BAnD aID(EA)

Apart from watching "The Real Housewives of New York City/Orange County/New Jersey", I have another bad habit - and that is picking my zits. Gross, I know, but I hate bumps on my face and somewhere in my delusional mind, I think by popping it, it'll magically disappear - like all the chocolate around the house. However, I've had a pretty stubborn one for the past month. It hid itself so well that I gave up and didn't bother touching it for a month. However, 4 days ago, it grew weak and l I had it wrapped around my (soaped, washed, clean) fingers - with a piece of tissue paper of course. It was such a stubborn zit that I couldn't get it all out in a day. Results? My cheek is now officially red, angry, swollen and raw from this bacteria bump. 


This all happened on Friday and I thought it would be better by Monday when I have to face the world outside of Facebook. Didn't happen. And my anxiety for it to heal quicker by applying creams just dried my skin up more. So, not only is it red, angry, swollen and raw, feel free to add flaky to that shit list. 


I woke up Monday morning with two options. Skip classes or go for plastic surgery. I wasn't allowed either, so I came up with a brilliant idea. I found clear square mini band aids in the cabinet and decided to apply cream and cover it up to save my classmates from the horror that is my face while 'treating' it at the same time. The only reason why I didn't mind doing this was because this volcano was situated on the inner side of my left cheek, so my hair would be able to conceal it nicely if I walked with my head tilted slightly to the right like a retard.


Here's the problem. As I was walking in to school, the wind started billowing gently like I'm auditioning for the role of Asian Pocahontas. Because I was walking against the wind, my face was exposed and my retard walk failed. My patch has seen daylight! I started walking like a new kind of retard. The 'paranoid on LSD' kind by lifting the folder all the way up my face like if I can't see them, they can't see me.


I kept telling myself that I only have two classes today and to just get by and leave. Doesn't sound too difficult, now does it? Wrong. The fire alarm went off while I was waiting for my second class. Ignoring it crossed my mind -high possibility that it is only a fire drill. As I see kids scampering off toward the exit, I felt compelled to drag my feet and face out the door.


So there I was, standing in the middle of a fucking field with the WHOLE school. Of ALL days. All I wanted was to get through the day with just two classes by camouflaging a patch on my face with a walk I so carefully crafted.


Thanks Murphy. Look, I'm sorry I stole your boyfriend. I guess we're even now.

Say What?

It was c.1995 BTA (Before Tits & Ass) when I was fighting that awkward prepubescent stage. My idea of an outfit worthy to the public eye is baggy jeans big enough to fit a European man and my father's T-shirt, and chunky sneakers like I play for the NBA. I was a girl who looked like a boy trying to look like a girl in boy's clothes. I guess I had so much lesbian potential in such outfits that my mom advised me to wear more fitting clothes. She said I'm still young and thin, so I can afford to flaunt that youth because once I give birth to children and my body is too weak to fight gravity, I will not have that opportunity anymore. I bet she regretted giving me that advise because c.2000 ATA (After Tits & Ass), all I ever heard out of her mouth were
Inappropriate.
Cover up.
Are you seriously wearing that?
Go back up and change.
You're not leaving the house in that
I didn't raise you to look like a whore.

I made the last one up but I bet she thought it.

Mothers, always telling their daughters not to date until they are done with school. Focus on your studies, don't get distracted by boys. But of course, raging hormones vs. mother's wrath. There's no need to pick a winner here. So why do you think daughters end up sneaking around behind their mothers back? To avoid being yelled at and nagged at. Plus, we love the drama that comes with it. They instilled so much fear when it comes to dating during your teens, that you find it insanely annoying when you're 25 and she's bugging you to find a boyfriend to get married. Listen, if your grandmaternal clock is ticking, take the fucking batteries out. You didn't see me up in your face when you threw menopausal tantrums.

That being said, that doesn't mean mothers don't give good advice. My legs and armpits are free from natural fur.

We, The Confused Creatures.

I use the term "I want it, but I don't want it" quite heavily and every time I use it, I receive stares. Stares that say "What the hell's your point?!" But really, it's not like you've never experienced it before. It's a sort of confusing and indescribable emotion. Like your period. You don't want it because it is inconvenient in so many ways, but when you're late, you behave like someone died.

You know how malls have these model agency kiosks that are supposedly looking for potential talent? We know for a fact that these scouts are nothing but scavengers. They make you sign up but you have to pay in order to get gigs or 'training' to be more model-esque to raise your chances to get picked for gigs. Here's the thing. I know what their deal is, and I try to avoid eye contact when I'm within the vicinity. But when they don't approach me, I'm thinking "This is fucking insulting! Why? Are you calling me ugly? Who do you think you are? Am I not good enough for your pathetic establishment? What?!"

Then you walk into a designer store, where the left shoe is $350 and the right shoe is another $350, and skins of dead Italian cows cost $1500. I'm not hating on designer labels, I'm just bitchy because I can't afford. So I walk into these stores to smell expensive, touch luxury and look at what my life is missing out on. (Is it just me or do you find closed glass entrance doors intimidating?) So, I walk in with the intention to window shop and when the sales person comes up to assist me, I feel the pressure, the guilt and the poverty. I pray they don't come up to me and ask "What are you looking for?" Because I don't like questions I have no answers to. So, I avoid eye contact... again. But then, when there's no one in the shop and 5 salespersons decide that rearranging bags and folding scarves are more interesting than assisting me, I begin to think "What the fuck is the meaning of all this? Why? Are you calling me poor? Who do you think you are? Am I not good enough for your pretentious establishment? What?!" 

It's the weekend and you go to a bar with your girl friends. You see a hot guy. He's with his bunch of friends. Some hey hey and some nay nay. They notice a group of girls and decide to be friendly. So, they ask if they can join you and your friends. So you notice the hottest guy and it doesn't take long before you realize he's a smooth talker - your regular player. You're done dating men like that. You've sworn them off. You've had your fair share of heartbreaks. You're disgusted by their lack of respect for women. So, you talk to his friends and do what you do best - avoid eye contact. Then you realize he's talking, joking and laughing with all your friends BUT you. You start to think "That gay motherfucker! Why? Are you calling me unattractive? Who do you think you are? You manwhore, you!"

  

However, if he did try to make his move on you, you'd be thinking "What an asshole! Why? Are you calling me easy? What do you think I am? You manwhore you!"

So what do I have to say about all this? I guess I kinda know but I don't really know either.

Love You Long Time

Gone are the days where you meet someone, exchange phone numbers and sit by the telephone, or keep your mobile right next to your pillow, waiting for him to call. Now, you exchange email addresses, add him on MSN Messenger, Facebook, MySpace, AIM, gTalk, Yahoo! Messenger and the other 2, 384, 763 social networks available out there.

Here's the thing. Because we're hiding behind a computerized security blanket, we feel it is safe to practice the rather new unhealthy obsession. Cyber attention whoring. Well, everyone knows cyber stalking. Not many address cyber attention whoring. Probably why it craves attention.

Firstly, you have what I call psycho-babble. This is when you change your MSN status 20 times in the span of 10 minutes. Why? So that person your whoring to realizes that you MUST be online in order to make such changes. Not only that, it's called psycho for a reason, I mean, apart from having 20 different thoughts in 10 minutes, those thoughts are usually attention whoring thoughts. Say, angry, raging comments such as "You SOB! I hope your uncle Satan claims you and your family!" Or, over dramatized comments like "OMG! I almost DIED in the shower just now!" And then there's that emo comment that sounds something like "Love... is something that will only crush you, if not kill you..." and lastly, I call it 'The Vague', as it goes a little something like "Sigh..." or "Why....?". All this is done with hope that your attention seekee will IM you to ask you what's up with your status. 

Next, we have the faux bad connection syndrome (FBCS). Truth is, your connection is fine. You paid your monthly fees, it's just that he's not paying attention to you. So, you quit and reconnect your MSN Messenger every 5 minutes. Why? Because when you reconnect, your name pop ups. This is so he knows you are actually online. Just in case he missed your name when he scrolled down his list or forgot to check who's online when he logged on. Oh, and it would be easier for him to just click on your pop up to start a chat with you! Now aren't we considerate.

Moving on, we have the but oh no I can't. Ever get tired of seeing the same screen name you've been using for the past 5 months? You decide to spice it up a little. But oh no I can't! What if he doesn't recognize my nickname and just skips me? So, if Prince Charming added you as ButtCheeks863, you're stuck with that until you decide he's not worth it anymore.

If all that's mentioned above does not work, it's time to get visual. Also known as, the model. This is when your put up the most artistic pictures, the most photoshopped pictures and the prettiest picture you could find from your photo album I Love Me. You hope that by realizing how hot you suddenly look in 100x100 and blurred out dim shots, he might actually want to pay you some attention. Some might even take a step further and perform the cyber seduction, which is to post risqué pictures of themselves. Depending on your face, that is indeed a risk.

When all fails, you decide that to make things easier, you should delete him. That way, you don't have to know when he's online and you won't have to worry about him not messaging you. This is called the fail. Because what happens next, you'd be thinking, "I wonder if he's online now..." and re-adds him. This only means one thing. You have thus, memorized his email address. So, your whole operation has done nothing but make you into a term well known to us today, a cyber stalker. Mission is the fail.

To be honest, this seems like too much work. I'd take brain tumor from cellphone waves beside my pillow every night any day. 

The Wrath of My Other Mother

This year started with a BANG! That's mother nature pointing her gun at our sorry asses.

We're only 4 months into the new year and it has been nothing but tumultuous. I swear, it's like the end of the world is just hiding around the corner, waiting for the right moment to stick a leg out and fuck us over.

First, Haiti was hit by an earthquake. So bad that they had to remake Michael Jackson's "We Are The World". Then came China, Chile and recent news, California. What's with all the Cs? Catastrophic Calling, perhaps?

Then, the east was hit by a massive snow storm. It snowed for 2 nights in a row, gathering snow up to 8-14 inches high. We were running out of places to stow the snow. The weather was so cold the snow refused to melt. Even if it did, it caused slush, ruining my shoes and causing people to slip and fall. Not to mention if your car is not running on snow tires, it might be pretty dangerous.

Just when you think the storm is over and it's time for the calm, it's the storm before the calm before the storm. Even I'm lost. Once again, New Jersey and New York was hit by a rain storm. I could hear the apartment building creaking from gusts of wind. Trees were slapping windows like a dominatrix. Soon after, I find out from the news that many towns were flooded. What's worse, trees were all uprooted. I'm talking about old, gigantic trees, smashing onto houses, cars and electric cables. Electric poles snapped. Metal signboards bent. Wind was reported to be 40 mph. I guess The Boyf just lost his crown.

Apart from the floods, most towns lost power too. Some even suffered both. The power wasn't up until 4 days later. Imagine living 4 days with no electricity in this cold weather? Oh wait, that is not all. Some people suffered the flood, lost of power and lost of water. For those who had access to water, it was contaminated and we were advised to boil everything before consuming. All water fountains in my school were taped off with bright yellow biohazard warnings. Oh, such drama.

If that's not bad enough, watching the news yesterday, Mr.  TV Weatherman said that the flooding might worsen from the melting of remaining snow.

So, if this is not mother nature throwing a bitch fit, I don't know what is. Step it up. Go green!

Facebook Don'ts

We have social etiquette, table manners and of course, not forgetting bedside manners, in the literal sense. However, with the birth of Facebook and its exponential growth in the past years, a new kind of etiquette is born, introduced and applied.

For example, thou shalt not add friends of your friend unless you know them. Listen, your collection of imaginary friends might have been acceptable, or even cute to some at some point in your life when you were 5 but when you're 27, it's just mad creepy. Of course, you might argue that these are real people, not Princess Jayshona from Tikawikishalala  but if you have never met or spoken to these people, honey, trust me, it is the same thing. You're imagining it. Secondly, apart from you reeking of desperation, you're not doing much for my reputation. It's awkward when a friend comes up to me and asks who is so and so and when asked why, you get an answer like "he or she tried adding me the other day". I do not like to be associated with a sketchball or a hornball. Or, like mentioned above, a delusional psychopath. Count Bartholomew VI might not approve. He even warned me about people like you.

Next, thou shalt not add one's boyfriend or girlfriend without first acknowledging the partner. This could just be me but I think it's proper etiquette to announce your desire and intention to add one's partner. You're not asking for permission, just give a heads up. That's almost like the new cyber backstabbing boyfriend/girlfriend stealing move of today. Calling your friend's boyfriend or girlfriend behind his or her back and not bring it up some time during drinks used to be inappropriate. Unless you're planning a surprise birthday party or buying a gift. But you have to come clean after said surprise or gift is presented. Oh, no poking boyfriends/girlfriends too, please. That's sexual harassment.

And then, there's this thing called over sharing on your Facebook status. To be honest, no one gives rats ass about what you did or will be doing the whole day, what you bought for your mother, your emotional baggage from your ex boyfriend/girlfriend, and lastly, we don't care if you have a hangover from drinking 56 shots from last night. This is equivalent to today's version of talking about your 5.6 million dollar deal out loud on your mobile phone for the whole restaurant to know. We don't care.

Moving on. Two of your friends who decide to 'catch up' on your wall. Look, if I dedicated 8, 374, 981 hours of my life on this social network uploading pictures of me that I think are hot and would like people to see, this account better hell be about me. If it does not concern me, take it elsewhere - like a forum or a chatroom. Or if you are less of a geek, try the telephone. This is no different than you wearing white on my wedding day.

So, practice proper etiquette. Oh yeah, please. Thank you.

It Wasn't Me

I have an hour or two between classes daily and I like to sit alone in the waiting area with my home made sandwich in one hand, cellphone in the other while listening to rappers grinding their behinds up some hot shawwwty's fine ass on my iPod.

I have this thing about eating alone in public. I mean yes, I hate eating without company but what I mean is, I'm the only one eating away in a waiting room. I find the need to offer everyone else a bite of my sandwich. So, I try to be discreet when I'm munching away on my sandwich. But do you know what fucks it all up? Plastic bags and aluminum foils. The scrunching sound of the plastic bag just wakes up the whole neighborhood. Now everyone in that room knows I'm having a sandwich. Awkward! Once that's done, I have to unwrap my sandwich and the reflection of the aluminum foil just landed Air Force One. So now I just use a sandwich bag.

Next, I need to take a piss before my class. This is another pet peeve of mine. I do not like the idea of someone listening to me taking a leak. It bugs me that they know how much piss I have been holding in. What if they came in later and finishes off before me? So I usually flush to mask the sound of nature's waterfalls with man made whirlpools. This is why I love public restrooms with music playing in the background. Or, toilets in clubs, where no one is sober enough to hear you.

Okay, what about doing a number two? I avoid that all together because I love taking my own sweet time and I release better when not under stress. However, I know I speak for many of you out there when I say you wait for someone to turn the hand dryer on before releasing a load. Or, you flush while dropping a bomb. Next, you pretend and wait five minutes hoping the ventilation fan above sucks all that foul stench you created so the next person who walks in won't know what you did. Because she or he's seen what you look and you might have to kill her. 

Lastly, is it just me or do you get offended when someone walks into the cubicle you just walked out off and leaves right after two seconds to the next stall? AND you didn't even take a dump in that one! That bitch! 

Ra Ra Ga Ga Roma Roma MoMa MoMa

I hate horror but I love twisted plots. I too, have a strange strong and 'depp' connection with Johnny Depp so it goes without surprise that I like the works of Tim Burton.

The moment I heard the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) was having an exhibition on his works, I jumped at that opportunity like a 40 year old virgin on a drunken chick. 

I paid for my tickets online and headed to the MoMa, giddy with glee. Nothing excites me more than to see original artworks and sketches from Tim Burton himself. Not to mention props from his movies. So imagine my disappointment when I arrived at the entrance with a big slap on my face.

No Photography

Those words are just as bad as fuck you. 

So I walked around and immersed myself in his mind and works. Though it was only a small section, it was still mind blowing. But do you know what would have been more mind blowing? Photos.

Once that was done, I proceeded to other exhibitions. Most 'collections' prohibited photography while the regular items on display were fine. So here I am, walking into another series of the MoMA's collection of the month, enjoying what I do not fathom but feign intelligence when a security guard walks up to me and says 

No Photography

He might as well have just said fuck you.

For there I was, walking alone, minding my own business. Yes, I might have a camera in one hand but that's because my camera is too big to fit into my dainty purse that goes with my short arms. Of course I had to lug it around with me, what the fuck do you expect me to do when half your gallery allows photography and the other does not? Fact is, I was not taking a picture. I know better because I know how to read. Even if I didn't, there are pictures. Unless you catch me in the act, I do not expect you to reprimand me. Why, just because I own a device that automatically means I will use it? It's just like if I were to go up to him and say

Please don't rape me.

Getting Carded

Does not necessarily mean you look young and illegal.

What does a Roman man and the Chinese have in common? Feb 14th 2010. This year, Chinese New Year and Valentine's Day are sharing the spotlight. If you're a hopeless romantic, you will most likely be torn between all that love in the air and duties as a filial child. If you're an El Cheapo, you are more than happy to dodge this 'Valen-hai' day and receive money instead of spending.

However, this made me reminisce about the times when we were in primary school and every time a festival is near, we make our parents drive us to the closest stationery store and stack up on Chinese New Year cards. RM5 for a pack of 12. I, on the other hand, am smarter than that. I had my father bring home a stack of cards from his company for free. I had so many in hand that I distributed to every Chinese I knew in school. Yes, I was well liked by everyone in school. Both me and Asia Insurance Sdn Bhd.

Then technology took place. We traded our independency and sanity for a piece of plastic called: The Cellphone. I remember the times I will be on the mahjong table and my cell would beep incessantly with "Happy Chinese New Year to you and your family!" The following year, people just got lazier. Typing became a hassle and they sent forwarded ASCII art text messages with bears holding lanterns saying Gong Xi. Nokia was 'The Shitz' back then because, unless you owned a Nokia, these ASCII art wouldn't work and that bear would somehow look like a cipan on a Samsung or Motorola.

It ups the ante the following year. People just sent emails with a pair of oranges and some red packets positioned next to it on a table with some red tablecloth, taken with a fancy high res camera with a photoshopped "Gong Xi Fa Chai" on it. Look up into the sent list, at least 40 names are on it. In alphabetical order at it. Doesn't take a genius to know that it was from his or her contact list and you were just another Chinese name on that list.

Then came Facebook. Oh, Facebook. How you make the world a happier place to live in. And by happier, I mean stalking and bitching. But, apart from that, people now google images of a tiger/boar/rat/chicken/dog/rabbit/ox/snake/dragon/sheep/monkey/rooster, depending on the zodiac year, and TAG every Ong, Lai, Lee, Chan, Cheng, Chong, etc on their friends list. Yes, all fiv.. I mean 600 of them.

If that's too much work, just update your status to GONG XI FA CHAI EVERYONE that constitutes to having greeted all your friends.

I personally dislike how impersonal the world has become because I still appreciate a card or two (for every and any occasion). I'm sorry that somewhere out there, a little tree had to suffer because of it. I make it up by recycling and wrapping presents with pages from a magazine.

Love Is In The Air

You know that saying "Don't shit where you eat"? Who would have thought it applies to dogs as well. But I'm going in a different direction here. By direction, I mean wind direction. Also known as flatulence.

Because of my petite height, Chewie prefers sleeping on my side at the foot of the bed for my feet and body combined only takes up half the bed. However, no matter how much room I may provide for Chewie at the foot of the bed, there is no way he can hide from the tall friendly giant. The Boyf's feet will somehow turn into a champion shuffler causing Chewie to once fall off the bed. He has learned his lesson since. He being Chewie, The Boyf still goes into a mini foot seizure occasionally when unconscious.

Today, he only sleeps on the pillows we rest our heads on, but positions himself behind us, knowing we're not going to be dancing cheek to cheek with the wall anytime soon. Or if it suits his fancy, in that little nook between our pillows. Once again, I am a better candidate as my head is smaller too. Or, probably cause my hair smells good and my head looks pretty from a higher angle.

One night, Chewie decides to park his cute lil' booty on my pillow, behind me. Five minutes later, he gets up, stretches and traipses over to The Boyf's pillow. Two minutes later, he walks back to my pillow, cuddles up and sleeps.

Just like me on weed, there was a 2 minute lag. That's when I heard The Boyf yelling

"Chewie you motherfucker! You farted in my face!"

Yes, Chewie walked over to new lands to fart and came home to familiar grounds to rest. I swear, he's just like his mother.

Now Aren't You Doggone Brillz

I am a proud mother. Proud but sad, for this week marks the day my baby is all grown up. I wish I could say that Chewie has spread his wings but all I can say is he spread his legs. I'm glad I'm a mother of a puppy and not a daughter in such circumstances.

Chewie turned 6 months on the 4th of January 2010. I guess that's like your son growing his first facial hair/armpit hair/pubes because 6 months seem to be when puppies hit puberty. Vets usually advise owners to spay or neuter their puppies when they hit 6 months old.

I was washing the dishes when I saw Chewie casually walked into his pen from the corner of my eye. He's shy. He doesn't like people watching him piss or take a dump. I mean, would you? So I feigned ignorance while secretly keeping an eye on him to be sure he leaks on his weeweepad. To my surprise, I see him lifting his left leg and sprayed urine all over the pad like a hose on a warm summer's day.

Pride shifted to woe. It dawned on me that he is no longer a baby. However, because of his size and permanent adorability plastered on his face, that thought didn't linger on my mind very long.

Here's where things get exciting and creative. Two days later, I catch Chewie walking into his pen again. Because this peeing with one leg up is all still new to him, he has trouble balancing as a tripod. So his pisses alternates between squats and something in between a squat and a leg lift - like me when my mom tells me to get off my fat ass and bring the laundry downstairs.

He walks into his pen. Stops mid entrance. Half body in, half body out the door. Lifts his leg 45 degrees in the air and I was telling myself with glee "This is it!".

He rests his foot at the door of his pen and showered away. This is the same brilliant dog who did this.

Tuber Or Not Tuber

I've always thought of myself as more of a tuber plant than any other ordinary plant. Why is that so? Well, as opposed to other plants whose roots are underground, I believe I play the major role in keeping myself grounded whilst my roots are well... on top of my head, so to speak.

My grandmother was from China, so she knew everything Chinese. Then came my mom who only picked up half of it and passed on what she thought she knew, which isn't much, really, to me who really didn't give a shit at all. I ate what was served to me and if I liked it, I would learn it in Chinese so I can order at restaurants. And I did whatever I was told blindly in terms of traditions.

It wasn't until this week did I have to find that shovel to dig myself out of that ground a.ka the shit hole I've been buried in all along.

See, The Boyf wasn't feeling too well this week and I would first like to address two things. The first being, he is such a dude who knows nothing about taking care of himself when feeling ill and two, his western upbringing allows him to think that fried chicken is OK if you're having a sorethroat. Just eat, so you don't die. Explaining what is 'heaty' for your body is just as bad as explaining what is 'Lah' to the world. I guess it's an Asian thing.

So, I found myself cursing Cliffside Park for not having a Chinese grocer nearby to buy ingredients. I had to make do with whatever I could find in the fridge.

I've always associated porridge to prison food and dying. Hence, I never had the desire to learn how to cook it and when I am forced to eat it, I would be too sick to learn anyway. So this week, I had to channel my inner warden and cook up what I would like to call a traditional dying meal. The Porridge.

Then, I had to make soup. I hate soup. In the name of 'Love', I had to make some and the easiest soup to make would be the infamous ABC soup but all I know about that is DEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ. So once again, I channeled my inner kindergarten cafeteria lady and learned how to make this dish.

This is not just limited to food. When I served him the soup, it came with a glass Chinese spoon. He turns to me and asks for a metal spoon instead. When asked why, he said it's angled in an awkward position and he's not used to it. Kindergarten cafeteria lady then morphed into chemistry teacher where I had to explain that metal + hot soup = burnt tongue. Such smart creatures these Chinese people are.

When you're across the world, your world turns upside down. Metaphorically speaking, my tuber is now inverted and my roots are now grounding me.

Since we're on the subject of plants, I would also like to add that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. With all the drink more fluids nagging and take your medicine reminders, as much as I hate it, I'm beginning to sound like my Ah Ma.

Got Milk?

As you can tell by now, I am very fond of the word Koe. That's only because my father gave it to me. It's a family possession that's worth more than your Magic the Gathering card collection.

My friends discovered the joy of name calling at the age of 14. Fast forward to 13 years later, apart from the growth of their bra size, so did their vocabulary. The words they use now are far more superior that 'dodo head' and 'chicken shit'.

They've taken it a step further by insulting my inheritance in the name of wit, art and creativity. This is their Sistine Chapel.

1. Koenica
2. Koe ca - Koe la
3. Koepi (at least 20 koepi variations. Koepi O, Koepi Koesong, Koepi Ais etc.)
4. Koekoenut
5. My favorite, Koetek.
6. "What does E uses on her period?" - Koetex 
7. Koe Storage (Cold Storage)
8. KoeKoeMo
9.Koekoepops
10.Koekoepuffs
11. Koerek hidung

And the list goes on.

I was born with dark skin. Everyone joked I was picked up from the trash. So, I yearned to be fair. This has nothing to do with my story.

But I will say this, as years go by, I began accepting and growing fond of the color of my skin. Just like how I've learned to find this list directory amusing. You know why? I found a better last name to fuck with - 'Chow'.