Marriage Diaries #4: Will I Make the Same Mistakes?

My husband hates talking about his past relationships, but mostly because of his immediate ex whom he’s direly ashamed of.

When prodded for details, he always tries to shut me up with “Being with Iman was the biggest mistake of my life, I really don’t want to relive it.”

I would never let him off that easy, though, and my questions, barraging torrentially at him, has to be answered.

It’s unhealthy, I know, but curiousity gets the better of me every time. My own past relationship I have dissected, analysed and studied to exhaustion. My neurotransmitters have possibly fried from the frequent synapses from trying to find the answers to: “What did I see in him? Why did we last as long as we did? Does my relationship with Faris construe an emotionally abusive relationship?”

My husband has had a few exes, and the details and chronology of girls have always piqued my interest.

I will tell you why. But first, a relevant preface: My husband is a particularly introverted person.

His first two exes were intelligent and sweet-mannered girls, one of whom I’ve had the pleasure of meeting. They were from elite schools and graduated as a chemical engineer and a houseman, both under scholarships.

And then came Iman, the third, who was relatively physically unattractive compared to the two, bimbotic (a mass comm student because of a limited capacity to dabble within the fields of science, and studies paid privately by her rich family) and a “party girl” as is often described, with a series of men she’s slept with.

Since my talent has always been in graphical description of things, I’ll describe her here. I promise to be objective, heh.

Her small eyes sits atop a chubby-ish face that’s covered with “birthmarks’, or rather, a myriad of differently coloured and shaped splotches. Her face painting skills are notable however, to the extent that she shifts from an unfortunate 4, to a convincing 6.5 (a 7 might be too generous). Her teeth are jagged rocks in dire need of braces, tinted yellow as a result from a chronic smoking habit. She’s particularly tall and her body, svelte. Despite her traditionally unfortunate features, her bubbly and fun-loving personality evinces a rather attractive girl whom would sweep you off your feet from her sheer exuberance alone.  

It was with Iman that my husband got his exposure to “an extrovert’s world” and partook in activities that he now loathes to relive. He partied, drank and immersed himself in the world of TV-worthy dramas; “Omg my friend had a one-night stand on her boyfriend’s bed and he found out because of the sex stains and (haphazardly discarded) used condom!”.

That was Iman’s world, and it also became his.

When he relayed me these details, my mind couldn’t stop its cogs from turning.

He’s a highly rational person, so what caused his lapse of judgement? Will I ever experience the same?

He utterly despises social activities of any sort, so how did he survive the multitude of events and gatherings for almost a year? My husband would rather gouge his eyeballs out with a rusty nail rather than banter with a group of more than 2 people.

Was it curiousity? Was in insanity? Was in hard-hitting infatuation?

In the here and now, he doesn’t want to do anything that doesn’t involve intimate moments together at home. We game, cuddle, have 3 hour talks, and watch movies from my list of favourite classics. If either of us forces the other to attend a social obligation more than once a month, we’d start having divorce attorneys on speed dial.

I guess, what really puzzles me is; 

How did he, during that short one or two-year stint, become such a different person?

It terrifies me to no end, because, you see, him and I are together because we are so much alike, and that works for us.

If he could become a different person (whom eventually found himself again) and termed it, regrettably, a “confusing phase of my life”…

Will my turn ever, god forbid, come?

Marriage Diaries #3: Shower Thoughts

My internal body clock has my eyes wide open by 7am, despite how lethargic I felt the night before or how hard I crashed the moment my head hits the pillow.

At 7am today, he was still fast asleep. I made minimal, barely noticeable movements to extricate myself from the arms that encircled me. Almost always, and always subconsciously, he would realise than I’m getting up and he would pull me back, hold me tighter and lock me in place.

I would always have to call his name in a whisper until his eyes, half-lidded and bleary, acknowledges the silent plea in mine to loosen the iron hold he has on me.

I showered the moment I managed to get out of bed, and as usual, got lost in thought while I lathered and rinsed under the therapeutic, lukewarm water.

When I was done, hair dripping wet and towel completely soaked, I jumped into bed and as usual, started talking to him despite knowing that it was too early for his internal body block.

“Baby, I had a shower thought.”

“Mmm?” He grunted, smiled and extended his arms, beckoning me to lie with him. He cringed slightly when my wet hair touched his skin.

“I’m still a bit wet sorry.”

“You don’t say?”

“Can I share my shower thoughts with you please please please?”

“I’d love to hear it”. He hugged me with both arms and I found myself talking to his chest.

“You’re aging faster than I am.”

He pulled back slightly, looked at me with lucid eyes and furrowed brows, and said, “What?”

“You’re aging faster. Because you’re taller, and that makes you bigger. At least, vertically bigger. And that means you have a bigger surface area. And you know how our cells regenerate, before the ability to regenerate slowly degrades, and that is how we scientifically age? Because you have a wider surface area, you regenerate at a higher magnitude, which also accelerates the degradation of your ability to regenerate. So technically, you age faster.”

“…Okay.”

“But then it’s okay because your skin is like, black, which means you have more melanin, which is the body’s natural mechanism against external aging factors, like the sun. So, it balances things out.”

“…Sure.”

“So in essence, you and I will age at approximately the same rate! Isn’t that great?!”

“Wait. Did you call me black?”

Marriages Diaries #2: Are you disturbed?

I find it amusing how people mistake my mother in law as my actual mother on account of how I look more similar to her than her actual son.

I also find it amusing that I share a lot of my father in law's characteristics such that I find it effortless to bond with that old man. We're also similar in terms of carelessness, values and opinions on the world.

So basically, my dear husband married someone who looks like his mom but acts like his dad.

Disturbing much.

Marriage Diaries: Post #1

Honestly, I miss writing. Let’s try again shall we?

Marriage Life – Diary #1

I’ve been married for slightly over two months now to this dude. He’s really, really good looking and if I were to be honest with myself, I was basically persuaded to tie the nuptial knot thanks to those chiselled features and that toned body of his (“muskels”).

He could be an asshole for all I cared and treated me like dirt but just a flash of those pearly whites and some little flexing and I’d be flying in his arms asking for more domestic abuse.

In all seriousness though, managed to bag a good looking dude who’s really smart, caring and compassionate. So yeah. Hashtag win.

But again, if I were to be honest with myself, I’m not the best wife. I’m calculative (it’s the accountant/audit background, I swear), selfish, only sometimes considerate if I happen to have a brain aneurysm on that day, and I’m very, very petty on certain things.

If I hear even the slightest hint of annoyance in his voice due to something I did that was legitimately annoying, I’d reciprocate by being even more annoyed that he got annoyed.

If he forgets, even for one minute, to help me with my office bags, I’d rebel by refusing to give him the bag when he remembers and saying things like “It’s okay, I’ve managed my expectations” and “Can’t always rely you for things anymore, can I?”

A grade-A bitch, right?

And how does he react to all this? He apologises, tries to make me smile and makes sure that on the days I act like this, before we sleep, he does something that warms my heart and he cuddles me a bit more securely than usual.

If I’m still adamant about being upset over trivial things that aren’t his fault, he stays awake while I blithely go to bed and kisses my forehead lightly when I stir in my sleep, hoping I wake up and hear his faint “I’m sorry”.

I’m not sure what I did right to deserve him.

50 Shades of Grey

A few friends found out I was quite an avid reader and they expressed surprise at a hobby far removed from my "gregarious, loud, attention garnering personality". Seriously though, I'm not like that. I just adapt to social situations.

A friend joked that the only book that would interest me would be "50 Shades of Grey" (I'm actually reading Great Expectations right now. About time), and I just laughed it off. I didn't know the existence of the book then, but from her insinuations, I just guessed it was an erotica.

Cue a few days later, I'm reading several reddit posts on it in which it made the front page.

Interest piqued.

I googled it and found out how explosively popular it is. So popular, in fact, that the book sold within the 8 digits and Universal Studios won the rights to a film adaptation, following a bid war with the likes of Warner Bros., Sony, Paramount and Mark Wahlberg's production company... and with Emma-frickin'-Watson rumoured to play the heroine.


When it comes to understanding popular culture, I'm a sucker for it. This led me to read Twilight (I couldn't read past the second book though, it was giving me brain cancer), and now, I'd just finished reading roughly 60% of 50 Shades of Grey.


And boy, is it pure, white, literary trash. 


Initially, I'd read the description on it being "soft porn in which readers explore the world of BDSM and explosive, kinky sex" and thought that E.L James was a male author, set to educate the world on bondage sex for the purpose of mass liberation and exploration of one's inner deviant sexuality or whatever. 


(There's always some sad pervert with a sense of over-entitlement and perceived augmented understanding of the human psyche after all).


Reading it, I was surprised by how much it resembled Twilight. Characters were two-dimensional, plot was cliched... but at least Twilight had some prosaic moments here and there. Bad ones, but it was there.


Comparing the synopses of the two:


50 Shades of Grey: Clumsy, awkward Anastasia who internally downplays her hot bombshell self (evident by two other male suitors clamouring for her attention), unconsciously charms the young, devilishly handsome and rich business magnate Christian Grey... but aha! There's a twist! He's into BDSM. 


Twilight: Clumsy, awkward Anastasia Bella who internally downplays her hot bombshell uniquely beautiful self (evident by two other male suitors clamouring for her attention), unconsciously charms the young old, devilishly handsome and rich business magnate mysterious hunk Christian Grey Edward Cullen... but aha! There's a twist! He's into BDSM a sparkling fairy that eats animal blood. 


Twilight probably upped the ante by having Bella's other love interest, a red indian werewolf (at least Stephanie Myers is not racist?) falling in love with her newborn, homidical freak of nature baby.


I guess the sky's the limit when it comes to some authors' imagination.


Back to 50 Shades of Grey; Christian Grey comes off as spectacularly handsome, talented, rich, driven and... 


...Non-existent. Seriously? A guy that is an accomplished businessman by the age of 27 whom can fly a plane, play the instrument flawlessly, always showering you with expensive gifts and is a magic sex god? 


For someone so accomplished though, he seems to not be at work very often. He has time to give her surprise visits and spends Friday to Sundays indulging in this amoral hobby of his.

Dude, I'm a 23 year old run-of-the-mill company employee with barely an expandable income to laud about, and here's a fact: Weekends. Don't. Exist. At. All.

I gave up reading after the sordid sex scenes became too frequent. It was a lot like:

Somewhere in the middle of the book: He made love to me. He gets ready to leave. I get sad :( . I unintentionally do something that turns him on again and we make love again :)

Next chapter: We discuss about the BDSM stuff and it got me confused and sad :( Then he drops by unexpectedly and we make love again :)

Next chapter: Some lame plot-filler thing happened and then we make love :) But then for some excessively retarded reason, I get sad again :(

I felt stupid reading it. I felt stupid even wanting to read it. I thought it would be something like Lolita, in which I was thoroughly amazed by the beauty of the language used to describe the inner workings of someone irrevocably broken. I thought it would be an insight into the amoral, like how The Psychopath Test bequeathed a whole new understanding into the world of moral leprosy. I didn't expect it to be completely like those two outstanding books, I was just hoping to understand more about why people do the things they do.

I guess the description of it being "mommy porn" is more than apt. It was purely about sex, and would appeal to those judgmental mommies or any female in general whom think porn is bad but written porn is acceptable.

Double standards.

What's worse, I later found out it was originally a Twilight fanfiction.

That explained a damn lot.

So this sad, ugly fat author chick whom couldn't get wet enough from Stephanie Myer's book, decided to fantasize graphic details on the sex lives of the two main characters. She later decided that "Vanilla sex" wasn't enough to fulfill her empty life and incorporated BDSM into it.

And wrote it all out in full description for the whole world to read.

And everyone enjoyed it.

Everyone enjoyed reading the sexual fantasies of a lonely and old Twilight fan who gets off on having graphic, violent sexual daydreams of a fictional vampire that incidentally sparkles under the sun.

Seriously?

Seriously?

Bedtime Stories: Part I

Anyone who’s known me long enough is aware of my love for the supernatural, the ghosts, the other world residents.

Don’t get me wrong, these things get me pissing the shit out of my pants, but I still love listening about them.

Throughout the years, I’ve amassed quite a few ghost stories, some famous re-tellings and some personal experiences that usually creeps the fuck out of me more so than the generic “This happened to a friend of a friend”.

I think I’ll share them. Here.

Now.

So pussies, stop reading if you want to sleep tonight.

I’ll start with a personal experience:

Story #1: Genting Apartment

When I was about 11, my dad’s Company was hosting a Family Day up in Genting Highlands.

Now you know the stories about Genting Highlands. That place is littered with restless spirits and demonic presence. One theory is that because it hosts a grand casino, a lot of people would commit suicide when they find themselves faced with some serious gambling debts, and they become our residential "spirits that are stuck in this world", with varying degrees of sinister auras.

Our family lucked out, we had a huge third-floor apartment to ourselves. The layout was a huge living room that led to an open kitchen, and several bedrooms scattered throughout.

Even as a young kid, despite being described as “lively and cheeky”, I still preferred solitary activities and would find any reason to just stay indoors. It was around 12pm and every other member of the family was out doing something Family Day-ish. I, somehow, managed to force my younger sister to stay in the apartment with me.

And this was when I had the unfortunate idea to play “Old Blind Man”. 

It’s like Marco Polo, without the swimming pool/sea, hot babes, nudity and come hither looks when you sneak a peek, as Hollywood depicts it. Well, slightly different, since the Blind Man here is supposed to listen attentively to scuffling sounds and stifled laughter to help search for the other players.

Now that I’m older, I know better than to ever play that game. Just like Hide-and-Seek, people go missing.

These are what I’ve heard from friends about the Hide-and-Seek game:

“I played it with my siblings once, and my brother was the last to be found. When we managed to find him, he was trembling in a corner and his face was pale as a ghost. To this day, he refused to tell us what happened to him, what he saw. Now, he claims that he never remembers any such incident..”

“A kid in my kampung went missing once, while he was playing hide-and-seek with his sister. It got pretty serious, they had a search party led by the Ketua Kampung that lasted for weeks. Months went by and they never could find him. Finally, they accepted that he probably died or could never be found again. On the day of his corpse-less funeral, when everyone was reading the Yaasin, they heard a scream from one of the bedrooms on the second floor of the house. Everyone ran up, and saw the little boy’s older sister screaming hysterically. They soon discovered why. In the room, the lost kid was sitting peacefully on the bed, looking curiously at everyone. He looked immaculate, not a speck of dirt on him, wearing the exact same shirt he wore when he went missing. It was like the whole disappearance never happened. When everything finally quieted down, he said to the room “I didn’t know so many people were playing too!’”

Anyway, back to my original story.

Before we started playing Old Blind Man, I laid out the ground rule:

• 1.     Our play area was confined to the master bedroom. Under no circumstances could either of us enter the adjoining bathroom or the living room.

The purpose of that was to reduce the risk of injury for the “Blind Man”. Very much necessary, since I imagine face-planting a wall is not a pleasant experience.

I lost the coin toss, so I became the “Blind Man”, in which I got a white towel and wrapped it around my eyes.

Now, being a cheater at games, I wrapped it thinly around my eyes so I could see the outline of everything.

I faced the wall and counted to 10 while my sister hid. 

The moment I turned around, I immediately saw her. She was standing in front of the bathroom.

Of course, if I immediately head straight to her, my deception would be obvious. Instead, I started wobbling around the room, pretending to turn left and right occasionally while heading to the general direction of the bathroom. The whole time she stood there immobile, trying to stay quiet to win the game.

The moment I was so near that I could almost touch her, she immediately ran into the bathroom.

Now, this time, rage overtook me (I was a pretty hot-headed kid). Forgetting my own bad sportsmanship, I was enraged by the fact that she broke the rule. Quickly, I tore the towel from my face and ran into the bathroom, screaming;

“HEY I TOLD YOU WE WERE NOT SUPPOSED TO PLAY IN THE B—“

I stopped short when I noticed something crucial.

There was no one in the bathroom.

Except for me, it was empty.

I panicked and started screaming for her, but she didn’t respond. I looked in the cupboard, I looked in the living room and finally found her, giggling behind a monstrously sized couch.

Basically, she cheated too.

We had two more days in the apartment, so the remainder of the days was something I could not possibly forget. It was repeated events of me screaming:

“DON’T GO INTO THE BATHROOM I’M USING IT DON’T GO INTO THE BATHROOM I’M USING IT DON’T GO INTO THE BATHROOM I’M USING IT.” While using the bathroom with the door completely open, because if I had to use that bathroom with the doors closed, seriously…

Fuck.

That.

Shit.

...The end.                                           

Story #2: The Bunk-Bed

This is a popular story, and I’ve heard many variations of it, but this one was how I originally heard it from a friend:

It was the beginning of the semester, and this college girl was assigned to a two-person dorm room. She did not have a roommate yet so she had to sleep alone for the first night.

The room was pretty cramped, and it could fit only two small desks and a bunk bed. She immediately chose the lower bunk.

Being tired from the day’s events, she slept easily enough. She woke up around midnight however, when she heard slight creaking noises. She then noticed that the bed was also moving slightly.

Remembering that she locked the door and thus no one else could possibly be in the room, she slowly opened one of her eyes to find out what’s causing it, all the while being scared to her bones.

She froze in horror when she saw a pair of child’s feet dangling nonchalantly on the upper bunk. She went white from the realization that;

Her room was locked, but…

There was a kid.

On the bed.

Moving his feet back and forth happily.

She was paralysed with fear, unsure of what to do. Finally, she decided the best course of action was to pretend to be asleep still. Maybe the kid won’t do anything to her. Maybe the kid will go away. Maybe she was just having a nightmare. Maybe.

Not a few seconds letter, she heard a sweet, happy voice, saying something in a sing-song manner that only made her blood curdle:

“Hi Kakaaaaak~ I know you’re awaaaaaake~”

...The end.

Story #3: You’re Not the First

This one is quite popular too, and it goes like this;

A group of about 7 college kids was having a sleepover in one of the dorm rooms meant for 4 people. They took down all the mattresses and gathered it in the centre under a huge ceiling fan. Everyone slept huddled together since the space was pretty cramped.

It was late at night when one of them woke up from the sounds of footsteps slowly encircling the makeshift king bed. Her hair immediately stood on ends and she felt uncharacteristically scared. Somehow, instinctively, she just knew it wasn’t human. Her instincts told her not to look up and to pretend to be asleep.

Doing just that, she heard the footsteps slowing down and finally… the thing stopped in its tracks. It stopped for a few seconds before continuing its uniform steps, but not before saying in a low, haunting voice;

“Now four of them are awake.”

Story #4: The Telephone Booth

I heard this as a young girl, and I’ve never heard it being repeated. A friend swore this happened to her cousin:

Malays believe that sunset is the scariest time of the day. It’s when night encroaches into the sun’s territory and minutes later, we are engulfed by the dark.

This is the favourite time of the day for those… things.

Malay parents would call their kids in right before sunset and they’re not allowed to play outside again until about an hour has passed.

Now, this girl, being a rebellious teenager in that phase and all, could not care less about that “superstition”.

She was on the phone, shooting up the telephone bills, flirting with a guy non-stop. Her mom got angry and disconnected the phone, telling her;

“Unless you pay the bills yourself, you’re not allowed to use any phones in my house.”

This happened in the years before cellphones were a common household item. Peeved, she was not having any of that. She grabbed her purse full of coins and headed to the telephone booth just across from her house.

She called him up from the booth, giggling flirtatiously and arranging a future meet-up. She noticed then that someone was right behind her, queue-ing up to use the phone.

Now, being quite a bitch, she decided to continue chatting, completely ignoring the other person, talking about trivial things and feeding her teenage girl fancy.

Raging hormones and all.

All the while, the stranger stood waiting patiently for his turn, not a single word uttered from his mouth.

She kept feeding coins into the phone while the minutes continued to run. The guy continued waiting patiently. Finally, as luck would have it, she dropped one of her coins and bending down to pick it up, she noticed something that sent chills straight down her spine.

The guy had no legs.

She was terrified, almost paralysed, but she remembered one important rule; Never make them aware that you’re aware of what they are. Hands violently trembling, she ended her conversation with the guy in a nervous tone;

“I’ve… got to go now. Someone… is waiting to use the phone.”

Just as she placed the receiver back in its place, the stranger said;

“Young girl… are you really done, or did you just realize... what I actually am?”

...The end.

That’s it for now. Don’t think I’m done though.

This is just Part 1.

I'm happy

I was just staring at the wall, thinking about how soon my sister will finally get home from Australia after finishing up her 6 years medic studies there.

Cleaning the house thoroughly, picking her up from the airport, hugging her for the first time in several years, bringing her to Sunway to get her expensive graduation gift I've been saving up for...

Then a call came and it was her, on a shopping spree to buy a surprise gift for me. Although, in the end, she had to call me up in case I didn't want what she planned to get.

December is going to be awesome.