You’re dismissed, woman.

I wish I could catch up and individually write up The Daily Post Prompts. I can’t manage it. I’m just sorting out my own internal issues. My emotional bag can only fit a certain much. It has, there are just too many conversations, considerations and feel in it to be known with.

Seriously, sometimes I am frustrated with myself. Like how silent I can be when DH is around just because he physically makes me less anxious, worry-wart and calms all my brain agitations.  But how cruel enough to have all frustrations when he’s not around, telling myself that I AM, WILL, SO GOING TO TELL HIM HOW I FEEL ‘RIGHT NOW’ WHEN I SEE HIM and it just all descend into nothingness when he is around.

It absolutely unfolds itself in the sequence of this…

“I’m so telling him right now! NO! I mustn’t. But I need to. NO! NO! MUSTN’T. MUSTN’T, MUSTN’T, MUSTN’T.” Mutiny, this.


Oh woman. Just eat it in. Sh-sh-sh… Just eat them all in. It’s not the right time. Yet. It’s okay. You can do this. Swallow. Quietly. Be still, my heart.


Then I forget what it was; or… I want to tell him, and I don’t know how… The qualms when I do, with only 3% is delivered…


And the 3% that comes out, so professionally approached. Emotionless. And ultimately, how I disgrace myself with me. I’m a piece of sh*t.


This self inflicted notorious farce cycle repeats itself. So violently.

But yesterday was different. My level of self-tolerance was short. I had to endure the bantering from his friend’s wife for her receiving late-payment notification letter from the bank for something that is registered under her name that DH took on – I had nothing to do with. Unwillingly I put on the superhero cape on, stood on the precipice, borderline on my borderlines, and took it on. I was crap. I sent him a message that took so much longer to get through the thick forest.

When finally it did, he responded to my question and tells me their 4WD for forest trail has broken down so they’d be coming home on a tow-truck. He asks me to pick him up at a spot. He gave the time. I got there on time because he has established this thing about having his expectations met vs my short-comings (i.e. lateness) (with ongoing things like traffic jam, no vehicle available, having to stop for gas, my need to have a cigarette first, the cat wants suicide by refusing to move away from the driveway, my lack of motivation, repetitive explanation of things that only got half-sentenced into his head each time I say them where I then begin to shout thinking because my voice is too small and then he thinks I’m so rude to raising my voice to him (WTF hahaha), apart of having to manage 3 kids to handle/argue/negotiate/scream/listen to beforehand).

I waited. They ran 15 minutes late.

It was hot, borderline thirsty, hungry, borderline grumpy. You could still feel the heat even in air-conditioning.

The car radio has been broken for the past few months and the CD has been playing the same series of song for over and over since December 2016. So I shut the CD player down. Sick of it. I meddled with my phone and played on Spotify out loud enough to satisfy myself. With limited headroom decision, I began talking to myself, singing, screaming, going under emotion and above it. I entered my Digistive Zen moment. Restless fat feeling with low libido but ready to scratch some walls from being under serviced. Yes, THAT feeling.

He finally came through, got in the car, and had to ask (Well, I felt like, it was A QUESTION, really), “Why are you playing on Spotify?”

…I mean, he had to ask right; because he has got a functioning radio in his pickup truck, right? Is there no logic to why I chose to Spotify myself? So I should be okay listening to the same thing each time I drive like, EVERY TIME, right? I wasn’t asking him to listen to what I chose to listen in the first place. And every time I make a decision is always the one that leaves no room for him to comment because I am the only decision-maker for it, right – because he is not present. And the rest of the other sinister things I digested in my head just shat through. He had unmoored, unleashed the beast in expressionless me (which I know is even more scarier in the I-have-no-sh!t-clue-of-what-may-happen-after-this category) with just that one question. So do so kindly receive my hospitality, final sentence and load of crap – take it like a man.

But really, to think what it took for me to be able to just say it! All the feelings, endurance, patience, dissatisfaction, worry, unhappiness… I mean, being able to draw out what I stored in my emo bank crap was WONDERFUL! But to think that it all had to be in collaboration with 5 days of water-cut to be able to be out in one sitting is like… I mean, I had to be under that intensity scale to actually be able to literally throw myself up to him! It took so much and so long…

I’m just this maze of sad stuff, isn’t it? Be like…


Yeah woman. You’re dismissed.

You’re dismissed, woman.

Waterless Emotion

Will someone listen to me? This feeling that seems to be complaining. Ungrateful person who has life better than some other less fortunate. 

There has been water cut again. This time has been since Thursday. The same day the kids began their leg of exam. The day I was on medical leave from fever caused undeniably by the humid heat, rain less for the few days. The same day my eldest came home from school and slept 5 hours straight. 

The wait at the clinic has an influx of patients where waiting time is averaged at 1.5 hours. I know so. I went there twice this week.

On Friday our air-conditioner broke. The stand fan did only what it could. And the next day DH tells me he’s going into the forest with some friends. Meh.

He had been working so hard. It’s either I suffer his restlessness or I let him unwind. So I spent the weekend whisking the kids of to his brother’s house. He was away as well. It was comfortable because their area wasn’t affected with the water distruption.

I really felt bad about leaving the house because only my mom and brother was left there. But I couldn’t take it. I was mad somehow.

Struggled with money, I credit all that I could. I’m tired of managing everything myself. But how am I complaining when my mother gets the brunt of it more than  I?  During this eventful waterless again situation, Daddy is off somewhere else. Like sometime last week too, when they found a viper somewhere outside the house that disappeared when the fire department came to help. 

I feel unclean despite being in a house that was cool and with running water for more than 24-hours. My face is no longer smooth. I no longer have a smile like arch on my face as if it’s a permanent downward smile. My heel hurts. If I bathe, I will sweat the moment the water is turned off.

In this heat, tenderness is mood less. I feel so old. No time, and at this point I feel I don’t have the effort to even try for it. My mood is crap. I feel crap. So don’t tell me I have to a b c d e whatevers. 

Can I be in the waters of Maldives? Or in the Italian farm of somewhere? I just need something else.

I need something else. 

Can I cry now?

Ps. My spelling and grammar may cap now too coz this phone’s spellchecker sucks and keep’s changing what I want to deliver and I don’t have the will to recheck what I wrote.

Waterless Emotion

It’s about Dusty

I have been looking for old friends. Looking to feel myself valuable. It gives more meaning for me to find a purpose to reconnect with people who made a difference in school. All while doing that, I keep getting this armpit smell on myself. I’m going like, “Come onnnn…” each time I get a whiff of it. I don’t know where it’s from. It’s not from my armpit. Not kidding.

So Eliot is not well. I called him from the office to have him take his antibiotic. Then it became a string of messages. I told him to get it from the fridge, to take 10ml. It took a while before he replied back, “This medicine is DUSTY”.


Then he sent me a picture of it. It’s the other bottle of fresh antibiotic unmixed, still in a bag, on the table – not from the fridge.

“It’s not mixed for use yet. The one you need is in the fridge. Take it at 10ml.”

This conversation went on for another few minutes. My instruction became repetition for the next few times. ‘This medicine is dusty’ – LOL. Really? LOL.

Dusty Medicine
This was the photo Eliot sent me.

It is at the end of the day. This post had taken 7 hours to finish. I had 1 meeting. 1 lunch. Bought myself this quarter fried chicken that I swore to eat it for tea but apparently I’m bringing it home for dinner. No wonder I’m not losing weight. Well on another hand, my heels and eventually feet, then back to the heel, are in pain. It could just be anything. So I stopped myself from exercising.

Now I need to stop myself, where the armpit smell still remains a mystery. And this is the final sentence from me, today.

It’s about Dusty

This Love

Love is a maze of loyalty, a web of trust and carrying mutual respect. Sometimes people lose their way when the web is broken and they fall into unfamiliar parts of the maze, losing respect.

Patience to mend the web. Patience to find light out of the maze. Patience having the two to have respect. Because you can’t love fully without them.


This Love

The strength that is lost, is really the strength that you will find

As my first marriage crumbled, I lost sight of who I was. Losing a marriage is never about you alone. It breaks you for you to find your own definition.

Ying Ying: Losing him does not matter. It is you who will be found – and cherished.

– The Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan

New life was filtered layer by layer. You will learn who your real friends are, the ones worth keeping; and discarding the ones who choose to weaken, harm and destroy you. You will learn that ‘no mercy’ is necessary for yourself. I shutdown pointless relationships and found that people were more interested in finding out what happened. In the end, it was I whom had to relieve their disappointments to my ended marriage. Sad.

Ms Rock held me close to her heart. She brought me out shopping even when I had little money to spend on. We spent hours with coffee and endless conversations. We played free makeup at Sephora and tried on random clothes and shoes that we didn’t have to buy. She helped to make me feel like a little girl again. It’s like hopping onto the pedestrian crossing’s white lines only, leaving painted hand prints all over the walls of wherever I was and getting high over cotton candy and ice cream in the wide open park.

I remember coming home and ask myself, “How can I forget that I love shoes?”

Much later, “How can I forget that my favourite colour is fuchsia?” “How long ago have I put myself in the backburner?” “Did I ever had any intention of regaining myself back?” “Would I have ever realised what I had left behind?”

How could I have forgotten, about me?

I have always loved the shade of bright deep shocking pink. The colour is so nutritious for me and it makes me happy. For every dull day, I will pull that one plain fuchsia scarf and it makes me feel right in all the darkness of black, dark navy blue and gray thingamajig that I wear to work. It just binds and makes it become me.


I have never seen the fuchsia flower before. We don’t have this flower here where I live. It would probably die in the heat. So I’m packing this up into my bucket list – Something to See List.

Photo Credit:

You don’t always get what you want, but you often get what you need.

Strength isn’t given to you. It’s something that you have to build up inside yourself. To do that you have to fearless to ask for help. Fearless enough to accept rejection. Fearless enough to learn to be shameless because being shameless is the only way for you to learn what’s good and what’s bad for yourself. Be fearless to choose and pave your own path. Ultimately, fearless to free-falling.

Truth be told, strength is knowing what to lose and what to keep.

I choose to love myself.

The strength that is lost, is really the strength that you will find

Interview with the Vampire

I remember the first time I watched Interview with the Vampire. That was the first time I laid my eyes on him. I fell in love with somber Louis. It also marked my journey with the book, and its subsequent series The Vampire Lestat and The Queen of the Damned, many years ago.

It is only today that I learnt Anne Rice’s Interview with the Vampire was written in 1976. That was the year I was born in. It feels intriguing somehow how reading it felt so right. And that the movie was the first movie I ever watched on Laser Disc. I cried along with Louis when Claudia burnt to ashes.

The revelation of the book and its subsequent writings gripped me in some ways. I understood when it said how after so many lives is known from every drop of blood sipped, that the Queen and her King knew what life meant. How menial are the things we complain about. How we tend to pursue things that is really just a temporary excitement instead of something that lasts a long time with dignity. And what terrible life really mean.

To tie that back with what I had been going through, I feel ashamed of myself; because I understood, and I had forgotten. I’ve always floated above it. I should still do the same. Perhaps I have been looking too inwardly not wanting to see out. Being above it instead of inside of it.

Truth be told, there are days where I hover like the Queen, and sometimes Lestat; but where I am honestly half the time, Louis. Somber. The cursed. But I suppose, every INFJ feels this way. Cursed with this percentage base of sorrow. Wallowed until they find out that they are INFJ and that dissolves a ton of weight on their head.

I loved reading the books but it certainly put me into this nerve-wrecking positions while doing so. Anne Rice, Stephen King and Jodi Picoult’s writings often put me in bizarre sittings sprawling across the room with nail and finger biting – so desirably uber sexy. Haha.


I should read more. From books. Not articles that glide from within Facebook. Or eBook. The feel is not the same as gliding pages with your fingers.

Yes. I should.

Interview with the Vampire

The sweetness that comes always

She went to withdraw some hidden cash that she didn’t know existed. Drove to the bookshop for a text book, that ended up adding some revision books for each her children. Hungry, meticulously she went through the menu and consciously chose her lunch based on the price of food. The food was so good.

Walking back to her car she found street vendors selling churros. She must have them dunked in cinnamon sugar. She loves cinnamon. It’s therapeutic and heals somewhat of her. She thought carefully about them churros. She felt they were too expensive of a treat at 70 cents per stick. She closed her eyes and bought 10 sticks of them.

To think that at one point, she only had $2.50, and now her total purchase today was more than that. That $2.50 is a benchmark for her.

She clears her throat simultaneously along with her mind. A blank new page is laid in her head.  It draws a little taste of bitterness. She smiles. Because she knows there is sweetness that comes after every bitter end.


The sweetness that comes always