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Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Hi, I am Exotic

First Impression Counts
From landing your dream job to walking down the aisle with the man of your dreams, it all begins that first all important five seconds. How you make the best of the first impression to a certain extend, determines how successful and likely you will be at a given task - friendships, job interviews, love flushes etc.

I think I have failed in describing how crucial frst impressions are. The only adjective I can think of at the moment is "important" and I know in my heart that first impressions is MORE THAN IMPORTANT. It is important and almost everything else.

Almost everything about you is pre-determined and pre-judged within those few seconds. It is a sad fact but people often judge a book by its cover. Do not take my word for it. Just ask any publishers, writers and illustrators and they would tell you designing a book cover is almost as important as the contents of the book! And in the human realm, we often judge people within the first five seconds of meeting/interacting with the person.

The Stellars Do It Hot
I am sure that most of you are well acquianted with The Stellars (that do not need any more introduction, thanks to Kenny Sia who has released them into blogsphere fame). I cannot see their friendster profile because I don't believe in friendster (which is why I don't have many readers and I don't get linked to my million of friends out there). Or at least I think that this is the reason why I can not see any of their profiles.

Anyway what is your first reaction when you read about them? What is your first impression? Feel free to read through the comments attached to Kenny's entry on The Stellars and you will see the whole wide range of reaction and first impressions. Some liked them and admired their courage for being confident and bold. Some puked, 'nuff said.

As for my reaction, I am inclined to sing the nursery rhyme "Pease Porridge Hot".

"Some like it hot
Some like it cold
Some like it in the pot
Nine days old"
~ Pease Porridge, a nursery rhyme

Whatever lah - just as long as those girls are happy - whatever rocks their little pink Barbie boats.

But do you see the reaction those Stellar photos incur? How perceptions and opinions are formed about any given person in the first few seconds of chancing upon them? How a fan club can be formed or how a hate site can be born, just from a handshake, a photo, a wift of her perfume or the color of his tie?

How Much Is Too Much?
We have established the fact that first impressions are vital in deciding our success rates in many aspects of our life choices. Consequently have you ever given some thought to the impressions that you are giving out through your blog? Since we often pour our heart and soul, personal details and sometimes even details of our whereabouts (ID card number, place of work or intimate photos from our daily lives) have we thought about the consequences of revealing so much of ourselves?

Perhaps once we are sharing our lives so openly with anyone with access to the internet, we are also exposing ourselves to the opions and perceptions of others. Do we really understand the implication of having our faces and lives splashed all over the blogs? Being top searched in Technorati sometimes could be a hellish nightmare. Just ask Tammy and Dawn. Well not being searched on Technorati does not matter much if your face appears on the most peddled porn at the moment.

I asked myself this question many times whenever I write in Nude, Not Naked - how much of myself should I share? How much is safe? What is private? And of course to blur blur blur blur those photos as much as I can, simply because as much as I like to write and share my thoughts with you guys, I would also like to draw a line and know definitely which parts of Otto I am not willing to reveal to the world.

Because first impression counts.

What's Your First Impression?
So what is everyone's first impression of you? Have you ever asked your friends what they thought of you? What signals do you send out to people around you - workmates, acquaintances, friends etc?

Name me the one word that is used often to describe you.

Smart? Independent? Depressed? Sexy? Funny? Spoilt? Prude? Nymph?

How much of yourself are you willing to share with others in your blog? Do you have concerns about your safety? Whether your privacy is invaded? Whether you would find yourself perhaps some fans and 2.5 fulltime stalkers? Would your personal lifestyle be found out by others and be used against you subsequently (think office politics)?

Small Talk
My intention was to rant when I wrote Feeling Bad For Being A UK Size 8. I wanted to share with you the pressure of being a certain weight/height/figure/shape, to conform to society's perception of beauty, which is often ridiculous and even more often causes distress and stress to the person involved.

I am feeling rather guilty that some readers feel that PY has ulterior motives, which I would like to think that she doesn't and therefore I am feeling rather bad for the entry - which then leads me to determine to write an entry that has PY in good light.


Saturday, February 25, 2006
A Little Pussy Cat At Heart

I think I must have paused The Exorcism of Emily Rose for more than twenty times and it is only in its 25th minute. Some pauses were because I was editing Feeling Bad for Being a UK Size 8 while the remaining pauses were because I am little pussy cat at heart. I have never been good with horror flicks and watching them in cinemas are a total waste of my good money. What can I see when I spend 80% of the running time peeking through the tiny gaps between my fingers?

E, on the other hand, is excellent with horror movies and used to tease me endlessly whenever I was naive enough to try watching another scary movie with her. PY (yes, I love her) enjoys watching movies in the comfort of her home and is a great supporter of our local DVD Ah Beng.

I shall end with this; a private corner in my bedroom where I store things that I treasure.

Top shelf, left to right
  • Photo and frame given as a present from R after the Rainforest Music Festival.

  • Some postcards from Laos behind it.

  • A feathery brooch that I pinned on my black jacket previously.

  • The Five People You Meet In Heaven by Mitch Albom.

  • A beanie puppy soft toy.

  • A photo of Alex, his family and I in Tatton Park last year and its envelope above it.

Bottom shelf, left to right
  • Collection of shells, picked by Alex and I during our daily walks along the beach in Ko Raya early this year.

  • Some pine cones that Alex picks for me wherever he is (working away from our home in Kent).

  • A necklace given by this friend which is special because it has a dragonfly on it.

  • Valentine card from Alex.

On the right side of the wall
  • My bday card from Alex on top.

  • Bon voyage card from Alex's parents at the bottom.

Okay... I think I am ready to brave through another 2 minutes of Emily Rose before I panic and come edit this entry.

Kisses from me,


Friday, February 24, 2006
All Angels Wear High Heels

Marathon Story
I quite possibly walked more than ten miles in the last two days. It would be have been an ordinary feat, if not for the fact that I walked in super high heels. Now Kenny Sia and his legion of fans, eat your hearts out.

So what could I possibly do, walking in high heels for ten miles? The answer lies in the most passionate female sports ever created and greater still than the Olympics, the sports of shopping. And meeting up with friends, who similarly took the days of work to hang around shopping malls, like scrawny teenagers. I managed to purchase a tweed jacket and a Japanese kimono inspired blouse from TopShop and had a nice chat with the cute looking cashier *shameless* Was given a voucher for my birthday *happy*

Small Conclusion for Tonight
Had loads of fun in the pass two days, dining and shopping. That's dining with friends and shopping alone. Somehow I enjoy the solitude and the comfort of choosing my own pace and boutiques to plunder, thus never shopped with friends.

Now dining is a whole different ballgame altogether. I believe that mealtimes must always be enjoyed in good company. Had that luxury since childhood having all meals with my family and blessed with excellent friends, who made each meal extra delicious.

Will come back to write more tomorrow, when I am not reading any of the Roald Dahl books I bought from the MPH warehouse sales.

A little too scatter brain-ed at the moment to write something decent for you guys.

Coming up in the next entry:
"You can keep different boyfriends at different postcodes" - OMG! Now which girl said that?

Small Talk
Now who would not want to read an entry with a title like "Do they wear high heels in heaven?" The answer is, Yes, Slinky Baby. You will hear the distinct sound of high heels clinking everywhere along heavenly streets.

Just ask any guy and he'd tell you all angels wear high heels.


Feeling bad for being a UK size 8

Feeling bad for being a UK size 8
"I can't help it," I said to BGF this afternoon as we sat for tea, "it's PY. She's driving me insane."

"Why should you feel bad for wearing a size 8? Any thinner and I won't be able to see your tits," BGF said.

PY has an annoying habit these days. She takes a seriously good look at me, observing every bump and every pore and comments on it. It is alright on a nice and sunny day, where I feel I could live forever. But on certain days when I have pent-up frustrations (work related) I feel like strangling her.

But of course, I do not lunge at her and grip her neck with my two bare hands, shaking her violently while sat on her. Instead of murdering her, I would either:
  • keeping quiet and flying elsewhere in my mind - going thru the list of things that I need to complete, what I bought, what I did not buy from Ikea and now am regretting, missing Alex and alternating it with flashes of the toilet incident with AB

  • bursting into self defence with "PY, stop nagging. No wonder your colleagues call you Aunty," then feeling totally remorseful for uttering those words.

It happened again yesterday when we were shopping in Esprit during lunch break.

"What size do you wear?" she asked.

"UK size 8," came my reply, as I browsed through a rack of trousers on 50% offer.

"Are you sure?" she asked, sounding absolutely surprised, "I am wearing a size 6 only, you know?"

She has been complaining that she was fat and needing to go to the gym. And *ahem* she was a size 6. So what does that imply? That I am fat cow? A bursting balloon? A female Sumatran rhino at the end of her gestation period? What?!

I feel wronged. This is because a UK size 8 is considered 'small' by most standard. Why should I feel bad for wearing a size 8? I am not fat, not thin and I like myself this way. And why does she make me feel like a failure, even when I know that I am not? Why does she keep talking about my imperfections while I comfort and assure her of what she think is her imperfections? All these negative chi was compounded by another blow no more than 30 minutes after the first incident in Esprit. During lunch in Starbucks, PY said "I told Anna that you used to have such beautiful skin. Two years ago you didn't have the line near your nose."

"It's called aging, PY, if you have forgotten," I said, temper brewing like coffee in Starbucks' perculator, "All of us have it when we are our age, remember?"

Negative Body Image
I won't feel offended if I am truly huge and/or eating like a starved refuge. I stand 164cm tall and weigh 47kg before meal and 50kg after stuffing myself with an eight course wedding banquet. Most meals consist of three soup spoons of rice, with lots of vegetable and a small piece of meat (prefering fish). How can I weigh any less than I am, without loosing my tits and bottom?!

When I was younger, my mother had a plastic surgery trustfund for me, so I could correct my slitty eyes (and a rhinoplasty with the extra change). I was dog ugly as a child and because I was ugly, I was commented and compared to prettier cousins/friends/etc. What trauma for a young 5 year old girl to endure! My grandmother used to call me "flat nose" or "slitty eyes" and I had to grow up with those remarks. Hormones kicked in during my post-teenage years (that means my early 20s), which somehow changed my facial features - a button nose, naturally pink stained lips, prominent cheekbones and a larger pair of eyes. Till today, my features are changing and I am crossing my fingers that each change is for the better (or I would have to learn to love myself).

So you can say that I grew up being very aware of my features, especially the lack of it (and the change that came with puberty). From someone who felt miserable as a child, who could not wait for the day she turns 17 so she could go for plastic surgery, I have grown up to accept myself for the way I am. Nowadays I am comfortable just the way I am, including my tan skin. I do not appreciate people who asks me to use whitening lotion, as if I am a leper in need of medication.

Perhaps I am sensitive. Perhaps I am sensitive because I have gone through this shit as a child and I do not want to feel bad, now that I am an adult. What is so wrong with tan skin? Or broad forehead? Or slitty eyes? Or a typical Chinese nose? Or a nasal line when you are in your late 20s? It is our genes, for goodness sake! You ought to learn how to live comfortably in your own skin. On behalf of all ugly ducklings out there, please make our lives easier by holding your tongues from passing comments that causes us, the ugly ducklings to develop negative body image.

Why not be like the English, let's talk about the weather. Or the latest happenings in town. Or suggest one should probably take a good look at the caricatures to determine whether they are indeed offensive before staging protests throughout the world. Or protest against Ah Bengs are peddling Tammy's video. She deserves at least some royalty to fund her education in NYP.

Let's stick to "Have you eaten?"
Of course PY is not the only one who passes comments during conversations without thinking. Comments like hers happen as quickly as passing the sauces during a chinese wedding dinner. Perhaps many think that this is a good way of communicating with friends. Perhaps many feel that this is just talk; a way of showing concern for the person's physical being - that you are observing the person. At worst, you just made a remark for the heck of it.

However let me the first to tell you that making passing remarks such as, "wah you been eating a lot lately, is it?" or "Eh you are so tan after Phuket" is not considered nice ways of exchanging news with your friends/relatives/workmates/neighbours/aunty selling fishball noodles.

Let's stick to the traditional "Have you eaten?".

And just when you feel good about yourself...
PY related this incident that happened some weekends ago in her household.

PY's mom: PY, what you going to do? Your daughter got such slitty eyes.

PY's dad: Like Mercedes, one eye big, one eye small.

Bunch of relatives discussed PY's 3 year old daughter's looks. Some said that she's doomed to having slitty eyes and flat nose forever and ever. Others comforted PY that at least the girl is really fair because, "fair automatically means beautiful". They eyed the girl inch by inch and observed her every feature. Thank goodness, her daughter was oblivious to the remarks, playing with her cousins.

Small Talk
Whatever happened to encouraging any young girl to work hard, study smart, do well in her exams, be an honourable citizen and a good community leader? Is a girl's worth and future based solely on her physical looks only?


PY's hubby: What to do, dear? Our daughter so ugly, what are we going to do? You think we should start saving money for her plastic surgery?

Everyone then proceeded to talk about the plastic surgery fund for young girl blah blah blah. The pros and the cons etc.

The conclusion?

PY: Aiyah, no worries lah. Otto was much uglier than baby girl when she was a child. Now Otto look okay what....


I don't see how that conversation was supposed to make me feel good about myself *grumble grumble grumble*

Small Talk
I wonder how many of us girls grew up, being told that we are not good enough, not beautiful enough, not fair enough, eyes not huge enough, skin not smooth enough... and how many of us carry burdens from childhood, that we needn't carry at all.

How many of us become uncomfortable in our own skin? How many of us insist on switching off the lights before we allow our partners to touch us? How many of us look in the mirror and feel depressed that we do not look like the models in the magazines? How many of us obsess over our weight, over our cellulite?

You know what? Everyone is entitled to feel good about themselves. Just as long as you are healthy and you are able to function well in your private and professional life, let no one make you feel bad about yourself.

Links to posts with similar thread
Numenor05 She's So Bloody Gorgeous
Melancholy Thongs Plastic


Monday, February 20, 2006
Desires of the Blower's Daughter

“Listen to this song," R said one hot Sunday afternoon.

We were our usual selves, sitting in his room, drinking lots of vodka, him smoking a joint or two, painting, talking and dreaming. His bedroom is painted in a soft shade of cream. Three paper lanterns from Ikea dangled in a corner. Soft wisp of ylang-ylang incense burnt and a deep sense of calmness swirling upwards, then down, around the whole room. Paintings, all yet to be completed, leaned against all available wall. Crayons, acrylics, tub of putty, pencils, brushes everywhere, appearing in an orderly mess.

A mess so familiar, it lent a sense of tranquillity. It was symbolic, a sense of order among chaos. A room filled with everything loved and treasured, a refuge and safety net, where secrets remain buried and hidden. Where everything can be said and would never be repeated out the door, not even a whisper.

He walked towards his laptop, flipped it open and clicked on something.

"This is your song. My song for you," R said, closing his eyes, exhaling smoke, then squatting to continue work on his painting.

I placed my craving knife on the wooden floor. Crawled into bed, dove into it and listened, word for word. It was slow, almost sleepy, almost dreamy.

And so it is
Just like you said it would be
Life goes easy on me
Most of the time

And so it is
The shorter story
No love, no glory
No hero in her skies

It felt clean, introducing the voice immediately. Its tempo reminded me of a walk in a park, light and brisk. Like a naive eighteen year old, experiencing the world for the first time. Like walking in St. James Park, having lunch on a bench, feeding my hungry stomach and feeding the squirels with the crumbs. Like autumn leaves falling by the white swans, who elegantly danced in the ponds. Like the smell of gentle English rain, umbrellas and trench coats running along the streets at a fast pace. Like seeking refuge in a cafe, drinking hot coffee, warming my body and spirit. The age of innocence.

Then the sudden flush of emotions flooded my whole being as the words slowly crept into the deepest parts of my soul. "I can't take my eyes off you" repeated six times. Everything faded away, replaced by a tingling sensation oversweeping my whole body. It was the feeling of being found out. That he knew of my sins and struggles. He knew the song was washing my memories away. Trying to wash all the pain and hurt, releasing them like a trail of ylang-ylang from an incense burning. That I was trying to forgive myself.

I opened my eyes just as the violin began to echo after each line of the chorus. My eyes fell on him. His back was facing me, blowing dust off his white painting. His eyes were not on me. He was not looking. Yet his song plunged a knife into my bleeding heart. It was that precise moment that I knew he knew me. And he understood my struggles with the invisible; the ghost of my past, tormenting me for years. It felt reassuring yet surreal, lulled by dreams and nightmares of a young life made old.

I tried to breathe again. I tried to hide. Then pearls of painful tears rolled quietly onto the pillows, in the secret of the room, surrounded by Buddhas and dragonflies, waterlilies and nudes.

"Have you watched Closer?," he asked. It felt familiar as I looked at the easel and the table next to it. It was months ago since I sat in his bedroom on a Sunday afternoon, painting and drinking vodka. Perhaps even a year since. The ylang-ylang scent was still floating gently in the room. The paper lanterns were dangling in the corner, looking a little tired by daily usage. Paintings were nearing completion, some just birthed.

I shook my head, placed my bag on the familiar dark wooden floor and swam around the bed. He sat by his paintings. He always sat by his paintings. He poured half a glass of vodka for me, a greedy full glass for himself and greedily, he gulped half down, then sighed with gladness in his heart as the vodka mixed with his blood.

"You will like it. Watch it. Your kind of movie," he said. With one swift stroke, he drew a line on a new white wooden board. He was starting on yet another painting, completing none, always beginning a new piece every few weeks as inspirations bubbled in his glass, in the wift of smoke above his head and in his mind.

And so I did watch the movie, last night in the darkness of my bedroom at midnight. The same tingly sensation ran from my toes, glided ever so gently like silk on skin. Chills ran along my spine in the first few seconds of the movie as Natelie Portman and Jude Law walked along a street in slow motion. The song all too familiar.

The movie unfolded itself as the four key characters interacted with each other. Fuelled by desires of the flesh, the movie explores various stages of relationship. What makes a person love? What makes him/her loose it in the spark of a moment, lost in time? How do you capture your partner's attention? How you forgive him? Forgive her? How do you forgive yourself? Is it possible to love only one? Is it possible to love more than one? Does your love end at the beginning of a new? Do you hate because of betrayal? Do you drift because of monotony? Will you stay because he/she needs you? Do you run into the arms of your heart's desires?

R wrote, "often people become the people they are not, just to pursue the things that they do not need. Desire kills."

And in my head, for the pass twenty four hours, Damien Rice sang and fed my spiritual being. I get goosbumps each time he begins with, "and so it is..." in the most matter of fact sort of way. Sends chills down my spine. Everything feels slow, every thought consciously made, every breath makes me feel alive. Certain in the uncertainty, assuring me that everything in my life will be fine.

"I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes..."
~ Blower's Daughter, Damien Rice

Songs bring back lots of memories. Sweetness that I want to etch into my mind forever. Bitterness that I want to purge from my soul every day. "You are the Blower's Daughter," R said, christening the song for me and each time I hear that song, I taste all the moments of happiness, laughter, sadness and death of a spirit.

Desires of my heart. I remember the desires of my heart. Uncontrolled desires more often than not, destroy the soul, no matter what your desires promise you.

Small Talk
Paused midway while writing this entry to fetch my youngest brother, whose car broke down. Rolled up my sleeves and helped push the car since the battery went flat. The alarm could not be disarmed, so brother was speeding down the highway like a madman. I was trying hard to catch up since I was given the task to trail him back home (just in case the car dies mid way or something).

Damn classy watching cars pull to the side, allowing him to pass. The only time a Proton Saga gets first priority in traffic. HAHAHA...


Friday, February 17, 2006
Otto's Little Black Phone Book - Minishort's Mummy Would Approve

I burrowed myself into my pillows last night; into all eight of them. I abandoned my favourite down pillow and opted for a cheap fibre pillow from Tesco instead. Perhaps I was trying to punish myself for being stupid. Perhaps I wanted to distant myself from who I am inside.

Sleep was light and the baby birds were driving me insane. No wonder the mummy bird did not sleep with them. I wouldn’t. Tossed and turned. At approximately 0300 hours, I sat by my iBook to read adoring emails from my die-hard fans. There were none. I did not know whether to pity myself or to laugh it off and feel good, knowing that all you guys out there got a life and not feed off every little word I write in Nude, Not Naked.

For the second time this year, I got ready and drove off to my office by 0900 hours. Now that is called dedication, my friends. En route, I had two phone calls from office, discussing the uniforms. Apparently my threat was taken seriously and all uniforms will be delivered by next Monday 1000 hours.

I switched on my iBook and tried printing again. Crossed my fingers as I swivelled in my chair, that the prints will run smoothly. Tough luck. Two copies of a one page document took four minutes. Tried it again and AGAIN IT TOOK FOUR MINUTES to print. I had to leave the table, just to give the printer some space – for the printer’s own safety and physical wellbeing – less I crush it into a kabillion tiny little pieces.

“Hi XYZ. I am most annoyed,” I said.

“It isn’t working?” he asked.

So I went through the details and explained that I just could not accept such crap in my office.

“Printing one thousand copies will take me 3.125 days, if I worked the printer 8 hours per day.”

I guess he felt a little bad about my predicament. Well I hope he did. After all we have been through together anyway – six PCs, one iBook, two Samsung LCD screens, a few printers, contracting the IT solutions for my church and some miscellaneous stuff. And oh, casual dating.

You see, this phone number is special compared to some other numbers in little black phone book. Which might explain why I felt the way I felt yesterday, which was a great sense of betrayal.

“Well you know my business and what I do,” he said. This was probably our fifth conversation or so. “And I think it is important that I look for someone who is compatible with my personality and is able to stand by my side.”

I nodded my head, absorbing what he was telling me that evening. He then mentioned what I did and what he thought was special about me. Then he said, “So I am wondering if you are willing to come out on casual dates with me. Just to get to know me a little bit better. You can discover if we are compatible and if you will be happy with me.”

At that point in time, I was already with Alex. However I was willing to give it a try. I called Alex up and explained to him the situation and despite hearing him mew 14,000 kms away from me, I went out with XYZ. This makes me sound so cruel and unfair to Alex, doesn’t it? But I had my reasons. At that point in time, I wanted to keep my options a little more open and to ensure that I have the best for myself. Alex did not approve nor did he disapprove. I guess Alex understood.

And XYZ knew the arrangement too. So with that, I went on several dates with XYZ, mostly dinners and drinks. Occasional movies. And in the short span of time, I found him to be honest and extremely hardworking. I can never work the sort of hours he pours into his company.

Some weeks later, the dates stopped and I had come to my conclusion.

I loved Alex even more than I thought I did. And despite this man, perfect in many, MANY ways, exemplary husband material (honest, kind, giving, loving, supportive, serious, good looking, swimmer’s body blah blah blah) I felt it was not the right relationship for me. I did not laugh as much as I did when I was with Alex. I did not tell him as much stories, as I did with Alex.

Some girls might think I am crazy. Actually let me rephrase that - I know many girls think that I am crazy. He was a typical Asian much sought after husband and he was attractive with a winsome smile. He was the kind that Asian mothers like Minishorts’ would approve and quite possibly encourage to pursue a relationship with. My parents were won over. I was not.

Sometimes when I think about it, I feel bad for what happened. I mean, he was really extremely good to me. I could have had everything but I felt it was not the thing for me.

I never told him directly and he never asked me. I think we both knew that I had drawn a line then. Now we meet up for tea, like friends. We can laugh and chat and everything seems a little lighter and better.

He was always helpful, always courteous, always perfect. And this morning, Mr. Perfect offered to come over to my office to check out the problem personally. Ten minutes later, we had figured out the problem. It had something to do with my iBook driver. Or whatever. He is trying to sort it out for me as I am typing this.

So everything has gone back to normal and the baby birds are chirping again. Sun is shining, I am smiling and Milo is sleeping under the pandan leaves.

And I am a happy little bunny! *hop hop hop*
It does not take much to make me smile. I promise.

Alex’s Valentine card arrived today. He wrote:

Hello little babs,

You cute, brown and sweet or not?

I’m sure that you are. Wishing you a great Valentine’s Day. Well as good as it can be when you are so far away from my loving arms… We have not exactly have a history of good Valentine’s Days, which is a little depressing but perhaps we will make up for it in the future.

My babs, what to do when you are so far away… Alex

Alex’s comment that he and I do not have a history of good Vdays refers to the fact that we have never celebrated Vday together, on the same continent. Alex and I have not really argued or fought. We might be annoyed and have an annoyed tone but neither of us has ever raised our voices or hands.

Okay boys and girls, I shall leave you guys now. I am treating myself to a nice hair wash. Mmmm.... love to all =)

Small Talk
Thank you to those who wrote nice emails earlier last evening. By now, you would realise that all is well on Otto's land *smiles*


Thursday, February 16, 2006
*grumble grumble grumble*

I have been shopping for a colour laser printer for a couple of months. It started at a leisurely pace and post CNY, it has become an urgent necessity within my office. Documents, waiting to be printed, are piling up neck high and I can not put it off any longer.

So I dialled for a number in my mobile. (Yes, this is another story from my little black phone book.) Since I am hopeless with all computer related stuff, I asked him to help me choose a good printer. This phone number owns an IT solution company which also specializes in HP and Canon stuff.

He recommended a HP1500, (a second hand model) he is helping a friend of his to sell. I asked for his opinion and he said that although it is a year old, the printer was reliable. "I'll get the technicians to check the printer and if it's good, I'll have it sent over," he said assuringly.

I paid RM1100 for the one year old HP1500 laserjet printer (which he explained had 15% of ink in all 4 toners) and was so excited to go to check into my office this morning. I got into work at 0900 hrs, which is the earliest I have been into office this year. And what had I discover?

Spent close to 30 minutes, waiting for the printer to print 10 copies of ONE document (file size 70kb). I waited painfully for each sheet to come rolling out of the feeder. And after that 10 copies, the black toner died... and needs to be replaced.

Email to Alex:
Hello babs,

Bought myself a laserprinter, which is SUPPOSED to be good... HP1500, a 2nd hand model from XYZ.

It sucks.

That sums everything up. It took more than 2 minutes to print each sheet. Then the black toner dried up.. and I've only printed 10 sheets... stupid dumb thing...

Initially I thought I could save RM500 (average) by buying this 2nd hand printer... but goodness, waiting for 10 pcs of the same ONE document took more than 30 minutes! The one page document was less than 80kb in size and consisted of maybe 2 inch sq of color and the rest words and blank.... you can take a look at the thing I was trying to print....

So what the flying fishball?!?!

This has caused me to be in a fowl mood because I had wanted to do work immediately with the things... and now everything is held back AGAIN!

Anyway... that's my story of the day. Hope you are not sitting at your computer, waiting for print outs like I did.

*grumble grumble grumble*

Alex's reply:
Look at review of the printer and see how many ppm colour it is supposed to do. Can't you just give it back to XYZ and say it is crap, you want your money back, without being so Christian and fair about it?

Otto wrote back:
Of course I am going to return it to him..... I'm gonna try one more time and then if it still sucks, I'll return it... actually I am quite certain that I would....

I am just pissed off that people continue to behave like pricks. How difficult is it to get things done without being cheated by some cow in KL?

I feel like gawd danmed Hare Krishna dishing out free lunches to crazy shaven guys in yellow robes!!! I just hate feeling this way.

I am your doormat, please walk all over me...
I hate myself this moment. I hate myself for allowing people walk all over me. I hate feeling bad. I hate feeling bad for feeling bad. I hate being taken advantage of, time and time again. Just because I am quiet and often swallow a lot of shit from toxic people around me, it does not mean I enjoy shit being thrown at me all the time.

Another case in point? I have placed an order for 150 uniforms, to be delivered in the 2nd week of January. The price has been revised and raised RM5.00 per set and it is four weeks late. The company sends an average of 4 uniforms per day and thus far, I have received 25 out of 150 uniforms.

I know for a fact that the lady is placing other orders above mine and that is because I have not shouted on top of my lungs for my order to be completed within the stipulated timeframe. My logic is why shout when you can be civilised about everything. Apparently many things in Malaysia can not be completed the civilised way.

I have given up on this task and got an assistant to do the dirty work - threaten that our company will only pay for whatever uniforms that arrives in the office by 10:00 a.m. next Tuesday. Fuck the rest of the order, I am not paying.

You tell me whether you'll be just as pissed as me in my high heel shoes?!

Small Talk
I guess it is a dog eat dog world after all. If you don't press someone, someone will press you. If you are not nasty, you will have nasties thrown at you. I fucking hate this.


Wednesday, February 15, 2006
Giddy Happy

Morning everyone! *smiles smiles smiles*

One is often described as a morning person or a night person. I, for one, am definitely a MORNING person. I smile from the moment I open my eyes. I always imagined it to be quite a scene, since I bury myself among eight pillows (two which are down feather ones - luxury!) and some times, accompanied by Elliot, a beanie pig (which is a gift from a dear gf. I would never buy myself any soft toys... nooooo, never....) Oh did I mention my thick duvet? I love my duvet and must be wrapped in it every night, even on nights that are too hot to do so.

And from the moment I open my eyes, I am humming like a busy bumble bee. I dance. I sing. I entertain myself with silly dance steps and laugh. I smile and look at the reflection in the mirror. Sometimes I have my iTunes switched on, like today with Low Million's Hundred Blouses playing at the moment.

I have a special guest or probably, several special guests who decided to make my window their home for the next month or so. Every morning at approximately eight, the mother bird (or father bird) will bring food to the nest and all the little babies will chirp and vie for some delicious worms. I will have to put up with them until the little ones grow up, I guess. Well, Milo will be happy once their are able to fly. Makes great Milo breakfast food.

Oh shoosh! Milo is so huge and lazy, he hardly can catch a bird, even when it is in its infancy. He will hardly sink his teeth into anything not resembling his favorite dry biscuits in his food bowl. Think Garfield and that's what Milo looks like and behaves. He is a red smoke long hair, if any cat lovers reading this would like to know.

I am literally guilty of taking yesterday after lunch hours off. E and PY were having lunch in Burger King. I joined them after my lunch with BGF (Best Guy Friend). Slurped on a glass of Blackcurrant juice and finished it too quickly. Harassed them to walk around the mall with the excuse that I need the exercise. The true reason is I have been trying to part with my money since returning home from Phuket. At the rate that my credit card is lying dormant in my red Esprit purse, I am waiting for the day UOB's visa card officers to call me and relay the following conversation.

UOB: Hello, may I speak to Miss Otto?

Otto: Speaking. Who's this?

UOB: I am a representative from UOB's credit cards. There is a irregular activity in your credit card, so I would like to confirm some things.

Otto: Irregular? What's wrong?

UOB: Oh nothing's wrong. You have not been using your credit card since January 13th, so I am calling to enquire of your wellbeing. It is highly unusual that you do not use your visa at all. You have failed to shop in your two favorite boutiques, spending a quarter of your salary there. Your usual Friday night spending in the restaurants also ceased. What happened to the luxury goods that you intend to purchase? And you normally purchase some tickets from AirAsia too. Whatever happened? I hope that you are alright. Do you need me to send flowers? Make you tea with lemon? Send some special pillows to prop your tired shopping feet up?


Consequently I was making it my mission of the day to purchase something on Valentine's Day. But guess what? There was not a single thing that is worth buying. I am wondering whether this is the immediate effect from the realization that (for once in my life) that perhaps I have more than enough and do not need to buy anything. *shock* *horror*

Side track: A little info
Part of my education required me to study psychology and it was my favorite subject. I loved observing people and deciding whether their pass influences their current and future, that their childhood psychosis can lead to their adult madness and repetitive destruction. On the same plane, how a parent's early nurturing can support/encourage a baby to grow to his fullest potential - to achieve greater things in life.

And this is the one and only reason that sets the life achievers apart from the losers (other than the play of genetics). Genetics can not be altered after conception but nurturing can make the best of the worst of genetics and birth forth an Einstein or perhaps Hugo. It can ultimately harm the best of genetics and create a demented soul. Hence the likes of Ted Bundy and perhaps Osama bin Laden.

Learning psychology influenced my life greatly. It caused my conscious self to awake. To dissect my actions into cause and effect, to value and think why I do the things that I do (and why everyone else does the things that they do).

I often questioned my penchant for shopping and wondered if the cupboard and two chest of clothes, two shoe racks filled with mid range expensive shoes, three watches and my pearls and silverware, shelves of books etc were bought to replace an emptiness in my heart. By the look of my shopping acquisition and comparing to my notes from psychology classes, I knew deeply in my heart, knew and pretended not to know that the emptiness in my heart was one big chunk of it.

And perhaps now I finally feel that I could rest on Alex (instead of spending night after night searching for someone who could make me feel whole) shopping has come to an abrupt halt. I no longer get a buzz from shopping.

I got it from Alex.

Keeping Mum
My vday tradition includes catching a movie. With Alex and previous Swedish love being foreigners, working in their respective countries on vday, I have successfully spent the last five vdays without them. Instead I am with friends and yesterday, I was with E and PY. Decided to catch Keeping Mum. It was hilarious and entertaining, just my sort of movie actually. I hate slapsticks and much prefer dark comedies. AB said this many times but I will repeat it nonetheless, as I wish to reveal a little of myself, so my readers can form a mental image of who I am without ever having to see me - "You possess a dark personality," AB said every so often, as we discussed the difference between the many girls he knew.

I loved the stark comparison between the act of tea drinking "shall I make a cup of tea?" (or something along that line) and the murders, making the murders seem legitimate and almost necessary.

Misc info: Holly's 1st bf, a guy with dark hair and goatee reminded me of my Swedish love. And speaking of my Swedish love, his mother passed away approximately three weeks ago and February 15th is her funeral date. He called to inform me of her passing. Such tragedy. My deepest condolence to him and his family on the recent lost.

It is now almost an hour since writing, so I need to rush off to work soon. Have a fantastic day ahead!!!


Small Talk
If you see someone going about her errands in a black top with sequined collar and a black pair of trousers, black shoes, 70s Charlie's Angels inspired hairdo, that would be me..... especially if the girl in question is driving at a maddening speed, that is definitely me...

While most friends found this post-bday haircut tolerable (mum said, it's so old fashion - but that's my point, it's grandma cool) they lamented the lost of the long locks.

"You chopped off your hair?"

Well I did... and now I have this 70s hair do... Oh well, this hair of mine grows so fast, it keeps my hairdresser occupied fulltime... long locks will come back in a month or two =)


Monday, February 13, 2006
Help Needed. Desperately.

I need help. Desperately.

I woke up today feeling rather vain and so decided to add some photos to the side bar. They lined up nicely when you are at but they will go all crazy when you click on any of the permalinks. For example, this and this.

Haven't got a clue how I've managed to do whatever this thing in the blogspot does for the amount of time that I have. Don't even know how I have survived.

Can someone out there HEEEEEEELP me? Please??


Otto's Little Black Phone Book - Cleo Bachelor #1

Short Talk
Recently flushed my mobile phone into the deepest bowels of Lola. It was not a huge lost since I prefered cheap and practical mobiles. The phone however, held many secrets... many stories... many encounters.... And here are some stories of the encounters with the owners of those phone numbers.... In the little black phone book which once belonged to Otto....

It happened one weekend, not too long ago when E and I were out on a girlfriend night, hopping from one club to another, dancing and drinking ourselves silly. He was busy greeting and being greeted by people. Guys gave him pats on his back while girls swooned over the sight of him walking their way. Basement Jaxx's Get Me Off was playing mid way when he walked over to our table.

I swayed to the left and right, flying in my mind when he said, “Hi”.

I looked up and smiled. He was tall, lean and handsome. Tan skin with captivating eyes.

"Hi," I said, then turned back towards E.

He tapped my shoulder and I turned back towards him.

"Yes?" I asked. I blinked my eyes once.

"What's your name?"

"Otto," I said, nonchalantly.

“I am XYZ,” he said.

I smiled, nodded my head and acknowledged him. I like tall men and he was tall. He wore a white shirt, folded sleeves to his elbows - casual with an air of indifference to his dressing. I then turned around and returned to my conversation with E. By now, E was pretty curious what was going on. He tapped my shoulders again.

“Don’t you know who I am?” he asked.

I shrugged my shoulders, then laughed.

“I am sorry but I really don’t,” I replied.

“See those boys there? We are all from XYZ,” he said, explaining where he was from and who he was.

This post is now private. Please email me if you wish to read the rest of this entry.


Thursday, February 09, 2006
I Love Otto

10th February. My birthday.

And on my birthday, I would like all my readers to judge my writing. Do you think I've improved? Are my stories interesting? Do they make sense? Are you entertained by my tales? Do you think that my stories are worthy to be published? Will my words gain a following? Do I have a future in writing?

Do my words have an impact?

Otto's Best Birthday Present
I don't want any birthday presents because I am contented with what I have at the moment. However I would love if my readers could support me by doing something good for someone on my birthday.

For example, you could keep the door open for the person walking two steps behind you.

You could sincerely thank someone who served you well today - the aunty who keeps the public toilet clean, the cashier who serves you breakfast daily etc.

Alternatively you could give your pet cat or dog (or Burmese snake or spider) a warm hug and tell it, "Otto said to love you more today."

Do something nice and make someone happy.

On my birthday, make two or three other people around you HAPPY if you think I am worthy of your support.

It'll be the best birthday present ever EVER and I would love you guys more tomorrow.


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The Greatest Love Story

“Gong xi, gong xi, aunty,” I said as I walked through the gates.

She was watering the plants in her garden when I came, some time after 6:00 p.m. She was a petite lady, in her late 50s. I got to know her son, R, on a drunken weekend more than two years ago. A great conversationalist, especially when we spend a whole evening or weekend locked in the room, drinking vodka and painting.

Oh I loved his paintings. I don’t want a Picasso. I don’t want a Da Vinci. No other paintings speak to me quite like R’s paintings. He grows suspicious whenever I tempt him with some vodka. Often time, it meant that I was searching for an excuse to visit his paintings again. And I would pay, just to watch him paint. It has the most trance-like feeling whenever he works with his tub of white putty, applying layer after layer on the canvas, ever so patiently birthing a woman, an image of Buddha or my favourite, a dragonfly or two.

I remember clearly how I got R to buy a puppy dog – just because I wanted a puppy. I loved to have a Miniature Schnauzer but could not keep one as I had two cats at home. The best idea I could come up with was, “Why not R keep one? I get to visit and play with it often.” Did not manage to sell the idea of buying a Miniature Schnauzer because R got himself a beautiful male Beagle instead. And we aptly named him “Vodka” after our favourite alcohol.

Vodka was jumping up and down, excited to see his master, R returning home from work. That pup has grown into a strong and beautiful dog. He even had his little private space with a fan switched on 24 hours. Vodka was one spoilt Beagle, I am telling you.

R was busy cleaning the koi pond. The fishes were getting big and fat, eating the super food his father bought from the pet shop. Some lilies were growing in a pot, placed in the center of the pond. The sound of the water rushing down the mini waterfall was familiar and comforting. That was R’s routine: return home as soon as he possibly could, then worked on his mini garden and waterfall project, cleaned up all the fallen leaves and checked on his fishes.

“Did you snip him?” I asked.

“No,” R said, still with his back facing me, cleaning the side of the pond. “Why did you ask?”

“R,” I said as calmly as I could, “I think you are responsible for this.”

Darling Vodka was humping my left leg. He was enthusiastic about the whole process but I cannot say the same for myself. I glared at R and screamed at Vodka, “Stop it, Vodka! Stop it!”

R was enjoying himself too much to ask his dog to stop. When I finally managed to yank off my left leg, Vodka raped my poor right leg. I was screaming, trying hard to shake the dog off my legs. Vodka humped my legs so hard that my whole body shook as he continued humping.

I tried running. Well, I can safely tell you that it did not put the dog off. I tried to raise my voice, commanding him to stop. Yet he did not. I was short of whacking the dog’s head and I think R knew that too because he then said, “Vodka, no!” The bloody dog stopped and walked towards R, sat by his side and was patted gently. I do not think one should reward a dog for humping me but R enjoyed the scene so much, he gave Vodka a biscuit for the fine performance.

For the next hour, Vodka humped my legs whenever he felt bored. By chance, I devised a grand plan, whereby I stood by the garden hose and sprayed at him whenever the brown furry four legged thing came anywhere remotely close to my legs. Vodka ran away with his big ears flapping each time while R laughed as he smoked his rounds of joints.

We walked Vodka around the housing area after R cleaned his pond and counted his little aqua friends - two HUGE black kois, a couple of orange white medium sized ones, a lobster with a broken antenna and two escargots that laid two small patches of orange-yellow eggs. The sensation of the cool breeze against my skin was welcomed, especially since Vodka practically wet my lower legs with what I would like to think was his saliva.

We returned to R's house, locked Vodka in his huge pen and proceeded to R's bedroom. Each visit heralded a surprise - a change in drawings, progression of paintings and last night, a pink bedspread and blood red pillow covers. His security pillow was clearly missing. I wondered what happened to it as I blurted out, "What is with this pink thing? Even I don't do pink in my bedroom!"

R waved the question away as he lit a cigarette. He looked through a small cupboard and took out a box. "Want to see some erotica?" he asked, then inhaling the smoke for a few seconds. I shrugged my shoulders, paying no heed to his warning. I have seen a lot of things in my time and it took a lot to surprise me these days.

He opened the box, filled with memorabilia collected from his four-month travel stint last year. R sounded so much happier since returning from the trip, as if he had found peace. So side by side on his bed, we laid and looked through the ticket stubs, maps, photos, stuff he picked from the ground everywhere and a book filled with old man Mao’s quotes, translated from Mandarin. He laughed as he read a page of it. “Come on, it is funny,” he said, giving a chuckle as he flipped the next page.

By 0100 hours, I felt hungry and so the kind soul offered to treat me to some nice milk tea. Putting my hands together, I clapped, feeling rather satisfied that R would feed my hungry tummy. I have a tummy that makes its hunger known and I hated my growling stomach because it is darn un-sexy.

“It is the greatest love story,” he said, "and you must promise to write about it."

I smiled at him. It was about J, the girl he was most infactuated for the pass seven years.

Short Talk
Visit Grey Boy With A Leap to view R's collection of artwork and stories.


Monday, February 06, 2006
Because Bad Girls Like Good Boys

Dedicated to Kenny and his
Because Good Girls Like Bad Boys entry.

... and this is how the story goes.

From the time you were born till the time you started to read at five, you were bombarded with fairytales of how the princess (that means you, you, YOU, when you are an ego centric 5 year old) found her true love (a handsome dashing prince on a white horse) and she was swept off her feet. All problems were resolved (from Snow White’s problem with her seven miniature landlords to Cinderella’s domestic woes) and like all fairytales, you were told that you would live happily ever after when you find your true love (of course, you must have a pure heart, be locked up in a tower and/or poisoned – whichever came first)

Fast forward to the time your hormones started to kick in. You fancied this cute boy in biology class. He helped you dissect the frog and even held your hand when you felt faint. Oh bless his soul, his beautiful smile and gorgeous eyes, you whispered to yourself. You confessed your love for him by the end of the term. He looked like an angel and to many girls, he was.

Then you found out, through a friend of a friend of a friend (who happened to be your classmate in Form Five, who also happened to accused you of flirting with HER boyfriend) that he had another girlfriend. You cried and begged him to stay with you. All you wanted was to be loved and to have all the problems go away. You promised you would do anything for him. Anything, anything! You would do anything because you love him.

So you shagged him. He broke your hymen and five days later, your heart. He said he was still young and needed to go out with more chicks. He said this, then turned around, wrapped himself in the chick with the big tits’ arms and walked away. You cried for days and days, comforted by your best friend (and some ice cream). You phoned him, stalked him and cried in front of the pub on your knees, when he left with the girl for the night.

You swore you would not have sex again until you could find THE ONE. You started college and dated the most handsome pair of jeans you laid your eyes on. You were the golden couple during your first year and everyone thought that you two were perfect together. You were so excited that you were dating the most popular guy that you made the exuse, “Oh I bruise easily” when friends asked of the blue black spots on your arms. Mr. Popular was unknown to everyone else, also Mr. Jealous, who freaked out whenever he thought guys were staring at you.

You took the slaps and shakes quietly. You wanted to leave him but you did not want to ruin the perfect persona, would you? As months pass by, you gained new friends and along with them, came new freedom and support. You learnt to toughen your heart. You learnt to be strong and to do what was right for you. And finally, you broke up with Mr. Popular.

One weekend some moons later, you attended a party and a friend introduced you to Six. It was all about Six from that moment. There was just that something extra about him. Maybe it was his eyes, always wild and wandering. He made you cream in your panties and that was what he did - creaming your panties and was probably the only one thing he was truly good in. He chained smoked and slept through the day. He went out late nights and said he was practicing with his band mates at 3 a.m.

Once, you waited for an hour for him to arrive and when he did, you were so happy, you swept any doubt under the carpet. He was yours and yours only. He was a free spirit and he was waiting for the golden opportunity to come knocking. Till then, he practiced - practiced HARD on Dilla, Grace and Kendie (you knew this but you chose to ignore it). And he borrowed money from you and your friends. You felt so privileged that he was with you. How cool can it be that you will one day be Mrs. Better Than Robbie Williams? Way cool.

“You are fat and ugly,” he said again and again. Soon you look into the mirror and believed him. You could not look yourself in the mirror without throwing up. The shine in your eyes was gone and you did not know who you were. You knew who you were but you did not want to admit to yourself, what you were. So you hid yourself from you.

You graduated from college with a degree and applied for a job. You bought a small car soon enough but he was still a band boy, going nowhere and had no job. His eyes were watery and your money was missing. You kept quiet and hoped everything will go away. All you have ever wanted from childhood was a man to fall in love with you and when he does, everything would be fine. But nothing seemed to be working...

397 screaming marathons, 128 silent treatments, 51 door slams, 1 bruised eye later, he walked out on you. But you did not really care anymore. You did not care because you could not feel your heart beat anymore. You were alive but yet, you felt dead inside. And you were seeing the the cute guy who helped you adjust into single life again. Tough luck on being single because you two became an item six months later.

He was not as good looking at Mr. Heart Breaker neither was he macho like Mr. Bum Around. But he was considerate and sweet and he helped you feel whole again. He was soon replaced with the guy who was all of those and a little bit more. He was smart and had a brighter future. Did not matter that his hairline was receding or that he did not own the flashiest car.

Ok, so you dated Mr. Flashiest Car on the side while maintaining the relationship with Good Boyfriend Number One. You found out that he loved his car more than you. Actually you rated third, after his car and his football team. And he had a funny thing about toilet seats.

You learnt to be tough. And sometimes mean. These were the self-preservation methods to sieving out the lambs from the goats. Never in your childhood or bedtime story sessions, have you imagined yourself quantifying love the way you did when you were twenty six years old, working in your second job.

So dumped Mr. Flashiest Car and back to Good Boyfriend Number One then. You learnt a good lesson. Sometimes the heat of the chase burnt more than tyres. Perhaps it is better to stick to the better man. And the better man comes along, which you exchanged for Mr. Better Better Man and again for Mr. Honestly Sweet. You broke his heart but what the heck. Life is short and it made sense to find a suitable partner. Men are sowing their seeds to widen their gene pool, so you ought to widen your gene pool by protecting yourself, right?

You worked hard and played hard. Who is to tell you that you do not deserve a good man? You don’t want a second-hand man. You want the best for your best. It is only wise to lookout for yourself. Who else is going to lookout for you, if not yourself? You learnt not to care for physical traits but to discern when it came to matters concerning the heart. After all, love is from one heart to another. What had it to do with how he looked, whether he was popular/cool or what car he drove or whether he stayed in the most desirable postcode?

You learnt about yourself. You learnt to accept yourself, (just the way you are) by the time you blew your 27, 28 and 29 candles on your birthday cakes. You know what you want - what makes you tick and what makes you laugh. You were comfortable during periods when you were single and alone. You were fine when you were a couple.

And finally after going through probably five serious relationships, two part-time relationships (maybe a one night stand) and one fuck mate later, you found THE ONE. After trawling through the whole fish market, you found that ONE fish who swam into your heart (and panties but that is a different story, worthy of another Otto entry).

Well he is not as good looking as Mr. Suave. Or charismatic as Mr. Popular. He is not as dashing as Mr. Heart Breaker or had crazy hair like Mr. Band Boy. But you know what?

He has the best of intentions and he knew how to keep your heart safe. He was always there to catch you when you felt weak. He made you smile. He respects your thoughts and puts you first whenever he decides on something. You adore him to bits, him and his eccentricities. He is also the only one who could make you say, “I do” without you thinking that you must have gone mad.

And you did. And here you are sitting on the sofa while he is engrossed in his EPL score, grinning and knowing in your heart – Girls, you’ve gotta be bad to get the good.

Short Talk
It is because of bad boys that girls learn to be tougher when it comes to matters pertaining to the heart. I predict the day when girls will spit boys out like watermelon seeds as the roles of the sexes become more and more equal.

And soon, you will hear girls say, "See he is a guy I'd like to go and party with. But I will never bring him home or marry him" and truly mean it. I know I did.

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Saturday, February 04, 2006

Text from Eve at 2030 hours last night:
Leaving house now. See you there!

A smile on my face. I wore a black lacy baby doll blouse, paired with a dark pair of Levi’s “Eve”. Put on Otto’s official favorite shoes of the moment - blue snake skin boots - looked at my reflection in the mirror and decided on wearing the other pair of boots instead. Love the new boots I got from Thailand. Love, love, love them!

Drove approximately ten minutes to the restaurant. We, girls, have a tradition of starting Friday evenings with a nice meal in this restaurant, then proceeding for drinks after drinks after drinks, till we are warm and tingling all the way to our favorite weekend spots.

Those were the carefree days when without fail, each of us will turn up at the restaurant every Friday at 2000 hours. We were there so often, we knew the staff by name and the cook could come out for small chats when his duties were done. These days, with more commitments (read: relationships) and less time, we cherish nights when we can laugh till we wipe tears of joy from the corners of our well mascara-ed eyes.

Would You Like Some Chicken Fillet?
“You know your duty,” E said, pointing to PY, as if to remind her of a life or death situation.

PY merely nodded. What duty, I thought to myself as E looked down her bosom and adjusted her black dress. PY laughed when I asked, “Eh are you wearing a bra or one of those chicken fillets?”

What do you call those rubberized stick-on bras that you slap on your lady lumps? You know, the two bra cups made of flesh colored rubber, with its inner cups being sticky? You stick your boobs into them – or stuck them to your boobs. I am not sure what is the name of this product but it sure hell looks like chicken fillets to me! So no more nights that are spent hanging perilously by the edge of your strapless bra. Now with the super stick-on rubberized bras, you can be sure to look perky in your tube dress or backless blouses.

So I called these sticky and strapless bras “chicken fillets”. PY laughed. I looked at her and instantly a few drips of Long Island Tea dribbled through the corner of my mouth. E laughed, at the stupid comment and my little dribbles. Laughter was only contained a few minutes later, after wiping tears from my watery eyes (I hate rhinitis), after E cussing that she’d ruined her eyewear, after PY buried her face in her folded left hand on the table and most certainly long after a few unsuccessful tries of distracting ourselves by observing some other tables.

The Mother Of All
The mother of all horror stories involving these chicken fillets of a bra would be the time when a female friend (friend of Nikki’s) who chanced upon her ex-lover in a pub. Female friend was feeling rather good inside for once, after months of crying over her break-up with two tubs of Hagen Daaz’s Cookies and Cream. She sized up the competition – she was sitting and laughing with a group of friends, with some male companions keen interest in her while her ex-lover was sat merely with some blokes. She got up and confidently walked towards him. I am so going to show you what you have been missing, she thought in her heart. She made a beeline towards him, only to trip over something. She stood up as elegantly as possible and proceeded to arrange herself. Pub was hush as she discretely pushed a chicken fillet into her tube. The right side of her sticky bra apparently fell out of her tube in the commotion.

The Thud
“I am telling you,” I said, “we are going to dance. I can’t do the talk-chat crap while looking cool thing. If you guys want to fucking catch up, we can just skip the pubs and head for the mamak stalls”. Grimaced and remembered the first day of Chinese New Year with high school mates, who split themselves into cliques. Not much have changed, even after all these years. Did not enjoy that evening because everyone was trotting about everywhere and no one was dancing!

I had great determination that it would not be the same tonight. Went there, found three classmates, joined their table. It was not happening. So not happening. I frowned. I grumbled. I sulked. It was just not happening.

Time to call for the back-ups, I thought to myself. So I walked a block to my car and got my mobile out. Called some friends to liven the table. Quick. I took my mobile along with me, something that I never do whenever I went out for drinks. But desperate times called for desperate measures and I was not going to spend another evening, just punishing myself by standing for hours, doing nothing but pretending to understand what my friends mumbled into my ears.

Securing the troops, I walked to Lola and had a little concoction whispered into the bar tender’s ear. “One shot of Vodka Vanilla with Sprite. A slice of lime in a tumbler,” I said. She nodded. Had three of those and everything seemed so much more pleasant. Danced to the beat, between E and PY. Classmates came and went. The troops arrived at 0100 hours and things went smoothly then after.

“I want to wee wee,” PY said. I walked behind her, as we made our way to the girl’s room. I unzipped my trousers and slowly pushed it down.


I gently slapped my eyes and slowly peeked through the little gap between my middle and ring fingers. Looked around the cubicle. I do not understand why the dance and bar area is lit up so bright, as if a fire engine just drove pass while the cubicles were pitch dark. At that instant, I knew my mobile, barely five months old, was at the very bottom of the toilet bowl. It was so deep that I could not even see it.

I sighed. Stomped on my feet a few times. Gritted my teeth. I opened the door, to let some light into the cubicle. Naadaa. Nothing. Zero. Nothing but some tissue strewn near the toilet bowl. Am so upset with myself.

I hate the thud-thud sound.

Last night was one costly drinking session. Damn it, damn mobile, damn everything. Cussing as as eloquently as Fuckstress would be therapeutic this instant. I shook my head in disbelief and walked out of the cubicle a empty pocket person.

“Dropped my mobile in the fucking bowl,” I grumbled to PY. Being a sweetie, she walked towards the cubicle and wanted to reach out for the mobile, lost somewhere in the darkness of the mouth of the pipe, hoping that she could fish for it. I shook my head and pulled her away. I resigned to the fact that I will have to fork some ang pow money out to purchase a damn mobile. I hated the image I had in my mind, firemen breaking the toilet bowl because I had my hand firmly stuck in it. Or PY's.

“You are flushed,” a guy commented. He was the younger brother of a friend and he was adorable looking. Fresh out college with those twinkling eyes that only young hopefuls could possess. He tipped his bottle against my tumbler. I smiled and drank up the remainder of my third glass. Signaled for another. Chatted until PY came over and stood next to me.

“Dog year bad for us,” PY said. That was her version of consoling me over the lost. Apparently according to some popular Feng Shui experts in Malaysia, the year of the Dog will prove itself to be a challenging year for those born in the same year as E, PY and I. Be careful of investments because loses tend to occur, so they said.

”So you flushed away your bad luck lor,” PY said, “the mobile is like your sacrifice for the bad luck. Dropped, you flushed, then bad luck all down the drain.”

Consequently to usher in my good luck and to celebrate the flushing away of the bad, PY, E and I went to the cubicle and flushed three more times. Imagine stumbling into three girls who flushed the toilet three times and laughed like mad people released from Tampoi….

Hands In My Pocket
Slept at 0600 hours this morning and got up three hours later. Damn horny birds at my windowsill. Great service at Maxis. Did not even manage to warm my seat while being served. If only more companies emphasized customer service the same way Maxis does! Now shopping for a mobile phone. Then a little mobile shopping with PY till lunch time and five hours later, here I am writing this entry to you.

Any kind soul out there wants to treat this little struggling soon to be writer a mobile phone?

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Friday, February 03, 2006
Losing My Virginity

The V word.

Some say they still have it with great pride. Others say they’ve lost it in hush tones. Some make you lie on a white cloth to prove it. Others don’t want you if you still have it at 30 years. Men greatly prize it. And some men just want you to discard it. Pronto. Mothers like Minishorts’ say you shouldn’t lose it. Some fathers will kill you if you’ve lost it.

Most religion encourages you to hold on firm to yours until you get married. Most boyfriends ask you to lose yours as soon as you possibly can. With them.

Some girls brag about it while the science teacher is teaching reproduction during Form Three while some boys bet who will be the first among them to go where no boy has gone before. Agony Aunts and Uncles throughout the world are STILL busy replying questions like, “I used my fingers only. Am I still one?” and “He put in three quarter inch only. Still virgin or not?”.

When does one loses his virginity?
The most common perception is virginity is lost when the hymen is broken. Well, at least for girls. Some dictionaries (yes, I do check for definitions too) define a virgin as one who has no sexual experience. This has nothing to do with what you’ve penetrated something or have been penetrated.

Which means: Yes, you who indulged in heavy petting and just short of penetration, you are no longer a virgin. Oh yes, you too, Miss_He_Didn't_Cum_In_Me and you, my brother who couldn't get your little brother in all the way. Don't argue with me, just seek a dictionary and find out for yourself. That's the dictionary's definition.

Otto's Definition
With sexual experience nearing a decade, I would like to think that you lose your virginity when you give yourself away spiritually and emotionally. It is one thing to be the first to tear the hymen and have sex (make love, if the term makes you feel better cherished or fuck, if you are confident and naughty like a horny housewife) a scared young teenager, who was coaxed into having sex to prove her love for her 16 year old boyfriend and another, when you have a young lady who immersed herself in the sexual union, feeling no shame but total love when she felt wet between her secret garden.

I have used female examples in my previous paragraph but what is our world without the Yang to our Ying? So here are the male equivalent: a man who had drunken sex session in the pantry with a girl whom he cannot recall for fuck sake and the man who stripped himself of his ego, gave up society approved macho reputation and surrendered his whole being to the girl.

More than a piece of skin?
You give more than a piece of skin when you lose your virginity. The moment you give your spiritual person and be communed with your partner, now that’s the moment you lost your virginity.

When you throw everything to the wind and don’t give a fuck how your hair looks like.

Or whether he minds that your left breast is larger (only slightly!) than your right.

Or what he thinks of you, who secretly fantasize of being a sex slave, serving your master whenever he feels he wants to feel your inner warmth once again.

Or how he would react when he finds out you have a foot fetish (you like your feet stroke, not smelling people’s shoes, damn it!).

Now that is the moment you lose your virginity.

And so!
Do not fret so much, if you had lousy first time sex. Trust me, the first time often isn’t the best time. Do not regret if you lost it to the scumbag who ditched you two days later. Do not cry if she did not love you enough to stay in the relationship. Do not regret too much for having sex with the idiot because you loved him and thought he was the one, only to find out later that he was not. Do not have your hopes dashed into a thousand pieces because she thought you underperformed. Or you lost your wits and everything went downhill (yes, literally it was down, down, down) when you panicked the first time. Don’t pray to God a thousand times a day, begging for forgiveness for doing it before marriage.

Do not. Do not.

Look forward to the day, when you find someone you truly love. And who loves you in return. Who takes you as you are, who does not seek to change you, who appreciates you for your quirks and laughs with you, not at you. Embrace that moment in time, when your eyes meet, your hearts cross into knots and your souls join, where the union surpasses the physical and melts into different dimension of love.

Embrace that moment because that will be the moment you lost your virginity.

My First Time
I lost myself to Alex, I must admit that. Now Alex would grin from ear to ear when he hears this (he believes he set me free from society's judgment), so you and I will keep this one a secret (that Alex is most probably right). Although I had previous sexual experiences (I had several long term relationships, each lasted for a minimum of two years) I never felt comfortable in my skin. I felt awkward being naked and had poor body image (don't all young 20 something female feel the same?). Most importantly of all, I refused to allow my body and mind to relax and relish each moment as it unfolded.

It is called guilt, I guess. I grew up in a church and had all those “pre-marital sex is a sin” ideas squashed into my impressionable young mind. And for a long time, I felt restless and uncomfortable that I had actually lost my virginity (so to speak) outside of the marital bed. I mean, damn it, which Christian brother is going to marry me now? How am I going to explain to my future husband how I did not love him enough to wait for him? (so most adults tell you anyway).

That is until I found Alex. And in Alex, I lost myself. I was free to express my thoughts and for the first time in my life, I felt no shame in having sex with him. As a matter of fact, I enjoyed it. Despite various “counseling” from my parents and interference and pressure from the church/society/whatever, I stuck my grounds and for once felt that sex was good and I felt good as a being with flesh and blood.

I lost my virginity the moment I said, “I want you like thisssss… yes, give it to me like that… do it HARDer… yes, more... I want MORE...”. I bit his shoulder, dug my fingers gently along his back as heaven opened its doors. And as a million angels sang and Alex rocked us back and forth, I felt safe in his arms.

And baby, sex is supposed to feel good. And when you feel good about sex for the first time in your life - when sex fulfills more than just the blood rush to your love petals, when sex is not the primary tool for communicating your devotion for each other, when sex completes your love – that is the same moment you lose your virginity.

Short Talk
"Losing My Virginity" is dedicated to lovers out there who have regretted not waiting for that special someone. May this article bring you some measure of peace and healing in your hearts. It is especially written for readers out there, who were torn by bad first time experiences - be it sexual abuse or bad lovers.

You will lose your virginity truly when
you freely give yourself to someone who loves you.

Written to inform young teenagers, especially girls, on their choices that they will make or have made in their pass, this is the first of some entries discussing issues pertaining to sex such as safe sex practices, sexual knowledge and protection.

Please forward this article to your friends, if you feel it has benefited you in any way. Just copy and paste this permalink -

Much love,


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Loosing My Virginity

*****Short Talk
Thank you Eliar for noting a tiny error in this entry. The spelling mistake was found, even in its title! It has been ammended and thus, moved to another permalink.

Click here to proceed to the ammended entry.