Archive for August 2010
I see you’ve set aside this hectic time to lose your priority and further impaired you with multiple tasks that shall rendered you with the tragic Sisyphean merry-go-round – like an amusement. Maybe you like to amuse yourself with inconsistency so much you marvel with the notes upon notes and devoted precious time to simple shot of dopamine after-hour then suffers with hangover of procrastination.
Since when you treated an iMac as MacBook Pro? You don’t packed it around town and got back home to unpack it later for a “quick gig” of narcissism. I’ve already make a scheduled for moving out your stuffs and you rather play snooker until wee hours? Keep up with this attitude in UK — though I’m not sure what kind of sleazy pub will opened at this ungodly hour at Aberdeen.
The preacher of the altar is running out of time and never bothers to inquire further with that holier-than-thou robe of his. I’m still without clean slate but I wish him to leave with clean sheet on the bed. I don’t expect myself to clean up on someone else’s mess for the last time. Practice what you preach!
This is one confusing convert. Cleanliness is not one aspect that reside deeps in his faith, that’s for sure. Moldy bathroom, broken toilet, unmaintained washing machine and kitchen after usage, spoiled food in fridge and totally absorbed in his utopian idea that the routine maintenance of his rented house seems foreign. I felt like I’m a janitor in this house.
I changed the bulbs at the living room because no one seems to care with the flickering madness.
I fixed the choke and the starter of the light in Sisyphus’s room, because it’s too much a complex system for an architect.
I changed the broken flexible hose of the toilet because the Prophet’s stinking feces permeating the air (obviously he can’t flush and too “pure” to clean up his own shit) as I step out of my master bedroom (with my own toilet and now I have to take care of theirs too).
I fixed both the outside toilet and Sisyphus’s room door knobs because the Prophet and the Sisyphus doesn’t mind at all about their privacy — much less broken amenities.
Spoiled foods and dairy products are their own little science experiment (perhaps I can tell the same about their floating feces in the toilet bowl).
When I got back from offshore for 3 or 6 months. I can expect a brick layer of lint inside the washing machine’s filter — which none bother to clean up, at least once a week! Last week, I found a handful of coins inside the outlet tube from the washing machine!
The drying rack is broken but no one seems to bother to change the grip mechanism, it took me 5 minutes of twisting and spare foam to replace it.
I make up a list of to-do items last time but the Prophet took it as a blasphemy — like a totem of passive-aggressive notes and a tablet of heresy for championing personal hygiene. So I got a little scribble to fuck myself in his most prophetic manner.
It took Sisyphus quite sometimes to understand my effort for paper and plastic recycling, although he can’t really understand the system behind proper recycling management. If you want to send the refuse to the recycling centre, make sure it’s well tied and properly selected, not with those half-hearted attitude. Good luck with the Green Building Index (GBI) revolution. If you can’t even manage simple recycling, I’m not sure about those green-movement preaching of yours behind those sustainable architecture design.
The Prophet totally lost it to the recycling idea. He took all the stacks of bottle to be recycled to the garbage chute. All of it, that’s awaiting to be flattened!
Maybe I’m a bit anal about hygiene and OCD in the way to implement cleanliness but their ignorance and selfishness are all the reasons I needed to reinforce my Gestapo attitudes.
And dude, both of you lost the humour of my little post-it notes.
What with confused Muslim (and hypocrites) that can’t get witty sarcasm and respect to environment?
I’m getting a Malaysian-Chinese girl (not to be confused with the one from China) room mate next September.
3 more days before you two move out for good.
Let’s see how she — the food scientist — fare.
Wait, now I got a real “science experiment” in my fridge!
I’m sorry I can’t help being sentimental — even with sufficient compartmentalizing in this faculty — her memories still tampers with facility of felicity.
The drips of her optimism.
Those veiled salacious intent and dry tears of forgotten misery.
5 years is not something that’s easy to bury. Unearthing it is not an option too. Yet as I pass by the memorial site in my own memory. The wretchedness and those smile comes flooding to me uninvited.
The momentarily stop at Paris Métro is unexpected to both of us. And the first kiss at the station of Sèvres – Lecourbe is unexpected for me.
I’m the luckiest man in the metro station.
Then life interjected with career.
I wait and wait for time to pass by as I try to get home back to her.
Your goodbye silence is as unexpected as those first kiss — five years later.
I felt like I’m the loneliest man in the busiest metro station.
I almost hate Paris.
I’m glad with her reply.
Even after 9 months later — calling me by full name stated much how her felt — tacitly.
That’s how she spell disagreement — as if I’m infantile.
Yet she purred and mew — as if she’s my favourite feline.
It’s not bitterness neither acquiescence.
She accepted it as it is.
I didn’t reply.
It won’t matter.
She finally replied.
And that’s cathartic.
When missing someone, the most logical and likely-to-be-successful avenue by which to appease that feeling is to get in contact with said person. When this communication would doubtless be damaging to one’s emotional health (but staying out of touch is also very unpleasant), which solution is really considered “coping”?
I might have severe attachment issues. Coping mechanism simply do not operate on an adult level of refine maturity, it is as though in my own mind, I can’t get past age sixteen.
I trudge along the route of melancholy and dare myself to get in contact with her again.
Of course it didn’t work.
All I got is silence, since 11 months ago.
I knew it from someone else that her dad was treated for cancer and she start to visit the specialist for her spinal therapy again — a recurring sickness, that almost never exist when I’m still with her.
In the distant, I’m worried of her.
Those short electronic message of wishes is cathartic — at least to me.
I wish her and her family the best of health.
Alles Gute zum Geburtstag, Sue.
Neither would be a “coping” solution. Yet every avenues make us human. The zeitgeist might not be the best of je ne sais quoi but it’s better than being blasé.
I realized I never did delete a reminder of your birthday. I wish you’re not bitter at me anymore. Be strong and hope you’re already doing your master degree now. Hope your family is ok. Sorry for the wee hour txt. It’s been 9 month since we parted. Hope all is well. Regards, Fez.
I didn’t dare to add, I miss you.
It’s a cruel realization of her memories as I picked Kahlil Gibran book at the book store and the iPod hit Climie Fisher – Love Changes (Everything). Later the text came: Sue’s Birthday, 5th August 1983.
Her favourite book, which she later bought me a hard cover while she’s visiting her grandma at Singapore.
Her favourite song, which became my ringtone whenever she called me when I’m outsation and offshore (when the phone line feels like reaching the fringe of the oil field).
Then the text. The reminder.
It’s just too much.
It’s time to move on but like I said to @Voltairess:
YES! But first, I’ve to rant (write). Not to relive, more to revel. OR suffocate this sudden sobs in the pillow & wait for dawn.
And what do you know.
My last entry in my moleskine is on 27th December 2009 in which I quote her entry on her blog on 16th November 2009:
This is the date which mark something new.
Now I can’t sleep.
And I can’t write (yet).
Despite of all thing — I miss her — my petite literature chic.