honest to blog

In the beginning Girl created the blah blah and the blah blih. Now the blah blah was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the blih blah was hovering over the waters. And Girl said, “Let there be Bone,” and there was Bone of Contention…

Every blogger remembers her first time. That remarkable event where all the parallels in the universe came together to uncross the stars and lay upon an innocent the sudden yoke of duty to exploit some virtual space. For me personally, the magic started at a corporate coffee “we-really-need-some-birth-pills” chain in Plaza Indonesia. I just finished my class that day and found out that my driver would be late. I was practically on my own and didn’t feel like spending a second longer at the College. So I took a five minutes ride with a taxi across the Hotel Indonesia Circle (read: bunderan HI).

Armed with a paper and a pencil, I went and wrote on my golf lesson experience just to act busy. For in Indonesian culture, it is bizarre for a person to sit and drink coffee by themselves. Heaven forbids a girl in her normal state of sanity go consume caffeine unaccompanied. So there I was, pouring my processed bean-saturated heart out on ink, or lead actually, drafting out irony and sarcasm of my shallow and snobbish centre in the universe. I uploaded the thing when I got home, and have been hooked ever since. Reckoned at least it beats the amount they charge for some psychedelic trips or an hour at the shrink’s couch.

23:25

come morning. panadol and mars. lovely ladies. evening delight. remember those. from the last time you call. loving embrace. at the cold platform. loving flow. on their porcelain wrists. the game begins. some question of direction. so positive they say. the women in black. to the man in the white shirt. oh not so innocent you say. rest his arm on the yellow railing. his friend might read his mind. take those pictures. blue label bottle in hand. black jacket discussion. black leather solution. you’re on your own now. mirror mirror on the wall. he exits at the last minute. laughter fills the volume. throw some vodkas on the window. happy with a stroke on her back. the blonde in the frame. it’s nice to be educated. where are you going love? not you. not you. funny look on your face. some funny stares. little boy little girl. have some affection. let me see some entertainment. in fluorescent rail motion.

what kind of person in her most rightest, straightest mind would clean up a microwave spat and spot one day before her final exam? and all when the number of material stacks needed to be studied is arguably equivalent to that of a roman empire’s taxation records. honestly, of all the 365 days in a year.

she needs professional help.

- Procrastinator Anonymous -

Me: Hello, hi, umm…can I have a regular Irish Cream Cappuccino please?

Coffee Rep: Sorry?

Me: Regular, Irish Cream, Cappuccino?

Coffee Rep: Oh, we don’t have that…

Me: Sorry? *stares at blackboard menu*

Coffee Rep: I can’t give you the ice cream, only the cappuccino…

Me: Uh, mmm…I mean I-Rish Cream..heh..heh..

I recently realised that growing older has brought about some changes in my personal likings; be it in music (grows more pretentious), literatures (grows more weird) or even vocabularies (grows more awkward, though it’s a given, all life factors considered). But the most noticeable of them all is my acquired taste for all edibles bitter (pun kinda intended). From chocolates to coffee, from lemon lime (ha ha!) to my view of the world in general (ha ha ha!), they have all lost the sweet tooth propensity I’ve had practically all my life now.

But Agnes, Irish Cream is syrup, and syrup contains sugar. Well, at least I do not add any sugar stuff afterwards. It’s a coffee-inclusive thing, fabricated by the coffee person, the bloods’ not in my hand, so that doesn’t count. Savvy? Next!

What about your soy cappuccinos? You add sugar to your soy cap you diabolical black magic witch! Ah, the joy of soy. Funny thing, really, here, let me tell you about the mystifying soy tale, that day I began my affair with the alternative darling. I was having lunch with my supervisor and to make things fast (since she was kind of in a rush); I told her I’d have whatever she’s having. She ordered soy cappuccinos and thus, my first experience with soy. I fell in infatuation. Two reasons: #1 it doesn’t taste that bland if I add just a pack of sweet ‘n low, #2 coffee reps around the world seem to catch me saying “soy” more easily than “Irish cream”. For I don’t know about you, but having to repeat your orders over and over again (like the one demonstrated at the beginning of this entry) kinda lower my already fragile pretext of a willingness towards social interaction. Which…kinda reminds me that…

Hey! You add plain sugar to your cappuccino this morning! Oh, you hypocritical hyena excuse of a fox female-thing, you! Fine, but in my defense, that was because little miss coffee rep caught my “soy” for a “strong”. Thus, I was presented with a version of “The Bitter Institute of Higher Learning” cappuccino. Besides, I haven’t had a proper breakfast. I needed the sugar. And…and…there were times when I actually forgot to visit the condiment bar, but found that I could still enjoy the stuff. And…and…if I had to pay around five dollars for a cup, I believe that I am entitled to a little piece of sugar being one innocent civilian fighting for her rights.

[…]

Well, whatever. Sure there are times when I crave full-on sugar and rainbows, diabetic agents and ponies. But for now, I’m voting for make-believes.

A few years ago I was casually sipping on my ice coffee when I casually offered my youngest sister a casual share. The offer was immediately declined. I inquired why. Youngest sister was like, ”Mama said I’ll get a headache if I drink coffee.” I was like, “No you won’t. Try,” and proceeded to nudge my glass forward. Youngest sister took a sip. And another. And another. She was hooked. I may have created a caffeine monster. But my friend, the truth shall set you free.

Several years before a few years ago, my mother used to play the part of my personal bedtime raconteur. I can’t truly recall how, but I somehow got it wired in my head that there were actually beak-nosed witches crawling around at night looking for children to carry home for crispy afternoon grubs. Imagine some nights when I woke up in the middle of my sleep struggling to stay motionless and breathe soundlessly in the ardent belief that some bloody witches would be dim enough to mistake me for a children-sized doll if I play dead. Yup, thanks a lot Mum.

And therefore my friend, take a while to reflect on your sweet little life. Has your mother told you that she has eyes on the back of her head? Or that the spinach will rise zombie-like if they are not quickly digested? Or that your goldfish has “run away”? You should know better.

This maternal deception syndrome is an epidemic. How many countless innocents have fallen victim to this? How many more will be? Can your conscience let this go on? Think about it my friend, think about it…