Lower Your Gaze

“You can snap your fingers and three trucks full of men will come to you,” a man told me this once.

Apparently, it is because of my face. I shrug comments about my face off as I repeatedly hear people telling me how easy it would be for me to get a boyfriend, or how I look like I’ve had many boyfriends, how impossible it is that I am single, how I look like certain celebrities, and how it turned out that so and so had a crush on me. I shrug them off. There are so many other naturally-born pretty girls. I’m sure they’ve heard the same things; nothing special about the compliments I’ve been getting.

I sat on my own and I felt a pair of eyes looking my way. I stole a quick glance and true enough, he was, too, stealing glances at me. Average-looking Joe, not one I could fall in love with at first sight. Pretense has always been my best defense as I ignored him and minded my own business. The next thing I knew he was by my side, asking the person next to me a question. Our distance wasn’t very far. He could have just leaned over to talk to him, but he didn’t. He chose to stand up and walk to us. His shoulders, feet, and head, were facing me instead. I looked up. He gave me a full acknowledgement and a smile. And that’s when I saw something about him.

This stranger had a pair of smiling, kind eyes. Crescent vortex pulling me into a conscious hypnotism. I could go into further details, but I am choosing not to. Later that night we sat by each other. His manner of speech and demeanor was so calm and collected as if he took his days one step at a time. As if he was not chasing the world. As if he was floating in the Dead Sea. As if the everything was already in place. I noted his rough skin and I didn’t mind it; I knew just what was needed to smooth it out. His skin didn’t matter, but his eyes did. The way he looked at me. His eyes. His eyes were the ones that unlocked and released my inner guards.

Both of us were sleepy as night overcame us. There was something about us, someone commented. Soon the Cinderella I was realised it was time to leave as midnight loomed in twenty.

Wait, he stopped me. He asked for my name. My carriage was turning into a pumpkin; I had no time to give him my full lengthy name. I gave him my name in brief and we said our last goodbyes.

I know it was the last goodbye because when I reached home, my research skills kicked in to find out he was getting married.

Does the ability to snap my fingers and have three trucks full of men coming to me matter at all if all of them have other commitments already?

Oh well.




Last weekend I was just talking to people about how I was writing a book and to me it’s a big step to start telling people about in the first place. I’m consumed by self-doubt and sometimes dislike for self that when I put it out to people that “I am writing a book” I am surrendering myself to all forces of nature. Breathe out judgement, breathe out fear, breathe out not-good-enoughs, I tell myself. I mean, I get panic attacks thinking about my work. I really can’t and won’t do with another critique until I’m comfortable with my own critiques. So far thankfully I’ve been doing okay, being more and more comfortable for people to review my work and critique them while not affecting me personally.

So I met a man who does editorial and stuff for magazines and had worked for publishing companies who told me that “Writers are of another kind. I could tell you’re a writer from the way you’re dressed. Do you wake up in the morning and just say ‘Today I am going to write!'”

And my mind said yes, hidden away in my physique, nodding away vigorously. Finally! I identify as a writer! I wake up in the morning with nothing but my words on my mind and how I long to pen them down. I drive while observing the skies and trees on my window shield making sense of what they’re trying to say. I notice all body language of a person; I might need them later. It gave me so much relief knowing that I do what I do because I do what I do. I’m dressed this way, in a sense it fulfills some kind of empty bottle in me, because it reflects me for who I am! When I’m not even thinking I construct sentences in my head to describe me not thinking about thinking. It comes naturally: I must be a writer!

Believing in this lifts away all the impostor-syndrome I had felt. I need validation. I need to be told I can do this. Again and again and again when you mean it. All human beings have weaknesses, right? And this time I’m finally in a good place where I am ready to admit my shortcomings: I need validation that I am good enough.

And that’s not what I had gotten from someone whose support was the source of vitality for my writing. I am in fact ordering my brain not to authorise my tear ducts to do its job right now.

“Are you sure you’re a writer?”

A stone was thrown on my glass. I crack.

“I might have the soul…wait what do you mean?”

My inner guards have been called out to duty. All of them – squires, senior and junior knights, withdraw their shields to protect my heart from the incoming blaze.

“I don’t know. I don’t think you’re a writer.”

The fire, too powerful for my inner guards, blasted them away. All that was left was my heart, vulnerable, unprotected, all alone.


Three Things

The following piece was written at 6.30 am on my front porch this morning of 27 April 2016.


It was a series of extraordinary events for me. My memory strength, the one which had been my pride for years, has finally shown signs of weather. I’m only turning twenty-four, dammit. How could I forget so many things within a day? One was already surprising for me. But imagine three separate forgetfulness events within one day. I was trying to deliver a package and arrived at the doorstep only to realise the package wasn’t with me. I had already passed the MRT gantry when I realised my phone wasn’t with me. I bought less fishes for cats when we actually have more cats in the house right now. My mind used to branch out into many many things that one thing leads to the other you know like a woman’s internet highway mind. These days my mind has been like a guy’s: one box at a time. I don’t seem to remember who I am.


One day I just thought, “Oh fuck this shit.” Well, that’s a lie, because I don’t say things like that. I have a profanity filter but I admit I do sometimes wish I could just point the middle finger at the driver who zoomed past me without warning. I feel that that mildly obscene sentence is a good one to describe how I felt last week: fuck this shit, a millennial’s way of expressing discontentment and just in the first word the solution about what to do with it.

I imagined myself walking around the streets of Kuala Lumpur and I decided to make it happen the next day. I only had three hundred ringgit, but I was kind of desperate; I need to leave this place. There’s just something about routine, staying on the same spot, writing, that blunts the imagination and creative process. I long to meet new people (without establishing a relationship), and listen to their stories as opposed to the same old, same old.

And I did. In which the matter I did not pursue. I saw a man I found interesting yet I did nothing about him. I bitterly regret not approaching that eccentric character I walked past two times on the street near Central Market. He had curly white hair, wearing all white, holding a handwritten sign that says “unique self-educative book”. I am drawn to that. I want to know more. But alas I gave in to what people said about talking to strangers though at home I spoke to strangers too, except that there was nothing peculiar about the strangers I have been speaking to. This guy, however, was seemingly dull; a wallflower. But something that is dull has its colour worn out, or concealed by dust. A bit of polishing would reveal the colour it once held. I fell in love with this character. He tried to hide the sign from me when I wanted to stop by to read him. I understood body language thus I let our opportunity slip past us. I held hopes that more interesting characters would come by me soon, but no one as interesting as this man came. He was the story I needed to hear, I know it.

What I experienced instead was a man flashing his money into my face. I walked past thinking about it. What were his intentions? What was possibly running through his mind when he sees a girl walking alone with her sister in the dusk air that manifests a sinister plan for anybody who knows?

I haven’t comprehended the male species well enough. They’re as human as I am, but somehow, from my tunnel-vision (I don’t meet many men), they are actually more emotional than I am. Perhaps their emotions and minds are stronger as compared to my apathy. Hold on. It’s not that I do not care. I do, but I do not allow myself to invest in feelings or mind chatters. and if I did, it’s mostly because I want to feel the feel to write about it. How do I feel real feelings? I don’t know how to. I want to feel what everybody else feels. What are real feelings?


Overheard a conversation between my mother and brother about my choices in clothes. I heard that I “try to look good” but there will “always” be something “off” about my whole outfit. I’m not exactly sad, but it’s the emotion that I try to develop hearing this about me. I know my clothing choices are off because I make them that way, there’s no need to feel sad about that; however that makes me incredibly boring and I think I need to fake my emotion for writing.

I’m kind of sad that my choices are seen as a mistake instead of an artistic expression of rebellion; something I can’t do being sheltered and carrying the pure image of my religion. My religion has been slandered enough that it does not need the likes of me to be prancing throwing confetti to further agitate people. It’s also some sort of a writer’s psyche – can’t explain it. I feel like I would be betraying myself by dressing up 100% well. “On point” doesn’t apply to me. Matching socks are boring. Appropriate shoes leave me with a sort of a heavy dissatisfaction. I’m never at ease when I think I’m all dressed up. That’s when I decide I will put the strap of my bag on my head and not on my shoulders. I don’t know how to make people understand that there’s just a part of me that fidgets and gags when I feel I’m dressed properly. I am not here to have people think I’m pretty contrary to what my family thinks. My brother, especially, thinks I dress this way to fish for compliments. Nobody wears purple and green socks with open-toed sandals to be admired. Most of the time they do it because it fulfills their individuality. It’s easier to assume and accept that I do things for the attention than to know that I sit down and string each caption for it to be the way it is. If there seems to be an error (not grammartically. I’m not a police or a teacher), it is most probably deliberate. I would take a selfie and upload it. For you it may be a “Hey look at me I’m pretty” thing but to me I’d look back at them and my digital iris are like memory time stamps that take me back to that point in my life; what I was feeling and how I was feeling it.

Sometimes I really do want to be pretty and be told that I am, though. I live with cats and they’ve taught me a lot. That is, if I want attention, I should scream it and I’ll get it. I’m not sure if it entirely works for humans too, but cats are humans in fur right? Do I require whiskers and pointy ears to get what I want? Let’s try.

I’m putting this again on my public blog to declare that I want to hear people tell me I’m pretty. Not hot. Not sexy. Those are the words I had gotten instead. Pretty has such a simple yet dignified meaning to it unlike hot and sexy. I want to be told I’m pretty. Not smart, not ‘like my mother’, not matured, not beautiful. Pretty. Tell me I’m pretty. That’s the most simple word in the whole wide world with no ambiguity to it and I wish it to be associated with me.

Maybe this is a side of a writer’s psyche I do not comprehend either. Why I need this sort of validation, I do not know. Maybe I want to feel real feelings. I read about the fuzzies people get when told they’re pretty, how they get butterflies and maybe baby caterpillars but it’s just something I don’t understand. It’s like I’m Defense Level 99 or something. I want to feel it.

Tell me I’m pretty when you mean it.

A Dark Soul

I pick up my loyal drawing block hidden away from sight along with a stick of triangular wooden pencil that is blunt but will do anyway. Landing on my bed chest down I wrote: So what happens on the hill?

Did they kiss? Is he a bad guy? Is she magical? What’s going to happen next? I began writing down a whole list of possibilities about who the male romance protagonist is – do I want him to be a bad guy, or a good guy? I began to think logically and hopefully, sensibly. What do guys want? What do guys think when they see girls? What do guys want when they’re with a girl they like? What happens when they see a girl they like?

A THOUGHT CAME TO MIND: It only makes sense to ask them, of course! I can’t come up with my own story line when writing about a boy’s point-of-view on romance because it makes the story what I hope for in a fantasy love, and that’s not logical. Of course I’d want someone to understand me, and take me to dinner and have absolutely good intentions towards me. Is that logical? I don’t think so.

I can’t take it to asking my own brothers because I don’t want to know what’s in their minds. I don’t want to ask my own friends because I am afraid to know. My solution was to ask strangers. It’s worse this way, actually, because these strangers only know my face and might think that I’m thinking about these stuff. In reality I just need the bit of oil to add to my non-moving vehicle: my writing.

The answers these strangers gave me aren’t at all convincing, or they aren’t helpful. Like, do you even care about the girl, or do you only want her company for the night? Some replied that there are mature guys who want to know the girl. Some replied it’s all about the sex and they’d pretend to be caring and gentle. Well, okay. Interesting.

I’m a skeptic on love. I don’t believe in it. Is there really such thing as love for one particular human being? It makes no sense! My mind is so limited I can’t grasp this possibility, but it doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist, right?

I tell myself it’s okay, I will rely on my own experiences. I try to crack my brain, hoping to suck out some memory left of me and him. But who’s ‘him’? My brain can’t recall. I don’t know anybody at all. And then I realised it’s because I haven’t had any experiences on this. It’s simply too ambitious of me to write a scene about a date when I haven’t gone on any!

But why haven’t I gone on any?

I take a look at myself in the mirror.

Is it my double chin?
Must be my teeth.
Or maybe it’s my eyebags.
Is my waist that big?
Or do I talk too much?

Ah, is that it? That I talk too much? Really, Fifi, must you really be so argumentative? If you want a date to write about you should just start being sweet and pretty. That’s all it takes, right? Of course! Nobody wants to date an opinionated girl! Just shut your mouth and be pretty Fifi. So easy.

And then from the sweet date experience I will write about in the middle of the date I take out a knife and start stabbing him in the back. And stab and stab and stab to my heart’s content because I don’t believe in love. And it’s only logical to this shallow mind to kill anybody who tries to give her his love. Because it’s SELF DEFENSE.

Oh dear, Fifi. You have become one of them.

A Dark Soul.

Random List

All right, so I’m back again writing random things on here because I don’t know how to continue with my story for now. I hope that by writing this some ideas will come naturally. I’m going to write down whatever random thing comes through my mind (up to your own interpretation):

  • chocolate, milky eyes
  • “I wonder what he smells like”
  • elephant conservation
  • Stephen King
  • Lahore
  • school library
  • crying or being rebellious?
  • regretful and apologetic or hateful and hating?
  • satin bath robes
  • locked doors
  • chest
  • diaries
  • secrets that I should not know about
  • friendship ends because of
  • linying is amazing
  • Paper Towns
  • the confessions of a dyke
  • handsome heartbreaking gay policeman
  • Call Me Maybe
  • chef boyfriend
  • someone’s husband
  • macadamia white chocolate cake
  • hungry
  • cute
  • I wanna watch a movie just for the popcorn and nachos
  • take me out pls
  • no I have to drive myself
  • and pay myself
  • because nobody likes me

Lonely Writer

Loneliness. What a perplexing, ironic, mind-boggling word. We’re constantly connected, always talking to somebody. How do we feel lonely?

It’s a question I’m asking myself. The first time I felt this way was when Pippi died. His death broke my daily routine and just like that, some of my day’s schedule was spent doing nothing related to Pippi. I kept myself busy with work, but it feels different. Different not having to check up on him. Different not hearing his meows for a stroke. Different. That’s when I first knew what loneliness means. After that it feels liberating to be free from thinking about him. I was myself again.

Right now I find myself describing me using that word again. Second time in my life this has happened, since it last surfaced eight months ago. A dark cloud casts over the room I am in, and its shadow steadily creeping in to darken everything. My body sits on a tile on the floor, my head buried in my knees. Not crying. Simply sitting in the dark out of weariness.

Weariness of what? I think it’s something called Writer’s Block, and this time it swings towards loneliness. My current protagonist is lonely, anyway. I might have become her too much that I’m feeling what she’s feeling.

I wish I was understood. Maybe what I need is a new environment. A couple of days would suffice. I planned to go slightly north for two to three days. Be one with nature. Sit down and talk to people – not the small talks I’ve become an expert at engaging, but really sit down and talk about anything. I could do with new ideas, or at least things stemming from a similar but different mind. Maybe I had asked during the wrong, bad timing.

“No,” he said. “You’re craving new experience because you want to get married, but your heart is locked to David Archuleta.”

I kept quiet throughout the lecture I received about my non-existant matrimony. Why does he think about me that way?

“Why do you have to go after someone who has thousands of other girls after him?”

I’m long over David Archuleta, but my father’s questions made me think: am I feeling this way because I want to get married?

I’m not getting married and for now, I don’t want to get married.

But what if he was right, that I have this random emotion because my subconscious wants to share a life with someone? Maybe I had been too egoistic to admit that? But it’s just beyond all kinds of my imagination to picture myself trusting somebody to live the rest of my life with. Impossible. Nobody is allowed into my life easily, and nobody is worthy to be imagined, even. I’m saying this not because I feel superior, but I am ….vigilant?

It’s just simple to understand: if I really wanted to get married, I would have long been actively looking for a partner and dressed up nicely to attract the opposite sex. I’m always doing the opposite. Don’t people realise the motives behind my actions? It’s my way of screaming: I’m more than marriage compatibility; get to know me instead of being sold by my appearances.

Right here and now I just want to escape my routine and when I do, I want it all to be about me. I want to just look into the body of the river and listen to what it has to tell me. I want to sit with me and breathe in the fresh air without thinking about other things to do. For once I don’t want to be thinking about anything or anyone, at the same time thinking about everyone and everything.

My loneliness is a paradox. Ambiguous. However, I’d like to explore this mysterious emotion. So just for tonight, I’ll say it: I am lonely.

Bifesta Cleansing Gel (thoughts)

Bah! Can’t seem to get my Photoshop to work!

Anyway, been meaning to write about my experience using Bifesta Cleansing Gel but I keep putting it off.

I bought it at SASA in December 2015, it was on discount; less than RM30 I think.. I’m so glad the salesgirl recommended me something next to this bottle which was expensive, which shifted my attention to this tube.

In my previous blog posts I swore by double cleansing method, and believed it was the way to clean my face. Not any more. Bifesta Cleansing Gel is good on its own.

Bifesta Cleansing Gel is a typical gel. So typical I don’t have pictures to show it to you. I find it works more effectively when my face is dry (don’t wash your face first) and even use it to wash the sides of my mouth when I eat something oily (important!).

Bifesta Cleansing Gel Malaysia

Switching from a Double Cleansing Method to only Bifesta Cleansing Gel has saved a lot of money for me. Before this I had to buy a cleansing milk and a cleansing foam to wash my face. Take note, however, this cleansing gel sucks as a double cleanser. That’s only because it’s so good on its own already, leaving my face so soft.

I don’t wear heavy makeup. It’s always only CC Cream or sunscreen only. If I have pimples I don’t hide them (unless I plan on seeing a cute guy, but I haven’t seen a cute guy in four years).

Turned on the flash of my phone to take a clearer picture of my face. Sun always conceals your flaws while phone flash exaggerates them, imo. Kinda glad that my face is about 90% okay? Now I gotta find a way to deal with my uneven skintone. It’s not the flash. My chin area colour is darker than the rest of my face. Maybe now I need to focus my skincare on that area.

no subclinical acne

My verdict for Bifesta Cleansing Gel: BUY.

Here’s a funny cute cat picture, and I apologise for the messiness of this blog post. It’s as messy as my mind is right now.

persian cat

Scattered thoughts might rot but not this thought.

I mean, I’d rather write them all down than keep putting them off and eventually forget about it, right?

Terrible Writing

I need to get over my stupid fear. My stupid fear of my own work.

Last year I completed writing a whole fifty thousand word book. It’s so poorly written and terrible I threw the key into the well, attempt to forget about it and it causes me to be miserable and I’m slowly dying whenever I think about it. My mother is upset that I had spent a great deal of time writing only to completely abandon it, but I think she doesn’t understand my cries. It’s okay. I understand. I could have used the months I took writing it making millions of dollars.

The whole book, titled The Veiled Devil, was crappy, but the idea is about a girl who is caught up in her dream world that she no longer knows truth from fantasy. And it’s because she inherited it from her mother, who was also as delusional as she was. I was trying to play with the idea of genetics, but I’m burning the book and am hopeful that with the ashes that’s left, a new birth blossoms. So, before I delete this damn terrible writing and 100% forget about it, I’m going to put some of them here:

Page 25

Marya sat to watch the tiny little figures on the ground floor going on with their lives. She felt like she was playing God. She was God who let her creations go on freewill. Do these people pushing the pushcarts, hurrying to places, driving their tiny cars know that there was someone watching them? These people don’t know anything. They are clueless. She felt an immense sense of power building up in her. She is a creation. She has freewill. She’s worth so much more than being a shadow. A shadow vanishes with the intensity of the light, but she was not going to disappear and be unseen. The intensity of this light was going to empower her.

Page 35

He latched his wide hands on her head and leaned his forehead against hers. The sharp bridge of his nose was in between her left eye and nose, that she could feel the warmth of his slow breathing. James had velvet-smooth skin. She pushed him away by the shoulders to study his face, absorbed nothing, and released the grip.
The corners of his lips rose and dimples dented his cheeks. He grinned and leaned in closer, responding to Marya’s willingness as an invitation. “Do not act in haste!” Marya cautioned. “It is against my religion.”
“Your religion is gentle, and so am I.”

Page 151

Somewhere deep inside Marya’s, The Veiled Devil laughed hysterically, obvious that he had won the game of doubting the human. He had also gained another friend, the baby’s veiled devil. The angels, in the form of soft voices, had been outnumbered. They didn’t know how to fight when the enemy grew stronger by day.

YEA YOU GET THE IDEA OF HOW MUCH THIS SUCKS. Crying for help because of how much I suck but I only have an audience who watch me and clap or boo at me because I suck. No dear audience tell me something constructive like –


Leave Me

I’ve always wanted to write about an orange. No idea why, but the image of an orange that fits right in my palm. I want to write about that. It’s an auto-ammo. My palm will never run out of oranges. The purpose of this orange is to throw at someone or something whenever I feel frustrated at something. And lately, for the past few days, I’ve been feeling really really uninspired. The image of the orange comes to mind again, but I don’t think I want to throw a ball of orange to my lack of inspiration. That would be sad to the orange. And that’s a very unkind way to deal with things.

What I want now is for someone to tell me I’m pretty. Tell me I’m the prettiest girl you’ve ever seen, and then tell another girl the same thing. I want to watch me die, and then grow again. I want to know what words will come out of me when that really happens. The shedding of tears that waters the soil of wisdom, harvesting fruits of love. Tell me you love me, and then leave me.

And let me die.
And grow again.