06.30.07
happy birthday, dahling/new campus/AWAM walk&wheel
To the ever-blur, innocent, side-splittingly funny, caring, sweet, girly and romantic Abby–
Happy 21st Birthday, Dahling

For the endless amusement and joy you bring, the late night talks, the comforting cheesy phrases, your unwavering faith and your big, wonderful heart. *hug.kiss.love*
On another note, I wandered over to the new Monash Campus in Sunway because I thought the MUSA meeting would be there *tsk tsk Dahlia*, but it turned out to be at the old campus. Oh wells, I got trigger happy—but not much. (My thoughts are too sluggish, it’s 36 degrees and I’m dying)

The sign leading up to my new second home

We have a sky bridge! It’s carpeted, too.

Another supercool view of said sky bridge over the main entrance.

Um. Random pic.

Hello, pretty new Monash campus! About bloody time we get a nice one here thank you!
As a member of the Wom*n’s Affairs Collective (WAC) we also get a pseudo-office
Now how cool is that. Plus with Black (Scrap) Metal coming in, I’m going to spending a lot of time here without the resentment of taking the bus! Huzzah!
After going to the new campus to help MUSA move in stuff, I popped by my old apartment to search for my old shoes. It’s been very distressing because I love my shoes, and not having them for a year and a half made me very upset. After tearing my old room apart for over an hour I found them—in the box closest to the door, because that’s how irony works.

Eeps I also found this! My teeny tiny fluffy dressing gown from when I was living in Bournemouth
Aah the memories..
I raced home after grabbing my shoes and stuff because my mum needed the car. I ran upstairs immediately, pouring with sweat.
Mum: Where’s the fire?
Me: I need to take a family photograph. I’ve missed them so much.
Mum: Who?
Me: My shoes.

I have 8 pairs of ballet flats. Not excessive also, right?

And another 8 pairs of heels (two not seen here).
And a pair of boots. And 4 pairs of sneakers. And 3 more pairs of sandals downstairs.
And this is just my Malaysian collection. I have easily 8 more pairs of shoes at Tim’s. Heh.
I told you I put the ‘Mel’ in ‘Imelda’.

Oh shiny red Reebok sneakers! I’ve missed you. I don’t care if people say you’re lala, I like you just as you are *hearts*.
So I’m going for the AWAM Walk&Wheel thing at Dataran Merdeka later. Will be alone, crycry, because Dahlia has come down with a flu and I have to go anyway because Star’s already sent a photographer and I have to do a write up for both them and Youth Malaysia.
Oh wells it’ll be fun anyways I reckon
Will post pics and update later. It’s too hot to write or think coherently.
06.27.07
my mum brought me shopping o_O
I knooooooooooooow. Even my title for this post, it doesn’t quite gel does it? But yes it did happen, and while I am rejoicing, I am secretly wondering what motive there is (obviously it’s to keep me here, but it was a rhetorical question anyways).
Having heard me go on about the RM10 skirts at Summit (stop laughing, actually got some quite nice things there okayyyy! Don’t go and pick the lala shit la!) and what with her still being off and me having itchy feet, we decided to go shopping. I felt quite bad really because we ended up buying a lot of stuff for me and nothing for her—I shan’t complain so much now about her nicking all my stuff because at the end of the day she’s the one who paid for it (and gave birth to me, etc etc etc).
Are you still unconvinced Summit has nice things? Lemme prove you wrong.

Bright yellow buckled flats—RM10. Yes, you saw right. RM10.

A gorgeous linen-ish cropped jacket in contrasting stitches with the cutest puff sleeves at the Thai Fair on Level 2—RM25.

A chocolate corduroy jacket (which this picture doesn’t do justice to because the fit is fabulous, dahling)—RM29.

A really cute red top with interesting collar details and embroidered flowers—RM10.
And bestest and gorgeous-est of all….

A gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous white dress with detailed collar and chest, with lining, and a sweet bow! The material is fabulous, the fit is fabulous, the price, most fabulous of all (because I’ve run out of adjectives)! RM75!! It was RM99.90 but my mum haggled it down to RM75 because it was the last one.
I’M SO IN LOVE WITH MY NEW DRESS I WANT TO WEAR IT OUT NOW!
I still need to recover from this strange episode. Shopping. With. My. Mum.
/edit
I was just remarking to Tim as I was showing him my new buys via webcam on Skype (I love Skype. Have I ever said it here? Man. I love Skype.) that it’s a good thing I lost all the Aussie weight I gained because here, the nice clothes often come in one size and one size only—skinny. And I’m not even that skinny!
Therefore everything is just a perfect fit—a little bit more weightgain on my side and I’d be busting out of my clothes, unintentionally, too.
Hello, no wonder so many Malaysian chicks are like sticks (ooh I made a rhyme lalala)—the clothes don’t fit otherwise! It’s really disappointing though, because it’s a form of descrimination against my curvier sistahs. I really hate buying pants here also because I happen to have a very bootylicious behind; this results in me getting pants that are too long and loose around the thighs because I have wider hips.
Ugh! I hate how we’re all supposed to fit this one jelly mould of bodytype. It’s unfair, descriminatory, stupid and elitist. No wonder so many skinny chicks are smug *grimace*. I promise I’ll do my damndest not to be one of them. I feel you, my curvy sistahs.
end of exams/new car/i’m so postmodern!
Yesterday was a superhappening day to say the least.
I finished my exams (for good, I hope! Next sem, as I’ve been gloating continuously ad infinitum, I haven’t got any exams bwahahaha *snooty face*), waking up at 4am for last minute mugging and drinking the free Tongkat Ali 3-1 coffee my Dad brought back one day (‘Power Root’ it says on the sachet, haha double innuendo!) and having the caffeine and Tongkat Ali high wear off an hour into my PR exam resulting in me almost falling face-flat onto my half-scribbled exam paper. Followed up by a lunch/goss session with my fave Singkie (if Hong Kong people are Hongkies, Singaporeans are Singkies!) Farhanah a.k.a. Bonch-Bonch.
Home home home, just as I was about to pass out my mum called me downstairs to go to Glenmarie, which can only mean one thing.
Test drive new car.
But today it wasn’t a nice car or anything, so pause the excited exclaimations. It’s only a Proton, which at RM26,999 is the cheapest brand new car in the Malaysian car market. Now also before you start slagging off Proton, let me just say that beggars can’t be choosers, and I only plan on using it for a year or two.

Le new car. I have decided to call it Black (Scrap) Metal when it arrives
There were two colour options, black or orange—obviously I took black. What with my midnight curfew and a pumpkin orange car, I’d just be itching to be called Cinderella.
I can get it within two or three weeks, which is just in time for the new semester. The new campus being so bloody far from the bus stop, let’s just say I’m grateful to have a car at all! I mean I know Proton’s been getting all sorts of shit from everyone (most of it well-deserved) and it’s prices are unjustifiably high…like I mean, come on, the new Iswara’s car doors are hollow. The speedometer, aircon, everything looks plastic and tacky, tacky, tacky.
But?
Ok, I actually don’t have a point, I’m just grabbing at strings here. But I will maintain however that a car is better than no car! Hee.
I was listening to this song yesterday while I was studying for my PR exam and it made me break out in giggles. Heh.
I’M SO POST MODERN
BY THE BEDROOM PHILOSOPHER
I’m so postmodern that I just don’t talk anymore, I wear different coloured t-shirts according to my mood.
I’m so postmodern that I work from home as a surf life saving consumer hotline.
I’m so postmodern all my clothes are made out of sleeping bags, I don’t need pockets, I’m a pocket myself.
I’m so postmodern I go to parties I’m not invited to and locate the vegemite and write my name on everyone.
I’m so postmodern that I write reviews for funerals, and heckle at weddings from inside a suitcase.
I’m so postmodern I’m going to adopt a child, and teach him how to knit, and call him Adolf Diggler.
I’m so postmodern that I break dance in waiting rooms, play Yahtzee in nightclubs, at three in the afternoon.
I’m so postmodern I only go on dates that last thirteen minutes, via walky talky, while hiding under the bed.
I’m so postmodern I invite strangers to my house, and put on a slide show of other people’s Nans.
I’m so postmodern I went home and typed up everything you said and printed it out in wingdings and gave it back to you.
I’m so postmodern I held an art exhibition – a Chuppa Chup stuck to a swimming cap, and no one was invited.
I’m so postmodern I make alphabet soup, and dye it purple, and pour it on the lawn.
I’m so postmodern I request Hey Mona on karaoke, then sing my life story to the tune of My Sharona.
I’m so postmodern I only think in palindromic haikus – “Madam, I, Glenelg, I’m Adam!”
I’m so postmodern that I sit down to wee, and stand up to poo, at job interviews.
I’m so postmodern that I dress up as Santa, in the middle of August, and haunt golf courses.
I’m so postmodern that I cut off all my hair, and knitted it into a beanie, and threw it off a bridge.
I’m so postmodern that I stole everyone’s mail, and cut them up into a ransom note and hid it in a thermos.
I’m so postmodern I take my lego to the supermarket and build my own shopping trolley, and only buy one nut.
I’m so postmodern I wrote a letter to the council – .I think it was ‘M.’
I’m so postmodern I bought a round the world plane ticket, and stuffed my clothes with eggplant and pretended it was me.
I’m so postmodern I’ve got a tattoo of my pin number in hieroglyphics on my neighbour’s guide dog.
I’m so postmodern I fought my way into parliament and made a law banning Nuttelex, and then moved to Spain.
I’m so postmodern that I iron all my lettuce leaves, put my shirts in the crisper – they’re real crisp.
I’m so postmodern I give live mice to buskers, dirty tea towels to the Mormons, and pavlova to crabs.
I’m so postmodern that I live in a tent, on a platform of skateboards that’s tied to a tram.
I’m so postmodern I write four thousand-word essays on the cultural significance of party pies.
I’m so postmodern I recite Shakespeare at KFC drive thru, through a megaphone, in sign language.
I’m so postmodern I’m going to watch the Olympics on a black & white TV, with the sound down.
I’m so postmodern I go to the gym after hours, push up against the door, then cry myself to sleep.
I’m so postmodern I wrote a trilogy of novels from the perspective of a possum that Jesus patted once.
I’m so postmodern that I marry all my friends, soak myself in metho, and tell them that they’ve changed.
I’m so postmodern I bought every book written in 1963 as a reading challenge, and clogged up a waterslide.
I’m so postmodern I think I might be a god in my undies rolling in sugar, in the carpark of a rodeo.
I’m so postmodern I prerecorded this song, and laced a message subliminally telling Shane Porteous to buy a smock.
I reckon the Communications lecturers would be shaking their heads incredulousy while my classmates would be sniggering. I’m tempted to send it to Dr.Yeoh for laughs.
06.24.07
twilight action
Heh so finally, I’ve been out with the uni mates. Retro music, flashing strobe lights, really expensive alcohol (I HATE DRINKING IN MALAYSIA OK) and them putting the ‘action’ into Twilight Action night…phew! Made for one helluva time
Through the traffic, the rain, the laughing in the car with Chansky, Elayne and Munteng, Chansky’s coughing and the serious lack of a crowd when we got to Loft at Zouk, it was seriously damn fun
Of course, the two tequila shots after my Malibu Coke and sips of watered-down brandy at Ethan’s insistence helped heaps
Since I’m guessing nobody wants my ramblings (it’s too damn hot anyways), I’ll go straight to the pictures.

We are just too cool. Commies Tems, Cheryl Y., Lynette and myself in my uber-retro halter minidress from my dad’s friend and cardiologist who has a 16 year-old son and two younger daughters o_O She passed down heaps of her Zara/MNG stuff to me once. Woots!

Me, Munty, Elayne! Three of us in retro-print slinky desses, ooowee

With sexy Ethan and Kathia!

Dennis was happily pimpin’ it. He got quite a few envious glares from guys in passing cars as we drove into KL LOL.

I love Munty! Hehe if you’re going to point out that my lips aren’t actually touching her cheek, it’s cos I just reapplied my lipgloss and it was mighty sticky. Don’t want to leave sticky residue all over her porcelain skin
*haha ZOMG that could be taken so wrong*

LOL I know, I look too happy. But what to do, Sexy Munty was giving me a kiss! A real one, too

The Mad Comm bunch–me, Zeck (who was quite gone by this stage, LOL), Cheryl, Tems and her sexayy pout, Lynette, Kathia, Ethan and Tasha (who weren’t looking, humf!).
Er, oh, that’s all I have. Heh. Actually got some highly incriminating photographs but that’s not for your eyes.
Eh next time anyone goes out ajak me along okayy
And Munty my new clubbing partner—she’s my new Amanda! *heart*
06.22.07
gripe gripe.
I hate how I’m in a holiday mood and I’m not even on holiday yet.
It’s the fathermucking PR paper on Tuesday, I tell ya. I know nothing about the subject I feel, and I know it’s all my fault because I only attended 3 lectures—the first one to get my reader and unit book, the second last to get my assignment back and the last one for exam tips. Heh. There were 9 missed lectures in between.
(I attend all my tutorials religiously though, and the lectures for all my other subjects—I just rather intensely dislike the PR lecturer as he has the magical capability of putting me to sleep under 5 minutes with his monotonous drawlings and irrelevant grandfather stories)
Raaaaaaaah.
I’ve been doing an answer outline for all the spotted questions for the exam, and let me tell you I am bored to pieces *disintegrates*.
Whingeing aside, Tim’s an uncle again!
Or at least will be. Last I heard, his sister was in the throes of labour pains. She’s having her third, I dunno yet whether it’s a boy or another girl, but she has two beautiful precious girls, Phoebe Rose and Georgia Louise *hearts*. Georgie’s the one who meows my name and will come to give me cuddles and demand I read her books (which she flips to the last page anyway, LOL).
Anyhoo, the Kiwi forwarded me this message at about 8am my time: “Baby on the way will give you a ring later luv mum.” (The rest of it was his text to me, which you all don’t really need to know hehe).
In my 8am half-dreaming stupor I had the weirdest, randomest thoughts o_O
Like, ‘OMG! He’s coming to see me today? How?’ o_O
And ‘He’s giving me a ring? Like in engagement ring?’ (I was looking at Tiffany and Damiani rings with Esther Phan the other night, among other things like v.expensive watches and v.impractical but beautiful shoes, so this explains it I think) o_O
And best of all (I’m rather embarassed to admit it), ‘He loves my mum?!’ o_O
*rolls all over floor while convulsing in laughter*
Ahem. Syok sendiri.
Seriously, I amuse myself. It took me about 5 minutes to properly wake up and comprehend the message and another 5 to type out a coherent reply. Or at least I hope it was coherent, heh.
Going out tonight to Loft at Zouk for a night out with the uni mates who, horror of horrors, I have never, repeat, never been out out with at night. Tis about time. I’ve decided to merge the two groups I’m supposed to be out with this weekend (Munty, Chansky et. al. and The Commies) so I can extend my curfew at once and enjoy both their company at once.
Genius right? I bet my ass will get grilled in the morning though, ho hum it’s all right by me all I do is stay at home anyway so it defeats the purpose of them grounding me.
*wanders off aimlessly to corner of room to admire impressive accumulation of bags*
/edit at 6:30pm
It’s another girl!
06.19.07
the pieces don’t fit anymore
Listening to James Morrison’s velvety chocolate voice washing over me, it evokes feelings of melancholy. Hm, melancholic Melody, c’est moi. Especially this one song, a song so sad and wistful, and true—because sometimes things or people that you love so much outgrow you, or vice versa. And it hurts like a mofo acknowledging this.
It’s been something I’ve been thinking about a lot lately, how people change, and how friendships can get icky because one party cannot get used to the idea of their friend changing.
You know those last few episodes of Sex And The City, before Carrie followed her Russian to Paris? The scene where she and Miranda went off at each other? The fear and worry Miranda had for Carrie, wondering if she was doing the right thing, and Carrie’s own issues with the ceaseless questions that were no longer hers. The frustrations both felt; one wanting what was best for her nearest and dearest, the other wanting a chance to live her own life without answering to anyone elses’ questions.
Carrie accused Miranda of not wanting her to grow, in not too many words—as long as Carrie remained the same way Miranda knew her, it was like nothing would ever change; their friendship would remain evergreen. And obviously Miranda was hurt—those sorts of razor-sharp words from a person she cared so much about must’ve cut deep.
But enough fiction, back to fact.
Our bodies stretch and shrink to accomodate our fluctuating body weight. Similarly, some friendships stretch and shrink to accomodate changing personalities and life choices. Others, especially ones that care too much I reckon, are the ones that bring about these issues the most, because they find it hardest to stretch and shrink.
Some friendships have reached comfort levels that require no verbalisation—it is a sense of comradeship and understanding that transcends language and formalities. It’s like a pair of faithful comfortable old jeans—worn-in, loved-in, perfect for everyday use, comfortable, comforting, and will always make you look good. But sometimes, other occassions require the use of other apparel, and sometimes, just sometimes, the style or fit of your fave old pair of jeans doesn’t fit like it used to.
The pieces don’t fit anymore.
Of course, though, all these are figures of speech—I think friendships are clearly more than all this.
There’s the inevitable guilt, of course, initially, and the reluctance to let go. But I suppose at some point realisation dawns that while it hurts both parties that things were not what they used to be, nothing can ever change the past, and that that shared past will always remain in your hearts as glorious remembrances—because in all relationships, after the hurt has passed, I think we mostly choose to remember the good times.
In my short 21 years I reckon I’ve been blessed with many people who’ve touched my heart and changed me in so many ways. The primary school friends who indulged my girlish fantasies and thrills, whom I spent many hours giggling with over boys and pop groups; the secondary school friends, my Dahlings, who’ve been there for me through thick and thin; the nonsensical uni mates who make classes that much more fun to attend and who continually amaze me with their talents and unexpected pearls of wisdom.
And of course, the ex-boyfriends…haha oh man cos there have been not to say so many, but each of them have been a blessing to me, teaching me more about myself and my overwhelming capacity to fall in love so madly and deeply. True, some have been downright bastards (haha!) but still remain my close friends (emphasis on the plural–two of them in particular!), others I only say hello to once in a blue moon, one whom I hurt very much and very very badly who I suppose will never speak to me again…*sigh*
I wonder why we tend to mourn lost dating-type relationships more than friend-type ones? Is it because of the intensity and depth of emotion? Because I think at the end of the day the friend-type relationships that fade away are even sadder than that of the other kind. Because your friends were the ones who were there for you to let all of your guard down and open up all of your heart to–because not always are we entirely honest in dating-type relationships.
A wise person said that the only certain thing about life is its uncertainty. People inevitably change, they evolve, and arguably, they mutate, even. And while it may be a sad thing watching someone you love so much change so drastically, though it also hurts, it needs to be said that things hardly ever turn out the way we want them to; likewise, the people we love hardly ever become who we want them to be.
We hardly ever become who we want to be.
And sometimes, we need to ask—is this a bad thing? Is it so bad to not live life according to a blueprint?
Because, I’m sorry—I cannot live life according to what others have planned out for me. I need to find my own path and make my own history, no matter how stupid or illogical or grandiose or unattainable as it seems.
Raaaaaah
This is such a sad post. I have no idea why I’m so mopey. Perhaps it’s got to do with the fact that I’ve been playing this same James Morrison song for the past half hour.
While I wish sometimes things didn’t have to change, I cannot imagine life without change. I guess I just have to accept that no matter how much I abhor the idea of certain changes, it is only a matter of time before I am engulfed in its viscuous, fluid, seductive grasp.
Sighs.
i cracked.
Lalalalalala.
Since today was the last day for me to drive the Mucus Green Shitty Manual Iswara With No Power Steering, I decided to bring my grandma out shopping
Or rather, I decided to go shopping and I dragged my grandma with me, not that she’d complain–she loves going out but nobody seems to have the patience to walk with her because she can be very…err…slow.
So I did, because I’m awesome
And also cos I have an itchy backside.

Got this at Sachs—perfect for work! With my grandma goading me on about how big and practical it is, the fact that it was 70% off—RM229 down to RM68 clinched it. Whee! Er, the flowers are me trying to add ‘effect’. LOL. They were from the Kiwi on Valentine’s Day <3

A nice enough looking top for RM23.90 at some Amour (the one in Taipan USJ 9– love that place) lookalike, called Love It. There were some really sweet looking dress/tunic type tops but my fashion advisor a.k.a. gran said it looked very Cheena. So, er. Yeah.
I only got those two things, but since I was in a photo-ey mood, I decided to go snap happy.

My cousin got this bag for me from Bangkok—bloody hell, it was only RM20!
I want to go Bangkok again.

A skirt I picked up at Summit for RM10 a while back when I was doing an interview
I love fuss-free skirts like these, plus it had nice lining inside.
Oh, oh! I was so overjoyed to discover that the Parkson in Parade has a Dorothy Perkins thingie
I love DP.
******
On a more serious note, I was just informed of a fatal shootout in Melbourne’s CBD. Read about it here. It happened this morningand was supposedly sparked off by a bar row.
My girls in Melbourne, please be careful. The gunman is still at large. Sighs. So much senseless violence out there, a life wasted in attempts to save another one. What is this world coming to :/