Teah Abdullah

REMEMBER THESE AMAZING SIMON RICH SKETCHES THAT WE WILL NEVER GET A NEW ONE OF EVER AGAIN?

:’(

A couple of months ago, I went to a TEDx talk. A few months before that, I headed to Florida for LeakyCon. Two years previous to that, I went to San Diego for Comic-Con and a week before that, I was in San Francisco for Azkatraz, a Harry Potter symposium.

My older brother, knowing I’ve done all this, told me, “What is your life? All these things you’ve done. Who in Brunei does that?”

In March 2012, Lina and I are heading to the Melbourne International Comedy Festival.

HOLY SHIT. This trip was decided on a whim roughly less than ten days ago. Attending this festival was a spontenous thought of my being on my bed last night, wondering, “Hrm. When the hell is the Melbourne Comedy Fest? Oh! It’s two weeks after I’m in Melbourne. Oh well, BETTER CHANGE THE FREAKING DATE THEN.”

Seriously, guys. What the fuck is my life. How do I keep fulfilling dreams? I want to cry right now, you have no idea.

cumberbatchweb:

And Martin Freeman with a gun. You know. If that’s your thing…

Martin holding a gun is definitely my thing.

Martin holding anything is my thing, actually… Martin holding a carrot… Martin holding a bee… Martin holding his stupid BAFTA… Martin holding an empty bottle of water.

They’re all my thing.

lilyseven:

This is what my best friend, Teah, and I are doing, discussing and modifying Benedict’s name in different ways.

p/s: Why yes, I did try the Tom Haverford Bowling Ways, in which I sucked completely. I have come to the conclusion that I am in fact not excellent in bowling, but that’s okay.

#LEGITBFFS

I just watched 50/50, and I’m in enough pool of emotion to write this properly.

I don’t talk about my dad’s cancer because it was such a low point in my life when it all started in 2009. I don’t like when I have to explain about it for the first time because I choke and falter when I have to describe it. I’m almost crying just typing this (never mind, I’m crying already), and I’ve tried typing the same things over and over in the past but I never really posted them because words cannot justify the things my family had to go through.

I am somewhat at ease now. Somewhat. It still sucks, but having a father who has cancer really makes me realise the kind of people there are in my life. There are three types of people:

1. The ones who doesn’t care: Like I said, I don’t actively talk about dad’s cancer. I’ll bring it up roughly once every three months. Sometimes, I’ll bring it up out of nowhere, unconsciously making the decision to talk about it (I need a therapist.) But the reason why I don’t bring it up is because of these people. The people who’ll just say ‘oh’ when they first discover this piece of information or when it suddenly pops up, the ones who made it obvious that I’ve made the situation awkward by trying to be human and who’ll steal glances away from my eyes. I don’t blame these people at all, but in a way, it kind of shows that the link between myself and them are weak, and I’ll make a mental note to not talk about it whenever I’m with them. It’s fine. I can be bad at certain things in certain people’s lives, too.
2. The ones who abuse it AKA Assholes: This goes into the above category, but they are also the ones who would abuse my position by asking me to write articles about cancer for publication without knowing what the hell my father has, whether he still has it or any kind of information, really. This has happened to me a total of three times.
3. The ones who care very much: There are only a handful of these (I can count them with one hand) and for this, I just want them to continue to stay in my life for a long period of time. These are the ones who, out of nowhere, would ask, “How’s your dad?” and would allow me talk for fifteen minutes about how he’s doing. It sucks for me to talk about this, but when I do, it makes me realise how much I really do care about my dad, and in turn, it makes me want to cry while talking. This bond these people choose to create with me justifies that I can emotionally connect with them strongly, which is great because I am terrible at connecting with people. At the end of the day, I’m glad I have these people to keep me grounded because I still don’t talk about this often enough, and I realise I need to because keeping things bottled in is bad and makes me hate myself as I question my role in my dad’s life. At the end of the day, talking about it with these great people makes me realise, “Hey, I think I’m doing good as a daughter.”

This isn’t anything, and as I’m writing this, it’s not really going anywhere. I just think I need to get it out, and I want to thank people who have supported my family and myself throughout the years. We still have a lot of challenges ahead, but since we’ve faced the worst, hopefully the path ahead is easier to walk on.

tonythaxton:

Meep.  Scream.  (Thanks to @tapangs for sending this my way.)

“Dear fans, all the gratitude. All of it. Very sincerely yours, Martin Freeman.”

I was upset for several hours today and then two cool dudes made these and I completely forgot why I was sad in the first place.

Waltzed into my office and this stupid face greeted me on my desk.

popculturebrain:

New Image: The Hobbit | Collider

coughdrop01:

I have never missed your presence more than when I went to the Tour De Nerdfighting thing ALONE AND WITHOUT YOU!  

It was wonderful and I had a great time and I met wonderful nerdfighters!  Also, the fact that when 500 miles came on like 75% of the audience started marching was a beautiful thing!  All in all it was a touching and overwhelming experience.

However, Teah, do not take any of this to mean that I can handle life without you BECAUSE I CANNOT.

Love,

Lana

*JELUZ* IS IT STRANGE THIS IS WHAT I MISS ABOUT AMERICA? Hanging out with cool people?!

The 500 miles marching tho!!

Dad sent me to work this morning because my car is still his car.

It’s the first morning of the week in Brunei after a long weekend of Chinese New Year celebration, so roads were calm; a lot of people are still out celebrating. The ride to work was smooth with little traffic. We drove onward with the darkening sky above and the cool air circulating our environment; a cardigan nestled on my torso and a scarf was wrapped around my neck trying to defeat the cold.

This is the second time this week I’ve been driven somewhere. It makes a nice change. The first time, I listened to one and a half CD of audio books. This morning, I finished half a Sherlock Holmes story during the ride to work.

Reading or writing while travelling somewhere is one aspect I miss about Singapore. Train and bus rides revolves around avoiding the terrible programme they show on the provided television screen. So, any other form of distraction other than allowing your brain to rot with a prank show is always a better option. Reading or writing is always my favourite; the shaky nature of transportation adding to the effect of what you’re reading or every bump on the road forcing a plot from the book to be stored in your memory. When I got into a bus accident four years ago, I remember reading Maureen Johnson’s Thirteen Little Blue Envelopes.

City life can be cruel and hostile, but city life also gives you time to relax before you have to face any tension.

missgingerbatch:

You’ve got to know where your towel is.

This is probably mega withdrawal, but I think that’s what you get for waiting for a television show to come back for so long and being spoiled by the outcome. Anyway, since last night, I’ve been listening to The Memoirs of Casanova’s audio book read by Benedict Cumberbatch.

I knew he’s a good voice actor judging by his hilarious imitations of Jonathan Ross and Alan Rickman, but I laughed so hard whenever he brings up his French accent because it is just great!

But what strikes me the most is the way he reads. Guys, I once wanted so badly to be a voice actor; I still do now! I think I’ve given up on that dream while listening to the Casanova audio book. Obviously there are vague sex scenes in Casanova’s memoirs, but the way Benedict’s voice drops from a deep alpha male to a softly spoken lover in the sex scenes makes me shudder everywhere.

I’m like, COME ON. THE DICTIONARY NEEDS AN AUDIO BOOK. GET BENEDICT CUMBERBATCH TO DO IT.

His looming figure came closer, and I wanted so badly to jump him and feel the leathery six-pack of his uniform under my fingers, and I was hoping he wanted to kiss me until I lose my senses there and then, but instead, Batman looked at me and was like, “You have beautiful eyes.”

WHAT AM I DOING. SOMEONE STOP ME.

No. What. Stop it with your stupid face.

neversayneverland:

But the real question is why everyone isn’t drawing Crowley in terrible 1980’s suits and sunglasses.

Sigh. Abby. Stop making Crowley so hot all the time. Draw a hot Aziraphale.

He clicked the instrument with all the force he could muster and pulled the trigger once. Twice. Three times towards a general direction of the man with the handlebar moustache and the poncho covering his torso. The gun went bang once, twice and air exited it during his last trigger pull. He had closed his eyes during the duration of the shooting, the last image etched on his mind being the ponchoed man who stood thirty feet away from him. The smile on the man’s face was menacing; his upper lips covered by his handlebar moustache. That stupid moustache. How he hated it so.

He opened his eyes and looking at the gun wrapped around his hands. He cursed at the fact that it ran out of bullets, and instead threw the gun on the dirt below him. He hated the ground he stood on too. The sandy ground was making his new Levi’s jeans dirty.

He looked up from the lying gun on the floor, expecting to see a wounded man thirty feet away from him. Hoping to see the ponchoed man lying on the ground, his handlebar moustache no longer visible from where he stood. If he has the chance, he’d shave it off himself.

But nay, the man remained standing at the same position he was in merely seconds ago. He cursed again for missing his shot, and told himself how stupid it was to close his eyes as he attempted to shoot.

“Fuck!” He screamed loudly.

“Yup!” The ponchoed man replied, smirking and moving his handlebar moustache along, “I’m not shaving this, man. You lost! Three straight shots and your stupid Nerf bullet only hit me once. Deal was three shots hit me and I shave this beauty off. But nope! That ain’t happenin’”

The ponchoed man moved forward to where he stood, and moved close enough that he could reach him if he extended his hand. Instead of doing anything to him, the ponchoed man smirked again, and wiggled his handlebar moustache.

“You fucking loser,” he said.