Short Fused

The last time I paced the floors of Guthrie Hall was in the year 2005. We were just a bunch of 13-14 year olds back then. We knew we didn’t belong there but our pitiful desires to fit in was just too strong. So we foolishly went, and that decision changed my life more than I could’ve imagined.

Here was where I realized that I wanted to get into the music scene, no matter what it took. Here was where I danced along to jazz for the first time with the three girls I want to dance all my dances with. Here was where I held his hand (or anyone’s hand for that matter) for the very first time. Here was where I realized that things can go wrong in a split second. And that people who help you aren’t always earnest. A lot of things would’ve turned out different if I had dropped out at the very last minute (This is not an exaggeration, not the least bit) Everything in the last three years would’ve turned out different. Better, in fact. But then I wouldn’t have learned a lot of other beautiful and vital life lessons.

Fast forward three years later.

 I'm finally where I wanted to be back then; Up on stage, with people whom I love. Armed with a spiteful tune created for the same person I held hands with three years ago (Who, ironically, also performed on the exact same stage)

 

The hall hasn’t changed at all, but I certainly have. I hope what I’m feeling right now is closure.

Weh, stop juggling girls. It’s getting old. And unusually gross.

I’ve skipped class for a total of two days.

 

Day one: Started the morning with breakfast at Taipan. One woozy tech boy and four amazingly hyped girls in their school shirts (who wouldn’t even have talked to each other if not for this project) shared light conversation over black coffee and hotcakes. A pleasant way of relaxing, if I may say so myself. Ironically, this F1 thing is the only thing keeping me mentally stable and relaxed lately. Friends, on the other hand . . . well, that’s a whole other whiny post! Filled up, wiped the stains off our faces (or was it just me?) and headed to Seafield for the manufacturing process. A grueling 7 hour lock-up with two computers but no WIFI! After being denied of food requests (Burger King), out of desperation for entertainment, I resorted to the joys of Paint with tech boy. Masterpieces aplenty, saved in a file quirkily named ‘Bukak lah kalau berani’. Hours later, the whirring of haphazardly placed machines ended and resulted in a wooden 3D version of our virtual car. One part done, 3034789317897 parts to go before the big day.

 

Day two: Intended 8 a.m appointment with Dr. Rahman postponed at the very last minute. Result: Mama causing pointless chaos with the nurses. Frankly, I was quite discomforted. Not to mention, embarrassed. Gladly went back home and reveled in the comforts of Youtube. Sampai sekarang fuuuh. Something random: I tried eating oatmeal with maple syrup today. Surprisingly, it doesn’t taste as good as it sounds. Case in point->My vomit senses were triggered right after the third spoonful. Even tried eating it with herbal honey. Lagi lah geli. Lepas ni nak try makan dgn chocolate pulak. I’m more apt to do stupid things when I’m lonely. It is directly proportional. Hence, I’m very lonely = I’m very stupid (?)

A quick recap of Lya’s birthday: A cold night, Amped up sixteen year olds, Bottles of fizz, Soggy pizza, Chocolate and marshmallow combinations, Stacks of whipped cream, Sugar-filled shireks, Dozes on the pointy grass, Planned ambushes, Failed ambushes, Co-ed rugby, Tackles, Water weapons, Wet sticky disordered hair, Threads of strings in colors akin to Crayola, Shots of Coke straight from the bottle, Games of tag around the neatly mowed grass releasing the remnants of our inner young, Masses of laughter, Secrets revealed, Birthday sing-along ritual, Birthday cake smushing tradition, Lots of walking in the dark, Dancing, Prancing, Jumping, Vanilla-scented bubbles, The whole popping procedure, Testosterones, Hormones, Angst, A game of 'Don’t you dare' with a dear male friend, Paint smears EVERYWHERE, Butt, Hair, Boobs, EVERYWHERE, Chaotic, Amusing, Exuberant, Guitar serenades, Yawns, A quick exchange of thankyous and yourwelcomes, Exhausting walk back to everyone's respected cars.

The waiting room makes me nervy. The walls are peach (why laa always peach so dull yawn) and for some reason they've paired it with black curtains. I try to reduce my heart rate, my sweat, but the big ticking clock just makes it worse.  Then it happens; the nurse calls my name.

Emilia!

Ye ye I hear you loud and clear

I don’t know why I’m so freaked out. It’s just a small white room. It’s just a bed. It‘s just a screen. It’s just machines and tubes. Why am I so freaked out? I see the 1 inch long needle. And the long black rubber-like tube. Oh, now I remember why. I’m being briefed but I’m distracted. The shiny needle’s taunting me. It’s laughing. I swear it’s laughing. It can sense my fear, this inanimate object. The doctor tells me to lie on my side. Okay, nothing wrong with that. He asks me to clench my fists. Haha, calm down mi. Then I feel the nurse’s hand. It’s warm, a fantastic contrast against the freezing temperature. (What is it with hospitals and Antartica-like temperatures?) Then it comes. The metal. The cold, merciless metal. Oh. . . .OH FUCK. I shut my eyes. I smile, because I don’t know what else to do.

 
I don’t remember what happens next as I was put into a semi-coma (Is this how alcoholics and addicts feel?) I wake up alone in another room. An inhospitable hospital ward. How lovely. Two hours later I’m in the doctor’s office. Room 11. He talks and talks. I listen and listen. I can’t concentrate. So groggy . . . So sore. I look at my hands. The needle’s still in. THE NEEDLE IS STILL IN??? I want to faint or scream or hyperventilate but I can’t; my dignity’s at stake here. Three minutes pass. Five. Ten. Aiyo want to eat, why have to talk so muccccccchhhh? He gives me my folder. It has all my ultrasounds and reports. The doctor is taken aback by my reaction. I am in raptures! Inside there is a DVD of my endoscopy! I get to see the insides of my (ailing) stomach on TV! IN MY FUCKING LIVING ROOM. WTF SO FRIKKIN CHIKKIN COOL. I catch a glimpse of the needle. Immediately I shiver . The (momentary) joy is now gone.

So there might be something wrong with me after all. . .

One year of constant medication has finally done its damage.

Repeat after me: se-da-tion.

Edit: My number was 1111 and the doctor's office that I had to go to was 11. I asked my mom if it was an omen. She ignored me. I think she wasn't aware of the seriousness of my question. Adults, sheesh. I love repeated numbers. 111,222, etc. My favourite is 777. You see, when the universe is quirky, I become happy. Hence, I gibber.

8 a.m.: I wake up with an unpleasant realization; Father-less on father's day. Father-less and alone on father's day. I take a shower. I don't sing. The water sings for me. I sit down on the tiles, head facing the shower. Has it been two hours already? Wonderful.

 

10 a.m.: I change into decent clothes. No one is home. I sit down on the yellow couch in the living room, knees to my chest. It's hot -at ten a.m.!- but I don't bother to turn on the fan. I cry.

 

10.20 a.m.: As the tears dry up I turn on the TV. MTV? No. HBO? No. Disney Channel? This'll do. As I turn up the volume I notice that I am using two hands to hold the remote. Are my hands quivering? They're shaking. I think it's time for my morning coffee.

 

10.40 a.m.: I sip my Nescafe. I wince. Shit, I accidentally put in salt. Of all days! Just as I am about to drain my cup I hear the familiar roar of the mama's engine. Oh, they're back. Keys rattle, plastic bags rustle. Food.

 

10.50 a.m.: My nasi lemak tastes bland. I chew. I chew. I chew. The sambal tastes bland. Nonetheless, I chew. The cat enviously stares. I stare back. It's like a contest. I throw a pillow at it but it doesn't move. Determination is the key to success, I've heard.

 

11.25 a.m.: Mama agrees to send me to the taxi stand near Subang Parade. I slide in the car with no amount of enthusiasm. Mama asks me questions. I give her the answers she wants to hear.

 

11.40 a.m.: The taxi ride is quick and quiet, just the way I like it. I step out and I am greeted by typical Malaysian weather. Why does it have to be brutally humid? I shouldn't have put on layers. Some people (of the male kind, obviously) whistle. Why God, why?

 

12.30 p.m: I walk aimlessly. I go in, I leave. I want this, I need that. Within minutes, my mind is gone. Ooo look, shiny.

 

12.40 p.m.: Why is everyone running into me? Am I invisible? No, I couldn't be. My hands are still brown, tanned. Hairy knuckles; check. Thunder thighs; check. Sigh. Am I dead? No, my feet are still on the ground. I can still feel the cold conditioned air on my sweaty palms. They keep bumping into me. Malaysians are so rude.

 

1.30 p.m: I want to see a movie. In an attempt to avoid the Sunday crowds I purchase a book. A few floors up, I buy a scoop of ice cream. I'm not that hungry but this is the only excuse I have to sit down. I read and the movie plays in my (zany) head. A million little pieces it is called. The character is young (23 is still considered young, am I correct?) and confused. We have so much in common.

 

2.oo p.m.: I'm convinced that my bladder is smaller than Paris Hilton's brain. I haven't even reached the 100^th page yet! The urge is too strong. I stand up, and dash to the toilet. Near the entrance, a father is hugging his daughter. I hope they didn't catch me staring. I look in the mirror (There's a scar. Pelik, pagi tadi takde?) and imagine what kind of manic conversations we would have if my dad was right here, still alive. But then I realized that I was in the ladies room. Um, maybe I should get out first?

 

 

2.15 p.m.: I walk. It's amazing how an hour and thirty-five minutes of anonymity can drastically change your mindset. Even though there is a sea of people I've not had a decent conversation with anyone. Not one soul. Mama calls, she's almost there. I go to our usual pickup spot. I stand alone like a child waiting for their mother. Eh wait, that's exactly what I'm doing. Sigh. It's hotter than it was earlier. I involuntarily look up. Some pigeons are perched on the miniature statues on top of the the columns (Put up there to add some flare, I suppose. People rarely look up though) They sit(?) up there undisturbed, with zero chance of intrusions. Bloody smart birds.  

 

 

2.25 p.m.: I slide into the car. My hair is frizzy. I imagine my dad standing near the car. In my head, I wave goodbye. I feel a surge of relief. This isn't right, It's supposed to be melancholic! God is strange. I will never understand the universe's mechanisms. Oui. Si. Yes.

When the world goes haywire, I go into hiding.

See you when the war's over.

It’s that time of the year again. If you’ve noticed -if you even care- when the middle of the year comes around I become the least jovial person on this side of the globe.  I can’t really tell why I’m so unusually restless when June/July arrives. I obsess over the littlest things, I wake up suddenly in the middle of the night –which happens quite frequently throughout the year but boosts abnormally come June- my faith in things dwindles , self-assurance becomes zero and of course, I have to deal with continual indolence. Today's one of my fat-days, and I have eaten portions of food equivalent to the size of my head (Which is not that big, but pretty big when measured against average-sized heads) Tomorrow is going to be a bad day, I can feel it. My left cheek (not the one on my face btw) is itching, and I’ve lived long enough to know that it’s a heads up from God. Ayhh, give me a break laaaa. I need some kind of fabulous over the top pick-me-up. Haha.