A very long time ago, someone found the perfect method to gently wake me up. I still wasn’t pleasant when I woke, but I did it on my own.

And it’s only years later I realise how well he knew me and my temperament, perhaps even better than myself at that time.

I slept a lot when I was with R, simply because as a teenager, there was nothing to do in a house except to sleep. When it came time for me to wake up and head home, he’d turn off the air conditioning unit 20 minutes before I was supposed to wake, and waited for me to stir. I didn’t even know it was a trick till one day he let me in on it. Turns out I hate the heat so much.

It’s been a while.

(Source: tweenlaquifa)

“I think the average guy thinks they’re pro-woman, just because they think they’re a nice guy and someone has told them that they’re awesome. But the truth is far from it. Unless you are actively, consciously working against the gravitational pull of the culture, you will predictably, thematically, create these sort of fucked-up representations.”
—Junot Diaz (via luciaferr)

(via thisismizhalle)

The Terrorizers (1986) Dir. Edward Yang

(Source: filmcat, via filmcat)

(Source: lumineon, via cuntstruck)


I was ready to stay on at work but you called and asked if I wanted lunch. Did I want lunch? Of course I wanted lunch everybody wants lunch. So I packed my bag and went for late lunch. I am sick of waiting around for a something solid to happen or materialise or appear in my calendars. But you were willing to wait for a bit. And god I needed lunch. The office air-con broke down, I was frustrated with work and the shitty circumstances which would have me reluctantly tearing up my leave work, there was a shitty rainstorm in the morning and a blazing hot afternoon. Fuck that shit. Fuck that fucking shit. In the end, all I got was a liquid meal and was drunk by four with you. I mostly went to drink away the guilt but I don’t really give a shit at this point. I am bored to death and I can’t stand hanging around. I even let you touch my hair.

When I played softball briefly, I remember the shortstop was supposed to be the guardian between the second and third base. Naturally, the majority of right-handed batters hit toward left and centre field. But most importantly, the shortstop was there to keep the ball within infield. They had to hold third base if the third baseman was busy catching a bunt, or second if the second baseman was busy in double-play situations. There was no waiting to see where the ball will be launched - you move the moment the bat touches the ball and you make a lucky or calculated guess. In short, they were there to keep a lockdown infield and to make sure that there weren’t any unexpected fuck ups. Till today I’m still make a shitty shortstop. I can’t predict will the ball will go and I react too slowly. Except I stopped playing softball.

I called my mom to ask her to buy dinner because I didn’t want to hang around with you that long anyway. Maybe next time. But as I stumbled home on the train I thought man, the number of commuters on this train are staggering even before 6pm and I wondered about the lives of others, but mostly about yours. And it was those thoughts (plus all that drinking made me ravenous) made me eat two portions of dinner and I feel sick. God, life is unbelievable sometimes.

(Source: kmeuh, via gilbertnorrell)


In The Mood For Love (2000) dir. Wong Kar Wai


Yesterday I spaced out. And before I knew it, it was lunchtime. Where did time go?

There are pockets of time I don’t remember, yet moments that loop for eternity at the back of my lids. And even when I open them again, I find myself retracing the steps, only this time, it’s with other people. They say history repeats itself, but only because it’s impossible to let go.

There are days where I’m wake up and think it will be a good day. And it melts away two hours later. And on some not so good days, I wake up already a molten mess, hoping God would scoop me up and tell me it’s okay to have days like this. Sometimes people see the mess and would rather not touch it. And I get it.

There are people I love but would rather have them stay out of my life. But only because they don’t love me back the way I want them to. And if I can’t have all of you, then maybe I’ll take none. But I’ll save that speech for when I feel the bravery travel up to my knees and stomach. But today, they’re still residing at the back of my heels and I’m afraid I will collapse if I say it.

There are historical spaces I forgot existed, but are unearthed as time goes by. And the shared history is a little painful to re-visit - mostly because some are hazy, yet some replay on loop. And if time and space were jumbled up, then maybe the truth is, it never really existed.

I wanted life to a be movie — like a fast paced Chungking express with but that slow-mo shot of Cop 663 drinking the coffee — but my director’s cut is shitty.

There are very hot days (like today) when you wake up from a nap on the couch, alone and sweaty. Alone because everyone left the house, and sweaty because the heat has been so fuckingly unbearable and the still, warm air transforms and coalesces into a pool of sweat in clavicles.

And in the moment of frustration, thanks to the loneliness and the eternal stickiness on your skin, you eat the cold, leftover noodles from this morning wondering why you gave up the chance to be asleep in an air-conditioned room in someone’s arms.

Hot days give me a headache that blitzes through my skull each time I try to move, and the warmness sets off my restlessness and unhappiness like nothing else other. But I figure summertime is my personal hell, and I wish it would rain all the time. All the bloody time.

There’s a fine line between loneliness and solitude as I’ve figured out painfully over wasted years. And I wish I didn’t delude myself into insisting that amidst the slow crawl of a Sunday afternoon, that what I was feeling was indeed solitude. Because solitude meant productivity, and I haven’t done anything productive in years. But why is it like this? Why?

As I sat staring into an empty pot that was once filled with soggy noodles and limp vegetables, I realise how I lost control of time and discipline. The heat always makes me lose control and ups my irritation. Before I knew it, I finished old noodles that were meant for two and I had all the evidence on my shirt. I wish I gave a fuck about what I eat and my wrecked relationship with food. But as with life, I have better things to give a fuck about (i.e. nothing).

I also realise that the side of my lips were now bleeding because I keep biting into the same wounded spot as I eat too quickly. Yes, the wound is my fault, but it really can’t be helped - that area always gets in the way. After a while, it’s just become an annoyance. I’m okay. It’s okay. I even throw the pot and cutlery into the sink so I can wash it later.

It was a tearful, useless weekend, and I had done zero work even though I willed myself too. But like the cyclical nature of weather, the hot, frustrating days will pass. Right? Right?

1 / 120