Sometimes, things are not what they seem to be.

Sometimes, things are not what they seem to be.

My dad has worked at the same place all his life.

He could have been an adventurer, a swashbuckling debonair gentleman, an international businessman, a scientist, an astrophysicist, a lecturer, a human rights activist, a Nobel price winner, and judging from his jungle-mapping work days, a Bear Grylls even.

In return, he settled for a quiet life as geological assistant while he passed on his thirst for knowledge and wonder for discovery to us, his children.

I didn’t come from a well-to-do family. My father was the only breadwinner but he worked all his life to make sure we have enough. We always have the best home-cooked meals — my mom’s cooking is testament of the number of friends I have crashing at our house. And not casual snacks either. My mom used to bake breads for breakfast and make her own curry puffs for tea.

There are 5 of us kids, so everytime school is about to start, my father set aside a huge chunk of his meagre salary so we could all go to town, buying new Bata shoes, Staedtler coloring set and army-grade canvas bagpacks.

He saved his money and bought us computers — full spec if he could afford it — while he rides his old bike to work everyday for the past 40 years. Other kids’ fathers drive fancy cars. My father sent me to school all the way till Form 5 on his kapcai. Because he’s always saving for us, he buys the cheapest thing with the most value he could get away with. He frowns at my mom’s Vision cookware fetish, but would happily sneak in his last money for us to upgrade our computer or buy yet another expensive textbook. You see, he had his priorities mapped out early.

My earliest childhood memory was me dreading my first dentist visit, and him promising me we could go to to buy books right after. Not candies, not dolls. Books. In my family, I was taught that girls are equally important as boys. I’ve always been my father’s girl and therefore I am destined for great things.

He often said he doesn’t have wealth to bestow to us, but by God he will give us education. To him, education opens up the world for us. A world he didn’t have access to. Education is sacred.

That and the family-treasured pastime of always be playing video games.

I had my first x386 when I was 12 for acing my UPSR - that gift to me is bigger than getting my degree. I waited 3 months for that bad boy to arrive. We all (him included) abused that computer with so much video gaming that it overheats every few days. Gosh did we push 8-bit gaming boundaries with that machine. We spacebar-ed so many fake walls in Wolfeinstein 3D, skinned our imaginary knees making the laps in bike races, got eaten by dinosaurs in Jurassic Park. Bomberman was his favourite. He didn’t just bomb the balloon ghosts. He annihilates them.

When he was admitted to a hospital right after his heart attack in 2012, we smuggled his laptop into the cardiac unit. He was feeling fine, energetic in fact, after meds and he was bored. Sometimes he would take the week off from work and come to Langkawi to chill and play games — I call it the Hakims’ Gaming Lockdown. The picture above was him giving Call of Duty: Black Ops a test run on Dov’s rig.

So Papa. I could never hope to repay even a tiny bit you have done for me, Iwan, Mi, Don and Ayot. But I hope in our own small ways, we have made you a happy and proud father. Happy Father’s Day!

(p/s: COD: Advanced Warfare incoming. Gear up, papa gator!)

My dad has worked at the same place all his life.

He could have been an adventurer, a swashbuckling debonair gentleman, an international businessman, a scientist, an astrophysicist, a lecturer, a human rights activist, a Nobel price winner, and judging from his jungle-mapping work days, a Bear Grylls even.

In return, he settled for a quiet life as geological assistant while he passed on his thirst for knowledge and wonder for discovery to us, his children.

I didn’t come from a well-to-do family. My father was the only breadwinner but he worked all his life to make sure we have enough. We always have the best home-cooked meals — my mom’s cooking is testament of the number of friends I have crashing at our house. And not casual snacks either. My mom used to bake breads for breakfast and make her own curry puffs for tea.

There are 5 of us kids, so everytime school is about to start, my father set aside a huge chunk of his meagre salary so we could all go to town, buying new Bata shoes, Staedtler coloring set and army-grade canvas bagpacks.

He saved his money and bought us computers — full spec if he could afford it — while he rides his old bike to work everyday for the past 40 years. Other kids’ fathers drive fancy cars. My father sent me to school all the way till Form 5 on his kapcai. Because he’s always saving for us, he buys the cheapest thing with the most value he could get away with. He frowns at my mom’s Vision cookware fetish, but would happily sneak in his last money for us to upgrade our computer or buy yet another expensive textbook. You see, he had his priorities mapped out early.

My earliest childhood memory was me dreading my first dentist visit, and him promising me we could go to to buy books right after. Not candies, not dolls. Books. In my family, I was taught that girls are equally important as boys. I’ve always been my father’s girl and therefore I am destined for great things.

He often said he doesn’t have wealth to bestow to us, but by God he will give us education. To him, education opens up the world for us. A world he didn’t have access to. Education is sacred.

That and the family-treasured pastime of always be playing video games.

I had my first x386 when I was 12 for acing my UPSR - that gift to me is bigger than getting my degree. I waited 3 months for that bad boy to arrive. We all (him included) abused that computer with so much video gaming that it overheats every few days. Gosh did we push 8-bit gaming boundaries with that machine. We spacebar-ed so many fake walls in Wolfeinstein 3D, skinned our imaginary knees making the laps in bike races, got eaten by dinosaurs in Jurassic Park. Bomberman was his favourite. He didn’t just bomb the balloon ghosts. He annihilates them.

When he was admitted to a hospital right after his heart attack in 2012, we smuggled his laptop into the cardiac unit. He was feeling fine, energetic in fact, after meds and he was bored. Sometimes he would take the week off from work and come to Langkawi to chill and play games — I call it the Hakims’ Gaming Lockdown. The picture above was him giving Call of Duty: Black Ops a test run on Dov’s rig.

So Papa. I could never hope to repay even a tiny bit you have done for me, Iwan, Mi, Don and Ayot. But I hope in our own small ways, we have made you a happy and proud father. Happy Father’s Day!

(p/s: COD: Advanced Warfare incoming. Gear up, papa gator!)

I don't deserve my twin witch, but she won't be getting rid of me

  • TW: Here's what I think, when the guy who is taking so long making his way to your GPS coordinate arrives, you're gonna be discovering yourself with him on these journeys.
  • Me: He probably wasn't born yet.
  • TW: Cougar.
  • #shazana
I think we all have those times when we feel a little fucked up and hardly worth the job we love so much. That we truly don’t know much about the things we should. That we’re just winging it before our shortcomings are made bare.

So when I feel this way, I found out that surrounding myself with people who look up to me as a role model is a good thing. But let’s get it straight that I’m hardly a good role model. I could tell you my life experiences, things that scare me, things I promise myself I would do but keep making excuses out of sheer fear of finding out I suck at them.

Maybe the ticket out of feeling short is by helping someone else get taller.

(Saturday | Mood by Maiko)

I think we all have those times when we feel a little fucked up and hardly worth the job we love so much. That we truly don’t know much about the things we should. That we’re just winging it before our shortcomings are made bare.

So when I feel this way, I found out that surrounding myself with people who look up to me as a role model is a good thing. But let’s get it straight that I’m hardly a good role model. I could tell you my life experiences, things that scare me, things I promise myself I would do but keep making excuses out of sheer fear of finding out I suck at them.

Maybe the ticket out of feeling short is by helping someone else get taller.

(Saturday | Mood by Maiko)

humansofnewyork:

"Well there’s this girl that I’m friends with, and you know, I like her, but I don’t know if she likes me…""Do you mind if I share that?""I don’t know, if you share it, she might figure it out.""She’ll definitely figure it out.""… do it."

humansofnewyork:

"Well there’s this girl that I’m friends with, and you know, I like her, but I don’t know if she likes me…"
"Do you mind if I share that?"
"I don’t know, if you share it, she might figure it out."
"She’ll definitely figure it out."
"… do it."

I have 7 bookcases in my house. I’m long home.

I have 7 bookcases in my house. I’m long home.

I hope that one day you will have the experience of doing something you do not understand for someone you love.
Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close (via quotethat)

:(

The inferno of the living is not something that will be; if there is one, it is what is already here, the inferno where we live every day, that we form by being together. There are two ways to escape suffering it. The first is easy for many: accept the inferno and become such a part of it that you can no longer see it. The second is risky and demands constant vigilance and apprehension: seek and learn to recognize who and what, in the midst of inferno, are not inferno, then make them endure, give them space.
Italo Calvino ends his novel Invisible Cities with a small token of advice on how to live through the pressure of challenging, complex times:
After Caroline Paul crashes an experimental plane she was piloting, she finds herself severely injured and spiraling into the depths of depression. When Caroline returns from the hospital with a shattered ankle, her two thirteen-year-old tabbies Tibby and Fibby are her only joy and comfort.

"Tibia and Fibula meowed happily when I arrived. They were undaunted by my ensuing stupor. In fact they were delighted; suddenly I had become a human who didn’t shout into a small rectangle of lights and plastic in her hand, peer at a computer, or get up and disappear from the vicinity, only to reappear through the front door hours later. Instead, I was completely available to them at all times. Amazed by their good luck, they took full feline advantage. They asked for ear scratches and chin rubs. They rubbed their whiskers along my face. They purred in response to my slurred, affectionate baby talk. But mostly they just settled in and went to sleep. Fibby snored into my neck. Tibby snored on the rug nearby. Meanwhile I lay awake, circling the deep dark hole of depression.

Without my cats, I would have fallen right in.”

Lost Cat: An Illustrated Meditation on Love, Loss, and What It Means To Be Human

After Caroline Paul crashes an experimental plane she was piloting, she finds herself severely injured and spiraling into the depths of depression. When Caroline returns from the hospital with a shattered ankle, her two thirteen-year-old tabbies Tibby and Fibby are her only joy and comfort.

"Tibia and Fibula meowed happily when I arrived. They were undaunted by my ensuing stupor. In fact they were delighted; suddenly I had become a human who didn’t shout into a small rectangle of lights and plastic in her hand, peer at a computer, or get up and disappear from the vicinity, only to reappear through the front door hours later. Instead, I was completely available to them at all times. Amazed by their good luck, they took full feline advantage. They asked for ear scratches and chin rubs. They rubbed their whiskers along my face. They purred in response to my slurred, affectionate baby talk. But mostly they just settled in and went to sleep. Fibby snored into my neck. Tibby snored on the rug nearby. Meanwhile I lay awake, circling the deep dark hole of depression.

Without my cats, I would have fallen right in.”

Lost Cat: An Illustrated Meditation on Love, Loss, and What It Means To Be Human

You are creating a language for humans.

"Take a step back from what you’re doing right now to look at the big picture. That style guide you’re working on is not only a guide. You are creating a language for humans so they can interact with a machine. You need to realize you’re not designing for users. Rather, you’re designing for humans. Design with care. Because those humans you’re designing interfaces for have senses and just like they smell rotten food, they can sense careless design as well."

- Kerem Suer, Hire a Designer now

Since I saw a grave when I was hitchhiking from France to Turkey, about a man who was dead at 27 years old (I’m 28), I say around me that I’m already dead, and each day it’s a extra life like you have extra minutes at the end of a soccer game.
Thought Catalog commenter
Reading with Troy, waiting for the inevitable.

Reading with Troy, waiting for the inevitable.