GPA

...

I didn't get 4.0 :( sigh.

Kinda disappointed.

I got 3.93. One A-. So close to 4.0...

Yay? I guess.

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BACK

I'm HOME.

Exhausted.

There's no way to contact me now (by phone), I have no idea what my new place's phone number is and I am currently lacking a handphone. But I will probably be getting a handphone soon, so don't fret! And I'll be using the same number; a friend's been keeping my number active for me.

So right now I can only be contacted online :)

Okay, time to rest and makan.

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Leaving.

Packing, packing, packing.

Busy packing now. So much stuff to do.

I probably won't be online much, if at all, in Seattle.

And we're leaving Missoula early tomorrow morning. Leaving Seattle 1 am Saturday (19th of May), arriving in Malaysia Sunday afternoon 1 pm (20th of May).

Will update once I'm back home in Malaysia, probably Sunday night or Monday if I'm too tired. (Malaysian time). :)

To everyone going back, cya soon! I can't wait!

To everyone staying; hope you enjoy summer!

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Rawr hair

I hate my hair.

It's like Medusa's lovechild with a carpet = my hair.

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Barren

So my exams are over.

I'm so relieved. At least now I have some breathing space, and more time to sleep and unwind.

It's been weird since I wrote my last post; I think writing it took something away from me. I feel a bit barren emotionally. But I'm glad I wrote it, because I think in some ways I prefer being emotionally empty rather than upset and distressed over something I don't know how to control.

I've stabilized, sort of. Not quite an achievement, but not a loss either. So I'll take what I can get.

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In Silence

It's almost 1 am and I'm halfway through reading Messages to the World: The Statements of Osama bin Laden for HIST 226. But I'm not even thinking about the book right now. Not even sure what I'm thinking about. All I know is that whatever that's in my head has to come out now, which is why I'm on blogger instead. And I think this will be one of the longest posts that I've ever written. You are free to read it or skip it - that's up to you. The contents are extremely personal, more personal than anything else I've written before. I don't mind if you read it, don't mind it if you don't; either way, I have to write it. And no, it's not an angry ranting post; more like an in-depth, painful reflection of my life so far, and how I feel right now.

So here goes.


I am, right now, in a place I don't want to be. Not physically, but mentally, emotionally. I don't know how many times I've been here before. Many times, for sure, but I think it's never been as bad as it is this time.

I would like to think that I would get over this soon. But I know I won't. I know I can't. Not until there is some resolution to it, not until someone will meet me halfway, because I'm tired of reaching. I'm tired of hinting, tired of wanting someone to look me in the eyes and say 'tell the truth' when I tell them I'm okay. Because I'm not. I'm not okay.

I have not been okay for awhile. I have not been happy in awhile. I think, to some extent, I am emotionally impaired. I've forgotten how to feel, how to live in the moment, simply because I'm so used to hiding, suppressing how I feel. It has always been that way with me. I am always still, always pleasant on the outside, but it's not that way on the inside. And still waters run deep.

It's so hard to admit this but; I have a problem.

I have a problem, and it is more serious than I could ever know.

I am so inwardly self-destructive that I don't know what to do anymore. I am so tired of being upset, so tired of crying to myself and never have anyone reach out to me. The only ones who try end up hurting me more.

I'm not sure when it got this bad. I always knew that I was a bit self-destructive, but I never realized it would worsen to this point. I have a problem. My self-esteem is at an all-time low, and I am no longer confident in myself, no longer confident in being able to control how I feel or play the pleasant, satisfied guy in my day to day life. I think most would agree that I seem 'pleasant'.

But pleasant is such a reticent term, because that's what I am. I am never too happy, rarely too sad, always pleasant. Pleasantness was a mask, not a feeling. It still is. That is how I always survived, how I always thought would help me survive. But I don't know how to be pleasant anymore. I don't know how to stop myself from feeling sad for no reason, don't know how to grow up and get over it.

I think it first started when our maid passed away when I was about nine or ten years old. She was more than a maid, she was family. I was closer to her then than I was with my parents. I don't think I understood the damage it did to me when she passed away. I was young - how could I have ever understood the extent of my emotions? But I was upset, more upset than I realized at that age.

I don't know how many times I cried myself to sleep. I didn't know how to adjust, didn't know how to cope. I don't think my parents ever noticed how upset I was. They noticed that my grades dropped afterwards - which they were very understanding about - but they never, I think, suspected a bigger problem. I wish they had. I was what, nine, ten; how would someone my age be able to adjust to such a thing? My parents mere told us that things would have to change, that we would have to be strong. But they had years of experiences and their maturity to fall back on. I was so young. I didn't know how to be strong, so I cried myself to sleep every night, and no one ever noticed.

I think it was then that I went through a particularly bad phase with my brother. I am a naturally shy and introverted person. I didn't really stand up to my brother. For several years he bullied me, yelled at me, hit me sometimes. I think this went on even until after my dad started working in Indonesia, which I'll mention later. It was pretty bad - he kicked me out of our room often, sometimes angrily, for 'bringing bad luck' when he was playing his favorite game. He told it to others like it was a joke, but I didn't think it was. Had I been a problem simply by existing?

I would never stand up to him whenever he yelled at me or started hitting me. I may have made just a token resistance at first, but I had always been somewhat of a pacifist, somewhat non-confrontational. I hated physical violence. Hated it then, hate it now. So over the years I shrunk into a meek, subservient role. He says that he was better compared to other elder brothers, that there were others worse than him. I wouldn't know; this was my life, how could I compare it to that of others? And he knew that I was emotionally sensitive, knew that I hurt deeper than most, knew that I was meek and hated fighting, and so he used it to his advantage. I think that's part of the reason why, until today, I don't like to stand up for myself. I don't mind letting others have their way. Because that's how I grew up, that's what was yelled and beaten into me.

He was an angry person. He is still, to some extent, an angry person today. I was terrified of him. Terrified of him and of my mother, because they had similar temperaments. Whenever they were angry I did my best to stay away, because I knew if I went close I would just be hurt more - not quite physically, but mentally, emotionally. I didn't want conflict, because it always turned out worse for me than for them.

I remember once, we returned home from somewhere, and I entered the house before my brother did. As I was going up the stairs, my brother asked me to lock the door; I told him to lock it himself, since he had come in last. I didn't expect what came next; right after, he came right up to the room and started yelling at me, slapped me hard on my face, telling me that I was rude and disrespectful, telling me how worthless I was. I think a part of me believed it. My face was bleeding - a pimple had broke, and blood was coming out. All I could do was stare defiantly, with tears running down my face. I wouldn't yell, wouldn't fight about it. And he knew that. He knew that no matter what, I would not fight back, would not try to take control. I think that's what hurt me the most, that he knew, that my parents knew, and that they used that fact to their advantage. Even until today.

Then my father started working in Indonesia. It was an extremely turbulent period. I'm not sure exactly how old I was - somewhere in my mid-teens. Our family was at an all-time peak of family conflict. Tempers flared so often that we must have fought every other day - or at least that's how I remember it. But even then my parents didn't really know how to be, well, parents. I am, admittedly, a very emotionally sensitive person. I get upset easily. And so, as you can guess, I was upset and crying a lot during that time as well.

My mom was not one of those moms who knew how to calm you down and make you feel better. Her strategy was to yell at me to grow up 'because you're not the only one with problems'. She was right, of course, but would I have known that back then? I was still a teenager trying to adjust to growing up, trying to discern how I felt about the world, trying to fit in somehow. I think, to some extent, this screwed up with my emotional development. I am not saying it just because of what I learned in my psychology classes; I say this as a personal opinion.

Sometimes I would call my father, crying, telling him that I wanted to move in with him. But he always told me to be patient, always told me that things would get better. I didn't want to be told that. What I wanted was for him to make it better, for him to step into the role of a parent, and not just a provider. But he never did. He was always like that, telling us to be patient, telling us that my mom's happiness was what mattered. And he wouldn't do anything, he would just wait until the issue blew over.

I remember a particularly scarring episode, which until today remains vivid in my mind. I was having dinner with my brother and my mom, when they got into an argument and my brother left the dining table. I just looked down into my bowl of noodles, and tears started dripping from my face into the soup. I didn't want to eat anymore. I didn't want to go on like that. And I tried to reach out. I said to my mom, "I wish I had a family again." Just like that, my feelings were laid out for her. To which she replied, angrily, "well, we don't always get what we want." I don't know why I remember that particular episode; all I remember is that it really hurt me in some way. I don't know how or where it hurt; all I knew was that it did.

Slowly, we adjusted. Somehow. I am surprised that we managed to survive that. But then mom got a stroke. She was hospitalized, and I had been there for her. Luckily my father had been scheduled to return that same day. And again he reminded me that mom's well-being was all that mattered then. He said we needed to do all we could to help her, and I acquiesced. I agreed. Having a stroke is serious; she had to take a lot of medication and go through physical therapy. But it affected her emotionally too.

She became more volatile. Things would upset or anger her more easily. But we had to be patient with her. I had always been patient anyway, so it was basically the same routine we usually had, just that she was worse than usual. I understood, because I would have been bitter and angry in her shoes too. I just wish she hadn't handled it by lashing out at us more. I was weary, then. I hadn't even finished high school yet, and I was already weary. I think I was a train-wreck, emotionally. Again, I felt like I didn't know how to handle it, didn't know how to step up and take control.

Then my brother had to leave for the US, which left me and my mom in Malaysia. It was a tough time, as you can probably guess. At first I was actually okay about it; by then I had grown up a little, and realized that this was something I had to live with. But after awhile I grew sick of it. I grew sick and tired of having to shoulder the responsibility of being there for my mom simply because my brother couldn't, and my dad wouldn't.

Again my dad reminded me to spend more time with my mom, reminded me that her happiness was what mattered. So I started college, and at the same time tried to spend more time with her. When I was younger I had followed her to the supermarket often - somewhere along the way I stopped going. But now I started again. Almost every week. How many teenage sons can you say does that? Some of the bills she passed to me to handle. I took her to movies, had dinner with her a few nights every week.

I was a good son. Not just a good son, but a fucking good son. You would think that by now I would have become a delinquent or something. My parents were so uninvolved with my daily life. They asked, of course, but mainly out of some feeling of obligation to do so. I don't think they cared as long as my grades were good, and I wasn't causing any trouble.

I began to resent this role I now played. Sometimes when I couldn't handle it anymore I told my dad to come home, but he often wouldn't. He just told me to be patient, again. Again, mom's happiness was what mattered. He said, as he always did, that my mom may be hard to live with sometimes, but she loves me. They love me. I don't doubt that. I just wish they would show it more. Actions speak louder than words. They were absent, emotionally, the whole time. They loved me, and I knew it, but I didn't feel it.

Mom was calmer now, more well-adjusted, and I think to a certain extent she was happier than she had been in a long time. But no one ever asked me if I was happy. No one ever thanked me for being there for her. No one ever recognized that I had been a good son. I always wanted them to thank me, to ask me if I was happy, but they never did.

Sometimes mom would go to Indonesia to spend time with my father. I would, as usual, be left behind to look after the house. To look after myself. Most teenagers would relish this opportunity. I didn't. The empty house depressed me. I felt like they didn't want me. I was always there, left behind, to fill some kind of void that they left behind. I filled the void my brother left behind. I filled the void my dad left behind. And when mom wasn't around, I filled her void too.

My mom, whenever she was with my dad, would often tell me that she missed me over the phone. And then, when she returned home, her face beaming from the time spent with my dad, she would again say that she missed me while she was away, and that she and my dad loved me. But I wanted to say to her, to my dad, if you really did miss me, really did love me, you wouldn't have left me behind. Would have noticed that I wasn't happy. Would have told me to tell the truth when I said I was fine.

I was pretty much autonomous in my daily life. But was that really freedom? I had a routine. I had classes to attend, went out with my friends, the usual. But I would always have to drop everything for my parents whenever they wanted me to. Whenever my father was planning to come home, he would tell me to cancel other plans so we can have a nice, family dinner. But having dinner didn't make us family. We would just pretend to be a family, for one night, for two nights. Then things would go back to how they were.

Whenever my father was back, he would often squeeze in a visit with friends from his hometown, or with other old friends. It made my mom angry; didn't he come back to visit us, his family? His trips home were often short, lasting no more than a few days. I was angry too - he often told me that family was what mattered, that we had to spend time with each other, that my mom's happiness was the most important thing to focus on at that time. I did my job. Why couldn't he do his?

To be fair, financially I had just about as much freedom as any teenager could get. I think they grew to use money to control me, to placate me. I was a mercenary - my affection could be bought. Frankly, I like having money. I love having money. But though it was enough for me to remain obedient, to do as they asked, it never really satisfied me emotionally. I could afford things that many other people could only dream of, but it never really filled that void in me. It was, at best, a temporary high.

I will say this; I am eternally grateful for my parents because they have provided me with all that I could ever want or need, financially. But it isn't enough. I wish it was, but it isn't. I can't tell my mind, my heart, to be happy or satisfied because my parents provide me with enough financial support. I don't know if I'm just being greedy or selfish, but I don't think that money can erase all the emotional and relational problems that I have with them. Is money supposed to buy my affection, buy my loyalty, buy my continued obedience? I'd been a good son for almost 20 years already. Doesn't almost 20 years of good behavior grant me at least some right to decide on certain things?

I don't know why, until today, they make me feel as if I have to prove to them that I am a good son. That I am part of the family. But wasn't I the one who had always been there, in the background, for everyone else? Wasn't I the one who had to take the yelling, take the brunt of their frustrations? Wasn't I the one who had been responsible, who got good grades, who took my mom to dinners and movies because the others weren't around? She paid, of course, but does that discredit my effort in any way? Of all the dangerous habits I could have developed in the absence of parental supervision, I developed an obsession for reading fantasy novels. Wasn't I the one who cried myself to sleep sometimes, who kept my feelings and frustrations to myself, to I wouldn't take it out on them instead? How much would I have to do until they would thank me, and recognize my efforts so far, validate me in some way that would make me feel appreciated?

Was I inadequate in some way? Did I not do enough? Don't I deserve some sort of recognition, something that would make me feel that all my efforts over the years hadn't been in vain? Do they find me lacking? I could never say no to them, and I had always done whatever they asked of me. Was that still not enough? I wish that I could stop blaming myself, but I can't. Yes, I do blame them for not validating me in some way, but at the same time, a big part of me blames myself for it. As if I wasn't good enough, or, well, just not enough.

I don't know why, until today, I still have to 'show face' to them. I don't know why, time after time, they would still expect me to prove my loyalty to them, expect me to do as they wish despite my complaints or arguments. I could never say no to them; I would often hint heavily or give reasons why I didn't want to do something, but I could never say no. So they just overruled me anyway. Why couldn't I say no? I find it hard to refuse a person directly. That is a flaw of mine; I was just so used to not having things go my way when I was younger that it sort of stuck until today.

I am sure that I am just being overly-dramatic here; of that I am certain. But 'I don't feel like it' or 'I don't want to' had never been good enough reasons for them. I always had to have some other more pressing reason, like I had a test so I had to study, or I had an assignment so I had to stay at home to do it. Or I had something important to attend, so I couldn't do anything else then, or go someplace else.

But it's not like they ever did anything they didn't want to do. My mother, especially; if she did not want something to happen, it would not happen. My brother's like that too; he's no pushover, and over the years he has repudiated my parents much more often than I have, which is why they turned to me instead; I was the pushover. My dad, well, was the dad; it's not like he had to do anything he didn't feel like doing.

But me? I didn't have that prerogative. I'm the youngest of the family; I had no right to refuse. The same can be said today. Every time I try to refuse, they take it so personally, as if it was a personal attack on the family. My brother often got pissed at me last time for not wanting to go with him wherever. My mom was like that too; I had to follow her to Ipoh several times, even when I didn't want to go, and also once to Penang. I really tried to get out of the Penang trip. It was my last few weeks at home; I didn't want to go. But she wanted me to go anyway, and tried to make me feel guilty about it. She always does that. She always makes it sound like I'm abandoning her whenever I didn't feel like doing something, or going somewhere. Again, hadn't I done enough? How come I had to prove myself each time, over and over and over again, and no matter how much I tried, it was never enough?

My father was no help too. Whenever I called him, as usual, to rant about my mother's coercive methods, he, predictably, told me to be patient and to go with her anyway. I was really upset over the Penang trip; I really hadn't wanted to go. He must've known how angry I was about it. But then he hurt me even more; 'just go with her this time, and I'll talk to her about it'. I went. He never talked to her. It was always like that, 'just this time, and I'll talk to her about it'. Just this time. Again and again, each time. They obviously didn't care about how I felt; all they wanted was to placate me temporarily. It was always a short term solution; just deal with Hisham until it's over, then the problem goes away.

Was I just that? A problem? What was I, really? Whenever he was home, he would tell me to drive him places, so he could spend time with me. But it had never been his real goal. There was one place he would often go to where I would just sit in the car and wait for him for about fifteen to thirty minutes. I was spending time with the car, but not with him. And whenever we were in the car, he never talked. We would always make small talk at first, but it never grew to anything more substantial. He never asked me if I was happy. Never asked me how I felt. Never thanked me for being home all the time so he didn't have to. Never made me feel as if I was worth something, anything, to them.

My father was always closer to my brother. That is a truth that I have always known. I know, even if he doesn't, that in some ways he loves my brother more than he loves me. I was the odd one, the one who didn't really fit his typical idea of a 'son'. I don't think he knows how to deal with me. My brother shared my dad's interest in sports, like most other guys. I didn't. They could talk at length about various things; my father and I usually just made small talk, and fell silent. I have never felt close to my father. I admit, I was jealous of the bond he had with my brother. My father sometimes made awkward attempts at bonding, in sudden moments of advice and such. But it was not what I wanted to hear. What I needed to hear. I'm not sure exactly what words I wanted to hear from him, but I sure wish he had said them.

My mom loves me, of course. I know in some ways she favors me over my brother. But it could be for a superficial reason; because I am the younger son. Then again, I was the one who had always been there for her. I had been the one always left behind, the backup plan for everyone else. She would naturally be more attached to me since my brother and father were never around. It's not because she understands me or knows how I feel; it's just because I was there, and she needed someone to be there.

When all the things I'd written above are combined, I think I can tell what my problem is better. It's that I feel inadequate. I feel worthless in some way, incapable of pleasing my family no matter what I do, no matter what I've done over the years. I always tried my best to present a happy face, to make it seem as if nothing was wrong. But cracks always showed; why hadn't they noticed anything wrong? I cried in silence over the years. I wanted someone to reach out to me. But they didn't. Again, no one asked me if I had been happy. Or if I was okay. They provided, but that was it. I think, most of all, I wanted to be noticed.

Am I being selfish here? Yes. I admit it, I am being selfish. As far as self-centeredness goes, this takes the cake. They've given me all the financial support I could ever need; yes, I am being ungrateful and unappreciative of all that they've ever provided for me. Right now my selfishness knows no bounds. But then I say, why can't I, just this time? I always did everything I could for the family. I was a good son. I got good grades, got into the healthy habit of reading, didn't smoke or drink or take drugs. I tried so hard for them, for the family. Just this once, I want to be selfish. I want to be noticed. I want someone to care about how I feel. I want how I feel to be reason enough; I don't want to have to give reasons anymore, or to prove anything to them anymore. I've been trying so hard; why can't they see that? Doesn't almost 20 years of good behavior grant me any semblance of authority in choosing what I want or don't want to do?

Sadly, I could never talk about this with them. I know they would react badly. My mother can take things very personally, and sometimes holds grudges for a very, very long time. And she would never admit that she had done wrong. If she realized it, she would just pretend like nothing had happened. As for my dad? It's hard to say. But I don't think he would react well either. He and my mom would probably call me an ungrateful son. I'm sure of it. And I don't know if I would disagree with them if they said that.

My brother knows a bit of how I feel. He thinks that I'm being ungrateful too. I don't know. As much as I want his support, I don't think he trusts me enough. His support would be, at best, at two-edged blade. He probably thinks me incapable of reasoning, incapable of understanding how I truly feel about the situation. It's the same with him too; I don't know how to show him that I am no longer a child, no longer incapable of articulating and expressing how I feel. I'm probably doing a bad job at convincing him too; somehow, everything he says makes him sound like he's condemning me, as if I hadn't given this issue enough thought, as if I was being rash and irrational in my judgments. As if I am lacking in mental faculty. I may be impaired emotionally, but I would like to think that I'm a good thinker. That immediately makes me defensive, and whenever I'm in that mode I don't think and express well. So in the end my message doesn't get through.

And so, as usual, I am alone in how I feel.

I know I'm just being overly emotional right now. I have always been overly emotional. And no, it's not just about the Yellowstone trip. It's about much, much more than that. I hate it sometimes, but I can't do anything about it. So this is how I deal with it. I just need to get it out of my head, because like I said, I am inwardly self-destructive. I hate what it does to my self-esteem, hate what it does to the little confidence that I have in myself. I hate not feeling that what I am, or who I am, is enough.

I cried in silence for so many years. You would think that I was crying as I wrote this, but I wasn't. I'm just sick of crying. Sick of being upset. Sick of keeping this to myself, only to be triggered again and again and again over the years. I just want to grow past it. I want to fix my emotional impairment. I don't know how to be happy. Don't know how to allow myself to be happy. I want to fix what's broken in me, somehow. Someday.

I just don't know how.

But, whatever it is, I will probably end up handling it like how I usually do.

By myself.

In silence.

Read on...

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For Peace and Harmony

An excerpt from an article about how the Information Minister in Malaysia wants to classify bloggers as professionals/non-professionals:

"He (the minister) reminded web bloggers not to touch on matters that had been agreed upon by consensus by the multiracial population in the country, such as the special position and privileges of the Malays, the Rulers, and Islam, so as to maintain peace and harmony."

Source: BERNAMA

Okay, was the special position and privileges of the Malays agreed on by CONSENSUS among the multiracial population? If by consensus, they mean majority, obviously it would be 'agreed on' by 'consensus' since more than 50% of the population is Malay. It might have been the case during the time of its conception, but it certainly would not apply today. Also, last I checked, consensus more accurately means general agreement or an opinion reached by a group as a whole. Not by just more than half the group.

It stinks of inequality - he is, in effect, telling people that Malays are more special, and that others have no right to question that.

from Wikipedia: "Bumiputras were given special rights in the constitution after the Malays agreed to share political power with minorities, including the Chinese, in what is termed the social contract, as a prerequisite to gaining independence from British rule. Many of the non-Malays at that time were first and second generation migrants who had been brought by the British to fill colonial manpower needs as indentured labourers, a form of limited-term post-emancipation slavery, and the Malays were facing a situation where they were close to a minority in their own country."

Malays are no longer a political or economic minority today. Yes, the Chinese are very successful economically, but the strength of the Chinese here does not immediately mean that the Malays are weak; both are strong. They say that we still need such pro-Malay policies because there are still so many poor Malays. But there are poor Chinese, poor Indians, and poor people from other races too - why not help them as well?

And it is sad that no one (with power and influence in the country) can safely question these rights. The ones at the top will always tell them to shut up for the sake of 'peace and harmony'.

For peace and harmony? Whose peace and harmony?

Read on...

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Cranky

It's 7:30 am - no, I didn't just wake up.

I've been awake the whole freakin night, thanks to my stupid Creative Writing portfolio. I had to edit and change so many things; I also would have printed the entire damn thing at home if I had enough paper for it, but I don't. So I still have to stop by the printing place on campus to print a LOT of stuff before class, and get them bound.

I swear, if I don't get an A, I will be SERIOUSLY pissed.

Going to shower soon to go for class. Rawr.

Read on...

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In Control

So, I've been extremely busy the past few days. I blame it on procrastination; had to finish all my work that was due this week within a span of a handful of days.

I've been up until 2-5 am each night - it might be my imagination, but I think there are dark circles under my eyes. :(

But today I finally feel in control of the situation. I don't feel that annoying feeling of being harried anymore, which is great. I'm not worried at all about finals. Well, I can say that now, but who knows what I'll be writing here the day before finals.

I still have some work due though - my creative writing portfolio is due on Thursday. I'll probably be really worried about it tomorrow, but today I'm taking it easy a bit.

Most of my work is done - had a Child & Adolescent Psychology research paper due on Monday, which I completed late Sunday night (or early Monday morning). I have a Family Communication group project due on Thursday; I e-mailed my part to my group member who's supposed to compile/organize yesterday evening, and I haven't heard from her, which I hope is a good thing because I probably won't have to add anything. And, of course, my ANTH 104 cultural autobiography; I completed it last night and e-mailed it to the lecturer. The deadline is actually Thursday, but I just needed to get it over with ASAP.

!!INTERLUDE!! - I FEEL A BRAG COMING ON

So, anyway, I got an amazing response from my ANTH 104 lecturer!

"Hi Hisham,

This is truly one of the best cultural autobiographies I have ever received from
a student. You did a lovely job. I so wish you had been my student for many
semesters, and I'm going to miss you...I'm going to miss you and Nico both, and
will always think of you as my two mature, independent thinkers, so different,
so alike, so very splendid in the classroom and in your writing. I do think you
can write a book, Hisham, maybe more, maybe a lot of them. It takes a reader to
make a writer, and you are that. I'm very grateful to have had you in my
classroom.
I do hope you have your wits about you and can come to the last two classes!

-Mary"

Bwahahahhahaahahahhaahha! Bangga!

ps: I'm still humble. This is an abnormality.

!!END INTERLUDE!! THE BRAG HAS PASSED

So anyway, yeah. Life's like that.

I'll just do some editing on one of my creative writing stories tonight, then will do a major revise on the other one tomorrow.

I have a good feeling about this semester - not a 4.0, of course, but somehow I have a pretty good feeling, overall. As long as my GPA is above 3.7 (somehow), I'll be happy :)

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Dead.

I'm so exhausted right now.

Been up until 3-5 am for the past few days doing work, and I still have more work due on Thursday that I haven't finished yet.

Screw the exams - at this point, I'll be so freakin happy once I've completed all my assignments.

Read on...

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