7/4 (shoreline)

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

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

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


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


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


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


• OHMYGODIAMLEAVINGINFIVEFACKINGDAYS!!!![ad infinitum]
  


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



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


• I need to see my shrink.
  


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


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

So there.

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

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




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

a time to be so small

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




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

Bare.
Void.
Cold.

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



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

god put a smile upon your face

I GOT MY VISA!!

*does a happy dance*




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

no i in threesome

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

*takes her first sip of coffee in three weeks*



Oh sweet Mother of Pearl!…












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

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

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




2. I confess: if I were indeed of homosexual tendencies, this is the exact type of woman I’d be drawn to.
   
   
   Tall, lean, androgynous-looking, elegantly statuesque, beautifully odd features, Cate Blanchett inspires nothing but awe and strength to me. And she looks like the type who'd be a great hoot to get drunk with. Which would help with the tending toward the homosexual pole.
   
   Hypothetically speaking.
   
   
   
3. Christina Ricci.
   
   
   
   Surreal face, manga eyes and Wednesday Adams. Enough said.
   
   
   
4. There’s something extremely refreshing about Juliette Binoche that, through her forty-something years, still comes off as cool, sensual, naturally and effortlessly stunning. For the life of me, I just can’t think of anything sexier than a French woman comfortable in her own skin, can you?
   
   
   
   
   
   
5. 
   
   Ah yes, a French woman with an impeccable English accent. *swoons*
   
   I actually wasn't a huge fan of Charlotte Gainsbourg growing up as the parts she played in her childhood were usually of bratty whiny country girls who annoyed the daylights out of my budding tits. It’s only when I saw her in 21 grams that I realized (a) 'wow! she’s all grown up now!' (b) 'wow! she can speak English really well!', and (c) 'wow! she has such a pretty soft voice!' A wow-trifecta, one cd and Gondry film later, I was completely taken. Also, she’s exactly how I imagined one of my all time favorite fictional characters to look like.
   
   
   
6. Kate Winslet.
   
   Forget the wonderful acting skills, riot laugh, fabulous curves and sexy voice (everything I imagine The Perfect English Woman to look and sound like), her mere presence in The Holiday keeping me from stabbing my eyes with a turkey fork is enough to win my undying devotion. No no, here's to you, Miss Winslet!
   
   
   
7. Felicity Kerri Russell.
   
   
   
   Oh alright, so my high school days were basically comprised of naval-gazing, looking like a nerd, [unsuccessfully] ignoring boys, make-up experimentations, bad music and 'Felicity'. I’d like to say that I’ve grown out of all that, into a wiser woman with noble taste, but who am I kidding? I had peeked. *cries desperately* Still, Kerri Russell remains one of the most incredibly beautiful people in my book, and am always a little taken aback whenever I catch a glimpse of her anywhere and looking out for movies [except for Mission: Impossible 3 – I pretend that never happened] where she might appear.
   
   Just like an old high school crush you never really got over…. *sighs*
   



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




9. Audrey Tautou.
   
   
   
   Like 94% of people on planet Earth, I have fallen whimsically head over arse for Mademoiselle Tautou after viewing Le Fabuleux Destin d’Amélie Poulain. And if she’s good enough to become Coco Chanel, then really, why should I even bother arguing with the remaining cold heartless 6%? Sweet little garçonne, there is a spunky attitude in her that makes you wish you were somehow a really persuasive lesbian or a dashing manboy, non?
   
   Un peu beaucoup?
   Moi non plus.
   
   If Jennifer Connelly was who I wanted to look like when I was a kid, Audrey Tautou is who I'd wish to be when I was a teenager. Adorable face, sweet little accent, reservedly cheeky and comparisons with The Hepburn (my, I would've died!). And I've always dreamed to have my hair cut really really short like that (damn you perfectly round balloon face!)...




10. And now, for my ultimate female-love, step aside Zhang Ziyi and other frail waif-figured flighty faery femmelettes of the Far East, for here I present to you what a WOomAnn looks like:
    
    
    
    
    
    Huzzah!
    
    
    FINALLY an Asian woman with shoulders AND bosoms AND hips! And just look at that face, will you?! So gorgeous... Sorrowful, fierce, soft, strong, sweet and vixen, she can give it all! Convincingly. And – egad! – not a forceful thought to hide her 42 years, Miz Gong Li is a femme fatale par excellence. Surely not the kind who would take 'no' with a passing nod, no sir!
    
    Nor is she the type would calmly stand four weeks of waiting for a visa without marching into the governmental bureau in the most curve-hugging qipao there is and demand, all cross-legged, her way into the country, with no trail of doubt about her dubious past as a possible whore and/or spy.
    
    
    Really, what's not to completely love about that?
    
    
    That is all.

*does a swinging nervous dance*

life turned upside down

*clears throat*

Dear gentlemen and gentlewomen,

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

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








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

Figure things out. Decompress. Live.
For me.

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








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

Yours truly,
Vaporously Vagrant
Violently Vacuous
Vapidly Vibrant

falling slowly

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

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

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

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




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

And it feels oddly... nice.

*giggles like a silly schoolgirl*




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

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

1 2 3 4

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

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

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

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




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

just

I am quitting coffee.

It is not going so well.




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

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

pace is the trick

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

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

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

*shudders*

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

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

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

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

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



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


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

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

NUMBER 7

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

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

*drools indefinitely*

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



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

No?

What if you closed your eyes?








Ahem. Carry on, then.

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

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



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

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





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

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



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

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

(Mmm… dirty…)

GOOD GOD! Stop it! STOP IT!!

*quivers shamefully in a dark corner*

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

Or a look from those eyes….


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

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

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





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

*covers her face in shame*

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










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

*cries*

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

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










... Pah!

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

toxic

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

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

Which is why I got myself these:

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

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

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

Hm...

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

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

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

I need to take a shower now.




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

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

wake up

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

Ahem.

*cough cough*

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

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

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

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

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

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




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




And I'm forever grateful I still can.

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




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

the good, the bad and the queen

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

Not China Town.

Could you hear the angels sing?





... slurrrrrp.



I kinda blacked out My batteries died after this.



But there were mostly lots of this I presume:


And this:


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

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

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




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

l’endomètre rebelle

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

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






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



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

ice cream

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

*breathes*

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

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

Carry on, then.

feeling good

Stupid Philosophical Question #6195:

"Do animals masturbate?"