making plans for nigel

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

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

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

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

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



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

can't stop the spring

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

*whimpers*

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

*wheezes*

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

***

[Later in the evening...]

Well, um, okay.

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

*breathes heavily in a paper bag*

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

Must.
Calm.
Down.





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

Fucking hell, i need to calm the fuck down.

*runs back into closet*

one plus one is one

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

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

And now you know.




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

song 2

**A NOTE TO HTML**

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

Consider yourself warned.

*squints eyes into small scary empty slits*

**END NOTE**

china pig

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

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

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

Shrimp & Lotus Salad.
Sweet & Spicy.

Imperial Rolls.
Aren't they just perrrfect?

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

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

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

The traditional Square Sticky Rice Cake.

Almond cake.
Bite size.
Bloody brilliant.

Soursop candy. Heavenly

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

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

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

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

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

piggy

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

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

Get yours here!

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

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

Happy New Year & may Good Fortune be with you!

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

girls talk

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*takes a deep breath*

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

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

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

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



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

underneath your clothes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

japanese boy

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

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

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



I have been struck by a panties thief. Help.

winter wonderland

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

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

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

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

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

I really love this weather.

you could have it so much better

A week in review:

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

  Vixen.

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

Um. That's all i have.




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

tout doucement

Something should be said for Monday mornings warmly snuggled in a furry blanket sipping hot Crème Brulée Godiva coffee as Serge Gainsbourg, Barbara & the rest of the 1950's Paris gang serenade me in the background. It feels so decadent i can barely keep my phlegm & snot in. Oh no, wait. That's because my sexy cold refuses to FUCKING. SOD. OFF.

It seems that copious amounts of water, chicken soup, rice porridge, orange juice, vitamin C, Chinese oils, Tequilà, Grand Marnier, Crème de Menthe & the rest of my sister's entire liquor cabinet (mine has somehow been emptied...*look innocent*), there is still a family of goo comfortably embedded in my respiratory system (yes, it's the attention to details that make me so delightful to read, i know). I've managed to narrow this all down to either a case of bad karma (which doesn't really make any logical sense for i am the picture of niceness, you see) or - *gasp* - old age. Seriously. My body, at only near a quarter of a century old, can't seem to cure a simple little cold in less than ten bastard days while Mr. K-Fed has managed to father a small country in that amount of time!

There are some obvious upsides to this, of course. Added to the aforementioned morning (although frankly, for the pure principle of whining, previous mornings were rather spent being completely unconscious - a rather good thing, some might argue), i also get to spend the last few nights in resting (with a better excuse than I Am An Anti Social Bitch) and watching the entire last season of Sex & the City. After the insane amount of socializing the past holiday schedules have found me in, i am happy to report that all this has restored my indulgence towards Human Beings once again. Somewhat.

You see, watching odd social antics on the telly is one thing but actually experiencing them out on my own is a whole other ordeal, let me tell you. It's utterly strange to me in fact. It's not because i am completely unaware of what & how things work Out There, or that i am a hopeless hermit, but it just seems that i've always experienced these things on two levels simultaneously & rather paradoxically. There's the one where i am actually living it, obviously, where i'm in my body, receiving external inputs & giving out internal outputs (sometimes even 'normally', if you can imagine!). And then there is this other level - this out of body experience, or rather a deeper inner body experience - where i witness everything, myself included, from my Seventeen-Year-Old Self's perspective, and it all seems so... weird, man... E.g.:

• Studying in a coffee shop, and then suddenly stop to note that there is this stranger staring at me. After checking if i have zipped my trousers, have coffee dripping down the front of my shirt and/or stained my face with ink dipped in chocolate - all feasible possibilities - i realize, perhaps, he is 'eyeing me' (having to look something like one of those 'trendy slash together' uni student i so often see, i suppose) and wonder how in the world this ever happened? And if this is so, why doesn't this stranger say or do anything to indicate that i am not, in fact, a self-conscious clumsy dirthead but instead a hot self-conscious clumsy dirthead that asks inane questions & gets to study diddly squat? Seriously, some of us can do with a little compliment instead of a scary stare!
  
  
• Flirting at a bar, and realising that i can, actually, flirt! With a guy! In a bar! ME! Which thereafter has the unfortunate result of the most bizarre things coming out of my mouth, such as "I'm sorry, i didn't mean to flirt with you, or act like this bc i'm drunk in any way - it seems that i tend to be naturally like this as well, i'm afraid. I blame it on my fag." Whahhh?!?
  
  
• Shagging on a kitchen table for the first time. All that ran through my mind was 'OhmygawdiamhavingSEXonakitchentable!' . (If you looked up 'smooth', my picture would be right under it.)
  
  
• Having lunch with a once Particular Gentleman who, out of the blue - and really off any topic - decided to talk in detail about a stranger lady he would want to score while carefully pausing AND oddly looking right at me whenever he mentions how hot she is. Me PICKING UP on the possibility that he might be trying to get me jealous - dear lord, why? Do people really do this? And with ME of all people?! And if they don't, why would i even think they would? Weirdness....

Not to mention countless other freaky social phenomena that humbly throw me a little out of the loop, thank you very much. It's as if i'm a lab mouse watching how humans function, and try as i might, study as i can, watch as i do, i will never quite understand the human mating game. Or at least, i will never understand how i could comfortably fit in it (discounting that i could be a pathological case of dysfunctionality, of course). I know humans are social creatures. Their Our urge to couple & mate, to form lasting & secure relationships is a fundamental evolutionary remnant in human psychology. It's normal functional stuff, really. Stuff that makes sense. If their our ancestors didn't bond and huddle together in order to run mammoths off a cliff and drive the Neanderthals into extinction, well, they we wouldn't be here now, would they we? But, to my Seventeen-Year-Old Self, that still doesn't explain why it is normal for one to wait 2 days after a first date to call the other person up, or why it is acceptable to make the other person jealous, play 'hard to get', be rude or patronizing, make the other person feel guilty for not liking you and/or connive the other into liking you only to discover you don't really like them that much in the end (!?!). I mean, really, as if everyday socialising isn't hard enough as it is without having to worry about if you could fall in love with one another.

...That's the ick factor, isn't it? The 'love' part of it all. All this mental hoo-ha & yodelay-hee-haw is because most of us believe that it would - it should - bring us, in the end, this fabulous, coveted, infamous 'Holy Grail of Love'. That it would be all worth it - all the disappointments, all the awkwardness, all the heartbreaks, all the crapiness, craziness & crassness. Because if - and when! - we survive all that, just like Cinderella, Pinocchio or Elisa Dolittle, we somehow get to become more. It's our constant drive to be above & beyond, to self-actualize & better ourselves - that's the ultimate promise of Love, isn't it? But you know what? Love, as far as anyone is concerned, as objective as it can be (because if we cannot count on Science, what can we count on, right?), can basically be broken down into two things: Desire + Intimacy; Desire = Sex, Intimacy = Attachment + Trust.

That's it, folks! Humans are social creatures who need strong social bonds to exist. In other words, it's all a survival thing. Our brains have just wired it somehow to translate 'survival' into 'love', and because we are indeed a tad more complex than your ordinary worm, we create these intricate social schema and rules and norms and concepts for one another to jump through (if for no other reason than because it is admittedly quite amusing to watch sometimes - like going to the circus). And as if that's not enough, throw in some hormones, pheromones and neurotransmitters to the mix, shake it well, let it cool, pour, serve, and voilà! You have your very own Friday Nights Out and 'Til Death Do Us Parts, babies!

Hm.

Maybe i've been watching too much Sex & the City after all (minus the puns & very enviable wardrobe, though i am working on that last point). I was never a die hard fan of the show, i must say. It just doesn't move me, or trouble and rile me up like some of my favorite shows can. Still... every time i get to watch it, it does make me feel better. Actually (and i feel a tad embarrassed saying this, let it be known)... it makes me feel... validated. Because it bears witness to the Single Girl in the strange social game going on Out There. Sure, she may have created quite a few, and i wouldn't even put my weight behind them, but it makes me feel less lonely somehow, less desperate, less pathetic and less weird (and pitiful) for wanting to be happy on my own rather than tolerantly satisfied with a fuckrag who adores me. So there.

Second ponderous 'hm'.

Apologies, i should've warned that this was going to be a rambly whingy post about Singledom. I didn't even know it was going to get to this. I was just counting on the rambly part, really. But lounging here with too much time on my hands, listening to old French love songs with Carrie & Mr. Big still freshly roaming in my head from last night oestrogen binge, as perfect & warm as i feel right now, and despite what i've said previously about boyfriends & getting attached, it just hit me that all this reasoning doesn't matter at all and the one thing that would make my morning even more perfect is having a handsome man watching over me as i type these silly, silly words (in a non-stalkerish fashion, preferably).

I hate how i am programmed. And where the hell are my chocolates?!

holding out for a hero

Last night, i've finally got over my fear of Kate Martianhead Bosworth and saw Superman Returns. This is what i had to say about it:

"Oh Good Gawd, he is so cute..."
"Come on, put those glasses on, put them on, oh yeaaaah...."
"Oh, he is so hotttt!"
"Hot! Hot! Hot! haaaaaahhhhhhh...." *drools*
"Oh....so handsome"
"Come on, rip it, baby, rip it!"
"He. Is. So. Handsome."
"Sooooo beautiful...."

Repeat & shuffle. With more drool. Possibly. The extensive vocabulary displayed there also goes to show the highly educated & intellectual demographic the movie's intricate plot and witty dialogue was aiming at. Also Kevin Spacey rocked. And Superman's got nothing on Clark Kent...

It's all in them glasses, you understand. Now, i will spend the day googling up every one of his picture known in the history of the internet. Because, really, as if we will ever see him in another movie again. If we don't count the one i'm making in my mind. Starring me, obviously.

Okay. Carry on.

holiday

So between work, pre-Christmas dinner parties, plain old parties, work Christmas dinner parties, family dinner parties, family, New Year's Eve parties, New Year's brunch (and one more dinner coming up tonight), and - of course - who can neglect all the oddly awkward social moments & antics, nothing really happened.... If it did, i'm afraid i don't remember anymore. My brain has turned into turkey stuffing & mashed potatoes mixed with jingle bells. Also, i've been spectacularly infected by yet ANOTHER cold which, on top of the wonderful effects of drunkenness, too much food & too much Dancing That Would Make Any Mother Proud, has now turned me into this:

Here! here! to being in The Holiday Spirit! Now, if anyone needs me, i'll be the one growling in a dark corner of the basement holding a kalashnikov.

Oh! And warm wishes to anyone who cares and a very jolly New Year filled with warm fuzzy feelings indeed! Bottoms up [filled with ibuprofen & sudafed for me please]!

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!*