Heels on railway tracks

My most recent dream saw me walking on railway tracks.

I would have said they were the ones at Bukit Timah, the ones where I'd gone with the one I called the flower--but the tracks there had been broken off, pieces by pieces, and couldn't have been the same ones I'd walked my whole dream.

It was a long walk, all alone, in my heels because I definitely was not wearing anything flat-soled. A red dress or skirt, something flared, because when the wind blew I caught a glimpse of a little fabric below my waist being lifted, and felt the cold against my legs.

I'm not entirely sure if those tracks were completely abandoned or still in use.

If they'd been abandoned, then it must have been the end of the world, or at least this country must have gone to shit, because the MRT lines are the spine of its public transport. I've grown to believe that a world where Singapore doesn't have its MRT system working must be a dead universe.

And if the railway tracks were still in use, then there had been the possibility of a train coming along, hitting me, dragging parts of me beneath its wheels.

Either way, ...how peaceful.

The best way to die?

My writing is fueled by loneliness. It's in the name Solitary Author, if you haven't noticed. (If there's even any 'you' reading this.) The loneliness that comes with having no friends, and the passion for these words coming out via keyboard or ink; they go so well together. They intertwine, just like vines, and I am the tree that they form to be.

Even though I wasn't a tree anymore, since more than four years ago. A tree can't be a tree if it has bled, a rose can't be a rose if the only red it sheds isn't its petals.

I will never in my life apologise for anything. To say the word sorry--it's heavy on my lips. I do not say sorry to a customer for not having something they're looking for. I do not say sorry to my other half even when it's clear I was in the wrong. I do not say sorry to the girls I've known since high school, or to my own mother. I do not even say sorry to me, for all the harm I've done to myself.

What's the best way to die? By something that you love, or by your biggest fear? Is my better way to die on the railway tracks, dragged apart by a train, or by drowning, my lungs filling with water? Because if it's by my fear--I just have to wait for this world to be taken, submerged and forgotten, gone.

I wish everyone was equal. Nobody missing a limb, nobody left lonely in the absence of children and grandchildren, nobody digging through rubbish bins for scraps.

The people in this world, as strange as they are: I wish they had more time. How contradictory am I? At times, I wish to watch this world burn, perhaps to even be the one to set it on fire. And at other times, I wish time would stop ticking. I wish everyone would have more time to live. I wish nieces wouldn't grow up, grandmothers wouldn't die, grounds wouldn't shake and tidal waves wouldn't swallow.

I have a brain, but I don't make good use of it. Instead I submerge myself in this cryptic writing, thoughts that nobody will ever understand, not even the woman who carried me for 9 months, not even the significant other who's been supporting me for nearly 4 years. It's the truth, nobody will get it--nobody but me.

And that's the funny thing, that only I understand I; but I am also the last person on earth I could care less about.

It's gone

After reading through my blog posts from years before,

my diary entries from last year and 2014,

and staring at the New Post page for the past half an hour,

I've decided

that

I've lost

the flow

for writing.

Pretty

Around this time four years ago, I made my first trip to Orchard on my own. It's true, I never went anywhere further than Paya Lebar on my own back in those days. At 17, Orchard was a big deal and was so fucking scary to me.

At the beginning of the year after that, 2013, I discovered the North for the first time as a teenager. I did go Woodlands and Khatib in my childhood and pre-teen years, but it wasn't anything remarkable. Just Hari Raya at a few relatives' places.

I remember how excited I was when the train went from Yio Chu Kang to Khatib. The view of the lake, that one part when one side of the train seems to be a little higher than the other, the simple fact that it took about 5 minutes to get to the next station. It felt amazing to my unofficially-18-year-old self.

Even now, long bus rides that go on the expressways, and train rides on the North South Line excite the hell out of me. I can't find any reason why; it's just the feeling of looking out the window, watching everything pass, trees zooming past accompanied by the silhouette of a lone bird flying.

It's the views out the window that make me think: this world, this country is beautiful. It's the people in it that are not. And I'm fine with not being pretty. I think just looking at the scenery pass is enough pretty for me.

Small things

Another day closer to my twenty-first. A week before, we were making plans to head down to USS tomorrow. I was ready to get over my... I wouldn't say fear but my not wanting to ride the Cyclone/Human rollercoasters. For you.

On Tuesday, for the first time in my job someone asked me for my name. I've always been so passionate in work and once, it was the one thing in life I still looked forward to. The only thing I found reason to get up in the mornings for. But my name wasn't asked for a compliment. It was for a complaint that wasn't even my fault. I wasn't even rude; he was the one jabbing his finger into my face as I was serving him, and when I walked away, he said it was my service that's the problem.

You came over to have dinner with me that day. I told you everything. I told you I didn't cry. But that incident never even left my mind since.

I thought I'd felt better after seeing you. And then you told me that you couldn't take leave for my birthday. Because there weren't enough staff in the office due to the ones being dispatched for the F1 weekend having their day off on the Monday. Why couldn't you have requested for leave earlier? You explained, but I'm still angry about it, because you're right, I don't understand.

But I'm not the only one who doesn't understand. I've showed my anger to you, and you've snapped, "Why can't you understand I'm working?"; you've said in caps lock, "YOU GET WORKED UP OVER THE SMALLEST THINGS."

I know it's a small thing to you. In case you haven't noticed from the time we've started dating, from the time you read all my blog posts everyday, from the time you realised I get upset easily; it's not a small thing to me.

I know what small things are.

It's when I don't get a seat by the window because the person before me took the last available one.

It's when somebody is standing right in the middle of the path and I'm forced to walk on the grass to get past.

It's when I've been standing by the counter of a food stall for a while and nobody comes out to take my order.

It's when I stand up to offer my seat to an old woman on the train but somebody else already gave up theirs first.

It's when a customer doesn't say thank you.

It's when a pretty girl posts a picture of herself and gets 170 likes.

It's when you post a picture of yourself and everybody comments on how handsome you are.

It's when I post a picture of myself and get just 30 likes.

It's when we've made plans for a Saturday and on the morning itself you say you're too tired to go out anymore.

It's when you told me we'll use your free tickets to catch a movie but instead you use them on yourself and your best friend.

I know these are little things. But it doesn't stop them from affecting me so much, because it's the tiniest things that trigger me. At this point of my life every single little thing is like a hard shove. What I don't understand is why can't you understand this?

Here's the thing, I know it's unimportant to you. I know it's nothing to you. But get it into your head that it isn't to me. It's my special day which I don't even get to spend with you. Which I'm forced to spend alone because I don't have any other friends to ask out instead; because my mom says on birthdays, family is reserved for the night only, whatever.

I'll never get why you can't understand this one simple thing. Our four years together, you've spent just one of my birthdays with me. Yes it is a big fucking deal to me that you didn't apply for leave earlier for me this year. Big enough a deal for me to cry like a maniac on the train thinking about it.

No matter what you think, my twenty-first isn't a small thing. You not going out with me for my birthday isn't a small thing. It's the one fucking day in the year I'll feel special enough to wear something other than my usual jeans out of my own accord. Not the 18th, or 20th, or 21st, but just this one day: the 19th.

I hate birthdays again

I don't want a birthday party. Especially not one where I don't have any friends to take pictures with between those huge '2' and '1' balloons. How do I feel special in the presence of my dad's siblings and my mom's friends, and my cousins that I haven't talked to in like 4 years?

Yes, my mom invited her friends with the excuse of "They invited me to their children's birthdays, I'll invite them to mine." MOM WHAT THE FUCK. YOUR FRIENDS ARE ALL 20+. THEIR KIDS ARE LIKE FREAKING FIVE. WHAT THE FUCK.

What's worse is she's expecting me to pay 300 bucks for her to buy the food and decorations and shit. Why???? IT'S A PARTY FOR ME WHICH I DON'T EVEN WANT AND I HAVE TO PAY FOR IT????

I DON'T WANT THIS! I don't have any real friends to spend it with. A girl only has the rights to have their 21st birthday to be fucking special if she has friends. Real girl friends who actually buy her presents and invite her out. And only if she's ... pretty enough ... to wear nice clothes... I FUCKING DON'T WANT THIS.

Every birthday has been a disaster in their own special ways. This year's, I'll have to spend alone because somebody didn't take leave earlier and he can't apply now. Thanks a lot. "Consider it done" you dare say.

Fucking awful. I fucking hate birthdays. Why must my mom and grandma make such a big fucking deal about my 21st? Guess what, my dad and the only cousin that I still care about aren't gonna be around because of the stupid F1 anyway. My 21st sucks already. That's the only big deal about it. THAT IT FUCKING SUCKS.

24/08/2014

I wonder how life was like before life.

How I was formed in my mother. How tiny I was. How fragile I was; how my parents took special care of me before I was born, how my big brother might have loved me before he even saw me.

I wonder how my family was like, while I was forming inside of her. How my grandmother and father and big brother might have put their ears to her stomach, trying to listen to my voice. Have they ever promised themselves to continue listening to me, even after I was born?

What was it like to learn how to walk? How to talk? My whole life I was on my feet, I've forgotten how it must have been like to struggle on limbs of my own. How it must have been like to use my vocal chords for the first time.

Everything I did back then must have cost a lot of pain. Whatever I was doing or feeling for the first time; it must have been unusual to a fragile being like I was. Maybe that's why I kept crying.

How did my mother ever teach me the things I know today? What was it like to have no idea what a colour is? Who taught me that the sky would always be blue?

It's strange to imagine life in a different way. To imagine myself not knowing the things I know now; not doing the things I do now; not loving the things I love now.

Bliss without pain is a book without stories; a world where you don't cry or feel hurt sounds appealing, but can you imagine not knowing what pain is?

Maybe nobody taught me anything that I know now. Maybe all they did was show me the world, and from there I took my own steps. From there, I took liking in my own favourite things and decided what was beautiful and what was not.

Imagine a place where people told you what to love.
Maybe you are living in there right now.

Maybe I am considered lucky to love things that others don't.
Because it's a reminder that I grew up seeing the world through my own eyes, and not through others'.

A person can truly be called an inspiration if she makes others want to see the world through her eyes.
I want to be one, to make people want to imagine the world I see it. But I also want everyone to learn to see things their own way.

I wish I could be a warm flame to the people I love, and also a spreading wildfire to everyone else, to ignite the spark to discover things their own way.

If I died tomorrow

If I died tomorrow, leave my shelves dusty
Silverfish among the pages so murky
Calendar untouched, on the very month
I would have turned twenty-one

If I died tomorrow, leave my bed undone
Don't forget the way I loved the sun
Don't pick up the photographs that fall
After sticking hopelessly on my wall

If I died tomorrow, let my other half
Have the diary from the year of rough
Let him have the photo of a girl
Black, white, never touched the world

If I died tomorrow, give him space
And time to slowly erase my face
Let him know he has friends around
Help him find a girl, maybe a rebound

If I died tomorrow, don't let them pretend
Lie that they were even my friend
Trying to find a photo from 2 or 5 years ago
Fabricating a long-lost friendship just for show

If I died tomorrow, what would have been
The song that I was listening to on repeat?
What would have been the paperback
That came falling out of my ripped slingbag?
What would have been the graphic t-shirt
That would be dragged along the dirt?
What would have been the last tweet, text, call
The other half, the grandma, if any at all?

Does this justify my lack of fashion

On the very rare occasions where I feel like wearing something other than jeans, I have this unusual thought: what if an apocalypse were to break out today? I'd want to be in something easy to run in, aka my usual jeans and sneakers. 

I know it's fucking weird, but seriously the last thing I want is to be in panic and survival situations in a dress/skirt and sandals or something. Fucking nope. It's also why I sometimes get anxious on days I have to wear baju kurung. I'd be dead way quicker if I were in one when a zombie outbreak were to happen. 

That's also the reason why I wish I had perfect eyesight. No I don't want to have to run about during an apocalypse in glasses. What if I lose them? I'd be fucking blind as a Zubat and that makes me feel so handicapped. And contact lens solution, where would you get them in such a time??? Not that I'd have time to put them on if danger came when I was sleeping or shit, right???

Maybe I'm just making excuses for how I'm too lazy to make effort to dress up, despite complaining how I'm not as pretty or fashionable as all those other girls. I don't know about them but I wouldn't want to be wearing wedges or flared skirts that could get caught easily or sleeveless tops which would show armpit hair after not shaving for a long time. (not that I'd ever survive so long) 

If my blog posts aren't depressing or full of complaints as usual, it just means you're here on the other side of my brain.

Wish I could be normal

Here's what I like to do: I like to read. I like spending hours in a library or a bookstore. I like to go for walks on my own. I like to take long bus rides on a double decker. I like listening to slow songs. I like to stop and squat to pet a cat whenever I see one.

Here's what I don't want to do: I don't want to buy or wear nice clothes. I don't want to explore the world. I don't want to take airplanes. I don't want to attend concerts. I don't want to ever sleep if it's possible just to avoid dreams.

Here's the thing: the things I don't want to do is what everyone else does. I feel so odd. I wish I could fit in, but I don't want to change. I like the things that I like, even if it guarantees solitary days for me. But sometimes... Sometimes I don't want to be solitary.

Still remember this story that our Maths teacher told us in Sec 5; how this guy poked every single part of his body and everywhere hurt. How he'd gone to the doctor and was told that the pain was not in his entire body, but his finger. Moral of the story--to know the source of the problem.

I know I'm the problem, but what do I do to solve it? I'm not sure. Wish I could be normal without sacrificing my love for books and fascination with trains; without forcing myself to put on make-up or listen to the songs that everyone else is listening to.

Please Aamir no more

I'm so sorry. I tried. But the whole of yesterday -- while it was supposed to help me out of this shell that grew on my back whenever the heck it did, instead, it served as a reminder of what happened nearly 4 years ago.

I struggled to get over that night. And there yesterday was, bringing it all back. I did all of said night for my cousin, like how I did yesterday for you. In 2012, a wedding dinner; in 2016, a raya outing. One that wasn't with my friends, but yours, just like how it wasn't a wedding dinner with my family, but hers.

I never wanted to go, but you wanted me to, and that I'd disappoint you if I didn't show up. Work wasn't a good enough reason to excuse me, and you told me to take an MC again, which I really refused. But you insisted.

What possessed me to take urgent leave for you? I guess I just wanted you happy, even though I knew exactly how I was going to feel.

At the age of 21, and I still don't wear make-up like all the girls in your class. Do you know how useless it makes me feel??? I already feel like a nobody when I see their photos on Instagram, what more being forced to sit side by side with them? I appreciate them talking to me and trying to include me, but... Each time they conversed with me I just wanted to turn my head the other side and scream PLEASE. DON'T LOOK AT MY FACE WITH YOUR PRETTY ONE.

I was there because I was with you, and from a whole different secondary school and neighbourhood, while the rest of the group were super tight friends from the same classes. Nobody I knew, nobody I could talk to, except for you, and you kept ditching me to sit on the other side of whatever house we were in.

It got to the point where I didn't even want to eat because I felt like everyone was staring at me and judging me if I took the food for myself, because there is this huge nonsensical mindset of mine that reminded me I'm not part of this friendship, I'm just a shadow, I. Shouldn't. Be. Helping. Myself.

The second last house, when your friend's mom kept asking me to eat. Please don't do that please don't do that please please please leave me alone please.

This. Damn. Anxiety.

All the inside jokes all of you had, all the memories you guys reminisced, and that moment when we were taking a group picture and you all decided to say "Fuchun". I don't know why, it's such a small thing but it broke me. I'm not a part of this at all.

And the moment I separated from you at Marsiling station, I just could not hold in my tears anymore. I swear to God, just tears beyond my control, all the way to Mountbatten. Even now as I'm typing this I'm hoping my mother doesn't pop her head in just to tell me "E'indah I go sleep first ah," like she always does, and see me with my wet eyes.

Why did I have to be the ugliest one? 

Why did I have to be the weirdest one?

Why did I have to be someone disliked by people?

If I tried to include myself, what could I have talked about? The books that nobody else could have read? The things that happen at work that I find hilarious but that nobody else would laugh at? What? What???? What could I have said...???? 

And I've been trying to keep it in, but you always tell me not to hesitate if I have something to get off my chest. I didn't want to text you about this, because you'll say things that won't make me feel better at all, but worse. You'll never understand how I feel, I have to say this honestly, because you are surrounded by so many people you can call friends. People who like you.

I'm so sorry, again, I've tried. But please Aamir, no more. Please when I say no please don't keep forcing me.

A boy named Marish

It's been a while since I blogged about my dreams because I just couldn't be bothered to find words for it lately. But the ones I had this morning was kinda... easy to describe???

Not forgetting to mention, there's been lots of thunderstorms in the middle of the night lately, and well thunderstorms in the middle of the night really do scare me. Fact: since young, whenever I wake up from sleep due to thunder/lightning I'll always shake my granny awake as well to tell her, "Nek, hujan." just so I wouldn't feel so alone.

Ok, so I did say the dreams I had this morning were easy to talk about, but where do I start??? Here are the things I remember, in no particular order: (also not necessarily in the same dream because, you know, I dream up stuff any time as long as I'm asleep no matter how many times I 'tersadar'.)

(1) Me, sipping tea from a cup at the airport. It looked like a diner, just stretched with booths from one end to the other. Aamir was beside me in a wheelchair, and yes that's strange but well I guess my brain isn't over Me Before You yet.

People started running in a single direction; from my angle, they were running towards me, so whatever it was they were escaping from was at the other end of this airport. And errr it was a motherfreaking T-Rex. I guess it was baby-sized, because it just reached about the height of about three people, but still, it was a T-Rex.

What else do I do??? I grab the handles of Aamir's wheelchair and pushed him and ran the fuck for our lives. (which I'm not able to do in real life) I led us to those fire escape stairwells that's always behind closed doors at shopping malls, and said out loud, "Why won't the people hide by the staircase? The T-rex will be too tall to come in anyway." while it goes on a rampage outside the door.

(2) I'm on a train, one of the two lone seats that's always at the end of the carriage. A girl is in front of me with a little boy child on her lap, and at this moment that girl was Farizah.

When she reached her station, she proceeded to leave the train but she left the boy child, to which I called out to her for. She never heard me, so I grabbed the boy's hand and followed her suit, all the way to a medical clinic.

By this time it was a few minutes to 11, the time which that clinic was closing, but Farizah really really really needed a doctor for the boy. (maybe she was rushing so bad to the extent of forgetting the boy completely?)

The receptionist girl told Farizah about another clinic which was 24 hours, to which she and I hunted for. By this time, Farizah became Miko. (yes it's pretty normal for someone to change into another person in dreams, at least in mine)

We got to Chinatown, and I guess I know it's so because of the red lanterns that were everywhere. Miko told me to look for that 24 hours clinic while she hunted for some pregnancy books because it was so damn important to her suddenly, and that's how I ended up on the roof of this particular building all on my own.

And that's where I saw that boy child I first met on the train. Getting beaten and screaming, while this narration went off in my head; "...and Marish went on screaming." Then finally getting stuffed into a plastic bag.

You know how sometimes there's no clear explanation but you just know something, that's how it's always like in dreams. I just knew it was child trafficking. And I'm not at all shocked because (1) these dreams are normal to me (2) it is happening in the real world and we can't do anything about it, I can't do anything about it but dream about it. So that's it for now.

Let's skip to the good part

Been listening to the songs I listened to in 2014 lately.

If there's one thing I envy most about my 2014 self, it's her writing. The way she could sit down alone and go on writing, never stopping even 5 pages later. And I love her way with words. I don't know how my English language has depleted, even with all these books I read.

I'm not sure what's my logic, but I've always felt I wrote better when I was alone, not just physically but in the relationship sense. I always thought it had to be a choice between a significant other and the flair for writing.

My other half is still with me today despite all my thoughts of not deserving him/him deserving better. So I guess I shall stick with this right? Since I can't do anything about my looks (actually I can i.e. make-up or braces or just plain effort but nevermind), I wouldn't mind getting back that natural way of writing instead.

You know, sometimes I think: I may be happier at work, but I was definitely less tired during my poly days. At least I could sleep in class, and I didn't do my homework anyway, and I didn't have much of a social life to keep up with. It was all just bliss, reaching home way before the sun sets. I just didn't have my own income.

I feel more useful at work, and it's the only place in a long time where I've felt better than everyone. But boy am I so tired from it. Working so hard for marriage and a house for me and my other half, even though he or I or this world could be taken away anytime He wishes.

As cliche as it sounds, can I just skip to the part where I'm already married and settled down and very very financially stable??? Someone would be way less tired too if he could just live in Singapore.

Today I had this thought though: me, turning 21, and him turning 20, and we are already struggling to earn enough for our future together, which is in about four years as we've planned (if He is willing). Then what about those who haven't found their significant other yet? Like, are they already saving up money already or are they waiting til they've met that Mr/Ms Right and then start saving? Which would result in getting married at age 30, 35? Which is kinda... 'late'? What??? What am I talking about???

Nevermind, goodnight, til tomorrow hopefully.

All too well

Why do people do what they do? Or maybe, why do I do what only silly little girls would do? Here I am everyday trying to make myself forget, and yet here I also am, reading back the journal from the very year I want to erase from my mind. Stupid, stupid.

And yet I am really taken in. I don't mean to be cliche but the entries showed me proof I've changed over the years. Even my writing, although that's in a negative way because my 2014 entries were really, really good. In terms of language. No joke. I don't mean to be praising myself.

These entries were the very moments when I came up with the Type metaphors, when I found a flower, a bird and a river, and a flame in myself. I think it's really beautiful, but I am the only one who will ever get it.

Maybe I don't regret his leaving me. But I wish the year would have stopped at July. It was perfect (with all its flaws) til August, when my brother got married and when I went out with those people and when I fell prey to the haunting of a Ghost.

If only I hadn't went. If only I'd reached out to the flower and the wind at Jurong Point. If only I'd stayed with the river. If only, if only, if only.

But the reality is: If only I'd known how to say no.

Just one word could have saved my life the year.

The diary entries never mentioned anything about what happened the later half of the year, but I do remember. I'm glad I didn't write about any of it, because it would have been tougher. I loved that year from March to July, with all its screw-ups and fuck-ups. I just wish it hadn't gone beyond August.

I think smells carry memories stronger than any other senses, and I could never forget the scent from September 2014. And it doesn't help that it's still a popular cologne and I smell it quite frequently in public places.

It's still quite a struggle to get over that year, to forget everyone I met or got close to then. It's so easy to leave friendships, but it's so hard to get them out of my head. The way H, E, and M were talking about Running Man and Z and I had no idea. Eating chocolate waffles with SY and F while waiting to catch A's performance. The way A and F gave me that little push to see L at the library. These were pleasant memories and they're still so difficult to think of.

I think April to June were the most peaceful and I wish it'd stopped there. But what's the point of a wish if it's already happened and there was nothing to stop it with anyway?

You know how they say you'll regret the things you didn't do more than the things you did? It's a lie. Remembering the things you did do would be so... much... more... painful.

Done

A little hard to blog this out because I don't want someone saying I'm always trying to make myself the victim.

I should not have taken that bloody picture.

Yea, there you go. You're handsome. Even guys say so. I'm ugly. Nobody has to say it but I know. Obviously we are not meant for each other.

I'm the kind of person who would make your friends say "Why is he even with her?"
The kind of person who would make the people who know me say "I pity her boyfriend."

God knows how worthless I feel. God knows but God doesn't care. He probably thinks I should be grateful He even gave me a face. But what's the point of it? I'm living in a world where my self-worth is my net worth.

You're probably staying only because you feel guilty for last year, or because you know I have this thing where I'd hurt myself or worse if you ever left me again, or both. It'd be easier for the both of us if I left first.

I think you deserve better and I can never be that someone better. No matter how hard I try. I don't have a pretty face, or a pure heart, or money, all of which you deserve. I'm so tired. But you're more so. Call it a sacrifice. If I could leave her for your sake, it should be easy to leave you for your sake.

I'm so fucking worthless. It's not a "feel", it's a fact and this world has shown it.

I think I deserve...

Yea, I'm exhausted right now, but this blogging thing has always been the one to rekindle my energy.

I learnt cashiering at work today, more than a year after I started out at this job. So far, it's fairly easy but it's tiring, considering the fact that I also have to take care of my own department and any which doesn't have staff. I still feel underpaid, but what am I to do?

Really sucks that I'm working so hard in this company and the area manager not only doesn't see it or appreciate it, but doesn't even know my bloody name.

I loved this job because I can handle anything (again, if you dismiss the HOD stuff) and I'm really fully invested in it, making sure everything is done and perfect (even though it isn't my job) and ensuring all the customers I serve get what they wanted (even though they don't say thank you).

And honestly, working in this underpaid job is still way better than being in poly. I just can't study, and I'd rather be in a place where I'm useful than sit down somewhere where I don't know anything.

Popular was a lovely job, but I think I deserve better. Perhaps I'm just waiting for the day when I finally have the balls to leave and to try out for SMRT, or when I finally have enough money to get a diploma to get a better job, or when I stop being shy and make those videos I wanna make, or when I take back my love for writing and write that book I've been dreaming about.

Some things that I think I deserve:
(1) A higher salary, please?
(2) All the books in the world that I want. (and space in my room for them)
(3) At least an entire week off.
(4) More views on this blog and more money on the Nuffnang that I've had since 2012.
(5) A friend.

20 JUN 2016

Tried to write about this in my diary, but my hands were shaking too much.

I saw an accident site on the Tampines Expressway tonight. Traffic jams kinda make me nervous, because they remind me of the road to and fro Woodlands Checkpoint and Malaysia customs, and I'm not used to it.

I was stuck in traffic for 2 hours, when usually it would take me just an hour tops from Woodlands interchange to my Pasir Ris house. Seeing the many cars and buses stuck in one place kinda scared me. What more, seeing the actual overturned truck and all its sand spilled out.

Everyone on the bus was turning his or her head to look as we passed by.

Am I considered sheltered??? Because I'm seriously not used to seeing such things here in Singapore. I can't stop thinking about it.

Sometimes I realise that I'm taking my country for granted. Not just me really, but almost all the other kids here. Right? They don't realise how safe we are, from gun violence or natural disasters. I wish it would stay this way forever, but when the end of the world comes, we could all be gone in one sweep of a tsunami.

After listening to my other half's religious theories, that day is sooner than we expect.

Can't do anything about it.

Titling this post the date since this was originally supposed to be a diary entry /:

All. Time. Low.

Blogger just asked me: "Why not blog in Malay?" I'd show it to you but I don't like pictures on my blog and I've no idea how to do a screenshot on my laptop anyway. 

This year, I set my reading goal to be 70 books. Well, we're not even halfway through the year yet and I've already read 64. I should probably take a break because Goodreads says I'm 32 books ahead of schedule... 

Well I'm not here to talk about the books I've read. In fact I'm not entirely sure why I'm here; whenever one doesn't know what to write, people say "just write how you're feeling." Well I'm feeling down but I'd rather not stain this page with anymore sad stuff. Good vibes, right? 

The first time I made a blog, I was 11 years old. I was so addicted I made a blog for every single thing that I liked: 1 for my anime stuff, 1 for the manga that I was drawing at the time, 1 for the dreams I had at night, 1 personal one. Just imagine the 2016 me, having maybe 4 blogs, 1 personal, the other 3 each for books, MRTs, and dreams??? 

Then in 2007, I made yet another one, but I stuck to it. And that is this very blog you are reading right now =) 

If confidence gets you beauty, is passion supposed to get you recognition for your hard work? It should both work the same way, and yet they don't apply to me. I'm sick of it. That's why I kept quitting this blogging thing again and again over the years, especially from 2013 onwards. It's just too hard for my self-esteem. I hope I'm here to stay this time.

I've lost a lot the past three years, and like an inspiring person I wanna say "but I gained a lot at the same time"... but I won't. Because I didn't. Just stuck staying loyal to the things that won't get me anywhere. Stuck at 300 followers. Stuck at 95 cents on my Nuffnang despite trying everything I could for the past 4 years. Stuck in a 1.2k salary job while doing the work of 4 departments. 

What can a girl like me do anymore??? I don't wanna cake my face with make-up to get followers. I don't wanna spend all my salary on a HD camera to make better videos because nobody will still watch it if I'm not pretty (!!!!!!). I don't wanna suddenly start singing everyday in case my voice suddenly becomes beautiful and I can earn money from it. Ha ha ha. What a joke. 

Now you know it... That I'm at an all time

low low low low low low low low low low 

Why I can never be pretty

The word "confident" makes me cringe. To think that such a word exists? How is it possible for one to walk with their chin held high, knowing well enough they don't even meet the beauty standards of their society?

Maybe not they. But just me. 

I talked about how I'm lacking in looks to my other half and his best friend yesterday, in my favourite place after all the libraries and bookstores of the world--the MRT. There I was, seated between them and going on about what I see makes the beauty standards in this damn society. 

(1) I don't have eyebrows. If beautiful eyebrows are the eyebrows that every single girl on Instagram seems to have, those thick black ones that are sharp on one side and faded on the other: then I'm afraid I don't have any. And that's the first and most important reason why I'm not pretty. 

(2) My teeth are neither straight nor white. Just a few months of light smoking, 4 years ago, and the stains remain forever. My front teeth are humongous, and they're too crooked to match the definition of beautiful. 

(3) I am too tall to be anything. The other girls here in my country are what you'd call petite; and they pretend to be embarrassed of it but anyone could tell they think their lack of height makes them stand out in a positive way. Me? I just get called lamppost and hantu galah.

(4) I have too-small boobs. Those shorter girls I'd mentioned? They're blessed with ample chest, made to look huge thanks to their lack of height. What more when they still wear those push-up bras beneath see-through tees. Makes both girls and boys loco. 

(5) I don't have nice clothes or hair. Pretty is when you have long brown hair, black roots starting to show and still making you look stunning. Your pictures are always with different outfits, from the hairstyle all the way down to the shoes. Me? I am in the same black cardigan everyday and I don't remember the last time I even tied my hair in a ponytail, and that doesn't make me pretty.

(6) I can't sing. I don't have any artistic talent. And apparently this adds to your beauty if you can or do.

(7) Either a headscarf makes you pretty, or a revealing outfit showing off all your curves makes you pretty. There is no in-between. If you cover your legs and tummy and shoulders everyday but you're not donning the hijab, you're not to say you're beautiful. Because you're not. Maybe not "you". But just "me".

Honestly the list goes on and on. And although most of them sound ridiculous coming out of my mouth, it's what I've observed on social media, in this god-forsaken society. It's what gives you friends. It makes me sad, that I don't look like the girls that are praised just for breathing. 

I may have an other half who tells me everyday he thinks I am pretty, but he is no one compared to the many other people who know I'm not, including me. Even if I do have talent, what good would it be against the girls of today's, this country's, society?

Do you remember me?

One pair of legs tangled in the sheets
Two in the morning twenty-six
Slow sighs escape from the lips
At being a page one simply skips

Do you remember me?
Not one to forget or forgive easy
Still know the culprit of your pain
While it is unfamiliar to you, my name

Remember when we first met?
You still wore glasses, head in a hat
The only station with 3 lines
Your obsession with astrological signs

I remember the hands on my shoulders
Pushing me in the absence of my brothers
Down hills laughter ringing through trees
A relationship ends, all friendships cease

Remember how you cried at the atrium?
Your white tee and jacket of denim
3 years on, your graduation ceremony
I don't think you even remember me

Do you remember our day at Woodlands?
Lost in the North, twists and turns
Do you still watch the videos we made?
Fading, fading, fading, your memory dead.

Remember our first words exchanged?
A few giggles and awkward smiles managed
I know you don't remember our better
When the sin against you is still greater

I remember us underneath Dover
Like a bunch of drunk kids except sober
Your endless supply of band tees
Last seen on the bus bound for Tampines

Watching as footsteps went separate paths
Lying down under your photographs
None of them would remember me
A person lesser than a nobody.

Please appreciate me

There was once a time three years ago when I tried to ace my modules, because I wanted to work in SMRT, and I thought my course would give me a chance in it. But of course it isn't my fate, because I'm just too stupid, or lazy, or unmotivated, it doesn't matter.

Two years later I found a job which I deemed the best in the world. I got to work with books and stationery in a bookstore that was a huge part of my childhood. Even though I was eventually moved to the Multimedia department, I was so grateful for my place in this job, to the extent of pasting my confirmation letter from the company up on my wall.

What made me love this job is the fact that I am able to tackle anything that comes at me, as long as it's within my means. Whatever a customer asks for I am always able to answer, be it which department as long as it isn't Chinese. A place where I'm finally better than everyone else, if you exclude the HOD stuff of course.

A year on and I realise that my passion is getting taken advantage of. My dad always says this Malay saying which roughly translates to "give your face and they'll step on your head" which really does make sense. And I'm only now knowing it.

It drives me mad when everything is thrown at me. It drives me mad when I have to take care of more than 2 departments because the rest are not doing anything, or throwing their customers at me because they don't know what they're looking for. My one Malay colleague once said: "Tu lah... Siapa suruh pandai sangat." I guess it is my fault for loving this shitty ass job too much.

It feels worse than being in a relationship where you're not appreciated. It feels worse than studying your hardest only to just borderline pass your exams.

One day, I may just leave. Sometimes when I'm so mad at everything that goes down at work, I plan my resignation letter. Most other people probably copy-paste theirs from some website, but I'd be sure to personally write mine.

You have a staff who loves working with your company, who gets excited when she's given assignments at other outlets or at your HQ. Who never once complained about being underpaid. But when you don't even realise my hard work and only count my effort via the compliments I get, I know I deserve more.

It's only been a year since I've worked here, and I already feel so much stress. It all comes from love; I love this job, I can't change that. I've worked so hard to transform my department from the rat's nest it was before I came, to this neat shit that would please a person with OCD. (but apparently not enough to please the Area Manager so yeah)

Please appreciate me, and don't step all over my head. That's all I ask. Continue not doing so and you may just lose the one person who genuinely loved everything about you, as a customer in childhood and as an employee in adulthood.

The things that make me

I just felt like... typing away. God forbid I use the word 'writing'. 

What are the things that make me happy? Books. Work. Trains. Cats. My colleagues, my other half, and my grandmother. I keep trying to remind myself I do have purpose to live, but it doesn't make it anymore easier.

I am a shallow person in the way I keep wishing to be pretty and popular. I want to embrace the fact that I'm 'different', but it's hard when nobody else likes you for who you are. I'm the one who is difficult; everyone else is normal, and I'm too lowly for them. Right?

That's why work is the only place where I'm happy. I feel like the Avatar, master of all four elements, in the way that I not only know things about my department, but all 4 departments at work, haha. (I can't know about Chinese dept. because well... I'm Malay.)

It makes me feel good about myself to find a place where I'm better than everyone else and where I know how to settle anything that comes my way. The last time I felt this was in English class back in secondary school, where I'd be sleeping the whole lesson and still get the highest score for all the English exams :)

People like me, it's not easy to find such a place. My community, the people of my race and age, they taught me that only the pretty, popular, and the good singers or artists get everything. Writing didn't get me anything, even if I was good at it, because I am not any of those. A pretty girl who can sing writes a shallow piece of "poetry" (that has like 50 grammatical errors) and she gets so much praise. Right?

Another thing that makes me happy is trains: the MRTs in my beloved Singapore, to be more precise, and I think they are beautiful. I love this country and everything in it, and I hate traveling past the borders. Much to the contrast of other people...

I am obsessed with the announcements you hear in the trains, and I always try my hardest to memorise them, be it their words and the announcer lady's tone.  Even in the midst of a conversation with my other half, when the announcement ding comes on, I will stop and recite whatever that comes on. (provided it's in English!)

Why? Because I enjoy it and it makes me happy. My favourite lines of all are The train approaching Platform A will end its service at Jurong East Platform D and If you see any suspicious looking person, or article: please inform our staff, or press the Emergency Communication button, located at the side of the train doors. :)

And cats. They are my friends, even if we don't speak the same language. Just being able to touch them makes me happy, even if I can't bring them home, hah. It makes me happy when I call out to them and they come over to me so enthusiastically, instead of ignoring me or running away.

There's this cat around my house area whom I first met last June or July, and she was really arrogant and always hissed and glared at me if I so much as looked at her. I kept trying to get her to like me, and finally last month I managed to do so, by slowly approaching her and letting her smell my hand.

Now every single day when I get home from work, she'll look at me with her huge round eyes and nudge my foot with her head. After maybe 2 minutes of petting her, I'll get up to leave and she'll follow me. It makes me happy to see how she used to be a bitch and now she's so loving towards me.

Last but not least are all the books in the world. They are all beautiful, even if I have never met them. Whether they are old or new. They're better than people, and they understand me and love me more. They are road trips in the comfort of your own bedroom.

Perhaps I have read more books than I have had human friends, and I think that's just alright. When a person hurts you, they could scar you for life; whereas if a book hurts you, you learn an important lifelong lesson that stays with you forever.

I am trying my hardest to embrace the fact that I do not fit with others. That I do not have friends other than my colleagues and other half and the cats and books of the world. That I am not pretty, or don't wear cute clothes, or can't sing. I am perfectly fine with all that and I've already found my place in this world.

Right?

Parents Day Writing Contest entry

They say our parents make us who we are today.

I don't know who "they" are, but they're right.

Who I am today, it's credits to the couple who taught me the most: my mother and my father.

I am the only girl in the family, growing up with 2 brothers, one elder and one younger. I grew up being the princess of my parents' eyes, and yet I turned out to be a girl who never wears skirts; instead, a girl who is running around everyday in jeans and sneakers.

When I was in primary school, my father used to show me his wallet all the time, full of merely $2 notes. He would tell me he'd spent most of his money on our school allowances, on my mother's groceries, on the electricity and water bills.... My mother, on the other hand, would spend her money like it was water from a tap. Restaurants, shopping, holidays, pretending her debts didn't exist. My brother, despite having had a full time job for about 5 years now, have never given them a single cent. They depended on me financially for their own reasons, thus they taught me that having money is more important than anything else.

The year I turned 17 was the year  I grew quiet, shunned myself from friends and classmates, made myself the constant target of discipline masters, refused to go to school every morning. My parents chose to see it as a rebellion of some way, assuming the reasons of my attitude without sitting down to talk to me first. They taught me that there's no reason for me to confide in anyone about my problems; they wouldn't care, and even if they do just let them assume.

At the end of the year, they couldn't take it anymore. My father kicked me out of the house, his exact words having been "I disown you." He taught me that blood is not that much thicker than water after all; with a snap of your fingers, a daughter can be cut out of your life as you please.

My whole 2 years away from them, my parents never once called me or visited me at my aunt's place. Not for my birthday, not for Hari Raya, not just to say they missed me. They taught me that our ego and pride are more important than admitting you miss someone, than even saying a simple sorry.

When my sister-in-law gave birth to a baby girl, my parents cooed over her, made such a big fuss over her. They called her the names that they used to call me; sayang, princess, princess of the family. When she turned one, they wrote her a birthday wish that was exactly the same as the one they gave me for my past birthdays. They taught me that anyone can be replaced; out with the old, in with the new.

I didn't start my polytechnic life with this couple who raised me from birth. Instead, the couple who paid for my new laptop and school fees was my aunt and uncle. My mother and father, they taught me that the words "mother" and "father" may not necessarily refer to the ones who gave you your life. That the word "family" may not always refer to the ones you grew up with.

While true that our parents make us who we are, sometimes it's not in the most perfect way.

Here I am, the person that I am today, the shape of my parents' hands making me: a person who writes her feelings and problems onto Post-its and paste them onto the wall instead of talking them out with someone.

A person who cut off her friendships with her secondary school friends, assuming they didn't need her anymore because they have their new polytechnic ones.

A person who would sooner cut off her finger than say sorry, even when in the wrong; who treasures her pride and ego more than her relationships.

A person who would rather starve herself than spend $5 on a proper meal, because having and saving money is more important than her own life.

A person who doesn't value her parents and brothers above all else, because blood is not that much thicker than water at all.

A person who calls work instead of her house "home", who regards her colleagues instead of her parents and brothers a "family", because they just don't seem as such.

This is the person that my parents have made me today, their flaws more moulded into me than their strengths.

What for

I miss the times when I only had one option to go at the end of the day. When I didn't have to ask myself which house am I going home to today, when will I be sleeping over at the other? How I wish I didn't go back. I hate this house.

Working full time, I am obliged to give my parents money which is what I have been doing, albeit the fact that my father rejects it because of his ego, hence I always gave his share to my mom instead. But the longer I keep giving her money, the more she asks me and the less she bothers to ask her first son.

Her first FUCKING precious son. The motherfucker who leaves his plates to rot at the side of the sink the whole day because he doesn't know how to wash them; the motherfucker who hasn't given a single cent to our parents after like 5 years of working full time; the motherfucker who keeps showing to the world how he "loves" his family but in actual fact treats them like fucking shit. THE MOTHERFUCKER WHO IS STINGY, USELESS, AND A HYPOCRITE ALL AT ONCE. AND ALSO A MENTALLY RETARDED FUCK. WHAT A RECORD!

What am I even working so hard for? What the hell do I even want to save 10 fucking thousand for? To have it all robbed away by a couple who doesn't even appreciate me? The mother who is taking all the money I am giving her for granted, the father who is too egoistic to even regard me even after 8 months?

They've forgotten me anyway, that pair. They've replaced me with my niece, calling her the things they used to call me. Is it because I'm 21 and too old for that? Is it because they don't love me anymore, or grown to see me as invisible? Is it because I'm not forgiven for losing my own?

What am I working so hard for? I'm gonna fucking die anyway. This family has no point, all this saving money has no point, even my relationship has no point. Why should I even fight for anything when I can't be bothered to fight for my own life?

Letter to beloved

I have lost interest and I want to leave.

When I first laid eyes on you, I liked you.
I got to know you, and I wanted to stay with you.
I saw all your flaws, and I accepted you.
I loved you, your beauty that nobody else appreciated.

But all that is gone.

I don't miss anymore the way you kiss me on my face the few times you were there when I woke up.

I don't love anymore the way you make my heart beat fast.
The way you mess up my hair.
The way you make my tummy ache with butterflies.

I don't see my future with you anymore. I don't see any purpose of staying. I hate your flaws so much, and I don't love you anymore.

I tried so hard to get you to love me back but you choose to give your love to everyone else. I'll give you up to them, these people that don't even accept you.

You are the sun, the wind, the waters, the trees. You are long gone, and I don't want to stay anymore. The people that you harbour are ruined, not only do they not love you but they don't love me either. They don't love each other. They don't love what you give them.

I hate you for not giving me what I've given you and I am waiting for the perfect moment to leave. There is nothing for me to stay for anymore.

This is my letter to this world that I've lost interest in and don't love anymore.

Her

Why
should
you
be
happy
when
you
stole
the
one
thing
that
I
wanted
and
got,
only
because
you
didn't
want
it?

Her.
because
you
didn't
want
HER.

Who am I?

Are you happy?

I think we're really fake.

I don't think I'm important to you.

After all my sacrifices,

to which you've just said

"what sacrifices? you call that a sacrifice?"

you don't even notice me.

You don't realise my existence,

what more my importance.

I don't feel like I belong with you.

Your friends don't accept me now

your family won't accept me future.

Even I don't accept myself.

Who am I to you?

I don't belong to you.

Or more so you don't belong with me.

You should go free

for you are the wind, after all.

You shouldn't be with me

and I need to let you go.

I thought I belonged, but I didn't.

Cheering competition, apology won hearts over

A gifted camera, sweat-soaked PE shirts, soccer

2012, half left behind, groups falling back

2013, own paths, no effort to contact 

I thought I belonged with 4/2 2011,
and 5/1 2012,
but I didn't.

First day of school, in the auditorium, shy

Sitting in a circle, awkward, block 5

Age, race, country of origin, different

They moved forward and I didn't

I thought I belonged with 1A1 2013,
but I didn't.

People never met, like a family from the start

Random name that grew on our hearts

Singing happy birthday, in baju kurung, midnight

Bad blood with one, with all I am not right

I thought I belonged with Heroine,
but I didn't.

5 years of high school past, promises made

2015, making plans, no replies, nothing said

She with her projects, she with her art, she with her dancing

Photo of 7 girls, just the same as nothing

I thought I belonged with my secondary school best friends,
but unfortunately
I didn't.

April first, to earn money for what I don't want

Opening up after a day, a week, month

Laughter spread, anger shared, sadness felt

Loved, accepted, hope for this candle not to melt

I thought I belonged with my colleagues at Popular,
and I did.

I do. 

Taking a break from you

I

don't

understand

how

you

can

treat

me

like

this

It's

clear

how

less

you

love

me

than

you

think

On the nights I search for you

I

don't

think

we

are

meant

for

each

other

I 
think
my
soulmate
is
not
you
but
my
daughter

Found on a Gelare receipt

I

am

sorry

for

stealing

you

from

your

friends

I 

am

sorry

they

don't

even

say

hi

to

me

when

we

bump

into

them

I 

am

sorry

for

not

being

society's

standard

of

pretty

I

am

sorry

for

not

being

your

mother's

standard

of

perfection

for

you

I

am

sorry

I

find

myself

ugly

I

do

not

believe

your

words

what

you

see

in

me

Found on an Auntie Anne's wrapper

There

is

this

mechanism

in

me

that

will

always

feel

relieved

when

I

meet

the

little

flower

for

he

was

the

very

first

person

I'd

set

eyes

on

after

being

suffocated

by

a

ghost.

Found on a flower

Remember

when

your

little

flower

asked

you

"does

he

ever

use

force

on

you"

and

you

said

no

because

you

were

just

defending

the

person

you

call

your

other

half

I didn't realise I was in so much pain

I don't love my niece the same way I did when I first saw her.

She isn't as cute anymore. She can't compare to you.

I'd sacrifice my own parents just to be with you if I could.

I am working so hard for you but you're gone.

You're dead and I only have a black and white picture of you.

A screenshot from my first and last ultrasound scan of you.

I gave you up for people who couldn't care less about me...

I am the ugliest person on earth.

You were the only one who could have gone your whole life believing I was the most beautiful.

I threw you away.

For people who couldn't care less about me.

I have three photo frames of many different people looking down at me,

and none of them are even here for me.

It hurts in my chest, physically, and I wish it didn't.

My breathing gets harder each time.

And when I say something, my other half only laughs and mocks me for it.

I'd sacrifice him to be with you if I could, too.

Every song reminds me of you. Every night I hear you. Every dream, I see you.

I miss you so fucking much and I'd burn the world down just to be with you if I could.

And no one understands.

I am this close to putting myself into oblivion.

I don't do it because the only thing still pulling me together is my job.

"You're not alone", but really, I am.

Because who else could be there even if they wanted to?

Just fucking kill me already. 

Please stop visiting.

I do not want to blog anymore. Then again how many times have I done things I didn't want to?

Been feeling really moody today, and I wish it was as simple an explanation as PMS. Which my body still hasn't gotten used to again.

I've been getting irritated with little girls lately, and I got home today to see my bulletin board wrecked by my niece.

It was my first time in life placing my head in my hands from the stress. I thought they only did this in movies.

When she was born, I told myself I would be the best aunt ever. Now I'm terrified of being the aunt whom you never get to see at all, who avoids family gatherings because of her own emotional problems.

I heard of girls who cut their hair short as a symbol of their just breaking up with someone precious. I cut mine for a loss infinite times worse.

And then I traded this loss for ink, etched onto my tummy, the very spot where your head once was. I don't care that it is permanent, because so is your death.

You would have been a September girl, just like me.

I'd give up the world for you. I'm willing to see the world end, if it means I get to hold you for a minute or even less.

I miss you always, but I wish you would stop visiting. I love you, but I'm really tired.

Not blogging anymore

I see no need of keeping this page, so I am not gonna write in anymore.

Maybe I will come back in the future, maybe not. Either way, I'm not going to delete any posts or this blog itself because there're too many memories dear to me.

I loved doing this, I really did and perhaps I still do, but for now there is no purpose in me putting finger to keyboard. For now, it is either pen to paper or key to lock, feelings kept in a box.

I know one person I will be making sad, and I hold true my word of never forgetting anyone, good or bad memories shared with them.

Shall stop here. Don't love this world to ruins.

Having a daughter and losing her

No, I don't doubt that people don't read my blog anymore. Two years ago I was desperate to be well known as a blogger, always shoving my page into people's faces, trying to get them to read my stories. I know better now. Maybe I have guts to write this post right now only because I know my other half is the only one who reads it still.

I'd gone through a lot last year, all of which I will never forget, be it the events or the people. There was a period in my secondary school days when I remembered dates really well, whatever happened on the exact day itself. These days, I find myself losing track of time easily, sometimes forgetting even what year it is.

I can't tell whether time is going too slowly or quickly. Sometimes I go through certain things that make me feel tired and old; other times I realise hey... I'm only twenty...? I just can't decide whether I have more time before this very moment or after.

A month into 2013, I found the love of my life.

A month into 2014, I lost him, but we reconciled 6 months later, leading the both of us to believe we were meant to be.

A month into 2015, I still had the same person, but I was blessed with another love of my life.

I didn't even realise I had her--we had her--until March, and even then it wasn't me who noticed her existence. It was my sister-in-law, who told me I was having the same symptoms she'd had.

Yes I did realise I was late for 2 months, and a few days before we'd gone on a road trip to Kuala Lumpur, the whole time of which I'd been nauseous, vomiting out whatever I'd eaten. But I just didn't think twice of it.

Her existence was proved to me in the form of a faded red line. Surprisingly I wasn't panicked or anything, just too weirdly calm on the outside, probably like how you'd react when you get the final bill at a restaurant, one part internally screaming at how expensive it was, the other merely mumbling an Oh shit it's so expensive. Either way, you deal with it, smile to the cashier and pay anyway.

I made my decision on the spot. Reasons were simple; it was for the sake of my other half and my parents. I'd already disappointed them by engaging in the act that got me there in the first place, and I just didn't want to throw the fact straight onto their faces.

What's more, the announcement of my niece last year was unexpected enough, and I knew they didn't need another grandchild made out of wedlock. Not for them to take care of, not for them to think there was something wrong with the way they raised their children.

It was another one of those rare times where I was grateful for being skinny. Nothing showed through my belly, not even when I was 19 weeks through. Whatever physical changes my body was forcing me through, I had to deal with it myself because it's not like any of my best friends would've understood.

Out of the 6 girls, I only managed to confide in one of them; the one who's been in relationships before and who was definitely the only one who would understand the feeling of giving a boy your everything. Even she knew that the others would have secretly thought I deserved it if I talked to them.

My whole life, my mom has always brought me to the clinic. The day I fainted at work in late April, I brought myself to the polyclinic, and to tell the truth I was scared because it was my first time talking to a doctor myself. Maybe that's when I realised I was growing older.

Being in a polyclinic by myself was scary enough; imagine how much more terrified I was when I went for my ultrasound scan at the women's hospital.

The weeks leading to my appointment, a part of me thought that maybe I wasn't pregnant after all. That maybe I had some sort of cancer or whatever. My mind made up all kinds of shit, but when the lights turned off and the screen overhead the bed lit up, I knew I just had to face the fact.

It took me some time to process it, all I could do was just stare at the screen, the shot panning in harmony with the probe that the nurse was moving along my tummy.

I couldn't believe that something so amazing was growing inside me. That very moment, I stopped feeling scared, telling myself I was nothing but lucky. And I was, because for 19 weeks, I was able to be the most amazing thing in the world: a mother.

For a moment, I lost sense of reality when the nurse told me it was a girl. I was struck with happiness for about 5 seconds before remembering I wasn't able to keep it. Her. My daughter.

I had to go through three counselling sessions, the first being at the polyclinic and the others being on the day of my scan. They were all the same, trying to get me to change my mind about the termination. I hadn't cried in all of them, but it was only after the counselor talked about my mom in the last session did I shed a few tears.

She asked me, this I will always remember: Would you rather hurt your mother or hurt your baby?
I answered without hesitation, this I will also always remember: My mom is more important.
She nodded, and I cried.

I got admitted the Monday after, my other half's hand in mine. The day of my scan, the counselors and nurses told me that at 19 weeks, they couldn't use the vacuum method anymore. Instead, I had to be admitted, have pills inserted into me from below, to contract my womb, forcing the fetus to slide out of it and out of my body.

Just after I was warded, they had a counselor talk to me. Again, she tried to change my mind, as did the doctor just before she inserted the first pill. I'm going to insert the pill right now, but it's still not too late to change your mind. Are you sure you want to do this?

I had nodded, but by the time the doctor and nurses left my bedside, replaced with my other half and my one best friend I confided in, I was bawling endless tears. From the physical pain or the emotional, I couldn't tell.

They had to insert a pill every 5 hours for a maximum of 5 times, hoping it would drop out during one of those times. The insertion was really painful, I was asked awake every hour or so to check my blood pressure, I had needles probed into me here and there... It was horrible.

By Tuesday night, all five pills were in and yet, nothing was happening, so they had to bring in the 'more painful method'. This time, a stick-like object was put into me from below, apparently to hold my womb open instead, wide enough for the fetus to drop out. I was really weak by then, I didn't really pay attention much, to what they were saying or doing to me...

They weren't kidding when they said this was super painful. My belly was as hard as stone, and every ten minutes a sharp jolt of pain would hit at me from the inside. All I could do was grab at my other half's hands with my trembling ones, squeeze with whatever little strength I had left.

It just got worse after visiting hours, when he had to leave the ward. I couldn't sleep at all, I wasn't comfortable enough to even lie down, and even the painkilling injection the nurse gave me faded after a few hours. I just wanted to die, for God to take my life and just end my suffering.

Emotional pain can't compare to physical pain. You won't know the true feeling of wanting to die until your body is in great and terrible suffering, not your heart.

The pain was at the highest peak at 4 in the morning, and all I could do was desperately claw at the emergency call button. The nurse came over and drew the curtains over my bed, and I couldn't find any humanity left in me to talk, but she asked: Is it painful?, and seeing that I obviously was in pain, she actually exclaimed, Good!

It was just the same as giving birth, and I was in labour for one and a half hours. I probably woke the whole ward up with my screaming. Out of the pain or the fear or both, I don't know.

My girl was out at 5.30 in the morning; I felt her wet, bloody, undeveloped body against the skin of my ankles. By this time I had difficulty breathing, but lacking a few breaths can't compare to the fact that my daughter had taken her last at that moment.

And that's just another experience to add into the list of things I've survived. It doesn't make it 'my story', because all these things that happen to me don't make me on their own. They're all puzzle pieces that make the whole picture that is me.

When I walk in a crowd, I wonder what all these other people have gone through or are going through. For a moment I would tell myself I'm sure they have it worse than me, but then again, it doesn't matter, because I am not living their lives. I'm living mine, and my story is all that I care about. I have the rights to feel whatever pain or sadness no matter how good I have some things compared to others.

Some things make me feel older than I am, and this is another. I was pregnant, I chose to lose my child, and I didn't even have the balls to tell my own parents. It's still not over, because I'd only just started feeling the depression slowly coming in, and I have some physical problems, no doubt after-effects of the termination.

When my other half told his friend that has never liked me, that accused me of cheating and the child of not being his; when our most trusted friend spilled the secret to the classmates from their secondary school; when this post is being read by unknown eyes; I'm aware tongues will wag and I know some of the things that might have already been said... But I'm too tired to care anymore.

My over-enthusiasm with books

As you must know by now I work at Popular, my happiest place on Earth since childhood. I love books, but unfortunately, being in the Multimedia/CD-Rama department, I don't work alongside them much.

I do get to interact with books, namely the times when there's nothing to do and no customers to serve. It's not my department, but I can't stand looking at the messy shelves. At the same time I rearrange them, of course I'd thumb through some books, read a little here and there.

There are some days when only one out of the two English books department staff are working. Those days, when they're on their break and the cashier pages for English department staff, I'd go and see what's up.

Well I can say I do have potential to be in this department, heh. However it's not good for me, because sometimes I tend to get a little too excited.

When a customer asks for a book that I've heard of, I get excited.
When a customer asks for a book that I myself have been wanting to read, I get more excited.
When a customer asks for a book that I have already read, I get even more excited.

I tend to be over-enthusiastic. The other time someone asked my colleague for help, who in turn came to me, handing me a piece of paper with the book the customer wanted. It was The 5th Wave! I just read it in February, and I loved it, and of course I got excited when I saw it.

And not only that but I knew exactly where to find it. Because I knew the author is one thing, but I knew because I've spent about 80% of my free time walking through the shelves of the English books, and I've seen every book in every nook and cranny. *proud smile*

It was worse when the customer asked me about the book; "This is the first book right? There's a second book?" I straightway answered "YES! The second one is called The Infinite Sea, and there's also the third book coming out later this year," blah blah blah. I just can't help it.

Another time, this kid kept coming to me and asking about books, and I was more than excited to help him. I love it when kids read books, heh. When he got the 3 books he wanted, I asked him if there was anything else I could help him with.

"I think that's it, I have 3 books already," and the temptation to say "THREE BOOKS ISN'T ENOUGH, KID" was just too high. I loved that kid already, the way he clutched his books to his chest.

That same day, a father came to me with his son, asking about Captain Underpants. I exclaimed a very excited "Oh! Let me show you," to which the father said, "See, she immediately knew what was Captain Underpants!"

I couldn't have said it more excitedly: "Of course I know, it's my childhood!"

This over-enthusiasm can be a little embarrassing sometimes though. Just like yesterday, a customer came asking about The Kite Runner. I've read that, I loved it, the main character shares the same name as my other half... Of course I knew where to find it.

After passing it to her, she asked for another book. "A Thousand..." she started, but I straightway took out A Thousand Splendid Suns, by the same author as The Kite Runner, and shoved it in her face. But no, it wasn't the book she was about to say, and that was just embarrassing.

I really do love my job and gathering all these moments to share. My colleagues have called me crazy after I said I wanted to work here until the day I die, heh *sheepish grin*

Whitesands has destroyed my places of childhood, the Popular outlet and the library. But here I am working in a Popular as a teenager, and I would love to bring this legacy along into my adulthood as well. Who knows, I might be a manager in the future ^^

A mother is still a mother

Today I wondered, would Singaporeans give up their seats on the train if they see a heavily pregnant teenager? Or would they just judge her and punish her for her actions by letting her stand? Something silly to ponder about, as usual.

When I was young there were many kittens at the coffeeshop below, as well as the wet market when it wasn't a Shengsiong yet. I always caught one and brought it home, played with it for a day before sending it back at night.

This one day I saw some people gathering around a box, and I looked in to see a kitten which eyes and ears hadn't even opened yet. Me being an innocent kid who didn't know anything, I brought it home like I did with the other kittens.

I'm not sure why but I didn't bring it back that same night, and instead made it a bed out of a box and kept it overnight. It meowed the whole night, loudly and shrieking, and my mom told me to bring it back downstairs the next morning.

So what I remember happened is this: a cat had overturned all the beer cartons at the coffeeshop, frantically looking for the newborn I had brought home.

I recognised that particular cat as the garang one, as my little brother and I always called her, because not only was she sombong as heck but she was good at glaring and hissing at whoever came towards her. She was a million times more untouchable without her baby.

Something I read somewhere before; a cat can have different coloured kittens at once, because she can still get pregnant by other male cats when she already is. A litter of kittens have the same mother, but not always the same father.

Cats going through fires to save their offspring; lionesses fighting their partners, the very king of the jungle, to prevent them from eating their cubs; your own mother saying she's full even when she's not, to let you have the last bit of her food.

Tomorrow is my sister-in-law's first Mother's Day being a mom. Something happened along somewhere that made me envious of mother-daughters instead of couples, and I can't help thinking all the time what it'd be like to have a little girl I can call mine. I have found the perfect other half, I can't help thinking of having the perfect second me.

That's all I have to say about Mother's Day. It's not just about my own mother, but also my grandmother, and any woman who's had a life growing inside her womb.

A mother is a mother, whether it's a four-legged animal whose babies are from different fathers, or a young girl who mistakenly gave her body to someone she thought loved her.

Customers, love them or hate them

Good evening from Elias Road, your reporter for today is none other than E'indah Nadhirah, the girl with 6 cats and an addiction to bread.

Today is labour day, and seeing how I haven't been blogging for a really long time, [my fingers are feeling a bit more awkward and unnatural than usual typing on my laptop] I'm gonna write something related to today... I think.

From 2011 to now I've worked 5 part-time jobs, my current being Popular bookstore. Today also makes it a month since I started working there, so why not share my experiences thus far?

So first of all, I consider this a dream come true. Well, one of my many dreams to be exact. It isn't exactly Kinokuniya, which is honestly my most favourite big bookstore in Singapore, but I guess we all start somewhere.

I'm not even taking care of books in Popular though. My first 2 weeks or so, I was put in Stationery department. I treated the stationery like my children; put them up nicely when new stocks came, made sure they're put where they belonged if they strayed, dusted them whenever I could.

In actual fact I wanted to mess everything up because I can't stand neat things if you remember, but for this case I was almost developing OCD for stationery. I always got frustrated when I returned back to work after y l2 days off, because my children--stationery--were always in a mess.

If you go Popular you might hear the announcement bell and a voice saying: Paging for stationery staff, please proceed to cashier counter, thank you. or anything that goes like that. They do that to call certain staff when a customer queries at the counter about something in that respective department.

When I first started off at Stationery I didn't like to go because I was new and was afraid I wouldn't know what the customer would be looking for. That changed along the way, I started to get excited when they paged for stationery, and I always volunteered to go.

I love having something to do at work, even more so if there's so much to do that time flies by without me even realising it. I get really sleepy if there're no customers or new stocks to do.

Customers are really great sometimes, I mean when they're nice and especially when they say thank you. I automatically like you if you say thank you; it makes serving you worthwhile and sincerely a pleasure. I get a little broken inside when I can't help someone find something they need, mostly because we don't have it or they don't like what we have.

However I've found quite a few bits about customers that quite irritate me. First is when they not only ask rudely, but they also don't say thank you. But that's fine because I forget it in a while.

Second, when customers show me a specific pen and asks me "Do you sell this pen?" it's worse if they show me just a picture. We have hundreds of pens, you really can't expect me to know all of them. At most I can do is search for them physically, which they can do themselves.

Third, when I'm serving someone already and another customer pops out of nowhere and starts asking for help. I'm not mad that you asked me for help, it's just that I'm clearly helping another customer already, and all customers are equally important so you're putting me on a spot.

Fourth is something that is not only irritating, but sometimes hurtful, sometimes both. Back when I worked at the bakery customers were always mistaking me for a Chinese girl, Chinese people speaking really fast Mandarin to me and Malays speaking really awkwardly because they can't find the English word for something. They were always surprised to know I am Malay.

I've had a few similar racial problems here at Popular too, the most common one being Chinese people suddenly coming to me and rapping in their language about something they're looking for. Sometimes I don't have the heart to interrupt, so I try to catch a few words I understand. If not, I feel worse if I have to tell them they just wasted their breath because I didn't get a single word.

The thing that hurts most from Chinese customers is when they immediately just walk away when I say, "Sorry, but can you speak English?" I've gotten this a few times. They don't even say nevermind, it's okay, they just walk away and look for my other colleague. I understand that they can't speak English but they don't have to be so mean like that.

There was this one woman whom I was serving for the previous 5 minutes or so, answering her many questions about a product. In the midst of my explaining, my colleague from Text/Assessment department walked by and she immediately left me hanging and went over to him and asked him about that same product.

The same with suppliers; this one incident, the suppliers for the copier paper arrived and asked me in Mandarin, which I understood, whether "The boxes can put here?" I said in English, yes yes can put here. They asked again, clearly not understanding a single word of English, so I just repeated but with hand motions this time.

They just looked at me with their blank stares, looked almost irritated, and one of them opened the office door and asked my colleague in Mandarin, "The boxes can put here?" and then he looked at his colleague and said, yes yes can put here. I almost wanted to scream THAT WAS WHAT I FUCKING SAID TWICE!!!!

As for my own race, I find it really rude when Malays make comments about someone standing beside them, whether or not that said person understands what they're saying. If someone looks like Chinese, it does not mean they are Chinese, and even if they are, it does not mean they don't understand Malay. You don't just make comments about the way someone looks or dresses or smells when they're right in front of you.

This one time I was sitting right at the back of the store on the floor, checking stocks that just arrived, price tagging and all that stuff. These 2 Malay guys caught sight of me, and one of them commented right beside me in this rude sarcastic tone: "Kesian eh, mesti penat dia kerje." and they both laughed like it was the funniest thing ever.

By the time I looked up I only managed to glare at one of them, and he said, "Eh janganlah dia marah oi," still laughing, to which his friend yelled over the aisle, "Sorry!" in that really insincere joking tone. It may seem small to you but if you were in my shoes... ):

And then came that horrible day when they took me away from my children...
when they transferred me to Multimedia/CD-Rama department.

Even til now I'm still learning a lot about Multimedia, especially all about the products. There're only 2 people in this department, which are basically the HOD and me.

The thing that irritates me the most about this department... when customers ask me questions as if I use every single product there is. I know just as much as you do, which is what's stated on the box or cover of the item. Just because I'm selling it doesn't mean I've used it before or am using it myself; whether or not I am new to this department, you can't expect me to know anything beyond what's written on the packaging.

So far I've only had 3 customers that almost got to my nerves while in Multimedia, two of which just happened yesterday: the man who kept asking me about the range extenders knowing he wouldn't buy any, getting pissed when I said truthfully I wasn't sure the answers to his questions; the woman who wanted to exchange a bag that had a tiny tear, one minute saying she wanted this next minute saying she wanted that and was so sensitive and indecisive.

The last one being this woman who stood at the edge of one of the Multimedia aisles, asking my colleague something. Because she is from Chinese books department, my colleague came over to me and asked for help about what the customer was looking for.

She stood at that exact spot, at the edge of the aisle, the whole time, even when I came over to her. She asked if we had those remote controls used to change slides during presentations. Because I'd never seen them and it was just a few days being in Multi, I just said so confidently oh no... we don't sell that. without realising we do, and they were right next to me.

The woman saw them first, that moment when I saw the look on her face change. She looked at me with that are you fucking kidding me/are you fucking stupid face and pushed past me to look at the blasted remote controls, which I just realised were there.

I laughed and said "Oh yeah they're here I didn't realise..." tried to make a joke out of it and explain that I was new, and she just completely ignored me. She thought I was stupid for not realising they were right next to me, but who was the one who just blindly stood at the edge of the exact aisle which contained the things she was looking for? Shove those remote controls up your xoxo

This just turned into a rant about customers.
I think it's long enough to make up for the entire month I didn't blog, so there you go.