleviation to get me some sleep. This isnot right. I cannot depend on some stupid medication.

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

The meetingwas at the mall where I used to buy literature books, near the college I workedfor in South Jakarta. I bought some copies of poem anthologies and my favoritenovel The Little Prince. Mine waslost some time ago. I think my crazy brother burnt it without my knowing. Hemust think the book is anti-Islam or something. Hgghh. Living a life with acultish egomaniacally violent brother is very unnerving.

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

Am I gettingmore headaches just by feeling miserable like this?

Friday,February 24, 2012, 11:30 AM

The Rules of Complaining

2012-02-23T21:37:00.000+07:00

4:51 AM

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

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

I turned tosleep. But now I am a bad child defying desire. There is still something I mustdo. 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 towhere I want to move, since my parents are selling the house. Oh, God, goodGod. 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 bestfriend. I don't want to let go. When we finally move out, I will cry endlesslyfor days.

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

And I haveno one to talk to. No one listens to sad problems anymore. Too depressing forthem. Everyone only searches for happiness.

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

When Words Mean Nothing at All

2012-02-22T21:33:00.000+07:00

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

Windmill in the Sky

2012-02-22T21:25:00.000+07:00

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

2012-02-22T01:25:00.000+07:00

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?

Where the Poets Grow on Trees

2012-02-22T00:06:00.000+07:00

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.

Secret Threesome Fantasy

2012-02-21T23:36:00.000+07:00

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

My love-triangle draft in my book journal is still untouched for sofreaking 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 manydrafts; too little ambition.

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

And then I thought, why include Sally in the magical tale when I canhave 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 orovertly want me. I have all that irresistible charm too fatal to younger men. Iwish.

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 reluctantwriting 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 heartbreakingemails and was unable to detach himself from me; promised to give me his firstkiss 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 thoughtwould 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 (particularlyof Steven whom he would call "asshole"), always explicitly sexual,promiscuous.

Best physical features: messy almost-black hair that he used tokeep 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 whatyou think of it.

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

Please note that I've never shown him my breast, butt, or other sexualbody 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 cannever 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 heartfizzles 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 toburden him.

Last exchange: few days ago, email, talking about the time I was so madat 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 hewas 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 "makingslides" or "research".

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

Monday, February 20, 2012, 6:37 PM –

Tuesday, February 21, 2012, 10:49 PM

Jake G | Mad Hatter

Can't I Jinx All the Happy People?

2012-02-21T22:02:00.000+07:00

Optimism sickens me. It's like trying to swallow too many bitter pills at once. Making me want to vomit. Why do happy people impose their stupid positivity on me?

I don't need or want or interested in your encouraging hopes. Life is a collection of experiences that teach me:

Not everyone gets what she wants.
Not everyone has her happy ending.

Life can be very, very unfair to the unlucky. And I am one of them. I have no luck in love, friendships, jobs, education. I am rather financially secured for a simple living standard in Jakarta. That's something I have to work hard for six years. But other than money, I'm screwed. Nothing else seems to reach a satisfactory condition. Nothing else flourishes. I feel so forlorn.

I have seen many examples of people who live and died alone, unmarried. Their life looks so loveless and barren. They have enough emotional support, I'm sure. But still, alone.

My aunt who is around fifty-five. Was about to marry but her fiancé called it off and went away. She never dates afterward.
My uncle, who was married for only three weeks and then separated from his wife. Never remarried. He lived alone in his room till he died in 2010 from diabetes.
The two seventy-something ladies who live in a house behind my parents' house. Their story would be "Two Unmarried Sisters and a Dog".
My Geography teacher in high school. Also died alone in her rented room. Never married. She was almost sixty, I think.
And don't forget the famous single authors. Emily Dickinson who was thought to be a lesbian and couldn't have the love of the woman she adored since that era was religiously repressive. She died from an illness when she was fifty-six. Never married. Jane Austen: couldn't marry the only man she loved and died unmarried when she was around forty.

Those are only very few examples that I can collect. Researching to find many more reliable, factual references will only take up too much time. I am certain that many other people live the same loveless kind of life. Like mine.

Being single is not a rare incident these days. I am so fed up with those who keep telling me to "try". Do they even know the kind of mess I had to go through? No one loves me and no one will. There's always something missing. Never good enough for any man. I tried. Yes. I truly did try. Even until the last one when I convinced myself that I inadvertently found "the one".

Why didn't it work? Cause I eat meat. What millions of other humans have been doing for eternity. Killing animals for survival. But most consequentially, cause he's not in love with me. That's the only reason. If he did, he wouldn't care about what I eat.

Tell me to "open up" and "don't lose hope" one more time, I swear I'll slit your throat. Shut the Hell up. I'd jinx every one of you if it were legal. You happy people have vexed me a little too much by now. Leave me alone. Because that's what I'll be till the day I die: alone.

One day, Death shall knock on my door and I answer. All my loveless life vanishes into oblivion. No more pain, no more waiting. The end is near.

Monday, February 20, 2012, 5:41 PM –
Tuesday, February 21, 2012, 9:42 PM
Leave me alone

Pseudo-Freudian Dream Analysis

2012-02-21T18:57:00.000+07:00

Have you ever dreamt of a stranger you love more than life? Or am I insane? I do believe in true love. Even when it doesn't lead to a happy ever after.

Fairy tales and fiction influence me most. The earliest memory I have with my parents is when they cited me stories and folklore when I was three. The famous Indonesian mouse deer tricking the farmer to steal his crops. Malin Kundang the ungrateful son. Sangkuriang who kicked his ship and turned it into a mountain. Cinderella. Snow White. Little red riding hood. So many others.

I grew up listening to and reading these fascinating convolutions with their moral messages. After years of extensive exposure with fiction, I began to internalize their values and virtues. I told myself I had to be good to have my happy ending. Just like the protagonists in those fables. So I did. I wasn't immaculately honorable, but I always try to do the right thing. To be just, honest, and chaste throughout my days.

Magic, not religion, becomes my compass. Imagination lives in my head for always. I seek to keep myself pure and wholesome. There's no need to stain myself with anything bad, anything undesirable. I have never grown out of my childhood shell.

That is why I never touch any man. Never been kissed. Never had any relationship. One day, when the time comes, my true love would find me. Just like that. No justification needed. Like a miracle. It will defy logic and undo reason. Because it requires magic.

The first time I had a crush was when I was in fifth grade, ten years old. He was my classmate's older brother. Pretty and tall. A mixed race of Indonesian and French. Afterward, there were so many other crushes, mild and wild. Compulsive, but never real. Nothing of it felt overpowering.

Nineteen was one of the turning points in my life. I became suicidal for dropping out of college. And that magical dream. The only one I had in life. When I met my true love. He was real in the dream. Unrecognizable but still a human boy. Not a fairy or an angel or anything otherworldly. He was human. A real person. Someone who loves me for who I am. No questions asked. He just knew who I was. And I knew who he was. We were born for each other.

There's no other feeling more beautiful than what I felt when I met him. The one.

When I was nineteen, I had no crush. I drowned myself in sorrow. All the darkest depression. But I had that blissful dream, out of nowhere. I wasn't expecting for something like that to happen. Ever. I wasn't familiar with the concept of finding the one, yet. I didn't want to burden myself with the complexity of a romantic relationship. Failing college was too much to handle for me. I focused on that and didn't care about anything else.

And the dream emerged on its own. Right when I was so distressed with life. Like a savior. It gave me the smallest hope that out there, there's a boy who would love me more than life. We just had to find each other.

Only recently, in last January, this long-forgotten dream started to plague me. It was my defense. Five days before that, I was angry with Steven and instructed him not to contact me anymore. I had to make myself stronger because I was hurt. I didn't want to speak to him ever again. Steven can't love me like the boy in my dream loves me. I had to forget him and move on with my life.

But the dream continued. The sequel was a nightmare. The boy was at the other end of the maze. Now I knew who he is. Steven. I had to open door after door to find him. If I didn't do that, I would die and be eaten by the evil who was chasing me throughout the maze. I had to go to him. It was the only thing to do to save my life.

Steven in the dream wasn't affected by my peril in finding him. He was distant, neutral. Exactly the way he is in real life. But I found him.

These two dreams summarize my life best. I always believe in finding my true love. I know the feeling when I finally find him. Steven found me. If it were up to me, I would never find him. His age is not in my range for my Okcupid match search. Without him, nothing of this would happen. Ever.

Talking to him in emails and IM and any sort of Internet media makes me feel happiest. Similar to the feeling I had in my first dream. Like what I described to another Internet friend, Steven would be something that feels "closest to Heaven" to me. As corny as it sounds. Still true. I've never felt anything like this before. So magical.

In the dream, I had to find him to save my life. In reality, all I had to do was telling him what I feel for him. It was the biggest relief. I don't feel any pain anymore. And like in the dream, he didn't say anything about it. As impassive as ever. But it doesn't matter. I know what I know. I already have my happy ending. My peace of mind. The one thing I needed to do to save my heart.

He was faceless for I shall never meet him. He was voiceless for I shall never speak to him. He stayed very briefly for that is the best he can afford. I hold no regrets. Nothing left to search. Now I know. My life has come to a full circle.

I will possess your heart.

Tuesday, February 21, 2012, 4:05 – 6:20 PM

Afternoon Perfumery

2012-02-21T15:46:00.000+07:00

Burnt watermelons

perfume my afternoon.

What good is Monday

if not tosuck the life

out of you?

Rain or drought,

only sleep reigns.

Hatred intertwines.

Comely,

you feel you want to die.

Itching that etches like a harlot

licking herdead lover's

lavender tears.

The day begrudgingly

heats. With icing

sweet asweeping water lilies.

Weep with them. Vilify.

Vocalize those ornery corners

youwish were your feathers.

Silver and blue bells your gods.

They try to goad.

Halfof your life wasted. In grief,

in covering up the bruises

with lies so rotten

they reek the stench

of your dying bones.

Those succulent maggots

eating upyour heart.

Stand straight. Look up.

The world needs no more

injurious bouquets.

Sing with them.

Even when you have nothing

to sing about.

Monday, February 20, 2012, 7:13 PM –

Tuesday, February 21, 2012, 3:19 PM

Bouquet

Time to Ship Mel-Mel to America

2012-02-21T14:38:00.000+07:00

Archenemies were at war again.

This morning, I was eating my spicy noodle breakfast at the dining table. Rifa was taking off his clothes nearby, to shower after sweeping the floor. His dad, my sociopathic egomaniac brother, saw that the floor was still dirty and ordered Rifa to re-sweep it. And he did. Naked.

My sister Farah went out of her room, met Rifa, and asked, "Why are you sweeping the floor without your clothes on?"

I was laughing like an insensitive maniac, "Faaarr! Take pictures NOW! Record him on a video!" It was crazy hilarious to see an eight year old naked boy sweeping the floor. "So, when he's all grown he can see how he swept the floor naked when he was little. AHAHAHHAHAHAHA!" I choked from laughing so hard.

Rifa, being easily offended as he is, stopped sweeping, and yelled at me, "Don't laugh! It's time to abandon Mel-mel in the farthest market!"

Irresponsible Indonesians abandon unwanted cats and kittens in a traditional market where these animals can find leftover food. Apparently, Rifa thinks he can do the same to me.

"And to which market are you going to abandon me, huh?"

"I'll ask Daddy to drive and abandon you in Kebayoran Lama! That's far and you can't go home!"

Our home is the blue bubble
in Kedoya Utara,
and the red bubble is
Kebayoran Lama.

I laughed harder, "That's like... fifteen minutes away from here. I can go home safely with my eyes closed from Kebayoran Lama!"

"FINE! I'll send you somewhere reeaally far so you won't be able to come back here!"

"Like where? America?" Rifa knows America is a faraway country.

"Yes! I'll ship you in a package to America!"

"HA. Go ahead. I know how to go back home even from America."

"How will you do that?"

"I won't tell you how."

"You'll take a plane, won't you?"

"Not telling."

Still raging at me, Rifa went to the bathroom, shouting, "I want a DIVORCE from Mel-mel!" The twins always want a divorce from me every time I vex them.

"We can't have a divorce. We're not married."

"Yes, we can! We won't be families anymore!"

"No one wants to be your family. Only ducks want to be your family."

"Daaaaaaaaaaddyyyyyyy... Mel-mel said only ducks want to be my family!" Rifa filled his toy syringe with tap water and aimed it at me.

"Spray me once, and I'll take that thing away from you forever," I threatened.

My voice was so dark that he refrained from spraying water at me and started taking his shower. Rofi joined him and they closed the bathroom door. I could hear Rifa grumbling aloud, cursing me, "I am SO mad at Mel-mel! I'll be Mel-mel's enemy from now on!"

Rofi commented, "Are you really mad at Mel-mel?"

"YES, I AM!" Rifa roared, "I won't ever care about Mel-mel anymore!"

Of all the twenty minutes in the shower, they probably mentioned Mel-mel and Amel at least fifty times. It's so flattering to be the center of twin little maggots' universe.

Tuesday, February 21, 2012, 12:39 PM

The Child Who Never Grows

2012-02-20T22:51:00.000+07:00

Tales bleached my soul
with whiteness so pure it resists filth
for thirty fucking years. Idealization
of love, the centerpiece of my grave,
shackles my left ankle wherever I go.
Fairies and frogs. Villains so violent
they devour little girls' innocence.
Mine is safe. Hidden from the wolves.
They sniff; they trail. I run; I bail.
When all things decline
into the reinstatement of guilt,
my path is an anticlimax. So winding
it becomes endless. I thought I saw
the end. Branches shoot like rockets
to the sky, like fireworks
of moldy greenness. The witch's
candy house. Its peppermint wind
inviting. Too tempting to pass.
But I am neither a child
nor a princess. Life is made
of periwinkle and pirate dreams.
Once I find; the other I fight.
He was beautiful as light. Faceless
black and white, what did he see in me
that wronged Universe's mystery?
Then came a game of make believe,
minus its powerful remembrance.
Re-emergence. Or a touch like it.
I thought I saw the beginning
of our end. Weary, awry, consolidation
projects traces of imagery. His face
a consummate beauty. Still, a wolf.

Monday, February 20, 2012, 7:15 – 10:30 PM

Red riding hood

Captured

2012-02-20T20:31:00.000+07:00

I am done begging.
Neither dreams nor nightmares
would capture you. Your shadow
travels and hovers amongst the dead.
And what am I to do? When
I can never strain your brain anymore.
Not with the intensity of my proclivity.
I knew it wounds. But selfish as I am,
I needed it. My only cure.
Rightness in the day alighted
on what I had always been afraid to do.
Year after year, I waited
to summon enough guts
to pour the acid
straight into your glassy eyes.
Did it burn? I hope it did.
Please, not another glory
of your emotional withdrawal.
I've seen enough of that.
The cut you detected would disband.
Elsewise, seal my lips.
But only with the uttermost
of your untrained French kiss.
Because you wanted it. You. Not I.
And when I decisively fall
into an eternal slumber,
your might cannot repaint my blood.
For the love within your heart
is never true.
Now you know, but do you?
Do you know how much I love you?

Monday, February 20, 2012, 6:55 – 8:15 PM

The Night I Tasted Martian Blood

2012-02-20T04:01:00.000+07:00

At the beginning of this newly-christened blog, I swore to be an aloof, self-centered, hurtful poet, refraining from any bite of dizzying romance. It worked for a week. Then, like a bad weather, it struck without warning. I had a haunting nightmare of Steven that turned into compulsive thoughts when I was awake.

Steven is my Okcupid crush since October 2010. He hates my deifying him into some sort of heaven-sent perfection, so he told me not to put him on a pedestal. Which is why I'm doing the exact opposite of what he wants me to do. I wonder if anyone else sees the things I do, or is it only my rose-colored glasses?

In chronologically random order, let me divulge temporal facts why I like Steven. A lot.

He found me.
Was the first twenty-three year old lad who visited my Okcupid profile. I was twenty-eight. Seeing someone five years younger clicking my profile was... between disturbing and puzzling.
Turned out: he's an international playboy who seduces inexperienced older women on dating sites. Makes sense.
Took self-photos in front of a whiteboard.
While drinking toxic water from his pessimist's mug.
His first mail sounded amusing. Refreshing. Playful and bouncy.
His last name is Cullen.
Sparkles under the sun (which reveals that he's a sultry bloodthirsty vampire).
The one who informed me that America is twelve hours behind Indonesia. I used to think it was fourteen.
Likes Savage Garden's "Crash and Burn".
Loves Owl City!!
Sent me his untitled piano number five. I still listen to that fun little song in my playlist.
Sings bravely, though sometimes terribly.
The most humble person I know. All humility with no trace of pride.
Looks awfully cute when he's upset.
Sounds so lonesome. Reminding me of my own voice.
Told me stories of witches and wizards.
Erratically poked me on Facebook.
Cheered me up when no one else wanted to be there for me.
The first person who didn't cower when I told him I wanted to die.
Also the first who thinks that my being dark is not nauseating.
Drives a black, shiny Aston Martin Vanquish V12 (another clue that he's a super-wealthy depressed teenage vampire).
A submissive boy-toy whom I can boss around to sing me Savage Garden songs.
Sent me the most endearing (misspelt) poem.
A closet gay who only wants me to touch his heart.
Writes clichés as syrupy as Owl City's lyrics.
That can never be deciphered by human eyes.
Speaks in binary codes.
And spontaneous rhymes.
Can't count.
Has purple eyes.
Hates Scott Pilgrim comics.
Patiently taught me some things about the periodic table.
Didn't break when others tried to break him.
Lives on Mars.
Pasted me the coolest rock songs with Jesus in them.
And then Doki and Nabi cartoons.
Sent me secret messages.
Thinks I'm a kitten.
And he's a cat.
The only one who always knows how to talk to me. His words are the solace where I can feel most like myself.
Documented his accidents on Facebook and Twitter.
And still tried to IM me when he broke his clavicle.
Is not easily angered.
But managed to infuriate me.
Has the dreamy kindness of a unicorn.
Nothing else tastes like him. Must be his Martian blood.
Constitutes an unhappy mess on the floor.
Telling him how I love him healed my pain. Like a counterspell.
Just because.

Monday, February 20, 2012, 3:32 AM
Tea party

Until Your Heart Resurrects Me

2012-02-19T23:44:00.000+07:00

All the silly sickening love songs deliver his name. That's when I knew. I've never met him. Nor have I spoken with him. It didn't happen in one night. A very taxing process where the plot took so many wrong turns. My dying heart had to be crushed many times. I cried for days, for years. Forever.

But now I see the light. I finally told him what I really feel for him. It gave me a surge of relief. I have nothing left to argue. Nothing to wish for. Nothing to regret. Nowhere to go. Everything falls into its rightful place. I am at peace with the world. With myself. With everyone.

It wasn't to be the world's greatest suicidal poet. Or to have my creative writing PhD. Or to teach life lessons to my students. Or to save all the stray kittens in Jakarta. Or to save anyone at all. Only one thing brings real meaning in life. Something as simple as honesty.

I was born to tell him I love him. It had to come from me. He had to hear the kind of sentimentality my heart holds for him, directly. Not through my blogs, or from somewhere else. Only from me.

And he did.

Those miserable months. The unkindness of night. My desire to let him go but never could. Resentment. Grudge. Hatred. Rage. Animosity. Injustice. Pain. They merged into one wholesome understanding. Now I know. I don't want to burden him with unrealistic expectations or childish ideals. I just want him to be himself. The happiest he can endure.

My prayer used to be misguided. I don't need him to love me. I only need him to know. That is the only cure. No more poems to rhyme. My part here is done.

Sunday, February 19, 2012, 11:24 PM

Who Are You to Command My Heart?

2012-02-19T19:37:00.000+07:00

When you're thirty-one, not dating anyone, not engaged, nor married, people (especially your nosy aunts and grandmother), will try to direct you to marry anyone. HOLY HELL.

My siblings and cousins who are my age are all married, including the younger ones. It looks I'm the only one unattached. I have this aunt who is believed to be psychic since she can heal and read people. I'm not so sure if such a thing exists, but she seems to know when I didn't tell the truth to her face. So, I don't know. The last time we met at my sister's wedding in October 2011, she jocularly told me I would marry in 2012 with a Spanish man.

I don't know any Spanish man. I have never had any chat with one. And I'm never attracted to one. My aunt must be joking. Besides, I am still crushing on Steven. A deadly desperate kind of crush. Even when he and other people keep advising me to find another man who can fulfill my dreams, I am not moving. Not a millimeter.

First off, who do you think you are? You don't know how and what I feel. You know nothing about my feelings. They are private and only I alone feel them. Unless you can read my mind, which you can't, there's no way for you to know what I feel about anyone.

Second, don't tell me what to do. Or what to feel. Or whom to date. Or whom to love and not to love. This is both disparaging and intrusive. My heart has its own mind to make its own decisions. I listen to it constantly. I don't listen to other people, ever. People don't feel what I feel and they surely don't know what I want to do with my life.

You are very, very welcome to express your opinions, no matter how divergent they are to mine. Doesn't mean I will listen to any of it. Visualize the word STUBBORN. Multiply it with one million. And you have what constitutes my ego.

God failed to guide me. Don't ever think you mere mortals have greater powers than the archetypal supreme being. If you assume you can influence me, then you haven't seen the darkest pulse of my heart. Neither violence nor tenderness. Only Death can consume it.

Sunday, February 19, 2012, 7:25 PM

Unrivaled

2012-02-19T18:24:00.000+07:00

Since peoplehave trespassed too much, I'll just expound what I briefly described to Stevenin my last email.

When I wasnineteen, I had my darkest point. I dropped out of psychology major and felt solost. For two years, I had to stay at home doing nothing but journaling,reading, wanting to kill myself. One night, I was in my sister's room and fellasleep there. It rarely, if ever, happened. I don't like to sleep on anotherbed that is not mine. But something miraculous transpired in my dream thatnight.

I met mytrue love. I don't know who he was. I can't even remember his face. But I knowhe was the one. I know this because I woke with the greatest loss in my chest.Like there was a giant hole in it. The most important thing was missing. Him.In my dream, when we met, the world around us disappeared into nothingness.There was only him and I. And we knew we found each other at last.

Thesensation is unrivaled. Surreal. Like nothing else I have ever felt. Beautifuland saddening at once. My heart and all the emotions contained in my body burstinto sparkly little pieces. He and I didn't say anything to each other. Not onesingle word. We just knew who we are.

I buriedthis dream for years. Not thinking about it. I never knew I would feel somethingsimilar, in another dream, twelve years later.

Last January,I was furious at Steven. I was also mad at everyone else. My college classmateMislia died suddenly, from an illness, and it devastated me. We never said ourgoodbye. I was off Facebook for more than a year and never heard that she wasseriously sick. I felt guilty for not being there for her. I didn't know how tocope. Everything was so confounding and all I wanted to do was to jump off abridge.

I emailed everyoneand Steven about Mislia's death to seek consolation. He texted me on IM. But itfelt so fake. It felt like he only talked to me after learning about Mislia'sdeath. He wouldn't bother if nothing dreadful happened. So I told him not totalk to me anymore. Ever.

Days departed.I didn't miss him. I did, somehow, recollect that true-love dream. After somany years had gone, I still recalled that night when I met this mysteriouslad. I clung to the feeling to pacify me that I didn't need Steven or any otherman. I could always go back to that dream to feel truly loved. Steven can't andwon't love me.

More nightspassed. And then, that dream. The second one. I was trapped in a maze of a thousand doors. Dangers everywhere. I ran. To save myself. To go to him. Thistime, he wasn't faceless. The only name I kept reciting was Steven, Steven, Steven. I knew I had tofind him. My heart knew where to find him. And there he was. The last door I opened.That was when I knew.

No matterhow long, how life-threatening, how mystifying, how infuriating, the last stepwould always lead me to him. The one I keep coming back to. Even when he can't love me. When Fate is againstme. I still live in a dream of irrational longing. Nothing else matters.

Sunday,February 19, 2012, 6:10 PM

The Underwear Controversy

2012-02-19T15:32:00.001+07:00

How crazy are my eight-year-old twin nephews? This crazy.

As I was getting my icy drinking water from the fridge and passed the twins at the dining table, Rifa commented about the mini cotton shorts I'm wearing.

Rifa: Isn't that underwear? Mel-mel is wearing underwear!

Mel-mel: No. These are shorts. Shorts are NOT underwear. (The gray cartoon shorts are very short, only covering the upper part of my thighs. But they don't look anything like underwear. Rifa simply enjoys making fun of me.)

Rofi: Are you wearing underwear with the shorts?

Mel-mel: Of course I am! Unlike you two, everyone else wears underwear. You're the only two people in the world who refuse to wear underwear, like babies.

Rofi: Reeaaallyyyy? But it's too hot to wear underwear.

Rifa: How do you know that people in other countries wear underwear?

Mel-mel: I just do. Everyone knows this. And I have friends in other countries. They wear underwear.

Rofi: But did you really ask them if they wear underwear?

Mel-mel: Of course not! You don't ask people if they wear underwear.

Rifa: Why don't you look it up on Google? Search for "do people outside Indonesia wear underwear". Do it now!

Mel-mel: No! It's impossible to find that information on Google. And it will be in English. You won't understand.

Rifa: You can translate it for us. Go search now!

Since they insisted and waited in my room to see an Internet article, I had to show them a Wikipedia page on undergarments.

Rifa: What does the reading say?

Mel-mel: People wear underwear so that their outer clothes won't get too dirty. Also to keep them warm in the winter.

Rofi: I was right! It's too hot to wear underwear.

Rifa: What about people in other countries?

Mel-mel: You have to read the history part. It says people have been wearing underwear since thousands of years ago. Including in other countries.

Rofi: That's not true! I'm not reading that. People don't wear underwear.

And the twin maggots left my room, still thinking that people in other countries don't wear undergarments. Just another Sunday afternoon in the madhouse.

Sunday, February 19, 2012, 2:26 PM
Shorts

Rainy Sunday Morning

2012-02-19T14:03:00.000+07:00

Aaaahh... the joy of waking up on a rainy Sunday morning. Cold shower that injected my brain with so many ideas to write. I still need six more posts to publish for the day so that I can commit to my goal for one hundred articles a month. The remaining of February should cover five items per day. Had spicy instant noodle and scrambled egg for breakfast. Cleaned my room. Soaked my dirty clothes to be hand-wash tonight. Printed tank coloring pages for the twins. And now, a review.

Before I truly woke, I sleep-browsed the Internet. This happens when I feel agitated and can't sleep well enough to continue for the right amount of time. I saw Cedric had pasted me a link on YM. I was rather unconscious and the link looked too much like a spam. But I had to check it, anyway. Turned out it's the trailer for Chris Colfer's new movie Struck by Lightning.

Colfer wrote the script and played the leading man Carson Phillips. A story of an ambitious high-school journalist wanting to go to Northwestern University to achieve his dream working as an editor for the New Yorker. He blackmailed his school mates to write for his literary journal that was aimed to impress the college admissions board, in a scheme he termed Clovergate.

I really can identify with his character. As an English major, I was ruthlessly industrious to finish my degree in six semesters instead of the intended eight semesters. I wanted to impress the whole school, taking twenty-four to twenty-nine credits in a semester. I even had my Drama 1 class on Saturdays. Attempting to score all the A's I could. Meeting my thesis adviser on the term break when other students were vacationing somewhere. Outshining all other students in my class, making everyone looked bad. I failed to finish in six semesters, and got my degree in my seventh semester with only a 3.82 GPA (not 4.0!). But all the professors doted on me. They called me "the most driven student in the department". I was the perfect teacher's pet. And I loved it so much.

Seeing the trailer, Carson reminded me of myself. It's a good aspiration for other students who watch the movie, I'm sure. Students need to have a clear purpose of who they want to be after they finish school or college, and the movie depicts something similarly inspiring.

Nonetheless, from the short movie scenes I saw, Colfer's portrayal of Carson doesn't seem to be as spectacular as his Kurt Hummel in Glee. Not exactly his best acting performance. The movie is more like an indie type of teenage flick. Nothing so impressive nor grand. The only ones wanting to see it would be Kurt Hummel's Glee fans.

I haven't thanked Cedric for pasting me the link. I should. Maybe later.

Sunday, February 19, 2012, 1:40 PM

Pirate-Like Intervention

2012-02-18T21:15:00.000+07:00

I am thinking about translating Plath's The Bell Jar to Indonesian, few pages a day, and post them on this blog continuously. That would very much be a violation of its copyrights. I know. But, it's the lawless Internet. Everyone does it, right? Knowledge is not for sale.

A worst-case consequence: I could get into trouble. This blog is always public. Someone might sue me if she realizes what I'm doing... And that would mean another case of blog suspension? Unsought for. If it gets serious, I can lose all the hard work I've put on this site. Not interested in recreating a new blog on a new domain. I must continue with this one. Can't risk being caught.

My friend works as a copyrights coordinator for a famous publishing company in Jakarta. She told me I could send a sample of my translation to see if the editors think they want to hire me to translate novels, both for adults and children. Some of these novels are the classic literary types, so The Bell Jar would suit their market. I can get money for my work. Yeay, piling more of that capitalistic money in my bank account!

However, being a cyberpunk feels extremely enticing. Like a badass antiheroine. A modern-day Robin Hood. Having the greatest chance to empower the world for everyone's share of free information. It's piracy, yes. But the translation will be my own property, since I am not selling it to anyone. Like doing a charity. Making a contribution for the "greater good" (i.e. the people who hate going to bookstores to buy legitimate copies, to whom I can relate).

Good God, I am so utilitarian. Though still a wimp. Scared of getting my third blog suspension. Being wrongly suspended twice was alarming enough that I had to change my blog URL. The third time, my IP address may be banned permanently. Too dicey.

So, people, please help with your own argument here. Let's have a vote. Illegal translation: good idea or bad idea? Sharing is caring?

Saturday, February 18, 2012, 8:58 PM
The Bell Jar

Mismatched Megapixels

2012-02-18T16:26:00.000+07:00

Bright sun, when you shine, wake him up with all my love
A day of constant warmth that he always deserves

Lonely moon, when dark comes, shower him with all your light
The way I would hold him safe in my unknowing arms

Quiet breeze, when you blow, gently caress his boyish cheeks
The way I would close my eyes to kiss them one by one

Mighty earth, in times of troubles, reassure him with courage
Just as his words protect me with a black hole of comfort

Dusty echo, throughout the hours, resound my voice
Calling his name with every breath, sight, and sound:
Steven, Steven, Steven, I love you so —

Cold rain, when tears drench, melt my sorrow into a rainbow
For the profanity of my pain I can never ever show

Saturday, February 18, 2012, 12:02 – 1:43 PM

A Civilized World of Distance and Restraint

2012-02-18T16:17:00.000+07:00

You knew the only one that makes me happiest is you. You knew why I cannot feel the existence of others. Because you found me. But that's not enough. I'm not enough. I am not what you want and you cannot feel the same. This is why we are not meant to be.

We've never even spoken with each other. The simplest thing two people can do. And you don't want that. Not from me. What pain is this coming from my heart? The tears won't stop. Because distance feels like your death and restraint feels like mine. I wish I could tell you how much I love you. But I can never do that. Cause when I do, you will want to love me back. And you really don't want that.

Saturday, February 18, 2012, 11:17 AM

Cause You Idolize

2012-02-17T23:36:00.000+07:00

There is only Disappointment.

Of course. I suspected so. The only thing left to do is to hire the best brain surgeon in town, and let him replace my tired brain with another kind, the one that contains no memory of you. Only then, I will never think of you anymore. I will live a life of bliss, not wishing for something I can never have. I will be happiest. Without you. Or anything that reminds me of you. Oh, right. Might as well hire a heart surgeon. Replace mine with something that doesn't feel. No longing, no emotion, no ache. No loneliness. No you. Puzzle solved.

Here is the chance to be brave. To be stronger. I promised I would let go, so I am. What are the five stages of grief, again? Skip all and hit ACCEPTANCE at once. The only thing left to do.

I am best pretending. Fake a smile. Feign happiness. Act unaffected. Say that I am all fine. It doesn't hurt anymore. I've always known something like this would happen from the very start. Should have never been found. Should have never made that damn wish. Should have never thought that I would be good enough for anyone. Cause I'm not.

I am happiest alone. Happier when I write. Talking to myself. Like what I've been doing my whole life. Stop making expectations. Forget the dream; it was unreal. Forget the feeling; it was a lie. There are always others, I told them. Who can never be you, I told my heart.

What else did I forget other than the date? Green hair, brown eyes? That hole in your chest where there is no heart?

You know very well it was a made-up excuse to talk. You know I don't forget. Not even if my brain is swapped with a life-support machine. Never beg. I'm not that weak. Death my savior, I'll go back there. Typing in tears. Never letting you see that side. No other choice. Thus begin the game of a pathological liar.

Friday, February 17, 2012, 11:27 PM

Lollipop Whore

2012-02-17T22:43:00.001+07:00

I just sold my soul. On Ebay. Anyone wants to bid? Now that I've gotrid of the one thing that prevented me from becoming lewd like all of you, Ican truly be what you want me to be: a lollipop whore.

While I was enjoying my fruity lollipop in between the webcam pictures,I had an indigenous thought. The nicest thing to do would be to suck the candy,reeeeaaallyyy slowly, and then give it into his mouth, make him savor myafter-taste. After a few seconds, I will gently lick a part of the candy,holding it with my left hand, while he's also imbibing its sticky sweetness. Ourinsatiable passion burning. Our breaths synchronizing in a slow-motion lollipopkiss. Mmmhhhmmmm. So tempting.

Want me to write this into my newest erotic flash fiction? How much canyou afford me?

Unfortunately, I can only fantasize something sensual when I'm in lovewith the man. So... it will require one specific person in this elaborated smoochingscene. And I really don't want to misrepresent anyone again on my blog. Thatwould be pretty invasive. I'm trying to keep things quiet and avoid drama for awhile. If only Blogspot had a password-protected post option. Hm. What to do.

UNKNOWN AUTHOR #1:

Write what you want instantly. Invent excuses later.

Or, I can also write it into a sweetened poem involving lollipop, chocolate, sugar, and candy. You really don't need to know that one I wrote. Let it bury itself.

Friday, February 17, 2012, 10:37 PM

Soulless Porn Commodities

2012-02-17T16:34:00.001+07:00

A faceless red lip photo. The one I attached to the post "Amel Anniza". That was not meant to attract anyone. Any self-portrait I take is to expose factuality: I'm fat, second-rate, half-mad. Not sexy.

Yes, I know I can capture normal poses where people may see my face clearly. But where's the fun in that? Incomparably boring! I hate common pictures where everything seems pretty and pleasant. So artificial. I don't want that. I want to appear weird, offensive, and provocative. Never in a sexual way. I know nothing about being sexual. I've never even held hands with a man, okay?

It's more of an expression of wickedness. Something to say, "You are looking at a foreboding witch. Her words foul; her gestures scowl. Don't forget to equip yourself with a fire-proof shield before speaking to her."

The Internet is so full of sex-crazed idiots who objectify females as if we were soulless porn commodities. Just because I present a photo of my lipstick-stained lips, I am promoting myself for sex? Seriously? NO. That's a very wrong prejudice. If you really read the post before that, you would discover that I took the webcam shot at work, in my small room, when no students came to class. What does that make me? A slacker. A lazy English teacher. Nothing sexy there.

Almost daily, on Okcupid, men of various ages from different countries waste time to email me only to say meaningless lines such as I look cute/sexy/beautiful. And some contradicted my claim of being an unkissed virgin. Accusing that I lied. Some others called me a hypocrite for not wanting to have sex without marriage. What's up with all that? You know absolutely nothing about me. And all you care about is my damn photos.

What would you misread me on this one? A whore?

Thursday, February 16, 2012, 8:19 PM

Something for the Pain

2012-02-17T11:57:00.000+07:00

Days gone by and my writing has become more diary-bound. Nothing dishearteningin that. I love diaries for their sense of secrecy.

I began my diary journey in 1991, when I was eleven, in sixth grade. Myfirst try was a thick juvenile book with Mickey Mouse on its cover, and mysecond book had NKOTB for its front-side picture. I wrote every day, systematically,before I went to bed, yielding around one to three pages. Sometimes I also drewJapanese comic characters in them.

Can't tell what triggered me to write. I was a heavy reader since 1989,so fond of translated English novels for children. Bought many Japanese comicbooks. And, I loved reading the poetry section on the newspaper my fathersubscribed to. I suppose all this reading introduced me to writing. Somethingtold me I could express my own words in my diary.

Besides, I didn't have friends and I didn't have the urge to socializewith anyone when I was eleven. Books were my only friends since I was three. Imuch preferred reading and writing in my room, away from the confusinglyunfriendly world outside. My family wasn't exactly loving and supportive, so Iwas pretty lost many times. I had to raise myself, in a way. My childhood wasmostly a blur of self-discovery. Enlightenment came from stories, not from parentsor any other adults.

Those two thick diaries lasted for almost two years. Until one day, mymean sociopathic brother revealed everything I wrote in them to everyone in myfamily. It was his revolting way of repressing me. He always holds thisirrational envy toward me (yes, even until now that we've grown so much). Asibling rivalry gone mental. He thinks I steal our mother's love away from him.Which is ridiculously false. So, he does many cruel and violent things todepress me, just to avenge himself.

I was so distressed about my diaries that I burnt both of them. The onething I regret most by now. It was my very first writing sample! I could'veturned them into novels or something. But book burning was a way to cope withmy psychological torment at that time. I stopped writing for a year till I wasfourteen. This time, I wrote in secret codes in my new smaller diary. I usedone symbol to represent one letter. Funny but perplexing. I don't think I keepthat journal with me.

The oldest diary I can remember is the one from tenth grade, when Istarted journaling in English. A tiny red book with a kangaroo on the cover. Inever stopped writing since then. It's the only thing to calm my angst, mysuicidal plea, and anything that requires contemplation. I still have no one totalk to. And diaries, now my blog, stay true as my longest best friends.

Thursday, February 16, 2012, 9:53 PM –

Friday, February 17, 2012, 11:42 AM

Nothing to writing

So Prototype

2012-02-17T03:26:00.000+07:00

How many of you failed to notice that I only talk to you to collect writing ideas?

Whether you are a family member, a love interest, a friend, an Internet contact, it doesn't matter. People are my main source of literary specimens. Nothing more. Do memorize this fact in your forgetfully naive mind. I am using you. And everyone else. Sometimes I get bored and I do uncanny things. This is one of them. Creepy. I know.

Nothing shall be outrageous. (I hope.) I try my very best to keep things neutral. Sanitized. When I sound a little too out-of-line, that's only cause you are easily shocked. Not my fault. You just need to understand that some people live in an environment that nurtures unusual tolerance for extremities. Add two hippie Muslim parents to that, and you have me. You won't be the first to call me crazy. Or strange. Or abnormal.

Everything I do is an implication of my poetic training. Some kind of a poetic license. Verbalized or actualized. Oh, why am I making excuses for my emotional disturbance? This is inappropriate for a thirty-one year old. But according to the artistic Mr Darren Hayes, we have therapists to justify our behaviors.

I trust I'm making myself clear.

At work, I am very "sane". I mean, I am known to be responsible and dedicated and approachable. Or I just assume I am. I don't know. I don't deliberately ask people what they think of me. That kind of interrogation doesn't intrude much in daily conversations. Since I can't risk appearing foolish, I have to maintain a professional reputation.

Still, I treat the people at work, or any other place, the same. They are the inspiration for my stories. My prose. My poetry. I believe any writer does an exact consistency like this. It's just something we do. Like a biological instinct. An impulsive process in our brains. We can't turn it off.

My best advice is never to take my words to heart. I'm only humorless when working (teaching, not writing). Outside that domain, I'm a complete mess.

Thursday, February 16, 2012, 10:04 PM –
Friday, February 17, 2012, 2:08 AM
Next novel

I'm Fine, Baby. How Are You?

2012-02-16T21:45:00.001+07:00

The laziest Thursday. Ever.

Not sure what has happened to my body lately. I've been feeling weak. Lethargic. Yesterday I slept for only four hours since I had to rise early to get ready for work. Today I added four or five extra hours and woke at noon. Yet, I didn't get any energy recharge afterward. Something is not right.

I thought about practicing a vegetarian diet again. For health reasons. It seems to me that when I avoided eating meat for six years, I had more verve in my physique. No need to take energy drinks or coffee to start my morning. And all went well even when I had to attend four classes from eight in the morning till four in the afternoon. I was never sleepy, and my mood was not as depressed as it is now. Perhaps I felt happy cause I was doing something I love much: studying literature. Perhaps it was the food intake.

There's no way to know unless I'm willing to go back to vegetarianism to validate if it was really the effect of not consuming meat. It's hard cause chicken and fish and shrimp taste oh-so-bloody good. A million times better than tofu and tempeh and other plant-based foods. I've always hated vegetables since I was little. They're like gooey rubber in my mouth. Ewh.

Please don't tell me I need to exercise. I've never done such a thing in all my life. I enjoy walking anywhere, for reaching destinations, not for keeping my body fit. I don't see working out as anything compelling, unless it involves competition where I get the chance to defeat corny boys at their lousy sports games.

Even writing couldn't ignite my life-force. I've been pushing myself to create something original and poignant since three hours ago, but nothing succeeds. Not having any Muse is the sickest excuse I will never accede. I am a total failure!

Thursday, February 16, 2012, 9:38 PM

And the Best Blog Goes To...

2012-02-16T16:34:00.000+07:00

Blogspot. That's why I'm here.

Just now when I wanted to check my old blog on amelanniza.blog.com, this was what I got:

And, after reloading the page for more than ten times:

Hell, yeah. I love having a free blog account that doesn't suck every week or so. Even when Blogspot is not all perfect, it's still better than Blog.com for this kind of reliable stability. I hate the fact that I can't edit my comments on Blogspot, but it provides Captcha codes to deter spammers. I also hate its many other deficiencies. Stuff that I got from Blog.com but not on Blogspot.

Nevertheless, this is the very time I love using Blogspot. No frustrating Bad Gateway error messages that prevent me from opening my blog. When Opera turbo can't access a site, that's bad. Seriously bad. So, Blogspot, not Blog.com. Better maintenance. Better accessibility.

Madhouse

2012-02-15T22:46:00.000+07:00

When my parents came home from Batam, where my father is stationed for his engineering project for months, my rowdy twin nephews greeted them eagerly. "Where are the plane tickets? Give us the plane tickets!" they bounced near the door like little puppies.

"We don't have any tickets," my father put his bags on the sofa.

My mother played along, "We went aboard as illegal passengers. With no tickets."

"What are illegal passengers?" asked the twins.

"When you get on a plane without paying."

"Reeeeaally?" the gullible eight-year-olds bought the lie. "Wouldn't you be caught by the police?"

"Of course not. We hid at the very far back where it's dark and no one could see us." My mother, a retired third-grade teacher, makes up stories like breathing.

My father groped around in his bag and found the tickets. "Oh, look, here they are. Tickets!"

"SEE!! You were lying!" the boys snatched the tickets, annoyed and pleased.

So, as you can witness, I live in a family of liars. Not criminal liars, only accidental.

Ever since the twins reached the age of six or so, my parents, my sister, and I started brainwashing them with harmlessly misleading statements. When the boys asked my sister to check their Math exercises, she would tell them the wrong answers just to mess with their heads. I informed them that I was pregnant with baby bunnies, or kittens. My parents occasionally fabricate fictional events that sound like truth when talking to them.

It's totally superfun. Transforming these kids into highly imaginative and articulate speakers. They bravely question and contradict adults (since they now realize that not all adults always champion honesty). And, the wicked part: They know how to improvise on their own creative versions of conversations, saying the most innocently creative lines. Their ingenuity amuses everyone.

Don't be so shocked when I write or say the most insane and inane things. It runs in my family.

Welcome to the madhouse.

Wednesday, February 15, 2012, 2:35 – 7:01 PM
Yellow house

The Debt

2012-02-15T21:42:00.000+07:00

Seventy more posts to aim for one hundred by the end of February. If I manage to write five in a day, this should be very easy. You know how much I love neurotic writing. With diligence, comes quality. That's what I believe in.

Of course, it should be fun and not burdening. I also want it to be systematic, in a way. When I instruct myself to achieve something, I will. I keep telling myself this as a warning not to break my own promises. Make it public, and you try harder to realize the things you say you will do. Public disgrace is very threatening. There's a psychological research on that. Seriously.

Great ideas don't come easily. Not even with unnatural efforts. I tried. I get insights from showers. Just standing there under the cooling running water. Words dance like shooting stars running down my brain. Tragically, I cannot type during showers. That may electrocute me or something. Other materials come from dreams. From conversations. Pictures. The Internet. Broken hearts. Grief. Love.

Mornings and nights, sunrise and dark, attract an eerily mournful mood where I am most pensive. This is the time of poetry. Anything emotive. I also prefer to write lying down on my bed, so that I won't strain my back and neck by sitting too long on a chair or on the floor. Like now when I'm sitting on an office chair. So uncomfortable. I want to go home to write unperturbedly.

Too sleepy to focus after having lunch. Where is my soul? I need to juice it to extract the madness in me. Sounding bland won't annoy anyone. I need to wreak havoc and stir some chaos somewhere. Life is so dull with no emotional anarchy.

Bad sitting posture. Not helping. The light too bright above me. But I cannot adjust it, or it will be too dark to see the keyboard. I really, really want to go home to my heavenly and grimy room. The only place where I can be myself and find my sullen voice.

Wednesday, February 15, 2012, 1:51 – 2:32 PM

Amel Anniza

2012-02-15T21:33:00.000+07:00

Is the most impossible person on Earth, according to Steven.

Strawberry kisses!

Her real name is not even Amel Anniza. It's Amel Annisa. She changed Annisa to Anniza since on the day she signed up for Facebook, somewhere in 2007, there were many other Amel Annisas. So, she decided to create something unique and adopted Anniza as her pen name.

Today, she's the only Amel Anniza in the world (if Google is that trustworthy). Any other Amel Anniza is her copycat.

She majored in psychology, industrial design, and English because she enjoys learning. Or, studying. Or both. But since her true love is only English literature, that's the only undergrad degree she completed.

After working as an Indonesian-to-English translator/interpreter/ proofreader, she shifted into English teaching. She thought working for those capitalistic companies would only shame her. Damaging her naive idealism. She wanted to help students master English, so that she would gain emotional rewards from doing so. Extremely selfish.

Five years later, in 2011, she got so bored of teaching Writing, TOEFL, IELTS (or any other subject for that matter), and aspired to be a most inspired English poet and short story author. However, this isn't exactly practical to do in Indonesia. No one reads English poems and fiction unless the person majors in English literature.

There are slots for commercial writers who work at magazines and online publications. She tried to apply to forty-one companies, but none fit her. These jobs won't demand her to produce literary works. It's all about fashion, lifestyle, food, technology, and entertainment. She knew she wouldn't feel at peace writing those. Picky, isn't she?

Disenchanted, she opted to stick to her freelance teaching job and writes for herself. On this not-so-cool blog. At least, here, she gets to experiment with any writing craft she likes. Composing whatever averageness she can conceive. No need to dwell on silly frivolities such as make-up and fashion trends.

Oh. The next time she includes this blog address in her resume, there's a good chance those beauty magazines never want to interview her. Digging her own grave trying to sound cheeky.

How to pronounce Amel Anniza: Ah-mell Un-nhi-sah.
Or, just address her the Goddess of Madness.

Wednesday, February 15, 2012, 11:13 AM – 1:32 PM

Twist. Lick. Dunk.

2012-02-15T21:06:00.000+07:00

Who wants free money? We have tons of it. As much as my teaching shifts go, that is.

I spent two and a half hours of my morning chatting, complaining, gossiping with Diah the secretary and Tasha the other teacher. Three girls in a room. At work. Talking about how unenthusiastic these bank workers we are supposed to teach are. They have flexible (non-compulsory) English classes, ninety minutes per week, to help them advance their communication skills and boost their confidence. Does anyone come? Not this morning. Or any other morning, I assume.

At half past ten, one woman came and went to Tasha's classroom. I'm here. Alone in my room. Typing how miserable I am, while listening to Darren Hayes and dancing to the music mimicking Rachel Berry. No one wants to come to my class. This isn't something surprising.

I know I am a serious, philosophical, academic tutor who mostly speaks about weighty or peculiar stuff like cultural diversities and ghost stories. I don't really liven up the conversation. I don't make a habit of joking around like most people do. But I am trying my best to help people learn English the way I know how. Isn't learning the most essential part of education?

But anyway, the fact that these adult students evade their English sessions whomever the teacher is explains much more. They're simply uninterested. And that's how I earn my free money. Waiting in vain, not teaching. Eating Oreos, not teaching. Blogging, not teaching.

You know, when I was little, I wanted so bad to join an English course but my mother wouldn't let me cause the place is too far from our house. We didn't have many informal language schools like now. Therefore, I had to study it by myself. And I still do. Every single day. Learning is fun. It challenges my brain. I can't comprehend why some people hate studying. To me, it's the equivalent of brain candies. Delicious. Just like this ice-cream flavored Oreo in my mouth.

Work, on the other hand, is not that exciting.

Wednesday, February 15, 2012, 10:39 – 11:12 AM

Unwanted Love Affair

2012-02-15T06:36:00.000+07:00

Good morning, paltry money, how nice it is to see you.

From my room, I can see the ashen morning sky turning bright white with blue. A neighbor's piano tune. The early paper delivery. Kittens meowing for their portion of nourishment. My mean brother scolding his wife. His powerlessly impatient wife scolding their child. Bathroom water being flushed. Sparrows. So many sparrows, chirping, celebrating a new day. I wish I were happy as they. But I can't.

Wednesday is a section of work: granting money, unneeded, unsought. Despised. Life rolls as it pleases and I am drawn with the tide of triviality and people's artificiality. What good is grudge when I cannot seem to fight anything?

Coughing. Silenced. Sighing. I long to sleep for complete freedom. Perhaps later I can ignore all that is a bother. Concentrate on the heart, the only that matters. Pulse racing, embracing the adrenaline. Can I? Can I? Anxiety and indifference flux with the start of drowsiness. No more unhealthy indulgence, I told myself. Let today bring warranted grit. The kind that eases my core.

Careless wishes won't do me any good. I must urge. Necessitate. Throw away the smiles and amicability. Being myself even when it means I build a fortress from what is human. I cannot, will not, take the turn leading to that road. Promising relief. A release from restraint. Running away, defying, becoming a goddess of all things denied.

I must leave now. I must. A scheduled date with paltry money awaits.

Wednesday, February 15, 2012, 5:50 – 6:28 AM

Every Day

2012-02-14T23:25:00.000+07:00

Falling, beautifully, into

a choreographed nightmare

Sinking, weighing myself down,

down the ocean where

the sand blackens the blue

The comfort of forgetting you

Shrinking, shriveling, staggering

Doesn't mean a thing

Doesn't mean everything can

and will set a record of novelty

Ugly, isn't it? When I rise

these gearwheels click but never

surrender the past like glass

refracting prisms of light

A brain so autonomous

it ticks without a heart

Flesh and blood my casket

You are made of rainbow-

unicorn-glitter-and-lollipop

Your cheekbones sugar cubes

Your scent —

the pinkness of seduction

I cannot reason why

It just is

With each and every day

I hate you more than love

Tuesday, February 14, 2012, 7:02 – 11:19 PM

Because

2012-02-14T22:55:00.000+07:00

Even only for one day, I want someone to say:

"Can I talk to you? I... just want to talk to you."

Everything will feel beautiful. Right. Where all my life I have tried, and tried. People forget. A forgotten life. A course of cause-and-effect where a reaction requires a stimulus. Never want, or just because. Something essential, like life or death. Like disasters. Recent news. Not the colors of flowers or the charm of butterflies. Not because.

When the night unfolds, spirits become shadows. Everything is lost. But tears. And fears. The things I hold so dear. All happiness melts into a pang of sorrow. Merely being. In the dark. Darkest part of this room, where you reside.

And I belong to me. Only myself and the mystery.

Tuesday, February 14, 2012, 10:49 PM

The Final Stage of Love

2012-02-14T01:07:00.000+07:00

Happens when you wish pure delight for the object of your affection.Even when it means his life doesn't include you.

I asked Cedric to assess my "Starry Friend" story, since Ilike the wistful sentimentalism in it. I thought he would be able to beimpartial and give his honest opinion. But all he said was, "Not your bestwriting. Too much Steven."

Wow. Haven't heard jealousy as pronounced as that. As I recall, whenSteven talked about the girls he loved or liked, I never sensed any form of distaste.I listened attentively, to give him all the support he needed. I want him to behappiest. To find that girl he's always dreaming of. And this is the wholetruth. Not a manipulative show of bravery. I don't want him for myself. He mustrely on his heart, instead of listening to mine.

If all that prettifiedsuperstition proves to be true, that there is such a quixotic phenomenon as"soulmates", we will find each other in the end. Won't we? How unworkableit may sound.

I don't live for tomorrow, or for yesterday. It's the here and now thatmatters. I know what I know, and I am doing the best I can for everyone. Idon't have the need to beg for love and attention. I am good on my own. So iseveryone else. We are never lost, nor directionless. We only need to listen toour hearts.

It's not reason. It's emotion. When you feel something again and again,that's truth. No justification, no complication. It's there. Right there withinyou. Run as you might, and it will still call for you. Desires. Dreams.Yearning. The one to turn to.

Some get what they want. Some struggle and search. Some let go. Werealize that life is not about restraining others to comply with our demands.Or imposing our prerequisites of a make-believe world they cannot cling to.

And I have reached the final stage of my love: wishing you true happiness,even when I'm not in it. Knowing you is enough. Loving you is the finest memoryof my life.

Tuesday, February 14, 2012, 12:36 AM

Infatuation Turning into Disease

2012-02-13T23:12:00.000+07:00

I'm so lazy; I could die.

After publishing "Starry Friend" this morning, I fell asleep.Trying my best to get rid of the congestion in my nose/throat and that effervescentheadache. I can't believe sipping some icy chocolate milk last night resultedin another stupid case of a sore throat. Coughing till now. What is so bloodywrong with my current immunity? I hope this is a sure sign that Death is near.

As dramatic as usual.

Noon beckoned with its warmth and I woke. Lazily. Hopelessly. My dreaminvolved school papers, scholarships, and a restaurant. I should have recordedevery bit of it and turned it into a surreal story. I wonder if fiction writersalways dream about the most ridiculous and curious scenes. The kinds thatoverwhelm us so much that we must write about them and tell the world.

How did eight hours elapse without my relentless attempt at completingseven articles in a day? I have set a goal with tomorrow's Tuesday as thedeadline: forty posts. I need fifteen more to go, which means eight today andseven tomorrow. Feasible. If I refrain from slacking too often. Quit oglingthose lovable animals on Cute Overload. They're evil!

Think poetry. Write some.

Brainless days like this freeze my brain and leave me in despair. Ablank white screen stares at me with document titles waiting to be elaborated.Feeling like the biggest failure. But when I told myself I would do something,I will. Even if it kills me to prove it. To prove myself.

And... when I checked my phone messages and work email just now, thesecretary asked me to substitute for another teacher for a whole week, in thathaunted building, tutoring those remiss bank workers. I don't like thewaiting-for-students worthlessness. But it seems that she was desperate for notbeing able to find another teacher. I felt rather sorry for her. So I saidokay. Still waiting for her to call me tomorrow morning.

Another week to endorse the life of a wage slave. Not something I lookforward to. Hoping I won't get sicker. Or I can just spend my days silently dreaming ofyou. Inhaling the music of your loneliest heart.

"If you would only listen, you might just realize what you're missing: You're missing me."

Monday, February 13, 2012, 10:55 PM

Starry Friend

2012-02-13T07:04:00.000+07:00

When I was four, I looked up to the night sky, and made a tiny wish, "I wish for a friend."

The stars, feeling affectionate for a little neglected girl, granted me you. A baby was born, in the farthest faraway land, whose language I did not comprehend.

So, two years later, when I was six, I knew I had to learn your language. I knew that years forward you would find me. And when you finally get the chance to find me, I have to tell you I love you in a language that you understand.

I learnt and learnt and learnt. No one forced me to. I simply wanted to. An invisible force within guided me to learn your language. All on my own. Picture cards when I was six, songs when I was ten, textbooks when I was twelve, movies when I was thirteen, dictionaries and novels when I was fourteen, journals and stories when I was fifteen, to plays and poetry when I was twenty-one. All my life, I never stopped learning, for I knew. One day, you would find me.

And then, came the home computer. Then, the noble Internet. Our broken hearts and damaged dreams. Those wasted years passed us by... Until the day Cupid decided to cross our two divergent paths.

There you are. I waited forever for you to find me.

Without your interference, I would have never found you. It was impossible. You are out of my age range. I would have never known you exist in this faraway land, whose language I have now spoken. Yet, you found me. The way I always knew you would.

But I suppose wishes only came true when I was four. Not when I was thirty, or thirty-one. Again, I wished for you. And I wished and wished and wished. It never came true. I never had the chance to tell you I love you.

Our story ended with acceptance and two broken hearts. Our paths detached from each other, back to where we were. Two children living apart in two different worlds. Two strangers. Two separate lives among billions of others. Unspoken words and forgotten feelings. Not knowing who we are.

Sometimes I make myself believe that I was the one who found you. My starry friend. The starriest one I could find — made out of a childhood wish and a sprinkle of stardust. Sometimes I tell myself that somehow you would always come back to me. And I to you.

Monday, February 13, 2012, 4:58 – 6:43 AM

Wish upon a star

Bears versus Kittens

2012-02-12T21:33:00.000+07:00

Kittens are my Kryptonite. They possess the superpower to enchain me allmy helpless life. Seriously.

They're so tiny when they're born. Fit into the size of my palm. Andthey wriggle and squiggle. Like a living toy. Little kittens until three monthsold are the cutest thing on Earth. I swear. I would adopt all of the straykittens in Jakarta if I could. A true crazy cat lady.

But. Today I was on 9Gag, that juvenile Internet meme site crowded bystupid high school boys too lazy to do their homework. The only reason Iclicked it was cause the boys on my Twitter timeline pasted its links. Otherwise,I wouldn't go there. Not my type.

And. I found this:

OH, OH, OH. Didn't you just die of a million cuteness? What can becuter than him! I want to hold him and never let go.

That's Siku, the Danish polar bear cub. He's raised by humans since hismother cannot feed him. I so want my own polar bear cub right now. Where can Iget one?

More photos of Siku.

Bad Blogspot

2012-02-12T20:59:00.000+07:00

I used to be on Blog.com from March 2010 to January 2012. It wrongly suspended my blog twice, mistaking it as spam because I posted six small articles in a day. What horror. I could not access it for almost four days. Wordpress is not a choice since it won't allow users to use Google Analytics. Let's just pretend it didn't exist.

Thus, I moved here to Blogspot. Hoping no suspension would ensue. Blogspot is not perfect, nor is it any better than Blog.com. After three weeks, I kept finding its shortcomings:

No categories. Who would think of displaying a blog with no categories? They simplify the posts into easily-spotted topics.

No blog calendar. This is important for me since I can monitor how many articles I publish in a day. And visitors can do the same in checking titles.

No recent comments, where they show authors with their links like on Blog.com. This is useful for promoting other people's sites, helping them to garner recognition.

No text sizes in points, only small/normal/large and so on. I love to vary my font sizes to arrange a more interesting reading experience.

No hexadecimal font colors, only a set of predetermined colors. Also necessary to make a post appear more entertaining.

No personalized adjustments for image and video sizes. Not cool. Everything is so fixed on Blogspot.

No sticky posts, for when I need to highlight an important article.

No private or password-protected posts. The whole blog must be made private or password-protected. So useless. It's cooler to create a password-protected post to increase readers' curiosity.

No all-inclusive site search. The search box will only cover posts, not pages.

No IP address records for comments. Very anonymous, very harmful. This can benefit stalkers and spammers. I have to install some IP widget like StatCounter to detect visitors' IP addresses.

No option to edit permalinks. The stupidest flaw ever! I had to republish an article with the new title to change its permalink. Too much hassle. It's troublesome if I want to change the title of a post which I often do. Google needs to fix this.

Other things on Blogspot are fine, however. Based on my experience, Blog.com has a very tardy support service. No forums, no far-reaching user groups. Difficult to fix when something flops. Help is almost impossible, unless you're willing to wait for three days or more. I'm too impatient for such negligence.

Sunday, February 12, 2012, 8:39 PM

Plotting

2012-02-12T18:30:00.000+07:00

Cedric: Are you still in love with Steven?

Amel: Yea.

Cedric: I'm still in love with you.

Amel: Good. Soon, I will post a love-triangle story.

See what I mean? Stories are everywhere.Literally. In fact, I have drafted that love-triangle tale a while ago in mypaper journal. Cedric is in love with Amalia. Amalia is in love with Steven.Steven is in love with Sally. Sally is the dumbest red-haired maiden who isclueless about the magical world she lives in.

Coco Rocha, my model for Sally. White-skinned, red-haired, sexy curly locks, that stupid expression. Perfect.

Exploiting red-haired girls is fun. They remind me of witches andmermaids. Perhaps I can modify Sally to choose Cedric, to complicate itfurther. Or, turning Sally gay to make her fall for Amalia. Lesbianism shouldarise somewhere in my work. Why not now? Amalia would be homophobic, loatheSally, and break her poor, poor heart. Shove some eroticism in it. Seducing Steven's character should be amusing. He's like an inexperienced Tamagotchi. Fragile and chivalrous.

There will be a mean queen and a shallow king. Blood and suicide. Ihave a complete rough plot from beginning to middle to ending. Still need todevelop the narration and dialogue. The most excruciating part.

I miss writing fiction. It's hard. Tricky as Hell. Losing track in theprocess often occurs. Demotivating me from finishing the whole piece. Too manydrafts in my Fiction folder by now. Which is ineffective. I have discovered thebest method of writing: instancy. Tried and true. Works for fiction and poetry.I just have to force my brain to structure the entire package at one sitting.The mood will be intact. Solid and uninterrupted.

Be warned that I fictionalize everything and everyone. Those who know me well should be familiar with thishabit. I treat people as precious literary specimens. No one shall escape mydramatization. I'll rewrite anything and make it end the way I want it. The power of imagination. It'snot my being impolite. Take it as a compliment.

Sunday, February 12, 2012, 6:10 PM

Coco Rocha

Kissable Criminal Kittens

2012-02-12T16:19:00.001+07:00

Can someone please educate this naughty yellow kitten that eighty minutes of sleep is not enough for a human?

Villain #1: having the courage to wake a sleeping tigress. If she were a human, I would definitely yell at her and threw her out of my room.

She just learnt how to climb the mango tree in the front yard to hop onto the roof and scurried down the stairs to go inside the house. This morning, only my room was opened. So... she attacked my face and started crying asking for food. What a racket. I barely slept for eighty freaking minutes!! Reluctantly I had to wake (with a major headache) and prepared breakfast for six kittens and their mother. What slavery!

They are not even mine. The twins' mother adopted them from someone on the Internet. Why must I suffer and care for them when I so badly need my sleep? How unfair.

We used to have eleven kittens. Two died from illnesses. One was run over by a car. Two other went missing. The remaining six kittens sleep in plastic drawers in the carport. They also eat and play there. Sometimes they go inside the house when the front door is opened. Only one, that female yellow kitten, called India by the twins, is able to climb the mango tree and sneak in from the back staircase.

I don't really approve of the name India. Not cute enough for a cute kitten. Still better than Motor and Dough, of course (the twins have an awful taste for names). I told them I'll call her Karamel. She seems to like me cause she went to my room again after having her breakfast. Sniffing and licking my face. Demanding to sleep on my arm.

Villain #2: He stealthily jumped onto my face to kiss my strawberry lips. Forgiven simply cause his face looks too adorable.

The other kitten, the gray one, named Joel or Weli by the twins (though I prefer to call him Melon), also assaulted me some time ago. What is wrong with them? They chewed on my face, on my hair, my arms and hands and feet. And they did this for thirty minutes or so. Really annoying. They must think they were bathing me, or that I'm their human-size toy.

No man has ever kissed me. But kittens? They forcefully kissed me many times. Probably cause I wore sweet-smelling strawberry lip balm. Now I know how it feels like to be molested: not nice.

Sunday, February 12, 2012, 3:54 PM

Insomnia and Melancholia

2012-02-12T11:33:00.000+07:00

Defense mechanism instructs my body to function. The heart beats in its dysfunction. I don't want to live any longer. My thoughts, uncontrollable as they get, roam through the past. Always embracing the smallest parts of you. Talking to you as if we had known each other forever. The tiniest fraction that I could not hold together.

Unwanted memories. Fading. Rising.

You are perfect being who you are. Your unknowing confusion. That restrained pride. The child who runs and hides. And I love you. I love you. I love you. When it concerns affection, you know I'm the best liar you'll ever confront. I weave the most knotty tale as a spider's web. Savoring morning dews. Ensnaring delicate preys.

Tick tock tick. Five o'clock passed. Shouldn't I be sleeping? Dear years, the oldest clock on the wall, tell me when it is time to dream. For in my dreams, you always left. Vanished. Never a warning. I had to catch you. I had to regain you. Lost in the invisibility, I just knew where to find you. Barrier after barrier, my hands will open the one door that leads to you. The way you always came back to me.

Question. And you always will. Cause I always do. The archetypal cliché: No one else makes me feel the way you can. As much as no other will have the same toxic ingredients you tasted from me. It takes a suicidal Scorpio to lure you into the land.

But I never asked you to love me. That would be wrong. All I ever wanted was to let you know you're not alone. That I will always be here. A constant friend. Even when you're strong enough on your own. When you readily distance yourself from me since you can't need me. Either a promise, or a curse. I will never ask.

Sometimes, it destroys me to diagnose what you did to me. You required something tragic just to talk to me. A broken bone. The death of a friend. Deafening silence. You don't devise a reason to talk to someone. Do it because you want to. Not because you have to. I am not an obligation. Communication is not a waiting game.

Which one came first, insomnia or melancholia? Did the two happen simultaneously in my case? Between busyness and avoidance, which one commands you to ignore me? I miss you so.

Understand.

Sunday, February 12, 2012, 11:19 AM

Obsessive Color Disorder

2012-02-12T01:49:00.000+07:00

Too fly to be depressed. Isn't that one hilariously smug statement? But I like it. Everyone has to sound super-confident these days. I'll delay my disconcerting mood to a tentative future. Let's play with colors.

One of the inviting refreshments I have to tame is Looklet. It removed its user page where people could show off our fad-related articles, but the virtual models and clothes stay. I still can combine an eclectic disarray of style disasters to entertain my bored self.

Fashion sounds shallow, I know. Beauty magazines for young girls and older women always feature pages of how to look trendiest and contemporarily correct. I hate those. When I applied to work for these magazines, I had to swallow my pride and mumbled something like: "I used Polyvore to make fashion sets." Ridiculous, but necessary.

Looking gorgeous isn't the center of the Universe, you know. There are far more profound issues. Doesn't mean design is trash. I love designers, design majors, and a bunch of other creative spirits out there. Originality inspires me most. And colors delight. The only reason I joined a design school was to explore how visual artistry could empower my dreams. To express my inner self. Unfortunately, the workload was unbearable for me.

Most of my Looklet choices are masculine, though they utilize skirts and dresses. And this time, influenced by Glee, I constructed some preppy school girl and career women outfits. Socks and boots and belts. Formally neat formations, fused with some street punk tendencies.

In the slideshow, the first and second images are the closest to what I wear when teaching: tight shirt, knitted vest, knee-length skirt, socks and boots. My hair is normally tied in a bun secured with a flower hairclip. I appear businesslike and professional. Not that I want to. I have to. If it were up to me, I'd rather wear summer dresses and go everywhere barefoot, like a fairy.

Sunday, February 12, 2012, 1:41 AM

Like Strawberry Fields

2012-02-11T22:06:00.000+07:00

Did we ever like each other so much, or was it always my scenario? Iemailed you. I don't know how many times. More than a million, I reckon. You "forgot"to reply. Did you really? If you did, then let me slap you in the face with thepsychology behind forgetting.

Forgetting something or someone means you don't care. As simple asthat. This person never went as far into your long-term memory. She did notmatter to you. And after some time, you didn't forget anymore. You simplyignored me. Unreturned emails and IM chats and tweets. How many more proofs didI seek? Wasn't it clear as crystal?

It was. I just wanted to believe the opposite. I wanted to feel like Imattered. I wanted you to be different from everyone else. I wanted to bepatient. To be there for you. I thought I found a friend I always wished for.But I was wrong.

There is no other lifetime. No other me. No other you. This is all wehave. And remember: I never asked for you to love me. I never asked forsomething I could not have. I know my place. Consolation, not love. I only hopedthat you would be there for me when I needed you the most. Of all people, Ithought you would understand this.

You accepted me for who I am without my conspicuous effort. When didyou give up on me? When did you become everyone else? Without my initiative,there will be no communication. The disposable.

Didn't I say enough? Didn't Itry enough? Too much of it. You knew I needed you. I just thought you would bedifferent. Now I know I was so wrong about you. Misperception. What else is new. I saw things that were not there.

That girl you liked so very much. She didn't talk to you for one dayand you were hysterical. I can never be her. I won't ever be. But wouldn't itbe nice? If only someone could feel about me exactly the way you felt abouther. Like I mattered.

Remember.

Saturday, February 11, 2012, 10:00 PM

Here I Am So Alone

2012-02-11T20:33:00.000+07:00

I miss, miss, miss, miss you so, so, so very much. But that has nothingto do with who we are today.

Everything turns out excellent. Life is good. I have nothing to be sadabout. Slept. From half past three after midnight. Woke at nine. Washed myhands and face; brushed my teeth. Breakfast. Internet. Messed about with noparticular purpose. No more Gleeepisodes to watch. Playfully fought with the twins. Created Looklet fashionsets. Accessed the last Word document I was working on. Now forcing myself towrite. Blogging. Coping with the inevitable headache.

As always, the minute I opened my eyes and adjusted my body to thethirst and sunshine, my brain began to spew words. Happens all the time. Everyday (except probably when I have to teach). That very moment constitutes myprime writing time. Between subconscious dreaming and awareness, my mind intensifies.I don't have to think, and yet it works on its own. Too bad I must interruptthe process with food and water. Otherwise I would be starving.

Dwindling and deviating, morning became procrastination. PainlessInternet clicking is so much easier than composition. The postmodern culture oflaziness. And through it all, I thought of you. Be proud of yourself, won'tyou? These last two months have pushed me to be even more autonomous than Ialready am. I am fully liberated. There's nothing better than freedom. I'm finebeing so alone.

What else can I do? When all my life loneliness is an everyday norm.The unequaled prominence year after year. I cannot complain. It's who I am. I don'tneed people; I just want one. But this one person doesn't need me, or want mearound. An occasional contact. That's all there is to it. By occasional, it includes once-a-year chat, say... only after my friend died.

Here I am. Accepting that fact. What else must I do?

Saturday, February 11, 2012, 8:24 PM

Because I Promised

2012-02-10T23:51:00.000+07:00

I think I'm dying.

Or, at the very least getting so old. I've been having too manyminor/major headaches since that cursed Monday teaching. The classes were fine,but somehow, the aftermath was horrendous. What have I done so wrong? Reachingsix days of soreness.

The last time I experienced something like this was in high school whenI had to deal with that sinus problem. I didn't totally fix it since it wouldrequire taking sleep-inducing pills that prevented me from concentrating in class.The other remedy was surgery. Which disgusts me to the bone. Imagine having someclinically uncaring doctor slicing your head open to remove your disease. Iwill never attempt such a nightmare. Medical doctors are not to be trusted. They'recold and inhumane.

In college, from 1998, through my work years until 2012, I was freefrom this irksome pain. Not sure what I did to keep myself healthier. It wasjust gone. No headaches. Well, not exactly true. I did have that near-death analgesicoverdose somewhere in 1999 or 2000. That was to ease my sinus symptom.

Will writing about my illness alleviate it? Or making it worse? I usedto sleep around this time, a little before or after midnight, to wake at sevenor eight in the morning. But I need to commit to that vow to post three times aday, remember. I have to.

Positioning my brain in the writing phase coerces me to typeautomatically. I type, not necessarily write, and words emerge on their own. Notime to bargain, or to be unmotivated. I have a target to achieve before nextWednesday. No matter how mediocre the result is, I will simply write. Poems andstories may arise any time.

Friday, February 10, 2012, 11:48 PM

Running Low on Inspirations

2012-02-10T22:34:00.002+07:00

On the tenth day of February, I have only posted fourteen uselessarticles on this newly publicized blog. Not good. It should have been equal tothirty as I promised to complete three pieces a day. Sixteen to go. Won'tfinish all in one day. I know.

So I had to restore the poems and stories and prose. I had to promotemy blog and submit the URL to search engines and Internet directories. I had toteach. I got sick from teaching and wasted one whole day to cure my headachesand another for my throat infection. I watched all Glee episodes and took thirty-five screenshots of Kurt Hummel. Allthese lame excuses display how easily distracted I was.

A very peculiar thing is how I tend to have discomforting headacheswhen I worry about writing. About how little I have written in February. Itfeels like I fail to meet my own deadline. Disgraceful. I need to practicehigher discipline.

Even when I feel so alone and lonesome, I can't find anything to whineabout. I need a genuine friend whom I can freely talk to. Or better yet, that fictionalpoet lover. Might he be as handsome as Darren Criss and sing as brilliantly? Iwish. Either a skillful poet or a singer. I only want things I cannot have.

Sometimes I miss having a friend. But then I note that I have never hadanyone at all. It has always been my diary and me. All these years. I come homeand write. This same tiny room I have inhabited since I was ten, from 1990. Thevery bed I have slept on since I was eight. My books. They're the only friendsthat stay. People don't like me that much. That resentment is mutual,fortunately.

And in this twenty-first century, my NKOTB paper diary is now a weblog.The most patient of all listeners. No arguments, no conflicting oppositions. Noemotional drama. It's better this way. I am speaking to myself, and will alwaysbe. Funny how it trains me to be most independent. Deleting the need of socialinteractions.

It's settled. I shall just write three 300-word sections in a day. Beit a poem, a diary entry, or any mindless nothingness, I don't care. As long asI write much. Entering neurotic writing mode till the next Wednesday when I teach.Leave me alone, all of you.

Friday, February 10, 2012, 10:24 PM

Image source cannot be found.

All the Pretty Darrens

2012-02-10T18:17:00.001+07:00

Darren Hayes or Darren Criss?

I know I should be faithful to my fourteen-year crush Darren Hayes who happens to be the only much-older man I want to marry in this whole wide world... but Darren Criss appears to be very appealing. Yes, he's short. But he has blackish hair and he sings so beautifully. He writes songs; he acts. And, he performs synchronized dances with The Warblers. Male dancers are extremely hot.

Last night, I was reading about Criss and had an instant heart attack when I discovered this on IMDB:

How? How can a twenty-five year old lad look that gorgeous with glasses and such a geeky theme? I don't find glasses attractive. But on him, that's another story. Godly pretty. Magnetically kissable. I understand that he's of a mixed race of Filipino and Irish. Eurasians have the best faces. I'm so jealous.

Now that I have watched all Glee episodes I could find on the net, I can testify that Blaine Anderson sings better than everyone else in the series. Even more alluring than Rachel Berry's magnificent vocal. He does all the top forty songs much more professionally than those citty American bands. American musicians are blatantly overrated. Too commercialized, but with no apparent talent like Criss's.

Here it is. Another breathtaking spectacle by Blaine Anderson and The Warblers glamorizing a Maroon 5's number "Misery". If people tell you Glee ruins all the good songs, never believe them. Every musical interpretation I have witnessed on Glee is entertaining. Fresh and delightful. Better than its original. And the best ones come from Mr Anderson.

Friday, February 10, 2012, 6:08 PM
Darren Criss

Sick

2012-02-09T22:24:00.000+07:00

Teaching is bad for my writing and my health. Yesterday, I caught some virus that infected my throat. Probably from the secretary. She was having a cold and I spent much time sitting across her, doing nothing, since many students refused to come to class saying they were busy with work.

I had that ominous headache after Monday classes, and it got worse on Wednesday. Wasting time killed me. I devoted my whole day just waiting for those uncommitted bank workers who don't see the importance of learning English. Only one came, for thirty short minutes. While in fact, I was scheduled to teach at least five participants for a total of seven and a half hours.

Yeay. FREE MONEY. Everything that is against my idealism and professional integrity. Isn't life a joy.

It made me realize that the high school students were so much better than these ungrateful adults are. Now that I had agreed to teach on three more Wednesdays till the end of February, I regret every word of it. I did try to check with the other teacher to see if he could occupy the rest of my teaching days, but he couldn't.

Damn it to Hell. I seriously don't want to misuse my existence for people who don't appreciate the privileges they get. This is very, very wrong. The school pays me for doing absolutely nothing but sitting around like an idiot. Simply because these employees think ninety minutes of practicing English has no effect on their career. I hate my job.

Worrying about how miserable I will be in those three days restarts my headache. Today I almost cure my throat infection by taking medicine and some herbal fusion of ginger, tamarind, lemon, honey, milk, and caramel. Sleep also helped. I can't afford any more psychosomatic pain from harboring insurmountable guilt in my head.

Imagine something nice. The clouds I saw from the office's balcony yesterday. White bursts of fluffiness that cheered my sorry afternoon.

Apart from the scenery, I heard from a student that his colleague saw a ghost in the elevator. A female spirit with long hair in a white robe. The building used to be a hotel and is believed to accommodate indefinable spirits. Should be groovy to encounter one. Stories are everywhere!

Thursday, February 9, 2012, 8:45 PM

Don't You Want Me, Baby?

2012-02-08T15:30:00.000+07:00

Never thought that Rachel and Blaine would make the most enviable Glee couple! But they actually are. The greatest duet, same hair tone, that annoying perfectionist attitude... Watch them drunk-performing "Don't You Want Me" on season two episode fourteen.

Too bad Blaine decided to be gay in the end. So not cool. He can have Rachel to produce super-singer babies together and donate darling Kurt to me. Right? I really can use a pretty boy-toy particularly now when I'm all depressed.

Good God. I am still crushing on Kurt Hummel!! The cutest lad I have ever seen. Every time I find his doll-like face in a Glee episode, I feel elated. All my sorrow goes away. Like magic. Just look at him. That dazed, emotionlessly-arrogant articulation with a demeaning stare. No need to utter one single word and he can convey so much.

Here are some screenshots from those Glee shows I have been watching. Kurt's memorable moments, where he looks stunning, charming, and downright heavenly. I just want to pinch his rosy cheeks and hold him forever and ever. Enjoy consuming his beautiful face as much as I do.

Wednesday, February 8, 2012, 3:24 PM

Bad Omen

2012-02-07T14:15:00.000+07:00

Dear Steven was the opening line I read when I received the first writing assignment in my Monday morning class. Like a bad omen. There were so many other names in a class full of twenty students. Why must it be his? What a nasty way to start an entire day as a substitute teacher.

Again, I agreed to help the school since one of those lazy-sloppy-irresponsible-incompetent foreign teachers had to take the day off to handle his stupid visa/passport or something. Get real, people. A visa or a passport only requires to be renewed once in every five years. I'm not stupid, you know.

Before this week, the secretary called me three times around six or seven in the bloody morning, ruining my much-needed sleep, cause she also had to ask me to cover for those absentees. It seems to me that these foreign pseudo-teachers make a habit of abandoning their classes using the cliched excuse of a passport/visa. I hardly believe they were telling the truth. They could just party too much and the mind-numbing hangover prevented them to come up with a smarter pretext than "handling my visa". Idiots.

But after yesterday, I can finally form my own justification for refusing to substitute. Too tiring to teach nine different classes for a total of seven hours in a day. This is not a joke.

A class consists of twenty to twenty-five kids. I had to teach nine consecutive sessions, from 7:45 AM to 2:55 PM, working with around 180 tenth to twelfth graders. The highest number so far in a day. Imagine handling all 180 students, teaching them English tenses and writing. It was hard. And it damaged my physique.

Lucky that the students were mostly cooperative. I didn't have to scold or argue as what I did with the elementary and middle school brats. The twelfth graders were so attentive and diligent that I naturally liked them. It feels best when I teach students who show considerable appreciation, showing they really want to be there and to attempt the tasks eagerly. To me, it's the most encouraging emotional reward a teacher can experience.

Nonetheless, I am not fine with the energy-draining workload. When I got home, my body felt like a train-wreck. All-muscle pain, headaches, and that unidentified queasiness. Horrible multiplied by ten. I was exhausted but I couldn't sleep. Thirsty and hungry but I was full. I couldn't write anything though I wanted to. Like too many contradictions merging into one. Very unhealthy.

Which is why I will never ever approve to teach that much in the future. That's just crazy. Self-inflicted torture. I am still recuperating from yesterday, feeling rather unwell, worrying that I have to teach again tomorrow. Not in a public school. Easy one-on-one tutorials for bank workers. Still, seven and a half hours in a day. Damn it. I want a month of uninterrupted holiday!

Tuesday, February 7, 2012, 1:48 PM
Happy bunny

Petty (but Ultracute) Distractions

2012-02-07T10:40:00.000+07:00

The gay guys of Glee: Kurt, Blaine, and Jeremiah. So beautiful like angels and gods. Sensitive, cultured, refined. And gorgeously fashionable. What more can a girl ask for?

Though I still save seven more titles to watch of all Glee TV series till today February 7, 2012, I have decided on my most favorite, funniest chapter: "Silly Love Songs". Season two, episode twelve.

Blaine Anderson — on falling in love with a junior manager of a Gap store in Lima, Ohio:

"That's him, the blond one folding the sweaters. His name is Jeremiah. If he and I got married, the Gap would give me a fifty percent discount."

And I want it bad...

Kurt Hummel — on having a secret crush on the clueless Blaine Anderson who doesn't realize anything about his admiration:

"..."

Seriously, Blaine. Gap discount?

Jeremiah — on running away from The Gap Attack to save his job (while keeping his perfect dainty hair intact):

"What the Hell were you doing?"

Because you walk pretty, because you talk pretty.

Sorry, Kurt, but I have to agree with Blaine. If a junior manager at a Gap store looks as tempting as Jeremiah, I will make a compulsive effort on buying a pair of socks every single day just to ask him out.

And now, for the best Glee video rendition, I present you the talented Blaine Anderson with the help of The Warblers from Dalton Academy performing a cover of Robin Thicke's song "When I Get You Alone". Get ready to be amazed by The Gap Attack.

Tuesday, February 7, 2012, 10:18 AM

Feeling Blue

2012-02-05T20:34:00.000+07:00

When I'm trying to forget the feeling that I miss you.

Yet, it all comes back to this giant black hole of nothingness that sucks the light surrounding it. Everything spirals into misery and hopelessness. No matter what the scenario is, it all ends the same. I am talking to a screen. Whether you're there or not. Whether we're friends or not. You can never understand.

And this is the life I have come to know. For years. I try to connect, and reconnect. To make people feel they are a part of me. Letting them know that I care. In the end, I feel lonelier than the day before. No one will ever be there. No one really talks to me. They always want something I cannot give. I don't know what it is. I don't feel anything anymore. It has been like this since I don't know when. Maybe it's my choice to seek solace in sorrow. In rejection. I don't know. Life is meaningless.

Being alone all this time makes me dead inside. But what else is in store? Work. Home. Refilling my daily needs. Blog. Writing. Sleep. That's it. All of it. I have no urge to go out or meet anyone. Or to see places. I'm content in my room. Waiting for Death. My last stop. My savior. Dreams are dead-ends turning into nightmares. I have nothing to feel anything about. Neither happy nor sad. Simply being. Not living. There are always petty distractions but never the real deal. I am just not good enough for any of it. Everything hurts.

Why is it always my turn and never yours?
What are you afraid of?
Don't I mean anything to you?
Not even a friend in need?

Sunday, February 5, 2012, 8:30 PM

The One

2012-02-05T15:40:00.000+07:00

Who loves me lives in a dream. A long-forgotten childhood dream, where things are beautifully perfect. Where he and I found each other in an unprecedented incident. Out of nowhere. Fate is kind and life generous. A tale of two. No one else is there. No one can enter. But us. Only he and I. We love and live for each other. He makes me feel safe, treasured. Lucky. We are all we see. I am the center of his universe, and so is he to me. Made for each other. Happy ever after. Bliss.

But he stays in the dream. Refusing to leave that unspoiled world. Not wanting to find me. Clinging to perfection. Something effortless. Pure chance. Immaculate comfort. I waited, and waited, forever.

No one ever comes to hold me together when I feel most alone. None tries hard enough to love me. Everyone is the same. Whether in dreams or actuality, people choose flawlessness. The closest to their idealism. There will be no negotiation nor compromise. I cannot fulfill their needs. I can never be the one they want. One fault and I am unlovable. One misstep and I fail the prize. I wish I were perfect. Everything they desire. But I am not. And can never be.

People need to see me for me. All that I am. Here and now. Not what I am supposed to be.

I am so sick of waiting. Nothing leads to anything. Nothing works. No magic, no miracle. I have lost all hope. And I have tried too much. Now I want you to leave our dream and find me. I need you to be real. I need you to find me once again. Find me now. I am as real in person as I am in the dream. Don't you still love me the way you did? Cause I still do.

Sunday, February 5, 2012, 3:36 PM

I Want to Believe

2012-02-05T12:58:00.000+07:00

That I was born to tell you I love you. Even when all my life I have felt no significance. No connection. Nowhere to belong. I never matter to anyone. Not to you. Not to them. Still, I wish for it. I want to make you feel loved. Like you mean something to me. You mean everything. When you feel alone and you have no one to turn to, I will be there for you. Any time of any day. When things fall apart, when people depart, you will always have me. Though I am not there with you. Though I can never be. I am right here. For you. When you cannot reciprocate, or appreciate. When it hurts too much to continue and I feel like giving up. I had to let go when pain took over and transformed into anger. You cannot see. You do not understand. You never did. You know nothing of it. You cannot feel what I feel. Meaningless is what I am to you. Something unreal. Untouchable. Unperceivable. Not a word. Not even the shortest hi. No acknowledgment. I mean nothing. You have no way to need me. I only half-need you. The other half is where I try to run away. From you. And all that you are to me. Everywhere I run to, one thing stays the same. Everyone and everything can never be you. So I call your name. I call and call. You never answer. You were never there. You decline to know. And I still want to believe. Beyond all the tangled intricacies and the passive-aggressive lies. All the sickening cliches. I alone know. I was born to tell you I love you.

You just never gave me a chance to.

Sunday, February 5, 2012, 12:29 PM

Have You?

2012-02-03T22:00:00.000+07:00

Have you found the one
who invalidates your senses,
razes every of your verses,
styling entirety into a
new breed of Universe?

Not quite an indulgence,
more to a prison-like cubicle
where the only food tastes
like colorless rat poison
Its calories warfarin
causing internal bleeding:
the thinning of your heart

But you are worse without

So you seek substitutions
Promising look-alikes
Comfort for one second
A week of deliverance
Until you wake one day
and recognize:

The scream in your dream
an anagram of his name
His face becomes everyone's
The dirt of his voice is
every sound, like the Sun
beaming rays of vitality
His image:
thick mint toothpaste
rinsing your eyes

You stand —
questioning your stance
Bidding your rewards
Like a mistuned compass
not knowing where to turn
but to return

to the one
you can't live without

Friday, February 3, 2012, 9:51 PM

Dizzy, Damaged Soul

2012-02-03T20:03:00.000+07:00

Among others, pain shies away

Troubles tone down

Only strength, sagacity, and

bravery, the core of my soul

I am service; I am idealism

The advocate of industry

A worshipper of wealth

When money speaks,

everyone listens

So do I (and so will you)

People and their

contagious positivity

A thirst for affinity

That silent, invisible storm

sucking everyone into one

To feel like we belong

A sense of community

A drug, an addiction

Without the screen of dust

the eyes see what they should:

unclouded veracity

The body loses the energy

to feel what it should:

drudgery

Shadows summon sorrows

The heart beats, aglow

Night falls —

and the mystical life calls

Friday, February 3, 2012, 7:56 PM

Rejection Junkie

2012-02-03T16:46:00.000+07:00

Curiously mysterious, Wednesday
woke me up with love.
The kind of bliss wisely preserved
to the chosen few, like you,
and a drop of indigo dew.
Smiling, I could not differentiate
if it was happiness or laziness
that shuffled my morning.
A day went
with absentminded remembering.
With missing you and sacrificing you.
Were you present, I dared not testify.
Faint as a flicker of hope, of doubt,
and ambiguous confessions.
The chorus of unscrupulous
trepidation repeated, firing my head.
Be it in ecstasy or false trajectory,
it lasted through the night,
calming the next sunrise.
Thursday, conversely, was made up
of car crash and regretful slapdash.
What began as a contented trance
emerged into some
afternoon foulness. Harsh epiphany.
I prevent myself from stepping
to the future. It is free
from unappreciation.
Your sin. A familiarity.
Forming a bad habit.
These torturous traps,
the ones I fail to unload.
They carry me
to the darkest realm of delicacy.
There is no other you. No other me.
If you were insensitivity,
I would be plain stupidity.
You and I equal uncertainty.

Friday, February 3, 2012, 4:33 PM

Help —

2012-02-02T20:55:00.000+07:00

I'm still crushing on Kurt Hummel!!

Disastrous. I was just browsing for Glee posters and then there he was... so adorable like a doll... I can never resist doll-like boys. Even when he's... umm... ten years younger than I am. That's sick. I'm old enough to be his mother. Strictly inappropriate.

This is illegal. I have an unnamed psychological complex (more like a fetish) of liking fashionable younger (gay) men. Not necessarily in that order, of course.

Younger men are tempting since I can always tease them and test them and experiment with their reactions. They're quickly shocked. I have adopted this tendency to play with people's emotions, treating them like lab specimens. It sounds cruel, and... true. Does this make me manipulative? I certainly hope not.

I can't fight it. It's so fun! Like I get to stage different scenes for different characters. Directing plays, but covertly. A secret ambition, perhaps. Or an uncontrollable impulse. It's inherent, okay? Not something I can fully restrain. I can. And I do moderate it, in public places, at least.

Since younger men exhibit a higher level of madness tolerance, I have the chance to do what I want when I want it. They will just call me crazy. Or weird. Or abnormal. That's about it. No scolding or preaching like what older men do to me. They're so restrictive and didactic. How bothersome. Unlike younger men who are much more playful and spontaneous. And easily controlled... HA.

Let's face it. Men who prefer older women are subconsciously submissive. They want to be controlled. Either they're attracted to some form of dominant authority, or power play. Not so sure about my maturity attribute, however. I do practice solid responsibility for my life and decisions, but I also go into wild imaginative frenzy.

When I said younger, I don't mean as young as Kurt. In the series, Kurt is a senior in high school, which makes him around eighteen. Gross. Chris Colfer, the actor, was born in 1990. Still disgusting. One to three years younger should be perfect. Not more than three. Too much trouble.

As for Kurt, he's truly my type (except for being gay and far too young). A brilliant singer and performer. Arrogant, detached, complacent, stylish, and has the cutest doll face of all the unicorns.

Thursday, February 2, 2012, 8:38 PM
Poster | Paperboy

Do You Know How Much I Miss You?

2012-02-02T18:21:00.000+07:00

Miraculous. I passed my PMS week unharmed, and not harming anyone. No cocaine cookies needed.Nothing but restoring my blog and creating Looklet outfits. Some tiredness ofteaching that lasted on Saturday. That was it. No other thing occurred.

I might have just discovered the perfect antidote to my menstrualmayhem. And that is... a mystery.

Submitting my new blog to ninety-five Internet directories and pingservices (with stupid back links entailed) required one whole damn day,yesterday. Perpetually dull. Too repetitive. But I have this curiosity on howthe process of promoting a website evolves. I did it once in 2010 for my firstblog, and it took around one and a half year of continual shamelessadvertisement in countless other sites to scoop five thousand visits a monthfrom 4,500 unique monthly visitors. Small. So, now I will try something moresystematic to see the result.

Teaching is bad for my writing, as what I have experienced before. Itdisturbs the fluidness of mood. I don't even know why I still teach when I haveenough money without taking more jobs. A part is to maintain a goodprofessional reputation with the school I've been working with for almost sixyears. Another is to source stories. Seriously. The building where I teach isrumored to host many ghosts. Tame, but still scary. Neat, huh?

Like today, I switched to watching Gleeagain while typing this. Indulging my impulses for no reason. Cause I wantedto. When I was supposed to be writing and writing and absorb myself inunstoppable neurotic writing. The pledge of three-posts-a-day still applies.Disciplining myself may be rather challenging when I must do other chores likeblog publicity and teaching and diverging to viewing Glee. But Kurt Hummel is too cute to ignore!

Just look at his innocently surprised face. So dreamy it makes me wantto hug him forever and keep him as a pet.

Thursday, February 2, 2012, 6:10 PM

Dramatics

2012-02-01T00:36:00.000+07:00

The hardest is knowing

but unable to acknowledge

the understanding. I gather

you would still see, as you saw

the faces of me no one else did

But I cannot say;

neither can you

And here is where we end:

in mollified understanding

Talking to our screens,

pretending they would hear

our pains and complaints

I am returning Time

to where it belongs, where

you and I are two strangers

The best sentence I can recover

I have ratified no other way

but to fluctuate between

depression and destruction

Both bring amateur dramatics

Dragging you in times. Hurting

I vowed I would never, until

the day before the Apocalypse

And when it hits, I still need

to contemplate. Deliberate:

to give in or to let go. I would

likely choose relinquishment

It proves to be more restful

than confrontation. To imagine

that you died a while ago, and

with that I can live on my own

Never needing you. Not wanting

to request what I should not

And when I resurrect you

from memories, you would be alive

once again, safe in the space

between my arms. Safe as a child

feeding on my tears

Wednesday, February 1, 2012, 12:28 AM

Recurrence

2012-01-31T16:57:00.000+07:00

I searched for you
throughout a maze
of a thousand doors
Danger and delusions
Closures, stifling and old,
leading to paths that ended
in rusty surprises. Things
beyond amazement awaited
Intricate, delicate, testing:
a quest for truth — I
gave my all. To find you. I
would die to find you
Absurd composition you
would never comprehend
But I would. Citing your name
Waiting for an answer
that never came. Opening
door after life-threatening
door, battling, escaping
Wickedness clashed into
self-denials, one of which
won. Competition is in
my blood; I burnt like rage
reddening a sorrowful sage
Then there you were:
impassive, unfeeling, numb,
the way you always were
Why do you make
dreams so difficult? And
life impossible? If you would,
you could. So I, I stopped
Preventing myself from
caging you with an aphasiac
heart. But you, you saw it:
It was I who found you
Run as you might, faraway
Forget; forgo. One world
and a myriad of other
dimensions, it would still
be me who found you (even
your doubtful heart knew)

Tuesday, January 31, 2012, 4:45 PM

Damn Technorati

2012-01-29T22:37:00.000+07:00

If you also needed to claim a blog on Technorati, then you know very well why I must comply with this embarrassment. I am aware that I can remove the code afterward, but it looks more offensive if it stays. Right?

This is an automatically-generated email.

Thank you for submitting your blog claim on Technorati. Technorati will need to verify that you are an author of the site http://amelanniza.blogspot.com by looking for a unique code. We have just assigned the claim token BSQ4EJ37DWCE to this claim. Please visit http://technorati.com/account/ for more details, including how to use the claim token.

Thank you.

I Don't Mind at All

2012-01-29T21:46:00.000+07:00

Lyrics from the song "I Don't Mind at All" sung by True Faith, a band from the Philippines. I heard this song on a Jakartan radio station a veeery long time ago when I was still using that old radio player with its analog frequency tuner. Probably in high school in 1995?

Exactly today, it was still played on the same radio station but now I got it from its Internet streaming page. And... I found the title and the band from the radio's Twitter update. FINALLY!! There is a Youtube unofficial video for the song, and that is from where I converted the MP3 file.

No lyrics are available on any Internet site, so I thought I had better transcribe them on my blog. Let me know if I missed anything. A bit of a grammatical correction to entertain my fussy English teacher side: In the lyrics, it should have been composed as "should have got" not "get". And judging from the context, I believe it was meant as "rejected junkie" not "rejection junkie". A rejection junkie is someone who is so fond of being rejected, while a rejected junkie is a drug addict hated by everyone.

But since... I had to copy what the song is word per word, there you have it — a good song with bad grammar.

I DON'T MIND AT ALL

: True Faith

Well, I wonder if this is just infatuation
But with the way it hits me
This could only be my new sensation
Maybe you'd prefer a rock and roll star
Who shoots up coke and drives a really cool car
I could have get that far
I don't mind at all
I don't mind at all
Tongue tied and twisted
I can't seem to get through
In a world of strangers
I'm left without a single clue
Maybe I'm just a rejection junkie
I get my lessons from MTV
I may not get lucky
I don't mind at all
I don't mind at all
Maybe I'm just a rejection junkie
I get my lessons from MTV
I may not get lucky
I don't mind at all
Really I, I don't mind at all
I don't mind
I don't mind
I don't mind at all

MP3 files: Dropbox, Google Docs.

Sunday, January 29, 2012, 9:33 PM