Today's Muse: Physic Fat
You know when I first saw Paul "Quit Messing With Your Fucking Fringe" Twohill, I thought he was a joke. Yes, I was grumpy and my anger was more toward the rubbery canteen food at Mediacorp, and having a herd of Idol wannabes descend on an otherwise quiet lunch will do nothing for your nerves.
The boy annoys me, yet I can't help but root for him. The lesser evil of several otherwise bland "Thankyouthankyoujudges", er, evils. Sounds like yet another bad translation out of French.
Even though he's made the strongest impression so far, I have the tiniest notion the whole eyeliner-and-THE HAIR might work against his favour. Think about it. How many of you took one look at the boy and immediately yelled "OMFG POSEUR!!!" ? [Argh, netspeak. I feel so dirty.][Diiirty.]
So, I'm going to predict, Paul Twohill and Jonathon Leong get through.
Now I've contributed yet another pointless post devoted to the Singapore Idol Schtick, it's time for me to go back to living under a rock. Next post: The condition of my sock drawer. Same bat-time, same bat-channel!
ZIFF POW!
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Today's Muse: Ma Head Feels Light As Air
Finally went to see Miz Grace, Hair-person Extraordinaire
Just out of bed, still a bit crusty I like my new hair. She applied something to it to make it more pliable, and now it's awful soft and doesn't get as tangled. No idea what the magic stuff was, but it smelt like mutton.
My head doesn't hurt anymore. Glee and pie.
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
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Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Today's Muse: Out In Space!
I seem to be coming down with something, what with my spewing my insides out onto the floor and then lapping them back up to restore the cosmic balance. Which is most cosmic-like-y.
So, before I retreat to bed with vanilla & choc-chip ice cream and another picturootiful cook book, have a picture of my youngest niece with slightly less hair.
I seem to be coming down with something, what with my spewing my insides out onto the floor and then lapping them back up to restore the cosmic balance. Which is most cosmic-like-y.
So, before I retreat to bed with vanilla & choc-chip ice cream and another picturootiful cook book, have a picture of my youngest niece with slightly less hair.
SPACE-MAN BLEW UP THEM BUSES! NOB!
Sunday, May 14, 2006
Today's Muse: MEAT
I was going to spend my pay on those uber-expensive comics and old movie DVDs, and maybe a pair of new shoes to replace my "Hole-in-da-Sole!" babies, but now it seems I must spend it on a shiny Meat-Grinder!
Fuck you, Cats for Dummies. "They thrive on meat-flavoured cereal! Really! Ask our vets!"
Enough is enough. I should have ignored Da's worrying when we talked about what to feed Baby back when he was a kit. Never mind Mother's protests, it's raw, dripping, bloody meat 'n guts from this here on. Yee-haw!
I had the most unusual craving for raw meat the other day during work. By the way.
I was going to spend my pay on those uber-expensive comics and old movie DVDs, and maybe a pair of new shoes to replace my "Hole-in-da-Sole!" babies, but now it seems I must spend it on a shiny Meat-Grinder!
Fuck you, Cats for Dummies. "They thrive on meat-flavoured cereal! Really! Ask our vets!"
Enough is enough. I should have ignored Da's worrying when we talked about what to feed Baby back when he was a kit. Never mind Mother's protests, it's raw, dripping, bloody meat 'n guts from this here on. Yee-haw!
I had the most unusual craving for raw meat the other day during work. By the way.
Thursday, May 11, 2006
Today's Muse: When I smile, I can feel the scab peel.
On Monday I wrote down three insults, cobbled together from other phrasings, on the back of an old shooting schedule.
On Tuesday I wrote down all the secret things I will never tell the various people whom have touched my lives, for better or for worse.
On Wednesday I smashed my face into the mounted speaker in the sound mix room, and wrote "I want to hold a baby." with a titchy bit of pencil lead.
On Thursday I learnt about the various functions of and how to work the sound mixer.
It's not important at all, is it.
PS: You know how it's very adult to put the past behind you, forgive and forget, we were all young and angry, hey I'm going to pretend that you never made me feel so badly about myself and that I was so eager for your validation of my humanity that I grovelled for forgiveness for something I didn't understand to you that day the Band came home without the Gold outside the toilet. It's not your fault, I know. I let you affect me; so insecure about myself that I took your sneers so badly. I mean, hey, you didn't like me, end of story! There was no need for me to be so pathatic. I'm ashamed of myself, I really am.
And so today I say, it's over. Sure, second year was hell for me, because I made it hell for me. No one's fault but my own. And I'm sure you had your own problems. Your friends always rallied around you. I wasn't really likable, was I? Always answering the teachers' questions, making the rest of you look bad (I have to admit, I took some vindictive pleasure in that).
All that was, what, three years ago? Geez, and here I am talking about it. When I'm asked about it I say "I was to blame." because, it's true. Think through it logically.
I mean, you're not a bad girl. You're funny and witty and kind. An obvious pillar of support. You were fourteen and fustrated.
I say all that. But all I can think is
Dear Liz, (Do they still call you that?)
I hope you die in a puddle of pee. Jerk.
love,
me.
I've known several Elizabeths. One I loved. One I dreaded. Another calls me Auntie 'toria.
On Monday I wrote down three insults, cobbled together from other phrasings, on the back of an old shooting schedule.
On Tuesday I wrote down all the secret things I will never tell the various people whom have touched my lives, for better or for worse.
On Wednesday I smashed my face into the mounted speaker in the sound mix room, and wrote "I want to hold a baby." with a titchy bit of pencil lead.
On Thursday I learnt about the various functions of and how to work the sound mixer.
It's not important at all, is it.
PS: You know how it's very adult to put the past behind you, forgive and forget, we were all young and angry, hey I'm going to pretend that you never made me feel so badly about myself and that I was so eager for your validation of my humanity that I grovelled for forgiveness for something I didn't understand to you that day the Band came home without the Gold outside the toilet. It's not your fault, I know. I let you affect me; so insecure about myself that I took your sneers so badly. I mean, hey, you didn't like me, end of story! There was no need for me to be so pathatic. I'm ashamed of myself, I really am.
And so today I say, it's over. Sure, second year was hell for me, because I made it hell for me. No one's fault but my own. And I'm sure you had your own problems. Your friends always rallied around you. I wasn't really likable, was I? Always answering the teachers' questions, making the rest of you look bad (I have to admit, I took some vindictive pleasure in that).
All that was, what, three years ago? Geez, and here I am talking about it. When I'm asked about it I say "I was to blame." because, it's true. Think through it logically.
I mean, you're not a bad girl. You're funny and witty and kind. An obvious pillar of support. You were fourteen and fustrated.
I say all that. But all I can think is
Dear Liz, (Do they still call you that?)
I hope you die in a puddle of pee. Jerk.
love,
me.
I've known several Elizabeths. One I loved. One I dreaded. Another calls me Auntie 'toria.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Saturday, May 06, 2006
Thursday, May 04, 2006
Today's Muse: Knotty Sort of Day
I don't have to get in until 6pm tomorrow. Glee. On Saturday the station won't be done until about 4 in the morning, thanks to Polling Night and the press conferences later. I like the people in Station 1. Glad I got to move over from 4 & 6.
I'm still useless, but what can you do?
I spend a lot of time sorting out what I'm going to do once the attachment is up during "work". I've refined it to a level whereby each and every single action is accounted for, and no unnecessary (but otherwise entertaining) routes are taken. Like most Square Enix games. Or the military in the movies. Or something. I'm a lot smarter than I read. Really. Okay. Not really. The only reason I'm blogging is to put up that picture. It was on my floor.
God I love cheese. I hate those Fuji apples. Taste like cardboard. I'll try roasting them with cheese tomorrow.
I'll eat anything with cheese.
PS: I totally got owned by some game called "EmoGame". I got killed by Gene Simmons. Geez.
I don't have to get in until 6pm tomorrow. Glee. On Saturday the station won't be done until about 4 in the morning, thanks to Polling Night and the press conferences later. I like the people in Station 1. Glad I got to move over from 4 & 6.
I'm still useless, but what can you do?
I spend a lot of time sorting out what I'm going to do once the attachment is up during "work". I've refined it to a level whereby each and every single action is accounted for, and no unnecessary (but otherwise entertaining) routes are taken. Like most Square Enix games. Or the military in the movies. Or something. I'm a lot smarter than I read. Really. Okay. Not really. The only reason I'm blogging is to put up that picture. It was on my floor.
God I love cheese. I hate those Fuji apples. Taste like cardboard. I'll try roasting them with cheese tomorrow.
I'll eat anything with cheese.
PS: I totally got owned by some game called "EmoGame". I got killed by Gene Simmons. Geez.
Monday, May 01, 2006
Today's Muse: Carrots
I remember the day Mamah died.
I was twelve. Mother and Da had picked me up from school, and as a treat brought me to the new library at Takashimaya. We were sitting at one of the annoyingly flimsy tables that belonged to the in-house cafe, when Ma's phone went off.
When she relayed the news, Da simply looked down at his cup. Ma's eyes were slightly pink, and in her typical fashion said at least Mamah had gone peacefully.
And that was it.
The next day I went up to the teacher to ask if I might be allowed out early. Why, she asked. Oh, my Grandmother died. We've got a funeral.
Oh. Oh, I'm so sorry. Are you okay?
I felt vaguely guilty that I was okay. It was unsettling; shouldn't one be more sad when someone dies? I was more affected by the death of the school rabbits than Mamah.
Da showed no outward signs of grief for his mother, not like the other member from his side of the family who came by thumping their chests and wailing. They only came to visit once every couple of Chinese New Years while Mamah stayed with us - and were complete dicks, but that's another story - and when Mamah was placed in a nursing home as she slipped further into dementia and her body began to fail her, only Da visited her.
I wonder what it was like, watching his mother die, and nothing he could do about it. He sacrifaced the most to take care of her, when none of her other children wanted her. Did he cry, while Kim and I were asleep in bed? Did he curse his lot silently? Or did he just push it all aside, ignoring it?
Ten years from now, I'll be twenty-seven, in the prime of my life. Ten years from now, Da will be seventy, the same age Mamah was when she became bedridden and stopped recognizing her children.
Part of the reason why the trip to Comic-Con in San Diego was scrapped was Da's health. These past couple of days have underlined the fact Da isn't exactly in the pink, especially.
I used to cry myself to sleep when I was a wee chit of a Missy, about Mother and Da dying and then what would I do? Now? I still tear, but not out of fear. I have a new goal; to do something big, something huge and breaking, to make my parents proud before they stop recognizing me. It's a fact; they won't be around forever, and neither will I.
So I'm off to get cracking.
I remember the day Mamah died.
I was twelve. Mother and Da had picked me up from school, and as a treat brought me to the new library at Takashimaya. We were sitting at one of the annoyingly flimsy tables that belonged to the in-house cafe, when Ma's phone went off.
When she relayed the news, Da simply looked down at his cup. Ma's eyes were slightly pink, and in her typical fashion said at least Mamah had gone peacefully.
And that was it.
The next day I went up to the teacher to ask if I might be allowed out early. Why, she asked. Oh, my Grandmother died. We've got a funeral.
Oh. Oh, I'm so sorry. Are you okay?
I felt vaguely guilty that I was okay. It was unsettling; shouldn't one be more sad when someone dies? I was more affected by the death of the school rabbits than Mamah.
Da showed no outward signs of grief for his mother, not like the other member from his side of the family who came by thumping their chests and wailing. They only came to visit once every couple of Chinese New Years while Mamah stayed with us - and were complete dicks, but that's another story - and when Mamah was placed in a nursing home as she slipped further into dementia and her body began to fail her, only Da visited her.
I wonder what it was like, watching his mother die, and nothing he could do about it. He sacrifaced the most to take care of her, when none of her other children wanted her. Did he cry, while Kim and I were asleep in bed? Did he curse his lot silently? Or did he just push it all aside, ignoring it?
Ten years from now, I'll be twenty-seven, in the prime of my life. Ten years from now, Da will be seventy, the same age Mamah was when she became bedridden and stopped recognizing her children.
Part of the reason why the trip to Comic-Con in San Diego was scrapped was Da's health. These past couple of days have underlined the fact Da isn't exactly in the pink, especially.
I used to cry myself to sleep when I was a wee chit of a Missy, about Mother and Da dying and then what would I do? Now? I still tear, but not out of fear. I have a new goal; to do something big, something huge and breaking, to make my parents proud before they stop recognizing me. It's a fact; they won't be around forever, and neither will I.
So I'm off to get cracking.