kingofblur's Xanga

News.

Fri, 16 May 2008 05:04:16 GMT

[Seriously, what happened to the original Harry Potter book covers?]

10/5/2008

Tonight was the night. Everyone was clogging the website. Everyone was trying to get through and get their news first. I was only told about it not too long ago, via text message, by a friend who I didn't expect to text me.

Throwing small talks and updates around via MSN messenger was all everyone could do.

'Omg, this is so nerve-wrecking!'

'I know. But just relax.'

'I'm told we can only check starting at midnight.'

'Really? Oh that soothed me a lot...'

With that piece of update, everyone tried to push their anxiety aside and keep their heart in place in their ribcage, and forced themselves to do something else on the net. And I took my time to write this post.*

Midnight approached. Everyone was trying their best to click the refresh button, but all they got was 'ERROR: The requested URL cannot be retrieved.' That's okay, try again, I thought.

People from the sidelines urged the refreshers to get their news fast, because they wanted to know, but little did they know that the website was too congested to get through on the first, or the first hundredth, try. They were also spreading news of who got good news, whether or not the refreshers knew the people they mentioned. They later changed to numbers; instead of saying who and who got good news, they said how many people got good news.

Then the night got tedious. Sideliners got bored of waiting for nothing, and logged off, asking the refreshers to let them know about the news as soon as possible. Refreshers now dully refreshed again and again, waited for the page to load and lag, lag and load, and sent to each other instant messages like, 'How is it now? Did you get through yet?'

After the longest one and a half hour, I got through. I finally logged in and was at the final stage. This page just needed to successful load, and I'd get my good news.

And yes, it's good news.

I got the ultimate JPA scholarship! Now I'm officially flying to the States! No more worries on Monday, because I need not go register at STAR at all. Now I have to brace myself to go overseas, and go shopping. And possibly, check out the American culture on TV or on the Internet, because as much as I want some culture shock to happen to me (so that things don't get boring too fast), I don't want to look like a complete idiot when I'm there.

Yes. I finally got my scholarships. Yes, the word is in plural, because I also got the Petronas scholarship. I knew about it like a couple of days ago. But I'm not too happy about it because I'm not sent overseas. They placed me in their school. I'd love to study there if not for the patchy dorm.

Anyhow, now I'm happy and satisfied. The United States of America, here I come!

*Yes, I typed this even before I got my results for my JPA scholarship; before midnight came. I'm psychic.

Hah! You wish! Actually, I wish!

But no, I did not get my JPA scholarship. Because I got the Petronas scholarship. Yes, from what I heard, out of the three scholarships, namely JPA, Petronas and Khazanah, we only get one. That means once you get one of the three, you won't get the other two. That's so unfair! But I've already sent in the online appeal form, twice, because I don't think it got sent the first time around--now just wish me luck on getting the scholarship. I really really really want it.

Anyway, now that I don't have it, there's not much I can do save for appealing, which I did, and hoping I can get it the second time around. I'm still glad I got the Petronas scholarship though, as much as it cost me my JPA scholarship. I signed the offer letter, but not the contracts yet; I'm not sure I want to take it, because taking it would mean only one route for me, and I'm not sure if I want to go down that route. I'm so glad that Mr. Panky pointed that out to me before I plunged myself into something stupid. I'm not giving up that hope (or those hopes) of mine.

Currently I'm just in (Noooo!) Form 6. And I don't want it! I don't hate it, but I don't want it! My classroom is located at the top most floor of the tallest building in the school, and the staircase is way too steep for normal people. Walking step-by-step up the stairs, I actually pant. And on my first day of school, the discipline teacher did not give me a friendly welcome at all, let alone warm.

On that day, I actually hadn't got my hair cut. I thought it would be okay considering it was just the beginning of school for sixth-formers. I expected the teachers to be nice and jovial to give the new students from other schools a good impression of the school and of the staff. And they were, sort of, except for one crazy man.

The odd-looking discipline teacher checked one-by-one the students' hair and nails and all those stuff before letting them into the semi-hall. When it was my turn, I expected him to just tell me off on my not-exactly-short hair, and give me a warning or some sort, but heck, no, he didn't do that. Instead, he reached to the back of my head with his hand and freaking grabbed my hair. And then he scolded me while slightly shaking it. I was really surprised by his invasive action.

'When are you going to get it cut?' he asked after he let go of my hair.

'Erm, by this weekend. I'll get it cut by this weekend,' I answered after a swift moment of thinking, expecting him to nod or do something in agreement. But that didn't happen.

'Why this weekend?' he said, wide-eyed. Then he added, resuming his cruelly indifferent look, 'I want it cut [by] tomorrow. Can you do that?'

'Erm, I'll get it cut as soon as possible.'

'No. I want it cut by tomorrow,' he said emphatically.

I had no choice but to agree with that, but in my mind, I thought: why did he ask questions when he already had his own set of answers?

So much for a warm welcome on the first day.

Actually, that wasn't the first day of school. I missed the first day--but that shouldn't be the reason I got the unpleasant treatment!

On the offer letter, it stated that registration started at 9.00am on Monday, and I thought students could go to that school to register anytime starting from 9. But, of course, I was so wrong. I only got to school at about 1pm; it was my school-day routine: get my sister and other people to their school at 12 something, and then head straight to my brother's school to await his school end.

The school I'm in right now is directly beside my brother's school, so after I got there, I immediately got down and walked into the school with my documents for registration. But on my way in, I saw many sixth-formers, amidst other students, coming out of the school; school just ended. Then a friend, who was amongst the streaming students, told me that we were supposed to be in school at 9, in our uniforms, because right after registration, there were talks and programs arranged for us.

Too late. I was already late, so very late. I went into school anyhow, and just went straight into the office, hoping to see someone. I even knocked before I stepped in. But the office was empty. I just looked around to double-check, and when I went back to the door, a stout lady suddenly appeared, and to my astonishment, she started scolding me.

'Why are you here? No one's here. You're not supposed to be here. How did you get in? Who let you in? You cannot come in here like that...' she said exasperatedly, in Malay.

I timidly mumbled 'okay' and walked out of the office. When I looked back, I saw her slamming the door and clicking the lock, all while mumbling something angrily.

Omg, can you believe that? Is that how the school welcome guests/new students?

My brother was right: the school is the opposite of La Salle. In La Salle, the teachers are great but the students are bad; in STAR, the teachers suck while the students are okay.

And after just one week of school, I already have homework. So far, the only time I really enjoyed my new school experience is during the counseling unit talk, because they had this ice-breaking, people-knowing, group-making kind of game.

This sucks big time.

Please just let me get the scholarship and fly far, far away.

In what ways are you similar to your mother?

Fri, 09 May 2008 01:38:27 GMT

This is great. Really. Mother's Day is coming, and my mom's and my birthdays are coming soon too, and this question is featured.

First, of course I look like my mom. The features are a little blended with my dad's, but I think I look like my mom more. I have her pointed nose--which we both claim look like Andy Lau's or Carina Lau's (no, seriously)--only mine is not as hooked; I have her mouth, the same slightly unsymmetrical lips, and even her genes of uneven teeth, but of course, mine are fixed with braces; her high cheekbones, and prominent chin. Sadly, my eyes are an equal blend between my dad's and hers, so the folds of the upper eyelids are not cavernous like hers, and they are not as brown as hers too. If she looks like a mixed (half-Chinese), I look like a half-mixed (three-quarter-Chinese). A lot of aunties claim that I'm like a clone of her.

We also share the dream to live in the fab lane. She had the dream, but then her family was rather old-fashioned, and were afraid to venture far out into the real world, therefore she's not living her dream. My grandma actually told her things like, 'You want to be a singer, you'd have to sleep with producers and record-dealers to get there.' which obviously frightened her. Now, she can never become a singer because she trashed her voice over-screaming at us [my siblings and me] for all these years. And now, I have the dream, I don't know if she knows it, and I actually want to give it a shot. I hope I can pull her into the fab lane sometime and let her at least feel it from the sidelines.

We bitch a lot. I undoubtedly got my gossip gene from her. We trash everything about other people, from the way they look and their lackadaisical or overmuch effort in bettering their look, to the ineffective ways they do things, to their queerly disparate mindset. Basically, anything that's different but bad compared to us, we'd trash; anything that's different and good, we'd try to keep up so that we have new different-but-bad things to trash. And it doesn't stop there; even when we are separated, we both have this tendency to find people to bitch with, with her being the better one because she has plenty of bitchy friends, while I but have this handful of buddies with whom I diss things.

We tend to be grumpy and bossy and righteous, and exasperated and naggy, when we have to manage things in the house in a rush. At intense times where we have to race against time to get a lot of things done, we'd scold everyone that's in our way, whether or not they did anything wrong. At moments like the aforementioned, everything everyone say or do is wrong, and we tend to hug everything to ourselves and then complain we don't get any help. It's contradictive, but that's how we are. Imagine the both of us are exasperated: omg, it'd be the end of our family.

We like the arts a lot. I more or less like the same kind of music that she does, and we like to sing and dance, only she can't sing now and I can't dance yet. We both also like art, but of different styles. She likes the traditional Chinese art, like calligraphy or Chinese water paitings, whose strokes are gentle, materials are delicate and products are soft. I like that too, but I like a lot of other styles, because I'm the more modern one. Hah! But one thing for sure is, we both like anything that's pretty, or has a meaning that we can decipher. But I think I'm the lucky one because I can draw and I can play the piano and I can write too, while she but has to resort to seeing and listening to and reading things. And she doesn't do too well on the last one; I'm just grateful that she's not illiterate--she can read okay, she always just can't remember how to write certain words when she writes. I wish she picks up English soon.

So far, those are the big parts of my similarity to my mom. Smaller ones include: my mom and I are both middle children--she's the middle among her sisters, and I'm middle among my brothers; we both like Mariah Carey; and our normal faces look like we're smiling--people smile back to us when we walk past them in a neutral, normal face, because they think we're flashing a subtle smile.

Oh, our birthdays are similar! Mine's on the 24th of May, and hers is just the next day, the 25th of May, which means, we are both Geminis. I always say, I'm her birthday present for the year 1990. Because our birthdays are just a day apart, we always celebrate our birthdays together ever since I was small. But we never share a cake. We always get one cake each.

Happy Mother's Day! And an early Happy Birthday to the both of us!

I think I look the most like my mom in this picture. Don't mind the quality; it's scanned into the computer. And don't mind the 90's fashion. I was five (count the candles if you can see them).Uber-cute right?

I just answered this Featured Question, you can answer it too!

Best Birthday Present Ever.

Tue, 06 May 2008 06:30:39 GMT

[Sorry for the lack of picture for the 'Currently Watching,' that's the only one I could find using Xangazon Search.]

Today the Form 6 name list is out. You can go find out which school you're sent to through the Ministry of Education website. Just type in your IC number or, if you still remember it, your SPM angka giliran (okay, I don't know how to translate that; your...turn number? I'm not even sure what angka means.) and press Enter.

I'm not sure how many people know this, but I'm sure a lot of people wouldn't bother to check. That's because, they are happily studying in college now. So, checking for myself aside, the busybody me went ahead and checked for a few other people, guessing and using their SPM 'turn numbers.' And from the results, I see that, quite a number of my ex-classmates are sent to the school next door--yes, STAR. No that anyone bothers, anyway.

I got sent to STAR too, btw. But I cannot believe my mom actually wants me to print out the offer letter and go register at the school next week. That means I'll have to go shop for school uniform, cut my hair (again!), and spend money to buy books. I don't want to do all that. I don't even want to get into Form 6. I'll get a scholarship and fly myself over to somewhere overseas.

And that's my problem, and the my mom's point in asking me to do the abovementioned thing: I'm not looking at things rationally. I'm not considering the possibility of not getting a scholarship; I'm clouded by my confidence, my overconfidence--my arrogance. I'm just thinking that I am getting a scholarship--no, scratch that: I'm thinking I am getting all of the scholarships that I've applied for. I'm already planning so far ahead, training my English to get a natural but subtle and non-local accent, thinking what I would want to get myself involved in when I'm there, if I should bring along all the books that I've bought but haven't read, and even what I would miss about home and what I would promote to my future mates abroad.

I'm not thinking at all that with a simple 'no,' all that I've been planning is going to shatter like it never existed; with a simple rejection letter, I'm going to cry all day, all night, be upset and unhappy about going to school, but I'd still have to be there every single, miserable, dreaded day--just like a kid, only I'm not afraid of the homework and teachers anymore, and I won't whine about being forced to attend school. It'd just hurt so much, however happy I might be, having company from new, and maybe even old, friends even though I'm sadly stuck in Form 6--because as much as that's heart-warming and contentable with, that's not even faintly what I want.

I'm seeing all the good if's as when's, and not even bothering the bad if's. I have so much dreams of myself; so much faith in the future; and so much hope in the destiny--that I have in my mind. And now, suddenly thinking about otherwise, the potential total opposite of what I hope for and dream of and have faith in, I'm...scared. Not just normal sweat-breakingly scared, but coldly, traumatisingly scared. My mouth goes dry, my throat feels like something is stuck inside, my stomach either lurches or feels empty, I can't breathe easily, my heart skips beats--I am terrified. I really don't know what I would do if I didn't get a scholarship, when all I've been thinking of is when I study abroad under a scholarship.

I guess what my mom is asking me to do is the wise move: register for Form 6 first; no matter what happens, I'd know I still have something to hang onto, even if it isn't remotely what I want--let alone being the last thing I want. But I really don't want to put effort, and more importantly, money, into something that I might leave in a couple of weeks' time. Might? Oh great, now my mom succeeded in shaking my faith--before this I'd say, '...into something that I will leave...'

I really don't want to even start Form 6, because that would really make me lose my conviction in scoring scholarships--if just talking about registering for it shakes my faith, imagine actually sitting in the hall listening to speeches during orientation week/day.

Please, please, please, just let all the scholarship letters bearing good news come by my birthday. I'm making a birthday wish now: I want a scholarship that sends me to the States for my 18th birthday. Anyone getting me that? It'd be my best birthday present ever, I'm telling you in advance.

Strangerster.

Mon, 05 May 2008 05:33:28 GMT

[I'm not reading the Latin version of the book. I can't find the original cover of the English version.]

I don't get it. I just don't get it. I don't get why people need so many social networking sites to keep track of how many friends they have, and generally their social life. And more than often, they abuse the social networking sites. It's exactly like this bulletin I saw on Friendster, titled (mind its lameness) 'FakerSs~':

'Message: No offense but... people are getting too fake in here. They only want pics, comment s, testimonials or to see how many friends they can get. So let's see who would actually repost this. This is a test to see how many people in my friends list are paying attention to me or knowing the real value of friendship. If you do, Copy and repost this in your own bulletin if you are a real friend. No need to reply. Just copy and paste this i n a new bulletin with the same title'

[I didn't leave out the period punctuation mark on purpose; the original lacks a full-stop.]

Okay, so it may not be exactly like the bulletin, because the message there is a little extreme and it lost the point I'm trying to take from it halfway through the whole text--I didn't repost that btw, because I don't think I know that person who posted that, thus an unreal friend--but the point is: people are turning social networking sites into popularity contests. They add strangers to their 'friend lists,' and then they send out comments like 'Thanks for the add. Nice to know you,' when they don't even know the whoever that accepted their friend request just for the sake of accepting it, let alone meaning what they said.

Hereby, I'm going to borrow the name Friendster for a bit: Oh c'mon, for goodness' sake, it's called 'Friendster,' not 'Strangerster,' or 'I'm-your-sister's-friend-so-I-thought-I-should-add-you-too-ster.' Please, if you want to spread your promiscuity, go ahead and do it to someone else, anyone else, just don't come near me. You want to add me? Know me first, then you add me. Talking on the phone, or even over the net is good enough for me, you don't have to really know me in person. And I don't think my MSN account or e-mail address is so hard to get; I usually have my e-mail/MSN address on my page of Xanga, Friendster and whatever websites--it's the least I could do to satisfy your ovewhelming need to know me just so you can add me as a friend. Ugh.

Of all the social networking sites, I use Friendster and Friendster only. No, it's not that I'm loyal or anything of the sort--as making an account on Frienster was something so out of myself already--but it's just that I don't see the point of having an account for every social networking sites. I mean, when you have so many, you can't even keep track. Yes, you can choose to abandon the older and not-anymore-hip websites, but that's just bad; it's working perfectly fine, and you're throwing it away just because there's something better and newer.

That one social networking site I have an account for is already flooding my e-mail inbox with all sorts of e-mails like friend requests and site updates, so much so I don't think I can stand signing up for another site like that. I get so many random and unknown friend requests that I don't even skim through the requesters' pages anymore, and just accept it all; once I even rejected one. I'm just so blase about all the 'application invitations' that nowadays I just ignore them.

And speaking of all the applications, I don't get that either. I know the site founders/owners are trying to boost memberships, and all the apps. are supposed to make things fun, but things are just out-of-hands now. People are adding all sorts of apps. on their page that it takes forever to load a page, and I don't even know who plays or uses these things at all. I don't think anyone spends their time lingering on someone else's page just to play all the games and utilise all the applications--all that doesn't even bond people, which is what social networking sites are supposedly for. I think I'm the only one whose Friendster profile page is clean of all the crazy applications, and I'm going to keep it that way.

If you're going to say 'Isn't Xanga just the same?' I'm going to tell you: No. Xanga is a blogging site, like Blogger, and that's way different than websites like Myspace, which I think is creepy, and Friendster, which I think is boring, and Facebook, which I don't know much about but think it doesn't make sense (Face? Book? Which one says 'social' or 'networking' to you?). People come to Xanga to write something, to actually have something to say; knowing people comes in second. People on Xanga deal with a different kind of sailing transportation than people on the networking sites--readership, instead of (fake) friendship. And with readership there comes real friendship, because people tend to want to find out more about the person who wrote something that they've read and has left an impact on them.

Xanga did not pay me to say all that.

Like the Friendster bulletin, I think I lost my point halfway writing this. My point is: stop spamming my e-mail inboxes with invitations to join whatever MyFacebook's Family Oven Tag (Myspace, Facebook, Family Oven, Tag) etc.! I won't join any of these unless and until I find the sites useful and interesting, or solid reasons to accept the invitations. And my Friendster account uses my Yahoo! e-mail address, not the Hotmail one.

Labour Day.

Thu, 01 May 2008 08:16:01 GMT

[Don't gasp. I read the book already. I'm just re-reading it now.]

I was supposed to do and finish this post yesterday, but didn't get the chance to upload all the photos. Today's the 2nd of May, but I'm keeping the original date of the post just so I can crack this joke:

Have you given birth yet? Are you giving birth? No? Why not? It's Labour Day.

It's hilarious right? Right? Right? I'll just assume everyone loves me for that joke. Okay, moving on...

Yes, yesterday was the first day of May, which means the beginning of a new month, which means I'm getting my renewed monthly 100MB upload limit which I maxed out last month, which ultimately means I can finally post up the Petronas pictures. Be aware that what you see might not be true, for some pictures are highly photoshopped. Don't worry, it's just that couple of pictures; not all of them are highly photoshopped. That'd be mad, or Xiaxue, which more or less means the same thing (I'm just saying), and I don't have the time and patience to do that, as in to highly photoshop the pictures, not to be mad. Sheesh.

Oh, before I start, I have just a tiny bit to add about the camp. I said that the food wasn't my favourite thing in the world, but to come to think about it, I think there was one food which I liked: the chicken. I don't know what's with me and well-cooked chicken, but that's not the point here. The point is, for the two days there, chicken was served for every main meal, and for each meal, the chicken was just so fine. It wasn't tender, and I don't like tender chicken, so that's fine by me; the meat was just firm and the right level of toughness--just the way I want it.

But, however good the chicken was, on the last day, for the final lunch, I didn't enjoy it at all. That's because, cutlery wasn't given! During that meal time, knowing that the lunch would be the last meal of the camp and I would be able to go home soon, I was finally having some appetite, thus I grabbed quite an amount of food, only to notice, there weren't any cutleries at all! Even the napkins were missing. I looked around, and I saw that the Chinese guys were eating with their hands just like the Malay and Indian guys. I was getting exasperated watching what was happening, so much so that I randomly, rhetorically asked, 'Why are there no cutleries? Why? Why?!'

One of the Chinese guys, one who look like Brian Chow, only taller, which makes him look like a Korean, just answered me, 'Just eat with your hand. We don't have a choice.' Having heard that, my heart sank. All the impression of high-classness that the school gave me during the camp was rapidly fading away. I should've thought better; M's can never be classy, I told myself.

'I'm going to slap someone if they brought out the cutleries after I finished my meal,' I warned to Mr. Korean Brian Chow. I ate using my hand, but miraculously, just using two fingers. All the sauces and oil sank into my nails, and I totally hated it. I needed a napkin to clean up, but there just wasn't any. I don't believe this, I thought, craning my neck and looking here and there and everywhere, to see if the napkins were put somewhere that no one noticed, or if there was someone I could ask about the problem. And then I saw it: the caterer's van. I could see reflected pink colour on the windscreen. Ah hah! There it was!

And at that moment, someone arrived. He was facing the same problem: he wanted cutleries. And so I victimised him--I asked to check the van, or ask the chattering caterers.

'I think there are cutleries and napkins on the van and they forgot to take them out,' I said. He went to have a look--and it was true!

The mindless caterers didn't take out the cutleries! They thought everybody could and wanted to eat like them. Of course, after the guy took a look at the van, they took out the cutleries and napkins to lay on the table. Ugh. I really felt like slapping the caterers, but I didn't, of course. That would only dirty my hand further, and the more important thing at that moment was to take a napkin and clean up the sauces in my nails anyway.

It was my last meal for the camp, and they had to ruin it by causing drama. Ugh.

Anyway, brace yourself for high quality pictures. Or not.

This is the building that got me jaw-dropping. It is really huge, and I don't think this photo justify its enormity.

This is the academic building next to the Chansellor Complex. It's directed connected to the Chansellor Complex, where the library is located. It is, as well, huge and chic. (There is actually an unintentionally captured tree branch hanging from the top, blocking part of the sky in original picture, but I think it ruins the perfect sky; thus photoshopped it away.)

This is the stage of the Chansellor Hall. It is also gi-normous.

I love the design of the ceiling. I also love that the spotlights and projectors are hung from zig-zag metal pieces.

This is the night view of the--yes--mosque . There's a man-made lake in front, therefore the reflection.

This is taken right after the mosque photo. It's the road beside the dorm. This picture, again, doesn't justify the beauty of the view I saw. It reminds me of the Beatles' song, The Long And Winding Road.

Here comes the degrading photos of the dorm. (I purposely did not alter anything from these photos to make them look bad compared to the other photos; just to further low-classify the dorm room.)

The hideous hospital-esque curtain.

The annoying partition, as much as it gave me privacy. My side was on the right, btw, with the red hot luggage.

The grey and dull set: the cupboard, the towel-hanger, on which is my fab towel, and the door.

The old-looking bunk with a filthy matress and pillow that do not bring any comfort, covered in the bed spread and pillow case that I brought. I brought the green blanket too; it's fab. The black bag's mine as well. And oh, do you see those tiny pink and yellow circular adornment thing that are on the cupboard and the wall? Those are actually

these totally cute but incongruous hangers!

Oh, yes, one more thing:

Optical illusion in the exam hall.

The clock really looks like it's floating mid-air right? When I was in the exam hall, I thought it was flying as well--until I moved my head from side to side. There was actually a very thin black pole thing on which the clock was being hung. The pole totally blended into one of the dark trough folds of the stage's curtain. And actually, in the original picture, there's an invigilator at the left bottom corner, but he's such an eyesore in the picture that I did him away.

See? This is the miracle of Photoshop.

The end of views. Here comes the people.

He is practically the second Tan Lee Kiong. I'm telling you now, the way he moves, and the little actions he does, are exactly like Tan Lee Kiong! It's so freaky. I first caught him when he was walking in front of me during the campus tour. For one moment, I actually thought he was Tan Lee Kiong. And the fact that he was bald and he was carrying a big crumpled plastic bag with who-knows-what inside just made him even more similar.

I have to say, this picture does not do any good to my look at all. But the guy beside me just reminds me of David Archuleta and Deenakaran. He looks nothing like them (okay, maybe a little like Deena), but the way he speaks, the way he moves his hands while he speaks, and even the tone of his voice, are just like a combination of those two.'If I get to study here, it'd be so cool!' The way he said that line is just exactly like how Deena and David would say it.

Yes there are only two photos of people. I wanted to take more, but when it was time to go back, everyone was just rushing to pack up and soon, so many people were gone before I could even say goodbye. I missed the Korean Brian Chow, and I didn't even manage to get the contacts of a guy from Sabah who now lives at Klang Jaya.

Oh well. At least I gave a lot of people my contacts. Hope they ring me up soon.

Choosing Coconut Crusts.

Sun, 27 Apr 2008 11:45:31 GMT

Disclaimer: This post has nothing to do with coconut husks. And this is not a sexist or obscene post. If anything, it's informative.

The day before my Petronas camp, I actually did some last-minute shopping with my mom and sister. The night before, to be precise. Since I wasn't the one paying, I wanted my mom to be by my side when I shopped for my clothes, just so that we only bought stuff that the both of us agreed on, price-wise and design-wise. So what we did was, we shopped for my clothes first, because that would definitely take a shorter time to complete, and then we shopped for my sister's stuff.

After I got what I went there for--which was an extra formal shirt for the camp, albeit we ended up buying two, both of which I didn't wear during the camp--we turned our attention to my sister. And guess what she wanted to buy? Yes, new brassière.

Yes, I, a guy, walked into the women's undergarment department to wait and follow my mom and sister around, and take my mom's handbag too, while they shopped for my sister's bras. But to be frank, unlike how a lot of other guys would feel, I didn't really feel awkward standing there and tailing after them, holding the shirts I bought and my mom's not-too-fancy handbag while they got their hands all over the pads and cups and front-clips and back-hooks. I don't think anything is wrong with that. I mean, like, it's just undergarments. It's not like I'm cupping my hands on anyone's boobs to estimate their size and squeezing them to see what type of bras suit them best. Orworse, taking off women's bras and strapping on different ones to see their fit.

But it was only for a short time that I stood doing nothing. Soon, I couldn't stand the boredom, and to fasten up the process, I began helping my mom choose and find bras for my sister, as weird as it seems for a guy to do that. But no, I wasn't fervently rummaging through the stacked 'hills and hills' of clothing; that would be really freaky, because I'd look like a guy with a fetish over bras. But anyway, really, it's not that easy finding the right bra! There are so many criteria to adhere to.

Now, as odd as it may be, here comes bra-choosing lessons from a guy.

First, do not bother about designs. No one is actually going to shred your shirt/blouse/top apart to look at your bra then, pointing at it, laugh and say, 'Omg, look what she's wearing! Polka dots!' Unless you're looking to get laid, of course. But that doesn't mean it's okay to wear bras of super bad designs, because you're just looking for more embarrassment than you already get in case an accident happens--as if having your top torn or slipped off isn't humiliating enough already.

Next, what you need to look at when you're buying a bra is not the cup-size first, but actually the length of the band, as measured from the bottom part where it circles your ribs. Your bra should not be just draped around you, as in having the right cup-size, but not actually holding up, instead just covering your boobies. For the conventional bra type, the bottom of the bra should be touching and hugging your ribs where the 'breast' part of your chest ends (where your boobs connect to your body), because that's how the cups can act to actually support your breasts. And also, if the bottom of the bra isn't touching your ribs, when you just jump and land, the bra would absolutely slip out of place. Then you'd have to struggle to pull it back down to cover your boobs and risk embarrassment.

Now that you are getting the length of the band right, it's time to get the right cup-size. This part is easy; every girl should know what to do. Every girl with boobs anyway, big or small it doesn't matter. When you are trying on a bra, there shouldn't be empty space in the cup--that just shows that the bra cup is too big for you, unless you plan to have the space to stuff things in, so that you can shoplift or smuggle drugs, or oranges, in your bras. On the other hand, if you're suffocated by the bra you are trying on, then obviously it's too small for you. Take it off and get a bigger one. And remember, the bottom of the whatever bra you're trying on must always be touching and hugging your ribs. Otherwise, however right the cup is, dump the bra back to the racks and get another one with a longer band, because a bra that doesn't cover until the ribs can't actually hold and support your boobies.

I don't know if this can happen to fully grown adults, but for teenage girls whose boobies are still growing, wearing a bra that doesn't cover and hold your breasts fully, as in from all sides, especially from the bottom, can actually cause your still-growing breasts to 'slip away.' Just imagine your boobs as water: when the bottom and sides are not covered fully and properly, the water will actually leak. Now, you don't want your boobs to 'leak' from the bottom or sides, do you? Then wear a bra that hugs your ribs, and possibly gives you comfortable but firm hold from the sides too.

I think a lot of girls might hate this because it can get very constricting, but wear a bra with wide band as much as you can. It prevents you from having that disgusting chunk of fat that bulges out from the sides of your back. A wide-band bra also gives teenage girls more 'coverage,' and lets them 'gather' more flesh for big boobies--this is especially important for Asian girls. Believe it or not, the flesh that are gathered at the chest area can be turned into breasts' flesh.

Now that you got your bra facts (I was going to say 'bracts,' but nah.), I hope you get your bras right, especially the teenage girls, because you do not want to end up being boobless. Oh, for the not-growing-anymore but boobless or I-want-bigger-boobies ladies, don't worry, it's not too late. You know those flabby arms and the fleshy back you have? Well, you can get rid of them now, and convert them into your boobies! No, seriously, it works; every good model would and should know that. What you do is, when you are putting on your bra, using your hand, gently push the fats from your flabby arms and fleshy back to your boobs. You would want to start from directly after your elbow, and push it all the way to your back, then from your back, gather the fats, push down and over to your breasts (tuck the fat into your bra); the whole process should be one smooth movement. Do that everyday, however many times you want, each time you put on a bra, and in no time, your cup-size will increase. Believe or not, it's true; it doesn't happen overnight, but it's true. Those who know this and actually do this have gained an increase of one or even two cup-sizes.

'There are no ugly women; only lazy women.' -Vanessa Williams. (I think she said that; not the exact words, but she said that.)

Boy, am I glad I'm not a woman.

P.S.: I wanted to have more picture links to this post, but it was hard to find the right pictures, and then it struck me--linking all the pictures of girls in bras, and what not, would make this totally risque! Ugh.

Patronising Petronas.

Sat, 26 Apr 2008 11:19:14 GMT

Warning: What you are about to read is endless. Read at your own risk. Writer of this post cannot be held responsible for anything that happens due to this post.

It's been three days now since I came back home from Petronas Educamp. And as much as I said I dreaded it, and as much as I really dreaded it, it really wasn't so bad. Of course, I'd always prefer not having to go to camps. Because I just don't like them.

We slept in dorm rooms, the bunks were filthy, and the toilets were not too clean, and the food wasn't my favourite thing in the world, just as I expected. And there were plenty of M's too, but that will always happen, so I don't care about that, so long as they are not cheap, and so long as the cheap ones don't touch me.

But other than that, it was actually pretty okay. I mean, other than the dorms, the school is actually pretty high class. The Chansellor Complex is huge, and super classy. And my favourite place there, the library, which is on the right of the complex (yes, the whole right side; the whole left side is the Chansellor Hall), is just so jaw-dropping. When I got there, it was the Chansellor Complex that really got me enthused. The moment i saw it, my mind was washed clear of thoughts like, 'I bet that place is super low-class that only M's can endure it. Ew.' I was practically snapping pictures like stupid.

And another thing that was out of my presumption was that the schedule wasn't really too tight. There were 6 food breaks a day, main meals lasting for as long as one and a half to two hours, and tea breaks lasting for fifteen minutes. I don't like long food breaks because they just make me think that I take so much time to eat that my food turns cold and I'm still eating it, but of course, no one was complaining because long food breaks meant less activities.

And speaking of the activities, nothing was particularly lame, except maybe the speech and presentation parts at the starting of the first day because they really made me doze off. I must've looked like fool with my eyes closing and me trying to keep them open and my head dropping and me trying to keep it upright, but I didn't get enough sleep, you can't blame me. There were no outdoor activities (as in those lame games they call 'exercises that train thinking skills); almost everything was formal and necessary.

In the morning on Monday, I got up as early as 5am to bathe and dress myself up for the trip to Universiti Teknologi Petronas (UTP) (it's so embarrassing to see Malay words mimicked from English words; I might as well change it to 'University Technology Petronas'). On the letter that I got from them, via the local 'FedEx' (they are just so 'efficient' they can't send a letter using an envelope and stamp) whose name I can't remember, I needed to wear formal for registration, so I did wear formal: black (fake) leather shoes, black pants (with pleated front, unfortunately; I don't know why I picked that when I bought it), a grey tie (the colour is neutral and it goes with anything; so I could use that for the two days there) and a green shirt--which was my school uniform. Yes, after a night of comtemplation, I picked to wear my ex-school uniform instead of other formal shirts that I bought because those are kind of big and make me look like a schlub (go read my fashion post again). No, of course I didn't have my nametag and school badge on; I took them out earlier, and there's but just a couple of minor, not-really-noticeable marks on the shirt.

I did not double-check my luggage after I slipped in a bottle of hairgel just in case of emergencies, because I already did that too many times the night before, too many times until I only slept at about 1am. Okay, I admit I did took some time to use the computer and surf the net, but other than that, I checked, checked, checked and checked, and checked (that is quintuple-check, just fyi; or maybe I did more than that) my luggage.

My dad and I took off soon, and I slept in the car, very stilly, I might add, just so not to crumple my fitting shirt. When we got to the state, which is Perak, we actually circled a little here and there before finally getting our way, because there were just too many side paths that could take us to the university. Thank goodness we weren't late.

As soon as we got into the university, we were directed to the dorm in which I was going to stay for the couple of days. Breakfast was served there, but before I ate, I reported myself to the 'dorm manager,' just so I could secure a room as soon as possible. All the guy asked me to do was to write my name and contact number in a book, and then he just told me the guy bearing name above my name in the book was my roommate. I silently went, 'What?!' I thought he were going to take down the names first and then split us according to, erm, I don't know, hotness of our names?--but the truth was, the dorm people didn't care about us at all; all they wanted to do was to make sure we had a room and whatever room we got was shared by two people.

So it was fate: I got a Malay roommate, whom I soon found out to be a Kelantan guy. No, I don't have any problems with Kelantan guys or anything; I only have problems with roommates who can't speak English because I can't speak BM too well. And Kelantan Malays, or just Kelantan people in general, are known for their inability to speak English too well. That was going to be a problem.

But regardless of all that, I got the spare key from the dorm manager to load my luggage into the dorm room I got, then returned the key. Apparently, for one room, only one set of keys can be given out. The roomies will have to sort it out themselves as to who holds the keys. And for my case, my roomy got there earlier than me, took the set of keys, and I had no idea where the heck he was then. We couldn't even talk things out. Some of the people there already got to know their roommates, and I was all alone except for a photocopy map of the school, with the name and numbers of my roommate and the number of our room scribbled behind.

That was okay, I told myself. I didn't think I would want to make an effort to know people there because the camp only lasted for two days, and getting the numbers of various people who you only know for two days, in two days, would be weird. It's a score, but it's also weird. And I'm not desperate to get into a relationship anyway. And more importantly, I'm not gay also, why would I want to get plenty of numbers of guys I barely know? Of course, I turned out to be wrong, because I got to know some great people there. No, I mean I was wrong about not needing to make friends, not about I'm not gay. Sheesh.

After registration, we were asked to go to the Chansellor Complex, by which I was totally awed, like I said. In the Chansellor Hall, when I found a seat amidst the other participants of the camp, and scholarship-hopefuls like me, of course, I did try to make friends, contrary to what I said. I didn't really want to know them, but just to have some people keep me company for the two days. In short, it was all an act. That was at first. When we were ordered to move ourselves down to the lower, and more in front, seats in the hall, I met this rather thick guy, who sat beside me, and we just talked. I slowly forgot about and lost the friendly act, and became genuinely friendly. And as the day passed, I made more and more friends. All you need to do is starting talking, and people will talk back to you (not at you), and you can be best friends forever! Okay, that was a little extreme. But my point is: just don't be shy, and blurt stuff out, and you will know people. Not stupid stuff like, 'I just peed in my pants,' or offensive stuff like, 'Did you just pee in your pants?' of course.

But before all that, as I was saying, we were in the hall, and everyone was just silent and listening to the whatever soporific tirades the uncles are giving. Well, almost everyone anyway--I was too busy nodding and dozing off. I only listened to the slide presentations done by two students in the university, one local and one international, and watched the video presentations. Those were the only parts lively enough to keep me awake. At least the students had emotions and rise and fall and pauses while talking, and the narrative of the videos wasn't monotonous; unlike the other people.

After lunch, parents were shooed home, and that's when I made the more-and-more friends I mentioned just now. We also had 'value profiling,' which is just a fancy phrase for 'personality test.' For that, I can't believe I cracked my head up analysing myself. Before the test, the head invigilator already said to just go with your heart and don't think too much, or you'd be questioning yourself, and normally, I sail through these tests because I know myself so well. But halfway doing the test, I kept on doubting my answers.

To be fair, the test was pretty tough too, because it actually asks you to rate what you are/like to do/prefer doing the most and the least. There are groups of eight statements, and you must label each statement with numbers from 1 to 8, with 1 indicating the statement describes you the best and 8 the least. It seems easy, but it's pretty hard. Like, how would I know if I'm more 'optismistic' or like to 'make things beautiful or artistic' more? Those things don't even connect. At one point during the test, one of the invigilator actually saw me keep on erasing my answers and came to me and whispered to me, 'You don't have to think too hard.' I felt so embarrassed.

After that, we had a tea break and then a campus tour, where I got to talk more with more people. And that's when my phone bailed on me too. I was going to take pictures, but it ran out of battery. I feel especially indignant for not getting to snap pictures of the fab library. According to the library tourguide, the design and material for the book racks are only used by three libraries in the world: one is some fancy library in Britain, one in Netherland, and one, of course, there in the school. And from what he said too, the book racks are placed in such a way that they are more or less like the pillars of the library. They hold the library up.

The arrangement of the library is like what I turned my ex-school library into. All the racks are at a side, and all the study tables and computers are at another. That way, both the books and tables are more accessible, because people won't be pushing through tables to get to the rack where the book they want is placed, and tables won't be left empty due to their inconvenient placement. And it's easier to monitor things too. Students won't be making out in dark corners because there are no dark corners, and books can be easily found because the same type of books are placed at a row of racks, and not scattered at separate places.

In short, I just love the library. It's huge, and really high up, but there are just so much stuff there. I think you can find any books there. Oh, and the system for the borrowing and returning of books is so easy too. All you need to do is, place your student ID and the book you want to borrow on a special machine, and with a sound like a lever is pulled, it's all done. A receipt will be printed out, and on it, the deadline to return the book and other details are listed down. It's so easy, and so awesome. If I wanted to study in the university, it'd just be for the library.

At night, after dinner, we had a briefing for the next day's interview--or what they call it, 'assessment'--in the huge hall where we did our personality test. It was nothing much, just a lot of question-asking, especially on the documents we were required to submit. Even I asked a couple of questions, one using the mic too.

The next day was the real deal, because it was the day of the interview. We needed to wear formal for the interview too, and no, I didn't wear my ex-school uniform again. I had another shirt, a white shirt, ready. The tie goes well with it anyway; the tie goes well with any colour. The interview had two parts, one was the individual presentation on a case study given, and the other part a group discussion in front of the judges. All I remember about the interview(s) was that there was some preparation, and then there was a lot of waiting, so much so that when it was my turn, I didn't even realise it. Someone had to tell me, and I just sprang up and walked to the interview room.

I'm so glad that the moment I got into the room, the judges told me I looked really confident. That meant my act was sold. I was somewhat nervous. But of course, like always, once I started talking, the nerves calmed, and I sailed. Nowadays interviews don't scare me anymore. Even talking onstage don't scare me anymore. I'm just so used to it.

Funny thing about the group discussion: we were supposed to devise a Sports Policy, and after a lot of struggling on the talking part by all my group members (who are all M's) except me, we--no, they--wanted to make a Sports Policy out of fun? Does that mean we point at people who are training really hard for some sports competition and tell them, 'Have fun!'? That doesn't even make sense, and I couldn't believe they all actually just wanted to go with that just for the sake of making a conclusion because time was up! I couldn't let that happen, and I halted them at the last minute, and we ended up not having a conclusion. That's fine by me, because I shone, I'd rather not have a conclusion than have a sucky conclusion.

After the interview there were three tests: one English Proficiency Test (which I sailed through, of course), and two critical reasoning tests. The critical reasoning tests were tough, in the sense that the number of questions don't match the time given. There were about, I think, 40 questions for the second test, which was some IQ test thingy, and only 20 minutes were given. It was mad! How were we supposed to solve 40 not-too-easy pattern questions* in 20 minutes?! And the verbal evaluation test wasn't too easy too. We had short texts to read, and we had to evaluate 4 statements for each text. And we were not supposed to put in our own thoughts while evaluating. Like, even if common sense told you that a statement is true, you cannot answer yes, but answer unconfirmed just because based on the text, there isn't enough information to say yes. It was crazy. I think a lot of people didn't manage to finish the papers, especially the IQ test. A lot of people shot for the, I think, last five questions?

*a pattern question goes something like: in the first diagram, there's one dot, in the second, there are two dots, the third, three dots, the fourth, four, then there are multiple choices for what the fifth diagram should look like.

After all the madness, we were set free to go home. I took some pictures with some of the guys, but I can't upload them up because I maxed out my upload limit for the month. Funny thing, I don't even post much pictures and that happened. Actually, I had to upload everything when I got my computer to a shop to fix, and that maxed it out. Therefore the picture links.

I actually took a bus, whose ticket I booked right away when I got to the university for the camp, to get home. It took me to Puduraya, and I took a cab to the nearest KTM station. For 20 bucks. My dad was jumping up and down Donald's style about that, but I just wanted to try getting myself home on my own. Initially, I wanted to search my way in the city to the nearest LRT station, but then when I saw the traffic and people there, I got scared. I might get mugged any minute. So I picked to take a cab. And the cab-driver's English sucked. Badly.

Photos will come soon. Just wait till the next month.

P.S.: I actually didn't think I'd write about the camp chronologically, with a lot of side notes too, but I did it anyway. I didn't ask for it. It just came.

Awesome Acting Audition.

Sun, 20 Apr 2008 07:40:47 GMT

[Don't mind the 'awesome.' I just wanted to make the title triple 'A's.]

I just realise I forgot to include my acting school audition in the already-too-long interview post. Nevermind, might as well just write it here.

Before that, I have a pretty long and rhetorical question: why is the meeting to determine employment for any jobs, or the deciding meeting for scholarships, called an interview, but the meeting for jobs or scholarships related to showbiz or theatre or just performing arts in general called an audition? That's because in showbiz, 'interview' means a whole different thing. Interviews usually happen to get you something to do, like a job or education, but in the break-a-leg industry, interviews only happen after you do something.

That's my reasoning. It might not be completely correct, but it's enough to stop people from calling auditions 'interviews.' Okay, there's really no harm calling auditions 'interviews,' but I just like my auditions and interviews clearly separated. Just to show that I have both interviews and auditions to attend *cocky*.

Anyway, it happened a couple of weeks ago, on the 5th of April, if I'm getting the date right (I think by now everyone must be thinking how much blonder I can get, considering I'm clueless even about dates). When I got the news, it was rather last-minute. The audition was on Saturday, and I got the news on, I think, the Friday of the week before the audition? And on Tuesday--at this point, just take notice that all days and dates are merely estimations--I had my JPA interview. That means, in one week, I had two scholarship events to attend, and I only knew about one of them the week before. I hope I'm not confusing anyone.

The audition was held by East 15 Acting School, with Leon Rubin flying all the way from Britain to Malaysia to judge. And it needed me to prepare two three-minute 'speeches.' I don't know why they call it that, but I know I'd call it 'monologues' or 'acts,' or even 'soliloquies.' Anyway, my point is: I got the news rather late, and I had to make up two acts amidst running here and there and everywhere to get all the documents signed and certified.

Thank goodness, inspiration came really fast, and I have Ms. ChinChi to thank for her brilliant ideas. I told her my ideas, asked her for hers, we discussed, and I finalised it with these two: a schizophrenic guy and a desperate phonecall. I've always wanted to take on extreme roles playing extreme scenes anyway, so the choices were rather predictable, to be frank.

With the ideas fixed, I've actually put my mind off of it a little until after the scholarship interview, which was rather simple, as mentioned in my previous super-long post. After the interview, I more or less panicked over the ideas. Don't get me wrong, I love the ideas, but there are some limitations and other factors. First, I didn't have the time to pleasantly type out the acts, try them out, and modifying them again and again to make them three-minute long and perfect. I didn't want to anyway, because I was the only person to read them, so they didn't need to be neat.

Second, I was having a tough time making the acts three-minute. Not much dialogue--no wait, it should be monologue--could be fit into the acts because people don't actually talk too much during extreme/desperate times. I didn't want too many things to say anyway, because I was afraid I might just forget my words seeing I didn't really have much time to memorise and practise and rehearse. That happened once for a singing competition, and we wouldn't want it to happen again for acting auditions now, do we?

Without much monologue, the problem was that I was speaking too fast, making the already short scripts even shorter. I tried slowing myself down by adding a lot of small movements, but that just made the length of the acts inconsistent. At times I would be panting and pulling the corners of my shirt, or moaning and grabbing my hair too much that the acts were more than three minutes; other times, I would cut the small actions a little too much that the acts were only about two minutes.

Third, I was changing the acts a lot. For example, the idea of the schizophrenic guy first started out as being a gay who couldn't accept himself, as in one of the personality would be a gay guy, and there would be another straight-guy personality admonishing him and reprimanding him and calling him names for being gay. Then, I changed the idea to make it a guy who wanted to become a woman, but then, again, there would be a straight guy in him screaming at him for wanting to do that. I changed it a couple more times before finally taking the transexual guy.

And for the desperate phonecall act, I started out with a guy calling somone to get help because he was trapped in his own house and some psycho killer/stalker was there to get him. Then I considered changing it to having the psycho killer/stalker in the house calling him to mess with him. I didn't go with the latter, just fyi. I also debated about the ending. I didn't know whether it was better to end the act with the phone running out of battery and the guy throwing it to the floor then yelling in the out-of-power house, at the psycho killer whose location in the dark house he didn't know; or, with the pyscho killer actually finding him in a room in which he was hiding while he talked on the phone and with him throwing the phone at the pyscho killer, trying to escape.

One thing that I didn't, and couldn't, change was the ideas. I really didn't have the time to think of new concepts, so I had to push through with the two concepts I already got. I only picked and stuck to a final decision on the day of the audition. I actually rehearsed all the variations for the few days I had, saying, 'Okay, this is it. I'm sticking to this,' everytime I finished a variation of the acts.

I was told the audition was in the evening, 6 to 9pm, and at British Council. The time was correct; for the venue, there was some serious misinformation. My mom and I took a train, a monorail, then a taxi, all the way to the British Council building, only to be redirected to KLPAC. It was rather frustrating.

'Erm, I'm here for the East 15 Acting School audition,' I said when the Indian girl sitting at the reception desk finally glazed up for a moment from whatever she was writing and, in overly accented English, said, 'Yes?'

'Come again?' she said, finally stopping her furious scribbling. I told her again of my agenda, and she looked at me as if I just called her a donkey. She looked to the side, to a guy at a stand at the end of a staircase hidden behind a wall of tinted glass with stripes of untinted parts. 'Do you know anything about an audition?' she said, after calling out his name.

After quite a round of passing the questions, involving three to four people, the answer was: no one at the British Council building knew anything about the audition. There was quite some commotion, including one of them, again, in seriously British-accented English, asking me to show them the e-mail about the audition I received, before finally, the true British queen gracefully emerged from the hidden staricase. Then I knew where all the obviously local employees got their British accent from.

The caucasian female boss was amazing. She was (is) blonde and beautiful, and at the same time, authoritative. Within minutes after her arrival in the peasants' world, she listened to the problem, asked someone to print out the e-mails for her, and, while waiting for the printouts, directed people to find out about the origin of the misinformation and asked me some questions to which I tried answering without being influenced by her lovely British accent. When she got the e-mails, she told her people to call up the source of the e-mails, and soon enough, settled the ordeal and calmed the storm--all without messing up her fabulous hairdo or breaking a sweat. Or a smile. Yes, throughout everything, she did not smile at all.

Not too long after my mom and I stood helplessly, waiting to be relocated, a kind-looking lady in hip-hugging jeans, with jet-black straight hair and just-rightly accented English came to our rescue. She told me that there had been a mix-up, and that the audition was held in KLPAC, and even printed a map out for us.

My mom and I took a cab, after much ranting from her because she thought the cab-driver was charging us too much, to the right location. I was one-hour late for the audition. But, no matter, because when I finally got there, I was the only auditionee. I think plenty of people got the wrong info and went to British Council too. I pity the director, flying all the way here just to get nothing. He claimed that there were people there before me, though.

Btw, KLPAC is an absolutely amazing place. The designs of the place is just so right for my taste. In the public area, everything's just so public; you can see everything standing in the hallway, which is more like an unwalled room, because it's nothing narrow or closed. Then there are the private places, the rooms and rooms of studios, which are absolutely private and unwelcoming. I love that: the public halls are open, and the private rooms are, well, closed. And the place is designed to be so modern and chic, but classy at the same time.

Back to the audition, so me and my mom were the only two people there, aside from the famous director and his rather cute assistant. We had a small chat with the director, mostly me doing the talking because both my mom and I didn't want her to embarrass herself with her broken English. After that, I had my session to do one of the acts. I picked the schizophrenic act because I forgot to bring my specs box, which was supposed to be the 'phone.'

If you're perched on the edge of your chair reading this because you can't wait for the results, or dropping to the computer desk or your laptop because you're so bored, okay, here comes the results: I didn't get through. Like, duh? If I got through, don't you think I would've screamed and announced the good news right away? Okay, maybe I wouldn't, considering I'm such a slowpoke that I do everything at least half-a-beat slower than most people.

Apparently, I'm underaged, under-qualification, and under-skilled. I need to be at least 18, have qualification of A-Levels or equivalent, and brush up my acting skills. 'Read more plays, watch more plays, get some vocal training, and if possible, get involved in plays,' Leon Rubin said. 'You can definitely get into an acting school.'

The last line is the line that matters the most. Now I'm like a model-wannabe who's tall and thin enough, but who doesn't know how to walk well, and whose curves need to be refined. In short: I have potential. I will definitely find chances to get myself involved in plays and musical, just to gain experience and reputation.

Hmm. If only I were on TV, like in a fast food restaurant's TV ads, or ads of other products like OXY or something. Then I would've got the professional experience required to make up for my lack of educational qualification.

The schizophrenic guy act:

The guy is standing in front of a mirror.
G1: I am beautiful. I am a beautiful person. I'm...I'm just...born in the wrong body.
G2: No you're not. You just a guy trying to be freak. You're ugly.
G1: *frown* No, no. That's not true. I am beautiful. I'm a woman on the inside. I...I have a boyfriend, and he loves me. And I love him. We're just waiting for me to make the change. Once I do that, I'll be whole. I'll be complete. And we'll be happily together.
G2: *laugh sarcastically* Don't be stupid. He doesn't love you. *anger builds up* He's just playing you. He just wants you to turn yourself into a freak. Then he'll leave you. He'll leave you and laugh at you.
G1: *hurt and frustrated* No, no. That's not true. Stop saying that. That's not true. He loves me. He loves me. Once I become a woman, we'll be happily together. He loves me.
G2: *rage bursts* Don't you get it?! You'll never become a woman. What you do is only going to turn you into a freak! You're born a guy, and you will be a guy. You're not going to make that change.
G1: *hysterically grab hair then cover ears* No, no, no. Stop saying that. Stop saying that. That's not true. I don't have to listen to you. Go away.
G2: *mad* You Have to Listen to Me! You Don't Know What You're Headed Into! Listen to Me!
G1: *sobbing and mumbling* Go away. Go away. Go away. Go away.
G2: LISTEN TO ME! Argh!

That's about it for the act. It is three minutes if you manage your time properly. And this is a one-person act, btw. Splitting the personality distinctly is the challenge. G1 is rather sissy, fyi. If you want to throw stuff, that's okay.

The desperate phonecall act:

The guy is locked in his own house, whose power is cut off.
G: *pant and pace while holding a phone, trying to remember a number* Emily...Emily... Number...number...
G: *remember a number and quickly dial, then press phone to ear* Please let this be the right number...Emily, pick up... Pick up. Pick up. Pick up. Pick up, Em.
G: *Emily picks up* Hello, Em? Em? Is that you?
G: Omg, Em. You don't know how glad I am that you picked up the phone.
G: No, no. Em, I'm fine. Listen, Em. No, no, I'm fine. I don't know for how long, but I'm fine now. So, listen, Em. Listen. No, Em, I don't have time for this. Listen, Em.
G: Em, okay, listen. I'm locked in my own house, the power's out, I can't get out, and I think someone's in the house to get me.
G: No, I have no idea who this freak might be, I don't think I know him. All I know is he's here to get me.
G: Yes, I tried the door. I tried the windows. They're all locked. I can't get out. And I can't be running around groping in the dark. Some freak is out there to get me. All I got now is this phone, and I locked myself in the store room, and hopefully whoever it is won't find me here.
G: No, no, Em. No, Em. Stop it. You're not making this any better. I don't know how long I can be here, so I need you to listen. No, Em, stop. Shh...shh. I hear footsteps. Shhh.
G: Omg. I think that was him. Omg. Okay, listen, Em. I need your help. I need you to get help for me. I need you to call someone, call 911, and just get me help before he finds me here. Okay? You get that, Em? You get that?
Psycho killer tries to break into the room.
G: Aahh! *panic* Omg, he found me! He found me, Em! He found me! He's trying to break in!
Psycho killer breaks in.
G: *yell into the phone while backing away* Omg, he got in! Em, call someone, call 911! Get help before he kills me!
G: *throw phone at killer* Get away. What do you want from me?! Stay back! Who are you?! What did I ever do to you?! Why are you doing this?! Don't come any closer!
G: *hear reload sound and stop moving* No, no, don't do this. Don't do this to me. Noo. N- *drop dead to the floor*

Now this is longer, but because the situation is dire, you need to talk a little faster than usual, making this shorter than it is. The guy should be panting and gasping for air throughout the act. You stage-whisper (which is not really whispering) at the start, then of course, talk loudly, and actually yell when you see the word 'yell.'

Hope everyone have fun doing the acts. If anyone is going to actually use one of these in a real play, let me know.

Interview Mania.

Wed, 16 Apr 2008 11:26:01 GMT

Thada! I'm back. The disappearing act was amazing right? Right?

The reason I've been missing yet again is because of--yes I know I mentioned it ample times--scholarships. If you think I'm incessantly blowing up this tiny phase of my tertiary education life, no, I'm not. This is very important to me. Okay, even if I was blowing this up, it's nothing but necessary, because I tend to overlook the small things. That's why I constantly step on ants and snails and dog poop, and trip over stones and curbs and cats and my leg. Okay, maybe not my leg.

Even with this blown up, I tend to forget things like the dates: the application deadlines, the interview dates, etc. (Actually there're no 'et cetera's; those are the only two dates so far, but I just like to make it look like there are really so many dates and I'm really busy.) Like for the former, the application deadlines, I just missed yet another one. I can't point fingers at anyone this time around, because there was ample time for me to finish everything up. I just didn't realise the deadline passed so soon. And for the latter, I actually thought one of the interviews was on last Saturday. Yes I did think it was kind of weird for an interview to be on a Saturday, but then I didn't dwell on it and just focused on panicking and cancelling plans and hoping I could get my computer back from its fixing as soon as possible.

Thank goodness the person-in-charge sent me a text message on Friday reminding me that the interview was on the 14th, not 12th, of this month. At first I went, 'What?!' And then, 'Yeah!' If I could, I would've melted in my car when I saw the message. I know a lot of people would be swearing and cursing and what not, because they pushed and rushed and raced against time for nothing, but that's not me. I was just relieved I had a couple more days to get things done properly, giving the end product some class.

And getting a couple more days also meant I could slow down a little--which was actually a mistake, because on Sunday I didn't get much sleep working--and all the plans for Saturday were back on! On Saturday I really did party hard, rushing for three occasions. Initially, there were four, but then my parents took off without me in the morning to my sister's school for her award ceremony. In the afternoon, I went all the way to Sunway for a movie with a friend, and also to get a present for a party later at night. I actually hesitated about the movie plan because I didn't think I could make it on time for the movie whose tickets my friend already booked, but with a single mind shift, it all ended up well.

Definitely Maybe is a good movie, partly because there's Berg from Two Guys and A Girl (oh, the good ol' days), who's the hot and tall Ryan Reynolds, plus three hot ladies--okay that came out obscene--but mostly because I just like romantic comedies, however corny or cheesy they maybe. Speaking of romantic comedies, I think the movie is more like a comedic romance movie, because the romance part is the focus.

'I can't believe you smoked, drank, and was such a slut!' Maya, the daughter, said. Now that's the comedy part which I love.

After the movie, I was supposed to head straight back to Klang to get ready for my choir practice, but then it just felt so weird to go so far just for a movie. And that friend of mine needed to get a present for the party at night anyway, so I just shopped around with him. And boy, I got sucked into sharing the present with him because he couldn't find anyone else. Not that I dreaded it, because it's for a friend after all. It's just that, I had my present partners already, so it just felt weird to partner with someone else for another present. I felt like I was two-timing. But I'm glad Mr. Prince loves the present(s).

That was event #1. We were heading back at about 4pm, and if things ran with the schedule, I would've been home at about 5, giving me a few minutes to change and grab the stuff for my choir practice. But the train freaking delayed for almost an hour. I was practically an hour late for my choir practice, and I think the teacher noticed, even though I snuck in as silently as I could. Actually, who am I kidding? We have CCTV at the gate! Everyone knew I was late. But anyway, I think the teacher extended the practice session for an extra hour just for me. Sweet, but it wasn't the best thing to do on that day, because right after event #2, which is the choir practice, I still had event #3! The party supposedly started at 7.30pm, and I, plus a hitching-a-ride-from-me friend, could only leave at 8! And we still had to find our way to that secluded party venue. Okay, it's not really secluded, but anywhere that takes me time to find is secluded for me.

The party was fun, btw, because everyone got to catch up with everyone. The food was great as well. This might be embarrassing, but I was totally classless and grabbing the fried chicken and some curry after the birthday boy blew the candles, at which time no one was eating anymore. I really couldn't help it. Omg, it was just too good! I didn't take any when everyone ate, thinking I was just healing from my sore throat, but then after I had a cup of the cake (the birthday cake was made up of many mini cupcakes, therefore a 'cup' of cake), I didn't want the too-sweet taste to dwell in my mouth, thus I grabbed a pinch of the crispy scraps and popped it into my mouth, just for a taste change in my mouth, as I was not supposed to and didn't want to actually eat any deep-fried and oily food that could worsen the sore throat, but omg, after that pinch of scraps, I couldn't stop! Choo did what I did, and he too, was addicted! We, two people who mind a lot about being unclassy, with him being the more severe case (I'm just saying), just kept on eating fried chicken. Omg, that was, like, an unbelievably unclassy act for us. For me, at least. But for good food, it's all worth it. Omg I feel like Amanda from Ugly Betty.

So that was Saturday. I didn't touch anything about scholarships on that day. And on Monday, I had an interview at Taylor's College, one that needed me to do a ten-minute presentation about myself. Yes, of all topics, it had to be about myself. Seriously, if you think it'd be easy because I just had to talk about myself, no, it isn't. If the topic was Music, or My Favourite Book, or something, it'd be okay. But the topic was so general, and I had to talk about myself without it seeming like I was bragging or boasting. And that's not the bad part. The bad part was that, I had to make PowerPoint slides. That's the thing that got me staying up as late as 5.30am.

I only started work at 5pm on Sunday because my siblings just wouldn't let go of the computer since it's brought back from the computer shop on Friday afternoon. Throughout making the slides, I only had about 3 hours of break, to get my brother home from the movies and to have dinner. I actually finished all the slides at about 3.30 in the morning, but since it was so last-minute, I had to make plenty of hand-written notes just so I could look if I forgot what came next on the slides. Normally, I could memorise everything on each and every slide, and I could elaborate with just a few notes on a palm pad because I'd know what I want to say, but just not that time. Everything was so last-minute, and I couldn't risk making impromptu speeches because I might forget certain important points.

When I finally finished everything, like adjusting the slides to fit my notes, and saved a copy into a pendrive and dragged myself to my room, my brother's phone alarm was ringing already. That's a sign of my mom bursting into the room soon to wake my brother up for school, so I quickly changed, forgot about brushing my teeth and moisturizing my eyes to reduce bags so as to look normal and not sleep-deprived for the interview later in the day, and threw myself onto the bed and pretended to be asleep. I can't remember hearing my mom burst into the room, so I guess I was so tired I fell asleep pretty fast.

On Sunday, my mom actually suggested to wake me up with my brother on Monday morning so that I could take off with my dad to the college as early as the time she drives my brother to school, which is at about 6, just to avoid traffic jam. Thank goodness my dad didn't agree on that; otherwise I would've gotten only, what, half an hour of sleep?! Omg, then I'd be dropping to the floor during my interview presentation.

Also, if we went for my mom's suggestion, when I got to the college, I would be waiting, trying to keep myself awake but dozing off helplessly in the waiting room because, even though I was told to be there at 10am in the morning, my interview was at about 3.30 in the afternoon! There were only 7 interviewees on that day, including me, and we drew lots, I got last, and each person's interview time was about half an hour to an hour plus.

While I waited in the waiting room with the other interviewees, I actually didn't know whether to embarrass myself and sleep right there, (maybe) drooling like a baby and snoring too, or to talk to them, which I really didn't have the energy to do, or to work on my notes and speech for my presentation, which I also didn't have the energy to, but would have to muster something up to, do. I picked working on the presentation in the end, because, really, I was so sleep-deprived I wasn't in the mood to make new friends, even though I actually got to sleep until about 8am in the morning, and not 6am, on that day.

I did pretty well, I think, because the interviewers seemed really interested in me and in helping me find the course for me. They really didn't push me to study at their school, but instead, they want me to listen to my heart and do what I want to. But there came the guilt, because everything I said about my hopes and dreams was a pseudo-lie. As much as I want to get into what I told them, what I really want is to go overseas and kick-start a whole different career than what I told them. But anyhow, I think it was really cool that the interviewers were actually concerned about my well-being, unlike the interviewers of the interview I went through the next day.

On Tuesday, I had another interview at another college, which I don't think I sailed through that much. One of the interviewers, a representative from the college, seemed really indifferent and, I just felt like he tried to act superior. He was going off-topic a lot, from talking bad about Yamaha's music lessons ( 'ABRSM is better.Yamaha is not good. My children went there, and they wasted four years there. They don't focus on the theory part. Theory is important, right?' And I had to nod. I can't even imagine what would happen if I did otherwise.) to boasting about the work of the students from the college ( 'You see all these? These are all works of the students here. And that one? That is completed within half an hour.' And I feigned surprise, mouthing 'wow!' Again, I can't imagine doing otherwise.)

I really didn't enjoy the interview on Tuesday. The interviewers seemed unprofessional, like just a couple of typical Indian uncles. They seemed uninterested; yes, not disinterested, but totally uninterested in what they are doing. And they actually ran out of questions to ask, and instead asked me if I had any questions for them. I hoped they regret cutting me off when I tried to tell them more about myself. If they let me talk more than they asked, they would've had more questions for me. Yes, I have so much personality.

Anyway, a side-note about the interview would be, I think I was the smartest interviewee there. Right after the interview, when I got back to the front area of the college where all the interviewees sat, an Indian girl asked me how it went. I told her it was okay. 'They just want to talk to you,' I said, which was true because--just refer to the interviewer's off-topic chat that I mentioned just now. Anyway, then she asked what my SPM results are.

'Er, ten A's,' I replied with a straight face and assumed she would say, 'Oh, okay.' Instead, everyone waiting down there, who was intently watching us talk, collectively went, 'Whoa!' The Indian girl said 'Omg!' and covered her face with her forearm. She then added, 'You are the greatest guy I've ever met.'

'Oh okay,' I managed, not actually knowing what to say without sounding arrogant. I couldn't possibly say, 'What? What did you guys get? How did you get chosen then?' After everyone more or less recovered from the sudden awe, I bid goodbye, saying, 'Nice meeting you. Bye.' Only now did I notice: that was so Sharpay.

I don't know if anyone remembers the scene in HSM, but it is something like this: Kelsy suggests to Sharpay how she should alter her version of a song Kelsy wrote, and Sharpay puts on her bitchy face, holds the mic away from her face, and tells Kelsy, '...you do not offer any directions, suggestions, or commentary, understand?' to which Kelsy timidly replied, 'Yes, ma'am--I mean, Sharpay.' Sharpay then plasters on a big smile, holds the mic to her mouth, and says, 'Nice talking to you.'

Omg, I totally didn't realise that line I said could come out so bitchily! Omg, I totally didn't mean to be bitchy. But I was the smartest guy around. Omg, I am bitchy!

Oh, btw, from the conversation between an interviewee and his friend/brother keeping him company, I think the interviewee tried out for Astro's star search competition and almost got into the top 50. Hmm, I should've got his name and contact and even some advice from him. Oh well.

I think for now, the most part of applying for scholarships is done and I'm halfway through all the interviews for all the scholarships I applied for; then all I need to do is wait for all the 'Yes!' and 'Congrats!' letters to come. But now I'm scouting for more scholarships to apply for. Yes I'm really desperate for scholarships.

Next week, I have a two-day camp for my Petronas scholarship and I really dread it. Yes, I hate going for camps, or even badly planned school trips because the accomodation is lousy, and there is always a list of lame, pointless, ridiculous activities on the schedule. The accomodation part is still okay, because I can always choose to have minimum usage of dirty bathrooms and filthy bunks, though I'd much prefer it if I got a comfy hotel room with a clean bathroom, shared with three or four or even five other roommates.

It's the ridiculous activities that get to me. The organizers just love to ask campers to run in a field or shout some slogans without prior information on the purpose. They think they are great planners and the activities are oh-so-fun, with plenty of hidden lessons that the campers will learn; they do not know that no one will get the meaning of their childish activites, that the campers are actually too old for their kiddish games, and that campers actually exchange gazes with each other agreeing that the activities are just too pointless and lame before carrying out whatever instructions given just to please them. If anyone actually stepped up and asked, 'And what's the point of all this?' the person would be marked and mocked. In a camp, campers are just like live-size dolls to be played by the organizers.

Another thing that gets me is the dress codes for all the different occasions. I mean, if it's 'formal' or 'sports wear' or 'casual excluding fitting jeans' or even 'non-sexually provocative,' it's okay. But the problem is, it's not. The dress codes are like, 'track bottom with collar T-shirts (long-sleeved for girls).' Can you believe it?! They are not dress codes anymore, but practically instructions on what to wear.

That's what I hate. Just because some people are not allowed to show any more skin than their faces, hands and feet, everyone has to follow? And what's the point of all the covering up anyway? As if anyone would actually think nonsense looking at collarbones and arms and shoulders. Don't they know that their 'rules' are impractical in today's society? That the 'rules' are made the way they are because in the olden days, at the original places where the 'rules' are first made, the weather conditions are way different than today's? I just hate all these dress codes, because if you misinterpretted it and wore something with slightly less clothe and/or more colour, you'd be stared at like you're trying to bring back communism.

I'm so indignant just talking about it. Don't even get me started on the eating-with-cutlery part. Don't they know that in this modern world today, people, other than the stubborn them of course, actually eat with spoons and forks and chopsticks and knifes? Just because they might not be skilled at using them and prefer going primitive, that doesn't mean other people want that too? Ugh, what happened to simple, basic civil rights and free will?

I just hope this camp is open and modern; I do not wish to be traumatised once again, or be seen as the kid who doesn't listen.

Why did they have to start a camp in the first place? Can't they just make the interview like JPA's? So far, the interview for the JPA scholarship is the simplest of all, as much as my friends claimed it to be tough. The interview was done in groups, and my group got but just only two questions: an introduction in BM, and 'What are your personal aims and goals?' or something similar, which I initially heard as 'What are your personal views of ghosts?'. I heard from my friends that they got more questions than that, and tougher ones too. Oh well, lucky me then. But my point is, interviews should be as simple as that: a simple chat with a person so that that person sees your personality and enthusiasm and knows about you enough to award you something.

That's all for today. Don't you just love it when I pull vanishing acts? You get to read long, boring tirades when I come back.

P.S.: The stars (*) are recommended points for a break. Finish this in one gulp if you want to, and more importantly, have the time to.

Eeky Announcement.

Wed, 02 Apr 2008 06:20:15 GMT

Ms. Eek is going to be a doctor! One that doesn't treat you when you're sick, or amputate your leg for you when your ankle is touched by absolutangel64. Instead, she might ask you a lot of questions about your feelings when you're slowly dying or cutting your own leg off out of depression and too much alcohol. So many questions that you want to hit yourself to death with the leg that you cut off.

Yes she's not a real doctor (as in M.D.). She's but just a student in Communication Studies at Kent University trying to get a fake Doctor (as in M.D.) title because she has too much time and no working skills. She thinks that she can do nothing aside from acting really smart and still get plenty of money once she get the non-hospital-related title of Doctor, just because hospital-related doctors do.

But to get the oh-so-glamourous title, she has to find something to talk about. And she couldn't think of anything, because she can do nothing aside from acting really smart, so she decided to just go for the indiscussed, and crap about what she doesn't know everyone unspokenly but irrefutably avoids: what makes people gossip and rant and crack dry jokes and type nothings the way they do on the Internet.

And she wants to make it big, since she's a doctoral student and she thinks that's what doctoral students do for their dissertation. She made an online survey, whose site's background is made über-green because Ms. Eek doesn't realize that green was last season's black. She thinks that green is the new pink, and that the colour green equals the save-our-world green.

Anyway, she wants 300 people who think their lives are so important that the whole world should know about it--or, in short, 300 bloggers who write about their lives and thoughts in general--to participte in the survey. People who are blonde enough to actually participate in the survey (and get themselves involved in green, which is the old black) must be all 18 or above, because Ms. Eek hates kids. And participants' lives must be so dramatic that they write about it at least once a month. That's all.

Oh, Ms. Eek's truly smart for once: participants can enter a drawing for a twenty-bucks gift card from Amazon.com. Okay, so the gifts are a little cheap, and little in amount (there are only ten! I can't wait for catfights over them), and the source of the gifts is a little lame, but at least she knows that everybody loves free gifts.

So, fellow blondies, please join, for I think you're the only people who'd be, well, blonde enough to join.

Okay, that's the result of too much Amandabiggestfan and The Devil Wears Prada. I couldn't help but be bitchy for a while. Anyway, do not believe anything stated in the above post, because I totally twisted everything and made up a lot of stuff too. I don't mean any of the mean stuff I said. Most of them anyway. Particularly the green part, because green is always the new pink. Or black.

In reality, I think the survey is great because, agreeing with Ms. Eek, erm, I mean, Ms. Erin E. Kleman, I think academics haven't given blogging enough research attention it deserves. Way to go, Erin. Hope you succeed.

This is the real announcement that Erin gave me, btw:

ATTENTION BLOGGERS!

I am a doctoral student in Communication Studies at Kent State University. For my doctoral dissertation, I am studying bloggers. Would you be willing to participate in my survey?

This online survey should only take about 15 minutes to complete, and it would mean the world to me. If you participate, you will be entered in a drawing to win one of 10, $20 Amazon.com gift cards.

To participate in this study, you must be at least 18 years old, and you must currently maintain a blog that is primarily about your personal musings about your life, internal states, opinions, thoughts, or attitudes. Finally, you must write in your blog at least once a month.

If you would like to participate, please visit the following website: http://www.surveymonkey.com/s.aspx?sm=g6sWwfib_2fwHO9mpgV5LhIQ_3d_3d

Thanks so much for your help!

Sincerely,
Erin E. Kleman
Doctoral Candidate
School of Communication Studies
Kent State University
eekleman@kent.edu

You can check out Erin's blog for it too.

P.S.: I did this announcement because I'm flattered that Erin thinks posting an announcement up on my blog helps to boost participation. Meaning: she thinks my blog is popular! ~~Blonde.~~