I am torn between horror and pity.

I have a stuffed cat that is often times used to play with my little Boo-kitty. The toy is only nine-inches long which is about half the length of Boo. Most of the time I hold it and shake it about and let the Boozer have at it like it was a mouse.

(Probably bad training if I ever wanted to introduce another cat to him but it is so much fun.)

Yesterday, I caught Boo carrying the stuffed cat around in his mouth and making strange mewing noises. As I continued to watch, pleased that he was playing with the toy himself, I noticed he kept positioning himself oddly over the toy as though he were preparing to urinate on it.

I dismissed it thinking my imagination was simply playing tricks with me.

As the minutes kept dragging by, I noticed the movements were the same. He would drag the stuffed cat around a bit, set it on the ground, step over it until he was on top of it, then "position" himself. Then it dawned on me...

OH MY GOD! MY CAT IS TRYING TO RAPE THAT TOY!

Not humping. There was no humping. Humping is different. He was literally trying to mount it and even did that whole biting down on the stuffed toy's neck (I know they do that coz that is what my neighbour's cats used to do in my driveway).

Unfortunately, because that stuffed cat is so much smaller than Boo, he could not get it quite far down enough to be effective while biting it. And when he decided to forgo the biting, well, nothing happened. It is as though he was expecting the toy cat to take over from that (lazy-ass bitch of a cat!). More than anything, I think it was simply that there was nothing to actually do for anything to happen.

That was yesterday. He has since attempted to mount the damn thing three times.

The part where I am horrified is... well... imagine if you one day walked into a room and found your baby trying to do it with a blow-up doll. Your baby who has been snipped. Oh, and also, I have always imagined that stuffed toy to be male.

The pity part is that he is quite obviously horny enough to want to do it with a stuffed animal. Poor thing. Now I sort of wish he had some kind of feline companionship.

Started my countdown-celebration-thingy thing to the release of Terry Goodkind's ninth installment to his Sword of Truth series in paperback. (Yeah, I'm a dragon/sword wielding/giant treks across the lands to fight unknown evils/magic/mystical creature loving person.)

I am doing that countdown-celebration-thingy by reading through the first eight books. I figure now would be a good time to start. I have 9 days (starting yesterday) to read 8 books, each book almost 1000 pages. And the the end of November, I go out and buy another 1000 page book - Chainfire, the 9th book - to top it all off with.

And also, because I am a sentimentalist, I shall be reading all 8 books listening to Norah Jones' Come Away With Me CD set to repeat over and over again because I was introduced to both at the same time and listened/read them together the first time around.

The time has come when I must face the dreaded hairdressers. It is such a chore. I feel uncomfortable sitting in a chair, wrapped in a plastic poncho that restricts movement, and watch someone go at my head with a pair of sharp scissors and combs with oddly pointed ends.

However, my hair seems to have taken on a life of its own. And I don't mean that in the ooh, aah, her hair is so beautiful and shiny and sways in the wind kind of life. I mean Medusa hair. Medusa hair that is so long and heavy that it can no longer bear to even pretend it has volume with the help of mousse or hair spray.

I hate cutting my hair in the States though. Here, I pay $20 to get the worst haircuts (plural, because until recently, I was apparently a masochist) in my life. Back home, I pay a quarter that amount and get good (or at least even) haircuts. Cut by people who will actually look at your head and see if it is even instead of taking a straight ruler and just going across (yes, that's an exaggeration, but only the ruler part).

I know I could probably get better haircuts but I'm a big cheapie and $20/year is all I put aside for haircuts.

Once again, it could be that by this time my brain was searching desperately for anything with some semblance of entertainment, but I found the Kate Winslet's American Express advertisement rather interesting.

Perhaps it was because, the entire time, I was sitting in my seat in utter confusion trying to figure who this chick was and what (interesting) movie this could possibly be. A minute later, I realize it is Kate Winslet and that it was an advertisement, not a movie trailer.

At 17, I went to prison for murder.
At 19, I was pennyless and heartbroken.
I almost drowned at 20.
My mind started to go at 24.
Then I had my memory erased at 28.
And by 29, I was in Neverland.

Two minutes after the showing of that ad, I am still raking my brain trying to connect which movie to which sentence. And here it is: (I didn't guess them all, I googled it.)

Heavenly Creatures.
Sense & Sensibility.
Titanic.
Iris.
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. (have yet to see that.)
Neverland.

I just thought it was a really amusing ad to watch.

For some reason, I am having an incredibly hard time reading Mostly Harmless, which is the last book of the Hitchhiker's Guide series... to my knowledge.

Simply said, it is not my favourite and I have been stuck between chapters 15 and 21 for about five days now, which is pretty stuck.

But enough is enough. This book must be finished. Come on, Sherryl. Buckle down and read it! Only... 16 more pages left?!

Huh! 16 pages does not really seem like much when written down but it sure as hell looks like a lot more on the book. Man, this book has thick pages.

Yes. I went to see Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, or as my movie ticket put it, Harry Goblet. I found that to be mildly amusing. But that could just be from my brain screaming for entertainment during the 45-minute wait for the show to start (went early to get good seats).

I find that comparing movies with the books they are based off often leads to much disappointment -- they didn't put in this scene, that wasn't how I envisioned that, that character isn't supposed to act that way -- so, I won't compare it to the book. (Besides, I read the book years ago and my memory is kind of fuzzy.)

In doing so, I found it to be a good, entertaining movie with great special effects. It is one of those movies that seems to pleasantly last longer than the actual time that it runs (in this case, two and a half hours). Or maybe it just lasted longer because my ass was burning in pain the whole time. The Rolla cinema needs some better seats.

One thing my mind seemed to have trouble getting over is the apparent growth spurt these actors went through in the one "summer" between the two "school years". My, how those kids have grown. And also how fit those kids seemed to look. How many fourteen-year-olds have what looks like the beginning of a well toned, muscley body?

All right. I'm stopping here before I make myself out to be a paedophile.

Just heard Seasons of Love from the Rent (the movie) soundtrack on the radio.

It made me sad.

It made me sad because Rent (not the movie) came to St. Louis for a weekend some time in early January this year and I was in Malaysia.

It made me sad because Rent (not the movie) will be back, once again, in St. Louis for a weekend sometime in early January and, in all likelihood, I will be in Malaysia.

One day, when I grow up, I am going to live in a big city with great theatre and there, I am going to go broke. One day...

If you bought 2 packs of 4 rechargeable AA batteries and the charger came with 2 complementary rechargeable AA batteries, how many batteries do you have?

Common sense, past experience, and math tells you that you should have 10 rechargeable AA batteries.

Unless, of course, they are kept in a room like mine which comes with its own inter-dimensional portal, orange elephants dancing on the ceiling, a hyper-lazy cat, and a disillusioned engineer. Then you get 11.

I was chatting online with a friend that I had not spoken to in years (I am horrible with maintaining friendships if I am not in the same general timezone) and he said that I looked "stronger" and "tougher" in that picture. He got disconnected after that.

That was about a day ago and I am still wondering what he meant by that.

I got an email from my Mom. She is going to London on another business trip, then visiting Paris and then on Sunday she is going to attend mass at the Vatican. *pauses for onslaught of various Catholic jokes. Bring it, bitches.*

Anyway, I am jealous.

Just wanted to put that out there because it seems as though there is never enough jealousy in the world.

No need to thank me. Just doing my part to make the world a better place is all.

I think Dracula creeps into my room at night and force feeds me "special brownies" while I am under his hypnotic spell.

That would be so cool.

Jabbering Village Idiots.

Not the dangerous kind that stalks, spews words of imminent doom, sacrifices rats to a god named Garfield, and may very well prove to be a closeted serial killer. No, no, not that kind. In fact, I don't think that is a village idiot. I think that would be more along the lines of raving lunatic.

I am talking about the kind that does the dumbest things. Things that when others look at him/her doing it for the first time, they think "awww, poor kid," but then watch him/her get up, brush him/herself off and do the same thing all over again and again and again until another dumb act can be thought up.

That is what the world needs.

Or more specifically, what my backyard needs. For comic relief, if nothing else. That backyard can get awful gloomy at times.

Oh, and that Jabbering Village Idiot needs to do it in glow-in-the-dark clothing. That way when it is three in the morning and I have exhausted all my other means of entertainment, I could just look out the window and pretend not to stare.

Hmmm... glow-in-the-dark cat suit. Wonder how that would look.

Apparently my lack of soft drinks and coffee and basically anything caffeineish has caused me to become caffeine intolerant. At least that is what I am hypothesizing.

The past few times I made myself a nice steaming mug of coffee, I would become horribly nauseous shortly after finishing the cup (or halfway through it if I am unlucky enough). Naturally, horribly nauseous led to horribly retching which in turn led to horribly gazing at chunks of food floating around in the toilet bowl.

The stuff just plain makes me sick... which altogether sucks ass coz I like drinking the occasional cuppa joe. Just not everyday.

What in the name of God's lavatorial throne is this RSS crap I keep seeing on other people's blogs?

Ok, wait. I know what it is... I just fail to understand it and how it works.

Kind of like central cooling/heating -- it makes me warm during winter and cool during summer but I haven't the foggiest clue what the hell makes it tick. It could be run by little hot-pink-coloured-hair transvestite elves with degrees in Electrical Engineering dressed in the latest Barbie doll fashions driving back and forth in their scale model Beamers that they outfitted with nuclear powered engines.

*sigh*

RSS is my current Everest that I apparently must overcome. There is a tiny little OCD-plagued fairy that carved a home out in the back of my brain that has threatened to chip away at my cerebral cortex with a blunt butter knife until I have mastered the holy mysteries of RSS. Or maybe I am just looking for a hobby.

It is simple really... all I need is to spend several hours/days/years/decades learning computer-techno-gadgetry-lingo and I am ready to start learning about RSS.

Multipost/day away.

Painted my nails. Not sure if the colour actually suits me but I do not care because the colour is just too damn funky to not use.

Was thinking about home today and about the huge changes in English I am going to have to remake.

I find it interesting that I seem to be entirely capable of compartmentalizing my different types of English accents, vocabulary, and grammar and keeping them entirely separate from one another.

You see, when here in the States, I am fully capable of immersing myself into the culture to actually pass as an American (or so I had been told by friends and strangers alike - I personally don't see it). I assume an American accent and attitude (I think).

And then, when in Malaysia, do the same thing and become immersed in that culture. I speak the same Manglish (Malay-English - or Mangled English as non-Manglish fans like to call it) as I did before I came to the States -- accent, lingo, and all.

I was actually slightly worried that I had lost my Manglishness (I feel it is one of the things that makes Malaysia unique) but last year, after hearing a few dozen relatives ask me why I don't sound like an American, I happily deduced that I did not, in fact, lose it but rather just stored it away until the proper time I could air it out and use it. Not that my Manglish was that great to begin with. After all, I have only lived in Malaysia for six or seven years.

Here lies the odd part. When on the phone with a Malaysian with an American in the room, or vice versa, I become extremely confused as to how to talk. I swing back and forth between Manglish and American every other word or so.

The reason? This compartmentalization of accents and slangs is not a conscious act. I see/hear a Malaysian talking and I will react accordingly. I see/hear an American talking and do likewise. Try mixing the two and my brain starts overloading, I guess. Sort of this whole "when in Rome..." dealio.

Small things like saying queue up back home and line up over here. Or trash can versus rubbish bin. Or adding lah's and lor's and ma's behind every few sentences in Manglish (I find it extraordinarily fascinating how adding those to the end of a well placed word has the power to give a sentence entire volumes). Let us not forget spicing up words with hai's and oi's and haiyor's. I love Manglish -- speaking it that is. Absolutely hate writing it.

Writing in itself is a confusing thing. Half the time, I cannot decide whether to spell color or colour. Meter or metre. Specialize or specialise. Why all the English-as-a-first-language countries cannot simply get together and pick one is beyond me. Cell phone for Americans, mobile phones for the British, and hand phones for Malaysians (I wonder what it is for Australians). Gas and petrol.


Oh, and do not get me started on "just now." For Malaysia, just now can mean anytime between a minute ago and a week ago. Apparently for Americans there is a time limit where "just now" literally means "just now." I cannot stress how much effort it me to break that habit (and how many times I got a lecture after I used it on something that happened a few hours ago) because apparently it drives certain people here up the walls. Although, I do admit I did have fun irritating the hell out of them.

Suddenly got hit by this bad wave of homesickness... for my books, of all things. My Hobbit book, my Pride & Prejudice book, my Enchanted Forest Book, and (because of the movie which I am positive I am going to be dissatisfied with) my Narnia books. I think that of everything I own, my children's books are the thing I treasure the most.

As a kid, my mom bought me all kinds of books with fantastic illustrations and even now I love reading them from time to time because the pictures are so pretty and well drawn. Plus, they are classics! You just never tire of them. I would just flip through them to look at the pictures but it is somehow more satisfying to read the book and only allow yourself to linger on the illustrations once you have reached the proper page. Much like building up to a climax.

Although, now that I think about it, I am wondering why they had such intricate drawings for books whose key demographic likes to colour suns red and moons orange. Maybe it is for the parents who read books to children.

And now that I think about that, the only book I ever recall being read to me by either of my parents was the Bible. Oh, and Puddle Lane books.

Oh right... Puddle Lane books. Now I remember why my parents never read to me. Once I got old enough to read by myself, I would lie on the bed and read to them.

I wonder... Do they even print Puddle Lane books anymore?

After this, I think I am going to stop posting multiposts on a single day. I feel it makes it seem like I have nothing better to do with my life.

Which, I suppose at this phase of my life, is true but the point is to make it seem like it is not. It's all about the illusion, baby.

At the time, I was in a friend's room at the dorms (he had junk food and I had the munchies). I guess it was a slow night for TV so finally, after many, many long minutes of channel surfing, we decided to watch a horror movie about a two-foot-high tiki god that runs around killing people.

I truly believe that the producers/actors/director of the movie were gung-ho about making this a respectable horror movie (in fact, the actors, who are fairly famous, did not do too bad a job), but it turned out to be such a God-awful movie.

For instance, there was this scene where they are sitting around the camp discussing this tiki god and one of the girls was speaking to the rest of the group. I may be (and probably am) seriously off on this as it was a year and a half ago and I was not giving it the utmost of my attention (not with a can of Pringles sitting on the couch beside me), but I believe the quote went something along the lines of this: "I did not know how to describe it until I just explained it to you guys"

.....at this point I am wondering if I heard right, as the left side of my brain is yelling at the right side of my brain asking how a person can not know how to describe something and then go about describing it.

Fortunately, just before my right side of the brain could reply that it technically isn't possible and that I need to enter myself into an asylum of some sort because I am losing my clutch on sanity, I look around at the others in my room who are wearing faces with equally confused looks that tells me that they are thinking of checking themselves into the local mental ward too.

Oh, and there is the scene where an ATV (All-Terrain Vehicle) is driven into a tree (or maybe a rock) and then explodes with all sorts of splendor and glory. You know how you sometimes see scenes on TV or in movies where you think to yourself "would that really explode like that?" Well, this was sort of a "there is no freakin' way that could have exploded like that unless that tree (or rock) was made of nitroglycerine."

Man... now I really want to watch that movie all over again for shits and giggles. I wonder if Blockbuster has it.

It is one of those movies that is so bad that it is so funny that you cannot help but want to watch. One of those movies that makes you wish you could slap the characters for allowing themselves to be bullied by a two-foot midget but you can't so you keep watching in hopes that later in the movie, someone magically will.

Olivia: You are the weakest link, goodbye. (laughter)
Stewie: Ha ha ha! Oh gosh that's funny! That's really funny! Do you write your own material? Do you? Because that is so fresh. You are the weakest link goodbye. You know, I've, I've never heard anyone make that joke before. Hmm. You're the first. I've never heard anyone reference, reference that outside the program before. Because that's what she says on the show right? Isn't it? You are the weakest link goodbye. And, and yet you've taken that and used it out of context to insult me in this everyday situation. God what a clever, smart girl you must be, to come up with a joke like that all by yourself. That's so fresh too. Any, any Titanic jokes you want to throw at me too as long as we're hitting these phenomena at the height of their popularity. God you're so funny!

and some of this...

Lois: What kind of egotistical, selfish, moronic and idiotic person would get liposuction... Who? WHO?
(Peter walks in at half of his weight)
Stewie: Oh my God... It has finally happened, he has become so massive that he collapsed into himself like a neutron star.

Alright... I'm done copy and pasting. More quotes here.

*sigh* Conversations are too fast-paced nowadays, I feel. You just don't get the time anymore for a really nice, long, insulting rant without being interrupted.

Don't you just hate it when you burn your tongue? Being left with that weird tingly sensation for hours, or if you're really unlucky - days. As though all your taste buds have been haphazardly scraped off with a butter knife.

How about drinking a really hot drink through a straw? That's always a fun time. I truly hope there aren't too many people out there that do it on a regular basis, but then again, I like to live in a bubbly world where there are no masochists.

I remember the first time I did that. I was somewhere between eight- and ten- years old and I was in an Indian restaurant with my family and had ordered my favourite: Dosai and Teh Tarik (man, I could really go for some of that right now).

Naturally, the drinks came first. I, being one of the lazier specimens of humankind, reached for a straw with which to sip that piping hot drink with so that I wouldn't have to mess with the business of lifting up a cup to my lips.

Actually, now that I think about it, I think the real reason I used the straw was because the glass holding it was really hot and I was having trouble getting a good, comfortable grip on it. But I like the lazy reason better.

Anyway, there I am, with a straw sticking out of my Teh Tarik, about to take a sip and my brother warns me that it'll be hotter if I drink it though a straw. Well, he is my brother and I have long since sworn, as his mortal enemy and sibling, to not take anything he says seriously (he, who nicknamed me S.S. - stupid Sherryl, silly Sherryl, etc.). Besides, he has to be yanking my chain. Common eight- to ten- year old sense tells me that a drink can't possibly get hotter when it is simply sitting in a glass on a table.

So, I take a sip.

The rest of the memory is somewhat fuzzy but I do recall something along the lines of spitting the drink out at near lightning speed back into the cup. And following that, laughter from across the table.

And that was my first-time-I-sipped-a-hot-drink-through-a-straw story.

I was lying in bed earlier letting a torrent of various thoughts, concerns, worries, nit-picks, and other random what-have-you's wash over me.

Oh yeah... by the way, I am dropping out of college. Engineering is not my calling and for each day the past year, I had let it eat away at me mentally and emotionally.

It was a rather rude wake-up call realizing that the treasure I had been chasing after for the past three-or-so years was nothing more than fool's gold. I don't mean to imply that engineering is bad (so don't get offended if you are an engineer), it is simply not where my passion lies.

I have no clue what lies in the future for me anymore. That in itself is sort of a soul-shaker. I have never not known about my future. I have always had a vague, hazy idea of the shape of things to come. The fact that I can no longer see it (my future) is overwhelming and, at times, an almost paralysing fear.

I try to think about what is going to happen in the next year -- what events may transpire, what people I might meet along the way -- but all I see is just a big giant bucket full of nothing. Empty.

No, not empty. That sounds too negative. More like blank. Like a brand new canvas for me to paint on.

That is pretty much the main reason I am having so much trouble sleeping. The unknown.

There are so many question marks right now. Right there at the top is: What am I going to do with my life now? Do I go back to school? And if I do, what will I study? Are my parents going to disown me?

Ok, that last bit is the result of an overactive imagination but then again, I have never dropped out of college a year before graduation. And don't tell me "if it's just a year, why not just plow through it?" coz I have gone down that road and a year of low motivation and an almost complete lack of enthusiasm can make for a horrible time and bad grades.

Found this site one day, where sappy, pathetic, cat-owning losers upload pictures of their cats and kittens and pit them against each other in a vicious, high-stakes, heart-pumping, fast-moving 'my cat is cuter than your cat' contest.

And in one of my "proud owner of most fabulous cat" moments, I uploaded my kitty's picture too (yes, that makes me a sappy, pathetic, cat-owning loser too). And after days of waiting for approval (I cannot believe it took so long), my Boozer made it in. And he won his first competition too! (Meaning someone thinks he is cuter than at least one other cat in the world.)

Anyway, the following is what I think would go through a pick pocket's mind as (s)he is getting ready to pick a pocket.

I envision this taking place in a packed subway car. It is my very first time and I am nervous as hell.

_____________________________

Okay. Breathe. In-Out-In-Out.

Not so deeply! Make it seem normal or someone will notice. Damn. What is normal breathing?

God, I can't believe no one else can hear my heart. It feels like the freakin' Blue Man Group is holding a concert in my chest.

Are my eyes shifting? Shifty eyes gives cause for people to be suspicious.

Okay. Calm down. Take your mind off it. Think of... bears. Yes. Bears. That's good.

Running bears. With rolls of flab jiggling about. I wonder if they can feel all that jiggling as they run. Does it hinder them in any way?

Oh look... the perfect target! Ha! That girl's wallet is just begging to be snatched with it all hanging halfway out of her too-tight jeans. What a dumbass. A dumbass with horrible fashion sense. This'll be a snap. God, let this be a snap.

Alright. Time to get in position. *sidles up behind her*

Good. She's too busy mucking about in her thoughts to notice me. This will be easy.

Another minute before the next stop. Feels like eternity.

Bears. Think of bears. Bears catching salmon. Bears standing on their hind legs eating honey. Bears balancing on a big red ball. I hate circuses. I hate clowns. They're scary. Damn horror movies, ruining perfectly innocent perceptions.

Ok... showtime!

Doesn't look as though she is getting off at this stop. Excellent.

Alrightey... swipe on three.

One.

Two.

Three!

Oh God! I did it! Hide it hide it hide it. Not so quickly, stupid. Now is not the time to attract attention with jerky movements.

Out the door. Quick, quick, quick! *slips out the door*

Yes! Ok, now it's the simple matter of calmly walking away. Why are those doors taking so long to close?

*doors slide shut*

Home free, baby! God, that was exhilarating. I hope there are credit cards in this baby. I hope it has cash.

It is almost four o'clock in the morning. My body is tired. My eyes are constantly drying up. (blink. type. blink. type.) My jaws are achy from yawns big enough to make a hippo jealous.

And yet my mind refuses to shut down for the day/night. It just keeps moving along, oblivious to my body's cries for a good night's slumber.

And so here I am. Bored because my brain cannot decide what it wants to do except that it does not want to sleep. Annoyed because my tear ducts have closed shop for the night and I am fast becoming weary of this constant blinking.

Oh, Sandman, won't you please visit me tonight. Please?

Ok... so those who know me know that I am not a particularly religious person. I do, however, believe in God, Jesus, and the Virgin Mary. Everything else is kind of blurry and, as a general rule, do not give a fuck about in hopes that it will not give a fuck about me.

I believe in these three particular figures because it helps me sleep at night.

See, God is like the founder of a large multimillion-dollar-Fortune-500 company that has long since retired and now takes daily walks on sandy white beaches while watching the sun set because He has worked hard in building and molding His company (i.e., the Universe), into the well-oiled, self-sustaining place it is. It does not need Him to canoodle and baby it anymore.

Jesus? He is the peacekeeper, the cop, the CEO. He is the one responsible for keeping the proverbial End away, having meetings with other religion's gods, delegating various duties (probably to saints and angels), and makes sure the galaxies do not try to cannibalize each other.

The Virgin Mary is exactly what she is. The kind, caring mother that are most commonly found in fairytales. She is the one that deals with the actual individual personal stuff. She is the one I go to to find my 'inner peace.' Or rather to have long, lengthy conversations with.

So that is basically my view on religion. I know it is no where near what it is supposed to be but, I repeat, I do not give a fuck.

I am currently reading The Ultimate Hitchhiker's Guide. It is so singularly absurd and has such a twisted common sense that one cannot help but absolutely love it even if for nothing more than its ridiculous irrationality.

I only wish I had not waited so long before reading it (it has been on my 'to read' list for the past two or three years).

Like: (extracted from the end bit of Chapter 20 of The Restaurant at the End of the Universe)
"I wonder who this ship belongs to anyway," said Arthur.
"Me," said Zaphod.
"No. Who it really belongs to."
"Really me," insisted Zaphod. "Look, property is theft, right? Therefore theft is property. Therefore this ship is mine, okay?"

HA! See... there are people who have a sense of logic more bent than my own. Ok, Zaphod might not be a real person but the author is and if he wrote it than it only stands to reason that he too must have a twisted logic of his own.

Honestly, the movie of the first novel - The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy - does the book no justice whatsoever. But then again, movies rarely do, do they. See, that is one of the great things about books. There is no need to edit out certain things so that it can fit into so-many pages.

You know what my parents should do? They should start a blog.

No, I'm serious.

They own a touring agency back home in Malaysia and I think it would be kind of neat if they had sort of a travel log of all their tours. Maybe get some of their clients to blog about their experiences too.

Traveling is exciting and the outdoor, naturesy tours they conduct (rural Borneo longhouse visits, adventure caving, various wildlife reserves/rehabilitation center visits, birdwatching) just screams of untold adventures to be had.

Ooooh... maybe it should be a photoblog. That would be cool too. I know for a fact that they have amassed some pretty awesome pictures from those tours.

*yawn*

It is that time of day: Right after I am done with Phase One of my normal morning routine -- get up, sit in front of the computer, do my daily crossword puzzle, do my daily puzzle puzzle (although lately, that has been more along the lines of: do my daily puzzle puzzle for 10 minutes then give up and hit the 'solve' button), read some news from various websites, and check up on a few other people's blogs.

Then I sit about writing another post while trying to figure out what I am going to do today (which, surprisingly enough considering the fact that I never leave my room, I do try to figure out)

Actually... today, I feel like writing poetry. But I won't. For me, poetry is sort of a medium for me to communicate depression onto paper. And I am just not in a depressed mood.

Isn't nature a pure wonder? So beautiful. So destructive.

Gah... feel like writing (or blogging, whatever) but do not have any idea what to write about. I am hoping that simply by typing, words will magically link into comprehensive sentences, and eventually, with any luck, into actual intelligible paragraphs. It seems to be working well thus far :P

I was recently thinking about my hometown - Miri. How it has changed in the few years I have been gone. The overall city remains the same but there are minute changes. A new shop, a newly paved road, a new landmark, even.

I have this memory of my mother and I in the dining room. I am eleven at the time. She is telling me that they (my parents) are planning on moving to Miri. The impact of fully comprehending this crushing news was a huge blow to me. I cried so much that night, not so much of the prospect of leaving Brunei, but of leaving my lifestyle. It was small comfort that, at the time, many of my friends' families were also moving back to America, Canada, Malaysia, Australia (I loved the ecclectic group of friends I had as a child - so many countries).

Moving meant leaving behind the swimming pool with its waterfall and adjacent kiddie pool where we would build our whirlpools in. It meant leaving the squash courts where instead of learning to play squash, swinging the racket was just a fantastic excuse for a pirouette. Moving to a new country meant that I indeed would never get the chance to wear the big-girl high school uniforms of Brunei with their sky-blue skirts. It meant that I could no longer play with the rocks and pretend to set up some "shop" or other in the crevices of the rocky hillside across from the apartment buildings I lived in. I suppose, above all, moving meant that the chapter of my life that, even to this day, remains my favourite would be closed and that I would have to basically start over.

It took me so long before I finally felt comfortable claiming Miri to be my hometown. And now, once again, the city feels strange and alien to me.

I often times view myself not unlike a desert nomad. Even now, I am incapable of envisioning myself living in the same place for more than a few years. I have trouble seeing myself buying a house or apartment, knowing how permanent that seems.

We are all victims of our upbringing, I suppose. Not so much because we have to but more because as children, we sculpt and shape of our life philosophies using our role models as our outline, our point of reference. Philosophies we pound into our own heads as children. Philosophies so ingrained in our minds that we no longer know why we put stock in it. It does not matter how hard you try to remove yourself from believing in it, there will always be some small fragment of it left, impacting your new, more up-to-date views.

Ok... I have satisfied the writing bug.

Not wanting to do anything. Not wanting to think about anything.

Considering how my imagination has been going full blast for the past month or so, almost non-stop, this sudden spot of inaptitude for forming cohesive trains of thought feels rather strange.

I am only halfway through it at the moment but it is freakin' hilarious thus far. I first heard it from the new TV show that was created based on the book. Loved the comedic antics on the show so I thought I might try read the book. It is definitely eye-opening in some parts (like serving four-day-old fish to earn another buck instead of tossing it) but the way it is presented - all witty and humourous - is kind of addictive.

For my birthday, I got a $50 gift card to Barnes & Noble -- which I almost immediately spent buying books at bn.com (free shipping if your order is over $25, so why not?) -- and then I got another $50 in cash which I spent buying more books at half.com.

So yeah... lots and lots of books coming in.

In fact, right now, I am waiting for UPS to deliver the Barnes & Noble books - Yay! again for shipment tracking. I am getting:
1984 -George Orwell,
The Old Man and the Sea -Ernest Hemingway,
Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time -Mark Haddon,
The Ultimate Hitchhiker's Guide -Douglas Adams,
and the first book of Terry Brook's High Druid of Shannara trilogy.

I splurged the rest of my birthday moolah on getting my own set of Terry Goodkind's Sword of Truth series. I intend to reread the entire series... kind of my way of counting down to his new addition to that saga.

I always get so excited when getting new books, it is almost embarassing. But I cannot seem to help it. I feel like a kid on Christmas morning waiting to open his/her toys. I love the fact that books (well, non-textbook books) are so much cheaper -- especially the secondhand ones that look practically brand new.

Score! The doorbell! My Books! They're here!