Oh wow, I'm a writer. A legit one.

You guys! 

I'm back. Well, not to blogging per'se. But to Malaysia. I'm done with my degree, and I came back on August 30^th, lounged around the house for 3 weeks before I started the job hunt. True testament to how much of a badass motherfucker I am, I was offered to 3 positions in 10 days and now is proudly employed! Mwahaahaha! Fuck, I was so scared that I was gonna be unemployed and shit cause I heard of people who took 6 months to find a job after uni but I did it in 10 days.

TCDO = BAMF.

In case you guys are wondering what I do now...well I am a writer for a female-oriented magazine. Yes, I write for magazines. I use to fantasise telling people that I “write for a living” back when I was younger. The fantasy was when someone ask me what I do for a living, it was either:

“Oh, I'm a journalist...for the New Yorker.”

Yes, the New Yorker. Yes, I realize I'm from Malaysia and that I live in Klang and I get roti Naan from Little India every other day, but fuck you, it's my fantasy.

OR

“Oh, I'm a writer. I have my own column in...”

OR 
 

Metamorph into Liz Lemon from 30 Rock.

So technically I don't have my own column or have metamorph into Tina Fey's altar ego...yet, but I get to say that I am a writer when people ask and it'll be totally legit! So yay me!

However, considering that I do write for a female-oriented mag, I do come up with stuff like “Is your husband cheating on you?!” and “Why your co-worker is avoiding you. Could it be B.O?!”.......And I graduated with a Bac. In Journalism with a Minor in Middle Eastern Studies. 

If you guys are going like “Middle Eastern, what the fuck now?” Cause you guys, I wanted to do SERIOUS journalism and work for the New Yorker and one day become a war correspondence cause let's face it, there is no such thing as peace in the Middle East. Like, ever. 

 

When it bleeds, it leads and I am all for milking the cow till it dries and die out of dehydration.

Don't get me wrong, I been writing for the mag for 2 weeks now and I have been enjoying myself and learning so much but at the back of my mind...there's a voice that's going:

“You're a 3^rd wave feminist with a minor in Middle Eastern Studies. You care about politics. You read the Huffington Post in your free time. You know who Maureen Dowd is. You rallied in Gay Rights and volunteered at women shelters. So riddle me this, why are you writings shit like 'How to achieve orgasms during pregnancy sex'?”

Because I need a job. 

Because I am a hypocrite. 

Because Capitalism is the modern day god and I am but a humble servant appeasing it for mercy on my bank account.

Also, I bought a car and now I'm 45k in debt and bish, I haven't even received my first cheque so excuse me for selling my soul to The Man.
 

Just because I write about trite, fluffy, inconsequential things does not mean I care any less or that I am a bad feminist. I am just trying to make ends meet here. Plus, when your editor read your first piece for the first time, giggles, look at you and say “You're very dramatic aren't you? I can tell from your writing” and you tried to keep a poker face, but she continued “I love it! Can you spin it and make it more sensational though...” There's that warm feeling inside that goes, that despite principles and beliefs...that maybe low-brow journalism is where you belong...
 

For now, anyway.

Plus, who can say no to a company whose dress code BANNED button downs and corporate attire and is totally cool to wear mini skirts and band t-shirts to work...as long as you pair it with heels and lunch hour is any hour between 9 to 6pm and their business card is in hot pink. 

Glossy, hot pink.

I know I can't.

The way we used to be

I'm writing this down while sitting on the dirty, shabby, carpeted floor of Brisbane International Airport, Gate 79, Departure. There's a group of school children in sports uniforms milling about near me. Buzzing with excitement and anticipation of whatever they are heading to. I understand the feeling.

I'm going home.

The homesickness did not pass the way it usually did. Once it passed the three day limit and I was up at night trying to download "Bujang Lapok" to no avail, I knew I was in way over my head. Called my dad and asked if I could use the one year open ticket he bought me. After all its only been only over 10 months since I been home and I really don't want to waste. He said it was fine. This was on Wednesday. Its Saturday now and I'm waiting for that plane.

This need to fly home this time around is different. You see, my sister is in Malaysia. For those who do not know, my sister lives in Finland. She married a Malaysian Nokia engineer, who luck has it was transferred to Nokia Finland shortly after they were married. They have lived there for the last three years. Two years ago I went to Finland to visit them. And that was the very last time I see her. Sure we Skype and speak on the phone but its different to see her in the flesh. To hug her and to tell her hair looks like shit and go to the movies and eat ice cream afterwards. Just like the way we used to, before she got married. Before I came here.

Now my sister, who has always been best friend, my sworn nemesis and my faithful confidant despite the distance between us is back home, with the rest of my family and I'm the only one away. I do miss Klang. But I miss my sister more. And this would be the first time my entire family would be together in the same country, fuck on the same continent for the same time since like six years ago. My brother went to study in the US, then my sister left for Finland then I did, leaving only my parents in Malaysia. Now my brother's back in Malaysia for good, my sister's back for a holiday and I'm here sitting on this goddamn airport floor, just willing for the departure gate to like fucking open already. Jeez. But no matter. 10 hours from now, via one transit in Singapore and I will be back.

I will be back with my sister who I miss more than anything in this world. But a little less so than the nasi lemak over in Meru. Fuck man, that's some good shit.

Now take it away Mel.

Home is in a different time-zone

I woke up today to a blistering cold winter morning. Put on a pair of leggings underneath my jeans and two layers of sweater on top. Then padded to the kitchen as slow as an 81-year-old with Arthritis to make myself a cup of green tea, cursing the cold floor under my feet. Then I put on my winter boots and got out of the house to get yesterday's mails and bills. It was shivering cold outside, but still somewhat lovely.

“Morning CD!”

That was 7A, off for his morning run round the block. Sometime I run with him, but I'm more of an evening runner than a morning runner. I smiled but didn't say anything. Too early and too cold to actually socialise right now. I made my way slowly to the mailbox, breathing in the fresh air, the peaceful silence of Queensland suburbia and think

“This is lovely. This is beautiful. I miss Klang.”

It came out of nowhere that dull ache. That throbbing homesickness. That burgeoning pain in your heart. Like a ninja trained in the best of dojos, it appeared out of thin air and strike you when you least expect it.

Ah Klang, Bandar diRaja tapi padahal macam celaka. I can say this cause that's my hometown but you have no right bitch, you have no right. Strange, I never actually was particularly proud about coming from Klang. I was never ashamed of it either. It just is. Kinda like the tumour on my brain. I never gave a moment's notice about it other than bitching about the amount of illegal immigrants that overflow it. I swear, Klang is like the unofficial capital of illegal Bangladeshi and Indonesians of Malaysia. Or about that one time when I almost get mugged by assholes on one of those rempits motorcycles and my first reaction after the fact was “Fucking Klang.” Cause let's face it, it's not the safest of towns now, is it? It used to be lovely I'm sure, but it is almost a ghetto now when you think about it.

Like Lucille Bluth, the deliciously racist matriarch on Arrested Development, I place all my blame on the illegal immigrants that overcrowd the place.

But here I am, seven hours away by distance and two hours ahead by time-zone waxing poetic about it. I miss the little things about it mostly.

I miss getting the weekly grocery list from mom before I head out to Jusco Bukit Raja to actually buy the groceries. I miss going to the movies in TGV on Wednesdays with Gypsy, cause that's the cheap day. I miss getting stuck in traffic on the way to Meru to buy nasi lemak at that little place by the road. I miss the pisang goreng guy in Andalas, who always give me extra pisang goreng just because. I miss going for evening runs at Taman Rakyat, and then running back the way I come from whenever I spot an old school teacher in the distance. I miss having chappati in Little India with dad on Sundays. I miss the A&W near Tesco and their God-awful and consistently undercooked waffles. I miss passing by my alma mater on the way home and feeling strangely envious of the girls who are still there, whose lives are simple and without complexities but for boys and TV shows. I miss driving to my friends' homes to pick them up without ever knowing their proper address. There's no need for that because everyone I know from Klang have lived in the same exact house they lived in their entire lives. Myself included.

It's weird being away. You start being nostalgic about things you never gave a fuck before, or in fact things you never knew you noticed before. In your head, everything is rosy. Everything is gorgeous. No, Little India don't have creepy men who openly stare at your boobs as your walk by. No, the traffic in Klang is not that bad, really! What illegal immigrants? I dunno what you're talking about. You guys, Klang is not that shitty! Honest!

Nostalgia works best when you edit the fuck out of all the shitty stuff and dress it up with pearls and Yves Saint Laurent.

Brisbane is not that far. It's not like I'm like my friends who are living in America or Europe. They have to take multiple planes, and sometimes days just to travel back home. I have a direct plane. In terms of distance, I'm better off. But when the aching in your heart comes, it doesn't matter how far or near you relatively are, the pain is still the same. That dull ache that hurts more than a broken femur and a root canal combined. But I cannot be sure. I never did broke a femur or had a root canal, all I ever had is this homesickness that would take days to go away.

But I'll be fine. It comes and goes this ache. Sometimes it'll last a day. Sometimes, a few. But it'll go away eventually to bid its time for another visit. In the meantime though, lets raise our teh tariks to Klang, the shitty-almost-ghetto town where I come from.

I miss you more than I can rationally comprehend and you will eternally be part of me.

***Apologies to my non-Malaysian readers. I do try to avoid the national colloquialism, but sometimes there's no avoiding it.

"Creepy" doesn't even cover it

So uh...I'm scared. I want to use the word “terrified” but that would be pushing it, so let's stick to scared.

I woke up at an unGodly hour today, despite going to sleep late. It was around 5ish in the morning and it was one of those bullshit thing and you can't go back to sleep. So cause I can't go back to sleep, I decided to do some room cleaning and then round 6.5ish decided to go do my laundry.

We have a public laundry here where I live. It's in this badly lighted room with a sensor light that flickers all the goddamn time in the name of “energy saving.” So it was round 6.15 ish this morning, it was really cold and windy...and dark. Winter is brutal this year. I was all alone in the laundry room, the light was flickering and I was measuring the detergent when he showed up. Who?

Creepy-ass Gym Dude.

For those who are new here, you can read all about the creepiness here and here. But the short version is this: This guy watched me at the gym when I go there to workout, hits on me and then followed me home. Like he fucken followed me home. I'm not even exaggerating. I have stopped going to the gym completely because of him. So yes, creepy doesn’t even begin to explain the extent of this fuckkery.

So again, it was 6.15 ish, it was dark, the light was flickering and there's just the two of us in the laundry room. I think he was coming back or either going for a morning run, walked by the laundry room and saw me. The thing was......he stopped and stood at the only entrance and exit of the room hence blocking it, leaned on the frame and stared at me. I looked up from measuring the detergent and he was there, leaning on the frame and stared at me like it was the most normal thing to do in the world.

I didn't know what to do. I stood there holding the detergent box and just looked at him. I mean, wtf, he didn't even say hi. Just stared at me. I was scared you guys. My whole body tensed, and all I could think of was “Fuck OMG there's no way out. There's no way out.”

Then I said “Hey, how are you?” Kinda wanted to get rid of the intense creepiness and maybe if I get him to talk he won't go all batshit insane on me.

He didn't replied. He just stood there. Staring.

I was overwhelmed with fear. I mean, it was really early in the morning, it was really quite. He stood there blocking the door and this guy, he's like 6'2? 6'3? He's not big, but lean and muscular. And I'm there all 5'1 and holding a detergent box and with no other exit. Physically, if anything were to happened, he has the advantage. I was, scared. I was thinking “If he does anything, motherfucking throw the detergent in his eyes then hit him in the balls! Hit him in the fucking balls!”

He stood there a little longer. Stared at me a little longer. Then he left.

I dunno how long it lasted. I dunno when he showed up. But fuck, fuck, that was so creepy. I mean, what the fuck right? I was so scared you guys. I mean, why would anyone do that?

I was shivering when he finally left. I don't think it was from winter alone. He didn't actually do anything but this is considered harassment right? I mean, why would anyone do that? Shit. I let him down easy, it wasn't I was a bitch or something. But that was scary. Holy shit you guys, that was so scary.

I'm still really shaken up from this.

I wash my hands off this bish

I have just submitted my final 4000 words essay for this sem on motherfucken war reporting. Fucken researched that bitch for 7 weeks. I have also been up, and stuck in front of the computer for the last 5 days working on it and now, I am done.

I'm going to sleep and not waking up till Friday.