case :::

My dad's document which is supposed to be brought to the office is left at home and the job that my dad did was not really good this as I've found it out accidentally when dad was talking to mom.

I am afraid that dad would lose his job as he had did lots of mistakes and the document has to be important as it causes a lot of damage to the office and I don't know what troubles him until he did his job badly this time and he didn't want to tell anything when I asked him. Worsely, he was gone the next day and my mom said that he went away and mom also didn't know what's the problem. What can I do then, doc?----Jenny

::::::

Hello, X. Nice hearing from you--thank you for writing. I understand how you feel, really--and although I think you are being a little too paranoid, I guess I'll feel the same way if this happen to me.

Right, back to the case--first, just relax. No problem can be solved if you keep on worrying. Next, try to think it over. Is the 'communication' thing between you and your dad okay? If not, don't expect him to share anything to you. But if so, maybe you should be concerned. Anyhows, you must try to understand that you can't just expect your dad to share everything to you, really. Your dad loves you and he doesn't want you to be worried.

Have you tried calling or texting him? Maybe you should, if he had not come home until the moment you receive this piece of advice. Try to keep it polite and relaxed, honey. Meanwhile, you should also comfort your mom. she must feel really worried too.

It will really be helpful if you save some money to help your dad. Try to work part-time (not that i'm forcing you, hehe) or set a fixed target of money that you should save per month to help your family. Just be optimistic that your dad will not lose his job, and, of course, not to be a holy or some kind of religious prophet thingy, keep praying. Everything happens for a reason--a good one--and I bet this problem will actually heal the conditions currently happening in your family.

Once again thank you for writing, and I hope my advise helps. Just because I have a 'Doctor' behind my name, I really hope people will not see me as someone who can solve all problems in such a wonderful way coz I so can't.

Keep the peace and take care,

Doctor Freak

once upon a time... O . O

hemm.. intro of blog.. check. review.. check. story or poem.. check. what's missing now? rightt.. personal recount. huhuhu. okay maybe not compulsory, but i guess i'll just do it... *sigh*

here we go.

everybody reads my profile? hehe, you may see a word there--granny phobia. hehe, besides cat phobia--afraid of cats, i also have granny phobia--afraid of old grandmas. wkakak. here is the story behind my phobia. and to be honest, this is a true story, not like the one in the open door entry, which is totally faked up. hehehe.

when i was like 4 years old and had not went to the mental hospital *hehe*, i loved to play computer games. hehe, don't you know that i've been a pro. computer geek since i was young? *slapped* hehe, but the games i played were not cool games like most boys enjoyed nowadays like dota, CS or whatever, the games were just childish kid games. name of game? ahh, don't force me to tell the name. i'm too ashamed, haha.

i only remember one thing , the game i was playing at that time was about cows--a stupid-looking white cow that had to accomplish a task in that game--a task which involved roller coasters, bridges and other weird, stupid stuffs like that.

one of the enemies of this cow was a witch. i remembered exactly--an old grandma with long white hair and black hood, like a grunt reaper, carrying a wooden rod with a really freakishly big nose. i wanna pee on myself when i typed the previous sentence, hehe--but believe me, when i was a kid, i was soooo afraid of this grandma. i even cried when i saw her. especially her laughing sound--deadly, I swear T_T

i often had nightmares and insomniatic nights because of this cursed game--actually the witch's face--hehe. i was warned many times not to play that game anymore, but--ooooh, the cow was so cute and the game was really fun, said my little voice at that time. i kept on playing this game, tho.

one fine afternoon, i was playing the game, as usual, when my mom was drying the clothes she just washed. as usual, the stupid cow faced the witch again. swear--it was really scary, even if it was in the afternoon--for a tiny-weenie girl like me.

i believe the thing that happened after that was just my childish illusion, but suddenly with my eyes i can really swear i saw this witch stepping out of my computer screen, reaching me who was sitting very close to it, giving a pureee evil smile.

terror.

horrid.

blood sweat. starting to be hyperbolic? sorry!

i quicky stepped out of my chair and ran to my mother. The Freak growled tearfully like a lost tiger (??).

after a while, i came back to my computer screen. there was nothing there, just the stupid cow riding on a roller coaster or a car, i forgot. something red, i really remembered.

how freakish is that? T_T

done.

i believe most of you--or maybe all--think it's untrue, or just another bowl of bullshit. sorry to say you're wrong.. starting from that day i'm really terrified of grandmas--with certain criterias, actually, and the most important one is having long hair. arrrgggh, i'm really afraid of grandmas with long hair--especially if it's white (of course duh) huhuhu

done done done.. now leave this page! *thrown pebbles*

Art Museum

A.N: you have been warned. 3 or 4 people from my mental hospital collapsed of boredom when I asked their favor to read this piece of story.

---

“And if you look closely over there is a painting of Paul Livingston IX in 1802. The sculpture on your left is—“

Blah.. and blah.. and blah. The words which sounded more like barfing sound from Elaine—the museum guide—‘s mouth just bypassed me like (un)pleasant breeze. Phbbtt—just half an hour in this art museum tortured me like hell! I still can’t believe I gave up skateboarding to attend this stupid museum tour.

“Knock knock, Trevor?” another barfing sound approached me. I jumped in annoyance and frowned. “What now, huh?”

“Put your head on, Mister!” she scolded me in front of the others. “You should be proud being able to visit your family’s museum to learn about the fascinating history of the great vendetta between your family and Bachelors 200 years ago, young man! And I—“

“—will be very glad if you go home,” I continued that freakish woman’s sentence in a woman’s tune, as if I was her. Then I continued in my normal voice, “Okay then Elaine, I’ll run home. Chop chop!”

“No you’re not going anywhere Mister. Your father ordered me not to let you go until you can write me one piece of summary about what you learnt today. And I’m not going to give up my 200 bucks this time!”

“Oh what does that old man know,” I muttered, walking away. “Okay I’ll do my work—see ya!”

“Trevor—wait.”

“What now?”

“Be sure to meet me at the museum lobby before 6 p.m later,” said Elaine in a deep tune.

“Riiight… the museum closes at 6?”

“Actually they close it at 6:06.”

“Weird much?” I commented. “Why?”

“Pathethically people still believe that spirits of the dead Bachelors often wander around this place at 6:06—the time which is believed when the Livingstons defeated them. Just… follow orders, Trevor.”

“Funny.”

---

Wandering alone in that museum, I kept on grumbling about that wacky thingy guiding me around this suckish museum. Man!



I stared at the paintings framed in golden (which I guarentee was fake gold) borders in amazement. Yeah.. maybe the paintings here weren’t that bad after all. Another voice in my head told me—hey, I should’ve been proud being a Trevor Livingston—a Livingston whose family history was noted a 3000-bucks-a-day-profit museum.

Most of the painting kinda bored me. Buildings, houses, churches, and castles. But one of the paintings kinda showed an exact picture of the vendetta between our family and the Bachelors long time ago—a story which almost got me collapsed when Ma recited it to me.

As I gazed at the paintings, my eyes fell on the words carved below the painting.

1798, the bitter and endless vendetta between two families began—a vendetta which ended with despair and death on one side of the family—a vendetta which caused the Livingstons seem to be the richest family of Arizona today and the Bachelors to be gone—all vanished forever. The death of the Bachelors was kept unknown-- swept under the rug until today. Signed, 2002.

What the heck, I thought. Poor Bachelors, hahah. If they were still alive today, I bet they’d be around to seek revenge.

I continued walking in the empty corridor filled with paintings. Until I reached a kind of hallway, leading me to a new room in that museum.



Now why did the temperature get cooler? Ah, don’t be too paranoid Trevor—it was just the AC. I zipped my sweater and kept walking inside this narrow room.

Woosh, woosh, woosh.

Heyy, it sounded kinda like the paintbrushes in stupid Mr. Linton’s art class. Was anyone painting here? Oh, please. Put a sock in it..

Soon I saw a young girl, about my age, painting on a canvas. I couldn’t really see her face with the canvas covering part of it, but she sure was—ehmm—pre-tty, he-eh. Her crimson eyes seemed to glow in that dim-lighted room as she kept on painting.

I couldn’t really see the painting, tho. Those two crimson eyes centered at the canvas. She didn’t even seem to realize someone was watching her.

“H-hey,” I greeted. “Excuse me?”

Aha—now those two eyes were moving. However her velvetty right arm kept on moving gracefully (ahh, hyperbolic) on the canvas—she didn’t stop painting.

“Hi,” she said softly. “I don’t know you’d be interested to visit such a museum.”

“Lol,” I grinned. “Well actually I don’t. It’s just—my dad forced me to be here—he kinda—err.. grounded me.”

She didn’t seem to have any interest on what I just said so I continued, “And you—whatcha doing here?”

“Me too—following orders,” she replied without stop waving her brush here and there.

“What orders?”

“You’ll see,” she gave a thin smile.

“So—what are you painting?” I asked her again.

“You’ll see,” she said again. Patient, Trevor… try again.

“So!” I said, trying to make a cheerful tune. “The paintings and sculptures in this museum are—awesome, eh? I heard all of them were made based on what has happened in the past.”

“Correction,” stated the girl. “All the paintings here describe what has happened and what will happen.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.. the Bachelors were said to be much of genius fortune-tellers.”

“Oh, of course, of course,” I decided to agree on whatever she said, though for me, I wasn’t even sure if the Bachelors were born with sufficient brain capacity.

“Anyways—I’m Trevor Livingston. And you are--?”

Cold breeze seemed to swept over my two feet—although I was wearing sneakers and thick socks back then—as the window behind the girl shockingly wiped open. It began to get darker outside—and oh, my, God, I am so scolded by Elaine. I guess it was already 6 and I hadn’t went out!

“Violet…” she said, turning back her canvas so I could see it, reaaaal slow. Dramatic much, eh?

“…Violet Bachelor.”

I gasped in terror as all of my body felt like freezing. No matter how I tried to walk away, I simply couldn’t. My two eyes caught that painting—a picture of a girl who looked just like Violet holding a sword, pointing the sword to a boy who looked even more alike like me.

All of a sudden Violet’s words she just said began echoing in my head, repeatedly, again and again. From a soft, gentle tune as it was, it turned deeper—fiercer, meaner, and crueler, like a hissing snake.

"...spirits of the dead Bachelors often wander around this place at 6:06."

“All the paintings here describe what has happened and what will happen.”

Slowly, her voice, her face, everything, began to fade away. Somebody must have turned the speaker in my ears to a lower voice—until nothing was left to hear, to see. end

signed, The Freak

for those who read this piece of story, thanks a lot, lol. for those who decided not to read this, i'm glad you're still normal enough to choose the right decision.. ^^V jkjk~

emily the strange

Emily the Strange is... a rebel. She loves cats. And she's anything but typical. She's Emily the Strange. Emily's not your average thirteen year-old-girl. Pink is her worst nightmare...she wears the same black dress every day. She loves math and science. Her best friends are her four BLACK CATS! She's into old rock & punk, but also digs newer bands like My Chemical Romance Emily is so anticool she's cool... a subculture of one, and a follower of no one but herself.
he-eh, quite speechless, uh, so i guess i'm just gonna share a thing or two about my fave fictional character, emily the strange.

quick and to-the-point, i'm so totally not "in" to today's fictional characters--who mostly appear to be superheroes, wizards, superspies and whatevers--which, for me, are just damn lame.

the word 'fiction' in fictional, i guess, doesn't always have to mean 'out of this world'. i mean what could be a better setting to create a character than collecting ideas from everyday lives? that's the first point that makes me like this Emily girl--she's quite of a normal kinda girl (despite her gothic style) with a normal life, not an AU *alternative universe* hyperbolic kinda life which most fictional characters have.

another point which makes me kinda adore this Emily thingy is her style, heheh. the black-white-red-only thingy on her everyday clothing, that funny lil frown on her face and her pale expression--mmhm, i just like those stuffs.

*take a deep breath*

okay i guess i'll stop, huh. i'm just gonna say that--hell yeah, you don't really have to go out of this blue to be fictional or something. just take some time to look around because, yea.. what you see around you is already a fiction itself :3

see you all xD

source of text on first paragraph : http://www.emilystrange.com/beware/about/emily.cfm

the open door

hmm...

i'm so happy i have managed to escape from the mental hospital where i used to stay.. this is the fourth time i tried to escape.. i hope they can't find me now *evil smirk*

while free, i'll begin filling this blog.. maybe with stories or my personal POV about something.

comments, critiques and suggestions are highly appreciated... but don't bother to flame my entries. if you want to.. man, get yourself a blog and write all you want there, not here. coz hell yeah.. my fingertips pressing on my keyboard rule this blog for, like, ever.

i hope u can help me by keeping my identity secret by not asking blah and blahs like who i am, where do i live or whatever..

cuz i dun wanna be caught by the "people" of that mental hospital again.. T_T

thanks for visiting all ^^V