making plans for nigel

I decided* to stay home today. After spending last evening in front of the telly in a zombizoid (zomboid? zombiioid?) state watching "Heroes" and "The Black Donnellys", accompanied by a few panic attacks in between, I figured I should pick myself up before stumbling mindlessly down to Miz McDees doorstep where she’d usually keep me tucked away in her comforting cold embrace well into June. And believe me, it’s a lot worse than it sounds. She’s a mofo bitch, that one. With a Bette Davis As Baby Jane Crazy sense of humour too.

So, paid some bills, organized my schedule for this week (which always calmed me, despite never being followed), and did a whole lot of reading. Also found out that the assignment I’m losing my hair over is actually due later than expected. All around yayness then!

I can’t wrap my mind around Project London just as yet though. I haven’t a clue about what I’m about to do, or when I’m going to do it. Trying to go through it one day at a time for the moment and to take it easy. Not having my degree before leaving wouldn’t be so bad considering that I hadn’t any intention to pursue a career from it (although a B.Sc. would highly come in handy, wouldn’t it?), or doing it in two steps (leave-return-leave) isn’t that bad either, it’ll be like having un avant goût, a teaser trailer of a really good movie. (Speaking of which, I cannot wait until Frank Miller’s 300 comes out next Friday. It looks rather fantastical, and exaggerated, and probably very un-PC - what with the Persians being monster-like and all - but it’s Frank Miller after all. It’s supposed to completely off the wall, and more comic book-y than historical. Like a tale. Twisted futuristical style. Oh who am I kidding, I just wanna see some badasses in metal skirts kicking the bloody shits out of eachother. Yeah.) Anyway, all I know is I can’t possibly postpone it until next year (the trip, not the movie). I’ll go mad, really. Or madder some might argue.... But let’s not think about that, k?

Okay. Well that’s it for tonight. I need to go to the bank tomorrow, so I can actually see that there is some money left in my account, which should also help in reassuring little me. Yes, there there, poppet, it’s gonna be okay….

Aside from the fact that all the stores are having huge shoe sales at the moment. God damn them all.



*as in, my alarm clock didn’t go off I didn’t hear my alarm clock due to being completely knocked out, and woke up at noon.

can't stop the spring

Oh Holy Mother of Crap! It feels like bloody fucking SPRING out there today! And it's only bloody fucking FEBRUARY!?

*whimpers*

And i can't concentrate on anything.
And i can't remember a single thing about this paper i'm reading.
And i don't even understand what the hell i'm reading.
ANd i don't know what i'm supposed to be doing. Or why i'm doing it.
ANd i'm out of money.
And Godiva Dark Chocolate mix.
And there's a ginormous bouton on my chin.
And it fucking well hurts!

*wheezes*

If anyone needs me, i'll be hyperventilating in my closet.

***

[Later in the evening...]

Well, um, okay.

I'm tyring not to freak out too much, because, you know, it's some kind of unattractive. And messy. Wouldn't want to clean my room after my head explodes into a million tiny bits of bloody gelatin. It surely wouldn't help with the studying i must doing right now. But you see, thing is, i can't seem to bring myself to take in a single word that i am reading at the moment. All i can think about is that i don't want to be here, i don't want to do this anymore, and i just realized that i can't even graduate in time this summer so that i can finally pack my shits and run off for an indefinite amount of time forever to Europe in the fall because the courses i need to enroll for are not even offered this summer at all. So yes, i'm pretty much fucked, i am. I suppose i could fly over there during the summer instead and come back in September to take the goddamn 9 credits left to my degree, but firstly, that would be a real heavy strain on my budget, and secondly, i really don't want to go away and then take a break from that and come back to just leave again. It ruins the momentum, really. It sucks balls (and then gags, and sucks balls again. Which seriously puts a damper to the entire experience, if you ask me.) And the idea of delaying the departure (again!) until January 2008 quite frankly makes me physically ill. Which therefore leaves me but with one alternative - going away in August WITHOUT a university degree.

*breathes heavily in a paper bag*

How in the world did this happen? When did i turn into a college drop-out? Oh god, i am totally losing it....

Must.
Calm.
Down.





Of course, in the big scheme of things, this is not a big deal. Pff! I'm not the first one nor the only one to have gone through this! Countless of other folks have not/took years to finish university, and they turned out great! Top notch, even. Really, it's not like it's the end of the world at all, is it?!.... Oh, but dear christ, i'll be the only one in the family who is! (Even though that's not quite true either - my parents never finished their studies... but they had the excuse of being in the middle of a war, for crying out loud!) Oh god. My parents. It's bad enough that that i will be running off to a foreign country to be on my own WITHOUT PROPER MARRIAGE, i can't even imagine how they will react that i would do it WITHOUT A FUCKING DEGREE TO MY NAME! Actually, i can see it from here, really. My dad will bury his brow into a permanent sulk as my mum will desperately cry out to the Heavens, ask for what she had done wrong, and accuse me of matricide. The shame! How will i ever outlive the shame! I'll be one of those kids, you know, those kids they used to warn me about, who turned out to be 'bad', ungrateful bastards....

Fucking hell, i need to calm the fuck down.

*runs back into closet*

one plus one is one

A friend of J asked him why it is that I am single. Here is what we came up with (in no particular order – bc, as with children, I don’t play favorites):

• I fell to the floor laughing (or ROFL - look ma! i'm a kewl kid now!) while watching this (don't look ma! it's filthy!).
• I start singing 'Ain't No Mountain' (or any song i recognize) when it's played in the restaurant (or anywhere, honestly).
• For the entire length of it.
• Complete with hand gestures.
• I cannot eat a burger without getting all 10 fingers dripped with its mustard-mayo sauce. And some on my pants as well. (But hey! at least i have 10 fingers! AND pants! Double Score!)
• I think Yucko the Clown is fucking hilarious (sensitive folks please abstain from clicking that link. Even not so sensitive folks, for that matter. Seriously. It's inanely offensive. Which tends to make me laugh everytime, sadly. Mostly when drunk. Maybe you should get drunk too? Cheerio!)
• While chatting with J, and consequently decided that i'd be better off with his balls as he is obviously a 14-year-old girly-girl inside, i pretend to cut them off by making scissors with my hands and [frantically] sticking them to my crotch. [n.b.: We were in a Coffee Shop. In broad daylight. Sober.]
• While discussing about porn and how inhumanely flexible some of these ladeez are with their enhanced titties, i, ridden with curiosity, try to see if i could ever cut it at such stardom by attempting to lick my own humble abodes, resulting in me looking like i am sniffing my armpit. [n.b.: This still occured in said Coffee Shop. I think i might've scared the middle-aged man sitting beside me.]
• It occasionally often takes to me to do Fat Bastard's 'Dead Sexy' move (i.e. licking his fingers then rubbing his mipples) only to curse my girly boobies for preventing me from doing the imitation very well. (I do have some sense of social decency afterall. Tch.)
• I am "insane" (J's word).

And now you know.




p.s. Please feel free to add to the list. Your charitable contribution will greatly be appreciated, not only by yours truly but by many single lads out there, i'm sure, who drunkenly & foolishly try to approach me. I thank you in advance on their behalf.

song 2

**A NOTE TO HTML**

I hate you. If i you ever see me walking down the street, run. But not too fast please, because i would very much like to scratch your eyeball out and make you eat it while punching your belly at the same time. Repeatedly. Then, i'd grab your balls (or boobs, whichever) and twist it 180 degrees, high kick you in your tender loins and shove you to the ground to stomp on your neck. Then i'd curtsy and leave.

Consider yourself warned.

*squints eyes into small scary empty slits*

**END NOTE**

china pig

When I was growing up, my hands-down top favorite holiday was Têt, or more commonly known as the Chinese Lunar New Year. More than Christmas, more than Halloween, more than my own birthday or the last day of school (which is, of course, of 'Holiday' status in any young impressionalbe little mind) I would anxiously wait for it to come and wonder why it couldn’t make up its mind and stick to one fixed day already.

There were all these traditional little rituals surrounding it: the bidding farewell to the Three Kitchen Gods the week before, who were believed to live in every household’s oven as to keep a keen eye on us during the year & report back to the Heavens (and who, once away, I always thought could not see us anymore, and therefore licensed everyone to act in a most unexemplary way, although unusually, I noted no such increase in crimes or misbehaviours during that week. Yes, the Asian Guilt is that powerful…); the big cleaning of the house to receive the New Year in stride; the picking of clementines from the pagoda tree, upon which is delivered our yearly fortune; the well-wishing to our elders who’d then give us in return little red envelops filled with monetary good luck (also my only steady source of income from the age of 7 to 16).

The family gatherings during Têt were particularly filled with craziness. Gambling, laughing and giggling and lots of screaming. We'd always fight for food, or to get ahead in line to wish my eldest aunt a good year (and really for the biggest envelop. Ahem), or be last with my sister because we’d never know what to say to our own parents (we’re not too good at expressing our feelings, always wanting to cry, y'see [from resignation and/or despair… Bah! I kid, I kid! Of course, nothing but love and gratitude, mum!... hahahah... I will be struck by lightning one of these days. Seriously.]). And then, of course, there is The Food.

Shrimp & Lotus Salad.
Sweet & Spicy.

Imperial Rolls.
Aren't they just perrrfect?

Assortment of fresh meat.
Best with lots of beer.
Aye.

Fried Tofu with lemongrass.
Or, The Only Tofu I Eat.

[So Good I'm Salivating All Over My Keyboard] Quails.

The traditional Square Sticky Rice Cake.

Almond cake.
Bite size.
Bloody brilliant.

Soursop candy. Heavenly

And My Absolute Favorite...
Chewy Mung Bean Rice Balls.
(Gooey, gingery and oh so gooooooood.)

How convenient it should be the Year of the Pig, innit? And there are heaps more too, but as it is fairly impossible to take pictures and have to win the fight for the last piece of fried lobster tail at the same time, i had to prioritize, you understand. It's a wonder i haven't burst through my new pants already, that's all i've gotta say.

But of all these celebrations, there is one particular reason that makes the New Year the crème de la crème of all holidays. When i was a kid, i used to love watching my mum prepare all the meals and all the minute attention she'd give to each superstitious detail. The gracious beholden humility she'd pray to the Heavens and Earth. To our ancestors... She took it all very seriously, and no matter what mood you were in, or whether you believed in a higher power or the Earth spirit or nothing at all, her attentive devotion was always enough to render a genuine purpose to it all.

And it still does. It is the only time in our household when everyone is completely silent. In a heedful quietness. Peaceful and febrile, ready to welcome the New Year.

When i was a kid, it was also the only time i could stay up past midnight, regardless of whether i had school the next day or not, just so i can be part of it all. It was a family thing. We'd tell eachother the same old stories again, and we'd laugh about it again. And having to be part of it once more, i realise it is still the only time when i feel like that exact same kid. Again. And why it is Reason Why I Love Being Asian #1.

piggy

According to Astrology.com, this is gonna be a rather sweet year for the Dog:

"Time to kick back and enjoy life with the Pig. This has the potential to be a very favorable year in many areas. The Dog is generally thought of as the protector, but this year the tables are turned. It is the Pig that is watching over you and sending luck your way."

Get yours here!

"Forget everything you know about the easy going, laid-back, roll-in-the-mud Pig. This is the year of the Fire Pig, and there will be fireworks aplenty. It should be a feel-good year loaded with excitement. [...]...Fire provides each of us the energy we need to initiate action, regardless of whether or not immediate attention is required. It is not a time to sit on the sidelines."

So go on. As Mrs. Rossdale once asked, whatcha waiting for? Get up, and pig out, 'ho*!

Happy New Year & may Good Fortune be with you!

*Apologies. Too much food & festive excitement have caused my brain to resort to gangsterism. Normal functionnig will resume shortly. Thank you and have a very nice day.

girls talk

Busy busy little bee I’ve been lately, but no worries for I am happy to report that I’m in a particularly whinging mood today, and since there is a shockingly debilitating amount of work to be done, here goes my rampantly avoidant fingers! Huzzah!

For a little while now, I’ve been distractingly looking for an obi/gyn (operating word being ‘distractingly’) but having never gone to one before and being a fully grown 24-year-old lass (do I need to reaffirm my Queen Procrastinator crown?), I am understandably growing a certain discomfort at such an idea as I surely do not wish to turn into those ladies with a tumour the size of Dom Deluise sitting on my hips before the authorities have to carry me out through my bedroom window and find myself on TLC (especially since I am cultivating the possibility of getting me one of them "sex partner"). So today, I gathered all the critical researching abilities my pedantic acculturation have offered me thus far and googled up all the info I needed. Yes, Google folks, my undying love to yous. But that is where the love stops.

Seriously, had I known it was such a feat to find a decent gynecologist I would have agreed to let my mum check on me, give me her Hot/Cold-Oh-God-My-Daughter-Is-Not-A-Virgin-Anymore diagnosis and Eat-More-Soup-&-Vegetables-To-Cleanse-You-You-Dirty-Whore prescription*. Okay, not really. But that’s only bc she has the reputation of being The Crazy Woman (as clearly confirmed above) and I’m not too keen on dying yet. After finding some very useful sites, it sadly however pointed me towards directions where the specialists were either unavailable, disappearing into maternity without warning or re-referring her patients, great but not taking new patients, taking patients but only interested in obstetrics, or taking patients but are "cold" "condescending" "money-hungry bitches". Excellent! How I suddenly felt so warmly supported by those who understand women’s need to accessible healthcare! Ggnnnn-arrghh Grrr.

Maybe is it that we have a crap healthcare system here in Canada? Or just in Quebec? Are all the qualified, kind and accessible doctors gone to Timbuktu or something? I mean, I’m fine that they are in Timbuktu, actually I feel pretty great about it - it’ll be fantastic that good doctors are where there are very much needed - but shitty hell, can there please be enough to go around for us all? There’s this consensus that specialised physicians here in Quebec are well underpaid compared to say their colleagues south the border, or even in other provinces. Countless times have I met students from outside Quebec who are here bc the University tuition is ridiculously lower than where they live (even under International Students fees), and who, once have sucked out all the blood got their degree, run away where the salary is that much more appealing. Boo! Hiss! Yes, but - though I am whole-heartedly abiding to the idea that qualified medical care should not be a matter of money AND available for all – how are we supposed to offer such services – no! – rights unless the government can actually attract these greedy whoring pansies specialists with something more than a virtuous idealised vision for them to stay in the first place? And need I mention the deplorably chaotic environment & insane hours these folks we’re counting on for saving our lives work in around here? I wouldn’t trust my laptop to someone who hasn’t slept in 24 hours and gets to practice their skills once in a blue moon while leaving computers discarded all over the floor, let alone my glorious punani, would you? Seriously, if I was one of them, I’d fucking run away too! Yes, I’m blaming the government, people! It’s the bloody government I am blindly pointing my finger at for being unable to spread my legs and have a good woman uncomfortably probe me! Really, is that too much to ask?!

After five hours – FIVE. HOURS. – of searching, calling, sneering (one fucking receptionist laughed at me when I asked her if the doctor is taking new patients! LAUGHED! Am going to stalk her down and cut her!) and rejection, I pulled out my last card – calling my sister’s gynecologist. I don’t know, isn’t it weird to have the same obi/gyn as one's sister’s? Isn’t it like a little incestuous somehow? To have the same person touch us both…there?

*tries desperately to shoo mental image*
*whimpers & runs away*

I called anyway. A recording of a lady who seemed to think that everyone who dials in must be either dull or doesn’t have anything else to do, contemptuously gree…ted…me…by…tal…king…like…this. It took her TEN MINUTES to finish telling me where the goddamn clinic was! Then, cut to sleep-inducing music for another five minutes. And cut back to her telling me how…an…nu…al…con…sul…ta…tion…is…a…non…pri…o…ri…ty. Cut back to Bang My Head On My Desk Music, then dring!, followed by me being so elated I can do back flips to “….o…ur…cli…nic…is…si…tu…a…ted…in….” FACKIU! Forty-seven minutes & thirty-six seconds later, I was FINALLY able to speak to a real person, who informed me that my sis’ gyno is “probably” not taking new patients [OF COURSE NOT!] and if she does, she’s only interested in obstetrics [BECAUSE SINGLE CHILDLESS WHORES ARE NOT WORTH IT!] and besides, the earliest they can take me is in May [BECAUSE YOU DESERVE TO DIE NOW YOU SELFISH SLUT!].

Ugh. I finally resolved (because I don’t have that much hair left to pull out) for an appointment with a resident doctor in March - which isn’t that bad, i know. But yes, just a little rez for me. I’m too beat-up to care at the moment. They just better pray that this paranoid hypochondriac won’t die from some crazy sex monkey disease** until then, or I will raise back from the dead to haunt every one I spoke to. Especially that sneering receptionist (sleep with one eye open, bitch).

*takes a deep breath*

Well, that was therapeutical. Too much information? Well, too bad, here’s another one.

Yes, you read correctly. I am thinking of taking myself a sex partner. Some might call it a ‘lover’ but there’s something ominously old-world about that word that conjures images of consumption, opium and/or jumping over the train tracks for me, which despite the notes of glamorous romanticism, is not exactly what I am aiming at. Others, being more au courant I suppose, might refer this as a ‘fuckfriend’. Now, I don’t want to appear semantically anal but a fuckfriend to me implies that you fuck before being friends - nothing than a booty call, or a last call - and although it is all well & nice, a ‘quick’ & ‘easy’ shag isn’t quite what I am looking for either. I want a sex partner. Someone with whom I have a very adult arrangement that includes mutual respect, warm company, good conversation and your frequent sexual tryst, of course. A partnership, yes? But without the obligations & attachment usually implied in your regular romantic relationships. In other words, I want all the ‘good’ parts of a having a boyfriend and none of that ‘bad’ stuff. (I am a greedy lazy bum who wants to have her double-chocolate with mocha & vanilla swirl cake and eat it too. Hello!) But it sounds very mature to me, very adult. It’s clear, and clean, and honest. There’s no beating around the bush, no playing games, and that’s what I want. Because if I have to go through one more of those first encounters, flirting, get-to-know-each other conversational bullshit I think I am going to chew my left arm off and spit it back on their face before kung-fu kicking myself senseless - not quite the image i like to give off. Not the first time anyway. This way, everything is already on the table, and therefore should be easier, no?

Seriously, the more I think about it, the more it sounds reasonable, sensical, logical. And feasible… as I just might have the perfect candidate for the position too… The only thing left to do (aside from not dying from consumption before March) is to get over my prudish reservations and ask him already. And down an entire bottle of vodka.

Oh, stay tuned folks for my impending Most Embarrassing Moments!...



* Don't ask. It's an Asian thing...
** Not that i have had any intimate acquaintances with any monkey. Ever. Crazy or otherwise. Just so you know....