Restructuring.

I surrendered my insurance policy last week.

I didn't purchase it myself. It was actually handed down to me from my parents. I'd reached the maturity period (25 y.o.) and am supposed to be paying the premiums myself now. Problem is, I can't afford it. It's a very expensive policy. I'm not making as much money as my folks used to do.

And the truth is this: We're all not making as much money as we used to do. That's why we're downsizing little by little. The house is paid for. The cars are all paid for. The folks won't let me buy a new one because it'll result in a deeper plunge into the mess that is bank debt, of which I am glad if only it weren't for my brother, who needs the same car as much as I do. Given the different workplace locations, that's just way too much of a hassle. And I fight with the guy--a lot--over who gets to have it on our days off. It's not exactly conducive of a healthy family relationship.

I mean, dude rocks my RM100 Sony headphones on a daily basis, as well as my phone charger. They have taken up residence in his bedroom, and that door is always locked. Any mention about how he should replace his own broken stuff instead of being a parasite who feeds off a sibling would be dealt with a counter-argument about how I always get to have the hatchback, and thus leaving him with no mode of transport to make all the necessary purchases.

What a load of bullshit. The van is always there. You're just too vain to drive it.

So yeah, that's my brother for you.

Now my parents are in the process of switching to a different insurance provider. I was told to start first, because they're not responsible for my insurance anymore. I haven't written about it anywhere on this blog, but I'm already down to my last thousand in my lifetime savings. A sacrifice I keep convincing myself is for the greater good. Filial piety is a nice concept, but I have to admit, it can hurt sometimes. I burst into tears at the sight of the figures on my unit trust statement.

I believe I should move on before it gets even more depressing.

So yes, papers were signed and sums were calculated. Turns out after previous claims following events that resulted in my PTSD, I was entitled to receive thirty grand. It would've been more if I hadn't utilized the benefits in the past. My parents and I had agreed that we split the cash, as they had been the ones paying for the premiums in the first place. That's fair enough, I suppose. It's not every day that you get fifteen grand given to you just like that. That's still way more than what I make every month. No reason for one to be ungrateful and demand more.

After this, my siblings would follow suit. We're planning to surrender all the policies before the end of this year. They'll probably get more than what I got. Oh, well. Not that it matters now anyway. I'm just too exhausted to care about all this stuff. At least now I won't have to set aside so much cash to pick up where my folks left off. That's another loose end, finally tied off after so long. I wish my father hadn't made so many bad decisions. On a side note, I think I take after him when it comes to rashness.

Here's to hoping things would finally fall into place. Maybe then I could find it in me to stop contemplating on throwing myself off both the metaphorical and literal cliff.

And dude, I want my headphones back. You're a working adult now. Get your own fucking headphones.

Mariposa - Part I

Please allow three to five business days for delivery.

The wait was only two days long. Points for reliability.

The unpleasant and unsettling sensation of a churning stomach. Holy shit, this site is the real deal.

There on that bed, was the package. Arrived on time, condition as promised. Completely nondescript. Privacy assured. No attention will be drawn from nosy neighbors and prying postmen.

That part about neighbors and postmen was funny.

This whole thing, really, was funny. And crazy. And stupid.

Damn it, woman! What were you thinking?

The package still lay on the bed, waiting to be opened. Pandora's box, but with a twist. The content of said box was already known. To open or not to open--that was the only question.

It didn't take long to make the decision.

Tore off the brown paper. There was a box inside. A box within a box within a box. Why was it packaged like a Russian nesting doll, one could only guess. This was more than secure. More than private. That thing in there better be explosive.

At last, the great reveal.

It was a pretty little thing. A little comical, given the purpose--but pretty. A fluttering butterfly, to keep you company on these lonely nights. Maybe even in broad daylight. It's very good at staying hidden, or so it claimed. The butterfly lay perfectly still on its back, its neon pink body sending out an unspoken invitation to experience sensations unlike any other. Not fluttering, at least not yet. There were thin bands of elastic on the corners of each of its wings, to hold it in place while it springs into action, possibly while you're stressed out at your cubicle and needed something to help you calm down. Or maybe just craving for a little bit of discreet fun, provided there are sufficient noise levels. Something that one needs to look into. Oh, the things you could do with this baby.

Oh yes, woman. You really are crazy.

The box was accompanied by two more boxes. They didn't say anything about freebies. A little slip of paper was nestled beneath the ribbon that bound the boxes together. A message about said freebie. What a welcome surprise. A pack of batteries for the controls, and a big tube of...personal lubricant.

Personal lubricant? Who the hell came up with that? So uncreative.

Untied the binding ribbon. Opened the boxes. Chucked a pair of batteries into the designated slot. Time to test it.

The butterfly came to life. Fluttering lightly at first--and as the dial was turned, the vibrations escalated into a wild frenzy.

Holy shit. All this is real. Not to mention illegal.

Not that anyone cares anyway. This butterfly now has an owner. Will said owner put it to use?

Probably next time. For now, Little Pink Butterfly would have to be content with sleeping on the top shelf of its owner's closet--batteries out.

The funny clowns on the news.

This country of mine is slowly turning into a cross between a communist and a Middle-Eastern nation.

First, there was that proposal to assemble a religious/moral police force, specifically for Muslims. Then came the insane rules and regulations to be adhered to during the month of Ramadan. The very vocal leaders of a very racist association fighting for a cause that is Malay supremacy. The ultra-conservatives who dream up ridiculous ideas that make the true patriots cringe. True patriots like, well, yours truly right here. We are a multi-racial, multi-cultural, multi-religious country. I thought you all learned history in school.

There was a motion to ban social networking sites (i.e. Facebook) on grounds that it's disrupting the nation's harmony. An idiotic approach. The problem is not the site, but rather the users of that site. It just proves to show that we have a third-class mentality, despite having access to first-class (really?) facilities. So many people filing for defamation lawsuits. People charged under the Seditions Act. All because we are too easily offended. So who is to blame in the first place?

And recently, I read about people who would not fly with the national carrier, Malaysia Airlines -- because they do not want to die. Finally, something we can directly attribute to non-Malaysians. Now listen to what I have to say:

Dude, that could have happened to any airplane and any airline. It could have been a European aircraft up there flying over Ukrainian airspace. It could have been any plane headed to Beijing at that time. It could have happened to anyone, but it happened to MAS. The fact that it happened twice doesn't prove anything.

So keep this in mind, my friend: The next time you board a plane, be it Emirates or Etihad or British Airways or whatever airline you choose to fly on, there is someone out there somewhere who secretly hopes fate would get back at you and send you hurtling at freefall speed into a crater in some desert as the plane you thought was reliable crumbles into pieces in mid-air.

I'm not hating on any airlines. I just hate the idiot who made that statement.

The fifth principle of Rukun Negara is "Kesopanan dan Kesusilaan". It's about time we start walking the talk, don't you think? You game?

Happy Merdeka Day to all of you. Let's make this nation better this time around -- hopefully for real.

Project on hold.

Been reading articles online about how crowdfunding has the potential to really turn things around.

Also read about how this Kickstarter project, despite its nature, managed to get pledges amounting to over 50 grand. It's a crazy world we live in.

So, can I do that with my mom's car? I'm seriously thinking about it.

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.