fake plastic words

She was sleeping when I called her. She woke up, and of all the fifty over songs in her playlist, Placebo's This Picture was playing. The call was exactly 13 minutes long and ended at 5.04am on 26-3-08.

Half of 26 is 13.
5 is after 4.
Half of 6 is 3.
The sum of 2 and 6 is 8.

Among those numbers there are 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 8. There's no number 7. Placebo's This Picture is the 7th song in my playlist that's currently playing. I called her for the first time after we made the deal to not contact each other at 1.42am. There's no number 3. In the "13 minutes, 5.04am, 26-3-08", number 3 appears twice. So altogether there are 3 number 3s. Yuna's Dan Sebenarnya, the song I'm listening to now as I'm typing this out, is the 3rd song in my playlist. The sum of 1, 4 and 2 is 7. The number 7 is the missing number in "13 minutes, 5.04am, 26-3-08" and Placebo's This Picture is the 7th song in my playlist.

I buzzed Bing online and he's watching Numbers on AXN.

Hmm.

1:12 AM
Categories: moments, music, non-fiction, numbers, random, songs, thoughts. Author: sleepwalker

He asked me, "Would you like to go and see a clinical psychologist?"

I took a long pause... Dreaming of swimming in a rainbow pool of Prozac, Xanax, Valium, Zoloft, Lithium, Tramadol, Erimin, Subuxone, Stilnox, Nitrazepam, Lorazepam, and some sugar and spice. I thought about staring at the know-it-all doctor, reading every nuance of his poorly engineered body language. I thought about reading the script of what he'd say at least 2 minutes before it spits out of his mouth. I thought about the sky high fees he'd charge per hour, and imagined what I could buy with a few hundred Ringgit every hour. I thought about walking off at the end of the fruitless session and telling him, "Go to the wet market downtown, score yourself a tube, lose your mind, crawl through a breakdown, and then you're qualified to come talk to me".

After the longest silence, I said,

"Well... I think that wouldn't help much".

3:05 PM
Categories: conversations, fiction, madness, non-fiction, stories. Author: sleepwalker

I came across some stories about her online.

1:29 PM
Categories: al-fatihah, architecture, non-fiction, photographer, photography, sara aziz, stories, strangers. Author: sleepwalker

What can be more alluring that her warm sweet smile carved by such sweet sultry succulent lips wrapped around her soft porcelain face. Her braces twinkles just as her eyes sparkles so adorably. Her silky, jet black, bobcat hair she wears bounces on every careful rhythmic step.

Like a cup of moist chocolate mousse. Soft, tender and melts ever so gently in your mouth. It melts onto your tongue, flowing gently through your body, and into your heart of hearts.

She walked up to me, smiling widely, and politely asked in completely disastrous broken English, "Some tea or coffee you like having? Very nice very warm, on the house no pay you are guest".

I asked for some coffee instead. She walked away, presumably to get my "very nice very warm, on the house no pay you are guest" coffee. But after a good 20 minutes I figured she must've forgotten all about it.

Idiot.

11:46 PM
Categories: beauty, daydream, encounter, fiction, non-fiction, stories, strangers, travel, trip. Author: sleepwalker

Giovanna is an idiot.

Even Antonio, her fellow Itallian, can't stand her. Fira wants to punch her face in and Ina wants to kick her out of the house.

I've a feeling Giovanna is an Aries. Stubborn, argumentative, strong willed, and somewhat entertaining. She can be funny sometimes, but most of the time she's just plain nasty. She's a selfish demanding diva who does whatever the hell she wants whenever she wants without care nor regard for anyone around her. Apparently simple courtesy doesn't exist in her dictionary. Though among all of her utmost "admirable" qualities, the biggest one is definitely her inability to respond to common sense. How do you deal with someone who constantly complains about everything under the sun and insults your country, people, weather, food, architecture, culture, traditions and religion? How do possibly argue with a Roman Catholic who says things like "Nobody in Italy reads the Bible, it's only there for show". Even Zakir Naik would eventually give up arguing with her. Ahmadeedat? He'd just stab her to death with blunt chopsticks.

Honestly, I love dealing with difficult characters. I enjoy the conflict and the endless debates. People like Giovanna are like old, grumpy, sexually abused Persian cats. Nothing in the world can possibly please them. They're almost never not angry. They're picky and demanding. They hiss at you when they don't get what they want. They're zenophobic. They live alone and eventually, probably, die alone.

But of course, it's not easy being an unattractive sexually repressed 30 year-old mat salleh female in a local government university. Especially when you go to class wearing a white singlet with no bra on.

Tip: If you don't want to die a lonely old spinster (with no cats, because they hate you so much they'd drown themselves in the washing machine), try not to be a hard headed nihilist cynic who complains about everything because you're too perfect. Also, when you're doing your Masters don't major in Stupidity. It really doesn't help when you're ugly, stupid and hateful. Definitely not a winning combo.

3:01 AM
Categories: cynic, friends, ignorance, itallian, malaysia, non-fiction, rant, stories, stupidity. Author: sleepwalker

I got a call from Fareed one day. A friend of his needed some help. The kind of help I can't allow myself to get involved in anymore. He refused to tell me for whom it was for, so yeah, I got the hint. I politely declined and hung up.

That day I was in the city for a seminar. I sat through the first day with as much enthusiasm as a 12 year-old listening to a microeconomics lecture. I chomped down sour sweets and took frequent cigarette breaks to keep myself from falling asleep. The second day came and I thought to myself, "No way in hell I'm gonna force myself to sit through this again". I refuse to waste my time in something I'm not even remotely interested in to begin with. I got dropped off at a nearby hotel, strolled to the adjacent train station and bought a one way ticket to the nearest shopping mall for lunch.

After a shitty meal at that dodgy mall, I took a walk outside and lit a cigarette. I watched the ebb and flow of the city street. A colourful charade of people and cars, stray felines and zombie-like dogs. School kids in virginal white uniforms and 12 year-old wannabe punks loitering around and about. And then I saw a familiar figure. He waved from afar.

It was Omar. "Holy fucking shit!", I screamed aloud. We shooked hands and hugged like a stupid sappy Jejak Kasih reunion of two long lost brothers. I haven't seen him for the longest time, thinking all this while that he must've gone back to Saudi Arabia. We weren't very close, but we did have some pretty damn good memories. The best ones were those times listening to him rap to Tupac in the wee hours of the morning while I helplessly try to catch up. He raps like a motherfucker. As a matter of fact, that was the first thing he said to me when we met eons ago, "What's up motherfucker". He was on medication, so I excused his ridiculous rudeness.

He was a joy to have around. With his thick American accent, he spoke as fast as a runaway freight train. Severely bi-polar at one point, Omar had frequent outbursts. My first encounter with his occasional explosions of rage was when we first met. After introducing myself, I sat in midway through one of his infamously annoying monologues. Omar was talking about Gaddafi, calling him a traitor to the Arab world and a fledging cocksucker, steadily increasing the tone of his voice and inserting every profanity known to man, he started talking about homosexuality and describing in articulate detail of the various ways that gays, lesbians and trannys will burn in hell. At that point he was fuming red like his head was on the verge of exploding, rocking back and forth trying to calm himself down. He paused midway, popped in a pill, and continued rocking back and forth. I liked him since then on.

"What the fuck are you doing here!", I said. We caught up and he updated me on his whereabouts these days. I found out later that, apparently, Fareed's "secret friend" who asked for the "favour" was not that much of a secret after all. That friend was Omar himself, who happened to be our mutual friend. What a ridiculously freaky coincidence. I get a call from an old friend (how he got my number, beats me), whom I haven't heard for the longest time, asking for a ridiculous favour on behalf of another friend, who turns out to be an old friend of mine, someone I've completely lost touch with for a long time, whom I coincidentally would bump into at a place downtown (where I hardly if ever go to begin with). In a cruel twist of fate, I met the last person I'd ever want to meet again.

We took the monorail back to his place. I knew that his parents are filthy rich and could easily afford that affluent apartment, but I also knew that his family has cut him off financially. I asked him about the place, and everything he owned from new clothes to the latest PS2, brand spanking new stereo system, Astro, everything. This bi-polar, rap machine, junkie also happens to be a genius mathematician. He went up to Genting and won shitloads of money (think 21). Twice in a span of a few days. The casino banned him and escorted him out together with his winnings. He came down, bought a place in KL and finished every dime on PS2 games, drugs, booze and hookers.

I bought him lunch and spent the day at his place. We had nonsense conversations. Half of the time I sat quietly listening to him rap, in between verses telling me about his life in Malaysia, past sexual conquests, and hopes for a better future. The evening rolled in, darkening the smoke filled room. It was time to go home. I promised him I'll come by the next day and took a long walk back to the hotel.

Omar called me the next day. After a dozen or so missed calls, he sent me a text message. "Kau mana motherfucking orang gila". That was the last time I ever heard from him. The following week, he took the first flight out back to Saudi Arabia.

"All the best motherfucker".

1:16 AM
Categories: friends, memories, non-fiction, stories. Author: sleepwalker

I love writing here.

I can write and talk about anything I want. I can be whoever I want to be, whoever I can and can't be. I can play games, confuse and twist your thoughts. I have the power to put assumptions and unnecessary speculations in your head. I will allow you to judge me, my words, but of course, I will have the last laugh. Because all that you can possibly achieve with such a meek self-righteous crusade is to judge a mirror, your very own reflection.

I have the freedom to write complete utter nonsense, speak of lies and half-truths. Sometimes I write about my own real, actual, true experiences, thoughts and frustrations. But, of course, that's not always the case. There would always be a lie, or two, or more, behind every story. There would always be an abstract, hidden meaning behind even the simplest sentence. There would always be some doublespeaks, dichotomies, oxymorons.

We are all liars. And in here, I intend to be nobody but myself and everyone at the same time. What's the use of pretending we're all perfect angels without flaws and fears? That we don't have skeletons in the closet. That are always happy. Why are we so afraid of telling the truth? Of what we think, of what we feel, of our fears and frustrations. Why are we so afraid to open up and seem vulnerable? Why are we so afraid of being judged? Why does what other people think or say matter so much?

But then again, I do contradict myself. Even now.

In here, it's like I'm having conversations with a stranger, a friend, an enemy, a lover, a cat, and with anyone and everyone and no one at the same time. I can talk about myself and not have to worry that I'd make my friends nauseated with my self-indulging stories. This is a place I can come to and hide when the world outside starts to scare me.

In here, I'm free.

4:46 PM
Categories: fiction, non-fiction, rambles, rant, thoughts. Author: sleepwalker

I don't want you anymore. Not you. Nor you. And definitely not you. Not any of you. Can't you just leave me alone?

3:55 PM
Categories: fiction, non-fiction. Author: sleepwalker

I've met my fair share of characters.

The sane, the working-class hero, the soldier, the communist, the successful capitalist, the politician, the racer, the story-teller, the beleaguering idiot, the traveller, the comedian, the garderner, the fisherman, the aimless wanderer, the wicked, the adventurous, the zany, the zestful, the hateful, the cynic, the pathological liar, the nihilist, the faker, the pretender, the addict, the drunkard, the nymphomaniac, the kleptomaniac, the musician, the ballet dancer, the socialite, the celebrity, the model, the lonely songwriter, the poet, the sufi, the god-fearing, the free spirited, the heartbroken, the lovesick, the photographer, the artist, the actor, the amatuer pornstar, the part-time lap dancer, the writer, the out-of-this-world insane, the nutcase, the terminally ill, the hormonally imbalanced, the suicidal, the cutter, the mentally ill, the rapist, the murderer, the unrelenting criminal, the bi-polar, the schizophrenic, the lost soul, the dreamer, the fictitious, and the rest who lie in vague spaces of my self-eviscerating memory.

Some I've brushed shoulders with, many I had drinks with. Some became friends, few I fell in love with. They come and go like seasons, like a river flowing by. Although we may not step into the same river twice, it nonetheless has an impact on us. Some affect us like a butterfly resting it's furry legs on our warm skin, some rampage our lives like a merciless storm. For better or worse, much is there to learn from friendships made and relationships lost. From people you love and hate, from friends and foes.

They have taught me many things. More than all the books in the world can ever teach me.

(11.30pm, 8th December 2007)

6:15 PM
Categories: friends, lessons, life, non-fiction, people, stories, strangers. Author: sleepwalker

We were on the way to the surau when he told me bout his story.

He woke up one day and decided to leave.

He sold off everything he owned. House, car, furniture, some clothes, everything. With his entire life in one backpack, he set off to Europe with his then girlfriend. They travelled everywhere. Amsterdam, Paris, London, Bordeaux, Berlin, Milan, Rome, Barcelona, Granada, everywhere. They lived together hand in hand, hostels to whorehouses, streets to riverbanks. For 3 years.

For 3 whole years they survived by busking.
(He's one of the best musicians I've ever, ever met)

I wish I had that freedom. And that stupid bold blind courage. To just drop my life and run away to do whatever the hell I wanna do. Wouldn't that just be fucking out of this world insane?

"Man is free at the moment he wishes to be" - Voltaire

(circa 2007)

10:47 PM
Categories: backpacking, busking, freedom, life, music, non-fiction, stories, travels. Author: sleepwalker