A marathon

More and more, I feel like I'm enrolled in a really long marathon. A masochistic kind where they combine the elements of the Amazing Race and Fear Factor, just so that those who are watching get a real kick out of it.

The first ten years of your life probably went smoothly without a hitch. Even the occasional annoyance from a nagging parent or teacher couldn't affect the general carefree mood of your life.

The first ten kilometres, you can feel the beads of perspiration breaking out on your skin. Toned and used to running by now, you treat this as a usual symptom, enjoying the warm breeze and the rhythmic striding of your legs.

The voices of the boys around you start to deepen. Your girl-friends start telling you about their new-found interests in that boy that I sit next to in music class. And the worst nightmare of a female child's life: the onset of menstruation. You will never forget the shame you felt the day you saw that spot form on your cotton undies.

You are breathing slightly faster than usual, and you think to yourself, maybe I'm just nervous, but you keep going anyway. More and more, the breathing becomes slightly irregular and pained. What's wrong?

Adolescence. Where one year seems like a decade. Boys come and go as you muddle over this thing called love. You start realizing that everything costs money and sometimes there just isn't enough of that to go around. Not everyone can get what he or she wants, so you give some and take some.

A dull thumping in my head's affecting my breathing, my strides become slower, my heart pumping desperately to keep up with the runners in front of me. Somehow I couldn't stop even if I want to. It was as if my legs were clockwork that would never wind to an end.

And then that's when I stumbled over a rock, my knees finally buckled and I fell over, seeing myself in my subconscious keeling over in slow motion. Blood trickled across my left eye, my eyelashes formed a bloody mesh, obscuring my vision. I couldn't finish the race. I have to finish the race. Somewhere in my subconscious I got up and continued running, the fresh cut on my left temple and lip now healing miraculously fast, like how Wolverine does it. And I continue running towards a finishing line that I cannot see, eventually running in circles and at one point, passing by an unconscious form, lying by a rock. There was no sign of life, but she seemed peaceful enough.

If this works, it would frickin' rock

Testing. I'm emailing from my gmail account to blogger. If this
works, it would be really cool. I was thinking in relation to when
I eventually travel and such. Yes, I know what you're thinking: If
you have access to a computer, why not just log in to blogger
direct? I thought that too, then I realised that I could sms to an
email address. If I get roaming, I could effectively blog from my
handphone.

Just tried sms-to-email, apparently I need to WAP-enable my
phone. I'm slightly techno-unsavvy when it comes to WAP,
GPRS and WTF have you. Need to find out! I don't want to buy
PDA phones. :\ (Testing parsing in email)

Raindrops + sunshowers

I love rainy days, if only because they are a relief from the usual gruelling weather, that, and it's great for napping. There were nights where I thought the rain could never stop and when I thought the skies were angry. When I was a kid, I used to cover my ears with my blanket and hide in bed, clutching tightly on to my pillow, trying to dispel my fear with the thought of thunder being just someone throwing cupboards and sofas down a loooong flight of stairs; when an especially loud thunder go off, I imagined it to be grand pianos instead of cupboards. Back in my old place, the electricity wiring didn't used to be so good, that is, in medium intensity rain, short-circuits were a rather common affair. I wasn't really afraid of the dark as a kid (but I did use to think there were skeletons and ashes of random people hiding/hidden under my bed), but blackouts and thunderstorms just didn't spell playtime for me.

But now I sleep peacefully in the rain, listening to the sounds of Moby's Play. Superb rainy day album IMHO.

And we claim to be the best of them all?

friend on msn:
eh, what's veal

what's it got to do with love? says:
lemme google

friend on msn:
haha okie dokie

what's it got to do with love? says:
i think

what's it got to do with love? says:
it originally meant just young cows

what's it got to do with love? says:
but then they started killing young lambs and young pigs

what's it got to do with love? says:
and they all go under veal

what's it got to do with love? says:
as long as it's tender

what's it got to do with love? says:
hahaha

what's it got to do with love? says:
humans are such fuckers

Ballistic

After being very nearly driven ballistic by the idiocy of her on my previous site, I have decided to retain moral high ground lest I let spill more unpleasantries. Oh shut up, we all hate catfights, especially me. But sometimes you don't have a choice when you get caught right smack in the middle of one with a psychopathic ex-girlfriend. Anyhow, this site will remain password-protected for a while. Or not, we'll see about that. Meanwhile, I really ought to be going at the books, but of course, the escapist in me is hollering for me to do otherwise.

Water, water! (or How I learned that wasabi is cathartic)

True to the form of an overstressed varsity student, I chose to retreat to the Genki Sushi bar in school after my exhilarating Soci of Deviance paper instead of returning home to study for the next. The ambience in the sushi bar was surreal; the visual consistency and predictability of the conveyor belt dishes appeared to sooth the very heart of your soul. Unagi, egg (is that even fresh?), salmon (same question), funny brown tofu skin wrapped sushi with odd toppings varying from crabstick bits to silverfish, tub of wasabi, unagi, egg, salmon...repeat ad infinitum. So as per usual, I take up a wad of wasabi complemented with soy sauce, a sip of my ocha and proceed to devour. Maybe it was alittle too much wasabi, by now, Jap food lovers must necessarily already be acquainted with such incidences, when the wasabi-covered sushi is already in your mouth (i.e. it's too late, unless you wanna spit it out, but tak glam la) and then the past twenty years of your life flash by: The heartaches of breakups, the time when you broke your ankle, the first time you failed your exams, the first right hook you dealt. All these and more added up, could not suffice to exceed or match up to the pain you were experiencing this very instant, wasabi burning tongue, mouth, lips, and soul. And like all good cathartic drugs, the final culminating shot up your nose disappearing into the oblivion that is your brain-- brilliant. And as I sat there defeated by my masochism, shocked at my own ingenuity at the discovery of yet another form of instantaneous escape, I picked up the chopsticks and dipped the next sushi into the wasabi and....

When love and hate collide

Or, when my goddess meets my goddess-not



From left: Goddess-not, goddess.


Also, to read about after exams: Marxism and Marquis de Sade.

To do after exams, ORD:
Ice-skating (I really miss the clumsiness),
kite-flying/picnic,
a new pair of shoes (both for the boyfriend and I, no, not the same pair)
a new phone for you
And we really ought to get around to finishing up that roll in my SLR before it expires :)

p/s: Remember to burn Biology book. and English notes.

A meal fit for a king

Dinner at Rice Table yesterday. At first, it seemed pretty awesome, like a spread fit for an Indonesian King. But as the dishes kept coming, we realised we were not gonna be able to finish the colossal Rijstafel. Still, we couldn't quite resist ordering seconds of the spicy prawns, fried chicken (I-can't-believe-it-tastes-so-good-and-yet-not-oily fried chicken), special chicken satay, and sweet and sour battered fish. All in all, quite worth the money at $18.80++ per head.

My sweetheart and I have the most interesting conversations ever. Over dinner, we were exploring the possible topics I could do my honours thesis on. That's well over a year away I know but no harm starting early. Of course, it would be a shame if I never get to do it because I weren't able to get to the honours class. But it doesn't hurt to dream. Does it?