<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?><?xml-stylesheet href="http://www.blogger.com/styles/atom.css" type="text/css"?><feed xmlns='http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom' xmlns:openSearch='http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearchrss/1.0/' xmlns:georss='http://www.georss.org/georss' xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195</id><updated>2012-02-06T00:53:42.703+08:00</updated><title type='text'>Chap Kow</title><subtitle type='html'></subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>91</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-7940234071145277491</id><published>2010-08-14T01:58:00.000+08:00</published><updated>2010-08-14T01:58:57.304+08:00</updated><title type='text'>Guilt Stricken</title><content type='html'>&lt;div style="font-family: &amp;quot;Helvetica Neue&amp;quot;,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"&gt;After that incident, I was really taken aback. I could not describe how I feel in words. What guilt, what a sting. It really got me thinking. It's saddening and it hurts me quite abit. My soft spot. I am really affected by this. This job requires determination, persistence, patience and a heart of steel. ;(&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="font-family: &amp;quot;Helvetica Neue&amp;quot;,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;i&gt;&lt;span style="font-family: &amp;quot;Helvetica Neue&amp;quot;,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"&gt;If you spare a thought for others, who is gonna spare a thought for you, for your pocket?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/i&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-7940234071145277491?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/7940234071145277491/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=7940234071145277491&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/7940234071145277491'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/7940234071145277491'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2010/08/guilt-stricken.html' title='Guilt Stricken'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-2512232586271742662</id><published>2009-08-25T05:28:00.004+08:00</published><updated>2009-08-25T05:34:11.857+08:00</updated><title type='text'>The Best Medicine in Life</title><content type='html'>&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:180%;"  &gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sarcasm.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-2512232586271742662?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/2512232586271742662/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=2512232586271742662&amp;isPopup=true' title='4 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/2512232586271742662'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/2512232586271742662'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2009/08/best-attitude-in-life.html' title='The Best Medicine in Life'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><thr:total>4</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-1014411354016729426</id><published>2009-08-05T23:16:00.002+08:00</published><updated>2009-08-05T23:29:07.990+08:00</updated><title type='text'>Mirror.</title><content type='html'>For I met an immature fella somewhere. And I seriously think that he needs a mirror. A huge, full scaled mirror.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;'Give that man.. ah hem, the boy a mirror!'&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-1014411354016729426?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/1014411354016729426/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=1014411354016729426&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/1014411354016729426'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/1014411354016729426'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2009/08/mirror.html' title='Mirror.'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-3987625833321201369</id><published>2009-06-26T00:48:00.005+08:00</published><updated>2009-06-26T01:04:19.548+08:00</updated><title type='text'>Appear Offline.</title><content type='html'>I have friends who are always appearing offline in MSN. When their windows pop up, their display pictures and their statuses indicate that they are offline, with an overlaying gray. Yet you know they are not because they started a conversation with you. It makes me feel uptight. It makes me feel not right. It makes me feel like I'm talking to a celebrity. TKP is one of them. They think they are god damn popular with their contacts. This Appearing Offline really affect me much.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Technology makes me look like a sensitive and paranoid idiot.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-3987625833321201369?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/3987625833321201369/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=3987625833321201369&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/3987625833321201369'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/3987625833321201369'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2009/06/appear-offline.html' title='Appear Offline.'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-7259346272832758032</id><published>2009-05-29T10:42:00.004+08:00</published><updated>2009-05-29T11:04:43.229+08:00</updated><title type='text'>Living in the shadow.</title><content type='html'>&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/Sh9MHDpPQKI/AAAAAAAAAe4/A_P41zEMh2s/s1600-h/FERGUSON77_185x185_563951a.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5341071367205765282" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 185px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 185px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/Sh9MHDpPQKI/AAAAAAAAAe4/A_P41zEMh2s/s320/FERGUSON77_185x185_563951a.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;Ferguson looks on to see Barcelona prevent him from matching Paisley's achievement of three European Cups.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Ferguson won 11 league titles and 2 European Cups in 22 years. That is equivalent to &lt;strong&gt;&lt;em&gt;1 European Cup every 10 years&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;. Ferguson mentioned that his ultimate aim is to equals or beat Liverpool's domestic titles of 18 since he joined Man Utd. Now that he has done it, 18-18. Hooray! &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;How about equalising Bob Paisley's 3 European Cups record during the latter's 9 years spell as a Liverpool manager? Sure. Let's give Ferguson 10 years, he will deliver just that. After which, how about equalising Liverpool's 5 European Cups glory? Sure. Let's give Ferguson another 20 years. I'm sure he will deliver that too.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-7259346272832758032?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/7259346272832758032/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=7259346272832758032&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/7259346272832758032'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/7259346272832758032'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2009/05/note-to-ferguson.html' title='Living in the shadow.'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/Sh9MHDpPQKI/AAAAAAAAAe4/A_P41zEMh2s/s72-c/FERGUSON77_185x185_563951a.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-5378392398390578880</id><published>2009-05-21T23:56:00.009+08:00</published><updated>2009-05-22T00:38:21.798+08:00</updated><title type='text'>Give when you take.</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/ShV_WTQTCAI/AAAAAAAAAew/rgGWIw5Pr_Y/s1600-h/Untitled-12.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 65px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/ShV_WTQTCAI/AAAAAAAAAew/rgGWIw5Pr_Y/s320/Untitled-12.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338312954420070402" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Alright, it's time to stop being nice. I am too kind to friends/ people around me. I spare too much for their thoughts and neglect mine. It's time to stop being nice because people I met and people I knew is taking clear advantage of that. Forget about the names. I've got a whole long list and I can take whole night to finish it. They are all around me. Thanks Giving Day is over. I have to learn to behave like them.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Anyways, thanks to all those who wished me Happy Birthday out of your busy schedule. Frankly speaking, birthday is just another day to me. Just that on that day, anywhere or anything is better than working. So for those who do not have time to send your regards, please don't. I don't give a damn about that greeting, I just want the present instead. :)&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-5378392398390578880?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/5378392398390578880/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=5378392398390578880&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/5378392398390578880'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/5378392398390578880'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2009/05/give-what-you-take.html' title='Give when you take.'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/ShV_WTQTCAI/AAAAAAAAAew/rgGWIw5Pr_Y/s72-c/Untitled-12.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-2258291270694134995</id><published>2009-04-16T15:53:00.004+08:00</published><updated>2009-04-16T15:55:10.606+08:00</updated><title type='text'>96 Hillsborough.</title><content type='html'>A tribute to the 96. 20 years anniversary and I only found out recently. You'll never walk alone.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SebkKu_EthI/AAAAAAAAAeg/kghjRXsnnDw/s1600-h/96hillsboroughtribute.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5325194482474595858" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 128px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SebkKu_EthI/AAAAAAAAAeg/kghjRXsnnDw/s320/96hillsboroughtribute.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-2258291270694134995?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/2258291270694134995/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=2258291270694134995&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/2258291270694134995'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/2258291270694134995'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2009/04/96-hillsborough.html' title='96 Hillsborough.'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SebkKu_EthI/AAAAAAAAAeg/kghjRXsnnDw/s72-c/96hillsboroughtribute.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-880657716702006836</id><published>2009-03-25T22:29:00.009+08:00</published><updated>2009-03-25T23:22:59.509+08:00</updated><title type='text'>5 Times European Champions.</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;There&lt;/span&gt;, it's been 3 long months since I step click on this blog. Anyways, these few months have been rather busy. And was so engrossed with every single Liverpool's game. Busy shopping for Liverpool posters, busy playing football every weekend, busy with catching Liverpool's games, busy downloading Liverpool match videos and busy surfing Liverpool news when I am at work. Never been so obsessed with LFC, ever.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/ScpLniDRKII/AAAAAAAAAeY/DJTXahhV190/s1600-h/fer-412.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/ScpLniDRKII/AAAAAAAAAeY/DJTXahhV190/s320/fer-412.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317145452591786114" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And it's been the best week of my Liverpool life. We beat Real Madrid 5 - 0 in aggregate. Next, we beat the scums 4 - 1 at Old Trafford(btw, this is the happiest moment of my life!) and follow by a 5 goals premiership hammering in the form of Aston Villa. You can't blame us by boasting around the scoreline, the goals and the performace of our team. I mean, let's be frank, since when did Liverpool fans ever get to boast about their victory.. for long? We really deserve it. Give us a break and stop scolding us for donning our jersey only the days after the victories because most of us don it even after losing. I'm one of them. I am a proud loser and a jubliant winner.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So my dad was scolding me for being too overworked by Liverpool. He told me off a couple of times but each time, I was too engrossed in 'doing' Liverpool. Till few days ago, I was sitting down, having a puff with him and he told me that I was too crazy over football. He even suspect that I was betting money on football. But he knows nothing about the passion, of my support to Liverpool Football Club. It's not money that can measure my love, my passion and my support for Liverpool. (though I am going to place my bet on Liverpool winning the BPL) By the way, that's only my second bet on football. So he was saying, about those who were obsessed with their superstars and idols in the entertainment industry, and he pointed out that I am no different from them. I do admit that and only found out recently, that I am a Liverpool fanatic. If I can get hold onto just a blade of grass from Anfield, I will go to the contractor, ask to create a frame and to put it on my desk. My love for Liverpool Football Club will not be any lesser, forever, and You Will Never Walk Alone!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Yes Rooney, it's &lt;span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"&gt;5 times&lt;/span&gt; and Pepe, it's &lt;span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"&gt;5 - 0&lt;/span&gt;.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-880657716702006836?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/880657716702006836/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=880657716702006836&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/880657716702006836'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/880657716702006836'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2009/03/5-times-european-champions.html' title='5 Times European Champions.'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/ScpLniDRKII/AAAAAAAAAeY/DJTXahhV190/s72-c/fer-412.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-8712513749366505260</id><published>2008-12-07T03:31:00.007+08:00</published><updated>2008-12-07T03:55:52.341+08:00</updated><title type='text'>The Answer.</title><content type='html'>When one reaches the boiling point, one can explode. I've been burying them for so long. I can't take your shit anymore. This is not the first time I was disappointed. And definitely, I am not the first one to be disappointed by you. Think about it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You were the one who always say that I am always right while others are wrong. Yes I admit. But why? Cause I know my stand and I speak my mind. I don't cover up my words. I express them. On the other hand, you used words that oppose your actions. Most of the time, you think you know me. You think you understand me. And you think I don't know you, don't quite understand you. Let me tell you now. You don't know me at all. And I know everything shit you've been doing and everything about you. Please read my SMS to you, I typed them not in a fit of anger, they are for you to read when you cool down, especially the last one. Think about it carefully. And it's not the &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;excuses&lt;/span&gt; I mentioned, look at it as a bigger picture. Your partner can't help you on this one, cause she is equally similar. I tried to help you, but I failed.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I leave you with this;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You try to figure out what's wrong with everyone else. You try to find an answer for all of them. You tried and you failed. And you will never succeed until the moment you realised the answer is not with them. It's with you. It's IN you.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-8712513749366505260?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/8712513749366505260/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=8712513749366505260&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/8712513749366505260'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/8712513749366505260'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2008/12/disappointment-into-nothing.html' title='The Answer.'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-7476309222825303271</id><published>2008-11-30T03:43:00.002+08:00</published><updated>2008-11-30T04:03:30.138+08:00</updated><title type='text'>Stay Away.</title><content type='html'>&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/STGfp4Njt8I/AAAAAAAAAXs/Sb2yEorqe-8/s1600-h/FUCK+MLM.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/STGfp4Njt8I/AAAAAAAAAXs/Sb2yEorqe-8/s320/FUCK+MLM.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5274172180440266690" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: left;"&gt;Friends in MLM, stay away. For your safety, I bite. Don't try me anymore.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-7476309222825303271?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/7476309222825303271/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=7476309222825303271&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/7476309222825303271'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/7476309222825303271'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2008/11/friends-in-mlm-stay-away.html' title='Stay Away.'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/STGfp4Njt8I/AAAAAAAAAXs/Sb2yEorqe-8/s72-c/FUCK+MLM.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-58738061382633189</id><published>2008-10-30T20:17:00.005+08:00</published><updated>2008-11-12T00:15:45.137+08:00</updated><title type='text'>Ocular Ticks!</title><content type='html'>Currently selling CASIO, GSHOCK &amp;amp; SEIKO watches! Will be adding more items like accessories, fashion and gadgets to this blog shop! Stay and watch that space! Show your support! Thanks a million!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SRmviYC_EKI/AAAAAAAAAXk/3KrzoJYUHgk/s1600-h/ocularticker3D+copy.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SRmviYC_EKI/AAAAAAAAAXk/3KrzoJYUHgk/s320/ocularticker3D+copy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267434244291891362" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;font-size:130%;"  &gt;&lt;a href="http://ocularticker.blogspot.com/"&gt;&lt;span&gt;http://ocularticker.blogspot.com/&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-58738061382633189?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/58738061382633189/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=58738061382633189&amp;isPopup=true' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/58738061382633189'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/58738061382633189'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2008/10/ocular-ticks.html' title='Ocular Ticks!'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SRmviYC_EKI/AAAAAAAAAXk/3KrzoJYUHgk/s72-c/ocularticker3D+copy.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-3843174365180541343</id><published>2008-10-12T23:43:00.000+08:00</published><updated>2008-10-13T00:14:05.342+08:00</updated><title type='text'>简单的一句</title><content type='html'>为什么我就是不能把思想变成行动呢？&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-3843174365180541343?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/3843174365180541343/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=3843174365180541343&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/3843174365180541343'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/3843174365180541343'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2008/10/blog-post.html' title='简单的一句'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-3083308416743181589</id><published>2008-09-30T04:31:00.016+08:00</published><updated>2008-09-30T07:16:40.403+08:00</updated><title type='text'>Friends.</title><content type='html'>&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SOFhyXVq28I/AAAAAAAAAWE/qMyuVdKU4Rs/s1600-h/ff.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SOFhyXVq28I/AAAAAAAAAWE/qMyuVdKU4Rs/s320/ff.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251586158376967106" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center; font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Hello peng you! Jiak ba buay?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Just today, after years of realisation, I finally got it somehow or rather. 'Best' friend. Most of us has got at least one. I realised. To what extent would your 'Best' friend go, just to cover the extra distance for you. Some 'Best' friends might just do that. But, the question pops up again. To what extent?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Fortunately, I have this luck of meeting good and beautiful 'Best' friends. But of course, one or two disappoint you along the way. I have still got a few more 'Best' friends around. There are always incidents that leave 'Best' friends turning into the exact opposite. 'Best' friends that lost each other's contacts, then got back together, and became 'Not-So-Best' friends.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Myself, I have a friend whom I never regard him as my 'Best' friend in the past. But after numerous occasions, I finally realised how good he treated me as his 'Best' friend. He makes me feel so much better and he makes me feel he covers the extra distance just especially, for me. I am not sure about his perspective, but for me, I feel that at least he made the effort to make me FEEL that. Most of us, as friends, would not even TRY to make an effort to make the other party feel that way. Myself used to be the latter.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I fully understand why JIHONGS jihong. Sometimes, you just can't blame them. All guys are jihongs, myself is one too, but again, to what extent? Afterall, when guys need it, who is the one going to satisfy them? Not you as friends, of course. In a classic scenario, when you're sick, would your 'Best' friend go to your house and take care of you throughout the entire period? I make it simpler, How many 'Best' friends would tabao food to your doorstep when you're running a fever even after his/her tiring day at work?* My girlfriend would. And of course(out of the JIHONG subject abit ah), my grandmum would check on me every half an hour.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I despise those who take advantages of their friends. Making use of friends, I put it bluntly, is normal. But taking advantages, that is absolutely unacceptable. Making use and taking advantages are like tea and coffee. They are two different matters to begin with. And these people are simple fucked up. These friends are what I am ranting about. They are bound to be one or two among your circle of friends. Peeping over your shoulder, looking for any cheese they can consume on your lap.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Friends are absolutely important, no doubt. But friends are like water. You can play in it and you can play with it, but if you are not a good swimmer, don't dive in too deep into it. You'll drown. Don't get me wrong, I am not saying your friends will kill you. But if you're not aware, your 'Best' friend might just get you into deep waters. Those friends who deserve your effort to make them feel the extra distance covered, walk the ninth mile for them. Afterall, they went that for you. For those who don't even care, don't waste your time and effort. Save it for your good friends instead.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You can live without friends, but you can't live without them. You can TON with friends but you can't live with them. Blood is always thicker than water. Friends or no friend, they will always be just friends.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;*I counted mine. None.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-3083308416743181589?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/3083308416743181589/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=3083308416743181589&amp;isPopup=true' title='5 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/3083308416743181589'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/3083308416743181589'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2008/09/friends.html' title='Friends.'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SOFhyXVq28I/AAAAAAAAAWE/qMyuVdKU4Rs/s72-c/ff.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>5</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-5327570199208187346</id><published>2008-09-28T19:43:00.010+08:00</published><updated>2008-09-29T00:30:11.336+08:00</updated><title type='text'>Eye the Day.</title><content type='html'>Newbies or I call them 'Buay-Gan-Ers', I hate to play with. They have no idea how to kick a ball properly, let alone to mention dribble or tackle. I've got a long scratch mark on my left arm and a damaged right eye during a soccer match with a group of 'Buay-Gan-Ers' and my primary school mates. And the worst part, NOBODY believe me that my injured eye can't seems to see anything! I can't blame my friends though, I played and scored goals like nothing is wrong with my eye at all. They thought I was kidding with them, NO I WASN'T! I played most of the time with my right eye closed! If I am lucky, the 'Buay-Gan-Er' who marked that temporary scar on my left arm has STD. It's quite a deep/long one for a scratch. If I am unlucky, I'll paid a heavier price if my right eye's condition worsen. You see, I rather die of STD then have blindness in one of my eyes. I experienced that for an hour or so, and I am not going to experience it again. Never.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This is serious shit, no joke.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Nonetheless, met up with some old friends and it was cool. But other than that, disastrous day.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-5327570199208187346?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/5327570199208187346/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=5327570199208187346&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/5327570199208187346'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/5327570199208187346'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2008/09/disastrous-gathering.html' title='Eye the Day.'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-369314525735622151</id><published>2008-09-26T03:15:00.003+08:00</published><updated>2008-09-26T04:18:24.534+08:00</updated><title type='text'>WHERE ARE MY SLIPPERS?</title><content type='html'>Do you believe in Curse? Have any idea that Curse follows you wherever you go? At least, I'm not alone. I have my whole family with me. Cursed and.. Swear-ED. Well, it's not one of those 'haunted-house' curse, of course. CHOI! It's the Slippers'(&amp;amp; Shoes) Curse.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I do not know of any of that case happening in my first home we stayed. In the first place, my first home would not had anything of that happening. Cause we knew most of the active neighbours staying in the same block. My entire floor of neighbours, we paid each other visits. So our relationships with and around my neighbourhood were quite strong. But we moved. A wrong move.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And I suspect this S&amp;amp;S Curse, began to start it's basis when I moved to my second home. Due to the habit of placing our slippers outside our home, we did not even think twice of not putting our slippers outside our house. I mean, who will expect filthy people would come to your doorstep and took your slippers away? So anyways, the curse started from there. Slippers started to disappear. Shoes in the shoes' rack outside my house got lesser as days went by. So we withdrew all our slippers/shoes back into our house. Did not dare to EXPOSE them outside anymore. Though most of the slippers are cheap, we don't run a 'SLIPPER STALL' to donate. One pair of slippers/shoes does not cost us a lot. But ten pair of slippers cost us quite a lot! My family even planned an ambush to catch the culprit but of course, didn't get even close to it. Though we suspected there would be two different culprits. One of the jackasses, my neighbour living somewhere above us. But anyways, didn't get them. Fucking Jackasses. So we moved again.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After everything, we thought we could start afresh. Throw all those slippers back to where they belong. Outside~ Yeah. We could put our slippers outside again. With shoes rack and everything. Who could imagine the worse? Another Jackass as a new neighbour. Talking about good fengshui, nicely done. I don't care whether her IQ is lower than normal, but you can't possible throw every of our shoes/slippers placed outside our house! So we just withdrew our 'troops' back where they should NOT belong. This is not the end. Even the small altar outside my house was not spared! The oranges used to offer to the Chinese gods, yes the oranges. She threw them. What the fuck? We caught her a couple of times, but did not to confront her mother cause after all, we are neighbours. It wouldn't be nice. Oh, and she loves to walk out of her door and peek right into my house. I caught her most of the time, and glared back at her. She would turn and went back to her house. Don't let me catch you again, Jackass.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This time, I couldn't take it. One pair of slippers placed IN our house near to the door. My grandfather just wear it outside for a walk along the corridor and placed it there. So next minute, it's gone. I searched around the house, couldn't find it. Who would you suspect? Passenger A went by and took it? My corridor is in such a way that only my house and my neighbour's are situated side by side. So the corridor is mostly, or can I use the word, 'Always', used by both of us? Hence, who the fuck will pass by and take them! So I could not take it anymore. My brother and I went over to confront them. Though we didn't get back the slippers, I gave the culprit one hell of a lecture. During the lecture, she even checked her locks were properly locked as she scared that I might barge in. I think she peed her pants.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Is this curse finally liften? Only time will tell. When will I have wonderful neighbours? Like those with a pretty girl-next-door kind. How I wish. If that's the case, I don't mind putting all my slippers and shoes outside.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Jackass.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-369314525735622151?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/369314525735622151/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=369314525735622151&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/369314525735622151'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/369314525735622151'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2008/09/where-are-my-slippers.html' title='WHERE ARE MY SLIPPERS?'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-4705326166935933541</id><published>2008-09-15T08:24:00.004+08:00</published><updated>2008-09-15T08:57:59.505+08:00</updated><title type='text'>Who are the sore losers?</title><content type='html'>It's not that I want to boast around about the victory Liverpool won over Man Utd. It's that the interesting part is there are so many sore losers around us. So many excuses Man Utd fans come out with. I just can't help by laughing when I come across any of them.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So I happen to 'met' one of the Man Utd fans. I annoyed him by constantly putting the scoreline across of him. So he finally replied. Ha, and his answer just came out and I hit the nail on the head. Just one of the classic answers I predicted, or you may rather label the answers They provided as 'Excuses', and he replied, 'Man Utd lost cause we were without C.Ronaldo. If he was around, we would win.'&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Well, of course I laughed my ass + head off. But I didn't further rub his wounds with salt cause I did not want to be an asshole like Them. It's funny when you see Them trying to find all sort of excuses. You can argue with them till the cows come home cause it's another of an egg and hen story. But I found of a way to keep them quiet. At least, for three seconds.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;'So you're telling me that Man Utd can't do without C.Ronaldo? Tell me then, are Man Utd a one-man team?' On whatever they reply, try this.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When you lose, you lost. Take it like a man. Stop whining like a pussy.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And when after you did, you better pray hard that they don't go ahead and win any cups during that season. Or worse, win the next future fixtures with your team. So you better start crossing your fingers, just like what I am doing, that your favourite team better not lose to Man Utd. If not, They would definitely haunt you.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sleep tight.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SM2yHx_ghRI/AAAAAAAAAV8/xhQYdCWhxgU/s1600-h/sarsh6.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SM2yHx_ghRI/AAAAAAAAAV8/xhQYdCWhxgU/s320/sarsh6.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5246044987705034002" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;p.s. | till&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; then, I&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; am still living on the victory that my team has deserved, as long as I can.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-4705326166935933541?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/4705326166935933541/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=4705326166935933541&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/4705326166935933541'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/4705326166935933541'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2008/09/what-makes-sore-loser.html' title='Who are the sore losers?'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SM2yHx_ghRI/AAAAAAAAAV8/xhQYdCWhxgU/s72-c/sarsh6.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-9018072453186443726</id><published>2008-09-14T06:46:00.014+08:00</published><updated>2008-09-15T05:49:48.672+08:00</updated><title type='text'>Victory</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SM1mTcitn3I/AAAAAAAAAVE/bB2moaBScuc/s1600-h/liverpool21manutdar5.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SM1mTcitn3I/AAAAAAAAAVE/bB2moaBScuc/s320/liverpool21manutdar5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5245961625221832562" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;April 2008&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" &gt;'Man U won 2-1 u know??'&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" &gt;'Yah, I know. No excuse. We lost.'&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" &gt;'Gg.'&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;13 September 2008&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" &gt;'Gg.'&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" &gt;'Lucky.'&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" &gt;'Sore.'&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:85%;" &gt;'We'll beat you at Old Trafford.'&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ha. Did you not watch the match, my friend? Do you need the match stats to take a look how your team fared? How come when Liverpool won, it's lucky and when you guys won, it's a well-deserved victory? Well.. Not all guys are sore losers. Only Man United's fans. :D&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Needless to elaborate much on this. :D &lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;:D&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span style="font-size:180%;"&gt;:D&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;" &gt;:D&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;table class="tablehead" cellpadding="3" cellspacing="1"&gt;&lt;tbody&gt;&lt;tr class="oddrow" align="right"&gt;&lt;td align="left"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Shots (on Goal)    &lt;/td&gt;     &lt;td&gt;     22(7)    &lt;/td&gt;     &lt;td&gt;     8(2)    &lt;/td&gt;    &lt;/tr&gt;    &lt;tr class="evenrow" align="right"&gt;     &lt;td align="left"&gt;     Fouls    &lt;/td&gt;     &lt;td&gt;     10    &lt;/td&gt;     &lt;td&gt;     18    &lt;/td&gt;    &lt;/tr&gt;    &lt;tr class="oddrow" align="right"&gt;     &lt;td align="left"&gt;     Corner Kicks    &lt;/td&gt;     &lt;td&gt;     5    &lt;/td&gt;     &lt;td&gt;     4    &lt;/td&gt;    &lt;/tr&gt;    &lt;tr class="evenrow" align="right"&gt;     &lt;td align="left"&gt;     Offsides    &lt;/td&gt;     &lt;td&gt;     1    &lt;/td&gt;     &lt;td&gt;     4    &lt;/td&gt;    &lt;/tr&gt;    &lt;tr class="oddrow" align="right"&gt;     &lt;td align="left"&gt;     Time of Possession    &lt;/td&gt;     &lt;td&gt;     54%    &lt;/td&gt;     &lt;td&gt;     46%    &lt;/td&gt;    &lt;/tr&gt;    &lt;tr class="evenrow" align="right"&gt;     &lt;td align="left"&gt;     Yellow Cards    &lt;/td&gt;     &lt;td&gt;     0    &lt;/td&gt;     &lt;td&gt;     2    &lt;/td&gt;    &lt;/tr&gt;    &lt;tr class="oddrow" align="right"&gt;     &lt;td align="left"&gt;     Red Cards    &lt;/td&gt;     &lt;td&gt;     0    &lt;/td&gt;     &lt;td&gt;     1    &lt;/td&gt;    &lt;/tr&gt;    &lt;tr class="evenrow" align="right"&gt;     &lt;td align="left"&gt;     Saves    &lt;/td&gt;     &lt;td&gt;     1    &lt;/td&gt;     &lt;td&gt;     6&lt;/td&gt;&lt;/tr&gt;&lt;/tbody&gt;&lt;/table&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;This is indeed, the best present (after the Champions' Leagu&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;e'05) for all of us.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SM1m06mrcGI/AAAAAAAAAVU/hi_8KDjQKo8/s1600-h/15liverpoolzonecomae5.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SM1m06mrcGI/AAAAAAAAAVU/hi_8KDjQKo8/s320/15liverpoolzonecomae5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5245962200227213410" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SM1m0gMA89I/AAAAAAAAAVM/YWlZw5sJ-bc/s1600-h/12liverpoolzonecomkx9.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SM1m0gMA89I/AAAAAAAAAVM/YWlZw5sJ-bc/s320/12liverpoolzonecomkx9.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5245962193136055250" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" &gt;Qns : Why did Man U's starting midfielders, Carrick ,ScHoles &amp;amp; 'Ander's son'? were all substituted?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" &gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Ans : They could not perform cause they were outplayed by Liverpool's midfield, Alonso and Mascherano.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" &gt;Oh, and where's HaHaHagreaves?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; I saw him replacing 'S-Holes' but didn't see him playing on the pitch?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SM1m0yzwM1I/AAAAAAAAAVc/UKrIVp2xRME/s1600-h/26liverpoolzonecomsc1.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SM1m0yzwM1I/AAAAAAAAAVc/UKrIVp2xRME/s320/26liverpoolzonecomsc1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5245962198134567762" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SM1m8ql-qvI/AAAAAAAAAV0/CRF4Bdm3UZM/s1600-h/19liverpoolzonecomfc7.jpg"&gt;       &lt;img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SM1m8ql-qvI/AAAAAAAAAV0/CRF4Bdm3UZM/s320/19liverpoolzonecomfc7.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5245962333368265458" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SM1m1DgKAJI/AAAAAAAAAVk/s5BRhylsZ5A/s1600-h/1liverpoolzonecomyi2.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SM1m1DgKAJI/AAAAAAAAAVk/s5BRhylsZ5A/s320/1liverpoolzonecomyi2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5245962202615775378" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" &gt;This red card doesn't contribute much though. Clever move of staging an excuse for the lose.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" &gt;Off the stage you go 'retard-dic'.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SM1m1OXLzkI/AAAAAAAAAVs/yN6zX2R_Ikk/s1600-h/16liverpoolzonecomag9.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SM1m1OXLzkI/AAAAAAAAAVs/yN6zX2R_Ikk/s320/16liverpoolzonecomag9.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5245962205530934850" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;And of course, my 3 MOTM, Kuyt, Benayoun, and most importantly,&lt;br /&gt;Javier Mascherano.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SMxGED65S9I/AAAAAAAAAU8/orYbyHgpGYU/s1600-h/130908-mascherano-h2.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SMxGED65S9I/AAAAAAAAAU8/orYbyHgpGYU/s320/130908-mascherano-h2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5245644701565537234" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;YNWA&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" &gt;Sorry for being such a kiddish asshole, I just can't fucking help it, Man What?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" &gt;&lt;br /&gt;:D&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-9018072453186443726?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/9018072453186443726/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=9018072453186443726&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/9018072453186443726'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/9018072453186443726'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2008/09/victory.html' title='Victory'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SM1mTcitn3I/AAAAAAAAAVE/bB2moaBScuc/s72-c/liverpool21manutdar5.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-470663964659151520</id><published>2008-09-07T02:33:00.008+08:00</published><updated>2008-09-07T02:49:41.579+08:00</updated><title type='text'>Have you ever wonder?</title><content type='html'>Qns : Have you ever wonder how it would feel like to be traveling at the speed of light?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span&gt;Ans &lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;:&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt; I swear I wouldn't be late anymore. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-470663964659151520?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/470663964659151520/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=470663964659151520&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/470663964659151520'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/470663964659151520'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2008/09/have-you-ever-wonder.html' title='Have you ever wonder?'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-6967656846817182008</id><published>2008-09-02T04:26:00.006+08:00</published><updated>2008-09-02T05:00:56.871+08:00</updated><title type='text'>Rise &amp; Shine!</title><content type='html'>It's time to wake up early in the morning. Though I really hope I could. Quite a number of things are waiting for me to accomplish. In the midst of finding a job, whole lot of stress, and a quarter of the room not 'touched-up'. Rather, I've been trying my best to pack my room. Want a refreshing look (mainly due to my desk). I wish I could just swipe off all the things on my desk and leaving it empty! I just can't seem to discard those things which are of no use to me. I have a habit of keeping them. And that's totally opposes my mum. She just loves throwing every single 'treasure' she can find that are of no use in my room, or rather, our house I mean. And to her, everything has no use of value! Last but not least, transfer my clothes to a newer version of my closet. These should be the ones I'm going to spend my time on these few days, or maybe weeks? Earlier, had a quarrel with Jingxia. I was hopping mad that I scolded her. I guess I just snapped. It's a bit harsh on her perhaps. It's been inside of me for too long so I just exploded. Well, everything will be alright tomorrow. It's rise and shine time! Get up!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Shit all the fucking stress out from my asshole!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SLxUlvQTg8I/AAAAAAAAAU0/T4eL3aGbAlc/s1600-h/sublimeart.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SLxUlvQTg8I/AAAAAAAAAU0/T4eL3aGbAlc/s320/sublimeart.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241157073669161922" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;click to full view please.&lt;br /&gt;:D&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-6967656846817182008?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/6967656846817182008/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=6967656846817182008&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/6967656846817182008'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/6967656846817182008'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2008/09/rise-shine.html' title='Rise &amp; Shine!'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SLxUlvQTg8I/AAAAAAAAAU0/T4eL3aGbAlc/s72-c/sublimeart.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-7669387536477361850</id><published>2008-08-22T15:40:00.004+08:00</published><updated>2008-08-22T16:13:52.594+08:00</updated><title type='text'>The Last Sunrise</title><content type='html'>A mixed of emotions. Never felt this way before. I feel jubilant and sad and stress at the same time. I can't seem to find that loud voice I possess to shout that few alphabets. My jubilance gets the better of me when I'm in base. You could say that I'm making them feel worse. My sadness hides inside of me so nobody knows why. The stress in my head is turning my beauty sleep into a confined room. A room getting smaller by the hour as four walls seem to invade my personal space. A space I used to have. A space where my dream travels to and fro without any obstacle. Now, there is hardly any for me to breathe. Behind these four walls, there are still more walls. Behind more walls, there are walls surrounding these walls. As if there were translucent, I could look directly through them. And what I see every night, are thousands of walls. I am surrounded, confined by all of them.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SK50e1RrlpI/AAAAAAAAARE/hCIXE2CfFGE/s1600-h/ORD+LO%21+horizon.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SK50e1RrlpI/AAAAAAAAARE/hCIXE2CfFGE/s320/ORD+LO%21+horizon.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5237251489724602002" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-7669387536477361850?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/7669387536477361850/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=7669387536477361850&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/7669387536477361850'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/7669387536477361850'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2008/08/last-sunrise.html' title='The Last Sunrise'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SK50e1RrlpI/AAAAAAAAARE/hCIXE2CfFGE/s72-c/ORD+LO%21+horizon.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-3834729699997268829</id><published>2008-08-20T00:15:00.010+08:00</published><updated>2008-08-20T15:42:34.975+08:00</updated><title type='text'>How to waste one hour in the best place on earth.</title><content type='html'>I just can't help by typing it. ANGRY!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In order for us, okay. Apologies, no more US. I need not associate myself with them anymore. :) For me, I need to take a 15 - m i&lt;span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"&gt;ssss           &lt;/span&gt;n &lt;span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"&gt;sssssssss&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"&gt;ss&lt;/span&gt;           u  t                 &lt;span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"&gt;ssssss&lt;/span&gt;e&lt;span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"&gt;sssss&lt;/span&gt;     s - interval bus out to the MRT from the BEST place. There is no way you could walk out cause well, you may as well wait for a bus to take you out. That way, it is f  a          s &lt;span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"&gt;sssssss&lt;/span&gt;           t  &lt;span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 255);"&gt;eeeeeee&lt;/span&gt;  e      r. So I was waiting for the bus at point 1. By the fucking way, there are 3 areas to wait for the bus.  Back to the point, was waiting at point 1 at 1700 hrs.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SKsBzNTc55I/AAAAAAAAAQ8/AEnhiJC3gPU/s1600-h/Untitled-1.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SKsBzNTc55I/AAAAAAAAAQ8/AEnhiJC3gPU/s320/Untitled-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5236280971004536722" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;1715 | The bus reached. Uncle signalled the 'peace' sign to us. Meaning, 2 empty seats left. WTF? Alright. I guess the other bunch of people boarded at point 2. So no choice. Have to be kiasu abit, walk over to point 2 to wait so before the detour route, I am already on board. The next bus was supposed to reach at 1730. Okay, so I walked over to point 2.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;1730 | At point 2, looking at the number of people(around 30 plus?), I thought I was confirmed a place in that bus. So I did not hurry up when the bus arrived. I strolled up the bus confidently. Passed a few couple of empty seats to proceed to the back rows cause initially I thought I could have a seat with those I know. In the end, there wasn't any seats available at the back. So I turned back and the seats which I passed by earlier were already occupied. Oh stupid shit! I was the only one without seat I guess. If this wasn't unlucky, I have no idea what it was? So I hurried to squeeze seats with two of my friends. Due to the new rule that the bus can't afford people standing, I was chased out of the bus by the driver. Wonderful isn't it? I was furious! 1 leh, not 10 leh! Just me alone buay sai meh? What to do? Wonderful rule placed by the wonderful management. So I have to wait HERE at point 2 again. I fear the worse if I were to go over to point 3, in the midst of proceeding there, the bus might just drove past me and I will missing another bus! So I just stayed put at point 2 LOR.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;1745| Finally, sighted the bus. The bus went further without stopping and to point 1. Oh no, bad omen. This is bad. SIAO LIAO! True enough, the bus came to my point, BUT it didn't stop. I saw my friend on it waving to me. FULL AGAIN! WTF HOW FUCKING SWAY CAN I GET AH?! My red heart was crying out loud. I could hear the loud weeping from the outside. I walked to point 3 without any hesitation. While walking, I told my weeping heart, there isn't any use of being angry.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;1800 | Finally boarded the bus at point 3. YES! In the end, after detouring out. I counted the people on the bus with me. 10? FUCK THIS.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;'In my previous life/lives, I think I owed this wonderful organisation too much..' And I mean it so much. Why can't they organise more buses to fetch more people if they can organise an event with so many people involved? Well well well. Very well fucking soon, it'll be over. So I'll not frown. ;D&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-3834729699997268829?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/3834729699997268829/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=3834729699997268829&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/3834729699997268829'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/3834729699997268829'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2008/08/how-to-waste-one-hour-in-best-place-on.html' title='How to waste one hour in the best place on earth.'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SKsBzNTc55I/AAAAAAAAAQ8/AEnhiJC3gPU/s72-c/Untitled-1.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-1528073290778280965</id><published>2008-08-12T14:43:00.002+08:00</published><updated>2008-08-12T14:48:30.859+08:00</updated><title type='text'>Priceless</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SKExuMGZiaI/AAAAAAAAAQk/tc-prV9jI7I/s1600-h/priceless.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SKExuMGZiaI/AAAAAAAAAQk/tc-prV9jI7I/s320/priceless.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5233518911573035426" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;Seriously, the bag costs a bomb.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-1528073290778280965?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/1528073290778280965/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=1528073290778280965&amp;isPopup=true' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/1528073290778280965'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/1528073290778280965'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2008/08/priceless.html' title='Priceless'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SKExuMGZiaI/AAAAAAAAAQk/tc-prV9jI7I/s72-c/priceless.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-6528357160126653690</id><published>2008-07-29T03:03:00.003+08:00</published><updated>2008-07-29T03:06:55.453+08:00</updated><title type='text'>sublimeade</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SI4YLM_tX0I/AAAAAAAAAQc/8WXL5rZZgn8/s1600-h/sublimeade2.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SI4YLM_tX0I/AAAAAAAAAQc/8WXL5rZZgn8/s320/sublimeade2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5228142798169792322" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;Have a sip of my sublimeade. A theme for my portfolio I'm currently working on.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-6528357160126653690?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/6528357160126653690/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=6528357160126653690&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/6528357160126653690'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/6528357160126653690'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2008/07/sublimeade.html' title='sublimeade'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SI4YLM_tX0I/AAAAAAAAAQc/8WXL5rZZgn8/s72-c/sublimeade2.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-144939394607252503</id><published>2008-07-10T02:31:00.006+08:00</published><updated>2008-07-10T03:28:36.686+08:00</updated><title type='text'>Ignore Me Not.</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SHURUQPfLpI/AAAAAAAAAQU/7mGQflJFTSk/s1600-h/Untitled-2.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SHURUQPfLpI/AAAAAAAAAQU/7mGQflJFTSk/s320/Untitled-2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221098382660939410" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ignore Me Not series.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Situation : In today's context, almost everyone is indifferent about the way they act. The way they plead, ask for favour and everything else. They act like someone or God owed them anything. Even it is to ask for a favour, their indifferences make you feel indebted to them.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Asking&lt;/span&gt; for a favour is never about &lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;telling&lt;/span&gt; it to the other party.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Ask&lt;/span&gt; for a favour; &lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Stop&lt;/span&gt; making a statement."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-144939394607252503?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/144939394607252503/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=144939394607252503&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/144939394607252503'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/144939394607252503'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2008/07/ignore-me-not.html' title='Ignore Me Not.'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SHURUQPfLpI/AAAAAAAAAQU/7mGQflJFTSk/s72-c/Untitled-2.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-727359493284542837</id><published>2008-07-07T06:32:00.004+08:00</published><updated>2008-07-07T07:00:53.348+08:00</updated><title type='text'>Feel.</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SHFIVrOeG-I/AAAAAAAAAO8/CmEBdrmEaEo/s1600-h/Typography.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SHFIVrOeG-I/AAAAAAAAAO8/CmEBdrmEaEo/s320/Typography.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220032980316986338" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A picture paints a thousand words. This word speaks a thousand pictures. This picture is worth two thousand of words &lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;and&lt;/span&gt; pictures. How much are you worth?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-727359493284542837?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/727359493284542837/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=727359493284542837&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/727359493284542837'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/727359493284542837'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2008/07/feel.html' title='Feel.'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SHFIVrOeG-I/AAAAAAAAAO8/CmEBdrmEaEo/s72-c/Typography.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-1050921325867733431</id><published>2008-07-03T01:38:00.003+08:00</published><updated>2008-07-03T01:41:44.919+08:00</updated><title type='text'>Villa in Red</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SGu9cs1N-QI/AAAAAAAAAO0/Gmu-3NBY-6s/s1600-h/s4mdu1sx1.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SGu9cs1N-QI/AAAAAAAAAO0/Gmu-3NBY-6s/s320/s4mdu1sx1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5218472894007212290" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;I was browsing liverpoolzone's forum when I came upon this picture. It's incredible and I thought I share it with all my soccer readers! ^^ Doesn't this send chills down any other EPL clubs? That's funny.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-1050921325867733431?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/1050921325867733431/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=1050921325867733431&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/1050921325867733431'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/1050921325867733431'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2008/07/villa-in-red.html' title='Villa in Red'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SGu9cs1N-QI/AAAAAAAAAO0/Gmu-3NBY-6s/s72-c/s4mdu1sx1.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-2622839165231669225</id><published>2008-06-29T16:53:00.009+08:00</published><updated>2008-07-01T02:54:54.987+08:00</updated><title type='text'>Mambo Night</title><content type='html'>&lt;div style="text-align: left;"&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SGkqmq55tDI/AAAAAAAAAOs/hiXJbmKSxnE/s1600-h/feel+mambo.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SGkqmq55tDI/AAAAAAAAAOs/hiXJbmKSxnE/s320/feel+mambo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5217748487125972018" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;FEEL.&lt;br /&gt;Every Wednesday&lt;br /&gt;Free flow of colors till late.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-2622839165231669225?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/2622839165231669225/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=2622839165231669225&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/2622839165231669225'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/2622839165231669225'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2008/06/mambo-night.html' title='Mambo Night'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SGkqmq55tDI/AAAAAAAAAOs/hiXJbmKSxnE/s72-c/feel+mambo.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-8160142444929501908</id><published>2008-06-17T03:58:00.004+08:00</published><updated>2008-06-20T02:43:47.871+08:00</updated><title type='text'>Doto-Graphy</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SFbF_WOEs7I/AAAAAAAAAOE/elNIToQCVA8/s1600-h/pattern2.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SFbF_WOEs7I/AAAAAAAAAOE/elNIToQCVA8/s320/pattern2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5212571310814966706" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;Pieces of shit = Molecules&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-8160142444929501908?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/8160142444929501908/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=8160142444929501908&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/8160142444929501908'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/8160142444929501908'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2008/06/pieces-of-shit-under-microscope.html' title='Doto-Graphy'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SFbF_WOEs7I/AAAAAAAAAOE/elNIToQCVA8/s72-c/pattern2.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-7813454331610124717</id><published>2008-06-12T02:16:00.003+08:00</published><updated>2008-06-12T03:02:42.942+08:00</updated><title type='text'>Dusk for granted.</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SFAgzNYP6BI/AAAAAAAAAN8/C2XCy-X33as/s1600-h/combined.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SFAgzNYP6BI/AAAAAAAAAN8/C2XCy-X33as/s320/combined.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5210700833004447762" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;Rise and shine.. or fall?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-7813454331610124717?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/7813454331610124717/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=7813454331610124717&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/7813454331610124717'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/7813454331610124717'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2008/06/dusk-for-granted.html' title='Dusk for granted.'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SFAgzNYP6BI/AAAAAAAAAN8/C2XCy-X33as/s72-c/combined.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-3936239873157023417</id><published>2008-06-05T03:47:00.003+08:00</published><updated>2008-06-05T04:05:44.265+08:00</updated><title type='text'>Lights.</title><content type='html'>experiment with lights..&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SEbyIIPn3qI/AAAAAAAAANs/4RFAxkWtij8/s1600-h/lightsRBW.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SEbyIIPn3qI/AAAAAAAAANs/4RFAxkWtij8/s320/lightsRBW.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5208116240566443682" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SEbyIVqhH-I/AAAAAAAAAN0/jkxo0NkvNh8/s1600-h/lightlightsglows.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SEbyIVqhH-I/AAAAAAAAAN0/jkxo0NkvNh8/s320/lightlightsglows.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5208116244168908770" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SEbyH9K3r1I/AAAAAAAAANk/vG59wML0hrY/s1600-h/DSC00490.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SEbyH9K3r1I/AAAAAAAAANk/vG59wML0hrY/s320/DSC00490.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5208116237593718610" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's going to come to an end soon. Before I know it, it'll sting me like a bee. But it's better than to stay in that fucked up hole. It's the beginning of the end. I hope luck is on my side till the end. 12092008&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-3936239873157023417?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/3936239873157023417/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=3936239873157023417&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/3936239873157023417'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/3936239873157023417'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2008/06/lights.html' title='Lights.'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SEbyIIPn3qI/AAAAAAAAANs/4RFAxkWtij8/s72-c/lightsRBW.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-5682345541597804457</id><published>2008-05-27T01:20:00.003+08:00</published><updated>2008-06-11T06:22:33.540+08:00</updated><title type='text'>You make me so sick.</title><content type='html'>Maybe one day, the two of us going to face the final faceoff. I have no idea why you are becoming of this. This is disappointing for me to accept. I did not believe in that. Or at least, at that point of time, I did not believe the both of us would be nothing more than a myth. Now you have shown me all the possibilities of becoming of that. To savage this, I would really like to take some time off you. Or at least, some time to think and chase away all the ghosts you've sent.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You're scaring me.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-5682345541597804457?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/5682345541597804457/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=5682345541597804457&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/5682345541597804457'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/5682345541597804457'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2008/05/you-make-me-so-sick.html' title='You make me so sick.'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-7685607229126039347</id><published>2008-05-15T23:34:00.002+08:00</published><updated>2008-05-15T23:44:14.763+08:00</updated><title type='text'>*some text missing*</title><content type='html'>Colors/Gradient.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SCxZifPMHgI/AAAAAAAAANE/-5VFmoj2h5s/s1600-h/elaborate+purple.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SCxZifPMHgI/AAAAAAAAANE/-5VFmoj2h5s/s320/elaborate+purple.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5200630118741712386" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: left;"&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SCxZkPPMHhI/AAAAAAAAANM/6YIAAqJtGJ4/s1600-h/elaborateD6.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SCxZkPPMHhI/AAAAAAAAANM/6YIAAqJtGJ4/s320/elaborateD6.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5200630148806483474" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SCxZk_PMHiI/AAAAAAAAANU/DoRSu4yZx3w/s1600-h/elaborateD12.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SCxZk_PMHiI/AAAAAAAAANU/DoRSu4yZx3w/s320/elaborateD12.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5200630161691385378" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SCxZl_PMHjI/AAAAAAAAANc/ANZBDQq5Y40/s1600-h/elaborateD9.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SCxZl_PMHjI/AAAAAAAAANc/ANZBDQq5Y40/s320/elaborateD9.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5200630178871254578" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-7685607229126039347?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/7685607229126039347/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=7685607229126039347&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/7685607229126039347'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/7685607229126039347'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2008/05/some-text-missing.html' title='*some text missing*'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SCxZifPMHgI/AAAAAAAAANE/-5VFmoj2h5s/s72-c/elaborate+purple.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-8450895770363158556</id><published>2008-05-05T11:09:00.005+08:00</published><updated>2008-05-05T11:56:29.659+08:00</updated><title type='text'>A Chat with Adebayor</title><content type='html'>I was waiting for the bus, standing up and reading the Newpaper. I was plugged in to my iPod so I couldn't hear any surrounding sound. I was reading the sports section and it was an interview with Adebayor. As I was reading, my vision went black for a moment. Then I realised there was this black guy just beside me trying to ask me something. I guess he had been calling out to me quite a few times but as I was listening to the music, I couldn't hear it. So he reached out his hands and waved in front of my Newpaper. That's why I saw black for a moment. I took off my earphones and looked up. It's ADEBAYOR!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Adebayor, 'Hey, this bus to punggol plaza?'&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Me, 'Yeah, later when we're on board the bus, i'll tell you where to alight. I'm taking this bus as well.'&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Adebayor, 'Ok.'&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So we boarded the bus and after telling him where to alight,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Me, 'So you're going there for?'&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Adebayor, 'I don't know, walk around. How's the place, nice?'&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Me, 'It's not really that fantastic. Just a small mall. So where you're from?'&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Adebayor, 'I'm from Africa.. How about you?' (I was expecting Togo though.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Me (wtf isn't it obvious?), 'Huh? Of course I'm from Singapore.'&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Adebayor (showing a cheeky face, not believing me), 'Are you sure?'&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Me (wtf?), 'Yeah of course. I'm a Singaporean. I live here. Why? (Wtf?) Then where do you think I'm from?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Adebayor, 'Oh, you look like you're from Hong Kong.'&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Me, 'Nooo, I'm a Singaporean. :) (Yeah, I looked like the guy in those sex scandals who fucked female celebrites' reputations up, don't I?)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(Or is it that I'm fat?)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;His looks resembles Adebayor.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-8450895770363158556?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/8450895770363158556/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=8450895770363158556&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/8450895770363158556'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/8450895770363158556'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2008/05/chat-with-adebayor.html' title='A Chat with Adebayor'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-2705849781155812581</id><published>2008-05-01T23:28:00.004+08:00</published><updated>2008-05-02T00:39:15.872+08:00</updated><title type='text'>Chelsea 3 Liverpool 2</title><content type='html'>It hurts to think now. It ached to watch the second half of extra time. 15 long minutes to watch in pain as my favourite team went two goals behind. It's a torment to watch your favourite players tired up, but still running, trying their utmost best to push for goals. If I can sing, scream and shout all to evaporate those disappointing faces of Gerrard, Carragher, Torres, and company, I would. After a solid 90 minutes, I thought all was over but penalties shootout after extra time. I was anticipating us to pick up victory for the third time over them after they were denied a goal due to offside in extra time. I thought it was our night.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SBnv_vPk4uI/AAAAAAAAAMk/2_qrateHfr8/s1600-h/PROP080430-121-Chelsea_Liverpool.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SBnv_vPk4uI/AAAAAAAAAMk/2_qrateHfr8/s320/PROP080430-121-Chelsea_Liverpool.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195447523441173218" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But my thoughts were shattered minutes after that denied goal, a penalty was given against us! My both palms were cushioning the back of my head again. As I watched two goals conceded in the first period of the extra time, my heart sank.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SBnwAPPk4vI/AAAAAAAAAMs/T776jcXQeF0/s1600-h/PROP080430-129-Chelsea_Liverpool.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SBnwAPPk4vI/AAAAAAAAAMs/T776jcXQeF0/s320/PROP080430-129-Chelsea_Liverpool.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195447532031107826" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The living room was observed in silence throughout the remaining minutes of the extra time. For two Reds' fans sank into their seats while the third one, still biting his finger with intense anger and desperation, refusing to stop till his finger came off. The fourth watching the match is a neutral one as he watched on with the rest, he did not rub salt onto their wounds. Instead, he remained silence as he understands very well what it is like to be in this situation.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SBnwAPPk4wI/AAAAAAAAAM0/qEJuNJdYVWo/s1600-h/PROP300408_023_Chelsea_Liverpool.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SBnwAPPk4wI/AAAAAAAAAM0/qEJuNJdYVWo/s320/PROP300408_023_Chelsea_Liverpool.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195447532031107842" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Finally with the final whistle blown after the extra time, I let out a short cry, 'Good Game'. It was a good game indeed. We can still hold our heads high as there will always be another season. That's what Liverpool fans are about. We don't go around repaying a friend who took the effort to send the instant result with the scoreline not in favour to himself, by replying a text message saying, 'Yes! Liverpool sucks'. That's how a typical Chelsea/Manchester United fan would do. So I've learnt a lesson here.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And for Chelsea fans and Manchester United fans AND manager, you know nothing about winning by losing.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SBnwAfPk4xI/AAAAAAAAAM8/sskhBfvDAAM/s1600-h/PROP080430-126-Chelsea_Liverpool.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SBnwAfPk4xI/AAAAAAAAAM8/sskhBfvDAAM/s320/PROP080430-126-Chelsea_Liverpool.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195447536326075154" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;Yes, we've lost.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-2705849781155812581?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/2705849781155812581/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=2705849781155812581&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/2705849781155812581'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/2705849781155812581'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2008/05/chelsea-3-liverpool-2.html' title='Chelsea 3 Liverpool 2'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SBnv_vPk4uI/AAAAAAAAAMk/2_qrateHfr8/s72-c/PROP080430-121-Chelsea_Liverpool.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-3713785324754906994</id><published>2008-04-23T05:18:00.006+08:00</published><updated>2008-04-23T13:15:16.564+08:00</updated><title type='text'>Liverpool 1 Chelsea 1</title><content type='html'>&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SA7CFPPk4tI/AAAAAAAAAMc/PTU0O5Azgd8/s1600-h/The+cup+is+for+us+to+keep.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SA7CFPPk4tI/AAAAAAAAAMc/PTU0O5Azgd8/s320/The+cup+is+for+us+to+keep.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5192300815651758802" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Will this season be another season we lift up this new trophy?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SA7CEvPk4sI/AAAAAAAAAMU/olaTocihzWo/s1600-h/riiseog_SteP.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SA7CEvPk4sI/AAAAAAAAAMU/olaTocihzWo/s320/riiseog_SteP.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5192300807061824194" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;Or will it be another disappointing trophy-less season for us?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: left;"&gt;No one's fault to concede a late away goal. Despite that, I'm still confident we can reach the final. Push the blame to Yugi Wu JunRu instead of 'Thunderbolt' Riise. Cause the reason is simple, You'll Never Walk Alone. :)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A Classic Example - SOME Liverpool fans still singing out loud after Liverpool lost 3 nil to Manchester United at Old Trafford&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;They sing,&lt;br /&gt;'His armband proved he was a red&lt;br /&gt;Torres Torres&lt;br /&gt;You'll Never Walk Alone it said&lt;br /&gt;Torres Torres&lt;br /&gt;We bought the lad from sunny spain&lt;br /&gt;He gets the ball he scores again&lt;br /&gt;Fernando Torres, Liverpool's number nine&lt;br /&gt;Nanar Nanar Nanar....&lt;br /&gt;Fernando Torres, Liverpool's number nine.'&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;object height="355" width="425"&gt;&lt;param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/EKoPLt_coFI&amp;amp;hl=en"&gt;&lt;param name="wmode" value="transparent"&gt;&lt;embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/EKoPLt_coFI&amp;amp;hl=en" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" height="355" width="425"&gt;&lt;/embed&gt;&lt;/object&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-3713785324754906994?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/3713785324754906994/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=3713785324754906994&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/3713785324754906994'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/3713785324754906994'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2008/04/liverpool-1-chelsea-1.html' title='Liverpool 1 Chelsea 1'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SA7CFPPk4tI/AAAAAAAAAMc/PTU0O5Azgd8/s72-c/The+cup+is+for+us+to+keep.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-6779333950378669670</id><published>2008-04-12T17:57:00.003+08:00</published><updated>2008-04-12T18:01:44.218+08:00</updated><title type='text'>sublimes for grab</title><content type='html'>&lt;div style="text-align: left;"&gt;experimental sublimes..&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SACH9CSeguI/AAAAAAAAAL8/l47YAIdXZus/s1600-h/smallcaps+sublime.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SACH9CSeguI/AAAAAAAAAL8/l47YAIdXZus/s320/smallcaps+sublime.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5188296253386949346" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SACH9SSegvI/AAAAAAAAAME/37PdF8dl8-s/s1600-h/smallcaps+sublime2.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SACH9SSegvI/AAAAAAAAAME/37PdF8dl8-s/s320/smallcaps+sublime2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5188296257681916658" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SACH9iSegwI/AAAAAAAAAMM/5lYNj3FwoGU/s1600-h/smallcaps+sublime3.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SACH9iSegwI/AAAAAAAAAMM/5lYNj3FwoGU/s320/smallcaps+sublime3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5188296261976883970" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-6779333950378669670?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/6779333950378669670/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=6779333950378669670&amp;isPopup=true' title='5 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/6779333950378669670'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/6779333950378669670'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2008/04/experimental-sublimes.html' title='sublimes for grab'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/SACH9CSeguI/AAAAAAAAAL8/l47YAIdXZus/s72-c/smallcaps+sublime.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>5</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-3597544626146442251</id><published>2008-03-31T21:26:00.019+08:00</published><updated>2008-04-02T13:48:25.792+08:00</updated><title type='text'>An Addict in 5 Days of Hell</title><content type='html'>An addict was being isolated in a cell and his drug was taken away from him for 5 days. He could not initiate communicate with the outside world and what's left of him was a bed to sleep on and a phone that couldn't make outgoing calls. He could only endure for 5 long days and wait for help to arrive.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Day 1&lt;br /&gt;06:50am&lt;br /&gt;29 March 2008, Saturday&lt;br /&gt;As the phone goes dead, my heart rate slows down. I monitored it for more than hours. I just can't get to sleep. The side effect sets in, I guess. This is going to haunt me for a long long time..&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Day 2&lt;br /&gt;11:30am&lt;br /&gt;30 March 2008, Sunday&lt;br /&gt;I stare into void. Can I do this on my own? The odds are against me. I look on as there's a long way ahead of me. I can't help by taking in numerous deep breath. Sitting at the corner of this dark and frightening cell, I can't help by sob in tears. All these may make me look more like an addict but I guess I can't help much..&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Day 3&lt;br /&gt;10:30pm&lt;br /&gt;31st March 2008, Monday&lt;br /&gt;Waiting for the phone to ring, I anticipated it ten over times today. I feel jaded. There's something missing and I don't feel right. Is this the way how it should be? As my kicks set in, I tremble in fear and uncertainty. I just can't kick the habit of breathing heavily but yet, I survived the third day. Somehow or somewhat, I survived so far just to hang on to that very day. Till then, I know hanging on is the only solution..&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Day 4&lt;br /&gt;11:10pm&lt;br /&gt;1 April 2008, Tuesday&lt;br /&gt;The phone rings! I rush over but by the time I pick it up, the line goes dead! I throw the phone on the floor. It is completely useless! My respiration system stalls. I can't breathe easy. It's amazing how my body could resist this far till the fourth day. I thought I was going to give way. I thought I was never going to find Sunday. Without able to get to you is torturous. This ordeal is tearing me apart. But everything is coming to an end soon. This addiction is making me paranoid as I tremble under my blanket, in this place I call Hell..&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Day 5&lt;br /&gt;12:25 pm&lt;br /&gt;2 April 2008, Wednesday&lt;br /&gt;Everything is coming to an end real soon. This Hell, this ordeal and these torments are worthwhile in exchange for your return. One more day. I shall wait impatiently for your return for this addiction I've been craving for, is by far, the sweetest addiction I've ever craved for.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;p.s; lydd, you're the one that addict craves for and you're my drug, my sweetest addiction :)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-3597544626146442251?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/3597544626146442251/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=3597544626146442251&amp;isPopup=true' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/3597544626146442251'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/3597544626146442251'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2008/03/day-1-29-march-2008-0650-as-phone-goes.html' title='An Addict in 5 Days of Hell'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-8339961828375306204</id><published>2008-03-16T05:24:00.014+08:00</published><updated>2008-03-18T13:50:01.086+08:00</updated><title type='text'>Devil's Snap.</title><content type='html'>Hi, my name is Anna. I worked as a photographer previously in one of the top creative company. I enjoyed snapping from anything and everything to nothing. Whatever it is, I loved taking photographs and I loved my job. My cabinet contained my collection of Single-Lens Reflex cameras, from Canon D10 to Nikon D80. I had them all. I spent nearly all my savings on lenses, films, cameras, tripods and everything about photography. But there's a camera that I adored. That Polaroid camera was everything to me. Everywhere I go, it follow suit. Photography was my life and my life was photography. Till one day. An incident I will never forget. It robbed me of 'my life'.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It was a Thursday night. The row of plants by the side of the pavement looked battered tonight. The badminton court was occupied by a few flirting cats. The orchestra coming from the bushes sounded heavier tonight. All the six-legged creatures came out earlier due to the late noon downpour. The paint work done this morning at the bus stop was smeared. Drips of red paint falling from the roof and patches of red footsteps directing away from the shelter.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I alighted from the bus and walked home after another tiring day at work. I avoided the smeared paint on the ground and hopped to safety. I continued my way on Dead Street. I called my area Dead Street simply cause every night after eight, it would be so quiet that it seemed that the Dead occupied these entire rows of houses. I passed by the usual houses and to the route back to my house. It was on the pavement, I saw him.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He was walking slowly with a crippled leg. He moved inch by inch towards the grassland ahead. His dirty brown robe made him look so shabby from the back. He had his hood up and all I could see was a dark figure against the grassland up ahead. He dragged what looked like a long pole on his left. Every step he took, the pole screeched on the wet pavement. He was walking some distance in front of me. I thought I should capture the scene down with my Polaroid but the screeching sound is far too much for this Dead street. So after taking the photograph, I hasten my pace and caught up with him.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What greeted me shocked the hell out of my life and I wished that I could faint on the spot than to witness the whole entire scene. I thought it was so dark that his hood had nothing in it. I mean, there wasn't anything in that hood! There was no face, nothing! I stared unbelievably at the 'darkness' of the hood. I inced back and fell on my ass. My butt was stuck to the ground. I could not react accordingly to what my brain instructed me to. Sitting there like a helpless kid, my hands were trembling tremendously. The pole he was holding was actually a scythe! That of what the Grim Reaper carries! Or was he Grim Reaper?!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He bent down and reached for my polaroid camera on the ground which I probably dropped while I was struggling to come to terms when I saw him. He turned his direction to me. He stared straight in my eyes. I could feel bloodshot in my eyes. I swear to god, even though there wasn't anything in that hood of his, I could tell that his 'invisible' eyes were glaring at me! After which felt like a decade, he switched his focus back to the polaroid camera. He inced out his hand and faced the camera towards his face. Just like how we would take photographs of ourselves, he did it in the same fashion! I was dumbfounded. After the flashlight shone, the polaroid camera released the instant film. He took the instant film and put it in his robe. With that, he placed the polariod camera on the ground where he took it and flew right through me!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After this horrifying incident, I threw away all my photographic equipments. I promised myself I will never touch cameras again. And please believe me, I plead you. I need someone to. Till now, this footage is still playing at the back of my head..&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/R9xYwphX8UI/AAAAAAAAALU/zAuKqJaUPfI/s1600-h/Angles_by_LazyGunn.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/R9xYwphX8UI/AAAAAAAAALU/zAuKqJaUPfI/s320/Angles_by_LazyGunn.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5178111264372027714" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: right;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;font-size:78%;" &gt;Picture; http://lazygunn.deviantart.com/&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-8339961828375306204?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/8339961828375306204/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=8339961828375306204&amp;isPopup=true' title='5 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/8339961828375306204'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/8339961828375306204'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2008/03/snap-to-remember.html' title='Devil&apos;s Snap.'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/R9xYwphX8UI/AAAAAAAAALU/zAuKqJaUPfI/s72-c/Angles_by_LazyGunn.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>5</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-1174838917170822677</id><published>2008-02-29T01:55:00.006+08:00</published><updated>2008-02-29T02:27:38.692+08:00</updated><title type='text'>Her Sweet Smile.</title><content type='html'>&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/R8b82LRqdNI/AAAAAAAAAIs/Slql0fIxpEM/s1600-h/colors+copy.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/R8b82LRqdNI/AAAAAAAAAIs/Slql0fIxpEM/s320/colors+copy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5172099229751604434" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;Watching the orange sun sometimes make me feel alive&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;For I know you'll be there just like the sky always do for the sun&lt;br /&gt;You tint the dark blue sky so bright tonight&lt;br /&gt;Would the moon feel threatened with you on my right?&lt;br /&gt;You are just like those stars saturating the dark dull sky&lt;br /&gt;Baby, could I be the one you feel all night?&lt;br /&gt;How did I manage to find such a sweet girl in the dark?&lt;br /&gt;For your smiles make me feel so good so right.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;Well, I'm in love.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-1174838917170822677?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/1174838917170822677/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=1174838917170822677&amp;isPopup=true' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/1174838917170822677'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/1174838917170822677'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2008/02/her-sweet-smile.html' title='Her Sweet Smile.'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/R8b82LRqdNI/AAAAAAAAAIs/Slql0fIxpEM/s72-c/colors+copy.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-6174066847359026093</id><published>2008-02-25T22:03:00.010+08:00</published><updated>2008-02-28T04:11:37.567+08:00</updated><title type='text'>The Complacent Heaven Knight</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/R8MiWLRqdLI/AAAAAAAAAIc/22JDuE4tlYQ/s1600-h/fuckpain4.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/R8MiWLRqdLI/AAAAAAAAAIc/22JDuE4tlYQ/s320/fuckpain4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5171014561530803378" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;If you think celebrating a battle means victory, think again.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The visitor charged with great haste and hatred while the host held their shields to defend their motherland with utmost determination. It was the ugliest dispute between two countries. Since the early years, they had not been in good terms. Finally, both of these countries put their dislikes for each other into action. Both troops clashed.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He was the greatest knight ever. He was named 'The Heaven Knight'. He held his left arm up. The sword in his arm was projected high up, dyed with fresh red blood. He dropped his jaw wide open and shouted in victory after the sword pierced down the throat of his opposition. He enjoyed celebrating his kill in this fashion.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He carried on with eliminating his opposition. One after another, he slitted the throat and celebrated in his fashion. He held his left arm up. The sword in his arm was projected high up, dyed with fresh red blood. He dropped his jaw wide open and shouted in victory after he pierced his sword down the heart of his opposition. He tried to yell louder this time, but no voice came out. Instead, he splattered fresh red blood out. Coming through his throat was a sharp blade. It was a sword penetrated through by one of his opposition from behind as he was celebrating his kill. Blood splattered out as he dropped dead on the ground.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Dead was the Heaven Knight, killed by a random soldier. His death was due to his complacency. Shouldn't he be looking at the bigger picture? Complacency was well worth in this case. Now that the Heaven Knight has gone to hell, I shall rename him 'The Hell Knight'.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Would you rather win hundred battles to a war?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-6174066847359026093?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/6174066847359026093/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=6174066847359026093&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/6174066847359026093'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/6174066847359026093'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2008/02/heaven-knight-in-bigger-picture.html' title='The Complacent Heaven Knight'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/R8MiWLRqdLI/AAAAAAAAAIc/22JDuE4tlYQ/s72-c/fuckpain4.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-6073189185978026369</id><published>2008-02-20T00:09:00.004+08:00</published><updated>2008-02-20T00:27:10.300+08:00</updated><title type='text'>Your Night Companion.</title><content type='html'>Do you still remember those nights? Have you ever feel remorse for what you did? You didn't try to make it work. You didn't even bother to care about me anymore. Those nights I would watch you to sleep. Those nights you would just hug me without saying anything. I did not question about anything you'd done. How could you do this to me? I did not care if you were fooling around. It does not matter at all. All I ask for is you to come home every night.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;If you could just pick me up from underneath..&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Everytime you would lie by my side. Eveytime you would hug me to sleep. Everytime, oh why? How I wish I could return the favour. How I wish my arms could reach out too. That if I've got any. That if you still care. Now that everything isn't the same anymore, I couldn't even walk out on my own.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;If you could catch me from beneath..&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You brought her home, she threw me off our room. Beneath the place I called home. The place we would lay on every night. Now, it's only a bed for both of you. If only, I could speak up. If only I could spread my arms. I would not be here, under the bed I called home. No one care anymore. For I am just your sleeping bolster.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;I'm going under..&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-6073189185978026369?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/6073189185978026369/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=6073189185978026369&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/6073189185978026369'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/6073189185978026369'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2008/02/your-night-companion.html' title='Your Night Companion.'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-5413763977027751946</id><published>2008-02-18T00:54:00.006+08:00</published><updated>2008-02-22T03:00:06.319+08:00</updated><title type='text'>Gone.</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/R7hm9LRqdHI/AAAAAAAAAH8/Z35IAH0Whx0/s1600-h/revive2.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/R7hm9LRqdHI/AAAAAAAAAH8/Z35IAH0Whx0/s320/revive2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5167993773592573042" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/R7waG7RqdII/AAAAAAAAAIE/wiMzGaknkpc/s1600-h/Please.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/R7waG7RqdII/AAAAAAAAAIE/wiMzGaknkpc/s320/Please.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5169035178607801474" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/R7wfc7RqdJI/AAAAAAAAAIM/zsx6tw0PFsw/s1600-h/designsucks.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/R7wfc7RqdJI/AAAAAAAAAIM/zsx6tw0PFsw/s320/designsucks.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5169041054123062418" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/R73HPLRqdKI/AAAAAAAAAIU/ixLX4jLK9KE/s1600-h/r3.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/R73HPLRqdKI/AAAAAAAAAIU/ixLX4jLK9KE/s320/r3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5169507010830038178" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;testing out some of my brushes and fonts; in the process of reviving my portfolio :(&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/R73HPLRqdKI/AAAAAAAAAIU/ixLX4jLK9KE/s1600-h/r3.jpg"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-5413763977027751946?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/5413763977027751946/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=5413763977027751946&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/5413763977027751946'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/5413763977027751946'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2008/02/gone.html' title='Gone.'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/R7hm9LRqdHI/AAAAAAAAAH8/Z35IAH0Whx0/s72-c/revive2.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-3152710091108439273</id><published>2008-01-30T23:22:00.000+08:00</published><updated>2008-01-30T23:33:27.076+08:00</updated><title type='text'>This Gift</title><content type='html'>I know it's a gift from you. Though it means no other than a piece of paper to me, I still treasure this gift. Thank you angel. I'll be leaving you in eight months time but I will never forget the sea you're living in.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-3152710091108439273?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/3152710091108439273/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=3152710091108439273&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/3152710091108439273'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/3152710091108439273'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2008/01/this-gift.html' title='This Gift'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-7709128564471210809</id><published>2008-01-29T01:01:00.000+08:00</published><updated>2008-01-29T01:03:39.120+08:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;I miss you&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-7709128564471210809?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/7709128564471210809/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=7709128564471210809&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/7709128564471210809'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/7709128564471210809'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2008/01/i-miss-you.html' title=''/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-1903349347677504392</id><published>2008-01-25T03:28:00.001+08:00</published><updated>2008-05-02T03:59:06.896+08:00</updated><title type='text'>My Death Note</title><content type='html'>If you find me lying in the coffin, please do not call my name. I don't wish to shed any tears but do burn me with my favourite photographs.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Incineration may turn me into ashes. My destination may seem faraway. Though I am gone forever, I will still always remember you.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I may died of overdosing of pills. I may died of natural death but the reason for my death isn't important. Cause the key to my life is having something to die for.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Those laughters I had brought, those places I had been to will always be a part of me. For they are all pieces of the life I had before.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Before I forget,  can you do me a favor?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Please smile at my funeral.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-1903349347677504392?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/1903349347677504392/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=1903349347677504392&amp;isPopup=true' title='4 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/1903349347677504392'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/1903349347677504392'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2008/01/little-note-to-be-noted.html' title='My Death Note'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><thr:total>4</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-9162914379348854702</id><published>2008-01-07T20:30:00.000+08:00</published><updated>2008-01-07T21:10:08.093+08:00</updated><title type='text'>Signs</title><content type='html'>Are you telling me something? Or are you trying to make me fall once again? It's been a long journey from where I started. I'm here because of myself, not anyone. Those memories, they are going to stay with me till both of my legs are in the coffin. You could never take them away from me. That bus stop contained all of our memories. You're already gone, so why bother to take them away? It's gone now, are you happy? Those happy times are gone too. These signs, what are you trying to tell me? If you want to tell me something, come straight to me. I will be waiting for you in my dreams. Stop doing this. If you think by removing these elements in my life could make me feel better, grow up my angel.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-9162914379348854702?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/9162914379348854702/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=9162914379348854702&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/9162914379348854702'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/9162914379348854702'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2008/01/signs.html' title='Signs'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-7628477435668134307</id><published>2007-12-30T03:32:00.000+08:00</published><updated>2007-12-30T04:38:02.208+08:00</updated><title type='text'>Without you, I'm nothing.</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/R3awFtbbxoI/AAAAAAAAAH0/ukpV-ptNAJ0/s1600-h/eye.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/R3awFtbbxoI/AAAAAAAAAH0/ukpV-ptNAJ0/s320/eye.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5149496836085237378" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;I owned everything to him. It caused him his life, and duly, served me right. The guilt fencing around my heart robbed me of every possible way of regenerating new cell membrane in my head. Those nights I've never thought I would make it and those times I've never thought of running through are all additional burdens. Who said &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;What doesn't kill you makes you stronger&lt;/span&gt;? I am still standing here, with my two feet on the ground and both arms raising high, taking these fucking torments in my stride, not able to continue what I was supposed to. I was not made to be like what I am now, but I was forced to. I'd never believe in drinking my sorrows away. Now that I do, those enlightenment don't seem to make sense anymore. Does my wrongdoing serve any purpose? If that's so, please tell me so, GOD. Please grant me that halo you've given to countless of angels. I need it so badly than any other divines cause what these I've been through were much worse than anyone of them had! If I was the one at fault, punish me you bag. If you thought that having him gone could make my heart bled for the rest of my life, reflecting on the wrongdoing I'd make, well fuck you! If you believe in karma, I believe in having chain anal sex with all the Men in the Multiverse!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;To my best mate, you're like a brother to me. My negligence cost you your life, I would never forgive myself. For everything that GOD had given me, I overcame them. Without you, I'm nothing. These eyes of mine seeing you all over me. This should be the solution to the root. I dug my eyes out and replaced with yours but it got worse.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now, with my new looks exactly like yours, I thought this ordeal would stop but I was wrong again. Nothing exists without you. With you in and out of me, should I kill you a second time?&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-7628477435668134307?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/7628477435668134307/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=7628477435668134307&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/7628477435668134307'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/7628477435668134307'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2007/12/without-you-im-nothing.html' title='Without you, I&apos;m nothing.'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/R3awFtbbxoI/AAAAAAAAAH0/ukpV-ptNAJ0/s72-c/eye.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-7852314811012052939</id><published>2007-12-28T15:18:00.001+08:00</published><updated>2008-08-25T00:09:31.521+08:00</updated><title type='text'>Face your darkest fear.</title><content type='html'>I was brought to reality once again. I woke up only to find myself contained high up in the sky. I thought I was falling down. I shut my eyes. But there wasn't any wind resistance. I peeked. No doubt I was still lying down, the bright blue sky was still there. I was still here. I was lying on thin air? I got up and felt the ground I was lying on. Glass. I was lying on transparent glass here in the middle of the skies? What the fuck? I stood up and trembled as I looked down what's beneath me. Forests, islands and waters! My legs failed me immediately. I collapsed on the glass. I was too high up here, I couldn't breathe. I gasped for oxygen and I couldn't believe it. The air up here was so fresh. Lying motionlessly, I was too afraid to move an inch. I was so scared that I would just drop. I was trembling with fear. What seemed to be for hours, I lied there, not moving a muscle for height was one of my greatest fear.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I felt a tingle in my spine. I heard it. A crack. I tilted my head and I saw something cracked. Another crack followed by a whole series of cracking sound! The glass was cracking! Oh no! I restricted my movement and slowly got up. The glass is giving way! I ran away from the cracking glass and away. The next thing I realised, I was running so far away. The entire ground I was standing on was glass and the cracking did not stop! It was spreading so fast that the whole ground would break in no time! The glass behind me cracked opened and the next thing I knew it, I was being pursuit by flying cockroaches! I ran as fast as I could. Imagine being chased by thousands of roaches and running like a lunatic in mid air. This must be another nightmare again! I must wake up.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Suddenly, the glass gave way. I fell. Down and out, I opened my eyes. Darkness surrounded me. I tried to reach for anything around me. I felt so itchy. I felt this lever on top of me and I pushed it open. I saw light and the box I was in was falling! I was lying in a coffin of roaches! Thousands and millions of them! All over me. I screamed as the coffin door shut itself on me. I felt these roaches reaching all over me and I was falling. As I lied in the falling dark coffin with roaches all over me, I knew it. All these, were not any of those nightmares I had before. They were my darkest fears. There wasn't any exit for me now.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-7852314811012052939?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/7852314811012052939/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=7852314811012052939&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/7852314811012052939'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/7852314811012052939'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2007/12/face-your-darkest-fear.html' title='Face your darkest fear.'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-4988620286309647679</id><published>2007-12-24T14:13:00.002+08:00</published><updated>2008-03-18T13:14:55.433+08:00</updated><title type='text'>The Sweetest Christmas Present.</title><content type='html'>There was this little boy named Evan. He was ten years old. All he wanted for Christmas was to play happily with his friends. But he couldn't even walk without gasping for breath, let alone running around with his friends. He spent most of his time on the wheel chair. The chemotherapy had shed all of his hair, leaving him with none on top. Looking like an alien from outer space, his face turned paler as each day passed by. It was soon to be. His time was in due course, leaving this world soon and having his days numbered. He knew all this but just by smiling all day long, he could keep everyone around him stronger, happier by each day.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;One night, his younger sister, Alma was at home alone while Evan was away for chemotherapy. She always refused to let anyone touch her hair. She was obsessed with her silky long hair despite her young age. That night, she was ransacking the whole house for something. Finally, she found what she wanted. A pair of scissors! She looked in the mirror on the dressing table and started cutting her long silky hair!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Her parents and Evan were back. Alma rushed to the door. With her hair messed up, her parents were taken aback by what happened. Alma handed her hair to her bald brother and with a smile on her face,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Merry Christmas Evan, this is my Christmas present for you!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;object height="355" width="425"&gt;&lt;param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/vl53j_-JRY4&amp;amp;rel=1"&gt;&lt;param name="wmode" value="transparent"&gt;&lt;embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/vl53j_-JRY4&amp;amp;rel=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" height="355" width="425"&gt;&lt;/embed&gt;&lt;/object&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;A story I edited from this video. Enjoy.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-4988620286309647679?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/4988620286309647679/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=4988620286309647679&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/4988620286309647679'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/4988620286309647679'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2007/12/your-christmas-present.html' title='The Sweetest Christmas Present.'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-2411237406153634982</id><published>2007-12-24T12:54:00.000+08:00</published><updated>2007-12-24T13:07:30.147+08:00</updated><title type='text'>Merry Christmas Eve</title><content type='html'>Merry Christmas Eve to all! While all of you are enjoying, celebrating, partying and drinking, there is a person who is unable to do what you are doing. He is busying PROTECTING while all of you are counting down the Christmas. That person is not Santa Claus. He is no other than ME!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I hate my job. Well, I'll try to write a sad Christmas story for all of you guys to read.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Merry Christmas to you too.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;:/&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-2411237406153634982?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/2411237406153634982/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=2411237406153634982&amp;isPopup=true' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/2411237406153634982'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/2411237406153634982'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2007/12/merry-christmas-eve.html' title='Merry Christmas Eve'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-8348033450793473066</id><published>2007-12-22T19:04:00.000+08:00</published><updated>2007-12-22T19:08:57.340+08:00</updated><title type='text'>(Untitled Post)</title><content type='html'>&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;I can feel it.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Can you feel it too?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-8348033450793473066?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/8348033450793473066/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=8348033450793473066&amp;isPopup=true' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/8348033450793473066'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/8348033450793473066'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2007/12/untitled-post.html' title='(Untitled Post)'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-3288988465966905300</id><published>2007-12-16T02:29:00.000+08:00</published><updated>2007-12-22T06:18:15.063+08:00</updated><title type='text'>The Ghost Of You</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/R2Qu1tbbxmI/AAAAAAAAAHk/rpiRaU8eBSE/s1600-h/dreamywave03.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/R2Qu1tbbxmI/AAAAAAAAAHk/rpiRaU8eBSE/s320/dreamywave03.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5144288174626555490" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's enough, honey. It's time to stop this. It's been two and a half years. You do not need to punish me by doing this. Moreover, I did nothing wrong. It was you, remember? If I was the one begging for communication, then be it a one-way drive. But the communication I was pleading for isn't what you think it is. Just the two of us, and only consists what's between us, that's all. If you think having multiple parties is fun, like what history depicted itself, I won't approve that. Stop sending third parties like what you did all this while. You're not helping me at all. Your possessions are all stored in this silly little yellow box. &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;A silly yellow box, that's all.  Stop wasting my time. You are no longer here. I'm still a part of this world. Do me a favour, baby. Stop your hauntings. Those torments are alarming. They are tearing my head apart. It's going to burst any minute.&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span&gt;Stop those ghosts from coming here again.&lt;/span&gt; It's getting nowhere, &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;really&lt;/span&gt;. I've got over your death so please stop being selfish. Let me live my life. If all these hallucinations were genuine, then you're fake. Stop freaking me out, leave me alone. &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Are you out there?&lt;br /&gt;No, you're not.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;I am afraid, so afraid..&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-3288988465966905300?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/3288988465966905300/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=3288988465966905300&amp;isPopup=true' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/3288988465966905300'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/3288988465966905300'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2007/12/are-you-out-there.html' title='The Ghost Of You'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/R2Qu1tbbxmI/AAAAAAAAAHk/rpiRaU8eBSE/s72-c/dreamywave03.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-2040147611555015153</id><published>2007-12-06T02:15:00.000+08:00</published><updated>2007-12-22T06:21:21.916+08:00</updated><title type='text'>Desaturated tragedy.</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/R1cFNe_-dqI/AAAAAAAAAHU/P0sVXCAWmbY/s1600-h/Zx-colors.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/R1cFNe_-dqI/AAAAAAAAAHU/P0sVXCAWmbY/s320/Zx-colors.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5140583228884547234" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Well trapped in this transparent cube I called home, I'd sometimes yearned to roam the world on the other side. Though she provided me with everything I needed, I was never satisfied. From the color stones to the color marbles she changed, I'd never once interested with those. I only played with the mini soft ball she bought when she was around looking on. She did everything she thought was necessary to give me an extravagant life. She even placed our photo just outside my tank allowing me to admire. &lt;span&gt;She doted on me so much.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; Lucky&lt;/span&gt; was the name she gave me but I did not even know her name! I was the luckiest chameleon. A pretty owner and a pretty cube I called home. What more could I ask for?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;How I wish I could lie with you.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"&gt;I turned blue.&lt;/span&gt; She had this guy to argue with every night. He was one of the ugliest man I've ever seen. He was much worse than her old man! If I ever had the chance to unleash, he would be dead before me. Why would humans like my pretty owner chose a beast like him to be a partner? She would cried for hours in front of me. I couldn't understand much. She was a human being afterall.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;If you could give me one chance. Just once.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"&gt;I turned red.&lt;/span&gt; That beast was staring at me. I couldn't tolerate his behavior anymore. Making faces and knocking on my tank, he was courting death! He reached in for me. &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;My chance!&lt;/span&gt; I took a bite and bit off his finger! He landed on the floor screaming for help. I was out of the cube by now and I took my chance well. I reached my tongue aiming straight to his eyes. He was rolling on the floor helplessly. He grabbed my tail and threw me against the wall. I was so white. I couldn't breathe! I was gasping for breath as..&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;I died a happy pet. This tragedy.. is a worthy one.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;She came into the room and scoped me up with both of her hands. She cuddled me and I felt tears. Finally, all those tears, these were for me. I smiled as she kissed me. I died a happy green chameleon. My death brought me life. Finally I repaid her. If there's one thing I could exchange my colors with,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;I would like to learn your name.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-2040147611555015153?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/2040147611555015153/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=2040147611555015153&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/2040147611555015153'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/2040147611555015153'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2007/12/desaturated-tragedy.html' title='Desaturated tragedy.'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/R1cFNe_-dqI/AAAAAAAAAHU/P0sVXCAWmbY/s72-c/Zx-colors.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-8518319453122402030</id><published>2007-11-30T04:43:00.000+08:00</published><updated>2007-12-02T19:22:37.452+08:00</updated><title type='text'>War of Cowardice</title><content type='html'>I was in the middle of a battlefield. Gun shots, explosion filled the entire forest. Rooted to the spot, I was spinning, looking on desperately as comrades and enemies charging at each other all around me. I was unarmed, without any ammunition or did I forget that I was holding a rifle around me? Who were those people? I tried to shoot but I couldn't! Who were my comrades? Who were those enemies? Nothing on the field could render any help in recognising who were whom. Suddenly, something struck me. The next minute, I was running all around, escaping. Away and far from where they were. But I could not find any cover. Like a lunatic just escaped from the asylum, I sprinted so fast that I could match a deer! I ran in all directions. I could tell there were a lot of eyes looking at me but I kept on running cause I couldn't stop! A few of them were chasing me, trying to grab me, trying to pin me down. This battle was too much for me. All that was left in me was cowardice and desperation. I witnessed dying bodies lying everywhere, fresh blood dyeing the green forest red. I could not remember how long and how far I ran. Finally, I guess I was caught.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was drenched in perspiration. I was in a room with people surrounding me. What have I done? I was wet from head to toe. Those people were not the enemies, they were my teachers. Why was I here? Finally, I woke up and my head was in pain. I threw up. Was something trying to reenact the scene using me? Or was I that coward once?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-8518319453122402030?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/8518319453122402030/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=8518319453122402030&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/8518319453122402030'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/8518319453122402030'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2007/11/war-of-cowardice.html' title='War of Cowardice'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-350072123991786517</id><published>2007-11-29T00:21:00.000+08:00</published><updated>2007-11-29T01:22:01.009+08:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>So busy I didn't have time to. I've been searching for nice tees but I couldn't find any. So I came up with something simple. Hopefully, cheap too. Have been doing this like forever but never did. Now wishing something could come out of this real soon. I will try to get new stories back here, but meanwhile stay with me!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/R02i9wXM-BI/AAAAAAAAAHM/fK18G6fav1c/s1600-h/preview+design+sucks.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/R02i9wXM-BI/AAAAAAAAAHM/fK18G6fav1c/s320/preview+design+sucks.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5137941931737544722" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/R02iEAXM99I/AAAAAAAAAGs/4stV8ky_3lo/s1600-h/sublime+preview.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/R02iEAXM99I/AAAAAAAAAGs/4stV8ky_3lo/s320/sublime+preview.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5137940939600099282" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/R02iMwXM9-I/AAAAAAAAAG0/W1ilgRhSPaY/s1600-h/preview.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/R02iMwXM9-I/AAAAAAAAAG0/W1ilgRhSPaY/s320/preview.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5137941089923954658" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: left;"&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/R02iaQXM9_I/AAAAAAAAAG8/nVDm7lKn5hU/s1600-h/preview+designgreen.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/R02iaQXM9_I/AAAAAAAAAG8/nVDm7lKn5hU/s320/preview+designgreen.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5137941321852188658" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/R02ixgXM-AI/AAAAAAAAAHE/bz8jmemmosc/s1600-h/previewfuckedup.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/R02ixgXM-AI/AAAAAAAAAHE/bz8jmemmosc/s320/previewfuckedup.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5137941721284147202" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-350072123991786517?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/350072123991786517/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=350072123991786517&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/350072123991786517'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/350072123991786517'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2007/11/so-busy-i-didnt-have-time-to.html' title=''/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/R02i9wXM-BI/AAAAAAAAAHM/fK18G6fav1c/s72-c/preview+design+sucks.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-6448576833550544088</id><published>2007-11-13T00:30:00.000+08:00</published><updated>2007-11-13T01:05:28.693+08:00</updated><title type='text'>Almost-Ed</title><content type='html'>&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;You said you were sorry&lt;br /&gt;You said it's all your fault&lt;br /&gt;You cried miserably&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I said it's alright&lt;br /&gt;I said it's not your fault&lt;br /&gt;You cried dramatically&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I consoled you the other way round&lt;br /&gt;You hugged me all around&lt;br /&gt;We parted ways this time round&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;If letting go was what you want&lt;br /&gt;I'd released the rope&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I lived in the shadow&lt;br /&gt;You shine in the bright&lt;br /&gt;I stumbled and fell&lt;br /&gt;While you climb and triumph&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Since you show me the way&lt;br /&gt;I have no choice but to leave&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Those times we spent&lt;br /&gt;Were nothing compared to your fun&lt;br /&gt;Forsaken were my commitments&lt;br /&gt;There you threw them all around&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Your tears are precious&lt;br /&gt;Don't you cry again&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I tried to stay strong&lt;br /&gt;I tried to hide it all&lt;br /&gt;I have hidden them well&lt;br /&gt;But I just can't deceive myself&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;All the best I'm wishing you&lt;br /&gt;As for the rest, please do not turn back&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;A poem dedicated to my dear colleague.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-6448576833550544088?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/6448576833550544088/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=6448576833550544088&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/6448576833550544088'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/6448576833550544088'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2007/11/almost-ed.html' title='Almost-Ed'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-121521777218984485</id><published>2007-11-11T12:11:00.000+08:00</published><updated>2007-11-11T12:29:54.254+08:00</updated><title type='text'>Quote of the day</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RzaE80lAgEI/AAAAAAAAAGk/ddNRn0Hqzls/s1600-h/gerrardtorres_412_g.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RzaE80lAgEI/AAAAAAAAAGk/ddNRn0Hqzls/s320/gerrardtorres_412_g.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5131435005876142146" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This is hilarious. Classic comment after Liverpool won 2-0. Is it sarcasm or pure stupidity? Anyways, Torres' goal was tremendous. Well, enjoy.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:180%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"&gt;'&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"&gt;It wasn't working for them. That is why they brought on three substitutes. One at £25m, one at £11m and one at £5m. I think there should be cap on the price of players you can bring on, maybe no more than £20m of players.&lt;span style="font-family: verdana;font-size:180%;" &gt;'&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;quoted by Fulham boss Lawrie Sanchez&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;*contents taken from soccernet.com&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-121521777218984485?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/121521777218984485/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=121521777218984485&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/121521777218984485'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/121521777218984485'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2007/11/quote-of-day.html' title='Quote of the day'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RzaE80lAgEI/AAAAAAAAAGk/ddNRn0Hqzls/s72-c/gerrardtorres_412_g.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-5396171504118666125</id><published>2007-11-09T12:30:00.000+08:00</published><updated>2007-11-10T16:10:42.540+08:00</updated><title type='text'>MIG II - Man In God II</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RzVkkUlAgDI/AAAAAAAAAGc/wyeBeN5YMNw/s1600-h/ask.change.create.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RzVkkUlAgDI/AAAAAAAAAGc/wyeBeN5YMNw/s320/ask.change.create.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5131117925620547634" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I met God once and I was even God for once. So after that incident, I did not believe in ghost, spirit nor Satan. Till one day, I encountered it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This girl was around the age of 15. When I first saw it, I almost shitted in my pants. She had the most terrifying features. Her eyes were hollow and bleeding from all her crying. The dried blood stick to her cheek. Her face was as pale as a sheet.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;With my elbow touching my foot, I sat in that position for 15 minutes. I was sniffing my stuff. Reaching the peak, I gasped. My eyes were looking at each other. The aroma was getting the better of me when she appeared right in front. Imagine having to stand on the highest mountain on earth, Mount Ang Mo Kio, taking in the essence of the quality air up there and suddenly, an Ice Big-Foot appeared right in front of you. I was at the peak of the kicks and I felt this in my heart. She terrorised me instantly with her deadly stare. Her face was just 2 centimeters away from mine. I did not move an inch. I could smell the stench from her mouth.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Drop that, you pathetic drug abuser!&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;She demanded with her bassly voice. I was dumbfounded. Looking straight into her eyes, everything flashed in my head. It happened within a second. I dropped the packet I was holding and crawled away from her. Each attempt to crawl away from her, I was being drawn back to the same spot. I was crawling on the spot! With my head still containing the drugs' effect, I could feel Fear. Never once did I feel Fear feeding on drugs. It supposed to supply Courage, not Fear! I was still looking down at the ground, my limps were moving non-stop. Hoping she could lift off the curse any second and I could crawl away soon. But that wasn't the case.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;I need you to help me and I promise you will never regret it&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;. Are you going to take this deal bitch?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Of course! Are you kidding? I'll do anything!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;But those words of mine, I could not move a single muscle to open my mouth. My pants were wet by this time.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;I don't think you have any choice here. Take me to the place where you met that asshole.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;..Who?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Stop playing dumb you fuckbag, that piece of old shit that let you played him for once.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ookaay, I guessss that God? I thinnnk I er..&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Move your ass bitch!&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;I reached the place where I've met God. Everything seemed like it just happened yesterday. The pool of flames and the christians. That demon started chanting some unknown language which sounded like Spanish to me. Then, this old man appeared. He was the God! The both of them stared at each other for the longest time. Turning their heads towards me, I was rooted to the spot once again. There I was brought to another dimension again.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In this dimension, there was only the three of us. And in front of me now, was two pools of flames! One pool with christians in it and the other, with all the satanists. All of them were crying and screaming from the endless pain they were suffering. Both God and Satan started to bombard me with questions.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;O son, you disappointed me with your last decision. But, it's alright. Everyone makes mistake. I know you regret your choice. Now, you'll have another chance to redeem yourself.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Shut the fuck up oldfuck. You know shit! I will reward him with all the 3-Ps. Everything to gain rather than having to save lives and ended up sniffing his pathetic glue! Eh bitch, all the 3-Ps. Power, Possession and Pussies. Are you in for it?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;O son, hear no evil. Don't let him influence your kind heart. Make your choice son.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Kill all the muthufucking christians and the 3-Ps are yours PAL!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Their noises were making me irritated. I inspected my surrounding. It was the same. Kerosene on my left and fire-proof lifebuoys on my right.  The two pools' flames were getting so hot that I could feel it even standing metres away. The two of them were still debating while their people down there were screaming for help. I thought it over. I think I gotta save them all. I took  all the lifebuoys and threw them all into the two pools. One by one, they swam their way to safety. They were all by the side of the pool, not believing that they survived the ordeal. Satan and God were shocked that I saved all of them. Their eyes in disbelief, &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Why did you save them all? You had only one choice!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now, it's your turn to try your own shit! Get into the pool both of you!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was backed up by all the people whom I saved. I instructed all of them to get the two of them into the pools! One in each! There, Satan and God being submerged in their own creations! Screaming and yelling for help.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;No help this time my son&lt;/span&gt;, I told God.&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Not this time, you muthufucking BITCH!&lt;/span&gt; I yelled at Satan.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;With that, I poured all the remaining kerosene into the pools. &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Burn mutherfuckha BURN! &lt;/span&gt;Their screams continued for another minute. This time after a minute, there wasn't any more sound coming from within. Instead, I heard applauses and cheering. I turned around. All of them were kneeling and praying to me. Their lives were saved by me. I was their new God. Or Satan? I guess, Godan. They offered their eternity's devotion to me. I was the new breed of God and Satan. Their creation. Their product.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There, conquering this fucked up world and turning it into my own ideal world. With my very own pioneer group of devotees. I aimed to bring a whole new level.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ask.&lt;br /&gt;Change.&lt;br /&gt;Create.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I just scrambled everything here. And I can never stop. Sometimes, I type without thinking. I apologise if the contents offended you. And if you think some are rubbish, let those rubbish stay and you shall move on.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-5396171504118666125?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/5396171504118666125/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=5396171504118666125&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/5396171504118666125'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/5396171504118666125'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2007/11/mig-ii-man-in-god-ii.html' title='MIG II - Man In God II'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RzVkkUlAgDI/AAAAAAAAAGc/wyeBeN5YMNw/s72-c/ask.change.create.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-17649906840311527</id><published>2007-11-08T05:51:00.000+08:00</published><updated>2007-11-08T15:13:56.863+08:00</updated><title type='text'>Jenni</title><content type='html'>I was with this lady. I met her when I was hospitalised a year ago. She was five years elder than me. She was gorgeous. She was every men's dream. Having her means everything to anyone. Her name was Jenni. But her husband thought elsewise. Her husband was rich. She need not worry over her meals and expenses. All was taken care of. She had all the branded stuffs from handbag to even her lingerie. But she just wanted love. She wanted care, concern and attention from him. He was always busy with work. Coming back from work late at nights was understandable, but having lipstick marks on him was too much. She couldn't take it. She was always crying. Till she met me. The cries was replaced by smiles on her face. I could see she was very happy. I was happy too. We met almost everyday.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;She showered me with expensive gifts and her utmost love. She would drive me anywhere. She would pay for our meals and expenses.  She even rented a condominium and offered me to stay with her. Why not? I could get to see her everyday. Other than all that, each time we met, she would buy me an apple. Puzzled by that, one day, I asked her.&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Why apple, gorgeous?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When I was dating with my husband, he would buy me an apple everyday. Those were the sweet times. But now.. well, so I hope our love and time spent together will be as sweet. Don't you be like him one day!&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I noticed that her eyes were red by the time she finished. So not to further rub it in, I stopped asking. I stole a glance at her. Her lips was tilted upwards. She was smiling while tears slipped from her watery, sparking eyes. The smile was telling me, &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;For all the unhappy past I had, they are all parried away the day I met you. I am so glad and fortunate to have you.&lt;/span&gt; I will never forget that smile. It was the sweetest smile I've ever witnessed. I dried her tears as she embraced me. It was, indeed, the best moment in my life.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Though the five years age gap, there wasn't anything we would not talk about. We were very close. She would tell me everything about her and I would tell her too. We were just like a normal couple. Just that I was with a married lady.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Everything went smoothly till one day. She stopped contacting me. I was devastated. My world seemed to be collapsing. There wasn't any light. I tried calling her, messaging her. I never did succeed. The place where we called home was so quiet without her. I tried for weeks. Finally she replied my text message,&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Don't call me anymore. I think we should put a stop to our relationship. Take care, Bye.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Why? Did he find out about us? He wants you back? Please, why?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He apologised for everything he did. I guess I still love him. The time you and me spent together were really sweet. Thanks for everything and making me the lady that was showered with the love, care and concern. I will miss the times we spent together. Take care my love, bye.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;With that, she did not reply any further. I called her. I tried every means of getting her back. But to no avail. The time without her was agonising. Months later, I received a phone call that she passed away. The caller was anonymous and that lady gave me an address. I rushed over and arrived at this grand mansion. Inside the compound, I saw Jenni's car! Wanting to find out more from her family or even her husband, I shouted. Her servant was at the door. She let me in without asking me any question. I was puzzled. &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Did her servant know about my relation with her?&lt;/span&gt; I wandered to the living room and happened to come across a photo of us on the table. It was last taken when we met up. I was hugging her and both of us were smiling happily.&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Something is wrong here!&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Seeing nobody was around except for the servant, I rushed up the stairs to her room, simply not giving a damn whether her husband was around. I seem to know where her room was. I opened the door, and I was taken aback by what greeted me. The huge master bedroom was so grand, with all their pictures framed all over the wall. There was this huge picture on the wall. It was their wedding photo. I went over to inspect closer at her husband. I wanted to see for myself who was the bastard that had that luck to have such a gorgeous and wonderful wife.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was shocked. That face, that guy looked familiar! That.. that bastard was me! I retreated with disbelief. I was puzzled. &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;What on earth?&lt;/span&gt; I looked around at all the pictures in the room. Those photographs are those we took when we were together! Just then, her servant stepped into the room.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Sir, you're finally back. Madam instructed me to hand you this letter.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Hey Love,&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;You're finally back in our own home. Remember you told me that you don't love me? I did not take those words. I know you love me. Now I know you really do. I will always love you too. I know this seems too sudden for you to take it. But you see my love, you had an accident. You lost your memory and you couldn't remember me. Maybe it was a good thing. Before you had that accident, you said you wanted a divorce. And after that accident, you couldn't remember anything about us. So I guess that accident helped to savage our love. But please forgive me my love. I know I'm selfish but I am so scare. So scare that if I were to tell you about all these beforehand. I would lose you. So I rather not. I chose to have a fresh start with you. Sorry for not answering your calls, I did not want you to hear my dying voice, see my dying looks. I just want you to have the best of me, not the worst of me. You see, I contacted cancer all these years and only found out months ago. Sorry for being selfish and all the happy times we had, I will never forget them. Thanks for giving us another chance. I love you always. You are the apple of my eye too. Your sweet love for me, are all in the cabinet.&lt;br /&gt;Goodbye, my love.&lt;/span&gt; &lt;div style="text-align: right;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Your Apple, Jenni&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Hey love, why an apple every single day?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Cause.. You're the apple of my eye, Jenni. And I want to show you that no apple is sweeter than you.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I opened up her cabinet. Thousands of apples filled the whole interior of it. Those were the apples I gave to her. I broke down in tears. &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Sorry.&lt;/span&gt; Now that I recalled, my apologies came a little too late.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-17649906840311527?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/17649906840311527/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=17649906840311527&amp;isPopup=true' title='6 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/17649906840311527'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/17649906840311527'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2007/11/jenni.html' title='Jenni'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><thr:total>6</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-279768704950382282</id><published>2007-11-06T02:16:00.000+08:00</published><updated>2007-11-06T02:46:53.624+08:00</updated><title type='text'>She wrote..</title><content type='html'>I wrote about her, I wrote to her. Enough of my words to her. She wrote to me too.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;4/13/2005  10:42:25 PM  *[t|n9]*  i miss u&lt;br /&gt;4/13/2005  10:56:00 PM  *[t|n9]*  i missx the way u hug mi&lt;br /&gt;4/13/2005  10:56:13 PM  *[t|n9]*  the way u wan stuck ur legs within mine&lt;br /&gt;4/13/2005  10:56:32 PM  *[t|n9]*  the way u scold mi stupid when i played games&lt;br /&gt;4/13/2005  10:56:38 PM  *[t|n9]*  and u wana try it on&lt;br /&gt;4/13/2005  10:56:47 PM  *[t|n9]*  i missx u and ur everything&lt;br /&gt;4/13/2005  10:56:53 PM  *[t|n9]*  im sorrie wat've i done&lt;br /&gt;4/13/2005  10:56:59 PM  *[t|n9]*  im sorrie&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/Ry9gwDLcKBI/AAAAAAAAAGE/xZCNRqHOHbI/s1600-h/collaspe.bmp"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/Ry9gwDLcKBI/AAAAAAAAAGE/xZCNRqHOHbI/s320/collaspe.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5129424879201560594" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Finally, I revived the 1.58mb chat logs. At least, I can smile back on everything we had.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;:)&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-279768704950382282?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/279768704950382282/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=279768704950382282&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/279768704950382282'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/279768704950382282'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2007/11/she-wrote-to-me.html' title='She wrote..'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/Ry9gwDLcKBI/AAAAAAAAAGE/xZCNRqHOHbI/s72-c/collaspe.bmp' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-8144739364180910503</id><published>2007-11-04T20:17:00.000+08:00</published><updated>2007-11-06T00:20:38.921+08:00</updated><title type='text'>I don't love you.</title><content type='html'>You asked me, &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;When is the rain going to end?&lt;/span&gt; I told you, &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;It's not going to stop till you say 'Yes'.&lt;/span&gt; The heavy rain pouring down regardlessly. Somehow, I felt awful to the silence. The tapping of rain drops did not help at all. The silence was too concentrated. As we stood under the shelter, I could see every single detail of her pale face.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Can you tell me where is the rainbow? The heavy downpour is affecting my vision. I don't see any.&lt;/span&gt; I want to tell him that so bad. Tell him that I can't, I can't take that feeling back. How I wish this rain could stop. So I could just run away from him. &lt;span&gt;I can't bring myself to say&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; Yes.&lt;/span&gt; I say nothing at all. To think that this rain will stop, it never did and never will.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I buried it in my head for too long. I didn't think that it could just escape my lips just like that. I uttered something and ran away from the rain. Or did I try to escape from her? I guess it can't be helped. As I ran, there wasn't any sound from her still. I did not turn back. As I ran, my legs hurt but I can't stop now. I could not bring myself to face her again. It was all my fault.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He mumbles, &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Sorry&lt;/span&gt; and run away. I can't bring myself to stop him. I stand there looking at him. As he distances away, I feel that I have lost something. Something important. A raindrop lands on one of my slippers. As I look down, another drop lands. It was not the rain from the sky. It was the rain from my eyes. The next moment, I cry. How could he said that? How could I say &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Yes? &lt;/span&gt;I am supposed to be the one running away.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Can you let me go?&lt;/span&gt; Thinking about the question makes me guilty. To date, I still can't find any better option than running away. I don't mean it, girl. I am sorry. I am not worthy for you.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-8144739364180910503?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/8144739364180910503/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=8144739364180910503&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/8144739364180910503'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/8144739364180910503'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2007/11/i-dont-love-you.html' title='I don&apos;t love you.'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-6183985242109966319</id><published>2007-11-04T14:34:00.000+08:00</published><updated>2007-11-04T22:03:33.571+08:00</updated><title type='text'>The Three Little Pigs</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/Ry10pTLcJ_I/AAAAAAAAAF0/pwguPMywaRM/s1600-h/pig2.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/Ry10pTLcJ_I/AAAAAAAAAF0/pwguPMywaRM/s320/pig2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5128883803516577778" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Once upon a time, there was three little pigs. They were growing up to be some fine pigs so their mum decided to let them go out to the world to find their own homes. So three of them left for the forest. They came across this straw man and a whole mountain of straws. The first pig decided to build it's house with straws, so he got some straws and started building it. The two other pigs continued their way to find other means of building their homes. They came across this woodcutter with piles of wood. So the second pig asked for some wood and he got it. So he got some wood and started building his house. The last pig continued his way in the forest. He happened to come across this construction bangala with bricks. He asked for some bricks to build it's house, so he got some bricks and started building it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Finally, the three pigs finished building their own homes. Relaxing in their own homes with a cup of hot tea sure made their day. Looking at the furnishes and their first home they built. They were very proud indeed. Golden strips of sunlight escaped from the horizon as the sun made her way home. It was getting dark and the first pig was getting ready to sleep when he heard a voice out from the front door of his straw house.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Hey pig hey pig, could you let me in so I could eat you as my dinner?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;No no big bad wolf, I won't open up and you won't get a piece of me!&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Then in that case, I will have to use force!&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So the big bad wolf huffed and puffed. He managed to blow the whole of the straw house down. The first pig ran as fast as it could.&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Fuck that straw man! Why didn't he warn me about the weak straw? Nooooooo&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But how could he outrun the big bad wolf? It was after all, just a pig. Pigs are stupid, right? As a result, the first pig was eaten as an appetiser. So the big bad wolf walked on to find it's main course for the night. And then he saw this wood house.&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Hey pig hey pig, could you let me in so I could eat you as my dinner?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;No no big bad wolf, I won't open up and you won't get a piece of me!&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Then in that case, I will have to use force!&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So the big bad wolf huffed and puffed. He manged to blow the door of the wood house down. The second pig was trapped.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Fuck that woodcutter! Why didn't he remind me to build a back door? Nooooooo&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;How could he forget to build a back door? It was after all, just a pig. Pigs are stupid, right? As a result, the second pig was eaten as the main course. So the big bad wolf walked on to find it's desert for the night. And then he saw this brick house.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Hey pig hey pig, could you let me in so I could eat you as my dinner?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;No no big bad wolf, I won't open up and you won't get a piece of me!&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Then in that case, I will have to use force!&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So the big bad wolf huffed and puffed. But no matter how he huffed and puffed, the brick house did not move an inch! Not even a centimeter! So he decided to climb up the brick house through the chimney to enter the house. In the end, he was being cooked dinner for the third pig instead! Big Bad Curry Wolf!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Hahahaha, look how clever am I as a pig? Don't you agree? I am such a genius!&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;From this classic story, can we see something common in us humans too? More than often in life, when things are fucked up somewhere, we don't look at ourselves as the mistake. Often or not, we shift the blame on others so that it could possibly make us feel better. Ultimately, when things are going our way, we don't look at others as the considering factor. We don't pinpoint at others. Instead, we direct all the praises and credits to ourselves. Look at the third pig. Did he even thank the bangala who gave him the bricks? All in his head was probably, &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;I am the man! YAY!&lt;/span&gt; Would you ever think of others when you succeed? Well, maybe..&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We are after all, just humans. Humans are selfish, right?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Src of '3 little pigs' picture// Unknown&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-6183985242109966319?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/6183985242109966319/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=6183985242109966319&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/6183985242109966319'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/6183985242109966319'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2007/11/three-little-pigs.html' title='The Three Little Pigs'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/Ry10pTLcJ_I/AAAAAAAAAF0/pwguPMywaRM/s72-c/pig2.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-8323822353504167162</id><published>2007-11-03T12:43:00.000+08:00</published><updated>2007-11-03T12:52:24.552+08:00</updated><title type='text'>Those words.</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/Ryv-GDLcJ-I/AAAAAAAAAFs/3SR7BPvu6Hw/s1600-h/a+thousand+words.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/Ryv-GDLcJ-I/AAAAAAAAAFs/3SR7BPvu6Hw/s320/a+thousand+words.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5128471980577400802" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;As she turns away,&lt;br /&gt;My hand stays&lt;br /&gt;She didn't let it go&lt;br /&gt;Her teary eyes look into mine&lt;br /&gt;My heart glitters with hope once again&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Why did you say all those words?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Take those words back and go&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;As she distances away,&lt;br /&gt;My mind does not render much help&lt;br /&gt;The words appear so clear in my head&lt;br /&gt;But those words..&lt;br /&gt;Yet those words just don't seem to reach out&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Why did you say all those words?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Take them back and go&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;As she speaks tearfully&lt;br /&gt;All those words..&lt;br /&gt;Does it make sense at all?&lt;br /&gt;Her actions contradicting every word&lt;br /&gt;How I wish she could just speak nothing at all&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Why did you say all those words?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Take those words back and go&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;As she leaves&lt;br /&gt;My heart sinks without a fight&lt;br /&gt;And after all this while and all the tears&lt;br /&gt;It's when you hope she could stay&lt;br /&gt;Well, that was yesterday&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Why did you say all those words?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Take them back and go&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;As I cried from bleeding long time ago&lt;br /&gt;I discovered those words were only words&lt;br /&gt;Looking up at the bright blue sky questions my persistence&lt;br /&gt;Should I stay or should I go?&lt;br /&gt;All the answers seem so clear to me now&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Why did you say all those words?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Take those words back and go&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Do you even have the guts to say&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;'I don't love you'&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;And maybe..&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;I would not try so hard&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Inspired by I Don't Love You - My Chemical Romance&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-8323822353504167162?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/8323822353504167162/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=8323822353504167162&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/8323822353504167162'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/8323822353504167162'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2007/11/those-words.html' title='Those words.'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/Ryv-GDLcJ-I/AAAAAAAAAFs/3SR7BPvu6Hw/s72-c/a+thousand+words.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-8446808330344705542</id><published>2007-10-31T03:50:00.000+08:00</published><updated>2007-10-31T21:59:05.120+08:00</updated><title type='text'>Mr Memories</title><content type='html'>Memories. He is the old man who stores all the memories on earth in millions and billions of his little glass tubes. Your memories, are part of his job.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The room is filled with glass tubes. Millions of them. Each one of them contains saga seeds. The number of seeds vary in each tube. Some tubes are huge and contain hundreds of seeds while others barely contain tens. He drops a seed into another half-filled tube. He handles every single seed and tube with care. Not dropping any of them. The old man sigh heavily as he scopes a small portion of sand into one of the tubes filled with seeds.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It was another boring weekend for him. Accompanying his girlfriend to the park once again. He hated it. The hot sun, the warm afternoon and the mosquito bites. Sitting on the bench, he waited impatiently. His girlfriend was busily picking up saga seeds under the trees. The girl loved collecting saga seeds. At the end of the day after picking up all the seeds she could find, she would get a bag, filled it with sand, then dropped all the seeds she collected in it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Sands? For?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;For planting my own saga tree one day, my dear.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Why are you giving yourself extra work? Don't be silly! Or at least, you should separate the seeds and the sand.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;She replied with a smile. He loves the way she smiled. Nothing could resist it. He would give in to her everytime she smiled. But the girl was always the one compromising. She would always be the one to apologise. One day, they had a heated argument. The girl cried.&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; Why can't he put down his pride for once and  apologise to me?&lt;/span&gt; Hurt and frustrated, she ran off without turning back. They did not contact each other for days. Days later, he received a letter. It was from her.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Dear,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: left;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;I know you won't contact me. But I still waited for the whole night for your call. For that&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;matter earlier, I apologise. It's all my fault. I shouldn't have ask you out that day. I know you're&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;busy with your work. I just wanted to show you the seeds. You see, for each day out with you,&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;I used a tube to contain the seeds in it. A tube represents a day with you. Each seed represents&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;our happy moment together. And the sand, I used it to pour over the seeds everytime we quarrelled.&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;But I realised something after I poured the sand in. Even if I were to filled the sand to the brink, I&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;could still see those seeds. I told myself that no matter how unhappy our arguments might be, how ugly those words might sound,&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; I still could not erase those happy memories with you. Cause I love you so much that I can't see the&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; sand anymore. You can't have a saga tree from planting it's seed. But all I wish for is to give all these&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt; thousands of tubes in exchange for a tree like you. A tree that will shelter me from the hot sun&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;so that I could pick more saga seeds for us.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: right;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Yours.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He regret saying all those angry words. Those words must have hurt her. He went over to her place but she wasn't around. No answer on the cell. Where is she? Oh! The park! He rushed over to the park where they used to go every weekend. Wait! Hanging on every branch of the tree, are those tubes she mentioned about. Thousands of tubes hanging on the tree. There she was, lying motionless under the tree. He rushed over to her. It was too late. She fell from the tree trying to attach the last glass tube on the branch. Tightly held in her right, was the glass tube, un-shattered and perfect with those red seeds. This one, was without any sand in it.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-8446808330344705542?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/8446808330344705542/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=8446808330344705542&amp;isPopup=true' title='7 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/8446808330344705542'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/8446808330344705542'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2007/10/mr-memories.html' title='Mr Memories'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><thr:total>7</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-5399451290180560957</id><published>2007-10-30T12:51:00.000+08:00</published><updated>2007-10-30T13:33:19.538+08:00</updated><title type='text'>:)</title><content type='html'>Her friends were waiting for her at the bus stop. Other bystanders were all looking at us. There, her boyfriend sitting there, looking upon and not saying anything. We were on the grass patch just metres away from that bus stop. We played and hit each other. My tee was stained with mud after rolling on the grass. She injured her knee and her whole body was with mud and grass. I could tell that she was enjoying herself despite the fact that her boyfriend was looking on with jealousy. I was jubilant. After what seem like forever, we decided to stop. By this time, I realised all her friends were gone. No jealous boyfriend at that bus stop. All that were left were those people waiting for their buses. She realised it too. She reached for her handphone and saw a message. It was her boyfriend, saying that he was disappointed. Her face turned sad for a moment. Looking at her, dirty and injured, I offered her to come over my place to clean up.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;See lah, I'm injured and it's all your fault! :(&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;I am sorry, let me carry you.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;She put her arms around my neck. It's been so long since we have been so close. &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;I miss those times we were together. Now that you are here with me, I will treasure every single moment with you.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;We reached home and I didn't realise the sun is so bright from the inside of my room. I blinked once, twice. I tried to shield off the light but it was coming from all directions. I opened my eyes. I see yellow all round. I took the towel off my eyes.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;What time is it?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;It's already 4.30.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span&gt;Fuck, it was a dream. I got up, thinking about it for a second. Back to work with a smile.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But I'm glad she came back just for me :)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/Rya-JDLcJ9I/AAAAAAAAAFk/6v4IqdN5DPU/s1600-h/yiting.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/Rya-JDLcJ9I/AAAAAAAAAFk/6v4IqdN5DPU/s320/yiting.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5126994288489277394" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-5399451290180560957?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/5399451290180560957/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=5399451290180560957&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/5399451290180560957'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/5399451290180560957'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2007/10/blog-post.html' title=':)'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/Rya-JDLcJ9I/AAAAAAAAAFk/6v4IqdN5DPU/s72-c/yiting.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-3680797527739516044</id><published>2007-10-29T16:37:00.000+08:00</published><updated>2007-10-29T16:40:57.328+08:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RyWcEzLcJ8I/AAAAAAAAAFc/GimzgVl7pU4/s1600-h/hero_overview_20070905.png"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RyWcEzLcJ8I/AAAAAAAAAFc/GimzgVl7pU4/s320/hero_overview_20070905.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5126675357102778306" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;My god, it's the iPod Touch my goodness. I am drooling all over now. *slurps&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-3680797527739516044?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/3680797527739516044/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=3680797527739516044&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/3680797527739516044'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/3680797527739516044'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2007/10/my-god-its-ipod-touch-my-goodness.html' title=''/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RyWcEzLcJ8I/AAAAAAAAAFc/GimzgVl7pU4/s72-c/hero_overview_20070905.png' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-6640770061983782196</id><published>2007-10-27T23:52:00.001+08:00</published><updated>2007-10-28T01:01:34.687+08:00</updated><title type='text'>Innocence</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RyNuDDLcJ7I/AAAAAAAAAFU/LveIe9PZLvo/s1600-h/innocence.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RyNuDDLcJ7I/AAAAAAAAAFU/LveIe9PZLvo/s320/innocence.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5126061799549708210" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;One of my cousin asked me hundred of questions. I will not emphasise on those questions but instead, the answer. Noted that it is not in plural. Yup, everything leads me to A conclusion. He has got himself a girlfriend! But those questions, they are so pure. &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Innocence.&lt;/span&gt; Which reminds me of what I was. Everyone has got his innocence times you fuckbag so stop laughing.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In my family, all my cousins, I'm considered the second eldest. Second big head. My eldest cousin is a year older. So I think the most outstanding one among all is no other than me. My favourite young cousin , Primary 5, isn't playing a fool outside. He doesn't play soccer, doesn't go to the playground after school and does his homework everyday. What the heck? His results are damn good though. (Compared to me)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When i was around his age, I lied to my mum telling her that i have tuition after school and i went to the gameshop below my block to play computer games! If i wasn't mistaken, 1 hour cost around 4-6 bucks. I played for around 3-4 hours. It was already 6.30pm,  it's getting late and I'm having this bad feeling that my mum found out about my lie so i decided to fight my last round before i go. Just when I finished having this thought, I saw a familiar face outside the glass panel. &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Eh? What! This time I am going to be a dead piece of meat&lt;/span&gt;! I remembered vividly I stick my tongue out. My mum's face is just like the Malaysia Bear, so black and fierce. I can smell Despair, Disappointment, Damage and.. Death! I was whacked pretty hard after i followed her home quietly. As a result, grounded for god-knows-how-long.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My other cousin, 15 years of age, doesn't go out with his friends during holidays, doesn't play any sports and trying very hard to impress people by asking me how do I spike my hair upwards. His school results around the same compared to me. (I think i won him)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When I was around his age, I went Orchard with my friends even after school to have a taste of the world. And thinking that wearing school uniform with the shirt being untucked is way fucking cool. I played soccer everyday after school till 6pm and as a result, my results suck. Though i was not a good student, still, I had that basic innocence that a student should have.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After all the flashbacks i brought you guys to, it's the 'Innocence' that i am emphasising on. All good things come to an end i guess. Those were the times when our innocence brought us to questions and things, we did and asked. Been there, done that? Those were also the times when I was.. fucked by a lady.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;There goes my innocence.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-6640770061983782196?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/6640770061983782196/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=6640770061983782196&amp;isPopup=true' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/6640770061983782196'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/6640770061983782196'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2007/10/innocence.html' title='Innocence'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RyNuDDLcJ7I/AAAAAAAAAFU/LveIe9PZLvo/s72-c/innocence.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-5673938533320678401</id><published>2007-10-27T22:41:00.000+08:00</published><updated>2007-10-27T23:26:29.947+08:00</updated><title type='text'>The Pencils.</title><content type='html'>&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;span style=";font-family:courier new;font-size:180%;"  &gt;&lt;object height="80" width="300"&gt;&lt;param name="movie" value="http://media.imeem.com/m/FRKXC3GTK1/aus=false/"&gt;&lt;param name="wmode" value="transparent"&gt;&lt;embed src="http://media.imeem.com/m/FRKXC3GTK1/aus=false/" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" height="80" width="300"&gt;&lt;/embed&gt;&lt;/object&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;情人的眼泪 (演唱: 姚苏蓉)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;"&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"&gt;I like you all these years, do you feel me too?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style=";font-family:courier new;font-size:180%;"  &gt;"&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've been hiding all my feelings&lt;br /&gt;In my precious little box&lt;br /&gt;Hopefully one day&lt;br /&gt;I can show them all to you&lt;br /&gt;They contain those feelings i wanna express&lt;br /&gt;Those feelings that i can't bring myself to speak&lt;br /&gt;To only put down in words&lt;br /&gt;If only i have the courage&lt;br /&gt;One day, maybe till the day I'm gone&lt;br /&gt;You'll get to know all my feelings all these years&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've been keeping all my troubles&lt;br /&gt;In my bottomless long bottle&lt;br /&gt;Hopefully one day&lt;br /&gt;I can pour them all to you&lt;br /&gt;It contains all my downs and outs I experienced&lt;br /&gt;Those troubles that i can't bring myself to say&lt;br /&gt;To only put down in words&lt;br /&gt;If only i have the courage&lt;br /&gt;One day, maybe till the day I'm gone&lt;br /&gt;You'll get to know all my troubles all these years&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've been concealing all my wishes for you&lt;br /&gt;In my locked drawer of mine&lt;br /&gt;Hopefully one day&lt;br /&gt;I can give them all to you&lt;br /&gt;They contain all the birthday wishes behind each&lt;br /&gt;present I've got for you&lt;br /&gt;Those wishes that i can't bring myself to greet&lt;br /&gt;To only put down in words&lt;br /&gt;If only i have the courage&lt;br /&gt;One day, maybe till the day I'm gone&lt;br /&gt;You'll get to know all the presents and wishes&lt;br /&gt;I've got for you all these years&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've been writing all these inside of me&lt;br /&gt;With those pencils you gave to me&lt;br /&gt;Hopefully one day&lt;br /&gt;I can get your love instead of pencils&lt;br /&gt;They contain all my love for you&lt;br /&gt;The love that i can't bring myself to confess&lt;br /&gt;To only put down in words&lt;br /&gt;If only i have the courage&lt;br /&gt;One day, maybe till the day I'm gone&lt;br /&gt;You'll get to know all my confessions all&lt;br /&gt;these years..&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Through these pencils, my dear girl&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: right;"&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RyNSbTLcJ6I/AAAAAAAAAFM/jPpARs0-Y1E/s1600-h/colors2.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RyNSbTLcJ6I/AAAAAAAAAFM/jPpARs0-Y1E/s320/colors2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5126031429835958178" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: right;"&gt;p.s*these 2 poems are for my 'emo' friends. let's start to be emo kids!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-5673938533320678401?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/5673938533320678401/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=5673938533320678401&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/5673938533320678401'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/5673938533320678401'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2007/10/pencils.html' title='The Pencils.'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RyNSbTLcJ6I/AAAAAAAAAFM/jPpARs0-Y1E/s72-c/colors2.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-2238430947358115973</id><published>2007-10-27T11:44:00.000+08:00</published><updated>2007-10-27T23:12:08.103+08:00</updated><title type='text'>The Diaries.</title><content type='html'>&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;span style=";font-family:courier new;font-size:180%;"  &gt;"&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"&gt;Do you know that I like you all these years?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style=";font-family:courier new;font-size:180%;"  &gt;"&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've been hiding all my feelings&lt;br /&gt;In my precious little diaries&lt;br /&gt;Hopefully one day&lt;br /&gt;I can show them all to you&lt;br /&gt;They contain those feelings i wanna express&lt;br /&gt;Those feelings that i can't bring myself to speak&lt;br /&gt;To only put down in words&lt;br /&gt;If only i have the courage&lt;br /&gt;One day, maybe till the day i'm gone&lt;br /&gt;You'll get to know all my feelings all these years&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've been keeping all my troubles&lt;br /&gt;In my precious little diaries&lt;br /&gt;Hopefully one day&lt;br /&gt;I can pour them all to you&lt;br /&gt;They contain all my downs and outs I experienced&lt;br /&gt;Those troubles that i can't bring myself to say&lt;br /&gt;To only put down in words&lt;br /&gt;If only i have the courage&lt;br /&gt;One day, maybe till the day i'm gone&lt;br /&gt;You'll get to know all my troubles all these years&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've been concealing all my wishes for you&lt;br /&gt;In my precious little diaries&lt;br /&gt;Hopefully one day&lt;br /&gt;I can give them all to you&lt;br /&gt;They contain all the birthday wishes behind each&lt;br /&gt;present I've got for you&lt;br /&gt;Those wishes that i can't bring myself to greet&lt;br /&gt;To only put down in words&lt;br /&gt;If only i have the courage&lt;br /&gt;One day, maybe till the day i'm gone&lt;br /&gt;You'll get to know all the presents and wishes&lt;br /&gt;i've got for you all these years&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I've been writing all these inside of me&lt;br /&gt;In those diaries you gave to me&lt;br /&gt;Hopefully one day&lt;br /&gt;I can get your love instead of diaries&lt;br /&gt;They contain all my love for you&lt;br /&gt;The love that i can't bring myself to confess&lt;br /&gt;To only put down in words&lt;br /&gt;If only i have the courage&lt;br /&gt;One day, maybe till the day i'm gone&lt;br /&gt;You'll get to know all my confessions all&lt;br /&gt;these years..&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Through these diaries, my dear boy&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-2238430947358115973?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/2238430947358115973/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=2238430947358115973&amp;isPopup=true' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/2238430947358115973'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/2238430947358115973'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2007/10/diaries.html' title='The Diaries.'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-1488026449522092997</id><published>2007-10-26T13:51:00.000+08:00</published><updated>2007-10-26T16:19:22.832+08:00</updated><title type='text'>www.saw4.com</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RyGQRTLcJ5I/AAAAAAAAAFE/GFT1x_pVlb0/s1600-h/saw4-wallpaper-1.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RyGQRTLcJ5I/AAAAAAAAAFE/GFT1x_pVlb0/s320/saw4-wallpaper-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5125536477804767122" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Today is such a lovely day. With the sun so bright, the butterfly is enjoying it's usual tour around the flowers outside my window. I miss this scene so much. It's been raining for all my off days. After coming back from work after a whole night of rocking and drifting, the last thing you wanna see is the rain pouring down on you. Now, that's what I'm talking about. The sun, oh and the flies. With only the smoke I exhaled spoiled the beautiful scenery. Other than that, everything is so prefect and i love it this way. With this, the world is so beautiful and how I hope this could last. But well, all good things come to an end. And as I'm typing this sentence, the hell truck parked itself just below my block. The truck that delivers your unwanted goods and food. Good timing.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I realised something about most of my friends. They are getting more 'emo' as time goes by. Every single post or every single thing they do, they can relate it to their love life. I suggest purchasing the Old School Gay Pop album from me. I'm compiling it. Sometimes, you can't blame humans too. I can be that 'emo' too. That's why i hate so much about our humans' emotions. I really wish i can remove them. It's irritating and I don't mind being a Martian.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I just managed to come across this. What?! Alright,i thought it's all over. But hey, it's back! I'm a fan of SAW! Let's go watch it everybody!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;object height="355" width="425"&gt;&lt;param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/aIbShwaxLVE&amp;amp;rel=1"&gt;&lt;param name="wmode" value="transparent"&gt;&lt;embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/aIbShwaxLVE&amp;amp;rel=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" height="355" width="425"&gt;&lt;/embed&gt;&lt;/object&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-1488026449522092997?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='related' href='http://saw4.com' title='www.saw4.com'/><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/1488026449522092997/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=1488026449522092997&amp;isPopup=true' title='4 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/1488026449522092997'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/1488026449522092997'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2007/10/today-is-such-lovely-day.html' title='www.saw4.com'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RyGQRTLcJ5I/AAAAAAAAAFE/GFT1x_pVlb0/s72-c/saw4-wallpaper-1.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>4</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-7858616695531664750</id><published>2007-10-19T05:10:00.000+08:00</published><updated>2007-10-19T06:07:47.032+08:00</updated><title type='text'>Mother of the dolls</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RxfOfHKZaiI/AAAAAAAAAE8/Bw0Ng5R2PXk/s1600-h/away+from+the+world.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RxfOfHKZaiI/AAAAAAAAAE8/Bw0Ng5R2PXk/s320/away+from+the+world.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122790135051151906" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Where is mummy?&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Where is daddy?&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Uncle is hurting me daddy..&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;mummy where are you?!&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;She wanted all the candies in the world. Her cabinet has all the dolls she wished for. But nothing is enough for little Audrey herself.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;'Mummy, i want that talking doll! She's cute!' Of course, her mother did not buy it. Her cabinet contains hundred of dolls already.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;She was a very happy kid. Lined up on her bed were all her little dolls. Each one with a different face and personality. The dolls never failed to brighten up her days. By her bed every night, they watched her to sleep.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;One day after school, Little Audrey was missing. She was last seen with a man at her favourite playground.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now that she's gone. All of her dolls miss their little mother. How she would comb their hair. Dressed them up with costumes for different occasions. Now that she's gone, her parents regret not buying her that doll. How she would react if they were to buy her that. It's too late now.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;All the dolls in the world couldn't bring little Audrey back. No amount of tears shed could do that.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's six in the evening, the playground was filled with kids. Merry go round, noisily enjoying themselves after school. But it seems so quiet for Audrey's parents. They won't be able to bring her here anymore, just the sight of kids ache them. To rub salt on their wounds, there was still no news of Little Audrey. Weeks, months, years.. But they did not give up. They waited patiently for their Audrey to come back home. They just hope one day she would come running back home.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Till one day, Audrey was found dead. And what's worse, she was sexually abused.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Her parents' hope was shattered. A five years old kid does not deserve this. They were devastated. But till now, they are still waiting. Waiting for little Audrey to skip back home one day. And other than that, they are still waiting, wanting so bad to see who was the one who killed their beloved Audrey.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;*This story may seems similar to the link. This is nothing but a story I dedicate specially for those kids up there*&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-7858616695531664750?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='related' href='http://www.theage.com.au/articles/2007/09/21/1189881724247.html' title='Mother of the dolls'/><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/7858616695531664750/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=7858616695531664750&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/7858616695531664750'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/7858616695531664750'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2007/10/mother-of-dolls.html' title='Mother of the dolls'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RxfOfHKZaiI/AAAAAAAAAE8/Bw0Ng5R2PXk/s72-c/away+from+the+world.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-394570967213303667</id><published>2007-10-18T14:31:00.000+08:00</published><updated>2007-10-18T14:49:41.704+08:00</updated><title type='text'>MIG - Man In God</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/Rxb_TXKZahI/AAAAAAAAAE0/Afb-MDbI068/s1600-h/combined.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/Rxb_TXKZahI/AAAAAAAAAE0/Afb-MDbI068/s320/combined.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122562334280739346" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That particular tuesday morning, I met God himself. He worn a dark brown cloak, without any footwear. He approached me along a busy street while I was heading to work, with His head facing downwards, he said, 'My son, I've heard alot about you.'&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I told him even He was God, He needs to show basic courtesy by looking at that person when talking to him or her. So He raised His head and I saw it. In His eyes, I saw countless of people screaming in pain. Like they are all trapped in a sea of flames. Or to be exact, Hell.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I backed off immediately. I could feel the agonies and sufferings of those people, just like I was there too! They were yelling out to me. He continued patiently, 'I heard everything my Christians said to you. I heard them all.'&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was trembling in fear. &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Who the hell is he? Why the fuck is he telling me this?&lt;/span&gt; My head turned heavy, with fears and doubts. He inced a step closer to me. &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Stop! &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;By now, I realised something. No beard. No long poor conditioned hair. Instead, short trimmed hair in place.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Wait! That face! It was me! What the fuck?!&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I swear, it.. just evolved! &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;I must be seeing things!&lt;/span&gt; With another step closer, He inced towards me. &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Is this another terrifying nightmare of mine? &lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;No, it can't be. It's far too real!&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;'Son, this is what you wanted. I threw them all to Hell. Now that nobody can influence you, you should be happy, right?'&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Are you mad?! Of course i won't be.&lt;/span&gt; I was rooted to the spot. I stood there staring back at him, though i wanted to speak up, no word came out from my mouth. After all, would you talk to a person or God that exactly resembles you? He smiled, 'I know you don't mean what you said. Now son, here's a chance to save them all. You'll be God in this dimension for this moment. Or at least, in this fucked up world.'&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;With that, he disappeared. I looked around for him. I was not on the street where I was at. Instead, what greeted me was a pool of flames. Inside, those Christians were screaming, 'We are sorry for influencing you my friend, save us please. Only you can do it now!'&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I inspected my surroundings. Kerosene on my left and fire-proof lifebuoys on my right. Well, of course i will save them. After that session with God, I was more than certain that I could do it. Even God agrees with me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;'Alright guys, hang on. I'll save you all from staying in this fucked up world.' With that, I poured the whole tin of kerosene to haste their dying process.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The screams were getting louder. I covered my ears. &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Bear with it.&lt;/span&gt; I waited for five minutes.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Slience.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Mission Accomplished.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-394570967213303667?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/394570967213303667/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=394570967213303667&amp;isPopup=true' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/394570967213303667'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/394570967213303667'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2007/10/mig-man-in-god.html' title='MIG - Man In God'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/Rxb_TXKZahI/AAAAAAAAAE0/Afb-MDbI068/s72-c/combined.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-3723462011239560772</id><published>2007-10-12T01:11:00.000+08:00</published><updated>2007-10-12T01:51:13.317+08:00</updated><title type='text'>those times.</title><content type='html'>I've been listening to rock and metal for too long. Blasting the earphones wherever i go with Slipknot, Marilyn Manson, Ill Nino, Saosin, Korn, Payable on Death and the list can go on. Whatever it is, i think i'm sick of these! Nowadays, i listen to Old School Gay Pop! (Oh yah! Btw i down... er i mean i just BOUGHT the Hairspray OST! HAHAHA, the songs make you wanna dance with your parents!) It's a new genre of music OSGP. It's time to change too, guys. If you want a taste of real gay pop, pm me. I won't reveal it to anyone i swear. I've got all the old school gay pop songs! Whenever i listen to these songs, i've got this &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;feel&lt;/span&gt; balls. I simply can't put into words how this &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;feel &lt;/span&gt;comes about. I grew up listening to those songs so maybe i guess it's too long since i touch them. So when it comes to me, naturally the &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;feel&lt;/span&gt; is back and that is sensational i tell you! Just like when your first bf/gf asking you for a patch. It's the same feeling, i swear. Or simply, just like what Coleman said, &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;Am i really a gay?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/Rw5bTRbPe8I/AAAAAAAAAEE/1mVnDc3P97Q/s1600-h/gay+playlist.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/Rw5bTRbPe8I/AAAAAAAAAEE/1mVnDc3P97Q/s320/gay+playlist.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120130213020138434" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/Rw5gEBbPe9I/AAAAAAAAAEM/mb7oWszN58s/s1600-h/The+Reunion.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/Rw5gEBbPe9I/AAAAAAAAAEM/mb7oWszN58s/s320/The+Reunion.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120135448585272274" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Oh,I almost forgot about this when I came across it while I was browsing my folders. A short film we attempted when i was back in NAFA. The idea is fantastic, the process was fun, but the execution sucks. Sorry for the 'Oh! It's shoooooo scaaryxxs that i almost shit my pants out' feeling. And yes, what we tried to portray was a horror flick. I know, don't rub it in please. But I like the color treatments of the different scenes cause i was the colorist. :D&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/Rw5gbRbPe-I/AAAAAAAAAEU/n5PevB2glhQ/s1600-h/carpark.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/Rw5gbRbPe-I/AAAAAAAAAEU/n5PevB2glhQ/s320/carpark.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120135848017230818" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/Rw5gwBbPfAI/AAAAAAAAAEk/M_HBNEGgI9g/s1600-h/Scene+10+-+Master+copy.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/Rw5gwBbPfAI/AAAAAAAAAEk/M_HBNEGgI9g/s320/Scene+10+-+Master+copy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120136204499516418" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/Rw5glhbPe_I/AAAAAAAAAEc/JTbTpGsbP7U/s1600-h/Scene13+copy.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/Rw5glhbPe_I/AAAAAAAAAEc/JTbTpGsbP7U/s320/Scene13+copy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120136024110889970" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/Rw5idBbPfBI/AAAAAAAAAEs/fiYxc0cmX1U/s1600-h/Scene+13+-+Master.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/Rw5idBbPfBI/AAAAAAAAAEs/fiYxc0cmX1U/s320/Scene+13+-+Master.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5120138077105257490" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-3723462011239560772?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/3723462011239560772/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=3723462011239560772&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/3723462011239560772'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/3723462011239560772'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2007/10/those-times.html' title='those times.'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/Rw5bTRbPe8I/AAAAAAAAAEE/1mVnDc3P97Q/s72-c/gay+playlist.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-1659450744521831382</id><published>2007-10-08T23:47:00.000+08:00</published><updated>2007-10-09T00:21:30.723+08:00</updated><title type='text'>LFC</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RwpXMxbPe5I/AAAAAAAAADs/o37ADewiPAg/s1600-h/Anfield.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RwpXMxbPe5I/AAAAAAAAADs/o37ADewiPAg/s320/Anfield.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118999803397634962" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;After watching the match between Liverpool and Spurs, I realised that it's time to stop pinning my hopes so high. I was a reds supporter since i was primary 4 and at that point of time, Liverpool finished a few seasons at the mid of the table. Fifth, sixth or ever seventh. Most of the time, she disappointed me. Liverpool had their Fowler and Macca as their icons and that was the time my favourite soccer star Michael Owen still holding on the number 18. That was 1996. I told myself, maybe give her a decade to change everything. Maybe after ten years, Liverpool could lift the EPL trophy.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RwpXZhbPe6I/AAAAAAAAAD0/CxrISsVMYJk/s1600-h/lfctrop443_al2.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RwpXZhbPe6I/AAAAAAAAAD0/CxrISsVMYJk/s320/lfctrop443_al2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119000022440967074" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RwpXkxbPe7I/AAAAAAAAAD8/VLneRoqLW1g/s1600-h/lfctrop_e.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RwpXkxbPe7I/AAAAAAAAAD8/VLneRoqLW1g/s320/lfctrop_e.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119000215714495410" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was wrong. Now, it's more than ten years and Liverpool still did not lift it. I can't help by remaining negative cause seriously, I've stick with the team for 11 years or so. She disappointed me countless of times. She made me proud too, not once but quite a number of times. They lifted the League Cup. Well Man U fans actually mocked us about the League Cup, 'What's that? League Cup Oh my god. We can give that to you lah cause we have all the MAJOR cups in the world.' But last season, did i saw their first team for the finals? Other than the league cup, Liverpool lifted the UEFA cup and FA cup. Which eventually won 'What the fuck treble' in a season. To us, though this is nothing compared to Man U's treble, we are still that proud.  From Roy Evans, to Gerard Houllier. I am with Liverpool all the way. So now, i don't think there is any thing to be disappointed about, it can't be that bad as 1996 right? Compared to then, she made vast improvements! Rafa Benitez help us won the Champions' League and brought signings like Xabi Alonso and now Torres!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RwpW8xbPe4I/AAAAAAAAADk/qaIdE2cYAjI/s1600-h/hombetruc_xl.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RwpW8xbPe4I/AAAAAAAAADk/qaIdE2cYAjI/s320/hombetruc_xl.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118999528519728002" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What can we complain about? Every season, Liverpool are one of those favourites to win the EPL, but come on let's face it! Give Liverpool 10 more years, i still don't think they can lift the EPL trophy :( It's sad but come on, for fans like me, we have nothing more to disappointed about. And let's not pin our hopes too high, Champions' League? We can only managed to win then, not now or in the future. The point is, I would stand by Liverpool even she was to be relegated to Division 1, or even non league!  I am very sure i will. Just do not pin your hopes too high, fellow Liverpool fans. Well, just good luck and whatever shit happens, I'll be here rooting for you. Liverpool F.C! You'll never walk alone!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-1659450744521831382?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/1659450744521831382/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=1659450744521831382&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/1659450744521831382'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/1659450744521831382'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2007/10/lfc.html' title='LFC'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RwpXMxbPe5I/AAAAAAAAADs/o37ADewiPAg/s72-c/Anfield.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-3061763078665754084</id><published>2007-10-08T17:55:00.000+08:00</published><updated>2007-10-08T18:12:57.807+08:00</updated><title type='text'>Whosgoing2getfuckedtonight.SG</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RwoCDxbPe3I/AAAAAAAAADc/TBItX4BdjZc/s1600-h/whosgoing.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RwoCDxbPe3I/AAAAAAAAADc/TBItX4BdjZc/s320/whosgoing.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118906190290451314" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I can't stand whosgoing.sg. I think it is a total bullshit. People still upload their pictures with that little whosgoing.sg logo on the bottom right and think it's cool to get shot. It is just like telling people, 'Hey look, I patronise clubs every single weekend and I am fuck-able. Wanna fuck?' Well, then if that's the case. I created a brand new logo for you! Drop a comment if you want it. I'll send it to you, what's more, it's FREE OF CHARGE! Well, i'm just bored ok?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Src of picture: http://www.flickr.com/photos/angel_shark/296096527/&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-3061763078665754084?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/3061763078665754084/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=3061763078665754084&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/3061763078665754084'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/3061763078665754084'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2007/10/whosgoing2getfuckedtonightsg.html' title='Whosgoing2getfuckedtonight.SG'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RwoCDxbPe3I/AAAAAAAAADc/TBItX4BdjZc/s72-c/whosgoing.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-9080785601774407789</id><published>2007-10-08T01:31:00.000+08:00</published><updated>2007-10-11T05:40:48.313+08:00</updated><title type='text'>The Goddess of the Golden Serpent</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RwkucxbPe2I/AAAAAAAAADU/VgQil1zHWLM/s1600-h/blackANDwhiteANDred.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RwkucxbPe2I/AAAAAAAAADU/VgQil1zHWLM/s320/blackANDwhiteANDred.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118673523322092386" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I tried to find anything for it to devour but i could find nothing like her. She is my gem, my love and the perfect food for the golden serpent. I couldn't give her up.  For she was the greatest lady i've ever met. So with this, I fought the creature with everything i've got.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: left;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Days and nights went by, I was worn out and battled. The serpent displayed no sign of fatigue. It sent another wave of attack. Just when i thought it was the end,  it's thorns struck her right in the eyes. She appeared right in front to shield me. I leaped into the air and pierced the angry sword right into the heart of the serpent. It's screams filled the air. Agony was all over my head. The serpent sent a thump to the ground.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I ran over to her. She had her hands in mine. My tears wet her silky hair. Her blood dyed my armour red. The venom was turning her so white. Her pale face was filled with affection. Her dry lips let out a smile. With blood rushing out from her eyes, she spoke in her dying breath,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;'My Dearest Prince Charming, for the glory of love, we did it..'&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;With that, her head collapsed in my arms. I sliced the serpent's eyes with precise and attached it to her necklace. She can still see the world or at least, the serpent we killed.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;She is the Goddess of the Golden Serpent.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-9080785601774407789?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/9080785601774407789/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=9080785601774407789&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/9080785601774407789'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/9080785601774407789'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2007/10/goddess-of-golden-serpent.html' title='The Goddess of the Golden Serpent'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RwkucxbPe2I/AAAAAAAAADU/VgQil1zHWLM/s72-c/blackANDwhiteANDred.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-6303282410492284706</id><published>2007-10-03T04:55:00.000+08:00</published><updated>2007-10-03T05:25:39.969+08:00</updated><title type='text'>That girl I'll never understand</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RwK2f_cX-sI/AAAAAAAAAC8/5TLpfrphxB4/s1600-h/kill.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RwK2f_cX-sI/AAAAAAAAAC8/5TLpfrphxB4/s320/kill.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5116852787368950466" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;Just chatted through msn with a friend this afternoon. She told me that she changed for the better and is a different person compared to years ago. From a bad girl to a good girl and she is mature now. I admit that there are differences from the way her words are phrased, the way she typed and project herself. Though she has changed a little, she is still that immature girl I knew. Her words portrait her world to be so dark, that she is always lost in her world of darkness. She chose it. She can't blame anyone.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The question is that, does pointing out your own changes to others change the way you are? So i turned the table around and asked her, &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;How do you define a bad girl?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-6303282410492284706?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/6303282410492284706/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=6303282410492284706&amp;isPopup=true' title='5 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/6303282410492284706'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/6303282410492284706'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2007/10/that-girl-ill-never-understand.html' title='That girl I&apos;ll never understand'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RwK2f_cX-sI/AAAAAAAAAC8/5TLpfrphxB4/s72-c/kill.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>5</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-7699914947081294020</id><published>2007-10-02T22:08:00.000+08:00</published><updated>2007-10-03T00:06:43.103+08:00</updated><title type='text'>The shit I'm talking about</title><content type='html'>&lt;object width="425" height="350"&gt;&lt;param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/3IXAPnNle10"&gt;&lt;/param&gt;&lt;param name="wmode" value="transparent"&gt;&lt;/param&gt;&lt;embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/3IXAPnNle10" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" width="425" height="350"&gt;&lt;/embed&gt;&lt;/object&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-7699914947081294020?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/7699914947081294020/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=7699914947081294020&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/7699914947081294020'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/7699914947081294020'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2007/10/shit-im-talking-about.html' title='The shit I&apos;m talking about'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-1572622897384021368</id><published>2007-09-30T19:35:00.000+08:00</published><updated>2007-09-30T20:44:24.081+08:00</updated><title type='text'>The Best Photograph Ever Taken</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/Rv-aGvcX-rI/AAAAAAAAAC0/nq9PGlK01Io/s1600-h/fuckedup4.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/Rv-aGvcX-rI/AAAAAAAAAC0/nq9PGlK01Io/s320/fuckedup4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5115977142321543858" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center; font-style: italic;"&gt;Strips of golden lights eased out of the horizon&lt;br /&gt;With valleys and rivers stretching the entire field&lt;br /&gt;It reminded me of my existence in this beautiful world&lt;br /&gt;At least, in this beautiful place&lt;br /&gt;The fragrance of flowers lingered in the air&lt;br /&gt;I stood on the mountains to frame this breathtaking scene&lt;br /&gt;Images after images&lt;br /&gt;I snapped with haste not wanting to miss any second of it&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After what seemed to be hours of capturing the paradise on earth&lt;br /&gt;The void in my head persisted&lt;br /&gt;My mind was challenging me&lt;br /&gt;Just when i was thinking what was i missing&lt;br /&gt;This lady graced past me&lt;br /&gt;Her silhouette blocked the bright hot sun&lt;br /&gt;Like how an umbrella would shield you from&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The addition of her in this scenary is flawless&lt;br /&gt;The fields behind her was calling out to her&lt;br /&gt;The rivers seemed to stop its flow of water&lt;br /&gt;They were reaching out to her&lt;br /&gt;Without delay&lt;br /&gt;I reached to her too and&lt;br /&gt;took the most mesmerising photograph ever&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Her smile bid me goodbye as she disappeared down&lt;br /&gt;the mountain and out of sight&lt;br /&gt;I cheered in delight and jubilance&lt;br /&gt;Thinking that this could be the masterpiece of all&lt;br /&gt;Just when i was being complacent&lt;br /&gt;I tripped&lt;br /&gt;With my camera reaching over to the&lt;br /&gt;valleys below&lt;br /&gt;I dived with everything i've got&lt;br /&gt;It was too late&lt;br /&gt;The camera with the best photograph was gone&lt;br /&gt;Gone to the paradise on earth&lt;br /&gt;With the sun setting&lt;br /&gt;My hopes were shattered&lt;br /&gt;There goes the best photograph ever taken&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-1572622897384021368?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/1572622897384021368/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=1572622897384021368&amp;isPopup=true' title='7 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/1572622897384021368'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/1572622897384021368'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2007/09/best-photograph-ever-taken.html' title='The Best Photograph Ever Taken'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/Rv-aGvcX-rI/AAAAAAAAAC0/nq9PGlK01Io/s72-c/fuckedup4.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>7</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-7112395358429985244</id><published>2007-09-29T06:42:00.000+08:00</published><updated>2007-09-29T06:56:24.186+08:00</updated><title type='text'>Differences</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/Rv2DvfcX-pI/AAAAAAAAACk/9heyX_3-4Ec/s1600-h/test3.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/Rv2DvfcX-pI/AAAAAAAAACk/9heyX_3-4Ec/s320/test3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5115389603680352914" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Those beautiful imperfection of yours makes my mind go blank. It's a new feel of this world. Step onto a land of 'grass is greener on the other side'. It makes my mind stay, at least, fresh. If you smell it..&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-7112395358429985244?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/7112395358429985244/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=7112395358429985244&amp;isPopup=true' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/7112395358429985244'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/7112395358429985244'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2007/09/those-beautiful-imperfection-of-yours.html' title='Differences'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/Rv2DvfcX-pI/AAAAAAAAACk/9heyX_3-4Ec/s72-c/test3.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-7799714379596585890</id><published>2007-09-28T10:57:00.000+08:00</published><updated>2007-09-29T06:55:53.171+08:00</updated><title type='text'>Holy cow</title><content type='html'>&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Dear Christ, I like you.&lt;br /&gt;I do not like your Christians.&lt;br /&gt;They are so unlike you.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Christians never fail to piss me off. Seriously, some Christians behave like fools when they tell others how God loves everyone. I swear to god, they really look dumb. They are showing their complete ignorance and stupidity. Just like this morning, everyone is looking at each other, and laughing at this self-proclaimed God believer. Don't make a fool out of yourself. If God lives in you, be it. Let it continue living in you and please do not spread your belief to others. What's worse, you really look a retard who had just shit in his pants and not knowing shit is brown in color, you started telling everyone that your asshole just produced Cadbury and you ate it. If you ever possess a brain, use it wisely. Make yourself stupid, it's perfectly fine with me. But please, Jesus isn't suppose to come back yet. Don't make him come back just to teach you that your asshole produced shit, not Cadbury. After all, I still respect Jesus, don't make a fool out of him.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-7799714379596585890?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/7799714379596585890/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=7799714379596585890&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/7799714379596585890'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/7799714379596585890'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2007/09/dear-christ-i-like-you.html' title='Holy cow'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-88772737472728306</id><published>2007-09-26T01:10:00.000+08:00</published><updated>2007-09-26T02:01:03.724+08:00</updated><title type='text'>I could never take the place of your man.</title><content type='html'>&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RvlC_fcX-oI/AAAAAAAAACc/KN5wG_M_9CE/s1600-h/feeltree.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RvlC_fcX-oI/AAAAAAAAACc/KN5wG_M_9CE/s320/feeltree.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5114192510395611778" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;object width="300" height="80"&gt;&lt;param name="movie" value="http://media.imeem.com/m/r6G1k9Hlnc/aus=false/"&gt;&lt;/param&gt;&lt;param name="wmode" value="transparent"&gt;&lt;/param&gt;&lt;embed src="http://media.imeem.com/m/r6G1k9Hlnc/aus=false/" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="300" height="80" wmode="transparent"&gt;&lt;/embed&gt;&lt;/object&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;It was only last June&lt;br /&gt;When her boyfriend raged again&lt;br /&gt;She couldn’t stop crying&lt;br /&gt;Cause she knew he was going to say..&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;10:25 on a lonely friday night&lt;br /&gt;She was squating by the stairs&lt;br /&gt;Hmm, she was crying all night&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I asked if she wanted to join me&lt;br /&gt;And she said that,&lt;br /&gt;"All she wanted was a good man.."&lt;br /&gt;And wanted to know&lt;br /&gt;If I thought I was qualified&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And I said,&lt;br /&gt;"Baby, don’t waste your time&lt;br /&gt;I know what’s on your mind."&lt;br /&gt;I may be qualified for a sidekick stand&lt;br /&gt;But I could never take the place of your man.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It hurt me so bad when she told me&lt;br /&gt;With tears in her eyes&lt;br /&gt;He was all she ever had&lt;br /&gt;And now she wanted to die&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He left her with a slap&lt;br /&gt;And another knock on her face&lt;br /&gt;She couldn’t stop cryin’&lt;br /&gt;Cause she knew he was going to say..&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;She asked me if we could be friends&lt;br /&gt;And I said,&lt;br /&gt;"Oh, honey baby that’s a dead end."&lt;br /&gt;U know and I know&lt;br /&gt;That we wouldn’t be satisfied&lt;br /&gt;And I said,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Baby, don’t waste your time&lt;br /&gt;I know what’s on your mind."&lt;br /&gt;You wouldn’t be satisfied&lt;br /&gt;With a sidekick stand&lt;br /&gt;And I could never take the place of your man&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: right;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:100%;"&gt;Edited from : I could never take the place of your man - Jordan Knight&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-88772737472728306?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/88772737472728306/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=88772737472728306&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/88772737472728306'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/88772737472728306'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2007/09/i-could-never-take-place-of-your-man.html' title='I could never take the place of your man.'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RvlC_fcX-oI/AAAAAAAAACc/KN5wG_M_9CE/s72-c/feeltree.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-781534502288503972</id><published>2007-09-25T06:18:00.000+08:00</published><updated>2007-09-25T06:44:47.035+08:00</updated><title type='text'>My new fucks</title><content type='html'>I have countless of ideas. Countless of sleepless nights. Nights like these, I came up with these poems. You left those beautiful memories with me. You are my inspiration. I shall never forget you and i will try to keep those ideas coming in. Till they don't ring any bell, till the cows come home, till i drop, then i will stop. I miss you so much.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Seems like i got myself a hardcore fan named, 'Yang'. Ty, my dear faggot Larry.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-781534502288503972?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/781534502288503972/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=781534502288503972&amp;isPopup=true' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/781534502288503972'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/781534502288503972'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2007/09/my-new-fucks.html' title='My new fucks'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-1344021240439177820</id><published>2007-09-25T06:05:00.000+08:00</published><updated>2007-09-25T06:18:19.491+08:00</updated><title type='text'>Dyeing the Agonies</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/Rvg1ffcX-nI/AAAAAAAAACU/OcNWpTN2B7E/s1600-h/Find3.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/Rvg1ffcX-nI/AAAAAAAAACU/OcNWpTN2B7E/s320/Find3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5113896192011926130" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;I wait in vain&lt;br /&gt;My head in pain&lt;br /&gt;My eyes are bleeding with bruises&lt;br /&gt;No amount of antiseptic could cleanse those wounds&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Every puff i took&lt;br /&gt;I felt a decayed tooth&lt;br /&gt;Every way i look&lt;br /&gt;Always are those loops&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I bled through my skin&lt;br /&gt;Only to find my empty vessel being rinsed&lt;br /&gt;Those cells i slept in&lt;br /&gt;Were nights that contained my scarred inks&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Dawn reveals glimpse of hope&lt;br /&gt;I am still entangled in my own jar of ropes&lt;br /&gt;Being tied in this whole tragedy&lt;br /&gt;Is this a prodigy of another heartfelt story&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Strips of golden lights escaped&lt;br /&gt;Caught were my foolish acts&lt;br /&gt;I tint the stars so bright tonight&lt;br /&gt;But she is no longer here with me, right?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-1344021240439177820?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/1344021240439177820/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=1344021240439177820&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/1344021240439177820'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/1344021240439177820'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2007/09/dying-agonies.html' title='Dyeing the Agonies'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/Rvg1ffcX-nI/AAAAAAAAACU/OcNWpTN2B7E/s72-c/Find3.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-5906000541664952583</id><published>2007-09-10T19:34:00.000+08:00</published><updated>2007-09-10T20:23:19.554+08:00</updated><title type='text'>People = Shit</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RuU0NU29upI/AAAAAAAAACM/sblCMawIst4/s1600-h/i+hate+it+when+the+sun+comes+out.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RuU0NU29upI/AAAAAAAAACM/sblCMawIst4/s320/i+hate+it+when+the+sun+comes+out.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5108546755863886482" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;It was 8:19. I was waiting outside the clinic, waiting for it's grand opening for the day. I was some distance away from the entrance and when i reached, there was already this guy waiting besides the door. This guy who came just after me stood right in front of the entrance and waited. &lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;"Aww, well.."&lt;/span&gt; Minutes later, more people(&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;=shit,obviously&lt;/span&gt;) came and stood besides the entrance. Some simply ignoring the fact that i'm the second one on the list. So well, it's perfectly fine with me cause i'm not in a rush. The nurse came and opened the door. Everyone is queuing up for the registration(&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;noted that i was the last one in the queue&lt;/span&gt;) and this guy who i mentioned earlier, was second in the queue when he suddenly turned around and pointed to the space in front of him. He showed me the 'Hey, you're before me' kind of look. So i was surprised and thanked him before walking towards the counter. And, I can see all those 'boys and girls'(&lt;span style="font-style: italic;"&gt;they were ladies and gentlemen of at least 28 of age and above but they reacted like they are just born into this world&lt;/span&gt;) expressions. Sometimes, it's just a matter of courtesy and opening your mouth stuffed with gold bars. How can they ignore my existence that i was actually much more earlier than them and most of them queued in front of me without even thinking. Talked about being gracious, i guess our people are just too humble to be gracious. How wonderful can Singaporean be? Sometimes after all these little incidents, you would be entitled to a forced smile on your lips. :)&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-5906000541664952583?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/5906000541664952583/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=5906000541664952583&amp;isPopup=true' title='4 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/5906000541664952583'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/5906000541664952583'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2007/09/people-shit.html' title='People = Shit'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RuU0NU29upI/AAAAAAAAACM/sblCMawIst4/s72-c/i+hate+it+when+the+sun+comes+out.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>4</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-8232915086074660819</id><published>2007-09-09T22:33:00.000+08:00</published><updated>2007-09-09T22:47:15.062+08:00</updated><title type='text'>Oversaturated.</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RuQGz029uoI/AAAAAAAAACE/3XG8aRcwrIs/s1600-h/whitecmo.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RuQGz029uoI/AAAAAAAAACE/3XG8aRcwrIs/s320/whitecmo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5108215364777261698" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;You'll never change what's been and gone. So stop crying and be on your way.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-8232915086074660819?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/8232915086074660819/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=8232915086074660819&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/8232915086074660819'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/8232915086074660819'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2007/09/oversaturated.html' title='Oversaturated.'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RuQGz029uoI/AAAAAAAAACE/3XG8aRcwrIs/s72-c/whitecmo.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-2233441868606734747</id><published>2007-09-05T23:57:00.000+08:00</published><updated>2007-09-06T00:34:56.372+08:00</updated><title type='text'>Aren't we suppose to?</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/Rt7anU29unI/AAAAAAAAAB8/LHqYFAYffoM/s1600-h/everything3.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/Rt7anU29unI/AAAAAAAAAB8/LHqYFAYffoM/s320/everything3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5106759396633721458" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sometimes i wonder why do some people don't realise that they are fucked up somewhere and react accordingly? Just like when i saw this guy wearing the army no.4 at the bus stop. All of us at the bus stop were waiting for the buses so I wasn't really paying attention to him till he stood up, walked behind his maid and towards the bus just up ahead. His maid was carrying his black bag on the left, with the other hand occupied too. So i thought that guy must be from &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;NCC&lt;/span&gt; as he looks like he is some kind of fucking underage loser with hairstyle just like your grandfather who is always buying gel products to keep those pathetic hair of his to stand. So i tried to spot for the '&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;NCC&lt;/span&gt;' word on his uniform where his rank suppose to be. There isn't any '&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;NCC&lt;/span&gt;', instead i found 'SINGAPORE' on his left pocket of the uniform which suppose to mean that he is serving his NS. With his both hands swinging up and down and nothing on both, his poor maid had to carry his bloody bag! I thought this could only happen in dramas and i still could not believe my eyes. So i glared at that NSF, turned to eye his maid, and back to look into that loser's eyes. He saw my actions, and i &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;shook&lt;/span&gt; my heavy head. He looked at me as if he had just won the war for Singapore &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"&gt;singlehandedly&lt;/span&gt; and away, he continued proceeding behind his maid up the bus. Winner of the golden bag award goes to the maid. Balls, this is so amazing. NSF, i am amazed by you. As a Singaporean, as a fellow &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"&gt;nsf&lt;/span&gt;, i salute you. Best of luck pal.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-2233441868606734747?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/2233441868606734747/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=2233441868606734747&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/2233441868606734747'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/2233441868606734747'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2007/09/arent-we-suppose-to.html' title='Aren&apos;t we suppose to?'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/Rt7anU29unI/AAAAAAAAAB8/LHqYFAYffoM/s72-c/everything3.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-3035300015698776637</id><published>2007-09-02T19:03:00.000+08:00</published><updated>2007-09-02T19:07:18.605+08:00</updated><title type='text'>A Letter to My Sister</title><content type='html'>&lt;object height="350" width="425"&gt;&lt;param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Z-BmkE3nMhI"&gt;&lt;param name="wmode" value="transparent"&gt;&lt;embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Z-BmkE3nMhI" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" height="350" width="425"&gt;&lt;/embed&gt;&lt;/object&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;this is so bloody retarded lmao&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-3035300015698776637?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/3035300015698776637/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=3035300015698776637&amp;isPopup=true' title='5 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/3035300015698776637'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/3035300015698776637'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2007/09/letter-to-my-sister.html' title='A Letter to My Sister'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><thr:total>5</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-4234182647251209486</id><published>2007-09-01T05:31:00.000+08:00</published><updated>2007-09-01T05:45:56.433+08:00</updated><title type='text'>Agony</title><content type='html'>There is always this sharp pain to my heart.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-4234182647251209486?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/4234182647251209486/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=4234182647251209486&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/4234182647251209486'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/4234182647251209486'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2007/09/always.html' title='Agony'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-4221125455022471668</id><published>2007-08-31T14:45:00.001+08:00</published><updated>2007-09-01T05:17:01.854+08:00</updated><title type='text'>That Angel</title><content type='html'>&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;Those days that kept me on cloud's nine&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;These days I can only reminisces&lt;br /&gt;You were beautiful, you were everything&lt;br /&gt;How can I forget your pretty face?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Your eyes as clear as crystal&lt;br /&gt;Your hair is like the river&lt;br /&gt;That flows peacefully&lt;br /&gt;Your soul is just like the wind&lt;br /&gt;That breezes right through me&lt;br /&gt;In the dark&lt;br /&gt;You showed me the light&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But why,&lt;br /&gt;Why God spent a little more time&lt;br /&gt;On you?&lt;br /&gt;Making you perfect,so perfect&lt;br /&gt;And yet,he took your remaining&lt;br /&gt;decades away.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;If this is a test from up above&lt;br /&gt;You must be that angel he sent&lt;br /&gt;You showered me with your love&lt;br /&gt;Just like how those wings would&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;-&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RtiFD029ulI/AAAAAAAAABs/piLby9XiXUU/s1600-h/yiting2.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RtiFD029ulI/AAAAAAAAABs/piLby9XiXUU/s320/yiting2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5104976478399740498" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-4221125455022471668?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/4221125455022471668/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=4221125455022471668&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/4221125455022471668'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/4221125455022471668'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2007/08/that-angel.html' title='That Angel'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_AqapWQfYmWo/RtiFD029ulI/AAAAAAAAABs/piLby9XiXUU/s72-c/yiting2.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16331195.post-112587959922036537</id><published>2005-09-05T08:19:00.000+08:00</published><updated>2007-08-31T14:28:13.244+08:00</updated><title type='text'>time for a change</title><content type='html'>anyone still read my blog? I guess not.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/16331195-112587959922036537?l=chapkow.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/feeds/112587959922036537/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=16331195&amp;postID=112587959922036537&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/112587959922036537'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/16331195/posts/default/112587959922036537'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://chapkow.blogspot.com/2005/09/19.html' title='time for a change'/><author><name>19</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='29' height='32' src='http://www.geocities.com/w_k_86/019.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry></feed>
