Tuesday, January 23, 2007

The Carousel

The Carousel

Monday, 22.01.2007. 2317 hours.

Why wouldn't you leave me alone? I've only just about managed to put you behind me. I was happily considering new beginnings. The second quarter of my life. Why now?

You know what? I don't wanna know. Once I did. Once I asked. Now I don't anymore. I don't wanna know why it happened, and how it happened, and why you did what you did. You just did.

I just wanna stop thinking. I wanna stop remembering. I wanna stop wondering. I wanna wipe the slate so clean, it's squeaky.

Why must things come full circle? Why must the past haunt me?

If you cross the boundaries of one country and start a fire in the other, at least have the courtesy to put out the fire before going somewhere else. That's just common courtesy. But no, you leave it for a slow, long burn that turned into a forest fire and damn near razed it all to the ground.

There's nothing left, cupcake. When it comes to you, there's just an empty shell. The tears are spent, the fire is gone. There's just.... emptiness. Not even loneliness. Just. Empty. Hollow. I think you know that, too, now. You could tell, couldn't you? That explains the faltering and the silences, doesn't it? For some reason, you're afraid because I'm no longer angry. Because I'm letting it slide. I'm letting go.

You've someone now. Sever the ties that bind us. It's unfair for all if you hold on to something that's no longer viable. What we have is stalemate.

We can't regress, there's too much hurt. Friends don't do to each other what you did to me.

We can't progress, there's too much distrust, and I've lost my respect for you. And there's no longer any communication. Perhaps there never really was. There's nothing left to salvage.

So let me go. You don't want me. You don't need me. Allow me to keep a safe distance. At least for now. Let's wipe the slate clean. I'm not going on the carousel with you anymore.

It never seems to stop. It makes me nauseous. It's frightening when you go around in circles and cannot seem to get off. That's how it's like with you.

I don't want it. I'm taking a leap off the carousel. I don't care if I fall. Perhaps, if I'm lucky, someone will catch me. But it matters not to me, if there isn't. I'm used to cleaning out my own wounds. All I want it Out.



Monday, 22.01.2007. 1830 hours.

Went for an interview today. Starting Wednesday, I'll be employed. I see challenging times ahead. =) Let's see how it goes. Would probably cut down a lot of time blogging. Will keep everyone posted, though.

Random Thoughts on a Sunday Evening.

Random Thoughts on a Sunday Evening.

Sunday, 21.01.2007. 2113 hours.

I'm sitting here in The Curve having my dinner and people watching.

There's so much to be said about someone from their movements, their mannerisms and the way that they dress.

Are they just strolling along, or is there a purpose to their stride? Is that couple there in their first few months, or have they just had a quarrel?

That family having their dinner opposite me is likely to be upper middle class, rather affluent, living in the Damansara area and is English educated. Parents probably married in their late 20s/ early 30s and went to university overseas. Probably met there, as well.

Yeah, I love people watching. Social psychology and behavioural science fascinates me.

An old couple in their 70s just walked/ hobbled past me, talking and holding hands. I smile.

Isn't it sweet to still be so in love even after political/ social upheavals, economic depressions, wars, civil unrest, redevelopment, inflation, children, retirement, menopause, life crises and grandchildren?

I was tempted to ask what their secret was. To still be so happy together in the winter of their years. TO know if they knew they'd be there for each other when they just met. Many young people ought to know what the secret to keeping love like that alive is. Myself included.

Jogging and Karmic Balance

Jogging and Karmic Balance

Saturday, 20.01.2007. 2032 hours.

Every time something is given to you, something would be taken away. Karmic balance. Whatever. Something like that.

I went jogging today. WWWOOOOTT!!! :) It felt good. A little crowded for my liking, though. I like quiet places. Can think :P But it was ok. And Jason's fun company. Well, I can't really jog anymore, really. I've lost the stamina. Gotta get it back :P Poor Jason. I think I hindered him somewhat :P Felt good to run again, albeit for awhile. I forget how good running and swimming felt for me as a mode for de-stressing. And I've not done either in more than 6 months. I've got to pick it up again. I've lost my pace and my stamina. That's so crappy. :P

I've got something important in the pipeline. Something I'm counting on. I've got my eggs in that basket, so I hope and pray it wouldn't fall. Pray things go well for me. I'll know soon enough.

This year started off on a very uncertain footing, but things appear to be looking up now that some dust leftover from last year have started to settle. Hopefully things will continue to look up for me.

Monday, January 22, 2007

Friday, 19.01.2007. 1118 hours.

I shouldn't ask for much. All I want, though, is to touch the lives of the people that I meet. That having met me, I've changed their lives in some way. I'm hoping it's for the better. Is that crazy? Ah 'ell, I've been told I seem to have psychopathic tendencies anyway.

The Precipice II

Friday, 19.01.2007. 0015 hours.

A friend comforted me with this:

God always has plans for us. Always pray to him for guidance and wisdom!

:) I have good friends. And sometimes we all need to be reminded of the truths that we already know, but sometimes cannot (or forget to) see.

The Precipice II

I stand on the edge of the precipice and stare into the darkness below. I hear the lilting, haunting trill of siren song, but try as I might, I cannot seem to find its source. The music pierces my spirit, breaks my heart, and it send me panting, to my knees. There, on the edge of the precipice.

I close my eyes, and shut my ears to it, but still, I hear its melody: mournful, exuberant, sighing, laughing, moaning, singing; the essence of thousands of spirits that had stood here before me.

I open my eyes and once again, stare into the swirling, churning darkness before me. It is a darkness that whispers of a million secrets.

I have to get there. I know. I have to get right to the core to learn its secrets. To obtain certain knowledge. But how?

I deliberate. To take the plunge would most likely mean certain death. To climb down the walls of the precipice would likely be both painstaking, long, tortuous and uncertain. Bungee-jumping, though, is not an option. There is no rope. No one to hold it, either.

I look around me. What had appeared and had taken me, quickly and suddenly, to this precise spot, had, just as quickly and suddenly, disappeared. And I know now, for certain, that I am well and truly alone. That this next phase of my journey would likely have to be undertaken by myself. Alone.

A paralysing wave of doubt and loneliness sweep over me as I contemplate, once more, the dark abyss below me. As I hear and watch it breathe its sigh, it seems alive. And I know my strengths, my weaknesses, the experiences and lessons that I've learnt all my life shall be put to the most rigorous test. I have never felt more stripped, more naked. More afraid.

My fears shall be exposed. THe hurt and pain that I've experienced and still carry with me shall increase a thousand-fold. The hope that, like a fool, I've held closely to my breast like a suckling babe shall be my only support. The dreams that I've secretly cherished and nurtured in the deepest recesses of my mind shall be my guide. I shall be pushed to the limit of my endurance.

Is that experience, that knowledge worth all the trouble? I stare over the precipice once more.

Then I take a deep, cleansing breath, get up on my feet and take a step forward.

I am alone. Yes. But I am not without my faculties, and I am not without strengths, or resources.

Every spirit who has been to this precipice has had to chart their own path. So do I.

I shall blaze my path of glory.

I start my descend. This first leg I shall call Fear.

I can already feel the icy hand of Fear grip my heart and give it a terrible, punishing squeeze. Cold...

Cold... Hollow... Lonely... Afraid...

But I shall endure.

Thursday, January 18, 2007

Damn If I'll Be A Suitable Girl.

Damn If I'll Be A Suitable Girl.

Tuesday, 16.01.2007. 2152 hours.

I'd never marry. Might as well look for a sperm donor now. ANY TAKERS?

I'm an oxymoron.

I'm too unsuitable for Malaysian Chink mothers. I can't say for any other races, I didn't grow up in that society. But even my own mother thinks I'm way too outspoken, too direct, too independent, too avant-garde for my own good. She's afraid that I'll a) turn lesbian. b) become a cranky, old spinster.

I'm tempted to tell her: a) would solve a lot of my man issues. Too bad I like the aesthetic beauty of the male body way too much. Sexually, women just don't cut it for me. Men win that hands down. Too bad, so sad. b) I'd just prey on jailbait to keep my juices flowing. A woman who's getting laid wouldn't be cranky.

Mommy would faint though. SCANDALOUS!! Precisely why I'm too unsuitable for Chink moms. Too direct, too outspoken. TOO OUTRAGEOUS.

I'm too unsuitable for their sons. I won't pamper them. I'd sooner tell them to Go Back To Your Mother than be a surrogate mom. :) Sham's been waiting to hear that for a long time. :P Bet he secretly misses that line.

Mommies don't like that, though. Mommies want their precious boibois to be always well looked after. I'd never marry. I can see that in my future.

You see, I think I'd gag if I found out that my husband married me because his mother thought I was a suitable girl. Not because he chose me, but because his mother did.

I doubt if I could ever recover from such a painful and debilitating blow. I would probably pack my bags and leave because I cannot imagine living with, talking with and screwing with a man who did not choose me. There would always be a nagging doubt in my mind that he doesn't love me enough, that I wasn't good enough for him to choose me on his own accord and that I would always be second best. I would lose my respect for him and what's a relationship when there's always doubt and no respect?

The marriage would be nothing more than a repackaged arranged marriage. I would not be the love of his life, but a suitable girl. Just a suitable girl. Like a few hundred other suitable girls.

I cannot live with that doubt clouding my days. No matter how deeply, madly, head-over-heels in love I am, I wouldn't stay. Would he want me to stay because he wanted me, and he could live with me, or because he couldn't function well enough without me?

I want to be in a marriage with a man who wants me for who I am. Flaws and all. Bitchy, caustic, arrogant, sarcastic, moralistic, elitist, obsessive-compulsive, corny, horny, outrageous, perfectionist, mildly demented (ok, fine, a lot demented), crazy, abrasive shrew that I am. Not because his mommy thinks I'd fit wonderfully into his lifestyle. Because I'm a suitable girl.

Lord, no! I want a man who challenges me to be a better person. To reach deep inside myself and find strength.

Someone who'd comfort me when I'm sad but who wouldn't tell me what to do unless I ask for it.

Someone who makes me laugh and makes up for it when he makes me cry.

Who'd still think I'm beautiful even when I look like horseshit after not sleeping well for a week. Or when I'm 89, toothless, wrinkled to a raisin, and bent over with osteoporosis.

Who'd surprise me but not shock me.

Someone who isn't ashamed of me.

Someone who's proud of my achievements.

Someone who'd share his life with me rather than make me fit into his.

Someone who'd take my side and stand up for me. Because he's MY man. And I'm HIS woman. And he LOVES me. To BITS. :P

Someone to grow old with.

Someone who'd share with me the night before, the morning after and everything in between.

Someone who'd love me like a MAN. Not a boy, but a man.

Who knows that every relationship doesn't happen by magic. That it takes two to tango. That it takes a lot of effort and maintenance, and compromise. And communication, communication, communication. We're none of us, mind readers. After all, aren't assumptions the mother of all fuck-ups?

=) I want the near impossible. But I'd settle for nothing less than the love of a lifetime. If my parents can have it, domestic troubles and all, so can I. I've friends who've found their love of a lifetime. So can I. Why should I settle myself to be second best?

I'll be damned if I'd settle for a glorified, repackaged arranged marriage.

Either a man loves me, or he doesn't.

Respect, trust and communication comes in rapid succession after that. You don't need a relationship guru to tell you that. Without either one of these 3 components, the relationship will fall apart. It's doomed for failure. It can't work. Even with all the love in the world.

I can't respect a full-grown infant. How can I trust a man who gets his mother to choose his bride for him, and marries her just because his mom said so? If he can't make a life decision like that, how can I trust him to provide for me the security that I need?

I don't believe in nannying a full-grown man. And I don't believe in fairytales. I'm THE unsuitable girl. The one the boys want, but are too afraid to approach. Cos I BITE. And the one their mothers warn against. Again, cos I BITE.

I'll never marry. I can't stand infantile invertebrates, and their mothers can't stand me.

How can oil and water mix?

Tuesday, 16.01.2007. 1440 hours.

Tell me WHY and HOW men can sometimes be such blundering idiots??

Sometimes they don't look beyond their feet. And I'm being nice here already.

The term 'future' is so alien a term they don't understand it beyond 'tomorrow'. Or maybe 'next week'. ARGHHHHH....

Tuesday, January 16, 2007

Monday, 15.01.2007. 0125 hours.

Men: Here today, gone tomorrow. Ah well!

I walk along the street of sorrow
The boulevard of broken dreams
Where gigolo and gigalette
Can take a kiss without regret
So they forget their broken dreams

You laugh tonight and cry tomorrow
When you behold your shattered dreams
And gigolo and gigalette
Awake to find their eyes are wet
With tears that tell of broken dreams

Here is where you'll always find me
Always walking up and down
But I left my soul behind me
In an old cathedral town

The joy that you find here, you borrow
You cannot keep it long, it seems
And gigolo and gigalette
Still sing a song and dance along
The boulevard of broken dreams

Stop This World

Stop This World

Sunday, 14.01.2007. 2101 hours.

I want this to stop. I want this to stop so badly I'd give almost anything for it. What am I to do?

Stop this world, let me off
There's just too many pigs in the same trough
There's too many buzzards sitting on the fence
Stop this world, it's not making sense

Stop this show, hold the phone
Better days this girl has known
Better days so long ago
Hold the phone, won't you stop this show

Well, it seems my little playhouse has fallen down
I think my little ship has run aground
I feel like I'm in the wrong place
My state of mind is a disgrace

So, won't you stop this game, deal me out
I know too well what it's all about
I know too well that it had to be
Stop this game, well, it's ruining me

Well, I got too smart for my own good
I just don't do the things I know I should
There's bound to be some better way
I just got one thing more to say

And that is: Stop this game, deal me out
I know too well what it's all about
I know too well that it had to be
Stop this game, well, it's wrecking me

Jazz and Blues

Jazz and Blues

Sunday, 14.01.2007. 1942 hours.

Jazz and Blues turn me on.

In particular Diana Krall and Barry White.

Rainy weekends, low-lighting and listening to these two makes me feel sexy. Hell no, even downright horny.

When I once confessed my this weakness to a friend, she gave me a Look and started laughing.

I was dead serious, though.

The bass makes something pool in an inner coil somewhere deep deep inside of me and a pressure starts to build.

The drums beat a rhythm I identify with, a primal rhythm I understand instinctively and makes me want to move.

The guitars and the sax tease me.

The vocals make me combust in pleasure.

Sigh. How do I explain it? You either get it, or you don't.

I can't explain myself. It's elemental. It's just me.

Give me wine, and I'd probably give you a dirty little number of a dance. Or orgasm on the spot. Or both. And then I'd give you anything, Anything you ask for. Anything, Baby, ANYTHING.

:) And why not? Barry White is the Love God. Millions make love to his music. Who am I to say no when the Love God says Yes? Yes yes yes.

For once, I'm happy to be a lemming. The Love God can make me do anything he suggests. Just as long as he keeps crooning like that.

He's got me where he wants me.

Much Too Much

Much Too Much

Sunday, 14.01.2007. 1537 hours.

I'm Daddy's Little Girl. My Daddy loves me. Much too much. I want to tell him that he shouldn't.

That his baby girl is no angel.

That all his protectiveness has gone to waste.

That ever since I've crossed the South China Sea in a plane, I've never been the same. I'm no longer the wide-eyed innocent naivete I was. Far from it. I now look at the world with cynical eyes.

That there are things that I've heard, things that I've seen, things that I've done, things that I'm doing now that he'd be disappointed with and ashamed of.

He shouldn't love me that much.

It's much too much.

Somebody tell me: When does much become too much?

I don't know. I can't tell. I can't stop.

Somebody show me where the boundary is? Shouldn't there be one?

Sunday, 14.01.2007. 1535 hours.

I believe in God. Because I have to believe that the wrongs in this world would be righted. That Something, Someone somewhere does not feel the Powerlessness that I feel.

Saturday, 13.01.2007. 1435 hours.

They took down my note. So they read it. Good. I know for a fact it's them cos Jon isn't around. He wouldn't be till Tuesday.

On another note, my other phone, for some reason, decided to work at about 2am this morning. Hmmm.... perhaps this charity thing Does work?

1836 hours.

Nope. They fucking locked me out of my bathroom. Fuckers.

1950 hours.

Do you think I put waaayyy too much personal details on my blog? Strange how I allow people to read them when it's up, but I feel naked to write it when someone is present. How strange.

My friend says her dad is on her Friendster. The kind of things people write about me, my dad better not be on mine. And I sure as hell hopes he doesn't read my blog. The thought gives me nightmares....

Older Man Vs. Younger Man?

Older Man Vs. Younger Man?

Saturday, 13.01.2007. 1331 hours.

I met a woman about a week back. She's 30, has had 4 kids and her husband is 42. She's rich, lives the life of a charitable 'tai tai' and had had her 2 daughters in America.

I like her. Funny, smart, nice.

Her oldest is 9 years old. Quick calculation would tell you that this means she had her boy at 21. And since conception takes 9 months, she was probably married at 20. Her husband would've been 32. Which means we can safely assume that she either married while having her tertiary education, or right after. We should also be safe to assume that she has never had to do whatever she didn't want to do ever since she was married (at least). For instance, hold down a crappy job. Her much older (and 6 figure earning) husband's wages were enough to cover her expenses.

They're a lovely couple, this pair. The husband is more mellow, more gentle, while his wife is the feisty one.

But I can't imagine doing that. At least, that's what I say now. I'm not sure I want to marry into a household all ready for me. Like I'm filling in a gap. The household runs fine without me, but I'm needed to fill in a niche.

I want someone I can grow with, and grow old with. I want to build and share something with someone. And that something would be bigger and better than both of us apart. You know, the sum is bigger than its parts.

The tapestry we slowly weave together is so heartbreakingly beautiful with all its flaws that the individual threads themselves cannot bear to match.

Okok, maybe I'm a silly romantic sap and I'd sing a different tune a year from now. But for now, I DO know that it's possible. I WANT to believe that it is.

Two matchmaking friends of mine asked me what is the age limitation that I set for myself when it comes to men, and, quick as a whip, I said laughingly: 'Not less than 3 years my junior, and not more than 10 years my senior. That makes that a 14 year allowance. Shouldn't be hard to find a man, no?' (insert cheeky grin here).

They both exchanged a quizzical look and went: 'Why that figure?'

To which I replied: 'Less than 3 years would make me feel like I'm dating jailbait, and the maturity would likely not match. More than 10 would make me feel like the generation gap is too wide a chasm to bridge.'

What I didn't say was that I once dated a guy 14 years my senior. His MCP-ness was so unbearable I was tempted, so many times, to shoot a bullet through his nads. Would have been damn satisfying to do that, too. :P Nothing could be more satisfying than emasculating an I-think-I'm-so-macho idiot of a chauvinist pig.

My Parasitic Housemates from Hell

My Parasitic Housemates from Hell

Friday, 12.01.2007. 2141 hours.

They use my utensils, leave it unwashed in the sink for a week and only wash it AFTER I posted a note to tell them to clean up.

And they wash it using:
a) MY handwash (and finish it)
b) MY body wash (because they've finished the handwash)

Then they eat my food. And drink my Coke and my milk. And leave 25 ml (approx.) of milk left in the box (from 800 ml, mind you).

I don't know if it's because they're trying to fool a girl who used to estimate 10ml, 25ml, 50ml, 100ml worth of pipetting solution (and gets it right) or if they're too lazy to throw it away. I suspect it's both.

They use my toiletries. My handwash, my bodywash, my shampoo.

BUT they have money to subscribe to ASTRO.

AND they have a 21' SONY WEGA TV in their ROOM.

A few days ago, I noticed a pair of her shoes missing. Ok, whatever.

Today, I find my shoes out of place. And I'm obsessive compulsive about arrangement. Things have to be a certain way.

When I took it out, it was dirty. My fave pair of black clubbing stilettoes. I wipe all my stilettoes up before I keep them back in their boxes. (Yes, I know I'm weird, but I don't club as often as I did now, and it's just called 'preservation'. They're pretty shoes, ok?)

The bitch has been using my shoes. To work, I bet. Unbelieveable. One TV is worth several pairs of shoes. I was speechless.

So now this note is my LAST attempt at being nice. So many notes, and this is it. Any more and I'll poke holes in their condoms and give them H1O57.


I didn't have space to say that being nice to people helps. 3 pairs of shoes were given to me by friends.

Let's see what happens next.

Thursday, 11.01.2007. 1406 hours.

I have to believe in myself. I have to blaze my own path of glory.

I cannot rely on a man. I refuse to. Years of experience, and much disappointments taught me that. Because there's so much more to Me. So much more I can achieve.

And I would not trade my successes and achievements for a man's flimsy, mutable and undependable love.

What would be left of me if I let my life revolve around a man, and he tires of me and throws me to the dogs?

No. If he loves me, he would give me my space. He would allow for my personal growth. And he would be proud of my achievements, because by proxy, they would be his achievements as well.

Leave Me Alone

Leave Me Alone

Thursday, 11.01.2007. 1358 hours.

I checked my email yesterday for the first time this year.

And I received a most unpleasant shock.

You sent me an email.

You wish me Happy New Year and 'hopes I'm 'no longer still mad' at you'. HOHOHO... Watch me turn up my lips in a grotesque mockery of a smile.

What is it you want from me?

What is it you want me to say?

All this time. And suddenly you think of me and send me an email. Really now. What is it that you want?

You want control over me, don't you? Even then, you wanted control.

You want my body. You want me to adore you. You want me to go all panegyrical about you.

You want me to be your pretty little trophy girlfriend. Always smiling, always gorgeous, always dolled-up when we are out together. For a certain time frame, at least. What was it you said? Be my girlfriend for 2004/ 2005?

Well, you must be going psychotic. Your thoughts and emotions must be so impaired that contact is lost with external reality. Wake up! You aren't getting it.

Not my being your girlfriend (trophy or what not, time frame or no). Not my body, either. I'd rather sleep with snakes. Snakes are even more warm-blooded than you are. And I most certainly won't adore you. I didn't then, I won't now. Wax lyrical about you? Not even at your funeral. I'd keep a silence so magnanimous, all would know what the paralipsis means.

I'm a stubborn bitch. You should know that by now. You think a few phone calls and one email would make me change my mind? Think again.

You wanted a blow so badly, didn't you? That's it, isn't it? That's what you want?

Honey, why don't you surgically remove your three lower ribs, so you can bend over anytime you want, and suck your own cock? You, being the extremely well-connected man that you are, would surely have the contacts to be able to get it done. And oh! I allow you to send me those rib-bones once you are done with surgery. I'd dry them and keep them as souvenirs: I knew this dastardly jackass once.

Why email me now, anyway? What is it you're hoping to achieve? And why can't you just bloody leave me alone?

My not wanting to pick up your calls should have been indication enough. My parting remarks should have told you, beyond a shadow of a doubt, precisely how I felt about you. And your shenanigans.

It's not like you lack any females who'd spread their legs for you and fuck you silly. So why me?

I'm the one that got away? I'm staying away.

Bloody leave me alone, why wontcha?

I'm not replying your mail. I don't plan to.

Go stick a red hot iron poker up where it never sees the sun. And learn how to contemplate pain. Maybe then you'll learn how to be human. And how to fucking get a life and leave girls fresh out of school alone.


I won't allow you to. You'd suffer grievous and irrevocable injuries to your penis and your testicles first. I'd make Mrs. Bobbit look like a contented, domesticated kitten when I am Very. Very. Angry.

Men like you shouldn't be allowed to breed anyway. Try your shit on me one more time and I'd really make you suffer.

Who died and made you Petruchio? Taming of the Shrew indeed. Let's see who tames who.

Why should I spread my legs for you when you don't even know how to love me like a MAN.

You sadden me. You disappoint me. You disgust me. You're my mistake I'm ashamed to admit I made. But I will. The world would cut me no slack, and therefore I will cut myself none.

Thursday, 11.01.2007. 1356 hours.

Maybe I'm crazy to want reassurance, but....

I wonder if they want me for who I am, or for what I can offer.

Because I feel, sometimes, that the lines between both are so blurred that I can't tell the one from the other.

Like and Like

Like and Like

Thursday, 11.01.2007. 0057 hours.

'Like must marry like, or there shall be no happiness.'


From what I've seen and experienced (which is meagre, of course) is that people who are very alike either love each other, or loathe each other.

There is rarely, if ever, any in-between.

It's because they recognise themselves in the other person. They either love what they see (which is what they try to portray), or loathe what they see (which is what they want to hide).

What I Don't Like

What I Don't Like

Wednesday, 10.01.2007. 0704 hours.

Maybe I'm not the kind of girl who gambles.

Maybe I'm not the kind of girl who seizes the day.

Or makes the first step.

Maybe I don't like to take risks, especially emotional ones.

Or maybe emotional attachments are just not my thing.

Maybe I don't like to be that person to just go ahead and put myself out there.

I have a friend, a guy friend who says that I have to go elsewhere to find relationship happiness. That Malaysian boys, in general, just aren't hardworking enough (oh! I will probably get many hatemails for this, but I wasn't the one who said this. A dude admitted it.) They like it easy. They like it on a platter. They don't want to make that effort.

Why should they, when so many girls throw themselves at them and spread themselves out there like a buffet table?

'Pick me!' 'Try me!' 'Choose me!' 'Love me!'

So many other available cunts... so why bother with the difficult one?

It's crazy, that buffet table. So I step back away from the craziness and just hold myself to myself. And keep away even if it kills me.

Or maybe I just don't like emotional attachments. Just not my thing.

Getting emotionally attached drains you. It puts too much at jeopardy. You can't think straight.

Emotional attachments make you human. But it also makes you vulnerable. To hurt. To pain. To every crazy emotion out there.

It makes you biased. It makes you make rash decisions.

Emotional attachments make you lose your edge. Getting emotionally involved makes you stupid.

I Don't Like Emotional Attachments.

There's a whole long list of things I DON'T like.

Emotional Attachments? Tops the list.

So why can't I extract myself? And put up a distance? And build a wall no one can scale? Why do I get that adrenaline rush when I do something I know I shouldn't be doing?

Tuesday, 09.01.2007. 1334 hours.

Men. From the start, they suck the life right out of you.

Grey's Anatomy

Grey's Anatomy

Tuesday, 09.01.2007. 0058 hours.

There's a reason why I love Grey's Anatomy so much.

It's because I could identify with the characters.

It's a relief to realise that you aren't the only one to make idiotic mistakes and that smart-aleck surgical interns (real or imagined) could be human too. It isn't a pleasure but it's heartening to know that you aren't alone.

I empathise with Meredith Grey.

I know how it feels like to constantly be in someone's shadow. I know how it's like to feel you have potential but never seem to be able to grasp and reach it.

I also know how it feels like to be vulnerable and aloof and actually quite shy. And to always, always feel stuck.

And to try to salvage whatever you have left but seem to fail at it. To try to replace what you've lost with something mediocre and end up disappointed.

And I know how it feels to always seem to fall for the one person who's all wrong for you and end up in an emotional mausoleum.

I know how it's like to make reckless, foolish mistakes and have those mistakes constantly haunt and hound you. And having to pay for it, over and over again.

I know how it's like to be weak, to try to go but always end up staying.

And to cry when you finally learn to sever the ties that bind.

It feels like a little bit of me had died inside....

Loss of innocence. What could be more painful?

Then there's Geoge O'Malley. Who hasn't been George?

To yearn for something you cannot have. To fall for someone who doesn't see you. To worship from a far, far distance. To be so near, and yet so far away.

To be the invisible (wo)man.

And then, to settle for what is (you thought) second best.

And then to realise what you got when it is too late. And, to realise, too late, that what you had was exactly what you needed and wanted.

Christina Yang.

I know what it feels like to be her, too. To have to constantly fight for a dream.

To have parents that try to run your life. To feel that perceived oppression. To have to constantly prove yourself, time and time again.

To always guard your emotions, afraid to let the dam burst. To fight for what's rightfully yours.

To prove your worth, over and over, to someone who doesn't want to acknowledge it.

Ambitious, career-driven, proud.

To train yourself to be unfeeling and cold.

To be continually frightened to lose one's edge.

The higher the climb, the greater the fall. And oh! How painful to fall from such great heights. And the price you pay for it. I know what that means too.

Just as I know what it means to be stuck between East and West, Heaven and Earth. To want to believe, and yet to also spurn it.

Being stuck. How I hate the feeling.

Yes, I love Grey's Anatomy.

I see so many facets of myself revealed in them.

I can feel for their struggles. Their fears. Their successes. Their hope. Their despair. Their euphoria. Their sorrow.

Though, of course, I don't look half that good.

No one bloody looks as good as Isobel Stevens in a surgical ward after a 12 hour surgery. CHUH! :P

Sunday, 07.01.2007. 1817 hours.

Frustration. How does one describe it? You feel your chest grow tight, your throat constrict, you can't breathe, and your head starts to pound. And then you feel the tears come.

I don't cry much when I'm sad. It's as though sadness have to be held painfully inside. The fragility of that emotion cannot be expressed through tears. And so you hold it in, time after time again, until one day it all combusts. In the early hours of the morning. Always the early hours of the morning. Between dusk and dawn.

Wait. All my life I've been waiting. I don't know for what. And all my life I always seem to be waiting for people, or for something to happen. It sucks.

Wednesday, January 10, 2007

Saturday, 06.01.2007. 0115 hours.

I am a sentimental cunt.

My body the Tiny Tim

My body the Tiny Tim

Saturday, 06.01.2007. 0056 hours.

Went for dinner, came back about 8, called Mum, messaged some people, and then dropped off to sleep like a log.

It was unintentional. Then again, considering I had only approximately 3 hours of fitful sleep last night, and I was already getting sleepy after dinner, yeah, it comes as no surprise.

The shit part is, waking up to protein cravings. My body screams: I WANT MEAT! I WANT MEAT! I WANT MEAT!

And then it mewls pitifully. It's as though my body were a Tiny Tim, going: Feeeeeedddd mmmmeeeeeee............

How disturbing....

If I had a car, I'd go out for dimsum. On my friggin' own. If I had Maggi mee, eggs and sausages, and gas, I'd cook for one. But I don't.

Still doesn't stop my Tiny Tim body from going:

Now to add to the list: SA-SHI-MI! Fish roe! Fish roe! Raw salmon! Raw salmon!

Hotdamn. I'm so very weird.

Food and Sex.

Food and Sex.

Friday, 05.01.2007. 1704 hours.

I've still got my cravings for:

1. Piping hot banana pancakes served with fresh strawberries and cream and balsamico. Chocolate optional.

2. Dim sum. Ha Kau! Ha Kau! Ha kau!

3. Bak kut teh.


Add to that, I've got my chocolate cravings now. Dark dark chocolate. Sweet with a tinge of bitterness for that edge. MMmmmmmmm..... Damn. Must be the time of the month. Mayhaps I am horny.

Hell yeah, I am.

As if in affirmation, I can feel it throbbing. A friend of mine mentioned over an elaborate dinner party. I am never happy doing it on my own. Ok, I can't tell the difference. Maybe she's right. At the rate this is going, it seems like an itch worth scratching.

DAMMIT. Again.

The Precipice

The Precipice

Friday, 05.01.2007. 1123 hours.

I know I'm not the only one. But at the very least, you've been honest with me so far as I can tell. And at least in this, I've entered with my eyes open. With my eyes wide open. I'm not sure, though, if I wanna know how many there are. I suppose I have no right to ask who it is that you love, though I have perhaps every right to ask who it is that you touch. And yet I'm not asking. Not yet, at least. Perhaps I'm not sure I want to know.

Jury's still out on whether accidents are mistakes. Just as, jury's out on whether loving someone and being in love with someone is one and the same. And yet, what's not to love about you?

You make me laugh. Your touch sears. You dug a hole and crawled under my skin.

You're dangerous. He may have filled me with longing, but you drag it out of me. You bring it to the surface. You make me yearn for something I do not know and hence cannot name.

I may have been climbing the mountain all this while but you take me to the peak, show me the view and then bring me to the precipice.

One shove, and I shall be falling, quickly, quickly into the swirling, churning vortex of darkness below. The abyss of unknowns. It beckons. Like a siren song.

Poetic Justice

Poetic Justice

Friday, 05.01.2007. 0218 hours.

What happened to the Golden Boys? The ones I used to really love pricking their overinflated balloons of egos? The ones who laid down the laws of ideal feminine beauty in 1999/ 2000?

You know, girls must have sleek straight, shiny hair, porcelain skin, and, regardless of height and bone structure, must not weigh above 45 kgs?

The ones, who were not particularly great or handsome, but, given the circumstances/ choices, otherwise bright, independent girls bent over backwards to try to please?

The ones I wanted to say:


My girlfriends look stunnning/ gorgeous and better than they've ever looked now. Oh, we may not have men, but we look like swanky, sassy, sexy 20 somethings with the whole world just waiting for us to conquer.

There is NO GLASS CEILING. It's all in your head. Take the blue pill. You'll see.

The 'gits' and 'goons' have found for themselves pretty decent women. The 'gittettes' and 'goonettes' are fine, lovely, interesting, warm and funny girls I'd happily call my friends. And they're anything but plain. The 'gits' have done pretty darn well for themselves. I'm glad. I'm proud :)

In contrast, I met one of the Golden Boys the other day. He now looks at least 5 years older, and is fat and dowdy. He looks like somebody's father, and not in a good way. His woman ain't anything to crow about.

My theory? The 'gits' look for someone they're comfortable with, rather than someone to please them. And they found precisely that. Someone they're comfortable with, who pleases them.

Also: Justice is a Woman. And She is a Poet.

Let's toast to that. Happy New Year's!

Deja vu and the Four-Letter Word

Deja vu and the Four-Letter Word

Friday, 05.01.2007. 0209 hours.

Life comes full circle-the past comes back to haunt you. I've been having dreams. Disturbing dreams that I wake up sweating from. Dreams of people I knew. People I'm avoiding.

Deja vu. Is it possible that dreams can warn you of impending events? It's happened to me more than once. It's something I cannot explain. Something I myself only partially believe. And it's something I've not experienced for a good while. And yet it's happened again. And I'm once more left bereft of words.

So I was right about bulldozing/ mowing down my issues in contrast to running away from it. Because the past always catches up on you. I take neither pride nor pleasure in knowing that I am right. Running away may be the coward's way, but it's also the easier way.

I guess nothing in life worth having comes easy.

I wish it weren't so.

Life's a four-letter word, and she's never easy, is she?

The Writings of An Insomniac

The Writings of An Insomniac

Friday, 05.01.2007, 0154 hours

Happy New Year's.

The New Year's come and gone, and I spent it packing. And I slept past the fireworks. After all, the new year's yet another day.

Night after night, I lie in wakeful slumber. My body wearies, but my mind is awake. I am an insomniac. And it is not by my choice that my mind is most active in the still of the night. While the rest of the world sleeps, my brain starts to whirl. As my body tosses and turns in reluctance, my brain churns out its best ideas/ thoughts. It is as though, in protest of the whirlwind of daytime activities, it chooses the silence and tranquility of the deadness of the night to think.

I HATE IT. It robs me of my sleep. It exhausts me. It makes me HUNGRY. And there's nothing much left to eat. Night time cravings, for me, demand sodium and protein. And I've not bought anything in protest of FUCKWIT HOUSEMATES WHO EAT MY GODDAMN FOOD.

I HATE THIS. I need my sleep. The night is beautiful and all, but I need to sleep. I want to sleep.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge had it right when he wrote:

O sleep! 'Tis a wondrous thing,
Beloved from pole to pole,
To Mary Queen, the praise be given,
She sent the gentle sleep from heaven,
That slid into my soul.

Friday, 29 December 2006. 0052 hours.

Nothing I say or do would ever please him. Nothing I say or do is ever sufficient enough. I could never please him. I could never get it right.

I could never be who he wants me to be. I could never be his perfect ideal. How could I, with all my flaws? How could I, when I'm not sure what he wants?

What can I do to ever make him happy? What can I do to do him proud?

I can't have a relationship with a man. I don't know how. I can never be the perfect daughter, the perfect sister, the perfect girlfriend. How could I ever be the perfect wife and mother?

Why is it that the men in my life always end up breaking my heart? Am I really not good enough? Am I really that useless? Am I really that ugly, internally and externally? Am I really so full of flaws there is nothing good left in me?

I don't try hard enough. I don't make the effort. Everything I do. Everything I say. It's never enough. Never.

I don't look to the future. I don't learn from my past. I don't live in my present. I don't listen. I don't understand. I don't think. I don't learn. I don't get my priorities right.

I never do anything right. I never think of him. I never consider his hard work. I never consider his feelings. I am never fair enough to him, always only thinking of myself. Never. Never enough.

Always too little. Always too late. He is always right. I am always wrong.

It is always my fault. Always. Mea culpa. Mea culpa. Mea maxima culpa.

I. Never. Get. Anything. Right. N-E-V-E-R.



Wednesday, 27 December 2006. 1936 hours.

When asked, why, in this time and age, I still intend to be a mother, I am stumped for words. I, in a rare moment, do not have anything smart to say.

How do I explain that call to procreate? How can I explain that very basic instint?

I want to feel life in me. I want to feel it fill me and stretch me to the brink, to the fullest capacity. I want to feel it grow in me and make me feel things that I would never feel for myself, or feel otherwise.

I want to feel fear and despair and sorrow. I want to feel courage and hope and a happiness so profound, I am without words.

How can I explain it?

I want to feel that powerful connection with another human being. I want to feel a love so moving, I would give my life for it. I want to feel. I want to feel my emotions and my soul touched by someone else. I want to feel emotions I have never felt.

No words could express what I'm trying to say. I can't explain myself, and I don't know how.

Yes, I feel the call of motherhood. I want to create a living, breathing, moving testament of my love with someone else. A life beyond my own. I know children would have a mind, a heart, and a body of their own, and there's nothing much I can do besides trying my best to instil core values in them. Hopefully, those values would outlast society's latest fads, and they would know what's best for themselves. The rest is up to prayer and faith.

But I also know that I am not ready for it. I do not yet have the mental, emotional and physical strength, or the finances to bring children into this world. I do not want to bear my children for them to suffer.

And thus, my eggs are rotting in their little shell, and my vagina is drying up.... (As my friend, V, would say, damn him :P....)

The Wedding, The Driver

The Wedding, The Driver

Wednesday, 27 December 2006. 1159 hours

***The Wedding

Went up to Ipoh for an ex-classmate/housemate's wedding, and it was quite an experience.

Well, he is Punjabi, and half the dinner was in a language I couldn't understand. The better half, apparently, cos the friend sitting at my table was translating it for Tracy and I and it was all about sex. Then again, said friend also has a tendency for cheekiness and practical jokes, so I can't be quite sure. But everyone Punjabi/ Hindi was laughing, or wearing a satisfied smirk, so it had to be good.

It was, otherwise, like a sit-down Chinese dinner, except that there weren't many Chinks around, there was free flow of alcohol (no Chinese dinner would have that. Chinks can't drink much for shit), the food wasn't Chinese, and there wasn't a Karaoke session (thank God! Though I think Punjabis could probably sing better than old Chinese uncles/ aunties). And there was Bhangara dancing from 10pm-12pm opened by the newly-weds. Which was sweet :)

Of course, being party animals and bloody drunkards, the younger crowd also had to have an after-party involving more whiskey and dancing :P And yours truly, knowing these people and having gone out with them often enough, was invited along. ;) But since yours truly and her girlfriends make them look cool to have hot chicks around, so why not, eh? 11 guys without any girls would look quite sad, no matter how well-suited up, tall, dark and handsome they were. 4 girls. (approx.) 11 very tall, very big boys. No wonder we never get picked up. HAHA. So we adjourned to the nearest club/ pub/ bar playing R'n'B/ hiphop and partied till about 4am.

Then we got hungry and went off to the nearest mamak for food. Which shredded my already near non-existent rep even more, cos now they not only know me as a drunkard, but a glutton as well. The pilot calls me the Half-Bhai, and concocted some cock-n-bull tale about how my Chinese ancestry must have had a scandal with India. How else does one explain the hair, the eyes and the ass? Yah, 'nuff said. Now I'm a glutton because after 1 roti pisang and half a plate of maggi goreng, I was still hungry :P Oopsss.... That's the Burger King incident all over again. I'd bet Tracy and Bren could remember.

It was good, though, to meet up with friends I have not seen for awhile, and catch up. Tiring, but good. Goes to show I'm not as young as I was anymore :) Spent Christmas in a car, nursing a migraine, keeping Ayako company and sending her off, and then sleeping as much as I could. Still woke up with a migraine, though. Hotdamn... I know it wasn't a hangover, though, cos I wasn't drunk.

***The Driver

Coming back from Ipoh, after sending Ayako off and on the way past Bangsar, I saw, fleetingly, in a car, someone I had been avoiding for more than a year. It was quite a shock to see him, and I turned away immediately the moment I realised who he was. I hope he didn't notice me.

It's strange how life throws you curve balls at times. And it's obvious how you can never really forget. Would it ever be possible for me, to no longer feel that jolt of fear each time I see his face? In reality or in my nightmares? When would I be able to get past it? Would I ever be able to?

Questions, questions, to which no one quite knows the answers.

Nemesis' Epiphanies for 2006

Nemesis' Epiphanies for 2006

Saturday, 23 December 2006. 0916 hours.

I had planned to blog about so many things. And yet when I sit in front of the computer, nothing comes. It's as though I can't put my thought processes into words.

But I'll try.

What have I learnt from 2006? It's the end of the year again, and time for year-end reflections. I'll be going to Ipoh for an ex-classmate/ housemate's wedding, and am attempting to paint my nails (just once, if it fails, I give up) so I need to keep my hands busy and occupied anyhow.

I'm at crossroads in my life. I don't know where I'm gonna go, I don't know where I'll end up. In fact, in a couple of days, I'd be jobless and homeless. And I don't quite know what to do. I'm getting insomnia again, and just a few days ago, several friends have plucked 2 strands of gray from my head of hair. SO WHAT? Well, the times I had gray hair were: 1) Form Six. 2) The final year of university. 3) Now. 2 strands. I'm under extreme stress. That explains the constant illness as well.

Why I'm jobless is obvious. Why I'm gonna be homeless is something I don't wanna get into detail. Suffice to say, my father and I have very different opinions and views, and this time, at least, I'm proven right. Except he'd never admit it, and I'm so frustrated that I am blogging about it. Why I agreed to let him put me in this situation is because I was too worn out to argue, and because if I had my way and things went wrong, I'd never hear the end of it 30 years down the road. My father is a stubborn, difficult man. He loves me, but he's stubborn. Yeah, that's where I got it from. So that's that.

Now that we've dispensed with that, these are my epiphanies for 2006.

Studying at a crappy place is taxing. There are many morons in this world. Try not to have an MD that's one. If turnover rate at a company is very very high, run like the devil's chasing after you for your life AND your soul.

Doctors are not God. In fact, 80% of the time, they have no idea. So ALWAYS ALWAYS get a second and third opinion until you're perfectly sure. If surgery's involved, get MORE. Don't let surgeons cut you up for no good reason. Those people are sadists, they're super knife-happy. No good. Good for them. No good for you.

LOVE is a four-letter word. LIFE is another.

There are people who always wanna see you fail. Very few wants to see you succeed. Count those your friends. Even less want to help you get there. Hold those close to your heart. Life is precious and time is short, and good friends get even more rare as time and the years get in the way.

All women need their sisters. Even if it's just for a cup of hot tea and chocolate cake. And talking about the most inane things. Because it's the company that counts. There are some things in life men will never comprehend. Even if they try. Some things are just understood by women. Call it women's intuition if you like, I say women live on a different spiritual plane. Perhaps the ability to hold life and birth it is the reason. I don't know. Maybe it's the flexibility of the (approx.) several cm vagina to stretch to an amazing extent to accommodate first a penis, and then a baby. Fuck if I know. I just know that women can see and feel things that men can't. It's the grasp of understanding that men are too dense for. Maybe it's just how we're wired.

Women and men view the world, sometimes, from the complete opposite end of the spectrum.

No one person should ever completely take leave of their senses due to another person. E.g. (so common this year) If a man doesn't want you, leave with your head held high. It's always better to be classy than crazy. I mean, for fuckssakes' (God too holy to be used in this instance), he doesn't want you. Even if you cut your wrists, all he'd do is say: 'OMG, thank God I stopped dating her. She's nuts. Oh well, pity though, she was a good lay (if you were).' Why be a past tense when you can be a future tense? I mean, seriously, if he were callous enough to be totally insensitive to your feelings, what makes you think your dying would make him a better man? Insensitivity doesn't change with death. The best revenge is to move forward. Get yourself a good man who happens to be a great fuck, and move forward with life. Then he'd say, maybe, to your current boyfriend: 'She's a great lay, isn't she?' And he'd say: 'Yeah, your loss, buddy. I hope your current is as good.' Maybe not. But there's always a possibility with the scenario. Dying or going crazy would relegate you to the forgotten realms and dusty cobwebby cabinets of his mind. Why punish yourself for someone else's idiocy? Say: 'You're a useless piece of shit, I want nothing to do with you. Fuck off and Have a nice life. I don't envy your girlfriend.' Then leave and don't look back.

Every experience is worth something. Bad experiences teach you to not repeat the same mistakes. Therefore, there should never be a moment of regret. Mistakes teach you to not take that path in the future. Life, after all, is one huge Multiple Choice Questions test, and most things would require the elimination process.

However, history repeats itself because no one seems to be able to learn from it.

Common sense is such a very uncommon trait.

Loving someone, and being in love with someone, are very different things.

Can we even separate love from lust anymore? Copulation shouldn't be a flippant act just for a passing need, shouldn't it be the ultimate expression of love and desire? Shouldn't it be between two individuals who care for each other?

No man can serve two masters at one time. Therefore, endowed by God with two heads, they can only use one at any one given time. And most of the time, unless stimuli isn't present, it is usually the one hanging from the lower half of their torso. For some, it is worse, as said half also happens to be sweeping the floor (metaphorically). I suppose we could blame it on gravity and bloodflow. Too much effort needed to send the blood all the way up against gravitational pull, so let's just send the blood to Head No. 2. F=ma, no? Which leads me to the next epiphany.

Men, especially those of a particular calibre, may want to fuck women the likes of Angelina Jolie, but would marry a housekeeping mouse who would never dominate them. For Asian men, especially Chinese men, said mouse would preferably be waif-like, smaller and shorter than they are, with long, straight black hair just like Ju-On's, and very fair skin. Said mouse would be soft-spoken and quiet unless spoken to, and giggly and simpering WHEN spoken to. Said mouse would rarely complain, would never dare to challenge his decisions and opinions, and would be content to be wife and mother and mistress of his kitchen and living room. The bedroom? Oh! That's Ms Jolie's domain. Mouse has no say because he keeps Mouse in the manner in which she wants to be kept. Men like that are afraid of strong, independent, opinionated women. Because their self-esteem is so rock-bottom that a strong woman is considered a domineering one. A domineering woman challenges his manhood. And they do not want to be challenged. They fear to be dominated. Well, what they don't realise is that strong, opinionated women may like to get their way on occasion, but they also like a man who could stand his ground. It's respect that they want, and it's respect that they'll give. And the rewards of being able to tame such a woman would be great. Women like this do not want to surrender to a conqueror. They would yield to a man who pursues them right. That dominating, scary Ms Jolie herself mentioned: 'I am always on top. I am begging for the man that can put me on the bottom, or the woman. Anybody that can take me down.' Now the man who achieves that is the man who'd know the definition of SWEET victory. Pups with their tails between their legs can just forget ever tasting that. They can go stick to their Ju-On housekeeping mice. After all, they deserve each other. Unless he's fuckingly filthily rich, or extraordinarily handsome, the Jolie types in this world wouldn't give them the time of day. And if he were so rich or so handsome, he wouldn't have a self-esteem that requires mice to stroke it right.

Why so bitchy? Because I don't understand how a particular guy who can't speak Chinese for nuts seem to only go for Chinku females who are the abovementioned type. This latest one can hardly string a proper sentence in English, and seem to not have much common sense. She'd sms me something like: 'I aslo not vry sure 4 it. Mostely like this. I dun knw. I knw hve go wrk. He say Christmas I go dwn. Cn u tell where u live?' at 3am in the morning. What the fuck? Can somebody shoot me now? Then again, he is 'aslo' the abovementioned type of male. I give up. And I rest my case.

Friendships are so brittle. But when a friendship goes toxic, it's time to cut your losses and run. And there are many types of toxicity. However, if the friend disses you in public snidely, takes you for granted, makes use of you, toys around with you, abuses your trust and friendship and constantly disappoints/ hurts you for no good reason because s/he knows s/he can without saying sorry and truly making up for it, that's really the sign to go. How much more obvious can it be?

How does it feel to have loved and lost someone who absolutely doesn't deserve it? It feels as though one were standing outside one's body, watching, as one's heart were ripped out of one's chest, twisted and yanked at the same time, and then tossed carelessly, while it were beating and bleeding still, into a tubful of liquid Nitrogen, and frozen to brittleness in the next heartbeat. The now brittle heart is then hurled against the far granite wall to splinter and crash to the ground. It is then stomped gleefully on until it is completely pulverised into dust particles. Then it is left there for the winds to blow helter skelter, and the sun to beat down on it, and the rain to wash it away till there is none left. That's how it feels like to care for someone who couldn't give a toss. And I'm not talking about a year. I'm talking about almost half a decade. Yes, I was retarded for awhile. My bad. And so, I tell myself. Never again. But the human heart is foolish, and when have I ever taken my own medicine? Or advice, for that matter? So I write this down, to remind myself. Perhaps this time I will. Maybe next time I'll be wiser.

And yet, it's funny how little things can remind you of people and places that you'd rather forget, or thought you had forgotten. I'd be lying to say the above episode is all over, and I'm much better. Yes, it's over, and yes, I'm better now, thank you. But sometimes, at night, I'd remember, and the tears would come. It's because I feel a sense of bereavement, of loss. Of the company, while it lasted. Of my innocence, and how that could never return. Of how things turned out. And I wonder. If things could have turned out different if we had done things differently. Silly, I know. Pointless, I also know. But we're human, and we can't help but wonder sometimes. To deny myself that, now that I'm moving forward, inch by slow, painful inch, would be denying myself my human emotions. And I don't want that. I don't want to be an insensitive, brittle female. I have blood in my veins still. It hasn't turned to either alcohol or ice as yet. Not to everyone, at least. How could I close my mind to the memories, when so much of my past is intertwined with it? So I just have to learn to live with it. But I think it's okay. It's okay to feel the pain, the loss. It's also okay to cry. Tears are the safety valves of the heart. At least no one is around to watch the private, bitter tears then. Or the quiet, sorrowful tears now.

I have my friends still. And though only the few in my private circle would know the actual events of what transpired, my friends are the ones who've kept me sane and held my fragile emotions together, though they might not know it. And I'll always be grateful. Those who've kept me company, cheered me up, listened to me when I spoke up, advised me when I was down, or just held me or sat with me when I wanted no words. Or scolded some sense into me. All of you, near and far, are precious. I love you :) Thank you for being around. Thank you for being here.

You may strive for perfection in yourself, but cannot expect it of others around you. You'd only be setting yourself up for disappointment.

Very angry rant rant rant

LOOOONNNNGGGGG time coming. Well, sorry. Earthquakes and all that put my blogging on hold :)

Very angry rant rant rant

Thursday, 14 December 2006. 1946 hours.

This is gonna be a rant about my new housemates.

I CAN'T PUT UP WITH THEM. My patience is running low.

It's bad enough that they use my things WITHOUT asking (I don't really mind, but still, it'd be nice if they DID ask), they use my things, and eat my foodstuff.

Okaaayyyyyy.... but they don't bother washing up after. I've told them once to wash up and clean the kitchen after use, we had had roach problems before (not to mention it's disgusting...). I'm not talking about overnight here. I'm talking SEVERAL nights.

But today really pissed me off. They use my things, and DON'T bother cleaning up. And it's been in there for MORE THAN A WEEK. It's like expecting me to clean up after them. That's really poor form, you know? What, first you use my things WITHOUT asking, you EAT my food and use my toiletries, and you expect me to clean up after you as well? WHAT THE FUCK?!?!?!

I'm this close to bleaching my utensils in front of them, and then packing it up and putting it in my room. Not like I use it anyway.

We'll see. I put up a notice on the door to tell them to PLEASE WASH UP AFTER USE. I wanna see if they get the hint.