Wednesday, June 30, 2004

I Am Officially Sick

I've been sort-of sick for three weeks now. What a way to spend the lovely month of June, I know. But now I'm really, truly sick, finally. It's just one of those things you've been waiting for to just come ON already so you can get it over and done with.

Walking in the rain this morning was the ultimatum.

I've got this horrible habit where I prefer to get drenched over hassling with an umbrella. Besides, how sexy is a wet white top?

Don't know, but it's definitely not worth getting a 39 Deg fever.

I shall crash on my bed and never wake up.


Tuesday, June 29, 2004

Oh Nuts. My Hair's all Whacked.

Well, I suppose I like it, and it really give the rock-star-chic-glam with the labret (Or is Rock Star and Chic a paradox? Junkie-wannabe-rocker-whore?) but I think I've really grown out of the that season of my life a few years back, about the same time Garbage's Shirley Manson decided to turn sweet and sing about camps. My hair dresser didn't seem to think so though, so now my hair's all shredded and blue. Not permanent, but I thought it'd be nice to be Clementine for a day. (I was referring to Winslet from Eternal Sunshine.)


Mr. Grant actually messaged me today. Well, I don't quite recall him doing that ever, before, on the Day-After. That is, one day after we have a nice long time fooling around on his futon. I really shouldn't have hung out at his place till so late last night during this time when I'm seriously supposed to be cramming and making sure everything's in place before I fly to visit the Boy, but I couldn't help it. I was absolutely craving the sort of connection he manages to give me everytime.

We talked about his sort-of girlfriend, some bible-monger babe he met in HK (who he decided not to bonk because she was such a preacher. He's terribly anti-religion for some reason.) And some Media school in London he's absolutely encouraging me to sign up for. It used to bug me that he slept with other people, but I realized I don't really care, as long as he carries on giving me attention. And it's really not about the sex. Well, allright, it's fucking good, but that just isn't it.

I like being able to say anything I want to around him, and I like the way he fucks around with the waitresses at the Big O cafe.

He (well, allright. We.) Couldn't stop checking out the cute Fillipina waitress serving us; and they have a funny confection there that's called the G-Spot. Well with names like that, the menu was obviously asking to be questioned, so he had to ask her what in the world was a G-Spot. She tried describing it to him, but he wasn't particularly listening.

"Well I'm not interested in those bits, but allright. So it's called the G-spot eh? And does it hit it?"
"Uh, Hurt? I don't think so. It usually feels rather pleasant, and I like it"
(I assumed she heard hurt instead of hit.)

Cuute. What a sport she is.

And you must ABSOLUTELY go to the Big O cafe. It's in Wheelock Place (where border's at) and it serves the BEST chocolate cake. It's the real damn thing. I'm tired of mousse-ish, creamish chocolate cakes. This one is made out of flour and fluff and genuine chocolate cake cream. It's warm, fantastic and has a name that sounds like I'm biting off your dick.


Monday, June 28, 2004

I Should be on Kids TV

Ah, another weekend, and yet another reason to love white guys. I never recieved a better compliment for the way I look. Kid's television! Wow.

Well, seriously though, I don't know what to think.
If he meant that as a compliment (Along the lines of 'You're so hot') then I'm marginally confused. What? That I Look young? (But I AM young) Childish? Fresh-Faced? But if he meant it, for real, then I hope he genuinely believes in it. I'm not a sucker for fame (Do I hear someone calling bullshit across the street?); it's a nice thing to have when you want your very own gallery opening sponsored, or your own book deal, but otherwise it's something I grew out of years ago, particularly after I lost all desire to marry Marilyn Manson.(Once upon a time I wanted to fly all the way to Japan for his Anti-Christ concert and give his Bassist my own religious school-girl uniform.)

But back to being on children's television. I suppose it would be really nice if he actually got me to be his little assistant on one of his shows sometime. I've known his for quite awhile already, he was my break-in into the world of dating outside the locals. And I didn't even have to meet him at a club.
Infact, it was in a perfectly decent environement.
Art Class.
Knew he was kinda attracted to me and I thought, what the hell. No harm getting cosy with a guy who owns his own media company, so I staged my own exit from the building at about the time he would pass the entrance in his car.
Bingo, I got him to ask me if I wanted a lift.
Flirted with him a little while I worked on some kitschy set he hired me for. I was perfectly no good at doing the job, but it was an experience, and I supposed he liked having me around. I was nothing but a silly little kid then, and I still have No idea how I could talk about blow-up dolls and religions in relation to sex and not even suppose it'd bother him.
But I've always liked him, in a decent sort of way. Really!

Plus he got my sister on the tube; that means she's got something nice to put in her portfolio when she wants to model after her breasts have fully developed.

I called him. He's still all nice and humble and absolutely genuine in the way he critiques my art. Maybe I'll meet him sometime soon.

He'll be on Nickolodeon come December *grin*
I'm really, genuinely, happy for him. It's not easy making it as a cartoonist. I don't think it is.

But then again, it's not easy to Make It as anything.

And then again, nothing is ever easy.


Sunday, June 27, 2004

Maids. And other relevant weird family interactions.


Like nearly ever other spoilt brat in the city, I never actually thought of them as real people until the current one I have came along.
They're just there to do everything that we're too lazy to do after all. To function as living, breathing, cleaning machines and nothing more. Besides, my mom had a way of continually nagging at me to ‘please not fraternize with them’. (The reason was that they’d get too comfortable with you and stop listening to instructions) No doubt, the rapport I had managed with the previous few were quite bad. And to no advantage because not talking to them didn’t stop them from refusing to take directions. (The last one got fired when she refused to cook lunch for me because she was sobbing over Days of our Lives.)

But the one I have now is quite incredible.
If she lost a couple of kilos, I’d put her on suicide girls and help her make one and a half months pay for nearly no effort.

I was ranting on and on about the Boy to her last night while on an espresso high, and she told me to shut up and go and visit him already. Among other things.


Then she asks me if the Boy was American.

“What makes you think that?”
Her: “He can’t be Chinese.”
“Well, that doesn’t mean he’s American. Don’t you have other white people in the Philippines.”
Her: “We call them Americans anyway.”
“Oh? Well, no, he’s not American, but for the record, your right. He’s not Chinese, I don’t date them anymore”
Her: “Oh Why? Because the Americans have bigger…” And she glances at my crotch.
And we both burst out laughing.
“Why you slut. How the hell would YOU know. Oh come on tell me!”

Unfortunately, she Didn’t, so no good gossip. It was one of our neighbor’s domestic help, or her distant cousin, or maybe the two are the same person, something like that.
Glass Marbles

I talk about silly things like that over the phone at 45c/minuite.

Lacoste, Jeans, Clean Underwear.
Brown Bikini, Wet Skin, Dirty Tangas.

Tequila shots and DIY bar-tops,
House pours and self-composed Jazz music, produced by unsure fingers that stumble across stained ivory.

This evening, after a long while, and a great long while at that, the boy and I finally got down to contacting each other with an ancient invention called the telephone.
He said Hi, and all of Microsoft’s efforts at taking online conversation to the fifth dimension fell flat. Web-camming and MSN’s pains with smilies? ...Couldn’t live up to the pleasure that hearing his voice brought. (I know, I should get the mic on my cam fixed. Huh.)

I finally got to ask him about the last girl he dated. Apparently he had to tell her to go because he couldn’t feel for her as much as she wanted him to. That was two weeks ago. Then I tried to talk to him about my situation, but it didn’t work out.

“Forget it. You were right. We shouldn’t talk about the other people we’re seeing. I’m comfortable with the fact that we are, but I’m not at ease talking about it. Does it bother you…?”

And he tells me something sweet like how it pains him to imagine I’m actually sleeping with someone else, but goes on to say that he can understand perfectly.

Conversations over the whimsical little fantasies we have for ourselves.
Dogs, a couple of kids (‘I’m sure they’ll be very pretty’), fake fireplaces with sculptures made to look like firewood in them.
Wedding dresses tailored from fig leaves; and he can wear anything he wants. I don't care if it's a Polo T-Shirt and blue jeans.

I don’t normally (if ever) feel this way with people. It’s usually silly to feel this way. All that’s rational in you tells you your stupid to believe in anything like that. But I don’t want to care.

And I’m not really listening to him. I know what he’s saying, but I’m not listening.

His voice feels like glass marbles that roll over all of me.
Over my collarbones, my breasts, into my navel and over the hair crowning my kitty. Over my face, the curve of my neck, the insides of my thighs, massaging my feet as they clink against one another.

I have no idea why we never called each other before. Things were probably different a few months back, compared with now. But I’m glad we held off. Because even after nearly 8 months, his voice still sounds exactly like how I remembered it, and hearing it makes it as if he were really here.

And I laugh, and he laughs, and it’s like we’re playing with the sheets and throwing pillows at each other before we tumble into bed.

He’s gentle, poetic, and secretly romantic (despite the countless number of times I chide him for ruining my fantasies with his skeptical take on romance– Wa-hey buster, I give myself enough of that; don’t want the help with reality-).

He's promised we’d go on a holiday come December.
Well, we’ve managed it this far. With undulating periods of on and offs no doubt, but it’s been managed. I’m sure something will work itself out.

And if it doesn’t, at least it made me feel damn good about everything for awhile.

Real damn good.
It's strange hey. He's all on the otherside of the world, but he can still make me feel better then anyone here possibly can.
Or perhaps it's just the way I am. My imagination's fantastic like that. Capable of turning everything into the most incredibly poetic symphony in my head, my heart and my gut when it so chooses to.

What's so great about a Polo T-Shirt and Blue Jeans anyway.

Oh. Everything.

Paper and Clips
Food and Chips
Drinks and Sips
Kisses and Lips


Saturday, June 26, 2004


I'll admit it.
This is the reason why I read Functional Ambivalent.

Personally, I quite like playing rape.

Most guys usually go, What The Hell, however is it possible to play rape when the sex is perfectly consensual.

I don’t know really.

But while it can get rather chilling (when you seriously get into it), it can still manage to turn out incredibly rewarding at the end of the day.
What I really look for in playing rape is that contrast in emotional state. The difference in the psychological situations of being abused and being loved (with lots of cotton candy sex after).

It’s the same reason why I’d want to see the Boy fuck another girl. The same reason why a ménage a trios can be rewarding in my opinion. (I know most guys find that inherently rewarding in itself because it strokes their ego incredibly (Two Girls??). But that's most certainly not my reason.)

Activities like so Really test a person’s trust, and bring out some of the most basic human emotions in their most raw appearance.

Fear and Jealousy has everything to do with sex.

Anyone up for a Read?


Friday, June 25, 2004

Besame Mucho

I love him so very much.
I guess I'm being terribly stupid. And LDRs (that's long distance relationships for the uninitiated -shame on you! In this day and age? And you havn't discovered the joys of loving someone on the otherside of the world?-), maybe they are really all just about imagination and being in love with the impression of someone you chat to for a couple of hours a day.

But who cares. Talking to him makes me feel elated, makes me forget about every shitty problem I have, makes me feel like I connect.

I like how he is. How he never worries about anything, how it doesn't matter if he'll be busy when I visit; He'll make time and make sure I have a good time.
How he says don't call, he'll call and no, there is no need to send down a USB hub so we can have web-cam sex, he'll buy one.
(But that's what you said months ago. Oh wait. I see, you're stuck in the university's computer lab so there's no point. Well, allright.)

He's driving back to his parents house to get his laundry done today. Terribly spoilt, it's a wonder how he's never mis-behaved around me.

Ah I'm all silly and sick tonight (Literally. But I feel better now; Clarinase is a wonder.)


Well. What the hell do we talk about online? Lets see...
A number of things ranging from the vanilla to the almanac of gross sexual things to do.
Today's was the latter.
Something about getting him to eat monkey brains up my kitty.

Whatever. Whoopee!
Time for espresso shots at globalization's poster child: Starbucks. (She's prettier then Ronald.)
Love being bribed.

Love the kind of sms I get at 7 a.m in the morning.

From Mr. Big: I know what'll cheer you up. Let's go and choose a girl that the both of us like and she can go down on you. I know you'll like that.

Gosh. Golly. Gee.

This is so peculiar.
All of a sudden he's being so -for lack of a better word- Nice. Writing poems and offering to rent girls (what a great present for a girlfriend!). Not to mention, it's a perfect deviation from what I’m used to, from him. What frustrates me to no end though is that exams start Monday and I've tied myself to my study table. Which mean I had to blow him off again. And that really sucks. It sucked ever more when he went ‘ Oh, I’m getting used to being blow off by now. I’ll just meet you after your exams.’ He wasn’t pissed, just disappointed, I suppose.

I suppose it’s high time I started seeing the positive things about him and start to relegate annoying little things -like how he always has to find out every single ingredient in a dish before he orders it- to the sideline. After all, it isn’t as if we were living together where all those little things (will) end up becoming a defining purpose for intolerance.


Thursday, June 24, 2004

Almond Orange Chocolate Cake

Food Politics

Well, not really. But if you're really into good food -like everyone who has ever lived in Sg SHOULD be (why else live here? ... All right, the women; but these days I get the sense that it’s firstly the soccer, secondly the beer and chips, and finally the sex)- It might prove an interesting read.

Well, fine. It’s not that interesting. So I suffer from psychological weight problems and love to constantly read about food I can’t eat.

Anyway, I made a sort of flourless cake from almonds, oranges and chocolate today. Mr. Big loves almonds. And so do I. Marzipan stolen? *drool* I spend hours on end making them at Christmas.

He called me while I was enjoying a full-body Swedish massage (I realized I like getting my butt massaged the most) Texted him a couple of times thereafter, no reply. Perhaps he’s pissed with me. Guess I’ll have to try my damn best to save half the cake for him till he chills out. I made it for him anyway. And I doubt I can send it via air-mail to the boy.

It’s quite nice really.

You can buy the mix at your local cold-storage organic food section.

(Fine. So I’m too lazy to actually bake anything from scratch.)
Feel like such a bitch

Mr. Big was all 'so you coming over to my place or not' And instead of thinking, oh that's sweet, you want my company, I go, 'Can't you be more tactful when you want my company?' (ie, you're so rude sometimes. Which he really can be. Really. He'd stand in front of the cashier line after he's paid for suff just because he wants to look at the little book for sale on the counter. Who said ALL Ang Mo men were generally more polite!)

I supposed I'm just really disappointed with the way I'm being treated. Which isn't bad really; but he could be doing more.
And then guess what? He tells me he wrote a poem and wants to give me a private recital. And because there's nothing that really touches me more then something absolutely personal, I seriously felt like kicking myself. And I go why oh why does this always have to happen. Say something that gets me pissed and then something that makes me feel like kicking the hell out of myself for being pissed initially.
I suppose I'm to make some sinfully sweet confection for him now, to make up for it.


On The Boy.
I finally got down to calling his land line in Switzerland, but the bastard's watching soccer at his friend's place!
Usually he's there for me, doing whatever I want him to; I suppose I see it in that way because we connect much better, I was much more tolerant towards him. And he's just really just more polite.

Meet me here, take me there to eat, I want to watch this movie before we go to bed. At THIS particular theatre. And he never disagreed because he's too smart to.
Spoilt me terribly.

Some nice emails from him when I came home this morning.
I always get a little ticked off when he sends me passion-less emails, so I didn't contact him for awhile, and he was all 'Oh, are you angry with me. I hope you aren't blabla'. Good.


I am so exhausted. I've fallen in love with Cayote. The guy who runs it is a perfect teddy. I wish I nailed that sweet French looking thing. But he was engaged to a woman who looked like a perfect sack in a polka dotted dress.

He was so evil though. When I made the 'L' for looser sign (don't want to dance with a pretty girl at a club? Then what the hell are you here to do?) he gave me the cutest psuedo-broken-hearted face ever. And licked his own fingers. *swoon* Bastard. He was so cute. Cuter then Prince William. I think so.

If my woman wasn't here I'd have all your babies tonight.

Well, uh okay. Very flattering.
I guess.


William took tons and tons of photos for the Teddy (the guy who owns the place). Will post as soon as I am slightly more rested. And when he wakes up and sends me the photos. Heh. I guess that's the most important step to getting up pics of half-drunk girls on the bartop. Get photographer to wake up and send photos first.


Oh another note.
Do you know that the term Slut only works in bed if the girl's below?
Go figure.


Wednesday, June 23, 2004

Wish List.

I am absolutely exhausted, but have been somehow been persuaded down to Cayote once again. Where my self-control (of which I have time and again admittedly confessed I posesses the bare minimum) will be tested as I attempt to resist free wine and stick to my diet.

Anyway, tonight's wish list.

1) I want to be absolutely abused by Mr. Grant. Only (fuck this) I don't think he's in town. And even if he were, he must be with that 'down to earth' girlfriend of his.

2) Garter Belts. I have been looking and looking, and LOOKING. But they just don't seem to have them here!

3) Corset. A good, embroidered one, made of silk.

4) A woman to go down on.

Yes, I am drunk.
On boredom.

That's That

Thank God.
I'm back in Sg, and damn glad for it.
Never had problems when it came to home-sickness; but being around people constantly talking about death was really starting to get to me. And I miss having an air-conditioner with a functional temperature control.


Well, I've thrown my number back into the culdron of single and looking once again. At this moment, I just can't feel committed enough to not want to toss my number back in.

The guy who fished it out's quite eligible.
Not only is he cute, half-latino and Mexican. He knows how to have fun, and dances Salsa like a god. Perhaps it's a sign, and I should start revolving my life around the dance once again. He called a couple of days ago while I was out of town, and told the maid he'd give a ring this Thursday. That's good.
Thursday is Ladies night at the salsa club.

Oh well. Back I go into the whole dating game once again.
How does it work anyway?
You exchange numbers, go out on a couple of dates, have sex, go out on some more dates and see if things work out. And when they don't, you still continue seeing each other anyway and carry on having sex waiting for someone to pick your number out once again.

I always find it incredible that we're able to have sex with people we barely know. It's kinda taken on a whole new function in soceity. It sells things, it gets us what we want and it promotes romance on the fast track. Sex makes you feel like you really know a person, even when you've only been dating him for, oh, a month.

Romeo and Juliet definitely had sex. Those dirty little kids.


In some trashy News

on June 12th, in a more flamboyant gesture, around 50 naked cyclists rode around Hyde Park, one of London's stately royal parks[...]
The London ride reflects a change in attitudes to nudity[...]
Britain is moving away from puritanical America and closer to continental Europe, where citizens disport themselves naked untroubled by censorious officials.

That's the spirit.


Monday, June 21, 2004

I Hate Funerals

I'll never be able to understand them, and I will always come across as an insensitive, spoilt brat when I'm made to attend one.

Sure, I'm freaked, and I still am freaked, but this is getting ridiculous. A week long ceremony to send the dearly departed off? I thought it ended at being made to come down all the way to see a dead body, with a night of mourning thrown in.

Who the heck are half of these people anyway, with their huge wreaths and condolences and sympathies. Well, as long as they are appreciated by the other people who are more affected then I am. But it's still absurd.

She's dead alright. She's just, well. Dead. It's a dead rotting body; it's horrid to look at and it's horrid to be near at.

Can we just get this over with??

Some of my relatives didn't come down. They had a point, the point is, there is no point. What difference would it have made if I went down on Sunday or went down on the date of the Funeral? I didn't want to see her die, and I don't want to see her dead either.

Funerals are for the people that are still alive, and even if you need it; I wish you wouldn't drag me into it, because I don't want it.

I am still freaked out, and I'd really rather just forget about everything and pretend nothing's happened. I'm not sad, I can't be sad. I didn't see her every damn day, I didn't need her. She was great fun when she was around, but she was old. And like they say, everyone is given the same amount of time alive, One lifetime, no more, no less. And it was just that, she had a fair share.

I know what funerals are for.
They're meant to irritate you beyond your wits until you don't feel sad, or freaked, or any such nonsense like that.

It must be 36 Deg C at the moment.
Mosquitoes everywhere.
People repeating "Holy Mary Mother of God"
Again and again and again.

Sunday, June 20, 2004

Well. What can I Say?

My Grandmama just died.

I find it absolutely ironic that at a time when I can't move, or think, or do anything at all, I have to pack, and plan the books I'll need for the week long funeral. (Because I'll be having examinations right when I'm back.)

She was Catholic. The rest of my family's Catholic (For the record, I don't have a denomination). The funeral's going to be long. But it's pointless. There's no way my grandmama will need to be in purgatory, for she was such a damn fine woman.


Everything's queer.

The same CD still plays before my sister got The call.
The TV's still on and no one's bothering to turn it off.

My daddy is very sad and my parents are lying on their bed talking about weird things.
Like life, and what if my mom were to die instead, and what is grandma wearing up in heaven right now.

I'd be suicidal for my daddy if my mother were to die.
Yeah, I come from a perfect little family like that.
(It wasn't always perfect, but it is now.)

I finally understand the respite to be found in the Hallmark codolosence:
She's in a better place.

I really, truly understand it now.

Saturday, June 19, 2004

Why Cheap is Worse then Free

Paid sex.
It's been really buzzing these days, has't it. One of the local papers, Today , that prides itself as being slightly more alternative then The Straits Times, has yet another trashy article, this time on kinky sex at a cost. Ah well, but trashy articles are in every paper anyway. Readers thrive on them , and so do profits. (And I do not deny to be immune)

Well, someone posted on the SuicideG group forums...

Supposedly, expensive is better than cheap, but cheap is worse than free. Seems like there's a hole in that logic

I've always wondered about that.
Whenever I read rubbish like Diary of a Manhattan Call Girl, or, well allright, That alone (that's the only novel about a whore I've ever read. My literary tastes haven't degenerated that much since I progressed beyond Roald Dahl) Anyway, whenever I read anything else then, along those lines, that basically tell you why have sex for free when you can charge, this paradox always comes to mind.

Techincally it's worse isn't it. If you just fuck around for free. But the truth is, it Isn't.
Because most people don't just have sex and leave it at that. They expect more.
They expect sweet morning calls and smart mouth sms-es at lunch time, expensive dates at revolving restaurants and cheap ones on the couch in front of a rented DVD, weekend get-a-ways to Rome or Bintan. And all of that accumulates into emotional payment that's worth more then oh, the $300 they charge at Orchard Towers.

So, see. If a girl is going to have sex with someone who's not going to provide all of that (and given that it's not her rice-bowl) she's going to have to charge all that she's forgoing. Which would also include her dignity and self-worth in most cases. If sex is expensive, it's not because it's better then cheap. It's because that's what it has to be.

And we all know this.

Free, is never free.

Friday, June 18, 2004

I'm so Annoyed

I think it's time I started being single for awhile again. (Well no. Having a boyfriend that's a 13 hours and $1500 dollars away doesn't count as being attached). I'm just no good at sustaining relationships. (Or perhaps just not destined for one yet)Everytime it starts to get good, and I'm starting to know the other person more; we're really getting along better then we ever have, something has to happen.

Either I decide I like them but they don't live up to my expectations in so many ways (but who can ever live up to our expectations? Ever! I swear, human beings are bitches like that. Such insatiable creatures we are.)
Or they leave the country (that does tend to happen alot when you date expats. One night their here and the next it's ... whoops, Bon Voyage darling. Write to me sometime. I'll send you some chinese herbs when the winter starts killing you -I know the tropical weather minus the malaria has made you into a whimp-)
Or, yeah. Or you just meet someone else.

I am throughly annoyed at myself :(

Work to do that's not done. Books that have yet to be read. And Salsa! I've lost touch with it and it's just absolutely terrible. I danced with this guy last night, and I felt myself thinking, oh my god, I'm so bad at it now. I used to be able to follow the lead so well. *sigh*.

Boo Hoo. I am SO wasted
I HATE being wasted.
I wish I could just go on an alcoholic high for as long as I need to be high enough to behave like a total idiot on the bar then snap out of it immediately.
But OH NO. I have to suck on horrible horrible limes, drink coffee that taste like drain water, and feel like actually studying, at 4 a.m. in the morning. Thsi is really weird.

Yes I am fucking drunk. I don't care if I sound like an idiot.

Will (my most regular photographer) and I are planning to start a modelling agency with some of Singapore's hottest girls. I worship them on the bar top adn beg them to call him and he shoots them. How fun. Seriously,not being sarcastic. :D fun. I'ts hight time I started figuring out a way to make some money anwyay. My parents have seriously stopped deciding to finiance this parasite of a daughter any longer.

I think the guy who owns cayote likes me. as a girl only of course. He's cool. Some of the girls are cool. some of them hate me. They told me to get off the bar cuz they 'have to sell drinks so get off' I kinda like the indian one. shes the only indian one. But I doubt i can regular as a bar girl there. I dont have the time, or the physical capacity. It's so tiring entertaining blokes at a bar. terribly, horribly tiring.
Im exhausted.

I'm so fuking drunk/


Wednesday, June 16, 2004


Mr. Big and I have been seeing each other for a grand total of *drum roll* 3 months. When I think about that, it's quite incredible, because for someone you've been seeing for three months, on a rather regular basis too, you'd expect to have already known the answers to a few questions like, what's the kinkiest thing you've done in bed, or how long was your longest relationship, or if you could have my kitty taste like anything you want it to, what would it be,
or how many women have you've slept with since you came to Singapore.

Well, the answer didn't surprise me. Sure he slept with a lot more women in one year in Sg then he did anywhere else in the world. And I find that so incredible. Incredible in the sense that the truth is so real.

Well, what's the truth? I don't pretend to know myself.
That local men are lame in the sack? That they're boring (they aren't all, really.) That ang mo men are more worldly, more interesting? Not necessarily.

Him:"It's just not a done thing anywhere else I've worked in. Women don't approach you like they do here.
You know, a couple of weeks ago, there was this lady that just came up to me in a club. She just walked up to me while I was looking for a booth..."

"Well, it's good for you isn't it, it's good for all the other guys too. Don't take it like I'm being scarcastic, I'm just curious, in a sort of psuedo-disgusted way. I think some of the women go through extreme lengths. Either they play all these weird, fucked up games. Or they cast the net. Well, I don't know, why do you think they do all of that?"

And secretly, I'm wondering what he thought of me. Perhaps I should ask that. But men are so cleaver these days, they know what women like to hear.

And hey, what did he tell me? Something about wanting to get out of the country.
I've never thought of that. It's always been in the back of my head as a possibility, but it's not something I'd do. For that, you'd have to *gasp* Settle down.


On getting out of the country.
The girlfriend's absolutely lost it. She's suggesting -well not suggesting, starting to Plan, rather- for a trip to Switzerland, where, apparently her boyfriend's just returned to.
And, I know it's crazy, I don't deny that I'm crazy (and everyone already knows that, including my mom. Who, in addition to knowing that I'm mildly psychotic now also knows I'm absolutely indecent -a neighbour had a little complaint about me sun-bathing topless by the condo pool- and psuedo-suicidal) , but I think I might just go too.
To visit Him* of course.
I was thinking, perhaps it would be a waste of money, to go down all the way for just a couple of weeks, instead of wait till next year, when he's coming to Shanghai to work, when it would be a lot cheaper for me to visit; and where I can actually have something to do. (I'm actually planning on an immersion programme wherein I might actually get my mother-tongue capabilities up to an acceptable standard -for a banana like me- once and for all. But like she says. It' not about how long you're going to be there, it's well, just seeing him.

And it's just about doing something crazy like that. Planning for the absolutely unplanned. Doing something that'll you remember for a long time; Because when you're all crappy and married, and that 24 inch waistline's no longer there, and you have a retarded job and a couple of kids, and the only way you're going to get laid by someone else other then your husband is through ads in the local publication, a-la Jane Juska You'd really be glad you have at least that one great memory.

Not to mention that it's also absolutely romantic.

The idea of travelling around half the globe, alomst! spontaneously...
Better then a Chivas on the rocks, better then Panna Cotta smothered in chocolate. Better then Kissing Ani D and telling her how amazing she is, and maybe even better then World Peace and saving all the great pandas and things like that.

It's spunky, and fanciful, and it's everything about being young.

I have just convinced myself I'm going to do it.

(You know something, Chivas is not a depressant.)

Tuesday, June 15, 2004

How Hot is This!

Masochistic Chinese sales women are the best.

This was taken at a pharmaceutical company in Shanghai. I don't remember the name of the company, but it's one of those huge state-owned manufacturing ones; China's answer to Johnson's and Johnson's, perhaps.

The whole situation was really weird.

The company had a park that I was told I should visit, so i did. And of course if they were going to let you into their park, they'd want to try and sell you something perfectly useless. So I couldn't refuse when they dragged us into this sales room and started gabbering away about their product.
Apparently it was some sort of cream to fix burns.
And you know what? The sales woman actually offered to demonstrate how effective it was by burning her hands!
I suppose she didn't want to , but she'd have to if the audience requested it.
So she (had to) asked the audience a couple of times if they'd really want to see her burn herself (a very bizarre thing to be asked by someone clearly not suicidal),and nearly everyone, being sane, humane people gave her the negative.

And I felt myself thinking, more out of annoyance then anything else, 'If you're going to do it, just do it already'. But I didn't think she really would. I mean, the audience would always tell her not to do it when she ask and she'd eventually not. So I figured, well, I'll just tell her to do it, because I didn't think she really would, and that would make everything look really silly, and Then! we can all just buy a token and leave.

Well apparently it was no joke.

She got this guy to come in with a huge coal oven -the sort my grandmother used to have in ancient China- and they started heating up the metal chain (Oh this is almost too kinky). It got pretty hot and they took it out and pulled it stright. Then the woman just stood there for a few seconds staring at the chain before she went up to it and stuck her hand on it.

She didn't just wince when it made contact with her skin, she jumped.

Oh my god, she's really hurt.
So it's not just some kinda magic show.


...Anyone for SM tonight?

You know a game is boring when

1) No one scores a goal.
2) You don't know when the game's ended.


How does the gentler sex watch soccer?

With lots of comfort food, frequent trips to the fridge to refill the satay sauce and an absolute cluelessness on which goal the team we're rooting for is supposed to score in.

Oh wait, you have to know what they are wearing first.

Well sheesh, of course they'd be wearing national colours, how silly of me.

2:15 a.m.

Him 'I think the game's ended'
Me (while stuffing myself) 'But nobody's scored! It's half-time.'
Me 'Give me the outcome.'
Him 'Draw, no goals'
Me 'The guys in the red shirts are so klutzy. Italia 1 over D.'
-5 minutes of stoned silence-
Me 'Oh, I think the game HAS ended. And you were right about the score.'
Him 'Just go to bed.'

Monday, June 14, 2004

Eurocup 2004

I'm not a huge soccer fan, but I'm a sucker for all the huge, occassional soccer events.

I'm betting on France this term *grin*

I'll be so embarassed if they don't clinch the cup, but oh well.
They've already got the best cuisine, the finest artists and the most armorous lovers, why not soccer players.


Sunday, June 13, 2004

Second Intermission

I'm always trying to get there,
Never really get there,
To the quiet place,
Where I accept myself.

Instead I'm deep inside some high school,
Locker room, no clothing.
Popping the zits of my self-loathing,
Under flurscent lights.

And the bells sounds,
And the lights flash,
And there's all these questions milling around,
And I'm too ashamed to ask.

~Ani D.


10 a.m.
I woke up and went to church half dead. My mind was stuck in a dream-like stupor throughout the entire cab ride, and when the usher asked me if I had a seat inside the auditorium, I told him my husband had reserved it for me.

He looked at me and I looked back.

11:45 a.m.
The pastor preaching today was the one that always struck me as someone absolutely incapable of organizing a sermon. Taking the idea of ‘going with the flow’ one step too far, perhaps. Not by choice, I left 5 minutes into the sermon. I know it’s rude, but the need for a quadruple shot of espresso was really getting to me.
I took a long time nursing my coffee and watching myself people watch. I noticed the people I looked at, how I behaved when they walked past me; who I smiled at, who I ignored, who made my breathing hard and my mind wander.
There was an unattractive Asian woman with a distinguished looking white guy on the bench facing me. I couldn’t help looking at them. He was gorgeous. He noticed me looking his way and gave me the smallest glimmer of a smile. I returned the favor. She knew. The woman knew, I could feel it. She knew I found her guy gorgeous, it wasn’t hard to know. He was very striking in a George Cloony sort of way. And she flipped her hair and gave a sort of look that I hope I’ll never exude just because I see another woman finding my man attractive. It was arrogance.
But perhaps I’m imagining things. I wasn’t very sane the whole day anyway.

I walked over an overhead bridge packed with kids making three-fifty an hour giving out flyers for cheap haircuts. They were annoying and I felt like sticking my middle finger out at them when they shoved the little pieces of papers into my face. Then someone approached me. She didn’t just approach me, she sort of stood in my way. I thought she was a particularly annoying flyer-person and said, with a good amount of exasperation, ‘Oh God. Leave me alone.’ But she was only asking for directions.

My mother sms-ed me, asking where I am. I told her I wasn’t gaining anything from the sermon and felt like reading in the bookstore. She replied, telling me not to worry. That she’d pray for me. She’d ask God to help me be a better person.
After all, what kind of daughter am I to leave her alone and half-asleep from boredom on a Sunday morning.

I know I’m on a roller-coaster.
At this time, my mood got a little off the libido ritcher scale.
Mr. Big sms-ed to thank me for the painting I got him from China, and the lunch I treated him to (for being such a bitch the night before) yesterday. I asked him if he’d like a little tete a tete right fucking now. But he was busy.
I thought what I had really needed was sex.
Sex, and lots of it.
I felt like whipped cream and strawberries and cheesecake smeared all over me. I felt dirty and I really liked it.
So I thought, well, what the heck. I need it now, not later. Not in the evening when You’re free. I don’t care about you. Me, me. Me, ME.

After Lunch
I called up Mr. Grant. I had told myself I wouldn’t. He didn’t want me the last time, and I hadn’t gotten over the insult. But I didn’t care. Anyway, he had told me straight off he wasn’t going to do the whole art of seduction bullshit ages ago. You know, where two stupid people don’t call each other for weeks on end because they live with the notion that the less accessible they are the more desirable they get. (Which is true, but I don’t feel like deconstructing that now).

Apparently he had a flight to catch in about a little over 2 hours from the time I had called.

“Shit. Ah Shit. I guess I’d better go home before I do something stupid.”
“Like what? Pick up a guy off the street?”
“I don’t know dude.”
Oh you know what Isabelle, come over. Just come all right. I’m nearly finished packing anyway.”

I took a cab and got stuck in a jam and counted sheep to calm myself down. There were over two-hundred carcasses coming out from the slaughterhouse when my mood started changing.

Shit I’m stupid. I’m behaving like a desperate, stupid little whore. I can’t believe I’m doing this to get laid. Only guys did things like that.

Three-hundred sheep and I’ve reached his apartment.

So embarrassed.

3:25 p.m.
He’s so very nice.

We hugged and kissed, and I made my way into his bedroom, still feeling very weird.
I just told a guy I needed a fuck and he acceded (Well thank god. I was embarrassed enough as it was.)

Like I said, my mood had changed. I still felt like it, but there was this overwhelming sense of awkwardness. I lay on his bed trying to explain myself, trying to redeem some creditability, perhaps. But you know what? He just made the need for that go away. I don’t know how, but he did.

I asked him if he thought I was crazy, and he assured me that I most certainly was. Incredibly, and delightfully so. He tells me I’m amazing, and beautiful and queer and other things I like to hear that need not necessarily be things that are positive to everyone, but are to me.

“Do you think about me? Do you miss me?”
“Well yeah. Of course I do. Are you thinking about last week.
You were so mad, I knew you were. You were oozing with oh I’m so pissed. My mate had said I was so going to get it.”
He laughed and I don’t think he apologized for it. I don’t really remember, but I don’t think so. And I’m glad he didn’t. I wouldn’t have believed him.

Did he come?
Shit. I’m so bad at knowing these things sometimes.
Oh wait. I don’t think so.

I climbed on top of him and placed my head on his chest. That always make me feel really secure. I don’t know why really. Maybe it’s because I’m on top and in control and he’s got to listen to me if I want him to. Maybe it’s because it gives me this strange sense of being worshipped. Maybe it’s the sense that he can’t go anywhere else, like I’ve finally got what I wanted, like it’s in my hands (or in me. Whatever.) and there’s no way I’m going to loose it if I can help it.

He asked me something I really Love to be asked in bed. It’s so fucking simple it’s amazing why guys don’t do it more often (with reference to their women) Or with some, at all.

“What Are you thinking about.”

I said some really whimsical things at first. Things like cherry blossoms and roasted chestnuts and sunny winters.

And I actually told him how I always feel so lost and so inconsequential more then is healthy. That maybe in my subconscious, I’m always feeling like the broken M&M that people toss out with the packet after every other chocolate piece is finished.

“You’re just misplaced. You shouldn’t be here. I think you’re terribly misplaced.”

I don’t know. Maybe.

4:30 p.m.
Everything felt better for awhile after that. It was like, oh, I couldn’t find fault with anything. For awhile. And I guess that’s what we all live for anyway. These fleeting, transient moments of satisfaction. That little short, precious time where you connect with someone. Where you really, really connect. It’s not a feeling. I don’t think it is. It’s not like, or love, or anything like that. It’s a sort of mechanical process that’s not governed by thought or gut.
It’s not self-initiated.
Then again, I might be just convincing myself over things that don’t really exist. Perhaps he was just trying to make sure I didn’t do anything stupid.
Oh well. I was happy for a good while. Happier then I’d been in a long time.
My girlfriend’s got this fabulous line.
Good sex always makes everything better.
It’s not very original, I know ;)

I started feeling fucked up again when I got home from my girlfriend’s place. But it’s good, because uh… it really inspired me to make some wonderful, trashy pop art.

I like trashy.
Someone told me my blog’s trashy.
Well, I have a trashy life and I’m a trashy girl. There. But you know what? I’m not proud of it, but I’m not ashamed either (that’s kinda obvious huh.)

You know what, we’re all junk inside. We’re all about being lost, and finding respite in sex and never being pleased with ourselves and being just plain self-destructive. And there’s an art to it. There’s a raw quality in all of that, and I love it. I love art that brings all that shit out, you know. Art that really eats into you when you look at it, because you feel guilty when you see it, or because you look at it and think; oh my god, what is my life doing in a public gallery. Or whatever.

I’m tired. It’s been a long day.


Saturday, June 12, 2004


Now I remember why I stopped clubbing for a long while.
Because I'm perfectly incapable of restraining myself from a number of things when I’m out there getting down.

Lets see. In a matter of oh, about under 6 hours, I have pissed of so many people. In retrospect, I shouldn’t care, because I didn’t think it was all really my fault. Fine, so the party was a flop.

At about 1 am, a combination of the lack of my friends at my party (I hate them. Seriously. How could they do this to me? They were all like, oh you’re party sucks. Yeah I KNOW it sucks. It sucks because you guys didn’t come! I threw it for you, you bastards. Everything was set. It was such a pretty club, and it was small and we got a DJ specially to play music that you’d like. Oh DARE I say this? Music to cater to the lowest common denominator.)
Anyway, the lack of people I knew personally, and wanted to be with, along with the fact that I was sort of, kind of drunk, and how some bastard who’d heard some nonsense about me turned up just to see if I was really gave free blowjobs; All of that really got to me and –not that I’m trying to harvest sympathy or anything- but by 1 am, I was nearly all in tears, but couldn’t be because I always have the coolest eye makeup on, and it wouldn’t do to have it run. Heh.
I hate them, I hate them, I hate them.
Oh yeah, I’ll be there! For sure, we know you, so we’ll be there. You’re so cool like that blah blah blah. Well, I hate the lot of you. You have no idea the amount of effort we put into getting this thing going, and you have no idea how embarrassed both the Princess and I are.
You know what. This is too much of a pain in the ass for me to want to say anything about it, ever.


On another note, Mr. Big had to call at 2 and talk to the Princess. I seriously have no idea what they talked about, but when I picked up the phone and went, ‘You know, I kinda want to stay here for a little while more because it’s my party and my girlfriends are still here… I think I should just stay’ He went, ‘Well P didn’t express your need to be around’ And for some reason or other that was It. I just blabbered away. I told him the things that bugged me the most.
‘You know, it’s like I’m sleeping with you and I don’t even know you. We talk a lot but we don’t seem to talk about anything. You know! You never see me off in the mornings, you just lie in bed and not get up, and you almost never meet me where I want to be...” Rant, rant.
All guys behave the same way when their girls go on and on like so. It’s universal, I swear. They shut up and don’t say anything. I hung up after awhile, I felt kinda stupid talking to something no better then an answering machine. But I suppose it’s better like that. I can’t imagine if he started ranting too. I would probably have thrown my phone across the street and regret it very much later.

You know, the funny thing is, I’ve never done anything like that before. Ever. I’m not all that difficult to please, and the thing is I DO want and try to be the perfect girl. Maybe it’s innate in all women. Some biblical thing. Eve was never made to be subversive. I just wish he’d make me want to do all the things I want to. People usually need to do stuff for other people first, before they’d want to return the favour. I don’t think that’s all that uncommon, maybe he feels like that too. That’s why things might never work out.

My girlfriend says I shouldn’t bother anymore. And I think yeah, maybe I shouldn’t. It’s been a short, subdued ride, and I probably won’t miss it.
I don’t know. Whatever. If he never calls me again, so be it.

I hate getting drunk.
I actually pulled down my skirt so everyone could see my SG panties at the Cayote. I have NO idea why I did that, and am currently consoling myself that I will not be seeing those people for a long time. But it’s no big deal to me if it’s no big deal to them. It’s just a pair of panties.
I’ve got this pair of knickers that says I’m With Stupid. Now that would be a funny one to flash. Especially when I’m standing beside a bloke on the bar-top. I don’t like blokes on the bar-top.
You know, that was the only fun bit I had last night.
They had this strange competition, which I didn’t win, for some reason. I’m sure I was the best. Come ON. I might not be the most fabulous dancer, but I sure as hell can dance properly (Not an assertion, can guarantee you that) and well *laughs* I thought I was quite entertaining. Maybe they just didn’t know who to cheer for.
Think… Ludivine Saignier as Tinkerbell in Peter Pan.


Friday, June 11, 2004


I'm nearly tearing from laughing my ass off.

So I actually applied for the Singapore Idol auditions that were held on June 5th -I knew I was going to be in Nanjing that day, but I thought what the heck. Let's just fuck around with the forms and provide those poor people who have to go through mountains of borrrring applicants some fun.

As in any silly, boring form you have to fill out, they had to ask for a person's occupation. Well, how interesting does 'Student' sound? Sheesh. Of course I put in Nude Model.

I thought, yeah right. Like anyone would really take notice of it. I'm sure they recieve weirder.

Well, apparently not.

I got a mention in June 3's 8 Days as the 'brassy lady whoes listed occupation is Nude Model'
*rotfl* I nearly chocked on my strawberry.

Well, the Princess is insisting I got for tomorrow's audition. Well, Um. *tests voice* I suppose I sound allright. *shrugs* it'll have to depend on what time I manage to wake up tomorrow morning. (I doubt I'll be able to)Because...

The party at Lempicka is Tonight. 11th June. *holds breath* I hope everything runs smoothly and all.

Allright. I'm going to work on a painting now. :D


Thursday, June 10, 2004

In Summary

I'm a little too tired to blog much today.

I caught Azkaban today, and I thought it was fabulous. I knew Alfonso Curon wouldn't disappoint. It's the best Potter movie up to date; finally one that does the book justice! I'm glad Columbus bailed out on directing Azkaban, he would have flopped it. Curon's movie is beautiful in every aspect. The colours were just magical and Hogwarts never looked so, so wonderful. I don't know how some people can say it wasn't good, the characters were incredibly well done, and aside from a really lousy crying scene with Radcliff in it, everything else was in place. And for once, Malfoy was properly sidelined. I still think Tom Felton is too handsome to be playing a twit like Draco.
I really don't like it when movies don't sideline certain characters properly just because they know the some of the audience want them on longer. Think Orlando as Paris in Troy. Bah.

I'm sorry if this is boring you, but I'm a sucker for anything fantasy-sf, so I'll cannry on ranting.

I loved the Knight Bus, I loved Buckbeak flying over the water (He is the least irritating computer generated creature since Chewbacca), I loved the tiny little skeletal heads and I loved the way the Leaky Culdron looked. Wouldn't mind watching it again. Probably will.


My mom's insisting we go out for one of those mother-daughter things again. I have no objection what-soever. Movie, Spa treatment, Sake and Sashimi. I know I'm a little spoilt *grin* Oh well.

I was just thinking about it. You know, my tastes in things, stuff like that. I'm not particularly very spoilt, and I didn't start dating guys who could afford all the finer things like good food and great wine because I wanted these things. It's the coverse,really. It was precisely because of my taste for Them that I developed a taste for these things.

They taught me how to drink only Evian and appreciate the bitter taste of espresso shots. How a glass of wine is always preferable to tequila shooters (yeah I was a fast tequila slut like that. The kind you'd see on the bartop with her skirt all the way up to her hips after 9 & 3/4 shots). Things like that.

Well, it was one particular one I owe it to I suppose.
He could never drink anything BUT Evian. Let's give him a whimsical name, something like Mr. Darling. For lack of imagination and because I'm thinking about marrying Peter Pan just now and never growing up -I'm in an awfully iffy mood at the moment-.
Well, see, we went on a little holiday; it was a short sort of holiday, the kind you go over the weekend, and because I'm one of the lightest female packers you'll ever know (I've packed for a 10 day trip to Borneo all into a backpack before) -partially due to the fact that I like wearing very little- I had a fine shock when I saw him with this huge thing, the kind you use when you go camping.
I asked him what the hell was in there and proceeded to peek inside. Oh my goodness, 4 bottles of Evian. Well, when I buy bottle water now, it has to be Evian, and I've gotten addicted to espresso shots. Maybe because I don't dare to forget him and everytime I have that little yellow cup half filled with bitter black gunk, I think of him, and I'm happy for awhile. I know. I'm nuts.

Slightly elated because I got to talk to him again after quite a long while.
I'm fully convinced he's one of the few people I should have babies with; it's just a long time from now.
Bah. Don't get all cynical on me and let me have my silly childish reveries. As it is, I give myself enough a good does of that emotion daily. Don't need it from other people.


I've loaded up some pictures of China I thought were rather interesting.

Ah, the joys of Global Corporations.
Hey fuck man. I like MacDonalds okay. I never eat their food, but their ad campaign brightens places up.

Like Oh My God. This is the dormitory grounds for the a school near SuZhou. Sleeping in the White House and the Neuschwanstein, my my, what decadance.

I can't imagine how they must worsip the US.


Wednesday, June 09, 2004

Taking Responsibility

Oh god. What a boring title.
Lets see what happened last night.

I watched The Day After Tomorrow yesterday. It was so cheesy and so bad on so many levels it was actually entertaining. (The U.S president forgiving all Latin American debt? The concept of U.S refugees?)

Stayed over at Mr. Big’s. Mmm, what’s new. Only I forgot to use protection, when I really should have. (It’s usually a good idea when the kitty wants to make babies.) I couldn’t believe I forgot thought, it was a first. I’m one of those people with that strange sense of self-righteousness when it comes to sexual responsibility. I suppose it’s because I have so little morals left that whatever little that’s there, I try my best to respect. And maybe because I’m so useless at abstinence, whatever little bit I manage is a big deal.
I’m usually the one chiding people at how they could have been so daft as to forget to use protection when they tell me that they’re so afraid of being pregnant. And I never understood how it was possible to actually forget to use a condom; until now.

You just well, forget.

I told myself a couple of times that I had better remember to use protection… but for some apparent reason, I forgot. And five minutes into it, that little voice that had been reminding me all this while whet ‘Shit’.

Maybe it was a case of complacency.
The sense of security more frequently springs from habit then from conviction – George Elliot. It’s one of my favorite quotes, because it’s quite true to my character. It’s generally true of everyone’s really. I think it is. The more I have sex without getting pregnant, the less I think it’ll happen. When well, yeah, its obviously bullshit. But well, you become complacent. You don’t think it’ll happen to you because so far, it hasn’t.

I know getting pregnant isn’t all that easy, but we really can’t help but want to expect the worse when something like that happens. It’s as if the more we expect evil the befall us, the less the chances of something unpleasant occurring. I’m no different, obviously. I had to expect the worse, get really paranoid, and continually count the days that had past since my period ended. I did it after I came, obviously. I can never understand people who think about how to cook, oh I don’t know… something I feel like eating now, um…Marseille Bouillabaisse, while doing it.

Anyway, Mr. Big went to work the next morning, and I gathered whatever respectability I still retained for myself and made an appointment with the doctor. I know I should have gone immediately after I woke up, but the pill’s effective for use up to 72 hours, so I went to watch Eternal Sunshine.

What a movie. It wasn’t THE ultimate, I still think Jeux d’enfants is the most amazing love story in film (and in every other form of storytelling for that matter), but it was so good. I thought it was very effective as a film, as a piece of art that had the function to affect a person thoroughly. Because I came out of the theatre as if something had really gotten into me and dug out all these emotions I didn’t want to admit to. It’s a perfectly horrid movie to watch if there’s someone you wish you could be with, but can’t.

Anyway, I went to the doctor’s a little while ago. I felt like a silly little girl, and all I really wanted to do was curl up into a tiny ball with a glass of Chivas and hope that when I un-curled, everything would just be all right. It wasn’t that I was afraid of getting pregnant, I didn’t really think I would; It was really about a lot of shit scrunched up in me. Mostly self- inflicted, you know. Products of my imagination.

I’m still stuck in the past, I know it. I can’t get over him*, and I don’t want to get over him. That’s why the stupid movie bothered me so much. But it’s not just that, it’s also how I can’t stop constantly wondering why the hell is it not working out like I want it to between Mr. B and me. I know part of it is because I don’t want it to work out, because I’m afraid I’ll forget him* and part of it… maybe we simply can’t get along. Not that we fight or even disagree. I’m too lazy for that. Just that we don’t connect. Everything’s surface.

I read his journal today.
So I think maybe I know (that he feels that everything’s shallow too).
I shouldn’t have. But it was no big deal. Just some mildly interesting entries. I can tolerate a lot of bullshit anyway, so even if whatever that was in there was more then I had expected…

I told him anyway, about how I’m mildly freaked that I might be pregnant, but I also mentioned it was probably no big deal cuz I’ve managed to get the after-morning pill. His response was rather, ugh.

Him: Oh My God, why didn’t you tell me it was that time of the month. And in the line of things, have you gone for those std tests?
Me: What? Well, no! I mean, I took one just under a month before I met you and I was fine then. And I’m sure as hell am fine now and so are you, so what are you going on and on about? It’s not as if I have no discernment when it comes to sleeping partners, and seriously, I hate getting check-ups like that done because the whole damn clinic can really freak a girl out. And you know how these people are with young kids like me. They freak us out when we ask for a blood test. They think you have some horrid reason to be there and give you all sorts of unpleasant what if scenarios. Look, I’m really upset right now, and I really am trying to take responsibility for whatever and… blablabla.

I guess I was really frustrated at him pushing me around all the time and saying shit like that to me continually and making it like I’m some kinda slut. Fuck. It’s just fucking retarded. He was nicer after I told him off, saying something like how I should ask him for anything if I needed anything. Heh. Well, whatever.

I don’t know what’s gonna happen in the next few weeks, but I know that I’m really not used to not being treated like I’m the best thing in the world. I know I’m not, but any idiot guy should know that’s how girls like to be treated; so just do it. Fucker. And it’s such a bad idea to make it like she’s a slut.

Eternal Sunshine does make that point fairly clearly. Eh.
Too Affected

I'm too lost to say anything right now.
I blogged for awhile, but it was too messy and too full of shit to be published.
I can't think properly, and I can't think coherently.

Some phrases keep fucking running through my mind.
Things like someone calling me slut like an AK-47
Like Inconsequential
Like Satisfaction
Like I'm prentending I'm hurting too much

I need a drink.
Really, really need a drink.

Monday, June 07, 2004

In Case You Didn't Already Notice

I'm back from China. I originally had alot to say about it, but hey, it's probably nothing you haven't heard before. The whole diatribe on how the air reeks of pollution and progress, how Shanghai is simply engulfed in this perfect sense of optimism and hope for the future and how people really believe in their country. Yeah. Blah Blahs.

One thing that REALLY struck me though, about most of the coastal cities is this: That they all resemble theatre backstage. It's as if the whole damn country's prepping itself up for some grand showdown, that's just going to happen oh so soon.
Forget about the over-heated economy presented to you by the pessimists. When you go to Shanghai, you'll feel something altogether different. You'll think to yourself, no way this economy's gonna get over-heated. And I know it's a silly way to try and define how well a county will do in a coupla years time. -By feelings. Hah. What a joke eh. But hey, don't under-estimate the emotional quotion your gut's endowed with.

In more news.

Guess What Bitches!!
I thought getting a tattoo on my ankle would be too boring (I wanted a crucifix)
And I wanted to save the space above the Cream Puff (that's the name I've christiened my pussy with) for a protrait of my own baby -as opposed to one of Anne Geddes.
Soo.... I've pierced my Labret!

And Goddamnit.
I met Mr. Grant today for a drink, and fuck! He said he was too tired for a bonk. What the HELL? I mean, he was really nice about it, sending me home first and all, but STILL? How fucking weird. Obviously I'm not as attractive to him as I would like to be. Argh! But I'm The Goddess!


Sunday, June 06, 2004

Silly Comments

Like I really have nothing better to do then reply to an article that was written even before I had my first romance. Heterosexual romance anyway. Heh.



In more retarded news, an old friend of mine called me up-you know, one of those lovely people who are so accepting and so real you're glad you never changed your cellphone number since the last time you gave it to them-. She tells me she heard from somewhere I gave free blowjobs.
Well, um. Okay. Last time I heard, girls usually didn't charge their boyfriends for blowjobs.


Oh. Whats that..?

Okay, I'm sorry.

I suppose they had to pay for theirs.

Alphabectical Ambivalence

My girlfriend pointed out to me that Sarong Party Girls and their white men are OUT, according to thhe most authoritative source on all that's fashionable - the local paper. The article can be read here.

First off, I'm not a big fan of white men hailing for the US. (With no insult to them - or to Mr. Big. Whom I suppose I like and did get something for while I was in Shanghai: a painting to replace the one I really hate in his apartment. I told him it looked like something my grandmother would hang in her house only during Chinese New Year.) But most of the American people I know are really quite like Singaporeans. They're money obsessed, and live to work (as opposed to working to live), among other things. The only thing that makes them different from the local boys is that 1) They live in nice apartments 2) They're non-comittal. Isn't it ironic then that this turns out to be a word to the wise in the article, instead of an attraction. I like the idea that the guy might just leave before the relationship sours. Romeo and Juliet is a remembered for so long because it ends even before it really starts; or would you rather Hamlet marry Ophelia and settle down in a lovely condo by a Scandinavian beach? (I don't know if there really are condo's by Scandinavian beaches. Shush.)

But this is not about the American americans. It's about well, ABCs. You Know. The American Born Chinese men with that funky spiky haircut even past thirty you sometimes catch a glimpse of on Channel 5. -I don't know if anyone else notices it, but white guys in Singapore rarely bother to funkify their hair, unless they're studying at the United World College-.

The last encounter with an ABC left me vaguely annoyed.
He was obviously looking for a lay, which is fine by me, because all men are always looking for a lay. But what really irked me was how he went about it. He kept on going on and on about all these cool people he had met in clubs (oh this Swedish lingerie model, the guy who conceptualized I'm Lovin It for McDonald's - one wonders how is That supposed to impress anyone-, George Bush, Miss Universe... blahblah).
Well, that's allright. Some people can't help being star chasers, but it gets weird when you start trying to get into my pants by telling me that you're really an American.
Well, I Know you're an American. I can hear it -and somehow I'm not charmed; So What if you have a green card, an apartment 10 minutes away from the Esplanade, and a thousand dollars worth of US dollars in your Helmut Lang wallet.(Unless you're going to give me that money) I think it's rather bizzare. He knows I'm into white guys, but trying to sell of as White just because you have a green card is... well. Quite incredible to say in the least.

It is precisely because they are Chinese, but not like the locals -having the advantage of a more 'worldy' personality (yeah whatever. Being on a two month attachment in Paris doesn't count as actually living there for a time.)- that makes them oh so cocky.
Because they can compare themselves so easily to the local men (because their grandmothers might have shared husbands back in 1920) and know that they are more eloquent, more fashionable and more charming, that they end up with egos that are exceedingly over-bearing. Even more so then the real thing (referring to the white American.) And I do believe that their ethnic identification with the country futhur fuels their already over flowing self-assurity.

ABCs have the advantage of blending it, yet standing out. The benifits of being special without that akwardness of being different.

Heh. What kind of girls do these ABCs like? Girls who like them despite their accents. What kind of girls do they not like? Girls who like them because of their accent. Well, don't Lie. You know the ladies like you because you're more worldly, and guess what's one big contributing factor? Your lovely yank twang.

(BTW, this has got nothing to do with a personal dislike for individual ABCs -aside from the aforementioned subject-, so if you're one, don't start sending me hate mail before you know this -I am so sick of getting hate mail from Chinese men overseas- I'm writing this based on what I read in The Straits Times's LifeStyle. Which is, after all, the doctrine of all human characteristics and behaviours. Aiyah. I just don't particularly like the way the Article presented certain things. Ok.)

You guys need to chill.

(to those who are going to send the hate mail anyway)

...Or are you're egos too big for that?

Yes, fine, you're superior because you're American and I'm just a slutty Asian girl with a blind adoration for the west.
You're mail is_So_predictable.