Recently I posted on Facebook about some guy I met in KL. It has a sarcastic humour in it and I’m not sure who “got” it, but for sure I don’t post things that are meant to be romantic. Anyway since I am not popular in the first place, I only got about 45 likes which is nine times more than my average. That’s cool, it means that all these while my posts have access to these people in the first place (I unfollow people whose posts I don’t care about).
Then when I started posting my ideas/sharing my ideas, my posts go back to less than five likes. Now, I’m not posting for the likes. I am simply trying to monitor what kind of content people are interested in, what appeals to people.
So I concluded that: people like to read stories about other people, so I need to find a way to link my ideas to real life occurrences.
And what better story than my ‘love’ story? People are always interested in romance, especially about other people. I think I’m going to update my Facebook status about that guy and watch the responses. I’m going to end it.
A new grocery store is opening in my neighbourhood and from the looks of it, I know I’m going to love it. Its exterior is like a western organic store and I think I’m looking forward to less driving to Tesco for fish and AEON for chicken. And I hope they keep up with their appearances, no flies et cetera.
I hadn’t been writing anything at all these days. One project I’ve abandoned because I just don’t feel like writing it anymore. I don’t see enough message in it, or my message (in me) through that story is not strong enough, …and I had forgotten what the story was about anyway. Ah, now I remember. It was about revenge, but never mind.
So I thought to myself: maybe I should get a job at that grocery store! Many years ago I wanted to try to be a public cleaner but that didn’t work out, maybe this would be great! I thought of me going for a job interview, being one with no paper qualification, but play a girl who speaks no English and has never gone anywhere but here. I would be occasionally mopping the floors and weighing taugeh and if they trust me maybe I’ll be a cashier.
Yes! I was excited over this thought and I wanted to make it happen. I contacted the HQ of the grocery store and asked whom I should contact for job openings. They responded with a number. BRACE YO’SELF FOR A KAMPUNG GIRL EXPERIENCE, FIFI!
In my book A Nobody’s Observations I wrote about how Telling The Truth can set me free. So for a while, I’ve been trying to be as truthful as possible. I believe that truth can be delivered with compassion no matter how painful it seems.
But what happens when I’m not being told the truth? When someone was not being honest to me?
I understand that everybody has their own version of the truth, but to take the truth and to sugarcoat it, then dip it in honey, wrap it in shiny paper and wear it on your sleeves feels not quite right. Being only human, I felt betrayed because the person felt I was unworthy of the truth, and that his level of respect for me was close to nothing in the first place. When you respect someone, you strive to be as honest as you can. When you don’t respect, you try to find ways to make yourself look good, or you don’t want me to feel bad, when it would have been more compassionate to just tell me the truth.
So I took these feelings
Taking a break from my random experimental writing in Malay (because seriously, kepala sakit) and I came across some pictures of me in Jakarta.
I don’t like to sugarcoat things because people seem to think that travel = fun = happiness, but to me it’s travel = work = tired. That’s why I rarely share about where I am; don’t want people to misunderstand anything. I also get messages telling me “You travel so much!” and “You probably spent thousands a year on plane tickets.” and I shake my head.
Let’s clear the misunderstandings, shall we?
1) I only go to Indonesia “a lot” but then again it’s never for a holiday. I long to wake up to an ocean view and room service a masseuse and bathe in flower water too. Also I’ve yet to discover Europe but I think the place I’d like to visit is Jordan.
2) No, my boss paid for my flight.
So, why do I go to Jakarta fairly often?
It’s because I lead a semi-secret life called the
A couple of times on my Facebook posts, out of humour, I had written about the things that happened to me when I don’t wear socks out. Once I kicked a small stone and didn’t even realise it until I went home and found my toe bleeding and I couldn’t sit for prayers comfortably for a week. Another time I came home with feet rash. I took it as a sign from the Divine, a gentle shake, a subtle reminder that my feet is part of aurat and I’m supposed to cover it. Aurat is modesty, parts of my body I’m supposed to cover. Well, that’s the basic meaning of aurat. It goes beyond than that but I’m not going to talk about it this time.
So I’ve made myself clear: I have to wear socks out or else something would happen to me or my feet. A few days ago I was like “Oh what the heck!” again, forgetting everything’s that happened to me, and I wore slippers out. Twice in a week. First it was just for dinner at a neighbourhood place for an hour. The second time was just for the 30 minutes drive before I changed into my socks and sandals. You know what dinner means, right? Evening. About 6ish PM. You know what driving means? It means nobody sees my feet.
I came home and noticed a horrifying difference in my feet.
“Aren’t you tired?”
It was 9 am, I just entered the house from my morning chores outside which began at 7 am. I was carrying my high-maintenance Persian cat in to the grooming station. I blinked and my usually quick steps slowed down for a second when my mother asked me that question.
“No,” I replied confidently, but as a matter of fact, I was doubting myself.
I looked back at how in my family everyone relied on me on everything. And I didn’t mind even though I had my things to do too. I only trusted myself, anyway. My mother knows that she could ask me to take her from points A to B to C to D to Z and I wouldn’t complain. And I wouldn’t. I have work to do, but it’s okay, I will put my family a priority. My father would complain about traffic jam. My brother would groan. I don’t want my mom to do things on her own. So okay, I’ll do it. It’s my duty.
Lately I’ve been feeling a bit disco…nnected.
My mother pointed it out when we were out shopping. “Why are you frowning so much?” I looked at my reflection in the mirror. She’s right. I was frowning. I did wear the “don’t disturb me” face. These forehead bumps that resurfaced last week aren’t helping either. My face feels so dirty.
“These shoes hurt,” I said.