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.


Colombo Art Biyanahlaiy

Posted: September 12, 2009 in Uncategorized

So we went to this Colombo Art Biannale [bee-ah-nah-lay] thingy (Biannale = Bi-annual itseems, but Biannale makes it sound more posh, clearly).
The theme was all about peace and war in SL and such.

The Puppeteer (who has the seeing eye, evidently), was interpreting the artsy things to me, when Whacko, Jerry and St Gay- I mean Fallen, appeared as well.

It was meh-ish for me. Nothing as WOOT as I was expecting it to be.
My favourite and The Puppeteer’s was The Curtain- a long series of curtains, speckled with printed flowers, with everyday objects on them: everyday objects that, the artist says, you could use to kill someone.

I still don’t get why there was a picture of an abacus on it though.
What, teach them math to death?

St Fallen was being a totally unoriginal turd about the Curtain, spewing some rubbish about how a sledgehammer was more than sufficient for a creative murder.
Then the bald manchild got emo and strangled me (quite literally, mind) after I responded to this by saying The Puppeteer was more hardcore morbid than him (which is true).

Whacko and St Fallen were throwing punches and things in my direction all day (avoided by my ninja-like reflexes obviously), what is the meaning of this madness? The build-up of frustrations due to Fasting, let’s assume i.e. they’re bitter that Papareboy’s mum loves me best.

I don’t know, man, about this whole Art thing.
What is art even? The Biyanahlaiy has totally confused me. They had little scribbles of broken beds or something, and The Puppeteer is like, maybe the bed is a symbol of peace because you’re at rest when you’re on it.

And I was like, wut. That’s like looking at three traffic cones connected by police ropes and saying they symbolize the coming together of the three elements of Earth or something.

We did this, by the way, after leaving the place.
Then I threw a card onto the pavement in a fit of frustration of not knowing what the meaning of art and life was.

Not really. I just got tired of holding it. And it smelled funny.
Yes. Random post. My legs ache from walking.
Does anyone else think it’s ridiculous that people are walking in the 21st century? Shouldn’t pedestrians all have remote controlled roller-blade wheelchairs by now?

What is Art? Who defines it?

Posted: September 11, 2009 in Uncategorized

What pops into your head when someone says the word?

For me, long hallways of grandiose canvases of paint and golden frames, men in monocles and women in cocktail dresses and feather hats, all sipping on wine while smiling and nodding at the pictures on the walls.

Sounds crass, but I guess my subconscious has fallen for the aristocratic importance society has associated with Art.

There’s a whole myriad of definitions for the word, but all of them agree on one thing: it’s an expression of thoughts.

Art is a thought-experiment and so I personally don’t believe there are any rules when it comes to the act of conveying thoughts.
Some beg to differ. Why, without rules, people could paint total rubbish and call it Art!
But what is rubbish then?
This, looks like nothing much to me. Something I’ve seen even a 7 year old could get done. Better.
I’d go so far as to call it utterly mediocre.
But oh, look at the tag, turns out it’s a self-portrait by Picasso himself.
Oopsie. Foot in mouth?

I don’t know. Who judges?
Another thing that confuses me is why everyone assumes today that all Art is autobiographical.
I posted something on Facebook today that ended with:

It’s only ’cause I think of you
As Love and how it fades

And I got an instant shot of messages and such asking me what was wrong!
Suddenly, everyone wants to know if I’m ok and if I got dumped or something.
When in fact, I doubt I’ve ever even been in love with anything (other than my own reflection in the mirror :P) let alone had my heart broken.

Where did the art of story telling go? Surely we’re not so vain as to assume that one is incapable of telling a story without it always being about themselves?

Is there good art and bad art? Refined art and rubbish?
I, personally, don’t think so, by the definition that art is a personal expression of thoughts.
Some people may understand a piece of art, and some people may not. Some might connect with it, some not at all- isn’t it vain, again, to assume something is nothing much for the mere reason that it doesn’t resonate with you?

Then what separates great artists from the not so great ones?
The popular ones with the unknowns?
Luck? Money? Or just that your art is less cryptic to the masses than the next man’s?

I’d passed my 150th post and hadn’t even noticed.
What a wonderful excuse for an Urban Dictionary celebration, yay!

Literal results turned up for ordinary blog-names like Gutterflower, Black, Jack Point, lost soul, Serendib and PseudoRandom… sorry (actually, consider yourself lucky).
But for the rest of you, there were some… ahem… interesting definitions for your nicknames (NN)/ what’s closest.
yes I’ve taken procrastination of office work to a whole new level.

Almost all of them are pretty offensive.
But kinda awesomely hilarious too.
Please do not come after me with a sledgehammer. kthx.

Chavie – Chavi
The roman gypsy word for child.
roman gypsy woman- ‘get that chavi inside now!
roman gypsy man- ‘wotcha’ say?

PapareBoy NN: PB
A soft, malleable, ductile, bluish-white, dense metallic element.
I like to make PB sandwiches.

The Puppeteer
When you put all four fingers inside a female’s ‘area’ and wiggle your fingers around, making the girl writhe, spasm and move around.
I gave your sister the puppeteer last night and she almost fell off the side of the bed.

The Whackster – NN: Whacko
Crazy, weirdo, dummy.
that girl is whacko for dating a guy 20 years older than her!

St Fallen – NN: emofag
A whiny bitch who somehow got his hands on a guitar and sings like a eunuch whilst dressed as a nerd.
I’m gonna get some nerdy glasses, a hundred dollar guitar, and fail at leapfrogging over a fire hydrant so that I may sing like an emofag.

Rhythmic Diaspora – NN: RD
Typical extraordinary lady killer, seduces preferably young naive females via the sporting of sunglasses, untamed facial hair, and halfway unbuttoned shirts.
Guy 1: Wow that 18 year old suave sunglass wielding son of a bitch just gave rug burn to that poor 15 year old girl’s chin with his facial hair!
Guy 2: Yeah he sure is a real RD.

A curry guy who has an arranged marriage to his parrot which has slowly but surely taken over his life.
That’s what you call a gehan.

Dili – Dil
Short for the word dildo.
Stop being such a dil.

Sachintha – NN: Sach
A skank who fantasizes about Mr Bush, Ms Fawcett and Khusbu.
omg did you see that chick in love with khusbu, what a sach.

The jester
Main character for the enaction of American Pie by Don McLean. The jester is endowed with a hat and “a coat he borrowed from James Dean.”
It’s the Jester hat!

hijinx – NN: D
A way of referring to your dick without the extra letters.
S my D you faggot.

The best thing in the whole world. Absolutely NOTHING better. PIMP.
This concert is sabby.

Gypsy Bohemia – NN: Gypsy
Fucking scum of the earth (not the traditional gypsies, but the assholes found all over the UK).
I used to lodge in a cottage in a small village in Gloucestershire that happened to have a Gypsy colony about 500 meters away. These scumbag bastards stole my landlords motorbike, large stone garden ornament and even a CAST IRON BATHTUB.

Member of Phi Beta Sigma Fraternity Incorporated. The sum of all and represents true brotherhood, scholarship and service.
Every man wants to be a SIGMA man.

Padashow – Fartshow
fartshow isn’t defined yet, but these are close:
The Howard Stern Show
Adult embarassment via juvenilia; a poor attempt at humour in poor taste; to make fart noises past the age of seven.

Short for Topicality, the argument that the plan falls outside the resolution.
The dumbasses ran Kyoto, so we waxed ’em on T “In The United States.”

DeeCee – NN: Dee
A smooth playa who keeps it real.
It’s time for you to stop getting played. It’s time to Dee-Up.

A radio show with extremely sappy music and an overly dramatic host with callers that have watched way too many hallmark movies.
Delilah: Camilla from NYC what makes you happy or sad?!
Camilla: Well I’m sad because I met this guy but it turns out he’s from oklahoma and I don’t want anything to do with people who aren’t as good as us new yorkers. It’s like Romeo and Juliet!

Me: UUGGHHH shoot me now! (smashes in stereo)

Someone who is always hyper, crazy, lovely, wonderful, with a brilliant sense of humour and fit ass.
OMG! She is sooooo Indi.

The Passenger – NN: Keh
Pardon, excuse me, what the fuck did you just say, what, huh, come again… you get the picture.
Dude: Doyouwanagoouttonight?
Other dude: Keh?

Sashini – NN: Sash
bass; the act of sashing as in one’s bass.
I will sash your bass, Bassmente.

unsilent isn’t defined yet, but these are close:
A person who molests sheep.

Someone who is smart and pretty, loony at times and likes to have fun.
your nimra is showing.

The Missing Sandwich – NN: TMS
Abbreviation for “Therapeutic money spending.”
It’s time to do some TMSing.

Lady Divine – NN: Lady D
Slang for heroin, D for Diesel or Diacetylmorphine.
Lady D has got me fiendin’.

A small town in central Maine that is home to a very high number of homosexuals, and is used as a sewer by neighboring towns.
I am staying away from Greene tonight, it smells like scrunt sweat and haunted anal babies.

Gargamel’s cat on Smurfs.
Azrael scared the crap out of Vanity Smurf.

Purple Socks
Code word describing the act of going into public without wearing undergarments.
So, my underwear was too tight for my dress, so I decided to purple sock it, so I wouldn’t get panty lines.

mommythecook – mommy
The nice lady that takes me to school everyday and kisses me on the cheek because she loves me and doesn’t want me to get hurt on the playground.
My mommy loves me very much.

A guy with a nice ass, a nice neck, and nice tummy and thighs and back.
That Jev at the beach was looking at me funny, I wanted to kick him in the knuckles (?) but he was far too pretty to break.

Makuluwo – NN: Maks
A mofo that don’t got a watch, dats fat and white and thinks he’s all dat when he’s fuckin’ poor! And he always brags about his shitty bike that costs about um… -300$.
Hey look there walked by wannabe badass, Maks Clayton!