A tyrant of words.

There are three things I hate most in this world.

1) Critics (this goes alongside the hypocrites, the religious extremists, the racists, the homophobes, the moms and dads who only care about exam results - you get my drift)

2) Expectations

3) Maths. Mother fucking maths.

So here I am, loaded with the agonizing weight of all three of life's worst horrors; my lips are dry with cruel and batten words that demand themselves to spill like gushing water - but I am collected. I always am. I am the kind of person who keeps shut the vulgarities of truth, as not to get caught in arguments.

I am, you see, a very nice person - that is - most of the times.

Today began eerily comfortable. I awoke from, what I could only call, the utmost of disgusting dreams, where I was being chased 'round my faculty with an albino frog. Simply nothing can raise the hairs on your neck worse than a slimy, warty frog - unless of course its a white, pale, pasty one.

Ew.

To cold sweats, and heavy breath, I rolled out of bed, feeling - on the rare accounts as they are - glad to be alive. And dear friends, this is an omen I shall never let pass my judgement again.

Good days never stay good. This is a lesson learned (tips hat to the sky).

Critics.

Mom and Dad are nice people, but just like me: only most of the times. Other times, they are viscous beasts with clawing teeth and nail, their breath is like rotting meat, their voice like satan's whisper - ok - maybe I've gone a little overboard, but you get where I'm going at here.

Being born with Asian blood, things tend to lean a little port-side on the topics of competition and pride. Yes, stereotypes are not myths.

Nice as they are, they demand too much of me. Or, that is, too little. Speak when spoken to, do what you are told, never dishonor the family, be good in the eyes of the public, get good grades, and stay put in your fucking place - ok, so this is where I start to cringe.

I like to believe that I am a pretty liberated person. I am open-minded, and I accept differences with utmost just. I don't pick fights, never impose, and am proud to be apart of a mixed community of various minds, and passions alike.

My parents - well, not so much.

The smallest particle of expression on my behalf erupts their minds like an active Sumatran volcano. Do as you please, they say, for as long as it pleases them too. It is a blatant guess that this does not happen often. And thus, lo and behold, my backlog of nags and confrontations for the sin of me being... myself.

(sigh)

Expectations.

And the epic fall of disappointment that comes along with it. Yep, to hell with it all.

Let them criticize me, I say, a bold statement I carry, with my arms crossed and my face that boasts determination. I sip my tea, seeming as classy as I can, put on some Stevie Wonder and show the world I cannot be toppled over. No, not with their harsh words, and labels, and cages. I am woman, hear me roar!

That is of course, up until expectations blunders me over again. A common error, on my part.

The false integrity, the faint glimmer of hope I chose adamantly to believe in, crash onto me like falling rooftops over a city skyline - I am dust and I am rubble.

Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, Elvis has left the building.

Now. Last but not least: maths.

Goddamnit! I would pound my fist into glass and rip my skin with blood had I only the guts - but mind you: the passion is there, and I am vexed with rage and anger. I sit here, blogging away my loathes, like the immature teen that I am, running away from the troubles that are drawing lines on my back.

I cease to love something so tedious, so inexpressive, and so profoundly dull. No, I will not have it.

These numbers say nothing, and the alphabets laced 'round them are like slave dolls, used for the least of their purpose. They should be knitting about essays and poetry - not.. not.. equations!

I am simply dumbstruck by the force it demands on me: to repeat over and over again on blank paper, with the scribbles of things that lead me to no answer I can bare loyal to my heart. It is tragedy, these divisions and subtractions.

If I may abort it, I would do so immediately. But alas, tomorrow is my final paper. It is made damned, with the tears of the likes of people akin to my kind. I am forced to utter its curse as I strut ever so ungracefully to a death I do not deserve.

And that would probably lead me to my fourth hate: examinations.

But I'd rather not go into a debate on that of its horrible agenda. Democracy there, does not exist.

Now elude me.

I must repose in the multitude of my rage, and sorrow. I am 19, and the things that unsettle this pre-mature valor brings me numb to the screams and tears I muffle beneath my pillowcase.

God.

I just need a break.