3 Steps to Change

1. Decide change is needed, and required, and sometimes, a matter of life or death.

2. Change. And just keep on doing it. Again and again.

3. In the event that you fail, go back to Step 2. Never mind what the mind says.

I was just indulging in a strange mental exercise the other day.

I was going through my list of friends, and trying to imagine how I would feel if they were to disappear from my life with "immediate effect".

I quite nonsense right?

I will go into mental agonies as I imagine my closest friends being eaten by sharks, trampled upon by dinosaurs and kidnapped by aliens; the greater the mental agony, the more important they are to me.
The ones I cannot do without are the ones which, if the world goes into a technological spin and all things technological disintegrates and breaks down, and SMS and MSN is wiped off the face of the earth, I will stamp my feet and kill myself because I can't talk to them anymore. It's that drastic!

Anyway, the results of that mental exercise has quite surprising results; it's quite amazing how many people I can do without when I really think about their influence and impact on my life, how I would 'feel' if they suddenly weren't there; which is, surprisingly nothing!

Of course, not everybody is measured based on what they're done for me; just by existing and being and not doing vey much really, I'm grateful for them already.

By simply putting the people I know into, "Can't do without them!", "Nice people to have around", "Can do without", and "With people like these, who needs enemies", I suddenly realise who the essential people really are.

They are the people whom life simply cannot exists without them!

Yum yum

Why am I always hungry?

Why do I eat so much even though I know I shouldn't eat so much?

Why doesn't exercising feel as good as they all say it should feel (endorphins and stuff)? Is it just me, or does anybody else feel the same?

Why can't my favourite food be carrots and cucumbers as opposed to cakes and cookies? Do I have to be a rabbit to even like carrots and cucumbers?

Why don't they have such things as fat transplants, when they have heart and liver and whatever transplants?

What does it feel to be thin, I wonder?

Why "yum"?

As wise as an...

...owl, which is my new favourite animal. Just because.

Anyway, it's only after I googled about it that I realise that owls are suppose to represent wisdom, knowledge, fertility, spirituality amongst other things.

It was then that I decided to abandon my ridiculous prejudices against the poor bird and to give it a chance. And suddenly, it's now my new favourite animal.

And anyway I think my prejudices were not very logical anyway. It all stemmed from somebody telling me that the owl can twist its head all the way round. To me, I naturally, or unnaturally thought it could turn its head 360 degrees and then round and round again, which really makes no sense because it will mean that the owl's head is disengaged from the rest of its body which will mean it's either really weird or really dead. The real deal is, the owl can turn its head up to 270 degrees!

I wish I can turn my head 270 degrees; it would be fun I think plus it would really freak a lot of people out. I like the idea of freaking people out.

But more than wishing I could turn my head 270 degrees, I want to be as wise as an owl.

wise

adj. wis·er, wis·est
1. Having the ability to discern or judge what is true, right, or lasting; sagacious: a wise leader.
2a. Exhibiting common sense; prudent: a wise decision.
2b. Shrewd; crafty.
3. Having great learning; erudite.
4. Provided with information; informed.

Puddin' and Pie!

Georgie Porgie, Puddin' and Pie,
Kissed the girls and made them cry,
When the boys came out to play
Georgie Porgie ran away

You know, I've always wanted to know more about this Georgie Porgie person. Who is he, and where does he come from? Why the penchant for desserts and specifically pudding and pie? What type of pie did he like particularly? Georgie Porgie is really quite an enigma to us living in the 21st century isn't he? Now what sort of person is he, really?

We have often quoted the very popular nursery rhyme, but have we thought about what it really says, and how much it tells us about the mysterious Grorgie Porgie?

Let us first look at the second line. Georgie happens to be quite adept at kissing the girls and making them cry. Shall we take a moment at exploring that? Why does Georgie kiss the girls and make them cry? Did he just like kissing girls, and somehow or other, the girls he kissed all ended up sadly crying, by no real fault of his? Or does a more sinister explanation lie behind all that kissing? Was Georgie's desired result the making of girls cry, and the kissing, merely a means to an end? He could have tried any number of ways to make them cry really - butchering their fingers, crushing their ribs - it's just that his preferred modus operandi was using his pursed lips. In other words, is Georgie really a sick twisted boy who enjoyed the warm wet nectar of little girls' tears that when combined with sweat and their babyishly sweet natural tastes, forms a potent concoction of sweet deliverance to dear dear Georgie?

And who were these girls that Georgie made cry? And why were they willing to let Georgie kiss them? Perhaps he was as handsome as a prince? Were just hussies who have a reputation? Or were they silly gullible naive girls? Possibly, Georgie was just very glib and persuasive in a unsuspectingly sincere way that girls can't recognise as signs to stay away, just because they weren't the normal tell-tale signs of "Trouble. Bad news. Stay away from this boy". And I wonder how many girls Georgie kissed in his life-time; and at what rate of change in any given unit of time, or otherwise known as "frequency"?

And the strangest thing of all is, Georgie Porgie ran away once the rest of the boys came out? His subterfuge and his unwillingness to be seen, especially by men seems to suggest an adhorrence of anything and everything phallic. Was he traumatised as a boy and is that the explanation for why he wanted to hurt girls and make them cry?

Or was it a physical deformity that he was trying to hide, but despite his obvious handicap, his sweet looks and his gentle voice bewitched woman into giving him their kisses and they cry from pity? Perhaps Georgie had a weight problem; after all, he did like his desserts! And when it was time for the crueller species to come out, Georgie ran swiftly away into the safety of the darkness, leaving behind remains of fresh tears of shame, intermingled with the pitying tears of the girls he left behind.

So now begs the question. Who is Georgie Porgie, what is he? Is he a harmless cheeky boy playing tricks on little girls. Is he a sick perverted serial kisser? Or is he just a fat guy who couldn't endure the taunts of other boys and who really likes sticky toffee pudding and blueberry pie?

Ouch it's lovely...

Pain is good.

And I think that's what I need to shock me out of this ennui/rut/connundrum/mental Rubik's Cube/attack of the nerves that I'm facing.

So I need to figure out some forms of self-torture. Maybe when the flesh dies, the soul will come alive.

PS Reading One Hundred Years of Solitude is a form of torture I wouldn't recommend; reading that just made me want to kill myself more than jolting me awake.

100 bloody years of solitude

I am referring to the book One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

Which I absolutely hate.

I'm only reading it because I promised someone I would. Which reminds me, I had better stop making such stoopid promises.

Because the book irritated the hell out of me.

Granted, the writing was quite prosey and lovely and fluid and descriptive and beautiful. And the story was fantastically ethereal and surreal.

But it was bloody pointless.

There are books who touch you and make you cry or hate or just make you sad; there are those who make you laugh; there are those who give you insights into different worlds - past, future, present and far away, or merely merely non-existent; there are books who allow you to live vicariously through another; and there are books who are mindlessly entertaining; and there are others who are min-numbingly boring but at least informative. But you come away with something, however remote, however miniscule.

But this book did nothing for me. Absolutely nothing. It just irritated the hell out of me. Well, the finicky amongst you will argue that the book did provoke some kind of emotion, albeit merely irritation.

I will categorise this book as "Irritating" or otehrwise known as "I will never ever re-read. Ever". It won't even belong to the category of "I will want to read again if it's not so boring and/or tedious and/or irritating because it's informative/provocative/impresseive". And honestly, I don't have many books in that category.

Now I'm thinking of reading his Love in the Time of Cholera, just to find out whether it's the Nobel Prize winning author who is writing pointlessly, or merely this particular "daringly original works of the twentieth century" tome which is more pointless than pointless.

Maybe I'll feel less irritated. Or maybe it'll just give me 100 years of choleric diarrhoea.

Funny, as in Funny-Haha....

With no one and nothing to sink my teeth into, I've recently just been indulging the cynic in me by reading sarcastic jokes.

From www.overhearinnewyork.com. Classic.

Don't Really Think You Have the IQ of a Semi-Retarded Iguana
Girl : What did you just say?
Guy : ...oh. Did I say that out loud?

She Says I Have to Stop Doing That at Parties
Girl #1: Cause our school gets to have three day field trips, but my mom never lets me go cause she's afraid I'll get raped, robbed, killed, or something like that. It's so unfair!
Girl #2: You tell her, "mom! I'm grown up! Look at my breasts!"

How Come Math Majors Are Always the Slowest to Understand This Concept?
Nerdy guy: I don't understand what the significance of the number 69 is. Can someone explain it to me?
Girl: You go to NYU and you don't know that? (nerdy guy shakes his head)
Girl: To put it bluntly, it's two people giving each other head.
Nerdy guy: Wait, but what does that mean?
Girl: Oh my god...I can't tell you that now. You're the most innocent guy here. It would be like killing a unicorn

Well I Am Begging with a Starbucks Cup
Hobo: Can you spare some change? Or food?
Black lady: Nigga, get a job. This neighborhood's gone too bourgeois for your ass to be begging.

And the Sphinx Was Their Internet Cafe?
Man: ...and then we visited the Sphinx and the Great Pyramid.
Woman: The Great Pyramid is where the people had their apartments, right?

"Bitch, You Awake?" Being the Second.
Boyfriend: Love you.
Girlfriend: Love you too.
Boyfriend: Love your rack too.
Girlfriend: That's the sweetest thing you've ever said to me.

Think I Know How This One Ends...
50-something woman: Do you have baked goods?
Girl with empty wicker basket: Excuse me?
50-something woman: Baked goods. Where are you going with them?
Girl with empty wicker basket (slowly looking into basket and then back at woman): To grandmother's house.

What You Get for Being Seven Feet Tall
Tourist: Excuse me, but could you please tell me the time?
New Yorker: What do I look like? Big Ben or somethin'?

Not only am I difficult, my friends are becoming difficult as well...

I think it's my bad influence, that they are becoming increasingly difficult.

Although they insist that they are not being difficult, and that I'm accusing them wrongly. Which further proves my point that they are becoming more difficult doesn't it; all this back-talk and being so argumentative is not becoming at all.

Anyway, I being the most difficult of them all, I've forced my friends to take the day off with me when I am finally allowed to take a day off. No reason why. Just because I say so.

Then we can go watch a movie, or sit at Starbucks and ogle men and women, or simply stare at the ceiling, and generally, just being, difficult.

Yes, I'm tyrannical and unreasonable and a bully and I anyhow scold people, but that's only to people I consider friends. So if you want to be my friend, you must put up with my difficultness.

So, bite me.

Interestingly, it's with people I'm not so close with that I'm nicer and friendlier and generally more polite and tolerant of their faults, but that's a story for another day.

Anyway, it certainly seems to be more worthwhile NOT being my friend than being my friend, so I guess I have to throw in some freebies to keep my friends.

So while my friends get bullied, they can expect the following benefits:-

• Free and endless entertainment, via MSN, SMS and just being in my presence is entertainment enough; a single dose of Me can last them for more than a week.


• A lot of free advice, more bad than good. And generally, they can expect me to poke fun at or make light of the situation, until they find themselves more amused than sad/angry/whatever at the situation.


• Their boyfriend/girlfriend/partner will get to enjoy the same benefits as them, free of charge. Their friends are my friends too! So upon the first meeting with their whoevers, I will be talking non-stop and telling him/her/it funny stories and poking fun of and the arm of him/her/it.


• They won't only get presents during your birthday, but they could get presents any time of the year, as an early or belated present. Christmas for them could be November, and Happy New Year kisses come in June, and their birthday present could come six months early, or late, depending on how they look at it.


• And now that I can cook, quite decently, they get to eat, drink and be merry. Just for them, I may just take out the Riesling that costs a 100 pounds from my wine cellar and beguile them with home-made tiramisu.


• Oh, last but not least, I still have two vacancies in my imaginary apartment block, which flats I'm doling out to friends I want to live with - penthouse, sea-facing, and with your very own personal butler.

Now, who wants to be my friend, put up your hand? Maybe I should hold BFF auditions, a-la Paris Hilton.

Haha!

Just trying to be difficult....

The first-ever F1 Singapore Grand Prix and also the first-ever F1 Night Race has just drawn to a close. The race was won by Fernando Alonso of the Renault Team.

*Clap clap whistle whistle*

*Entire Singapore Grand Prix audience goes into a tizzy and celebrates with lots of booze and reckless behaviour, some taking advantage of the party atmosphere to go around kissing all the boys*

Ok. So now that the race is finally over, can we finally take down the lights and the grand-stands and all the rest of the stuff, erh, and get on with our lives?

I'm not sure why I'm such a spoilt-sport and roll my eyes at the greatest sporting event to ever be hosted in the country - W says I'm just being difficult - but for all the inexplicable reasons only known to myself, I'm frankly quite irritated by all the buzz and hype surrouding the F1.

Granted, yes, it's a most exciting occurence to take place in the little Republic.

Granted, yes, it's a sport worth watching. (I actually AM quite a F1 fan. Not fan in the normal sense of the word, as in, crazy person who is willing to spend obscene sums of money to watch the race, and to make sure the telly is switched on every time a race is showing on TV. But I do actually show more interest in this particular sport than say, tennis or footie.)

Granted, yes, it's a worthwhile investment for the government who is spending gazillions of dollars on the event because everybody is so impressed with everything and by everything, and Ecclestone and the powers that be might even consider having Singapore join the ranks of permanent F1 hosts blah blah blah.

Granted, yes, it placed Singapore on the F1 map, and with its influx of F1 maniac fans and tourists who came just to watch the race, suddenly, Singapore is everyone's favourite destination for a holiday. Quite unexpectedly also, a few more people suddenly came to the realization that Singapore is in South East Asia and not in China.

Granted, yes, Singaporeans finally have a reason to be excited about living in the country. Suddenly Singapore is THE place to be. Instead of our having to flock out to check out the latest and the more happening, people are actually flocking IN to experience the latest and the most happening!

The list could go on and on. There are only pros and no cons to this particular event.

SO WHY THE HELL AM I FEELING SO IRRITATED WHEN I HEAR PEOPLE TALK ABOUT IT?!

Maybe it's because it seems that the entire world of Singapore is revolving around a singular event which, while I'm sure is all very interesting and exciting, should not constitute the end-all and be-all for our lives? Why does Singapore come almost to a halt just because of this one event? Why do people obsessed with this and nothing else? Are our lives and brains so pathetically and inifinitesimally small that they can't contain and think or talk about anything else over the last weekend, except the event of the year?

Why does, and why can ONE SINGULAR event bring Singapore to its knees, and its inhabitants into such a state of dizziness that almost no one can talk of anything else but the F1 for weeks leading up to it, and for weeks after to either moan/groan or yap/squeak about Alonso's unexpected and miracle win?

F1 virtually had Singapore down on its knees and gagging, and splaying her all wide and opened and welcoming F1 to all of it, so just begging to be taken.

It's the same thing with the the Beijing Olympics - they did anything and everything to please the Oympics people. Anything they wanted, they got. China was practically begging to be allowed to bend over backwards and do somersaults while attempting to have her tongue touch her nose AND juggling 10 balls at the same time; pull down houses to make way for spanking new malls, steal her people's drinking water - they'll do ANYTHING!

I think that's what makes me mad, all this pandering and grovelling; frankly, it just reeks of desperation.

And even as I'm writing this, the people around me are just gobbling away, "F1 F1 F1 F1 F1 F1 F1 F1 F1 F1 F1 F1..." as if to prove my point. Just like turkeys really.

Or maybe, I'm should really just stop being so difficult.

"A" is for Apple

"A" is for Apple, "B" is for Boy, and AB is for, erh, Apple Boy?! (Haha!)

I was just chatting desultorily with a fellow colleague during a break today; we were talking about careers and personalities and other stuff which people converse about, and she made a very interesting statement.

She told me that I was a Type A person, and that I need to be careful. I had to be careful not to be too hard on myself.

Her statement totally pulled the rug out from under my feet because I had never ever once thought of myself as a Type A personality; and the funny thing is, when I asked my close friends about it, they actually agreed that I was too hard on myself. Or were they agreeing that I was indeed a Type A personality; I better ask them again.

Just for everybody's information, Type A behavioural characteristics include:-
- Time urgency and impatience
- Free-floating hostility or aggresiveness
- Competitiveness
- Strong achievement orientation

The physical characteristics acompanying a Type A-er are:-
- Facial tension (tight lips, clenched jaw)
- Tongue clicking or teeth grinding
- Dark circles under eyes
- Facial sweating (on forehead or upper lip)

So tell me, am I really really really a Type A-er? I would think I was the more relaxed and easy-going Type B, or perhaps the mixed-up Type AB.

This simple little conversation has left me all confused about what Type I am. Again. Sigh.

Well, at least this will explain my tongue clicking, oh, and my dark circles. Oh crap I'm 50% Type A already. Damn.

Nippon!

I am so excited!

About possibly going to Japan at the end of the year!

With some of my favourite people!

And I'm going to get to see snow!

I shall, from now on, save money like a fiend!

I can't wait! I'm so excited I'm blogging about it although I have nothing to say about it - no dates, no itinerary, no tickets nor hotels booked.

It's not even confirmed, far from it.

I'm just too excited. Finally, something to look forward to, after a horrid horrid horrid week*.

*There were some extremely good parts to the week, but there were horrid horrid things as well!

Ouch...

Ouch.

My head hurts and feels hot and my nose is leaking. My eyes are bloodshot and surrounded by dark circles. It's so bad I fight to keep my eyes open, and have sucuumbed to the stupor of 5-hour days, sleeping 19 hours a day, sometimes up to 16 hours at one shot.

With only 5 hours a day, for the last 2 days, I struggle to do all that I'm supposed to do - eat a little something, taking showers to keep myself from turning mildew-y, send a couple of reply sms-es, write an email or two to people expecting them, all the while fighting to keep my eyes open. I'm not sure why my eyes are behaving so strangely; I'm not THAT tired that I will fall asleep once my eyes close shut, but somehow, the eyelids are just so heavy. Is that a sympton of something?

My neck and my shoulder aches from my strange sleeping position. My hair's weird looking, and I'm feeling disorientated from staying in a darkened room all day and all night. My nose is red from all thhe abrasions with tissues and hankies and whatever else is on hand to stem the flood of mucus, bodily fluids and the essense of life dripping slowly but surely out of my body. Help, I'm convincedI'm going to die soon from some form of dehydration. I'm not awake long enough to take enough fluids to replace the ones I've lost, and trust me, I've lost A LOT. So much so that I've run out of tissue; the whole house is absent of tissue with which I can plug my leaking nose.

I'm also convinced that I will drown in my own bodily fluids if I lie down, nose facing up, as the fluids and liquids accumulate and block up all airway passages, and I slowly drown in my sleep. (YIKES!) Add to that, I feel a weird dull numbness, couple of inches beneath my left collarbone left of my vetebrae, and almost directly under my left breast. I hope that goes away soon; it's been most uncomfortable.

Written in ink, cannot erase

My friend was telling me a story.

And the morale of the story was, "Walk away. Write off."

And I thought about whether, in a similar situation, I can breezily just walk away.

In the midst of all the ranting, and all the moodiness and broodings and angst, and though wished I could, I don't think I can. I just can't.

I just can't write off people. No matter how much I wish I could.

Maybe it's because I know I would have been written off many a times, by many a people, if I had not been given the chance to change?

Maybe it's because, what if they write themselves off as a result?

But I wish it wasn't so damn difficult and so emotionally, mentally and physically draining. Heck, I don't even like watching some shows because they engage my emotions and feelings and sympathies too much; and now we're talking about real-life people, that go "OUCH" when you pinch them.

I was telling Wee about a certain someone, who doesn't write people off, no matter how they resist, snub, sneer, turn a deaf ear to, ignore, show contempt towards the person and the advice given. Whatever advice that is given, is always the best to the person's knowledge and experience; he doesn't sell people short.

Personal feelings and prejudices are always put aside. People may choose to walk away; but when they come back, there's always help needed, if help is seeked for.

I find that admirable, but incredibly hard to achieve. Perhaps, unwittingly, I've put my ego into my advice and help rendered to others. So when they reject my help or advice, I feel slighted, and I over-react. This shouldn't be the case me thinks. Maybe I need to re-think my position.

So I shouldn't write people off. Anyway, I don't get this phrase. Why write off? Shouldn't one write on and erase off instead?

So I should write on in ink, and not erase off people.

Well, it's gonna be hard, but I guess I'm still gonna give it a shot.

And I guess I'll have to try not to complain so much to my friends, or they'll be my victims of my Non-Erasure Agreement (NEA), and they may just write me off!

Uh oh!

Off with ALL their heads!

I used to be a very powerful person.

The secret to all power is, not caring about anything or anybody. It may sound ridiculous, but try it, and you'll find it to be quite true.

When you don't care about anything or anyone, nothing and no one can ever screw with your mental or emotional processes. You'll be able to make decisions at all level, hampereds by no such thing as consideration for other things or other people. The only thing imperative to you and to everything you think and do is, yourself.

Now isn't that a simple and direct route to being all-powerful?

It's really a much more simple life. One no longer has to think about the impact each action and word has on the next person, and how to come up with premptive ways to spare somebody else his/her problems. One no longer has to consider other people's conveniences, preferences or tricky situations. The world centres around a single person, and with that, the unimportantly superflous and the peripherals would be removed.

How simple. How fun. How self-empowering.

But one day, I chose to relinquish that power because I wanted to be a better person. And now, I find myself besieged with all sorts of considerations, concerns and worries, which I otherwise else would not have.

I really miss the good old days. It's not difficult to become that sort of a person again. Even if I didn't like myself as much, I will at least have less clutter in my life.

Because, sometimes, one wonders, is it worth it, my trying so hard to do my part as a friend, as a colleague, as a confidante, as a companion, as a good citizen of the world? The rewards seem greater, and the burden non-existent, my being a selfish, self-centered, and conceited ass with an attitude problem.

No wonder good people die young.

I'm already feeling the life ebbing out of me and my heart becoming increasingly weaker with every pummeling I'm receiving, and this is happening on quite a regular basis; it seems the world and its inhabitants are going to the dogs.

I think the only way I can feel better again is to go for a massage and a hair-cut and a whole day in bed with a good book. I think I'll curl my hair and go on a shopping spree and go to the movies and eat pop-corn as well!

Then I'll come back and decide whose heads I want chopped off!

I should feel better after that very therapeutic beheading exercise.

Q&A

"Would you rather have a head that's twice as big as a normal head, or half as big?"

"Well, it wouldn't matter which you had, would it? Since you're turning out to be quite the dickhead."

I don't usually dislike people, but there are some who are turning out to be quite the malignant vexatious boil, growing exponentially in size and grossness with each passing day.

Until I'm running out of patience, sweet loving-kindness, and humour, and am becoming increasingly displeased, annoyed and acerbic.

That is, until my patience runs dry and I decide to finally cut the person out of my life. I shall no longer tolerate patiently such things and people now from now on. I really do have more important things and people to turn my attention to.

Go, find another host for your parasitic crap.

It's good to be wrong sometimes...

Nobody likes to be wrong. But it's great to be wrong about some things, sometimes...

It's great to be wrong.....

... about your friend's boyfriend being a conceited ass, and finding out that he's quite respectful and patient and loving towards the friend.

... and finding out magenta is really quite my colour, and that I can carry curls quite well! (So I shall go and do my hair in curls!)

... and having friends exceed your non-expectations.

... and having boring strangers becoming quite interesting friends.

... and having the dull party turn out quite fun.

... and having your quiet shy little friend surprising you in a daring sexy dress and lookign quite spectacular in it! (People with hidden depths!)

I wish I was wrong more often. Instead of having my predictions turn out to be so true so often.

Come on, surprise me some!

The Dress

The Dress that is all of its traffic-stopping bright even-more-fushia-than-fushia-pink pink, in its silky softly flowing material that would probably distangle in its entirety before your eyes should you even snag it on as much as your fingernail.

The Dress that smacks of glamour and, fantasy and, sex and, hard partying in 4-inch bling bling stilettos and drinking out of a champagne flute with a Brad-Pitt lookalike hanging unto your every word and other Orlando-Bloom lookalikes trying hard to catch your eye across a crowded room.

The Dress that gives you the license to walk down Orchard Road and kiss every boy - black, yellow, white, red, blue, green - that you walk past, and the policemen who are after you, they want you for your kisses, and not to lock you up in a four-by-four prison cell.

Alas, it is also The Dress that is too good for me.

Especially as I stand in the fitting room in my bare feet on a dodgy carpet which is a cross between the colours beige and grey, hair bunched up in a pony tail, and frantically trying to fit my unsubstantial boobs into the dress' bustier.

I have neither the 4-inch heels with a celebrity's name plastered in the inside of the shoes, nor the dazzling bag with its very own name, nor the diamonds-emeralds-stones-and-rocks jewellery that goes with The Dress.

Neither do I have the panache, the glamour puss lifestyle, nor the male eye candy (Ozymandias where are you?) to match the dress. Needless to say, I don't have sex often enough and with sufficient numbers of male bodies to meet The Dress' very stringent Glam criteria as well.

I feel forlorn and my self-esteem has burrowed into the floor of the dressing room as I face The Dress in all its magnificence and all its grandeur, put on against its wishes on my unmagnificent and drab body. The whole room is reeking of The Dress' disdain and extreme condescension. I can hear it thinking, "What? Me, with her? Pui!"

I don't want to do this either you Stoopid Pink Dress! I guess we just have to pretend to like each other and put up a good show in front of everybody. Because I'm, sob, gay (the pink-coloured version)!

I can't wait for the Gay Event of the Year to be over. So I can rip off the dress, and hang it up on its very own gem-studded hanger, and leave it feeling smug in its own bright-pink beauty, into tha bck of my cupboard.

Until the next gay event that is.

A momentous occasion!

The girls say I must blog about this, because this is quite unusual for me to be making such observations, thus maginifying its significance.

Drum roll please.

I met a very good-looking guy. He's a friend of a friend. Actually I met his mum and his mum introduced us. I know his mum better than I know him, so he's officially my friend's friend, instead of just being my friend. And the reason why i have to be so explicit is because some of my so-called good friends might just suspect me of picking up some random stranger from the streets when I tell them that I met a good-looking guy. Well, for the record, I WAS NOT TALKING TO RANDOM STRANGERS!

Anyway, back to handsome guy. He's South African, and he's all of 1.89 metres tall! And he's oh-so-young;he's only 20!

But he's wise beyond his years, and I'm impressed by what a good boy he is. I think I'll write and tell his mum. I might just mention how good-looking he is too.

Haha!

To be a better man

I was speaking to a 20-year-old boy today, and I was surprised at how very mature beyond his years he is! He was speaking of his personal near-death experience. When he was about 6 years old, a virus attacked his nervious system, leaving him bereft of speech, hearing and all his vocabulary within a couple of months. The doctor didn’t know how and why and what, and they didn’t expect him to live beyond 8 years of age. But he survived, and had to re-learn everything that he had lost. His entire school life was a constant struggle, but when he graduated from high school recently, it was a tremendous achievement and a major milestone in his life, that normal people with normal lives would not have understood. Normal people would have scoffed at is finishing school late, and at his lack of academic achievements, but to him, ‘normal’ was an achievement! And at 20, he had something which no other 20-year-old, how matter how rich or how smart could rival; he was un-touchable!

Imagine two people. One has the ability to coat what he has with voluminous words to make it appear all nice and prettily packaged and impressive and appealing; the other is more reticent and lets his talents show for itself. At the end of the day, both persons’ “packages” are the same size. The different is, one’s more fluff than substance, while the other is substance with very little sugar coating. Interestingly, society values the candy floss more. They call it the ability to “communicate” one’s talent, and to market and sell oneself. It’s strange don’t you think, what the world actually prefers. I would prefer to be more substance than fluff, but I do occasionally wish I could speak better, write better, entertain better, present better, because hey, the "rewards" are better!

When I meet people like that who have gone through certain life crises, I invariably feel humbled. Because I think if it were me, I couldn't have survived surviving the accident, the life-threatening disease, the being cheated on by a partner and other crises. I'm pathetic that way. The mere thought of it scares me, and I kick it out of my head and go into denial in a farway place in my head. I only wish Alice's Wonderland was a real place where I can go and hide; where only I can go and hide, because if everybody could seek refuge there, it wouldn't be much of a sanctuary would it?

So I must admit, I am a cowardly whiney pathetic girl who has her head up in the clouds. Of course I've always wished I was stronger and harder and more than capable to deal with the crap of life, but I'm not. And I wish I was different sometimes, or rather, almost all the time. Because it's really the strong people, the people with character who can make a difference in this world isn't it, to do things that other people dare not or aren't willing to risk doing, like climb Mount Everest and quite their high-paying job to teach English in the world's backwaters, or give up a professional university to go to baking school!

On the other hand are people like me who don't do anything but merely indulge in feeling angry and angsty about childish wars and about people losing their homes because of the Olympics, and fantasizing about a better world, and a different world. People like me will probably just die dreaming.

Unless.... Before I explain what that 'unless' entails, let me elaborate on a little theory on mine.

For some reason, all the people I’ve met who’ve gone through some dramatic happening in their lives, whether it be surving a terminal illness or going through a hard life etc, they’ve somehow turned out better and stronger people, just by dint of their experiences. Which leads me to think, while we may not like the idea, but suffering may be a better teacher than anything can ever be, that is, assuming we all want to be a “better man” according to the Robbie William song. (I’ve learnt not to assume that other people have these same objectives.)

I was contemplating this observation of mine, and asking myself, would I be willing to go through that baptism of fire so to speak, to emerge as a phoenix out of the ashes? In other words, if given a choice to go through life uneventfully and leaving no mark in the hearts and minds of people, as opposed to leading an eventful but worthwhile life, which would I choose? After much contemplation, I daren’t answer that question still, because much as I like to choose the latter, it requires much to be able to consciously choose the latter life. (I daresay I may not mind so much if it creeps up up on me, but really, it’s the very deliberateness of making such a conscious decision that is so unnerving!)

Now why am I so philosophical today? I think my brain is starting to hurt from all that thinking! Ouch! I think I'll go and soak my head in a tub of ice now.

To the olympics

The 2008 Olympics came and went without me barely noticing, the opening ceremony, the closing ceremony, and everything in between.

Apparently, it's very much the social faux paus to be nonchalant about the Olympics, because when I mentioned the above fact in passing to a group of colleagues, they all looked at me as if I've just spouted horns and turned green all over or something. It is, NOT THE THING TO DO, missing the Olympics, because it's the first time ever to be held by an Asian country, and China, the country not the porcelain, spent a whole lot of money and effort to making it the greatest Olympics EVER!

*Rolls eyes*

Ok fine. Call me the apathetic non-sportsman showing unsportsmanship behaviour and not rooting for the international gathering of sporting nations in a display of camaraderie and peace and harmony, which is what sports, the link between all men and humankind can bring all together in unity. (Wait, does that make sense? That sentence is so long I got grammatically lost!)

So what?

So what if I'm not too interested in who wins and who loses and who broke records? As in every game and sport, there is a first place, a second place and a third place, and a half a dozen more non-winners of the sport crying at their loser-status, away from the lights of the TV. There will be natural sportsmen and sportsmen who got where they got by dint of 20 out of 24 hours a day pegging away at whatever sport they play, and only 4 hours left to be non-sports-like. And there will also be the dopers who insist on taking drugs even though they'll most certainly get caught and be shamed and exposed in front of their peers and disqualified from the games.

Which brings me to a most persistent question in my mind, which is, how many of these people will still play the sport if there was no such thing as the Olympics and no such thing as winning a gadzillion dollars for being first and for doing the same thing over and over again? How many people are left if we take away that gold medal and the glory and the money? Isn't that where people take performance-enhancing drugs even though there's such a high chance of getting caught? Because all that money is worth all that risk!

Why do I have to be interested in the Olympics? It's hard to be interested in the Olympics when you hear about water being deviated from the rest of China, from the crops that need the water, at the expense of the livelihood of millions of other Chinese people, when you hear about the lives of Beijing-ers almost coming to a dead stop just to accomodate the presence of an international Sports event which has brought it nothing very much else in terms of rewards, but has brought so much in terms of unappreciation and a bad stinking attitude from the rest of the world.

How about when you hear that people's houses are torn down to built spanking new shopping malls to feed the lust of engorged pocketbooks and to appease and please the insatiable lustful condescension and patronage of the rest of the, dare I say, Western world.

I am proud of the indomitable Chinese spirit, but I'm not proud of that incessant need to show off what we already know about ourselves, that we are an incredible people who can do incredible things, and there is no point in my opinion, in having to prove that point. I am proud of the beautiful buildings, the air-tight logistics, the brilliant showcase and display of talents, but I am sick to the stomach knowing the amount of extravagant resources that went into it, at the expense of her own people. Is it worth it really, punishing your own just to feed other people's big fat children?

One last comment. It's quite funny, the irony of the closing ceremony ( I heard about it although I didn't watch the ceremony!), the easy-going random attitude one country has vs the pompous granduer of the other. And I shall stop here, and not say any more on this particular topic, before I actually get killed or something for all my irreverent and sacrilegious remarks.

In the Secret Place

The secret place is, oh well, secret. It's somewhere only I can go, and only those I bring along are allowed access. It's a sort of elite club, only better.

It is a happy place, and a fun place, and a most wonderful and magical place. It is where everybody wants to be (if they could choose to be), but where only few are able to access, because only some have the magic code to to enter.

In the secret place is total privacy and exclusivity. It's my place of refuge, of refreshment, of rejuvenation, of deep thought and idea generation. It's a place of still restfulness or fruitful productivity, whichever is the activity that is preferred at that point in time.

If rest is required, there's no restless or troublesome external influence that invades, because all of that is kept out by a firewall. Worries, anxiety, strife, quarrelsomeness are all kept at bay and not allowed to disrupt the peace of the inhabitants of the secret place, allowing me to refresh and rejuvenate every single cell in my body. I become a totally new person almost - whole, anew and afresh.

If what I need are ideas and strategies and plans, this is the place where ideas and concepts are generated almost automatically, easily and quickly and without stress. I can add, multiply, subtract and divide vast numbers at a fraction of the time I usually need. I will not have writers' block, but words and ideas and prose will flow like water. I will become the incredible writing and thinking machine! There will be a lighted-up lightbulb above my head 24/7. Even when I'm sleeping, I will dream dreams and envision visions of new machines, new worlds, new toys, new books, new creative ideas for art and music and song and dance!

I can either choose to enjoy the still quietness of the secret place by myself, or I can enjoy it with the people with whom I choose to share it with. But conversations in the secret place are always full of laughter and joy, and the topics of conversation are always interesting and fruitful and beneficial. There's never any malicious gossip or back-biting or mean-spirited remarks. Such bad emotions are not allowed in the secret place.

The secret place only allows all that is good and true and noble and pure to exist, whether in thought or word or deed. There is no secret shameful harmful thing, no intention to harm or to hurt, no devious, evil thought to discredit or to destabilise or to de-motivate or to deride.

In the secret place, I am hidden from view and only some have the ability to see me or to find me. Those who are insincere and have bad agendas, those who are malicious and who want to exploit and take advantage, they are not able to find me, because I am invisible to them. So all relationships are pure and wholesome and mutually beneficial. Parasitism and manipulation and politics are absent from the secret place because they are absent in the hearts of the people who are allowed in. It's like the one-way mirrors - I can see them, but they can't see me, their 'badness' acts as a blind so they cannot see.

I can see them but they can't see me. I can see their actions, read their thoughts, and have insight into their plans and strategies of manipulation and politicking and creating dissension, but they don't know that I know, but I know that they don't know that I know. They plot, the connive, they manipulate, they create traps, they lie, they cheat, they fake. But I know everything and I watch them get caught in their own rubbish, because make no mistake about it, evil will be repaid by evil, and good for good. For those who are for me, who wish me well, who help me, encourage me, wish only good for me, they will be rewarded for their goodness. The great stuff that I have will be theirs as well. When I have my own apartment block facing the sea, they will get their very own 3,000 square feet apartments facing the sea!

In the secret palce, we'll never grow old ugly. There's no such thing as wrinkles and pimples and freckles and fats in the secret place. In the secret palce is eternal youth and eternal beauty - both internal and external. Very importantly, there's no such thing as PMS as well. Biscuits will hang from trees and chocolate will flow in the streams. In the secret place is health and gracefulness and longevity. We'll enjoy the fruits of our rewards, and be full and satiated, never lacking, never empty, never longing.

Where is the secret place?

If I tell you, I will have to kill you.

But I may just give you a secret peek or bring you with me when I walk through the secret magic portal into the secret of secret places.

On watching Oprah

I was watching, or rather, listening to an episode of the Oprah Winfrey show the other day, while doing the dishes at the same time. The reason I could only hear it and not watch it was because the kitchen was too far away, and the TV was switched on at full blast, with nobody watching it. I think I just wanted some company while doing the dishes. (So many dishes!)

That day they were talking about physical vs real age. The theory is this, with good eating habits, a healthy lifestyle etc etc etc, a person's real age could be younger than his physical or biological age. So there were these 2 ladies whose real ages were about 10 years younger than their physical or biological ages which is about 60. They not only look younger (And this conclusion is based on the collective gasp I heard from the audience!), but they minds were younger and more active and sharper than a normal 60-year-old!

When interviewed and asked what were their lifestyles secrets to maintaining youthful, they all cited exercise, healthy eating and living as their secret to eternal youth. (I'm thinking plastic surgery also!) They also mentioned one other factor, they all had a hobby or a passion that they pursued in their lives. One was a social volunteer in old folks' homes and orphanages. One spent time gardening and playing golf or something like that. And another one was a dancer. (I was obviously only half-listening, I had to concentrate on not breaking the dishes!)

It later occurred to me that it would have been interesting doing this experiment, to have another control group doing the healthy eating and exercising thing, but take away the hobby, the interest, the passion, and we'll see what happens to this other group. They may just aphyxiate and die out of boredom or something.

Passion. I suspect that's key. It's the essence of living really. It creates an interest in life and all that surrounds life, and as a result, sustains life, and motivates us to preserve and maintain our physical bodies and non-physical beings. Without passion, there is no meaning and interest, and we might just be bored of our wits. People who are passionate about nothing are usually people who are nothing. What we're passionate about determines how how we turn out as a human being. People are passionate about different things - love, money, world domination, plants, birds, so we turn out to be lovers, con-men, Hitler. plant-people, bird-people respectively.

Passion is what really makes us tick doesn't it?

Which brings me to the next point, the non-physical aspect of being. I call that the soul. My friend there's no such thing as a soul, but I don't agree with him; in fact I think he's a little mad.

Our non-physical being is everything else which does not involve our physical aspects (obviously!). The emotions, the will, the intelligence, in other words, the non-physical and non-bodily sustenance of life.

I think our passion and excitement about stuff has to come from somewhere. My soulless friend will probably just put it down to hormones and chemicals that are being produced in our machine/bodies or something. In other words, its all a matter of chemistry. We're all the human version of a bubbling beaker of different combinations of chemicals. The bad-tempered ones just happen to have two non-compatible chemicals inside their bodies resulting in the "kaboom"!

I'm not disagreeing totally that we're well-oiled machines and human chemistry experiments, I'm just not totally agreeing, because I think we have to be more than that, thus making human beings the illogical, unpredictable, spontaneous beings that we are!

We imagine and believe and do incredible things that are logically ridiculous and difficult. We climb mountains at the risk of frostbite and avalanches and possible death. We ride impossible distances in tight bicycle shorts and sitting on teeny and uncomfortable sit that render us potentially impotent.

We pursue impossible dreams and difficult outcomes. We seek for alternative worlds out of our galaxy. We visualise, we conceptualise. We argue that the world is round when everybody thought it was square. We build machines that imitate birds and almost die trying to be a bird. We build wings of wax and fly towards the son.

We conquer kingdoms for the sake of love and pride and showing off. For the sake of love, we become super human. We can run faster than a speeding bullet, lift heavy weights, for the sake of the love of our offspring. We stay when we should walk away from a non-profitable and non-beneficial relationships. We stick through thick and thin through death and diseases and even infidelity.

We hope against hope and work against reason to save the dying, feed the hungry, quench the thirst of knowledge and to keep hope alive in people who might have been better left for dead because the world has nothing to offer them.

Show me people that behave as people should. And I'll show you a world devoid of life and passion and love and ridiculous mistake and foibles and generally unliveable and boring.

Watching TV is good for you!

I am a TV addict who is very discerning in the types of TV she watches.

I know that sounds like an oxymoron, but that's true.

I don't just watch any old junk. I am very selective in the shows that I choose to peruse of. None of the third-rate junk for me. Any show I watch must have all of the following...

- Attention-grabbing show title. Never mind if it's a little cheesy or vulgar, I need it to get my attention, to differentiate itself from the 60-odd channels that are on cable. Some suggestions for the hit-you-in-the-face-and-gives-you-a-black-eye show titles would be things like "The Mystery of the Exploding Boobs", or "Plastic Make-Overs Come Undone" or something to that effect.

- Never forget the Very Important Bits. In any show, every show, you must have at least of the the following, not listed in order of importance. Babies, boobs, cleavage, blood, gore, boobs, explosions, car chases, boobs, nice hair, nice legs, inspirational speeches, boobs. Of course, if you could have everything in there, it will be great! Oh oh oh, and make sure there's not too much time-lag in-between the important bits. I don't have time for the non-important bits!

- Food! Food is very important. In the absence of a storyline, beautiful actors, blood, gore and action, food is always a safe topic. Food of any sort really - Greek, Italian, British, Chinese times 8 types of Chinese cuisine, Desserts, Appetisers, Side Dishes, Teas, Coffees, Grilled, Steamed. Sometimes they even combine genres. Food + Beautiful People = Food Porn in the form of Nigella. Food in a strange country which is unknown to chef = Jamie Oliver and the Great Italian Escape or something like that. Food + Whiz-Bang-Action = Restaurant Makeover. Food + Violence = Ramsey Gordon in 'The F Word'. Food's oh-so-versatile! You know what is missing, Food + Super hero! It will be fun to see Fire Man torch the cream brulee with his torch hand, or Superman cream the cake mixture at super speed!

- Last but not least, always pretend to be oh-so-natural. Especially for the cooking shows, never mind if it's all scripted down to how many breaths of air you should take a minute, but always pretend that it's all perfectly spontaneous and all naturale. Yes, it's natural to have the vegetables and fruits all so clean and without a speck of soil on it at all. And yes your fridge is always so packed to the brim with of all types of good-looking food. And yes, you speak to your family in complete sentences, using words that are four and five syllabus long. And yes, you cook in that sexy black dress with that cute little sweater. I HATE THESE PEOPLE FOR HAVING SUCH PERFECT LIVES. And I hate them more that they don't have to do any washing up after they cook! *Sulk*

Contrary to what people say about TV being a bad electrostatic influence and making people stupid, TV is actually very good for me. It is inspirational. I get inspired to dance, play the piani, cook, bake, be Oprah Winfrey, chop up people, travel, and be Hitler depending on what I'm watching at that point in time. In fact, that's the worse thing about TV, it inspires you to over-rate one's capabilities. They lie to you and tell you that making Vanilla Jam Muffins are oh-so-simple when really, it is really really complicated to do! Television people should manage expectations better, really!

TV is actually a thinking past-time. Everytime I see Jamie Oliver on TV, I will muse as to whether he's considered cute or ugly. Because while he's mostly cute, he's got a weird overbite that makes his lips look quite pouty. And one really needs to practise one's motor skills channel switching, watching 3 shows at the same time on different channels!

TV's sometimes quite scary. Because they usually do close-ups of Nigella's bosom and face, it gets scary when they sometimes momentarily zoom out and you catch a glimpse of her whole body and you realise how, erh, voluptous she really is. She does remind me of the Blimp in the Ghostbusters.

Now, I think I just might go and watch some more TV.

Blogomania

I have the computer today, and the irritating thing about it is, I just don't feel inspired to blog!

I should think there's some kind of mental conspiracy going on in my head. The little people in my head have obviously something against me, for at the moment that I'm just about to fall asleep or while perumbulating around on the MRT, inspiration strikes and I feel the epic blog coming on, and then horror of horrors, I find that I'm stranded without pen and paper, or I know that as soon as I manage to switch on the laptop that takes forever to re-boot, and am sitting in front of it, the inspiration would have flown out the window somehow.

Life. Just. Isn't. Fair!

And maybe it's just me, but I think I've been struck by an extremely virulent strain of blogomania. I'm increasingly finding myself seeing everything and anything in the blog perspective, whether it's supermarket shopping or making weird muffins or reading a book. I think I need therapy. And you know what the worse thing is, everything happening and occurence comes with a blog title as well as an introduction.

I think I'm going to go bang my head on the wall some more.

To the moon

Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless
Among the stars that have a different birth,
And ever changing, like a joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?

I forgot who wrote this. But I just like this poem. I like the moon. There's something ethereal and sublime in its cyclical changing of shape, from being a full moon to slowly being 'eaten' until only a slice is left.

I read a story once, about the moon disappearing from its place in the sky. Because there was no moon in the sky, people carried about lantern moons. But after a while, people got used to dark moonless nights.

I don't think I'll ever get used to moonless nights. I know we sometimes don't get to see the moon because it's hidden behind the clouds. But it is comforting to just know that, somewhere, out there, the moon is still palely loitering.

That's the thing about the moon isn't it. It's quite dispendable, practically speaking. Without the sun, plants won't grow and we won't have food. But moonlessness will merely mean still seas since it's the presence of the moon that creates tides.

The moon is a funny thing. With its mere existence, it makes the world, my world at least, a much more beautiful place.

I sometimes think the moon was made to remind us, it's not necessarily the doing that makes you beautiful. Just be being, it makes all the difference, between a moon-lit night and a dark lightless night.

Good night.

Excuse me...

I've just been watching TV.

And the people on TV have been saying things like, "You look absolutely amazing today. Dinner will be ready shortly. Take a seat while you wait. And will you like a glass of wine while you wait."

Do real people really talk like that in real life, in America?

Geez! How do they survive being so polite all the time? And speaking in grammatically correct sentences AND complete sentences too?

No wonder they drink so much alcohol. They want to be rendered senseless and comatose, so nobody will expect them to talk too much.

The Mystery of the Weird Muffin!

I just don't get it!

I decided to have a go at the Vanilla Jam Muffins, a recipe from which I got off some TV cooking show. (Yes, I'm obviously more the TV addict than the cooking enthusiast!)

All the ingredients. The correct ingredients and not weird substitutes. Check.
The printed recipe in front of me, in bold print. Check.
An oven. Check.
Enthusiasm at finally perhaps being able to make decent muffins. Double check.

I got all the ingredients, the right ingredients. I followed them step by step. I even pre-heated the oven like the recipe asked me to do instead of dumping the muffin tray into a un-pre-heated oven. But the muffins still came out all weird. In fact, they turned out weirder than my not following a recipe.

I measure, I sift, I mix, I put the gooey mush into little cute muffin cups in a muffin tray. I pre-heat ovens and use oven mitts with wee little daisies on them. I even let the muffins 'rest' for 15 minutes after taking them out of the oven for goodness sakes!!

I mean, what more does the muffin want from me?! I should go on and knees and kowtow to it right after I place it in the oven, so it'll come out all nice and fluffy and yummy for me, instead of all weird?! These muffin things are seriously demanding! I'm not sure I'm ready for a muffin committment at this point in time. I'm just not ready!

That's it! No more following recipes for me. Oh rather, no more attempts at making muffins.

This time round, the muffins came out all gooey and sticky because of the jam fillings I was suppose to add. The last time, the muffins came out like cookies, in paper cups. Not too bad tasting, but still, they were suppose to be muffins, not cookies!

What's it going to take just for my muffins to turn out un-weird?! After all, these are suppose to be the simpliest things to make; it's not suppose to be that hard!

Forget it, I think I'll just go make cookies instead. The flat ones, and not round ones in paper-cups.

Hey wait a minute!

Where are the Simpsons yellow?!

Can they be, is it even possible, are they actually really, Chinese?!

*GASP*

Because I am so worth it

Aren't you all so sick of the run-of-the-mill shampoo ads showing women with digitally touched-up and special effects-y wonderful looking hair in shades of black, brown, red and yellow?

Yes, so am I!

Which is why I have this great new idea for a hair ad. The inspiration came when I was combing my hair by the window. As to why I'm combing my hair next to the window instead of in front of the mirror like most people do, well, you'll understand why as you read my shampoo ad script.

Scene opens with women putting on the finishing touches to her make-up in front of the mirror. (Oh and the woman should preferably be Asian with long dark brown hair and a big mouth, and obviously gorgeous. (If you're looking for a model, I'm available right now!))

Her hair is tied up in a bun or wrapped up in a towel or something, to show that the hair has not been "made-up". After finishing the last vestiges of her make-up, plucking the last stray nostril hair for example, she then proceeds to the windows, draws the curtains and hiffingly and puffingly opens the windows. (It's some old-fashioned windows because requires quite a fair bit of opening to, well, open.)

After having managed to open the windows, she thens un-tie her hair and it falls out, no, explode, into a horrifyingly tangled mess. She then proceeds to comb her hair with a huge nasty-looking comb with huge teeth. Her hair falls out in clumps and drops from the comb, floating down and down and down the apartment building and dropping unto a handsome young man. (I'm thinking Colin Farrell or Christian Bale or Chow Yun Fatt. Not Brad Pitt because don't like Brad Pitt, and I'm the one writing this ad so all 5 of you who are my ardent fans shut up!)

So obviously, the handsome stranger looks disgustedly at this strang clump of hair with beetles and spiders entangled within it and looks up, only to see a woman with Medusa-like hair. He screams and runs away. The gorgeous beautiful Asian woman (who looks like me!) puts her hands to her face and cries.

Ad cuts out to show a bottle of whatever shampoo with voice over going 'yadda yadda yadda great shampoo'.

Cuts next to scene of woman (which is ME of course!) strolling over to an open window and untying her hair again. But instead of revealing terrifying head of snake hair, the hair tumbles out, and for some strang inexplicable reason, is nice and neat and blah blah blah. (The hair colour is changed by the way. I want copper red hair!) She proceeds to run her fingers through her bee-yoo-tee-ful hair. (No need to use comb this time round because using the miraculous shampoo means not being able to afford a comb any more.) Daisies or some flower drops from her hair (It's a flowered-flavoured hair shampoo!), and drops down unto Mr Handsome again. (I think a single flower won't work, so there may be a need to drop a ton of whatever flowers unto Colin Farrell. (He's the first choice!)) Colin Farrell looks up and sees beautiful woman and it's love at first sight.

And they live happily ever after.

So I'll get to end up with beautiful red hair (And I'll no longer shed hair like a dog!), live happily ever after with Colin Farrell, and win the Oscars equivalent in the word of TV ads for my true-story-hair-ad!

Because I am so worth it!

PS In the meantime, before miraculous shampoo is discovered, what am I going to do about those stoopid stray strands of hair that keep disengaging themselves from my scalp! Argh! I'm so tempted to chop my hair short!

One of those days...

It's just one of those days. I got onto the train and it was packed to the brim; I felt like a sardine. I was so tired I was actually contemplating faking a fainting fit just to get a seat. Hmmm, maybe that's a little excessive. It will be so much easier just to pretend I'm pregnant. I should think I should able to fool people into thinking I'm pregnant, by dint of pushing out my tummy, by a lot of course. (I'm not that fat!) Or next time I'll shove a towel underneath my blouse or something. Thank God for good friends who are persuasive and quick enough in their sms replies to stop me from doing weird things like that. I think they're getting use to my weirdness. In fact, I have been getting questioned for acting normal, or trying to be nice and polite! These people are "normal prejudiced"! Such injustice, to be stigmatized like that!

And to you who's wondering whether I dare fight with you over an inflatable hammer at some mall, you don't know who and what you're up against. You're talking about me, who has no sense of shame or embarrassment. I can create a scene anywhere you choose, any time at all. I can even fist-fight you at the mall if you want. It's always been a fantasy of mine, after watching all those Hollywood action movies, to create a hell of a mess at a mall - smashed windows, water sprinklers on, blood (fake) everywhere, bodies (fake of course) littered all over the place. Oh, and the best part is, all the feather pillows from the Bedding section would have burst open for no rhyme or reason whatsoever (I know! The bad guys planted a bomb in the pillows and it exploded, blowing up all the pillows!), and feathers floating down from the ceiling and unto the blood-stained floor and covering the dead bodies making them look like chickens, and tickling the nose of the baddie who is acting dead! (The Bedding section was on the floor above of course. The exploded bomb blew up a big hole in the ceiling, and that's how the feathers floated down. There is always a reasonable explanation for everything, if you think hard enough.) Cool.

Seriously, with boredom driving me a little crazy and with so much time on my hands, I can do some serious damage any time, in fact, right about NOW. The last few days, I've been experimenting with frying bacon, to see how to get that nice crisp effect I want. So far, I haven't been able to get it right. I don't begrudge the time spent on perfecting bacon frying, it's just the waste of very good bacon that I'm pissed about. Plus, there's only so much bacon (damaged goods!) and eggs one can eat. (Yes yes yes! I'm not a very good cook. So can somebody now teach me how to make nice crisp bacon? Do you suppose I can google that? I'll go try!)

I'm bored. Is it time to eat yet?!