Bienvenue, encore.

As you can see, this blog has changed: New URL, new design, new everything.

Actually, the blog's been a work-in-progress for a very long time. Thanks to a dead CPU and siblings who seem to lack the ability to comprehend the concept of asking permission to use other people's property, my laptop, along with the Internet connection, has often been "hijacked"; even when I was in the middle of a surfing session. As a result, my blog has been gathering dust, cobwebs and an awful lot of fungi from the involuntary neglect.

OK, enough of the ranting.

So I woke up one day and logged in to Blogger. I don't know if you guys think the same, but I enjoy reading my older posts. It's kinda fun, really. A few dozen clicks later, I was overcome by a strange feeling: I didn't like what I was looking at. It simply didn't reflect me anymore. Much has changed since I was diagnosed of SVT earlier in the year. I am not the person I used to be. Discoveries like that are bound to transform a person, though not always for the better. Unfortunately, that's the case for me. I am now officially a mental patient as well. You will find out more about that in my future posts. Scared yet? Feel free to close the browser window if you are. I won't stop you. =P

Although I will continue to abide by my self-imposed code of ethics when it comes to private information and dirty secrets, this blog will be more revealing. This is me, finally stripped naked for all the world to see. You wonder what really goes on in my head, so I'm gonna spill everything..and you will finally agree with me when I tell you I am not sane.

Oh, yes. Thanks for the inspiration, Dr. Wan. I owe you bigtime.

I am not a walrus.

Lights out.

One glance at the laptop screen.

Media player on. Check.

Playlist selected. Check.

Headphones connected. Check.

Correct sound settings. Check.

Stray thought pops up: Damn, I’m one hell of an audiophile.

Stop it already. Time to plug in.

And so, I assume my position on the bed.

I lie still, as still as I possibly can. The only visible movement is the rise and fall of my chest as I breathe, slowly and evenly.

My eyes are closed. It’s time for them to rest.

Touch and hearing are the only senses left working: hearing because it’s the only one I need, and touch because it’s impossible to turn off.

My sense of smell is already screwed up, ergo it’s out of the equation.

No, I am not relaxing. This, in fact, is an exercise. A workout.

The music in my ears is not Mozart or Chopin, but Armin van Buuren.

It’s music for dancing, not for lying motionless like a recumbent sculpture.

And yet, here I am, doing exactly that. Fighting the intense urge to move in time with the music as the thumping beats relentlessly beckon me to, like sirens among treacherous rocks.

All that chaos, while appearing completely tranquil on the outside.

This is an exercise in restraint. In stifling emotion-driven tendencies so as to form a protective veneer around this broken self.

This is an exercise in being cold. So cold, that touching my heart will give you frostbite.

Self-preservation through turning myself into a mere stone sculpture: Apathetic, emotionless and yes, cold.

And it’s all because of the fact that passion nearly killed me.

Definitely not what the shrink ordered, but I couldn’t care less.



P.S. : Oh yes, I really am consulting a psychiatrist; but that is a different story waiting to be told in a different post. Some other time, perhaps.

Frank. Blunt. Totally nuts.

At this point in my life, I have to be content with the notion that the closest thing I'll ever have to a love life would be sympathy sex.

As if that sympathy sex is going to happen, like, ever.

I won't be able to handle it. The mere act of procreating can kill me.

Sex is out of the question, therefore having children is out of the question. Marriage, too, will probably be in that crumpled wish list waiting to be thrown into the Dumpster.

It's sad to think that the only alternative I have is if the Almighty were to bestow upon me the gift of the Immaculate Conception.

Far-fetched, of course, and absolutely impossible.

And I still don't get how on this insane Earth did the term "sympathy sex" come to be.

You have a serious illness and it can kill you? OMG, that's hot. Let's do the nasty, now.

Weird.

I know I'm not making any sense. Well, c'est moi. Crazy as always. My noodles are fried, remember? So deal with it.

The funny truth.

I'm so gonna get that Gary Fisher Piranha once I start working.

Pearls down his cheeks.

In my entire life, I've only seen my father shed tears three times.

Once when I was very small, about three or four. He had to leave for Brunei for a two-year job posting.

Once when he received the news of his father's death, not too long after my first-ever visit to his hometown in Batu Pahat.

And once just last week, on the first day of Eid.

Every year, before the first guests come, we gather at the living room and ask for forgiveness from each other for all the wrongs that we have done. Each and every time, my parents would add a little dash of advice: reminders to improve ourselves, learn from our mistakes, get rid of bad habits.

Study hard, work hard, don't laze around too much. Those are the usual words.

But this year, it was different. With me, at least.

I knelt before him, took his hands and kissed them. I waited for his stream of advice. Nothing.

He simply gazed upon me, his eyes glistening like diamonds.

Then words finally came out of his mouth.

"I have nothing to say to you today. I'm just glad you're still here."

I fully understood what he meant.

It was then that I saw tears run down his cheeks. A rare sight.

And to think that I was the reason they got there, I couldn't take it anymore. Before I knew it, I was shedding tears myself.

I can't imagine how it must have been like for my parents: seeing their daughter barely alive in the ICU, too weak to even breathe on her own. That feeling of helplessness, of having no control over what was going on, the uncertainty capable of making one crazy. I know it is terrible, but just how terrible, it's something that only God knows.

I was asking for forgiveness, but I deserve no forgiveness for what I've put them through. And yet, they were still there ~ ever so forgiving, ever so loving. I guess it's true what people say, a parent's love for their children is unlike any other.

Perhaps when I have children of my own, I will understand.

Ringing bells and drooling pooches.

If I were a dog, I would belong to Ivan Pavlov.

Not exactly implying that I want to be a dog; but if there is an alternate existence where I am a member of the canine family, my owner would probably be the famous philosopher.

You see, I'm a perfect example of Pavlov's classical conditioning theory. Whenever I hear someone mention the word "pig" (or its equivalent in other languages that I understand), my brother's face instantly pops into my head.

The mechanism commences automatically without fail, each and every time.

It sets off a chain reaction; from the initial trigger that causes said brother’s face to suddenly appear in my mind, to a series of other words my brain has duly associated with the image: The first one would be “scalp”, then followed by “bludgeon” and “garrote”.

And instead of salivating like Pavlov’s dogs used to do, I would feel a furious tremble down my spine. If I really were a dog, I probably would have snarled right then and there.

It makes me wonder sometimes if at some point in my life, I had been subjected to experiments not unlike the MKULTRA. Now that would explain why my mind is so screwed up. I can’t seem to see a more plausible explanation than that. Normal people aren’t supposed to have notions of that sort frolicking about in their heads. Mad scientists must’ve fried the noodles in my noggin.

Or at least, I like to think so.

None of that conspiracy thing could have possibly happened to me, of course. It’s just my inner Ally McBeal talking. I think I’ve told you before that I’m not completely sane. This is proof.

And if you find this entry strangely entertaining, I reckon you’re insane too.

Fragile. Be damn careful.

I bruise easily
So be gentle when you handle me
There's a mark you leave
Like a love heart cut on a tree
I bruise easily
Can't scratch the surface without moving me underneath
I bruise easily...

~ Chicane & Natasha Bedingfield, Bruised Water ~

What a nice song. Awesome, in fact.

Makes a great anthem for emotionally-fragile people like me...and those who suffer from thrombocytopenic purpura.

Chasing balls on a race track.

Fond memory of Weltmeisterschaft 2010:

Quarter final game, Deutschland-Argentina.

National anthems playing.

Dad hummed to Deutschlandlied. I sang along to it. Every single word.

Surprised look on Mom's face.

"You guys know the German national anthem?" she asked.

Stupid grin on my face and Dad's as we replied in unison, "Michael Schumacher".

We're still, above everything else, Formula 1 fans.

Some things just don't change.

Go to hell, you spammers!

Saw new comments on my posts and checked them out. It was them spammers, for the umpteenth time. Haven't you got anything better to do than flood my comments sections with unintelligible gibberish? I've seen your blog pages. They've got no content. No posts, nothing. And I've reported every single one of you, but you just keep on coming.

If you want to f**k around, do it somewhere else, preferably in a bed with a real-life person -- not in cyberspace. Don't you realize how much of a disgrace you are to the human race? Get a life, you freaks.

And stay away from mine.

A song about awesomeness.

I love the 12-leads
I love the IV drips
I love the beta-blockers
I love the ER trips
I love the palpitations that come with SVT
Boom dee ah dah, boom dee ah dah
Boom dee ah dah, boom dee ah dah!

I have a twisted sense of humor, thanks to this freakin' medical condition...and hours of Discovery Channel.

The World Is Just Awesome.