} passing through unconscious states

2006-07-09T01:40:00.000+08:00

mood tired
music Classifieds (The Academy Is. . .)

Okay people it doesn't get any simpler than this.

It was a wet night and this Blog wasn't wearing its helmet. It rounded the corner too quickly and died.

I've moved to schlockandroll.livejournal.com .

(Owing to a recent and inexplicable penchant for change I've contemplated switching e-mail addresses as well, but the idea of manually transferring individual contacts onto a new MSN list is liable to send me screaming into the night. Anyway, good-bye; it's been a very long passage.)

2006-07-07T23:35:00.000+08:00

mood indescribable
music Chasing Cars (Snow Patrol)

2006-07-06T01:06:00.000+08:00

mood indignant
music Gin-Soaked Boy (The Divine Comedy)

Now that my volatility has lessened considerably it would be prudent to survey the reasons behind Germany's humiliating defeat in a systematic and logical fashion.

. . .OH WHO AM I TRYING TO KID I'M STILL LIVID AS HELL!!!!!!!!! Mere seconds after the Italian goal(s) I was bombarded with pacifying SMS-es from the likes of Lee Wenting compelling me to refrain from throttling the television set and/or bounding from an open window. I thought I was going to die when footage of Odonker and my Aryan prince Ballack crying was aired alongside that of hordes of elated Italians and Mediterranean girls being lobbed in the face wih their own melon-sized bosoms as they leapt up and down in celebration; I was so upset.

An intensive, rational, and impartial examination of the issue at hand procurred the following possibilities of blame -

1) The entire Italian squad. For scoring.

2) Lehmann. I swear Letitia is probably jetting off to Germany to assassinate him as we speak.

3) Dietary discrepancies. The Italians have pasta as a national staple and the additional carbohydrates in their immune system provides them with an added advantage on the pitch! Nutritionist kayu!!!

4) Commentators. Jinxing everything by blathering merrily on about how Germany have the game in the bag as opposed to the Italians' abysmal penalty-shootout record.

5) Hitler. The celestial bodies have selected this pivotal moment to wield the gauntlet of retribution onto the local populace due to the merciless slaughters during the Holocaust. Couldn't they have waited until after the 120th minute.

6) The Butterfly Effect. If my mother had consented to my watching the game at Gardens with Mitch, this small but vital increment in the size of the international German fan base would have heightened the morale of the players via the collective channeling of positive karma. Also, the consumption of more German beer by Singaporean fans while watching the match would have boosted Germany's GDP and made for a heartening piece of news for the local players before the commencement of the second half. (Never mind how all this could have occurred within the brief span of 45 minutes; I'm not interested in specifics.)

7) Podolski. The aerial perspective of the pitch was characterized by a minuscule white form crumpling onto the ground every ten seconds or so, provoked or otherwise, like an egg being cracked open on a skillet. Chances were ten to one that this player would be subsequently identified as Lukas Podolski.

Alas; there are more. Klinsmann! Putting prized players like Neuville and Odonker only in the latter minutes of the game! Was he trying to be funny or what. Mori! Why did you not conceal yourself in the cargo compartment of a Germany-bound flight.

Etc.

I had been foraging my refrigerator industriously for food to keep me awake during the game so my mother was most astonished to behold the cornucopia of Julie's biscuit wrappers and empty Chacos bags littering the couch and rug when she wandered into the living room on her way to the toilet. Frankly, I don't know which was more unnerving - the sight of me blubbering in a mound of bio-degradables at 5.20 in the morning or the fact that I was watching an ongoing soccer match wearing an expression which was neither of perplexed disgust or bored apathy.

In short, I have expanded my soccer allegiance to include Les Bleus (because Portugal eliminated Hargreaves) and during the finals on Monday morning I'm going to order pork knuckles and wienerschnitzel and denounce Barilla products loudly in front of all the Italian fans at CHIJMES.

2006-07-05T05:36:00.000+08:00

mood pissed
music MakeDamnSure (Taking Back Sunday)

I hate soccer.

2006-07-04T11:24:00.000+08:00

mood questioning
music Neighbourhood #2 [Laika] (The Arcade Fire)

The Scavengers stopped by Retail Therapy yesterday afternoon bearing a half-downed cup of McDonald's strawberry milkshake which, prior to this, had been shared three ways (between Ping, Daph, and Jess) because that was the norm for anything consumed beyond the perimeters of Scotts' food court, and even then we were sometimes wont to splitting cheng-tng or Yami Yoghurt (often Daph's) among the six of us.

Anyway their visit was extremely entertaining, albeit brief - Ping was fabricating all these stupid stories about how the vanity table was actually possessed by the murderous spirit of a Victorian woman who would materialize in the mirror and grin at you as you were brushing your hair etc. And she thought Dora's candle-holders were vintage lightning rods. At this, Daph and Jess, who were both nearly weeping in exasperation, exclaimed, "BUT THE DESIGN IS CLEARLY CONTEMPORARY!"

Germany VS Italy tonight, my heart is your heart Ballack baby.

On my face live four moles; I think they may be trying to tell me something.

2006-07-02T23:42:00.000+08:00

mood contemplative
music From Her Lips To God's Ears (Against Me)

When a wildly exulted Lee Wenting delivered the news of France's unexpected victory over the Brazilians this morning (coupled with several heavily redundant comments about how Henry was her undisuputed "king" and "something something Zidane something"), the soccer neophyte in me concluded sagely that the tournament's finals will probably be contested between the French and the German team, which, incidentally, is fronted by my very cute and sinewy spouse Michael Ballack.

Re : England VS Portugal yesterday; save for the marvellous dexterity of Hargreaves, the vicious antics of that Infamous Nincompoop formerly known as Wayne Rooney and Crouch's truly ghastly motor skills made for a very, very dismal performance by the English. Now that Owen Hargreaves, Ahn Jung Hwan, and Cho Jae Jin (whatever happened to South Korea seriously) have bowed out from this year's World Cup festivities, Ballack remains the Last Man Standing in my pool of desirable soccer players. Germany is going to wipe the pitch with Italy on Tuesday morning.

Anyway I have been extremely conscientious in my attempt to convince Michelle Wong-Kimura Yu Min that remaining awake at 3 am is a completely reasonable compromise where matches involving Germany are concerned. YEAH SHE HAS PLENTY OF TIME AT HER DISPOSAL TO BID FOR TAKUYA KIMURA VIDEOS (wtf) ON E-BAY BUT NOT TO WATCH MY COMELY HUSBAND LEAD HIS SQUAD TO INTERNATIONAL SOCCER GLORY.

In between his customary Jewel-bashing and nicotine-ingesting, Jon divulged on his very colorful love life over coffee (Wheelock's Coffee Bean outlet this time, because the Ultimate Ice-Blended is. . .well, the ultimate) although I was momentarily distracted by the 04.30 movie trailer beaming from Lido across the road. By the way I totally champion the government's newly-implemented policy (the first and possibly the last time I'll utter such a statement) on designated smoking tables in eateries. Because Hello, Hospice! people like Jon constantly insist on being seated outdoors I frequently leave diners reeking of Eau de Pall Mall.

Scavengers' lunch tomorrow afternoon, and then work.

Jon - I swear bitch if you tell anyone about Ah Morr's Greatest Ambition I will pulverize you with an oar borrowed off a dragon-boater. On a less severe note let's watch 04.30 soon and on a weekday please because movie tickets (like public transport fares) are getting ridiculously sexpensive.

2006-06-30T21:51:00.000+08:00

mood gleeful
music With Whom To Dance? (The Magnetic Fields)

Argentina's going down tonight.

[11.48 pm] Half-time and ~~neither team~~ Germany has yet to net a goal! THIS IS A TRAVESTY.

[12.53 am] It's 1-all, we're in extra time, and my father is lauding over the possibility of an Argentinian victory. I retaliated to such blasphemy by flinging a throw pillow at his head.

[1.58 am] GERMANY - 4, ARGENTINA - 2 to penalties so good ol' Deutschland is through to the semi-finals of the tournament. Klose is THE MAN and Ballack, I will sail 99 luftballons for you.

2006-06-29T23:36:00.000+08:00

mood wry
music Pop Music Of The Future (Say Hi To Your Mom)

More World Cup-conceived anecdotes -

Upon arriving home from work I discovered my father poised immobile at the edge of our couch, gaping keenly at the green-tinged television screen with his mouth slightly agape. I eased myself down at the dining table as noiselessly as possible as I knew that a emphatic and tireless diatribe against FIFA, recalcitrant midfielders, poor Holocaust karma, or anything which could have possibly fuelled the defeat of [XXX team] would ensue at the very first sound I emitted.

"I AM TELLING YOU - " Oh no. " - THE WORLD CUP IS RIGGED! RIGGED, I SAY! WHAT'S THIS ABOUT THE IMPOSITION OF FOUR RED CARDS. . ."

Just then, my mother flopped down onto the couch alongside her sputtering husband and purred, "Dear, your apple slices are in the refrigerator."

My father grunted his acknowledgement before promptly launching back into his tirade of, "THE ODDS WERE VERY HIGH AGAINST FRANCE, BUT NOW THEY HAVE PROVEN THEMSELVES CAPABLE OF QUALIFYING FOR THE SEMI-FINALS AND - "

My mother : *snarling in exasperation* AIYAH! *Storming off huffily*

I've finally gotten around to uploading the remaining snapshots from the Japan trip, as well as those from fairly recent outings with assorted friends. And I'm modifying the text-link to my photo-journal because "Trigger Happy" seemed to have emerged as this millennium's most popularized image caption. Most people have apparently yet to draw a distinction between "trigger" and "shutter" and identify the term for what it really is - unwarranted manifestations of violence. Bashful Broom I'll e-mail you the snapshots from our Misers' Day Out in due time, so fret not!

2006-06-27T23:34:00.000+08:00

mood skeptical
music Ageless Beauty (Stars)

Perhaps it's my irrepressible and inflamed lust for Michael Ballack or even a cultivated appreciation for sports under the clandestine influence of the athletically-inclined Clique members, but the fact that I have been (actively!) engaged in the specifics of the World Cup is rather disconcerting as I seem to nurse a mutual and searing animosity with anything which requires being navigated around a court or pitch. Mitch clearly recognized the incongruity of this as well, for we were speculating fervently about Germany's upcoming match against Argentina before she uttered, "Okay Mori what the fuck are we saying?!"

Anyway when this tournament concludes the toddling fanatic in me would be left to hibernate soundly until the next World Cup in 2010 because European leagues are rather myopic in scope and are, in my opinion, very dull.

Sometimes I think each of us anchor waning ties with certain activities or people simply because we are unable to draw insight from the manual of old experience while apprehending an alternative. The truth is, maybe I've immobilised myself in a time where your jokes were not so savagely un-funny. So we wade sluggishly in unprofitable boredom, because old habits die hard.

2006-06-24T23:01:00.000+08:00

mood testy
music American English (Idlewild)

The Germany match is scheduled to commence in five minutes; EAT DUST, SWEDEN.

This morning Berton remarked that I was exceedingly anal about flaws in pronunciation. While I'm well aware that we each begin the learning process from a common rudimentary platform, having to fathom exactly which "crim-colored" shirt the customer had been describing with fervour can be tiresome.

I wish I saw (some of) my friends more often.

2006-06-23T11:48:00.000+08:00

mood curious
music Twenty-Twenty Surgery (Taking Back Sunday)

I excavated Taking Back Sunday's latest offering, [Louder Now] from the treasure trove of indie abundance at WMUM on Sunday afternoon and it's been set on loop in my desk stereo since. Adam Lazzara doesn't let me down; I Am In Love.

2006-06-21T00:39:00.000+08:00

mood fine
music Which To Bury, Us Or The Hatchet? (Relient K)

GERMANY 3, ECUADOR NIL.

During which I was trading frantic SMS-es with Letick and scoffing at Lehmann's receding hairline (we've been staunch Kahn Kids ever since the previous World Cup in 2002). Wenting, too, phoned me during the second half and proceeded to jabber away merrily about Kaka (AGAIN) and her intention to purchase some exorbitantly-priced soccer boot. Anyway it was truly an exhilarating match save for Kahn's lamentable absence and my Aryan sweetheart Michael Ballack was aptly crowned the evening's Man of the Match.

Seriously. He can buff my trophy anytime.

2006-06-19T12:20:00.000+08:00

mood glum
music When You're Around (Motion City Soundtrack)

Japan; after much obdurate procrastination -

I chalked up yet another bullet on my rather paltry list of Life's Biggest Goals - to return to the Land of the Rising Sun (now that I've cleaved inexorably to the place, its murderous cost of living is a secondary consideration) and ingest copious quantities of sushi and udon until my digestive tract implodes so I wouldn't have to waste my time conjuring up quasi-plausible excuses not to return to Singapore.

We were scheduled to depart on the 4th on a 2340 flight. My mother, however, practically drop-kicked us out of the house and into an idling cab at 8 pm. She inspected the front door about 800 times to ensure that it was securely locked and insisted, after hauling our elephantile suitcases out to the lobby, on scrambling back upstairs to check if the power circuit had been turned off.

For the tech-fiend's interest, the plane was a triple-7 Jumbo although the variations in these numerical configurations were frankly lost on me. My dad was being very exasperating and shaking the hands of his cabin-crew comrades pompously and making unnecessary remarks like, "I see that Alfred is the presiding IFS for this flight" with a knowledgeable air. Also, he seemed to select the most inappropriate of moments to thrust his video camera into our faces, such as when I was attempting to negotiate my way past the aisle passengers (and stomping on a considerable number of toes in the process), or when my sister was on the verge of barfing heartily into her airsick bag.

It being the commencement of summer, the weather was generally cool and crisp; the temperature outdoors hovered between 16 - 21 degrees that week and I wound up donning my coat every single day. Our tour of Disneyland was due to begin 2 hours after our arrival at Narita, and the only ones on our tour group of 35 who seemed to exhibit any strain of enthusiasm at this were the KIDS. Some of them were vaulting across the bus bay, screaming "DISNEYLAND! MICKEY MOUSE! BATMAN!" although Batman was really a Warner Bros. alum while their parents were straggling behind them in a jet-lagged stupor. I did grow fond of the little critters eventually; there was this pint-sized girl who was terribly articulate and a boy named Justin who was constantly shelling out (unsolicited) advice on everything from soba sauce to itinerary modications to footwear for our visit to Fuji. Anyway.

Okay firstly, Tokyo Disneyland really takes the cake - despite its tireless and insatiable emanation of HAPPINESS in the form of periodical parades, animated cajoling from the park's staff, and the responding cheers of its patrons, behaviour liable to initiate all of the Scavengers to an immediate and swift suicide. Yes they actually do CHEER; it mirrored the stereotypically stupid JC orientation, except this one boasted roller-coasters and furry Mickey Mouse headbands. More significantly, the elation of the local people was one of a genuine appreciation for life's satisfactions (the Japanese are an extremely nationalistic band of people) rather than a collective, vacuous glee. The Japanese are decorous and are exceedingly polite. They are courteous in address, they queue without complaint, and are METICULOUSLY NEAT. Which was especially pertinent to me because I am so particularly neurotic about public toilets I actually force people to inspect the toiletpans for me before I enter a cubicle. But in Japan you can practically eat off the restroom floors. Even the toilets at the subway station are spotless and totally (T. O. T. A. L. L. Y.) odor-free. It was exquisite.

Maxine and I stood in line for 2 hours at the Big Thunder Mountain 'coaster but hell, it was totally worth the wait! The Haunted Mansion was pretty entertaining as well, as was Pirates of the Caribbean (!!!) although most of the commentary was recited in Japanese and therefore incomprehensible to us. My father aka Mr. Tarantino berated us for shying from the Space Mountain. One of the ladies from our tour group barfed on that ride and was recounting the incident woefully on the bus while my sister and I sniggered away behind our itinerary sheets. My mother staunchly refused to let me purchase a pair of Mickey Mouse ears from the souvenir store.

Tokyo is a beautiful, beautiful city. So that wasn't the most eloquent of depictions but the simple truth overrides lofty epics of grandeur where this place is concerned. Although it is more heavily industrialized in comparison to say, Yokohama or Kyoto, much of the city actually comprises of quaint, squat wooden buildings and sleepy residences. Due to the frequency of earthquakes many of the structures rarely tower above 10 storeys. In the suburbs, the estates seem subdued and grey. Each morning, businessmen in austere suits glide down the streets on bicycles. The convenience stores predominantly belong to a chain named Lawson's. There is a franchise of diners known as Jonathan's Cafe with flourescent magenta signs beaming from the roof of the establishments HAHAHA. I spied three in Tokyo and one in Yokahama but I failed to photograph them as we were on the coach.

The Ramen museum was okay. My sister customized her own bowl of instant noodles. For 600 yen you can design your own cup noodle packaging with assorted markers, after which you'd have to select a preferred seasoning (miso, seafood, or curry) and three ingredients of your choice for your noodles. The bowl would then be vacuum-sealed and stored in a little inflatable display pouch, all to the relentless, cheerful jabbering of the Japanese teenaged girls who were manning the station. Then it was a 2.5-hour drive down to Lake Kawaguchi where we were allotted hotel rooms with tatami mats and traditional yukata robes to wear to dinner. That was truly fun although the skirt of my yukata totally whipped open without warning in the blusterous wind while we were huddled at the edge of the lake lighting fireworks for the kids.

At 5 am my mother suggested we utilized the hotel's hot spring facilities as most of the other members of the tour group would be asleep and thus we would not have to bear witness to any inadvertant nudity, and vice versa. I was mortified at the thought of having to soak in the buff (wearing swimsuits into the hot spring violates hotel regulations) but I'm glad I did anyway because the outdoor pool was fucking sensational. Okay I'm not sure if anyone is still reading this because half of you are probably retching away at the very thought and the remaining half are probably already dead.

That morning we feasted on a delectable traditional steamboat breakfast. The broth was a miso base and I slurped down three helpings, along with two bowls of porridge, salad, and a side dish of mackerel and omelette. Here I shall digress and expound on the very consequential issue of food. Being provided with buffet meals twice a day really is a mixed blessing. The featured cuisine was commonly a gastronomic combination of both local and Western fare. My dad and I gorged on Japanese curry rice (our favorite!) EVERY DAY. Each morning I would sit down to multiple servings of porridge, buttered toast, ham and/or bacon, scrambled eggs, udon, and salad. (Japanese salad dressing, incidentally, trashes Thousand Island hands down.) Although inhaling a lungful of air in Japan would probably set you back about 10,000 yen, such temerity is compensated by the economical nature of its fast food industry. Vending machines offering premium ice-cream sandwiches at about SGD $1.20 apiece; I even stumbled upon one in a basement parking lot. My sister devoured so many green tea cones she actually became nauseated at the mere mention of ice-cream three of four days into our vacation. A Yoshinoya beef bowl costs about SGD $3, a McDonald's meal about $5. WTF CHEAP SHIT. But if food was such an accessible commodity then bloody hell WHY DON'T I SEE ANY PUDGY JAPANESE?! Our tour guide explained that the Japanese government stipulated that identical meals be served to students in school so children wouldn't differ drastically in physique, but that just sounded like an urban legend on totalitarianarism to me.

So, Fuji. The weather was especially frigid at the 5th observation station as well as on Owakudani. Mt. Fuji was majestic, although not altogether postcard-perfect (the snow at its peak slithered down the range in unbecoming streaks, and the view was occasionally obscured by the onset of a fog) but its colossal form rendered me awestruck. The venue was extremely picturesque, with cart ponies and dogs alongside vendors hawking barbecued kebabs and corn-on-the-cob. Again, the restrooms were spectacularly clean. This one supermarket boasted Mt. Fuji plush toys and breast-shaped chocolates. . .no joke. At the Owakudani Boiling Valley eggs were boiled in the volcano's sulpherous emissions and marketed to tourists. Folklore dictated that eating one would grant your life span a seven year-extension. Upon hearing this, my mother promptly purchased a bag containing six eggs and nagged relentlessly until we dutifully ate them.

While awaiting the arrival of the bullet train at Hamamatsu station my dad became extremely agitated as he could not swivel his body quickly enough to pan the rapidly-advancing vehicle as it approached the platform. Trivia - death by bullet train-collisions are reportedly the most favored means of suicide by world-weary Japanese. I would never concede to such a fate, especially in a place where green tea ice-cream sandwiches cost only $1.30 and are available at practically every street corner.

On Thursday we visited many, many. . .many temples. My personal highlight of the day was chancing upon a litter of ginger kittens burrowed behind a radiator at the Osaka Castle.

The park's tree-lined passageways were heavily reminiscent of [stupid Japanese tearjerker drama] and smouldering blazer-clad Japanese boys. Yes, blazers. At Disneyland a bevy of them sauntered past us with artfully-styled (Gatsby) hair and the wind in their open jackets. If Michelle Wong had been in the vicinity, she would have hyperventilated and died on the spot.

Day 6 was spent at Universal Studios; my favorite exhibit by far was the Jurassic Park ride because of its 30-metre plunge into oblivion, although my mother was shrieking hysterically into my ear half the time. [Jaws] was pretty note-worthy as well - I viewed snippets of the film when I was seven and it seriously scared the beejesus out of me. We were delayed at the E.T. ride's admission booth because the park guide was unable to fathom the name MAGDALENE, let alone Marissa and Maxine, and in the end my mother just told him that all three of us were collectively known as "Yamamoto" and herded us efficiently through the turnstile.

I was in a funk on Saturday because I was totally reluctant to leave. I think my mom noticed this because she bought me my last green tea ice-cream sandwich at Kansai Airport without remarking pointedly that it was the 20th dessert or so I'd consumed in a week and that my "face was probably morphing into a green tea" I really don't understand her figurative expressions sometimes.

More show-and-tell here.

Japan was really THE BOMB (okay pun not intended). I'm homesick for its green tea cones and impeccable toilet sanitation and I want to go back.

2006-06-18T01:32:00.000+08:00

mood ill
music You Held The World In Your Arms (Idlewild)

This evening while asphyxiating our arteries with Kenny Rogers' greasy fare Jon and myself were blithely indulging in our ritualistic mockery of the Jewels when Jon, convulsing with laughter (as usual), flung his head back and cracked his skull against that of a completely unsuspecting diner seated at the adjacent table. At this, the unfortunate party proceeded to knead her scalp, her lips pursed in a wounded "O" of pain. Jon apologized profusely, gabbling like a complete idiot while her boyfriend glowered at us menacingly. I, on the other hand, was in near-hysterics and couldn't finish my serving of corn kernels.

Then the following exchange transpired at Starbucks -

"Eh would you rather be good-looking but dumb, or intelligent but physically unattractive?"

Jon : *pondering deeply* HMMM. Stupid and smart, or pretty and smart?

There you go.

Jon - HAHAHA eh don't bludgeon me please. Nah we'll only call it quits when I wheel a baby carriage into Kenny Rogers alongside my spouse from 235guys.blogspot.com. Or when you become a janitor at the corporate building at which "S____'s Bizarre" is housed. And I really do love the crazy strand of beads you bought me from Bali!!! Always my best bud.

And the 2006 Vans' Warped Tour compilation discs are currently available on the market, AT LONG LAST. $16.95 for 51 tracks is good shit indeed.

2006-06-16T10:32:00.000+08:00

mood hurried
music Wake Up (The Arcade Fire)

Firstly, to Mabel, Jon, and Mitch - welcome home, drones!!!

It's been approximately one week since the lavish commencement of what has been touted as civilization's most hyped-about soccer extravaganza (although the notion of 22 adult males grappling over a ball being indicative of superior human intellect totally eludes me), and my father, one of the event's more susceptible victims, has been diagnosed as one who is effectively delirious with World Cup fever.

However, I confess to having been as undeviatingly attentive to match statistics and play commentaries as he'd been. The astonishment of my peers at this little nugget of information was palpable - ranging from stunned disbelief (Daph) to euphoric enthusiasm (Lee Wenting, who extended her approval by reciprocating with about 100 text messages highlighting Kaka's apparently inimitable physique and his status as the spokesmodel for Armani Jeans). But lest you assume I've made an unsavoury metamorphosis into a Touchsoccerbabiez advocate (food for thought - what is Touch Soccer anyway?), here's why -

Michael Ballack, Cho Jae Jin, Owen Hargreaves, and Ahn Jung Hwan give me the capacity to stomach my father's breathless, interminable definition of the term "off-side", normally punctuated by random and frightening bouts of hoarse bellowing whenever any player strays within a 200-metre radius of either goalpost.

A rather impromptu lunch appointment with Broom yesterday afternoon at Chinatown was capped by a bargain-netting expedition to Arab and subsequently Sungei Road (SUPER SAVERS' PARADISE), made rather laborious by the oppressive midday heat. We had wry recollections of the previous World Cup, which coincided with our Secondary 3 academic year. Mitch would launch into jarring chants of "OH, KOREA!" much to the annoyance of Ms. Yap while Swat salivated over the totally obscure Turkish team. The especially zealous fanatics like Aileen and Nad Nor would frequently be seen roaming the aisles of 3/8 listlessly looking as though the world had ended whenever [XYZ team] failed to qualify for the tournament's [XYZ tier].

The premiere installment of vacation photographs from Japan are up. Anyway very predictably I wound up looking like pangsaiz87@hotmail.com in the bulk of them. Part deux and commentary at a later date because I'm an incorrigible sloth.

2006-06-11T00:59:00.000+08:00

mood drowsy
music The Gift (Angels & Airwaves)

Like barf permeating the caffeine-soaked interior of a Boeing cabin, HERE I AM!

Japan was a singular experience; the tour intinerary was invariably hectic and really, there are only so many Shinto shrines one could fawn over before ennui encompasses the mind completely, but my pathological nitpicking aside, I enjoyed myself immensely. The natives were extremely hospitable and SO DARN CHEERFUL the populace would probably put the infamous Happy Spoon to shame. Anyway, I'll expound more on my vacation when I actually get around to uploading my digital snapshots. Cheerio for now.

2006-06-04T12:32:00.000+08:00

mood enthusiastic
music La La Lie (Jack's Mannequin)

Because I've got friends who LA LA LA LIE! to help me pull through.

Stills from boisterous socials with my cuddly comrades; dating back several weeks or so.

And Jonathan Ian Seto (presently known as the Vivo Nocturn), here's one especially for you to alleviate the internship traumas.

(Because I know narcissism is your antidote and you were so delighted to have uncovered that freak successive-capture function on my camera.)

My flight departs around midnight for the Land of the Rising Inflationary Rates. I'll be sending you lot much holographic love (or conversely, via whatever new-fangled means of transcontinental communication they have conjured up over there) while hob-nobbing with the local deer population in Kyoto. Until Saturday the 10th, be good!

2006-06-01T23:47:00.000+08:00

mood indifferent
music Saeglopur (Sigur Ros)

Working at fairly upscale retail venues such as Wheelock Place offers ceaseless opportunities for interaction with an increasingly eminent tribe of misguided halfwits who are staunchly convinced of their statuses as Yankee incarnates. These individuals communicate via a strange linguistical hybrid of local colloquialism and lilting British or American accents (both of which to be considered synonymous). THEN, while blathering away to their often politely perplexed ang-moh companions, their feeble facades are almost always betrayed by a particularly artful term or two - irreverent little word monsters such as "quiz,", "Scavenger" (if we had ten cents for every mangled variation encountered. . .), "will"/"wail", et cetera.

To numerous patrons of Retail Therapy, I am compelled to respond to a plethora of odd monikers which include the especially aggravating "Melissa". The less perservering of them placated themselves by addressing me as "Girlhowmuchisthatshirt" and "Girlcangivemediscount".

So this afternoon a prime specimen of Pseudo Ang-moh sashayed in with the omnipresent bevy of expats and was grumbling incessantly about the unfavorable weather conditions. "Oh Mah Gawwwd it was ray-nin' so ha-vi-lee, but at least I had my - "

"AHM-breh-LAH."

There was a disconcerting pause from the expats. Unfazed, she continued, "So anyway, I wiz wal-kin' down the street with my AHM-breh-LAH and. . ." while I (along with one or two members of the expat party, I was willing to bet) was huddled by the Tocca display slowly turning purple with suppressed hilarity.

As vitriolic as this may seem such dignity-effacing observations, particularly those involving idiots such as Umbrella Woman here, make sitting behind a counter with nothing but a package of Oreos for my amusement much more enjoyable.

According to Mabel the smouldering ~~greaser~~ nice young man who serenaded Ping at Timbre (and who is to date the sole pub-performer who has not launched into a generic rendition of [Cannonball] in lieu of [The Blower's Daughter] upon its request) during her birthday celebration is Jonathan Leong of [Idol] fame. Unfortunately, the astigmatic Scavengers weren't able to corroborate this as none of us were sporting our million-degree prescriptive lenses during the dinner.

Weekend itinerary - a steamboat meal @ Bugis with the Clique tomorrow evening, "Saaa-van-gers" (hahaha Mabel) supper on Pay Day Saturday (at long last), and then I'll be off in a plane in a passage to a place where kappa maki and voice-automated toiletseats reign supreme.

2006-05-30T00:27:00.000+08:00

mood fine
music One More Night (Stars)

I had the television on while assembling my belongings for work; it was BATB in all its histrionic glory and TAYLOR IS NOT DEAD. Also, Brooke's bosom seems to be ballooning incrementally with each progressive episode.

(Boy this Blog has indeed lapsed into a state of intellective degeneration.)

I shelled out $70 on the novels I'd recklessly ordered from Maz during my (fortunately) abbreviated stint at MPH. Doubtless they were appropriate investments of substance, but ho-lee. Plus my copy of [Lolita] was sporting its newly-circulated paperback cover by Penguin Books - a tawdry comic of a gaunt female in a little pink tank suit which lamentably evoked something conceived by Sophie fucking Kinsella.

Chanced upon Krystle Tan Ah Moy while perusing Paperchase merchandise at Borders and we launched into our habitual Sec. 3-bantering almost instinctively. Ever the scholastic mogul, our Ah Moy has gained enrollment into the Engineering & Sdiuiajsldkj Industrial Ajshdjkafa programme at NUS, truly an admirable feat if its course's prestige is assessed against its title which already comprises of about 800 syllabels.

To J - I may not be aware of the bitter specifics but materializing in the near future will be a person who seeks order in your neurotism, John Donne in your flagrant vocabulary of Hokkien profanities, and mutual acquiesence for his loathing for babies and old people. I wish that for all of us and our respective idiosyncrasies.

2006-05-29T14:43:00.000+08:00

mood annoyed
music The Mixed Tape (Jack's Mannequin)

Last night I was made privy to one of the most prized jokes I'd encountered in a long time. Sorry man, but your "broadening perspective" (which is puerile at best) just doesn't cut it for me. Maybe you are inclined to perpetuating your ignorance alongside your like-minded friends, incubating yourselves in a reverie you've dubbed Alone With Our Happiness, but that really isn't my problem anymore.

2006-05-27T14:54:00.000+08:00

mood indolent
music Hooplas Involving Circus Tricks (Say Hi To Your Mom)

I was jolted abruptly from a potent Max Evans-infused slumber yesterday morning by a howitzer-like voice bawling, "HAPPY FOUNDER'S DAY!!!" to the pallid drone of the obligatory Oh Hear Our Prayerrrrrrrrr Most Holy Father Barre song by the upper secondary choir members. Scowling, I yanked my blinds open and spied a pulsating mosaic of white-and-blue, from which emanated a certifiably deafening eruption of NOISE - the tinny, slightly bashful "Yay's" of the pint-sized primary-schoolers to whom the hip-slung belts and uninhibited "WOOHOO's!" of their secondary-school counterparts were considered wonderfully uncouth, antics of apparent bravado to be momentarily shelved and contemplated only in the future.

So Mrs. Something-or-Other (I believe it was Mrs. Drysdale) resumed bellowing enthusiastically into the microphone while the jubilant, impossibly-upbeat piano opening to school song peaked for a millisecond, then faltered over the roar of excitable girls. It was a tune I hadn't heard in nearly three years, hadn't sung along to in about eight. . .around the same time we began trading house badges and ceasing to wear our orange name-tags to class. It would have inspired fond, nostalgic recollections if that hullabaloo had occurred at a less unearthly hour. Living ten metres from my former school does present its fair share of pros and cons.

Anyway I observed with mild indignance that in all my ten years as an IJ student I do not recall Founder's Day having been celebrated with such fanfare! Hello. All I remember from the day's festivities in Secondary 4 was crouching sullenly on my three square inches of yellow sheet pauncho c/o Peck Hiang and her overzealous cost-reducing schemes, watching an industrious Quant construct a UV-repellent barricade from our E-Math and Biology textbooks while Mitch wolfed down all our complimentary Gardenia buns and prowled the aisles segregating classes in search for more.

Perhaps I should take a leaf out of Mitch's book and simply publish this Blog as a frothy narrative; regular, detached accounts of What I Did Today mundanity. Apparently people can't comprehend its contents half the time, and anyway I suppose it's more prudent to relegate more ponderous issues to my old notebooks and even older friends. I'm sure it'd be infinitely more enjoyable navigating a site where the air isn't thick with Emo.

TV; bye.

2006-05-26T00:00:00.000+08:00

mood blithe
music Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want (The Smiths)

I say garnish your Scotts' beef noodle bowl, for there undeniably exists a cause for much exultation! As of yesterday afternoon, the paralysing apprehension and unease regarding the reception of university letters of offer for both self and peers alike were duly dissipated. All of the NUS-bound Scavengers have been formally accepted into their respective faculties, so fraternising with or (God forbid) sporting face-paints alongside ~ TOUCH ANGELZ ~ or the Slamdunk Brigade (yo) could only indicate our grudging and torpid participation in some cruel and unusual extra-curricular impositions. HELLO, INERTIA!

2006-05-23T00:17:00.000+08:00

mood guilty
music Spit On A Stranger (Pavement)

And then the nurse comes round
And everyone will lift their heads
But I'm thinking of what Sarah said -
That "Love is watching someone die."

I gotta curtail my susceptibility to. . .a Broad, Bad Spectrum of Things.

2006-05-20T01:25:00.000+08:00

mood amused
music Let's Get Ready To Rumble (PJ + Duncan)

mabel says:
no no say this..

mabel says:
"they go to sch and play sports. Not go to sch to play sports"

mabel says:
that's the fundamental difference

I'd recently excavated a set of elusive PJ + Duncan MP3s, circa 1994, from its more contemporary counterparts and an currently chortling at the duo's gung-ho proclamation of "LET'S GET READY TO RUMBBBLE!" while reminiscing about elaborate productions of Power Rangers skits with Olivia and watching our classmates pee in class because they were too bashful to seek the teacher's consent for a toilet break with fascinated revulsion.

Let's get ready to rumble
Let's get ready to rumble
Get ready get steady and rumble
EVERYBODY RUMBLE!

2006-05-19T22:50:00.000+08:00

mood displeased
music A Kiss To Make It Better (Say Hi To Your Mom)

The one fundamental flaw in us all exists in the irrepressible greed of self-righteousness. In the blistering brushfire of an argument all possibility of question-marks corrupting our personal judgment becomes increasingly remote; Simon Says apologize. At this your throat constricts with despotic longing, you want it to be recited like a blank cheque made out in your favour, another's property which you have extorted and used to your burgeoning advantage.

KD Lian is seriously cheesing me off.

2006-05-16T22:36:00.000+08:00

mood weary
music If You Don't, Don't (Jimmy Eat World)

Dear Everybody,

2006-05-14T02:50:00.000+08:00

mood lethargic
music Holland, 1945 (Neutral Milk Hotel)

Work today was, as it ordinarily is, rather obtuse - Crystal and I exploited every opportunity availed by the periodical absence of patrons to salivate over Edison Chen music videos on her iBook. While we did emit awestruck squeaks at his breezy query of, "Are you my angel?" I reluctantly conceded that he was indeed a rather appalling singer. Anyway.

The Scavengers' excursion was predictably raucous and was pleasant enough save for its paltry attendance. Then after our customary dinner at Scotts' it was homeward- and Coco Latte-bound for Jess and Ping respectively, so Juli, Min, and myself stationed ourselves at Il Cafe de Roma, guzzling what allegedly was the establishment's signature beverage for Juli, Passionfruit Sprite (eh which by the way Juliana Lau any culinary idiot could effortlessly concoct with passionfruit concentrate and some Sprite).

Also, at Juli's relentless insistence, a testament to her Photoshop adroitness -

The much-coveted [Roswell] Season 2 DVD collection is at long last in my overzealous possession. I watched four episodes in succession and my retinas are smarting.

2006-05-12T00:07:00.000+08:00

mood indifferent
music The Book of Love (The Magnetic Fields)

Easily one of the most trying and insurmountable characteristics of the retail industry is having to maintain an appropriate degree of decorum and courtesy regardless (and not "irregardless", children) of our patrons' dispositions. Because I seem to possess an abominable perma-scowl, as many of my friends have attested, this particular criterion is especially laborious.

One has to credit our customers though, for their rich and boundless innovation. They seem to have a myriad of ploys at their disposal where securing unauthorized discount privileges are concerned. Some wheedle. Other enquire meekly. These attempts, while largely fruitless, are easily and reasonably diffused, and are occasionally even fairly endearing (if patron is aesthetically similar to Edison Chen).

But in the name of all that is Roswell please. Do. Not. Pout.

OKAY, CHINA WOMEN, THIS MEANS YOU. YOUR DEPRIVATION OF A PRACTICALLY NEGLIGIBLE 5% DISCOUNT DOES NOT ENTITLE YOU TO POUTING AND WHINING IN SUCH AN OBSCENELY HIGH-PITCHED REGISTER MY BLADDER QUIVERS UPON BEING PRIVY TO IT. DO YOU THINK THIS IS FUCKING TIANANMEN. DO! YOU! THINK! THIS! IS! TIANANMEN?!?!?!

Well, I was considerably incensed by this exemplary patron who, as her lilting accent indicated, hailed from mainland China. But do not insinuate, my comrades (Mao!), that I am unjustly adverse to these nationals. I mean, I'm presuming our ancestors once utilized the same laundry brook back in Canton in 62 BC.

Anyway, she was especially keen on a pink dress and was inclined to purchasing it. She scrutinized the article of clothing as she though inspecting it for flesh-eating microbes, then declined it, insisting that she wanted a brand-new piece. To which I explained, not for the first time, that the item was currently the only one available in its size. She scuffed the toe of her sandal against the carpeting, peered inquisitively up at me, and THEN. It materialized in all its nauseating glory - THE CHINA POUT. "I only like brand-new pieces!" and I was beaming and nodding politely as though my patience was not being tested to the absolute extremities of human endurance.

This proceeded for a good fifteen minutes or so, her earnest re-iteration of "I only like brand-new pieces."

"I only like brand-new pieces."

"Well, woman, I don't have your fucking brand-new piece, but would you settle for my blood instead?" But of course I never truly articulated that because the customer's always right, so says the ruthless mantra, so I all but bowed her from the store.

Insightful and coherent this entry most certainly is not, so I shall keep myself suitably occupied with the profundity of tracking Ant & Dec (formerly PJ & Duncan) on Ares. I gave you my love, an eternal love, and LET'S GET READY TO RUMBLE. It was the very first record I owned, back when music was largely circulated in flawed cassette tapes. Anyway, Scavengers tomorrow evening, and I'm due to pick up [Roswell]'s Season 2 DVD set from Gramophone on Saturday, so save for the odious frequency of China pouts, I'm feeling fine.

2006-05-09T12:49:00.000+08:00

mood tense
music Lay Lady Lady (Magnet)

I scorn resignation, but then again, I really hate trying.

2006-05-07T12:12:00.000+08:00

mood jubilant
music In This Home On Ice (Clap Your Hands Say Yeah)

Ten Top Trivia Tips about The Scavengers!

Bees visit over three million flowers to make a single kilogram of the Scavengers.
You burn more calories sleeping than you do watching the Scavengers.
During severe windstorms, the Scavengers may sway several feet to either side!
If a snake is born with two heads, the heads will fight over who gets the Scavengers.
All gondolas in Venice must be painted black unless they belong to the Scavengers!
California is the biggest exporter of the Scavengers in the world!
The Scavengers have little need for water and are capable of going for months without drinking at all!
The Scavengers kept at the window will keep vampires at bay.
The Scavengers can't sweat!
The Scavengers are the traditional gift for a couple on their third wedding anniversary.

(And Bullet #2 just about defines us succinctly as the planet's most lackadaisical band of girlfriends.)

Prior to this I ran a query on my infinitely sexy guitar-toting spouse.

Ten Top Trivia Tips about Deryck Whibley!

Only one person in two billion will live to be Deryck Whibley!
Deryck Whibley does not have toes.
The smelly fluid secreted by skunks is colloquially known as Deryck Whibley!
Deryck Whibley can not regurgitate.
Twenty-eight percent of Microsoft's employees are Deryck Whibley!
The air around Deryck Whibley is superheated to about five times the temperature of the sun.
Two thirds of the world's eggplant is grown in Deryck Whibley!
In his entire life, Deryck Whibley will produce only a twelfth of a teaspoon of honey.
It's bad luck to put Deryck Whibley on a bed.
The Vikings believed that the Northern lights were caused by Deryck Whibley as he rode out to collect warriors slain in battle.

. . .the findings of which I did not appreciate at all.

2006-05-06T01:04:00.000+08:00

mood dour
music The District Sleeps Alone Tonight (The Postal Service)

Pragmatism and its lacerations of truth are mordant weapons of thought, but when the pressure mounts we hastily repatriate these pariahs; welcome back! A homage to pessimism. All hail frigid, irrefutable fact because ultimately, blithe hope is nothing if not a bitter vice.

1) There is no such word as 'irregardless'.

2) There are 1 million ants to every person in the world.

3) Your amiable waiters really do spit in your food.

4) The set of plastic pieces stopping the ends of shoelaces are known as aglets.

5) I wish I were taller.

2006-05-02T00:20:00.000+08:00

mood wry
music Hoppipolla (Sigur Ros)

The occasional anomaly in all devastatingly brilliant music is exhibited in its capacity to render one increasingly morose and despondent despite the optimist's philosophy featured in the MP3 in question. I'd always presumed that this was chiefly confined to the likes of Coldplay's [Fix You], anything by Iron and Wine, and rap music (the prerequisite references to pimping, clubs, and breasts being sufficiently depressing as it is). But then I found [Hoppipolla], and it made the midnight Post cereal and MSN an irresistible pairing. So after the magic has waned they rebuke me sternly for channeling the archetypical Emo Fuck and cringing at bad Blogs, like stop wasting your time and get to sleep.

2006-05-01T01:40:00.000+08:00

mood bemused
music Fortress (Pinback)

So yesterday evening the five of us were huddled almost conspiratorially around a table at Crystal Jade's Lido outlet, our furtive dispositions stemming from the self-dubbed controversy of the following incidents -

1) A startling run-in with an statuesque alien who is technically an unauthorized resident of this country at present - oh the intrigue!!! - and who is incidentally exceedingly knowledgeable where torrid soap opera couplings are concerned.

2) Guffawing (rather unkindly I must confess) at the verbal mangling of the word "gnaw".

3) Conveying our supposedly discreet requests for the waitresses at the restaurant to present Daphne with her birthday brownie slice without arousing the latter's suspicions regarding the surprise (this failed spectacularly).

4) Being scared shitless by a pint-sized elderly lady who hobbled past us squeaking, "Toilet. . .toilet. . ." en route to the public restrooms.

Anyway Daphne Jansz, I certainly hope you enjoyed our humble company and modest accomodation. . .happy 19th Miss Machine!

Before I engage in the indulgent rarity of sleeping in - a compilation of the planet's most prized pick-up lines, especially for the Scavengers because of the subject's exposition over Starbucks yesterday, but also for anyone else who appreciates the occasional swab of inanity.

1) I feel like Richard Gere; I'm standing next to a Pretty Woman.

2) If you're a booger I'll pick you first.

3) If you were my Dairy Queen, I'll be your Burger King.

4) Your father must have been a hunter because he sure caught a fox.

5) If you were words on a page you must have been the fine print.

6) You're like a dictionary, you add meaning to my life.

7) Excuse me, do you have any raisins? How about a date?

8) Are you a bird-watcher? Cos you've got a nice set of hooters.

9) You're so hot, you must be the real reason behind global warming.

10) Greetings and salivations.

2006-04-28T02:30:00.000+08:00

mood fine
music Oh God (The Most Serene Republic)

A characteristically uneventful day, but a gratifying one nonetheless.

After being the cowering recipient of sundry pointed glowers from Dora, I managed to net a sizeable sale from a woman clearly affluent (and lunatic) enough to fork out $1155 with the air of unbridled luxury, as though she was merely purchasing thirty-cent Chupa Chups from Wild Wild Junction.

Maz ambled in at about a quarter to eight, leafed through an errant copy of Catalog, and predictably, felt compelled to snigger heartily at everything within his field of vision. He then proferred the first of many titles I'd ordered on a whim when we were still incarcerated alongside the Female Colony at MPH - Empire Falls, Catcher In The Rye, and Perks; pretty comprehensive stuff. Nothing transcending four syllables. I mean, I'll be the first to confess I totally abdicated Milan Kundera's [Ignorance] after two chapters. No one could possibly internalize Kundera, unless they're frighteningly acute Literature prodigies like Bernard or Shar.

Those martians aside, there are people who relish spouting abstruse quotes or littering names to bolster their flagging egos. For example, while idling at Borders several evenings ago I witnessed a pair of SAJC students bellowing assorted titles and poets at syncopated intervals and annoying many yuppies seated at the Business & Management aisle considerably.

Student #1 : *dreamily* OOH, BLAKE. I LOVE BLAKE. OOH, LORD BYRON. IS IT "BYE-RON" OR "BRYAN".

Student #2 : Ah! Uh -

Student #1 : Oh, Emily Dickinson! Frost! Oh I hate Frost.

(Note that the aforementioned names are listed alphabetically, as are the volumes on the shelf.)

Student #1 : *simpering* Why, this piece is all in French! I don't understand a single word of it! *Proceeds to recite loudly*

Student #2 : *not wanting to be outdone* Isn't Baudelaire French too? *Reeling off several stanzas conveniently from the college's Eugene O'Neil compulsory text*

At this, Student #1 yanks a publication of Chinese poetry from the shelf launches into an excruciating monologue featuring an alarming symphony of chings and chongs.

While Student #2 struggles for an intellectual retaliation, Student #1 re-commences her public system address of Borders' entire poetry inventory. "Ooh! Ah! Ah! Poe! Stephen Crane!" Then - "OOH! SONNETS!!!"

It was a rather entertaining albeit exasperating observation. Mabel and I were laughing like fuck and K snorted, "Poseurs!" in her signature growl of contempt which, once upon a time, were directed chiefly at us. Welcoming displacement! I rather miss K, by the way, and how she used to take us to Starbucks' Holland Village outlet because the variety at PSA was "severely limited".

P - We are the Children of Delusion and are thus entitled to the fleeting bliss of imagined infidelity. Okay?!

Scavengers - Eh guys I'm proposing a swim + videos at my place next week so do pick a date if you're interested! And unless we're taking photographs of Leonardo pouting on the beach again, BYO DVD's.

2006-04-24T11:39:00.000+08:00

mood grim
music In The Backseat (The Arcade Fire)

These albums will not curtail global poverty, nor would they by any means lubricate your opportunities to securing Microsoft-tycoon status, but listen to them and you just might in the process disregard the small but relentlessly irksome realities of life, like leaky sinuses and how the pantry at work is constantly out of cream crackers.

As fruitless and infantile as this remark may seem, the omnipresence of cosmetic non-personality and unjustified reverence of such is becoming increasingly stifling; the blind leading the blind in a lavish parade of vacuous futility.

2006-04-21T13:47:00.000+08:00

mood peevish
music Music To Watch Girls By (Andy Williams)

If our Social Studies textbooks esteemed English to be one of the world's most vastly-utilized link languages, then divulge, O Curriculum Planning & Development Division [MOE, Singapore] - the reasons behind the mystifying proliferation of heinous errors such as -

"Your such an idiot. . ."

"I love ure shirt", and

"He do not understand instructions."

Thus let us champion the linguistical fortifications of the PESA campaign, people. Not only do you wholly thrive from its innate goodness, your dedication to its cause will not in any way foster the clandestine construction of gold-plated bathroom facillities, I don't think.

My already-deplorable patience is wearing very thin.

2006-04-16T12:17:00.000+08:00

mood placated
music Let's Talk About Spaceships (Say Hi To Your Mom)

I am not at present contending with a malevolent STD, nor do I attribute my celebrated sense of sartorial individualism to Topshop and Forever 21, but I may potentially die prematurely owing to the dogged persistence of passive smoking, therefore I assure you I am a very cool person.

2006-04-12T00:43:00.000+08:00

mood unnerved
music I'm Sorry I Love You (The Magnetic Fields)

To stifle the monotony of retail enslavement I frequently doodle on the pristine backs of discarded sales slips. While coloring in liquid-paper canals I pondered upon the fanged complications of marital ~~life~~ strife. I envisaged myself falling asleep alongside a phantasmal man, who, after twenty, thirty years would still present as stolid and platonic an appeal as a next-door neighbour whom you never truly liased with save for evasive backyard talk. Perhaps this reverie was not, as one would glibly assume, an odious insight to the consequence of flawed judgement, but rather a direct prognostication of what would surely transpire.

Of course, I still cling resolutely to the universal pipe dream of the James Franco-duplicate who can broil me a mean sirloin while remaining on a corporate payroll, and who would be fully amenable to dissecting [Roswell] episode storylines and pulverizing vacuous Topshop Girls in the name of prevailing love.

2006-04-08T00:49:00.000+08:00

mood surly
music Rebellion [Lies] (The Arcade Fire)

I would have maintained a reasonably agreeable disposition if the day hadn't retired on such an irrefutably rancid note. Why do so many individuals thrive in playing second fiddle to blemished, spectral idols?

Anyway, prosaic and entirely pointless snippets of information to efface this entry's emo-"999-is-666-scripted-upside-down" synergy. My half-shift at Retail Therapy commences at approximately 2.30 pm tomorrow afternoon so do mobilise yourself in the vicinity, preferably bearing free food. My fingers are presently smarting from wresting with irreverent eye-pins while constructing P's lariat and I swear I'll choke her with it should she exhibit anything less than manic elation upon its presentation.

Now to subsist on [Roswell] and chocolate pastilles. Yessiree, the ticket to a fulfilling spinsterhood.

Now here's the sun, it's alright!
Now here's the moon, it's alright!
Now here's the sun, it's alright!
Now here's the moon, it's alright!

But everytime you close your eyes
LIES! LIES!

(Come on hide your lovers underneath the covers.)

2006-04-06T00:45:00.000+08:00

mood contemplative
music Nothing Like You And I (The Perishers)

Over grossly-inflated Starbucks beverages this afternoon Pinggie and myself managed to conceive an eclectic assortment of discussion themes - the more abstruse expositions on religion, Life, and Death welding seamlessly with the frivolity of Blog voyeurism and profane fifteen-year-old fantasies. Our notions and gripes were so extraordinarily similar the exchange could very well have been a multiloquent monologue. How disconcerting it is to acquaint ourselves with the possibility that our conversations would probably orbit chiefly around bills, marital woes (those would be innumerable), and remedies for diaper rash in ten to twelve years' time.

As it is, half of the Scavengers can't utilize public transport to save their lives. How am we supposed to grapple with the alien ambiguities of voting and CPF???

I wish I were able to conduct more discourses like these with the people I know, instead of having to justify my rights to wearing denim overalls and unwarranted criticism.

2006-04-03T00:23:00.000+08:00

mood idle
music Neighbourhood #1 [Tunnels] (The Arcade Fire)

Following the termination of my psychologically-paralysing bondage to Lovely DeArt @ Thomson Plaza, I have been wholly indulging my expended self in recreational activities which bear little association to Royal Copenhagen collectible plates or lace-swathed lamps, thank God.

Saturday denoted Belle's departure to Sydney for her second-year CMM internship assignment as well as the Mabel's reception of a surprise birthday cake at the airport's viewing gallery. Mabel and I guffawed when Belle informed us huffily that the collective weight of her luggage exceeded the stipulated limit by a good 10 kilograms or so. As we waved frantically at her receding (and impossibly statuesque) figure, Belle's mother proclaimed abruptly amidst our chorus of goodbye's, "Actually, this is quite a significant moment. It almost marks the end of her teen years!"

Bon voyage, Belle-o!

Then transpired the harrowing experience of nestling in the backseat of Shuchua's car with a horde of garrulous Scavengers, careening through traffic like a torpedo on warped speed.

Daph : *authoritatively* Everyone just chill out and trust Shuch's road aptitude. He's so self-centered he wouldn't dream of endangering his own life by driving recklessly.

Shuch : *almost conversationally* Eh. My vision has blurred suddenly. I think my contact lenses shifted. *Swiping at his eyes with both hands*

Everyone : *shrieking* SHUCHUA!!!

Min : *airily* Aiyah it isn't so bad when we're travelling on the expressway at night!

*Silence*

Ping : Hey guys, over here! *Wielding her camera and snapping away blithely*

Shuch : PING, WILL YOU STOP THAT - the flash is unbelievably distracting! And. . .hey where are we?

Me : *surveying the advancing skyline* Wait. WHAT ARE WE DOING IN KALLANG???

Mabel : *helpfully* Oh I know where this is!

*Silence*

Shuch : Well where is it???

Daph : Should I go to town? Should I go to Liquid Room? Should I go home? Should I go -

Shuch : Which direction should we ought to be headed in?

Ping : *promptly* Oh, turn left!

Shuch : Okay -

Mabel : EH WAIT WAIT WAIT ARE YOU SURE HE ISN'T SUPPOSED TO MAKE A RIGHT TURN?

Ping : No, Shuch, turn right. No, left!

Shuch : #*&%)$#%*&!&$

*Car lurching spasmodically*

Everyone : #($#%&*#%#*)!&;#$(&*#&$)#$(#*%#&$#$&!

Pawing through the merchandise at Holland Village's factory outlet this afternoon was indeed a momentous rite of passage for Jon the Spendthrift (which by Andrea's heavily-flawed definition was indicative of "a person who is extremely thrifty"). Later, the three of us attained gastronomic nirvana at a famed bah kut teh outlet in Balestier and were regaled by the humbling presence of "Avril Lavigne" and Bushy-Browed Nicotine Boy. Our post-meal Starbucks run coincided with the establishment of J.A.M., an accomplished organization structured to obliterate the galaxy of bad poets and pseudo-artists.

The J.A.M. occupational devices in all their exclusivity.

An entire week of insatiable indolence at my disposal before I'm due at Retail Therapy on the tenth; I'm as happy as a clam.

2006-03-28T23:35:00.000+08:00

mood spent
music Baby Blue (The Early November)

Two evenings ago I vegetated irreverently in front of the television set with "Closer" and a partially-devoured bag of Doritos and HOLY COW not only were the week-old nachos still crisp and palatable after being excavated from the pit of my canvas bag, the film was - bar none - positively unsurpassable (with [The Blower's Daughter] further amplifying its rapture quotient). The brutal honesty of the setting's reality was without a doubt one of the most unflinching and poignant I'd ever witnessed in a movie, "Munich" being a similar contender, save for the unapologetically grotesque footage of bomb-dismembered limbs and Israelites being rifle-gunned through the mouth.

"Everybody wants to be happy."

"Depressives don't. They want to be unhappy to confirm they're depressed. If they were happy they couldn't be depressed anymore. They'd have to go out into the world and live. Which can be depressing."

Suck on that, you emo-goth delusionals of the insipid Simple Plan generation.

2006-03-25T01:44:00.000+08:00

mood sanguine
music Lullaby (Jack Johnson)

Disregarding my momentary digruntlement when Grace insisted on scouring all the English teasets and sponging dust from the display cabinets with a crazed vigour, the day was a reasonably pleasant one. I managed to stave off my ordinarily prerequisite chocolate doughtnut - not only is my face beginning to bear an uncanny resemblance to a slab of moonrock, it really is quite embarrassing when a customer gestures for assistance while I'm in the seminal process of wolfing down that fried bread-ring of bliss. For one, the raised eyebrows and smirks were hardly products of my poised articulation and extensive merchandise knowledge (as I'd so falsely presumed), but rather derived from the smudges of chocolate rimming my upper lip.

Grace spent a good fifteen minutes or so methodically dissecting hapless canned sardines, staunchly refusing to consume "the kidneys and intestines" in her sandwich. This from the girl who attributes her existence's worth to international buffets and Burger King's Taro Turnovers!

We barreled promptly from the shop at 8.30 pm because there was a sale on nice patterned underwear at a neighbouring lingerie store! How decidedly Liew Tee of us.

A half-shift at Retail Therapy tomorrow afternoon, capped by drinks + live music with The Clique. Awwright.

2006-03-22T22:17:00.000+08:00

mood gluttonous
music Tainted Love (Soft Cell)

With most of my peers agonizing over university application essays and "What the fuck does the term 'supporting documents' entail?" rapidly emerging to become
what seems to be the most vital query of the month, I've been compelled to envision the infant phases of tertiary education founded upon rather shaky fragments channeling through the grapevine.

Truth is, I can reel off a list of individuals whom I'd really prefer not to extend my acquaintance with when the academic semester commences. Besides, I'm certain our enmities are wholly mutual.

This being said, I hope we'd each get what we want.

On a more enlivening note, the Scavengers will be jetting off (probably on a budget flight, and subsisting on instant noodle-dinners) to Australia come June; a final fling with the girlfriends before scholastic responsibilities dictate our time once more. Let's show those koalas how we've secured our survival beneath the poverty line.

Belle - You never mentioned anything about hobnobbing with EDWIN YEO you impudent stilt!!!

2006-03-20T23:49:00.000+08:00

mood gratified
music The Reasons (The Weakerthans)

Jon's premature birthday celebration truly took the cake (pun fully intended) in its execution save for sundry alarming glitches (guests gone AWOL! Grossly botched instructions! S*****!). Dispatching him on a solo sojourn armed with scrawled clues and then congregating at his flat along with his family members and assorted sets of friends make for a notable fiesta, to say the least.

Beholding Jon's befuddled and crestfallen gaze upon glimpsing the nondescript, creased envelope concealing the event's premiere clue was deeply amusing. Two hours into the expedition, however, having received several panic-inducing SMSes in the vein of "AH MORR YOU'RE GOING TO DIE WHEN YOU HEAR THIS. . ." and "AH MORR SOMETHING WENT HORRIBLY WRONG", the threat of falling victim to apoplexy was imminent.

Nevertheless, we succeeded collectively in launching the party, presenting him with a birthday cake and an extensive array of gifts, such as the Ed Hardy cap the CMM-ers had packaged unceremoniously in a Giordano plastic bag, Andrea's scrapbook (which he raved incessantly over!), and my decoupaged corkboard. Mikey and Emmanuel were holding court, with three-year-old Emmanuel readily granting Ade, Allie, and myself first dibs on shuttling us around when he secures his driver's license.

After departing Bedok us former Saints (Ade, Allie, Jon, Shaun, and myself) proceeded to gorge ourselves heartily at Chomp Chomp. Barbecued chicken wings and oyster omelette (although everyone shied steadfastly from the oysters) are THE BOMB and are fairly economical. Ade's pitcher of soybean milk was so colossal she could swim in it. Jon wolfed down two bowls of rice (typical).

Needless to say credit must be awarded to all who have participated in today's festivities - namely Andrea, James + the CMM-ers, Jeanne + Moo, Mayling, Qing + the Dunman crew, Alicia + Ade (and Shaun, for so gallantly shuttling us around), Jon's brother Benjamin + his parents for their hospitality, and Mikey + Emmanuel who revelled us with their precocious antics.

Ade : *toting Emmanuel in her arms* Emmanuel do you like me?

Emmanuel : No. . .I do not go for ugly girls.

Ade : Wha - ??? *Barking* That's it I'm setting you down now!

At this, Allie and I cackled hysterically. Ade pouted for about a year and scowled whenever endearing mentions of Emmanuel surfaced.

Given my abysmal organizational co-ordination, planning this bonanza probably shorn about eight years off my life span. Throughout the course of the fortnight-long relay process I harrassed everyone persistently with the monotony of my incomprehensibile e-mails. Jon unwittingly deviated from the stipulated route, leaving his Dunman compadres sizzling like bratwursts in the tiresome mid-day heat and startled Andrea and James clean out of their wits when he wandered dazedly into Tanah Merah MRT station an hour before they were scheduled to greet him. En route to Jon's, Shaun cut two red lights, attempted three positively horrifying 180-degree swerves, and sent Ade and myself sailing across the backseat of the vehicle every 0.2 seconds while a visibly petrified Allie bellowed instructions into his left ear.

Despite our misadventures, Jon's elation was well worth every treacherous moment. Happy birthday to one of my very dearest friends (although we share "completely different principles. . .for example, I have them!!!"); I love you!!!

2006-03-12T21:22:00.000+08:00

mood grave
music Street Maps (Athlete)

Our experience at NUS' Open House this afternoon was chiefly characterized by the barrage of orientation-centered babbling by wildly enthusiastic undergraduate volunteers brandishing leaflets and brochures. A Sheares Hall advocate lapsed momentarily into a perturbing silence while divulging the benefits of hostel dwelling, namely the fact that "males and females sharing the same dormitory are not an uncommon sight".

Over glutinous rice balls and oil-slathered hawker fare Mabel and I concurred that there existed people you'd give an eyeball for, and those who unwittingly deviate from themselves - unrequited love of the platonic variety. And then there are those, who, despite the ghosts of old friendships, just are no longer worth our time.

The Scavengers were holed up at Starbucks (we actually purchased individual beverages!) yesterday bickering relentlessly over the respective appeal of Bangkok and Australia as ideal R+R destinations.

Me : Are we dismissing our principles as Scavengers? Bangkok is the most inexpensive!

Domi : Mori. Mori. Why are you pounding the table with your coffee cup.

Mabel : But in Australia we could always live off Henry. . .*stealing a quick glance at Belle* UH, I mean split the accomodation fee six or seven ways!

Belle : My mother would only consent to our travelling abroad if we were accompanied by several guys.

Mabel : *loudly* Yeah Mori Bangkok simply isn't a safe location!

Me : But tranvestites are MEN.

*Silence*

Domi : What about terrorism in Asia? We're better off holidaying in Australia.

Me : But the victims of the Bali bombing were Australian!

Domi : *flippantly* AIYAH. So we'll steer clear of the Australian areas in Australia!

*Silence*

Belle : *brightening* I KNOW! We should tour all the regions of Australia - Sydney, Melbourne, Perth. . .

Everyone : Shut up Belle!

Thomson tomorrow. Fifty bucks is a hypnotic incentive.

2006-03-09T23:00:00.000+08:00

mood terse
music Found My Rosebud (The Thrills)

Which is more deplorable - to be incorrigibly opinionated or passive and malleable?

I've been adopting unorthodox limb-extension techniques; behold the lean, mean Thomson machine coined by the skyward surge of the entrance shutter.

[12.20 am] I want to marry someone who champions my investment in denim overalls and jeers at elitist sports. Hell, I could perform an apache dance in Pure Milk apparel; he'd look on with a bemused shrug and say, "Well I'd still want us to grow senile together."

All this talk of regret,
Let's go slumming, let's go slumming
And start all over again.

2006-03-05T01:22:00.000+08:00

mood indignant
music Fake (The Frames)

While thumbing through mildewed photograph albums I wish I'd retained more becoming images of my pinafore-clad self as opposed to the stale morsels from suitably idiotic events like the day excursion to Kukup and mud-wading at the Adventure Camp.

I mean, not only did I seem liable to slump over my maki dish and commence snoring, that fucking SA collar pin beams conspicuously forth in all its navy-lashed Scotland, ho! glory.

Jon, Andrea, and myself were inclined to harnessing the enriching philosophy of the pseudo-artiste this evening, ambling leisurely through the cavernous chambers of the local cultural Mecca. . .the Esplanade. Erect a colossal urchin-like structure yawning over the flotsam of the Singapore River and behold the fervid infiltration of a generation of angst-ridden visionaries.

Eager to channel the creative genius of their social rebellion we sampled the establishment's nightly gigs (surveying the basisst for all of two seconds before eyeing the ice-cream cart beadily), scanned art-house film memorabilia (Edison Chen and X-Men collectibles), and conducted abstruse conversations (Sweet Valley Twins and our respective iPod selections) while the salt-tinged breeze caressed the worn sleeves of our vintage tees (Far East Plaza circa 2005). Holy moly, such emotive profundity! Washed down with the trill of soulful jazz.

[On Julia Roberts' "Pretty Woman"] -

Andrea : *piping up* Hey isn't there a classic novel with an identical title? Oh - [Pretty Women] by Louisa May Alcott!

2006-03-02T22:15:00.000+08:00

mood optimistic
music Super (Say Hi To Your Mom)

The A-Levels have proven to be nothing short of an incredulous fluke. Nevertheless I'm terribly proud of my pals, particularly the Scavengers and the Clique and Michelle Wong who, as of 2 pm yesterday afternoon, swiftly extirpated her infamy as NYJC's alleged History Loser with her scintillating results slip.

Now this bloody shebang's a closed chapter. Let's get some sleep.

2006-02-25T00:50:00.000+08:00

mood doleful
music I Am Fred Astaire (Taking Back Sunday)

Having given audience to my incessant griping Ms. K proposed an enticing $50 wager on the dubious outcome of my A-Level results. In approximately five days I shall be blithely securing the advantages of Border's 3-novels-for-the-price-of-2 exercise, albeit as an academic imbecile.

Bespectacled "Talent Scout" aka Excitable Adolescent With Too Much Time and Too Little Cash on Her Hands : *at 375635617 decibels* HELLO I'M FROM XYZ MODELLING AGENCY AND I'M SOURCING THIS PRECINCT FOR HANDSOME GUYS. *Brandishing a contact card pencilled in with blue ballpoint ink*

Jon : I think you've got the wrong guy.

2006-02-22T01:36:00.000+08:00

mood irate
music Kung Fu (Ash)

A brusque compression of the soporific non-events in retail before some quality familial bonding with the TV -

Because the clandestine taunting of exasperating customers eg. Liew Tee and Bargain Bison was bordering on a maniacal excess Grace and myself endeavoured to nurture our inner O'Keefe and uh, Sookee respectively by channeling obscene fractions of our bi-weekly salaries towards materials from Artfriend. Grace bagged herself seven tubes of paint for her Folk Art thingamajig. I managed a glimpse of her ongoing project, a portrait of a pouting teddy on a slab of wood, which only served to further illuminate my absolute incompetence at any strain of artistic technical reproduction. In Secondary 1, most of my classmates gamely fulfilled Mdm. Tay's task requirements by shaping detail and nuance in their lead shadings but I was slapped with a failing grade because the orange I'd sketched was apparently a perfect replication of a wad of algae.

So while Grace poured over Auntie's archived craft publications I busied myself with Bata sneakers (not the ubiquitous mono-strap one, thank God) and the black scroll+brush marker I'd purchased. Two hours and much sporadic cussing later, I brandished a pair of certifiably hideous footwear with my friends' names tattooed over its white canvas epidermis (cue Biology-reference nostalgia). Although given the pitifully-undersized surface area I failed to include as many as I would've liked.

Pizza Hut flatly dismissed our appeal to permit the consumption of $5.95 student lunch meals back in the store "because the soup cannot take away, leh". What the Falafel. It's like I'm an obligatory patron of the NTUC Hot Deli and the Four Leaves pastry cafe. Today the vendor at the former venue doled out a second serving of scrambled eggs and smoothly interjected while I was still in mid-recital of my order because I'd evidently morphed into a regular NTUC economical foods buff.

While unforseen committments are invariably common, I truly abhor last-minute revoking of appointments in favour of more inane pursuits, particularly when armoured with implausible statements such as "I never promised. . ." It's a hormonal hazard, it really is.

Alright, sitcoms. Chandler Bing is, by my supposedly questionable definition, a stud. "MAKE GROOM FOR CHANDLER."

2006-02-18T01:54:00.000+08:00

mood disconcerted
music Wish I Was Dead (Shout Out Louds)

Are we diplomatically designing the preliminaries of Chapter Two or merely delivering ourselves recklessly to the futility of an Monday afternoon re-run?

The discourteous-patron meter was in its prime today, what with Stupid Thomson Tai-Tai #92371624 breezily dictating her preferred purchases before barking at me to "move it" and assemble the items for packaging, and this wheedling son-of-a-bitch who retained the staff half an hour past closing time because she was keen on a more generous discount. I had to steel myself against bopping her tacky Shirley Temple perm with a porcelain teapot.

James Blunt and his grating pleas are have of late been recurring fixtures on Class 95; I've actually taken to yowling, "I'm so hollow baby" while penning down entries in the sales record book. Grace (aka Liew Tee) sheepishly confessed to presuming the line having went - "I'M SO HARD OH BABY." And honestly, publicly professing one's desire to "be the father of your child" alongside a bleak piano score really is kind of creepy.

Trivia of the Week - According to a deeply disgruntled Jon 75 per cent of those who'd thronged Orchard Road on Valentine's Day were minors and approximately 45 per cent of this stated demographic group were clad in PURE MILK COUPLE T-SHIRTS.

Laborious MPH bondage tomorrow. Please Mommy do not make me go.

2006-02-16T23:32:00.000+08:00

mood tense
music Different Names For The Same Thing (Deathcab For Cutie)

The incredulous shenanigans which transpired on Tuesday were liable to spur St. Valentine and all his bow-toting cupids to renege their statuses as mascots of romance. The very first of the eleventh-hour Romeos, a middle-aged individual sporting boundless ringlets of forearm hair barreled into the store and promptly plucked a rose chest box from the display cabinet. I stowed the article in a cardboard box while Grace hovered next to the counter, a ribbon-bound roll of wrapping paper in hand, the reliable predictability of pint-sized white hearts on a crimson plane.

"Wait," he blurted out, proferring a balled-up plastic bag as Grace reached for the roll of tape. "Would you mind not sealing the box? I would like to include several items in the chest before you gift-wrap it."

I eyed him wistfully while Grace craned her neck eagerly, expecting a glimpse of a four-karat, a stuffed animal with a crooked grin, a scattering of rose petals.

With this he swiftly emptied the contents of the bag into the chest. Out tumbled a lurid cluster of lace G-strings and brassieres.

Grace recoiled in absolute horror. I started cracking up and was unable to stop.

Next, a military official strode in, looking exceedingly imposing in his badge-studded uniform. He circled the shop once, frowning deeply at the merchandise as well as at the two of us who were peering at him meekly from under the damp collars of our lowly civilian garb, then muttered resolutely to his colleague, "Aiyah I'll just buy her flowers again lah."

Happy Valentine's Day, people. I hope many of you out there enjoyed a better one than the spouses of the aforementioned undeniably did.

2006-02-12T20:17:00.000+08:00

mood apprehensive
music Your Ex-Lover Is Dead (Stars)

Between mutely pelting shrewish customers with a ceaseless barrage of profanity and fumbling most unbecomingly with clear sheet wrapping + a colossal mound of merchandise from the phenomenal [Spot the Dog] series, I managed in the midst of my torpor to score a much-favored epiphany. That is, that our morose planet's truly satisfied beings are probably those who are irrevocably selfish - to relish insidious pleasure at the expense of another without having to nurse the plague of conscience. Witnessed realities have corroborated this; I definitely know of more self-absorbed individuals than melancholic ones.

Mitch and I jabbered ourselves hoarse on the phone last night. When the issue of E's futile attempts at suicide (suspending a penknife 20 cm above her left wrist, mauling her windpipe with her belt, etc.) was broached I laughed so bloody hard I started to cry. Which was somewhat gratifying as we both concurred that the dirge of working life has lamentably induced in us much disillusion and a wooden apathy.

Whoever chances into the vicinity of Thomson's Ritz Apple Strudel outlet do rouse the philanthropist in you and drop by the store bearing a mini-strudel or two ($3.50 apiece). Because honestly, that confection is the palate's answer to an Edison Chen porn video.

2006-02-09T02:43:00.000+08:00

mood lethargic
music From California (The New Amsterdams)

Happiness is a day's respite from grappling with the cash register.

The day's programmes would chiefly comprise of a solo expedition as most of my friends have managed to percolate the sinister abyss of part-time or temp positions, though somewhat clumsily. Grace reported enthusiastically of Bugis Street vendors hawking $5 denim jeans. . .a Scavengers' retail smorgasboard. Also we're intent on reproaching Auntie's conservatism by donning skirts on Valentine's Day.

Tomorrow I shall engage wholly in languorous self-indulgence and it's going to be wonderful.

2006-02-05T22:13:00.000+08:00

mood perturbed
music Breakfast At Tiffany's (Deep Blue Something)

Having (barely) survived what evidently promised to be the first of many gruelling weekend tenures at MPH I subsequently attained the sobering conclusion that there existed comparatively more alliterate peons prowling the aisles of the bookstore than the [Singapore Tatler] mob at Thomson.

The most sought-after titles were primarily of the sexual how-to variety. Yesterday for instance three copies of the quintessential [Kama Sutra] were snagged by customers who each slid the publication unobtrusively onto the counter before promptly burying it under a mound of more innocuous novels. That is, all but one particularly brazen, goatee-sporting fellow who nonchalantly brandished his edition alongside [90 Great Sex Games!] and several fountain pens. . .the latter purchase to be utilized in the most conventional fashion, I hope.

Then there was the gangly teenager who staggered up to the cash register with six or seven novels in tow. Before either of us could commend her for her extensive appreciation of Literature and reading she forked over a credit card and waltzed away with $64.41's worth of CHICK LIT. Dang Sophie Kinsella and her insipid [Shopaholic] series, ditto Lauren Whatsherface's [The Devil Wears Prada], officially the worst book ever published to date.

Now that I'm just about through with [White Oleander] these are the titles I'm presently coveting. Make a shit girl glad and buy me one of these -

1) Empire Falls by Richard Russo

2) A House of Air by Penelope Fitzgerald

3) Girl, Interrupted by Susanna Kaysen

4) Brave New World by Aldous Huxley

5) One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

While the female full-time staff overseeing the department yesterday were crisp and matronly, today's males were relatively more flexible and susceptible to flaccid but much-welcomed humour. For one, we spent a quarter of an hour scrutinizing the middle segment of our right pinkies to ascertain the number of relationships we'd each maintain before marriage, an arcane method prescribed by Eunice in JC1. We then sniggered heartily over some Chinese zodiac book we'd nicked off the shelf which predicted that "2006 would find the fire rabbit enjoying favourable business prospects and romantic encounters in the months of March and April". The salespeople from the Adidas outlet next door were inclined to waving merrily or rapping relentlessly on the windowpane on their way to the public restrooms. Earlier this afternoon one of them was crooning to Otis Redding, fantastic stuff reminiscent of Duckie from [Pretty In Pink]. Saturday's career peak, on the other hand, stemmed from berating some young punk for sitting on the floor while perusing his comic book.

Mitch and Di stopped by the bookstore following their overtime shifts at the IRAS, positioned themselves comfortably next to the payment counter, and giggled over my glum, maroon-and-khaki-clad disposition for a long, long, LO-O-ONG time.

It's back to basics at Thomson tomorrow.

2006-02-01T21:53:00.000+08:00

mood satisfied
music All My Little Words (The Magnetic Fields)

A furtive observation of a cherished friend's recently-acquired BF (articulated as 'bee-eff' and is incidentally synonymous with 'stead', 'hubby', 'sayang', and the most repugnant of the lot, 'lao-gong') and while he most certainly does not subscribe to any feminist doctrine whatsoever, we grudgingly extended our well wishes albeit alongside muttered threats of grievous bodily harm inflicted upon the significant other should he evince the merest minuteae of ill feeling towards her.

Quote of the Evening by Weiming

"You rated him a six? Six upon what?! Twenty???"

PS - The aforementioned BF discourse, dedicated to Andrea with all my wonky love.

2006-01-31T00:08:00.000+08:00

mood indifferent
music My Heart Is An Apple (The Arcade Fire)

The ongoing Chinese New Year festivities have been fairly subdued - even mundane - thus far, a rote obligation constituting the ceaseless consumption of obscene quantities of pineapple tarts and Yeo's packet beverages. The aftermath of my gluttony has been manifested in the odious form of festering pimples peppered across my cheek.

Last evening Andrea, Jon, and myself attempted to stave off our boredom through an appreciation of live music at Acid Bar and much to my chagrin I was sick for the first time following two glasses of rum and Coke, although it was the morsel of Jon's wretched stir-fried sirloin and not Happy Hour which had triggered my discomfort (as illustrated by the fetid contents of my barf), and a similar ordeal comprising of canned peanuts this time befell my cousin Coleen the day before at Forbidden City as well. Anyway Jon and Andrea were absolute saints about the entire incident, barreling down to the convenience store for bottled water and mints and conducting me home in a taxi afterward although I was perfectly lucid. Thanks once again people and yes Jon I swear on [The Blower's Daughter]'s copyright documentation that I will not fling your green jacket in the wash.

Well I'm bushed. Later, alligator.

2006-01-28T02:05:00.000+08:00

mood attentive
music Calendar Girl (Stars)

That I maintained a generally jubilant demeanour while tabulating the day's accounts and meticulously packaging five floral bouquets for Auntie Jean was a sound enough indication that working life was becoming progressively tolerable, although tussling with industrial-sized sheets of shrink-wrap is potentially infuriating.

While awaiting my arrival Mabel steeped herself in the profundity of the Narnia series *snigger* before we proceeded to the renowned Thomson prata joint for supper. The fare was delectable - teh peng, the incomparable - but the plain pratas were unfortunately minuscule. According to Mabel I seemed to front conversation topics which had already been expounded upon by the other Scavengers when the group congregated for lunch at the miser's answer to Central Perk, Scotts Food Court. We were chortling incessantly namely over the rampant butchering of the English language, dumbfucks, piteous misconception of clique identities, Shaun Tan/Ryan mm-hmm mm-hmm. . .

Oddballs like the Scavengers and the 4/8ers are without a doubt, set a class apart from convention, but are not necessarily deemed superior to the average individual. Tonight we mulled over the possibility that we were the abnomalies, not, as we'd previously presumed, the bulk of people whom we were acquainted with, those who could barely fathom the intentions bridged by our elaborate gestures and personal jargon. (Hahaha Mabel - "SO THIS WOMAN CAME OVER TO MY PLACE. . .")

Mabel : *earnestly* But people believe the Scavengers to be seriously weird. . .

Me : *indignantly* We're like the least intimidating people I know! We are sloths! HOW THE HELL DO WE MANAGE TO INTIMIDATE PEOPLE???

*Silence*

Assorted Patrons : *eyeing us apprehensively*

Mabel : HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

But really and truly, episodes such as Juli's alleged proclamation regarding her upcoming wedding anniversary with Draco Malfoy or our penchant for Trendy Zone footwear being propagators of fear completely eludes me.

Work doesn't commence until February 3rd so I'm primed to pencil my pals in for dates.

I received my Olympus XA2 in the mail today, direct from the thrift-shop paradigm of Britain. Three cheers! I'm wetting my pants in the euphoria of it all. Because I'm sunsetphotographyvintageretrofleamarket chick, oh love me, LOVE ME! I'm unique.

2006-01-25T23:33:00.000+08:00

mood paranoid
music Valerie Flames (Starlight Mints)

Vegetating to 1998 re-runs of [Friends] while spooning ice-cream straight from the carton is somewhat mollifying but laconic, dissipating along with the sitcom's closing credits. Seventeen years from now such a blatant exhibition of solo ennui would hardly be esteemed as agreeable, greying spinster flanked by a expanding set of god-children.

I don't care about you anymore
The people got tired.
Our movies don't play much anymore
The actress was fired.

2006-01-24T22:53:00.000+08:00

mood torpid
music Gone So Young (Amber Pacific)

Retail monotony in a nutshell - kneeling on coarse carpeting while bedecking ornate artifacts with bubble-wrap, and scouring indelible smudges of dirt from said pieces needless to say hardly characterize the promising commencement of a lucrative career. While there undeniably lie in the store's largely Victorian-inspired merchandise much enticement and old-world allure, many would attest to my being positioned alongside floral wallpaper, Tiffany lamps, porcelain tea-things, and rose-veined storage chests as grossly uncivil, a bulldozer in a china shop, as evinced by the manner in which I very nearly rammed the vacuum cleaner into a display of prized German teapots yesterday evening. Phase in the arsenal of haughty and/or excessively fastidious customers and it's pure bedlam strung on fat silk bows and collectible ceramic jugs.

Weekday customer patronage in the Thomson precinct is severely under-rated, in my opinion. While the average individual is toiling at his 9-to-5 profession, wealthy tai-tais hailing from all across the island prance into the shop and breeze forth an hour later with eight shopping bags in their wake.

The experience in its entirety was physically demanding, but stale where creative intellect was concerned. The only thing I'd penned all day was a rudimentary manual on the specifics to conquering the cash register. Weekends at MPH would probably be comparatively less taxing; at least there'd be books and figurative language and designated meal breaks, as opposed to the current bag-and-dash procedure where customers often walk in on us sporting greasy strands of hor fun dangling from our mouths.

A near-hysterical Mitch phoned from the Backstreet Boys concert, where she was stationed alongside local teenyboppers brandishing lightsticks and autographed bosoms, screeching incomprehensibly to Nick Carter's nauseating intonation of, "Am I sexual?". Predictably retarded Michelle behaviour, but I love her anyway.

While most of us have undoubtedly progressed towards more favourable preferences, stupid boy bands were indeed integral to our maturity's transition. In fact, 'The Call' still remains a nostalgic favorite of the Scavengers' ("Let me tell you a story about the call that changed my destineh-eh!"). Before the 4/8ers harmonized Blink-182 verses in Vietnam we were revelled by now-obscure vocal stylings from the likes of Five and S Club 7. Jon and myself once spent over an hour, post-Starbucks, reminiscing notable ditties from The **i*e *i*ls. And once upon a time we were all unanimous on the opinion that The Moffatts were hot.

To this day, we are still liable to breaking into spontaneous snatches of song, timeless evergreens featuring the stirring poetry of -

1) "BABE I SAY YOU WILL SUCCUMB TO ME, SO BABY COME TO ME!"

2) "YOU'RE THE ONE FOR ME, YOU'RE MY ECSTASY, YOU'RE THE ONE I NEEEEEEEEED!"

3) "SLAM YOUR BODY DOWN AND ZIG-A-ZAG AHHH."

I resolve to successfully pilot the cash register tomorrow. And it's off to bed, with [Roswell] for a night-cap.

2006-01-20T21:24:00.000+08:00

mood optimistic
music I Don't Love Anyone (Belle and Sebastian)

Because Jon is such an incorrigible teenybopper, I was unlawfully subjected to the insipid extended Ashlee Simpson music video that is [Undiscovered], mainstream trash yearning so intently for grunge/art-house acclaim it is downright embarrassing.

Interminable camera pans of Miss You-Make-Me-Wanna-La-La looking plaintive in her black beret were evidently featured in lieu of key elements such as dramatic timing and common sense. I guffawed during the film's climax (Whatsherface and Whatshisface pledging their unwavering love in the galley of an airplane) while Jon shot me murderous glances and nudged me pointedly. Later, however, he admitted grudgingly that the movie was truly heinous while we were discussing its many (de)merits over junk food.

The show did, however, substantiate a much-hyped about (within SAMA, that is) celebrity sighting at Burger King's Wheelock Place outlet. "Ashlee Simpson" - pixie cut, beret du jour and all - in the flesh, pouting at sheets of drawing paper fanned across the table. Doubtless they bore the angst-satiated inscriptions of youths' torment under the reign of despotism and conformity. . .zzz.

the misadventures of guessing says:
and that DULCE EST SOMETHING SOMETHING MORI that i just remembered because of the word MORI

eyeliner says:
OH!!!!!!

eyeliner says:
the... it's sweet and honourable to die for one's country!!

the misadventures of guessing says:
yeah yeah that one!

eyeliner says:
dulce et decorum est pro patria mori!!!

the misadventures of guessing says:
then one part goes GAS! GAS! QUICK BOYS fumble something something

the misadventures of guessing says:
i thought it was very funny...

eyeliner says:
when ever i see that..... it reminds me of my love for singapore

the misadventures of guessing says:
.............................................

eyeliner says:
but that line sticks in my head cos of the word mori

2006-01-19T13:33:00.000+08:00

mood chipper
music Bat Country (Avenged Sevenfold)

The interview transpired well enough despite my misadventures at Tagore Lane, dodging hulking industrial-sized pick-up trucks by mere inches and being broiled alive in my mother's conservative black turtleneck in the blistering sun. The co-ordinator seemed more interested in the details of academic life at IJ than my qualifications. The staff uniform, a mournful fusion of maroon and khaki, was a sartorial nightmare, but I was too jubilant to fret over this misfortune - employment AT LAST, although it's weekends-only, at $5.50 per hour.

So I'm currently scouting for part-time work to fill the weekday void as well. Waitressing, given the possible frequency of maladroitness-induced mishaps (dressing customers with apple pie a la mode, etc.) would be contemplated as a last resort, unless of course I just so happen to get shot by a felon in the abdomen and is phenomenally healed by a visually-impaired alien besotted with my all-too-human charms. Nevertheless, send all recommendations this way!

Mabel + Pinggie - Scavengers excursion soon! Trendy Zone beckons.

Swat - Welcome home, oh exalted Brahmin!

2006-01-17T20:31:00.000+08:00

mood weary
music The Employment Pages (Deathcab For Cutie)

At the risk of echoing the resolutions of poseurs frantically annointing the wounds of angst with the bitter gall of life's injustice blah blah blah, photography was a deeply recurring motif in today's programme, the peak of which being the trading of pleasantries with the elderly gentleman who managed Broadway at Toa Payoh Central, the charming irony of the cultural reference particularly prominent in the heartland precincts where old men in ratty bermudas still huddled intently over Chinese checkers played on the soiled tiled floor of the void deck.

While processing the Polaroids for my passport-sized images, Uncle (an instinctive inclination on my part, to brand older strangers 'Auntie' and 'Uncle') attempted fruitlessly to educate me on the allure of Chinese opera, drawing prime examples from the performance blaring from his portable television set. I was genuinely gratified by his gesticulations and enthusiastic babbling - something about a band of seven fairies romancing human beings - when it was evident to us both that I'd barely understood a single word. I could, however, appreciate the storyline's exemplary parallelism to [Roswell].

While perusing Livejournal's [Roswell] community I was considerably amused to behold profound, passionate discussions founded upon key events from the (ahem) cult classic such as MAX INITIATING THE PREREQUISITE CONNECTION WITH LIZ IN 'PILOT' and THE EPISODE WHERE MAX SLEPT WITH TESS. Die-hards spamming five or six posts dissecting Liz's adversity for Max in 'Ch-ch-changes', bewailing the termination of the show at the conclusion of Season 3. I realised with mingled nostalgia and horror that I probably came off sounding like a complete sci-fi geek, as assessed by my incessant blathering on [Roswell]'s merits on Friday mornings at school to resigned friends. When the finale was aired in February two years ago I sulked for a week and coerced my classmates into navigating Crashdown.com in the computer lab, much to the exasperation of Kelly and the other SABA members. Still, I'm going to save up diligently for the remaining DVD collections (the villainous Daryl Tay actually had the temerity to purchase pirated Season 2 copies off Thai vendors).

But I digress. I was truly appalled by the products of Uncle's Polaroid camera, he being absolved of any blame whatsoever of course; I have an inexplicable tendency to grin maniacally while being photographed for passport-sized captures because the startling studio flashes make me nervous. During a recent ordeal in a photobooth I was beaming so broadly my eyes were practically reduced to a pair of wrinkles perched atop a bulbous nose. In this particular set and my SAJC series I appeared to be thriving in a state of giddy delight, "too damn happy" in the words of my classmates, as though I'd borne witness to a striptease by Edison Chen. We'd faulted the college's contract-based photographer intially, lambasting his unwarranted morphing of Yogesh into a JC2 boy (as corroborated by Uncle at the tidbit stall). My second Holga roll was infinitely more satisfying than the first, although some of the compositions made me cringe. I'll plaster them in all their repulsive glory on Livejournal soon.

Over our food court-staples Berton adopted an exercise to boost my command of the Chinese language. After berating me for my ignorance of ikan bilis' Mandarin translation he branded me "a total disgrace to the Chinese race". Coincidentally, Mitch and myself were engaged in a similar exchange the night before while she was eyeing the Classifieds section of the day's newspaper.

Mitch : Okay ni yao administrative de gong zhuo, hai shi - um - serve ren de gong zhuo, hai shi zai store li de gong zhuo?

Me : Um, yi he san.

Mitch : Huh?

Me : OPTIONS ONE AND THREE LAH!

I'm going to draft my resume for tomorrow's interview, proceeded by an hour (or two) of Season 1 DVD re-runs, and then I'm hitting the sack.

2006-01-15T17:03:00.000+08:00

mood disconcerted
music Hold On Hope (Guided By Voices)

While circling the weathered, dimly-lit interiors of plank-lined shophouses and bypassing slabs of every-hued fabric flanked by jasmine-scented Quasimodo dealers, Weishan and I concurred that there existed the well-favored paradox of richness in the serene simplicity epitomized by the inhabitants of Arab Street and their professions. Firstly, Grandfather's Collections with its scores of rust-stained Coke cans, vinyl records, and nicked spinning tops at $25 apiece. Then, the gastronomic symphony of the artfully-titled "Roti John Cheese Special" and teh peng in a breezy enclave fronted by a Muslim family and an inquisitive house lizard. Stores where petite old women still worked sewing machines manually, and scrawled signs cajoled the purchase of "Aladdin's Magic Lamps, $10".

We soon tired from playing Penniless Tourists and proceeded to march stridently towards what we deemed was the appropriate site for glutinous rice balls amidst the harried bustle of Chinatown, only to discover that the imposing indigo-paned structure we'd sighted prior to our trek was neither Chinatown Point nor "the police station situated alongside People's Park Complex", as myself and Weishan had respectively enthused. Instead, it was the SIR building located at the buttcheek of Kallang Basin.

Me : *dismissively* I'M CERTAIN CHINATOWN IS SOMEREWHERE ALONG THIS ROUTE.

Weishan : *gesturing limply towards a street-sign* Ah Morr, I believe we're approaching Macpherson Road already.

We did subsequently wind up at our destination of choice, owing needless to say to the formidable competence of. . .Singapore's public transport infrastructure (did you think I was going to laud over our acute sense of direction?!), where the evening was spent elbowing idiots who were inclined to halting incomprehensibly to gawk at Bee Cheng Hiang and orchestrating twenty people-pile-ups in the process. Absolute pandemonium to the relentless chorus of "LELONG LELONG!" by industrious hawkers, whatever that meant.

Later that evening, an impromptu round of drinks with Jon and Andrea at Acid Bar, where we were informed that the free-flow of Marks + Spencer's potato chips we had been so accustomed to scarfing down our weight equivalent in, pre-alchohol, were no longer available. This is a travesty.

However, this flagrant disregard for consumer satisfaction was (somewhat)
compensated by the transition of Happy Hour to Euphoria Hour when we were each served three drinks instead of the stipulated one-for-one. I talked way too much and was momentarily distracted by Striped Hoodie, swooning and looking loverlorn over a lurid green cocktail. Michaela Something's live performance was commendable despite her tendency to howl, and "Purple Rain" was aired during intermission, something I found indescribably hilarious.

2006-01-12T12:24:00.000+08:00

mood irate
music Where To Begin (My Morning Jacket)

My "perfect" reader is not a scholar but neither is he an ignoramus; he does not read because he has to, nor as a pastime, nor to make a splash in society, but because he is curious about many things, wishes to choose among them and does not wish to delegate this choice to anyone; he knows the limits of his competence and education, and directs his choices accordingly. - Primo Levi, "This Above All : Be Clear," The New York Times, November 20 1988.

2006-01-10T12:30:00.000+08:00

mood ordinary
music Chapstick, Chapped Lips, and Things Like Chemistry (Relient K)

We're presently into two days of ceaseless torrential rain, and last evening was spent at Jessica's, where the both of us along with Pinggie adroitly mastered the ways of the sloth with Kentucky Fried Chicken, the opulent decadence of champagne-laced chocolates, and five consecutive hours of unbridled theatrical genius that is Quentin Tarantino's [Kill Bill] series.

The Bride, rousing from a comatose state catalysed by the unwarranted slaughtering of her fiance and wedding party at a pre-nuptials ceremony, was intent on quenching her thirst for revenge, namely with the sheets of blood which spurted fountain-like from the mauled sockets of disembodied limbs, Tarantino-style.

We were rendered spellbound by the spectacle of Uma Thurman gleefully mopping the floor with a fragment of Lucy Liu's scalp and Daryl Hannah's eyeball. Girl power at its most grotesque manifestation.

Personally, the propagation of The Bride's wrath harnessed its appeal from the intricacies of character exhibited by the other assasins, for example, the schizophrenia of their profession. Buddy the bouncer versus Buddy the Hanzo-wielding brother of Bill. Slaying arid, one-dimensional personalities would be virtually redundant as they deserved to be dead anyway.

On a not altogether irrelevant discussion, Mitch and Ping frequently questioned my distaste at "confronting the fucker". With reference to the aforementioned assertion, interaction with the pathetic archetype of tomboy-with-a-soul simply isn't worth my time. I mean, if you need to bag someone in your camouflage pants, you reel in the boy with class and not sob stories recycled from the bygone primetime of [Dawson's Creek].

So where friends, boyfriends, or fiends are concerned, I'd really prefer individuals who -

- are able to contemplate substantial issues not necessarily pertaining to the superficality of What I Ate In School Today.

- acknowledge the untested power of my Gut Feeling, amongst others.

- would consent to watching [Roswell] with me

- rally my endeavours regardless of their degree of ludicrousness

- are themselves.

As George Michael would say, I'll wait for something more cos I gotta have faith.

With perhaps the glaring exception of point three I'm glad to proclaim that I am indeed in the company of people who possess the stated qualities, and being able to count them on more than two fingers undoubtedly makes me a very, very, very lucky person.

Selamat Hari Raya, my Muslim compadres! Oh how I do love ketupats.

2006-01-08T11:31:00.000+08:00

mood lethargic
music Cinnamon (The Long Winter)

Circumstances at present have been rife with departures and sojourns exacted by many, what with the boys donning the patriot's green at NS and the termination of DominiQueen Mosbergen's respite in Singapore. With especial reference to the former, I sincerely hope their experience at Tekong would corroborate the programme's acclaimed tagline, "Where boys become men". Currently most of them are inconsolable, lamenting the brutal loss of their meticulously-styled hair. While examining the state of constant horseplay in which these individuals exist, it is alarming to consent to entrusting the sanctity of life to people like Shawn, whose primary concern prior to enlistment was the price of chicken chop meals at the camp's private canteen "because the food provided really sucks".

While wandering awestruck through the cavernous passages of the newly-refurbished IJ campus, Pinggie, Belle, Jess, and myself regressed considerably into not the history and technicalities of the architecture per se, but rather what we tapped from it while growing up as a safety pin-extolling unit. While infrastructure of the chief building was retained, its wholly revamped interior was alien territory particularly to eyes which scorned change. We ran into old teachers and acquaintances, ran away from more, the elder of the lot shaking their heads and affirming, "Yes, the Sec 1/7 girls." We conversed with the likes of Ms. Teo Peng Suan (of the Yellow Elephant fame), Mrs. Alex, Mag Low, Mr. Eric Tan (oh Miiitch!), Ms. Yap, Ms. Yue (oh Grace Bong!!!) and J. Chu. Ping and Jess pointedly ignored NWK, though, and thank God the ol' Peck remained beyond my field of vision for the duration of our visit.

Our old classroom was now the site of the HOD office, the irony of which needless to say impressed much hilarity upon us. Jack the Skeleton and John the Preserved Foetus were still prominent features of the Biology labs. Absent, however, were the splashes of graffiti etched into the wooden benches lining the corridors, as was the query "IS THIS A SWEET SMILE?", courtesy of art-elective pupils of the previous decade.

The toilet which had seen the irreverence of innumerable water-fights, flagrant displays of truancy, and a certain covert journal-recital was no longer standing, leaving in its wake the lone bannister where Mitch and I once crouched with our waterbottles endeavouring to drench passers-by. In Secondary 2, I unwittingly slammed the door into the face of an enraged Mrs. Tan Aye Leng when she was in the process of pursuing skivving Scavengers. While idling in this unlikely sanctuary we communicated by retreating into individual cubicles and standing on the closed toilet seats. And just in case you were wondering, yes, we were subsequently caught and punished accordingly.

Upon entering the D+T workshop Ping and I raced to our old worktable and said hello to Mr. Rashid - "YOU HELPED US TO PASS D+T BY COMPLETING OUR ARTIFACTS!" Someone whose identity I shall refrain from disclosing cried upon catching sight of the old wrought-iron side-gate. We stepped almost superstitiously over the ever-present declaration of "ELITES RULE!" in cement, then stole into the coffee shop we'd frequented as misguided 12/13/14/15/16-year olds, where we tucked heartily into prata, fried kway teow, and TEH PENG!!!

Exchange Of The Day

J. Chu : Are you going to send your daughters to IJ?

Us : *chorusing* Of course!

J. Chu : Good. BUT MAKE SURE IT'S TO THIS SCHOOL AND NOT ST. NICK'S.

2006-01-06T00:09:00.000+08:00

mood excitable
music Superman (Lazlo Bane)

[Elizabethtown] undeniably pales in comparison to the more abstruse coloring behind [Garden State] or [Lost In Translation], given the invariable publicity and marketing hype headed by the cast and Cameron Crowe, hardly independent artistes who valiantly fend off diseconomies of scale en route to Sundance. However, the offbeat vibrance of Kirsten Dunst's character (Claire Colburn) and more significantly Orlando Bloom's endearing smile in all its toothy, lopsided glory, coupled with a commendable soundtrack featuring the likes of The Shins and My Morning Jacket make for thoroughly satisfying entertainment.

(That is, if the female patron seated next to me weren't so incessantly convulsed with near-hysterical giggles at even the least jocular scenes, scaring the beejesus out of Jon and myself whenever she laughed uproariously into the sleeve of her hooded sweater and squirmed with irrespressible hilarity, the frequency of which being oh, about 0.0005 seconds.)

An earnest discussion conducted over pay-by-the-calorie Starbucks beverages roused the (now largely inactive) GP student in me to expound on the mass infiltration of pseudo-culture vultures, all claiming to cherish an ardent interest in the ubiquitous rattling-off of "photography, vintage, thrift stores". Screened tees from Far East Plaza (I own an array of them myself) are not vintage. Tweed; mod-inspired, but not necessarily vintage. Neither is faded denim. Granny's Day Out constitutes it, but according to the genial lady who runs the store few people really recognize it. And God knows Granny's Day Out is hardly a suitable representation of a thrift store seeing as how plastic belts are priced at a hefty $30 +++ a pop. And hello, while I am currently in the possession of the legendary Holga my last 2 rolls were horrifically over-exposed and focusing is for shit. I take grossly unoriginal images of my feet, shampoo, headers in my Economics textbook - this by no means brands me Urban Sophisticate of the Year. All in all, a virtually redundant exchange between TB'sD'sGBF and, well, his best friend, fuelled by nothing, really, but their mutual distaste for chicks like Miss Pop-9 (to whom Good Photography = Self Photography) and her Amazing Grace, pun not intended.

Anyway, yakked on the phone with Mitch for an hour and subsequently and mutely deduced that if I ever were to develop homosexual tendencies I would promptly marry my girl friends. I miss the extensive nightly telephone conversations I would immerse myself so religiously in, particularly when I was in lower secondary - with Ashton, Mabel, Den, Broom, Jessica, etc, I am still able to rattle off their numbers with absolute ease.

Incidentally, the CHIJ Open House (witness the fruits of our fund-raising toils aka extortion) is slated for Saturday, 7 January. The Scavengers were debating donning our old pinafores for the occasion, much to the unspeakable terror of Mabel and Daph (ironically the duo who repel any exhibition whatsoever of school spirit).

Jon - "Did I miss 60-b. DID I MISS 60-B?????????"

Kelly - Nah, I thought the Monkey snippet was more superior. At least he had a cameo, relentless drooling and all!

2006-01-03T12:13:00.000+08:00

mood tense
music In The Aeroplane Over The Sea (Neutral Milk Hotel)

New Year's in abbreviation -

This is the first song for your mix-tape
And it's short just like your temper
Somewhat golden like the afternoons
We used to spend before you got too cool.

(I've got a twenty-dollar bill; it says no one's ever seen you without makeup.)

Claustrophobia to the deafening throbbing of incomprehensible music, girls locked in stances of submissive reverence - we realise only later that they were in the process of throwing up. Prior to the uninhibition, scuffing the toes of our twenty-dollar flats on the sidewalk, trading the same carcinogens in our lungs. Five, four, three, two, one.

2005-12-30T22:29:00.000+08:00

mood ill
music If You Wanna, I Might (hellogoodbye)

Well if I'd conscientiously pre-meditated on the perceived outcome of 2005 at the commencement of this year, my prognostications have indeed flopped dismally. While affairs have generally concluded on a relatively optimistic tone, circumstances have evolved to the most unforeseeable of extremities.

Staying true to my inexplicable affinity for constructing lists, allow me to dispense brief details of the sordid, splendid ongoings of the previous twelve months.

In January, I merrily trooped back to SA in unwitting possession of all of existence's symptoms of groundless infatuation ever conceived. And bored everyone stupid in my blatant manifestation of it.

In February, my skin was brutally sun-scorched to the crisp likeness of rhinoceros hide. Dermatology sacrilege owed to the unique vengeance of Kalyani "My Neck Is Burning" Kausikan, whom, incidentally, we have subsequently developed a testy fondness for.

In March, the first of a barrage of rude awakenings. Eustacia Vye was rapidly becoming intolerable.

In April, the are-we-or-are-we-not? dance; maintained by many but not me.

In May, exploitation of glutinous rice balls resulted in threatened suspension from college. I re-discovered old friendships and forged new ones.

In June, Russian art was in vogue. I mugged to the brink of delusion.

In July, I was acquainted with the cinematic genius of [Lost In Translation]. The Clique save for Yogesh became avid regulars of The Soup Spoon.

In August, tri-weekly Clique outings and animal-cracker evenings with the Scavengers. "Mori I think we're growing up too fast."

In September, I was hell-bound.

In October, I secured my first job and stole abroad (Johor, but still) for the first time. Personal and observed experiences re-defined the essence of "poor taste". The hallelujah of Graduation Day.

In November, UCLES harpooned me with a rolled-up manuscript and fucked me upside down. I was on the phone with Mitch almost every night and became a walking bundle of stress. I witnessed sad stories, scripted more.

In December, the unrivalled pleasure of a surprise birthday party. Order re-asserted itself, but in an oddly unfamilar way.

Anyway here we are collectively poised on the cusp of a fresh start and heartily spanking the rear of 2005, to which I have nothing to utter except the expelled breath of relief -

THANK GOD.

2005-12-26T23:13:00.000+08:00

mood drained
music Forever Young (Youth Group)

The vital essence of the yuletide season is indeed encapsulated in the wolfing down of generous servings of lasagna, chicken pie, potato salad, and other assorted delicacies left over from Auntie Felicia's Christmas lunch, trading controversial anecdotes over a pint of sickeningly-sweet Cherry Garcia ice-cream, and extricating old yearbooks to marvel over the sheer temerity of purile antics launched by a gaggle of thirteen-year-olds. Dinner at Jess' was a blast despite the blatant absence of most of the Scavengers, but nevertheless - KTV tomorrow evening! (Whose ingenious idea was it to pursue that as a recreational activity, anyway?)

Notable discussions conducted during the evening featured the likes of -

1) Pinafore-clad hunks (a highly subjective term), eg. Dada, Limmy, Steroids, L-squared, The Twins X 2, N, L'il Romeo, Godzilla, just to name a few.

2) In a similar strain of conversation, walking tragedies such as Chicken Little (HAHAHA), Mr. Musky, and Wang-Wang Boy.

3) Shaun Tan, Gerald, and Ryan (of the RI swim team fame). Oh my dear God I still maintain that the Scavengers were devoid of any blame whatsoever.

Anyway, examining our old yearbook photographs was a truly agonizing experience. For one, at least 90 per cent of us sported the graphic mushroom haircut which, then, was all the rage amongst pre-pubescent schoolgirls. Also -

"YOU MEAN THERE WAS ACTUALLY A TENNIS CCA PAGE???" croaked Mabel in dismay, squinting down at a horribly blurred image of her Secondary 2 self brandishing a racquet in a stance not unlike that of one attempting to net a particularly obstinate butterfly.

Hur hur hur. Fuck, do I miss IJ.

Some are like water and some are like the heat
Some are the melodies some are the beat
Sooner or later they'll all be gone
Why don't they stay out

It's hard to get on without a cause
I don't want to perish like a fading voice
But youth is like diamonds in the sun
And diamonds are forever.

So many adventures couldn't happen today
So many songs we forgot to play
So many dreams swinging out of the blue
Left to come true

Forever young
I wanna be forever young
Do you really want to live forever
Forever, forever
Forever young, I wanna be forever young.

2005-12-24T23:22:00.000+08:00

mood irate
music Concrete Bed (Nada Surf)

Wednesday evening embodied my virgin encounter in a club (seemingly the mandatory rite of passage these days), which, to put it succinctly, was an acquired experience. Because Mabel and I stoutly refused to steer within a twenty-metre radius of the dance floor at both DXO (where Domi's father's pre-Christmas bash was housed) and Zouk (because the remaining Scavengers were exceedingly keen on attending Mambo), we basically immobilized ourselves by the bar and guzzled somewhat flat but nevertheless alchohol-laced beverages from the hours of 10 pm to 4 am. While the ratio of aqua to alcohol hovered around 4 : 1 for a sizeable portion of the drinks we'd consumed that night, downing 12 glasses + 1 Barcardi Breezer apiece translated to our having to waddle to the bathroom and/or swigging water the entire night, so as to skirt the possibility of winding up face-down in a pool of congealed dim sum and kaya toast from Glutton's Square like so many of our Mambo counterparts who were keeled over on the sidewalk. Despite this, we fretted incessantly when we were rendered partially incapacitated (tottering dazedly into staircase banisters, listing 12 X 12 as 146, etc.) and we were so lethargic we contemplated falling asleep in the lobby of Holiday Inn after utilizing the toilet. What with the alcohol and the certifiably lethal cigarette smog which permeated both locations, I could easily envision the rapid degeneration of both my liver and lungs as we speak. The most unjust fact about passive smoking is that it is practically exerted upon us.

While many may thrive in the refreshing exhilaration of frequenting clubs - the music featured at Mambo was highly infectious - it isn't an activity which appeals to me at least. Anyway, to each her own, and for the most part my girlfriends are prudent clubbers so that is rarely a cause for concern.

To end, I shall indulge in the unrivalled luxury of wishful thinking and formulate a list of ideal Christmas gifts -

1) [Roswell] Season 2 and 3 DVD's.

2) A set of A-level grades permitting entry to NUS in 2006.

3) A lifetime supply of Cherry Twizzlers.

And that just about sums it up, actually. However, it seems that all I've been getting so far are pimples.

Merry Christmas, one and all.

2005-12-18T22:34:00.000+08:00

mood glum
music Somersault (Zero 7)

While everyone is unanimous on the assertion that infatuation is very possibly a highly singular sensation devised by Satan to thrust us mercilessly into the deep fathoms of temptation and irrationality, the spontaneous culmination of fish-flopping hearts and quivering knees (OH COME ON they honestly do quiver and you know it) is paramount. Disjointed mental postcards dated Christmas '00 have been tunneling incessantly through my mind, primarily because this was the first time in over a year I'd visited the humble precinct of - ooh - Hougang New Town and its spectacular connotations, all wielding hockey sticks and basketballs; I've seen those instruments become increasingly weathered with age since I was eight years old.

M and I were immersed in a quasi-serious discussion en route to Tbe Supper That Never Was several evenings back, and we concurred that people and situations that were once familiar and accessible to us were evolving at an exceedingly unhealthy pace. As witnesses to adolescent uninhibition run amok, passive observation was one option, engaging in what someone termed my "crusades" was another. Regarding ____, I'd probably never be truly comfortable with personality 'adaptations' but generally I'd like to think we're cool and I would be concerned if she'd been dabbling in dubious I-don't-know-what.

I related this to Jon and he declared matter-of-factly, "Just be pro-active towards the people who are receptive to your pro-activeness, and ignore those who aren't." To which I indignantly replied, "But there aren't any!" And Jon, whose pink shirt (trumpeting the words 'Bitch Club' in large flowing script) seemed to lend effect to this unprecedented manifestation of sagacity as he crossed his arms majestically over his chest, simply snorted, "There's your answer."

Incidentally, cherry Jell-O is the bomb. Buy it everyone.

2005-12-16T02:14:00.000+08:00

mood restless
music Not Now (Blink-182)

The latter portion of the passage of adolescence has indeed wrought significant metamorphoses in many, most of which are substantially odious. Mitch then suggested I maintain an online journal chronicling the ills of the aforementioned so as to color people's mindsets, which in retrospect would have seemed viable approximately twelve months ago. Recent events have indicated that by adopting this approach I would either be lambasted for being a saintly busybody or my opinions would merely be regarded with a general sense of apathy or at best mild interest, after which people would simply return to lording over their personal affairs instead of steeping in my individualistic perceptions of right and wrong. Which, as some would corroborate, was rightfully the accurate option to begin with.

Also, I've grown to realise that the fomerly fool-proof hardball of, "If I truly was your friend, you wouldn't be doing. . ." doesn't quite cut it anymore.

On a wholly divergent issue - It's 2.46 in the morning and I feel like barbecued chicken wings from the hawker centre situated at Lorong 5. Supper always tastes better when smothered in wedges of lime.

I have come to realize
That you are the one who's left behind

Please stay until I'm gone
I'm here hold on to me
I'm right here waiting.

2005-12-14T19:58:00.000+08:00

mood glad
music Wild Horses (Mazzy Star)

Been an activity-crammed week thus far with similarly hectic programmes in the proceeding days as well, the physically fatiguing nature of which would be undoubtedly offset by the presence of certain luminous individuals over Happy Hour or sinful hawker fare. Monday's joint birthday celebration organized for myself and Yogesh by members of The Clique practically epitomized hilarity, what with the barrage of bad vocabulary which inexplicably plagued us throughout the evening.

Pi Pi's anecdote featured her interrogation of Wenting regarding the contents of the latter's lunch (no surprise here), to which Wenting flatly replied - "Porridge." Needless to say, the ever-ravenous Pi Pi demanded, "What kind of porridge? What's in it?", only to have Wenting hem and haw while spooning up her congee, finally grumbling out a reponse -

"You know. . .what's it called. . .um, pig."

Halfway through the sizeable portions of baked rice at NYDC, Lee Wenting ensnared herself in yet another unfortunate blunder (a lamentable experience, apparently, with the six of us being "a very unforgiving Clique", to quote her directly).

Wenting : *animatedly detailing a previous excursion to East Coast Park with Pei Yi* So the night before our outing I decided to look at the telescope to assess the day's weather.

*Quizzical silence*

Yogesh : *blankly* Um, what telescope?

Me : *envisioning Wenting peering forlornly through an eyepiece while surveying Egdon Heath* You mean like Eustacia Vye?

Pi Pi : UM WENTING, DID YOU MEAN TO SAY "TELETEXT"???

Iona managed to clinch a waitressing job at MOS, as she constantly referred to the venue. Grease being one of the Clique's collective pet peeves (re : Wenting's abundant stock of oil blotters), I questioned this particular preference -

Me : *attempting to broach the issue delicately* Uh, why "Mos"?

Iona : *shrugging* Why what's wrong with it?

Me : Nothing. . .but -

Iona : Well, there is this one adorable bartender. . .

Me : *stopping dead in my tracks* WAIT SINCE WHEN WERE THERE BARTENDERS WORKING AT MOSBURGER'S???

MOS, needless to say, was an acronym for the Ministry of Sound. Iona then commenced describing the extravagant festivities organized for the club's upcoming opening, adding eagerly that she would be "able to see a lot of stars". At this, Yogesh nodded with a knowledgeable air and remarked indifferently, "Oh, you mean it's going to be held outdoors?"

Tuesday marked the infinite circling of Chinatown and Sungei Road with Boey for picturesque scenes, delightfully cheap food, and kitschy bargains. Staples include tea eggs and buttered corn and dragon's beard candy (although its name still completely eludes me). . .we initially debated splitting six tang yuans (glutinous rice balls) between ourselves but evaded it after lunching on yong tau foo and carrot cake. The drinks seller and her husband sniggered heartily at me when I was unable to remove the lid from my bottled mineral water, then again when I failed to articulate my request for aid in Mandarin.

Sungei Road was. . .an effective oxymoron - predictable and extraordinary. When travelogues reported that those there hawked almost everything under the sun, they seriously weren't kidding. A good many of those present were the archetypical dirty old men, as illustrated by the mounds of old FHM and Maxim periodicals up for sale. Managed to snag several unique items for jewellery-making; an $8 pocketwatch with London skylights embossed on it, strands of seashells, and an old gold pendant for 2 bucks. Weishan inspected my purchases ("per-che-sis", Jonny) and subsequently deduced that I was crazy.

That evening, the much-hyped about OG 5 reunion became nothing short of a mortifying failure. A grand total of SIX people attended it, given that Shawn and I had both falsely assumed that the other had relayed information regarding the outing to the bulk of the OG. Nevertheless it was fun assuming yoga poses/reminiscing classic first-intake moments/stomping on roaches at the Esplanade's rooftop terrace. Berton bought us Ah Pek ice-cream (yes that's what the notice on the ice-cream cart actually read!) after noshing on food from his prerequisite FOOD COURT. And Xintian, marvelling over the scenic local skyline projecting over the alfresco wing of the food court, excitedly declared the place a choice venue for her first date. Wtf. Over $8.50 set dinners ("Budget enough," we concluded gleefully) from Han's, Berton denounced everything to be "fake" or "smoked" - long story - while Xintian began babbling about us having eaten shit as toddlers. I then commented that this revelation threw new light on the phrase, "You are what you eat", and Berton commenced berating Xintian and myself for beauty-school negligence "because I thought all girls were supposed to wear nail-polish!!!". My OG is weird. But the outing's abysmal attendance aside, we had fun catching up.

An overly-enthusiastic Boey and I collected our first roll of Holga prints today and mine sucked. Note to self - remove camera tripod from storage and never trust to my own adroitness (which I evidently do not possess). I was apparently so maladroit my photographs totally looked like film captures from [The Exorcist], when Linda Blair is writhing and moonlighting as a water fountain spouting green puke. Also, the processing rates were astronomical. I'm crossing my fingers for the Ilfords.

Feel-good times with the girlfriends - Scavengers tomorrow evening and 4/8ers on Friday. CARITAS SHARE THE LOVE, was that how that wretched recording went.

2005-12-11T00:38:00.000+08:00

mood upbeat
music Cartwheels (The Reindeer Section)

Pringles, chocolate, and lime-flavored Hudson's (okay so I was heavily chastised for purchasing the latter), coupled with Baz Lurhmann's [Romeo and Juliet], make for an exceedingly satisfying evening with the Scavengers. Holed up at Ping's, guffawing at her pink silk boxers (HAHAHA), surveying David Boreanaz's facial "angles", and reciting clumsy verses of Shakespeare in between strangled gasps of yearning at Leonardo DiCaprio's pre-celluloid interpretation of Romeo Montague.

Two households, both alike in dignity. . .

Me : *intoning* "In fair Verona where we lay our scene". . .

Ping : Ooh! Ooh! "From ancient grudge break to new mutiny". . .

Everyone : "WHERE CIVIL BLOOD MAKES CIVIL HANDS UNCLEAN"!!!

[Later. . .]

Montague Boy #1 : "A dog of the house of Capulet - "

Everyone : "- mooooooooooooooooooooooves me!!!"

Jess + Ping : *warbling to The Nine Inch Nails* ". . .A PRETTY PIECE OF FLESH" -

Daph : *horrified* Did he just lick his nipples???

Me : *wistfully* Shit Benvolio's hot.

Ping : No way! Tybalt is hot!

Daph : YES TYBALT IS HOT.

Me : *grumbling* Yeah but check out those sideburns.

Mabel : *helpfully* They look like stickers!

Tybalt : "Peace? Peace? I hate the word."

Ping : "As I hate hell - "

Tybalt : " - and all Montagues - "

Ping + Me : "AND THEE."

Daph : *pensively* Why are the Montague boys such cowards?

Jess : Why do the Montague boys look like frat guys?

[Later. . .]

Daph : *pleadingly* Could we please fast-forward to the beach scene?

Jessica : *eagerly* YES YES YES! I must say Leonardo has got to be the only guy who is able to look hot while smoking a cigarette.

Mabel : Mori why are you taking photographs of the television set???

*Camera inching gradually upwards from his scrawled notebook page to his blazer-clad torso. . .*

Everyone : *with bated breath* Okay everyone here comes those eyes. . .

AND THEN THE DISC SIMPLY HAD TO MALFUNCTION JUST BEFORE ROMEO'S SOULFUL FACE APPEARED IN THE FRAME.

Everyone : *jerking upright* What the fuck?!?!?!

Mabel : *harranguing* Chan Yu Ping wipe that VCD clean THIS INSTANT.

Daph : Yeah hurry guys then we'll be able to watch the aquarium scene.

Which, by the way, is easily the most arresting scene in the entire film.

[Later. . .]

Ping : *swooning openly* "My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss." Why can't all men be this romantic.

Me : Because half of them barely understand Shakespeare?

Mabel : *aggrieved* And WHY are there no more white chocolate Kit-Kats???

Following this we viewed the sex scene, where a wounded Romeo stumbles into Juliet's room after murdering Tybalt, and Juliet caresses his realistically-applied Shiseido cuts/bruises and they totally have sex to this stirring soundtrack although according to Jess, the Juliet depicted by Shakespeare is aged a mere 14 and thus would be "incapable of having sex before getting her period as she would not possess any sex drive".

Jessica : *with relish* I want someone like Leonardo!

Daph : What, a bleeding guy???

Me : *enthusiastically* This is portrayed as a totally pure and natural process! It makes me want to have sex.

Everyone : . . .

Although we were fully amenable to running the aquarium scene once more, Mabel and myself were compelled to board the last train home and we literally sprinted from Ping's apartment to Somerset MRT station within the span of 7 minutes, cutting two red lights as we did. Being Scavengers, we also found it necessarily to scream hysterically while doing so, especially upon catching sight of an advancing vehicle 395771263 metres away. Mabel, despite nursing a stitch, was smugly lauding over this supposedly "cool and rebellious" display of social defiance. Hahaha our fleeting stint as "this generation's disenfranchised victims. . .flouting the bodies of authority to bolster individualism. . .I am in the doldrums because my classmate passed rude remarks about my Linkin Park T-shirt = resistentialism, so I'll just slice my veins and watch red life stream from my wrist, my heart bleeding black tears as I invest in some MAC eye-pencil and listen to some song from 'politically-astute' idiots like Simple Plan and ah, I am an EMO KID but the iron-hearted shall not cry but attention everyone; I AM BROKEN INSIDE BUT TECHNICALLY NO ONE KNOWS BECAUSE I PRETEND TO BE HAPPY AND YOU KNOW, I AM TOTALLY CONTRADICTING MYSELF BY PUBLICIZING THIS LITTLE NUGGET OF INFORMATION ON MY GOTH-THEMED BLOG FOR THE WORLD TO SEE." Where's Juliana Lau when we need her?!

I briefly contemplated peeing into some shrubbery en route to Ping's. That clown insisted on launching her side-splitting "G-UNIT!" routine despite my repeated entreaties to repeal exhibitions of humour until I was able to conduct my engorged bladder to a toilet. Despite this and the fact that I was made to consume the package of Hudson's lime-flavored lozenges entirely on my own, it's been a thoroughly enjoyable night. Domic's open-mic next Thursday and a much-anticipated Marche treat from Belle. . .yayness, as Mitch would say.

Sometimes I bite my tongue and readily subject that now-nebulous fraction of my history to a welcomed dissipation. Let the second-raters loll lasciviously in the dirt if they wish, selfish thoughts in suspended ambivalence, the untenanted privilege of individual choice still in the tentative stages of infancy.

Perhaps it was Leonardo's (somewhat tarnished, but startlingly becoming nevertheless) armour in the movie's famed aquarium scene which did the trick.

Sleep tight, all.

2005-12-08T12:47:00.000+08:00

mood okay
music Books Written For Girls (Camera Obscura)

While we're on the subject of photography (re : aforementioned Mp3 selection), the much-sought after 120 GCFN's Weishan and I had placed orders for last week will be due for collection tomorrow evening! Images of landscape or object stills are becoming increasingly stale, what with their extensive circulation amongst amateurs and professionals alike which has only succeeded in completely sucking the novelty from the activity. So I'll possibly be venturing into human portraits instead, preferably with my friends as compositions. Narcissists ie Yogesh and Kel make keen volunteers. Wenting, on the other hand, eagerly offered to "photograph Ah Morr photographing somebody", after which Weishan hastily chimed in, adding that she would in turn "photograph Wenting photographing Ah Morr photographing somebody".

Mitch and I were gabbing on the phone til about 3 am this morning, raving over her unprecendented encounter with the alleged Golden Boy Heartthrob, formerly of the Black Nike Duffel Bag. Needless to say I was lavish in my severe criticism of this prize nerd, which resulted in her wondering aloud despite her appreciative sniggering - "Why do I still laugh at the jokes you've been cracking since we were in Secondary 3???" I love you Mitch. =)

OG 5 excursion scheduled for the 13th of December at the Esplanade (HAHAHA the fuck) ShawnDaPrawn and Berton let's just hope that more than 4 people show up this time.

2005-12-08T01:23:00.000+08:00

mood impatient
music Your Legs Grow (Nada Surf)

Following my brief stint as an events usher for the Singtel CEO Mobile Forum (organized at the Esplanade's rooftop terrace yesterday evening) my heavily-battered feet, currently bearing blisters the size of stove lids, were scarred beyond recognition owing to four hours of waiting immobile in Yogesh's pint-sized black pumps by the mouth of the escalator anticipating the arrival of the distinguished guests who completely failed to materialize. I screamed bloody murder upon entering the bath this morning as the lukewarm water was the excruciating equivalent of acid against the raw skin.

According to sound sources my "revolutionary" embodiment of the anti-prom was absolutely futile as its position as a largely supercilious and sexist (*cue the relentless tirades of the Students Sketchpad's femiNazic RGS student*) tradition was dismissed by many. BAH. Drinks at Eskibar's Holland Village outlet with the remaining 04a12ers was to put it mildly a unique experience. Wenting and Weishan individually downed four glasses of alchohol, with Wenting becoming increasingly disoriented with each gulp. Weishan, on the other hand, remained staunchly sober, with the good ol' XO coursing through her arteries. The sub-zero room was so frigid we totally shied from utilizing the bathroom facilities for fear that our pee would freeze and, as Weishan sagely predicted, we "may have to snap it off like icicles".

I knew we shouldn't have come. Now I wished she'd never broken any of her rules. I understood why she held to them so hard. Once you broke the first one, they all broke, one by one, like firecrackers exploding in your face in a parking lot on the Fourth of July.

I was afraid to let her drive like this, with her eyes wild, seeing nothing. She'd kill us before we got three blocks. But she didn't start the car. She sat there, staring through the windshield, rocking herself, holding herself around her waist.

A few minutes later, a car pulled up in the driveway, a new-model sports car, the top down, a blond girl driving. She was very young and wore a short skirt. She leaned over to get a bag out of the backseat.

"She's not as pretty as you," I said.

"But she's a simpler girl," my mother whispered bitterly. - Janet Fitch's [White Oleander].

I'd snagged an intact albeit slightly mildewed copy of the novel from Sunny's @ Far East Plaza for four dollars. BARGAIN! I'm a true pinafore-blue Scavenger at heart. Chelsa, needless to say, held deep regard for my purchase.

Anyway, birthday photos are up.

2005-12-03T12:14:00.000+08:00

mood jubilant
music Moment In The Sun (Clem Snide)

My warped sleeping patterns, already incongruous to the general connotation of "school holidays" embodied by Chan Yu Ping who rouses at 2 pm daily, were further thwarted after last night's very, very, VERY excellent festivities. I awoke at an unearthly 8 o'clock despite jabbering on the telephone and text-ing various people til about 3 in the morning. BECAUSE. I. AM. ABSOLUTELY, MARVELLOUSLY, ENORMOUSLY HAPPY!!!

Okay. Perhaps I ought to expound on the specifics. The evening - intentionally or otherwise on the part of the members of the defunct SABA - commenced somewhat dubiously, with Jed being the only punctual reveller present, sporting a predictably-apt black T-shirt proclaiming his inflamed desire for a "FCUK ON THE BEACH". Drew was blithely DYEING HIS HAIR, a strand at a time presumably as illustrated by Kelly's anguished and profuse apologies and Daryl Tay's complaining. Jon was delayed at his workplace owing to some errors in event organization so Jed and I were holed up at Acid Bar for about an hour. Being ravenous we jointly polished off four servings of potato chips, with the establishment's exceedingly incompetent and irritating waitresses breathing down our necks every 0.00002 seconds and enquiring in saccharine tones as to the conspicuous absence of our "other friends".

Jed : *pompously* They've yet to arrive actually. *Thrusting the crumb-littered chip bowl into the waitress' startled face* While we're at it, could you fill up my chips?

Trust Jed to derive sexual innuendos from something as innocuous as potato crisps.
Anyway, Kelly and Drew arrived at about half-past 7, only to announce sheepishly that they were compelled to leave at 9.30 due to stringent curfew/prior committments respectively. At which Jed piped in, "ME TOO! I WANT TO GO TO ZOUK!" complete with experimental and highly unnecessary torso jiggling.

Jed : *conversationally* SO AH MORR. Were you expecting a surprise party from SABA this year?

Me : Aiyah this year's surprise is that there's no surprise!

We were considerably cheered when our meals were (finally) served. Jon strode in shortly after and astonished us all by declining to partake in our pasta dishes. It being Happy Hour we also ordered 1-for-1 jugs of whiskey and ginger ale/Coca Cola mixers which generally tasted pleasant except they made my ears hurt.

However, our dispositions gradually soured. The herd of racuous ang-mohs at the table adjacent to ours were air-kissing each other theatrically and the noxious fumes from lit cigarettes was positively smothering. At 9.15 pm, a live band proceeded to the performance platform at the heart of the bar. At 9.30 pm, the singer was still hacking and murmuring "Testing. . .testing. . ." into the clearly operational microphone, causing an exasperated Jon to holler, "I can HEAR you!!!"

9.30 pm - Drew requests for the payment check.

9.37 pm - "TESTING. . .TESTING. . ." (Jon : *loudly* I hate it when people do that!)

9.41 pm - Kelly and Drew glance nervously at their watches.

9.48 pm - Drew imperiously beckons the waitress (dubbed "Fat Ah Lian" by the disgruntled boys) and informs her that we had in fact asked for the check "many, many, many times."

9.50 pm - Pro-active Jed marches directly to the counter to retrieve the check.

9.52 pm - Band performs impressive rendition of Sarah McLachlan's "Adia". (The Boys : *grumbling* Who's Adia?)

10.00 pm - WE FOOT THE BILL. FINALLY.

Jed departed shortly after, affirming for the 98471626th time that evening his intentions to "pimp Zouk up", much to our dismay. Kelly and Drew made a beeline for an idling cab and bid us a hasty farewell. Jon turned to me and declared brightly - "LET'S VISIT NEW URBAN MALE!!!" aka the abode of 235guys.blogspot.com.

Me : Ughhh. . .

My ears were still smarting from the two servings of whiskey I'd consumed, and the alcohol apparently produced a stupefying effect because I proceeded to yawn incessantly and cease conversing animatedly with Jon, who promptly herded me to the MANDO-POP wing of HMV, from the sound system of which blared the following -

"HAHAHA [insert innane Chinese lyrics]
HEE HEE HEE [insert innane Chinese lyrics]
HAHAHA [insert innane Chinese lyrics + the prerequisite "Oh baby" or "I love you" in English]"

Jon : A-HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

Me : OMG I WANT TO GO HOME.

I distinctly recall brandishing Nada Surf's [The Weight Is A Gift] album at Jon and lamenting at the exorbitant price tag.

Anyway Jon explained that he had an appointment with his "contractor" at Toa Payoh and could therefore accompany me home and pick up the green NUM sweater he'd loaned me during the course of my A-Levels.

Jon : Eh. I have to use the toilet.

Me : *nervously picturing the rags my mother and I are accustomed to donning at home* Um actually would you mind using the bathroom by the pool?

Jon : *haughtily* NO I can't stand dirty public toilets!!!

After phoning my mom to inform/warn her of Jon's impending arrival, we trooped into the elevator and up to my apartment. Upon entering the house and beholding the living room swamped in absolute darkness I was about to apologize for the unhospitable conditions when the ENTIRE room erupted into a chorus of "SURPRISE!" and then OH MY SHIT I spotted The Clique grinning at me and Hanis and Jon laughing hysterically in the corner and there was this CAKE studded with chocolate chips which right off the bat I could deduce was a creation of Allie's. Kel and Drew were seated at the dining table and before I could contemplate the euphoria of an SA-centred surprise celebration I saw Ping waving madly alongside the rest of the Scavengers and then this crazy girl proceeded to screech some unintelligible nonsense into my ear and when I turned I saw to my mounting delight Mitch and the other 4/8ers.

And my first thought (inexplicably) was - "Wait, did my mother actually approve of this bonanza???"

And then my next thought was - "WAIT I THOUGHT KELLY HAD TO MAKE HER CURFEW."

And then - "WAIT HOW THE HELL DID THEY ORCHESTRATE THIS????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????"

According to onlookers I was rooted to the spot with my mouth opening and closing wordlessly like that of a goldfish's for a good five minutes or so, and it barely registered that everyone was warbling to "Happy Birthday", which reportedly went as follows -

Everyone : HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU -

SA folks : HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MARISSA/AH MORR. . .

Scavengers + 4/8ers : HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MARISSA/MORI. . .

Someone : *yelping indignantly* Eh how come so many names???

Anyway apparently Jonathan Seto Wai-Bing, events-planner extraordinaire, enlisted the aid of my mother, Ping (who in turn contacted Mitch), and Weishan in planning this extravagant shebang and somehow OH MY GOODNESS managed to execute it without a hitch. Alright several (minor, I hope) glitches included a clash of opinions in determining the venue due to a simultaneous "something" Mitch had planned during the 4/8 reunion lunch which was technically scheduled for yesterday afternoon -

Jon : GOSH why are the 4/8ers so irritating???

Mitch : Why is Jon so inflexible???

Ping : *frantically trying to attend to both* Uh. . .uh. . .

Allie was the first to arrive at 9.30 pm (when we were still attempting to flag down FAL for the bill at Acid Bar), followed by Mitch and the 4/8ers (who spent an unsavoury hour by the pool incurring the wrath of the neighbourhood strays), Hanis + The Clique, and SABA. The entire planning process was AMAZING, kudos to all who made such fine actors/liars, particularly SABA who staged an entire MSN conversation regarding dinner at Acid Bar, Hanis for his subtle queries about my musical preferences, and Ping for appearing completely nonplussed during our outing on Thursday. And JONATHAN SETO. For everything. I know this sounds grossly inadequate but seriously I am fucking impressed at how you managed to incorporate the IJ girls and the Saints right under my nose and words truly cannot express how BLOODY grateful I am. Seriously. (Cue Jon snarling - "THAT'S all???")

"Of course," asserted some of the guests, "It helped that you were very stupid."

Loopholes Which I'd Apparently Failed Spectacularly To Notice

1) "Who the hell goes to Zouk at 9 o'clock???" - Jed.

2) "Yeah lah my curfew is at 11 not 9.30!" - Kel.

3) "Didn't it occur to you that ALL your birthday plans were coincidentally postponed to next week???" - Ping.

Hanis purchased me the very same Nada Surf CD I'd been wistfully eyeing at HMV earlier! That dude is a total pro, sms-ing me on Friday night for "recommendations" on notable bands. Sharlene made me two pairs of earrings and they look really good (on me). . .hahahaxzzz. Okay joke. Scavengers presented me with these gargantuan lime-green and yellow helium balloons! I received really great gifts (ahem EdisonChenLeeWenting ahem) but those frankly are secondary because the surprise of having all my friends present was what made the entire night so damn bloody good!!! I am a very, very, VERY lucky girl.

Okay enough sentimentality.

THANKS SO MUCH GUYS FOR COMING DOWN LAST NIGHT - Jon (you know I love you bitch), Jed, Andrew, Kelly, Allie, Yogesh, Weishan, Hanis, Wenting, Iona, Pi Pi (though you weren't present, I know you were there in spirit - the food was really good), Pinggie, Daph, Belle, Shuchua, Mitch, Letick, Christa, Sharlene, Rhadhi, and last but very definitely not least my MOM. Who incidentally is very happy that everyone at the party concurred that she was "cool". Yay! Thanks guys I truly appreciate it!!!

Oh. And it's beginning to look a lot like Christmas! Deck the halls and all that jazz.

2005-12-02T16:53:00.000+08:00

mood lethargic
music Everything Must Go (The Weakerthans)

At Wisma's thriving Coffee Club outlet over the tepid watermarks of beverages we didn't purchase, Ping and I concurred that genuine specimens of "starving artistes" (the dishevelled, stubble-sporting disenfranchised youths of today, preferably with a physique comparable to that of Ethan Hawke, for example) are undoubtedly commendable in their unique perspectives and creative endeavours. Holden Caulfield-/Lisbon sisters-wannabes, on the other hand, are not.

These days, images or literary pieces discussing anything inanimate or intangible = artistic proficiency.

Do you agree? (PS - this would make one hell of a discursive GP question.)

(PPS - Harping on the appalling state of my GP exam scripts is a health hazard.)

Premature birthday celebration this evening at Pre-Rouge/Acid Bar. Everyone, be sure to avoid the lasagna like the plague. It contains half the regular quantity of tomato sauce and five times the stipulated amount of cheese.

It's 5.27 pm and I'm going to be LATE.

2005-11-30T22:14:00.000+08:00

mood indifferent
music Tearing Through Me (Jamisonparker)

As I am currently in actual possession of an infinite score of opportunities to pursue the relatively frivolous enterprise of choice, I'm beginning to wish that I'd been more conscientious in my study of the piano. The prospect of channelling Fiona Apple or Chris Martin in compressing life's bleakness and sticky emotional predicaments into an enigmatic twelve-track is inarguably appealing.

However I've become so estranged from the formidable instrument that the ivory keys have proven themselves almost impervious to my discordant fumbling, narrowing my finesse to clumsy, unbecoming renditions of "Fur Elise" or "The Maiden's Prayer" which frankly any Grade 2 certificate-holder would be able to heartily pound out with one arm bound behind his back. Venturing into jazz is an enticing albeit highly remote possibility; it would undeniably cause Sinatra die-hards like Boey Weishan to hyperventilate and die in the extremities of her boundless enthusiasm.

Creative developments regarding the formation of The Heathcliffs are underway! That is, the largely informal allotment of our respective positions in this pseudo-band which at present is survived by the mildewed recesses of our imaginations. After much fruitless bantering on MSN, Bananis and myself subsequently declared Jie the reigning Shaman of Drums, with Yogesh residing at the keyboards ie aesthetically-charming but virtually superfluous. Weishan, Hanis, and myself would remain backstage tuning our Fisher Price manufactured-in-Mongolia guitars and munching on bananas while willing for more seasoned musicians to relieve us.

However, The Clique ran into Jie at Far East Plaza yesterday afternoon and he reported that contrary to popular (okay mine and WS's) belief he did not own a professional drum set. So we'd probably be confined to the musical forte of Milo tins or something.

Yogesh : *haughtily* I'm not participating in the band if you guys insisit on generating the shitty punk music Ah Morr enjoys listening to.

Weishan : *breezily* OF COURSE NOT. We're looking towards more of a "Deathcab For Cutie" approach.

Yogesh : *whose grasp of pop culture references is defined primarily by mainstream ancients such as Britney Spears and Westlife* Who???

Weishan : *grandly* Yes. Anyway I want to play the banjo!!!

Hur hur hur. To quote Mitch, "So fun so fun."

Your skin oh yeah your skin and bones
Turn into something beautiful
You know, you know I love you so
You know I love you so.

2005-11-29T22:47:00.000+08:00

mood good
music Don't Steal Our Sun (The Thrills)

The general consensus adopted by the newly-liberated arsenal of post-A's revellers is the affirmation of a vacuous and purportless lifestyle over our brutal and unwarranted slavery to copious quantities of revision notes and textbooks (as evinced by the manifestation of pyschological turmoil in our turgid eyebags during the course of the past four months or so). A particularly distraught Econs student reportedly moaned woefully proceeding the conclusion of his final paper - "Now that my A-Levels are over, I have no idea what I'm supposed to do with my life."

While I occasionally have to dismiss the reflexive compulsion to maniacally internalize Wenting's Cold War essay drafts (c/o the good people at RJC), this much-desired respite from feverish revision is a certified panacea.

S-Lit was absolute rubbish. The comparative poetry and prose pieces were markedly less daunting than the abysmal A-Level ones, which I'd blithely mangled while creating some semblance of a literary analysis. Shakespeare was adequate solely because I'd attempted to manipulate the question demands to corroborate rather flimsy cases from [Julius Caesar] and [The Comedy of Errors], because I was an irreverent cheaterbug and loathed having to wade through the banality of intolerable pieces such as [Hamlet]. Question 6 on first-person narrative perspective was positively a RIOT seeing as how I only managed to coax about two measly quotations from my blissful state of igorance regarding my chosen texts.

But we'll face the music in March. This is the first day of the rest of my life.

The prospect of a solo [Roswell] marathon beckons. Just an assortment of DVDs, a quilt, and the piercing aroma of rain.

G'night.

2005-11-29T12:44:00.000+08:00

mood elated
music Attractive Today (Motion City Soundtrack)

Liberty! Freedom! Tyranny is dead! Run hence, proclaim, cry it about the streets! Some to the common pulpits and cry out LIBERTY, FREEDOM, AND ENFRANCHISEMENT!!!

- Julius Caesar, Act III Sc. I.

2005-11-27T20:15:00.000+08:00

mood soporific
music Where Have You Been? (Reel Big Fish)

To mollify the rampaging Safari Mac users who have plagued me relentlessly about the allegedly contorted conditions of my previous Blog template, here is its evidently more inert and nondescript successor.

Mitch and I appropriated approximately 2.5 hours of our evening guffawing over my former Livejournal posts. We were literally wheezing into our respective telephone receivers, we were cackling so hard, marvelling at our inept collective sense of humour and uncultivated perspective which were yet rooted in an innocuous simplicity which would subsequently wan with the corruption of experience.

Quant : *stomping around looking totally frustrated* WHO'S "HUNGRY"???

Class : *misinterpreting her question* Me! Me!

Quant : I meant my Secret Pal, you idiots!

That incident was dated Feb. 18th 2003. HAHAHA Mitch and I were rendered completely dumbfounded. Like "How fucking childish were we???" But these IJ anecdotes was truly hilarious and dang I miss the way I used to write.

Recommended Blogs for the Obnoxious Alter Ego - studentssketchpad and The Museum of Twits.

It's such a shame when old friends fall out
It's such a shame when old friends fall out
It's such a shame when old friends fall out over new lovers

Oh my oh my oh my.

Why, she asked me.
All because of you, baby blue.

2005-11-23T14:22:00.000+08:00

mood weary
music Young Pilgrims (The Shins)

So having sufficiently exasperated everyone within my social network (yes all 2 of them) throughout the course of the previous two days with my relentless lamenting and incessant bawling, I resignedly conceded that the possibility of my having to brave a second tussle with the infernal A-Levels in November '06 is an undeniably glaring one.

PLEASE GOD just let me bag a B-B-C *cue collective gasps of alarm issuing from the respective precincts where the top 5 junior colleges are located*. Or a B-C-C *cue synchronised swooning/fainting*, if that set of grades permits enrollment into the Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences at NUS. Furthering my education abroad is totally a non-option unless my parents are amenable to their having to remove the family living quarters to the neighbouring void deck in order to finance my school fees.

Also, my mother dwells in the perpetual fear of my being accosted by vampires while ambling home from the bus stop. The uninhibited experience (comprising of abominable foreign influences eg. American fast-food) of a world in which she can no longer exercise supreme authority over my every action is a concept which is most remote to her. Once, during a fruitless attempt in broaching the merits of Columbia University's Ivy League-appeal (for I believe we are all entitled to the occasional flight of fancy), she interrupted me sharply, perceiving my speech as a personal maneuver to "give her more gray hairs".

During one of the innumerable post-paper tumults a friend of mine seethed that "those RJ and NJ and HC people ought to do damn badly so UCLES would readily moderate the grades". Okay before I get harrangued at for counter-discrimination against our more academically-inclined compadres. . .I shy from the unforunate employment of the term "elites" judging from the very entertaining media debacle in recent editions of "Today" regarding the egalitarian imposition of the Gifted Education Programme (get a life already guys). . .COME ON some of us seriously need that additional 5 marks apiece to dictate the course on which the rest of our lives hover.

Pg 262, Carter's [Nights at the Circus] - "No star-spangl'd banner unfurled in the perfumed, hazy smoke of the Shaman's hut, with its brass bedstead, saomovar, amulet bag, and the bear with earrings scratching its armpits in front of the fire."

I thought that last bit was very funny.

2005-11-17T21:09:00.000+08:00

mood glad
music Lola (The Kinks)

Disregarding hurriedly the fact that I'd effectively mutialiated every one of my A-Level examination scripts thus far with my unintelligible responses and appalling penmanship, there has emerged in my otherwise catatonic existence a renewed appetite for life!

Because as of 5 pm this evening -

I. WAS. NO. LONGER. REQUIRED. TO. BORE. MYSELF. STUPID BY EXTENDING MY PAINFUL ACQUAINTANCE WITH THE ACADEMIST'S SPAWN OF SATAN aka INTERNATIONAL HISTORY, 9067 / 03!!!

Oh. Until the crude 'F' grade materializes on my results slip in March, inciting me to hurl myself from an open window and winding up impaled by a white picket fence ie Cecilia of [The Virgin Suicides] fame, sans the glut of teen angst.

The source-based question was frankly more unsettling than Michael Jackson's DIY-nose. Wenting insisted vehemently that divine powers had compelled her to examine Mr. Yoong's Cuban Missile Crisis notes once more by way of a broadcast featuring an aged Castro on television the day before, which was witnessed by both herself and Weishan.

ALSO, CONGRATULATIONS CHRISTABEL CAMPBELL CLAIRE, THE FIRST (and possibly the last, given our reckless sense of complacency oh no) SCAVENGER TO - SUBSTANTIALLY - MAKE HER MARK ON THE WORLD. . .

She's the freshly-annointed drumroll please, Ford Bloody Supermodel of the World 2005 how fucking wicked is that! I'm so proud of you Belle seriously. Does this mean that the Scavengers would never have to forage for inexpensive Scotts Food Court fare during our excursions again??? And that my (only) claim to fame would be derived from the inclusion of my name in your acceptance speech when you jet off to NYC?????????

Four more papers to conquer/flub spectacularly, slog to the grave Mori.

Well that's the way that I want it to stay
And I always want it to be that way for my Lola
La la la la Lola

Girls will be boys and boys will be girls
It's a mixed-up muddled-up shook-up world
Except for Lola la la la Lola.

2005-11-12T23:59:00.000+08:00

mood irate
music Lump (The Presidents of the United States of America)

One would presume that once incarcerated under the common subordination to the organizational despot popularly referred to as the Min**t*y of *duc**i*n (because "censorship prevents the gratuitous corruption of our moral integrity", or so affirms My Gargantuan Mound of Still-Pristine GP Notes) our pulsing sense of empathy would instinctively cleave to that of our fellow compatriots who are also presently being psychologically and physically (re : eyebags) mauled by the A-Levels.

But nooo. Suddenly hypothetical General Paper doctorates are en vogue, ranging from the predictable nonchalance of "It was a do-able paper" to the sheer temerity of "I THINK I MAY BE ABLE TO ATTAIN MY A2", readily delivered without a tinge of bitter sardonicism or a ready supply of sleeping pills and whiskey at hand.

To condense my experience on Friday morning succintly - hyperventilating incessantly while attempting to write comprehensibly (and legibly, as everyone was so kind to re-iterate before the commencement of the examination) for three hours was. . .not very fun.

Am frantically attempting to plow through the concluding episode of [The Return of the Native]. After 8000 interminable paragraphs detailing in excruciating minuteae the dysphoric qualities of the storm plaguing the evening of the 5th of November (PATHETIC FALLACY : GREATEST HITS) Clym, Wildeve, and Diggory Venn subsequently congregate for an accusatory tete-a-tete before discovering that stupid Eustacia had somehow tumbled into the weir.

Alternative ending - everyone realises that Egdon Heath is the supreme dictator of human circumstance and, recognizing the futility of the overrated right to self-determination, they leap into the weir after Eustacia and live happily ever after in the underworld (Tartarus).

2005-11-09T15:55:00.000+08:00

mood frazzled
music Standing At The Door (Duvall)

Does the fortification of human existance include understanding that an increase in marginal physical product invariably causes a rightward shift of the marginal revenue product curve, the downward-sloping portion of which constitutes the firm's demand curve for labour???

Anyone?

Because the fact that my annoyance is mounting at the mere appraisal of the insipid grinning faces of Mickey Mouse on my Walt Disney foot-long ruler is highly perturbing.

2005-11-07T14:04:00.000+08:00

mood alright
music You're So Damn Hot (OK Go)

For Jon, although your unwavering piety for the info-technological sonovabitch aka Safari Mac would render my artistic prowess uncredited -

23 months of friendship and counting ("Because each month with Ah Morr feels like a year!"); here's to many more years of petulantly "calling it quits", only to commence whining to each other about trifles 0.0002 seconds later. I love you shit.

On a completely divergent note -

"Mary's watercolors did possess what, for lack of a better word, I will call a 'mournfulness'. But in my experience, there are really only two kinds of children : the empty-headed ones (Fauvist flowers, dogs, and sailboats) and the intelligent ones (gouaches of urban decay, gloomy abstractions) - much like my own painting in college, and during those three heady years in the Village. Could I foresee she would commit suicide? I regret to say, no. At least ten per cent of my students were born with modernist tendencies. I ask you : is dullness a gift? Intelligence a curse? I'm forty-seven years old and live alone." - Jeffrey Eugenides, [The Virgin Suicides].

Okay. Enough kvetching. It's the 7th of November and we'll meet our scholastic Maker in four days.

2005-11-05T20:47:00.000+08:00

mood idle
music Get Me Away From Here, I'm Dying (Belle and Sebastian)

In what was inarguably the most random and seemingly-irrelevant of SMS text conversations ever conducted, Mitch and I deviated recklessly from our respective Chaucer/World Politics + Economics texts to ruminate over the names of our future offspring.

Clearly, purposeless topics of discussion are inexplicably enthralling to my friends, particularly those from IJ. Which perhaps explains why Ping positively thrives upon mindless questions in the vein of, "Would you rather slather baby oil on a naked butch or a certain [A-Maths teacher whose identity shall remain undisclosed]?" or "Would you sleep with Draco Malfoy for a million dollars?"

To which Juli would probably bellow that she would very gladly fork out a million bucks for a sexual tryst with Draco Malfoy.

Anyway, the acerbic Mitch promptly debunked my long-cherished desire to christen my future son Deryck ("That's as good as naming your daughter Paris or Avril!") and instead avidly espoused the "unique" (as in ridiculous) quality of names such as Antoinette and S.T. and J.L. and Harry.

Then I surveyed the Scavengers' heavily-accessed Tagboard and arrived at a safe conclusion that each time the world came to an end (all day every day, especially when the Internet router malfunctions), I'd still have these people around to make me laugh. Their varied intentions for doing so are perhaps not always deliberate, but they are good ones nonetheless.

I'll see you sometime maybe
Don't leave the light on baby

It finally dawned on me tonight
Best to go down without a fight

(I know you would forgive me for my honesty).

2005-11-05T00:54:00.000+08:00

mood fine
music Here's Everything I've Always Meant To Say (Jamisonparker)

The now-tepid remnants of unwarranted consumer exploitation also known as Starbucks coffee beverages - a Venti, no less - changed hands mechanically while we struggled unscrupulously to sculpt a weak semblance of scholastic aptitude.

1 Macroeconomics essay and the arduous ordeal of having to wade through 2 chapters of Thomas Hardy's unintelligible crap. A personal best.

After congratulating ourselves heartily, if not sardonically, for our laudable attainments, we then fell to talking. Well technically Yogesh squinted at me in a caffeine-hazed stupor while I nattered away incessantly in a fervid tirade against human ignorance.

A subject which by no means hold reference to academically-challenged individuals. The most profoundly stupid people, in my steadfast opinion, are those who are extending their intentions and concerns beyond their personal whims, who are intensely if not wholly rooted to the monotony of fact and logic, all of which make for a heavily myopic perspective. Granted pragmatism is a quintessence, but to cling resolutely to it is unspeakably unoriginal. To wax rationality is essentially to set what others had experimented with and subsequently approved of on loop. Sticking to the rules persistently because past incidents have proved it to be fairly accurate, because majority rules.

Just a couple of days ago someone stated that it was virtually pointless to discuss social flaws because we are incapable of doing much to alter the situation. So basically, the world's a peach as long as we are constantly amused and entertained.

We gazed steadily at the narrow ribbons of traffic from the establishment's windows and then, in response to my query as to what she would envision when beholding an Egdon Heath-inspired landscape, she replied, "Um. The socialist woes of Russia." Global warming. Something in the vein of socio-politics. And then I said I don't know, Robert Frost leaps to mind, or the haunting strains of Simon and Garfunkel.

Ignorance would stem from surveying such a scene and merely identifying grass or trees or nimbus clouds because-my-Geography-textbook-said-so. Unfortunately there is an entire class of such individuals. (Pun intended and inside joke.)

And then I shot Yogesh a dubious glance and she flashed me one in return and I was like, "I have no idea why all that came to mind." And then we had to leave because the stipulated studying hours had concluded (re : infamous SA bust at the Holland Village outlet). Deon and Stuart were in the premises as well, internalizing liberal amounts of Ben+Jerry's instead of Shakespeare.

6 days to go. I AM DYING, EGYPT, DYING.

2005-11-02T12:44:00.000+08:00

mood contemplative
music Cannonball (Damien Rice)

Because I know Jon is liable to blow a gasket should his ears be assailed yet again by my irreverent caterwauling to the phrase, "The colder water/The Blower's Daughter".

He insisted matter-of-factly that the a Blower's profession involved "giving people blowjobs for a living".

Even when a breeze skitters across the porcelain surface of the pool and wrinkles the scintillating calm of its skin, the water appears intensely re-assuring, like a generous specimen of solid ground rather than the fluid frailty it really is. Already its gleaming face ripples dangerously when you dunk your foot in gingerly to ascertain the cold.

A woman inches into view; an ordinary ruddy countenance, her thinning hair a lurid and artificial copper, lacking orignality. An average atom of humanity and all those sun-warmed blue tiles. She flails, gulping unbecomingly for air and for a heart-stopping moment she appears to be drowning, but then reason re-asserts itself and you realise she's okay, you're okay, just breathing hard. She would've been a more refined swimmer if people had recognized that nub of potential in her soul's efflorescence and taught her the steps.

Pint-sized choppy waves emerge from under her fingertips. Twenty-five years ago her husband had imparted to her the subtle dexterities of the doggy paddle and this she mimicked dilligently, but her efforts were nothing short of embarrassing. Then he cherished the notion of operating the first electronics-goods store in the neighbourhood and this he gradually accomplished, being an industrious man. She idled at home in blissful ignorance, sharing none of his enterprising ideals, hapless save for a flair for authentic Hainanese cooking, which her mother had conditioned because there were some things all little girls ought to know.

Like a flurry of sand she lumbers forth, uncertain - one lap down - oddly weightless yet conpicuous and cumbersome at the same time. She supposed she was fortunate enough that he let her stay. The store's assistant was scarcely a day over twenty and possessed none of her bland reticence or her steadily ballooning calves. She clambers out, beaming. Not a private smile of personal triumph, but one that is meant to be displayed, her upper lip tucked neatly under for good measure. But it is late morning and the compound is deserted.

This is a nice pool, in a nice estate, but she was its guest. She flops dully back into the water and the gilded surface throbs. Knuckled deep within her bosom were you and I and all of the world's beating hearts; our mild indignance at the existance of definitive terms like tall and thin and chubby-around-the-middle when we were in fact all one and the same.

T-minus nine days to GP, the premiere paper. (Lord grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.)

2005-10-28T22:39:00.000+08:00

mood torpid
music Here We Stand (Amber Pacific)

Upon wielding her stellar semestral report card my sister promptly commenced simpering about the plethora of 'A' grades on her results slip and gloating extensively over her enviable physical-fitness test scores.

After broadly articulating her immense exhilaration regarding her youngest daughter's academic brilliance, my mother glanced at me swiftly. "Come to think of it, what award were you accorded during your last NAPFA session in secondary school???"

"Um, I believe it was a NIL award."

At the absurdity of this statement my mother sucked in her breath abruptly. "MY GOODNESS. And didn't you score B's for Mathematics and Science during your PSLE? How could anyone receive anything less than an 'A' for Science in primary school???"

"That was six years ago."

My mother was relentless. "And it says here that your sister's teacher commended her for being 'quiet and reserved in class'! While the first report I ever received from YOUR form mistress was" - quoting to great effect - "'Marissa loves to talk while doing written work'!"

I recounted this to a giggling Jon who frankly was less than surprised at the marked distinction between my sister's scholastic and athletic achievements and my own (or the lack of it). Funny how the prerequisite teachers' remarks are able to explain genetic discrepancies more effectively than any Darwinian theorist ever would.

Liz - "OUR LIPS ARE SEALED."

Hanis - Hey my Mat brother, our musical goal in the long run where all factors of production are variable is to transform The Heathcliffs from a bunch of geeky adolescents into Gen Y's answer to The Rolling Stones.

This will all fall down
Like everything else that was
This too shall pass

And all of the words we said
We can't take back

Now every fool in town
Would've left by now
I can't replace all the wasted days
The memory of your face

Can't help thinking
Maybe if we ever could have kept it all together
Where would we be?

A thousand lost forevers
And the promises you never were giving me
Here's what I'm thinking

It won't be the first heart that you break
It won't be the last beautiful girl
The one that you wrecked won't take you back
If you were the last beautiful girl in the world

Tell me one more time
How you're sorry about the way
This all went down

You needed to find your space
You needed to still be friends
Needed me to call you
If I ever couldn't keep it all together
You'd comfort me

Tell me but forever
And the promises I never should have believed in
Here's what I'm thinking

It won't be the first heart that you break
It won't be the last beautiful girl
The one that you wrecked won't take you back
If you were the last beautiful girl in the world

It's over now and I've gone without
Cos you're everybody else's girl
It seems to me you'll always be
Everyone else's girl

This will all fall down
Like everything in the world
This too must end

And all the words we said
We can't take them back

It won't be the first heart that you break
It won't be the last beautiful girl
The one that you wrecked won't take you back
If you were the last

It won't be the first heart that you break
It won't be the last beautiful girl
The one that you wrecked won't take you back
If you were the last beautiful girl in the world.

2005-10-26T23:16:00.000+08:00

mood lethargic
music Streets of Love (The Rolling Stones)

To Daryl Tay - I understand that the present prospects of flinging yourself from an open window or sprawling across a train track are very appealing, BUT. It is highly unlikely that you'd be in your current despondent state a [insert reasonable span of time] from now. Granted it does little to mitigate the deranged baying of the fucking monster in your ribcage (ie your heart), but to quote from several sagacious friends of mine, "Time heals all wounds" - and really and truly, at this point in time things can only get better. Disillusionment is psychological rehab - it absolutely sucks at present, but you'd be surprised at how it works for you in the long run. Til then, love no one but your friends and those who are constantly there for you. Hang in there morr-on, we'll have a good laugh at how ludicrous this was in the future.

2005-10-23T17:10:00.000+08:00

mood agreeable
music Stuck In the Middle With You (Stealers Wheel)

Alright I can now exult at having verifiably conquered the technological complexities of my repugnant laser jet/scanner hybrid.

Its premiere projects - a couple of sweet compositions.

SEE HOW THEY GROW -

Scavengers '01, nostalgic for their potty-training exercises.

The stigmas and merits which connote the highly-distinctive IJ pinafore. Which my mother callously utilized as a fucking KITCHEN RAG.

Kukup '01.

Scavengers, February '04.

Mitch and I were commiserating over the injustice of IJ girls constantly being on the receiving end of disparaging criticism from either peers who feel compelled to expose us to rampant heathenism in which we had been allegedly steeped for the past decade, or "concerned members of the public" who frankly should just go to hell instead of glowering at us from the windows of the HDB apartments overlooking the second- and third-floor toilets at the old Toa Payoh compound, where Mitch and myself once flung water over the ledge at innocuous passers-by.

Juli + Belle - It's 'PRECOCIOUS' not 'PRECIOUS' you dingbats. And if I recall correctly Belle was the one who penned it down!

Michelle Wong - What's with the quiet diplomacy.

2005-10-17T21:49:00.000+08:00

mood glum
music Turning Japanese (The Vapors)

We are the unwarranted victims of cruel and unusual punishment inflicted through an allegedly intellectually-stimulating medium.

How do I loathe thee, UCLES dear, let me count the ways.

After applauding myself inwardly for the exemplary exhibition of dilligence and fortitude at having completed 30 Econs multiple-choice questions, I promptly engrafted my form onto the couch and vegetated mutely to [D3 : The Mighty Ducks], circa 1996. Which in turn reflexively triggered the fond reminiscence of similar films I'd enjoyed in my pre-adolescence, and fostered deluded infatuations for ubiquitous pin-up boys of the 1990's eg. Jonathan Taylor Thomas of [Home Improvement] fame, Brad Renfro, etc.

These seminal movies would vastly alter your life's perspective and illuminate the unintelligible features of our existence. No, I'm kidding. But they do make for quasi-entertaining Saturday afternoons where you require a momentary diversion from contemplating the inviting prospect of leaping from an open window with your Literature texts strapped snugly to your stomach, a la suicide-bombers.

1) House Arrest. (Primarily because Kyle Howard was, and always shall be, a bona fide stud.)

2) Carpool.

3) National Lampoon's Animal House. (Devoid of any philosophic insight whatsoever, but still a John Belushi classic.)

4) My Girl/My Girl 2. (Macaulay Culkin before the self-destructive hormonal surges. Oh, and because Austin O'Brien was adorable in the sequel.)

5) Father of the Bride.

6) Wild America.

7) Tom and Huck. (JTT and Brad Renfro played Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn respectively. I believe this was an attempt to incite spontaneous combustion in female viewers.)

8) THE GOONIES.

9) The Mighty Ducks trilogy.

10) Sleepers. (ONE OF THE BEST FUCKING MOVIES EVER MADE. No, and not simply because it stars Brad Pitt and Brad Renfro, which is always a lethal combination.)

Like I said. These films have the capacity to transform girls into women.

PS - Guys, I'd be happy to rectify the HTML code to facilliate you idiotic Safari Mac users, except that I know balls about the system. Any takers???

2005-10-15T14:00:00.000+08:00

mood dull
music You and Me (Lifehouse)

In response to Jack Johnson's plaintive enquiry.

14th Oct. 2005 - [Lost In Translation] from an unchartered Asian perspective, us three subsisting primarily on Coca Cola caffeine and the carcinogenic goodness of acrid second-hand cigarette smoke. A platonically emotional menage a trois, explosive pockets of post-monsoon wind in a golf buggy, and its marshall. Let's never come back here again because it would never be this fun.

2005-10-10T21:55:00.000+08:00

mood lethargic
music Crooked Teeth (Deathcab For Cutie)

Halloween, 2001.

Little did we know the haphazardly-embedded cluster of flowers which split open in a rapid profusion on our clothes and hair - the reds and lurid greens, bleached white orbs on distressed denim - did not wholly constitute the ponderous brilliance in full bloom that night. Elvis' ukelele girls floundering by the poolside, radiating anything their nascent hearts desired. Before they were nicked, before their lustre was dulled by experience they dwelled only in the Now, where the only thing they toiled impatiently for was the pizza pie in a grease-slicked box, before they learnt to fret over the rattle of the scales. Unable to contemplate life beyond the videos they would run before going to bed, ice-creams and the brief bus ride home.

I. HAVE. GOT. TO. COMMENCE. STUDYING. DILLIGENTLY.

Cos I built you a home in my heart
With rotten wood and it decayed from the start
Cos you can't find nothing at all
If there was nothing there all along.

There were churches, theme parks, and malls
But there was nothing there all along.

2005-10-09T08:31:00.000+08:00

mood appalled
music The Reasons (The Weakerthans)

Irrevocable change, festered in any individual, invariably murders its source. Your Adam or Eve, the cardinal, now housed in a coffin meticulously crafted to replicate every unobtrusive arc in your body, right down to the blistered soles of your feet nestled comfortably against the boxed-in apathy of wood. My palms against the frigid lid. The cumbersome crate fits. Make believe if I lie beside it, I'll be lying beside you. But it is a flimsy semblance, a cheap and crude counterfeit. (Through the looking-glass) my gaze finally severs you from the uniformity of lacquered brown; that's you in there. Mechanical pounding, wake up. But Death, she had already taught you not to flinch. That's you in there with the graceful decay of the remains of all that you were, while you seek boundless gratification in camouflage pants.