Post No. 501

I just realised this is my 501st post on blogger. So yesterday was no. 500. hooray for me.

So they're telling me to go. To leave KK and all its glory. I've been playing with the idea for so long but there's always an excuse or two. No money. My family needs me. I can't find a job elsewhere. I have to finish paying the loan for my car.

Always something.

But an evening of cranberry vodkas and under a strangely red-orange sky, they told me perhaps it was time to go. "It's this place. You have to go. Start fresh," she said. The other one piped in, "But not KL. Never KL." What is it about KK that I love yet hate so much? All the best times happened here. But the worst times could also be found at every corner. And I was going through one of those again at this point in my life. But that what nourishes me also destroys me (to quote one of Angelina Jolie's many tattoos). All this familiarity breeding contempt. "Get a REAL job," my brother-in-law mocked me but in his endearing way. "I know you like what you do but you and I know, you could do much more. Somewhere else," he said. Perhaps I don't need to do more - only something different.

And when it comes to the matters of the heart, I wish I could just seal them all up in an air-tight bag and bury it between the crevices of 'never happened' and 'denial'. Why are my relationships all doomed? And I'm not finger-pointing here - I take full responsibility of getting bored and restless in perfectly healthy relationships and diving into less admirable ones. Yes, I am screwed up that way. My ex once said the reason I'm so unhappy is because I ache for the drama. Apparently, I WANT the tears and screaming matches and sweep-me-of-my-feet-make-ups. Now, that's a bit far-fetched lah...What kind of sadist does he think I am? I do enjoy the occassional break from routine in my relationships (who doesn't) and normally, in the form of a man who agrees to disagree. So sue me. I like a partner who isn't afraid to voice an opionion. Geez.

But I digress. I'm thinking of packing my bags. 3 months. 6 months. Maybe a year. I don't know. I just know I need to break out of this before I crack. Job be damned. I'll serve sandwiches and coffee if I have to.