the times they are a-changin'

I feel hungover even though I have had absolutely nothing sinister to pour down my throat since a few days ago, when I accidentally bumped into my old friend Coconut Rum. Perhaps it is just the consequence of too much laughter, absolute madness and zero levels of lucidity. Last night, we all fell short of jesters on steroids rushing to get a stand-up gig.

I am decidedly over reminiscing about my college. Having been there and having sat through hours of un-ventilated, misreable parquet hell, I remember now that I actually hated it a lot. So much that there were underground publications in my hand, walking out of lectures, prolonged absenteeism and lots of plans to to stage a coup. Last night's valediction was even worse than the ones you see on B-grade movies, when your eyes are already too tired to pay attention. It was more of a self titled thank you speech, mimicking the Emmy's but falling so far behind.

Lots of things worth laughs. The pseudo grand ballroom idea, with the flowers in the bowl (the cheapest kind), Ikea candles and, oh, lest we forget, styrofoam cups and plastic utensils. Fruit punch was served since we are and always will be underaged minors. Horribly white plastic chairs, cramped together like a faux garden party at a retirement home. The worst prinicpal ever is still the worst principal ever: dressed in monotone, speaking in monotone and walking like a geriatric ready for one last heart attack.

cheenakia, are you reading this?

You Are Chocolate Fudge Brownie Ice Cream

You just don't know when you've had enough (or too much)!

What Flavor Ben and Jerry's Ice Cream Are You?

The Keys to Your Heart

You are attracted to those who are unbridled, untrammeled, and free. In love, you feel the most alive when your partner is patient and never willing to give up on you. You'd like to your lover to think you are stylish and alluring. You would be forced to break up with someone who was emotional, moody, and difficult to please. Your ideal relationship is open. Both of you can talk about everything... no secrets. Your risk of cheating is zero. You care about society and morality. You would never break a commitment. You think of marriage something you've always wanted... though you haven't really thought about it. In this moment, you think of love as something you can get or discard anytime. You're feeling self centered.

What Are The Keys To Your Heart?

Your Monster Profile

Infamous Ogre You Feast On: Peanut Butter You Lurk Around In: Flocks of Freshmen You Especially Like to Torment: Your Evil Twin

What's Your Monster Name?

Your Ideal Relationship is Serious Dating

You're not ready to go walking down the aisle. But you may be ready in a couple of years. You prefer to date one on one, with a commitment. And while chemistry is important, so is compatibility.

What's Your Ideal Relationship?

You Are 24 Years Old

Under 12: You are a kid at heart. You still have an optimistic life view - and you look at the world with awe. 13-19: You are a teenager at heart. You question authority and are still trying to find your place in this world. 20-29: You are a twentysomething at heart. You feel excited about what's to come... love, work, and new experiences. 30-39: You are a thirtysomething at heart. You've had a taste of success and true love, but you want more! 40+: You are a mature adult. You've been through most of the ups and downs of life already. Now you get to sit back and relax.

What Age Do You Act?

You Are 47% Selfish

You are quite balanced. You are able to compromise when it's in the best interests of those involved. But you're no pushover. If something is important to you, you'll get it!

How Selfish Are You?

Your Hawaiian Name is:

Lanikai Lokelani

What's your Hawaiian Name?

Your Japanese Name Is...

Umeko Shimizu

What's your Japanese Name?

Your Brain's Pattern

Your mind is a creative hotbed of artistic talent. You're always making pictures in your mind, especially when you're bored. You are easily inspired to think colorful, interesting thoughts. And although it may be hard to express these thoughts, it won't always be.

What Pattern Is Your Brain?

Your 2005 Song Is

Mr. Brightside by The Killers "It started out with a kiss How did it end up like this It was only a kiss, it was only a kiss" Let's just say you're happy to be done with 2005!

What Hit Song of 2005 Are You?

Your Band Name is:

The Bad Mutha Bananas

Band Name Generator

Your Heart Is Purple

For you, love is about establishing and developing a deep connection. If it's true love, it brings you more wisdom and inner strength. Your flirting style: Sincere Your lucky first date: An afternoon at a tea house Your dream lover: Is both thoughtful and expressive What you bring to relationships: Understanding

What Color Heart Do You Have?

You Are Root Beer

Ultra sweet and innocent, you have a subtle complexity behind your sugary front. Children love you, but so do high end snobs... when you're brewed right. Your best soda compatibility match: Dr. Pepper Stay away from: Diet Coke

What Kind of Soda Are You?

Your Quirk Factor: 67%

You're so quirky, it's hard for you to tell the difference between quirky and normal. No doubt about it, there's little about you that's "normal" or "average."

How Quirky Are You?

You Are More Mild Than Wild

You're confident, and you really aren't concerned with how "hot" you are. Other people's ideas of what's sexy don't concern you. And this is exactly what makes you attractive.

Are You Hot?

You Are Emerald Green

Deep and mysterious, it often seems like no one truly gets you. Inside, you are very emotional and moody - though you don't let it show. People usually have a strong reaction to you... profound love or deep hate. But you can even get those who hate you to come around. There's something naturally harmonious about you.

What Color Green Are You?

Your Love Life Secrets Are

Looking back on your life, you will have many true loves. You've been deeply wounded in the past, and you're still recovering from that hurt. You prefer a quirky, unique person to be your lover. You're easy going about who you're with, as long as they love you back. In fights, you are able to walk away and calm down. You are able to weather the storm. You have a hard time ending relationships, even if the other person says it's over.

Your Love Life Secrets, Revealed

Your Seduction Style: The Natural

You don't really try to seduce people... it just seems to happen. Fun loving and free spirited, you bring out the inner child in people. You are spontaneous, sincere, and unpretentious - a hard combo to find! People drop their guard around you, and find themselves falling fast.

What Is Your Seduction Style?

You Are 30% Evil

A bit of evil lurks in your heart, but you hide it well. In some ways, you are the most dangerous kind of evil.

How Evil Are You?

You Are 44% Abnormal

You are at high risk for being a psychopath. It is very likely that you have no soul. You are at high risk for having a borderline personality. It is very likely that you are a chaotic mess. You are at medium risk for having a narcissistic personality. It is somewhat likely that you are in love with your own reflection. You are at low risk for having a social phobia. It is unlikely that you feel most comfortable in your mom's basement. You are at low risk for obsessive compulsive disorder. It is unlikely that you are addicted to hand sanitizer.

How Abnormal Are You?

How? Can anot?

vikram walia, masala & a bindi

I got that photo from TrekEarth. I honestly cannot wait to go to India. It's what I think about sometimes when other thoughts only seem melodramatic and dysfunctional. India seems so abjectly poor but superfluosly so. In other words, the perfect contradiction for the perfect contradiction-er, myself. It will be so great. Mukti has already given me the crash course on taking the train, avoiding being mugged and/or raped and/or murdered. I have already found someone to take me there. All I need is a little bit more life experience, money and Hindi vocabulary. (I can already count to ten in Hindi, I am proud to advertise.) I just hope global warming will keep its hands off India before I get there. And that the Tamil Tigers will find inner peace in the sanctum of their souls.

"Amen, abracadabra, amen."

muahahahahahazzz+xxx

I realised that I have no more qualms about my old blog dying and all the lost archives. There was just too much baggage. In other news, I have kindly decided to be so sickeningly happy that you will beg me to be sad. So saccharine sweet that people will think I was possesed by a sugar cube and meant to induce the worst diabetic symptoms known to man since Adam tasted the sweet fruit. I will up your glucose levels and you will all hate me for this!

missing a mind

I knew it was going to happen anyway.

Now I feel like a royal bimbo, opening up my world to the supercilious would-be lawyers who will ever so graciously grace my humble hopelessness with their triple A's and letters of recommendation and huge future paychecks, huger than my wound! Ah, I wallow in self pity. While everyone plagues me with words of consolation, occasional "F you, just be grateful" onslaughts, I feel like an attention deprived old man, suffering from erectile dysfunction and an embargo on viagra. This is some crusade to wipe out every inch of hope in my small little world. Escapism is indeed the Answer to the Universe.

all of my nightmares

I am at my irritability peak. Any movement, even if ever so slightly edged by the tiniest breeze, captured by the corner of my eye, makes me want to pound heads with a sledgehammer and pass them off for exotic spices from the Mediterranean. Volunteers are most welcome. In fact, I may actually prefer it that way. It saves me from the treacherous stage where my face swells and I grow red boils, warts and a huge-ass nose, summon a cauldron through complicated rituals involving human sacrifices and the like. I think I may almost be able to make murder into an art and justify homicidal passions.

If anything makes it worse, it is the eager persistence of spam mail, infiltrating my humble inbox, masquerading as maybe a nice message for once, a piece of good news, glad tidings from a Pakistani penpal I have yet to make, early Mother's Day wishes from my future son named Iskandar (where did that come from ,even??), or my Nigerian boyfriend telling me he can help me make ten thousand. Spam mail is such a nuisance that it makes noisy kids sound actually human for a change, sparing them an uncontrolled slap from my possessed right hand.

I hate spam mail. I hate it to such inexplicably complex levels. I hate it even more than I hate the world. I know that makes no sense but I have long been told that I am difficult to comprehend. In fact most people I meet think I am speaking in a foreign language. I could either have speech impairments or they are just rather thick in the head. But then, that is just another story for another even more waspish, death-inviting day.

I hate how it keeps raining, as if the clouds have obstetric fistulas and catheters are in short supply. I hate how the thunder is the single most deafening thing (besides noisy alien children) and how the wind makes my bedroom door slam shut when I am in the middle of Shakespeare, pretending I remember all the names of literary devices and how many lines a sonnet has. (I don't, so sue me.) I hate how my bedroom light is too dim and sometimes too bright, and how I have always been afraid of lying on my bed with my feet exposed, just in case an Unmentionable may bite off my toes or tickle me into supernatural shock.

I hate how the university has a bloody conspiracy against me and how I feel really really really really really really really undescribably stupid. I hate how I have to actually go to school someday. I hate how I actually have to stop moping someday. I hate how I have lost my appetite. To think hunger strikes used to seem so glamorous to me. A cold, stoic act of valour and if successful, evidence that humanity may still actually exist in some of us. I hate humanity.

I hate how I am complaining, like a typical member of my country. I hate how I hate my country, but I am not doing anything about it. I hate North Korea. That is just a sewer. Certifiably the most screwed up place on the planet, after America and Michael Jackson's bedroom.

And I hate how I now have to go and pretend to eat so that my parents will think their child is actually alive.

 
  

  

for the road

 

I've got to say, I miss work. (And the money that comes with it.) 

 
 
 
  

 
 
 
  

 
 
 
  

 
 
 
  

 
 
 
  

 
 
 
  

 
 
 
  

  

 
 
 
  

 
 
 
  

 
 
 
  

 
 
 
  

 
 
 
  

in stripes

You were so beautiful.

our wasted lives

The entire concept of printing worlds like "DON'T BE TIMID MOUSE" and "SQUID BLACK INK" on biscuits is where the word ridiculous is justified and finds its rather unfortunate, often misused meaning. It makes for great conversation, if you ask me, a sure way to light some sparks and get it on. Bring up the issue of confectionary and anyone would find you so appealing that Clive Owen becomes merely a past tense adonis. You, on the other hand, will be a Jove, chiselled torso (and more) proudly taut in the center of a buzzing Roman forum.

I absolutely detest icebreakers. They are yet another form of moments that take on incarceration-like traits. Who ever even remotely suggested that I would find interest memorising the names of people or the position of objects around the room? Do props like blankets make it better? No. If anything, clones of Here We Go Again march across the abandoned wasteland that is my brain. Icebreakers are the greatest embarrassment to mankind, after the standard of South Asia's TV programs. They should be outlawed and practitioners exiled to a lifeboat in the middle of the Indian Ocean, left to face the scorching heat alone, without food, shelter and company. Believe me, out there all alone, you wouldn't feel the blasphemous temptation to break any ice. (If you don't believe me, read The Life of Pi).

And for advocates of icebreaking internationally, save your "metaphorically speaking" arguments for the 'visually handicapped' (I'm an ace at political correctness!). All I know is, there is no ice. And if there is, I like things sub zero. I like to freeze. I like the tingling sensation across my skin just by standing in my room at night. I like huge chunks of ice; diluted alternatives are simply not alternatives. I like my ice, thank you very much. And if you don't like yours, well then, just pass it to me.

On another note. You know that phrase, "in someone else's shoes"? Trust me. You don't want to be in mine. I have long been possessed to take 11 minutes putting on my shoes. Now my thumbs are sore. I will look like 1/5th a biker chick when I finally stop procrastinating putting on plasters. On both thumbs. I still haven't learnt my lesson, though. I am perfectly fine with my shoes the way they are.

a tribute

I have received correspondence from a man overboard, a castaway drifted on an island some call Tekong, others call The Place Where Your Mother Does Not Exist And You Suffer Loss of Hair (Bedtime Stories Sold Separately). His name, the gods say, is Eugene, as confirmed to me by complicated rituals involving the fire that spoke life, Prometheus.

So, my beloved Eugene has finally traded in his pink ic, gone the bald route and left me behind here on the mainland, waiting anxiously to hear from him. And, alas, I have. It is his request that I write this entry to address all you (me included) civilians, sheltered beyond shelter, clean and with fresh underwear everyday, vis a vis, the long forsaken army boys who would trade their eyelashes for more mosquito repellent.

What is this that he so clandestinely reveals to me. Tekong does not serve spaghetti! Blasphemy! How can this be! Life without pasta is life without happiness, without spiritual enlightenment and sensual ecstasy. What sacrilegious tales of absolute disregard for the epicurean culinary pleasures all man should partake in! One...must...simply...complain..ah!....the...urge...the....urrrgggee.

So while he is reprimanded for area cleaning and made to knock it down like a true slave of the nation, I will remember to not take for granted what civilisation has so benevolently allowed me access to- pasta, also known as "yi da li mian", also known as "food for the gods", also known as "HAHAHAHA EUGENE, TAKE THAT!".

And the world is full of peace and harmony.

i wanna be sedated

If I close my eyes I can picture myself as a wounded protagonist walking into the world and I see that I am the last living soul. I am so happy that I pop a bottle of champagne, the cork hits me on my eye and I die. [Insert "Oops I did it again" by Britney Spears]

One more word on Darwin and I think I may just kill myself. But yet, it was a choice I made. The sum of my being is that I perpetually contradict myself. I am a walking pie chart of diametrically opposed viewpoints, coupled with weak dialectic arguments and then, the synthesis which is not very much a synthesis at all. I am better off watching Rugrats on Nickelodeon and commenting on their clothes (I quite like the Korean baby, she's hot). But no.

Also, it would be helpful, if not obigatory, for you to tell me why sometimes Def Leppard reminds me of the modern day boyband (yes, The Click Five is so included). Or, not. But still, a one-armed drummer is always cause for celebration. At the end of the day I am still glad to have iTunes make me deaf through a slow, uncalculating process, as simple, uncomplicated and straightforward as your primary school health education textbook. Yes, the one you keep under your bed so you can remember what vegetables look like.

As a closing note, thunder has absolutely no excuse for being so damned noisy.

and then some

WIth all this drizzle and heat, I can envision myself face down in a frying pan, simmering on low heat much like beddar cheddar before it becomes my delicious food. The past few days are made up of such utter nothingness that I can ironically describe them in great detail. Alas, you can derive something from nothing. Now someone give me a Nobel Prize.

Outside children play and scream as they wait to get run over. If I had a license, I may convince myself quite easily that I am the chosen one to do the deed. The absolute disregard for peace and quiet in this place is unbelievable, as unbelievable as Demi Moore clinching Ashton Kutcher. But, oh, wait, that actually happened.

I am highly irritable right now.

on thinking,

if you look forward to death, then, what does that make you? An optimist, or a pessimist?

shu, I am a robber

My ex is a beautiful self-confessed enigma, patriotic chinaman but deniably so, obsessed with his dermatological ‘nightmare’ and a wonderful man, Morgueville, that guy. My first love.

Maybe I should finally realize high heels make for great legs. (But, no, I’ll stick to my flats.) Jimmy Choo is not yet my soulmate/solemate.

I love when the sky cannot decide if it should rain, like a man who doesn’t know if he should hit his son, or if he should take a trip down to the candy store. And, also, not having to wake up.

I don’t understand how depression is so beautiful and poetic but it makes ugly monsters (like when ugly people copulate – same thing).

I lose my mind everyday, more and more.

People say I’m scary. Like when I stabbed ice cream with a plastic spoon, thinking (evidently not good) thoughts on me & shu in the gallery and subsequently freaking Mukti and Hadi to death.

Love is a verb.

Somewhere, someone is dying from a war wound, from a broken heart, from a hungry stomach, from a loss of scenery and really, the UN just cannot help. Memento mori: remember that we must all die.

I will always remain female.

Forever is too long to comprehend and too short to be with someone you love.

I never want to wake up one day and realize I am just another Truman, the central character of a lifelong TV show. I would just rather die than realize my world is not mine.

I think the current US President is misunderstood. In so many ways, good & bad.

When I wake up in the morning I think I am not ready to greet the world.

My past was left behind me, occasionally picked up like an old photo album; worth remembering but sometimes better forgetting; an expose on the world since 1987; a battlefield; a chain of events, linking beautiful people; mostly spent asleep or in a daydream.

I get annoyed when daft people do not understand the greater concept of things. And when shows end with extreme suspense- cliffhangers make me lose hair.

Parties are for me. Or at least, they should be. Heh heh heh. Parties are the juxtaposition of fake smiles and genuine loneliness.

My dog is going to die, even before he is mine.

My cat is one quarter of my cattery.

Kisses are the best when they take you away from the world, and they don’t have to end.

Tomorrow I am one day older; is 8.5 hours away; is a word abused by the colloquialisms of our clueless country, made to look like “tml” and sound like a disease.

I really want to pee now. Now. Now. Now, now, now.

I have low tolerance for people who are idiots, who think the world of themselves, who are superficial ignoramuses, who are racist, whose dream vacation is a shopping trip, who are narrow-minded, who look perpetually in pain, who check out other people’s boyfriends (OMG JUST DIE), who fall under the category “average Singaporean”, who think that if they read The Da Vinci Code (or other things that threaten their faith), they may as well call themselves Iscariot and Satan will poison their minds and they will shrivel up from the inside and die a slow death, who think there is no other religion other than Christianity, Islam or Buddhism. et cetera

stupid memory

I miss college so much that I have tried studying again. (And failed, again. Again.) What this means in simple, back to basics, my-father-had-no-money-to-send-me-to-school-and-so-I-sold-kway-teow-by-the-River terms is, I really am that bored. There are no further depths to sink to; this is the lowest of the low. Or, as I would have learned in Economics, a "slump".

Perhaps I am just certifiably, undeniably insane as I always have been. Or, alternatively, I just really need help. I need the company of my class, Mr Mark Tan playing Simon & Garfunkle in the background with an A4 print of Van Gogh hanging precariously on the whiteboard, its only salvation parsimonious amounts of blu-tac. I need the weird drink stall auntie who chanted Buddhist mantras in the corner of the canteen, whacking away at the canteen table so that karma may work some magic in her life. I need the Francisco, the Bollywood, the Kong, the Macho, the Native, the Hong Kong. I need the Spaghetti for $2, unfinished so that Mark could finish the rest. I need the Roti John, the Bee Hoon Soto (no taugeh), the contraband goods from the snack stall, the soup from the chicken rice stall (I always took Mark's cause apparently he will literally die aka cold blooded body lying in the morgue if he consumed herbs).

And in our first year, The Cuttiekitten (no, this is not a typo, just a glorious example of a favourite joke), The Ortega, The Shu, The Aquilas, the HDB block watching cigarette smoke swirl like a clever magician's subtle display of illusionary prowess, and Raakesh dedicating a song to Sarah in the canteen for all the world to hear. Laughing at people became a serious guilty pleasure.

The worst school of my life but the greatest memories. Studying hard was a categorical oxymoron. And it was only out of sheer necessity that I learned to hate all forms of authority and stick draconian dogmas back in the faces of The Man. I realised how widespread the disease of stupidity was in the world, and how 98.365% of the population of Hougang are old escapees from IMH, and how it was actually possible to stereotype all SBS drivers as greasy haired animals and have the rest of the world agree with you.

And I also realised brown was not always a nice colour on me.

"All alone in pink
All the carpets fade to grey
Amplifiers burst out the deal that I have made
What's there to say I cannot say by myself?

Thinking about writing it down seems pretentious
And helplessness may be the word they nail to my name
In a while

Stupid memory
Must you bring up these things?
Stupid memory
Can I forget all of that?
All of that crap"

mindmap, mindmapped

Perhaps, one day, I may just write a book about SBS. All the accounts and personal experiences have come together to form an expensive abstract painting somewhere in the obscure nooks and crannies of my mind. Rather invaluable and enlightening in some ways, worthy enough to start a new religion, recruiting cult crazy fanatics who would live only to do my work. But no, blasphemous delusions aside, I am happy to breathe Easter.

Always now (and the oxymoron of the day goes to...), it seems the perfect time for heaven to just rain, in every sense of the word. And for one weekend, it is just dandy to be drenched. Chocolate bunnies are optional but, you know, they are always very welcome, especially in my digestive arena where they will be treated with the best hydrochloric hospitality imaginable. So please, dig in(to your pockets and get me the best quality easter eggs).

Empiricism is not wrong but sometimes it's too difficult to just receive an image or a smell or a sound and trigger off a reaction in your otherwise stationary mind, taking you to the memory of a someone, a something or a somewhere. The beautiful thing about memory is how it lets us be in two places at the same time. But that's also the ugliest thing about it. Because what if you just want to be here?

green eyes

spaghetti in the pantry

I think I may have just stared Death in the eye and for the briefest moment felt a sharp trace of regret for saying "yes" and "okay". It's called moulding the future but personally, it's more like strapping TNT to your chest, sticking your head in the oven while your wrists slowly bleed crimson life. The timer goes off and...so do you. I have an affinity for drama, I consent to that. But few things are worse than a roomful of schoolgirls determined to take credit for obituaries as they get printed. Believe me, it's a case of been there, done that.

This is one of the longest (and boring-est) days of my life. I had to teach Math in Chinese. Me and those two just don't go together. It's like adding lemonade to Milo, a sour procession of rape for your tastebuds. God must have been amused. He must have watched it on 500-feet plasma TV, chewing on top grade candyfloss-cum-popcorn while his angels, too, joined in the parade.

But it's not the people that incarcerated me. It's more like the building. It was a hollow grave. Walking through the corridor on the second floor was so creepy. It became more fact than superstition that something was keeping its eye on my back. Call me crazy, but I can recognise 'supernatural', especially if it's practically pointing a gun to my face. I'm still suffering the aftershocks of Long Dark Corridor.

In that place, and for most of our warped world, Cain and Abel haven't finished killing each other. It's just another Late Antiquity for me.

chicken & cheese

Last night I had the worst chicken cordon bleu in my entire life.

I swear I am not exaggerating, and if I am you are allowed to whack me on my head with eight and a half durians, as long as they are D24 (I'm elitist, so sue me). But, really. I was positively sick to the stomach, in all possible connotative and denotative meanings. I felt so disgusted I wanted to steal a revolver from the Taliban so that I could shoot myself and spare me the overwhelming agony.

Such horrible, horrible cheese. It tasted most artificial, as if it had been made from plastic fantastique cows, in imaginary Holland, in a papier mache world. Like some pop-in-the-microwave-and-eat-(and-get-cancer!-)instantly concoction, made by the thieving food industry renegades, determined to kill of the population in a glamorously Holocaust way.

Now, speaking of the Holocaust, Adrian Brody has great eyes. I know Holocaust and Adrian Brody are like...ey? where got link one? (Just watch The Pianist, you doofus.) He is quite fine, big nose and all. He is the Ken to my Barbie. No, just kidding. (I realise I am not into ang-mohs. I have anti-colonial sentiments that just failed to die away, even after passing generations passed. Because you see, chicken cordon bleu is an ang-moh dish. I knew I should just have ordered beef kway teow! But, no. I had to ruin my life. I am suicidal, that means. Oh, God.)

I have amazing abilities to digress.

david gan on villa wellness was the best time of my life

 
 
 
  

the clouds are merlions, i swear

 
 
 
  

art of passing time

 
 
 
  

wounds of futility

I am jobless. I am horribly, shamlessly unemployed, broke to an unbelievable extent I may have to just starve for the next few months, while away in a shrinking shell while people around me grow so fat that they give weight watchers a reason to hope and believe in The Weight Watching God. The most tragic aspect of this perplexing state of unemployment is that I really don't care. In fact, I am secretly sniggering away at all of you who are slaving your bottoms for $4.50 an hour, very much like Tommy Lee Jones when he played Two Face.

I am at a very content level of inebriation, drunk on the pleasures of life, mostly derived from a good Murakami book (this is a fatal attraction, I profess) and pink guava juice. I predict with my incredible clairvoyance abilities that in two months time, I will positively shrivel and die if I ever lay eyes on pink guava juice, simply because I am consuming too much of it, much too soon. But, alas, it is out of my own volition that I torment myself with this weak willed addiction to sugary sweetness. And, pink! There always was a Legally Blonde fan in me (but I will still deny if you ask me, lah).

I have accomplished so much. Who knew you could be an unemployed loser struggling with addiction at such a tender age? Now I contemplate getting arrested just for fun. I just need to choose what felony to commit. Multiple choice, ah! Can liddat one ah? Can. If you are good with suggestions, you know where to find me.