"I took your hand, not because it was the only one outstretched to me. I took it because at that moment, it actually had a glowing pink hue, like it was going through its first blush after being singled out on camera. Which was how Pamela Anderson became famous, actually.
But now that I have it, what do I do with it?
Do I give it mini squeezes like an osim chair? Or do I play the bamboo torture game so you know the strength of my wrath and the dungeon of my mind?
Or should i swing your arm to show you the pendulum of time hasn't moved since I was three?
On second thoughts, may I have your credit card instead?"
19 February 2009
10 February 2009
Are you like spam?
Of the MySpace variety. Dishing out the same message over and over again.
"I am a nuisance, and unlike how I suddenly came, I will not suddenly go away"
This is just like having to listen to the same 90s un-glam rock song over and over.......
And it makes me want to use the language of Jack de la Roca (sp?)
and his tone of voice too.
What can I do?
I'll keep closing that msn window, like the time I shut out the black cat burglar who stole way too much of my precious sleep.
Someone teach me to use my filter.
"I am a nuisance, and unlike how I suddenly came, I will not suddenly go away"
This is just like having to listen to the same 90s un-glam rock song over and over.......
And it makes me want to use the language of Jack de la Roca (sp?)
and his tone of voice too.
What can I do?
I'll keep closing that msn window, like the time I shut out the black cat burglar who stole way too much of my precious sleep.
Someone teach me to use my filter.
04 August 2008
The Single File
Here's a message for the singleton who refuses to be woebegone:
Although at night on your little bed, beside you lies no-one, no warmth, think about it this way:
It's just like the time when you lay in your cot, swaddled tight.
The only way to look was up, remember?
True, life stretches ahead, legions long, like the horizon from Footsteps On The Sand. (Only one pair of feet.)
If it's there you find yourself, bask in the love of the Bright Morning Son.
It's a bumpy road less travelled, but no-one will throw the first stone (but you).
You're not alone in bed (or should I say, on your cupboard shelf) because of the size of your nose, or the lesions on your skin, or because, in a freudian fit you shouted at the only person who ever loved them both.
This August, don't let all four weddings be a funeral for Hope. Because after your ex left, she's the only one who'll ever love you now.
Although at night on your little bed, beside you lies no-one, no warmth, think about it this way:
It's just like the time when you lay in your cot, swaddled tight.
The only way to look was up, remember?
True, life stretches ahead, legions long, like the horizon from Footsteps On The Sand. (Only one pair of feet.)
If it's there you find yourself, bask in the love of the Bright Morning Son.
It's a bumpy road less travelled, but no-one will throw the first stone (but you).
You're not alone in bed (or should I say, on your cupboard shelf) because of the size of your nose, or the lesions on your skin, or because, in a freudian fit you shouted at the only person who ever loved them both.
This August, don't let all four weddings be a funeral for Hope. Because after your ex left, she's the only one who'll ever love you now.
14 December 2007
Death & Taxes
As i speak, the issue of cab fares has become truly trite. A 10 - 50 percent hike.
Up the steep hill of first-world glory.
Hiking sounds like a good idea too, actually. I'd best be losing some weight now, with the cost of living pushing me into the corner, an inch a day.
So let's make Subway part of our quest for skinny.
Now even more effective with their shrinking portion sizes.
Green bell peppers in paper-thin slivers.
Cucumber pieces so thin, any humanitarian worker would shake their head, then try to force feed each one.
Food is becoming as costly as oil as the warmth of Christmas approaches.
But instead of 'Joy To The World', I'm going to be singing 'Die To Yourself, Joy'.
Dying to yourself means, give up what you want, so you have money to buy something for your friend.
Usually something he doesn't want, but what you think he wants.
Like they say, you only get what you give.
You give him something he doesn't want and he gives you something you don't want.
Then, to top it all, like a star on a tree, you'd probably have to take a cab to give it to him.
Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas!
Up the steep hill of first-world glory.
Hiking sounds like a good idea too, actually. I'd best be losing some weight now, with the cost of living pushing me into the corner, an inch a day.
So let's make Subway part of our quest for skinny.
Now even more effective with their shrinking portion sizes.
Green bell peppers in paper-thin slivers.
Cucumber pieces so thin, any humanitarian worker would shake their head, then try to force feed each one.
Food is becoming as costly as oil as the warmth of Christmas approaches.
But instead of 'Joy To The World', I'm going to be singing 'Die To Yourself, Joy'.
Dying to yourself means, give up what you want, so you have money to buy something for your friend.
Usually something he doesn't want, but what you think he wants.
Like they say, you only get what you give.
You give him something he doesn't want and he gives you something you don't want.
Then, to top it all, like a star on a tree, you'd probably have to take a cab to give it to him.
Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas!
08 December 2007
I, teenager
It's my school holidays, I tell everyone with affected cutesiness.
I hang out. Slack out. Bum around. (Wow. Haven't heard 'bum around' since the eighties.)
My bestest friend is buying new furniture for her second house second kid in tow.
My pals all shake their singleton heads and say they're old. (rhyme completely unintended)
And I am still in let's play pretend land.
School holidays! YaaaAAaaaay! hOooORaY!
I couchsurf all night, hang out at coffeeshops, watch gigs, read Seventeen magazine for fashion tips, wear minis with tights.
I'm not angsty. I am not ashamed of my immaturity. I don't feel old.
I do feel that this likeness is a little unnatural though.
Because I'm a little bit too rich to be a teen. And I don't have a curfew.
Plus, have you ever met a grateful teenager?
I'm probably the first.
Damn, I'm lucky!
I hang out. Slack out. Bum around. (Wow. Haven't heard 'bum around' since the eighties.)
My bestest friend is buying new furniture for her second house second kid in tow.
My pals all shake their singleton heads and say they're old. (rhyme completely unintended)
And I am still in let's play pretend land.
School holidays! YaaaAAaaaay! hOooORaY!
I couchsurf all night, hang out at coffeeshops, watch gigs, read Seventeen magazine for fashion tips, wear minis with tights.
I'm not angsty. I am not ashamed of my immaturity. I don't feel old.
I do feel that this likeness is a little unnatural though.
Because I'm a little bit too rich to be a teen. And I don't have a curfew.
Plus, have you ever met a grateful teenager?
I'm probably the first.
Damn, I'm lucky!
22 November 2007
New year. New in loo.
Here's a quotable quote:
"With sagging comes the benefit of wisdom."
Here's another one.
"Only time will tell."
Now, the older-and-wiser individual who said this with a knowing nod and somewhat tired familiarity was right.
And right a little too often.
Yet even though time repeatedly gives us such advice of wise importance, we do not neccessarily heed.
Instead, we do the exact opposite. I am not merely bringing to mind the Israelites who, for 40 years, kept missing the promiseland beacause they were unable to follow directions and kept making the wrong turn. Or even my (many) recurrent vices and their colourful episodes.
I am here discussing the magnificent feeling of growing a year older. Which feels a bit like the bath I just took.
New to my loo is the new! Lynx body SCRUB (scrub spelt in caps as such). Its name is Snake Peel, and it glows like it's been lit by millions of tiny yellow bulbs, with the random spec of brilliant turquoise. I stare the sqeeze for at least 5 seconds before rubbing it on my skin. It's like like the miniature bulbs crack and their little broken bits rub against me, hurting me because I've gotten too close.
Snake Peel is a good metaphor for birthday-contemplation-and-resolution-setting.
Only time will tell what lies beneath the scrubbed-off cells.
Time says it's okay, the Snake Peel body SCRUB doesn't go against its wisdom, you will not sag.
"With sagging comes the benefit of wisdom."
Here's another one.
"Only time will tell."
Now, the older-and-wiser individual who said this with a knowing nod and somewhat tired familiarity was right.
And right a little too often.
Yet even though time repeatedly gives us such advice of wise importance, we do not neccessarily heed.
Instead, we do the exact opposite. I am not merely bringing to mind the Israelites who, for 40 years, kept missing the promiseland beacause they were unable to follow directions and kept making the wrong turn. Or even my (many) recurrent vices and their colourful episodes.
I am here discussing the magnificent feeling of growing a year older. Which feels a bit like the bath I just took.
New to my loo is the new! Lynx body SCRUB (scrub spelt in caps as such). Its name is Snake Peel, and it glows like it's been lit by millions of tiny yellow bulbs, with the random spec of brilliant turquoise. I stare the sqeeze for at least 5 seconds before rubbing it on my skin. It's like like the miniature bulbs crack and their little broken bits rub against me, hurting me because I've gotten too close.
Snake Peel is a good metaphor for birthday-contemplation-and-resolution-setting.
Only time will tell what lies beneath the scrubbed-off cells.
Time says it's okay, the Snake Peel body SCRUB doesn't go against its wisdom, you will not sag.
06 August 2007
A Chore
Mom wants to know that she has bred a brood of toilet cleaners. She believes bleach brings you closer to the heavens — after all, cleanliness is next to godliness.
I scrub mean. Like on cellulite toward the heart. Quick circular motions as if I were Nancy Kerrigan, only 17, on the first sign of lakes freezing over. With boys watching faces ruddy from cold.
Round and round, like wheels of the early morning bus I manage to catch, instead of the six dollar cab.
I save much.
Mother's wrinkles, and my reputation as not-so-good-for-nothing.
Because, you see, toilet cleaning calls your character into question.
The highest tile unscrupulously cleaned is a testament to your unwavering determination. And the fact that you're scrubbing, instead of surfing, is evidence that procrastination was murdered single-handedly.
Although what actually died a bloody death, was a cockroach that couldn't brush dodge very well.
Die! Die! Die! What joy!
(Death too, is part of godliness you see.) Goodbye, scrambling dirtball. Your funeral has made my proud mommy smile.
I scrub mean. Like on cellulite toward the heart. Quick circular motions as if I were Nancy Kerrigan, only 17, on the first sign of lakes freezing over. With boys watching faces ruddy from cold.
Round and round, like wheels of the early morning bus I manage to catch, instead of the six dollar cab.
I save much.
Mother's wrinkles, and my reputation as not-so-good-for-nothing.
Because, you see, toilet cleaning calls your character into question.
The highest tile unscrupulously cleaned is a testament to your unwavering determination. And the fact that you're scrubbing, instead of surfing, is evidence that procrastination was murdered single-handedly.
Although what actually died a bloody death, was a cockroach that couldn't brush dodge very well.
Die! Die! Die! What joy!
(Death too, is part of godliness you see.) Goodbye, scrambling dirtball. Your funeral has made my proud mommy smile.
13 July 2007
The country I wish I could love.
About this nation, I long to say these words without holding back a mite of affection:
Oh Singapore, I adore every grain of sand on your beauteous isle, each grain a genuine purchase from the shores of Indonesia and gleaming with bleached whiteness in the sun.
I pledge to defend you from shore to ever-expanding shore, oh milk-generous motherland. Upon your grade A breasts do our best, most educated minds suckle, so they mayst govern with enlightenment.
I dream of the day when I may free my now-trammelled soul to sing of my island home, with right hand over my heart, as a patriotic tear trickles down my right cheek, and fall upon the sacred ground (more precious than gold, and ever-appreciating in value per square foot, day by glorious day!)
To feel a wash of pride as I gaze upon the annual fireworks, each spark making a statement about our IRAS statements whilst flashing across costly national airspace.
But instead, I must abashedly admit, that when invaders mock your laws and culture, I sometimes nod in agreement.
Because banning chewing gum is stupid in anyone's books, even those branded EM3.
Oh Singapore, I adore every grain of sand on your beauteous isle, each grain a genuine purchase from the shores of Indonesia and gleaming with bleached whiteness in the sun.
I pledge to defend you from shore to ever-expanding shore, oh milk-generous motherland. Upon your grade A breasts do our best, most educated minds suckle, so they mayst govern with enlightenment.
I dream of the day when I may free my now-trammelled soul to sing of my island home, with right hand over my heart, as a patriotic tear trickles down my right cheek, and fall upon the sacred ground (more precious than gold, and ever-appreciating in value per square foot, day by glorious day!)
To feel a wash of pride as I gaze upon the annual fireworks, each spark making a statement about our IRAS statements whilst flashing across costly national airspace.
But instead, I must abashedly admit, that when invaders mock your laws and culture, I sometimes nod in agreement.
Because banning chewing gum is stupid in anyone's books, even those branded EM3.
12 July 2007
Kao San and Chinatown
My best trip to Kao San Road, out of the 3 or 4 times I've been here. This pub/restaurant called 'Hippie Hi' was decorated like a house with walls removed, a bit like Dorothy's Kansas cottage. 
Bro and I watched this happy harbinger while gorging on banana prata topped with chocolate and condensed milk. Talk about sense overload!
Another cool eatery/drinkery.
I met a man here. He reminded me of someone, only chattier. I was taking a picture of this quaint shop, then decided to eat green bean soup (partly out of guilt) next to this cute man with his hair slicked back. Who reminded me of Grandad. 
Chinatown looks the same everywhere else in the world, they also sell the exact same things, the men and women look the same too.
Bangkok Hotel Hop
The Shanghai Inn is as alluring as its girls...
...shamelessly loud but so beautiful you'd want her anyway.
At i-residence, Bangkok. Painting gave me dreamless sleep but the blinds let in the sun that woke me too early.
On the way to the rooftop restaurant and gym (yes, calorie in, calorie out, all on one rooftop.)
A precarious shelf loaded with alco, stretching 10m to the ceiling, at the Ascott's Hu'u Bar.
09 July 2007
Why I want to live in Bangkok
The new airport
Ana's Garden, Thong Lor
Thong Lor again.
It's got the coolest shops for sure.
02 July 2007
Foreignworker Foibles
I hopped into the lift. The doors were about to close — only to be hijacked by two very slow-moving and chatty foreign workers on the way to their embassy.
Imagine dealing with earlyrisers' fatigue AND two clueless foreigners who hit close when I hit open, and open when I hit close. It was the first time I experienced pre-constipation constipation.
And when it DID get to the level of their embassy, another guy going down insisted on riding up to the 12th floor with me, even though he was actually headed for the ground floor, and in spite of my warning: 'Going up, are you going up'?
To which he replied: 'Nevermind' and stepped into the lift as if it was a Sentosa monorail.
Maybe people like him have got it right and I've got it wrong — we should take time to enjoy the little pleasures in life. But as he was taking time to smell the roses, I had to smell the lift with him in it.
Imagine dealing with earlyrisers' fatigue AND two clueless foreigners who hit close when I hit open, and open when I hit close. It was the first time I experienced pre-constipation constipation.
And when it DID get to the level of their embassy, another guy going down insisted on riding up to the 12th floor with me, even though he was actually headed for the ground floor, and in spite of my warning: 'Going up, are you going up'?
To which he replied: 'Nevermind' and stepped into the lift as if it was a Sentosa monorail.
Maybe people like him have got it right and I've got it wrong — we should take time to enjoy the little pleasures in life. But as he was taking time to smell the roses, I had to smell the lift with him in it.
27 June 2007
Dream Job
My dream job is Steve Job's. But guess I'd settle for copywriter if my workplace looked like this. Whoops, guess I did settle after all. Then again, it WAS my dream job and years ago, this WAS my dream agency. You see, when dreams become reality, they stop becoming dreams and become.... reality.
Bling 182
I want one. One karat bling things, stand aside! Seriously! Have you ever looked into the complexity of plastic's DNA? Now that’s a real beauty.
You say let a diamond say how you feel? I say, show love for how plastic it can be!
Come, let’s celebrate fake love. The type that comes with the intense, adoring blue eyes of a Hollywood A-lister. If they can fake it, so can you. (and so can I!)
But plastic never fakes it. It is what it is, take it or leave it. (I'm taking it.)
To me, plastic is forever.
26 June 2007
Talk to the walls.
I'll be by myself in a room like this in Bangkok. Conversation will be loud though. I love uninhibited colours.
09 April 2007
Munch meditations.
I am always hungry for a munch. Always. My mouth loves to be on the move.
That fibrous low calorie thing from taiwan, the producer's all fudge brownie with half-drowning nuts. They called to me with voices like the marshmellow man's. Round, soft, fat, and inviting.
Today I even half-sipped, half-sucked a bit of caramel gelato in my coffee after a calorie-count busting lunch.
But an hour later, I was still hungry, so i drank water and had a mint sitting in its harassed paper bag (which reminded me of my scribbled haphazard taglines).
When I finally finished section one of three of my work, it felt good. Then I realised, I wasn't hungry anymore.
That fibrous low calorie thing from taiwan, the producer's all fudge brownie with half-drowning nuts. They called to me with voices like the marshmellow man's. Round, soft, fat, and inviting.
Today I even half-sipped, half-sucked a bit of caramel gelato in my coffee after a calorie-count busting lunch.
But an hour later, I was still hungry, so i drank water and had a mint sitting in its harassed paper bag (which reminded me of my scribbled haphazard taglines).
When I finally finished section one of three of my work, it felt good. Then I realised, I wasn't hungry anymore.
16 March 2007
26 February 2007
You know this already.
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.
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.
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. :(
16 January 2007
Runnin' on Faith
It took faith, alright. To believe this man without an opening band, the one that just strolled up on stage without any fuss and just jammed, was Eric. He was so un-selfconscious, so nonplussed about the female attention, you'd think he had an inferiority complex. To the naked MTV-trained eye, this old man seemed to be nothing but strings and a wobbly turkey neck with grey whiskers.
Wobblier, though, were the arms of the backup singers — YES, you can be fat and be picked to play with LEGENDS!
I must admit, with a blush, that even with my cold cold heart that night, this turkey managed to squeeze a warm tear or two out of me. With 'Little Wing' — a song not about a sweet young girl, but a rawking music festival. "It's alright, she said, you can take anything you want from me, anything!
I got them smiles, although didn't or wouldn't get any from Eric, but he more than made up for that, mass producing them in his entralled fans —clouds of crowds spilling over into the aisles. Musin' at the blues-esque smiles, drip-n-dry teary smiles (like mine) and Layla's smug smile of pride at her slowhand begging darling please.
It was crazy how happy the blues was making me.
Wobblier, though, were the arms of the backup singers — YES, you can be fat and be picked to play with LEGENDS!
I must admit, with a blush, that even with my cold cold heart that night, this turkey managed to squeeze a warm tear or two out of me. With 'Little Wing' — a song not about a sweet young girl, but a rawking music festival. "It's alright, she said, you can take anything you want from me, anything!
I got them smiles, although didn't or wouldn't get any from Eric, but he more than made up for that, mass producing them in his entralled fans —clouds of crowds spilling over into the aisles. Musin' at the blues-esque smiles, drip-n-dry teary smiles (like mine) and Layla's smug smile of pride at her slowhand begging darling please.
It was crazy how happy the blues was making me.
01 July 2006
Pieces of me
Ever marvelled at the wonders of the human body? Every inch is instrumental to our glorious existence, scientists say. Which to me, makes the mysterious growth of the common fibroid, even more of an oddity.
So yesterday I gladly let them take this pingpong-sized lump (so close to my heart) away.
"Would you like to see it now or later?" The sweet nurse said while anaesthetic still flowed merrily in my veins.
And there it was, chewed meat in brine, the ugliest part of me I've ever seen. (My mother said it doesn't matter how I look on the ouside if I'm beautiful on the inside. Hah. Wait till she sees this.)
Goodbye, chunk of flesh. Leaving pieces of myself here and there doesnt' hurt me because I do it all the time!
Maybe you have something of mine? Sitting on your sofa perhaps? Or on your CD rack? Bookshelf? Then again even if all I did was shake your hand, there I am in it.
And right now, I'm probably in a sewage pipe in Shanghai, running on TV or a billboard someplace, or sitting in a laundromat, but most definitely floating in brine in a biopsy lab.
So yesterday I gladly let them take this pingpong-sized lump (so close to my heart) away.
"Would you like to see it now or later?" The sweet nurse said while anaesthetic still flowed merrily in my veins.
And there it was, chewed meat in brine, the ugliest part of me I've ever seen. (My mother said it doesn't matter how I look on the ouside if I'm beautiful on the inside. Hah. Wait till she sees this.)
Goodbye, chunk of flesh. Leaving pieces of myself here and there doesnt' hurt me because I do it all the time!
Maybe you have something of mine? Sitting on your sofa perhaps? Or on your CD rack? Bookshelf? Then again even if all I did was shake your hand, there I am in it.
And right now, I'm probably in a sewage pipe in Shanghai, running on TV or a billboard someplace, or sitting in a laundromat, but most definitely floating in brine in a biopsy lab.
09 April 2006
Many Waters
Oh, the tides. The olive branch I clung to found itself a place to nest. And now the rivers cry over me, inconsolate, every drop burning my starving lungs.
A kind stanger sings to me. She can't save me, she knows. But her voice steadies the rhythm of the waves. She sings like a mynah: of the weedy thorn tearing against my ankle, describing every prick as if it were that fateful day when she, a ten-year-old innocent, fingered her first needle.
The hostile waters holler an encore. The enemy, my loudest cheerleader.
Feet communing with sky, my thorny scar now a Mona Lisa smile. No-one has seen water ballet as strange or artful as mine.
They seem to say, with relish: Many waters cannot quench the fire of love; nor can rivers drown it.
A kind stanger sings to me. She can't save me, she knows. But her voice steadies the rhythm of the waves. She sings like a mynah: of the weedy thorn tearing against my ankle, describing every prick as if it were that fateful day when she, a ten-year-old innocent, fingered her first needle.
The hostile waters holler an encore. The enemy, my loudest cheerleader.
Feet communing with sky, my thorny scar now a Mona Lisa smile. No-one has seen water ballet as strange or artful as mine.
They seem to say, with relish: Many waters cannot quench the fire of love; nor can rivers drown it.
23 November 2005
Therapy Talk
Do you have a pill for my neurosis? Please say you do.
Would you psychoanalyse me and tell me what’s wrong? It should be easy enough. Bark a command, and it might ring a bell.
As you sit there filing your nails, tell me, do you think I’m normal? Please don’t say I am.
Normal people adopt cats off the street, even though they already have ten. Normal people use words they never learnt how to pronounce in casual conversations. Normal people switch the lights off and prance around in their hostel rooms as if it were a nightclub, to Jackson Five.
And as I sink deeper into your reclining couch, pray throw me a life vest.
Save me from the crybaby, the infantile solicitor, the incensed preacher, the dominant psychopath, the philistine critic, the anorexic glutton. Save me from myself.
Would you psychoanalyse me and tell me what’s wrong? It should be easy enough. Bark a command, and it might ring a bell.
As you sit there filing your nails, tell me, do you think I’m normal? Please don’t say I am.
Normal people adopt cats off the street, even though they already have ten. Normal people use words they never learnt how to pronounce in casual conversations. Normal people switch the lights off and prance around in their hostel rooms as if it were a nightclub, to Jackson Five.
And as I sink deeper into your reclining couch, pray throw me a life vest.
Save me from the crybaby, the infantile solicitor, the incensed preacher, the dominant psychopath, the philistine critic, the anorexic glutton. Save me from myself.
10 October 2005
All Aboard
I told the pessimist in me to take a break. She keeps things real but wonderland is really where I always wanted to be. So I stepped, with a hop and a skip, aboard a train with unpredictable timetables and stops so long and dreary, even the most patient passenger gets fidgety.
Through the window, I waved goodbye, not knowing to what or who. Then I saw my heavy suitcases laying abandoned on the platform, and I shed no tears.
I caught a glimpse of Lost-&-Lonely Saturday afternoon. I waved goodbye.
I spotted Miss Vain Hope On A Date. And I blew her a flying kiss.
The train moved and my heart beat like a butterfly dying in the heat yet thrilled by the iridescent petal it rested on. Flap, flap, flutter it went.
Painful palpitation. I never want it to stop.
Through the window, I waved goodbye, not knowing to what or who. Then I saw my heavy suitcases laying abandoned on the platform, and I shed no tears.
I caught a glimpse of Lost-&-Lonely Saturday afternoon. I waved goodbye.
I spotted Miss Vain Hope On A Date. And I blew her a flying kiss.
The train moved and my heart beat like a butterfly dying in the heat yet thrilled by the iridescent petal it rested on. Flap, flap, flutter it went.
Painful palpitation. I never want it to stop.
18 August 2005
Club Grub
Ah, Velvet Underground. Thank you for 11 years of sending crepulous men to bed with equally crepulous women (not neccesarily the same one). Today, I am one blissful post-clubber because i am going to lala land with some happy vibes. Thank you, thank you for tonight's cocktails mixed with love, the wine, and that last shot of tequila that trailed up to me, searching me out in my little corner where i was standing with my equally appreciative friend.
Thank you for being fertile ground for the free displays of utter unabashedness, of SPGs in tops that would surely send their poor mothers doing flips in their graves. The same tops that would give plastic surgeons a field day with must-do enhancement recommendations.
Not forgetting those balding men, champagne in hand, pretending to make tete-a-tete with similarly noncommital conversation partners, while their roving eyes roam around the room, defying the darkness with night vision goggle alertness.
Thank you for making me look so good, your dim lighting being the best concealer of eyebags and disguiser of flaws. For your exquisite choice of adorable DJs. For ruining my jealously-guarded diet with your zesty $3 hotdogs (mmMMMMmmm mMMMMmmmm!).
Though tonight, I did trip over a velvet chair in front of a group of too-cool clubber types. But the best part is that after seeing everybody's bad behaviour, nothing I ever did tonight, no matter how embarassing, could make me blush.
Thank you for being fertile ground for the free displays of utter unabashedness, of SPGs in tops that would surely send their poor mothers doing flips in their graves. The same tops that would give plastic surgeons a field day with must-do enhancement recommendations.
Not forgetting those balding men, champagne in hand, pretending to make tete-a-tete with similarly noncommital conversation partners, while their roving eyes roam around the room, defying the darkness with night vision goggle alertness.
Thank you for making me look so good, your dim lighting being the best concealer of eyebags and disguiser of flaws. For your exquisite choice of adorable DJs. For ruining my jealously-guarded diet with your zesty $3 hotdogs (mmMMMMmmm mMMMMmmmm!).
Though tonight, I did trip over a velvet chair in front of a group of too-cool clubber types. But the best part is that after seeing everybody's bad behaviour, nothing I ever did tonight, no matter how embarassing, could make me blush.
09 August 2005
02 August 2005
The more things change, the more things stay the same.
Hmmm ... I wonder if I reproduced that from memory or is it another one of those processed paradoxes I write at work when I don't have something genius to say and I'm running out of time? I've been working so much that I don't know if these things in my head are my opinions or something i think up to save my job.
Anyways, back to today's topic. Does age spell good change or bad change?
I shall answer it with a parable.
My parents used to covet my company. But work got in the way of our together time. And now they have learnt to live without me, getting over over Joy withdrawal symptoms cold turkey. Now I come home, and they're in bed, without so much as a "home so early?"
Cats in the Cradle is the song for me. I'm Dad whose son got used to his workaholic ways and decided to be workaholic too when the time came for them to spend time together.
Does any of this make any sense?
Anyways, back to today's topic. Does age spell good change or bad change?
I shall answer it with a parable.
My parents used to covet my company. But work got in the way of our together time. And now they have learnt to live without me, getting over over Joy withdrawal symptoms cold turkey. Now I come home, and they're in bed, without so much as a "home so early?"
Cats in the Cradle is the song for me. I'm Dad whose son got used to his workaholic ways and decided to be workaholic too when the time came for them to spend time together.
Does any of this make any sense?
17 July 2005
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
