Dogberry

Don't know about the Nyugen Case? If you can be bothered, get a quick-fix here.

Should Nyugen have hanged? Of course.

I am bloody proud of my country and the safe, clean environment it offers that you cannot, and I repeat, CANNOT get in any first world nation. I say this with confidence, and from personal experiences.

If Putfile wants to discontinue services to Singapore because it carries out the death penalty, why not shun the United States of America for its 1000th execution as well? (And subsequently go out of business). Because we are a tiny Asian country so often overlooked by the world, until an Australian drug trafficker is convicted in our courts?

Michael Fay, a U.S. citizen, was sentenced to 4 strokes of the cane in Singapore for committing acts of theft and vandalism. Flor Contemplación, a Filipino domestic worker was sentenced to death for the murders of both a fellow domestic worker and the Singaporean child under her care.

We're barbaric? Okay. But I like being able to walk down a quiet street ANYWHERE at 3AM in a skimpy dress without fear of being robbed/raped/assaulted. I like living in a city virtually free of public property damage and vandalism of the like. I like knowing that murderers don't get let off in 5 years when given a life sentence.

I'm not condemning anyone's country. This isn't a "MY COUNTRY IS BETTER THAN YOURS" post. It's about respecting other countries and their laws. And not going "OMG THEY CARRY OUT CAPITAL PUNISHMENT, SINGAPOREANS ARE THEREFORE CRUEL, LETS CONDUCT TRADE BANS AND BOYCOTT THEIR PRODUCTS". Please suck a cock. That's almost as lame as eating 'Freedom Fries'.

/soapbox.

So. I passed my driving test today. Apparently nobody thinks this is a good idea.

I decide to celebrate by getting that cheap but utterly adorable green top at JayJays.

It looks very Slytherin with this skirt.
F.Y.I., I own 8 tartan skirts. Because I can.


I don't know why I did this to my hair. The upside is, I know it annoyed the fuck out of the boyfriend. It serves him right for pissing me off on my 20th birthday. Which is today.

Cue: Emo poetry, //wrists, and the like.

vx says: notice how singaporean kid games**
vx says: always revolve around finding excuses to cause your friends pain?
me: AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAA OMG YES.
vx says: i used to walk around with bruises on my nipples ok
vx says: fucking crazy friends




**Examples: Ba Yi Simi Sek, Er Ling Wu, and Wu Gui Chia. Funny how they all seem to involve hitting your friends on the head, pinching their sensitive body areas, or uniting to deliver a series of slaps to the odd one out. Damn I had a great childhood!

The same thing happens during every sociology test.

Actually, I have only ever sat for three (Youth Culture/Social Theory/Men and Masculinity) so far, but I believe it sufficient to warrant an undeniable pattern. Or curse. Or something bad in systematic order.

Picture this: The clock reads :59 hours. Pens hovering vigilantly over answer booklets. The tutor signals with a "You may begin," and the scene explodes into a flurry of straining wrists and high-speed mental regurgitation.

He might as well have said, "You may begin to relax your sphincter muscles." Because this is when I face an overwhelming and excruciating urge to fart.



Yes, I know it may sound absolutely ludicrous, but girls do fart. Especially girls like me. And no, we do not expell bunnies and rainbows through the anus. It's called shit molecules. Sorry.

Of course, one could propose a logical explanation to this tragic phenomenon being the fact that I have not slept for over 48 hours prior to each test, surviving on an energy overkill of Red Bull and bananas. (YES. I DO NOT LEARN FROM PREVIOUS MISTAKES.)

Similar reports of such occurences would be Marie's long-standing complaint that everytime she associates herself with her Philosophy textbook or assignments, she is stricken with something only a whole box of hastily ingested laxatives could create.

I wonder what happened during her Philosophy exam last year. Hrm.


Anyway, this time, the situation was fast spiralling out of control. I took quick glances to my left, right, and center, mentally calculating the physics of how rapidly methane particles travel in air. Who would be the first to have their senses assailed? Marie, to my close left, or the female stranger to my right? Which would be more humiliating?

Each time I raised my head from my paper (YEAH, AS IF I COULD CONCENTRATE BY THIS POINT) I caught the direct eye of my tutor. My brain replayed a nightmare of which he mouthed evilly, "I KNOW YOU ARE GOING TO DO IT. I KNOW YOU ARE GOING TO DO IT."
.
.
.
To cut a long story short - and also to put you readers out of further misery, if you have not already scrolled past this distasteful entry on your flist - I managed to walk (albeit in a constipated fashion) out of the lecture room without sensorially damning the entire place.


Postscript: Upon reaching the sanctuary of my own bathroom, I discovered with sheer mortification that it was not a simple case of gas. It was diarrhoea. The remains of my lavatory pot would have put Hiroshima to shame.

Dear Siew,

Re. The Past Month Or So

If not for your company, I would have succumbed to acts of extreme emo (ie. getting a MySpace account, writing poetry, conjuring hospital bed/coma scenarios). Therefore on behalf of my social life, thank you for being there, and for relating to me on all the necessary levels.


( Now that all that mushy shit is out of the way, I'll let the pictures do the talking. )

Our story takes place after the last picture. We were at the club, it was 4 in the morning, and That Thing You Do was blaring on the speakers. The hour found me swinging my hips erratically to the music and screaming every lyric out as if my life depended on it. No, I was sober. I don't drink, remember?

So it was definitely a big mistake to assume that you could get away with smacking my buttocks in the dark.



Now ladies and gentlemen, THAT is what I'd call a death wish.



The blow hit me so hard that I toppled forwards into the back of another girl.Whipping around quickly, I managed to catch a retreating white-sleeved hand before turning to face three young men leering at me.

"Okay. Who the hell was it." I demanded, my eyes narrowing.

One of the males pointed to his companion on the right. "It was him!"

As if on cue, the accused friend feigned innocence. "What, me? No way! It was both of them!" The third guy similarly put on a mocking "I didn't do it!" stance.

All three focused their attention back to me, their eyes posing a challenge.

Whatever came over me then, I had absolutely no idea.

Wait, actually I do have an idea. I grabbed the fucker standing nearest to me and hit him on the face with as much force as I could muster. Twice.

Holy batman. I was so good that he was sent reeling into the DJ table.

By now, the commotion had alerted my friends, who had stopped dancing. Upon witnessing the fate of his friend, one of the remaining two guys bolted.

"Hey- FUCK THAT! YOU'RE THE GUILTY ONE IF YOU'RE GOING TO BE RUNNING FROM ME!" I snarled. "COME BACK YOU BLOODY PIECE OF SHIT!"

Like a raving lunatic, I gave chase, screaming obscenities all the way. Very glamorous, really, considering I was clad in the tightest-fitting skirt ever and ludicrously high heels. Siew tried to grab my arm in a valiant attempt to restrain me, she might as well have tried to stop Tsunami 2004 with a broken paddle.

I finally cornered the other male and dealt him the same fate as I had done to his friend. Of course, while bequeathing my special punch/slap combo, I was grabbing his collar and yelling "SAY SORRY! SAY SORRY! SAY SORRY! SAY SORRY! SAY SORRY!" like a record gone wrong.


That was the first time I had hit a guy - two guys, in fact, and I was way too uncool. So much for my inner superherowoman, reduced to a hodgepodge of hissy fits, scrawny fists and flying spittle.

To cut a long story short, the music stopped, the club went into a delicious riot, and everyone was ordered out by the bouncers into the freezing cold sidewalk to "settle".

By settle, I meant a haze of burly men stepping in (trying to play up their macho Protector-of-the-Female-Masses role, no doubt) to further physically antagonise the situation, all while commanding loudly, "YOU. WOMAN. SIT DOWN OVER THERE. LET THE MEN HANDLE THE PROBLEM."

"Hey!" I squeaked. "But I started this. Should I have a say in how we resolve it?"



"......No. It's a guy's job from here onwards."


Apparently, I was very much ignored for the rest of the night, apart from random males patting me on the back in awe and telling me what a "brave young woman" I was for "standing up for my rights".

Hello. Some fucker slapped my ass. I kicked their butts back. You don't need to romanticise it! (That's MY job, really, as resident Drama Queen...)

Spoilers ahead (DUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.)


First of all, and most of you who recall my 5-year-long obsession with Reno would expect this:

WHAT THE FUCK, MAN.

Yes, he was incorrigibly handsome. But of course I knew that already, even when he was a hodgepodge of blue and red pixels in 1997. So what's with the "-yo!"s (I hope to be proven wrong by the official subtitling) and jittery, madcap battle entries?!

Dear Reno, I love you very, very much. But wavering back and forth with a sudden launch of "UORYAAAAAAAAA!!" and subsequently getting your arse kicked for your idiotic brashness pained me.

The Turks were a complete joke. Comic relief as an excuse only gets this far before it ventures into the deep abyss of L.A.M.E.

I was delighted by the Reno/Rude interaction, nevertheless. They do have some fabulous teamwork, and all that nightstick brandishing nearly made me wet my pants, but they lose points for getting into each other's way at the worst of times. I suppose Squaresoft felt their bungling presence necessary to alleviate the general theme of OMGANGST!!11 courtesy of Cloud, Kadaj and Co.

Speaking of which, ease up on the Oedipus Complex already! As if Sephiroth wasn't bad enough, we now have three of his genetic rejects competing to see who could irritate the viewer more by incessant usage of the word "Mother" in their lines.


Plot wise: Average. It seemed to me that all AC did was expound the old clone/reunion theory, only with better looking clones, because nobody would want to watch a movie who's villains consisted of writhing black clumps, right? And re. Geostigma, HUH? Hadn't the Great pip_malloy done a better job with that in Aftermath? By the way, Pip, because I was too attached to your Reno I couldn't bring myself to accept his character in AC. I blame you wholly, you bitch/goddess/too cool for Squaresoft person.

Now, hands up, the number of you who watched the ever classic Kadaj-dying-in-Cloud's-arms-as-the-rain-trickles-down scene and exclaimed, "Wow, that is sooo gay.".

I know the boyfriend did. He earned himself a nice slap to the head.

And I wondered why everyone was speculating FFVII:AC as the death of good fanfiction.



Other random thoughts on FFVII:AC
1. Why is Tseng alive!? And if they brought him back, why not Scarlet as well? (Okay, personal bias. But.)
2. What is the point of Rufus' wheelchair? A ruse? But omgsqueeandeverything. Rufus. Oh. Rufus. Thank goodness WEAPON didn't mutilate you.
3. SOMEBODY MAKE A RENO/YUFFIE FANVID! QUICK!!!
4. Vincent is very cool, as expected. Until you pan down to his shoes.
5. Action wise, FFVII:AC > Matrix. Hands down. The fighting moves were superbly choreographed, and the cinematography was absolutely fantastic. I have to say the little "play time" between Tifa and Mummy Complex #2 at The Church of Aeris was one of my favourites.
6. Cloud has the most WTF motorbike ever. At first, it looks like a twisted piece of junk, then all of a sudden, KA-CHING! The sides expand outwards to reveal a dozen scabbard-drawer-thingamabobs. Think: cash register cross kitchen appliance.
7. Squaresoft must have decided to put an end to the various conspiracy theories surrounding the man behind the shades. Two words: PURPLE SHADES! Hee hee.
8. Towards the ending, after Denzel had been cured and everybody was cheering and jumping into the water, did anyone spot the MISOHORNY look on Tifa's face as Cloud glanced her way? No, I am not dreaming this. I swear every pore, vein and cell in her was going, "Oh yeah, you're the big guy now, I've got a special treat for you that involve these double-Es of mine, neh, neh?"


Overall rating: ♥♥♥/♥♥♥♥♥

BOMB TERROR THEAT AGAINST MELBOURNE

A new videotape purportedly showing an al-Qaeda militant warning that the city of Melbourne would be the target of a terrorist attack underlined the need for tough new security laws, Prime Minister John Howard said.

The tape obtained in Pakistan by the US television network ABC shows a masked man speaking with an American accent threatening attacks on Los Angeles and Melbourne, Australia's second biggest city.

"Yesterday, London and Madrid. Tomorrow, Los Angeles and Melbourne," the speaker says, warning attackers will show no compassion. He is believed to a wanted US national, Adam Gadahn, who appeared in another threatening tape about year ago.

The tape aired overnight on the fourth anniversary of the September 11 terrorist attacks.

The terror warning comes as the city gears up for the AFL grand final on September 24, as punters get ready for the spring racing season, and as the city prepares for the Commonwealth Games next March.


Sources: here and here.



I could be gallivanting in the city, knowing no day but today.
Being in the wrong place at the wrong time.


Funny how we need to be reminded over and over again that we are all but mortal.
I think I'm too young to think about this.

me: Hey!!! HEY!
me: I'm gonna send you a fucking cool picture.
me: If anything, it can be considered really educational.
jon: Strangely I don't like the sound of this already.
jon: I mean, it's you we're talking about.
me: LOOK AT IT! For Christ's sakes.
me: L O O K.
jon: can i say no?
me: No. Because I will kick your ass if you do.
jon: .............
me: By the way, after you accept, you must pass it back to at least 10 people.
me: Or you will die in the next 20 days.
me: [SENDS IMAGE. Waiting for Jon to accept]
me: Accept it, dickhead. ACCEPT!
jon: no.
jon: i saw the thumbnail of that. and now i am blind. because i just had to stab my eyes out.
me: ACCEPT IT! ACCEPT! C'mon, her nipples are awesome, they are the size of your palms!
jon: i wont be able to have noodles now
me: You would accept it if you still consider me a friend...
jon: We were friends?
me: You'll regret not looking at it in marvellous detail.
jon: I see some mushy crinkly THING
jon: i think its a baby
me: It is a baby.
me: Watch!! Her vagina it still dilated from recent childbirth.
jon: i'd rather watch a demon arrive from the abyss
me: You ungrateful shit.
me: I am showing you a pair of awesome nipples
me: and you spurn me.
jon: why are you so fascinated by her nipples!?!??
me: Uh, because they are like 443589304 times larger than my own?
me: i mean
me: those nipples are fucking BROWN
me: AND HUGE
me: AND BROWN
me: AND HUGE
me: AND BROWN
me: AND HUGE
jon: im going -away- to make -noodles- and will be up in, say, never.
me: fuck you man.

( So here is T3H PICTURE. I don't even know why I'm so polite to you fuckers sometimes, what with this LJ-cut and all. )

Right. I don't smoke, so that is, in truth, a stick of eyebrow liner. Yeah I'm hardc0rexXx shit.




Meme from soliloquia:
We all have things about our friends that make us slightly envious. Not in a bad way, but in a "Wow! I wish I had that person's hair, eyes, money, relationship, toe nails, whatever."
So tell me what about me makes you envy me (cheap-ass ego boost/comment whoring, I know), then post this in your LJ and see what makes me envious of you!

For vx, who made sure I left for Melbourne with Eurotrip, Kung Pow, and a hodgepdge of video clips ranging from the art of Japanese shirt folding to PsychoGirl masturbation.

A Very Belated Christmas 2004 Post

First, a joke. What do you get when you cross an owl with a bungee chord?




My ass.
Nyah, haha, haha, haha, ENOUGH.

Back to your requested program.
Last Christmas, I was invited to sing at the wedding of Jasmin and William. I was also stripped of all dignity and made to interact with children in a fetish costume. Said interaction did not consist of performing grievous bodily harm on them, sadly.


I am smiling in this picture, but my eyes speak of bitterness and child decapitation. Saint Nick, my dear counterpart, appears to be adjusting his ill-fitting hat, but do not be fooled. He is actually wrenching his synthetic hair by the fistful, or attempting to gouge his fingers into his forehead in order to have the sweet release of protruded brain death save him from the onslaught of droolmakers (children).


Posing with random bunch of guests for the 24293058439538th time.


Shortly after this photograph was taken, Santa's pillow accidentally slipped out of his belt, which led to the traumatisation of several kids. He exited for a cigarette break and never came back.

Amanda and her boyfriend headed down to the Mandarin in hopes of surprising me, as all good friends do. And what good friends do is eagerly witness my getting hit on by lecherous old men. And point and laugh.

Dear Amanda's boyfriend: You are a sucky photographer.


He gives it another shot and now my legs appear to be grossly distorted.

The wedding banquet commenced soon after and I got to change back into my normal outfit.

I pwn j00, Sinatra.



Okay, I don't, but I get to sing your songs anyway. Namely, "The Way You Look Tonight", "It Had to be You", and "L-O-V-E".




Annndd. Here I am, back at home and very proud of the sudden and brief appearance of my cleavage. Make fun of my chubby face and die.

Yesterday, I tested NEGATIVE for a pregnancy test.

As if my ovaries were desperate to prove themselves, I awoke this morning with particles of my uterus lining distributed all over my nice new bedsheets.

One of the more popular prison activities during World War II involved a certain water torture technique which comprised of ramming a hose into the victim's mouth and pumping copious amounts of water into it. Once thoroughly bloated, the victim is flung onto his back, whereby his stomach is maniacally stomped upon by enemy soldiers.

That x 1000000000 = the state of my lower belly.

However, I managed to withdraw precious time out of rolling on the floor and screaming in pain to construct the only appropriate response I can muster to apathy_doll's abuse of her digital camera.



STOP BEING SO HOT. Somewhere across the world, a poor young girl is suffering from catastrophically bad looks because God gave you too much of her beauty.

Now if you would excuse me, I am going to bleed from my vagina until I die. It would help tremendously if the boyfriend would PICKUPTHEFUCKINGPHONE and show up on my doorstep with a box of egg tarts and cheesecake.

I was helping the boyfriend clean out his old drawers yesterday when I found a Forever Friends card addressed to him.

In its centre was a neo-print sticker of a bashful looking 14 year old girl, with an arrow pointing to it stating "Your future wife".

Also included was this message:
"Dear Phi,
Happy 16th birthday...I don't know what to say, but...I love you and know that we will be together forever and ever.
Love, Cindy."

AHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA THIS IS TOO DAMNED CUTE. And by cute I mean utterly retarded.

This is a cue for definitiv to deliver his famous quote - "Cindy?! Doesn't it it rank up there with Mimi and Yuka and Shit?"


(The boyfriend is currently too embarrassed to comment.)


Oh, wait a fucking minute. I have EMO GLASSES and I didn't even know it!
I shall break down and cry now.

In this particular entry definitiv says, "After so many train-track related deaths, I have finally begun to think. Why do people think they can go down and scramble faster than a train can move? Would you hop down if you've dropped something? I would. I would because I'm 6ft tall, can do pull-ups, jump pretty high and have long arms. Also because I got A for physics."

Well, I've got news for you, buddy. I'm 5ft 4 inches, I can do half a pull-up, after which my ligaments are reduced to ribbons and I spend the next hour orally fixated to an inhaler, my arms are shorter than yours and I dropped out of Physics class 6 months before the 'O' Levels.

However, with a Connex train tearing frightfully around the corner, I threw myself onto 5-feet-deep tracks, grabbed my shoe that had dropped moments before, and with miraculous agility leap-frogged back onto the platform 2-OMGWTFBBQ!!11-SECONDS before the hulking mass of steel and glass pummelled past. The station master looked as though he was going to throw up. Several girls nearby screamed. The boyfriend pretended not to know me.

Much later, he proceeded to give me a good dressing-down on sorting out my priorities, namely "Life" versus "Bloody stupid ass shoe". I am quite offended because the shoe in question came from this pair:


I rest my case.




Postscript: If anyone was curious as to how my shoe ended up on the tracks in the first place, I was attempting to fly-kick the boyfriend and missed.

Because the marvellous tifag drew this for me:



1. Comment here and I'll pick one of your LJ interests and draw a picture using the mighty MS Paint.
2. You have no say in what I draw for you, or in how much it will suck.
3. Put this in your journal along with the pictures people drew for you.

Buttercup looks like someone stepped on her head with an ugg boot. I am nevertheless certain that Butch is obliged to "fuck her stupid", in jenparakeet's universe of thrusting Chemical-X infused genitals, that is. Yes, this means that I have received her Christmas card AND TWO GLORIOUSLY HANDWRITTEN MINISEXFICS featuring Harry/Draco and Butch/Buttercup!

WOMAN, I WANT YOUR BABIES.

♥ x infinity = my l0v3 4 j00.

Point of note: In the event that Sheepman 'mysteriously' vanishes and I turn up on your doorstep wielding the consecrated power of ficauthor seduction , strap-on included, you are to refrain from associating the two occurrences as a conjugated plot and allude it to a case of impeccable timing. This would also have no relation to an unidentifiable carcass being discovered in a roll-up tartan carpet some days afterwhich. Coincidence is your friend.

Friday evening caught me grievously involved in a mosh pit that could be crudely described as one trillion pairs of male sneakers vying to reduce my 90 dollar heels into a gory pulp. Never mind the flesh on my toes.

Let's start from the beginning.

xgir's band, Pale Pretense, was performing in a rock gig showcasing a couple of local rock bands. It was held in Planet Paradigm, a nightclub that boasted of inferior alcohol and furniture that was very much under delusions of zen grandeur.

"This is my first rock-gig-thing, and I'll have you know that I am only here because of YOU," I reminded her for the sixth time, wondering if I should be expelled for having less than 17 body piercings and therefore not fulfilling the basic code of attire.

"Could your skirt get any shorter?" She retorted, gesturing at the strip of black PVC wrapped around my hips. I debated confessing that it was part of an old Tifa costume which I never got to completing, mainly because procuring a tasteful substitute for Z-cup bosoms was no easy task.

(Yes, Tifa used to be my favourite FFVII character.)

(Yes, Reno/Tifa used to be my favourite FFVII pairing. Pre-Frank V. I have no excuse for this fandom outrage and am deserving of SPOONGUARD savagery.)

"By the way," one of xgir's guitarists warned, "It's going to be kind of...noisy. You may not like it."

I fixated him with a shrewd eye. "Noisy, you say."



Moments later, I found myself slumped in a tall white seat with one finger grimly lodged in my left eardrum .

"This," I announced to the wall, "is screamo."

The wall did not reply. Perhaps it couldn't hear me.

"I mean, if I wanted to listen to screamo," I continued earnestly, "I could listen to Linkin Park. Or my mother after discovering my latest bank statement."

"I need a martini," I declared, after being emphatically ignored for the second time. "And maybe, Wall, you could try talking back to me so I don't look like so much of a fucking idiot."

I took out my wallet and realised that my last ten dollar bill had gone to paying for the gig ticket.

I was contemplating the suicide of everybody in this room but myself when a flash of blond glided past my table.

I jumped to my feet maniacally and pointed towards its general direction.

"OHMYGODBLONDEBOYALERT!!! BLONDE BOY ALERT!!!" Fearing that xgir was unaware of the amazingly rape-worthy entity before us, I grabbed her violently by the shoulders and flung her into a pile of steel chairs. "See!? YOU SEE!?"

"Yes, I noticed." She hardly seemed amused by my barbaric display of enthusiasm.

"He's so cute!!" I gushed.

"Uh huh."

"And BLONDE!"

"It's dyed."

"And he looks like such a punkrocker-wannabe! I love it!"

"...Okay."

It took me five minutes to regain my composure. "Sorry," I muttered. "I haven't had sex for 32 days."

This was when Faux-blondie and his band took to the stage and yelled, "That's right folks, come on up to the front of the stage!", whereupon I thrust xgir a look that read You Are So Coming With Me.

"Good, now we can see the cute guy up close." I beamed, priding myself on managing to find a spot that was right in the front-center of the crowd.

Suddenly, the lead vocalist called out , "Come on, people, you call this a mosh pit?"

These words of imminent doom had barely registered in my head before the band erupted into their first song, and I was punched squarely in the head. Subsequently, a random elbow had connected viciously with my stomach and my feet were brutalised beyond compare. In the corner of my eye, a boy had fallen over and was promptly trampled upon by eight others. The last I ever glimpsed of him was a solitary arm grasping wretchedly amidst the bloodthirsty air...

I was going to die in a mosh pit, and there would be nothing left of my shoes when they find my corpse.

There was only one thing to do.

I was going to have to fight back.

"Argugugguhghhhhffff!!" I uttered valiantly, arms and legs flailing, and was instantly rewarded with ten pairs of feet on my left toe and a fist to the neck.

I was seriously going to die.

The next instant, however, xgir had successfully managed to disentangle our battered selves from the general crowd and drag us a reasonable three feet away.

"THAT WAS A FUCKING TRAIN WRECK!" I howled, after regaining some feeling in my toes. They were certainly not good feelings.

"That," she eyed me pointedly, "was a mosh pit. And thanks to you, I just lost five minutes of my life."

The ghastly abuse she sustained in the mosh pit, nevertheless, did not stop her and her band from delivering a fantastic performance afterwards. And of course I was listening to their songs instead of stealing furtive looks at Faux-blondie behind me and trying to make my back profile look as irresistible as possible.

"You can stop arranging your hair, he left his seat ages ago." Startled, I turned around to face xgir's boyfriend. "And AREN'T YOU SUPPOSED TO BE ATTACHED?!" He chastised.

"Why can't he just, well, trip and fall onto my vagina?" I wailed, turning a deaf ear at his last sentence.

He cordially pretended to not have heard me as well. xgir was belting out the chorus of Alice, oblivious to his budding trauma.

"Well, for all you know he might be sleeping with someone else tonight," He finally said, motioning to a fellow male drummer.

I faced him with a depraved leer. "You know, I don't mind sandwiches."

I was distinctly sure he moved his seat a good couple of inches away from mine after that.


To cut a long story short,
1. Faux-blondie, like all other infatuations of mine, hardly acknowledged my existence.
2. I doubt ever meeting xgir's boyfriend again.
3. My unsatiated vagina sentenced me to a restless night of foot-nursing and missing Phi quite severely indeed.


Postscript:

And to think I never found out his name.

Originally written Thursday, 4th March-

(I'd decided to submit this because my LJ is in portentous need of a mood-lift. Also, what, I implore you, is travelling to a foreign island and not having those fearsome hormones activated?)



Upon returning to my apartment from school, I was marginally surprised to discover a straw slipper located on the grass patch beneath my bedroom window. (I live on the ground floor.)

Bemused but too affected by the odious weather to be concerned about a silly -and decidedly hideous, to be precise- slipper, I headed off for a bracing shower. Several hours had followed and I was sprawled over the couch in a most vulgar and unladylike fashion possible, watching a rented version of Monty Python And The Holy Grail for the third time and bellowing "Ni!! NII!!" like a perfect imbecile.

All of a sudden, the security intercom rang and I answered the phone, my flatmate being occupied in her room.

"Hello?"

"Erm, hi. Is this No. 6?" A male voice, baritone.

"Well, yes. May I help you?"

"Oh, see, I live above you and I think a slipper of mine fell into your courtyard."

Oh, yes. The ugly slipper. I unlocked the front door, and a boy who appeared to be in his late teens stepped in.

Forgive my dramatic paraphrasing and acute death of eloquence, but

He.

Was.

Fucking.

Cute.

Therefore, my first and foremost thoughts were corresponding to the lines of: ShitshitshitshitSHITSHITSHITSHIT!!
And for awfully good reason too.

I was attired in the worst possible home wear ever - a white cotton tee with faded lime-green butterflies on it, and fire engine-red Hawaiian-print shorts. To accentuate the sheer glamour, I was wearing a black bra that was revoltingly prominent underneath my paper-thin shirt. In my haste to answer the call I had a zebra-print stiletto on one foot and a grubby trackshoe on the other.

Just when I suspected I could sink no further into the depths of fashion despair, I remembered The Hair. It was tussled into a dishevelled ponytail by means of a powder-blue scrunchy, while a bright pink hairband was employed to keep my hair off the forehead.

I looked ridiculously bad.

In the nanosecond he passed into the kitchen and turned his line of vision away from me I seized the offensive hairband, flung it roughly over my shoulder and smoothened my fringe. One done, two billion more to go.

A very horrifying thought occured to me then and there.

Could Cute Guy possibly have overheard me cackling dementedly to Monty Python? Real-life friends like my_own_meaning and definitiv can testify to the obnoxious volume and quality of my laughter.

“Er, excuse me? Miss?"

"What?!" I may have responded a little too violently.

"The slipper."

"Oh. Oh! R-right away." With that, I dashed helter-skelter across the living room and promptly rammed my knee into the coffee table.

"Ffffffffffffffffffffffuuuuuuuu---"

I held my tongue, nevertheless. Undaunted yet humiliated beyond mortal sympathy, I managed to hobble to the blinds and wrenched the cord frenetically so as to expose the sliding doors behind.

I then realised that my clothes rack was obstructing the path of the blind, and hanging defiantly on it was a single piece of extremely transparent underwear. My underwear.

Hastily, I scrambled to heave the entire rack out of sight and directly into my room. After which, I pivoted unsteadily to face the boy with a reassuring grin."There we go."

He looked slightly alarmed. “Are you all right?”

He was answered by a timely crash resounding from my room. The clothes rack had finally collapsed under my brutish treatment.

"I'm fine. Fine as can be!" Pretending I hadn't heard a slightest thing, I approached the blinds once more and gave it a resolute yank. The steel rod attached to the based of the blind shot up and connected savagely with my chin.

"FFFFFFFFFFFFFTTTTTPP!!!" Refraining from cursing explosively made it difficult for me to express myself coherently.

"What's going on?" May, my flatmate, had been startled by the commontion and had ventured from her room to see what the matter was.

"Oh, nothing, really." I was trying to ignore the monstrous pain stabbing at the bottom of my face. "A slipperfellintoourcourtyardandthisguy'sheretoretrieveit."

Before she had a chance to respond, I had scuttled into the dark courtyard, picked up the slipper, and handed it back to the boy in one swift motion. He appeared overwhelmed. Perhaps he was touched by my valiant display.

"Thanks." He smiled. I felt like throwing up. He was indeed very attractive.

He introduced himself, and I shook his extended hand dumbly.

"So...Hello," He said.

"Hello," I replied. And by some obscene force of nature that caused my character to betray itself, I quipped, "So, are you studying here too?"

"Yeah," He nodded. "See you around."

He put on his shoes and left. The door closed as if in slow motion. There was a poignant click, and a thud. I turned to May.

"OHMYGODHEISSODAMNEDCUTE!!!" We both yelled in unision, and burst out giggling. We ceased our laughter almost immediately, however, in fear that he may hear us on the way up.

"Too bad I already have a boyfriend." May mused. "He's all yours. By the way, what was his name again?"

It was then I realised in the haze of the moment I barely caught it.

"K.....Keith? Kiev? Kim? Kit? Kein?"

She sighed and retreated towards her bed. "PZ, you're hopeless. But I think Marie lives next door to him."

Within a flash, Marie of No. 15 was on speed dial.

"Hel-lo Marie! This is PZ, and we're going to have a dessert-and-liquor party at your place one of these days, and maybe you could, you know, invite some neighbours over..."

__________________________________________________

I have pestered xgir into writing me a Fecca that involves gratuitous thrusting as well as a feeble plot.
(Yes, darling, I want my lemon hard and piquant.)


These coupling abbreviations bemuse me.
Fecca. Miyagi. Tofu. Furei.

reffie.

Cloti. Clitoris Cleris. Yuffentine, my supine heart forbid!

Quifer, which is bad, and sounds like a vaginal fart. Saifuu, which is good.

Fujin: AFFIRMATIVE.

You see?
And how could I forget creepythinlove, the wonderful Internet vessel for Dylanthinny!

Malfoy + Harry = Marry.
I knew it was fated. Innuendos hardly stand a chance when it comes to myself.

Nonsense aside-
This week may be abstractly portrayed by obsolete heels, the becoming of fat, and the situation of more pairs of earrings than one can flaunt.

On Monday, KH, Daniel and Ken offered a lovely farewell lunch at the Maison Basque, where we vied for the title of longest ordering session ever-

Daniel: KH, if you're going to eat in a French restaurant, you must as well order the French food.
KH: Are you sure it's a French restaurant?
Ken: Does anyone want escargot?
Daniel: Well. (Points vehemently) There's an Eiffel Tower display in that corner.
KH: So?
Me: Strangely, the pictures on the wall represent Brazil.
KH: Basque is a place in SPAIN.
Ken: Does anyone want escargot?
Daniel: There's sliced baguette on our table.
KH: Actually there isn't a lot of French food on the menu.
Daniel: What do you know about French food, anyway?!
Ken: Does anyone want escargot?
Waiter: Are you ready to place your order, sir?
Ken: Hold on, I want to know if my friends would like the escargot...

The four of us walked around the shopping mall until I spotted definitiv at Ralph Lauren, and his colleague mentioned that I looked like a slut.
The indignance! I had attended a FUNERAL that morning and had not changed out of my modest black outift. How could I possibly look like a slut!?! YOU SLUT!!!111!$@#%#$%

The next time I drop by, definitiv, please do me the favour of pointing out the fateful cretin to me, that I may deliver revenge in the form of a strong elbow to the eye.


Had dinner with him and Tash on Wednesday, followed by several rounds of mahjong at Kelvin's.
Let it be crudely known that I am an utter fuckwit at mahjong.

I lost a grand total of...EIGHTY CENTS! Right. But it was a good game.

Obviously, you recall my theory of fandom = sex.

Similarly, upon inspection of my new icon and noting grimly that it's anime based, you must realise that something is eminently wrong.
Before I render xgir into spasms of incredulity -

Yes, that is Recca.
I am (once again) very much in love with the anime/manga series, Flame of Recca.
Once upon an afternoon, in the midst of pre-university packing, I came to discover above-mentioned anime box set. And only the day before had Leon returned me the entire manga series that he borrowed two years ago.

I had lost interest in manga/anime at the age of fifteen, but let's say nostalgia compelled me to watch all fourty-two episodes for the sixth time.
And now,

RECCA/FUUKO RECCA/FUUKO RECCA/FUUKO RECCA/FUUKO!!!!!!1112#$#%#^
And FUUKO/KUREI FUUKO/KUREI FUUKO/KUREI
FUUKO/TOKIYA FUUKO/TOKIYA FUUKO/TOKIYA

Raiha still must die.

Same affection, different ships. I am expecting xgir and her mighty trout quite soon for that.

Nothing, I assent, nothing like an old flame (lousy pun intended) to invigorate my spirits. Another notch or two and my fandoms will permanently replace all sexual desires, hence dooming me to perpetual celibacy.

By the way, I have a stinking suspicion that barely anyone of you understood all I just said. ;)

Obvious reasons I am more harried than required-

1. I brushed my teeth with facial cleanser.
2. I orally consumed the saline solution meant for my contact lenses.
3. And subsequently treated my left eyeball to a dosage of eau de cologne.


I feel moderately impaired, what with the purl of alkaline in my gullet and constant floundering like an utter imbecile, thanks to my smarting vision.


I apologise for failing to keep up with all your posts, but I assure you that they will be read (at the very least) before the weekend is nigh.
________________________________________


Lunar/Chinese new year lasts for a total of fifteen days, of which the first week was a horrendous bustle for me. A lovely aspect of it, though, was the ang bao custom which deems it quite necessary for the married to issue red packets to those who are not. These happy little red packets contain none other but money.

This year's "harvest" has been REMARKABLE for me. Surely xxsher directs a comely bout of hate to my general direction. ;)
The reason for my sudden windfall is barely a surprise - relatives and family friends are obliged to loosen their purses when they hear of my leaving the country for a few years. Consider it a petty fee for my gladdening disappearance.

Anyway, my_own_meaning will be gratified to hear that the money has indeed been put to wise use. Such as two brand new laptops to aid in studying abroad. Ahem.



..And a full set of Powerpuff Girls cutlery. And stickers. And the PC game.
And vintage lavallieres. A pair of 1950s suede shoes.
The remainder will be donated to the Scarr C. Emergency Air Ticket Fund, which includes domestic flights to Sydney to go shopping with my_own_meaning, as well as the secret return-trip to Singapore with the sole intention of participating in the local Idol contest.

Speaking of which, yes, my_own_meaning has left for Australia. Me, Kelvin, KH and his other friends, not to mention her boyfriend trundled into the airport at half past seven on Wednesday morning to bade her farewell. It was only after lunch, whilst shopping with Kelvin that I realised I was going to miss her (slapstick, granny-like, composing and asinine) presence more than ever. Gallivanting in unfamiliar malls, mastering the art of being E. A., jokes that put the capital "I" in funny and home-made videos ghastly enough to rival The Blair Witch Project - here's to those zany exploits!

Peculiar how this conversation looms, over and over again-
Me: Oh my goodness! (Ransacking your sister's bookshelf) Can I read this book?
You: The cover looks disgusting.
Me: Yeah, it's a compilation from previous MAD magazines. The MAD Gross Book.
You: Come to think of it, those are the very two words to describe you: Mad and Gross.


Disclaimer: Of course, this does not imply that an afternoon out with Kelvin is terrible. It's simply not the same as traipsing into city clutter and wearing down a set of tall shoes with your best girl.
_______________________________________________

M current cause for distress-
From The Leaky Cauldron:
Auditions for the part of Cho Chang in "Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire" are to be held soon. If you are "of Oriental appearance, look around 16 years of age, and live in the UK", you could be in the fourth Potter film. Casting will be on Sat. Feb. 7th in London, England.

Ruth: PZ, you do not look "Oriental".
Me: OH YES I DO, ASSHOLE!

Do I?

After a brief inspection, I conclude that
- I look around 16. I can practically resemble any age from 13 to 25.
- I am of "Oriental appearance". Oriental descent, at least.
- I can rattle off a convincing British accent.

However, I remember distinctly that a) I do NOT live in the UK. And b) Cho Chang is supposed to be pretty.
And so it goes, and so it goes. If you must, laugh behind my back.

Goodbye, my one feeble opportunity to be the on-screen girlfriend of Daniel Radcliffe, the most handsome sexy delicious gorgeous little boy ever to conquer my perverted heart and set fire to my loins. Goodbye!



Unceremoniously pinched from starlitgem:

fauxophy's LiveJournal Secret Crush Stats The below statistics indicate what sorta crushes fauxophy has on her LJ friends!

No Crush 84.8% Secret Crush 6.1% Public Crush 3.0% Ex-Crush 6.1%

What are your LiveJournal Secret Crush Stats? Tired of the sickly Suicide Girls? Faux geek porn got you down? Check out That Strange Girl.

Speculation on the whos and whys is ill-advised.
But everyone must know that I have a public crush on tiorankp.


(Queer how I kept spelling "public" as "pubic".)

Especially to those who celebrate it : definitiv, passionrain, my_own_meaning, xxsher, and hayashikaho!


Now, whether you shall excuse me or not, I must terminate the existence of this pineapple tart jar with the combined forces of gluttony and stomach acid.
Guzzle, guzzle, toil and bustle.



Now is a three-day clutter of auspicious red and Chinatown pocket thieves; roast pork cinders and the zealous forefingers of one too many relatives stabbing madly at your cheek.

"My, darling, how you've grown."