Below are the 6 most recent journal entries recorded in jerush's LiveJournal:

Monday, August 8th, 2005
11:35 pm	"Whatever you do, don't give up. Because all you can do once you've given up is bitch. I've known some great bitchers in my time. With some it's a passion, with others an art." Now' is the operative word. Everything you put in your way is just a method of putting off the hour when you could actually be doing your dream. You don't need endless time and perfect conditions. Do it now. Do it today. Do it for twenty minutes and watch your heart start beating. -- Barbara Sher -- http://www.ericzorn.com/sin/quotes/ iris by the goo goo dolls is despressing but whenever i hear the beginning it's like crawling under the covers after getting up to turn off the lights on a chilly night. it's warm and welcoming, like a hug from a friend after losing touch for umpteen years. (Comment on this)
Friday, July 22nd, 2005
9:16 pm	Textures of a half-drawn portrait. 1948. The ropes eat into my skin as I bend over the guillotine, my crude blindfold growing soggy. Although it’s darker than Hades, I have never been more attuned to my surroundings. The air is pregnant with the decay of flesh and satiated flies. As a muted chant swells in the blood-lusty crowd, I picture the crowd watching- Adams’ apples bobbing up and down nervously, fingernails piercing into moist palms- wanting to tear their eyes away yet needing to witness my slaughter. Rewind. “Johari, wake up!” With Herculean strength, I pry my eyelids open. Miss Rose towers above me, her eyes threatening to bulge out of their sockets. Muffled giggles litter the background. Grinning at her sheepishly, I wipe at the smidgen of drool my lips. “Err…sorry miss. Just resting my eyes.” “Sausages and pigsties!” She sniffs in her thick English accent before passing on. Soraya, with the maggi mee pigtails turns to me. “What magic did you use on her? She seemed almost…nice.” We hoot in unison. Miss Rose and ‘nice’ did not belong in the same sentence. It was a universal law that her one drive was to make our lives a living hell. Ringgggg!!! “Recess!” I shout as my belly rumbles. I can practically taste the piquant sambal drizzled rice jacketed in omelet. My limbs twist like rubber coils as I maneuver past the mob of pockmarked students. All I can think of is: Must. Get. Nasi- OW! A warm object emerges from below, sandwiched between me and the wall. Uh-oh. “Hey! Fatso! Think you very big, ah?” Minah a.k.a the 4-footer ‘cilii padi’ shrieks, bouncing up and down like a teething bulldog. “Thousand apologies, Your Royal Highness.” I shoot off before she castrated me. “Think you very funny, ah? Eh, don’t eat the canteen lady, you know!” I stick out my tongue at her before sprinting away, tail between legs. As the thud of the kompang heralding the arrival of the bride charges the air, the deafening chatter surrounding the pelamin plummets to a whisper. “Soraya’s here already! So fast!” mother chides as she adjusts my songkok. “Relax, mak.” I say coolly while my heart pummels my ribcage, adamant on egression. I’m about to look away when I notice a lonely tear sidling down mom’s cheek. “Mak?” A raw sob escapes from her throat, the mole on her cheek aquiver. “Din, don’t forget me, nak. I don’t want to be like Mak Sudin all neglected and-” “Shhh…”I smother her in a bear hug as the waterworks begin. The familiar aroma of pandan tickles my nostrils. “You’ll always be the only woman for me.” She looks up, fragile like a glass slipper. “Promise?” I link my pinky with hers as a smile burgeons on her lips. Squinting against the inferno of a Malaysian sun, I suddenly forget to breathe. She’s exquisite, I think. Her tudung cradles her face as she smiles shyly. Gone was the Soraya whose mane could nest rats, belch the alphabet (front and back!) and who used to give me a good wallop, in her pinafore mind you. As she glides towards me, a buzz travels through the mosaic of pak ciks and mak ciks in gaudy attire. Several mak ciks jab frantically in her direction, jangling their bangles while purring juicy gossip to their neighbours.. As she approaches the pelamin, I realize I’m beaming. As our gazes collide, sparks salsa before my eyes. “Hello, bang.” “Ayah, don’t go!” little Shafiq pleads, his hands cemented onto my thigh. For the fifteenth time, I try to peel off his chubby fingers. “Shah, I love you but I have to go.” “Shafiq Johari, come here.” Knowing his mother all too well, he pussyfoots to her side. “It’s not too late to change your mind. Please, bang…stay.” Soraya reaches out a limp hand. “The war will be over soon. I’ll be back, yang.” “Don’t, Joe. Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” Her eyes are clenched while she clutches Budin, still as a fixture. I trace her every feature, drilling them into my memory. A sigh permeates the air, shades of sorrow fringing it, heavy with words begging to be uttered. I turn to go, every connection of boot and wood creating a hollow rhythm, broken only by the shudder of her sobs. The click of a cigarette lighter greets me as I step outside. Beneath the mammoth of a mempelam tree huddles a party of scruffy-looking men. “We agreed to meet by the river! What if my wife sees us?” I hiss at them. “Sorry boss, but Chin Peng said we have to be at Bukit Kepong by nine.” “Did you bring the supplies?” I bark. One, akin to a concentration camp victim shoves a box of artillery to me noisily, creating a thunderclap. “You baboon! They’ll hear-“ “HANDS IN THE AIR!” Forgive me, yang. If only I knew. The kaleidoscope of images kindles my appetite to live, to right my wrongs. I yank at my shackles, the urge to escape as imperative as my next breath. Wriggling feverishly, I throw off my guard with a sudden burst of strength. “Oi!” A flurry of hands holds me down, raining blows before chucking me onto the guillotine. Adrenaline courses through my bloodstream as I sense my bonds loosen, intensifying my efforts at it. “Traitor! Traitor! Traitor!” ripe with waiting, the crowd grows frenetic. Please, God. Help your faithful servant, I weave a silent prayer, barely registering the wet warmth snaking down my legs. All I need is another chance O God. Grant me life... Yes! Just another tug and- (Comment on this)
Thursday, April 14th, 2005
8:13 pm	the 88 things i shall be going after my O-levels -win the state chess tournament -play the piano at a concert -read most of the english classics -join the toastmasters -do charity/community service -take the SATs ppj party win a marathon go hiking go scuba-diving climb a mountain do something new everyday learn a new intrstument diploma futsal job invent something compose song visit another continent AND THE US become a senior IN THE US backpacking europe runaway host a nude party protest something learn 2 languages do the interview join a pop culture/glee club join mensa meet someone famous/mahatir 31 write novel act in a play go out dressed as guy/old man throw mom birthday party meet nadine 36 be a godmother find the answer to our origins see the killers live marry someone adopt an accent debate/public speak fast tv for 3 months 43 discover the hidden color 44. shall be continued (Comment on this)
Wednesday, February 9th, 2005
11:57 pm	hello reader, i am interrsstttngg.... you know what the greatest human flaw is? DENIAL. or rather, my greatest flaw. but it sounds better when i apply it to the whole of mankind. anyway, take for example my excessive not-dieting habits. i'd rather eat a bag of potato chips while surfing for dieting tips that i know by hard. i am THE master of dieting, more so than those rubbishy dieting 101 article writers. self-proclaimed but wtv. btw, NADA SURF ROCKS THE SOCKS. i dare you to listen to them. LISTEN, LISTEN. ... anyway. most of us spend so much time avoiding something that if we used that same amount of energy to not accomplish that particular, THING, we'd probably take over planet Moon or something. what are Diaries for? Livejournals, anyone? we ramble, ramble and go on and on about something we CAN change, hello. but yeah, it does feel more comfy sitting in a swivel chair and listening to NADA SURF. we complain, talk and talk. maybe that's why men happen to more accomplished than women. even though we are smarter, more talented, and deluded. =op they talk a whole less. they're coming up with a pill that makes people smarter. i hope to God they come up with an answer to the mystery of life.*twiddles thumbs* (Comment on this)
9:15 pm	ha. on a brighter note, while i procrastinate my DAMN ADDIE MATHIE HW(that doesn't deserve sucha cute name) i've been thinking. aren't we products of circumstance? think about it. i didn't choose the way i think today. i'm just an innocent bystand in the whole process. (it sounds crazy when it's down in writing but i believe every word of it) we were born, our characters not shaped by us. then all these stuff happens to us. and i was thinking, thinking along those lines when BAM! YES WELL, that's it. we ARE the products of whatever it was. we can't choose anything, but that's the whole thing. we ARE products. i'm not you or me. but i'm just a manafactured good. ha. it sounds way out of whack, but i swear i could make whoever's reading this see my side of it if i had the chance. (Comment on this)
9:03 pm	whatever. you know, when people relate something, it's always "oh it was rock bottom" or "it was THE BEST MOMENT EVER, DUDE." right now, i'm in the middle,the slope.. i think the slope's the most important part of the mountain because, without the slope, there wouldn't BE a climax or the valley. it's the slope that defines where you end up-in the bottom of a ditch draped over with yesteryear's socks or toasting the smokin hot guy with champagne in the best silk nature can produce. you know why i'm writing in this entry? i encountered a fucking rock. My additional mathematics hw is the fucking rock and it's trying to kill me. i. literally. CRY. when i do my homework. i cry just thinking about it. those numbers are so depressing, man. they make a gulloitine look inviting. like damn. the SPM is important. like way, way important. i studied my ass off for my UPSR and PMR for this? to slack away the most important months ever? to lose grip of the slope? fuck, man. just, fuck. damn you add maths for screwing with my already limited vocab. i WANT to work. i KNOW losers are made of slacking and wasting their hours away. i want every hour of my life to count. but, ever since i basically kissed my scholarship goodbye everything's so SAD. everything's lost that tinge of orange they once had. at first i was so GLAD that all that pressure, that lunatical voice in my head saying "GO, GO! you must spend every second of your time, be it in the potty or while at your DANG GRANDDAD'S FUNERAL STUDYING." life is so screwed. i want to be great, i want to make a difference but they're right(whoever they be). the things that are worth anything cost everything. why the hell did i have to hate the hardest subject in the world? god, i make me sad. (Comment on this)