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".

Today's Muse: What happened to those lights?

I have a laundry list of things that need getting done.

I also have a laundry list of things I want to get done.

So far, I've managed to get a headstart on finishing the rest of Asimov's works. Now just to get through the rest of the fiction section at the library...

I would have made a list here, but why bore myself and you? Yes, you, way in the back. I always have to sit in the back. So how can they call me callous when I walk ahead? Callous, callous, callous...

I fear the Aeon Flux movie may be another Tank Girl fiasco.

Today's Muse: Cold Tea

For the kids outside next to the pool swearing because you think it makes you sound older;

Please shut the fuck up and quit trying to shag each other whilst tied to the pillars. Happy birthday to you, screech-of-a-girl, many happy returns and all that. Kindly take your guests somewhere else.

Thank you.

I threw a water balloon at them just now, from the third floor room I'm situated in at the moment. Didn't shut them up, but felt curiously satisfying.

Speaking of apartments, a long-overdue announcement: Due to unforeseen circumstances and all-too-obvious fucktarded behaviour I am moving for the second time this month, up north to Sengkang.

I'm not angry. Not now, anyway. It's more of a resignation. Occasionally I feel it, a fierce bubbling, and I rage to the nearest person who will listen. Then as quickly as it came, it goes; the beast falls dormant and I move as though asleep.

Which isn't just some poetic babble; I've walked into so many varied things this week I must be sleep-walking. Walls, boxes, desks, people, doors, over-stuffed turkey mascots, you name it.

You know what? I am angry. Annoyed at how wishy-washy she is about the whole thing. Enraged with him for using us to mask the real cause of his discomfort. Worried sick over the children. STAND ON YOUR OWN TWO FEET, WOMAN.

You look at my brothers and sisters, and you'll see an entire spectrum - the different ways a relationship can turn out, y'see. One couple, too young, but might work if they grow up at the same time. Another pair who've never had anything in common and only lasted this long because

Fuuuuck. (Always wanted to actually write that.)

Fallen into that trap again. Mountains out of molehills.

What a dreary post.

Um.

G'night.