Milk And Cliches

He, I mean I turned a new leaf. I’ve always hated that cliche. Sounds too gay. Like tossing a salad. Let me start again…

I started the year with a fight (with mat rempits at a carpark at Zouk) and ended it with a fight (with a client at a function at Starhill). And in between, got a woman, lost her, rebounded, and then found a new one only to get turned down.

Back to square? Not quite.

If there’s one definitive thing I’ve learned from 2008: it’s that life is too short to cry over split milk (double cliche!)… or pussies leaving you or pussies rejecting you or wrangling rempits or clients accusing you of being drunk at high brow functions or, even, getting summoned back to court after getting a discharge.

Women are wonderful. No, I mean it. It doesn’t mean I like them. I’d sooner befriend a bi-polar goldfish than a girl. It’s hard to trust women because they are only capable of loving their own children.

Yes, that’s women. Listen ladies, don’t argue! You may leave a comment, I don’t give a shit. Better still, retort in your own pussy blogs!

But anyway.. anyway.. ANYWAY… God bless them because they make it all worthwhile. The girl in Easy Cum Easy Go went against most of my personal principles, against things like: abstinence from luxury, anti sexual colonialism and rock over jazz. She was like Changkat Bukit Bintang littered with rich foreigners wearing Prada and I was like Jln Alor infested with local transvestites donning Lapsap frocks. Streets away but still worlds apart. Even so, I was generally happier with her despite her bullshit. And after she left, I felt like committing hara-kiri. It was a good mid-year.

When it comes to rejection, it’s best to keep a short memory. Don’t cry over split semen.

As Donald Trump would say, “Everyday of my life is a fight”. Well Don, everyday of my life is a fight NOT to get into a fight. I find it hard to get offended, but when it happens I also find it hard not to shove my fist in the offender’s blank face. I’ve never hit a girl and I intend to keep it that way. Rempits and clients, however, are all the same to me.

Temper temper temperament. Turning a cheek is a virtue I’m still learning. Don’t cry over split blood or broken egos.

So here it is. No more hiding behind the 3rd person anymore. As WordPress would say, Hello World.

More aptly now, Hello 2009.

Honesty and Vocabulary

My vocabulary is gravely limited. Shit, Piss, Cunt, Fuck. These are some of my favourite words to spice up any piece. No wonder my work tastes like a whore’s vomit.

If writing were like music, having a wide vocabulary would be like having a full orchestra, or a tonne of effect pedals for your electric guitar, or a complete wankers’ drumset with toms and cymbals of various sizes at your disposal.

But it means fuck all without Honesty.

Honesty is rare these days and harder to find than a Woman that can settle for less. One honest sentence or phrase or word can mean more than a whole fucking novel of bullshit.

My words are getting cheaper by the minute. But they work hard at being cheap which is not as easy as you think. It’s a gift I have.

End of fucking story.

WANK Test

Have you heard of the WANK Test?

A friend told me about this silly way of finding out if you have feelings for a Woman.

First of all, who the fuck would try to find that out? Wouldn’t you just already know or find out in due time? But anyway, that’s an argument for another day.

So the WANK Test is what it’s called. Based on the “fact” that all men are sex starved (I know I am), the WANK Test should be able to tell you if you have something genuine for that girl you feel so good about.

Here’s how you do it…

Step 1: Masturbate.

Step 2: Go on a date.

Wow, that was easy…

Now if you got to fuck her, then that’s good for you. But…

a) If you go back with your dick in your hand and still feel like you had a good time, then you’re probably in love with something more than just her pussy.

b) If you go back with your dick in your hand and felt like fucking her the whole time during the dinner/movie/whatever, then she’s probably just another piece of meat to you.

What an awful fucking weak theory…

Here’s my feedback:

- Masturbating would only get my mind off sex for, like, 15 minutes. Then I’m ready to jerk off again.

- I feel like fucking all women all the time. Even if they have striking personalities.

- If the food and conversation were good, why can’t I treat it like an outing instead of a date? Unless, I paid for everything and was taken for a ride…

I guess this is a test to help men who have a hard time connecting with their feelings?

Maybe I’m wrong. But consider this: Real men eat meat and don’t question the laws and order of nature. Pussies eat vegetables and organic food and will die as pale virgins.

Whatever the fuck. I was wanking BEFORE you got here and I’ll be wanking AFTER you’re gone.

Now excuse me, while I look at some pictures of you.

THE FEAR OF WRITING (Part 5 & 6)

“So why the FUCK are you starting a blog?” a curious friend asked me the other day.

I couldn’t answer him immediately. I thought about it and here are my top 3 reasons:

1. To document my own bizarre and excessive existence so that I won’t forget about it when I’m old and cynical.
2. To impart my experiences (I won’t use the word “knowledge”) about women.
3. To get some of that Internet money that Kenny Sia and Joyce Kristen Wong seem to be rolling in.

But fuck this!

These can’t be the only reasons.

There’s something deeper. Something unseen by the naked eye and too personal to describe or even remember. How am I sure that it’s really there in the first place? I could just be finding reasons to justify my misfortunes.

Was it that chick that dumped me recently? Am I still feeling heartbroken and have accidentally indulged into writing as a way sooth the pain? If this is the case, then I will never forgive myself, because I know that she’s not worth the effort of all these words. So, what is it then?

***********************************************************

Some nights, I think that no one will read this shit. I am a hack and I will never make it. I’m not even a hack. I’m a Nobody.

Every writer has his or her own style. And I guess this is mine. How do I describe it? DO I Even Give a Fuck?

Going back to when I started, I have always had a problem with sticking to one topic. Maybe this is my style. Avoiding things and loathing myself while I’m at it. What a fucking Stupid style.

So if you’re wondering where’s the pussy in this very long post, you’ll just have to wait for it in the next one. I got loss in something more personal but less sexual for a change…

You know, a blank screen usually scares the shit out of me… But I guess you don’t believe me.

Now… back to pussy….

The Cheapest Room is Often the Coldest

He had no money left. Most of it was spent lamely on trying to forget his past. Alcohol, partying, random women, unnecessary massages in areas not meant to be massaged, pork, cigarettes, car repairs after accidents, Bukowski novels, more alcohol.

And rent. Rent was a bitch.

He had moved out and was paying the price for solitude. His room was on the ground floor of a 3-storey house. It was a maid’s room. Modestly small, about 10 by 8 feet, and with dull blue marble tiles. The walls were once white, but now more grayish with screws and bolts sticking out at random places. There was no furniture in it apart from his bed and a chair stolen from the living room, which he used to elevate his radio. An orange traffic cone from a night out with the boys stood behind the door and doubled as a clothes rack, somehow.

The fan switch had fallen out. Mosquitoes sucked on his blood every morning, rudely awakening him. This was followed by barks from the neighbourhood hellhounds. Why do dogs get so restless in the morning? They don’t have to go to work, do they? Sometimes, immigrant labourers would sit outside at the drain behind the backyard, just 6 feet away from his window and chat and play stupid songs on their handphones. How do these people afford handphones? Let alone handphones that were better than his?

The mornings were cold. They were colder than his room back at his parents’ house, which had an air-con. At least there was an attached bathroom with a water-heater he had installed. Warm water was a luxury after a hard day’s work.

He drank heavily and smoked a pack a day.

His housemates were reclusive, cold people. They never said hi. Most of the time, he initiated conversation in a vain attempt to break the ice. Of the five people staying with him, the Malay girl seemed the friendliest. She stayed in the attic and had a guy friend over most nights. The master tenant and his girlfriend were in their own world. The only time he saw them was when they wanted to collect the rent. Another two Chinese girls occupied the medium rooms on the first floor. One of them was Catholic and weird. She would come downstairs in the middle of the night, open the fridge and drink soda. Who the fuck drinks soda in the middle of the night? But he wasn’t one to judge, as he frequently drank Whisky Coke at 2AM. The fridge was hers. And she littered it with magnets that had Christian slogans like “Jesus said, ‘Follow me’”. Okay, so maybe she wasn’t weird, just another Jesus Freak. The other Chinese girl was a little more sociable, like the Malay girl. When she saw him pounding on his laptop in the living room one day, she asked him what he was writing about. A children’s storybook about a squirrel and a bear, was his answer. She bought it not knowing that he was actually writing about sex, deprivation and the hard stuff.

He wondered if they were normal. If they had it all in check, like normal people are supposed to. And if they were, was he?

Disappointed In You

Johnny Thunders was playing in the background. He always felt closer to his idols if they had met with tragic endings, just like Johnny. The third track on the album reminded him of what she had said about his first post recently.

“It’s fucking disgusting!”

“Why?”

“It’s like making a sex video of us and then posting it up on the Internet!”

“No, it’s not. It a work of literature. It’s like Bukowski…”

“Fuck you and your fucking Bukowski Bullshit!”

“It’s not like I did it on purpose to hurt you. After all, I set a password to protected it.”

“With my fucking NAME as the password!”

“I couldn’t think of a better one at the moment.”

“I’m sure your friends had a good chuckle!”

“I didn’t let everyone read it. Just those whom I thought could comment on the writing.”

“Yeah… sure you did.”

“Look, it is a sex blog. So, obviously, it revolves around sex. That’s just my style ‘cause that’s what I know and am comfortable writing about. But if you were to take out the details, what’s the core message? It’s: I think you’re a swell companion and I miss you.”

“Enough. Just stop your bullshit.”

He was speechless for a moment.

“I know exactly why did it. You were pissed. That I can understand. But that doesn’t give you the right to do this. I’ve lost all respect for you. I didn’t think you were capable of being such an Asshole… Now, I know that you truly don’t love me.”

“Wait one fucking second! You’re not the only one whom I’m going to write about. Don’t think for a second that you’re that special ONE…”

“You know you’re only hurting yourself more than anyone else?”

“I do. But that’s my choice. I’m sorry. Please don’t get pissed…”

“I’m not pissed. Just really Disappointed In You. Just get on with your life.”

“I will. As soon as I’m done with this.”

THE FEAR OF WRITING (Part 4)

Of lately, I’ve been reading more. I used to only reading about a book per year. Which is quite bad, I guess. Nevertheless, I’ve seemed to have reconnected with the joy of reading again, if it was ever there in the first place. I can remember that the only book I read out of my own will, during school days, was George Orwell’s “Animal Farm”.

A dusty hardcover book lying in the middle of my dad’s old cupboard in his study, I chanced upon it one day while I was drunk. I was 15 and had just started drinking. Back then, 2 or 3 cans of beer would have done it for me.

It was a great read. Simple yet moving. Having known a little bit about the Russian Revolution and the rise and fall of the Soviet Union (yes, I was a history-buff back then), I felt that I could sympathise with the mass population of the largest country in the world through these stupid yet humanistic animal characters.

Right now, after deprogramming myself for more than 15 years, I am reading Bukowski.

Charles Bukowski. “Oh God”, those of you who are familiar with his works are thinking to yourselves now. “He’s just a Loser wanting to exact the brilliance of a God like Bukowski. That explains his earlier posts on women.”

Well, fuck You…

I did not have the pleasure of the miserable life of Mr. Bukowski. And fuck You for making me question the sincerity of my work. Now, go to sleeping fucking hell!

THE FEAR OF WRITING (Part 3)

My first real corporate job (I did some odd-jobs before this such as teaching music to kids and selling illegal vegetables, but that’s another story…) was as a Sales Executive for a local English Daily. I was entrusted to convince unsuspecting business owners to advertise in our newspaper. Most of the work involved face-to-face manipulation. Paperwork was down to sales reports and proposals, which were actually more like quotations.

After a string of dead-end jobs, I ventured into Public Relations. My first assignment was to write a Media Invite for a food-tasting session at an authentic Foo Chow restaurant.

That was easy. A couple of paragraphs and I was done.

Then came a Press Release about a massage bed that claimed to be able to cure all sorts of diseases, mainly suffered by old people, and the catch was that the owners of this franchise opened up community centres where customers could use the beds as much as they wanted without actually purchasing one.

That was do-able. But it was all crap writing for me. I took no joy in doing it.

Okay, so I can write when given the right direction. I knew this, at least.

The First Hit Is The Harshest…

The First Hit Is The Harshest

But you’ll feel better afterwards…

You’ll take another soon

Drink some water

Feed me

The first hit is the harshest

It’ll beat the life out of ya

You know I’m talking about bong hits, right?

Not beating crap out of people

Because people, men and women, deserve

To be treated

Like

The Dirt

They are

Make no doubt about it

Men and Women

People

They

Will knife you in the dark to get what you own.

THE FEAR OF WRITING (Part 2)

Since then, I avoided writing like it was the Plague. I watched in envy and in awe as my older sister excelled in school debates, English Literature, and essay writing contests.

But there is only so much that a person can do to totally avoid writing. Soon or later, whether for work or personal reasons, a person must write.

I went on to study music in college. That didn’t turn out well as I found out that I was more than contented with just igniting punk rock riots, which I already knew how to do, than to stick around and endure the discipline of pseudo jazz for the sake of coward ears.

I dropped out of college due to the restrictions imposed by the snobs in management who dictated not only our curriculum but also our college attire. And also partly cause my visa to study in the States got rejected due to the 9/11 attack. When given the choice to complete my studies locally, I replied with a middle finger to the management. What a shitty college.