I once told someone that blogs were a waste of time, created to express a wish for others to understand their intentions without them actually having to confront said others, which ultimately belied a sense of insecurity.

Said someone nodded sagely, then set off to create one for me.

Well, not for me persay. He made one for near everyone in the group, and posted posing as them. For mine, he drew upon my letters (he was the old penpal mentioned somewhere below). To his credit, he never posted anything too personal. To his un-credit, he tried to use it to "solve" some issues I had at the time... kiddy angst crap he actually took seriously.

Stupid beyond stupid. Using other people's conflict so as to run from his own. Hmph.

In many cases I see adolescents using online diaries to aim their fustration at someone - stemming from an unwillingness? fear? of confronting them in person. Not that it is easy, of course. But the whole thing reeks of... something stinky.

Anyways, he gave the blog to me. After fiddling with the address I settled on the original one he gave it : clove-dom. The name itself arose from some RPG with them all...

I found myself tearing the other day for no good reason. I was walking home, and I stopped at the spot just under the tree at the corner. A vehemently large spider had taken up there, and its web was about two metres tall, and about a metre wide. Day after day, no matter how vicious the weather, I always found it there, clinging.

But that day the rain had been particularly heavy.

And, stupid stupid girl, I stood there in my school uniform with my heavy-assed bag and glasses askew, and actually teared. I had told myself everyday I had seen it that it would eventually disappear - nothing can last forever. Over and over, it will soon be gone.

I don't really know why I did that. Perhaps it just triggered something. Thought of Sarah. Why I don't really want to establish contact again.

Sarah was my best friend at St. Christopher's in Peneng. Warm memories, with muted colours, bit soft around the edges... that's what I remember. Of course there were the moment when I felt like a heel and the more exicting moments (like the motorcycle slamming into the car - woo). Partners in crime - we'd conspire to steal more chocolate under our mom's noses; late-night confessions - I had been carrying around the guilt of stealing crotons from the salad bar (croutons, for crying out loud); playing house using the SCS bushes - Sarah would pray and I'd recite. (in the church/temple/Sunday place)

Then we moved - Sarah back to France, I to Singapore. We wrote to each other, but as we grew older the letters stopped coming and going. But I don't really want to change this. I'm afraid that things would have changed too much, nothing like the old friendship. I don't really want the memories to be marred. We both grew up in different worlds - and I fear that we may have changed far too much for each other.

Just like the others.

Of course, if I did get ahold of her e-mail or sumfink, or if she messaged me, no way I'd pass it up. A bit of an oxymoron.

I'm just a little afraid, that all.

Nostalgia is such is soft word.

Abe came while I was in the pool.

Baby Lizzy was visiting, and Kim, being the useless lump he was, refused to strip down to his shorts to take her swimming. (self-conscious, aint he?) So I ended up holding the baby while she trashed about. Had the time of her short life.

Then the package arrived.

WHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!11!!

I couldn't open the damn plastic cover thing, so out came the scissors. Multilated the plastic, but who cares? But when I pulled Abe out from the unyielding plastic I nearly screamed.

HE. HAD. NO. HEAD.

It was still stuck in there, but for a long minute I stared stupidly at headless Abe, wondering what I could do to sue. Ach. Right now he's watching me type this out.

Made my day, really. Hum hummy hum...

Hungry.

I emailed someone just now :

ABE'S HERE!!

And the reply:

"Oooo, when's abey comin?"

I swear, I almost smashed the keyboard.
Dooby doo wap.

Hm. I finally told my dad.

It was about half-past nine on Friday night, and I was still waiting for the post to arrive with my package. I took out "B.P.R.D. : Plague of Frogs" TPB to pass the time and whined about the mail system in general... so my dad looked up from his book and asked what was arriving.

So that led to an summarisation of entire Mike Mignola, Hellboy and B.P.R.D. universe, and him flipping through my two B.P.R.D. TPBs...

"That's Johann, he was a German psychic, you know, connect with the dead and all that? Yeah, he was out of his body when it was burnt to bits, so he's not dead persay. Just doesn't have a body.

Flip, flip.

"Hm. Who's that?"

"That's Johann, Dad."

And:

"So this is Abe Sapien?"

"No Dad. That's Johann. Abe is this guy, the fish-man."

"Oh. Ugh. Ugly."

But he was really interested. He did get a little worried about the paranormal aspect ("You... don't get nightmares?"), but that's Dad.

He reads stuff on Afterlife theories and Nostradamus and quantam physics. Not that Dad is a nut-freak about this stuff. In fact, he's pretty much the opposite, a pretty quiet guy who likes his Chinese teapots and stays away from crowds. He... hoards things, including infomation, useless bits of miscelly. I get that from him.
We both like to think we can use all that junk someday.

My Mum was nearby listening, and contributing a snort or two in her amused motherly fashion. I kept talking, even when Dad got up and brushed his teeth, and lay down, and closed his eyes...

Later, I overheard Mum and Dad speaking:

"So that's what she's been doing with her time. So complicated. They don't have simple stories anymore, like when we were children."

"Well, uh, it's okay. It's like science fiction, you know... *snore*"

At this point I stuck my head round the door and said:

"Um, by the way, I'd like to marry this Abe Sapien."

Dad nodded, and Mum, without looking up from her book:

"Well, if you find him and bring him home first, than you can do what you want.

And don't step on your brother on the way out."

I wish I was allowed to just stay home and study. No school commitments, no blasted tip-toeing about, no just sitting there doing something bloody useless.

Let me have my life back, please, so I can make proper use of it.

Ach. On to other things.

Imagine, if you will, a house. A house with white-washed walls, with mismatched furniture (but a very handsome dining table), with every available surface cluttered with brick-and-brack : a memento from the late ex-president, photographs of all but one, baking tins, feathered balls, terracotta teapots, books on everything from Mao to corn, newspapers, and a hundred little pieces waiting to be put into place.

Imagine, if you will, all the windows opened as far as they will go. Beyond them are clothes, bright, clinging to their bamboo poles. Beyond that, an acid-green wire fence bent and beaten. Beyond that, a field, with trees twisted and gnarled reaching for the clouds, with a clump of bamboo in a corner, leaves a-dancing in the sharp wind.

Imagine, if you will, sitting on the back veranda, with the hose at your side like the faithful canine, the battered washing machine at your elbow, grumbling with it's load. You're balanced - precariously - on the weathered railing, toes gripping the bars, watching the wind slap at the wet clothes, while the chimes tinkle above your head.

Imagine, if you will, a bundle of black and white just barely squeezing under the fence, then leaping out into the open space. His body responds naturally to the ground beneath his paws, and he runs, with a grace and economy you can only admire, as the tags "fat" and "lazy" melt away along with the sound of his collars bell.

Imagine, if you will, the unmistakable scent of spice in your head, coming from the simmering pot on the stove in the kitchen just behind you. You hear your mother doing mother-like things - her nagging to get down from there before you break your back just washes over you like a warm wave, a reminder of her comfortable presence. Your father is tinkering with yet another antique - is that the 'ping!' of the typewriter you hear?

Imagine, if you will, the sun warm on your legs, while flies go bz-bz-bz around, and you slap at your skin with practiced boredom. Now and then you squash one, your blood red on your palm, and you squash too your glee and mumble a prayer for the mozzie's soul.

Imagine, if you will.

And that sums up why I love Sundays.

Happy National Day, Singapore.

Love you.

And in other news:

I ORDERED MY ABE SAPIEN ACTION FIGURE FROM EBAY.

*prostates before oh-so-generous-older-brother*

Wish he'd come back from China... but absence does make the heart grow fonder.

I SO wanna watch The Corpse Bride.

listening to: Gravity
Gorillaz

You scored as Nightcrawler. Nightcrawler is a very symbolic X-Man. He is persecuted by society because of his devilish looks, but it is his faith in God that gives him strength. He is a very gentle x-man but he does know how to fight and he enjoys fencing. Powers: Teleportation Nightcrawler 70% Cyclops 60% Storm 60% Jean Grey 50% Emma Frost 50% Beast 50% Rogue 50% Colossus 45% Iceman 40% Wolverine 35% Gambit 35% Most Comprehensive X-Men Personality Quiz 2.0 created with QuizFarm.com

Oooooh... I love fuzzbutt. 'cause he's blue 'n fuzzy.

The thing is, this isn't very accurate. Hm hm. Nightcrawler (Real name: Kurt Wagner - pronounced "VAG-ner" - first appearance: Giant X-Men #1 ; Powers: Teleportation, trained acrobat, can scale sheer walls, see in the dark, Olympic-level fencer. Fervent Catholic. Idolises Robin Hood and Zorro. Tries to play the ladies man. Prehensile tail strong enough to take his weight. Dark indigo fur, allows him to blend into the shadows. Bitch to read, I know. I swear I wrote this entirely from memory.) is the eternal optimist, the one who appears to not take life seriously. He believes in and fears the unknown (read: monsters under the bed) and is strongly religious. He is honest to a fault. Not me.

I need evidence. I hoard infomation. If I am presented with tales of spirits and such, I have to research it extensively before I will be satisfied. Kurt rides on faith; I on evidence.

There are other things; honesty, relationships, attitudes. Too personal to delve in here. In short, Kurt is someone I would like to be, to be seen as. But he and I, too different at core.

On to another facet: There was one question, something about working in groups and solitude. Before, I was firmly grounded in the belief that I was best off by myself. I disliked working with others, I preferred silence to socialising - if I was with other people, I made sure the others enjoyed my company, and to all apperances, I theirs.

Yet today, I find myself seeking company more and more often. Not that now I actively shun solitude. I still crave moments to myself (and still get pissed when people interrupt me) but I seemed to have reached an equalibrim. Both have their merits.

One thing about solitude - I don't mean physically isolated. I can be sitting at my desk while the others chatter on. Bit like swimming in a river - rest a bit on the bank, getting your bearings, before you splash back into the thick of things and get swept away.

Annnoying are those who insist you are unhappy if you are silent. I myself am guilty of such.

So, at that question, I felt a bit like I was fibbing when I chose I did enjoy working in a team. Old habits die hard.

Well, on to other things.

Started thinking (read: worrying) seriously about my post 'O'-Level plans. I've thought about it since I started Secondary school - and I still haven't got a proper answer. I never really decided what I wanted to do after school.

It seems as though these these days might last forever. That's the flavour of the day. For me. For once, in Singapore, I am truly happy where I am. But change must come, he who shows neither mercy nor compassion for those in in path. Bit like a gardener, you know, with a lawnmower and such (now theres an idea... foregoing the poetic marlarkey.)

But now to bed. Anon!

PS: I started this blog to fill a void vacated by my corrospondence with someone. He and I use to write long, childish letters to each other chronicling everything from his latest piano fiasco (his mom use to try and make him perform for guests...) and my own encounter with the feral cats (feral? Noooo, they just try to eat widdle girls for fun...).

I miss 'im.

So, in the spirit of things, I say to you,

Love,
Missy V
Queen (is she?) of Victoria's Head

PS2: I would be interested in a penpal. Go ahead, leave a comment.

w00t. Work almost done.

Going to the new library after tomorrow's career fair. I'd live there if they'd let me...

i'd like to thank the creator of this skin. Go! Fly, fly to thee!

i'm still locked out of Deviantart. But with the recent upheaval...

Prelim exams in about a month. Rush rush rush.

Good night.