When Samantha falls in love

Do you still remember when you were small, all you ever wanted is to grow up?

We thought that we'd grow up one day and be something. Just one thing. That you grew and grew and grew and then you got there, wherever that was, and you were all done. You lived for a long time but just like that. A dentist or a cab driver.

It was 3 am, I wondered what I can do after completing this 5 years of dentistry course. It wasn't easy sometimes I was so tired I could cry.
And then it was 5 am, when I couldn't sleep, is a career or a family all I will get after trying so damn hard to grow for so many years?

That is the pattern right? You graduate from college and work on your career and get married, you name your first born son and you start saving money for their education and wait for them to buy you a coffin made of white gold.
Do we really want these things? Or, are we just programmed?

How lack of surprises this growing up thing can offer.
I am not asking for firework shooting out of my ass everytime I achieve something, am I?

But I dream big, may be this is what you can afford when you're still a student; may be if I continue to grow, things will be completely different, like how Samantha Jones fell in love with her perfect Richard, with this song playing at the background.

For a very long time

I couldn't stay alone with myself. Haunted, very much haunted, by the memory.

Saturday night used to be my favourite moment of the week, so much till it basically invented its own version of neuron. They only came out at saturday night, never on wednesday or any other days, I name them "Saturnight".

Never thought that I would see it, but I avoided my "Saturnight" for a few weeks, stored them away, because it exuded a certain sense of familiarity, like how the Earth spins around the sun in a constant rhythm, like how the breakfast on Monday taste like, like how I know I would spend it with you.

Never thought we'd have a last kiss, and end like this.

Part of me know how ridiculous it is. Part of me believes that the moment I truly let go will be the moment I get me back. I want to be brave in a way I always used to be, but haven’t been for some time.

One day, I’ll have forgotten this brief interlude of sorrow, and I'll be me again.

Between a Lady and a Geisha

I spent huge amount of time on Thought Catalogue everyfreakingday; I read it before clinic, after lunch, and before bed. Sometimes I get so addicted, dinner and shower somehow become overrated.
"Oh come on I have this article about the first 3 penises she saw and I need to laugh at how hard nico is trying to be funny, it helps to digest the chicken I had last week!"

It feels like I am having a lion as pet, or a Geisha, at least this is what I think it is.

Reading article online is very much different with holding a book in your hands; a book always has its way to build a intimate connection with you,you will finish it(or try many many times,many many) no matter how boring it is, like a failed marriage with a good wife.

Online articles are good,sometimes better than good, it makes you laugh so loud you fart your brain out, but it's like watching an exotic stripper sliding down the pole, you know where the beginning and ending are, you know the duration of the whole show you allow yourself a 15 minutes to enjoy it but at the same time you know that there are thousand eyes all around you, stealing your precious moment but you can't blame them because your happiness is pretty naked, unlike a book which has a cover all the time.

I have a few books that I leave them on the shelves after reading just a few chapters because I didn't get the story, but I always know I will get back to them one day when my brain finally grows into the range of maturity, or I simply run out of books to read. For TC, I can just close the article if I don't like the first word that the writer chose. But deep down, is it really because of the word? Or because of the font that demean its quality of presence?

Like a Geisha, a person with so much more stories to tell and moves to dance; but we always choose the lady.



*Memoirs of A Geisha is one of my favourite movies, let me know if you have the book.

Repulsion.

Like a bad hair day when everything you do just never turn out right and you are absolutely clueless what could possibly be so wrong with your hair that you feel like you're constantly isolated from the car full of people who love you, whether the love comes from reality or your imaginary roommate. Errr hello?? I am right here in my yellow poncho shining brighter than Rihanna's diamond, come love me!

Or like those happy people who have crappy day but decide to listen to happy songs and be happy, except that trick doesn't work on everyone, because I'm a freaking Adele song. Not able to move on so quickly, I always sit down and analyze every single crap that I get until they have absolutely no meaning left, until I grieve the shit out of it until the time lord decides to spare my pain and erase the memory slowly and I would scream," Stop, there is still a little portion I haven't mourned yet!"

I would say, so raw, like a new born nerve. Your senses have become more sensitive, you think ALLLLL Taylor Swift's songs are about you, "I'm all cool, I don't give a shit if you think we are never getting back together, like ever!"

But still, when the sun shines through your window early in the morning no matter how unwilling you are to leave your bed which happen to love you reciprocally,the minute you walk out of your room in your new blue jeans, inhaling the cold morning air, you can feel it, the ambition of wanting to be perfect is back, regardless the sweaty desperation to write a good morning text with combination of humour, confidence, intelligence, charm, after your 73 attempts.

Until something break you down again..

Oh damn.you bad ass.

On my birthday, I got myself a tattoo. To me there’s something very organic and alive about this kind of art. But shhhhhhh, nobody has to know, this is between you and me.

If you are planning to get a tattoo, I suggest you to do your research extensively because it is gonna be embedded on your skin till the day you step into dental clinic and request a full mouth complete dentures.
For example:
- pain (AHAHAHAHA)
- potential infectious diseases (yes, scary but you gotta prepare for the worst)
- search for a few tattoo parlours and compare their works and the most important part, INFECTION CONTROL!
- start stalking the tattoo artists on googlefacebookwhatever, not letting any single detail leak through your fingers.
- google tattoo designs, it's much cooler and meaningful if you design it yourself (like duh).
- contact your artist and start discussing about the design because they know the best, and of course the price. And once again, ask about their infection control.
- post-op care, you need to know this before getting it done, so that you'll know what to expect and be able to handle any abrupt situation.

I had mine done by Jenn from Skin Nation(Penang) and honestly she did such amazing job, I see a second one coming. They are using new needle and new ink tube for every customers so it's much more hygienic, and their shop is sparkling clean, which is very assuring. Before starting the procedure they clean-wrap the "bay", for infection control( I cannot stress this enough).
So, is it painful to get inked on chest? Well, when the needle started poking on my skin, I was expecting lorry-run-through-my-body-pain but magically, it was just vibration, with mild discomfort, and that's it, less painful than acute pulpitis. While I was still dreaming and imagining my graduation trip, "it's done", she told me.

Here it is. I am not going to show the whole thing, because it's very personal and I didn't do it just to show off, sorry.still working on my excuses if friends want me to strip.

You and I, walk a fragile line

Back to the late 90s, when I was just a small boy with messy black hair and round-framed glasses, I only had one sort of blank but still with a tinge of emotion yet not so expressive face, wtf; whether waking up to a floor stained with shiny red blood dripping down from my younger sister's chopped off tiny finger, or coming back from school seeing my grandma sleeping in a coffin right in the middle of my house, with her lipstick on, which I thought was weird that time.

My mum said I enjoyed my own bubble a little too much, I think that's true.
While my sisters were fighting for a stupid dress for their Barbie, which happened all the time, the 4 years old me just sat there, carefully leaning my square chalkboard against the wall, arranging all my colourful chalks on a piece of newspaper and started doodling.
Sometimes I wondered why are my sisters talking to a piece of plastic, then I turned to the other side looking at my mum cutting and sewing different shades of clothes, I was happy to continue playing with my chalks.

Until one day when I successfully drew a rabbit, and the next day a cinderella, my parent's friends suggested them to register their little boy to painting class, but my parent never did. They had a bigger plan for me, their boy shouldn't be spending time with colour.

In high school, I wrote beautiful essay and lyrics. On the graduation day, my teacher told me that I could have a bright future in literature. Words were my best friend, they understand me so well they can translate my invisible thoughts into something I can read, a history, and so I wanted to be a journalist and learn music.
But my parents had a bigger plan for me, and I wasn't strong enough to say what I wanted to say. THAT, will always be a shame that I'll never be able to wash off.

Today, I can officially say this out loud, there is only one more exam standing in between being a dentist and a dream, my parent's dream.
But the time is here, two days away from 24 years old, I should really spend more time penning my life from here. The line should be drawn, not to fence them outside, but to include myself in.

For starter, a tattoo would be nice.

(Probably some of you may say, getting a tattoo doesn't mean you're a grown up. Well silly, do me a favour, hold your fist right in front of you, parallel to your Frankfurt horizontal plane, and stick out your glorious middle finger,and tell me you feel much better now)

On a Tuesday. Another New Year.

After closing down my blog impulsively in a lonely night, I spent the last few months discovering and reorganizing the visceral regeneration of my...forces.
(from Thought Catalogue mostly,like this piece of mind blowing artice :
http://thoughtcatalog.com/2012/you-need-to-go-after-the-things-you-want/)

Because I needed that.
Because I am a dramatic person.
Because when my life began to take shape in some ways, when people saw me as someone who was “doing great,” I felt the need to go off script for a moment.


Take a deep breath, look into the mirror, I see a shy relationship, an unceremonious break up, unscathed emotional arsonist, and colourful mistakes.

They are stories worth telling, it's just that I am not brave enough to go through the excision and risk it all.