Today's Muse: HAIL ME!

I did something stupid today.

Eeeeheeeheehee.


EDIT:

Well, that's the ivelostcountactually time some one's told me that LASALLE-SIA is tosh.

Although my intial reaction is to yell "BALLS!" and tackle them in a fit of rage one can only learn from comic books ("I love you!" "RAAAAARRR!" *fling!* ") , I supress it. I pause, and think: Am I really justified in attacking the other person? Okay, I don't really look all that dignified thinking that - my eyes tend to gloss over the same way they do when I break my brain.

I haven't even begun classes at LASALLE (And I'll keep the caps, thank you). I haven't a clue what it'll be like. The opinions on why it's tosh range from "Oh. It sucks" to "After attending their performing arts showcase, I feel that it is infinitely inferior to the stature of So-and-so school's drama club". Even if I were to defend LASALLE, I can't really think of anything to retort with other than "Nuh-uh, it doesn't" which makes me wonder why I bother to read so much.

I could have gone to a Junior College of my choice, kept drama as a CCA or even offered it as an subject. But I chose LASALLE. Not NAFA, not a JC. Why?

Because I didn't want to.

It's as simple as that.

Between going through rote learning for another two years to ultimately sit for yet another major exam and taking a giant leap into pursuing something I am so passionate about full-time and not as a sideline to be pushed aside for more "important" activities like "studying" - The choice is easy, no?

And in LASALLE what I love best is the studying.

I could have gone through JC, gotten my 'A' Level certification and THEN enrolled in LASALLE, with the cert as a "fallback". I was encouraged to choose this route; also to use the time to consider going into the arts. This was an option I took pretty seriously. Was I really sure about pursuing acting - and all to do with it - as a career?

Impatience won out. I loved the stage, on it and off, and if I could get started quicker on that road, why the fuck not?

And after LASALLE, where to?

Who can tell? I have a bunch of information books from schools in Australia, with way too many post-its in 'em. I keep smelly old articles on various art programmes in universities. I devour blogs by students at some of these schools, and blogs by people who are living the stage, in one way or another.

I read loads of comic books, too.

I don't know what LASALLE will be like. Some nights I stay up worrying about it - with so that much talent in one room, will I stand out? Will I get along with people there?

Will I be happy?

But hey, the future's the future, and I'm not regretting my choice.


Occasionally I do feel something close to it, though, when I hear or read about what some of my ex-school mates are up to in their new places. Some of them have done so much, and I'm just here. Waiting.

Ahhh, feck it. This year I have:

1. being a back-up singer with the rest of Vox for Rock Opera - and that was awesome in so many ways: seeing the huge soundstage backstage of the Esplanade; singing my heart out at the finale with everyone else; the mints! Who can forget the CHEWER? And on the Vox note the weekly rehearsals. Woo. Balls.

2. attempted to build a robot, and learnt loads of useless miscelly in the process

3. discovered all sorts of music aside from the stuff you hear on the car radio

4. finally got round to demolishing the reading list - why is Don Quixote is always checked out?

5. pierced my ears. Annnnnd still no end in sight.

6. seen Mediacorp from the dirty, boring, grimy inside

7. finally seen Tiananmen Square

8. stayed in a boutique hotel in the heart of Hong Kong - Go connections!

9. read an eloquent poem of protest graffiti'd on the pavement

10. immersed myself into the comic world - it's gotten so bad I can't write a decent story unless I picture it in comic form.

11. etc.

I don't think it's being such a waste of a year. I've picked up a couple of skills, corresponded with a bunch of cool people, thought a lot.

And while we're counting, this is the againlostcount time I'm online past 1am. Damnit. So much for New Year Resolutions.

Today's Muse: Woo Fooking Hell 'n All That Tosh. Tits.

Ahhahahahahaha. Ha. Hahaha.

So, I managed to keep away from the teasers for the first two Spiderman movies, and yes, I thoroughly enjoyed them.

So, I clicked on the link to the teaser for the third installment, because I figured: Hey, the first two weren't bad, so what's the harm?

So, even though I know that a lot of work has gone into it, and the people behind it love the comic mythos as much as I do (Though I reserve my comments on the clone saga) and so on and so forth...

The Black Spidey outfit looks shot to shit.

It's just that, that teeny, weeny little detail that rankles me. Otherwise everything looks fantastic (Even forgiving the very un-Eddie-Brock-like Topher Grace, who might have made a snark-tas-tic Spidey, if you think about it).


And while I'm geeking out here, I'm not too fond of where the Chamber story is going. There's a pic floating around showing him as a younger version of... uh, ol' blue lips. I'm really sorry if I spoilt it for you. Unless you have no idea who blue lips is, anyway. In which case you are stupid and I hate you.

What is up with the Chamber's char designs anyway? Every appearance he has he seems to get more and more ripped. Okay, so I subscribe to the "his body is dead and being used as fuel by the psionic bikinetic whole long list of made-up sciency words thing in him. But it makes sense, dinnit? If he doesn't eat, there is no raw material with which to build up body mass. Unless the psionic energy sun contained within him was converting the by-psonic-energy that he was absorbing from other people. Which, is possible, if we go with the converting his dead body into fuel. Who's to say it isn't a two-way reaction?

But if we are to see Chamber's psionic sun reacting as fire would... Both give off heat and light energy - and the heat energy can be translated into kinetic energy (when he 'splodes). Both need fuel (Fire - wood, oil, babies. Psionic sun - Jono's dead body mass). Fire consumes oxygen, psionic sun consumes inhearent psionic energy from other living organisms.

In conclusion, Jono cannot put on body mass, and is more likely to have it steadily declining. His hair will not grow. His nails will fall off. His body will decay.

He is a mutant zombie - with mind intact.

Which brings us to another interesting point: Many believe that Jono will eventually shed his body - the "chamber" which encases the psionic sun - or at least have his body consumed entirely by the psionic sun. What then, of his consciousness? Will it escape along with the energy? How does it even function now, with his body and thus his brain clearing decaying? Is it even confined to his brain?

If the existence of "psionic" energy is to be believed in Jono's universe, then it is simple: His consciousness, like everyone else, is simply psionic energy. But how does it keep separate from the rest of the psionic energy in the convoluted mess that is his mutation? Why does it not dissipate?

Naturally Jono has telepathic potential. Is that why? Why am I talking about this? What am I doing? I'm supposed to be doing something useful. Oh, there goes the yelling. Have I been on that long?

Oh comic science, you.


I just read JJJ's reaction to Spidey's unmasking in Civil War. What, no aneurysm?

Today's Muse: German playing over and over and over and gaaah

You ever have one of those moments when you finish reading the internet cover to cover and then you go to your own little borrowed slice of the the inter-web and suddenly have the urge to type at the online world, "You're stupid"?

Well. Yeah.


On Monday I had to make a trip to LASALLE to drop off a couple of things and get my student card done. I have change buses at the convulated Bugis Street to get there, plus I'm still not quite sure when to get off. Once I got off too early, mistaking the Association for the Deaf for it.

But! I needn't have worried. Once the buzzer went off all these fashionably dressed youths stood up, with their totes and their psychedelic necklaces and skull-printed shoes and ties and converse sneakers and army caps... Nnngh.

I supposed they were all freshmen, like myself (in a modest shirt devoid of any embellishments). I met Natalie there, and we were talking about it - Is LASALLE really divided like that? Those whom dress the part, and those who don't?

I have a headache. Later

Kind of sums up Beijing for me.

Think I'll open a Flickr account or something, don't fancy writing loads here. Yet.

Today's Muse: Something Gassy

So, this isn't exactly after rehearsal. But the performance is over and done with, and I'm writing this from the airport. I've had three hours of sleep, I think.

So, I'll see you lot in about a week.

The airport has really greasy keyboards.

Today's Muse: Because Yelling Isn't Always A Valid Option

Those bastards. Those utter bastards.

More after rehearsal tonight.

I just spent the last two hours looking at baby stuff.

I don't know if this can be blamed on hormones. But, damn! That's a really cool stroller. It looks like a pink space-thing.

Does any one have a photoshop cd they're willing to share?


EDIT: The world should have more fat floating BABIES around.

Today's Muse: More Physic Fat

Well, that was painfully obvious.

In fact, the whole Results show was painful. The hosts unsure of where to go, Gurmit seemingly unused to reading live feed, the producers sorry attempts at prolonging the show...

Teething pains, I hope. With practise, with practise. I saw first-hand how difficult it is to read the moving text AND have someone yelling in your ear while the cameras are rolling. And the people I watched were newscasters with reams of experiance.

I am so very glad I didn't stay on to watch them do Idol, so very glad.


What am I doing? I'm supposed to be a counter-culture clone! Arrrghfwoomp. Whoo. Guitars.

I believe I am going out tomorrow. Two hunned appeared magically in my bank statement, and I shall use it to get walking shoes. And comics.

Do any of you have any idea how difficult it is to get a meat-grinder in Singapore?


Post Script: Oh my. The rabid fan-feeding frenzy begins. Twohill, you are a braver soul than I.

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!

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.

I know everyone and their mother knows...


But my head really hurts.

Today's Muse: I can feel my juices sloshing around in my skull

This is how an apple pie made with hate looks like.


It was good.

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.

SPACE-MAN BLEW UP THEM BUSES! NOB!

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.

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.

I lost my wrist-warmers, my Voodoo Babies and the paint for the wall - plus I have a split lip.

Boo hoo hoo.


That's it. I refuse to come back until I have something of actual importance to write about.

Today's Muse: Chickeny

I don't have to be at work 'cause I'm a threat to securi-teee la lala la laa

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.

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.

Today: Then what on earth was I getting those damned A's for, then?

Comic-con travel plans have been scrapped.

Don'treallywanttotalkaboutit.

Today's Muse: This $50 bill on my keyboard.

Life has a funny way of biting your arse and ripping off meaty chunks when you're not looking. Just when you've finally decided to be throughly miserable about things and give up trying to find the bright side, things suddenly take a turn for the better.

I bet it does that just to spite you.

Damn. I was all set to be unhappy for the rest of this shitbag attachment, too. Don't get me wrong, it's still shit. But Life has been aiming one happy thing after the other smack at my head, and it's getting difficult to be all raaargh and poopy and fweeffffuck.

I'm still going to find the nice Headman and request I move on. And if that doesn't work I'll blow up the toilet and then maybe they'll fire me. They might also press charges, and drag the thing into a long tedious case, and then maybe I'll be in the papers with the headline "WHAT MADE HER DO IT: ALL THE SORDID DETAILS". And I'll sell some sob-story about my traumatic years in the Singapore school system ("I think they did a bang-up job, really, but me mum says it ruined my confidence") and get a couple of letters in the forum and then quietly fade into obscurity when someone writes in about coffee-shop cleanliness or people talking in cinemas or sumfink and sparks a raging debate (again).

I've always wanted to see the word "SORDID" in the papers.

Anyway, things are looking up, partly because I've decided to stop fighting, and just wallow in the shit a while. I can always clean up after I finally leave. You get used to the stink after a while, if you let yourself accept the situation. Just live with it until you can effect the change.

Right now I'm basking in the artificial glow of this huge wide-screen laptop. Da switched laptops while I was at work, saying since he didn't use this darling I might as well have it. So, goodbye horrible, splunky, slow, and screen colour-bleeding com, hellooo nurse!

It's twice as fast and has the processing power of a desktop. Which means I can finally break out my quietly decaying game collection, which has been in stasis since the main desktop was moved up to Sengkang for Kim to use. Of course, I hardly have time to game anymore, but it's the possibilty that counts. God, I want City of Heroes so bad...

Um. Anyhoo, Kim's here and we're just reading our comics and watching NINJA! Pizza's on the way (Those fuckers don't do stuffed crust any more?) and the rest of the family's out.

Ah, there's the doorbell. Goodbye, $50 bill. Nice looking at you for inspiration.


PS: For all of you who've been pestering: I get paid $4oo. Which works out to like, a dollar an hour. There. Quit asking.

Here's the deal, for all you pestering beasts. Pester.

For the past three weeks, I have been working craaaazy hours and will continue to do so for the next three weeks. I am thus unavailable for phone-speaky. Please stop calling me. Sms messages, on the other hand, are most welcome.

I have learnt I still hate working in the television industry, and that my primary school Mother Tongue teachers apparently screwed me over for life. One of them told me to kill myself once, since I was too stupid to learn Mandarin and that I had no business being Chinese and unable to speak the language.

You know what's funny? Whatever language it is, it's the same. My Malay teacher used to ask if I was retarded. I was so happy when she said, "Victoria might be stupid, but at least she's polite!".


I can't believe I let myself be talked into signing away my soul for three months. "It'll be a great experiance! Learn all!"

Learn fuck-all. I am learning absolutly nothing I can use. I am completely useless there, and people keep asking me what I'm doing there and I have no idea how to answer. You need at least TWO FUCKING YEARS of training before you can help.

You know, this was suppose to read: "It's all so interesting, I'm learning so much" to corrobate with what I've been making up to people whom asked. Sod that. I'm sick of making things up just to keep them happy.

They were only trying to help, after all. And if I quit I make loads of people unhappy and insulted. And I come out the worst of it - couldn't take the load, wasting my time

God, I wish I could make you see this the way I do. There is no "load" of work I cannot take. Give me work or give me death, say I.


Note to self: When you know something is going to be a waste of your time, Missy, stick to your goddamn guns and say NO. Screw how much work your sister put into getting this for you. Taking it isn't going to solve her problem fucktard husband. If you know it won't be worth it, don't let your mum convince you otherwise. Look good on my CV my yellow arse.


Damnit. Now I sound whiny and childish.

Ah, phooey. Life sucks, I'm knackered, boo-hoo-hoo, and, er, on and on in that vein. Never say I don't follow the trends!


Visited Kinokuniya again today, with nephew in tow (Who's claiming he has a telepathic connection with his bestest buddy and constantly seeks advice from yours truly). They released the House of M tpbs, and had 'em all up on the display rack in a neat 'lil row. I am a little sick at seeing a certain Canadian-mysterious-past-"I don't take orders from no one"-short-hairy-mutant-with-adamantium-claws-or-bone-who-can-remember, oh I don't know, EVERYWHERE.


I like him as much as the next reader, but, c'mon.

Ah, phooey.

Today's Muse: This Frog in My Throat

"How can you be so happy?"

"What?"

"Every time I see you, you're always so... upbeat, y'know? You're always joking, and even when you're being mean I can tell you're having a ball."

"Being mean?"

"You know, like sarcastic, or something. No, you suck at sarcasm, but you know what I mean. Mean. But my point is, how can you be so happy all the time? When I'm around."



"To spite you."



I want.

PS: Work is worky. I don't know how to tell you about work; it's work. Y'know, work.

Today's Muse: Tchaikosky's 1812 Overture

I have, on my floor, a newly-printed copy of Vincent van Gogh's Starry Night. My seven-year-old nephew's teacher asked his class to print out a painting each by the man, and he chose this one.

It's a little surreal, but that could just be the soft biscuits talking. I still don't know why I ate those. I don't taste things properly any more. Could be because I've taken to drinking copious amounts of scalding tea during work to keep warm. Tongue becomes numb after the sixth cup or so.



One day I'll write something intelligent about the huge amount of information available to us and something about artistic works generally becoming valueless and how that might be a bad thing and a good thing. One day.

Today I write something meaningless and babbly about comics.

What is up with Marvel these days? No, seriously, I have no idea. I stop following comics for a while and suddenly we got Chamber (What happened to the whole Weapon X infiltration shit?) amongst others... I remember flipping through something about Archangel, but it didn't register - was that even related to Decimation?

I just saw a picture of a depowered Blob. I thought his power was the whole gravity shift, er, thing. So, his fat was his mutation? That's not right... unless his flab was a result of his mutation... Then shouldn't Chamber have his face and chest restored? But then again it wouldn't make sense that way either.

How did Pietro get hold of the Terrigan Mists? What happened to the Inhumans? Skin's dead? THEY MISSPELLED HIS NAME ON HIS TOMBSTONE? I know nothing, I was born in '89

Oh, wait... My head suddenly feels a lot lighter. Oh. Ouch. Ow. Geez.


Thank God for epic, long mercies like Bone.

Today's Muse: No context.

Chamber is the fucking sexiest zombie-mutant alive.

Just needed to get that clear.

Today's Muse: Burnt Cake

Damn. Every time I walk into Kinokuniya I'm overwhelmed - So many books I want, and not enough money to get any of them. I spend hours walking around with a couple of books tucked under my arm, comparing prices and trying to choose one to take home. And when I finally step up to the counter to pay I feel physically sick - Maybe I should choose the other one? Will I have enough money for the rest of the month? Twenty dollars - Just eat at home...

I bought a manga title today, first in a long while. Not worth it. I've been collecting the series for years, and what with the ridiculous waits between volumes I've lost interest. The one I got today was especially lackluster, to me. So... long... drawn... out...

I hope to sell some of my older comics, for the cash and to make space for newer books. I have tpbs spilling over, and sitting on the floor next to my bed. Any of you interested? I'll put in a proper list link, later.

I was at Serene Centre this evening. Some chap sat on the verenda with an ice-cream and a new comic. He didn't look up once.

I rented Donnie Darko, swooned a bit over demented-knife-stabby-Gyllenhaal, wondered dully about sitting down to write, then came here instead.

I am eating burnt week-old cake.

Today's Muse: Popping Basketballs

I sit here, staring at this screen, drinking something that burns each time it travels down my throat, and does painful things to my stomach. I really ought to get some water instead.

I destroyed the third draft of An Exercise in Obsession an hour ago.

As I look over my notes for the gazillionth time, crossing out points and reworking others with a scratchy red pen (I really ought to get a new pen.), I wonder dully, why am I putting myself through this? It's been months since I embarked on this project. And still nothing.

There's a five-dollar note in my wallet.

I ought to sleep more.

Today's Muse: Where's my other sock, damnit!


"So, you're baking how many cakes? From scatch?"

"Don't worry, piece of cake." (Mein Gott, I actually said that.)

"Well, aren't you going to use the machine? To, er, mix the stuff?"

"No! I'll beat it by hand."

"With a wooden spoon."

"Yeah. No problem."

"That batter looks really sticky."

"No problem."

Two hours and a couple of cakes later



"Your hand is all purple."

"..."

"Fuck off."


I'm so sick of cake it's not even funny.
Party tomorrow. Woo. I haven't got anything weird to wear. Shit and knockers. Where the hell did I put my glasses? I liked today, apart from turning my hand into mince meat. We went to Toys-R-Us, but there weren't any screaming children to trip and I tried one of those expensive ball machines and it spewed a Japanese interpretation of a Punk Minnie Mouse, with boots and everything. And I saw Natra and a lovely art exhibition. And I had beef noodles later. It was very good, but now I am in pain.

Thanks to everyone who sent me birthday wishes today (and those who didn't but wished it in their hearts or dark and musty regions). Love you lot, except for those of you I don't love. You know who you are. Or I know who you are. Whichever, if ever. Orgh... the pain!

Today's Muse: Stupid subtext!

Today is the last day of my sixteenth year. Aw. Too bad. I liked being sixteen. Around half-past six tomorrow it'll all be gone.

What will being a year older bring? I don't know, and I really don't care. I'm sitting here trying to figure out how I can bake a gazallion items in one morning. I have two ovens, with extra shelving... a toaster oven...

Man, I'm spending way too much time at scans_daily. Here's one of the reasons. And another. And one more.

The Goddamn Batman, indeed.

Today's Muse: Ninja!

This video makes me happy. When I was seven or eight we used to jump off the low balcony at Tiong Bahru and land on the grass. Wei Loong used to be able to jump onto the ground from the top of the three-metre high "Rocket" jungle gym, too.

We also used to roll down the steep grassy slope curled up into balls, but that was just dumb.

Today's Muse: Noise.

I didn't sleep very well. Most of today was spent writing down and analyzing some crack dream I had, instead of working on more pressing matters.

I hate it when that happens.


PS: Found thirty-five bucks in a pair of old shorts. Looks like I can afford to throw a party now. Man, I'm whaaaacky like that. Wanting to throw a party. Fuck it. No apologies.

I promise to write something more substantial next time.

Today's Muse: Bah. Humbug. Bahug.

I put off getting tickets for Jason Mraz's concert, and now they're sold out. So much for b'day treat. Hmph. It doesn't matter. Just a, y'know. Just a little show; a chance to hear the music live and see what exactly is so attractive about the Mraz live show. Yup. Never mind. Rest of the Mosaic Festival to hop about.

I missed the Franz Ferdinand show earlier, too. Didn't kill me.



Excuse me while I go sob in a corner like a little effeminate boy.

Pooks and Ta! Come July, Sicki's gonna be blazing at Lasalle! Fuck yeah!

The school called just as I was getting off the train at the ridiculously noisy Orchard Station. I heard like, three words - "Lasalle", "Next", and "Congrats".

Kids: Don't attempt to dance a jig whilst in a crowded train station.

PS: I gots me new fwee sockings. The Japanese have tiny feet, don't they?


PS2: The new Gorillaz video makes me happy. In a, twisting blade sort of way.

Today's Muse: I got wrist burn from this laptop.

Woo... Trivia night was bitchin'.

I'm getting transferred, since they apparently don't need that many people on set. Maybe desk duty, or get stuck inhaling paint fumes at production. Who knows? Mmm... fumes.

But, it looks like my birthday day will be free. Goddamn I think I killed my elbow.

On Saturday I saw Marium at the library at Victoria Street. We wandered upstairs, meaning to go to the reference levels, when some dude with a fistful of tickets gave us two free passes to Army Daze, playing at the theatre upstairs. We ran and got in just as they were closing the doors. Pretty good seats, too.

Yup. March is shaping up to be a good birthday.

Now... Food.

Today's Muse: Man, Aunt May's a tough old biddy. Gwen Stacy didn't even survive that height.

I need a new pair of glasses.

And a haircut. And a new pair of walking shoes. And socks. And brussel sprouts. Good god, you don't just take someone's brussel sprouts and slather soy sauce all over them! They were my sprouts!

I need to finish the draft, the design proposal, the clothes patterns, pull together a team for the Margaret shtick, organise the closet, pay off Da Jie, find an excuse to contact Lenny and deftly bring up the July trip, plan the July trip, finish dicking around with the hat and the shirt and the bag, finish reading the robotics book and the school shooting study, get paint for the walls and the furniture, oh bother the paint!

I also need to pull together a decent bash for Da Jie, get Natalie's present, memorize goddamn Evening, stop putting off stretching (Spiderman flexible? Hah.), call and haress the work-a-lady (Two agonising weeks and no reply!), stop worrying about Lasalle (Why no call? Why no call? They said they would call last week!), get my cracking knees looked at, pack Kim's junk, buy the cat new eating utensils (Argh! Have to take the train up there to give him a bath!), ask Mother where the verdamnt sunblock is, put together on-set kit (Safety pins, what else, what else?), and somehow get cash.

This turned out long. Now I feel dirty.

Today's Muse: A Stiff Wrist

I'm a little ill today.

I found some old paints left over from when I was thirteen? Fourteen? and still took art in school. Seeing as I needed samples to give an idea of the colour for the walls, I started mixing paints, hoping to finally use them up - I had to pound the paint out of the tubes, and ended up cutting them open.

I ended up making the picture you see above. I started running out of the mixed purple by the time half the paper was covered, and I ended up with one side smooth and solid and the other all streaky. So I wet the brush and just made streaks everywhere.

The green bit didn't quite some out the way I wanted it to. The whole shades shit turned out more shit than shades.

Ach. Painting isn't my strong suit, at any rate. I was making it up as I went along. But it was just the thing for an otherwise ill sort of afternoon.

Today's Muse: My glasses are held together with wire.

Each time I attempt to articulate my disappointment or anger, or those more, emotional, moments, it always seems to come out contrived and whiny. It feels insincere; that I'm simply making mountains out of molehills. I mean, what do I know of unhappiness?

I've always meant to address the issue of "venting" on a public domain like the internet - I think it's, in short, stupid. It's like advertising; one is looking for sympathy and attention.

But we do, don't we?

So, as I go on to vent, am I looking for sympathy? Attention? Why do I write here, instead of on paper, never to be shown to the world?

Why am I dwelling on the discomfort, anyway?



Some dreams disappear without our noticing. They ebb away, bit by bit, ever so slowly. Those sort of leavings never hurt. Perhaps a dull sort of surprise from us when they're gone, but never hurt.

Other dreams we cast off ourselves, usually for bigger, shiner dreams. Or we build on the original; embellishing and expanding until the tiny, humble idea is hidden under flourishes and baubles. We forget them, eventually, moving on.


And certain dreams are ripped from us.


It's made doubly painful by the fact that you knew the dream was doomed from the start. Haven't you had dreams like that? Dreams you knew, oh, knew very well would never come into being. But still you persisted, hiding the truth with optimism and maybe, just maybe...

I think that reaction is trained into us from young; to believe even though we know it is futile. Think about the stories we were fed - the endless Christmas movies! Conditioning us to hope for the impossible. As we grow older there are more stories - A band of unlikely heroes defeat the greatest power in the land? A scrawny boy transformed into a superpowered hero? A terminal patient miraculously cured? - and so on and so forth...

And so on and so forth.

And you know, oh, you know very well that it was a silly thing to hope for, and you're being foolish putting so much emotion into it. You shouldn't feel like you've been torn to pieces; you shouldn't feel like you've been emptied. You should be laughing it off, like a grown, mature person. You should be shrugging your shoulders and rolling your eyes.

And yet you find your eyes a tad too wet.

And you know, you know all too well that you will eventually be laughing at and shrugging your shoulders and rolling your eyes at your current grief. And this knowledge saddens you; that one day your dead dream will no longer matter to you. That you will cease to care.

And there is nothing you can do.

Oh, go to bed Missy, you melodramatic twerp. Don't you dare start sniffling.

Today's Muse: This onslaught of giggles

Sooo... This is the month of March.

She scuttles off giggling to do many secret glee-inducing things that have absolutely nothing to do with birthdays.

Today's Muse: The fairy of frivolity - there she goes again, kicking up her skirts.

So, it's just after midnight and I still need to finish the damn essay for Tuesday, plus I still haven't memorized the monologue. I just can't seem to bring myself to read it the way it's supposed to be read. It's frivolous and cotton-headed and vacuous, and oh, I want to slice it thinly and dump it into boiling oil.

It's fustrating, seeing as I know I'm perfectly capable of doing the piece - I just don't want to. I want to ace the interview. I want very much to put up good show, if simply to satisfy my self-imposed standerds. I hate watching playbacks of my performances; so many mistakes I didn't see then, so many ways I could have done that or this better, shoddy, shoddy, shoddy. Akin to scrubbing my skin off with bleach and a scourer. With Simple Plan playing in the background.

I want to ace the audition, but I don't want to do the piece. I don't know how this works, either.

Oh, for fuck's sake, Missy, you buckle down and do the speech. If it's meant to be read by an empty-headed, moronic twit in crinolines and lead, you jolly well read it like that.

Complaining here, instead of doing the rest of your 'in' pile. Go off and be weepy about comic books instead of tottering about on the inter-web.

Today's Muse: Wobbly Elbow

I had that steampunk-Chinatown-esque cowboy dream, the same one I had one I was a wee Missy. It was like watching an old, favourite movie; you know what's going to happen next but it still fills you with glee.

I did step in and change a couple of things; got the cowboy to make slightly different decisions this time round. It still ended up in that cramped Chinese restaurant, opposite the dastardly but buxom Snow. With the cowboy's mother in tow, of course. The cowboy never went anywhere without mother.

And I still woke up before the the key gun battle, damnit.



I keep forgetting to write this up. A few days ago I was at the MRT station, waiting for the train when I ran into an old neighbour and playmate. He was meeting his girlfriend (Ickle Pat has a girlie?), but opted to stay and chat briefly.

It was strange. I kept staring at this fellow, trying to see the little boy I used to push off the swings. Sometimes I could catch that boy, just briefly! in the way he would cock his head, or tap his finger. Good grief, I used to tower over him - and he's grown out his hair!

We had lost contact over the past year or so - I was nursing a grudge against his brother. Every time I spoke to the old troop that anger would flare up again, so slowly I stopped seeking them out. I suppose I didn't really feel their absence too keenly, what with secondary school life.

Everyone changes. Nothing can ever stay the same.

So we sat and talked at length. Trifles. Before he left, he told me how weird it was for him seeing me with short hair, since most of my life I've kept a ponytail. Before I could think of a (hopefully) witty comeback, he said something that left me at a loss.


"You've got Tommy-boy hair now."


God. The unspoken question. You gonna be him now? You going to take over?

Every single fucking time.

"No, no. I don't, no. My hair, too long."

We laughed, and parted.

We were kids, back when we knew each other. But we've grown, changed. All of us, we hardly speak any more. What happened to the rest? Yolk went to Australia; after that we just sort of drifted apart. Then that shite with Thomas. I wonder what happened to Wei Loong?

And frankly, I'm fine with things the way they are. If you're so eager for a reunion of sorts you do it. I'm not going to try and be the one link and bring everybody back together again, or what have you. Things didn't start uravelling with Tommy-boy, they were coming apart way before him. Let's just leave the memories as they are, damnit. Let's not spoil them with a horrible memory.

Besides Thomas' fuckery, of course.

Damn, now I'm all frustrated and angry. I'm going for a walk.



Back, with new THINGS. Good THINGS, hence the capitalization. Nice thing about this place (besides the fecking nicest floors in the world) is that the shopping district is only a short trudge through bush and mud and along highway away. Saw a battered travelling suitcase in the bushes; flirted briefly with the notion it contained dismembered body parts.

Lost hours to the library. Still in a steampunk-Chinatown-esque cowboy mood, I pulled a battered copy of Trigun off the shelf. I've never read the manga or watched the anime before, but so far I like what I'm reading. My only gripe is the way it seems to be composed early in the book; too much being crammed into one page. That means much squinty-joy. But it appeals to the detail-hungry fangirl in me.

I've been keeping away from manga for a while, come to think of it. I think after reading Tsutomu Nihei's BLAME!, I became a little disillusioned with whatever manga I read afterwards. Everything I got me grubby paws on seemed so dull after the awesome that is BLAME!. [Unrelated: Just found out Tokyopop's doing English trans. Should we be glad?]

So far, Trigun's shaping up to be a good read, as long as I put away the little snickering voice that goes "What the hell is that he's wearing? What's up with the whole 'spare the innocents' shtick? Isn't that like so, '96?" and so on. I even let myself squeal "His outfit is so cooooool!", quietly, of course.

How'd I start talking about this?

To recap, I spent a while at the library agonizing over which books I would eventually take home. I miss being able to take home eight paper babies at a time. That done, I hopped over to the huge bookstore and floated in and out of the comic section. It really has grown; I remember when it was just three shelves with daily funnies. Aww.

Then over to HMV, to raid the clearance racks. Found that A7x specimen that put me in the reckless sort of mood the other week. Glee.

To conclude, one muddy trudge, dinner and a session of replaying Matrix-Robot-Battle-Carnage later, I sit here typing all this out instead of working on my interview for school. Bad Missy, bad!


One more thing. I've an internship working on some yet-to-be released show, and my brother has some secret top-notch animation destined for television. So, I am in the midst of much secret glee. Don't tell anyone.

I'm a little apprehensive about the internship though. I don't mind the prospect of slogging in our weather, or even overnight or graveyard shoots, or the odd hours - it's the interacting with people. When you're about to be in a position where everyone else is above you and will probably use you as a punching bag, you're bound to be a least a little bit nervous.

Ach. I always have Stupid MF to fall back on.

Today's Muse: The Neighbour's incessent drilling

Got me Interview Assignment today. Have about a week to prepare.

Damnit.

Parents, I have a confession to make. I am the one whom has been tripping your small children in Toys R Us. Yes, I, using the spindly limbs gifted to me at birth, have been quietly sticking said limbs in front of your precious little darlings.

Look, they wouldn't hit the floor so hard if they weren't tearing up and down the aisles at breakneck speed, screeching and waving plastic weapons. It's a store, not a play area. Most times they don't need my assistance; they end up crashing headlong into displays anyway.

How would I like it if someone did that to my nephews and nieces? If they were up to half the screaming and crashing I see these days, I'd trip them myself. The gladsome thing is that it's been reinforced over and over that they are not to treat the store like a free-for-all.

I must admit though, it's a little strange to see them brooding over a toy quietly while other kids dash at each other madly with plastic maces and doll prams.

On a seperate note, I really, really, really love Legos. Why are you so bloody expensive, my sweet?

Today's Muse: This Overwhelming Need to Bump Off the Last Post

Yesterday was Valentine's Day, wasn't it? It didn't actually sink in until I found myself running (in the most literal sense of the word) late for choir and had to leap over one of the many couples populating the district.

Oh shit. I forgot to take the candy the girls gave me last night out of my bag.

Today's Muse: You know, I don't know why I still do this "muse", thing. It seemed smart at the time.

Amusing story: I've been trying to get an internship with a media company. They asked me to call them back when I had my results (and thus, knew more or less where I was headed next), which I did. Over and over. For days (Bad impression.). Both numbers.

Finally, after a plaintive message had been sent, they called back today. Twice.

I was eating lunch upstairs, and just one floor down, in the basement, my phone tittered quietly. Unheard.

It's supposed to be funny, y'know, irony and all that? And I should be laughing, I really ought to be laughing. Why aren't I laughing?

Maybe it's because all those goddamned A's on my results slip has got people bombarding me with advice: Go to JC! Get a scholarship and go overseas! Your parents aren't young, you know! How're you going to pay? Lasalle isn't established. Waste, waste, waste.

We stood on opposing sides, belting out argument after argument, reason after reason, trying desperately to change our opponent's mind. I might as well have just said Fuck off, instead of all those long fancy speeches. We would have still arrived at the same standpoint.

No, I didn't fight with my parents. They've hammered it over and over into my skull that the choice is mine, and that they trust my decision. It's the rest of the world I've been giving the finger.

In hindsight, I have been unreasonable. After a certain number of people giving me the same long speech with the same reasons, it's a little difficult for me to continue to sit down and nod emphatically - Yes, yes, point taken, I understand, quite right. Y'know, they didn't come up and say anything when the preliminary results came out.

Yet, doubt. Damnit. Some of the incessant yammering must have gotten through.

Something good did come out of this whole fiasco. My Dad, quiet, gentle, neutral Da, actually convinced me to still go for Lasalle. He argued for it, shot my own feeble protests (recycled from the endless advice) down, pointed out where I could go from Lasalle. He was able to clearly articulate what I was unable to even identify. Good old Da.

I wish I was a self-assured as I was four days and one Matrix movie ago. The battle robots were, and are still cool. I love the battle for Zion. Bam! Bam! Woosh!



By the way, my family and I drove up to Malacca for the weekend for a wedding dinner for a cousin I didn't know I had. Kim and I spent the drive talking excitedly about cartoons we used to watch years ago.

Did anyone see that one Transformer movie with those stunted robots with the rotating faces and the huge bad-ass organic robot with the tentacles and everything? I remember being horribly scarred by that sequence; when one of the Transformer robots is captured and hoisted in the air by the zombie-tentacle thing, and he's just thrashing about and screaming bloody hell.

Damn, I can hear him now.

Today's Muse: Five A's and one perfect B

Pleasant suprise, really. Didn't think I'd get so many A's. The single B is for my Additional Mathematics, and is actually a huge leap from the D's.

This, though, changes many things.

Already there is dissent at my choice of post-secondary education. I find myself slipping, even though my decision is a good three months old.

I have until morning to decide.

Knowing Missy, I'll probably spend it reading comic books and me new issue of Play Times: Tokidoki Special. The flat colours, the rounded figures, the sleek lines - much love. That, and Entre Fashion Systems.

I want that corseted vest and trench.

Today's Muse: Bits of wool

One application accepted. One more application due on Saturday. One set of results out on Friday.

The bathroom plumbing finally died. I wash using a jumbo Star Wars cup now.

Today's Muse: This Horrid Blister on My Toe - Damn Boots.

I laugh at you, you whom searches HMV's metal section, and complain it is inadequate. I LAUGH.

I will not explain why I laugh. Just understand that I laugh. It could be that I laugh at your futile attempts, or perhaps that you actually go to HMV expecting to find obscure metal, or that you think that for music to be good it must be obscure. It could also be that I simply like laughing. I'll get back to you when I subside.

Unrelated to my laughing: I was browsing the said section at said store (Found a spiny little specimen, going very cheap. Much glee ensued.) when behind me two middle-aged punks - complete with tattoos, bandannas plaid shirts and rounded bellies - paced the length repeating over and over: "Poseurs! Fucking poseurs!", and grinning as though they had said something of such superb intelligence that they had suprised even themselves.

Who knows what they were referring to? The selection of CDs on sale? The people browsing the racks?

It's always a tad disheartening to see something obscure reach popularity, isn't it? Suddenly this band you've listened to since they were (figuratively) in diapers has kids, kids clamouring for their CDs.

It's actually kind of a litmus test for sussing out insecure individuals on the internet; they list their music interests and then very quickly put the disclaimer: I listened to them way before they got famous.

My own experiance: I once heard MSI courtesy of this girl from drama. Several years later I heard they released a new music video, which I got off the net. I dug up their 2005 release from under stacks of Metallica at Borders. I played it on endless loop.

I loved it. I wanted to share it with the world, or so I felt. I convinced one friend to take a listen, and she liked it. Then she told someone else. And so on.

Suddenly it seemed as though everyone was talking about MSI. Singing Stupid MF (badly) at lunch. And through it all I started thinking: Maybe I should have kept it to myself.

There's this misplaced sense of, perhaps, belonging that comes with the whole shit. The feeling of belonging to this secret club hardly anyone knows about, or understands. Some argue this is classic individualism, but I can't help but disagree.

I haven't even scratched the surface; I've walked drunk all over it. Some of these ideas are being used in An Exercise in Obsession (which happens to be going well). We could go so many places with this starter - criticism of subcultures (individual or collective?), the "Popularity=Sellout?" debate, and er, that chap downstairs ought to get new swim shorts.

I feel rather iffy today.

Exam results out on Friday. Be still, heart.

I mean it, shut the fuck up.

Today's Muse: Hard Sugar Icing

Today I had cake to supplement my writing diet of grain and water - you don't really feel like eating if there's no one around - courtesy of my niece Tara. She turned five today, and had a very, very, very, pink birthday in school.

I await the day - a tad fearfully, of course - when she decides that pink is a baby colour.

Do you remember that moment? When you started singing "Barney's Dead On the Floor" instead of "I Love You"? When knock-knock jokes lost their flavour? When dresses became a bother, and you took to wearing long sleeves?

I don't. Perhaps it hasn't happened yet. Little Brother Kim sure seems to. He's hit the age when

all life seems bleak, and there isn't a point in trying. He doesn't smile as much; he's always so guarded. He prefers black, now, and sitting alone in a corner thinking. What happened to the noisy kid who kept tailing me?

Y'know, when I discovered anime, I was about nine or ten. Flame Of Recca - not exactly kid's fare, but I lapped it up. So did Kim. Every thing I embarked on - be it the comic books, the shows, the music, the philosophies - Kim learnt about it too, and usually adopted it. Sometimes it annoyed me. Kim, though younger, knew as much as I did about the world, and then some. He learnt how to manipulate people into doing what we wanted from watching me, learnt how to lie effectively from me.

And then some.

And then suddenly he veered away. Now determined to beat his own path, he rejects ideas I voice. He still reads the books I get from the library, and he and I still share music sometimes. I accept he'll always be a better gamer, but I'm the one who searches for the help guides, and he does agree an XBox 360 will be a waste of money.

I guess, right now, he's angst and gloom. Well, I was (I hope it is was) angst and gloom. It's not easy holding my temper in check sometimes, and other days I can't stand the negativity, but, hey. It's probably retribution for all the people I pissed off when I was thirteen.

At least he knows proper forum etiquette. And how to decently flame - something, again, he seems to be better at.

Damn, I'm good.

Today's Muse: Dry as a bone, it is.

No proper work done today - What exactly is transpiring in that thick skull of yours, Missy? - Saw the parents off at the airport; they'll be back in about a week from Peneng (Sigh. I miss the place.).

I tore up An Exercise in Obsession. Wonderfully exhilarating. Started the second draft earlier.

This is turning out rather boring. I think I'll just go write some more.

PS: I blame whoever put Seventh on the store stereo. That sort of music puts one in a reckless mood; two CDs? Both clearance sale, yes, but not something one usually does.

ADD-ON: I came across a tiny poster stuck on a traffic light calling for paticipants in an open audition for a board-endorsed film project. Today only, from 3pm to 7.

I found the thing at 9pm.

If I was bitter, I'd blame the universe's constant attempts to screw me over. But we're all quite happy over here, aren't we?

Today's Muse: Purr and Loll

Am stuffed with chilli crab and steamboat, and family bustling to put up decorations before tomorrow. There's a really sappy Hong Kong movie playing, and there are chocolates lying all over the place.

Yup. Feels a lot like Chinese New Year.

Update: I've been sitting at this desk since I pulled myself out of bed and I have nothing decent to show for it.

Trash, the lot. After the intial rush, I can't pull my act together enough to churn out any thing else. I have a hellish draft which needs to be pruned, the ugly overgrown shrub.

I have been informed I am ill. Bah, I say. All geniuses are ill by society's standards. I spit on bowing to fever. Ptui. That is a spitting sound.

Reminds me of an incident back in Peneng, when I was a much shorter Missy: My older (gamer) brother took me to McDonalds to get food while he was babysitting me when I had a fever. He put the food in the back seat (I wonder now if he did that intentionally, horrid boy). The temptation was too much for a six year-old Missy - Might I have one french fry, just one? He said it was fine, even with my fever. Just one.

So one I took. I nibbled at it as slowly as I could, trying to make it last. After that, I figured, well, two, two wouldn't hurt at all. And after two - why not three? It'll only be three, just three...

I polished off three-quarters of the pack, and felt so very guilty. Starve a fever, feed a cold, I had been taught. (I never got a cold, so I came to associate periods of illness with no food) I tried to arrange the remaining fries so it wouldn't look like there were so few. I was terrified that my brother would notice and tell Mother.

Later that night my fever spiked. Mother was at a loss as to why; hadn't I been recovering nicely? The fries seemed to settle in the pit of my belly, mixing nicely with the guilt. No one's fault but my own.

Y'know, when I was really tiny I used to have two nightmares only when I had a fever. One I still get now, is the sensation of everything going too fast for my brain to process. This hyper-sensitivity to every single thing around me.

Why can't I have a cool super power? Huh? Huh?

Today's Muse: Dust Bunnies.

Massive headache. Aching back. Dried-up eyeballs. Cramped shoulder.

No one's fault but my own.

Didn't go to the Music Fest. Draft got wet in the rain. MSN fucked up. Chinese New Year coming and need to clean. No cash. Kids hellish. Got electrocuted. Panda-bot messed up. No apps accepted. Results in Feb.

No one's fault but my own.




Oh, it's not all gloom over here. Sometimes we sleep.

Today's Muse: I see dots everywhere, dearie.

A full day's work has amounted to precisely

1. One seized-up right shoulder

2. One stubbed toe, looking quite ghastly

3. Two mini chocolate "Crunchie" wrappings

4. One complete (half-arsed) book draft

5. Several missing notepads and soft copies.

I can't get any proper writing done with this damned shoulder. Have been prescribed a rest cure. In hindsight, I might have been rather harsh, what with the tantrum. But, really. I quit writing seriously for a week and the limb performs mutiny?

I want to go back and work at school; there would at least be people to converse with.

Today's Muse: ANGST! WOOT!

Angst. That seems to be the flavour of the day.

It started innocently enough. An article in the Sunday paper complaining about today's youth. Why so much angst? I pointed it out at breakfast, amused by the writer's persistance. The adults present nodded, clucked, and no more was said.

At least, no more should have been said.

A seed had been planted. A tiny, inedible seed, with all the persistance and naviety of it's author. Two, three weeks on, it burst open in full ugly bloom. Oh, there had been signs, seeping through the cracks - An offhand comment or two - the word angst creeping into the vocabulary of every person above twenty in the household.

Why so much angst?

The word has replaced every other conceivable adjective used to describe me. I miss the Peneng Hokkien that used to be levelled at me. Now, it's just angst. She's full of angst. Leave her alone, she's angsting. Stop spending time angsting at the desk. Such angsty music! See, watch these movies, teach you only to angst. Stop angsting at your sister. Read all those comics, so much angst. That's your idea for a book - Wah, so much angst. Do you want me to slap you? Stop the angst!

Here's a fun fact: Through years of trial-and-error, I have discovered I'm pretty bad at holding grudges. I just plain suck at it. Sure, I get riled up easily, but as quickly as it bubbles up it dissolves. It's a bit of a problem when I get into grudge matches with Mother; in about five minutes I'd have forgotten about what we were fighting about it and be trying to speak to her while she's still sulking. It usually ends up with me fustrated; why doesn't she get over it as quickly as I do? [I'm a silly silly child, I am.]

When I do attempt to hold a grudge, there are often long periods of ammesia, and I have to drege up that anger to remind myself why. That whole sentence read like some poor translation out of French. Most times I give up and settle for apathy.

So, I don't think I really am the embodiment of the word angst. I pretty much, by default, suck at angst. Too short an attention span.

I am more than just angsty. I am a spoilt brat too used to having her way, overbearing and obnoxious, and I think I know everything there is to know. So there.

[Watch this space. Long rambling soapbox speech to come in near future, when it has been properly reviewed.]

Today's Muse: Carpet Burn on Right Knee

Well.

You lot, the same as the last. This is for you.

I have been informed I have been spending too much time socialising, and am to now stay indoors as much as possible preparing for college. This means no more helping out at school "with friends", no more meetings and no more... I don't know, whatever I seem to have been doing.

I am allowed, however, choir, the tutoring job, and visits to the library. I could inform Mother I was going to the library annnnnd head to school instead, but I haven't the heart. [I lost parental trust once, and I don't want to have to crawl through that muck again.][Wuss.]

I can see where she is coming from, really. Wait a tick. I can't; but she was reasonable enough, and I can't protest without being unreasonable. At any rate, I've had my fun, and to tell the truth some of my projects are in miserable limbo. Staying indoors hopefully will help me focus my energies where it's sorely needed. I mean, it's already January and I still haven't got anything solid for the portfolio. The book draft is sitting on my damn desk mocking me, and those books I borrowed on robotics are overdue.

To top that off Chinese New Year is just around the corner, and I spent a horrid afternoon elbowing my way through the shopping district looking for a decent outfit. Fine, I spent a horrid hour elbowing and the rest recovering at the library. I'm sick of shops; I'll just get some old things together and go crazy with the paste and scissors. Look, I've never had to worry about clothes much, what with wearing a school uniform five days a week. I need a damn uniform for college.

Ach. Anyways, I managed to squeeze two events out of Mother; that sorely-needed brain-mushing with Nicole for the book [meeting slated for late Jan] and the Sembawang Music Fest. You music snobs may snort in disbelief - snort away, because this loco geek is going and she's going to screech 'er heart out. Just for those two days, I'll cease caring about genres and classifications and headbang to all equally. Woo!

Besides those two and CNY, I foresee much muttering, reading and drafting for the reminder of this month. I've even got my scratchy wooly dressing-gown and worn slippers, like those daft tweed-wearing writers of legend.

Today's Muse: Tick-Tock Mister Clock

All right, you lot. Not you, the lot that's seen me in uniform. You know who you are.

I'll be at the Esplanade Waterfront tomorrow for Samanta's gig. Y'know, just to listen to them properly, without being distracted by frantic moshers. You're welcome to join me, if you are so inclined. I don't quite trust email invites at this point.

That's it. Watch this space. It might do something.

UPDATE

Well, push me off a cliff, it did.

Went there. Nothing happened. Left. By the divine will of Murphy the gig might have happened after I left, at 8:40 pm. Wasted trip, saw nothing remotely interesting, had an attap chee ice cream.

But I did get Nightmares & Fairytales: Beautiful Beasts TPB, so the world's fine by me. Pretty, pretty book.

Which reminds me: Hellblazer: Son of Man actually gave me nightmares. Comics haven't been able to do that to me in ages, not since that nameless tentacle manga I had the misfortune to read back when I was nine.

Brr.

Today's Muse: MOSH!

I am exhausted, my toes hurt, I can barely hear, and I just realised I lost several files containing articles on the ancient world I was supposed to have already sent. But still I labour to bring you, yes, YOU, this report.

It was an Experiance. So it's all good.

Today shall go down in history as one of the wettest days in Singapore. The rain still hasn't let up; it's being pouring since early morning. Now, normally such a day would be spent fettering indoors, under the covers preferably, watching the Hallmark channel. And then there would be nothing to report, except maybe an emotional outburst about how fragile life is and other shite.

Instead of the above, I dragged me fine self out of bed and out into the deluge, suitably garbed of course - mud-encrusted pants, leg warmers, overcoat, striped wrist warmers, scarf and fecking big umbrella - to attend a showcase of the finest of local music.

That's what they sold me on.

What it was, however, was a delightfully noisy MOSH. With a couple of friends I trooped down to Armernian street, to the Substation. We paid, got those funny plastic strap things and were ushered into the "Indoor Theatre".

It was a rectangular room painted black, with a high celing, relatively small. There was no stage, and the bands that played just set up their stuff at one end of the room. Someone in the lightbox kept playing with the lights, and yellow and red spots flew here and there. People were sitting against the walls. It felt pretty informal, and we relaxed instantly.

When we came in some band was just finishing up their set. Imagine this: A small group of people standing close enough to the band to feel spittle, split down the middle, and just staring, arms crossed.

What they were watching were a group of guys attempting to mosh. Just walking drunk, falling into each other and hoisting people into the air. They were having fun; the others were just staring in disbelief. I stared at them in disbelief. Hardcore bands, and you're just standing there?

Okay, I stood around too. But I didn't like the band that much, and 'sides, I was drying off.

The set ended and another band started setting up; one of our number knew the vocalist. They were really tight... the would-be moshers kept zombie-walking, and that was entertaining enough.

There were other bands, something that sounded reggae - but what do I know? - but I wasn't really drawn in until Subway Stars (is that right?) came on. By then the whole room was sitting on the floor, and when the emcee introduced them as indie, you could feel a palpable sigh. Like we can take a break now.

Subway Stars (in picture) was anything but soothing. They were fantastic. They performed original numbers and really broke all barriers. All eyes were on the bassist, whose skinny frame belied his awesome axe skills. He was really lost in the music, throwing himself around the stage slamming on his bass (five-string)! Bloody hell, they snapped strings up there and still played on.

That got the audience interested again. The next band came on coasting on the energy (Don't remember the name, but they said they would do monkey tricks. They lied. Liiiieed.) with more hardcore riffs. These guys knew how to play to the audience. They got us standing, and jumping, and yelling, and - wait. Now I get it. We're the damned monkeys...

Despite technical difficulties and having to cut their set short, I had the most fun during their performance. They said, "Jump when the chorus comes on.", and did we fucking jump. People were slamming into each other. My first mosh experiance and I was wearing rain boots. Lucky me.

It was like, Foot, shoe, hand, shoe, face, floor, why thank you, floor again. I was caught right in the middle and people were going crazy. I was pushed to the floor, but some nice chap pulled me back up, and I just continued. Jumping. Pumping brolly in the air. Being pushed. Pushing back. Screaming along. Feeling my toes being mashed. Mashing other toes.

There was this real sense of camaradiere. Complete strangers danced with each other, helping those who had fallen down, crashing into each other laughing. Everyone joining in; even the timid ones jumping at the edges away from the heart of the crowd where the going was really wild. Of course, there were a couple of baby goths at the sides, but who cares about that? Some tiny dude was hoisted in the air, and carried from one end to the other (which, admittedly, wasn't very far.) . Inhibitions thrown out the window. Friendships struck up in seconds without words. Primitive, dangerous, but whacky fun.

I liked it.

And then the set was over, people calmed, and the huge group split into tiny cliques again. I had to leave, sadly. Fun while it lasted.

There was this fellow, whom I dubbed "Spasm Dude", simply because he did. He wasn't afraid to jump and yell and spasm. Bold, tad obnoxious, but exuberant. I would credit him and his companions with turning the whole venture into a sucess. Otherwise I think it'd just be people standing around, arms folded.

And he was rather nice to look at.

Really nice.

Today's Muse: This measuring tape around my head

So, in between looking for articles on the ancient world for Ms Su and researching for An Exercise in Obsession I found the time to take a horribly constructed quiz (which I demolished in five minutes). I now know the truth:

I am a closet goth.

I refuse to link to the quiz in question simply because it was horribly constructed and had awful grammer. My head still hurts.

On the topic of the subculture, here's a little discussion pertaining to it. But to me, as I've said before, Goth is a brand of Viking. I'm so witty.

PS: Yes, I do have a dressmakers measuring tape tied around my forehead. I couldn't find the white exam band, so this had to do. Don't judge me, you judgy-judging-judgers. Judgers.

Today's Muse: Some Obscene Sound coming deep from within the Recesses of this Apartment


If I could put this emotion into words, I could. Hell, I'll try: This bubbling gooey joy; this fierce, painful spurt of victory; it's like looking into a funhouse mirror. It's ridiculously funny. It's me, that grotesque thing in the mirror, or it was me.

Oh, the internet is a wonderful thing. For with this comes the need to document, and thus I have an abundance of data at my fingertips... On the other hand, it hurts.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Still, it is fucking funny. It justifies every single accusation and stereotype leveled. The only reason stereotypes live on is because people continue to perpetuate them.

I'm making very little sense. Hm. Promised myself not to do that. Well, time to close that can of worms and move on to something else.

I finally got my MSI back. That's one good thing. Yes, it was only for a day or two, but I missed my hairy little cd. If only I could find the other album...

I pierced my ears. And it feels icky.

I've gone through my life without pierced ears, even going so far as to swear (when I was younger and stupider and emo-er) never to do so. Ach, never say never.

So Mother and I spent a pleasant morning elbowing people down at the shopping district, talking. Little did I know that she was slowly but surely leading me to... *gasp!* the place where Ear Piercings Happen!

Oof. Fine, I had agreed, in a giddy moment, to pierce my ears. After having sister after sister pounding "It's totally painless!" into a dizzy brain, you tend to believe it. So, plop I went into the chair, while a nice lady with thick lips fondled my ear ("What thick ears you have! Better get the long ones!"), blissfully unaware of what was to come.

When I saw the glorified staple-gun that was the Thing that Makes Ear Piercing Happen, I opened my mouth to protest. As if sensing this, Nice Lady with Thick Lips, with the reflexes of a python, slid the Thing into place and POP. Numb with shock, I didn't notice her do the other ear until Left Ear started screaming "Noooo! Why have you done this to me?! Eeeee!" and drowned out Right Ear, who was only whimpering.

For a good while I couldn't speak because I was swearing so hard in my head. (Ah, swearing, the crutch of the intellectually-deviant and the newly-pierced) I had to pause a long while before I could speak to Mother, cleaning up the words that were to come out of my mouth.

All in all, it was an Experiance and AW FUCK EARRING GOT CAUGHT ON SHIRT FUCK MUST STOP TUGGING WHORISH MOTHERFU okay, all done now.

Yes, I know I'm whining. "It's only an ear piercing! Back in the old days it was worst! People get pierced all the time! Wuss!"

I am a wuss, and yes, I have faced much worse pain than this, people have faced much worse pain than this, yes, yes, yes. I am making a big deal about this. But, the key to any good story is exaggeration. That's why I do it, make a fuss. Because I like making people laugh. Because that's pretty much the only thing I'm good at, and I'm not that great, either.

Reminds me of this conversation I had a while back while we were working on that hellish book for school: We cannot measure how we are supposed to feel about pain or tragedy against a yardstick for all of mankind. Someone who has had chronic back pain all their life (cough) would feel differently about an scraped knee than someone whose worst injury so far was a paper cut.

We cannot demand that people react a certain way according to some big How One Should Feel About... rulebook. We cannot demand that a person not complain about a stomach cramp because other people suffer from stomach cancer. We cannot demand that a person should cease crying over a dead bunny because other people cry over the death of another human being.

It all boils down to what values you hold dear.

Which, is a great way to be non-commital, Missy. One day I've got to stop being so damn neutral.

In other news: An Exercise in Obsession is going well. So many theories, so little time...

Panda-bot, on the other hand, is in painful limbo.

All I can remember from Popular Culture: A Reader is something about gay porn. Must go back and read again.

Surely there are other things. Hm.


I seriously considered dying my hair a garish, coppery, red. Y'know, a shade so brillant you know it's not natural.

Then I thought of Ronald McDonald.

Then I thought, "Stupid MF."

Then I went and played MSI, and all was right with the world.

PS: Thanks again, Jay, for the book. I grin at you.

Today's Muse: A loudly protesting spine

"Write 20 random facts about yourself then tag the same amount of people as minutes it takes you to write the facts. If you're tagged it's your turn."

Here we go:

Victoria...

1. ...was born in Singapore; spent many happy years in Peneng, Malaysia; spent later years in Singapore getting an Education. She has never left the Singapore-Malaysia region (except the trip to Hong Kong when she was a baby and did not know any better, so it does not count) and has not been on a plane for a long time.

2. ...has three older brothers, three older sisters, one younger brother and eleven nephews and nieces. She has not finished counting the number of uncles, aunts and cousins she has, but is pretty sure she has one pair of parents.

3. ...would like to be asexual, seeing what a bloody mess sex seems to be.

4. ...is 175 cm tall, and is slightly ruffled by the fact the fellows she used to tower over are now catching up.

5. ...reads at an alarming pace. She finished the latest Harry Potter tome in a day.

6. ...loves comic books best.

7. ...has a lovely feline beast named Baby, who currently lives with her elder brother. She was given Baby when he orphaned less than a week old, and she has loved him fiercely ever since. She wishes Baby was allowed in her sister’s house, where she is staying, getting his fur all over her clothes.

8. ...finds handheld phones a nuisance.

9. ...has written stacks of stories, poems, and scripts, but has not got round to submitting them anywhere. She will, eventually. Eventually.

10. ...is very much a purist in terms of fandom. This means she often launches into tirades against movies adapted from books, annoying everyone within normal human hearing range.

11. ...has the unfortunate habit of over-complicating matters.

12. ...has a mouth that works faster than her brain. Or they are both working to put her foot into her mouth, the traitorous creatures.

13. ...does enjoy playing dress-up. Occasionally.

14. ...wants to attend the San Diego International Comic Con while she is still enthusiastic.

15. ...loves vintage items and antiques. She, like her da, tends to hoard loads of useless but fascinating stuff.

16. ...can knit, crochet, embroider, cross-stitch, and use the antique sewing machine that belongs to her ma.

17. ...hopeless at languages besides English.

18. ...is wary of singing in public but has joined a choir.

19. ...loves the moment in the dark whilst in the wings, just before the curtains roll up on production. She has never felt more alive than at those moments.

20. ...wishes she could fly. And do cool ninja stuff. And had l33t hacking skillz. She would use these abilities for the good of mankind.
Really.

I tag Janani, Joan, Natalie, Natra, Nicole, hell, I tag everybody.



Lovely party at Mel's. I killed my back, but who cares about that?

Today's Muse: The Flashing Eyebrows - Whose bright idea was this?

Just a quick foray into reality:

I have several projects going on, along with the tutoring job and the "volunteer" editing job down at St. Marg's. One of which is a book project with Nicole I'm hoping to pump out by June next year. I've been grabbing every moment I can like some greedy grotesque baby working on the draft script.

Right now the aforementioned editing work is all gobbly-gook. It's a lot of fun, actually, being stuck in a room full of computers and piles and piles of paper trying to help put together a book due ages ago. What with the screaming and the spasms on the floor and the fucked-up formatting and the obscene talk and the occasional torn off limb. I hope all of you have a chance to experience something like it. Hey, I've only been doing it for a week. Poor Natra has been in there every day for a month.

I've also got a couple of personal projects going on - the robotic panda, An Exercise in Vanity plus An Exercise in Obsession. I've also got Popular Culture: A Reader, which I really want to finish reading.

Then there's the matter of where I' m headed for further studies.

It's very satisfying, to be so very busy. "A great hunger of Man, besides Love, is the hunger for Work." I don't know about love, but the appetite for work is certainly something I know intimately. I always need to be doing something. I can't meditate; 24/7 I'm playing with some idea or scenerio in my head, even when I'm working on something else.

Off to write.

Today's Muse: I seemed to have gnawed off my - OH HOLY SHIT.

I keep a baseball bat next to my bed, within easy reach, along with my screwdriver set and my glasses. The bat is a light, purple plastic affair, well-weathered and broken in. It is held in place, when not in use, by a metal-wrought frame next to the head of my bed.

It's there just in case.

Not in case someone attempts to kill me while I'm in bed, no no. Just in case that night is, the night.

The night when I go away.

When I was a wee chit of a Missy, I used to wait up at night in my bed with the covers pulled up to my chin. Waiting to be taken away to some far-off land, some new fantastical world. Like the children in The Chronicles of Narnia, or the kids in Digimon Adventures, or even the hapless chap in The War of the Flowers. I wanted so much to be whisked off in a blaze of light to terrifying and outlandish realms, armed with only the head on my shoulders.

I wanted an adventure.

Every night I would wait. I would wait, and play out all possible scenerios in my tiny fanatical brain: What to do if I was confronted by a beast with dripping fangs? (Duck, and run, avoid trees) What to do if faced with a royal execution? (This one I'm not sure. Pee, maybe.)

So I started to prepare. I would place things I felt I might need within grabbing reach. At one point, this grew to include a coil of nylon rope, a bloody heavy torch (which doubled as a weapon) and a box of matches. With this, I waited.

And I waited.

I grew older. I knew it was futile. But somewhere inside this tiny, fanatical brain of mine a small, tinny voice kept at it: "You never know! It might happen! Best to be prepared, you don't want to be caught unawares!"

So, I keep a baseball bat next to my bed, along with a screwdriver set and my glasses.

And I crawl, each night, into bed to wait.

Always good to be prepared.

Today's Muse: The Television

I have to admit, the Narnia movie does look good. But then, so did the Corpse Bride. All pretty but hollow.

Off to shop.

Today's Muse: Tin Soldier

I dream of dragons and wyverns and chimeras and golems. I dream of being whisked to unfamiliar worlds, with only wit to guide me. I dream of soaring above cities teeming with bodies; faces upturned and open-mouthed as I throw a wink and dash off into the clouds.

I dream of climbing out my window and scaling the building facade up to the roof. I dream of leaping from tree to lamp-post to tree down the shopping district. I dream of finally jumping over the wire fence into the old school compound next door, exploring the bits I can't see from my window.

I dream of growing gills and diving deep, deep, deep. I dream of fusing myself into the concrete walls and staying there, curled into a tight ball. I dream of the damp wood, with the sweet smell of rot, of sleeping in a hollow until kingdom come.

I dream of controlling the world, or at least a portion of it. The ideal emperor is one that does his job so effectively, the people do not have to think about him. I dream of capturing people, keeping them at my whim. I dream of instilling fear. I dream of power.

I dream, at night, with all light gone and my glasses at the side, about someone who will just sit next to me on the fecking nicest floor in the world, and maybe, just maybe, hold my hand lightly. And we will talk, about comic books and circuses and carrots. Celebrating the mundane. No need to probe deep, to talk about feelings and ambition and worries and... dreams.

Just a friend I can have a decent conversation about comic books with. Where I don't have to be funny all the time. Or be serious either. Where I don't have to think about being polite or aggressive or friendly or worry about niceties. Where he or she or it doesn't have to be nice or sarcastic or go along with tried-and-tested jokes. Because everyone's beautiful in the dark.

Where I can be still and listen, without having to care very much, and where I can speak with no fear and no need to behave like the Victoria people know.

I dream too much.



There's a name for this, I was told. Escapist. They've got shrinks for 'em too, they said. Dreaming entirely too much.



I had a nice Christmas, thanks. Steamboat at home. Loads of tiny eruptions on the family front, but food made up for that. Family gave me cosmetics and book vouchers. No idea what to do with both.

All in all, pleasant enough, ignoring the yelling. You?

Today's Muse: Roofs

It started innocently enough. I was browsing a couple of blogs of people I knew in passing, observing how these people saw themselves - how they constructed themselves on the internet.

Okay. Nothing of the sort. I was bored out of my skull waiting for some shitty ep to load.

So I clicked on a link. A quick skim left me - Drained? Enraged? Insanely jealous in the it's-not-bloody-fair?

It seemed to me, at the time, that it wasn't bloody fair she got those opportunities - getting in to the programme, being picked up for a production and so on. We were alike in so many ways - both proficient speakers, both dramatically trained, but she was the one with the offers. Didn't even have to lift a finger.

Stupid me. I stewed for quite a bit, focusing on how it was so unfair - then shrugged off the green-eyed beast.

It happens to all of us from time to time, doesn't it? Stupid.

I went and read a bit, and all was right with the world.

Today's Muse: This ache in my toe

Oh, stop sulking. You know why this happened. And you do agree that it was partly your fault. Hell, it was your fault. Sure, Mother did assume. But She did it within reason. You know you have a history, despite your trying to disassociate yourself from it. And to her credit, She was very reasonable. Your Sister, as infuriating as her behaviour was and is, was no reason for you to blow your top.

All this proves is that you're not quite grown up yet.

Your problem, Missy, is that you care too much. You can't help every one. Oh sure, you can try, but you're not strong enough. You have got to let them beat their own damn path, to Hell, if I may say so. Leave them be.

Not everyone has to think like you do.

Yes, your intentions were misinterpreted. But think: was there any truth to what Mother pointed out? You are too over-bearing. Far too proud. You have become inflexible.

It is not anyones obligation to nitpick every gesture of yours and infer your intentions. Why, just a while ago you were railing against there not being enough plain speak. And yet, you do the opposite.

So what now? To work, then. You've fallen into old, bad habits. Be loose. Flux. You've got better things to do, like that overdue letter to Nicole concerning the book, or sending 'round the presents, or preparing for the interview...

You care for your Sister. But right now that love is overshadowed with deep Dislike. Yes, you can worry, but she must beat her own path. Let her solve her problems. She must want to change her behaviour, her attitude. Nothing you do, or say, will help. Leave her be.

And you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Baiting her like that. Refusing to step down. Resorting to shouting. You silly stubborn prick.

It is over, so stop obsessing. Leave her alone, since you cannot bring yourself to slow down. Worry about your own arse.

Plus, shooting off your mouth just cost me my trip next year, fathead.

Today's Muse: Green Plastic

Point #1:
So where do I go from here? Can't I just stay in this little hollow I've carved out? Damnit, I'm moving, I'm moving. I'll go and make something out of my life. Shut up. I'm going.

But where to?

Point #2:
Bloody hell, Christmas is almost here.

I never really liked Christmas. When I was growing up something always seemed to be missing. Every year we'd walk the crowded street of the shopping district, oohing and aahing at the light decorations, taking photos that would eventually be dumped. Presents were never suprises. Trees were a bother. Chrismas dinner was usually rice with some special dishes, like braised pork or fish head curry. The rest of the night would be spent watching the Christmas movie special.

Where were the decorations? The turkey-and-pie feast? The glittering tree, the stockings,the wrapped gifts (each one with its own bow), the warm fire, the family Kodak moments sitting together laughing and doing that bonding thing. Television had decieved me.

So I stopped waiting for Christmas to be like the shmicks on TV. Christmas is now, to me, another holiday to put up with, like Valentines Day.

I still do enjoy it. But if it disappeared off the face of the planet I wouldn't really notice. Halloween in Singapore, now that, I'd like to disappear. Why try to adopt a celebration so foreign to our ingrained culture, while allowing our own customs die?

Chinese New Year, now that's something to look forward to. The Family gabbering in a mixture of dialects while the younger ones compare ang pow( red packets containing cash) takings underfoot. The wet-market visits, where the excitement is so palpable. The kitchen comes alive with gossip, and help all those who enter - forced to sit down and help peel beansprouts or something to that effect. The new clothes, the spring-cleaning, the noise, noise, noise-

Maybe that's what happens at Christmas, for those of us who truly celebrate. I wouldn't know. I hope that it is, because the atmosphere at Chinese New Year is something I hope everyone gets to experiance. Damn, that's sappy. But it's true.

Huh. I remember Kim writing a letter to Santa and tacking it to our front door because we don't have chimmys in the tropics. I also remember a teacher solemnly telling us "Santa" was an anagram of "Satan".