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, February 7, 2012

In the Midst of Hardship

I told Hanna. She's the third person to know. After Maze. After Hel. And really, she had nothing to say. It was reminiscent of that time I told Lana about me, and Lana was quiet and had nothing to say. For the things I've said about and to Lana, I apologize, and for the things I might have thought about Hanna, I take back, because there's nothing to say to that. I am fine with it because I am used to it. (See: literature that you learn in class will somehow miraculously find a way to relate itself to your life.)

A picture painted: it is hot, it is smelly, and as that's where I live, it is Malaysia. Maybe hundreds, but probably nowhere near thousands of girls squeal in delight over the release of a CD that had been released in other countries, three months prior. I am with a girl who has a special version of said CD, the so-called 'year book' and she has brought it along, mainly for the purposes of showing off, I suppose. There is people from school around, but I try to shrink into the shadows. Because this is embarrassing.

Hanna felt pity on me, I guess. Between the people carrying signs for the Presidential elections (I vote Obama!), and having their faces painted, and the general embarrassment that was the squealing, you might think my head would have started to explode. But it didn't. Hanna said she was going to have that haircut then. That's good, all in all, but mostly that fateful day at the salon led to many other shenanigans, mainly: say hello to a newly minted Directioner!

I thought it was customary to pick a favorite so considering I didn't know their names, I asked Hanna to list them out for me. I picked Niall because it sounded like the river and I guess it was the only name I had trouble pronouncing. I read the year book thing biblically. I memorized their last names. I laughed at their jokes and put my hand to my chest whenever they thanked their fans. I fake cried. It was awesome. I don't know why, but this is it. This is what I've been waiting to do with my life. Lately, life's been monotonous, depressing even, so this is the thing that I need to dig me out of this rut. This - One Direction - is perfection.

We went back downstairs, where there were even more people pretending like the owned the place. News fucking flash, none of you hos actually fucking own OU. Hanna found the line to buy the CD and I stood aside awkwardly with the row of boyfriends. Hanna insisted I come, she flapped her hands at me. So I shimmied off to her side, awkwardly, and she was fingering and sighing and orgasming over the Zayn pile, of which there were only three left. Hanna took out her money. I seized my chance. "Can I have one?" I asked, and Hanna's hand immediately flew over to Niall's pile. I said I was being serious. She said she would seriously pay. It was, all things considered, a win-win situation. If someone ever says to me, in the future, that there is no such thing as a win-win situation, I will tell them this tale of heroism on Hanna's part.

Another picture: I am happy. I clutch the CD with Niall's pretty blond face on it and press it against my chest. Hanging loosely from the fingers of my other hand is the cardboard cutout dolls of the band, ready to be cut and pasted once I reach the comforts of my own boudoir. Hanna stuffs her purchases into her bag. She is not a true fan, she is hiding her identity. On our way to MPH, we spy a bunch of girls with similar purchases, cardboard doll papers and CDs alike. I wave mine to them. They stare. They do not understand the concept of solidarity through fandom. I dislike them. They are 'Nators.

At MPH, there was more shenanigans. Apparently, Intan has a stalker who asked her to meet them (her or him or whatever gender the stalker is today. Maybe, and this is a huge possibility given my confusion, the stalker is gender-fluid) at MPH, so Hanna and I hung around the designated section, whisper-shouting Intan's name to gain attention. Only a guy with a mustache stared at us, and I think he just thought we were crazy. At the queue for buying stuff, there were a few 'Nators behind us, clutching their One Direction stuff like old women clutching pearls. (Another picture: Please, I scoff to myself. At least keep them in a bag if you're going to be that transparent. Fuckin' 'Nators.)

We went back downstairs, where Presidential shenanigans were still going strong. They were like a cult. If you can't beat them, join them, so I joined in the throng of low-level IQ and estrogen-overload. It was like an acid trip, only less fun, I would imagine. While waiting for my Dad, a girl next to us was complaining to her brother (boyfriend, friend, cousin, complete stranger?) because he had apparently bought a CD with the wrong person on the cover for her. I am okay with the sweaty girls in jeans and t-shirts, or whatever it is kids wear these days. However, the embarrassment was of seeing real grown-ass looking girls, who looked like they could be working, participating in an event such as this.

We made fun of other fans and I kept waving my CD and freebie stuff around the place and kept trying to talk to random strangers I didn’t know who were also carrying around the CD and freebie stuff, like a mark to tell each other that we are kin. In the eyes of the band, we are all the same: fans. Motherfucking cheers, mates!

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