outlawserenade

If you don't want "random people" see your "art" - or pictures of your sitting end and/or exaggerated mammaries, and/or/especially your genitalia: Don't post it on teH interwebz. Moron.

Pathetic little wannabes..

By the by, I like arguing. But at times, I stopped arguing when you visibly make an ass out of yourself.

..that I don't keep a JOURNAL for other people's sake. One tend to forget about it at times, at a cost..

So why do all series' premiere have to be in late september? What am I going to watch until then? I've finished CSI, NCIS, Merlin -- and that's about all series I'm interested in. I want to catch up with both Supernatural and Ghost Whisperer - but my superstitious little self tend to not want to think of spooks and things that go bump in the night that's not a friggin' rabbit on my roof. So maybe by.. say, Ramadhan (where all nasty spirits are tied in holy chains.. dun dun dunn...), I'll catch up with 'em. Besides, I'll be sleeping on daytime during then, so no worry about things that go bump in the night.

The IHFC meetup last week was - unsurprisingly - canceled. Although I would've not minded going to Bintaro and play with Aqiilah all day and night, I was amused to see it canceled. Not surprised, just amused. I guess some people need to realize how unliked they are.. I have no qualms with the arranger. I didn't like her much, but not enough to totally despise her. Actually, I feel (dislike) more strongly for those - or just to make thing simple, *one of* those, who caused the cancellation. I never liked potty mouthed people. I definitely don't like her enough to eventually blocked out her potty-mouthed updates from my news feed. Granted, my kids would never see 'em. But I really would rather not have incidents happen. Besides, the things she said disgusted me to the point of my mental assessment judges would cry: "FOUL" whenever I see her updates flashed on my FF toolbar.

Truth to the matter at hand: You cannot buy milieu. Not even with all the money in the world. Nor the prettiest of pretties in the world.

Speaking of milieu, I reckon another person will get the ignore button from me.. Hey, I drink - or shall I say, I'd *drank* a sailor under the table. But before so (read: when I was in Jr. high etc), I know the names of those drinks - courtesy of my aunt who'd always have a bottle or two (or a half-dozen) in her house. I learned how to roll a brandy, how to pour whiskey, how to take tequila shots, and so on; by observation. But the one thing I will *NOT* mistake are the spelling. There's no way I'd type 'marteeny' unless I've had a half gallon thereof. So when a former schoolmate of mine starting to claim he'd drunk 'vodCa', I can smell the lies.

I do wonder, though, why lies? Why bother lying about such thing? It's not like one's merit is determined by how much one can hold in a sitting - this is definitely *not* russia - where a temperature of 20 centigrades is considered as a bloody heatwave. Indonesia is too hot to make even drinking beer a laughable feat - you'll sweat like a pig under half a can. I've *always* kept my environment under 20 centigrades whenever I take a guzzle of anything with alcohol. So at nights that spit out the fire of a 35 centigrades heat, one claiming he'd been "boozing" deserved nothing but a laugh. Really.. the misspelling is only one indicator of your lies. The frequency is another. Anyone who drinks with the frequency you "claimed" you've done ought to be worried of their liver. Or chronic alcoholism. And being in Indonesia, that would also mean lack of body fat - sweating a lot tend to do that to you. But hey, you're as fat as a pig! So, mind if I uncover your lies? Oh wait, I reckon everybody knew that already. That's why they never bothered to treat you with the respect you've always craved.

lulz.

I guess with the absence of things-to-watch, I should really get back to writing.. Or designing. Neither's muse seems to be around at this time of the day, though.

I need to budget to buy a new monitor. This one is short of dying. *sigh*

Happy b'day, little Andrea - the one on my pic. You're so much more pain in the ass than you were back then. Somebody should truly bitchslap you and make you behave like a little girl instead of a wannabe adult. Oh wait, make that: bitchslap your mother. Nothing's more sad and pathetic than little kids behaving like adults.

Reckon a number of people (who are interested enough) would have heard about the (yet another) bombing at J.W. Marriott Hotel and Ritz Carlton Hotel in Jakarta.

One of the victims (out of 9) who died was my cousin's boss. Had he been here, my cousin would've been in that meeting with the boss, since he's second-in-command in their company. God is obviously still protecting him - he went on leave just a few days ago. The instant we heard the name of the company mentioned on TV, though, our stomach did a nice hefty topsy-turvy which was settled only when mom finally called my cousin's oldest bro and got the news that he was - in fact - not even in Jakarta. Dear God, talkin' bout close calls..

As I watch the impromptu footages from cellphone cameras and other random cameras in the area, my mind inevitably flashed back to 2003. I was there. I saw the blast. I saw people bleeding, screaming, missing limbs etc. I'd walked past the bomb's container and it was only by God's grace that it didn't explode while I was passing. God literally showed me his love for me that day in hundreds of ways: steering me out of the restaurant that was later blown to pieces, getting me there five minutes late than our designated meeting time, making my cousin insisted that we accompany him to the parking lot (instead of dropping us ladies at the lobby), and so on and so forth. If I'd doubt in God before that day, it was quickly eradicated.

Today, however, as I watch the footages, one thing struck me: the difference. The bomb wasn't - as it was before - from outside of the hotel. It was from *inside*. Later development showed that the bomb squad found an unexploded bomb in a room on the 18th floor of the Marriott. That got me wondering: would a terrorist cell deliberately rent a room in a DIAMOND-star hotel (for those not understanding hotel lingo; Diamond = uberexpensive) to build a bomb? If they do, where'd they got the money from? Furthermore, I *know* for a fact that NO 5+ star hotel in Jakarta would accept cash. You *have* to HAVE a credit card. And seriously? Who would want to give a credit card to some random, non-6-digits-pay, person? They didn't just walk into the hotel, assemble the bomb and let it pop. They *rented a room*.

The president said that he has inklings and info as to who may be responsible behind all those. I do, too. And from the President's remarks, I have a good impression that he, too, is thinking of the same people I am. I'm sure he - and his staff - hasn't such a short memory of an event akin to this that has happened before, and of a certain keyplayer that was untouchable (at that time) who'd only recently resurfaced on media's radar. I sure pray to God Almighty that this time, the said keyplayer made a slip and get to be arrested big time. I promise, if he get arrested, I'll be first in line to spit on his face.

The title? That's the no. 1 trending topic on twitter as of this hour. We don't give a fuck of jonas, harry potter, whatever. We will show those lameass little bitches that WE ARE UNITED. We are Indonesian.

Just read a journal about someone miffed at people asking for charity/chipin/paypal/whathaveyous. Can't disagree. Not in the least bit.

I whine about my lack of fund-age, definitely. In my journal(s). Therefore, it's my right. How bad? You don't need to know. It's bad enough that if you know how bad, you'll cringe. Will I ask for a damn charity? Not in a million years. I work with everything I have to make ends meet. And that's how I will die. Making ends meet.

So kids today decide that it's easier to whine on the interwebs at how "bad" their "financial situation" is, and "lyke, I's gunn die z0mg" if "j00 d0nT seNd me $$$ a LOAD of it right NAO!!1!"

Eh.

Disgusting is the understatement of the century. Sorry, I can't sympathize nor empathize. I have made personal loans to some people IRL. I have sold valuables to them to pay bills. I've begged people for jobs. I do have high appreciation and a lot of prayers for the people who (at special events e.g. Eid/birthdays) gave me cash. But I will NOT beg people for cash. At the point - God forbids - where I can no longer work my brain for cash, I will probably sell a kidney or an eye or both eyes or something. And no, I'm not joking. I'll sell a limb/organ before I beg for cash. The last time I bought a "new" outfit was.. dear God, I can't even remember. Do I feel sorry for it? Nope. Not at all. Is there anything I want in the "pretty-maker" department? Oh yes. A lot. Anything I *need*? Nope, nothing that'll kill me if I don't get 'em.

Somebody just remarked that I'm "liked everywhere." I smirked, then sneered. Could it be, because I've never told you of my hardships? Oh sure, I have 'em. Loads of 'em. The kind of hardships that westerners would probably die within the first weeks of experiencing. Do I have to detail them? Hell no. Why? I don't need your sympathy. Your sympathy isn't going to pay my bills. Your sympathy isn't going to give me everything I want. Still, it amused me how the instant I reveal a little of a hardship I'm enduring, the rats abandoned ship as if it was sinking helplessly. Wow.

One thing's for sure, though. I'm tired of being the shoulder to cry on. Seriously, why should I? What good is my shoulder if you're not gonna change yourself? It's online life, I can't do anything more. And I can tell you that words are just that: words. They don't mean a thing unless it moves you to *do* something. What you *do* is yours and yours alone. Not mine. I can say/type a lot of words and they won't mean nothing but a bunch of letters. A friend once told me that I've earned the MBA degree - Master of Bullshitting Art. He'd only seen a snippet of something I've written. I think he has deeper thinking pattern than anyone ever gave him credit for.

Conclusion: Stop asking for charity. Period end.

No, I'm not telling.

What I *will* tell, however, is that yesterday I spent the whole afternoon with my grandnephew, Nesta. It's been quite a while (3 years) since I held babies. But really, holding a seven-day-old baby is like riding a bike, once you get it, you can't forget it. Or like learning to hold your breath underwater. You can't forget it no matter how much you try. Actually, I once needed to aspirate a liquid medication thingy for my sinus, and failed miserably. My trachea just promptly redirected itself to my mouth the instant an object - liquid or otherwise - enters my nostrils. Funny, but true.

And I miss Nesta. His mom has some problems with her wrist and wasn't able to hold him properly, yet. So I'd lifted him from his crib to be nursed and whatnot, and elicited several worried gasps from his grandma and great grandma (from mom's side) who weren't familiar with my expertise with infants. Later my cousin told them that Nesta, at 3.2 kg, is definitely not the smallest baby I'd held. Syaskia, my now 13-yr-old niece, was 2.7 kg, and I'd held her when she was a little older (as in, by days) than Nesta.

Anywayness..

'S'all.