"It's this list of important people that deans make. So in the event of a catastrophic event like a fire maybe? They know who's important enough to rescue and who's dispensable enough to leave in the burning building."
"WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT!?!?! But... It only lasts for one year, right?!"
"Yeah it's sort of like one-year insurance coverage. So if you're caught in the fire one day after that year is done, you're screwed. They're going to leave you in the building."
"..."
"So you better work hard to stay on the list yeah?"
[Update: No I did not make the Dean's List! Neptune is the one kicking ass in university while I am the one making snide remarks about the fires.]
About a week back I figured out how to curl my hair with a straight hair iron, I know you are thinking right now that this sentence sounds like it's going to lapse into bimboness, and you are right. I have pretty hair now. I've gone out with pretty hair maybe five times since I arrived in the U.S., and two of those five times, guys asked me for my number. I can only conclude that pretty hair makes a huge difference and that guys are shallow. Hehe.
Also, apparently guys find me most attractive when I am purchasing hotdogs at 7-11. Why, I have no idea, but both times when I have done so, a guy who wants my number seems to spawn. It happened day before yesterday, and it started off with me realising that someone was staring at me, then me checking to see if my bra or panties was showing, and then me hiding behind Neptune to avoid the line of fire. And then he walked up to Neptune and I and asked both of us to hang out some time -- I teased Neptune for ages about this because, holy shit, a guy asked for her number even though she spells LESBIAN from head to toe -- and then I mumbled something about the chilli dispenser and ran off leaving Neptune to deal with the guy. Because I am a great girlfriend with priorities in the right order.
This morning I was on a morning walk alone, photographing the summer blooms, and I was trying to cross this driveway when suddenly a car pulled up in front of me. I was incredibly confused because I sort of assume all cars to either (i) move along, (ii) honk at me because they narrowly missed hitting me, and then move along, or (iii) stop and gesture for me to cross first. This driver was sort of waving at me and I waved back, for some reason, then he pulled in front of me while I continued staring at him.
And then he wound down his window and asked what I was photographing and then if I would go to "coffee or something" and I answered, "RIGHT NOW!?" Because, god, I'm such a dork. And because I honestly thought that he'd either wanted to hire me or kidnap me and I was open to both possibilities because I EMBRACE ALL THAT LIFE CAN OFFER! But mainly because I am such a confused dork. It wasn't until he said, "Because you should know, you look beautiful~" that I realised what he wanted and I was all, oh, you poor heterosexual. You don't even stand a chance, and you have no idea.
Neptune and I finally got our piercings at Slave to the Needle day before yesterday. On the bus there I was contemplating how to break the news to my very conservative, principled parents, and all of a sudden Neptune started singing, "IF TOMORROW NEVER COMES..." And I wanted to reply, like, thank you very much for your compassion. This must be why I love you so much.
Last night, after lights out, I heard Neptune roll over away from me in the dark, and I immediately freaked out, imagining how the pillow is going to kill her piercing dead. Because I am a good girlfriend who proactively looks out for Eyebrow Piercing Welfare. I yelped, "CANNOT TURN. CANNOT TURN!" and with all my might, yanked her towards me before she could plaster the right side of her face onto the pillow. She resisted, but finally turned her back to me and twisted her head a little so her piercing didn't touch the pillow. And then she groggily mumbled to me, "This is a half-turn."
For me it's worse: I can't lie on my tummy, can't watch TV propped on my elbows and it is causing me much anguish because I LIKE LYING ON MY TUMMY. It is my human right to lie on my tummy. I DESERVE TO LIE ON MAH TUMMEH.
Also, it is hurting a little, so being paranoid, I wanted to Google for an explanation with keyword searches like: Navel+piercing+pain. But because I got Neptune to do the Googling for me, the search keywords were: 'Why pain after navel piercing?' -- WITH THE QUESTION MARK. I've teased her endlessly about treating the search engine with such respect but she still insists on including the question mark. AS A MATTER OF PRINCIPLE. Which principle, I do not know.
As for why the piercing hurts... Google has humbled me! Because most of the answers I got were (and I am not even paraphrasing them): You just got stabbed with a piece of metal. It is a fresh wound. OF COURSE IT WILL HURT. And I was like, ohHhHHHhhHH! THAT MAKES SENSE. I know, right? To lose weight I should get liposuction on my head since I don't use my brains anyway.
Some photos taken on the way to the piercing studio:
These Miis, created by Neptune and I last night when we were inspired by boredom, are actually pretty accurate. Except I made myself a little skinnier and Neptune made herself a little fatter and fairer (The wii didn't have the right shade of her tan). Also, we have boobs, fingers, and toes, and would not be caught wearing red tights. Ever. And Neptune? In a dress? HAHAHAHAHAHA.
In which I accidentally pull a Marilyn Monroe on the Royal Argosy
As a belated first anniversary celebration, Neptune and I went for a dining cruise yesterday and had a blast. We were surprised to get our most preferred seat in the room by chance, quite near the windows and with the most perfect view of both sides of the ship. Most importantly? CUSHIONED SEATS. One of the only two in the room! Oh how our butts rejoiced, you have no idea!
This is me being creative and trying to use the overhead mirror to show you my bald spots.
As proof of how awesome our view was, here are some pictures taken from our table:
Then Neptune and I noticed the salt and pepper shakers. We decided that she was pepper, and I did a little photoshoot of them kissing:
Yes, I did all that while the ship was rocking. Because I am awesome at accomplishing tasks which have no practical value whatsoever.
After dessert, we went to the deck and found a blind spot to share some special time, after which the wind decided to pick up. My skirt, that is. It's a good thing no one (but us) noticed, because I was wearing granny panties!
More of the 188 shots taken during the cruise -- These were taken from the deck:
We had so much fun watching the scenery and talking and doing stupid things that made my heart flutter like holding hands at the dinner table and sharing food and mushy things like that which I know makes you want to throw up. ANYWAY. Neptune just woke up and her hair is sticking out in all directions HAHAHAHA.
Argh the windows are so dirty. Totally ruining my photos!
Hong Kong airport:
I was uploading these photos while Neptune was working on an assignment next to me -- Come to think of it, this is actually a pretty good reflection of the roles we play in our relationship; she has the honor of being productive and I am in charge of balancing that workaholism with hedonistic idleness; in fact, as I type this, she is cooking us some supper :D -- Anyway, she was next to me and happened to see this picture, and immediately? She pointed at the hole and said, "This plane needs to take a shit! You should put some poop there." THIS, people, is precisely why I love her.
Saaaaaan Francisco!:
And then a random shard of ice hit the window:
It's like Christmas, though in May, and thousands of miles up in the air. *sigh* I miss Christmas. I guess this makes up for missing all the snow last season -- I was in Singapore (where it's perpetually summer), and it snowed in Seattle a week before I arrived, and a week after I left. The weather hates me.
Lots of turbulence. Must have been the gravity of my ass constantly throwing the plane of balance.
Loads of fuzz because, as expected, the dude in front reclined his seat until it was in my face. My lungs are plushies now.
---
Hong Kong citizens I've met so far: Not a single shred of an effort of a pretense at courtesy. I have relatives in HK and they are NOTHING like these barbaric people:
*Stewardess: "Fasten your seat belt already?" Except when she said it, it came off like, "Fasten your seat belt already FULL STOP." Like, yes ma'am, MY SEAT BELT IS FASTENED MA'AM! And then I felt obligated to salute her.
*Asshole in the queue: "Why taking so long?" .....UM. It might be because you have been in line for all of THREE minutes. Why don't you go douse your head in water and then try to immerse yourself in civilised society so you can do a decent mimicry of civil behaviour? Oh, I know. It'd probably take forever.
*Idiot in the toilet who blatantly walked past me (in line) and entered the empty cubicle before I could even give her the finger.
*Hag who kept elbowing me on the 12-hour flight to San Francisco. Woman, there is a reason why there is the armrest. See the thing which is made to BE THERE? I will translated it so you can underline. See the line it makes? It means: That side, yours. This side, MINE. Your elbow must not invade my space else I will hide your seat belt in between our seats like I did when you went to the toilet. Yes, I am very mature. 12 hours of elbow-jabbing tends to help me grow a lot as a person.
*Shithead who kept tapping the floor next to my seat. Do you know that my seat trembled with every tap? It wasn't very fun to have to try to sleep with the constant tapping. I contemplated spilling something there so your foot wouldn't tap that spot. However, I was too much of a wuss to do so.
*HK airport's metal detector which is so sensitive, it picked up even the zip of my jeans, and as a result I had to stand there like a whore and let some security lady pat me all over. That must have been the Most Unsexy Pat Down of the Century. Or maybe unsexiness is a prerequisite for being security personnel?
---
My HK-San Francisco flight was delayed by a whole hour -- There was an engine abnormality which turned out okay but the captain was like, "All that paperwork!" and we had to wait while "All that paperwork!" was being done. Fucking paperwork... And then I asked this security officer to help me check for my gate number for the connecting San Francisco-Seattle flight, because I had just 20 minutes to departure, right? BUT NO. She shrugged and walked away. May she never reach orgasm for the rest of her life.
So I called Neptune for the gate number, ran to the gate -- "Sorry the flight is closed." "The plane is right there. I can see it. I need to get on that plane." "This flight is closed." "I DON'T THINK YOU UNDERSTAND. I NEED TO GET ON THIS FLIGHT. RIGHT NOW." "CLOSED." And then he walks away. WALKS AWAY! Am I wearing perfume today that everyone hates, or something? Did he not see me on the verge of tears? So I'm angry and ready to blow his brains out with my verbal artillery but instead I just sobbed uncontrollably because I realised that I wasn't going to get on that flight, I was going to have to wait EVEN LONGER to see Neptune.
Hate you, plane trip.
Anyway, I was booked on a flight departing in two hours, so it's all good. Except for the Hong Kong people I've met, and all that fuzz in my lungs.
***
Update: I've arrived safely in Seattle! Now to catch up with Neptune and on sleep.
Seattle here I come!!! Make way y'all, because my ass is huge!
The plane just took off. I'm sleepy but I can't sleep. Staring at Singapore as the land mass gradually disappears into a speck. I hope there's turbulence. Turbulence, turbulence, please! The fat guy seated in front of me just reclined his seat. Someone should give this sort of passengers compulsory training in airplane etiquette. The back of his seat is in my face. Can you imagine all the fuzz I'm breathing in right now?
I'm thirsty. I try to get the attention of the stewardess as she walks past... And I fail.
I don't like the person sitting next to me. She looks wrinkled and weary, reminds me of an old disgruntled maid whose favourite past time is throwing banana peels at young amorous couples, especially those with the misfortune of walking past her while holding hands. She holds up a tiny mirror and scowls at her melodramatic make-up. I try counting the strands of white hair on her head, hoping it'd help me fall asleep.
I miss Neptune. I remember watching her attempt to make a box out of paper, and then suddenly, mid-attempt, she looks up at me woefully, holds up the mutation and says, "This is the saddest box in the history of mankind." She's so cute.
The first thing I am going to do when I see her is... probably take off my shoes. We both have this huge problem with shoes in the house. One time we had a dude fix our toilet flush, and when I invited him in he stopped at the door and said gleefully, "I know the rules!" and removed his shoes. It must've been the way I kept staring at the mat, at his shoes, at my bare feet, and back.
So now I'm reading the arty farty book that Neptune bought me. It's supposed to teach me how to draw so I can pretend that my skillz exceed those of a three-year-old. I bought a sketch pad to practice on the plane, and I'm drawing something now... Okay... Okay..... No. Not Okay. My human face looks more like a wrinkled pear. Maybe I should specialise in illustrating children's books. Because, kids? They have enough creativity in them to see past the pearness into the humanness of my wrinkled pear face thing!
My hand is hurting now so I'm going to stop writing.
I guess this means I wasn't cut out to be a tattoo artist
I knew my day was going to be fantastic when my dad, bored out of his mind at the red light, started creating sounds which were supposed to be artistic. "Puck puck? Plock pock puck!? Puck pock puck." His vision: Beatboxing. I saw: CHICKEN.
Also, a man whose head was stuck in the second storey of the building.
TMIB (Too Much Info Buddy -- because in our conversations, very little is left for the imagination... and I will leave that to your imagination) and I went over to Little India in search of henna, which is a plant-based dye used by people in various points in history to decorate themselves for luck or in celebration, including Singaporean Indians today. And because I can appreciate how joy leads inevitably to drawing all over yourself, and because I would be so denied inheritance if I got a tattoo, henna was an obvious indulgence. Apparently the FDA considers it illegal to colour your skin that way. Wow. In Singapore, I think that would pretty much sideline an entire culture.
Unfortunately, I think the cones of henna paste that we bought were too dry, so they ended up looking like bird poop:
Ankh, the Egyptian hieroglyphic character for 'life'. Religious people: No, I am not part of a cult, it's just a pretty symbol. Other people: Yes, I am aware that it really resembles bird poop, but I am not trying to say that life is full of shit, though at times it may be.
So a little bird landed on TMIB's shoulder... And then began to poop artistically all over it! Horrified, I screamed -- a flutter of wings -- it lands on my wrist... And poops!
This was taken after TMIB scraped off the dried poop to see how much the it would stain. Oh man, I love henna! Do you see my bunny and carrot?
BEFORE:
This picture was taken before the scraping off of the poopage... The dried bits sort of... fell off onto the ground?
AFTER:
Poop.
Me drawing on TMIB:
You can't see my face, but I assure you that I was most gleeful indeed.
Bunny! So then TMIB scraped it off, and I drew on the eyes again:
GHOST BUNNY WITH THE HAUNTING EYES. It is staring at you... *Cue thriller soundtrack*
Turns out that if you take a bath soon after, the henna doesn't stain very much, so now there is no sign of bird poop ever having been on either of us.
Anyway, TMIB and I realised how much of a failure the henna experiment was, and instead went to a bookstore and used permanent markers instead. I drew an alien on her other shoulder and named it Quishy!
Quishy is in love with something, but not quite sure what. Nevertheless, it is very passionate about that thing, though it may be slightly confused as to what exactly it has a passion for.
So I hung out with my best friend today and he told me that he was talking to his friend about me, and he went, oh by the way? Her name is Angelique. And his friend was like, the Angelique who hates people who take three subjects in junior college (as opposed to the maximum four)?
Apparently, in a single e-mail interview, the journalist somehow managed to comprehend my opinions as giving her a valid opportunity to make me out to be a complete elitist ass, which I may indeed be -- But it's not for her to write it. I can only conclude that she hates me.
What I meant to say was, yes, people DO feel superior because they do better at school; the Singaporean education system is very good at making people feel better at themselves in comparison to academically weaker students. And I am not about to go put myself and those around me on a pedestal and deny that sort of prejudice existing. But that doesn't mean that I endorse it.
I can't, because right now? I'm a straight-C student.
My best friend took three subjects.
My girlfriend took three subjects.
Yes, I must be an asshole because it is so painfully obvious that I hate people who don't take four subjects.
So, my dear journalist, thank you for making a complete stranger hate me. I hope you had fun, because I can sue you for that, and I can assure you that it wouldn't be very fun at all. Sometimes I wonder... Was it because my language was too bombasticconvoluted difficult to comprehend? Was it because you got hopelessly lost in the long winding sentences that I tend to write when I get excited and go on a really long ramble because I'm in a hurry to capture the millions of different thoughts running through my head that very instant? And then it hits me: Oh. You're stupid. Or, YOU HATE ME. I guess it's the latter.
But because I believe that being horribly misquoted by the media is one of the hallmarks of being a Significant Person, for possibly the first time in my life, I shall be the bigger person and sign you up for spam instead. If I might direct your attention to your e-mail inbox? You will find people who can help you with sexual incompetence. You see? I am all about helping you. I CARE ABOUT YOU. :)
The past two days I have spent sleeping, gaming, and shopping. Well, mainly shopping. I once read an article explaining how, because so much commerce is marketed to the fairer sex, female are in fact the ones whose expenditure drives the economy. Well, the article meant to say: FEMALE. SINGULAR. More specifically? ANGELIQUE. With her nifty Obsessive Buying Disorder.
This afternoon I decided to stop being a bum and reorganized my room. I have become a bigger person because I have succeeded in coming into contact with my law textbooks without giving in to the DESIRE! to reach for matches and kerosene. If any (unfortunate) freshmen are reading this and need textbooks which are used but still miraculously in excellent condition, YOU COME TO ME! Drop me an email. Because my books have been used approximately 0.784 times. 'Nuff said.
Also, I have just finished hiding all evidence that I am deeply in love with someone who happens to also have a vagina -- In five days, I will be leaving Singapore for 2.5 months of Neptune and Seattle. I've decided that since I still have my eye on inheritance, during that time it wouldn't be very nice to have my parents find out that I am in fact ***, '***' being That Which Shall Not Be Named and equating, in the words of my parents, SHAMEFUL!. And I assure you that the last thing I ever want to do is be kicked out of my parents' wills.
It's really unfair. Life always rains on my parade. Day before yesterday I spent in self-induced pain and torment shoveling information into my head and then yesterday I spent in exam-induced pain and torment and ANGUISH shoveling information out of my head I mean as much information as I had in there anyway and it's just so unfair that today I thought I could spend in hedonistic and indulgent moping over how much life hates me BUT THEN. My favourite professor dropped the bomb today and shared with the class that his wife of 30 years was diagnosed with cancer and passed away two weeks back. And he's an incredibly nice person who is one of the few teachers who have ever inspired me -- in law school, no less -- It's just, how are you supposed to compete with that? It pretty much doesn't get any worse than a nice person losing his soulmate, so I'm like, shit. Now I can't mope without feeling guilty.
In other news, updates will continue to be sporadic and depressing until after my last exam on the 8th. Also, is this not the cutest watch you have ever seen?
That said, I do have a tiny objection: Why are more sushi plates stacked next to the guy? It's perpetuating the stereotype that guys can eat more, a stereotype I can totally debunk at ANY buffet with both hands tied behind my back. I can only surmise that the female has fewer dirty plates next to her because she actually bothers doing the dishes. Evidently the female depicted is nothing like my girlfriend. :P
Anyway, I love Tokidoki (I'm collecting their bags, but that's another story) and I love sushi, so this watch is so MINE! I feel better armed with a cute watch. It's like, it'll be totally okay if I end up clueless during my exam. Why? Because I HAVE A CUTE WATCH. It has chopstick hands. And you know what, life? I CAN STARE AT IT. I shall be happy and you won't be able to do anything about it. HA!
We've been together for a year now, and because we have a sort of unspoken agreement to be honest with each other, the first thing I said to you today was, "Happy Anniversary!" And then: "I can't believe you're still alive." Because this is the sort of thing couples in honest relationships do, alongside admitting to be the one who farted. Also, remember the time I cooked us beef soup? I... I found a caterpillar in my bowl and nearly ate it. I'm sorry.
The last couple of months have been trying for us, not only because I am a bitch (who has mastered the dark art of emotional manipulation), but also because we have spent most of the year physically apart, and I am sure I speak for most long-distance couples when I say that problems are easily blown out of proportion by geographical distance. I have lost count of the number of times I have tried to break up with you, all of those times for ridiculous reasons, and for this I can only say that I am sorry. While it astounds me that you have survived one year with me, I'm happy you have and I hope you will tolerate me for many more. In return, I promise to check more carefully for caterpillars the next time I make soup.
This year has been the best year of my life. I have never been this happy, which is a big thing when you consider how capable law school is of making a person miserable. One of the few things that have kept me sane has been the thought that at the end of the day, there is someone I can whine to without being judged or sued for defamation, someone who will take my side even when I'm wrong.
Sometimes people ask me why grades matter so little to me, and because I am a frank person, I tell them that my list of priorities is very enlightened and, as such, I place things like shopping and gaming at the top of that list. Also? Because you and I, we have an arrangement such that if I flunk law school and can't get a job, you'll bring home the bacon and supply me with a steady shopping allowance -- increases negotiable if you get bonuses at work. You are probably out of your mind. Thank god.
Thank you for the time you stayed up for me the entire night just because I had a 24-hour take-home exam, for climbing out of bed for me while you had abdominal cramps from food poisoning, for suffering sleep deprivation and braving the time difference to have video conferences with me. I'm grateful for all the things you've done for me and I am sorry for all the times I made you feel inadequate. If it helps, you are the only person whose girlfriend I became jealous of, just one day after you and I officially met. You took that day off from work to be with her, and I remember being surprised by how much I missed you. I felt strangely incomplete, like gummy bears without the gummy.
Many times I've seen the same question asked in relationship forums: How do you know if this is The Right One? Most replies are to the tune of, oh, you just know... And I've always thought that that was just a convenient statement which propagates a relationship myth. But it's my turn to say, yes, you just know. Somehow, the moment I met you, there was something different... Something I still can't put my finger on. It's like how my mom picks out vegetables -- carrots, for example -- at the supermarket: She inspects thousands of candidates, each for hours on end, but when she finally finds The Right One, it takes a matter of moments before it goes into the cart. Even though all the carrots looked about the same to me. You are my special carrot! I just know.
If I had a penny for every time I complained, I would be complaining about the lack of breathing space while buried underneath all those pennies.
Day before yesterday I went to see the doctor about allergic contact dermatitis and miscellaneous outbreaks of eczema -- which, aside from the names, I know very little about, but typing it makes me feel more intelligent than I really am -- and after nagging at me to poop, eat fruits and vegetables and drink water frequently, she told me that, basically, my eczema was due to stress. Which got me thinking about whether I would be able to sue my law school (THEORETICALLY of course, since people who might be grading my papers in the future might chance upon this), for a theoretical breach of a theoretical duty of care. But of course this is all very theoretical and not something anyone should be paying attention to.
Also, my doctor said: "Do you know what we have under our skin? OIL! Precious oil... God gave this oil to us; He wants us to have this oil." Strangely, all I could think about was the great George W. Bush. Because he is a great person.
The doctor also gave me some tablets to ease the allergic reaction, and I have been dutifully following her instructions for the past two days. And in the past 48 hours? I cannot remember a single lucid 3-hour period. I must've slept for about 40 hours, and I am still sooooooo tired and groggy and asjkdhasdzzz... which is ridiculous because I am a Veteran Insomniac. I redefined insomnia. It's not fair. She has no right to made me lethargic like that. I want to sue.
Also, I hate DHL! Hatehatehatehate! The sender had specifically requested delivery of a parcel to Neptune in person, signature required. But they left my package at Neptune's door, right on the porch where ANYONE could have taken it. One thousand two hundred and fifty-three dollars and twenty-nine cents' worth of authentic Christian Dior goodness. Outside. On the porch. Alone, uncared for and unloved. Left to weather the elements, left to fend for itself helplessly! Most importantly? MIGHT HAVE BEEN STOLEN. Hate you DHL!
...
Hmm... I seem to have run out of things to complain about for now.
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.
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Angelique
November 20, 19xx
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