The core.

So I managed to dig out something I wrote last year, when I was super ambitious and wanted to write my own book. I don't know what its called, or what it should be called. All I know is, I must have been one conflicted 15 year old. 

Here goes nothing.

Time could not have passed any slower. You look up at the clock and notice that only 3 minutes have passed. You try to move your left leg, but it seems to be dead. You lift  it and shake it a little bit to get the blood flowing. The room was chilly and silent. You could hear the hum of the air conditioner and an occasional honk by a car outside. You stare as the receptionist takes a sip of water out of her glass. Her ring knocks against the glass. Had the room temperature been a few degrees lesser, the glass would have shattered. Blankly you flip through the magazine on your lap, your eyes scanning the pages intently, but your mind somehow flying away.

You were confident with your choice, considering it was the option you had in the first place. Nobody knows about this decision, about what you were about to do.  What would Mom think? You hoped she wouldn’t find out. Even if she did, she’d probably try to sweep it under the carpet like she does with everything else. What about Dad? Sara? Grace? Liam? Liam. Those four letters circled your mind, teasing you, taunting you. It was all his fault. Oh well, you’re in denial. Clearly it was partly your fault. You knew this would happen all along.

A soft thud filled the empty hallway as the receptionist drops her pen. You watch as she picks it up and attempts to use it again, pressing the nib gently on a piece of paper. ‘Its no use,’ you think. ‘Its worthless now, lost its value…just like me.’ You snap back into reality when you hear someone saying your name, it’s the receptionist. You trot behind her as she leads you down the empty hallway into the room of doom. The walls are filled with dozens of posters lined up, all screaming the same thing at you. All heading towards you like waves crashing onto the shore. Its ironic that those posters would be in here. Their headings stand out, capitalized, bold, italicized. Then the wave hits you. Jut as the receptionist turns the doorknob, you mutter something to her and quickly walk away.

Forget the appointment.

Forget the community.

You’re keeping this baby. Say no to abortion.

There's gonna be one less aborted baby!

Y U Zo Specialz?

I know la. Never updated, completely ignored, close to extinct.

Lets just pretend I was extremely apologetic and you guys were terribly understanding and we solved the whole lack of blogging crisis without the need to cause a national scandal.

We had this event last week in Sekolah Khas. Its like a tradition of some sort which the ICC organizes annually. Around a 100 interactors and another 50 students of the Sekolah Khas participated in this event.
Cheh sounds like some report's intro.

 So it was all social-worky, and happy-zappy where everyone is at their best. Utmost patience can be observed and no foul words fly around. Maklumlah, its social work time wert. 

Equilibrium. JENG JENG.

Yeah, so that was a success. Thanks to Jen who put the whole thing together. *insert audio of applause*

Now, everyone was kinda 'bewildered' by how the teachers of that school treated those kids, pulling them and hitting them if they were naughty or refused to listen. So begin the gossiping about how brutal they were, and how we would make better teachers to these kids any day.

YOUR FACE. -.-

There was this one lady who noticed me staring at her while she slapped the living daylights out of a kid. Once she was done, she calmly lifted the drooling kid of the floor and turned to me and said in Tamil, "If we treat them the way you people do, they'll never be normal."

TRIPLE IN YOUR FACE.

I know that sounds like its out of some Mike Newell movie but seriously, coming to think of it, the only reason we're so patient with them is because we consider them 'special' or more like 'disabled'. The day we wake up and realize that they are just like us, is the day we will be equal. Till then, Ta-Ta.

So deep, so deep.

I am aware of the fact that I have vowed never to over analyze things like those vellakarens. 

VAT IS VELLAKARENZ, YOU MAY ASK?

And I think you know the answer.

So IU day is in another 2 days. Yes, tempers are flaring like flames from some burning wooden house, yes tears are flowing like alcohol on Ladies' Nights at bars and of course, death threats soar through the air like fireworks on the eve of CNY. I guess thats the best part about organizing an event with people who you know well, you get to know them better. Not necessarily a good thing, but helps when the need to gossip about the person arises. KEEDEENG LA. 

Omg, I need to shut up but, ONE MORE THING, I'm sure you've seen posts like these circulating around the net off late.  

I MEAN WHO WRITES THESE THINGS LA?

They make chicks in general appear to be absolute bimbos who will fall in love with the next guy who wraps his arms around their hips. 

Okay for instance, the INFAMOUS handing of jacket when in cold myth. Ladies and gentlemen, this nonsense is only applicable in cold damn countries. Not Malaysia, truly heated Asia.

Dah la, we live in this polluted, overpopulated furnace , if your apek boyfriend ( who has a leather jacket and has just read the *100 things a girl likes post* ) hands you his jacket, you'll end up sweating, which will result in your make up running down your face, which makes you look butt ugly. 

Yes butt ugly.

Looking butt ugly will make you angry, and you will develop a kolaveri, which will end up in you breaking up with that poor apek with a leather jacket.

Makes sense na? I know, I'm so intellectual. Danks que ;)