hey, i don't like you

Hey, I don't like your fancy hair, fancy clothes,
the Armani jeans and the Gucci purse,
Strutting in your heels like a two-bit whore,
Two-bit whore, two bit-whore,
Fluttering your lashes, laid thickly with
Dior goo, Iconic Lashes whoohoo!
Think you're like some hot drama queen,
All you need is some guys wankin',
To keep your ego inflated, like the doll
you are (sexy, inflated, fuck me up),
Inflated doll mouth open wide,
Aaaahhhhh two-bit doo-wip, doo-wip,
Don't like how you talk Miss Country Hick,
The Fifth Avenue ain't for the likes of you,
Spread it wide, your legs, your legs,
Heels in the air, your vanity can't be compared,
Smash that mirror in your face,
Laugh smile so bloody red like a MAC lippie
in a shade called (guess what?) Bloody Red,
I don't like you, hey, hey, hey,
You and your fancy hair, a curly wig,
A cover for the no-brains within
that thin skull as fragile as porcelain,
Hey, I don't like you, yeah I don't like you,
Hey, I don't like you, yeah I don't like you (repeat to fade).

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the wounded heart

Ah, sakitnya hati ini.
Sakit hati kerana cinta tidak ke mana.
Sakit hati akibat ditipu berkali-kali.
Sakit hati kerana impian tidak menjadi kenyataan.
Sakitnya, aduh, mengapakah sakit ini wujud?
Bukankah sakit ini seandainya sebuah imaginasi?
Sakit ini tidak patutnya wujud.
Kurasakan begitu.
Kerana... ku tidak nampak luka yang nyata.
Calar-balar yang tersorok di bawah darah yang kering.
Ku tidak nampak semua itu.
Tetapi sakit ini tetap ada.
Jauh di dalam benak sanubariku, sakit ini tinggal.
Tidak akan ke mana-mana lagi.

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it must be...

It must be something that I did.
I must have done something wrong.
It must be so... musn't it?
Else you wouldn't be glancing away,
Pretending I wasn't there.
But I am here.
I am here in front of you.
So I wait. And I wait. And I wait.
You are not noticing me.
You don't want to notice me.
So I get up and walk to you.
You walk away, hurry, hurry.
What did I do wrong?
Was it the things that I said?
Was it the shirt that I wore?
Was it the way that I laughed?
Was it just me... for existing?
That's right.
I shouldn't exist.
The world doesn't need me.
Neither do you.
Neither do I.
If it means a world of loneliness,
I don't want to exist too.

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zettai unmei mokushiroku

The little bird with its the wing cocks its head to one side, it's watchful eyes peering at the upside down castle in the sky. Miracles are said to come true if you set foot in that place of mystery.

You could even... revolutionise the world.

The little bird with the injured wing stumbles in surprise, a shadow looming high on the wall is seen prancing with a sense of utmost glee - but there is nary a person in sight.

"Did you know? Did you know? The princess with the dreams of becoming a prince, her secret wish is to become the princess who will be protected by her charming prince. Her desire to protect is a facade, a facade for the fragile heart beating so softly beneath her milky chest," the shadow says with a musical lilt to its spoken words.

The princess dreams of becoming a prince, shouldering the burdens of the false princesses of the world to bring blossoms of smiles upon their dainty lips. She walks with courage and bravery, shoulders squared and chin up as she takes proud strides in the valley of malice and corruption. For the sake of their smiles... for the sake of a smile from...

Princesses can never become princes, she knows.

In her secret heart, she desires a prince. She desires to be the one to be protected.

The little bird with the injured wing lies still. Its body as cold as stone.

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the immorality of balloons

... you know. I have this stash of condoms at home - a box of chocolate flavoured rubbers and a handful of Durex rubbers in colourful foil casings - stuff that I nicked from a fashion party some months back.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. If you're going to be all Moral Police on me, fine. I didn't nick them OK. The stuff was just sitting around in glass bowls on the coffee tables.

They were party favours OK. Party favours. And it was a fashion party OK. Not some horrific orgy party where you swap partners and hump the furniture. Or pretend to be a lamp stand.

So anyway... the rubbers. They're hiding in this shoe box at home and I don't know what the fuck I'm gonna do with them. I mean, sure, I know what to use them for but condoms, they're like a fucking party dress. You don't wear a party dress to work. You don't wear a party dress to the supermarket. You fucking wear a fucking party dress only when you've the fucking occassion for it and fucking hell, I don't have a fucking use for those fucking useless condoms because I fucking don't have a fucking partner to slide those slippery rubbrs on and fuck it all to hell!!!!!!!!! HAVE A HAPPY FUCK DAY TO ALL YOU FUCKERS WHO HAVE A FUCK TO FUCK.

There, the fury is unleashed. Now on to more important matters. I can do other things with my assortment of condoms. I can:
a. Puncture them with needles and then leave them lying around on certain people's desks in the office and hope that the best kind of shit happens to them.
b. Inflate the condoms by filling them up with strawberry jell-o. Then fling them onto random passerbys.
c. Chew on them when I get bored.
d. Try to fit my cat into one.
e. Dispose a condom in the office lavatory, no flushing, and wait for horrific reactions and rumours to run wild.
f. Nail a condom on my boss' office door.

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hey, yoda!

Today's a public holiday and I've decided to spare a few hours of my life today doing the most bourgeois thing a person of my standing in society could do - lepak in Starbucks. So here I am, my ass nicely warming up my wooden seat as I take delicate sips of my Christmas edition Toffee Nut Latte, iced with whipped-cream, and surf the Net like practically everybody else in this particular branch of Starbucks.

Ah, to be bourgeois. But it is a luxury I could only hope to afford perhaps twice a month until the money in my bank account runs low. God knows what I've been wasting my money on. It ain't Starbucks. Well, not really.

The fact is, I wouldn't even be here today (with two younger brothers in tow - and I also had to buy them a Starbucks drink each too) if not for the stupidity caused by Streamyx. Yeah, we can't use the Internet at home. Why? Who knows. Anyway it's been like that for some days and honestly, it wouldn't have bugged me so much (I've been keeping myself entertained by building myself an empire of lemonade stands in Lemonade Tycoon 2) if not for the other fact that is, I have to e-mail something to the office.

The other option I have is to actually drive the half-an-hour distance to the office and send in my document but that would have been stupid since the time spent at the office would only amount to a little over five minutes. So why waste time? Might as well go to Starbucks, waste my money, get myself on a caffeine high, contribute to the economy, make the world go round, send my document, download some comics and then well, get back to Lemonade Tycoon 2.

So here I am. Lame lame lame lame.

I love my Toffee Nut Latte.

By the way, did you know that if you put a picture of a tapir underneath your pillow, it would eat all your nightmares? Cool, huh?

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lamentation of the prune

Eh... prune!

Prune will help me with my constipation woes!

Prune will make me learn to fly!

Prune will make me as beautiful as She-Ra, sister of He-Man - alter ego of the pink-shirt-and-lilac-tights-wearing prince of Castle Gayskull! (No, I did not accidentally miss the 'r'.)

My mom, she was a constipated woman. Prune never worked for her. Neither did laxatives. Nor rotten milk. When I was born, I suppose I must have been quite the constipated babe. I remember being stuck in the loo for long periods of time ever since I was five.

It's a bad experience, constipation.

It's not too bad when you've got books to read in the loo though.

But I just read all my books and comics so going to the loo has become quite a dreadful task.

But I need to, you know. Poo. Because if I don't poo enough, I'm going to get colon cancer. That's what my mom says anyway.

But we don't have prune at home. So how? So how?

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