Zay's Blog

Take That!

It's official. It is everywhere. The reason Malaysian men make good spooks is that they love deflecting personal queries, especially over dinner. "So, what do you do?" they are asked, routinely. Instead of excitedly blurting out the latest list of big construction projects at Jalan Ampang, they cleverly feign a suppressed yawn and say, "Me? Nothing special. I have a boring executive job at some crappy corporation."

       There was a theory that well-mannered men, of sorts, often refuse so obstinately to divulge their occupations – either they consider it impolite to boast, or they think you should know without asking – like there is a label attached to these men or something.

       Sometimes you don't find out until it's too late to apologize. "That was the Brand Manager for Louis Vuitton of LVMH Malaysia," someone will hiss to you at a party, nodding at your new friend, as he wanders off. Numbly, you sink to the couch, with your fingers in your mouth. You just commented on the silly contributions of Marc Jacobs for Louis Vuitton.

       But what impresses me most is that high-powered (or some self-denying) Malaysian women are gradually following these men's steps, pretending they wear slippers in the office. Is that really true that if you say the words, "boring executive job", people will enquire you no further?

       I remember an innocent occasion a few years ago during a girls' night out in Bukit Bintang, when I came out from the Ladies, to rejoin the little group of engineer guys we've met (what larks!) and a gal friend grabbed my arm, whispering to me with the veins aggressively sticking out on her neck, "Don't ever tell them that we're from journalism school"

       "Why?"

       "Because it will scare those guys off!" she hissed, "tell them we are doing marketing or you can say you're a cabin crew."

       WHAT?

       I was stunned, "I can't!"

       She glared. She fumed. She suddenly danced on the spot.

       "Okay suit yourself, but please tell the cute one I work for SIA," she barked, before barging through the swing door with a mighty shove from the shoulder.

       That was when I realize I can never be a spook. Seriously, the invention of alter egos is a dangerous practice in Psychology. Ha-ha.

Hurt by Christina Aguilera

Seems like it was yesterday when I saw your face
You told me how proud you were but I walked away
If only I knew what I know today

I would hold you in my arms
I would take the pain away
Thank you for all you've done
Forgive all your mistakes
There's nothing I wouldn't do
To hear your voice again
Sometimes I want to call you but I know you won't be there

I'm sorry for blaming you for everything I just couldn't do
And I've hurt myself by hurting you
Some days I feel broke inside but I won't admit
Sometimes I just want to hide 'cause it's you I miss
You know it's so hard to say goodbye when it comes to this

Would you tell me I was wrong?
Would you help me understand?
Are you looking down upon me?
Are you proud of who I am?
There's nothing I wouldn't do
To have just one more chance
To look into your eyes and see you looking back

I'm sorry for blaming you for everything I just couldn't do
And I've hurt myself
If I had just one more day, I would tell you how much that
I've missed you since you've been away

Oh, it's dangerous
It's so out of line to try to turn back time

I'm sorry for blaming you for everything I just couldn't do
And I've hurt myself

By hurting you

Do you know how to be a woman?

Asian feminisim has a man problem. The beaming working suit ladies, hangdog dowdies, and parochial prudes who speak about 'Women's Power' are trying real hard to be just like men.

They fear and despise the women nature in themselves. They loathe the masculine. They say women in love are weak. The academic feminists think their nerdy book-worm husbands are the perfect specimen of human manhood. The businesswomen and politician feminists think they don't need men. Or, better yet, they want to be single for good.

BUT, these are not true feminists.

A real feminist loves real men. They see beauty in masculinity, in all its rough vigor and sweaty physical perfection. They celebrate sex. They claim their love for children. They love motherhood. They know they seize the day when they wear that beautiful white wedding dress and walk down the aisle. And they're not afraid to tell the whole world that, "Yes, I am EVERY woman!"

True women speak no guilt about courtship ritual of sex and seduction. They show girls how to be attractive, sensual, energetic, ambitious, aggressive, and funny. They live on a motto to be fully female and sexual while still exercising control over their lives.

And, most of all, real women believe in animality and artifice.

Conversative feminism says, "No more masks." I say we are nothing but masks.

After all, don't we all love Julia Roberts in 'Pretty Woman'?

Oh. My. God.

I have a secret to confess.

I've postponed the submission deadline for an article for more than 1 month! And actually TWO!

Ugh... I think my stress threshold has become lower than before ever since I've gotten this brain-cell-killing writer job. Even though I won't, you know, shut down whenever I get showered by all these, but one huge part of me would go like Crap, can I just continue with my facebooking a little longer?

I just didn't want to START! And the continual excuse that I've given to myself is that I cannot handle deadlines. Which is totally CRAP!

"I thought you like to work against deadlines?" Tammy asked with ardor when she saw me grumbling about deadlines.

Oh well...

What? What?? I wanted to come out with an impressive and smart answer (as always, blek!) but my head was awfully blank.

And irony has no torment great enough, it actually drew and hauled me along to the memory lane, where I self-proclaimed a big fan of all bloody deadlines. "Oh I feel achieved everytime I conquer 'em, ya know?"

Uh-uh.

Let me just tell you now, my LOVE for deadlines has been ceased by reality. The reality that I love to SLACK, and the reality that I am a last-minute person!

I know I can no longer bask in old glory, telling you people about how my last-minute saved my ass from all the final papers before, because today, the twin devils of procrastination and distraction are occupying my mind happily, eating my brain cells bit by bit. Ugh, I am terminal.

And if you must know, I have a traveling column due next week, and I haven't laid my fingers on it. YET.

Okay, I hate myself.