Who are you?

Ah, back home and time to relax. Long weeks are brutal. Why did I ever sign up for this? I’ll never know. Well, at least I’m home now. Home, where I can veg out in front of my computer alone and eat junk food for the weekend.

What. The. Fuck?

Why are all the lights on? Why is my computer on? Why is there a person sitting in front of my computer laughing at the latest episode of Modern Family which I was going to watch? Why does she have streaks of green in her hair, just like mine? Why does she look exactly like me?!

Wait a minute. Why am I sitting in front of my computer when I am also here standing by the door? What is going on? Is it the stress getting to my head? Am I hallucinating? I must be, right? Even though I’ve never even touched so much as a cigarette in my boring 26 years of existence, I must be having some sort of hallucination, there’s no other explanation for it. Have I finally descended into the pits of lunacy?

Phil Dunphy says something really funny on screen. I laugh. Or should I say, the girl who looks just like me laughs. God, do I sound like that when I laugh? That is not an attractive laugh at all. What do people mean when they say someone has a musical laughter? Mine probably sounds more like a dying cat struggling for breath.

Shit. I’m getting sidetracked. I’m still standing here, seemingly rooted to the ground as I stare at the doppelganger in my chair. Are doppelgangers even real? Why is this happening to me? I just wanted a relaxing weekend by myself. And now, this.

I close my eyes. And then I rub them really hard. To hell with wrinkles, I’ve got a more pressing matter at hand. I open my eyes. Nope, still there, still watching the show intently. It’s like she doesn’t even realise I’m standing 10 feet away from her. Her, me. I don’t know, this is all terribly confusing and more than a little upsetting.

I back away from the doppelganger and slowly shut the door behind me as I step back outside. I need to call someone. I can’t deal with this on my own.

“The number you have dialed cannot be reached. Please try again later.”

“The number you have dialed is out of coverage area. Please try again later.”

Shit. No one is picking up.

I text my best friend, Mel. She lives 8 hours away by plane and is probably fast asleep at this time but I’m desperate.

“I’m freaking out!!! Are you there?!”

No reply.

What do I do, what do I do?

Do I go back in and see if she’s still there? Do I run off somewhere and wait till someone gets back to me? It’s 11pm, where do I even run off to?

Taking a deep breath, I steel myself and walk back towards the house. I’m clenching my keys so tightly they’re sure to leave a mark later. As I push open the door once again, I hear Lily engaged in a banter with Claire. Show’s still playing. And Ms. Doppelganger is still in my chair. Except now she’s no longer watching the show. She’s looking straight at me with a most peculiar expression on her face.

I stand there frozen, my heart is beating so painfully fast in my chest I fear it’s either going to jump out of my throat or just stop altogether. Normally, I fancy myself quite a calm and collected person who’d know not to panic in the face of an emergency. Now I know that all I’d do is just freeze. Impressive, I know.

I swallow in an unsuccessful attempt to wet my suddenly bone dry mouth.

“Who are you?” I croak.

She continues looking at me, giving no indication that she even heard me at all.

“What are you doing here?” I try again.

Again, she sits there staring at me, as if I’m a mildly interesting specimen she came across in the museum. And then, she smiles. And God, it is the scariest thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life. I expected her to look just like me when I smile, a little flash of teeth and the playful crinkling of the eyes. But her eyes are void of any semblance of warmth and in place of teeth, there are these scary looking fangs that look like they could rip my neck wide open.

When she finally speaks, I hear my own voice talking back to me.

“Hi there,” she says.

“What’s going on here?” I ask. If there’s one thing about me, I am persistent. I need answers. I can’t be going crazy. This feels too real to be a product of my imagination.

“I’m here to replace you,” she smiles that freaky smile of hers again.

She takes a small step forward and I don’t bother staying around to hear further explanations.

I bolt. And trust me when I say I’ve never ran so fast in my life. Not even that time in school when I was trying to outrun my crush in a race in order to impress him. Weird logic, but I was a kid so don’t question it. I jump into my car and jam my key into the ignition. Breathing a small sigh of relief as the engine purrs to life, I look into the rear view mirror and watch as she walks almost leisurely towards my car, all the while not wiping that smile of her face. That smile is going to haunt me for an entire lifetime, I’m sure.

I floor the engine, determined to put as much distance between me and that creepy doppelganger as possible. Fumbling with my phone to set my GPS, I try searching for the nearest police station.

“They have guns, they’ll shoot the shit out of that thing if she appears,” I reason with myself as I try to ignore that nagging voice in the back of my mind that wonders if bullets are capable of stopping her.

Just then, my phone rings. I almost cry out in relief as the screen lights up with Mel’s number.

“Oh my God, Mel! I’m so glad you called. I’m so scared right now!” I cry.

What I hear next chilled me to the bones.

“Game over,” I hear my voice on the phone says.

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.

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Writing prompt from: http://www.writersdigest.com/prompts/i-think-im-a-clone-now
Tenses are wobbly as a result of not writing for a gazillion years. I’m sorry.

Grey

No. Not referring the softcore porn book/movie.

Rainy days. I know of someone who hated rainy days. Still does. He claims it’s wet and depressing. I agree. It usually brings out the worst in me. Yet, there’s this perverse attraction to it. It puts me in an exceptionally melancholic mood. Which, if you’ve known me long enough, that I’m prone to lapse into. I hate it. And yet I can’t seem to stop dwelling on it. I’ve always been like this for as long as I can remember. Is it the masochist in me?

I really have to stop blogging only when I’m depressed. This is so draining to write and to read. Oddly enough, I feel better every time I write about things. However vaguely it is.

Hahaha. I’ve written an entire block of text which makes no sense whatsoever and doesn’t give any indication as to what inspired this depressing entry.

I want someone with whom I can have intelligent conversations. Someone with whom I can use words like euphemisms, epitome, etc. Someone with whom I don’t have to dumb down my vocabulary or tone down my vulgarity for. Someone who doesn’t treat me like an afterthought who’s only good for a little fun. Someone who treats me with respect. Someone who gets me and my quirks.

I haven’t met that someone yet.

Insatiable

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This is me.

I’ve been craving for food nonstop these couple of days. So much so that even I’m scaring myself FML.

It started off innocently enough. I had lunch on Saturday around 12.30pm and by 5.30pm, I was positively famished. I brushed it off, thinking I was just tired and burnt extra energy running around. A couple of hours after dinner, I was hungry again… Tried to ignore it the best I could but I caved and had soup around midnight… #zeroselfcontrol
The worst part was that not even two hours later, I was hungry again! Went to bed with a gnawing hunger and woke up feeling like I could eat a cow.

Repeated the same shit on Sunday. No matter what I ate, I can’t stay satisfied for more than a couple of hours! My scumbag brain is constantly imagining all sorts of delicious things even when I know my stomach is already full.

This is so torturous… Just give me back my normal appetite wtf. I already have a hard enough time trying to lose weight as it is already. This whatever hormonal shit ain’t helping.

I’m such a glutton.

Warm and fuzzy

Now that I’ve had both, I realised why it’s good to have a remote control with a tiny panel covering everything but the power button.

For people like me who likes to keep everything within arm’s reach (read: on my bed) so I wouldn’t even have to stretch too far to get something, much less getting out of bed for it, a tiny ass remote control like this just presents too much opportunities for accidental pressing – which led to me sleeping with the temperature set to 28°C last night.

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Who the fuck puts this many buttons on such a small remote control?!?!

It was so freaking warm that I had nightmares of being too warm and woke up from being too warm wtf. And when I groped for the remote control in the middle of the night, I couldn’t see the temperature because it was pitch black and there was no way in hell I’m getting up to turn the lights on.

And so I’ve had to endure till day break and set the temperature back to a more reasonable number. (I’m lazy, can you tell?)

This is not the first time it’s happened. Aircond makers, for the love of all things good, please make your remote controls with a tiny panel from now on. No freaking one keeps their controller in the wall slot. No one.

And thus ends my extremely random rant about an aircond remote control.

Miracle Worker, Not.

Do I look like a freaking miracle worker? No. I do not. I most definitely do not perform freaking miracles because if I did, I wouldn’t be here. I’d probably be at some place with thousands and thousands of believers kissing the very ground I walk on.

But I am not, which is why I am here. Here where somehow some people still ridiculously think I can perform miracles. Honestly, I do not know if it’s the lack of brain cells or common sense, but some people are just very ignorant and oblivious of how things work.

The world is not a wish granting factory. It does not cater to your every whim and fancy. Similarly, I am not blue, nor am I a genie. I do not exist to simply wave my magic wand and make your wishes come true.

It’s easy enough to open your mouth and request for the sun and the moon. I too, can ask for the stars. Asking is one thing, being realistic is another thing. If you sit on your fat ass all the time spouting hot air from both ends, do yourself and everyone else a favour, don’t go around expecting miraculous things to happen at the drop of a hat.

It’s not only unrealistic, unreasonable, and unfeasible, it also bugs the shit out of everyone who has to suffer through your bullshit.

And everyone who knows me knows how much of a tolerance I have towards bullshit.