Because partaking in social activity is, like, so! tough!
Q: Is it socially acceptable to wake your daughter up on the morning of her Economics examination by holding a heated debate with your spouse at 4AM regarding the colour of someone else's pants thereby encouraging your daughter to cut holes for eyes in a paper bag and pull it over her head to avoid being recognized by neighbours as The Biological Product Of The Couple Who Woke The Entire World Up At The Unearthly Hour Of Unearthliness?
A: No.
Someone please explain to my parents the triviality of pants colour and the amount of time those pants had spent in the washing machine the night before as opposed to the value of a good night's sleep.
*palm forehead*
Before you marry someone petty PLEASE, for the good of all mankind, sign a detailed pre-nuptial agreement specifying the length of time a pair of pants should be soaked in the washing machine to the nearest second, degree of ownership of the remote control to one decimal place, price and brand of stopwatches used... so on and so forth.
Also, it would be a good idea to set some ground rules pertaining to the means by which one participates in polite civilisation, like maybe, just MAYBE, making an effort to adjust to the fact that some people actually enjoy! sleeping at 4AM because this? Sleeping at 4AM? IS SO DAMN ABSURD.
Iridescent drops of grey pooling and running on bare skin; showerhead drooping limply like withered petals; pain shot up the veins, a heavier dosage with each subsequent needle, to numb the last; back against the cold wall, knees bent and hugged, heart knotted, head buried in a mess of tangled limbs and matted hair; nails dug into wet bruises; molten silver flowing from eyes; sobbing too hard to breathe.
This is what it feels like everyday; I'm hurled back into the past, stuck in the moment seated on the bathroom floor wet, naked, crying, aware that I drove the person I loved away from me, aware that I am everything I tried to avoid, acutely aware that I am the cautionary tale. I caused our break-up. I forced him to leave.
Two months and a week of soul-searching and I face the inability to face myself. My misery is a consequence of much more than his departure; it is the knowledge that I am repeating my parents' mistakes, all the mistakes I thought I could avoid.
Interneters, perhaps you could tell me how to deal with how I wounded a loved one with my own bare hands? Perhaps you could tell me how I could forget a man who loved me, who did only what he perceived was best for us? Or perhaps you could tell me how I could pardon a girl who blamed him for the destruction of everything they'd built together, and allowed him to blame himself? How do you live with this?
I do not know how to live with wrecking the person who means the most to me. And this is biting, piercing, living and breathing regret, a vivid, recurring nightmare, like broken skin ground, ground, ground against chilli and salt and sand, blistering and bleeding relentlessly.
I spent most of today in a densely packed PC Show.
I think the whole of Singapore compressed itself into the exhibition hall; crowds spilt out onto the streets like cellulite squeezed out of a pitilessly pinching corset. It became difficult to breathe after half an hour and even swaying of hips was IMPOSSIBLE. Maybe except for that one time when I made some people fall over like bowling pins. My bad.
Being single, I took the liberty to window-shop for guys. A love life is like shopping. You look around in search of the best bargain, and once you've bought the experience there's no refund even after expiry date, which makes impulse spending ultimate evil. But window-shopping is fun. And window-shopping for geeks? Is FUNNER.
All I remember of the afternoon was a daydream about me drowning in a sea of people and my Prince Charming on a white Trojan coming to my rescue, complete with great equipment, five-year warranty, Bluetooth capability, and a knowledge of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
Suddenly I was chatting to this guy called Bryan and making bad jokes like, "Nah I don't want to make any purchase... I'm just Windows shopping!" Then Bryan started speaking Geek, half of which sounded like Greek, and my heart fluttered out the exhibition hall so my head couldn't get enough oxygen and I blacked out. Geeks are hottt.
When I regained consciousness I wasn't alone in bed anymore and why I brought him home I honestly have no idea. Speak Geek to me and you can convince me to buy anything. (The ability to code in Notepad? REALLY TURNS ME ON.) Anyway, he's cute and slim and light and makes me feel more comfortable than anorexic sanitary pads on menstrual days do, and did I mention that he's cute? I am so in love with him.
And he's in pink. Now I know what you're thinking and I know you're wrong; Bryan is not gay. HE LOVES ME.
It isn't a very flattering picture but I thought you'd like to meet him. And yeah I forgot to mention, I named him after the charming geek I'd been chatting with. <3
And it's just a story from a long time back, one more story to hide behind one more smile.
3 AM and it's 1 PM again; someone else in the chalet offers us lunch; we look at each other and apologise, "Our hands are full." Too full, too full of each other and of wide-eyed hope.
3 AM and it's 3 PM again; he steps out of the bathroom, throws his wet towel carelessly onto the mattress. We look at each other for a quiet moment. It's 3 PM again and he pulls me closer, we're at the top of the spiral staircase, top of the world, holding each other in a hug perfumed with an intoxicating blend of soap and love and him and me. 3 PM and we're at the top of the spiral staircase and someone downstairs yells, "Have you seen ___?" And someone else answers no; I look at him and we both know why; he's missing in action downstairs because we're trapped in an embrace upstairs, here, in this moment, at 3 PM.
3 AM and it's 9 PM again, we're leaning against the foot of the bed, seated on a mattress, we're too close but we're just talking and laughing and holding hands. 9 PM and I'm pretending not to show how nervous I am, alone with him at the foot of a bed in a quiet room, his deep voice bouncing off the walls and wrapping around my heart, my heart in the palm of his hand. 9 PM and my heart is in the palm of his hand. 9 PM and the closed door opens, Someone enters and asks if we want to play cards; I say okay but will you be a darling, go to the other room and check if there are other cards left on the floor, please?
3 AM and the moment Someone's footsteps fade it's 9 PM and we're at the foot of the bed again; I steal a hug from him, because it's 9 PM and we're alone in the room and we think we are forever. Someone returns, finding nothing in the other room, and we play cards, and I smile thinking we are forever.
But it's 3 AM and forever is in the past tense; it's 3 AM and forever is a nightmare that won't go away. 3 AM and I'm at his feet begging him not to go, 3 AM and "I want a break-up." "Please don't leave me." "We don't have a future together." "I need you." "I'm sorry." 3 AM and I'm alone on my bed tangled in sheets and regret and sadistic freedom, and this is real, this is the real 3 AM when it's still dark and I reach out for comfort and I find nothing but Doritos, 3 AM and it's real, it's not stopping, 3 AM and I force Doritos down my throat because you can't choke on tears when you're busy choking on Doritos.
3 AM and I remember it's over. It's just the 3 AM happening, it's just the remembering, the remembering that goes away when you concentrate on Not Choking On Doritos. 3 AM and he's gone, there's no more us, I don't have to fall again, I don't have to go through this again. Except I have to, because it's past 3 AM and I remember, and it's the remembering that only goes away when you concentrate on Not Choking On Doritos, the remembering that goes on forever after 3 AM, when you've no more Doritos left.
3 AM and you hope 3 AM is in the past tense, 3 AM and you hope that soon it'll be just another story from a long time back, just another story to hide behind another smile.
The most productive thing a person can do on the bus is, in my opinion, eavesdropping.
A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, and that's why we have to gain as much of it as possible. It's like oxygen: Lethal in small amounts. Why not tune in to strangers' conversations to learn about someone else's life right down to the most intricate details, like how his best friend's girlfriend always wears lacy push-up bras with mismatched straps?
So I was on the bus, and I was... acquiring more knowledge. I was seated next to a mother and her son who were having the most heated debate in the century about the merits and demerits of computer games, a debate heated enough to reinforce the greenhouse effect on earth tenfold.
Halfway through the debate, the mother cracked a bad joke that I can't recall now -- it was THAT bad -- upon which the kid muttered under his breath, "Comedian Nominee of the Year. Not awardee. Nominee." This insult is tantamount to the derogatory connotation of 'wannabe', the one that insinuates abundant ambition and absent achievement.
The mother then shot back, "I AM MOTHER AWARDEE, NOT NOMINEE, YOU HEAR?" She said it with so much gusto and so triumphantly that for a split second I wanted to be a mother too, if only for the privilege of shutting someone else up with that line.
It's raining noodles! Hallelujah! And the noodles shall inherit the earth!
If you know me, pretend you don't. If you don't know me, don't pretend you do.
Comments are not necessarily reflective of my opinion. Only people who love me are allowed to comment. I'm serious. Trolling is so last season.
Bitch in my face if you have to.
It's only polite!
I live in Bloggerland, Singapore. Please don't stalk me. (:
CMNT
Recent posts...
I still believe pigs can fly.
Angelique
November 20, 19xx
blog 
Blogger 
claims to 
all 
Bloggerland, Singapore
