This is the story of a harrowing experience that I'd like to share with anyone who'd give a rat's ass about it.

Apparently my bodily wastes, be it gaseous or matter, has a rather strong aroma to it. In finding a way to counter this, my dad had sought all sorts of help. This ranged from a traditional Javanese massage to enema. I don't know to what extent my parents' efforts were but they desperately wanted to get rid of the 'unwelcoming feeling after I leave a toilet'. Fariz complains but that's just it. He can live with it.

One day as I woke up around 2.00PM, my dad was having a massage downstairs. Pak Tahir was the masseuse and my dad called me for my turn. I was thinking 'What the fuck?'. I mean, not saying that I'm rude to my parents or anything but I had just woke up and suddenly urut? Apa hal? Ahh, what the hell, pergi je la...

It hurt! Bloody hell it hurt. As he pulled three fingers down and around my stomach, it felt like there was a knife going along with it. Each touch was a stab. Each pull was a slash. I shrieked once or twice and when he realised I couldn't take it anymore, I was released. With a promise of a second round, of course. I didn't care. All I did care about was that I'd get to the toilet as the irritation applied caused a stir in my stomach and I needed to...

They tried taking me for colon-cleansing. I guess time didn't allow that. Or maybe lack of recognised centres or some other stupid reasons. So they acquired a do-it-yourself kit. I like DIY. Because DIY is closely associated with hardware stores, power machinery and such. But this DIY was different. Different.

The kit consisted of a pail and instructions. It was a small pail, rather cute, I'd say. It was slightly bigger than your average bekas kuih raya. But it had a tube coming out from the bottom. And the end of the tube had a valve and a leech-like plastic thingy that was lubricated. Lubricated.

I never saw the instructions but everything was briefed by my dad. I had to do it three times (FUCK!). The pail would be filled to the 2 litre mark and the tube obviously up my ass. I was supposed to lie on my right side and put the pail higher than me and let it flow... The process had to be done thrice because the first was to cleanse, the second to alkalize and lastly to neutralize.

I sat on the bowl and poked it. Geli gila! The pail was filled with plain water and some powder which was supposed to give the mixture a sharpness that would scrape things off the inside walls. I didn't lie on my right. I lied on my left as the toilet bowl blocked my view. I pulled the valve and... Oooh! Seronok gila! It was a rather pleasant feeling, actually. But after the first half litre, I felt stuffed. As I passed the first litre, it started to hurt a bit. My dad gave words of encouragement and semangat. It didn't matter. I didn't want 'shit' to happen. Despite the pain, I just imagined it was something like 'The Matrix'. You plug something in yourself and your in another world.

When it was finished, I had problems getting up as I felt weak. But the liquid was demanding to gush out so I jumped on the bowl and pulled the tube out.

Woosh!

It came out as a whole body of liquid. It was like diarrhoea that didn't hurt. In fact, best gak ah! Don't ask about the details. This is, after all, the cleansing process. I needed a five-minute breather before I let my dad refill the pail. Alkali, I thought. What could he put?

Coffee. And some shit detergent (not fecal detergent, but shit detergent as in entahapapa punya detergent). Tidak!

I too it like a man. Ha ha ha... The same thing again but I was experienced now. I kept thinking I was 'The One' and that whatever the hell that's being plugged into me would give me superiority of some sort. Oh yeah. Childish beliefs but it works. Psychology, I guess. Reaching the last half litre, the tube came off and coffee-soap spilt all over me! I tried desperately to grab it and shove it back in but the lubricant had faded and it was hard to move as I was 'full'. Selamba....

Suddenly, somehow, it went in. Straight in. And just like Neo, everything 'uploaded'. The sensation. Oooh, the pleasure. Some alien substance racing through your body. I think that since the rectum is connected to the stomach and that's connected to bla bla bla and so on and that whole system runs up (or down) your spine, that's how the sensations from down under flushed upwards throughout my whole body.

I was juiced up and ready to roll.

"There she blows!"

"Foooosh!" like a flamethrower. The current was strong, heavy-bodied and continuous.

"Rat-tat-tat" as it neared the end. The gases and whatever-nots providing the emptiness needed for the intermittent bursts. Then, as any submachine gun, no matter how strong, no matter how fast, its ammunition has to run dry. "Psssss".

I got up, stomach below feeling like jelly. But I knew I had entered another world. Figuratively, technically, fantasy, imaginatively... To me, it was as real as it can get. And I swear I loved it. Every single moment of it.

But now, after a long lapse in which I have returned to civilization... Entah, macam dah lupa dah. Eww, what the fuck was I thinking?!

Tadika!

Pre-school! Lovely, interesting, learning was fun, friends, the games we played, the activities, the cuteness of it all... I miss it.

I was enrolled in Children's House 1 in Damansara Heights. When I got in, Fariz was already in Standard One. I was four. The kindergarten was a bungalow, red and white and usually compared physically to Strawberry Hill, although we were a hell lot better than them. Anytime. Strawberry Hill. Ahahahahahahahahahahaha..! What a name. Our other rivals were Villa Maria. They sucked, too. They had this white and navy blue uniforms and since they had too many students, operated like a school.

Children's House is rather classy and high-end. We were the second most expensive at RM300 a month (average of my time, it peaked at RM 400). The most expensive being Zaikarim, a fucked up school where they fine you for everything. My cousin Dina was there and she actually got fined RM10 for farting during class! She was also fined for bringing a 2-in-1 shampoo and soap for swimming. The rule stated you MUST bring a shampoo and soap for bathing. What the fuck? The owner made a fortune with branches in Bangsar, Johor Baru and SINGAPORE. No wonder...

Back to MY place... The teachers were nice. All women, though. We were to address them as Auntie this and Auntie that. We had high-end playthings, unlimited Buncho Poster Colours and Luna colour pencils (they sharpened them for us!) and graet activities. We painted, did gymnastics, learned Malay (only half an hour a week, the rest was E N G L I S H), we had the playground with the monkey bars and the see-saws and slides. My favourite toy was thid world map jigsaw puzzle. The six continents and countries cracked up and I had to fix it. The meals rocked! I can remember pizza and chicken rice (freshly cooked!).

I was transferred to Children's House 3 in Bangsar. Just for a short while. I remember doing this kinda snowflake thingy for Christmas. Fold paper thrice and cut out small shapes and unfold it and voila! I liked the place as it had a fire exit. A long slide and a cute little staircase. Several of us were deemed 'too advanced' and were promptly sent back to CH1. Closer to home.

Throughout my years there, I made several friends (duh!). I can recall being closest to Ayman. Others I knew were Amirin, Hoong Kit, Emir, Farah and Priyanka.

All went to SKBD except for Farah, who went off to the United Kingdom. I remember she had to tell the class about visiting the UK. I thought it was some kinda museum people visit. Yet I imagined it in a European setting, with her whole family clad in trenchcoats and winterwear. Wrong...but right?

Priyanka defected. She became Hana's friend.

The others were my age except for Emir. We were close as we were cousins. But we thought him a tad bit peculiar. He'd go around telling everyone and anyone that "we're cousins" and all conversations would rotate around that. And he was a year older.

During the final year there, I had to do a lot. We had to care for the juniors (they pissed in their pants and all). We learned things advanced even for Standard One (multiplication for example). Then there was the Farewell.

For the final three months we learned baking, fire-fighting, choir singing (the 'Negaraku', as it was held days before Merdeka), we had no flag pole so we erected a gigantic Jalur Gemilang (which I painted!), and then there was the play.

The Shoemaker and the Elves. Who be the Shoemaker? Yours Truly. Ahahahah! I was That Damn Good back then. A Chinese girl was my character's wife and Farah was the daughter. On the big day, we put up a good show. We sang Negaraku and several other good-bye songs, and Auld Lang Syne, too. The parents ate their meals with cookies we baked, we had them in our Farewell packs, too. It was a little green pack with our handicrafts, an elephant pencil holder (An elephant never forgets), a cookie and several other items. We got certificates, too.

I miss those days. Still miss those days. Will always miss those days...

School 'Till Now: What It's Done To Me

I had been an intelligent, yet inconsistent student in primary school.

Three years in a Montessori kindergarten moulded my mind (and my siblings) to become very pro-American. I spoke mainly English. Bahasa Malaysia - my mother tongue - was foreign to me. There, I learnt many things, in fact, much more than I did in Standard One. However, shifting to a totally BM environment was a real culture shock for me. Everyone would easily score 90s and I’d be 80-something as I made the stupidest of mistakes by misunderstanding the language. Back to the inconsistency, of course in later years my Malay had picked up and school was to me what it was to anyone my age: likes and dislikes. However, in the six years in Sekolah Kebangsaan Bukit Damansara, I only achieved the elusive ‘First in Class’ once. And that too didn’t get me up on stage on Speech Day. Studies-wise, I was a front-runner, especially in Mathematics and English. I dreaded BM’s karangan (even to this very day). In my UPSR, I feared the Penulisan paper but surprisingly I made it through the rain.

Academia was my strong point. I hadn’t any achievements in sports and in co-curricular activities, I was just another boy scout. But still I was accepted into Kolej Yayasan Saad. That had other factors involved, such as the IQ test, Math and English papers, and a selection program that had many activities I had an interest in. In Form One, I was a real slacker. A record low was set, 35% for Pendidikan Islam. Quiet, anti-social, stubborn, loner. I mixed in very slowly with my classmates and others. Very slowly.

In 2003, things turned out very well for me. I was no more the loser. People paid more attention to me and I was more and more noticed and befriended. Even academically, I performed. Straight A’s for PMR. Something I have never, ever done for a very long time. (Standard Four, maybe?). Five years living with at least a B or two. Not your average 'top student, eh?' Now, in Form Four, I have achieved many of my targets here. I am comfortable with life, I feel accepted, I’m simply happy. The big mental block comes when the question “Wotcha gonna do after SPM?” comes to mind.

I had always loved drawing. Not colouring. And when I asked what could drawing lead me to, people always answered ‘architecture’. A short talk with my friend’s mom and another friend’s dad was enough to convince me that this was what I wanted. Flying and traveling were also fantasies of mine as a little boy. But fear of crashing and being held responsible for the hundreds of passengers stunted my indulging into piloting. As a child, I was very much embroiled with cousins and friends about the battle of the sexes. It struck me that, men can’t cook because they didn’t know how to. They can’t sew because they didn’t know how to. And they didn’t do housework because of their ego. So maybe I’d attest to that and learn, learn, learn. My dad worked as a part time chef once, and my mom and both grandmas are excellent cooks and seamstresses. Bingo. Conclusively, I like cooking. Sewing is just something I learnt so I won’t have to be too dependent.

(Adapted from my Post-SPM Study Route folio.)

A Note On This...

Well Yoo Hoo! Hello..! (If you watch Cow and Chicken, imagine saying it the Red Guy's style).

Frankly I'm not the kinda person who actually keeps a diary or a journal or anything to jot down whatever I did or whatever I'd like to say or do or whatever you'd think i think would be suitable to be jotted down in diaries or journals or things you'd think I think would serve a similar purpose.

In fact, these things have always, to me at least, been the number one spoiler of secrets and stuff like that. I mean, we don't have to confide with it but we actually write down everything... Even things we deem not supposed to be in there. Anyway, I have, I do and always will lack the consistency of going/doing things like these. Checking up on my e-mail is hard enough...

However, I was given the, how-you-say, privillege of going through a friend's blog. And then there was the IT'S EASY! create your journal now! link. And here goes.

Why "The Way I See It..."? Well biographies and things like these always come up and with a million different names. My Story, Me; these kinda state that the writer wants to tell about him/herself. However, there are titles that suggest that they'd wanna clear everything outta their heads, like Hanaa's Letting It Loose (at least I think so). David Beckham's book, My Side was aptly named as it was HIS version of recent events which he wanted to tell the world. Of course, I litterally translated this in a cheap/miserable/pathetic effort of getting a unique name.

I changed it to The Way I See It because it should chronicle things through my perspective. I later on found out that Roy Keane had his autobiography entitled the same. I'm not selling anything anyway.