(Links to Part 1, Part 2, Part 3)

And so you decide, after much thought and consideration, to let him know. You execute it perfectly, time and place, just as you had mentally rehearsed those thousand times before. She is mumbling something or other about him again, and your frustrations gets the better of you. You blurt out your feelings for her, release the dam that you could no longer restrain. He looks at you apprehensively, as if seeing you in a completely different light. She stops in mid-sentence, and quickly looks away into the distance. The sky somehow looks darker than before.

It's become deadly silent. And frightening cold. The sound of your noisy surroundings has melted away to nothing.

You grip your coffee mug tighter, hoping to derive some warmth from the porcelain. He opens his mouth to speak, but then nothing comes out, and so he shuts it again. The wind blows her hair as she appears lost in thought. You pray silently that you have not done the wrong thing. He's gone back to staring at the table legs, as if they held the answers to everything. She puts down her coffee mug and pulls her sweater tighter around her.

"Please, say something... anything."

"I..."

(I've split the story here, for the guy and girl)

She reaches across the table and takes your hand. You stare at her delicate fingers and then reluctantly look up into her eyes. You could almost fall into those black whirlwind of circles. Just as you always have, you wish you could tell what was going on in that pretty head of hers. It's so hard to sit there without noticing how beautiful she is. It hit you then that you finally comprehend what fantasy writers mean by ethereal beauty.

She runs her thumb over your palm and smiles at you sadly. And you realise that this is the closest you'll ever get to her, physically or mentally. Only one touch, and the little that you can transmit to each other in the short seconds. Before she even speaks, you know what she's going to say.

'I still...'

'Yes, I know. You still have feelings for him..."

She shifts about in her seat, eyes fixed on the ground, like a child being interrogated by the principal. But you both knows she has done nothing wrong. You lift up her chin to silently let her know it's okay to speak her mind. You've come so far; you just want to know. And so she finally looks back at you, a streak of determination in her eyes.

"Yes, I do..."

You've always known; you just needed to hear it from her. And now that you've heard it, you wonder if it was worth it, whether you ought to have silently held on or taken the path you just did, even if it was by accident. You both slump back in your seat, and she's gone a little pale.

The thoughts running through your head don't really make any sense; it seems like there are twenty trains on disaster track, about to collide and crash into some unrecognisable jumble of metal and fire. You tug at your shirt collar. The biting cold has given way to stifling heat that eats away at you. You look at her. She's covered her pretty face with her hands, resting her forehead on the table, resorting to mumbling incoherently.

"Hey, it's okay... It's not your fault."

She looks up again, and you know that it wasn't wrong to tell her. You just needed her to know. Now that that was out of the way, it is up to her what she wants to do about it. She has a choice to make, whether she wants to let him go. You try your best to summon a reassuring smile, your heart struggling to manage an easy task turned arduous.

"I just wanted you to know. I know you still... had feelings for him, but I just couldn't keep it to myself any longer. Somehow, some part of me snapped and realised that if I kept waiting and waiting, the time would never come. I could be standing at a train station now for the train that is never going to come. And I... I just wanted to know if..."

She nods. You know that you didn't just say all that for yourself. It was for her as well. How much longer she could take it, you didn't know. But you do know she deserves better. You take a deep breath; you need to push on.

"You have to decide, girl. How much longer can you push yourself to take everything in your stride? I know it hurts pretending that it doesn't matter he's probably hooking up with someone else now. But it doesn't have to be this way..."

At first, there is shock and anger on her face. Then it all crumbles down to reveal all the hurt she had tried to store away in the dark. Slowly, she washes away the dark secrets written on her face with her tears. You reach out to give her a hug, and she continues crying on your shoulder. You hold her, wishing it would last forever, but you know this will have to do... for now. Wiping away her tears, you whisper in her ears that you're always going to be here for her, whether she decides to continue down the road with him, take a gamble with you, or just let everything go back to the way it was. You push back your chair. It's time to go. She needs time.

She lets go of your hand and kisses you on the cheek. Sadly, you think to yourself that you were wrong before to think that her touch was all you could take away with you from this night. You painfully walk away from her, hoping that maybe tomorrow when she calls with the bad news, you could still go back to being the friends you were a few hours ago...

Ya know, I must've written about this 5 billion times already, but by reading someone's blog, you don't KNOW them. All you know is the parts of them that they might blog about, or let you know. So just because sometimes I write about my family, you don't know my family. Don't pretend you do. I might write about my surrogate family in Brisbane but there's so much more you don't know. I can tell you that yes, I've done a bit of drinking, but that doesn't mean I'm an alcoholic.

See, the thing with this blog is it started as a bit of a joke, really. Back then, it wasn't even THE in thing. Right now, everyone and their babies and their babies' babies have blogs, especially with Friendster and MSN Spaces, so it's not as if blogs are French. I digress. :P Anyway, my friends urged me to start one because they had one, and we could write whatever we want. Liss was the funny one, always making me crack up in tears. Pris was the all-around nice person, inviting everyone to say something in her blog. Thanks for getting me started. :)

Then when I came to Brisbane, it became my way of letting the guys back in Malaysia know I was still alive. Never would I expect that one day, I'd be linked to any other blog that didn't belong to people I know or see in everyday life. I'm still honoured, guys! I didn't know I was link-worthy. :) And so maybe I've cut down on my 'I had pasta for dinner' or 'Pris, you should've seen the amount of Japanese hotties' posts and written about PPS noobs or Blogs Malaysia members plugging their own posts (Yes, I've said this 29 billion times already).

But I know that my friends know me best. They know that if there was anything that I needed to tell them, I'd let them know. MSN, blog, phone, whatever. I might talk a bit about stuff like that fainting episode in university (I still don't reckon it's a big deal, guys. Really. :P), or my encounters with strange people (the barista is one), but all I write about is what I don't mind a perfect stranger knowing. I don't care if he knows that I think Steven Gerrard is a right hottie. Or that the doctor at the hospital was a cutie. I don't care if he knows that I watched a football match in the city with my friends and their random Russian friends bought me one of the best beers ever.

Oh, but you can bet I'd be pissed if he thinks I'd drop my undies principles and just walk into Steven Gerrard's/that doctor's bedroom blindfolded. Or that I would just drink anything and everything this world has to offer if it was free. You don't know me. All you know is what I say and what you think it means. You may be right, but maybe it's nice that you ask instead of just shooting your mouth off, feeling damn proud of yourself. A blog's a blog. It's not my autobiography. I don't record every moment in my life that I consider a milestone, or highlight my every footstep.

All I'm saying is people who haven't known me in real life long enough, or funnily enough, haven't even spoken to me, don't know me. Nope. Not at all. I don't see why you think yourself qualified to speak about my life. Just because I think that Stella Artois is one of the best beers you can have here (I consider it on par with Hoegaarden, actually) doesn't make me an expert. Or an alcoholic. So yes, those of you who dislike the way I am because of what I say, maybe you just don't know me. But I'm not gonna bother myself finding out and whining about why the hell you don't like me. I've been told life's too fucking short for that. You can tell me if you're so inclined to do so.

But don't assume you know me, hide behind nicknames. Anyone older than 8 knows that nicknames are reserved for playgrounds. By being derogatory or insulting me, you're only telling others that you sink that low because you can't find any substance for what you have to say. I'm only telling you this because I feel sorry for people who cannot for the life of them hide their level of intellect.

Blogs are not meant to tread on people's toes, but whoever said you can tread on mine?

Fuck. Okay, I took this tiny amount of text I had written after the picture on the 'Temptation.' post cause I thought it diverted the attention from the message. Because the message is obviously what's important to me. Here's the deal: The vodka bottle is sym-fucking-bolic. I'm not an alcoholic.

Shit, I like the taste of water and latte better than tequila and tequila is my favourite drink. It's not a fucking crime to have a favourite drink. I take pride in the fact that I do not walk into walls after one beer, because I was always told, by my parents, no less, that it's good that girls know how to drink. So they won't get cheated. But I'm a self-confessed coffee-holic, what the hell does that say to you?

Then again, I do not need to fucking defend myself, shit.

For fuck's sakes. I'd appreciate it if the commentary is not on how much I drink but the message. THE FUCKING MESSAGE. I took the time with Macromedia Fireworks only 'cause I wanted it not to look like a random chunk of text I regurgitated because people obviously wouldn't be interested in that, and all I'm after is constructive criticism of my work. Yes, it's MY WORK. I did not just paste some lyrics I heard in a song. I actually devote time to what I write.

I'm not after another mom or dad who'll tell me whether I can drink or can't drink or how much I should drink. Fuck.

I love writing. I like that sometimes words is all I have because I know I have the ability to put anything I want down in words. It's not me being cocky; it's knowing that I can actually do it that makes me feel like I can do something right, even if it's the only thing I can do right. So when I do it, if I'm doing it wrong, I want people to let me
know. That's the point of me making it look like the most readable thing in this blog. So that you guys would actually speak up. It's not like one of my normal 'I'm bitching to you about my day' posts.

I'm done. You done? Okay. Now if you want to say something, please don't say that I drink too much, or any shit like that. You wanna say it, let it be a joke. It's not funny when you're being fucking serious. Please let it be about the message.

P/S: I'm sorry about the amount of swear words in this one, but I really am mad over this. This is my breaking point.

A whole bunch of us went over to Leonard's yesterday for steamboat. Whoever had the idea of steamboat on the 3rd day of winter is completely genius. :) Mahjong and cards last night were really fun. I've learnt new games to play now, yay! Maybe next time, we'll remember to bring sleeping bags. Four people cramped on a double bed is a certified bad idea, especially with a running quilt! :P

Funny how when you're having such a good time, you conveniently forget all about exams. Heh! I just need to get my head around to revising my work before exams. 15th-20th June. And then I'll be free for a month! I'll be deciding my subjects for next semester soon, and it looks like it's all gonna be psych subjects. No more smart and interesting electives that I'll do badly in. Awww... maybe I ought to be happy. :)

Honestly, Political Science and International Relations were my interesting subjects. They kept me alive, made me feel a bit more aware and much less stupid. I mean, to be able to give constructive opinions about the Cold War or Liberal ideas may not be the best thing to be armed with when studying about Freud's development theory, but who says it's gotta all be about my field of study?

Trust me, it isn't easy to analyse one of Bush's speeches. Especially when you know the ending to the story: he was lying through his tiny teeth.

But I've decided that I'd better get my compulsory subjects over and done with, and then leave the electives for another semester when I will crack with too many intense subjects. And the CGPA needs to look just a bit stunning till the end of this year. ;)

Picture: Kristov's Vodka Cruiser, Guava.

Wayy back, we celebrated Anna and Justin's birthday. To be honest, I didn't even know it was Justin's birthday as well. *shy*



The chick in white's Anna, and the other one's Angel. Certified gorgeous creatures!



Birthday boy Justin. Now you won't be able to brag to me about drinking illegally in the Red Room! Hehe..



This is from Surfer's Paradise Gold Coast, when I hit the beach with Jo, Ali and Nelson.



We found this really funky hat shop! We took a gazillion photos, until we were told that it wasn't allowed. Hehe, not that we didn't know that already! ;)

Dear McD (I think I rather like establishing pet names for everyone),

I used to wonder how you did it. How you could easily pretend that you knew nothing about it, or had anything to do with it. Because the knowledge that I have everything to do with it is making me feel guilty. It's weighing me down. I'm really not any good at this. You could always just ask me what's wrong when you knew it was all about you. I can never find it in myself to speak up. Did you ever feel like the easiest thing to do was just to find yourself blind?

Did I used to harp so much on my pain? Scratch that, I know I did it much more than him. Compare him and me? He can take a number. And then some more. Now I might even feel a little sorry for you. But no, not really. I can't. Even more so, not for him, because that would be taking a step backward. That's something I'm not eager to do. Not after all this. My white flag was up a long time ago, why would I suddenly detract it?

Here I am, being that actor on stage I once envied, the girl acting out the soliloquy. She pretended that the hundred pairs of eyes weren't fixed on her, and the same hundred weren't feeling the waves of emotions that she conveyed through her actions. It's no longer envy; it's hatred and anger towards the necessity of her role. How was your stint on stage anyway? I'd hate to have mine continue longer than needed. I'm not after encore requests or a standing ovation anyway.

So it is that now I'm trying to be you, playing the lost sheep, feigning blindness, deafness, anything that could possibly shield me from what holds me responsible. I ought to thank you for your guidance. After all, if it weren't for you, I would've been lost from the beginning. Maybe one day, over a drink or two, I'll tell you about how he is. How I am.

Actually, make that three.

Love,
Alynna