based on a true story

54 / the window theory

Mon, 05 May 2008 11:42:00 GMT

The One That Got Away

Why are you still here?
It's because of you. I'll leave when the window closes.
When does it close then?
Not sure, but it's getting there bit by bit.
And what if I'm standing outside, having that conversation with you about random things - like zombies and stuff?
If you're still outside and see it closing, I suggest you try and stop it.
Too much effort. You could always open it again, I don't see why you couldn't.
No, it can't be re-opened.
Then what about me then?
Yeah, what about you?
You'd just leave me standing outside facing a closed window?!
Yes pretty much.
But why! I'd be pissed off if you did that.
Yeah, I'm pissed off now.
Huh? What the hell with?
Nothing, never mind. Maybe this would've never worked out anyway.
What... What do you mean?
I might as well close the window now.
I don't understand. What are you doing?
I'm doing what's best for me - and for us. See you around sometime... I guess.

*the window closes*

... Okay. *his head hung low, filled with sadness and confusion*

Why didn't you try and stop it... Fucking fool... *she whispered through tears and tinted glass*

53 / flakey sunday

Sun, 27 Apr 2008 13:25:32 GMT

I'm definitely over-reacting, it's not a big deal.

But still -
1. Don't waste my bloody time.
2. Reply the messages that require answers.

and
3. Quit being such a fucking flake.

Seriously.

52 / you own this space.

Wed, 09 Apr 2008 16:45:46 GMT

It's your quiet confidence which distinguishes you from the one hit wonders and laugh-out-louds.

That's why I think you're fucking awesome.

51 / go back to sleep again.

Tue, 11 Mar 2008 15:47:00 GMT

Every morning, it used to appear in bold - eager and beaming proudly right at the top.

Barely through a month with no word, your email address now hangs out on page 2.

50 / gtg.

Wed, 05 Mar 2008 14:38:05 GMT

Soon but not quite yet.

My tears are the result of years of hypocrisy.
When I hated instead of loved.
And I quitted instead of stayed.
The immaturity, immorality and insolence.
The accusations spat.
"Fool."
"Burden."
"Detriment."
There just aren't enough tears.

There is no other choice but to tell you now,
How much I'll miss you.
How much I love you.
How much I've always loved you.
How much I still need you.
How much I'm sorry I never made the effort to let you know these things.
Because you have always been, (and will always be), the only constant.

You would never scorn this prodigal son.

49 / i'm feelin' you

Sun, 02 Mar 2008 08:14:36 GMT

I find comfort in listening to the music that you gave me - that perhaps you're also listening to the music I gave you. That maybe we're both listening to the same song, at the same time and thinking of each other. And whether the lyrics mean anything or not, a bridge forms between us - through the bars of a rhyme.

48 / it's bad enough we get along so well

Thu, 28 Feb 2008 08:11:40 GMT

So May it is then.

We'll meet in May. I attempted to count the number of days till then but got distracted by the ferris wheel as the taxi passed it. I imagined already being in Londres. And that I was on a double decker across the river looking up at the Eye. Perhaps on the way home, to an agency or to a pub for drinks. Or maybe even to meet you. I don't really know how to describe it; it's a confounding mix of hope and sadness, like living in reality and a daydream simultaneously.

I've been feeling more and more like this recently. Now everyday during my morning and evening commute, music and trees, people and cars make up the soundtrack of this closing scene. All that I'll remember are these fleeting random moments. Routines that once made me so sick now make me ache with nostalgia.

The final scene - a sorrowful, lingering goodbye kiss. And one person whispers into the other's cheek, "I really have to go now... but we'll see each other soon, I promise." I'll look out from that double decker beyond the grey waters of the river and see only the orange sun setting behind the Benjamin Sheares Bridge. And how it gradually dissolves into the sea.

So yes, May it is then.
62 more days.

I'll be ready when it comes.
I hope.

47 / you only tell me you love me when you're drunk.

Sun, 24 Feb 2008 06:30:08 GMT

Yes I know you're a retard.
You're a special, special child.
Special in more ways than one.
Special in different, different ways.

And especially,
Special to me.

That's why you retard,
That's why you make it so hard.

46 / you are wrong.

Wed, 20 Feb 2008 20:17:40 GMT

Initially I wanted to write about two middle aged bitches who stole my taxi this morning. Who I completely humiliated in front of a crowd, in the middle of the street (and if you're thinking was it bad? YEAH IT WAS BAD.) But then, I decided instead to address a more... disappointing incident.

You know who you are. Read this and read it well. Every word is deliberate.

Remember: you don't know me - and I, you. And as much as I wish you did, nothing can be done at this moment right here, right now. Even you know this. I've been patient and thought you'd more than act and feel this way yourself. It is indeed an unfortunate circumstance, but something that would've eventually resolve itself in a few months. So fuck you and your petty girlish paranoia, your trifle presumptions and your ridiculous little thoughts swirling about in your thick head. Remember also that list I told you about? I'm sorry, but as much I thought you were really awesome, you're now off the list. Officially. I will not watch Spamalot with you - I never asked you in the first place. And yes, I was humouring you at the moment because I was charmed and being nice.

Grow up. Sort out your shit and let me know when you're ready. Let me tell you - it certainly isn't going to be easy getting back in on that list, but I suggest you try anyway. Just so I can sit back and laugh at your expense.

45 / on a roll cos that's how I roll.

Sun, 17 Feb 2008 17:00:43 GMT

You're thinking, "Two posts in a day?! Amazing."

I'm sorry kids for writing quite a bit lately. These days, this humble picture-doodler frequently crosses over to the dark side (i.e. words, nuances, copywriter-ey crap etc.) Please don't tell anyone though - the Art Director Mafia will surely pop a cap in my ass if they found out I can actually spell (the horror) and refuse to wear black to work everyday. Some mornings I wake up dripping in cold sweat from having bad, bad dreams of being bludgeoned to death by massive award show annuals. Exciting stuff.

In any case, I wanted to state for the record that the usual drivel I write doesn't accurately reflect my... general state of mind(?) What I mean is, I'm not really that sad and/or angry. Yes, I enjoy stealing candy from babies and breaking the hearts of young children (somebody has to, don't lie to yourselves) but my skin is definitely not green. Also, I take public transport and don't own a cauldron or any kind of crockery as a matter of fact.

I suppose it's just easier to report bad things. Having your knickers in a twist totally gives you the right to be self-indulgent and wanky. People never really remember the good things that happen to them anyway. Bastards.

Now see what you've made me do? I don't really have to justify anything :S

Daily rant: Jumper is a stupid movie. Blearghhh.

44 / the genius pact.

Sat, 16 Feb 2008 21:44:37 GMT

Let's make a pact.
Let's agree to be happy,
Every single day,
For the rest of our lives.
We'll help each other be happy.
We'll help each other honour the pact.

If you're feeling like shit,
It's my responsibility to cheer you up.
Or at least try and make it not so bad.
And vice versa.

It could be a tangible thing.
It could be a very simple act.
Like a kiss on the cheek,
And a big bear hug to go with.
Or a pint at the bar.
Or a shoulder massage,
Especially when you're exhausted from work.
That'd definitely bring a little smile to your face.

Of course,
It should never be manipulative.
And never for selfish reasons.
Only pure intentions,
No ulterior motives allowed.
No "Honey, blow me and I'll feel better".
(I'm sure you would,
But sexual favours are a separate thing altogether.)
Likewise if I'm frustrated and stressed out,
No emotional blackmail.
No nominating you as human punching bag.
No making you buy me those Manolos,
Or that 2.5 carat rock I saw on the way home.
Although that would be nice...
But you get the point.

Anyway tangible or not,
It's more like a moral support system.
It's the reverse of "Do not resuscitate".
We'll be each others cheerleaders,
Playing on the same team.
And hopefully you're not thinking,
What the hell is she smoking?
What random boho new agey rubbish.
But I assure you,
That's not where I'm coming from.
I hate spiels on spirituality,
Probably more than you do.
Are you still with me?

So it is incredibly idealistic.
Definitely easier said than done.
Challenging without a doubt.
But who cares?
Most importantly,
And most certainly,
It's a win-win situation.
Think about that for a bit.
No one's ever achieved anything great,
Or ground breaking,
Or life changing,
By being completely realistic.
And cynical,
And bloody lazy.
I say either go big or go home.
Either do something or shut up.

Urgh.

You and I and us.
That's what this pact is about.
I really believe it could work,
And it'd work within all facets of our lives.
Past present or future,
Across time zones or oceans,
Individually or as a unit.
Doesn't really matter honestly.

So what do you reckon?
Isn't it quite a genius pact?
I'm rather excited actually.
Okay let's do this.

43 / a haiku a day keep the valentine's blues away

Thu, 14 Feb 2008 17:25:36 GMT

I've been wanky and wrote a haiku.

Well actually several but this is the last one written five minutes ago. I guess it best describes this very moment, when there's slightly more than a bottle of white wine in my blood right now - a sweet little summary. Yes and I know, I'm in advertising, and we don't care about Art. But this year it's about honesty, idealistic foolish honesty. So in whatever form it manifests itself, I really don't give a fuck anymore.

I hate you dearly
Shards on the ground, I saw them
Wedged under my skin

It's not too late to make things right but wishful thinking never really works. Happy Valentine's Day.

41 / textual desires.

Sun, 10 Feb 2008 09:12:23 GMT

He kissed me via text message.

Was it emotional and heartfelt? Hopefully.
Spur of the moment thing perhaps? Quite possibly.
Alcohol induced? Drunk? Very likely.

But was it good? Most definitely.

40 / what a waste.

Sat, 09 Feb 2008 07:25:49 GMT

A hangover is a terrible thing to waste on an excuse.

Because that was one truly terrible excuse,
and I hope you know how much
I resent how wasteful you are.

--

P.S. Please don't feel weird, just needed to get that off my chest. I'm fine now and everything is good.

39 / ad lib poem

Tue, 05 Feb 2008 19:17:08 GMT

Apparently I write better when I'm drunk.
So here goes, I suppose.

-

2 hours of sleep last night,
probably 4 tonight.
And 6 to 8 tomorrow night,
None maybe the following night.

And still no matter how many hours I count,
doing, talking, laughing, ranting.

Waking or sleeping,
I think about you.

And why you aren't here.

38 / clever girls like clever boys much more than clever boys like clever girls.

Sun, 03 Feb 2008 09:31:41 GMT

You're broke and I'm rich. Play with me.

Uh-huh... Okay.

37 / long distance phone call

Sun, 27 Jan 2008 03:43:27 GMT

The phone call came like he said it would and it was an enjoyable twenty minutes.

And that makes me a very happy camper. And a wishful thinker. And someone dangerously close to falling off the edge.

36 / just fucking do it.

Mon, 21 Jan 2008 15:53:08 GMT

I've done the greatest injustice.
To myself.

I kept waiting for instructions to "Jump when I say "Jump!"".
Only to realise that I'm the one with the instructions. And only I can give that cue.
And only I will be jumping.

So this year will be it then - this year's the year I've decided. It has to be. I have to keep reminding myself that.

Wonder how many people will come to the party if there was one.

35 / a fight to the bitter end

Fri, 18 Jan 2008 20:12:34 GMT

Melissa and I are heating up some shepherd's pie she made for lunch. We heap the pie onto three plates - one for her, one for errol and one for me. I'm starving and it smells good.

Enter the pantry lady. I can smell her job dissatisfaction from ten cubicles away, past the photocopier and the no- smoking staircase that people smoke at. She kinda half looks at us but her body language is clearly saying "fuck off". We ignore her. Then she speaks, this 50-something year old lady, she sneers in mandarin "You better wash your own plates. I've got too many things to wash already." I look at the sink just beside us. It's empty.

Mel looks at me. I look back at Mel. We are without speech. We take our lunch and proceed to the "everything" room. It's a room with everything (broken foosball machine, vending machine and yesterday's paper) but a real purpose or personality.

Most pantry aunties are sweethearts, even the one with terrible body odour. Over food we bitch about menopausal pantry lady. We ain't washing no plates if it's your job. I don't ask you to kern my layout dammit.

Twenty minutes later, rant over. And we go wash the plates.

34 / talking in bed

Sat, 12 Jan 2008 22:11:03 GMT

"You and I, would never work out anyway."

"Perhaps. We are rather similar. But I guess we just want different things."

"I suppose you could put it that way."

"Like kids. I'd like to have kids someday. And you don't."

"Yeah, I don't."

She yawns and pulls in closer.
Warmth, steady heartbeat, freshly shampooed hair,
And a faint smile as eyelids close.

In the morning, she'll wake up and realise he's never even been there.

33 / a blitz.

Tue, 08 Jan 2008 10:05:48 GMT

Head count is a thing that haunts me.

It simply means, "Here's a desk you can sit at and a computer you can use. Now make us some ads, bitch." Unfortunately, for the last 10 months, I have not had the fortune of prior-mentioned "head count".

Of course there's been work, but that's freelance.
More money? Pfft. No office politics? Free to come and go as one wishes? PFFFFT.
Head count, dear friends, is far far more sacred.

It means dental benefits.

Godammit, I want dental benefits.

32 / oh so witty!

Thu, 03 Jan 2008 16:17:50 GMT

On Facebook: "Lauren and her 2007 resolutions have ended their one year relationship citing irreconcilable differences."

I LOLed to myself on the way to work this morning and thought myself rather clever.

31 / new year, new fucked up things to blog about.

Tue, 01 Jan 2008 17:00:15 GMT

A tiny fraction of my new year was spent sitting a cockroach infested cab in a middle of a traffic jam in KL.

Daryl: "OH. MY. GOD."
Cheryl: "What? OH MY GOD."
Me: "Why? Is the traffic jam that bad? OH... OHHHH MYYY GAAAWWWDDDD."
Jeff (who was sitting in the front passenger seat): "I don't want to see."

Happy new year everyone.

30 / the finger

Sun, 23 Dec 2007 02:49:21 GMT

I gave Christmas the finger once when I was drunk and now it hates me for life.

29 / 35 on 25.

Thu, 20 Dec 2007 08:19:24 GMT

"Can I call on you sometime?"

"Yeah sure. Of course you can."

"But 'call on you' is different from 'call you'."

"What's the difference?"

"Calling on you means 'Can we go on a date?' Call you means 'Hey hello, how've you been?'"

"Right. I see."

"What? Am I too old for you?"

"Yeah... I think so."

"I respect that, I also don't fuck 25 year olds."

"Really? I find that hard to believe."

"Why are you being so defensive? You're so closed."

"Well what do you want to know? I'm an open book."

"That's just what you think you are. But I'll find out in due time."