I wasn’t really planning to dedicate a whole post to this topic, because we both know it deserves a three-volume book, but this is funny and I really owe Cheryl a post. After all, the woman is nice enough to visit everyday.

Here’s the thing.

I was travelling from Kuala Lumpur to Moscow last week, with a 5-hour stopover at Dubai International Airport. Seeing that I didn’t get much sleep on the way there, as soon as I disembarked the plane, I went to my usual spot where not many people sit, turned my laptop bag into a makeshift pillow and knocked out. Glorious, glorious sleep…

After about three hours, I woke up realizing that due to being so tired, I had slept with my mouth WIDE open. Eyes still closed, I was silently cursing at my utter lame-ness. I should have kept my eyes closed. I opened them to find a very attractive guy sitting next to me. Thankfully, we were a chair apart, but my face was towards him and I did not know how long he had been sitting there. For all I know, I had been showing him my wisdom teeth for the past hour. To any other person, it would have looked something like this:

A Non-artist's impression

Once I had attempted to gracefully sit in the chair and revive my almost dead right arm, I noticed that the cutie was working on a presentation about Turner’s Syndrome. Oh dear Lord, don’t tell me he’s smart, too?! I couldn’t even PRETEND  to be clever, all I had was my diary and a novel called “Llama Parlour”. Thankfully, my misery and mental self-abuse was halted by him getting up to board his flight to Dusseldorf.

Why couldn’t I be the kind of chick whose blouse opens up to reveal a super sexy bra as she sleeps, instead of ME?

The urge to blog about music came about when I was going through my CD collection (yes, I still have one of those). I was reminded of a time when 80% of my monthly allowance went to buying CDs and most of my time was spent eyeballing MTV and Channel [V]. While I have tonnes of albums, which have now been chucked in a storage box near my mom’s bathroom (thanks to my nomad status), a few artistes are capable of giving me goosebumps, even after years of not listening to them. In no particular order…well, maybe in a little bit of an order:

1. Blink-182.

The First Poster I Ever Bothered Putting Up on My Wall

I owe a lot to these guys. Thanks to them, I got out of my ridiculous post-adolescent-chin-dragging-on-the-ground phase. Seriously, how could one not lighten up after hearing a guy warble, ‘we started making out, she took off my pants, but then I turned on the TV’? To top it all off, Travis Barker’s drumming took pop-punk to a whole new level. I’m no genius, but even I knew he’s a fucking ace with his drums. They’re the reason I told everyone that I wanted to work in San Diego, and go for the Vans Warped Tour. Their music video was the reason I told my friend to get off the phone when she was calling me from Johor via a payphone. In around 2004, they decided to go on a little hiatus. Was I disappointed? A little. But then, I preferred that they went away with dignity, rather than forcing themselves to come out what would ultimately be insincere crap. In 2009, Blink-182 announced at the Grammys that they were reuniting. Guess who was squealing like a little girl in front of the TV?

2. Jason Lo.

Kuching's Rockin' Mat Salleh Celup

Bloody fucker. That’s what I thought when I was listening to his last album, ‘The Fall’. He’s been so under the radar that I Googled him, expecting to find a friggin’ obituary. This guy was my hope for the Malaysian music scene. I was banking on him to be recognized internationally, I kid you not. Three albums, and I love all of them. From what I’ve read, he’s been working with the suits and ties these days. It’s a damned shame, really. Can’t blame him though, he’s got a family to feed. I will always reserve my biggest SIGH for him.

3. Jimmy Eat World.

Proving 'Emo' is NOT Synonymous with Eyeliner

I got my uncle to buy me their breakthrough album ‘Bleed American’ (which was  renamed to a self-titled album after the Sept. 11th attacks) from the UK because there was no sight of it in KL. I even patiently waited for him to return home with it. I only stopped short of rummaging through his luggage to get my grubby 16-year old paws on it. I was not disappointed. There’s something about their songs that strike a chord (pun not intended) in my heart. Must be their choice of words, abstract enough to relate to, but specific enough to articulate a feeling. Unfortunately, after coming to Moscow, I’ve not really kept up with their progress as artists, so I’m a bit out of it with them.

4. Linkin Park.

The Band That Screamed on My Behalf

My Additional Math muses. As I’ve mentioned before, I’m a complete sloth when it comes to Math, but listening to Chester Bennington screaming his lungs out made doing my homework less painful. More importantly, what I liked about them was their clean lyrics. I recall an interview with Rolling Stone circa 2001 where they claimed that the reason there was no profanity in their songs was because they wanted to express feelings with more than just ‘fuck’. Their concert in Kuala Lumpur in 2003 was the first concert I had been to, and it was on the night before my A-Levels Chemistry paper. My God, it was so worth it. Fast forward to 2007, and their album is littered with bleeps. My first reaction was, ironically enough, to exclaim, “WHAT THE FUCK??!” I was thoroughly disappointed. The band had mellowed down plenty musically, but I reckoned that was because of Bennington recovering after removing some nasty stuff off his vocal chords. Screaming can do that. This year, Linkin Park is releasing a new album, and from what I’ve been hearing, it sounds promising. I heard screaming sans bleeps, for one thing. I’m taking it as a good sign.

Seeing that my interest has been resurrected, I’m guessing this won’t be the last post about music. Yay!

1. My doctor has a brilliant way of saying I put on weight. Brace yourself for this one. “It’s gotten harder to find your vein, eh?”
2. My facial wasn’t as embarrassing as it was last year. At least, this year my face was “quite okay”. Last year, the beautician was stuttering when she wanted to tell me that my face was ” actually..uh..well..um..quite..aah…not so good lah”. I’m sure what she meant to say was, ” You ogress, I’d rather exfoliate the rear end of a Sumatran rhinoceros than touch your skin.”
3. My hair. It’s official: I need hair loss shampoo and hair friggin’ tonic. I have the hairstyling regime of a middle-aged man. Seriously, if you’re observant enough, you’ll realize that my bangs are actually a comb-over. This is called karma kicking me in the follicles for laughing at my Pure Math teacher in college and teasing Abilash.
4. Isn’t it kinda funny how people rate one’s worth and level of integrity with the activity of their genitals? I mean, think about it. Just because some chick likes to be physical, she’s automatically not respectable? What if she helps out  charitable associations without bragging about it, or works hard to earn an honest living to support her family? That doesn’t count for anything? All that matters is that she likes to put out?
5. How do we decide who is worth impressing and to what extent do we go to impress them? How much has to go wrong before we cut our losses and move on? Should we even bother with impressing people? How do we tell whether we are being ourselves or subconsciously trying to impress others?

Feel free to answer anything that ends with a question mark. I like answers.

After much thought (i.e. a breakfast of store-bought Viennese waffles and Kinder Bueno), I’ve decided that maybe it’s not a bad idea to put up the kernels my mind spits out. Bear in mind, this so-called not a bad idea came about somewhere between sugar consumption and insulin release from my pancreas.

1. Have you ever been in a situation where you know you’re part of a raw deal, and as time goes by, it doesn’t get any better? How long before you just stop, turn, flip the bird and say, ” I don’t need this” ?

2. Why do people see the need to talk about others? Quite frankly, if the story doesn’t have your name in it at ANY point, by default it’s none of your damned business.

3. Sometimes we know a person well, we know how they tick. We know how they will react to various situations. And yet, we say and do things that don’t reflect this knowledge at all. Why?

4. Would it kill to pick a decision and stick to it? Wait, don’t answer that one.

5. Is it more amusing or annoying when someone is blatantly lying to your face, and they think you’re lapping this all up like a cat with a bowl of cold cream?

Surprisingly enough, this is not a bitchfit. This just may be a sign that I need a new diary.

1. My practicals are supposed to end today. Six weeks ago, that’s what my curator said. It’s not turning out the way I expected. Apparently, doing what one is supposed to do pales in comparison to blatant lying and sloth.
2. Today is my late uncle’s birthday, making today one of those days I wish I had a crappy memory.
3. I tried going to church today (imagine how lousy I must be feeling) and it was closed. How about that?!!
4. I attempted at pursuing my favourite distraction, but it eluded me. On the bright side, I have a new high score for Bubble Spinner.
5. Moscow is hot and now, there’s haze. I want to fling myself off the 14th floor just so I can feel breeze on the way down.

It really could be worse, so I’m hoping the clock strikes midnight soon.

So far, I’m only two weeks into it, but it roughly follows the same formula everyday.

9.00 a.m. I sit in for the morning conference while looking at my watch. Six hours left. Look at all the doctors pretty much not paying attention or dozing off, signs that they’re normal humans I suppose. The doctors on-call report new admissions and whatever needs to be mentioned. The doctors chairing the conference may or may not screw the reporting doctors. My conclusion is, in Russia life is a never-ending series of colloquiums. I try to pay attention, but it’s easy to give up when you’re right at the back.

10.00 a.m. Go to the department I’ve been assigned to, which just has to be Traumatology. Can you say, “dull as fucking a marshmallow?” I change into my scrubs and sit in the doctors’ office with another student, a Russian girl who uses any reflecting surface to check her hair and makeup. We don’t speak much, due to our poor understanding of each other’s language. If I’m lucky, some patient is either getting metal plates and screws either put in or removed from some limb. I’ve decided that to be an orthopaedic surgeon, you just need vodka and an IKEA toolset. While in the OT, I alternate between staring at whatever extremity which is being man-handled and the clock.

11.00 a.m. The surgeons have expertly done their work in 90 minutes, even minor setbacks have been accounted for. Damn. Four hours left. My pseudo-friend and I return to the office and get back to our task of sitting on the sofa, staring blankly at the doctors working. Occassionally, they look at us and make feeble attempts at conversation. After about half an hour of staring, I take out my book to read. If I’m lucky, Anna SMSes me from the General Surgery department to tell me there’s an operation going on. When joyous moments like that come about, I ask permission from my “supervisor” (inverted commas here because I eyeball her more than she does me). Naturally, she’s eager to get rid of me and lets me go. I mean, who wants some kid staring at them do work, right? So I put on my lead face and crash whatever procedure taking place.

1.00 p.m. Back in the office, now staring at doctors eating. They usually offer tea, but I politely decline. As they have their lunch that consists mostly of ice-cream and junk food, us students eavesdrop on whatever they’re talking about. Clock check; two hours left.

Some of you may be wondering why we’re wasting time in the office. Might as well go home if there’s nothing else to do, right? If you recall, I’ve mentioned the head of practicals that gets to 5th base with prickly sea creatures. She insists that we only leave at 3 p.m.

1.30 p.m. Read my book, and hope I get a message from Anna, or that someone is injured enough to perk my interest. Okay, hope that someone is injured enough for the doctors to say, “Come along, it’s an interesting case.” Seeing that this hospital is almost at the border of Moscow city, not much really happens. Clock check; 90 minutes left.

2.45 p.m. Slowly move toward the cupboard where my bag is kept. My supervisor looks almost relieved that I’m ready to get out of her territory. I say goodbye and almost break into a run to change my clothes. Then I begin my 70 minute journey home.

I’ll be honest, it could be worse. I could be with other students who pretend I don’t exist, I could be with racist doctors who don’t think I deserve to be educated, I could be without reading materials. Either way, I’ve got another four weeks to go, and at the rate things are going, I’ll be in Kuala Lumpur before I know it.

Unfortunately for me, I have nothing skimpy and comfortable to wear here, owing to the fact that my figure is not skimpy-wear worthy. Russians in general have no concept of sleeves nowadays. The women…Oh my God.  Bras nowhere to be found. I can’t BELIEVE I’m saying this, but if they’re not firm, round implants, do NOT skip on the bra. Really.

Summer practicals are weird. Everyone has something different to say about it. My hospital has this woman with a female angler fish stuck up her butt as the head of practicals. On the bright side, I have five days in this hospital before getting two weeks in another place and then  returning to this God-forsaken hospital. I’m hoping the next five weeks will breeze by.

All is not lost though. I don’t have to study my ass off for anything for now, so I’m free to bum around and gallivant without worrying too much about time. That is the ideal situation, of course. The truth is to date I’ve only been to one park and had lunch at a Korean restaurant which is walking distance from my hostel. So much for bumming and gallivanting, eh?

Well, that’s about it for now. Hopefully, I’ll get out of this crap-writing slump and produce better results.

For reasons undisclosed, I am convinced that I am out of my damn mind. There is some crazy-ass battle going on between my principles, my faith, logic and the rest of the world. Needless to say, this is a quick and easy recipe for an emotional massacre.

Miraculously enough, with all that has been going on, there is no eczema to be seen. You have no idea how much wood I’ve just touched after writing that. If I make it through everything eczema-free, it will prove the hypothesis I’ve been toying with for the past three years. Fingers crossed, people!

At the moment, I’m probably not even in the proper state to write. I know this much: I tried to force a horse to drink water, even though it didn’t want to. Now it’s dead and I’ve been beating it senseless. And to top it all off, I’m not Roman.

I suppose all of this could be subject to interpretation. Keep in mind that this is me, so feel free to set the bar really low.

1. I took part in the student body elections that I found dodgy and boring. Don’t ask how, don’t ask why. All I know is that I’m the glorified letter-writer for the next 8 to 10 months.
2. I’m done with my cycles for 4th year. I’m sure I would’ve gotten more done with proper time management and discipline, but 4th year has definitely given me more sleep-time than 3rd year ever offered. Imagine, I’ve had caffeine-free days this academic year!
3. Hot water has been shut off for a week and will only return to our faucets on the 8th of June. I attempted having a cold shower, and now I am convinced my ovaries look like raisins. Thankfully, it’s warm now and there’s no need to boil large amounts of water to mix with the ice-cold water we’ve been getting.
4. I am worried about my exams, especially Neurology. If Anatomy was my bane in 1st year, Neurology is my personal leprosy. My last resort is to offer my cousin Hera to the department as a research subject in return for a passing mark.
5. Summer electives begin two days after my last exam. The hospital is in some God-forsaken part of Moscow, on my least favourite Metro line. No worries, ONLY six bloody weeks.
6. Been having strange ideas relating to photography. Coming from me, this is silly because the only thing I’m worse at than photography is taking care of plants. Thanks to these ideas, I’ve been on Deviantart a lot. After all this browsing, I only have one question: why are most ‘Artistic Nude’ entries photos of either nude girls or nude girls making out with each other?

If we’re lucky, the next post won’t be all about me.

1. My uncle who has some sort of built-in radar in his brain that beeps every time I sleep. That’s his cue to call me. It’s unbelievable, really. He normally calls me at 4 or 5a.m. on a Sunday just because it’s amusing. He’s all wide awake in Malaysia after Sunday Mass and he thinks it’s fun to call me to ask, “Hey! Are you sleeping?” While that is not an example of his radar working, I can find no other explanation for him calling me specifically on the day I miss class, when I’m still asleep. There’s also the time he called me when I was 30 minutes into my afternoon nap. Seriously? What is UP with him?

2. The Minkuses of the world. For those who don’t know what the heck I’m talking about, shame on you for not watching Boy Meets World. Fine, I’ll tell you. Stuart Minkus was this character in the show who spent about 60% of his time in class with his hand raised. I’m sure we’ve all had our share of them in class, the extremely eager kid who either wanted to answer every question within earshot, or wanted to question every statement made within earshot. You’d think that by the time a person reaches adulthood, they’d stop. Naaaah.

Everyone should try this sometime, either during class, or a meeting, maybe even during a seminar or lecture. This is a sure time-killer during boredom. Keep count of the number of times the Minkus in your gathering speaks out, be it to ask a question or to make a statement.

3. People who can express their festering hate for a person, detail for almost an hour about how they loathe the person, why the person deserves a slow, painful death and as soon as the target shows up, they’re the most beautiful, witty, fun, cool creature gracing the planet. Before you can wrap your head around what’s happening, plans for a shopping trip and a slumber party have been made. BFF for this life and the next seven, baby. Seriously, this doesn’t count as dissociative identity disorder?

I’ll assume that three counts as a few, and end here for today.