"But I tagged you in Facebook..."

I get it. Social media is the best thing since doughnuts. But for a long time coming, I have a bone to pick with Facebook. And if you really think about it, it's not even Facebook's fault. It's the faces behind Facebook. It's the human element. The people. The 'friends'.

Not all friends, mind you. Just 90 percent of them. I signed up back in 2007, not realising my naivete would be my own peril. Photo tagging, all that banter back and forth over a status message, throwing digital livestock at people and even slapping them with trout. Ah, the good ol' days.

Fast forward to 2012 and how I long for the days before I had any association with the F word. These days I log in, scroll the 'Home' page and sigh. Do we not have enough drama in our REAL day to day lives than to stir up monkey shit in cyberspace? People complaining and venting and bitching and whining and, of course, no names are ever mentioned. It's always SOMEbody or SOME people. Which then causes 178 people on your friends list to go, "Shit, is it me? Did I piss her off lately? Must be me. Bitch."  And what's with the updates every 5 minutes?

1:00pm - "The paint on my wall is drying."

1:05pm - "The paint on my wall is STILL drying."
1:10pm - "The paint on my wall is drying super slow."

1:15pm - "I'm watching paint dry. FML."

I could go on and on about Facebook but I also know I'm starting to look like a happy little hypocrite because I, of course, have my own FB account. I will not argue that FB has done me some good - I've kept in touch with people from my college and uni days, made valuable contacts and know whether my exes are have either put on immense weight or married far uglier people than me. However, as of late, it has become more of a bane than a boon. Suddenly, people EXPECT you to log onto Facebook at every waking moment. Important messages, invites and announcements are all posted solely on Facebook and this has become the accepted norm.

Back the fucking social media wagon up one second.

First of all, in what planet do you think EVERYONE has a Facebook account? It's like, "Oh you don't have any kidneys and you're missing a toe, that's ok but OMG YOU DON'T HAVE A FACEBOOK ACCOUNT?!?!" Seriously. And even if I do have an account, what makes you think that would be my top choice of keeping updated with the on-goings of the world? Before FB, there were carrier pigeons, smoke signals and -my favourite- the phone. Holy shit, would you look at that - the phone STILL exists! I cannot tell you how many times I have had to tell people to call or even text me fortheloveofgod for anything that needs my immediate attention. "But I tagged you in Facebook..." comes the lame reply.

Sigh.

Facebook, you and I have had some good times. And although I know we won't be parting ways anytime soon, I just want you to know,  the fire's gone. We'll always have Twitter.

Excuses, excuses.

Today this landed on my lap. And it resonated so deeply because I began to think of the countless times I made (or make) excuses. Especially when it mattered most. So I began to focus: What is important to me? What do I need to stop making excuses for? 

1. Writing
I keep calling myself a 'writer'. And half the time I complain about what I have to write about (Another brochure.Another website. Another "With its rolling hills and sprawling green fields, Camp Shootmenow is a nature lovers' paradise and ideal for skinny dipping"). So yes, I have to write to make ends meet, and while I don't feel challenged creatively, I am still grateful for being able to say "I write for a living." Not the kind of living Paulo Coelho or JK Rowling might enjoy but still, enough to buy a loaf of bread. Ok, two loaves. And peanut butter (mmm peanut butter. Ok focus). My point is, I keep talking about getting published. Like, SERIOUSLY published, not published for an article that appeared in a publication that is probably being used to line someone's kitty litter box right now. And yet, every freakin' day I find a way to sabotage my 'writing to get published' projects. Excuses include:  I have deadlines to meet for a difficult client. I have period cramps. I have to organise my spice rack. I'm sooooo tired from yesterday's emceeing gig, I need my rest today. I have a headache. I have no inspiration. I just got my manicure done.

So gloriously lame.

But yes, I have a shitload of excuses. So does it mean my writing is not important to me? Blasphemy thy name is Melissa! Of course not. Writing is my air. It's the only half-decent thing I can do and make a living out of. Goddamn it woman, then put everything else on hold and do what matters most. Write. That. Damn. Book.

2. Losing weight Keeping fit.

Initially, I started off with the grand idea of losing a few dress sizes. When I realised my boobs weren't going anywhere or that my waist wasn't suddenly going 'Barbie' itself overnight, I knew I had to live with the fact that I will never be skinny, lithe, lanky, swan-like, androgynous (ok, not that I find this body-type appealing anyway) etc. I will be the 5-foot apple-shaped Asian girl with a nice bust, not much ass and high waist forever. HOWEVER, I can be a very toned and fit 5-foot apple-shaped Asian girl with a nice bust, not much ass and high waist, no? I wanted to be strong, not skinny.  Again, I have a problem sticking to this resolution. With enough years of Gym On and Gym Off to make Mr, Miyagi proud, I'm still struggling with finding that discipline to work out consistently. And why? Because I make excuses. I run for three weeks and then decide my ankle is bugging me so I stop. I sign up for the gym and then after my miscarriage, I decide my body really 'needs the rest' (alright, maybe for the first couple of weeks but again, I let this stretch into months). Excuses. And I wonder why I can't seem to squeeze back into my favourite pair of jeans? Someone bitch-slap me with a smelly sock right now.

Writing and getting back into shape: THESE are important to me right now. No excuse is going to convince me otherwise.

My Funny Valentine

Valentine's day rolled in and out with a casualty on my part, so that's a good sign.

The flowers, the cards, the declaration of love, the hand-holding, the hearts EVERYwhere. In my 30+ years, I have always found it difficult to get excited about Valentine's Day. And this from someone who cried incessantly over The Notebook.

Please don't get me wrong, I'm not anti-Valentine's day nor do I think love is overrated. I just cannot apply myself to the grandeur and commercialism of Valentine's day. In college, I hardly celebrated it with my significant other because I was either home for the holidays every February (I studied in KL, I live in KK) or it was just too heavy on the wallet for college students who were surviving on their monthly allowance. Plus, I had much rather spend that money on a good pair of shoes.

In my working years, it was never a huge occassion - either due to circumstance (work, travel, single) or budgetary constraints (ehem. The economy was bad). Still, it never mattered to me. And THAT baffles me. I'm a romantic at heart, I love a good romantic comedy even if it involves J.Lo and am a complete sucker for happy endings. So why doesn't Valentine's day make me want to declare my love while running naked in the streets? First of all, that might even be illegal. But the more I think about it, I think it's because I refuse to be TOLD that love in all its forms and glory must manifest itself in overpriced meals, flowers, chocolate and grand gestures in just one day a year.

Ironically, the romantic in me believes I should have the luxury of love and all that jazz 365 days a year. Why do I need to wait for that one particular day? And why put all that pressure on the guy too? I cannot imagine how many men have been rushed to the hospital for sudden increased blood pressure or injuries due to grievous bodily harm on Valentine's Day for not bringing their partners to the right restaurant, buying the right amount of flowers or - the kicker - proposing with a blinger. Before I get hate mail by women saying, "Hey we're not all that bad you know", let me say that I'm not finger-pointing or suddenly playing for the other team. I'm just saying thanks to the commercialized hoopla of Valentine's Day, expectations can be inevitably raised so try to cut your partner some slack. That restaurant, those flowers and the proposal are equally important any other time of the year. If he fulfills the criteria of a 'perfect' Valentine's Day, then by all means enjoy it, bask in it and soak in every rose petal moment. But remember, it's how your relationship pans out for the other 364 days that matter. 

But if he forgets my birthday, there will be hell to pay.

Me Peanut. Me fly.

So we thought we built a fence high enough so the dogs wouldn't go to the back. Obviously we underestimated Peanut.
 

                                                         

                                                     Mocha: WTF...how'd he do that???

Therefore I change.

I need a new suitcase.

 I promised myself this would be a year of inspiration and what better way to be inspired than to travel. The first month of the year has barely passed and I've already booked my flights to Melbourne, Singapore and Sydney so far. Plans could change but I've got to set my gears in motion. I often catch myself saying, "I wish I could, I wish I could...." when in truth I CAN but I sabotage myself before I even try. Let's try to change that, shall we?

So, baby steps. The H and I are off to Singapore first to catch Wicked the Musical. Yes, obviously it was my idea. Singing witches? Check. One of them is green? Check. Do I know most of the songs to musical? Check.

Would've been awesome to see Kristin Chenoweth as Glinda the Good Witch and Idina Menzel as Elphaba but I'm sure the Aussie cast is just as good.

Of course, to be fair, we'll be catching this guy (and his equally amazing band members of course) rock it out at The Padang in Singapore:

Dave Grohl of the Foo Fighters. The H is a big-time Nirvana fan too - so double yay for him to see this man in action. I can't wait. I'll be the chick jumping to Monkey Wrench and swaying to Everlong (our wedding number!)


My bags are packed. Time to rock n roll, 2012.

Living in my head

Sometimes, I find myself trapped in the confinements of the most toxic, uninspiring, fear-filled place I know:

My mind.

The power of thought is amazing. It grips you, frees you, cripples you and makes you imagine the most unimaginable things. This, my friends, is both good and bad. In my mind, I am able to do great things. Like stand on a balcony overlooking the Aegean Sea, dive the depths next to a Manta Ray, huff and puff my way up the Macchu Picchu, perform in front of thousands on Broadway or write an epic novel from a tent in Africa.

The problem is, in my mind, I worry about the death of a loved one, of being alone and unloved, of dying horribly in a plane crash or getting stuck in a massive traffic jam for days and days. Ah yes, the mind is a funny thing.

Most days, these days, I listen to the worries. I live on the edge of Paranoia Street and Panic Avenue. I'm one step away from being the Mayor actually. I'm so contented living in my head that it makes zero sense to take a risk in Reality Land.

I take occasional trips to silver-screen fantasies and fantasy-spun tales of travelers, lovers, witches and monkeys. These places are safe to me. I am in control with a touch of the remote or flip of a page. I can skip to the happy parts, the parts where people are rescued or find enlightenment, and problems are solved after a song and dance.

And then I retreat back to the dimly-lit, damp but cozy corner of my mind. It's probably sunnier out there but for now, I'll just open the windows and enjoy the view from where I am.

Plus, it's rent-free.

Inspire me.

After a combination of caffeine, a 3-hour afternoon 'nap' and plenty of reading, I'm inspired to write about my inspirations at half past midnight.



1. Books - Naturally, a good book - read once, twice, even three times - is a continuous source of inspiration. The way words mingle, mesh, intertwine and effortlessly glide to form a seamless prose never fail to amaze me. I love the storytelling candor of Neil Gaiman, Judy Blume, James Patterson, Justin Halpern and, of course...



2. Paolo Coelho - I first fell in love with his words when seredipity brought a copy of 'The Alchemist' into my hands back in 2003. I was a journalist then and during one of my 'man on the street' interviews, I ran into a couple of travellers - an English boy named Hugh and a good-looking German called Philipp (yes, he had two P's at the end of his name). I ended up having coffee with them and quickly became friends. As I said goodbye to Philipp at the airport, he dug into his rucksack and handed me a worn out copy of The Alchemist. I still remember the sand trickling out from between the pages as I flipped through. "It was so nice meeting you. I think you will enjoy this book," he said. And that's how my love affair with Coelho's work began. His book changed my life in so many ways and he continues to inspire me. When I need to make sense of nonsense, I turn to Coelho's books.


3. Tony Fernandes - An unlikely hero so it would seem, especially here on my blog. But love him or hate him, how can you not be inspired by the T-Man? I've gotten to know his story a bit better through documentaries and articles and seriously, you have to admire the sheer determination and relentless drive of the guy. True, his confidence is often read as arrogance but at the end of the day, he's having the last laugh. And like all inspiring success stories, he has seen his share of falls. But I'm always more interested in how they rise. He built his airline empire at the age of 37 with ZERO experience in the airline industry. If you asked him to jump, he won't just say how high. He'll probably add, "I'll skip, tumble and backflip too."


4. Gwen Stefani - I've never been quite the fashionista but I often turn to Gwen Stefani when it comes to couture of the quirky kind. I would NEVER think I have the capability of pulling off the stuff she wears but she completely inspires me to be a bit more daring. Her Galliano wedding gown is my favourite wedding dress of all time. I even wanted to do something similar for my wedding but I could not find any bridal designers who dared to attempt the pink fade-out look at the hem of the skirt. Tsk, wimps. Gwen is my fashion icon. It's not the about the trends or the labels - It's how pulled together she always looks - great hair, face-on and those signature red lips. Even when she's chasing her kids in the park. Now that's the kind of style I always look up to.

5. A great view - How cliched, right? A writer is inspired by a great view. But how true. I can't tell you how many of my favourite articles were written because of a stunning vista. I'm a sucker for the sea and the sound of the ocean waves slamming the shore. A tall glass of mai tai on the side doesn't hurt neither.



6. Richard Branson - Sorry, SIR Richard Branson to you. Forget prime real estate - he bought himself an ISLAND. Another guy who made something out of nothing simply because he dared to try. A man who will draw circles when everyone prefers squares. And he just keeps on going.

7. Katy Perry - I fell in love with this woman the second I heard her. I love unapologetic women because it's something I've aspired to be all my life - and I'm not even halfway there. Her voice is pure magic and her devil-may-care quirkiness makes her even more endearing. Her stage presence is magnetic and her marketing skills, amazing. The first female artiste to have 5 number one singles from one album - rivaling Michael Jackson. I love Katy Perry. And I would never apologize for that.

So, what inspires you?

Here's to another 8760 hours

But of course there's going to be a New Year's eve entry. If there's anything I'm good at, it's being predictable, no?

Whether or not we keep them, let's admit it: Resolutions are fun to make. With 2012 looming and despite talk of the world ending, here are a few I hope to see through:

1. Write more. I feel like my passion for writing has taken a backseat in the past year. With bills to pay, I had to focus more on the money-making projects and put my creative juices bottled for a bit. While I can't complain on the moolah I made, part of me feels like a sell-out for not really pursuing what I love most: creative writing. Not writing for a website or copywriting a brochure. Writing children's stories. Poems. Short stories about a psychotic teenager poisoning her best friends. You know...fun stuff. On that note...

2. Attend the Ubud Writer's Festival, October 2012. I got to know about this event through a fellow literati and missed 2011's do. That said, she gave me a head's up for 2012 and by-golly-suck-a-lolly I'm gonna do my best to attend this one. It would be great to go with a fellow writer (who can put up with my quirky travel habits and nervous flying disorder). Let's see how this goes.

3. Babies. Come on, I'm sure you saw that one coming. To be fair, I actually achieved this (twice mind you) in 2011 - almost, but not quite. I'm far from giving up and although I get a little nervous thinking about this journey again, I am hopeful. WE are hopeful. And your prayers and kind words have not gone unappreciated.

That's it. And if I fulfill 1 out of 3, that calls for celebration. This year has been a test of strength for me. It's the last day of 2011 and I'm still standing so yes, I am blessed to have another year.

Raise your glass and may it always be half full.

Merry Christmas, baby.

As I began to cross out the boxes on my desktop calendar, I came across a date in December I had marked a couple of months ago. I drew a smiley face on that date and for a moment, I couldn't remember the significance of it.

So I backtracked a few weeks, and then a month. And realised I had marked that date as a reminder that I would be three whole months into my pregnancy and would be able to announce it to the rest of my family and friends. I was extra excited because it would be Christmas.

I've been coping well since my second miscarriage, I must say. Mainly because I've thrown myself into work and projects, which won't allow me any time to sit around and go, "boo hoo poor me". But today, flipping through that calendar, it all came flooding back.

It still pains me to think of my babies who never came to be. In my mind, they are perfect, healthy and happy - but not ready to be with us. This Christmas, while I will remember my loss, I will also appreciate my blessings, no matter how fleeting.

Merry Christmas, baby.

The Colour of Courtesy

I spent a few days at a 5-star beach resort in KK with the H - just to get away from the craziness of everyday life (but that's another blogpost altogether). The resort is absolutely breathtaking and the service is hospitality at its best.

We were probably the only non-tourist guests at that time and the staff kept asking if we were Korean or from Hong Kong. None the matter, we were treated wonderfully during our stay until we started hanging out by the poolside. You get the usual spatter of Caucasians sunbathing topless (face down of course) and the Korean family frolicking in the pool or the quiet Japanese enjoying the sun. And then there was us: The two local Sabahans just wanting to get away from the city and the usual faces. However, when we walked by looking for available sundecks, a waiter would run up (i kid you not, RUN up) to us and ask, "Excuse me, may I have your room number?" and we would of course give it to him.

I didn't give it any thought until our next visit to the pool. Again, as I was slathering on sunblock a waiter came up to us, "Hello, what is your room number?" and I gave it to him, slightly annoyed. I decided to sit back and see if they did the same to other guests visiting the pool. A silver-haired Australian couple sauntered by and sat down. No waiter asking for their room number there, instead they were being served drinks immediately. Another Caucasian couple came by and even 10 minutes of wading in the pool, no one asked for their room number. Hmm.

Half an hour of swimming later, I decided to soak some rays and moved to another deck chair just behind ours. As I settled in with my book, the same bloody waiter/poolboy comes along and says, "Hello ma'am, may i have your room number please?"

ARE YOU F******* KIDDING ME?

I'm sorry, did I just transform into an unrecognisable person after that dip? Did you not just ask me this? At this point, I am convinced it's simply because a) I'm not white and b) I speak English but don't have a pretentious foreign accent. I told him my room number AGAIN and he says, "Oh sorry sorry, you moved seats?" Well done, Einstein, did you figure that out all by yourself?

Now I'm really starting to get pissed off. Yes, everyone else has been extremely pleasant to us during our stay but I'm really getting sick of being suspiciously questioned each time I lounge by the pool. And no other guests are getting this treatment so it really makes me wonder. Is it because only a local would 'sneak in' and abuse the facilities? Is it because there is no way a local could afford a RM1,200 per night room? Is it because I don't matter as much because I tip in Ringgit and not US Dollars?

It pisses me off when some foreigners look down at us Asians but it pisses me off EVEN MORE when our own people treat us like shit. Tidak sedar diri kah? Why are you tripping over yourself to open the door or carry the luggage of a Caucasian woman and not care less about the woman in a tudung, struggling with her 2 year old and lugging her luggage? Sincere common courtesy should apply to everyone across the board - no matter what currency their carrying.

It's called being a decent human being.

Quiet.

Do laundry. Meet clients. Write articles. Laugh. Drinks with friends. Do brunch. Go for a pedicure. Read magazines. Walk the dog. Attend meetings. Make money.

But all I really want to do right now is close my eyes


lie in bed


and be very still.


The lights are on but I hope you understand if nobody's home.

Snap.

Here's a portrait pic of yours truly. The H wanted to do some test shots with his new equipment so I became the willing subject. It was past midnight, I had just finished an emceeing gig and I was tired as hell. But hey, anything for the camera.


Vanity. It's my favourite sin - Al Pacino, The Devil's Advocate

Haters. You gotta love 'em.

This is a year of many things but it will not be a year of holding my tongue. Or in most cases, my words.

Perhaps it should excite me rather than rile me that my words cause such a stir. I have never been one to ruffle feathers - in fact, I'm the person who glues the feathers together so they don't so much even flutter. Maybe it's my age. Maybe my hormones. Maybe the luxury of having more time to think, sit and write.

Or maybe it's me just giving the world the finger, thinking, "You know, I CAN have opinions."

I can't blog about my past - even if it's, GOD FORBID, the truth - for fear of knocking certain people off their pedestal? I can't express my rights as a consumer if I have an opinion about your lacklustre service? I can't tweet about food/religion/sex/monkeys unless it jives with your opinion?

How is it that I have found myself in a position where the demons of my teenage years are back to haunt, taunt and guilt me? And an internal e-mail, which miraculously found its way to the wrong hands, has led to a possible lawsuit on grounds of defamation? (by the way, I stand my ground that you are a completely arrogant and lousy vet - yeah, great, you gonna sue me now for 'implying' I'm talking about you?)

But as I said, perhaps I should see this as a compliment. After all, who would Salman Rushdie be without the Satanic Verses? Or DH Lawrence without Lady Chatterley's Lover? Or even JK Rowling without the Harry Potter series (for crying out loud...witchcraft? sorcery? anti-Christian? really?). Controversy isn't always a bad thing. It makes people think, ponder and sometimes, even face demons they never knew they had.

So I guess I'll continue to write whatever churns my butter. You don't have to agree with my thoughts and opinions. And if you hate it, I'm flattered that you even took the time to read it. That's five minutes of your life you'll never get back, so technically.... I win.

Haters. You gotta love 'em.

Baby do. Baby don't.

So those of you who know my story are aware that the H and I are trying to have a baby. And those of you who know my story are also aware that we recently succeeded but unfortunately lost the pregnancy. Dr. C - a very kind, professional and caring doctor, I might add - advised that we wait a whole cycle before trying again. "This happens more often than you'd imagine and these patients of mine go on to have very successful pregnancies," he consoled me while I choked on my sobs in his clinic. He held my hand, handed me a tissue and told me he was sure he'd see me again in a few months. Bless him.

Almost a month has passed and we get by with our lives. I've mourned my loss but I need to look forward. And I must say, the past few weeks of taking it slow has been refreshing. Apart from a few unnecessary dramas, I'd say we're doing pretty okay. And now a cycle has passed and the H and I look at each other pensively as we decide the next step. Too soon? Later? Now? Physically, I feel much better although my hormones act like they've been on a five-day rave party and are now suffering a major hangover.

We want a baby. No questions about that. But the past month has been great without the calendar-marking, ovulation-testing, diet-watching and whatever else TTC entails (TTC = trying to conceive. I've been reading so many books and articles, you catch the baby-making lingo fast). But we don't want to waste much time neither. So baby do, baby don't? Who knows anymore. So at this point, we're just forging ahead, fingers crossed and minds open. It has been too stressful planning our life around a possible pregnancy (oh we can't travel in December cuz I might be pregnant, oh we can't spend money on that because there might be a baby coming soon...).

Right now, we're just grateful to have each other. A baby may or may not make its way into our lives but in the meantime, we will focus on the awesomeness of being together, uninterrupted.

If baby makes three, I'm sure we can handle that too.

Fool.

Nice girl. Good girl. Don't say bad things. Be diplomatic. Accommodate. Say yes. Be helpful. Be generous. Be kind. Layan. Layan. Layan.

Lean forward. Show interest. Ask questions. Show you care. Care. Always care. Concerned. Bend over backwards. It's ok, really. My pleasure. I insist. No, I'm not busy at all. Must be liked. Liked by everyone. Is she angry at me? Go make her happy.

Nice girl. Good girl.

Fool.

I choose strength.

Flutter by, butterfly

Flutter by, butterfly
You rest upon me so swiftly
even before I can admire your wings
your grace, your dance

Flutter by, butterfly
You flew away too soon
without so much as a graze upon my cheek
or whisper upon my skin

Flutter by, butterfly
I knew you could not stay
You ride the passing breeze
and turn to say goodbye

Flutter by, butterfly
you were not meant to be
I know you'll flutter by again someday
As butterflies always do

Flutter by, butterfly
Our tears will dry, you'll see
I'll hold you close again, my child
but for now, fly high

fly free.


I thank the Lord for giving me such joy even though so briefly. Thank you for your prayers.

Sometimes.

Sometimes, it's okay to not read classics and just flip through another man-centric issue of Cosmopolitan.

Sometimes, it's okay to not know the GDP of Myanmar or the birth rate of India.

Sometimes, it's okay to not have an opinion about which political party could potentially lead the way for our country.

Sometimes, it's okay to confuse Michelin 3-star gourmet ratings and Michelin tyres.

Sometimes, it's okay that you're not sure how to spell exaggerrate...exageratte...exagger...?

Sometimes, it's okay to not want to spend a weekend reading to the orphans, volunteering at the animal shelter or sorting your garbage for recycling.

Sometimes, it's okay to toss the gluten-free, tastes-like-rubber muffin out the window and dig into a Big Mac. With fries. And extra mayo.

Sometimes, it's okay to say no simply because you don't want to do it. Even though you could. So don't.

Sometimes, it's okay not to listen to 'musical legends' like the Rolling Stones, Janis Joplin or Bob Marley, because frankly, the Spice Girls are more fun.

Sometimes, you need to realise nobody is watching or listening. And if they do, they probably don't care.

It gets so tiring to be so many things to so many people for so many reasons. Economies will not crash, a species will not go extinct and an angel will not lose it's wings if I choose to sit back, drink tea and paint my nails pink.

For just one day.

Biting the bully bullet.

On a laid back Thursday night, I did my usual channel surfing and landed on a made-for-TV movie about a teenage girl being bullied by her so-called friends. So this movie isn't going to win any Oscar nominations and the theme of rising against bullies has been done over and over again but this time, it really struck a nerve.

As I watched the protagonist of the movie go from hanging out with the popular girls to being sent hate mail after overdosing on sleeping pills that went along the lines of, "Wow, you can't even do THAT right," it was a reminder of how cruel teenagers could be. And somehow, unleashing itself from the crevices of my subconscious mind, was the memory of my secondary school days ...

And the bullying I experienced.

Over the years, I've managed to bury this ugly part of my life. I have refused to remember, let alone acknowledge, the fact that I had let myself become the target of teenage hatred and ugliness when I was 13. It wasn't until I watched the movie did the bits and pieces of that horrible time come back to me.

Me. Bullied. Can you imagine it?

I come from an all-girls school, which can prove to be the best AND the worst schooling experience, trust me. Teenagers can be cruel as it is but teenage GIRLS can be the evil incarnate itself. It was sometime in the beginning of Form 1 when it all started. It was a stressful time for any 13-year-old: the transition from primary to secondary, meeting new people in a new school, finding your identity which could potentially stick to you for the next five years.

I thought I had it quite good. Me and my 'best' friends managed to land spots in the school of our choice and we would be best friends forever and ever and ever. I had done well in primary school, having been class monitor and Prefect all my life up to then, placed top 5 in class during every term exam, represented my school in oratory competitions (and undefeated champion thankyouverymuch) and was even awarded Best Student of my school during my final year in primary school. I was the Nerd Supreme!

Little did I know that everything I had achieved was slowly working to my disadvantage. I was naive not to realise that my 'friends' were not happy with the attention I was getting. Tagged a little 'show off', having my mum teaching in the same school did not help. It just gave them more ammo to hate me. And it all came to a climax when we entered Form 1.

Long story short, a pathetic rumour began to spread: Melissa Leong stuffs her bra. In hindsight, I should be flattered that I was filling out so convincingly that my flat-chested peers thought I was PADDING my bras! The whispers and pointing began, the snide remarks and, in true gossipy fashion, more nasty statements. Melissa Leong is fat. Melissa Leong should run home to mummy and cry. Melissa Leong has the worst handwriting. Melissa Leong is so stupid at math. Nobody wanted to sit with me at recess. I got chosen last for teams at sports. Eyes rolled whenever I raised my hand in class. I had never felt so unwanted and alone in my life.

And all those girls who were supposed to be my 'friends' had turned against me. It didn't help that one of those girls was the Principal's daughter, so I knew going to the teachers or any adult would make no difference. I had gone from having so much to having an absolutely lousy time in school. There were two camps: those who hated me and those who were indifferent - I'll give them credit for not feeding the rumours but they didn't quite back me up neither. That's me, aged 13, sitting next to the class teacher. It takes a lot to knock that smile of my face, biatches...

I was one hell of a miserable teenage girl. I cried almost every day and dreaded going to school. It got so bad that one day, I begged my parents to let me stay home. I begged and I cried and I pleaded with all my heart. Which was when my dad realised something was very wrong at school. I told them everything and felt such a release. My parents were so upset that they didn't blink when I asked them to transfer me. My dad started looking at other schools and I was all set to transfer to All Saints' when word got around to the Principal. I then got called into her office along with her daughter. What transpired from that meeting remains a blur to me but I do remember her saying, "Oh such a pity to see your wonderful friendship go to waste over a misunderstanding", her pooh-poohing my plans to transfer as 'drastic' and we were made to hug and make-up there and then. Next thing I know, I'm in the same damn school for the next five years.

It haunts me to this day the 'bullying' was played down to a 'misunderstanding'. And it bugs me that I forgave and forgot so easily. These 'bullies' swept everything under the carpet as if it never happened and some 20 years later, I'm still supposed to call them my 'friends' when I run into them in the street. But I must state that during this tumultuous time, I did have a couple of friends who stood by me (one of them was my cousin and the other monkey is still my closest confidant until today).

I think I buried this memory so far and deep because I refuse to acknowledge the fact that I could ever be a victim of bullying. Only losers and the weak get bullied right? How could I have been an over-achiever, please everyone and STILL be bullied? It was the anti-thesis of bullying.

It took me almost 20 years to understand the simple truth: Losers and the weak don't get bullied. They ARE the bullies. They played on my insecurities to feed theirs. There was nothing I could've done to prevent it (short of binding my breasts lah but even that's no guarantee).

So yes, I was a victim of bullying. No shame in that because it has made me who I am today. And seeing the losers they've ended up marrying, failed attempts at decent relationships into their 30s and the boring people they've become, karmic retribution paves the road for me to move along. Thanks for being such bitches - you've made me realise I'm stronger than I give myself credit for. And yes, I still have awesome boobs.