I'm 23 going on 24.
And I want to rewrite the childhood of that 23-year-old girl I saw in consultation last last week.
I want her to be carefree and not worry about the strange man that came into her bedroom some nights.
I wish she didn't have drugs and hatred and yearning and loneliness and attempted suicide and an older boyfriend in her system.
I want to shake her by the shoulders and say, 'Sort yourself out. Go to rehab. Don't use pregnancy and a new baby as a life- and existence-affirming tool. Don't you want your child to have a life that is the exact opposite of yours?'
Children can't choose their families, they can't choose to be born into affluence or poverty or love or hatred.
The world is sometimes cruel enough.
Don't condemn them to an even worse existence.

And that's my spiel for the week.
And yes, I need superpowers to do all that.

Sometimes, medicine is a tad too taxing and personal.
No, scratch that.
It's not medicine.
It's people.

The good thing about being young is that
you can change your mind a thousand times and say that you're in the process of finding yourself,
you can be spontaneous and say that you're only young once,
you can wear that colour and say that you're experimenting,
you can have beautiful dreams and say that one day it's all gonna come true,
you can set impossible goals and say that you're allowed to be idealistic,
you can daydream the afternoon away and say that you're building castles in the sky,
you can believe in fairies and prince charming and unicorns and say that you're just done being a child,
you can dabble a little in anything and everything and say that you'll be too old to try them later on.

******

 I still get teary eyed everytime the midwife hands the newborn to the parents and the mother always cries and the father beams like a lighthouse in the middle of the stormy sea. And every single time, I think to myself, 'Heck, it's nice to have a little girl/boy that is half of me and half of my soul mate and we get to live happily ever after.' And I start to build castles in the sky of little sticky pudgy fingers helping me to bake jam tarts on a Saturday afternoon, a safe warm nest of throw rugs at night with my little family by the fireplace, happy Sunday roast lunches with 3 generations at the table so lazy that it stretches to dinnertime, coming home to a chorus of "You're home!" and tight enthusiastic hugs.

And then, I remember that cute little Buddha-like baby I met in Samrong and the castles in the sky somehow fades quite a bit and they lose their rosy glow. Somehow, I feel a little selfish for having those little daydreams.

But hey, I'm still young and I'm allowed to change my mind, I'm allowed to be idealistic and set impossible goals and have beautiful dreams for myself at the same time because I can experiment and find myself.

I want to live with no regrets.
I want to be a bigger person that you.
I want to see the world through rose-coloured glasses.
I want to throw my head back and laugh with no worries.
I want to work hard for something and taste the sweetness of results.
I want to dance in the rain.
I want to soak in the sun and not care about anything.
I want to sway to music without caring about where I am.
I want to wear colours and not worry about whether they match.
I want to smile and mean it.
I want to see the people around me live happily ever after.
I want to take away all the worries of the world.
I want to see how people live on every continent.
I want to see the mean, mean people on this earth punished.
I want to see no suffering.
I want to give happy remaining days to those who do.
I want to fall in love and remain in love til we're gray and old.
I want to remove prejudice and all the -isms in the world.
I want to let people of any kind live in no fear and no regrets.
I want to learn the guitar.
I want to speak French fluently.
I want to drift aimlessly in a gondola in twilight.
I want to have a golden retriever and call it 'Spot'.
I want to have a library of 1st editions.
I want to have a sun-dappled art room filled with oil paints.
I want to lie under the canopy of a tree and let the world whirl by.
I want to see the colours of abstract words.
I want to be happy in love like my parents.
I want to stand in a smokey bar and sing my heart out.
I want to be brave and say "Don't be silly. I'm here already. Stop waiting."
I want to create wonderful things for the world.
I want to leave behind something sweet and eternal and good.
I want to live in the moment and not overthink.
I want to be not constrained by societal norms, etiquette, rules, regulations.
I want to be the best friend.
I want to build a treehouse and live in it like Peter and Jane.
I want to look at someone and say, "I'm home."
I want to look at a child and say, "Don't worry, you're gonna be fine."
I want to look at my parents and say, "Everything I've achieved is for you."
I want to learn how to cry in front of people and not wipe my tears away in secret.
I want to be brave and uncaring enough to show my true expressions.
I want to be careful and carefree at the same time.

I want to have beautiful dreams and live them.

The thing that I know about myself is that again and again, I give in to people and issues and events and whatever that swirls around me.
Sure, I work hard for what I want and I give bloody 200% and in return, if I get whatever it is that I want, then I say 'Awesome! Mel has done well once again'. But then when things don't go the way that I want to go, I say 'Oh well, things happen for a reason and surely there must be something out there that's better than me'.

And so far, that's proven true. Countless times, I've been blessed with plenty of things myself.
And there are some times where I've been blessed with sights of people that I care dearly about being happy and safe and secure in their lives, even though I have had to live with the little regret. But hey, at least the benefits outweigh whatever disappointment/regret/pain I went through.

But sometimes, I just want to be brave and good enough to say 'No, that's not it' and actually mean it and not take it back or overthink it.

But then again, I did try.
So I can sleep tonight. Without the feeling of unknowingness or 'what if's.

"You're too nice, you're too nice, you're too nice!"
Stop it.
You're being too gentlemanly.
If you go un-nice yourself, I would have such an easy time.
Go and embrace your inner ogre. No, not Shrek kinda ogre who really isn't a fairy-tale ogre that eats people and grinds their bones to dust but is really an onion with layers.
Be those kinda ogres that are mean, who takes things and people forgranted, who turns the other way when people fall down the rabbit hole.
Coz if you're like that, the unknowingness could stop.


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La vie en rose
Is what dreamers see the world as.
But is it so bad to put on rose-colored glasses
Once in a very blue moon?
I say,
See the world as a technicolour dreamcoat first and foremost,
Then pick at the colour scabs all you want like formicators do,
But at the end of the blue day,
See it still as la vie en rose,
Because the fact is,
You were there.


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Secret Garden by Bruce Springsteen, the Jerry McGuire version with those quotable quotes, rocks.
Especially when it plays with the earplugs on at 10pm with you lying comfortably in bed.
It's one of those nice moments of the day.
Small and short but nice.

"I love him for the man he wants to be. I love him for the man that he almost is. I love him, Laurel, I love him."

"This is where it has to happen,this is what has to happen. I'm not letting you get rid of me. How about that?! I miss my wife. I love you. You complete me."

I mean, twi-what again?! Lol.


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Current obsession: aromatherapy candles from Dusk.
Yes, i'm a girl and I love pretty nice-smelling things.
And even though the candles burn down to nothing in my holder, the smell of jasmine still lingers on for hours, turning my cosy hideyhole into an arboretum.
And it kinda reminds me of those Sunday evenings oh so long ago back home, running amok in our local gardens.
Back when Sundays were 'garden' days when kite-flying was a luxury and volleyball was something between the family.

Yes, studying rehab medicine is boring and it makes me nolstalgic.
So, sue me.


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It's the train you never took because you froze in the headlights.
It's the book you never bought because you were too busy for it.
It's the lime you never ate because you already had an apple.
It's the person you never talked to because you were buffered by your friends.
It's the step you never took because it was in the wrong direction.

And today I saw the result of a person taking the not-often-took turn.
And it was glorious.
Sweet and glorious.

And I couldn't be happier because I had my hands in.


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I don't need a parachute.
Hand around my neck, hand around my waist.
You're gonna catch me.
But you're also gonna keep me from falling.
And I wanna fall into you.

- parachute



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Much as I love to have guy friends who are actually friends as opposed to hi-bye acquaintances, I must say that some of them DO think with their penises/testosterone/man egos.

Yes, yes, my image of you has sorta kinda DID go down the chute, with every hormone-filled, male-PMS moment you had in the past year or so.
And no amount of being Mr Nice Guy is gonna help you.


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I used to get good marks in Malay in school, but I haven't been the most diligent student the moment I stepped into Melbourne. But these few paragraphs caught my eye and heart so much that I just had to put it up.

They are by A.Samad Said, one of Malaysia's literary laureate, a 76-year-old man with Dumbledore's beard.

“Murbawan Malaysia tidak senang dengan apa yang sedang berlaku di negara ini. Kita menghantar pesanan yang sangat waras. Demokrasi perlu murni dan terus dimurnikan.

Kenapa kita tidak boleh memperbaik situasi? Kenapa kita harus membiarkan demokrasi diperkuda oleh segelintir kuasawan yang tampaknya bermaharajalela?
Telah lama kita tidak senang dengan aliran demokrasi yang diperkuda ini. Telah lama kita inginkan demokrasi yang bersih, bergerak atas landas yang murni.

Kita sedar bahawa jalan ini tidaklah mudah. Maka itu, kita menjadi lebih berazam. Kita maklum bahawa gergasi media arus perdana kini sedang ikut garang menghempit kita dalam arus peristiwa yang semakin durjana. Kita sedang berlawan dengan keangkuhan yang pejal. Oleh media arus perdana ini, kita sewenangnya digambarkan sebagai kumpulan “siasah” yang sangat bercita-cita buruk. Lebih buruk, kita digambarkan sebagai kelompok yang sengaja ingin menggelorakan masyarakat seburuk hajat.

Kita tidak begitu. Kita ingin memperbaiki jentera demokrasi agar lebih berhati nurani.
Kita tidak menginginkan demokrasi yang kasar dan sombong; kita merindukan demokrasi yang tulus dan betul.

Inilah gerakan kita yang, sayangnya, terpaksa bermula di tengah keangkuhan kerajaan yang merasa segala-galanya sudah betul, malah sudah syurgawi, di tanah air ini. Kita sebenarnya masih dalam derita yang terus dicipta oleh tangan kasar berhati angkuh yang sangat bercita-cita.

Kita merindukan suara kuasa yang waras dan insani; suara pembimbing yang ikhlas dan mengerti. Kita tidak memerlukan suara angkuh dalam era yang sudah terlalu lama sombong ini. Kita mengharapkan tangan kuasa yang berhemah, sedia memimpin dan berdamai, turut bantu mencipta iklim demokrasi yang harum.

Memanglah kita mengkhayalkan dunia indah itu, walaupun kenyataan yang terserlah dan mengembang kini sedang menunjukkan di atas kepala kita sentiasa sedia terapung awan kelam yang menjanjikan tofan.

Jikalau berlaku, kita bukanlah kelompok manusia yang gamam berlari; kita, sebaliknya, adalah manusia yang cekal berdiri. Kita ingin memupuk demokrasi yang lebih berhati nurani.

Dua ratus tahun dulu seorang tokoh kecil Sam Adams, dengan kelompoknya yang kecil juga, telah mencurahkan teh ke dalam laut di pelabuhan Boston, Amerika. Kata Sam Adams: “It does not require a majority to prevail, but rather an irate, tireless minority keen to set bushfires in people’s minds.”

Kita nyalakan unggun api itu pada malam ini!”

My dad used to say that words are stronger than a sword. And this just proves it.

7. bowlful of canned longans + canned sea coconut slices: dessert matchmade in heaven. Must be the boxfuls of canned longans my dad used to feed me when I was young. Always reminded me of the musty little grocery shop we had in the old part of JB town where it was always dark and draughty and forever smelled like salted fish. And I was always so fascinated by the old black thousand-year-old abacus my grandfather had on the counter in the shop. I would watch him click click click away on the beads with a lit cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. And I would cringe but stare unblinkingly at the ashtrayful of dirty water and cigarette butts beside him. It's one of those disgusting sights that you know you should look away but you just find yourself morbidly fascinated by it. And there were always a couple of cats around in the old shop to keep the mice away. Grandfather wasn't exactly the 'pops' Enid Blyton described, he was a typical Chinaman: distant in his affections, few in his words. Even though so, I still regret the fact that I've never learnt that bit more Teochew. I've always wanted to experience that grandparent-grandchild relationship, but never had the chance to. And if he was still alive today, and if my Teochew still fails me, I would try and pluck up that bit more courage and sit beside him when he drinks his pot of tea after dinner everyday. We would probably be silent through most of the pot of tea but at the end when the tea tastes bitter and I'm drinking more of the tea dregs and less of the tea itself, I hope the air between us grows that bit more warmer. And then one day eventually, he would start telling me stories about him growing up, meeting grandma, surviving WWII, having a family. And I want him to tell me things that only a grandfather would know after so many years living life. He would probably tell me to study hard so I wouldn't end up like him toiling hard most of his life. He would probably tell me that the business world is one for the fierce and ruthless and one that is not for his granddaughter. He would then tell me how to choose my partner in life, to choose someone of that certain animal zodiac. He would then probably grill me in the duties of being a wife and mother, being traditional as he is.

Yes, I missed out on being someone's granddaughter.

of wintry foods and minced meat eggy goodness

Because it's uni term break now,
and because I should rightly be home Malaysia home right now with my family and homecooked food,
and because it's wintry cold and I thrive on sunshine,
and because almost everyone has abandoned the winter and me and left for sunny greener pastures,
and because I can,
I shall list my tummylicious comfort food for the winter.

1. porridge: plain ole' starchy mushy Chinese porridge. I can gobble a whole mangkuk down with a teaspoon of Chinese preserved shredded olives in under 5 minutes, and yes, I require no other condiments or side dishes to make it fancy. It's the simple things that make my tummy happy. It must be those potfuls of Sunday lunches made of good ole homemade porridge with the family.

2. cheesy pasta: 'nuff said. The more cheese(es), the happier I'll be. My go-to cheering-up food of all time.

3. steamed egg with minced pork: it's one of those dishes that remind me of my childhood dinners sitting around this small little table built right onto the wall in the old kitchen. The table was so small that all 4 of us was quite a tight squeeze. It's the simplest dish ever, but it's so homey that whenever I miss home, I just whip it up, steam the heck out of it, and every single time, a perfect yummylicious comforting eggy dish. And if I'm feeling a little naughty, I put in a wee bit of Chinese cooking wine.

4. sour/sweet plums: and preferably those that are seedless, thank you very much. I have this little annoyance with those itty bitty seeds. But, omg, what I would do to get a pack of those preserved plums. Must have inherited that rationale-killing unhealthy craving for plums from the mum.

5. tomyam soup: yes, I'm a Malaysian through and through and I need my soups to be spicy. And I'm of the female species so yes, I like my food to have a bit of that sour punch/kick to it. And since I'm a student and don't have the knowledge/time/mortar&pestle/grandmotherly instincts, I use the instant paste one, so sue me. But, it has to be that particular brand with the steamboat picture on the label, so don't say that I have no taste whatsoever. =) and yes, I inherited that particular knowledge from the mum. Again. She said and I quote (to something of this effect), " Never use any tomyam paste except this brand (cue serious unblinking Stare of Knowledge)".

6. yummy sugar-coated pastry: ditto.

shall continue this later on as I have a dishful of eggy mincymeat goodness to tuck into this cold wintry night.
be still, my fluttering heart and rumbling tummy.

Not the right time, ey?
Must get out of this funk right here right now.
But as predicted of me, it's hard to not fall hard.
I've always the sort to turn back and go do something just like that.
Lack of courage aside, I keep telling myself that it's not the right time.
And it's too important, too precious to mess it up with just a spontaneous shout of 'ready, set, go'.
Yes, it's that special.
And I guess that's the reason I always did fall hard.
'Not wanting to crash and burn' is the excuse I'm using now.
So I'm sticking to my guns, thank you very much.


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Sometimes, I just wanna do the seizing, regardless of the circumstances.
But I'm too mindful of the consequences to do it to it.
Not to mention, the trouble we took to get there.


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This poem by Sarah Kaye is one of those unforgettable things, together with those precious precious memories.

If I should have a daughter, instead of Mom, she's gonna call me Point B, because that way she knows that no matter what happens, at least she can always find her way to me. And I'm going to paint solar systems on the backs of her hands, so she has to learn the entire universe before she can say, "Oh, I know that like the back of my hand." And she's going to learn that this life will hit you hard in the face, wait for you to get back up just so it can kick you in the stomach. But getting the wind knocked out of you is the only way to remind your lungs how much they like the taste of air. There is hurt here that cannot be fixed by Band-Aids or poetry. So the first time she realizes that Wonder Woman isn't coming, I'll make sure she knows she doesn't have to wear the cape all by herself. Because no matter how wide you stretch your fingers, your hands will always be too small to catch all the pain you want to heal. Believe me, I've tried. "And, baby," I'll tell her, don't keep your nose up in the air like that. I know that trick; I've done it a million times. You're just smelling for smoke so you can follow the trail back to a burning house, so you can find the boy who lost everything in the fire to see if you can save him. Or else find the boy who lit the fire in the first place, to see if you can change him." But I know she will anyway, so instead I'll always keep an extra supply of chocolate and rain boots nearby, because there is no heartbreak that chocolate can't fix. Okay, there's a few heartbreaks that chocolate can't fix. But that's what the rain boots are for. Because rain will wash away everything, if you let it. I want her to look at the world through the underside of a glass-bottom boat, to look through a microscope at the galaxies that exist on the pinpoint of a human mind, because that's the way my mom taught me. That there'll be days like this. ♫ There'll be days like this, my momma said. ♫ When you open your hands to catch and wind up with only blisters and bruises; when you step out of the phone booth and try to fly and the very people you want to save are the ones standing on your cape; when your boots will fill with rain, and you'll be up to your knees in disappointment. And those are the very days you have all the more reason to say thank you. Because there's nothing more beautiful than the way the ocean refuses to stop kissing the shoreline, no matter how many times it's swept away. You will put the wind in winsome, lose some. You will put the star in starting over, and over. And no matter how many land mines erupt in a minute, be sure your mind lands on the beauty of this funny place called life. And yes, on a scale from one to over-trusting, I am pretty damn naive. But I want her to know that this world is made out of sugar. It can crumble so easily, but don't be afraid to stick your tongue out and taste it. "Baby," I'll tell her, "remember, your momma is a worrier, and your poppa is a warrior, and you are the girl with small hands and big eyes who never stops asking for more." Remember that good things come in threes and so do bad things. And always apologize when you've done something wrong. But don't you ever apologize for the way your eyes refuse to stop shining. Your voice is small, but don't ever stop singing. And when they finally hand you heartache, when they slip war and hatred under your door and offer you handouts on street-corners of cynicism and defeat, you tell them that they really ought to meet your mother.

It was one of those great Ted talks.

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Guilty secret #17353:
I'm a softie at heart.
Quite a big one.
My eyes get a wee wet from quite a lot of things.
And my heart breaks a little every time I hear a sob story.
So, all I gotta do now is build some sort of filter-barrier around my prefrontal cortex.
Protective covering around prefrontal cortex=better tolerance to stimuli.


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Guilty pleasure #27944:
I'm obsessed with Pocky.
And not just any Pocky.
The strawberry Pocky.
Hint: gimme that and my eyes become stars.

Currently munching on said Pocky makes nephrology a bit bearable now.

And on a less frivolous note, the US of A is rejoicing the death of bin Laden, terrorist mastermind.
One down and lots more to go.
I've never been a fan of the "justice and revenge" thing.
But if he really is the 21st century Adolf Hitler, then when push comes to shove, chuck him down an elevator shaft and be done with it.



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I'm betting that THE wedding dress is a long sleeve white one with a medium-length train and lace or mesh inserts for sleeves.
and for the love of all that is romantic and the stuff of girly childhood dreams, I hope there's not a pouffy sleeve or long veil in sight.
RIP Diana definitely got it bad with the pouffy sleeves and the 35m train.
And I'm putting it out here that I like Diana better than Kate. Hands down. It's a no-brainer. I like a bit of spirit/backbone to my princesses, thank you very much. With a touch of scandal.
And Kate kinda reminds me of a brunette Barbie.


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Current earworm for the week: Sara Bareilles

Pieces of paper float between, and I could've sworn that something was said,
But my eyes were tightly shut and I can't read between the lines.
I think I'm ready to bleed, but I'm not sure that the elements are in place.
So you and me will always be in between the lines.


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Guilty pleasure #15384:
I am seriously addicted to the lil ole food store on Lygon near my place.
I am especially addicted to choice no.16 on ciabatta.

I swear whenever I take a bite, my senses go into overdrive.
A little taste of food nirvana.
Every. Single. Time. Without. Fail.
Seriously.

How I wish I had tons of no.16 ciabattas delivered to my doorstep every single day.
Because the sky turns abit brighter and people seem kinder and flowers blooms abit more.
Yes, I'm that dedicated to my little ciabatta.


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of cheese omelets and birthdays

Parcels from home are my absolute favourites.
they beat delicious books and yummy bacon omelets and steamy chai hands down.
and let me tell you that bacon omelets are like right up there on my comfort food list aka pretty much unbeatable.
there's just something nice and homey and creative about making an omelet. you can add whatever you fancy, whatever you have in the fridge.
you can never ever go wrong with the comforting feeling of eggs in your tummy.
and add the smokey sizzle of bacon and cheese and it's like food nirvana in your tummy.
and yes, i'm very shameless about my cheeses.
i will add cheese to absolute anything and everything.
i once add parmesan cheese to instant noodles and proceeded to slurp the whole bowl down and patted my rounded warm tummy in a record 10 minutes.
and guilty secret #299720: i once had a blue day and went to the supermarket and bought a chunk of smoked dutch cheese and ate the entire chunk in one sitting while watching Friends and washed it down with water. and i went back to being cheerful ole' me in record time. cheese does that to me. it's magic, people.

but i digress.
so being all grown up and moving to a new continent and setting up house and doing the chores is all pretty fun.
but then, whenever March hits, i just get a little blue for not being back at home.
something cool about our family: dad's and mum's birthdays are just two days apart in March. and it always sucks that we never get to do it together ever since i've been here.
and birthdays are always a fun thing for us because birthdays celebrate us being here, being part of a family.
in a way, i always think of birthdays as the special day that you feel extra thankful and grateful
and yes, while you should feel that way every single day for that person, but more often than not, it's so easy to take advantage of the fact that person is always always always there and sometimes, it takes that one special day to pull you back down to earth and say to yourself, 'if that person was never born, i would never be the awesome person that i am now. i would never have this much fun and love and extra kisses and hugs. and most of all, i would feel a whole heap less loved.'

yes, much of being all grown-up, dad and mum are pretty much the cheese omelets of my life.
and when i've had a blue day, i just fry myself one and rant to mum about it (and she tells dad. she tells him everything.)
and the next minute, I'll be grinning silly to myself and it'll be a perfect day.

Sara Bareilles = best songs for those nights when you're alone trying to get through your work pile
"Send me the moon" is currently on replay now.
Her sophomore album "Kaleidoscope Heart" kicks ass.

When I hear that song, Sandra comes into my mind, unbidden.
Guess that song's yours,babe.

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Guilty pleasure #19273648:
I'm a sucker for those late-night radio shows with the ubiquitous word "love" in their title.
"Love songs with xxx", "Fall in love with xxx" etc.

Yes, THOSE shows where lonely/broken/happilypairedup hearts call in and ramble a spin and a yarn and where cheesy love songs play endlessly.
It always ends my day perfectly.
Yes, I'm shameless that way.


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I seriously think my sense of color has been sucked dry to the bone.
I looked at my shoerack today and all I see are black, white, grey and brown.
Omg, depressingly uncolourful much?

Then I opened my wardrobe and all i could see are black, white, grey and beige to match my sensibly-colored shoes.

I've never been a very sensibly-colored-or-patterned person ever since I was born.
But being sensibly-coloured-and-patterned comes with the territory of being professional and reliable and trustworthy.

Damn.

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Don't think twice.
If you pay the price, she'll let you deep inside.
And it's her secret garden.
And then you'll complete her.

Bruce Springsteen's 'Secret Garden' has been played 32 times on my iTunes thus far.


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Just a quick note to self:
Currently on the oncology ward rounds now. End-of-life decisions are being made all the time on the ward by the team, patient and family.
And today I saw this normally-unflappable middle-aged man crying inconsolably after a talk with our consultant. He loved his dying mother so much that I very nearly teared up.
My heart clenched just at that moment.
All I could do was offer him a box of tissues.

But reflecting on it now, that mother must be one heck of a mother/caregiver/companion/human being to bring about such a reaction in her family.
Her life must have been one of selflessness,love,sacrifice,courage and all the good, good, good things in the world.
She means THAT much to people around her.
And with that, my heart unclenched just a wee bit.

And there it is, Sandra. Here's to you.


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Hello sunshine.
Hello research.


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The BFG of my life.
With the terrifying GuanGong eyebrows and cheekbones I would kill for that he oh-so-fortunately inherited from our mum while I got dad's little-kid-chubby cheeks.


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