We Make the City Beautiful

At least that's what I like to tell myself. Some of the photos seem blurry for reasons beyond me, but what do I know, I'm just a (cursed forevermore) techy amateur. I do know that if you click on them - magic! Anyway, this is for Cheryl, who's been constantly reminding me I have itchy fingers. Thanks. And for Liz, who's been constantly encouraging me to be procrastinator extrodinaire. Really, thanks. And for Joanne, who asked for her poser pics! *grinnn*

~*~

Seasoned Camwhores

With The Lawyer and The Vet

MaryMary Quite Contrary

B is for... And J is for...

The Nice Ones Glitter

The Joy and The Joy *heh*

(I keep telling them, no shots downward up. Does anyone listen??)

Up For Grabs (And Still No Takers? Tsk)

I brought my dirty dancing partner. Who did you bring?

Clearly not paying attention to the going ons onstage

Posing 101

Vain Boy Not-Quite-in-Denial

I'm not artistically challenged. I have crappy software. Really.

We Can Colour Coordinate

Additional Comments Sometimes Not Necessary *grin*

SueTheSmall - GideonWineGuzzler's doctor half I Like Your Goods! *wink*

We're Not As Blur As We Look

Cheeky Monkeys

Look in the Dictionary under "Cute"

I'm With Stunner

The Truth About Jase

(Is that I found the ClosetPoser in him!

He even took off his specs for the shot! I like.)

The Wong and The Ong

Lil Miss Chan

Of A Beautiful City, And Being Endeared Thus Pudgy

I took time out from my assignment-procrastination last Saturday to go for Annual Dinner, themed A Beautiful City. Ok, so the city is beautiful, as for anything else...

Oh, alright. Too harsh, not true. I'm just being half cheeky, and half not entirely pleased with the photos I got. For one thing, there were few. For another, they weren't great in quality. When the subject matter is questionable [refer to Pudgy, below], you gotta make up for it somehow. Anyway, I'm not beyond admitting we all get our inspiration from somewhere, and so I took heart from a certain famous fairy and wa-lah! I'll put them up at some stage... Assignment-procrastination is the priority of the moment, ya'know.

Meanwhile, you may get a chuckle outta this (at least someone benefits):

Thus Pudgy, I Tell Myself: I Am Well-Rounded

I mean that literally. As in physically.

I should start with the justification that I am not a big emotional eater (distinct, mind you, from being a big eater, or just plain greedy for that matter, but that’s beside the point), and that I don’t (unequivocally) care if I can boast being a little bit more cuddly. I know, from observation, that being chubby is comparative and somewhat season-dependent. Besides, this fluctuating up and down a couple is normal for me. So hurrah for Joy.

Example #1 – I wasn’t bunnycheeks four years ago. In fact, I was far toner than I am now. But if you compare photos from then and now, I looked like I was fed with a golden spoon.

Example #2 – Every winter, my eyesight becomes a little for the wanting, and an undoubtedly Chinese girl peeks out from the little slits she has for eyes where not obscured by cheek fat.

But enough examples less someone gleefully decides to haul out photos now safely cocooned in cobwebs and time past. The point is, we take turns, the winter trees and I. When the weather becomes cold, they shed their leaves and I pile on some pounds. When it heats up again, we swap. What’s more, I generally cut myself some slack every exam time. I stop cooking, eat out, and come back with trolleys full of titbits to ease the pain of deadlines, sleep deprivation and caffeine poisoning. The beauty is, the process is gradual. No one really notices, because my tree-buddies and I have perfected the art of even-paced subtlety. That, or that at least the difference is slight enough to let slide, not highlighted singing on top of your lungs on very public rooftops.

Until now.

It doesn’t help that this term has been particularly trying for me for a handful of reasons. But as if being deflated isn’t bad enough, in the last three weeks, I have ballooned like a rubber on the tip of a helium pump. At first, I decide not to panic. Sure, girls get paranoid and subjective about topics like this all the time. We're our own worst critic. Most of the time, the extent of our exaggeration is purely in the mind. “I’m sure I’m overreacting,” I reassure myself. So in my utmost wisdom, I decide to seek the boy’s opinion.

“I think I’ve put on quite a bit of weight. My face is so round…”
“Yep!” *enthusiastic nod*
“WHAT??”
“No la…”
“No wait, really, I have, haven’t I? I think I’ve gain a few pounds…”
“Yup!” *nodnodnod*
"Seriously!!!"
"Er.. umm... armm... nahhh..."
"Hones--"
*NODNODNODNODNOD*
“But… WHY?”
“Well, first up, you’ve been staying up nights, so you’ve eating one extra meal everyday for the past month or so. Then, you’re snacking on junk instead of proper food, and I don’t need to tell you anything about that. And then, there’s no doubt you’re growing olde—”
“But but but…”
“You know you are.”
“But… you really can tell? That I’m fatter? But… you see me everyday…?”
“I can see.”

So he’s honest, but does he need to sound so enthusiastic about it, too? And can someone tell him pudgy isn't an endearment any way you cut it?

Wreckage Hearts

C, you are brave and strong, far more than I dare say I would ever be. I admire that, and I admire that you stand up for what you believe in even though it hurts. I'm coming to kidnap you soon.

S, it's always complicated, and not least because of how torn internal conflict makes you. I admire your honesty, your daring to admit things that don't paint you in the best light, and I doubletriple promise I'll call.

R, there are no words. I know, we don't want to feel better, we want it never to have happened in the first place. So I'm not going to say time dulls pain, but I will say that I'm here, not to do anything, but just be. Know that, ok?

The Power of Objects

I’ve never really been superstitious like that, the way certain things have, to some people, some deeper meaning, kept in sacred regard. But lately, I’ve been coming across more and more items of no particular importance ­per se, which seem to hold some special power that link them to memory. It’s the simple, everyday things that get to me most. Take a CD, for instance. Nothing particularly exciting, just one of the many in collection. But the moment I see it, pick it up, so much as hold it… all the feeling and emotion from when I first listened to the music on it, or perhaps even just from the time of getting the CD, comes flooding back, for better or worse. What amazes me more, is that I can remember the little oddments of what happened then – more the notions of, than actual elements, and which granted, are fluid, fleeting, disjointed, but I remember them vividly nonetheless. It’s equally intriguing and frustrating, because what washes over me is not something I have been able to quantify, but still evokes nostalgia, and some tender, if elusive, bittersweet sentiment. I guess the CD being Come Away With Me doesn’t help. Perhaps we hold memory at such importance because it can sometimes be the only thing we have left.

Maybe this entry should be renamed The Power of Music. Or The Power of Memory.

What gives

OMG. Last night, someone I know was bloody running his mouth all night long, acting like a real first-class jerk. He thought he was being cool, showing off his stupid try-hard, wannabe attitude, and dishing smart remarks every which way faster than you could say shut up stupid. He was the worst kind of show-off: the one-who-thinks-he's-top-shit type, and was ruining the mood for everyone around him. I wouldn't have cared half so much if he hadn't been giving me the third degree, acting all big shot, talking it up, trying to prove something. And especially when I already had the impression that he really didn't have anything to show for it in the first place, anyway. I was so angry at the dickhead, and growing more and more mad knowing he thought he had the right to treat me like shit. Man, I was itching to give it to him nicely, land him one good tight slap across the face. I was so angry I tell you, seething, and so wanting to hit him. I didn't care if it was in front of everyone. In fact, all the better. I was so, so angry, I woke up!

And then I got even angrier at him for having woken me up. Like, wtf.

As it is, people the world over know NOT to mess with me when I'm sleeping or just woken up. This one, had the nerve to piss me off twice. TWICE!

So now I'm sitting here like an idiot, having woken up an ENTIRE hour early when I only had 3 miserable ones to sleep for to begin with. Not a happy camper.

All I can say is I better not be seeing the moron around anytime soon, or there will be bloodshed.

I'll be

Edwin McCain

The strands in your eyes that color them wonderful
Stop me and steal my breath
And emeralds from mountains thrust towards the sky
Never revealing their depth
Tell me that we belong together
Dress it up with the trappings of love
I'll be captivated, I'll hang from your lips
Instead of the gallows of heartache that hang from above

I'll be your cryin' shoulder
I'll be love's suicide
I'll be better when I'm older
I'll be the greatest fan of your life

And rain falls angry on the tin roof
As we lie awake in my bed
You're my survival, you're my living proof
My love is alive and not dead
Tell me that we belong together
Dress it up with the trappings of love
I'll be captivated, I'll hang from your lips
Instead of the gallows of heartache that hang from above

I'll be your cryin' shoulder
I'll be love's suicide
I'll be better when I'm older
I'll be the greatest fan of your life

And I've dropped out, I've burned up
I fought my way back from the dead
Tuned in, turned on
Remembered the things that you said

I'll be your cryin' shoulder
I'll be love's suicide
I'll be better when I'm older
I'll be the greatest fan of your life

I'll be your cryin' shoulder
I'll be love's suicide
I'll be better when I'm older
I'll be the greatest fan of your life

The greatest fan of your whole life

----

Thankyou you.
I'm sure you didn't mean to make me cry like a blubbering idiot.
Or evoke new degrees of pining.
S now persists on referring to you as My Malaysian Boyfriend. What do you say to that?

Am I Strange

For being able to do so much more – not just in theory because the somuchmore has, in fact, already been meticulously thought out, despite myself, and I have the minute details down pat – but I hold back, for my own sake, really, far more than for the sake of the other person whom the wheels in my head automatically go a-wheeling?

A little bit sad, because I love the quirky little things I come up with and do. Because I like to think that these little things are not unappreciated. Because fate is such that all the planning in the world doesn’t always promise the plan will eventuate anyway. Because there is no guarantee of intended result from doing them. And because, in the end, I am setting myself up for major disappointment.

And yet, I slip time and again. And do these things, then pay the price.

Snippets

Of late, I’ve been so drained and tired out that I fall into about half-hour, sporadic pockets of sleep at random times. Only to be started unkindly, that half-hour later, by the worry that gnawed at the thought which so drained and tired me out to begin with.

Funny how mental and emotional realms overlap and manifest in the physical.
Funny how the mind never lets you forget, only temporarily disregard.

Sometimes Slips

Sometimes I forget that I remember all over is not the same as I am now, again...
Sometimes I forget that the memory is all that’s wanted.

Melancholic Days

It's all Mister Seven Personalities's fault I now can't stop thinking about foggy days and frosted windows, easy jazz and fluffysnuggly blankets, good coffee, hot yummy brunches, golden parks and happy dogs. And, yes, the weather is still rubbing it in.

The key word here is thinking - surprise surprise - since I'd be lucky to see the light of day these last weeks. The boy says I'm grumpy and depressed and not getting any sun, like I'm a pot plant or something equally exciting. Then again, he's not far off. Then again, I've always been more or a dusk than dawn kind of girl.

But now it's back to the books, before I get to romance meandering days again.

Losing Skill

I’m losing all my abilities. To, by discipline or scare tactics, push myself into working on assignments, to play the keys, to appreciate the lookingforwardto, to be bothered, to keep what was once mine to keep. Amongst other things.

Hell, I’ve even partially lost the zeal for cooking.

Nothing excites me anymore.

I’m going to get over this hill of work, I am.
And then I’m going to practice Whitney’s I Have Nothing until it flows from my fingertips.
And party til the break of dawn, all else be damned.
I am going to bother, if it kills me.

I’ve heard it said that if you don’t use it, you lose it. At least some losses are salvageable.

In The Theme of Distractions

I just have to say: The Whole of Australia is gone on sale! Oh me, oh my, oh—Ok, I don’t know that. Let me rephrase: The Whole of Melbourne is gone on sale! I stay holed up for a few days too many for my own good, and Sale signs have sprouted their curly ferns and brilliant petals, alluring wiles and charming scents, out of the earth from nowhere, everywhere! And I mean e-ve-ry-where!

The highlight of my day, today, is that the teas I’ve been chasing for about the past two months now have finally come in. I flip-flopped very unsophisticatedly in the quaint, posh little shop, with its delicate teapots and cups, and fragile setup, without so much as a hint of shame or indignity. And then I mmm-ed with the cute salesgirl as we taste-tested the teas of the day for what she called a bit of a calming pickup.

Good grief, I’ve just gone and ranted on about tea. I’m also looking for a decent pair of glasses frames to wear out on my don’t-give-a-toss-about-lenses days, and I want to be an editor. I’m turning into a boring, old hag. Someone help!

Again, Again!

Even if it means I must become deathly sick from forcing down my regurgitating throat the lasts globs of the creamiest, richest hot chocolate ever, coupled with selections of other gourmet chocolate-type desserts, after having disgustingly stuffed myself with the oiliest deep fried golden egg yolk chicken ribs and more oily, deep fried spice-and-salt seasoned calamari, and fatty, oily roast duck, all over again.

The Inner Assimilation Files III: The Case of Empirical Friendships Versus Practical Friendships

The downside of the adult world is that it seems to make us put the practical into gear, only in a moment of crisis, and, I think rather sadly, on the excuse of special occasions. I have heard the criticism against commercialised occasions many a time, but really, if there was no cultural obligation to celebrate birthdays, or Christmas, or annual catch-ups, we wouldn’t put the practical into gear at all.

We convince ourselves – or ­comfort, if ­convince makes you uncomfortable – with the empirical knowledge that we are, in fact, there for one another, although not practically, and will, when need be, take a knife in the back for a friend. I am not challenging this, for any real empirical friendship must surely have first passed the test of practical friendship. I am saying I think it sad we have to come to a point we only do what we need, and not anything more, when we have to. Or, if it is more appealing, that we want to, but to me, still only at times of crisis or excuse of special occasion.

I know I’m going to get preached about the fact that it’s not that we don’t want to, we do, but we can’t, we just have to be practical. So to clarify, you’re saying that in order to be practical for livelihood, we have to forgo practical friendship?

And we dare say life is all about relationships.
And that we fear being alone.

The Inner Assimilation Files II: Of Sentimentality and Growing Older

I’m not yet 24, and I’m getting all stupidly emotional. This is crazy talk, I know that. Shouldn’t this be some 42’s dilemma, for the love of God? I blame Austen and Dickens and my own twisted mind and life-as-it-has-panned-out, but blame all I will, this dreaded sentimentality will not Just. Go. Away.

Someone recently reminded me of that old saying, An idle mind is the devil’s workshop, and I think I couldn’t have chanced upon a more ironic state. My mind, truly, is far from idle. My mind, wretchedly, is so damn drenched with internalizations, I am my own damn devil.

Those internalizations are, in part, of recalling the past, and wanting, more than anything, to go back there and stay there, what price I may pay. Who the hell in their right mind dreams of times past in their twenties? Me, apparently.

I want what I had before, but I am the only one. When talking to those very ones from before, I have only gotten a unanimous there is no going back deal with it­, and my heart sinks, knowing that even if I question the blind acceptance of the way the world works and refuse to swallow the pill of getting caught bogged down in the everyday, I am the only one. And I know I can never have the past again.

The Inner Assimilation Files: Is It Good Enough

…to value friendships empirically, and a whole lot less practically?

The responsibilities of life do that to you, and you cannot chide or hide from them. But should we be satisfied with this reasoning, or is it just me being idealistic and refusing to grow up?

In the end, friends are all you have. To me, there is no point having all the possessions in the world and not have anyone to share it with. But I guess if you work your ass off and make a shit load of money, you can buy yourself new friends, or at least their interest in your things.

Irony

Nothing like irony to clobber you over the head, and make you face the truth.







It’s great, sometimes, not to give a fuck.
If only it was not just easier said than done.

Reality Check

If you need one, it probably means you're not in a good place. That, or you’re in too good a place to be true. Either way, it sucks. Which, still, is fine. But checkers go a step further, and pain the heart.

A checker’s job is to remind, and remind a checker will do.

The Problem with Emotion

Is that double jeopardy doesn’t apply.

Which is fine for welcomed emotions.

The problem starts when detrimental feelings start to kick in. Again.

Here I Am

Here I Am
Drunk on internalizations,
Wanting the impossible,
Rejecting reality.

Here I am,
Drowning,
And not knowing how
To save myself;
Drowning,
And not caring
To save myself.

Pathetic, I know.
And no one hates me
More than me.

More Distracting Events

So in our bid to resist starting on assignments just one more day, we headed out for a good ol' seven-hour pissin' the last night of class. There are a whole lot of crazy photos of us playing dumb games, making stupid faces and stupider poses and the like, actually, but I shall refrain.

The Jo and Joy Buddies

Tara and Donna, The Graduates!

Andrew and Jo

How We Feel About The Last Day of Term!

Tim, Joy and Dana

Scoring Free Shots!

(Stupid Katie thinks I'm her pond)

This is our how-many-eth drink again??

Group Love - Too Much For Random Old Guy Who Decided to

Unbutton His Shirt for Our Benefit To Resist

We're Only This Duch Mrunk!

Really.

P.S. I know I'm asking for it, but there doesn't seem to be a satisfactory photo size to select from. One between the small and medium options would be perfect. What do I do? (I've already been talked into also setting up Yahoo and Photobucket accounts - if creating yet another online photo album is anyone's answer to a solution - and I'd really, really rather not collect a host of them. Again, what do I do?)

P.P.S. So have I got it right, Vera? Am I *gasp* mirroring?

Distracting Events

Of all the very many, different wondrous sidetracks, Shopping ranks on top. Ah, Shopping. Shopping Never Fails, and really, why would I want that?

(I think I can safely say I'm long past therapy, and admit to addiction.)

Nightmare of Sorts

In some part of the wee hours I crawled into bed one morning not so many nights ago, I fell into some boggling dream. Of late, I’ve been dreaming more and more. I don’t necessarily remember any more detail than usual – which is not much to start with – but I do know they are becoming increasingly vivid and affecting because I wake up with a start thinking exactly such. Actually, I lie. I say I don’t remember more than usual, but I have some inkling as to the general and varied (as dreams are) themes which come into play.

But, back to the dream. In the second part, the bulk of it, I was at some sort of interview-elimination process-initiation exercise-test. It had something to do with editing and publishing and some other media of some kind. TV maybe, but I’m really just guessing. I think everyone there had passed some sort of basic editing techniques testing, and now, we were all sitting in a semi-circle, in a big empty room with nothing but bright, white light, and two examiners up the front. None of us have any idea what to expect, and I hear my name being called out first. (Even in my own dreams, I get picked on to be first. Meh.) I am told to come up to the front, am given some sort of manuscript, and told to read it out aloud.

I park my behind on the floor, start reading and… get stuck. The whole thing is riddled with mistakes – typos, spelling errors, grammatical slip-ups. I magically find a pencil I never noticed before, in my hand, and I begin to correct these mistakes, reading by and large, to myself, only half out loud, and repeating sentences to check and recheck them. The whole time, I am oblivious to everyone around me, watching me and waiting to hear what I am told to read.

Time passes, and the more stoned examiner of the two clears his throat, throws some not so nice comments my way, and confiscates the manuscript. He doesn’t care when I try to explain that the text is impossible to read at the state it is in. I am banished back to my seat. My face is burning, and I feel totally humiliated. Fast forward some several students later, and it hits me that they actually want to hear how well I can recite, how skilfully I can make do with a rotten text, how eloquently I can improvise, how good I am at public speaking and thinking on my feet. Or not. Which is, I think, ridiculous. I'm supposed to be an editor, for crying out loud, not some charming, syrupy-voiced TV news presenter.

Now anyone who knows me at all knows that I think eloquence is the sexiest thing, and that all my life, I've strive for it in vain. But I cannot believe I dreamt about editing and my lack of eloquence. I am so clearly on the irreversible path of Nerddom.

The first part my dream involved me going bananas over the fact that someone who has not blogged in some good span of time, hence cutting me off from knowing the silly little nothings that make life life, decided to do just that. Not that I dreamt about her telling me she was going to. I dreamt I chanced upon the new entry and went batty.

Can’t believe I blogged about blogging. I am so clearly on the path of Nerddom.

Autumn's Heart

Why The Hell Now

It has had four damn years to kick in, do its thing – wreck havoc, draw torrents, rear its worst – the works. Why, of all times, now, do I feel so cursedly homesick, in a measure like never before? And when I say now, I mean a span of at least the last couple of weeks.

I actually have a theory, but what bleeding good does that do?

God, I hate it when I’m emotional.

Brutal Conclusions

I was having a conversation with a friend the other day, and came to the conclusion that: she whom we were conversing about, probably has it in her head that I don’t like her. I don’t know that she’s wrong. I do know that I am not-so-secretly thrilled at putting my finger on the knowledge. Or, at the source from which this feeling stems, for that matter.

I'm Curious

And I have no problem admitting it. I want to know: who are all these unknowns reading my blog? Are you accidental viewers? Dirty old pervs? Friends of friends of friends? The blog-police on random censorship rounds? Hot babes? Someone’s colleagues? People who are scared of me in real life? People whom I’m scared of in real life? Shania Twain? Who who who?

Do say hello. If it makes you more inclined, because I like the attention. There, I’ve said it. Now, say hello.

The fact that I too, lurk, is another matter all together.

I've Been

…Very intentionally distracting myself.

Sometimes, diversion can be a good thing. Sometimes, diversion is your only saviour. Even if it cannot be avoided that the means you use to induce diversion inevitably lead you back to the root from which you attempt distraction.

It’s funny the things you learn and relearn, even if painful, even if self-training must be employed. It is, in this case, that everything has a price.