Cheryl Goh the inconsistent blogger

Best Christmas Presents For Those You Hate

It’s just one of those days. I feel so frustrated it’s frustrating. I hate whining. It’s a vicious circle, the more you whine, the worse you feel, which makes you whine ever more, which makes you feel even worse. Which is why I am channeling all this negative, angsty energy into something semi-positive:

A list of things to give to people you hate.

It is after all Christmas and there are bound to be people you are oblige to give presents to, even though you completely hate their guts, e.g. your boss, your in-laws, your boyfriend’s sister, etc etc.  :D. Oh, by the way, there’s a special place in HELL for people who make appointments which cause you cancel or delay plans, only to subsequently not turn up without an explanation… Now, on with the list

1. For the virginal, God-fearing, pious girl from your church who does not smoke or drink whom your parents totally adore and pray to God every night that you’ll follow her exemplementary way of life: A t-shirt she can wear to Sunday School.



2. For the gushing new parents that keep going on and on and on about how wonderfully fulfilling it is to have a child, and can’t stop asking, when is your turn, it’s about time you aren’t getting any younger, completely ignoring the fact that you are neither married nor engaged: It’s a tie between non-washable, permanent crayon/markers (I’d pick this if the mum is a compulsive cleaner**evil grin) and the loudest most repetitive toy you can possibly find. Preferably a toy which makes a noise after the kid has stopped playing with it for a while, like a fire engine which rings it’s siren after one minute of non-activity to coax the kid to play with it more.



3. For the bitter, unmarried, accountant in her late forties who runs through every detail in your monthly claims and ask questions like, “Why is your mileage claim 5.87 bucks higher than the month before?” and insists on going through each and every minute detail on your itemized cellphone bill, and who’s sole purpose in life is to share her misery: A Magic Eight Ball: The Spinster’s Edition. Answers should include the standard: Outlook not so good, Don’t count on it, Better not tell you now, to the more anal, Maybe, if you weren’t so ugly, In your next lifetime and The ship has sailed.



4. For a relative or friend you dislike from overseas: A pair of free weights for them to carry back to their home country. P.S. The heavier the better! 
   

So tell me, what would you give to someone you hate?

Let me bond with the bed

Today was a productive day spent primarily bonding with a bed I’ve been neglecting. It could not have been done without the support of my red stable table, purchased from Ikea during working hours, after devouring a dozen Swedish meatballs which Jason firmly believes derives it’s primary ingredients from bull testicles, dipped in some red sauce which is definitely not cranberry sauce.  

So  I’ve decided to give my red stable table a name.  Seems fair to name the furniture which permits me to save unprecedented amount of calories, by allowing me to surf the Internet from the comforts of my bed while sipping chilled, sweeten, processed, preserved Yeo’s soya bean served by the boyfriend because the fridge was closer to him than it was to me.

“Baby, can I have a refill?”

I think I am rambling. Do you think I am rambling? It must be because my brain’s been infused with insanely super human amounts of alcohol and R&B in the past few days, coupled with a lack of sleep and too much carbohydrates consumed during supper at various locations across KL due to the midnight munchies brought on by consuming insanely super human amounts of alcohol and too much R&B.

I shall name my red stable table Siren.

The Similarities Between Binge Drinking And Regular Exercise

It’s Tuesday afternoon and I’m having lunch with a friend at Novotel KL. Three days earlier, in between the dying hours of Saturday and the wee hours of Sunday, both of us, plus another 4 friends polished off 3 FULL bottles of hard liquor.

“You look really tired,” my friend notes as I slowly chewed on my garden salad. “What were you up to last night?”

“Nothing”. I reply. “I came home at 8.00pm after work and slept till 8.00am this morning! I am still recovering from Saturday’s night out”.

I faintly recall crawling into bed at 5.30am after sending everyone home.

“Gosh, it’s been three days! What time did you wake up on Sunday?”, my friend enquires.

“At four in the evening. I only managed one meal on Sunday and some wine before fading into unconsciousness”.

My friend mockingly chuckles as he messily cracks open a crab’s claw.

“I woke up at 8.00am on Sunday,” he gloats.

“Wow, like how did you manage to wake up, after getting royally drunk, with only 4 hours of sleep?”

“Ahhhh, it is quite simple really,” my friend replies with sudden authority in his voice. “Imagine going to the gym after a long break and forcing yourself through a strenuous workout”.

“Uh-huh”.

“What would your body feel like the next day?”

“Bloody sore”. I reply, remembering days when I had to walk side ways like a blundering crab, down flights of steps after a session in a gym following a long break.

“Now imagine if you are a regular gym goer,” he continues. “Exercising becomes a lot earlier because your body is accustomed to it. The same applies for excessive-binge-drinking; the more often you do it, the better you get at it. Your body become accustomed to the alcohol overload”

I stare at my friend in awe. I have been enlighten! I’ll get a chance to test his theory tomorrow.

Tomorrow will be another marathon-ish night at The Loft @Heritage Row. Which means that I would have spent 3 of the last 5 nights getting high. The body should be conditioned by now, eh? But to be on the safe side, I’ve taken Thursday off.

Pak Lah in Berjaya Time Square

Yesterday, Jason, Steve and Halida decided to have lunch in Berjaya Time Square. As they were approaching the entrance they noticed a bevy of photographers trying to edge closer to the red carpet. They soon found out that Pak Lah was there to launch a batik event.

Steve managed to shake Pak Lah’s hand and spent the whole day gloating about it.

“I am not gonna wash my hand for days!” quipped my awe-struck colleague.

If Datuk Michelle Yeoh shares the same sentiments as Steve, she won’t be washing her shoulder any time soon too. 

What’s Worst Than Hanging Your Dirty Linen In Public?

Inspired by a flat dweller who got owned

The Christmas season is soon approaching,

Your valet’s limits it’s fast encroaching,

You try to be thrifty, cut spending by fifty,

In preparation for this loathsome day.

Start taking public transport you must,

Otherwise your presents wont be as robust,

You imagine the tremor of your wife’s displeasure,

And have Maggi -in-a-cup over lunch at a cafe.

You save by conserving water and electricity,

And terminate your postpaid line with Digi,

You stop drinking and smoking to boost your savings,

Colleagues and friends start calling you a weirdo.

Your savings soon touch the sky,

That Tiffany & Co diamond ring you can buy,

It all looks well, until your neighbor tells,

Of the recycled condoms air-drying from your window

Sorry, saya tak Rela (buka pintu).

When I was 17, my (then) boyfriend drove me to a quiet spot by the sea to talk under a bed of stars. The area was peaceful and secluded from the hustle and bustle of the city…no lights, no cars, no other moonlighting couples… We had the whole place to ourselves. We sat in his car listening to our favorite songs, starring out at the moon enjoying the moment.

Suddenly a ray of light pierced the darkness and a loud rapping on the door ruptured the calmness of the night. Three Malay men wearing yellow berets and uniforms crept up from behind the vehicle and were now shinning their torchlight at us, demanding we open the car door. We were in the middle of no where and I refused as we did not recognize their uniforms. When I asked for their ID, one of them pointed to his badge and shouted “Kamu tak kena Rela?!! Buka pintu sekarang!!!”

When I relented, they then aggressively demanded for our IC’s which we gave through a tiny slit in the window. A fourth guy without uniform soon joined the pack. This fourth guy told us that unless we opened the door, we were not going to get our IC back. At this point I became adamant on not giving in to these people. I told them to keep our IC’s and we could all drive to the closest police station. I made it clear that there was no way in hell we were getting out of the car in a dark secluded place. They eventually gave us back our IC and told us to be on our way.

If there’s one thing I learnt about living in Malaysia, it is never to trust a uniformed person. Especially if it’s harder to buy a pack of cigarettes then it is to buy a Rela uniform.

Crap….

Bright, red amber burns clear…
The gargling sound of water,
A wisp of smoke appears.

It enters your mouth,
Dances in you throat,
Swims through your lungs…

Fear, anger, depression, evaporates,
It’s magic has begun….

It’s lingering pepper smell,
Floats, casting a spell…
I climb up your mercury steps…the stairways to heaven….

A Career Which Started From Playing Games

I recently has the opportunity to meet Bill Roper at a Singapore game conference. Bill who is now the CEO and co-founder of Flagship Studios was hugely responsible for the award winning and best selling Diablo franchise during his time at Blizzard Entertainment.

Having played Diablo, Starcraft and Warcraft in college, I was obviously thrilled to meet him and couldn’t help myself from acting like a giggling fangirl.

“Hi Bill, could I have my picture taken with you? I am such a big fan of Diablo and played it throught my college years.”

Bill was happy to oblige and was kind enough to sign a HellGate T-shirt and poster for me. Yipeee!

As I was walking away after having our picture taken, I overheard Bill saying to some of his colleagues, “She used to play Diablo in college”.

“Did she finish college?” one of them asked.

“Yeah, she did”.

They looked at me nodding their approval.

Semi-Charmed Kind Of Life

When I was four, I searched vigilantly for my birth certificate hoping to find clues about my real parents. I believed I was adopted when my parents started to pay more attention to my newly born sister. No longer was I the only child, the center of the universe. She was their precioussss now… My childish insecurities whispered that surely they were not my real parents. They did not love me as much as they loved their new child. My heart believed there was a mummy and daddy out there searching for me. Wanting to shower me with the love and attention I was accustomed to, that I deserved. My birth certificate eventually told me there was no one out there and I was all alone.

My teenage years were rough. At a very young age I sought happiness and comfort from my friends. They were my family, they were my life and my life was good. But at 13 my family moved states and I was wrenched from my roots and throw into an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar faces. These faces didn’t like my face because I was eligible to enter the “A” class (for the brightest students) despite being the “new girl” at school. I tried so hard to fit in and cycled between different cliques in school. Eventually I became friends with girls from another class whom today are still my dearest of friends. Life got a little better. On the surface I was invincible, a known rebel hanging out with a really cool group. On the inside, I was hollow and echoed with insecurities.

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