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It is beginning to seem like the Inevitable Loversí Path. If you love someone so much, and the person loves you back, surely that is enough? But as usual, life is not that simple. After the long and tumultuous journey of finding that special someone, the road of life starts becoming endlessly meandering. Never ending. Life is such a bi-atch, seriously. They say everything is all about your perspective, no shite. Just like some twisted self-fulfilling prophecy. It is like this secret rule where everybody knows, but they do not talk about itÖ Am I making any sense at all?
I like this immaculate idea of a hundred words a day. Itís precise and gives just about enough word count for you to blabber in a healthy length. It prevents people from wallowing in excessive, unacceptable personal pig-ish happiness whilst allowing others sufficient time and space to rant about their sorry lives (even though if you think about it, their lives arenít that sorrowfully if theyíre literate and has connection to the Internet). And it functions like a diary where your entries are always short and you donít get to say much about anything! So write a hundred words everyday.
Apprehension would be the word here. I was about to go on my first ever airplane journey to Shanghai, China. My brother was asking me why wasnít I jumping in seat as he had two years ago, on his maiden plane ride to Beijing, China. Beats me, I thought. Maybe it was disbelief, I remembered telling him, but I think itís more of not really wanting to be on this trip. Never in my life have I ever dream that going to China would be my virgin journey. There are a million and one nicer destinations I can think of.
I boarded the plane, albeit still in my mental state of denial. Seriously? Iím going on a plane ride for six sodding hours. I was reminiscing about the telly behind the seat that my beau was telling me about a month ago when he went to Hokkaido, Japan. Hence, I had a mental image of what my flight would be like, despite the fact that I was going on economic class and it was China Eastern not Japan Air. As such, I was very discomforted and utterly pissed when my butt landed on my not-to-spacious flight seat. It was small.
Iím not a light sleeper but sleeping sitting up, really isnít a habit of mine. Iím used to laying down, flat. Like most regular people. No wonder some people detest flying so much. It wasnít the annoying ear blocking sensation that you might experience Ė probably because you didnít swallow your saliva enough times (but my brother reckons that youíve got to give a huge yawn to prevent the ear pop) Ė it was the disgustingly cramped seat. I know the ticket was cheaper but that does not account for the seat! Itís like human spatial discrimination (if you thought really hard).
Can you imagine an elevator that travels seven floors per second? My goodness, it was like rapidly ascending into the heavens or something similar to that. There goes that ear numbing sensation, signaling to me that I should start my process of rapid swallowing of my saliva. Gulped, gulped. The numbers on the electronic screen on the elevator was flashing; the figures increasing alarmingly. The screen paused for a few seconds at a time, making it difficult to mentally count the floors. We reached the top of the Oriental Pearl Tower also known as the Precious Pearl of the North.
There was a vegetable patch beside that hotel I was staying at. Wow. And the land beside the inn looked like some derelict farmhouses area. There was a lot of construction debris along, besides and in between the patches, I wondered if the vegetable were clean and unpolluted. The air was icy too. It was winter for the temperate place. It felt like the entire city was in an air-conditioned dome that does not run on electricity. The air was dry and my lips cracked. My dry skin became even drier than it had been in my tropical monsoon home.
I realise Iím disclosing loads of queer personal stuff here and Iím beginning to wonder if Iím poignantly expressive on the Web or Iím treating this like a written diarrhea in a manner of a self denying confession outlet. Now Iím wondering how many people in Singapore has a hundred words account and whether Iíve ever told my boyfriend or my ex about this. I think I may have told my ex (the coolness of this, not that heíll have the mental capacity to comprehend, despite being smart) and I should have learn my lesson and not tell my current.
Letís face it: my entries are inducing a soporific effect on fellow readers, my bad. Itís just, some days, your life gets seriously very boring and you start thinking about things that no one really gives a two hoots about except you and your over active imagination. Just like now. Like wondering about the purpose of your existence Ė thatís my all time favourite philosophical thinking topic. Well, who cares? Iím just hoping that no one I know ever reads my hundred words because it will be very embarrassing considering the amount of personal insights I reveal. Yeah, secrecy is good.
Urgh. I have this awful habit of peeling the skin of the sides of my fingernails. Itís gross, I know, but itís becoming more of an impulsive reaction than a habit. I seem to do that without proper consciousness. When Iím bored, my fingers react by peeling the skin. And now, it looks as though my fingers are rotting on the tips! But this is worse than biting and chewing your fingernails because unlike the fingernails which effects can be erased simply by cutting the nails off; the skin doesnít heal much if you cut them, because the habit continues.
Sunny weathered friends. Some friends of mine seem to treat me as someone to approach to when they have a problem. They donít remember my birthdays Ė unless Friendster or BirthdayAlarm tells them so Ė or even bother to return me a Christmas present when Iíve actually gotten them something. All that trouble, and not an ounce of kindness in return. But then again, if youíre expecting something in return, youíre not doing anything kind, right? They get on my nerves when they are asking me for help. Other times, they would hardly talk or pretend to be interested in my life.
I am speechless. Canít believe he gave as lame an excuse as Ďnot wanting to sleep in the living roomí! And I have to lie for him in order to save him man-pride, thus, the story of how he was so considerate, he didnít want to trouble anybody. I love him. But at times like this, when Iím forced to lie for somebody by putting him in an innocent light, it makes me wince. Man or coward? Ah. I guess I just have to accept that people arenít as good as they seem to be. Well, Iím no perfect girl.
The Lizard Chronicles.
I killed my first lizard recently, and it wasnít even on purpose. Also, I think the lizard has been living in my bedroom for a couple of months, which is gross and I think it must have lived behind my wardrobe. That day that it came (I know this sounds so melodramatic), I was freaking out (I always freak out when I see a lizard, itís my inherent disability) Ėas usual- and was frantically trying to steer it out of my room by randomly whacking itís surroundings with my indignant floorball stick To be continuedÖ
The Lizard Chronicles.
The Lizard sought refugee amidst my wall where I had pasted a Ďwall-fullí of chemistry notes. But I did not give up; I continued to fray my wall Ė and my notes Ė in an attempt to chase it out of my room. Just then, the din of the fraying woke up my parents who were trying to sleep next door. My mom came over and told me to stop, instead I got her to continue the fraying while I went to get our only bottle of cockroach repellent, which was supposed to be lethal enough Ö
The Lizard Chronicles.
When I returned, to my horror of all horrors, my mom had allowed the lizard entry behind my notes, which will hence seclude it from any possible view. It was impossible for me to tear down all my notes just to get hold of the lizard which I knew I could not kill. But now, with the exams around the corner, I had to face inhabiting with this grotesque
in my alleged safe haven that had since become an irony. Nonetheless, when I saw it recently, albeit coming out from behind my wardrobe Ö
The Lizard Chronicles.
It came out behind my wardrobe - not from my wardrobe, please Ė I knew, it had to be the same lizard. I reached out to grab my old granddadís stick and the fraying continued. I tried to chase it out again, because I thought I could never bear or rather dare to kill, especially not in my room! Think of the mess, and what if it fell into my bags or my pile of clothes? All was well until the lizard reached the door hedge where it stopped moving out. It wavered and remained there.
The Lizard Chronicles.
I tried mock closing the door, seriously did not want to squash it behind my door and the hedge. But somehow, it was so tiny that even if I did close the door, it would get squashed anyway. Thus, I tried to scare it with the stick again. Once again, my plan backfired! It came back into the room. Ohmygod! Yes, it was back and appeared to be intending or perhaps contented to staying at the threshold of my room! So I thought: it was now or never. I poked it with the wooden stick.
The Lizard Chronicles.
The next moment I knew, the lizard fell to the floor. Body no longer agile but limp and wiggly. It crawled for a very short distance as I prayed intensely for it to die! Otherwise, it would surely suffer a long and painful inevitable death. I found its wiggly tail behind my door. It was gross and I tried to move it with the stick. Unfortunately, the moment I touched and added pressure, the tail broke in two and became to halves of wiggly things. And I throttled on the lizard to end its suffering.
I so seriously have got to improve my vocabulary! Just a couple of years of general paper and all that fact mumblings have deprived me of my usage of emotive vocabulary words. Well, itís not like you can just pop one into an essay about global warming or that one about science and technology. Your tutor will think a) youíre either seriously nuts or b) you must fervently love this topic. Like love it to the core kind of love. Obsessive love, which for a non-living thing is rather strange and weird and unnatural. Shucks, dictionary.com isnít working. Thatís evil.
I am waiting for him to come home, just like some worried mother. Maybe I should be the expectant lover instead the worried mother. Sometimes he acts just like a baby, and other times, Iím the baby. Our relationship seems cute both intrinsically and extrinsically, which is why I reckon weíre seriously going to go on for some time, hopefully anyway. Many a time, we often donít get what we hope for, in spite of the fact that we are an unlikely couple, our attributes do seem to complement each other: like how Iím spontaneous and heís into the flow.
I have this sinking feeling: I think Iíve lost my mojo. My writing mojo, that is. Itís very important for a writer to have her mojo because thatís when she is able to spin up little tales. Can happiness ruin oneís mojo? I used to think otherwise but my recent bliss has coincidentally coincided with my mojo loss. And I need to write with dictionary.com because my spelling disease has apparently been aggravated (to my gravest dismay) and I seem to have this habit of knowing the meaning of the word yet having this inexplicable inclination to search the meaning.
I think I just saw his baby version: the cuter and more adorable version of him. He, the baby version, simply melts my heart into perhaps a lump of premium Godiva chocolates. Those oriental, slit eyes, that flat button nose and the shy, timid smile that he hasĖ I know he doesnít sound like anything cute but then again, cuteness is a perception. I had to stop staring at him Ė the thing is, every time I look slash stare at him, he will be smiling back, which really doesnít help with the coagulation of my melted mass of a heart.
Thump, thump, thump. It throbs and pounds, occasionally swirling around. Was it the prolonged staring into the computer screen or was it the wetness in my hair, which seemed to have taken a longer time to dry than usual? Or maybe itís the psychology thing at work again? Some people think that if youíd just think of being well, youíll become well. But thatís quite utter nonsense, I mean, I would understand if they are talking about ignoring pain or thinking about something else, but to will yourself to get well? Thatís absurd, because doctors are there for a reason.
I was pissed at work today. Some people are ridiculous, you know, they blame you for all sorts of nonsense when in reality, they should be thanking you. But thatís okay, people get crap from their jobs all the time, at least mine isnít a permanent one, ha! Iím sure when I get my results and move on to my next ladder up in education, theyíll be shorthanded. Well, I hope I can move up the education ladder. Itís just so annoying to wait for months and months for some results which would definitely, potentially change or ruin your life.
I skipped work today, but thatís okay because technically, I consider myself a freelancer. Oh well, work and play, work and play. Itís not really play, it was spending quality time with my boyfriend, so thatís important rapport building time. However, I donít think I would ever do that again. I was rather uneasy with the fact that I could have earned sixty bucks today instead of spending forty, but still, seeing him, just puts the right into the wrong. I feel so fortunate: to have him and have a ďfreelanceĒ job which I can skip though at my expense.
I had That Dream again Ė just to clarify, it is not a wet dream or anything sexual. Regardless, it was still discerning to keep having similar dreams every few weeks. I know I seem like I canít move on, but I have. I donít know why it just affects me so much. Every person I have ever liked seems to have this binding emotion to me, which makes me feel that itís so difficult to forget him, even if I have. I donít think Iím making much sense again. I hate talking about my feelings. I always get so confused.
I sometimes wonder how one can remain faithful to another. It seems that people fall in love with different people all the time and that makes marriage a very scary commitment, suppose youíre married to this so called Ďlove your lifeí but things change after a few years. Then, you meet another person who appears to be the Ďnext love of your lifeí, but by then, youíve already had children. So you wound up staying in an unhappy marriage for the sake of your children, and you get involved in an affair. Would you stay in that hopelessly unhappy marriage?
Having children is like eating a fortune cookie. Your child could be the little princess youíve always prayed for or that kid from hell that your mom always warns you about from your neighbourís. Thatís the scary part about parenting: itís about the genes, karma and luck. Yes, karma plays a role here too. I think that kind of makes sense (for once). Itís like when youíre younger you used to be a sore arse so when you have your own kid, heís a sore arse too (think genes being hereditary here). The bottom line: start praying when youíre pregnant.
When youíre young, you can never understand why the adults are so uptight about education and doing well in school, when youíre an adult (almost), you can never understand why these ungrateful brats are so adamant about doing badly for their studies. I feel like Iím in this role reversal thing again. The funny part is, I do understand what theyíre feeling, Iíve been there done that. I canít help it but they could have made good use of the time, which I'd wasted away. Itís like seeing yourself do the wrong things all over again. In thirty seven folds.
Do you believe that luck comes in waves? Of late, life has been good. Iíve got a job (finally!) and itís a slack job but not the brain degenerating sloth type of job. My brain still gets its regular intellectual exercise, so life is good. My mom is still giving me allowances and Chinese New Year is coming Ė so that equals more ranking in of money. And then there will be Valentineís Day Ė all lovey dovey-ly bliss and all Ė and finally, my birthday! Okay, minus the receiving results part, thatís too scary to fathom. I actually like waking up now.
I canít take it, you know, when I meet an extremely cute guy. Like a man-cute guy and not the previously mentioned boy-child-cuteness. Itís just, when I see them, my face shouts ďAwwÖĒ in neon lights. Itís terrible. It makes me feel like I canít control myself, which is true. I canít be nonchalant or act like they donít exist because I stare. Yes, I am pathetic, arenít I? Gosh. Guys with dimples are so, so cute. I mean cute doesnít mean I want to hit it off with them, I just like looking at them, call them eye candies.
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