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.

Monday, July 25, 2011

Fan Club

After a lovely weekend of unproductivity and getting cyber-yelled at by crazy people, it was (supposed to be) a relief to return to the safe haven that is school. Walk in through the gates, step foot inside the compound, remain as inconspicuous as possible while trying to maneuver through the tables to reach the other side of the canteen, all of that. And mornings are nice, usually, because of the lighting - kind of dim and it lulls you into a false sense of dreaminess but then you (and by you, I meant me) enter the PR and the harsh fluorescent lights shatter that dream into a million pieces. How charmingly descriptive!

Well, my morning sucked. First off, I received a message from someone this morning that made me feel ten times worse than I already feel when I stumble out of bed. Terrible because while I am not involved in whatever it is their problem is, I feel bad simply for the fact that I found it all highly amusing. And then I went to school. And it was an okay morning, sure, off a little around the start because Hanna (who's going to be on Gate for the entire week or something?) was off on her Runners duty and I had to climb the stairs and switch on the lights and chuck my bag graciously on the floor all by myself. And then Tabitha came around and told me that I had eye bags.

Assembly itself was a disaster. I am finding hardcore tough-as-nails prefects next week to stand where I stood. It started off well enough, carrying chairs (although even then, my irritation sensors were starting to pick up), and then when it actually started, I had to deal with a bunch of insipid Form 4s and I know, I know it's not fair of me to call them out on having no brains to speak of (I know that!) because to mostly everyone (and on certain days, myself included) the rules hardly ever matter but it's more of the fact that I'm sort of a rule-enforcer. And being a rule-enforcer is frustrating. Especially on bad mornings. So I might have cried a little.

Why can't people just see it my way? Not the path of least resistance way but, like, the way I see it, right now, in school, we are restricted, sure. We can't wear this and our nails can't be like that and we can't bring this and that to school but that's the price we have to pay for the safety, the protection school has to offer us. Everything that we have to do is laid out, quite neatly, in front of us, all that's left to do is following the schedule to the letter. I know people yearn for freedom and all but aren't you scared, just a little bit, of what comes after SPM? After you leave, leave the sanctity of the school and the protection of its rules and regulations, you're pretty much free to do whatever you want, but at a price. You can't really have it all in the end, at least I don't think so. As an adult, you can't just shirk off your responsibilities. As a student, I think you just can't shit on the school rules.

So that's, what?, four paragraphs already and I haven't even gotten to the part wherein I reach an all time high level of anger. I bumped into Ashwini after recess. I take it that I've been too hard on the poor girl but people really do have to lay off me. I know I say a lot of mean things but the fact of the matter is that it shouldn't bother you and it can't really, not unless you let it. I mean, look at Santralega. I'm pretty sure she's as content with her life as it gets. So, back to Ashwini. I greeted her with my usual greeting of, "Hey, look, it's the most sarcastic girl in the world!" and she replied, sarcastically, might I add, with a, "Hi, Hafizah." A lot of people are under the assumption that sarcasm is all about the tone of voice. I would like to disagree and say that it's about the intent and the delivery. Ashwini, being of the frame of mind of the former, didn't take kindly to my laughing reply of, "Oh, my God! You're being sarcastic!" She raised her hand, palm inwards, and said, "Read my imaginary fingers." Which, I suppose should mean something along "read between the lines", as in she's flipping me off. But imaginary fingers. Really?

Imaginary.

I'm not talking about her anymore. While that encounter was funny and quite enough to brighten up my morning, I felt rather bad afterwards (not for long periods of time, don't fret - I just think of the word "imaginary" and burst out laughing again) and I have other things to talk about. Like, for instance, yes, love, you might be slightly correct in your... accusation. An accusation I had denied at the time of my hearing it. I honestly had no idea but, yeah, rereading some of my old things and thinking through some of the things that's been going through my mind lately, I guess I would concede to that point. You are correct and I was marginally less so. But, really, I think that love, in all its incarnations, shouldn’t really have this boundary that you put on it. You, you and all of them, treat this matter so cavalierly that you don’t think about the consequences. I know she does, she’s told me as much, but you’ve never said anything of the sort.

I want to say that I know the reasons behind why I feel so hurt all the time. It’s not like Nisa doesn’t say mean things to me everyday but it’s different, coming from you and simply everything’s different and it all goes back to last year when I just, I just expected you to say yes, you know, when she asked. That was honestly all I expected you to say. Because everything I say is bullshit but you aren’t like me. So while I kept whispering to myself, silent, ‘yes, yes, yes’, I can’t help but wonder: what did you say to yourself? It doesn’t seem like a yes now, not quite. Not when you always abandon me and when you wouldn’t even look at me somedays and when your replies to every question I ask is curt and stinging and you relegate me to the back burner and everything I am to you is just as inconsequential as… as Transformers is to me.

And I can’t help but wonder, if I’ve told you as much, why don’t you get it by now that it hurts? Like, a lot. But, I mean, I guess, it could go both ways. But I’ve never actually said anything that was on Level 8 of Hafizah Mean. I don’t even bother to broach Level 6, actually, if unprovoked.

Violet said today that the words I say hurt only three seconds at most. It was an insult, surely, if you think that the reason I insult people in the first place was to feel satisfaction over getting the upper hand. But not really. No. And the best part? Is that knowing that three seconds or three minutes, hours or years, I still affected you somehow.

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