Thursday, September 29, 2011


Trials have officially ended today.

There's nothing particularly special about how I went through trials; I experienced symptoms none too extraordinary - severe lack of sleep, general lack of appetite, unhealthy dependence on coffee, deprivation of favourite things to do, and the occasional breakdowns, neurological or emotional.

The only thing I seem to have contrived that others haven't, however, is a shocking deterioration language-wise, and coupled with some lack of coherence thought-wise, this is going to make for a very unreadable post, but I've wanted to write this for really long. For say what you like, trials were really tough for me, but I got through it, and not by myself.

I love everyone. Like my mum and dad. They took a lot snipes and snaps and outright refusals of food from me that they'd never have taken otherwise. And they supplied me with coffee. (Words cannot express how much that means to me.) And ice cream. And my mum stayed up with me to study most nights. I don't know how they did it and my parents rock.

I love the beautiful girls Nicole Low Yen Yi and Chalystha Lee Yie Qin. Whatsapping with them every day kept me sane. Although sane might not be the operative word. Think about that. Take one girl studying like mad for trials, multiply that by three, and put it into a group conversation, and you won't find anything that makes sense. You'll get a lot of emoticons, that's for sure. (I am addicted to the whatsapp emoticons. Today I put "television" as my answer in Physics because all I could think about was the cute little TV icon whatsapp has.) The two of them reminded me that I wasn't #foreveralone - we were all in the same [insert emoticon of "boat" here] after all.

Ho Hui Jan. I love her sooooo much. Every single day before my papers she would text me a good luck . And they would make me :DDD like anything. It just means a lot that she would take time to remember me stressing out over trials, and make me feel better. Idk what I ever did to get a friend like her and guys, she is just awesome.

I owe Xin You thanks too for he has kept me off the edge several, several times see he can be pretty rockin' when he's not being annoying. (Kidding.) Not least to the ones who keep me company all the time while I'm studying,  fellow whatsapp buddy Gan and especially Terence. Never forgetting several awesome teachers I am so lucky to have teaching me, oh you know all the schoolteachers besides that one, that one and that one, but also to Pn. Z and Mr. R.

And to continue in my all-the-speeches-at-the-Grammy's-combined fashion, I would like to thank the music that I listen to, my sort of music, all those amazing, amazing artists who are responsible for the permanent misshapening of my ears due to the earphones of my beloved iPod Alethea - music keeps a person on track when everything else seems off. And I would like to thank my coffee, I love you coffee, starbucks, coffee bean, perak coffee, and of course my one and only drug, my thick black thick black thick black beautiful aromatic lovely wonderful indescribable amazing intoxicating thick black Penang coffee. And my energy supplements and other vitamins. Without popping those five pills a day like a pro I would be sick by now lol.

But one thing I'm going to ensure is that this won't be happening for SPM. I will be ready for it, and I won't be having coffee instead of interstitial fluid in my brain, I won't be pulling three to four eyelashes out every time I aim for my contacts due to lack of sleep, I won't be not eating, and I won't be freaking out. I hope. Sigh. I never thought I would be afraid of failing any of my subjects for trials, either (thanks, addmaths), when I was anticipating this before.

I'm giving myself a week of freedom before getting to for the SPM, during which I need to cram in as many things as I can, such as watching all my beloved TV shows, reading a Bordersful of books, study LOTR to the max, rewatch a bunch of romance movies, tumblr, fangirl like a freak, spend quality time with certain beloveds, and go prom dress shopping. Lol at the last.

Oh, but wait. You want to know what the funny thing is? A very tiny part of me didn't want these trials to end. Because this was the last exam we sat as a class. We're not going to sit for SPM like this. As 5A. 5 perAlihan. Yeap, that's us. I'm not going to be able to turn around and know exactly where everyone's seated, in alphabetical order, anymore. We're not going to be able to do all those stupid things we do during papers that we're not supposed to do. No more "SSSSH"'s from Tzen Ren when someone drops a pencil on the ground. No more tossing around of staplers. No more annoying idiots making water droplet sounds during the paper. No more insanely tense class atmosphere whenever we're all cramming together minutes before the exam starts. No more forever starting late because we always start late. This was our last paper. And now trials have ended, and we're not even going to be a proper class anymore. Today we took down our pictographical "duty rooster" and handed the keys over to the PMR brats. Our time together's up.

Trials have officially ended today.








Friday, September 23, 2011

Sick Dream

Warning: This is a shit post

I wonder if after I write this post whether I will change my mind and delete it like I did to the previous one

You wanna know what's freaky I had that previous post up on my blog for all of five minutes and in that five-minute window Hui Jan somehow manages to read it five minutes oh come on

But that freaky is nothing compared to what you're about to read next

I just remembered what I dreamed about last night and I storied it to Cha it was disgusting I am disgusted with my own subconscious know like seriously I feel like horrific right now

Here goes

So I dreamed I was in this warzone place. Like in Iraq or something. It was deserty. Sandstormy. Bomby. I was like part of a unit or something. We were moving through like one sandy tunnel to another in sleeping bags. Yeah in case you didn't get that I was in a warzone.

And that's where I met this demon cat

It looked just like a normal cat. About the same colour as Crookshanks, but it didn't look like a walking carpet bag like Crookshanks does. It was one of the sleek, handsome, pointy-eared cats. Yeah, I said this already, but it looked just like a normal cat.

But it could talk. And boy was it sadistic. It was evil. This cat was evil. It was a demon cat. Purely villainous. And it just kept talking to me. It followed our unit for days. It wanted to kill me more than anything else in the world. Me and my unit. And because it was a demon, it couldn't die. There was no way I was getting rid of it and I would be foolish to try.

But after days of fear and desperation in the warzone, unable to sleep because of the talking cat watching me and talking about my impending doom, I finally reached my breaking point. I seized the cat from under the armpits (you know the way you carry cats) And I took a  knife - a standard Swiss Army Knife - and I stabbed it where I thought its heart would be. But the cat just laughed at me and told me I couldn't get rid of it that easily. And that the minute I let the cat go I would be dead. And so I kept stabbing its white-furred undercarriage trying to find its heart, which was still beating, but to no avail. And the cat kept laughing at me and I knew I had to kill it so I started sawing off its limbs. With a Swiss Army Knife. I started sawing, one by one, paw by paw, and it was such a painfully slow process. I knew everything in detail. Like when you cut through the thin layer of fur and skin and then flesh and then you hit the bone and you have to start sawing and I saw bone marrow and muscle and sinew and ligament and warm blood gushing over my hands and the whole time the cat was still talking so I kept sawing and hacking and sawing until I finally sawed off its head and all I was left with were cat body parts.

And then I left the cat's remains behind.

In a pile.

There was fur and blood all over my hands.

But at least the cat stopped talking.

I am a murderer.

Saturday, September 10, 2011

September the 11th

I'm not here to make a post on the conspiracy theories, or the numbers, or the heartwarming stories, or even make a semblance of a very good post at all. There are plenty of those flying around in the whirlwind of the past week or so, with the whole of the United States counting down to the tenth-year anniversary of the nightmare of 9-11. No, this is just me, an ignorant Malaysian girl, for me, taking time off from trials to remember this.

I was only seven, but ten years ago I can still remember being glued to the old television screen, watching the live broadcast that interrupted almost every channel on TV with my parents. I think we started watching the minute they had footage of the first plane crash or something. Yes, I can remember watching the whole thing, for all four coordinated attacks (so many forget that there were four coordinated attacks). It's not something you'd be likely to forget, as far away and irrelevant as it may have seemed to me that decade ago, and it was the only time in my life I ever saw footage of the 9-11 attacks. I remembered almost every thought that went through my head, too, and I'd like to take some time to record down here some of those things I think I should always remember.

Firstly, of course, the victims in the World Trade Centre. So many people, just trying to live through a gruelling day of work, that didn't live through it, and not because of the piling amount of paperwork or their sniping bosses. The ones who died instantly, and the ones who didn't, some of the latter choosing to end their lives by jumping off goodness knows how many stories instead. I think watching that - those people, jumping off to their deaths to avoid another death - was what chilled me the most when I was seven. I asked my mother why they would do such a thing, and my mother told me it was because they had no way out either way. I kept on thinking how bad it must have been for them to have done that. And I distinctly remember wondering, how would I have chosen if I were in their shoes? It was horrible, really, the whole picture of it. The ashes, of course. But another thing I remember was the papers. Papers, papers, so many, flying everywhere, in the air, on the ground, just everywhere. I also found it slightly worse somehow that the buildings didn't collapse straight away - I don't know how, but it just feels worse.

The passengers in the two planes that hit WTC. I'd wondered whether they knew if they were flying to their death. I think the fact was that they didn't. But they knew that they'd been hijacked, and I'm sure some of them must have seen their aircraft flying towards the city and those two buildings. It's no wonder it so deeply rooted a phobia of flying in so many people in the aftermath. Because all these people wanted to do was fly home, or to a family holiday, or finish a business trip, and in the end they get hijacked by terrorists and used as a tool to kill some thousands of other people.

The emergency responders who lost their lives in the rescue attempts. Oh my God, my heart goes out to these true heroes who went in and tried to save lives and had to give up their own in the process. Taken from Wikipedia: The New York City Fire Department lost 341 firefighters and 2 paramedics. NYPD lost 23 officers. Port Authority Police Department, 37. Eight EMTs and paramedics from private hospitals were also killed. Because they went in. I don't know how they did it, but they went in. It was insane of them, but they did it anyway, to try for the long shot, to - I don't know. I'm at a loss of words to describe what these people did - woke up to a nightmare in their very own city and walked straight into it. They made a tribute film some years ago, World Trade Center, I think, and I went to the cinema and watched it and I cried throughout the whole thing.

I don't know much about the Pentagon attack, for some reason, but just because the death toll wasn't as high, it doesn't mean it was any less sickening than the deaths of those in WTC, of course. But what really touched me was the passengers of flight 93. "The Flight That Fought Back". They say this plane was meant for the White House, I think, but it never made it there. The hijacked passengers, after receiving calls from family members about the other hijacked planes and where they ended up, decided to revolt. They all stood up and revolted, and clearly would have won, too, because the hijackers gave up their mission as a lost cause and crashed the plane in a field. The passengers doing that, caused them their lives, yes, but saved what could have been a potential of so many others, and nothing can be said about the bravery of what they did.

And the families. The families who woke up to hear that planes - planes were crashing into WTC, and the very next thought that flashes through their mind is that my wife, my brother, my sister, my loved one, he or she works there. Do you know how many remains of the victims were never found, not at all? The families of the passengers, those who were called by the victims on the flight, to say their last, tearful goodbyes, and those who never got to even hear their voices. The families of those emergency responders who must have been so, so angry at them for going into a deathtrap, no matter how proud they felt. The scars of these families are what is still being felt today.

I need to go now, but I'm happy with what I wrote here, because I don't pretend to know much about anything, but I've gotten it all out, and so there. There's not much you can say to wrap up such a sad post, so I'm not going to try. Thank you for reading.