This happens to me and a person next to me, on the bed, late late night.
What is the point to any conversation under the state of drowsiness?
You talk and talk and you’re both like, what the fuck? What the fuck is going on?
Hey, what were we talking about again? You tell a story, udah panjang lebar,
going off/on tangents, then you pause, move back to, what was I saying again?
Your listener, in her catatonic state of mind has made her best to bond her brain cells listening, trying to get you. And then you realize, the point is laughter.
You’re talking crap and you forget your point, what the fuck is the point of this story?
Oh yeah, and finish your story, you laugh, she laughs.
Conclusion in all it’s simplicity. Anything for a laugh when you’re drained.
It’s all you want to do. Just talk, be silly and laugh.
It’s the climax. It’s the point to what you’re saying.
It’s the joy of connecting with someone else who’s equally useless.

Chapter One
Omaigod. How charming. He came to my room last night.

There’s the shiver from head to toe when I feel your arms around me.

I hardly know you, but your aura comforts me.

You smile in the dark and I had all these raging flips in my tummy.

Like, I really need to pee.

Excitement is delish. Nanzy was in lust. And quite possibly falling in

L.O.V.E.
Moonbeam smuggle through the drawn curtain, illuminating his still face.

I want to reach him. But I let him do the work, catch me off guard and skim his lips over me. Sway, sway, the back of my neck and it shoots, this electrical energy, zooms all the way thru mid-section down to my spine.

Clock stops ticking, all the air was sucked into my ears til it hurts so I close my eyes.

It’s so peaceful. Yeah. That delish fluttery butterfly feeling in my stomach, that bliss, the whole real deal. No, I won’t overanalyze.

I’m just the schmuck tripping over my words that come out all wrong when you’re around. Blessed beautiful boy,

may I have a taste?

Where do I end and you begin?

Our limbs, hearts, our loves are intertwined.

I can clearly hear you, breathing deeply in my ear, deeper inside me.

And then I get to my feet, holding you. And we shatter.

That’s okay, my dear, we shatter.

A thousands piece of you and I on my bedroom floor, oops, where am I, that’s you, that’s your piece, this is me, this is definitely my piece.

We’re in such an artistic mess! But that’s ok my dear. You’ll be lost in me and I’ll be lost in you. Lost altogether.

Chapter Nine
He’s knocking on my door but I’m fine, remain sitting here in my tiny box I call room with my pictures, memories, and postcards.

Fortunately I’ve got my feet to stand on the ground

and my hands to remind me who I am, to see my history.

Doubts start killing my idealism. What should I do?

If only we could all just dance endlessly and remain nameless in a disco of moving bodies and feel the beat pounding through our teeth and nails, not have to speak with words but with signs;

a smile, I look down, your mouth is open wordless.

Sometimes I don’t even understand what I’m saying until I’ve said it and it’s out there, I can’t take it back. The words just dangling in the air, waiting to be forgotten.

I’m sorry for the times I hurt you purposely, I hurt myself with a bigger knife just so you know. I wanted to see you cry, to make you feel. To challenge you.

But we don’t speak the same language. I don’t belong to your cosmic no more.

Chapter Seventeen
From the distance, I see with clearer eyes. Like, I’m a bug, I can fly and get a clearer view.

The colors are brighter, they almost pierce me.

Sounds are clearer, I hear all the different layers and levels of music.

I block out the snare and keyboards and focus on the bass. One level.

Then I block out the bass and vocals and focus on the drums. Another level.

And so on and so forth. Why am I here and you are there?

Look, there’s a shining star coming out. Where are you when I need you?

I want to show you that star, it doesn’t appear twice.

I wish I was invisible, so I can sneak into your freedom, checking how you are.

I wish I could read minds so I don’t need to ask you why, and why me.

You are so beautiful, from your laughter to your misery.

If I could just be here to wrap me up in you. It’s the safest place to be, enveloped in your arms. Shadows play around and I’m wearing time like I can just give it off, keep it inside a little box under my bed, crumbled.

I want to loathe you, for giving my doubts the satisfaction they foresaw.

I want to loathe you, for taking me in your journey to the cloud number nine then left me unannounced, taking my left wings down with you. And so I fall.

I want to loathe you for making my soul numb, boy, I want to loathe you,

for all the reasons in the world.

Daddy says okay to hate, as far as you don’t know.

So I won’t tell you, my dear, let this little girl think with her little heart and decide.

This very second, I forgive you.

Because one day, like a socialist utopia, I wish we could find our universe where we belong altogether, in no time.

So I don’t have to watch you from the distance.

It’s too exhausting.

Dear god.
I wish I was a frog.
I wish I was a frog so I can live both on land and in water.
I wish I was a frog so that when I cry, my tears blend in with the water around me. So they can’t see.
I wish I was a frog so that when they shout and scream and fight, their shouting and screaming and fighting is shrouded through the water. So I can’t hear.
I wish I was a frog so that when the water around me becomes salty from my tears, I can elude and breathe under the sun.
Dear god.
I wish I was a frog because frog never deal with things like mother frog getting multiple sclerosis.
I wish I was a frog so I could have a two second memory. Maybe just like mother frog.
I wish I was a frog so I don’t have to cry over a guy. Because frogs have cold blood.
Dear god. Maybe I’ll be a frog in my next life.

This is the blog I have been trying to put off. I hate seeing these on people‘ｓ profiles, it’s so arrogant. Live and let live right? However, after a time-consuming winter clean on my inbox, perhaps a little ego is in call for.

I do not want to sound like a diva but please do not send me messages about how I remind you of one'f those posers in glossy megazine or that I have nice arse (I have never display it in public *verbatim*). In fact, please don't use that as a pick-up line on any woman. Ever.

Speaking on behalf of all the ladies who aren't trashy as to bum for such a two-bit compliment (read: not a ho), this isn't the best way to get a girlfriend, Romeo. It's vulgar and humiliating. And don't hit back by saying I put it out there, because even if I do, that’s MY right. Don’t call me a moralist either, I have a blooming lust as much as any red-blooded female. Just not unto you.

Here's another small hint, fellas. When you send a girl 19 messages and she doesn't reply to a single one, she's not busy, she's just not that interested in you, coz you're just not that interesting.

Other than that, if you can add me and want to, be my guest. I'll be on a dial-up connection so it'd be too dull to check out every single friend request, so unless you're one of those sick exhibitionists out there, I usually approve any request. Just dont ask me to add you without saying something to pique me. (This does not include any dreams you may have about me, because I'm probably not dreaming about you).

Thanks, and apologies for the overtones of snobbishness.

Hello my name is_______.
I _____ INAN.
INAN is _____.
Me and INAN are _____.
I wish me and INAN were ______.
If I were alone in a room with INAN, I would _____.
I want INAN to know that I __________.
I think INAN should _________.
INAN needs to _________.
I want to ______ INAN.
Someday INAN will ________.
INAN reminds me of _______.
Without INAN I would _______.
Memories of INAN are ________.
INAN can be __________.
The worst thing about INAN is ______.
The best thing about INAN is _________.
I am ________ with INAN.
If I can tell INAN anything it would be ________.

fill in the blanks & post it back to me

I am evolving, catching up to these times. There once was a girl who wore her hair pinned up with a pencil, carried a manuscript with her wherever she went. People always knew when she was coming because sounds of furious scribbling, ink scratching and flipping papers, followed her wherever she went.

Is it harder to be humane in these days? Huntington may have had it right, underneath these clothes of civilization, we are all the same underneath, naked man stripped bare of taxes, education, cutlery, perfumes, fraud, social politics, we are all the same. But the fact remains, we do live in these times of taxes, education, cutlery, perfumes, fraud and social politics. So what do we make of our lives? I may give away spare change and cry at the sight of homeless children, I may disagree that morality is an invention of the weak to intimidate the strong, that power is the greatest goodness… but perhaps I am an elitist at heart. I have no patience for people who don’t speak, who don’t want, who don’t try.

What we dislike most in life is what we are.

What we do measure our achievements against? People out there still paint with their 2B pencils, color with rainbow watercolor brush, and scratch with their own bare fingers. They still can get the same effect as photoshop. The artist has been replaced by technology. Where have we all disappeared? Where are all the Jazz improvisations, the eccentrics, the political manifestos, the philosophers, and free writers? design is art, but art is not design.
You write offbeat poetry, silly rhyming lyrics, detailed prose, then you read Shakespeare, Nin, Kahlil Gibran. You’re nothing.

I must evolve.