The Impostor

"Impostor syndrome is a psychological occurrence in which an individual doubts their skills, talents, or accomplishments and has a persistent internalized fear of being exposed as a fraud."

Impostor syndrome emphasized the definition upon skills, talents, and accomplishments, but I personally feel like my sense of impostor-ness (?) heavily resided on my identity.

I once had a job interview where the interviewer asked me "what do you think the ideal teacher is like?" (I was applying for a teaching job)  and "do you think you are that kind of teacher?". I responded accordingly and basically said no, I wasn't at all the ideal type of teacher that my standard set upon. Suffice to say I didn't get the job, but since then I kept asking myself about the ideal "me".

Who am I? What am I aiming for? Did I even want to teach for the rest of my life?

My first impression almost always subconsciously thought that everyone else knows what they're doing, and I'm the clueless sheep in this jungle of adulthood.

I met one cool person and I immediately put them on a pedestal. They mess up and that whole image is crumbling, in turn I no longer am fond of them. 

I always have this ideal image of someone else based on their identity role. Met a professor? Immediately my brain goes "whoa, what a genius!", which, of course not saying that it's wrong. But most times just because they're a genius doesn't mean they're perfect, you know. I learned rather recently that someone can be situated on a relatively high position, whether it's job or academia, and they're not always perfect.

We're only human, you know.

But there was a time when I was naive enough to divide the world between those "who knows what they're doing" adults and "who has zero clue of the world" misfits. And I used to lock myself in the latter box, finding solace in the echo chamber of emo jams. I used to think of those music as my friends, the sad lyrics and the words expressing their hollowness, since they resonate with me so much. "We don't belong" they chimed inbetween those pounding drums and guitar riffs.

I listened to those music on my Walkman during school lunch breaks. The white hijab covering the earphone wires from my ears to the phone on my chest pocket, world out, music in. If you asked me then what the ideal student is like, I would say it's totally someone like me. Achieving high grades, lots of friends, and... well, to me the ideal student just needs to get high grades. Overall that bar didn't cover more aspects like organizational skills, charisma and sports, but I did set high standard for one particular thing: grade. And I fulfilled that criteria without seemed like trying too much.

There are two takeaways from that moment: first, the standard itself is subjective and second, I was a very happy student.

I didn't even intend to be the achieving student from the start, but once I obtained straight As in my elementary school year, the momentum was established to keep moving towards that direction. And boy did I sprint without looking left and right. I was happy with myself particularly because I didn't see how I would be unhappy.

Looking back, I knew I did miss moments that make elementary school, middle school, and high school worthwhile. But I wasn't aware of those, so I was content. I remember that I got bullied by a particular boy during my elementary year, but I was so oblivious that I didn't even *know* I was bullied. I remember I missed out on the middle school after-graduation prom party (and basically my whole senior year) to attend a long quarantine for science olympiad, but I had good friends and academically achieving so it wasn't a big deal. Ignorance is bliss, ey?

High school times weren't even that memorable, only bits and pieces of memories and regret that I didn't pursue something other than academic. I figured that college times is where my sprint seemed to have passed the finish line and I had the moment of revelation as I take in what's surrounding me. The standards began to get higher - or should I say, broader?

What previously did not get under my radar began to manifest itself in front of me. Friendship. Romance. Communication. Interpersonal affairs that I wouldn't usually comprehend becoming hard to ignore. Hardships. Heartbreak. Feelings of insecurity and inadequacy.

I still had my weapon of high-grade exam score plutonium, but there was a sense of lost-ness. I no longer knew what I had to do, now that I'm at that stage. The accomplishments seemed futile (not trying to be ungrateful). Impostors' syndrome, now that I'm in the so-called nest of acadmic excellency.

Everyone seems to know what they're doing. Everyone seems to be doing great. Even if they're not, they still seem to have a sense of purpose, unlike me.

But little did I know that academic excellency does not equate perfection. Just because your classmate is a quantum mechanics prodigy, doesn't mean he can hold a conversation with you. Just because one of your colleagues is a great coder, doesn't mean he's not an asshole who wouldn't break your heart. Life began to take form in its imperfection, flawless foundation being wiped away.

During my post-grad study I've been encountering actual projects that make me realize that we're all ultimately humans. Professors also make mistakes. The important thing is how we learn from them. One of my friends told me that he found solace at the fact that even our supervisors (the PhD ones) are kinda winging it in their jobs. Projects are plenty and we only have 24 hours a day. Our brain needs energy and nourishment and refreshments. Helps are obviously needed.

It was recently that I learned to become human, to learn that others are human too. I found a... uh.... let's say, weakness of my own that is a struggle to treat, and my therapist told me to be more appreciative of myself. At first I was like, "what's there to appreciate?" since I wasn't as academically excellent as my past self. And that's exactly the problem. Do I have to be straight A student to love myself? The initial answer was "yes", but as I ponder the logic behind that answer, I knew that ultimately it's not right.

If you have to be a straight A student to love yourself, when is it going to end? What if I graduate and there is no longer straight As to gain? Would you stop loving yourself then? Or would you set yourself another high standard as a means to love yourself? The former happened to me. I stopped loving myself and it almost cost me my life. It was by surviving and moving forward that I found life only makes sense if you are kind to yourself, just like you would to others.

I learned that by allowing myself to sometimes get a C or B is how I can be truly free from the confine that my past self set for me. There was relief in knowing that the world does not end even if I failed one semester. And a little hint of sadness because I'm not the main protagonist of this life.

Maybe I can get a brighter glimpse of the future if I can keep being kind to myself. Reminding myself that just because I'm human and I'm prone to mistakes, doesn't mean that I don't deserve a job. Doesn't mean that I don't deserve a decent pay. Doesn't mean that I deserve to be a subject of abuse.

I must admit that my impostor syndrome is kicking in because I'm recently finished with my post-grad and now I'm looking for jobs. That one job interview would always ring inside me, "do you think you are the ideal kind of [human job]?"

I would have the answer ready by then.

Now What?

So. Uh. Long time no see.

It's been a while since I write here (deja vu right, I know). Things have been happening to me, and I've been happening to things. Some days are busier than others, and long story short, this blog hasn't really crossed my mind for quite a while.

It only occurs to me when everything cooled down. When the thesis defense ended. When the breathe of relief was sighed outside the fourth floor meeting room in Labtek XIX. When the last revision was sent. When the grade appeared on my academic transcript.

Now what?

It was supposed to be a breath of relief, but... in reality, there was numbness. To be frank, the numbness lasted longer than the joy. I was supposed to rejoice. Happy that it passed. But... not really. I mean, surely I was glad, but not *that* glad, you know?

It seemed like it happened too sudden. I felt like I could do better.

But that's just always my problem, isn't it? That feeling of constant inadequacy disguised as "perfectionism" or "idealism". Or perhaps those are also real, mixed and jumbled inside me to form a bundle of emotion I can't quite pinpoint.

Now what?

I don't really know what kind of answer I'm looking for right now. Is it the "what-is-next-for-me" type of "now-what" or "what-does-my-research-contribute-to" type? I suppose it's the former, because after all I am now emerging to the outside world, beyond the boundary of systematic academia world. Perhaps I could pursue more of those, but is it what I really need right now?

It's been almost two weeks since I began waking up wondering in the morning. It's a whiplash from the usual busy routine. Waking up without a sense of purpose is... familiar. It's what my past self had encountered for months, before the second academia phase kicked in. It's... not great. I mean, stressed out every day working on your thesis is unhealthy too, but it's a different ballpark when we talk about sense of purpose.

I have a lot of interests. A lot of things I want to do. But they're not specifically long-term. Only bits and pieces of activities that can be done in spare time. Or even, things that can occupy my spare time nicely. Such as writing a blog post like this.

I have ideas of what I want to write. To create. I think it's always been my calling. Whenever I'm left on my own, it always pops up on my mind. To write. To document the present so the future knows what's in the past. I just wish I can expand that intention towards something bigger than myself. So I'm not only writing for my selfish self. So that it contributes to something to someone else.

But I'm a simple girl. As long as there is one person appreciating my writing, I think I'll be content. I think that's the main reason I never intend to capitalize on my writing, because I never want to try to appease the market. I just want to write according to my selfish intention.

I want to write about A Thing purely because I'm interested in The Thing. If there is one other person who also likes The Thing and we can connect because of that, then that's cool! But otherwise, I would be making a billboard for myself. Advertising my past ideas to my future self.

So to answer the question "Now what?" I think I might say.... it's writing. It always has been.

But First, Writing

I just got out of a tormenting approximately three-days illness. My stomach hurt so bad that it gave me fever, vomits, stings, and acute diarrhea. I never properly got diagnosed, but through home medicine I managed to crawl out of the rut. I was in a pretty bad shape during that time, that I didn't get anything remotely productive done. And when you're even too weak to muster your strength to do the usual daily time-waster of mindlessly scrolling through your phone, yet too awake to be resting, you resort to something horrible.

You begin to think. You are, then, alone with your thoughts only.

For me, that's the case. Of course it's not something real original or groundbreaking or anything. It's just... I begin to contemplate? When sickness strips you out of your strengths and daily routine, what's the first thing on your mind? What do you regret leaving when you're laying on your bed? What if that acid reflux is your final boon? Will you be able to go peacefully? Dramatic, I know. Can't help myself.

With that kind of sickness, my body practically refused to *desire* any kind of delicacy that I generally would crave. Not donuts, not sushi, not pizza, not baked alaska, not lasagna. Nothing. I wouldn't want *anything* to eat. Even the thought of eating hurt. So with such a basic, worldly hungering out of the picture, I begin to wonder, what matters then?

I think I spend my daily life around the routine of "eating", which is totally fine, of course, we need nutrition, right. But to me, personally, I find it rather... bothersome, I must say. Sure, there are plenty of foods that are great, but they are rather expensive to cost daily. I can't cook, and my mediocre attempts would result in at least mildly edible that took me an hour to make, 10 minutes to eat, and at least extra 15 minutes to wash the dishes. Alternatively, if I were to order food delivery, there's still the matter of picking what to eat, compromising what I want with my budget, choosing mixes of wanting this beverage with that dish, hunting merchants with promotion codes, etc etc. Summed up, mostly they take more time and chances are I got even more frustrated. My optimism in cooking is that I would gradually learn how to do things properly and my skill can improve to cook things more efficiently.

Anyway, as I was laying on my bed, weak and disempowered, stripped out of my worldly distractions (food and internet basically), I began to miss... writing, oddly enough?

I wanted to etch another one or two sentences to prove my existence. To convey what I was going through. What's in my head as I lie there with no other medium of entertainment. What inspiration that particular Wednesday brought upon my mind. Anything. I didn't even thought of the petty idea of "who's going to read it", or whom is this going to prove to. I just felt like I *need* to do it. Even something as horrifically ramblish like this, like I always did, I miss it.

Where did it go wrong, anyway? When did writing become something that I just *not* do?

What's stopping me from typing out another pointless observation in my blog? Is it fear? Is it procrastination? Is it distraction? Is it contentment? Feeling of obsolete and meaninglessnes? No time? Not a priority? No inspiration? Too busy? Too happy to contemplate?

Am I just asking the wrong questions, or seeking the wrong answers?

I'm just wondering where precisely the table turned, when exactly I lost my enthusiasm to communicate my layers of thought to.. well, to anyone who cares, actually. But I mostly write for myself, just so I can re-read the pieces and laugh at my younger self's naivety or something.

But of course I realize now, I need to find the answer. The underlying truth. So things can change for the better. Otherwise this will just be another cycle of "write-one-post-then-hiatus-one-year" and the essence of my writings will never evolve out of deep-ramblings.

I've been making an "aspiring writer" my internal identity for several years now, yet the "aspiring" part never truly peels off. Because no actual, strategical efforts have been made to pursue this track. Passion is admirable, surely, but it isn't really enough. Ideas without execution are subjects to be lost in the void. I can admit to everyone that I'm a "writer", but where's the proof? This lousy blog where I channel the energy of a middle-aged woman who regrets the loss of her lifelong dream due to an arranged marriage?

There's also the problem of the word "writer" being too broad. What I am aspiring to write as? Journalism? Script writer? Copywriter? Novel author? Fanfiction author? Lyricist? Poet? Academic literature? Webcomic plot writer? ..Blogger?

Would I be content with being a personal-stuff blogger for the rest of my life?

The short answer is probably no. That's why I'm having all this thought.

One hypothesis I have as to why I've been... obstructed in my writing is that I'm never held accountable for my writings. I'm not in a 'system' where I have to submit any form of progress, no deadlines to meet nor requirements to fulfill. Nobody's pointing a gun at me and demands "you have to write a whole damn novel draft by tomorrow or else". Nobody's going to get angry if I don't write. Nobody really expects anything much from me as a 'writer' (except for a few people who still read my blog and wait for my first novel break, I love you!!). That's kind of the problem. I lack the self-discipline and persistence by my own. 

I feel like I always need to be in a system that puts me to work. Yet, at the same time, I know I need the freedom and flexibility to make the creation 'my own'. This isn't a special case, I know, most of us have to deal with this contradiction.

Writing is hard, especially without the proper trigger. I could just follow the 10,000-hour rule. I could try and set a project goal of, say, write a romance fiction, and set daily task of writing 2 pages or write 2 hours each day. But I'm not necessarily a romance writer, so I would probably already burned out by my main job, inspiration doesn't pour easily, then I get frustrated because I end up writing nothing that day, then the next day I got discouraged because the previous day I didn't write anything. Then I would think "eh, what's the point" and the project got discarded altogether.

I know I said previously that "passion is admirable but not enough", but frankly, I found the energy-spike moments where I could write for 5 hours straight are better for my morale than setting myself up for 2-hours-per-day scheduled routine. Like now. Because there's nothing really at stake. If I suddenly get this burst of inspiration to write out of nowhere and finally come out with a piece, no matter how weird or pointless, it became a pleasant surprise. But if I spare 2 hours each day to write with the possibility of leaving that time slot discouraged, I feel like I would end up hating writing, so I'd... rather not do it. Is it fear or am I just a bad gambler?

The initial objective of this rant is actually to come up with something useful for me to actually start making writing my habit again. Be it through scheduled writing, entering a 'writing system', or setting up a distinct writing goal first. I realize this is not a systematic writing, just a rant to hopefully clear my head and inspire me to come up with something more specific and systematic outside the realm of this blogpost.

Sometimes I really envy people who can just... do it, you know. Do what they want to. Do what they need to. Don't have to ramble pages over pages of self-doubts and try to sell it as authentic "writing".

Signing off...

Boredom Devil

 I'd like to imagine that there's a demon living inside my room right now. Just because coming up with any external factor to blame is far easier than confronting the possibility that an internal struggle might be at play.

I call them the Boredom Demon.

For whatever reason, living inside the room feels very inertial. Seems like I would never have the energy to do anything, to come up with any ideas whatsoever. Back then, cooped up inside my dorm room, I could make the place mine. I was happy, I was content. But not anymore, not here.

Being alone here feels like a prison of mind. It's a difficult situation to describe, but despite all the comfortable features of the room, I could never make it my 'home'. My brain doesn't work, and it keeps screaming for me to get out of there, even though my body and all my senses are real content there.

It seems like a bad Feng Shui is at play there. 

Ridiculous, I know.

But I really need to blame my new room for everything. For the reason I'm constantly unsatisfied, uninspired, un-energized, unwilling, unhappy. Weird, I know. 

I feel like I have to make a total change of the room for it to make sense for my brain.

Right now I don't even have the strength to form a coherent passage, or even care whether this narrative make any sense whatsoever. I'm sorry.

Let Loose

Why can't gathering your thought be as simple or as obvious as picking up flowers from your neighbor's garden and arranging them in your empty can of soda by the backyard?

I'm not even that old, yet all I dream about is to be able to just sit there, staring at the sky while drinking a cup of cocoa rum. No thoughts, no regrets, just peace.

Sometimes I wonder if I've been taking things for granted. Sometimes I wonder if I've been postponing too much and decay too soon. Sometimes I wonder if only I can be swift in making decisions, in taking actions, in pursuing the present. Would things be different? Would I not decay this fast?

I can never tell these days. My thoughts are getting emotionally hollow. I practice mindfulness more, yet I feel less like myself more and more with each passing moments. 

I knew things, but now I just blindly grasp into the outline of their concept without actually know if I know. I understood things, but now they're just wisps of imagination that I heed no further attention with no interest at all. But I've always made that decision to look back and imagine things as better than whatever it is I'm facing in the present, and I wonder if this is the case at all.

Would there be a future where my present is the most precious moment that I can fully immerse myself in? And if there is, will I be able to write it down and remember?

There's really no words to describe how much I feel sorry for myself, sorry for every touch and resources I wasted into typing this nonsense. I don't even know what I want. Do I want to find myself? Do I want to go back to the good old times? Do I want to skip to the desirable, peaceful future I imagined? I don't know. All is jumbled.

It's not that I lost hope, per se. It's just lately I don't even want to unalive myself, because there's not even enough sorrowness to drown me in. Yet, I don't feel any hope either.

I just... want my brain back. Let me think. Let me live the pain, the laughter, the sadness, the love, the life.

Septembrambling

Tadi malam gangguan internet parah banget. Bujug dah. Udah wi-finya mati, jaringan operator HP juga ngga ada sinyal sama sekali. Jadi ada tuh beberapa jam w kagak bisa ngontak orang sama sekali, atau browsing internet. Mau streaming Linkin Park kaga jadi. Mau dengerin CD fisiknya kga punya CD player lagi, udah pensiun...

Tapi ada hikmahnya juga ye. W jadi mau gamau ngelanjutin tuh ilham buat nulis, walaupun sekelumit kisah gak penting tentang kucing-kucing w. Well, penting sebenernya tauk. Kalo ga ada mereka mungkin w udah mati kebosanan gak ada inet. Eh, tapi berhubung di rumah juga, banyak hal-hal lain yg bisa dikerjain. Buku mah bejibun, bisa dibaca ulang atau nyobain mulai seri Gajah Mada nya bapak yang tebel sejilidnya bisa buat bantal tidur. Tapi akhirnya w nyelesain ntu blog post en tidur setelah baca Shinchan volume 8 edisi lama yang terjemahannya ampun dah keknya lost in translation karena banyak wordplay bahasa Jepang yang ga translates well.

Selain itu, keknya udah lama bgt deh w gak terdiam tanpa terdistraksi berbagai macam aral lintangan dari dunia net. Bahasa kerennya mungkin contemplation gitu, yah..? Selaluuu aja ada yang bikin w terdistraksi gitu.

Niatnya mau istirahat rebahan sebentar sambil lihat ada berita apa di timeline twitter... Ehh taunya udah hampir sejam ngescroll thread twitter yang lagi viral en bikin emosi netizen indonesia pada hari itu. Ntu paper 12 halaman yg mestinya bisa dibaca dalam 15 menit kalah saing dah tuh. Dan ini selalu kejadian, dan w selalu menyesalin ini tapi teteuup aja terjadi. Oleh dikarenanya w mencanangkan operasi 'log-out twitter' dimana w... yaa, logout twitter en gak buka-buka ntu social media baik dari hape maupun laptop. Sebenernya udah berlangsung 5 hari tapi kemudian w pengen sambat akhirnya buka sebentar buat misuhin Spotify for PC yang ampas abis kga loading-loading.

Ngomong-ngomong soal Spotify, ni app sebenernya juga jadi sumber distraksi lho buat w. Biasanya w akan berniat buka Spotify sebentar buat nyari lagu yang cocok jadi temen belajar. Trus akhirnya scroll-scroll playlist yg w bikin, playlist orang lain bikin, trial and error nyobain playlist A dan B entah karena A bikin ngantuk tapi B terlalu gahar... Trus pada akhirnya w akan bikin playlist baru tapi nyadar 'lah kan w dah pernah bikin playlist yg mirip-mirip ini yah?', w coba gabungin lagu-lagu di playlist baru dan lama itu ehh kok flownya kurang cocok? Akhirnya ada kali beberapa jam malah ngerapiin playlist-playlist di library w, bingung sendiri karena playlist bernuansa rock yg w bikin terlalu overlap sama playlist bernuansa indie rock tapi kalo digabungin yg nuansanya super indie kayak Vampire Weekend KURANG NYAMBUNG sama lagu-lagu nuansa blues rock ala Royal Blood. BMTH masuk di playlist metal w tapi beberapa juga heavy rock, tapi yg agak electro dan featuring Grimes kurang mashook di rock tapi terlalu gahar buat playlist electropop w????

Yahh... gitu deh, jadinya. Kangen juga masa-masa segalanya lebih simple dimana kita cuma perlu beli album dan kontrol kita atas tuh lagu cuma persoalan album apa yg mau dimainin hari ini. Dulu juga w suka beli CD album kompilasi dan menemukan banyak band-band yang sampe sekarang jadi basis selera musik w. Yaa, at least jadi pernah denger namanya dan tau kendatipun engga demen sama lagunya, misalnya Placebo, Nirvana, atau Keane (bujug ketauan deh angkatan w wkwk). 

Sekarang mah tinggal buka Discover Weekly nya Spotify kita bisa nemuin banyakkkk rekomendasi lagu yg bisa jadi bisa tidak jadi our next favorite song, apalagi diupdatenya tiap minggu. Sayangnya karena ni fitur hanyalah satu dari sekian banyak fitur yang disediakan, novelty-nya jadi kurang berasa buat w. Kinda take it for granted karena pada akhirnya w bakal nyari-nyari sendiri dari playlist orang lain yg kiranya seleranya mirip sama w, atau nemu apa yg lagi hits dan gabungin itu ke playlist w. Pada akhirnya w terjebak dalam feedback loop dimana selera musik w ternyata GITU-GITU AJA. Pernah nemuin lagu yg 'wuih kok enak' di playlist orang ehhh taunya ntu musik rilisnya pas w SMP. Man do I ever grow up.

Kalo ngomongin soal Spotify pasti w jadi berbusa-busa gitu deh. Dan ini w translate ke kenekatan w buat banting setir ngeganti topik tesis w jadi ke streaming service (padahal dah ditagih bu kaprodi buat lulus Desember... bujug ga tuh, ditinggal temen-temen lg deh T-T). Sampe sekarang pun w masih agak pusing buat formulasiin research gap nya. Kalo w baca-baca penelitian soal streaming service ini pada menarik abis menurut w, and I'm super passionate about it but will I be able to find and fill the gap in the academic literature?

W bersyukur bgt dosen pembimbing w super baeekkkk, dan w diperbolehin ganti topik untuk waktu yg sesempit ini. Tapi apakah w bisa mengerjakannya dengan baik dan konsisten? Terlebih w habis nekat ngambil gawean buat data analysis yang 'mampus-susah-abis'. But then again I got solid advice from one of my close friends that ultimately makes me feel confident about juggling these responsibilities (thanks Tina!).

I guess that's all I wanna talk about today. I'm gonna try and do my tasks, hope all goes well. Take care, folks!

A Tale of Four Cats

Hiiii, long time no see yah!

I've been quite preoccupied with college and other... uh... struggles. Writing has not been on my mind for a while now, and I have yet to find the actual explanation as to why that happens, as much as I'd like to know it myself :/ Perhaps it's a post for another day, perhaps I will never find the answer... But right now I want to write something about a light and easy topic.

That's right, ladies and gentlemen (and probably my non-binary friends), today we're talking about my CATS! Well, technically I will be the one talking... or rather, more technically, I will be writing... Anyway!

I've been home for... well, can't say holiday, because it's supposed to be the final year of my masters' study, and I need to work on my thesis alongside assisting research projects. I was feeling cramped up all alone in my dorm room because I can't even go to campus yet, since... you know, the pandemic. So I thought I'd go home for a change in atmosphere, and perhaps I can work better since basic food necessity will be practically taken care of. Heh.

One thing (among many others, of course) that I miss about my home is the cats. Okay, so maybe four things. Or not things- creatures- anyway... It's kinda a bummer that I can't keep a cat pet in my dorm room, since I get really high dose of dopamine by petting them and being around them. But then again, I wonder about the feasibility of actually keeping one, since I like to go on a spontaneous walk on my own every so often, and sometimes there's no telling when I'd be home. That's why I was feeling pretty comfortable with the non-committal arrangement of my previous feline companion in my previous dorm house: I feed him in front of my room, he stays to hang out for a short nap or play with my drum sticks or listen to my ramblings, then he goes back out for whatever business a wild stray cat needs to attend. And that's why Devira and I called him bujines (representative of the word 'business').

So, anyway, the cats at home. Currently we have four cats co-existing in the household, each with their own quirky character and personalities.

1) Joan de Arc

Actually, we only named her Joan, albeit getting inspiration from the character. She's a... senior cat, I think? We found her, I think about 7 years ago, hanging around in front of our previous house. She is a tricolor female mixed breed, and we thought she got lost from her actual owner, since we never saw a cat like her in the neighborhood, and she seemed to be too pretty to be a mere stray. We waited for days, though, all the while feeding her and letting her sleep and hang in our front porch. Then it was basically a non-verbal cue that she was our cat ever since. She was already a teenage (?) cat when we found her, so now she's really old for a cat.

Joan is the most well-behaved cat in our pack, at least according to my mother's judgement. When she first joined our household, she already knew how to pee in the toilet without us teaching her (actually supporting our hypothesis that she had an owner, but by then mom had grown fond of her). Even now, she's the only cat we let inside for the night because we know she can take care of herself.

She's a picky eater, though. She only likes certain kinds of cat foods, and sometimes we had to guess. At first we bought our cats Friskies and she seemed to like it, but then one day she just didn't feel like eating then we figured out that it's only supposed to be Friskies Seafood. The one she didn't like had chicken in it, so we settled with the seafood. Then, we tried out a cheaper food like Me-o, but she only liked the salmon flavor. Now we have Bolt, but she only likes the round-shaped pellet ones :')

She really loves grooming, and I think she spends 80% of her life (besides sleeping and eating) cleaning herself, or cleaning our other cats (if she likes them). The other 20%? Neck scratches, back scritches, and flirting with male cats. We had her neutered, but somehow she still likes to beg attention of male stray cats (and somehow they're always the ugliest or the wildest kind of stray) when we let her outside. Most of the time she runs outside when we accidentally leave the door open, but she always runs back home with her skippy steps and jangling bell of her cat collar.

The sweetest part is she seems to acknowledge if I come home after leaving for quite a long time for college. When I open the front door with my luggage she would run to me for neck scratches and back pet :)

2) Nestor

A domestic shorthaired cat (or kucing kampung) with jetblack fur all over his body except the feet part, so it looks like he wears white socks. We named him after the butler character in Tintin since the black-white fur color combination resembles tuxedo. The second oldest cat in our household, we got him from my mother's friend when he was but a small lass who loved to play.

I could never bond well with Nestor, because he doesn't really like to be touched. When I try to pet him, he would always try to claw my hands. We all know that he is just playing when he's like that, but I still got scared because he's never got his nails clipped. So our interaction is kinda limited to just playing with cat toys or rope and me hoping he doesn't accidentally claw my hand.

He's the only cat that we constantly let outside, because 'no one's gonna take him anyway' says mother. That sounded a little harsh if you consider cat feelings as similar to human emotion, but mom's spitting facts. We already spayed him, but he still likes to go out and pick fights with other cats in the neighborhood (although he always lost lol). He would often come home bruised with claw mark spots on his fur. I don't know if it's a territorial thing or personality thing, but he barely stops doing this habit.

Right now he's on probation where he can't stay inside the house for more than 10 minutes without supervision, because he somehow keeps peeing in unexpected places, like beside the dining table, in our library room, or corner of TV room. They're always only small puddles of pees, but scattered all over the house :( We don't know what makes him do this, because he barely acts up (well there's the fights but he never bothers us otherwise). I don't know if this is his rebellious midlife crisis phase or he has a bladder problem (if you probably have an explanation for this pls let me know!).

3) Puyo

An orange, long-haired mixed breed (I don't know what breed but he's (?) long-haired lol) that we got from (also) a friend of mother's almost exactly one year ago in the form of a little orange cottonball. Naming him was quite the discussion, but we settled with a name originated from Puyol the captain of Barca but turn it into Puyo a local pudding brand for more cutesy pet feel to it, and it seemed like a more gender-neutral name.

Although, until now, I still can never be sure whether Puyo is a male or female cat. We keep checking Puyo's rear side but his furs are really long and obstructed our empirical investigation, and I don't want to get a criminal record for violating an animal, much more our own pet. So why do I keep referring to Puyo as a 'he'? Because he has a tendency to mate with some other stray (male) cats, he's an extremely active cat, and... it's kinda hard to explain, but over time the scruffs around his neck got bigger and he looks rather like a male lion, so eventually I just settled with identifying Puyo as male.

Puyo is a cold-blooded killer. When he was smaller (yeah, one year ago), he loved to play and would react to cat toys or simple cables, or finger wiggles, but now he doesn't settle less than actual, moving creatures. His checklist probably contains: gecko, dragonfly, hornets, fly, mice, roaches, birds, and other insects I can't identify. He doesn't eat them, he doesn't kill them. He just plays with them. Bits and pieces of gecko or roaches would be tattered on the floor before he got bored of the unmoving parts and leaves the crime scene, unfazed. He whines when he sees a gecko on the wall up real high and he can't reach it. He once jumped on dining table to catch a dragonfly, where he immediately got down after I yelled at him (although he eventually managed to munch the poor insect that its wings were torn out, its body slowly limping to lifelessness under Puyo's adorably irresistible paw).

Puyo's favorite pastime is hanging out in the backyard to hunt for small insects or just watch the birds fly low above his head (which he tries to hunt of course). Mom said we can't really grow herbs anymore since the insects and birds that used to help with pollination are all hunted down by this little killing machine. Wooden sticks that support the small papaya trees trying to grow are being used by this shithead to play or become a scratching post.

Puyo likes to join us in the dining table. Not that we put his food bowl on the table or anything, but rather he'd react to the sound of plates and spoons clinking when we eat. Two spoons into our dinner, and he would stride with his tails up to the side of dining table. We usually eat facing each other, and there's an empty seat beside either side of us, and Puyo would jump up on the chair beside whoever's eating, with his ultimate begging expression. We'd let him smell whatever we're having, and if he likes it we spare a little for him. But if we're eating fish, we'd better just shoo him outside to the backyard temporarily because he goes crazy for fish. Yesterday I had flame-grilled fish and both his right and left front claw just eagerly dig into my thigh seeing me chewing.

But, like all cats, he also likes to nap. He's the only cat mom lets inside the master bedroom to sleep in the corner beside the TV shelf. Mom likes to carry him around while scritching his neck, and he seems to love this too, and sometimes flutter his eyes closed in comfort. I, too, apply this technique every so often when I have the chance, because he's just so darn cute. He's the cat I like to cuddle the most because he's so soft and furry and cuddly and precious with those big black eyes and constant curious look on his face. He never resists pets and never tries to claw anyone even though he's very active, so he's a safe company to keep. Well... maybe not according to the insects.

4) Welu?

Okay, this one's a bit... new? Similar to Joan's case, he was found outside our house, but he already wore a cat collar, indicating there's definitely an owner. Originally, mom only wanted to let him stay temporarily while we look for the owner, but it's been a few months and still no clue? Because he's supposed to be just a temporary guest, we didn't really name him correctly. Welu was just a nickname mom put together without thinking, because he is really loud and talkative, so welu was just a short of the reprimand "bawel, lu". 

Welu is the youngest of the pack. He looks still in his teenage cat year and hasn't yet lost the excitement to play. Little Welu has grey tabby coat and seems to be also a mixed breed like Puyo or Joan. His tail is bushy, he constantly has this curious look to everything that moves. He reacts playfully to cables, ropes, cat toys, and finger wiggles. Welu is the only one who often joins Puyo in his insect and mice conquest, although now he takes the kitchen night shift by himself for his rodent-hunt chance.

Little Welu also likes scritches on the neck and back, and doesn't mind to be cuddled. I tried a few times but surprisingly he's heavier than Puyo even when he's smaller?? Perhaps it's his big rounded chonk belly that prevents for more comfortable carry.

I still feel like I have to spend more time with Welu. He is friendly, doesn't resist scratches and cuddles, but he is still distant because he never asks for my attention directly. Joan would meow and enter my room for attention. Puyo would just look at me with those boba eyes or jump to my lap immediately. But Welu? He only makes questioning eye contacts and I don't know if that means attention or he just haven't familiarize himself with my presence (since when he first joined our house I wasn't here yet).

Well, there you have it the tale of four of my cats. Not even a tale, eh? Just like an introduction. Or tour. I don't know. The cats have been a huge emotional support for this house left by its two only children, going away for college in faraway cities. Thanks to them the house gets more cheerful and colorful, because there's always new antics done by the bunch. Joan with her princess-like manner, Nestor with his aspiring leader fights, Puyo with his kill counts hidden by innocent furballs, and Welu with his childlike personality :)