The glorious and triumphant return of now-19 year old Blogger, the revival of a once-grand and dare I say influential webspace that produced daily content, and the crippling anxiety of a young woman who no longer has any time or motivation to write, and feels like any ability she had acquired in the past through repetition and sheer will alone is now slowly slipping out of her grasp. Brief history of the Blog and Blogger can be found here.

Here be personal journal entries, observations, slices of life, questions and conclusions, as well as exploration of social and political topics seen through the lens of a Malaysian Muslim, feminist, lesbian, Marxist, and horse enthusiast.

Thursday, November 11, 2010


It's fate, it's fate, it's all fate. It's all meant to be, it's all planned out and whatever life throws at you, the coincidences and the abnormalities, you've got to learn to take it like a tough bitch and weather the storm. I want a second chance. That's what I realized today: I want another chance. Please.

"If this was us meeting for the first time. I'd do it all again. Everything. The fucks, the fuck ups, everything. I'd do it all again." (Skins 4x07)

Pretend, pretend, we can pretend all we want but at the end of the day, that doesn't change the fact that I feel this way. I can ignore it but even I know it's going to come back, this feeling. It won't stay away forever. I really have no choice. I have no control over other people. This is the reality of things: I have no right, absolutely no right at all, to decide what other people can or cannot do - to decide what they can or cannot feel. I can't help it if she decides I'm not worth it. If she decides our friendship is not worth fighting for. I have absolutely no say in the matter if she decides to argue with me over Mia Wasikowska's homeland. In the long run, that's not really what this is all about, is it? It's about me giving you a challenge I knew you couldn't keep up with. My game, I started it, not yours. It's about you being mad at me, perhaps subconsciously, because I know you suspect me of doing something to you. So what? We're all just going to burn. 

I realized I said I'll try to talk less about my teenage problems in my last post but this is me, growing up. This is me, accepting my faults and my flaws and wanting a second chance. My hands aren't bloody but yours aren't either. It's a race but no one really won. Survival of the fittest backfired on all of us. 

So I'm writing letters today because I burned all of yours. 

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