The Death Of A Legend.

Who will be missed by the world.


It's a funny thing, this paradox called death. How it happens, why it happens, and who it happens to. Even I, as much as I pretend to explain things in this blog, only make everything seem a little simpler by untying some of the knots, and perhaps creating new ones, but never fully solving the puzzle. The only answers we may have are from those who are not allowed to tell us, the dead.


The world suddenly changes when someone dies. When anyone dies, really. But what makes each death slightly different is the number of people who care. And how they care.


An entertainer dies, and the world goes mad.


Michael Jackson is more than an entertainer. He's a shaper. He moved entire communities just by being Michael. His legacy shaped generations and defined decades of music for the entire world population.

The album Thriller still remains the most successful album in music history, complete with a string of hit singles. He sold out concerts around the globe, even in the most obscure places, and his fans were an understatement to the word 'die-hard'. People worshipped him, like a leader of society. A literal Pied Piper of our generation, the pipe being his celebrated dance skills and impeccable vocals.


Who can forget the 'moonwalk' and the body slant in 'Smooth Criminal' and his kicks and swings and the total synchronised control of his limbs? No one. He owned the 80s, his most famous decade and stole glam rock and showed the rest how it was done.


And yet behind this success artists of our time can only imagine, was an enigma. A conflict of personas and a myriad of characters. Who you saw him as, was not who he was. Some people referred to him as a child in a man's body, while others simply labelled him as a freak.

We're all freaks in our own right; each fetish and idiosyncrasy being more different and weirder than the next. But it was his intense fame that made his behaviour seem so unheard of. It's just human nature, we have an issue with people being better than ourselves. So we beat them down and break them up mentally so they need every ounce of will left in them to put themselves back together.

Or they could just do drugs. Booze. Sex of any kind.

And this is how we create a legend. We blow their fame to such an incredible size, and then burst that bubble, leaving them to find parts of themselves so they can get back on their feet again.

And we laugh and sneer and call them names and conveniently ignore any valid explanations and create a following of hate.

So here it is then. Michael Jackson, from a child to man physically, had always been famous. And with an eternal inner child, he was even more so. He didn't need to die. We don't need to mourn. We didn't need to destroy his image in the public eye as we did. We didn't need to find anything wrong with him.

But as much as I'd like to debate this, he's dead. It's hard for me to say, because the most memorable videos of my early childhood were his. And we used to dance to his songs. And sing along. And for that reason alone, he shall be remembered as long as music is alive.

Rest in peace.

Cheers.

4 More Things.

Well, not really.

But let's continue.

Prom had ended a half hour before midnight, leaving me feeling ... well, no different. Just a little bit hungrier and a bit more bored. But it also came down to the moment of truth. The moment I had been waiting for since I had even realised I was going for this blah event. The moment that would determine how awesome this night would be for me.

So I danced away my worries for a little while to some random ethnic beats until the moment arrived.

To reveal my deepest darkest secret and stay in line with the law, or to keep it locked in and risk an embarassing conflict?

Hmm. A dilemma indeed.

It turned out you don't need ID to get the free pass, and I dutifully exchanged mine for the chance of a lifetime. Ooh, this was so exciting! I was holding a free illegal pass to one of the hottest nightclubs in town. Literally, this is the KING of fake IDs.

But WAIT. Another dilemma arose at this point. Might they need my real age at the entrance? Fuck. I might never be able to fulfill this. And I gazed at my free pass with the biggest puppy eyes.

So I manipulated this situation - I used a TEST subject. Namely a friend of mine old enough to enter the club. And she passed without them asking for any form of identity proof. Suddenly a little beam of hope surged through me.

You can do this, babe.

And I walked in ala Lady Gaga, unfazed by the imaginary camera flash. And I handed my free pass to the bouncer.

-Cue weird heartbeat sound-

He took it and looked away. Far away. And I walked through, got a free drink pass, a stamp on my wrist and a dream come true.

And from this point on I was drowning in ecstasy.

I walked up those wooden steps, and as I got to the top I could hear it. Louder and louder. Closer and closer. I couldn't see it, but I could feel it. I was near.

And once the bouncer let me through, I wanted to cry. I literally wanted to break down in the sea of people and bawl my eyes out.

Why? Because mama, I was home.

I had never felt so complete in my life. It was as if I had found a piece of myself I had left behind in the afterlife, or that had been taken away from me in my past life. It was as if I had found that little jigsaw piece that I needed so badly to complete my puzzle to happiness.

And I found it.

The leader of the crowd, aka resident DJ, was in this large black box spinning non-stop, and there was a literal sea of people in the pit jumping to the music. Sluts were gyrating against each other on platforms within the pit, and there was confetti and smoke and love in the air. And there were people (hot hot people) hanging off the balconies, and bouncing so hard to the beats. And the music, oh the music was so loud I could feel it in my heart. My heart was beating to the music. And there were flashing lights, green blue red purple white, all synchronised with the music. And people were making out and touching and dry humping and making love to the music and ...

I was so happy.

Just imagine that you just find out you're adopted and you have one night, just one night to meet your biological parents. Same thing. I should seriously live in a club. I could not stop dancing and waving my arms and sliding up and down walls. I was just so happy to be home.

Meanwhile I have found my future clubbing partner. Holla to you Brian. Same time next year, we're going back home, baby.

Anyway, the night had to end. My back and neck were screaming out, and I had already said goodnight to my feet a long time ago. I also had a very late (yet terribly early) curfew to make. I waltzed back into my house, physically drained and mentally pumped. With a memory for a lifetime.

One more year, baby.

Till I'm back home.

Cheers.

4 Things.

To never tell my children.

So you know those things your parents did way back when they were your age, when they were naive and horny? The things they did when everybody was a Happy People? The ones you're not supposed to know about for fear of it being used as an excuse for you to do the same?

Yea, those things.

I now have the terribly heavy burden of keeping my mouth shut (yes, that's extremely heavy) about these little things that I've done so far. Things I am pretty proud of, but don't want any fruits of my loins trying out when they are my age.

Such as?

Things I've done before I'm 18. Illegally.

Driven a car.

Boozed my face off.

Entered a sex store, and spoke to the salesperson about the various methods of achieving sexual pleasure on sale in the store.

Entered a club and danced my ass off.

Let my story begin.

Prom - a social event for teenagers who have nothing better to do on a Thursday night but dress up in costumes all from the same store, curl their hair with the same curling iron, and prance around like they're getting married. Also known as Attack Of The Clones.

This is not a joke. There were over three hundred students gathered outside the hall and I saw the same person three hundred times. I may have seemed slightly underdressed, but at least I wasn't prepared for a Star Wars convention.

And the number of false eyelashes I saw that night was uncountable. It nearly makes me want to open a False Eyelashes shop somewhere near the area. Talk about foundation, too. There was literal cake on everyone's face. I mean - sure it's nice to have a clear complexion for a big night, but :

1. You're not getting married.

2. DID YOU FALL INTO WEDDING CAKE WOMAN?

And honestly, I must have misunderstood the dress code last night.

Ladies : If you are unable to purchase your dress from the I-Think-I'm-Getting-Married shop, the dress should have a tail for everyone (including yourself) to step on, and look like a box of glitter threw up on you.

I read : Shortest dress you can find. The rockstar look is always in.

Sorry.

Anyway, the prom was pretty boring. The acts were pretty mediocre : a fairly good dance crew (not entirely synchronised, but okay); a comedy act with a terribly real Indian accent. The band and the percussion group were quite good. Props to them.

The contest results were rigged, and our votes weren't even counted. Surprise, surprise. Dinner, however was two hours late. I need to holla to my digestive system for not killing me with hunger pangs, and I now admire the fact that I can go to bed without food.

And turns out, shy boys aren't really shy. They just don't want to talk to you. Because I don't think you're that shy if you can model your ass off in front of three hundred students, slow dance in front of the whole hall, and get a free lap dance from a girl in a short dress.

Yea. A definite fuckjob.

Half an hour before midnight, while everybody rushed out to camwhore (take pictures of themselves three hundred times so they don't miss anyone) I stayed on the dancefloor. Surprise again.

And because this post is as long as can be, I need to stop here and contain my excitement for a little bit longer.

Because I will explode for the next one.

Cheers.

A Very Jewish Dream.

Schlepps, shmucks and chachkas. Mazel tov!

I really need to learn Jewish.

So this might be a bit of a surprise to you, but I have never ever dreamt of Gabe Saporta. Yes, it's absolutely true (bitches honour) and I still have no idea why it took this long for my husband to visit me in my dreams.

But boy was I glad to see him.

This is my awesomely fantastic you-would-not-believe-how-horny-I-was dream.

I am in an elevator with Gabe Saporta. And this elevator is going up and down as fast as it can because Gabe Saporta is pressing the keys, and laughing like a damn fool.

Now, in any other situation, I would have choked the person doing it. But as this a complete figment of my imagination, I was also laughing like a damn fool.

Travis McCoy was also in the lift.

Now here's the awesome bit. Eventhough this dream has something to do with the electricity in my brain jumping from point to point while I sleep, Gabe Saporta had never looked so real. I could touch him. SMELL him. And oh baby, he smelt so fucking good.

Literally. So fucking good.

He was so tall, so lean. His hair was dark and soft and pillowy. And he was grinning at me from ear to ear. All I could think of was making out with him. I just wanted to push Travis out of the lift so I could have Gabe all to myself while I plummet to the ground in this abyss of ecstasy.

But no. Gabe is still laughing like a damn fool. Travis is still there. And I'm trying not to scream my ass off.

So finally, someone decides to save us. Well, no actually. The elevator shaft falls out of the passage and rolls into a car park. Great thinking Gabe, now we're all dead.

Anyway, as we pull ourselves out of that right mess (Gabe still laughing) I see this really horrible looking silver sedan parked in front of us. And Andy Samberg is standing right next to it. Laughing.

So Gabe and Andy are laughing at each other. Travis is still stuck in the lift (sorry Katy Perry) and I am wondering what on earth I have gotten into.

Andy is wearing full protective body gear, like as if he is going to jump off the building. And yes, Andy does prepare to jump off the building. So as he starts running from the sedan, he slips on this puddle of water and falls on his ass. And he hits the ground, his face and legs grow fatter and he lays there laughing at himself.

And Gabe is still laughing.

And that's as much as I can remember from my completely retarded dream.

But he was so goddamn sexy. Even his laughing was sexy! (Until we fell out of the elevator.) I know it, somehow somewhere, he wants me so bad. He's calling out to me in a dream, because his stupid girlfriend doesn't know who he's thinking about when he sleeps.

That's right bitch. He's dream-cheating you. HAH.

Hollaback sistah.

Cheers.

Best Birthday Yet.

And I can't wait to tell you about it.

So I guess this time around I had one of the best birthdays ever, even better than my crummy last-year's which was right smack in the middle of the whole 'situation' and I had to remind people about it. Also the tension at home base on that particular day was a little frightening, and I didn't get to enjoy the presents the way I wanted to.

But this time around, alot of people remembered! (Facebook is awesome.) I am so thankful for all the birthday wishes and ohmygoodness, the presents were so fantastic.

Basically, the only birthday that could top this would be my 2nd birthday - a big party and an ice cream cake.

And I was Queen.

Well, still am.

So this year's presents.

1. Black faux crocodile skin clutch

Yez, it look like zat. I gushed about this in my last post, so this should suffice.

2. Viva La Cobra

I didn't think I was going to get anything Gabe Saporta. But I found it, in a little black cardboard box with purple stars all over it. And on the inside : pictures of us from a long time back. Times which still make me smile and sometimes I dream of going back to. The simplicity, the innocence.


And then, Gabe Saporta. Thanks LXJ.

3. A new clickyclicky.

The Sony Cybershot DSC W-120. Do you know how fucking long I have waited for a camera that I can fit into my bag? A camera with ... a shutter speed. A camera with a big enough screen. And a camera I can clickyclicky with.

So. It's black. It's skinny. And it makes noises when you touch it. Awesome. Holla to my granddad.

It was a great birthday. All birthday messages are much appreciated, and even more so for the birthday gifts. So thankyouthankyouthankyou.

And I only date boys with tattoos.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NkFW2ZJoIx4

Cheers.

Godsent.

It's not everyday something pretty falls from the sky.

Here's what I posted sometime ago.

Yes. It's the oversized clutch purse. For those of you unable to afford the Chanel purse (how could you?) you may get the much cheaper and just as lovely one at Vincci. Now people, the colours in question here are black and gold. In the picture directly above, Hilary Duff and Mary-Kate have the perfect-sized clutch. Just so you guys don't buy me luggage. You're welcome.

And this was part of my birthday registry, which I made up because it was funny (most importantly) and because I was making a checklist for myself as a back up for my ever failing memory.

But someone took it seriously. Very seriously. So seriously that she didn't even tell me till the very end; even egging me on to get it myself.

And she had it in her hands all the while.


First of all, I would like to express my intense hate for Photobucket because it does not allow me to upload pictures from my lovely camera, forcing me to look for a picture that only comes very close to the real thing.

I assure you, the real clutch IS AN ORGASM.

Soft. Glossy. Leather. Black. (It's an orgasm because yes, it sounds like bondage.)

And that's just half the gift.

Now, this time I really want to express my anger towards DARNED PHOTOBUCKET because I am not able to show the world the wonder that is Winterheart. Why is she the wonder? Because she moved me to tears with this amazing creation of hers. I swear - I could even sell it at Sotheby's for the price of Madonna's ass.

It's THAT beautiful.

I will do my best to describe it - although no words could do it justice, much less any picture off Google.

It's this giant white card (GIANT) that opens in the middle, and on top of the opening, like a lock, sits this amazing folded heart with paper butterflies all over it. Along the opening you have these beautiful white paper ribbons curled along the edge. And as I open it, there is this long letter about ... stuff ... and all along the sides, you've got these fantastic butterflies made from assorted wrapping paper.

My favourite part? The huge purple four-leaf clover sitting in a handmade pocket adorned with purple and black butterflies.

I now know that Winterheart is familiar with the art of magic. Because no human could create something like that in a span of 24 hours.

I have a little something to say. To all those who don't know her as well as I do, and aren't able to spend time with her 24/5 (she's not allowed out on weekends) - I am grossly sorry for you. I shower you with so much pity, that even pity itself pities you.

Because I really have never met anyone like her. Selfless. Loyal. The most beautiful heart ever. Amazingly supportive. A true person. I must say that I was never always the greatest friend, and I sure made alot of mistakes - even with her. But I say with the deepest regret that I wish I could make up for all those horrible decisions, and for the lost time.

I wish I could take back all the things I may have said that was wrong. I wish I could go back to those times when I had to decide between spending time with you and ruining my life. I wish I could make it all up to you.

But I can't move back, and you know that too. So all I have is tomorrows. Many tomorrows to tell you how much I admire you for who you are, and how you just selflessly keep giving.

I'm sorry I can't say this to your face, because I know I'll probably come up with some nervous joke and ruin it. Or laugh my ass off because of how corny this sounds.

Remember : Don't ever let anyone tell you you're not worth their time.

Because I believe you're worth lifetimes.

Cheers.

Timelines.

Mean nothing in my head.

As I am typing this, I have 10 hours until my number changes. 10 hours until I go through the typical proceedings of a celebration still alien to me, despite so many years of practice. And 10 hours to finish what I had started exactly one year ago.

Seems like just about enough time to reflect on what actually happened the same time last year.

I know I keep coming back to this, but so far it's been one of the most life-changing experiences I ever been through, and it's only fair that I should relate every event to it. Why I behave the way I do. Why you behave the way you do. Why you behave because of how I behave.

Same time this year, I had one word. Chaos.

From lapsing between a dream and reality, to finally realising it's a nightmare and not being able to release myself from it. From thinking that everything you did was right, to knowing that everything you did was wrong. From dreaming of a beautiful story happily ever after, to living out a disaster.

Transitions, transitions.

But I know I did one thing right. I escaped just before that fatal blow struck me. And because life does not get any simpler, I have not forgotten one moment of my past. As I type this, everything plays out like a low-budget film in front of me, with real actors and real situations. Or perhaps I'm the only real actor with the real situation; everything else are props I could have chosen to live without.

But I didn't. I made a mistake. I made mistakes. Over and over again. Until my chances completely ran out, and the Fates were looking down upon me in pity. Pity for the fool who used up all her chances.

I could have died in there, mentally.

XXXX

So what's left of me? A new skeleton. A new skin. A new face.

A new person.

I have changed, I'm convinced. I remember having a fiery, fool-hardy passion. A go-getter attitude. A constant nothing-can-bring-me-down feeling. And it all died right in that mess. What brought me down eventually? The one thing I didn't think could.

Myself.

I brought myself down. Down to a level where I could control my own heart again. Where I could realise that the best things in life are right where I left them. Where I could see how I had hurt the people I love, and let those who see me with hate - rule me. Where I could regret the folly of my ways.

This is me now. Calmer. Wiser. Grateful. And with the permanent assumption that the worst will always happen before the best of things.

So maybe that whole shit was needed. I needed to experience one of the most emotional wars ever so I could shed my naivete. I needed to be confused and tossed around like salad leaves so I could realise that there is something better than what I had chosen.

And when I did that, things started improving. Friendships, family, and life. I could smile. I could behave exactly the way I wanted to. I could just not think.

And here I write this, with 9 hours and 30 minutes left, that I am glad to have changed. I am more proud of myself (just a little), and I understand what it means to be in a bad situation unarmed.

A year on, a year older. I'm still growing, still evolving.

Waiting for my next lesson to hit me right in the face.

Cheers.

Because I Am Going To Forget.

Quick updates.

For Baybeats Singapore in August, Anberlin is performing. And it's free.

Paramore's third album drops September 9th. It's the same producer as My Chemical Romance and Green Day, but hey it's better than KEVIN RUDOLPH AND KARA DIOGUARDI.

Yeah, Paramore fucks you off, Cobra Starship.

Placebo may be coming here in August. Fingers crossed, eh?

Cheers.

Crying.

Over me.

There's something to be said about things that make people cry. It could be that last boy who spun you off your feet and then dropped you on your head when you weren't looking. Or that letter you receive from the afterlife. Or when you realise that all you have believed in has just shattered your trust with one quick swipe.

Or it could even be that occasional tear to make sure you're still breathing.

But there is more to be said about what makes me cry.

I sometimes go by the name Teflon Queen. To those who have never held a frying pan in your life, I am that smooth layer that lets anything, however greasy, slide off it. It's what I always say to people who have monstrous issues on their minds.

Let it slide. Because nothing is too sticky to destroy you.

And I try to practise what I preach. However challenging. So much so it's become a defence mechanism. When threatened, I put on a brave face and even smile about it. Which sometimes pisses people off because of how sardonic I'm acting, and other times they are just incredibly baffled. I guess ... if you believe you are strong, then mind over matter, right?

Not really. People don't know how hard I cry afterwards when they've all left.

She is hardly a role model, but I do see alot of me in Khloe. (Kardashian, that is - because I just watch too much drama. Anyway.) She's the third sister, but she is the strongest one. Yeah, she's got a terribly foul mouth but who doesn't?

The thing about her is the fact that she doesn't break down when she is challenged. She will take you out and make sure you understand her when she means it.

But no one knows that she is hurting so much inside. When her back is against the wall, she will fight back as strong as she can, but inside she just wants everything to stop. She doesn't want to fight. You could even say she is insecure. Even more insecure internally than any of her less 'powerful' sisters. And another thing - she absorbs bad situations. Every little thing people do or say about her enters her mind as guilt, and she brings it upon herself.

Reminds you of someone?

People think I mean it when when I say 'Bring It On' :

I mean I'm sorry and I don't want to fight, and please stop - because it hurts.

When I am told off or threatened, I put on a stony face and perhaps laugh or smile, but I actually mean :

I don't want to admit it to your face, but I love you and everything that is wrong here is my fault and please stop - because it hurts.

And when they call me the Teflon Queen, it's not exactly true. People assume that when something disappears of me, it must have slid off. Only few realise that I absorbed it so quickly that it would lead you to assume it had slid off.

It's the biggest mistake people make. That I am brave and strong because I dare people to fight, and to challenge those who do wrong to them, and yet I could never do so deep down. It's a huge steel wall that protects that soft fragile mass inside. It's all an act.

So what does make me cry? Everything.

But what makes me cry in front of you? Absolutely nothing.

And you blog, are the only one who knows what my tears feel like.

Cheers.

It's Back.

With a blast.

I love my life. Seriously. Which part of it? Everything. Every single thing about it. Well, just one detail actually.

One fucking detail.

I plan and I plan and I plan. And I fuck up and I fuck up and I fuck up. It's almost predictable, really. It's predictable that it's unpredictable. Where it will unpredictably come back to me with every bit of terrible karma I have ever felt or acted and bring me down.

Shatter me. Shred through my flesh until it reaches my core, destroying it. And then retract itself, laughing cynically at what it has done to me. Watching the remnants of my mental death ooze out as toxic liquid. And after it has moved along, I would watch my soul pull itself out of me, as if it was ashamed it ever belonged to me, and let it float away as my body goes completely limp from exhaustion and failure.

Like it raped me.

So who is this virtual rapist lurking behind me? Why it's me, of course.

I punish myself. Day after day. Dangling the fruit of my labour like the carrot on a stick right in front of my eyes. But everytime I move a little closer to it, a sharp rock slams into me between the eyes, making sure I remember what pain feels like.

But I don't need that. I always know what pain feels like. It's there; every single second that smile is on my face - I feel it the hardest. This pain I can never seem to rid myself of.

The pain of failure.

Yes. Failure. Half of this blog is about failure, isn't it? If you searched that word on this blog, it would give you the whole thing highlighted in bright red.

You should know it by now, that the second biggest fear of mine after the fear of being alone, is the fear of failure. But I can't understand it. If I fear failure so much, why do I persist in forcing myself to achieve things that will take my entire being to accomplish? Why do I set my target at the highest point possible?

Why do I punish myself?

Perhaps it's because I don't want my efforts to be in vain. All that planning shouldn't go to waste.
Perhaps it's because I want to plan my efforts ahead of time. And not be blindsided should anything new come my way.
Perhaps it's this intense need to prove to myself that I don't suck.
Perhaps I just need to be better than me.

Perhaps I just need to be better than everybody.

Because everybody fails.

In a sick masochistic twist of fate, I have realised I will never find the answer, despite narrowing the answers down to the above. And hence, I will probably never ever stop punishing myself.

With my only chance to soothe the pain being this blog.

Don't die on me.

You're the only thing I'll ever need.

Cheers.

Ghetto Like Yo Mamma.

Because I feel like it today.

It's been a while since I've posted anything of sense (and trust me I'm not starting today) so I'm just going to put down a few thoughts I've had in my head for the past week and hopefully into a very short post.

First things first.

Yo sista from da hood yo think you can get any beddah than me? Oh babey you beddah bring git okay? To'd you once don' make me do it again. I got a few things to say to you nasty trashy hoes ... yea baby Cobra Starship is where it's at, and Damn You Look And I'm Drunk ... yea but you as hoochie as they get babe. I ain't never seen anything hoochier than you. So back to the hood beytch - you got no'ing on me and you ain't nevah ge'in anythin ya hear? Now go make babies n put 'em in Africa so Madonna can play for 'em at poker, aite?

Mental ghetto energy - out.

Moving on to seriously more important things.

THEY have blown me away. And honestly, I'm not a fan of talent shows because they are either too lame or just a pathetic shot at alot of money. But these guys stunned me. I was cheering them on in my seat. Heck, I was trying out their moves in my seat.

Who?

DIVERSITY.

Absolutely fantabulously awesomely diversely amazing.

Slick moves. Creative beats. Impeccable choreography that I can only imagine creating. Enough said.

And the best part? The part that makes me click 'replay' everytime the video is over? The part that makes me pause the show over and over again? The part that makes me screw up my face and hug the computer screen?

The kid with the fro.

That's the crew. Me thinks some of them are cute but I shall not disclose which ones.

Oh gosh, that kid is so infectiously cute!

I think it's time to writhe around my bedroom floor in an epic attempt (and epic phail) at a head spin.

Cheers.