channelling my ever-grotesque rage

Hole

2007-03-05T11:32:00.005+07:00

It was the bad wine of his choice whose label was more likely to be a title of a horror movie. No, that was not it. It was his smile, the laugh - mine and his perfectly blended like any blended drinks served at swanky coffee shops -- the tender eyes glittering through the frameless glasses, the voice, and most of all, the sheer nearness of him when he moved to my side to show an article on how sperm relaxes females.

After almost 2 years since I last met him, I suddenly remembered how I had always secretly sighed whenever he's around. Even if he only appeared on a chatting window once every blue moon. Beyond all the dirty topics we always ended up discussing, he's always been one of very few people I always enjoyed talking with. Had he not been born breathtakingly handsome and at the age of 34 not shown any trace of baldness, I would still be easily weak in the knee for him.

It could be 2 glasses of whiskey cola, then followed by 2 more glasses of vodka tonic we drank sitting side by side in a sleazy bar playing The Police's hits. He ever said, "After a few glasses, they all look like Penelope Cruz." So I was the closest to Penelope Cruz that night. A Penelope Cruz who sang along to "Doo Doo Daa Daa", if she didn't take a sip of her drink.

It could also be my text he still kept. He jokingly said how he so wanted to marry me because we both love "ma ling" luncheon meat, which I replied I didn't ever want his ring, cause all I wanted was a drop of his cum which then he wouldn't be held responsible for. I have always wanted to be a single parent when the time is finally right, that's what I said. So far, it's only him I could think of when it comes to picking good gene pools for my child's biological father.

Driving me back to my hotel, he showed me that text which he never replied. Let alone stating firmly whether or not he donate his cum. I was so taken aback knowing he still kept it. I tried not to read too much into this piece of cold fact, but people usually keep texts that mean so much to them.

Reaching the parking gate, he asked: "Do you want me to walk you upstairs?" I, who could never get enough of him, of course couldn't refuse, though I knew what would happen if I let him go to my room: we would do like any other half-drunk adults do.

Room 407 was dimly lighted when we stepped in. He laid on the bed as squeezing his light head. I joined him lying on the bed. Even when I had too much to drink, it still felt so right lying there so close to him like that. We talked bullshit for a few minutes only to anticipate what would happen shortly. I didn't quite remember what he ranted about, for all I wanted to caress his rough jaw, which I then did.

A second later, he moved on top of me and kissed me and the whole world stood still. His lips were made to fit mine and mine were made to fit his. We have never touched in these 3 times we met in the course of 3 years we have known each other. Now I knew why. I just couldn't trust myself around him. It's such a Herculean labor to avoid this very strange set of emotions.

With him all over me, I couldn't deny the fact how I longed for him all these years. One touch then I lowered my guard.

So there. I never gave him a call when I was in his town. A quick grab of lunch, coffee, or dinner would directly lead to a weapon of mass destruction for my heart once we parted again. I liked him so much that I tried not to see him much. The thing I fear is the look in his eyes, the final kisses, the final good-bye.

Too bad, he was him and I was me. Room 407 was once again cold after he left.

Awaitingly Yours

2006-07-17T18:59:00.000+07:00

Dear Executive Chef at Oyster Box Hotel in Durban, South Africa,

I don't know if you remember me. We met 3 months ago at South African Food Festival in which you were the guest chef. We didn't just meet and go. Instead, we met (no, I spotted you from afar first then told a colleague how gorgeous you were); I walked up to you and asked about some stupid things, which I didn't even understand what you were saying, for I was too bewitched, bothered, and bewildered with your smile, eyes, lips, streaks of grey hair, and everything about the handsome you; then you sat in front of me; we talked all through the night and forgot about the other so-called food writers sitting around us.

Until I really had to go.

Had I not had a flight to catch the morning after to my next adventure trip, maybe we could sneak outside, went to the swimming pool and enjoyed the gentle night breeze while sipping a glass of South African dry shiraz. Then maybe either one of us, or even both of us at the same time, would try to hold each other's hands. You didn't know how much I had always wanted to hold your hand in mine all night! I wouldn't mind a little kiss. Okay, deep, wet kisses with lots of tongue actions would be nice, too.

Perhaps you would invite me up to your room. For a little nightcap, you would probably say. But we all knew what that phrase meant.

Then maybe we just ended up being a one night affair. But maybe not. Since I liked you so much already. Long before I buried myself underneath your blanket.

You have to know that after I returned from my trip, I really wanted to go back to that hotel to see you one last time before you left. But I didn't make it. I felt so ugly after my wild adventure. I came back with a little too much tan and bruises here and there. I figured you didn't want to see that girl.

I still think about you sometimes. I do. And that doesn't happen to me everyday, especially with those I have only met once.

Anyway, please reply soon. If you haven't forgotten me, of course. If you had, but then you vaguely remembered me after reading this. If you had secretly wished to see me again after that night. If you ever thought we could be more than just a food writer interviewing a guest chef.

Awaitingly yours,
the girl who finds you irresistible

Terminal

2006-06-02T14:03:00.002+07:00

Seventeen long months since I last saw you, it's still not getting easier to drag my feet along Terminal 2D of Soekarno-Hatta Airport. Like the world's meanest con guarded with maximum security, as soon as I get off the cab with a suitcase to wherever, my feet were like being forcefully chained to a pair of gigantic metal balls. It felt heavy and painful at the same time.

Like the scar you left me with, even after these seventeen long months.

Every meter square of each floor tile seems to mock me as I poked my heels on it. It screams at the top of its lungs how my steps are out of tune without yours. Like a bad song adored by teenage girls worldwide, just because it's sung by a pretty-looking boy that can't even hum.

Your footsteps and mine were there. On those red-brick tiles. Clean or dirty, I can't remember, for I only concentrated on your walking beside me. We walked hand in hand for the first time twenty one months ago. On those same ugly red-brick tiles. Only I was as happy as any naive girl could be.

Every pair of eyes that envying me walking beside you was so intoxicating. Cause you were so beautiful. Even after a 14-hour flight.

* * *

After seventeen long months, I have tried to put myself out there as stupid self-help books crowding my bed suggest. But one little smile they threw at me, I instantly compared them to you.

Yours is still the most divine I've ever seen.

End of A Journey

2006-03-09T17:22:00.000+07:00

I've never fancied the sight, the ambience, the smell, the feeling I get whenever I land at Soekarno-Hatta airport.

Well, I did a lifetime ago.

But it always fascinates me how I've changed drastically the way I feel about things. I used to draw breath of relief whenever the aircraft I was on losing its altititude to approach the landing site. Now I just hate it whenever the captain annouces that we would be landed shortly in the city.

When all the passengers don't seem to have the patience to keep their cellphones off any longer, even when they're still inside the moving aircraft, that's when my rotten heart breaks all over again.

I don't have anyone to pick me up at the airport. No familiar faces standing at the arrival hall. That's when I feel most lonely in this overcrowded city.

Girls Don't Cry

2006-02-23T10:52:00.001+07:00

20.43
"I'll see you in an hour, okay!" he said. He kissed me then I got off the car. After four months, waiting for an hour was just a grain of sand trickling down in an hour glass.

I went up to Room 16119 to freshen up a little bit after a very fulfilling meal. Since I got sick of being in that beautiful suite all alone, I headed to a nearby shopping mall. To kill time till he showed up again. He won't be long, I kept telling myself.

21.09
However, most of the shops were already closed. There was only a Memory Lane outlet whose doors were still wide open that I dragged my legs in to scrutinize arrays of corny cards, fluffy Teddy bears, - and since the spirit of Valentine's day was still in the air - heart-shaped photo frames.

I bet men who didn't want to bother to twist their little brains to figure out a nice gift for their girlfriends would simply choose the pink colored, heart-shaped photo frames. All they needed to do was having their pictures together with their girlfriends printed then sticking them into the frames.

Under watchful eyes of a shopkeeper, I handpicked my version of the least corny card written: "When I think of you, I go all fluffy" for him. I thought I'd hand it to him when he saw me off at the airport. To remember me by.

22.05
"How much longer till you get here?" I texted him as feeling myself grow impatient.

"45 minutes" was all he replied. I sighed in relief then continued to fix my attention to Great Expectations on TV.

23.11
Finn Bell had sold all his paintings and Estella had given that meaningful look only Finn understood the message it conveyed. My favorite line of "You know what this is? It's my heart. And it's broken" had been spoken. Great Expectations almost came to an end.

But still no sign of him.

23.15
I pulled out a chair to the balcony to seek comfort in the sight of citylights. One cigarette bud after another had laid helplessly in a white porcelain ashtray. I kept looking at my cellphone as finding a clue if it ever functioned at all.

Still no sign of him.

23.54
I took my scrap book out to the balcony and tried to write a bit anything that came to mind.

00.14
When there was no more to write, my cellphone was still silent as the day it was still tucked inside its sealed box.

00.15
"Has it passed 45 minutes or it's just me who feels time go by so very slowly?" I asked myself. The cellphone in one hand and a TV remote in another.

00.17
I typed "Don't bother to come. I'm calling it a day" then pressed 'send' button. Anger was slowly built in me. I should've known better that I couldn't ever put my trust in men.

00.18
I checked on my cellphone again and it turned out the text's status was still pending. Not yet delivered.

Unconsciously, I walked to and fro the room as waiting for the message to finally get through.

00.26
Taking a deep breath, I decided to call him to find out his whereabouts. He said it only took 30 minutes from his apartment to my hotel. So if he hadn't showed up after 3 hours, something could have probably happened to him.

"You are not getting respond from the number you are calling" Some machine picked up the phone. It's a sign of his phone was either switched off or he was somewhere without reception.

00.47
Sitting on a big, cold bed in a big, cold hotel room holding my big, cold cellphone, I tried to watch TV as waiting for him to at least let me know he couldn't make it that night to be with me.

I would be even angrier for sure. But at least I would know he was still alive.

01.19
I placed a call to reach him again. Still the same old damn machine. Still to no avail.

01.34
I walked to the door and peeped through the peeping hole. The alley was so empty. Nobody was seen. Not even a drunk sugar daddy walking as grabbing a teenage whore's tight ass.

01.37
Went to the bathroom to change my clothes and wash my face. I wasn't sure that even water could put off my flame of restlessness.

01.42
A little ray of hope encouraged me to put another call. But hope never did anyone any good, for his cellphone was still unreachable.

The Malay-speaking TV which I normally found it funny would kill me softly if I let it on. So I had to shut it up. When the TV was already off, I didn't feel any better. The silence was so loud that it felt like forcing me to jump out from the balcony.

01.44
"What has happened to him?", "Was he hit by another fast car when he was busy picking up phones while driving?", "Is he really leaving me and he isn't man enough to tell it right to my face?", "But this is so un-him to just disappear like this", "Is he so tied up with his work that he forgets the time?"

I could only ask questions and get no answers because walls couldn't talk.

02.02
The room gradually felt so cold that I needed to turned off the air conditioner and open the balcony door to embrace the midnight heat from outside.

02.03
"I can't do this" I texted him in despair, referring to the conversation the day before when he asked me to not give up on the so-called relationship just because he was so busy that he had to no time to realize that I had stolen some time and flown all the way to spend some quality time with him.

02.15
I couldn't stay in the room. It's just too cold. But I also didn't know where else to go. I was 2 hour-flight from the comfort of my own home.

I needed a drink to calm my nerves down but I had difficulty to place my feet firmly on the ground.

Another attempt to call him. Still no sign that he ever existed on Earth.

02.44
Another attempt to call and it's always a woman's voice telling me "you are not getting respond from the number you are calling" immediately.

Crazy bitch!

02.45
I needed my girlfriends back home!

02.46
I couldn't handle this all alone!

02.47
I couldn't take the cold of the room anymore that I had to move to the bathroom where there's warmer. I spread a towel in the slightly wet bathtub and sit right on it. I felt none the better, only much warmer.

02.49
I lit another cigarette in the hope of getting any calmer. But instead, I had this mental picture how his bloody face crashing against an SRS airbag that failed to pop out.

02.50
I stood in front of a bathroom mirror and asked myself: "Miss Regina Fransiska Anggraini, what the hell are you looking for by coming to this strange land?"

The last time I Miss Regina Fransiska Anggraini me was when I stole my father's car key and wrecked it during mere 3 hours after it came out of a showroom.

"Are you looking for love? You don't even believe in it anymore. Are you looking for a man? You don't even need one. Are you looking for sex? You can get it back home easily without having to invest feelings on anyone. Don't you see that he doesn't even want to spend the night with you while normal men would've made love to you without love by now?!"

I hated myself for ever deciding to come to see him.

02.52
I tried to cry. Not because I was sad or too angry. Crying my ass off till my eyes were all red and swollen might make me feel sleepy faster. But I just couldn't cry. Instead, I had a very strong crave to slam any breakable porcelain things available within my reach.

02.53
I shouldn't let him get into my skin this deep, I scolded myself.

02.55
I got up from the narrow bathtub and got back to the bed. On the way, I pressed his stored number again. The one and only number he ever gave me. But again, that bitch speaking.

02.56
The mattress was fine, the pillows were superb, the blanket was soft and warm. But sleep wasn't anywhere near me.

03.06
"I have to get some sleep," I tried to hypnotize myself. At that point I was more convinced than before that I didn't have any whatsoever psychic or mentalist talents.

03.07
I walked up to the phone lying on a desk and dialed the hotel's service center number.

"Good morning. I'm sorry to call at this hour but I'd really appreciate it if you could tell me if you've heard any accident happened tonight between 9 to 12."

"Just a moment, ma'am, I'll go ask my friend,"

03.08
"I'm sorry, ma'am, I'm not sure if there's any accident around here. But I'll let you know as soon as we heard any. Are you okay, ma'am?"

"Can you tell me all the names of the hospitals between Damansara (the area where he lived) and here?"

"Hold on, ma'am, let me check."

03.10
"It's Sunway Medical and Subang Jaya Hospital. Is there anything I can do to help, ma'am?"

"No thank you. You've been helpful enough," I hung up and laid on the bed feeling miserable. It was worse than having been told "I can't see myself with only one woman" by certain someone who previously sort of dragging me to see the possibility of ever walking down the aisle with him.

03.15
"Men are all the same!" I cursed under my breath.

03.16
"I really need to get some sleep in case I'm gonna be summoned to the hospital to recognize his corpse tomorrow," I persuaded myself to doze off.

03.17
"Is it painful to die?" I asked him, imagining he was really dead and that his spirit was around my bed at that time.

05.12
I woke up from sleep. Reached out for my cellphone to find any missed calls or unread messages from him. But my LCD monitor was as clean as any newborn baby's conscience.

05.13
I tried to call him a few times. Each time it was always that bitch's voice again. It was af if he never existed.

05.20
I phoned the hotel's service center asking if whoever picked up the phone had heard any accident. Negative.

05.34
I need my girlfriends! But it was Sunday's break of dawn in where I live when people would normally still be fast asleep after all night partying or a late night movie show.

05.36
Switching around the TV channels, my mind helplessly formulated all the possiblities of why he disappeared. Somehow it reminded me of a poem written by a Dutch female poet:

A DATE
by Hagar Peeters

He hasn't turned up yet
Maybe he's sick
or got hit by a train
maybe he met someone
and then involved in a nostalgic conversation
Maybe he forgot his watch
Or the hands of his watch forget to show the time
Maybe his car won't start
or the car is in trouble on the way here
Maybe somebody called him right before he left
And that somebody informed him
that he has to go to a cremation
or that his mother has passed away
Maybe he met an old friend
Maybe he had an argument at work
and then he got fired and now is hiding his head under a pillow
Maybe the bridge is opening and so is the next bridge
Maybe the traffic lights have kept forever red
Maybe his ATM card has been swallowed by the money machine
or on the way he forgot his wallet
Maybe he lost his glasses
or he can't stop reading an interesting book
or maybe there is a show on TV he doesn't wanna miss
and intend to watch till it's finished
or his front door can't be locked
maybe he lost his keys and suddenly his dog started to puke
Maybe there is no public telephone around
or he can't find the address of this restaurant
or right now he's waiting in some different place
Maybe - the last possibility unreasonable and unpredictable possibility -
he loves me no more

That made sense. He loved me no more and just simply left.

07.17
I woke up from sleep in heavy perspiration. I missed the comfort of home where I could at least hug my dog whenever I woke up from a nightmare.

07.18
As walking to turn the AC back on, on the way, my eyes stole a glance at my silent cellphone. Still no messages or missed calls.

07.20
I decided to have a nice hot shower before going down to the restaurant to eat breakfast. Food should have done anyone any good. Little did I know it wasn't hungry-man-is-an-angry-man situation.

08.10
Such an overcrowded restaurant with a bad, instant coffee having a little too much tannin. I hated drinking bad coffee to start a day. Especially such a bad day like that.

I couldn't even be amused of what David Sedaris had to say in his book I was trying to read between chewing fresh watermelon.

08.35
I texted 2 dear friends back home telling her about his disappearing act and received 2 replies in no time. A more optimistic friend opined that there must have been something holding him up from going back to the hotel to see me. Not necessarily an accident, but it could be even worse, she said. While a more bitter one told me to just leave the country with the next flight out because no doubts, he had left me.

08.37
I went to the hotel's business center to find his address which I remember he ever wrote in some hotel booking confirmation. There should have been alternative phone numbers to contact as well.

08.38
"Ma'am, the fee for 30 minute of Internet access is RM 20," some Indian lady behind the counter told me.

"No problem. I urgently need to check my emails"

08.40
I wrote everything mentioned in that confirmation letter he once emailed me.

08.45
"Please charge it to my room account," I told the same Indian lady as I finished.

"You still have another 20 minutes. Don't you want to continue using the Internet, Miss?"

"No, thanks. I have to go."

"Where are you from? The Philippines?" she asked while watching me sign the Internet bill.

"No. I'm sorry I can't chat right now. I really have to go." Then I ran out of the room and swallowed my guilty feeling for being rude to her.

08.47
At the concierge...
"I need a taxi, please,"

"Where to, Miss?"

"I need to go to this address," I showed her a piece of paper containing his address.

08.50
"Could you take me to this address?" again I showed that piece of paper. This time to the taxi driver.

"Do you know exactly where it is?"

I frowned and was ready to rage. Instead of saying: "If I had known the address, I would have gone there myself without your help", I told him in a forced calm tone: "If I'm not mistaken it's not far from John Hancock Building. Approximately 10 minutes from there."

08.55
Again I texted the optimistic friend that I was on a cab trying to track down his home address. She wished me good luck and somehow I felt braver knowing I had someone to go through this with. Although she was over the oceans.

09.15
"Are we close now?" I asked the taxi driver who had been making calls asking for directions to reach the address I wrote on a piece of paper. He was talking in some Indian language, though I didn't know a word, I could sense that none he had spoken with knew the mentioned address.

"Let's see. We'll need to get off this highway first."

09.33
The taxi led me to a condominium building being on progress of development.

"Are you sure this is the right address?" he asked me.

I should have been the one who asked him that, since it's far from being logical urgently wanting to see somone who lived in a building that hadn't even been completed.

"I don't think this is it. Do you mind asking someone around?"

He then got off the car and went asking a security guard. The gestures they made when talking screamed a sure fire way that none of them knew where the address was.

I felt my heart jump to my mouth.

09.35
"Let's try the other area," the driver suggested

"Okay," I replied weakly.

"Do you know at least the name of the road where this condominium exists?"

"No. That's all the address I got. I'm sorry."

09.43
I saw a gold colored Volvo stopping at a traffic light. Jumped in excitement, I told the taxi driver to follow the car. A rush of hope filled me again that it could be him. Very few people had that such distinct color for their cars.

09.44
I texted a friend back home again telling her I thought I saw his car.

09.48
A Proton's speed didn't match a Volvo's, of course, that the driver had difficulty in keeping its speed limit. But when the taxi was finally right behind the gold colored Volvo, it turned out it wasn't his car I saw. The series of the car was different.

Another hope was thrown away.

09.56
The car stopped in a neighborhood full of half-developed apartment buildings. Like a movie being rewinded on a DVD player, the driver got off the car again and asked anybody he could find by showing them the piece of paper I wrote his address on. More people shook their heads or raised their hands as affirming the lack of knowledge they had on the address.

09.59
"Could you call your friend and ask the exact address?"

Don't you think I've tried that?, I snapped at him silently.

"He turned off his cellphone. I've been trying since last night," I told him in a trembling voice.

10.28
"It seems nobody knows the address, Miss. I'm sorry. So what are we gonna do now?" the driver had given up on me. Like so many others before.

"Let's go back to the hotel then!"

10.56
By the time I got off the taxi at the hotel's lobby, the meter was RM 75.20. It equaled a pair of Vincci shoes and a hard cover book. Not a taxi fare for a lost cause.

When I handed him the money, he gave me that I'm-sorry-your-boyfriend-is leaving-you-to-reunite-with-his wife-and-that's- why-he-didn't-give-you-the-right-address look.

11.00
I was in the empty room again. Feeling 20 times more miserable than I had the night before. Emptier too.

It wasn't what I had expected to experience by taking a 2-day leave when I had been very busy and paying Rp 1 million fiscal fee. It's worth a decent meal for people living in a remote village of Lombok Island.

11.10
I suddenly remember writing a phone number from the email. I dialed it from the room's phone. It turned out it's his office number, but unfortunately nobody picked it up due to it was weekend.

11.15
I texted my friend telling her about the vain quest. She made an attempt to calm me down by saying that he must have had reasons to do the thing he did.

Little did I know that men didn't need any reasons to disappear!

I just wish I had morphine with me to ease the pain!

11.25
I sat on the bed smoking numerous cigarettes. Every 2 seconds I looked at a sign of him on my cellphone.

13.20
My friend texted me to get something to eat so that I wouldn't get sick of too much being stressed out.

But my appetite failed me this time that I could only manage to chew a few chips.

14.15
Hope had vanished, but I tried to dial his cellphone number again.

When hope was gone, then things started to work my way. It was connected!

He answered the phone in a weak voice like that voice of someone had just woken up from a long sleep.

"What the hell happened to you?!" I barked at him.

"Darling I'm so sorry. I blacked out and has just gained consciousness about an hour ago,"

"How come?!" I still barked. I couldn't control the pitch of my worried voice, actually.

"Last night after I did my laundry, I took an anti depressant pill."

Frankly, I had expected to hear a more dramatic story of why he disappeared. But never in my wildest dream it would only turn out to be a lousy anti depressant story.

"I can't talk to you now. I'll call you later," I hung up the phone. I didn't know if I had to believe his lousy excuse of having been blacked out for more than 12 hours.

14.22
He texted me saying (again) how sorry he was and insensitively encouraged me to carry on to see the city without him because he still needed to see a doctor. But he would come later to see me at the hotel.

Like that would make up for all the tossed-and turned seconds!

After 17 hours of restlessness, yes, all I wanted to do was shop and take pictures at the fucking twin towers!

14.23
I replied telling him that he didn't need to see me at the hotel, since he was still in a bad shape. If ever he was really in a faintable condition.

14.24
A texted came. It was from him simply saying: "Thank you" (for letting him not to see me)

Fuck!

It was a test actually. And he certainly blew it.

I wanted him to say that no matter how bad his condition was, when he had been able to stand on his 2 feet again, even when there were raging storms all over the city, he would still come to see me. No matter what.

He owed me an explanation.

14.25 - onwards
It was the longest day in my life.

It's way worse than having my heart broken. It's much worse than being raped then being left naked in the middle of a highway. Being mutilated by a serial killer should have been a much better luck. But girls are not supposed to cry.

The next day I just left the city without saying goodbye to him. And once again holding a fractured heart in one hand and a lot heavier baggage in another.

Baggage

2006-02-21T14:59:00.001+07:00

"I'm literally carrying baggage!" that's what I said to a dear friend I rushed to meet straight from getting off the plane from a city where I was supposed to spend some quality time with someone who not so long ago offered me his hands to hold mine.

That friend replied it with a tight, 10-second hug that only squeezed the tears in me effortlessly. The familiar tears which I thought they had somehow dried, but they're still there somewhere.

A 06.25 flight departing to a certain city where certain someone lives had been my sole reason to get up in the morning for this past 4 months. I kept counting down the days and breathed more easily each day drew closer and nearer. A few hours before the flight, I barely slept though I laid comfortably in my single bed. The excitement was too much that my eyes couldn't help but visualize all the moments I could remember for years to come. All those happy moments I could always dig out from beneath the subconsciousness whenever life is too unbearable.

He gave me a wake up call at 06.00 when my heart was severely bleeding as handing Rp 1 million fiscal fee. It was way too late, since I had asked him to phone me at somewhere around wee small hours of 03.30. But that's okay though, for it's always the thoughts that count.

The 2 hour-flight seemed like a lifetime. I was afraid that by the time I stepped out of the aircraft, I had turned into a 90-year old flabby granny having only a mere few minutes before I had no choice but to face my deathbed and enter Hades.

But I was as young and foolish when I finally made it to the arrival gate. He was there sitting inside his gold colored car waiting for me at a drop off point with that smile and that face I had missed touching all this time. When he finally took me in his muscular arms and mesmerized me with his tantalizingly sensual pour-homme cologne, time stood still. I felt it was one of the best decisions I had ever made for ever coming to see him.

But of course there was no way I could be that lucky. Something had to blow up in my rarely happy face. And it all started when he casually said, "I've handed it in my resignation letter" just during 10 minutes or so after the sports car he was driving left the airport.

We only had 4 days and 3 nights. That's all stolen moment we could manage to steal after 4 months. And he just burst my bubble when he told me he should finish whatever unfinished business he had at work.

I was only a phone call or an email typing away when he submitted the damn letter 2 days earlier, but he didn't even have the courtesy to tell me, so I could at least prepare myself of the possibility of seeing him distant himself from me because of his work. Let alone postponing the trip if I had to.

And that's when all the 3 long, lonely and anxious nights began.

The Art of Being Ferocious

2006-01-25T20:40:00.000+07:00

I just heard from a co-worker that our representative in Bandung feared me. I'm not sure at what level of fear she feels about me. It can be ranging from a kid nervously realizing for the first time he has an erection by looking at a his sweaty, muscular gardener to a confused teenager accidentally murdering his pregnant girlfriend.

Anyway that co-worker only told me that this girl in Bandung wasn't too pleased about the fact I would go to Bandung alone (usually I went there with another colleague(s)). What really blew me away was upon knowing the fact she didn't know what to talk to me if she's left alone with me.

Just when I thought I was open to any kinds of conversation subjects. Corny or heavy. Clean or dirty. Shallow or thought-provoking. Heterosexual or homosexual. Cold facts or lukewarm fantasies.

I do tend to talk straightforwardly and lose temper easily. Especially when hungry, when the traffic gets from bad to worse, when I woke up on the wrong side of the bed, when that man in KL is suddenly playing Harry Houdini, when my tongue hasn't got in touch with a decent cup of coffee for days during my travels to non-producing coffee lands, when period nears but it gets delayed somewhere that I can't tell when it would really come onto my panties, when I haven't got laid too long that I can't remember anymore what a rigid member of a man looks like, when trusted friends put me way way after their romantic partners in my hours of need.

But never have I had the intention to hurt anyone. Well, except one or two on my secret homicide list. But that's all about it. Even if I have the urge to kill someone, I shall make it as quick and painless as I can. Like simply injecting a deadly serum into their veins and it would be like putting someone to sleep.

What Lv Can Do

2006-01-11T10:35:00.000+07:00

It was almost midnight. After spending 15-minute phone chat, a few seconds later, there came a text from the person I just talked with. It said a mere one sentence consisting of 3 words: "I l*v* you".

I don't remember anymore when the last time I reacted positively upon the vulnerable declaration. Apart from it sincerely coming from the heart or being clouded with a certain motive. To get a mutiple entry visa into my pants, for example.

I didn't know what to reply, as I couldn't reply "thank you" nor "no problem, mate!". Perhaps certain texts are best left unreplied. But what if he actually needed a reply, like when someone sent such a text as: "Would you grab a cup of coffee tonight?" or "Have you checked out the sale at Zara?" Now that would be rude if I just ignored it.

Therefore, out of courtesy I texted him back: "*nervously biting my nails*, which should definitely be my response, should he dare to pop it right in front of my face.

Subliminal Typo

2005-12-22T11:54:00.000+07:00

During writing about traditional roast turkey, I was meaning to write "jeroan" (animals' intestines), but what was typed by my confused fingers spelled: "j-e-r-o-e-n".

Ah that name is so last year!

This time last year, I was so looking forward to welcoming a big jar painted in typical Delft porcelain motif containing glorious Verkade (Dutch cinnamon cookies). But sadly, the story between myself and the cookie jar carrier ended before I even got to eat the last bite of the cookie.

Blame It On Their Youth

2005-12-22T07:45:00.000+07:00

If eyes are the windows of the soul, then I say that Friendster is the window of how juvenile green someone actually is.

Without having to look at the age field in the profile, when reading such names as NaDz LiCiouS, DyaNz, SoOpaFly, '-dheedhee-', - NoVaMaNieSz - , or -YuLLee- , 9 out of 10 chances are, the bearers of the names mentioned can't exist on Planet Earth for more than 25 years old of age.

What's with the combination of capital and small letters? And what's with the rewriting the names in the manner of R&B singers from the ghetto? It's still fine if that ludicrous combination of letters is used only for the names. Some people have a hidden agenda of killing those reading their profiles by writing every field using the DreaDFul lEtteR cOMbin4TIon.

And what's with the insatiable hunger to get testimonials and more friends on the list by begging people to 'add me: so and so at so and so dot com'? How I have the itch to scream at their face that like respect, testimonials are earned, not expected!

Maybe I should scream at myself that between tight deadlines, I still have plenty time on my hand to observe the so-called YouTH MisDemeAnOR.

Happy Ending

2005-12-20T12:19:00.000+07:00

* Spoiler Alert*

I sat next two girls during watching a British movie "Dear Frankie" at Jakarta International Film Festival.

It's a movie about a 9 year old deaf boy who has never known his father but his mom keeps lying to him by writing him letters as if they were from his sailor father. One day he hears that his father's ship is going to stop in his city and as a child who yearns for a father figure, of course he wants to see the man who writes him letters and tells him things about foreign countries. The mother has no choice but keeps lying to him by paying a stranger to act as the father. This stranger then falls for the sweet child and instead of agreeing on having one day with his fake child, he prolongs it into another day. On the second day they spend time together - Frankie the child, the fake father and the lying mother, not only there are scenes that depict how the fake father is genuinely keen on Frankie, but there are also sparks between the handsome stranger and the Demi Moore look-alike mother.

But this ain't a romantic movie, though there is a long kiss when they say goodbye. Hollywood may have turned it into some hot love story with some A-list stars.

But I'm glad this ain't a Hollywood product when a long kiss doesn't necessarily a promise of a life happily ever after, that when a good looking man looks into the eyes of a bodacious babe, there are more possibilities than ending up having steamy sex.

The two girls sitting next to me shrieked in disappointment when the movie ended without bringing the fake handsome father and mother together. The final scene only pictures Frankie and his mother sitting on a bridge in a very foggy morning. Just the two of them against the world once again after the fake father has left.

Simply no happy ending.

Fanatic Fan

2005-12-20T07:30:00.000+07:00

I have a fan.

No, not that fan you use as an attempt to get rid of heat, usually at some party. But a fan every celebrity has. It makes me feel like Angelina Jolie indeed, only even better, for I don't have to do nude scenes to gain recognition.

This fan - a mother of teenage children who also has passion for good food - is an avid reader of my travel and food columns. She has kept calling me to meet up but since my hectic traveling schedule, I still haven't been able to meet her.

I should have met her last week, though, but Jakarta International Film Festival with all the 12 tickets I had bought made me have to cancel the appointment. I did some white lying to her saying that I was assigned to cover the event for the newspaper. It's not a very nice thing to do to my first and perhaps the only fan I would have in this life time, of course. But on my defence, I've never had any fans that I don't know how to treat them properly.

However, she didn't give up so easily. Some time last week she called me again and asked where would I watch the movie on Saturday night. When I told her I was gonna be at Jakarta Theater, never had I thought she would really follow me there. And eventhough she had said that she would, I didn't think she would really be there to see me for a short while before the movie.

Little did I know about fans, apparently, though I've seen examples from the death of John Lennon to the act of some lunatic fan who during 26 years of age has gone through 30 times of plastic surgeries for the sake of having a famous face.

When I was frantically chewing a pizza between movies at a small cafe located few flights down the theater, my cellphone rang. It was her. Picking it up, she told me she was already at Jakarta Theater and asking where I was. Oh my, she was really there! Instead of rushing to finish my pizza, I took my time at that little Parisian cafe chatting with a friend and smoking the minutes away. Until another call from her urgently asking why hadn't I gone up to the theater.

What a demanding fan!

She also asked what movie I would watch. She mentioned a title, but when I denied it's not the one I was going to watch, later I only found out that she bought a ticket for the same movie I did. When I went up, she - along with a bundle of a teenage kid and a husband - were already waiting at the end of the elevator.

She was surprise of how young I was, because according to her, whenever she read my writings, they seemed to be written by an old lady. (Thank you very much!) We didn't have the chance to talk much, for the movie had started that we had to hurry going inside the cinema. But all through the movie and before we said goodbye that night, she reminded me again to keep my promise to meet her some time to eat out.

Till now I still can't hold my grin whenever I recall the fact that I have my very own fan who stalked me. It's just hillarious! At least one day I can tell my grandchildren: "I remember the day I had a stalking fan..."

Unplanned

2005-12-02T08:40:00.000+07:00

As I get older, I have less and less guts to do things unplanned. I've become a sort of person whose mindset forcing me to not only have plan A's, but also plan B's- and sometimes the alphabeth goes as far as Z - to anticipate should things not work. Funny, just when I thought I belonged to sanguine category when it comes to character.

How important are plans and back-up plans in this world offering no guarantee?

Maybe

2005-11-29T17:08:00.000+07:00

Envying people's lives sounds so naive. I thought as I got my own share of finer things in life, I could stop the evil feeling and instead, letting them envy mine for once.

Everywhere I go, I see people living the life I want to have. Ironically, they had never thought of ever leading the life they're recently having.

Like since I was very young, I'd always wanted to live in a foreign country. I've always been thirsty for adventures and the thought of living in a new place where nobody knows my family tree has always excited me. At least I can wear anything I want without having anyone giving me funny looks for violating Eastern values, my ID card will no longer have religion field which has to be filled since agnotism is not acceptable, and more importantly, nobody dares to start a small talk by asking my marital status.

When my peers were still busy dealing with boyfriends with raging hormones and raging tempers, I had been busy updating my online CV on JobsDB Singapore hoping I could find a job there. If I could make it in Singapore, I thought it would be easy to make it anywhere in the world. Even New York. But it turned out I never did reply any vacancies found by the website, for I had found a job in the city where I was born and grew up.

Then came along foreign boyfriends. Perhaps I had never loved them anyway. I might have gone out with them and gone through long distance relationships just for the sake of getting a ticket out of my country. I did travel most of Asian continent, when my peers didn't go as far as Java island.

And now when I still work for the same company, my ID card is still written 'catholic' at the religion field, and people are still feeling sorry for my husbandlessness, my peers are now sailing the Seine on her birthday, expecting another child in Japan and Canada, looking out for a new apartment in Newcastle, furnishing a newly re-inovated kitchen in San Francisco, having a get-away weekend to Bordeaux, taking German lessons in Frankfurt, working with a top advertising agency in NYC, doing documentary films by day and bar hopping by night in DC.

However, it's not all flowers living abroad. Maybe they're the ones who envy me after all, for at the end of my relatively short travels, I have a home - a house in South Jakarta and good friends - to come home to where everything is familiar again. And when it comes to food, nothing beats Indonesian food in Indonesia, though there are plenty Indonesian restaurants all over the world.

Maybe.

Me Against The World

2005-11-11T11:38:00.000+07:00

I actually hate to write about this subject. But since it still angers me, I need to pour it out into writing with the hope by the time I finish writing this, I will whatsoever feel better.

Now I know why people tend to avoid school reunions.

Firstly, it's nothing but showing off sessions where everybody wears their best outfit so at least your former classmates won't take you as a failure. Secondly, it's nothing but propaganda sessions in which people would preach, either by intimidatingly asking or vigorously making a long speech that everybody should lead such a predictable way of life: settling down by getting married and having kids.

Surrounded by girls who were holding a baby or two, and boys with girls who were wearing their rings, I happened to get stuck in a sort of reunion with my old classmates:

"So when are you catching up with the rest of us?" (Meaning: "When are you gonna get married?" was the kind of question I had seen it coming)

"I'm ... not sure if... but hey, I'm going to Turkey and Egypt next year. On company's expense!" I replied in an excited tone.

"Honey, that's great but your biological clock is ticking!"

I thought the kind of conversation I would only read in some typical chick-lit novels.

"I'm going to Turkey and Egypt! Isn't that a dream come true?" (Besides, the only Biology I know, I mean the subject, had stopped a long time ago)

"Don't you want to have someone who will take care of you like us, or maybe have a baby or two before your body won't allow you anymore?"

"This is Turkey and Egypt I'm talking about and I'm going there to write exclusively for my travel column,"

They all looked at me in puzzlement. Even the boys who I had expected more to not bring up such impolite questions didn't say anything to save me from being the prey of the girls having so-called perfect lives.

Thirdly, if may I add, nobody should bother to attend a school reunion at all, unless you come with extra baggage in the form of preferably a husband and kid(s). How boring!

Close To You

2005-11-01T16:44:00.000+07:00

This conversation took place in a career wear section of a shopping mall:

I: "That clothing brand is designed by someone I know."

I know how the array of career women's clothes are mostly in dark, cold colors. It's either black, dark blue or grey. A few of them are white. Some are brown. Very few are pink, just for the sake of following the fashion trend.

I know how each article is not only inspired by Helmut Lang or Donna Karan, but also by Japanese kimono. He names each of his design after a Japanese porn star, since he's very fond of Japanese porns, Japanese girls, Japanese cultures, Japanese food, and everything else Japanese. I think that's also why his designs' sizes are relatively small, for I have no choice but wear size 14 of his piece.

A friend: "Oh really?"

I: "Someone I know quite intimately."

(silence)

I: "Someone I could really fall for ... efforlessly. I don't understand why those who win a heart without having to do anything will break it so casually?"

A friend: "Isn't he gay? I mean, being a fashion designer is usually ... you know!"

I: "He's so straight that it hurts each time I know he is everything but a homosexual."

Then I couldn't help but try on a black kimono-like shirt, which turned out to perfectly fit on me that my friend convinced me to take it no matter what. I was, of course, torn between wanting to have a piece of him in the form of his work and hold any unimportant expenses.

However, the urge to have him (ehm!) was stronger than the urge to be financially wise. It felt like a victory paying for his work. Not because it was quite expensive - even after getting 20% off - but it actually seemed like buying his affection, which in real life I don't ever get anywhere near it. Arriving home, I couldn't get the black shirt off my eyes. I hung it next to my bed so I could keep looking at it, like so many times before I had been bedazzled by looking at him or by simply speaking his name. Before I went to bed that night, I held it close to my chest as fantasizing it was him I had in my arms.

Yes, it was so pathetic, I know.

To Grab or Not To Grab A Knife

2005-10-28T19:41:00.000+07:00

Citylights drenched in mild acid rain when we were standing against the window of a room on the 16th floor. Your hands were cupping my face drenched in tears.

Oh well, on my defense, I don't normally lower my guard and break down in front of someone I just met - if that whatsoever answers your curiosity why I did the thing I did. It's because you kept on telling me I was the best thing ever happened to you. I actually didn't know what to react that I then imitated corny, so-called romantic movies I've ever watched, so I was just sort of sobbing. I could've laughed, which would've been so much easier, but on the second thought, a forced laugh would only sound horrible.

I saw your eyes when you said it. I half anticipated they were icy cold like so many people before you who had paraphrased your words. But all I could find in your pair of dark eyes was warmth. So warm that it melted your tears. You were so fragile and damn valiant risking your pride by saying such thing right to my face.

I was instantly and strongly driven to push you away. I was tempted to rush you to pack up your suitcase and get the hell out of my life. To stab that sharp knife right into your heart for all and for once. For a split second I thought it would be divine to treat myself an act of vengeance.

But I couldn't find my knife. Even when I finally saw it between the ruins of my walls of defense, I didn't have enough strength to grab it. Let alone lifting it. Since you were so very weak before my eyes, I was not supposed to exterminate an unarmed opponent, was I?

Horoscope Me

2005-10-20T07:10:00.000+07:00

A free sample reading of how I relate to other people according to my horoscope says:

"Something in your relationship with your father aroused in you either fear or anger or both. Your relationships with men - personally or professionally - are not comfortable and when you are feeling vulnerable, you can be overly defensive or challenging."

My hands were trembling and sweat was breaking profusely as I read it. I've never really thought that my relationship with my father had actually provoked a pattern of my behaviour towards men until I read that horoscope reading.

* * *

I was always a daddy's girl, especially after my sister was born. At the age of 4, mother sort of gave all the responsibility for taking care of me to father so that she could focus more on my kid sister. Besides, being a career woman, she didn't have all the time in the world to take care of both me and my sister. It was hurt, though, because I suddenly felt my mother was being snatched away from me by my own sibling.

Since that time on, father and I were inseparable. I wouldn't sleep before I rubbed my fingers along his thick eyebrows as he read me stories from any children's books of my choice. I also didn't mind his making up stories, as long as he was there by my bed till I closed my eyes. I wouldn't eat if he didn't sit and watch me eat at the dining table. I wouldn't do my homework before he drew me any animals I requested him to draw. Those activities included a lot of hugging and kissing.

In short, father was the hero in my sky. But all that changed when my puberty started. Ever since my first menstrual blood came dripping all over my panties at the age of 12, I gradually realized that I no longer had my father hugging me. Let alone kissing me or letting me sleep alone with him without mother in his bed.

I didn't mind my sister took away my mother. But if stupid blood which I never wanted could easily take my father away, well that's too much.

I never dared to ask why father stopped hugging and kissing me other than birthdays or Christmases, though. As a girl-not-yet-a-woman, initially I thought I did something so horrible that father stopped loving me. But little did I know it was strictly cultural reasons why father didn't show me that much affection anymore as I involuntarily joined the womanhood troop. According to the culture I come from, grown up men shouldn't be too attached or explicitly show affection towards women other than his wife.

Years passed by and I silently moved on with limited amount of my father's affection until I got used to living without it at all. I rarely spent my birthday at home and since I don't practice Christianity, for the past 5 years I had always gone somewhere either with friends or a boyfriend on Christmas onwards.

Looking back, there were times I could feel father just wanted to hug me or rain kisses me more than he should. Like on my graduation day, when he read my articles on a newspaper, when I brought him gifts from my trips, when he hadn't seen me for days, when he knew I had a rough day at work, when I was sick, when he somehow sensed I just got my heart broken by a man, when it was just another ordinary day and we didn't have anything to celebrate or to congratulate.

Realizing it, I think it's not fair to blame him why I ended up making stupid jokes whenever men told me "I love you". "I love you" is too much for me, because somehow I know they would only go away. Or at least they would eventually stop kissing and hugging me without I know what I did or didn't do. Sooner or later.

"Fathers, be good to your daughters
Daughters will love like you do" (John Mayer)

Adrian and Julian

2005-10-14T11:03:00.001+07:00

I did and still do have stories with men named Adrian and Julian : 2 names I've always adored ever since I could remember (maybe since those good, old days back in highschool when I wrote erotic stories in class to cater the whole class' needs of sexual fantasy, that I had to constantly find suitable names for my corny, sex-starving characters)

But never have I thought of crossing paths with the actual persons bearing the much-adored names. Adrian was my first love back in junior high school who is now married to a C-grade actrees in the form of a typical woman often seen at high-end shopping malls in Jakarta - slim, long hair, stupid looking and wears too much make up - with one daughter. While Julian is ... trying to change my mind that being a lesbian isn't that great.

Romancing Paris

2005-10-11T17:04:00.000+07:00

When Gwyneth Paltrow was 10, her father took her on a father-daughter trip to France telling her, "I wanted you to see Paris for the first time with a man who will always love you."

(sobbing)

I didn't only sob at that piece of wisdom, for I also worshipped and converted it into my spiritual belief. I don't believe in many things now, but I do believe how tears must have been welled up in Ms Gwyneth "Lucky Bitch" Paltrow's eyes when her father told her that. Having gone to beautiful, new places with people who then only left a bad taste in my mouth, I truly think it's best to go to breathtakingly beautiful places for the first time with those who will always love you, or at least relatively have smaller chances of ever hurting you. Like bestfriends or parents.

First impressions are the most lasting after all.

Being A Psychopath

2005-10-11T16:42:00.000+07:00

Shane:
... You know, my entire life people said that I would become a psychopath if I didn't learn how to feel. Now I wanna know, Cher, what's so great about feeling? Because I finally let myself and I feel my heart's been completely ripped out.

(From The L Word)

Food Writer Blues

2005-10-05T09:23:00.000+07:00

The following conversation took place during an opening dinner of Egyptian Food Festival in some international chain hotel at a long table set inside a Middle Eastern-style tent where everybody had to sit on the carpeted floor.

I sat next to a lady journalist from some not so elegant publication (I firmly believe that journalists pretty much show the caste of certain publications belong to), who was worried too much of covering the event. Instead of savoring every item on her plate, she kept moving around the buffet tables, walking in front of the Egyptian guest chef without having enough guts to talk to him due to language barrier, and ended up asking the Director of Public Relations: "what time is breakfast here?" (Oh come on! She could've at least asked the room number of the kind of cute Egyptian guest chef!)

And in front of me, there were sitting 2 girls from Circulation Department of a bit more elegant publication than the one the lady journalist worked for, but it was plain to see they were not really into exotic food, for they only ate the mundane steamed rice and beef "rendang", instead of the items being promoted.

I: Have you tried the "pastel"-like appetizer? It's really good with feta cheese inside!
(trying to make a small talk with the lady journalist and the 2 girls)

Lady journalist: No. All the food here tastes weird.

(Even when hearing it, I instantly felt my pulse racing wildly that I had to hold my breath and do the countdown 10 to 1. But it failed that I had to imagine the beautiful, secret place like what's taught in my meditation class whenever the world is just too terrible to deal with.

This is the part I hate the most whenever attending food promotions of foreign, especially exotic countries and sitting with not so elegant journalists. If you're to write about food, please please be aware that most likely you're not assigned to write the staple food you eat everyday that can be found just about everywhere in the place you live! Please.)

One of the girls among the 2: What's feta cheese, anyway?

I: It's a kind of cheese made of goat milk.

(It irritates me sitting at the same table with people at an exotic food promotion who don't even know what feta cheese is! At least they could've done some research on what they're about to get themselves into before leaving for any food promotion. It's high time people knew better things to do with their computer other than logging on Friendster! Besides, they were invited to the event for a purpose, which I believe that does not at all include eating steam rice and beef "rendang"!)

One of the girls among the 2: Wow, you seem to know much about food! You must like eating. I can it see from...

I: The size of my body?

(It was indeed the first time I felt good about myself when someone was referring to my not so Victoria's Secrets lingerie models' curves)

And girls, and you too, too-much stressed-out lady journalist with lack of brains, I can't wait to sit with you all again at next exotic food promotion!

Spelling Shame

2005-09-26T10:55:00.000+07:00

Having to frequently reserve plane tickets by phone, I have to spell my own name using military code so that the ticketing officer I happen to speak with won't mispell my considerably peculiar nun-like name. Foxtrot-Romeo-Alpha-November-Sierra-India-Sierra-Kilo-Alpha. Space. Alpha-November-Double Golf-Romeo-Alpha-India-November-India.

I can only fluently spell mine, for frankly speaking, I don't really bother memorizing all the 26 alphabeth in the military code.

Problems arose when I dated foreign lads having even more weird names than mine and we planned to get away on a vacation somewhere. I would be the one who was in charge for making all the reservations needed since they didn't speak the language.

When I was seeing a guy having "Van" for a surname, my mind was totally blocked when I was to spell the letter 'v' during an attempt to book a flight. After forcing my little brain to think of something that could replace the letter to no avail, I finally burst out in a weak, half embarrassed voice:"'V' as in vagina."

"Excuse me?" The ticketing officer queried in a high-pitched voice. He either couldn't hear what I just said or couldn't believe what he just heard.

"'V'... as in ... vagina," Vanishing my shame all at once, I repeated it in an even weaker voice.

"You mean 'v' as in victory?"

"Oh yes, I meant that!"

Since that on, I then printed out all the 26 alphabeth in military code from the Internet and stuck it on my desk, that next time I had to make reservations for people with names other than Foxtrot-Romeo-Alpha-November-Sierra-India-Sierra-Kilo-Alpha. Space. Alpha-November-Double Golf-Romeo-Alpha-India-November-India, I wouldn't have to make fool of myself again.

Another Letter To J

2005-09-24T12:50:00.000+07:00

I might have told both people and myself how I actually never liked you as a person. But you know what, I did miss you when I was out on the open sea. Especially when I realized there was nobody to encourage me anymore to jump into the water and snorkel. Let alone taking a 3-day diving course. I did need that kind of encouragement, especially when I had signed myself up for a snorkeling but then turned out to not have enough guts once I saw a sea snake from the small boat I was on.

Not only your words of encouragement I missed. I missed your helping me with my snorkeling gears so I could just easily wear them. And I also missed sharing a cigarette with you after you finished diving and I finished snorkeling. As puffing either your Marlboro or my Sampoerna, we would exchange stories of what we had seen down there in open water. Then I would envy you so much when you told me you just saw a stingray manta or a hammerhead shark while diving. And you would tell me to stop green envying you by start taking a diving course. "So we can dive and see the mantas or sharks together," that's what you would usually say, which I would usually reply: "But I fear the sea snakes!" You would then call me sissy and usually that would be the end of our to-or-not-to-take-diving-course argument, which was to be continued in our next diving-snorkeling session.

The sea was never the same without you.

Even the fish market I went to afterwards was so different without you. I could vividly imagine how you must have enjoyed seeing all the abundant fresh fish and seafood. I saw baby sharks and how the vendors cold-bloodedly cut the fins out of the poor things. They make good money out of the fins for sure. And I bet you can't imagine how surprisingly inexpensive tuna was there! You still like tuna, don't you? I still can't cook but I could imagine myself clumsily thin slicing the tuna I just bought to make you sashimi. Yes, the setting would be in our little kitchen of our house located by the sea.

On a more brutally honest note, one of my Bali trip purposes was to forget my chapter with you so that I could move on to another. But once I set my foot on the island, all I wanted to do was keep all the good memories I had with you. Why should I not, right?

I missed you. The worse thing is, I don't know anymore if I should put the past or present tense for the verb "miss".

Waiting In Vain

2005-09-24T11:30:00.000+07:00

It took me one hour alone, which included 5 times of restarting my lap top, countless times of moving the USB cable from one port to another, and not to mention uncountable swearing words, just to connect to the Internet.

As if it hadn't been enough, then I had to get through another hour just to upload the last holiday pictures to some free photo album site. Twenty pictures at once. Twenty pictures in an hour. "It's a free service," I kept telling myself to keep me from banging a hammer into a piece of portable machine which sadly, I haven't even finished paying.

While waiting for the pictures to finish uploaded, I went to the kitchen to make myself some coffee. Caffeine should've done me good, so I thought. Little did I remember that due to constant traveling for the past one month, I hadn't done any grocerie shopping that I practically ran out of everything for my daily survival needs. No coffee left, I thought I would be content sipping a cup of green tea. But when I turned on the stove, no fire came out, which was a sure-fire sign that it was running out of gas.

Boy, was I patient enough for a mortal?

Having done lots of waiting practice, and if practice does make perfect, it shouldn't get on my nerves how someone, who has been showering me with the L word for the past 2 months along with a sound-convincing promise to hold my hand, suddenly just disappeared on me for almost a week now. I should just wait patiently till he reappears and feeds my hungry soul with the sugar-coated L word again. Just like I patiently waited for my Internet to get connected or my holiday pictures to get uploaded. It should be as simple as that.

Besides he could be lying unconsciously while treading the thin line between life and death in an Intensive Care Unit room. Or he could also be lying black and blue with dried wounds all over his body in some public hospitals' morgue. I do hope he's in a morgue, though. Someone's car or folded knife should hit him first or I would come up to him and stab him all over myself.

A Letter To J

2005-09-14T21:11:00.000+07:00

Dear J,

No, I'm not gonna ask you how many women you've slept with after me or where did you sleep last night. I don't wanna know, really. I just wanted to tell you that the other day, well it's actually quite a while ago actually, about 2 or 3 weeks ago, I saw somebody exactly looked like you when I was waiting for a movie at a cinema. He even had your grey hair, your way of walking and all.

The only difference was that guy I saw was pushing a baby cart. I don't think you need all the information how the unexpected scene got my knees weak.

It would be good, though, to see you pushing a baby cart. You, who confessed to me the minute we landed on that paradise island how afraid you were of commitment. I just faintly hope that if ever you'll really push your own baby cart, please don't use the name Abigail. You hated the name so much for a girl, remember? If we had given away the dream of ever pushing a baby cart together, at least allow me to someday use the name without knowing you'll use it too.

Life really is funny, don't you think J?

You're Deleted

2005-08-29T16:01:00.000+07:00

I deleted you from my to-do list
I'm not gonna answer those one-word texts
solely containing my name ever again
I deleted you from my laughing stock
You could no longer make me smile from ear to ear
I deleted you from my wish list
I don't want to feel my insulin levels skyrocket
everytime you make me feel good

I deleted you
And I didn't even sigh.

But funny, after I actually did that,
To my amazement,
I began to like the city you live in.
I learned to love it, to be exact.
Guess I then channeled my enormous loving ability to your city
By the time I realized you'd always denied me
that particular talent of mine.

Think of those windy nights
we could've been in each other's arms
But it's too late
Cause you're deleted.

Is The Water Fine

2005-08-23T13:58:00.001+07:00

He: Tears are welling up in my eyes now - I am not kidding - because I am so damn thankful I am blessed to have met you.

I: Medic!!! Call the ambulance, I urgently need a CPR now! And maybe heart pumping devices as well!
(throws a cheap joke to mask insecurities)

He: The very thought of meeting up with you gives me the shivers, the thought of looking at you humbles me, the thought of touching you makes me break into sweat, the thought of kissing you will send me to heaven, the thought of tasting you makes me faint. Let alone the thought of being one with you. I dont think I can get that far being conscious. Baby, I am deeply in love with you.

I: So how's that out of town trip last weekend?
(voice trembles, lips shake)

He: I am sorry for the hurt you have been through. That it has made me hurt too. I wish I could turn back time for you sou you never got hurt.

I: You stayed over for the whole weekend, right?
(forces a nervous smile)

He: Just give me your hand and I will lead.

I: I'm shit scared.
(gets frustrated)

He: Just give me your hand.

I: What would you do with it?
(reluctanly offers a hand)

He: I have your hands, baby, and it's going to be gently stroked and looked after.

I: ...

Seriously, is the water fine now? No barbaric piranhas, no giant vicious anacondas, no brutal jaws, no poisonous sea snakes, no scary creatures beneath waiting for a big feast on my flesh?

Stay Away

2005-08-19T16:47:00.000+07:00

You said you just wanted to love the whole package of me.

I said nothing, but God knew how bad I wanted to yell at you.

Didn't your mother ever tell you to be careful with what you wish for? Well, I warn you, Mister, the package is absolutely not a child's long-yearned Christmas gift wrapped with a colorful paper and a piece of pretty bow. In fact, it's just an ugly broken box wrapped with a used, dirty newspaper, which dogs will gladly pee on it and anyone would like to kick it with all their might. No, don't even think of getting near it, as I hereby humbly warn you, Sir, how foul it smells, that you may need to hold your breath.

Run for your life! Run while you can! The package is best left untouched at a corner of a dark room.

You'll thank me later for this. But I don't want any reward, though, for I do this simply out of my faint sense of humanity. Now just go. You'll get your bigger, prettier package on your next birthday. Just wait. Don't they all say there'll be good things for those who wait?

Tell Me On A Sunday

2005-08-17T15:04:00.000+07:00

Don't write a letter when you want to leave
Don't call me at 3 AM from a friend's apartment
I'd like to choose how I hear the news
Take me to a park that's covered with trees
Tell me on a Sunday please

Let me down easy
No big song and dance
No long faces, no long looks
No deep conversation
I know the way we should spend that day
Take me to a zoo that's got chimpanzees
Tell me on a Sunday please

Don't want to know who's to blame
It won't help knowing
Don't want to fight day and night
Bad enough you're going

Don't leave in silence with no word at all
Don't get drunk and slam the door
That's no way to end this
I know how I want you to say goodbye
Find a circus ring with a flying trapeze
Tell me on a Sunday please

Don't run off in the pouring rain
Don't call me as they call your plane
Take the hurt out of all the pain
Take me to a park that's covered with trees
Tell me on a Sunday please

(From "Song & Dance", music by Andrew Lloyd Webber, lyrics by Don Black)

I first listened to the song during my teenage years when goodbyes were limitedly uttered to given away puppies, moving out friends, leaving grandparents, or school holidays. I completely forgot this beautiful song had long offered me a less hurtful way to hear the word 'goodbye': on a Sunday where everyone tends to be relax, in a park where the trees console the watery eyes while the blowing winds will quickly dry any teardrops, at a zoo or a circus to laugh away the pains.

But I didn't listen well to the song, as for a teenager, little did I know that when the trembling lips declared 'goodbye', the throbbing pain pronounced 'welcome' and it promised not to say goodbye.

Some Things Do Stay

2005-08-16T08:00:00.000+07:00

I'm never a keeper, for I've realized a long time ago how caring only leaves me nothing but hurt. So I simply keep distance with everything I own, including friends.

I don't want to get too up close and personal with them knowing sooner or later they would move somewhere geographically or socially. I train myself so hard not to miss talking to them or exchanging greetings with them when they disappear from my sights, as well as from my cellphone, and then completely out of my life. I don't want to get through another breakup night in front of my so-much-in-love girlfriends holding hands under a table with their new boyfriends. Yes, I'm downright selfish and coldblooded.

So far I could move on to one close friend to another without making such a big fuss. I would only sigh the minute I realized we stopped talking like before.

All but one.

She's a teen years friend of mine. After being my partner in crime for 3 years during high school, she had her mind made up to get schooling in a far off land. A restless teenager that I was, to me friendship was all about seeing each other on a daily basis, talking all the nonsense, and doing things together. I cried myself to sleep from reading a long goodbye note she wrote and as hugging her so hard at the airport, I somehow doubted we would still hear from each other by the time she reached her new home.

But I was wrong. She kept writing me long letters, if not calling me for hours from her faraway land. She never missed my birthdays, graduation day, Christmas, and even Easter. In fact, she's the one who writes and calls me more than I do to her.

It's been 9 years since I saw her off at the airport and yet I still talk to her, though it's always her who initiates asking me how I've been holding on, which then I would hesitate to reply, for I don't know where to start. It's been 9 years since those long goodbye notes and I still didn't miss crying on her wedding, upon knowing her pregnancy, premature labor, and seeing the baby boy.

In the middle of savoring a miso soup at my birthday lunch with girlfriends from high school last weekend, never in my wildest hope I would see her waving at me from the other side of glass window. I couldn't believe my eyes when they captured her big eyes and smile, waving at me with one hand and pushing a baby cart with another.

It was really her. On my birthday lunch!

I couldn't hold back my tears when seeing her and the baby, who I thought I would only see him by the time he's going to college. Seeing them, I saw a reflection of my own life journey. The women we turned out to be. She, who I used to screamed at on the phone when telling her I got somebody popped my cherry. She, who chose to call me of all people near her, when she had bad fights with her boyfriend turned now husband. She, who I still miss pouring my heart out when men leave severe scars in my heart.

Ah, some things do stay.

One Big Joke

2005-08-09T11:20:00.000+07:00

A text sent at 10:50:39 PM when I was eating a wonton noodle at a glorious place hidden in the old part of the city says:

"Baby I miss you when I am not in view of you. I miss you when I put the phone down. I miss you when I stop texting you. I miss you when I can't picture you in my mind. It is not the constant communication that has led me to feel the way I do for you. It is the woman I have got to know. The sweet, thoughtful, funny, well-read, articulate, motherly, sexy, and attractive that you are that has led me to develop these feelings of love for you."

Life is one big joke. I choked on my wonton. My borrowed-heaven wonton. I wish I was still that 18 year old girl, who could perceive the term 'love' without any hints of phobias. And yet I'd like to believe it.

The Night I Fell All Over Again

2005-08-08T16:02:00.000+07:00

You're just lethal to me, don't you know that?

You didn't have to wear that smile.
You didn't have to look that gorgeous.
You didn't have to dine and wine me at the place where your parents used to go on a date.
You didn't have to tell me those jokes.
You didn't have to offer me to exorcist my own demons.
You didn't have to look at me in the eye under that dim candle light.
You didn't have to sing "No more I love you's, the language is leaving me in silence..." along with me.
You didn't have to leave a kiss on the text you sent after that eating-my-heart-out dinner.
You didn't have to send a text in the middle of the night 2 days after containing only my name spelled backward.

You didn't have to do anything.
At all.
And I still could easily fall for you.

Don't you know that everything Cole Porter wrote in Everytime We Say Goodbye turned so blutantly true that night when you dropped me back to my hotel? I went to sleep realizing how strange the change from major to minor without having you around.

I was relieved, though, you didn't touch me that night. Supposed you did, my skin would instantly remember your touch that it would ache for you so much every second of every waking hour.

It Won't Be That Easy

2005-07-29T20:32:00.000+07:00

Flattery words, check.
Writings composed in such a manner of an outstanding English Lit student, check.
Sugary texts in the morning, check.
Syrupy texts before bedtime, check.
Adequate speed limit in replying texts, check.
A glimpse of each other's activities on a daily basis, check.
Phone calls, check.
Surprise phone calls, check.
A promise to lay in each other's arms, check
Leaving kisses in texts, check.

But it won't be that easy this time, for they all began exactly like this. I'm sorry, darling, but you have to work much harder.

Perfect World

2005-07-26T13:47:00.000+07:00

Wherever I go, the world seems to scream at my face how I should've lived my life.

In a perfect world, I'm that mother of 4 children I saw at Asian Civilizations Museum in Singapore, who patiently explained every bits and pieces being displayed to her geeky children in a Friday afternoon.

In a perfect world, he would make good use of his gold Durex with me. And while doing that - were we that lucky being filmed by the ghost of Hitchcock - the camera would roll to shoot one door being opened after another, just like a scene in Spellbound.

But I was just that girl holding back the tears while looking at the mother of 4 walking around the entire museum. The same silent tears I held when reading a certain text: "Btw, made good use of my gold Durex last night."

Whore Obsession

2005-07-14T08:35:00.000+07:00

I just read this on some stranger's blog - a Dutch who happens to live in Singapore:
"A regular, educated western guy who will never date a girl who works as a cashier in a supermarket gets heart broken over a little whore who is not capable of a decent conversation and drains him of as much cash as possible in the process."

It forced a bitter smile on my face.

Another Dutch in another space and time had the same experience towards a Brazillian whore having 3 children from 3 different men. They met in Brazil (she drove a car like a maniac as well as prayed a devotion to Virgin Mary till she cried), so he said.

One day he accidentally told a stupid, naive Indonesian girl that came along after her: "... but wherever she goes, my heart is always with her." And when this stupid Indonesian girl asked why didn't he be with her, where he left his heart with, he only said: "It's complicated."

Yes of course it's so complicated, for the complication was vividly spelled 3 baggage in the form of little children (and probably still counting) from 3 different men (and also probably still counting).

Don't get me wrong. I do respect whores, for they just do a job like the rest of us. It was just a bit hard to swallow how someone preferred only good sex over good sex, endless good conversation under the stars on some paradise island, and an offer of a shattered heart that had been half-glued.

What's with the Dutch's whore obsession? And what's with the stupid Indonesian girl still hoping the Dutch guy would even let her sit close beside him on a bench in a starry night post that but-wherever-she-goes-my-heart-is-always-with-her crap? Come on, she couldn't even compete with the tightness of the arse owned by the Brazillian whore from doing too much samba!

Another Blog

2005-07-12T07:44:00.000+07:00

Due to unfamiliar function of this blog, which I then personally certify it as non-user friendly, I welcome everybody ever bumped into my grotesque rage to visit my other blog: http://scarredsoul.multiply.com

It's as bleak as here, but at least you'll find pictures there.

Has The Rain Stopped?

2005-07-11T16:56:00.000+07:00

My life suddenly goes so right that it feels so wrong. I've been so used to living under rainclouds that when the rain stops and the dark clouds move away from my head to welcome the shining sun, I just don't dare to close my umbrella. I'm afraid the rain just might fall again any time soon, that it's better keep my umbrella opened. I can't stand the sun, anyway.

I didn't know what I've done to ever deserve to get my babies .... ehm I mean, my columns back this soon. That alone was enough to give me a good reason to wake up in the morning and look forward to every Wednesday and Thursday when I would usually have a quality time with them.

But that was not all. A phone call from a superior almost made me jump from my seat when I was informed that in 2 weeks I will have a first class cabin cruising from Singapore to Malaysia and Phuket Island in Thailand ... FOR FREE! I've always been dying to go on a vacation by the sea despite all the memories I buried between the grains of sand in some paradise islands, but having my secret prayer answered in this elegant way ... I was just speechless.

And I still am.

I guess I will have to make sure there's enough money in my account, just in case I'm faced with expensive bill and the payment for whatever price has to be done in cash. And yes, keep an umbrella at all time, for even the sun can get so fierce.

Oh rain, should I really close my umbrella, would you stay away from me?

As Hope Goes By

2005-06-24T18:27:00.001+07:00

At this time last year, I was so full hope. My life was so complete that I thought it was finally my turn to let hope take flight. I arrogantly told myself I had done something good and that time last year, there came my reward. I greedily drank up the bliss that I didn't even bother to check out the price tag.

And you wouldn't find my postings here during this time last year. The fact I was too overjoyed to sit still and my head too heavy from being surrounded by big, happy lightbulbs, kept my fingers away from any buttons on the computer keyboard.

I can't write when I'm too happy.

Funny how 12 months, 52 weeks, and 365 days later, the word 'hope' isn't even available in my dictionary. I'm not lying. Go find it. After 'hop', the entry goes straight to 'hopeless'. Though 'hopeless' won't exist without 'hope', you can see the word isn't found there.

Now this time of the year, tears have stopped and wounds have dried. Only hope has vanished. It's proven by how easily words pouring out since December went by.

Me, A Bitch

2005-06-22T17:26:00.000+07:00

So it's true. There really is someone for everyone. No matter how nauseating you are for others co-existing with you, there must be someone who really adores you. I thought I had always doubted it. But not until I saw this Friendster testimonial given to a so-called friend I could never get along with:

"X is everything I have ever wanted in a woman and now I am lucky to say that she is my wonderful, beautiful, smart, and sexy wife. I am yours forever, X, and I LOVE YOU MORE THAN YOU WILL EVER KNOW!!! I can't wait to grow old with you."

... (speechless)
... (feeling own heart slightly melting)
... (speechless even more)

... (regaining consciousness)

I knew her for 11 years now and used to hang out often before I stepped up for myself that it was perfectly okay to not be able to stand hanging out with a certain person if within 10 minutes, I would only start kicking whosever feet under a table as a mayday signal to get me out of that person's sight.

It was okay to not be able being around someone who never let others finish their sentences only to continue it with her other "greater" stories, though those were not whatsoever related to the current topic of conversation. It was okay to not be able to talk with someone whose opinions were all based on that someone's mother, for she always started her sentence with: "My mother said..." or "According to my mother ..." or "In my mother's opinion...". I could only try to understand that her mind might have been clouding by the excessive hairspray usage for the hair, that she couldn't think of anything coming from her own mind.

It was okay to not be able to share growing-up-pain talks with someone still received allowance till 26 years of breathing days on Earth. It was also okay to not be able to be around someone who painted eyebrows every 5 minutes and powdered nose every 10 minutes, regardless any place that person happened to be. It was okay to not be able to talk more than 5 minutes with someone whose knowledge only revolved around celebrity gossips and teenage movies. It was okay to not be able to look at someone's too much makeup over too tight and too sexy outfit cladding overweight body for only going to an afternoon karaoke with old girl friends.

It was okay to not be able to listen to someone's being boastful for superficial things. Like when that someone once told me she had a golden retriever, which when I drove her home and accidentally saw the dog, it was just a mere mixed breed. As a dog lover, I was kind of insulted, for mixed breed dogs are nothing to be ashamed of. They are indeed not as expensive and handsome as golden retriever, but they still greet you with their sincere hearts whenever you come home.

My evil mind wonders if the guy who wrote that testimonial for her will ever get to see her true colors. And by the way, she and her now husband met through an online dating service. Due to geographical matters, they only got to meet up several times before they finally got married.

Love - if it really still exists - is truly blind.

Everytime I Say Goodbye

2005-06-22T11:11:00.000+07:00

"From this day forward, Ms Chikididu is no longer in charge for food and travel columns," announced my superior in a closed meeting.

I didn't know what was going on after that, for I then just blacked out.

I've never been good at goobyes. Be uttering it to people, places, puppies, belongings, or even my columns. I hate myself for having a little too much bonding with things I've ever had a chance to hold them in my hands. Even if it's only a few seconds.

Those 2 columns were my babies. I didn't carry them in my unfruitful womb, but I did raise them like my own. I loved them every single week more than I loved my own life, that I was willing to gain 10 pounds during nurturing them. I crossed seas and climbed mountains just to keep them alive. I spent sleepless nights in faraway lands just to make sure they're happy. Every word I put on them, I crafted with such passion that each time I saw them in print and enjoyed by more than 650,000 readers nationwide, I could just spend hours looking at them with such a glow as if I'd just had marathon sex. And when people told me how beautiful my babies were, I simply cried happy tears and forgot all about the eternal fat dwelling in my ab or severely sore muscles in my entire body.

It broke my heart even more when knowing my babies were given to someone who doesn't even possess sheer enjoyement in writing, if not telling stories.

I just wish I didn't get this "promotion". I want my babies back. It's a cold and lonely place out there.

Throes Of Pleasure

2005-06-16T09:50:00.000+07:00

Rob Thomas is going solo by releasing a new album Something To Be with a hit single Lonely No More. First time watching the video on V-Channel, I was so shocked seeing his brand new Ricky Martinesque music and looks (thank God he doesn't dance in that video - well, okay he does a bit of belly movement, but that's it!) , that my fingers then got an itch to change the channel in reflex. It was like watching The Eye which - according to a friend - is world's best horror movie ever.

Whatever happened to that cool guy singing Smooth with the guitar played by Carlos Santana or that husky voice of Matchbox Twenty vocalist making me tremble each time singing If You're Gone?

Weeks after that, I, as usual, was caught up in horrible traffic jam. The radio was playing Lonely No More. As too busy with the gears, not to mention keeping 2 eyes wide open for crazy drivers and bikers owning 9 lives around, I didn't have more hands to be able to switch the station. So I just let Rob sing to his heart's content.

No sooner than he sang the song furiously as making a clear point that he doesn't want to be lonely, unconsciously I found myself grooving to the music. My head moved to and fro with the melody as if I was listening to my regular standard of cool music.

The next day, at exactly the same time being trapped in the same sickening traffic jam, the same radio station again played Lonely No More. I was still pretty much occupied with the car's clutch, egoistic drivers and homicidal bikers, but I actually had enough hands to turn up the volume. I didn't really know the words of the song, but I couldn't help singing along to the chorus part: 'I don't want to know the lover at my door is just another heartache on my list...' As I did that, my head banged even wildly as if listening to the trash metal of the 80's, while my hands kept drumbeating on the steering wheel. For the first time in a very long long time, I felt like the happiest person alive.

The next day, a Saturday that was, I got my mind made up to cruise typical busy streets just to get the latest Rob's CD. Like any other pursuits, they never come easy. The CD shop was located in one of the busiest shopping malls in town that when I got there, it took me 30 minutes alone to find an adequate space to park my van. And then another 10 minutes to walk to the elevator, 15 minutes to wait for the over-crowded elevator, 15 minutes to walk between crowd after crowd to the store, and another 10 minutes to queue behind people checking out the CD boxes. I crossed my fingers they all didn't look for Rob Thomas' CD.

All that I did for Lonely No More.

I understand that after reading this post, I will lose the friendship of dear Marianne who cringed when she caught me humming the song. And holiday_sendiri, I also understand if you don't want to know me anymore. I've somehow learned that I'm not bound to be Lonely No More.

Bargaining With God

2005-06-14T17:20:00.000+07:00

When I woke up this morning, I found a text from a dear friend saying: "... When did life start to agree with me?" It was 05.30 AM and the rain was falling in rage outside.

Yes, when did life start to agree with me?! Surely not when the rain was falling and spreading its magical chant: "come back to bed! come back to bed!", while I should have left my warm bed in another half an hour. Like many other things, rain doesn't need an RSVP invitation to break its water on to any given place on Earth.

Taking a deep breath, I then did a mental conversation with God - if ever He really exists:

"Great. Just great! When did I ever ask You too much? I've never wanted to be happy or content. I thought you had known it by now. Like I've never expected to be granted a stunningly beautiful face along with majestic grace like Angelina Jolie or Monica Belucci, have I? Neither have I expected my love affairs to last for long nor having enough money to afford a 2 week holiday to South America. No. Even if the thoughts ever crossed my twisted mind, I have only dared to keep them for myself.

Looking back, I was even willing to take my first humiliation at the age of 4 when I was the only person certified 'a hopeless case' by my ballet instructor that she didn't pick me to be on a show. I didn't shed a single tear when all my ballet classmates tried on their pink ballet shoes just because they all could stand on their tiptoes. Growing up, I even took it easy when the first person ever giving me electric jolts consulted me for buying a special gift for his girlfriend's birthday.

And don't you remember how I just shuddered in ignorance when someone sweetnothing me by saying my body was his wonderland and how he was willing to quench my physical thirst, only he's located in far off another continent with 13 hours difference from where I live? A webcam? No, thank you. I prefer the real thing. Then recently, just when I finally bumped into someone who appreciates A Clockwork Orange as much as I do, knows things about Morpheus, and - dear Lord! - how articulate he is in written language, I just numbly picked up the remaining splinters of my heart off the floor once again when he declared out loud 'I would like to be the air that inhabits you for a moment only'.

And now, are You fucking kidding me by letting the rain fall just when I should get up and get ready for another boring day at underpaid work?! Just when I've never questioned your mercy before!"

Carpenters Wedding

2005-06-13T14:20:00.000+07:00

If I were a wedding planner for a couple happen to be Carpenters aficionado, here's what I would do. (Well okay, hypothetically my clients don't find Carpenters suitable enough to audio decorate their so-called once in a lifetime occasion, then I don't know what Josh Groban's mediocre You Raised Me Up or Shania Twain's mundane From This Moment is! I'm so gonna lure them into enacting a Carpenters' comeback concert on their special day - even if that takes certain hypnosis or witchcraft! Believe me, I'm capable of doing "necessary" things when it comes to wedding songs!)

The bride walks down the aisle of a tiny chapel holding a bouquet of Casablanca lilies in her hands:

Why do birds suddenly appear
Every time you are near?
Just like me
They long to be close to you

Why do stars fall down from the sky
Every time you walk by?
Just like me
They long to be close to you

On the day that you were born
The angels got together
And decided to create a dream come true
So they sprinkled moondust
In your hair of gold*
And starlight in your eyes of blue*

(They Long To Be (Close To You))

* subject to be customized according to the bride's recent hair/wig color and natural/contact lensed eyes.

The "I do" part or the vow reading:

Love, look at the two of us
Strangers in many ways
We've got a lifetime to share
So much to say
And as we go from day to day
I'll feel you close to me
But time alone will tell
Let's take a lifetime to say
I knew you well
For only time will tell us so
And love may grow for all we know

(For All We Know)

Note: The background song for this part can also be any Carpenters' song, even the broken-hearted number or any cheerful repertoire reminding the couple of any special memories they have shared, from making up after each fight to stealing their first kiss.

The just-been-pronounced husband and wife walk down the aisle out of the tiny chapel:

We've tried our hand at love before
We've been around the game enough
To know the score
But then is then
And now is now
All now is all that matters anyhow

Make believe it's your first time
Leave your sadness behind
Make believe it's your first time
And I'll make believe it's mine

The door is closed
It's you and me
We'll take our time with love
The way it oughta be
This moment's ours
Tonight's the night
And if we fall in love
Well, that's alright

So close your eyes
And hold me close
And let our hearts pretend
That love is ours to share tonight
And it might never end

(Make Believe It's Your First Time)

Note: It could also be Carpenters' most renowned hit like Top Of The World, but since its beat rather belongs to medium tempo, then it's not a good idea, especially for the white dressed bride with a long tail, to walk with. As much as people love watching Funniest Home Video, I don't think they really want to see a falling bride in real life.

The bride and groom's first dance together:

We've only just begun
To live white lace and promises
A kiss for luck and we're on our way
Before the rising sun we fly
So many roads to choose
We start out walking and learn to run
And yes we've only just begun
Sharing horizons that are new to us
Watching the signs along the way
Talking it over just the two of us
Working together day to day
Together
And when the evening comes we smile
So much life ahead
We'll find a place where there's room to grow
And yes we just begun

(We've Only Just Begun)

The dance is then followed by families and other guests:

After long enough for being alone
Everyone must face their share of loneliness
In my own time nobody knew
The pain I was going through
Waiting was all my heart could do

Hope was all I had until you came
Maybe you can see how much you mean to me
You were the dawn breaking the night
The promise of morning light
Filling the world surrounding me

When I hold you baby, baby, baby
Feels like maybe things will be alright
Baby, baby, your loves may be free as a song singing forever

Only yesterday I was sad and I was lonely
You show me the way to leave the past
And all the tears behind me
Tomorrow may be even brighter than today
Since I threw my sadness away
Only yesterday

I've found my home here in your arms
Nowhere else on earth I'd really rather be
Life waits for us to share it with me
The best is about to be
So much is left for us to see

(Only Yesterday)

Note: Not to worry, I Won't Last A Day Without You will also be included somewhere in the wedding. Most probably as background when the just-married couple deliver their speech. When the song is played by the band, I might as well pretend to be busy checking out the catering staff. Bark at those evidently enchanted by the song and the movie-lines alike speech that causing them stop pouring champagne, if I may.

It doesn't help. Even Carpenters' songs can't lessen the bad taste weddings left in my mouth. Attending weddings is like watching a very bad play having a bad script.

(Written upon seeing pictures taken at a screwed up wedding of a so-called friend)

Are You Lost

2005-06-06T07:31:00.000+07:00

From an epilog scene of The Sheltering Sky...

Someone at a cafe:
Are you lost?

Kit:
Yes!

Narrator:
Because we don't know when we will die. We get to think of life as an inexhaustible well. Yet everything happens only a certain number of times. And a very small number, really. How many more times will you remember a certain afternoon of your childhood? Some afternoon that's so deeply a part of your being that you can't be without it? Perhaps 4 or 5 times more. Perhaps not even that. How many more times will you watch a full moon rise? Perhaps 20. And yet it all seems limitless.

That's true. How many more times will I have the faith in days of romance not yet over when drowning in Karen Carpenter's warm, nakedly emotional voice singing I Won't Last A Day Without You? How many more times will I have to hit the 'delete' button on my computer to erase whatever pictures taken with those taking master in my life for a little while, only realizing they will never get completely erased from my heart? How many more times will I have to scroll down and up the phonebook in my cell phone just to find someone I can spend a sultry evening with without any strings, only later it will leave me totally empty? How many more times will I have to be the Heatcliff of Wuthering Heights? Perhaps 4 or 5 times more. Or perhaps even 20.

And here's from the opening scene ...

Kit:
Are you a tourist or a traveler?

Turner:
What's the difference?

Kit:
A tourist wants comfort of home. A traveler seeks adventures.

Speaking of adventure, I finally found the time to watch Hitch yesterday. I couldn't help but lose a track of breath when Sara character shouts: "Don't worry, you'll find a man with a nice smile and you'll both travel the world for adventures!"

It left me pondering if most girls really do seek a nice smile and the spirit of adventure in a man. I thought they all went for kind ones. (Q: What made you fall for him? A: Because he's kind!) Yeah, go ahead frown, cause I don't understand either what they mean by "kind", for the word has like more than a dozen meanings. Let alone a set of thesaurus for it.

Wow! I didn't know I was so mainstream all along!

Oblivion

2005-06-03T17:52:00.000+07:00

You'll know you've got over your exes when you've forgotten their last names.

I was about to send P an e-birthday card, but I completely forgot his last name. And since his email address is composed from his full name at so and so dot com, the fact that I've deleted every bits and pieces related to him when I was in a serious recovery program made me have to drop the noble intention. Well, probably it's not a good idea either to send him a card when I've tried so hard to get him off my little universe and finally succeeded.

Another test to find out if you're really meant to be with the man you're with at the moment is by trying to attach his surname after your first name. If it sounds lousy or just doesn't sound right, then probably you're not gonna end up with him. It's been tried and tested.

Extra Virgin

2005-06-02T07:58:00.000+07:00

Upon eating salad at some Italian restaurant, a waiter approached me and nicely asked: "Would you care for more extra virgin olive oil, Miss?"

Extra VIRGIN olive oil! I was dumbfounded for a moment, that I let the fork poking fresh green lettuce float in mid-air, just before my slightly open mouth.

Regaining my consciousness split seconds later, I weakly shook my head as a signal for a no. Being offered extra virgin olive oil was like being offered to masturbate in a church, only later I had to confess it to a priest. Or it was like breaking death news to the parents of someone I had just killed. I felt so opposite of being virgin that I didn't deserve to have more extra virgin - even if it's only olive oil!

Note: Labels such as virgin, extra virgin, and pure are used to categorize olive oils according to their acidity.

Are You Borrowing My Time?

2005-05-31T14:03:00.001+07:00

From Wong Kar-wai's "2046"

Bai Ling (Zhang Ziyi): I don't understand why you carry on so with women. If you meet one good woman, isn't she enough? Why delay time?

Chow Mo-wan (Tony Leung): A man like me has nothing but time. I need to find people to meet my needs.

Bai: You treat people like time-fillers?

Chow: Not really. Sometimes, I lend my time to others.

Bai: What about tonight? Are you borrowing my time or am I borrowing yours?

(It's like a violent slap in the face whenever a filmmaker/writer perfectly senses the pain of his audience and beautifully translate it into air-gasping pictures. Speaking of borrowing time, as we all live in borrowed time, why don't we all look at every encounter, every romantic experience, every sexual escapade, every pain of separation, or every loss of love as no more than “time-fillers” - to save us all from heartache after heartache after heartache?!)

A Stolen Kiss From The Past

2005-05-30T08:36:00.000+07:00

Out of floating in euphoric mid-air of watching 2 good French movies and trying to practise my newly learned French, at almost midnight I texted an old friend from college who does speak the language.

I told him I didn't see him at Le Festival du Cinema Francais that day, while I had usually bumped into him at such event. Then I asked if he's interested in seeing other films the next day with me. After a few times opening my French books for the correct verb conjugations to be able to exchange texts in French, he finally pronounced a yes.

He and I have always been more than just classmates in Spanish class back then, I guess. I didn't exactly remember how or why he started to flirt with me, but I actually enjoyed every ride home with him or those times we escaped somewhere when he successfully got me into skipping the afternoon class. Soon it all boiled down to other rendezvous, almost on weekly basis, including steamy sessions of making out in his car.

He's a lot of fun, while I've always been a fucked up girl with a bunch of psychological issues. I think I somehow hurt him by saying I wasn't interested in having a relationship with him but I didn't mind making out in the car once in a while. I know, such a slut I was! After that declaration of prostitution, we didn't see each other much anymore. What's left from those hours spent in his car was several flirtatious texts per year or a sudden phone call in New Year's Eve when I was busy making out with someone else. That was it.

So yesterday was the first time we spent time alone again after a million years. The small chairs in the theater couldn't prevent me much from feeling his warm skin on my bare right upper arm or his warm breath on my earlobe whenever he passed comments on whatever he saw on the screen. I was almost sure I could feel my nipples erect and poke through my sheer T-shirt.

When the first movie ended, we headed for a nearby food joint to meet a friend who I was going to see the next movie with. On the way, he told me that he needed to go to his car to fix the bent front tires of improper parking from running late to see an old stock. Instead of going ahead to the cafe to see my friend, I walked him to his car - still the same, old car we did all our double X-rated scenes in.

He told me to hop in the car which I did without any hesitation, while he put the ignition key to move the tires. As we both sat quietly in the car, we couldn't help being nostalgic. He teasingly asked me if I still remembered everything ever happened in that very car, which automatically burst loud, nervous laughter from my mouth. When I was still busy looking around the car as trying to bring back all the carnal scenes in my head, his suddenly manuevered to mine and landed a rough kiss on my lips. I didn't see it coming, so it was deadly startled the hell out of me, that my instincts made me push his head and resist his kiss. He then held my face so he could plant his lips on mine properly but I kept on struggling. And when he finally moved his head away, I just wished he wouldn't give in so easily and kept kissing my hungry lips more against my will. (I guess rape scene has always been my fantasy!) While he was still breathing heavily, he grinned and said: "For the old time's sake!"

Damn!

We ended the day with a promise to see each other again next weekend for a drink. When I teased him if he was going to try to make me drunk so he could steal another kiss, he just laughed. But I could somehow trace a hope to re-enact our long forgotten lusty episode. Or was it just me?

Anyway, since so horny am I, next week it is!

A Dream Upon A Siesta

2005-05-30T07:21:00.000+07:00

I know now why people shouldn't take an afternoon sleep like the Spanish do. Not only it will screw up their night's sleeps, but it will also screw up their minds. Well, mine, to say the least.

While waiting for the clock to strike 2, so that I could leave for Le Festival du Cinema Francais, I fell asleep upon watching some crap on TV. Not until 5 minutes afterwards, I dreamt about J. It's funny that when I left him, I thought it wouldn't be this hard to move on to my next best thing. But I was wrong. This thing never gets any easier.

I reckoned in the dream we were at some tropical place, for the sun was shining brightly and there were green grass and trees around. I was in my white summer dress and a wide fuschia hat like those of worn by the ladies of British royal members at polo games or when having a tea party with the Queen at the rose garden of Buckingham Palace. I was standing at a wooden balcony when I saw J - in his peach colored Lacoste polo shirt - sitting in a chair under a luscious tree. He waved at me enthusiastically as if trying to make me see him.

I, of course, saw him but I didn't know why I looked away and pretended not to see him, while all I wanted to do was wave back at him and run with all my might to where he was and throw myself into his arms. Something held me back. My ankles seemed to be chained with a pair of heavy, black stones used by Pirates to drown any crew members trying to do a mutiny. So I just turned my back and walked away from the balcony.

And I woke up in tears. I guess I just missed him. And since I couldn't do anything about it, the longing went to my subconscious and appeared in a form of a dream.

THIS, is never easy.

Discrimination

2005-05-26T17:26:00.000+07:00

Whenever I eat at some modest culinary joints which don't have any exact measurement for the amount of rice should be served to each guest, I don't know why I'm always given half portioned rice. I didn't even open my lips yet to ask for less rice than my male companions. So I wonder if it's my body size speaking for itself: "I'm fat so I need to be on a diet that I only eat little rice!" or it's my femininity conveying an unspoken message: "I'm a female so I don't pig out!"

Each time given half portioned rice, I always have to send back the rice and ask for more. And each time I do that, the waiter would giggle and say: "Oh, I thought you wanted to have half portion!". And each time I respond in anger as trying to cope with the insult: "Did I inform you that I want to have less rice?", he would defend himself: "But any other females ever coming here usually eat half portioned rice, so I thought you were one of them". And when I want to snap whether I look like all those regular females, he might reply: "You think you're special, eh?" That would surely be enough for me to admit how correct he is. And each time seeing this sort of scene, my male companions could only look at me in amazement.

So what? I'd rather eat enough amount of lunch which my stomach decides - not someone else or in this case, waiters or restaurant owners - than eating less but by 3 PM I need to cheer up the worms again.

I do eat much and I'm not ashamed of it.

Meaningless Things People Do

2005-05-26T10:23:00.000+07:00

A text I found in my silent-mode cellphone when my thumb was about to press 'general' mode button at around 9 this morning: "Guten morgen, Frau Ivana Humpalot..."

It was sent at 7:07:10 AM from the last person on my mind I ever expected to say such thing to me. For a moment I was overwhelmed.

What's with people sending lovely texts at odd hours? Why? What's the objective? Was he so horny in the morning that all he could think of was inserting himself into me? C'est impossible! Was he twisted and turned from thinking of me the whole night that all he wanted to do first thing in the morning was reach out to me through a text? That's even more impossible! Did I remind him of Kristen Johnston, who plays the Russian babe, Ivana Humpalot in the movie Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me? I think not. Did he look at a fat bear on his cereal box when having breakfast that he just realized it looked exactly like me? That's the only thing possible.

However, the early morning text cracked a smile on my lipglossed lips, though not for long, cause I know how meaningless it was.

Separate Beds But Not Separated

2005-05-20T16:09:00.000+07:00

There are things I've never thought of ever being in my approval, but then I ended up giving them a nod. Take long distance relationships for one. Or caucasian lovers. Or sashimi eating. Or pubic area shaving. Or ever going to India ... 3 times. And the most recent one given my seal of authorization is separate beds.

I thought I wouldn't live to see the day I would finally agree with separate bedding, which previously I found it ridiculous. What's the point of couple having 2 separate beds in one room like those of married couples in medieval period, right? Right. That's what I used to think too. But considering the fact of how low-next-to-nothing divorce rates, then I started to suspect the magic of separate bedding. Besides, often times I heard about fighting couples sleeping in separate beds with the hope of calming the nerves down and finally, sorting the problems out.

It's true, though, how people need some time alone in their togetherness. And that's what separate bedding provides. They still can be together in one room without intruding the spouse's personal space. The man, for example, still can check out a porn magazine behind a newspaper, while the wife can paint her toes without having to tell him to lie still, for every slightest move he might make will crazily maneuver the brush. You know how nowadays toe painting can lead to calling up each other's divorce lawyers.

Not only that. Nobody will have to bitch out who's to make the bed, for each person is responsible for their own. Well, when lust calls in, they can just simply pick a bed. And ah! With 2 double beds in the room, imagine how many variations you can venture in terms of bedroom games! It's also true what they say about absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Experience has it that there isn't any single comfortable moment sleeping in each other's arms. Believe me, that only happens in movies. In real life, not only you will wake up with sore muscles, but you will also wake up with a horrible mood. Why? Because the whole night you will surely be awake with each and every move your spouse makes, that you will have to adjust your sleeping position with your partner's. Just abandon the right to sleep peacefully when you're trying to live up a scene from a romantic movie. (You want to do something romantic? Take the garbage out and your woman will at all time be your doormat and sex slave!) And you also know what happens to people waking up with such a good mood from a good night's sleep. Go figure.

Hereby I suggest marriage counselors to start prescribing separate bedding for those trying to save their marriages. And hereby I predict the sale of single beds will sharply increase in the near future.

And more on a personal note, hereby I wish to regain my lost faith in marriage and decent men by renewing the hope of ever finding someone I can share separate beds with. Someday...

Hatred Is In The Air

2005-05-19T08:37:00.000+07:00

As my age multiplies by minutes and seconds like HIV outbreak, both consciously and unconsciously I've expanded a very long list of those things I hate. One time, when Father and I went for a drive and my mouth just couldn't stop criticizing most everything I saw along the way, he asked why I was so hateful. He even wondered if it's because he and Mother hadn't raised me good enough, nor given me the adequate share of love I should have had.

To lessen his guilt, I told him that he's just so lucky to be able to cope with so many annoying things in this world. Like maybe he could deal with a newly-wed girl friend baptizing herself with the husband's last name writing a posting in a mailing list: "What could be more wonderful than having your husband making you breakfast every morning?", or a shopkeeper curiously following every step I make in a fancy boutique, as if I was going to shoplift that over one million blouse if for one second she blinks an eye, or at a first encounter people shaking my hand weakly, while their eyes not looking into mine, nor listening to my announcing own name, only a few minutes later they would ask me to repeat my name. Well, okay, people do forget names. That's not a big deal. But avoiding a glance when you're offering the hand is like doing something having the exact opposite meaning of what it has to be.

I'm sorry, Father, I can't handle all those things without radiating my hatred.

And particularly this handshake matter is, yes, very intolerable for me. I can't seem to comprehend why people bother to do the routine of shaking hands if they don't really want to do it. I think they'd better cut the crap, rather than giving a too weak handshake, which I find it very insulting, as if I was offering a smelly hand I've just been using to pick up my nose and forgotten to wash the remaining buggers off my finger tips. While too strong and too long is just revolting. It's like that particular person - especially if it's a he - is trying to convey a naughty code: "Let's find a cheap hotel room and let me show you what I've got between my crotch!" But the biggest crime in a handshake world is shaking hands with eyes roaming elsewhere - ranging from the eyes of the other person at my boobs, at a piece of chili skin stuck between my front teeth, at someone else more beautiful standing next to me, or even at the most talked about celebrities happen to pass by.

I can deal with someone's wife holler at me as calling me names existing in animal kingdom or a set of thesaurus for the word "courtesan". But no, I just can't deal with lousy handshakes without eye contact.

Father suggested me to see a psychiatrist, for he thought I needed help to cure my anger and insecurites within. But since at this point in my life I didn't live on his earnings anymore and I, of course, preferred to spend my own on fashion items, or gastronomic pleasures, or return tickets to somewhere than paying a phony Jung hourly, I quickly threw his suggestion away.

Then he suggested: "Why don't you go get married? Maybe all the anger and hatred came from your repressed sexual hormones!"

And that surely shut me up.

Oh no. Do I sound like those typical old spinsters I've always avoided from ever resembling?

Embarrassable Me

2005-05-18T11:42:00.000+07:00

A good thing I can derive from my work is free-flow of the best wines available at any cellars I happen to stop by.

Last night I was stranded at a wine bar to review their so-called exotic seafood salads. The appointment was actually at 1830 hours, but the person I should've met didn't show up till 1900. So I ordered a Ruffino Wine from the heart of Tuscany to wet my dry throat from struggling in a traffic jam battlefield. As I sipped the chilled golden liquid having fruity aroma, I was convinced how life every now and then tried to rub my back as telling me to shake off those sorrows away.

A few gulps later, the German chef I should interview finally showed up. As he presented me with 5 exotic salads from all over the globe, I couldn't help but recognize how he looked exactly like J. My heart skipped a beat. I didn't know if that's just my mind playing tricks on me or it was merely a wishful thinking. I had met him several times before when I stopped by at the hotel, but I had never been this up, close, and exchanging more than 2 sentences with him.

However, they do have the same brown eyes and brown hair. Only the chef doesn't have any grey hairs ... yet. They have the same hairdo too. They even have the same way of talking. The same gestures. The same expressions. To shake off the nostalgic thoughts, I just kept on drinking while trying hard to pay full attention to his explanations.

By the time it was a wrap, I didn't have any idea how much I drank that glorious medium dry with earthy flavors and a suggestion of pear, fading to a crisp and balanced finish white wine. My head was so very light, but I had to keep conscious to be able to drive home safely. For that reason, at a traffic light, I texted 2 of my good friends telling them how heavily drunk I was. One was sent to the right intended person, but the other went to an F&B Director of a 5-star hotel who happened to have the same last name with my friend's.

I wish I had never been born at all.

Schoolphobic

2005-05-17T13:09:00.000+07:00

A colleague with a teenage child confirmed me with her stories how expensive education can be. She wanted to send her kid to the Catholic girls school I used to go, but she couldn't afford it. Here's what she had to hear from the principal, who happens to be a nun. A nun, according to my naive understanding, is somebody who has mastered Christian teachings which are based on compassion to one another. But listening to what my colleague told me has ruined that understanding.

In a new parents meeting...

The nun:
I don't want to receive any parents in my office this week, because I know they would only beg reduction for entrance fees. Parents, if you don't have enough money to send your children here, well, you'd better take your money and come back here next year when you've had the exact amount you have to pay. And so you know, our school is a non-profit institution. However, there won't be any students whose montly fee is less than Rp 500.000 or entrance fee less than Rp 10 millions. Is that clearly understood?

I'm at an all-time ashamed of being one of its graduates. I'm also at an all-time ashamed of ever being born Catholic. Her stories only confirm my lost faith in both formal education and religion. I learned better about compassion from my dogs. And that definitely doesn't take an expensive school!

Confession

2005-05-17T08:31:00.000+07:00

I have a confession to make. Even though I've been trying to ditch A in any possible way, I had to admit one thing. When we sat down face to face and talked, the competitive bitch side of me just vanished. (Maybe that's why after our first rendezvous, he texted me saying: "You are actually much more sedate in person than I expected.") It's rather strange that I didn't feel that usual urge to outsmart him or try to look like I know more things than he does. In front of him, I was just me with my limited human brains. And yet, still I could live another day with it.

He: I've been to Japan several times but have never been to Kyoto.
I: What's so special there?
He: Kyoto is what Jogja to Indonesia - the city of culture.

With J, I might have just mumbled "hmmm' or 'uh-uh' right after he said the first sentence. I didn't wanna look like a stupid girl from a third world country who didn't know anything about Kyoto. So I would just shut my mouth up to create the impression that I know things about it. I could just browse and find out about the city at the soonest chance I faced a computer with a broadband. With him, I had to be a talking Encyclopedia or I would end up hating myself.

Basically J and I are two of a kind. We both tend to look down on people having lower level of knowledge and tastes than ours. That's perhaps some sort of karma for me. All this time I might do to others, whose knowledge and tastes aren't in my league, what J did to me. I'm a horrible person, indeed!

I still can recall how I felt like wanting to disappear beneath the ground I was on when he ruined a nice evening by saying: 'Yeah, besides what you know! You dont know anything about your own country's cultures!' (A bartender has just told us about an ancient tradition in a village of Karangasem where old people contributing to the society by painting cloths with their own blood. I had never heard such a unique, heroic act before, of course!)

Una Furtima Lagrima

2005-05-16T13:38:00.000+07:00

Upon listening to Una Furtima Lagrima from L'elisir d'amore, an opera by Donizetti, a certain episode from the storyboard of my life suddenly flashed before my eyes. It took place by the beach, somewhere in the center of Indonesian Archipelago not so long ago, while we were sitting at some kind of sunset bar watching the land having been washed out by soft rain get darker and darker ...

He: I grew up with my father listening to Verdi every weekend. He would sing along out loud with a glass of wine in his hand.

I: Really? I like Verdi. But not as much as I love Puccini. His works are my hopeless romantic side. (humming a famous tune from Verdi's La Traviata)

He: (humming along) I can't believe you know Verdi!

I: Everyone knows Verdi.

He: If I took you to my father, I bet he would force me into marrying you.

I'd like to meet that old man who has traveled almost all the globe and owns a small sailing boat, just to look at him in the eye if he's ever taught his eldest son to say things he never means. I'd also want to have a word with him: "Sir, even though I like Verdi, I don't think I ever want to marry your son who has never even taken the initiatives to hold my hand or enjoyed sitting close to me gazing at the stardusts above our heads! And yes, he's passed a rare chance to be with a cultured woman who's not only good in bed, but I'd probably be the one and only woman in his life who ever sincerely adores those brown eyes he inherited them from you!"

Addiction Devotee

2005-05-12T07:46:00.000+07:00

I just realized that I've grown addiction to mango juice sold at a small bistro (it's really small, family owned, and unpretentious restaurant, indeed!) located just a few steps away from my dwelling hut. I'm talking about fresh mango juice here. Not too sweet, not too sour, sans lait or whipped cream ... just perfect! It kind of surprised me they got mangoes at this time of the year, while whenever I went to other places promising "Fresh Juices" on the menu cards, when I asked for a mango juice, all they could deliver to serve was the canned one. Like any other promises, the fresh-mango-juice promise is also made to be broken!

But that was before fate let me enter that small bistro in one late evening. From that time on, my life is incomplete without a portion of fresh mango juice. Men can ditch me, work can suck up my youth, friends can stab me in the back, but as long as my throat gets its daily intake of mango juice, then I know I will still have the world in my hand.

Speaking of addiction, here are some of my other addictions I've built through my adult life:

1. Spontaneous things. Be it friends out of the blue picking me up for a cup of Starbuck's signature mocha latte at 3 AM, experimenting the magic of faint lights from garden lamps with a digital camera, introducing myself as a bride-to-be so I could be given the chance to try on a wedding gown, or a part-time lover suddenly inviting me to fly for a tapas at a secluded tapas bar near Orchard, I guess I dig the euphoric state of doing unplanned things.

2. Cheezums Pringles. I can chew the whole big can within minutes all by myself. (I know, I know, gluttony is one of the 7 deadly sins! So what?) And if there's ever God, then yes, I feel like seeing Him right in front of my delusional eyes. After all, my eyes have let out quite amount of salt these days, that it's only fair if I balance it by taking a lot of salt as well.

3. The cute smell of my dogs' feet. Those of dog lovers must know exactly what I mean. If you're not, or even chickened out every time sees a dog, then just forget this and move on to the next point.

4. Half-cooked of any kinds of pancakes: kue cubit, poffertjes, waffles, etc. My tongue never seems to get enough of feeling that soft texture of hot pancakes giving sweet surrender to a mouth job.

5. The falling rain. Seeing how the drops admit defeat to the law of gravity, then trying to bounce up again to no avail, tells me that falling is the essence of life. Falling snow, falling tears, waterfalls, or even falling hearts (ah yes, I can't agree more that the best love songs are written with a broken heart!) are all beautiful, aren't they?

6. Leaving early from work and race to P's arms. Till now, whenever I have the chance to escape early from work, I still wish I could head to his place. Hanging around his apartment was one of the glorious moments in my life. Not only for expressing steamy lust, but I won't even mind listening to him explaining the case of Enron vs Arthur Andersen again and again and again.

7. First time having sex again after a long pause. I should agree with Charlotte of Sex and The City when she says: "When you stop having sex for a long time, you can be revirginized." It's true, it's true! Only this one is minus that sharp pain and ... of course, blood. And when that unison first begins, mon Dieu!, I witness that heaven really exists! (No wonder everybody tries their asses off - they're even willing to kill - to get in there!)

8. J's breathtaking brown eyes. Since I saw him off at the Departure Terminal 2, I started to quench my thirst for staring at his beautiful brown eyes by looking at my dog's big, brown eyes. At least my dog loves me and I don't have to think of the price I have to pay for constantly taking mental pictures of those heavenly eyes.

9. Take-off moments. No matter how many times I've flown, I would always have to close my eyes, as if having London Phillarmonic Orchestra playing Pachelbel's Canon in D right in front of me, to savor the emotional delight. I thought I would only do such unclassy thing on my first abroad trip which I paid for myself on my first salary. But it turns out everytime my plane takes off somewhere, I still feel the need to respect that orgasmic sensation by gripping the sides of my seat tightly and close my eyes. Sometimes even till the 'fasten seat belt' signals being turned off!

10. The baritone voice-over narrating movie trailers. Even bad movies would seem a lot better if that voice speaks. I'd like to know the owner, please!

The Wonder of Reverse Psychology

2005-05-06T08:06:00.000+07:00

I never thought that day would come when I would have to delete J from my life along with all of our pictures taken in the places where now are just - as The Beatles calls it: "There are places I remember all my life though some have changed..."

That day came yesterday when I finally decided to put reverse psychology into practice. It's been almost 5 months and I still hadn't had enough courage to delete our last holiday pictures which started filling up my notebook's memory. Simply cause to delete them, I need to look at them. And if I looked at them, I would miss him. And if I missed him, I would be capable of doing stupid things, like out of the blue texting him again after telling him "adieu". And if I did stupid things, of course, I would only end up damaging myself again.

And yes, among very few things left for me to believe, I do still believe in the wonder of reverse psychology: doing the exact opposite of what I've been really avoiding and through the magic of human nature, I ended up getting the effect I've been desperately waiting for: feeling numb.

Neither did I ever think that day would come when I would look at our pictures together and I felt nothing. Not sadness. Not loss. Not missing those beautiful brown eyes looking straight at mine. It's like whatever we had is so far away from where I am now. And it is.

Grammatical Error

2005-05-04T07:19:00.000+07:00

"Car Check for Your Secure"
That's what written on a piece of board put in front of a main gate of a hotel establishment I happened to pass through today.

Many non-English conscious or those with broken English but still insist on using the language, might not be able to differ nouns from verbs, though sometimes those two word classes have the exact same forms.

Taking a good look at myself, I too can't differ forms at times. Like the other day when I spent one of the 2-quick-hours' times in my life looking at a beautiful smile of a rather fine male specimen and swimming in his calming pair of dark eyes while talking over a cup of awful coffee, I couldn't differ if it's my hope and it sprang beyond my grip, or it's just a prelude to another crack in my heart.

Soon after, as if whoever writing that announcement on the board I saw today finally had the modesty to consult an English dictionary and admit the grammatical error, I too found my error and admitted to myself that it was just my heart on the floor once again.

The Picky Me

2005-04-27T17:15:00.000+07:00

Here's my typical restaurant fuss:

I: I'd like to have a waffle. Make it half-cooked. Do not put the syrup on top of the waffle, but serve it separately in a small cup instead. I'd like to pour it by myself. And do you normally garnish the waffle?

Waiter: No, ma'am.

I: Good. Cause I don't like garnish on my waffle. Unless you have strawberries, put them on the side. Not on top of it. And by the way, do you perfectly understand my idea of half-cooked waffles?

Waiter: (looks confused)

I: Well, I like thick waffles, so pour the mixture richly into the waffle iron. Richly. What I meant by richly is about this thick (raises a forefinger finger and a thumb of my right hand to form a 5 cm gap between them) It's enough to bake the waffle for 3 to 4 minutes. That if you use a normal size of waffle iron. If you use a larger one, bake it for at least 5 minutes. But if you use a small size of waffle iron, 2 minutes are more than enough.

Waiter: (he might silently curse 'BITCH'!!!)

I like waffles so much that I think I have every right to be fussy when it comes to have a good waffle. Maybe that's why too I've been stamped and labeled 'too picky'. And yes, I'm guilty as charged. I'm even pickier to have another I-miss-the-day-we-met-and-all-that-followed-after kind of laments.

Jogja, My Sanctuary

2005-04-19T18:06:00.000+07:00

Here I come back again to the old city of Jogja - the silent witness of both my grief and joy. The city where I left each and every fracture of my anatomy part called the heart.

Every street corner, every landmark, every particle of dust from motorbikes, every taxi ride, every unit of becak, every drop of water in fish ponds decorated with shy lotuses on the surface, every step of the way around those beautiful hotel establishments, every stall along Malioboro, every sound of Javanese language, every motif of batik cloth, every color of flowers, every bite of gastronomic indulgence, every fake smile I throw, every silent tear I try oh so hard to keep from falling.

I haven't been cured, Jogja. Not even a bit since my last visit in January. Here I go again, throwing my shattered self into your welcoming arms. I missed you and I'd just like to see you again and reminisce what it's like to laugh and have a friend telling me: "Your face is glowing with happiness."

You and I know, Jogja, that she was wrong, for now my face is still glowing with tears.

Nothing's Free Of Charge

2005-04-19T10:13:00.000+07:00

Everything comes with a price. Even there's no such thing as free lunch.

On my last day in Surabaya - Sunday that was, before returning to the wretched city where I dwell, I decided to take a little dip in the pool. And if there's a bit sun in my sky, working on my lost tan would be an advantage as well.

But then again, things rarely happen the way you want them to be. At 9 AM went I out of the room in my flowery, white bikini along with the matching sarong. (Surabaya and bikinis don't mix - the place is simply not Bali, for the love of God!) First to have breakfast then to do whatever I wanted to do at the pool. I chose a table overlooking the pool. As I rest my oversized buttom, there were kids with their parents having fun in the sun around the lagoon shaped pool. I could only sigh, for I didn't know what else to do upon seeing a real life version of happily ever after before my very eyes.

Then my coffee came. It was superb, for it was hot and strong just the way I liked it. As my eyes roamed outside the window, I saw a man encouraging a baby girl to swim further toward his way, a woman making a braid out of her little girl's hair, and two young boys running around the pool. Not to mention another woman helping her toddler son putting on a bathing suit, while a man who I assumed to be her husband blowing a miniscule lifejacket for his boy to wear. My heart sunk to my stomach along with the coffee I sipped.

"Do I ever want to be in the scene?" I asked myself.

NO. At least a friend told me she's gonna try with all her might to keep that from happening.

I don't even know if I can stop thinking about the prices I have to pay from merely holding someone's hand. Let alone from the unspoken "I love you too".

I didn't finish my coffee that morning. The chest pain I've been familiar with for quite a bit now came all over again without prior notice. I then left the breakfast table and rushed to my dark room where the world seemed to make a lot more sense to me there.

Christmas Carols in April

2005-04-11T10:40:00.000+07:00

Each time I have a human conversation with you or simply read your text messages, it feels like listening to Christmas carols in April. (Like those I happened to listen when having breakfast at a hotel's coffee shop) Christmas is always nice. It becomes even nicer with the eternal songs to spice up the occasion. But listening to them in the bright daylight's sunshine of April is so out of place. The songs do still remind me of some highlights of my childhood memories revolving around Christmas time. Indeed they do. But when listening to them other than in rainy December, it feels like the first time realizing Santa Claus wasn’t real, love was supposed to be hurt, or happiness didn't exist.

So please, do not make me feel like listening to Christmas carols in December if you know you’d only make me feel like listening to Christmas carols in April by each conversation and text message. Might as well not give me any Christmas carols at all.

I beg thy mercy.

One-Day Date

2005-04-11T10:33:00.000+07:00

Sitting alone in a hotel room on Sunday morning, I watched a TV show called “One-Day Date”. It’s a one-day date between a fan and a celebrity. It’s a blah blah show, of course. An absurd show which I had no choice of watching since I didn’t have better things to do. Well, I could’ve gone to explore this capital of East Java I’ve been stranded for straight 10 days, but I was too lazy to get up from bed.

Back to the show. This girl fan and some so-called famous star of some so-called famous advertisement met and they got to spend one whole day together doing things lovers do: going places (by bus, which was also my idea of having a cool date!), holding hands (my thing also!), getting a haircut together (kinda cute to have someone to do with together!), asking each other’s comments on sunglasses they wanted to buy (everybody needs somebody when it comes to buying sunglasses, indeed!), and having dinner at a fancy restaurant housed on a penthouse of a high rise building (that's my favorite place to have a first date!).

Though it’s a stupid show, but it got me thinking that if only every couple knew they would only be together for such a short period of time - instead of thinking every relationship should last forever - then maybe there would be no heartaches in this world, which is great, isn’t it?

At the end of the show, they ought to give each other gifts. The girl gave the boy she adored the CD he had been looking for, while the boy only gave her a small, heart-shaped pillow with ‘I love you forever’ written on it.

Hah. How typical. Girls apparently always give a little to much, don't they? Like they give boys their hearts and would only receive heartaches in return. Why oh why?

The stupidest part of the show was when he said to the adoring girl fan that the writing on the small pillow described what he felt for her. Yea right, that’s what one would feel within a course of one shallow day. Well I’m sorry, what I saw on TV was very much different with what Celine and Jesse had when they spend a day in Vienna in the movie Before Sunrise.

I Could Not Stop For Death

2005-03-28T13:18:00.000+07:00

The ferry I was on to and from Lampung didn't go under the calm water's surface. The gigantic trucks along the winding Sumatera roads didn't hit my car. The car's braking system didn't seem to ever fail to abruptly stop at every sharp turns or whenever it needed to. The poisonous King Cobra I saw at a snake show didn't sink its sharp teeth in any part of my anatomy and release its venom. The elephant I took a ride on didn't stomp on me. The abundant durians I ate like there was no tomorrow didn't give me artery block causing a sudden heart attack. Bought from some dusty roadside stall, the expired chocolate bar I ate didn't food poison me.

I'm still alive. I don't know whether I have to be thankful or infuriated.

I think my soul is still gonna dwell inside my body for quite some time before I finally have enough nerves to run myself toward a fast moving train. Being alive is fine by me, as long as there are lethal songs to darken the darkest hours. As long as there are more chances to sit on an upper deck of a ferry as watching the magnificent illusion of the sun going down caused by the world spinning round. (I'm always looking for the sun, aren't I?) As long as there are capitalist commodities to self-destruct, ie. cheese cakes' orgasmic sensations. All I have to do is abandon all hopes in everything. Including ever finding comfortable, new shoes that work visual wonders to my not-so-sexy feet. Let alone having a new spring in this black abyss. There's nothing much new under the sun, anyway.

But I'm jaded. Don't you angels of death think I'm better off being breathless?

Unwritten

2005-03-24T15:10:00.000+07:00

So this is it. The thing every songwriter, poet and playwright has always written. This chest pain I can't seem to nurse. They say this chest pain sells. Maroon 5 did it. Hemingway did it. Lemony Snicket did it. But till now I can't even write enough profit-making words to be compiled in a thing described in a dictionary as 'book'.

I can't. I'm barren. I'm that boundless dry dessert of Sahara. I'm that 7 years of famine ever happened in Egypt. I'm that infertile womb of 80-year-old Sarah.

And so you know I met someone irresistible recently. He seems to have all the ability to give me another chest pain ... easily. So I told him I'm a lesbian, for I'd rather pass my chance to sell a book.

I'm gonna die tomorrow, anyway.

Cross My Heart And Hope To Die

2005-03-24T14:43:00.000+07:00

Another long weekend is coming up. Off to Lampung I'm going tomorrow. Now that my eyes have witnessed Laura Fygi on stage, I think I've fulfilled all my purpose in this life time. Thus, I cross my heart and hope the ferry I'll be on tomorrow will sink. Everyone but me will survive.

Good Friday is a good day to die, they say.

Salt in My Tears

2005-03-23T16:46:00.000+07:00

... From time to time
Do you guess what's really on my mind?
Guess that "How you keeping now?"
Means "Where are you sleeping now?"
But of course it's not polite
To ask you where you spent last night
And if I did you might reply
That I have no right
And anyway I'm fine
Glad that you're no longer mine
If I should tell a lie
I'll cross my heart and hope to die...

(upon listening to a mixed CD contained 20 so-called-being-hopeful songs compassionately recorded by a friend who tends my cardiac problems)

Sperm For Sale

2005-03-21T10:46:00.000+07:00

A fortune reading done by a pencil hung with a piece of hair says I will have 2 girls. A friend introducing me to an exceptional method of kin forecast told me it's been successfully tried and tested with precise results. I don't believe in many things anymore, but at least it made me feel good. Cause it gave me wishful thinking that I'm not gonna die alone without any heirs to inherit my stored wealth in the forms of extensive collections of books, DVDs, CDs, bags, shoes, clothes, cards and letters ever sent by nears and dears during my first 15 years of life. If they ever want to be a songwriter or a poet, those cards and letters written with intense estrogen driven emotions would be good resources of inspiration.

I got myself read for 3 times and each time it told me 2 girls. Anyways, I've always wanted boys. But girls are fine by me. In fact, it's far better because speaking of heirs, they would love to have all my clothing and accesories items mostly bought during emotional chaos. Having girls, I can tell them everything my parents never did during those tough, growing up years as a girl. That way, when reality bites them really hard, especially at times when love is wilder than the wind, my girls won't have to ponder: "Why couldn't mother have prepared me for this?" I will tell them the truth, all truth, nothing but the truth about the delusional sides of fairy tales, miracles, and Santa Claus. Maybe if they can accept that life is gonna be hard since very early age, they would be more appreciative of every little good thing happens to them.

I want my girls right away. I think I should start venturing the streets asking if there's any fine gentlemen want to have 2 girls with me. Well, one is still okay, though. I can find another man to have my second girl with. As long as his personal and family medical history is clean, so are tests certifying him free from genetic and infectious diseases. No, no, don't get me wrong. I won't ask the man to bear all the responsibilities of having babies together. No. It's simply leaving his normally wasted 20 millions/ml sperm and he can walk on by.

We can have a quick sex in some pub's toilet or a sleazy love hotel. The willing man can also masturbate then freeze their semen at 200 degrees below zero in liquid nitrogen. The choice is freely his. If he chooses the latter, I'll gladly provide the erotic materials upon any sexual preferences and fetishes desired to get the seeds ecstatically discharged.

Sperm donor urgently needed. Those with excellent gene pools are encouraged to apply.

Greatest Cities In The World

2005-03-14T10:41:00.000+07:00

Barcelona is crowned the greatest city in the world according to Discovery Travel and Living Channel among 19 other cities. Countdownwise, here are those cities picked:
20. Tokyo 19. New Delhi 18. Prague 17. Copenhagen 16. Santiago 15. Mexico City 14. Lisbon 13. Cape Town 12. Berlin 11. Amsterdam 10. Istanbul 9. Stockholm 8. New Orleans 7. Dublin 6. Sydney 5. Rio 4. Paris 3. Rome 2. NYC 1. Barcelona

In my conclusion, these are what make the cities deserve the crown:

1. great cultures
Though I don't really understand why New Delhi is picked, for it's one of the dirtiest and most densely populated cities in the world, but come to think of females dressed in colorful saris or young men making chai at roadside stalls, then yes, those are unique sights, indeed. And it's undebatable that the true uniqueness of New Orleans - the center of Mardi Gras celebration in the US - lies in its one of the kind mix combo of French (Cajun), Creole, and African cultures. The majority of the population are Roman Catholic but they still believe in vampires and the mambo jumbo of vodoo.

2. great architectures, be it historical or modern
Istanbul is a great place where mosques' minarets harmoniously stand hand in hand with modern buildings. Or look at Rome - everywhere you go, each place simply has history.

3. great walking places
being able to walk freely and fearlessly is a practice of a human right. Cities that can provide its people with decent places to walk around, then yea, are just great.

4. great public places to wind up any time of the day
beaches in Sidney, Cape Town, and Rio where people go to relax at the end of the day are just so humane. Located in the middle of the busiest city in the world, Central Park of NYC, which is the biggest park in the world, is a perfect sanctuary for its people to keep their sanity. And those places are available for everyone - from the poorest to the richest - for free.

Jakarta is none of the above, of course. And it's plain to see because:

Well okay, it’s a melting pot of many cultures alright. Like the native Jakartans are actually a mixture of Chinese, Portuguese, Malay, and Arabic cultures which have slowly faded with time. Only few people are willing enough to go against the odds as having the awareness to preserve the culture. Historical buildings in Jakarta aren’t well preserved either. People preferred to destroy the old Chinese-Dutch-Portuguese houses in the old city to build modern shopping malls that now have turned to be nothing but shabby markets causing the worst traffic jams in the area. And the modern buildings are nothing to write home about too. So simply speaking, Jakarta has sort of lost its identity - it's neither cultured nor modern. Great walking places? If there are any, the pedestrian sides are usually used by street vendors or bikers to avoid getting stuck in crazy traffic jams, that each time people walking on the cobbled pavements have to choose between their lives or the bikers’ urge to have a faster way. Jakarta does have a beach at the northern part of the city, but people have to pay a quite amount of money to enter the site. The entrance fee gets even higher on weekends. Public parks? There are few, indeed, but they're located in very polluted and noisy areas that people prefer to wind up at air-conditioned shopping malls.

Bluer Than Blue

2005-03-14T10:40:00.000+07:00

Watching Before Sunset all over again is like experiencing first-hand what Roberta Flack exactly means when she sings Killing Me Softly: "Singing my life with his words... / Telling my whole life with his words ... / I felt he found my letters and read each one out loud. I prayed that he would finish, but he just kept right on ..."

(Celine to Jessie on a boat trip along the Seine heading to Quai Henri Quatre):

People just have an affair, or even entire relationships, they break up and they forget. They move on like they would have changed brand of cereals. I feel I was never able to forget anyone I’ve been with because each person had their own specific qualities. You can never replace anyone. What is lost is lost. Each relationship, when it ends, really damages me. I never fully recover. That’s why I’m very careful with getting involved because it hurts too much. Even getting laid. Because I will miss of the person the most mundane things like I’m obsessed with little things. I think it’s the same with people. I see in them little details, so specific to each of them that move me and that I miss and will always miss. You can never replace anyone because everyone is made of such beautiful, specific details. Like I remember the way your beard has a bit of red in it and how the sun was making it glow that morning right before you left. I remembered that and I missed it.

Celine to Jessie in a chauffeured Mercedes on the way dropping Celine home:

I was thinking for me it’s better I don’t romanticize things as much anymore. I was suffering so much all the time. I still have lots of dreams, but they’re not in regard to my love life. It doesn’t make me sad, it’s just the way it is.

Jessie:

Is that why you’re in a relationship with somebody who’s never around?

Celine:

Yes, obviously I can’t deal with the day-to-day life of a relationship. Yeah, we have this exciting time together and he leaves and I miss him, but at least I’m not dying inside.
….

Celine:

It’s not so easy for me to be a romantic. You start off that way and after you’ve been screwed over a few times, you forget about your delusional ideas and you take what comes into your life. I’ve just had too many blah relationships. They weren’t mean, they cared for me but there were no real connection or excitement. At least, not from my side.

Still in the car, Celine on reading Jessie’s book which is apparently about their one night together in Vienna 9 years ago:

It reminded me how genuinely romantic I was, how I had so much hope in things and now it’s like I don’t believe in anything that relates to love. I don’t feel things for people anymore. In a way, I put all my romanticism into that one night and I was never able to feel all this again. It makes me cold like love was never for me.
…

Celine:

You know what? Reality and love are almost contradictory for me.
….

Celine:

But what does it mean, the right man, the love of your life? The concept is absurd. We can only be complete with another person. It’s evil right? I guess I’ve been heartbroken too many times and then I recovered.

Jessie:

You can’t live trying to avoid pain.

Surreal Etymology

2005-03-10T10:56:00.000+07:00

I should know that everything under the heaven would boil down to something like this - doesn't have to be precisely like this, but there are countless situations like this before:

Clementine: This is it, Joel. It's gonna be gone soon.
Joel: I know.
Clementine: What do we do?
Joel: Enjoy it. Say GOODBYE.

Within a day, imagine how many times the word 'goodbye' is being uttered by the world's population. Ranging from saying goodbye to whoever in the house when you leave for work in the morning; sick people too weak to go out and get food to pizza guys when delivering their orders; death sentenced prisoners to whoever watching them slowly die behind one-way-glassed rooms before the executors press the buttons to let suffocating gas enter the small chambers; lovers to each other when they finally have enough of hurting one another; crying kids to their dead dogs; old women to the dresses they wore for a first date with their dead husbands because the maids accidentally shred them during ironing; to unfaithful wives to their foreign lovers when seeing them off at airports.

Although 'goodbye' is said in many different human languages, but still the meaning is all the same. While it's not necessary - but like beers best drunk with good friends, there are usually tears accompanying the word before, during, or long after it's being said. It's like the word itself driving the tears to come out of the eyes then roll down the cheeks. Magical, isn't it? It's even more powerful than voodoo, I think.

According to Merriam-Webster Dictionary, the etymology of the word 'goodbye' is the alteration of 'God be with you'. Oh! So after saying or hearing the word, one is expected to count on God to ease whatever pain as the effect of the certain word being chanted like an ancient, sacred prayer? But what about those who don't believe in God? Should they be destined to hear or say the word more and more until at a certain point they finally believe in His existence?

Don't Blame It On The Rain

2005-03-10T07:52:00.000+07:00

I learned this morning that as much as you can have the privilege to blame all the wrong things happened to you on the rain, or any other natural phenomena, or simply on others, but actually the blame is still more on yourself.

Out of routines, I stopped at a 24/7 Oh La La Cafe on my way to work. I thought I wanted to have a good day today, so I needed a good beginning. And a good beginning could mean a nice cup of caramel latte along with a chocolate croissant. Knowing it's something I didn't normally do was enough to get me feel uplifted. Let alone sipping the aromatic coffee with luscious caramel and milk in front of computer while checking my incoming emails.

I should've not let my hopes too high like so many other times before. While I was at the counter, my hope was shattered when the waitress told me they didn't have any more chocolate croissants left. So I had to be content with a beef and cheese pastry, which of course, was too heavy for my morning meal plan, for I'm gonna have a heavy lunch later today at another restaurant opening.

After 15-minute waiting for my orders, I already couldn't wait to reach the office as fast as possible that I didn't give a damn about the coffee cup's lid. The straw hole was wide open that eventhough the cup was tightly closed, still it leaked. The open air also caused the hot coffee lose its heat. If Joey of Friends has an absolute law of never sharing food, then mine is less hot coffee to start a day!

I just realized all that when already in a bus and saw the light brown coffee liquid all over the transparent plastic bag I had been carrying. It wetted my pastry bag as well, that yes, my breakfast was soaked. Had I known it when I was still at the coffee shop, I would have been bitchy about the open wide straw hole that ruined my good day's beginning!

But it was my fault. So I rest my case.

Green With Envy

2005-03-09T13:35:00.000+07:00

Seeing Sylvia Llewelyn-Davis (charmingly acted out by Kate Winslet) - a widowed mother with 4 young boys in Finding Neverland, I could only stare at the screen green with envy. It's so heartmelting the way she handles the boys, especially each time she calls them 'darling' with that adorable British accent.

I've always wanted to be exactly like her having 4 cute boys. (Even one of hers is named Michael - my baby boy's name!) Damn! I don't care if I don't have a partner to raise them. I've never wanted a husband, anyway! Well, I thought I wanted to have one, but then I realized that he would be nothing but burden instead of help. Besides, I've always been good with kids, but never with men - though kids would eventually grow into men. After all, when the kids have turned into men, they would be someone else's problems, ie. their lovers or wives, not mine anymore. But who knows I might be long gone by the time they're really men.

But it seems I have to let go of having 4 boys dream. In fact, I've let it go for good now. Above and beyond, I just can't let my very flesh and blood live in this corrupt world. But if I'm ever gonna make it till 30 and feel like handling the responsibility of being a parent, I might just adopt some unfortunate boy from an orphanage. I'll still name him Michael and love him like he's my own. I'll educate him so well that when he grows up, girls would surely kiss the ground he's walking on!

Smells Like Teen Spirit

2005-03-09T09:57:00.000+07:00

I once read in an Oka Rusmini novel that the sweat of lower class men's is arousing. That very statement, of course, puzzled me.

It's not that higher class men don't smell. There are, in fact, some who do - though they have all the privilege to afford expensive deos. Let alone purchasing expensive perfumes at duty free shops of international airports all over the world. It seems they're just too stupid to brush up as well as put universal knowledge on body hygiene into practice. But by far, none of sweat - innocently concentrated in the under arm areas - of those I bumped into in public places: from those clad in Armani in a fancy restaurant to those clad in worn, torn, dirty T-shirt holding a bowl and asking people for money I've ever found arousing. No. Never!

This morning I was just trying to concentrate on finishing a long pending article, while 2 mechanic guys who were apparently bestowed with not so good smell fixing my next cubicle colleague's computer. Gosh, their body odor was hideous that earlier I had to go somewhere where the odor particles weren't scattered around the air I breathed!

Bless the souls of those who invented deo and those who kept improving it! As well as bless the souls of those who know what body hygiene is all about!

Note: No wonder Nirvana wrote a hit song Smells Like Teen Spirit. Affirmed by a friend's sex story I've been told recently, teens do smell. Again, it has nothing to do with social hierarchy. It's the crazy hormones just got started active. And maybe limited allowance to buy deo, if not being clueless about body hygiene.

All At Once

2005-03-08T11:07:00.000+07:00

All at once I realized why it's so difficult to let go of a past love affair. It's just difficult to picture someone - though I've put into a box labelled 'the past' - move on with his life without me in it.

I'm going to be replaced. And that's not really easy to cope with. As much as I'm gonna have another lips to kiss or another smile to brighten my days, still it hurts a little knowing he'll kiss another lips or be captured by another smile other than mine.

All at once I'm left with just memories. And sometimes even good memories hurt.

Baby Blues

2005-03-08T08:05:00.000+07:00

Last week I went to see a colleague whose wife just delivered a baby boy at a hospital. As always, ever since I had the courage to hold a few-day old fragile infants in my sloppy hands, I tried to do the same.

The baby finally woke up. Yay! Then I got my chance to hold him. But as soon as my hands brought the little thing closer to my chest, funny, I didn't feel happily thrilled like before when I had a cute, little version of humankind with me. Instead, I felt terribly sorry for the baby for being born into this gloomy world.

"Hey kid, your days of sleeping peacefully are numbered!" I silently warned him.

Not having the heart to imagine such miserable life having in store for him, I returned the baby into the mother's arm as I told him in a telepathy way: "I'm sorry kid, I can't hold you and watch you grow in this world full of hearts being broken and people being used. Meet me when you're much much older and bitter and perhaps turned into a commitment phobic, then yea, maybe at that time I can finally have the guts to hold you close to me!"

Ode To Raindrops Falling On My Head

2005-03-08T07:28:00.000+07:00

When you're in grief and the universe is mourning with you - through the cloudy sky so grey, the heavy rain decorated with lightning so blazing up the horizon, the raging wind bending the trees so wild and choreographing the grasses a ballet repertoire so chaotic - then chances are, yes, all of a sudden you'll feel a bit better.

Misery loves company. And no words in my vocabulary could ever be enough to thank the universe for mourning with my heartache this morning.

Good Morning Heartache
written by Irene Higginbotham / Ervin Drake / Dan Fisher

Good morning heartache
You old gloomy sight
Good morning heartache
Thought we said goodbye last night
I tossed and turned until it seems you have gone
But here you are with the dawn
Wish I forget you, but you’re here to stay
It seems I met you
When my love went away
Now everyday I stop I’m saying to you:
"Good morning heartache, what’s new?"
Stop haunting me now
Can’t shake you no how
Just leave me alone
I’ve got those Monday blues
Straight to Sunday blues
Good morning heartache
Here we go again
Good morning heartache
You’re the one
Who knows me well
Might as well get used to you hanging around
Good morning heartache
Sit down

And make yourself at home! Care for a cup of coffee to warm up your coldness?

The First Time

2005-03-07T10:32:00.000+07:00

One of my dreams came true last weekend. Finally, I got to see Laura Fygi - The living Goddess of jazz on stage singing, dancing, talking, and joking the whole hour away in her sexy voice. Claiming to be numb that I was, paradoxically I did shed a tear when she was singing The First Time. Before starting the song she said to the audience in an overcrowded room: "I want you all to close your eyes and remember once again your first time. For all your first time, this song is for you!"

Killer Heels

2005-03-02T08:02:00.000+07:00

Heels kill! Not only for the person wearing the shoes equipped with Earth-poking spears, but also for any living creatures around the person concerned. And does anyone know the fact that the majority of sexy stilettos and high heels have very smooth and slippery soles? Go ahead wear those killer shoes to work on a public transport if you love the thrill of danger. Danger of falling flat on your butt or getting stiffness in lower legs, ankles and feet that can easily cripple them (temporarily or even, permanently).

I took the bus to work this morning. And since no driver in this whole wide nation has a proper license (including myself), it explains why they can't even hit the brake properly under a normal circumstance, that each time they have to cause the passengers got all shook up, ranging from mild to 5 on a richter scale.

There was a woman in a neat business attire and a stiletto about to get off the bus. The driver stepped wildly on the brake that she had to trip and almost fall on her arse because her evil-invented shoes didn't support her body well. When she tried to hold on to any handle within her reach, her heel crushed my exposed toe. I screamed and cursed so hard over my smashed toe that other passengers could only give me simpathetic looks.

I plan to sue stiletto manufacturers, especially the world's renowed stiletto designer, The One And Only Manolo Blahnik. My injured toe needs justice it so deserves. Do design something without heels and less than US$ 450 a pair, will you Mr Blahnik, then I'll forgive that woman's deed - though her shoes aren't your label. (I don't think she can't afford your shoes) No humankind can ever afford to buy your shoes. No one can, other than the filthy rich or world class celebrities.

Stilettos give a much sexier walk? I don't think so. My bleeding and swollen toe doesn't think so. And surely neither does she - that woman stepped on my toe. Afterall ... stiletto to work? Oh woman, come on!!!

Do Coffee

2005-03-01T13:04:00.000+07:00

He said: "I think we should do coffee some time." I thought: "It's safer to talk here on this magical cyber wire where we don't have to look into each other's eyes."

He's the kind of person I could easily... No, no coffee!!!

Hell! Why not? Just a cup of coffee over A Clockwork Orange and Nigella Lawson chats then leave. Leave and never look back. Leave then strengthen the fort around my heart. Leave as recall the excruciating pain of allowing someone to cross further my path.

Saturday Is the Loneliest Day of the Week

2005-02-28T12:26:00.000+07:00

The only good thing about weekend is that I don’t have to work. That’s it. If I don’t have to work, then I don’t have to get up at 6 (or earlier) to avoid the crazy traffic. If I don’t have to get stuck in rush hour traffic, usually I’ll have a better mood all day long. If I have a better mood then I’ll forget my suicidal thoughts. But that’s it. That’s all goodness a weekend has.

But the whole picture of it lately is a torture.

Starting when I wake up from sleep and roll over on my colder side of the bed, he’s not there snoring or passing his hell of early morning gas. Not even a bulge of his morning erection pushing through our shared blanket. When I walk to the bathroom to pee, no sleepy voice asking where I am going or what the time that particular moment is, sometimes using his mother tongue. (He’s still very much under beta waves influence that he forgot he was talking to someone having no idea what he was talking about!)

Then when I come down to the kitchen and fix myself a coffee, it’s gonna be me, myself, and I drinking it alone without having to see him tear off a sachet of brown sugar. Nobody calls me ‘sugar bitch’ anymore when I keep adding sugar in my stubbornly bitter, strong, black coffee.

When I go to the living room to check out the world outside through the living room’s window, I see his shadow sitting on one of the couches talking to father and eating noodle soup. I still feel like seeing him demonstrating to mother how devoted pilgrims pray at a miracle place in Fatima, Portugal.

Then a text alert sound from my cell phone distracts my silent memory. It’s one of my friends asking me to go out. I quickly reply a yes, for I still don’t have anything marked on my weekend agenda. After sending out the text, my fingers usually can’t resist the temptation of not scrolling down to see some of the texts he ever sent. Even seeing his name still written there never fails to make my heart jump up to my throat. Let alone reading his: “I guess I’m sleepless when thinking about you. XXX”

Then I try to read the morning paper. It’s less fun because I don’t have him to fight over who’s to read the English newspaper first. For that reason, I don’t even have any interest in touching the English and Bahasa newspapers lying on a coffee table. And besides, nobody reads me the business section from the English newspaper anymore, as in return, I then would read him the latest political news from Bahasa newspaper. Since I walked out of his life, my mornings are without discussions on the best ways to reduce traffic jams in Jakarta or arguments about normal delivery over caesarian operation.

Bored with the newspaper, when I turn on the TV, it’s also less fun because now I have the remote control for myself. Nobody insists on watching CNN when I want to see E! Channel.

When I drag my lazy ass to get some refreshing shower before meeting my friend, there’s no longer him in front of the basin sink with a face covered with shaving cream while letting the tap on. Now I don’t have to yell at him from the shower: “Preserve the water, Hon! Water is scarce. If you want our grandchildren to still have the luxury of drinking clean, plain water, close the goddamn tap!”. And of course, there’s no longer a voice replying with half closed lips (to avoid from swallowing the shaving cream): “I need to keep the goddamn tap on to shave properly! You're a woman, what do you know about shaving?”

After shower, when I’m confused if I have to wear a red, silk top or a white, cotton top, he’s not around for me to ask his opinion.

When I’m finally all set to go out in a green, cotton-polyester top, starting the engine of the car and the radio automatically on, there's Mick Jagger of the Rolling Stones singing Paint It Black. He worships the Rolling Stones like the Hindu worship Shiva or Carrie Bradshaw worships Manolo Blahnik.

Driving down the typical busy streets on Saturday afternoon, I don't know why each minute I see 1992 Mercedes Benz. When I see it in a particular blue color, my heart skips a beat.

A few traffic lights and jams later, I arrive at the place I should meet my friend. Since almost all Jakartans are in that particular place, he or she suddenly calls telling me that the restaurant we should have lunch at is full, so he or she has found a table at a Japanese restaurant on so and so floor. When I come to that restaurant, my hungry friend is already eating a tuna sashimi for a starter. My heart twiches knowing it's one of his all time favorite food. Nobody I can argue with anymore over which among tuna and salmon is more expensive during eating those thin, orange slices. And after meal I still can’t stop the contagious European habit of having a cup of coffee to wash out the food taste lingering in my mouth.

Then the dusk finally comes down, another friend calls to meet up at another place to have a drink. Not only I gasp for air when seeing him/her already waiting for me with a bottle of Bintang, but also when I enter the lounge, the background music being played is Santana’s Corazon Espinado – his favorite requested song whenever we went to places with live music. And when I take a glance to a bunch of gentlemen at the next table, I let out a big sigh because those guys are smoking red Marlboro cigarettes. The strong smell of the smoke is so familiar that it goes right to my head and straight to the folds of my memory.

A few cocktails and good conversations later, I go home. When I switch on the TV, as if not enough of torturing me all day, there’s an InterContinental Bali Resort advertisement on Star World. My hands are trembling but too helpless to change the channel. When seeing the beautiful resort’s sunset bar, the beach, the swimming pool, the club room, the garden, I simply lose breath. Once upon a time, we had the time of our lives at the very same place I see before my eyes on TV screen.

That's why every weekend I cross my fingers hoping it would soon be Monday.

Red, Puffy Eyes Are Back

2005-02-25T19:01:00.000+07:00

I don't expect to turn back the time
To when we cuddled it felt like
Being wrapped in a bubble
As if the rest of the world disappeared
I just humbly hope
If anyone could give me a slightest clue
How long's a tear take to dry
For mine keeps rolling down, down, down
down, down, down, down
down, down, down
down, down
down

I'm A PhD

2005-02-25T08:36:00.000+07:00

If men were my learning lessons, then perhaps I would've already held a PhD by now. Imagine how cool it is, a PhD! Imagine how many people on this Earth actually having that degree? Not many, I believe. I could arrogantly put it behind my name as if it's a status symbol certifying I'm bigger than other people's life. And at the same time it makes my own name I always hate suddenly sound better.

Why is it we're always forced to take lessons from whatever life experiences we have? Can't we just confirm an experience or two as a meaningless malfunction? Like I still don't see any lesson I should learn till now from someone saying something about reducing the geographical distance between us only to find the next day he's the one who drew the emotional distance ever further. What fucking is that? A practical joke? Thank you very much. No need to entertain me, cause I prefer to laugh at some slapstick actions in cheap comedy movies like those with Rob Schneider or Adam Sandler in it!

Sick Feeling After Watching "Closer"

2005-02-23T11:16:00.001+07:00

The minute I switched off my DVD player after the end credit of Closer, I got the same exact feeling when I stepped out of a cinema after watching Manchurian Candidate. It was the familiar I-hate-the-world-it-makes-me-sick kind of feeling! The movie indeed made me sick of relationships, though I never consider myself as a relationship person! Fuck, I'm not going in there again!, that's what I said to myself, as taking out the disc of the player.

In short, Closer is the story of two couples and the hurtful actions they take and the emotional rollercoaster they go through in the name of love. It shows stages of most relationships: the encounter, the love, the deception, and finally the separation. Love looks cheap in this movie, like how easy it is for Dan (Jude Law) to say the so-called sacred 3 little words as if it's just a game of self-justification for him. (Perhaps it's no epiphany that most people's motives in any relationship are selfish!) "Lying is the currency of the world" True. That's why cheating on each other is pretty much justified, if one wants to be a part of world trade.

The only good thing happens in this movie is Blower's Daughter soothingly sung by Damien Rice in the beginning and the end of it!

To wrap up, I don't recommend Closer for those who don't want to feel any worse about relationships, or the world at a greater point.

What A Little Romance Can Do

2005-02-23T07:54:00.000+07:00

At a book store yesterday, I bumped into someone from work who has been branded as vicious. She's everything what a typical sexually frustrated spinster most people tend to label: rude, bad-tempered, sharp-tongued, envious, bitter - you name all the known witches or bitches' traits, they're all in her. This super fat woman in her mid 40's (not sure, I just guessed it from her grey hair) behaves the way she does (I think) because all of her life she never feels attractive, because people might have always mocked her body size. (I wish I could've told her that real women have real curves!) To her, the world and the people dwelling in it are always too cruel, so she needs to build her own protection that it will avoid her from getting hurt. If that thing has been going on for long, then no wonder one can turn into a hardened, fucked-up, used-up, and cold soul.

She's kind of cute actually. (If only she realizes it!) She has fair skin other darker skinned girls could only dream of while using all those whitening products and a pair of clear brownish eyes I could only envy.

I smiled at her when I happened to stand next to her at Fiction shelves. She just looked at me coldly without smiling back. I sighed and walked away, but I smiled to myself when I saw her holding 2 Harlequins - cheesy romance novels in her hands.

Then yes, there's still some tenderness in her!

Guardian Angels Do Exist

2005-02-22T14:54:00.000+07:00

I think they do. At least to me. Here's why.

Last night I went shopping for a white bag at Galeria's Taman Anggrek. (My mood is no longer pink lately, but has turned to white, so I have to stock up my wardrobe with more white stuff!) When I laid eyes on a big, white bag - just exactly what I wanted - as if conducted by the unknown power of shoppers' universe, my hand automatically searched for its price tag. But damn it! It wasn't there! Things just have a way of never being found when you're really looking for them, right? So I asked a plain-Jane shop assistant standing with shop-assistant's-typical-blank stare between bag shelves, if she could tell me how much the object of my affection was. She tried to find to the same model in different color, but to no avail. I urged her if she could check out for the price someplace else, for I wanted the bag really bad. She suggested me to go for the same model in different color which I strongly said "no". Furious of not getting any solution, I went to look around for another white bag. When I came back to the first place that I was, she called out to me. I followed her where she then opened a cupboard nearby, pulled out a pile of what looked like receipts, and she told me the bag cost Rp 400.000 but it's 50% off. I asked where she knew it, while previously she seemed so hopeless of not knowing how or where to ever find out the bag's price. She said it's all written on the pink carboned sheets she waved at me. Since I was in euphoric state of a new relationship with my white bag, I quickly said "yes" to her for the bag. When she disappeared to God-knows where to make me an invoice, some voice within told me to go to the same shelf where I first got my beloved white bag. I did what I was told. My eyes spotted a price tag of the bag from the same brand but in smaller size. It was written only Rp 165.000. OK, so the bag I had chosen was like 30% bigger than the one having Rp 165.000 price tag, then it would only be logical if the price was also 30% more expensive. Then I tried to find again an exact same model in different color in that shelf, and voila, I found one in black with a price tag on it. It's written Rp 250.000. Fuck! That asshole shop assistant tried to fool me! Being suspicious, I went to find her to ask if she really gave me the right price by showing her the twin black bag. She said the white bag was indeed more expensive than the black one. She expected me to believe that bullshit? Of course. But then I, in my bitch mode, told her that even if it's more expensive, it couldn't be that far different, especially if they had the same code: 7224 (for the black and the white), so the price couldn't be different. I forced her to show me the paper indicating the bag was really worth Rp 400.000. She looked intimidatingly uneasy then told me if I wanted to go for the same price with the black one, she could do something for me. With boiling blood rushing to my head, I snapped at her: "I don't fucking care about the price and I would pay as it is, as long as there is a proof of the exact price! But if you're playing with a customer like this, I'm the one who can do something for you, which is reporting your evil game to the store manager!" Then she quickly tore the price tag off the black bag and put it on my white bag. Screw her, but I could get away with my heart's desire white bag with only Rp 125.000 after being discounted 50%.

On the way back from that malevolent mall, I was stopped by a policeman, for I took the wrong lane. It was a lane to turn right, while I wanted to go straight. (I wasn't familiar with the road that I did that stupid mistake) Anyways, when a police signed me to pull over with his light sabre, again that little voice told me to stay calm. To be frank, I could never be calm when it comes to being stopped by police! They get me panicky big time! When I rolled down my car's window, he saluted me with his fake smile then told me what I did wrong. I quickly admitted my mistake then said my apology while handing him the license and car's document he asked. When he saw the company I work for on the document, without much further ado he then gave back everything I had handed him. (People working in my company telling themselves are journalists being hurry to cover some news to get away from police - and it always works miracles, I don't know why!) He said: "I watch you a lot on TV. Just go now!" Hurray!!! And it lasted less than 5 minutes before he let me get away with the biggest grin on my face. I didn't even give a damn who he was mistaken me for when he said he saw me a lot on TV.

It wasn't a bad day yesterday. And I guess I do have guardian angels watching over me on both shoulders. It can also be my dead dog, Sweepie. I read in a book a long time ago that dogs, when they die, they will still look after their previous masters.

Coffee And Me

2005-02-21T15:49:00.000+07:00

The only company I could really get up close and personal with from now on will be my coffee. And if it's just made right: the right amount of milk and sugar and (sometimes) cinnamon powder, I'll find comfort with either, some, or all of these:
1. a little drop of rain
2. a warm blanket
3. a good movie
4. a good book
5. a notebook
6. good music
7. happy memories
8. my dog sleeping on my lap
9. my broken heart
10. my left-over dreams

and most of all, half-cooked kue cubit!!!

Dear P (Another Unsent Item)

2005-02-21T09:26:00.000+07:00

Hi, P! It's me again. I wanted to tell you that although it wasn't in my weekend plan, I finally went to our little secret place again last weekend - that open-air patio between flowery trees where we used to sit on its staircase and just talk the night away. I didn't remember there was a small pond in the middle of the patio. Do you? I don't know if it's just my lousy memory or I was always too busy enjoying your company that I only had eyes for you.

Do you remember the last time we were there, it was a full moon night decorated with a few stars above and gentle breezes around? If God had wanted to end my life, I would've chosen that particular occasion. I was so loved and happy and safe and warm and comfortable and content, that I didn't mind dying and going to hell that way.

Those twin orange buildings have been turned into a shopping mall, by the way. But it's good, though, they didn't take away our little secret place. And I was also glad when I saw a bunch of teenagers carrying on our little habit at that place. I seemed like feeling your presence when I looked at them simply sitting around and talking the night away at that little patio of ours.

On the way back from a karaoke last night, I also passed your apartment - our little love nest. Ever since I could manage to take that street where you used to live again, whenever I'm in front of that pink painted building, I always drive slowly just to have a quick look at A1/C8 on the 6th floor. It's been occupied by another tenant because the lights were on when I saw it from outside. I hope whoever staying there now, they would find happiness like we did.

I don't know how many more tenants after you left that 2-greenish-bedroom apartment, but I bet neither of them has ever switched all the lights off, taken a sofa out to the balcony, fixed 2 glasses of whatever fruit juice mixed with whatever vodka could be found at some hypermarket nearby. Yes, I bet neither of them has ever sat on a sofa and drunk heavenly Screw Drivers and gazed at the starless, polluted night sky, and yet felt like seeing the Orange Colored Sky. But we mostly gazed at that giant digital clock at the top of a nearby building, didn't we? Do you remember how we both cursed at the clock for ticking too quickly? (Clocks did always tick much too quickly whenever we're together and I always died a little everytime we said goodbye!)

All too soon
We had to part
The moment you had touched my heart
And with you went my dream
All too soon

All too sweet
Was our affair
And you put all the sweetness there
What a shame that it’s gone
All too soon

I knew the strange delights
That only you in love could bring
And as I reached the heights
The bottom fell from everything

You should know as well as I
Our love deserves another try
For we whispered goodbye
All too soon
Too soon

There, the First Lady of Song on my CD player is singing that beautiful piece with her voice so beautiful that it's giving me chills! Yes, I wish the sky would've fallen down on me when we sat there at the patio, then maybe I didn't have to listen to your goodbye. I hate that word, don't you know that?

A Random Act Of Kindness

2005-02-18T17:02:00.000+07:00

Trying to cheer me up, a gay friend of mine gave me a number of his new contact from his gay circle. Five minutes earlier, he was enthusiastically describing what this guy looks like: a Costa Rican - which I imagine would look like a Ricky Martin, possesses such a libido-throbbing body, and probably a good dancer (hmm ... a good dancer makes a good partner in bed!) When he told me his name was Enrique, I could feel my mouth drooling in saliva.

He: Here, write down his number. Hopefully he's a bi.
I: Are you nuts? This guy is gay!
He: We don't know yet if that's a fixed bargain. There's always a possibility that he's also a bi.
I: What would I do with his number?
He: Try to call him. Talk to him. Charm him.
I: He's a gay for God's sake!
He: Just write his number down and call him if you've changed your mind.

How sweet that he wanted to help me find a man! But it's funny. It's weird. I didn't see it coming. I felt like the world's biggest, shameful failure for getting a gay contact. I feel like laughing now. Wait, let me just do it. Hahahahahahaha! Oh my!!!

Lullaby of Birdland

2005-02-18T08:36:00.001+07:00

Even in shitty times, life can throw a little portion of joy at some deprived souls as myself. Pardon my selfpity which lately I've found as a leisure pursuit.

I went out last night with a gay friend whose presence I always treasure, for he never fails to give me natural highs. So there we were sitting at a corner table; me eating a bowl of boiling French soup (creamy chicken & mushroom soup top-wrapped with soft pastry bread) and my regular borrowed heaven of hot mocca latte, and him eating French soup too (lured by seeing me eating it greedily) and something tasting like lime squash.

I unconsciously picked a cafe ala Francais for our little rendevouz. (I don't know with this French thingy, somehow I could feel the cosmic power drawing me even stronger lately)

Anyways, when hearing this cheerful tune of Lullaby of Birdland being played, after only a few words sung by the legendary Ms. Fitzgerald, I instantly shrieked: "I love this song!!!", which he replied: "Me too!!!" Then as if the world belonged to just the two of us, we ended up singing along to the song. No, it was actually just him singing with his adorable baritone voice, while I was just humming it, cause I didn't know the lyrics.

However, here are the lyrics, in case you feel like singing like my friend and I did last night:

Lullaby of Birdland
(sung beautifully, lightheartedly and playfully by Ella Fitzgerald)

Lullaby of birdland, that's what
I always hear when you sigh
Never in my wordland
Could there be words to reveal
In a phrase how I feel

Have you ever heard two turtle doves
Bill and coo when they love
That's the kind of magic
Music we gain from our lips
When we kiss

And there's a weepy ol' willow
He really knows how to cry
That's how i cry in my pillow
If you should tell me
Farewell and goodbye

Lullaby of Birdland whisper low
kiss me sweet and we'll go
Fliyin' high in Birdland
High in the sky up above
All because we're in love

I wish! Hell yes, her voice singing that song reminded me of what little happiness really felt! I can have a lot of good songs like that and forget about my morose days. That song indeed took my very soul to France - the promised land I yet voyage. And as if intending to perk my rainy night up, the song was repeated by whichever generous soul in charge for the background music for at least 7 times. My soul abundantly thanked him/her.

And above all, I love having moments with people who matter to me. That little investment will live on long after I'm gone from this world.

Grotesque Rage

2005-02-17T08:27:00.000+07:00

Now I really understand why I named this blog Grotesquerage. It’s more than because the word ‘grotesque’ captured me after it's constantly being said by Riri Riza – Indonesia’s promising, young director - at last year’s JiFfest when he was judging entries for short film competition.

Somehow I have such repressed anger - when it comes to men, in particular. Such as now. My hands are still trembling from anger I just burst it out open at some stupid male chauvinist pig in the form of a metromini driver.

As every Jakartan knows that getting into a race with other metrominis is the drivers’ little amusement between their depressing working hours. Understanding that, about 100 m before my stop, I already told the driver to stop by knocking on the roof. But he just kept on driving the fucking metromini that I had to keep on knocking... harder and more frantically. I didn’t have that much patience as any other getting off passengers before me who went through the exact same thing like I did. Thank you, no! But then again I was very cranky, which always happens whenever I‘m hungry. (Well, I skipped lunch today because I was too busy to even grab something to eat)

As I kept on knocking, he kept on driving madly. The more I knocked, the more he drove. Out of uncontrolled temper, I hit him lighty on the shoulder with the laptop I've been carrying. He, of course, got more furious then yelled the dirtiest words ever invented at me. The more he yelled at me, the more I yelled back at him with the same dirtiest words I could think of. Fuck! I threatened him to report his fucking ass to the police, knowing there was a police station nearby. But damn, he wasn’t afraid and still kept on driving. I even showed him my middle finger. One last attempt, I gathered all my energy then screamed at the top of my lungs to make him stop the goddamn vehicle. He didn't listen. He even told me to jump out the fucking moving orange thing instead. Supposed there was a folded knife in my bag, I was sure I was gonna stab him right there in front of everybody. I didn’t fucking care if I had to spend 10 years in jail for killing that bastard. For the love of God, then yes, he finally stopped. But it was already 500 meters from my stop.

Looking back, that guy could’ve jumped out of his driver’s seat and attacked me when I hit him with my laptop. But miraculously I wasn’t in the least afraid of him. I didn’t know I got that much guts, for normally I would switch into my Gandhi's Ahimsa mode, as it's useless to fight off some asshole like him.

Man, some hilarious occurrence it was! Now I’m writing this from some noodle place. As eating my wonton noodle, my fingers started to ache from too much knocking the roof of metromini too hard.

Academy of The Right-Things-To-Say Arts

2005-02-16T08:38:00.000+07:00

I've been thinking of opening a school for men. The curriculum's main aim is to make them know to say the right things, in particular when it comes to talking with women. Here are a few examples of wrong lines men usually throw at women when talking. And let's have a look why these lines are said to be wrong that they should've left unspoken:

1. "One of the good things of marrying you is I can finally fuck you without condoms!"
Although it much is true, saying it shows how you only see a woman as merely a cunt attached to her body. Thus, it shows how shallow you are as a so-called human being bestowed with brains and conscience.

2. "You know the Chanel perfume I gave you is very very expensive."
At any time, it's just unacceptable to mention anything about the price of the gift you have given to someone - be it expensive, or not. Just hand it away and say: "I hope you like it" without any further hints of how precious it is.

3. "I'm not ready for a commitment because I don't think I can picture myself with only 1 woman for the rest of my life. But don't get me wrong, I still feel for you!"
If you're not ready, then just shut the fuck up. Keep it best for yourself. That's your own problem, anyway, not hers. Saying "I still feel for you" definetely doesn't soothe her or make her feel any better. "Part-time love just brings me down", says George Michael when he was still with Wham! singing Freedom ... and it's true for most women.

4. "It's sickening to see my business partner having to call up his faraway wife everyday and tell her "I love you, honey, so much"!"
Again, if you're sick of it, keep it for yourself. Besides what's sickening for you doesn't mean it's sickening for others.

5. "I think I have to find somebody to finish these remaining condoms with. Just for sex! You don't mind, do you?"
If you wanna have sex with others, just do it. You don't have to brag to your woman that you did or you will, for it's not only you who's capable of sleeping with others, she can too. And if she really does, do you not mind or is your ego not damaged?

6. "Don't you think it's fun to meet every 3 months for 2 weeks? We go places and have great sex in those beautiful places?"
It's indeed fun if only 2 months earlier you hadn't said you wanted to get serious with her.

So, anyone interested in being an investor or a partner in running my school? I project in less than one year we can already reach Break Even Point, as there are a lot of men out there who don't know how to say the right things, that they unconsciously ruin good things might ever happen to their lives. Such a shame, isn't it? Let's help them, then!

Regrets For Not Watching "About A Boy" A Long Time Ago

2005-02-16T07:44:00.000+07:00

I watched About A Boy last night to get me sleep. It tells about Will (Hugh Grant), a 38-year-old Londoner who loves dating all variety of women for uncomplicated sex and is fixed about not getting too attached to them, for he believes in the antithesis of "no man's an island" - all men are indeed islands.

All through the movie, I seemed like seeing J's life being put on my TV monitor. Damn! I should've watched that movie a long time ago, so when I met him, I wouldn't have fallen into any of his bullshit. (I wasn't in the least interest in watching the movie when it's first released because I never liked Hugh Grant and his stupid British accent. I normally adore British accent, but coming from him, it doesn't sound cute at all to my ears! But OK, I guess from now on, I shouldn't build any resentment toward any movie stars, so that it won't keep me from watching their movies)

J, if you read this, here's a piece of advice: date single moms. They are the best choice you can get for easy liaisons: they're appreciative, and yet commitment free. Sex will also be good with them, for they have been lonely and abandoned their sexual needs. Not to mention, when you're tired of them, breaking up will be easy. In fact, they'll the one who break up with you first out of guilt of neglecting their child(ren).

Anyway, I'm not a good a storyteller, just go watch About A Boy. It's your whole life in it! (and mine also as one of the extras!)

Good Things On Capitalist Victimized Day

2005-02-15T13:39:00.000+07:00

This year's V's Day fell on Monday. Some people in the office (even my colleague with 8 years of marriage) left much earlier so they could take their loved ones out for a romantic evening, whatever that was. For my stingy company, of course, it was an act of energy saving which has been long expected from the workers, for there were less people chatting on the net, or leaving the computer on till late, or talking on the phone very long as usual. And since they had to leave early, they made the use of their working time very efficiently. No taking 3-hour lunch to go pirated DVD hunting in Glodok whatsoever.

When driving my colleague home from attending a V's party at some hotel, it was 10 PM and the traffic was a bit clearer than it was 3 hours before. Having been driving in Jakarta for my entire adult life, I've come to know pretty well the Jakartan drivers' attitudes. But last night - I don't believe this myself! - nobody seemed to be in a rush as to cut out lanes, get constantly ahead of everybody, or get impatient at slow drivers. In fact, everybody was slow driver last night! There were only very few cars taking the fastest lanes. People were having the tendency to have a joy ride. (Even on Sunday or at midnight hours of any given days, I was still given lights or honks whenever I tried to have a joy ride!)

I was almost sure the guys in those slow cars burst I-love-you-would- you-be-my-girlfriend line to their female companions. Or at least they tried to gather the guts to spill the line out. It wouldn't have been so hard, though, because all radio stations were playing love songs at that moment, that it very much helped them build such romantic mood, so the girls they were with couldn't say anything else other than 'yes'. Even for lovers in those slow cars, I bet they didn't feel like going home and calling it a day too quickly on that very special occasion created by capitalism.

That's why they all had a joy ride like I did. I wasn't even in love but it's kind of therapeutic to sing along to the love songs being played on the radio at the top of my lungs.

When I was in bed, a friend of mine texted me saying that he was amazed to find his favorite road-side soto place was so empty at 11 PM, which on any other days at that hour it was always full. Much to his surprise, all the soto items were still complete, as if nobody came to that place but him. Couples usually eating there that night might have preferred going to fancier places.

Oh how I love V's Day!

I Don't Hate V's Day

2005-02-15T12:00:00.000+07:00

I changed my mind. I've decided not to really hate V's Day anymore. Though in the morning yesterday I mocked each and every incoming text congratulating me Happy V's Day blah blah blah ... crap!

Yesterday, which happened to be a V's Day, was actually not a bad day for me, despite my miserable love life and just having stood up by some guy promising me a romantic dinner. However, what I got yesterday was even better than if I had had a love life or really gone to that dinner with him. I got a red rose alright, I got heart-shaped chocolates alright, I drank countless glasses of nice champagne at a fancy place alright, I was surrounded by charming guys and had nice conversations alright (this time they're straight, thank you!), I got V's card alright, I got compilation love songs CD alright, I got V's gift alright.

But most of all, I got beautiful friendship from beautiful people having beautiful souls.

The last text I received before I went to bed with a little kick from champagne was:
"I want you to know that there are people who really love and care for you. Anyway, I receive a glimpse of heaven by loving you!"

It was from one of my best friends. For the first time in a very long time, I went to sleep smiling.

Fortune Cookie Divination

2005-02-14T17:13:00.000+07:00

At a grand opening dinner of a Chinese restaurant in a hotel located in the heart of Jakarta, a piece of paper in my fortune cookie says: "You will win success in whatever calling you adopt"

I've been having a very strong calling to learn French lately. I’m gonna sign up next week at the nearest Centre Culturel Francais for 4-hour class every Saturday starting March. Hopefully I can manage to survive the first 5-month course and succeed in working on my French 'rrrrrrrrr' without having to embarrass myself! Well, even if I will - and I think I will - I don't care! It's not my mother tongue, anyway!

At a greater point, I really do hope something good finally has in store for me somewhere down the road by learning French. Backpacking to France? C'est si bon! Learning how to make wines in one of the châteaus in Bordeaux or one of the villages in Bourgogne? La vie en rose!

Decent Lads, Where Art Thou

2005-02-14T07:37:00.000+07:00

Waking up with another big, already-yellow pimple on my chin, when I turned off the buzzing alarm on my cellphone, I saw 1 new message. I pressed - and * buttons to keypad activate it. It was from the guy I should go to dinner with tonight.

"Chik, I'm truly sorry. I planned to call you later when I arrive in Jakarta. I have to cancel dinner tonite, I have to attend dinner hosted by a big client. Later I call you again."
Date: 14/02/2005, Time: 6:00:56 AM (Singapore time, 5:00:56 AM Jakarta time)

I don't care if he cancelled the dinner date. Really! But for the love of God of Good Manners, he could've had the courtesy to tell me at least 24 hours in prior, instead of throwing me I-planned-to-call-you-later-when-I-arrive-in-Jakarta line! By the time he would really call when he's landed at the airport, for example, I don't think he would remember calling me because he'd have so many other more important thoughts in mind than just an unimportant dinner date with someone unimportant. Correct me if I'm wrong.

So I think he would really call me long after he has landed in Jakarta. While it would really happen, I would've been in my dating mode for the whole long day - dressed to the nines, which would initially cost me 2 extra hours just to choose the right outfit to wear, which, yes, I would have to change for more or less 40 times before deciding the right one and make my room a lot worse than the sinking Titanic afterward. Then I would have to find the right shades of makeup matched with the outfit. Not to mention all this bullshit would be wrapped in high heeled shoes, which I would have to wear the whole day. (Carrying 2 pairs of shoes to work?! I don't fucking think so!) And I would also have to call up my boss to make an excuse to show up late at work, for I actually would stop by at a salon to get my hair done on the way to the office. What such a waste of time for such a frog?!

He could've at least right away replied my text sent at 8:51 PM (Jakarta time, 9:51 PM Singapore time) asking: 'Are we still on for a dinner tomorrow on the pseudo public holiday invented by greeting cards industry?'

I'm so not gonna answer his dinner invitation ever again. I've just been wondering - again and again - decent lads, where art thou???!!!