dark side

It's the time of the month. This round is bad. Serious bad. Traipsing on the fine line separating dot-on-my-pain-threshold and someone-carve-my-womb-out bad. I'm oozing black blood. Damn. Them aliens musta brainwashed me to the Dark Side without me knowing. I'd better get started on collecting autographs while I'm still here.

he

He has so many secrets, so many charms, so many undiscovered territories no matter how careful I am each time to go into details. Every time we are together, it is better than before. I love the way he smell, the way I hold him, my hands caressing his spine. His skin is smoother than the finest silk. I am richly inspired and my imaginations run wild just by looking at him.

Oh... The Copy Book...

stop

Please, nobody ask me about my birthday and how it went. This questions sends me into bouts of depression and I'm already at my 23985th bucket of tears. Oh well, at least the agony and hurt from last year's birthday breakup paled in comparison and has faded from memory somewhat.

So, for the first and last time... my 26th birthday is totally screwed up. FUBAR. End of story.

But I would still accept belated presents. The stats cannot stop at 2! Nooooo!

birthday?

It's my birthday tomorrow. And it's going to be one of the suckiest, ranking slightly behind the birthday when Jien asked to part ways as friends. I'm not at good terms with Boyfriend, him complaining for the 13846th time about my clothing, and me defiantly defending comfort should come before ego, that comfort accelerates my productivity at work, and revel in my sloppiness.

My birthday is destined to suck harder because I have to come out with 12 different copies for a product that boasts a hell load of crap more benefits than it actually has. I swear I'm going to be a helluva fairytale writer in no time.

I'm still coughing up a storm. I miss my angelic, melodious voice. The doctor says it's not Ebola (twice), but judging by the amount of goo coming out of my holes I want a second opinion. If I don't blog for a week after this, just go ahead and assume that the Ebola got me.

Update after 4 hours...

Gosh I can't believe the boredom that's spiritually attacking me right now. My mind is supposed to be either crammed full of ideas or little sparks of them for my 12 copies. That or planning how to celebrate my turning 26 with a bang. But my mind is... blank. Numb. Unfeeling. Is this how getting older feels? But I love birthdays! I love receiving gifts and unwrapping them and keeping the wrappers for my Christmas present-wrapping. Seems like getting older means decreased enjoyment in receiving and unwrapping presents. I didn't even get an e-mail or text message or card. I'm unpopular. Fuck. But I received 2 presents so far from college mates. A Mango Body Butter for Very Dry Skin from The Body Shop. Makes me feel like a fucking reptile. Ogres are mammals. Frisky mammals, albeit the size and stature. Another present is a silver, aluminium-like picture frame. Awwwww, how quaint. *smack it off the table*

But I love presents. The right ones.

Dating Quiz

Your dating personality profile: Stylish - You do not lack for fashion sense. Style matters. A staunch believer in individuality, you stand out from the crowd with your mum's clothes and brother's shoes. You wouldn't want to be seen with someone who doesn't care about his appearance. Athletic - Physical fitness is one of your priorities. You find the time to work athletic pursuits into your schedule, like breathing. Or occasionally turning your body during sleep. Or eating extremely chunky chewy slabs of steak to exercise your jaws. You enjoy being active. In bed preferably. Funny - You laugh often. At people. People never accuse you of lacking a sense of humor. Just mercy. You don't take yourself too seriously. And neither does anyone else, most of the time. Especially your Boss.

Your date match profile: Stylish - You cannot put up with someone who is lacking in style. You want an original, someone with flare, someone with good taste. Someone who thinks a beached whale is the sexiest momma in the history of mankind. Funny - You consider a good sense of humor a major necessity in a date. If his jokes make you laugh, he has won your heart. If he doesn't mind others laughing at him, he has won the left side of the bed. Fragrant - Forget aphrodisiacal manly aroma and bushy afro body hair, you need a sweet-smelling match. Receiving perfumes of all brands interest you, and a scented man will offer the vanity and moolah you need.

Your Top Ten Traits 1. Stylish 2. Athletic 3. Funny 4. Big-breasted 5. Freaky 6. Liberal 7. Intellectual 8. Religious 9. Hungry like the wolf 10. Mammal

Your Top Ten Match Traits 1. Stylish 2. Funny 3. Fragrant 4. Into bondage and biting 5. Moisturising 6. Filthily rich 7. Wears glasses 8. Cooks 9. Yummylicious 10. Obedient

Take the Online Dating Personality Quiz at Dating Diversions

chilli cream

I don't know if it's a PMS-related erratic whim or pure, unadulterated idiotism, but I've signed up for a slimming programme using chilli. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I'm afraid this is the last resort for me to transform into Dainty Dolphin from Beached Whale before the next seismic disaster hit. Actually this stems from KC's incessant nagging for me to be reedy enough for him to carry around, and as much as I get tremendously pissed from this obvious need for superficial perfection in one's significant other half found mainly in the male genes, I thought to myself "heck, end times are near and I simply HAVE to strut around looking babelicious in ultra-revealing slutty clothes before being swallowed by a giant wave or a giant mutated earthworm".

So I rubbed some chilli cream on the huge tub of lard that I used to recognise as a stomache this morning (preview of what to expect during my slimming sessions), and boy oh boy did it hurt. It fucking burned like Gollum's fairy leash. I was writhing and wailing in agony like a leech on a salt mountain, tempted to break the bathroom mirror and hack my skin off. I now fully comprehend the phrase "no pain, no gain". And this chilli cream thing had better work. Or else I swear I'll *censored for extreme gore and obscenity*

I will apply chilli cream again tomorrow. I must get use to it somehow. It's only fair to the beautician that her other customers and civilians within the mile's radius don't flee in terror when I go in for my session.

Anyone who has a better recommendation speak now or forever be silent, unless and until I come back as an obese vengeful apparition denied of a chance to wriggle into a bikini and walking the walk before Christ's second coming.

ikea

I... see... old... people.

Went to Ikea today for the last few batches (hopefully) of accessorizing my new house and room. As usual, the weekend crowd was stifling, but the exceptional phenomenon today was the demographics. I see old people everywhere. It's not a sudden hostile invasion by Planet Septuagenaria. These folks have been around and about all the time I'm sure, but habitually I just see them and smile to the occasional genial, non-frowning ones, and go on my merry way. I see but I don't see. And today I saw. And start to think what it is going to be like for my parents to grow... old. I saw this old lady staring into space, mechanically rocking a toddler in a shopping cart back and forth, back and forth... and I imagined Mum like this. I saw this old man hungrily wolfing down pastry, crumbs dropping all over the place, oblivious to passer-bys... and I imagined Dad like that. Sure, my parents are no longer young and energetic, being more than half a decade old. But still it pains me to imagine them with wispy white hair and hunched and wobbly one day in the future.

When we're young we think our parents are invincible. As we grow older we see their mistakes and realize that they too, are human. And we can't wait to leave home, away from the incessant nagging, away from stringent house rules. Then when we're finally out in the world by our own... there'll be moments when we miss them terribly and just want to cuddle with them in bed on stormy nights, cry on their shoulders when things don't go our way, have a simple home-cooked meal and talk about the day's happening...

I miss my parents. This very moment. So much. I'm overwhelmed with love for my parents, and I don't understand why every time when I go home for a short stay we'll end up quarrelling. Mum's nagging becomes increasingly irritating. Dad's reminiscing his glory days becomes boring and pretentious. However much I love my parents I don't know how to love them in the way they understand and appreciate. I want to spend all my holidays with them at home but there are so many more other "youthful" and enjoyable things to do, and when I do stay home for a long visit we'll end up fighting. I want to bring my parents away on a holiday, a family trip (our last was when I was 11) but I cannot afford a good destination, and the family members all have different days off. Frustration leads to ignorance, and time washes all feelings and dreams away.

Right this moment, I just want to record down the immense love I have for my parents. Whatever mistakes we all made, whatever bad things we thought and said about each other. I know that if I just let this thought - this love - pass from my mind, I'll grow numb again tomorrow and our busy lives will just continue as it is. With Mum calling me once a week to catch up, and Dad writing the occasional email reprimanding Brother and I for not keeping in touch or going home for a visit.

How do I love? How should I love my parents?

Today, I received my first bouquet of ad hoc flowers. Ad hoc because it's not my graduation convocation or birthday. The flowers are for my moving into this new home. The pink daisies are gorgeous and smell delicious. But since it's my first ever bouquet from a boyfriend for no reason at all, I screwed up my execution of "gesture of appreciation". And pissed off the giver big time. Sigh. Etiquette etiquette. I usually warn admirers (yes, I do have one or two sometimes) to not buy me bouquets, not because I hate flowers... no. I think bouquets are overpriced. And I'm allergic to certain super-pollen genres. I like flowers best when they're still breathing in the ground. Or sometimes when I walk around the marketplace, a certain few will beckon secretly to me with a promise to brighten up my space. I don't feel that connection with a bouquet. Somehow it feels plastic and overdressed - and overpriced. Call me realistic. Call me unromantic.

Yep, I must be a cactus or aloe vera person. And I need one for my toilet.

new den

This weekend, I'll be shifting out of the dump I've been living in for the past 8 years. It stopped qualifying as a house around the 5th year when the upstairs water-tank leaked and neither our upstairs neighbour nor my houseowner wanted to pay for repair, shoving blame at each other until the whole place stank like a pig-pen and was covered in moss. For months I lived in fear of the ceiling collapsing on me in my sleep (I had a lot of unconfessed sins and hence wasn't ready to meet my Creator just yet... and come to think of it... not now either) and had fretful nights of sleep dreaming about evil mushrooms growing on the walls and ceiling and releasing evil spores into the air which would then travel down my respiratory system... *shudder* (shuddup, smoking is nowhere as scary, mmkay?)

Anyways, plenty of cleaning and packing to do, and of course not forgetting the best part - buying new stuff! I've basically piled all the clothes I want to bring along into one of the Dell CPU boxes I bought from the garbage lady for 50 cents a piece. The exciting journey of trashing unnecessary knick knacks and discovering long-amissed documents/pictures/junk in the weirdest nooks and corners will officially start today. It's gonna be tough, since I'm not really a throw-away-old-stuff person. (whaaaat... I'm nostalgic, mmkay?) I can just imagine someone rubbing his hands in glee at the prospect of throwing away stuff on my behalf, though. Sigh, sad parting... oh junk.

Am going to compare prices later at a coupla hypermarts. I don't reckon I have enough moolah to Ikea-nize my place just yet. But that won't diminish my determination to turn my room (alas, I can't afford the whole house either) into a college student's wet dream. I want it to represent every country's typical decor. I want it to be culturally eccentric in its mish mash of worldstuffs. Translated: Anything cheap goes!!!

I think KC will kill me.

tumbleweed

It's funny how life works, sometimes. The pain that you thought you couldn't recover from losing an important something or someone fading into numbness and then one day you realised you've totally forgotten about it. The things you hold on to for dear life, afraid of not being a complete being if you lose them... you lose them. And when the tears dry up, when you finally accept the harsh reality of the cruel fact, the very thing you lost once again appear out of nowhere, by chance, by fate... like a klump of hairball you find under your bed meandering towards you, gently aided by the wind...

Some might say it's God's little early Easter present. He tests you, to see if you are willing to let go of worldly possessions, even when you like them very much, even if you think you cannot live without them... with goodies in store for good boys and girls that are obedient enough to screw their eyes shut and suck in the mucus. Or, some might say it's the work of the Devil. The flaming asswipe invades forlorn and sad minds to conjure up remedies that are soothing and calming in the short run and damaging to health and relationship with the Big Boss above in the long run.

So what's my deal? Which promo pack am I getting? I don't know, I'm busy smiling.

"But I will go down with this ship
I won't put my hands up and surrender
There will be no white flag above my door
I'm in love, and always will be"

bliss!

I am outlandishly magnificent. I am exquisitely intelligent. All you inferior earthlings, cower in terror! Bow in awe!

Wow. That was extremely therapeutic. And, contrary to my feng-shui premonition and tarot prediction last night, today went SPLENDIFEROUSLY great. Yeah, like, totally.

Come on come on ask me why FASTER ask me why ask me ask me ask me I need to get it out please ask me why ask me...

I was appointed the acting Art Director today. Whoa yeah. As I'm typing this I feel chilling goosebumps riding up my spine, I kid you not. Like, last night I was just exploring the possibility of being an Art Director someday, right. Sometimes I have this creepy mental image of Boss reading my blog in the dark, rubbing palms and chuckling in evil glee. Nowadays whenever I blog in the office I commando-crawl and slither around securing the perimeter first. ANYWAYS... I came up with 4 concepts, direction and copy for the day. And the feeling of looking at my brainchildren being transformed from scribbles and drawings of stick figures on scrap papers into multi-coloured things that seem ALIVE... Well... Like children, you can't understand until you've had one.

I have this overwhelming urge to start whistling. But I'm having these dry fits of coughing that make my lungs and tummy and head hurt. Not mentioning the dry heaves. I'm wishing for phlegm to come at this point of time. Then I'll have a proper, deep, glamorous cough.

rawr...

Another weekend has come and gone and I'm sitting in the office past midnight trying to do the math to justify where the heck did my weekend go. It was a blur of work, dinner with friends, some shut-eye, and more work. Things are really picking up at the office now, which is actually good because it forces my frazzled brains to the grindstone. And Boss has been approving the stuff I write without amending a sentence, which is great (from both professional and emotional viewpoints). Either I'm beginning to churn out stuff more interesting than lukewarm gnat's pee, or Boss has grown too sickened to even try to pound the right concept into my creative juicer machine upstairs. Either way, I feel like an award-winner. Woo! And I did help a little in the major pitch that the company won.

I'm in such a peppy mood. An encouraging "I like this line" or "Good job" can do such wonders to a broken and battle-bruised ego and morale. Really. I'm so inspired to go further at work. Even if it means cancelled appointments with favourite friends, or murdering the weekend doing research and conceptualizing, or catching precious naps in church mid-sermon, or not blogging for almost a week. Yep, tomorrow can be a bitch (very very likely, as I dread writing crap for banks), but today is dandy. Let me just hold on to the dandiness a while longer. And dream about being a super-successful and sought-after Art Director someday. Then I'll work from home writing only things I like. I'm seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, comrade. It's so good to feel ambitious about something again. Woo!

There's a humongous load of laundry to be done at home. I should probably get to it, before the aura of warm ambition wears off and I run out of clean underwear. Hmmph.

apologising, or not

Why do some people feel that it's so necessary to cause drama in their lives? I mean, really. Jumping out of vehicles after a screaming match (or threatening to), slamming down phones midst conversation, throwing glassfuls of beverages to someone's face... the list goes on and on. It solves no problems at all. Yet, people go bananas when on losing end of argument, play mind games, and concoct the most visually flamboyant methods of showing their disdain. What is it about human nature that seeks to make problems more difficult than they really are, meanwhile making them as dramatically showy as possible?

Some people just have a propensity for the dramatic. And I'm guilty (though on a very low end of the extremity scale). When I'm in an ultra-sensitive mood, I tend to read between every line what the other person says and jump into irrational conclusions. And come up with the most sarcastic retorts (less visually flamboyant) or just burst into tears (inviting public attention to shoot death killer stares at the wrongful unfortunate person). I detest losing arguments. Maybe it's because I dated younger guys and got used to being the wiser half (who cares if I really am?). Maybe it's the way I was brought up. Dad was this just-do-whatever-I-say-and-ask-no-questions strict disciplinarian. Maybe I'm just a plain old stubborn Taurean. Or I'm just trying to create reasons to justify my behaving like a damn crazy oompa-loompa half the time when things don't go my way. Whatever it is, I like to have the last word in any "discussion" with my love-partner. Anything he says after that is an official beginning of a fresh new argument. Freaky, innit?

But... fret not! I'm gradually changing for the better (I think) and I believe KC plays a vital role in this transition (of course there are other factors as well but this is sorta like an apology to KC so I shall not mention other names). So, to the current love of my life, thanks for taking over my burden of being the wiser party, for not giving in to my tantrums and antics, for beating me into submission to lose weight and not over-eat. Although sometimes your execution techniques of certain matters suck tremendously, I shall overlook your faults in favour of the good things you bring into my life. And I'm sorry for not knowing how to delete your comment from the blog. I'm sure not many people would notice your teenie-weenie grammatical boo-boos. (evil grin)

seduction style

Your Seduction Style: The Natural

You don't really try to seduce people... it just seems to happen. Fun loving and free spirited, you bring out the inner child in people. You are spontaneous, sincere, and unpretentious - a hard combo to find! People drop their guard around you, and find themselves falling fast.

What Is Your Seduction Style?

Wow. I like me. But the last line could be slightly altered to make myself look more like a successful seductive fox. I prefer "people drop their pants around you, and find their clothes and financial level falling fast"... This certainly improved my mood a wee bit. Thanks to ET Fingers (was reading your blog!).

eternity

Time is too slow for those who wait
too swift for those who fear
too long for those who grieve
too short for those who rejoice
but for those who love...
time is eternity
- Henry Van Dyke

Wait. Waiting I am, in the office at this hour (for the second night in a row), waiting for the designer to complete a brochure layout, waiting to see if I need to think up an additional headline or subheadline for the copy, waiting to test how long I can actually wait. Like, how long I can work without actually working.

Hmm, must be the hour of the night and having only 4 hours of sleep while on heavy medication.

Eternity. Something that KC doesn't believe in anymore. Although it's perfectly understandable, I still can't help getting a dose of why me? pathetic self-pitiness of not being at the receiving end when KC still believed. I believe in happy ever after, in riding off towards the sunset looking into each other's eyes, in simple garden weddings with lots of balloons and daisies. I guess I'll always be a sucker for romance (own up now, which woman doesn't?). And Romance. And I suck hard for Eternity Purple Orchid. It's the best-smelling artificial thing I've ever come across.

Time is eternity. What does this phrase mean? That when one is in love, the right here and right now is encapsuled in a momentary freeze in time, where the sweet thick passion and burning sensation can be savoured over and over again for eternity... Or... When love fills the heart, the mind's timeline charting expands to an infinitive digit, scattering little plans and dreams and desirable moments along the path?

Or maybe eternity is a myth. It's some deep unfathomable lingo set out to confuse and divide. Heck I'm feeling confused and my brain's divided into trillions of dustballs. I... need... sleep...

valentine's

Gosh. It's been gazillions of light years since I last updated (almost 2 weeks!). Being left out of the loop for such a long time, I dread turning the ignition to start writing again. I can almost hear the old rusty engine clank and wheeze into life in an inhumanely cold, unproductive weather... only to find a mountainous pile of snow blocking the garage door when the engine warms up enough. Sigh. Time to put in some exercise and shovel.

Depressing news first. Since my earlier post about how aliens got extremely jealous of my latest tattoo and raped it mercilessly... things worked their way further downhill merrily, so states the law of gravity. I would have given my beloved readers the blow-by-blow (with full gruesome visuals) of the rotting process of the thing above my right ankle formerly known as a tattoo, but I forgot the digital camera when I went back for Chinese New Year and so far no one has bought me my dream phone equipped with a snazzy little camera... so, no pictures, sadly. I do think it's for the better, or no reader of mine would ever consider a tattoo throughout the entire course of his/her lifetime. Oh yeah it was BAD. I saw 3 doctors in the span of 5 days. And every doctor diagnosed differently and prescribed different medications. While stuffing my face with multi-colored pills, I witnessed my tattoo bloat and peel and gather pus, then I developed the itchiest rashes all over my body, and then I ran a fever where my body shivered uncontrollably as I forced myself to swallow bile rising up my throat every 30 minutes. Through the course of these unfortunate events, I found out that the vile name responsible was allergy, and that I could never have another tattoo ever or the allergens would fight each other to death, resulting in an even more horrifying allergy seizure on me which might put a premature stop to my writing venture and chippy life forever.

Now the happy news. Despite scratching myself unabashedly in public and bringing insurmountable embarrassment to my significant other half, I had the most wonderful Valentine's ever. Our little celebration spanned over 2 days. Having been missing from the cinema scene for quite some time, I suggested watching Constantine. Knowing that this wouldn't be the genre of movie that KC prefers, I was pleasantly surprised when KC agreed without much cajoling and persuasion. Later KC surprised me again by telling me it reserved tickets for Shall We Dance. Normally I would scoff at any movie featuring Jennifer Lopez (and oh boy did I ever) and her tendency to get involved with married men in all her movies... but I really enjoyed both the movies. Everyone go watch! I highly recommend both. And this phenomenon is rare. So shuddup and go.

The next day we went to the karaoke for 6 hours singing our hearts out. And we still didn't manage to sing all the songs we wanted. Next time we shall go for a 9-hour marathon. After the warbling session, KC reserved places for us to go muddy our hands in clay making interesting pottery goodies (ala the movie Ghost) but we got to the class late and had to reschedule. And I haven't been feeling too well since... so my plan to make a real snazzy flower vase (or a bowl, or a mug... whatever the piece of clay turned out to be) is still postponed.

home sweet home

I can't remember when was the last time I woke up to something which wasn't the irritating alarm going off on my phone or KC's. This morning, I woke up to my brains telling me to. Such luxurious feeling! Such blissful rejuvenation of the body and soul! Birds were singing outside the window, and the sun was up but my room was still cool, preserving the sweet scent of the night, and I felt totally rested, the dream the night before just a nice faint recollection of boats and jetties...

I love not remembering dreams, because I've read somewhere that if I do, it means that my brains have not been resting at all. And more often than not, I have the weirdest dreams. (No no, I don't want to share)

Lately, I experienced continuous nights of wondrous dreamless slumber... when I sleep over at KC's. With my imagination constantly running wild and brains perpetually forced into overdrive during the day, having a dreamless night of sleep had long been shoved and stomped to the bottom of the bottomless pit of my abandoned wishlist. So why no dreams now? Maybe it's KC's neat little room with air-conditioning. Maybe it's the safe and comforting presence of another warm creature within touch (gee, does this mean my Mum didn't touch/cuddle me enough as a child?). Maybe lately, "sleep" isn't the rightful description but "passing out from too much chatting/VCD-watching" is (cannot be! I have unexplicably kooky dreams passing out from too much liquor). Or maybe KC is just this supercalifragilisticexpialidoceous wonderful being sent to protect and provide earthly love and comfort and strength specially just for me. Yeah.

Oh I love being home. There's a TV here.

home on the range

I'm going home tomorrow. To the place where I spent the first 18 years of my life. Where middle-age uncles still ride around on ancient motorbikes clad only in boxers and wooden-clogs. Where the first thing you breathe in/step on when you put your foot out of the door is the friendly neighbourhood chicken/cat/dog's shit. I can still go on with "where trees are climbed and poured pee on (as fertilizer for the fruits, see)" and "where children and household animals alike roam freely in vast fields of greens and blossoms under the bluest sky ever beheld" and such but I shall stop before my city readers vomit and my hometown readers strangle me.

I miss my childhood days. More so because I wasn't the best-behaved exemplary child/teen. I had my fair share of biting the dust trying to fight with bigger guys, ass biting the rod when verbal threats to be obedient didn't quite work (which is more than often - a trait I carried proudly to this very day... the disobedient part not the ass-caning part dammit), building a tree house with my younger brother and 2 neighbour boys and nearly burned ourselves to death trying to celebrate our success with barbeque lunch...

I have an abundance of stories to share. Buy me free food with Ribena and I will. For now, I'm marinating in anticipation to return to my little town with houses blasting tung-tung-chiang music at full volume and share "remember when" jokes with old high-school friends (a particular "lai-lai-lai" reminiscence never fails to tickle me and Eryn).

maori tattoo

I had my second tattoo done yesterday. It's a Maori design specially crafted to fit in certain alphabets (free ice-cream to those who can decipher them!). I had to literally go down on my knees (oh you dirrrrty little fella) to beg Simon the tattoo-artist for this after he rejected my original butterfly design ("What the fuck is wrong with you girls and this particular butterfly design? I did 6 of these this month alone!") and spat in disdain when I asked him for another dolphin tattoo ("It's fucking sissy!") to match my first.

After getting my first tattoo on my birthday 2 years back, I vowed to get one done annually but I missed out last year's as I was heartlessly ditched somewhere around my birthday and was more in the mood to karate-kick helpless old ladies, set a dog on fire and stab ignorant noisy children with blunt forks. And no, yesterday wasn't my birthday. So why did I do it? Let us now dissect this mystery-shrouded incident.

I showed a client my tattoo a few months back. And she's been bugging me to bring her to have one done ever since. After procrastinating and postponing and cooking up excuses, I finally couldn't put it off any longer. Anyway, KC's (it's a wonder how I manage to influence most of my partners to have permanent brandings done on their bodies - very, very sinful) needs some touch-up, so all's cool as long as I'm not driving. We had a dreadful time. The normally soft-spoken and amiable client morphed into a prima donna bitch-o-maniac and flung cleverly subtle demands (still irritatingly acting like a damsel-in-distress) around. Driven halfway up the wall (fingertips touching cobwebs) and thinking that May (my birthday) is still a good 3 months away, I proceeded to relieve my long-suppressed itchiness to inflict pain upon myself. Also, I simply had to take advantage of Simon's infrequent bouts of cheerfulness and helpfulness.

post script: anyone who says that my dolphin looks more like a whale, prepare to die a most agonizing, torturous and horrible death. Because it didn't bloat and I am not getting fatter. And the ring on my finger in the picture above is the ring. *gloat* And my latest is Maori to commemorate the demise of a Maori-an wedding's dream. Bleh. Isn't it luverly?

abalone

I detest the pivotal moment of crossing over the threshold into adulthood, or rather, auntyhood. With Chinese New Year looming up just around the corner and KC's incessant pestering about my not-so-presentable wardrobe contents; I tagged along dutifully behind KC into the mall. And discovered the joy of swooshing someone else's card to get clothes for myself. The thrill of not having to feel the cash leave my hands and watch my wallet size dwindle almost had me grabbing clothes from their hangers and march right up to the cashier in a trance.

Then the not-so-fun part began.

Traipsing into the supermarket section, I received a text message from Cindy (cousin) asking if I'm getting anything for Popo (grandma) for Chinese New Year. KC promptly snatched the opportunity to unleash a 10-minute lecture about how I'm getting older and should act more proper and adultlike, which, translated into layman terms, means buying overpriced unnecessary exotic foodstuff for the older generation of relatives whom I'm going to meet during Chinese New Year who probably have tons of such foodstuff already and would just cluck at my exorbitant spending habits and proceed to stash the goodies away for private consumption much later while dismissing me with an oozing-with-insincerity "oh you shouldn't have" then return to gossiping with other older generation of relatives about how un-filial whose and whose children are for not buying them anything for Chinese New Year. And the scariest part is, once I start this terrifying annual cycle of buying inflated gifts... I'm not allowed to stop. Ever.

I don't want to step into auntyhood so soon! Gaaaaaaah!

I bought a nicely-packaged nifty abalone and pacific clam canned set for Popo. Then I imagined Dad throwing a tantrum at me for not getting his mother anything. And I took another set reluctantly. Then I thought "Like hell am I going to spend hundreds on these babies and not even get a chance to taste what they're like" and promptly grabbed another set from the shelf. It's high time I fulfill my filial duties towards my parents anyways, right?

post script: I did my maths later last night to come up with how much I need to pay KC back for the reckless shopping spree... and my calculator overheated and exploded, its red-hot battery shooting out and punched a hole through my heart right out of my back. With blood splattering down my torso, I weakly text-messaged my company's account personnel to just put KC's name on my next paycheck.

the ring

Subsequent to my recent post about my phobia with men and their simple gold rings... KC took its off a few days after. I pretended not to notice (my heart was whooping with glee and a rather evil sense of success) until it mentioned the fact to me, claiming a rush of guilt when it read my disturbing entry. Holding hands have never been sweeter after that. (What? You're dry heaving already?)

We got ourselves a pair of rings today. They're supposed to be our 2-month milestone keepsake cum Valentine's gift, but we couldn't wait for the exact day to come, so we mentally donned our time-travelling protective gear, took an elevator down to the centre of the universe and fast-forwarded time.

Knowing how much a ring from a loved one means to me (never had one from anyone except my mum when I was 17), KC tried with immense effort to say something really meaningful when it put the ring on for me.

" Sweetie... I promise you... (all's going perfectly well till this instant)... this ring won't be your first."

Grey matter inside my skull went into fits. What the heck?
I managed a feeble, "Huh?"
KC repeated the exact sentence verbatim.
I didn't know to laugh or to throw a royal bitch fit, because (a) KC knew perfectly well the ring was my first from any boyfriend/girlfriend; (b) maybe KC meant that the ring wasn't ITS first, but why would it say that when I made it very clear how I hate to be reminded that it had a wonderful 7-year relationship with another female species...
Reaction-wise, I chose the former. And laugh hard I did.
KC realised something was terribly wrong with the romantic heartfelt confession, and tried to salvage.
And repeated the same freaking line again.
I swear, laughing till the bed shakes with tears of exasperation running down one's face is indeed a sensation beyond description. I decided to call it quits and put my hands on KC's shoulders and said, "Could it be what you meant is that this ring won't be my last?"
Sheepish grin. Shoulders sagged. Dejected face. I couldn't resist a bear hug and passionate smooch. And when I put KC's on, I flashed my killer sweet smile (works every time, my acting cute) and opted for the safest line, "Darling, I promise you... this ring is my first."