September 25, 2009

No More Mr. Lothario.

As dictated by Faranza Syns

Must say, the sight of a handsome guy holding up black boxers with cherry red patterns on them while smiling that delish I'ma-eat-you-up smile pretty much gets my juices going.

Too bad he's unreachable.

I've been playing waaaaaaaay too much Sims 3 lately. Apparently, my Sim has commitment issues (gasp! How shocking!) and she is engaged (double gasp!) but pretty much is itching to break up with her dude. I try not to indulge her. In that way.

Instead I get her into other ahem... discreet relationships. Oh, I lurrrrrrve it.

It's fun. I know I'm setting a bad example for the kiddies who play as well (not to mention pure as driven snow Jaz. Whom, according to what I've heard, has been smacking asses lately too.). Jaz likes to sit beside me while I play. *Sigh* Her fault for watching.


#1 :Should I delete him?

#2 : You should!

# 1: *deep breath* Okay. I'll do it. Should I block him too???

# 2: No! It's not like he stole your underwear or anything! He just ignored you!

You can't fight that kind of logic, really.

Ten steps, ten steps, and I'll be leaving you,
Ten steps, ten steps,
Or maybe a click or two.


September 24, 2009

Epiphany # 372

As dictated by Faranza Syns


I guess I loved the idea of loving him.

Not him. Not really.




September 23, 2009

Cannot be Your Memory.

As dictated by Faranza Syns

I just realised (after a few seconds of reading Kye Li's blog) that I have no social life.

Sadly, this is one instance when I can't blame my genes. What am I supposed to say? "I had two recessive alleles and so now I'm anti-social!"? I think people would laugh.

The only guy who calls me is ... Derrick. And Hariz. I have a very sad life. And a chaste one, despite popular belief that I rape everyone and everything in sight. Butt-smacking is not considered rape, but really, I have very delicate friends and they think a little affectionate pat (smack) on the derriere shows that I have the inner makings of a highly professional perverted molester. Fear not. I don't think I have a hankering to burn in the inner sanctum of hell.

Anyways, back to the point. I am... so not sociable. When people are out enjoying their teenage-dom, I'm ...

Let's face it. I'm turning into an old geezer. Thank you, Hariz. Your dire predictions have come to light. I am indeed going to turn into a forty year-old spinster with thirty-six cats (plus one for each time you mentioned this prediction to me, because you can't help but make it worse than it is - every time.)


Eid ul Fitri.

I know this celebration is supposed to give me a message about life. But so far, the only message I got is "Humans are very productive. VERY productive."

I cannot believe how many spawns of... ahem. Well, that's that. I just wish people would stop thinking I would suddenly up and marry just because I'm in form 5.

Aunt # 3: Ah, when you get married, make sure you come visit me more with your husband.

Me: ... That's still a long way to go.

Aunt # 3: *gasp* Oh yeah! Oh my! Well, then, maybe when you get engaged?

What. The. Hell.

I have commitment issues. I'm never getting married. Understood?

As much as the thought of marital bliss warms me, I just can't stomach it.

Lost your sense of fear,
Feelings insincere.



As dictated by Faranza Syns

I got attacked last night. I don't think I'll ever recover.

Elder #1: Wah, Farhana, you're in Form 5 already!

Elder #2 :*Looks over and nods sagely, agreeing*

Me: *cringe, but smiles sweetly*

Elder #1: Ah, she's so big now, eh?

Me: ... *smiles*

Grandmere: She means that you used to be so small, now you're so grown up.

Me: ....

Elder # 2: And now she's taking SPM! Wow!

Elder # 1: Mmmhmm. Oh, oh! [excited] Who knows, next year, she'll get married!

Me: . . . . . . . . .

All three elders: *LAUGH*

Me: ... No. I'm not getting married. [deadpan]

Elder #1: Haha, yeah, right!

Can everyone please stop making comments about nuptials? I have commitment issues.


September 22, 2009

When Looking for Partners...

As dictated by Faranza Syns

I just spent... wait, allow me to calculate the time...

Oh, yes. I believe I've just spent three hours slicing the crumbs off sadwiches. No, no typo there. From now on I will call them SAD-wiches. Because inadvertently, after eight-plus-three (that makes eleven, in case you're feeling pretty slow like I am tonight) loaves of jumbo sized bread, I am feeling utterly depressed. And sore. And ... well, I think I'll develop back-bone problems faster than my dad.

Eugh, I don't think I can chew another bite of bread ever in my life, much less tuna sadwich, and egg sadwich.

Gad, I sound like I have sinus problems.

Usually, on the 3rd day of Eid, my mom's side of the family has an Open House of sorts. So being the "maidens" (what the heck, that is beyond archaic) in the family, Jaz, me and Qiha had to help out.

Sadwich duty it is.

What a back-wearing day. I was bent over the slicing board for-bloody-ever. When the other girls have finished, I still stayed behind to finish off the crumb-slicing, four-part-dividing duty.

I'm complaining. I know. Okay, let me tell you the good parts.

I got paid a cup of Slurpee.


Aunt #2: Ho, ho, this year, if you lot finish your duties, we'll buy you Slurpees!

Me: Haaaa? (very indelicate sound)

Aunt #3 : Ah yes, next year, we'll promote them!

Mama: And maybe we'll pay them with McDonald's instead!

Aunt 2#: Ahha! Brilliant!

It's sad how cheap we are. Or cheap they think we are.

Next year, I believe I'll develop arthritis of some kind.

Or maybe I'll just sneeze and say "H1-fucking-N1!"



Hishamuddin One fucking Najib One.

Someone screwed with my head.

Rule of thumb: When pairing off sadwiches, take em two at a time. Duh.

Blood-red ocean;
It's what I call my emotions.


September 17, 2009

Mergh-see bo-ku.

As dictated by Faranza Syns

This is the first night within three weeks that I haven't downed a cup of coffee.

I'm sure my body appreciates the break.

Unlike certain people (think of makan cili and rasa pedas), who seem to thrive on caffeine.

It's rainwater in a drought to them.

But I guess I'm not one to talk. I've been caffeine dependent for three weeks.

I'll shush up.

Stomp, stomp, stomp.


September 14, 2009

The Bitter Pill

As dictated by Faranza Syns

It's not My Joyance.

It's Our Joyance.

Ma and Dad's been studying Arabic. Grammar, conversations, the whole she-bang. And so, we were at the table, discussing Arabic words. Mostly, I oohed, aahed and nodded, because hey, even though I went to Extra Classes for Islamic Studies, I basically managed to unfailingly flunk each Arabic paper dished out by the school.

This session of Arabic discussion is Dad's favourite time. He gets to preen, and he loves it. And since we love him, we humour him.

He explained the intricacies of an added syllable or vowel in an Arabic phrase, and damn, his eyes lighted up. It's not hard to see where we get our sense of humour from.

And then we suddenly got to the subject of our names.

Ma: Ain is eyes, I believe.

Me: So Aunt Ainaa's name means Our Eyes? [aghast]

Dad: [gives reproachful look] There's a difference between Ainaa and Aina.

Right. Like the person who failed Arab would know.

Ma: People of the olden times merely give their children names from Quran. Sometimes, they barely know the meaning, as long as it sounds wonderful.

Dad: Don't ever give your children the name Syah.

Me: [blinks eyes] Why? [thinks of Sultan Alauddin Riayat SYAH]

Dad: It basically means Evil. So it means Sejahat Manusia, the Most Evil of Men.

Me: Eeek. [Thinks of Sultan Mahmud Syah]

Dad: Precisely.

Dad: [pauses] Wait, how did Farhani (base word of Farhana, which means happiness) become Farhana?

Ma: Yeah?

Ma & Dad: [Looks at me]

Like the person who failed Arab would magically be privy to this.

Dad: Oh ya. It's not My Joyance. the -na in the name makes it mean Our Joyance.

To think that my parents had once looked down at me and decided to name me their joy.

Which makes my heart break thinking of the many things I've done to break theirs.

Maybe I'm not meant to be their joy of life after all.

Sorry doesn't cut it.
But maybe you'll still forgive me.



As dictated by Faranza Syns

"I've never met a man with less balls for me to step on."

"I'm sure that statement embarrasses you more than it did me."

- N.O.T. in Capitals, Faranza Syns


September 13, 2009

Because his kisses were bitter.

As dictated by Faranza Syns

Just because.


September 12, 2009


As dictated by Faranza Syns

Some of us donated, and got hibiscuses with clips in return.

Daniel took two, and clipped them on his shirt above his nipple (or where his nipples should be).

Kessler slid one lone, adorable hibiscus beside his ears (which just devastated me since it made him ten times awesome despite his scowl).

Chu Meng... Chu... clipped two onto the stems of his glasses. It looked ... good god, how can guys look sweet wearing flowers? And how come girls just look dilapidated instead?

Cliche, you cruel, cruel thing.

Daniel: Eh, where else am I supposed to put this? My crotch?

Hear, hear.

By the by, it's pronounced saN-frwaa.

Goodbye to you,
Or maybe you just didn't want to listen.


September 8, 2009

Shame, shame.

As dictated by Faranza Syns

I won't say a word about Additional Maths today.

Okay, maybe just one word: horrific.

Half of the day, I felt like bursting, and smacking someone's face - in a bad way. Thank you, caffeine. And thank you, indigestion. Wolfing down one whole bowl of rice, and chicken soup within 1.5 minutes can really mess you up inside. Oh, and let's not forget about that mere 1 and a half hour of sleep. The worst thing is I don't think I got much from those hours of toil, tears, and heartache.

Frankly, I don't think anyone gets anything from that combination.

I have my Bio book in my lap, the list on the scanner. And I'm really wondering if things would look up next week.

Gah, of course. Exams are ending next week and frankly all Muslims know what that means.

I suppose I should be ashamed of myself for not working my arse off for Trials. My excuses are lame, and utterly refutable, so I'll save them for a stormy day when no one can hear me.

I feel like doodling on the wall.

Oh, silly me. I already have.

Am I the only one missing you?

Oh, how unfair.

Like some twisted intricacy,
A forced intimacy, perhaps.


September 5, 2009

I think I'm sarcastic/ witty/ fantabulous/ scrumptilicious enough for the both of us.

As dictated by Faranza Syns

To be completely honest, the thought of me and shopping skipping hand in hand, gazing lovingly into each others eyes and just relishing every breathing moment we spend with each other is just so baffling and outrageous, I tend to gape at the notion. Gape, blink, and snort disbelievingly.

But to my endless amazement and surprise, today, I did. It was... (oh God, sappy moment -- here it comes!) ... wonderful.

Yes, I, Clothes-shopping Evader Extraordinaire, actually didn't have an emotional breakdown while shopping. In fact, I enjoyed myself so much, my feet hurts. In an omg-is-that-a-warm-glow-in-my-eyes good way.

I started off with those awfully baggy clothes. And up till now, I never realised how self-demeaning and self-defeating it is to underestimate your body. I mean, I wore the most embarrassingly unflattering clothes. I know I've been losing weight (and I admit, guiltily, gaining some back, but I lost them again real quick, I swear) but I never really quite believed that I've slimmed. Even if just a bit. I see the difference, but I've never really felt completely satisfied. I keep feeling like it's not good enough. And good good, a shopping session at the wrong store that one day a few weeks ago pretty much blew my confidence all the way to Utah. (I only used Utah because Delci's there, and she's pretty far away. Hey, Delce!)

So, back to where I was. Mom, me and my youngest sister went to Jusco to finalise our Eid shopping. As soon as we reached the Women section, mom ditched me and took my sister to the Kid's. I tried not to panic. I mean, usually, I'd spend this time uselessly pining away for those beautiful clothes I'll never, ever fit into. And really, I realise how pathetic it is. Believe me. I'd either fawn over how beautiful a blouse is, or try not to look at the clothes too long in case people thought "Geez, that girl wants to fit into that?"

Yes, yes, I realise. I have a severe case of insecurity and a self-condemning level of self-confidence. But somehow, today, I grabbed that scary and intimidating and gratingly loud Hellequin (black-faced emissary of the devil) in my head and just shoved its head under a pile of corsets. And I started dressing up.

Who knew...?

Who actually knew I could fit into those clothes?



After years of telling myself I love ME, I'm finally able to not lie and say I wholeheartedly love myself.

I do now.

God, so what if I'm fat? I can fit into a size L of Scarlet (and not Scarlet PLUS, yay!).

And I feel awesome.

note: I removed the pictures, but since someone wanted me to put it back on... (and since it's a friend I know in real life, and not some phyched-out stalker...)


Me and Ma went to look at handbags (okay, big lie. I went to look at handbags, not her.)

And then, after much begging, grovelling and begging, I persuaded Ma to allow me to buy one Polo Benedetti Creations.

I shortlisted two of them. One was black and white with criss-crossing stripes while the other was silvery-grey white with lettering. The latter won out, and so, we moved on to the lingerie section. After much deliberation, we got out purchases and went to the counter.

The Ma spotted something. She nudged me.

"If you'd bought the other bag just now, you could wear it with that."

She pointed.

I looked. Stared.

This is what she pointed out to me.

My Ma says the most wonderfully shocking things at times.

And somehow, the thought of wearing that bra with the other handbag really appealed to me.

Thank you so much, Ma. Really.

No one else.


September 2, 2009


As dictated by Faranza Syns

My memory card lost all its data.

All my work, all applications, all e-books.

My fault, maybe.

But I'll go on a techno rage and break down, anyways.

Curb-stomp. Curb-stomping would be my idea of a helluva good time, right about now.

Gad, this is NOT happening to me. And on an exam week, too.

I feel juvenile. Really.


What are little boys made of?
Snips and snails, and puppy-dogs' tails,
That's what little boys are made of.

What are little girls made of?
Sugar and spice, and everything nice,
That's what little girls are made of.

Gee, puppy-dogs' tails. Somehow my mind is conjuring a wholly inappropriate image.

And I have a sudden hankering to buy baby stuff. God help me.

You kissed me, and I cried,
So I guess I can't blame the weather.