The intelligent moron.

The first IQ test I took was in 1996. I was only nine years old back then. I remember it like it was yesterday -- about 120 of us, all third-graders, gathered in the school hall for our first public exam. 1996 -- the first year of the implementation of Penilaian Tahap Satu (PTS), an IQ test for elementary school students. Those who score above the level set by the ministry would get an offer to skip fourth grade the following year and enrol as a fifth-grader instead.

Guinea pigs of the national education system. That's what we were. The first batch of students subjected to what the government calls "a method to identify the really smart kids and let them have the choice to be a step ahead of the rest". My parents thought I'd score well enough to get the offer. They were wrong. No one in my school scored within the required range. For an "elite" institution that requires preschoolers to pass an entrance exam in order to be accepted, I imagined it was a disappointment to the faculty. Things sometimes don't go the way you want it to go. C'est la vie.

I didn't try too hard in that exam. The questions were about things that were nowhere to be found in the textbooks. It felt more like a series of puzzles that were so much fun to solve, because it was so challenging -- and I didn't care if I passed or failed, much to my parents' displeasure. Talk about having typical Asian parents. I later learned from my father that he too had skipped grades when he was younger. The headmaster pulled him out of the first-grade class he was in because he was "so much smarter" than the rest of them. He had only been there for a week before he joined the second-graders. "All of you are smart," he used to say to my siblings and I. "It's in the genes."

So the hypothesis proposed by my father is this: Intelligence is hereditary. Is he right or is he crazy?

And then, there was this feature article on Reader's Digest, some time in the 1990s. It was about Mensa and the world's geniuses. A few pages were dedicated to a sample IQ test used by the organization. Years later, I found a similar test on the Mensa website. Online social networking had me taking more and more of these "Fun IQ Tests" as well as the serious ones, and the results? I have to say, a hunch tells me they could be accurate.

My IQ, according to these tests I've taken, can be anywhere in the mid or high 130s, with 140 being considered as genius. The Stanford-Binet scale classifies that as "very superior intelligence". I have a very high likelihood of passing the actual Mensa test. Something to be proud of? I don't know.

Truth is, despite that knowledge, I feel like a total idiot -- because that's what I am. IQ scores mean nothing if you still feel inadequate at the end of the day. They mean nothing if despite all that innate cognitive ability, you are still found wanting by those around you -- and I am no stranger to being found wanting.

You're very smart. You're not stupid. You freak me out with how quickly you learn things and come up with shortcuts that I never knew could work. So why am I seeing this? What's going on?

Almost a genius, and still not fulfilling expectations. Images would pop up in my head -- of Sufiah Yusof, Ariff Alfian, Christina Perri and my best friend. Intelligence is a curse. A curse, because the society pushes you to achieve what it considers as perfection. You are not allowed to be real, while the rest of the world can get away with anything. Crazy, and yet I'm the one with a referral to a shrink. Christina Perri's name wasn't a random mention, by the way.

No one is perfect. Even heroes have the right to bleed.

Thank you, Five for Fighting, for being so inspiring.

Memento mori.

Watched the live telecast. The tears came as soon as the cargo plane landed. Alhamdulillah. You all are finally home.

Moi, the movie buff.

When I read about Robin Williams' death in the news, this scene immediately popped into my head. One of my all-time favorites.

Your move, chief.

He will definitely be missed.

That old house.

First things first: Wishing all of you a blessed Eid! Minal aidil wal fa'izin.

I love old houses, especially if they haven't changed much over the years. I love the feeling of disorientation I get when I walk through their doors. It feels like a mini time-travel expedition.

Just like this house my family visited recently during the Eid celebrations. It's the family residence of one of my father's closest friends. Built in 1970. Most of the exterior and interior finishings are well-preserved. Renovations emphasized on restoration rather than transformation.

My mother said it brought back memories of growing up in that decade. "They don't build houses like this anymore," she said. "Everything you see here used to be all the rage back in the day. Trendy. Up-to-date."

Well, not anymore. It's still charming, nonetheless. Timber finishings on the ceiling. Decorative patterns cut through the walls, just above the windows, as a natural mode of ventilation. In areas where aesthetics are of minor significance, the windows are louver windows. Very old-school.

What I loved the most, though, were the walls. Tiled from floor to ceiling, in geometric patterns that scream "Disco Era". So irresistibly retro, I just had to take a picture.

Awesome, isn't it?

Impossibility.

إِنَّمَا أَمْرُهُ إِذَا أَرَادَ شَيْئًا أَنْ يَقُولَ لَهُ كُنْ فَيَكُونُ

Verily, when He intends a thing, His command is, "Be", and it is!

(Yaasin: Verse 82)

Kun fayakun.

Be--and it is.

No need for lengthy spoken sermons or written paragraphs. Two words--that's all it takes.

Two words to explain God's absolute power over everything that exists. Short, to the point and perfect. Two words that, when one reads between the lines, is one way of saying that nothing is impossible.

A very popular sports brand adopts a clever twist of that phrase as a tagline: Impossible is nothing. 

Now, the million-dollar question is: If nothing is impossible, then why does the word impossible even exist?

Why do we need to conceive the idea of impossibility when we know for sure that anything and everything is possible? Why can't it be just "possible" without the "im-"?  Why make things complicated?

Human nature, perhaps?

Of the skies and what might have fallen out of it.

The whole nation is abuzz with news of the missing MAS flight MH370.

No word yet with regards to the fate of the passengers, as well as the crew on board.

A hunch says ill tidings are on the way, yet a part of me believes there is hope still.

There's no way of telling. It's totally out of our control. Hope for the best, yet brace yourself for the worst. Pray for the strength to face and accept what is to come.

In short, it's all in God's hands now.

It's extremely frightening to think about what could happen. So many speculations. Rumors spreading like wildfire. The government is pushing for the people to remain calm. A very hard thing to do if you happen to be one of those distraught relatives waiting for news at the airport. It sucks to be helpless. Sucks to not know and not be in control of things. It scares the hell out of you.

My late great-grandmother taught me a prayer when I was a kid, which I learned about once more when I was in elementary school. A prayer for tough times, when all you can feel is fear and despair. When everything seems to be falling apart and there is no way out of the darkness. When you feel trapped and there is no hope for you. Magic words to keep you going.

Hasbunallah wa ni'mal wakil, ni'mal maula wa ni'man nasir.

God (alone) is sufficient for us; the most excellent Guardian, Protector and Helper.

I ought to be saying those words more these days. I could use some divine assistance.

And I miss you, Nek Atuk. I was told the last thing you said wasn't a word, but a laugh--brought forth by fond memories. I bet one of those might have been of me.

We will see each other again someday, but not yet.

Loneliness knows me by name.

Dusk by the beach. I have a very unconventional working environment, and I'm totally loving it.

Something is missing today, though.

Every time I'm posted here at the beachside property, I look forward to one thing: Dinnertime chats with Stuart Carter. I'm too lazy to cook today, he told me once. Well, he comes here for dinner almost every day--so I guess he's just too lazy to cook, like, ever. Normally he has his dinner at the food court first before coming by. Sometimes he brings me take-out, and even a bottle of wine to sip on as we chat--mostly about his days as a major in the US Navy.

Stuart is a very good friend of the big boss. The hotel was his home for about half a year, until he eventually decided to make this part of the world his permanent base. He now lives at the condo nearby, with a stunning view of both the beach and the legendary mountain from his balcony.

Too bad he's too lazy to cook. I would have made full use of the awesome kitchen if I were him.

Unfortunately for me, there will be no visits from Stuart for an entire month. He is a travel writer, and he's going on an assignment in Germany. One week, and then he's flying home to visit his family. Running the place solo for twelve straight hours is lonely work. It's good to have a familiar face to interact and kill the hours with. Now I'm not gonna have that for an entire month. Life's gonna suck even more than it already does, for a little while.

Yes, mine is a sad and lonely existence. The people I know and genuinely care about keep leaving, getting married or dying. I have no time to make new friends. It's hard to go out and explore what the world has to offer when someone tells you that you are a disgrace to the family the moment you set foot back into the house. My parents don't ask questions when I tell them I'm going out, but they sure give the nastiest comments about the act of going out itself. Someone really has to teach them the concept of being a single working adult. I mean, my mother got engaged fresh out of college. She spent her short, single life having already promised to commit to someone, then got married right after. I sure as hell don't want to follow her footsteps.

Bottom line is, I long for good company. There's someone whose company I crave more than anything else, but he's so far away. All I have now are the cats and the books. I guess I'll just make do with that, as always.

I iz pathetic. Full stop.

Motivation for the anxiety-ridden nerd.

Maybe I will, or maybe not. I'll keep that in mind, though.

Son of Adam, daughter of Eve.

Found these words somewhere on the web. Loving them very much.

We need to teach our daughters to know the difference between:

A man who flatters her

and a man who compliments her,

A man who spends money on her

and a man who invests in her,

A man who views her as property

and a man who views her properly,

A man who lusts after her

and a man who loves her,

A man who believes he's a gift to women

and a man who believes she's a gift to him.

And then we need to teach our sons to be that kind of man.

Great parenting advice, I think.

Soliloquy...at work.

Eight hours of chaos. Two more to go.

Working on a holiday. Welcome to the hospitality industry.

I was a journalist once. I'm used to working when everybody else isn't. The most news-worthy stuff often happen during the festive season. Holiday for you, field day for us.

And my current job is no different. Full house today. Luckily only three arrivals, and no check-outs. It's crazy how many familiar faces I got to see today. Returning guests, all here for another dose of this place I call my hometown. All foreigners--not a single Malaysian on the list. Dutch honeymooners, Australian families, American expats based in Laos, a Scotsman traveling solo, and even a gay couple from Belgium.

And Terry's back. Apparently, he loves Borneo so much, he simply couldn't leave. The journey home to Newport Beach is now two months behind schedule. Always a hiking trip somewhere. Invitations from friends he's made throughout his travels. What an exciting life he's got--this favorite guest of mine. How unlike the one I have.

So here I am, finally able to take a breather after eight straight hours of frantically trying to get everything in order. The place is terribly under-staffed today. Typical Christmas scenario, according to my boss. One hell of a workaholic, she is. I don't think the term "festive season" and "weekends" exist in her vocabulary. She was here earlier, and she's coming back in a bit. If it wasn't for the family dinner she has to attend, she would still be here.

And I have a feeling I'm turning into her as well.

Everyone's gone out to explore the city. The place is suddenly quiet. I'm running things solo at the moment. It's just me and a couple of guys in F&B. I hear them chatting away in the restaurant from my workstation. There must always be someone in the lobby--so yes, I'm chained to this place. Keeping an eye on the door in case someone wants to come inside. Every time I look at it, I'm overcome by loneliness.

Loneliness, even in the company of so many people. My existence is indeed a sad one.

Lonely and sad. That's what I've been feeling the entire day. It's been extremely hectic, but I managed to steal a few quick glances of my phone. Whatsapp, to be specific--and I didn't like what I saw. There was a text about someone bringing over some food for le monsieur on Christmas Eve. Someone he's mentioned about many times--and no matter how hard I try to make myself dismiss that as an innocent gesture, I always end up disliking it even more.

It's a hard blow to my face, that thing is. A reminder that I've lost so many precious hours with the man. That I haven't been giving him the attention he deserves. So caught up in the things that I have to do, all these expectations I need to fulfill. Everyone's expectations but his. I'm such an awful person.

I'm an awful person. I'm also awfully sad and lonely.

I think I should probably stop writing now, before I burst into tears and the guests start pouring back in.

Joyeux Noël. Feliz Navidad.