blackouts.

quakes.

dvds.

melon juices.

my stillettos on rocky ground.

japanese and then english.

more english and more japanese in between english.

my witty driver.

my sweet front desk who brings me a cup of tea with brown sugar every morn.

my pms boss hungry for results.

diabetes causing coffee.

more blackouts.

more dvds.

more melon juices.

and then silence.

my hair grows

and another sloth day passes me by.

gee, i'm dressed for success.

BUT I DON'T HAVE MY OWN INTERNET!

I seem to attract really weird freaks as well as pretentious pricks.

and chicks dig me too.

Why is this, I wonder?

sweetest honey to the brightest flower

the largest plant into the smallest atom

snow flakes in the bird kingdom

smaller than the eye can see, bigger than the mind can concieve.

i heard a man on the radio today

i must confess i disagreed with what he had to say

how can he not believe that God is real.

i don't understand how he could feel that way

when there's earth air water and fire,

so many different flowers, sunshine and rainshower

so many different crystals and hills and volcanos

that's how i know that God is real

in Saint Lucia, i jumped in the water,

for the first time i understood its power

as i swam, i was cleansed.

if i had any doubts, this experience cleared them

now i know for sure that God is real

i know that it's the truth by the way it feels

cause i saw starfish and sponges, fish and black trumpets,

so many different colors

i stayed out there for hours and i only saw a fraction of a fraction

of the deep, of the great blue wide

it brought a tear to my eye

we're made of the same stuff as the moon and stars

the ocean's salt water just like my tears are

you feel me the sun rises and sets everyday without fail

earth, air, water, and fire

that's how i know that God is real

ehehehehehehehehe !

more
I'm passionate about all the little things because the big things usually bore me. I want to live happily ever after. I'm not heterosexual. I'm not homosexual. I'm not bisexual. I'm just sexual. I don't dance to the rhythm of the beat, i dance to the rhythm in my feet. I love full stops and other good looking punctuation. I am a walking contradiction and -- yes -- sometimes a hypocrite. But at least I admit it, dear friends, because I know you all are too.

i love
my bedroom. nice smiles. big hands. naming all my most treasured belongings. first kisses. march5. pride and prejudice. late night phonecalls. buying cds. good books. dim sum. shirley temples. extra hot showers. affection. my notebook. italian food. music turned up while getting ready to go out. the feeling you get when you've made somebody happy. dogtags. mixtapes. butterfly. american accent. chocolate.

i am inspired by
miles davis. the pixies. dctalk. nin. stevie wonder. sting. djs. norah jones. grammy nominees. chillout. art deco. people who aren't afraid to share their opinions. kimora lee simmons. sarah jane carter. reese whiterspoon. christopher walken shakin' his ass in fatboy slim's music video. pussycatdolls. my parents. jason mraz. my lil sister. mitchel albom. oxfam. amnesty international. people who give to charity. my late grandfather. stories of salvation. angels. jesus christ. the original rebel. pink's catch-22. my friends. the wonders. winter in jakarta. you.

i dislike
racists. shallow people. people who think it's ok to point out other people's shortcomings. self-centredness. women who push into lines. sexists. tara reid partying around the globe. people who bump into you and don't apologise. indonesian politicians. elitist christians. parents who force their opinions onto you. heavy metal. liars. teenagers who sleep around without thinking about the consequences. avril lavigne's disrespect toward fellow artists. anyone who gets drunk every single weekend. bullies. scenesters who are only in it for the cool. summer in beppu.

i wonder about
the self-destructive nature of the human condition. sexual preferences. why people like paris hilton are ever popular. the death penalty. why none of my favourite artists ever come to my hometown. why my eyes are so droopy. the death of my grandfather. why losing weight has to be so fucking difficult. the reason why world peace seems to be so impossible for us to achieve. destiny.

on random
My right palm is called Nanzy Bijou Johnsson. My left palm is called Caramelle Simmora, Queen of Sexdom in the province of Kinktown. My puppy is called Lopskdsfsoeufhe. That's pronounced "The hottest thing you'll ever touch."

On the casual monotonous school day, I went to the café with Mitata, grabbed our latte and sat down for about 3 hours. We got so bored with campus; life can be less interesting when you live in backwoods full of English non-speaking mankind and insufficiently cute guys. I get gila *insane* when I’m bored, so then I supposed a little spin of conversation would crack me up.

Beppu in the sundown appear to be colorless, evokes us of our hometown which, by contrast, is more likely appeared multicolor, in fashion. Well, Jakarta is young, deprived of magnitude. People are one dimensional. Conversations are limited to parties, drugs, music, and fashion. This ain’t bull, Mitata eavesdropped by herself. The E! Channel is a conspiracy to make you stupid. Glossy magazines waste our precious trees and I hate malls. They should spend money on books, not the Gucci bags.

Oh, we had a blast bitchin’ about little miss rich & gaul *failed to get the perfect english word for it, sorry*. Fuck consumerism. I want widespread social democracy and monotheism. I want idealism and serenity and folk songs and vague poems that don’t rhyme. I want free passion, not polka dots and stripes.

I’d like to clarify that I have nothing against pop fare and all the people who is interested in fashion, but if you get to the sorry state of having to be lead into thinking what you like and what you don’t, or when you care too much about what is in and what is out, that is tragic. I am myself surrounded by people who are uniquely stylish, and there is a big gap between fashion and your own style. So we still don’t understand the identical outfits that flock the malls and clubs in Jakarta, and why these wear choices are based on somebody else’s view of what looks actually good. Expertise ain’t God.

Then you walk into a bookshop and everyone is crowded around the comic sections & the magazine stand. This is all mental masturbation. Quick, with temporary release. Nobody cares about feeding their mind, free writing, and art deco. Our generation should be making an obscure poetry, inventing a cure for cancer and creating world peace. I officially salute those great writers, artist, musicians, philosophers who originated new thoughts, new ideas, and new ways of thinking. They were the true rock and roll artist, not the strokes. They were the true bohemians, not sienna miller and mischa barton.

If I am hurting anybody with this comment, I suggest you to grow thicker skin.
I am one person, why do you care what I think?

a guy just told me that smurf was all about communism. funny.
but now i think it's probably true.
why only the smurf leader had a red hat while others had white?
he got bigger mushroom house too! so bourgeois.
he had lots of mushrooms to himself.
he must be stoned all the time.
woah.