Anonymous asked: This is irrational; but I'm less inspired and motivated to study for spm now(not that im stupid, just mere lazy) and moral support is needed from you :(
Awwww. I wish i could help but if you were my brother/sister, i would have literally smacked some senses into you. Let’s see. Just do me a favour and gaze at your parents’ face, i mean not in a creepy way or any sort. Just look at them and picture them being utterly disappointed in you. I mean, this is a wonderful opportunity for you to make them happy, to make them proud, are you sure you would want this opportunity to fly away that easily?After all your parents have done, this, success, is how you could repay them. And of course, education wise, you wouldn’t want to end up enrolling in some absurd universities now, would you?
kit-teacat asked: If you consider random daily ramblings of life writing then yeah haha. I just blog here in another tumblr account linked to this page of mine. I live half an hour up north from the city. How about you?
I’ll be happy to check it out! Anyway, i live in Burwood. About 40 minutes away from the city by tram haha
kit-teacat asked: How nice to have come across a fellow msian writer staying in melb (:
You write too? Would love to read your work! Where in Melbourne though? :))
Before I met Sam, I was a living embodiment of fragility. Why wouldn’t I be? I was a bit corpulent for a young adult, with an absurdly protruding belly and round cheeks, which I have had since birth. I wasn’t overweight or anything. I was just chubby. I had no cheekbones, buried underneath thick layers of fats, vanished. My hair never stayed in place, burgeoning from a side parting or any other methods of combing for that matter. My reflection in the mirror terrified me as my face had always been ravaged by acne and every single of it was simply a constant reminder of how I was going to end up being alone and nobody would look at me the way my father looks at my mother—triumphant, appreciative look. I was indeed a perpetual disappointment for my mother, who was once apparently, a beauty queen when she was my age. Her body was beautifully sculpted by a daily dosage of yoga; her skin was as soft as those babies’ buttocks from the diaper commercials; like mine, her hair was black and long and unlike mine, your fingers could literally run through hers without a hitch.
Standing next to her meant I would have to endure such ordeal of extensively disturbing coquettish manner from a group of random strangers from the supermarket or the mall. Worse, I felt as though I was completely standing in the blind spot, barely noticed. I was simply just another facet in the surrounding, like a potato or an orange from the stack or the tile they were stepping on. Of course, no mother would speak of her daughter that way. But it was some sort of telepathy or a heavy load of instincts that had inflicted on me such pain to believe that she didn’t want a daughter that had possessed such facets I had. “Darling, please comb your hair. You look like you’ve just given birth to twins!”, “I don’t think that color suits you, wear black sweetie, you know how black makes you look thinner.” , “Shave your legs, no man would want to be with a hairy creature.”, “Oh, is that a moustache? Lord, I thought the doctor had said I had a daughter.” With that, conclusively, being a gauche, insecure young lady I am isn’t something unsurprising now, does it?
When I met Sam, I was always living in incredulity whenever I am in his arms, or when we are holding hands, walking side by side. It was all too perfect that it felt surreal and unrealistic. He was a boss of mine; a beautiful young man that would have the entire office gone entirely berserk when he passes by. Males too. It wasn’t a magnification or any sort. It was merely the truth. Sure, like many other women in the office, I had feelings for him, a miniscule one that put a halt to nonsensical hopes for impossibility. I couldn’t even talk to men without gabbling in a panicky way. Once, I rambled on and on about how my feet are incredibly soft after I shaved and how awful my stomach ache was last night. Sam, well Sam was brilliant, a barrister and I was just his assistant. His eyes had a hint of amber near the pupil and charcoal on the outer part of the iris, completely blatant under the sunlight. He had conspicuous cheekbones, and sharp jaws that could cut an apple into half. When he moved, his hair dances in a motion like those cliché scenes from a shampoo commercial. So when he had asked me out for a date, I almost chocked on my oxygen and died.
Sam made me feel beautiful, everyday, all times and I started to believe him. He was persuasive, and insisted that he was right and that I was wrong and that, every girl needs a man who could tell her she’s wrong. Although, I believe, that is suicidal if it were applied to a certain extent because most women I know, do think they are always right. But he loved me, or so I thought. He loved me enough to get on his one knee and proposed. Six years had gone by and our marriage is at the brink of the cliff that even the softest wind could lead us to debacle. Why? You would ask. See, I am starting to believe that, he was starting to see what my mother sees in me. It was all too familiar. “Sweetie, don’t you think that the dress is a bit too small for you?”, “You might want to do something with your hair or put on a little makeup you look awfully pale,” , “Oh, are you sure you want to order that love? You’ve put on a little weight.” Sam magnified my flaws and I felt I was suffocating. Isn’t love supposed to minimize the pain? I thought, physicality meant nothing to him. At least, that was what he had said before. But the cloak is thinning and all that had scarred me once become more evident. I was a trophy that symbolized embarrassment instead of triumph. Little did I know that he was cheating on me with his employee all along, beautiful sleek one with perfect set of teeth and ravishing smile.
At one point in life, I decided to be beautiful. Not for anyone, not for my mother or any man like Sam, but for me. I did it for me. Of course, nothing extravagant. I got my hair done, my body toned, my nails done and occasionally, I would put on a bloody sumptuous dress and a dash of make up for no bloody reason. And I feel rather beautiful and I am no longer dependent on anyone to speak of me that way. I’ve flourished into somebody whom I am starting to love —confident and bold. A living embodiment of vitality instead of fragility. If you couldn’t love yourself, no one could. Even when they do, sometimes, you’re completely risking it because most of the time, those people are unfortunately impermanent. When the person is gone, how else could you make yourself feel beautiful?
Anonymous asked: Hello there, Sara! I have a pretty low self esteem & I'm really shy around people that I'm not close to (especially men) & I don't think it's possible for me to gain confidence because I'm always afraid of other people criticizing me. I'm sorry for pouring all this on you but I just have no one else to talk to. Oh, one more thing. I have friends who really like calling me fat and it really makes me feel bad about myself. LIKE SERIOUSLY DOES IT MATTER SO MUCH GAAHH
Sweetie, everything is possible. First of all, stop giving a damn about what other people are going to say about you. People would not stop talking regardless of what you are or what you do. Even when you are a saint, yet people would still criticize you. So screw them! Tell them off. Perhaps, in a joking manner or something, that is if you fear to offend them. If they are really your friends, you shouldn’t be afraid to tell them off. There’s nothing funny when it comes to mocking other people’s appearances.
theycallmemrright asked: I found you are good at writing. How are you at singing?
i am so good at singing. Too good that the reason why people go deaf is because of me.
Anonymous asked: Are u good at Mathematics?
I wouldn’t say i suck at it. I am okay I guess!
Toss and turn, hoping you could sleep it off but the organ underneath your chest isn’t letting you. It breaks, piece by piece and although, it isn’t literal but you could almost sense as though it was ripped apart. How do you sleep with a broken heart?
Both of you were strangers before it had all begun and when you’ve met, everything had all seemed explicitly perfect—colored with rainbows and swarmed with butterflies. He made you feel complete and beautiful and not otherwise. Perfection. You look at him, and you thought, ‘this is it. This is what love is, isn’t it? This is love.” You convince yourself and it’s true, you are in love. So deep that your soul becomes weak, your independence starts to wither like the plants during the awful draught. You thought to yourself, ‘it’s okay. You have him as your tower, to protect you no matter.’
Little did you know, as years grew longer, things became sour? And you wonder, if it’s rather ordinary and it’s just a phase everyone endures. And you wonder, if it’s rather ordinary to be crushed by your only tower. Maybe, you would say. Black and blues marked as evident of such betrayal. And you told yourself, ‘this is it. This is the end.” And of course, you forgive him because like a fool you are, you love him, you love him so much that your chest throbs in pain when you speak of him. And you swallow your pride and the preposterous betrayal you had suffered and forgive him anyway. What other option do you have I dare say? You thought to yourself again, it’s an ordinary phase. He will change, you said. Hours became days, days became weeks, and weeks became months, and months became years. Not a damn sign.
You are, after all, in love with a monster.
You swallowed his words, his excruciating words that cut every inch of your heart and soul—that crushes your sanity and your self-esteem. Even he, like a gentleman he is, called you cheap and worthless, calls you a myriad of names he would not dare call other women. Cheap, sluttish, every single word rings in your head like a displeasing cacophonous reminder alongside with all other relentless things a guy would dare not say. And you thought again, maybe he’s speaking of the truth. After all, you gave him your all, darling, you gave him your all.
And here you are, asking yourself and again and again in perpetual. Why? Why couldn’t you leave him? Why?
And as you close your eyes with the burning prickly tears behind, you hear a faint voice.
"Well, silly. Because you love him", your mind would say…
Anonymous asked: How do you understand slangs (american/british) when talking to someone ?
American accents are not that hard for me to discern. British is so-so lah. You have to read a lot because they use uncommon (for us Malaysians) words most of the time. And sometimes, i do admit i would struggle a bit when i speak with people that have very thick accents. Especially Aussies. Up until now, i am still struggling to understand what some of them are trying to say! Well i guess i’ll get a hang of it, someday.
Anonymous asked: Hi Sara! I'm just finished my SPM and waiting for the results. I want to ask you what are the courses did you take in Melbourne? And do they(your university) have the courses related to biology or something? And can you give me some example of the best course which (you think) it is good? Thanks a lot! xxx
i am taking finance and international management. yes, yes, a lot of biologies-related courses though. I have no idea i am so sorry. I am not entirely sure because i am not that familiar with science-related courses! Try do a lil bit of research by looking at the universities’ websites so that you could have a great picture.