Would you rather to have loved and lost or not to have loved at all?
My muddled state of mind is in no competent allowance for an objective answer.
I miss the times when I was in the United States.
No, I do not miss the place per se. Given a choice that I could return right now, at this very moment- I would deny it. For literally, I miss the time when I was there, back in the days a year ago when I was but a crazy little fuck.
I've just gotten off the phone with Tammy, the sweet apple of my eye that had fallen off the American tree almost a year ago. Talking to her strangely felt liberating. It was as though I got reaquainted with who I was, that crazy little fuck. Suddenly my present life felt fake, it was as though all these while I was holding back onto something. That this person that I am today, is not who I am. I felt that who I am today was pretty much shaped by how my present society wanted me to be. Thus the feeling of liberation.
I am not complaining a bit about Malaysia. And I am not saying that I do not belong here. Maybe I do, maybe I don't. I am just feeling nostalgic and boy does Tammy look good nowadays, which makes me reflect upon myself. Not that I look like a hobo; when it comes to dressing up I would say I look better than average Malaysian dudes; I do not have a six-packed rock solid abs but I don't look like a slouch slacker either.
But somehow I feel that if I was in the US, I'd look better than I do now. However that is pretty much up in the air, for I had lotsa money when I was working there and over here, I am just a student living on my academic grant. One thing is for sure, when I start to earn my money again, I will be the most stylish dude in the whole of fuckin' town who is Not a faggot or a Derek Zoolander.
Of course physical appearance is of a concern to my well-being. I never claimed that I am not shallow or that I'd ever do a fat bitch. Actually I did a fat bitch(es), but let's not get into that. Only the shallow do not judge by appearance. Think about That.
I admit that I am a male bimbo but the saddest part bout this is that no one has yet made me eat my own shit unless that someone has in his/her prized possession an ultimate logic rationale system that is succiently shrewd to outmanouver mine. I am a debate geek. And the geek shall inherit the earth, biatch!
Of course all these bullshit is nothing more than just conceited sentences to make me feel less inferior that I already am right now. I am Stupid. Poor. Ugly. Bad-shaped. Egoistic. A virgin. Have a 12-inch schlong.
In one of my emo-mode right now. It really sucks when I see the first pronoun "I" being used indiscriminately thruout the entire post but boy do I miss Tammy Truong and the whole of fuckin' United States of America.
It's Halloween for god's sake and no one dressed up at all! Fuck. I can't wait to just fuckin' graduate and get a bachelor pad of my own. I promise you world, all you party animals that I'll get a home, a house and it'd be Party Central of fuckin' KL city after I graduate.
In that piece of shit home, we'll have a pool table, a foosball set, a bar complete with neon lights and all the motherfuckin' drinks you can find in this world to make you go blind, PS 3 and a 32-inch tv fuckin' mounted on the bloody wall with my BOSE sound system blasting all over the damn place. I'll have a kitchen stacked with herbs and most importantly flour and blueberry/strawberry, maple syrup, butter and milk for those special morning-after pancakes for the lucky lady. All doors will be locked during party. A three-bed room apartment with the hugest wardrobe closet in the whole damn country. Three fuckers living in. One room will be installed with the most powerful ventilation system and a special secret space to hide shit and a fuckin' imported from California vaporizer. That room will be called Weed Room. Enough said. In that room, there will be a gramophone and a vinyl record player placed next to a vermillion-red colored love couch and an awesome looking standing lamp. There will be a fuckin' huge shelf for all my books and Weed Room shall also be my Reading room. I am just vintage with all the gramophone and record player but at the same time I love to read what Foucault has to say 'bout Nietzche (nothing) while drinking a chilled glass of Merlot (don't care 'bout the quality 'cos I just wanna get drunk) after smoking some chaebas. And this awesome apartment of mine will be a service apartment like those around the Ascott area in town.
And while I am at that, I'd get so fuckin' hungry after smoking shit lotsa joints that I would wanna grab some grubs in the middle of the fuckin' nite. So I'd have no choice but to drive my bright-red Nissan 350Z Fairlady out to buy bread in my Armani sneakers because my buddy took out my Ducati 999. And while I am out at the 24 hour convenience store, Hannah Sarah Tan was out too 'cos she got back late from work and had to grab some bread for breakfast. We would break into conversation about breakfast which was only a coupla hours away and I'd strategically crack the part about me making the best pancake in town, at that point she would be so curious about this mysterious, affable, good looking guy in Armani, that she would have no choice but to drop hints about how her mom used to make her pancakes when she was little and our conversation made her thought of her childhood- those time when she was naive and innocent, when the world seemed so much more ideal. And at that moment we would both feel connected. As though we could relate to one another. With the girl working at the register staring at both of us who looked great under the moonlight, that somehow still managed to shine thru the freakin' roof of the convenience store. During that moment, we would inevitably inched closer to another, one moment passed to another until our lips finally entwined in an embrace of love at first sight. Three slices of blueberry pancake, one glass of cold milk and Nine months later, she would bear me a child of whom I'd name Damien, the Son of Satan. And he will rule the earth for a thousand years while Hannah and I vacationed at Bahamas for the rest of our lives.
Ah. I foresee a great life post-graduation. I don't understand why people complain so much all the time about how much it sucks to be in the real world where money does not grow on trees.
You just need to focus, work hard and all your dreams will come true. Like how mine did.
For a good three minutes.
My muddled state of mind is in no competent allowance for an objective answer.
I miss the times when I was in the United States.
No, I do not miss the place per se. Given a choice that I could return right now, at this very moment- I would deny it. For literally, I miss the time when I was there, back in the days a year ago when I was but a crazy little fuck.
I've just gotten off the phone with Tammy, the sweet apple of my eye that had fallen off the American tree almost a year ago. Talking to her strangely felt liberating. It was as though I got reaquainted with who I was, that crazy little fuck. Suddenly my present life felt fake, it was as though all these while I was holding back onto something. That this person that I am today, is not who I am. I felt that who I am today was pretty much shaped by how my present society wanted me to be. Thus the feeling of liberation.
I am not complaining a bit about Malaysia. And I am not saying that I do not belong here. Maybe I do, maybe I don't. I am just feeling nostalgic and boy does Tammy look good nowadays, which makes me reflect upon myself. Not that I look like a hobo; when it comes to dressing up I would say I look better than average Malaysian dudes; I do not have a six-packed rock solid abs but I don't look like a slouch slacker either.
But somehow I feel that if I was in the US, I'd look better than I do now. However that is pretty much up in the air, for I had lotsa money when I was working there and over here, I am just a student living on my academic grant. One thing is for sure, when I start to earn my money again, I will be the most stylish dude in the whole of fuckin' town who is Not a faggot or a Derek Zoolander.
Of course physical appearance is of a concern to my well-being. I never claimed that I am not shallow or that I'd ever do a fat bitch. Actually I did a fat bitch(es), but let's not get into that. Only the shallow do not judge by appearance. Think about That.
I admit that I am a male bimbo but the saddest part bout this is that no one has yet made me eat my own shit unless that someone has in his/her prized possession an ultimate logic rationale system that is succiently shrewd to outmanouver mine. I am a debate geek. And the geek shall inherit the earth, biatch!
Of course all these bullshit is nothing more than just conceited sentences to make me feel less inferior that I already am right now. I am Stupid. Poor. Ugly. Bad-shaped. Egoistic. A virgin. Have a 12-inch schlong.
In one of my emo-mode right now. It really sucks when I see the first pronoun "I" being used indiscriminately thruout the entire post but boy do I miss Tammy Truong and the whole of fuckin' United States of America.
It's Halloween for god's sake and no one dressed up at all! Fuck. I can't wait to just fuckin' graduate and get a bachelor pad of my own. I promise you world, all you party animals that I'll get a home, a house and it'd be Party Central of fuckin' KL city after I graduate.
In that piece of shit home, we'll have a pool table, a foosball set, a bar complete with neon lights and all the motherfuckin' drinks you can find in this world to make you go blind, PS 3 and a 32-inch tv fuckin' mounted on the bloody wall with my BOSE sound system blasting all over the damn place. I'll have a kitchen stacked with herbs and most importantly flour and blueberry/strawberry, maple syrup, butter and milk for those special morning-after pancakes for the lucky lady. All doors will be locked during party. A three-bed room apartment with the hugest wardrobe closet in the whole damn country. Three fuckers living in. One room will be installed with the most powerful ventilation system and a special secret space to hide shit and a fuckin' imported from California vaporizer. That room will be called Weed Room. Enough said. In that room, there will be a gramophone and a vinyl record player placed next to a vermillion-red colored love couch and an awesome looking standing lamp. There will be a fuckin' huge shelf for all my books and Weed Room shall also be my Reading room. I am just vintage with all the gramophone and record player but at the same time I love to read what Foucault has to say 'bout Nietzche (nothing) while drinking a chilled glass of Merlot (don't care 'bout the quality 'cos I just wanna get drunk) after smoking some chaebas. And this awesome apartment of mine will be a service apartment like those around the Ascott area in town.
And while I am at that, I'd get so fuckin' hungry after smoking shit lotsa joints that I would wanna grab some grubs in the middle of the fuckin' nite. So I'd have no choice but to drive my bright-red Nissan 350Z Fairlady out to buy bread in my Armani sneakers because my buddy took out my Ducati 999. And while I am out at the 24 hour convenience store, Hannah Sarah Tan was out too 'cos she got back late from work and had to grab some bread for breakfast. We would break into conversation about breakfast which was only a coupla hours away and I'd strategically crack the part about me making the best pancake in town, at that point she would be so curious about this mysterious, affable, good looking guy in Armani, that she would have no choice but to drop hints about how her mom used to make her pancakes when she was little and our conversation made her thought of her childhood- those time when she was naive and innocent, when the world seemed so much more ideal. And at that moment we would both feel connected. As though we could relate to one another. With the girl working at the register staring at both of us who looked great under the moonlight, that somehow still managed to shine thru the freakin' roof of the convenience store. During that moment, we would inevitably inched closer to another, one moment passed to another until our lips finally entwined in an embrace of love at first sight. Three slices of blueberry pancake, one glass of cold milk and Nine months later, she would bear me a child of whom I'd name Damien, the Son of Satan. And he will rule the earth for a thousand years while Hannah and I vacationed at Bahamas for the rest of our lives.
Ah. I foresee a great life post-graduation. I don't understand why people complain so much all the time about how much it sucks to be in the real world where money does not grow on trees.
You just need to focus, work hard and all your dreams will come true. Like how mine did.
For a good three minutes.
2 Comments:
it's good to have dreams. fuel for life. motivates one to get up and just read the damn textbook for the upcoming final exams. books and weed. gotta love that. my private fantasy is to have a library of my own. filled with books of all imaginings. all the best debate geek. and yeah masks are necessary evils. to survive the fake present for the real future.
Kit,
3 minutes is not that long of a time. If you want to make dreams come true, better work out so you could last longer. ;)
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