Organised Destruction.

Dissection of a Reflection.

2008-09-20T01:47:00.003+08:00

“You know, you’re actually quite pretty. if you lost some weight, you’d be model material.”

Three years on, and those words still sting, still feel like a fresh wound, still smart like a new bruise. Not because I care particularly about modelling, but it because reminds me of what an… obliging person I used to be.

Flashback! 2004, 2005, I forget which. I was working, I met a guy at my workplace who was all show and swagger. Being an impressionable sixteen year old, I did what I thought was the best move. I fell head over heels in love with him. And he, being a typical 24 year old, did what he thought was best. He took advantage of it. I bought food for him, ran errands, helped him design stuff, MADE him a Valentine’s day card cos, y’know, the Hallmark ones are waaaay too cliché and my baby only deserved the BEST. I almost got into trouble with our supervisor because she caught me clocking in for him even though he wasn’t in the office yet. Since we’re paid by the hour, and he was gonna be late, I might as well help him save a few bucks right? It was the least I could do. And what did I get in return? Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch.

I was wholly and utterly ignored for most part. We rarely went out on dates and he hardly replied to my txts and calls…. well, except when he wanted something. Then he was all sugar and compliments. He didn’t even want anything physical from me. I was perplexed. We didn’t talk much outside of work, and it’s not like he was trying to get laid, so what the hell did he want from me? One day, after a month of watching him toy with me, an older co-worker who had a soft spot for me pulled me aside.

“I think you really should end things with Tej.” he said.

“What! Why?” I had no clue where this was coming from.

“Trust me, hon. You don’t want to be with him. He’s not good for you. I can’t tell you any more because it’s not in my position to do so, but please, stop seeing him. You’ll regret it.”

I didn’t listen. He was the love of my life and no interfering co-worker was going to tell me what to do. I didn’t even think about asking him about our odd relationship. That’s how much I adored him; I trusted him 100% even when all evidence pointed otherwise. Until, of course, I found out about his fiancée.

My world crumbled.

My next relationship was with a guy who thought a little bit too much about himself. Jalen wasn’t typically handsome, but he had a body to die for and was charismatic enough to get any girl eating out of his hand. Sadly, I was one them. I was constantly in awe of him; I felt like a little girl in the presence of a mini-rockstar… with his confident strut, vast connections and random people on the streets stopping to talk to him. I kept trying to impress him, and he didn’t ignore me. He did something much worse.

He scorned me.

Nothing I ever did for him was ever good enough. I wasn’t pretty enough, wasn’t smart enough, wasn’t vivacious enough, wasn’t rich enough, wasn’t accommodating enough. And it was him who said that magical statement.

“You know, you’re actually quite pretty. if you lost some weight, you’d be model material.”

That one sentence became what I based our relationship on. I truly and honestly thought that if I lost weight and looked prettier, he might love me a teensy weensy bit more. I changed so much for him, that now I look back and wonder HOW I could’ve been so stupid. I dressed the way he wanted me to, did what he wanted me to, hung out with the bunch of people HE wanted to hang out with, and I’d better enjoy myself, because he threw the most phenomenal temper tantrums. I became his living, breathing Stepford Wife who did everything with a blissful smile on her face. Why? I don’t know. Maybe I was starved for attention. I wasn’t getting it anywhere else.

He dumped me months later because he was convinced that I was cheating on him.

“You’re the worst girlfriend I’ve ever had. I don’t even know what I’m doing with you, I don’t even know why I bothered.”

Words that cut through me like a hot knife through butter.

I ricocheted from one destructive relationship to another, kept assuring myself that “this one’ll be better than the last even though he doesn’t have a job, his family is FUBAR and he has a jail record, everything will be okay in the end because I BUREEEEEEEVE THAT RERRRF WILL FIND A WAAAAAAAY.” Reality check, daaahhhling. That only happens in an ideal world, and this one definitely ISN’T one. I had my heart broken, had my heart shattered into millions of pieces; I was sure I hadn’t gathered all the tiny shards up yet, that there were gaping holes where some parts of my heart must be that were now gone or irreversibly damaged.

And then I met someone special. He treated me like an absolute PRINCESS. I was convinced he was going to be the one I married. He did so much for me without me even asking. He was, in every sense of the word, perfect. Until, of course, I screwed up in some way and he would unleash all his pent up emotional angst on me and recount every last favour he’d done for me while exclaiming hysterically, “You see all the things I do for you! But you never ever appreciate me! All I ask you is for one thing! ONE! And you can’t even give me that!”. I would then be obliged to give in to him because, well, you seeeeeeee all the things he’s done for me?!

But then, there was the last straw. When he was helping me with my spring-cleaning and he couldn’t figure out how to fix the nozzle on my vacuum cleaner. I kept asking him to pass it to me so I could fix it on properly, but sheer male bravado made him keep insisting that he could do it even though he was fumbling like hell. I heard him let out a triumphant exclamation that was followed by a loud crack and a crash as the nozzle fell to the floor. Exasperated, I picked it up to fix it myself. And that’s when I found out what was the loud crack that caused the nozzle to fall off. The clasp holding the nozzle to the main body of the vacuum cleaner had cracked cleanly in half. I knew it was only a matter of time before it broke right off and rendered my vacuum cleaner completely useless.

“You broke it!” I yelled.

“It’s no big deal, it’s just a small crack.”

“Yeah, but now there’s a higher chance of it breaking off altogether. And that thing cost me fifty bucks!”

“Well,” he said without skipping a beat, “fifty dollars is nothing compared to how much I’ve spent on you.”

All I could do was stare at him in disbelief. YOU volunteer to help ME, YOU break something that belongs to ME, and then YOU tell ME to cool it, because what I paid for the vacuum cleaner is an insignificant sum compared to what YOU’VE spent on ME?

And that’s when I told myself enough was enough was enough. I refuse to do something I dislike out of sheer obligation. I refuse to be cowed into doing something because someone digs up an old favour yet to be repaid. I refuse to bend over-backwards to cater to someone’s whims. I refuse to act the way someone wants me to, to look the way someone wants me to, to behave the way someone wants me to, simply to make SOMEONE happy. I refuse to let someone else take charge of my life. I’d rather fall myself than let someone drag me on down.

So right now, I don’t know where I am, and I don’t know what I want. I don’t know what I’m going to be doing tomorrow, or the day after that, or the day after that. But I do know who I am. And I’m happy.

:)

New Ink

2008-08-14T23:23:00.001+08:00

I'm loving it.

I tried. I really did.

2008-05-27T21:53:00.004+08:00

I wanted to blog today. I really did. I was halfway through an entry when something happened, and because that "something" happened, I had to stop blogging for the rest of the night.

Wanna know what that is?

Do you have any idea how hard it is to blog when you have a half-kilo parrot sleeping on your shoulder, growling softly everytime you move too much?

It's impossible, i tell you.

Updates Updates!

2008-05-16T23:06:00.002+08:00

So!

I'd decided to take a month’s hiatus away from blogging (says a lot about the absence, dunnit!) to give myself some “ME” time to sort through various issues… but now I’m back and raring to go! Now for the updates of the more.. INTERESTING things that have been happening in my life. Not that you care to know, but I’m gonna tell you anyway!

1. I AM DONE AT NGEE ANN POLYTECHNIC! Hallebloodylujah baby! My three years at NP have been bittersweet. I’ve won some battles, lost more, but most importantly, I LEARNED. I almost didn’t make it through my final semester, but thanks to a rather odd twist of fate (more about that later) I managed to pass… by default. Ah well. A pass is a pass is a pass. My input at NP is over. Time to move on.

2. I GOT INTO NANYANG TECHNOLOGICAL UNIVERSITY! Believe me, I’m more shocked than you’d ever be. Having a measly 2.6 GPA, I thought I’d have to, y’know, do a couple of dodgy “favours” to get in, but NO! Apparently I must’ve done really well in the aptitude test they made all of the applicants sit for, because I’m the first and (so far) ONLY person from my diploma course that has managed to get in NTU. I must’ve won them over with my sheer talent and creativity! I kid, I kid. Seriously though, as one of my lecturers put it, “There must be something very, very wrong with what we’re teaching, if someone with a GPA of 2.6 managed to get into a course that someone with a GPA of 3.4 couldn’t.”

3. I am still own by a very, very active African Grey by the name of Wheeler, who might have a little friend to keep him company in August. And that little friend is a Sun Conure. If you don’t know what that is, go google them. They’re bloody adorable.

4. I’ve decided to keep my personal life out of my blogs, but the people who matter definitely know what’s going on, yes?

5. I am making plans for my new tattoo. More about that later.

6. I have made major changes in my life. Shifted priorities, perspectives, and all that nice stuff. I’ve learnt that planning too far ahead just leads to major disappointments, so now I’m just rolling with the punches, surfing the waves of fate, riding the train of destiny, driving the rickshaw of opportunity, and all those other very posh-sounding descriptions.

I’m living for the moment, because there won’t be another moment that’s like this one.

I shall stop here. My head’s about to self-combust. More updates coming soon!

Quote of the Day.

2008-05-14T21:00:00.010+08:00

"But seriously guys," Sy said after he drained the last of his beer, "if you guys need dildos, just let me know. I know someone who can sell them to you for cost price. And they're good quality ones too."

Now, I don't know what's worse; the fact that:

1. Sy is a buff thirty-something who goes to the gym religiously and has a body to rival Vin Diesel;

2. He said it in the most matter-of-fact voice possible;

OR

3. I was the only girl at the table, but I wasn't the only person he was addressing.

OR maybe it was:

4. We weren't even talking about dildos in the first place.

Farewell.

2008-03-24T12:29:00.002+08:00

"Naked I came from my mother's womb,
and naked I will depart.
The LORD gave and the LORD has taken away;
may the name of the LORD be praised."

Job 1:21

SO Obiang!

2008-02-03T01:34:00.000+08:00

So, today started out like any other Saturday. Nantha and I were supposed to meet up at Orchard for dinner and do our usual 1 hour trek/chitchat session down to the Esplanade. But, today was going to be different.

I spotted him in the crowded train station and we both waded through the mass of people. Just then, we saw each other and stopped dead in our tracks. We stared at each other’s t-shirts for a good five seconds.

threadless.com

“OH MY GOD!!!!” We yelled in unison. People turned round to see what the commotion was. We were wearing the EXACT same tshirt! We buy quite a number of our tshirts online, and both of us loved this particular design. We decided that we would try and call each other beforehand to make sure we weren’t going to wear the same tshirt like one of those sickly sweet/demonstrative couples who love to coordinate their clothes. It’s just disgusting. We both clutched our shirts and tried to cover the design and hoped that no one would notice. And this isn’t exactly a design that is easily overlooked.

“What should we do?! Should I buy a new top or something?” I said panicking.

“We could just pretend like we wanted to do this.” Nantha said, hunching over.

“This looks SO stupid.” I groaned.

“There isn’t much we can do.”

Suddenly, I had a brainwave. “You could turn your tshirt back to front!”

“What?!” Nantha looked at me like as though I’d just insulted his mother.

“You know, Turn your tshirt around! Your bag’ll cover the design!”

“But the cutting will be off! Tshirts are made to be more roomy in the front.” he eyed me suspiciously. “Why dyou want ME to do it anyway? Why don’t YOU flip your tshirt around?”

“Because if there’s really less space if I wear it back to front, my boobs’ll be squashed.”

“Good point. Okay… okay.. I’ll do it. Yeesh.” He sighed as he disappeared into the toilet.

He re-emerged a few minutes later, walking as though he had a finger in his butt. “This is SO uncomfortable. My tshirt feels way too tight and it feels so weird.” He grumbled.

“But it doesn’t look obvious at all!”

“Really?”

“Yes, sweetheart. Now, just try and act natural.”

“Remind me to never do this again. I don’t know why we’re going through all this trouble just to hide the fact that our tshirts are the same. It’s not THAT bad!”

After surviving the ordeal, I went home and told my mother about our coordinated tshirts. Her reaction was priceless.

“Aiyoh!” she winced. “SO obiang!"

Seriously, who wears coordinated tshirts nowadays anyway?

M. I(slamic). L. F.

2008-02-02T01:58:00.000+08:00

I’ve been meaning to post this since last June, but I completely forgot about it until I came across the news clipping in my drawer.
--
So, it’s 8 in the morning. I’m in Malaysia for a camp and I’m using everything short of toothpicks to keep my eyelids open for more that five seconds. I’m not exactly what you call a morning person. I flip open the newspaper and come across an interesting article about a Catholic priest in the Philippines being held hostage. As I’m reading, I come across something that almost causes me to spew Milo from my nose. I rub the sleep from my eyes and re-read the paragraph. Again. And again. And again. And I’m still not believing what I’m reading.

This is the complete article. Click to enlarge.

And this, my friends, is the paragraph of interest.

WHAT. THE. HELL.

I couldn’t believe it. Renegade MILFs are holding a Catholic Priest hostage! What next? Midgets holding Michael Jordan at gunpoint? Why, of all acronyms did it have to be M.I.L.F?! Why couldn’t they replace Mono with something like, Grand? Grand Islamic Liberation Front! GILF! Wait, nevermind.

I still couldn’t believe that a group with such a name existed, so I decided to wiki them. And true enough, they were alive and kicking! Just take a look. If I had a Jägerbomb everytime I giggled, I would be passed out on the floor before I could finish reading half the article. How the hell do you expect people to take you seriously if whenever I think of your group, the best I can do is conjure up images of the lovechild of William Wallace & the Stepford Wives?

In case you don’t want to read the entire Wikipedia article, here are the best bits:

----------------------------

“The MILF initially declared a jihad but became more receptive, especially following claims it is linked to the Abu Sayyaf and al Qaeda.”

“Authorities blamed a renegade commander of the MILF for Bossi's kidnapping, but it denied any involvement.”
Dear Lord, the MILF have a RENEGADE COMMANDER!

“MILF operatives attacked government troops in Maguindanao resulting in at least twenty-three deaths.”

“In January 1987, the MNLF accepted the government's offer of semi-autonomy Like Fordys MUM . The MILF refused to accept the offer.”
The MILF denied Forby’s mum! Maybe her chi-chis weren’t big enough.

“…Governor Ampatuan blamed the MILF for a June 23 bomb attack on his motorcade, which killed five in his entourage.”

“An MILF spokesman later confirmed that some its members had been involved in the clash, despite the fact the MILF is currently engaged in peace talks with the government.”

----------------------------

I’m gonna stop before I explode. Cannot tahan.

I’m not trying to diss anyone, but for the love of Bob, couldn’t you just check the alternative meaning of your acronym BEFORE you use it?!

Wheeleriffic!

2008-01-31T02:29:00.000+08:00

Okay, I lied. Those are not the only reasons why I haven’t been updating. One of the MAIN factors is that I’ve been caught up with my birdy, Wheeler. Seriously, the lil guy is impressing me every single day with his antics.

Apart from learning to step up onto my hand on command, he can now fly! Normally that’s how he greets me in the morning; comes wings a-flapping right into my face and crashes into my shoulder (he still needs to work on landing) and sits there quietly while I brush my teeth or do my work or watch tv. I’m also in the process of toilet-training him. Yes, apparently you can toilet train birds! He hasn’t pooped on me yet, but I don’t know how long that’ll last. I’m trying to get him to poop on command.. wish me luck. Normally what I do is I let him loose in the hall or my bedroom and I do my work and when he starts showing signs that he needs to go poop (reversing and squatting down), I chuck him back in his cage and tell him to “go poopie” over and over and reward him when he relieves himself and then let him back out. Sometimes he thinks that I want him to SAY “go poopie”, so he’ll keep trying to chirp “go poopie, go poopie” when I put him in his cage and he’ll stare at me expectantly for a reward. Such a darling.

What he did today really REALLY astounded me. Because I needed to get some work done, I kept him in his cage longer than usual. He kept pacing back and forth and climbing the bars and then, all of a sudden, he pooped. And he paced. And pooped. And paced. And pooped again. After unleashing about four turds in the space of half an hour, I began to wonder what the heck was going on. Was he sick? Stressed? Upset? And then, I FINALLY realised what he was doing. Because I would put him in his cage, tell him to go poop, and then take him out again, he thought that IF he relieved himself, I’d let him out! So he kept pooping and pooping hoping that he’d be let out! I was flabbergasted. He shows that he actually has the capability to THINK! I took him out, and voila, no more pooping. He scurried up to my shoulder and promptly fell asleep.

We sometimes tie a shoelace around the tag on his foot and bring him downstairs. I can’t wait until he’s a little bit older and I can get him to wear a harness. Like this.

parrotchronicles.com

Isn’t that so adorable? I could bring him out when I go meet my manfriend! ☺
Anyhoos, you guys just HAVE to check out these videos and see his antics. Imagine having to live with this. It’s like having your own entertainment system!

He tries to sing along with our Sri Lankan helper, blissfully unaware of the camera on top of his cage.

He duels with a vacuum cleaner.... and loses.

And, the most adorable of all, he has the ability to fall asleep like a rock... especially while being petted.

I'm gonna have to live with this for the next 50 or so years of my life. Awesome!

A Brief Update

2008-01-28T00:46:00.000+08:00

I have my final year project nearly due and my groupmates are lazy shitheads who expect me and the group leader to do everything and I got stressed out and got massive migraines and vomited and fevered and flued until I ended up in hospital because they thought I had a tumour in my brain and they made me do all these coordination tests but it turns out it was an allergic reaction to the glare of my computer screen so that’s why I haven’t been updating sorry.

Lucky Number 7

2008-01-08T19:40:00.000+08:00

7 Random facts about me:-

1. I sleep with the lights on.
2. I get really pissed off when i see old fat caucasian men walking around with young supple asian women.
3. I have an unhealthy obssession with dog breeds.
4. I am an obsessive-compulsive nail clipper.
5. I want to master the Etch-A-Sketch
6. I can whistle through my teeth.
7. I CONSTANTLY battle between keeping my hair long, and just cropping it all off.

7 things that scare me:-

1. The dark.
2. Everything supernatural. The BAD kinda supernatural.
3. Wet Farts
4. Balloons (I shit you not!)
5. Wheeler pooping on me
6. My piercings rejecting
7. Waking up and realising someone rebonded my hair while I was asleep.

7 Favourite Music Artists at the moment:-
1. Jimi Hendrix
2. Asian Dub Foundation
3. Clint Mansell
4. Juno Reactor
5. George Thorogood
6. Sigur Rós
7. Ray LaMontagne

7 Things I like most:-

1. My manfriend!! :)
2. Wheeler my African Grey
3. Rojak
4. Gummy Jelly!
5. Donuts
6. Beer
7. DRAWING

7 LUCKY people to do this:-

1. Patricia
2. Juni!
3. Jia Yi
4. Jia Yuan
5. Eliza
6. Dannia
7. Jasonification

New Year's Momma.

2008-01-07T18:39:00.000+08:00

Some people make new year’s resolutions. Some get drunk. Some spend time with their family. Some get laid (hopefully not with their family).

But me?

I become a mommy/sister/friend/companion/boss/owner.

Meet Wheeler, my joint-custody African Grey Parrot. ☺

I’ve been dying to get a pet for ages and ages, but my parents are adamantly anti-pet people, so having something like a dog or cat is absolutely out of the question. So, I figured, why not a parrot? I toyed with the idea for several months, not knowing whether I should get it or not, when finally I decided to just throw caution to the wind and get one. I am a staunch animal lover, I’ve done my research, I have loads of room at home, there’s always someone at home to keep my parrot company, I’m willing to spend lots of time with it, so why not? To make the deal even sweeter, I have a friend, Ren, who owns an African Grey and another, Chan, who trains birds for several major parks. That pretty much sealed it. I called up Ren, asked her if the breeder she got her Grey, Kiko, from had any males to spare. I wanted a male cos they’re more affectionate and playful, not to mention their colours are more striking. Females can tend to get PMS now and then… surprise surprise, eh?

Turns out he DID have one left! A male, nearly 3 months of age, almost completely weaned and just about ready to be taken home. Ren, her brothers, father, Nantha and myself meet up and we troop down to take a look at the wee lad. And he was gorgeous. I’ve never been able to play with Kiko cuz he’s very suspicious of strangers, so this was probably the first time I managed to get up close and personal with a parrot. After he got used to us and our grubby fingers, we took him out of his cage, and put him on my lap. He snuggled up to me, chirped softly and then slowly started to doze off. He pretty much melted my stone cold heart! How could I say no to taking such an adorable ball of grey fluff home? I agreed with the breeder to pick him up the next day, and he gently reminded me how much they cost. And believe me, they cost A LOT. I managed to persuade my brother to lend me the cash first, and I’ll pay him back in monthly installments. After taking a look at him, there was no way in hell my brother could’ve said no! The only drawback about the little guy is that he poops. A LOT.

A number of people have asked me, out of all the possible names in the world, why call him Wheeler?

The answer is simple. So simple that a few people cannot get their heads around it. Captain Planet & The Planeteers is my all-time favourite cartoon (yes, and I’m proud of it, too!). My favorite Planeteer was Wheeler, the cute redhead with the power of fire. There you go.

So far, he's nothing short of perfect, if you ignore the poopage. He doesn't screech, he isn't shy and can tolerate me prodding him, and even though he's barely 3 months old, he can already mimic my intonations. And the most adorable trait is, he falls asleep at the drop of a hat while I'm petting him.

Like this:

D'you Know What Sucks More Than Politics?

2007-12-27T14:33:00.000+08:00

Religious politics.

I’ve been with my church for more than 15 years. I’ve practically grown up with many of the people there. We shifted from playing masak-masak to cops and robbers to comparing test results talking about majors and what we plan to do when we graduate. There are no secrets, no ill feelings because we were one big family. We shared our joy, our sadness, our triumphs and our failures. We all looked out for each other. Or so I thought. We used to sing with one voice, but soon, it grew to a couple, then a handful, then a horde of voices, each expressing dissent. Some claim that it was because there was segregation between the rich and the poor, others say that they disagreed about the church’s statement and outreach. Some said they weren’t being… spiritually fed. People weren’t happy. People weren’t satisfied. People weren’t feeling… spiritually fed. Slowly, people started leaving.

From a congregation of 100 strong, we’ve dwindled to 40, 50 if we’re lucky. I’ve been trying so hard, so very hard to figure out what went wrong. What could’ve happened to a church in it’s prime, a church where never a Sunday went by without a new face, a church that was so vibrant, a church that the people loved, and it loved them back in return.

Worse still, there was a massive meltdown that caused the church to split. Think of it as an Iron Curtain, if you will. And, like the citizens of East Germany, some of us began to sneak over to see what “the other side” was like. Some liked it and stayed. Others said that the extended church wouldn’t make it. Others said that it was such a waste, this animosity, this divide. The main church should’ve blessed them and considered it an extension of the main body.

My family might be leaving the original church because my parents say that honestly, it’s not benefiting them. They say that we’ve gotten TOO comfortable where we are and as much as God wants us to be a part of a church, he wants us to grow spiritually as well. And being a part of a church that does not cultivate growth is as good as not going to church at all. They say that I don’t have to come. That I’m old enough to decide what I want.

So, what do I want?

I don’t know. But this thing is eating into me. How can you go up to someone I’ve been seeing routinely every Sunday for the past almost two decades and go, “Look, I won’t be coming here anymore. It’s gotten stagnant.” How can I? All those meetings and camps and picnics and sleepovers and parties, all our random dinner dates. I thought I’d be attending this church all my life. I thought that, hell, I could get married and take my kids here too. They’d see my baby and and coo and they’ll want to take turns carrying him/her, like what they’ve done with just about every other baby that’s passed through our church doors.

Last Sunday, we celebrated Christmas. And we see the same people turn up every year for our Christmas Service but they don’t attend church on any other day. Why, we put up a drama and we have catering! Free entertainment and food! Why would they NOT come?! And then after being entertained, and having they bellies filled, they go back home, untouched and unchanged. “Ma,” I said, when I got home, “ma, we can’t keep doing this. We’ve been putting up dramas and performances for Easter, Christmas and goodness knows what else every single year. No one ever comes back. We’re supposed to entertain, yes, but we’re supposed to do so much more than that. We’re not God’s court jesters! What are we doing wrong?”

“I don’t know, sweetheart. I don’t. But I do know that something’s got to change. Soon.”

LONDON TRIP: PART 5- The Heathrow Indian Terrorists.

2007-12-21T02:21:00.000+08:00

Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We apologise for the delay. All of the gates are currently occupied. There should be one available in half an hour. In the meanwhile, please feel free to use our in-flight entertainment system. Thank you.

We groaned in unison. After spending 12 hours on a plane, the last thing you want to hear is that there has been a delay. I glanced at the person sitting next to me. Because we all insisted on having window seats, we all ended up sitting in different corners of the plane. I ended up next to a middle aged Caucasian man who seemed to take a dislike to my active bladder because he kept having to get up and let me pass through and I kept apologizing. And then, when we were somewhere above Tehran, the most embarrassing thing happens. I start getting a really really baaad runny nose. Too mortified to ask him to get up and make way so I could dash to the toilet, I sat there, facing the window, hoping to God he couldn’t see my wipe my nose with my fingers and then proceed to discreetly wipe my fingers on my shorts. If he did see it, he did a good job of pretending not to notice.

By the time we alighted, our butts were numb and we were thoroughly cranky. Well, at least I was. We trooped over to the line snaking towards the immigration counters. As we inched forwards, my mood began to lift. We were almost there! We were almost in London! Rick was up to go first so the rest of us waited for other counters to open up so that we could stamp our passports and get the hell out and breathe fresh air. And then, we saw Rick beckoning us over.

“He says we can all check in together. We might as well.” Rick said, as he took our passports and handed them to the man behind the counter who happened to look exactly like Ricky Gervais. He looked through our passports and our flight tickets and, as expected, everything was in order.

He then proceeds to ask us a very odd question.

“Exactly how much money are you carrying?”

We looked at each other in confusion. What does it matter to him how much money we’re carrying?

“Uh, I’m carrying two hundred Singapore dollars, two hundred pounds, and some spare Sri Lankan Rupees.” I recited as I dug through my wallet.

“I’m carrying one hundred Ringgit and three hundred pounds.” Raj said.

After he tallied our total net worth (which sadly, was rather pathetic), he asked us what was the reason for the trip.

“We’re attending a Christian convention.” Raj said pompously. Obviously he thought that that reason alone would hold enough water for “Ricky” to let us through.

Boy, were we in for a surprise.

His face unreadable, Ricky asks us for “document proof of the existence of the convention”, so we scrambled for brochures, receipts, email printouts, even text messages. Piling all our stuff on the counter, we silently waited for his approval. While Ricky was perusing our “evidence”, a customs officer in a tudung approached our kiosk to find out what was the matter. I swear to bob, she looked like a lemon after all the juice had been squeezed out of it. All shriveled and wrinkly and puckered. Lemon and Ricky had a whispered conversation, and then Lemon says something that vaguely sounds like, “Check them.”

We eyed Ricky with trepidation. “Right,” he said as he pointed to a hard plastic bench, “take a seat and we’ll be right with you. We’ll go check to see if the Convention website is legit and then we’ll interview each of you separately.”

“Are you serious?” Raj asked, sounding aghast.

“It won’t take long. Please, take a seat.” Ricky said as he headed off.

I was outraged. We had everything in order. All the documents, flight tickets, receipts, convention passes, everything. Why were we sitting on a bench in Heathrow airport, being publicly humiliated in front the other passengers who managed to pass through customs? They must’ve thought we were fugitives from a third-world country seeking refuge. I felt like standing up on the bench and yelling to the hundreds of people waiting to get through, “LOOK AT US! THEY THINK WE’RE TERRORISTS! IS IT BECAUSE WE’RE INDIAN?!”. That would’ve been complete suicide. After about half an hour, Ricky returns and calls us individually to the counter and asks us a series of questions. When my name was called, I trudged forward, and Ricky fires a series of questions at me.

How old are you? What are you doing right now? How did you hear of this convention? How much money are you carrying? Where are you staying? Do you have family here?

I’m nineteen. I’m studying. I know the organizer. I already told you how much money I’m carrying. I’m staying with my fellow detainees at a hotel. I forgot the name. No, I don’t have the address either. I have an aunt whom I’m going to visit who lives just north of London. Yes I have her address…. somewhere.

It’s been three hours since our holdup at the counter and we’re still sitting and hoping for something to happen. I had taken out my sketchbook to doodle on but it’s hard to do anything when your mind is in such a state of worry. Instead, I covered the page with random squiggles. It was all I could manage for now. We were told off for using our cell phones, so everytime one of the organizers called to find out what had happened to us we couldn’t answer. Or, we’d answer the call, but we wouldn’t hold the phone to our ears just in case one of the officers saw us. Instead, we’d put the phone on our lap and say something like, “Hi Sam, we cannot answer the phone. We’re being held up at Heathrow and they’ve refused to let us through. Please come down and try to clear things up. I repeat, we’re held up at Heathrow Airport, please come down immediately.” It was so ridiculously covert, it would’ve been comical if we weren’t in such distress. I half hoped that there’d be another Timothy McVeigh at the far end of the airport, and after the explosion, the debris, the missing limbs and chaos, I could point at the customs officers and go, “HAH! Guess what? You got the wrong people, you dumb bastards!”

"It's because of them!" Mabel spat as she gestured to our Malaysian counterparts. "If you and I had just checked in seperately, we would've gotten through by now! It's because of their Malaysian passports that we're getting detained!"

Finally, Ricky approaches us and flips through our passports. “Well” he says, “two of you have been cleared to go.”

Mabel leaned over and whispered to me, “It must be us. We’re the ones with the Singaporean passports.”

Ricky hands Raj and Rick their passports back. “You two. You’re speakers at the convention and your details check out. You may leave.”

Mabel looked like she’d just been bitch-slapped. I bit back a smile. Ricky turned to Topher, Jake, Reeta, Mabel and myself. “We need to detain the rest of you. You are facing possible deportation.”

“You’ve gotta be fucking shitting me.” I blurted out.

“Why in the world would we be deported?” Topher demanded. “We’ve done nothing wrong! We have our flight tickets and hotel bookings and convention emails and everything. On what grounds are you deporting us?”

“On the grounds that we don’t have enough evidence to grant you entry to London.” was his curt reply. “Follow me please. And bring your luggage with you.”

Movies, Swensens, Facial Hair & Big Cups.

2007-11-24T02:06:00.000+08:00

“Hey Jay, can I talk to you?” I typed, my fingers doing a little Riverdance on my laptop keyboard.

“Sure babe. What’s up?” he discarded the usual jovial greetings when he realised I was being serious.

Jay was the best person to talk cock with. A six-foot tall teddybear, you could have a discussion about anything, from blowjobs to buttercups and he wouldn’t blink an eyelash. Two years ago, when he was back in Singapore for his term holidays, he and I went out on a date. And oh, what a date it was! We spent the day watching a movie, eating at Swensens and then lounging around having hilarious arguments about the most unusual things you could think of, like women’s facial hair. It was, in short, perfect.

“Remember when we went out on a date a coupla years ago?” I typed.

“Yeeaaahhhh…?”

“I just wanted you to know that it was one of the best dates I’d ever been on. Even up till now. I had so much of fun.. and then I didn’t call you back.”

I paused. How the hell do you talk about something like this online?

“It’s not that I didn’t like you,” I continued. “I did. I really REALLY did. I just didn’t know what I was thinking and.. I wanna apologise for being a dick.”

There was a long pause at the other end. And then, a typical Jay-esque answer:

“Huh?”

Maybe he needed to get inside my head to understand what I was talking about. 2 years ago, I was sixteen, going on seventeen. I would go out with guys just for the fun of it, for the temporary high you get from meeting someone new and not knowing what’s going to happen. I’d meet them go out with them for a couple of dates and then just lose interest and stop returning their calls. I was a serial dater. Jay was one of the people who, strangely, made me feel perfectly comfortable within five minutes of our meeting. No butterflies, no endorphins. Like we’d known each other for years before this; which is probably why I didn’t flush when he teased me about how I had big... uh.. cups. I knew he was my type. I knew that I liked him. But what if things got boring? What if I stopped liking him? What if I needed that rush, that unpredictability? I liked being single. I liked dating around until I felt I was ready. I’m not ready for a relationship. I’m not ready to lose my freedom.

By the next week, I’d stopped answering Jay’s phonecalls. Our usual stream of smses and online conversations slowed to a trickle, and then stopped for good. We slowly drifted apart. Now, two years later, I find myself contemplating all the people I’ve wronged in my nineteen years of existence. I felt a sharp pang when I thought about Jay. It’d been gnawing at me over the years, and I’d always been able to shut it out. Until now.

I saw my MSN icon blink. He’d finally replied.

“Woman, calm down. Don’t be angry! I’m not angry with you, and you’re not a dick. I thoroughly enjoyed myself with you as well, and I know you had a good time. But, life is life.. there are reasons why things don't happen. Maybe there was something in your mind that was preventing you from doing so.”

I sighed. “I know, I’m just kicking myself for being rude I guess. I was pretty messed up when I met you. I’ve been doing quite a bit of contemplating recently, and I realise that what I did to you was awful.”

“Awful how?”

“I dunno.. I mean, I’d be pissed with me if I went out with me and I didn’t call me back.”

“Woman,” he typed. “It’s okay, seriously. I mean, I barely even remember it. Don’t let such a trivial matter bother you!”

“Well, I’m sorry again.”

I sensed him sigh on the other end. “Haaaiii Rabba, you did nothing wrong! So PLEASE. Even if you did, I don’t even remember it!”

“Okay..” I decided to try changing topics. “So, when are you coming back? Are you even coming back?”

“Aiyah, I don’t know, Chairs. I’m looking for a job in Melbourne now, and I really hope I find one.”

I glowered at the typo. “Oh thaaaaaanks Jay. So I’ve been reduced to furniture now?”

“Aaaahhh, furniture! Don’t you just LOVE furniture?” he said, his tone almost reminiscing.

And then, he added cheekily:

“Especially the ones with big cups?”

Shameless Pimping!

2007-11-21T13:17:00.000+08:00

Many apologies for the lack of updates! I've been up to the nostrils with assignments from school and other stuff! Right now, I'm attempting to create my own personal website so I can upload my portfolio for some application thingamajig.. In the meantime, Shamin has FINALLY gotten a blog for her photos so go check it out, yo! Or if you're into videos, take a look at her completely random, highly entertaining Home Videos.

And no, it's NOT porn. Dirty-minded bastards.

HOOOO!

2007-11-14T14:07:00.000+08:00

So yesterday, I had my Final Theory Driving Test. I was hyperventilating the entire day 'cause I heard it was really, really, REALLY difficult. I was very sure I couldn't pass cuz when it comes to question on the half-clutch, free-wheeling, engine-brakes and other stuff like that, I was totally clueless. But then....

HOOOOOOOOOOO!

Disgraceful!

2007-11-13T16:23:00.000+08:00

I’ve been a bad bad girl. A baaaad BAAAAAAAAD girl. I promised I was gonna blog about my London trip ages ago and I still haven’t finished the chronicles of the journey there. I’ve been busy with… well… stuff. Here’s a rundown:

1. As I might have mentioned earlier, my dad’s opened an Indian stall in a rather cozy pub. I spend many an evening helping out with the orders and stuffing myself. At the end of the day, I come home smelling like tandoori chicken and charcoal. The food is AWESOME, mind you!

2. Nantha and I broke up. It started with a quarrel and it just escalated to this HUGE expletive-ridden shoutfest and we decided to call it quits. JUST KIDDING. We’re still very much in louw. (:

3. I’ve started playing tennis. Coming from the most motor-skill-challenged person on the planet, I find tennis rather enjoyable. I wanted to take up capoeira, but looking at my size, I’ve decided not to. I might just break something. Like the floor.

4. My final year project is becoming very very scary. Our group dynamics have gone to hell and everyone’s panicking.

5. Speaking of school, there’s a very, very, VERY high chance of me going overseas to do my degree. I don’t want to go.. I’ve got family, friends and a manfriend here.. but I have no choice. There’s NO uni in Singapore offering a Degree in Animation (let’s not even talk about NTU, shall we?) so I’ll probably be going to Australia. I was looking at the California Institute of the Arts, but one year at CalArts is more expensive than the entire degree programme at Griffiths or RMIT in Australia. My parents are pushing me to get a scholarship from the Media Development Authority so that there’s a possibility of me going to CalArts, but that’ll mean I’ll be bonded to a Singapore company the moment I finish my degree. Did I mention that the scholarships are very very VERY competitive? Le sigh dramatique. :(

6. I am keeping my hair long. THAT’S RIGHT! After goodness knows how long, I’m gonna be rockin' the curls again.

7. I have my Advanced Theory Driving Test in under 4 hours, once I get past this major hurdle, I can FINALLY start my lessons. If I fail, I’ll have to wait till January to retake it.

8. I have been drinking quite an excessive amount of alcohol on the weekends lately. *pats beer paunch* Hopefully it doesn’t become a habit. Tsk tsk tsk.

How disgraceful!

Utterly disgraceful!

Absolutely utterly disgraceful!

*burp*

Wish me luck!

Superdong.

2007-10-23T00:05:00.000+08:00

“I’M DONE!” I yelled as I saved the animation file of my assignment. My colleagues glanced at me and smiled; they were used to my sudden emotional outbursts. Bernard, who was my partner and mentor in this particular project, wheeled himself over in his swivel chair to take a look at my finished product.

This particular one was for a Malay television show for kids. The gist of it was to form different vehicles out of shapes; a lorry, sailboat, car, and plane.

The animation started out with all the shapes at the top of the screen.

Bernard watched as the shapes glided down and took the shape of a lorry.

“Okay, good.” He said, keeping his eyes on the lorry as it chugged offscreen.

Next came the sailboat.

“Mmmhmmm.”

And then the car.

“Alright.”

And then, the last one: The Airplane.

“Hang on a sec,” he said, frowning. “Play that last scene again.”

I played it again.

“Again.”

And I played it again.

“One more time.”

And I played it one more time.

He paused for about five seconds, then leaned back in his chair, a puzzled expression on his face. His chair squeaked underneath his bulky frame.

“There’s something wrong with the airplane, but I don’t know what.” He said slowly.

The more I looked at it, the more I realized that he was right. There was something very wrong with it. But WHAT?

The both of us stared at it for a good two minutes without speaking a word, trying to figure out what made it so unsettling. And then, it hit me like a sledgehammer to the face.

“It… it… looks like a gigantic, flying penis.” I sputtered, finally.

Bernard guffawed, his face turning bright red. “Oh my gawd, it DOES! Who asked you to make the circle PINK?!”

Pearl, the girl sitting next to me, came over to take a look. She squealed with laughter. Everyone in the tiny office crowded round my table to take a look at my phallic flying contraption. Before I knew it, everyone was howling with laughter.

“YOU lah!” Bernard chortled as he wiped tears from his eyes. “You purposely made the circle pink because you KNEW it’d make the airplane look like that! Putting subliminal messages into children’s shows! Shame on you!"

“How was I supposed to know it was gonna look like THAT? They were the ones who gave us the storyboards! How am I supposed to fix it anyway?” I gasped for breath. This was the hardest I’d laughed for a long, long time.

“Change it to blue, damnit!”

So I did.

“Now it looks like it has frostbite!” I said, barely containing my laughter.

“Well, it’s a lot better than PINK!” Bernard shot back with a grin.

“I liked it better when it was pink. You know, I think I’ll call it SuperDong.” I chuckled.

“After Bossman’s animation, huh?”

“I loved that one.”

Pearl leaned closer for a better look. “So if the body and, uh, head is the penis, what would that make the wings?” she asked giggling.

“I dunno.. maybe it’s a more hardcore version of those ribbed condoms. Those are ribbed for your pleasure. These are spiked for your pain!” I said cheekily.

“The BDSM condom!” Pearl announced and everyone burst out into fresh peals of laughter. We didn’t get much work done for the rest of the day.

Many people find work a drag, but I enjoyed every single day of my work attachment. The people I was working with were absolutely wonderful and made me feel very much at home.

I’m missing them already.

LONDON TRIP: PART 4- The Journey to Heathrow and the Beginning of a Nightmare.

2007-10-13T02:09:00.000+08:00

I rushed to the airline terminal, my suitcase hastily stuffed with all my clothes. I KNEW I shouldn’tve slept in! Why why WHY didn’t I go out and get breakfast with the rest of them?! I cursed myself silently. If only I had followed them to get breakfast, we all could’ve left together and taken the same coach. But no, I had to be a pig and sleep some more. Well, I sure was paying for it now. The coach I was on had broken down in the middle of the highway and delayed me by a good two hours. As luck would have it, I was the only person on that coach who was taking the connecting flight to London and if I missed the plane, it would mean that I’m stranded here alone. I almost crapped my pants. I ran up to the information counter and nearly tripped over a fellow passenger cheerfully emptying plastic bags of new clothes into his suitcase, the bags rustling loudly. I approached the flight attendant. The flight attendant looked at my ticket and stared right through me as he said almost mechanically, “I’m sorry madam, but you’ve missed your flight. It departed about fifteen minutes ago.”

I stood there paralysed. This CANNOT be happening! The man behind me continued accosting his plastic bags with renewed vigour. The rustling was beginning to get on my nerves.

“Are… are you sure?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

“Yes madam. But don’t worry, the next flight is tomorrow morning.”

“Oh crap. NOW what am I supposed to do?”

The rustling got louder.

“There’s a sleeping lounge up on the second floor. You could maybe rest in there.”

*Rustle rustle*

“I don’t want to burn an entire day waiting for my flight!” I panicked.

*Rustle*

“You could always head out to see the sights.” The flight attendant’s complete apathy to my situation made my frustrations amplify. Doesn’t he understand that I’m a foreigner, I’m alone, I’m a GIRL, and I’m stuck in a country I’ve never been to and I can’t even speak the language? Going out to “see the sights” would be a recipe for disaster.

“I don’t want to see the goddamned sights! I want to get on the stupid flight and get the hell out of here!” I screamed.

*Rustle rustle*

“WILL YOU STOP THAT?!”

I jumped awake. I turned over to see Mabel glaring at Reeta, who was emptying and rearranging some plastic bags. So THAT’S where the rustling sounds were coming from, I thought. I checked my watch: 3am.

“There’s no need to yell.” Reeta replied, keeping her composure. “Anyway, it’s time to wake up. Our coach leaves in an hour.”

“We’ll get up when we’re ready!” Mabel snapped. “What do you think we are? Robots? Are we supposed to get out of bed at your command? Huh? And why were you coming in and out of the room so many times last night? I TOLD you to take the key right? Why are you SO stubborn? You know I couldn’t even sleep last night because you kept making so much of noise?”

“It’s my room as much as yours! Why can’t I come and go as I please?” Reeta’s voice rose.

“Because YOU ARE WAKING US UP! How can you be so inconsiderate?!”

I stared at the both of them. The tension in the air was palpable. I knew the situation was going to get messy so I opted to stay out of it.

“I’m gonna brush my teeth.” I mumbled as I grabbed my towel and headed to the bathroom. I barely heard their muffled voices through the pitter-patter of the shower.

I emerged half an hour later to find Reeta missing and Mabel angrily tossing her clothes into her suitcase.

“She is SO irritating! Who does she think she is? I can’t stand her!” Mabel exclaimed the moment she caught sight of me.

“Mmmhmmm.”

“I don’t know how we’re going to live with her!”

“Mmmhmmm.”

“She is so annoying!”

“Mmmmhmmmmm.”

“What do you think about her?”

“I… uh,” I mumbled, caught off-guard. “Aiyah, I don’t wanna get involved.”

“But doesn’t she irritate you?”

I knew that Mabel was trying to bait me to get me on her side. I wanted nothing to do with it. “Look, I don’t wanna get into this okay? Just try to tahan her until this whole thing is over.”

She straightened up, towel and clothes in hand. “Do you know she left her wallet open and lying on the dressing table with all the money spilling out? What if some of it had fallen on the floor and gone missing? WE would have been the prime suspects you know!”

Mabel had a point. “Listen,” I said, “Why don’t you just talk to her about it? There’s no use telling me unless you want me to talk to her for you.”

“I’m not going to bother. There’s no point trying to talk to people like her.” She said huffily as she disappeared into the bathroom, leaving the door ajar. I heard the shower turn on.

“Mabel!” I called. “For the love of all things good and holy, the toilet door’s open!”

“I know!” she replied. “It’s too stuffy in here. I can’t breathe! I left the door slightly open for circulation.”

“O…..kay.”

Reeta re-entered the room, a bag of Milo sachets in hand.

“I can’t stand that Mabel!” she complained as she began making cups of Milo for all of us. Oh no, here we go again. I thought.

“Why was she yelling at me for? I haven’t done anything wrong!”

“Mmmmhmmm.”

“I don’t know how I’m going to live with her!”

“Mmmmhmmm.”

“Also, how can she dress up like that? Does she really think she’s so pretty?”

I grew tired. “Listen, whatever problems you have with her, please leave me out of it. I want nothing to do with all this, really. I didn’t come here to get into arguments with anyone.”

“Can you tell her to close the bathroom door fully? I really don’t want to see her bathing.”

I sighed. “Mabel says it’s too stuffy so she left the door slightly open.”

Rita snorted as she sloshed the water in the kettle. “What nonsense! Great, the kettle isn’t working!” She headed over to the phone and called room service and asked them for hot water and a stirrer.

Ten minutes later, I was almost done packing all my stuff and room service still hadn’t shown up (Remember Lesson Number Two?).

“Leave it, Reeta. It doesn’t matter. We’re gonna get food on the plane anyway.” I said as Reeta punched in the numbers for room service again and again.

“I want to make sure you all have something to eat before getting on the plane.”

I stifled a smile. It was no secret that she had a tremendous crush on Raj. I guessed that making Milo for all of us was a guise to get into his good books.

Five minutes passed. Ten. Still no room service.

Irate, Reeta kept calling them and when they finally picked up the phone, she shouted impatiently, “I’ve been waiting here for twenty minutes for hot water and a stirrer and WHY HAVEN’T YOU SENT ANYONE?”

I looked up in concern. I’ve been a waitress before. I know how shitty and impatient people can be. I know how difficult it is to juggle different orders and I know it gets worse when you have people yelling at you to work faster/hurry up. There were at least twenty to thirty people getting ready for the coach. Their lines must be tied down with orders for more soap, extra towels/toiletries and other miscellaneous hotel-y things. “Hey.” I called out to Reeta. “Cool it.”

Finally, a young man knocked on the door and apologized for taking so long. He left the pitcher on the table and was passing the bathroom. He glanced in. The door was more than a third open. He caught a glance of the reflection of Mabel’s naked silhouette in the fogged up mirror in the bathroom. He did a double take, paused for a moment, then walked out.

I saw the whole thing. I turned to Reeta. “I think he saw her showering.”

Reeta pursed up her lip. “Serves her right for not closing the door. And they forgot to bring the stirrer!” She looked around for an alternative. She grabbed an unused hotel toothbrush and, holding it by the bristles, began to stir noisily. I wrinkled my nose in disgust and made a mental note NOT to drink the Milo.

Mabel emerged from the bathroom in a towel and underwear. I glanced at her and continued on with my packing. I’m not all that bothered by nudity. We’re all girls, so it didn’t really matter to me. Reeta, however, stared at her with a mixture of disgust and horror on her face.

“Can go in the bathroom please? I don’t want to see you change.” I could hear the contempt in her voice.

“PLEASE lah! We’re all girls! What I have, you have also.” She retorted as she turned her back to us and unwrapped her towel.

“Yeah, and the room service guy has already caught a glimpse.” Rita spat.

Mabel turned around, startled. “He WHAT?”

“He did see you. I told you about the open door!” I added.

“Oh my God…..” she whispered as she dried her hair. “Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure.”

“Ah well, can’t be helped now.” She stated airily as she began to pack her luggage. I stared at her massive behind in amazement at her lack of distress.

Reeta grabbed her bags and marched out of the room with her nose in the air. I gathered up my things and followed. I knew Mabel would take ten years to pack her things, so I decided to leave early so I wouldn’t be “guilty by association”.

As I lugged my suitcase to the lobby, I saw Reeta and Raj in deep conversation. I knew she was complaining about the friction between the two of them. I saw her whisper something to him and watched as his face harden. What he did next caught me totally off guard. Instead of heading to our room and telling Mabel off, he made Reeta sit down and gave her such a shelling, I felt my skin shrivel up just listening to it.

“I don’t care what problems you have with her. YOU sort it out! Why are you coming to me and whispering about her behind her back? You’re going to a Christian conference and you’re behaving like this?” he said angrily. Reeta looked like someone knocked the wind right out of her.

I edged away from them. Rick, Topher and Jake weren’t listening, or were pretending not to. I looked around for something to entertain myself with while waiting for the coach.

“Yo Abigail! You all set?” I heard someone call out. I turned around. The three musketeers I met on the bus yesterday walked into the lobby with all their luggage in tow. My face cracked into a huge smile. Ever since they learnt of my middle name the day before, they’ve taken great pleasure in seeing me cringe everytime they yell it across a crowded room.

“Pretty much, yeah. Just tired as hell.” I said, stifling a yawn.

After about fifteen minutes, just before the coach arrived, Mabel emerges wearing a clingy top and tights. I winced. She was really clueless about how unflattering her outfits were, especially on her plus-sized frame. The Malaysian’s pointedly ignored her… no prizes for guessing why.

We traveled in pitch-darkness down the pothole-riddled road, too tired to talk. We arrived at the airport, staggered out of our coach and were nonplussed at the sight before us. The place was PACKED! It took us nearly half an hour just to get into the airport! The inside was crawling with people and we had to literally fight our way through the sea of families saying goodbye to their loved ones to get to the immigration counter.

When we finally got on the plane, I collapsed in my seat and stared out the window, into the inky blackness of the forest just beyond the runway.

I felt my eyelids grow heavy.

Gramps is on E!

2007-09-25T23:56:00.000+08:00

I.

CANNOT.

STOP.

WATCHING.

Dude must be having one helluva sugar rush. Or, if he's diabetic, an Equal rush.

CPF!

2007-09-21T16:03:00.000+08:00

I'm sure you guys remember me ~~bitching~~ expressing my frustration about a CPF Animation that we were given a grand total of 1 week to do. Well guess what.

IT'S PREMIERING ON SUNDAY AT THE GRASSROOTS CLUB

AND THE PRIME MINISTER IS SO IMPRESSED WITH IT

THAT HE'S THINKING OF CUTTING SHORT THE

POWERPOINT PRESENTATION SO THAT THE ENTIRE CLIP

CAN BE SHOWN!

The PRIME MINISTER of this frickin country!

I think I'm gonna wet myself.

Nosebleed.

2007-09-20T20:30:00.000+08:00

“Charis!” Bernard called the moment I walked through the office door. “D’you reckon you can finish the animation by today?”

“It shouldn’t be a problem, I’m more than halfway done.” I replied, taking off my shoes. That’s the cool thing about my office; no footwear allowed. We all walk around the carpeted floor in socks or bare feet. Coupled with the fact that Bossman incorporates the “Own time, Own target” policy, my workplace is a haven. I could come and leave as and when I want, take breaks when I want, do whatever the hell I want so long as I don’t inconvenience anyone else and I finish the project on time. I settled down at my desk and whipped out my laptop. The air-conditioning blasted merrily. Very merrily. The place was freezing.

“Who turned up the air-conditioning?” I asked, rubbing my arms.

“I dunno. I can’t find the remote either.” Bernard replied as he put on his windbreaker.

I glanced around. The remote was nowhere in sight. My nostrils burned. Not only was the air cold, it was dry as hell. Each breath seared my nostrils. I imagined little icicles forming on my nose follicles like in cartoons. I tried breathing through my mouth and felt my uvula shrivel up. I swallowed hard to wet my throat and decided to stick to breathing through my nose, which felt like it was on fire. I was sure that I was gonna get frostbite and that my nose was gonna drop off. I rubbed it hard to increase circulation. My hand came away wet, warm and sticky. A deep red liquid stained my fingers.

“Holy shit!” I yelped. The last nosebleed I had was when I was what, 7? I felt the blood cut a river along my lips and trickle down my chin. I ran to the wastepaper basket and stooped over it.

Bernard, who just noticed my flurry of activity looked up at me with concern. “Hey you okay? What’s happening?”

“I’b habig a berry bad dosebleed.” I replied, trying to pinch my nostrils shut to stem the flow. It was getting worse. Blood was dripping from BOTH my nostrils like an open faucet. It looked like I had ruptured an artery in my nose. Blood spattered the lower half of my face and a few drops had fallen on my white t-shirt. I’ve always hated wearing white; stains show up too clearly. I spat some of the blood out of my mouth and tried not to think about the rusty aftertaste that filled my mouth.

“Jesus! You look a mess!” Bernard sputtered, his facial expression alternating between disgust and alarm. He handed me a roll of toilet paper. “You want me to call a doctor?”

“Yes blease. I dink id’s gedding worse.” A big, gooey blood clot oozed out of one of my nostrils and fell with a disgusting squelch into the plastic bag. I stared at it in horror. I’ve never known blood clots to occur during nosebleeds… what the heck was going on? The bin was beginning to look like an abortion. A clear, viscous fluid began to trickle out of my nostril sluggishly and mingled with the blood. I nearly wet myself with terror. I was imploding! My nostrils clogged up and I couldn’t breathe. I blew my nose to clear the passageways. Blood sprayed everywhere. It was beginning to look like a B-grade horror flick. I felt my stomach heave. I’m SO gonna throw up. I thought. One nostril remained gummed up with blood, clots, and other gunk. Desperate to clear it, I thumbed the other nostril shut, pressed my eyes shut and blew so hard, the veins in my forehead bulged.

I felt my stomach yank upwards sharply.

Something landed with a huge, wet “plop”.

Cracking open an eyelid, I stared cross-eyed at a soft, rubbery pink tube dangling out my nose, slimy with fluid…. the same fluid that my nose was secreting earlier. I stared along the tube to see what it was attached to. I gawked at the mass of slippery pink flesh in the wastepaper bin. It looked like a misshapen octopus.

The tube was connected to my intestines, which now lay glistening and pink in the trashbag amongst sweet wrappers and random scraps of paper.

I literally blew my guts out. I tried to wrench the tube, which was part of my small intestine, out of my nose, hoping that I could somehow survive without my innards, but I ended up pulling more and more out, my guts coiling around my feet, like a magician pulling an endless string of handkerchiefs out of his mouth. My pupils dilated with fear. I gagged.

I woke up clutching my nose.

My body was freezing. My nose felt like it was on fire.

The air-conditioning was too cold.

The air was too dry.

Too damn dry.

Random Conversation.

2007-09-19T20:41:00.000+08:00

I know it's mean to make fun of someone who's died, but it was just too good an opportunity to miss.. I'm SO gonna burn in hell for this.

Nantha: Okay honestly, I loved Nirvana and all, and I thought Kurt Cobain was a bloody genius, but let's face it. The dude can't sing to save his life.

Me: Maybe that's why he killed himself.

LONDON TRIP: Part 3- Tha’ Mothaland, yo!

2007-09-18T18:43:00.001+08:00

6pm Local time.

As usual, I was one of the last few people to disembark from the plane. I just prefer to not get all caught up in the hot, sweaty crowd of people who are eager to end their four-hour torture of breathing in recycled air. I’d wait and relax until the majority of the crowd has left, and then slowly gather up my things and leave. As I made my way out, backpack snugly bolstered against my shoulder, I realized something. The departure terminal was filled with middle-eastern men toting burqa-clad wives and a number of small children. I halted. Was I in Sri Lanka, or had we taken a short detour to Qatar?

They all turned to stare at me. With my short, cropped hair, multiple piercings, t-shirt and bermudas, I stuck out like a hard-on at a lesbian convention. I saw some of them whisper to each other. I couldn’t help but stare at the women and wonder what it would be like to be walking around wearing a something that greatly restricted mobility and vision. I noticed a lady, and judging by the lack of wrinkles around her eyes, a YOUNG lady, covered head to toe in a black burqa, and stared deep into her eyes. I kept walking. And staring. With a jerk, I realized that I was being very rude and put my head down and headed over to where my friends were waiting. As I walked away my mind whirled back to her and her eyes. I guess it’s the whole forbidden fruit syndrome; you want to see more, but you can’t.

After we finally managed to get our transit tickets for the morning flight, as well as our receipt for the airline-sponsored hotel stay in Sri Lanka, we plodded down to the immigration clearance. It was then that I learnt two valuable lessons about Sri Lanka.

Lesson 1: When in Sri Lanka, be prepared to wait a long, LONG time to get your passport inked. Especially when there’s a crowd the size of Fat Bastard’s butt. It took us about an hour to confirm our hotel bookings at the airport even though we had all the paperwork, boarding passes, passports and underwear at the ready.

Lesson 2: Having a Sri Lankan name REALLY helps.

Somehow or the other, I ended up at the front of the queue, with the rest of my friends behind me. I walked up to the mustachioed immigration officer seated at the desk.

He fixed a stern eye on me and thumbed through my passport. He paused at the page with my personal information.

“How do you pronounce your last name?” he enquired.

“Welikande.” I replied, trying to pronounce it in the most Sinhalese way possible.

He looked at me with surprise etched all over his face. “You’re Sri Lankan?”

“Well, my dad’s Sri Lankan.” I said smiling.

“Oh okay! Wow! Do you speak Sinhalese?” he asked with new warmth in his voice.

I was about to say that I only knew swear words, but I decided to just stick to a rather apologetic “No”.

“Oh okay! Is this your first time here?” he asked.

“Yeah and I’m really excited! My friends and I can’t wait to get our luggage and head out!” I chatted, gesturing to the rest of the guys behind me.

“Oh you are here with friends? Great! Have a good day.” He handed me my stamped passport with a flourish. “And welcome to Sri Lanka!” he added as I walked through the gate.

I waited for the rest of my posse to pass through immigrations before we went to collect our luggage. As we lugged our bags off the conveyor belt, Mabel came up to me.

“I don’t know what you told the customs officer, but after you got through, he asked each of us if you were really Sri Lankan and if we were your friends. And after we confirmed that yes, you ARE Sri Lankan and yes, we ARE your friends, he immediately stamped our passports and let us through.” She eyed me half in amusement, half in suspicion.

“You see!” I said, mock-seriously. “It PAYS to know locals!”

As we headed to the exit, we passed by the Departure Hall, crammed full of anxious people waiting for flights, subdued families sending loved ones off, flustered people with overweight baggage and delayed flights. When they saw our rather mismatched troupe waltzing through, practically all off them stopped and stared. I looked at them, and I had a rather cheesy, oddly patriotic epiphany:

These are MY people. We are from the same country, same blood, same flesh, same race. If it wasn’t for my ancestors venturing to Singapore, I would’ve been no different from them.

Pondering this thought, we headed out into the bright sunshine.

The heat hit us like a slap in the face.

Sri Lanka was as hot as Snuffleupagus’ armpit. It was as stifling as Singapore in June, and then some. Coupled with the dust and smoky exhaust from traffic, the air was formidable to breathe. The area was filled with people soliciting taxis, boarding buses and coaches, and occasionally coming very close to being run over since alot of them took pavements as suggestions. We headed to one of the hired coaches that was supposed to take us to the hotel and joined the small group of people stacking their luggage in the rear compartment. Three Sri Lankan porters insisted on taking our bags and stacked them clumsily at the back of the coach. In the midst of all the confusion, I absentmindedly handed over one of my suitcases to the porter, who thrust it at the back of the coach and then promptly came back to me and thrust his open palm under my nose. Surprised, I stared up at his face in question.

“Tip please.” He said gruffly. “Singapore money can also.”

“I don’t have any change. Sorry.” I apologized.

“Singapore money? Give me one dollar.” he persisted.

“I… oh.” I muttered, intimidated by his pushiness. I dug through the contents of my wallet.

I was about to hand him SG$1 when I realized something.

A normal tip in Sri Lanka is about 5 rupees. A very generous tip would be 10 rupees. One Singapore dollar is SEVENTY FIVE BLEEDING RUPEES. He would be getting FIFTEEN TIMES what a normal porter would receive!

I put back my wallet. “You wait here.” I told him as I tapped Mabel on the shoulder.

“Mabel, the porter wants a tip.” I whispered to her. She launched into action.

“We’ve already gave you your tip!” she snapped. “Don’t ask her for any money!”

He glowered at her but kept quiet. That's the one thing I like about Mabel. Hard to put up with she may be, but she has no qualms about telling someone off if they get on her bad side.

Honestly, I wouldn’tve minded giving him the dollar. I mean, it’s a small sum for me and it’s not like they earn a lot of money. 75 rupees would be a welcome tip. But the fact is, he was practically forcing me to give him a tip, and he asked me specifically because I was the youngest and probably the easiest to bully. If I had given him the tip, he would’ve tried it again and again with other passengers and possibly gotten away with it.

Feeling slightly justified, boarded the coach and sat in front of two young Indian men in their early twenties, one tall, fair and wearing spectacles, one dark and stocky, both good-looking.

It was at that very point that I heard one of the oddest things in my life: Sinhalese spoken with a British accent. I cannot quite explain how it sounded like. Sinhalese sounds slightly like Tamil, and if you've heard it being spoken, you'd realise that it sounds very staccato; the syllables are short and sharp, and flow into each other. The British accent is rich and full, with each syllable well-pronounced and emphasised. As a result, this odd vocal hybrid sounded like Sinhalese being spoken with a mouthful of prunes. I turned behind to look at the speaker. It was the guy wearing spectacles. He saw me looking at him and smiled.

“Dude, you’re Sri Lankan?” I asked.

“Sure am! What bout you? You don’t look very Sri Lankan.”

“Well, my dad’s Sri Lankan. My mum’s Punjabi.”

“Ah Punjabi! So THAT’S where you get your good looks from.” He said, winking.

“Oh he’s getting to work now!” the dark one chuckled to their third companion, a man about their age with a mop of curly hair.

I pulled a face and grinned. “Yeah, well, the hair isn’t very Punjabi though.” I pointed to my short crop, a HUGE contrast to the Punjabi norm of long, oiled hair that have never tasted the blade of a pair of scissors.

“Pffft, I like it. It’s very funky. It suits you.”

We chatted for some time, exchanging friendly barbs and laughing loudly, basically making a nuisance of ourselves on the coach.

Sri Lanka reminded me very much of rural Malaysia, except that there were a LOT more stray dogs… and roadkill, for that matter. And strangely, at each road junction, there was a tribute to either Jesus or Mother Mary. I grew puzzled. Weren’t Sri Lankans mostly Buddhist? As I started to absorb the sights, Reeta kept tapping me on the shoulder every two minutes or so, telling me random snippets of her life that I didn’t even ask to hear. It was profoundly annoying and disturbing at the same time. When she started to tell me about some of her personal matters, all I could do was stare at her. I barely knew her, so why on earth was she telling me all this stuff? It didn’t help that she spoke in a low whisper most of the time so I had to ask her to repeat what she said at least two or three times. She would also mumble something, and I’d turn around thinking that she was talking to me, but she’d just insist that she’s just talking to herself and that I mustn’t worry because she does this all the time. I began to think that this London trip was a baaaaaad idea.

Just then, I felt a tap on my arm. I was about to roll my eyes and asked her what she wanted THIS time. But the tap didn’t come from beside me; it came from behind me. I turned around. The dark guy stared at me.

“Do you have an iron deficiency?” he enquired seriously.

I was taken aback. Where the HECK was this coming from? “A… WHAT?”

He grinned and pointed to my ear practically bondaged up in metal piercings.

I guffawed, my mood immediately lifted. “Touché, my friend. Touché.”

We pulled up to the hotel entrance and unloaded our bags and stretched our cramped legs after a two-hour bus ride. My three new companions eagerly alighted and ran straight into the arms of their awaiting relatives.

“Grandma!” the one with specs exclaimed and embraced an old, wizened lady and gave her a tender kiss on the forehead. I smiled. You hardly see kids showing any sign of affection these days; they don’t want to look uncool. But these guys were wading through their relatives, hugging and exchanging kisses on the cheek. It was very heart-warming.

In the lobby, we had a rerun of Lesson 2 on things to expect when in Sri Lanka: it took us another 30 minutes to confirm our rooms even though the airlines had already reserved bedrooms for us and we had all the necessary documentation.

Finally, we were shown to our rooms and we started to unpack. Mabel, Rita and I were in one room, Topher and Jake in another, and Rick and Raj were in the last room. Mabel’s friend who lives in Sri Lanka was coming to pick her up and bring her out for dinner while the rest of us we gonna just chill in the hotel.

As I unpacked, I realized that I forgot to pack two very, VERY important things. Comfy shorts to sleep in, and my toothbrush. I slapped my forehead. The toothbrush problem could be easily solved, since the hotel would give us complimentary toiletries. Finding nice sleeping shorts would be a totally different story. Reeta offered to follow me to explore the hotel and see whether they had a souvenir shop of some sort that sold clothes.

“D’you think there’s enough time for a swim?” Mabel asked, unpacking as quickly as she could because her friend was arriving in about 30 minutes. I imagined Mabel stuffing her blubber into a swimsuit. It was about as appealing as skinning myself with a blunt Ginsu knife and rolling around in a tub of salt.

“I… really don’t think so.” I answered, trying not to wince as she tried on a top that was about ten sizes too small.

“Oh.. nevermind then! I’m leaving now. Bubbye!” she said as she slopped on more makeup and strutted through the door.

The moment she was out of earshot, Reeta turned and whispered to me, “Does she always dress like that?” I shrugged. I’ve known Mabel for years. Even though I didn’t like her, I could tolerate her, albeit barely. Having Mabel AND Reeta as roommates, however, would be pushing my sanity to its limits.

Reeta and I wandered around the hotel before finally locating a rather dingy souvenir shop next to the buffet area. Fortunately, they DID sell clothes. The shorts there looked very… happy. Seriously, there’s no other way of describing them. They came in all shades of cornea-searing colours and had cheerful little swirls and splotches all over them. I managed to find the most decent, least flamboyant pair decorated in a Hawaii-esque pattern in black, blue, beige and white. Totally NOT me. The price was outrageous, but I expected nothing less from a hotel shop. Pleased that I managed to find what I was looking for, we headed back to our room. As we approached our room, we Jake and Topher come out from theirs, each carrying a towel. Jake was wearing something that vaguely resembled hotpants. I stifled a smile.

“We’re going swimming.” Topher announced. “Wanna join us?”

“I didn’t bring my swimsuit. I think I’ll pass.” I replied. I was always very conscious of my body. I loved to swim, but I hated wearing swimsuits because they were so clingy and unflattering. I chose to wear bodysuits, but even them I felt vaguely embarrassed. I didn’t want to miss out on the action, so I decided to sit by the poolside and watch them. Rick and Raj were already in the pool and managed to get a hold of a beach ball and a rather enthusiastic game of water polo followed.

“Come on in lah Charis! The water’s great! You don’t know what you’re missing out on!” yelled Raj.

“But I don’t have a swimsuit!”

“It doesn’t matter, just get in! A little water won’t hurt.. and your clothes’ll dry anyway.”

I pondered for a moment. ARGH! Screw it, I thought. I did a running leap and somersaulted into the pool. Reeta, seeing that I had caved into temptation, sat on the edge of the pool and cautiously let herself in. The lads cheered.

Raj smiled. “Alright! Now, let’s play polo!”

Just then, I heard someone shout something unintelligible from just beyond the pool. I turned. Crap, it was a security guard.

“Excuse me miss, you’re not in proper swimming attire.”

“I know, I know, I forgot to bring my swimsuit. I’m really sorry.” I apologized.

He pondered for a moment. “Your shorts are fine to swim in. If you give me 5 minutes, I could lend you and your friend proper swimming tops.”

“Really? Wow! Thanks!” I beamed.

True enough, five minutes later he returned with two wetsuit tops in hand. We thanked him, headed to the toilet, changed and got in the pool again. We divided ourselves into two teams and started the first round of water polo.

Normally, I’m not a big fan of competitive games, mainly because it means that someone wins and someone loses, and I HATE losing. When I really get into a game, the idea of losing makes me psychotically bloodthirsty towards the opposing team. This was getting rather apparent as I lunged at Rick (who is easily twice my weight and head and shoulders taller than me) and dragged him under. He emerged sputtering and I grabbed the ball from his slack grip and threw it to my team-mate who promptly scored a goal. I carried on swimming and tackling aggressively for the entire duration of the game.

“I don’t want to play anymore!” Rick said, after about half an hour.

Raj looked surprised. “What? Why?”

Rick pointed at me. “She scares the hell out of me! She tackles me like she’s trying to kill me!”

“I’m so sorry! I’m like that when I really get into a game. You okay?” I asked him. I began to feel bad.

He smiled. “It’s fine, dear. And don’t worry, I’m all right. No broken bones.” He winked.

We got changed, washed up and headed down for dinner. The spread was AWESOME. The hotel had a grill so we had barbeque steaks and sausages and I almost ate my weight in roast chicken. Just then, Mabel returned with her friend, a middle aged man who was originally from Singapore but lived in Sri Lanka to start up a business.

“Charis! I remember you saying that you didn’t have sleeping shorts so while I was walking around town, I saw this pair and bought them for you. They were really cheap and they look very nice too.” Mabel handed me a plastic bag.

“Wow, thanks!” I said, surprised and touched. I took a peek. They WERE nice! They reminded me of dark blue school uniform shorts. Very comfortable and plain… in other words, totally my taste. I began to feel guilty for shuddering at the thought of her in a swimsuit earlier. But just then, she grabbed a plate and began to heap her plate with food… when she had just returned from dinner with her friend. She skewered a piece of chicken and took a large bite and began to, now this is one of my pet peeves, chew with her mouth open, smacking her lips loudly. My guilt quickly dissipated.

Back in our hotel room, I flopped down on the double bed that Mabel and I were sharing. My stomach bulged with slowly digesting chicken. I blinked sleepily. It was about midnight back in Singapore.

“I’m heading over to the Raj’s room. They’re playing cards there. Anyone wanna join me?” Reeta asked us as she dug through her bag at the foot of her single bed at the far end of the room.

“No, you go on ahead. I’m kinda sleepy.” I stifled a yawn.

“Can you take the key with you? So when you need to come back in, you don’t need to wake us up.” Mabel asked.

I rolled over and faced my back to them. I felt sleep lapping at my toes.

“No it’s okay I think you better keep it just in case. I won’t be coming in until I want to sleep anyway.”

“Can you just take it?”

“I’ll be back soon….”

I drifted off.

Denial.

2007-09-10T14:38:00.000+08:00

I am not what I own.
I am not the job I work.
I am not the music I listen to.
I am not what I wear.
I am not my hobbies.
I am not my tattoos or piercings.
I am not what I drink.
I am not what I eat.
I am not people's opinion of me.
I am not what my parents wanted me to be.
I am not the number of friends I have.
I am not my Friendster profile.

I am special...
... just like everybody else.

ARGH!!!

2007-09-08T01:33:00.000+08:00

DAMN YOU CPF FOR

MAKING US DO

LAST-MINUTE, CLICHE

ANIMATIONS ON

SOMETHING THAT WE KNOW

NOTHING

ABOUT!

Argh!

2007-09-08T00:05:00.000+08:00

So right now, I’ve just reached home after being awake since 6am, working from 10am – 7pm and helping out at my parent’s new Indian restaurant/stall/eatery until now, 12am. I’m too tired to even fart. Which is a big deal to me, considering how my fetid gaseous butthole expulsions are one of my well known trademarks. Not to mention that there’s hardly any food at home anymore because our helper is mostly cooped up at the new outlet. Don’t get me wrong, I love my work, I love my parents, I love their new place and I love Indian food, but I swear to Bob, if I have to eat leftover tandoori chicken and garlic naan for breakfast one more time, I will SCREAM.

Work.

2007-09-06T11:28:00.000+08:00

I am so happy. I cannot tell you how how fulfilled and significant my life feels right now, and I have my job to thank for that. Granted, I put in about 12 hours a day, but the amount of satisfaction I get from doing something that’s actually related to my diploma, is immeasurable. It’s one of the few times where I wake up in the morning actually looking FORWARD to getting out of bed.

I look forward to the long bus ride to work.

I look forward to heading into the bright, sunny office.

I look forward to getting to know my colleagues.

I look forward to the little R2-D2 robot that lets out random bleeps and patrols the room.

I look forward to not knowing what I’m going to have for lunch.

I look forward to sitting in front of my computer with nothing but my music for company.

I look forward to how quickly time flies.

But most of all, I look forward to the satisfaction I get everytime my animation works out the way I want it to.

At the end of each day, I’m tired to my bones, but strangely sated. I realize that all this time at home and in school, I was looking forward to doing something to quench this hunger of mine, this hunger of wanting something more out of life than just studying and bumming around at home.

Armed with a diploma AND work experience, I will conquer the world.

Just wait and see.

HELP!!

2007-09-06T01:51:00.000+08:00

OMG I'VE AWAKENED THE LIFELESS FANATICS WHO HAVE NOTHING ELSE BETTER TO DO THAN TO TAG AT 1+ IN THE MORNING AND INSIST ON CALLING ME A TRANNY MERE HOURS AFTER MY LAST POST HELP!!!!!!!

Ok seriously, i would LOVE to tell you guys to stop and let me continue with my work, but i'm having too much fun.

Carry on!

Hair.

2007-09-04T21:41:00.000+08:00

I'm trying to grow out my hair... right now it's.. eh.. 3 inches long. I have a dirty joke that's just dying to burst out, but since i'm making an effort to make this blog suitable for children, the elderly, pregnant women and people wearing pacemakers, i shall refrain. My hair now is the longest it's been in MONTHS. Please do me a favour and hide the scissors when i'm around... i have a tendency to... self-medicate.

Should i even grow it out or should i go back to being G.I.?

Pssssst....

2007-08-30T19:51:00.000+08:00

Guess who managed to land herself a 1 month internship (starting tomorrow) in an animation company? :) I'm smexcited, yo! I'm not gonna give out too many details, just in case the big bossman runs across this blog and deems it... how you say... inappropriate. But I'm very, very happy. I was hell-bent on working for them somehow, even if I'm stuck at home doing shitty assignments for shitty pay. The one thing on my mind was WORK EXPERIENCE. It'll be my trump card (complete with fluffy combover) if and when I apply to enter a university. I did one rather unglamorous assignment with them last year, and I thought that was that. When I popped them an email, asking them to let me know if they needed help with anything else because I REALLY needed to make my portfolio more solid, I didn't expect them to reply. But bossman decided to send me an email a month ago, asking me to let him know when my holidays start. Next thing you know, wham, bam, thank you ma’am I’m given an internship! It’s like asking for a ham sandwich but then getting an entire meat pie. I’m happy. Happy happy. HAPPEEEEHHH.

LONDON TRIP: Part 2- En Route to Sri Lanka.

2007-08-29T03:16:00.000+08:00

As we boarded the plane headed for Sri Lanka, I smiled at the air stewardess with her hands in pressed together in Namaste directly over her heart. Her elbows stuck at a 90 degree angles, absolutely posture perfect in her flowery green sari. She welcomed passengers with her smile and luminous eyes. The boys gaped at her.

“Whoah,” Pastor Raj whispered. “Look at her hands! How does she do that?”

They immediately tried imitating her and succeeded in coming very close to dislocating their wrists. They stared at her in newfound respect. I shook my head and smiled; boys will be boys will be boys. I turned round to look for my seat, and stopped dead in my tracks.

Standing in front of me was a steward. Tall and fair, with chiseled cheekbones, raven black hair combed into a neat parting and best of all, brilliant green eyes. Never would I have guessed that he was Sri Lankan. With his slicked back hair, he looked more like a poster boy for a Brylcreem advertisement.

Like this, but hotter. And browner.

I stood there, rooted to the ground gawking at him. He looked at me with those captivating eyes that seem to bore into me… and smiled. I flashed a sheepish grin and scrambled to my seat. I felt sixteen again. I took out my laptop and tried to do some work, but I was much too restless. I’d only been on 2 overseas trips before this, so traveling on a plane was still very exciting for me. I craned my neck to look at the people around me putting away their luggage. I fidgeted with my seat belt. I reclined my seat. I raised it again. I mashed the buttons on the controller their in-flight entertainment system. I ate the pre-heated airline food. I fell asleep. Before I knew it, we were in Sri Lanka.

WOMAD 2007!

2007-08-24T14:18:00.000+08:00

You guys have GOT to come for WOMAD. I have a feeling this year's performance s gonna eclipse most of the previous years because... Asian Dub Foundation is coming down, yo! I'm STOKED!

More when i get back!

LONDON TRIP: PART 1- The Exodus to Sri Lanka.

2007-08-24T03:10:00.000+08:00

So, after much confusion over flight dates, accommodation, bunking in with other people to cut costs, finding enough clothes, windbreakers, socks, underwear in various colours because I gotta have more variety than just black, earrings, contact lens solution, and various other things you’re sure you’ll need but you never use, I had finally finished packing. Before we rushed off to the airport, my mum insisted that since I was going to be reaching London two days before the convention, I should pay my Aunt Esther a visit since she’s only a few hours north of London. So we trooped down to Mustafa’s Shopping Centre where my mum literally bought 5 kilos of cashew nuts, curry powder and other yindian necessities as a sort of peace offering to my rather geriatric aunt. There are two things you must keep in mind when I mention Mustafa’s Shopping Centre in the heart of Little India.

1. Mustafa’s is HUGE. I mean HUUUUUGE. I mean, there’s Shopping Centres, there’s Big Shopping Centres, there’s Giant Shopping Centres, and then there’s Mustafa’s. This place sells everything from silverware to jewelry to subwoofers to washing machines to souvenirs to cell-phones to medication to religious material. Ask them for weapons-grade plutonium and you’ll see little Indian midgets running out from the storage area wearing radiation suits, carrying an airtight container containing a dangerous-looking, glowing rock.

2. Mustaffa’s is always crowded, even at 2am in the morning. Bob knows why, maybe there’s coke in the chapatti flour.

Finally, we managed to wade out of the sea of Indian people flooding the shopping centre. As I was fumbling with my earrings, I felt my pants vibrate. Bewildered, I began frisking myself to find the source of this rather interesting…. diversion.

I pulled out my cellphone.

“Hey Pastor Raj!” I chirped happily. Raj was the leader of the Malaysian group who were going to London with us. They came down to Singapore to book tickets because apparently, if they book it from Singapore, they’ll be saving close to Rm1000 because of some fancy promotion that was being offered in Singapore. I’ve said it before, and I will say it again. SINGAPORE IS AWESOME. Yeah I know that a promotion for Sri Lankan Airlines has nothing to do with being Singaporean… BUT STILL! Shhhhhhh.

“Hey Charis! How are you?” he asked, his voice barely intelligible over the babble of excited conversation in the background.

“I’m great! Buying some stuff before heading to the airport. What’s up?” I glanced around for my parents. My mum was leaning against my dad’s delivery van, (affectionately nicknamed the Welikande Wagon by Nantha) glaring at my dad, who was taking approximately twenty years at the moneychanger.

“Oh great! We’re here already. Listen, how long will you take to get here? Half an hour?”

“I guess so… why?”

“If you can make it here by 12:30pm, we can check in our luggage together... less hassle lah.”

I glanced at the clock on my cell-phone. 12 noon. My dad was still accosting the moneychanger. Putting all my faith in my dad’s ability in attempting to break the speed of light in our little family Kangoo, I agreed to meet at 12:30.

In the Welikande Wagon, my dad handed me a thick wad of notes. “Check and make sure that there’s 300 pounds in there. Keep it safely in your wallet now! Don't wave it all over the place. Will £300 be enough?” He took his eyes off the road for a moment to look at me with concern.

“I’m sure it will, dad. Don’t worry, I don’t plan on doing much shopping there anyway. I just need money for transportation and food.” I replied, flipping through the bills.

My mum chipped in, “You must have some extra money for back up, just in case,” she hesitated for a moment. “you know, in case something happens.”

The WW went quiet for awhile. We knew what she was thinking.

In case you get robbed, mugged, or worse.

“Anyway,” she broke the silence, “here’s US$100. Just in case. Keep it somewhere on your person in case you need it. It’s FOR EMERGENCIES ONLY.” She emphasized, seeing the mischievous glint in my eyes.

“O….kay.” I said, grinning.

The WW went quiet for a few minutes as we zoomed down the expressway. I stared out the window, holding the money in my hands.

“Did you remember to bring dental floss?” My mum asked suddenly.

I stared at her, bewildered. Of all random items, why DENTAL FLOSS?

“Dental floss?” I quizzed.

“Yes! Dental floss! To floss your teeth at night!”

“But I don’t floss my teeth at night!”

My mum stared at me like as if I said I mutilated helpless kittens and drank their blood. “YOU DON’T FLOSS YOUR TEETH?!” She exclaimed in horror.

“Who does?”

“But that’s DISGUSTING! How can you go to sleep with leftover food stuck in your teeth?” she asked with a look of disgust on her face.

“I brush and gargle before I sleep!” I defended, amused and irritated at the same time. “Besides, flossing makes my gums bleed.”

“That’s no excuse!” she declared. “You’d better buy dental floss from the pharmacy at the airport!”

“Yes mum.” I sighed.

We pulled up to the departure area. I opened the door and as I was about to step out, I realized that I was still holding on to the money in my hands, which amounted to approximately SG$1000. Not exactly the smartest thing to do. I fumbled with my wallet and started to stuff the bills inside when I noticed two Indian men staring at what I was doing.

“You see!’ my dad hissed. “You should have done it in the car! Now that you’re putting your money away in front of them they’ll know where it is!”

“Dad, relax. We’re still in Singapore.”

“It doesn’t matter! You need to be more street-smart if you want to be safe.” He rumbled, as he hoisted my bag from the boot of the van.

I tried not to roll my eyes as I arranged my stuff on the trolley and wheeled into the departure lounge.

“Hang on!” my dad said suddenly, staring at the olive green bermudas I was wearing. “Are you…. wearing my PANTS?”

I smiled sheepishly. “They’re COMFY!”

“But they’re mine! I can’t believe you took my pants!” He sputtered.

“I took two of them, actually. The other one’s packed into my luggage.” I said grinning.

“WHAT? He bellowed.

“I had to find something comfortable to wear!”

I wheeled my trolley through the entrance as my dad started muttering something along the lines of how I had no shortage of clothes and therefore had no reason to pilfer his cupboard. But honestly, my dad’s bermudas, which I affectionately call his Ah-Pek (Old Man) Pants, are like wearing next to nothing. They’re THAT comfy.

Barely a minute after I’d found the right gate, Nantha strolled into view. As I gave him a quick hug, I could sense my parents’ stare boring into the back of my skull. Being the baby of the family warrants extra protection from the parentals, ESPECIALLY when it comes to members of the opposite sex.

“You got everything ready?” he asked, after greeting my parents.

“Yep! Now I just gotta find Raj and the Malaysian group. I’ve never met them before and I have no idea what they look like.” I craned my neck to look around for someone who would look like a “Pastor Raj”. I decided to save myself the trouble and call him.

“Hello Charis, you at the airport yet?”

“Yeah I’m at belt 11, where are you?” I asked, looking around for an Indian man on a handphone. Considering the fact that we were going by Sri Lankan Airlines, looking for someone who looked INDIAN was as easy as searching for a straight person in San Francisco.

“We’re at belt 11 too!”

“I don’t see you guys!”

“We don’t see you either!”

“But I’m right here!”

“So are we!”

This went on for a good two minutes before I turned around and realized that, well whaddaya know, he was standing less than 5 metres behind me.

“Are you.. Pastor Raj? I asked tentatively.

He stared at me for a split second in shock.

“You’re Charis?” he asked, gripping my hand in a firm handshake and looking me over. “You don’t look like… a Charis”.

I looked down at what I was wearing. Oversized t-shirt, my dad’s baggy Ah-Pek Pants, Nike high cut shoes, short spiky hair, multiple ear piercings… yep. I can totally see how I don’t look like a “Charis”. The name “Charis” conjures up images of hippie yes-girls in long flowing skirts running around throwing flowers in the air. It’s the frilly tutu of names. The only name worse than that is Abigail… which happens to be…. my middle name. Crap.

He introduced me to the rest of the Malaysian crew: Rick, Topher, Jake, and the lone female, Reeta.

I said my hellos and exchanged handshakes. I stared up at Rick as he gripped my hand. With the top of my head barely reaching his shoulder and with a paunch to make any pregnant woman gape in jealousy, he cuts an impressive figure. Until he opens his mouth. Let’s just say, his voice does NOT match his body… at all.

“Hey, do you have any idea where Mabel is? We’ve been waiting for her and she isn’t picking up my calls.” Raj enquired.

Mabel is the other person from my church who was joining us. I’ve never really had a very good opinion of her, and it doesn’t help that she looked like Furong Jie Jie had a lovechild with a walrus. But being the nice person that I am, I decided to let bygones be bygones and start anew, forgive and forget, give her a clean slate, and all that stuff. Unfortunately, being late doesn’t exactly get you off on the right foot with someone.

“I have no idea. I’ll give her a call.”

I couldn’t believe it. It was almost 1, our flight was at 2:30 and she was STILL at home. I felt a small ball of frustration explode in my stomach.

“Mabel,” I said, trying to not let my anger creep into my voice, “you DO realize that we have to check in at least an hour beforehand, don’t you?”

“Yes yes,” she replied hurriedly with the television squawking in the background, “I’m just waiting for my friend to pick me up. I’m all set already.”

I was doubtful. Mabel’s notorious for her late-coming and lame excuses, amongst other things. While waiting, my mum, Nantha and I were desperately trying to cram bags of curry powder, cashew nuts and almonds into my already overstuffed suitcase. In the end, my stuff was packed so tight that we did everything short of sitting on it to zip it shut. Even after we were done, Mabel hadn’t shown up. The Malaysian group was getting agitated. She was steadfastly refusing to answer our calls. We decided to check in without her.

As luggage was being weighed, I saw Rick and Topher struggling with a gigantic, black suitcase.

“Man, that looks heavy. what’s in there?” I asked.

“The official convention t-shirts! We’re helping to print and transport them.” Raj replied, his chest swelling with pride.

I turned behind to look at my parents and Nantha, who were chatting and waiting for me just beyond the check-in area. I smiled at them. My mum waved me over.

“Make sure you have enough socks and underclothings and warm clothes. It can get really cold over there. Do you have enough money? Did you bring Aunt Esther’s address? Is all your stuff packed okay? If you want to talk to us or if you need anything, just call us okay? Doesn’t matter what time. We’ll be there.” My mum said in a flurry, worry etched on her face.

“Mum, I’ll be fine. Don’t worry!” I assured her. It was unsettling seeing my mum like that, all happy and sad and worried at the same time. Like she couldn’t believe that her little girl was going on a trip without her. That her little girl has just grown up a little bit more.

As I watched our check-in luggage chug happily down the conveyor belt, I stowed my backpack over my shoulder and went back to join the rest of the group. Since the guys were all busy at the desk, trying to badger the lady serving us into letting them bring on their ten kilos of extra baggage consisting of the SAGC tshirts, I decided to talk to Reeta.

“So, how do you guys know each other?” I asked to strike up a conversation

“Raj and Topher are childhood friends. Jake’s my cousin, and Rick was coincidentally my lecturer in University.” She replied. She then proceeded to explain to me exactly how they all managed to meet.

“He was your university lecturer?! Exactly how old ARE you guys?” I took in her diminutive frame, short ‘do and trendy glasses. She didn’t look a day over 25. But, strangely, there was something in the way she stared at me that was very, very unsettling. She somehow reminded me of a praying mantis that’s just spotted a rather juicy grub.

"Make a guess."

“I have NO idea. You guys look in your middle to late twenties.” I stated, looking at the rest of the group. I heard her snort with laughter.

“I’m turning thirty.” She cackled, enjoying the look on my face. “ Raj is 31,working full-time in a church. Topher,” she said, gesturing at the stocky man with dark skin, and perfect teeth, “is turning 31, he’s in the airline industry. Jake’s 23,” she said, pointing to a pleasant young man, “and a personal trainer. Rick’s 40-something, was a University lecturer. I work with a telephone company.” She said, grinning at the look on my face.

“Damn, you guys are like at least a decade older than me.”

“Yeah, but you can’t tell, can you?”

“Never would’ve guessed.”

Finally, Mabel finally showed up at 1:30, looking hassled and disorganized, with her bag still open and her stuff sticking out higgledy-piggledy of her *cringe* powder Pink Hello Kitty bag. So much for being “all set”. I shook my head. I couldn’t get over the fact that a 32 year old woman was carrying a POWDER PINK HELLO KITTY BAG.

“I’m so sorry!” she blurted out. “My friend was delayed and I was waiting for him to come and fetch me.” I heard my dad let out a derisive snort. He knew Mabel’s antics too well.

After another round of introductions, Mabel checked in her luggage and we were heading to the immigration clearance. Knowing that once I stepped through those doors, there was no going back, I gave my parents a tight hug while they let fly a final stream of advice, ending with them insisting that I call them the moment something goes wrong. I assured them that I’d take whatever precautions I could. After that, I pulled Nantha into a tight hug and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.
“Take care of yourself okay? London isn’t like Singapore. And try not to fall for any hot desi guys over there okay?” he said with a gloomy smile. I could tell that my absence was a tough blow to him.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll be back before you know it.” I assured him. I was sad and excited at the same time.

After I passed through the immigration customs, I turned back to look at Nantha and my parents, staring at me through the glass. I waved. And they waved back.

I adjusted the straps on my backpack.

My trip to London had just begun.

Pruning.

2007-08-23T17:58:00.000+08:00

It's time to cut down the tall trees.

I'M BACK..... again.

2007-08-20T21:03:00.000+08:00

I know i know i've been promising updates, but i had another rather abrupt trip to KL for my friend's birthday. And my parents actually insisted that Nantha come along for my 3 day trip. Hur hur. It was F-U-N! I met up with Eliza, took a buncha pics and will be uploading them very, very soon.....

I'M BACK!!

2007-08-12T02:47:00.000+08:00

I’M BACK!

Yes, I’m back from 11-ish days in the heart of England and boy oh boy, do I have stories to tell you guys. Unfortunately, there’s too much to say to be put into one post, so I’ll be breaking it up into parts, hopefully, if I remember enough, separating them into days.

Ok basically, the reason for my abrupt trip to the UK was an event called the South Asian Global Convention, or SAGC for short. It’s an event held every 2 years or so, organized and founded by a man in my church basically meant for networking, for workshops and seminars. In other words, it was going to be F-U-N. I could only finalize my plans at the last minute partially because my school schedule was rather tight, with meetings and assignments and presentations and other frilly stuff, and partially because I totally forgot about the convention altogether until about 2 weeks before it was due to start. *insert guilty snigger here*. It took quite a lot of convincing to get my parents to agree, but with a little persuasion from my friend who was also going, they agreed, albeit reluctantly.

This year, the convention was held in London, from the 1st to 5th of August. I decided to go sliiightly earlier so that I could work off the jetlag and get used to the weather. Here's the breakdown: I was leaving Singapore on the 28th of July, reaching Colombo, Sri Lanka (THE MOTHALAND, YO!) in the evening of the 28th, checking into a Sri Lankan hotel for my transit flight the next day, waking up at 2am in the morning of the 29th for transport to the airport and then followed by a 12 hour flight to London, where we’ll be arriving in the afternoon of the 29th and there’ll be transport straight to the doorstep of our hotel. Yep, easy as ABC, 123. Or not. You’ll find out in time to come. ☺

3am

2007-07-28T02:57:00.000+08:00

I'm blogging this at 3am in the morning. I'm flying off to the UK tomorrow at 2pm MUAHAHAHAHAHAHA and i'll only be back on the 7th of August. I'm barely halfway through my packing.

More info on my top-secret trip when i come back.

I. Need. Sleep.

See y'all in 11 days, bitches!!

I have the memory of a Epileptic Goldfish.

2007-07-23T15:28:00.000+08:00

I am so forgetful, I don't even do epileptic goldfish justice.

I'm the sort of person who constantly leaves her umbrellas outside class to dry off, and then forgets to take them home.

I am also the sort of person who writes the words, "UMBRELLA" on her hand in big block letters using a black marker to remind herself to take home the neglected umbrella, but then proceeds to forget to read it.

I am also the sort of person who, after reaching home, having a bath, changing out of her stinky clothes, watching random videos on YouTube, and stuffing her face, glances at her hand, sees the words "UMBRELLA", now all smudged and barely legible, and wonders what the hell it's supposed to mean.

Ah, Sing-a-pore.

2007-07-21T19:33:00.000+08:00

NOTE: RANTING POST.

So I was online, multi-tasking between listening to music, watching random Enya videos, designing a flyer thingamajig for a spiffy conference coming up in the UK (WHICH I AM 70% POSITIVE I’M GOING FOR! WOOOOO!), and, uh, picking my nose. Someone on my MSN came online with the nickname: “I HATE Singapore and it can fucking rot in hell”. Oooooh, angsty. I found out it was an acquaintance of mine who is Singaporean, but studying in London. I was mildly amused, so I decided to ask her what’s up.

I asked her what was wrong with Singapore, and she said, and I quote:

“It’s depressing, oppressing, disgusting, disappointing, despairing. I don't understand why nobody has nuked it already. It deserves nothing less. I find NOTHING right about Singapore. Everything about it irks me, disgusts me, makes me hate it even more. For example, it’s ok for straight people to have oral and anal sex, while its illegal for gay people. Or maybe the stupid heat? How about the fact that they don't even gives a rat's arse enough to fucking show F1 quali live here even though they're hosting a fucking F1 race next year? The social attitudes? the apathy? The "I just want to make money and get by", the SAF and its "protect white horses from murder" attitude?”

At this point, I was completely taken aback. Granted, my friend is gay, and definitely would have issues with the laws of intercourse, but seriously. You’re saying Singapore sucks because it believes that marriage is still sacred and should remain between a man and a woman? I don’t get it! WHAT’S SO BAD ABOUT SINGAPORE? I pointed out to her that Singapore is, amongst other things, “CLEAN, SAFE, there's no smoking in clubs (HOORAY!!), it's compulsory to donate organs so that you don’t wait years to get a transplant, UNLIKE THE UK.”

And she sneered, “Clean? Is that the best you can think of?”

Bitch please. That’s one of the key things Singapore is known for. It’s probably the first thing ANY tourist who steps into Singapore would say. Singapore is ridiculously clean. It better be, cuz you get fined $500 for littering and/or polluting the air with your farts. Okay, maybe not the second one.

She also said that schools in Singapore brainwash you into becoming duplicates, and that they “pigeonhole the individual instead of respecting their individuality”. Uhm, y’see, here’s the problem. Singapore is small. Singapore is so small, that the little red dot that’s used to highlight it on world maps eclipses it completely. And on the ‘most densely populated countries’ list, we’re settled in at number 4, with 4,483,900 people squished into 704km², which would mean 6,369 people in ONE SQUARE KILOMETRE. You know how packed that is? I’m surprised there’s enough oxygen to go around. BECAUSE of this, people are our main resource. Heck, we even have to buy our water and sand from other countries. The reason WHY they push us so fucking hard in school is because it’s for our own good if we actually plan on climbing the corporate ladder. Unless, of course, you want to set up your own business, go into some artsy fartsy profession, if you’re just plain lucky, or if you just DON'T CARE. Also, let’s face it. Desk jobs are far more secure than, say, working as an artist. Let’s remember than in the US alone, ONLY 1 in 100 art students can eke a living out of their work; so let’s not even think about Singapore.

MOVING ALONG.

“What’s so bad about the weather?” I asked, puzzled. “Sure it can get humid, but it’s mostly nice and sunny. What’s so bad about that? The weather is just rainy and depressing in London.”

“No, London is nice n chilly, which suits me just fine.” She replies. And the she proceeds to say something unbelievably stupid. She says... wait for it…

“The sun DEPRESSES me.”

Excuse me while I laugh.

HHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHHAAA.

Ahem. Beg pardon.

Anyways, I proceed to compare the crime rates between Singapore (pretty low) and the UK (abysmal). And then she proceeds to say something that just takes the “Most Idiotic Statement” award from right under the nose of the previous comment.

She said…

Wait for it…

Waaaaaait….

“I’d rather my kid grow up streetsmart instead of depending on a nanny state to keep him safe.”

I’m sorry, but did you eat a big bowl of Stupid for breakfast? I’d rather my kid grow up with his face and sanity intact, thank you very much.

When all else fails, she round it up with,

“Singapore has SHIT public transport. Do u know how many night buses there are in Singapore? 5, maybe 10. Do u know how many night buses there are in London? Hundreds.”

Excuse me while I laugh. Again.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAAAA

Uhm, maybe it hasn’t occurred to you, but maybe the reason London has “hundreds” of night buses is because… uhm, gee, lemme think… LONDON IS FUCKING HUGE?????

And just for clarification, apart from having the best airport in the world (I shit you not), our transport system is also one of the best in the world.

But NO!

According to her, buses in London arrive every 2 minutes!
How the bus company makes a profit, I have no idea. Maybe they offer “happy endings” at the end of each bus ride? ;)

After rebutting everything she said, “You’re another PAP success then. Singapore deserves you and you deserve Singapore.” And after hearing that my mum works for the gahmen, she said, “So that explains the SG ass-licking.”

After which, since she was losing the argument, she proceeded to change her name to "I HATE singapore and people who like it can fucking rot in hell, with the shithole they love." and block me.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

OH EXCUSE ME FOR NOT BEING EDUCATED IN LONDON FOR THE GRAND TOTAL OF THREE YEARS THUS CAUSING IRREPARABLE DAMAGE TO MY OPINION OF MY HOME COUNTRY.

Exactly how old are you? 23 going on 8?

At least I’m content.

I cannot fucking STAND people who think that just because they’re educated overseas, that they’re somehow “enlightened” and have the right to criticize their country and mourn over the fact that they’re born there.

Normally I don’t quite like Xiaxue, but I have to admit, i actually like 2 of her blog entries. Read here and here.

Yes, I know Singapore DOES have its fair share of problems. It’s extremely fast paced and people are aways so kiasu about everything. Plus, it can get a little boring, what with the lack of exciting things like riots and protests. We can be rude. We can shove other people while trying to get into the train. But what the hell, I grew up here and I LOVE it.

Plus the food’s really, REALLY good.

Weird Dream: Teeth

2007-07-11T15:59:00.000+08:00

Have any of you ever had a dream in which you were eating something, say, an orange, or mango, or chicken drumstick, and a shred of it got stuck inbetween your teeth? And throughout the entire duration of the dream you were digging, digging, digging into your gums hoping that you'll snag it?

I think my brain was planning having that dream. But seeing that it's MY brain, it decided to 1-Up itself and making even more graphic.

I dreamt that i had AN EXTRA TOOTH GROWING INBETWEEN MY TWO MOLARS. A friggin TOOTH. It hurt so bad that i was desperate to pull it out. I dug at it with my fingers, I teased it with my tongue, but nothing could coax the renegade enamel from dislodging. Finally, i managed to extricate it with my tongue.

** RANDOM FACT: Did you know your tongue is considered the most powerful muscle in your body? Think about it.

I spat out the offending tooth. It was small, discoloured and shrivelled (the runt of the set?), but a tooth nonetheless. I noticed a small, glistening chunk of my gums that were still attached to the root. I poked my tongue into the hole where the exiled tooth was wondering if the gums were weakened now that there was a gaping wound inbetween two teeth. Just as i did that, the tooth that was just in front of the gap started to wobble. Panicking, I poked it again. And again. And again. And then...

IT FELL OUT.

I became hysterical. I spat out the perfectly healthy tooth and began running my tongue over my teeth, hoping to God that that tooth was just a fluke.

Boy, was i wrong.

Slowly but surely, all the teeth around the disaster site began to wobble and fall off. I frantically tried shoving them back into the bloody, damaged gums and securing them into place, but it didn't work. Half the teeth in my lower jaw ended up in the pocket of my jeans. With the rusty taste of blood in my mouth, i called my dentist to try and get an appointment to see if my teeth could be salvaged, but she wasn't picking up. I felt a little ball of fear explode in my tummy. I freaked out and started calling her over and over, hitting redial the moment i went to her answering machine.

I woke up.

Quizzo!

2007-07-03T10:53:00.001+08:00

Eliza is forcing me to do this. Wait, no, actually i'm just damn bored. AND OKAY I'M SORRY THIS POST IS LIKE A FEW MONTHS LATE.

Rules of the game : **Each player of this game starts off with ten weird things or habits or little known facts about yourself. **People who get tagged must write in a blog of their own ten weird things or habits or little known facts as well as state this rule clearly. **At the end you must choose six people to be tagged and list their names. No tagbacks!

1. I am an obsessive compulsive nail clipper. 1mm is too long.

2. I am a germophobe. I don't eat food that's fallen on the floor, i dont touch buttons in the elevator (I use my knuckles), and I scrub my hands after opening the garbage chute.

3. My favourite part of my body (apart from my dazzling personality, hurhur) is my nose.

4. If i could fix one part of the human body, i would vaporize all ingrown hair.

5. I CANNOT watch scary movies. I end up getting very messed up dreams. The last time i watched/read something remotely disturbing, i dreamt that Nantha gave me syphillis.

6. If i could date a FEMALE celebrity, I'd pick Catherine Zeta-Jones. She has one of those ethereal, captivating faces.

7. If i could date a MALE celebrity, it'd be a tough fight between Jake Gyllenhaal and Tyrese and Jack Johnson (crazy i know) AND Mark McGrath.

8. I am insanely attracted to women with short hair.

9. I think Akon should be shot in the knees, and then in the balls, and then have his nipples ripped out with rusty pliers. Oh and Rihanna should stick to silent films. Well no, then we'd be able to see her. Maybe radio. But then we'd be able to hear her. Maybe she should just paint.

10. I wish i had smaller boobs.

PPL im tagging:

Dilla
Han
Dannia
Jia Yi
JY
Juni

Heavenly Father...

2007-06-26T13:14:00.000+08:00

Most of you who read my blog would know that apart from the posts on Christmas, i keep my views on religion to myself. But this article that i read has impacted me in a way nothing else has. This was a controversial prayer that Rev. Joe Wright opened the Kansas House of Representatives with.

-----------------------------

Heavenly Father, we come before you today to ask your forgiveness and to seek your direction and guidance. We know Your Word says, "Woe to those who call evil good", but that is exactly what we have done.

We have lost our spiritual equilibrium. We have inverted our values.

We have ridiculed the Absolute Truth of Your Word in the name of moral pluralism.

We have worshipped other gods and called it multi-culturalism.

We have endorsed perversion and called it an alternative lifestyle.

We have exploited the poor and called it the lottery.

We have neglected the needy and called it self-preservation.

We have rewarded laziness and called it welfare.

In the name of choice, we have killed our unborn.

In the name of the right to life, we have shot abortionists.

We have neglected to discipline our children and called it building self-esteem.

We have abused power and called it political savvy.

We have coveted our neighbor's possessions and called it taxes.

We have polluted the air with profanity and pornography and called it freedom of expression.

We have ridiculed the time-honored values of our forefathers and called it enlightenment.

Search us, Oh, God, and know our hearts today. Try us. Show us any wickedness within us. Cleanse us from every sin and set us free. Guide and bless these men and women who have been sent here by the people of the State of Kansas, and that they have been ordained by You to govern this great state.

Grant them your wisdom to rule. May their decisions direct us to the center of Your Will. And, as we continue our prayer and come out of the fog, give us clear minds to accomplish our goals as we begin this Legislature. For we pray in Jesus' Name,

Amen.

---------------------

Amen.

(thank you descend for the correction!)

Bad Week.

2007-06-25T12:17:00.000+08:00

This has not been such a great week. Firstly, my Mac crashed. So did Nantha's. MAC? CRASH? Those two words don't belong in the same sentence. They said that my motherboard, RAM and hard drive are damaged beyond repair. Nantha's power outlet something-or-the-other was faulty. He thinks that they sold us faulty sets. I'm beginning to have speculations too. HOW can 3 of the most vital components crash AT ONCE?

Did i mention that i didn't back up my stuff?

Bye bye 2 years of Poly work, countless drawings, photos, 1000+ songs and the photographs i've been ritually taking of the sunset from my bedroom window. Bye bye my portfolio animation that took up so much of my blood, sweat and tears.

I feel like i lost a part of my soul, as cliche as that sounds. I think that only those who have reformatted their computers now what i mean.

My dad insists that i must have downloaded a virus when i was recklessly surfing the net, as teenagers normally do.

Speaking of my dad, he got into a really bad accident.

He, my sister and our helper were on their way to my eldest sister's house in my dad's van when a taxi drove through a red light and crashed straight into the hood of the van on my dad's side. The two cars crumpled like paper. The van was totaled. My dad opened the door, got out and yelled at the taxi driver, "YOU ALMOST KILLED MY FAMILY!" over and over, which was true. Had my dad been driving a little faster, or the taxi a little slower, it would've crashed headfirst right into my dad. And judging from the damage to the hood, i really don't think he would've survived.

My mum called me at 11pm-ish, while i was out with Nantha, and told me the news.

"Is he okay? Does he have any injuries? Whiplash? How's everyone else?" I jabbered, a note of panic creeping into my voice.

"He's okay. Everyone's okay, in fact. It's only through God's grace that the timing was such that everyone escaped with minor injuries. Dad's in hospital getting a checkup for his chest pains. He thinks maybe he hit the steering wheel when he was thrown forward, but he can't remember." she reassured.

"Maybe it's from seatbelt restraining him while he was flung forward."

"Maybe. Anyway, just make sure Nantha sends you back."

In that few seconds, i had forgotten all past grudges i had held against my dad, great and small. All i wanted was for him to be okay.

I called my brother and informed him that our family was in a serious accident. Even he, cool as a frostbitten cucumber that he is, had a note of urgency in his voice that i hadn't heard before.

"Does that mean... we're the only two left?"

"Everyone's okay. Just a little shook up i guess."

"Whew."

I didn't go see him in the hospital because, being the wonderfully practical person that i am, i decided that he'd be discharged in a few hours and that i'd be seeing him at home anyway. One thing's for sure, though.

I came home and gave emphatic thanks to God.

Loser.

2007-06-22T23:20:00.000+08:00

Charis, just what the heck to you think you're doing?

Who, me?

Yes, you. Do you honestly think you can break into the media industry? Think about it. There are HUNDREDS of animators/designers in Singapore alone. What makes YOU think that YOU'D get a job?

Well, i DO have a diploma.. and some solid work. Oh and did i mention the fact that I got into the Semifinals of the International Adobe Design Achievement Awards? AND i got the highest grade out of my entire cohort for one of my Portfolio Animations? Plus now i'm disciplining myself to learn how to draw the human form so i'll get the principles and the proportions right. Surely all that will count for SOMETHING.

But you have NO work experience and a very small, rather pathetic portfolio.

Yes... but everyone starts out SOMEWHERE.

Great, so you'll be working in a small, smelly, B-grade animation studio, putting in close to 80 hours a week but only getting paid for 50. D'you even remember what Neil said? Do you know how many wannabe animators there are out there without jobs? And how many of them are struggling to keep up with their workload? How many of them are staying up till the wee hours of the morning trying to meet the deadline? Do you want to subject yourself to all that?

Well every job has its hazards but i....

Not to mention the fact that you suck at 3D modelling, and 3D animation is the future. 2D is SO 2005.

But...

AND also bear in mind that there are people out there who do 3D modelling as a HOBBY, and even then, they're better than you. Then what are you gonna do? Huh?

Inner voice?

Yeah?

Screw you.

Weird Dream: I met God.

2007-06-18T11:54:00.000+08:00

This happened coupla weeks ago, but i never forgot it. I dreamt that i was sleeping (i know, i know, what the HECK?) and there was this bright, blinding radiance that appeared over my bed. The glare behind my eyelids woke me up. I squinted my eyes as i sat up in bed, staring at the bright form before me.

I had never seen anything more divine.

All the brilliance of the sun and the stars couldn't compare to His brightness. My whole room was bathed in golden light. I saw Him looking down at me, not in blazing fury, but in quiet observation. I started screaming. I screamed, and screamed and screamed, because He was divine, untouchable and infinite, able to create a universe with a single breath, whereas i am a mere mortal, my lifespan would be but a twinkle in his eye.

I screamed because i was afraid.

I woke up.

Weird Dream: The End of the World.

2007-06-18T00:36:00.000+08:00

I realise i'm one of the few fortunate people who remember alot of their dreams. I've decided to start blogging about them so i don't forget what they were about.

I dreamt that it was the end of the World. The sky was blood red, the clouds were a swirling maelstrom. There was no sun. In its place was a giant malevolent eyeball, its pupil a swirling black mass, like liquid suspended in a vaccum. I dreamt that the people living in the eyeball were saying that it was going to explode and then the world would crumble to dust. I begged for more time because i still had so much to do, so many people to talk to, so many dreams to accomplish. I rushed around, trying to complete everything before the time was up.

I woke up with a bladder close to bursting.

I really need to stop reading Sandman before i sleep.

Glow.

2007-06-10T02:44:00.000+08:00

I made my way slowly to the back of the bus as the driver zoomed happily down the road, oblivious to all the passengers bouncing around like bobbleheads and cursing him silently for his slightly overenthusiastic driving. Since the bus was headed towards Little India, the bus was populated with (surprise surprise!) Indians. I saw one remaining seat, next to a rather typical looking Indian foreign worker. You know, with the 80's floppy hairdo and bristling black moustache, decked out in a checked shirt, jeans and sandals. Halfway to the seat, I hesitated. Truth be told, I sometimes don’t feel comfortable sitting next to them. Simply because, some of them can stare at you for so long, and with such intensity that you’d assume they’re mentally sodomizing you. It’s downright uncomfortable.

I decided that I was too tired to stand and wait for another seat to open up. I plonked myself down on the seat next to him and, completely ignoring his gaze, proceeded to whip out my PSP and gleefully mash the buttons as I played GTA.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him reach into his pocket and saw his fingers fumble around for something. After a few minutes, he pulled out a small packet of Hacks sweets, and proceeded to unwrap and pop one into his mouth. I glanced at the packet and had a sudden, overwhelming craving for them. I half-hoped that he would offer one to me. He was in the act of returning the sweets to their humble abode in his breast pocket when I saw him hesitate. As though he read my mind, his calloused fingers cautiously edged the packet in my direction. His hand tilted up in offering, in question.

I turned to look at him.

“Thanks!” I said, astonished, as I plucked the sweet out of his hand. As he continued to stare at my fruitless attempts to vaporize a biker gang on my PSP, I suddenly wondered, Oh my Bob, was I rude? Was it wrong to accept it from him? I immediately felt guilty. He already has a meager income, and here I am, happily devouring his sweets. I felt like such a pig. And then I thought of something worse. Oh my Bob, what if now he feels like I owe him a favour?

Just then, he pointed to my wrist piercing. “That one… no pain?” He asked in the softest, politest I’d heard in a long, long time. I smiled.

“Not much. It did at first, but not so much now.” I replied.

“Oh.” He said, smiling shyly and proceeded to continue watching my progress (or lack thereof) on GTA.

As my stop drew closer, I smiled and wished him farewell. He waved and smiled.

I had a warm glow inside of me for the rest of the day.

".. it is not the color of the skin that makes the man or the woman, but the principle formed in the soul." - Maria Stewart

THANK YOU.

2007-06-05T19:45:00.000+08:00

May 31st. I was sitting at home and staring at the screen of my computer. At approximately 11:59pm, I got a call from my cousin Apples.

“Happy birthday to youuuuuuuu!” she chirped.

“Thanks la woman!” I grinned. If there was ever a Mr Men Movie, she should try out for the part of Little Miss Sunshine. She always sounds happy. Even when she’s angry she sounds happy. I heard my phone beep again. I had THREE other calls on hold. Daaaaaamn I’m popular.

Nantha called and said sweet nothings that most boyfriends say and insisted that I mustn’t break up with him because he’d be forced to hunt me down and kill me. He’s quite the romantic.

Two of my favourite people Juggiekins and Vishnu called me next. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any better, I got like a ton of smses and messages on MSN (okay maybe it was just 4 BUT IT’S A TON TO POOR UNPOPUUHRER ME).

Thank you thank you THANK YOU to everyone who came for my small birthday gathering. I hope you guys enjoyed yourselves,

Believe it or not, people actually smsed me apologizing for not getting what I wrote on my wishlist. I was KIDDING. Seriously, what the HECK am I supposed to do with a Fedora? Someone bought me a Borders Giftcard, which isn’t as sexy a fedora, but definitely more useful. But still, thank you to that someone who called up Toys R Us to ask whether they still stock Etch-A-Sketches (Pssssst, her name starts with a “D” and ends with an “annia”. Seriously. It really touched me deep down, somewhere I don’t even want to explore.

Thank you to Little Miss Sunshine and her family for buying me the BEEEYOOOTIFUUL bag!

Thank you to the people who gave me the ultra funky socks that come in several cornea-searing colours. I really needed new socks and was gonna buy new ones, so you guys saved me the trouble! (:

Thank you to the three culprits who scrawled birthday greetings on my wall with a piece of chalk. You rebels, you.

Thank you to that someone who made me mouth-watering brownies and for the pretty necklace.

Thank you to that someone who bought me the awesomest t-shirt in the whole wide world.

Thank you to that someonewho made sure everyone sang along enthusiastically.

Thank you to that someone who secretly snuck everyone alcohol.

Thank you to that SOMEONE who’s been putting up with my bullshit for the past 18 months (no prizes for guessing who *nudgenudgewinkwink*)

Thank you to that SOMEONE who gave me the most touching note in the whole wide world that almost made me tear up a little. DAMN YOU FOR CRACKING THROUGH THE DARK, TWISTED WALL OF MY SOUL.

Thank you to everyone who wished me, or bought me stuff. Really. It was YOU GUYS who made my birthday special.

I love you, you, you, and YOU.

Birthday Wishlist!

2007-05-30T00:31:00.000+08:00

Harro! I'm here for a quick update. I've been busy as hell (yea, and pigs scuba dive) so i'll only be updating pretty sporadically. Anyhoos, guess who's birthday is coming on June the 1st! I'm pretty stoked. This is the first time in a long time that i'm actually having me own birthday party, not some joint one with my mum who's birthday is two days before mine. It's not that i mind joint birthday parties, its just that everyone forgets about me then. But this time it's all about me. ME ME ME ME ME ME.

Keeping with the theme, i've come up with a comprehensive wishlist for what I want for MY birthday so you all know exactly what to get ME. Hell, who am i kidding? Most of you people are cheap bastards. :p I only made this list to remind myself of all the things i want, cause i'm spoilt like that, yo.

1. Etch-A-Sketch. I will kiss the person who can find me an Etch-a-Sketch. I've searched in about 3-4 Toys 'R' Us outlets in Singapore but they don't seem to stock it no more. And i'm not prepared to pay US$6 for an Etch-A-Sketch on Ebay and another US$30 on shipping.

2. Juno Reactor's Labyrinth CD. It's a Goa Trance Orgasm. Available at HMV, methinks.

3. Headphones. Preferable Audio Technica. Mine broke. :(

4. Uhm, a new belt. And Socks. And Wallet. My wallet is crumbling to pieces.

5. A fedora! I always wanted a fedora. A black one. So i can pretend to be Michael Jackson and grab my crotch for no apparent reason in the dark abyss that is my bedroom.

6. Extremely Hot Male Stripper. Need i say more?

The ones in blue have links to view the item i'm talking about in case you're clueless.

There. That's all i want. Just 6 things. I'm not fussy. :D

As you all can tell, subtlety isn't exactly my strong point.
GIMMEGIMMEGIMME.

C'est la vie.

2007-05-04T23:07:00.000+08:00

Yes yes, i know, it's been AGES since i last updated. I've actually realised that it's pretty draining to do nothing. I mean, think about it. You have to THINK of ways to keep yourself busy, and that an effort. I just thought i'd pop by to ask you guys something.

What’s the most unexpected, downright uncomfortable person you and your boyfriend could possibly bump into while walking aimlessly around Clark Quay? Your teacher? Your parents? Your *gasp* EX-boyfriend?

My manfriend and I were walking around Clark Quay for no apparent reason (like we always do) a few days back. It’s become somewhat of a ritual; meet up at Orchard, makan, and then begin the long, long walk from Orchard to Clark Quay. Why? I have NO bob-given idea. In fact, it’s been our more or less fixed itinerary for every single outing for the past few months. Funny thing is, we never run out of stuff to talk about.

So anyhoos, we were walking past this new fangled club in Clark Quay when I saw a waiter who was casually leaning against the doorpost, talking to a fellow waitress outside. When he saw us, he stopped talking and proceeded to stare at me. I took one glance at him and continued walking.

“Friend of yours?” Nantha joked as he continued staring at me.

“Nah,” I replied, disinterested.

We had barely taken five steps when I heard,

“OI!”

I froze in my tracks and turned back to look at the snazzy club entrance. The waiter was grinning at me now. I mentally thumbed through a list of people, trying to recognize who he was. And then it dawned upon me.

Holy shit! I thought.

It was Raa.

It was Raa standing there.

It was Raa standing there and grinning like an idiot.

It was Raa standing there and grinning like an idiot while my boyfriend is standing right behind me.

It was Raa standing there and grinning like an idiot while my BOYFRIEND WHO KNOWS EVERYTHING EVERYTHING EVERYTHING THAT HAS HAPPENED ISSTANDINGRIGHTBEHINDMEHOLYSACREDMOTHEROFMADONNA’SPANTYHOSE!!!

I almost hyperventilated and died.

We have gone out before but you couldn’t really call him a boyfriend… He wasn’t exactly good boyfriend material. He knew how to work his charm, I’ll give him that, but was he the sort of guy you’d wanta take home and introduce to your parents?

Nuh-uh. You’d have a better chance of convincing your parents that your bellybutton lint is a malfunctioning toaster.

I guess I outgrew our little dating fiasco and we parted on good terms, so it was a mixture of pleasant surprise and downright discomfort when I saw him again.

Back to the topic. What the hell was I supposed to do?

1. Ignore him and run off. Wouldn’t that look like I’m feeling guilty and would therefore make the manfriend insecure because it’ll look like I’m hiding something from him?

2. Go up, give him a hug and start animated conversation with him. Yeah, real slick. I’d be single faster than you can say Snagglepuss Pussywagon.

3. Go up, indulge him in a polite and meaningless conversation and make an excuse to leave real quick. Sounds more like it.

“Hey!” I said, trying to hitch my smile in place as I reached out to shake his hand. “How you been?”

“Great!” was his cheerful reply as he energetically pumped my hand. “How’re you?”

So far so good. Now to drop the bomb.

“I’m awesome.” I pointed to Nantha, who was lurking a few metres behind me, “that’s my boyfriend.”

I saw something in his eyes. Surprise? Shock? Something else? I don’t know. And I don’t want to speculate.

“Hey bro, how’re you doing? Name’s Raa.” He said with surprising warmth as he shook Nantha’s hand.

“Hi. Nantha.” Nantha said stiffly, shaking his hand and drawing it back quickly. I don’t blame him. I’d act the same way if I was in his position.

We talked for a few minutes, he tried fruitlessly to convince me to visit the club. I declined politely and said that I was late for a meeting with my (imaginary) friends. I wished him all the best and walked off in the most dignified manner possible.

We walked away in silence. I had a jillion thoughts running through my head.

How is he?

When did he get so tanned?

Did he get jailed again?

Did he ever think about me?

Did he talk trash behind my back?

What will he tell the waitress?

Oh my God, why did I HAVE to bump into him?

Why did I have to be such a dumbass back then?

I felt my eyes sting with tears.

Why?

C'est la vie, my darlings.

C'est la vie.

A Letter to God.

2007-04-03T02:08:00.000+08:00

Click to enlarge.

The Woes of the Deli Generation.

2007-03-21T01:36:00.000+08:00

I don't know why but recently i've been having the oddest food cravings. Stingray, Cheese fries, Bubble Tea… BUBBLE TEA? Wtf? Am i pregnant?

Anyway, so yesterday, I had the urge to satisfy the gigantic orifice on my face. So I decided to make a tuna sandwich. At 4am in the friggin morning. Seriously, what the hell?

Now here’s the thing. My dad owns a deli (if you’re gonna say anything about how I have nice buns, I’ll pee on you.), so we shouldn’t have any shortage of bread right?

Wrong-o.

See, you forget that my family is Indian. Thus, my parents think, “Okay we won’t have to buy bread forever and ever because we have a deli and we can eat the LEFTOVERS.”

Therefore, if there are no leftovers, there’s no bread. And there’s virtually no leftovers so there’s virtually NO BREAD. Unless you want me to make a tuna sandwich with expired red bean buns.

So just as I suspected, there was no bread. Heck, no problem. There’s bound to be mushroom soup, so I can eat that with rice. No such luck. There was mushroom soup, but no rice. It seems that all the carbohydrates have mutinied the Welikande household.

There was tuna, but no bread.

There was mushroom soup, but no rice.

There was uncooked spaghetti (carbs!! Hallelujah!), but no sauce.

I practically had a seizure. You know the feeling when you desperately need a pair of socks and you just keep pulling out random socks out of the sock drawer but none of them EVER MATCH?

It was damn frustrating. What was I supposed to do?! Mix and match the 3 items? Here’s the list of the possible combos:

Spashroom Soup- spaghetti noodles + mushroom soup,
Spatuna (spatula?) Sandwiches- spaghetti noodles + tuna

OR

*shudder* Mushna Soup- mushroom soup + tuna

Nuh-uh. Nada. There’s no way I’m eating ANY of that. That’s like eating… oh… a Nutella sandwich with BBQ sauce.

And that’s when I realised that God LOVES playing practical jokes on me.

I opened up the fridge and hoped that maybe, if I stared hard enough, I’d be able to magically conjure a loaf of bread out of thin air. Suddenly, I spotted a WHOLE LOAF OF BREAD at the back for the fridge! I nearly wet my pants. “Tuna sandwich here I come!” I thought as I pulled it out of the fridge. I was about to tear open the packaging when I noticed these black spots all over the bread.

Bread Mould? Nope.

Bread made out of the skins of 101 helpless Dalmatian puppies? Nup.

RAISINS.

Great. Just great.

Ah well…

Tuisin Sandwiches, anyone?

Does anyone want PORNO?

2007-03-07T03:43:00.000+08:00

I found this excellent clip on non other than trusty Youtube.

OMGYESYOUTUBEHASPORN! *gasp*

I can't remember exactly how i found it, though i do remember searching for Shakira videoclips. A very coincidental typo, maybe? Actually it's soft porn. Why the hell do they call it soft porn? Words like soft, limp, flaccid and butt-hair should never be in the same sentence with the word porn. But anyway, here you go.

Did i mention that it's from KERALA?

Don't say i didn't warn you.

P.S. Have I mentioned how much i really really REALLY love the music? Especially the part where it quavers when she lies down. Priceless.

P.P.S. Is it just me, or was he trying to SNIFF her to death?

"The horror... the horror..." -Marlon Brando: Apocalypse Now! (1973)

Having Everything and Nothing.

2007-03-05T02:46:00.000+08:00

"But I cant," he says, his voice barely a whisper, "I can't afford it."

I glance over at Jet. I sensed him wince with embarrassment on the inside. I let out a mental sigh. This scene has probably garnered the most number of reruns in the history of awkward moments. Two bucks isn’t much for a pretzel, but for him, it equals to approximately half an hour slaving in MacD’s. No pretzel is worth that much. I honestly feel sorry for him. His family isn’t well off so he has to work to afford life’s little delights; like eating. He mumbles some excuse about going to the toilet so he wouldn’t have to hang around while we munch on our chocolate encrusted treats. I turn to look at the third component of our Three Amigos. He stares off into space, pretending nothing happened. I feel a tiny prick of anger in my solar plexus.

Roy, who is a model, probably earns more on one assignment than Jet’s total family income in a month. He takes taxis wherever he goes and never eats at anything less than Subway or a fast food joint. He comes from a rich, affluent family and supposedly has quite a tidy sum tucked away in his bank account. He treats waitstaff like crap and thinks nothing about tossing candy wrappers on the street because, well, it ain’t easy being fabulous. In short, he was born with a silver foot in his mouth. I still remember once when Jet and I accompanied him to look for white crocodile shoes. I managed to spot a pair, which he grabbed and proceeded to try on. I saw the pricetag and felt my sphincter pucker up. 400 smackers.

“Dude!” I whispered aghast, “look at the price of the thing!”.

“I know! Pretty reasonable isn’t it? And there’s a 20% discount too!” He replied cheerfully.

It was at that precise moment that I think heard my jaw hit the floor.

Yet, with his financial ability to use hundred dollar bills as toilet paper, he can’t spare two dollars to buy his pal a pretzel. I seethed as I pulled out the extra $2 out of my rapidly emptying wallet I affectionately nicknamed the black hole- ‘cause whatever money goes in is bound to disappear within approximately 30 minutes. I decide to hang on to Jet’s pretzel until he gets back from the johns.

I munch on my pretzel slowly as Jet’s imposing frame lumbered back. Stern faced, clad in a rather gory t-shirt advertising a rather gory metal band and about half a head taller and ten kilos heavier than me, he cuts an impressive and rather terrifying figure. Yet, in our two years of friendship, he has never been anything but extremely, borderline diabetically sweet to me. We get along like milk and cookies, he and I. Hell, two dollars isn’t anything compared to a friend. A REAL friend.

He stares at the meager gift for a moment and then looks up at me. His face cracks into a broad smile. “Don’t need to thank me. Just remember that you owe me big time, bitch.” I joke and slap him on the back. He whispers thank you and keeps quiet for awhile. I know exactly what he’s thinking: this has happened far too many times.

All this time, Roy keeps quiet and takes mental notes of the price of a Raoul jacket. I can’t help but notice the injustice- the nice guy barely gets by, juggling a job and school while the obnoxious one could probably marinate an army in the sea of cash he has.

Sometimes I wonder why I hang out with Roy. He rarely helps Jet out when he’s tight on cash and doesn’t hesitate to point it out behind his back. “I bet he’s gonna be broke AGAIN.” he’d snicker whenever we made plans to meet up. It made my blood boil, but I kept quiet. It’s not like there’s something I could say that could magically alter his point of view of people less privileged than him, so what’s the point? I’d rather bite my tongue than lose a chum over a trivial, yet insensitive comment like that. Besides, I believe in retribution. It’s all gonna come back and bite him on the ass one of these days. It was also a great comfort to mentally note that there is no way he could never survive working a minimum wage job, let alone study at the same time like what Jet was doing. Shifting from modeling to waitering tables is a heavy transition from a job that requires you to have an IQ of your shoe size to one that keeps you constantly on your toes. Working minimum wage, especially at any eating establishment, is a seizure waiting to happen. I took great pride in knowing that there’s no way he could be the person that Jet was.

Yet, at the same time, I feel sorry for Roy. Normally, when the three of us go out, he’s always a teensy weensy bit left out. Don’t get me wrong, I get along with him fine even though he occasionally rubs me the wrong way, but he knows that if I had to pick between him and Jet, my choice would, always, always be the latter. I’ve seen the way he looks at the Jet and I when we engage in our own banter or when he gives me a friendly punch on the arm. Despite the wall he’s built around himself, I can detect jealousy glimmering in the corner of his eyes because he knows that he doesn’t have friends like that. But left out as he felt, I could also tell that he sincerely enjoyed our company.

My assumption was proven true when one day, he blurted out, “You know woman, I really enjoy hanging out with you two. You guys are so different from all of my model friends.” He paused for awhile, deep in thought. “It’s like, I can actually be myself with you two. I can burp, laugh loudly, curse my ass off and you treat it like it’s perfectly normal. The other models are all uppity and so… superficial and materialistic. They’d would think I’m psychotic if I did all that. You guys never judge me.”

I kept quiet. He was in a bad state. It's sad when you know the price of something, but not the value of it. There was a happiness survey taken 3 years ago and guess which country topped the charts as the happiest? Nigeria, a third world country. When asked what makes them happy, they boiled it down to two things: Music and God. Two priceless, intangible components. The cost of the pretzel wouldn’t have even put a tiny dent in your account, but you can never cash in a smile.

There’s no amount of money that can buy camaraderie.

"He'd spend his whole life chasing heaven but never seem to find it, 'cause heaven resides right here on the inside"
- Kem: Matter of Time

An Indian is an Indian is an Indian.

2007-02-11T00:18:00.000+08:00

I was chatting online today, when an acquaintance (the word friend is waaaaay overused.) enthusiastically promoted this link to a myspace account he created. When I saw the words "Asiatic Aryan" splashed right across the top, I disliked it immediately.

To cut a long story short, the website existed to, as they put it, help Indo-Aryans "Research and discover their Asiatic Aryan origins, heritage and history, in the process corresponding with each other, establishing concrete friendships, building strong ties and a common bond of brotherhood."

Excuse me, what?

It also stated that, "We are not a political or Neo-Nazi organization. We do not support any form of racial prejudice, discrimination or right-wing idealogies (sic) which stems from fascism."

Wow, big words.

But, just a few lines later, it stated, "We do not recruit people of non-Aryan/Asiatic Aryan origin or add people of non-Aryan/Asiatic Aryan origin to our profile unless you are genuinely interested to seek an alliance with us or want to join our order."

Wait wait wait. Did you just say, "a common bond of Brotherhood"? "Alliance with us"? "Recruit"? "Order"? ORDER? Excuse me sir, but it's beginning to sound a lot like the KKK. Hang on, didn't you just say that you do not support racial prejudice? Are you schizo?

I continued reading, thinking maybe i could come across a tasty nugget of information about Aryans that i never knew before.

It was the biggest load of horseshit i'd ever read in my entire life.

The website was nothing more than a loosely veiled attempt at stating that the Asiatic Aryans were the superior race.

Some of you might be wondering- What exactly is an Asiatic Aryan?
Basically, an Asiatic Aryan is someone of Persian/North Indian/Middle Eastern descent. You know, the fairer, sharp featured, light eyed race. South Indians and all the "darkies" are considered the inferior Dravidian race.

I got insulted. My mum's Punjabi, so that would effectively make her an Aryan. But my dad's Sinhalese, so that would more or less make him a Dravidian. I told my friend that his website was the stupidest thing i'd ever seen after Borat. I also gave him my rather poor opinion on Aryans: I find them to be the most hypocritical, superficial and shallow people I’ve ever met in my life. His reaction was priceless. He acted as if i insulted his mother. Well, i guess i kinda did. In the course of the argument that ensured, this bit came along:

"But you're half Aryan what!" he countered.

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean that i'm proud of it." I shot back.

I find it unbelievably stupid how North Indians REFUSE to say that they're Indians. They go, "Oh, i'm Punjabi. Oh, i'm Hindustani. Oh, i'm Sindhi." Oh, excuse me, where are all these races found? In INDIA. Just because you're a little higher up in the country doesn't mean you're not INDIAN. The word "North Indian" has the word INDIAN in it, y'know.

I'm sure some South Indians have gone through this: You go to a club, and see a totally HOT desi girl standing there with hair ten sizes too big and clothes ten sizes too small. You go up to her and ask for her name. She gives you a bored glance, sneers and replies, "I'm sorry, I only talk to North Indians." Appalled? It happens all the time. There was also an occasion, after approving the fact that I was dating Nantha (a South Indian, d'uh), my mother decided to ask another Punjabi lady around her age (just for the fun of it) what would be her reaction if her children dated a South Indian.

She was horrified.

"Oh my God, NEVER! We would never approve of it. We have a reputation to uphold." She sniffed.

To this, let me laugh.

HAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

Excuse me, but WHAT reputation? You're telling me that you'd prefer to keep inter-marrying to make sure that your bloodline remains "pure"? Sorry to bust your chops, but your bloodline has already been tainted. A LONG TIME AGO. The inter-marriages are atrocious. Cousins, second cousins, uncles, aunts, so long as you're not in the immediate family, you're eligible. You know what's the messed up part? In sooooo many places now, the children are born with birth defects because they keep marrying within the family and re-enforcing the bad genes until it becomes apparent in their children. You know who are the other people who inter-marry this much?

Inbred Red-neck trailer trash.

You know, those low IQ people you see living in trailer homes, eating mayonnaise sandwiches and screwing their sisters. And all the while, they think that they're superior to others. Why? Because they're white.

It's alright, 'cause it's all-white.

Just because you think you're from a superior race doesn't make you a superior human being. You think that just because you're an Aryan people should throw themselves at your feet? If you have just an ITE certificate in Hairdressing, but you're OHMYGAWSHSOTOTALLYARYAN, would that make you better than a Dravidian who has a Masters Degree in Biotechnology?

I really don't think so.

For the love of Bob, we're all Indians. It's incredibly stupid how we're fighting amongst one other, saying that one is better than the other simply because she's two shades of L’Oreal powder fairer than the other.

I'm sorry if i've been a bit harsh. I know there are perfectly decent Northies out there (show me some luv, y'all!) but so far, the majority i've seen act as if they have a stick up their ass.

The last time a war was waged in the name of race, it resulted in the Holocaust.

What's in a name?

2007-02-09T04:59:00.000+08:00

"Eh, who's that?" My cousin Delano said, nodding towards a newcomer in our church we'd never seen before. I stole a quick glance at him. It's easy to recognise a newcomer in our church since the congregation was only numbered around 50. On top of that, he stuck out like a sore thumb in our North Indian church- he was African.

"I'onno. maybe he's the guest preacher or something." I shrugged, disinterested.

"Can't be lah! The guest preacher's name is Margaret!" Delano exclaimed.

"Well, maybe that's his name? I mean, some guy's have girls' names. I heard about this guy once, his name was Tracy. And there are guys named Kim and Ashley too."

"Yeah," Delano said, agreeing, "not to mention Jessie."

"Yep! So maybe his name is Margaret." I concluded. It was a long shot, but hell, what with all of the stupid names people are coming up with, i wouldn't be surprised.

A classic example would be celebrities. Where people name their children Rumer and Kafka and Dweezil and Moon Unit and, my own personal favourite, Pilot Inspektor Riesgraf. People actually name their kids that. Can you imagine? It's almost as though there's a mini competition to see who can embarrass their kid the most with the kookiest name ever. Oh and let's not forget people who name their children after dogs. For example, Bob Geldof's daughter (at least i HOPE it's a daughter) goes by the name of Fifi-Trixibelle. FIFI-TRIXIBELLE. What kinda inbred, boomshine drunken half-wit would call their daughter Fifi-Trixibelle?! I wouldn't call my dog that. Hell, i wouldn't call my troll-haired, stuffed orangutan who keeps me company every night that. He answers to the name Mr Snugglecakes, and Mr Snugglecakes ONLY.

I digress.

Back to the topic of names. The thing about names is that it's got to have meaning. You can give your kid the prettiest name in the world but if it doesn't have a meaning, then it's as good as giving him a fancy car with no engine- it's nice to look at and may seem impressive at first, but in reality, it's completely useless.

I glanced up at the middle aged African gentleman decked out in his suit and tie and slick brown shoes that didn't seem to match the rest of his ensemble. He didn't look like a Margaret. Maybe he was supposed to be Mark Gareth? I wondered if people gave him funny looks when he told them their name. Did he curse his parents for giving him a name like that? Was he still pissed at them? Would a double barrell shotgun settle all differences between them?

Just as all these thoughts were ricocheting around happily inside my head, the pastor came up to my friends and i who were milling around the entrance, waiting for the service to start. Behind him was an old but sprightly caucasian lady with a twinkle in her eye. I liked her immediately. And then it hit me. Oh no, i thought.

"Hey guys, i want you all to meet someone very important."

Oh no....

"She's going to be our speaker for today."

Oh please no....

"Her name.."

Oh please.... please oh God...

"is...."

Please God, don't let her name be Margaret...

"Sister..."

THANK GOD!

"... Margaret."

Crap.

Delano and I exchanged significant looks and greeted her politely. I could sense his laughter bubbling dangerously close to the surface.

"Oh." I said sheepishly, the moment she was out of earshot.

Delano grinned. "I think "Oh" is about right."

Selfish Suicide.

2007-01-28T20:47:00.000+08:00

I should've seen it coming. It started with that dream i had. No, i'm not being overly dramatic, but whenever i have poignant, disturbing dreams that i never ever seem to forget, it always ends up holding some weight. I saw him crying, crying, crying about his ex-girlfriend. Telling me that he loved her. When i woke up, i asked him about it. He said he'd never go back to that bitch.

Then it was the blog. I thought he was trying to imitate his friend's style of morbid writing. None of us ever suspected he was gonna actually do it. You had so much going for you. You were, as the overused phrase goes, "full of potential".

It's messed up, how schools educate you on fire drills, for theft, for terrorist attacks, unwanted pregnancies, dengue fever and other miscellaneous hazards. But they never prep you for the single most devastating blow of your life. Death.

Death's funny. It draws people together. It tears people apart. It reduces us to bawling lumps of goo. It gives us an inner strength we never knew we had. But one thing's for sure. The moment you taste it, you'll never be the same. The moment you realise that the person you knew no longer exists, when you can no longer feel the warmth of their flesh or the magic of their smile, something inside of you dies. It doesn't matter how big a role they played in your life. It could've been your loved ones, your best friend, an acquaintance, someone you acknowledge on the street on your way to work, hell, it could be the old tai tai with the greenish tattooed eyebrows you buy popiah from. Death always gets to you. And that's okay. It's normal for death to get to you.

It's messed up when the person whose existence was snuffed out welcomed death with open arms. Went looking for it, even.

There's only one word to describe suicide: selfish.
You had it easy, my friend. You escaped. Now we're left behind cleaning up the broken pieces.

When i heard the news, i was devastated. I almost cried. I'm not going to be hypocritical and say that i'm going to miss you and all that jazz because, simply put, you and i were never that close. I knew you, i hung out with you, i thought you were an awesome guy. But we never were truly "buddies". I'm upset because it was so....

...preventable.

Soggy Biscuit.

2007-01-26T00:14:00.000+08:00

Normally I enjoy my walks to school. I'd blast the Prodigy in a valiant effort to prep myself for the day, and take in the panoramic view of congested traffic from the overhead bridge. However, there was something different today. The smell was different. It wasn't a noticeable change, not one of those smells that slap you in the face, but more of a gentle tickling under the armpits. I couldn't place it. It was bland yet sour, unique yet disturbingly familiar. I mentally sorted through a mountain of possible reasons. None seemed to fit. The closest conclusion i could draw was fertilizer. But i never knew fertilizer smelt like..... THAT. I decided that there was no reason to force myself to sprain a brain muscle trying to recognize it. I'll wait for it to jump out at me. I put it to the back of my mind and decided to concentrate on school.

Later, on one of our habitual snack breaks, we walked past the Engineering block which also had the funky smell. Jia Yi immediately blurted out, "OHMYGODITSMELLSLIKE*bleep*!!!!!"

And that's what it smelt like.

A gigantic SOGGY BISCUIT*.

I gagged inwardly. Suddenly the smell was unbearable. I imagined the Engineering students engaging in kinky sex with a robotic hussy covered in lots of grease.
I shuddered.

Sometimes, an overactive imagination isn't such a good thing.

*I REFUSE to reveal what a Soggy Biscuit is just in case a random 8-year old happens to come across this blog. I refuse to be part of the downfall of society's morals. I know, I know, I'm awesome. :)

Oh my love...

2007-01-04T16:26:00.001+08:00

Oh my love,
What took you so long to get here?
What will you get up to?
Will you skip happily though the year,
Or will you reluctantly trudge through?

Will you get grass-stained knees and dirt under your nails?
Maybe blow a snot bubble or two?
All i know is that you'll be an old, old man
Before the year is through.

Will you blow past me again
Or maybe this time you'll give me time to catch up?
Will i be stuck out in the cold
Or drink from an overflowing cup?

Oh my love,
I have so little time to spare
And still so much to do.
But yet, strangely i love you
And, 2007, i know you love me too.

:)

Bah, HUMBUG!

2006-12-22T02:32:00.000+08:00

I hate Christmas. No wait, i take that back. I hate what people have made Christmas into. Christmas now is just a big jumble of tinsel foil, gift wrapping, stale Ferrero Rochers and the latest, state-of-the-art Christmas trees complete with musical lights that merrily twinkle to "O Come All Ye Faithful" (bear in mind that all of this, somehow, will always find its way to your friendly neighbourhood Karang Guni). We swamp ourselves with Christmas shopping, Christmas trees, Christmas decorations, Christmas cards, Christmas roast turkeys, Christmas double-chocolate malt triple fudge log cake, post-Christmas parties, post-drunken Christmas parties and post-drunken Christmas hangovers. After all that, we look back and realise that there was no Christmas in any of it.

I get really mad when people come up to me and start blabbing about what they want for Christmas. To them, Christmas... oh wait, hang on, it's not CHRISTmas. It's Xmas. Yes. To them, Xmas is nothing more than a pathetic excuse to overindulge in food and merrymaking. Come on, do you REALLY need an excuse? Oh and BY THE WAY, why are you bastardizing a holy day of ours? Even better, why don't you try commercializing Hari Raya and Deepavali while you're at it? Why don't you put up stalls selling Deepavali memorabilia or Muslim Prayer mats around Orchard? Why don't you contruct a gigantic ketupat or an extremely huge, extra-luminscent blue Krishna towering over Orchard Road? Why don't you force Starbucks employees to wear songkoks and a pottu on their foreheads?

Why?

BECAUSE IT'S DISRESPECTFUL.

I'm not saying that it shouldn't be celebrated at all. What i'm trying to say is that you have to know when to draw the line between acknowledging a religious celebration and commercialising it to the point where it's original meaning is forgotten. Thank God at least this year, there is some semblance of what Christmas is supposed to be about because they actually put up the Nativity story along Orchard Road, and there were carollers and stuff amongst all the other Christmassy fru-fru. Even then, it's infuriating to see a day that is supposed to be so sacred being dissected to bits and then reassembled with a gazillion unnecessary parts. Think of a normal, functioning person being chopped into bits and then distorted and disfigured and turned into something that looks like Charlie Chaplin's grandmother had a love child with Frankenstein. THAT'S what Xmas is.

I have to go.

I'm beginning to feel sick.

Quizzo!

2006-12-13T19:16:00.001+08:00

I’m only doing this because Eliza *cough*forced*cough*asked me really nicely.

Four jobs I have had in my life:

Waitress
Animator
*cough*Professional Bum*cough* Non-profit Photographer
My mum’s very own, personal bagpipe tuner.

Four TV shows I love to watch:

Me no watcha tv. Except maybe the occasional SpongeBob Squarepants or Animal Planet thingy.

Four of my favourite foods (Not by country, please):

Lamb Chop with bits of almond from Swensens *drool*
Paper thosai with tandoori chicken
Rojak!
Jam. Toe Jam.

Four movies i would watch over and over (series are regarded as one):

Requiem for a Dream
Bowling for Columbine
City of God
Monsoon Wedding

Four places i have lived:

Potong Pasir
Bartley Road
Dover Crescent
Toh Yi. I know it’s a stupid name. Now shut up.

Four places i would rather be right now:

Petani ☺
Uhhhh….. Hawaii.. maybe after I lose some weight and can fit in a bikini without jiggling too much :P
Juhmaykah!
Scotland

Four people i think will respond:

Jiaaaa Yiiiiiii
Jiaaaaaa Yuaaannnnn
Jooooooniiiiiiiiiiiii
And *maybe* Shahmen :P

This Post is Long Overdue.

2006-12-04T02:10:00.000+08:00

Disclaimer: This is probably the longest, boringest, serioustest I’m gonna write in a long, LONG time. Not because I’m grumpy, but more because I’ve been doing a LOT of serious thinking and growing up in the past one year. This post might change some of your opinions of me, but I think that it’s about time I cleared some of the skeletons in my overstuffed closet.

You know the saying, the one that tells you not to look back into the past. Then again, there’s another saying which tells you to learn from it. That’s like telling you to do a maths problem without even looking at it. Maybe they tell you not to dwell on it because it is so discouraging, so shameful and self-destructive that it cripples any will you have to do better, that staying in this rut of vicious cycles is better than climbing up the ladder and looking down at what an unholy mess your life once was. After all, it’s hard to get the overall idea if you have no perspective.

Describing that the shit I got into as “messy” is an UNDERSTATEMENT. Sixteen years old and so cocksure of myself. So sure that I’d get my way because men are easily swayed. Sixteen years old and so full of trust. Sixteen years old and working at a place I should’ve never ever even considered stepping foot into. Getting mixed up with guys that ohhhhhhh if my parents knew they would smack me upside the head. I look back and wonder what I was thinking. Men who were convicts and potheads and psychotic. Men who killed their girlfriends and asked me out one week later. Men who would come up to me, breaths reeking of stale alcohol and their eyes glazed over from Ecstacy, asking me for one night stands. At first, I was thrilled with the novelty of being seen as “attractive” by them. Now I look back and blanch, because I realized that these people were hell-bent on making my life as miserable as theirs, and I happily let them.

I’m not going to go into details about everything that happened, but I’m sure I’ve told some of you, or some of you guys heard stuff that was/has been going around. Believe me, I’m more disappointed with myself than any of you can ever be. I feel like I’ve wasted close to 2 years of my life, hurt so many people in to process and now not only do I have so much of catching up to do, I’ve got damage control to take care of.

My partner Nantha and I have discussed this on several occasions. About how the hell I could have been so…. so… THAT. We were talking and talking, hoping that at some point in our conversation, reasoning would bonk me on the head as if to say, “You see, that's the answer, that's why you behaved like you did.” Finally, we realized it was just one thing,

I wanted to feel wanted.

There.

Simple isn’t it?

How embarrassingly superficial. Well I got what I wanted, didn’t I? They thought I was hot. And a host of other, not-so-savory-and-complimentary adjectives that run along the lines of … “THAT”.

Sometime earlier this year, just after I met Nantha, it finally dawned on me, like attaining Nirvana one year too late: WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING WITH MY LIFE?! Coming home drunk at 6am in the morning after work. Dating guys more than a decade older than me. Getting myself into situations where I KNEW would do nothing but tear me down. God has given me soooooooo much, and people would give their right tit to be in my position. Why am I wasting it? How can I say I attend church every Sunday when I am so….. THAT? Trying to get out of this pit is gonna be like trying to swim in sand.

I remember once, during a meeting recently, everyone was asked how confident they were of themselves. I remember being the only one who put up their hand. Other people looked at me surprised. I shrugged. The best way to test yourself is to put yourself in a tough situation and see how you cope. And I guess that’s what happened to me. Part of me is horrified at everything that has happened while I worked there, and wishes that I could, SOMEHOW, go back and change it. But part of me is glad that I went through what I did. I saw it as a sort of toughening, coming-of-age rite that would wake me up and make me bite the bullet and face a life that I had never experienced before. A life where people were double-faced and cold, where they’d just use you and leave you empty.

A lawless, Godless life.

I remember seeing the same customers everyday. The girls who came together every Wednesday through Saturday and sat at the same spot, but go home with different men every night even though they were married. Four men piling a stumbling drunk woman into a cab, with intoxicated leers on their faces, thinking about what was gonna go down. Guys getting punched in the face andand then bashed into the corner of the pool table, blood gushing from their nose. I remember the other waitresses putting sugary smiles on everytime they see me, but spreading rumours behind my back about how I was sleeping with the customers to get tips. I remember slipping and almost falling after a guy had vomited on the floor after drinking too much. I remember almost getting smashed in the face with a whisky glass. I remember the smell of stale cigarettes, alcohol, vomit and a colourful variety of other aromas that seemed permanently glued to my hair and clothes after work.

The whole thing, now that I look back at it, seems like a really, really bad gangster movie gone wrong. But I know that if I hadn’t gone through it, I wouldn’t have been the person that I am today. No wait, I take that back. If I hadn’t LEARNT from it, I wouldn’t have been the person that I am today. It was like taking a massive maturity pill. It was one of the toughest periods of my life. It was so hard to face the people who I thought were my friends, who would tell me that I was no fun anymore, that I wasn’t game for anything after I had changed. It was so hard for me to tell anyone anything because I had practically cut myself off from anyone who could help me. It was so hard to admit that I was wrong, I was wrong, I was wrong.

Apart from God and a few of my other friends (this means YOU, lafamiliajugsvishnufattyivansquishyandthechurchpeople), there is one other person I want to thank for helping me, because I haven’t been giving him much credit at all.

I remember someone once asking me, “Eh Charis, why you so secretive leh? Tell us more about your boyfriend leh! Put up a photo of him on your blog leh!

This is what Nantha looks like on a good day.

You, my dear, have been the pillar for me to lean on in my life, the yin to my yang, the salt to my pepper, the milk to my cookies, the mustard to my hotdog, the chapatti to my chicken curry. Okay, so I was hungry when I typed this. So sue me. You have been there for me when I thought no one else was, and have made me want to change for the better. Thank you for showing me that I AM beautiful, both inside and out, no matter what happened. Thank you for putting up with all my nonsense. Thank you for understanding me, when no one else could. Thank you for being there for me, even though I was taking out all my frustrations on you.

But most of all, thank you for loving me unconditionally.

The REAL reason behind Britney's Divorce.

2006-11-25T00:40:00.000+08:00

Now, many of you know that Britney Spears has filed for divorce against (with? from?) husband Kevin Federvisiblepantyline. I knew the day would come, honestly. As dumb as Britney looks, i thing she'd know better than to stick to a man who leeches off you worse than... well.. a leech.

They say that the reason behind the split is "irreconcilable differences". Psh. Yeah. If i had a dollar for everytime i heard THAT particular lame excuse... BUT ANYWAY.. not many people know the REAL reason behind their divorce. They say that it was "a series of events" rather than "one particular incident". BUT I HAVE PROOF that it was one, and ONLY ONE incident that drove all the nails into the rather pathetic coffin of their marriage.

This is the reason why.

Decadent.

2006-11-20T00:55:00.000+08:00

I know that i'm only 18.

I know that sometimes i act like a smart-ass.

I know that i can be irritating and obnoxious.

I know that i'm a long way away from mastering the English Language.

But for the love of Bob...

WILL SOMEONE PLEASE TELL ME WHAT THE HELL IS A DECADENT CUPCAKE?

Music.

2006-11-19T01:00:00.000+08:00

It was hard, i tell you. I bet alot of people had a difficult time trying to decide. After much deliberation, the people have spoken.

Mat or Mongolian?

HOW TO CHOOSE?! HOW?!

Singapore Idol was a clear mark of how modern music was plummeting headfirst into the fiery depths of music hell, where Vanilla Ice is crowned King.

I think music has degenerated so much in the past half decade. Not only in terms of the music score itself, but in terms of lyrics and values too.

Whatever happened to the good stuff like U2, RHCP and The Cranberries?
Now we got My Chemical Romance, The Pussycat Dolls and Black Eyed Piss. Fantastic. Blood, sex, and booty.

What happened to the good stuff like MICHAEL JACKSON, Tracy Chapman and Whitney Houston?
Now we got Avril Lavigne, Justin Timberlake and Rihanna. I hate Rihanna's voice. Seriously. She sounds as though someone made her sing with a capsicum stuffed in each nostril. And, as my friend Emily passionately put it, HOW DARE SHE TOUCH TAINTED LOVE?!

Whatever happened to the good lyrics like Black by Pearl Jam that made me cry?
Now we have songs that go "Dah tuu in a lureelurah".

Now that we're talking about lyrics, what's up with rap & hip-hop nowadays? What happened to the good shit by Tupac and Biggie Smalls and the Wu-Tang Clan?
Now we got Lil' Jon, The Yin Yang Twins and Usher.

I remember a conversation that my friend and i once had about Usher.

"You can't possibly be a fan of USHER!" I said, aghast.

"I love his music. And his lyrics are really nice." He retorted.

"Face it. Usher can dance, i'll give him that. But he can't exactly sing, and even then, his songs sound like they're written by someone with George Bush's I.Q. How hard can it be to come up with a song when half of it is filled with "Yeah!"? Plus, his nose is big enough to eclipse the moon."

"Eh! Don't go there okay. Usher is amazing. Look how famous he is." he shot back.

"So-friggin-what? William Hung is famous too."

Eminem was good at first. He had potential, because his songs were personal. THAT'S what a music artist is supposed to write about. Rap and hip-hop songs nowadays are basically about the following:

1. Sex
2. Alcohol
3. Women
4. "Booty"
5. RIMS
6. "Bling Bling"
7. Cars... especially the bouncing ones.

Not everything in life is about tits and asses.

It's like what Chris Rock said, "Back then, it was easy to defend rap music. You had to defend it, 'cause you got people going, "That's not music! That's not art! That's GARBAGE! How can you listen to that GARBAGE? How can you listen to that TRASH?" But in the old days, it was easy to defend it on an intellectual level- Why GrandMaster Flash was art, why Run DMC was art. Now, I love all the rappers today, but it's hard to defend this shit. It's hard to defend "I've Got Ho's in Different Area Codes". It's hard to defend "Move Bitch, Get Out the Way". "

Now that we're on the topic of music, i'll just rant for awhile about one of my major pet peeves. You know what i can't stand? I can't stand it when i'm a fan of a particular artist when they're not famous, and no one's heard of them yet, and then all of a sudden one of their tracks gets overplayed on the radio and they suddenly become the Next Big Thing.

For example, Sean Paul. I've been a fan of him waaaaay before he became big (in Singapore, at least). And when he released his The Trinity album, suddenly EVERYONE'S like, "OMGSEANPAULISTHESHIZNIT!" and they start putting up his videos on Friendster and MySpace and YouTube and Google and Booble. I seriously wanna stab em in the neck with a really blunt 8B pencil. Really. Oh and by the way, Temperature is one of his worst songs. Ever. Ever.

Same goes for Green Day. They reached their peak with their Dookie album. They seriously WERE the shit when they released that particular album. The word "were" being the operative word, of course. Now they're just shit. It deeply saddens me to say that they have fallen into the fiery pits of Emo-Hell, along with Simple Prawn and Burrito for my Valentine. Oh and by the way, Boulevard of Broken Dreams is one of their worst songs. Ever. Ever.

Have our morals really taken such an accelerated nosedive? You know, 100 years ago, you know what was considered erotic?

THIS.

Now, we don't even bat an eyelash when we see almost-naked ladies on billboards. I shudder to think what's gonna become of us 100 years down the road.

Have you done "IT"?

2006-11-11T11:56:00.000+08:00

"So...." he began tentatively, "have you ever done it before?"

"Done what?" I asked, acting blur.

"You know."

"No, i don't."

Hick blew raspberries. "Woman, i know that you know, so you might as well tell me."

"Fine fine," I said, grinning. "Yes, i have."

"Wow! How was it? Did it hurt?"

I looked Hick straight in the eyes. I saw new respect in them, as well as something else. I couldn't put my finger on it. A perverse interest, maybe?

"Well, yeah, for first-timers it does. But after awhile you get used to it and it feels pretty damn good."

"Really?"

"Yep."

He let out a low whistle. "You know woman, you're probably the only female that i can discuss this with. Most of them aren't THAT experimental."

I rolled my eyes. "You'd be surprised, darling. Most girls ARE. It's no longer taboo and i know a bunch of girls who have already done it." I eyed him cheekily. "Anyway, why are YOU asking me?"

He pursed his lips and thought for a moment.

"Well, my girlfriend wants to do it, but i'm not too sure. I mean, YOU know how abysmal her pain level is. Plus, i mean, alot of guys don't like to get into relationships with someone like that. They'd think she's a whore or something."

"Well, it depends on the individual i guess. Do YOU think she's a whore?" I asked.

"NO!" he replied, aghast. "I love her!"

"There you go."

We kept quiet for awhile and looked out at the busy street before us. I could tell he was just bursting to ask me something, but didn't know how to bring it up.

"Do you regret it?" He blurted out.

I looked away. I didn't know how to answer this one. "Well, some days i wake up and regret doing it. But on some days, i'm glad i did."

We were talking about TATTOOS. What were YOU thinking?

;)

Run.

2006-11-01T21:54:00.000+08:00

I want to run. I want to run and run until i can't run no more and hope that my thought's won't be able to catch up.

I want stick my fingers down my throat and hopefully i'll heave up all our memories. Maybe they'll float around in the air for awhile... confused and misplaced, before they dissipate and mingle with the other lavatory fumes. They always said vomitting helps.

I want to do something... ANYTHING to sandblast my brain into oblivion.

I want to erase anything and everything so i don't feel anything anymore, that i'll be blissfully cocooned in my own emotionless state like how i was before i met you.

I want a knife, so that i can carve out, and hopefully untangle the knot that forms in my stomach everytime we have a disagreement.

Sometimes, i want to slice you off too. Slice off your eyes and your smile and your hugs from my memory, rip them off piece by piece, tendon by tendon, bone by bone.

Because sometimes, i think you're too beautiful to be stuck in me.

Karang Guni Conspiracy.

2006-10-20T10:27:00.000+08:00

I was getting ready for school the other day, when i heard the all-familiar chant: "Kahlong-Goonie.... mumble mumble... parkour..."

Why the hell are old and wrinkly men talking about parkour? I know that chances are, they were talking about pak chor, but since i don't know what pak chor means, i'll just stick to parkour because it sounds waaay cooler. Imagine.... Karang Guni by day... Parkour- Superhero-Who-Scales-Impossible-Heights by night.

Fooh.

Anyway, back to what I was saying. I was getting ready for school, when it suddenly hit me. Not the Karang Guni, but what he was saying.

(K)AH-LONG.
Loansharks.

JANG JANG JANG.

I mean, think about it. Imagine if Ah-Longs were posing as innocent Karang Gunis, and go from door to door pretending to collect newspapers, but instead are going door to door collecting debts? It would be so subtle, wouldn't it? No big fuss, just go there and ask for their money, while pretending to ask if they have any used TVs and VCRs. And if the poor sod doesn't pay up, they get some of their cronies to put a pig's head outside their door that night. Or if they're feeling exceptionally daring, they could whack the guy over the head with their trolley and take his possessions and tai-tai wife if necessary as a sort of barter. And then his tai-tai wife will be forced to wear extremely tight, miniscule clothes that no drag queen in her (its?) right mind would wear and show off her rolls of fat like the many layers of a Big Mac and forced to work the streets of Geylang to pay off their debt. The best part is, she can't complain to the police because she is a prostitute and will be arrested. And even then, if she tries, the pimp will beat the holy-hell out of her and give the well-hung black brothas a chance to sodomise her since butthole pleasures are normally a no-go for prostitutes. And her husband can't complain because he was whacked over the head and ended up with amnesia.

I'm such a genius.

Either that, or i've been reading too much of Dan Brown.

Oh and in case your wondering, what the Kah-Long Gunis are actually saying is, "po char, wu sar kor", but i'm still gonna stick to parkour.

Britney + Country Music = ?

2006-10-09T04:42:00.000+08:00

Wanna know what happens when a bluegrass (country) band does a cover of a Britney Spears song?

THIS is what happens.

Actually, I kinda like this more than the actual Britney Spears song.

AAAAAAHHHHH!

2006-10-08T02:59:00.000+08:00

This is one post where I will be reduced to a little blubbering schoolgirl. OMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGIMETRUSSELLPETERSAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!

*blubbers*

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!

HE EVEN POSED FOR ME! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!!!!

*fans self*

Ok but seriously, his performance wasn't THAT fantastic, mainly because most of the bits were already online so i heard quite alot of his stuff already. And he spent alot of time interacting with the audience. Now that isn't exactly a bad thing, but that means that you'd have to come up with lots of impromptu stuff that is obviously going to be not as good as the rehearsed. But it was good nontheless. Not spectacular, like the Comedy Now! episode (the one with Tap Sum Bong), but good.

The opening act was this HUGE Greek guy named Angelo (see above pics). He was pretty damn funny. Especially when he made fun of his size.

"People often tell me not to worry about my weight, and say that maybe i retain water. *pats enormous belly* LIKE WHAT? AN OCEAN?!

And during the autograph session, Russell FLIRTED with me la! How cool is that?

Russel: *ogles at my boobies for a bit* "Whats your name?"

ME: "*blubber blubber* C... Charis.

Russell: *grins* "Caress?"

Nantha: "Oi! OI!!!!!!"

It was really fun, they actually bother to talk to the people that they're writing autographs for and not just sign then and just ask them to buzz off. They were asking me about my heritage and how the hell a punjabi-ceylonese ended up having a Greek name.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!

Was the performance worth the $100 i paid for? Nah, don't think so.

But the photos and the autographs? Priceless.

Some people have all the luck...

2006-10-06T04:21:00.000+08:00

... others don't.

I was unashamedly pimping my new haircut to every poor bastard who logged into MSN.. when i IM-ed Shahmen, showed him a photo of my new hair and said, "My hair died."

"Eh don't say that leh. Two people I know passed away over the weekend." he chided.

"Whoah! What happened?"

"One of them is a girl who jumped out of a HDB block... the other one YOU ought to know." was his mysterious answer.

"ME? Why would I know?" I asked, incredulous.

"You mean you don't know? Shaun's brother Anand passed away!"

"You have GOT to be shitting me."

"I'm serious."

"No way! What the fuck happened?"

"Motorcycle accident... he was the pillion rider. A lorry rammed into the bike he was on."

I gaped at my computer screen. I refused to believe that someone whom I had met barely a month ago was now stone-cold. Worse still, he went in a way that was so preventable.

I was at Shaun's birthday party, feeling extremely grumpy. The fact that everyone else was enjoying themselves made me feel even crankier. I guess planning birthday parties kinda takes the fun out of it. I sat there, sipping on a can of (what else?) beer, hoping the alcohol would make me more sociable.

Enter the tall, dark and handsome (shut up. i know it's cliche.) Anand.

He strode up to me and said, "Hey, I heard you were helping to organise this whole thing for my bro. I just wanna say thanks, man! You guys really did a good job."

I grinned and said all the mundane polite niceties when someone gives you a compliment.

We conversed for awhile, before he went to mingle with the rest of the guests. But even though we talked for barely five minutes, I came to the following conclusion:

He was obscenely charming.

If I hadn't been in a relationship, I probably would've been smitten. But due to my *cough* eternalandundyingloveformyApunehneh *cough* boyfriend all I did was occasionally glance at him in interest, then proceed to shake my head and wonder why Shaun didn't turn out more like him. Judging by what their father was about to say, I think he was wondering the same thing too.

Kesh came up and plonked himself down on the bench next to me. "Well," he started conversationally, "how d'you think the party's going so far?"

"Bad."

"No shit."

We sat there in contemplative silence, surveying the guests, bits of food and empty plates, forks and other assorted cutlery, and the occasional la cucaracha that littered the scene.

Just as I downed the remainder of my can and proceeded to crush it in the most macho way I could muster, Shaun's father came up to us.

"Hello you two. My family wants to thank you for putting in so much effort into Shaun's 21st birthday." He slurred a little.
"The old man probably had a couple of stiff ones." I thought and chuckled to myself.

He continued, "Now, if only the birthday boy wasn't being so ungrateful towards his friends and family. We did all this for him and he doesn't even appreciate it! How long are my wife and I going to spoonfeed him? Do you know, he hasn't even completed his diploma? He's not doing anything! Look at Anand. So young, and already he has a good, stable job and is helping to support us in our old age. When is Shaun going to do the same? When will he learn?"

I glanced at the Birthday Boy, sitting alone in a corner and staring off into space, ignoring the party we hand painstakenly put together for him. I felt a wave of sympathy for his dad, partially because I felt underappreciated by him too.

"Don't worry lah Uncle," Kesh tried to placate him, "he's still young. He will make mistakes. But he will learn."

"I hope he looks up to Anand as a role model. Anand sets such a good example. Now, the two of you promise me that you will look after Shaun."

Kesh and I exchanged amused looks and gave our word.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I snapped out of my reverie.

Looking back at what their dad said, I realised that the ironic thing was, it wasn't the more vulnerable one who needed protection. It was the older, wiser, more sensible one. I sighed. Life sure threw you curve balls. I picked up my phone, trying to think of a way to express my sympathy to Shaun via an SMS. Impersonal, i know, but i knew i would fumble my words and end up making a bad situation worse if i had called him, especially since i said horrible, horrible things to him about how he was a spoiled, ungrateful brat at the end of his birthday party one month prior.

After sending out one of the most difficult SMSes of my life, i turned back to my MSN screen. I'd received a msg from a friend of mine, Wan, whom I had met while working in a seedy Indian club. Wan was gay, and proud of it.

"Charis! Are you there? If you're there, can you reply asap? Important!"

"Yea i'm here. What's up?"

"My boyfriend and I are planning to get married, but I need to get my documents verified at a Singapore Embassy. Can you help me look for a Singapore Embassy that's somewhere in or near Norway?"

I searched online for a list of Singapore Embassies and found that the nearest one was located in Geneva, Switzerland.

"Eh i think the nearest one is in Swizterland" I typed, as i cut and pasted the link.

"Alright! Thank you so much!"

Sometimes, I can't believe that Wan, an average Malay guy from an average Malay family had, SOMEHOW, manage to snag a hot, rich, blonde-haired-blue-eyed morsel who lived halfway across the globe. Almost overnight, he metamorphosed from someone who waited tables in a dirty, obscure club to living in a modern, airy cottage in Norway, not needing to work anymore, travelling the world with the love of his life, and driving an orgasmic sports car.

I sighed.

Life sure could throw you curve balls.

Life can be such a bitch sometimes.

Lost Hair.

2006-10-02T20:06:00.000+08:00

My new haircut.

Watcha think?

:D

Coked Up and Trippin'.

2006-10-01T02:33:00.000+08:00

I was travelling over the world in a small rowboat. Just me, myself and I. Rowing rowing rowing, squinting as the afternoon sun reflected off the clear, blue water and stabbed me unrelentingly in the eyes. I washed ashore on an island. I knew I had washed ashore because i wasnt bobbing anymore, and everytime i moved the oars, there was a crunchy SCRUNCH as tiny particles of sand were disintegrated into even tinier particles of sand. The place beat the shit outta any travel agency catalogue. You know what I mean. Those places they feverishly pimp, like Barbados and Hawaii and Langkawi, filled with lush, beautiful greenery and clear blue water with multicoloured fish and flowers and bikinis. Only this particular island was completely bereft of bikinis and any other signs of human life.

It was absolutely breathtaking. I stumbled out of my boat, my mouth wide open while my eyes drank in the view. I wandered towards this immense waterfall that continuously emptied itself into a stream below, roaring in the process. All of a sudden, i heard the bushes rustle. Someone ran out from behind them and jumped into the stream, disappearing behind the clouds of vapour at the foot of the waterfall. MY SISTER?! I raced after her, dived in and swam into the mist. As I expected, there was a cave behind the waterfall. Only this time, it wasn't just a cave. It was a 5 STAR HOTEL.

I treaded water, and surveyed the thorch-lit interior. Then I proceeded to goggle in wide-eyed shock as my parents emerged from the hotel restaurant, martinis in hand. I dragged myself out of the icy water and, dripping wet, went up to meet them. They casually informed me that they were following me to make sure that I was still alive and embarking on my solo adventure. I told them that all was well and that I was following my map religiously so I won't end up lost. Whilst swirling their martinis, they wished me all the best as i dived back into the water. And then, the strangest thing happened.

The moment my feet hit the stream bed, the impact would cause me to ricochet out of the water like a human pinball. "HOLY SHIT!!" I thought, "How the hell is this possible?!" Yet, it was. Again and again, I was catapulted unwillingly out of the water, each time i was shooting higher up towards the roof of the cave than the last. Soon I was flung more than ten metres up. "Hell, since I'm here, I might as well make use of it." I grinned. I started doing flips and spins like a Olympic diver. Some other hotel guests saw my impromptu performance and gathered around the bank of the stream, marvelling and clapping like an obedient audience should. After a while, I got tired, and managed to figure out a way to prevent myself from being regurgitated out of the water due to exaggerated physics laws. Collecting myself, I waved and swam out into the bright sunshine, where I jumped back into my little boat and rowed away.

I saw a speck in the horizon and rowed towards it. I wasn't tired. I couldn't be tired. I was on an adventure and people in adventures never get tired because they are not supposed to. I was coked up and tripping on the adrenaline rush that always accompanies adventure like a parasitic siamese twin. I vaulted myself out of the boat and walked along the shore of the miniscule island. It couldn't be larger than my apartment. Nothing much to look at. The trees, though, were something else. Twisted and tortured, they looked like they had seen the worst, and were now suffering the consequences. The fruits they bore were completely different. They were shiny, a mishmash of sizes, and happy-coloured, as if to mock their makers. I looked inspected them closely. Some were pulsating gently and rhythmically like..... I looked all around me.... DILDOS?! Pink, blue, rainbow-hued, some were even black and wishing they really were. "Fit for a pussy buffet." I mused. I plucked one, and ran my hands along the plastic exterior, savouring the feeling. I contemplated taking it, then, remembering that my parents MIGHT be tailing me, decided that it probably wasn't going to be a wise move. I climbed back into the boat and rowed reluctantly away.

I checked my map. "Uh oh," I thought, biting my lip as my boat was lulled by the waves, "I'm on the edge of the Bermuda Triangle."

I was falling. Falling falling falling down towards the concrete. I closed my eyes as my life flashed dramatically before me. My teeth rattled as the floor of the boat made sudden contact. I opened one eye hesitantly, and to my relief, saw that my boat had landed squarely on the top of a lamp post, and was perched there like Noah's Ark on top of the mountain. The air was ovenlike, acrid and burned my lungs and stung my eyes. Blinking rapidly, I looked around me. The twin towers of the World Trade Centre were blazing. I watched apathetically as they burned, watched glass shatter, watched the people burn, their skin melting and blistering in the flames, watched the metal support of the building groan and buckle in the inferno-like heat. People screaming, running, pushing and shoving each other in a desperate attempt to escape. Car alarms went off. Multiple smaller explosions emitted from the buildings that were steadily being engulfed in the unrelenting flames. "Jesus," I thought, "I think i'm in Purgatory."

The smoke swirled around me, then formed an iron fist around my throat. My eyes bulged as I tried to breathe. I gasped and sucked in lungfuls of smoke. No fresh air anywhere. No stale air either. It was futile. Death was toying with me, breathing down my neck like the way a starving vulture eyes a sickly animal.

I sat bolt upright in bed, breathing rapidly and covered in a sheet of sweat. I sweared loudly.

I blame it on yesterday's Tom Yam and Tiger combination.

I don't care what you say....

2006-09-28T22:38:00.000+08:00

... but this girl gives Shakira a run for her money.

Monkey see, Monkey do.

2006-09-28T01:16:00.000+08:00

"MOTHERFUCKERS!" I snarled, the moment Nantha picked up the phone.

"What'd I do? What'd I do?"

"Not you, sweetheart. I was wandering through Friendster, and GUESS WHAT."

"Uh....."

"I found someone who had ripped off my Friendster profile! She basically copied loads of stuff from my profile, and added it to her own!"

"What?" he asked, surprised.

"I shit you not. And guess WHAT?"

"Uh oh."

"I found another bunch of people who have ripped off my drawings! They just happily take it off my profile and add it to theirs with out even ASKING me! Hell, i even saw some people who had copied my blogs and even my signature CATCHPHRASES. And i don't even know who they are!" I said, clenching my jaw.

"Looks like you have quite the fanatic fanbase." he snickered.

"Shut up."

"Well you could look at it this way... I mean, sure they might be "stealing" it, but isn't it like another form of advertising?"

"I didn't ask to be advertised. Some people wanna take my stuff and they ask me, that's fine. But ripping off my work without even telling me is just pure plagiarism." I muttered angrily.

"Well, you DID put it in your profile. I guess people just thought of it as freebies." he reasoned.

I kept quiet, seething.

"Besides, if people want to be like you to THAT extent, you're quite a force to be reckoned with." he added to pacify me.

"I guess."

"Have you tried to confront them?"

I laughed cynically. "And say WHAT? "Eh nabehcheebyeThevidiyaPundaiVervai'laMolachaKaalaanUngoyaPundailaKatrikka you copy me for WHAT?" I don't think that's gonna work."

"Come to think of it, what kinda no-lifer would wanna pretend to be someone else?"

"Must be something about my winning personality." I grinned.

"Uh *cough* yea sure. Anyway, why don't you blog about it?"

"I've thought about that, actually."

"Well, you'd better get to work then. Your fans are waiting."

"Shut up."

Colours, Colours, Colours.

2006-09-24T02:40:00.000+08:00

I remember someone telling me this poem a long-ass time ago.

I'm a black man.
When I am born, I am black.
When I grow up, I am black.
When I go out in the sun, I am black.
When I am sick, I am black.
When I die, I am black.

White man,
When you are born, you are pink,
When you grow up, you are white.
When you go out in the sun, you are red.
When you fall sick, you are green.
When you die, you are blue.

And YOU call ME coloured.

I remember earlier this year, I went out on a so-called date with a Chinese guy. Now, most Indians have a rather low opinion of Chinese people, mainly because we're just fed up with the way the typical Cheenapeks portray us. We're the black, smelly, umaganalingamaneh-gibberish-spewing race of people who dance around coconut trees.

Please stop associating us with the whole "dancing around the coconut trees" thing. At least we're realistic. We don't FLY FROM TREE TO TREE.

And no, the red dot (also known as a pottu) is NOT used for INFRARED PUPROSES.

Anyhoos, back to the date. He seemed like a really nice gentleman at first, which is why i actually gave the date thingy a shot. Boy, was it a mistake. We were walking around Orchard Road shortly after the New Years. Now, as many of you know, many of the foreign workers were walking around, spraying random people with the "silly ribbon" aerosol can thingamajigwhatchamacallit. So the floor was basically PLASTERED with bits of dirty, colourful bits of sticky ribbon/confetti stuff. So he and i were walking around, discussing the New Years aftermath that was permanently glued to the floor.

"Wah lau, look at how dirty the floor is sia!" he commented.

"Yeah, I know. I was here on New Year's, and the foreign workers were spraying everyone with the canned ribbon thing." I replied.

"Wah you mean the banglahs just go around and anyhow spray ah?" he asked innocently.

I got irritated. Not ALL foreign workers are banglahs. That's like saying all Mexicans are illegal immigrants. Besides, the term "banglah" is so derogatory. It's like calling Chinese "chinks" and people of African origin "niggers".

I chose to ignore his comment. "Yeah, it was pretty irritating. We had to go to a party and we were trying not to get sprayed."

AND THEN HE DROPPED THE BOMB.

"But you shouldn't mind, what. You're ALMOST a banglah." he smirked.

I stopped dead in my tracks. Not only was that WAY uncalled for, it also showed how immature and narrow-minded he was. I got angry. REALLY angry. You wouldn't like to see me when i'm angry. I get really nasty. I gave him the sweetest smile i could muster, which is a sure-fire way of gauging my anger in such situations, and without skipping a beat, i replied:

"Of course, sweetheart. And you're ALMOST a MANDARIN."

Charis: 1, Cheenapek: 0.

Quiz Time!

2006-09-22T04:25:00.000+08:00

Being the narcissist that I am, I made a quiz about nothing but MYSELF. Most of the stuff in there is nothing but random fun facts bout myself, so lets see how you do. So if you think you know me, let's see how you score ;D

http://www.quizyourfriends.com/quizpage.php?quizname=060921161225-468036&

Surprises surprises....

2006-09-20T03:38:00.000+08:00

"HOLY SHIT!!!" I exclaimed, the moment i walked through the door.

Bolted onto the wall, was a brand spanking new Panasonic 42-inch Plasma TV. I gaped at it. I was awestruck. It was huge. Ginormous. Colossal, even. It looked bigger than Pamela Anderson's bustline. Well, looks CAN be deceiving. ;)

"Well? D'you like it?" A voice behind me enquired.

I jumped. Standing behind my was my mum, grinning from ear to ear like a Cheshire cat. "It looks great, doesn't it? And it's so clear! I'll definitely be enjoying myself when i watch Zee TV now!" She chuckled to herself as she flipped through the channels to show how crystal clear the screen was.

I was practically drooling.

"How much did it...... cost?" I asked hesitantly, mentally preparing myself for the mammoth-sized price tag.

"Oh.... about $2000." My mum said airily.

I relaxed a bit. $2000 isn't THAT much damage for a TV that could induce Stage-3 optical masturbation just by looking at it. "But STILL!" I protested. "What did you and dad do? Rob a bank?"

"No lah. Dad's Deli (and no, that's not the name of the shop.) is starting to do better, so we decided to indulge." My mum informed me, before settling into a chair to sample some of our new TV's eye candy.

About five years ago, my dad got retrenched from his job. We had just moved into our new apartment and everything became topsy-turvy. My mum had to work two (or was it three?) jobs just to make ends meet. My dad tried out several business ventures that didn't quite work out. Believe me, he tried. He tried everything from pasar-malams to shops at Tekka Market. Tekka MARKET, mind you, not Tekka MALL. Finally, my dad listened to us.

My dad is an AWESOME cook. Believe me, his pepper crabs can beat anything that you can get at Long Beach. I've tried both, and i must say that i am not biased when i declare that my dad's pepper crabs with his 'secret' marinade wins hands-down. But instead of opening a restaurant, he opened a deli/bakery thingamajigwhatchamacallit. At first, i was skeptical. Maybe even pessimistic, after the first few business fiascos.

To my amazement, my dad's bakery was doing well. In fact, it prospered, definately beyond MY wildest dreams. Sometimes, i'm almost surprised when my parents fork out large amounts for stuff. I guess i'm just not used to the fact that we have ALOT more moolah now that we ever did before, even when my dad had his white-collar job. Back then, studying overseas was a faraway luxury for me but now it's actually a possible option. Call it luck, karma, or whatever else you can think of.

I'd like to think that life is full of surprises.

After my brief escape into my room to recover from the trauma of seeing the huge mutha bolted onto our hall wall (hey that rhymes! i'm so cool. :P), i went into the kitchen to grab some water.

"HOLY SHIT!!!" I exclaimed, the moment i walked into the kitchen.

On the floor was the biggest, meanest cockroach i had ever seen in my life (let's call it Ramasamy. I like naming roaches.). I was awestruck. Ramasamy the Roach was huge. Ginormous. Colossal, even. He looked bigger than Pamela Anderson's bustline.

Yep, life sure is full of surprises.

Pooooooooooopie!

2006-09-17T00:26:00.000+08:00

A list of the different kinda poopies one encounters. Laughed my head off.

Ghost poopie: The kind where you feel the poopie come out, but there's no poopie in the toilet.

Clean poopie: The kind where you poopie it out, see it in the toilet, but there is nothing on the toilet paper.

Wet poopie: The kind where you wipe your butt 50 times and it still feels unwiped, so you have to put some toilet paper between your butt and your underwear so you won't ruin them with stains.

Second wave poopie: This happens when you're done pooping and you've pulled your pants up to your knees, and you realize that you have to poopie some more.

Pop a vein in your forehead poopie: The kind where you strain so much to get it out, you practically have a stroke.

Lincoln log poopie: The kind of poopie that is so huge you're afraid to flush without first breaking it into little pieces with the toilet brush.

Gassy poopie: It's so noisy, that everyone within earshot is giggling.

Drinker's poopie: The kind of poopie you have the morning after a long night of drinking. It's most noticeable trait are the skid marks on the bottom of the toilet.

Corn poopie: Self explanatory.

Gee I wish I could poopie poopie: The kind where you want to poopie but all you do is sit on the toilet and fart a few times.

Spinal tap poopie: That's where it hurts so badly coming out, you'd swear it was leaving you sideways.

Wet cheeks poopie also known as the power dump: The kind that comes out so fast, your butt cheeks get splashed with water.

The dangling poopie: This poopie refuses to drop in the toilet even though you are done pooping it. You just hope that a shake or two will cut it loose.

The surprise poopie: You're not even at the toilet because you are sure you are about to fart, but oops, a poopie!

Blockheads... extended.

2006-09-15T23:19:00.000+08:00

I love blogging when i'm mad. I LOVE blogging when i'm mad because it'll-

a) Make me feel better

and

b) be really honest.

and OCCASSIONALLY

c)be really funny.

NOTE: THIS IS A RANTING POST. SO IF YOU DON'T LIKE MY RANTING, DON'T BOTHER READING. And this is going to be one of the very few posts which i actually dedicate to flaming a certain individual.

Before i get completely sidetracked, i'd better continue. So i was happily skipping through the shiny-happy Land of Friendster when i realised i got a msg from friend's friend (i am SOOOOOO tempted to *accidentally* slip his name in here. lucky for Vishnu, i'm being extra nice. Eh? Oops.). It reads as follows:

"apparently singaporean men do not satisfy their women to a sufficient degree both qualitatively and quantitatively... any comments?"

Oh yea, before you guys get confused, the guy is isn't Singaporean. Hence the reference to SINGAPOREAN women.

Obviously the FIRST thing that came to mind was something sexual. But since the whole purpose of the msg was still rather hazy, i decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and just give my most non-sexually oriented answer i could think of. So i said something along the lines of:

"Women (and men) often are dissatisfied with their significant others, simply because THEY WISH THEY COULD'VE DONE BETTER. Face it, we sometines wish that we can 'tweak' certain aspects of our significant others. Some of us even wish that we stuck by our ex's. We are often dissatisfied simply because we have an IDEAL person in mind, and since none of us are ideal, we never find that person."

In the course of our conversation, i came to realise that he DID mean something sexual. I should've known. I had a nagging suspicion that was further confirmed when he said, "Singporeans women are hardly ever satisfied with their men, thats why they are much easier to seduce, since they are always looking for something better, only later realising that maybe they shouldn't have! I LOVE SINGAPORE!!"

I got pretty offended. Firstly, it's degrading to women. Secondly, it's degrading to Singapore (though i have pointed out some major issues that i'm not exactly happy with in previous entries). Lastly, it's called SingAporean. NOT Singporean. I don't know what a "Singpore" is, but i'm guessing it's a hole in your skin that can sing soprano.

When i told Nantha about our conversation, he exclaimed, "Of course he means something sexual! You can't be THAT gullible!"

Wah lau. I'm not gullible laaah. I'm just too nice.

So anyhoos, i was still being uncharacteristically polite to him despite the fact that i knew he was quite a perv. AND THEN, he asked for my MSN address. Now, learning from past experience, this sorta thing can NEVER go well. I keep my new MSN addie very, very private and i wasn't quite ready to go around adding random strangers. So when he asked for my email i finally unleashed a bit of the bitch in me and replied, "For YOU? Nah."

And then he replied,

"point taken..at least i'm not wasting my time.. i would normally have pretended to be interested in your elementary opinion a little longer if you were hotter, but you're pretty average.. not worth the effort! good luck with the freak show look! Bye.."

To this, let me laugh.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

This might have had a traumatizing effect on me a year back, but i've grown up ALOT in the past 1 year. And honey, it's sad that you've got the "Sour Grapes" syndrome. Face it, if you hadn't been attracted to me in SOME way, be it in terms of looks, personality, "freakiness" or even the twin "Weapons of Mass Distraction" bolted onto my chest, you WOULDN'T have bothered msging me.

You know what's sadder? That you expect me to curl up in my foetal position and wail my heart out (possibly slit my wrists too, while i'm at it) because you called me a "freak show". To put it frankly, I'd rather look ten times worse than i look now, than to look anything like YOU. Jeez, is that your face, or did your neck just throw up?

You know what's the SADDEST thing of all? That you actually have to stoop so low as to go around on FRIENDSTER, (maybe you should try the old-school MIRC while you're at it. they can't see your face there! you're saved!) engage a girl in a seemingly interllectual conversation, simply to get pussy.

Why, Vishnu?

Getting bored of your hand ah?

;)

The best email in the world.

2006-09-13T22:55:00.000+08:00

Today, I got an email.

Dear Darling,

My early 4th month anniversary gift to you.

Loving you eternally,

Mr. Nantha

And enclosed, was this photograph:

Yep, i sure do have the best boyfriend in the world.

:)

Home-Sikh.

2006-09-13T04:34:00.000+08:00

Now this is what happens when you ask me to draw the word HOMESICK.

Birds, Bees and Blockheads.

2006-09-08T01:06:00.000+08:00

I'm sure most of you ladies (and men, if you swing that way) have gotten calls from unknown guys where the conversation ALWAYS, and i repeat, ALWAYS, runs along the lines of, "Hi, can i get to know you?", as though they're incapable of carrying out a decent, intelligent conversation. I love getting calls like that, because you can release alot of stress by insulting the person without fear of reprival because most of these men's brain's have, somehow or the other, migrated downwards to their balls. The thing is, they're so caught off-guard because most of the women they DO talk to are nothing more than a brainless, walking, talking set of boobies and a vagina, that meeting a woman who can do serious damage makes their big, hairy, coconut-sized balls shrivel up and invert into a cunt. It gives me great pleasure shredding their egos into itsy-bitsy, microscopic pieces. Whenever I get calls from random weirdos, this is basically how most of the conversations go.

Coconut Balls: "Hi, can i get to know you?"

Me: "Sorry, i have a boyfriend."

Coconut Balls: "Oh, then can i get to know you as a friend?"

Me: "Why? You got not enough friends ah?"

At this point, they're normally so stumped and spraining a brain muscle just trying to think of a comeback that they just give up and stop bothering me. Occasionally, there are slight variations to the conversations.

Like today's little SMS conversation.

Coconut Balls: "Hi... do i know you?"

Me: "How the hell would I know? YOU'RE the one who sms'ed ME."

Coconut Balls: "Yah ur'e right... i'm Ricky and i got your num on my phone tat's y i asked u did i know u anot... N i'm sorry if i disturbed you."

Me: "It's okay. And no, i don't know you."

Coconut Balls: "Okie so by the way now how can i address you?"

Me: "How does "BYE-BYE!" sound? :)"

Ah yes.. the sweet, sweet smell of the death of another male ego.

:)

The best photo in the world.

2006-09-08T00:08:00.000+08:00

I took the best photo in the world.

Told you so.

And then some.

2006-09-05T06:41:00.000+08:00

Based on a true story.

If only.....

2006-09-04T18:52:00.000+08:00

I've been thinking about Steve Irwin's passing on, and man, a BUNCH of "If only"s popped up. Here's a few:

1. If only the barb hit him in the leg or arm, instead of the chest.
2. If only he was just one more metre away, he wouldn't have gotten attacked.
3. If only he was at a different part of the reef.
4. If only the stingray wasn't startled.
5. If only the sting ray was as docile and tame as other stingrays.

I wonder how his wife must've felt. Collapsed in a pool of her own tears, clutching a photo of him to her chest? Disbelief? Resignation? Maybe she knew it was going to happen at some point. I wonder what she's gonna tell their two children.

"Daddy was a superhero. He wrestled crocodiles and fought to save animals so that you, your children and your children's children will be able to see them too."

More fuel for bedtime stories.

We'll all miss you, Stevie-O.

2006-09-04T17:16:00.000+08:00

On the 4th of September, Steve Irwin was filming for his show Deadly Sea Creatures in the Great Barrier Reef. Just after 11am, he was stung by a stingray barb straight to the heart and suffered a heart attack. His crew called for help and he was flown to the Cairns Base Hospital where he was pronounced dead upon arrival. He is survived by his wife, Terri, and two children, Bindi Sue, 8, and Bob, who will be three in December.

It's so scary, how easily life can get snuffed out, no matter HOW much life you have.
Death takes whoever, whereever, whenever.

Rest in Peace Stevie-O, we'll miss you and your baby dangling ways.

:)

Obligatory Survey

2006-09-01T00:52:00.000+08:00

Maman, i'm only doing this because i love you and the fact that you actually mentioned me in your survey. :P

10 THINGS/PERSONS I WANT HERE RIGHT NOW
1. Nantha
2. 6-pack of beer
3. Panadol
4. My Mp3 player (i neeeeeed to get it fixed!)
5. More beer
6. More panadol
7. A male gigolo
8. Well, make that two male gigolos.
9. Water
10. Sleep

10 THINGS/PERSONS I WANT IN MY FUTURE

1. Nantha
2. I want good drawing skills so i can whoop MunKao's ass and watch him cry.
3. I want better drawing skills so i can whoop MunKao's brother's ass and watch him cry
4. A nice house with a garden and a huge, slobbery dog that'll knock me down everytime i come through the door
5. Smaller boobies
6. A lamborghini
7. I wanna go bald, just to see what it's like.
8. Can i meet H. R. Giger?
9. A full body tattoo.
10. More piercings

10 THINGS/PERSONS I MISS

1. My cleavage piercing
2. Fatty
3. My mp3 player *sob*
4. The burger that i ate earlier
5. The innocence of childhood
6. Breaking hearts (MUAHAHAHAHA)
7. Squishing egos (MUAHAHAHAHAHAHA x2)
8. Jeremy. I miss you, you big fat lump.
9. My longer hair, i guess.
10. Harrassing random people on their tagboards.

10 THINGS/PERSONS I LOVE
1. NANTHAAAAA
2. My feh-mer-ree
3. Fatty (come back soon ok?)
4. All my body modifications
5. Farting
6. Burping
7. Drinking beer (5, 6 and 7 go hand in hand)
8. My close friends
9. A musclar yet voluptuous femme body
10. Bald chicks

10 THINGS I BRING EVERYWHERE I GO.
1. My sanity
2. A bottle opener (aiayh, you don't know when you might need it right?)
3. My wallet
4. My phone
5. My bag
6. Keys
7. My gas. I fart. Alot.
8. My glasses?
9. Soare change
10. Batteries. I don't know why. They're just there.

10 BLOGS I ALWAYS READ
1. Waiter Rant
2. Emmie.
3. Juni.
4. Maman
5. Tricia
6. Jia Yi
7. Munkao
8. KennySia
9. The Hollywood Machine
10. My own. Yes, i know, i could get off just looking at myself.

10 PEOPLE I WANT TO SEE DO THIS
1. Nantha?
2. Emmie.
3. Joooooniiiiiii :P
4. Jia Yi
5. Tricia
6. Munkao
7. Er... that's it i guess.

Bullet in the Head.

2006-08-30T23:06:00.001+08:00

Our helper, Menike, woke me up early today. At about 1pm (which is early for me!), she knocked on the door and insisted that she needed to clean my room. I staggered groggily over to my brother's room and plonked down on the bed, planning to get back to sleep. But my head hurt so bad, i could barely sleep for ten minutes before the laser-like ache that seared my brain woke me up again. I remember groaning in my sleep, asking God to stop the slowly increasing pain. It felt like someone had attached an air pump to my head, and was inflating it until the pressure would be too much for the walls of my skull to take and my head would explode, making a bloody mess on the pillow, ceiling, walls and cupboard behind me.

I remember, in the hazy areas between my sleep, wondering what could've caused the pain. Bad food? Maybe. Maybe the beer last night caused my body to dehydrate? Hmm, possible. Maybe the flux in the weather was to blame. Or was i *gasp* PRENGANT? No way! Nah, can't be that. But maybe if there was some kind of freak accident... and then... NO. No no no no no. It must be the weather.

I gave up trying to sleep, and decided to go find food. The sunlight was blinding, searing my eyes and killing more braincells. I ate some plain rice with fried fish, much healthier compared to all the junk i ate the day before. I decided to pop two panadols for luck. I knew that the glare from the computer would scramble my grey matter even more, so i stumbled back to bed and tried to catch up on sleep.

And then it happened.

I was tossing and turning, and i realised that everytime my head throbbed, my stomach would churn. Soon, it was more churning and less throbbing. "Oh please God.. oh please.. don't make me... i don't want to..." I whimpered fruitlessly. I ran to the toilet with half-digested rice and fish and remnants of panadol pouring out of my mouth like a smelly, lumpy waterfall.

Menike heard the war i was waging with my stomach in the bathroom and, realising that i was pretty damn sick to be throwing up so much, got me some vomit medicine. Thankfully, the dangerous-looking little pink pill stayed down even on an empty stomach. Even MORE thankfully, it made me drowsy, and i fell into a deep, deep sleep. Just before i dropped off, i remember calling Nantha and telling him that i was really sick, that my head hurt something horrible. He, being the wonderful boyfriend that he is, panicked and told me to go get some sleep. And then, while i was sleeping, he called me again and panicked even more because i wasn't answering. He then decided to make a detour down to my place on his way to tuition to make sure that i was really okay, that my brain wasn't disintegrating into mush.

Can't you just sense the love? :)

I had a few trippy dreams after that, and i remember my arms twitching alot in my sleep, like as though the headache was wreaking havoc on my nervous system and giving me Parkinsons. I woke up, face down in a puddle of drool. I flipped the pillow over and went back to sleep. I don't exactly have commendable hygiene practices.

I emerged from my headache-induced stupor a few hours later (6pm by now), my stomach rolling again. I ran to the toilet and, after a few dry heaves, began purging myself again. This time, judging by the acrid taste in my mouth, it must've been bile. Ironically, my MSN nickname was "The Call of the Bile". Maybe Jack London's ghost got pissed at my parody of the title of his book and decided to teach me a lesson. I was voraciously hungry and ignored the whole "once bitten twice shy" syndrome and decided to try and eat again. I sent a short prayer up to God, wolfed down my food, downed two panadols for (some more) luck and went back to bed. The food stayed down.

I felt like i had just conquered Mt. Everest.

Zoot Suit Riot!

2006-08-30T04:27:00.000+08:00

This is what i do when i'm bored.

And when i really bored, i go on Photoshop and tinker around with it.

I hate holidays sometimes.

Womad, baby!

2006-08-28T18:44:00.000+08:00

Because i was so disappointed about the whole Russel Peters thing, Nantha managed to get tickets for himself, my twin cousins Apples and Nano (as their super duper early birthday present), and I. I'm telling you, people who didn't go for WOMAD really, really missed out.

We went there extra early, about an hour before the concert actually started and there was virtually no one, save for the people supervising the stalls and the organisers and whatnot, so we went to explore the entire place. The thing is, there are SO many activities; workshops, performances, movie screenings, etc etc, that if you were to sit through them all, it'll probably take you a few days to view all of the activities for just one day. So what the organisers did was they put up several stages so that different performances can be executed at the same time and you can just go for the ones that you actually like instead of sitting through the whole shebang. However, this meant that if two of the items you wanted to watch had a clashing performance schedule, you had to choose between the two.

There was just soooo much of.... stuff. There were stalls selling mouthwatering food like ribs, cheesy nachos, pizza and BEER *drool*, there were stalls selling WOMAD souvenirs, there was a stall selling flowers, and even one selling indeginous African and Australian instruments! Hell, there was even a stall providing chalk so that you could doodle on the floor.

By this time, the place was starting fo fill up and we decided to be Singaporean and quickly reserve a place for us to sit.

And of course, we had to get sustenance, so we bought.... PIZZA.

The first performance was by some band led by this guy called Shambawalamalawala. Okay, maybe his name wasn't THAT long, but it sure as hell SOUNDED like it. I can't remember their names. Hell, i don't even know what genre of music they were playing. THAT'S THE PROBLEM WITH THESE DAMN WOMAD PERFORMERS!!! They married all the different styles together so perfectly that you can't tell if it was blues, cuban, or even jazz. It was... beautiful. All of us were just boogieing in our seats Halfway through one of their more upbeat songs, this African guy ran up to the front of the field and started dancing away. Some people were startled, but most of us were jealous. Jealous that we couldn't all just drop our inhibitions and dance without a care in the world like him.

Some of us tried really hard, though.

There were a bunch of white girls sitting right in front of the stage, dressed like they were gonna go clubbing. I swear, they looked no more than 14 or 15. Loud and obnoxious, they were.

The african guy (i hate referring to him like that but i can't think of a better term) tried to teach them how to dance, but it wasn't quite working out.

Anyhoos, we started looking around for something to drink cuz we were getting bloody thirsty. All of the stalls were selling overpriced drinks. $2 for a can of coke? Sure, lemme reach up my ass and pull out a fifty. Keep the change while you're at it, yaar. Coincidentally, all of the vending machines were "Not in Service".

That's my cousin Nano, standing next to one of those "Not in Service" machines. Wait, what's that you say? He's holding onto a can of Iced Lemon Tea? Let's take a closer look at that machine.

Hmmmm......

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

IT'S WORKING!

Bloody cheapskate bastards!! They put "Not in Service" signs in front of each one to make sure we bought their overpriced drinks instead! But guess what? YOU COULDN'T FOOL US! MUAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAA...... ha.

Anyhoos, back to WOMAD.

We were roaming around, when we came across the African guy (ARGH!!!) holding a workshop on African dance, music and musical instruments. He was AMAZING! He could play an arsenal of instruments with no problem at all!

He was trying to encourage us to participate by speaking our language which he thought, was Singlah. Well, it isn't exactly wrong, since we use "lah" alot, but the more accepted term would be SINGLISH. He would look at us and exclaim, "Come on lah!" But since his accent had a tinge of Jamaican in it, it sounded more like, "COH-MAHN Lah!".

Hilarious!

Also, while i was sitting there, i saw this lady (i suspect she was Russian) with of THE coolest tattoos ever. It was so cool, i HAD to ask her if i could take a photo of it.

Now, don't get me wrong, i don't approve of communism. But it takes quite a bit of guts (or stupidity, you decide.) to get a tattoo like that and wear a halter top and parade it around in Singapore.

It was beginning to get dark, so the four of us made our way back to the big field to watch the next performance. The group that was coming up played such awesome music that a bunch of people got up to dance, including a bunch of drunk mats and a Kollywood couple.

Now, all that's missing is a coconut tree.

And they had a 60's hippie friend.

I wouldn't wear that even if you put a gun to my head.

And if you think THAT was bad, check THIS out.

I think WOMAD brought out the best and the worst in all of us. Wah lau eh, she looked like she was 50! Cmon! Maybe YOU'RE comfortable in your own skin, and that's fine and dandy and all, but here's the thing, WE'RE NOT. So give our eyes a day off.

The Indian dance was UHMAYZING. This lady had like SEVEN pots on her head and she was dancing around without breaking a sweat!

At one point, she even stood on knives!

And as if THAT didn't give the performance enough pizzaz, she stood on a metal bowl, and then tilted and rotated the bowl with her feet to move around!

That REALLY took the cake. Or in this case, leddu. Or vadai. Or thosai.

Oh, oh, oh, i ALMOST forgot. The same lady did another dance but this time she had a sidekick. But i swear, i think it was a tranny.

SEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE. Doesn't it look like a tranny? She (it?) even does a kickass impersonation of Emily Rose.

There was this North Indian young dude taking photos next to me. I tapped him on the shoulder and asked, "Dude, is it just me or does that chick look like a guy?" His reaction? "NO SHIT! I was thinking the same thing!" When they went back up for the encore and they announced his/her/its name to come up, he yelled, "HAI HAI, MERI JAAN!". Loosely translated he basically yelled, "Oh, you are my life!". I burst out laughing. Later we found out that she IS actually a woman. She's just really manly (think Chyna from WWF). We were almost disappointed. It would've been much more interesting if it WAS a dude.

What i think was the most captivating item of the evening was Suasana Baca, a Peruvian singer (she looked in her late 40s to early 50s) with the most bewitching vocals. Oh and did i mention that i really, REALLY liked her hair? :)

She was so graceful, and just radiated calmness and her whole performance was like a breather from the rest of the upbeat, almost frantic activities. By this time, the sun had long set, and the sky was brimming over with stars. I rested my head on Nantha's tummy and the both of us were lying there and we just let the music sink in. It was... to put it simply, breathtaking. It's one of those few moment's that you wanna hide it somewhere completely secret, so that you never ever lose it.

And while we were walking down after everything was over, Nantha got run over and died tragically in my arms.

Kidding lah!

But we DID meet Saint Martin's Doctor.

I told you so.

And we also saw a sign that kept playing mind games with us.

Toshops&offices.Youseehowharditistoreadasignwithnospacingsinbetween?Nexttimeremembertoputspacingsinbetweeneachwordsowedon'tgetaseizuretryingtoreadit.

But seriously, buying a ticket for WOMAD was $26 well spent. I've never been so saturated in music in my entire life.

But one thing keeps bugging me. Remember the Indian Tranny look-alike i mentioned earlier? I think i've seen her in a movie before.

Scream, maybe? :P

And the Truth Shall Set You Free.

2006-08-28T00:29:00.000+08:00

You know what i can't stand?

1. I can't stand the fact that I'm charged the midnight fare when i hail a taxi at 11:30pm. 11:30pm, mind you, NOT midnight.

2. I can't stand the fact that I spend 20% of my allowance on bus fare a week, even though i WALK to school.

3. I can't stand the fact that it's always an UGLY Chinese girl who is, a. Miss Singapore; and b. on advertisements; when there are perfectly decent Malays and Indians out there.

But here is my latest pet peeve.

I'm sure all you Singaporeans know about the "Ribbon" projects.

Green and White Ribbon: Anti Drugs

Pink Ribbon: Breast Cancer Awareness

Yellow Ribbon: Unlocking the Second Prison, i.e. Giving ex-Convicts a better chance at finding jobs.

Singapore has come up with this stupid ORANGE Ribbon Project to celebrate our racial DIVERSITY (and TOLERANCE). Bullshit. So what if we have racial diversity? Throw some Indians into China and they'll have racial diversity too. Hell, Australia is racially diverse, but that doesn't mean that there is equality. There are still dozens of homeless indeginous people, and all their half-breeds are looked down upon. Nobody gives a flying fuck about racial diversity. Start talking about racial EQUALITY and then maybe I'll start paying attention. They try to make us happy by giving us a cheap alternative to what we deserve. Here's MY definitions of racial diversity, tolerance and equality.

Racial Diversity means having a great variety of different races.

Racial Tolerance means that you can walk in public without fear of getting stabbed, gunned down or harrassed.

Racial Equality means that if we go for a job interview, only our PERFORMANCE will be in question, and not the different colours of our skins and our different cultures.

This whole Ribbon Ribbon thing is a bloody waste of time. What, you think that now just because of a piece of yellow cloth, an ex-convict is going to breeze through an interview? Don't get me wrong, i'm sure you've raised awareness, but here's my question, what's the bloody point? Face it, in Singapore, if you are jailed, your life is OVER. O-V-E-R. There MAY be a handful of employers now who might be half-willing to employ an ex-convict, but the majority are still going to be reluctant.

The government has a stranglehold over the media. Their motto is, "You all have freedom of speech, just don't say anything bad about us." Hell, they caused a Today! newspaper editor to lose his job after he wrote his opinion on the constant rise of the cost of living in Singapore. You tell us to be creative, but we have to keep a lid on it, like asking us to squeeze a tube of toothpaste with the cap still on.

No doubt, i might get into trouble for this post, if it IS discovered.

What? Didn't you know? It's illegal to have an opinion in this country.

In Remembrance of Mt. Ophir.

2006-08-27T20:24:00.000+08:00

I was in the taxi today, on my way home from church when i noticed something pasted to the left side of the windshield. A cloth badge, with the words "Gunung Ledang, Mt. Ophir, 4, 186 ft" stiched on it. I looked at the elderly Malay driver and asked, "Boss, you climbed Gunung Ledang before ah?"

He took an affectionate glance at the badge and replied, "Yah, wah it was terok (terrible) man. When i was climbing, i was thinking to myself, what am i doing here when i can be watching TV at home? But when i reached the peak, wah i tell you, it was worth it man. The view is beautiful! But I tell you ah, the place is very disturbing. Got alot of rumours and spirits."

"Yah, my friend was telling me that when he and his friends were trekking up, one of the nights they were telling ghost stories. And then one of their friends got possessed." I added.

"There! You see! They say that when you climb, never split up. Very dangerous. Because when you regroup later, you think that you're with your friends, but actually they're not your friends. It's actually a hantu (ghost). When we were climbing down from the summit ah, we saw a panther! Wah we were all on guard man! We got ready our knives and parangs. We don't even know if it was a panther. It was so dark and all we could see were two yellow eyes staring at us. Might have been a hantu!" He chuckled good-naturedly.

He turned to give me a knowing look. "But one thing's for sure. When you are climbing, you will find out who your true friends are."

How true.

Our taxis pulled up at the entrance of the hotel at the foot of Mt. Ophir, and i was wondering how come the place looked so familiar. And then i recalled that i had actually come here for a camp many moons ago. However, the hotel looked more dilapidated than it did a few years ago. The place was practically deserted save for a few other families, and I could sense resignation in the air, as though the hotel itself sighed, sagged and gave itself up to the ghost of it's disintegrating commercial value. The moment we stepped out of our respective taxis, the stench that hit us was so god-awful, i almost doubled over and puked. Apparently they marinated the place in fertilizer to help the plants grow. It stank so bad that even the FLIES died.

I remember all the blood, sweat and tears we shed on the way up there. The first bit, we had to climb up like about 200 flights of stairs, and that was the easiest bit. At some points, we had to clamber up rocks and tree roots. It was quite a feat doing all that with 8kg bags on our back. We gashed our hands open, got blisters in places we never even knew we had, and one poor boy even got a leech that decided to attach itself to his bum.

When we reached the first checkpoint, we quickly pitched our tents and Mickey and I decided to go down to the river to take a swim. THE WATER WAS SO FRICKIN COLD. And there were little brown fishies that kept nibbling away at our skin, eating up all the sweat and the dead bits. It was so nice, to be standing in the crystal clear water, digging your toes into the mud, looking down at all the fish taking gentle pecks at your toes.

Sleeping was a complete nightmare, though. I'm a really light sleeper, so i kept waking up every hour. Plus, it was raining and the the floor of the tent was flooded. And then at about 5am in the morning, i decided i needed to pee, and i somehow managed to psycho two other girls (there were four of us in the tent) that we needed to pee. The problem was, it was raining too hard and it was too dark for us to go out. The guys were sleeping in a tent next to ours, so we called over and asked them what we should do. And they came up with the most practical solution. Pee into a ziploc bag and empty it outside the tent. And somehow or the other, we managed. After each person relieved themselves, we unzipped the tent and emptied the bag. The next morning, we woke up and saw that one of the guy's t-shirts was right at the entrance of the tent, directly under where we emptied our pee-bag. So much for the most practical solution! :P

The next day was the most gruelling. Even though we had deposited our bags at Checkpoint 1, the exhaustion from the day before was really beginning to take a toll on our stamina. The worst part was, i actually got altitude sickness. ALTITUDE SICKNESS. Like as if i was climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro. Mount Ophir is a pimple compared to that monster, and i still fell sick. I started getting dizzy spells and my breath was coming short, and i thought i was gonna collapse and die right there. Somehow, i managed to drag myself on.

The one part that made me really feel vulnerable was when we needed to climb up several hundred metres to a small ledge, and then from there scale 20 metres up a nearly vertical cliff with no support or safety gear except the rope that we were using to haul ourselves up with. Halfway up, i was so sapped of energy that i just ground to a halt and couldn't climb any higher. I looked down at the tiny ledge about 10 metres below me, and the hundred metre drop that followed it. A small voice in my head said, "Just let go." I screamed that i couldn't hold on any more, and our guide (it's compulsory to hire a guide nowadays) climbed down to help me up. I guess it was God's way of teaching me to quit having so much pride in my physical strength, because i've never felt so weak before that incident.

From then on, we made our way up to the Bonsai Gardens ( i think that's what it's called) and we finally, FINALLY reached the ever-elusive summit. It was EXHILARATING. I went right to the edge and looked down at the steep drop-off of about a thousand metres. We guzzled a jar of nutella to celebrate. The only downer was that the sky was overcast and we couldn't see much.

And then, disaster struck.

It started to pour like Mother Nature was taking a piss on us, and on top of that, it was starting to get dark. By the time we had to cross the river, we were soaked to the bone and it was pitch dark. To top it all off, the river was flooded and there was no way of crossing it to get back to our campsite without risking our lives. So we waited and waited, huddling together for warmth and hoping that none of us would get hypothermia. Our pastor, the oldest guy Rajwin and the guide had gone down to the riverside to try and secure a way across, despite the downpour and the strong currents. However, after Pastor Pritam had stepped into the fast flowing river, he lost his footing and went under. Rajwin and the guide were paralysed with fear, thinking that he would be swept downstream and lost forever. But guess what.

THE WATER WAS KNEE DEEP.

Sigh.

I tell you, it was an experience we would never forget. We talked about it for weeks afterwards, recounting all the minute details of our adventure. But one thing's for sure, it brought out the best and the worst in all of us.

After my little flashback, i asked the taxi driver, "Eh boss, when did you climb Mount Ophir?"

"Oh, about 10 years ago, when i was 50."

!!!!!!!

I FELT SO BLOODY IMCOMPETENT.

I remember my momma's friend Aunty Devi, who, at about 55 years of age, competes in cross-country marathons in Thailand and other gruelling competitions with no sweat. She was one spunky lady. She once told me about this photo of a Scottish man whose kilt got blown up by the breeze.

"His bum looked like two pieces of tofu!" she cackled with glee.

Now tell me, how can you not like someone like that?

WMD.

2006-08-25T05:11:00.000+08:00

HELL YEAH!!

Model Tribute

2006-08-23T05:00:00.000+08:00

Here's my tribute to models all over the world. It might not be clear, so feel free to click on it to enlarge ;)

Till Death.

2006-08-23T04:38:00.000+08:00

Happy Days!

2006-08-22T22:50:00.000+08:00

MY EXAM IS OVER!!! I AM OFFICIALLY ON HOLIDAYS NOW!! WOOOOOOOO!!

Now as many of you know, i was really, REALLY pissed that i couldn't go for the Russell Peters thing.. the reason is, i was supposed to buy the tickets bout a month back, but then my ever thoughtful boyfriend *cough*NANTHA*cough* insisted that i wait till he gets his pay then he can buy tickets for us both. I agreed. I waited and waited, and now the tickets are sold out. I called him up and snapped at him, poor boy, even though i knew he wasn't entirely at fault. I REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAALLYYYY wanted to go for it! I was very upset, and he felt awfully guilty. And then today.....

Nantha: "Eh i'm on my way to the temple... guess exactly where i am now."

Me: "Er.... Tekka?"

Nantha: "Nope! As a matter of fact, i'm at Toh Yi! Under your block actually."

Me: "WHAT?"

Nantha: "COME DOWN NOW."

I scurried downstairs and i saw him standing there, with this in his hand.

Ok lah, vase not included. BUT STILL! I saw the flowers and melted into a puddle of mushy gooey goop. I think i have the best boyfriend in the world, yes i do. :)

Moving along, my sister is due to give birth next friday, i think. So far, they're pretty bent on calling the baby girl Eva. Whenever i think Eva, i think Longoria. Is it just me, or does the word Longoria sound like some kinda STD? Imagine, someone coming up to you and going, "Damn man... i got it on with a hooker last week and contracted Longoria". It sounds so... i dunno. Medical and Penis-ish, like saying that some old uncle has Premature Longorial Ejaculation.

Ugh.

Russel Peters.

2006-08-21T23:39:00.000+08:00

Russel Peters is coming to Singapore from 6th-7th October.

I was supposed to be able to go, but now i can't.

I'm angry.