When I Grow Up...

I want to be Malaysia's first Emperor.

I want to be the President of the United States of America.

I want to drive an Aston Martin.

I want to be the senior editor of a well known magazine.

I want to own an armored tank that fires giant nerf rounds.

I want a laser tag war room in my own house.

I want to give my name a super long suffix and prefix when I become emperor.

The great, most noble, most desirable, most glorious, leader who brings pleasure to your toes and massages your kneck with the powers of his mind in ways that are most glorious, king of birds; but only birds that look pretty. Lord of animals that are endangered by the diabolical fascist regime of evilness, and fish that are tasty, Magnificent Joseph Wong the wowness of wongness, in aircraft, jetfighter, explosions in the sky.

I want to learn how to stiffle sneezes.

I would love to learn perfect etiquette.

I want to buy a mac book from macdonalds.

Love the Crab. Hate the Prawn.

I despise prawns. These horrible thingies that come cooked with their beady eyes still staring at you. Worse, you chop it's head off when it's still on your plate and it's mushy brains. Then the chef forces you to skin the headless prawn all by yourself. The worse part comes when you realize the black stuff you're eating is actually prawn poop. Lovely.

Crabs however, are fantastic! They come in a beautiful package with the smoothest shells ready for your eating pleasure. The best part is that eating it is an interactive joy! One needs to use a hammer and a nutcracker to get to the flesh inside. And once you get to the gastronomically glorious flesh, well; who cares. The whole fun was smashing the crab into bits. Lovely.

That's odd. I don't like prawns cause of the work to get to the flesh. But I love crabs for the same reason. How now?

Nerfing. (Part 1)

Non-Expanding Recreational Foam. NERF. This actually sounds more serious than 'paintball'

While studying, I came across a news article covering some guys who formed a small Nerfing community in Malaysia. These weren't your regular kids running amok with guns while screaming their heads off. These guys looked like people across different ages. My first thought was; these people have not known the wonders of the playstation. Then I realized that I recognized some of these faces! They were friends I know in Kl. Now why would they be playing nerf? 

For the uninitiated, Nerf is a brand name that manufactures 'blasters' or guns that fire foam darts. It was a groundbreaking invention some bored scientist created when he realized that foam didn't break stuff. So why not shape the foam into a sabot round and load it into a gun. After all, if he had fun playing with the dang thing, so would anyone who loved the thrill of competition and shooting bros after a hard day's work. It was a spectacular success. 

I believed Nerf was a kids toy, something your little brother would run about playing with his over frenzied friends.  But I couldn't help realizing that something in me was just shrieking to pick one of the numerous blasters my friend had to try them out. My inner child possessed my limbs and I found myself blasting my dear friend in his head with a foam dart. Just for the fun of it. 

A real ammunition.

Nerf ammunition. 

Then he pointed towards an atrocity. A monster. This humongous gun shaped like the perfect weapon of war. A machine gun. A nerfing machine gun. It was the belt-fed apex of a toy technology, and it fired pretty quick. Once you started up the machine, it hummed menacingly. Then you pulled the trigger. 

And a stream of foam darts jettisoned from the gun. 

Now at this point my inner child ripped apart my sternum, sliced open my chest and grasped the Nerf Machine gun with all his might. "Ok. Let's go play some nerf," I said. We divided ourselves into two teams, since there were only three people, it was a 2 vs 1. My friend had his machine gun. I had a minuscule revolver and my wingman had a watchmacallit blaster. Getting to the two sides, I heard the hum of the machine gun then, the splatter of foam shots smacking into our cover. I turned over to my wingman and he gave me a look that said," there's nothing we can do. Take one step and we'd be 'killed'. I must admit, I thought this game would be easier, but it wasn't. 

We had to wait till there was a pause in the hum of the gun and the percussion of the bullets till we could charge out with guns blazing. And we did. While our foe was still reloading his gun, my wingman took him out with a single blaster shot to the head. 

Now of course, this was just one spontaneous game my friends had obligingly arranged when I walked over to their house out of boredom. Many more battles followed

Fly Airport Fly

I am a proud student of a university, flying home back to land and nation. Walking past the glass sliding doors with my head held high, I feel like a swan. A beautiful white swan. So beautiful I almost started dancing. In fact, that's what I did, a little dance. A graceful sweeping ballet of beauty across the white marble floor of the airport terminal.

No, I was queuing up for my air ticket. But I did have my head held up high. 

I answered the stewardress woman at the cashier in a clipped, competent tone and smiled charmingly when she said, "have a nice flight." Oh yeah babeh, I am smooth like a dolphin's backside. 

Then, with a noble student-of-uni walk I marched towards the escalator. I was a picture of competence and culture. Like Brad Pitt in some movie about walking while looking cool-as-beans. I took the escalator up to where the airport security was. 

Hah. The airport security. I may be scrutinized, judged, investigated, and searched. But I am not guilty of anything. I am a student-of-university. 

I approached the guard with my handphone, lappie and belt in a tray. Then I looked him in the eye. "Is that all?" I asked. He pointed at my pant zip. It was gloriously open. 

Complete, resounding victory. 

Sitrep.

I am hugely busy. More so in the last few weeks. They've been chock-full of assignments, essays and projects. It's these wonderful times at the end of the year, when you realize you have to sleep at 3-4 am only to wake up at 7am to get assignments done. Thought challenging, I remain strangely joyous and happy. My health is fine too.

Whenever a uni student with an ocean load of paper work told me how lucky I was to still be in school; I scoffed and told him, "HAH. YEAH RIGHT." I find myself being that stressed uni student walking around campus with a starry zombiefied gaze, yelling to all high school student apocalyptically what awaits them.

I'm writing this in the library's glass roofed cafeteria while sipping ice coffee. The uni experience is fantastic!

 At times you just stop in your tracks to wonder how blessed you are to be afforded the privilege of studying at uni. My favorite place to stop and wonder: in a place covered with trees next to the library building. During Autumn or Spring, it's beautiful with red bricked buildings and walkways clothed with brown, yellow and reddish leaves. All bathed in gold light. Fantasy land? No. The walkway behind my library. 

I actually wrote this a week earlier while gearing up for assignments, and now that assignments are finished. I am free. Even as I am writing this, I'm in a room full of intensely studious exam preppers. Their faces twisted into energy from the caffeine they're gulping.

I remain chillaxed. Fly like a G6

Fly like a G6 

Fly like a G6

A G6 is a plane by the way.

This is its interior. I want one. 

Social Rules Learnt By Mr. Awkward. (Part 1)

I'm quite socially awkward. As such, I had to learn through trial and error what is socially correct and what's just not in good taste.


1. Never ever push food off a person's spoon. Especially if you don't really know the person. Cause this is rude.

Now in some cases this might be ridiculously funny. Understood, but in some other cases, this would probably label you as a barbaric Philistine whose mother never taught him some manners.


2. Do not call people "gay". It's just not a good idea.


3. Never look at a person's food when they are eating or cooking. They will feel obligated to invited you to eat, even when they don't really want to share their food. This may all seem like complete common sense, but when you're hungry...


4. Don't bother debating about matters of taste. It all ends in tears.

Screaming Justin Bieber/Edward Cullen/Beethoven is as dumb is a doornail will probably end in yelling matches. Children have cried over this.


5. Try to keep a calendar of who you're meeting up for appointments. If you don't, it's likely you'll arrange two things at the same time which results in instant GG.

Happens to me ALL THE TIME. That's why I keep a calendar.


6. Never ask a girl her age.

 Now I know this seems like me trying to look all goody-two-shoes and old fashioned, but its not. Thing is, if you ask a girl her age right off the bat, she'd probably think you're making a pass at her. Never a good thing.


7. Save all arguing for after you eat.

Do you really want to argue when you're on gorging nourishment? Save it after dessert. Everyone will be happy!


8. In matters of politeness, the hierarchy should look like this. Grandmas (grandparents), Ma Mas (parents), Ladies (the girls), peeps (yo hommies).

In Class..

The chic fashion of expression worn on your toes.

Red Ruby,blue and shinny colored epoxy.

Rappers call it ice cream, rockers think they’re indie.

I prefer mine canvas, nike, crafted ID.

Close My Eyes.

Ever had those moments when you felt absolutely happy. Perfectly joyous?

I had. This comfortable feeling of contentment washes over you. It's as if you know you're heading from point A to point B. You know where you're from, it's a dream. You know where you're going, it's a dream.

But right now, you're contented to realize where you've come and where you're headed.

That feeling of happiness.

I've had those feelings many times. Like a dream, things slow down, but you realize it'll be over in an instant. I close my eyes and memorize how I feel. I take in friend's voices, friend's laughter. I memorize the sun light, the fabric of the couch, the crispness of the air.

I wipe a tear from laughing too hard. I remember my friend's face, smiling. I look around and memorize more faces, each happy that they're here, that I'm here. Then I shut my eyes, and memorize everything.

 I memorize the warmth of acceptance. The feeling that I can do anything, but I am content right here.

Contentment. Maybe it's not just a moment.

Student Hunting/Gathering techniques.

I recall the all encompassing horror of my first self-cooked meal in Australia. 

Wondering where I would get food at 6pm, (all stores closed) I promptly panicked realizing I didn't have food in the fridge. FInding only some rice and tomato paste, a concoction formed in my culinary retarded skull. I had seen coffee stores serve rice with pasta sauce for obscene prices; perhaps I could cook something like that as well. 

After staring blankly at the rice cooker and the Preggo's tomato paste container for about five minutes, I set to work. An hour later and a mountain of dirtied cooking utensils, I ended up with semi cooked rice, and warmish preggo tomato paste. 

It tasted terrible. Try eating some rice left outside the house for two days with lemon. That was almost how it tasted. But that was a year and a half ago. My survival skills have now improved by leaps and bounds! 

I now know how to cook indo mee with sausages. 

Just for Fun!

Slim Jeans.

I shall never wear a pair of skinny jeans. It's against everything I am.

Well no, not really, I have on an occasion tried on a pair of skinny jeans. Yelling, rolling around in TopMan's ample fitting room trying to fit that sorry excuse for a clothing around my plush tush. Pulling and dragging the blasphemy of a clothing, I realized to my pain that it's waist band only fit one of my thighs. I shall forever hate the skinny jean.

Needless to say, I gave up the hope of having my perfectly toned legs on display for the female race to gorge their sights upon. Then I started flipping through a GQ magazine, coming across this.

Well, uh... It was something like that. But not exactly. It said something along the lines of

"Back in the olden times, young men used to put themselves through the rigours of the male test that included pushing their legs through torturous garment known as the skinny jean. No more. D1 slim pants."

 I was inspired to get myself a pair of them slim jeans for the wearing. After all, if fashion is based on the rules of self expression and optical illusions, the slim jean would then make my puny little legs look longer. And express that I was a fashion forward, beacon of garment guyishness.

Now I am loathe to put on my black slim jeans in the morning. Specifically because of two things. One, they are tighter than relaxed fit jeans, which are two times looser than slim jeans. I other words, now with the tighter, jean, I have to work twice as hard to put them on each morning. Two, there are buttons instead of a zipper. Sometimes, I fantasize about being able to run freely to uni in my boxers, gliding and skipping ala the "sound of music".

Having said that, I like my slim jeans, at least they don't ride up on my thighs, showing my Michael Jackson socks. Maybe it's time to get those low slung sissy socks too.

Tic Tock.

Brussel Sprouts marching to brussels.

Lilacs in the air.

Giants chewing on mussels.

Me chewing a pear.


Why these ( pause for rhythm) lines?

I do not know.

But one thing that's for sure.

I've just stubbed my toe.

400.

There were 400 spartans. Over at Thermopylae.

Some place characterized by super yellowish day.

I know you're thinking, 400? That's 100 too much.

You see they're not Spartans, THEY ARE FOUR HUNDRED WORDS LEFT ON MY STINKING STORY I DON'T LIKE TO WRITE BECAUSE IT'S LIKE AN UGLY CHILD I'M FORCED TO LOVE! AUUUUGGHGHHHHH!!!!!

Slippity Wippity Dicklety Doo!

Wince and Wobble, next and crumble. 

Next to stumble, wabble and fumble. 

If you don't geddit, read it and wonder. 

Till your brain farts and blows asunder. 

A Short Dream.

I want to fly first class,

My Breitling leaning out of my jacket sleeve,

The air stewardess smiles at me.

A crystal glass of champagne between my index and thumb,

I look out the window,

It's New York.

Goodnight.

Read Shmead

Rubbing your eyes across the words of a page is never easy. Most books tear into the skin of your eyeballs with each and every word, a complete pain to read. Case in point, the science text book. Your hands pull open the cheaply laminated cover only to be greeted with tissue thin paper with runny ink, flowing into a diatribe of painfully exact words.

Not my idea of fun. 

Then, there are books. Exciting, the shades and colors jump at you from behind every   syllable. The mind runs by a stream of words, leading from suspense to suspense with the eyes running unfettered from sentence to sentence, each idea pouring into the next idea. Easily read, easily understood. A joy. 

I just need to find those books. Someone show me! 

Army Green or Desert Biege Sir?*

Surfing the net like a boss, I was struck by the piercing shell of curiosity. I was struck with the question of how much would it financially cost to drive my very own Main Battle Tank.

Enlightened by this surge of curiosity, I searched for an affordably priced armored tank. Preferably something with air conditioning, comfort, and of course, an affordable price. So I began clicking.

I stumbled across a used Chieftain battle tank. Not only is it, a battle tank, it's a MAIN battle tank. So it's not a girly, sugar candy driven, sorry excuse for a war machine. It's pretty much the brute force of the British army. The darling looked savagely beautiful with it's right angles and machismo looks.

Then I looked at the price. Mind you, I had envisioned this fact finding excersise to be one purely for my personal entertainment. I would assume that an armored tank would match dollar to every kilogram it weighed. Out of a need to prove that my assumptions are always true. I searched for the used tank's price. It costs 270,000 Ringgit.

Not Dollars. Ringgit Malaysia.

WROAH!

Now, it's not to say that 270 k is affordable by any means, but bear in mind that it does cost half the amount of a BMW convertible bought in Malaysia. Yes. A Chieftan Battle Tank is half the price of a BMW in Malaysia.

This does provoke some very interesting ideas. How would it feel like powering your very own battle tank through some of the most jammed areas of Kuala Lumpur? Or perhaps, dealing with all those psycho idiots on the roads. For instance, Kancil owner's who are thoroughly convinced they're driving hippos instead of really tiny cars.

What am I talking about?

I am talking about the possibility of smashing a hole right through the walls of unrighteously cramped parking spaces.

It's about using the sheer weight of the tank to smash stupid double parkers into mangled tin foil.

It's about blasting road bullies off the road and into the South China Sea.

I am talking about the respect an armored tank would afford you. A respect they will have to pay because of the knowledge that you can blow them up with a gigantic cannon. A simple knowledge that you can, and will, end their sniveling, pathetic lives if they dare so much as LOOK in your direction when they meekly move out of the way during a jammed morning rush.

And it comes with an air conditioner.

For your consideration. The affordable Chieftan Battle Tank.

*of course, you'd have to take in the shipping costs, tax, fuel, laws and numerous other elements which will probably cost as much as having your very own air-force.

Pharmacist Rhymes with Narcissist.

My life, is an anthill. And in those anthills, are many ants. Of those ants, many are pharmacists. And pharmacists are awesome people. Most believe that they are the bespectacled bros and sisters behind white clinical tables dispensing drugs and medicines. The nerds.

what you think they look like.

But hold up! What did you just read? What was the line you've just read that announces their about their earth shaking, meteorite smashing, cosmos decimating, cool-beans status!?

They dispense drugs.

WROAH!

Not that it's right, legal or admirable to dispense drugs of the streets; in fact, in some countries, drug possession carries the death sentence. But they do it legally, intelligently and stylishly. Think about Cd's upon Cd's of lyrics from rappers glamorizing the life of a crack dealing, piece wearing, bling enhanced hustler. Now, imagine, all the glamour, none of the violent, disgusting vices of em dealers. What you have, is a pharmacist.

what they really look like.

Being surrounded by them. It leads me to inevitably learn about them.

1) While I'm reading magazines and comics, they're reading the books that are thicker than phone book directories.

2) They're studying all the time. Wouldn't you if you had a word like, pogliotinkiolinkoniosycolisis to memorize?

3) Mind you, it's not everybody who becomes a pharmacist. The average pharmacist is probably some crazy, psycho smart guy who normally got all A's just by licking his textbooks.

4) Need entertainment? Watch a pharmacist stress out before her exams. Never endingly funny.

5) The thing about them, is that they've been trained in the art of never being negative. So even with the entire Australian curriculum crashing around them, they'll still wear a steeled smile while screaming faux vulgarities at their books. Hilarious.

6) They can wear cool T-shirts with phrases like:

Pharmacists, saving the world one panadol at a time.

I know the meaning of the word, Hepaticocholangiocholecystenterostomies. Do you?

U R Dumb. I R Smart.

Hustla. Legally.

Pharmacists read the Pharmasutra.

Pfizer Cartel.

7) They are crazy people. I had a pharmacist charge at me, yell hello in my ear and run off in a peculiar way.

I wish I could say more. But then again, a Pharmacist is sort of like an Oompa Loompa. You know their quirks, and their zany dances, but they still remain a mysterious lot. I'll probably be writing more on them, after an adventure or two of trying to discover their fascinating tendencies. But for now. See ya!

This Blog is My Blog!

This is my blog.

I have just so many thoughts, but I'm terrified of posting them here. What I feel etches a line of text in my mind, and I'm terrified of typing it down on my blog. It's a little like running through some up-town, high-fashion clothing store with only your boxers on. But sometimes, I need a place to write, to know what I think, to make sense of what I think. To know that what I think makes sense through writing it down.

But I can't be bothered to write something in a brown diary, and keep it in a forgotten, messy corner of my room. To be dug up and thrown away by an older Joseph who thinks it's thrash.

Walking through a library once, I needed a distraction terribly. And so I picked up a hard cover book with black and white graphics on it. I can't remember the title at all, but I do remember what the book was about -inspiration. I flipped through the pages and met astounding artists, shared a coffee with great leaders and listened to visionaries.

I came across an artist's quote, something along the lines of, "the community is important for my art, without the community, I wouldn't make art. I couldn't be bothered making art for my own enjoyment." Or something like that. (something along those lines)

The artist strummed a chord that made sense to me. I understood. I wouldn't write something, work on something, only for my entertainment, I'd rather be doing something else.

The things I want to say, the thoughts I want to desperately say, I do not want to say to the dust wafting in the corner of my room. I want to say it to people, someone. But I don't dare. I'm afraid of running around Dolce and Gabbana wearing only my boxers.

Potato Storms Are In The Air.

Wouldn't it be cool if it rained potatoes, turnips, carrots, wheat and cabbage?

All you had to do when it came to hunger was plant some clouds in the middle of a desolate region. You'd have tomatoes, potatoes, carrots and onions falling from the sky.

ABC soup for everybody!

Potato storms predicted with a high of thirty five.

Owh!

I've often wondered where the dudes down at Lucas Arts stumbled on the fantastic idea to have a moon as a super weapon. It's sheer genius the idea of a looming moon with the ability to fire a gigantic spear of destruction at a hapless target!

Ok. You obviously weren't completely blown back by the sheer indescribable awesomeness of a super weapon moon.

Imagine, little Sith Jr. being bullied incessantly by some guy from the planet of Utapau.

Now, he's all grown up, raging, seething and still a little sensitive at the Utapau dude. However, I believe, he is plagued by insecurities, cannot look at himself in the mirror without crying, and constantly doubts his own abilities in the Force. With all these emotional baggages he's carrying around, he can't very well bring himself to strike down his bully can he? Considering you've got to be face-to-face in order to bring about that dramatic moment with his overgrown torchlight whizzing through the air.

So how do we work around this?

We build a death star.

that's right sugar.

Instead of having deal with the psychological agony of meeting his tormentor face to face. He flicks a switch. NO. FORCE flicks a switch, the beams charges up and KAPAU! No more Utapau!

But coming back to the question. Where on earth did the dudes get the idea to get of all things. A moon with a laser on it?

The answer.

The Kugelbunker.

This was made by the Nazis in World War two to be used as a personal bunker by the individual soldier. The soldier would sit inside his glorified hamster ball and shoot from the little hole that was quite artistically cut out from the sphere. Think about the Allies' surprise when they realized that hamsters where shooting them with machine guns from concrete balls. Problematic.

Also, if you haven't already noticed, the startling similarities between both pictures, the Deathstar and the Kugelbunker. Imagine Lucas walking around in the museum, probably thinking about a wicked super weapon for his upcoming film with a cheesy title. Possibly getting bored with the "apius man" section on the first floor, he shuffles to the war section and behold! He spots a ball with a hole in it!

His mind starts to churn, and an equation starts to form.

Ball+hole+super weapon= ?

A flicker of genius. And the Deathstar was born.

this probably isn't true, but owh wells.

Balli$tic$ Expert.

When I was a kid.

I WANTED TO EXPUNGE THE EVILS OF THIS WORLD WITH AN ARMY OF SUPER SLAYER ROBOTS.

No I didn't.

I know that any post with the words,"when I was a kid," does tend to cause friends to lapse into boredomination. So... I ACTUALLY WANTED TO DESTROY THE WORLD WITH SELF TAUGHT POWERS OF TELEKINESIS!

But seriously. When I was a kid, I built a ton of projectile launching guns. Most of them kinetically (big word for rubber-band) charged. There was just something diabolically fun about manufacturing a projectile launcher out of the decidedly innocent K'nex parts I was playing with. The rods would come together and the connectors would form a barrel. To provide the potential energy, a rubber band was fitted in the place where gunpowder would normally go. In other words, it looked a little bit like a brightly colored crossbow.

I kid you not, it was fun.

I'd build a house of cards. Not just any house of cards, but a very well engineered bunker. Armored on all sides with playing cards. Think, the Merrimack from the American Civil War.

The one on the left! To the left to the left! All your things in the box to the left!

Wisely setting up the bunker right next to my family's stereo system, I'd set up my particle accelerator thingy. Working on the different nooks and crannies, this simple and yet elegant weapon would present all sorts of diabolical opportunities for destruction. I would aim down the barrel of my weapon ensuring pinpoint precision instead of pin prick devastation. Then, my gleeful fingers would begin loading it with the ammunition of my choice, normally the first plastic rod I could lay my eyes on.

And just pound that thing with an arsenal of plastic! Drive stakes into the faux cement. Ensure its destruction. Each shot like an explosion from the barrel of a world war 2 battleship. Every blast ripping apart the exterior of the house of cards I had built for the sole purpose of destruction. If the weapon wasn't kinetically lethal enough, enhancements would be made, upgrading firepower, lethality and reloading speeds. Yes. I was a destructive child.

Punk'd.

Of course if I couldn't blow the thing up with my fusillade of plastic projectiles, I'd just walk over and Godzilla it to death. What's a child without an imagination having Godzilla in it?

Shucks, should have taken up engineering or something.

Jo

Laughed until he cried. With a friend.

Three times.

Love days like this.

Darth Vader.

I'm a fan of Star Wars. It's turned from something that dad used to watch on his first date with mom, to something relevant and ridiculously cool. Well, to me anyways. For instance, Adidas Originals with their Star Wars line of clothing and their advertisement featuring a tight Daft Punk's Vader's March remix. Makes you wanna drop it like Dee Vadah.

Darth Dog.

DV: Luke, I am yo daddy.

Luke: Fo' shizzle pa.

DV: Don't "fo' shizzle" me.

Both of them start to have a dance battle. Dee Vadah wows the crowd with his headspin.

One day, I shall own my very own death star, and rub it in the noses of every 40 year old kid who always wanted one. Then I'll head off to force Steve Jobs to give me my much deserved Ipad. And maybe a fifty dollar iTunes gift card while he's at it. I deserve the Ipad because I think its nice.

Here's the plan. Hijack Ikea and Microsoft. And force the suckers to make me some uber cool computer that combines Ikea's ergonomic sensibility with Microsoft's accessibility. I'll name it the Imic . I from Ikea and the Mic from Microsoft. Such a genius. Or name it the BILLY XP.

I'll make a whole aircraft carrier load of cash, and buy off the U.S government by somehow causing a run on the US dollar. With all my blingage in the bankage, I'll walk right up to Obama and demand he make Nasa build me a Death Star. If he doesn't, I'll bust a cap in his stimulus package, or whatever fiscal thing he's coming up with.

Once that's done, I'll force Stevie to give me a free Ipad. And that fifty dollar iTunes gift card.

Ranting aside. I need new shoes. I really want to get a shoe with a TIE fighter emblazoned on it but. Meh.

Aunty Rendang

The awesome lady I buy my Saturday Curry Rendang from.

My assignment was due, I sincerely had nobody to interview for my descriptive essay. If I couldn't hand something up, all manner of indescribably doom would befall me. Suddenly, it hit me when I was walking about worriedly in my Uni Campus. Why not interview the nice, warm aunty who sells me that gloriously familiar curry rendang every saturday? And so I asked her while buying my SatCuRendang.

"Can I interview you ah mak cik?"

"Can, but now I very busy. Come back at 4pm"

"Alot of people interview you ah?"

"Got," she says.

Wow, apparently I wasn't the only one who wanted to interview this culinary superstar. I bet I wasn't the first Malaysian/Singaporean arts student looking around for someone to interview. Oh wells. She's an experienced interviewee, I knew I was in for entertaining times.

So I met her for the interview in her coffee store. It's homely, warm and comfortable, with shelves lined with magazine. "Please buy if you want to read." Heh. That's why I bring my own magazine on saturday mornings.

The interview was awesome. She's everything a Malaysian aunty is. And more. I ask questions while scribbling furiously with my pen on paper. It's as though I'm in some indie movie documenting the aunties who sell SatCuRendang! She tells me about her husband who's an engineer working in Sinagporean Airlines, about her farm (a FARM?) and her life back in Singapore.

Her personality mimics her store, its warm and disarming. She is charming, in an auntie sort of way.

"I am super wife!" she says when she's describing her life at home.

As the interview came to an end, her sister or friend or her I-dunno-who-she-is-cause-I-didn't-ask walks over to say goodbye. Yes, Australian businesses close at five.

Their goodbye is hilarious! "OKAY! BYE! PIUP PIUP PIUP PIUP!" (mimicking air kissing noises)

Awesome interview. Saved my butt too.

Holls Have

Okay, they haven't arrived just yet. I still have one last assignment to do. But once it's done!

1) Have fun and look for friends.

2) Pick up new hobbeh.

3) Figure out what to do with myself.

4) Make this list longer.

I will be back!

Young Adi

The air smelt fresh, clean and crisp. A young boy stepped into his stone bricked school brightened by the morning light that filtered through the windows. His friends took their places around him as the teacher exclaims in German, “Adi? How are you today?” The young boy smiles brightly at his teacher and takes his seat at a long pine table near the front of his class.

The boy’s face is open, oval and handsome. The young teacher has often mentioned to his parents in a greeting that he looks exactly like his mother. Perfect double eyelids frame his large eyes. His nose is sharp and straight, curving into a small mouth that tucked into his chin. His brunette hair, cut by his mother is combed forward, ruggedly framed his face. However, what the teacher considered most striking about young Adi was how his light blue eyes contrasted with his jet-black hair.

Today’s lesson is math, simple six-year-old math. The teacher scribbled each question on the black board. The town school with grey bricks is quiet except for pencils tapping on paper as the students marked down numbers. Adi’s bright blue eyes flicked to the board and back to the paper, tapping the answers out. He was done as always, before the rest of the class. A couple of jealous boys sneered ,”muttersohnchen.” This meant “mother’s boy” in German. The young teacher looked up from the attendance roll she was holding and smiled gently at Adi.

After school was over, Adi strolled back to his home with some friends; his brown shoes making small imprints on the dirt road. Adi’s little body looked quite poised clothed in a dark brown jacket, white shirt and black shorts. The little boys chatted happily in their Bavarian accents, distinguishable from the standard German with their rolling “r”. It was a healthily blue and beautiful afternoon in the town for Adi to have a little escape with his friends, but not today. Today he would have to help his father with some farming.

“Adolf!” his father Alois Sr. barked angrily at him when he saw his son coming up the dirt track.

“You little wretch, you are to be home sooner! I will beat you later!” Alois yelled, flinging his pitchfork to the ground. Adi was used to such threats from his authoritarian father who was sometimes drunk. The farm smelled of the freshly digested grass in cow manure mixed with the afternoon’s warmth. Adi tore of his jacket and flung it on a seat, running to his father’s orders. His father had beaten both him and his beloved mother before.

Adi grabbed the pitchfork resting on the mud and looked around to see his father’s broad back. He shot his father a quick, angry look before tossing the golden hay into a wooden wheelbarrow half his size. At the time, there was nothing else he could do. His brown shoes now dirty and muddy, young Hitler averted his gaze to the blue sky and wondered what the future might hold.

1 min 24 secs. Go.

So my friend is coming over in a couple of minutes for to bring me to his house to settle something. ANd i've decided to make a blog post in the amount of minutes he takes to get to my house. That's about four to five minutes. I shall provide a discourse on my day.

My day started out awesomely and resplendently. With birds chirping in the air and the bees buzzing in the seas. That did not make sense.

I was skipping joyfully about my house when suddenly.

Three men in black masks completely suited for urban warfare burst through my window shattering the glass. They wipped out Mp5 sub machine guns and began to start catwalking up my hallway. Posing infront of me with their machine guns

An Apology

Now it seems that every blog post begins with an apology. And for that I apologize profusely. As profusely as possible. Made possible by profuse apologies. Made possible by my profuse apologies made possible by my profuse apologies made possible by my prof...

Hee Hee.

Lately my life has been a seismic graph, very good times indeed,thrown in with a few bad ones. However, the vanilla flavored good times taste so much better after the wake up call of the coffee tasting bad ones. Truth be told, I am finding my joy in the Lord. I am finding my peace in him as well.

I am studying writing. Its just hit me that my career will one day have to do with writing. Sadly, I've begun to question the prestige of my degree. Surely something with a name that ends with a "sicist" or a "ology" sounds far better than "ter". However, I've realized that I only ever bothered with thinking about how prestigious my degree is because I wanted to show off.

Superficial?

Yes. I do agree.

But then again, writing is a love. Something I can zone out and do for at least two hours before having to get up, adjust the balance of my buttocks on my seat before deciding its time to deflate the bladder. At the moment, words, a google of them, are my color pencils to color the world I live in. To give vibrant colors to the parts that interest me. To color fill areas that make me happy with oranges and yellows. To darken pictures that scare me with greys and blacks. But I've realized I wouldn't write without an audience.

Hmm, I should probably blog more often.

Let Me.

Let me get in your mind and paint a picture,

Let me, with clay, make you a sculpture

Let me touch, and make, and sew and thread.

With words an artpiece in your head.

Ultimate Morning Process (which I wanna have)

Wake up at six.

Facebook about waking up at six.

Toilet to allow deflation of the bladder, accompanied by morning thunder.

Shower. A nice, warm, thorough scrub.

Teeth brushed, flossed. Face scrubbed, feeling very clean.

Quiet time.

Hair merged with a little wax. Deodorant or cologne sprayed on, depending on whom I'm meeting. Deodorant for men. Cologne for ladies.

Pick out clothes! If its cold, jeans with a shirt. Some socks and some shoes. Normally vans. If I feel like it, pants and slippers!

Downstairs for some breakfast!

Red beans heated, eggs fried.

Coffee made with coffee maker, mixed with milk to produce a welcoming latte.

Falling going back to sleep only to wake up at eleven.

Facebook about waking up at eleven.

Sleepy.

Mine eyes are shutting. Quietly, slowly, deliberately. Demanding that I stop, demanding that I sleep. I refuse. There's work to be done.

There's posts to write, friends to chat with, friends to make. Scenes to enjoy, movies to watch. Assignments to be done. Lectures to attend.

There's things to become, things to move on from. Things to fight for, things to figure out. Time to grow. Time to know how to grow.

But this time, my the muscles around my eyes quietly soothe my mind with a gentle melody. A soft string ensemble choiring me to rest. I am tired, I want to give in. I want to fall asleep in a theatre with the ochestra of my senses lullabying me. Winking at me, smilling at me. Gently stroking my face, to sleep.

My bed beckons. Fresh smells. Familiar smells. The colors of beige, light blue and some yellow. The warm afternoon sun peeking cheekily through my window blinds. My pillow welcoming me. My blue blanket, delightfully cool as my legs rub against the fabric. My beige mattres sinking into my body. I turn my head to my clock, and give in to the lullaby.

I'm asleep.

Sat down. Wanna Study.

The green cup on my table has drops of coffee stains all over one side of it. It looks happy, sort of pimpled with brown farts of caffeine speckled on it. Its half an hour to three, and I've done all I've needed to do. I've turned myself into a major hurricane and swept up my room, using the full entirety of my barometric power to throw bits and pieces of my room into order. I've turned myself into a Japanese industrial packaging machine kachunking my clothes into neat little squares. Stuffing my socks into amusing little balls.

Caffeine is cheekily floating through my veins dumping adrenaline and causing a complete mess of themselves. Floating on red rubber barges with their orchestral instruments while playing covers of disco pop as they cruise up and down my blood stream. No wonder my fingers are starting to shake.

Despite increasing efforts to keep my room in shape, atrophy steps in every five minutes, giving my possessions a hi five and proceeding to have a dance battle. My books get thrown about, my pens somehow lodged in never before seen places. My handphone somehow manages to grow itself little Nokia legs and do the boogie before running off into a fold of a shirt somewhere in my room. The plugs and power points stare blankly at me as though saying," we could help you if we wanted to but we're inanimate objects." Wonderful help they are.

Regardless! My room is clean, I just drank mah coffee and I need to study. Now to look for someone to study with!

Wanted.

Sunlight, fresh air and unicorn sprinkles of love. What more could I possibly ask for? Apparently quite a couple of things. However, it must be noted that these are things I want. Having the cash and blessing to get them, I believe I'd rather just save and buy some book sitting on some shelf with a catchy title and a preposterous name. But I really want them!

1) Nissan GT-R




Sigh....

The Nissan GT-R was made with cornering and handling in mind. That said, it still goes at the speed of insane fury, making jet fighter sounds at high speed turns. Fury also made the fastest speed record for a production car at the Nurburgring circuit. Modeled and shaped for a more masculine look instead of the usual European blonde stylings, it is boxy, yet somehow; stunningly beautiful. And because it performs so well, it politely samurais the Porche 911 Turbo as one of the world's best production supercars. And costs less.

2) Aviators.




These look fashionably revelant. First, these shades were made for World War 2 airmen by RayBans. The distinctively tear dropped shades were crafted so they could fit perfectly into the flight goggles the airforce pilots wore. And because they allowed sun and glare protection, military pilots had visual advantages in day missions and dogfights.

They hit public fame when General Douglas MacArthur walked onto the Phillipine Beach during the Allies' Pacific campaign wearing aviators. MacArthur then gritted his teeth and gave the I-look-as-cool-as-beans look and the military paparazzi went crazy! Lady Gaga what? The American public went wild with them and so did the rest of the world.


3)RISK. The game of global domination.



Since I can't conquer the world. I'll settle for the game. But it's so expensive!!

Not only is it an awesome game, it was grounbreaking at the time it was invented. Made by a French film maker Albert Lamorrisey ( who that?) it was the most cutting edge production boardgame of its time.


The prototype RISK boardgame was fitted with pseudo guided missiles, tractor beams and robot controlled machine guns. The Hasbro board deemed it too dangerous (SISSIES) and decided to use plastic pieces instead.


I've realized now I've run out of things that I want so frivolously. Or maybe its the assignments calling out my name. Regardless, take note, these are things I WANT. Not NEED. But sigh... I really want them.

Violin

I remember walking into my violin teacher's house at night with my parents. We were looking for a new violin because my old one was a little too old. I seriously loved that old violin though, it had the warmest sound, and the gentlest nature and was as as forgiving as the nice girl in class who used to lend you her only eraser. But somehow, it just didn't let you express what you wanted to. It was that, gentle, forgiving and soft. I needed a new violin, those grade fives ain't easy.

I battered my persuasive eyelashes at my parents, willing them somehow into providing me a new violin. However, their breaking point came when I finally passed my grade five and my teacher commented, the kid needs a new violin.

Mr Boey, I (masculine version of hearts) you much.

I sat down in my teacher's home. There were five newly crafted violins, never played for more than an hour by anyone. Each with their own distinct sound, appearance and smell. Yes, smell. Every violin has a sort of oaksy scent, though its made from maple. It smells wooden, organic, living, inviting you to pull a bow across its strings. So I did.

Across each of them I pulled my teacher's bow, a five thousand dollar stick with horsehair. Each unique in its own way, having been handcrafted in China. Thing about China is that, they normally export their violins over to luthiers Europe to have them fine tuned, normally to have a little engraving on the scroll of the violin, and to stick their english brands and an extra thousand dollar price on what was a cheaper violin.

Mine was straight from China, raw with minute chips in its outlines and slight mistakes in its varnish.

I tried every violin, not sure what I was looking for because I played my older, darker violin. I opened the last violin case and the first thing I noticed was how brightly orange the violin was. it has a diamond shaped splatch of darker orange on its back and brownish tiger stripes all over. As I drew a note, the first sounds were brash, loud and piercing. Like a lady dressed in a red dress screaming obscenities. Regardless, I played through, running through a scale. It was difficult to play because the strings were positioned further from the the fretboard.

But it was so vivacious! Resonant and vibrant! It could run from this end to that end, screaming rogue pitches whenever you didn't pay attention. The sound was pure, beautiful in no ways subtle, unless you tried very hard for it to be.

I didn't like it.

But my parents did and so did my teacher, thing was, it was so different from my old violin. Like a demure next door girl traded for a loud, brash, vivacious 19 year old. I was terrified.

Joseph, I think you better just go get this violin. And I got it after some uhhhs and ahhhss...

Having written this, my orangy violin is still with me. Mellowed down and warmer but and still brash as fury. Still difficult to play. It's lying there in my closet leaning on my suitcases. After three years, and alot of learning, I still take it out to play whenever I'm stressed or in need of a pick me up. Thing is, I gradually realised that it's sound was indeed beautiful. But I didn't know because i was so used to my old violin.

One day, switching back to my old violin, the sound was warm, as usual. But so boring and dry. So lacking in expression. Then I realised, that I liked my new violin.




















Discalimer: The writer only has a passing grade for grade five and is in no ways pro at the violin.

Feels Like..

Huge apologies for not updating.

Life has been a whirlwind, ending with me so thankful, yet thirsty for more.

I've realized what an idiot I've been, yet still agonizing over decisions I've made.

I make my bed each morning, clean my dishes, wash my clothes, fold them when their done.

Eat indo mee when I couldn't be bothered to cook.

I feel like I've got so much to learn, I don't know where to start.

I feel like a little kid looking at the stars, trying to learn how to be the sky.

Slowly larh. Hee hee.

Bucket List. (so far)

Be a best man.

Have an air hockey table in my room.

Should've Been a Theoretical Physicist.

Me: Copywriters work like dogs for the first two years at like 2,000 rm. Then after that they can earn like THREE TIMES MORE THAT MONEY IN FIVE YEARS!!

Nov: WHAT?! THAT'S LITTLE LARH. SIX K ONLI?!

Me: deflate.

They Said...

Art students are underachievers.

Bullocks and Walrus.

Jo read the Abc, and the West Australian every single day and scored 4.5 out of ten for his weekly current affairs quiz.

His Ozzy classmate read the West Australian two days before the test and scored 7.

Wha?

The Battle Cry

Never in the face of human endeavor has so much been undertaken by one man. Often, when challenges comes a knocking, fear rears its ugly head and attempts to smooch you all over. Regardless, I fling the doors of my ability wide open to the bane of gastronomic sensibility.

The challenge was this. Beef Rendang.

Often, in culinary circles, cooks are allowed to walk through the stages of heurism. However, as this is pretty much an I-leap-out-of-without-parachute-moment, caution will be flung to the wind and I will attempt to make rendang for my cell group. It shall be my first try.

As such, I called my fellow cell grouper whose known for her culinary expertise to ask her what to do. (She has a boyfriend my 20 something friends. And he has a Phd in engineering so yes, he can build a deathray if you try anything funny).



Jo: Hey Angie! How do you make beef rendang?

Angie: Ha? You want to make rendang? That's the most difficult of all of them you know?

Jo: Issit? I thought just buy paste?

Angie: You have to go fry $%^& with $%^& then after that #$%^& and #$%^& then #$%^&(&*%&^%&^%&^%(&^%*%^&%^&%&^%^$%^$*^*&*&*& booya! Rendang.


Jo: Never in the face of human endeavor has so much been underta...














Heurism- trial and error! Took me a whole day to memorize that. I feel quite pleased.

Anti Christ*

At night, getting ready for bed, I was pondering about something. It wasn't one of those things you think about before you get to bed, but something out of place. A thought brought about by a tired mind. I was wondering who the anti Christ might be. Getting into bed and pulling down the lid of my laptop, it struck me.

I've realised who it might be.


The Garden of Eden.


The tree of the knowledge of good and evil.


The fruit.


That bite.


The first sin.











Is it obvious now?






Could Steve Jobs be the anti - Christ?

The apple logo, stamped on every apple device. Staring at us from every macbook. Watching us being unaware that it might be a symbol of something more sinister and dark. We just didn't realise. Be wary.














*purely satirical.

I stand And Shine!

Lamposts stand and shine.

Lamposting is an art in which every social wingman must excel at. It is the techniques of stealth is married with the science of psychology creating a purely new discipline Lamposting is whatever happens when a friends invites you out with him and one of the opposite sex. This arrangement often promises that the couple, though for all intents and purposes are a couple; however, because of the lampost's presence, can plausibly deny being a couple! After all, three is a crowd.

Go back and read the paragraph again if you don't get it.

Now that we've got the legalistic hogwash out of the way, there are many rules one must follow towards being a professional lampost. Now you might wonder why is this socially awkward nerd trying to teach me how to be a lampost. Fear not, for I Joseph Wong, have all the training in the world to correctly guide you. When my brother's of spiritual relational bond had no one to turn to, they came calling me. I, through raging sun or shattering cold rallied to their aid regardless of personal interest. As such, my knowledge of how to be a lampost should therefore be sufficient. Or they somehow managed to get girlfriends all by themselves which might acutally be a more likely story.

Rule 1) Do not kill steal. This is the first rule of lamposting. As a lampost, you are supposed to grow and nurture a relationship between your two friends; not cutting off one and talking too much to the other. Hijacking the romantic relationship and forcing the girl to listen to you alone is a big no no. Do it and risk the girl falling in love with you and losing your guy friend to an abyss of hatred. This rule is also known as "do not spanar".

Rule 2) Try to keep your talking down to a minimum. Remember, your opinions are worhless, your wingman's opinions however, are as sacred as though they were carved in the heart of the statue of liberty.

Rule 3) If your wingman happens to be incompetent and lets the social exchange dissolve into terrifying awardness, be prepared to intercept the silence with a well timed comment your wingman's achievements. Or if your wingman is decidedly the humble stumble type, as the lady a question about her achievements or likes instead. Whatever would keep the conversation going.

Rule 4) Remember, the night or the outing is not about you, its about the two people your going out with. Therefore, never steal the spotlight. Instead, you should yourself be the stage light instead, allowing your two friends to shine, greatly illuminating each other's lives!

Rule 5) When you sense that they are essentially comfortable with eah other and the chemistry is sizzling between them. Ie. they are laughing and smilling and generally chatting with each other. I's time to pull back, walk five steps infront of them, or five steps behind them. Generally, one should walk behind as both your targets so they do not have to question what you're doing walking all by yourself.

Rule 6) If you sense that your presence might be keeping them from a breakthrough whithin their relationship. For instance, if your wingman would like to say something to her probably out of your earshot, for goodness sake! Go pee! Toilet breaks are excellent ways to leave the couple alone. This should also be done when the said couple are chatting quite sociably with each other. A little like stepping back to watch the flowers bloom.

A couple of ways to leave the couple alone without generating too much attnetion:

"eh I need to go pee"

"lemme go buy ticket for you"

"Wah! New video game! I need to go see!"

"An injustice is happening before me! I must intervene!"

"I need to go read book."

"Eh I go look for food."

So on and so forth.

Rules in the universal guide of lamposting writen in the annals of society will always be changed in relation to the culture of the seasons. However, be on the ball and take note of some of these techniques. Take note and indeed, steer your friends into the port of love.

Sitrep! (Situation Report)

Apologies are due!

Due to my inherent lack of ability to work the university's internet system without somehow logging out and or crashing the demented thing, internet connection has been a vastly rare thing. Not to mention a lack of promised internet connection in my new house. Thusly (who on earth uses the word thusly? Sheldon?) updates have come slowly and aggravatingly!

My conscience bears down heavily.

Well, my degree has been finalized, I am now taking, a Bachelor of Arts majoring in.

May the snare drums roar!

Professional Writing

and

Creative Writing

Let me give you a short explanation to save you from having to listen to my lenghtly speech on what it is. Professional writing is pretty much writing for industry, for advertisment and such. It is sort of the more industry orientated form of writing. Mostly persuasive writing to sell stuff. Creative writing is the flowery stuff that Jk Rowling and Doctor Seuss does. In short, the creative writers write the book, the professional writers write the cover.

Wonder what life would be like if I were a molecular astrophysicist.

After touching down in Australia, I must admit, I do feel slightly lost, however the presence of church friends and old friends never does cease to cheer me up. The flight here was actually quite pleasant other than that torture device they call a seat. Goodness, if you could somehow pay extra and get Mr Asia to upgrade your seats to something more comfy I honestly wouldn't mind splurging an extra dollar or two. But thanks to a book, and a lack of babies with miniature sonic boom transmitters, I was fine!

Honestly, I'm a tad bit wary and afraid of the whole university experience. Not to mention the nature of the degree I'm taking. Professional and Creative writing may be an experience that I seems tailored to suit me. However after checking the work some students in my discipline have done, I fear for myself because I have no clue about what they're writing!

For instance.

Poetry, the sewing of words and their connotations to form coherent and suggested beauty. I have no clue what it's about. It is the complete bane of my existence, how could I tell that the poet is trying to talk about the moral dilemma of this world when he's talking about teddy bears dipped in oil? Nonsense.

Not to mention my apparent inability to write a non cheesy romance story. Don't judge me! The only experience I was reading Archie Comic books and watching comedy romance movies. Problems arising? Not if I can gaze into your sweet limpid, pools you call eyeballs.

Also I fear that perhaps my future might not be as secure than if I had chosen to do something more established, let's say a law degree made a life altering decision to take on a degree in theoretical physics. Not likely, but its nice to wonder.

Honestly, as this stage in time, I feel like I'm in a little rubber dinghy in a huge ocean with many islands and continents. All I have, a little wooden paddle to go where I think looks good. Looks intimidating, feels scary but oh, so full of excitement and hopefulness. Its also extremely comforting to have a God Positioning System in my lil boat. (your eyeball's rolling be stopped)

Right now though, I think my little rubber dinghy is a hungry. Paddling off for lunch!

Till Next time.

T - Shirt Signs I'd Wear.

Reinforcements have Arrived.

We Need Backup! 

Shmuck! 

Your T shirt Sign Sucks. 

Pi is Pie 

Be my friend. 

Ookie Bookie!

My other shirt is Witty-er. 

Eye Lub U Luts! 

I Love Coffee.  

My Degree is Cooler than your Degree. 

For The Wantan

You look Nice Today. 

Right Back At You. 

Things to Do other Than Cyber Coffees.

Normally, I would have better and more simulating things to do other than shooting clear through hordes of zombies with a band a brothers. Or leading a column of armored tanks into an alien base to blow up their extraterrestrial butts. However, considering I haven't been near a cyber cafe for the last 8 months, it feels like I have rediscovered the magic of gaming in a glorified office with three to four like minded chaps.

I marvel at bassy boom of sounds, the colorful language, the true attitudes and characters of men showing clearly. Ladies, a word to the wise from the foolish. If you want to discover the true character of your significant other, video tape him in the cyber cafe. For truly, the cyber cafe is a place where leaders are born, cool thinkers discovered and strategists practise.

However, according to a dear friend of mine who has the near super human ability to play the guitar and talk on the phone at the same time, cyber caffe -ing is boring, and I should do something else. Before I mutate into a geek slob without any hope for a future.

So I have come up with a list.

1) Go go-karting in USJ, because nothing else says you're fun and cool better than driving around in mini death traps.

2) Grab coffee in an exotic location with people who love to chat and drink coffee! I especially need people who love to chat because I might run out of things to say. However, as coffee is the fuel of intelligence, that might not happen.

3) Movie marathons. Movie marathons and pizza, come to think of it, why didn't I do this sooner?

4) Due to surplus amounts of geekdom and nerdiness in my brains, I really can't think of anything else to do that's cool. But fear not! I shall think of something!

Convoes With Daryl

Daryl: hey man, happy birthday.

Jo: Haha, thanks man.

Social Studies Example: awkward manly silence because guys don't normally chat over the phone.

Daryl: So what you doing now?

Jo: Just came back from the cyber cafe. Hee hee.

Daryl: Wah, your whole life revolve around cyber cafe ah! Whole world cyber cafe issit!?

Jo: Wah! Don't be like that larh! No cyber then do what!?

Daryl: ....

Jo: NOTHING TO SAY AH! WHY GOT HESITATION! SO THERE'S NOTHING TO DO ISSIT!?

Daryl: Aiyah you just go play your cyber larh! Go play larh! We go out whole day play cyber

okay!?

Jo: WAH LIAO!

Constellations.

Shards of diamonds littered throughout the sky, like petals of flowers wilted from the gardens of heaven. Clouds of sparkling goodness, mysteriously creating lofty symbols and pictures of greek gods and roman goddesses. Truly, the cascading hair of beauties mire the sky with drops of perfection. Most declare fervently that these nocturnal speckles of goodness are their sources of inspiration.

PFFT BUTTOCK STARS.

For one, living in a city that's designed after a female's brain, star's are simply as blocked out as though non existent. Thanks to the comfortably polluted air in Kuala Lumpur, many are hard pressed to see even a firefly much a less a star.

Perhaps even if there were stars, twinkling in their arrogant goodness, how on earth do people derive inspiration from them? Its not as if we could crack open a star as though a fortune cookie. True, the little farts in the sky might be beautiful as they are, and I do understand that some brighter individuals than I might derive their meaning from these balls of gas; but I simply can't.

Lately, I have been out of inspiration, for about a day, and wondered if my source of revelation could come from the stars; however, tough luck. All they do is laze around, barely pulling their weight in the mass of black, thinking that the planets revolve around them. Pouty arrogant balls of gas, and mind you, that's exactly what they are, balls of gas, nothing solid, nothing firm, completely lacking any back bone.

Perhaps I'm just bitter those blasted shards of sky poop aren't inspiring me.