http://www2.oprah.com/spiritself/omag/ss_omag_200508_mbeck.jhtml
Read this girls. It doesnt tell you anything you don't know but it's good brain fodder for the moment before you forget it and do the exact opposite even though you know the opposite is the opposite of what you should be doing, not just because the article said so, but because you know so.
I shouldn't bother telling you, right? Because you heard it before, and a reminder will only be a mild jolt in your memory, that will trigger the sickening feeling that you know this anyway, but forgot, then guilt will kick in because you told yourself the last time that you should have remembered it the last time you forgot.
This sounds complicated but it makes sense, is perfectly sensible and every sane person would agree to its logic.
In other words, they know this already.
26 February 2007
17 February 2007
Flee The House of Screaming Kids!
Cell group.
I'm the only one of two people who's single, and without any immediate or pending prospect of marriage. The other singleton, more swinging than I (he's male) is blissfully away and unaware.
Everyone else was smugly engaged in chatter and of course the kids were there to make things merry, to liven things beyond what is humanly possible for adults to do with the following contraptions: fake electronic phones, race car video games and high pitched vocal chords.
I've never left cell so early.
Don't get me wrong, I love kids, I want to have some someday. 'Some' being somewhere within the range of 2 and 3. Then I hear a siren, and realise that hey, it's the screaming kid inside of me.
Ally McBeal (yes I know how passe she is, but she's part of the small amounts of TV I've watched in my lifetime) had a dancing baby.
Here may I propose something a little more apt to represent the woman's biological clock — the aforementioned screaming kid. Dancing babies are fun, self-entertaining, and generally lovable. Screaming kids on the other hand, are a liability to the sanity of you and everyone else within a 5m radius. Now imagine this cacophonous oddity existing inside you.
Ever met a spinster with an attitude problem? A teacher or an ageing PA for instance? Yep. She more often than not has that screaming kid inside of her. What else could explain her grouchy distractedness, sudden snappiness and generally frazzled, forlorn demeanor? (In fact, I conclude that it's not her lack of motherhood instincts, but the overabundance and overgrowth of this organic phenomenon which used to mean good things until homosexuality and women's lib took over her instincts and suppressed her leaving that screaming kid no choice but to grow inside her psyche and make its existence felt with its random, incessant alarm clock cries.)
There are all sorts of screaming kids, though, who are not the exclusive property of biology. Kids that need to be fed, put to bed, handed in, hung out to dry, calculated and paid to the government... you catch my drift.
Chores. Deadlines. Writing that needs your regular attention. So right now, one screaming kid with an awful name is slowly being lullabyed into lalaland. This bratty little kid called Workawhorlic.
I'm the only one of two people who's single, and without any immediate or pending prospect of marriage. The other singleton, more swinging than I (he's male) is blissfully away and unaware.
Everyone else was smugly engaged in chatter and of course the kids were there to make things merry, to liven things beyond what is humanly possible for adults to do with the following contraptions: fake electronic phones, race car video games and high pitched vocal chords.
I've never left cell so early.
Don't get me wrong, I love kids, I want to have some someday. 'Some' being somewhere within the range of 2 and 3. Then I hear a siren, and realise that hey, it's the screaming kid inside of me.
Ally McBeal (yes I know how passe she is, but she's part of the small amounts of TV I've watched in my lifetime) had a dancing baby.
Here may I propose something a little more apt to represent the woman's biological clock — the aforementioned screaming kid. Dancing babies are fun, self-entertaining, and generally lovable. Screaming kids on the other hand, are a liability to the sanity of you and everyone else within a 5m radius. Now imagine this cacophonous oddity existing inside you.
Ever met a spinster with an attitude problem? A teacher or an ageing PA for instance? Yep. She more often than not has that screaming kid inside of her. What else could explain her grouchy distractedness, sudden snappiness and generally frazzled, forlorn demeanor? (In fact, I conclude that it's not her lack of motherhood instincts, but the overabundance and overgrowth of this organic phenomenon which used to mean good things until homosexuality and women's lib took over her instincts and suppressed her leaving that screaming kid no choice but to grow inside her psyche and make its existence felt with its random, incessant alarm clock cries.)
There are all sorts of screaming kids, though, who are not the exclusive property of biology. Kids that need to be fed, put to bed, handed in, hung out to dry, calculated and paid to the government... you catch my drift.
Chores. Deadlines. Writing that needs your regular attention. So right now, one screaming kid with an awful name is slowly being lullabyed into lalaland. This bratty little kid called Workawhorlic.
12 February 2007
Finally, some legit pain!
I fell on the hill near the cable skiiers. Should've learnt how to brake, he said later. Yes, but the sun was in my eyes and i was aiming for the arms of familiar grass. I fall a lot.
As a reward for being an honest earnest skater who made it a point to skate every single sunday, there was some real damage done. So I could stop whining about all the girlie emo wounds and focus on some serious knee ouchie.
Much to the delight of my friends who could at least ease the pain on their ears (or eyes, if on msn) — I was finally whining about something different!
The sinseh seemed pretty delighted as well. He giggled when he realised he had the power to hit (or rub) where it hurt. On both knee and wallet. And tastebuds too later — I had to take the bitter medicine just 2 percentage points less awful than our darling Prime Minister's.
I have never felt more vulnerable in my life.
It hurts more now than it did last night.
I prefer girlie emo pain any day. :(
As a reward for being an honest earnest skater who made it a point to skate every single sunday, there was some real damage done. So I could stop whining about all the girlie emo wounds and focus on some serious knee ouchie.
Much to the delight of my friends who could at least ease the pain on their ears (or eyes, if on msn) — I was finally whining about something different!
The sinseh seemed pretty delighted as well. He giggled when he realised he had the power to hit (or rub) where it hurt. On both knee and wallet. And tastebuds too later — I had to take the bitter medicine just 2 percentage points less awful than our darling Prime Minister's.
I have never felt more vulnerable in my life.
It hurts more now than it did last night.
I prefer girlie emo pain any day. :(
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