66 promises

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)

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

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

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

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

'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*

[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

I am having A Bad Day.

Thank you. That is all.

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.

kingdom of doom

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

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

Oi! T'was raining pigeon turds!

Oh, Schizophrenic Weather, you unpredictable loon!

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.

make it till monday

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*:

1. I don't own any white underwear (hey, i didn't say this was going to be 'interesting' - brace yourself...)
2. I don't like to sweat (unless when nekkid and engaged in less than nunlike activities...ahem).
3. I am deeply insecure.
4. 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.
5. 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

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...