to sleep & perchance to dream of unsketchy plans for the future oh yes, yes, baby, yeeesss.

i was trying to tell my friend earlier tonight that i had a déjà vu of a dream. like with many conversations, we were swept along on one of a dozen tangents and i got home tonight, too restless to sleep & with the tale of it still on my mind to tell.

this is how it went.

i suddenly remembered, through a perchance similar flick of a wrist that my brother used, just as a perchance body lumbered into my peripheral vision, which was just like a scene in that dream.

eerily familiar, like being haunted with a time & mind.

stay with me, folks, that's just one of the ridiculously contrived-feeling parts, just one!

so.
that happenstance jolted my memory, & flung out a misshaped drawer, in a squat chest of drawers, in a haphazard room, in the helter-skelter corner of my mind. as if i were reliving the dream, i remembered it. & it's a silly little dream not hardly worth mentioning, apart from it being so unintentionally (ridiculously) contrived-feeling. and me actually remembering it.

and so. my old classmates, the ones i'm was never close to, from ye ol' secondary school & i were in the dream. and in this dream, we were collecting donations in the tin cans with coins clanging around in them; only they weren't clanging, and to us it felt impertinent that they must clang.
appeals for donations were being ignored, whether we tried to clown around for attention, pleaded with heartfelt cries, slicked our humidity-mussed hair into near-resemblance of matured adults, or cajoled with good-natured prods.

we were as good as invisible & so the problem, it was decided, was that our tin cans did not clang with previous generosities. if passerbys had passed earlier impervious to charity, so could these fresh strollers yet pass us by, just because they know from the non-clanging that they will be no worse than their peers. that they are no better, of course, bothered them not. it hardly ever bothers anyone, yes?

so that was the plot; encourage through subtle peer pressure; by rattling in their faces noisily the new standards by which these stone-hearted folks will be judged.

but we were reluctant. we were donating efforts in kind already & asking each other to throw in cash too when we've spent hours in this heat & humidity so solid you almost leaned on them with every gasp seemed a bit much to ask.

so we tossed in a tiny little bit of spare change.

it worked a little; a couple of older men stopped, kindly popped in dollars, refused the sticky badge of honor we offered & left, whistling.

then nothing for another 20 minutes. frustrated, we dropped in more change; the response was warmer. encouraged, we sought out a convenience store to break a note; the makchik in there saw us plonking them as she handed them to us, and pulled out a ten from her own pocket. bemused she was, when we confided in her our noisome intent, & emptied a fresh roll of change from the cashier into our tins with a hearty wink. our luck was as awesome as lottery after that.

one of my friends, a guy i had barely exchanged two real conversations with in real life, & i were charting a rough graph of peer-pressure kindness from our afternoon's inprompto findings & we were talking excitedly about making it our thesis for university, thrashing out what would construe the differentiation between honest kindness & obliged kindness & i forget from there on what transpired. but it's the only dream that's mostly realistic that i remember, so i decided that i must tell it to you, silent reader.

i don't know why i must belabour the point that these classmates & i had not ever been close, but it feels as impertinent as our eventual real need to have some meaty donations. huh, right.

the one other dream i remember? it's got very disturbing themes according to dream interpreters leh, don't ask lah i shy.

if i dreamt it, it must be true.

i'm getting a peacocktopus tattoo. it's a peacock, & an octopus. Both, but not.

it's not an excuse to rainbow my skin (it is, actually), but damn, if they charge by colours, i will die. DEAD. death by shrieking.
because what if it's like one spot colour ad vs. full colour ad, do you know what the insane price difference is like?

but let my excitment flutter down first. remember when i was just as convinced it was going to be a humongous black tree silhouette, and it'll be like a charm bracelet, i'd add things to the branches as big life things happen to me? a pair of wings sprouting from my shoulders? qoutes? i'm sure there was a unicorn & blossoms moment too. And russian mosiac. Don't forget the rainbow-sewing skull.

whatever it is, it's bound to be so colourful it'll be vulgar to look at. AWESOME.

if someone uses any of my ideas first, i will stab you. it's an angry week & i'm an angry girl.

Sociology packs the crazy in your eyes into neat little squares.

Status Anxiety (ISBN 0-375-42083-5) is a nonfiction book by Alain de Botton. It was first published in 2004 by Hamish Hamilton; subsequent publications have been by Penguin Books.

Central Thesis:

Status Anxiety discusses the desire of people in many modern societies to "climb the social ladder" and the anxieties that result from a focus on how one is perceived by others. De Botton claims that chronic anxiety about status is an inevitable side effect of any democratic, ostensibly egalitarian society. De Botton lays out the causes of and solutions to status anxiety as follows:

Causes:

• Lovelessness
• Expectation
• Meritocracy
• Snobbery
• Dependence

Solutions:

• Philosophy
• Art
• Politics
• Religion
• Bohemianism

(source: wikipedia, retrieved 12 December 2008)

The canon ate my brief, niang niang!

"addictive"

that's a whole can of worms you opened there. can you kiss every each one of them too?

slimey, drooly hell. POUT SIAH!

i'm going to die.
i'm going to die slowly, drowning in my own nasal droolings. my god-forsaken nose, land of the the bountiful sinuses shall kill me. (although one could argue that most of me is god-forsaken, seeing as i'm not a believer, and therefore will rot in poxy hell. says the god-yessakens. where was i? oh.)

i'm going to dieeeeee. mommmyyyyyy-glugglugglug!!!!

Ninja for a living'd probably make filling forms awkward.

The Obvious: personality tests tell me what i want, and that's not necessarily the best course of action. so if every dratted test i take online to procrastinate an potentially life-changing decision tells me i'm a flowing, free-spirited, flowers in my hair & ants on my toes, pee in the bushes, dance to the blooms of a thousand tulips, hug the chicken don't hurt it's feelings and eat it, Lady Healer of the World's sodding babies, o-so-Piscean, budding writer/artist, that doesn't mean it's meant to be.

After all, those inherently flawed quackery crackery things also go on to gush that religious education & counselling are marvellous career paths for persons of my deposition, and o hello, your roll on the floor laughter of the day is proudly sponsored by letter M, the number 9, and these long-sentences.


fine, the real reason i'm annoyed is it's 10.52am and you know i'd much rather be told i'd be the Warrior of the Warped Universe, Terror of Mondays, Doom-bringer of Ninjas, Ravisher of Shoes, Attacker of Art Friend, Berserk Queen of all Flea Markets, Wanderer of the Whispered Isles, Lady Knight of the distant shores made of pure gold.
You know, awesome, fearsome things. Am i doomed to never be fearsome? GRR!

and me want cookie. OM NOMNOMNOMNOMNOM.

escapist.

i'm desperately sad. not upset, just.. unhappy. the difference is there, tucked in the niche under the 2nd vowel. i don't know quite exactly why, and it's sending my insides into a mad panic trying to figure it out.

i feel like writing a long email about an imaginery day in the lonely life of lady ninjastorm to an address i'd pluck from midair, like john.notso.doe@gmail.com, just because.

or maybe borrow a camera and grab a theatric friend who won't understand or ask why, and go scout out that abandoned mansion in town to make a horribly tragic & gory photo story in.

or just reading, readreadread like its breathing, and ditch my life for 3 days.

i'm restless for something and the signs of this coming were there for a while and i ignored them. pms-y signs, like cursing less like a sailor, more like a pirate.
like jaywalking with traffic that reckless bit closer. like ignoring smses. like loathing beatles music all of a sudden. like a post-it tearing under a too fiercely-held pen.
like being more wary, less glad when someone resurfaces from the past.
like inadviceable things and leaping & not looking when i shouldn't & looking not leaping when i should.

that sounded angry. am i that too? do you even get what the fuck i'm saying? i don't.

hey, look at me, i'm a mess looking for somewhere to puke.

YEE-HAWWW!!

The Adventures of Helicat & Penguin Rat,
coming to a blog near you.
er. Hint, is it?
Nearest to you now. yes, right now. or... maybe a little to the right. yeah there. no, yes - nono, you've overshot now.

a good day is.

.


heavy pooping that makes me feel lighter, sprightlier and cleaner, like the housewife olympics 2008 was held in my tummy, and the Scandinavians won. minimalism, ya know.

my insides are juggling around, adjusting to having more space. heck, i bet my CG is being re-centred, and my shooting finger needs to be recalibrated.
the crawly sensation in my head is my brain scrambling to hold on to ze skull, scooting itself up every couple of seconds, 'cause the pile of entrails it's sitting on keeps wiggling like it's trying to grow into a new pair o' shoes.
i think i jump a foot higher now. and i bet if lungs called out to kidney, eh minah, jiah peng liao, kidney will scream back, ah lian, don't cha holla at me, frickin' echoing down here. be gone dead weight, swooosh.
yeah, it feels real nice.

oh yeah. crap.


oh. LOLZ PUNZZZZZOREXOMETERZ!!!
no, really. gomen nasai?

.

hey hey hey.

you know you know you know, it's like when everything about this person is a caustically-sarcastic, princessy snobbish type that really rubs you the wrong way, and that sometimes tends to say things that make everyone else look kinda bad, and for some reason, just around this person only your mouth is perpetually set to word-vomit; so it's like every other thing you say to said person seems to translate roughly to a "please boot me out, if you're the sorta sensitive sort"; and that's the sort of days i have sometimes, if you were me, and said person was someone above me.

quote; and end qoute.

"

i said i'd never leave you

but come on.

what are you, new?





"

giddygiddy hah hah!

Have I mentioned lately that I'm rather happy now?
Come bask the glow a little, I sure can share.

Poohpeedooh.

turning japanese isn't about masturbation.

Oh how smug the Iwaki overlord would be if he cared to find out. Gaddamit, how did this work out his way afterall?

law, flawed; i say.

not much beats stomping around gritty, older than yer grandmama buildings in sweet boots with a borrowed holga, on lunch break from a kickass job and maybe meeting a solid friend or two, for some talk cock sing song, after a day that whipped by like.... shisha on a windy day.


i'm kinda asking to be whiplashed by ol' murphy saying this, you think?

i cannot fly.

Brevity, nii.

New conversation topics: Internet-born hipsters, are people forcing their minds open?, engineering hacks you can apply to everyday things, the most suspiciously false thing you believe in. Fuck childhood movies, what do you want to be when you grow up, foody haunts and blockbuster, million dollar 5-year-plans. Ban them and all safe, Miss World questioning round kind of subject.

I'm just saying, man.

LIOUY? : to breed brevity in a week.

Like you want to hit the streets and fuck someone up in a bad way, and two or four seconds after that you want to draw someone being fucked up.

another compulsory first module is Alt+Tabs and Work Sanity Habits

figuring out the naughty parts of the copier was a typical first week.

and then by now,
if i hear a bull snorting, i know who she is and can guess why about half the time.
hearing sweet child o' mine's intro chime out from my lady bimbimbatt's mobile phone for the 14th time in two hours doesn't make my fingers twitch as murderously anymore. just with passiveviolent-recreational imaginations.
i know who's stomping down the corridors to where right now by the sound of his clompy stride, and what's the gossip on him.
The Mystery of The Virgin Foosball Table doesn't fill me with as many management conspiracy theories.
I can successfully tune out starworld for 8 hours. this is grey's anatomy, scrubs, simpsons, ellen degeneres show, 8 simple rules for dating my daughter, lipstick jungle episodes that this girl-of-no-cable is suppressing here. along with endless desperate housewives and ugly betty commercials, so it's very win/lose.
i understand the multi-layered intricacies of a task conveyed in 5 hurried words now.
and the simplicity behind another's 5 minutes worth of meandering instructions.
finally, finally, finally am done fielding questions about my mixed heritage. what do people with sublter family histories talk about in all their first conversations? enquiring minds REALLY want to know, because enquiring mind thinks she got off pretty easy if just snagging a japanese Y chromosome and obvious name means that she only needs to study one chapter to ace the tedious 'Introduction to Introductions' life module. passing that module is -8 points deadly awkward silences.
oh, and now they really should have made me sign a confidentiality form.
the magic formula to surviving corporate winter here has been concorted. anti-death vers.3.4: thick pants (with less flares), cotton top, knitted cardigan, fleece-lined great big hoodie and pasmina shawl. louder colours are toastier. microwave water bottles, resist trying to bloody microwave hands too. by the way, say fleece. no, not fleas- fleece! hah, bet i caught you, me too man.
even my mind has been broken in to doing some admininistration. it's like how you broke your feet in the first few times you wore high heels and could not believe women really put themselves through this much pain and piercing, shooting torture, ohmygodohcrapohshitaghhhhouchooowouch. then 3 months later you're buying your 3rd pair of 4-inchers, and your feet go longer before crying and cursing their lots in life, whyohwhy aren't they manfeet?, and the pain isn't that bad really, and some mornings you think you can't leave the house if you don't have stiles to boost your vanity with, and you have pants that you hem a couple of inches longer than usual so that they only work with heels if you ask those anal fashionistas and maybe it's not the right metaphor anymore.

the only other new friend i want to make here is whoever switches the gottbedamned TV in the mornings. And you probably know why I haven't bumped into him/her yet. heeh.

only just got settled in, don't want to leeeeave.

wednesday's child is full of woe.

how honest work + internet can lead you astray...

market research, eli lilly.
Google search result:
"Eli Lilly Drugs -- The most unethical drug company on the planet!"
hmm. really? should show boss.
wiki it first.
"Eli Lilly"
"prozac"
"prozac nation"
"Christina Ricci"
"Primal therapy"
"John Lennon as patient"
"Wednesday Addams"
"Monday's Child"
"Ticker tape"
"ticker tape parades"
whoa. i have to get to New York City!!

hold up... what was i looking for again? DOH.

Now.

Dead Man's Switch.

My mind wanders when i write stuff i don't care about.

Here's a thought. You and me, we spend way too much time online, likely as not. Do you have a system for when you die?

I think the name for it is Dead Man's Switch. What happens when you leave? Is your password written neatly in a diary somewhere? I figure, why not program your email so that if you haven't logged on for 3-5 weeks, it leaves you for dead, sends an email with important life data things to your mom, lover, or lawyer, whoever cares the most, pre-composed messages for your friends, "YOU KINDA ARE CRAP, I WILL BE ANGRY WITH YOU FROM THE GRAVE STILL" type messages to your enemies, and a grand finale, swan song piece for your secret masterpiece you have been tinkering for years of your sad little nothing life will be set loose on the world.

Your painting's locale is finally shared. Your son in Greece knows at last that orphan no more, his anonymous and now dead, wealthy benefactor is his father and he'd never know him or why. Your manuscript gets sent to a publisher, care of your favourite person. The key to the lost language of Zacamortien that you've been decoding, long solved and hoarded, sent to the University you detested while living. Or if you are an unselfish, boring person, your meagre life savings are donated to NKF, the first charity name to float to your indifferent mind. Money for the living souls, because you have nothing else to feed it.

So if you ever want to start from scratch - sell your life, give away the cat, pack a rucksack and set off without warning to be a performing, travelling, free-wheeling flame-juggler, don't forget to set the Dead Man's Switch in place to remind you why you aren't.

More about me than you'd care to know.

I'm very fussy about what grammar that i know is true and will only knowingly, with much consideration and angsty inner-debate, break grammar rules. But i'm rather rubbish at spelling.

I'm extremely chilled out about things starting on time, a memory-rich, treasured necklace that went missing for months, because i know that they'd happen as they should, and it'll always come back to me. But if i can't declare the exact status of a friendship or relationship important to me to my liking, i can be so uneasy that i subconsciously take extreme measures to test the bonds, create subtly-challenging ultimatums that they won't ever know they failed and distance so that i can see if they are necessary to me. i may judge them hastily and short-change them of development and nuance. Post-mortem reflection is how i know i even did it to begin with.

I can't kiss in front of tudong-wearing women. But... heh, er, well. hmm, you know. o hai! this cover band jive talkin' is really great.

IF a book truly intrigues me, i'd avoid all googling, refuse to read the foreword (which i usually dissect), sypnosis, reviews, author bio, credits page or extract. Even glancing at the author's mugshot OR taking a closer look at the cover art is forbidden, for fear of any delicious spoilers. After the eplilogue i'd google the shit out of it and moan moan moan that Borders won't stock the sequels fast enough, what is Mr Author doing besting scores in Dragons and Dungeons instead of writing and how silly his editor must be. i've been known to sprout obscure facts about obscure things that no one cares about, only because an author i used to admire once mentioned it in an interview she did in 1995 that someone did a crappy scan in of. Er, usually say i read it in a magazine. usually, Time. Now you know otherwise.
the bare bones histories of my favourite bands, i don't know. I like their music, and sometimes the titles of the songs i like and that's enough.

I've hacked into my thumb so badly it obviously needed stitches and only put a band-aid on it. the pain and 1.5 hands i lived with for months and didn't care that it's scared much worse than it should have. Shopping makes me comparatively super vain.

I've got hundreds upon hundreds of pet peeves piled up, stoning off into the sunset and gathering dust on their staring eyeballs because they are the ones that haven't been voiced. if you knew just 11 of them it will badly incapitate your ability to be natural around me, that's how varigated and detailed they are. too-fussy people is one of my pet peeves.

i jaywalk even more slowly if the bugger in the car screws up my calculated distance-time estimation of his vehicle by intentionally speeding up or failing to signal (when i'm alone and only risking my own life). you know how people measure fabric once and cut twice? i measure 4 or 5 times and arrange the pattern pieces and trim closely because, shruck mahhn, don't want to waste fabric! that 1cm by 6cm piece could have been better utilised!

Final proof that i am rather schizophrenic and overly ambivalent: taking a personality quiz that returns not one, not a coincidental two, not even fluke-possible three, but five results, because

"If more than one window opens (after the quiz), there was a tie."

So if i express a thousand differing opinions, i'm a happy hypocrite. If you weren't, would you want to live in my head?

daaayum.

so i was talking to Macky about That Fellow of yours.

discussing me again, are we?

we've exhausted topic me about 3 bagels ago. you, we're only 2 bites in. and now 3.

yeah, we do love them bagels.

no, no tangents today. i have a budget to keep to!

's a habit. sorry.

Macky's version of Your Fellow sounds different from mine. why's that?

why do you say it like that?

like what?

like.. like you're title-sentencing it. capital why, capital ef. Your Fellow.

was i? oh hey, YF would make a funny acronym to use, too easy to misconstrue.

yeah! interesting.. i've a friend who studies lingistics, if i'd the money to throw on a fascinating topic that is really only useful for spies and actors, i'd hurl it so quick. she does this great party trick that drives people wild, tapping her tongue about 3 teeths from the front two, and -

tangenting. pretty sloppy work, for you.

thanks. on both counts.

Topic, Your Fellow. Question, is he the one in Mack's head or mine?

both of them are him. like yellow and blue is green. i think i thought out loud at you both. phooot, fully formed aspects. evil twins.

did you tell the rest about him? 'cause i'd love to round table this Fellow to bits.

fully formed quadruplets. no, triplet-o-halflings.

you didn't tell Jen? why not?

she's my evil twin. hey, and i have my philosophy thesis' opening liner now.

urgh. "don't start until i have", was going to be mine. it's a diamond in the rough, i hope. what's yours?

i'm philosophising bagels. bagels are our moons, we revolve around cafes with 'em, they grow in the oven shrink and in the mouth, and - here's the closer - we now measure time by them. Sir Bagel, i bestow upon thee Issues. They be gifts, use them with care and much guile.

Halfbagel of a tangent! Daayum.

a two-syllable damn. score! also, i'm sorry.

we need more bagels.

skymonkeys.

It's been weeks, or 2 hours ago, if you believe how my endorphins are still racing adrenaline every time I remember it.

I could almost snuff out those people down there between my dangling toes. They were scurrying like ants, and I, I was omnipotent. The city was beautiful, it's twinkling lights laughing (at?) with me like urban faeries, it's dark distant shapes mysterious, organic, twisting.

There it was, truly panoramic with no hideous load of bricks to shroud it, more to see then I probably deserved. It belies the size of this island, but it's all perception, no? And right there, my perception was being blown to pieces. The world did curve around me and hug me snugly in place. How did the old folk with their uninterrupted view of the world not see what I'm seeing, and think it flat? It's like spinning in a circle until you collapse in on yourself in a clumsy silly embrace.

Have you felt the high, cold winds tease your heated, tired soles? I have. It eases the ties life has over you, flooding you with so much rushing joy that burdens and rotten memories are like the clothes gently rippling in the wind on your back, hardly substantial against it.

The wind, the air, bloody hell, even you are different up there. The best damn version there ever was. The fear-sweat from your clammy hands dry in that wind and doesn't quite return with the full respect for heights you know is due. You wonder, why's your face feel so sore? You turn to your friend, and see the answering, proud grin. Here's my secret place, his says, welcome. That twines with the galloping thrills, that lingering thread of fear, and your own grin, grin, grin.

The clambering, edging past steep drops, ducking out of sight, doesn't pound your heart as hard as you backtrack, because you did leave a little of it behind.

Later, much later, you might notice the gritty grime under your now-scrappier nails, the stains on your nice clothes, a long, interesting streak down one calf that looks suspiciously like old pigeon poo. But for now, you're wild-haired and bushy-tailed, and when you come home your mother glances at you and almost starts, it's because your eyes are shining electric and more alive then they've been for months and months.


Twenty-two heady storeys and you, my bold, chimney-topped friend. It's awesome, you're too awesome, we're going back. :)

100th.

Question: Do we insist on having meaning in our lives?




Counting potential futuristic debts is nerve-wrecking in a manner unrelated to but not unlike the effects of an unnecessary all-nighter. Same uneven heart-poundings, skittish fingers. But i do so much better when i'm working it out by myself. Sorry marmee, you do make me quiver in guilt. oh boo - that furrowed brow and pained glances, not as subtle, and my hide, not as thick, as you'd like to think.

Forcing this one through might be a bad idea. Dear all young 'rents: listen to your government when he nags you to family-plan. Having 3 kids each want to hit university, university, polytechnic in one year is a financial pain. Not having planned for it, well...

I'd figure it out.




for only 4 marks, the answer's: Define meaning. Define "lives". Straddle, be a middle-of-the-road man, begin your answer with "To a certain extent," and thank your secondary 3 social studies teacher for some dubious ambivalence and real lack of spine.

subaquatic beauty

If last week was meant by the powers that be to teach me that you can never be too encouraging,
Then this one is for hiding festering bitterness and brittle smiles.
If I make it through the next few weeks without petty jibs and outbursts of pent-up impotent mini rage,
I guess I'd prove to be less rotten a person than I previously thought.

damn you, Allah, God, Buddha, Zeus, Vishnu, Yahweh.


I hate being tested like this.



(images: numero tokyo, via fotodecadent)

A Story.

My chest is tight. Breathe, I reminded myself. Breathe.

A slow creeping burn rises in my neck, heating my ears. Are my earrings too heavy? They must be. My ear lobes are numb.

I’m bent over on the sofa, one hand on the grey stack of papers on the floor, supporting my leaning body. The other clutches a green marker. I knew better to hunt down a red marker. Too angry, and those inspired so much defiance in the past.

I’m more pragmatic now.

Breathe, deeply.

I haven’t circled anything yet. I must have forgotten something immensely important – I’m almost panicking about something. Better check the to do list later. But now, concentrate, no more putting this off. You know it’s right. Oh alright, if you must be distracted, work on summarising you in words. Be enthusiastic, passionate, eloquent. That’s what they all go in for these days, youthful energy, high, jolting, zigzagging springiness to feed on. Their last batch was reduced to drones, only zombie memories now. But to recycle it so soon would be to alert the freshies, so no, better to conceal, to huddle the lackadaisical ones in their cubic homes. They live pretty well; cool air, if a little stale, a network connection, free water and facilities, sometimes even free food; even their walls aren’t all that high. It’s still low enough for them to generate a constant undercurrent of murmuring with each other. Those ingrates, says the men with their names on their own doors in one of those faux old English fonts that look weathered and reliable but have effeminate names like Lucida or Corsiva, shaking their heads wonderingly.

Yes and remember, breathe. Breathe slow.

It’s the wrong place to do this. Wrong position, all the blood must be rushing to my head, I’m practically upside down. I right myself, hauling the still-rustling paper up with me. My head spins slightly, the world spins with me. The day is damp and limp; the heat must be wilting me. A roll of something serpent-like in my belly twists upwards, and spirals. Tightens. Never you mind those zombie-ingrates, you’re not one of them. Not yet – no! Not ever. Never ever, ever, ever. Hush, you mustn’t sound like a fairy tale. It’s youthful energy, not childish rage of the self-righteous. Disney, not Brothers Grim. There’s a difference. The idealistic, the delusional; isn’t it all the same? Do they matter, all the same? A sharp, constant shaving sound finally catches my attention, or is chosen to distract from dangerous thinking, pick your poison, tick off the decision and may it do ya fine. My nervous fingers have rended along the edge of the segregated sheets, laid waste to a line of gutter even. How did I do that without noticing all this while? Fisted fingers, relax fingers. Shreds of dull grey confetti flutter off my fingertips, and I brush off the reluctant few still stuck the pads of my fingers. Damp, irritating hand of humidity.

Breathing, breathing, always remembering.

You’re a minority group, that edges you forward a tad, so you should sell that. Nowadays they need variety in their diet, what do they call it, ethnic diversity? To holler that they don’t discriminate, while they beckon forward with one hand the colourful people, and turn away others with the other hand, saying stop, we’ve fulfilled our quota. We are a rainbow, hire less violet and more red, but all colour are represented. A dash of black or white, just like pepper, just enough to be hip, but still Asiatic yellow enough to still be friends with the local conservatives. The next level of racism, my friends. Race now used in a race against others, the pyramid is inverted, but the rules are the same, centuries old, these rules are.

See the ceiling; see how it always gets lower whenever you glance away. Save the space, built more storeys. Asians are shorties anyway, we don’t need the room to grow. Short and forever young. They call us stunted, in Europe, whispering, sometimes behind closed doors, most of the times in sight of us. Conversation starters are necessary, and besides bringing it up out of the blue is distasteful. Stunted; that’s what I’ve been told. I have an inkling they don’t just mean physically. Whatever it is, I am afraid of the sinking ceiling. There’s less air where there’s a lowered ceiling.

Okay, I say aloud. The cat is half-startled and glares balefully at me. I glare back, almost envious. He wants no more than idyllic days and a string of mischief to chase. Simple, contented fool.

Okay. Now, deep breath. It clutters all the way down, down where the unwilling stoicism is hauled out to face this task. Rattling his chains, such a laughable show of vigour. No deeper than there though, hidden beneath that old fellow is someone older who used to thrash ol’ man stoic and told him to shit on his ancient Athens. This one cheered on Batman, not that stuporic Superman, thought John was a ninny and Paul was king (as long as you pretend he’s dead already, Paul today is a flying disgrace) and Ringo was all technicalities. Wanted to be a traveller/dancer/writer/coach/fire-fightress/artist and fight crime on weekends. Spun elaborate tales of an adventurous life, charmed with bold doings and a diamond-dusting of delicious danger. This one is the tiny voice. But forget that flighty one. Tiny voice only leads to nowhere and 5-year-plans don’t fly where tiny voice is concerned. Another hauling in of air, even though I’m flying sick of breathing.

Alright, alright, we’d just circle the next ad in the Recruits that says advertising executive and have done with it. Sign away a year at least, eh? Green is for growth and money and the-opposite-of-red. Green is go, is progress, is tolerable. Remember how tiny voice always falls silent when you poke at it to pick just one path. You can’t keep waiting to make sense of it’s gibberish screaming against everything practical you do. Only thing you can make out of that baloney is that it’s not right. There’s that word again, practical. Yes, green is also for practical.

Remember to breathe out too.

the mean reds

Faye Whitaker might just be me in so many words.

Or the magic I'm feeding off your fingers.

Uninspired to wax lyrical about the trivial, and reluctant, for now, to acknowledge roomful o' elephants. Emo is old and feeble and should be shot. But hey, I found a draft that was earlier abandoned (18 March 08!) for being a wee bit too snippy-snarky-snarly.

pinch of salt ah, blogs are transient, not wholly representative, etcetera etcetera. I'd be angrier if you don't come to me when in trouble. I'm dispenser of all sorts of useful advice, fierce hugs, loyal commiserations and slaps of reality. Call me OprahTyraEllenLettermanEuniceOlsen.

Haha, I'm so full of myself today. Hey Cat (I know you're there!), let's make our secret fix a monthly affair, in such a good mood still!

***

It'll Take A Little Time, Might Take A Little Crime..

18 March 08, 4:24am

So sitting in the storm saved the day, because the niceness meter ran down very early in the conversation, result of a cumulative effect long coming in the shadows. He can think me odd, insisting we stayed there and be slightly drenched, as long as I don't yell at crying boys. Yeah, this bitch had qualms and has standards, miracles never cease, tomorrow I fart jelly rainbows. To the tune of Come Undone, Duran Duran. Orchestra accompaniment to be confirmed; conductor was understandably dubious as to artistic purity.

Yeah, thunderstorms are my cloudless sunny days. Low personal energy output, purely vicarious venting, post-post-modern trip hop rock concert* in the distance; what's not to love?

In the name of unbiased reporting though... I do feel for them and their impossible entanglements.

In the name of responsible reporting... Can't say more. Won't.
Embargoes feel like this!

I dropped in at La Selle. Second time helping a friend with acting projects, I still feel totally ridiculous and it's not likely to wear off soon. It was tonnes of fun, 'cause I kept running scenes from A Bug's Life in my head. And when I was wrapped up ubertight and could only wiggle or talk while waiting for them to set the scenes and lights, I became a human jukebox. :D Raindrops keep falling on my head was the frequent interloper - remember when it rained in the movie and everyone was like OMG, OMFG, WE ARE BIBLICALLY DYING, RUUNNN ARGHHHHHH.

Dear overtly curious polymates, so chatty only when info-fishing,
I aced everything and streaked down Orchard Rd throwing confetti in people's eyes in celebration and I'm burning bridges with most of yall. In all honesty, we'd probably never talk again, but would still blog-stalk and facebook-hunt each other. It's annoying but amusing so why fight it?

A Dramatisation
(because Craig did teach principles in narrative documentations)

XXX said:
Hi!

homi said:
oh hey, what's up?

XXX said:
how did you do?

homi said:
failed everything cos i wrote in braille. alamak la, discrimination! what about you?

XXX appears to be offline. Messages you sent will be delivered when they sign in.

*BS music references. Does not actually exist, I'm not cool enough to have music cred.

Ass-wiper.

It's hilarious, that so many of my most poignant moments sounds ugly, silly and so sad. They all seem to lose the heart (heat?) of the moment in the retelling. I end up swearing upsidedown that yes, it really was sorta sweet, and NO, I'm not a masochist.

Although... I am kinda weird.

Rewind, be kind.

To recap, plans were for:

Date on Sat night.
I'm probably having a small thang on sunday with a group of my friends who happen to fall into the same circle.
Monday, movie marathon, baby!
Monday night, the Din-Maker and I are going to go really, really wild. The ramifications are, just possibly, illegal. Le gasp!

****************

What happened was:

Date on Sat night.

* sucked, upsettingly. Dalai lama man and I are through.

I'm probably having a small thang on sunday with a group of my friends who happen to fall into the same circle.

* WHEEE! Er. Well.. the first half at minds cafe was, anyway. The glee levels tend to take a plunge when more hearts get broken. It's this year's theme, it seems. Love you gang, thanks for everything!

Monday, movie marathon, baby!

*rawkin' good times, yet the only sane moments o' the week!

Monday night, the Din-Maker and I are going to go really, really wild. The ramifications are, just possibly, illegal. Le gasp!

* oh wow, le giggly gasps indeedy. sorry to tease, folks, intensively innermost circle circulation only. suffice to say, it was a blast! pics of flasherboy's bare ass are available on his blog, and that's only the tip of the iceberg, that slut :)

oh and meet ups with assorted rascals to do assorted audacious deeds! Sorry I'm so stingy on the salacious details, this here blog IS public after all. Ask; i'd let you in on them. *wink!

This is because I have had ENOUGH picture frames.

Let's shake things up a little. Is a birthday wish list presumptuous? Definitely, but if you're just lurking, i'm not going to know that you knew but didn't get me the you-know, you-know, whatever right. Folks, it's just your jolly, crazybeautiful, ass-kicking, random-shenanigans-filled, thoughtful, and lovely-O company I want. If it wasn't for that, I'd probably spend this sunday sleeping til 12pm, reading The Blind Assassin which i just borrowed and looking for a job. Eurgh, sourpuss!

Okay I want. A trip to Morocco, a serger (for non-seamstress types, its a kind of sewing machine) to see the northern lights in person, a tattoo, vespa, motorbike, a unicorn, money to go to OZ for university, a reality check... Alright, alright. Here's the real deal.

• Dance classes. Or kick-boxing classes, WOOT.
• To visit a fortune-teller. Or have someone read tarot cards for me!
• Bright, bright shoes. (I'm a size 39)
• Benetint.
• A punching bag to hang from my ceiling.
• Resin mix
• My first dress. Seriously, my prom dress was the only one.
• one-inch button making machine
• typewriter (actually, surprisingly cheap at sugei rd's flea market)
• a Polaroid camera
• SLR camera!
  
• To have my bike given a onceover and maybe even modded.
• Bicycle/exercise gloves.
  

okayy, those were pricey. For the budget-minded, I'd love for these:

• Fabrics, yards and yards of pretty fabrics.
• A magazine, foreign, avant-garde, fashion, indie, art, design or crafty-centric. I like Made, I-D, French Vogue, Nylon, Elle UK. I hear Lula's good too!
• Underpanties!
• Books, novels. I haven't read Time Traveller's Wife yet, nor any of Vladimir Nabokov's stuff apart from Lolita. Or something like The Grouchy Grammarian, Lapsing into a Comma. Please, no chick lits man!
• New sounds. Cake, Johnny Cash (stone me, i like his country music), Nadasurf, The Pierces, Gold Frapp, CCR, Garbage, Amy Winehouse, Portishead, Kings of Convenience? Classic rock compilations by Floyd, ACDC, Led Zep and all those other gods would be rawking awesome as well.
• I err, never had a tamagochi.
  
• I like clothes and hats and accessories as much as the next girl too. If you know my taste, go for it!
  
• A humongous block of chocolate.
• Vouchers are great. I like Topshop, Kinokuniya, Borders, kthxbai.

If you're broke, just gimme a big hug and have fun alright. Make me something, mail me a card or a letter, I love getting mail. I feel sheepish enough putting this up, demanding stuff and shit, but this rubbish isn't important at all, truly. Besides, you'd have to give me something twice as big for my 21st! :P


Oh YEAH.
For yon fools not in the know yet, here are my shakily-formed but public-friendly plans.
Date on Sat night.
I'm probably having a small thang on sunday with a group of my friends who happen to fall into the same circle.
Monday, movie marathon, baby!
Monday night, the Din-Maker and I are going to go really, really wild. The ramifications are, just possibly, illegal. Le gasp!

he turned me into SUCH a total girl, darnit all.

Try to eat healthy and you spend a lot of time in the fruits and vegs aisle plotting this chart too.
Also, a lot more time in the loo. Dietary fibre is yay.

I'm a boring person. I got up at 4pm a couple of days ago. AWESOME SHITZY. And reading and reading, and hanging out with buds like JT, Fay, and... more-than-bud person, erm, object of a budding something else.

I hate Stephen King for ending the Dark Tower series like that, so... typical King and unepic. Maybe I'd see differently when I reread them. It happens, I was dismissive of "as my guitar gently weeps" at first, but I woke up my ideas. la dey.

Oh and the internet. Which is my crack. questionablecontent, gossip girl, one tree hill, gilmore girls, xkcd, salad fingers, Dark Cuts 2, zuma. And watching fascinatingly wiggly worms in stomachs on youtube! Pour on the korean sappy dramas and girly animes to unman me, pleeease.

Actually, repartee and humour are more like my crack. Good doses of them all round recently too.

Don't you love how the night makes people creep closer, exchange intimate confidences, more alive and vibrant, a tad more daring? There's no real need to dose them with alcohol, nicotine or whatnot, because perhaps they instinctively feel like the moon is less judgmental than the glaring sun, or their defenses are down after a long day and the mask they wear all day got too sweaty and rank, and they have to take it off if only so they won't suffocate.

I hated uni applications. Appraisal forms, poofy boom. You know, if sports coaches just stepped up their act to do a little more than just yelling for metres and good body form, we won't need no shitty Life Coaches.

Hi, this post has no plot! So blogging year of 2001, right?

(image source: xkcd)

I'm stopping you from falling.

I think I saw love.

I was walking along the river that cuts past Clark Quay, and there was a guy threading long blades of grass into the plaits of a girl's hair. She was sitting perched on the ledge's edge over the river and looking back at his face, long and hard. The odd angle he had to work with, coupled with the thick, black chains of the barrier around the river he had to work around (being as he was behind it) made his work a konky green burst of firework flowers, and laughingly he chidded her for it.

He looked about late 30s to early 40s, your typical, slightly paunchy Man of Singapore. She was a fresh young thing just hitting her stride, and foreign.

As I passed, fumbling and fussing with my bag straps because I was staring, but attempting discretion, she called out to me. Ran over, lithe legs I instantly envied flashing in and out. She handed me rings she'd woven from blades of grass, and gabbled in her foreign tongue.

I understood, of course, nodded my assert, grinning like a fool. She shook her head and yes yes, of course, must be sombre, sorry. I walked over with her, to her curious man, and he looked at me, dubious and expecting. No, my man, no disapproval, here, but see, I'm minister, sharpen up and look pious please. She goes to him, pulls him to his feet and before me. I set my bag down, and looked down at the rings in my hand. In the moist heat, they'd already gone limp at the blade ends, but a jaunty little white flower was set in the middle of both, and they were fresh, dazzling. And there, in the oddly shifting twilight (yes, how romantic, no?) light, I scrounged up what little I remembered of wedding ceremonies from books and movies, and improvised a promise ritual for them in the British style, because really the Chinese have no notion of romance in their countless traditions and ceremonies for weddings. They do family and filial piety best, but this couple had brought none to this lazy river.

I quipped a half smile as I gave them permission to set rings on the other's fingers, but I'm already gone. They are gazing at each other, and it looked, from my spectator view, pretty intense. Their fingers interlocked, and a promise for the ages yelled out louder from that squeeze than those rings.

Then they were gone, strolling off down the same path I was taking before, and her fluttering, flitting head piece turned gorgeous with the bobbing of her head.





Is this truth or invention?

Like blood, but full of cold wonderment.

Some of my favouritest people and others that still matter.

Psssssst! I made V Day goodies, but there's limited supply, so in the interest of impartial randomness whoever sees me first gets the _____. As my paint-stained fingers and ribbon bracelets attest, crafty business has been afoot! I feel great, I haven't had the time to get my crafty on during the last sem. I'd post pictures soon, 'cause I'm like a proud mama hen, but why ruin the AURA OF MYSTERY and PEOPLE SCRAMBLING FOR PRESENTS?

heh. Punzzzzz.

Good mood, hey? That's because this particular procrastination process proved productive.

...Yeah, I guess I can kinda alliterate. I still need to study though!

4352 and a half hours just commuting

Did you know that there is a website where you can rate your ex for the world to see, so that if, say you were dating someone shifty-looking, you can scoop out what previous girlfriends/boyfriends/special friends with benefits have said about them?

Go go go, check if your name's in there! I did, and it wasn't. :)

I was thinking, after the Chinese New Year bai lianers gang from mass comm left my place, that if someone created gongsifachai-hongbaonalai.com (translates roughly to "Chinese New Year greetings, hope you score loads of money this year. Give me a red packet."), a website to share with the hivemind of teh interweb which houses are worth the visit and the 1 and a 1/2 hour commute to get to, my place would have scored damn poorly la.

"Shy, hidden siblings, unhospitable family who set a time limit on the visit, appallingly delicious scents of dinner cooking waffling through the air and no invitations to join them at dinner. Small ang pao. Hostress didn't bother to clean up her room for CNY. tsk! Will not visit again. "

Ehhh, actually its damn fun rating houses! I want to tell you my ratings for Kenneth's and Nat's and Lucas' places, but... HEH, BETTER NOT, since revealing one means that in fairness I must reveal all! Definitely, all of them rated better than what I had to offer, mere, humble UNO-STACKO! I want to set up that website now, I chop the idea!

Change

My photographer friends told me that I'd know that I'm ready to commit to a real life SLR camera when my Panasonic (a Lumix Fx1o, if I remember rightly) shots start to look limp to me.
I don't think that was the actual term they used, but you know me, I remember colours and tones of a conversation while the direct quotes whizzes by unheeded. Unsatisfactory? Flat? Piqued?

Some journalist; is it any wonder I recorded every one of my interviews meticulously?

I think it's time. Soon, when I've scrape up the money. Aussie dreams are almost dead anyway, what else is there to save up for?

Happy Chinese New Year, fellows.

"What's wrong, Rae?"

I can feel the atmosphere here lightening up as the deadlines pass us.
Slowly, the evil beasts are turning back into normal MCM students.
Hark! Therebe giggles in that cavern, might be safe to let the First Years visit that enclosure afterall!
And and and... I no longer feel like I'd burst into tears if you poke me too hard.

congrats, Me, for making it through the last semester with only 2/3s of a major outburst.
Why thank you kindly, You.
Don't be so modest, Me.
Huh, who you? Nahh, you aren't really.
No no, I meant me as in you, Me. Wait. You think I'm arrogant?
Well, I don't know want you think of you, but I'm okay with it.
So you do!
I don't know if you do, I told you. Stop talking to yourself.
Shut up, you.
Hey! Stop talking to yourself, or I'm leaving!
Fine, goodbye, Me!
Quit it, DAMNIT!

Haahahahaahhahah. I should have done Acting instead this sem!

I'm not happy.
My module selections will be biting me in the ass when the result slips get out.

There's no more "better luck next time"s for unsalvageable documentary production. I said then, fuck it, hand it in as a sodding mess. I didn't mean it, and it's just too galling.

Is this what I'm going to have to show for my Documentary Production module? Does it show what I'm capable of producing? I could have done better, if I didn't have to haul deadweight.

It was exhaustion speaking then, and I couldn't hear the hysterical pitch of it reverberating in my foggy mind. I was screeching Christmas carols full volume, off-pitch while editing til I was booted out for the second time when the Avid Lab closed at 9.45pm, after i whined my way into another 15 minutes worth of frantic editing. The first time? I was murmuring about blooddebts and cursing everyone in my documentary.

Was I the designated editor? Or producer? Or cam op? Why are we fucking using Avid anyway, Final Cut Pro was the bomb. Why were certain people wasting time on other projects due days in advance when the deadline on this one has been extended a miraculous, unheard-of 2 times? Why were other uncertain persons leaving early to go to faux-serious 'events' and laughing it up and hanging up on me when I called them about editing? Why was she SCREWING UP THE EDITING HOURS BEFORE ITS DUE AND BEING SO MORONIC ABOUT IT??!?! I'm getting so damnit mad again!!!

Okay, breather. Shit. I should delete that last paragraph, but I won't.

Your curiosity is not piqued, you will not ask me or others about it, wooo ayyyy vooo doooo wooooo, I ish hypnoooootising yoooooouuuuuu.

Advert advert, let's not talk about Advert. Let's ignore that I ever took Print Journalism. The tirades won't fit in here. It's bone deep, this exhaustion. A person cannot be stretched this tight without permanent damage. In fact, I'm not really present right now. My real self is floating 2 feet above my left ear, dreaming of purple plaid elephants, snapping breath-taking pictures my Panasonic isn't capable of, skinny-dippers with floppy dicks and boobs, and that guy on the bus this morning, obviously a rocker, leaping off a marshall about to hit a power chord. Since she's not quite here, these fingers must be moving under their own residue steam. Conversely, these words right here? They don't matter. Dummy text will do!

Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipisicing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat. Duis aute irure dolor in reprehenderit in voluptate velit esse cillum dolore eu fugiat nulla pariatur. Excepteur sint occaecat cupidatat non proident, sunt in culpa qui officia deserunt mollit anim id est laborum.

***

Actually. I'm thinking the saner MCMers should be persuaded into signing a blood pact. For us to survive, when we're tumbled into the real world, helter skelter in the summer weather. We've all had enough of this poisonous MCM drama, the evil beasts that everyone in The World Outside Mass Communication can nod their heads and say "oh, i know, there's a girl like that in my school too" as much as they please, but would never truly understand the scope. Maybe we can agree that this was the initiation ceremony, and that from now on when we work with each other out there, we bring no bullshit to the table.



A Sisterhood of Flairbabies. Boys welcome. The rules are simple.

thou shalt aid FlairSisters' sanity with liberal applications of Sympathy and Genuine Work. No BSing, no ab-libbing through pitches and interviews and proposals, we've seen and done it all. Substance, or the door.

thou shalt not play devil's advocate while thy FlairSisters are pitching bitch fits.

Equally forbidden is playing hero when thy FlairSisters are pitching bitches into fits. Amusing sights must be left to evolve into open conflict. I say this for the boys, of course, cat fights are hawt.

Thou shalt not knife other FlairSisters in the back. Poor manners are undesirable, tsk! Frontal knifing is fair game, I guess.

And... alamak, cannot think of another. Spoil drama mama mood siah.




Damnit, I'm starting to end my posts like cat does now!

Screaming Silly and Fourteen.

Hard Rock Christmas and Fay's Pre-Birthday BBQ shopping.















We refuse to grow up.





Download these shots and more, here and here.

Go? Stay. No. Stay?

If I really do run away to university overseas, try not to forget me too fast. Set up a blog and fill it up with your daily antics so I can talk like I was there. Don't ask me how I'm goinh to paying for it, I'd tell you I'm paying it back triple in time and kind. Download skype, figure it out and schedule a weekly yakfest for us to follow religiously.

Call my phone and wait to tease the grumpfuck of all mornings, only to be sent to my voicemail 'cause you forgot I was out of town. Reply to my volleys of postcards and parcels with twice the number. Try not to change too much without sending me a notice. Assume I care about that petty issue and tell me about it. Bribe me to buy back shopping gems not found in Singapore. Send me Aik Chong 2-in-1 instant coffee mix and Brand's Chicken Essence monthly, I doubt they'd have them there. Have our last Mambo/MOS/Pumproom incessantly.

Envy me my chance. Talk enthusiastically about visiting me there during my vacation, even if you probably won't be able to muster up the cash or time. Joke about the ang moh I'd drag home to shock my family with. Explain to me the psychoanalysis behind your peach pink nail polish as oppose to the French manicure anyway, even if I'd never get to see or comprehend them. Take daily pictures, at least during the first 8 or so months, and post them up on your blog. Put up more pictures of us having fun together on your Facebook.

If you replace me with a new friend, at least offer to introduce us when I get back, and promise we'd click and clique up. Still ask for my opinion on your issues. Still remember my birthday. Still call me up on yours. Still keep that ratty old letter I wrote you while I was bored in class. Still need me first when you're feeling low. Sketch me and mail it to me in an envelope, just because. Take furtive pictures of your new crush so you can send them to me. Remember my old jokes and quote them back to me.

Be stern; remind me to work bloody hard to justify the XXX,XXX amount of money I'm spending just to be there. Send me text messages spontaneously, they're pretty cheap and will remind me to touch base. If he ditches you while I'm gone, I'd clock him when I get back. Come up with elaborate plans so as to cheat the system and manage some bonding session with the extra 5 hours of the week you created. Be stern; remind me to get my ass out of my room and go play. Threaten to ditch me if I ever do drugs; laugh it off when I get pissed drunk for the first time. Proofread my articles for me at 5am so I'd fuck off to bed for class at 8am.

Call me if someone fucks with you; I would have learn how to hack from the geeks at my new place by then, and I'd hack into his gmail, facebook and ibanking account for you. Or I can voodoo him. Have a seat pulled up for me at gatherings, pile your bags and jackets on it in the shape of me and laugh up a riot pretending to include me in the going-ons. Google up the cheapest times of the year to fly over to me. Buy us both a ransom's worth of stamps and envelopes so we'd really have to write to each other. I'd address all of my envelopes to you guys before I go, so you'd know I won't be using them for anything else.

Realise that I'd have a hard time pretending not to miss anyone. Step up the friendly force for the sake of my sanity. Remember that I'd eventually be back for good, so don't write me out of your life yet, you bugger. Write a list of dares for me to do there. Reminisce about the good old days with me. Gossip to me about the rest of the gangs. My place is still open to you in an emergency, only now you have the bed not the sofa. Regale me with all the new anecdotes about your new hobbies, school, friends, parties, outings, pets, experiences, work, relationships, grips, peeves. Your new life.

But most of all..
Build up a world of anticipation so I'd really go.

Little Hic. Double pours.

On the first day of the new year, I kissed and dashed.






Grow an isle of guilt and nerves,
plant it in the mirror first,
promise never let it slip away.
If it works we'd all stay fey.