the daily hobble

Tongue in Chic!

2008-06-17T20:12:00.003+08:00

this is my entry for the tongue in chic - urbanscapes contest, i hope i win. i just threw in more polyvore images i'm proud of. power to the polyvore. i want me a kitsch t-shirt stat! :) well, there it is, my entry... fingers crossed:

Petrol Cham.

2008-06-09T11:56:00.000+08:00

Petrol prices have increased by a 70 sen slant. The truth of the matter is, I don't doubt its increase. I mean, I might not be used to it just yet, but I can definitely accommodate to the reception of the idea, as well as the understanding of such. I understand that world oil prices have increased. I also understand that the Thais amongst our other neighbours come on over to fill up their tanks here instead of wherever, leading to an abyss of loss. However, I also understand that the stuff of what we export are champagne oil - refined to the core, whereas we import crude oil for ourselves to meet with our consumption of petrol, vaseline, and tar among other things. As the selling price of our exportations increase, so do our imports. Would that not leave us at the same place we were before? I understand the government can't compensate the loss of 47 billion ringgit a year, but aren't there ways to re-route our government funding? Like the Datuk-Datin holiday trust fund (no discriminating, it happens everywhere), like the scholarships that are only given out to the richly connected kids anyhow. However, I do understand at RM1.70 a litre, we were borderline stealing our petrol - however, take into consideration that the average Malaysian would make RM1000 a month. It barely adds up. It's strange. I'm rambling. But I understand. Whoa, I'm confused.

Year 100, Holy Smokes Batman!

2008-05-24T12:48:00.000+08:00

Considering we live in a patriarchal society that privileges everything masculine, where mainstream equates malestream, why is it socially correct to leave the toilet seat down? Why, why why?

castrated males equals female armpits.

2007-09-13T00:08:00.000+08:00

I have come to understand the need to considering and reconstructing the framework that drives our society. All we are is patriarchal, and all we have is the negotiation between power and agency. Everything is in relation. To discriminate some one is to elevate and celebrate another.

And really, I lack in so many ways; amidst my penis envy, in my non-Occident state, in my position as a Catholic in an Islamic state; it can go on forever, so long as you align it against an other in a certain context. I worry about my being not as a woman, but as a woman living in the post-colonial era. A woman with an identity and body that serve as markers of judgment in class and race.

The term post-colonial itself is heavily packed. It relays a sense of aftermath, of effects. Of the residue of geographical, cultural, economic and social divides. The paradoxical trouble lies in that even with celebratory racial unifying campaigns such as by the Body Shop and the United Colours of Benetton, such tends to instead envelope humans as a trope, masking lived realities and silencing the oppressed. Within the discrimination and the paternalistic devices, what way is the way out? Which is the way beyond extension of Western imperialism? Which is the way toward my utopia of equality and equity?

Cows have udders.

2006-08-14T21:50:00.000+08:00

Procrastination lands at the strangest of destinations. I have two assignments and presentations respectively due this week, and here I am, writing a post after having not updated for a little less than a year.

A one, a two, a one, two HO-DOWN:

- Aidan and I broke up. I got over that Mr. Big, and I found a Burger. This is a metaphor as literal it gets, as though to say, "My mum's fat like Oprah". In terms of my life, this is as pathetic as it gets.

- Surprise, surprise, after a semester of Feminist Theory, I discovered that I am not a feminist. In fact, besides being racist, and an elitist, I also think women are dumb.

- I think I have lost my skills in drinking. This is depressing, as this was my only good Indian trait (as compared to body odour and hairiness).

- I discovered my left boob is totally bigger than that of my right.

Here seeps procrastination.

overlapping jutting teeth, smile, say cheese

2005-08-31T04:12:00.000+08:00

My very first attempt of patriotism came at RM2.50. Rather semangat was I to join the likes of the boys who will eventually switch to motorcycles in the future. Those who I wowed at for cycling around Kuala Lumpur in groups with the school standardised sized jalur gemilang flags trailing behind them, those who I later cursed at for beating the red light when it meant green to me. For none of my passenger seaters obliged to hold a flag up while I drove, I made do with those stick-on ones.

Now, for someone who has no sense of sensitivity for anything specifically Malaysian, save eateries, this is quite the rare achievement. However, I found that Sunshine is truly a Claudia's car through and through when she rejected the flag while on Jalan Yap Kwan Seng. I must admit that I screamed like a little baby's bottom for my window was open and bloody hell, that flag was persistent. Anonymous2 asked if I had replaced it. I think RM2.50 is money well enough to give back to Malaysia, don't you think?

princess sparkles

2005-08-28T12:36:00.000+08:00

Sunshine is of royalty. She who gleams in the sun, speeding back and forth with her nose up in the clouds. Sunshine was the vehicle in which I had a fantastic two days with girlfriends. It's been quite a while since I've been in full content, but Friday seemed to fit the bill, with a small price of skipping a lecture to pay.

Off to Sunway Pyramid did we fly, to have the french toast that would get us by. I know moods that come in excess or in adequate amounts sprout my Doctor Seuss excerpts, and for that I apologise. Garfield, if you're reading this, you'll be happy to know that I think I have successfully kicked most of the speaking-in-third-person habit. Oh and if you really are reading this, know that I miss you.

Anyways, despite shopping with wallets that contained flies and RM40, we could not yield the magnetism to the shallow things in life; to the clothes, to the make up, I swoon. And we did the things that make me proud to be a girl. For it is us who can window shop for four hours and feel satisfied, or if not, pumped to go out once again to conquer. It is us who can make full use of testers. It is us who can then ignore the salespeople who are blatantly annoyed at the window shoppers; who are moralised by a touch-if-you-can-buy-theory. It is us who can then continue to test makeup products until no valid spot remains on our hands, and then our arms. It is us who can then leave without feelings of guilt, none in the least.

However, as Melody writes in her blog, guilt comes from purchase; but that's an entirely different story.

oy with the poodles already

2005-07-29T22:44:00.000+08:00

My quarter-life crisis impulse came some three weeks ago in the form of shears. I cut my hair. Alot of it. I barely have any left. So if I were to currently describe myself, it'd either be romantic parisian 1920's chic-esk or cancer patient.

Note to the popular demand: I'm sorry I haven't had the time to take the picture that was obviously taken by myself, in my room only to post it on friendster.com and caption it with a coverline cliché to camouflage my pathetic-ness. It will take a year to grow into the familiar bob I've had thrice before; you will eventually see the hairstyle.

In other recent but arguably long overdue (the "daily" in "the daily hobble" is rhetorical!) news, I had my first car accident. So I was on Jalan Pudu with Nat in the passenger seat in an intense traffic jam, which I shouldn't have come across in the first place since I was on the way back to Ampang, not Cheras.

While glancing at a Magnum billboard plastered with a well ugly cow selling the suggestingly shameless orgasm-giving product, the car infront of me crashed into the car ahead of it, and then I banged the car infront of me. Sunshine's now got a leaking radiator, so she'll be in the works for a few weeks tangled up in insurance claims and what not.

I'll won’t beat around the bush: I can't give you freeloaders anymore rides for the moment. I'll drive you around using the petrol I paid for with the money from my wallet in two weeks, okay? I weep in realization that I'll some day grow into the stingy farts that are my grandparents. But for the moment, I am only kidding.

It took me 18 years, three months and 16 days, but I've finally realized that Disney has been robbing me of all my dreams and expectations. They corner me with pointing fingers mocking, "Haha, got you!" Even when I turned 16 did it not catch on when no white horse drew a prince with hair you could drop a comb on (What is the point of those snippets in commercials anyway? I'm pretty sure if I were to start using Pantene, I wouldn't brush my hair that way. Then I'd have to keep picking the brush up off the floor).

But a few days ago, it came to me. There is no royalty of any sort. There is no riding on a horse with a newly wedded spouse and a wooden plank displaying the words "JUST MARRIED" on it's ever-swooshing tail. There is no "the one".

I said this to a certain someone the other day, "Forever is comfort for the everything that is temporary". Besides the pride that I have great potential in the field of quotation writing, the disappointment still swells, dwelling in the depths of a heart that's slowly becoming a void.

On a lighter note, my holiday acne's clearing up. Apparently anti-stress causes my face to break out.

silver-coned breasts

2005-07-09T01:42:00.000+08:00

The growing significance of teenage relationships are if anything, a nuisance. After being forged into what seems to be a binding contract despite labels of a "puppy love", we all eventually realise the 6-feet-deep hole we dug ourselves into.

I spoke to a girlfriend the other day, and we both depressingly discussed about our Mr Right Nows, both of whom were cleverly disguised as Mr Rights. This certain girlfriend has countlessly adviced me to get out, and I her, but the funny thing is that we're both just full of talk, and neither of us can.

We've been through so much together. He's just going through a hard time right now. What if I can't find someone who treats me better? He's my first. He's the one. There are just so many excuses of which we try to bury our lack of pride in.

How the hell did this happen?

When the first serious relationship I had left me in tatters, I became a more exaggerated form of a commitment phobe - for this state had come from a lesson (or mistake). Fast forward the 2 years of strategically planned easily detachable flings, came Anthony.

I swear if and once I get myself unravelled out of this mess, I shall baricade myself within a titanium defense mechanism; an improved version of the first, and I shall live to my full potential without any linkage whatsoever to men who prove no use other than to weigh you down. But then again, the key word used here is "if", for I never was good at untying knots.

On a lighter and a very random, insignificant note, I have recently come up with the plot of all plots for a text (note to Dr. Yeoh Seng Guan: education not wasted). Let's just say it involves a suffragette-come-vigilante in diguise of an escort ala Sydney Bristow to dispose the raging hormones of male Mat Salleh tourists in urban Thailand.

jigglypuffs with ketchup

2005-06-22T23:48:00.000+08:00

Question: When you find the pace of a relationship steadily declining, do you do a Tom Cruise in The Last Samurai and stay to fight the losing battle to the very last drop of pride and dignity, or do you end it to get a head start in moving on?

The phrase, "opposites attract" is becoming cliche. Where immense passion just as easily swings into intense dispassion, fights begin to take a toll on you. Our fights sure as hell out weigh the good times, but quoting Puan Mashuri, the art teacher clad in slippers with socks, "it's quality, not quantity". The thing is though, who ever processed her two cents worth?

It's sad really, when you realize love alone isn't enough to salvage a relationship. The two hands that intertwine are eventually forced to let go to enable productivity, and so it is. Each of our destined paths slowly, but surely diverge. And then it boils down to how many close calls it will take to separate us?

I'm trying my best to clench my fists, but like sand through my fingers, I'm watching you slip away. But until then, linger on, order up. Let me get drunk in the ocean that is your love, for the hangover's still a day away.

mashed potatoes and such

2005-06-20T18:31:00.000+08:00

I've recently switched to bar soaps, having my shower gel reduced to the insignificant droplets that never seem to deplete completely. I get toiletries from Bangkok since the tabulated bill always seems to come to over a RM100, which unfortunately can't be accomodated by my wallet's interior. So until I get to the bottomless pit that is my parent's petty cash, it's bar soap for me.

They do leave you more thoroughly squeaky clean.

This morning, the bar soap diminished to a slither of a shaving. Embarking a life's first, I merged it with a fresh cake. It was difficult, considering the way it kept slipping off each other as I soaped myself, but by the end of the shower I managed to fuse the two together.

I have thus successfully promoted myself from Claudia, "Lord of the Throne" to Claudia, "Lord of the Loo".

On a more significant note, Happy 21st Birthday Ethan! *kiss kiss*

the pewter flasks of spirit

2005-06-16T21:32:00.000+08:00

I caught Batman Begins this afternoon and besides dismissing immediately the casting of Katie Holmes, I noticed an element we Asians should take pride in over the Whites. Revolved around the plot is somewhat of a scarecrow of a mask, which together with a sort of gas brings you into a state of panic, making you envision your surroundings to be of your greatest fear.

Victims in the movie saw an American limited culturally void bunch of maggots, red-eyed monsters, bats... I thought about it, and I think if I were to play victim to the mask, I'd see pontianaks, toyols and Japanese/Korean paranoid girls ala Dark Water.

Point is, if you come to think of it, we Asians have a certain quality that makes us "Truly Asia" (yeah, I know this is beginning to sound a little too travel agency advertisement, but still); we have a certain cultural feel to us, which explains why Americans, Europeans and Australians thrive on "going oriental" or for a yogalates session.

So I learned today that I shan't cringe each time an American says karaoke anymore - I shall wave my heritage of an intangible Asian flag with pride.

falling off the horse

2005-06-12T18:32:00.000+08:00

There'll always be a Mr. Big to an Aidan, a Jess to a Dean, a Ryan to a Luke; and for some reason or rather, it's always the more dysfunctional twit who ends up as Prince Charming at the end of each season. The one who'd ride up to your doorstep with a Heinneken in his left hand and a suit fresh off the RM1 salvation army store riding a horse that can't take a shit without swishing its tail in the way.

Why do we desire trailer park material over the knight in shining armour? The squeeky clean valedictorian would barely be able credit himself to a recurring thought of a time of day; the spot for the one that got away will always be reserved for the most emotionally confused ex. You know he loved you in his own futile little way, but he was bound to screw up somewhere; it was expected of him. You move on, but somehow a presence follows.

Yesterday, I dreamt I woke up to a Mr.Big who was listening to my rhythmic breathing, stroking my hair; waiting to welcome me to a new day. I hyperventilated upon opening my eyes to the too frequently regurgitated face; I had expected to see my present Aidan. I got up. I started to pace. I thought. I freaked.

If I am so very much in content with my present Aidan, why does Mr.Big still reoccur?

the burning of the bra

2005-06-10T21:32:00.000+08:00

I've come to realize that I've just come out of a closet I never hid squatting with hands over my eyes in. Yesterday, I was labelled as a future andro feminine. An abbreviation from the word androgenous, it's basically a term to classify the lesbians that possess masculine qualities with a stronger feminine touch and who has accepted her jugs. I'm the type that'd go for the butch.

Quite the shocked was I. You see a girl exuding enough confidence to blow your socks off walking the walk clad in a figure hugging little black dress. You wish you could be her. That's as straight as you go. You tell your company, "Hey, she's hot!". That's being open. But to what extent makes you become a bi-sexual? I don't cum at every hot guy I see either.

Fairviewans, NST co-workers, Muffins and Commies know of my very sexual attraction to Angelina Jolie. I say I'm an exclusive lesbian. Given a choice, I'd leave my significant other just for a night with her; I hear she has a pole in her bedroom. But then again, can you blame me? She's the epitome of perfect. Mentally and spiritually I idolize her, and physically, no man comes quite as close. Which in my opinion, justifies the reason she's been labelled as a man-eater by the way; she's just looking for an adequate partner.

So anyway, apparently exclusivity is just another excuse. I tried to argue against this, but my mum, sister and boyfriend even both agreed that I'm just in denial; eventually I'd come to learn of my actual sexual preference. But I quite doubt so. Never have I been emotionally nor physically attracted to that of the female gender, save Angelina Jolie. Besides, I don't believe in bi-sexuality. Being straight or gay are two parallelly opposite extremes. Being open would be to love the person for who she or he is, not their sex. I have experiments to justify my statement! It's a fact, not a claim. So I think.

and so it is

2005-06-09T19:02:00.000+08:00

So I've been tagged. Twice.

The first one's from Truds. The jist of this is to basically randomly select 5 occupations to complete the sentence:

If I could be a scientist
If I could be a farmer
If I could be a musician
If I could be a doctor
If I could be a painter
If I could be a gardener
If I could be a missionary
If I could be a chef
If I could be an architect
If I could be a linguist
If I could be a psychologist
If I could be a librarian
If I could be an athlete
If I could be a lawyer
If I could be an inn keeper
If I could be a professor
If I could be a writer
If I could be a llama rider
If I could be a bonnie pirate
If I could be a service member
If I could be a photographer
If I could be a philantrophist
If I could be a rap artist
If I could be a child actor
If I could be a secret agent
If I could be a comedian
If I could be a priest
If I could be a radio announcer
If I could be a phlebotomist
If I could be Paris Hilton's stylist
If I could be a movie producer
If I could be the CEO of Microsoft
If I could be an astronout
If I could be a world famous blogger
If I could be married to a current famous political leader
If I could be a dog trainer

If I could be a llama rider, I'd start saving up to get a camel for economic reasons including that of lower water consumption.

If I could be a phlebotomist, I'd be weary of explaining what my job is based upon.

If I could be a priest, Pope Benedict wouldn't be very happy.

If I could be an artist, I'd never paint abstract to call it art.

If I could be a child actor, I'd tell Lindsay I can take it from here and whack the shit out of Hilary. When I'm done, she'll be the packaging of nasi lemak (cos it's like old news!).

I'm only gonna tag Yokie for tagging me. Oh, oh smell that Yokie? Smell it? Smell it? It's the smell of revenge, muahahaha!

The next one's from surprise, surprise, Yokie. I think it's pretty self explanatory.
THREE NAMES YOU GO BY:
1. Claudia
2. Clauds
3. Hippo (I eat, sleep and stink)
THREE SCREEN NAMES YOU HAVE HAD:
1. Little Miss Scribbles
2. Clauds
3. nutballeegoofster (claudee, claudster and clauds were taken on yahoo!, so...)
THREE THINGS THAT YOU DON'T LIKE ABOUT YOURSELF:
1. I'm fat! Wahaha!
2. I'm quite the self involved
3. I can't piss standing up
THREE PARTS OF YOUR HERITAGE:
1. Bunions (bleh), courtesy of my grandfather.
2. True to my culture, my Indian side dies off when I smile to reveal chinky eyes.
3. I've got my dad's body - Broad shoulders and a small ass. My panties are size XS for crying out loud!
THREE THINGS THAT SCARE YOU:
1. Judy telling ghost stories (make it stop!)
2. Japanese and Koreans (not Judy though; she's cute). A Tale of Two Sisters and The Ring have scarred me for life!
3. Denting Sunshine
THREE OF YOUR EVERYDAY ESSENTIALS:
1. Water!
2. Lipbalm!
3. Anthony!
THREE THINGS YOU ARE WEARING RIGHT NOW:
1. A Timex
2. A blue band from Mother
3. A pair of black chandelier earrings
THREE OF YOUR FAVOURITE BANDS OR MUSICAL ARTISTS:
1. Michael Jackson because he's innocent
2. Damien Rice because he got dumped by Renee Zellweger
3. Ethan Lim because he sings "Guilty" at Redbox
THREE OF YOUR FAVOURITE SONGS:
1. Hide and Seek by Imogen Heap
2. The SpongeBob Square Pants Theme Song
3. A Simple Kind of Life by No Doubt
THREE THINGS YOU WANT IN A RELATIONSHIP:
1. Playfulness
2. Mutual trust
3. Different opinions/beliefs to keep it interesting
THREE PHYSICAL THINGS ABOUT THE OPPOSITE SEX THAT APPEAL TO YOU:
1. Eyes
2. Lips
3. And apparently skinny-ness - all the guys I've thought to be hot are thin.
THREE OF YOUR FAVOURITE HOBBIES:
1. Playing tennis
2. Watching The OC
3. Reading The Thorn Birds while on the throne
THREE THINGS YOU WANT TO DO REALLY BADLY RIGHT NOW:
1. Drive to McDonalds to get myself a cuppa orange juice. I'm lovin' it.
2. Look for The Thorn Birds - nature's calling.
3. Blow my nose
THREE PEOPLE WHO HAVE TO TAKE THIS SURVEY NOW:
1. Trudy
2. Rochelle
3. Javier's girlfriend

pass the ridsect

2005-06-06T11:35:00.000+08:00

Sunshine gets driven once a day, with a little extension of distance to the next. The point of which is so that I won't dent the car. Basically, I'm on probation, I should say, for about two weeks. The INT1010 exam marks Sunshine's official debut.

So in the meantime, my wallet remains to fail to accomodate anything save a daily mini bus and KTM ticket.

On the way back last Friday, a mat pweeped at me. With his girlfriend sitting next to him. Well, I could've been wrong, but one would assume so if that particular mat sat within 10cm of a peer of the opposite sex of whose fingers are intertwined with his... So anyways, yeah. That pissed me off. What's more is that she didn't respond to his insolent behaviour.

Mat's piss me off. All kinds of sorts. Mats with their only pair of converse shoes, mats with their pathetic strand of a janggut. Everywhere and everyhow. Mats in mamak stalls with their teh o'ais limaus, mats perched on sides of the road with their cigarettes.

Excuse me for the little Dr. Seus outburst. Some times I just lose it (ah ah ah ah ah). Anyways, yes, mats piss me off. Mats and tudung girls who have selective beliefs in the Koran. The kind that wear shear tudungs with skin tight super super low cut Levi's.

As I got off the KTM and was walking to the taxi stand which is strategically placed behind a polis pondok, I felt a sense of reassurance. Okay, at least I have some form of authority near me; I'm safe from rape. The policeman begins to pweep at me. And then it hits me: Malaysian policemen are just mats with bigger motorcycles.

road rave!

2005-05-31T22:09:00.000+08:00

Chalk up one more to the list of stereotypical Malaysian drivers please!
*grooving to my tralalalalaaaaa*
Oh wait, hang on... No lala; I've to go study! *gloom resurfaces*

random rambling session one

2005-05-28T21:56:00.000+08:00

It's been a little more than a year since I've moved into the gulag. I have come to find that ignorance doesn't seem to back down, so I've stopped protesting. All that's left for me to do is to voluntarily imprison myself in the room I'm bunking in and wait for the monthly trip to Bangkok where my parents and little brother now live courtesy of Como Hotels.

Proper to my grandmother is defined as coming home for dinner to appreciate her cooking. I have learned that so long as this is upheld, every other detriment becomes ommitted. However, this is not an easy task, thanks to my grandfather, who apparently plays the role of a hybrid between Hades and Jabba the Hutt.

He slurps everything, even the dry goods. He cleans his fork and spoon before scooping his every bite. With a clang. He chews with his mouth open. His eating habits can be heard even in Hard Rock Cafe (of which has been justified). He selects his dishes with his own cutlery instead of using the allocated spoon. After he's licked it. He clears his throat during meals. He dumps (literally) food he does not like on your plate without consideration of where it lands. Without prior permission nor a gentle gesture either. He indiscreetly cleans his teeth using his tongue sans closing his mouth, later gargling and swallowing the residue with water.

My mother blames this on his newly semi-deaf handicap. But the question is, since when does old age affect table manners?

Come today we have a new addition to the dining obstacle. My aunt's mother-in-law, not-so-fondly known as "Fatso" to my grandmother, has been taken in as a guest for the week. She masticates. Like a cow. Honestly. It's not that pleasant a sight.

So obviously I can't study just quite yet. It's not like I'm procrastinating or anything; I mean how on earth can I concentrate with the aftermath of a nightly horror as such?

little boy drink pesticide

2005-05-27T23:43:00.000+08:00

I read an article a few days ago, which stroke as alarming, if not disturbing.

It read of an eight-year-old Indian boy who committed suicide. Tapan Dhar drank pesticide after his mother scolded him for quarrelling with a friend over a bar of chocolate they had bought together.

I became even more enraged with society (as you will come to find, is not out of the norm for me). I have always frowned upon parents who dress their children scantily. Children should focus their childhood on freedom, not with constriction from fear of losing their tube top while playing ring-around-a-rosie. The article was proof of society stepping up another notch for its impact on children. For an eight-year-old to comprehend suicide?! For an eight-year-old to resort to suicide?!

Fast forward to when our generation begin to produce. Imagine the development of their mentality by then. An eight-year-old boy would probably be raping his baby sisters to release mental stress.

jamona

2005-05-24T13:31:00.000+08:00

When I was in Jr.2 (circa 1997), I credit getting amped up for school concerts to the many Michael Jackson oriented performances, glittery gloves and all. I wrote him a letter after the History Tour hit Kuala Lumpur. The P.S. included asked if I could visit the Neverland ranch to meet Bubbles.

In Jr.4 (circa 1999), i got mocked at for considering Michael Jackson as my idol by the very same classmate who used to don a top hat and white plasters come Honours Day. Pop fans transformed into a tsunami of Judas, laughing at the mere mention of the once proclaimed King of Pop. Michael Jackson is gay. Michael Jackson is strange defined. Michael Jackson sleeps in an incubator. Michael Jackson bathes only in Evian water. Michael Jackson tried to throw his child off a balcony. Michael Jackson molests little boys.

This... is society.