As if interviews by definition aren't painful enough, I had to go and make life even more difficult for myself by deciding that lawyering was a splendid idea... And so I have been busy attending interviews at various law firms this past week. And no I do not wish to discuss it. Many of my friends who blog often remark that blogging is like therapy without the bills. But that is incorrect. In therapy, you actually have to face your issues. On my blog, I have the prerogative to avoid my issues; I do not have to relive being under the scrutiny of directors and senior partners of established law firms and feeling small, insignificant and clueless. Instead (and because it is so much easier), I can simply end this paragraph abrup
Neptune and I had the best time in Boston; we saw the city, watched Lady Gaga live in concert, were blown away by the 4th July fireworks, fed ducks, gazed in wonder at humpback whales, cooed at adorable fairy penguins at the aquarium... etc. Then we returned to Singapore on a 16-hour flight route, sulking all the way. When I felt obligated to spend my time more productively on the plane, I spent it contemplating the best way to avoid the heat rash I would inevitably get due to Singapore's ridiculously high year-round temperatures. So far my list of top ten solutions looks like this:
10. Blast air-conditioning
9. Hide in refrigerator
8. Install mist machines at home
7. Find clothes with in-built air-conditioning
6. Build the largest pot of boiling water in the world in Singapore, such that a large amount of water constantly evaporates into the sky, then condenses at dew point to form clouds
5. Build dome over Singapore, within which weather will be completely man-made
4. Persuade North Korea to start playing nice with the rest of the world, thereby obtaining a Nobel Peace Prize as well as a free trip to the much cooler Norway (where the Prize is presented)
3. Invent on/off switch for solar eclipse
2. Confiscate all magnets ever made and dump them in one spot on earth in the hopes of tilting the earth's axis and heralding the next ice age
1. Kill myself before heat rash develops
I was learning towards #1, but unfortunately I was too late. Suicide attempts are illegal in this country anyways, and everyone knows I am a law-abiding citizen, although I sometimes jaywalk. Oh and I consumed alcohol once when I was underage because I thought it was cool and liberating, until I realized that it was just kind of stupid and lame, and really, really bitter.
Enough time has finally passed that I now remember New York City fondly, my selective memory having blocked out everything but the Broadway shows and the Fifth Avenue shopping. Manhattan is so much more wonderful on hindsight. I have, however, kept with me a new found appreciation for breathing space, of which there is none in the heart of NYC.
The constant crowd meant a consistent amount of accidental eavesdropping. Different conversations would flit past my ear, one abruptly truncated sentence becoming the start of another. Here are a few memorable lines from my time in New York City:
"...know it's one-thirty, but I have to check with my boss to see if I can get lunch with you because I normally only get off at five..."
"...try not to eat carbs in the morning, but my calves are..."
"...not like he's her boyfriend, although she seems to think..."
"...fashionable ladies like you, ya know, who care about looking good. This costs four hundred dollars normally but you get it for forty..."
(On Broadway) "...Phantom was really cute..."
Shady guy walking towards Neptune and I, after giving us the once-over: "I hate your boyfriend."
Where Neptune held my hand and said those three magical words, then pecked me and said, "I had to kiss you on the same day we first kissed three years ago." This is, hands down, my favorite date out of the hundreds over the past three years.
Typing this out on Neptune's iPhone because I'm too cheap to pay for Internet access that costs $16.95 for 24 hours. Actually, scratch that: I think internet access (at least wired) should be a basic human right and I have way too much integrity than to succumb to the demands of corporate greed.
Anyway. New York City... How do I even begin to describe this place.
Rectangular... That would sum up my first impression. Densely packed buildings, mostly skyscrapers so tall I have to look up and almost all the way back just to see the top of them.
In our first ten minutes in NYC, in a cab (yellow of course) on the way to our hotel, we heard at least five instances of unnecessary honking. Where Neptune and I came from -- Disney World FL, and Washington state before that -- this was a disturbing occurrence that we felt was unacceptable. We also almost died on our way to the hotel, which explains the print on a tee I saw at a souvenir shop, which read: "I survived an NYC cab ride!"
Pedestrians here habitually jaywalk as if it is perpetually rush hour. A handful of people in suits (presumably New Yorker businessmen) scraped by the metal of cars stuck in human traffic, while a handful of others in flip flops and similarly ugly shoes (presumably tourists) were nearly knocked down while trying to follow the lead of the NYC natives. I have noticed that there is a sort of skill involved with navigating the city during rush hour. Walk fast or you'll be trampled. At an intersection, watch for the traffic lights of the horizontal street (the one you're trying to cross without dying) to turn red, then cross alongside the hordes of New Yorkers who will undoubtedly be in such a hurry that they could not have waited the 3 additional seconds it would have taken for the WALK sign to turn white.
Driving in NYC must be terrifying because pedestrians run across the roads without regard to traffic lights, as if these potential roadkill were always entitled to a right of way.
Neptune and I arrived at the Marriot Marquis, right smack in the middle of Times Square, very much in shock at the sensory overload: blinding lights and huge video screens and billboards that would put Vegas and Tokyo combined(!) to shame; the stifling stink of cigarette smoke and vehicle fumes; the constant honking, talking, shoving, hustling. There's also almost always a random shady male who offers Neptune and I a freebie, or a voucher for a steep discount, or a purchase that we don't want.
The New Yorkers we have met so far all have an attitude problem, with the only exception being those who could possibly earn tips from us.
Neptune and I were purchasing the best seats at a Broadway show the other day when the lady at the box office wordlessly threw a receipt at me. I was about to ask her if I should go ahead and sign it, when she said suddenly and without even the courtesy of looking up at me, "Sign."
Yep, she issued me a monosyllabic command.
So far we have spent 3 days in NYC and I am still hating it, hating the fact that I no longer expect basic respect from others, and hating how every time someone is polite or nice, it takes me by complete surprise. This cannot possibly be healthy.
Neptune and I are missing Disney World, where all our needs were constantly the concern of someone else; even the customer service at the moderately priced Disney resort we stayed at was ten times better. I can't believe I'm this discontented in a room that was priced at 499 usd a night.
I'm hoping this changes soon, and it just might because today we're heading down to 5th Ave where all my favorite stores are (and there's nothing like a little retail therapy); and in the evening, Neptune and I will be catching out first Broadway show.
Wearing a thick skin today, and I will be at peace with the knowledge that when the people here are mean or rude, it's because they're constantly surrounded by New York City.
Looking at the 13-year-old me is a pretty awesome thing, in the same way how you notice a three-car pile-up across the road and you jam the brakes just in time to watch the beautiful wreck unfold. Lately I've been traveling and shopping (and for some reason feeling entitled to doing nothing more with my life than the two for the next month or so), but while doing nothing much, I somehow found time in my busy schedule to read the diary entries I wrote when I was 13.
I'm so happy to no longer be 13. I'd like to be 8, and then 16, but not 13; it is a wretched age to be at. And at 13 I obviously had very little respect for punctuation because this is what I wrote:
(Warning: May kill brain cells)
he's angry he doesn't listen to anyone anymore he's blinded to the truth by what he thinks is love he thinks he knows he feels he knows no one else can tell him what he knows because what he knows is so immediate and real to him he ignores everything else and pretends without knowing it that the pieces of him are real and tries to fit everything together but nothing makes sense nothing can make sense because it isn't real and he's just fooling himself while everyone can only stand by and try to get inside him but there's really no inside anymore because he's so consumed by his dreams and hopes and there's no more left to really reach to and there's no more left of him to really qualify as a real person he's just a character in the story he spun for himself and he isn't going to let go of this story because it means too much to him and he'll collapse without it and if you try to tell him the truth he'll reject it he's addicted he's hooked onto this story it's a safety net so warm so inviting and so safe he doesn't have to face what he doesn't want to face but deep inside he knows he knows he knows and he is enraged because of it and that you tried forcing him to see the ugly truth he'd rather hide from it forever and pursue his dreams so idealistically so purely he'll speak of truth and beauty and love without knowing any of them and thinking he does and what worries me most of all is how i find myself so helpless in all this and i can only watch and wait even though i know nothing good is going to come out of all this i can only stand by while he slowly shreds himself to pieces unknowingly he won't see he won't listen he thinks he can hide from he excuses he spins for himself but one at a time everyday they fade and reveal the glaring truth and he falls apart slowly because deep inside he knows the truth and it's too much for him to bear the only burdens he bears are the excuses he makes for himself
let's play pretend let's act like it comes so naturally
I just wish I could just remember what exactly I was so worked up about. That's the problem with cryptic diary entries; I always end up forgetting the parts that made me upset.
At 13 I was a psychotic mess: I was trying to understand how I was expected to leave behind the people I had known for over 6 years (HALF my life!) to enter a different school; I was trying to figure out how this making-new-friends thing worked, which I never really figured out until years later when I graduated. Actually, today I'm still somewhat emotionally crippled when it comes to opening up to strangers... and much more besides, but let's just leave it at that for now.
At 13 I was warned about bleeding from areas that weren't bleeding, which greatly confused and worried me for two main reasons: (i) That area did not seem like much of a wound to me; and (ii) HOW can this be normal!? Today I have only four words to say about this. INTELLIGENT DESIGN MY ASS.
At 13 I was painfully insecure, extremely confused and desperately trying to grow taller but realizing that it was not going to happen.
Today I am still desperately trying to grow taller and still cognisant of the fact that it will never happen; today I am still rather confused and still insecure more often than I care to admit.
And now, I find that at the ripe old age of [censored], I can finally conclude -- and I say this with a wistful sigh -- that although I am still a psychotic mess, at least now I am at peace with that. Instead of making new friends and talking to old ones about my problems, I now cope with my anxieties by making a list, invariably titled List of Things to Worry About, which calms me down because I feel like my worries are numbered and neat and within my control.
And if that doesn't work, I write about it on this thing called a blog so the millions of people who don't know me (and the few who do) can laugh at me. This, for some reason, also makes me feel better.
Wandering around the University of Washington with Neptune and friends, we found these beautiful windows flanking an opulent spiral staircase leading to the library:
It is just magical to me how the light was framed. I didn't even have to edit this picture in any way, except for a tiny bit of bird poop that I wiped off one of the window panes. I must've spent a good fifteen minutes just staring at these windows, wishing I were a student there once again.
Once upon a time, there was a girl who was addicted to beautiful things.
And there was a scarf, that was woven in delicate scarlet silk, the color of a fiery sunset, the resolute swan song of the twilight just before it falls to dusk. The girl had seen the scarf online in passing, but it was no longer for sale, and unsurprisingly so. She researched the scarf and found its name and story.
And thus the girl fell in love with the red scarf.
She typed its name into Google and found just one page of results. And out of the handful of promising links which were neither spam nor scam, the girl found just one website selling the red scarf.
It was a reputable consignment store in Chicago that she had heard positive things about, but had quickly written off because of her OCD. So fussy was the girl, and so fearful was she of dirt and unseemly smells, that she preferred paying a premium for brand new scarves from the boutique, just so they would smell like the store; and so they would come folded in their original boxes, and when unfolded, would yet retain the original creases where it had been folded and stored.
Still, she cast aside her reservations, and contacted the store owner about the red scarf.
***
But it was not meant to be.
The store owner replied: "You'll have to download our order form. Print it out. Complete and sign it. FAX it to us."
The girl was shocked by the store owner's condescending tone. But she loved the red scarf, and was willing to swallow her pride. Completing their order form meant that the girl would be revealing her credit card details, so she contacted the owner again about an alternative mode of payment. But her requests for a Paypal or Google Checkout transaction were quickly and arrogantly dismissed: "Our website payment procedure has been in effect since November 26, 1998, 12:01AM, when our website went live."
"That was way before Paypal and Google checkout was invented," replied the snotty owner, while the girl struggled to understand how anyone could be so proud of using technology from over a decade ago. The owner haughtily continued: "Ours is a good procedure involving a secure, land FAX machine to protect you, the buyer, and us, the shop." If emphasizing 'fax' was intended to have some necessary impact on the girl, it was not executed very eloquently.
"We don’t intend to participate in Paypal or Google checkout, sorry to tell you."
The girl's heart was broken. It was 2010, and every savvy shopaholic knew that online shopping no longer necessitated the disclosure of confidential financial information. The girl loved the red scarf, but not enough to run the risk of identity or credit card theft. And she certainly would not (and could not) journey half the world to purchase a scarf in person.
The red-scarf-less girl was blue.
***
In a moment of desperation, she posted on Twitter, asking if anyone lived in Chicago and wouldn't mind making fifty dollars to pick up the scarf.
Less than ten minutes later, she received a reply from a stranger: a lady who lived in San Francisco, but was currently visiting Chicago. "What do you need?" she wrote back with a wink. Losing all mental acuity to the momentary overdose of hope and delight, the girl replied, "A SCARF!" and then felt silly afterward, when her brain functioned once more and she realized that the lady had been asking for the details of the store.
They exchanged a few emails, and the lady offered to help the girl purchase the red scarf without the extra fifty dollars. "Are you sure?" the girl asked, feeling guilty for making someone else run errands for her without so much as a tip. They had exchanged messages online once or twice in the past, but other than that, they were complete strangers. The lady graciously replied:
"No worries. Since I'm in Chicago already. ;)"
***
This morning: A knock on the door; an accidental slamming of the door in the postman's face; a struggle to open the door again to apologize, only to slam it again; a savage destruction of the packaging; and then a dizzy, lightheaded girl in a red scarf.
Now the silk was wrapped snugly around the girl's neck, inspiring a little romance in the air -- though not the conventional type, and certainly not tainted by any suggestions of primitive lust, but rather the unadulterated romance of an unexpected random act of kindness, the beauty of a complete stranger's soul that paved the way for the unlikely ownership of an almost equally beautiful red scarf -- made the girl shudder a little in excitement, then settle into a long, contented sigh.
That night the girl would not find sleep. She would instead impatiently jam the button of her camera a few million times, urgently attempting to translate all that she loved into a picture, though recognizing that she was destined to fail because what she'd wanted to capture had transcended the tangible realm.
Christened "La Mécanique des Idées" (literally the mechanics of ideas), the scarf is designed by Hermès artist Christine Henry, and makes a visual pun (the best part of the scarf!) on both 'mechanics' and 'ideas' with its print of turning gears:
My favorite part of the scarf:
And here is that wonderful person who made this fairytale possible, my fairy godmother if you will: Caroline from the Twitter team. Please feel free to let her know how awesome she is!
Oh yes, and they all lived happily ever after, except for the grouchy store owner who still relies on last-decade technology.
#5: Accidentally noticing an unexpected jealous stare from someone I really dislike, while wearing the Hermès scarf I am currently infatuated with
#6: Wonderful people: Doting parents + a younger brother who for some reason looks up to you, but will never admit it + reliable, trustworthy and caring friends
#7: Pudding, for whom my dad recently constructed a makeshift curtain using strips of shredded toilet paper. He (the hamham, not the human) promptly chewed a hole in it:
#8: Good customer service, especially sales associates who go the extra mile to locate your dream bag
#9: Air-conditioning. Of course it had to make this list!
#10: Video games; my current favorite is Achievement Unlocked. Warning: May seem absolutely confusing and inane at first. But I swear it's undiluted genius.
Last night I met a girl who felt familiar. We were at a downtown mall, the very same one where I always seem to meet strange people. We were in the one boutique that was totally devoid of color. There was just white and black, all over the floor and walls and shelves. There were no shades of gray anywhere, not even in the shadows of my favorite sales associate. Where it was white, it was pristine, blinding white; and where there was black, it was an intense, consuming black.
The girl and I were picking out scarves. They were all in assorted monochromatic patterns, save for two scarves in a glass case. One was red, and the other was orange. I stared at both scarves for a long while, then thought aloud, "This is such a tough choice!"
The girl, who had been standing next to me all along, cheerfully commented, "You should know. The dilemma is never which one to buy, but always which one to wear first!" Suddenly I noticed that she had straight black hair down to her waist.
"So true," I agreed. "I always know exactly what I want."
Suddenly, the girl and I both reached towards the same red scarf. "Limited edition," interrupted a sales associate with a beaming smile, in her smart white suit on the black marble floor. "The only piece made." She picked up the scarf by one corner and threw the rest in the air. The red silk danced in the air like autumn leaves in the wind, then settled into a beautiful crimson wave hanging by the sales associate's white finger.
"I want it," I said. "I can pay for it immediately."
"I could've paid for it five minutes ago," said the girl. I glared at her. She smiled at me, too easily amused by my quickness to anger. "I'll buy it for you."
"Why?" I paused in surprise, and then decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. "Well, if you want to."
"Sure I do." Why was she so calm, so collected, so sure of herself? I was infuriated. It was almost as if she knew some secret that always placed her one step ahead of me. But I bit my tongue while she paid for the scarf, and passed it to me in a bright orange paper bag.
"So, we should get drinks. And then maybe a purse?"
I couldn't say no to that.
"Well, finally someone I can see eye to eye with... Literally." I said, realizing that we were of exactly the same height.
Over cocktails, she asked: "Do you know the four animals that every woman needs in her life?"
"A dog, a cat, a bunny and a hamster?"
"No, no. The four animals are: A mink in her closet, a jaguar in her garage, a tiger in her bed, and a jackass to pay for it all."
"I suppose you're my jackass for the day." I peered into the orange paper bag, and noted in satisfaction the red silk peeking out from inside.
"I suppose." She smiled.
There was a lull in the conversation. Then she asked: "Are you going to kiss me?"
"Excuse me?" I couldn't believe she was saying that with a straight face and her usual doe-eyed smile.
"I asked if you wanted to kiss me."
"You should know," I raised my voice in outrage, "that I am really something of an idealistic prude in real life, and that I am not in the habit of kissing random people."
"Why are you suddenly speaking with a Victorian accent?" The girl observed, amused.
"Besides, I've already found someone I love."
"Who?"
"Neptune." I answered quickly, feeling more certain than ever.
"Just one kiss--" she teased. "--and nothing more, I promise." She caught me hesitating. "You, of all people, should understand how much my word means. And besides, aren't you curious? It wouldn't really be cheating, if it's with me."
"Fine," I sighed. "I can't argue with you, after all."
We kissed briefly, and I quickly pulled away.
"That's strange," I remarked. "I really thought I was a better kisser than that."
I was close enough to examine the girl's face, and suddenly I realized she looked exactly like me, and that I'd known all along that she was me, and I was her.
Shocked, I opened my eyes abruptly, and realized that my lecture notes on the computer screen still read, in bold: "Legal, Ethical & Social Discourse on Human Cloning".
Last week I met a guy downtown who asked me if I knew where the nearest ATM machine was. I didn't. But he kept prolonging the conversation by quizzing me on my personal information. "How old are you?" "Where are you studying?" "You know, I, uh, I like to go dancing. Do you like to dance?" I simply provided him with bogus details because he was a creepy old guy who reeked of smoke and looked like he was on drugs. It was getting late, and unfortunately I was in a short dress because I am so vertically challenged that long dresses look like nightgowns on me. I was getting nervous, but the suspicious guy finally asked me for my number, so I happily made up the digits and gave them to him. He seemed satisfied with himself and left, to my relief.
This afternoon I met another shady guy.
"Uh, uh, miss."
"Yeah?" Dismissing it as just another scam artist or promotional gimmick, I kept walking, and he followed me. We were at a crowded mall, and I hugged my purse tightly. Because, you know, feel free to take my life. JUST DON'T TOUCH MY PURSE.
"Are you, uh, a dancer?"
"Uh, no." (I have two left feet.)
"'Cause you look gorgeous!"
"Okay thanks."
"No, no, wait, I really want to know something--" He waved his arms in a desperate bid for my attention, shocked that his compliment did nothing to break my hasty stride; I continued walking, and still he kept following.
"--Okay, you know, I have a reason for talking to you, okay, uh--"
"'Kay."
"--and that reason is, uh, do you know where the ATM machine is?"
AND THEN IT CLICKED.
SAME OLD CREEPY GUY WHO LIKES TO GO DANCING.
"Yeah," I replied, "It's right there." Pointed in the opposite direction of where I was headed.
Realizing that he had been rejected, he quickly mumbled a 'thank you' and left.
I think this may be the first time in my life that the same guy has hit on me twice without realizing it. FAIL.
So, you can understand why I was in such a bad mood. I mean, really? A whole universe of people available and the universe had to throw the same loser at me TWICE?! And... Well... It's not my fault that life is so troublesome, now is it!? (Which translates to mean, in ordinary language: I was sad and so I bought stuff. And then I was happy. BLAME LIFE.)
Yes, the lovely orange glow of those boxes means that I have officially sold my soul to Hermès. I'd been trying to avoid Hermès for the past few years of my life because I just knew that I wouldn't be able to look at their scarves without purchasing them, but today life hated me and so I was in a bad mood when I happened to walk past a Hermès boutique. I thought to myself: What could I possibly have to lose!?
Well, turns out that it was a rhetorical question which should never have been answered. Because the answer was: Oh, nothing much, just ALL THE CASH I HAD ON ME AND THEN SOME. Directly from my bank account. The SA was at fault too; she kept showing me all the different ways to wear the scarves (as a tank top or blouse(!!), belt, bandana, necktie, etc) and after an hour of having scarves tied around me, I no longer had the will to sustain any meaningful Hermès abstinence.
Each scarf has a name of its own, tells a story, and bears the signature of the artist who designed it. Here's my favorite out of the scarves I picked up today:
A Cheval sur mon Carré by Bali Barret Pink colorway; Spring/Summer 2010
So, I am currently destitute but at least I have... stuff. You know the nursery rhyme about the old woman who lived in a shoe? Yeah... We were neighbors until I moved away to live inside a purse.
I've had a really awful fortnight but things are looking up! I say this because I recently found myself sitting next to P.
In my defence, he'd stumbled into class late and my purse had been on the seat next to me. And of course, being Too Nice For My Own Good, and in an unprecedented lapse of judgment, I decided that my purse could sit on my lap for the next two hours or so. After spending the past three years avoiding P's sweat glands at school, I reluctantly decided to give him a chance at redeeming himself, but five minutes into the lesson, it dawned on me that it would be terribly inappropriate to relocate myself to the only other available seat in class, which was right across the classroom.
The experience was like starring in my very own olfactory horror movie.
I had to keep my head turned away from P for half of the lesson, and when P wasn't looking, I used some eau de toilette in his direction. People never believe me when I tell them about that tiny bottle that I keep in my purse whenever there is a reasonably foreseeable risk of sitting next to someone smelly. It worked wonders to mask the offensive rot in the air.
So I've quite obviously hit rock bottom with my luck, and the only way to go (or at least I hope) is up. Which is also why I am so desperate to believe that things are looking up because the alternative would be something worse than P's B.O., and I can't even imagine how anything could be worse than that. Even my hamsters smell better than P.
Anyway. While life continues to kick me in the butt, here's something beautiful I found the other day. These are just my favorites; you can see the rest here. Interview Magazine, "My Space" by Craig McDean featuring Sasha Pivovarova. Click for big, then double-click for small:
Perfectly illustrates the state of my inner world nowadays, actually.
Today was a great Sunday! Mainly because it wasn't Monday. I hate Mondays. The weekend is always only -1 day away, but you can't ever get back there.
So today I made sure to make valuable use of my Sunday. I even offered to bring my brother shopping downtown. Assuming that he would be interested in being my sister for the day, I pleaded with him, "We could go to the movies, or the arcade. Oh and you need to see my favorite boutiques!!! They're like museums, full of WEARABLE ART." But he simply replied, "You know how ridiculous that sounds, right?" Right. And then I wished for the 1629473085th time that I would suddenly find a long-lost sister. And while we're on my List of Requests, I would also like to gain a few vertical inches, and also inheritance from a multi-billionaire. Cooler weather not a must, but definitely a bonus. Thank you.
See, I'm not greedy at all! I just would like to be reasonably attractive and comfortably rich, and preferably have a sibling that I can hang out with sometimes. Is that too much to ask!?! All this is, I think, the very least that any person with self-respect should want for him/herself. [/defensive]
But it was probably a good thing that I didn't drag my brother along, because I ended up trying on way too many purses and shoes; it would probably have damaged his opinion of me. My favorite sales associates were in again today, which made me so overjoyed that I nearly bought a gorgey but absolutely redundant purse. But I resisted the urge by reminding myself that I should probably start saving up for retirement now. At the current rate that work is piling itself up on my desk, I'll be part of the senior population in no time.
So, no new purses to report. :D
In fact, I actually sold a purse today! Absolutely ecstatic about the sale because the vintage Chanel tote had been an impulse buy that I almost immediately regretted, and hardly ever used. She (the tote) has now found a good home where she'll be loved, which makes me extremely happy and relieved, because I am insane like that and I feel for inanimate things, especially things which were painstakingly handmade by skilled craftsmen. It's sort of like relationship karma, you know? Like how you treat a person badly and it ends up biting you in the butt later on. Well, maybe that unused 20-cent eraser you thoughtlessly hurled into the trash can still holds a grudge against you, and maybe after death your molecules will be indirectly recycled to become an unloved 20-cent eraser that some other snotty kid hurls into the bin. See? Everything deserves to be appreciated. All I'm saying is, you don't mess with karma. Because karma messes with you.
Also, I would like to be reincarnated as a Chanel purse. ♥
Anyway. Just when I thought I would have a frugal Sunday, I fell deeply in love with two dresses. They were on sale, which is always a plus -- or a smaller minus, however you look at that half-empty-or-half-full glass. My mom apparently approached the glass with nothing but negativity because she began nagging at me about my monthly expenditure. At the time I had been preoccupied with removing the tags from my new dresses, and realized that the care instructions on the tags read, in bold, "Keep away from fire!" in four different languages. To which I laughed and exclaimed aloud, "OH, YOU THINK!?!?" Not my brightest moment. Unfortunately my mom had just nagged at me to start being more financially prudent and, under the misunderstanding that I had been audaciously rude to her, glared furiously at me. Not my favorite evening, but still, can't be worse than Mondays.
One of today's highlights was my new bag purchase, which makes me sound unattractive, I know. What's a purse nerd to do. The best part of the day, however, was placing a spontaneous international phone call to Neptune to squeal about the purse -- there really is nothing like sharing joy, even if the other person can't exactly make out what you're saying because it's an excited high-pitched mess ("I'msohappyOMG!It'ssobeautifulandsmellssopretty♥!" Neptune: "...Hello?").
My favorite sales associates were at the boutique today, which meant that I was treated like royalty (a HUGE deal when the law school workload discombobulates and assaults you on a daily basis), and so the process of purse-picking was very much sweetened for me. I shamelessly indulged in finding The Perfect Purse. Amongst other things, she has to be symmetrical; she has to have perfect stitching; and she has to be free of creases, scratches or marks, because wrinkles and scars have to be earned with me. Because I have high standards.
Later in the evening, with eau de brand new leather drifting from The Shrine, I continued vocalizing my asinine, shallow felicity to Neptune:
"I'm SOOOO happy I finally bought the bag! I've been thinking about it for years[*], literally. Now I finally have it! ...Though, I feel somewhat guilty for spending all that money."
Neptune, however, scores 12182546 brownie points with:
"You shouldn't feel guilty... If it makes you this happy, I think it's worth it. Plus, now you don't have to buy [Purse 2], right?"
"Yeah, cause the one I bought is so similar in function to [Purse 2]. In fact, I like the one I purchased so much more. Now I don't have to spend the money I would have on the other purse!"
"Mm." (Note however that it is extremely impressive that Neptune is still listening and/or bothering to respond at this point, because most people would've zoned out about five sentences ago.)
"--which I really would have bought, because I did quite like [Purse 2]..."
"..." (And Neptune's gone. But I PERSIST! I persist in unnecessarily lengthening this conversation which is going nowhere and doesn't exactly have a point to establish.)
"--but now I don't know what I ever saw in that bag, or why I worried so much about how to obtain it. This bag is sooo much better. Now I have one less bag to buy!"
"..."
"So.... I ACTUALLY SAVED MONEY!!!"
Obviously I win Olympic gold for mental gymnastics. No acrobatic leaps of flexible logic are too challenging for me as long as they result in a new purse. Sadly I am now on a six-month bag ban -- no new bags for the next six months! Actually I was supposed to already be on a ban since November last year, but one day a few weeks back, someone was mean to me and nearly made me cry, so Neptune lifted my ban. I'm sort of hoping that someone else will be mean to me again. Hmmm...
[*] Yes, YEARS. I've finally found the perfect petite shoulder bag to bring to clubs, where big bags tend to get in the way of intoxicated dancing. Asymmetrical headbanging is difficult enough as it is; I can't concentrate on thoroughly embarrassing myself when I'm worried about a big purse.
One night I finally figured that the solution would be to place my ID and credit card in my undergarments -- one card at each boob -- after all, those two cards are pretty much all I'd need at a club. Such an elegant hands-free solution! It's almost as if the brassiere was intended by some divine design to facilitate the carrying of those two cards. But Neptune quite violently protested. Apparently it's obscene!? Which I really don't understand, because it's not like I'm revealing anything, and if I slip the cards out quickly enough, it's almost as if I magically plucked them out of thin air. Sigh, the world is just not ready for my brilliance.
It's raining noodles! Hallelujah! And the noodles shall inherit the earth!
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