I'm Really Done it this time.

Perfect morning. The sort of weather you'd want to lie in bed all day for and do nothing but be stroked, and spooned often.

***
My sister's back, as of this morning.

xoxox

On a much Lighter Note

The person who coined the phrase mind over matter must not possibly, and could not have been, under any conceivable circumstance, ever human. I can safely say that I'm feeling a great deal much better now, physically, and my mental state is a great deal improved. That is to say I no longer feel like I am being exorcized and that my bodily breakdown was as a result of my petty sins.

The seizures are most certainly gone and have proven to be not hereditary (medical side effect; if you have plans to propose to me and are secretly charting my medical history) and that the relationship aspect of my life has promised to fall into glorious mundane-ity with the return of the practically sensible, partially ostensible romantic Mr. Big. After a few days of “I’ll find out what exactly it is you want and give it to you, then you’ll have to give me what I want” from the Saccharine machine, I’m thoroughly glad for a “Am I going to see you this weekend? I miss you and everything that you stand for.” Of which I presume 90% is sex and 10% a penchant for verbiage.

The former had the nerve to tell my girlfriend that I was terribly morbid in a childish sort of way (I probably am, but we don’t like out faults reiterated by people we think are terribly childish themselves, do we?) and then try to fix it up thereafter by saying he was ‘only joking’. *shrugs* get real. At times I really do think he was playing us in. Crazy mind-fucker.

“Why did you ask her to go to Bangkok with you anyway?”

“Oh come on. If you think those messages were worth anything… I’ll stop contacting her if you want me to.”

Oh come on yourself luv. The girlfriend and I are at the stage where we can safely call each other sisters, and abuse the fact thoroughly. Because we’ve called each other every other horrid thing already. Well, she’s called me a stripper years ago when I was sitting on the window-still with my blouse unbuttoned on a day where the humidity was particularly charming. For the most part to the benefit of the male fare, both local and non-local alike.

Anyway, jealousy over you would be absolutely the last possible thing on my mind where she’s concerned. Women do suffer an unnecessarily fierce loyalty to their species, especially when it pertains to men. Well, I do, anyway. I might sulk about it a great deal, but I’ll get over it. And by then, the guy would have been gone anyway, from your life and mine. Amen.

***

Will be up to more photographic nonsense tomorrow.

<>I have no idea why they always tell you not to wear underwear to sleep the night before you do a fetish shoot. They say it ensures that there are no lines when you arrive at the studio. Well, then am I to reach your place on public transport with no panties on? I don’t quite fancy the idea, really. And besides I don’t see much of a difference when I do wear underwear and when I don’t. Personally, I think it’s just their idea of being naughty. Which I suppose is mildly amusing, but starts to get terribly tiresome after awhile.

And while on the subject, I must entreat you to Terry Richardson. His is truly an art unto its own. He has officially managed to de-eroticize the nude form. The bastard.

To put simply, here we are, with all our efforts, trying to incite some form of erection, oh-I-meant- reaction, with a combination of a low-carb diet, expensive photographic equipment, 12 miles a week on track, state of the art lighting blabla, and you ruin it all with a point an shoot! One wonders what this says about human behaviour.

I seriously can think of too much to say on the subject, and so had better stop at this moment.

xoxox

***
Extremely Frightful Night

My mother had to be a bitch and woke me up in the middle of the night by turning off my air-conditioner, telling me I'd get even more sick if I had it on. I told her my brains would fry if she turned it off. Then I don't know how it happened, or even if she was to blame in the first place for waking me up, but I started lapsing into a series of seizures.

I didn't know what the fuck was happening, it felt like I was being exorcized, and I just wished I could die, because being totally out of control of your own body is a very horrible thing indeed. I spent an hour shivering, suffering muscle contractions and praying for respite because God was supposed to love me and this wasn’t supposed to be happening.

And if it was the devil (all right, so I’m quite irrationally spiritual in certain respects) he shouldn’t be having such a hold over me because he is the fallen one and fallen beings aren’t supposed to have power over ones that have the favour of God (which is not to say exclusive to people who believe in God; But the fact that human beings have not been expressively condemned by God, ensures that we have more power then the one that has.)

Religious rationalizations aside, I was one really scared kid. So scared I was wondering if it would be a sensible thing to do to call for an ambulance. Of course, before I’d call for an ambulance, I’d want to make sure if it made sense to do so, so I asked the lady on the line (Believe it or not, I was actually still capable of sane conversation between incontrollable bouts of muscular convulsion) I asked her if it was necessary, or if she knew any other alternative means or whatever. Because I seriously didn’t want to leave my bed. Apparently not.

***

Which makes me wonder about two things. Firstly, how can hospital staff manning the 911 hot-line possible be so ignorant. Secondly, were they trying to rip people off? I don’t think seizures are all that uncommon, and surely people couldn’t be calling for a damn ambulance every time they had an attack.

The girlfriend’s sister was involved in the mildest accident possible recently when the SBS bus she was on collided with a –insert colossal vehicle of choice- and there was absolutely nothing wrong with her aside from a sprained arm and they insisted on putting her onto an ambulance on a stretcher! She went out for dinner promptly that evening at you local generic barbecue cum steamboat restaurant.

***

I texted Mr. G. knowing that he knows about shit like that, but he didn’t get back to me till I was fast asleep and sweltering my brains out under a pile of blankets, thankfully after regaining some control of my limbs.

I don’t suppose he could have done much anyway. But I was so horribly scared out of my wits I just wanted someone to tell me everything would be all right. An Overdose of Panadol was all that was needed, eventually. I must have swallowed half a strip.

You know how sometimes you look at your fingers and wonder how its so amazing they move simply because your mind tells them to move? And then you will them to move, but they don’t move because you’re pretending that your mind’s stop having the capacity to mobilize them; Last night felt like that. Only, at points, I wasn’t quite able to make a distinction between when my mind was pretending or when it simply felt too drugged and too fried to send a signal that was clear enough to any part of my body.

***

Mr. Saccharine text me again this morning. Terribly annoying. I don’t know what kind of fucking game he’s playing at, but I’ve decided I’m in far too bad a mood to amuse him any longer.

Did I dream of you? I was having visions of a journey through hell, so thank you very much for your interest in my nighttime hallucinations.

The girlfriend met him at the bar the other day and he told her that I kept on sending him masochistic texts. Well, stop being stupid, I am masochistic, and you keep sending me such sweet nonsense I’m really just trying to force you out of that retarded state of mind where you think every girl Is willing to oblige you just because your nice. Ugh! Your so saccharine it makes me sick goddamnit.

You tell me my girlfriend’s uptight about things behind her back and tell her that I’m masochistic behind my back. Look, that kind of stupid game is for high-school wanna-be jocks who warm the bench, not men who are supposed to be grown up!

*barf*

My stomach’s sick enough as it is.

fffff

***
Perfectly Horrid.

Stayed at home all day having comfy conversations with pretty Polynesian women.

Well, no that's not horrid; What's horrid is the fact that I have a stomach flu and the only occupation I am currently capable of is stripping to my panties and getting my maid (now more like my personal masseuse and juice grinder –apple and ginger’s really quite lovely-) to give me hour long full body massages. She’s quite good at it too, and does it in exchange for my stories. Which really is the only price I can afford at the moment, between cab rides to the doctor’s and outrageous treatment fees for drugs and injections.

Seem to be having a fair number of encounters with Filipina women lately, and for once in my life, they’re starting to become pleasant. The past of having them as totalitarian baby-sitters whose only altruistic behaviour afflicted upon us was to feed us a lot of milky desserts chock full of yam is over.

Now they still feed me milky desserts chock full of yam, but with loads of good conversation instead of chastising –stop hitting your brother/ don’t play in the mud/ you’ve got shit on your feet I told you not to play in the rain/

Talking about breasts is a great deal more fun, really.

She told me mine were quite small, and I told her hers were too, relative to the size of her gut. We had an argument over the fact that the colour of nipple was not wholly subjected to the colour of a person’s skin. And with no relation whatsoever that could possible pertain to our conversation, she was rather keen on the idea of showing me her nipples. But another time, perhaps. Maybe when I’m working on my ambition of turning into a fetish photographer myself. (Look, a couple of hours pays her more then a month’s wages, and she did seem rather amused, and turned on, by the idea!)

Ah she is quite young, not much older then me. The youngest my parents have employed so far, and boy am I glad for it.

***

<>Singaporean kids really do have certain entrenched prejudices towards Filipinas, because most of them have been their bosses since they were, well, born. It’s terribly annoying.

Not serving someone at HMV just because she speaks with a tangalogue laden accent is just so wrong. She’s your customer, if she listens to everything you said as a child, wouldn’t it be time to return the favour?

I won’t deny I had similar partiality towards the treatment of people we so often deem come from the lower rungs of the social ladder in their countries. I don’t dare deny that I’ve rid myself thoroughly of them either, but talking to them and finding out that they are just as human, with a taste for excitement, endowed with sex drives and curiosity for the unknown and opinions on things you’d think are beyond the comprehension of their Mills and Boon literary diet? It’s really quite worth the time. My eyes feel opened.

We are both eager anticipating the screening of Oprah’s interview with Clinton this Sunday as I try my best to ignore the devil in my gut.

The only safe position right now is the one in which I recline in my fake IDEO designed chaise longue.

Ouch.

xoxox

***
Of all the Shite we go through...

PMS has got to be one of the worst things.

My tummy hurts, my body aches, and I feel so fustrated.

Stupid taxi driver took such a fucking long windy road back I had to yell at him. The metre showed $4 more then usual, do you know how much extra distance is $4 more? I'm not anal about $4, but that meant an extra 10 mins groaning in the cab and trying to control my temper.

Which I eventually didn't.

Mr. Sacharrine making me feel like a jerk.

You know the sort of weird scenario where a guy fucks a virgin girl and just wants to remain friends? I feel stuck in that.

Look, I don't need you to give me the world because I already have everything I want in my. world. And I don't need you to take care of me because I don't care if I die. And also because within the atrociously low standards for safety I have for myself, taking care of myself isn't a particularly difficult task.

But for all the shit I'm feeling, I wouldn't want to trade gender.
The responsibility for a penis is far too high a price to pay as a trade off for monthly madness.

I suppose I'm not making much sense.


fffff

Facing Up

People who suffer from addictions are not escapists, they are realists. The world sucks, lets face it. And they wake up, every morning, and see that it sucks, and go back to their addictions. The next person who tells me to face up to reality will get the finger, and a good chastising on why she’s incredibly stupid to believe that facing up to reality is of any use.

Face up to reality. What’s that supposed to imply? Look it in the eye and beat it up? Oh please. You might win, but you’ll come out really battered. A stronger person, perhaps, but a really scarred one.

I’d rather run my legs off.

I’d get a better figure too, for my efforts. And by the time I reach the end of the road and eventually have to face up to it, it’ll only be to say ‘so long, and thanks for all the fish’. That way I go to heaven with no broken bones or flesh or mind.

Oh, and by the by, running is so much less painless then fighting, and so much more of a pleasure too.

And if you’re still not convinced why evasion is the best way about it, you’re a looser. Because advocating facing up clearly shows a want for an imagination.

xoxox

***
Doctrine of Acceptance

Sometimes, no amount of trying to see it from the other perspective will amount up to anything whatsoever.

Nearly about the middle of the night, I decided that the onset of insomnia had come fully upon me and that sleep was not going to be a possible occurrence till 4 a.m. With that as a primary excuse, I popped by the Mitre for a couple of drinks and bumped into Mr. Saccharine and a bunch of the other regulars chilling out in a hidden garden I’d never seen before (Great! A secret garden within a secret compound, all my escapist childhood fantasies come true - For the matter The Secret Garden and The Little Princess were two of my favourite classics as a child. The whole idea of a world separate from reality, yet still physically entrenched in it always had had it’s way with me-)

We hung out around the garden till the lot of them decided they wanted to go to the BFD (whatever that’s suppose to initialize) and I thought I was sufficiently exhausted enough to go home and sleep somewhat. But after some manner of trite persuasive oratory on Mr. S’s part, I dropped by his place; and gave the feminist in me a rather fine shock.

“You FIX 10 000 piece puzzles? So the whole saccharine (I’m patient/ romantic/ domesticated) act’s not a stage-up after all.”

Anyone who fixes more then 100 piece puzzles most certainly are Simply So. I had always thought fixing puzzles were akin to folding a million paper cranes and pain-staking hanging them in a deliberate random order on a tree for the current infatuation of choice, as seen in stupid Chinese drama serials. *shudder*

Ah, but I shouldn’t make fun of him. He was terribly nice, and we sat around on the couch for ages till I fell asleep listening to him talk about Iraq (not because he was boring, but because the clock struck 4).

***

I woke up unnaturally early in the morning and made him wake up with me, which he did without much complain. And the first thing on the local paper was this. What the hell? I’d like to think I’m one of the world’s most empathetic people, if not in action, at least in thought –but what use is being compassionate in thought? I don’t think there’s any worth really, but better a good intent then an evil one. That’s the Singaporean way after all, an opinion on everything but the will to act on nothing.-

I read through the article and tried to imagine, what if I was an insurgent. I suppose it’s a rather juvenile thing to do. Imagining your someone else, but it’s entertaining. And it helps you to understand the people you think you hate.

Even if it’s extreme wrong-headedness to picture the person who said you were possessed of a stupidity stemming from the lack of self-control to have said all that, being so void of anything else to do (having been just dumped by her fiancée at the later a few weeks ago and somehow managing to gain a hundred pounds in a fortnight).

I can see why they are doing all these nonsense, but no amount of trying to sympathize can get the phrase ‘I hate them’ out of my head. I hate their religion and everything it stands for. But before you come upon me with a barrage of prejudiced emails, let me say that it is not the One True God I hate, but just the God of all the people I hated. How can my God be the same as that of the person who tells me she’d be sending me to hell?

It’s a fine frustrating piece of work, and good luck to the people who have to solve it. Is it not possible to work out a compromised solution? Can compromised solutions ever really work in the first place among nations at war when they can’t even seem to be reached by nations who are tolerant of each other.

But the insurgents do have the upper-hand. Carrying on with all the mindless killing and propagation of fear might be effective in throwing a lot of nations out of Iraq, but eventually, the US army will remain until things are done the Bush way; or until a second term is confirmed as something only possible in a alternate reality, like the sort you read about in SF novels. (And would them leaving be a good or bad thing come the situation present during the election period?)

All right, presume they do stop the kidnappings, but retained holding whole nations hostage under the threat of ‘columns of rigged cars [that] will not stop’ [exploding]. I actually imagine that might be effective in getting the world to listen to what they want. Those people truly know how to use fear, and raise nationalistic passions; I believe that many people, the general populace, the vulgar horde, people like me, would nod out heads fervently if the insurgents so much so as suggest a compromise.

Look, they are behaving like children, and the rest of the world’s behaving like mothers on menopause. If the kids would stop chanting for a cookie and give a reason why they should be given the cookie, and prove half-way that they should be given it (i.e., stop kidnapping so many people), and if the mothers were to listen and accede on the condition that they do their homework and eat their dinner after… Don’t tell me it’s a stupid analogy, it isn’t. Human behaviour is predictable, and our relationships are all ruled by similar sentiments, whether on a domestic or global scale.

I shall shut up now and promise to write about things that are more preferential to a person of my caliber tomorrow. Which mean’s it back to the sex, the self-chastising and the continual attempt at atonement from the fourth of the 7 Deadly Sins.

xoxox

***
Dislocation and the Politics of Bar Pick-me-ups.

A rather over-dressed me went out late last night, alone, with a singular thought. To do whatever the hell I felt like doing. I had no one to meet, nothing to buy, and naught to see. It’s about that time of the month again, and I felt terribly displaced, oversexed, and angsty.

Wandered around quite a bit, ate too much Pistachio ice-cream (it’s my favourite flavour this month; Gourmet Ice-cream is one of my biggest vices, and I have come to the resolution that I shall only eat Gelare or Movenpick.) Eventually found myself at Emerald Hill. For some reason I walked into No. 5, perhaps hoping that by some cosmic quantum quirk, or quantum cosmic quirk, I’d bump into the G-Spot. No such luck. Ended up at the al-fresco dining area just outside rouge instead, at a cute-guy spotting.

Went up to him and asked if he was waiting for anyone. Unfortunately yes, his best buddy and a blind date called Rosie, apparently. (She was quite the Posie; a pudding and pie sort of girl in black and denim with nothing interesting to say.)

So I’m an eavesdropper, now you know! But everybody eavesdrops. Especially on me, and good on them because I tell great stories. Nothing beats the time I recited lines from a play in which my character was suffering from colon cancer (it was really supposed to be liver cancer, but the director got a little carried away with the alliteration, and no one realized the mistake for many rehearsals.)

Sat alone for a long while reading Blue of Noon, trying my best to concentrate and seem like a literary buff. I knew he was watching me, and felt like I had to prove I’m not some ditzy, desperate girl. I’m not, really, just needed to talk to someone last night. Well, I suppose you could see that as desperation. Crazy, friendless girl in a brocade dress and face paint screaming silently look-at-me.

There happened to be a mildly attractive fellow sitting on the other side of the little street that ran through the bistro and I’d notice him for quite a long while already. And I kept on thinking, go to him? Try to catch his gaze and wink? That stupid cute guy keeps glancing at me, if I hook up with the one across, I’d totally come across as an SPG out hunting, but I’m really not, Oh I’m so fucking bored and I feel so lonely and I need to talk.

So from the strange mechanism of my childish mind I drew a note (replicated below) and got the waitress to pass it to him.

It says, Dislocation is my least favourite feeling, want to join me in brooding on that?

I don’t quite know what we talked about, but apparently we both didn’t like, or finished, Michel Houellebecq’s Atomized. He was here on business for the first time in a long time and thought that the Singaporean brand of efficiency was absolutely bizarre (They time you down when you cross the road? Isn’t that taking the want for precision a little to the extreme!)

Our conversation fluctuated between the mundane (The Economist’s article on the city’s totalitarian Lee® brand of governance) to the subliminally erotic, to the out-rightly crass (Teenage lesbians, threesomes and how Germans were ‘boring but effective’)

It got late, and as much as I didn’t like pulling out on him, I did. With the lamest possible phrase too.

“I’ve seen more of the country in the past three hours with you then I did in the past week… I wonder what sights the next three would churn out.”

“Uh… I have to go to church in a few hours.”

British men are strange, but in a way I really enjoy. They keep saying they’re absolutely vulgar and that the only activity they do outside work that could possibly be of any interest would be to get drunk and behave really badly. Well, I’ve never seen them when they hang with their mates, but they’re always insanely well behaved around women. Maybe it’s a really mis-guided opinion on my part, but I think I must probably have had the least physical contact with them.

I don’t know really. Is it the way they’re brought up, or some kink in their society that disapproves, more strongly (in relative terms), of vulgar, promiscuous behaviour? The ones I know never ‘come on too strong’; and by happenstance, when they do admit they want to fuck your brains out and have been wanting to for a long time (only you don’t know it because they’ve treated the whole affair up till then with unnecessarily excessive reticence), they do it with the candour of, oh-I –don’t-know/don’t want to say it; basically, they don’t get very frank until the last possible moment.

But perhaps it’s just me. Perhaps I’m used to vulgar, crass, Tarzan/Jane expressions. Used to the kissing of unknown lips and the squeezing by unknown hands. Which is really not something I’m bitter about, or have much of an opinion on, for that matter.

Xoxox

***
Invisible Trade

I couldn’t help it. Simply couldn’t. The scruff-bag with the bandana around his head of straw hair and three day’s worth of stubble was too much to bear, being seen purchasing a book on Building a Business Empire for Hippies. (Yes, that title is perfectly made up.) But I had to give him credit for dreaming up such asinine nonsense on the train down from Bangkok. Besides, he looked like Rob Schneider, and I am almost certain a face like that would render anyone harmless to the fringes of localized corporate schemes (or real-politiking going on in the office). Which is usually a good thing.

“Well, so what’s it going to be? Your business, that is.”

He turns around to stare at me right in the eyes with a sort of glazed, weeded look.

“I’m afraid I must give you my apologies for not going to tell you. You see, it’s terribly classified information.”

I stare at him, mildly shock. Was that a rebuff? I was simply trying to be friendly. Or just being bored. Either way meant the same thing.

“You see, the information’s highly confidential. It’s so secret I haven’t found the key to unlocking it’s proposal yet. It’s been stuck at the back of my mind and no amount traveling around Asia has helped any-what, (and even the stresses of the most inefficient lavatory systems have proved to be useless.)

But if you have any suggestions whatsoever…”

I look about for some escape and see a bunch of the horrible trash that’s of late been touted as raw, real, social scrutiny under the best-seller’s shelf.

“Oh gosh. I’m absolutely vacuous when it comes to rubbish like that. Not at all the entrepreneur, but I do think the Invisible Trade is rather lucrative at the moment. Well, I do hope to see you on Fortune 100 in a few months," (or at least among the ranks of Heidi Fleiss).

***

By the way, I do not really think the book is intensely repugnant. It's just mildly so, I wouldn't want to give it That much credit. It’s god-awfully boring, and there’s nothing that’s being said that hasn’t been said before. If you really want to know what the Invisible trade is, the G-Spot suggests that you talk to the prostitutes at Orchard Towers. I have no intention of doing so consciously anytime soon out of my own initiative (but if Mr. B comes back and still wants that threesome, to which I might or might not comply because I’m really rather tired of threesomes, whatever they may say about three being company and two being none non-withstanding).

I am sure Gerrie Lim did really talk to those girls, but how interesting can their views be when reiterated by someone else other then themselves? The problem with the book’s that it’s terribly void of feeling. Put shortly, it’s nothing more then a tease, an attempt to shock and to roll in the cash. It tells a lot about the girls, yet nothing about them.

I avidly wait Belle Du Jour’s novel. But of course, in the meanwhile, the one by Tracy Quan will prove an excellent lunchtime read too.

xoxox

***
Price Tagged Romance

He’s selling himself as romantic,
On the display casement,
Of a Nokia LCD.

Once again comes the Singapore Sale,
The season for romance,
So the management dictates.

But they can’t seem to quote me the price,
That I am meant to pay,
For a human aspiration.

xoxox

All Things French

<>The urge to make a trip down to the mall was too great to ignore today. It’s my shopping mall of choice because I’m such a geek that I must browse through the bookstore and the gallery at least once weekly. The other reason was of course the sudden need to read risqué, provocative literature and to flirt with the guy that runs the gallery.

So! The SPG’s spicy booklist for the week is as follows.

Blue of Noon.
Mr. S’s brother recommended me; Gorges Bataille. An author that ‘intellectualizes the erotic, just as he eroticizes the intellect’. I was trying to find what was supposedly his most famous work, the Story of Eye (Like the Story of O?), but apparently they had every other book of his except that one.

The Dictionnaire Philosophique.
By Voltaire. (Of which one particular aficionado is my favourite Suicidegirl of similar name.) It proved surprisingly easy to read, despite it’s Penguin Classics cover –which usually makes the association in my head with troublesome texts. I laughed out loud several times while reading the essay on circumcision.

Justine.
Not the one by the Marquis De Sade, but by Lawrence Durell.

Apparently as I was extracting Sade’s The Misfortunes of Virtue and Other Early Tales from it’s peanut butter position between two novels by Saint-Exupéry, some guy –possibly Irish. Concluded on the basis that he pronounces Nietzsche as Nich-Ghe and has, what I believe, to be a Guinness belly-

He said to me, ‘If you like De Sade, you must read Justine, but the one by Durell. It’s a modernized version of De Sade’s.”
Me, “To tell the truth, I’ve never read any. of Sade’s writings. But I’ve been told to start with this one.”
At this point, it would be good to note the mode of dress I was in. Skimpy black top, tiny checquered skirt, fishnet stockings and little goth-girl painted eyes. I thought I looked pretty much like a whore, but didn’t think I did until I was a little too far away from home to go back and change.

Him, “You do know who Sade is don’t you, he was who sadism was coined after…”
Me, “Without doubt. Love literature that rationalizes deviant behaviour.”
Him, “For a young girl, your taste in literature sure is racy.”
Me, “I’ve just been trying to abdicate responsibility of my behaviour of late to human nature. Thought the marquis would help with that.”
Him, “ If you need to rationalize your behaviour, then it must be bad, and rationalizing won’t help anything.”
-Pause. Trying to get my thoughts stright. I've thought about this countless times.-
Me,“People try to rationalize their behaviour all the time. Their intents and the outcomes and whatever. I believe it’s human habit. If we were all born with sin, and sin throughout our lives, then we (,since it is inbuilt in us to abdicate responsibility for our transgressions,) must all be reasoning with ourselves all. the time. So it’s not just me.”

Me, “I’m just a silly girl trying to be a paradox. It’s not the right word, I think, but I can’t come up with any other. It’s the ideal of an academic gone wild that I’m trying to exude. Very popular image these days.”

I thought the conversation was rather queer really. All the hinting to things that were terribly personal -if I was choosing literature he'd read before, he'd know the sins I was trying to relinquish responsibility from-)

***

Met the Girlfriend after awhile. Sighted Mark Zee, the guy who got dumped on the follow up of Singapore’s The Bachelorette, by a girl from my alma matter who is now the poster child for FHM, who also, according to my girlfriend, speaks quite repugnant English. (But I don’t watch non-paid channels, so I wouldn’t know.)

His face looks rather disproportionate. Tall, hunky, but terribly plain looking. And obviously not attractive in the least to my refined tastes in men.

***

The gallery was hosting a private showcase and launch of new exhibits today which I wasn’t dressed nicely enough to crash. So objective number 2 for going down to town was not accomplished.

It’s taking forever.

xoxox

***

A Lesson in Punctuation

One of the reasons oftentimes cited as rationale for dating ang mo would be their proficiency for English. This is of course a gross misconception, and I know so because I virtually had to rewrite all of the Boy’s application letters while he was job searching earlier in the year.

Mr. Saccharine (The guy I met at the Mitre’s pub sometime back) has been sending me a barrage of messages that leave an after-taste twice as cloy as Splenda (sweetener of choice recommended for people on Atkins- why do they call them artificial sweeteners anyway? Sweeteners are sweeteners. If it’s not naturally in the food then it has to added on, so technically anything that sweetens a food that’s not naturally sweet enough already, is artificial.)

Sometime about mid-afternoon, while I was contemplating on the fullness of my tummy and wondering if I deserved a Milkyway, Mr. S texted and left me feeling like I had to thank him for changing my mind about the chocolate. One super sweet thing at lunchtime is sufficient, really.

You have SMS!: I believe in shower and keep not spoil and toss.

You have sent SMS!: How have the spoils been of late then? Any trouble making up your mind on who first to toss. Perhaps it’s time for Detox, showers are too inefficient.

I was rather shocked when I got that. Shower and keep not, spoil and toss? But that went against the whole image you were trying to impress about yourself upon me. Wow, thank you for the honesty.

Apparently, due to the draught of punctuation apparent in his texts, I had mis-read it. The situation as interpreted by me was as follows: Wake up in the morning thinking, shit, who’s the chick in my bed. Get her to shower while getting a scrub down yourself, because you feel filthy that you’d binged on sex once again.

Shower and keep not, spoil her then toss her. Fantastic.

Thank god I’ve never met anyone like that.

Well wait, once. It was the one-night stand. (I must stress on the The. As in singular.) Local. Didn’t even bother with letting me shower before he sent me home. Oh but then we did it at his married. sister’s apartment; of course he couldn’t let her know he’d been secretly using the guest room for such immoral purposes. But I’m sure the Buddha in the hall tattletale-d on him later.

I supposed he got mildly alarmed at my reply, because, apparently shower and keep not spoil and toss was supposed to read with a comma before the not, not after. (For visual effect: Shower and keep, not spoil and toss.) So the meaning’s entirely different now. Shower with gifts and keep the girl, not spoil her and leave her for the dump.

***

Since we’re looking though my rather colourful cell-phone inbox today:

Message from the G-spot informing me I’d left my clothes at his place. (I changed into something else. Intentionally forgetting to wear your panties is one thing, intentionally forgetting to wear your clothes so you can leave them behind is another issue altogether.)

“Well, no I didn’t They're really my sister’s. But that’s of no consequence. Just don’t use them as jizz rags. I’m sure I’m better.”

Oh, I really know how to demean myself, don’t I. But ah, I suppose it makes sense when you reserve such self-humiliation for someone you can feel like going down on your knees for.

xoxox

***
Precious Things

So I ran faster, but it caught me here
Yes my loyalties turned
Like my ankle In the seventh. grade

Running after the rain

He said you're really an ugly girl
But I like the way you play

Holding on to his picture
Dressing up every day
I wanna smash the faces
Of those beautiful boys

So you can make me cum
that doesn't make you Jesus

-Tori Amos

***
I have resigned myself to the fact that I always get what I want. It might seem like a good thing at face value, after all, who doesn’t like it her way all the time? But as the saying goes, be careful what you wish for.

Late last night I started feeling like I wanted to be pathetic. To give myself up, fuck myself off and sacrifice my flower-fresh corpse to an unknown devil. (Preferably of the white variety). But it was too late. and I was too lazy.

Had thought of giving Mr. Grant a ring first, but subsequently admonished myself against it. After all, at no fault of his, he’d rain-checked the last couple of times I suggested a tete a tete. And as much as I hate to make it sound this way, it felt like rejection, and there was only so many times in a week I can tolerate that. But all that thought was unnecessary, apparently. He called me this time, and asked me out for a drink with a friend of his freshly down from NY, of which whatever relationship that existed between them I was, and still am, rather oblivious to.

Caught a cab, had a perfectly retarded conversation with the driver on the institution of marriage and The thing that has now become what the island is characterized by. After many reiterations of the phrase ‘The government very convention’ (whatever that’s supposed to mean) I finally got out and got to the G-spot and his pretty Filipina acquaintance

We had a pointless, silly discussion about Carrie Bradshaw’s steady income (Apparently it’s only possible to live off writing a column about sex in Manhattan the way Carrie lives it if you discount, entirely, essential luxuries like fine wine and Manolo Blahnik shoes) and about how the show itself was going to be screened in Singapore, with censorship. Uncannily, someone had emailed me slightly earlier in the day about how out how he thought it was quite the paradox that Sex and the City should be censored, even as the government tries to raise birth rates; I do not see the connection.

***

Nightcaps at his place.

The girl kept on asking me if she was infringing on my space, and continually told me that if I wanted her to leave, she would. She was, afterall, not intending to be anyone’s paramour.

I told her whatever. If she wanted to stay , it was none of my business; it wasn’t my house and it was his body she was wanting, not mine. And besides, I was too tired to care.

Oh, but I never bothered much over the issue in the first. If he wanted to sleep with someone, it’s his decision. I’m not his mother, or his wife, or even girlfriend, for the matter. And a huge part of the reason why we work out so well is precisely because of that.

By not lying and evading stupid little things we cannot do anything about (like how he’s the way he is and I’m the way I am, and so we will be till the end of time, or of our lives, which so ever comes first.), we’ve a lot more energy and sanity left for other things of greater import.

Recall the time I mentioned, during one of my regular bouts of masochism, about the psychological effects of seeing your guy make out with another? It’s the emotional equivalent to… oh I don’t know, the sexual bliss attained by some people through asphyxiation, perhaps. Well, I nearly had my little wish last night, but I politely passed. It just felt really fucked up to see him kiss someone else.

So whatever. It was a threesome where I participated as a wooden log, or dummy prop, which ever you prefer.

I simply snuck under the sheets and promptly went to sleep.

He woke me up after she was sent home and cuddled me back to the sandman.

Can’t be bothered with trying to find the post at the moment, but I had mentioned previously that there was a great deal of satisfaction to be had by being made jealous and being comforted thereafter. And boy, was I so comforted and snug and hopelessly drop dead tired that I forgot to close my mouth and ended up drooling all over his arm.

Icky. I know.

xoxox

***
Legs.

I love legs. I never realized how attractive a gorgeous, tanned, well worked-out pair on a guy was, until today. And quite bizarrely, it was through the perusal of this month’s Popular Science magazine that made me come to the conclusion. (Look, if you know what I’m talking about and are laughing your ass off, stop it already. The guy parading the NASA technology based system for muscle injury really does have a nice pair of legs. But I’m not out of sense; my monthly dose of hot men usually come from Wallpaper and Surface. Love the Ermenegildo Zegna suits.)

Ah, but anyway, that doesn’t discredit the fact that a lovely pair of legs play a reasonable part in the physical attraction factor. For men, it’s quite duh, huh; and I don’t complain. I love my legs. And I think they aren’t worshipped enough. Damnit.

I have no idea why, but I started feeling really frustrated at how I’m not meeting enough cute guys. Oh, very frivolous indeed, but I can’t help it. Of late.

Well, as of this afternoon anyway.

Now there’s this really gorgeous Scandinavian I’ve been trying to bully into working on something like the Beckham’s July 2003 cover for L'Uomo Vogue, but I believe that when he agrees, which would probably be sometime after his girl leaves the country, I’ll just leave it at there. Whatever. Even if he wants to shoot by himself, I’m fine with that, as long as I get to keep the photos. He’s gorgeous up to the point my panties get wet when I talk to him and the guys at the party willingly admit he should start his own fucking boy band already. Although I dare say his vocal capabilities leave very much to be desired, but that’s beside the point.

I wish there was a Mr. O character I could insert into my life.

Oh, but the truth is, all ex-flings and current paramours are mildly attractive and nothing spectacular for a reason. Well, a number of reasons.

1) Through random observation and arbitrary sampling, it would seem that the most gorgeous men I know are also the most faithful. and they are all attached.

2) I look nothing like Posh Spice, can never look anything like Posh Spice, and they all possibly want a woman that’s a looker like her. (Even though I have also observed that this is not all the time true. But I refer to the following point.)

3) They intimidate the hell out of me when I’m sober.

And…

4) There’s really such a thing as being far too gorgeous.

xoxox

***

Pleasant not to be Broke for Once.

I stuck my debit card into the cash deposit today and discovered that I now have enough cash to visit the Boy, with a couple of hundred to spare. It’s not going to be anytime very soon though, but the thought that I can elevates me. I am currently resisting temptation to splurge a sizable percentage on one of those PDA/Palm/Camera phones. The rational that I’ve made do without one for so long and can make do without one for longer plays like a ruined tape recorder in my head.

***
The guy from the Mitre has been messaging me incessantly of late. The attention’s rather welcomed, especially when I’m whiling away humid afternoons shooting espressos while laughing at Juvenalian satire. But I can’t help getting unnerved at times. What’s with calling me sweetie and waxing saccharine nonsense about being there for me when I need company. And doing it to my girlfriend too? Like I said before, maybe it’s sincere, but there’s such a formulated recipe behind his response to anything I say that makes that hard to believe.

Tell me, does that prescription you work by always get you the girls? Little insecure things that they are, needy of constant reaffirmation.

Well, I’m terribly sorry, but at current the psychological state where my sexuality is concerned is incredibly fucked up, and I’m am making sure my panties stay on for the sake of my sanity.

***

I had dinner with my daddy last night, and he mentioned, almost as a passing remark (but I knew it wasn’t because of the mock bemused look he threw me over the roasted duck) that A Clockwork Orange was conveniently located on his bookshelf, and that I should take liberties with his collection of literature.

“You’re not as fucked as them, but the concept that runs the society in question is not altogether separate from Yours.”

I’ll figure out what it means when I get down to reading it.

xoxox

***

Oh for the Last Time!

Not too long ago, the girlfriend and I swore never to date local, ever again. This was after the most unfortunate incident of a bastardy ex making a last ditch attempt to get laid though what I wouldn't be wrong to say constituted as blackmail.

But time and again, someone would come along and make us go, 'just maybe'. Usually, it'd turn out to be a very, very bad idea. I don't know whether it's a fault on our part- perhaps. Why is it so many other girls get along fine with them, but not us? I've long decided that it's not so much a fault in our characters as it is with expecting different things.

Anyway, through some uncanny mechanism or other, the local guys of subject lately seem to be of one sort. The pretentious, indy film making, artish fartish sort. And it's a pity really; meeting someone you suppose is worth talking to just because they might share an interest in similar artistic endevours, and they turn out to be so full of themselves eventually (art snobs, basically.)
One of them even had the cheek to tell my girlfriend she wasn't the prettiest girl he's been interested in; and did she know he'd dumped cuter girls then she? Oh, oh, and I thought being an artist was synonmous with being both unemployed and deep. Apparently it's only the former in this case, sadly.

Lets see. So that's how you court a girl? By trying to convince her that you're so fantastic she must snag you while you're available and enjoy every moment she can because you're capable of dumping her anytime?

Ah, whatever. Whining about the local fare is becoming tedious. And like I said, perhaps they are all guilty until proven innocent in my perspective, therefore I have a penchant for seeing all the bad bits with much more ease. But I genuinely thought the arrogance was rather blatant in this particular one.

One really, really weird thing I noticed in the local fare I generally attract is how they always try to impress me with the people they know. Well, just so you know, your dangling carrot of celeb connections cannot beat the appeal of the sizable one in my boyfriend's pants. But bad jokes aside, I genuinely doubt their claims. Flaunt it, and your probably just another star-chaser.

Someone texted me yesterday, asking if I'd be interested in writing a romantic comedy for a feature film. I said I'd try, and then asked for the dead-line. For some reason, he absolutely refused to tell me anything and insisted I called him because alot of the information was classified (but all I asked for was a dead-line for the first draft!). And he kept on calling and calling and insisted that until I talked to him, I was not going to get any more information. I suppose I was being absolutely anal about not picking up the phone, but if he was going to behave silly, I didn't see any worth in entertaining him.

***

I got to know another Yank of late. (My apologies if that's a derogatory term, I like using it.) I suppose he's a particularly extreme case, and I am currently having a hard time trying to decide if the attention he's paying me stems from 1) a recent break-up, 2) the end of a celibacy vow 3) insecurity 4) the need to get laid. I genuinely don't know. But it would do the locals to take a note from his manual. Oh he's a little too full of shit to be believable entirely, but I must admit, at points I'm nearly convinced of his sincerity.

And maybe he is, really. But I'm a terribly weary when it comes to men full of sugar coated sweetness.

After some nit-picking about the male species over text messages, he told me that not every prince rides on a white horse or stays in a palace.

"Well, no. You're right. Over here they ride petite asian girls and stay in River Valley condominiums."

xoxox
 

***

Philosophical Rant.

Don’t say I didn’t give ample warning!

***
I am dying.

The whole night I walked around town, craving for Italian gelato and trying to figure out the origin of promiscuity. Not just anyone’s of course, but mine. They question simply kept on playing in my head. From where was the source of my sexual irreverence?

There was no answer, obviously. How the hell are you supposed to pin point something as elusive as a collective of subtle decisions throughout an entire life-time? Was it when I first discovered self-gratification? Or the time I read that trashy novel I’d picked up from the street, or the decision I made when I hit adolescence, that I could not be bothered with keeping my virginity?

I went down to the Mitre to knock down a couple of gins with the Girlfriend. It was someone’s graduation party, and the gathering was what I suppose were the regulars at the bar. The MTV girl I met the last time was there anyway, and we had a great conversation about how to live life. I supposed talking to her assuaged some of my uncertainties about the way I was living.

Life is in the now, just live it, for the love of god.

But then I asked her if she was happy (because that’s what she told me was eventually her ultimate purpose in life –isn’t it all of ours? Mine was satisfaction. Which isn’t that far off from happy as an emotion really.) And she said she didn’t particularly know. But it wasn’t just the way she said it, it was the expression that registered on her face and in her eyes. An emotion that spoke of confusion and pain and a number of other things I really shouldn’t be assuming since I might be grossly wrong.

But that’s not the point, and it does not matter particularly, anyway. At the end of the night,what struck me most was the confirmation that I’m not the only fucked up person out there. It was not so much a situation of, oh if I’m going to hell at least I’m not going alone, but rather a circumstance inclined to the understanding that, as people, this was just the way it went for us.

Chasers of a happiness we can never attain, and whores for a satisfaction to which we successively marginalize ourselves, our conscience, and just about everything we believe in for the hope of its realization.

All that is only pertinent to me, of course. I do not claim to know how goes your beliefs.

Whatever I’m doing right now is getting me no where. It satisfies temporarily, but eventually, I’m forced to seek out more, do more, as clichéd as that is. (But clichés are clichés precisely because they are truths.)

And you know what the scary thing is?

It’s all good and well to say that I’m living a fucked up life, and that I should change, but whose to confirm that anything else I do is going to get me somewhere and give me the satisfaction I chase after?

I have this idealistic belief that at the end of a life, everyone will have had her fair share of happiness and satisfaction. Like, hell has a level of torment and heaven her own standard for bliss; so then it must follow that this world must have a nice in-between figure for both that everyone will be entitled to.

So why bother. Why bother chasing unless it’s for the pleasure of chasing, why restrain, unless it’s for the satisfaction you acquire from that pretentious sense of discipline.

***
The boy sent me a book recommendation today: 100 Strokes of the Brush Before Bed.

I just read the review of this book, it is a real blockbuster in Italy right now. I think there are some parallels between the both of you....

I told the girlfriend that it really hurts me when he says he knows I have a sex-life outside him and he simply cannot want to know about it.

I should be so revolted at my own behaviour of late.

I really should be.

Xoxox

What about Women that Turn Men Off

A friend of mine was recently asked to write an article on what he hated most about women. Well, wait, no. Rather, what about women that turned him off. It’s none of my business, but I shall attempt to help him out here.

So strap on the strap on and slip on the suit, here’s what a woman thinks about what turns men off women!

***

(Reason One)

It’s their stupid notion that pussy power is everything.

They think their pussies are god’s greatest gift to men, believing that the warm, sweet tunnel of procreative functioning and it’s relevant catacombs make them absolutely invincible and utterly supreme in a relationship.

Regardless of whether it’s a freshly discovered, candle-light romance or the sort where dinner table conversations revolve around the size of their adolescent daughter’s trainer bra, women will always think they hold the cords of romantic liaison behind the silken coverings of their panties. And they will never stop abusing it, whether they know it or not.

Blame it on society and its mad convention that causes them to believe that every time they have sex, they are giving a part of themselves through sacrificing one bit of their soul for the gratification of the male.

And thus, men are expected to exchange the world for the rather mundane activity of sexual- gratification. For pussy, we are expected to worship them, both their body and their intellect, of which the quality of either is inconsequential. For pussy, we must discard our views on everything, ranging from religion to politics to our ideal romance, to the fact that we really do not care what colour the covers are as long as they do not abrase our backs and stay on while doing the dirty. - Ah, no, I’m wrong; what sort of man cares about the latter. As long as the woman doesn’t insist on making the bed because it’s falling apart while at it, it’s of no consequence.-

Women, for the most part, are insane when it comes to how much their pussy is worth.

You see, one of the fundamental tenets of the problem with affording pussy lies in the fact that it’s worth a great deal. An immense deal. A deal bigger then Exxon being given the modus operandi for all the wells in Iraq. You get the idea, the worth of pussy is colossal.

And because of that, men cannot afford it all the time. Because it is a luxury good, and so luxurious it is indeed, we cannot want to want it all the time. It would drive us nuts to desire such lavishness incessantly, leaving insufficient mental capacity to finish up our 9 to 5 so that your extravagances can be taken care of.

Another problem is that, because of it’s value, we have to be absolutely sure we pay exactly the right price for the right pussy.

Look, pussy is worth a lot, I’m absolutely convinced of the fact. But that your particular pussy is something I would want to afford in the first place is truly a gross misjudgment on part of the female mind.

The problem with some women is that they believe all men cannot resist their pussy. They have this outmoded, primordial instinct within them that creates the assumption that men always want to have sex, and will do anything to have it.

What is it with all these crazy sluts working their way into my sheets, thinking that, being male, I would naturally respond to the laws of nature in exactly the way they perceive my response should be?

I cannot stand women who advocate pussy power.

They cheapen the male species into nothing but a bunch of mechanical functions governed by their need to procreate.

I cannot stand pussy power.

Because, the truth is, in the face of it, I am most of the time subjected to it.

Stupid cunts.

Xoxox

***
When you MOM discovers the Slut you are...

*shudder* Not a good thing.

We spent the whole afternoon eating macadamia nut ice-cream and blue-berry cheesecake while she expounded the values of chastity and the worth of sex to my receptive but frustratingly resigned mind. She took up most of the conversation, even when it came to the erotics of courtship; But what would I know about that. It’s been something I’ve forgotten for too long now, possibly since I was in, oh… junior high. And she even gave me advice pertaining to the Boy, none of which I can particularly remember, possibly because it wasn’t anything I didn’t already think of.

It went a lot better then I thought it would.

She was up to my ears in emo-blackmail yesterday afternoon, and I was getting really worked up and consistently more stressed out with the progression of the day. Coupled with the recent bout of imagined despair that’s linked to no tangible reason, by the time I got home, I felt myself thinking, fuck this. I need to get out. I don’t know where the hell I’d get out to, but I need to just get the hell out.

So I packed a bunch of stuff with the notion that I’d pay my uncle a surprise visit, and just get away from it all until things sorted themselves up. But most predictably, I turned out to be too lazy to bother going all the way to the bus station with a duffle bag weighing far too much. Besides, it looked like rain.

So I messaged Mr. Grant. By this point in time I was the paradigm of a mind implosion, and what I really required was a glass of good wine and someone to listen to me rant.

“I feel so neurotic, my mind’s going to collapse into itself and there’s no one else I can seek out for the respite I desire. You’ve got to meet me or I die.”

He was great company last night, I wouldn’t know what I’d have done otherwise. Psychotic little girls are really best not left in isolation with their desolations. I met him outside Cayote. (and coincidently bumped into my favourite photographer (I don’t know if I’m still his favourite model, but who cares) whom I must congratulate on being invited to write Picture Perfect for The Straits Times. The bastard actually came up to me and asked if Mr. G was the item for dessert.)

Ah anyway, he never ceases to make me feel better. And I figured why a long time ago; it’s because he really pays attention to me.
“What will you have with me?”
“Oh? I don’t know, I just want to talk to you.”
Sweet, sugar coated, caramel loaded tongue. Good for the psyche, great for the lips.

The next morning was mildly amusing. He didn’t want to get up and check his emails, and I was postponing, as much as I could, from giving my mom a call. But eventually, with his arms around my back and his hand on mine, I finally contacted my mom.

“And for the love of God girl, stop being so melodramatic.”

I swear, if it was anyone else, I would have been intensely affronted.

xoxox

***
I Just Died

This is really weird.

I have all these drafts that I never posted, and as I was going though one of them, I found this really queer one that made no sense whatsoever.

Go figure! Because I can't/

***

Dear Diary,

I just died. I don’t know how, but I did. One moment I was drinking a glass of really good merlot, and the next thing I knew, I was well, dead. I have no idea what the kids will say when they find me like this the next weekend they come to visit. I’ve tried dragging the body into the garden, but to no avail. Dead people aren’t all that good at burying themselves, really.

Everything on earth looks strangely kitschy and badly colored, the sort of tones you get in an indy art-house film that’s trying too hard. The merlot’s a strange sort of red, but it doesn’t matter. I can’t seem to drink it anyway.

Right now, I don’t quite know what to do, so I’m just standing around on the patio making up the first entry in the diary of a truly reborn soul.

I have a body that can’t die now. Isn’t that amazing?

I’m attempting flight at the moment, ghosts always could fly in the cartoons I watched as a kid. And those cartoons didn’t lie. Dead people CAN fly. But it’s not how I thought It’d be though. It’s not like flying with wings, or floating about like David Copperfield. That’s so boring. Flying, when you’re really, truly dead is akin to being omniscient. I don’t quite know how to describe it, but I can be in so many places at once, know so many things, see the whole picture and see into everyone’s little detailed lives.

I can lift myself a little, just up to the top of my roof, and the little street I spent the last few years in spreads out till… well, till the end of the street. I can project myself up, all the way into the cosmos, and the cyclones and all the oceans, and the Great Wall of China and most of Shanghai, sticking out of the earth, her buildings in all their magnificent dislocation; they all spread out before me.

And I can see someone’s panties. They’re black, with polka dots and little fake diamonds on them.

Zoom in, zoom out.

xoxox

***
Random Late-night Reflection

"They that can give up essential liberty to obtain a little temporary safety deserve neither" - Benjamin Franklin.

I like that phrase.

Won't it be nice to have freedom as the defining purpose in life, to have it as the alpha and omega of living? Safety requires too many constraints and far too many rules; Think I’ll stick with just enough so that I stay alive and well to enjoy the freedom, thank you so very much.

Well, I got that out of an article pertaining to human-rights. But contemplating about America’s converted doctrine pertaining to the subject post 9/11 and Iraq is really rather a little too trite for this time of the night.

I fell in love with the guy who runs the French based gallery in the mall today.

Will ask him these suggested 10 questions when I manage the guts to talk to him. *laughs* Which will, I suppose be a long time from now, or never. Possibly/partly because he speaks English in an accent I can barely understand.

But hell, it's so fucking sexy though!

xoxox

***
Atonement

I bought it in 2001 and didn't start reading it till now. It's a very good book; McEwan explores facets of the human psyche very well, and tells a compelling, poignant tale with a main character that uncannily resembles me at certain points in the novel. But then again, I suppose anyone can find an identity within someone in the cast of characters he has created.

The novel disturbs me on a psychological-emotional level and makes me go, at certain points, 'so that's why I feel that way.' And the best thing about it is how he portrays human behaviour like it is: predictable.

At the end of the day, all that clap trap about value systems and morality, it doesn't matter. I realized I lost focus one of my most central beliefs in the past couple of days. Elliot's tone was wrong when she said that favourable chance is the god of all men who follow their own devices instead of obeying a law they believe in. Sometimes the best guidance anyone can have is through desire. Values knock us into shapes and onto paths we don't want to follow, and end up miserable following. At least (or so I'd like to believe) if I did what I wanted to, because I wanted to do it, and didn't turn out happy in the end, it was because I had felt like it, and not because some unknown entity called Mr. Value System forced me.

I AM rambling I suppose.

I suppose one of the reasons why I'm so enamored with the Boy (and I suppose in a different sort of adoration altogether, Mr. Grant) is the fallibility, which would naturally equate to a sort of humanity I don't get to see in so many people, with their silly facades that serve no purpose aside from according them this frustrating veneer of artificial superior morality. (Ah, they have my unwanted sympathy).

Someone sent me a strange email (pertaining to the boy) about how I was kidding myself. (Romance? You're really just an easy lay, girl.) I don't know who he is, but judging from the address, it sounded rather local (sorry, I simply can't get over my aversion for local boys I don't know, despite weeks of blog-therapy. I’ll easily admit they are guilty in my sight until proven innocent.) Such lack for romantics and impulse! And that pseudo-jaded signing off (Been there, done that -insert very boring name in-).

They think they know everything; possibly because they know too little to start of with. And when your thoughts are so small and selfish and wholly unto themselves and consider not enough of what other people feel; I can't blame them for their reclusive narrow-mindedness now, can I.

Do you perceive to know what we talk about under the sheets and over peach custard; the conversations I insist upon in spite of unnatural hours due to the functioning of the international time zone, or how I like the way he kisses and particularly the way he does it?

It's just another relationship like any other. I'm not expecting it to be eternal, I'm not expecting anything at all. And that's a start, because expectation will always make you a failure in your own sight.

xoxox

***
RPS

Ooh, I felt like hitting Mr. Big with the table lamp.

Isuppose he must be forgiven for not being quite up to the task of an
all night romp; the little professor-schoolgirl thing must have did it.
RPS (that's Role-Playing Sex in my comprehensive dictionary of
naughty-girl abbreviations) can be so tiring.

It's fun, yeah, until the story starts to become too elaborate.

Didhe really have to ask me what happened to my dorm-mates when his
colleague turned up by my bedside one humid night? (But they are always
humid here) Or how did I know for sure the girl I saw in the bathroom
with the dyke was really the head-girl for my house? My fertile
imagination apparently wasn't all that up to the challenge; and
besides, there were better things to do with the limited mental
capacity I tend to have after midnight.

We stopped afterawhile, because the story was starting to get terribly bizarre and I
didn’t feel like thinking or making up stories anymore. I just wanted
to have sex. You know, the standard sort. Climbed all over him and
tried to make it work, but nothing did; and he actually said my name,
in full (I find that annoying because it’s so formal) and told me that
he was really sex-ed out in a tone that sounded most un-pleased.

“Let’s just cuddle all right?”
“Ugh.” I roll off him and lie flat on my back.
“That’s lying by yourself, not cuddling.”
“You make me feel stupid.”
“You’re
nuts. You’ve got all these itty bitty things that embarrass you when
they shouldn’t. It’s just like how you can’t pee when I’m at the sink.
Or remember the time with that nasal spray?
I didn’t say anything to make you feel stupid. Whatever, suit yourself.”

*grrr*
How unnatural.
But hey, I can now say I’ve got a bigger libido then he does.

Like that’s supposed to be a good thing.

xoxox

Cluttered.

Life has been such a lacerating pain recently. I can’t seem to look at the little joys and accomplishments as much as I would like to, and it feels like everything is making fun of me. And religion and morality! I wished they’d leave me alone. Sometimes I want to scream and ask what is the point in them. Who is to define how I perceive them? Why should anyone but me define them for myself.

***
But one little nice thing did happen.
The Boy called last night, rather late, just as I was about to run my daily. Talking to him is always pleasant, and unnaturally reaffirming. Unnatural because I find it strange that a voice over the phone can be more comforting sometimes then the presence of someone real.

I found out he played the flute and didn’t particularly like any scenario in bed that involved cherries. And that if you entered all the bad things into a career consultancy program produced in 1998 (things like how your hobbies were drinking, sitting in front of the tele and having casual sex) it’d tell you to go to the army.

He claims he remembered every day we spent together. Rather… excessive, but something I like to hear, nonetheless!

We’re working on getting my ass down to visit him soon. At least it gives me something to look forward to.

***

Mr. Big texted me just after I hung up, and truth be told, I was in no mood to see him. Reliving every single day I had with the Boy just made the past couple months sleeping with the former all rather drab. He lacked a sense of romance, and that really frustrates me. Like, can’t he take me out for champagne, walks along the river, picnics, breakfast by the pool. I like all that (being essentially female at the end of the day), but he never bothers to find the time.
Perhaps it’s also my fault. I never always bother to find the time either, and I probably don’t want to. Go figure.

Ah. But I wished him Bon Voyage anyway and took home his plants after some deliberation revealed that they would not survive without water for half a month. It was all quite absurd, carrying round a bunch of plants to lectures for the whole day. Not to mention a rather cumbersome task! But it was managed, with the creatures still rather intact at the end of the day, sandworms, aerial roots and all other relevant appendages.

xoxox

***
I Hate the Singapore Sale.

It's July already, can we just get it over with?

The need for standard issue knickers finally became pressing enough this morning when the only sensible pair of panties that I could find were the Suicidegirl boycuts. I have no idea where the others went to, but one day I'll take a peek under Mr. Big's bed and solve my little mystery.

Nah, I didn't leave any at his place; ever since I found out that the last few pairs I gave away after respective nights of amorous adventure eventually got lost anyway, Why ask for a girl’s undies if, ultimately, you’re going to chuck it with the rest of your boxers and eventually loose it. (But of course there are the occasional Victoria’s Secret modelizer wannabes that treasure every pair they get…)

I bought one for each day of the week (emphasis on day) and an extra white pair that I’m going to paint and send to the Boy, to make up for the one he lost. And this time he’d better not loose them. Maybe I’ll mount it on some black board and frame it. I doubt he’ll hang them on his wall, but it’ll still be a fun gift all the same.

***

Back to why I hate sales: Because all the shops sell crap two sizes too big.

As impossible as it is to believe, I visited 3 damn malls and not one of these had an acceptable sport-bra that fit my sadly inadequate bosom. The Nike store was only left with XXL. Who the hell wears XXL? Asian women don’t need XXL sport-bras until they turn 50 and start deciding to do Tai Chi.

***
Mr. Big doesn’t seem to have the time to meet me before he leaves for the states. I feel mildly annoyed at myself for blowing him off last night in a sudden spate of bad temper due to the weather and the fact that I gained a kilo (even though I’m pretty sure some of it went back to my chests. Which I like. And some to my waist, which frustrates me intensely.)

I ended up having an argument with some local indy art film producer who got so frustrated at my opinion on art that he shot back, “Don’t you know, fine art isn’t supposed to entertain.”

Oh, then tell me, what’s it supposed to do? Look ugly and take up public space that could otherwise be decorated with risqué breasts enlargement ads? He wasn’t making any sense and couldn’t stop using the word ‘brilliant’.

Personally, I love that word. I like using it to describe ideas for nude photo shoots the best, but using it to describe fried carrot cake? That’s really pushing it.

Uncannily, he turned out to be from my college.

Xoxox

Drunken Collectiveness

Mr. TV Mussolini (As he called himself last night after one too many drinks) invited me to some weird party that wasn't so much a pre-launch for his show coming out on TV as a party to tell the current landlord to fuck off. It was a rather queer bash, with loads of free booze (bottles and bottles of Shiraz) and signs in the unisex toilet nowhere near the romantic appeal of the one in Ally McBeal that said “Jesus is coming, you’d better start doing something!”.

I was starting to get rather tired of parties. They are always the same, with an overload of loud music, booze and men trying to get into your panties. Quite used to it by now, knowing that most of the time I ask for it, with the way I behave after a couple of glasses and Missy Elliot rapping about her milkshake bringing down the boys in the house. But the problem struck me as a little more severe last night then it usually is.

But I’m not complaining.
I have now decided that the frozen nothern isles of the Old and beautifully Rotting world produces very pretty, very tall, and very hunky boys. I was about to dump very blonde into the list, but hair colour has never been a deciding factor for attractiveness in my books (for that reason, I have never bothered to get my hair dyed.) Truth be told, it had been a long time since I got to a party where there were just so many gorgeous men. The girl collection was utterly terrible though. They were pretty, but too many of too little were just standing around being boring.

Seriously though, I have never seen people so perfectly drunk as a collective before. I thought I was behaving like a fucktard (considering how I peered into this guy’s cubicle while he was pissing and asked if I could see his penis –I didn’t eventually, don’t know why, I can only remember I didn’t- ) but it didn’t feel as horrid as it usually would after I sobered up because everyone else was behaving just as badly. Which is very good.

I got picked up a lot and carried about last night. Like I said, the rest of the girls cared too much about what they were doing or how well they were behaved. That ended up in me getting squashed between two guys and a conversation about threesomes. Someone started telling me about the time he was stuck with another bloke and this girl they picked up at a club in a hotel. Believe me, that would be one position I am so sure I will never be in, no matter how intoxicated.

Well, the host flattered me with one of my favourite phrases of appraisal. Apparently, I don’t give a damn about what anyone else thinks about me.
Not entirely true; it’s just that I don’t care for the opinions of people who criticize me. But the opinions of the people that think I’m cool? Of course I give a damn.
That’s always a misconception isn’t it. People always give a damn when it comes to their being extolled after all.

Anyway, everyone there seemed to be into photography. Well, a number anyway, so it made for good networking.
There was some French boy who has his own studio somewhere, and I talked to him for quite a bit because the truth was, I was at the party for the sake of getting to know people who could help me out. He was fine at first before the police came, but after they’d left and we took our human mess down from the roof into the studio, he started behaving like a fucktard. Kept on going on and on about how he had no limitations and no constraints whatsoever, and that I was being prissy sissy for having them.

“Look dude. If nothing restricts you, take of your pants right now and I’ll take off mine to prove I’m as good.”

Sheesh.

Anyone game for a gang bang?

xoxox

***
Too Lazy to see the Shrink

Ugh. I cannot believe my doctor thinks my depression is severe enough that I need to see a shrink. Sometimes the neurosis gets really shitty (like now) and I can barely think straight, much less want to do anything (aside from lying on my bed and feeling like alcohol but knowing that I really shouldn't because it only makes it worse.) But really, most of the time it’s not a problem getting it under control.

At any rate, my doctor gave me this address for a clinic and the directions to get there, and I nearly died when I realized what he was referring me to.

I know it’s terribly childish, but it’s just that there are all these unwanted negative connotations linked to the Mental Health Institute. When I thought about it, I was like, shit, I’m really not that mental enough to warrant going to Woodbridge! (Woodbridge hospital is synonymous with the madhouse. Which I suppose is a misconception since loads of depressed people who can’t afford private shrinks go there) Anyway, I’m no fan of government healthcare, Plus, I don’t think psychiatry would help. You just end up ranting and raving and paying unnecessary money, and at the end of the day, you don’t really get cured.

***
Well, Mr. Big is, apparently, really considering the threesome with a whore. Now while I said it was nice of him to suggest it a few days ago, I seriously doubt I’m particularly game for it currently. I had been pleased when he tried to get my attention with the suggestion after a week and a half of blowing him off, but, while I won’t say I’m not pleased with this particular state of affairs, I can’t say I’m entirely looking forward to it either.

But whatever.

*feels sick*

xoxox

***
Falling into Gutters

It's such a fabulous day today for feeling upset. It's been drizzling quite a bit since late morning, and that always makes me start wondering about things like my self-worth and living in the moment, and other nonsense like that. I don't think about the former very much any more though, but it used to be a reliable topic for musing on when I was an adolescent. I’d just sit around for ages trying to figure out if other people were worth as much as I was. If they were nearly as sentient as I was.

Did what they think matter? If the adults yelled at me, were they really yelling at me, or was it just some flaw in the mechanism; Did they have thoughts like mine, and if so, what do I care if they did. Why should someone else’s thoughts matter to me?

And then I thought that I thought too much and wished there were some way I could just blank out my mind and look at things as they were. As if they were linked to no memories, with no pasts, no images that linger in my mind. You can do it for awhile, but you can’t sustain it. Maybe 3 minutes, and then you start thinking about how horrid life is. What a real drag it can be, with all its funny little shits, dumping so many things upon your shoulders.

Why must we wear clothes.
I feel the weight of my blouse.

It’s a simple little inconvenience that makes you realize how everything’s just out there to dump things onto you. Dump clothes on our backs and food into our stomachs and unwanted memories into our minds.

***
I was not correct with what I said in yesterday’s post. But I’m not wrong either.
Sexual history has got so little to do with marriage. I’m bored with the topic already, so I’ll let it rest.

***
Someone called me an inconsequential little shit today.
Nice to know.
But people who are has-beens are like that. They have my unwanted sympathy.
I did try my very best to be nice, I really, really did.

I’m in no mood whatsoever to talk about anything dirty. Of course something dirty happens everyday in my life.

I’m a junkie, and I can’t live without it.

***

Right now, I’d like to buy a plane ticket to see the boy and hope the plane crashes while I’m at it.

xoxox

***
Farewell Gift

Great. Mr. Big is leaving for the U.S in a couple of days, and he just had to remind me by asking for a farewell favour. Basically along the lines of, can we please hire a girl and have a threesome?

Frankly, I'm a little tired of those. They are just ,well, tiring. But since I suppose we'd be paying the girl, we can do whatever the hell we want within certain confines (don't start reporting me now, I'm really not that much of a brute.) Whatever, I don't know.

He asked me if I was going to use a dental damn. I wonder if he even knows what a dental dam's like. I think I was the one who taught him the word. (Basically, it's a cut open condom that makes oral sex on a woman perfectly boring) I think I'll just pass for now, but remember to bring along a pair of scissors.

I'm starting to feel like this is really silly.

I mean, previously I said it was nice of him to suggest it because it was an obvious call to get my attention after a week of having to blow him off, but now that he's really into it and constantly getting to me about it...

Well, I'm sure I'll have loads of fun experimenting with leather ribbons and gourmet chocolate and the like, but it still gets to me. You're not supposed to plan these things.

Or do you?

xoxox

Masculinity and the Notawoman

A little whimsical water-colour done sometime back.
***
I’ve been told I suffer from a sort of masculinity ..mm.. problem (?) The boy doesn’t quite describe it as a ‘problem’ per se, but more of a quirk. And I’ve never really give it much thought until recently, when Mr. Big and I had this conversation over Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra.

That ended up in me raving, in bed, about how the play was really about sexual insecurity. Personally, I thought Shakespeare was in effect challenging, (or mocking) the men of his era and their perception of women as creatures that are supposed to be all the time filled with maternal and domestic concerns. (He didn’t say anything to the contrary because 1) He couldn’t remember much of the play 2) He knew I’d just carry on arguing until no one would have any libido left to do things of more importance.)

I can’t imagine being called a feminist, but I do like feeling like I’m the alpha whatever in any relationship. But then again, who doesn’t. Maybe, I take it a step too far sometimes though. I've this idiosyncrasy that causes me to be absolutely fascinated with a guy shopping for groceries and doing his own laundry. Partly because I’m female and would naturally pay attention to little domestic details, but also because it’s just fascinating.

I grew up with all these funny perceptions of how women should be subjugated to men –and I can say my mom’s no help, with her funny ideas that go along the lines of “Oh my god, they’ve had sex. Good on her that she’s made him marry her now.” And then one day I realize that that was all bullshit, and felt the need to remedy the years lost living in that disillusion.

I’ve always wondered why society (not so much now, as in the past) constantly subjugated women to that sort of sexual submission that constrained them from what men did all the time. I.e, fucking around. If you think about it, it makes no sense. If more women were less restrained by stupid, unstated societal standards, then a lot more would be fucking around, which is good for them, as well as the men. (I leave the definition of ‘fucking around’ to your own moral digression. Pertaining to myself, it's definition would be sex that is good for your body and good for your soul. Which might also be akin to making love *shrugs* You decide.)

The whole idea that ‘sluts’ will never inspire genuine love leading to matrimonial edicts can obviously be held only by misanthropes clearly against a more libertine society. The view that a girl with an illustrious sexual history will never wed, (aside from being bullshit, given that illustrious is not akin to matching up to Annabelle Chong) is also an obvious show of misogyny and inherent sexual insecurity.

Only notawomen (men who absolutely feel the need to proclaim that they are men by constantly doing things to prove that they aren’t women. Like being obsessed with destruction and constantly feeling the need to go to war) can be capable of such falsity, and I don’t blame them. After all, the institution of marriage is the last instance to the validation that they are the superior sex in a world where women can just as easily treat men as trophies (I do not believe in treating people as prizes, by the way, this is just to make a point.); and even this is being denied to them as the purpose of marriage switches from the protection and support of females, from a time when they were denied the rights to a good career (no prizes why I think they were denied that, and by whom) to becoming a tribute to an equal love shared between two people of comparable independence.

***
All right. That’s enough ranting for an afternoon.
And in the meanwhile, cheers to all the guys who sometimes, perfectly innocently I’m sure and by mistake, slip on their woman’s underpants .

xoxox

***
The Mitre Hotel and some other random anal...

Do you know that the dictionary on your cell phone spells cock or anal with the same keys?

I must be really bored. Usually happens when I'm procrastinating my bedtime with the excuse that I need to surf more of the net.

It's funny how blogs become doubly interesting after you've actually said hi to the person and had a mildly entertaining, pleasant time. The blog in question would be No Place as Home. I was admittedly daunted by the length initially, and still am. But Whatever, I'm just reading the parts I'm interested in now, and it's not bad at all. I particular like the reference(s?) to alien life forms gaining sentience.

I like it mostly because the writer is so normal. And it kinda makes me go, hey, anyone can travel around with world. All they need is a little bit of the quarter-life crisis to push them along. Ah, it’s definitely something I must do some day. Although I must admit I love talking so much I doubt I can stand traveling alone. Ever. (No, it’s not the same talking to the mirror in my compact.)

My girlfriend took us to the Mitre Hotel. It's straight down Killiney road, with a number 145 scribbled onto the gate. It looks like a run-down private estate, but it's really Singapore's most decrepit hotel(like that's much of a difference). It still has people living in it though, surprisingly. Brave souls who do not fear the roof crashing in on them while they jerk of to Victorian pornography. The drinks are insanely cheap. Three beers for $12, and I have to say, it has a very unique ambience. Uniquely Singapore indeed. She tried to teach me how to find it once upon a time, and I had tried to find it with the Boy, but gave up after all of 5 minutes and decided that the time could be better spent in his bedroom. But if you have the time, it is worth more then 5 minutes of half-hearted scouting.

It was a nice place, great regulars. And a strange old ang mo dude who probably has the crappiest, albeit the most, extremely unconventional housing in Singapore. I personally thought he was an interesting fixture, with a spindly single bed that didn't look up to the task of carrying his overweight frame and a termite eaten dresser covered with bottles of Prickly Heat and cough syrup.

Well, who knew.
You can be living in one damn country for so many years of your life, and you never discover such attractions for oh-so-long. Hell, in fact it was my girlfriend's German boyfriend that took her there. Would that be ironic? The real definition for the word has long been lost on me ever since Morisette abused it.

xoxox