Is staring considered harassment (and where does the line lie?)

I like motorbikes.

I like the way I feel like I’m freefalling whenever I make a steep turn.

I like the brisk, chilly way the air feels at night after rain.

I like the soft, ticklish way sunlight feels on my skin, especially when it’s been filtered through trees.

I like riding past cars during rush hour, and flipping off the asshole drivers that try to cut lanes just before the turn in.

Know what I don’t like?

I don’t like how some men think that if you’re a female and on a bike, it means you’re open game.

But I digress.

I started riding since I was 11 – on a crusty, second-hand Honda Cup that my father had bought off a friend. He’d take my little brother and me on joy rides throughout the countryside. This was back in Sungai Petani, where little Malay boys would start riding around at the tender age of 10, causing havoc up and down kampung backstreets and generally having an amazing childhood.

Not to be outdone, I asked my father to teach me as soon as my feet could reach the ground from the bike’s leather seat. We practiced switching gears and making sharp turns in the park in front of my house. I fell once – I received a scrape deep enough to rip through my jeans – and never looked back.

Now I ride a cute, little SYM Mio 100. It’s been approved by my parents – too slow for racing but light enough not to crush my legs should I fall – and has a decent pick up speed. The only issue I’m having now is when I’m riding to work in my office wear (or shorts because let’s face it, Malaysia is a fucking hot and humid country and there is no way I’m going to sweat in my jeans all day if I can help it) and some guy thinks it’s perfectly fine to shout out from his motorbike – or lorry – at me.

What's it like to be harassed on the road?

To put street harassment into context for my male readers, I don’t think I’m going to do the old sex switcheroo and ask you to imagine a woman leering at you (because that is just not a realistic or effective example). 

Oh no. I want you to imagine sitting on a bus when you catch this dirty, fat man staring at your crotch. Or imagine walking the short distance from your house to 7-eleven when a man catches up and starts walking alongside you, asking personal questions (Where are you going? Who are you with? What’s your name? How old are you?).  

It’s uncomfortable (you’ll be hearing that word quite a bit), it’s unnerving, but unlike men, for most women it’s also dead terrifying. Because I’m a 5 foot Chinese girl at 53 kg, I don’t have that many defence options other than running, or pissing my pants (or both).

I’ve been groped at and shouted at in the past. I’ve had people try to strike up conversations at traffic lights more times than I can count, and have had way too many middle-aged men stare at me way longer than is necessary.

But is staring or striking up conversation even considered harassment?

“Why get so upset?” My ex had asked this one time, after two men on bikes called out to at me (Nak pergi mana, amoi? You comel lah!) as I was leaving my apartment “Maybe they were just complimenting you.” He said.

(You see why he’s an ex now.)

Maybe they were, but that is exactly what makes this example and situation in general so troubling. Because that. Is. Not. How. You. Hand. Out. Compliments.

I can’t believe that in this day and age, I still have to spell it out for some people (But not you, dear reader. Clearly, the mere fact that you are reading this is evidence enough how much more highly evolved you are than the common man) but:

1. A compliment is by definition designed to make the receiver feel good about themselves.
2. It is done in a safe setting where both parties feel secure.
3. It is made with genuine and/or earnest intent.

That’s it. That’s all you need to know. Really. It’s really that simple.

So last week when a stranger pulled up beside me and started asking probing questions (Where I lived, what I did for a living, where I was headed), that was neither a compliment, nor a welcomed advancement. Then when he followed me down two turn-ins, rode up beside me and asked me to pull up ahead for some coffee, that was also neither a compliment nor a welcomed advancement.

Frankly, I was shit scared.

“But Clarissa!” You might cry out “Well then how the frick frack do I talk to other women? Say I spot the girl of my dreams and she’s starting to leave and this might be my only chance and I just want to be friends after all and –”

Stop. Just stop right there.

I hear your cry, fictional but relevant reader.

In other words, how do you draw the line between friendliness and harassment?

I’ll share a little secret I’ve learnt. There is no line. Or rather, I don’t think that there are any set circumstances that can construed as either definitely friendly or harassing – a man’s stare could either be interpreted as a smouldering come-on, or a revolting gape. It all boils down to how comfortable the person on the receiving end is.

But it isn’t enough just not being an asshole. If you see someone else harassing a person, and making them visibly uncomfortable, then the best thing to do is step in. I don’t mean telling the person off – that usually brings more trouble than is warranted. But normally I get very relieved when someone else joins the conversation. The original asker usually butts off when they see that I’m not alone.

But what about staring?

First, staring isn’t illegal. Anyone can do it; I do it all the time, especially if it’s a very attractive person in question. But there are of course, boundaries. If the person looks clearly uncomfortable, stop. If you know the person can see you but is intentionally averting their gaze, stop. And if the person has to open their mouth to tell you to please, for the love of god, stop, then for the love of god, stop.

Secondly – and this is where it gets tricky – girls, If you are feeling uncomfortable, say so. I know we’re socially programmed to be polite (Or more accurately, not be bitchy), but when you stay silent, you’re letting people know that it’s okay to violate your personal boundaries.

What a person does in his own time, or thinks in his own mind is his business. But when their actions or words infringe upon you, they're making it your business too. So speak up.

It doesn’t have to be rude, or loud, but next time when someone is doing something that makes you uncomfortable, voice it out. Even if it’s a joke or a compliment, a simple “I don’t feel comfortable” or “please stop that.” lets everyone know where the line is.

A lot of people get away with being assholes by the “joke” excuse. Lately Sam Pepper is getting a lot of heat for posting a “prank” video where he groped visibly distressed women. Years ago, nobody would have cared (he has posted up another video in the past where he forcefully made out with strangers on camera), but now I’m pretty happy that the tide is turning. 

It is always a good thing when all parties are being held accountable for the shit they do.

This isn't a question of feminism, it's a question of not being an asshole.

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My macam yes tapi bukan ex

Three months ago, I fell really, really hard for someone that I’d never even met before.

But before I go into that, I want to talk about a term that I’ve coined in reference to the said someone I fell for:

A Something Else, with a capital S and E.

My Something Else

The way I see it, almost everyone’s got a Something Else; something other, that helps keep them sane. Because let’s face it, life has this amazing tendency to get shit-boring when you’re not paying attention (and sad, and sucky, and a fuck-ton depressing). If you DON'T have a Something else, then you're either lying, or are an insanely content and well-adjusted person and seriously man, what is your secret?

For most people, their Something Else is a hobby, or music, or a television show, or getting high off weed – Anything to take you out from whatever mental jail you’ve gotten yourself into. 

Before I met Lyle*, my Something Else was writing, and then, Doctor Who. That overblown sci-fi about a mad alien man (with coincidentally sexy hair and an equally sexy Scottish accent okay, no, I know all of them aren’t David Tennant but let’s stick to the analogy) and his mad alien spaceship – slash – police phone box.

I don’t have to go into how unhealthy having another human being as your Something Else is.

(But I will anyway)

Because god knows how many TV writers and Michael Bay won’t.

Manic Pixie Dream Girl, Sidekick Ex-Machina, Blithe Spirit, call it whatever you want but the trope’s still the same. As is the idea that some magical OTHER individual can come into your life, chase away all your demons, rescue you from whatever depressive funk you’re in, and take you on life-changing journeys to the opening track for New Girls.

I guess that’s why I called it off.

And partially why I wish to hell I hadn’t.

Because now that even though I’ve found someone else who lives in the same country, has a decent, stable job, is inhumanely considerate and annoyingly caring, I kind of, sort of, wish he…wasn’t. Does that make sense?

If you could hear me right now, I’d be talking in a mortified whisper, because that’s just how disgusted I am at myself. Like CLARISSA, you’ve got someone who’s willing to drive – and has driven – you to SP and back again, willing to take you out on romantic dates, spend his time, energy and money on you even when you tell him -

Oh my god Alvin, not again. I’m not fucking broke. I can handle this.

- to stop.

Like, what is wrong with you? And what’s so special about this old-looking, posh sounding Brit guy?

This old-looking, posh-sounding Brit guy

I met Lyle on Tinder.

Okay, haha, laugh all you want. I could show you all the charts and statistics and graphs that point to the fact that online dating is not only for losers and lonely single balding men with slight paedophilic tendencies, but then I’d have to explain myself.

He had on this pair of glasses in his profile pic that I found kind of hot. His other pictures were okay, but it was his DP that really got me to swipe right. There was this intense sort of look in his eyes that I really liked and a scruffy almost-beard that bordered on Hipster, but didn’t really fit the bill either.

Lyle sent the first message.

There was no “Sit on my face and I’ll eat my way to your heart”, no ‘’Hey cutie, wanna drop by my place tonight”, no “I’m 8.3 inches”.

Just “Hey :)”

Things started getting real Hallmark Original Movies real fast.

I found out that he was a 29 year old English lad who hated England but couldn’t really leave because of – surprise, surprise – his job. I found out that he loved gaming, had a bit of a geeky WoW phase and was more than addicted to Skyrim. I found out that he brought his Xbox to work when he had night shifts because “There’s practically nothing to do anyway’’. I found out that he loved reading just as much as I did. I found out that he loved spicy food, and I found out that he had this weird thing going on for –

You don’t have, like, yellow fever do you?

Oh my god, you’re a fucking otaku.

No haha shh, I’m not an otaku

- Asian culture.

Then he asked me something–

What gets you excited?

- that no one else before had , and to give in to horrible clichés, it completely blew my mind. So I told him the truth – Nothing, for the time being, but that it was so weird because I was usually the kind of person that got excited over almost anything, and now I felt so empty without it.

Understanding Lyle

For the first month, it was like meeting my soul-mate. We talked about anything and everything. The two of us were lazy when it came to Skyping so instead we sent voice-notes back and forth over Whatsapp. He was in his office working past 2am; I was just waking up in bed. He was in the tube waiting to reach home; I was in the neighbourhood Starbucks calling up potential buyers. We sent each other pictures of the food we ate and the surrounding scenery we were in. When he showed me City and Colour, I swallowed up his entire album, listening to him as I fell asleep, imagining Lyle's body behind me, just inches away.

When he was out with his friends, I’d get an occasional text or voice note, telling me that he missed me, wished I were there, what they were doing. For the first month, he was perfectly imperfect – I thought he was kind, straightforward, understanding, chill as fuck and deep, like woah.

His friends knew about me, and mine knew about him. We made plans about flying over and visiting each other.

We had weird, awkward phone sex.

And then, like the water on a badly placed floor in a high-dense, low cost apartment, it started to trickle out.

He’d go missing mid-conversation because of work or friends or bad connection or sleep, and I’d find myself waiting hours – sometimes days – till he-

Sorry, got so hammered last night

Nothing’s changed about the way I feel about you.

You’re the one that’s changed

- Woke up or found connection. I got paranoid; he got irritated. And the more Luke pulled away, the more paranoid I got.

Pro tip no. 3: If someone you’re falling in love with starts to withdraw back into the normalcy of life, smother them. They’ll love it.

A lot more happened in between that I thought seemed important back then, but don’t really seem as much now. We argued, we made up, we argued again. Everything was my fault and I was the unreasonable one and I was the offensive one and it was my fault I got upset and it was my fault that he got upset and (this was his piece de resistance) it was my fault he stopped talking as much and then I met someone else.

No, that’s not exactly how it happened either.  I lied; I met Alvin way before I ended things with Luke. He was a good friend, a guy I found cute at first but then boring as hell after. Someone who was easily satisfied and raring to please. Someone who brought me strawberries when I was waiting for the next Luke-text or who listened to me freak out when I didn’t hear any Luke-word for two days straight (surprise, he was hungover). In short, Alvin was the perfect, stereotypical “Nice Guy” with a capital N and G.

I was exhausted trying to feel wanted again. I was tired of feeling discredited or being gaslighted. 

And then in the most logical move of my entire life, I told Alvin – transparent, loving, sensitive, understanding, considerate Alvin – that I couldn’t see him anymore, and that I had to focus on working towards making things work with Luke.

He said okay.

He said Lyle sounds like a great guy and that he hopes I’ll be happy and that he was really happy being friends.

He said I’ll miss you.

It took a single day – of non-Lyle-ness – before I broke

My tipping point

Here’s the thing: you can change who you choose to be with, but you can’t choose who chooses to be with you.

So I took the safe route, and stopped seeing Lyle too.

For, like, two weeks. And then I got together with Alvin because bloody hell, I missed that guy.

Which brings me to why I’m writing all of this down in the first place – It’s my confession page (or pages, 5 to be exact) and my confession is this: Now and again, – mortified whisper, here we go, everyone together now  – I miss Lyle too.  

It’s not that I don’t love Alvin; I do – every second, every minute, with every bit of my soul.

But sometimes, when I get home to an empty apartment, with the floor grimy and dusty  – because that floor ain’t gonna sweep itself – and my clothes hanging off the arm of the couch like mementoes from a late night lover, and the room covered with an almost tangible sheen of darkness and gloom, and no work left to do but to lie down and stare at the ceiling, I find myself almost unconsciously reaching out for my Something Else. Another place, another life, another string of possibilities.

I know what it’s like to feel like you’ve spent all your new possibilities, and like whatever’s left is the change you’ve got to keep in the bottom of your jeans pockets, next to the dusty infolds and pocket lint. But I also know this: that you can always find another Something Else, but you can’t always find someone who will understand and stick by you unconditionally. Someone that’s so deeply ingrained in your life you don’t even want them to be a Something Else anymore, but a Something Familiar, Something Old.

Since then, I’m pretty glad to say that Lyle's found someone new. It’s a little disarming sometimes to see their pictures on Facebook. I occasionally recall our old texts

I want to take you out on a nice date. Let’s go to a fancy restaurant.

There’s a cave underneath my town, you’ll love it.

A new bar just opened

And thought –

That should be me

- about all the plans we’d made and how weird it was, seeing someone else acting them out. Maybe she’s his Something Else now, and maybe they’ll end up Something More, but none of that’s my business anymore. I can hardly remember Lyle now; all that’s left are the Lyle-tropes and the Lyle-isms. The memories I have are all overplayed and smoothened out by time, it’s like looking into the past with rose tinted glasses. I wasn’t infatuated with Lyle, I was infatuated with Something Else.

So if you're someone who's starting to get bored of their partner,

And no judgement, it happens to anyone,

Then, ask yourself if it's because what you're looking for is a lover, or Something Else. Because you can only be with a person for so long before the novelty fades, and Something Else becomes Something Old. Something Else exists for a reason, it's what gets us up in the morning with that sliver of possibility that something new might happen. It's why we push our boundaries and rock the boat and reach past what is familiar and safe.

But don't go looking for it in people. They're people, not teacups.**

I like this one. I think I'll keep him

*I actually DO know someone by the name of Lyle. (Hi Lyle!) Rest assured that this is not about him.

**Because you can pick those up and put them down whenever you like. Get it? GET IT??? I'm so fucking deep.

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What is a "Karpal Singh Bandwagon Motherfucker"?

I’m scrolling through my Facebook wall feed and trying to pick my way through the countless Karpal Singh posts. I’ve already seen the pictures, been briefed of his demise, did my mourning and now want to know what other things are going on in the world around me. That’s okay. And so is handling the death of a publicly known and loved figure in your own way and time.

And so, I leapfrog my attention over the changed display pictures, lengthy memorial posts and side-line bickering, trying to get to the meat of the day when I see this post:

“Switched on fb to see many Karpal Singh bandwagon motherfuckers. Many of you probably didn't know much about him till only after he died, even me. But there's no need to suddenly post so much shit about him, acting as though you followed all his acts and fights. Stop having the need to want to impress other on fb by pretending to be something you're not or know something you don't. What do you achieve by proving to all these people through social media? It's the real world we live in, so impress those around you in real life. I guess maturity just takes longer for some people. All you bandwagon fuckers, you know who you are, and I couldn't give a flying two fucks about your butt hurt.”

And he isn’t the only one, judging by the 51* Likes the post received and some of the comments below.

"This had to be said though. Word!"

“This post made my day”

First things first: is this sort of hate new? Hell to the no. Remember when Michael Jackson passed away in 2009 and the internet blew up in everyone’s faces with posts, statuses, and pictures commemorating the King of Pop?

Radio stations started playing his songs non-stop. His albums skyrocketed through the roof and broke charts down into whimpering, weeping messes. 13 year old girls heard those songs and rushed to buy them off iTunes. Suddenly it seemed like everyone had been best friends with Michael Jackson their whole life.

Like, how dare they? How dare they realise that they liked his songs? How dare they feel a connection to his work or resonate with the things he said? How dare those assholes pass those messages along to their friends or people they knew would appreciate his work?

But back to Mr Angry Facebook Guy and the countless others out there who agree with him. I think that sort of reaction is less in response to people supporting Karpal Singh, and more to the fact that people are supporting him now.

This reaction to the extra support is very on-par with Geek Gatekeeping, where people (a majority of which are girls) are held under the most scrutinizing light, quizzed, and prodded and, if they fail the test, harassed, ridiculed, and insulted for being a “fake geek”.

Is this making your skin crawl? Mine is. And no one should feel that way about their culture.

People like Angry Facebook Man may have a ready audience, primed to mark those “fake Khairy supporters” with an F to maintain the sanctity of their congregation, but it is not an audience one should cultivate.

Sure, people will like things for a variety of reasons, some of those reasons being popularity, or to fit in, or to appear a certain way towards others, or to attract someone of the opposite sex. Whatever. It could be because they genuinely do not care, or because they have just discovered Karpal Singh and do not have someone to explain things to them.

And instead of pointing them in the right direction, people like Angry Facebook Man feel more accomplished tearing them down for not knowing the right things, right quotes, at the right time. This is not a love for the man or respect for the things he has to say. This is a misguided, shock-and-anger-filled reaction to having someone you look up to taken away from you and having so many strangers coming in and claiming his memory as their own. I get that. In a twisted way, I get that. 

But I personally have no patience to people who respond with hate and judgement and venom. So, as Khairy so eloquently puts it - Shut up. Just, shut up.**

** Author’s note: Those last words may have been a little EXTREMELY harsh. As much as people try to make it, the internet should NEVER be about shutting others up. The internet (his Facebook post, this article, all of it) should be about having a nuanced and intellectual discussion, and I’m glad to see that that did happen. I was in an upset state of mind and thought the words made me sound edgy and cool, but this only serves to elucidate my point:

Angry Facebook Man isn’t someone you are; it’s someone you become. Sometimes, he is Angry Facebook Man, sometimes you’re Angry Facebook man, and sometimes I’m Angry Facebook man. The problem isn’t just with individuals, but with our attitude as a whole.

*51 Likes during the time of screen-shotting. Now it's 70. Hurrah for kind and gentle spirits.

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A letter to all the over-opinionated people online: STOP HATING

 SOME time ago, I posted a Facebook status about how describing ex. girlfriends as “Crazy” is both lazy and detrimental.

A friend (by proxy) of mine then saw the status and commented 

"Yeah! Tell them like it is. Us women are DONE being oppressed by men."

At first, I had two thoughts. The first being “Oh wow I keep forgetting that actual people are actually seeing my posts” which got me a bit weirded out like, hey, I won’t talk to people if I’ve got a book in my hand, but I’m perfectly okay with sharing intimate thoughts online where hundreds of random people are privy to viewing them. Go, priorities!

My second thought was:

“Holy cow titties, this is one of those girls those anti-feminist 9gag memes are based off of.” Because whilst not being entirely informed about said girl's lifestyle, I do know enough about her to know that a part-time model from an affluent family with top-notch private education couldn’t in all seriousness call herself “oppressed”, using the generally accepted definition of the word.

Now, I’m a self-identified third wave feminist. And before you puke blood, I need to make one thing clear.

1. A feminist does not mean someone who fights for female supremacy - that’s misandry (Consider yourself educated, go you) - but instead someone who fights for equal rights.

Rights like the right to marry/and/or/not marry, the right to bear/and/or/abort children, the right to shave and/or/not shave.  Super simple stuff, also known as the right to be treated like another human being and not another NPC*, made to substantiate your backstory, character development and to make your gameplay feel a little less soul-crushingly alone. Yes, it’s a horribly ineffective name. Yes, there are some crazy people who believe that the male universe is out to get them. Every point has its exceptions but let’s try to keep with the program, people.

Anyway, I consider myself a feminist, along with a couple other things – reader, procrastinator, intern – and I don’t get all the hate. Why is it that some people believe that supporting one cause means you have to, by default, be against the other?

Feminist? You must hate men. Pro-choice? You must hate life.  Atheist? Enjoy everlasting damnation, infidel.

Like, dude, just because I like bacon doesn’t mean I can’t love my broccoli.

There was this other occasion where, if you recall, FMFA got cancelled because of some kids overdosing on a bad batch and dying. Khairy then came out and said that by banning future music festivals (pun unintended), authorities were basically just bandaging a bullet hole, or something along those lines, which I thought was a pretty stand-up thing to say, seeing as he was a party member and politician and all that.

A friend of mine disagreed. He was dead-set to disagree with anything Khairy said, and this is why: Khairy’s in Barisan Nasional.

This is what I’m afraid of. Not just that people would accuse others of opposing some things because they supported another, but that people would actually internalize that mind-set and think that the only way to support A was by opposing B.

My friend earnestly thought that by being against everything BN, he was supporting the Opposition. Mathematically, this makes sense – by refusing one party’s vote, you are in a way, contributing to the opposing side. But if you’ve made it this far down my post, then I know that you know (because you’re just that clever) that things aren’t that simple. To keep things short, a party is only as good as the people in it and the causes it stands for. By supporting a party through their dumbest decisions, we’re only telling them that they can get away with anything. Now, I’ve been awake long enough through my History classes to know that that can’t end well.

Gentle computer girl is getting real tired of your anger-filled shit

So here’s what’s happening: It has become fashionable to hate. Instead of promoting modesty and self-respect, our politicians want to wage a war against women in shorts and pink underwear on Valentine’s Day. Instead of launching racial equality and love throughout the country, they point fingers at the other side and accuse them of stirring up trouble. Instead of wanting women to be just as capable, resourceful and respected as their Y-chromosomed counterparts, some people prefer to accuse men for the issues present when really, it’s a whole lot more complicated than that.

Why? Because it’s just easier to.

Because politicians need a more direct way to say “We’re on your side”. Because hate generates a more passionate response than quiet tenacity. Because we ourselves get swept up in the heated hulabuloo that ensues. Take your pick.

So here’s what I’m going to do: I’m going to try to be a little more informed than I am opinionated. I’m going to apologize to every single person I’ve had a pointless tirade against. I’m going remember that enemies aren’t always people but ideas, thoughts and emotions.

Also, if you’re still with me at this point, try and keep in mind that your judgemental attitude against another person’s judgemental attitude doesn’t make you a better person; you’re just contributing to the problem. 

*Non-playable character. Like that guy who keeps telling you about the arrow in his knee.

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The Malaysian Writer Identity Crisis

The problem with young writers in Malaysia is that we're great at being Malaysian... Until the pen hits the paper. Then all of this *vague waving gesture to the nearest Nasi Lemak 2.0 poster* disappears.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that Malaysian writers aren't distinctly Malaysian in their own right. See: Tash Aw, Abdullah Hassim and Tan Twan Eng.

Notice the similarities?

First: All three books are highly acclaimed english fictionals penned by Malaysian writers. 

Second: All have won prizes and awards both locally and overseas. 

Third: They all revolve around the pre/post colonial British rule (give or take a decade). 

Emphasis on the third. 

So I get that our culture is rich and diverse due to how the Brits essentially tricked a lot of people into thinking that Malaysia was a cool place to chill. But is that all there is to Malaysian culture? Imagine if publishers in the States told all their fiction writers that they'd only do well in the international market if their stories revolved around the Civil wars. That'd tank.

Jerk

But worse, what does this say to (or about) the younger [namely my] generation in Malaysia? 

Personal experience dictates that the opposite will happen. Back in high school and college, I hung out with a lot of other people like me - people who liked to read and write on an unhealthy level (I'm looking at you, Abby). 

The problem was that most - or nearly all - of the stuff we read (and could relate to) was penned overseas. In other words - by white people and following that line of logic, we mirror the things we grew up with. At least in writing. 

I wrote 400 pages of a girl falling in love with a Dragon (she ended up being The Chosen One) before throwing the draft away in disgust. Four other friends wrote the dashing tale of being enlisted as a marine. My bestie had reams and reams of Victorian inspired literature before I pointed out that in nearly all of them, the heroine was described as being "Frail and wispy with large, beseeching eyes but an underlying strength that shone when enraged". (This conversation might have taken place in my head I don't know, I'm pretty passive.)

What? Rip off? Me? Pftttt no. I totally came up with the idea first.

Our particular generation of Malaysian writers is facing an identity crisis. We have been so poorly represented in fictional media that we don't even know where to begin. The options are to either romanticise Malaysian culture (writing for an international audience) or to completely forgo Malaysian culture (writing as the international audience) 

And you, dear reader, end up with this pile of crap drivel.

In terms of local fiction, there's really not much in-between to work with. What happens when someone wants to publish a science fiction? Do the aliens eat nasi lemak? Do the police try to accept bribes from them? Or does the NSA come in because that's what they're suppose to do according to American television?

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Journal entry: 2 things I've learnt from getting lost in KL

The job

"Clarissa!" A month ago, Nelly the head of HR called me from PJ - I was walking through Gurney Plaza wondering if I really wanted to blow 20 bucks on sushi when my phone started ringing.

"What?!"

"I just got a call from the editorial department!" She ended each sentence with an exclamation mark. "They have one extra slot for internship!"

"Cool!" I got caught up in her enthusiasm. "Where?!"

"R.age! So now you have two options - HR and editorial! Which one do you want?!"

I gave a pause long enough to be considerate, but short enough to not to sound like the line was dead "R.age, if you don't mind!"

I have friends working in HR. No sign has been heard or seen from any of them. We still post up flyers every now and again.

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A woman's opinion: On what women want

What the fuck do Women Want 

has been one of the oldest questions to tumble through time, giving birth (pun unintended) to a movie, talk shows, and an entire category of self-help books.

Of course the question had never really occurred to me before - for obvious reasons - till now.



When I thought about blogging again, I knew three things

1. That this time I wouldn't feel pressured to sell out (Take that Nuffnang HAH)
2. That I wouldn't feel shallow/materialistic if I wanted to write about beauty (Because color, make up, glitter, fashion is The Shit), and
3. That it would be written in the name of women. (Not to be confused with for women)

So I spent the night going through multiple Blogger templates for something appropriate both aesthetically and functionally.

Without really noticing it myself, I had been picking and choosing templates, going "oh that one doesn't look girly enough" "That one's too tech-y" And the sad thing was, some of the choices I passed off on were designs that I liked. 

The joke was - even though I, a self alleged and biologically proven woman, liked them, I was still sifting through the heap chasing after the idea of what women would want.

Because somehow I'm the chosen one. I'm special. All other women are just silly, pink and frills loving people.

The concept of the idea of what women want.

If you think about it, we're all chasing after the idea of what women want. This is a lot easier than finding out what women individually and actually want because that would mean viewing them as individuals and human beings with separate wants and desires.

Everyone thinks they know what women want, and the worst thing is, I feel like they're all telling me what I should want.

This picture

The media.

My boyfriend.

My parents.

My friends.

Even other women.

But if what I originally thought women wanted wasn't what I wanted, then how do I know other and all women even want it at all?

More importantly: does the concept of What Women Want even exist?

How should I know?

I'm just a night blogger trying not to starve on a diet subsisting mainly of soda crackers and Coke.

But I do know this: If I were sitting next to me an hour ago, watching myself, as a stranger, sift through all those layouts and backgrounds looking for something with more pink in it (and maybe a blue ribbon navbar) I'd have thrown a tantrum.

I'd have gotten up and screamed. I'd have shouted.

WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE. DON'T TELL ME WHAT I SHOULD LIKE. DON'T TELL ME HOW I SHOULD FEEL. DON'T TREAT ME LIKE JUST ANOTHER FACELESS BARBIE MAKEUP LOVING SHAPE IN A CROWD.

You can tell I was a very difficult child.

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