my mathematical mind

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.

talihina sky

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.

the beast and dragon, adored

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.

my home ghost

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.

ball cap*

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

**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

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*

moon river

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.

better

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

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?

hands away

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.)

a time to be so small

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.

life turned upside down

*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

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!...

wake up

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.

yesterday once more

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.

ibi dreams of pavement (a better day)

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*

alors alors

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*

heart in a cage*

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.

you are my sister

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:

1. She can never admit she is wrong.
2. She has a piercingly annoying condescension forever embedded in her tone. And in her eyes.
3. She can be quite judgemental.
4. She asks the same question over and over and over and over…. And then finishes off by patronizingly asking, ‘Are you sure?’
5. 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]
6. She continuously insists on pronouncing 'Dido' as 'Diddo', referring to U2’s The Edge as The Hammer [cf. #1].
7. 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]
8. She nags.
9. She is completely oblivious of others’ feelings sometimes. Often. [cf #5]
10. 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.