My friend introduced to me this blog today, Stickgal.
Well, I really have to say I admire how she did her blog. All pictures. Little comics to depict her life (as much as she claims that the pictures don’t really represent her current situation, I think she’s really bullshitting). But I applaud her for being able to find such humour in the saddest time of her life.
And I have my stories. Sick, lengthy stories which no one wants to read. LOL.
Anyway, here’s the link to her.
Btw, the drawing I did on the night I had my thoughts is up. But be warned, it’s funny yet dark 
I knew it was sure trouble meeting my friend today for lunch. I still did it anyway. It’s not that I don’t appreciate my friend for coming all the way down. In fact I thought it was rather sweet of my friend to do so. But I simply knew what we were going to talk about. My colleague can vouch for that because I had initially extended the invitation to join me, then on second thought, I told him not to come instead, since, the conversation would be rather awkward.
And so expectedly the topic was raised and my lament took a toll on my heart. For much of the day, I was thrown back into the abyss of dismay. It was another struggling day for me again, but I knew I had to fight, and I fought. But it’s simply tiring. My friend surely must know how awful I must have felt, despite the stoic front I kept on me. On the train home, a momentary thought flushed me hot and my face burned, and I took a deep breath and looked far in the distance, and calmed myself down. Why do I still do things knowing the consequences? It’s just my way of accepting things. That thick book of my life drawings and writings lie in my bag, I had opened it once, and I still open it over and over, each time still feeling the hurt wash over me, and I let it bathe over as if I was in ecstasy.
Have I any other choice than to carry on down this path? I am much too sentimental a person, and this is my weakness. For every beautiful pebble on this road I go, I pick it up and stow it in my bag. For the years on this road I travelled, my bag has become full and heavy, and now I must ford this rapid river. Friends cheer me on from the other bank, but I fear I’ll get washed away.
I have stepped in and I have slipped many a time, but yet I have caught perhaps a rock to pull myself back. I’ve slipped again today and I’ve caught myself, trying to pull back, slowly but surely. But I’m getting tired, yet the pebbles are still so pretty…
Need I say more? Check out more at their site
“Shit hits the fan and everybody gets some.”
from a friend
Ironical note to self: If no one encourages her, then she will be left by herself. Funny how back then, no one did, and funny how I am still.
Life’s little mysteries keep tickling my toes lol.
Last night, I did something I never did before. My friend suggested, and I just said ok. It was simple, laid back, yet so much fun. Me and my friend, a huge bottle of water, a bottle of vodka mix and smoke. And we went prawn fishing.
It was awesome. We never caught a single one; we were really noobs. At least I was, but I couldn’t believe how it actually took my mind of so many things. And I felt so light after that.
Then we had supper with another friend after that and we had a talk about issues. Hope he’s ok.
But in all, it was an awesome night. Wonderful. I’m so going to prawn fish again.
He was a troubled boy. Man, actually, he’s really quite the adult now. But he was troubled by issues that had plagued him as a child while growing up. So being unable to really shake off the stigma clinging onto his back, he was really still quite the boy inside.
The dark corners around the house always seem to replay scenes of a little boy being beaten badly by chairs, canes, walking sticks, bamboo poles among many other things, while the boy could only crouch and hide as far into the corner as possible, trying to protect whatever he could of his innocent face and sanity.
The broken glass of the antique cupboard by the dining room wall brought flash backs of how a little boy got shoved so violently into it, the back of his head smashed through the brittle panel, the glass fragments and jagged edges slicing and cutting his head and hair; the impact leaving him senseless and disorientated.
Disorientated till even now.
Years ago, as a young and naive boy, as a carefee and innocent little child, a stranger had come to the door. It was a charming man, but the boy was too young to estimate an age. He was clean shaven, dressed in the finest shirt and pants, clean and pressed, and even had a slight sheen to it. Nicely combed and gelled back hair, bright wide eyes with a pair of rimless round spectacles. Carrying a nice briefcase, which was rather big, he had carried with him an aura of respect and to the little boy, awe and amazement.
He had rung the doorbell and the boy was home alone. He had said something about an inspection, that the house had to be checked, for what, the boy could not remember. All he could remember was probably the idea of a monster in the house, perhaps that was what the man wanted to check. And with a simple lollipop candy, the boy forgot about taking precautions against strangers, and unlocked the door.
The events that succeeded that moment was beyond imagination. Beyond the most barbaric imagination. Shutting the door behind him, the man dropped his suitcase and delivered a jaw jarring punch right across the boy’s face. At that time, the fist was about the size of his face; it connected and literally sent the boy flying. Just that one blow, the boy had lost his senses. He sat back up dazed and confused, and the next thing he new, darkness enclosed him in the form of a giant hand grabbing him up by the face. He felt limp, and it never occurred to him to struggle the least. In any case, everything flew by so fast that he probably didn’t have time to react in anyway. The next thing he knew, he was being forced back so hard and his head crashed through the cupboard’s glass panel. Conciousness was smashed out of him and he slumped down against the cupboard, blood flowing crimson rivers down his face and neck, soaking his tiny white shirt into a colorful red.
That was years back. How many? 9 years? 10? He couldn’t remember. He didn’t have much of a memory, not anymore anyway. The days that followed the atrocity had been filled much whiteness, white rooms, white dresses and robes, white lights and white beds. That period flew past him, and if there was any remnants of memories serving him, it sure felt like he had been dead and frolicking around in Heaven and all it’s whiteness. Unfortunately it was not to be, Death had not showered his loving embrace on him.
The boy wished he did.
The vague and sporadic images of his life after “Heaven” was called “Hell”. It sounded apt to him to give it a name like that. After the charming gentlemen had delivered near fatality to him, he had cleared the house out, which unfortunately wasn’t insured. If there was anything valuable left after the deed was done, was a smashed up antique cupboard. The boy’s parents never got over it. They could not believe that a young boy could be so stupid, and if he was so stupid, what was the point in being nice? Stupid people after all shouldn’t be able to differentiate between nasty and nice. Nastiness seemed like an easier gift to deliver to little young boys.
The father turned alcoholic from being unable to cope with the lost of wealth. The mother turned miserable from the father being alcoholic and that led to her being temperamental, emotional and the fact that seeking the easy way out from gambling isn’t working, basically made her a rather violent person. The little boy looked at his scars and scabs, and he couldn’t really remember where or when he got them. But the conditioning he received taught him to remember, by heart, how a cane bruise would look like, and that was usually from dear mother. The bruises and scabs from anything else was easily recognised as well, and that was the loving gift of father who would bring more variety in dishing out his nastiness.
He sat on the floor in the living room, going through his presents, how painfully good bruises felt, how the bright red blood quenched his thirst sometimes, how scabs are fun things to pluck at, how all these markings are like beautiful tattoos, how he felt like there no worries in the world at all other than that accepting his parents lovely gifts was so touching, too touching sometimes.
“Hey mister?”
He looked up and saw a man standing at the door. He was smartly dressed with a neat tie. The shirt had nice cufflinks with what seems like diamonds inset in them, and his shoes were polished shiny. He had stunningly handsome features and an aura of charm radiating from him.
“Hi, I’m really from social services, could you let me in?”
He stood up and opened the door, forgetting everything about taking precautions against strangers.
