NERD SPECS OOOYEAH.

I always loved nerd specs. My old pair.



Resolution ahead sucks bad cuz I was too excited to adjust the lenses. WOO.













MY NEW SPECS WHOOP ASS!

Blogspots.

it's funny how people once compared my sex blog to spg's. now i feel myself rather elevated by the dimwits who can't tell a highly analytical composition of intellect apart from a string of titillating words beaded together like some awkward child's art.
local readers are so dumb fucked, we struck as similar to them. plainly because we're both having sex (or so i say my victoria does.) and are frank about it. from style to diction, to plot. every single thing is different for both blogs. blog background colour included.
and for once, local media stooped themselves to become puerile sounding laymen, who appear such undiscerning it's perturbing. local media. who accepts only local graduates with second upper honours degrees or people who are willing to sleep their way up, debatably. the local paper is made up of different generations of journalist. but somehow the consolidated voice was represented by an auntie of sorts, probably pious and contributing 10 percent of a journalist salary to what she calls moral regulation, possibly because she was the most malicious in her comment. and this meant sensation. big big big BOO BOO jeering expects feedback. rebuttal. fervent disagreement. that's probably what they wanted. what they care for. and it made me lose so much confidence in local publishings. somehow, they all just disregarded local erotica writers like douglas lee who writes kinky shit sold on-the-shelves. a book i picked up to read at mph without reader/parental discretion. my brother bought the book later and dog earred all the sex scenes, to my convenience. that's besides the point. if we could read something about sex as a 10 year old at mph, we can read so much more. library books. romance. sure they don't use pussy or cunt or lovepipe. the clitoris is the "bud", the labia is the "petal", the pussy is. well. they normally move on to the next chapter when it reaches penetration.
so did we really need the internet to expose us to this kinda stuff? does reading erotica make you some sex maniac? i don't fucking go around groping male asses or dry humping their genitalia when i queue to top up my ezlink card. seeing a nude picture doesn't make someone a sex maniac. because if so, dude. all males in singapore would be rapists with rapiers.
maybe it's time to be secular. face the real, biting society. and not bind everyone else with moral judgement. because it's tiring. and damaging. two steps forward, one step back. but well. we needed an FTA to bring bar top dancing in here. let's not be hopeless, anyway.

Photoshop Whores.

There are vast and aplenty in this puny cyberspace. Almost a congestion of girls who know how to spruce up their pictures and make them uber-spiffy.

Of course, there's Miss Pink who proclaims her photoshop skills. Well.

Linda does really good photoshop. But the problem with her is that she has a conscience, one that holds her back from unscrupulously lying to everyone on cyberspace. She can do burns, cuts, drips of blood. Nice FX things. I love her photoshop skills, no doubt. She can do what I can't.

But I am someone how's severely lacking of conscience, if not virtues. And I don't give a damn about you finding out the truth, or not, rather.

Now. I'll show you how I lie.


Nice smile. But the resolution sucked ass. The lighting was. Ok. There was no lighting. And it was taken on my mobile phone. Spunky green eyeshadow. Yes I'm the tree spirit.


Retro aye. A little blur? Okay. Lemme see.



Don't complain.


See the effects!


And there went the obnoxious eyebags too.

Now stop bickering. And tell me who's the Queen.

Asphyxiation.

the problem that really irks me, besides the weariness of being a jester, is how much people fail to believe in what i say.

when I say I'm fallen, chances are no one believes me and discards everything away as jaded talk i seep myself into all the time. my ability to make everything fucked up sound cheaply humorous probably has become a liability.

people think i'm strong. the muse always is. the fool in the tarot treads but never falls. you pick yourself up, dust the dirt off your knees and continue walking on thine. how can someone who claims to know melancholy so well die from it? how can someone who speaks of tears as a friend ever drown herself in it?

it's not that i'm weak or anything. but just because i can weave smiles into my bouts of weeping doesn't mean i don't feel a thing. i'm numb. but not maimed in paralysis. my numbness came from oversensitivity. i still am nerved all over my heart but. you think i'm numb because i cannot be bothered to answer. when i don't plead mercy for you sadistic ways it doesn't translate to enjoyment. i'm no masochist. neither do i have a great threshold. i'm just mum in too much pain.

when i tell people i'm crying, i'm low, i wanna exeunt from this shit hole, people laugh. maybe i've joked about it too often. maybe i've always sounded remotely sensible to you. maybe i've told you too many times not to cry, or die, that nothing's worthy of that kind of catharsis, neurosis and suicide that you think i have the capability to rationalise my own woes, calculate relativity, probability and weigh them like a libran merchant.

i bounce back, i smile. singlish infiltrates my lines and you laugh at the comic relief. i switch topics. digress. you think my pain is not that intense anyway, for intense pain fails all analgesia. you know that if i practice this delusive force, i'll be able to tide through my troubles. see the rainbow in the sky, smile like i mean it. prance around, giggling like a little child.

degeneration of the brain cells. abandonment of intellect. semblances of and attempts to return to the blank we all came from. escapism. then existentialism.

maybe one day i'll stop breathing. out of fatigue. but i probably won't. distract me with a cheese fondue.

it's starting to be a sick hobby. but crying has been feeling greater than ever.

so stop pulling my heart strings now.

Weekend Whore.

i was working over the weekend at challenger funan. sold 11 hard disks. my boss' girlfriend said i'd broken the record, at least for retail sales. which isn't too bad, really. my colleagues at challenger were much friendlier and they told me, i should be grateful that i'm even selling any because if not, no one EVER buys ranger hard disks. who'd have known they used a fujitsu hard disk and an NEC chipset?

anyway. i called lin up on friday morning while she was still asleep and asked if she wanted to meet up. everytime we meticulously plan to spend some time bitching to one another, we end up getting meagre hours of together time. but last friday, as unplanned as it was, we met for a full whole afternoon, dedicated solely to ourselves without everyone in the world trying to get a piece of us in a bad, vulturistic way.

liat starbucks as usual. and well, i shall digress. I GOT A MMC READER FOR 10 BUCKS AFTER STAFF DISCOUNT AT CHALLENGER. the people were really very nice. maybe because they aren't commission oriented. it makes them so much more civilised and human.

so i managed to upload the pictures i had on my 512mb MMC to my computer. and i downloaded mp3s into my mobile. cool eh.

camwhorship ahead.

















pictures were taken with my mobile so they resolution was far from perfect. had to touch them up before we looked alive. was too lazy to make them really nice or. uniform. whatever looked alright to me on adobe.

went liquid room with pz and her friend. and took a picture at holland v after. it actually doesn't cost my entire fortune to cab back to sengkang. woah.

saw weird missy eliot dance troop looking girls dressed in their own uniforms and dancing. but, was fun anyway. things are never bad with some whiskey dry.



she's going to leave for melbourne before we realise. <3!!!

dammit. what the fuck are they doing drilling the daylights out of me. i'm trying to sleep here.

emoshit.

i realised. maybe i should just abandon the entire trying to be that sophisticated and mature shit, typing with appropriate caps and things like that. fact is, maybe my thoughts flow better when i do everything in lower case and overdose my prose with fullstops all the same. it's better, i hope i can revive that bit of lyricist in me.

i met linda today, rad. took pictures and i desperately need a card reader to effectively turn this stagnating blob into a photolog. well, at least pictures would make up for the lack of intellect or sane banter.

i need to recover my list of vocabulary. and the awkward way i used to twist my words around my fingers and make ragged up lines.

today was a good day, though i felt fat everywhere else, the fat burning sunblock really works. because my face feels smaller.

i'm going to speak to norman tomorrow. aye.

i'm working at funan challenger tomorrow. i think martin is going to drop by. OH! i met martin at tampines today. travelled down from orchard and realised he was going to meet his friends in town anyway. so we kinda. wasted a little time traveling. gave him a treat at coffeebean, which was an inevitable choice since everywhere else was packed max.

i'm going to give tuition on SUNDAY morning. 1000. going to work at 12. i have no idea how i'm going to make it on time.

NEW TOPS.

I'm mad. I bought three tops of the same design. Different colours. The pearl coloured one matches my pearls! (DUH.) There's a pic!


I actually HAVE BOOBS HERE.

My dad got me those pearls (a set for my Mom and a set for me. Monet okay. When I was 7 years old.

Whoops ass!


Well, an idea of how long my hair is. Aye!

Past Entries.

I realised how much more atuned I was to my feelings. How much more I felt as a youngster, as compared to now. The adherence to formalities in writing, the capitals and the appropriate punctuation has done nothing to mask the death of my touch.

Read the past archives, and you shall see. It's painful to see yourself lose the pen to reality. Lose the pen to angst in the end when you're wings are folded and kept away for good.

Maybe teenage was a good thing after all. The end of it, might just signify the liquidation of what I always called, my fling of writing. Which is, my very purpose of existence.

I didn't need to curse and swear to get at people. I used prose. Now I fuck the shit out of people but. Well, I've lost my touch. I've lost it. Maybe I'll rekindle with that fervent feel in my writing. Maybe I won't.

Maybe it's because I've stopped questioning about life.

Adobe Photoshop.

Never. Ever. Underestimate the power of adobe photoshop.

I took a picture with Jialin on the MRT with my 1.0megapixel cameraphone.


Sucky, isn't it? We look like druggies let out from Buangkok.

But hey. Jialin wanted to post it on SDU when we graduate. You see, we've been hanging out so much, she's starting to worry.

Nothing photoshop can't do.


I know. You can start prostrating now. Well if you think it's blur and looks too good to be true and thus, unrealistic.


Too pale?




There, there.
There is really, really, nothing you can't do with photoshop.

Vampyric.

I felt like I was bitten by a vampire when I woke up yesterday, at 1pm. My back ached. Throat hurt. Neck almost snapped. Which is to say, I didn't feel alive.

Did I blog about this already? HOLY SHIT I can't even be sure.

I'm losing my ability to be human. In two days time, I'll lose my ability to walk, just like how I'm losing my sense of sight already.

So I've had the air-conditioning on for the entire day today because it's so freaking hot, even when it's pouring outside and I'm wearing my fakey silk hello kitty pyjama dress.

And Rui-En's the Singer for NDP this year, I think. About time. OMFG. The dance steps suck and the. Clothings' all... freakily red and white. NEED WE BE SO OBVIOUS THIS YEAR?

The dance step is disturbing!

Eeek. Eeek.

Batman Began.

It was good. Although Katie Holmes still only look good from certain angles, I mean. Compared to Kidman or Tyler who look good from every possible angle and shot. I kinda got my impression of Katie smashed when she appeared at some award show. She acted queerly bimbotic and. The way she mouthed her words was, weird.

I'm not being all defensive here because I'd love to marry my almost albino Nicole Kidman and think Tom Cruise is treading on pedophilic terrains. I saw the award show before I knew Tom Cruise hooked up with her. She looks like a kid. She is a kid. And looks flimsy, though delicious, in the ending shot for Batman Begins going braless in her silk top.

Anyway. The show was good. And I've fallen in love with Alfred. I always enjoyed his existence in the cartoon series, during the days when my brother had the ultimate control over the tv remote and I was merely a subservient onlooker.

It was good. And man, do they love SINGAPORE. They mentioned it at least twice. Or maybe only twice. I can't be too sure since my bladder was failing me and I had to excuse myself thrice in the show. Thank God we were the only ones in the row.

And his mask is MADE IN CHINA. All you buggers who think things that are made in china are lousy, you're right. That's why they mass produced for spares. Hurhurhur.

I'm starting to get hooked to films with Morgan Freeman in them too. Seven. And so many other ass whooping films. No one can replace this guy who vaguely reminds me of Kofi Annan. There we go, United Nations!

Alright. I have to head to my tuition thingie now. At bloody 7. I'll pray to my holy god that I don't get raped while walking out of that dodgy estate. It seems that, everyone who resides at St Francis Court looks Mainlandish and I can't help but fear that I'd be mistaken as one of them. Not that I have anything against them, I'm chinese too but. They are trashily clad, suspicious characters. Eeek. I was texting, flesh shop to Norman and he kinda. Got confused. Rou Dian. Damn I should be teaching chinese too!

I'm late. Laters.

Jialin.

SEE I'M PUTTING YOUR NAME AS THE TITLE TO AN ENTRY.

Supreme mushiness ahead. Look out.

Funny how friendship begins. Somehow some people just click. Like how I did with Ceyu in primary school, Martin and Isabel when I was in secondary school, Florence and Prasad and junior college. Now I have Natalie and Jialin to entertain me in school. And beyond that.

Maybe because Nat stays way too far away from me, think, Bukit Batok. When the holidays came, we drifted apart because, it's simply insane to meet up, since we're so bloody far and even if everyone ends up meeting at Orchard anyway, it just feels more irrationally logical to ask someone who stays around your area out.

And Jialin, since she stays pretty near to me, had become my study buddy during the examinations and then, extended to become my frequent shopping and eating mate these days.

THANK YOU HOR, JIALIN. YOU'RE VERY NICE.

If not very crappy. Haha.

Anyway. We're going to watch Batman Begins today. Met her yesterday to go for Lin's lil gig at Lau Pa Sat. Took video clips and loads of pictures. Now if only I can find a MMC reader soon enough.

I'm meeting her everyday! And thanks for carrying the piano books around.

Yeah I'm going to start learning to read scores and. Get a keyboard to idle around with.

I wanna feel like I know how to do something, well. I can draw, write, sing in a choir but. I can't say I'm really aced.

My continually sore throat isn't helping me regain my choral voice.

Now I need to save to buy a keyboard. Hmmm. I was calculating my wages. I ought to get like. 500 optimally. I need one more student to make my word go round, adding a 150 to the 500 at least if I don't work on ALL weekends.

I FOUND MY TIME SHEET FOR WORK! It was chucked somewhere with newspapers. And my Mom blamed me for it. Now. Who's the one who clears the newspapers at home.

The tuition girl has yet called me up. I'm hoping tuition today's cancelled cuz. It's already bloody 2 and I need 2 hours to prepare and get there.

I wanna watch Initial D, War of the Worlds and Ghost Train. But then. The last show will make me take 5 minute baths because it's always so freaky to be alone naked in a confined space with piercing white flourescent lights that plays with your eyes.

Eeeek.

I love to hate you.

Some folks say, as really good friends, we're supposed to laugh and mock at the things you do.

Some folks, laugh and mock at the things you do because they hate you.

So either way, whether it's your beloved best friend or arch enemy, they'll all tease, mock, prick your ego bubble burst.

Maybe that's life. That's how we grow.

So now. You know the world stinks. It's Anthrax or Arsenic.

Either way, you'll make the world a better place.

Prank Calls.

I've had a couple of them along the way, growing up. People who would call and say "fuck me" or moan on the phone. Well. It's no surprise for me really. Some girls just cringe at the thought of getting these calls but it's kinda hilarious. Hilarious because he called on a bloody numbered line. So now I have his mobile phone number. Dumb ass.

If he calls again, I'll post his number up online. When in the past, the avenue for such revengeful acts would conveniently be on public toilet cubicle doors, the net is an ass whooping medium too.

And you won't even be liable for vandalism and icky problems as such.

The thing now's. Where did he get my number. And how did he know when to call because my parents are out now. Imagine if my Mom answered the call. LOL.

Well he kinda stopped. We'll see.

Oh and I'm not working today because my employer cancelled jobs at different locations because there was a severe lack of stock so. There really wasn't any point to getting people to promote when there wouldn't be enough stock.

Aye. I slept the whole day. It's bloody warm.

PZ and LIN

It was fun. Very. We need more of this.

This blog has reduced to this. Shit-logging journal. I'll try to do something about it.

Well. Prolly because I have so many blogs running, my brains are fried.

AHHHHHHHHH.

THAT LITTLE GIRL I'M GIVING TUITION TO JUST CALLED TO POSTPONE THE LESSON TO 4PM. I'm all dressed and made up already! God!

But well, it'll fit everything nicely actually. It'll end at 5-5.45. I can take a train to town and meet Lin and PZ at 6-6.15. Marvo!

My throat's acting up again. It's been 2 freaking weeks. Can't it just leave me alone?

I should stop listening to depressing shit.

Denali is not good for people aged 20, suffering from a sore throat, who's earning peanuts and still thinking about past relationships.

Good Lord my player skipped to Blink 182. I was this close from bathing my keyboard with blood.

I should be working this weekend. Might be at Bishan, might be at Millenia Walk. I've got no idea. I'm Nomad. PeiZhi messaged me on MSN last night telling me that the schedule isn't fixed yet plainly because the big bosses have been too busy. She's going to find me a soft copy of the time sheet I lost last week. Eeek.

Die you Creative and Apple mp3s. DIE! Nothing must happen to my throat. I'm so tired of waking up and desperately sipping water to salvage that failing throat. Argh.

I have no appetite. And nothing to eat at home. This is irritating.

Tuition

I could have gotten another assignment but they didn't call me back. Well.

I'm going to teach my dear girl tuition tomorrow.

How did you improve your standard of English? I used to just read reader's digest. She thinks it's hard.

Hypersomnia, amongst other things.

I've been sleeping so much these days, I think I'm getting more stupid.

It's like how people say, sleep too little, fry your braincells and get that tad bit more forgetful and slow in thought. Sleeping way too much might lead to my downfall. My braincells might hibernate that much that, they'll never wake up again.

But in fact, I was a sleeping baby. I slept all day, night, to the extent that my Mom sent me in all anxiety to the General Practitioner in hope of reviving her inactive baby. She prolly wanted to train me to read alphabets when I was a few months old. But I just wasted my time sleeping till. Wait. I always slept alot.

The doctor said it was fine, that even though I was so freaking sleepy that I woke up everyday only for my daily dose of milk and a nice bath, baby powder and Ru Yi Medicated Oil included, it was perfectly healthy for me.

Before that diagnosis, my Mom would wake me up deliberately to feed me, wash me and stuff like that. Even though she was struggling with too horrendously cute darlings that were born five years apart, she didn't try to cut corners by letting me sleep forever.

And sometimes I tell her, that even though I bulldozed out like I was so wonderfully eager to live my life (An enthusiasm that fizzled out waaaaaaaaay too quickly.), causing her old labia wounds from the birth of my brother to tear open and leave her stunned and silent in pain, I was a kind baby. Because I was sleeping all the time as an infant, saving her from all the trouble so that she could coach my brother, who was safely starting his life in academia - kindergarten.

But my Mom insists that infancy was about the only time that she didn't have to ache her heart worry about me for.

After recovering from sleeping too much, growing up into a toddler, I started walking really late. So late it panicked my Mom again. She made frog leg porridge, chicken leg soup. Whatever which would simulate the earliest of stem cell transplant research (Body part for body part.), in all eagerness for me to start walking.

I finally did. And then I had breathing problems. My life was a phlegmatic )The pun being highly ironic.) goo of mucus. I started coughing every night and still insist on citrus intakes; my favourite was Orange Juice. So there I went, coughing so much that I was literally making hurricane-like sounds, with the wooooooo and hooooooo when the air was being trapped and finding its way through the thick mucus in my lungs.

After which I had eye problems. Lazy eye. And my Mom spent a truckload of money on the specialist. Look into my eye long enough these days and you'll see I'm bloody lazy eyed still. A bit a abit.

Then when my childhood saw the light of teenage shining, and consequently vanity, problems like, leg hair growth, wavy hair, overweightedness, complexion came to play. ON TOP OF THAT, I had a penchant for falling down on my knees. And having my teeth filled by lousy dentists that cause me more pain.

Part of my molars actually got buffed even. That idiot. HAD HE EVER THOUGHT THAT I WAS BLOODY 19 AND THE MOLARS ARE SUPPOSED TO LAST ME A LIFETIME?

My Mom could/can never stop worrying about me. And well I established a reputation for myself as being really troublesome and most importantly, someone who can't go without sleep. Since I always slept that much.

Anyway. Back to hypersomnia.

My memory has been getting awfully short. Maybe because, although I'm sleeping alot, I'm sleeping at erratic, unearthly hours. Such as 5 in the morning, waking up at 12 and sleeping at 1 till 5pm.

I lead a night life, aye. Even though all I do is stare right into the computer screen and speak to myself because I don't get to indulge in late night conversations all the time since people just don't stay up late. Normal people aren't that obsessively nocturnal.

I'm getting more stupid. More languid. Less healthy. More forgetful. MY BRAIN'S RESTING TOO MUCH. And I haven't been dreaming that actively. It bloody proves my point!

Damn. I feel sleepy already.

Chatterbox.

I had Chicken Rice at Chatterbox last evening. Well. The person was bloody late. He delayed our meeting time by an hour and later, another half an hour without notifying me.

Well, nevermind that. He gave me a 512mb MMC memory card for my mobile phone and a novel with our name on it. It's kinda. Surreal. Because the whole custom-made novel so to speak was about how I was this deluded damsel totally in love with him.

Here's how it looks like inside.




Well. I doubt anything's coming outta it. Ahem.

Anyway.

Oh. You see my nail there in the first picture? I did a manicure for myself.


I've been trying out all the Meiji ice-creams at 7-11. They whoop ass!

My face is itching. Godammit.

Preparations for Mayhem.

I'll possibly be heading clubbing with PZ and LIN. Woohoo.

We'll have to see how Lesbian we can get.

Before that, thanks Alan for being willing to do me a favour to facilitate our little menage a trio.

It's going to be rad! Either next week or the week after. Or maybe I can club with someone else next week. Hmmm.

The reason being.

I didn't bother to edit my previous entry. Because although I make sure my blog entries are perfect for my sex blog, I don't give a shit here. Because sometimes. I think flaws are pretty. It's like. Sometimes when you know something really isn't perfect, it just feels more perfect to you.

The "chip under a flower vase" idea works both ways. That you know that it's there and it bothers you negatively or, you know that's there's a flaw there that no one else does and that's why you call it your own.

I sorta found out the reason why I've been blogging with an incessantly muddled mind. Without any forms of linguistic manoeuvre. Because I haven't been reading good articles. I found a blog today that wrote beautiful English and of themes and subject matters totally different from the world of mine.

DOOCE

I love the way she writes. Aye.

A friend asked me "Why are you up so late? Why aren't you sleeping?"

And I replied saying. "Why do we have to sleep at night?"

Yeah. Why should we sleep at night when it's cooler, you get to think better without cars scratching they tyres furiously against the tarred ground.

It's always nice to sleep in a warm woozy afternoon right?

What wondrous love is this, O my soul, O my soul.

Peeves and idiosyncrasies. That's basically what makes someone. Because dislikes are more prominent than loves, likings and inclinations.

My rationale for this is that, when you're interacting with someone, there are 3 universal things you can actually offer that person. Being one that strikes a chord of dislike in a person, neutrality and such liking they'd offer you some cunnilingus. (Sidenote: I've been seriously warned by people to stop making sexual allusions to the most unsexual of objects. I wonder why linkages seem to establish themselves between baby bibs and bukake, for example. Don't blame me. I'm a Sex Blogger aye? I'm supposed to be vivacious, flamboyant and always thinking about sex. Another thing people have warned me umpteenth times about is my mastery of the art of digression. I apologise for the digression, hitherto. Don't you love old English? Alright, alright, as I'd continue.)

As I was saying. It's alright if you give them something which they have neutral or positive thoughts about but totally uncivil if you stuff a pet peeve into someone's face. That's why it's more important to eliminate 1/3 of that probability to irritate someone. Unless you get the kick out of it. I know I don't.

And as I thought of what I truly am, a postmortem on my expired and burial-awaiting teenage, I realised I have many weird habits and likings almost exclusive to myself.

I have a very "auntie" palate.
I like brinjals, bittergourds, cucumbers, lady fingers, tomatoes and stems of leafy vegetables. The first few from the selection sure sound kinky. Kinky shit, they are. I like bananas to.
Can I digress, can I?
We'd always have watched organic insertions in pornography. Girls putting synthetic things into their love canal somehow just fail to tap on that domestic side of us, aye? Photosets of girls sitting before the fridge with it's door ajar, licking cherries, strawberries and sucking on bananas (My brother and I were making a joke out of banana juice, not in the context of porn of course. We are highly unincenstral.), putting in child cucumbers into they pussies and smearing whipped cream over their lips. Yes I've done my research, ahem. I wonder whoever started this. I wonder sometimes if something gets left behind in the vagina. Say, the banana gets squashed because the girl has some kegel-trained vaginal walls strong enough to crush the member into mash. Do you douche it out? Go to the gynae? Or incorporate it into your genitalia.

Back to my auntie palate.

Alot of people think I'm weird. But what is weird really? The folks here are really queer (No pun intended.) because they call you weird, give you funny looks because they don't do what you do. If they find ladyfingers feels like pussy juice with weird white balls that remind them of a yeast infection gone really bad, they think you're bloody sick because you eat them with balachan. WHAT??? Or bittergourd for example, (I personally find Yoda resembling the plant to bits but no one concurs.) people tell me "You're crazy, it's so bitter!". My bloody point exactly. Why would someone eat bittergourd if it tasted like, say, a melon? I'd just bloody get a melon right?

Oh and I LOVE avocado. And raw fish. And blue cheese. And other things people would list in the acquired taste section of the tongue.

Why can't people just embrace difference? Do I have to change my tastes for you, my dear?

I just made something I intended to write rather analytically about sound uber-puerile. But, hang on.

You see I was wondering. Why do I like these things. Was it genuinely because I LOVED these rather unique tasting stuff or did I do that just because I want to be different.

You see, even before I took marketing, I digested the concept of differentiation as a means to higher market value. Being, if I'm different, people would find me interesting and would want to know more about me and consequently date me, fall in love and have babies bearing their surnames and my button nose.

Was I trying to be different? Am I? Because I remembered that during Primary School, I didn't have "my own handwriting". I kept trying to copy someone else or hold a pen in a way my other class mate did. I never had my own distinctive style. I just copied from people. How they tied their hair, what they wore, their handwriting, the pencil cases they brought to school, water bottles, even ambitions in autographies. But then, at the age of 12, although I was trying to be everyone else, I knew I had to be different. I was the only one who wrote "Smashing Pumpkins" beside Spice Girls in the "Favourite Bands" section.

Who am I really. As I was flushing the toilet a couple of days ago, my bladder serving me bad or not serving me these couple of weeks at all, I thought. We live for everyone else, don't we?

There's no point of me bringing all the sociology theorists into the pictures now because Merton prolly just sounds like some dusty old man to you.

We thrive on how other people view us. Prolly that's why I keep wanting to be different because I want to be the "unexpected" of the lot and attract that bit more attention.

And this attitude moulds my likes and dislikes, logically spekaing, right?

On an occasion I told my friend. "For the Science people, they live for themselves. For the Arts people, they live for others."

I made this statement because the Science-y people seldom pause to ponder about the whole pawn-player issue. When they do, it's because they've made an effort to weave literature into their framework of consciousness. Ignorant people always live for themselves because they don't realise what they want for themselves are benchmarks and desires they see in other people.

So while I sound bloody pathetic here, trying to formulate an argument with poor background knowledge and fragments from absurdist theatre, I might as well sound obnoxiously anti-christ as well, no offence.

I realised how intricate and awe-inspiring the whole concept of christianity is. They give you a meaning to live, being religion and possibility and rather blasphemously on my part, intoxicate you with salvation anxiety and doctrines, I mean, testaments. But by giving you a meaning to live that is external, they're giving you less meaning to live within yourself. Imagine. They're withdrawing all your faith and placing it all in them. Absolute. Total. Religion is the reason you live. So if one day someone like Dan Brown finally and God-forbiddenly proves Christianity a hoax, you'd shift from absolute faith to absolute anomie. Aye?

So isn't it better to be pagan, distrusting all institutions that would coax you into depositing all your faith in life into them.

But even when you're pagan, you might be existentialist like I am and not believe in self-determinism, you're in deep shit anyway. Because your meaning to life is still bloody external.

How do we discern between an innate, internal sense of living and an external one?

Fact is, we urbanites are so integrated into the society and so used to being part of an institution that we've lost our ability to be able to sniff out the discrepancies of this internal and external bullshit.

So if we can't differentiate between an external and internal reason for existence, why not choose the extreme absolute and say it's all external anyway because at the end of the day, you have divinity, karma, probability and ultimately the script to blame. You won't have to hold any responsibilities to your actions then. You can simply blame everyone else. Your Mom for you flunking your 'A's because she forced you into it when you've got no interest or just ain't cut for it. Your ostracising classmates for your low self-esteem. Your aura for closing neglible amounts of sales. Your destiny for being stuck in a varsity that pulls you further and further away from your own ambition. Your luck for falling down even when you're walking in a pair of sturdy sneakers. Your karma when you start meeting bastards all the time.

I might have digressed horrendously but I've said what I wanted and made my point. It doesn't matter whether it all makes true sense, does it? As long as it made you feel just that less worthy in this world and feel like ending your life because you aren't living for yourself but for everyone else and dying would prove that you actually DID something out of your own intentions and so you can finally say you're in control of your life.

But save it, because you dying or living's prolly written in the script as well. If you choose to end your life, it's not what you want for yourself. You might think that you're the one holding the knife so you're the player now. But weren't you also the one who filled in your name in the examination script you did so badly it landed you nowhere? You were prolly the one who registered for it too.

Now you know why I'm existentialist. It's fun. I don't have to go to Church or share my salary. It sure doesn't give me a reason to live. But it keeps me from killing myself.

And as I was saying. Peeves and idiosyncrasies. That's basically what makes someone. Because dislikes are more prominent than loves, likings and inclinations...

O Grande Superfluitee!

I've been indulging in food so much, regardless of the fact that my throat feels like it's peeling.

Thursday - Crystal Jade + Coffee Club, Orchard with 4/2 ex-classmates.

Friday - Lagnaa, Little India with Prasad. We got scammed a little. Darned.

Saturday - Sushi Tei, Millenia Walk with parents, cousins, aunts and uncle.

Sunday - Oasis Taiwanese Porridge with Mommas and Dad.

Monday - Steamboat, AMK with Jialin. Fun, it was.

I have 2-3 more dinners lined up. Lol.

My superfluous life.

Prasad's Dad actually made a joke saying "I heard there was something on at the Istana." simply because he was bringing me out for dinner and his Dad was trying to be sarcastic about his or our extravagant ways.

I took loads of pictures with Prasad at Lagnaa. I need a Bluetooth USB Adaptor or an MMC reader. God.

Bigger space means bigger pictures!

This is the pendant I bought on ebay. 10.90! Cute shit.


I'm really into green eyecolours now. It's summer. But no I'm not bloody getting a tan.


I love my webcam for giving me flawless complexion. It lies for me. I love it.


Parents are your best boyfriends. Because they buy you your first bling bling, wash, cook and clean and get you flowers on your birthday.


Ain't that sweet. Thanks Mommas. You whoop ass.

I was down with such a bad throat during my birthday, the whole feeling of being a pawn in a pool of players surged way up into my head. Good lord I survived. I'm feeling much better now. Well enough to make a new page to make myself feel even better.

Thanks for the birthday messages lovelies. Thank you.

Can't you see; I'm trying to make you blind.

This is all dusty yellow. Very brimful of asha. Very Indian. Very Turmeric. Precisely my point. You might hate it. But I've been courteous enough to make the background on the fontspace a dark purple to save your eyes from tearing.

I'm getting the kick out of this bright yellow page. And yes. Rock on in a turmeric fashion. Bindis included. Bolly style.