“May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness. I hope you read some fine books and kiss someone who thinks you're wonderful, and don't forget to make some art -- write or draw or build or sing or live as only you can. And I hope, somewhere in the next year, you surprise yourself.” ― Neil Gaiman

It's a brand new year- a new beginning, one that I desperately need.

May this year be full of the right decisions, the right people and the best version of ourselves that we can possibly be.

“I hope you will have a wonderful year, that you'll dream dangerously and outrageously, that you'll make something that didn't exist before you made it, that you will be loved and that you will be liked, and that you will have people to love and to like in return. And, most importantly (because I think there should be more kindness and more wisdom in the world right now), that you will, when you need to be, be wise, and that you will always be kind.” ― Neil Gaiman

I will let you go if you let somebody love you like I do.

"I need you more than I can take."

"I thought I was over him. Then it turned out I wasn't." She gave me a helpless shrug, her face hopeless, her hands fidgeting around her phone (the screen dimming, a little like her expression).

I chose my words carefully, fingers tightening on the steering wheel. "I find that emotions are like a wave. They recede, you think it's alright to wade in now because it's shallow but you forget- waves do that to gather in force. So you're standing there, your legs in the water, your eyes on the shore and you never see the wave when it returns. It crashes over you and you drown, swallowing and spitting. Legs kicking, arms flailing, you have to fight to break out of the water."

There was a moment of silence between us.

"Did you love him?" I tried to ask the question as gently as possible.

Her hands tangled in her hair as she pondered. Finally, she looked down and mumbled, "How would I know if I were in love?"

(I thought on it and realised that I too wouldn't know if love walked in on me and pushed me down a flight of stairs)

"You promise forever and a day then you take it all away."

I find that I have a certain weakness for Ellie Goulding.

Cloud Atlas

I watched Cloud Atlas on a whim a few nights ago. It affected me so profoundly, I still feel its effects even now. A compelling story from a novel considered "unadaptable" because of its unconventional form of narration.

The script itself is a thing of brilliance. The words flow like smooth syrup, smothering your subconscious with heavy beauty.

From the novel by David Mitchell:

"A half-read book is like a half-finished love affair."

"I believe there is another world for us. A better world. And I'll be waiting for you there."

Besides that, the soundtrack is breathtaking. The music is haunting, lyrical in its symphony. And, of course, ambitious.

I would honestly say that at this point of time, Cloud Atlas is hands down without opposition my all time favourite film.

Neverwhere

The first Neil Gaiman book I ever read was Neverwhere. Not American Gods or Stardust or even Coraline. Neverwhere.

SO OH MY GOD LOOK AT THIS: LOOK, it has Benedict Cumberbatch, Natalie Dormer, James McAvoy and other English goodies! Holy God.

It's a BBC 4 radio adaptation and and and and WORDS FAIL ME.

Rejection.

"Lets be friends."
"I'm not interested in dating right now."
"It's not you, it's me."
- Countless phrases used by the fairer sex to reject others.

I admit: I have used more than one of these. I hate to generalise, but we tend to avoid messy confrontations. We prefer to keep our ends neatly tied up. We would rather not have a bloody mess on our hands. And that's kind of what emotions are like: a sort of subtle warfare.

I'm not attempting to justify this behaviour at all. A part of me does think it a little despicable and honestly, I think it's best to be straightforward with someone. It should be okay to tell them: "I'm just not interested in dating you." (Maybe not in those terms, though.)

What I'm trying to say is this: we use these soft rejection lines because we don't want to hurt anyone. Because ultimately, we don't want anyone to hurt us.

Self sexual objectification.

I have a deep-seated issue with my self esteem levels. There are days where I loathe myself completely, mutilating myself in my head. There are other days where I walk past mirrors, my face turned away to avoid the look of hatred I tend to flash at myself.

I am currently incapable of receiving compliments. I cannot believe them. Neither do I like them.

Realising this, I decided to embark on a month of self-discovery and perhaps, even self-actualisation. I stared at a 30 Day Challenge and tried to think of anything I liked about myself.

Day One: A facial feature you like on yourself.

I spent a few moments in contemplation. "My lips."

Day Two: A physical feature you like on yourself.

Without hesitation. "My breasts. Or my butt."

I spent a few more minutes with my train of thought on this particular track. After a while, it struck me that I was sexually objectifying myself.

I saw myself as worthy of only sexual feelings.

That is, to date, one of my greatest problems in overcoming my low self esteem.

Les Misérables

“The power of a glance has been so much abused in love stories, that it has come to be disbelieved in. Few people dare now to say that two beings have fallen in love because they have looked at each other. Yet it is in this way that love begins, and in this way only.” ― Victor Hugo, Les Misérables

I was 15 and I was in London. I dug my fingers into my striped pink sweater, nervously fidgeting. My mother sat next to me, texting furiously. I spared a thought for my sisters and my father (they had opted to watch Wicked instead). The lights dimmed and I filched her phone away, stowing it in the pocket of my jeans. "It's starting," I murmured placatingly.

Thus began the conflicted torture.

It was unlike anything else I'd ever experienced.

(That very year, a few months before, someone had showed me a DVD of Les Misérables being performed. I was mesmerised. From then onwards I began a passionate affair with Victor Hugo. I devoured his works, I obsessed over his quotes, I sang the musical score for the contraltos beneath my breath.

When my father asked me if I wanted to watch any musicals, I fairly leaped at the opportunity. Les Misérables! In London!)

From the beginning to end, I was suffocating from my emotions. Never one easily moved to tears, I found drops making their way down my face from the very start. I found my knuckles turning white with the force of my grip on the armrests as Eponine died (the tragedy of all the tragedies).

When it was over, my mother turned her red-rimmed eyes towards mine. "I didn't expect that," she admitted.

I had read the book and watched a few performances on DVDs beforehand but even then I took her hand in mine and quietly said, "Me too."

“Promise to give me a kiss on my brow when I am dead. --I shall feel it."
She dropped her head again on Marius' knees, and her eyelids closed. He thought the poor soul had departed. Eponine remained motionless. All at once, at the very moment when Marius fancied her asleep forever, she slowly opened her eyes in which appeared the sombre profundity of death, and said to him in a tone whose sweetness seemed already to proceed from another world:--
"And by the way, Monsieur Marius, I believe that I was a little bit in love with you.” ― Victor Hugo, Les Misérables

A tad maudlin.

“It slowly began to dawn on me that I had been staring at her for an impossible amount of time. Lost in my thoughts, lost in the sight of her. But her face didn't look offended or amused. It almost looked as if she were studying the lines of my face, almost as if she were waiting.  

I wanted to take her hand. I wanted to brush her cheek with my fingertips. I wanted to tell her that she was the first beautiful thing that I had seen in three years. The sight of her yawning to the back of her hand was enough to drive the breath from me. How I sometimes lost the sense of her words in the sweet fluting of her voice. I wanted to say that if she were with me then somehow nothing could ever be wrong for me again.  

In that breathless second I almost asked her. I felt the question boiling up from my chest. I remember drawing a breath then hesitating--what could I say? Come away with me? Stay with me? Come to the University? No. Sudden certainty tightened in my chest like a cold fist. What could I ask her? What could I offer? Nothing. Anything I said would sound foolish, a child's fantasy.  

I closed my mouth and looked across the water. Inches away, Denna did the same. I could feel the heat of her. She smelled like road dust, and honey, and the smell the air holds seconds before a heavy summer rain.  

Neither of us spoke. I closed my eyes. The closeness of her was the sweetest, sharpest thing I had ever known." 

 ― Patrick Rothfuss, The Name of the Wind 

“I thought of all the others who had tried to tie her to the ground and failed. So I resisted showing her the songs and poems I had written, knowing that too much truth can ruin a thing. And if that meant she wasn't entirely mine, what of it? I would be the one she could always return to without fear of recrimination or question. So I did not try to win her and contented myself with playing a beautiful game. But there was always a part of me that hoped for more, and so there was a part of me that was always a fool.”   

― Patrick Rothfuss, The Wise Man's Fear

What is growing up?

Growing up is realising that other things take precedence over your dreams and hopes and longings. It is worries, cares and troubles. It is the subtle sense of responsibility creeping up to the forefront of your mind.

Sometimes, growing up involves breaking your own heart.

“When we are children we seldom think of the future. This innocence leaves us free to enjoy ourselves as few adults can. The day we fret about the future is the day we leave our childhood behind.” 
― Patrick Rothfuss, The Name of the Wind

So I'm 20 now.

I don't feel any difference. But then again, neither did I expect to.

I would, however, say that the night of my 20th birthday was the most epic ever. The less said about that, the better. (:

“Everybody has a secret world inside of them. All of the people of the world, I mean everybody. No matter how dull and boring they are on the outside, inside them they've all got unimaginable, magnificent, wonderful, stupid, amazing worlds. Not just one world. Hundreds of them. Thousands maybe." - Neil Gaiman.

"What does your future look like?"

I hesitate before pasting on a shy smile. "I want to be a lawyer." Straight to the point.

"That sounds lovely..." The well-meaning voice chatters on to subjects of inconsequential matter. I drop the smile and fall back into my daydreams.

What does my future look like?

Law school, my chambering, being called to the Bar, practising, retirement. That is all I'm certain of.

Marriage, children, starting a family. These are all optional. (or maybe the option doesn't even figure in the picture- that's what I'm afraid of, that nobody thinks that I'm worth that kind of devotion, commitment)

I feel that there are two sides to every person- simplistically speaking, I would like to emphasise. On the one hand, we're all power-hungry beasts, gutless creatures. On the other, I honestly believe that most of us would be happy living on a beach somewhere with just enough money to survive.

(Why 'simplistically'? Because nobody is made up of only two sides. Nothing can be unsubdivided. Maybe that's why physicists are inevitably philosophers. An endless quest to reduce everything to it's most rudimentary form, a losing battle.

We are made up of thousands upon thousands of facets. We have motives behind our motives and reasons so minute they're incomprehensible. Our fleeting thoughts now can be the metaphorical pebbles that start off the avalanche years later subconsciously.)

Or something like that.

I digress.

What does my future look like?

In my head? Honestly, truthfully, sincerely? I see myself living in a tiny apartment, wearing nothing but sweaters and jeans. I am a barrister by day, a crime reporter at night (although my true dream would be to work as a war correspondent). I live near a small cafe that makes brilliant tea, an undiscovered gem. I subsist on a diet of scones and peppermint infusions, reading and dreaming through my life. (someone might even catch a glimpse of me, fall in love with me, make me live in this world- but that's another dream)

Or there's the other truth. The darker, flip side of the mirror. Making partner at a young age, winning case after case, arguing intelligently and faultlessly, my mind sharp as a shard of broken glass. Powerful, ruthless, cunning, ambitious. Being able to give myself everything I never knew I even wanted. Slaking my thirst for revenge (another dream for another day, one I refuse to elaborate on).

But the reality is that nothing is predestined.

"Plans can break down. You cannot plan the future. Only presumptuous fools plan. The wise man steers." Terry Pratchett

Of Terry Pratchett, Neil Gaiman and mindgasms.

Firstly, you may already know that I am a HUGE fan of both Pratchett and Gaiman. I can say with certainty that I've read all of their books (in the case of Pratchett, this is actually quite impressive because the Discworld books alone number about 50 if you exclude the almanacs and supplementary works).

OH MY GOD COMPLETELY FANGIRLING HERE BECAUSE MINI SERIES

I was happily browsing through things and came across this: CLICK HERE BECAUSE OF REASONS

Basically, they'll be adapting the City Watch novels into a TV series as well as Good Omens, one of my all-time favourites, but the latter will be more of a mini series.

Best of all, THIS:

Although it's really spelled Aziraphale.

I don't think I'm sane right now with the amount of happiness in my head.

On men, on safety, on how women aren't safe because they're women.

men aren’t told to carry around weapons
men aren’t told to go to self defense classes
men aren’t told to only go out in groups
men aren’t told not to go out at a certain hour of the night
men aren’t told that they shouldn’t have a few drinks
men aren’t told that they shouldn’t wear certain articles of clothing
do you see where i’m going with this

I saw this somewhere. I don't know who wrote this. I don't know who came up with this. But if you are a woman, you understand this.

You know the fear that crawls up your spine when you're hurrying through a lonely area and is that someone following me? screams a loud whine in your mind.

You know the quickening of breath when you hear the raucous sound of rowdy male laughter behind you, the urge to fold up into yourself so nobody notices you scurrying your way.

You know the prayer that thrums through your veins: please don't say or do anything to me.

You know the panic that overtakes your body when you see a strange man heading towards you.

It really shouldn't be so.

It's a sad and strange world where more than half of the world's population is terrified of the other.

It really shouldn't matter to you.

Deleted a helluva lot of posts that had to do with the person I once was. I don't want reminders of that. I've been a lot more positive and level-headed (I was giggly and immature, a glass of lemonade). I'm still a scattered mess, but I am finally moving forward (baby steps, tottering in a vaguely northward direction).

I don't know if anyone actually ever reads this and to be honest, I don't really care if they do. My words (strung along prettily like pearls in a necklace) will soon be forgotten to myself. Nothing is indelible, not even the ink smearing my skin in a few choice locations (UV rays from the sun triggering reactions that break down the chemicals in the ink, fading them into grey whirls).

I am neither a poet nor a writer. I am a dreamer. I live on castles of air made on a foundation of ocean mist and heady smoke rings. My arms are scarred from past hurts. I am at heart, a survivor.

This is a rant.

I am not a victim of my circumstances. I am, despite them. I am not of them.

I have been tested and found wanting when it comes to my Emotional Quotient levels. On the other hand, the last time I took an IQ test, I scored a 133. Do not treat me like an idiot just because I don't understand your social cues. Walk me slowly through things.

I support the QUILTBAG (the utterly new fab name for LGBTQ) community and their need for rights. I am being deliberately ambiguous here because. Well. I have very good reasons.

I am the star of my own story. I save myself. I also have a fantastically huge ego in contrast with my currently crap self-esteem, and it's all for the best if you don't try to understand me.

I like taekwondo. A lot. I currently hold a second dan blackbelt in it. Yes, fairly common. I have five medals for sparring and two for taeguek. When I was younger (angrier, more aggressive, prone to trouble), it was the quiet and authoritative voice of my master that stilled my impulses. To you, and to the rest of the world, it may be a farce of a martial art (I could agree; I never cringed more than when I watched the Olympics). But all I can say is that taekwondo is divided into three branches roughly: traditional taekwondo, sports taekwondo and... combat taekwondo (somehow, this involves nunchucks- I literally have a pair of practice nunchucks hanging behind my room door...).

(I am, however, a complete failure at completing ninjutsu. My bokken and tanto lie in my room, watchful and dusty but unforgotten.)

I have a hang up over being called 'pretty' or 'beautiful' or... Just anything relating to my looks, in general. I tense up when someone compliments me on the way I look (not that it happens often, mind you) and I tend to change the subject. This has nothing to do with self-esteem and everything to do with past situations. Don't take my lack of acceptance for a lack of manners. Again, I would thank you to stop trying to comprehend the way I work.

Sometimes, I actually do feel that I look good. This one, I'll have to attribute to my bigender tendencies.

Which brings us squarely back to the genderqueer post I meant it this to be.

Gender and sexuality are inherently fluid. Neither are mutually exclusive to the other and may be completely unrelated. Stop assuming what I am.

And for now, that is all I have to say about the matter. That was supposed to be the focal point of this entire post, but my thoughts have once again gone awry (playing hide-and-seek in a unfamiliar location of their own devising; I cannot grasp hold of them and they slip past the gaps between my fingers).

This has somehow turned into a ramble.

Lately, the subject of love has weighed heavy upon my mind.

Odd.
Why?
Because I have never fallen in love before.
But didn't you...?
I did. But the point still stands. I have never fallen in love before.

Limerence is my fair friend. Infatuation, a comfortable ally. Love? Agape, eros, and above all, romantic, no. I can't say that I have.

Let us start at the beginning. I am a dreamer, yes. But a cynical one. I watch the ending of dreams with my eyes wide open, living in reality, coexisting (one foot in a world of my own, the other firmly attached to the destruction of this universe). Jaded. World-weary.

I do not dream of Prince Charming on his stately stallion stealing strong, steady heartbeats from my chest. My thoughts are not full of the knight in shining armour, lance strategically placed steadfast at the side of his stabled steed. (All alliteration produced out of boredom; I am bored bored bored bored bored)

It could also be said that I have been replaying Wonderland by Natalia Kills (a guilty pleasure and one of my favourite songs). Dark and grim.

In all honesty, I understand that aromantics exist. In all probability, I could be one of them. I'm not sure.

An aromantic is a person who lacks the instinctive need to create an emotional attachment to someone in a romantic sense.

This would normally be a good thing since I really don't like having visible weaknesses except that I would like to one day fall in love (negation: I am not an aromantic). A dizzy, headlong rush, adrenaline shooting through my veins, intoxicating my mind and body the way only a chemical can.

Or so I've been told.

It's almost 3AM and I have better things to do. Screw it.

“We're frightened of what makes us different.” Otherwise known as: An excuse to use Anne Rice quotes.

And truly, I understand that I stand apart but most importantly, alone.

No, don't get me wrong. I have a duo of beautiful sisters (ultimately younger than me and so untouched by the cares and worries that plague me) and amazingly supportive friends. But I have this superstitious taboo of speaking aloud my hopes, dreams and fears. I keep a notebook on my bedside table for this instead, dark ink spilling across the pages with my thoughts scrawled with disregard for margins.

(It could be said that margins are unnecessary anyway, why limit myself?)

Sometimes, I find myself taut and stretched tight like the E string on a violin (held in place, gripped with the littlest finger; climbing up almost to the bridge, sounding a note close to the third octave above middle C).

At other times, I feel my bones drape languidly, restful as a calm puddle in the aftermath of a thunderstorm (still, ripples non-existent, giving into sensation only when there is a lack of stimulation; paradox, irony).

Through it all, my thoughts remain a maelstrom. A terrifying whirlpool of intensity. A lying mess. The repetitive but unpredictable Brownian motion of words leaving trails across my mind.

“There are too many other inexplicable things around us--horrors, threats, mysteries that draw you in and then inevitably disenchant you. Back to the predictable and humdrum. The prince is never going to come, everybody knows that; and maybe Sleeping Beauty's dead.” 

I understand that I stand apart, eccentric in an incomprehensible sense to everyone else around me. Standing apart inevitably leads to standing alone. Being alone results in a freedom unlike any other (my mind descending and ascending to levels unknown- never on the same wavelength as anyone else but never having to be either), but occasionally it does bring me to loneliness.

No, this is not a teenage rant on heartbreak or love or romance.

No, this is not an asexual cry for companionship.

Neither is this a pseudo-intellectual gripe about the oh-so-thoughtless fools I am surrounded by.

This is wondering: Does being different detract from your chances at the Russian roulette game that is love? (Why is love so important that people would kill, fight wars, bloody history, smear the actions of mankind with fathomless evil in the name of something that is universally regarded as fundamentally good?)

Cynical. Enigmatic. Pessimistic. Cryptic. I dance a clumsy tango around the subject that seduces me with one hip cocked and puckered lips.

Oxytocin. Serotonin. Human evolution. Proven by science, anthropology and history.

Skin meets skin, a rush of adrenaline, fumbled sentences, a compilation of clichés and stereotypes. From the calm and steady romance of Pride and Prejudice (“In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”)  to the insane selfishness of Wuthering Heights (“May she wake in torment!" he cried, with frightful vehemence, stamping his foot, and groaning in a sudden paroxysm of ungovernable passion. "Why, she's a liar to the end! Where is she? Not there—not in heaven—not perished—where? Oh! you said you cared nothing for my sufferings! And I pray one prayer—I repeat it till my tongue stiffens—Catherine Earnshaw, may you not rest as long as I am living; you said I killed you—haunt me, then! The murdered do haunt their murderers, I believe. I know that ghosts have wandered on earth. Be with me always—take any form—drive me mad! only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you! Oh, God! it is unutterable! I cannot live without my life! I cannot live without my soul!”) what are we but pawns to our invention, our creation? The emotion we esteem above all others? That which we have raised on a pedestal over the millennia, until fact and fiction have blurred to become one.

Society has become what we have made of it and love is our twisted, crippled child.

Blood is more viscous than water.

I remember this morning, my eyelashes fluttering as I awoke gently for the first time in days. It was then I became aware of an arm and leg slung across my body. Panicked, I slid my sleep-weary gaze to the side and my eyes collided with the sight of another's stare, stricken and wide-eyed. I relaxed. It was my youngest sister, six years my junior and in possession of a height six inches superior to mine. She had a larger hand up in my hair, stroking the tangles and curling her fingers in the ends.

(I was reminded of a time ten years ago, when I was in the reverse position; protecting her smaller frame against the cruel, cynical world)

"Good morning, Zarrah," her voice rang out softly, careful not to startle me. I turned over and stuffed my face in the hollow between her neck and her shoulder, wincing at the bright sunlight streaming through my curtains (note to self: get opaque drapes).

She curled her body against mine, attempting to nudge me awake with her elbows. "You're very pretty," she whispered and I hid my smile.

Now THIS is awkward.

I discovered today (a sudden epiphany) after many weeks of this happening that when someone calls me Zar or Zarrah in a certain way, I will automatically reply with "Yeah baby?"

This has made some people think that I think that I have odd player tendencies.

Actually, it's because that's how I placate my youngest sister.

The awkward part is that I do this to everyone, including my parents and on one very memorable occassion, my boss.

Those days.

I have mentioned a pair of boys (almost-men) who grew up with me for a decade. We trained in taekwondo together, we had sleepovers, we studied together and we went through the awkwardness of puberty together.

I'm so proud of them and the way they have turned out.

Mystery Jets

Mystery Jets was in Malaysia. I'm still reeling in disbelief. I had always thought that I'd need to travel to the UK to watch them perform and honestly, I was resigned to it. But two days ago, a friend of mine posted on Twitter that he wished he had known earlier that they were to perform in KL.

I flipped.

Mystery Jets was in Malaysia?! I went a little crazy trying to figure out when, where, HOW DO I GET TICKETS and then I started fangirling madly.

(An odd coincidence was that the evening before, I had gotten a friend to listen to Young Love and she liked it)

So to cut a long story short, I managed to get myself and a friend tickets (my poor friend had never even heard of Mystery Jets before but put up an admirable front in helping me out) and we were RIGHT IN FRONT LIKE OH MY GOD I COULD HAVE REACHED OUT AND GRABBED BLAINE HARRISON'S LEG.

Honestly, I'm rating this as the best thing ever. I thought that 30 Seconds To Mars rocked my life but Mystery Jets blew them out of the water.

On an unrelated note, the concert was held in a club and the bouncers didn't believe my age. Fortunately, my friend had foreseen this and we had my driver's license. Why does this always happen to me.

Half In Love With Elizabeth
(Pretty much their claim to fame)

This is almost irrelevant but while I was gazing upon Blaine Harrison's face, I realised that he has a prominent cupid's bow. And he's English. And he has dark hair. (Let us, for a moment, forget about the nose piercing, which I find so appealing, and tattoos)

Ladies and gentlemen, there is a pattern.

A woman's place is in the kitchen.

Nevertheless, everytime my friends (an all male group) come over, you usually find me in front of the television playing with the X Box or watching movies while swilling down beer and then you'll see the guys squabble while cooking in the kitchen.

CRIB KL

I'm interning there right now, as most of you know (I'm guessing that most of my readers if not all are my extremely close friends- if you aren't, then I'm quite flattered that anyone else cares about my life). I think it's an amazingly fun place.

Oh we do work hard, but we play hard as well. The thing is, our work is fun. I tend to slouch about in jeans and listen to Rammstein while doing research or whatever it is my work for the day entails and some days we somehow end up getting wacky food in the office, which is actually a bungalow.

Right now, we're working on a project called RockCorps and I adore the concept behind it. If you're up to date with the happenings in Europe, you may have heard of it already. It's taken the UK, US and France by storm with David Cameron endorsing the project and by actually winning an award as well.

Concept: Give four hours of your time to volunteer in a community service project and receive in return a ticket to a concert we'll be organising for the end of the year.

We have over 120 different projects planned out over a three month period and scattered across the country so anyone from wherever can volunteer. There's also the carrot: performances by two international artistes for free.

Being a concert buff, I honestly don't understand why more Malaysian youth aren't lining up to register themselves as volunteers. For the life of me, I don't see why my acquaintances are perfectly happy to spend over RM 100 to buy a concert ticket but not, for example, paint an orphanage for one.

But arghhh, I'm honestly not too surprised either. Malaysians are by nature extremely wary and sceptical people, let alone our lazy slugabed youngsters (I know I'm barely 20 but whatever). I'm starting to understand why our parents are so exasperated with us.

I know I'm rambling, I just needed to get this out. I may scrutinise this tomorrow.

Normality

I was browsing through my Anne Rice books, re-reading them and just falling more in love with the lyrical prose she typically writes in that some complain can drag. The book I had decided to cuddle up with on this specific day was the Queen of the Damned.

I was reading the section where Daniel recollects his meetings with Armand and how they gradually grow more intimate. There is a section where Armand talks about the past and society in general which I was struck by.

(Once I get my hands on the book again, I'll post up the quote)

In a nutshell, what Armand says is that society has always compared everything to a concept of normality that has never existed. That was just mindblowing. It's very true when you think about it. For a given value of normal, nobody is really normal.

Don't you think?

I believe in the other girls in my life.

"I'm not like other girls."
"I'm not like her."
"Did you see what she was wearing?"
"I can't believe she wore that!"
"You can't wear that. It's for skinny girls."
"You shouldn't wear that. You need bigger breasts to hold it up."
"All girls are alike."
"You can't be a girl."
"Are you sure you're *insert relevant term here*? I mean, no offense but I don't think you are."
"Maybe it's just a phase."
"She deserved it. Did you see what she was wearing?"
"She was asking for it. Look at the way she was behaving!"
"She's such a bitch."

Do any of these sound familiar? Do you utter any of these phrases? It's alright. This is a non-judgemental place. I'm not here to judge you. In return, I request the same courtesy from you. Deal?

Here's what I have to say:

No two girls or women are alike. Maybe they have similarities. But they are not the same person. Do not compare one female to another or to the rest of the female gender.

All females are beautiful. Whether cis or trans*, black, white, yellow, brown or any other colour. Whether you're tall or short, big or small, skinny or not. There is something amazing about you that makes you different from the billions of people here. You are special and you'd better believe it.

Nobody has the right to define you or to force you to become someone you're not.

Nobody has the right to force you into anything.

It's alright to say 'no'. You shouldn't be afraid of saying it. If you are, examine the reasons and correct them if you can. If you can't, find a friend with a good shoulder and talk it out. You should hopefully find a solution.

Everybody has the right to a life without fear: fear of being discriminated, fear of violence, fear of anything unreasonable that disturbs the peace of their daily lives. In return, you shouldn't inflict that fear on other people.

Rape is caused by rapists. Not by circumstances.

Everyone has a reason for their actions or why they are that way. If it's really bugging you, ask gently and offer a non-condemnatory shoulder.

Don't backstab. Be reasonable. Be fair. Again, if you really dislike someone's behaviour (dislike the action, not the person!) let them know what and why and do not lose your temper. If the other person loses their temper, let them know you don't hold it against them but don't let them abuse you. Walk away. If they're amenable to listening to you and you're able to have a good clear-the-air talk, all the better and props to the two of you for being mature adults.

You think someone's a little weird and shy? Say 'hi' once in a while and try not to treat them like an outcast. Be nice.

It's alright to fall once in a while. Get back up. It's as simple and as hard as that.

Stand up for others. Stand up for the ones who can't stand up for themselves.

Stand up for the female race. We're all women. Stand up for trans women too.

A person has the right to do whatever they want, provided nobody is being hurt. She sleeps around? No, she isn't a slut. Sex is a completely natural act, the excess or lack thereof shouldn't be part of a description. If you're a virgin, fine and good. If you aren't, so what? Unless you lost it in a situation you regret. I'm sorry, in that case.

It's alright to wear whatever you want regardless of your body type. It's not alright to ridicule someone just because you think they're dressed funny.

Love Your Body isn't an excuse to just sit around and eat pizza. You don't need an excuse to sit on your couch and eat whatever you want. Love Your Body means you have the right to decide what's best for you. And okay, sometimes sitting around and eating pizza is the best for you too.

Gender equality. Guys can wear whatever they want too! Of course, it's a little more complicated than that...

A man doesn't have to necessarily be the breadwinner in a family. Personally, I want a house husband. I would never think of him as less than a man for doing the washing and cooking. There's just something sexy about a domesticated male to me.

Some people identify as neither male nor female. Or maybe both. Or a combination of the two. I believe I have bigender tendencies. My friends (all males) asked me what I meant by that, 'ohhh'-ed at my explanation and promptly passed me more food (pretty much our way of bonding).

Fluidity in gender and sexuality. Yes, it exists.

Some people believe in a god of some sort, some don't, some have a complex idea of god. It's fine.

Some people don't want romantic love or to have sex or a variation of the two. Don't force them. They aren't broken and they do not need to be 'fixed'.

A person's age does not always make them unsuitable for a certain task.

We are humans. Over the millenia we have evolved. We have seen empires rise and fall. We have had great people walk the earth with us and leave, their names immortal in memory. We have split the atom.  We have put a man on the moon. We have charted the paths of the planets. We have made works of art so beautiful they transcend cultures and make us weep. We have accomplished what previous generations have thought impossible and we will continue pushing boundaries. We have killed, we have loved, we have hated and we have lived.

And we still cannot get along.

That probably tells you more about the homo sapiens than you need to know.

But remember Pandora's box?

When Pandora opened the box given to her by the Greek gods out of curiosity, she let all sorts of evil escape. Horrified, she sought to close it but it was too late. Everything had been let loose already except for one thing. It lay in the bottom of the box and hovered out just before she closed the lid. "Thank you for letting me out," it said. "I am Hope."

And so it flew off to join a world full of anger, hate, envy, jealousy and now- hope.

Couture Caramel

Sam and I waltzed into the frozen yoghurt cafe delightedly. We had an hour or two to spare between chores and errands and we had decided to spend it all bumming around snacking on fro-yo.

"Is that strawberry you're taking?" Sam asked, wrinkling her nose with distaste.

"You're a fine one to talk," I retorted. "You're having the sour original one. What's with that?"

She huffed. "It's actually less sour than strawberry."

I ignored her as I piled on jelly on top of my neat pile of delicious strawberry yoghurt. I hummed contentedly until I heard excited chatter.

"Zaaaar," Sam was saying my name repeatedly. "Zar! Look at this!"

I glanced at the bottle she was shoving at me. Couture caramel or something. Despite myself, I was interested. "I'd like some," I told her, holding my cup of yoghurt out.

"Enough?"

"More."

"Now?"

"More. OKAY STOP."

She upended a large amount on her cup and I paid for our yoghurt using my student ID to get a discount. We sat ourselves down in front of the large flat screen television and watched E! mindlessly. Halfway through my yoghurt, I clutched my stomach.

"Too much caramel," I whimpered.

"I know," Sam whispered back. She looked a little green.

"Gotta force myself to finish this."

She made a sound of agreement that sounded a bit like someone trying to not puke their guts out.

Until now, I will not touch caramel in any form.

Sisters.

The most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Middle sister did not want me to see this at first, but I caught a glimpse of it. This was from last year, when I was doing my A Levels.

Sam, you're amazing.

Sherlock Holmes in the 21st century.

Due to my fascination with all things Sherlock Holmes (I blame my father for this), it's no small wonder that I finally stumbled upon the award-winning BBC production, Sherlock. I am currently in love with it and I have developed a huge infatuation on the leading actor, Benedict Cumberbatch (a crush rivaled by the love my youngest sister feels for Henry Cavill- you won't get this unless you know her because man, she's obsessed!).

The plot of each episode is detailed and well thought out with very little cause for complaint. Benedict's Sherlock is snarky and ethereal in his brilliance. Martin's Watson is sensible and grounded, everything you'd expect John Watson to be. The banter is witty and sarcastic, perfect for those weary of modern television series that revolve around slapstick jokes.

Not only that, but the characters stay within the personality that the great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle created for them. Sherlock Holmes shoots at his wall when he's bored (which is often when he isn't working on a case), Watson works as a doctor outside of cases and writes (blogs, in this case) about their adventures, Holmes has experiments lying all over the place, Watson is fastidious, Holmes lives in a pigsty. They've even kept in Holmes' use of cocaine (or at least implied it) to stimulate his mind.

And now, an entire paragraph dedicated to Benedict Cumberbatch's extreme sexiness. He has almond shaped eyes, a perfect cupid's bow, and a deep, sonorous voice. A cupid's bow. I have never even seen one. Or at least such an amazingly crafted one. His voice has been compared to that of a younger Alan Rickman.  He's lean and tall and extremely intelligent (or so I've deduced from his interviews). And he's single. Oh. My. Lord. Here's a sample:

4 June 2013: Nitpicking through my blog today and I've decided to update all of my old posts. Well. Be warned that Steven Moffat isn't exactly a feminist and that female characters are sparse. Besides that, he's a bit of a misogynist and it shows. I have a major issue with "A Scandal in Belgravia". Also, little representation from POC characters. Moriarty is brilliant, though.

Riddle me this.

Besides the usual fascination with epic sagas such as the Iliad and Lord of The Rings, I have an unhealthy obsession for these three:

1. The d'Artagnan series. This includes the Three Musketeers and all of its sequels. I have read every single one of them and I tend to re-read the books every time I get bored. Actually, to be more precise, I also have a long-standing love for all of Alexandre Dumas' work.
2. Sherlock Holmes. I visited the Sherlock Holmes museum in London and not only do I have a magnificent collection of memorabilia from that divine place, but I am also in possession of the complete works.
3. Indiana Jones. Harrison Ford galore. I have my dad to thank for this. One fine weekend, he purchased the entire Indiana Jones DVD set, some snacks and we watched the entire trilogy together with my sisters. Crystal Skull doesn't count because belated sequels are crap.

So now you know and you may die happy.

All I Want VS All I Need

This is what I would like in my significant other.

• Intelligent conversations late at night. This is important. 
• I can't respect you if you don't stand up to me now and then. Yes, I like getting my own way but I don't want to date a pushover either.
• Physically, they'll have to be tall and tanned with a rascally smirk and a mop of messy dark hair. If they have been blessed with poor eyesight and the need for spectacles, that will all be a contribution to the greater good (aren't gorgeous geeks just adorable?).
• The most chivalrous attitude since the dawn of the Arthurian legends.
• A mutual passion for reading and heatedly debating the merits of one series of books against another (books > films).
• A deep and abiding love for martial arts and action flicks (no rom-coms from this lady!).
• The gift for culinary orgasms. I cannot cook. One of us needs to ensure that we can survive through a zombie apocalypse without resorting to instant noodles (which I also cannot make- there is a story about this).
• Romance. Or what I think romance is. I am easily satisfied and throwing chocolate at me would probably suffice. 
• Affection. Lots of it. I will die without this.
• An encyclopedic knowledge of The A Team (the film is my all time favorite therefore if you cannot quote from it I may morph into a typical female and throw hissy fits for weeks).

But what's the point considering the old adage that you may keep the idea of a perfect person for you in your head, but when they come along they're the furthest thing away from all that you imagined?

It's the difference between what I want and what I need.

I miss you.

I was browsing through Tumblr a little earlier when I stumbled upon this:

If you can't be a good example of what to be, then be a good example of what not to be.

I was bumming around on Facebook, doing everything and nothing, when a chat bubble popped up on my screen.

"Hi sis, how are you?"

"Who is this chick?" I muttered as I skimmed through the message. Name sounded familiar but I couldn't quite place it.

Then it hit me.

She was a little girl from church. I used to teach her class when I had a six month stint as an assistant teacher for catechism classes. She would be turning 13 later this year and among all of my former students, she had kept the most contact with me. At random times in church, I'd feel a small hand slip into mine and I'd see her wide smile. Sometimes, I would see her waving at me across church or she'd race up to me to throw her arms around me.

It's a surprising wonderful feeling.

Real Bromance.

Sharv's a big Indian guy who plays rugby and chain smokes.

I'm a petite Eurasian girl who can't stop bouncing around.

Sharv has biceps as large as my entire head and can singlehandedly push my car uphill with Chris in it.

I wear spectacles, have lactose intolerance and countless allergies.

We couldn't be more different.

Yet he takes the time to talk to my youngest sister who's six years younger than us and to put up with my constant mood swings. He reassures me that I'm 'just not fat' and when I don't believe him, in a completely believable tone free of exasperation he finds ways to reassure me that I'm beautiful or sexy or whatever I need to feel at the moment.

I'm so lucky to have him in my life.

It's over.

My first job ever. I'm done. Well, sort of. I'm technically still employed but since I'd never taken leave, I've gotten all of my leave now so I'm kinda finished with everything a little earlier.

I really did enjoy the experience. I hated closing with a passion and I disliked dealing with crabby people constantly, but the whole thing did me good in the end. I just can't believe that it's all over, though.

I met a bunch of incredible people, lovely people who taught me how to work hard and have fun while doing it. I made a new group of friends with diverse personalities and backgrounds. The whole thing was a real eye-opener and I'm glad my aunt jumped me into it and that dad supported me the whole way. (:

I'll definitely miss everyone I'd met but I'm ready to move into a brand new phase of life.

I have discovered a heretofore untouched streak of sentimentality.

I've been feeling a little more wistful lately. I've spent hours skimming through novels with romantic subplots with restless energy, hunting down the elusive quixotic threads that my usually pragmatic nature skips over. I've bookmarked pages with amorous declarations, the spines of these books wearing thin with repeated folding out.

“Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses, you build up a whole suit of armor, so that nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life...You give them a piece of you. They didn't ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so simple a phrase like 'maybe we should be just friends' turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It's a soul-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. I hate love.” - Neil Gaiman 

Everyone around me seems to be falling prey to this mysterious malady of courtship. I'm just wondering when my turn will be. Not because I need reassurance that I am flawless in someone's eyes, but because I want to be able to lean on someone for a while. To rest my bones against theirs in comfort and silence. To forget, to lose track of time, to heal from the hectic humdrum of everyday life.

"How about... E5?"

I truly enjoyed Battleship and I completely got that whole shadowing game they played during the night scene with the aliens. I used to play the board game for hours with my grandfather, who was in the navy. I love these action-science fiction movies!

Also, Taylor Kitsch has a really swoon-worthy voice and ever since he portrayed Gambit in X-Men, I can't help but notice a similarity in all of his roles. Even in John Carter. I can't wait to watch him with John Travolta and Aaron Johnson in Savages later in June or July when it's released!

And ever since Liam Neeson acted in The A-Team, my favorite movie everrr, I can't help but think of him as one of the sexiest men ever. Ever. Even hotter than all of the hot men already present in any film.

So this one time...

I was having dinner with pals. We were dressed super casually and we were having some pretty okay briyani in a restaurant, BBQ Nights.

All of  a sudden, lights started flashing and a DJ came on.

"Are we in a club?" one of my friends asked.

"Nooo, maybe this is a nightly thing..." I replied, still focussed on my food.

Girls started slinking in wearing tight, short dresses.

"Dude, we're in a club."

"We're eating briyani, how could we ever be in a club?!"

Later...

"Okay, bro," I said finally. "I can't take this. I'm wearing flip flops and jeans and we're surrounded with girls in crazy dresses. Lets get out of here."

As we walked out, we took a surreptitious glance at the name of the restaurant again just to double check. It now said Vogue (the club).

"Guys, we walked into BBQ Nights right?" I asked anxiously. They nodded mutely, stunned.

"And none of us drank right?" They nodded again.

What.

Pottermore.

I stared at the screen, pondering my options.

"You'd pick that," my middle sister, Sam (the same one I've mentioned quite a number of times in previous posts), pointed out helpfully (in her opinion- in mine she was a bleeding nuisance hanging about behind me).

"It's kinda between the silver dagger and the black silk glove," I replied absentmindedly, realizing that I subconsciously made a decision alluding to the macabre cloak-and-dagger fetish I have.

"You..." Sam hissed between her teeth. "You're gonna get into Slytherin, I just know it! I got into Ravenclaw but I wanted Slytherin and YOU're getting Slytherin. HOW IS THIS FAIR?" I dodged a few of her blows.

She kept wailing and I winced mostly at her shrieks than her ineffectual hits.

Megan Whalen Turner = Anne Rice.

There, I've said it. Megan Whalen Turner is now as great as Anne Rice (my ultimate favourite author everrrr) in my mind.

I've been meaning to read the Queen's Thief series for quite some time ever since I read a review up on The Book Smugglers (I trust every one of their opinions. Seriously. Every book that they've given a high rating to has not yet disappointed me) and my mother purchased all four books from the series for me yesterday.

I am currently in the middle of the fourth.

The worrisome thing is how the second book kept me up all night. Not the reading mind you, the sheer awesomeness I felt after finishing the book. It was just... I don't know. I can't even talk about how good the book is without worrying about revealing some minor detail in the plot that could lead to some major part of the story.

It's a highly elaborate story that relies on little details that you could mistakenly pass over while reading only to reach the ending and realize, "HOLY CRAP THE EARRINGS SHE WORE! THAT'S THE CLUE!" Which is exactly what I shouted last night, rolling around on my bed in sheer confoundedness.

Book One, The Thief, is lighthearted and funny and the last few chapters will make you realize that man, this story isn't what you thought it was, not at all.

Book Two, The Queen of Attolia, is darker, more poignant. It's serious and political and there are definitely surprises in store.

Book Three, The King of Attolia, is a little funnier again but with a touch of sadness. It's definitely political but I figure that it's the most intelligent book of the series with more little details. Although the outcome is obvious, the means are not.

Book Four, Conspiracy of Kings, is also political following the thread of war that begun in the second book. I can't tell you much as I'm not quite done with the book yet (and even if I were, I still couldn't tell you anything at all- you wouldn't be able to understand until you read a Megan Whalen Turner novel too because then you can try explaining the series to a non-fan and lets see how you fare).

The series has made me laugh and cry and gasp in horror. It has chilled me to the bone and made me feel despair. There's even a romance in it, but one you won't notice till someone makes a declaration of love. After that, you'll smack yourself in the head and wonder why you haven't noticed it developing because it's oh-so-obvious.

It's been a roller coaster of a ride and I'm already looking forward to the next two books of the series, rumoured to be in progress.

Caution: You will fall in love with Eugenides.

MOAAAR STEAMPUNK.

Found two steampunk books on sale. AHHHHH. Squealed and pounced on them happily.

Nobody will ever see me again!

Or at least till I'm done re-reading.

But seriously though, they're beautiful.




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Girls are complaining that Henry Cavill looks way too muscular for Superman, instead preferring the leaner look he sported for The Tudors or the more aesthetically pleasing bod he maintained in Immortals.

I don't see the problem considering that the Superman in the DC Reboot currently looks like this:

It means that he's practically in character!

The Force is strong with this one.

Gee took me for my first Star Wars movie ever and it was awesome! I had always planned to watch Star Wars with Joshua before but that didn't really work out so it was pretty cool that I finally got to watch a little of the epic saga that inspired an entire generation a bit ago the way Harry Potter did for us in our time.

I think I've become a bit of a Star Wars geek thanks to him.

Right after that, we had pizza together and I was happy that he was happy over my choice of pizza as he's currently pursuing a degree in culinary arts and I was getting a little worried that whatever I find satisfactory enough to consume might not be good enough for him. So phew.

Also we made tons of jokes. Hurhur.

Malones again!

I had so much fun with the bros tonight. It's so lovely how we refuse to fall apart despite being busy and living far away from each other. It's also pretty cool how they don't forget that although I'm a bro, I'm still a lady and they even treat me like one!

Thank you boys, for another collection of amazing memories. (:


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Nothing's that simple, darling.

Love's not about merely finding someone who can put up with you. It's not about having someone who would never hurt you. It has nothing to do with fate, soul mates or intertwined destinies.

It's about being complementary. It's about having the perfect balance of similarities and differences. It's about quiet hope and steely determination.

Anyone can make up after a fight. Anyone can find it in themselves to apologize, to put their pride down and make the first step. But can you find someone who can keep you from being bored during those quiet moments when you can't find anything else to do? Is there anyone else who has that certain quirkiness that excites you and attracts you?

Think about it.

Right ho, Jeeves!

I've recently developed an intense infatuation with PG Wodehouse. I wish I could marry his books and have their literary babies.

Steampunk.

I recently watched Journey 2: The Mysterious Island. Or whatever it's really called. Despite the intense corniness and sheer stupidity of the glaringly obvious plot holes, I enjoyed it.

Why?

Because I adore Jules Vernes. He is known as the pioneer of the science fiction genre and being the massive geek I am, that is my favorite of all book genres. Also, he practically invented steampunk. I love love love steampunk!

Besides that, he was given writing advice by Alexandre Dumas, one of my all time favorite authors. I have read all of Dumas' books and I re-read The Three Musketeers everyday. Every. Day.

It was really worth suffering through Vanessa Hudgens' scenes just to stare at the steampunk-style submarine. I kept bouncing in my seat excitedly while quoting passages from Vernes' books. My sisters shushed me, telling me to stop being such a bleeding smartass.

But really, if you check out steampunk, you might just agree with me.

Close enough to #1!

Mun Loong. You might never read this ever, but I don't care. You've been the most amazing person for so many years. Thank you for listening to me cry, thank you for making me laugh, thank you for cradling me when I break down and thank you for holding my hand through it all.

I've watched you grow from being a laughter-filled young boy to a thoughtful and humorous young man and I couldn't be prouder of the evolution.

I wish you everything that you wish for yourself.


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Mmm.

Is it so wrong that I think Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson is one of the sexiest men ever besides being my ideal husband?


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Alaina "Porcelain" Beaton.

How can one person be so amazing?

I've been a loyal Trainwreck for several years, since the inception of Porcelain and The Tramps and way before Porcelain Black. I've never failed to be astounded by her music.

Monsters in my mind.

Bated breath, gritted teeth, fingers curved like claws. I run and run away in my mind but I always come face-to-face with the monster that haunts my mind as it flits through various levels of consciousness.

There it is again! A flash of a grin, a glimpse of long, dark hair.

For all I care, I could be staring into a reflection but really, I'm gazing into the depths of my own soul.

Save me from myself, show me how to care.


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