i need a name change

... for this place so IDEAS my dear friends.

lookatthis

Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows

which sucked a couple of hours from me. Some picks:

rialtoscuro

n. disorientation when you step outside a movie theater into unexpected darkness, a twinge of jet lag from two hours of escapist fun which only diverts you from making the sequel to your youth—an old cult classic with wild shifts in tone, dropped subplots, major characters that appear out of nowhere only to vanish without explanation, and an ambiguous ending—but this time, it’s personal.

apomakrysmenophobia

n. fear that your connections with people are ultimately shallow, that although your relationships feel congenial at the time, an audit of your life would produce an emotional safety deposit box of low-interest holdings and uninvested windfall profits, which will indicate you were never really at risk of joy, sacrifice or loss.

waldosia

n. [Brit. wallesia] a condition characterized by scanning faces in a crowd looking for a specific person who would have no reason to be there, which is your brain’s way of checking to see whether they’re still in your life, subconsciously patting its emotional pockets before it leaves for the day.

sidenote: I'm guilty of 1 and 3.

: (

I have failed you guys.

The Mats in Uniform at the Malaysian Embassy refused me a new passport.

So it's either I stay in UK for the rest of my time, or glue my passport back together and argue my way to Paris, or fly home.

Basically I'm in shit but I promise I'd get out somehow. Be Brave!

well,

... my passport sort of got into a mystical river storm of spins and suds, and it is now a two-piece thingy.

Ask me how I got through my flight to London : D

Right, don't get mad yet. Of course, the matter wasn't funny when I had to do all the post-tragedy rescue, which involves many many SKYPE calls to embassies on eternal lunch breaks, trips to police stations that actually close early on a Monday (wait, they even close??), and delicate operations to revive my dear passport yada yada.

But the reactions I get are so classic. Even the Jonko gang (namely Kangwei Xien Jeremy) appreciates it! And not so long ago I thought they couldn't stand me so much they would skewer me on a ten-foot pole and offer me to the God of Marzipan so that I'd be one of those sad Swedish cakes that is displayed forever but never sold so they don't ever have to be around me again. *breathes*

But now they actually miss me. I mean, who can possibly miss the Me that I am? But I digress. On to the good stuff!

Upon seeing a passport with pages detached from the cover:

1. Police officer at Jonkoping police station

me: Hi, can I possibly travel to London with this passport? *hands it over*

officer: What's wrong with it?

*PAGES FLY OUT*

officer: Oh. Well you can still see your name and photo and everything.

*flexes the cover page*

*cover page peels off halfway*

officer: Oops. I'm sorry. Here's the number to the Swedish Embassy, it's in Stockholm ...

2. Check-in lady at Gothenburg airport

me: Hi, I would just like to check beforehand if this passport is okay for travel?

bored lady: Sure.

*picks it up with one hand by the cover*

*PAGES FLY OUT*

horrifed lady: Oh no no no no no no no no no!

3. Customs guy at Gothenburg airport

me: Here.

*hands over passport through the tiny window*

*PAGES FLY OUT*

guy: *looks at me with the whythefarkareyouhere expression*

4. Customs guy at London Gatwick airport

me: Hi, my passport is damaged, but the Swedish airport people called over and confirmed my identity.

*PAGES FLY OUT*

(likely to be) young guy with a part-time job: *shrugs* so what happened?

me: I fell into the lake.

young guy: Woooah! *whistles*

[following interrogation were more on the lake than on whether I was an illegal Tiong immigrant]

-END-

So anyway I'll be getting a new one tomorrow, so cross my fingers that it won't be too troublesome.

(Friends, TOW Chandler Crosses the Line)

I'm sure everyone feels like that sometimes.

i was just thinking

... that giving your heart to someone is literally that. To love someone (and someone back), you have to pop your hearts out of its cavities and exchange them. That's the easy part. To keep it going, your heart learns to mould itself along the inside walls of the other, kind of like how you grow to love an ugly T-shirt and wear it all the time. You don't ever want to let go.

But if someday your bruised heart gets ejected back to you, it just doesn't fit right, for a while at least. As you walk about your daily routines, you can feel it wobbling right there, and it pains you. There are some nights when your heart takes a tumble in its own cavity, especially when your brain decides to play a late-night re-telecast of Terrible Things That Happened Before. You awake feeling all funny, and hug your pillow while you stay up all night trying to be brave.

It feels terrible to see the person again, because he/she can never look you straight in the eye (or maybe it depends on case by case). You don't have the courage to talk to him/her either, because the stuff leaks into the empty spaces of your heart cavity too easily. Yet you miss him/her like gawdawfulshit, and have all these Fantastical Bullshit Imaginary scenarios where you would go, "Hey bro!" and

he/she would go, "Hey how dya doing!" back and suddenly all those bad things don't matter anymore and you can be best friends again. [this is just one variation]

But everything gets better. You either wait for your heart to fill up the empty nooks again, or you plug it up with ice-cream and other feel-good things. And popular wisdom seems to suggest you'd never be the same again i.e. you'd have to live with a misshapen freak of a heart for a long long time.

Until you find someone you'd feel safe enough to make another exchange. Someone you think is cool enough to hang out with for the rest of Da Life.

But until then, you learn to live with the misfit heart.

(to dear friends: there you have it, I know you guys know that it is impossible to get me to open up to talking about Hurtful Things in life. I'm glad many of you had tried with immense frustration when I be all Hui-Huan and clam up about things : D here's as far as I can get)

be brave

Frah E cyf ruf rec fungc dinhat uid naymmo kuut (yht udranc drehg cu duu), E lyh'd ramb pid kneh du socamv ymm tyo.

Ra sicd pa vaamehk cu rybbo.

E ys CIYGI (haf funt E maynhd) du dra syq.

Caasc mega ed'c buccepma vun sa du secc cusauha y mud.

E fecr E lyh pa drana du caa dra drehkc ra caa.

E fecr E ryja dra bufan du lraan res ib frah ra kadc ehdu uha uv druca suutc.

Pid dra dnidr ec, E tuh'd ryja dryd bufan, hud yhosuna. Drana ec hudrehk eh sa dryd ra megac huf, yht E ghuf ra fuimt ajahdiymmo veht cusauha amca.

Cdnyhkamo, E drehg E fuimt pa rymv-ahjeuic yht rymv-kmyt frah ra tuac veht dryd cusauha, palyica E ghuf huf ruf yfacusa ed vaamc du muja yht pa mujat.

Yht ra femm pa vaamehk cu rybbo.

Frelr ec fro E ryja du maynh du hajan pudran res ykyeh, zicd mega ruf E ryja maynhd ruf du muja. (Drana ec y hajan-ahtehk mecd uv drehkc du maynh eh Meva.)

E sayh, Pyt Drehkc ymfyoc rybbah frahajan E dneat du dymg du res. E cusadesac fyga ib lnoehk palyica so rayt fyc bmyoehk y myda-hekrd nabayd pnuytlycd uv cusa uv dra funtc ra cyet.

Ed'c duikr du ryja du mayja res ymuha. E tu ehtimka eh Cdibet Vyhdycdelym Esykehyno clahyneuc eh frelr fa aht ib paehk vneahtmo dufyntc aylr udran ykyeh. Iciymmo eh ipan lunho fyoc.

Pid yd dra aht uv dra tyo, E ryja du gaab dra pek beldina eh seht (kyft, E's pyt yd dryd) yht nasaspan dryd "ed'c bnupypmo vun dra pacd".

Be brave.

(I apologise for being me. This is one of those things I feel I absolutely must do. Ignore!)

look to the right

And notice that I have learnt how to use Twitter!

*confetti*

I'm mostly doing this for the sake of my dear parents and Oi Shan. We shall call it the H-checker, the sole official indicator that HH Is Alive!

Call the police if I don't say something within 24 hours. Otherwise, I'M ALIVE. I repeat, I'M ALIVE.

sex shop

I went into one while I was on the Reeperbahn in Hamburg.

It just felt like the right moment to have my First Time in one of these things, because

1. I was travelling alone and feeling particularly brave

2. I actually thought it was a bookstore at first because they put the books with tastefully naked people up front i.e. it looked non-seedy.

3. I had my passport with me to prove I'm over 18.

It was a fairly big moment for me, kind of like the time I realised that Jesus doesn't physically appear in the clouds on Good Friday.

And the experience taught me the extent of my ignorance.

The phallic objects and sex dolls I could understand, but there were these entirely mysterious objects that I had no idea where on the body they are meant to be used. I spent a good hour in there trying to work out the biology and physics of it all. The torture implements in the BSDM section were the most perplexing o.o

Where do you go to learn all these things? Even Wikipedia doesn't know that much. All the knowledge I received from the Sex Museum in Amsterdam wasn't enough.

Ah, the mysteries of the world.