perfect paradox

My heart is heavy by the weight of its tears

2011-12-13T05:22:00.014+11:00

We give to unclutter, we give to better ourselves. We give because it is in the giving that we grow, we learn, we triumph and we love.

But in so giving, we are subject still, to the close of every chapter, the arriving again at another juncture. And as much for the reward I feel for giving, I feel as much also the pain. The reflection, in hindsight, the knowledge of just how much we have given so that we might make room for more... There is, deep inside, the hurt that I breathe, from the unearthing and the releasing of all those little particles that make the sum of my parts, given, away, to someone or something or some cause else, which I can never retrieve again to call my own.

It isn't the giving with which I cannot live, but the letting go that something other than my thinking, analysing, practical faculties which struggles to be at peace. The weight of this at any present moment is thrown to the wind with caution, hunting and haunting you only with the bow of time and its arrow of lost.

For those crossroads we must continually come upon and choose from, it is the course of natural life with which we have no control.

And everytime, a part of me dies. And everytime, I search and yearn and long for a peace that must only exist in the imaginations of men, desperate for a cloak of comfort to come to terms with this life.

I give because I want to give. I give because I cannot help but give. From where, for once, tell me how it gets any easier. Or, at least, how to be fulfilled with the concept that in giving, I have also gotten. For once, tell me, how I should live with myself, at peace. Satisfied. Because I still would not have changed a thing. I know, in the end, I will always give.

Maybe, afterwards, I can pick on my wounds chewing on the reality that is Choice. And all the inexplicables that come with it.

Emotions, unstable

2011-12-12T05:34:00.002+11:00

Feeling, ah feeling is the problem to begin with.
I'm just so... Stupidly, uncontrollably wretched.

A much sought after end draws near.
Which will give rise to the start of a bigger, worser, more emotionally challenging start.
I just want to bail.

I hate not being in control.
I hate not being strong.
I want but I don't but I do long to be needy.
I just want to give in to this... Tiredness.

Blue blue blue. And awake. Not good.

X, you are meant to be my friend

2011-11-29T05:17:00.003+11:00

I beg you now, tonight be my friend. Take away:

The good
The great
The plans

The memories

The past
The pain
The loss

The tears

Just for tonight. Just for tonight.

The imprint - of you, on me - I fear will never leave

2011-11-29T04:52:00.001+11:00

An imprint - I fear - I never want to lose

On top of all my usual stress manifestations, I can now add chest pains.

2011-10-13T06:27:00.002+11:00

I let you down, but we both feel like shit.

If nothing else, we will always be best friends - we'll always have that.

2011-10-05T03:48:00.002+11:00

Can I just die.

No one shows me tenderness

2011-10-03T01:06:00.003+11:00

The way that you do.

And I believe that no one else will ever come close.

Your tenderness is what amazes me each time anew; your tenderness is what I will always hold dear and what will break my heart whenever I think of you.

It isn't your burden alone

2011-09-29T04:29:00.003+10:00

This resistance.

But to decide what's fair to us both may be mine only. Like I don't already know there's no such thing.

What doesn't kill you

2011-09-28T01:25:00.002+10:00

Doesn't necessarily make you stronger but it does and will feel like sorry fuck.

Don't I know it, don't I know.

Just me, as I am

2011-09-25T05:05:00.002+10:00

When I am lost
You shine a light for me
And set me free
When I am low
You wash away my tears
And take me through

The loneliness
And emptiness
Through the darkest night
Somehow I survive
Through it all

When you tell me I'm the only one you need
Sweet and tenderly
And your love
Breaks away the clouds surrounding me
All I have I want to give to thee

If I should fall
Your love is strong enough to lift me up
If I'm afraid
You chase away my fears
And take me to

A brighter place
Beyond the rain
And I feel alright
'Cause you're by my side
Through it all

You take me through
The loneliness and emptiness
And I feel alright
'Cause you're by my side
Through it all

You tell me I'm the only one you need
Sweet and tenderly
And your love
Just breaks away the clouds surrounding me
And baby all I have I want to give to thee

Want to give you all of my love
Now and forever my love
All I have I want to give to thee

What have we done to each other?

2011-09-24T21:07:00.004+10:00

There...

Are no words. Only longing. And brokenness.

You've become me

2011-09-23T04:27:00.001+10:00

I've become you.

What are we to do?

Sigh

2011-09-21T20:22:00.001+10:00

"I never imagined I'd know it for myself. My heart... It feels like my chest can barely contain it. Like it's trying to escape because it doesn't belong to me any more. It belongs to you. And if you wanted it, I'd wish for nothing in exchange - no fits. No goods. No demonstrations of devotion. Nothing but knowing you loved me too. Just your heart, in exchange for mine."

Yvaine, Stardust

Deflated, defeated, depressed

2011-09-21T05:26:00.000+10:00

Damned is what I am.

Dinner is...

2011-09-19T02:35:00.001+10:00

Half a box of cigs and half a litre of coke. And other things that needn't be served on a plate.

Arm, throat, neck

2011-09-15T02:45:00.001+10:00

Thank you for leaving scars that help me not forget you.

So here

2010-06-07T20:56:00.001+10:00

...is where I find myself.

Uncertain. Lazy. Afraid.

This is going to hurt.
But I think it will do good.
Somehow.

How do you say

2008-11-03T00:30:00.000+11:00

I'm sorry.

I'll remember.

Take good care.

You say goodbye

2008-11-02T23:52:00.000+11:00

Now I am empty.

Thanks for the memo

2008-10-23T00:03:00.006+11:00

So the brother shoves something from a pile that hasn't fallen for two seconds out of his latest Reader's Digest my direction and I'm face to face with a compliable card with the header screaming: Stress.

Right.

So I don't pin everything down quite so directly like that. Especially with the brother. Coming from someone I liberally water sticky topics of conversation down for and don't do deep, soul baring talks with, and with whom I on a single occasion this recent past begged stress as a wildcard for an excuse only to hear an incredulous: what stress? reply, I wasn't expecting this.

But hey, I can still give the card a look over.

So there is a rendition of this girl sitting sideways with lines directed at her in three places accompanied by corresponding symptoms: head - anxiety, irritability, tension headaches, depression; lips - mouth ulcers and susceptibility to colds increase as immunity is weakened; stomach - digestive problems such as indigestion and IBS.

Right.

So as not to miss the warning signs: muscular aches and pains and general tiredness; skin conditions; heart palpitations and excessive sweating.

I see. Apparently, I'm all prepared for fight ot flight.

So below that is a summary of what the culprits are: the most common causes of stress involve work, money and relationships.

Checked, checked, checked. Wait. If I have none of the above, then I should uncheck, uncheck, uncheck?

So I flip the card because it goes on, complete with a symptoms summary box, in case I needed further comparison with something not already mentioned: difficulty sleeping, leading to constant fatigue; poor concentration and increased irritability; feelings of panic or anxiety; lack of appetite, constipation or diarrhea; trembling.

So I'm a walking, talking, stressed PBL. Where do we go from here?

And now it's two

2008-10-22T01:57:00.000+11:00

I'm not any closer to a coping strategy. My planning ability has gone out the window along with consort of choice. I suppose it'd be something to watch when desperate tactics are called for.

Ardent stoicism

2008-10-21T17:19:00.015+11:00

I just want to cut deep enough to carve out the pain. Where is the root of the root that hides from me so I cannot excavate? Must I keep slashing the surface to become numb to response, then limp and ragged for a time until distress flares again?

If severing need and feeling weren't options, at least grant me indifference. Then the pain wouldn't claw and swell so. Then it would matter not that I had to go through it, alone. Then dark, diseased thoughts would not vex me as they do.

If only apathy were more easily available over pharmacy counters or street corners.

Dear A

2008-10-20T02:17:00.001+11:00

You're right. I don't know how I do it. I don't know how I manage without an outlet. Anything - everything - that happens I keep within, and it eats me up inside.

I suppose the first thing to ask is: if without avenue, is it worth it? And if so, how to deal? Are there, realistically, even ways? If only the solutions were as easy to find as the questions that demand them are to ask.

I don't know what to do.

In the quiet

2008-10-16T02:11:00.005+11:00

He has the spooky ability to completely compartmentalise his life. I've had loads of arguments with him about this, over the years, and I'm sure you have too. If there's something bothering him or making him unhappy, he can just switch it off. Just like that. And get on with his life as if nothing at all has happened. I don't know anybody else who has that capacity. I've always found it very disturbing, that he can just put things in a box and shut the lid.

Maggie O'Farrell, my lover's lover

The thing is, everyone needs order. It's necessary for the everyday. The thing is, by whose degree do we rely? When is it too much; when is it not enough? The thing is, one shouldn't have to know more than one such character in their life. It is an over-allocation, and unfair. But this conversation is an open trap to discussions on significance, on demonstrable cost, and on true measures of value.

I do have thoughts on the matters. But really, I just want to stop falling asleep to the taste of tears and waking up with blood on my mouth.

I know the problem

2008-10-16T00:36:00.001+11:00

My analogies don't work because you're too confident. You're too secure in your position, too cocky about me, so of course my examples are all broken.

Mind infection

2008-10-15T05:01:00.013+11:00

You know those times you stare distractedly at the screen - unsure if you've arrived in the day after tomorrow or are still in the one before yesterday - the bright light straining concentration out of your eyes while their corners remain alert regardless on acknowledging every tireless blink of the cursor, that ever-living line that wills once every reincarnation for your brain to explode with intelligent matter and connect magically through a stream of eloquent articulation to your fingers to translate them into the words and ideas you come up with? You fuss, instead, for days on end over work that, if produced at all, is not satisfactory, because you want to say something of worth, not churn material for the sake of it. So you chase it like mist in the night, knowing that is it impossible, and necessary. By now, your body feels like the shell that it is - light and hollow, and running purely on a rotation of adrenaline, will power, and caffeine.

And then, you find that that imp. That combination of inspiration and nail on head, and the pretty, dewy cobwebs that hold it all together. The mischevious thing that you chase in loops and lets, daringly, you almost grab the shirt on its back on occasion for the thrill of it. The one you've worked your days, life and eating habits around to the point you're unsure if occasion spells with one c or two, and only one s or more, or double for both because, really, the options are many. The one that reminds you with its taunting twists and turns how near but far you are to the end that you can smell, taste, touch it - just not have - until you outwit it, finally, possess total hold of its twisting vapours as the sun is absorbed into the horizon for the eighth day now, and so you release the little devil, at your control, one smooth bit at a time so your mind is fluid, your fingers flowing, and every word and idea you need to write pours forth, rich and easy as honey. Everything comes together, so quickly and so well you cannot type fast enough nor dare you stop, you must get everything down at all cost. A little voice at the back of your brain even says in her smiley voice while your fingers hit the keys surely, boldly, that you have so much material you're going to have to cull it. Nothing can stop you - you can even think at different levels about different things at the once - and you keep typing while that voice now notes the happy problem of having too much.

Fantastically, bizarrely, your brain freezes and you blink. Or perhaps the screen blacks out and then you freeze and blink. All you know is now a blank.

Work through the denial, blame, anger, acceptance, it doesn't matter. The reality that nothing is retrievable sits glumly in your lap, and tears and tantrums aside, you have nothing.

This crushing disappointment is how I feel, having thought after thought after thought swim freely in my head, each an evil scientist plotting to overtake me. They're so vicious they are sharks circling my brain, which is prey. Only, they don't just attack and be done with it. They torment ceaselessly, probing and prodding, and I often will them to come together as a patchwork quilt, if not a neat jigsaw, to give me rest. Make no mistake, I'm no advocate for any kind of patchwork: they're far too happy and mismatched for me. I was never a fan of kitsch, anyway. And I've certainly lost my taste for jigsaws. But I need some organization. Already those torturous self-growing thoughts are given, and now I cannot fit them neatly into boxes for some semblance of order, or lum them together to produce some kind of meaning, some kind of value.

If you've read thus far, you see what I mean. I haven't even yet mentioned those thoughts which mushroom fertilely inside and I'm already shooting myself in the foot. Either I need saving from myself, or I'm mixing with the wrong crowd and feeling needlessly misunderstood. Perhaps both.

One

2008-10-15T00:02:00.000+11:00

Now three.

Counting down

2008-10-08T00:08:00.003+11:00

It's been the longest winter without you

I didn't know where to turn to

See, somehow I can't forget you

After all that we've been through

Since there's no more you and me

It's time I let you go so I can be free

And live my life how it should be

No matter how hard it is

I'll be fine without you

Yes, I will

Thought I couldn't live without you

It's gonna hurt when it heals too

It'll all get better in time

Even though I really love you

I'm gonna smile 'cause I deserve to

It'll all get better in time

Better In Time, Leona Lewis

10 PM

2008-10-05T23:24:00.001+11:00

Never have I seen stars that bright,

the moon's crescent so distinct and clear,

nor smelt air this sweet,

than tonight.

Tonight, walking

seems neither embraced

nor unwanted,

just something I have

to do,

this walk I have

to walk,

likely because

it's both.

I revel, even

just a little

in pain

beneath my feet,

perhaps because

of what pain

proves,

or to validate

the suffering,

maybe.

Bright stars,

curved moon,

sweet-smelling air;

you weave through

my other thoughts,

through my mind's

fingers,

and hair.

A turn,

and it is over;

the looming canvas

is riddled,

sweeping,

confusedly,

with dark clouds.

My mementos are

gone.

Only

the secret place

they strayed idly

and strongly in,

for awhile,

remain.

Cognitive beasts

2008-10-04T04:41:00.002+10:00

My mind is a real monster sometimes. I know, because I review those thoughts I commit to writing, and they growl in confirmation at me. I've recorded, for instance, that my mind is my own worst enemy. It plagues me, taunts me, haunts me, about the things you say, and - pitiless beast - the things you don't. I've blamed it for being too knowing, too sensory, too perceptive for my own good. So that if - sweet chance - I am wrong about some matter, it is too late: I am already in the dark hole of despair and suitably wretched. That's what it tells me anyway, because it is in evil plotting with my gut.

Some days, my thoughts come lumpily, when I am livid and teary and at war with the world. I long desperately for cohesion, but lumpiness insists it impossible. Other days - late at night, mostly, alone in bed and eluded from sleep - my thoughts are noisy and scattered as gulls, plainly refusing to give me rest.

There is no satisfaction in thinking about thinking, either, only self-incrimination. It slides into mind, sly as a fox, and before I can push it away, it offers itself like a broken track that insists and insists, nibbling away at some weakened corner of my consciousness. Round and round, eternally sliding down, sentenced indefinitely to no beginning and no end. Nothing feels more antagonistic, nor is there consolation in knowing that there is no salvation from it.

And then, into the realms of dreams. And the monster is hungry again.

History's map

2008-10-04T01:43:00.004+10:00

It takes a remarkably short time to withdraw from the world. I've tried.

It has never been possible to withdraw from you. I see it now, not from my point of view. I see it like I am ten feet away, watching me watch you.

No solace in solitude

2008-10-01T04:37:00.007+10:00

I need to start writing my feelings and stop eating them.

It isn't that I don't recognize wallowing in a pit for what it is - or the evils of the predicament - it's just that I don't really know how to get out of it. There is all the well-meant mass-produced advice and hard-hitting pep talk in the world; I could recite it, too. You try sitting covered in sludge, brewing and stifling within the narrow, airless hole - walls at once slimy and sticky - rotting and not knowing if the stench is of you or your surroundings. Then you sink your teeth into the walls for grip because your nails are broken and your fingers are blistered stubs - forced-eating gunk to make any use of the exercise - claw your way up to emerge into the light and triumphantly shake off every bit of the grime you're covered in, then throw any generic advice my way and I will swallow it whole.

My sometimes-favourite bath foam is dramatic self-pity. But it makes exfoliating the more rewarding.

What I really want is specific steps. I want someone to tell me what exactly I want, where I want to go. Hand me a map with the path highlighted and what sign posts to look out for. Explain why each action is of value, and why the values are important to me. In specific terms. Not because I want to be treated like a child; I need help - the case-by-case variety - and isn't asking so very adult of me? Even more my admission I don't know how to walk, much less which direction to start in.

There, I've said it: I don't know what I don't know.

I do know that I need to stop eating my feelings. People, I think, say food is a comfort thing. A natural impulse. Something you can do when there's nothing else you can do. I think that we eat when in distress because our bodies register what our brains sometimes do not: that food is a true form of nourishment, and pleasure. Not many things in the world are really either. And we reach, instinctively, out for whatever might sustain, and what little that brings real joy. The trick is only to remain master over the urge - like anything that spins out of control, so easily theorized - and not let it master you.

Food, though, is not nourishment to the soul.

Food cannot replace everything - though I'm sure we make it try - certainly not sadness, nor its sister, loneliness. Loneliness breeds psychosis, which breeds jealousy and contempt, mother and father of irrationality. Irrationality breeds fear, and fear may be a useful place we go to to learn, but fear - of the unknown, of losing control, of your being your own self-destruction, of echoing history, fear of being alone - if she paralyses you, how ably, really, are you of pulling up from the sludge to learn, if at all?

Fear and sadness and isolation all magnify in the dead of night, of course. The dead of night is never silent. There's the insistent hum of the fridge, the hoarse, dry exhales of the heater, the dull buzz of thoughts in the back of your head which bleed darkly into each other so they grow, constant, uncontrolled, and prevailing until you cannot stop the sharpening frequency that beckons them now as the pushy front line - blunt, incessant blades slicing raggedly into the sheet of blackness that is your mind. The dead of the night is but a macabre playground for night time minds.

Some days, I feel like an ice-cream cone dropped on a mid-summer's day at noon. Some days, I am a deflated balloon. Some days, all I want is to be rid of that hot prickling in my eye. Some days, it just kills that I cannot have everything. Like new space, and comfort. Fresh air, and familiarity. To be alone, and not lonely.

There is no solace in solitude - solitude only slaps reality in your face. Like magnetic attraction. Or gravity. Otherwise, we cruise too easily and boldly through happy realism. Solitude makes me turn in- and onto myself - I'm expert at that. But as when with solitude, it's all one can do.

I suppose there's nothing like a low to make higher the highs.

Continually, in the background, I play jazz that feeds my soul and shatters the brawn I need to just up and go.

One Art

2008-09-28T23:07:00.002+10:00

The art of losing isn't hard to master;

so many things seem filled with the intent

to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster

of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.

The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:

places, and names, and where it was you meant

to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or

next-to-last, of three loved houses went.

The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,

some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.

I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture

I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident

the art of losing's not hard to master

though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

Elizabeth Bishop

The Complete Poems 1927-1979

The stench of stew

2008-09-26T02:34:00.019+10:00

There is always something to say, but along with the difficulty of where to begin, there is never the right words - never quite the gift of easily distilled matter, or of proper discipline with which to articulate things with the exactness that the topic deserves. That, and the fact that it is tricky business negating through thoughts you feel you haven't any right to talk about, so aware are you of (un)fairness, and of the irony of wanting even to try to shake its brand of consciousness.

Wordy, I know. I feel as though I must hover eternally and without mercy in the twilight of words and life.

How is it possible? How, truly, do we live with ourselves breathing such hypocrisy, such inequality that is life? Is it innate, this infuriating charateristic of simultaneous antagonistic desires that drives you out of your mind - is it human?

There isn't any sense of basic courtesy I still credit you with having, no cursory level of respect I deeply and instinctively maintain for you. It's not surprising, I suppose, just terribly hurtful. And rather unpleasant, admittedly, to find myself so wrong about it, about you. I'm upset with you for being able to turn it on or off at will - what sort of person is that way? - and more upset with me for caring. I guess the clincher is the calm of the front row seats, and the mess that goes on behind, uncovered rather uncerimoniously, I might add.

And yet, there's hardly anything incredulous, so intricately entwined, after all, with the person that you are, and my very contention, as it were. But then, perhaps I deserve it.

It cuts all the same.

I know all the reasons, all the justifications. I know them all too well because I cannot help but plough through them ruthlessly. I even take your side, so twisted is my ability to self-convince, it is a cruel affliction.

Still, it cuts.

Perhaps the more with the realization I don't automatically know how to withdraw care.

And then, cursed dawnings: the crazy fear of repetition.

Jaded

2008-09-17T15:44:00.004+10:00

For the first time in my life, I think I'm beginning to experience what it feels like not to care. Not in a spiteful, malicious way, but simply just being coolly non-pulsed. It is strange and freeing, this indifference, though the girl who always gave too much of a damn does raise her flags of caution every now and again to remind me how I will regret becoming the person I am becoming.

Letting go

2008-08-26T11:23:00.000+10:00

When I begin to purge you from my consciousness, you pervade my sleep instead. You mine away with such precision and depth until you hit a chord that shakes me awake, leaving too little a trail for me to gather the fragments of whatever warranted the jolting, but staining the fringes of my mind enough so I know, I remember, like an oil spill whose effects lasts and lasts and cuts the air off from anything trying to live, quietly, underneath. Slick, indeed. Damn the cut so deep it seeps down into my soul.

Definition

2008-08-18T13:52:00.001+10:00

You and I just have different ideas about what the situation means. Who was I to know that coming together meant nothing but each to their own. Apprently, mine is the abnormal exception. By the stats of your cross-section of circles and your own vast experience, it really just boils down to me being psychotic, for daring even to expect more. But it's no surprise we aren't all incredibly smart yet simple, like the gem you're lucky enough to have come across, is it?

If we go by yours, I'm not sure I believe in the concept.

If I don't believe it, maybe I don't want it.

And, anyway.

Why anyone would want to be so much as associated with a psycho is beyond me.

Now, if you'll excuse me while I lick characterization wounds.

Down

2008-08-15T12:07:00.003+10:00

It's not a good thing when your body, weak and aching, wants to give in to the dark eye of sleep but your mind is whirling, spinning endlessly, a machine made to run forever, that wheel that never, never stops. Jolting awake is twice more painful when your arms, legs and shoulders remind you of their weary, defenseless plight, and twice again more dreadful that you can only lie there blinking, begging and screaming in your mind for the mercy of unconsciousness. I would improvise, but I cannot bear to hold a book up, and sitting upright to wile the hours away through virtual distraction is out of the question. All my senses clamour for attention: I am too hot but too cold and my throat is in flames and the pulsing insistence of muscles and limbs and joints too useless for anything but delivering pain is driving me to unbearable frustration.

The worst of it is I get the sense that I didn't just get it, I made myself sick.

Finding my fit

2008-08-13T00:47:00.002+10:00

Claire spoke often in her poetry of the idea of 'fittingness': that is, when your chosen pursuit and your ability to achieve it - no matter how small or insignificant the both might be - are matched exactly, are fitting. This, Claire argued, is when we become truly human, fully ourselves, beautiful. To swim when your body is made for swimming. To kneel when you feel humble. To drink water when you are thristy. Or - if one wishes to be grand about it - to write the poem that is exactly the fitting receptacle of the feeling or thought that you hoped to convey. In Claire's presence, you were not faulty or badly designed, no, not at all. You were the fitting receptacle and instrument of your talents and beliefs and desires.

Zadie Smith, On Beauty

Normal

2008-08-07T01:39:00.001+10:00

I really am thankful for her. She just gets me in many ways other people don't. She knows I'm probably never going to cry in front of her (and if not her, then no friend), that I'll always show a strong front, not because I'm tough, but just who I am, and she never tries to penetrate that. She understands even, the things I don't always say: about my aversion to care I don't want, about impressions not easily quantified, about my needs and my fears and all the excuses I would use as required, about the fact that I really just don't want to be fussed over and have group hugs and share tears and have the masses' verbal support and what not. It's something to have someone believe me when I say I don't actually care if people know, I just don't want my three months of celebrity, or however long it takes for people to stop asking questions with overly concerned faces - and to know it intrinsically, not just because I say so and you have no real choice but to appear like you believe it. Most of all, I appreciate how she just lets me vent, because that's all I'm doing: wanting to let it out without having to endure promises it will all be OK, making no comment that frustrates me further, just treating me like any other normal human being. Of course, I am a little bit secretly delighted that she gets defensive with people nosing around about me.

Not that I'm ungrateful for the others, but that she gives a damn while being who she is, really means something.

It isn't paranoia

2008-08-06T03:24:00.002+10:00

Sometimes, I think you're trying to disengage my gut. Which says that the only way to believe you aren't lying, is to lie to myself.

Just stop

2008-08-01T23:35:00.001+10:00

fucking caring

Found scribbled, in my hand, amongst my things

2008-08-01T05:48:00.001+10:00

I could never stop you from doing the things that make you feel alive, just as I cannot stop but wish I would be enough for you. In order that one of us might live, the other has to die...

If only

2008-08-01T05:04:00.007+10:00

If only it were easy,

to not know any better.

If only.

If only I'd learn how,

not to torture myself.

If only.

Ache

2008-08-01T03:28:00.006+10:00

Sometimes I'm just waiting for the pain in my chest to subside. For the thumping to stop. For the ability not to react physically to kick in.

If I can control my tongue and harvest patience I never knew I had, I can, too, control my body.

If I can swallow things I never thought I would - mentally overcome them - I can also train my body to listen to me, not to react to those things I have to swallow.

If I can be master of my emotions so I am numb when needed, it only means I can master how my body responses, too.

I can and I will do mind over matter, feelings over matter, body over matter.

For now, my heart is a panicked bird, but watch me drown it until it is a peaceful, sleeping dove.

It doesn't matter

2008-07-30T17:26:00.004+10:00

It doesn't matter who you meet, what you do, who you're with. At the end of the day, it's all about being emotionally independent. Say what you will, hell - have the people who mean something get upset that you think that - in the end, that's really all it boils down to. So you can have great times together, sure, but when it comes to it, when it's all stripped down to the core - red, raw, and beyond mending - you can say: fuck you. And walk away.

Sometimes, you need to walk away in order to walk back again.

And sometimes, you need to walk away so you're practiced for the final time.

Into the blender

2008-07-27T06:02:00.002+10:00

Something's grabbed a hold of my insides, twisting, twisting, tighter, turning.

Why can't someone just flick the lights off?

Slice

2008-07-27T03:32:00.002+10:00

The urge is strong.

It's easier when you aren't around.

It's always easier when no one's around.

You wouldn't stop me anyway.

You just create the urge.

Losing

2008-07-25T05:34:00.001+10:00

Hair. Weight. Sleep. All the good, comfort and familiarity.

I'm holding on by a thread to the thought that one has to first lose something to make room for gain. Sometimes, it's enough to make me wonder if I'm also losing my sanity.

Did I mention I'm losing all my hair?

As its name suggests

2008-07-21T21:46:00.001+10:00

I was raiding my CD collection to find it. But I kept getting lashed with everything from divas to outdated highschool tastes, to worship, party, jazzy genres, to overly sentimental mood music and the random serial soundtrack, and it seemed like I would never find anything I'd think fitting.

And then, The Calling beckoned. A little desperate, I grabbed it - never mind about looking beyond the first possible one for anything that might better suit. This seemed good enough. And really, I might as well say it was exactly what I needed.

Scattered thoughts

2008-07-21T03:42:00.002+10:00

Dying to self is painful because you haven't (felt you've) found something more worth the while than yourself. And even then, can one ever truly be selfless?

Worth is measured in many ways. I am surprised to find how much I value the measure in itself, distinct from the the matter I am measuring.

Logic may prevail, remaining unchallenged. But hope reigns above reason, for reason alone cannot satisfy if hope is not injected also into it.

Sometimes, what you have to do has nothing to do with how you feel. And that really sucks.

Knowing that time is the only saviour is no help for now.

Because she says it so eloquently (and I am too retarded to think)

2008-07-16T18:30:00.006+10:00

On pain,

on love,

on being happy,

on knowledge.

On all the things that got me here in the first place.

I think my opposing desires will just eat and eat at me until there is nothing left of me, to be.

Knowledge; emotion; they're all crafty things that sometimes just won't play nice.

Make or break

2008-07-09T01:39:00.002+10:00

Whichever the choice, a part of me dies.

Why isn't non-existence an option?

Observations about self

2008-07-04T23:34:00.003+10:00

Life can be hard if you're an emotional sort. You feel more easily, more deeply, you leave yourself opened to being affected. But at the end of the day, she says to herself: 'I've lived.' Life seems to cruise a lot more for the intellectual. Thinking keeps you cool, calm, and under control. Making decisions is breezy if you apply logic, and perhaps a little black and white, but no one gets hurt. Neither is the better; one must go by what deems to be better for oneself. What then, when both faculties drive equally strong - if, because life just isn't already complicated enough, you find yourself equally equipped with both - and each want to move in opposing directions? Your life can get pretty screwed.

Torn

2008-07-03T18:50:00.003+10:00

I just don't understand how it is possible to want two opposing things at the one time. OK, I do understand, but I don't get how I let it get to that point.

If one can never have the whole pie, then how do I decide which cuts of it are negotiable, and which are not? What happens when no cut is not wholly bad, nor wholly good? What if none of them are so simply mutually exclusive?

Is being realistic and settling the same thing?

Too much thinking is doing my head in

2008-07-02T20:21:00.002+10:00

I just want to be happy, y'know?

But, of course, I'm wired the way I'm wired.

And the world keeps spinning, and mine is just one big, confused blur.

Doing without

2008-06-29T16:36:00.005+10:00

Trays

Carpet

Shoe rack

TV, and shelf

Dresser

Firm bed

Exercise classes

Books

PJs

Buffet cabinet

Decking

Dryer

Entertainment

Picture framing

Garden

I could go on, but for what purpose?

They all can go to hell, for all intents and purposes.

I am

2008-06-28T19:13:00.001+10:00

listening to Colbie Caillat, a million things going through my head.

I am, I think, beyond help, but for...

Manefesting, not managing

2008-06-19T00:56:00.002+10:00

I wish I knew how to manage my stress better. I'm not sure if it's actually possible to control one's physical reaction to things; you can discipline yourself to bear it, but I don't know that you can stop it.

If I weren't so torn, my stomach might behave.

If I knew the answer but executing it was less of a deal, I might not double-over.

If I were less perceptive, maybe I wouldn't burn a hole in myself.

Mostly, it would be best if I were less easily stressed.

Lost it

2008-06-17T13:08:00.001+10:00

In the glaring light.

During dinner.

And at sales.

Over again.

And it didn't even have the decency to be the silent, still kind.

Dealing

2008-05-30T00:32:00.004+10:00

The lesser the right I have, the more jealous I become.
Sometimes, I just hate sharing, and being reasonable.
I want to be completely selfish.
Being adult about things sucks.

Morning blues

2008-05-07T06:23:00.003+10:00

Sleep, when it eludes you, is bloody troublesome, especially when there is no good reason for it.

Now, usually a muscle relaxant is my golden ticket to being knocked cold and waking up like I've had the best sleep in years, but that there was no reward tonight was made the worser because I have been so disciplined about weaning myself from it. I haven't popped a pill for forever now, and the one time I truly need it, it refuses to kick in, to say nothing of its taking twice as long to even attempt at unknotting away some tension.

When finally it cloaked in, my sleep was shortlived, and two hours later I found myself, eyes wide opened in the dark, wondering what the hell I was doing awake. It isn't at all amusing feeling every bone in your body cry for rest while your mind is as sharp as a knife.

There is thirty minutes of grabbing fruitlessly at slumber, then another hour trying to tire yourself out on Sudoku, but what fun is that if even after, your body doesn't decide to demonstrate every sign of stress you are ever inclined to experience.

As a child, stress would guarantee an asthma attack. I haven't had one in years, outgrowing that to make room for newer symptoms of incredible muscle tension and gastric episodes. Of course no suffering is complete without having have experienced wanting to puke your guts out. Excuse me then if I'm grouchy because having your chest tighten as your breath's cut short from painful wheezing, while your stomach churns and churns, as you're plagued with insistent nausea all the same one time, isn't my idea of a relaxing holiday snooze. The fact that my brain calmly recognizes this while my body goes into overdrive from a will of its own is not lost on me. If anything, having no reason so I can systematically resolve the issue is only making the stress worse.

Seriously, sometimes your body is such an inconvenience, and I'm already dreading how I will pay for its insubordination later.

I can see you...

2008-04-24T02:16:00.002+10:00

Hi Sze Hwa! *wave*
How's Singapore treating you?

And KPChua! Stop lurking!

Snobbery at its best

2008-04-23T20:40:00.007+10:00

It's official, I'm a snob.

The categories of local inferiority to which I turn up my nose spread wide and far, but then a snob is not one to spare much, is she?

For starters, I find myself wrinkling my nose at the clothes on passerbys' backs as they walk pass me in malls. Not that I have a reaction so adversed I am beyond civil to someone who's garbed in what I sometimes cannot believe to have passed as clothing -- and I must clarify I don't entirely write someone off based on first impression, although I have no qualms either saying first impressions play a part in perception -- but seriously, the shabby finishing of some fabrics, and more horifically, the prints they come in, are just painful to my eye. Marry that to the (lack of) production quality, and -- hey presto! -- it's aesthetic vomit at its best. As if the actual style of the garment is not already an insult to taste itself.

But don't mind my shallow wallowings. That is only second to enduring: "just dial 5672-aye aye nai nai today!" repeatedly on the radio. I would cite more examples, but I'm not in the mood for more self-infliction.

It was funny, I guess, the first time someone (I won't say who) needed to get her "so-syor-lor-gee" textbook. I said: "WHAT?" not because I being a snob; I didn't understand what it was for the first three seconds to turn my nose up to it. On the fourth second, I had tears in my eyes from a combination of realization and disbelief. And while I am resigned to going to "res-tor-ren" for dinners the remainder of my stay, I don't know how long I can keep my distaste in check before I get hit for being too disdainful. Go the lahs all the way; I have nothing against local flavour, but I think there shouldn't be room for pronounciation to be tampered with. Especially pronounciation that makes you sound stupid.

Now I don't mean to be deliberately belittling, say what you will, but with some types of local produce there is just no comprison to its imported varieties, and that's that. I think I was almost clobbered the other day when I took a sip out of a boxdrink of Milo and went instictively: "Yuk!"

How is it my fault if the milk here is sour, and the coffee, oh god, the coffee. Now that is the matter that started it all.

I can appreciate that some things are simply better coming from some places rather than others. Like I don't expect local milk to be creamy and rich, I don't expect local coffee to match the standard of its other bolder, more aromatic counterparts. Being able to differentiate quality is having the skill of discernment, not thinking I am too good for something lesser. If what I need is something better, then I get it from where it is available.

My problem, then, is having to spend ten dollars every single day at commercialised American coffee chains, on something which should but isn't the way it's meant to be. Now I haven't written off local joints without first giving (way too) many a chance, but I think I have wasted enough expectation and suffering on them, so I moved on to (what should be) the trusty coffee chains. A girl can only put in that much effort, and endure so much lactose-intolerance, before going totally mental.

For the life of me, I am already paying you ten bloody dollars, and I don't begrudge you that, but I want a strong soy latte without the foam, is that so terribly impossible? It isn't such a tall order that you cannot give me soy milk -- not sugared soy, good grief! And frothed, not poured straight in for the love of mankind (only the local stores, thank God)! -- and be generous with the coffee. But my gripe only just begins.

The response is always, always the same: "Extra shot?"
"No. Just draw the coffee longer."
"Uh..."
"Let the coffee drip for longer, so if you usually fill it up to here, now let it fill up to here."

I don't know if the worser crime is that some places simply refuse to comply, or that the shots are already sitting there, made ready and waiting before prehistoric times and cold as the should-be-corpse who made it, and waiting to be tipped into my coffee cup.

It is pure adulteration of coffee making, I swear.

My patience for stupid things is close to none, and I have no desire to want to inculcate it, either. Don't tell me the suffering is good for you what doesn't kill you only makes you stronger crap. I have a brain, and I use it to separate common sense from plain stupidity, so I have no desire to tolerate monkeys acting as barristas.

My patience runs thinnest when they want to charge me for that second shot which didn't even come from a fresh draw. If each shot had its dedicated lot of ground, at least I can appreciate why, but take two lots out of the the one and try to double charge me for it, and you have it coming.

Ugh. My snobbery is really just an adherence to some level of standard, clearly of which these fools have none.

Beat

2008-04-21T04:10:00.004+10:00

That, I am.

Being in one place for no more than 24 hours -- with errands geographically distanced, and requiring important and prompt decision-making -- before flying of to the next, only to be greeted with a whole new set of errands, which might I add, demand what seems like unending time, is taking its toll on me.

End result is my being totally spastic. And by that I mean not having the sense to check in hand-luggage full of new toiletries, which the morons at the departure gate were all too ready to dispose of.

I call them morons not because they cannot exercise discretion to see clear as day that my very expensive facial and hair products are explicitly not the ingredients to making a weapon of mass destruction. I am not calling them morons either -- though they are that and more -- because their backs stiffened as my bag went through the x-ray machine and they pounced, I kid you not, way too excitedly on it, shouting: "Bottles! Bottles! YOU! Your bag?" Because naturally, the entire lounge need be aware that this is how a terrorist disguises herself as some common passenger with the brain size of a pea to try and smuggle liquid onto the plane right in front of their noses.

They aren't even being bestowed morons for wanting deliberately, I swear, to make you feel as though you are being purposely uncooperative and highly secretive, never mind that I am taking everything I think they may remotely want to inspect, out of the bag for them. I'm not calling them morons because they feel the need to have two pairs of hands digging intrusively into my puny little hand-carry like hunting dogs after game in a rabbit hole, and hold up triumphantly a small giftwrapped box, with which one exclaims: "Liquid! Liquid!"
I correct them: "No. It's a bar of soap."
Moron #1 shakes the box vigourously while Moron #2 looks on. It makes some noise. They look at each other. "Liquid!"
Me: "No. It's not."
Moron #1 and #2 stare perplexly at box with a look that must indicate a combination of their putting on their superhuman powers of x-ray vision, coupled with their supreme stupidity. They continue looking suspicious. "Liquid?"
Me: "NO! IT IS A BOX WITH SOAP IN IT. THERE IS NO LIQUID IN THE BOX!"

They put the box back into my bag looking very cheated, and proceed to categorically look over each bottle like my shampoo and conditional and saline come in the most exotic, never before seen packaging. Each bottle is turned over and over, and I half expect some announcement for a new discovery which will benefit the human race at large to be made any second. Finally, I am informed, in tones laced with infinite grace and mercy, that I may keep my perfume, but that everything else will have to be binned because they exceed the allocated weight allowance for liquid brought onboard. While saying this, the morons keep eyeing the bin behind them. The lid is held down by a heavy metal arm and the bin kept, of course, under lock and key. Who knows what biomedical waste some passenger might accidentally chance upon otherwise?

By this point I am livid with their wanting to dispose of my things, and I propose I go promptly back and check my entire bag in.

And what response do I get?

Well, they don't know for certain that I can do that, but they don't know for sure either that I can't. They just think I mightn't. Obviously, they don't care for me to try.

I refuse to give in and stare squarely at them. They refuse to budge.

Said conversation repeats itself way too many times for anyone of average intelligence to have patience for. These officers here must be a special breed.

I make known with no uncertain terms how ridiculous I think they are, furious at their execution of matters probably more than anything.

Moron #1, gleam in eye, and eagerness plastered all over his slimy face: "So I throw ah?"
I glare at him.
Moron: "I throw away?" That eye glints.

I leave my shiny, new, expensive bottles of product on the bench, snatch my bag off the counter in a huff, and storm off without a word. Ok, maybe I gave them one last good glare, too.
If I didn't, and opened my mouth, I would definitely be shouting that: "YOU AREN'T EXACTLY GIVING ME A CHOICE YOU DIMWIT, WHY ASK?"

Don't get me started on what happened onboard.

If I sleep until the sun sets today, I am going to do it without a hint of remorse.

A note on notes

2008-04-01T22:18:00.004+11:00

Music, I think, is one of the best inventions ever.

Music made portable is another.

Portable music makes possible the chance of time feeling like a scene from the movies.

Portable music lets you walk the streets with reality a distant buzz somewhere at the back of your mind.

Portable music makes wooshing train rides very, very nice.

Portable music takes place of those things you think and dream about - whether because of its lyric, or for helping you through passing time - until it comes that they are realized, once again.

Withdrawal

2008-04-01T21:51:00.005+11:00

Sunday: Visit to St V's to see baby Ethan

Monday: Dinner with the girls

Tuesday: Appointment with SJ

Wednesday: Appointment with JK

Thursday: Keith's birthday dinner

Saturday: Matt & Sue's wedding

Sunday: Drinks with the girls

So, Friday: I am, by hook or by crook, going to slot in some form of workout it really doesn't matter what, or I think I might go insane.

Too much work

2008-03-09T01:49:00.004+11:00

I would update (I have, in fact, a whole host of photos from quite a number of events now) but for the fact that it's just so much easier to post them on Facebook. I don't have to resize the fifty million shots I want to put up, then load them one by one onto an external album, and then mirror them one by one by one again all up here!

If it were a single event, say, I would perhaps be inclined still to take the trouble, but as is the natural course of things such as these, they are as far and few in between as a blossoming flower in barren dessert, and then they come upon you all in the one gush like torrents of a raging river whether you are prepared for it or not with seemingly no end and certainly when journaling them here is the last thing on your mind let alone a priority.

So.

Facebook it is for now, I will quite happily live with.

Ashley's 30th

2008-02-19T23:00:00.011+11:00

The birthday boy with wife, bubba,

and best tiramisu ever!

Mr BBQ fires up the grill

and it's a food fest!

Everyone enjoys a scrumptious morsel;

Faith works on her cream cheese...

...which she thinks is delish!

Yummm ;D

Vera and me

baring our teeth for you to see!

Cheryn and Darius

need to catch up - and get next in line! :P

The man of the moment

flanked by stripes and polka dots ;D

S V J stopped by that day to

Come out and play!

Evie with the little one,

who always almost steals the show.

Now you see her, now you don't!

T and Faithy both in pink, awww.

Faith getting special treatment,

in the lap of luxury.

Ash with the girls

and remnants of being marked by...

those who love him best!

Pranksters, these boys.

Can't say there aren't lots of laughs,

even if at his expense.

Seriously

2008-02-02T20:45:00.000+11:00

I didn't mean to blow anything out of proportion. There was no life-altering disaster. I'm not saying nothing happened, because I don't want to trivialize things either. Let's just say I still have matters under control.

But I really do appreciate your concern, and I'm thankful for friends like you.

On lighter, more superficial matters, we've been so bored at work this low season that we've started obsessing about different things. One of which is songs. The ultimate song for different occasions. Specifically, which song would be perfect for different parts of a wedding.

There is this song I adore, and E keeps insisting I incorporate it somewhere. Realistically, it would be best for a first dance. But I highly doubt that will be on the agenda. To which M instantly quipped I should just use it as my sex song. I threw in something about the chance it might not be long enough. And she, quick as a dart: that's the very reason the repeat function was created, my dear.

Ah, we make our own fun.

Hello everyone

2008-01-31T23:06:00.000+11:00

Thanks for all the messages, guys, I'm OK.

I know you all ask how to make things better. Well, this is my venting space, and venting makes me better.

It'd better. Sometimes, venting's all you've got. And besides, if I were really gonna kill myself (or more accurately, someone else), I wouldn't really say it here now, would I?

I do bleak sometimes. Don't worry!

Is there A Clue for sale?

2008-01-29T22:31:00.000+11:00

Even if I don't hate you, it doesn't mean I have to like you.

Your indifference is so infuriating, I could smash something, or explode.

I am sick of fixing things.
Just because they can be fixed does not mean you can fuck it up.
If it weren't for you, I wouldn't have to.
I wouldn't need to.
I'd save myself the trouble, and effort, all the waiting, and organizing.

And one other thing: just because I have come to terms with having to rectify it, does not mean I am going to want to talk to you, or anything with you, for the next two hours or so.

Saying sorry cannot lessen the pain -- you should get that, but no.
Get it already, and then leave me the hell alone.
Don't be clueless, fuck up, and then turn around and get pissed at me for being pissed at you.
Bloody insult to injury.

Do what we do

2008-01-28T00:00:00.000+11:00

It's not easy to stop from coming across as a hardened, selfish bitch, but how do you do it without sounding insensitive and portraying another badly? I am cut as is; don't add insult to injury with probing questions about something I can only grow more sore about, or demand my cooperation when you don't even know what I put up with.

On the outside, I may seem demanding, but you don't see what I live with on the inside. Gratitude and respect does not equal bowing to someone else's demands, just as being understanding does not mean you are fulfilled.

You get away with so much; don't make me feel bad about having needs, too.

If I take it because I hate being a girl, does that mean I'm tough, or too kind?

Choice

2008-01-26T20:52:00.000+11:00

I just really want to do it and get it out of my system.

OK, I don't really want it out of my system, I just really want to do it.
I don't need much encouragement, but I never initiate.

It may all come crumbling down, and my self-esteem may be ruined eternally.
So. Should I do it, or should I not?

The thing is

2008-01-10T01:17:00.000+11:00

The thing is, I've never associated any one of it to you. It's not a bad thing, surely, but is it a good thing?

The thing is, I relate way too many of them to you. It's unhealthy, I'm sure, like that bad habit you just won't break.

The thing is, I don't want to fall into that stereotype. But is being categorized like so something so bad? And if it's merely generalized assumptions, why do I care?

The thing is, I never expected it to take this turn. I certainly didn't plan it, and I didn't go looking. It just happened to be, but many supposed benefits (and I'm not saying there are none) are hot air hearsay.

The thing is, I worry for you. But what can I really do, to help? Am I not proactive enough? Is there a solution extrinsic to you?

The thing is, I don't know how you became this way. But I know your being this way makes me this way. By now, I know to make my own decisions, and take personal responsibility. I just wished it isn't always so hard, so much work.

The thing is, hypocritical behaviour irritates me. But who isn't guilty of it, least of all me?

The thing is, I miss you. For who you are, but also for who I am with you.

The thing is, when prevailing need is left to simmer unattended, to where do you turn?

Photo Dump 2007: T's Grad

2008-01-06T22:43:00.000+11:00

The Life*Doctors join the ever-growing posse
of medical professionals

There is the usual
obligatory family shot

...and the typical Asian shot with the all important cert
(which, as you can see, isn't appreciated by everyone)

T's #1 supporter who plied
steadfast belief from start to finish

One of the Doctors Heng
Guess I have two options where to get drugged up? :D

Snapshots with friends begin,
starting with Evie

Anna is so damn cute
I just love being around her

...and here's a 2nd shot
because I can! ;P

One with Al, the lil' battery pack
of smiles and energy and spark

This little missy gets her turn at 'Dr' next year
And when we first met, we only were wee things

Sidney and T
post nine years of uni

With TK and Vera
Fun times!

All smiles with 3.5 Chans
By this time, it's 4 with bubba Reuben!

Too cool for school
with the Law

And then there's Kam
who's too cool for anything? :P

Not so little Bekky
is adorable with dimples!
(And did I mention, havoc w the xbox?)

Ching and Heng
do their thing!
(and I will leech it off them!)

T with his best friend (awww)
who, in fact, actually almost signed up for med with T

...until, that is, the good wife stepped in!
One for the album with the Chuas

When there are these many boys together,
it normally means mayhem of you-know-which kind

With Han Shin who was, basically, T's secretary
Med school would have been a whole lot more painful without her!

Matt, one of the brainy ones, so cute here
complete with tie and hair combed sideways

Sweet Ingrid
Another one on the brain bandwagon

T and me -- I think he was coerced into it by this time
because all he wanted was to head home for his bbq!

Photo with his girls Lyra and Han Shin
Pretty good for someone dying to take off his regalia

Pleasure State

2008-01-06T01:13:00.000+11:00

I admired from afar for a while.
It was a matter of time before I succumbed.
And now, Pleasure State - you are my new lust-have!
Repeated haves, that is.

NYD '08: first minute mullings

2008-01-01T14:51:00.000+11:00

2008 marks unquestionably that I have now entered the realm of adulthood, those markers not altogether being deliberate nor unintentional nor of my direct involvement, but because they are parts of life which go on as it does whether you are ready for them or not.

2006 was the year of the weddings; I witnessed eight.

In 2007 - what else - we welcomed new life. All seven to be exact.

This year, we expect another 4, and who's to say there aren't more already in the works?

Am I excited? Yes. Freaked out? You bet.

Do I need to learn to be less of a control freak to really live? Will being less compartmentalize actually make me more happy? Am I not ready, is it just denial? Do my managing mechanisms and coping capabilities need oiling, and what do I do when it is so easy just to give in? Is giving in even bad, or just thought to be unacceptable from social conditioning? Will I learn the balance of contentment, too much being the weed of motivation, too little being the seed of discontent?

I know, I mull.

But I'm taking in the good with the not so good, and making note to remember that things are really, in the end, what you make of them.

This year, I have no lofty resolutions, only this: I know I'm flawed, but that's not stopping me. My frequency may need some work; adjusting in progress.

Life, anyone?

NYE '07: last minute antics

2007-12-31T23:58:00.000+11:00

Sometimes, all a girl wants is a little

2007-12-29T21:03:00.000+11:00

something

Frustration

2007-12-28T00:11:00.000+11:00

Sometimes, I am so infuriated, I either have to cry or hit somebody.

Boxing Day

2007-12-26T11:25:00.000+11:00

Today, I woke up to have worked for the first time on Christmas eve, and every day leading up to it, with only Christmas day off.
Today, I had my first Boxing Day, like my first Christmas, overseas. Without family. Working. Overtime. In chaos.
Today, I stood on my feet for 12 solid hours.
Today, I developed pains in those spots in my back which normally do all right.
Today, I was thankful in the afternoon I ate the scroll I didn't really want in the morning.
Today, I had my first glass of water at 4, and lunch at 5. In 2 minutes. Standing.
Today, I witnessed first hand, how people are so easily swayed by the notion of discounts. Not that there was any more of it than before.
Today, I am reminded afresh the importance of teamwork, and the value of coordination.
Speaking of which, today, I realized how bimbotic some people are. And am extremely grateful for my common sense.
Today, I properly wore in my new shoes, without the slightest hint of discomfort. Because I didn't have time to feel. No feeling's a good feeling.
Today, my hair worked its way into being due for a wash, even with the wash it had last night.
Today, my body was so confused, I managed just mango and spoons full of ice-cream for dinner.
Today, I decided this would be my first and last Boxing Day in retail.

I'm not ungrateful, but. I don't have dollars (or plastic) to throw around, so I might as well be making some. What did everyone else get up to today?

Some people say it so much better

2007-12-22T00:10:00.000+11:00

That, and I'm too bloody lazy to even try myself, but this little 12 days piece just does... something for my sensibilities. I'd just link the gem - which is off andre jordan's beautiful revolution, but I'm reposting so I can reread it at ease. Read it, too, if it does anything for you.

The street light outside my window fli fli fli fli flickers and then connects filling the room with neon maybes and accidental babies and a girl in a spacesuit waiting at the airport with a suitcase full of words she has been writing all of her life but no one on the planet seems able to understand even though she has written every single word in finest fluent english using both of her hands fli fli fli fli the street light disconnects again like the heartbeat of a dying man who lies there forever wondering if he has done enough said enough lived all that he can 12 days and counting until he reaches the promised land fli fli fli fli the street light reconnects once more and the girl in the spacesuit sits down in the middle of the airport and slowly begins to unpack the contents of her suitcase carefully placing each page of her life in an illogical order that would make no sense to anyone not anyone except perhaps perhaps a dying man fli fli fli fli the streetlight disconnects again and the dying man begins to cry as each moment of his life is projected onto the ceiling above him in a bleached out glow that seems to calm like snow on a war zone fli fli fli fli the streetlight reconnects and the girl in the spacesuit is beginning to worry about the order in which she has placed the pages of her life because it's not quite right it's not quite right and she needs to get it right this time because she is utterly convinced that this is her final last chance and one misplaced page could ruin everything fli fli fli fli the streetlight disconnects once more and the dying man watches his mother and father dancing then crying then shouting then the bleached out show fades into a new scene and the ceiling now fills with a girl he once met 17 years ago in an almost forgotten 4am place and as he tries to remember the month she appeared the girl smiles at him and he smiles back at her and she begins to thank him for being the best friend she ever had and explains to him as he lies calmly in war zone snow how much his kindness had helped to make her a braver person than she ever thought she could be and how sad she had been when everything went wrong and how she had missed him and had hoped that he was well and and and the dying man smiles once more and thanks her from the bottom of his heart for finally giving him the chance to explain to her why he had to walk away and how he wished her well and as the girl he once knew smiles back at him the room fills with joy and the ghost that haunted him finally evaporates beneath the war zone snow 12 days and counting until he reaches the promised land fli fli fli fli the streetlight reconnects and the girl in the spacesuit sits silently looking at her life illogically scattered on the ground that's it she thinks that's all I can do an ice coffee on the seat beside her and a packet of potato chips in her hand 12 days and counting until someone finally understands.

Post Script

2007-12-21T23:54:00.000+11:00

PS. I forgot to show you R's Big Brother video entry. I must admit she is cute; your watching it wouldn't have gone astray.

PS. I wanted to tell you to pop in next door to meet A, who was working there yesterday, and who is Eurasian, and who's face, I'm sure, you'd have appreciated. She's young, she's a looker, she said to me something so naively, you'd have loved it.

PS. The hot girl with legs up to there, and perfect everywhere else, came back again. I am more convinced than ever that she is - if not already - unharvested talent. I got to say to her: give me your name and number and I'll call you. If I could choose how I could look, she would be it. Damn, if I looked half like her, I'd have no complaints.

PS. I said, today, and thought one second later of how jealous you could be, to some little Miss I was dressing: let me unbutton you, if that's OK. And proceeded to do just so.

Then again, you had your own brand of fun, eh?

Grad Ball

2007-12-17T00:05:00.000+11:00

RMH celebrates with their graduates at the Melbourne Aquarium. Yes, they served fish, and no, there were no emergencies requiring CPR.

T with Anna
The girl is so funny, I love her!

The group's post-grads
Han Shin, Anna, Lyra

And one with Alison
to make up the girls

Add Andrew
The brainy one with a head of curls

And Steve
Who does a "special eye trick"

And Matt
Another one blessed with IQ to the sky

And I'm in the midst of
Doctordom!

Another one with the girls
Because one can never have enough

Dusk turns to night
And we're still going

With Sidney and Anne
Because we can ;D

The boy in suit and tie
He's smiling but he'd rather die

Hangin' with Jehan and Soma
For four times the smiles

One of the ever patient, wonderfully
understanding supporters

And one of Hengster and Blackdeath
Grinning doctors, they are

To cap off, the doctors Matt and Andrew
And some bunny ears

On these days gone past

2007-12-13T00:48:00.000+11:00

Sure ranting lets me blow off steam, but these days, I find myself slowing down in the virtual ranting department so as not to:

1. Turn this space into bitchy land;
2. Say too much to close to home; and
3. Go on and about in cryptic twists and turns, to say in other words what cannot be put plainly.

That, and these days are eventful times. I find myself flirting between something to the next, but never properly, happily anchored. I need badly to organize my thoughts, what more deal with matters from all these events, which I can only and unsatisfactorily skim though on each of its surfaces.

I suppose I cannot say it's been boring. We've had the parental units on either side come and go, the long awaited graduation (from the frying pan to the fire?), a life conceived, work dramas, a taste of hanging out like old times, a health scare from over the other side of the world, a friend's change of status, laughing and reminiscing. We've even ordered furniture, and blown considerable money on blinds.

I may be operating on a level of control much lower than I like, but I can't say I'm not living life.

Blvd

2007-12-03T01:45:00.000+11:00

Photos from 3 months ago - Eek! That's like, a quarter of a year gone by. Yikes - Now I'm really beginning to scare myself. Blink and it's Christmas, and this time, it won't be the holidays for me in every sense of the word. Sigh. Guess I'll have to think of *something* to make up for it, right Lizzy? *big fat not so subtle hint*

Prepping, but of course!
Ever ready, Liz gets the night started.

We take it inside, and it's
more drinks, naturally! ;D

Woohing, as we do :P
A few good songs don't hurt...

to get into the swing of things!
As demonstrated by Mary.

And Geoff...

And Liz!

More than just hands up in the air!
The dance floor gets serious.

The photos don't do justice
to all the action, all the passion.

What do you know,
we've got a dance off on our hands! :D
I'm not sure why the crowd looks so bored here, haha. We're not.

But even good times come to an end,
or is it age that creeps up on you?

The party queen is out!
G'night!

Steamboat at the Angs'

2007-11-20T01:05:00.000+11:00

Where there's us, there's always too much food!
And that's the way we do it! ;P

This one is still belly small, belly small indeed.
Some people have all the luck!

Once, there were 2 couples;
Chris and Jon, Keryn and Joe...

...Blink! And there will be many more little fingers,
and many little toes!
More bubbas to join Faith in Bubbaland!

Then, there's the rest of us,
who eat cake because we want to,
without craving as excuse.

No one stops at just the mains,
even if the mains are 10 times round.
Even if you're half asleep from over-eating.

You can't tell from here,
but I'm the fatty in the family.
I blame T.

Snippets between my non-life at work

2007-11-20T00:30:00.000+11:00

So the family came over and I lugged them over to Mornington Peninsula for 4 days of time away from routine. I was going to say it was time away from work, but I think work was still involved, albeit a different kind. Much fun, money and a couple of weeks later, half the family's flown home, and being off the grind seems like a growing distance speeding past the tracks of time.

Meanwhile, there is still unresolved work issues which need tackling. And if tackling brings certain images to mind, then stick with them -- you'd be right. I don't like doing this taking on business, even if I'm proud to find that I can, and am braver than I think.

Then there was the Timberlake concert last night. Yes, of the Justin variety. All I can say is that whatever that boy lacks in physical appeal, he makes up for with a lot more. He played guitar, and piano -- and really played, note -- and he danced. Just like in his videos. Like, just like. He put on some entertainment alright. The concept of the entire thing was pulled off pretty damn nicely. Details will have to wait 'til a dedicated rant, and ranting will be no problem.

In other news, I'm slightly over the whole unpacking thing. I reckon it will take me at least 2 months to properly unpack the lot, and that includes organizing things to perfection. Which will probably require buying more things in order to organize them better, and that's treading deep waters in more ways than one. The sad part is I'd actually revel in all this house-proud, home-making business, except that by the time I'm home from work each day, I'm beat and I want to do zip.

And finally, and excitingly, we're dog-sitting for 3 weeks! Cuspid's a smart little cookie, and very cute. She seems to have transitioned into adoptedhood pretty seamlessly while her mummy's overseas, and we're pretty easily swayed into bending the rules for this furry pawed one. She sleeps with T, if that says anything, who will get up between sleep to bring her for a nighttime trip to the backyard. Now that's saying something.

Play at work

2007-11-17T00:37:00.000+11:00

Chelz and Chubby --
Clearly, I've indulged in winter

3 monkeys do the funny --
A little insanity keeps the weather sunny

3 stooges make it 3 times more merry!

We took 2 seconds out of work to play with timed, shameless self-shots. If insanity begets sanity, then the crazier the better.

Hoorah! past the bump in the road

2007-11-01T23:56:00.000+11:00

Yesterday, I wanted to blog on Wanting Anonymity, because I would be free to rant about the outright injustice and lack of basic ethics to which I had the misfortune of being right in the center of. One part of me was spilling to tell all, for I had little doubt as to how blatantly wrong they were, outraged at how crafty they tried to get away with being, and spewing at their boldness of it all.

The other part of me -- that part which just wanted to get them for being so corrupt and irresponsible -- wanted anything but anonymity; I was ready to expose them for the convicts that they are.

Long story short, today I am blogging about Victory, for through much talk and advise, prayer and countless rehearsal, interrupted sleep and very painful stress gastric attacks, I stood up for myself. And I am very, very proud of me.

The battle has only begun; they might drag it out, or drop it, and I may be but one against a giant, but I am emboldened, at least for today, and nothing is going to stop me now that I have taken them on.

If nothing else, there are lessons to be learnt. Yes, this is a story with a moral at the end. I'm pleased as punch I found the courage to speak up when it matters, especially when it's hard. And I am grateful to be reminded of what it means to have true friends, and thankful I have them backing me up, and being my backbone unconditionally until I grew some spine of my own.

It is good to have others who are of like mind as you. In K's words, it is edifying.

Where to start

2007-10-27T02:22:00.001+10:00

If I don't do it now, I will practically never, so here are smudges of the recent past -- none of which, for now at least, will be celebrated in all its own glory of a dedicated blog entry. For I am of little time and even less strength.

So. I promised to put up photos of a night a Blvd. Those involved have since moved on to fresher scenes, with newer photos all up and out, I might add. But a promise's a promise, and Liz -- I remember! I just need time. Somehow. Meh.

Then there are pics of steamboat night at the Angs'.

And with girls at work.

But you know me and photos at the moment.

Also, we have found house, bought it, packed old place, moved to new place, cleaned old place, and am now amid So. Much. Mess. All done with no leave from work, and with T's exams round the corner, too. We amaze me, yes we do. We had our share of hiccups and a bit, and there is never-ending disagreements and emotion about one man's treasure being another man's junk, spending habits, definitions and levels of what constitutes realistic targets etc etc. I can tell you, though, I am in heaven to be out of what T insists on calling Heng Palace. I have other choice names for that hole, but I won't say what here.

The family arrives in a week. My holiday planning is still in progress, and I'm yet to solve the potentially biggest issue: finding accommodation. All right -- accommodation I am happy with. Just because it's little old Mornington does not mean I am willing to pay to stay in some place that looks like it's from I don't know... the set of Kath & Kim? Bleh. And because I like to challenge myself, I'm trying to book for over the Cup weekend. Splendid, don't you think?

I hate being disorganized, but I can't do half-baked. I need a whole multi-layered, concurrently running system within system within system deal, and that takes time. Without time, I refuse to operate in partial order and wing it with none at all. Because I want to get it all right the first time. Which shits me, but... So much to do, so little time!

Any combination of time, mental and physical alertness, and truckloads of money would help.

If smashing was legal

2007-09-15T23:06:00.001+10:00

Am I inflexible, or are they just dumb?
The vastness of mentalities really amaze me.

What works for me

2007-09-15T21:15:00.000+10:00

A Walk To Remember was on TV tonight, and I'm watched again, for the zillionth time, even if it's a little bit sappy. I love it, for the way it does things to you, makes feelings well up inside, even if that makes me a suk. Even if the acting is a little basic, the lines a little simple.

I've said it before, a good few times now, happyendings don't quite do it for me. Happyendings never have the same effect, the same ability to draw layered emotion, such twisted heartache. No, imperfect endings are more my thing; they make it all that much deeper, richer, more dimensional.

The The Notebook works for me, too.

Joanne at 22

2007-09-14T01:03:00.000+10:00

Dropping by at Jo's surprise 22nd

Organized by Ann -- being interstate won't stop her!

One with Nick for the album

Dinner for Sue

2007-09-14T00:57:00.000+10:00

Doing dinner at Liquid

Bom Alaska! Yum!

Celebrating with wine :)

All in a day's work

2007-09-01T01:19:00.000+10:00

So the boy has a number of times now said that I give off the wrong impression about my feelings on work. Some consideration later, I figured out it's just me: talking about my day via bitchy complaints. It's not that I dislike work. To me it's just relating (fine, wingeing), but I see how it can come across otherwise. I realized I'm a grumbler in general. Comes with being a little cynical, a little hard, perhaps. But. To counteract that, and to show that I can, I have decided to point out some possible person-specific *ahem* benefits of the job. Let me present, All in a day's work, dedicated to he who is persevering at long-suffering in the UK.

Hot Brazilian girl comes in to apply for work. We don't end up hiring her, because communicating would have been a little tricky, but she was a looker while it lasted. Who said listening was what I was doing anyway?

Cute chicks come in and let me play dress up with them.

Two girls come in, one tries on something in the change room, and takes a decade. Door peeps open, second girl slides in, and that's the last I see of them for a millennium. With nothing but time on my hands, I stand around and speculate.

Guy working few doors down often comes in for a chat. We observe, discuss and compare male specimens available. We look at girls too, but it's admittedly more entertaining watching him go soft over Muscles-Just-Walked-Past.

Not half bad little titbits for a single day, don't you think?

The V-S trip

2007-08-29T22:41:00.000+10:00

Mercadante Meet:
The food is good, the company, sweet

Italian is good for the Malaysian soul with
pasta, pizza and lots of lemon lime bitters

Fabulous ambience and interesting menus
at The Point, Albert Park

Lively chat over a seafood dinner at
Livebait, New Quay

Docklands is always pleasing to the eye,
even if the weather is a little bit crisp

Lamb is better eaten with friends.
Apparently, they go well, too, with magic mushrooms

Last supper at Soony and Michy's.
Also last chance for the guys to take on Vern for a pre-bucks,
and go at him they did!

Happy hugs all around,
for the couple we'll see unmarried for the last time

More cuddles for friends big and small,
they get a chance, one and all

How cute is this chickadee? Hannah knows she's adorable,
and she knows how to work it!

Sinking

2007-08-29T22:02:00.000+10:00

Let me,
she says,
hold you a while.

Of work and its conundrums

2007-08-22T02:27:00.000+10:00

I figure it's now or never. I have been putting up with it for some time now—enough to say there is sufficient experience and evidence to eliminate exceptions—and not so long it's yesterday's news. It did take me this long to write up; a good two months or so in short spurts, as I recall, because anymore of it at any given time would have seen me go, simply, ape shit. And so, with no more ado, here is the wonderful life of meeting all sorts:

SPASTIC STICKS
The Spastic Stick is, as her name suggests, thin as a bean and broken in the brain. Blessed with lankiness in arms, torso and legs, the Stick is adamant clothes that are her size don’t fit her, and parrots on and on and on about how everything is by far too small. Apparently the one-size-fits-all knits we sell to size 12 customers don’t make the cut for Miss 6, and small is too small, and medium too medium. Attempting to be professional is not without challenge, when all you want to scream at her is that if she were any flatter, airlines would reject her as an approved runway. In fact, you need to hold yourself back from gauging her eyes out so that there is some sort of curve on the Stick, while you watch her pull and prod at the knit she is wearing until you are positive there is just no way in hell it will retain the shape it was made to be. Of course, you may interrupt with the professional calm and courtesy you do not feel, and stop her, but by the time she verbalises the fact that the knit is imperfect because there is a bump on the sleeve from the cuff of the shirt she is wearing under it showing through, all you really want to do is pay her not to buy anything from you and leave.

* * *

LARGELY DISILLUSIONED
Another garment destroyer, the Largely Disillusioned is, frankly, a tub of lard on legs who thinks she is top shit hot stuff. Now don’t get me wrong because anyone who’s lost enough pounds so they no longer need to be sewn into their clothes is to be commended, but if you’ve gone from Godzilla to a big-sized woman, that’s exactly what you are: a big-sized woman. The Largely Disillusioned drains your life with stories about how they’ve shed oh-so-monumental-an-amount of weight, and how their whole life is changed and is moving in a completely new and exciting direction, and how they need to slowly rebuild their entire wardrobe although having had already spent two small fortunes getting an array of branded merchandise any Stetford wife would be proud of, and other such disgustingly detailed life stories because, after all, they’ve spent their life previous to this feeling fat and ugly in their fat and ugly clothes. I get it. You want to look good, and it’s my job to help you achieve that. But really, spare me the Cinderella story, because trust me, I’ve got my own. I’m being paid only so much to dress you, and by far too little to even pretend to be interested in playing your attentive and concerned therapist.

Just when you think having to lend your ear is the lowest point of your day, you discover the elephant has taken a mountain of garments that are not her size, which she will, naturally, tirelessly attempt to squeeze into. Therein lies your dilemma. You are unsure how to tell her her fat ass will simply not fit into something that small without insulting her. You don’t want to discourage her by suggesting that she is bigger than she thinks, because bursting her wonderful bubble of misconception about herself will guarantee she buys nothing whatsover. So there you are, praying frantically she doesn’t bust the seams, while you have you pinch yourself—hard—so you don’t burst out laughing at how much of an idiotic sausage she looks in what she’s got on. Not falling in stitches is hard, let me tell you, when the clown looks nothing more than like she’s pushed herself, lumps and bumps and all, into a very stretched, very taut, very tight rubber.

* * *

B-O BOMBS
The B-O Bomb needs no introduction. Thankfully rare, but potent when ignited. And just so you know, the B-O Bomb is so bad, the scent she leaves behind is enough to wipe out the enemy—and every other customer in between. In other words, you hold your breath for as long as you can bear, quickly hang up whatever she’s tried on, and leave to air til the cows come home. Anti-gagging is an essential skill.

* * *

THE WON’T GIVE UP-ER
It has been determined, whether by discussion, or through relentless trying of garment after garment after garment—which we will later have to refold, re-button, re-turn right side out, hang on designated spot according to size progression and in properly spaced distance with relation to all the other hangers while simultaneously having to serve other customers, process other sales, make and take calls from other stores for stock checks, which then lead to processing stock transfers, or entertain ones from stupid, long-winded customers (I saw this top the other day that I liked, I don’t know what it’s called, or how much it cost, or what material it was made of, I think it was black with white print, no I don’t know what design the white print was, it was a three-quarter sleeve but it might have been long, yes there are some buttons running down it but I can’t recall if it was all the way or only at the top, a collar–hmm maybe, and I’m uncertain if I’m an 8 or a 10, I might need a 9, do you do size 9, can you hold one for me, no I can’t come in today, it will have to be next weekend, oh you can’t? Oh.)—that we simply do not have what it is The Won’t Give Up-er wants.

Sometimes, there are very specific qualities which are sought for, and other times, there is just no satisfying her. Just because we may not have something carbon copied down to the last stitch in her mind does not mean we don’t try and show her something else that may be a well serving alternative. Nothing qualifies, unsurprisingly, but for the Won’t Give Up-er, this is far from her cue to go away. One subspecies of her refuses to shut up, as if by talking, the illusive item she searches for in vain will magically manifest itself. The second subspecies tries something on, then stands in front of the mirror forever and looks at her reflection from the front, then left, then right, then back, then front, then left, then right, then back, then front, the with her face tilted one way, then the other, then back the first way, then she checks her left profile, then right profile, then back, then… Let me make clear that by this stage, we have pretty much told her that this is all we’ve got. If she likes, she can have it, otherwise, it’s not a crime to leave it. What does the Won’t Give Up-per do? She doesn’t give up! And the day has only just begun...

* * *

BRAINLESS PROFESSIONAL
Because, clearly, being a professional does not equate to having brains. Case in point:

Sharp-looking woman in fashion suit enters store. Browses around, then asks when our new stock will arrive. I tell her the current stock is the new stock. She wants to know when the suits will come in. There are suits on the rack. All six styles of them in jacket, pants, skirt. I say so. She says no, the suits for work. Formal suits, she insists. For, you know, corporate wear. I say, these six. These are the ones. She says oh. These for work? Of course, I say, adding that all our suits are a classic one-button cut made from a 100% cool wool the whole spiel. And yes, I say, because it is a classic style, it is timeless and very suitable for her purposes. Bla bla. Oh, she says. Oh, indeed.

I rest my case.

* * *

CIRCLING DESTRUCTOR
Professional destroyer, the Circling Destructor goes round the store looking, does not find anything, then goes around again, finds nothing, and heads into third round, who knows why, oh it’s so she can gear into her seventh round around the store, and by now I’ve lost count because I’m too busy controlling myself from strangling her. Did I mention each time she goes around she destroys everything? For every round she makes, I have to make a round rearranging the stock, spacing the hangers, refolding perfectly aligned stacks of jeans… I kid you not, if I didn’t know better, I’d say she was circling around and round and round in some satanic ritual where the garments she so desires will be magically willed into her bag and she can then walk out with the goods undetected by security, and leave untouched. That, or she must think that circling sheds pounds, and by the time she’s done with that and wants to try something, she’d have gone down from a Large to a Small.

* * *

BITCHY BYSTANDER
The Bitchy Bystander is the annoying counterpart who accompanies the shopper. If we are lucky to get so far, we offer the Bitch a seat outside the change rooms while the customer is being served. If said Bitch is being a first-class snob, standoffish qualities are displayed in full glory, and we leave the Bitch to stand arms folded and face frozen at a corner, looking like someone just shoved a baseball bat up where the sun don’t shine. By no means is the Bitch limited to females only; men make excellent candidates for the role as well. There are two categories of Bitches to note: The first is, as mentioned, the jerk or witch who arrived unappreciated, with the customer. They are the greater of the two evils. But first, a word about the latter.

The second category of Bitch—typically female— is no more endearing than the first. Because the person who is trying on something is a total stranger to you and is therefore, none of your bloody business and you should not volunteer to interact with them. I think it would be suitable the Bitch kept opinion to herself, and not give the negative thoughts about something she clearly knows not much about herself, to someone who did not even ask for it. And she should keep her hands to herself, and not touch strangers to feel the fabric of the garment the customer is trying, nor tell said customer to pick one item over the other when both items could well be winners. Ideally, she should sink into the floor, but I'd take sitting mutely minding herself and not trying to influence my customer, quite willingly.

That's Category 2 Bitch. I'd assume Category 1 needs no introduction. C1B is deemed the more evil because he or she has greater influencing power over the customer they came with, and their sulky, unenthusiastic attitude can rub off customer and make a potentially good sale go to hell and beyond.

* * *

THOSE WHO DESERVE TO BE ELECTOCUTED BY PHONE
First, they’re dumb, then, they think they own you. They ring the store, don’t have the style name or number of something they want, don’t know what material it is made of, offer details of the garment they insist it has when there is none... basically they cannot describe jack. You take a while to be absolutely sure you don’t have what she’s talking about, because hey, you want to get it right for the customer. Then she has the nerve to speak to you like you’re a pea-brain when she’s the real intellectually-challenged one here. You know what? Even if I had what you were after, I would not tell you so just because you’re a condescending and impatient piece of work who thinks she can treat others like second-class potted plants. Darling, if I were a fern, you are a speck in the wallpaper design the fern sits in front of. Don’t speak to me like a moron when you the simpleton here. It’s like a chef who does nothing but glares and curses at the oven and is upset the oven doesn’t automatically bake him a cake. Get over yourself, and come back when you’ve learnt basic manners, thank you very much.

* * *

THE TACKY TART
She walks in wearing faux fur, cheap imitations, and shabby animal prints, with brightly painted face and brighter personality. So she’s all big hair and rough round the edges; not everyone’s born into privilege. Still, her taste is vulgar, and she can never find anything from our classic range to suit her style. Still, she comes back, in all her tacky glory, and wastes her time and ours. Her shoddy brain doesn’t comprehend our style will never become the look suited to show that you may well have just come off the streets at dawn.

* * *

ASIAN DRAINERS
These are the worst. Of all time. They deserve a thesis of their own, these dimwits. But just thinking about where to start drains my life. Ask, and you may be inundated with an onslaught of abusive opinion. Barrage warning hereby given.