Monday, January 31, 2005

Sesame, Vanilla and Mint oil

They were offering massages by the beach under coconut tress for a couple fo bucks, it was lovely. I smell like Sesame oil (the cooking sort, honestly, and vanilla ice-cream. Basically, I feel eatable) and my skin tingles with mint.

Ethan and I woke up early, challeneged each other to swim to the opposite island, even though it was clear that I was going to lose anyway, I gave up half way, because I doubt if I did the whole length, I'd be able to swim back. It was quite scary actually, because swimming in the sea is just not something you do in Singapore. Tar based sunblocks you can find in the sea at East Coast being the ones with the highest SPF non-withstanding.

I quite like hanging out with E actually. He's a lot of fun to talk to and generally just whack around with, but I think I must have mentioned this previously, when I'm really with him, I don't feel quite like much. I don't even think I find our relationship particularly romantic, and I'm thinking about Martine ocassionally, and Chris, which is really not fair. But as long as he sticks to not reaind this blog -he promised, and I'm quite surprised he does not, but very glad, nonetheless.

He wants to kiss and fuck all the time. If I let him have his way, we'd probably be having sex every half hour, which (sex, just like every other thing in excess) would not be particularly good for either of us.

We were talking about it last night, and he told me he was quite surprised with how fantatstic things have been so far, and he said he really loved me. I of course already know, no one else would go through the trouble he's going through to meet my parents. If you think a dinner is bad, try having to make it back for THE dinner of the year (if you're Chinese) on a limited budget... @#!$ I'm still dissed about that. Singapore is expensive if you're touring Asia. No wonder people only stay there for three-ish days.

It's cocktail hour baby, and they are giving out free chilled fruit at the Porn Bar. I've no idea why it's called that, but anyway.


Saturday, January 29, 2005

Getting Out :D

Bangkok was a great deal of fun. We're both equally tragic with maps (actually,I'm marginally better. My sense of direction and intuition with where to go is also better. I'm still working on the getting ripped off bit. But there's not much you can do about that I suppose, when you don't speak the language).

I cannot be bothered to get through how I feel, honestly. It's just been alot of fun, he's simply easy to be with, and behaves like everything that goes wrong is his fault, even though when I don't think that there's anything the matter. Last evening, I think, I behaved like he was a pushover and he gave me a very good spanking, which I thought I really deserved. Strangely, it made me feel much better about myself.

He explains everything he does, and asks for my opinion on everything, which I find quite annoying, because I generally hate making decisions. We're spedning more then we should, and it's mostly his money, but it is annoying when you suddely find out you could actually have gotten a much better deal; but at least now we know how to. (I'm talking about hotel rooms. It's kinda like... don't even bother to reserve them in advance. Going though local travel agents is honestly the best way).

I cannot believe the trip back for Chinese New Year will add an additional $800. I'm hopeing my daddy will refund the cost. It's quite freaky someone actually is taking me so seriously, but it'skinda nice at the same time too. And he definitely has not been behaving himself the past year anyway. It's funny when you attempt to tell each other stories about the other people you've fucked and liked, and you attempt to go around in circles until the stories are all sorta messed up, loopholed and akward that we always end up evetually saying, 'screw that, let's just completely ignore all of those people.'

Have to attempt to book that annoying trip back for CNY now. @#$& The morning has been all right, he insisted on going to the floating market, so we went. It sucks, don't even bother with it.


Thursday, January 27, 2005

Kinda Stressed, but...

It's been absolutely great so far. We're both quite cool with each other, I don't suppose I feel much different with him now then I did two years ago actually, which, how shall I put it, comfortable. Our finances are a mess of course, but we'll work things out subsequently. My mother think's he's a 'nice boy', but insists that we MUST come back for Chinese New Year, which is a terrible headache. Because booking flights at this time of the year is really a pain in the ass. Not to mention, the hotel rooms.

We haven't done much. Cheap roadside lunches, nice dinners, going trekking in a couple of days. It was ratehr strange meeting him initially. Completely surreal, to be accurate. Kinda like, 'I'm supposed to say I Love You'? But it was allright in a few hours. It's all rather odd. I'll update when I'm a little less hungry. We just ahd a rather stressful time at the agents, and my gmail account does not work here, so my apologies to the people that normally email me.


Tuesday, January 25, 2005

Not Too Bad

Thing always turn out better then how you expect them to be. I cancelled on Dr. Seuss today, because I woke up with my lungs aching like crazy. For a fraction of a second, my mind went, ‘shit, tuberculosis!’, but of course it wasn’t. They were fine after a good long nap, from which Chris woke me up with when he called.

I met him late in the afternoon, and I felt like cocktail hour by the pool. I had wanted to purchase a new bikini before I met him, so we could do just that, but was already running a little late. We ended up going shopping for one. Sugar daddies are quite a-lot of fun, they take care of you, and you feel a great deal less handicapped with the extra cash and the knowledge that (at least for the moment) should you really need something, you’re not stranded. But then again, like I always believe, you’re stupid to even dare to attempt to believe that you can depend on anyone yourself and your parents aside. Although this has been proven incorrect by a couple of people I know, Martine being one of them. Only in his case, the dependency is not for me to have, but for Liz.

He apologized for being rather stand-offish the past week, because of everything that’s been happening with Liz and her family situation, and I nearly sighed (with relief) audibly, because I had been feeling guilty when I told him I really adored him while knowing that I’d not care too much while Ethan was with me. But of course no one’s kidding anyone; he doesn’t think about me when Liz is around either. Of course that was not just it. There was Jan… whom I cannot stop thinking about. (My mind goes, ‘oh my god, hot, hot, hot.’ He is so gorgeous, with a voice that is so sexy, I swear nothing with a cunt can resist) Then Chris. Whom I would have spent the night with, if tomorrow wasn’t turning out to be so hectic.

I have a very messy shoot with Dee tomorrow (think gold paint), before which I have to pack my shit, and after which I probably have to shower (quite a big deal when you’re covered in body paint. I am sill hoping to acquire a bronzer as an alternative. Something I should have done earlier), then pick Ethan at the airport, with the girlfriend, her ex (we’re all still very good pals) and my little sister. I suppose this is what makes the difference between just-another-love-affair and someone you think you’re going to try to be serious about. You make it a family orientated event and tag a sibling along.

My mom insists on having dinner with them, so I suppose I’ll have to bring them somewhere nice. Probably Japanese food, or Thai. I’ve been quite into both lately, and also, for some strange reason, toasted whole-meal rolls with butter and cheese, and green apples.

My stomach feels really bad now from too much sex. Violent sex is a vice I must observe some self-control over. God-damn it. It was stellar though. Sex with Martine is of course way better, mainly because I’m so passionate for him, but he doesn’t fuck me more then once a night. I had a naughty thought today though… now what if I stuck something like say, Viagra, into his food some day, or mixed it into his tea.

Sounds like fun. He’d probably kill me though, I’m sure. *laughs*


Monday, January 24, 2005


The past few days have been unforgivably hectic. Martine is very upset at me, for some stupid reasons. And he thinks I get jealous over Liz sometimes. I asked him if he was really sad for her that her grandmother has died only because I was wondering if he actually could care for her, or was he simply just doing things because he had to do them. Of course he probably felt a little sad, but to quit his plans for the next coming months to visit her just because of that? Maybe it’s because I feel too little for anybody else but myself.

Ethan is coming by tomorrow afternoon, and I really felt like I needed to cancel on Dr. Seuss, because I really couldn’t do it anymore. Not for the moment anyway. There just has been too much sex these days, and you really get sick of the bodies that never cease to be around you. Oh, I know them and I like them, and I should shoot myself for drinking myself silly the past few nights and then deciding to call up fuck buddies. And before I can even manage to get my dates in order, Chris calls me up to tell me that he’s in Singapore. And I know he came down only for me, and not for any business dealings what so ever, so in a way I feel partly obliged. He’s easy to be around with anyway, so not as if that’s difficult. But I’d really rather stay at home in bed and sleep until Ethan arrives and let my body sort itself out.

To cap it all up, my daddy’s leaving the country tomorrow, and I missed lunch and dinner with him yesterday, and would like to try to put in breakfast with him before I leave for an inordinately long time. I am just irritated with myself. Completely annoyed. I never think people can get hurt or upset, until you realize that they do care enough to feel hurt or upset. Stupid.

I feel like just going away and forgetting everything, and getting rid of the silly entanglements I’ve managed to cause though that pointless, insatiable appetite for people. And it’s not even as if I needed them to feel good about myself, they just seem to amuse me. As I probably amuse them as well, so fair is fair.

I think I’ll literally take this hour by hour. Chris till late tonight, then I’ll come home and have breakfast with my dad, before picking Ethan up at the airport and saying goodbye for a while.

I’ll still post, pictures and things too I suppose, but if there’s one thing I can say about it all… Him visiting me again was nothing like how I expected it would be, nearly one year ago. Nothing at all. More then anything, I feel like it’s a relief. To just get the fuck away from every single mess, to cool down a little. If I had a lot and a lot of money, I’d not come back for two months. And may be I won’t. But then again, there are those bloody college applications to take care of.

This sucks. I’m going to run on the tread for an hour.


Friday, January 21, 2005

A Little Theory

After Martine had convinced me that nearly all of his books by Milan Kundera he had read in French, I decided to buy my own. Besides, I liked owning all my reading material. But of course I like it even more when I allow myself the liberty of owning the possessions of someone I adore. So I bought Laughable Loves today. In the process of this particular quest bumping into two girlfriends, one of which walked straight up before I ever noticed her (she’d changed so much, and definitely –definitely is not a strong enough word- for the gorgeous. I mean better) She came right up, and before I knew it, there were a pair of arms around me and a ‘my God, good to see you.’ That was a pleasant surprise. It took me a total of about half a minute to register that it wasn’t just some gorgeous girl picking me up at the train station. That would have been a first.


But on to Kundera’s ‘A Little Theory’.

That’s what Martin calls sighting. From his vast experience, he has come to the conclusion that it is not as difficult, for someone with high numerical requirements, to seduce a girl as it Is to know enough girls one hasn’t yet seduced.

Therefore he asserts that it is necessary always, no matter where, and at every opportunity, systematically to sight women, that is to record in a notebook or in our memories the names of women who have attracted us and whom we could one day board.

Boarding is a higher level of activity and means that we will get in touch with a particular women, make her acquaintance, and gain access to her.

He who looks back boastfully will stress the names of the women he’s made love to; but he who looks forward, toward the future, must above all see to it that that he has plenty of women sighted and boarded.

Over and above boarding there exist only one last level of activity, and I am happy to point out, in deference of Martin, that those who do not go after anything but this last level are wretched, primitive men, who remind me of village soccer players pressing forward thoughtlessly towards the other team’s goal. Forgetting that it is not enough to score a goal (and many goals) out of the frenetic desire of the kicker, but that it is first necessary to play a conscientious and systematic game on the field.


You may go ahead and consider it yourself and how this may apply to your life, but on my part, I actually think this is a fabulous way to approach sex, romance, and relationships, in general. However, I can say from a woman’s point of view, I’m not so concerned with the boarding as I am with the in-flight service after boarding (I like to provide good service, and encourage frequent flier miles, if you know what I mean. A little crude, but what the heck. I’d rather be flying often, then be docked half my life. Besides, being docked always is just a waste of a bird. I mean plane. I mean person).

Oh, nearly all men know this, and if you don’t, now you will. Women like sleeping with the same person. For all my promiscuity, I’m not so fond of un-covering and sampling a new dish, as I am with discovering more and more about a single individual. New things are always nice of course, but you get tired of the shallowness after awhile. And on my part, the feeling that I lack discipline in the area. Sighting’s fun of course, but most of the time I don’t just sight, I chat them up. I’ve actually got a lovely little list, and ‘having coffee’ with them when I have the time can be quite an engaging way to spend a lazy evening. Oddly, Élan aside, the ones I actually just chat with, I never feel like sleeping with. There’s too much about them I end up knowing and decide I do not like. But more then that, I think it’s because I’ve the feeling that they’ll be around for a long time (not because they will be around for a long time, but rather that they have already been around for a long time… how shall I put it, the older people get, the less they think they will die, simply because living has become a habit).

I love getting to know men that interest me, sleeping with them, and pretty much passively reading them, and feeling them, and making them happy.

Actually, it’s pretty much the same for cool girls, only I don’t actively seek them out and chat them up, because women, (and forgive me for making this allusion one too many times) only call each other sister when they have called each other a lot of other things first. But I’ve been having much fun with my girlfriends these days, and both Dee and the Princess are completely lovely to get to know better. The former, in particular. I cannot even attempt to make any sense of her, but I think she’s just the sort of girl people would write songs about.

I spent a few hours with Martine last night. I’m quite pleased with how things are actually, possibly because I’ve gotten used to how he does things. Getting kicked out slightly after mid-night is no longer a big deal to me, and I quite like it, because it pleases my parents that I sleep most nights in my bed. And me, because I just sleep better alone when not drug induced.

The mantelpiece by the hallway at the entrance of his apartment when I entered last night had been filled with the framed photographs of both him and Liz, and all the cards she’d given him. I thought it was odd, because they usually aren’t there, unless she was coming to visit. I asked him about it, and he looked at me, a little amused but at the same time, incredulous and a little affronted, ‘Since when did you decide it was your business to advice me on my interior decorating? But because you asked, the cleaning girl likes Liz, and the only conversation she ever has with me revolves around her, and those photos.’

I laughed and pushed him back onto the bed, firmly placing my hands upon his shoulder blades. ‘Don’t be stupid. I wanted to tell you that I really appreciated how you normally keep them away most of the week because you’re seeing me. Even though you know you don’t need to. I don’t feel jealous, just a little sad perhaps, when I wish I could be her in those pictures. And my artwork, instead of her cards. That is all.’

‘And you say I don’t need to?’

‘I’d still be crazy over you.’

‘Even if I didn’t exist, you’d still be crazy.’

‘While we were making love, you know, when you turned me over, why did you say I make you feel old? I think it’s absolutely unhealthy, you’re the only guy that keeps saying it.’

‘You’re so young, isn’t that obvious. You’re almost too young for me to make love to. In fact, I wouldn’t if I’d known, if you’d told me the truth.’

‘My age!’ I laughed sharply. ‘Aren’t you glad that I didn’t?’

‘Very. It makes me feel guilty sometimes. Partly Liz, partly because I feel emotionally spent…’


‘A little bit.’

He told me something rather odd last night, that he’s told me once before. That I reminded him of Europe, and particularly where he grew up in. I told him that it was the strangest compliment any one had ever paid me. But why, and how in the world should I remind him of a continent I have no living memory off, outside Soppy Hugh Grant comedies and philosophical Linklater Sundance winners.

‘I don’t know. It’s many things. You’re a little bit of the girls I dated when I was younger, but endowed with so much more sense. Your age, that urgency in the way you live, the way you dress perhaps, your almost too conscientious with it…’

‘Would it be easy to write me a eulogy?’

‘Where the hell did that come from? But yes. It would be so easy, almost a pleasure. But not that I’d want you to die, rather, you know what I mean. You’re just fishing for compliments.’

‘And it flatters you to give them, knowing that I remember all.’


Tuesday, January 18, 2005


'Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country' -JFK

Fair enough. But does this country appreciate what I'm already doing for it? Does it listen? Does it want me to take an active stand, or does it wish for me to do what it wants me to do, in which case, patriotism would not be a requirement, (what is required instead) is simply an inability to leave.

Don't you dare accuse me of not ever trying to make a difference. I have and I am. And I am certainly not apathetic towards this society. I'm only suffocated by it, fustrated, annoyed, angered, at times, resigned, because I'm too aware of it, and too aware of how I think things can be better.

I'm only too aware of the people trying to change it, and too aware of the people comfortable with the way things are for daring to allow things to proceed faster. You cannot be fustrated if you don't try. I put in so much effort in trying to write about this society because I've something I believe that is worthwhile to say, and I hope somehow, someone out there will listen objectively.

And I'm wondering now why Catherine Lim isn't given a daily colum in the paper. Why is a whiney, prissy, insecure woman given a shot at editing a weekly with the Striats Times, and not some of the really good local authors our there.

Duh. Because someone out there is afraid of a real opinion.

Fuck ya'all.


And She Is.

The city stands, charmingly bona fide in it’s consistency. Despite it’s people, with their capricious moods and inherent desires that shift and change by the moment, she stands. There is nothing for her to anticipate, nothing for her to fear. The people simmer inside her, going on about their lives, falling into place as gears well oiled for the continuity of the city. Fed upon the fear of failure, most eventually sold to the attractiveness of the well-worn route.

She is quite the eclectic beauty, not so much her own, as she is a cheap imitation of the best from the metropolises that precede her. Copies of all the things in all the places she adores, a cacophony of striking features to make something else altogether.

Somehow, Singapore feels more then anything like a pre-adolescent child trying to find herself, very much afraid of many things, and begging for acceptance and love. She tells her people to stay; ‘I’m trying, I’m trying. Be patient, wait, and you will see.’

The people are bonded to her because she is a kind provider, not altogether unconditional, but kind, nonetheless. She is the woman you could have lived without, but there is so much about her now that you must have. The little trinkets of efficiency, of regulated conservatism, of humdrum bourgeoisie comforts. Of clean air, acceptable weather, sanitary streets, toleratable temperaments.

The city has balance and it has rules, written, but more importantly impressed upon the soul of the city. The people take from the emotional character of the architecture of the land, just as much as they strengthen it’s disposition. What the city is, is so much what the people are. Their souls make hers, and her essence nurtures their characters.

The island is a place of one sole, driving function. To live. The only city perhaps, of the Orient that does not have it’s 21st century condition romanticized. Like an exciting experiment caught in its rungs, doctored and edited almost too stringently, and eventually turning out a little too perfect, which is to say, not perfect at all where life is concerned. She should have been allowed to flow, to change, within laissez faire conditions.

Socially, she is bereft of any sense of the organic, indiscernible from any product her bio-polis may invent. Human, yet not quite as natural as you would wish she could be.

There is nothing about her from which to romanticize, every image conjured inevitably sinks into a sort of warm depression, like the eternity of a sleepy afternoon in the middle of May. And the places that are striking, whose images ring in your mind, do not romanticize the city. They idealize instead, the lands from which they were copied from.

The city has but one character, and that is subdued.


Moral Quacks

I don’t really write much about the whole racial thing any more because I generally don’t like to think of people in terms of the colour of their skin. I think it quite unfair actually, how so many local people can find it logical to slander someone based on their choice of lifestyle and partner, and accuse me of being racist against my own. If I am racist against my own race, then so are they, because last time I checked, I’m still Chinese, and damn proud of the fact that I am.

Concerning myself with my own ethnic culture is not something I do at all, but this is what I was born into, and if you cannot do anything about it, then why not just be proud of what you were given?

It is shocking how people easily determine SPGs (I actually don’t quite like the term, because with some people it’s a demonizing, racist label, but let’s just stick with it for convenience’s sake) as trash just because of their choice on partner. I do not see why that should be, since people are people, and should be allowed to pursue what they want, to the business of no one else. It is completely absurd. Just because my partner has white skin, I’m trash? Perhaps. Because if my boyfriend were Chinese, then that’ll be more normal, and therefore I cannot be cracker-scrap. But if you think logically, and know that skin colour is just a fucking colour, then I would be chink-trash.

But whatever. That’s the way the world behaves with racial minorities. If they’ve a better lot in society, they’re hated, and if they’ve a lower lot, they’re mocked. And better or worse, we’re all parodied. The answer to avoiding that is to get married after graduating from NUS to a school-mate (preferably of similar race, and from a top-notch Junior College), buying a HDB flat or a condo in the suburbs, and having 2.1 kids.

II find it fascinating always how some people can accuse me of being shallow in my romantic/sexual preference for white guys, and then proceed thereafter to judge me based upon my looks. Or how they can say my choices, based on affluence and generally what I find attractive is shallow, materialistic and prejudiced, and then later on proceed to spite me by saying that I’ll never find true love because after-all, ‘no one wants a used bicycle’.

So we’re both equally shallow. I base my choices for a partner on affluence and looks, and you base yours on looks and a figure (i.e. how many people the individual has slept with in the past).

Have you ever noticed how moral bigots are always accusing other people before actually looking upon themselves and realizing how full of bigotry they are themselves? Some one emailed me the other day, saying that he didn’t think he’d like to come on and live in Singapore, because people here come across as incredibly shallow. The women especially. Well, people here are incredibly shallow, and insecure to boot, but not just the women. If you take a look at the local men’s magazines, you’ll see the men can be equally as bad. But somehow, for some reason, the pursuit for physical beauty is more accepted then the pursuit for wealth. Women are under pressure to look gorgeous, while men suffer status anxiousity in the striving for affluence, but the former, for some reason or another, is more easily capitalized upon.

I’ll say it: As a demographic, I hate both local men and expatriates. The former, because they’re cruel in their insecurity, racist, and chauvinistic. Sometime ago, a friend of mine had her modeling portfolio scattered all over a local forum, and the boys there were all saying horrid things like how ugly she was. She isn’t vaguely unattractive; and my conclusion is that they are intimidated by confidence in smart and beautiful women.

And I hate expatriates, as a demographic, because they somehow seem to be given a better lot in Singaporean society. The ones I know personally generally deserve the pay and the benefits they get, and I believe most of them actually are talented enough to warrant their salaries. It is not that they are overpaid that upsets me, because they aren’t, but that local people are underpaid. That (I think, and feel free to disagree, but politely, please!) companies give them greater and more opportunities to succeed, then they do with their local employees. But of course one must always consider the fact that most of these companies are not local in the first place, and would therefore –perhaps- feel an affinity towards expatriates from where the country of their origin (note I did not say white expats, but rather expats in general). Actually, THIS article will say exactly what I’m feeling.

Above all, I think this society just need to grown up and become comfortable with itself. In the past year, I know I have. It is completely untrue that I feel affection only towards white guys. I generally relate to the people I have relationships with as people, whatever colour their skin and whatever standing they have in life. No way do I think they are superior to us as a race, but as romantic partners… let’s just say, to each her own. I know what I prefer, and no one has a right to criticize that. I don’t criticize the local boys for being shallow for wanting a 34-22-34 figure on their women (I still get emails for local guys saying that I’m fat, believe it or not. I’m completely resigned to the fact that I’ll never be slim enough for them, so why even bother).

You want to know what I think about Singapore? I cannot say I hate it, because I do not, but I’ve no feeling for it either. What I feel is this: I want to get out. And maybe that’s why I generally don’t like the company of local men, because too many of them are too rooted in the country. The truth is, I’ve no problem relating to those that do not; the ones that want to leave as well. Fine, I’m not patriotic, but was there ever a doubt to that?

Oh, I am proud of being Singaporean. There are so many things in this country to be proud of. But just like how I can be proud of the fact that I actually made a good physics student, back when I studied physics, but yet hate the subject quite violently at the same time; I can think this country is delightful in so many ways, through observing it passively, but feel absolutely repressed and suffocated when I actually realize I’ve been living in it for far too long.

And someone actually made me think about this the other day, and I’ve come to the conclusion that one of the reasons why I like dating expats is the fact that they help me escape. I’m getting out of here soon, but in the meanwhile I have to make do. It’s nearly embarrassing I think, this constant striving to break away from the nauseating uneventful-ness that characterizes this place. I’ve no idea about why I feel this way. All the world strives from the same mundane things, economic growth, smaller waistlines, more and more material possessions. But somehow, I get the sense that all that does not characterize the existence of many other societies, as much as it seems to characterize ours. It’s the whole question of who’s living to work, and who’s working to live.

I am completely disturbed, upset, confused and betrayed by this society.

Aside from the fact that I believe all individuals should strive for completely independence on one’s self, I never criticized anyone else for the choices they make in the way they wished to live their life. And I do not see why they should criticize mine, or anyone else’s. (But this society, darling, has nothing else to do but criticize and complain).

It has always occurred to me that it is always the people who think they are completely ‘moral’ that attempt to hurt other people by insulting and condemning. But seldom the other way round.

I hate this place and I want to go away for a very long time.


Sunday, January 16, 2005

If Only I Could Die for a Little While

Sometimes I think about heaven and wonder at how absurd it is that all that stands in our way is death. I mean, the difference in the quality of life (as believed by some) between heaven and earth is completely vast. Heaven’s supposed to be this… complete utopia… and all that’s required to attain it is to... die. And it’s really not such a big deal. Technically if you shot yourself, it’ll be about a couple of minutes of pain (the rest of the time while you’re awake, you’d just be in too much of a shock to feel anything), and you’re there. Isn’t that just, absurd?

I feel terrible today. It’s Dee’s fault, she made me feel so, so sad. I wish I hadn’t left her after we met at the studio to collect our last shoot, but I was so distressed I needed someone to make me feel like everything was really alright. That this world isn’t a complete mess, and that people honestly do not treat sex as something like a means to an end, or an end in itself.

Sex for money doesn’t disgust me, and I’ve nothing against it. It’s when men attempt to secure sex through money, or through some kinda mind-play that makes me completely miserable, and not to mention very, very afraid.

Dee’s kinda working in a karaoke bar, and she was telling me about how some of the men there tip really nicely, and then tell her how they can provide an absolutely luxurious life for her; loose the boyfriend, I’m better. That sort of nonsense. I swear, no one has ever said that to me, but I’m sure if I had to hear it every day, I’d loose all my faith in the humanity men are endowed with.

I actually picked up a very gorgeous guy at the café yesterday. He is absolutely delish, completely sexy with a George Clooney appeal. We were talking about perfectly normal things when the Marquis DeSade entered the conversation. Possibly because I was still reading Durell’s Justine. The conversation got a little risqué, but what did it matter to me, I was possibly never going to see him again, and he had some rather interesting stories to tell me about a completely insane Spanish girlfriend who had clawed his chest and left a couple of scars that were still there. I was feeling quite horny at that moment though, and just feeling plain naughty. Like I wanted to run of and hide in the bathroom and fuck someone. Of course I’d not do something like that with a complete stranger, but it was an entertaining little fancy. But I left him my number anyway before I left for the studio and told him he could ring me up if he wanted.

Jan did call me, after I’d met Dee and she’d made me so sad I called Martine requested that he spent the rest of the afternoon with me. Surprisingly, he agreed, despite the tragic amounts of work he had waiting to be completed. I told Jan I’d love to meet him, although I was completely half-hearted about it, but I’d nothing to do later on in the night anyway.

Dee and I shared a cab. For some strange reason or another, we sat apart, and I wanted to put my hand on hers and give her a hug, but couldn’t. I’ve no idea why, perhaps I felt it’d come off as a little artificial, because I hadn’t seen her for quite awhile. But before I left, she asked me to give her a kiss, which I did, while wishing I could show more tenderness, somehow.

Oh, everything just felt terrible after I left her. I think I’m hopeless with girls. I’m awfully mentally protective of all my girlfriends, but do not think I’m treating them as nicely as I should. I really, really don’t. I get jealous over them sometimes, because some of them are so beautiful. They make me feel ashamed of myself sometimes, because they’re so patient with me. And above all, they make me feel guilty, for spending more time with the boys then with them. Sometimes it’s almost as if I turn them into the bridges between dates, my art and modeling work.

But mostly, their there for me. And when you grow up believing that no boy is ever worth giving up a girlfriend for… the feeling like I’m not doing as much as I should simply gnaws at me.

Martine was lovely though, and it was very, very pleasant afternoon. We made love, and I felt really happy. I’ve just gotten used to him, more used to him then to any other person I’ve been with for a long time. It’s a really odd sort of feeling. I probably had that with Mr. Big and the G-Spot, but those two relationships have long slid into a forgetful stupor and my heart isn’t disciplined enough to make more of those. But I’ll just let time run it’s course. Anyway, G’s gone now, but I’m too sure I’ll be moving out of this country soon to where he lives.

Martine had placed me on top of him, and I was gyrating his crotch quite contentedly when he stopped me by holding my waist firmly and requested firmly, in a half whisper, half sigh, for me to lie down on him. To feel me on him, to feel the motion, my breasts against his chest, my breath upon his face.

Later on, we cuddled in an odd 69 position, lying side by side, my feet by his head and me half sitting by, resting my cheek upon his knee. His hands are bigger then my feet I think, and they go completely around my ankle. I started feeling his back for knots, and offered to get rid of them for him.

He kicked me out of his place at about the evening, (‘I must work señora! People have jobs they get paid for…’)

I called Jan then. I’d not wanted to initially, not because I’d feel guilty for behaving so passionately about M just a little while ago, then attempt to get cozy with someone else, but more because he’d suggested me bringing along a cucumber. I told him I’d love to drop by his place, if he’d like my company, but I wouldn’t want to feel pressured into doing anything I didn’t want to. Like for example, sex. I must be out of my mind sometimes, presuming that the only reason why men would want to entertain women is because of that one sole thing. But after Dee, and after the guy I’d been flirting with for quite sometime (‘Some girls are all talk no action’ I felt like telling him he was the one that had been stalling for months now.) I couldn’t help but feel disgusted at all men I didn’t know well enough to know for certain they weren’t bastards.

I was wondering if it would have been better for me to just not call him back, but I thought it’d be rude, and people always appreciate a fair bit of honesty anyway, so I did. And I told him exactly what I thought, and he was cool with that. Which was nice. We had dinner in bed, popped some sleeping pills and cuddled to sleep. He kept on saying I was smart. Something people tell me often, but still always pleasantly surprises me when I’m told that. Especially when I’ve not said anything I thought was particularly extraordinary. ‘It’s just believing strongly that no one has the right answers to anything.’ I told him when he complimented me again after dinner.

He was lovely, what else can I say. I’d like to see him again. I realized actually, when I called him after M’s, that I did it because I never regretted getting to know anyone. Every single person is/was an experience, and they’ve been mostly delightful. Save maybe one or two, which I learn from anyway, so nothing to regret about that. Quite amusingly, he asked me if I was an SPG just before I was about to fall asleep on his chest, and I laughed and said, ‘Yes, so what? I think the more society scandalizes something, the more I’d want to do it. It’s like telling people to fuck off, you know. And I like knowing that I’m a parody sometimes, after all, only really interesting people can be caricaturized.’


i Mac Angel

Too many weird things have happened in the last couple of days. Actually, it's just been one day. When I've managed to cosolidate myself I'll blog about it. In the meanwhile, I'd really rather be reading.


Friday, January 14, 2005

Tropical Silence

The day passed by in a delirium of sultry stillness, giving me hours with which I could find time for detachment from the necessity to be with people. The afternoon was self-affirming. I made myself worthy to be worshipped and worshipped myself. Surely there is something admirable in the nature that, at times, desires remoteness from everything that does not matter. Which is just about everything.

It occurred to me today, that Aesop was entirely astute in his observation of the sun as a gentle persuader. She made everything beautiful today, and warmed me gradually but surely, slowly coaxing me out of the worn necessities of capitalism, convention, fangled conservatism.

Someone had filled the pool (or perhaps it had filled itself up) with a very good Bombay Sapphired gin and tonic. Under the gaze of the late-afternoon sun and the restless sighs of the wind, it’s surface sparkled, sprinkled with a certain enchantment. Almost as if a school of Nereids were teasing and pulling me to take a plunge. I dived in, rid of the discomforts of the bikini, one of those pointless garments that serve no purpose aside from the fact that some people, oddly, are adverse to seeing the nipples of a complete stranger.

The cocktail was refreshingly chilled, and sweet to my skin. Splashing about in it intoxicated, not exhausted. I tore through the length of the pool, surfacing after each lap gasping, partly because I had to, but more so because the day was simply Eden. And for an hour, I was in it. Sitting by the side of the pool, Ludivine Sagnier aspirant, watching the droplets slide down legs that were slowly toasting in the sun.

I felt so completely… free.

With the knowledge that I would be defying the modesty of everyone that walked by, I felt liberated. Why should I care what you think, why should I be embarrassed about the way I look, how my body was shaped. I had, after all, the sun gazing with such approval upon me. What did their discomfort matter, how should it insult me beside the benign caresses of the biggest star of this earth.

The man with the huge mustache walks by and looks at me disapprovingly, he threatens to tell my mother. He says there may be people who will be insulted by my conduct; I look around and tell him that there is no one. And to my mother, I shall tell her why should she say that I embarrass her. Did she not like what she has created. Why should the opinions of those shallow, sanctimonious neighbours matter more then the fact that I have just had one of the loveliest afternoons of my life.

They are jealous, jealous because I should be so happy with myself. Because at that point I have not a care, while they care too much over my behaviour. Perhaps they feel a need to express their opinion, and find that everything they say is ignored, and that upsets them. They are uncomfortable with themselves, and so proceed to make everyone feel likewise. Perchance… there is nothing in their life, or nothing they would like to face up to, so they mind everyone else’s business.

(Her clothes suck, she gives me an eyesore. Her complexion is terrible, her face disgusts me. Her nakedness… Her nakedness is just insulting. It insults me. Ah, such sense and sensibility people in this world have today.)

The children play nude quite happily, penis hanging about and all. Occasionally touching themselves. No one minds, after all children should be allowed to be children. Carefree and untroubled by the requirement’s of society’s ideals on decency. Where does this need for suppression come from? Maybe a peace of mind is the quality in our lives that we are required to relinquish in return for the ability to be completely responsible for ourselves. Adults, after all, should know better then to feel comfortable with their bodies. Do they not know that it impinges upon the profit margins of a very lucrative sector, that feeds off our insecurities.

Sitting by the side of the pool, slowly feeling my skin brown as I have my lunch (green apples, camembert cheese and dried apricot), I wonder why should the children be allowed such wonderful liberties, should have their nakedness delighted at, while nudity as we approach adulthood, or when we are within it, should be frowned upon. My mind screams; Do our bodies grow uglier as we grow older? Besides, does not the bible often encourage us all to be as children. To learn from their innocence, their completely lack of, (for lack of a more apt terminology,) posteriority.

Society wishes to maintain an elitists class, a class of the beautiful, of the rich, of the super-smart. Our gauge for our own self-esteem has been groomed through competition. Until someone is beneath us, then somehow, we cannot feel proud of ourselves. Of course elitism of the body and mind is a necessary mechanism, it keeps us buying slimming packages, it keeps the breasts advertisements running on every other page in the Straits Times, it keeps us going to school to learn, to be taught, but never to think.

Nudity is sacred, but I cannot see the link between it being sacred and it being something I should shun and be ashamed of. All the holy books of the world are deemed sacred by their respective faiths, I suppose we should hide them from the world and read them only in the privacy of our bathrooms. (Shame on you for raping their sanctified revelations to the masses!)

I do think there is an eroticism of the mind that has been lost to our society and to religion. People are so insecure these days in their ability to posses another individual’s mind; and naturally so, because they are so insecure they can’t even possess their own minds, much less someone else’s. So they find ways and means of making sure someone else is entirely theirs. Special privileges are demanded. You strip for no one but me, you sleep with no one, aside from me. They cannot posses minds anymore, cannot touch the soul of another individual completely any longer , so they seek to possess bodies.

I write all this with a very Singaporean perspective of course. Nudity in many other places of the world isn’t a problem, particularly with respect with the west. Are their men more secure in their ability to possess a woman completely, to touch her deeply such that she chooses to be possessed (and vice-versa, women to men), and are their women more comfortable with themselves? Have their cultures evolve such that nakedness and sex is no longer a tool to control another individual? Instead, in it’s place, the consciousness of that culture has managed to tear itself apart from orthodox religion, back full circle, to the time when relationships are based on the possession and willing subjugation of the mind, (soul, perhaps) on the part of both lovers. When both individuals had to be strong in their own way, in order to survive. Before societies developed and women were no longer required to ensure the survival of their families.

But do note before you send any emails, I DO know insecurity is not geographically exclusive. I will read and appreciate all non-abusive, objective arguments, but will probably not answer them, because there can never be a definitive perspective on an issue like this.

I patiently wait for my nudist colony off Pulau Ubin.



Cool. I just realized the site I did for my Brother's school band is up. It's nothing spetecular, but... just to prove that my computer capabilities aren't all that tragic.

School Band


Tropical Stillness

I woke up this morning and felt so lonely. No one had called me out for brunch, my painting’s been done so there’s nothing pressing for me to complete, the book I’m reading is so difficult to get through; so beautifully written but so impossible to read. I felt, I feel, lonely.

I don’t particularly wish to be with anyone. Martine perhaps, but he’s beset with his own set of problems. He was in a meeting when I called, asking if he’d like to spend the weekend at the beach perhaps (clearly not a Singaporean one). Busy, busy, psychotic ex-lover wrecked with despair so he couldn’t refuse when she’d begged him to spend one night with her. But he’s checked her into a hotel since, only because someone else stopping over in the country is coming down tonight. Then his dad will be around most of next week. I am not happy at all.

Ethan’s arrival draws closer and I am increasingly excited with each day, but also a little scared. We’re very much in touch with each other, but it’ll be just a few degrees short of a blind date, or so I feel. I am nearly frustrated and tearing myself up with waiting. I need, I just need, to get out.

The days pass in a languid tropical stupor, gently warm, soothingly quiet. I’ve nothing to do except what I wish to do. I want to do so many things, but can’t seem to focus enough, there never feels like there is enough time. And I end up doing nothing. I sit, and feel. The air is still and gently cool, and sometimes I’m almost delirious with concentrating on doing nothing. There is an ecstasy of peace that I find lovely, but however, isn’t what I am. I feel no contentment nor satisfaction of whatever sort. But there is freedom from worry, for just a little while.

It’s odd how you can live in a place for so many years, and never tire of it, most times. My room is exactly like how it has been at the start of ’03 when we renovated it. But most times no one’s conscious of it. I’m not conscious of it, in any case. If I’m not within the pages of a book, I’m in my own head, imagining god-only-knows-what.

I wish to enjoy the feeling of being alone a little longer, and wish I could do it more often. But it can get painful. I cannot be alone for too long. I’m wanting someone I’d fancy to share it with.

Wouldn’t it be nice to lie by the pool, sun-bathe naked so every inch of skin is slowly toasted, and doing so while holding hands, palms sticky with lotion.

I feel like I must shut up today. Shut up and not speak. I’ll not utter a word more then is necessary. I’ll go sun-bathe now. Unfortunately, they don’t like me naked by the pool. For reasons I will never understand.


Thursday, January 13, 2005

Remixed the Birth of Venus

No dates today, so I stayed home to finish her.

Rushing off for a photo-shoot now, need to buy new lingerie. Screw Martine. I still miss the G-Spot a little. He told me I make him think of the Midsummer's night dream. *sigh*


Wednesday, January 12, 2005


The G-Spot asked if I’d like to drop by his place late last night, and I did. I wasn’t going to have the time otherwise, and he would be leaving this weekend, so I thought I’d just better. He was lovely company as usual, and we cuddled up in bed watching Stealing Beauty, a pretty bizarre movie with Liv Tyler and Jeremy Irons in it.

It was great spending the night cuddling with him. I don’t actually I feel so much sadness as I feel melancholy.

‘How’s the past year been to you?’
‘Not fantastic. Quite boring actually, but I did meet some cool people. You’re definitely one of the girls I’ll remember, I’ll miss you. I really like you; we’ve always been chill, haven’t we.’

I couldn’t disagree.

‘Wish I’d had more time with you though.’
‘Oh yeah. I’m sure I pissed you off several times pertaining to that’
I laughed and shook my head. ‘Not really, no. Maybe once or twice, but otherwise, you’ve always been great. The first was the time you put me in a cab when I clearly wanted to go home with you…’
‘Ah that. Well, you know how you’re always wanting to have sex when you get drunk, and I’m just too tired. It’s not a good thing to reject a girl in bed, so better at the exit of a club…’
I shrug and snuggle into his tummy (not that he really has one. It’s more like a washboard then a stomach) ‘And the other time was when you scooted from me after the play. I’d not seen you for so long then, and I really, really wanted to spend some time with you..!’

Oddly, we didn’t talk about the girl he’d fucked on his bed, while I was sleeping upon it too. That was weird, but it’s one of the things that happened with him around that I remember most. Down to the last bit where I drooled all over his arm the next morning, and he was completely chilled out about it.

He had to rush off the next morning because we woke up really late and he’d some appointments to make up for. I’m not the only person he’ll be leaving behind, that’s for sure. I texted him to say I’d really miss him, and he replied likewise.

I actually think he really would like to see me again. He keeps asking me if I’ll go to that school in the city where he’ll be leaving for in a couple of months. I actually think I will. He’s really one of the few guys I feel completely great with, and would not like to forget. Ever. I think there’s him, Martine and Ethan, in no particular order really.

I really must fix up my schedule for the next few months. If Ethan and I work out well this holiday, I will go visit him in May. Then Chris should be taking me to Paris in March, I think. I’ll try to bully him into it. Things are looking pretty fun indeed.

Martine made me sad today though. I’d been busy for a long time, and so had he, and tonight was actually the only night both of us could take some time out, and he had to leave me half-way though the date. Apparently some insane ex-lover (he has many of those) called him up confirming then canceling then confirming again her stop-over to Singapore. It really pissed me off because I thought he was crazy to compensate my company for hers, since he kept on saying that she was crazy.

He’d just called me to say that she’d arrived at the airport and was going to spend the night with him. I don’t suppose I’m really upset about it, just really annoyed. At any rate, there’s nothing I can do, I don’t wish to stress him out any more then he already is (it’s not his fault he can’t refuse women that demand so much from him, and I hate seeing him stressed out). I feel like screaming and punching him in the face sometimes, right in the middle of the street, but I know that’s no use. He’s probably just tell me to fuck off. The only way to do it (and I am doing it) is to play the guilt factor.

He had been insisting I go home for about 5 minutes as we walked back to his place, and eventually I gave up trailing him and made a turn.

I was very hurt of course, and I looked at him (with the most hurt expression I could muster). ‘Come here.’ I told him, tugging the collar of his shirt. ‘Kiss me allright, I’ll leave you alone tonight if that’s what you want.’

He looks at me like he’s really distressed. ‘It’s not what I want señora. I know I’m too soft, I really should do something about myself, but I can’t refuse her now that she’s on her way down already. I suppose I should have denied her when she emailed me a couple of days ago…’

‘You really need to be harsher then. You’re compromising everything you’d rather do, for things you’d rather not! Liz, now here, not that I should be presumption and presume you’d rather be with me then her of course. Yes darling, you need to be harsher.’

He pulls me towards him and presses my forehead against his and whispers, ‘So I’m practicing it on you.’

Of course I knew he was just teasing, but just there and then, at that point in time, it was what I felt (although I know as sure as hell he wasn’t doing it intentionally). But I looked at him completely shocked and not to mention, quite mad.

I know he does sound mean, disrespectful, and just plain inconsiderate to my feelings, but I don’t really blame him. I make it sound as if I’ve none anyway. Oh Martine, it’s allright, it’s fine if you have to wake up early tomorrow, it’s fine if you’ve to call Liz in the middle of the night, it’s fine of you’ve to play me out to fetch a psychotic ex-love from the airport and let her sleep with you tonight. I’m allright, I’ve things to do at home.

‘Yes, I’m fine. I’ll see you, going back to work out.’ I told him, trying to pry myself away from his hand grasping my shoulder.

He sighed, picked up my hand and walked me down a little further along the street.

‘I just don’t see the point in you coming over to my place. I’ve to call Liz when I get back, then I’ve to pick up that woman from the airport…’

‘I appreciate how you try to spend quality time with me, but sometimes I’d just like being around you, you know. It’s so frustrating. Never mind, I’ll go home, maybe I’ll see you tomorrow.’

Fuck whatever. He is taking advantage of me, and I know it. And I can’t do anything about it. If I give him an attitude, he’d just not bother with me. I know he can’t stand attitude. All I can do is look hurt, and feel hurt, and hope that he knows it. Basta.


Tuesday, January 11, 2005


I had dinner with Mr. Big sometime back. We still hang out sometimes, although not much these days. He has his life and I have mine, and it was good to have spent all that time with him, but things have faded out pretty much these days. I won’t use fade away though, because I don’t believe in that. In my life, people I really get to know somehow just don’t do that, and I quite like it this way.

I’d been telling him about my New Year’s exploits, and I must have said something about how I went out with every intention of scoring. He gave a sharp laugh, shook his head as in half- disbelief (only half, because he knows that’s I’m perfectly capable of thinking in such a manner) and said I was behaving like I had a dick. A stud then, I thought. Maybe that’s where the difference lies; slut kinda has a passive connotation to it. Guys come by and you choose, nothing wrong with that of course, but it’s a lot more fun doing the hunting.

I realized a few days ago that I’m quite incapable of looking at a guy I find attractive in some way and not wanting to posses him. And usually for a few, very select reasons, and how physically attractive they are, especially in the conventional sense, is not one of them. As long as they look pleasant enough, I won’t let it come in the way of …how shall I put it… taking pleasure in a fascinating dish.

There is nothing more attractive then a guy with a good sense of humour and an ability to express himself easily and comfortably. They’ve got to have a character that I feel like I’d want to make love to. And I suppose if I really do, then I’ll not refuse myself the pleasure. There never is any urgency though, I think the most fascinating sort of sex is with people you think you know, and never slept with, but fantasize about often. Then sleeping with them would be like finding out if you’re any good at metaphysics (in this case, I’d be referring to divination).

Now there is this one person… But he’s always busy…


On a note contrary to that, I’d left the G-Spot this afternoon earlier then I though (he got busy, but promised he’d make time for me this Thursday. I begged him to wean me off for his leave-taking this weekend. *sigh* I might actually miss the privilege to call him out at awkward time slots, and I will definitely miss the absurd stories. He’s the only one that can beat me when it comes to weird shit happening to an individual. Beauty does attract adventure).

Went to the little café in the bookstore and sat there for a good long while reading a pointless novel that was partially inspired by de Sade, but written with a lot more compassion. The story isn’t really about anything aside from the city and the people that exist within it. Pages upon pages of romantic, nostalgic discourse deconstructing the soul. Exactly like the sort of novel I’d like to write someday, altogether very poetic. And I felt myself thinking many times, that I actually missed just being with one person. That I’m not faithful is not part of the equation, I just kinda miss seeing one person often, over a substantial period of time. I’d start waxing nonsense about getting used to that one particular individual and all like I actually know how it would feel like. I don’t, it’s been a long time since I’d done anything like it. Mr. Big may come close, but I never really started feeling very comfortable with him until much more recently. Personality clash, I don’t know actually. I think I’d just expected too much then, and gotten too little.

Well, I’ll be spending one entire month with Ethan, no one else and everyday. I know it’ll be a lot of fun, just because I’ve never done anything like it before. That same someone for every second lived, for a whole month. Of course one would presume one month = fun, one year = not too pleasant and ah, what about one lifetime then? Obsessive? Romantic? Too profound for the English language perhaps?


Several Notes

Allright, for some reason, a lot of people have been emailing me with regards to the post on religion a few days ago. A lot of them have mentioned free choice. There is unhappiness on Earth because God has given us free choice.

I used to do a lot of pre-ordained evangelism (it was part of the regiment of being a Christian in the institution I used to attend) and I’ve used it many times previously. I don’t think it makes sense any more, because the truth is, there can be free choice with out hurt. I can choose to eat an apple or an orange, or if you think that is frivolous, to love either Ethan or Martine. I have the free choice to do what I wish, within the very simple moral law that anything goes, as long as you consciously try your best not to hurt people. So technically, free choice and a perfect world are not contrary to each other.

Besides, if you believe in that, then free choice is not a concept that exist in heaven, since heaven’s supposed to be perfect. In that case, all it’s for is so that you would choose to love God. I think that’d stupid. He should have just made us all love him. Most of us love our parents anyway, and we weren’t given much of a choice on that. Regardless of how horrid they can really turn out to be sometimes, we still love them because of the nature of the relationship. And who is the idiot who decided that within Love of God itself, there is no free choice. How I love him will certainly be different from how you love him. And even how you choose to love him today will be different from how you would do so tomorrow and had done the day before. Couldn’t he have made that one big decision for us, leaving the smaller ones to us. I’m already having enough of a headache handling the smaller bits.

That aside, I’d better say something about the blogger’s brunch Chris at Myrick pulled together last Sunday (this? Depending on whether Sunday is the first or last day of the week to you). It was a little surreal but fun nonetheless. To me, it was kinda like playing celebrity. Telling MediaCorp to suck it; that we can make ourselves celebs and have lazy Sunday afternoons with little –allright, not so little- Sunday brunches like they do. I think the next time we should do one of those champagne buffet things. There’s just something about meeting people you’ve read, it’s even better then meeting someone you’ve seen on TV, because the person you’re getting to meet is the dude who’s actually written the script for his show and got it somewhere himself. All this as opposed to some talent challenged freak monotonously repeating lines by inspiration challenged screenwriters.

It was fun, I felt a little stiff at first, but nothing a glass of wine doesn’t fix. Most of the people got really friendly after awhile, although I do believe more alcohol could have been going around. But regardless, some of us had our asses planted to our seats for a good 6 hours.

Mr. Brown has said more about it here.

This is also the reason why I've decided to stick in a Singapore Blogs link section, read them, their good for you. I think.

The G-Spot is leaving for good in a week, and I’ll be meeting him tomorrow afternoon to return him all the things he’s loaned me, and to watch a film with Liv Tyler and Jeremy Irons in it. Oh, and maybe a good-natured, good-bye shag, perhaps. I’ll miss him. I must say it has been such a fantastic trip, having gotten to know him for a better portion of last year. We’ve not been hanging out much recently, we haven’t hung out much at all in fact, but he’s been there for me at certain points when I really needed someone, and I really appreciate him for that.

He’s going back home to pursue something he’s always wanted to do, something terribly, insanely artsy-fartsy, and thus something I completely agree with. Funny thing is, I may actually be joining him come this July, when I finally go back to school.

I told you it was a small world.


Monday, January 10, 2005

Wake Up Girl

I actually think I’m getting better at this. At slowly weaning myself off my parents, systematically loosing dependence. If I were any older, I’d be a fraud to be writing everything I did, and to still be living with them. It’s too Singaporean, not that being Singaporean is bad, but rather the fact that we just seem to live with our parents… forever.

Living is quite incomprehensible, don’t you think.

For a long, long time, there didn’t seem to be any way around things. If you lived here, you’d know what I mean. Literally, there’s just such an inevitable sense of routine that seems inescapable most times. It isn’t actually, but some people never leave it (fact: I’m still stuck in it) because it’s too comfortable, but more-so, because they haven’t comprehended anything else. What did education ever do for me anyway, I’ve memorized more textbooks then can be good for me, and the only way I seem to be capable of making money is selling myself. I’m not being contemptuous and self-effacing. I know I have talent, it’s just that I can’t seem to make money out of it yet. Why’s that? Oh I’ll tell you why that is. It’s because I spent all that time memorizing books to which all I got out of it was maybe a couple of checks from the government for the occasional good performance (unfortunately very rarely). Batting my lashes and flashing a faux-pas pronounced cleavage (to which everyone knows I’m cheating with a maxi) buys me a better bottle of wine.

So one day, which is quite like many ‘one days’ I have woken up to previously, I get out of bed to a neatly lined row of tea cups filled with scotch, the room stinks of alcohol and blood, I’m decked in a deep red tank and black cotton panties, and I think fuck I need to get out. I need to get a grip on my life, as cliché as that is. I’m a balanced individual, normally. Boys are easy to handle, I don’t do hard drugs and will never do hard drugs, I have an eating disorder, but it’s much better now then it was a couple of years ago. But when it comes to my parents, God, I need to get out.

They expect so much out of me it’s insane, and horribly unfair. What fault is it of mine should my sister be the way she is, do the things she does. What fault of it is mine if she’s a fuck-up? (Not that she is) I’m a fuck-up, and no one taught me to be one.

She got whacked by a soccer ball once, and my mom really punched me up for that one. I didn’t kick the damn ball.

The door to the apartment was left wide open yesterday, and without rationalizing, it was certainly my fault. ‘Because Tori didn’t have the key. How could you have expected her to have locked it?’ So it should be my fault that she lost her key and couldn’t lock the door, and therefore I had to wait for her to leave, and then leave after her, just so I could lock it? She lost her key, and I was being irresponsible for not waiting for her to have made up for her mistake.

I need to leave them, get out. And I’m just starting to realize that I can.

Hate having to be considerate to them all, and all the time, especially when they’re not considerate to me. In fact, I hate being considerate to people because I have to; who does. But if you have to so that it makes life easier… don’t suppose you’ve given yourself a choice, have you. Have I.

I need to function as an individual. I honestly should leave, and it’s scary for me to think about it, because I know I can. They don’t teach it to you here. Everything here functions as one bloody big community, you can never live for yourself. Consider your parents, your grandparents; for Christ sakes they can consider themselves, they are adults after all.

I’m getting older and I really think this irresponsibility about my life on my part simply cannot do. But God, I am so lazy. Why should I work when I can live off them for a few more years? Perhaps I should find someone to live off, either way, I’m beholden to somebody.

I really need to figure things out, need to start doing something, make something, be productive. This world does not run on empty. I wish I knew how to, though.

I am going to paint.


Sunday, January 09, 2005

Food for Thought

If God was all powerful, then could he not have made the world a completely perfect place? And if there was a law he had to follow, and therefore as such, he could not have made the world a completely perfect place (and since the world was made for man, and all of creation to be enjoyed by man, the perfection he should have percieved should be what would be perfect when man looked upon it) then God cannot possibly be all powerful. Because in this case, he would not be an entirely free being, being confined by a certain law.

And if he were not confined by order, then would he not be absolute chaos? Because chaos is natural and order has to be borne out of discipline. And if God were chaos, then he would not make any more sense then evolutionary theory.

I cannot accept evolutionary theory, and it would now seem I cannot accept the idea of God as I've be taught it in Sunday School. In fact, I'm starting to wonder if there is something else that has created all of creation. But I also know for a fact I'll never make heads or tails of it until I die. Creatures of origin cannot understand their creators, which is altogether without origin. Imperfect minds cannot understand perfect concepts, and three dimentional inhabitant will never comprehend the visual manifestations of the fourth dimension.

But ah, I still find some semblance of virtue in the belief that God exsists, and creation just seems more right, more beautiful and more full when I tell myself they were created, rather then mutated.


Avarice Does Not Come A-Knocking

If there is one thing I am addicted to, it’s experience. It’s not sex, it’s not money, it could be people, but that’s inevitably a very necessary ingredient in order for experiences to formulate themselves. I think I am quite bored of the whole sex for money thing and have decided it's certainly not something I would like to do often. I've no problems with getting money for favours, but I will most certainly not go looking for it.

I went to watch the Aviator today with an old friend who has a huge ass business plan he’s trying to work out and hoping to make a lot of money from, and the girlfriends. The former and I couldn’t help but nudge each other through out the whole show and whisper. ‘man, if I were THAT rich…’

Left right after for drinks with Chris. I started feeling really frisky after a couple of glasses of wine, and a little tired too, and suggested going back to his place. He said he was really horny, even more then yesterday –I’ve some weird effect on him- but (and he was quite blunt with this, which I found amusing- he couldn’t afford the price I was asking two days in a row. I rolled my eyes, looked at him and told him to just forget about paying me.

‘I’m not a prostitute, I’ve already told you that like so many times. I don’t need the money and have no idea what I shall do with it aside from sticking it in the bank. The truth, come to think of it, is that what you’re willing to give me kinda makes me feel good about myself. Like, I’m really worth it, and you’ve really proven that to me. And it’s not especially in how much you’re willing to give for my time, but more so in the fact that you’ve made arrangements specially to come down to Singapore for me. Regardless of the sex or whatnot. And to hell with it, you’re good in bed, so why not. Let’s go back. I feel uncomfortable here,’

So we did go back, I took of all my clothes and slipped into a bathrobe, and we sat on the couch eating chocolate cake and talking about legitimized corruption. He started playing with my pussy, I got really horny and demanded that he fucked me. Yeah, perhaps I am somewhat of a nymphomaniac, I believed I would have left him for Martine’s bed, if the latter didn’t have a bunch scotch guzzling academics at his place reading god knows what, Kafka perhaps, and knocking down glasses upon glasses of single malt.

But then now, thinking about it, it is perhaps better that he was not free and I’d spent the time with Chris instead. I feel really good about it actually. I don’t quite think I like having sex for money, it actually disturbs me. The truth is, I was more relaxed with him today then I was yesterday, the sex was better, the cuddling, foreplay, everything, it was just better. I felt less need to please and was more concerned with myself, which made it more natural, and therefore much better.

I think he’s pretty good looking, has a lot to offer me in terms of other things (I won’t say what, but they are things I desire pretty badly) and is not ‘just saying it’ to get into my pants. And unlike Dr. Seuss, who is quite mediocre in bed, the sex is good, so it makes things a lot easier for me. Namely, I’m not expected to pretend so damn much, which is really the most tiring thing about sleeping with the latter. And I don’t quite know how to put it, but S is work. He’s fun to go to cocktail parties with, to have brunch with, maybe the occasional cigar (allright, he smokes, I don’t), and really pleasant to talk to. One of the most sexiest voices to have whisper into your ear. But to make love to? I’d say I’d rather stick with the bondage. That way I’m tied up and don’t have to do anything.

He sent me off in a cab thereafter, telling me that he’s made arrangements to come back into the country to see me before I leave the country with Ethan. And he stuck a bunch of bills into my hand, telling me to see myself safely home.

The way I see things, I’ve nothing to complain about, and what really soothes me is that Chris isn’t going about screwing a lot of women, he is surely clean- as far as all the nasty STDs are concerned- is surely not lying when he says he’s slept with less then 60 women (a lot less, according to him). Basically, he’s pleasant to be in bed with, good in bed, not dirty, treats me very well, and lavishes me quite a bit. And of course, as with all the people I even bother to spend more then an hour a day talking to, he is good conversation.

It was allright. I am quite pleased with things.


Saturday, January 08, 2005

Officially Sugared

I met Chris for drinks in the middle of the afternoon today, after leaving Dr. Seuss. He had wanted to book my entire afternoon for an illicit sojourn, but Chris had come down specially to see me and I couldn’t disappoint him, regardless of whether he really wanted to do the whole paying for company thing. I had gotten my test results from the Gyne earlier on in the day, and they were all pleasingly negative. I was insanely relieved, but at the same time annoyed over the fact that the doctors had insisted I take some nasty antibiotics because they thought I’d an infection.

I did actually, but it was not an STD and a regular pessary solved it in a night in no time. And anyway, if I did have something (God forbid), I’d rather wait for my body to heal itself then take anything nasty they’d prescribe. I develop very horrid side-effects. Side effects that are so bad I’m sure they are worse then the diseases the medicine was supposed to cure.

He asked me if I’d like to go shopping for a camera with him, and we’d gone to one of those dodgy places where the prices on electronic goods can just about fluctuate for a good couple of hundred dollars. Apparently though, the cameras were all sensibly priced, only just slightly lower then what they do at Harvey Norman’s. He bought it and was about to leave when they started attempting to sell him all sorts of other unnecessary, clearly over priced shit. A card reader for $399? Whose ass are you trying to kid. I told the guy he was nuts, a card reader at that price?! He got mad of course, but didn’t say anything until we left the shop. After which I heard him curse something in Hokkien that basically went along the lines of, ‘crazy bitch, interfering in things that are none of her business’.

We took it back to his place, and he asked if I’d like to give him a massage if he promised one in return. I said it would be my pleasure, and he took out too much money and asked if that was enough for a massage. I didn’t take the money eventually because… well, what for? I’m sure he has a lot of it to blow, but… actually I’ve got no explanation for it. I like money, but my massages are nothing worth paying for, and I wouldn’t take anything unless I think I deserved it. Or unless I’m in dire need of it. And I’ll also not take anything unless the people giving it were comfortable with it.

He’d said the amount I’d ask for earlier on last year was a little too steep, and I thought it was too. You must remember at this point that all I’d been doing then was fooling around attempting to see how much he would be willing to dispense. It was not a case of business psychology. I hate bartering with my body anyway, I think it’s stupid, degrading, and generally something I don’t find pleasant. If there’s something both him and I are comfortable with, then that’s all I care for. The purpose is not to milk it for all it’s worth, honestly. I’m just trying to make myself as happy as I can. And anyway, the truth of the matter is this. I don’t need the money: Firstly, I don’t like shopping, secondly, my parents buy me everything I want, and thirdly, Ethan will be paying for everything on our holiday, so my previous excuse of saving cash to travel is no longer valid.

And I really, really hate shopping. Nice things to wear are great, but the time that’s needed to find them just annoys me beyond belief.

Chris is completely cool. He’s good looking (for his age), very kind, not demanding in the least, and receptive to me. I don’t know how exactly to put it, but unlike Dr. Seuss, I don’t feel a need to conjure up an artificial willingness to please when I don’t want to. Oh, and he is quite good in bed.

He offered to shave me before we left for dinner, and after he did that, asked me to throw him a figure. I looked at him for awhile, trying to puzzle out what he was saying before I realized he was getting at. I gave him a figure I thought was sensible; besides, I believed I’d be embarrassed if it was any more. Like I said, I’m not doing this to live, and it’s just compensating for my time and the dates with Martine and the blank canvas at home that I’m forgoing. For some odd reason, I was less annoyed and uncomfortable with myself when he’d given it to me in a foreign currency. It felt more like monopoly money, and the whole thing didn’t feel as awkward. It was the way he did it too, he gave it to me without question and asked what I’d like for dinner right after I’d tucked it away.

I am quite convinced that any girl who doesn’t do something like it when given the opportunity is simply crazy. Great guy, great company, generally a good time, and as if that’s not enough, you’re given something for it. I don’t think it’s vaguely degrading, how can it possibly be when the other person doesn’t demean you in any manner. Rather, he extolled how wonderful I was, and seemed beyond thankful for my company. I think this sort of thing only gets demeaning when the person doesn’t see you as a person, but more like a rubber blow-up.

And conversely, it’s completely unethical to force people to give things they do not want to, or cannot afford to. Happens when psycho women divorce their husbands and take half their money and their kids away. So think about it then my dear critics, and tell me what is evil and what isn’t. Oddly the world and it’s laws seem to accept the latter.

He sent me off in a cab after dinner, and left me a huge tip. I am… I’ll sleep very well tonight. That’s all I can say,


Friday, January 07, 2005

Sugar Daddies

They are very much fun to have. All the better if they are single, fit, easy-going, with modesty that is of inverse proportion to the money they make, and funny. Screw youth and beauty, I appreciate kindness, intellect and the capability for vast generosity more then anything in the world.

Had lunch with Dr. Seuss today, and was finishing up with coffee when Martine called. I felt terribly awkward and probably sounded rather apprehended over the phone. I didn’t call him, but he’d gotten an odd sms and a missed call that said, ‘I’m all alone and lonely at the moment’.

‘How can that possibly be from me? I don’t send weird shit messages like that. Mine was the silly one about how love spelt backwards formed the first four letters of evolution.’

I must say all that turned out to be one undesirable mess. Martine probably knew I was with another guy, it’s one thing perhaps to know that I was seeing other people, and another to be talking to me while I was with them. I’ve no idea, honestly. I don’t have a single drop of jealousy or feel any sense of apprehension when they talk about their other loves, or when they are talking to their other loves.

I was embarrassed, and decided to be really blunt with Seuss. ‘Look, I feel genuine about you, and I’m not bullshitting when I say I do like you, but I do see other people, you know it, and I hope you don’t hold it against me. Or make it seem as if I were pretending just to appease you.’

He shrugged and said of course it was not a problem and that I honestly should not bother to pretend around him. ‘After all, I’m married. And unless you wish to agree to be my mistress exclusively, which I doubt you are ready for, and neither am I, you’re free to do whatever you want, and I will accept that.’

So that’s that, and he’s sent me a couple of rather flattering emails in the meanwhile. After I left him, I went on to meet someone who had picked me up at an airport quite a rather long time ago, and whom I had decided to tease over email just for the heck of it, because I didn’t believe anything could possibly come from it. He had offered to fly me Bangkok almost immediately after I’d met him just because he would like some company and thought I was a lot of fun to be with. I’d been bored then, and thought why the hell not. And while I’m at it, and since he seems kinda loaded, why not throw a wild card and tell him I’d exchange sexual favour for material pleasures. I came up with a story where I played escort occasionally, had fixed rates… the whole Belle DeJour thing. I’d asked for a health report though, and surprises of surprises, he’d actually went for one and presented me with a completely clean bill of health today. Of course he expected one from me as well, which I am to obtain tomorrow, because being the procrastinator that I am, I postponed it till the last possible moment to get the check done. In other words, I went for yet another STD check yesterday. The G-Spot thinks I’m completely mad (‘How many times in a year must you get yourself checked for Christ sakes’ To be completely honest, I do it about 3 times a year. I’m just paranoid beyond belief).

He told me he’s never done anything like it before, and said that he was still considering my companionship. I shrugged and said it didn’t really matter to me. I don’t care for the money, and if he’d just like to hang out with me, that was fine too. Especially since he was suggesting hanging out in Paris, which does sound particularly attractive. He told me he’d come down to Singapore especially to see me, which made me feel mildly embarrassed, and a little stressed out.

‘My goodness, then I do hope you’ve not been disappointed!’
‘Hell no. I’m very pleased, actually.’

He’d even wrapped me a box of Godiva pecan bouchee-s and given me a book he’d written, swearing that everything I needed to know about making money was in there, except from what he would tell me personally.

‘I actually had gotten two boxes of chocolate for you, but I’d been about to wrap the marzipan ones when I’d decided I’d help myself to a piece on the plane. And well, you know how these things are. You have one, then you have another one, and before you know it, it’s all gone.’

He then asked me quite bluntly where I’d like things to go. I raised an eyebrow and smiled. ‘Frankly? I don’t bullshit anyway. I like new experiences, I love traveling, and I like cash. I know it sounds cheap, but it’s no problem for me to trade something you want for all that. But it’s honestly up to you, I won’t bother push it, and we can still be friends and you can drop by Asia anytime and give me a ring if you want a weekend break completely devoid of any sexual favour or what not.’

‘I’m trying to figure out if our relationship should be completely cash based… The last time I did something like that, where I actually paid for sex must have been two decades ago. And that was the one and only time, it’s no me to do so.’

‘Certainly I’m whoring myself, but that’s sex is so often used as a means for women to barter with. You said it yourself, with your occasional mistress back in the states. You’ve got something she wants, whatever that could possibly be, and so hence. I’m honestly not a prostitute, I’m not looking for hard cash, and it would sooth my conscience that you don’t think in such terms. Put really bluntly… I’m really a student attempting to make some extra pocket money and trying to have fun while at it because I’m too lazy, or perhaps too proud, to work in most jobs that I can qualify for. Besides, I don’t wish to waste my time in occupations that do not enrich me.’

He looks at me, nearly incredulous, and I laughed and told him that was exactly what he’d asked for anyway. No bullshit, init?

‘I’m not going to pretend and tell some retarded story like, oh, how I have three younger brothers who are starving in a crappy HDB flat with abusive alcoholic parents and an illegitimate child, whom I’ve to raise by feeding, god-knows-what, pigs?’ (We had been talking about Paris Hilton wrestling in the mud with ferocious, fat, beasts earlier on).

He laughed really hard and slapped my back with a little too much force.

‘I like you, I think you’ve got an incredibly sharp mind, and yeah you’re pretty, and sexy, but that’s not it. I love the way you think more then anything else. You know, I almost died when I found out your age. That was when I’d been trying to fly you over to Vegas sometime back, remember. The lady on the line had asked for your date of birth, and I’d not noticed it before. I actually said it, and went what the fuck when it hit me which year you’d been born in. You cannot have been half as shocked at my age as I was at finding out yours.’

I shrugged, ‘I thought you were 10 years younger, and you thought I was 6 years older. But yes, oddly, even so, I do not think I was even half as shocked as you were.’

He said he’d like to go to bed because the jet-lag was starting to kick in, and I walked the length with him to the MRT station where I told him I’d be going.

‘Cool, I’ll call you tomorrow.’ He said. ‘You need like, cash for cab or something? Ah whatever, here, take some money’. And with that, he shoved a couple of bills into my hand.

I knew American people thought about money all the time, and talked about it most times, but this was something else. This was certainly not annoying. No, avarice, I swear, is not becoming a besetting sin in me. I didn’t ask for it, nor had I expected anything. Money’s nice to have, but not worth fussing over, or doing things you’d rather not, just for the sake of having some of it in your hands. Money, I think, is a quantitative exchange, experience, and stuff you can learn, and well, a load of other things, friendship perhaps, is qualitative. I think that’s more important, and without doubt, more beneficial.

Of course, money is always a nice incentive to cap it all up. But it’s not completely essential, and I’ll not be anal about it.


Thursday, January 06, 2005

There is One Intensity...

So much for me being independent from the drug that Martine provides me. That completely whacked out, insane, completely disarming, utterly unbalancing drug. I wouldn’t even call it love or passion, or anything for that matter. Not even desire. Certainly it’s a little of all of those, but I do not love him because love to me is when two people need each other. Passionate, up to a certain measure, but I’ve no idea why since there is no hurry, and he sees me often. It’s something else, I swear, and the feeling’s amazing. It’s such an intense sensation, and sitting in the cab on my way home, and up till now, I shiver from the thought of him, the recent memory of his caresses, his sighs and the way he moved on top of me and as he comes.

I was down with the sniffles today, and didn’t feel like having sex. Before I’d met him, I’d wanted to go home actually, because I was simply feeling far too exhausted from all the flu drugs, but I thought I’d go over anyway and perhaps talk, cuddle, and just feel good being with him. When I got there however, he’d picked me up at once upon entering, placed me on the table and started kissing me. Not with any forcefulness or urgency, but as I felt, a very firm sense of wanting. The kisses and caresses were tender but oh-so-persistent, and in a few minutes I melted and desired. I still felt tired, but wanted him nonetheless.

I’ve no idea, perhaps he really wants me. I told him I’ll be leaving the country soon, in a matter of months, and he asked where, and said that he’ll look for me there, should I wish it. And he’s told me that he’s never met anyone like me, and I tell him no one else has ever made me feel so inexplicably intense.

‘You’re making yourself feel that.’ He says, brushing the hair from my face, shaking his head, and sighing.

‘That’s nearly an insult. You’re serious about me, and I can feel it, that’s probably part of the reason why. Do you not share these feelings such that you can understand the depth of how you affect me.’

I don’t understand him at all. I am sure if he even understood what he was doing half the time, he would tell me and help me comprehend how he is. But I’m afraid he doesn’t, most of the time. He knows I’m seeing other people, and he mentions it more then can be comfortable to me. It’s usually no problem talking about things like the other boys, like Élan and oh say, Mr. Big or the G-Spot. But it hurts me when he mentions it, because I do so like him, and just wish it were possible for me to be completely his without compromising the other relationships I have at the moment. In case you’re wondering, I’m especially referring to Dr. Seuss and Ethan (who is turning up on the 25th it would seem, due to him loosing a day flying east). But it isn’t of any consequence, as far as things seem to be going for now. So long as I’m able to feel that way for the few hours I spend with him, it is sufficient.

He made me tell him a secret, and I was stucked between two very difficult ones. One was the fact that I’ve prostituted myself, the other… I won’t tell. It’s honestly my deepest, darkest, most fucked up secret I wouldn’t tell anyone, aside from the Girlfriend, which I’ve already told. Of course I told him the former, and he seemed to accept it with no problems.

He started humming U2’s ‘You’ve got to get yourself together’ when I told him that, then laughed and said he was kidding. ‘You sleep with so many guys anyway, I don’t think it’s wrong at all to get something out of it. As long as you don’t feel degraded by doing it, what does it matter?’

‘It doesn’t.’ I said, resolutely. ‘But it bothers me when you keep on saying I sleep around so much, your absence would not have mattered to me. It hurts me even, when you say things like you don’t matter because I’ve got all these other people. I won’t fall and die if you left, certainly, but how I feel for you is infinitely different. It’s incomparable.’

We masturbate each other, and I can only stare intently into his eyes while jerking him off. He does likewise, and it was fascinating to observe the twitches of his face as I play. And just as interesting feeling every movement of me being observed with scrutiny. Our gazing doesn’t wane it’s attention, and I find pleasure in the need to want to close my eyes and part my lips in a sigh, but not doing so. We make love like something else, completely, and it is such voluptuous, tender pleasure. He is a wonderful fit, and so full it feels always, inside. I felt every inch of skin there was to feel, and stroked his back with the palms of my hands wishing I could just… absorb… all of him, take him completely into me, cling onto him with every fiber of myself merged together with his.

He came and collapsed over me, pressing his body against mine. I kiss his forehead tenderly and wrap my legs tightly around him, occasionally stroking the curve of his back with my toes. I felt so small under him, but at the same time like I was more powerful then he was. Metaphorically, it was almost as if I could devour him. And that sensation, along with how at the same time, I felt so tiny under him, completely blew my mind. I told him it was superficial, but I loved very much how he was so much bigger then I am. It’s everything about him. Physically, I’m sold. Most girls probably wouldn’t find him attractive, the Princess doesn’t, I know that at least. But he’s just the way I like guys to look, and to be. There’s so much that attracts me to him I won’t bother you with all of it in detail. But I like the sullen demeanor, the way he’s completely anal about certain things –a sort of pseudo primness, perhaps- the way he cares for people, and especially how he pays attention to me.

I’ve always been quite against him sending me home at night. Why should it be a problem if I stay over? Does your sleep mean more to you then my company? Why does the whole world seem to be staying over at your place, from Liz to your ex-colleagues to your father, but never me.

‘Trust me, I would kick them out if I could. But they don’t have a home here, like you do.’

‘Still doesn’t explain how your sleep can matter more then my company.’

He replies with something like how me sleeping over is really more trouble then him just not getting a satisfying sleep, and in a way I understand. I wouldn’t like to be talking to my girlfriend while another lover is lying on my bed. It would feel like betrayal to the both of them, and to myself.

I’ve come to realize that it doesn’t really matter. When he spends time with me, he really spends time with me. He’s absorbed in what I have to say, in my kisses, in the space between my legs. We had tea with me sitting on the table with his hands between my thighs, and I told him it was always a childhood fantasy of mine to being masturbated while doing the most mundane thing imaginable.

I suppose so long as I feel that absolute absorption in him for me, when I’m around, I’ll be glad for it and not mind the fact that he doesn’t allow me to stay the night. It would be preferable to staying over and having half-assed attention, because you’re around half the time. Besides, I like being kicked out by him. To be really honest, every time he does that there’s a feeling of parting that impinges on me. And it makes me feel bittersweet and wanting, and wishing I didn’t have to leave. I do not know though, if I could end up being saturated with him. It’s happened often enough, when you spend too much time with a person. But so far that’s not happened.

I’m dying from exhaustion, good night.