Rabid monkeys with fancy tools

miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you miss you

Was supposed to write about how life ought to be called an ironical existance. Curse my mind. I just can’t stop thinking about you. Which is so goddamn bleedin’ ironic.

It was a boring lesson. Badly lit hall. Lecturer was speaking too softly. He had his funny moments, though. My eyes I’d blink and they’d stay closed. So I rested my cheeks on my palms, elbows on the table. Promptly fell asleep. Woke up about quarter of an hour later and the page in front of me was pretty darn wet. There was still a trail of saliva from my mouth to its destination. Thank god I was sitting alone. Honestly.
An observation. Body language is interesting. Why do people, particularly males, have this need to assert their dominance over others? This morning we had class with a group of teachers who were ‘back to school,’ so to speak. These were some old birds. Our lecturer, male, could call him experienced, asked one of the teachers to stand in front of class to present some stuff on morphology and morphemes. When the old bird was up there, said lecturer, who was still standing, put his leg up on a chair, posing ala Legolas or Will Turner. Doh. Maybe I misinterpreted it. Perchance he was just airing his balls.
But even in normal conversations. We can only be comfortable with people once the dynamics of dominance and submission are established. Only when we fit into the roles we subconsciously set for ourselves, can we truly say that we belong to a particular group. Human nature. Strange shit. Boring post. Boring days.

If you, if you could return, don’t let it burn, don’t let it fade.

I’m sure I’m not being rude, but it’s just your attitude,
It’s tearing me apart, It’s ruining everything.

I swore, I swore I would be true, and honey, so did you.
So why were you holding her hand? Is that the way we stand?
Were you lying all the time? Was it just a game to you?

But I’m in so deep. You know I’m such a fool for you.
You got me wrapped around your finger,
Do you have to let it linger? Do you have to, do you have to,
Do you have to let it linger?

Oh, I thought the world of you.
I thought nothing could go wrong,
But I was wrong. I was wrong.
If you, if you could get by, trying not to lie,
Things wouldn’t be so confused and I wouldn’t feel so used,
But you always really knew, I just wanna be with you.

But I’m in so deep. You know I’m such a fool for you.
You got me wrapped around your finger,
Do you have to let it linger? Do you have to, do you have to,
Do you have to let it linger?

And I’m in so deep. You know I’m such a fool for you.
You got me wrapped around your finger,
Do you have to let it linger? Do you have to, do you have to,
Do you have to let it linger?

You know I’m such a fool for you.
You got me wrapped around your finger,
Do you have to let it linger? Do you have to, do you have to,
Do you have to let it linger?

- The Cranberries

Gotta love this song.

It’s 1.54am and I’m alone with my thoughts. Cold, hungry, with an unimaginative cramp. Can’t sleep, won’t even try to, so I bravely set forth to further discover who I really am.
I think that I am entirely and absolutely frivolous about a lot of things in life. I find it hard to imagine myself ever being in a serious relationship - one that requires trust, faith, a sense of solidarity with the other and above all, love (bah humbug). I have never taken my studies seriously. I just end up where I end up. Unbelievably in a university. I really, really (stress on second ‘really’) amaze myself at times. I cannot take family matters earnestly, rather resolving them to solve itself eventually. Doesn’t mean that I don’t care nor partake in family issues. I do, quite a lot, and I do lose sleep over certain pressing matters. Worriness often attacks me at night, but nigh in the morning I cram that worriness into the back of my head and nonchalantly head out to face what life has to offer. By jove, I don’t think that I even take myself seriously. I phase out so much, it’s starting to get a bit disturbing. I think it’s the time of my life where I’m finding who I really am, decide that yeah that’s me and proceed to live the rest of my days being that person. Feasible idea, isn’t it. Soul-searching et al. Now, what do I take seriously …  conjuring ideas to write about, slow self-destruction, alcohol, search for the meaning of life and oh, world peace.
So am I just this walking flesh of id personified or am I honestly cold to the core - absolutely faithless in everyone and everything because I’m afraid that if I express too much concern, that singular act would rear its ugly head and spit venom into mine eyes and I go blind and arrrrrrr matey. Damn POTC. I digress. It’s 2.19am and I’m still fucking cold and ravenous. The cramp’s thankfully gone. And I’m starting to pine for him. He’s someone whom, given the chance, I could see myself establishing something of substance with. Just two very minute (irony) problems: I highly doubt that he views me as someone whom, given the chance, he could see himself establishing something of substance with; and oh bother, he’s just so goddamn far away.

There’s this recurring dream I have every now and then. I’m being chased by people, or trapped, or cornered, or ensnared, or caught. And I can’t find the wind to scream. Wake up screaming instead. Not shrill screaming, more of an ‘aaaaaarrrr ….’ Which is really weird. I’m such a screamadelic person in real life. This dream leaves me disturbed, distraught. If anyone has any ideas as to why I keep on having this goddamn dream, please enlighten me. It has to have some significance.
Anyhow, France won the World Cup, as the title says. Italy sucked, tsk tsk. France won 5-0 and whupped Italy’s ass. Yes, I’m in denial. But France still won. Don’t try to convince me otherwise. I’ll bite you.

  Now write, I tells myself. Devoid of ideas. Ever had that? A standstill in your life. You’ve got great friends, great supportive family, great interesting life. Yet, a goddamn standstill. Kundera, eat your heart out. This is my life. It’s never been lived before yet it’s at a standstill at its optimum. 21, for fuck’s sake. Time of my fucking life. And what am I doing? Nothing. Waiting. Always waiting. Fuck that. Stagnating. Same pool of friends. Same old shit. Why?

  Don’t know. Tell me, Kundera. Am I being weighed down or am I light? I would like a Tomas life, to meet those unpredictable women, to meet Sabina whom I don’t exactly approve of. To do all that. Alas, I live in

Malaysia

, where the event of dreams actually taking place is zero to none. Never really understood that term. Just use it. Definitely not the first to do that. Falls back to reality. The mask is torn off. Reality remains. Red hot chilli peppers rock my world. They ought to rock yours if you had my youth and insecurity.

  Which is another issue. Self-destructive behaviour. Cigarettes, alcohol, drugs and sex. Not that I do all that. I’ll admit to drinking. That I do at times. A lot of times. To stimulate myself into writing. At times like these. The sublime state of highness and hereness. When I write seeing double and think to myself the morning after, ‘Did I write this stuff?’

  All these issues. Connecting with the wrong people. Being condescending. Thinking. Thingking. I ought to write a masterpiece and kill myself at 40. Hang my tongue out and lolling, hoping for a Henry Miller or a J. D. Salinger. Why do I hook up with these illiterate Dan Brown lovers. Even the name itself abhores me.

  Opposites attract. Intellectual whores. So a man is good for sex while the other is good for the brains. What a paradox. Never believed in love. A romantic who does not believe in love. Tell me if you’re interested. Call you. Hubba hubba.

  I flatter myself. I’ve been called original, one of a kind many times before. I smile when I hear that. What compliments. See, there’s another me behind the corner. Just look and you’ll see.

  Forever’s a really scary word, if you think of it. Fuckin-A scary.

Strange, isn’t it, how you can put your mind to forgetting a memory. Throw it out the window and watch it splatter on the asphalt. I wouldn’t call it bitterness, the act of forgetting someone, of forgetting the things that you used to do together. No, definitely not bitterness. It’s just more convinient, to recycle that memory and use it to remember other things like formulaes and flakes of snow and how the sky looked like at

nine p.m.

Scent, on the other hand, is one thing that you cannot forget. Those perfumes they used, cheap colognes, shampoo, soap, sweat, no you cannot forget that. Well, I can’t forget that, no matter how hard I try to.
There’s this theory I thought of, yesterday before I drifted off to sleep. That the longer I am with a person, the easier the forgetting process is for me. Say, I was with a person for three months. I forget every detail, and I do mean every detail, in four weeks or so. If I was with a person for six months, I forget in three weeks. Nine months would make two weeks. A year would be a week and wham, bam, you’re outta my mind thanks very much. It’s the thought of what-if’s. The longer I’m with someone, the more I’d know of him and the less what-if’s imposed. The shorter, the more what-if’s would surface. Logical, no? So if I was married for 30 years, I’d forget the moment the door closes. Say in a nanosecond. I amaze myself at times. Once in a while memories come back (especially when I’ve had a bit to drink) but yeah they don’t stay. They go back under the water and god knows what happens to memories when they sink beneath.

As for those that never happened, could have happened but it just never did, I’m never quite done forgetting them. Uncountable what-if’s. Unmentionable, vile, heinous.

So now you know. Those big words, those big dreams that they told me. What big words and what big dreams? All I remember is that there were those, but what had they been? All out the window. Best that they stay there, too. Wouldn’t want to laugh myself silly now, would I.