Archive for September, 2009

Dear Old Buddy

Posted: September 28, 2009 in Uncategorized

Hi meya! How how?
Haven’t heard from you in a long time no. What’s that you say? Feels like it’s been years and years chucklechuckle? Yeah, that’s hilarious. Since it really has been years now that I think about it!
Remember when you used to like, not completely drop out of my life?
Haa haah. Good times, good times.

What have you been doing for the past two years so? Ahh. Got married? Oh started up a business? Moved to another city eh?
Sounds like maara fun.
Here, that reminds me of this fable I heard no, my grandma was telling me.
This man, he moved to another city, told everyone here I’m going ah! and everyone threw him a party and all. But the silly bugger forgot to tell his best friend.
Then later after growing up and having a midlife crisis and all that jazz, he looks for his old friend and says ado machan! how?
Then the friend takes a machete and kills him and buries him in his backyard.
The end.

Hee hee. My grandma always knew how to tell a funky story no?
That crazy lovable old bat.

How have I been? Oh, just peachy, thanks for asking.
What’s that? You wanna meet up for coffee, have a little chat and catch up?
That’s great. When?
Tomorrow? Oh, sorry, I have work.
Friday? I have to do this thing.
The weekend? I’m busy. With Papareboy’s mum.

So… I guess I’ll catch ya later?
I’ll call you and let you know.

Ok not really.

I probably won’t call you or email you at all in fact. Because I’ll mysteriously lose all trace of memory or evidence of your existence in a freak accident at the local supermarket.
Then after I’m done avoiding you in general, for say, two years?
I’ll maybe reappear and say hi, talk to you about my two kids, pet monkey and my new home in China.
Then ask you how you are, not because I give a shit or anything but because my conscience nags me for being the asshole I truly am.

Wait for it!


My computer has finally croaked.
The motherboard fried from it being left on too long. Weakling!
Sigh. R.I.P you binary second hand piece of sh- oh who am I kidding?
I miss it already.

It was crap, compared to the other two in the house.
The screen was wonky, doing that occasional annoying white-lines-suddenly-appearing thing or just screwing up the colour scheme and making purple look like grey and green look like brown.
Then sniggering to itself and such.
But then I’d put my hand on the monitor, shake it a bit, and say, calm down man.
And it would.
Like a little kid who just needed attention.

There were great times. When videos would stream even faster than on the other PCs.
Or when it would act suspiciously uncooperative when someone else tried to use it.
And there were bad times. When it froze or rebooted for no reason.
When someone would walk in to find me making angry unwholesome gestures at it.
When I would fantasize about smashing its face in with my cricket bat.

But like a smelly, pesky, dysfunctional old grandmother, who refused to take a bath for weeks or kept interrupting convos with lame old-lady jokes, and yet knew everyone loved her because she was part of the family- my PC was the smelly, pesky, dysfunctional old grandma I never had.
That is, not to say I usually give my computer baths and involve it in conversation, but you get whaddimean.

Even if my computer had been an intolerable rabidmanchild from hoboland aka Fallen, I would still have preferred it to the acer laptop I am now forced to utilize.
It’s a gay temporary replacement till the PC gets a new motherboard.
I can’t stand laptops, man. Especially slow ones.
This one is so freaking slow (which is, for an ordinary person who possesses an inkling of patience, average speed), and keeps rudely interrupting my work with UR WINDOWS ISN’T GENUINE HAHA U SUK alerts, not to mention some of the keys act like spastic little circus monkeys.
The last time I had to use a laptop for a long time, the heat from the surface made mysterious marks on the small parts of my wrists that sat on it.
Sensitive wrists? Or evil skin-frying laptop?
You tell me.

So, yes. I am computerless. See me weep.
All your collective sympathy may be converted into forms of sugary food items and respectfully mailed to my abode.

Attack of the Puddles

Posted: September 22, 2009 in Uncategorized

Tricky little weasels, those.

I leaned over one and examined it. The image of my face blinked back at me, oblivious to the unnecessary puddle-induced abuse that was to come.

It wasn’t even raining.
And yet after 20 minutes of trudging back from the bank, while quite skillfully avoiding the puddles (or so I thought), there I was, soggy left foot and all, scrutinizing one of the many culprits.

How did you get into my shoes like that, I questioned, squinting at the puddle.
Which was quite clearly sniggering like this on the inside.

It stayed silent.

I gave it the stink-eye and kept walking.
Then later, two people randomly appeared on my left and asked me if I was Mister Rakzasomethin’s daughter.
And I was like, uh no.
But they asked if I was sure.
Before I could say oh wait I’m not sure of who I am exactly, let me check my National ID card and get back to you my distracted gaze left my right foot to the mercy of another dastardly puddle.

After a very stern NO OKAI at the freaky deaky twins (who were obviously hired by the puddle. yeah I’m onto you, puddle.), I kept walking.
Now, I don’t mind rain, I love it in fact. But puddles are a pain when they attack ankle-length jeans and casual flats in mid-walk.
The soggyness, the water-in-shoes-ness and the consequent chaka-chaka noise- not a nice combo.

Foolish enough to think the puddles had left me alone at last, I let my guard down and dug into my bag for my phone while simultaneously trying not to look suspicious around a checkpoint.
Then BAM! a soldierdude put his stupid boot in a puddle next to me unawares, and the puddle used this as an excuse to leap out at my shoes and clothes.

THANKS MONKEYBOY, I said, enraged. Quietly. As he walked away.
And I chaka-chaka-ed back home, where an irritating man asked why my shoes were making ‘hilarious noises.’

Speaking of which, Anarkali is a political candidate now itseems?

Crushes are disgusting things.

Posted: September 20, 2009 in Uncategorized

They’re stubborn and refuse to go away, insolently defiant to your brain’s reasoning.
They seem to taunt the futility of your efforts at disposing of them.
They make you irritated at yourself for the inconvenience.
They rob a completely independent thinker of their independent style of thought.
Obscenely enough, everything is suddenly somehow connected to them.
They make you absurdly self-aware and self-critical.
Resulting in you acting like a spazz the more you try not to.
They’re prolly based on nothing more than hormones and juvenile idiocy.
Which makes it even easier to loathe yourself for indulging in them.

They’re just big, fat bullies, who cramp your style.
How do you scoop them out of the mind they’ve unwarrantably invaded?
Facepalming and calling myself an idiot isn’t working.

Even Mr Jibbles is judging me.

Mr Jibbles

In other news, Thriloka’s performance at the Thry Minded gig on Sunday was an


Giant Handbags of Doom

Posted: September 18, 2009 in Uncategorized

So, handbags are stupid.
I mean, the very term ‘handbag’ implies noobishness in my vocab.
That is, not to insult almost the entire population of women who use them, handbags are very useful (don’t hit me). 😛

I prefer funky little sling bags and such, because when someone says handbag, my brain for some reason connects the word to auntie or mummy.
Some sort of bizarre childhood quirk I bet.

Anyway, my closet is cluttered with clothy tie-dye strange looking bags, which I discovered are very ‘inappropriate’ for work-related goings.
So I dug up the simplest looking thing from mum’s collection for temporary use, and found a small black square of a ‘handbag’.
Looked least like one, and could easily be mistaken for a leather square object with a strap on it.

Went looking for my own lately at MC (after clearly misguided individuals told me they had the best variety) and was flabbergasted at what I found.
Everything was… big.

Did I miss a change in the protocol that insinuated women would need portable tents in case of emergency.
Are there enough notebooks and pens and things to actually fill that thing with.
Do mexicans use it to smuggle small people across the border.

So many questions, as I stood there across the big bags wondering if I’d shrunk in the past few years.
As if to add insult to injury, the huge bags are obscenely done-up with totally uncalled for polythene shields, gigantic fakegold buckles, hideous polka dotted sashes, that would make Anna Wintour shrivel and die.

I did finally find a soft brown leather one that wasn’t the size of Canada with simple chic working on it, followed up with the unnecessary purchase of a Barefoot-ish sling to comfort my traumatized self.

When did pohara bags with ruffles and buttons on them become so popular anyway?

Mission Cookie Jar

Posted: September 15, 2009 in Uncategorized

Someone once said the difference between good kids and bad kids is, the good ones just never get caught.

Mission Cookie Jar

Age 9
Boondi placed in cookie jar on fourth shelf of pantry.
Boondi-overdose strictly prohibited, due to mild sweet-tooth induced tooth decay and characteristic sugar-rush behaviour.
Enemy: Parental Unit
Mission: Must steal Boondi

Synopsis of strategy to be used: sneak past room of Parental Unit past 11pm. No slippers. No lights on. Carry keytag-light for minimal sight in kitchen.
Be aware of where Parental Unit is at all times.

Back up Plan B in case of ambush: Hide behind closest furniture/ Bathroom-excuse.

Back up Plan C: Close eyes and throw hands forward, pretend to be sleepwalking.

Back up Plan D: Faint (pretend). Will distract Parental Unit from why you’re up at this time.

Scapegoat (if all else fails): Sibling. “I was stealing Boondi for him.”

Phase #1> Sneak past room into pantry. Accomplished. Time: 11.15.
Phase #2> Enter pantry. Locate Jar with keytag-light. Affirmative.
Phase #3> Climb atop stool, then atop pantry table, obtain Jar.

Right foot slips. Hits rack of spoons, that clash onto marble floor.

Time: 11.25. Parental Unit will take precisely 4 minutes to awake from stupor and make it to pantry.
Option #1, grab Jar and run to headquarters before ambush.
Or #2-

“Ahem, what’s going on here?”


“It’s funny how you were nice enough to climb off the table before ‘fainting’, Maks.”

Damn it. Foiled again.

I get off the floor, brush myself off, and contemplate. Plan D had failed. Too late in the game for Plans B or C. Scapegoat, too weak an excuse for direct confrontation.
If I admit guilt now, and turn myself in with dignity… Mission FAIL.

Maybe I could fake an asthma attack like that guy in that show-

Turns out I had what is now known as the jiji expression on my face during this contemplation, and little to my knowledge, it was working on the Parental Unit like a charm.

Sent to bed, with a kind handful of Boondi. Less than what I expected to nab in my cavernous pockets, but hey, there was always tomorrow.

Scribbled down in my little strategy handbook>
Demote Plan B to Plan E. New Plan B: the jiji expression.

Hasn’t let me down ever since. 😉

Caricature Maks-wabbit vs Real Maks-wabbit

Damn you, woman! I said, whilst shaking my fist @The Puppeteer’s post.