Because that's where everything is.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
The truth behind my grades...
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I got the results I got for midterms.
My parents are going to slaughter me on RKA day.
When my friends make plans that involve money
So don't ask me out on shopping sprees, movies, ice-skating dates, trips, events, nada. I am down on the dough until forever.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
murderous.
V. stressed. Must tumblog and…blog. Stress. Mental stress. Vocal stress. Wardrobe stress. Eyelid stress.
Band. No voice. I’m sorry. I know the late nights and excessive chocolate concoctions are not helping at all. I know I should be taking ice cream (the creamy kind) and pei pa ko. I’m sorry if I come down with a fever and start wheezing like an asthmatic patient tomorrow.
Drama. No (improved) script. I’m sorry. I should have known it was a not just a ridiculous but awful idea to try writing next to the idiot box. Okay, technically it can’t be called the idiot box because there is no longer a “big box attached to the back of the TV” (source: Grown Ups). I should have known it was not just a ridiculous but awful idea to try writing next to the idiot panel. I know I came up with a corny, sappy, clichéd, and – most obviously – crappy ending. I’m sorry for being such a horrible director/scriptwriter/whatever-you-wanna-call-me, especially considering I have no idea where I put all your phone numbers.
Debate. I’m sorry, because I know you’ve placed your faith and trust and hope in me. I’m scared to disappoint, scared of my commitment level. I know you’ve sacrificed so much for this, and I know I should only do the same. I’ll try, promise.
I want ice cream. I want ice cream. I want ice cream.
It is the only exception.
That and What the Day Owes the Night by Yasmina Khadra.
Band. No voice. I’m sorry. I know the late nights and excessive chocolate concoctions are not helping at all. I know I should be taking ice cream (the creamy kind) and pei pa ko. I’m sorry if I come down with a fever and start wheezing like an asthmatic patient tomorrow.
Drama. No (improved) script. I’m sorry. I should have known it was a not just a ridiculous but awful idea to try writing next to the idiot box. Okay, technically it can’t be called the idiot box because there is no longer a “big box attached to the back of the TV” (source: Grown Ups). I should have known it was not just a ridiculous but awful idea to try writing next to the idiot panel. I know I came up with a corny, sappy, clichéd, and – most obviously – crappy ending. I’m sorry for being such a horrible director/scriptwriter/whatever-you-wanna-call-me, especially considering I have no idea where I put all your phone numbers.
Debate. I’m sorry, because I know you’ve placed your faith and trust and hope in me. I’m scared to disappoint, scared of my commitment level. I know you’ve sacrificed so much for this, and I know I should only do the same. I’ll try, promise.
I want ice cream. I want ice cream. I want ice cream.
It is the only exception.
That and What the Day Owes the Night by Yasmina Khadra.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Brain damage.
I think the fact that my parents found out is really working to my advantage.
Even though looking at myself, it’s really just so sick what I’m doing.
This is sick, I tell you.
Sick, sick, sick.
Like the fever that I have right now, the night before Confirmation.
Dah la I nak bunuh diri, now I’m probably gonna catch pneumonia or something and die in the middle of Confirmation mass – with the cardinal present.
My dad thinks I need to see a psychiatrist. I agree. Not just because I have a psychological disorder and hallucinations and mania are becoming more and more frequent, but also because I’ve always wanted to visit a shrink. Just to lie back on the lounge chair and talk about myself for hours – yeah, narcissistic am I.
Exhausted. Performing is exhausting, but that’s just one of the many reasons why I love it. Writing is exhausting, too. Studying is exhausting, too. If God rained a million bucks down on my head from heaven today, I’d take it all and study for an internationally recognized certificate in law.
But that ain’t gonna happen.
Like how I doubt the school is ever going to give us back all our RM1000. Thieves.
Gotta sing. And strum. And memorize lyrics.
Nah. Gotta sleep and rest my psychologically disturbed head.
Even though looking at myself, it’s really just so sick what I’m doing.
This is sick, I tell you.
Sick, sick, sick.
Like the fever that I have right now, the night before Confirmation.
Dah la I nak bunuh diri, now I’m probably gonna catch pneumonia or something and die in the middle of Confirmation mass – with the cardinal present.
My dad thinks I need to see a psychiatrist. I agree. Not just because I have a psychological disorder and hallucinations and mania are becoming more and more frequent, but also because I’ve always wanted to visit a shrink. Just to lie back on the lounge chair and talk about myself for hours – yeah, narcissistic am I.
Exhausted. Performing is exhausting, but that’s just one of the many reasons why I love it. Writing is exhausting, too. Studying is exhausting, too. If God rained a million bucks down on my head from heaven today, I’d take it all and study for an internationally recognized certificate in law.
But that ain’t gonna happen.
Like how I doubt the school is ever going to give us back all our RM1000. Thieves.
Gotta sing. And strum. And memorize lyrics.
Nah. Gotta sleep and rest my psychologically disturbed head.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Pyschology.
I find it kind-of-fascinating when people tell me I need professional medical attention.
It's funny how they find it so disturbing, because it is disturbing, but please, like I'm really going to let disturbance get the better of me.
So maybe I do need counselling. It would be lovely to have someone to talk to. But it would be lovelier if that person would listen to what I tell myself everyday instead of telling me what I tell myself everyday because then maybe they'd tell me something different. I can counsel myself (a little), and it actually does make me feel better. And in either case, even if you did tell me things to believe, I couldn't believe it unless I told myself to.
So don't worry about me. I'm okay. Really.
Unless I am in a manic depressive state, I will not kill myself, and even when I am manic, I will make sure there are no pills or sharp objects near me, okay? (Y)
You cannot convince me not to give up because you love me, or because my parents love me, or because there are a lot of people out who might possibly love me. Yes, I appreciate your love for me, but that's not enough to keep me living. I live because of the only everlasting and steadfast love for me that could ever possibly exist, the only one that gives me hope and strength and courage, and the only love that helps me believe, and the love that can help me do what I need to do, and the love that manifests itself in so many ways including your love for me and my parents love for me and the load of people out there who might possible love me. I live for that love, I live to tell of that love and to try to share that love, because it's far too precious not to share.
Don't worry about me. (Unless I'm in a manic state, that's a cause even for me to worry. But still.) Don't worry.
You know how people ask you how you're doing and you usually resort to fine? Well, I couldn't do that yesterday because I wasn't. I'm sorry, you. I wanted to tell you, but I didn't know where to start and how to go on. But thank you for asking. I'm fine now. :)
I find the question, "How are you?" one of most fascinating questions ever asked. I think I'll do a write-up on it.
After the write-up I'm supposed to do on our confirmation journey and the confirmation itself, and after I find RM900, and after I research local matrics, and after I finish writing the nuclear reactor script, and after I schedule debate practices and after I study for Chemistry and Physics. Oh, and after I find a song for and practice my duet. I have no idea what my partner is doing. (X jwb msj pun. =,=") And after I consider doing a solo mash-up.
Conclusion is, I cannot die. There are too many things I need to do. Like take a trip to the Vatican and celebrate mass in St. Peter's Basilica (meet the Pope? Not unless Brandon and Anthony can get me past security ;D). And read What the Day Owes the Night by Yasmina Khadra.
So don't worry. I will not die.
It's funny how they find it so disturbing, because it is disturbing, but please, like I'm really going to let disturbance get the better of me.
So maybe I do need counselling. It would be lovely to have someone to talk to. But it would be lovelier if that person would listen to what I tell myself everyday instead of telling me what I tell myself everyday because then maybe they'd tell me something different. I can counsel myself (a little), and it actually does make me feel better. And in either case, even if you did tell me things to believe, I couldn't believe it unless I told myself to.
So don't worry about me. I'm okay. Really.
Unless I am in a manic depressive state, I will not kill myself, and even when I am manic, I will make sure there are no pills or sharp objects near me, okay? (Y)
You cannot convince me not to give up because you love me, or because my parents love me, or because there are a lot of people out who might possibly love me. Yes, I appreciate your love for me, but that's not enough to keep me living. I live because of the only everlasting and steadfast love for me that could ever possibly exist, the only one that gives me hope and strength and courage, and the only love that helps me believe, and the love that can help me do what I need to do, and the love that manifests itself in so many ways including your love for me and my parents love for me and the load of people out there who might possible love me. I live for that love, I live to tell of that love and to try to share that love, because it's far too precious not to share.
Don't worry about me. (Unless I'm in a manic state, that's a cause even for me to worry. But still.) Don't worry.
You know how people ask you how you're doing and you usually resort to fine? Well, I couldn't do that yesterday because I wasn't. I'm sorry, you. I wanted to tell you, but I didn't know where to start and how to go on. But thank you for asking. I'm fine now. :)
I find the question, "How are you?" one of most fascinating questions ever asked. I think I'll do a write-up on it.
After the write-up I'm supposed to do on our confirmation journey and the confirmation itself, and after I find RM900, and after I research local matrics, and after I finish writing the nuclear reactor script, and after I schedule debate practices and after I study for Chemistry and Physics. Oh, and after I find a song for and practice my duet. I have no idea what my partner is doing. (X jwb msj pun. =,=") And after I consider doing a solo mash-up.
Conclusion is, I cannot die. There are too many things I need to do. Like take a trip to the Vatican and celebrate mass in St. Peter's Basilica (meet the Pope? Not unless Brandon and Anthony can get me past security ;D). And read What the Day Owes the Night by Yasmina Khadra.
So don't worry. I will not die.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Death row.
I shall drag myself to my death tomorrow at the gallows before numbers.
The gallows being my seat in class between Soon Ho and Monica and Rachel and Tiek Yi and the numbers being Pn. Zurina's suicide-inducing add math questions.
Maybe I'm overreacting. Maybe I've been doing too much add math this last weekend, and the few questions I cannot answer are getting to my brain, which shouldn't be happening because there are far more questions that I can answer correctly.
Good. What I should really be worrying about is that I have far less time to study far more physics, chem and bio than add math. And also that I will have no time to touch my guitar, much less the computer any more. And also that I need to figure out what the extent of my newfound power and responsibility is.
I should be sleeping, I think.
The gallows being my seat in class between Soon Ho and Monica and Rachel and Tiek Yi and the numbers being Pn. Zurina's suicide-inducing add math questions.
Maybe I'm overreacting. Maybe I've been doing too much add math this last weekend, and the few questions I cannot answer are getting to my brain, which shouldn't be happening because there are far more questions that I can answer correctly.
Good. What I should really be worrying about is that I have far less time to study far more physics, chem and bio than add math. And also that I will have no time to touch my guitar, much less the computer any more. And also that I need to figure out what the extent of my newfound power and responsibility is.
I should be sleeping, I think.
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