because i'm that self-indulgent

my mathematical mind

2008-06-06T12:42:00.012-04:00

Et si ça ne valait pas toute cette peine?

Si à la fin, ça n’arrivait pas juste, que je me retrouvais en déficit?
Tout d’un coup, comme ça, parce que j’ai fait la bêtise de négliger les aptitudes mathématiques et cartésiennes qui m’étaient ethniquement et généalogiquement allouées, par simple rebellion juvénile et/ou refus aveugle du stéréotype, et que j’ai mal calculé le tout, la somme, ma vie?

Si xy = ac, bon.
Ni plus ni moins qu’au départ, tout ce secouage de vieux linge familial et abandon du bonheur enfantin à la recherche du bonheur adolescent pour revenir à peu près où on en était. Un peu con, oui, inutile certes, mais au moins, j’ai pas vraiment perdu grand chose sinon du temps. Mais ça, je m’y suis habituée. Et puis de toute façon, c’est un sujet pour un autre poste un autre jour. Démonstration par procrastination, voilà.

Mais, si xy > a – c , je fais quoi?
Kesseke vous voulez que je fasse avec ce moins de plus? Un vide que ~~j’ai~~ j’avais pas. À garder en tête que j’ai jamais été une grosse fan d’auto-mutilation, je l’enfouis où alors, ça, ce cé? Dans quel trou noir pour que je disparaisse davantage?

Et même si xy < a + c , en surface, semble tout à fait désirable, en ai-je sincèrement de besoin, de cet extra de cul qui me donnerait l’impression d’avoir obtenu quelque chose en plus et, par intrapolation, viendrait m'auto-valider? Ne serait-ce pas de trop? Dans cet âge de surconsommation, de surplus et d’effet de serre, n’ai-je pas appris que plus n’est peut-être pas mieux? Plusse que je puisse digérer, plusse j’épuise. Non, ça’arrive pas. C’est même pas grammaticalement correct. Logiquement, ça s’ent fout carrément. L’important, dirait-on, serait de trouver la valeur des variables. Malheureusement, dû à l’abandon de mes cours d’algèbre passé le collège (pour des raisons puériles mentionnées ci-haut), j’ai oublié désormais comment y procéder*. Merde...

Bon. En attendant, je me réconforte qu’Einstein a coulé ses math de secondaire.

Hiroshima, mon amour.

* Avec tout le trichage que j’ai accommodé au secondaire, on aurait déduit que quelqu’un m’accorderait karmiquement la réponse, crisse... Quelqu’un kekpart me crie qu’it is not the point! Câlisse.

because

2008-05-30T12:28:00.007-04:00

In eight days, I will be coming home.

Job has been quit, tickets have been bought, denial is in gear.

Too much to say. Too much to do. Too much…
Too little words. Too little time. Too little space…

Up here.
And in there.

Then, there is only fear.
Of facing what I left behind. Of leaving my heart here. Of owning up.

Eight days.

The weather had better be nicer than here.

what's new, pussycat?

2008-05-28T06:43:00.006-04:00

I've got too much in my head at the moment to coherently write anything of my usual nonsense. So instead, may I present to you Arch Nemesis, Cat:

Schizoid, delusional agoraphobic, senile spy,
debilitatingly self-conscious attention whore.

Don’t be fooled by her sweet feline face, she's a cunning one.

Hobbies: secretly spreading hair onto my clothes, eating flowers from window box, getting sick from eating flowers in window box, sprinting after 'voices in her head'.

Likes: staring competitions, moaning to herself, coming up from behind & scaring the begesus out of me, fighting with the rug and curling up to Blond Monkey.

Dislikes: being ignored, other furry animals, any more than four humans [or the equivalent of] in the same room, the hoover.

Wish: opposable thumbs.

I'd gladly dispose of her if I don't actually think she's a wily old lady trapped in an aging hairy suit with no teeth. And really, who wouldn't empathise?

We haz cmplxic8 luv/h8 rltnshipz.

we've only just begun

2008-05-18T19:25:00.003-04:00

Today, I feel sappy.

Thank you. As you were.

talihina sky

2008-05-10T07:08:00.011-04:00

I am supposed to be Barcelona this week.

J came and stayed a few weeks ago, as Blond Monkey was busy getting his portfolio together and I tried to play Good Hostess while simultaneously hiding my murderously violent tendencies at work.

I failed miserably.

But that is not to say that we didn’t get some good’ol times rollin’ and dancin’ (or as much as my QUARTER OF A CENTURY OLD’S Newly Acquired Rubbish Need For An 8 Hours Night Sleep To Function Comprehensibly allowed). And it was delightful to be with J again, someone who knew me before. Someone I can run to, and would understand where I came from. Reminding me who I am by showing me how I’ve changed, without having to say anything... It was the closest piece of home I’ve tasted since I’ve been here and it filled a hunger that went unsatiated for far too long.

We ended up being completely annoyed with one another, obviously (ta! darl!), but his is a friendship that brings love & hate as much & as easily as family does, I think. And it was also the first time a close part of my life met a 'boyfriend'. I don’t remember much, on the account that I was massively drunk (it involved a fallen pint of cider, I believe), but I think it went well as both parties spent the remaining days ganging up on me. Bitches.

After I saw my best friend off after a week long emotional ride, Blond Monkey also had to go away for a few days. I relished at the idea of having the flat to myself but suddenly, creepily and unexpectedly, it felt bare. Although I knew he would soon come back, in a few days, just wait, you silly girl, I missed him oh so terribly....

Silly girl...
Just a few days...
Just you wait….

I am supposed to be in Barcelona this week. But I am not.

Because, although having bought the tickets months beforehand with the idea that you might be able to get away together, life has this tendency to throw random insignificant things at you, carelessly, so as he suddenly can’t. Because, even if a part of you childlessly feels like a useless soppy girl who wouldn’t travel alone simply because her boyfriend isn’t going with her, a bigger part would just rather be with him. Because sometimes your strength comes from humbly recognising what makes you happy regardless of how conventional and stereotypical it may appear. And also because, by the end of the month, you will be leaving him.

And your Twelve-Year-Old Self can go screw herself.

train of thought

2008-04-22T07:10:00.008-04:00

I need to do laundry. And the dishes. And wash the bathroom. And a dozen other things too, now that we’re at it. And since J is coming over TOMORROW, I also need to clean the bed in the front room, which could seriously use a good tidal wave (unless I want him to find things his pure pederasting eyes don’t want to see*), yet all I’ve been doing all morning is downing coffee with Pringles (that’s some hell of a breakfast, by the way, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise) and reading blogs.

Shit. It’s 12:15 already. I should’ve been out of the house an hour ago.

We have a wine tasting at work later, which means I would have to haul my ass there earlier than usual. Without pay. Tch.

In normal circumstances I would’ve poked my own eyes out giddily to ‘taste’ wine for free, but with all the things I need to be doing I think I’ll need to pass on this one. The thought is more painful to me than it is mentally healthy.

No matter. I can always drink and clean at the same time – it’s all about multitasking here, people!

Pip pip!

* Luvs, dahling, but there’re just certain things friends don’t need to visualise, ahem...*winks seedily*

little bunny foo foo

2008-04-19T20:07:00.003-04:00

Wine is good. Wine is my friend. Makes me happy without the headache. Very good.

Blond Monkey is setting up a blog for his artwork at the moment and for some reason it makes me queasy. The reason might be that, oh I don’t know, he is not exactly aware that I also have a blog. Myself. And when he asks me what I think about layouts, whether I’m familiar with html or not, or if I have blogger account, well, I’m not quite sure what to say.

I end up lying, obviously, because, tch, I’m far from being sane enough to have him know every single thought that farts through my brain. The much that he knows is more than I ever imagined letting anyone have ~~to hold against me~~ as personal information, or believed laudable with such loving indulgence, really. I’d rather not push it. He, however, freely gives me his passwords & pin numbers, and I’m not sure if that makes him utterly naïve or me a complete untrusting biatch. Or both. Opposites attract and all that. Or perhaps birds of the same flock as we are both a little screwed up?

Ooh! Pizza’s here!

Cannot process more coherent thought now.
Am officially drunk.

Buhbye!

the beast and dragon, adored

2008-04-15T11:53:00.010-04:00

Just for the record, things aren’t ‘bad’ in London. Shocking, I know, from recent [and most, to be honest] posts in this here blogue.

It’s just that when things are ‘good’ you’d rather enjoy it rather than sit & shit it away through your fingers. Because the more you write about the ‘good’ things, the more you dwell on them, and the more you pick at them, and the more you tear them apart. Until you effectively kill them.

So you don’t describe how incredibly cool double-decked buses are without thinking about the maddening traffic or insane driving. And you don’t mention your favorite restaurant with the friendliest staff without worrying about the precarious financial situation that living in The Second Most Expensive City IN THE WORLD breeds. And you don’t rave about the innumerable art wonders available at your fingertips to wipe away a bad day without hanging an equal amount of pretentious ‘arty’ wankers pestering the sites. And you definitely don’t want to talk about how freakishly awesome things with the boyfriend are... without ignoring the overwhelming fear when comes the imminent day you will need to part.

So yeah, I’d rather not write about the ‘good’ stuff, thank you, but that’s just me.

For the record.

perhaps vampires is a bit strong but...

2008-03-29T09:44:00.015-04:00

We have a new Operations Manager at work. I’m not entirely sure what he does (carry out spying operations? Operate complicated machineries? Both?), one thing’s for sure, it involves wankery.

On Friday, he did ‘the rounds’ and basically 'taught' us how to sell ~~our souls~~ the restaurant, which left me a trifle confused as we’ve never been busier. He also pulled me aside regarding a complaint... Guess what? It wasn't for me. Another sign that this guy knows his shit: “The one thing you must ensure is to keep that customer and not let them walk out the door, even if we’re full... How do you feel about getting them the ringer?” Faced with the unabashed puzzled (and slightly frighteningly appalled) gleam in my eyes, he explained that ‘the ringer’, instead of being a krav maga move or the really bad movie that Jackass guy was in as I suspected, is a gadget given to clients while they wait for a table at the bar or some such sort, and as soon as it's ready, transmits a ring and/or vibration via a controller so they can trod their way towards gluttony goodness. Not unlike the cattle we ironically sell them. Because, you know, walking up and greet them to the table yourself is just too damn personal for a small restaurant like ours. And I suppose it does slow down the entire spending process.

Derrr...

Sure, I’m no business woman – heck, I’m can barely haggle my way through a decent deal with that shop keeper on the street who sell his pashminas £0.83 more than the one on the other side of the road - but it seems that all these ‘strategies’ and ‘gadgets’ to ‘upsale’ sounds a bit cold and unfriendly, donnit? And from a customer’s point of view, rather obviously desperate? And off-putting? And did I mention cold, unfriendly and, you know, generally unattractive? Because when I go to a restaurant, beside the food, it’s the homely and welcoming atmosphere, the comfort in knowing that you’re not just a walking dollar sign nor will you be treated as such, with overbearing greetings, fake friendliness and obvious sales pitch - that stinking smell of cheese (not the good kind anyway) - that gets me through the door. Or is that just me being childishly naïve again? No, like, srisly, I can’t tell anymore.

A colleague and I, in what we innocently thought was a random conversation with one of these new Sales-y managers (we’re trying to ‘re-brand’ ourselves, apparently), were suddenly quizzed on what the ‘6 R’s’ were. As we looked at him as though he landed from Planet Twat, surprised mostly of the existence of such a planet in the first place, he made a note to speak of it in next week’s meeting. Oups. Apparently, when faced with a complaint, the infamous 6 R’s, as he was happy to inform us, are: 1) Remove object of complaint; 2) Report to upper management; 3) Replace item of complaint; 4) ...frankly, I was too repulsed at this point as I realised how retardedly unaware of his own moronic rapport with human reasonning to concentrate on what he was rhyming at. Then I was distracted in wondering if there’s an R’s rule on how to not smack your boss? Refrain, restrain, re-consider, run and retire?

Anyrooney, if this is how it’s going to be from now on, I’m afraid I might have to kick my Do Not Bite the Hand That Feeds You policy right into Bitchville on these virtual pages. As well as start drinking heavily .

my home ghost

2008-03-28T13:03:00.014-04:00

It’s a really bad sign when you can’t enjoy the one thing that has always cheered you up.

Whenever I reach That Point – when I can break out in tears, turn to pyromania and/or slice various things, living or otherwise, that fall upon my path – a nice meal, on my own, always seem to keep me away from your evening news. Yes, glorious, life-saving, food.

But as I took a bite of that wonderfully baked garlic champignons with spinach and cheese à la raclette, tears welled up. And not just because I had burned my tongue.

“How izcit?”, the very pretty French waitress asked me in broken English. I nodded as I squinted one eye (the teary one) and tried to create an air passage to ease the burn in my mouth, and created instead a burn in my throat (because it's impolite to eat with your mouth open, especially when someone is talking to you.) Seemingly satisfied to make her customers painfully pleased, she walked away and seated a loud couple a few tables away from mine.

He’d enjoy this, I couldn’t help thinking to myself.

From where I sat, I couldn’t tell what my new fellow diners looked like but they sounded slightly, for lack of a more flattering word, pudgy. There was weight and heaviness to their tone - hoarse and tired, for all the volume exuberated. Their cheerful chit-chat quickly turned to growing resentment as my steak, perfectly rare, with frites & watercress, was presented before my hopeful hunger. “I know you don’t like them, but they’re still my family!...”, the lady spoke out, so defensively, I turned my head. She had curly hair. “And there’s no need for you to be so rude! Especially in front of me!”, she continued.

So some couples have more serious issues....

Still, the thought didn’t help me enjoy as I could this 7oz of juicy dead meat, the sweetness of which hasn’t melted in my mouth in months. Bastard. Because as I sat there, sipping the nice glass of red and guiltily amusing myself in eavesdropping, I know he is at home, sulking in his bowl of homemade fried rice. And though his fried rice is pretty good, somehow indulging an overpriced meal out without him, in spite of him, just doesn’t seem fair. Even if he started it. And slammed the door behind me when I continued.

“Fucking bastard”, the pudgy-sounding man shouted in tandem, but unrelated, with my head. He then mumbled something underneath his breath, quite angrily I noted, and shuffled loudly various things, the salt and pepper grinder probably, on the table. “And that’s how you speak of my family…”, surly curly lady sadly pointed out. An icy silence ensued, interrupted only intermittently by the restaurant manager asking the pretty French waitress to clean up just as the last customers left so they could all leave sooner, to which she replied ‘it donne madderre to mi - shure, but it donne madderre eder wé…’.

It doesn’t matter indeed.

I finished my steak, satiated, asked for the dessert card but didn’t order any. “I’m just going to finish my wine, thank you”.

I just wanted to go home. Wherever that was.

who's got the crack

2008-03-17T16:46:00.009-04:00

I [re]organised my bookmarks this weekend.

Feel loads better.

How about you?

Your weekend, I mean.

nothing came out

2008-03-12T10:30:00.015-04:00

Quand je fais la montagne de vaisselle qui pourrit dans l'évier, quand je descends les pavés inégaux de Regent Street, quand je remonte les escaliers mécaniques du underground (à la DROITE, à la DROITE!) ou m’assieds sur les bancs feutrés style soixante-dix du tube (surtout quand je m’assieds sur les bancs feutrés style soixante-dix du tube), peu importe ce que je fais, je ressens cet intense désir de m’évacuer. Ça s’accumule et s’empile, ça gronde et ça grouille avec une lenteur souffrante, juste là-là.

Mais quand ça compte, quand je pose mes fesses et dégourdis mes doigts, avec anticipation et transpiration, ça ne. Sort. Pas.

Ça bloque.
Ça enfonce sans pousser.
Ça agace comme une grosse merde.
Ça fait chier, mais pas vraiment, vous suivez?

Mesdames, messieurs, je suis blogstipée.

Mais en attendant que mes muscles relaxent, veuillez visionner mon band* chéri du jour. Merci.

*Quoi, vous n’attendiez pas du Beethoven quand même? Pas après ça... (Ô! R’gard les jolies couleurs...!)

love and truth

2008-02-26T16:45:00.005-05:00

Horoscope for Tuesday February 26:

“You will only be semi-satisfied during the course of today. You will look in vain for a passionate climate but love only leaves you with ripples in the soul, never fulfilling you entirely. The sensations you taste will seem too faint; you do not appreciate the hazy atmosphere nor half-admissions the stars have in store for you, in spite of your flirty mood."

Don’t you hate it when someone else other than you is right?
Espcially when he/she/it is an idgitt?

for the price of a cup of tea

2008-02-17T15:05:00.009-05:00

I’d like to say the reason I haven’t written much was because I was busy travelling and acting decadently scandalous ‘till the wee hours of tomorrow. Fortunately, I have sufficiently shitted through my fingers to fool no-one. I’ve just been lazy.

It’s been three weeks since I’ve moved in with Blond Monkey - roommate and relegated boyfriend - and I still haven’t unpacked. Mostly because there isn’t exactly any room to put away my color-coordinated wardrobe, the entirety of which I had cleverly brought with me. I could, of course, clean and order the closet to clear out some space but that would just defy my obstinate lazy stance and foil the only thing I may succeed in throughout this whole trip.

We go out, we eat, we shag, we cry, we laugh and start saying ‘we’. It’s enough to make me sick. Only, it hasn’t. The best moments are those spent when he plays some music and I read ~~blogs~~ the guardian while sipping tea. Ladies and gents, fags and faeries, I’ve become a 67-year-old semi-retired bore living beyond her means before my time.

Words cannot express my joy.

On the home front, I’ve recently spoken to my little cousin, aka Little Boy Whore, he of taciturn moods and tight pants. With all the blossoming vigor of his youth, he is planning a trip to New Zealand and Australia in May, despite being for as long as I’ve known him not the wanderlusting type. Hearing of his exciting new plans and the anticipation of his curiosity makes my heart soar. But despite my glee, I could not help a drop of regret sipping into my joyful heart. I wish I had the ability, the vision, direction and guts to travel far and wide when I was his age. To feel that drum in your head and just follow it. Right then and there, without question nor fear. To have fun while playing and not playing to distract.

Usual nostalgic bollocks, you get the idea.

As for The Crazy Woman, I've been avoiding her calls even though I terribly miss her. I'm not quite sure how that works yet, and quite frankly I can't be bothered thinking about it. Despite shooting our usual banter nobody understands (seeing as it is in our Crazy Language, which she took years to forge and perfect) there is always a dark gleam behind her upbeat speech. I can tell when she is holding her tears. Bless her for trying but I selfishly cannot deal with it at the moment (when can you ever deal with that?) Instead, I let her linger and cut our occasional conversations short with some feeble excuse. I know I will pay for being such an awful daughter but as these things work, I won't regret it until it's too late.

Thank goodness there's tea.

ball cap*

2008-02-15T11:46:00.020-05:00

After five months in The Second Most Expensive City IN THE WORLD, I think I’m finally getting the hang of it. But why aimlessly & disorderly ramble on about it when I can use subheadings to fart out air of deluded self-importance? Yeah!

(Even though I’m sure as I type this, I have jinxed everything and will be ridden to bedrest, run over by a mental bus driver & infested with a new form of malaria. It is London after all.)

1. Slaving for the ~~Man~~ Pig

Back home, I worked in a relatively nice restaurant in the heart of one of the trendier places of the city. After six years, and though I met and befriended some lovely folks there, it’s not exactly a place to work on a daily basis if your mental health is so intricately dependent upon your Faith In Human Beings. So you have to ask yourself, why in the name of sweet baby Jaysus have I found myself in one of the busiest and ‘trendiest’ joint in town?

Don’t look at me.
I’ve been punched in the face.**

Also, as I’d hate to ‘bite the hand that feeds me’ (or some other proverb, maxim, aphorism or witticism – you know, one of those, I can’t b e bothered), it is kinda exactly what I’ve asked for, innit? And despite having to deal with people who seem to have bitterly overgrown their nappies & become vaguely aware that it would be somewhat frowned upon to be seen breastfed by their mummies, answering questions to which you’ve already explicitly replied, demands that boggles any human logic and rudeness that brings about the Godzilla within about 50 times more than what you deem should be the legal amount allowed before committing random acts of violence - with compliance and a warm smile! - it is actually not that bad…. (Aside, of course, for the slight twitch I’ve developped in my right arm from restraining it to swing forth.)

The food is purdhy awesome – and free *winks* - and the entertainment from the ubiquitous love affairs, cliques, backstabbing, whisperings and glares is completely fabulous if not completely exasperating.

And I did get to see Hugh Grant.

Complain not lest ye be judged, I say!

2. Being A Consumerist Whore

Portobello market’s insane and TopShop is pricier than it appears. But for the little time and money I’ve had in my name I somehow managed to buy five pairs of shoes/boots since I’ve been here. Count it – one, two, three, four, five – five pairs of shoes/boots in one, two, three, four, FIVE months. (That’s one per month without food, for those out there who’s counting, thank you.) Granted, I’m a long way from becoming Carrie Bradshaw, but foregoing basic survival instincts to, say, live, in exchange for footwear? T’is my new life aspiration!

Seriously. Never have I been surrounded by so many beautiful, comfortable and affordable shoes in my life. Yes, affordable. And comfortable. And did I mention gor-gei-yuuuusss? Forget Mr. Effexor***, give me pumps any day!

You see, the great thing about London, fashion and design are embedded in every corner. Paris is prettier, Florence sweeter, Vienna greater, New York grittier, in my humble opinion, but London’s art culture is within its guts. There’s an artistic urgency here that I’ve never quite felt anywhere else. It’s overwhelming, really. The sheer number of vintage shops, independent music shops, cooky designer products shop, art galleries and art schools and art bakeries and art-this and art-that, is mind-numbing. I never really considered myself to be a small town girl, but ma’, we certainly ain’t in Kansas no more!

Here are just some of the cool places to look for, like, cool stuff I've managed to take in:

magma: I never quite know where it is located, or exactly how to get there as all the times I’ve stumbled upon it I was lost. But it’s in Soho, and if there’s only one thing I learned here is that every road leads to somewhere awesome in Soho. The flagship is a bookstore that carries cooky arty/design gems I’d all buy if I had the money, while a few steps down the road you’ll find one filled with a buncha cool cards, gadgets and decorations. Utterly useless stuff, yes, but my, how joy-inducing!
fopp: Again, another awesome store in Soho. Originally a Glaswegian retailer, it provides books, music, dvds for a fraction of what one of those Big Megatstore offers. One can spend days there rumaging through their floors for big names or dodgy elitist shit. It’s like an music geek’s wet dream and it makes me slightly regret I grew up with Wham! instead (damn you, Big Sister, damn you! *fist to the sky*)
Grant & Cutler: Biggest European bookstore I know, right behind Oxford Street, that carries French books. They have piles and piles of books over shelves stocked to the electrical-wired open ceiling. It's neither corky nor pretty like some other smaller bookstore I’ve seen but it feels like one of those school libraries where I used to skip classes to linger in and spent literally hours reading about authors whose works were covered in the same lectures I was incidentally missing. It makes me all warm & gooey in the inside.
Marks & Spencer: I get it. I really do. M&S is not just another big chainstore– it’s a wonderful chainstore. And all because of their rasberry & marscapone cake. *drools* For some 4 quid, you can easily ascend to crusty sugar heaven and would pledge undying devotion to its makers with just one bite even though one bite is surely not enough. Unfortunately, others seem to have found this glorious treasure as it is rarely on the shelf for long. *pouts* Even so, like Tom Cruise, I can’t possibly keep such a holy revelation to myself, so just make sure to save me a piece if you ever get your hands on it (no forks needed, thank you).

Hm. Speaking of which, why not skip right along to…

3. Eating Until the Fat Lady Blows Up

The consensus seems to be that English food is shite. And I wouldn’t argue much against that had my stomach not been a rubbish bin. Also, it is not so much all English food that are a tad below international par – its pies and cakes and biscuits are absolutely divine.

What is quite special here however, in The Second Most Expensive City IN THE WORLD, is its gastronomical variety. Aside from Chinese & Vietnamese food (oh! My kingdom for a decent phở!), Asian food here, particularly Korean & Japanese, is freakin’ awesome! And if you feel like some Indian, any restaurant you encounter every two buildings can beautifully accomplish the task, let me tell you.

On the European front, a south Italian restaurant, arancina, offers cuisine that makes me drool sexily with longing every two hours, offering seasonal seafood and pasta, a whole range of sweet creamy goodies and friendly local staff. There’s also this belgian bistro I’ve recently found, Le Pain Quotidien, that serves the best in house coffee with fresh cold meats & veggie platters, all served with homemade bread and is, with free internet, my semi-permanent residence.

It wouldn’t surprise me if I needed to buy an extra plane ticket to fit the excess fat I’ve gained when I’ll fly back home. Luckily, I can’t be bothered. Specifically because my brain is busy concentrating on chewing, digesting and making more room for more food. I heart my brain.

4. “There’s nowhere like home.” (Especially if it’s cheap.)

I’ve moved out from The Oestrogen House. Not without a little regret, I must admit, as for the last few weeks I was there, some of the girls have managed to melt my cold barren heart. But when mice moved in, I figured no warm fuzzy human feelings can over-compensate my over-priviledged sissy repulsion towards rodents nesting in my bathroom and fled the fuck out of there.

I am now living in walking distance of Notting Hill, Holland Park, Kensington Gardens and Portobello Road, with every convenience food shop and restaurants I’ve ever craved for right around the corner. And I’m paying a lot less. And it’s in zone freaking 1. It’s freaking awesome.

So awesome, in fact, you feel like there has to be a drawback somewhere…

Like, I don’t know, living with a cat. When you are acutely allergic to cats. But, with the pros being what they are, I figured one just needs to hoover a bit more often and buy more tissue paper. Or, you know, kick said cat.

Or then again, you discover you are highly propelled to kick instead the person you live with, who just so happens to share not only an enclosed tiny space but also a bed and a romantic liaison with you...

Would that be rather inappropriate, you reckon?

No, really.

5. The ~~arh-gn-gn-gn-gnargh~~ Relationship Thing.

Somehow, all the above has blinded me to the fact that (a) I seem to have acquired what some might refer to as a Boyfriend *shudders*, and (b) I am now bewilderingly living with said Boyfriend *gags*.

Yes, I’ve moved in with the boy who was featured in such previous episodes as this, this, and this one too, and that one as well, and ouh! let's not forget this one! Which means, in addition to all the benefits already mentioned, I get the luxury to see him and his strange boy-habits, day in, day out, twenty-four-freaking hours a day, and somehow still want to shag him senselessly. A feat, dear virtual friends, that test the very limits of my sanity.

We have now passed beyond the Farting Stage, Shaving Stage and Having Sex Every Other Three Seconds (Or However Long It Is For Him To Go Again, Ahem) Stage. Frankly, I quite enjoy where we are – the amount of effort, time and energy I am saving from keeping my body primmed and proper can probably get me through a doctorate degree in Astrophysics.

Or, you know, cleaning.

*tears hair out*

Okay.

I. Am. A. Clean-freak.
I know this. This is me taking responsibility, okay?

Great. Can we get to the part where he drives me fucking insane?

By putting the cheese grater back in the cuboard, full of cheese on it?
By covering the stove with dried sticky tomato slices right after I cleaned it?
By piling the rubbish bin so high it becomes the fucking ninth world wonder?
By discarding bottle caps and lids god knows where so the kitchen emits a cheesy-garlic-ketchup smell mixed with cat food?
By leaving my body towel by the bath tub – WHERE THE CAT GRAZES BY?

I mean, seriously. SERIOUSLY! THE MAN IS OUT TO KILL ME!!!

*takes a deep breath*

Right. So maybe he’d have some darn good reasons to plot my demise, and sure, these are relatively 'little things'****.

But... aren’t these 'little things' just ramifications of how he behaves generally? That when push comes to shove, he just doesn’t fucking care enough to do anything? And instead, just bows down, defeatedly, gives up, looks the other way? Out of laziness? That when it comes down to it, he doesn’t have what it takes?

…For what?

...For me?

... How the hell did I become this kinda girl? The kind of girl who needs – demands! – that Love, with the proverbial capital ‘l’, should be proven, challenged & conquered? To transcend somehow? How did I, the girl who is weary of relationship and all its by-products, have such naïve romantic beliefs about ‘Love’? And more importantly, what if my love for him isn’t unconditional?...

*rocks back & forth in dark corner*

Um, yes. All this brought about by ‘little things’. Like him not doing the dishes. Or leaving his dirty socks on my clean undies*****. Neurotic much?

And then... he’d say something like, ‘Should I start tap dancing now?’, and I melt with laughter like a pile of dungshit in an overheated oven, all over again.

I hate relationships******.

* So when I said 'jiffy' I forgot tot take into account that I was also A Lazy Bum. Apologies. I know you were all anxiously biting down your nails, painfully awaiting for an encompassing update. To pardon myself, click here. Carry on.
** Nope, that’s still not getting old, I’m afraid! *thumbs up*
*** Speaking of which, I am weaning myself down to now 35mg per week!! Huzzah! It’s been a long & winding road, but that’s another post for another very fickle day...
**** And there are other 'little things' too – little things that my brain must erase from memory immediately as to keep itself from sucking itself dry out of sheer mercy. (Shush. What do you mean, do I exagerate a bit?)
***** No, but I mean, that’s enough to make me gauge my eyes out.
****** In a ‘not really, not even a little, not at all kinda way’. (Help. Me.)

on the radio

2008-01-22T18:11:00.000-05:00

**NEWS FROM THE WAR-FRONT**

Oi STOP Still here and kicking STOP Will be back in a jiffy STOP Busy moving in with A Boy and keeping head from imploding STOP Yippies STOP

**END**

christmas is going to the dogs

2007-12-30T09:05:00.000-05:00

He cooked a mean piece of rosemary stuffed roast pork with parsnips and potatoes for Christmas night, the leftover of which we had as sandwiches, picnic style, the next day. We had had vegetable curry – his mum’s traditional meal – on Christmas Eve. There was wine. And music. And candle lights. There was also lots of love. And kisses. And laughs.

He managed to spend the entire day without trousers on. You gotta love someone who can make a deliciously debilitating meal without any pants and still be completely sexy.

He said he loves me. That he wants to make me happy. He said he’d shave his cat for me...

And me? All I can do is miss the snow, my crazy family and think how much I will miss him when I go home.

Next year, I want to learn how to be happy please.

A very good one to you too.

*cheers*

maybe this christmas

2007-12-24T10:05:00.001-05:00

Yes, friends and foes, real ones and virtual ones, even indecisive ones sitting on the fence who will fall to a particular side in one defining moment, it is undeniably that time of year again! And, being away from home for the first time evah for Christmas, without snow nor loud screaming from my beloved family gatherings to comfort myself, I shall shamelessly withdraw into Full Corny Mode, complete with Slow-Motion-Lashes-Battering Kisses, Dancing Under The Mistletoe and Gazing Through The Misty Window While Nat King Cole Sings In The Background. *grins*

And my generosity is such, as these times commercially pound into us, that I extend these uncomfortably warm fuzzy feelings to all of yee. May you be with those who appreciate your gaggingly silly tendencies & tastes in corniness and/or false cynicism & debauched relationship with Sir Alcohol – brandy or otherwise.

A round of drunken kisses and awkward hugs to all!

fixer le ciel

2007-11-30T20:04:00.001-05:00

Through the midst of cigarette smoke and barbecue, buses and cabs splash their way down the drenched road while trendy Londoners quickly clonk their way on the busiest corner of the city. As I take a sip from my coffee, the wind picks up, splattering droplets of rain on my right cheek.

That’s when it hits me.

For the first time since I’ve been here, I feel at peace. I have a little job I enjoy, a friend to join in some much welcomed drinks later on and a warm bed to greet me in a forgiving embrace when I stumble back...

“Is it weird that I miss Friday night TV with you?” buzzes in my left pocket.

Oh. And there's also a wonderful boy who makes me smile with longing.

It’s moments like these, I think to myself.

Moments like these....

smooth criminal

2007-11-30T20:02:00.001-05:00

Can.
Not.
WAIT!!!

*claps and drools*

*faints as she realises the world shall cease to exist as nothing can beat Johnny Depp singing while slashing throats in goth make-up ever again (not that she had such high hopes)*

moon river

2007-11-24T07:26:00.000-05:00

Relationships are weird.

I don’t mean just the romantic kind. It’s the general idea, the incessant drive, the rumbling need for people to come together in one moment in time and share a piece of their lives, their memories and their hearts, to bond, to connect, and then just up and leave, as the tidy currents of life would only have it, that all seems a tad... odd.

Doesn’t it?

When J flew away to his Big Corporate Job about four months ago now, I didn’t fully realise what it entailed. So we won’t be skipping and singing along the streets in repugnant British accents anymore, and we won’t argue over who hates the other more or who's the bigger bitch nor will we embarrass ~~ourselves~~ our mothers by orgasming over the gorgeous colors of Club Monaco’s shirts and skirts. So we won't mimic sexually depraved shenanigans to the horror of our friends or whore ourselves on the dance floor to the dismay of too-cool-to-mess-their-hair indie posse. Nor can we mock, gag and plan devious ways to shun folks with shiny pants and moustaches only to come up with stupid t-shirt ideas we think are absolutely brilliant. So we won’t be able to have shitlong conversations over beers and tears and lattes and laughs. After six years of friendship and all that we have gone through, it is a little silly that being a continent and ocean away would mark the end of it, I thought. Besides, as proud 21st century unsociable geeks, practically 50% of our relationship can be recorded through the intricate nanobite world of the interweb, it’s not as if it’ll be that big of a difference anyway.

I thought…

The funny thing about being away, every relationship I have is re-evaluated. And by extending my distance from them, I seem to have found space to better feel them. And it feels like going through a big cleaning for the harsh winter. Like assigning old frocks to different boxes – the ones I don’t really need, the ones for the deep freeze and the ones that I’ll always keep, all year-round, through the seasons. Like an inventory for my heart strings. To know what’s waiting for me when I come home. To seek out the ones I want.

I’ve known Jules & Mary since I was seven years old. Despite having briefly ‘drifted apart’ during high school, and though we don’t see that much of each other anymore, every time we get together we somehow manage to pick up right where we left off. And the only things that seemed to have changed are the careers, the cars, the boys, the locations. We still laugh at the same old jokes, at the same old memories, and we even manage to love one another more for the little pieces we find out through all these years.

It’s astounding, really. To find these people you can be yourself with. Who just get it. Like E. A feisty little woman with enough sass to sell and still be able to kick your ass to the moon. But also so sweet. And innocent and caring and just and honest. Whom I wish I had spent more time with...

And what about those who are bound to you by blood? Who are inexplicably and irrevocably true and strong and unconditional. These people to whom you owe so much yet never comprehend why, or know how to ever repay. These people whom you have no choice in the picking, whom you learned to know and hate and understand and love, who build and feed and comfort you, for the sheer reason that they are referred to as ‘family’. Who are indefinably yours. Whether you want to or not.

But... there are also the others.

The ones who after all this time together somehow still don’t quite understand. Unfortunately. And though you still care and love them dearly, no matter how hard you try, they will never get it and will always hurt you by it. Unintentionally. So what to make of these people, those years past and these pieces of you blown in the wind? How can you get them back? So you can take them and give them to those who would care. Because there is such a depleted amount of where that came from...

And isn’t it a little self-delusional to think that there would be people who would care? That aren’t all these relationships just another accessory to reaffirm your illusions of self-importance and your meaning in the world? Simply through the feeble validation of others? Aren’t all these friends and lovers, connections and conversations sought out to comfort & endorse your subjective beliefs & opinions, and pat yourself on the back? To make you feel less trivial somehow? Anyhow? And at any cost?

As much as I hate thinking of people like some appropriating piece of clothing one can store and wear and throw and give away, for sentimental reasons or self-preserving purposes, the truth is I can barely keep myself together let alone someone else in my out of whack wardrobe.

Yet…

There is that yearning again…

And then there’s the moon...
And my Seventeen-Year-Old Self...
Who believes that the trivial is meaningful…

Enough.

Human nature to survive, by any means possible, is stronger than one may think. And completely, utterly fucked up weird, if you ask me.

Which, of course, no one did.

fleur de saison

2007-11-23T07:32:00.000-05:00

À Montréal, l'hiver.

À Londres, soleil...

[n.b. photo de kimberly blue.]

don't let me be misunderstood

2007-11-07T17:45:00.002-05:00

So for the last three weeks I have been what some might call A Lazy Bum. I, of course, prefer the more technical term of ‘Unemployed (And Not Looking)’. You see, as much as I’d like to think of myself as a worldly young traveller with adventure in her heart and determination in her stare, the truth is I am not. And instead of spending this time going out, seeing the sights and feeling alright, I’ve simply been withdrawing into the world of french cafés and cakes and sleeping in until the the fat lady sings. Which is rather appropriate, really, as I have seriously been dithering whether or not this should be the end to Project London altogether (as opposed to moaning and whinging about it incessantly).

I am living at the moment in a ginormous house with 15 gals. Or as I like to call (as I have been spending all this free time renaming a buncha shits too – that’s just how I roll – shush) The Oestrogen House. I’ve never been in a sorority, it may shock some of you to learn, so this is rather an interesting situation I have stumbled in.

After ~~bumming~~ gratefully staying at a friend's house for two weeks when I came out of the hospital, I desperately needed to vacate the place as soon as possible in fear of abusing my welcome and/or losing the lonesome three remnants of sanity left as I may or may not have ended up somewhat involved in a rather clothesless way with said 'friend' (ahem) all the while recovering from what shall now be referred to as That Being Punched In The Face Thing*. At this precise moment in time, as these things tend to happen, obviously, work was taking on epic proportions and demanded nothing but utmost attention and devotion, which I sadly couldn’t be bothered with anymore, for fuck's sake (quite literally too as I really didn’t have any time left to enjoy any good nakedness time, sleep and/or find this elusive other place to live and save the three flakes of sanity clinging on to my brain - I am a Priorities Girl, you know). Luckily, a lovely girl from work (who, incidentally, also quit the same day I did) suggested I have a look at The Oestrogen House, where she is staying, as it is cheap and “really cool”. Desperate and broke (with an ounce of ‘panicky’ and a pinch of ‘insane’) (but mostly desperate), I figured it would be a satisfactory settlement, in the short term anyway, enough for me to sort things out. But one week turned into two, turned into I-am-quite-settled-in-now. Despite it being The Oestrogen House, filled with girls, oestrogen, giggles and girly stuff.

Like oestrogen.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not the girls per se that are causes for concern. Most of them are rather lovely actually, during the limited encounters I’ve had with each of them individually. And I’m the girliest girl I know so being submerged in full 'Girl Mode' is quite comforting and refreshing indeed. It’s just that… well, when you find yourself in a large group that is predominantly composed of one sex – female as the case may be – a particular phenomenon occurs, yes? Without falling into any gender stereotypes - it could have been a group of boys and the same occurrences would arise (except maybe having your hormonal cycle all fucked up (yes, you all needed to know that)) - somehow gossip (read 'talking behind eachother's back') and competition (read 'cattiness') seem to be the plate du jour... Differently executed and manipulated, granted, but they are still quite palpable. Which is odd, for me, you understand, as I've always shied away from any large group, being the antisocial bitch that I am. So after spending extended hours with The Group, I just desperately need to retreat back to my ~~cave~~ room and remain there. Indefinitely. Or until my roommate comes in and begins relating her entire life story to me.

Oh, did I forget to mention it is a roomshare?...

Fortunately, despite the constant chatting, followed by more chatting, Crazy Roommate is, well, utterly crazy and I love her for it. True, there are times where I’d gladly tear my hair in batches from my skull with my own teeth if that would shut her up, but she is the sweetest nutbag I’ve ever met and she makes me laugh. (Whether it be intentional or not sometimes is beside the point.) E.g. some crazy things Crazy Roommate have said:
“ Yeah, like me and my friends would just have make-out orgies for fun.”
“ I have like this friend, and then one day, she comes over and says her name is Troy and she’s now a boy, and I was like, hell no, you are fucking not...”
“ Like, I’m stalking the Tower of London, making sure that it’s still there?”
“ I’ll go have a smoke and then retreat in my heaven, also known as Happy Ipod Slash Sudoku Land.”
“ You know what’d be cool? Beheading. I want to be beheaded. Like when I die.”
“ Can we have a sea lion in our bathtub?”
“ Frogs creep me out a little, I don’t like hoppy things. Toads I like, ‘cos they just make, like, little hops, but frogs – have you seen the legs on those things?”
(Note that all these are said out of the blue. Who needs a telly when you have such comedy gold in your very own room?! Even though I wish she came with a remote.)

Unfortunately however, the rest of The Oestrogen House doesn’t quite think Crazy Roommate is as deliriously funny as I do and often discard her from such fun activites as Going To Every Fireworks Every Other Day, Clubbing In Skanky Joint and/or Sitting In Front Of The TV Singing Pop Countdowns. Yes, yes and yes, I know. There are cliques in The Oestrogen House, you see. I, it may shock some of you to learn (again), fall into the Socially Inept Hermit category. Or Weird Girl In Number 2.

Anywho. All to say that these are strangely interesting social dynamics, especially with the going-back-to-high-school feeling. Equally interesting is to see how long I can endure this without throwing a Carrie fit.

Right.

So I guess I’m staying. Which is the point of this post. (If there were ever any point to be had at all, I concur.) I’ve decided to stay at least for another couple of months, at least until Christmas.

This also means however that I need to look for a job now. But none of that ‘interesting’ shite, or anything that would require me to care. Because I obviously don’t [cf. blog title]. I just need something to pay the bills, and occupy enough of my attention so I don’t feel utterly needy and insecure the parts of the day when I am not stuffing my gob and/or asleep, yet leave enough time to indulge myself in, well, me. Which, let’s be honest, is the entire point of Project London [cf. blog title]. I know, it’s a wonder I ever get laid.

Wish me luck**.

* I figured if there is anything good to come out from this entire ordeal would be ~~milking every possible ounce of it~~ having a little laugh about it, yes? *thumbs up*

**For the Finding A Job part, not the Getting Laid thing. (Although that is always nice, thank you.)

piste 7

2007-10-30T09:31:00.001-04:00

What better way, may I ask, to lift one's spirit up than to spend one's birthday enjoying the pretentious decadence of High Tea, seeing three exhibitions (one of which reignited childhood glees while another reminded why art can kick so much arses), getting giddily tipsy with el vino while a wonderful man prepares one's dinner, gorging oneself silly with said wonderous cookery goods, engaging in lively discussions and shagging 'til the wee hours of the morning, hm?

(Oh. And there was chocolate cake. Obviously.)

I know. Suddenly, turning A QUARTER OF A CENTURY OLD doesn't sound so daunting.

(Much.)

better

2007-10-26T18:14:00.000-04:00

It’s friday night and I’m on my own. For the first time since I’ve been here.

A sign that I am finally settling in?

A cup of tea, dark chocolate digestive biscuits, a good thick book.
And my laptop.

I have been here for nearly two months and I still haven’t a clue of what I am doing.

I don’t remember what happened. I can piece together some parts of the day, from lunch to dinner. And then, I vaguely remember flashes of whites and yellows. And pinks. My pink shirt in red blood. How unfashionable. And all these voices... My vain efforts to spell out my name, remembering to see if my jeans were still on, relief that they were. I remember nothing in between. Just wiping my tears away the next day. Trying not to cry. Thinking ‘what the fuck…' . Over and over. And wishing my mother was there. To hold me and make it all better.

...What. The. Fuck?

What am I still doing here? So much money and effort and sweat and tears and blood. Literally. For what exactly? Could I not draw and paint and read and soak myself in the life I need back in the comfort of my own bed, my own friends, my own family? In my own home? I am confused.

It is eight. He hasn’t called yet.
I don’t know what I’m doing.
I seem to have found myself in strange territories.

He is a good man. He is kind and gentle and warm. And so gifted... But I don’t know what to do of him. And I'm lousy at this because I foresee the end. How, why and when. And I am unable to filter these thoughts. Through my mouth. With every kiss.

Such a terrible way to begin. Or live.

I have been listening to that Regina Spektor song in hoops. The one that goes ‘...uh-oh’. Or ‘ah-ah-ah ah-ah-ah ah-ah-ah-aaaahhh’. And/or. Repeat and shuffle. She’s got great hair. I need a haircut. I can’t stand my fringe anymore. And my skin is acting out. It’s allergic to him. His budding beard.

It’s so silly, I keep saying to myself...

It’s too soon. Unusual circumstances.
It can never sustain itself in my natural context.
It doesn’t mean anything. Whatever that means.
Stop worrying about it. Planning its doom.

...And when I’ll go home, will I miss him?

Such useless questions when there is really only one to ask...

our faces split the coast in half

2007-10-17T10:35:00.000-04:00

For the few weeks that I have been in Britain, I have (in chronological order):

Bathed with centipedes;
Moved five times;
For the first time in my life, been stung by a wasp – twice, in the same day;
For the first time in my life, been punched in the face in front of my flat, woke up in the hospital with a concussion, memory loss, smashed sinuses and a broken cheekbone, wondering why people here say ‘hospital’ without putting an article before and impressed that I was able to text on my mobile without any spelling mistakes;
Spent two nights in [the] hospital with a polite little senile woman pleadingly crying to go home and a lady who wants to get in contact with Whitney Houston’s aunt who was going to tell her where Heaven is;
Moved again. For reasons unnecessarily undisclosed;
Met The Sweetest of Men;
Been hit by a car and sent flying to the ground with a scratch on my elbow and a sore bum, incredulously;
Understood the comfort of this whole Tea-And-Biscuits-In-The-Afternoon Thing;
Actually liked a cat;
Requestioned my entire self-concept [due in no small part to above-mentioned point];
Shagged so much my abs ache and legs can barely hold themselves up;
Become comfortably accepting in deluding and ignoring my Fear of Relationships;
Had a panic attack [due in no small part to above-mentioned point];
Quit two jobs;
Been wondering for the 472nd time what the fuck I am doing here;
And really hoping that all my bad karma has been paid for...

... And how have you been?

superconnected

2007-09-25T16:46:00.000-04:00

Top Three Things NOT to Say or Do When First Meeting Someone:

Say to your new supervisor, who is kindly explaining the gritty ramified details of your work, “Gawd, now I know why you guys store that much liquor for Fridays…”
To the question 'Have you tried English Tea at all yet?' from Nice Nerdy Boy (or someone you might or might not fancy due to Jesus-knows-how-long-you’ve-had-a-good-roll-in-the-sack – especially if that someone also happens to work at above mentioned new job), distractingly answer:
“Um, no, not quite… I want my first time to be special, you see..."
“Whaaaaaa?!...”
“…I mean, High Tea! HIGH TEA!! I’m waiting to do High tea, yes?! HAHAHAHA!... Um, okay, don’t mind me – lala la lala lalala….”
...And then proceed to type maniacally on keyboard.
Accept to proof-read your seemingly nice (and rather handsome, to be honest) landlord’s books for extra money - without asking its topic. Which turns out to be about ‘How To Trick Your Undeserved Dick In As Many Holes As Possible Without Getting Caught For the Painfully Idiotic Old Misogynistic Shitrack That You Are’. Obviously.

This has been a public announcement brought to you by Social Inept Candidate Of 2007.

*curtsies*

interlude

2007-09-25T16:40:00.000-04:00

...And then there was Internet.

*angels sing*

hands away

2007-09-09T13:18:00.001-04:00

Wales was beautiful. The hills, the greens, the sheeps. And how nice people were…. Sometimes, I looked up and breathed it all in. And those moments filled me with a trifle bit more breath, enough to stay one more day.

Because I’ve been wanting to leave ever since I had arrived, you see. If I must admit it. And it’s not something rather easy for me to admit. Not after all this time.

It’s not because I was shacked up in a complete and utter shitty moth-infested hellhole with centipedes crawling up the tub* and folks whose horseshit** depressed me in a way I had forgotten. It’s not because it turned out that I really really– really – hated my job, or because it is insanely ridiculous to find ways to make ends meat in The Second Most Expensive City IN THE WORLD. It’s not even that I so gut-wrenchingly miss my mother’s sweet embrace, or my father’s warm eyes, or my sister’s loud obnoxious voice, or even my friends’ hearty laughs sometimes. It’s not exactly that I think I’ve made a mistake at all…

It’s because I started to cry when I was trying to explain what I was doing here to this beautiful man from Nairobi and he inadvertently gave me a Look. A Look that he quickly, politely, diverted. A Look that I quickly, graciously, recognised. A Look of empathic defeat, comforting pity. A Look that recognised me. And my desperate lies. A Look that unravelled everything.

It’s that I think I’ve slightly overestimated myself, you see. And though I’ve always known I am lost, and therefore must find a way – any way – that would somehow be mine, like a lost child that wasn’t cute enough to make international news***, the one I was counting so much on turned out to be a little… ill-fitted. For me. For now. Because, my dear, you’re even more lost and fucked than you had thought. Because you could never stand the spotlight anyway. Because it’s too soon.

And though I have come here like that 21-year-old girl who three years ago had found something she lost, something I wanted so much to find again, I am not that girl anymore….

So here I am now.
At square one.
Incidentally named Russell.

Let’s see how we get on, yeah?

* CENTIPEDES!! Yes, we all agree that I am an undeserved prissy little princess but for THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS FUCKING HOLY – centipedes!? They are WORMS!!! With FEET. Thousands, in fact. Crawling. In. The tub. Where one is naked. Now, I somehow amazingly managed to not even mind for the first few days or muster a goddamned word of complaint (mainly bc this one girl did plenty of that), but add it to my growingly shattering state of mind and believe you me that I am feeling slightly robbed for not receiving an honorary trophy of Keeping It Cool In Hell, lemme tell ya… *wiggles finger in the air for no-one to pretend to care*

** In all fairness, I’m sure they are all delightful folks to hang out with. In small doses. (Although I am considering adopting this one guy but that’s bc he saved the little vestiges of sanity I had left, mainly by being a completely pessimistic bitch – and we all know how that’s just music to me ears (he was also queer - my faghag is happy).) But horseshit, specifically, the kind that one throws around to give oneself an air of nobility, be it moral or class or intelligence, as horses tend to convey (as oppose to bulls or dogs, whose shite usually refer to the pedestrian kind one throws around without thought, harm nor belief), particularly kills bc the horseshitter actually holds on to it like dear life, believing so much in its retching stench he/she castrates and/or bullies anyone or anything that might question its integrity, as if they’re on a self-serving high-horsed quest for the Equestrian Excrement Holy Grail, and THAT, my virtual friends, is the sort of shit that kills, okay, kills!!... End rant.

*** I am a horrible pretentious biatch and will die alone & unhappy. (Apply note wherever needed.)

obstacle 1

2007-09-06T13:59:00.000-04:00

Am back in London.

Option A was shite.
Figuratively and literally.

More later.
Off having a good cry.
And hugging internet.

capture the flag

2007-09-02T09:59:00.001-04:00

Oi! Quickly before my [stolen] internet runs out!

I'm not dead! Yaaaay!!! Plane ride was smooth (or from what I can gather as I slept practically the entire time). Was then greeted by two beautiful breezy London days, during which time I basically ran around like a headless chicken with hungry rats hanging from its ass. Attractive much. Truthfully, I'm not sure how I"m feeling yet. It's been four days now and still a roller-coaster - albeit kiddie one - of emotions, between this-is-pretty-intense and what-the-hellness... I'll get back to that one on a later time, yes?
I SCORED OPTION A! Double Yaaaaaayyy!!! I'll avoid going into the details, but suffice to know that for the next four weeks I'll be roaming across the UK trying not to get my spirits trampled on and hopes crashed & buried in the ground while doing something I actually - terrifyingly - do really care about. I'll be working in a 'team' and living in 'hostels', so this might be The Craziest Thing To Do for the prissy little anti-social that I am. Thank goodness there's beer.
Speaking of which, I suspect the beer here are much higher in alcoholic content. Words cannot describe my joy...!
...And the people? Now, perhaps I'm still quite jet lagged, perhaps people are particularly shitty where I come from, but I've come to notice that English folks are goddamned gorgeous!... Well, okay, those in a certain age bracket and socio-economic background, but the average of model*-like beautiful people are staggeringly high to me. (Then again, perhaps it's just the accent.)
How much beef and potato can one person eat, goddammit?
I once fancied myself to be a Good Packer. Unfortunately, I'd forgotten that I was also delusional. Good god. I had to pay about 100$ for excess weight, and then drag that goddamned thing up ALL. THOSE. STAIRS. Fun times. Oh, people did offer to help, I was pleasantly surprised to find out, but as soon as they tried to lift my luggage, despite my polite warnings, they soon realised that maybe being the good Samaritan wasn't worth a hernia. On the bright side, my Faith In Human Scale is at a good high level and my right arm has now muscles. *thumbs up*
I got myself a mobile. My first mobile ever. I am working through the disappointment.
Did I mention how good the beer is?... And Pret A Manger?... Seriously, I have to figure out some sort of way to smuggle those through customs when I go back home....

Anywho! That's it for now folks! I'm heading out to Oxford now and won't be back in ye olde London Town until the end of the month. (...And then have to tackle the very desirable task of finding a place to live... *faints*)

Be good, play fair, see ya on the flip side!
(No really, everything's backward here, yo!)
(I kid, I kiiiiiiid!)
(I need some beer.)

* Is it customary to be asked if one is a model/would like to model by attractive London gals?... You know, hypothetical question. For a 'friend', yeah?... A friend who's very flattered nonetheless. 'Cause she's a whore like that. Alright, carry on, then.

7/4 (shoreline)

2007-08-23T22:56:00.001-04:00

Here, dotty-dotty-dotty, heeeeere dotty-dotty!

**WARNING: Author’s brain is too scattered for constructed sentences at the moment. Brain’s Editor deeply apologises for this inconvenience. Have a nice day.**

So here’s the 411, yo: starting August 28, I will be living and working for 6 to 24 months/indefinitely (or Until-I-Freak-The-Fuck-Out-Really) in and around London, England or as I like to call it, The Second Most Expensive City IN THE WORLD. Ex-cel-lent.
It’s all about the accent, honestly.
And the curry.
So far, three options present themselves before me: Option A is still impending what they refer to as the "third phase: face-to-face interview" (and as I am still physically an entire ocean away, this is rather complicated, you understand, and requires from me nothing but utmost patience. Something that I OBVIOUSLY have in boundless amount! [insert maniacal laugh]); Option B lies in the hands of a friend of E, who owns a catering business for which years of [*cough*questionable*cough*] waiting & customer service skills will come in mighty handy for preventing yours truly from slaughtering lovely Londoneers and causing a most unfortunate diplomatic rift between Canadia & her Surrogate Mumsy *toes crossed*; and finally Option C (or commonly knwon as My Best Bet) would see me gathering numerous carton boxes and seeking out for the driest and well-lit corner in town. Any help will be deeply appreciated here.

No matter which option will befall upon my frighteningly delusional little self, opportunities to, in no particular order, travel cheaply, submerge in Art, culture (which may or may not include sampling some good’ol English beer out of rubbish bins) and other conducts of ~~subversive depravity~~ international kinship will highly be welcomed.

Should Option B prevail (somehow outbidding Option C’s glamorous notes), I’ve also been keenly looking into several places where I can crash me bum. The problem here is, since my employment is far from anything as being settled (even though I am due to depart in FIVE DAYS), it’s a little senseless to select a specific area now, innit? I mean, it isn’t exactly cheap to travel through six goddamn bloody zones in The Second Most Expensive City IN THE WORLD, izzit? And what of the appeal and safety of a neighborhood fit for a paranoid young lass? How can one choose between the attractive eclecticism of the West End versus the once-'dodgy'-now-'up-and-coming'/cheap-housing-market of the East End? And what makes me think I can ever live with complete strangers? Will they like me? Will I kill them? Is it bad etiquette to lift up the mattress looking for bedbugs?

I have been swaying between complete & utter excitement and complete & utter despair. Between being unbearably joyful and terrified out of my fucking tits. In the space of an hour. I am bloody EXHAUSTED!

OHMYGODIAMLEAVINGINFIVEFACKINGDAYS!!!![ad infinitum]

I started to pack last night. Chaos ensued. Tearful trailer included [but not excluded to (I’ll spare you the really ugly bits)]: “GAH! Where did all these things come from?!”, “How am I supposed to fit MY LIVELIHOOD in a 28” by 18” bag!?”, “How am I supposed to CARRY and DRAG this bag anyway?!!”, “...Will my [color-coordinated!] wardrobe suffice?”, “I am SUCH a fucking princess!!”, and, of course, the always delightful “What IN HELL are you THINKING?! Are you COMPLETELY. MAD?!” It's Rated G for Goddiddlydamned Slappable.

...Maybe this is not the best time to be coming off Mr. Effexor after all….

I need to see my shrink.

I don’t have time to read blogs anymore. (And the fact that I am putting this into account means that I am officially a dork. Break out the champagne!)

Speaking of blogs, it always surprises me that anyone would read these little neurotic meanderings of mine, let alone give a rat’s ass to comment. But to all the actual three of yous (yes, yes, you over there *waves*), it still makes me all warm and fuzzy in the weirdest of ways for every email, every word and advice and virtual pats-in-the-back, every colon and bracket and parenthesis (or rather :)], yeah? Am I 'in' yet?) during this most crazy of times. I am truly and humbly grateful. And despite being scared shitless, I am still going through with it because somewhere inside my brain jumping and screaming in a [miraculously] higher than my screeching pitch is a little girl who knows there won't be any regrets.* And isn’t that all what one can hope for?

So there.

And remember, any further questions, suggestions and well-wishes can always be replaced by loving monetary donations instead.

Bwahahahahahahaha! I kid, I kiiiid!! (But not really.)

* Is it me or does that sentence sound weird? Brain? Hullo?...

a time to be so small

2007-08-17T23:19:00.000-04:00

I am freaking out.
I am in a frenzy.
Way over my head.

After thinking about, planning and dreaming and hoping for this project to come along for well over two years, it is finally hitting me. How unbearably overwhelming it all is. Running away to a country where you know no-one and no-one knows you. Where there isn’t a net – financial or otherwise – you can fall on should something go haywire. Which it always does. As Life tends to do. And this terrifyingly enticing unknown that attracted you, that you learned in and out, now suddenly feels different.

Bare.
Void.
Cold.

It’s the complete and utter blackness of jumping into something you had invested so much – everything – in and have no control over. Because no matter how many books you read, how many links you clicked, how many people you asked, or listened, there is this breathless ball embedded in your chest that knows it was all useless, you are taking a leap into the ocean without ever touching water while learning to swim from a picture. Rien que pour un chant de sirènes.... And then there’s the loneliness. That you crave. That you fear. That engulfs you. And though you’ve always been happiest on your own, there’s a fine balance between choosing its path and having its shadow hover above you that still escapes your grasp.

I am freaking out.
I am going by ear.
Tyring not to drown.

god put a smile upon your face

2007-08-14T12:20:00.002-04:00

I GOT MY VISA!!

*does a happy dance*

[n.b.: ...to Mark Ronson, of course. Join me?]

no i in threesome

2007-08-11T10:47:00.001-04:00

Well. As I am patiently waiting for my visa (and trying not to freak out even though I am leaving in TWO BLEEDING WEEKS!), and steadily worrying about my life, the cows in Surrey, all the shitty flooding going on and the general plight of this doomed planet we’re all cohabiting without losing the thinly spread hope that has kept me relatively sane thus far, I suppose I could occupy my mind by, say, reading for the 43rd time all the packets and packages and pamphlets about London, returning emails regarding a place to live, sending some work-related letters, seeing my shrink and 328 other things I need to do, but with my visa nowhere to be seen, you see, I’d just hate to start doing all of the above and then, by some inexplicable universal hateful chance, have it REFUSED (!!!) and everything done will be in vain, you see, and it’ll just send me tumbling down even deeper in a downward spiral of utter and complete dungshite. YOU SEE!? It’s logical, really.

*takes her first sip of coffee in three weeks*

Oh sweet Mother of Pearl!…

Okay. Where was I? Ah yes, borderline panic attacks and pessimistic self-fulfilling prophecies. Right-o.

So, what better way, I figured on this lovely Saturday morning, to relieve my nerves than by making A List of My Top Girl Crushes: An Ascension to Lady-Love, because, well, desperate times call for frivolously vain lesbianic love. *cheers*

Victoria Beckham. Alas, no, you are not misreading the title, this is not another recent stress-reducing list of mine – I absolutely adore her. My beloved sister actually recorded her one hour special and forced me to watch it the other day (which also goes to show that there is no girly love more precious than sisterly love), and for that I am forever grateful as I am now completely smitten with the boppy-headed doll! Oh, I think she is hilariously majah! On top of being my favorite Spice Girl (shush!), being more quiet and 'demure' than the others, y'see, one quick look at the royal tabloid couple and you just know that Posh here is the brain behind the squeaking walking hunky chunk of manwhore that is the Becks. *drools* Oh if only all tabloid tartlets were to be a quarter as funny & brill as Mrs. Beckham, the world would sleep a lot better. Or, you know, laugh a bit more about its warped ridiculousness. Hear! hear!

I confess: if I were indeed of homosexual tendencies, this is the exact type of woman I’d be drawn to.

Tall, lean, androgynous-looking, elegantly statuesque, beautifully odd features, Cate Blanchett inspires nothing but awe and strength to me. And she looks like the type who'd be a great hoot to get drunk with. Which would help with the tending toward the homosexual pole.

Hypothetically speaking.
Christina Ricci.

Surreal face, manga eyes and Wednesday Adams. Enough said.
There’s something extremely refreshing about Juliette Binoche that, through her forty-something years, still comes off as cool, sensual, naturally and effortlessly stunning. For the life of me, I just can’t think of anything sexier than a French woman comfortable in her own skin, can you?
Ah yes, a French woman with an impeccable English accent. *swoons*

I actually wasn't a huge fan of Charlotte Gainsbourg growing up as the parts she played in her childhood were usually of bratty whiny country girls who annoyed the daylights out of my budding tits. It’s only when I saw her in 21 grams that I realized (a) 'wow! she’s all grown up now!' (b) 'wow! she can speak English really well!', and (c) 'wow! she has such a pretty soft voice!' A wow-trifecta, one cd and Gondry film later, I was completely taken. Also, she’s exactly how I imagined one of my all time favorite fictional characters to look like.
Kate Winslet.

Forget the wonderful acting skills, riot laugh, fabulous curves and sexy voice (everything I imagine The Perfect English Woman to look and sound like), her mere presence in The Holiday keeping me from stabbing my eyes with a turkey fork is enough to win my undying devotion. No no, here's to you, Miss Winslet!
~~Felicity~~ Kerri Russell.

Oh alright, so my high school days were basically comprised of naval-gazing, looking like a nerd, [unsuccessfully] ignoring boys, make-up experimentations, bad music and 'Felicity'. I’d like to say that I’ve grown out of all that, into a wiser woman with noble taste, but who am I kidding? I had peeked. *cries desperately* Still, Kerri Russell remains one of the most incredibly beautiful people in my book, and am always a little taken aback whenever I catch a glimpse of her anywhere and looking out for movies [except for Mission: Impossible 3 – I pretend that never happened] where she might appear.

Just like an old high school crush you never really got over…. *sighs*

Jennifer Connelly, or as I like to call her, My Imaginary Self. You see, when I was but a wee child, being the typically vain second born that I was/am, I used to imagine what I’d like to look like when I grow up (what? Didn’t you do that? Isn't this crush a little narcisstic then?) – dark hair, green eyes, angular lines (never mind I am of perfectly round Asian face). When much later I saw Labyrinth, I suddenly exclaimed, wide-eyed, 'Why, that's ME!' The thought that my mind was powerful enough to actually dream her into life quickly crossed my mind but when a castle made entirely of chocolate with a fudge fountain didn't appear before me, well, let's just say that my innocence died in the same beat.

But yeah. She's shockingly beautiful. What else is there to say? Huh? What just happened? Where am I? What-the-who-the-eh?

Carry on.

Audrey Tautou.

Like 94% of people on planet Earth, I have fallen whimsically head over arse for Mademoiselle Tautou after viewing Le Fabuleux Destin d’Amélie Poulain. And if she’s good enough to become Coco Chanel, then really, why should I even bother arguing with the remaining cold heartless 6%? Sweet little garçonne, there is a spunky attitude in her that makes you wish you were somehow a really persuasive lesbian or a dashing manboy, non?

Un peu beaucoup?
Moi non plus.

If Jennifer Connelly was who I wanted to look like when I was a kid, Audrey Tautou is who I'd wish to be when I was a teenager. Adorable face, sweet little accent, reservedly cheeky and comparisons with The Hepburn (my, I would've died!). And I've always dreamed to have my hair cut really really short like that (damn you perfectly round balloon face!)...

And now, for my ultimate female-love, step aside Zhang Ziyi and other frail waif-figured flighty faery femmelettes of the Far East, for here I present to you what a WOomAnn looks like:

Huzzah!

FINALLY an Asian woman with shoulders AND bosoms AND hips! And just look at that face, will you?! So gorgeous... Sorrowful, fierce, soft, strong, sweet and vixen, she can give it all! Convincingly. And – egad! – not a forceful thought to hide her 42 years, Miz Gong Li is a femme fatale par excellence. Surely not the kind who would take 'no' with a passing nod, no sir!

Nor is she the type would calmly stand four weeks of waiting for a visa without marching into the governmental bureau in the most curve-hugging qipao there is and demand, all cross-legged, her way into the country, with no trail of doubt about her dubious past as a possible whore and/or spy.

Really, what's not to completely love about that?

That is all.

*does a swinging nervous dance*

life turned upside down

2007-07-30T01:05:00.000-04:00

*clears throat*

Dear gentlemen and gentlewomen,

After long deliberation, many sleepless nights, hives and heaves, panting and fainting and generally freaking out in all imaginable sorts (repeated and shuffled), I had decided to quit my University degree.

Considering that, generally speaking, I somewhat grew up as your typical goodie little straight-A Asian kid who has always taken for granted that she will be a uni grad, this would be, as I’ve briefly hinted to before, the Second Hardest Decision I Had To Make. But, when it came down to it, it just seems completely & utterly senseless to me that I shall have to dispense overwhelming emotional, mental and financial resources (all of which I have in very limited amount) for the mere pride of obtaining a degree I have no intention whatsoever to ever use again and, in all likelihood, will be forgotten like an innocent victim in the thorny paths of Self-Preservation. And though I haven’t a fucking clue as to what will become of me now, I am 98.667% certain that I will lose all [little] sanity left should I have to continue the few courses – as ‘measly’ as they are – I do have left.

Well, that’s not quite true. I do have some clue as to what I will do. Project London is in full throttle (hurraaaaaaaaaaaah!!!), and this entire higher education bullcrap is ingrained far too deeply in my brain to know that I cannot be satistified without a ‘proper degree’…. Of course, I am also well aware that everyone who quit their education had, at one time or another, convinced themselves that they will return to school only to find that life isn’t quite that simple…. Alas, I will still naïvely go through with my decision, and take this very much needed time to finally, properly, breathe.

Figure things out. Decompress. Live.
For me.

On my own. In my own terms. In my own space.
Three thousand miles away.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go change as I just made a little wee in my pants.

Yours truly,
Vaporously Vagrant
Violently Vacuous
Vapidly Vibrant

falling slowly

2007-07-29T12:52:00.001-04:00

After three weeks of grisly dismemberment, murderous spirits and bloody ghosts that the ever lovely Fantasia Festival delivers to some of us gory geeks, it should be of no surprise that a mushy musical about love and love songs would be like a sweet balm over a fantastic gaping wound. Or rather (with less kinkee innuendos - ahem), a beautiful sunset after the rain.

Incidentally, it is also the sort of movie no one I know would watch with me [had I actually asked…], thus making it in the same shot the Perfect Solo Cinema Viewing. Huzzah! And to the yearning of my silly soppy heart, was it ever! Armed with a well hidden grande double-chocolate chocolate chips Frappathing-a-mashling, a bag of lollies and aircon that would make Santa feel at home, I swayed and swooned with every melodious note and foreign accent it touchingly offered. Oh, virtual beloveds, to compare it to the other summer musical number would be like comparing Audrey Hepburn to Anna-Nicole*. Part modern day 'musical', part 'classic' love story, part intimate documentary, Once is of delectable tenderness, subtle sweetness and shy cheerfulness whipped up in hopeful nostalgia – everything that makes life… not that shitbad after all. Without any horns nor pretensions...

Like finding a lost childhood photograph.
Or a shadow on a sweltering summer day. And a warm blanket when it snows.
The sound of winds racing through leaves. The taste of coffee in the morning**.
Or a lover’s touch in the hollow of your back.

What can I say. Hormones finally got the best of me.

...Which could explain why I may be harbouring an unhealthy innocent little crush at the moment....*blush* And like all crushes, it is strictly unrequited and will result to nothing. Obviously. It’s just been a while since I’ve crushed on a boy, is all... Un boaille aux cheveux d’encre et des paroles qui soufflent dans les voiles de mon éternelle adolescence....

And it feels oddly... nice.

*giggles like a silly schoolgirl*

*This, in no way, is to denigrate Miz Smith (the same goes for Hairpray, of coures). God knows she will be dearly missed, at the very least, as a great entertainer. May you rest in peace, Anna, and bless Miz Spears in her stellar effort to replace you.

** Of what I can remember! *cries* Eight days and going strong, people! Soon, my love, soon we may be reunited once more!...

1 2 3 4

2007-07-26T14:49:00.001-04:00

It’s hot, it’s sunny, it’s humid, it’s summer. Seriously.

It’s sweating, softening, sweltering and scolding away my heart. I’m too busy dissolving to care.

I can no longer struggle, I’m speaking in tongues, I’ve bought shorts.

My defenses are shatterred, my chest slashed aghast. Pass it some ice.

Or simply more of this. Oh, be still my speeding heart!...

just

2007-07-21T13:03:00.001-04:00

I am quitting coffee.

It is not going so well.

p.s. Um. I know it's terribly rude & selfish of me to ask (especially amidst all the wizardry action going on) but y'know, with a minute or two to spare, reeling from Harry's death etc., can someone please let me know how to put an image in the big rectangular header thingy oop there? Where the title is? HTML hates me now.

[n.b. Right. Don't mind me. I'm caffeine withdrawing. Makes me terribly delusional. Harry doesn't die. I haven't a clue. As you were.]

pace is the trick

2007-07-11T20:34:00.001-04:00

The ever kickass Miss Boo propped up this meme-thing-a-mabob, and like any uninspired impressionable little imp, here I am taking the ‘tag’. (You can therefore point your accusatory finger at her for today’s rubbish. Or, you know, at your computer off-button. Either/or.)

It should be noted that it was a little hard for me to whip this up as I was unsure what, specifically, the requirements are. What constitutes a truly worthy shameful crush, I wisely wondered. Is it ugliness? A terrible hidden rash? A foul character? Weird hair? Fiendish sexual deprivation? Incomprehensible sense of immorality? The problem is, isn’t beauty in the eye of the beholder? And to the pits of hell all these socially acceptable conventions of beauty and attractiveness? With such a visceral belief entrenched in me, I was unable to remember being really embarrassed by any girlish crushes I have had. I mean, crushes are embarrassing enough in and of themselves, what does it matter if they are embodied by an Apollo or a Quasimodo then?...

Caught in the middle of all these existentially important questions, I stumbled to the kitchen for a little emotionally comforting sugar-coated-almond-twirly-pastry when, suddenly, it dawned on me. Slowly, like a hidden dirty secret one had frantically tried to bury in the darkest depths of the unconscious, hoping it will never resurface again. My shameful secret. My burned mark. My Wrongest Crush Evah.

*shudders*

Oh, but how could I ever admit to... that, I asked myself. This surely trespasses into Too Much Information territory! It’s just... so revolting, it might shun the most liberal of misguided web wanderers who've somehow haphazardly hit upon this page, and send them into such virtual shock they might get up and – *gasps* – GO OUTSIDE! DO I REALLY WANT THAT ON MY CONSCIENCE?!

Luckily, I slapped my silly little self out of it and figured, "bop". Besides, isn't this why I am wimpingly writing anonymously anyway? (Mouahahahahaha!) So, without further fanfare, here is my TOP TEN WRONGEST CRUSHES: A Countdown Photo Essay of Shame. (You know, to ease the fall.)

NUMBER 10 (2 of 2): Romain Gary.
In all honesty, I am not shameful one itty bit about this crush. Yes, he is older. Yes, he is a womanizer. Yes, he is dead. A quick look at him wouldn’t even conjure the most mundane fantasy a horny nymphomaniac might have (especially in his younger days), but… blink again, and you can see him in the fall of his years. Through those eyes. Sorrowfully yearning. That hair. Ash & snow covered. That look. Keen like a tender dictator, piercing like a boyish gentleman. And - oh my beating heart! - those words! Those words of love, of love, of Love….

I don’t care if it is inappropriate, he can furrow his brow through my deepest bowels if he had ever cared to write a sci-fi novel for me to travel back in time. Even just once. Yes, I said it and I’m not taking it back!

NUMBER 10 (1 of 2): Conan O’Brien.
Again, there is no shame here. Per se... I’m sure I’ve professed more than once or fifty times my undying love for this ginormous chunky white pasty clay of a man. I used to stay late at night in the early days of my college years, watching him and falling off the couch laughing. Sure, I tend to become slightly insane[er] in the wee hours of the morning where I am tired and desperately lacking oxygen, but man, that dude pierces right through my heart with every awkward movement, every marionette strings cut, every wonderfully retarded stint. It’s that entire Lanky/Gangly/Nerdy Thing he so magnificently wears. It’s simple brilliance in its basest form, and I lovitt! And sweet Jesus, that hair! Phwar! Miaorwww!

NUMBER 9: Tim Roth.
Yeah… Mister Orange himself. Man, I fell hard for him. Even through his despicable character in Rob Roy. It’s that Lanky/Gangly/Nerdy Thing again going for him, but with a sharp edge to it. A pipsqueak so bullied it turned to the dark side and you don’t know what to expect anymore. That kind of underdog uppercut. Terribly sexy, if must say so myself, even though I don’t usually go for bad boys in my non-virtual, less-shameful real life. (No, thank you, Internet!)

NUMBER 8: Mike Myers. Nauseatingly patriotic, gushingly cutesy and PC-ly nice – in the worst of ways. But, aww, just look at him! You just know he is the kindest loving adorable guy who’d treat you like an awesomely sweet goddess, teasing you in the kinkiest of ways whilst making you giggle as if you were a kid again and, really, what’s not to love about that?

I’d just prolly change his name though, as it may or may not used to cause some disturbing confusion for me growing up as I once wondered if the Halloween series were perhaps somehow based on him. (Um. Right. Blurred line between fiction and reality - check.)

NUMBER 7

When it comes to physical beauty, I’m rather easy to please. Seriously. Usually though, when I can be caught roaming Out There, most guys I’ve managed to notice when I occasionally come out from my self-absorbed daze for air leave me either indifferent or, at worse, slightly displeased. Nothing beyond that, really. It might come across as snootiness, or coldness, but the truth is I just can’t be bothered. And I’m kinda lazy like that, and… bah. I just can’t be bothered. It's also a mathematical thing – it all converges towards the middle, doesn’t it, physical beauty. To the Average Joes. So it takes something else, as previous list-makers have shown, to hit me out from my narcissistic fog and grab my [figurative] balls. Which is, as previous list-makers have shown, pretty easy to do. Ahem.

But once in a while, there are the few extremes that frivolously pop up, like, say, Christian Bale for instance.

*drools indefinitely*

And then, every so often, at the other far-end of the spectrum, there is such a gaggingly weird specimen that rises above all other suddenly terribly pedestrian-in-comparison Joes to settle the fine balance. Like Marc Labrèche.

And on Heavens's nectars I swear, deep down inside, if I had a choice, I’d pick the latter as my eternal mate in a heartbeat (unless Christian Bale reveals himself as a brilliantly crazy witty & wickedly funny guy with the oddest expressions & self-effacing integrity. Either/or.) Monsieur Labrèche, you see, is one of the few, if not only, comedian that can do absolutely no wrong in my head. And it’s not that he’d never been in some unwatchable work (Matusalem 1 AND 2 anyone?), but he’s so… normal about it, eh! He doesn’t take himself so seriously and always distortedly heartfelt silly and frank about it all! And a Québecois to boot! Right on, bébé! And while he may look like a toad, you somehow get a feeling he may also be a real lion in the sack – roaaaar!...

No?

What if you closed your eyes?

Ahem. Carry on, then.

NUMBER 6: John Malkovich.
Now see, I’ve never been a really big fan of his. He is a very good actor (le Vicomte de Valmont anyone?), but many of his roles left you a bit more than bewilderingly turned off, to say the least (The Man in the Iron Mask anyone?). And I’ve always thought he might be on the gay side, for some reason (even though I seem to have the “worst gaydar”, as a dear friend have once mentioned *hiss*).
The man unsettles me, okay? And it’s that unsettling feeling that, with those eyes - sometimes pitiable, sometimes goofy and/or insane, always disdainful - well, leaves me slightly short-winded, is all.

Oh, and he speaks French. Albeit with a distracting accent, but with enough cynicism and arrogance to make me swoon. On the inside. Obviously.

NUMBER 5: Bart Simpson.
What, gotta problem with that? So what if he’s a cartoon perpetually stuck at being a 10-year-old mischievous brat with sickening complexion? He’s jusshokiute!

Yes, I think Bart Simpson is unbearably cute, and despite that obnoxious exterior, he has proven more than once to be a loving kid filled with good intentions and a naïve blinded hope only unruly little shitters have. Oh if I were a four-fingered 10-year-old two-dimensional yellow lass, I’d stalk his perky lil’ bum silly! Uh-huh!

NUMBER 4: Colin Farrel.
Dirty ill-mannered yesterday Pretty-‘It’-Boy. And the idea that there are hordes of frantic young starlets swooning and pining over his Hollywoodian manly good looks makes it, unfortunately, even more embarrassing, if I were to be condescendingly honest. And he looks like he would smell of whiskey and tar over a five-day-old fermented sweat.

However, he also looks like he’d be a riot to hang out with, laughing and being vulgarly uninhibited, drinking and singing awful songs you don't know any words to until the the break of dawn, where he’d finally take you home and make sweet ravenous sex to you (or any other way you like it). ‘Cause he just seems to be nice like that.

NUMBER 3:
Good god, this is so wrong I can’t even bring myself to believe it! For the love of all that is holy, HE IS NOT EVEN LEGAL! And Harry Goddamned Potter, in the name of Dumblefreakingdore! And I don’t even read the goddamned books - I only watch the goddamned movies because I’m the kind of sad little girl who likes dorky wizardy action stuff like that, which, by the way, is exactly what got me into trouble in the first place as that sad little girl is exactly the sort of girl who would fall for a Lanky/Gangly/Nerdy type such as young Radcliff, who - for the honour of Greyskull! - just so happens to be delightfully charming with a great jaw-line to boot! Gah!

I just caught an interview of his on The Tonight Show recently and – oh, my swooning teenage heart! – he is so endearingly cute! Charmingly nervous and self-deprecating, he suddenly turned to Jay Leno who had asked him at one point if he’s the type of guy who’d spend a lot of “dough” for his birthday, and confusedly replied in a darling English accent “Um, do you mean like cookie dough to make a lot of cookies?” *hands over heart* Dear lord, kill me why don’t you! And have you seen him recently?! Of course you have! Sweet lord, I feel so DIRTY!

(Mmm… dirty…)

GOOD GOD! Stop it! STOP IT!!

*quivers shamefully in a dark corner*

NUMBER 2: Pablo Picasso.
From illegally innocent little geek to misogynistic old bastard. (I know, I’m like a snowflake like that.) It’s the whole vicious, hateful, emotionally manipulative, pretentious sort of ponce with an exaggerated self-importance and visions of grandeur that somehow, in his [and his arsekissing posse's] distorted fucked up mind, give him the right to treat everyone else like shite that I have a particular distaste for. Which is why it pains me – pains me! – to admit my hots for him. *rolls eyes* But, goodness gracious, what unyielding belief in the idea that Art can (and did!) change the world as we saw it in a time when we needed most. There were of course others who marched to the same beat (and subjectively brought a more interesting & appealing execution, such as Duchamp, whom I unabashedly adore)... But there is a distinctive magnanimous force behind Picasso’s work, I think, in his will, that enabled him to eradicate whatever had come before him, be it good or bad, and to make anew. With something as simple as the swift of a paint stroke.

Or a look from those eyes….

It’s disarming me as I simply take a furtive sip from it, g'dammit.

He’s the kind of asshole with whom I’d imagine having an end-of-the-world row only to shag like transcendental dogs in the stormy midst of it on any surface there is.

That’s right. You read it. Now, let us never speak of this again.

... Unless you prefer we not talk of … MY WRONGEST CRUSH NUMBER 1! *echoes-choes-ozes-ozes-oes*

*covers her face in shame*

I know! I KNOW!!! I just know next to nil about politics - even less British politics - and yet despite being aware of his vile pact with the Devil (and, apparently, his responsibility in the complete collapse of the British health, educational and transport system *shrugs vacantly*), he still strikes me somehow as a nice posh English man, yeah? With good stature & height, and a nice smile, and a clean voice, and an unexpected sense of humour, really (relatively? for politicians, anyway (god, a politicican...)), and well, he’s kinda 'dashing', is he not?... It’s just that every time I see him on the news, I just get a little flustered, and think, “Well, you know, maybe he is just trying to become the connecting link, to divert the evil blows of Satan upon the self-righteous minions of the world, and somehow believed he can persuade the Horned-One to fuck up Pluto instead, or something, and in failing that (or rather after witnessing the poor rock being stripped from its planetary status), tried to soften the fucking up of Earth in the smallest possible doses, but then it all went terribly wrong, ‘cause, dude, you just don’t mess with Satan, okay?”, so therefore he’s really but a victim like the rest of us in this entire terrible ordeal, right? RIGHT?!... And then he laughs that horsy laugh of his, and I just think, “Aw, how bad can he really be, that poor misguided lanky chap!”...

Oh, good bloody CHRISSST! I can’t believe I am EXCUSING this unfathomable abomination! What the hell is WRONG with me?!?

*cries*

Oh, please, turn away! Divert your nanobitty liquid-crystal gaze from me as I dig a hole for myself!...

Or... you know... lend yourself to the awful exercise...? To make me feel better, yes? Hullo?...

... Pah!

*falls to the ground wailing*
*claws at cheekst*
*etcetera, etcetera*

toxic

2007-07-03T18:25:00.001-04:00

[Meanwhile, somewhere in the far-end corner of her sophisticatedly complicate caboose…]

Like, Oh-MyGAWD, I am, like, so IN LOVE with this site! (Which I’ve found via an equally lovesome blog whose fabulous author I’ve ~~shot-gunned into becoming~~ made my new virtual friend! *giggles in teeny stalker fashion*.) There are so many morbidly yummy pictures, sexy gore & glossy queasiness there – it’s eye kink heaven, I tells ya (Who Killed Bambi*, that is, not the Blog You Will Go See (whose kinkiness, for the record, I know nothing about))! From high-fashion shots to cut-up dolls, twisting through truly dark photography, I was overwhelmed with both awkward awesomeness and inspired excitement while scrolling through its pages. Amidst everything going around lately, I have forgotten how good it feels to create and/or being submerged by purdhy things!

Which is why I got myself these:

My baby.
(Don't mind my garden hat. ...What?)

I finally understand those city slickers who walk around with shades all day even when the sun is nowhere in their Can’t-Be-Bothered-To-Look-Upon-Anything-Less-Beautiful-Than-Their-Poncefirous-Selves sight. It is not bc they are snooty little wankers - no! They're just simply Vain Whores In Love With Inanimate Objects! And I’ve never felt so welcomed! Oh, I want to sleep with them! (The sunglasses, not my fellow VWILWIO. Tch.) *sighs longingly*

In other related luscious consumerist news, Fantasia is coming to town! *kung-fu high-kicks* And this year, my dearly beloveds, I is ready! No more of that waiting until the last possible minute to get tickets and thus having to queue in a line that goes around the block fifteen times, and definitely not counting on someone else (who may or may not be My Big Cuz) to buy tickets only to be ditched for the promise of noodles and losing our betrothed seats. No sir-ree Bob! This year, we’re dorking it up in a big monstrous [1954, of course!] Godzilla way and getting them early online to then go hours ahead before the screened events for good seats. Hopefully, the Geek Gods shall deem us worthy and allow some gory good times to be had. Yeah!

Hm...

As this feels more and more like a commercialised capitalist confession, I might as well admit to my new shameful pleasure: Age of Love - *shudders & gags* - NBC’s new realitv summer hit that asks the very original question ‘Does age matter?’ by throwing the I-Forgot-How-Deliciously-Looking-After-All-These-Years-Absconded tennis player Mark Philippoussis in a ‘social experiment’ where he hopes to find true love (Ahahahahaha...) with women in their 40s (respectfully named the 'cougars', FYI) who, unknowingly at first, are 'competing' with girls in their 20s (or aka the 'kittens'!). *shudders & gags some more* Oh! But it’s sooo bad it’s good! It’s even badder as you watch it, man! The bachelor is depicted as this sweetly redeemed playah (by which is proven when he bought a puppy to be with on Valentine's Day (...aaahahahahahahahahaha!!)) and a hot sport star (in the 'inexistent-in-all-big-tournament-scene-for-the-past-few-years' sense), while the twennies are stereotypically crazy insecure catty skanks (represent, sistahs!). As for the 'cougars', I hear you anticipatively ask?... Rockin' babes who are successful and - *gasps* - fun! And – canyoubelieveit?! – SEXY!

Seriously, they are incredibly hawt (even though some may seem to have been familiar with Monsieur Bistouri a few times over). My absolute favorite so far (bc, of course, one can only thoroughly enjoy this kind of divine shite when there is a favorite to root for) is a 42-year-old photographer with a no-bullshit attitude, who, incidentally, begs me to ask her simultaneously as I’m bitching at her 20-year-old 'competition', "Why, dear god, WHY must you go on a television show like this looking for 'love'? Seriously?! SHOULD YOU NOT KNOW BETTER?!!"

It’s slowly sucking all the hope I had of growing older & wiser**. Not to mention my self-esteem. Yet... I can’t. Turn. AWAY. Damn you, Television Lords, damn you!

I need to take a shower now.

* This title particularly strikes a cord with my childhood sensibilities as I remember being completely devastated when I watched Bambi’s mother being killed. Years later [i.e. last year], foolishly thinking I was now older & harder to view it again, I suddenly burst out crying as the poor deer hopped around the silent snow crying out "Mama, we made it, mama! We made it!... Mama?" *tries to hold back tears* My 3-year-old cousins were most certainly not impressed.

**That song lies, I tell you, it lies!

wake up

2007-06-28T13:26:00.002-04:00

Last night it rained.
With thunderbolt and lightening.
(Very very frightening me! [Galileo (Galileo!), Galileo (Galileo!), Galileo Figaroooo Magnifico-oh-oh-oh-oooooh….)

Ahem.

*cough cough*

I used to be awfully scared of thunderstorms.
I remember when I was a kid, I’d be dancing around our tiny old kitchen as if I was the queen of the world when lightening would suddenly strike, and I’d scurry under the table to hide between my mother’s legs. I was scared of the Heavens Emperor. I was scared that he might be angry. At me*. For being so defiant, I think....

Over the years, I’ve come to see that I tend to project the image of a mighty strong girl for the folks Out There. It never occurred to me that I could ever be anything else. I never saw anything else. My sister was already the untouchable princess that she was - needing no one and fearing nothing. And there was my mother - the exemplar for us all, the pillar for us all... So how would I dare to be anything less? How woud I dare to defy her? How would I dare to disappoint? Her… I guess I always knew. But it still devastated me in an earth shattering way when I realised that I was – am – neither strong nor brave. That my mother’s courage, my sister’s strength, fell short on me somehow. Only pride succeeded in trickling down. Stupid vapid pride.

Over the years, I’ve come to learn how much of my mum was in me. Everybody knows that I have the same rambunctiousness as my father’s - his boldness, his loudness, his obstination, his obnoxiousness. But underneath it all, I am still but my mother’s daughter. Her spitting image.

Over the years, I’ve come to know that there is still a cord thicker than flesh and blood, stronger than bones, engorgingly grasping, grabbing, gripping and grinding through my guts, galvanizing me with her joy, her pride, her pain, her sorrow. Giving me her love.

But I’ve come to love thunderstorms over the years.
I love the frightful awe it commands. I sat in the blackness of my room last night and watched the trees dancing at its whim, chairs flying at its swift. I love the bolts of light. I love the rumbles of the earth. I love the calm inside...

I knew there would come a time where I’d finally have to let her know. That though I’m still scared of thunderstorms, I want to soak in it. And how I need her to be the calm inside....

Last night it rained.
And while I watched the sky cry, no matter how much I’ve prepared myself to face her phantom pain, how hard it’d be for her to let me go, I realised how gutfully painful it was for me to leave her behind... How despite it all, and whatever I might need to do, I am still always that scared little girl who wants to run to her mother's warm embrace.

And I'm forever grateful I still can.

My brilliant pillar.
My beloved mother.
My bountiful strength.

* Yes, i know. Self-centered as ever. That much either hasn't changed.

the good, the bad and the queen

2007-06-25T23:45:00.001-04:00

Just crashed back into my comfortable clean fluffy bed with a facial after some five hours of carpooling [insert deep moaning of satisfaction], and already here for your long awaited hearts, I know, are some pictures from my few moments of sobriety. Because I’m considerate like that.

Not China Town.

Could you hear the angels sing?

... slurrrrrp.

~~I kinda blacked out~~ My batteries died after this.

But there were mostly lots of this I presume:

And this:

And a bit of this:
[pictures from enkidu.netfirms.com]
Yeah. My camera and I always miss out on the fun.
*pouts*

To be noted however that I did not get intimately acquainted with any toilet bowl during my off-camera performances nor did I want to behead The Brother-In-Law even once (there was perhaps a moment where I did want to slap him, but t’was definitely not a Backhand Slap, so hurrah!), and no pants were ripped apart nor any stomach unladylikely exploded during the ingestion of so much delectably awesome foodies.

I know. My Sainthood application is already in the mail*.

* Just don’t mention I spent over my very idealistic 20$ weekend budget on some smokin' cute shades (WITH MY EXPENSIVELY DISCRIMINATORY BLIND-MOLE PRESCRIPTION INCLUDED!) for only the THIRD of the what I’d normally pay elsewhere! Them crazy Chinese, I tells ya! Am now left but to wait - with utmost patience - until they arrive here in a week. And with that, I’m back on the Sainthood list.

l’endomètre rebelle

2007-06-22T18:41:00.001-04:00

Is there a better way to start celebrating the Saint Patron's day of oh great French Canadia than to clean my bathroom? I think not! Have now clearest (and cleanest! *winks like smug salesman*) conscience to enjoy three days of drinking!

In Toronto.
Where heaps of cheap Oh Sweet Nectar Of Gods awaits.
Eh-pip-pip-houra!

Do you think I will get shot if I scream out 'Vive le Québec, tabarnak de criiiiiiissssssse!' from a speeding car in the middle of Yonge Street?

[n.b. My bathroom is so clean you can lick it. Seriously. C'mon, i know you want to.]

ice cream

2007-06-20T19:29:00.001-04:00

Have you ever had one of those crap days that starts out with shit hair only to degenerate from there? Where all the busy plans you set out to do miserably go to the dogs because of painfully little annoying details, and it all ends up being utterly useless, g'ddamit?! So you think "hey, this certainly calls for some retail therapy!" yet NOTHING quite does the trick, and once you find something remotely cute it is so wickedly overpriced that by the time you get to the counter you stomp off bitterly as there is no possible way you can spend 50$ on a dress you're not really even in love with!? And on top of that little hot sundae, every single two-legged specimen walking in front of you is somehow so piercingly eager to be competing in a snail race & keeping you from pacing in the rhythm of the music that keeps you so thinly sane thus far that at the last possible minute on your way home from a completely wasted day, you decide to jump out from the metro wagon just as it is closing its doors, resulting in you struggling to pull half of your body out with all remaining flesh while passengers' eyes are on the amusing aping spectacle that you've become, just to go watch the comical [and hopefully putting-life-in-perspecive] relief Knocked Up, but where, of course, upon your arrival, you have missed the entire previews [or your favorite part of going to the movies - aside sitting alone in the dark for two hours, you crazy person you], bc the nice little lady in front you at the candy store WANTED A REFUND FOR AN EMPTY LOLLY BAG, and when you finally settle into your seat with enough snuck in chocolate to make Willy Wonka murderously jealous, you realise that you're sitting next to deaf grannies who need to repeat EVERYTHING back WRONGLY to one another, AND WHAT THE HELL ARE GRANNIES DOING WATCHING FREAKIN' KNOCKED THE FREAK UP ANYWAY?!!

*breathes*

However, as you are positively a most easygoing & gentlest of creatures, you gracefully let it all ride over you and concentrate on the absolute hotness of Katherine Heigl & the uber deliciousness that is Paul Rudd, and behold! fifteen minutes in and you're already laughing and [almost] forgetting your lousy day away! Yay! And then you come out in the new light of the evening sun with the feeling that, "y'know, life is shit, and life doesn't give a damn that you've made plans, but all you can do is just... deal with it!" Huz-zah! (With a little 'Oh', as you needed a Hollywood movie to remind you of that.)

So, yeah, you deal. With a double scoop of chocolate-chocolate-chips ice cream in a dark-chocolate-dipped-chocolate-waffle cone. And if a bad day can be solved by a double scoop of chocolate-chocolate-chips ice cream in a dark-chocolate-dipped-chocolate-waffle cone, then it's not that bad of a day after all, is it peepster(s)? I thought so.

Carry on, then.

feeling good

2007-06-14T14:34:00.000-04:00

~~Stupid~~ Philosophical Question #6195:

"Do animals masturbate?"

yesterday once more

2007-06-11T02:25:00.000-04:00

High Fidelity was one of the first contemporary English novel I read as an ‘adult’. Have never seen the movie, but heard Mister Hornby wanted John Cusack to play every one of his male protagonists should they be captured on film as well (which doesn’t say much about the width of his thematic range, but eh, who I am to complain about dwelling self-indulgences?). Also, to know Lloyd Dobler is to love him, and since I solely remember my male actors in their best light [until they go insane and antisemite], the movie is definitely somewhere in my Must See Films list. Rob from the novel, however, I had problems with. He just somehow reeked a dab too much of insecurity, uncertainty; is unsatisfied and whiny about it - all qualities I hate in myself really, which just seems worse when personified in someone else. Especially someone I was expecting to really like, as I often do with books I love (e.g. why "Holden's" is forever emblazoned on my heart) . Not so here. What did win me over, however, is his obsessions with lists. It’s dreadfully fantastic! And how he’s so anal about music, having it be the tell all & end all of human existence. Though, admittedly, I barely recognise half of the ‘dodgy’ songs he mentions and have a much more embarrassing collection myself, who seriously cannot identify with that with a little smile en coin? Still to this day, there are certain songs that bring me right back to the very first time I heard it, and in doing so, define it completely. With the same exact despair and/or glee. Apply as needed.

For instance, at the mere start of some of my favorite Chinese series theme songs, I am seen to be embarrassingly gushing, clapping my hands and hopping in my seat. Have you ever tried that? It’s utterly annoying for whoever’s not doing it, I assure you. There’s also giggling. And did I mention cheering? Yes, there is cheering too. I just get so uncontrollably excited, as if I was to see a long lost friend who once taught me everything I know about honour & love (make-up help included!), whose tales of woes & wars, love lost and friendship in hardship sung my entire childhood. And in some two minutes & sweet seconds I get to hear them again, I am as gullible & hopeful as I was when I was 6 years old, believing that love does conquer all, and nobody is really as evil as they seem [just weak... and unfortunate]. When I listen to these songs again, I am reminded & astounded as to how complex the story lines & characters were, how every plot, every anecdote all tie in together in a messy web of confusion. And how all we do is struggle to untangle ourself from it. (…So that’s why I’m so fucked so early! I tell you, Cinderella’s got nothing on Little Dragon Girl. Psh.)

Or when I was in year 9 and had [allowed myself] my first real crush. I never knew what his name was, where he lived or what his likes & dislikes, favorite band or cartoons were. I’ve heard his voice only once - when he asked his little brother if he wanted his seat *swoons* - but my gosh, my entire 15-year-old blissful moments were of simply seeing him. While listening to this song. I know. I told you I had no credibility as a music critic. Every time the swoosh begins though, without fault, I can’t help but moan & roll my eyes, reminded suddenly of him. And then smile from ear to ear. It still warms me up, you see. Mon Gars du Bus….

… Oh, sweet adolescence, what wonderfully embarrassing years you were! How sad it only degenerated from there! *sigh*

I have mentioned before my love/shame relationship with Bon Jovi. It’s actually worse than I’ve lead on. A lot worse. I heart them muchly, I did. To the point where I bought Mister Giovanni’s solo debut tape and listened to it almost everyday. Uh-huh... Sure, there were the ubiquitous Bush [ex-]X & Garbage pouring down my eardrums, but… I just dusted off the tape from my High School Box (what? Don’t you have one of those?) and had a listen again some days ago. I was quickly reminded of a distinctive feeling when I’d hear these again (other than shame). It brings back the cold hazy days of yore.... When yore were school days off, and instead of sleeping in or spending time with friends, I’d wake up like any other day, put on my uniform (so my folks, unaware of my schedule, would not ~~interrogate me~~ wonder), and took the bus. Just to get lost. For hours. Destination anywhere. Watching. And yearning. For something I couldn't define…. I suppose I can come up with some self-conscious analysis now, generic psychological profile and self-deprecating confirmations, but really, it’ll just be redundant. I was sixteen. Look at my blog title.

Not so long after that, I'd have my first mental breakdown. Yes, happy times… It was also from that point forward that, after every other one I went through, be in minor or of World War proportions, I'd run to The Beatles. I can clearly recall the moment it all started. I was walking towards school, cutting through the park, fenced on the left by huge imposing trees. As I looked up and saw the sun & blue skies piercing between shuffled leaves & windy tears, his voice suddenly broke from my headphones and washed over me. (Terribly cliché, I know... But after admitting my love to Bon Jovi and 80’s Chinese songs I don’t understand a single word to, what else do you expect? Tch.) The thing with The Beatles is, they keep my heart safe, you see. They're my imaginary friends. The only real ones I could stand. Who can hold it in and rock it to sleep, without having to say anything. They let me know it’s okay, and to keep on going, to keep on hoping. To keep on loving. With every innocent note.

So I do.

Across the universe.

Because, if there's anything I’ve learned from my childhood tales, it’s what a good theme song does.

ocean of noise

2007-06-01T14:13:00.001-04:00

Hullo! My name is [vapidly vibrant] and I seem to be in a writing rut. *waves*
Not that there aren’t any infinitely inane ideas impatiently imploring impression but I just can’t seem to imaginatively immolate them idiomatically. And all attention is avidly attending to actualize, achieve, accomplish (and absolve) somewhat life-altering affairs at the moment, which I very much wish I could waywardly write here on a whim but am afraid it might wander wildly away, wither and waver. Which we do not want. Oh to the no’s, and other assonances & alliterations of sorts.

So, here are some links for you, oh great bloggiverse (sadly, that first paragraph took all brain-wanking power I had. Apologies if words now not connected or sensical. Poo and fart. Frown.):

- http://www.weebls-stuff.com/toons/bonjour/
- http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C7Op0AvcVOQ&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;mode;
- http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6T0UQfKTcQw&mode;
- http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_lWdOFvkF7k&mode*

**Bonus Feature!**

After racking my blogging hero’s archives to find this little jem, you may now all know what I look like! Hurrah!...

Or not.

Apparently, I am of impaled wizardry and Canadian flair. How very just. And I have no idea if Sho Sakurai is a girl or a boy. But Gary Oldman?... LIKE TWO PEAS IN A POD! And I have Dracula’s teeth to prove it too! For realz, yo!

Aahhh... Live long and prosper, Internet!

Also, my left shoulder hurts. I haven’t a clue as to why.

* Right. If viewing these leaves you unabashed, confused and/or slightly feeling sorry for me, then by all means, never mind this little footnote (but thank you for your concern!). If instead you find yourself laughing with tears streaming down your face, amazed & astounded by its sheer genius, and somehow have even more time to waste, then do have a look at some other of Mister Don Hertzfeldt’s shorts if you haven't already. No, I am not paid for this free advertisement nor am I in anyway related to him. And yes, I love him.

[n.b. I swear, I AM doing Other Important Things...]

66 promises

2007-05-30T13:42:00.001-04:00

Reasons why I will never drink again*.

Required Happy Pill frowns upon Happy Drinks.
Dancing like delusional twat in middle of ~~dance floor~~ empty room.
When squating for necessary wee (because, tch, it’s a public restroom) and suddenly tilting slightly forward (because, tch, I’m drunk), Happy Drinks abruptly decided how fun it’d be to obey gravity.
On skirt.
In toilet bowl.
Care in Not Touching Anything For The Love Of God Oh Please goes, quite literally, down the drains. *cries & shudders*
Feeling bad for making mess in restroom and delaying closing time, cleaned up after self and apologised profusely like nobby pest.
After congratulating self for successfully stumbling to bed without puking through nose, neglected to wash makeup off face and woke up with left eye looking like this.
Having Asian blood.

* Or at least in a very, very long while. Duh.

ibi dreams of pavement (a better day)

2007-05-23T19:25:00.001-04:00

I was going to write a long, whingy post filled with filthy words beginning like 'fucose' and rhyming with 'clucking' concerning the current state of public transportation in the fair city I live, namely, but not excluded to, the fact that it is, once again - since 2003! - ON STRIKE, which means that between the hours of 9 a.m. & 3h30 p.m., and 6h30 p.m until late-enough-no-one-gives-a-shit, there are no buses and/or metros anywhere, and how despite being what one might call a liberal [if I was ever bothered enough to care] with a leftist inclination, who is really all for unions, the little people, the blue-collars, plaid-collars and dirty-unwashed-collars, and who, by all means, comes from a Stick-It-To-The-Man school of philosophy (I was educated along the lines of the French after all (much to the desolation of a parent with a particular distaste for any form of "commie sympathies")), nothing would please me more however than to see the instigators of this so-called "desperate legal action", i.e. the lovely Mechanics & Maintenance Workers of the STM, who earn a salary of 50,000$ (premium & advantages not included) per year, shoving their whiny little pie-holes up their lazy fat arses.

BUT I am going to write instead about how, without dirty old buses and subway trains that are delayed every second day, on every second line, every day, on at least one line bc of 'bip-bip-beeeep' TECHNICAL REASONS, I am able to get soaked in the sun and breeze a little more as I walked to the bank this morning and truly enjoyed how lovely my neighborhood is. Yes, yes. Ladies & gents, I walked. The entire twenty-five minutes it took. Which depending upon age & technique, could pass as a form of exercise, oui? And I liked it! I really liked it! An allergy pill popped in, I strolled down the sidewalks draped by the occasional cool shadows of beautifully imposing maple trees, children's laughing & giggling breaking between the soft suburb silences, little Italian mamas sweeping their porch, fixing their gardens and yelling in what I can only hope as sweet insults to their husbands. It was marvellous!...

So, dearest Mechanics & Maintenance Workers of the STM, you may cease your ~~lying around complaining about your sorry exploited plight~~ 'working' as long as you please. T’is like water off me back! Which, incidentally, I solely give to the city counsellors in their firm stance of Not Giving In Until You Lazy Arses Actually Provide A Real Service To Start Out With, You Spoilt Arrogantly Idiot Wankers*.

Now, I must take your leave, dear gentle folks, as my bedtime is fastly approaching. I have a bus to catch downtown tomorrow morning. Goodnight.

*Now see, i shall have to loathe you even more as you made me side with The Man. Curse you!

p.s. Hmm... Of all the inane things i've written about in the past, i seem to be dithering a little here, wondering whether to post this or not... Funnily enough, i feel as if i am betraying & stabbing the little Socialist in me and it makes me feel all queasy 'bout it... Huh. The thing is, i'm well aware that with inflation going constantly up as it tends to do, etc, etc, while salaries pretty much stagnate, there are very hard working folks out there who suffer in consequence. That's why i'll always support and fight for unions, but the truth is, if we keep this in context, these STM workers specifically are really detestable bullies!... It's a little like communism, innit? Great in theory but it pretty much shits up the dog's arse in practice. So... As ill-informed and hormone-driven as it may be, i've decided to post this anyway as it's, well, how i feel. And it's my blog. In all its moral and grammatical downfall. *double thumbs up*

last nite

2007-05-21T12:55:00.000-04:00

Bullet-Points - la suite...

Beer: gloriously goooooood
Muthafuckin' hangover: muthafuckin' murderous
Affairs of the heart in the work place: dumb dumb
Affairs of the heart in the work place when both parties involved are involved: unfortunately dumberer
Being Nice Quiet Girl in the work place everyone trusts with secrets: a heart-and-headache
Being Nice Quiet Girl in the work place not involved in affairs of the heart who gets pints of free delicious beer to listen to juicy gossip: priceless

For everything else, there's always Advil.

alors alors

2007-05-15T13:08:00.000-04:00

Who misses bullet-points?

*raises hand like a 6-year-old teacher's pet*

Went to see the Man Whose Smile Melts My Cold Heart (commonly known as Dumas) over the weekend. Despite some technical mishaps, the concert was all in all fabulous. Sing-alongs, inconspicuous loops, crazy dancing sequence (oh! to the flutter of my beating heart!), acoustic rendition, rocking riffs – it was wonderful, man! And forget about pyrotechnics, spectacular sets and huge screens, it’s all about BALLOONS, people! Unleash some balloons from the ceiling during the second encore and it’s all to make my heart jump with yearning childhood glee! The loveliest surprise of the evening though was the opening gig in the svelte body of a local singer, whose honey musked voice warmed the back of my neck in the sweetest of ways. Alone with a guitar, a harmonica and some few finger clicks, he sang pretty pretty little folksy-pop songs with sorrowful humour that surely delighted the soppy little girl that I am. Oh yes. I want to have his babies.
Which is necessary to understand, you see, as it may or may not be one of the reasons I ended up buying his record right after the show. *blush* Unfortunately, I only realised the next day that the two songs I really loved were not on it and that he is indeed much better live. *pouts* That’ll teach me to spend money on cute boys. It’s still decent though. And after a few listen, it somehow makes me want to sit by a window sipping hot tea, and write….

Light Bulb Moment of the Week: Lying to mum about having already bought her Mother Day’s gift but forgotten it in someone’s car when in actuality have forgotten it altogether is A Bad Idea. Especially when she is The Crazy Woman, loves gifts and insists that this ‘Someone’ drives by to give it back and, when you point out how unnecessary this is as you are going to meet this ‘Someone’ the next day anyway (lie #2), suggests on driving herself to ‘Someone’’s house to pick said un-existing gift.
I am going to be struck by lightening and burn in hell, etcetera, etcetera, but it still beats having to see the disappointment in her eyes. There is just so much this poor woman can take [in a very near future]. Besides, the way I figure, her being deceived and my incapability to look her in the eyes for the entire day balances one another out. *wiggles thumbs up*

I have fallen in love with ice wine. Or as I like to call it Oh Sweet Nectar Of Gods. *drools & falls over herself*

I have discovered that the sound of motor trucks can simulate bird speach. Or vice versa. As I laid in bed this morning in the sweet slumbers of five a.m. and was gently woken up by construction workers who, within some few 50 metres away from my bedroom window, were busy grilling, moving and shoving large things about, it dawned on me that I was probably onto something when gently tweeting pierced through my ears.
In the name of science, I shall transcribe here a part of the conversation for future references:

"Broom, vraaaaaaahh!"
"Tweet! Tweet! Tweet!"
"Brrrooom broom Brooooooooomm."
"Twee-twee Tweet! Tweet Twe-weet! Tweet!"
"Vrrrrreeeeeeee-IIIIIIIIIGH!"
"TWEEEEEEEEEEEEET! tweIIIIIIIIIIIT! Twee..."
"...rrrrrrrrrAOORGGGH! VRAOOOOOOOM!"
"Tweet-tweet-tweet-tweet-tweeet-tweeeeeeet-tweet-tweet-tweet-tweet-twee tweeet twe..."
"..."
"Twee-twet-twet-twetwetwetwet tweeeeeet?"
"Pssssshhhaooorgh!"
"TWEET TWEET TWEET TWEET TWEET TWEET!"
etc.
Is there someone out there to confirm and/or translate? If you are an ornithologist, zoologist, biologist, sound engineer and/or bird hunter, please leave your answers/rates in the comments below. Thank you.

What a lovely Spring day it was yesterday.

Which, of course, also meant Great Shopping Spring Day. As I busied through my carefully planned schedule, I stumbled upon a hardcover of David Sedaris’ Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim for a ridiculous 7.99$! Which, with my irewards rebay, came to a total of 7.62! Huzzah! With the book in tow and an extra beat in my steps, I then wandered towards Shop With Enviable Frocks, and just look what I’ve got my hands on now (aside some Fruit-Of-The-Loom undies):

I know. Please stop looking at me like that. I’ve been coveting this skirt for months, OKAY?! And just when I thought it wasn’t meant to be, there it was, hanging sheepishly on its little lonesome with a SIXTY DOLLARS LESS price tag! Zoing! As if that wasn’t enough proof that Fate was bringing the two of us together, it was in MY EXACT SIZE! Angels could have flown down and chanted for our holy union and it wouldn’t be so perfect! And I just look so puhr’dy in it, ma!... *puppy eyes*

Question of the Week: What causes two seemingly full-functionning adults to make out in the middle of a café? In broad daylight? Where there are actual people around? Hm?! I’m aware that T’is the season to be horny, and while some superficial people take more joys in finding the perfect all-year-round skirt others prefer giving in to the throws of ~~hormones~~ love, it still doesn’t explain why they have to - oh but literally - LICK EACH OTHER’S FACE OFF! RIGHT. IN. FRONT. OF. ME! And loud enough, in fact, that I can HEAR them when my ears are PLUGGED IN! Gah! Sure, I suppose a normal person would simply look away, but:

1) Where I am sitting, I’d risk developping cervicalgia if I were to turn to either side, and frankly (a) I'd look [even more] retarded should I position myself so awkwardly, and (b) why the hell should I discomfort myself for their sake anyway? Are we not in a public space after all? Mutual respect, consideration for thy neighbors, etc, etc. GET A ROOM, YOU!;

2) In some twisted way, it’s just morbidly fascinating, innit? Like watching a car crash, or a baby taking a fall (or is that just me? anyone?), your eyes can’t seem to escape such odd manifestation of the human body. (Lordy! Even as I type these words, I can see their tongues sipping out like ol’Nessy peeping for air from the corner of my eyes!) *shudders*
…Which brings us to Subquestion of the Week: Is it terribly shallow of me to find unattractive people making out the best premarital-sex prevention method?

Okay. What’s the deal here? That’s the second person to come up to me today and start a conversation out of the bloody blue. Is it because of the season? Is there a drug sale going on and everyone’s on crack? Do I somehow look like a nice sociable person?! [Note to self: reconsider goth look.] The strange part is I am actually engaging in the conversation. While my head screams for me to shut the fuck up and run away, my mouth keeps rattling on, jolly answering to their questions, attentively listening in, and (oh why, in the name of Sweet Frozen Grapes!?) pertinently raising side issues! Pah!... Further proof that there is an important link missing from my brain to my mouth.

It is unfortunate for me to announce that Pollens have officially declared war on me and taken over my respiratory system. If I wish to have a winning chance against these nasty little buggers, drastic measures must be taken for the greater good. Will you please excuse me now as I go cut my nose, peel off my skin and poke my eyes out.
This, hopefully, might also discourage strangers from striking uncalled chit-chat with me.
As they say, two birds with one stone.
Sadly, only figuratively.

And it all ties in together. *bows out*

my boy lollipop

2007-05-12T11:34:00.000-04:00

Now, I am not one who would usually be attracted to younger lads, or highly muscled jocks. Really. Yet... for some reason, I can't seem to tear my eyes away from this:

Utter. Awe.

the bunting song

2007-05-09T20:24:00.002-04:00

'Big Changes' are a-brewing at the moment.

Hold me?

p.s. On second thought, never mind. I just threw up all over myself.

in a manner of speaking*

2007-05-03T11:37:00.001-04:00

[J’écris pas souvent en français. En fait, presque jamais. (Et non, c’est pas pour ça que j’ai manqué d’insérer une négation là, devant ‘écris’, mais plutôt pcq c’est de l’oral, du 'français vulgaire', vous suivez?... Bah.) J’ai grandi en lisant Baudelaire, Balzac, Voltaire, etcetera, et puis Prévert, Aragon et Gary (ah! mon royaume pour un Gary!), et tout ça m’intimide pour être honnête. De plus, je ne régis en français que lorsque je fusse (wow – subjectif* imparfait, ça fait longtemps que j’avais pas utilisé ça!) à l’école et ne peux ainsi m’empêcher d’adopter une prose plus corrigée, correcte, propre, qui fait un peu drôle à [re]lire maintenant quand je radote, mais j’adore et a toujours préféré le français. Il me semble qu’on peut chuchoter les choses les plus chiottes et ça me semblent** d’une sincérité agaçante. Et j’aime comment ça souffle à l’oreille....
Bon alors, me voilà donc, la verve de Hugo qui me vient aux doigts... On va bien voir ce que ça va donner.]

Malgré avoir toujours été cette fille un peu égoïstement honnête qui ne sait pas souvent quand il fallait*** se taire (quand je m’y mets en tout cas), ou qui se plait souvent à se considérer plutôt ouverte & directe, je suis du même coup jalousement renfermée. Eh oui! Dit celle avec un blogue, merde! Un blogue que de parfaits étrangers à travers le monde – aussi peu, en fait, et aimables soient-ils et soient-elles (quoique, entre vous et moi, chère deuxième personne du pluriel, vous pouviez tout aussi bien être des adeptes de Scientologie prêts à bondir sur mes moindres moments de faiblesse et m’en faire la prochaine recrue, non? Je connais tous vos trucs...) – puissent lire! Des choses dont la plupart des personnes qui me sont les plus chères dans ma vie réelle ignorent même l’existence!... Des conneries radotées qui m’auraient poussée à me jeter du pont Jacques-Cartier si un regard distrait osait simplement s’y être posé!?... Que?! (ça, c’était de l'espagnol. Oui, je connais la langue de Goya également : Como estas? Mui, bien, y tu? Bien tambien, gracias; buenas noches, me llamo [vapidly vibrant], no se – voilà l’étendue de mon espagnol. Impressionnant, non?)

Le fait c’est que, je n’ai pas l’habitude de dévoiler quoi que ce soit à personne. Depuis que je suis toute jeune, j’avais su garder mes secrets, mes pensées, mes sentiments les plus profonds, les plus vrais, à moi-même. D’une manière qui m’échappe encore un peu, j’étais venue à les considérer comme mes cheveux de Samson, ou ma cheville d’Achille. Et tant et aussi longtemps que ces autres les ignoraient, que ces idées demeuraient entièrement et tout à fait miennes, alors, j’avais le dessus. Que personne ne me connaissait me donnait le 'pouvoir'. C’est d’une possessivité inquiétante, je sais. Mais, je me sentais en sécurité ainsi, bien touffue derrière tout ce moi que les autres ne voyaient pas, protégée comme par un châle invisible qui me permettait d’observer les gens sans qu’ils s’en aperçoivent.

J’étais bien. J’étais conne.

Parce qu’après toutes ces années à apprendre à vivre comme un tas de merde bien conservée dans un topperware qui essaie de se biodégrader, j’ai réalisé que ça ne marchait pas. Non mais, pas du tout. Tout comme cette métaphore d'ailleurs. Surtout parce que, personne ne sachant qui j'étais réellement, je me permettais d’être deux filles en même temps pour apaiser tout le monde et passer ainsi plus facilement sous le radar. Oh, que je suis futée, m’étais-je dite! Être à la fois docile, indépendante, pratique, rusée, tête forte (la fille de ma mère, quoi) et émotive, naïve, curieuse, frivole et un peu tête de linottes (parfois?), sans jamais que les premiers spectateurs ne connaissaient les derniers, j’étais libre comme un cameleon!

... Et puis, un jour, il y en avait une qui s’était mise à aimer... Et ça boulverse un peut tout, l’amour... Ça confond, ça brouille, ça salit, et ça s’en câlisse. Jusqu’à ce jour, j’ignore encore qui des deux avait commis cette faute. Peut-être étaient-ce les deux? Ou y avait-il une troisième? Peu importe, en fait... J’ai seulement réalisé que j’y arrivais plus, être toutes ces choses en même temps. C’était devenu un champ de bataille. Et il me fallait choisir un camp.

Oui, il faut choisir.

J’ai passé la plupart de ma jeunesse, sinon à lire, à écrire dans un journal. J’aimerais bien pouvoir dire que je le faisais dans un but introspectif cérébral et réfléchi afin de me discerner, mais j’aimais tout simplement l’idée d’avoir un livre dont j’étais réellement le héros (un peu comme dans ces romans Folio où il fallait lancer un dé et battre des vampires, seulement que j’ai dépassé ce stade, vous voyez. Egocentrique à fond, je vous dis...) En tout cas. À relire tous ces journaux, je me désolais à voir que je n’ai pas tant changé que ça [...depuis mes huit ans]. Je tournais en rond. Je ruminais. J’en avais marre, un peu honte même, et j’ai arrêté il y a quelques années. C’est seulement quand j’ai commncé ce blogue, initialement pour la même raison que j’ai commencé mes journaux – pure vanité –, que j’ai senti quelque chose de... différent. Tout léger. Indistinct, même. Ma thérapie m’a aidée à décoincer, certainement, mais taper des balivernes complètement insensées qui se déversent de ma tête sur des microbytes virtuels dont le fonctionnement m’échappe royalement m’est d’un étrange bénéfice.

C’est l’ouverture, je crois.
Il était un peu temps que je m’ouvre...

C'est que je m'aperçois que mes pensées arrivent à se libérer ici. Une liberté dont et envers laquelle je suis devenue responsable. Même si personne ne les lisait, même si on s’en fout à la fin, même s’il n’y a pas de destinations ou de destinataires précis (malgré les quelques Scientologistes potentiels pour qui j’ai une tendresse toute particulière...), ils**** s’envolent tout bonnement, dans ce vide virtuel, au lieu de pourrir dans ma tête, m’offrant ainsi un moment de répit et l’espace pour choisir, pour être qui je suis.

Et me voilà donc qui choisis.

Et qui l’écris.

Sur un blogue.

...Merde...

* Bonjour! English translation? As you wish.

Don't tell me you learn nothing interesting here.... *muffles uncontrollable laughter*

[EDIT: So, i just can't leave those errors there now that i know of them, not can i? CAN I?!... Goddamn you, Frenched Twelve-Year-Old!:
* subjonctif - hey honest mistake... ahem.
** semble - gah! kill me why don't you!?
*** faut - this doesn't really count. It makes sense in my head, k?
**** elles - so i have gender identification issues. It's no secret to anyone.]

blowin' in the wind

2007-05-02T18:09:00.000-04:00

I am having A Bad Day.

Thank you. That is all.

heart in a cage*

2007-04-27T12:55:00.001-04:00

Coffee shop.
Drinking coffee.
And stealing internet.

“…So he was an engineer, Italian. Had worked for a few years, and said he’d saved up enough money to be salary free while he does his MBA. So, we went out for coffee, the four of us, and they hit it off! Really liked each other, went out, getting very serious. Then… he dumps her…”, the sassy girl with the most horrendous beige jacket two tables away from me murmurs loudly with an appalled expression, emphasizing her disbelief. Dumps.

[Note to self: Never buy beige jacket.]

“He says ‘I’m not ready for anything serious right now’”. Pause for her prettier friend to react. Pretty Friend gasps. “And I felt so bad! I mean - and she didn’t say this but I know how she thinks and she wants to get married and y’know - but for Jen, this was for her the guy...”, she continues. My heart cringes. “… And she’s such a sweet girl, good family, intelligent, involved in the community but she tells me, ‘It’s hard you know? I just don’t know where to go? I work everyday, and see the same people everyday. I try to go out…’ But she’s right, when you reach a certain age, it’s hard... I mean, she’s twenty-eight now…”.

*breaks abruptly screech across the room*

Um. Since when did twenty-fucking-eight years old became ‘a certain age’? Who are these girls? Time-travellers from 1946? It would certainly explain the odd taste in professional wear. And she does look rather young come to think about it…. Hmmm. Could it be that I am in a sci-fi novel?...

Pretty Friend nods agreeably. “Yeah, it is hard”, she mumbles over her tea.

Erm?! But more importantly, is that what I will turn into one day? A Twenty Something Working Wife Trying To Have A Baby While Setting Up Her Single Friends Keener? (Alright, so i’ve been listening in for a while…) Is that what I am expected to aspire to?

Spring is never good to me. Aside from the pressure of Being Happy, and enjoying the renewed weather when you’re feeling more like the residue mud underneath, with this sunny season also comes the pre-programmed hormonal button in our animalistic nature switched on to ‘Fornicate’. Always. Like a bloody fucking clock. What's worse, I also become filled with this strange intense desire to be with someone. To settle down and procreate, or, in more brainwashing rom-com terms, to fall in love and live happily ever after. The most disconcerting part is, I actually buy into all of it. Yes. I do believe I want it.

That is, until that conversation.

I do feel bad for Jen. Who is only twenty-eight years old, wants to get married, can’t, and already pitied & condescendingly considered as a freakster by her loved ones. I feel bad for her broken heart. Honestly (tch - i’m not heartless). But in that entire conversation, the conversationalists included, the only one that seemed to make sense to me was sadly the idiot MBA dumper! And then I can’t help but wonder [à la Carry Bradshaw - without the pouffy hair, divine shoes & general fabulousness], is refusing to get married a symptom of our selfish young self’s Fear Of Becoming An Adult? And for me, the real question is, what is an adult? How does marriage define it? And why does everyone seem so keen on it anyway? Like misery, does absurdity simply love company?

I am not against marriage per se. Actually, I get quite excited at weddings – what’s not to like? Pretty sparkly clothes? Good. Ginormous cake? Good. Corny music to drunkenly dance to? Good, good, good. But marriage is trickier than one massively expensive party, isn’t it? I just don’t quite get it, you see. I suppose I understand that some people want to get married because it sets their relationship in stone. It’s a further, formal form of commitment. Very well. However, can one not be as committed to a relationship and have every single person important in their life be aware that they are firmly serious & dedicated to that relationship just as much as a married person is? I’m well aware that, even when ridden with all these statistics on divorce, studies have shown that married couples are more likely to stay together than unmarried couples. Yes, yes. But, the first thing that comes to mind is, what do I care about these other couples? And second, are all these people together because they are really happy & in love? Because aren’t there sadly those who simply maintain their relationship because it would be such a big long hassle to actually go through with a divorce? That their being together is dependent upon the effort to get out? Now to me, that argument sounds a little insulting, is it not? Knowing that my partner is staying with me out of… laziness? Call me innocently idealistic, I do understand that relationships are hard & certainly not always rosy, but I’d just rather have someone who is consciously intended to be with me. Out of his own will. Or because he cannot help it, as in, I’m the the absolute bee’s knees to him, that sort of soppy crap. Not because it’s 'too complicated' to get out. Because if I want out of a relationship, whether it requires me to lift the goddamn Mount Kilimanjaro or fly to the moon, I would. Never mind the hassle of divorce.

Inversely then, I suppose one can ask is marriage necessary in order to completely be with someone. Because… it is what society expects from us? Because that is what my parents demand from me? So I can ‘rightfully’ have children? But isn’t that what my sister is there for (bless her heart!)?

I mean, technically speaking, all above reasons don’t really make any sense, now do they? One can perfectly cohabit with one another in utter love & commitment (which are no easy tasks in & of itself, if one must insist that nothing good comes without effort), and have children just the same (biology doesn’t require a license to actually occur). So… why exactly does one go through all that contractual paperwork & financial predicament to get married if it is not really necessary? Ruling out religious purposes**, is there some other deep fundamental reason altogether?

… Is it out of fear? Or rather to get rid of that fear. The fear of being considered as marginal, unwanted, rejected, abandoned and/or alone? And knowing that a piece of paper binding the two of you together is somehow a sufficiently satisfying security net?

Two friends and a (younger!) cousin of mine are now engaged. To be married. And it freaks the begesus out of me. Not because I don’t want them to get married - I’m happy as long as they’re happy, of course, and hope that they are doing what’s right for them. The problem is, like Jen, I have suddenly fallen into that age bracket of folks who, by association, are ‘marriable’. And am now faced with the question more than I have naïvely expected. Even my mum is hopping on the bandwagon and have keenly asked me on several occasions if I’m to get married as well, which, between you & me, dear blogosphere, throws me slightly out of my delusional egocentric orbit as she has never asked nor alluded anything regarding my romantic relationships before. Ever. Which was fine by me, thankyouverymuch! Alas, no more!***

Aaaand... here I stand now.

Twenty-four years old & unable to come up with any good reason that would ever push me to do it. Even if the fear is there. But in many ways, I think I’m very much still that same Seventeen-Year-Old Girl who refuses to give in to what she considers as The Man. Or do things out of fear. Especially when it comes to love****. Utterly naïve? Perhaps. Hopelessly juvenile? Most likely. But until I can find a good reason***** for it – for me – I just can’t seem to wrap myself around the concept, is all.

...Which doesn’t mean I haven’t wondered what I’d look like in a pretty white dress. I usually look good in white.

“Truth is, and I hate to say this, but when you spend all those years trying to get ahead, set your career up, or you know, find yourself or whatever, I mean that’s what happens…”, wisely muses Twenty Something Working Wife Trying To Have A Baby While Setting Up Her Single Friends Keener as Pretty Friend shrugs distractingly.

[Note to self: Step. Away. From. The. Table. Sloooow-ly.]

* Hullo! Slow day? (And honestly, if you are reading this, the paint must have already dried , eh?). Click here then. Just bc it's a great song. As you were.

**Not bc that is not worth considering, quite the contrary. Though i am not myself religious, in such cases, i understand why would one desire marriage, assuming that uniting under God factors somewhat importantly in a religious person’s wish to be married. Do feel free to correct me if i am wrong though.

*** Being the kind of conventional yet independent strong lady that she is, The Crazy Woman never really wanted us to be linked in anyway with boys, you understand, yet there she was, non-chalantly MAKING PLANS FOR MY WEDDING! With whom? I haven’t a clue. What that does imply however is we must have The Talk sooner than I have planned… (no, not that kind of talk. That kind of talk shall, hopefully, NEVER be discussed with The Crazy Woman as she is, well, crazy - The Talk I am referring to is not that much more pleasant though, as it might get her, well, crazier…).*shudders*

****Assuming of course that one gets married out of love and not some economical/political arrangement, in which case it’s a whole other post.

***** And, um, a boyfriend, of course. If one is to be sensical about it and all. Carry on.

kingdom of doom

2007-04-25T21:49:00.000-04:00

Went to see Grindhouse today. Most riveting & awesomest three hours I've ever spent. (Except that time with... when i was... but that's not quite... and there's also... but i mean... yeah.... Carry on.) Excellent movie. Not for the faint of heart. Very much ace all the same. Or rather, for that exact reason. Fuck yeah, mofos.

Um. Right.

Ouh! And look what came through the mail!

Yiiiippeeeeeee!

Yes. It takes so very little to get me excited....

thank you for the music

2007-04-19T11:41:00.000-04:00

I’m not a music elitist. Really. My darling Big Cuz would beg to differ but he also loves the Backstreet Boys (and if a fully grown 25-year-old man seriously believes that the Backstreet Boys are “great musicians” and expects anything less than endless mockery and patronizing sighs every time the topic of music – or anything else for that matter – comes up then the world is worse off than I have ever expected). I might get a trifle involved & ridiculously possessive with certain bands & songs sometimes, but I am also acutely aware that, hey! It’s just rock n’ roll man! And I am utter shite at these things anyway! Many a-time have I been caught not only singing proudly to the Bee Gees and praising the disco gods that are ABBA (hello?! Aluminum sashes? PURE GENIUS!), but also happily dancing to the Pussycat Dolls (or is it PCD now? Am I cool yet?) and the completely fabulous bollocks that is this. Yes, ladies & gents, I am a shameless dancing whore, and therefore in no position to pass any musical judgements at all.

Also, unlike other hardcore musical snobs that I lovingly know (hey there, deary! How’s it going?), I listen to the radio. *gasps* And not that socially aware pretentious informative one either, no - it’s mainstream radio for me, baby! I enjoy its peppy chatter. Usually, while meandering through my morning routine as to not pass out from the buzzing silence as I brush my teeth, you understand. Or as I go through my besoins matinaux. Which means I mostly haven’t a clue of what is going on other than I mustn’t pass out and fall asleep in my own wee. (No, thank you, morning radio!)

However, it has alarmingly come to my attention that an increasing number of ~~utter & complete shite~~ curiously composed music has gained more and more airwaves time recently, which not only cause the little number of functioning neurons left in my brain to auto-prune but to wake me up in an angry jolt at the sheer offensive unpleasantness of it all. Here are but a few causes for my concern:

Covers & remakes.
Or Much Of The Same Old Thing. Only Not As Good.

It seems that covers and/or remakes are becoming as fashionable as footless tights again. And just like the bewildering piece of clothing, it takes a certain flair to carry it off. A flair that unfortunately is missing in most.

These days, it's Eric Prydz’ 'Proper Education' that is constantly dubbed in me neck of the woods. It’s not that it is bad – or even that it’s a clubby dance remix of Pink Floyd playing at 9 in the morning (and let’s face it, I’d probably embarrassingly shake my ass like no tomorrow if it were played in an actual club, regardless of what time of day it is). The problem it’s that…well, it’s not that particularly good either. Or even – dare I pretentiously say it – relevant. I mean, if you are going to take a well known classic from a 70’s cult rock band with enough hardcore fan base to ruminate in their basement and strike a half-baked outrageous whiny letter to spam the daylights out of the gorgeous Mac on which you produced the song in the first place, at the very least, do something interesting with it, eh. Like this. Biased? Completely. But notice how, in this version, the Scissor Sisters managed to retain the gloomy disillusioned mood of the original while leaving the cringing angst behind for some uber groovy & sexy beats. It’s inventive! It’s fabulous! It’s Is-It-Me-Or-Is-It-Getting-Hot-In-Here kind of music that grabs you by the balls every time you listen to it and doesn’t let go! (Which sure beats vapidly giving a few disinterested pokes to it, now donnit?)

Then, there’s this Gary Jules’ cover of Tears For Fears 'Mad World' that completely defies my purpose of listening to the radio altogether and sends me collapsing in the sink in a bad case of narcolepsia. Ironically, I tend to indulge in these very sentimental slow naval-gazing soppy songs, so if I think it induces untimely comatosis – may it be voluntary or not, due to its monotone and boring beat rather than its depressing content – then, Houston, we have a problem. And how is it that it’s becoming so popular now? Wasn’t this a song featured in Donny Darko some 6 years ago? Why the sudden resurgence?

…Just like footless tights! A-ha! So the mystery starts to unravel….

Boys. Bands. And boybands.

Okay. Justin Timberlake. I must humbly admit that there was a foolish time in my ‘youth’ where I’ve thought, “Huh. He’s kinda cute, isn’t he? And wow, what great skin!”, but that was back when he’d just started his solo career and really caught me by surprise by not definitely sucking [said, I note, in a sexy German accent]. Now, I am convinced that he is on a one-man quest to bring back Castrati on the forefront of fashion again, and unless you are a pedophile hidden under the veil of a catholic priest (hiss!), I really don’t understand why more people aren’t marching against this most barbaric of trends. Instead, Mister Timberlake is swarmed in popularity & praise wherever he goes and even succeeds to make out with the incredibly hawt Scarlet Johansson in his over-hyped and bore-me-to-tears video, which begs the question, “Why, Scarlet, why?” No, seriously, why? At least with Michael Jackson, it was always flabbbergastingly cool (even when he started making out with Elvis’ daughter, we were all morbidly fascinated – that was entertainment!). As for comparison with Prince (for shame!), I believe Mr. Purple Rain has well proven that he had a fair dose of testosrone during his adolescence to reach a decent C.

It is also possible that I may have missed the memo where 12-year-old boys were hot & sexy.
Balls. I’m always left out from these things.

*pouts*

In other boy news, has anyone heard of this guy?

When I first heard him on the radio, I almost shat in my pants thinking Queen had released a hidden track and no one bothered telling me about it. When the truth was revealed that no, Freddie Mercury did not come back to gloriously haunt our airwaves again, I struggled between feeling a little robbed & outraged that this Mika had the insolence to imitate one of the greatest rock n’ roll voices of all time and secretly comforting myself that it wasn’t actually that godawful… Alas, the song tends to get highly on one’s nerve after the third listen, by which time you’ve successfully determined that though similar, he definitely lacks Mercury’s, well, talent. And charisma.

Oh Freddy, you are still the original one & only Fag to the Hag in my heart.
Le sigh.

While on the topic of voices, why wouldn’t Fall Out Boy crawl back to wherever it was they fell from? Their whinging screeching through my speakers is starting to pain me to tears. I know, it took some time but I’d always believed that patience was a virtue and they’d run out of air soon enough. Was that hopeful thinking? Wassit? Because, WHY WILL THEY NOT LEAVE?!

The only problem I fear is, once these emo squealing dolphin-boys are drowned away from the musical ocean (see what I did there? Dolphins? Ocean? Ha! I’m so rad…), old sharks (okay, will stop with the aquatic metaphor now) shall come back with a bloody vengeance…. Bon Jovi? I’m talking to you here. Oh, Bon Jovi, what a love/shame relationship I have with thee…. You were so great back in the day with your long 80’s mop and sleazy tees and ripped jeans, singing and promising debauched love & infidelity with damn-it-all attitude while riding your motorcycle into the sunset like the soft little toughie you wanted me to believe. How many times have I risked being thrown out from a speeding car as I insisted on wailing 'You Give Love A Bad Name' on top of my lungs… Good times. Why then must you return from rock n’ roll heaven with hip trendy haircuts and fashionable leather jackets with half-assed written self-important ballads to shatter my 14-year-old dreams of you? WHY?!

*weeps in her sleeves*

This is starting to bring me down. I seriously need to find me some hot rocker boy to inappropriately perv and conceive many adventurously steamy fantasies over. Any suggestion is welcomed.

Gangsta rap.

I don’t get it.

That is all.

Please don’t shoot me.

Ô Canada, land of crap music!...

Alright. That was a bit harsh. And rather untrue actually.

There is indeed great music grown in this land I live – Arcade Fire, Broken Social Scene, Feist, K-os, Tegan & Sara, The New Pornographers, to name but a few from the English side of the medal. But that’s not exactly what’s being massively exported now, is it? It’s not even getting most of domestic airtime. Instead, you know what we get to hear day in, day out, every fucking day? DO YOU? Go on, have a guess!

NICKELBACK, that’s what!
NICKEL. FUCKING. BACK. Why in the world would anyone want to release this unredeeming horror of a band from our borders – any borders! – is beyond me. Oh! how it shames me…. And I’m not even the least bit nationalistic at all! But is that sort of utter horseshite that's known as "Canadian music"!? (That, and Ann Murray. But let’s leave poor Ann out of this, she didn’t spawn the devil child that is Chad Kruger.) *shudders* God, I feel dirty just saying their name. And not in that good naughty-dirty kinda way either. That can’t possibly be healthy, now is it? That’s not what music is suppose to do? Ever. And can someone please tell me how to differentiate one of their song from another? Or is it just the same old rubbish being endlessly played in countdowns for the past 5 years? Shouldn’t that be illegal? No, really. I NEED TO KNOW!

Oh, and as if that wasn't enough to make one wants to change nationality, who can forget about "our little Canadian princess"? No, I am not talking about this:

but rather this:
Lady Lavigne who, for all the money & marital bliss in California, would not shut up. Sadly. And while I’m fully aware the very high risk of her stalking me down to scratch my skin off and spit in my face, this is something that must be said. For your own good, Avril. Really. May I call you Avril? I don’t care. Listen, Avril, you are quite pretty to look at, seriously. Looking at photo above, no one would think you’re an obnoxious mentally insipid little brat who hadn’t cleaned her nails in three years. I’ve heard you were interested in modeling, or *contains vomit* ‘acting’ a bit. Which is great! Really! As long as you never ever open your mouth again. Please? I’m sure you’d be quite pleasant as a little model. You really do have great facial features, which pains me to see them being so utterly deformed with your constant grimacing & tongue-pulling. It makes me want to slap you. And come to think of it, I don’t even mind if you land a speaking role in a movie at all, for (a) it would hopefully be someone else’s lines & not your own incomprehensible slurring that will be excreted from your perfectly defined lips, and (b) if I don’t want to watch your *contains vomit* 'acting' I will simply not go see the movie, instead of having to endure your banshee voice that every goddamn radio station forces me to listen every goddamn morning! So, it's a win-win situation! Hurrah!

Except for the dancing. What’s all that about, eh? Is that suppose to be "ironic"? Was that the aim? Were you drunk? Because, like, I don’t, like get it.

Like.

… Then again, is it all just me? Am I too old to "get with it"? Am I "out of the loop"? Am I not "hip" enough? Not "in with the crowd"? And, more importantly, when the hell was I ever anyway? So many unanswered questions....

*sighs heavily*

In any case, as I am waiting for my new music to come in through the mail (I love you, Amazon!), here’s to hoping that they will make me all forget & forgive the above and that I won’t throw my radio through the wall in a fit of uncontrollable morning rage. With these new purchases, I really can’t afford any renovation.

behind the sun

2007-04-13T12:29:00.001-04:00

Oi! T'was raining pigeon turds!

Oh, Schizophrenic Weather, you unpredictable loon!

you are my sister

2007-04-12T11:57:00.003-04:00

We were lazying around on my sister’s king size bed watching some re-runs of Spiderman cartoons. (Or was it UFC: Ultimate Fighting Championship? Didn’t St-Pierre lose? Or did I dream/hallucinate that as well?... Mmm. St-Pierre....)

“Can you please stop doing that?”
“Whagh?”, i came out from my snot-filled haze.
“That thing you’re doing with your mouth”, she whinged.
“… Gnmean bweading?!....”
“Yes. You are going to make me sick.”

Really, how can one not love her?
And love her I do.
Except when I hate her.
Obviously.

It’s pretty common to have these love/hate relationships amongst siblings, is it not? And quite healthy, i like to think... What is more, i find them particularly interesting, with its own special complex set of rules and demands and expectations. Though I understand that sometimes they unfortunately don’t end very well and are left on the cutting room floor, i’m the kind of gal who likes to explore these relationships to death. And though my sister & i don’t always like each other, we have thus always remained very close. Also, because our mum has incessantly pounded into our heads that we are forever binded to one another, whether we want to or not.

To tell the truth, I don’t really have any recollection of her at all for the first part of my life. We used to live in a small three bedroom apartment back then, in the “New Projects” where the first generations of immigrants were ~~dumped~~ housed. We* didn’t complain though, it was more than anything I think we’d expected. I believed growing up listening to those stories of when they had first arrived as exciting & jubilating adventures. Of course there were hardships but to this day my parents still recall them as ‘utterly joyous’. They thought it was the top shit and in lots of ways it was! My earliest and only memories of my first home were being surrounded by aunts and uncles and cousins who’d all somehow took turn living with us in that small rental, and with whom I’d spend my days & nights playing. I remember there was constant noise. Vivid whispers over pots and pother in the tiny kitchen. Songs of hope and home over constant shouting. Laughing and giggling and cheering.

When we finally moved further East, into our very own house, I was 4 years old. Suddenly away from everyone else, i remembered that, oh, right, i had a sister to play with. And play we did - if you count crushing every fibre of my self-esteem and sanity to a muddy pulp as playing, sure! Great fun, that was!... You see, my sister, though the spitting image of a beautiful little angel, was also a ruthless psychological tormentor. And a very good one at that (I blame those first obligatory years under the communist regime - zero to three years of age are the most formative in a child’s life, you know, and they did a dandy job on training her into one of their best secret police.) And because she was older, and our culture demanding utter respect for our elders, she took it as a licence to order me around and thus i became her slave from the tender age of 4 to 6. ‘Get me a soda’, ‘Plump my pillows’, ‘Massage my feet’, ‘Bring me food’, ‘Scratch my back’, ‘Turn left’, ‘Turn right’, ‘Stay put – Ha! I didn’t say Simon says *whips*!'

Okay. So there wasn't any actual whipping. But the treating me like a dog thing? TO-TALLY happened. And because my moon sign is the Dog, she thought that was huhfuckinglarious. Whenever i dared refuse, she’d calmly throw me a condescending look and slowly reiterate that if I “disobeyed” her, she wouldn’t play with me anymore, which also included talking or acknowledging my general existence, and then begin counting to three. Slowly. Letting. The fear. Sink. In. *squints eyes in a vengeful fury*

Another one of her favorite games was to make invisible rats and/or crocodiles appear on the ground, keeping me thus paralysed with fear and stuck to wherever it was I was sitting (right, so I ~~wasn’t a very bright kid~~ had a wild imagination. You’d think that'd be a first warning sign of my mental health, now wouldn't you? Alas, no.) When I got a little older (marked by my responding to her counting to three threat with “One, two, three – CACA!” and storming off), she somehow convinced me that she had mistakenly cut off my penis when I was a wee baby and sewed back the remaining flesh best she could. I huffed it off as being the most preposterous thing I’ve ever heard yet secretely wondered if this could somehow be possible.... Until I was thirteen, as I was the latest amongst my friends to be hit by Miss Flo, I actually thought that she had turned me into some freak o'nature and scientists were going to take me away (wild imagination, I tells ya! Fuelled by a recent viewing of E.T., okay?! It was scarring!... Pah!).

But sure, that was all 'fun & games'. Water under the bridge (until the day i can unleash my revenge onto her unborn child! mouahahahah! ahem... ). The thing that truly bothered me however was that, until quite recently, no one else were witnessed to this side of her. To everyone, she is this perfectly demure good girl who had to endure my shenanigans! ME! (Oh, alright, so in all fariness, she kind of was - ...i mean, i wasn't exactly a saint to live with either.)

You see, she defies all these categorizations, my sister. She isn’t quite your typical good Asian kid despite her exterior as she doesn't really care to follow the Asian crowd and its warped societal conventions; she is very conservative yet has a most foul sense of humour; she is every bit of a lady but loves racing against boys, and robots (that's 'loves robots', not 'racing against robots'. Although that would've been pretty wicked cool...); you can't call her a tomboy either for she is a sentimental sop; she is hopelessly anti-social but can be utterly & genuinely good; she is a very practical & pragmatic woman yet yelps on the top of her lungs when I hit her, and rationalise my defensive retaliation by pinching me back (PINCHING! If there's any form of physical violence i LOATHE it's pinching! Cowardly and hypocritical, it is! Argh!) But because of how she looks, high school boys would swoon over her thinking she was a perfect ice queen while others believe she was simply angelic.

(Oh, and the answer is no. I can hear some of you sneering behind that wall of nanobites and liquid cristals and flesh and bones (yes! you in the corner! i see you too!), and the answer is no - I was never jealous of her. Honestly. The only time I ever remotely felt 'robbed' was when she moved away to University. She is more of a homebody than I was and didn’t want to leave. I thought she was insane. I had dreams of going away since I was five years old and there she was, living my dream. Before me. So there. Now, let us never talk about this again. I was 12.)

My sister is just an amalgam of things that very few could actually see, that most blamed on me being 'erratic' (pfff). That's what's infuriating. But this is not about naming her flaws. Besides, that would be a list too long to post anyway… Par exemple:

She can never admit she is wrong.
She has a piercingly annoying condescension forever embedded in her tone. And in her eyes.
She can be quite judgemental.
She asks the same question over and over and over and over…. And then finishes off by patronizingly asking, ‘Are you sure?’
She has listening problems, especially aggravating for:
a) she cuts conversations - any conversations - whether i am talking to her, or to someone else.
b) she is not interested in what you are saying [even though she expects you to be interested into the insane things she likes]
She continuously insists on pronouncing 'Dido' as 'Diddo', referring to U2’s The Edge as The Hammer [cf. #1].
She would come into my freshly cleaned room for no apparent reason and leave a trail of her monstrous fart behind [although, admittedly, her farting prowess demands nothing less than pure admiration]
She nags.
She is completely oblivious of others’ feelings sometimes. Often. [cf #5]
She is anal & averse to change. (I mean, sure, if nothing is wrong why fix it, I hear you ask [in what i’m sure is a very much less annoying tone than hers], but, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, she still has the SAME haircut for THIRTY YEARS! And why, sweet Jesus, why must i resort to harassment, bribes, abuse and threats for her to try on a perfectly beautiful orange sweater when she INSISTS that i come shopping with her FOR MY INPUT?! Gah!)

And that's just the tip of the proverbial iceberg.

Where was i?
Oh, right.

Very early on, it seemed pretty clear that I could never fill her shoes. I was too messy, too loud, too clumsy, too erratic & extreme to adorn her glass slippers. Glass slippers with metal caps. To this day, I’m not sure if I embodied that bratty mess of a girl to escape being compared to her or I truly was like that. It’s all very interesting to me indeed.... Because during the worse moments of our relationship, when I harboured the thought of never speaking to her again, I also know without a shadow of a doubt how much of her was in me. And as much as I try to cut her off, I simply cannot.

When I was 16, I stopped talking to her for four months after she took a look at my made-up face, sneered and contemptuously asked “Where are you going?”... (Okay, fine, so you had to be there, i suppose. And hormoning like a 16-year-old girl. Humour me here.) I'd just always felt that she was undermining me, as if she was above, better, that she had a free pick about my decisions, as if she was my mother. And with all due cultural respect aside, there was this constant belittling tone underneath her questions. Because she didn’t wear make up, because she didn’t 'hang out' with her friends, because she thought rock n' roll was 'immature' & 'impressionable', because she couldn’t understand why I wasn’t like her, she treated me like a frivolous fool (the fact that I probably was one is beside the point here). And try as I may, she never listened. She never understood. So I stopped talking altogether. For four months. My mum went into Despair Mode and berated me for my most ungrateful behaviour towards my big sister. I thought this might get her attention. Ah, belle adolescence!...

When I was 21, right before my second mental breakdown, I had another big fight with her and resorted to the silent treatment once more. I don’t quite remember what it was about now. I simply recall the fight became a convenience as I was withdrawing from everyone and figured it’d help them get used to my absence anyway. When I finally came out of it, one of the first things I did was to tell her everything. And everything was a lot for me. Everything was what I had tried to contain all these years from everyone. Even now. All the good, the bad, the ugly and the silly. I told her about me. And she did exactly what I had always honestly believed she would.

She loved me.
She simply loved me.

It took me all of that, all those years of fearing and pondering and doubting to implode and have nothing left to lose in order to finally open up. To her. Because I have always wanted my big sister to know. Sure, we still fight once in a while/quite often over little stupid things, most of them we start just for kicks, like all siblings do. But out of anyone I have ever known, she’s the only one I can always fall on. Who would always be there, for better or worse. To pull me out, kicking or screaming. To understand and to comfort, laughing or crying. She knows me better than I’d like to admit and more than she can ever realise. And though she is not my mother, and rather awkward with words and ‘expressing her feelings’, she is my protector, my Dorkout Mate, my Perfect Murder Partner, my best friend and the only person who can understand what it is like to be my mother’s daughter.

I had a dream some time ago where my sister had killed someone. A monk, actually. A Buddhist monk. And I took the blame for her. Not because I owed it to her, not because it was a 'noble' thing to do, not because my parents had asked me to (they didn’t – now wouldn’t that have given me a few extra hours of therapy? Ha! Thank goodness for that!...). I just remember thinking when she told me about the murder, ‘Fuck, why the hell did she have to go and kill someone?!’. Because I simply knew what that would mean. It was natural for me to do what I did. Because... what would the alternative be? Because I cannot let her take a fall. Because she is really that much better than I am. Because despite all her piercingly annoying habits, she is the kindest person I know. Because she is my big sister. And someone’s gotta stand up for her. Even in a dream.

And yes, because I love her.
To bits, to pieces, to atoms and quartz, with undying gratitude.
Even when I hate her.
Surprisingly.**

Which is why it pains me to no end that she is married to Biggest Twat This Side Of The Saint-Laurence. But that is another post for another very feckle day.

Right. Am an innate knob.

* I say 'we' rather loosely seeing as i am technically not conceived yet, though like to consider that i'd enjoyed quite a lot from the comfort of my mum's ovaries.

** Just don't tell her that. Knowing her the way i do, she'd completely hold this information against me. And she'd cry. She's a sensitive, this one. She cried to Sailor Moon.

make it till monday

2007-04-09T16:26:00.001-04:00

I am with influenza. But instead of whinging about the grinding headaches, the bloody (literally and figuratively) stuffed nose, the dizziness and the grogginess and the chilliness and generally the whole of my skin feeling as if it's on fire, i figured it'd be best should i tackle my very first tag (!!!) by the very fabulous Miss Pom some days ago (or weeks? or months? too much cerebral work for proper recollection... Apologies.).

Anywho, here goes, Five Things You Don't Know About Me*:

I don't own any white underwear (hey, i didn't say this was going to be 'interesting' - brace yourself...)
I don't like to sweat (unless when nekkid and engaged in less than nunlike activities...ahem).
I am deeply insecure.
Like any Asian kid, i've had piano lessons. Which, like any lazy idiot, i stopped at age 11. Coincidentally, right after my beloved teacher passed away. (May she rest in peace.) The only piece i can play now - perfectly by heart - is Bach's Menuet in G. Just don't ask me what note it starts with. I haven't a clue.
I actually quite enjoy Nelly Furtado's new stuff. Yes, i said it. What?! And i think she's looking mighty gorgeous doing it too. (Just as long as you don't look at her too long as she tends to turn towards Excessive Pouting That Would Annoy The Life Out Of Anyone. Aye.)

There. Hope you'll sleep all the better now with such precious information! I shall join you in your dreams....

*Five things who doesn't know about me? I mean, consdiering that i haven't kept this thing up for very long, there're indeed heaps of things many of you out there in the nether land of virtuality don't know. Then again, there are also things here about me that most of people in my real life are not aware of either. Hmm. Tricky. My head is starting to spin again.

moody

2007-04-03T14:56:00.000-04:00

I haven't gone outside in days. To a proper class in weeks. Been avoiding friends and grumpy at work, which i feel extra shite about bc most of my coworkers are terrific, really. And because i also know that all these things i am avoiding are the exact things i should be jumping straight into. But somehow... i just can't bring myself to face any of it....

I did go out for a bite & a few drinks with a friend i haven't seen in a while on Friday. Working Boy he has become now, and it was actually fun to hear about his new 'corporate' life as well as dispensing romantic advices i'm never good at following myself. I did enjoy the evening though, but i think i might've used up all the pure joy i had on reserve. It's only for show now.

Due to my financial predicament, i haven't gone to see my therapist in ages either. And despite taking my antidepressants as prescribed, the brainshocks occasionally hit me like a tidal wave. This may indicate two things: 1) i've hallucinated the entire episode and have not in fact taken them as often as i'd thought - i am going insane, or 2) my body is building a tolerance to its effect and i need to increase the strength. I haven't decided which explanation i prefer. It's like having to pick between being burned at the stake or drowned to death, innit?... Decisions, decisions, decisions...

big mouth strikes again

2007-03-27T16:16:00.003-04:00

As some readers who (somehow?!) stumble upon my virtual meanderings may have realised, I don’t dive much into political/social discussions around here. Nope. Aside for the fact that I am fundamentally self-obsessed and frivolously cultured, this is also because I rather have what I deem as 'Adult Conversation' live, so to speak. With friends and/or family and/or random strangers over food and/or/of course lots of liquor, where one can thoroughly enjoy all the passionately weird facial expressions, vociferous highs & lows, exaggerated & dramatic hand gestures, in-jokes, rabid retorts, and a building momentum where everyone ends up shouting at one another. Ah! Good times! I think I have a belligerent streak in me, which may have been passed down courtesy of me Daddio. (Not that The Crazy Woman is a kitten either, but when discussions are mixed with my dad’s right-wing friendly obstination and my conviction that I’m always right, it always makes for a particularly… auditive experience, whereas my mum simply prefer to shy away from direct confrontation by giving us the Evil Eye.)

Anyway, all that to say (and also to provide further proof that I can’t help but to talk about myself anyhow – seriously, it’s a curse) that this is going to be one of those 'Adult Posts'. Sort of. (Oh, who am I kidding? It's not.)

I am not going to pretend that Canadian politics is all that exciting (OR that I actually know much anything about it), however last night’s electoral run was some kind of roller-coaster that may or may not have seen yours truly rise from her drenched sweated seat* & hop around the house making jihad chants** as the thin social fabric that have leisurely rocked her priviledged ass crumbled when the Action Democratic Of Quebec rose from the bowels of hell. Yes, the ADQ that promises to solve all of the financial, educational and health issues from its own windy fart. Um. Yeah. I suppose if I were high on myself [enough] and gulped down an entire bottle of Ritalin, I could have come up with a loosely similar ‘program’. AND WIN 31% OF QUEBECOIS VOTES! Squashing the PQ to the grounds as the LEADING opposition!

Now, being a non-separatist and all, I have never been of the Parti Quebecois, but at least i enjoyed and would actually listen to what they have to say. They're like the arch nemesis of the Liberal Party, and seeing them crushed - but literally - was heartbreaking in the same way that seeing David Xanatos being destroyed by Demona*** would be devastating!

While Beelzebub Junior slowly wraps his dirty little fingers around the confusedly 'leftist' political throne, it was announced that the barely leading Liberal Party was going to reign as a minority government - which was no big surprise, really - BUT WITH NO PREMIERE AS CHAREST LOST IN HIS COUNTY! Oh the horror! You should have seen my poor sister who is a die-hard fan of the Liberals. There were sighs, then cries, then a lot of screaming and death threats (while I congratulated myself a little in the inside for making a good call by running away from it all to England [soon enough, I cry & plead hopefully!]). We figured that all was lost and everything we held dear - the life-long battle between the Liberals & the PQ, the stable shitty government that everyone complains about which allowed all this spoilt whinging anyway - was surprisingly twirling down the drains! Oh, save the children! We were finally going to taste true chaos! As I already began dancing & chanting in my indigenous taunt****, a sudden frantic recount in Sherbrooke settled, at the very last possible minute, that – hurrah! – we were going to have a legitimate leader after all! What a [insignificant yet relieving] turn of events! We all gathered around the telly keenly waiting for the poor man to deliver his defeated speech of victory at around 1am, and I was genuinely glad and touched by [and believed!] his dignified & humble discourse. That of the sad PQ leader, André Boisclair, reeked however with understandable disappointment and held-back tears. It was quite sad, honestly. And queasy to watch.

Anyhow, it’ll be interesting to see in the next few weeks & months as the ADQ gather their shits together trying to figure out what the hell they are doing in the National Assembly while the two arch rival PLQ & PQ might finally join force to battle against a common foe. Oh, these are exciting times***** indeed!…

Will be back to my usual uninformative shallow naval-gazing self soon enough. At ease.

* Right, well, yes. I suppose i should specify right away that i am infringing the first law of voting, in that i am whining here when i *cough*didn'tevenvote*cough*.... BUT! I wanted to, but, then i just...didn't really ~~care~~ ~~give a shit~~ could.... Ahem. Besides, it's not like it would have counted anyway seeing as where i live people are actually literate and didn't vote for the devil, so there. Really. It's not all that bad!... All alright! i'll ~~sign up for some extra volunteering~~ be really keen and helpful and extra nice, from now on, yes? It balances everything out in the end! Um...Look! A bird!
**Right, should have warned that this wasn't going to be necessarily very PC either, eh? (Tch, of course, i mean in a ironic way... ahem.)
*** Yes, well, i've been oddly reminiscing about my childhood lately.... Suppose when things seemed much simpler, and my biggest concern was either gargoyles & humans can have babies and whether or not i could ~~steal~~ wear my sister's Calvin Klein socks to school without her knowing it. *sigh*
**** cf. 2nd endnote.
*****Ouh! the possibly really good exciting news of the night was that the Green Party actually increased in popularity! Yay! And I'm not all dead and cynical in the inside!

the coming of spring

2007-03-25T17:59:00.001-04:00

Aside from the general sun tauntingly shining on, puddles of melting brown shite (or What Is Left Of The Glorious Snow), the sweet smell of feces emanating from said pile of melting snow (extra aromatic due to months of fermented bliss - mmmm...), and wait - is that my throat itching? Is that my nose running? Is that my left eye tearing? Why, it's ALLERGIES SEASON! *punches fist into wall* - it can't be all bad, can it...?

With that in mind (Ouh! Ouh! Look at me being all positive!), here is a list of Good Things About Spring:

After months of wanting to let my bangs & hair grow, I gave in to the Spirit Of Change and cut the whole damn thing! Well, not the entire thing, just gave myself a wee trim. And a kickass dye. Which feels immmmeeeensely good. Behold!

Before

After(See the difference? It's darker now, yes?
Am image of Adventurous, truly?...
Humour me?)
Maple syrup. Need i say more?
Now, if you break it down, what 'Spring' really stands for is 'Spring Cleaning'. Which ultimately leads to LOOK AT MY SWANKY CLEAN COLOR-COORDINATED CLOSET!

I love it so much, i could just sit here and marvel at it for hours, quite sadly!
Have just finished my paper on Education & Minority Language Acquisition! Hurrah-rah-rah! (...although that doesn't have anything to do with Spring, now does it? If anything, Spring is paper season and i actually have two other ones to write for this week! Okay, happy thoughts, happy thoughts...)
Ouh! With the warm weather I can now wear my cute lighter coat and kickass brown leather boots again! Gnarly!
AND, because three months of Winter makes us Canadians slightly deranged in the head, we can now enjoy our drinks on terraces! Even if it is still only 5C outside!*
Closet again.

Yes, let its magic wash over you...
...as you listen to this! (click on the small black box in the middle, marked "media", then "audio", then the 5th little blue square from the left. You can listen to the entire thing too, of course. Go on, it's only mildly frantically dancy!... Unless that's not exactly your piece of pie. In which case, never mind then.)

* I believe that the more exclamation marks i put, the more likely am i to feel its enthusiastic effect. As long as I don't strangle myself out of sheer annoyance first.

the blossoms

2007-03-21T15:24:00.001-04:00

Well, it is officially Spring. *eyes search vainly for a place to hide*

In the words of a very wise lady (who got it from another wise person - lady or otherwise - although that would not change her 'wise' status as we all know that that birds of the same feather flock together, or some other ~~shit~~ wisdom of sort), "Fake it 'til you make it!"

Right-o. If there were any appropriate time to fake it, it should be now, innit?

Wish me luck.

[n.b. photo courtesy of gontanon. Because i can't be arsed to take a picture of Spring. Yet.]

au gré des saisons

2007-03-18T11:41:00.004-04:00

I have been feeling "less than giddy" lately but somehow my beloved sister successfully talked me into going to the cabane à sucre with a few of her friends. As much as I wouldn’t like to take anything away from her impressive powers of persuasion, promise of endless maple syrup (perhaps) had something to do with it....

So at 2 p.m., prepped up in my Outdoor-Woodsy outfit (yes, i name my outfits... what?) , I apprehensively stepped out into the cold wind and on my way to meet my sister. Some two hours later. Now usually, despite being a true public transport kinda gal, the prospect of 120 minutes of transit accompanied by strangers with dubious social skills [ha!] would only further convince me to stay hidden between my covers. However, this time, I was going to take the train. And I love trains. I love being in the central station. I love the high ceiling, the open space, being in between destinations. It feels homely to me. I love the way trains smoothly slide across the city, from downtown to its furthest outskirts, and lazily watching as you drift off into the ether [suburbs].

By 4 o’clock sharp [4h20], i met up with her and, after frustratingly arguing & fidgeting with her new GPS device [her] & threatening to throw the damn thing out the window [me] for another 15 minutes, off went two of the most hardcore city girls I know into the untamed wilderness [Rigaud]. Two hours of jolly car-riding later, we managed to get there unscathed [startled by the creepy robotic GPS woman every 3 minutes and freaking out as we speeded through the Steepest And Narrowest Road With The Most Potholes Ever]. As we circled around looking for parking, we noticed however that the entire place was eerily deserted. In a quickly abandoned kind of way. With empty old wooden cabins scattered across the perimeter...
“What time are we suppose to meet them again?! It’s already 6 o’clock! It’s going to get dark soon!”, I calmly inquired.
“I don’t know?! They should be here now!", my sister reassuringly replied. "Oh look! There’s Audrey’s car!”
After parking the car right next to the little Echo like the expert driver that she is, my sister skillfully tried to turn the GPS off as it angrily refused à la HAL-9000, while I keenly scanned the woods for a man in a hockey mask. To further prove how ~~paranoid I am~~ my survival skill was on tact, I dutifully made note, as I was putting my handbag in the trunk, that there was a shovel in there, youknowjustincase. Clearly, we was made for outdoor fun, the two of us!

My sister, sensible & fearless as her dependable nature can ever tolerate, suddenly laughed out with glee as we were circling the grounds and declared, “But where the HELL is everybody?!” Grabbing onto her like dear life, with my Alert Button switched on to RAMBO, I discretely responded in the most comforting of tone, “ OH MY GOD! THIS HAS JASON VOORHEES WRITTEN ALL OVER IT!” Oddly enough, it was at that precise moment that a sweet old man with a beard that seemed to be chewed off by rabid rats & a farmer’s hat he'd found on a cadavre decided to jump out from one of the wooden cabins as if he had been watching too many B-rated slasher horror flicks, followed by two hungry feline creatures that hissed at us out of our fucking tits, and asked us where we were going. “Oh my god! Are those cats hissing at us?!..”, I courteously shouted in response.
“Est-ce que vous pouviez nous dire où se trouve la cabane à sucre, monsieur?”, my sister finally asked him, realizing that I was about to run for my life and/or kill them bastard cats, which incidentally decided to rub against my legs.
“God! What’s it doing?! Is it rubbing against my legs? It’s rubbing against my legs! Hey you! Cat! Don’t you know I hate you?”, I continued on my lovely gibberish.
“Oh, c’est pas très loin. Attendez ici, je vais vous amener”, the old farmer replied.

Instantly, my mind travelled from Friday the 13th & Pet Cemetary to Wolf Creek in the speed of light. As I turned to my sister and met two petrified bulging eyeballs, I comforted myself in knowing she was thinking the same thing. Still, as it would be most impolite [and insane] to start running for the hills, we decided it would be best to hide our fear and waited while he harnessed two ginormous Canadian horses to a wooden carriage.
“Are there blood stains on the horses?”, I caught myself asking aloud.
“Can you run?”, my sister abruptly turned to me. She was smiling in that Scared Shitless way she has.
“Oh hell yeah, I can run, but… what? You want me to leave you behind?”
“Just make sure you can run, okay?! [insert maniacal Lost-Her-Mind laugh]".
As I was [actually] contemplating if i could make it by running back to the car, finding a way to open the trunk, getting the shovel and coming back in time to save my sister, the Creepy-Wolf-Creek-in-Rigaud Farmer stormed out as if he was triumphantly riding Hades' carriage. At his suspiciously kind behest, we nervoulsy hopped in.

During the few interminable minutes of the ride, which involved small talks [him - “Vous venez d'où, memzelles (are you far from safety)?”, “Vous êtes toutes seules (will anyone come looking for you as I rip out your lungs)?”], noting that we were at least going slowly enough to jump off & run for the hills if need be [me], grinning in what can only be described as utter & complete fear [sister], I casually asked him whether there were lots of people working today. Confused and slightly suspicious (?), he distractingly whispered “Non, pas vraiment...”. *Alert Button goes off the charts* As we were about to put our escape plan into gear, the carriage suddenly came to a halt in front of what looked like the dinner hall. He got off first and stood by the gate.

To help us get down.
Like a real friendly gentleman.

Feeling a little silly indeed, we graciously thanked him for his utmost kindness. And then ran inside.

Much to our relief, all my sister’s friends were already there (and not in fact ripped to shreds nor pinned up to a wooden stick) patiently [drunkenly] waiting for us. We told them how we had arrived "in style" [as oppose to "insanely"], and much eating & drinking ensued. Soon, the only impending danger facing us was the explosion of our stomach as pea soup, homemade breads, sausages, mashed potato, ham with maple syrup, eggs, and oreilles de criss [fried pig skins] quickly filled our bellies. It was like a massive Celebratory Breakfast For Being In The Glorious Woods with no adults to say 'no more'. And lots of wine. Obviously.

As dessert was coming up soon, we all firmly believed that [embarrassing] dancing would burn off the calories & make room for the traditional sugar pies and crêpes.

Of which I had six.

The night cannot be over however without the epitome of the sugar shack experience [the main reason why I dragged my sorry ass out of bed], so as soon as the chansonnier* announced that the Maple Taffy was ready, we clumsily (and drunkenly) ran outside to get in line, just like we used to do when we were 10 years old. Mmm, good times.

Yes, it all looks like a game of Write Your Name In The Snow from your younger mischievous days**, but it's really hot maple sap poured onto [what we all delusionally hope is] fresh snow. As it hardens up, you quickly twirl as much of it as you can around a popsicle stick, much like in this most expert of ways:

And then, when you have successfully created a lolly without getting maple all over yourself and become thus a life size maple stick (very dangerous, especially around drunken hungry gluttons - trust me, i know...), you simply suck on it 'til all self-respect is lost! Yeah!

High on sugar, we merrily popped by the General Store where many a-maple syrup goodies are neatly packaged and ready for consumerist use. My sister bought two jars of syrup while I got me some dark chocolate filled with maple sugar***. I would have bought that entire basket too, but alas, am also very poor.

All in all, i was glad i went. Even though it involved trying to be "sociable" and "friendly" to people i've never met (eventhough most of them were indeed quite nice, albeit slightly scary, what with the horde of stray cats and vapid killer eyes to their general impression...)

So, lesson of the day: psychotic murdererous scare & massive amount of sugar increase mood. You read it here first.

*Yes, a real one! With the curly country hair, plad shirt, brown suspenders and even coureurs-des-bois boots...to boot! Get it?...ahaha... okay. Carry on.

** Which i sincerely implore, for everyone's involved well-being, to not play during -15C conditions. One would think this is obvious, wouldn't it? Not so, blog world, not so...

*** T'is but a shameful marketing tactic, to drug one up on sugar before the shoppig spree, i know. But, eh, who's complaning? Not I.

fade to grey

2007-03-16T11:45:00.000-04:00

I woke up in a spacious run down room. The wall across me had peeled off-white paint lazily patching the dark grey plaster underneath. The windows were low and had no curtains. He had left cds with my name on them all over the room. He wanted to see if i cared enough to find them all. I gave up. The Crazy Woman found some porn. She deliberated whether to watch it or not.

I looked out the window. Rooftops with old convoluted cornices adorned the tightly squeezed houses across the street. They were of the deepest reds and blues. The most beautiful view i had seen. The sun was rising. Or setting. I wasn't sure. I tried to take a picture. It didn't come out right.

I turned to my left. A three-legged Edwardian chaise had all my clothes on it. It was upholstered with a jade velvet green. It was the chair i had always wanted. The only pop of color in the room. I was intrigued.

I woke up again.

Regretfully.

shack up

2007-03-15T15:35:00.000-04:00

~~Idiot~~ Philosophical Question #3812:

"Why is it that one is dead sleepy when faced with pressing work and have the caffeine come to effect only when one lies down for a quick nap?"

human fly

2007-03-14T17:43:00.000-04:00

My diet now consists of coffee, Doritos, and chicken nuggets.

"Meat"? Check.
"Wheat"? Check.
Caffeine? Double check.

Am true picture of health, I am!
Someone give me a medal! (I also accept beer.)

neighborhood #4 (7 kettles)

2007-03-09T13:25:00.000-05:00

I don’t believe that everything happens for a reason. I don’t believe that all the ‘unpleasant’ things that have happened in my life (or anybody’s for that matter) were good because it was meant to bring me where I am today. I believe that it is slightly delusional and presumptuously self-serving to think there is some higher hand that invisibly guides us through life towards the best possible version of ourselves, and if there is a god at all, out of all the creatures that could be alive in the entire universe, it’d care about us to meddle in our little lives. Like natural selection, I believe things just happen. Whatever the outcome, may it be good or bad, can be at best considered as the result of survival in the big scheme of things, and that we simply do our best with what we have. And if circumstances were different, or if only you knew what you know now, if you chose to go out with that Sweet Gawky Dude instead of Badass Intellectual, or gone to that trip a day earlier, or later, or had made that damn phone call instead of stupidly holding on to your pride, things might be entirely different today. And more disturbingly, unbearably better.

If I had a chance, if I was living in some bad sci-fi novel, I’d fight to be the first one to try out its time machine. I’d go back to the year 2000, June 20th, a little after midnight to be exact. Prom Night. Or, The Last Time I Ever Saw Him. JP-him. Yes, I know…. I’m not even sure what I would say to him now. There was a time where I would spend all my days desperately willing myself to turn back the clock so I could change his mind, so I could be with him, tried my best to make him want to stay. And then wishing that i'd see him in my nights. Now though... I’m not too sure anymore. Knowing what I know.... Yet I’d still want to go back. If only to see him again. To feel him again. Or just to make sure that he knew how much I cared. How much I loved. How much I’d miss him. And how I understand. And I do. That’s why I know it would be meaningless to change his mind after all.

If I had the chance, I would go to a different college right after high school. I’d still study in Natural Sciences but would add some classes in Interior Design as well (I checked the programs). I’d still like to attend the same University I do now, still like to major in the same program, but I’d take a minor in Art History (or vice versa) and be more involved in design/arts internships and opportunities. I’d know exactly which classes to take, how to go about preparing for an interesting career, a planned future. The right life. Because my mind would be so much less cluttered and thus clear to finally live it. I could also go to Graduate School afterwards, perhaps, or decide to get an Architecture degree after all when I came back from Europe. I haven’t decided about that part yet. There would be so many things I’d do differently instead of what i'd done. Wasting my time away. The Best Years of Your Life, as they so often warn you but for whatever reason, whether it be because you think they were patronizing, or because you didn’t care, or because it was too late, you didn’t listen. And suddenly, there they are, the first part of your twenties gone in a few puddles of tears. And you realize you haven’t only missed out on unimaginably delicious delusional relationships & experiences but the luxury to expand your mind through ways that were delivered to you on a silver platter. And you can never have them back.

If I had that chance, I’m not entirely sure I’d be happier. But at least I would not wonder, I would not yearn, I would not regret and so terribly miss…. And I would not be here. Now. Wondering what might have been.

But this is not a sci-fi novel, is it? There isn’t any way for me to ever bend the space/time continuum, is there? It isn't fiction, it isn't a television program. It's just us, with our little lives.

And if I try really hard at not being so defeatist & pessimistic, I… wait a second, I don’t know how to finish that sentence…

Oh, right, here it is:

I am terribly grateful for the things I do have. The family, the opportunities, the privilege. There is nothing I would change about that part. It's criminally undeserved, honestly. And I know I have come a long way, and even if I could come back, I’d have to go through something similar to what I’ve lived through to clear enough of my head in order to do everything I’ve set out to do should I go back in the first place, which would therefore render everything equal in the end, and whether I stay here or travel back in time would ultimately be inconsequential.

(Disregard that last paragraph – it made more sense in my head, I swear. Really. Not that it is of any comfort, of course, but i figured it was a good enough argument for me. Right. Carry on.)

Actually, no. That’s all I got.

Have a nice weekend now.

picture of my life

2007-03-02T23:44:00.002-05:00

While some of my friends are raising havoc at a Frat Party this very minute (it’s all about them cheap beer, young impressionable 17-year-old girls and sexually confused first year Saskatoon lads, you understand... god speed, me boys, god speed!), I am neatly tucked away in bed with a facial (yes, the Depends pads are very comfortable, thank you for asking). Although the unsurpassable amount of beer that taste like piss and drunken pretentious college boys whose best pickup line is "you're such a hawt Asian* chick - burrrrrp" would ratle up any girl's fantasy, I just have the feeling that I can't resist biting some heads off tonight. And speaking of biting, I have not yet digested all that I have eaten, so thought as well to spare the lovely folks at Sigma Chi Lambda Alpha Omega Delta I Haven't The Slightest Clue Really the sweet smell of my bowel movement over the delicious sex pheromones & vomiting sweat. Case in point - what I have ingested today:

2 bowls of Crispix** cereal [which the only grocer carrying it, in a fit akin to Jack Bauer's torturous rage, is no longer selling. They have stopped having it for a while but around Christmas, much to my childish delight, decided to restock only to YANK IT away from its shelves again. Why, dear Metro Gods, why?]
half a roll of rosette de lyon sausage from La Charcuterie de Père Lemoine, with enough black peppers to start a small fire in one's throat.
a plate of linguine (couldn't resist taking picture of it - notice the melting garlic butter on top. Mm-aaaarrhhh....)
a plate of sweet sticky rice with fried onions i had to fight over with The Crazy Woman.
Yummy roast chicken with steamed rice [that would be supper, in case anyone was wondering, courtesy of The fabulous Crazy Woman.]
A pot noodle. Or two.

[Note to self: must learn to say 'stop'. And actually stop.]

Have also been geekilly youtubing all the music videos i've missed out on, and came to the conclusion that it seriously sucks rats balls to be on a tight budget, as i absolutely must get my hands on The Good, The Bad and The Queen record, as well as the new Arcade Fire***!

And these shoes!

Dancing shoes.
Only-In-My-Dreams shoes.

Prim-And-Proper-Sunday-Garden-Party shoes. (Not that i have ever been, or know anyone who's gone, to a garden party before.)

For some reason remind me of Jem-And-The-Holograms shoes. Which makes me want them even more. I mean, i've even named them and all, so of course they should be mine!...

Yes, it is a sad life I live.

*That would be something not to say to get a girl. EVER. But that is a very long post for another day, i'm afraid...
**As oppose to something like Coco Puffs, or Lucky Charms, i always very boringly prefer something relatively plain in taste. They are the ones that you can eat endlessly, in my opinion. Although i oddly feel like having some of'em Lucky Charms now....
***Speaking of which, their encore performances here were completely SOLD OUT TODAY! *cries* Due, might i add to a bunch of LYING WHORES at one shabby music store who told us they were to go on sale TOMORROW. May you have CRABS, Dirty Blond Shag Boy and Old Nancy Dweeb With Scary Neck Rash! Freakishly gargantuesque Super-Crabs! Now if anyobody can tell me how to get or has an extra ticket, i will gratefully repay them in any way possible. With anything. My soul, anyone? Seriously, anyone?...

the ice storm

2007-03-02T12:54:00.001-05:00

This, it seems, would be THE snow storm of the year.

Stick THAT into your shithole and smoke it, Spring!

making plans for nigel

2007-02-27T23:05:00.001-05:00

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

2007-02-26T14:13:00.000-05:00

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

2007-02-24T16:53:00.003-05:00

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

2007-02-20T18:18:00.000-05:00

**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

2007-02-18T11:47:00.003-05:00

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

2007-02-17T15:20:00.002-05:00

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

2007-02-07T15:27:00.002-05:00

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....

underneath your clothes

2007-01-31T18:53:00.003-05:00

Blessed be! I don’t have to work tonight! Yay! Which also means I won’t get any moolah. Boo! But plenty of time to ~~waste away~~ blog! Yay!

And so it has been brought to my attention that not everyone may share the same enthusiasm towards underwear (especially their own) as I do. Is it really just me (and other vapid vain vixens out there as well)? Miaoorrw. Either way, since my fashion-whore of a faery friend who is known as J only got excited himself over the intricate wonderfulness of the Right Underwear after he went shopping with me (as credit should be rightfully given), I feel like dispensing the little knowledge I have on the subject. I know, I’m frightfully generous that way….

First of all, one must realize that there is a ridiculous number of types of panties for women. Just go in any lingerie store, be it Winners or Victoria Secret, there’s always at least two styles: your classic What-Used-To-Wear-Back-In-The-Day-When-She-Was-A-Foxy-Little-Minx-But-Only-Wear-Depends-Now high rise that sees the lovely naval coyly covered, and your “I’m coming out”-era of low risers that gave belly-buttons a fierce come back, circa 1997. After this, it all starts to get pretty prissy (and oh so much fun!). So, of course, thanks to all the Paris Hilton's & Britney Spears’ the world over, everyone is well acquainted with the Thong by now (or the G-string as it is called in other parts of the world), this thin piece of dental floss that magically wraps itself around our nether region. I use ‘our’ pretty loosely (no pun intended) here because I seem to be the only one left of my kin to still not quite understand the supposed ‘comfort’ and ‘freeing’ feeling the Thong procures. Call me old-fashion, but it just feels like I have a permanent wedgie all day long, and thank you, but not getting picked on anymore was one of the few Good Things about graduating from elementary school.

You then have your good ol' dependable girl-next-door Bikinis. They are the ones every girl falls back on when she is feeling like just mopping around the house, doing the laundry, cleaning the bathroom, and the most likely to greet Miss Flo when she’s in town every month [try to find it in picture above - hint: it's the most common one].

Next up, you get your magnificent Brazilians, inspired by – drum roll – the fabulous Brazilian bathers. These do cover both your back & front side relatively more than the Thong but much less than the Bikini. It is, for lack of a better word, all sex. Provocatively shaped in a big ‘V’, which not only reminds you what that V stands for in the first place (while pointing directly to the answer...), it also makes your legs look like they stretch on for miles, as the legs run up higher along the sides of the V shape, y'see. It’s just physics, really.

Which brings you to my personal favorite, the Boyleg or the Boycut. As the name indicates, they are inspired by your ordinary male briefs, cut in a relatively horizontal shape but made to rest beautifully on the female booty. And because I am from Asian heritage, and thus have the curves of a 14-year-old boy, the way the Boycut sits on me draws the eyes across the horizontal plane, giving the impression that I actually have hips. Yeah!

I believe these are the four main categories. One may combine thereafter several styles together – e.g. a low-rise Boycut-Thong – and in all kinds of materials - silk, cotton, lace, mesh, microfiber, etc - to satisfy one’s specific body type. Every woman has different concerns about their delicate region, and one style may not produce the same effect on two ladies either. Also, even if it is the appropriate style, it may not be cut in the adequate shape, which is also dependent on the store. The one I lost, for instance, was perfectly cut to not only fit & accentuate my hips divinely but the legs were slightly curved to lift and separate to make my arse look rather fierce if I may say so myself. Alas, t’is gone now, and I need some to replace it, pronto! Because, tch, everyone knows that the Right Underwear makes all the difference. I could have the crappiest clothes on but as long as i know my undies are perfect, i feel like i'm on top of the world!*

But us girls aren’t the only ones to be blessed by such styling panties - men underwear also carry different types as well, no? You have your regular-Joe's breezy boxers, your sex-machines Italian-stallion briefs, and then the oh-so-jaw-dropping boxer-briefs (low vs long legs [pun intended... ahem]). Seriously. One can not praise enough about the beauty of the Boxer-Briefs. Everyone looks good in them....

But, pre tell, what kind of concerns come into play when you decide to buy underwear? Beside comfort, should one care about anything else? Does it really matter? Am I hopelessly shallow? Please, feel free to share your thoughts on this most important topic.

*well, you know, because i am that self-indulgent...Yes, very good. I really mustn't feel like i need to repeat this all the time. It's the goddamn title, for crying out loud....

japanese boy

2007-01-30T09:38:00.000-05:00

Mister can you tell me where...my panties've gone?

I seem to have lost my favorite panties. This troubles me deeply for they were very good panties - black, comfortable, and most importantly of all, made my arse look, well, like it actually is an arse.

Since it was surely not something i've said or done, nor is it in my habit to go [or scurry awkwardly away from] anywhere commando, it leaves only one possible explanation for their sudden disappearence....

I have been struck by a panties thief. Help.

winter wonderland

2007-01-25T09:54:00.000-05:00

You know what? I love talking about the weather. Most people think that one talks about the weather in awkward situations, when there is nothing to talk about, but I (perhaps bc I am socially ill-adapted, the reasons are manifolds, really– discuss amongst yourselves) loooove to discuss about the weather, for 1) it is clearly undeniable that the way humans live have completely fucked it up; 2) not only do we impact it but it holds a strong chemical & psychological influence on how a person feels as well; and therefore 3) it insanely affects ME, and everyone knows I am a self-centered egomaniac! T'is a perfect conversation starter! Therefore, i am compelled to mention that for the last two weeks, the weather has had the most exemplary courtesy of being deliciously sunny and/or clear, making us [me] almost forget, and forgive, that Winter had arrived about a month too late. There's now snow squishing below my feet, and the biting cold on my cheeks as i am neatly tucked away in my sizzling red coat stuffed with down to keep me warm [may you rest in peace, baby ducks]. I love it! Walking out in the crisp winter sun is my only upside for waking at 7 o’clock each morning for classes, let me tell you. It’s what makes me [almost – I’m not that insane yet…] forget about the lure of my fabulous bed. (That and coffee, obviously.)

Mmm. Hot coffee in the cold cold dawn… I LOVE IT!

And you know what else I love? Nice people. For some odd reason (perhaps a deep insecurity from a yearning childhood, a desperate cry for compassion, you can discuss this amongst yourself as well – go on, I know you all love to talk about me too), I feel all warm inside when a fellow passenger greats me, or says something nice, or smiles at me, or is just being polite to one another, really. Today, as I was waiting for the bus, this sweet old lady smiled and said to me “I think I might have seen this young lady grow up…”. Uh! How sweet! That she even recognized me at all is a little doubtful but never mind that, I felt like meeting some great-aunt I never knew existed but who always looked out for me. One who would leave me all her belongings once she passed away. That kind of aunt. I’ve always wanted one of those…. Anyway, once on the bus, there was this other old lady (where are they all going so goddamn early in the morning anyway? Is there a secret geriatric meeting to take over the world we don't know about, because who'd be up so early AND aware of such impeding world domination, really?... Note to self: must look into terrorist grannies) who got on, and before anyone else could lazily react properly (i.e. to offer their seat, you heartless brute), this semi-emo teenage boy [who could desperately use a haircut by the way. And a bath as we’re at it. And proper fitting jeans - preferably ones that would not cause infertility, although considering the 'life style' trend he is heading towards, it might be better if he'd be infertile... but i still harbour hope for he] actually stood up for her! Causing my stupid heart to melt right then & there!

I know, forgive, I sound completely daft, but all this really made me giddy. I mean, it’s easy to get annoyed and pissed off at the plethora of bad-mannered, crazy, rude, aggressive folks out there so when one encounters remotely genuine nice gestures, as small as there are, as meaningless as they appear, it seems that the most logical thing to do is to grab on to their fleeting existence....

As I walked out in the snow towards campus, with the sun warming the northern wind hitting my face, I felt completely & joyously alive.

I really love this weather.

you could have it so much better

2007-01-14T23:14:00.001-05:00

A week in review:

So my first week back at Uni wasn't as bad as i anticipated. I'm not sure exactly what it was that i anticipated (me jumping off from the Leacock building, my brain to explode, a rabid killing spree - i hadn't given it much thought, really) but it definitely went much smoother than the unsociable, faithless, ill-adapted girl that i can be ever figured it. That, or it is just not hitting me yet, and when it will, it'll be so flamboyantly craptacular everyone but me would've seen it coming for light years!
Until then though, i've been oddly enjoying being surrounded by all the trendy/arty/messy/drunk/lost/confused/pretentious student species crawling about campus again, along with the trendy/arty/messy/drunk/lost/confused/pretentious professors paving the way. I like to take it as an 'inspiration', hoping that their intent, their hurried purposefulness will somehow transfer onto me. So far, i really like having a routine down - going to classes, reading in the coffee shop, even working an extra shift. It gives me a short-term direction that is very much welcomed indeed. Because all this leads me to be prepped up for my longer-term goal - my impending trip, which, in all probability, will occur in far sooner than i realize! Hurrah!
I went to IKEA in the beginning of the week, and i can officially say that shopping for house items far surpasses any other purchasing - including of clothes, shoes, underwear, food, music, books - EVER. It makes me giddy, man. Like Maniacally-Grinning-While-Skipping-And-Humming-'I Feel Pretty' giddy. I was impressively good though, managing to only buy a red wooden chair, a black folding chair for my study, cushions, wooden hangers, a slip-cover for my bedspread (or a 'housse de couette', as the French call it in its weirdest word combination), two packs of decorative postcards, a vase and two desk organizers. That's it!... (Seriously, if i wasn't already on a budget, i probably would have bought those entire living/dining/bedroom sets!)
Had an insane shift on Wednesday night at the restaurant. Now, usually, i try not to complain much about work because 1) i am crap, and 2) they [my bosses], as much as i ~~hate~~ don't like to talk about or to them [and so pretending that they don't exist], are still my employers and i prefer not to 'bite the hand that feeds me' - that sort of bullshit. YET, when it is crazy crowded and the boss' son, who also happens to be the barman, not only does JACK SHIT but also DROPS MY ORDER because HE WAS BUSY TALKING ON THE PHONE WITH HIS GIRLFRIEND while TWO OTHER TABLES ARE WAITING, i must comply to a higher moral obligation & the International Employee's Ethics Guide to MACHETE HIS HEAD OFF. Mentally, sadly.
On Friday evening, at [ever so conveniently called] Happy Hour, some of my male friends committedly informed me on the intricate sexual activities the crazy kids are practicing these days*. As such, i had the pleasure to learn what The Startled Goldfish**, The Captain America*** and The Deathstar**** are. Thank you, gentlemen, for the unbound knowledge & the little wee in my new panties from laughing too hard. And not to mention the added paranoia each time i'm about to shag anyone ever again.
We thereafter stumbled in the streets toward the nearest karaoke bar (because drunkenness can only make our voices above par, of course) and proceeded naturally to make utter asses of ourselves. A martini, a pint of beer, a 1L jug of Lady Sidecar and another crap bottle of beer later, i was so pissed that we decided to go to another bar where we met some drunk Mexican expatriates with whom we stroke an incomprehensible conversation. When one of them suddenly hand-gesturingly asked me if i was 'with' J or not, my instinctive reaction was to scream "Si!", much to J's drunken compliance. I know, bad faghag. But i wouldn't have to recur to such lowly ways if said expat - although very nice - didn't resemble anything like this. For some reason, i tend to attract piercingly unattractive drunkards like Britney Spears to bad taste, and i was certainly in no mood to bat them off. I suspect i put out a smell of Little Stray Sheep or something [damn you, Asian blood!]. When i finally got home, i somehow managed to take a shower, brushed my teeth - all while being terribly intoxicated - and crawled into bed only to realize that it was just 11h30. PM.
Stay tuned next week for my exciting adventures while queuing for my pack of Depends at the pharmacist.
Went to a family dinner last night, which featured a small feast of lemon marinated beef with hot peppers & cilantro, sautéed lobster with ginger, fried shrimp with green peppers & onions and durian for desert - a.k.a. Reason Why I Love Being Asian #4, #7, #16 and #2 respectively. I also get to hang out with my 20-year-old cousin who asked me for relationship advices as he is thinking of moving in with his girlfriend of 10 months. Bless his heart and love him to pieces (we grew up with each other and i consider him as my little brother), but how equipped are you to move out on your own and manage your studies and a serious relationship and worrying about generally surviving when you're asking a hardcore SPINSTER for RELATIONSHIP advices?! Great! Another thing to needlessly worry my over-protective head about! Thank you, thank you very much!...
Seriously, it just makes me shiver in the inside as i think of all the possible ways how this could go wrong... Ugh. I miss the age of blind faith (...not really... But it sure beats the age of patronizing pessimism).
Spent the day pampering myself and giving me a Winter pedicure.

Vixen.
Not that anyone will notice as it will be hidden under two layers of thick cotton socks. And boots. And 30cm of snow. I'm not complaining though - it's about fackin' time Winter peaked its beady little head in! All this rain & warm weather was starting to freak the snowshite out of me.
Also, i've decided to let my fingernails grow into a lady-like length. It feels weird.

Um. That's all i have.

* In a strictly PG fully clothed way, you deviant fiends.
** [WARNING: this end note contains graphic description that may offend anyone out there who innocently & indulgently gives a rat's ass to scroll down here thinking it is a sweet & tender explanation of sexual perversion- HULLO!] When engaging in sexual intercourse in a canine fashion & in front of a mirror, the male exits his penile apparatus from the female's vaginal entry to insert it into her anus, which would therefore cause her to react just like - say it with me - a Startled Goldfish.
*** [WARNING: added to the same graphic description as above, the following notes also shows extreme levels of geekiness - please read at your own risks] When engaging in sexual intercourse in a canine fashion, the male diverts his hands from the female's supporting hips, forms an 'O' with his index finger & thumb, reverts it backwards while spreading the rest of his fingers on his face to make glasses of them, thus imitating Captain America's superhero mask.
**** When engaging in sexual intercourse in a canine fashion [a very inspirational position, it seems], the male exits his penile apparatus just when it is about to come, wait and, when the vaginal entry is slowly contracting back to its original diameter, [with great timing and aim, i must say] ejaculate in it - reenacting thus the scene where Luke Skywalker destroys the Deathstar from within in Star Wars IV. Genius? I think yes.