What's your costume? Here's mine:



Note Hair From Hell, which ate my comb this morning. And also my left arm.

Labels: photolog

I love blogs that allow me to peer into someone else's life. The best thing about an up close and personal blog is that it tells you all the important things you have to know about the blogger without even having to meet the person, including how he found his son sniffing at his soiled diaper or how she HAD to change her sanitary napkin on the public bus or run the risk of staining her skirt. And on this round of blog-surfing I found another reason to emigrate: No time for television.

After reading about five hundred words about the joy of a sedentary lifestyle, of play pause forward rewind while on the couch with a bag of chips in one hand and a cold drink in the other, it occurred to me that I have never done this in my entire life, somehow never found the time in the past eighteen years to stay in one seat for hours in front of the goggle box.

A few years back, before studies prompted my mom to ban me from the television (ridiculous considering the existence of YouTube!), when my family was hooked onto sitcoms or drama series, I distinctly remember time and again rushing back in a car over the legal speed limit, bladder complaining but not given any release because the journey is already too long by itself and EVERY SECOND COUNTS, even if not answering nature's call may lead to kidney failure. If you want my kidney, you can take it as long as I get to watch my television program. And the kidney failure part is a very useful fact; I once emotionally blackmailed my Geography teacher into allowing my classmate to leave the class for the toilet. But it was because Ms L is too nice, and because I totally understand how difficult it is to absorb facts when you're biologically predisposed to be more concerned with the expulsion of waste material.

I stopped watching television because there were always more important things to do than purchasing a DVR, and I refuse to plan my life around a television program. You don't know the frustration of missing a line of the television program because someone coughed, and then missing more lines because you had to ask someone else about that line you missed because that someone coughed, and then wanting so much to throw sharp things at the person who coughed except that you mentally debated against it and then missed more lines as a result.

The frustration, it is like tearing your hair out strand by strand because the last time you got laid was 31 February in the year Way Too Long Ago and your current date has both the best equipment you've ever seen and the worst, most irrepressible body odour you've ever come across. YOU DO NOT KNOW THE FRUSTRATION.

And since it's been years since I've watched an entire program on television, come to think of it, neither do I.

Labels: school

Also, instead of studying for the finals next week like I should, I finished watching one entire cycle of "America's Next Top Model", completed one assessment book exercise on French grammar (beautiful language) though all my examination papers are in English, and did a whole load of obnoxiously unproductive things including once again placing my fridge on a diet by removing ice cream. I love dieting.

Labels: hungry, photolog

Guy: "Our food is taking too long."

Waitress: "I'm sorry sir, the lunch crowd today--"

Guy: "So could you refill my glass of ice lemon tea? Most of it has evaporated."

Labels: chat log, hungry, weird shit

When you're caught doing something incredibly embarrassing like taking paths in four different directions and then retracing your steps trying to decide which path to take, the difference between having the world laugh at you and laughing with you lies in whether or not you laugh, so the best thing to do is to acknowledge your stupidity, laugh at yourself, and move on.

This is also the reason why I habitually poke fun of my grasp of Chinese, which is really more of a Hanging On For Dear Life than a true 'grasp'. After three years of zero contact with Chinese, Dudette and I attempted a conversation solely in the language one afternoon, and prior to that day I never would have thought that I would reach the stage where my command of Chinese is so nonexistent that it would become a running joke amongst my friends: How do I notice all the little details in Korean videos? Oh that's simple, the little differences between one frame and the next are extremely obvious when you repeatedly play and pause the clip every second or so. And why would anyone do that? You wouldn't, but I do need time to read the long Chinese subtitles. Ha, ha. So terribly funny, I know.

This afternoon Dudette and I arranged to meet at the bus stop near her apartment. Because I arrived early, I attempted to navigate my way to her doorstep, 'attempt' being the operative euphemism here. Five minutes of wandering within a five-metre radius of the bus stop later, I decided that I'd alighted the bus at the wrong stop and would have happily made my way to the next one if Dudette hadn't appeared in time.

Step one: Acknowledge stupidity, so immediately upon meeting her I sighed and said, "My sense of direction is so hopeless!" And this is the part where the title of this entry comes in: Dudette looked at me with honest surprise and replied, "I saw you, and I can't believe you were actually walking in the right direction!" and I was so grateful for having a true friend that I wanted to dig a hole to hide my head in.

Labels: Dude(tte), self-effacing

"So, like, I told her that you didn't answer the phone that morning 'cause you woke up only at 3PM..."

"Uh-huh..."

"And she was shocked. And you know what she said?"

"'My gawd, Angelique is such a pig'?"

"Yeah! And then I was like, that is SUCH old news, woman!"

Labels: chat log, self-effacing

During breakfast today I noticed a brown spot in the middle of the watery yellow egg yoke. I was about seven when I first came across this phenomenon, and my mother had nonchalantly poked at the spot with a teaspoon while explaining how this spot should have become a grown chicken, scarring my young fragile mind forever: You mean that even the egg selection process is flawed in that fertilised eggs may accidentally make it to the breakfast table? Mum... HOW COULD YOU BRING ME INTO SUCH A WRETCHED WORLD.

Many years ago, after a family trip to a bird farm, we brought home a pigeon egg that my father had found in a seemingly abandoned nest. I wanted it to miraculously hatch so badly that all the way home in the car I cupped it in my warm hands. (I once helped Dudette carry her cold drink for about five minutes while her hands were full and when I passed the cup back to her she wailed about all the ice that had melted, so she can testify to the fact that my hands produce enough heat to significantly worsen global warming.) Sadly, the moment I stepped into the shower my mother removed the egg from the nest of tissue I had made in my bag, relocating the egg to the refrigerator. By the time I realised what she had done she had already, to my horror, cracked the egg open to reveal... a half-formed chick. The worst thing was seeing for myself that it already had a beak and wings and legs and eyes and... and its fragile body was a wan, limp crescent. My parents explained how some people viewed this as a delicacy (BARBARIANS!), and then they began eating it (BARBARIANS!). I cried for hours.

(BARBARIANS!)
(BARBARIANS!)
(BARBARIANS!)

When I was eight my brother and I stayed over at my cousin's on weekdays while our parents were at work, and after I spotted that familiar brown spot in an egg during breakfast one day I had refused to eat anything as a sort of penance for being the cause of the death of a potential chicken. And my cousin, in my eyes, fell from grace to become the very incarnation of Evil. She would usually toss snacks my way in the afternoons, but even potato chips would not entice me into accepting She Who Is Evil.

By the second day of my hunger strike Evil was at her wit's end and finally resorted to bacon. My goodness... BACON!, people! The cynical aspect of my worldview can be dated back to that afternoon ten years ago when Evil tortured me by waving a strip of bacon in my face, and I sold my soul to the devil. Before I could kiss the sweet, sweet bacon, though, the devil played her own advocate: She grimaced and cautiously warned me, "If you eat this, you will die." She paused. I was eight. I was horrified. She continued, "But if you don't eat this... You will also die." So I ate the damned thing.

Labels: (a)musings, Dude(tte), hissy fit

A week ago we sat for the first of two mock Math papers as part of our preparation for the upcoming finals. These examinations were compulsory only for those who did badly in September, and because I narrowly missed being embarrassed by the Math paper, thank you God, I didn't have to butcher my brain cells by attending this one.

But since September it has been made clear that Dudette cannot count, and as part of my ongoing forever-long efforts to help her avoid an ugly F grade in the finals I decided to accompany her. Dude tagged along as well because this is what friends do: Sit next to you for moral support. Meaning we finish ahead of time together, us because it was smooth sailing and you because you skipped questions you didn't know how to do and then ended up skipping most of the paper.

That Thursday Dudette asked if I would cheat with her, maybe pass my paper over when I'm done so she can copy a little here and there so she won't fail again? I agreed without hesitation because cheating is one of the things you have to do once in your life, much like bungee jumping or eating fried grasshoppers, and more importantly because it wouldn't compromise my integrity in that these grades don't count for anything except as potential morale boosters. Five minutes after agreeing I asked, "So what do I have to do? I mean... How does this work?" Between the two of us we know way too much about cute Asian male stars who look more like girls, enough to warrant immediate arrest for being a threat to heterosexual society, but neither of us had any idea how to cheat. Do you now see the extent of this tragedy? By the first ten minutes of the examination it was clear that our attempts at cheating were a clumsy failure, and get this: We were seated elbow to elbow.

An hour into the paper Dude, who is fundamentally uninterested in females, broke the silence by remarking, "My graph looks like a vagina." Like a psychoanalyst evaluating his response to a Rorschach inkblot test, I asked him why he thought himself homosexual, because in my limited knowledge girl parts don't interest homosexual men. Dude then decided that it looked more like a uterus and began adding to his sketch the fallopian tubes and the ovaries.

Today we were supposed to sit for the second instalment of self-inflicted torture, except that Dudette decided to play truant without first informing Dude and I that she no longer required our moral support. One of the capitalised NO-NOs in my life is cancelling last minute on me, and fifteen minutes before the paper over the phone I explained to Dudette the degree of her bitchiness: Intolerable! Unforgivable! She then ingeniously remarked that she was going to bequeath me with more of her digital collection of pretty boys in a moment that reminded me why I loved her so much.

I sat for today's paper anyway, because I had Dude for company and because I habitually emotionally blackmail myself into thinking that playing truant once in a while will inevitably lead to F grades. Dude and I were the only two from our class when a teacher called for one representative from each class to collect the papers and attendance list, and less than a second later Dude and I exchanged looks. "Go!" I said in a one-word command that accurately reflects my overbearing nature. I like to think of it, though, as trusting Dude with menial tasks such as navigating the lecture theatre's three storeys of stairs, unlike Dudette who knows that the danger of tripping over her feet within the first ten steps is by no means an exaggeration.

The endearingly absent-minded Dudette often forgets her personal belongings, and before we leave a place, being irrationally obsessed with details, I routinely point out random objects around us that usually turn out to be hers and nearly left behind. Another classmate once witnessed this in action and said, "Wow, you really babysit her." And it made me realise how so very much I'll miss The College after this November, with no more Dude to boss around and no more Dudette to worry about, no more graphs that look like vaginas and no more squealing and laughing till breathlessness because of some cute thing some pretty Korean star said or did. No more being threatened with legal action by Dude and Dudette for quoting them in my blog so often.

Labels: Dude(tte), school

Heaven is finishing a pint of the finest raspberry and mango sorbet in five minutes. Hell is the cellulite and the guilt and the anorexic talking stick who ordered the single scoop. I hate her.

Labels: photolog, self-effacing

"Thanks. You're the sweetest sis in the world."

"Don't make me puke."

"You're my favourite sister."

"That's only because I'm the only one you have."

"Well, duh."

Labels: chat log, self-effacing

It was very white. The examination supervisors' immaculate, spotless jackets camouflaged against the whitewashed walls so that I could only make out the disembodied hands and heads. We were seated in neat rows at ivory tables, sitting for an essay paper with twelve essay questions to choose one from, just like all those mock examinations we had in school in the past. Except that this one was very different: If I didn't ace the paper, I would somehow die. Within three days. PAINFULLY.

Then came the clock staring right before the paper, waiting for the hands to reach their precise destination when the paper begins. Feels very much like waiting in prison for the hour of execution, except that before you get to die you have to first write an essay. Finally it was 9AM and the scratching of urgent scrawls drowned the room. I was truly horrified that everyone had begun to end their essays when I'd barely looked at the twelve possibilities, let alone made my choice of question. I was so nervous that I was shivering.

So I turned the page over to reveal the essay questions printed in strict rows of black, and I remember a lot of imaginary head banging because I didn't study Barney, and all twelve questions involved the big purple dinosaur. WHY DIDN'T I STUDY BARNEY???

Finally I narrowed down the options by elimination and chose the one I would have the best chance of aceing, something about the place and role of Barney in today's society. Next to me, the table was overflowing with black words against stark white, five pages -- I sneaked a peek -- and counting, and I wanted to throw my pen at the scribbling boy because while he made love to eloquence I was struggling with a decent introduction. All I could come up with was, "Barney emphasises the importance of familial love in our increasingly fragmented society, as can be seen from the lyrics, 'I love you, you love me, we're a happy family'..."

Then I started crying soundlessly. I was angry and scared; I didn't think I deserved to die because of some stupid television program for kids that I'd watched only once, and that one episode marked the beginning of my understanding of hatred -- more specifically, of big purple dinosaurs.

It was just so unfair, having to write about the one thing I didn't study -- and a big (probably gay) purple extinct one that sang off-tune, at that -- in an essay that would decide my fate. A supervisor noticed my weeping and gravitated towards me, and I suddenly realised that I was wrong about the white clothes, that in reality there were none: The 'supervisor' consisted of the disjointed head and the hands and the feet, floating in midair. I screamed for a long time, and that was all. When I woke up I was trembling, and from underneath the sheets in my room I could make out the faint voice of Barney on television outside.

Labels: school, weird shit

Dear Angelique In The Future,

Half a year ago, Mr X dumped us. I have been writing open letters to him every tenth of the month, and this October it is no different in principle: writing without the expectation of any reply. This month will always be remembered as the stage of life in which boys have cooties, in which every male specimen of the human race is, in my opinion, epitomised in a two-dimensional diagram annotated in Misandry, with the region between the legs labelled 'Primary Thinking Device'. Boys are stupid; throw empty Chanel No. 5 perfume bottles at them. They'll smell better!

Because of this, 'love' in my vocabulary has been redefined to mean Not Kicking The Ex-Boyfriend In The Crotch. Recently I let myself go and had a crush on a beautiful Korean boy with a fabulous voice, a sexy body and a pretty face that puts females to shame. His chief virtue as my current love interest is his unattainability: Unlike you and I, he will never notice me and hence never reject me. And did I mention that he is also very possibly homosexual? And taken? And has his thigh habitually groped by a bandmate? I think I like him all the better because of these.

When you read this I hope you'd have been sufficiently distanced from the past to turn it into comedy, in the same way we look back upon the past few months and then compare the ex-boyfriend to a swollen appendix: Hurts like hell to have him removed, and then you realise you didn't need him for survival in the first place. Hopefully the thought of grieving over Mr X's departure already tickles you. Do you still fear guys? Have you gotten over this silliness? Because otherwise I shall have to seek out a convent where we can both live out our lives, away from the cootie-infested sex. And not getting laid for the rest of your life is just terribly sad.

Though I suppose we could turn lesbian.

Love,
Yourself

Labels: letters, Mr X files

Labels: photolog, vacation log

Q: What are the four types of straight guys?

A: The intelligent, the caring, the good-looking, and the majority.

Labels: boys

Being a blogger has its disadvantages. A few days ago I was in Mega Bitch Mode, triggered on by people who shrugged at my woeful predicament and, adding optimism to insult to injury, remarked, "At least you have good content for blogging." And there I thought it was a basic human right to feel upset whenever Good Content happened!

The only thing I have to say about this is the very same and very profound assertion made by my classmate immediately after our Geography teacher, pointing at a diagram on the board, asked the class what conclusion we could draw from it. Without hesitation, my classmate audibly exclaimed, "Life sucks!" and in that moment I was filled with admiration for her ability to sum up in less than three words the opinion of just about every student in our cohort right then.

Recently I got out of a period of living Good Content, content I don't want to relive whether in words or in physical experience. I knew things were looking up when our Geography teacher mentioned a triangular diagram that we ought to include in our essays, and J asked Dudette, "What does a triangle look like?" Without missing a beat, Dudette calmly answered, "A triangle." They then both resumed work as if nothing extraordinary had happened, which I suppose was rather true: Last I checked, a triangle still had three sides. It's comforting to know that in this uncertain world so fraught with insanity, some things will always remain the same: A triangle will always look like a triangle, and J will always say the most insightful things. Life is good.

Yesterday morning it occurred to Dudette that she needed to know about porcupines' sex lives, and she asked me, "How do porcupines have sex?" Both of us were clueless as to the exact geometry involved when these spiky creatures made love, so we posed the question to J. The beauty lies in that he didn't spare even a second to think, to craft an answer, and that makes the apt unintended pun, delivered in the most matter-of-fact way possible, all the more magical:

"They poke each other."

Labels: Dude(tte), school

This hottie is Jaejoong. And he is hot. His nickname is Hero. He's my current celebrity crush. For the moment.

I'm writing short sentences. It's the shock. In the video below. Jaejoong is on the left. And Yunho, nickname U-Know -- Yeah, as in tell me about it, YOU KNOW? -- is seated beside him. Gettin' busy.

Let's play a game. I will seek refuge under thick blankets while you watch the video below. Whoever freaks out first loses. Ready?



Have I mentioned how much I, Model Spinster of the Year, hate PDA? Especially when it involves my crush? Who is a guy and is prettier than I am?

Labels: boys, weird shit

Q: Why don't guys wear tight underwear?

A: It cuts off blood circulation to their brains.


(This post is also known as: Why I Am Still Single, Reason #98475 Trillion.)

Labels: boys

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