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Malaysian Alien


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Sunday, June 24, 2007
Extraordinary Madonna

If the success of a party is measured by the percentage of hangovers the following morning, I can say confidently that our Mid Summer’s BBQ party by the swimming pool last night was a roaring success. The party was ended abruptly when The Bachelor collapsed into a heap of snores at about 2 a.m. He literally collapsed onto the floor and whatever pain he must have felt caused by the fall was certainly numbed by the red and white wine, port, countless cans of beers and vodka shots.

I was speaking to Ed, my Romanian friend when it happened. My first reaction was to laugh and I have my reasons to. The Bachelor had been dancing on the swimming pool podium for more than an hour, putting on a routine common to beach parties, the light show. The only exception was there were no lights at the end of his fingertips.

Anyway, I kicked him a little, thinking that he was putting on his usual show. He did not budge, so I turned him over. The Bachelor was being not so bachelor. He was asleep and snoring at 2 a.m. Such sins.

BestGuyFriend and Ed took him back to his apartment while the rest of us girls got up and dispersed the other two Germans. One was drunk and the other was drunk and asleep.

‘Are our company so boring that you are asleep, sir?’ I asked one of them earlier in the evening.

He opened his eyes and smiled. ‘No, it is not. I won’t describe myself as being bored just because my companion on my right isn’t speaking much to me at the moment. I think she’s excellent company and should be here again tomorrow night when I organize a Bavarian BBQ,’

The 11 of us were invited to the next party, which I think will be cancelled on the account of everyone’s hangovers at 11 a.m. Sunday morning.


Hey, I just realised something. I devoted the first section of this story to talking about how everyone was dropping like flies during last night’s party. I swear to you, it was a grand party with a blazing BBQ grill since 7 p.m. and basically too much to drink.

Everyone was relaxed and the atmosphere was just right. The group of us mingled well. I could have proudly written that I spoke to everyone last night, if not for the architect’s wife, who is definitely ignoring me. I am not too sure why she is doing so but I am well aware that I am being ignored since the beginning of time. As if I had stepped on her tail. Maybe she thinks that I stepped on her husband’s coattail or maybe her husband has been thinking of stepping on mine…


Slumping next to me, BestGuyFriend lit his Marlboro Lights and started puffing like his usual self. ‘What is happening?’

‘I can’t do this anymore.’ I just let loose. All the words, every emotions and thoughts came streaming through. It felt strange talking about such private matters in such a huge public place, where even the walls have ears. But it didn’t matter. Everyone asked why I had returned to Malaysia early this year and I guess it was time to tell.

I am no longer satisfied with a relationship that is so far away. I do not want to be in a relationship where I am with the person for 6 months of the year, at the most. It used to work fine but it is not working for me anymore. I need something more than just 6 months of a year. I want companionship and love all year round. I need support and devotion, things that one receives in a relationship.

‘You are business woman,’ BestGuyFriend said. I have heard that word a million times but somehow it sounded more profound when he uttered those words to me last night. ‘At your very core is an entrepreneur. You are very independent and successful at what you do. On a social scale, you sit right on top.’ His right index finger was pointing at an imaginary ladder and according to his finger, my spot was the top spot.

‘Even architects and bankers have bosses above them. You have none. You are the boss. You are the universe and you make your own rules.’

‘Yeah but that doesn’t mean I don’t get scolding. I have clients to please too and they are a handful at best.’

‘Nonetheless you are on top. It had made you very independent and opened vast amount of choices and opportunities to you – opportunities and choices that not many other people have, especially girls.’

I tried denying what BestGuyFriend spoke about. I do not own a single expensive bag. I drive a 12 year old Wira with dents that represent the whole of Asia. I do not wear designer dresses and I have not appeared in Tattler or the business section in major newspapers. But BestGuyFriend insisted that what I had was luxury; the luxury of time, freedom of choice and at the end of the day, financial freedom through a business that I am absolutely passionate about. It had given me the confidence that I do possess and the elevation in the social circles that I move in.

It had given me even the ability and time to write you all these stories.

‘You are a very independent woman.’


Independent. Independence have, throughout human history, been celebrated. It was a cause for joy and celebration. Malaysia is celebrating its 50th year of independence and all Malaysians are joyous of the occasion. And in the last month, 3 men have described me as being independent. Not just independent, like a girl who is able to drive herself here and there, owns her little apartment and lives on her own. What they spoke about was total independence.

‘You are very independent. You are far more independent than many European girls that I know. Why are you suddenly demanding? If you want, I can squirt you full of babies and you can go have a baby in Malaysia and be happy with it.’

‘I know that I can have a baby on my own. I don’t need you or any other man. But what is the use of a relationship if there is no support and I am expected to do everything on my own anyway? I might as well do it like Madonna.’ I was referring to Madonna’s fitness instructor who donated his sperms for Madonna’s first child, who turned into a very beautiful and sultry Lola. He has no paternity rights at all and plays no part in raising her.

If I have to do it like Madonna, raise a child on my own without any support from the father, I rather do it with a very hot Latino. At least his sperms could contribute some physical beauty to my unborn. But that isn’t what I crave. I crave for emotional support from the man I call my life partner. I want him to stand by me as I will stand by him. I want to be around him and I want him to be around me. I want dinners together and weekends together. I want to be able to feel vulnerable and secure at the same time. Isn’t that what love does?

If I have to do everything on my own, what the fuck is the use of a man? Companionship? I have just been told that I can have a bucket full of sperms and play Mary Poppins on my own in Malaysia. Not the best answer to give to a very hormonally challenged 31 year old who is freaking out because she thinks that she has to take charge and do something with her life before she is seriously too old to have a child. And I have to cough up my own diaper and milk money. So what the fuck is the use of a man?

Most women either get emotional support or financial support from men. Some women, the lucky ones, will receive both or a compromise between the two. As it turns out, I will receive hardly any because I am independent. Thank you.


‘You are very independent. That’s why I like you,’ The Bachelor said one day when I asked him why he rather my company than other more available girls, such as my good friends, E and Jane.

Doomed if I am not and damned if I am. Why don’t men seem to realise that women, no matter what social or financial standing they are, crave for such a simple thing called love? And love means much more than just seeing you whenever they are free. Love is appreciating and supporting each other daily. Love makes everything lighter because you can share. And just because you think I am independent doesn’t mean that I do not need someone to be tender and care. It doesn’t mean you can chuck me out in the streets and know that I will survive.

I know I will survive but I would like to think that you would love me enough and keep me in the warmth of your presence and arms anyway. Okay, this one is another strike out, I thought to myself.


‘You are a very independent woman,’ BestGuyFriend said. ‘You would have been happier if you were just working in Kota Raya as a cashier. If you were a cashier in Kota Raya, you would appreciate Alex more if he brought you to the UK to stay with him because it meant that you would live 10 or 20 times better than on the streets in Pudu Raya.’ His cigarette smoke disappeared into the air. If only he could make my pain disappear.

‘Alex could have brought home a Thai girl but it would be very difficult for him to do so. It was easier to go out with you because you will socialise easier in London than a Thai prostitute. You have your own career and your own money, so he never has to worry for you. In very short words, you were very easy for him.’

BestGuyFriend could have very well described me as being slut easy because that was how I felt. I am an easy relationship. Well thank you for letting me know. It’s 6 years too late but I guess better late than never. It’s easier to have a relationship with me because I am less demanding than the girl who screamed murder when you don’t buy her the very new and very expensive bag. Whatever happened to liking a girl for her intelligence? Or tits, at this rate.

‘You are so used to being special and extraordinary, you won’t feel comfortable doing normal things. You are this high on the social ladder.’ Again BestGuyFriend was pointing to my spot in the social ladder. ‘And you need a man who is also on that top spot on the ladder. Now all the boys here are on the top spot because they are the cream of all the expats and locals and you don’t like the local boys.’

‘Correction! The local boys don’t like me,’ I said. ‘They can’t stand the sight of me and especially my thoughts and opinions on things.’

‘Ok, so the local boys prefer their porcelain dolls,’ BestguyFriend adjusted his storyline. ‘You are left with the expats and let’s just say that you did break up with Alex and start dating one of the boys here. What happens when his contract expires? Will you be content playing expat wife in another country? Will you be able to go back to his country and be ordinary?’

I didn’t get what he was trying to tell me. It took a while before I did. I think it took me the amount of time it did because I didn’t want to own up to what I had to.

‘Are you willing to go back to London or Stockholm or Munich and just be ordinary? Take the bus like everyone else. Own a house mortgage and try living within the constraints of his very ordinary salary? Can you be a housewife?’

‘It depends what sort of housewife. There is clearly a difference between a housewife in wooden shack and one in a 2 storey house in the middle of the city,’ That was me defending myself and refusing to admit the truth.

‘I don’t care what sort of housewife or career woman. My question is ‘Are you willing to live an ordinary life in an European city?”’

‘I,’ I paused for a few seconds consideration of what I was about to say, ‘I have never been ordinary and I do not believe in living an ordinary life.’


‘See that podium,’ I pointed to the one in front of me, where the racers begin and end the Grand Prix. ‘I will sit on that podium next year sipping champagne, if you don’t treat me right. I know where I belong and what I can achieve.’

He patted my head and then he said, “Extraordinary…”

"Like teaching a cat to fetch a ball.
Obedience is just not in their nature."
~ Alex's comment on his relationship with Otto.

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Thursday, June 14, 2007
Strange Business

I can’t write. Maybe I can write but I fear what my last paragraph will tell me. Many things are happening around me, all at one go and I am trying hard to hang in there. Things are catching up in the business, so I have been very busy with work. In my personal time, things are also changing and moving.

I think people call this growing up.

Growing up is a strange business. You see, grown ups always think that they are right and just at about 15, you do really believe that you are always right, hence the deduction that you are all grown up at 15. Then at perhaps 20 you realise that you are not so right about growing up at 15. When you spread your wings and see beyond your parent’s house gate, you think you are grown up. Guess what? You are still wrong.

You think that you are a smart ass kid, all streetwise and tough in university. You have your car to cart the girls around and you have your private room to shag your latest bunny. Obviously you think that you are grown up then. But you still aren’t.

Are you all grown up when you receive your first pay cheque? Nope. Are you grown up when you moved into your very own house? I don’t think so. This growing up business is quite elusive, I think. You always think that you are grown up when you reach a certain stage in your life but the reality is, you haven’t grown up as much as you thought you did.

You might think that I am all grown up. I vouch for this fact too, if not for the fact that I am discovering that I am not quite done with the growing up process yet. And I am beginning to realise that perhaps I will never be fully grown up. The definition of growing up changes as I mature and I can’t seem to grasp the concept for more than three nano seconds.

I have been the hopeless one – the one who never grows up. But even as hopeless as I was, I realised that there comes a time when I have to slow down and think a little more than just enjoying a drinking night with the boys on the weekend. Each decade brings about different stages of life and I think I can’t escape the great big “3” that is staring at me right in the eyes.

I think more about home life these days. I can’t wear the 4-inch heel around town the way I used to. My calves romantically ache for the comfortable pair of Aldo flats. I prefer staying in on weekends, spending evenings having private meals with friends and having quieter nights. It is embarrassing when some pimply teenager asks for my phone number. Or name. I am beginning to feel my age. Don't give me the "oh age is nothing but a number" bullshit. That's the crap you console yourself with on the day you discover your nipple rings are making friends with your belly button stud.

Oh the great shame if I don’t know how to carry myself at 31. No more dancing on bar tops. No more drinking vodka like an athelete consuming water after a 40km marathon. Bear some skin but in a more dignified manner. Tuck in my fleshy tits into the bikini and dress a little more responsibly. No more causing accidents to young blooded drivers in, around and about the city. That torch should be passed on to the younger ones.

I am not ready for a baby but I am thinking about it. Let me tell you a little secret. I secretly bought a pregnancy and conception book from MPH a month ago and I read through some of the pages. Whoever said pregnant women look great is a liar. Pregnant women look awful with their inch long nipples.

But it hasn’t deterred me from reading more and finding out the options for myself. I might not want a child now but I am exploring the prospect. Oh good Lord, no one comes to About Nude Not Naked to read about pregnancy fats and stinky babies. ANNN is about having fun, celebrating singlehood while longing pathetically for her hairy English (he's Scottish to be precise) boyfriend, Alex and entertaining perhaps 3 other boys on the side (just for fun).

Yeah right.

I think I have reached a critical time in my life. The point where you stand at the edge of a great emotional waterfall and you can choose either to continue standing on the edge and let everything pass you by or to take a bold step and fall. And if I take the fall, will I drown in the waters below? If I hold my breathe long enough, will I float back up or will the tides sweep me away?

I don’t know the answer and that’s why I have refused to think for the past two weeks. Which honestly, explains why I have not written since returning from Wroclaw.


“Hey, why are you back so early?” my head of staff asked me when I turned up for work on Monday. “Usually you will be in London until August or September…”

“I need to work,” I gave a short reply.

“Why are you home?” my parents asked me almost daily and each day my reply is the same. “There are lots to do at work.”

Some times they decide to poke a little deeper. It is as if they have deliberately pecked at my emotional wound, gnawing it deeper and wider, exposing my weakness for all to see. It feels as if they are biting for the juicy bits, hoping that it will make it into this weekend’s gossip sessions at a Starbucks near you. How much more vulnerable can one be?

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Saturday, June 02, 2007
The Wind Made Me Do It

Welcome back, sir.

It is approx. half 8 in London on a Saturday morning. I have successfully woken up 7:30 a.m. daily no matter what time zone I am in. I jump out of bed, shouting for my laptop so I can go to work. Ok, so I don't literally shout but you know, my mind somesort like ache for the familiar iBook and my fingers start crawling like tiny spiders on the keyboard.

Was in Wroclaw the whole of last week, which was beautiful. Girls there were beautiful, so the 8 boys I was with were getting more action than their pants could handle. The dining and clubbing scenes were fantastic. Oh my god, it was like heaven! Perfect weather at 30c minus the humidity in Msia. How much better can you get?

I should be going back soon. There are tonnes of things to do, both in my business as well as rearranging some stuff in my personal life. I need to get myself a proper house with a dining table. I can't sit on a coffee table having TV dinners forever.

The strange thing is I never had TV dinners until I met boys. My parents' household had civilised meals at the dining table, every day for every meal. Where you talk about your life and routines etc etc. Boys somehow enjoy getting stupid in front of the TV. It is yet another habit that I do not practice on my own - watching TV or getting stupid.

It annoys me to no end. I am the sort who enjoys going out, sitting out in the open and watching people doing their stuff. Am vouyeuristic by nature, I think. I guess it is no surprise that I want to write. I love to read and I spent countless hours buying books that I hope to read some day. Currently I am alternating between two books. You know, some days you just fancy one over the other.

That makes me fickle minded, I suppose. My mother warned me about this when I was a teenager, changing the furniture in my bedroom every 30 days or so. "You are the sort that can't settle down."

Suddenly I am reminded of the movie Chocolat. I am not like this by nature; the restlessness I feel in my heart every so often. I do not bugger off after a period of time because my heart told me to. It wasn't me. It was never me. I think I understand Vianne Rocher.

The wind made me do it.


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