the sweets

As my shrink sits back comfortably in her green leather chair, it slightly swivels to the left to face me a little better. I haven't gone to see her in a while but that chair is as hideous as i remember it.

She is giving me that look. That Give-Me-A-Break-Girl look. I've just told her i was not going to have sex again. Or at least not until i leave for London.

"...And exactly why is that?", she carefully indulges me.

I take a bite out of the homemade chocolate fudge one of her *cough*kissass*cough* students gave her for Christmas, which she politely offered me (and which might win her the World Greatest Shrink Ever title) as i try to formulate my defense in the most reasonable & logical way possible.

"Well...", i begin as the fudge slowly melts in my mouth, "it has happened twice already and it is shitting me to no end quite frankly. The first time, i was a little intoxicated and - yes, although usually when i am in such a state, the little filter that i actually do have completely disappears, showing me whatever lies underneath in its purest form - like a Pandora's box, if you will - i still discarded it as simply Me Being High, y'know? BUT when it happened again - when i was completely sober & fully conscious, when i thought i really did like this guy, when he was smart, and funny, and nice, and had me all excited like a giddy little 14-year-old again, when everything went as satisfyingly as anyone could hope for, and it still slapped me in the face afterwards, well, it just confirms that my brain is utterly shite at the moment, and i just cannot risk having that occur to me another time, thankyouverymuch. Ergo, the Not Having Sex Again Policy."

'It' would be Mr. ASs' surprising & dramatic reappearance in my crap brain [this time withstanding but] whenever i have sex. Which is - let it be official - not exactly a turn on, considering the circumstances.

"And to be completely honest, i'm not even sure it's Mr. ASs himself whom i miss rather than what i had with him? Or at least how i felt when i was with him...", i continue as i quickly run my tongue along the back of my teeth to sweep any vestiges of chocolate that may remain. "I mean, when he first appeared to me, this was what i heard: 'Hey, this is what you want, girl, and you won't get it here with this bloke. Who are you trying to fool?'...! I mean, he was fucking TAUNTING me, canyoubelieveit?! But not with him, y'see. It was with what it was that i really wanted... Because as he was saying those words it was actually my Twelve-Year-Old Self's voice that i heard! And she HATES him!... Alright, so i was completely buzzed out : i'd also seen a two-dimensional white stick figure of Pinocchio earlier on, riding a bicycle over a black screen, who then turned into a 60's-like girl with cotton-drops earrings & shoes riding into a jungle, and when she had to pass over a dangerously narrow bridge & reached down the middle, it dropped to its lowest gravitational point where she suddenly burst into a half-bird half-butterfly winged creature and flew away. So yes, i was definitely pretty damned fucked up. But still..." I take the last piece of chocolate fudge into my mouth.

Neuroticism level: High. Sugar Level: Severe - About to bounce off walls.

"So what is it that you wanted... or want?" She then grabs a pen and proceeds into scratching her back all the while staring me down like a hawk. This woman is brilliant.
"Mwell...", i start, my mouth still full. "Ironno!"

Distress Level: High. Denial Level: Severe - Will turn 180 degree to backfire in face imminently. Over-Dramatisation Level: High - Consistent.

"Well, let me say this...". She puts down her pen. "And i may be a little biased here, but this is from someone who's...you know...been there, done that..." I smile. I love it when she gets all motherly on me. "I understand how we engage in sex so casually these days, and in some cases, why not? But sometimes, we get intimate far sooner than we get intimacy." Pause for effect. I smile again. "And in your case, you got that intimacy before you got intimate with Mr. ASs [as relatively little time that had actually required], whereas with these guys, it was just sex. Which is all good & well, but i think as long as you're still here, with your family & everything else, you won't allow yourself to let go and be completely free & open to become truly close with anyone... But not having sex again... It just doesn't sound like a feasible option either, to put it like that. Especially if you're a girl who likes chocolate that much!"

I smile and nod ponderously. The thing is, i know all of this. I know that there's a part of me that wants to go out there and date, and live, and experience all there is for any twenty something to experience. But another part of me is also not very good at it, i'm afraid. And that part wants to get attached, to grow and learn. And most of all, it wants to feel again. And i also know that as long as i am still here, as long as i have Project London hovering over my head for another couple of months until it can finally come into fruition, i cannot get attached. I cannot move & get on with my life. That Life. And that is what i want. I am in this psychological limbo where i am ready to jump ship but the ledge is not yet at my footstep. And it is starting to royally piss me off.

J has been offered a job by Big Corporate Company in the U.S. and though it may not be his initial first choice (and in the U.S. of Saint George), it is still a FANTASTIC opportunity, and i am genuinely so happy for him [and surprisingly a lot more than my cold selfish little self ever thought could ever be!]. JF (my other fag & also the Queen Bitch as i fondly like to refer to him) also landed a great first job in Fancy Drug Firm. I am oh so very proud & excited that my friends are such uber geniuses and getting to start this new chapter in their lives that i am beaming by simply living vicariously through them, really (i mean, what else does a faghag do?). But i also wish i could join them, you understand. I would like for them to be proud of me as well. And although i am nowhere near knowing what to do for the rest of my life, i have been sitting on this project for nearly two years now, and as i see all these folks running along with theirs, they & i alike would just want to fucking shoot it to the moon already.

"I mean, were you looking to get yourself attached with this guy? Because i don't quite understand why you would have to stop having sex until you leave since it wouldn't tie you down anyway if you're not. And there's no reason for not having a little fun before you leave..." She provocatively raises one eyebrow and gives me a complicit smile. Sometimes, i just wish we were at a bar with martinis in our hands so i can just drunkenly leap over and hug her.

"I suppose i was..." Despite my best efforts otherwise. "I was just happily surprised that i found myself excited over him. Over anything actually... I've been feeling a tad complacent over the last few months, and i just jumped on the first opportunity to feel something remotely similar to anything that was part of what i was truly craving for... And that's when Mr. ASs suddenly appeared..."

She shifts her weight over to her left side and gives me her I-Know-It's-Okay look. "I guess he's like a way for your mind to remind you of your true intentions, the ones that you may have forgotten or ignored, and keep you in check...". She then slowly smiles at me out of the corner of her mouth as she sees me refreshed in my memories. "I just find it very interesting that out of all things, it should be Pinocchio that you saw..."

*light bulb flashing above head*

"Ohmygod!...That is so interesting!..."

Girly Dorkiness Level: On the rise from Medium to High towards Grinning Squeals. Egocentrism Level: High.

"I have never thought of that one before..." [Nevermind that i had seen Shreck 2 previous to that fateful weekend and laughed like a tool through that scene where Pinocchio played a pivotal role & saved the day. This interpretation is so much more self-serving.]

"And how it turned into a girl going into a jungle... And then taking flight?...", she continues. Oh. My. Gawd. "I guess your censorship really does go down when you are high, in such a way that you are revealed to your true self and everything that you hold dear but somehow forgot..." She warmly smiles at me. And it feels like i've been picked up after being dropped out from someone's pockets.

Egocentrism Level: Severe - About to drown in pond.

"Well, on that lovely note, we have to end it here, my dear. And go have some fun if you feel like it. Just remember to be honest with yourself & your goal. Your Goal...", she wisely warns me. I can almost hear the horns & drums playing in the background. "Want another fudge for the ride home?"

She is the World Greatest Shrink Ever. And my brain is not shit! It is AWESOME!

*splash!*

it's the most wonderful time

Reasons why Christmas is fantabulous:

• Buying gifts! Did my Christmas shopping yesterday and was TOTALLY into it, picking out prezzies for my mum (a beautilful tweed pencil skirt with a teal sweater - le gorgeous), my sister (penguin themed pjs, undies, socks and huge coffee mug - so nauseatingly cute she'll barf out the damn bird), my cutest petutiest 3-year-old cousin (a box of crayons & a Dora pop-up book), and for another 7-year-old to whom i am his Secret Santa (a beautiful Fables de La Fontaine book, just like the one i used to love). It reminded me how fun it is to really give rather than receive (although receiving is very much the tops as the second point shall demonstrate).
  
  Roaming along the kids section in the bookstore, surrounded by all the colors and glossy covers, i was also whisked back to the time when each penny i saved would propel me towards the nearest book shop where i would deliberate for hours on the one i would take home. There was this collection i remember of ancient myths that i coveted - Egypt, Greek, Roman and Celtic tales (yes, i was about this close to become a Dongeons & Dragons afficionado). Over two years, it had been such a long & hard endeavor to me that i bought the last book out of sheer principle as my literary taste had been captivated by Monsieur Poirot's charming mustache & the Great Agatha by then. That's called devotion, people! I remember how much books meant to me as a kid, when i didn't have Life Obligations to worry about or derail me from it, when i could lounge around and read all day while my friends did their thing. Books were dependable. And they also made me look less of a social inadequate than i actually was/am (ahem). Which is probably why i am now one of those aunts & cousins who will happily shove down a book down any little child's throat at the first sign of weakness. (Also, in case he doesn't appreciate the magic of Les Fables de La Fontaine, well, i'll just have to keep it now, won't i? Hahahahaha!)
  
  Anywho. I have only me Daddio left to buy for now. A challenge that must not be taken lightly as he is one who would not like ANYTHING that he receives yet sulk when he doesn't. Wonderful character, i know. Thank goodness it's something he did not pass down on me!



• Everything i get is now labelled not under 'Another Useless Consumerist Purchase' but neatly wrapped - like everything else - under 'Christmas Gift For Moi!' Behold, so far, these can be found in my stocking:
  
  

Yes. That is a vase. For my Future Flat. I think it's beautiful, okay?






For my Europe Longing Days.





A 'rare collection' of short stories! Hurrah!





...I have not the words...
This will be a GREAT holiday...





• I was going to say 'The Snow' but the little snow that fell has now been replaced with the goddamn rain....Ugh. Carry on, then...



• The nice sales clerks. Yes, i know. Either they are, or i am peculiarly nice, which, in any case, is so much more pleasant to deal with. They are all smiles and strangely patient & indulgent to find gifts with you, laughing with your silly picks for your sister, giggling about ending up buying just for yourself, wishing you a 'Joyeuses Fêtes!' as you leave. It's all just so pleasant! There must be a course or a conference beforehand, of course, and somehow forced upon but it still feels quite nice.



• Making mixed cds. Also known as one of my top Favorite Waisting Time Activity. Now, you all must know that i am a shameless fan of the classics - Bing Crosby, Nat King Cole, Brenda Lee & the likes, even though they are endowed with the power to cause seizures - but it's also such fun (and a challenge!) to find newer rocking holiday tunes like The Ramones' 'Merry Christmas' & The Ravoenettes' 'Chirstmas Song' to put them all together!
  
  'River' by Joni Mitchell is an absolute must - despite that one is a tad inclined to gulp down an entire bottle of whiskey only to jump off a bridge afterwards - but somehow i've managed to slip it in between 'It's Christmas Time' by what sounds like The Miracles (do correct me if i'm wrong) & 'Rock of Ages', then followed by Sinead O'Connor's 'Silent Night'. Right. Not exactly the cheeriest, is it?... But the cd ends with 'Maybe This Christmas' by Ron Sexsmith, which is really lovely & sweet. With a little pinch of bitter perhaps but still very sweet & more than a bearable listen during these times...



• The Food! Living here, every self-respected food lover's favorite cooking show, À la Di Stasio, is the summum of class, good taste & good food. Josée Di Stasio, the bona fide hostess, is a little like Martha Stewart but less insane. And without all the bows & ribbons & flowers & dresses, anything that might distract from the great FOOD she & her local celebrity guests concoct in her immaculately delicious and warm kitchen. And then, there's the lighting... it makes the pasta shine, the meat glisten, the puddings luscious. She makes me want to cook! Let me write that again. She. Makes. Me. Want. To. Cook. ME. Who considers an omelette as part of her Sophisticated Dish Repertoire. So yes, allow me to tuck that under Christmas Miracle of 2006.
  



• All above reasons to distract me from My Boy Troubles.... *gnaw at cheeks, etc.*

ask

It snowed this weekend! First snow on the first of December. This, to me, is deemed to be a Good Sign. Of what, i do not know yet. But looking outside, i faintly felt a little giddy about it, to be honest. This is what it looked like on Friday morning:


A few hours later, it then turned into this:

(photo courtesy of mister steveyb)

That is ice, in case you can't see. And that's a car underneath the tree, underneath the ice. Also, the powers went out. Welcome to the schizophrenic Canadian Weather!

But, more gloomily, is it a dire omen of things to come? To warn never to trust what one perceived as good too quickly...? Hmm... Thankfully, i don't give a flying fuck! Ting-a-ling-a-ling!

It's been such a long while since i've actually enjoyed a nice Christmas [yes, we are well into December, and i thus allow myself to fully indulge in Holiday chats today. Sue me], and i remember there was a time when i used to looooove singing Christmas carols, to a shameful degree, really, and all the snow, the lights, the trees, the candies, and the giggles. And all the excitement of who's your secret santa, and what to give, and what to eat... Yes, it may be a long time ago, and i was prolly 5, and it's utterly corny, and naïve, and all Christmas is is an excuse to spend and eat a shitload like the aberrent unsatiated pigs that we are but sulking, moaning and be cynical about it all for the next four weeks somehow makes me want to shove my tongue to a frozen pipe and bang my head to it really hard. And believe me, it's not as fun as it sounds. I should know.

So. This season, i solemnly promise to try as hard as i can to be in The Holiday Spirit. There may not be a Christmas tree, there may not be eggnog, hell! there may not even be a whole lot of gifts, but jolly, there will be SINGING!

In related news, look at this hot piece of Santa (courtesy of FIDO cell phone services package for the Holidays):

Had this been the Ol'Saint Nick of my childhood, i would have gladly believed, i tell ya. Hurry down the chimney, indeed....

mama said there'll be days like this

Of all the buses of all the streets in this city, i had to get on the one that is packed with old ladies & crying babies. A crazy old lady & one crying baby, to be exact. And, of course, i had to be running late to my doctor's appointment.

It was uncommonly hot & muggy this morning (16C!), yet always the optimist that i'm reknowned to be, as i stepped in the bus i thought it was rather amusing that she (the Crying Baby) was wailing in tandem with "Dig Your Grave"/"Bury With It". Amusing & ironic, for little that she & i both knew how close she came from being untimely thrown off the bus and meeting her end on the wet pavement. Because, once the song ended, and she still kept up the screeching beat, i realized that it wasn't such a harmonious quirk after all. Oh no. It was an obstinate stand-off siren. As i can no longer keep up the Nonchalant-&-Carefree-Put-Together-Lass that i sometimes like to pretend i am, i calmly turned my head toward the source of distress, and surprise! The Crying Baby wasn't actually a baby at all - she was a bonafide 1 year-old whose stumpy little legs far outstretched the strap where a cute little baby's foot would normally fit! Now, before any of you virtual/imaginary ppl who i pretend are reading this start to berate me for being a cold insensitive bitch, when a person seems to be taller than my knees, who can probably walk and boldly wage mental warfare with 40 other grown-ups, that person can no longer be considered as a 'baby' in a strictly objective physically descriptitve way, no matter what their real age is, and should not benefit from the 'baby'-label consideration. (A similar rule goes with grandmas - if i don't see any white hair & orthopedic shoes, sorry, you're not taking my seat, lady!) Anywho, back to the bus. I shockingly glanced at her mum, who by that time was gazing into space praying, as it seems, for a meteorite to hit her right then & there, and realizing that there is no longer hope, i kept my cool and shuffled towards the back of the bus.

Years of riding on buses have trained my usual challenged sense of balance with a keen steadiness when walking through a crowd at 30km/h without holding a rail (i know, i'm quite proud myself). It's all in the timing. You have to know when the bus is going to stop, speed up, or slow down, and adjust the weight you put on your feet accordingly all the while spotting supporting spots. When i arrived to the middle, and the bus abruptly stopped, i grabbed on to a handrail, carefully avoiding punching a wee little ol'lady who was standing right in front of it. She was wearing a cute little pink beret with a nice green & beige tweed coat. And sunglasses. Nevermind that is was pouring rain outside... "Are you getting off here?", she sweetly asked me. I looked outside and noticed we were in the middle of traffic. "No, no", i replied, smiling, polite as i am. Now before i describe what happened next, i must clarify that my firmly gripping hand was far above her head and the sleeve of my coat was nowhere near her wrinkly old face. Yet GOD KNOWS what possessed that CRAZY WOMAN to grab my hand, TEAR IT AWAY FROM THE RAIL AND LET ME FALL while wearing a GODDAMN SKIRT over EVERYONE just when the bus was SPEADING UP! As the (fortunately!) nice ppl i hit helped me up as best they could (did i mention that is was silly crowded? and fucking raining? which therefore implies that i was holding a huge umbrella, my ginormous handbag with my laptop in it and another bag with my working clothes, that everbloody else on the bus was also carrying about fifty other dozen things as well, obviously!), she (the Old Crazy Bitch) mouthed something i couldn't understand bc my ears were plugged in with Modest Mouse. And because i was slightly in shock. Which is fortunate, bc i just might have wacked her head off. Well, okay no, not really. I am kind of a wimp, and i was raised to always be nice to old ladies despite how crazy mad they were. Also, there was no room for me to wag my umbrella without hitting everyone else standing there as well.

Once i was firmly on my two feet, i got the hell away from the Old Crazy Bitch before she figured it'd be fun to stab me with her little heels and finally found my way to the back where - HALLELUIAH! - there was actual SPACE! "Home free!", i thought. "Only 10 minutes to the metro, and i can forget about this horrendous ride." And just like that, 10 minutes magically became 20 minutes bc other sweet old ladies had to take an ETERNITY to get on & off the bus, and argue with the driver that their ticket was not, in fact, outdated.

Yes. Twenty minutes. Of blissful humidity, sweating, being poked by umbrellas, elbows, wandering hands, and of a howling 'baby'. Thank goodness i was already heading towards the doctor. Albeit 30 minutes late.

This is reason #37 why i should never go outside. Or wear a skirt.

nietzsche

Well so much for the Cleansing Program (which i've been faithfully following for more than a week. Yes - A WHOLE WEEK *pat herself on the head*) for i've been ominously infected with a pharyngitis *sad puppy face*. I am going to shamelessly milk every possible second of this as i can, sleeping 16 hours a day, watching tons of DVDs & catching up on TV time, having ABC soup and milk before i sleep (again). And whimpering about it. Massively.

I've never had a pharyngitis before. And apart from the grinding headaches, numbing limbs, dizziness, cold sweating fever and, of course, the feeling of having a baby shoved down my throat each time i swallow any hard food, it's pretty awesome! Because i can BREATHE! My sinuses - the usual first point of attack - are being utterly spared from the viral damage this time. 'Tis truly wonderful! I say welcome pharyingitis, any time, just as long as you let me breathe [and when i am convieniently set at home with my parents without any urgently productive things to shuffle through]! Yes, welcome indeed.

fall, fall, fall

And this is why i love Fall...

closer to myself

I need space.
This feels cleaner. Wider. Kewler.

And... i am officialy drunk.

sisters of mercy

Weekend resumé, resolution and reward, all in bullet-point form! Can it be any more perfect?

• Astonishing discovery: i am rubbish. I've been out for two weeks (and by 'two weeks', i mean 'two weekends'), and i am utterly wrecked. I woke up this morning with a dry cactus embedded in my throat, i apparently have lost my voice, somebody seemed to have sneaked into my bedroom & drawn dark semi-circles below the two reddened eyeballs that lay inside my sunken sockets, my skin is of a stale greenish yellow, my neck is making a 'chweck' sound as i turn from right to left & a 'toc!' from left to right (which was, i must admit, kinda fun for the first 5 minutes), and my hair looks like it's been chewed by that same nocturnal visitor. I will never be a rockstar.
  


• I will have NOTHING but fruits & vegetables, nice good red meat and heaps of water for the next 7 days. And fish. But that's it - no more coffee, no alcohol, no sweets, and definitely no more INSTANT NOODLES.
  


• Will also lead a sane, active, good girl healthy lifestyle, which will include running, yoga and reading. Hail to the Gods, let the Cleansing Program begin!
  


• Okay, for 5 days.
  


• 
  
  That is a crack in the inner corner of the lens of my glasses. I assure you, it is not due to any Hard Partying on my part. I know this because my idea of Hard Partying usually consists of sitting around & imitating a drunken sloth. Followed by dancing like there's no tomorrow. It could have happened, i presume, when i passed out & hit the floor, but i have no recollection of such unexemplary behaviours either. I am a lady after all.
  


• I just bought Leonard Cohen's I'm Your Man soundtrack, and it is absolutely wonderful. I haven't seen the documentary yet, but hearing Mister Cohen's voice have always strangely resulted in me being naked - not really a part of the Cleansing Program, i'm afraid...
  


• 3 days...? I mean, it's not like i really need that much bourgeois leisure time anyway... *Chweck*
  


• My sister is coming back from her weekly visit to her hubby (who is working away up North at the moment), and a Girls' Night In at her place is well in order & blissfully welcomed. The program for the night: The Wedding Singer, followed by Bridget Jones's Diary, The Grey Cup final, and reruns of the UFC: Ultimate Fighting Championship - with facials & nailpolishing to boot! I'm already gushing with girlish glee!
  


• ...Okay, starting tomorrow, the Cleansing Program of 3 hardcore healthy living days shall start! (And then watch out Tomkat 'cause i'll be kicking so much ass your Scientology God* will be worshipping ME! Mouaahahahaha! Think you're too good to invite 'lil ol'me dontcha...?** Just you wait....)

*Is there such a thing as a Scientology God? Or is that Mr. Tom Cruise himself?
**Seriously, who wasn't at that insane wedding?! And doesn't it eerily remind you of that other star-studded whorish of a matrimonial freak show that was the unholy union of Liza Minelli & her playdoh [ex-]groom? When did Tom Fucking Cruise become such a freak?! Are all sexy eye-candy boys doomed to be a circus act sooner or later? First the Michael-Jackson-Sans-Nose-Ape transformation to the Tom-Cruise-Scary-Joker metamorphosis. Will Brad Pitt someday turn into a three-nipples lady as well? *hands over mouth weeping*

rock n' roll lies

Q is my brother-in-law's younger sister. Of anyone i ever knew, or cared for, she is the most high-strung, high-maintenance, difficult, demanding & judgemental. Why i haven't punched her nice little face in yet is mainly because she is actually a pretty sweet & honest, up-front & unapologetic girl. Which i like. And unlike her brother, i can have an intelligible conversation with her. Plus, i don't really have much of a choice - punching people is very much frowned upon in these necks of the woods.

Q is also one of those girls - who wants to make loads of money, get married, and settle down in a huge mansion. The one with "A Game Plan". I know, i too am quite astonished at our friendship at times. I went to her birthday dinner party over the weekend in her cute new appartment. Although usually, an entire evening spent in conversations about "What-Luxury-Car-I-Bought" and "How-Much-This-Grand-Piano-That-I-Never-Play-Cost" isn't exactly my idea of fun, by my second glass of Riesling it all sweetly glazed over me. Talks of travel & food, interior design, Romain Gary (not even brought up by yours truly!), astrology & terrorism (there was a connection there somewhere...just can't quite remember what it was now...that i'm sober) had even somehow managed to filter through. It turned out not to be half as bad as i pessimistically anticipated. That is, until...

"So...how about you? Do you have a boyfriend?"
Mechanically, i replied, "Oh no! You know, i really haven't got the interest nor the energy for any of that right now..."

And that's when it hit me. Unlike all the other times where i've disdainfully given this same generic answer, this time...i realised i was actually lying.

"...Hmm...yes, really not...". I quickly gulped down another glass of wine.

Then i blacked out.

everything's not lost

Things To Do To Cheer Yourself [Myself] Up From The [Light] Blues (in no particular order):

• Bake cookies.
• Eat cookies. Or candies, ice cream, chocolate cakes, instant noodles, baked potatoes, sushi, anything that tickles the fancy but unfortunately am incapable of making (except for the instant noodles).
• Watch The Sound of Music, A Philadelphia Story & Le Fabuleux Destin d'Amélie Poulin - in that order.
• Clean desk/bathroom/house.
• Read magazine with pretty pictures & shiny pages. Makes one feel pretty. And shiny. (A skewed transference mechanism.)
• Cut/trim/dye hair.
• Shop (though could be tricky as if too much is bought can catalyse into Heavy Blues --> not good).
• Fuck.
• Get all purdied up.
• Meet up with some good friends. And laugh.
• Dance.
• Draw/paint.
• Go sit & read/people-watch in favorite coffee shop.
• Plan Project London.
• Read this.**newly added**

A list in progress....

pitter patter goes my heart

So it is raining. Again. Only, you cannot see it is raining because it is utterly dark outside. AT FIVE PM. So here i am inside, trying not to focus on this shitty feeling that comes for no other reason than to accompany the clouds and to piss me off, eating this:

By the time this picture was taken, downloaded then uploaded, I had finished the entire bag. Which i got this morning. There were also a bag of candies, and a box of pastries. The evidences of such however were carelessly discarded in the rubbish bin before i realized 'Oi! i have a new swanky camera now to document every moment of my waking day!'. I know, i can hear the moans of disappointment from here. I apologise. They were very good though, but after which i needed something salty. And tadah! That's how you keep on eating for hours on end - by switching sweets & salty alternatively.

Another thing that can help keep oneself lethargic in front of the tube eating everything one owns:

Also known as Curtis Stone and my future husband.

Y'see, i humbly admit i was never the girl who dreamt of marrying a nice doctor or a prince (nor have i actually ever dreamt of marriage per se, but that's just a small detail). I didn't have wild fantasies about fire fighters either, paramedics, nor police officers, cowboys, monks, lawers, the postman, dentists, so on & so forth. No. What i fancy was/is The Cook. Any time. Any day. Yessery Bob. He can look like he had perhaps inhaled the totality of the Mars gaseous elements, but my gosh as long as he can make a mean sexy chocolate soufflé, he can do with me as he pleases. As long as i get to eat said soufflé. So imagine my joy when The wonderful Learning Chanel introduced a show featuring a hunky Aussie who goes into a siupermahket, pick ep a wee lass, bring 'er beck haome & cuk far 'er (yes, that was a taste of my most excellent accent, thank you).

'Fucking genius!', that's what i said, incredulously. It's like they had found my childhood diary & made it into a reality! Here are just some examples of what Monsieur Stone can whip up:

Grilled rib eye steak with semi-dried tomatoes, watercress & crispy potatoes.
(or as i like to call 'Humma-na Humma-na Haa...')

Cajun crusted chicken with creole mashed potatoes.
('Oh yes please! Right here!')

Marinated & grilled bison rib eye with pasilla salsa.

('Ouh! Ouh! Me! Ove here!')

Salad with deep fried manchego cheese & madiera reduction
([gawk - as have lost all words & consciousness])





But can he bake, you ask? Ohhh! Oho-ho hohoh....

Chocolate covered mango & vanilla cream bomb.
BA-BOOM!

Aussie cheesecake.
(as if having permanent sunshine, fairweather & the incredible ocean at their finrgertips wasn't enough...)

Sautéed baby bananas with sour cream, spearmint, chili & lime.
(YESSSS! I know! it sounds awfully weird at first, but as one who completely LOVES cooked bananas AND spicy foods, this just seems like le-perfect!)

(and la pièce de résistance...)
HANDMADE CHOCLATES WITH MARCORONA ALMONDS.

*wipes off trail of saliva*

And he made this, can you imagine? With his own bare hands! FROM SCRATCH! *hands over heart* Mumsie, i think i'm in love!....

**Next up: Things To Do To Cheer Yourself Up From The [light*] Blues.**




* Because we all know that the Heavy Blues can only be cured with massive amounts of drugs and/or a gun.

get myself into it

Birthday Gift 2006. From me. To me.
[cf. blog title]

Sleak & sexy.

Sadly, unlike me.
Such is the power of The Strokes.
(Yes, that is my excuse & i'm sticking with it.)

The Venga Boys, yo!

Part of such 90's classics as 'Mr. Vain', 'Pump It Up' and 'Runaway'.

Oi! And there's also a Disco Light!
So 90's it's cool!

To meeeeeeeeee!



Erm...Christmas gift?

Chic new coat.
(It was only 50$, okay! From 169.99! Now who can possibly resist such a deal?!
And look! Even the sun is blessing it with its lovely rays!...
FIFTY DOLLARS!!)

Am now officially poor.
Spiffin'.

**WARNING: should expect more generic photos in posts to come as am much excited to discover such things as Technology. Thank you.**


p.s.: Karaoke rocks the shits!

pieces of the people we love

Apparently, i am one of those people. You know the kind.

When you go to a concert, and there's that one afflicted person who seems a tad more into it than the others. Not a 'groupie', mind you (or at least not yet. I hope. Oh good god, i truly do hope never ever please...), but one who would start gushing over the band & be a little keener than everyone else there. You see, my name is [Vapidly Vibrant] and i am the girl who falls head over heels for live performers. And i am not proud.

It all started with this chick:

That is Leslie Feist, by the way. Or just Feist as she is commonly & lovingly known.

I can still remember the night. It was in the heat of end of June. We [J & i, not Feist & i - unfortunately] had just had some delicious thai food au quartier latin. Tourists were sweatily bustling on the streets while red, yellow & green lights emanated from the scantily attached lanterns on the sidewalk trees. We hurriedly walked amidst the avid crowd towards the Spectrum where she was playing, just at the outskirt of the Jazz Festival. At 6 o'clock sharp, with no opening act, she walked out, basked in a moody red light. And she was absolutely perfect. She had turned her sweet music into a sometime acoustic, sometime rock n' roll, but always warm & touching version of her record. And she was so tiny and lady-like, like a little Thumbelina, but with an overgrown electric guitar to punch the living daylights out of all those who cross her. By the end of the concert, I got out into the musky night, completely infatuated, thinking "that's the kind of rocker i would like to be [if i knew how to sing & play the guitar]!"

Then, there was Ambulance Ltd: Okay, so they may not be the most gorgeous looking band out there, in my humble taste (also, am not nearly sexually adventurous enough as to actually want to [insert term for 'fornicating' starting with the same letter but is somehow strangely deemed a tad too strong so early on such a holy day despite being what Ms. Ann Coulter would call a 'Godless skank'] all of them. Together. At the same time. Or in any combination, nowthatweareatit & letsmoveonthankyouverymuch). Which is neither here nor there, really, and beside the point, i should specify, as these performers have 'turned me on' on a more 'spiritual' sense rather than in the mere animalistic yearning to make babies that some - obvioulsy - could inspire.... I just wasn't expecting much out of the concert, to be honest. I had listened to their LP a few times before, and though i very much enjoyed it - finding it moody in an upbeat, 70's chill way - i also had an exam the very next day, and was seriously in no position to be seeing a band i did not absolutely adore. But i did anyway because being the Queen Procrastinator that i am means that i had duties to uphold, sacrifices to make and consequences to deal with, which involved surely, i thought, the concert to royally suck in such a level that would make, on top of failing the exam for lack of studying, a perfectly karmalicious punishment.

Alas, no! To my utter surprise, it was a fantastic performance! Their chillin' music was rockin' the freakin' roof off! I'd never had such an expereince before (or ever since)! At the end of the concert, i felt like i was on a high, on cloud nine, or some other nirvana-like state, as if everything was tinted in a soft powder blue & rose, and i was in love! And despite the sound of it & the many successive exclamation points, i was/am not literally high either, i assure you. It wasn't only me, the gorgeous Indian girl behind me & her friends also thought the same (i know this because she poked at us [again J & i, not Ambulance Ltd & i - sadly], and elatedly screamed "That was so GREAT, wasn't it?!", to which we elatedly shouted back "HELL YEAH!").

(Furthermore, to prove that my concept of the Universe is completely rubbish, i did not even fail my exam! Pah!)

The third time this terrible affliction occurred, it was with my fatefully doomed encounter with Interpol:

I was standing in the first row for the first time. Well, actually, the second row: my friend A, who was completely bonkers over them, had stood in the first row, right in the middle, for two hours so she could see them up close & poysenal. She had a thing for the drummer. I, innocently enough, did not find any of them particularly attractive. I'd googled them up the previous night to have at least an idea of what this band that was indeed firmly growing on me looked like, and had thought it was rather funny that the singer, whose voice was so cavernous & deep, should actually look like a scrawny little blondie. But then... the actual boy suddenly appeared in front of me. And he opened his mouth. And i was done. That easy.

The voice, the allure, the silent charm. The fatigue. And he was not scrawny at all. I repeat, NOT. Scrawny. At. ALL. (Mmmmm.) And when he sung 'Hands Away', i fucking cried (yes, i do realize i just used the other word that starts with the same letter as 'fornicating' despite going through a bizarre rant about not using it earlier, but it is not employed here in its true prude-trampling sense but rather in a 'I can't fucking believe i cried in public' sense, you see. Which is always never inappropriate. The using of the word 'fucking' like that. Not the crying in public part). What's important to note here however is, I CRIED! IN PUBLIC! Where there were actual people around! To see me cry! In public! Argh!

So i was admittedly not in the bestest of moods to start out with... They were still quite amazing. Plus, Paul Banks has this whole pseudo-shy-intellectual-with-guitar thing that [sadly] fits right up my alley. Literally & figuratively speaking.

Ahem.

Fast forward to Spring 2006. The Yeah Yeah Yeahs had just released a new album, and it kicked so much tooshies that my Twelve-Year-Old and Seventeen-Year-Old Selves both came together, at the same moment in time, for that one performing night - a phenomenon that should not be taken lightly as most of the time my Twelve-Year-Old Self would choose to completely ignore my Seventeen-Year-Old Self (out of spite more than out of respect, really, as she would much rather annihilate the poor girl but cannot - she is only 12 years old after all), while the Seventeen-Year-Old Self is so concerned with her own issues & what's wrong with the world to ever care about that pesky Twelve-Year-Old anyway. But at the concert, they completely rocked out like the silly little girls they both had forgotten they were - together - and i firmly believe that nobody but the incredible Miss O can achieve such a feat. I mean, just look at her:

So cute. She came out in a wool-feathered chicken suit and wore a discoball hat for crying out loud! *bows to Her Magnificence*

The latest addition to this illustrious list (and the one who confirmed my chronical condition) is The Rapture. Their debut album came out three years ago, if i am not mistaken. I loved it immediately. Underground rock meets 70's disco, with cow bell. What else can one ask for? And it was sexy, and dancy, and unpretentious, and so totally rock n' roll, dude! It was fantastic. They released their second album recently, and i get to see them last Thursday in a little venue downtown, and by George! this is what they look like:

Geeky gents who dance! Huzzah!

[** Note: i am aware that there are lots of geeky bands who dance out there - namely Franz Ferdinand, whom i saw & loved - but they are not exactly 'hot', are they? Behold, completely biased & superficial comparison:

FF:Cool, nice, funny-looking boys, lovely to hang out with it seems, but not exactly shaggable, are they? At least, not while being sober. And/or maybe when one is horny as hell.

vs.

The Rapture:Guitar-arms & singing-jawlines, who knew? (except perhaps for that poppet in the middle in the back. He kinda looks scary there). And it's not because the picture is in black & white either.

Case in point.]

Anywho. They had this unpretentious coolness about them, and it was so odd to see the singer (the one with the muppet hairdo) wailing in such a high pitch voice it would give Mr. Gibb a run for his money, all while looking absolutely calm & nonchalant about it (am all about the weird and contrast, y'see). And! hewasalsoverycute. They were able to create a mood that saw the entire crowd - even those sitting in the too-cool-to-care area - dancing like it was indeed 1999, where there was nothing left but disco & love in the air. There were no annoying Emo hipsters to make me want to scoop my eyeballs out, no retardo I-Am-The-Center-Of-The-Universe-Set-Aside-elbowing, no overberaing drunk lunatic. Everyone just danced. Like that ridiculous mating ritual scene in The Matrix Reloaded, minus the ridiculousness. Obviously. During the last encore, everyone climbed onstage, and the singer was completely friendly about it and took pictures with them in this most adorable unassuming way. AND!... hewasalsoverycute. *blush* (Just give me a nice little crazy dancing boy any day, really. Pretty please?)

That's the thing with live performances that predisposes me to such an affliction - the mood, the atmospehere (and the alsoverycutesinger). It felt as if we were all connected, friends, brethren, with the same skewed dancing Xanadu vision of what the world should be like....

*sigh*

Now, i've been listening to them - both albums, back-to-back - for the last three days, and bopping my head like a maniac. It is starting to hurt in the neck area. Also, i want to be a rockstar.

Hmm.

In other news, I went karaoke-ing for me birthday for the first time ever (am now addicted to singing really badly in public), was shocked in the brain for forgetting to take Mr. Effexor (again), got into a ginormous fight with J, kissed & made-up, and have been craving for pizza & milk. And fornication. That is all.

21st century schizoid man

Note to self: Am a conceited bitch when high. Must therefore not be in proximal distance to A as A's lovely head be ripped off. Also, must have Boyfriend or equivalent as Mr. ASs will again be boastfully & unexpectedly longed for.

*cringes*
*claws eyes out*
*falls down*
*hides in dark corner*



[n.b. Mr. ASs was previously known as Mr. S, but such as these things work, one remarkably notices 'connections' when one is...erillegallyintoxicated. Ahem...also, in all fairness, name is more testament of author's character than that of its owner. But not that much more.]

smile like you mean it

I've been feeling a little...volatile these days.
Vagrant, vexed, vacillant, vagarious, vicious. Vvvvvvvvv.

Perhaps because it's raining. Again.
Or because i've been ingesting cafeine twice in an hour.
Or because it's that time of the month.
Or perhaps because my birthday is coming up very soon.
Or maybe it's all of the above.

I remember when i turned 20. It took all the strength i had not to fall apart. Kept trying hard to mend the pieces of my broken heart... Erm, no. Sorry, got a tad carried away there. What i meant to say was, it took all the strength i had not to sob on the cake as i blew out the candles. (Right. There you go. It's hard to start a sentence like that and not carry through its usual disco destiny. Um. Carry on, now.) I did not want to cry because i felt old (tch, i'm not that insipid). They had asked me to make a wish as the tradition goes, and suddenly, shockingly, it overwhelmed me. There were so many things to wish for, things that would not - that could not - happen... I remembered what i thought 20 would be like as a kid and i was so so far from it. I wasn't smarter, wiser, stronger, more confident, or the least bit 'together'. I was a complete & utter wreck. I was more of a mess than i ever was... Or ever thought could be...

I am far from where i was four years ago. I suppose that is something. That is a lot, actually. And look - i'm still a mess! Yay! But i've learned to get used to it, i guess. I've learned to accept it. À l'apprivoiser. And i've also learned not to fret so much about it.

I just remember when i was 12 years old, and thinking that the next time 'my' year - the Year of the Dog - would to come again, i'd be 24. It was such an unfathomable fantasy... Well i'll be 24 now. And it's the Year of the Dog. My year. My 12-year-old self would believe this should mean somehting. But it doesn't, does it? It's just another year. It's just another number. And it's just me. A complete mess. And okay with it. (Or at least once these damn cramps go away.)

Now, everyone scoot together and sing 'I Will Survive'.