I know, I'm a wuss. So I've trapped the little bugger... And when it stuck its feelers outside the box I pressed the box downwards and it yanked its feelers away until they broke. So... What do I do now? How to kill and dispose of the carcass? I don't like getting my hands dirty. Cockroaches can live really long without food and water. Umm... Some help here please? I wanna keep hamsters, not roaches.
Update 0800h: Roachie is now dead, because my dad came home. =D
I'm tempted to call you up right now to hurl verbal insults at you, mainly candid ones such as your lack of integrity and honour, and the only thing stopping me now is the fact that you probably wouldn't understand my perfect English sentences. And, I mean, why waste my time brandishing such a great work of art before ignominious, contemptible and linguistically challenged villains, right? Naive, too. It's not like we can't tell that all you're after is the money, you know. Oh wait -- you don't know. Well if you want to act like you don't care about the money, at least do it convincingly. Put some effort into the act so I could at least find a morsel of respect for you. Old fart.
I can't believe you DARED phone my mom to accuse her of making off with your father's money. She bought our ex-house from him 16 years back and you bring it up now, barely a week after your mother -- my grandma -- passed away, rudely demanding to see records and statements. My mom doesn't even bother with the inheritance; she had already told you ages ago that the other 8 siblings could have her bit. I don't know which part pisses me off the most: Is it your stupidity? Because lawyers clean out their offices every few years ('few' being way, way less than 16) and my mom, she only had records because she carries the Just In Case gene I inherited, the one that makes us need to keep everything so that when we're free we can spin lies about why we might possibly need those possessions someday. Maybe it's the blatant disrespect towards my mom and more importantly my deceased maternal grandparents, and even though my grandma went senile before I really knew her, I remember my grandpa buying me chicken drumsticks every time he visited and for that, for all the food he bought me, YOU INSULT HIM AND YOU DIE.
Also, my grandpa? He was a great man. He won a whooping 700 grand from the lottery and died because he was stingy and didn't like spending on food, and then developed stomach tumours which grew until they killed him. Because he obviously wouldn't spend on medical treatment.
I've always found that hilarious.
ANYWAY. I hope my grandpa's ghost sleeps under your bed every night and gives it a hearty thump every time you're just about to fall asleep. Then you shall be sleep-deprived for the rest of your days MUAHAHAHA! Asshole. Since I was a kid, I never needed my mama to tell me to participate in civilisation: Because my brother and I were very territorial, I made sure we maintained diplomatic relations by making him sign a contract with me every time he gave me a soft toy. Unlike you, we weren't socially inadequate. Neither were we annoying. Nor dishonourable.
Also? Maybe examine your credibility before tossing feeble allegations in all the wrong directions: The other day my mom casually asked you about my late grandma's account balance, the one with you, one of the five adding up to the 700 thousand my grandpa never used, because my grandma was a chauvinist and only split the money amongst my mom's five brothers. And you shrugged and said, "Nothing left." Then corrected yourself: "Only a little left." And then? Over the phone just now: "About 20K." I hope the lies corrode your tongue.
May your lonely incomplete brain cell finds its other half soon so it may finally stop weeping at your intellectual ineptitude, Angelique
I was just shopping for white and black clothes for law school-related functions and whining about having to dress up as if someone died... and then in the evening my mom's mom passed away and I had to attend her wake. Now I have to attend a funeral for real this Saturday.
This reminds me of last night OH GOD YOU JUST SORT OF WOKE UP HOLD ON okay I can finally complete this sentence after twenty minutes and even though I haven't said what I'd meant to say in this string of words I shall stick a full-stop here soon because this line is getting a little too long. Anyway, last night I was in a particularly self-sacrificial mood, and because even though we'd spent every moment of the past two days together your impending departure for the VILE, VILE USA WHICH WANTS TO STEAL YOU FROM ME makes us incredibly needy and in our opinion, washing my hair -- Have you seen my hair, the ones with ends brushing my butt? -- took way too long. The moment I stepped out of the bathroom I declared that there is no truer love than that which gives an Obsessive Compulsive patient the strength to Not Wash Her Hair. People, this is a significant milestone in my life.
About an hour ago I took selflessness to new heights and renounced my very fundamental human right to clear my bladder whenever I wish to. Because the risk of bladder failure? It is NOTHING compared to the agony of extricating myself from your arms while you're asleep, then watching you toss and turn and grope the bed for my presence. I dived back into bed right next to you and, God I'm being so stupid I know but whatever, my heart is exploding with joy! And also my bladder is exploding with urgency. But love conquers all.
I tried to sneak away swiftly, in one smooth motion, and even though you're a deep sleeper you amazed me by noticing my very calculated move, the one I'd contemplated for the past fifteen minutes. And you started whining very softly. Like a cute lost hungry puppy. I love puppies. I love you even more. I don't need to pee. I don't. I don't...
Then I attempted to get off the bed really slowly, inching away gradually, and to my horror when I was one foot away from the bathroom you started hitting the bed. That was a display of a whole new level of enthusiasm, one I had never witnessed in the semi-conscious before, and you were whacking the bed like there were imaginary moles popping out of the mattress yearning for a taste of your fist. Needless to say I dashed back under the covers next to you and whimpered very quietly.
Finally my bladder was threatening to give way on your bed, a notion which deeply offends the Obsessive Compulsive tendencies deep within me. The other day I had to pee into a cup for a medical examination and was so deeply disturbed by the very idea that my fingers would have to be IN CONTACT WITH THE CUP TOUCHING MY PEE. I strongly disapprove of such dirty thoughts. Totally gross. Anyway, I couldn't keep it in any longer and HAD to pee, so I got off the bed -- dashed towards the bathroom but you woke up and OHGOD -- I dashed back to the bed and kissed you! a lot! -- dashed back towards the bathroom -- but you tossed and turned -- I dashed back under the covers again! And didn't get to pee. Then I dashed into the bathroom -- I got so much exercise this afternoon; you have no idea -- and finally peed and IT FELT SO GOOD.
Which was when I booted up my computer and typed those two sentences because I'd wanted to record how absolutely RELIEVED I felt, in both senses of the word... Right before you noticed my absence and demanded it again very groggily. And the only reason why I managed to type so much at a go is that I grabbed my laptop right before dashing under the covers right next to you.
You're still sleeping like a log and it's so cute and I love you so very much.
This is just a quick one before we go off for a morning swim. Less than a minute ago you sneaked up from me behind (sort of but not really since I was aware of it), put your arms around me, pecked me on the cheek and mumbled a 'good morning'. That, right there, has made today one of my favourite days ever, and I wish for the billionth time that you wouldn't be leaving so soon. I'm greedy and want more mornings just like this one.
You're waiting for me to go change now... I need to run.
And I DEMAND to know which future torture victim of mine DARED leave his empty styrofoam cup behind right next to my keyboard. It's not like my Obsessive Compulsive Disorder isn't legendary already. The germs, they are producing great great great great great grandchildren AND MATING WITH THEM. Or something. Whatever. This germ army, it is threatening to TAKE OVER THE WORLD. I can't even begin to describe how fucking gross that would be. I hate filth and I hate the Worse Than Filth, the shithead who dared leave his rubbish at my workstation.
The other day I overheard a complaint against an acquaintance, that he as a guest at someone else's place, after using a cup, simply left it in the sink expecting it to be washed by the host. I mean really? How old do you have to be to take responsibility for your own trash? I am so sheltered that until two years back I'd had no idea how to navigate public train routes on my own, and even then since I was a kid I didn't need my mama to tell me to dispose of my styrofoam cup after I'm done with it. Hell, I didn't even dare throw a snowball back onto the ground because I thought I'd be fined for littering, and because of that my fingers nearly got frostbitten.
Anyway, whoever you are, don't let me catch you leaving your trash at my workstation again or you DIE! You die SO BAD! I will call up a kindergarten and have you enrolled.
I was removing these fantastic crunchy peanut butter cookies from the oven when Maria's dad entered the kitchen and commented that they smelled fabulous. The last time Maria told her parents we were planning to bake a chocolate cake, her dad asked, "Didn't something burn down the last time you tried to bake?" Her mom just laughed. And my mom's reply when I told her I was going to bake was in these exact words: MY TOES ARE GIGGLING!
Our parents? They are obviously jealous of our youth.
Anyway, I shaped these incredibly cute duckie cookies:
The recipe was fairly easy to follow, a fact which can be substantiated by the following points: One, that we took only three hours; two, that Maria's mom ate three cookies at a go and is still alive and well; three, that MARIA AND I DID NOT MESS UP AT ALL. Of these, the third is, quite obviously, most illustrative of how simple the recipe was.
This morning I caught a movie, and it was with you, sort of, but not really. As in. I have no idea how to put this, because this is so absurd. Why are we so full of bullshit? No wonder I love you so much. I'd promised a friend many months before to catch this particular movie with him, and because my integrity is a bitch I couldn't ditch him for you, not even if you're leaving for America next month for close to eternity. I kind of hate America already.
Because I am dependent on you, and have been so since way before we became officially co-dependent, I asked you to come along and you naturally refused because you're shy around new people and because we'd be tempted to be too busy with each other and then ignore my poor friend. And also because you and me? God, that should never be forcibly unleashed upon unfortunate innocent victims. And I said, look, I want you there. And you said, okay, I'll stalk you, read newspapers in the theatre and cut a hole in the sheets and spy on you. And somehow we agreed on us sitting next to each other in the theatre while keeping my friend absolutely clueless.
Our plan worked. I sent you text messages when I missed you and held your hand throughout the movie except the bit where something on screen jumped out at us and I nearly fell out of my chair and was the only one in the cinema who screamed.
We're so cheesy.
Like, this afternoon we were busy, and after a kiss when we tried to move apart, something tugged at our necks and we realised that the chains around our necks were somehow entwined.
I mean, really. We were talking about how your ex-girlfriend regularly picked arguments with you and when you mentioned that you had no need of an organiser to keep your life in order because everything was in your head, I parodied her and whined, "WHY AM I NOT IN YOUR HEAD? DATES ARE MORE IMPORTANT THAN ME? ARE THEY? ARE THEY!" and, testament to the amount of training she has put you through, that scarring type of mental conditioning that makes placating cheese ooze out of you immediately, you calmly replied, "Yeah, everything is in my head. But you're my everything."
I might need to throw up now but at that point? I was so amused and delighted by the mush that I hugged you mid-street. Actually I still see the clouds drifting slowly past my head but I'm too embarrassed to admit that I love cheese, so we can all pretend that I need to puke.
And while we're on the topic of your ex-girlfriend... She's the one we call Psycho Ex because she is crazy about you in the worst way imaginable. I can't even begin to list the ways in which she has illustrated this psychosis; can we start with the time she got insanely jealous (though at this point, 'insanely' and its synonyms are pretty much redundant givens) when a platonic friend leaned in close towards you while taking a picture? Or when she got angry because you didn't reply her text message for maybe one hour? Or when both of us simultaneously suffered a severe lapse in judgement and decided to have dinner, the three of us, and she made it all awkward by presenting us with a pointless pink couple gift? Or when she showed up at your place while I was over there, and waved her camera in the air demanding for a picture of you and me together? We refused, of course, because I am a superstitious person and don't want to risk making ourselves a victim of voodoo. YOU NEVER KNOW.
The list could go on forever, but clearly she has achieved a redefinition of psychological imbalance of the highest and purest order: She has managed to upset me because after over eighteen years, I AM NO LONGER THE CRAZIEST PERSON I KNOW. And by God do we all know what a remarkable feat that truly is. I even have a category of blog posts entitled 'chainsaw' just so every reader can admire just how stable and pleasant I am. Like totally.
You don't seem to mind, though, so I guess I got lucky. And because you are so used to appeasing Psycho Ex in any way you can, when we had our first quarrel the other day (over how little I ate -- adequately lame for a couple's first quarrel, wouldn't you say?) it was resolved in five minutes. Mainly because you're too nice to fuel conflict, and I have lost any desire to add to your psychological scars. I can never seem to be angry with you.
I don't remember the last time any argument with me was this short-lived, because I am a spitfire and can readily articulate paragraphs detailing the nature of my wrath, its justification, the expected amount in indemnity, and the consequences of denying me adequate compensation. In other words: I am a bitch. That day, though, I was frustrated but hardly angry, and decided within the first three minutes that I was in the wrong and apologised, by which you were utterly horrified. You repeatedly begged me to SAY SOMETHING TO THE CONTRARY, ANYTHING, because I am a bitchy law student and must defend my stand at all costs, because I always do, I always have lines to serve in return. But I was tranquil and all, "Nope! Darling, you're right. I'm wrong... I'm sorry." You were rendered speechless.
That was just one tiny exception, and I usually do enjoy having the last say (because, see line above: I am a bitch), and every morning before we go to bed we both like to be the last one to say I love you and sweet dreams and gross mushy shit like that. One morning you messaged that you would not allow me to reply, so that you'd get the last say. Even though I'd seen you almost daily for the past few months I still couldn't (and can't) get enough of you; I missed you, and giving you a missed call did not constitute 'replying'. However, my tactical brilliance resulted in a 4AM phone call from you and for the next seven minutes we discussed who should hang up first. But, just so you know, I only agreed to hang up first because I'm so hung up on you.
This time it was some Spanish-looking guy with a very strange accent, and he must have had practice because I'd been completely taken in by the lost look on his face and by the seemingly innocent question about whether I spoke English. Do I look exotic? Because this isn't the first time someone has automatically assumed that my grasp of English is more of a Holding On For Dear Life. Anyway I'd thought that the abovementioned dude was a lost tourist, especially since he looked foreign and helpless, and the truth only dawned upon me when he then asked me if I had a boyfriend.
To which I of course replied in the negative. And then, in the most candid, wry manner I could master, added that I have a girlfriend.
Oh what I would give to see that look on his face again, the classic blend of shock, embarrassment and a little revulsion.
I have used this line before, but it was over the phone, and anyway that other guy was too thick to realise that I'd been spelling REJECTION out in huge bold letters. If I were to harbour a guess I'd say that he was still single because of his tragic inability to -- How do I put this kindly? -- act like he isn't intellectually challenged.
You're right next to me but so far away, somewhere blissfully sheltered from reality. I don't think anyone could possibly understand what this feels like, to be watching you as you turn in your sleep and make a mess of the sheets, the sheets still warm from where I slept on your shoulder. I feel... lonely, all of a sudden. I think about how you're leaving for abroad too soon and it makes me cry.
Now you've got me crying. I'm sobbing silently so I don't wake you. You're going to be so angry with me when you read this, why won't I wake you up for the comfort hug I know I need? I think deep down inside it's because I know this grief is pretty much inconsolable, and something I intellectually recognise I need to deal with alone, sooner or later, and sooner is better because you are asleep, whisked away somewhere safe, and I love you. I am sorry. I'm selfish, and I don't want you to see me cry more than is necessary. Tonight my anguish is my own.
When I finish writing this I am going to kiss you on the forehead so your subconscious knows how much I love you. I don't think there is anything more important to me right now than you knowing how much I love you. We don't have enough time.
I think I'm scared. You'll be halfway around the world and I can't be there in person to share your joys and sorrow. I can't live without smearing toothpaste on your face and hair and I can't comprehend life without our private jokes and 'I love you more' competitions and good morning kisses -- Good morning when we wake and good morning when we sleep, because we were too busy all the way in between to remember that night exists, and that our species isn't exactly nocturnal. I don't want change if it means I can't bombard you with kisses anymore. There's still a little bit of you I haven't kissed and you can't go, I'm not done, it isn't fair.
And we can't change any of it. We saw this coming, and neither of us could do anything to prevent it.
You're still leaving.
Do you know? I can't wait till you open your eyes again so I can look into them and tell you in all honesty that I love you so, so much. I'd like to tell you how much I missed you while you were asleep. I'd like to hold your hand for a while longer than I should, whisper 'I love you's a little more often than would be emphatic, be a little needier than my pride dictates.
You just turned in your sleep again and, feeling the emptiness next to you, groggily called out for me. Tomorrow you won't remember this because you're too sleepy and too cute, and I'm going to climb in under the sheets and cuddle with you and kiss you. And allow myself to cry a little bit more and let it out so hopefully I won't bawl at the airport when you leave.
When that day comes, I hope I can still smile. It's the least I could do for both of us.
Where the flowers and birds are colour-coordinated.
Is anyone else tickled pink that for some reason most of the flamingos are on one leg? My favourite's the one far left. Maybe they've having a competition to see who can stand on one leg longest. I always lose that sort of competitions.
Pelicans!
Me having an AHH-ing competition with an ostrich, though here you can only see one of us making a fool of ourselves. I didn't know ostriches were so zealous when it came to defending one's Master of AHH-ing title.
Just incredibly cute and orange.
Ridiculously graceful. I stared at it for ages with the very paparazzi-esque urge to capture an unglamorous moment. Sadly, this bird put our celebrities to shame with its impeccable pound of Glamour.
I LOVE DUCKIES!
Maria's first day at work as a sign at the Bird Park.
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.
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Angelique
November 20, 19xx
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