You say you want a revolution man, and I say that you're full of shit.

gila babi lama tak update rasa macam nak cabut tangan baling baling kat orang gaah


I've been feeling weird lately. More than usual. When I'm in my room alone, it feels like there's something else hanging around with me. Not like an angry ghost or anything, more like an over mutated thought that grew a life of its own, sticking to me like an annoying 10 year old girl would stick to Hannah Montana. A few days ago, I realized that the mutant thought is of death.

I read somewhere, I vaguely remember where, that this girl had sex with her boyfriend then went to the bathroom and when her boyfriend came into the bathroom, she's in the tub with both wrists slit. He said as far as he knew, nothing was wrong with her life and she didn't show any signs of depression or anything that might indicate she's having thoughts of suicide.
I'm like, fuck you must be really bad at sex then.

And the diseases, H1N1 (my sister in Ukraine said the second outbreak of H1N1 is all over Ukraine so all borders are like closed or something), TB (shishaaa), blood cancers.
Just now I slipped from the stairs and almost fell on my head. My usual accident prone imbalanced self or was it a discreet cunning poke from the Reaper itself? Like, Hi ika I'm right here behind you. watch out.

Plus I noticed the amount of healthy wrinkly old people in khaki shorts walking around in the winter wind and not dying on a bed somewhere is a lot. Maybe the Reaper feels pretty bored with no lives to take and goes about playing pranks on people.


But seriously, I think about dying a lot now. It came along that day and just never went away. It made a home there somewhere underneath all the layer of thoughts, and usually when I'm unconsciously peeling off the layers, it jumps out like whack and smothers me. And the sick part is I just let it. I don't know what to do. I'm not even sure if I should do anything.

I need more experience. When my grandmother died, I cried but I think it's because I was shocked, not because I was sad. We weren't that close, but I do love her to death (eh haha) and everything.

This is the kind of practice I need, how to deal with death, not how to cook asam laksa to a drooling perfection.

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I was walking around, looking at myself on window shops when I realized, when you have the perfect pair of jeans, everything else, even your windswept freaky looking hair, looks good. There's magic in The Jeans I tell you.

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The (revised) list of things that I would take with me if I run away from home;

1. The Jeans.
2. My iPod. And Sufi's iPhone charger.
3. My phone and it's charger.
4. Money, in cash. I'd drain my account 3 weeks earlier and stuff them in various places like my jeans pocket, my bra and underwear. (We did this in Brussels and it got really awkward when we had to pay for waffles and the only place with money that's reachable was my bra.)
5. A couple of books. Like Dr. Ayman's anatomy book. It has colors and pictures, so it won't be boring. I mean, I don't mind being homeless but I don't want to be dumb. Who knows, like that movie from homeless to Harvard.
6. A blanket.
7. A pocketknife, in case I need to stab someone.
8. Those small Nescafe packets.
9. My sinusitis medications and my inhaler.
10. My passport.


I would buy the first ticket to Amsterdam and smoke pot while riding a bicycle around town all day long. Considering my level of reaction towards danger and my survival instincts, I'd last for about 3 months. Cause of death would probably be constipation or food poisoning. Something non tragic, your everyday illness.


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I can't talk because I'm sick and I just reread every short story of Murakami. My throat is sore and my imagination is wild. Bear with me.


I like walking. Someone walk with me please.