Vanilla or Strawberry?

The books are never about what you think they are about. Survivor is really about our education system because I feel, more often than not, kids are sort of taught or trained to be the best possible cogs in some big corporate machine. They're not really taught in an empowered way that they can start their own company so that they can create and run their own lives. They are sort of taught to be just good employees, to just fit in.

-Chuck Palahniuk on his book 'Survivor'.

Word. But even I can't deny that it just feels safer to live a cookie-cutter life. Find a job at a prestigious company, work hard, take out a loan to buy a house and a car, and work harder to pay the loans (plus my student's loan), work even harder when children come along, while climbing the corporate ladder to make it big to buy even bigger house and more fancy car. It all has been perfectly laid out in front of us, why bother go any other way? Just goes to show how successful whoever they are in doctrine-ating us.

Though at times, it does feel too self-indulgent to try to live out my own dreams instead of others.

DID

Recently watched a movie called Sybil. Based on a true story of a girl suffering from split personality or the clinically-correct term, dissociative identity disorder. The movie was very good but the 3-hours is for me just not enough to understand Sybil's childhood predicament that made her split into different personalities so I amazon-ed the novel and again, all the books that are currently in my to-read list will have to wait. (This is madness, I've never had so many books in waiting list - 10 and counting - thanks to the visits to secondhand bookstores during my last Euro Trip.)

Some doctors do not believe in the authenticity of this mental disease, they are of the opinion that the patients are merely exceptionally good actors/manipulators. Maybe they are right, but to give it a benefit of a doubt, and ponder in the possibility that it might be an actual mental disease is much more captivating.

Surviving a living hell, some soul will self-destroy; some will be so broken inside that it shatters into pieces.

The memories of everything that hurts survive in one of the pieces. And the pieces survive as individuals, so as to protect the keeper of the soul or the core personaity (the real person) from dealing with the pain. For if the keeper remembers every detail of his past, he/she will be too traumatized that the future will be too unbearable to go on. The different personalities know and communicate with each other, and they normally work together to keep their keeper from harm. For instance, if the keeper likes to play the piano but has encountered an experience in which a piano is associated with something hurtful (e.g being raped on a piano), all her piano playing abilities is kept with a personality, usually with its own name. The new split personality, while remembering the traumatizing rape experience, will have no problem with playing the piano him/herself; it's like he/she was a third person witnessing from outside the glass window.

In 1970s a man named Billy Milligan used this disease as his defense against several felonies including robbery and sexual assault.

Daniel Keyes, author of Flowers of Algernon, told the man's story in a novel named after the man himself. One of my favourite all-time novels.

Currently, United States of Tara, has renewed into its 3rd seasons, yay. Kudos to Toni Collette (the mom in Little Miss Sunshine) for portraying the transition of her character's different personalities very convincingly. And yeah, it's normal that one of the personalities will turn out to be of a different gender from the core personality; that's when most of the trouble arises.

If Only

A very cool theory I've stumbled upon today thanks to the ever amusingly entertaining Tyson Apostol's blog : What if we consume just enough amount of calorie that our body needs daily so that everything is burnt off completely and we do not have to take a poop? Won't that be awesome?

Those super skinny models who survive on cabbage and whatnot soups, are they exempted from the call of nature to defecate?

I don't think that pooping, either way you dissect and look at it, could ever, in a million years, be feminine or graceful, thank you.

Vanity Might Freeze Your Muscle.

If I need to go to the bathroom during my gym session, instead of using the one in the changing room, I'll opt to walk a little and use the one situated in the lounge area.

My logic? The toilet in the lounge is mainly used by visitors which is less than the actual members of the gym. So there are naturally less people crowding the toilet (hence the mirror), and the ambience there is nicer too, what with the luxurious interior, the lighting and the music. Besides, the toilet at the changing room is mainly used by the members of the gym AFTER their work-out sessions. The thought of that many sweaty asses that have been there on the seat where I'll put mine...needless to say, I prefer the toilet in the lounge area better.

Yesterday while going in to readjust my tudung before the workout session starts, I saw another regular gym member already in there, in front the mirror. I smiled and we said 'hi'. I instantly recognized her as being this lady who wears a full make-up to each work-out session, without fail. I mean the whole deal; eyebrow liner, blusher, heavy mascara and bright red lipstick.

And yes, as I've guessed, she was applying her make-up in front of the mirror. It made me think of the whole thing, of us women and how caught up we might be sometimes with our vanity. As of late, I'm getting more comfortable with wearing make-up. I've learned to cover my under-eye circles and lending my cheeks a glow with a tint (the intensity depends on my mood) of blusher, highlighting my nose bridge, applying the mascara so as to make it looks like I've got double eyelashes like Elizabeth Taylor's, lipstick etc. Now I find it quite hard to leave the house without at least putting some concealer on my eye-bags and some mascara.

I have an aunt who won't leave her room without wearing foundation all over her face and drawing her eyebrows first. She basically walks around her house with make-up! Even for a quick teh tarik session, she'll do the whole deal first.

Seriously, I don't want to get too comfortable wearing this facade. Make-ups can only hide and emphasize so much. I know it sounds particularly cliche and I find it especially annoying when some gorgeous celebrities that might have gone under the knife and got her nose or something else tweaked say, "What matters the most is what on the inside yada yada yada" but I think it's very true.

There's only so much one can hide under the exterior. You gotta make peace with what's on the inside or you'll never be satisfied with what you see on your outside no matter how much make-up you put on.

So many time, so few movies worth watching.

Easter holiday is coming up. If friends from down South do not turn up, then I'll be left with quite some free time on my hand.

A lot of time, not enough good movies to watch. That's not really the case actually. Most of the time, I just forget the mental list I've made of movies to watch. And end up disappointed with the movies I ended up watching.

So here I am making a list in case I forget.

1. Away We Go

2. Adventureland

3. The Wackness

4. Priceless

5. Cashback

6. What Dreams May Come

7. The Last Kiss

8. Big Fish

9. Chaos Theory

10. The Fall

11. Submarine

12. Sybil

13. Running With Scissors

Cannibalism

Watched a documentary on cannibalism in Papua New Guinea. They stop practicing it around half a decade ago after Christian missionaries came and preached the words of God to them. What I find astounding is that, these missionaries, despite knowing perfectly well that at that time cannibalism was still roaming the ground, decided to stay among the tribes, so that they could be easily approachable by the members of the tribes who wanted to learn more about the Christian faith. I have nothing but respect to that.

Apparently the last men who used to eat human flesh is still alive. At first, the anthropologist was careful about going about the subject of cannibalism, for he was worried the subject might be considered taboo among the members of the tribe. But no. They were pretty candid about the whole thing. One person led to another and in the end, a group of survivors were sitting around, reminiscing about the good old days when they cut people up and eat them. Don't get me wrong, I'm sure they don't practice it anymore, but I don't expect one to smile when they talk about such subject. Maybe to them it was just another ancient culture, that they were caught up in back then, and now it was time to move on. Nothing to be ashamed of.

An older man amongst them told the narrator, it wasn't about hunting people down for food, like what we have been served with in cannibal horror movies. It was either because of suspicion of witchcraft or an act of revenge, for instance, an infidel wife, or unresolved fights between groups among the tribe. Meat was scarce. So they figured, why waste the body that they will have to dispose of anyway. Hence the cannibalism.

When asked how does human flesh cut and taste like, they all nodded knowingly in agreement, "Just like pigs."

HAHAHA. Orwell is really on to something in Animal Farm.

Maybe that's another reason we Muslims are not allowed toe at pigs. It would be like eating one of ourselves. Just a maybe. Who knows, kan.

Of Wandering

Dear Mr. Ibrahim,

I'm writing to congratulate you on your brilliantly-put-together comment, worthy of an international coverage, which has Sydney Morning Herald reporting it, as can be read here.

Another one to add to the series of other internal affairs recently that has again managed to put Malaysia in the spotlight, albeit an unflattering one. But as they say, any press, rather than none at all, is good press, right? After all, comparing to the Ultraman chasing the tsunami comic, your statement couldn't have possibly done any more damage to Malaysia's image.

I understand that the statement might have been uttered under duress, for not getting it as much as you would have liked to. Well, first of all, let me tell you this : Sex might be a wife's duly duty to her husband, but not one that she can't enjoy herself. Otherwise, God wouldn't have bothered installing the Gs and the Cs, at all the appropriate places, into us. After all those years of being married and you still can't figure out what makes your wife tick, the next time your wife can't squeeze 15 minutes in between 'getting ready to visit the relatives' to be intimate with you, don't be so quick to think that finding a younger, more attractive woman is the solution; it might actually be a sex therapist.

Women don't have a switch on the back of her head that she can instantly turn on whenever you ask for sex. If you don't have a body resembling, Ryan Reynold's, and a drop-dead-gorgeous face like say, Bradley Cooper, just don't expect that your wife will be up to sex the moment you come home from work, belly bulging out from under your shirt (which is for most women unsexy and unattractive, just so you know and are not misguided by self-overestimation), reeking of a combination of sweat and stale perfume, announcing "Let's do it now." It just doesn't work like that.

You have to work your own way around the switches, you know.

I hope you are not offended by my God-honest opinion. I wish you luck in your future endeavors.

Yours sincerely,

Me.

Paris

Eiffel Tower surpassed every single expectation of ours. It was truly love at first sight for me and even for the less-easily-fazed friend of mine. No matter how many times you have seen the ubiquitous tower in films, on postcards, on posters, the sight of the real breathing tower standing proud at the heart of Paris will catch your breath away.

We spent a good 2 and a half hours climbing the stairs of Eiffel, lounging at the cafe situated on the 1st floor and just soaking up the sun, while enjoying Paris's landscape from up above. When we finally got down, we spent another hour enjoying the view from the foot of the tower, taking lots and lots of pictures.

We were goofing around attempting to take pictures of each other pushing the Eiffel tower when from some distance we saw an Indian man, in his early thirties, approaching us with a big smile. On one hand he was holding a giant ring; tiny Eiffel tower keychains hanging from it, making a clinking sound as he walked. On his other hand were miniature Eiffel towers in different metallic colors and sizes.

'Uh-oh, good Lord, please turn us invisible, I don't want to have to deal with another one of these direct sellers.'

There are a lot of people like him, hanging about the queues at the entrance and around the tower that will try to sell you Eiffel memorabilia. Sometimes their persistent and pestering can be quite annoying but well, one has got to make a living one way or another.

"You dua orang dari Malaysia?" he asked in perfectly fluent Malay.

From his stories we learned that he originated from India and has worked in Malaysia for 5 years prior to his arrival in Paris. He said he loves Malaysia, its people, its food, everything. We can definitely relate to that, we are fans of Malaysia too! His plan is to collect enough money to open a business in Malaysia and settle there for good.

While he was lamenting about how it is pretty hard to survive financially here (something we have learned the moment we stepped into a supermarket when we first arrived in Paris to find some shampoo and toothpaste), I was eyeing the Eiffel tower model in the biggest size that he has, contemplating whether to buy it or not. You know, to use as a decoration for my future house.

"You mau yang mana satu? Yang ini atau yang ini? Ambikla, saya kasi murah-murah sama you," he said, picking up on my interest.

"Kalau yang besar ni, kalau jual dalam kedai luar sana, 20 lebih diaorang jual tau. Selalu I jual 12 Euro, paling murah la, you boleh cuba tanya orang lain, tak dapat punya. Tapi dengan you orang Malaysia I bagi special price, 10 Euro saja," he went on. What he didn't realize was (or maybe he actually did), I was already sold by then.

I decided to test the skills that my mother has tried to pass on to me, and tried to haggle over the price. Apparently, I did learn a bit of the art of haggling from her when I managed to bring down the price to 7 Euros.

I opened my wallet to pay him and I thought about how profit he is actually making everyday what with the competition with hundreds of people selling the exact same thing all around Paris. With the higher than average living cost in Paris, it must have been hard to just get by everyday. And here I am, running around on vacations around Europe using money that I haven't really worked that hard for, that got me questioning the ethical side of my conduct concerning the money that's wired into my bank account every month.

So I handed him a 10 Euro note and asked him to keep the rest of the change. He didn't expect that of course, so he gave me 6 Eiffel keychains which cost about 1 Euro altogether.

My friend looked at me, rolled her eyes, let out a small sigh and said, "Barhh. You're easy."

Oh and by the way. Buying an Eiffel tower model that stands 30cm high would not seem like a really good idea when you still have several other cities left to visit and you need to fit the tower into your suitcase without wasting too much space. Honestly, I felt my IQ point has gone a few number up trying to figure it out.

Bang.

It's just a ride, it's just a ride
No need to run, no need to hide
It'll take you round and round
Sometimes you're up
Sometimes you're down
It's just a ride, it's just a ride
Don't be scared
Don't hide your eyes
It may feel so real inside
But don't forget it's just a ride

Tale in Barcelona

My girlfriend and I were very excited to explore Barcelona that we started off the day quite early even though we were still tired after all the running around Paris the day before.

Weather was great, we just had our daily shot of caffein at what has became our favorite breakfast spot at Barcelona because the coffee and the sandwich there are just divine (maybe we were just hungry) and the waitresses are so friendly even though there was an obvious language barrier between us. We left the cafe leaving a shiny 2 Euro coin as a tip.

It was our first day in Barcelona and right away we decided to follow the trail that Gaudi has left behind in this city. After unraveling the trams' paths like a puzzle, we decided that Park Guell was the best spot to start our journey as it was the furthest so that we could work our way closer and closer to the city centre as the day progresses.

Upon setting our foot at the entrance, the sense of being in some sort of magical wonderland hit us; there was a guy at the gate playing a musical instrument called 'hang', which completed the whole whimsical vibe.

Man, that Gaudi guy has some imagination. It's our first Gaudi stop and I like him already. We decided to start exploring Park Guell from the outer part, and savor the crust later, the part which houses the infamous lizard/dragon.

As we were walking down the path, two ladies approached us from behind. They were well-dressed. Trench coat, shades and everything. They were pointing towards the branches of the tree above us and were motioning to something behind us. We looked to our backs and guess what, apparently a bird has pooed all over us. Over our head, down the back of our clothes, thank God we got our jacket off because the weather was pretty warm that day.

A couple of seconds passed by before the smell of the poo hit us. Like really hit us. Birds were supposed to eat berries and worms and pretty much strictly organic stuff, why the hell did their poo end up smelling this bad? I was on the brink of throwing up.

Instantaneously, one of the two woman shoved a bottle of mineral water to our face. And they came to our rescue, cleaning off the poo of our shirts. I was busy getting that damn thing off of my friend's hair, when the other lady motioned for me to look at my back. And I realized my damage was just as bad as my friend's. So her friend took over cleaning my friend's hair and I let the woman help me clean myself.

At some point, I had the urge to keep my handbag which was slung across the shoulder in front of me, just so I could watch it better. Once a while, I pat my handbag, just to feel that everything (camera, wallet, handphone) was still inside. I wasn't too worried about my friend as she was more prepared than me; she wore a money belt beneath her T-shirt so she will be fine.

We excused ourselves to go to the toilet as the smell was getting too unbearable that I felt like taking off the shirt and washed it in the sink before putting it back. It was a sunny day anyway, it'll dry eventually. But they insisted to help us. After several time of saying 'thank you' we managed to disentangle ourselves from them and hurried to the toilet.

There was a long queue. Full of old people. I think they just got off the same bus and everyone decided to head to the loo. Bladder problem and old people, it makes sense, not to be disrespectful or anything. As we were in the line, there was three American tourists behind us wearing sour faces, apparently pissed off at being poo-ed on by a certain species of bird with digestion problem. We got into a conversation discussing the shitty experience, pun intended.

Scrubbing did nothing to the stink the poo left behind so my friend and I decided to head back to the hotel, change before continuing our journey. Gaudi has to wait and make way to this unexpected force of nature.

On our way back to the tram, we passed this souvenir shop and my friend saw something that she liked. So we went in, hoping to just grab the stuff and pay as fast as we could, so as not to make people faint at the mere smell of us. As my friend walked to the counter, she took her wallet out of her bag and to her surprise...it was empty. Every drop of cash that she has, every single receipt that she kept in there was gone. Nada. Zip. We were gobsmacked.

It took us a few moment to register what has just taken place. That two seemingly good samaritans that we thought had helped us clean bird poo off of us had actually helped themselves to a handful of cash, around 160 Euro, 40 pounds and a couple of ringgit malaysia notes. They even got to her money belt underneath her shirt.

It was a masterfully orchestrated, sophisticated pickpocketing. The setting was perfect. A bird in a park. Two well-dressed ladies. With a bottle of mineral water. And it happened so fast. It couldn't have been any longer than one whole minute.

Going into the trip, we knew we would have been an easy target, traveling in a group of two young ladies. We have been extra careful thus far. My friend separated her cash in smaller groups to minimize the damage if something bad were to happen. But it happened anyway.

Looking back, I think I know whose fault it is. Our previous destination before Barcelona was Paris. In Paris we have encountered very friendly, helpful people. At one point, we were lost while trying to find our hotel, when suddenly out of nowhere this good-looking young lad approached us and asked if we needed any help. He even went as far as using the GPS in his iPhone and leading the way for us to our hotel. He guided us along a pretty small alleyway and I remember thinking "Uh-oh we are totally dead, he's gonna take out a knife right about now and rob us and kill us both here and nobody would know and it's gonna be our own stupid fault!" Yeah I'm paranoid like that.

But no. We arrived safely at the hotel, 5 minutes into our search thanks to the unexpected help of this charming French guy.

So yeah, in conclusion, let's blame the French people. For being too helpful that we have let our guards down a bit.

p.s : Upon coming back home and doing a little google-ing, I've found out that the bird poo scam is a pretty famous one. Read full article here.

I'm gonna turn 24 this year.

Feels like I've stopped registering the aging process about 4 years ago.

Quarter-life crisis?

Meh.

You see, the thing is, if someone throws a number between 5 till 19 at me , I can recall almost quite vividly the zeitgeist of that certain age of my life which I've gone through.

For instance, 7 was the year I got a sibling, without even asking for it, and I watched as the attention of the people around swiftly change to the dumpy baby who would amuse almost everyone by farting and laughing afterwards. Unbelievable.

11 was the year of idiotic obsession with boybands. Been there, done that. 13 was all about vampires. Yeah, been there, done that too.

16 was when I entered MRSM and the rooftop was the coolest place to hang out at.

From the age of 20 till present, everything seems to come together in a tangle, I can't tell year 20 and 23 apart. It's like the past 4 years are really just one prolonged year.

It's a mess alright, but a mess that I've developed a love/hate relationship with, and ultimately got me looking back in appreciation.

Let's switch off the sentimental mode for now. Sounds unfitting since it seems like I'll be staying here for quite a while.

So anyways. My heart's so bursting with giddiness and anticipation that I feel like telling the whole world about this.

Can't wait for next month. *insert James Franco grin here*

I've Decided..

...to wear a fiery red skinny jeans to my presentation on Wednesday so that they'll be too confused with the pants to pay any attention to my underprepared project outcome.

I know. I'm such a genius.

Post Holiday

Can't believe that 2011 is approaching April already. Feel like time is moving too fast the moment you decide to enjoy and embrace everything that comes with it; the struggles alongside the rainbows.

Was about to type "Just got back from the longest trip I've ever been to; 12 straight days." But 'just got back' is not really appropriate anymore. It has been 2 days since I've arrived home. That means I've put off writing this blog for 2 days. I've pretty much wasted those 2 days that was supposed to be spent completing the GIS presentation and Ausarbeitung. Not really wasted. I've got my laundry done (3 full machines!) and relaxing the soles of my feet suffering from fatigue after 12 hours for every single day of the last 12 days walking on platform heels.

Traveling is dangerous because it is contagious. Once the trip ends and you arrive home safely, while sorting through your bag, there's always the lingering question of "When and where to next?" And to think that some people out there actually get paid to travel. That doesn't sound right at all it sounds like an elaborate con by a masterful con artist.

Traveling in pairs, especially when the pair consists of two young girls can be pretty dangerous at times, no matter how cautious you have been. But personally I believe it is more interesting to travel in smaller group as the locals tend to be less hesitant to strike up conversations with you. Which could also sometimes lead to uneasiness if the friendliness is under unwanted circumstances. Will blog more about it, in another post.

Right now I need to just write aimlessly. I miss this.

It strikes me as weird that I tend not to share a lot about myself with other people who do. It's a classic case of it's not them, it's me. I trust these people. I really do. But opening up takes a lot more than trust, methinks. People need to do that. Sharing their inner feelings with people whom they trust, discuss stuff that really matters, not merely superficial ones. Keeping everything to yourself is unhealthy, the pressure will sooner or later burst your brain, if not your heart first.

Mom. I'm glad she's moving on. I'm happy seeing her happy. Even though sometimes it hurts that I can't really remember the last time I ever saw her this happy, with this kind of happiness. But the fact remains, I'm not ready to move on. At least not yet. Pretending to be glad to move on along with her makes me uneasy. Sad. Guilty. Problem is, I know that I'm her numero uno priority and if I tell her this, she would put my feelings before her happiness. And if she does that, it would make me unhappy. Classic Catch-22 situation. Blergh.

How do you tell apart true confidence and a make-believe one? How would I truly know anyway? But I think, and I think I might be right on this one, true confidence comes from within however cheesy it may sound. It doesn't shout in your face, it doesn't need to flaunt, it doesn't need to put others down. Its quiet presence is evident enough of its existence.

Some people talk without wanting to hear.