Fear has come.
I can only let out a slight simper of repentance for not working hard as the others. The others bore me. I need to be a bore. It sounds tragic, because if you knew me-- I am not a tragic person. So as I bit my lip, tossed on the chair whilst still single-handedly compromising with my ass pains-- the mental block couldn't come at a more stellar time. Question 7. I remember the words my head uttered, a vigorous sentence spoken with gloat: "Eh, easy piece of shit." and He decided that it was time. Time to jolt down a little lightning amidst the snazzy feeling I was experiencing (not to mention, during Additional Mathematics, ironic isn't it!). Worse still, the intellects' need to exonerate the unblessed kind was in the form of words, convincing words. Hard? Not at all. An A? In hand. I nailed History though. Worked on that with neon shades of pink and orange as company throughout the night. The unholy Biology tomorrow. Demonic things to remember. So, exam week aside-- I spared some time to go to the tech haven in Kuala Lumpur, and almost unsurprisingly, bought a navy turtleneck after raiding through the racks of a retailer. The burden on my shoulders have now been lifted. In desperate need of a hairdresser's touch; these locks can't stand the overwhelming pile of jet black. Plus, someone lost her Evian water bottle. It pains!
[MUSIC] Marketa Irglova featuring Glen Hansard - If You Want Me
After endless (depressing) deprivation of total blow-out shopping trips, here I am saving images of soon-to-be conquests with the blossoming financial budget. First off, the monochromatic smock with the perfect touch of a bow-- I am in dire need of smocks in fact, for days where I feel my legs should be kept covered in my navy denim, or be tucked underneath a pencil skirt. Whichever way. Secondly, the Interlock-esque (American Apparel) stretch skirt that, my 5'2" waif-like figure demands a shorter hem, if purchased. Brilliant with belts of all kind and the Mom-approved semi-holy black tights. Third, the nautical ribbed long-sleeve to save me from days I feel like dressing down, or to grocery-shop and look good. Fourth, a tanned satchel that upon the sight of it, reminded me of what Alexa Chung (girl shagging Alex Turner right now, and looks mighty good) would sling over her shoulders. Next up, the burn-out scoop t-shirt that I crave for (loudly) and have yet to grab. It has been too long. And of course, the Spectator Oxfords-- which I suspect is a rip-off from one woman's foot (cough Roitfeld cough) though the heel's amount of inches would decline my dreams of ever (!) purchasing it. Orgasmic shoes aside-- Topshop's collection of tea-dresses left me a tinge of excitement, of course, after hefty price-tags are blissfully ignored. If only, my friends-- if only. And the T-strap heel with the thick heels. Love me some height-flatters. There, done. Paris Fashion Week: pop of colors, Carine Roitfeld in lace-up boots and perhaps, Nicholas Bemberg? Wishful thinking. Oh good Lord he's delicious.
[MUSIC] Jimmy Kimmel - I'm Fucking Ben Affleck (here)
We lost.
I would have wrapped these bony hands of mine around the coach's neck, but given the circumstances that I can't afford a plane ticket and will be shot in the head by the guards-- you won't see my fury displayed on Youtube anytime soon. Perhaps the win was foreseeable, it was earned, with the accumulated good football skills and well, luck. Avram didn't read my thoughts, apparently. I cursed vilifying words and told him to get Joe Cole in earlier, and pre-game, I was cursing at him when I saw the ever-so-useless Mikel among the first eleven. What does he see in this Nigerian who already have a total tally of four red cards? What? I can't see it. Help me see it. It was Spurs' glorious moment when the whistle blew, and I was left with cold feet still. They blissfully cruised by Arsenal (and embarrassing them along with it) with five goals up, and the Blues' fans in front of the tube worldwide knew it wasn't going to be easy like the previous year. Knowing what Spurs can do, and that Ramos completely turned the table-- I didn't place any bets. Cheers for me! Yet the winning glow as of last year will be absent as I march up to my friends with a mourning presence. Heck on that. I see awkwardness amidst the world-class captains and the millions Roman spent. Anelka wasn't working with Didier. I give salutations to Cech (for when does he not demand a standing ovation after those crucial saves?) and Carvalho. And Ballack for continuing to give me second-by-second orgasm with those sweaty curly strands. Excuse my hormone levels. The goal Didier scored against Man United last year-- hence the merry picture-- is still fresh on my mind, playing itself without granted permission. Perhaps this isn't the start of the Avram era, after all. Perhaps he needs to build back up the chemistry between those national team captains of his. Up front, in the middle. And please, hear my prayers. Hire a hitman. Tell him precisely. Kill Mikel.
[MUSIC] Rihanna feat Klaxons - Umbrella
Usual ramblings, but!
Father's absent at home, and I naughtily took the pleasure of sneaking into his office space and subsequently grabbed his sleek laptop. Watching the Blues triumph Spurs right this second, with us one up against them, brilliant free-kick from Drogba. Anyhow, interesting things to rant about. Hunted down decent pieces of art (and found some remakes of Van Gogh, which is quite impressive) at Annexe and browsed through the racks of blinding souvenirs. Annexe, over the years, has changed remarkably. I haven't stepped foot in such a long time, it took me by surprise on how clean and neat it is now. Tourists parade, foreigners (heck, looked like immigrants to me) and random couples slipping giggles in front of the printed t-shirt stall. Perhaps, to "7 Inches" in the usual 7-Eleven trademark logo. It needs no elaboration if you have a dirty mind. The paintings were good, pop-arts and potraits, and of course-- the occasional canvas covered with wishful thinking, only potrayed as the Eiffel Tower and the chic crowd strolling beneath it. One day, my friends, one day! Stopped by Burger King for my routine dosage of happiness in the form of Mushroom Swiss and stepping outside, saw a couple snogging selflessly in a parked car. First off, there were kids with parents in front-- not to mention, Mother and I. I pull a disgusted face at them. Please. Shag each other all you want, but put in some consideration for the place, perhaps? Good God, and they were unsurprisingly-- Malays. Way to go! Will update on the scoreline. I'm still traumatised by the Youtube video of Eduardo's leg and foot separating. Get well soon, young lad.
[MUSIC] Electric Light Orchestra - Love Is Like Oxygen
About to lose cool.
Undeniably I have expertly mastered to control any urge for emotional ramblings. I have emotions. Perfectly safe to say, to paint shades of gray and black on a blank canvas is not what I want to remember when I re-read my posts. I want, God-- neons. Hah. I went out today with siblings to the geek-induced technology mall and bored myself into temporary insanity. Temporary, yes. Headed home to find Arse-senal with two up against Birmingham City and the news of Eduardo, breaking his leg on the second minute. I know, I know what I should feel: glad, merry-- perhaps skipping with joy as if James Blunt was ran over by a car, but no. I feel sad, for he's good and who the hell is going to lead Croatia after all that mercilessly crossing out England? And almost too painful a thought, he turns 25 on Monday. Moving on. I am sick! Sick as hell. Sick, sick, perverted 5'2" (I am so short, it's not even funny) growing teenager. I'll let you know what I'm talking about, and perhaps-- a Youtube video as well. Okay! Anyway! Exam's next week and I am not prepared. And I have given up on asking out people (not lads, but for shopping trips) to come and have a mini-trip with me. To a mall. Busy with their exams, with their boyfriends, with their problems. Aih. The things I'd do to have car keys. Bad news. Incubus is performing late, late, late at 12:30am in the morning. I have no problems with it. I have problems with my curfew. Pathetic (and sadly) enough, in my world, curfews exist. For good, I believe. But in times such as these, its existence aggravates the shit out of me.
[MUSIC] Wolfmother - Dimension
I'm not that sick, but still, quite sick-- well. Bear Grylls unclothed. I'm not sick, aren't I? Here.
Hi.
Good God, it's Friday and I've almost lost my composure. Fear not, lads and lasses! Good British movies were invented for people such as I, with countless soft spots for the exaggerated accents and well-- basically I'm waiting for the download to complete. Based on Joy Division's frontman who faced death at 23. Young, yes-- even better. No. I'm not going to revise for seven hours straight for the first exam. Bullshit. Last minute revisions are the shizz. And, was given an English task earlier. To elaborate on Malaysian's lavish (coughbullshitcough) lifestyle as a foreign student, fresh on the migration mill. In my parallel universe, I'm German. And my name is Daria (mysterious music comes out of nowhere). Aha, so the point is-- I'm not the face of Lancome or previously the muse of Lagerfeld, but still. Pictures of random nature will prevail soon. Clothes, brother J going to his Friday prayers (gasp!) and, well-- whatnot. Ah, I'm still effing stoked about Sunday's Cup final and the Oscars (Marchesa! Marchesa!) for the sole purpose of droolworthy gowns, of course, despite the fact I have P.E exams and Physics test to endure. Apparently, Physics and I are not exactly Sid & Nancy.
[MUSIC] Lightspeed Champion - the Fresh Failures
Sleeping, I've been.
Hibernating, more like. Appalling amounts of sleep? This week's theme, perhaps. Endless taps on the mouse, scrolling through Milan Fashion Week, with The Boy Least Likely To as my soundtrack and late night class work-- routine acts. Champions League week was good-- Liverpool won, shocked me as well, deserved it though. Chelsea's run against the Greeks left me yawning the night away-- blander than the match against Hull City. Seriously. Milan against Arsenal was the best one-- brooding Italian men equipped with superb football skills and, of course, the occasional jersey exchange. The in-between part. Heh. Moving on. Exams will commence next week. Carling Cup final this weekend (whip!) against Spurs. Fingers crossed for a win. Social life marked it's death recently-- I'm too occupied with class work and club work. And sleep. In between? Catch-ups of Betty & One Tree Hill (can't believe I forgot the latest season) or taking a bath. Or eat. I barely have time to eat (gasp!) or go out. Damn. At least classes were swell. I rarely talk to Him anymore. Another damn.
[MUSIC] the Boy Least Likely To - Is A Machine
Chanel 2.55 trust fund tally: RM98. RM6902 to go! (Oh come on, don't snicker at my efforts!)
Hold back the orgasm.
Sudden loss of words. Apologies. Aha, moving on! Thrilled to bits when found out that absence reigned among our class teachers. And went on being spectators to one of our closest classmates, Jo and her debate team. Loves it. Them opposing puerile mother-effs brought shit to the table. Bad, bad English as well. Pronunciation, grammar-- basically RTM (Television Malaya) English. Minus the ultra pink lipstick adorned on their lips, with unflattering shoulder pads too devastating to look at. Certainly, I've made my point. Anyhow! We won. Amidst the eye-rolls, foot-stomps and rude objections. Afterwards, did some pedophilia-induced acts-- hitting on little triplets who, waved at us back. How very polite and.. naive. Slept in class a lot. Lines all over my face. Break-outs conquering. Meeting went smooth-- I've missed sitting and spitting sarcastic remarks with Ken. Damn. How time flies. Hailed a cab with S, headed home together and now-- I'm still sulking. Explosions at 2300 hours. Oh well, Godsent things to think about: Chelsea 3 - 1 Olympiacos. Perhaps. And Liverpool's triumph. I need sleep!
[MUSIC] the Smoking Popes - I Know You Love Me
Chanel 2.55 trust fund tally: RM93 and counting. (Excluding RM200 debt to be received.)
Ah, so.
The thought of missing Explosions In The Sky playing live is pinning me down. How often do you get (immensely good) instrumental bands to come down here? Whatever it is, I'm all set for Incubus (I can't stop talking about it-- I'm breathing Brandon Boyd) and Band Of Horses. Or is it Horse the Band? Aih. Whichever it is, I've heard their albums years back and am impressed. Classes were overflowing with solace. Moving on should be practiced, as soon as possible-- of course, I miss my dose of those raunchy perverts everyday but still. Being silent brings no one back. The baby boy is perfectly healthy, crying actually-- downstairs. Ha! In dire need to transfer schools. Seriously. My days are taunted by morons who sings Hujan's song (not subtly at all, mind you) and loiter outside our class. We geeks need our Chemistry lessons, mother-effs. And what's up with Hujan releasing their shit over in the UK? God help us all. Privacy is non-existential nowadays. Might return sooner or later
though. Champions league week will soon commence. Tuesday morning, to
be exact. Chelsea versus Olympiacos-- win. Liverpool versus Inter
Milan-- looking forward to see Ibrahimovic tear their guards down. And
yes-- Arsenal versus AC Milan. Paloschi, Inzaghi (swoon!) and all. Good
luck, Gunners! And the burned compact disc compressed with French goodness is safe in my hi-fi. Phoenix is the shit.
[MUSIC] Phoenix - One Time Too Many
