I Was Angry

warning: didnt bother editing this post sorry not sorry

On my Facebook I write my enlightening posts. On SalWalks I write dark posts. On Instagram I post spur-of-the moments (no snaps, please). On Twitter I just go to see my old friends.

I’ve written about forcing myself to feel angry, or sad, when I’m not, because I’ve felt it’s odd that I don’t feel anything when something happens to me. How do I write about anger if I don’t get angry? So I’ll try to fake it. And exaggerate it. It’s true. I don’t get angry.

And then it happened. It finally happened. I felt real anger burning.

I was walking outside looking for Carpet. I heard a man say in Mandarin, “Is Carpet the name of a cat?” He probably thought I didn’t understand because he didn’t know I gave an introductory speech when I was in China many years ago (l m a o). I couldn’t hear a reply as I continued looking for Carpet.

Then I walked past his house and he spoke to me in his very Singaporean accent, “Are the cats yours? They shit on my grass and the cats are angry!” Yes, the cats are mine. Five of them followed me back and forth in my search for Carpet.

I’m in my ugliest clothes ever. If he was judgemental he would think I only spoke Malay. You know, I looked very kampong. He probably could’ve spoken to me in Malay too, but to have an upper hand, always speak English.

Hm, I thought. Is it possible that they go to his house to do their business? And…wait a minute. Did he say…angry?

“Did you say my cats are angry?”
“They shit!”
“Big cats or small cats?” (important for me to know)
“I don’t know, lah!”
“I’m looking for my cat right now.”
“I don’t care, lah!”

And I walked away. I think he meant that there were cat fights. There’s a nasty neighbourhood Siamese Tom who initiates the attacks with other cats, I wanted to tell him. But he didn’t care. Guess I shouldn’t too.

Years ago in our other house my neighbour complained of our cats doing business in her garden. I reached out to her by purchasing a pricey cat repellent and lots of those cat rubber spikes thing. She refused them. I don’t get it. Why would you refuse my help but you tell me about what’s happening? I’m here to take responsibility over my cats.

And then a new neighbour told my mother that he’d hit the cats if he sees them coming. Another neighbour claimed that my cats waited for him at the door in the morning, which I think  is a fabrication formed out of his hatred for cats. My cats are extremely skittish. They don’t like people they don’t know. He then said he would poison the cats, and tells us that we are sinners for depriving them of “all of life’s goodness” (ie mating) for spaying them. I’m helping to lower down the cat overpopulation!!! And I try to take responsibility over it but if the parties are just being rude and mean about it, how can we ever deal with respect and mutual understanding? I don’t want to hear any shouting. We can work things out if both parties agree to communicate. Nobody else makes sense but you when you shout.

And this recent event I’m trying to look for my cat to bring him inside, and he tells me, like a child, that he “doesn’t care.” Don’t say sorry, Fifi. I hear my dark thoughts whisper to me. I didn’t.

I was, however, cool in my facade, replying simply “okay,” but I am guilty of harbouring much dislike for him after that. If he wished my cats were dead, I was going to tell him “Your child will too.” I could feel my heart palpitate as I become very conscious of its pounding like a hammer on the anvil. I was not in my usual relaxed spirit. It’s as if my heart had beat extras. The drumming of a wedding kompang reflected the state of my heart. Uneasy. Loud. But Rhythmic. This is it. This is what anger feels like. The unusual lub dub lub dub lub dub in your chest. It’s tiring to feel that way too. Your heart works extra hard as you try to keep a calm demeanor. I find myself forcing cheerfulness and cherry merry stuff. Forced. Very bad business.

I should’ve written it down as soon as I was feeling those things, but after that I realised how childish I sound. How childish I am to be offended over this. He’s right, anyway. It may or may not be my cats. Why would I get angry over something like this?

These were my real feelings. Now I’m back to feeling as cool as a cucumber. I hope we learn to be calm when dealing with upsetting situations.

The other day I had my post plagiarised. I saw it being posted as hers, and the next thing I knew I was blocked. The last time someone copied the things I wrote as his own, he didn’t block me. So I don’t really mind. I would like credit, but if that person thinks I don’t deserve credit for my own writing, so be it.

I was, however, left not with anger, but sadness over this situation. She had thousands of followers, an influential person with hundreds of likes over a silly post about her encounter with a cockroach. I can’t even hardly get ten likes over a writing I spent time on. I believe she received hundreds of likes for that post of mine too. I felt sad because people don’t know that’s my post, and will continue supporting her over her ~genius original~ posts. My respect for her didn’t dwindle, I still saw her as human as I am, but I just wish we would look out more for sincerity. She used the hashtags #positive #goodvibes (I don’t use them) that followed that post of mine. It means nothing if the whole post actually belonged to me. So please, people, learn to look at sincerity and not credibility. She has a good job and education to back her up, but that post was not hers.

This morning I wrote about al-Waqiah, a surah in the Quran. I received a message thanking me for that post. I thought about how I get no “likes” from her on that post, but hey, it shouldn’t matter. Sometimes people would message me to discuss about the things I wrote, and most of the time they’d tell me they like it without even leaving a like. So yes, thank you for telling me you like my posts. Because sometimes I feel not good enough, and I have been gauging my good-enoughs with the number of likes I’m getting. That shouldn’t be the case. Let me write because I want to write, not for recognition or glory.

And then in the afternoon I was at Tesco, writing. My mom went grocery shopping. I had my notebook and writing energy flowed through me effortlessly. Suddenly received a text message.

“Are you alone?”

I looked around. It was from a girl I had met at an event a few months prior. We exchanged numbers, but we didn’t keep in touch. She didn’t have a profile picture so I couldn’t remember her face at all (I am HORRIBLE at faces).

“Where are you?”
“I’m at Tesco too.”

I waited for a wave or something as I scanned the hall. None. I continued writing.

A petite lady then came up to me after I wrote a whole page and said hey. We talked. She told me about how she was my “stalker” and had looked me up online, and enjoys reading the things I post.

“Why didn’t you add me?”
“I was shy.”

Nonetheless, I was very grateful that she told me she liked reading my posts. I had a new tumbler that says “Reach For The Stars” (it was at 50% discount, couldn’t resist, no matter how cheesy and Un-Fifi it is). My notebook was brand new. I was wearing my writer clothes: terrible mix of striped cardigan, old grey Girl Guides shirt and batik pants. It’s the same pants a magazine editor pointed out and said it screams “Writer”. Overall, I was feeling optimistic about being a writer, but I was also wondering if anybody would even like anything I wrote.

So this lady coming up to me to tell me she likes my posts was a blessing. A godsent, much-needed compliment and validation. That hey, if I can’t get thousands of likes for my posts, at least one person acknowledges it.

And that’s enough, I guess.

Rant in Malay

Nenek aku pernah ceritakan, orangnya dari muda-muda dulu duduk sendiri aja mesti ada orang berbual dengan dia. Aku tengok nenek aku ni tak lah cantik mana pun. Aku tengok diri aku ni pun taklah cantik sangat, tapi bila aku pun duduk aja orang pun berbual, aku terima ajalah benda ni macam keturunan. Maksudnya orang bukan berbual dengan aku pasal nak mengurat lah.

Jadi satu hari tu aku terpaksa exchange contact dengan seorang driver temporary. Dia sebaya dengan aku, kot. Tak handsome. Berapa tahun lebih tua. Aku terpandang kat handphone dia tengah bermessage dgn seorang minah profile picture tak pakai tudung. Manja sangat berwhatsapp tu (orang perempuan punya scanning skills is v good). Ah, terserah. Dia pun kata dia single. Mungkin dia tengah mencari. Suka hatilah nak message sesiapa. Kerja dia hantar aku je.

Abeh mulalah dia buat cerita salah seorang dari kenalan kita ni sebenarnya beristeri tiga. Aku baru kenal diorang ni semua seminggu. Anything is possible, jadi aku percaya tidak, tak percaya pun tidak. Satu hari aku terserempak dengan si kenalan ni. Aku tanya, “Betul ke kau ada tiga isteri?” Dia kata tak. Orang ni dah berumur sikit. Rilek aja. Dia kata si driver ni dah kahwin pun, anak dua. Lagi seorang perempuan kenalan kita yang matured pun confirmed this. Aku duk terpikirkan minah yang dia message tu, kesian dia. Tapi suka hatilah, aku tak nak ambil hal dia.

Satu malam dekat satu event tu si driver ni dengan semua kawan-kawan dia datang duduk dekat dengan aku. Manalah aku tau kenapa. Jarak tu adalah setengah meter. Aku tengok si mamat ni perangai macam budak bujang kacau perempuan sana-sini. Perempuan ni semua pun melayan aja. Geram ada juga. Aku tak suka sangat orang dah beristeri ni berfoya-foya menggatal. Kalau belum kahwin aku faham. Sebab itu disuruh kahwin awal. Kesian kat isteri dia (Kalau orang tak kenal aku irl, aku ni boleh kurang garang jugalah, tapi adik aku 100% lagi garang macam singa. Aku garang kucing je). Aku toleh kat dia, “Mana isteri?” Muka terus malu dan tunduk. “Eh, mana tahu?” Aku tak jawab. “Dia kerja sekarang.” “Anak mana?” “Kat rumah.” Dah. Dia pun tak gila-gila sangat, dan sejak tu nampak aku ada air wajah malu sikit lah. Kawan aku kat sebelah pun terperanjat bila dapat tau dia ni rupanya dah kahwin.

Aku pun pulang. Memang kalau aku balik aku balik senyap-senyap aja. Tak payah nak berbye-bye sangat. Aku ni kan Cinderella yang masih beribu-bapa. Tak ada orang kenal. Tak perlu dikenali. Ibarat penyapu lidi je kat rumah.

Langsung si driver ni pun message aku, tanya apasal balik tak khabar. Aku cakap je tak payah tahu. Semua perbualan kita ni aku buat acuh tak acuh je. Abeh mulalah, dia kata aku ni orang dia tak sombong lah, (memang lah, takkan nak tarik hidung pesek ni tinggi-tinggi kan? dah lah tak cantik sombong pula tu) kawan-kawan dia cakap aku muka Siti Nurhaliza lah. In the end dia kata dia message aku sebab kawan dia si X nak berkenalan dengan aku. Cakaplah, nanti dia and X nak ajak aku pergi beach lah, tengok movies lah (oi aku pangkat maid kat rumah, mana ada heran pasal tu semua). Aku kenal dengan si X ni. Nampak aku tersipu-sipu macam anak kucing kampungan. Semua orang lain pun sikit-sikit nak sumbatkan kat telinga aku pasal X. X ni baik lah, X ni tu lah, ni lah.Tapi si X ni tak pernah datang kat aku sendiri. Aku cakap nak berkenalan buat apa? Dia kata untuk kawan berbual. Tak payahlah nak berbual-bual ni.

Si driver ni mulalah tanya aku dah makan ke tak, puasa ke tak, etc. Benda-benda remeh. Aku tak jawab. Memang aku jenis tak jawab soalan remeh. Not productive. Tak membukakan minda. Buang masa. Sebaliknya aku cakap kat dia, “Kau ada isteri kan? Tak bagus message orang lain.” Dia balas “Oh.” Terus aku tak reply lagilah. Abeh aku tengok gambar-gambar dia, the ones dulu ada isteri dia dah didelete. Isteri dia bertudung. Ciri-ciri Muslimah Islamik ada kat muka dia. Sedih aku. Isteri dia ni siap ada buat Instagram account untuk anak diorang. Semua gambar isteri dia gambar dia dengan suami, suami dengan anak. Siap bercaption “like father like son” lagi. Si suami ni tak ada gambar anak pun. Gambar dia melancong sana-sini macam orang bujang.

So lately I read about how a girl in a ‘purdah’ (a niqab) is going out with someone else’s husband. Why would you do that? There are so many single guys out there. Polygamy in Islam exists because Nabi wanted to help the widows whose husbands died at war. He married no virgin except for Aishah. So to say that polygamy is sunnah is misleading because I feel it’s only sunnah when your intention is to help a widowed woman. A single woman who has many other single suitors does not need your help. Even if she does, you could instead match your single friends with her. Not for you.

Akak ni nak ajar orang-orang yang adik-adik ni. Lelaki yang korang tak patut manja-manja sangat:

1) Suami orang
2) Tunang orang
3) Boyfriend orang

Serious. Kalau dia cakap dia single tapi in the end you find out he’s not, sudah. Kalau ko dah tersangkut perasaan tu pun sudah. Sayangi diri kita, and put yourself in his wife/fiancee/girlfriend’s shoes. Don’t contribute to a failing relationship, please.

Thanks for reading. Rindu menulis menggunakan bahasa melayu. Bahasa indah tetapi sayangnya aku tak fasih.

the trumpet

an audience of all eternity
standing naked
stripped off everything
who am I
I don’t know
am I safe
I don’t know

when my lips are sealed
and my hands and feet
start to talk
my eye replays into the projector
my ear plugs itself to the speaker
will I be content with what I watch?

the scale appears
gunny sacks await on each side
which is more?

I stand at the end of the bridge
people in the river watched me
ahead of me such beauty
below me, a purgatory
an abyss of blaze

fingers down there point at me
no! they charge
she is one of us!
a majestic but unnerving winged creature
pushes me off the hair-thin bridge

I join them
and now I look for someone else to blame.

Eid Update?

I feel like I haven’t written anything personal these days. Don’t you worry about my ‘heartbroken’ poetry and other funny stories – they are but a fantasy, at the same time real-life occurrences manifested by the thirst of romanticism and poetic tendencies. They are real, but I am turning them into my own version of fairy-dark tales because I am inclined towards darkness. I want to feel my heart break so that I can write about it. But a friend told me that good writers are the ones who know how to not get too carried away with what they’re experiencing. A good writer is one who knows how to write a story about them not be about them. And that’s what I’ve been doing, I hope.

On the bus, staring outside, I tried to find more sad words and metaphors to describe a heart break I wasn’t feeling. Nothing came out. I couldn’t. Maybe it’s because I need to feel at least a bit of heart break to break the ice. But I am not heartbroken. I am at peace, but I do not want to write about me being at peace on this blog. Because I am writing a whole book about it. Please pray that I may find the wisdom and strength to continue writing about my Peace.

My mother had a radical hysterectomy after I returned from Jakarta (oh, I was in Jakarta and I didn’t write about it). Should I write about Jakarta first? I don’t know. I’m not someone who likes to tell people about the things I’m doing (other than my writing, which I am trying to get comfortable with telling others about), show my passport and itinerary, take picture with landmarks, or the plane. They mean nothing to me, for I am a traveler of life.

I was in Jakarta for two weeks. That’s all.

So my mother’s not strong enough to be walking about for Hari Raya. We didn’t go anywhere on the first day of Eid. My family will always be done with our Hari Raya visitings on the first day itself, and it’s usually only three houses. Fast for thirty days for a day of celebration, that’s my immediate family’s tradition. I realised everyone in my family is an introvert, that’s why we prefer to stay home. Visiting other people and establishing a long-lost relationship is good, but I feel it’s only good if the connection is maintained. Not only once a year.

My father and my baby brother went to Singapore on the first day as representatives of the family in order not to offend my grandparents. Myself, my sister, and the other brother went on the second day to their houses, also in order not to offend. It’s a tradition. I visit them on other days, so I don’t really see the point in visiting them on specific days, but older people make a big deal out of it so I’ll just respect their wishes.

This is a candid shot taken by my brother which I like. My sister looks smitten:


At night, after prayers, I heard my father ask my baby brother “Why do you kiss everyone’s hands? Even those only slightly older than you?” I laughed. My father is not into the idea of my brother kissing everyone’s hands. It’s only cultural, anyway. When I was in Jakarta, my friend’s mother insisted on ‘respect’ for everyone older than you by referring to them by titles. I was not taught that kind of ‘respect’, though. My parents are fine with me calling other people by their names, as long as I am not being rude or offensive. But then again, dropping titles is offensive to some people. That’s what living in Asia, rooted by Asian values is like. It’s something I appreciate. Don’t get me wrong.

As I was leaving my grandfather’s house, my step-grandmother started making a prayer for me to find a husband soon. “May you find a good man,” she started in her prayers. For the first time in my life I find myself saying Amin. All these while I resist them, because all these while I didn’t want to get married. But that thought has changed. Heck, I’m turning twenty-four. My biological clock is ticking. My uncle, perhaps confused by my sudden Amin, asked, “Oh, you already have a boyfriend? You should bring him here!”

And my reply was: “I don’t. I’m not even looking.”

I pondered over my answer on the way home. I’m not even looking? Wait, am I supposed to be looking in the first place? Am I not the sugar ants swarm, and the flower bees visit? Am I not the honey sought by the bear and am I not the wrapped candy preferred by many? And then I thought again: why am I objectifying myself?

I don’t know if I want to be a part of a love story for human love or if I want to be a part of a love story for my poetic appeal. I still lean on the latter, but at the same time I don’t want to hurt anybody.

So I shall break my own heart, to break my own tomb, so I may rise from the dead, be dead before I die, in order to live again.


I listened to a classic that had these written:

“Siapa tahu, betapa berat cinta yang di tanggung sehingga dia sanggup untuk lakukan biar apa saja demi mendapatkan restu sultan cahaya hatinya.”

Which translates into (my rough translation): What do you know about how heavy the burden of love is, that she would do anything to receive the blessings of the man of her heart.

I’m guessing that the song is about Sufism and the love between man-and-God, but I took it in the literal term between man-and-woman. That it is about me. Is the burden of love really heavy? I found it mindblowing. It’s true I guess, people seem to be able to do anything for love. It’s just something I don’t understand. Very interesting.

You should listen to it too, it’s like a song high on weed, even if you don’t understand it:

I want to write something real and boring and unimportant things!!! Like what?

Learnt how to anyam ketupat, to weave a ketupat. This is a ketupat:

I don’t know. It’s not a dark theme. Ketupats are symbols of happiness and achievement. I want to write about heart breaks. Like the effort you put in weaving this ketupat, and then the beautiful green turns brown because you put it to boil. The rice inside absorbs the leaf extract. The leaf loses its youth to what’s inside. The leaf doesn’t mind. It’s for the heart it protects.

And then you take it. You cut the ketupat into half. And you eat the rice that the ketupat had endured four hours of boiling coconut milk in and you enjoyed it. You forgot about the leaf and its extracts. All you want is the goodness of the rich-flavoured rice. You forgot the hardship it went through. You don’t think of the one who weaved the ketupat. All you want is the rice.

That’s what I feel humans are like when they want to find a partner. They don’t want the ones in-process. They want the ones done so that they can enjoy immediately when served.

So mean.


Finding Fifi

after most of eternity
finally a man visited me
I am the waters rarely charted
my storm are tales recorded
three nights he stayed
three nights I prayed
but everyday he said,
“Plenty of fishes in the sea!”
I looked in the sea and I found
you bound to my ground.
I realised: my prayers for him
led me to you.
you kept him rooted as he
looted my life
but it’s okay.
I know about you now.
You are The Anchor
I am The Sea
Welcome Inside Of Me

These Spiritual Window-shoppers

These spiritual window-shoppers,
who idly ask, ‘How much is that?’ Oh, I’m just looking.
They handle a hundred items and put them down,
shadows with no capital.
What is spent is love and two eyes wet with weeping.
But these walk into a shop,
and their whole lives pass suddenly in that moment,
in that shop.
Where did you go? “Nowhere.”
What did you have to eat? “Nothing much.”
Even if you don’t know what you want,
buy something, to be part of the exchanging flow.
Start a huge, foolish project,
like Noah.
It makes absolutely no difference
what people think of you.
– Rumi


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