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.

Tuesday, January 24, 2012

Three's A Crowd

This happened, like, a week ago, so I'm not liable to any mistakes caused by my poor memory. But probably you will believe everything I write because you don't know otherwise. Last post I wrote was around this week, but I have neglected to mention what happened before all of that, and basically what happened before all of that was that I went to my grandparents' place for a kenduri. And I'll be honest here, I have no clue what the kenduri was actually for. When my mother told me about it, she said it was a mixture of stuff. When I heard the speech she made at the kenduri, she also said it was for a mixture of stuff, and I assume that it's just for a mixture of stuff, all unimportant enough in the grand scheme of things for me to write down.

Anyways. My sister came at around 7 or 8 or something, and damn, I hate writing numbers in numerals. She was caught in a traffic jam, so nobody blames her or anything. Besides, we were going to leave after dinner anyways. I had already placed my dinner order with my Dad since we were eating takeaway, but we called my sister and she was already very near so we decided that McDonald's on the way it was. When she came, she brought her cats.

Oh, my God, they are so fluffy. But more on that later. I didn't have much time to hang out with the cats, and besides, Smokey kept running away whenever I went too near. We packed up and left and all of that, and arrived at around... late. I don't remember much about, well, much, but I guess after the obvious nightly routine of teeth brushing, I went to bed on the sofa in the front room. I woke up super early the next day, because according to my mother, it was already past eight and people were due to arrive 'any minute now' (people were actually due to arrive at nine). Other than that, it was also only seven thirty and for this particular occasion, my mother decided to be more than punctual. Not that I mind all that much. Waking up earlier meant the shower was free, unlike if I had woken up, say, an hour later.

So people did start arriving at around nine, and for the most part, I lurked in the shadows. Sometime through maybe eleven o'clock, I fell asleep after finishing reading Spirit Walker (Hanna's book that I had borrowed at the start of the major holidays last year) and woke up at about one to the sounds of people pestering me to get up and eat. My Dad, especially, was being extra annoying, because he said I had to 'mix around' and 'be with people' and sure, I did that for a while, but I have a daily quota, you know, and luckily by that time, the guests had left, leaving only family members; otherwise, that would have been wasted time in the grand scheme of my quota.

Um, I can't really remember much of what happened after. I guess my sister and cousin and I, we went out to Old Town and had a sort of tea meal of sorts. And talked, because it's not like we played poker or anything. By night time, there was KFC and cake at the house and I guess that was when I had reached my daily quota. So I begged and pleaded and bothered my mother to get ready so we could go home, and I couldn't seem to locate my pillows and blanket so I asked my Dad whether he had put them in the car, and he said yes.

So naturally, two hours or about later, when we're in front of our house's gate and I was ready to hit the hay, I asked the people sitting at the back seats, my mother and sister, for my pillows and they were... not there. That was a bad night. I cried the whole night. It may seem silly, but other than sleepovers in which I purposely leave my pillows at home, I've never gone a night without them. So, really, I don't care what people think, and just for this occasion, I've ceased to care that people in certain parts of the world have never even had the luxury of seeing a down pillow, it really doesn't matter, because that was such a stupid thing to have happened and to have happened to me, of all people. I slept with the cats tonight.

There're two of them: Caesar and Smokey. Smokey is my sister's cat and Caesar is well on his way to being my sister's as well. The two of them grew up together-ish, and they're both male, but they don't fight at all because of the first fact. They run around and tackle each other and climb my windows and curtains, and they also lick each other all the time. I've got it on video. Smokey's started to warm up to me: he still runs away whenever I approach him without warning, but if I just sit there quietly, he'll come to me and nuzzle up against whatever body part of mine he's taken a fancy to at the moment and purr really deeply. I didn't realize different cats have different purrs. Should've, I know, but I've been with Fluffy for more than 9 years so I'm used to his short of calm and subdued and constant purr. Smokey purrs deep and rough and kind of... puffy, if that made sense. I've yet to hear Caesar purr, because he's cold and snobbish and very much like a cat, but my sister said he'll soon warm up to me, which I'm not seeing anytime soon, if you asked me. When in their presence, I refer to myself as The Hand that Feeds Them, just for fun.

The next day, Monday, I think it was, we went out to have lunch together. I was still in a foul mood because of the whole pillow thing, but my mood worsened because of some other crap put together that I would just rather forget about and not write down. Things ended with another sort of quarrel in the car, in which I told my Dad that he shouldn't tell me off for being moody about a pillow, because sometimes he's moody for no reason at all. I think I very much hated the rest of that day, so maybe I kept to myself and the cats for the most part, but really, I don't much care for what happened. My sister left the following morning, and since I can't remember the gaps in between, I won't strain my brain trying to.

So that was what happened during the weekend. It wasn't a bad weekend, really. It just ended on a sour note. I know that pillows might seem like one of the most trivial things to get upset over, but all of this happened something like a week ago, and I couldn't care less about my overreaction now. Not that I consider it much of an overreaction in the first place. You try sleeping with five pillows on a daily basis and ending up with only three. 

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