Feeling: Depressed
Listening to: Good Lives by Eve 6
Amazing. I think I'm losing my fascination for Kelvin, and it's all because he's shown how use-y of people he can be. I can't help feel that he's using me, because, that's kind of what he's doing. He's lazy, that's what he is.
My life is full of secrets and lies. My family, mainly. I never knew we could hide so many things with a few little words. :( Sometimes I hate the people I grew up with. Why does the truth have to hurt so much? Why does it hurt even more when you lie about it? Or maybe you're not lying, maybe my other source is lying. For God's sake, I told you, my life is full of secrets and lies. Some of the biggest ones, I keep with me.
There's something about adultery I don't like. No, wait, it's not something, it's everything that has to do with it.
I feel dead. And lonely. When I want to see my precious, I can't. And I just miss him. And he feels so distant. But yeah, it's not like you care. HAHAHA. :D
Happy teachers' day.
Saturday 24 September 2005
Feeling: Tired
Listening to: Forgotten by ...And Then I Turned Seven...
There I sat, in the skirt I wore to the wedding reception outside on the ground, in the dark coldness, thinking about everything that had happened, and I cried. I resorted to my last hope - him. And he came. And he saved me. And I walked to his awaiting car, barefoot, in the rain. It didn't seem to matter now - that I cried, because my brother had come to keep me company, and there was some sense of love there, that cheered up this emo kid. He rescued me from everything that held me prisoner, I just wanted to get away, and he helped. All I could do was hold him. And no matter how much I wanted to cry, I didn't, I held it in because I didn't want him to see me cry. I didn't want him to see me as this tattered soul that I really am, this thrown away ragdoll that her own grandmother isn't very fond of. But it's okay. It's nothing new. Sometimes though, when you least expect it, reality hits you across the head and you realize the truth - nobody likes you, or wouldn't like you, if they knew the actuality of your being, except of course, your guardian angel, because he's the only person who's can really accept you for who you are, all your flaws and perfections. And you love him for it. And it makes you so happy you want to cry.
But there are some awful times where you doubt your angel. You wonder if he's really watching you, if he's really guarding you - doing his job. It doesn't matter what you do, everything will end up in the same situation - you holding him a little too tightly and him struggling just a little too much to show he cares. But of course, you know he cares. You regret what you thought earlier and ask yourself how you could ever doubt him. He's yours, isn't he?
Listening to: Forgotten by ...And Then I Turned Seven...
There I sat, in the skirt I wore to the wedding reception outside on the ground, in the dark coldness, thinking about everything that had happened, and I cried. I resorted to my last hope - him. And he came. And he saved me. And I walked to his awaiting car, barefoot, in the rain. It didn't seem to matter now - that I cried, because my brother had come to keep me company, and there was some sense of love there, that cheered up this emo kid. He rescued me from everything that held me prisoner, I just wanted to get away, and he helped. All I could do was hold him. And no matter how much I wanted to cry, I didn't, I held it in because I didn't want him to see me cry. I didn't want him to see me as this tattered soul that I really am, this thrown away ragdoll that her own grandmother isn't very fond of. But it's okay. It's nothing new. Sometimes though, when you least expect it, reality hits you across the head and you realize the truth - nobody likes you, or wouldn't like you, if they knew the actuality of your being, except of course, your guardian angel, because he's the only person who's can really accept you for who you are, all your flaws and perfections. And you love him for it. And it makes you so happy you want to cry.
But there are some awful times where you doubt your angel. You wonder if he's really watching you, if he's really guarding you - doing his job. It doesn't matter what you do, everything will end up in the same situation - you holding him a little too tightly and him struggling just a little too much to show he cares. But of course, you know he cares. You regret what you thought earlier and ask yourself how you could ever doubt him. He's yours, isn't he?
Friday 23 September 2005
Feeling: Arguable
Listening to: Almost by Bowling For Soup
You worry about how other people describe you. Are you "the heavyset girl"? Are you "larger"? "Overweight"? "Kinda big"? Are you, god forbid, "chunky"?
You look at other fat people and wonder if you are as fat, more fat, or less fat than they are. You look at hugely obese people and feel superior to them, until you remember you may one day become them. You wonder if you look as uncomfortable in your own skin.
You divide the world into Thin and Not Thin. You feel solidarity with the Not Thin, and vague distrust of the Thin.
You are hyperaware of every fat character on TV or in movies or in books. You see how they are portrayed-- lonely, desperate, and marginal. The rare positive portrayal makes you feel amazed and grateful. It feels like a reprieve.
You hate Renee Zellweger for talking about how "fat" she got for Bridget Jones. You hate Elizabeth Hurley for bashing Marilyn Monroe. You hate Gwyneth Paltrow for Shallow Hal. You hate that Jack Black is considered a sex symbol, while Mia Tyler is "Liv Tyler's fat sister." Of course, you love Queen Latifah.
You hate how the words "fat" and "ugly" are so often synonymous. You almost like the phrase "fat and ugly" because it implies the possibility of "fat and beautiful."
Your thin friend breaks up with someone and you don't really feel sorry for her. You know that you're the "fat friend" and she's the "skinny girl." It's the fat friend who can never get a date; the skinny girl can have whoever she wants. She gets Hugh Grant, and you'd be lucky to get Nick Nolte.
You know that no matter if you have "such a pretty face" or "a good personality," the majority of people won't look past your double chin and your flabby arms to figure that out.
You are the only one who seems to notice that Nicole Kidman looks like a chicken.
You browse personals ads, and every guy who specifies his preference for "slender" women (or "in-shape" or "athletic") makes you feel rejected. Every guy who says he wants a larger woman, you suspect of being a creepy fat fetishist. You know that no normal guy wants somebody just like you.
You hate Carnie Wilson. You hate every magazine article featuring Carnie fucking Wilson and how thin she is and how pretty she looks and how much she loves herself now. You think to yourself, "weight loss surgery is such a cop-out."
And then you think, "I wish I could afford it."
You cringe every time you are about to look at photos of yourself. You know what's coming--the inevitable picture where you look like an enormous cow and your friends say, "Oh, what a great picture of you!"
You worry about things that nobody else worries about. Fitting inside the booth at dinner. Being too fat for the amusement park rides. Sitting on your friend's couch and hearing a funny noise. Not being able to climb out of the backseat of a tiny car. Chafing.
Skinny people who complain about how they need to lose five pounds? You hate them. Slightly overweight people complaining about how fat they are? You hate them. You know it's irrational. You hate them anyway.
You feel uncomfortable anytime you hear a fat joke. You feel like it happens constantly. You feel like fat jokes are an acceptable form of cruelty. You see them everywhere.
People say things to you all the time. People yell, "Jenny Craig!" and "Wilson Phillips!" at you on the street. Little kids say, "Mommy, that lady's fat!" Even in foreign countries where fat is more acceptable, you hear, "You're a very beautiful lady but how much do you weigh?!" The worst part is, you're never alone when it happens. Other people hear it too, and all you can do is pretend like hell you didn't hear a thing. And you know your friends are standing there thinking, "I hope she didn't hear that..."
Then later you wish you had told them off. You wish you had turned to them and said, "Oh, are you saying I'm fat? Oh my god! I'm FAT?? I had NO IDEA! Thank god you were here to enlighten me!" Or maybe just ask them very quietly, "Why did you just say that? Was that supposed to be funny? How is that funny?" Or even an offhand, "Fuck you, asshole!" Maybe said with a laugh, like you don't even care.
You never see a body like yours portrayed as sexy or attractive. Not anywhere. Not by anyone. You stop believing you are sexy or attractive.
You hate anything that calls attention to your size. Trying on friends' clothes, putting on seat belts and having to adjust them, a muscular friend who can pick you up but can't lift you very far off the ground. A dozen things a day, it seems.
You hate to eat or drink in front of anyone. You are afraid you will be judged as pathetic if you eat a salad, or a disgusting pig if you eat a cheeseburger. All you know is, your choices will be judged. You're fat. Food is your enemy.
You wish you were invisible.
Credit: here
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Associated Press has some great news, and it ain't about car insurance: "Mixed among the pages of dazzling celebrities and rail-thin models that dominate fashion and teen magazines is a surprising sight," Colleen Long reports: "young women with thick thighs and flabby abs."
And what a stirring feminist manifesto that is, referring to an invisible ribcage as "flabby." Ms. Long continues: "In Seventeen, Teen People, CosmoGirl! and Teen Vogue are bathing suit sections partly illustrated by less-than-perfect figures and tips on maximizing assets and minimizing defects."
This stirring trend utilizing "average women," "'real' women," and the go-to "sizable" gal Queen Latifah in fashion magazines is designed to "reflect the population" and "help self-conscious teens (and adult women) see that not everyone is perfect;" although if you are a "real" woman, you are still "flabby" and should hide your "defects" at all costs. Hooray for progress!
The recent Dove campaign, which the AP also notes, illustrates perfectly this faux feminist have-your-cake-and-throw-it-up,-too attitude towards women who look like women. The campaign features "'real' women," sizes 6 to 14, wearing nothing but their skivvies and smiles, oh, yes ma'am, it does; and what are these unapologetically, proudly curvaceous women smiling about? Why, Dove's firming collection, of course; "lotions and creams meant to reduce the appearance of cellulite."
Telling women that they, too! can be proud of their naturally round, feminine figures as long as they look neither round nor feminine -- wear black! tone up your arms! lay off the carbs! firm up your thighs! and smile, dammit, smile! -- is not a progressive new fat-friendly trend: It's hypocrisy.
And it's also virtually nonexistent. "Experts are lauding the shift," Long writes, "but say the industry still puts too much pressure on girls to be thin and conventionally beautiful." I'd take that a step further and say there is no shift, just a lot of PR "Killing Us Softly" creator Jean Kilbourne tells Long that "the pressure has never been worse;" and according to the fruits of a Walgreens run I made this morning, I'd say she's right.
Just to see if the supposed trend of using "real" women in magazines is not, in fact, as thorough a diversity ploy as the casting of the Token Gay Guy is on "The Real World," I made an informal survey of the models and/or actresses pictured in five fashion magazines currently on the racks: Vogue, Glamour, Cosmopolitan, CosmoGirl, and Seventeen. Not including illustrations or models in advertisements -- and with the understanding that my definitions of "thin" and "real" may, and probably do, differ from yours or your mother's or your boyfriend's or whoever's -- this is what I found:
Vogue, Aug. 2005 issue
Total "thin" women pictured: 142
Total "real" women pictured: 7
Percentage of "real" women out of all women pictured: 4.7
Glamour, Sept. 2005 issue
Total "thin" women pictured: 339
Total "real" women pictured: 112
Percentage of "real" women out of all women pictured: 24.8
Cosmopolitan, Aug. 2005 issue
Total "thin" women pictured: 164
Total "real" women pictured: 19
Percentage of "real" women out of all women pictured: 10.4
CosmoGirl, Sept. 2005 issue
Total "thin" women pictured: 57
Total "real" women pictured: 40
Percentage of "real" women out of all women pictured: 41.2
Seventeen, Sept. 2005 issue
Total "thin" women pictured: 174
Total "real" women pictured: 28
Percentage of "real" women out of all women pictured: 13.9
"Real women" are reflected in these popular fashion magazines an average of 20 percent of the time. (The rate shoots down to 13.45 percent without the laudably exceptional CosmoGirl.) That sounds great, until you realize that it hardly "reflects the population:" Despite (or, more probably, because of) the fact that 65 percent of American adults are either overweight or obese according to the CDC, women who look like 10-year-old boys outnumber women who look like women in these magazines four to one.
And as I said, this rate of reflection does not include advertisements; though let the record show that among the countless ads inside all these magazines, the supposedly revolutionary, pleasantly plump Dove ad appears a whopping ONCE. (Cosmo, pages 40-41.)
Yeah ... call me when the revolution begins, ladies.
Credit: here
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
That was interesting.
Listening to: Almost by Bowling For Soup
You worry about how other people describe you. Are you "the heavyset girl"? Are you "larger"? "Overweight"? "Kinda big"? Are you, god forbid, "chunky"?
You look at other fat people and wonder if you are as fat, more fat, or less fat than they are. You look at hugely obese people and feel superior to them, until you remember you may one day become them. You wonder if you look as uncomfortable in your own skin.
You divide the world into Thin and Not Thin. You feel solidarity with the Not Thin, and vague distrust of the Thin.
You are hyperaware of every fat character on TV or in movies or in books. You see how they are portrayed-- lonely, desperate, and marginal. The rare positive portrayal makes you feel amazed and grateful. It feels like a reprieve.
You hate Renee Zellweger for talking about how "fat" she got for Bridget Jones. You hate Elizabeth Hurley for bashing Marilyn Monroe. You hate Gwyneth Paltrow for Shallow Hal. You hate that Jack Black is considered a sex symbol, while Mia Tyler is "Liv Tyler's fat sister." Of course, you love Queen Latifah.
You hate how the words "fat" and "ugly" are so often synonymous. You almost like the phrase "fat and ugly" because it implies the possibility of "fat and beautiful."
Your thin friend breaks up with someone and you don't really feel sorry for her. You know that you're the "fat friend" and she's the "skinny girl." It's the fat friend who can never get a date; the skinny girl can have whoever she wants. She gets Hugh Grant, and you'd be lucky to get Nick Nolte.
You know that no matter if you have "such a pretty face" or "a good personality," the majority of people won't look past your double chin and your flabby arms to figure that out.
You are the only one who seems to notice that Nicole Kidman looks like a chicken.
You browse personals ads, and every guy who specifies his preference for "slender" women (or "in-shape" or "athletic") makes you feel rejected. Every guy who says he wants a larger woman, you suspect of being a creepy fat fetishist. You know that no normal guy wants somebody just like you.
You hate Carnie Wilson. You hate every magazine article featuring Carnie fucking Wilson and how thin she is and how pretty she looks and how much she loves herself now. You think to yourself, "weight loss surgery is such a cop-out."
And then you think, "I wish I could afford it."
You cringe every time you are about to look at photos of yourself. You know what's coming--the inevitable picture where you look like an enormous cow and your friends say, "Oh, what a great picture of you!"
You worry about things that nobody else worries about. Fitting inside the booth at dinner. Being too fat for the amusement park rides. Sitting on your friend's couch and hearing a funny noise. Not being able to climb out of the backseat of a tiny car. Chafing.
Skinny people who complain about how they need to lose five pounds? You hate them. Slightly overweight people complaining about how fat they are? You hate them. You know it's irrational. You hate them anyway.
You feel uncomfortable anytime you hear a fat joke. You feel like it happens constantly. You feel like fat jokes are an acceptable form of cruelty. You see them everywhere.
People say things to you all the time. People yell, "Jenny Craig!" and "Wilson Phillips!" at you on the street. Little kids say, "Mommy, that lady's fat!" Even in foreign countries where fat is more acceptable, you hear, "You're a very beautiful lady but how much do you weigh?!" The worst part is, you're never alone when it happens. Other people hear it too, and all you can do is pretend like hell you didn't hear a thing. And you know your friends are standing there thinking, "I hope she didn't hear that..."
Then later you wish you had told them off. You wish you had turned to them and said, "Oh, are you saying I'm fat? Oh my god! I'm FAT?? I had NO IDEA! Thank god you were here to enlighten me!" Or maybe just ask them very quietly, "Why did you just say that? Was that supposed to be funny? How is that funny?" Or even an offhand, "Fuck you, asshole!" Maybe said with a laugh, like you don't even care.
You never see a body like yours portrayed as sexy or attractive. Not anywhere. Not by anyone. You stop believing you are sexy or attractive.
You hate anything that calls attention to your size. Trying on friends' clothes, putting on seat belts and having to adjust them, a muscular friend who can pick you up but can't lift you very far off the ground. A dozen things a day, it seems.
You hate to eat or drink in front of anyone. You are afraid you will be judged as pathetic if you eat a salad, or a disgusting pig if you eat a cheeseburger. All you know is, your choices will be judged. You're fat. Food is your enemy.
You wish you were invisible.
Credit: here
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Associated Press has some great news, and it ain't about car insurance: "Mixed among the pages of dazzling celebrities and rail-thin models that dominate fashion and teen magazines is a surprising sight," Colleen Long reports: "young women with thick thighs and flabby abs."
And what a stirring feminist manifesto that is, referring to an invisible ribcage as "flabby." Ms. Long continues: "In Seventeen, Teen People, CosmoGirl! and Teen Vogue are bathing suit sections partly illustrated by less-than-perfect figures and tips on maximizing assets and minimizing defects."
This stirring trend utilizing "average women," "'real' women," and the go-to "sizable" gal Queen Latifah in fashion magazines is designed to "reflect the population" and "help self-conscious teens (and adult women) see that not everyone is perfect;" although if you are a "real" woman, you are still "flabby" and should hide your "defects" at all costs. Hooray for progress!
The recent Dove campaign, which the AP also notes, illustrates perfectly this faux feminist have-your-cake-and-throw-it-up,-too attitude towards women who look like women. The campaign features "'real' women," sizes 6 to 14, wearing nothing but their skivvies and smiles, oh, yes ma'am, it does; and what are these unapologetically, proudly curvaceous women smiling about? Why, Dove's firming collection, of course; "lotions and creams meant to reduce the appearance of cellulite."
Telling women that they, too! can be proud of their naturally round, feminine figures as long as they look neither round nor feminine -- wear black! tone up your arms! lay off the carbs! firm up your thighs! and smile, dammit, smile! -- is not a progressive new fat-friendly trend: It's hypocrisy.
And it's also virtually nonexistent. "Experts are lauding the shift," Long writes, "but say the industry still puts too much pressure on girls to be thin and conventionally beautiful." I'd take that a step further and say there is no shift, just a lot of PR "Killing Us Softly" creator Jean Kilbourne tells Long that "the pressure has never been worse;" and according to the fruits of a Walgreens run I made this morning, I'd say she's right.
Just to see if the supposed trend of using "real" women in magazines is not, in fact, as thorough a diversity ploy as the casting of the Token Gay Guy is on "The Real World," I made an informal survey of the models and/or actresses pictured in five fashion magazines currently on the racks: Vogue, Glamour, Cosmopolitan, CosmoGirl, and Seventeen. Not including illustrations or models in advertisements -- and with the understanding that my definitions of "thin" and "real" may, and probably do, differ from yours or your mother's or your boyfriend's or whoever's -- this is what I found:
Vogue, Aug. 2005 issue
Total "thin" women pictured: 142
Total "real" women pictured: 7
Percentage of "real" women out of all women pictured: 4.7
Glamour, Sept. 2005 issue
Total "thin" women pictured: 339
Total "real" women pictured: 112
Percentage of "real" women out of all women pictured: 24.8
Cosmopolitan, Aug. 2005 issue
Total "thin" women pictured: 164
Total "real" women pictured: 19
Percentage of "real" women out of all women pictured: 10.4
CosmoGirl, Sept. 2005 issue
Total "thin" women pictured: 57
Total "real" women pictured: 40
Percentage of "real" women out of all women pictured: 41.2
Seventeen, Sept. 2005 issue
Total "thin" women pictured: 174
Total "real" women pictured: 28
Percentage of "real" women out of all women pictured: 13.9
"Real women" are reflected in these popular fashion magazines an average of 20 percent of the time. (The rate shoots down to 13.45 percent without the laudably exceptional CosmoGirl.) That sounds great, until you realize that it hardly "reflects the population:" Despite (or, more probably, because of) the fact that 65 percent of American adults are either overweight or obese according to the CDC, women who look like 10-year-old boys outnumber women who look like women in these magazines four to one.
And as I said, this rate of reflection does not include advertisements; though let the record show that among the countless ads inside all these magazines, the supposedly revolutionary, pleasantly plump Dove ad appears a whopping ONCE. (Cosmo, pages 40-41.)
Yeah ... call me when the revolution begins, ladies.
Credit: here
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
That was interesting.
Thursday 22 September 2005
Wednesday 21 September 2005
- Kelvin is cute.
- I am not nice.
- I am afraid to give speeches.
- Afiq is adorably cute. And he reminds me of Fafi.
- I had a Chemistry test this morning. I will either just pass, or fail. Woopee.
- I just got home.
- I have a Maths D test tomorrow. :) I'll have to study.
- I am forgettable.
- Fafi is life.
- I need to practice my piano.
- I'm lost.
- I died today.
- I'm not coming back, unless I'm lying. If that's the case, then I guess I am coming back. Lets just wait and see.
- I'm going to make a real website soon, like the old UNauthentic. Cause this sucks.
- I was teaching Kelvin how to make a website. :D
- My shorts are wet. Because the seats were wet in Benj's car just now. Meh.
- It rained today.
- I need to watch movies.
- I am Kelvin's nightmare. HAHAHAHA. That's not surprising.
- I love you like candy, and you're as hot as chicken pie.
Saturday 17 September 2005
Feeling: Hot
Listening to: Sekali Lagi by Sheila On 7
So, I'm back from Bali. The people there are really friendly, but sometimes I misdefine friendly as 'not shy' or 'outgoing'. I'm not sure if that's a problem, but in a way, I guess it is, kind of. 'Cause I was gonna say that the people there get too friendly, but now I think that doesn't sound right, so I'm gonna put it in other words - they were too outgoing for me. If there's such a thing.
We got kidnapped twice. It was scary. Hahaha. We got taken away to this Peninsula Hotel or something. And I nearly won US$1,000. I said nearly, so I didn't win it, I only got discount vouchers worth US$250. It's stupid. Cause. It just is. Oh yes, and we got 3 T-shirts. Woopdeedoo.
The guy in the music store was nice though, and the people at the hotel. So, that was okay. The music store guy helped me choose what to buy. I ended up getting Radja and Sheila On 7's very best of. :)
There were lots of cute guys and pretty ladies, and very scantily clothed people showing nipples over there. Seriously. At the hotel, they sunbathed topless, it made my brother whisper "Stupid naked people." as we walked passed. Ngahaha. There's a change of scenery for you.
Next Sunday, or this Sunday, whatever you wanna call it, the coming Sunday, the 24th, there's gonna be another article by me in the Borneo Bulletin. If I can finish writing it by today, that is. I'm way behind with deadlines, and it's all really messy shit. I don't know what to write about. It's supposed to be about social issues. So, I could get really into my article, and go on trying to hypnotize the world into agreeing with my views of honesty, rich people and etc.
I'm not myself. But I'm trying to be. Can you tell?
Yesterday, when I arrived at the airport, guess who was there? Prince! Haha. It was cute. He was cute.
It's 5:00PM. Time to go.
Today's Sheila's birthday. She asked me to go to her house later. But I've got a lot of homework that I'm not going to do, and an article to struggle with, so I don't know if I'm gonna do anything about it. Okay.
I'm gonna be a pilot one day!
Listening to: Sekali Lagi by Sheila On 7
So, I'm back from Bali. The people there are really friendly, but sometimes I misdefine friendly as 'not shy' or 'outgoing'. I'm not sure if that's a problem, but in a way, I guess it is, kind of. 'Cause I was gonna say that the people there get too friendly, but now I think that doesn't sound right, so I'm gonna put it in other words - they were too outgoing for me. If there's such a thing.
We got kidnapped twice. It was scary. Hahaha. We got taken away to this Peninsula Hotel or something. And I nearly won US$1,000. I said nearly, so I didn't win it, I only got discount vouchers worth US$250. It's stupid. Cause. It just is. Oh yes, and we got 3 T-shirts. Woopdeedoo.
The guy in the music store was nice though, and the people at the hotel. So, that was okay. The music store guy helped me choose what to buy. I ended up getting Radja and Sheila On 7's very best of. :)
There were lots of cute guys and pretty ladies, and very scantily clothed people showing nipples over there. Seriously. At the hotel, they sunbathed topless, it made my brother whisper "Stupid naked people." as we walked passed. Ngahaha. There's a change of scenery for you.
Next Sunday, or this Sunday, whatever you wanna call it, the coming Sunday, the 24th, there's gonna be another article by me in the Borneo Bulletin. If I can finish writing it by today, that is. I'm way behind with deadlines, and it's all really messy shit. I don't know what to write about. It's supposed to be about social issues. So, I could get really into my article, and go on trying to hypnotize the world into agreeing with my views of honesty, rich people and etc.
I'm not myself. But I'm trying to be. Can you tell?
Yesterday, when I arrived at the airport, guess who was there? Prince! Haha. It was cute. He was cute.
It's 5:00PM. Time to go.
Today's Sheila's birthday. She asked me to go to her house later. But I've got a lot of homework that I'm not going to do, and an article to struggle with, so I don't know if I'm gonna do anything about it. Okay.
I'm gonna be a pilot one day!
Sunday 11 September 2005
Feeling: Great
Listening to: Lover I Don't Have To Love by Bright Eyes
I just bit my tongue. I taste blood. Eick.
Just 18 hours and 37 minutes left till I leave Brunei. :)
Yesterday was hella fun. I have Far and Prince to thank for that. At 11AM Far came over to my house to pick me up, then we went to get a wedding card, then to Gadong. We stayed there the whole day till I left her at 6, cause that's when Prince picked me up. And why it was fun? Because, well, for lots of reasons. One of them being, we saw these two guys who were like mirror images of us. The one who was supposed to mirror me, was even wearing 2 layers of shirts and shorts, the layers of shirts were even the same colour. So that meant that either he was dressed like a girl, or I was dressed like a guy. Unless it was unisex. Haha. But whatever. So, me and Far were shopping the whole day, and my God, she's one fussy shopper. Hahaha. She was looking at pants, and for every pair she picked up, it was either 'too low, too straight, too long, two weird' and anything else you can chuck in there for adjectives. :D But it was cool.
When Prince came, we went to eat then he took me to Tiong Hin. And if you've never been to the top floor, you'd not know that there's a little arcade up there! Brunei has one! Something close to an arcade anyway, with air hockey, and basketball hoop things, and foozball and stuff. Awesome. I played air hockey with Prince, and I won 7-6. :D It was his first time playing, and I don't think he wants to play again. Haha.
So that was fun. And then after that we went to his house first, then to the gig that was at DRS in Lambak. I don't know what time it started, but when we got there, H8 were playing. Then after them was Not Famous and the Airholes, and I don't want to sound all sakai and everything, but if you're there and you've got all the speakers blasting, you can really feel the intensity of the music. They were great, Airholes sounded better than when I first heard them, I think they're getting better. So, yay. It was dark. And loud. And smokey. And the first thing that hit me when we entered was the air. It stinged my eyes! Then came the time when I was sitting on a stool, everyone who passed by, their butts brushed against my knees. Ngahaha. The band members included.
We went home at 11:45, so that means I was out for the whole day. And wow. It was fun. I've got loads of homework. And tests right when school re-opens.
The other day I got an e-mail from Yvonne. It was real nice, and I think she wrote it herself. I don't know, I didn't get to ask, but it really does make sense. So, this is from her.
This is my tribute to the nice girls. To the nice girls who are overlooked, who become friends and nothing more, who spend hours fixating upon their looks and their personalities and their actions because it must be they that are doing something wrong. This is for the girls who don't give it up on the first date, who don't want to play mind games, who provide a comforting hug and a supportive audience for a story they've heard a thousand times. This is for the girls who understand that they aren't perfect and that the guys they're interested in aren't either, for the girls who flirt and laugh and worry and obsess over the slightest glance, whisper, touch, because somehow they are able to keep alive that hope that maybe... maybe this time he'll have understood. This is an homage to the girls who laugh loud and often, who are comfortable in skirts and sweats and combat boots, who care more than they should for guys who don't deserve their attention. This is for those girls who have been in the trenches, who have watched other girls time and time again fake up and make up and fuck up the guys in their lives without saying a word. This is for the girls who have been there from the beginning and have heard the trite words of advice, from "there are plenty of fish in the sea," to "time heals all wounds." This is to honor those girls who know that guys are just as scared as they are, who know that they deserve better, who are seeking to find it.
This is for the girls who have never been in love, but know that it's an experience that they don't want to miss out on. For the girls who have sought a night with friends and been greeted by a night of catcalling, rude comments and explicit invitations that they'd rather not have experienced. This is for the girls who have spent their weekends sitting on the sidelines of a beer pong tournament or a case race, or playing Florence Nightingale for a vomiting guy friend or a comatose crush, who have received a drunk phone call just before dawn from someone who doesn't care enough to invite them over but is still willing to pass out in their bed. This is for the girls who have left sad song lyrics in their away messages, who have tried to make someone understand through a subliminally appealing profile, who have time and time again dropped their male friend hint after hint after hint only to watch him chase after the first blonde girl in a skirt. This is for the girls who have been told that they're too good or too smart or too pretty, who have been given compliments as a way of breaking off a relationship, who have ever been told they are only wanted as a friend.
This one's for the girls who you can take home to mom, but won't because it's easier to sleep with a whore than foster a relationship; this is for the girls who have been led on by words and kisses and touches, all of which were either only true for the moment, or never real to begin with. This is for the girls who have allowed a guy into their head and heart and bed, only to discover that he's just not ready, he's just not over her, he's just not looking to be tied down; this is for the girls who believe the excuses because it's easier to believe that it's not that they don't want you, it's that they don't want anyone. This is for the girls who have had their hearts broken and their hopes dashed by someone too cavalier to have cared in the first place; this is for the nights spent dissecting every word and syllable and inflection in his speech, for the nights when you've returned home alone, for the nights when you've seen from across the room him leaning a little too close, or standing a little too near, or talking a little too softly for the girl he's with to be a random hookup. This is for the girls who have endured party after party in his presence, finally having realized that it wasn't that he didn't want a relationship: it was that he didn't want you. I honor you for the night his dog died or his grandmother died or his little brother crashed his car and you held him, thinking that if you only comforted him just right, or said the right words, or rubbed his back in the right way then perhaps he'd realize what it was that he already had. This is for the night you realized that it would never happen, and the sunrise you saw the next morning after failing to sleep.
This is for the "I really like you, so let's still be friends" comment after you read more into a situation than he ever intended; this is for never realizing that when you choose friends, you seldom choose those which make you cry yourself to sleep. This is for the hugs you've received from your female friends, for the nights they've reassured you that you are beautiful and intelligent and amazing and loyal and truly worthy of a great guy; this is for the despair you all felt as you sat in the aftermath of your tears, knowing that that night the only companionship you'd have was with a pillow and your teddy bear. This is for the girls who have been used and abused, who have endured what he was giving because at least he was giving something; this is for the stupidity of the nights we've believed that something was better than nothing, though his something was nothing we'd have ever wanted. This is for the girls who have been satisified with too little and who have learned never to expect anything more: for the girls who don't think that they deserve more, because they've been conditioned for so long to accept the scraps thrown to them by guys...
Blah. That's all. This isn't a post, this is a schedule of yesterday's events. These are the kind of posts I hate writing. Anyway, I'll keep it. I gotta go pack. Bye.
PS: I've got closure, and I can't stop smiling. Everything's in a box and put away, and I feel great. Talking really does make you feel better. Thanks, you-know-who-you-are-person.
Listening to: Lover I Don't Have To Love by Bright Eyes
I just bit my tongue. I taste blood. Eick.
Just 18 hours and 37 minutes left till I leave Brunei. :)
Yesterday was hella fun. I have Far and Prince to thank for that. At 11AM Far came over to my house to pick me up, then we went to get a wedding card, then to Gadong. We stayed there the whole day till I left her at 6, cause that's when Prince picked me up. And why it was fun? Because, well, for lots of reasons. One of them being, we saw these two guys who were like mirror images of us. The one who was supposed to mirror me, was even wearing 2 layers of shirts and shorts, the layers of shirts were even the same colour. So that meant that either he was dressed like a girl, or I was dressed like a guy. Unless it was unisex. Haha. But whatever. So, me and Far were shopping the whole day, and my God, she's one fussy shopper. Hahaha. She was looking at pants, and for every pair she picked up, it was either 'too low, too straight, too long, two weird' and anything else you can chuck in there for adjectives. :D But it was cool.
When Prince came, we went to eat then he took me to Tiong Hin. And if you've never been to the top floor, you'd not know that there's a little arcade up there! Brunei has one! Something close to an arcade anyway, with air hockey, and basketball hoop things, and foozball and stuff. Awesome. I played air hockey with Prince, and I won 7-6. :D It was his first time playing, and I don't think he wants to play again. Haha.
So that was fun. And then after that we went to his house first, then to the gig that was at DRS in Lambak. I don't know what time it started, but when we got there, H8 were playing. Then after them was Not Famous and the Airholes, and I don't want to sound all sakai and everything, but if you're there and you've got all the speakers blasting, you can really feel the intensity of the music. They were great, Airholes sounded better than when I first heard them, I think they're getting better. So, yay. It was dark. And loud. And smokey. And the first thing that hit me when we entered was the air. It stinged my eyes! Then came the time when I was sitting on a stool, everyone who passed by, their butts brushed against my knees. Ngahaha. The band members included.
We went home at 11:45, so that means I was out for the whole day. And wow. It was fun. I've got loads of homework. And tests right when school re-opens.
The other day I got an e-mail from Yvonne. It was real nice, and I think she wrote it herself. I don't know, I didn't get to ask, but it really does make sense. So, this is from her.
This is my tribute to the nice girls. To the nice girls who are overlooked, who become friends and nothing more, who spend hours fixating upon their looks and their personalities and their actions because it must be they that are doing something wrong. This is for the girls who don't give it up on the first date, who don't want to play mind games, who provide a comforting hug and a supportive audience for a story they've heard a thousand times. This is for the girls who understand that they aren't perfect and that the guys they're interested in aren't either, for the girls who flirt and laugh and worry and obsess over the slightest glance, whisper, touch, because somehow they are able to keep alive that hope that maybe... maybe this time he'll have understood. This is an homage to the girls who laugh loud and often, who are comfortable in skirts and sweats and combat boots, who care more than they should for guys who don't deserve their attention. This is for those girls who have been in the trenches, who have watched other girls time and time again fake up and make up and fuck up the guys in their lives without saying a word. This is for the girls who have been there from the beginning and have heard the trite words of advice, from "there are plenty of fish in the sea," to "time heals all wounds." This is to honor those girls who know that guys are just as scared as they are, who know that they deserve better, who are seeking to find it.
This is for the girls who have never been in love, but know that it's an experience that they don't want to miss out on. For the girls who have sought a night with friends and been greeted by a night of catcalling, rude comments and explicit invitations that they'd rather not have experienced. This is for the girls who have spent their weekends sitting on the sidelines of a beer pong tournament or a case race, or playing Florence Nightingale for a vomiting guy friend or a comatose crush, who have received a drunk phone call just before dawn from someone who doesn't care enough to invite them over but is still willing to pass out in their bed. This is for the girls who have left sad song lyrics in their away messages, who have tried to make someone understand through a subliminally appealing profile, who have time and time again dropped their male friend hint after hint after hint only to watch him chase after the first blonde girl in a skirt. This is for the girls who have been told that they're too good or too smart or too pretty, who have been given compliments as a way of breaking off a relationship, who have ever been told they are only wanted as a friend.
This one's for the girls who you can take home to mom, but won't because it's easier to sleep with a whore than foster a relationship; this is for the girls who have been led on by words and kisses and touches, all of which were either only true for the moment, or never real to begin with. This is for the girls who have allowed a guy into their head and heart and bed, only to discover that he's just not ready, he's just not over her, he's just not looking to be tied down; this is for the girls who believe the excuses because it's easier to believe that it's not that they don't want you, it's that they don't want anyone. This is for the girls who have had their hearts broken and their hopes dashed by someone too cavalier to have cared in the first place; this is for the nights spent dissecting every word and syllable and inflection in his speech, for the nights when you've returned home alone, for the nights when you've seen from across the room him leaning a little too close, or standing a little too near, or talking a little too softly for the girl he's with to be a random hookup. This is for the girls who have endured party after party in his presence, finally having realized that it wasn't that he didn't want a relationship: it was that he didn't want you. I honor you for the night his dog died or his grandmother died or his little brother crashed his car and you held him, thinking that if you only comforted him just right, or said the right words, or rubbed his back in the right way then perhaps he'd realize what it was that he already had. This is for the night you realized that it would never happen, and the sunrise you saw the next morning after failing to sleep.
This is for the "I really like you, so let's still be friends" comment after you read more into a situation than he ever intended; this is for never realizing that when you choose friends, you seldom choose those which make you cry yourself to sleep. This is for the hugs you've received from your female friends, for the nights they've reassured you that you are beautiful and intelligent and amazing and loyal and truly worthy of a great guy; this is for the despair you all felt as you sat in the aftermath of your tears, knowing that that night the only companionship you'd have was with a pillow and your teddy bear. This is for the girls who have been used and abused, who have endured what he was giving because at least he was giving something; this is for the stupidity of the nights we've believed that something was better than nothing, though his something was nothing we'd have ever wanted. This is for the girls who have been satisified with too little and who have learned never to expect anything more: for the girls who don't think that they deserve more, because they've been conditioned for so long to accept the scraps thrown to them by guys...
Blah. That's all. This isn't a post, this is a schedule of yesterday's events. These are the kind of posts I hate writing. Anyway, I'll keep it. I gotta go pack. Bye.
PS: I've got closure, and I can't stop smiling. Everything's in a box and put away, and I feel great. Talking really does make you feel better. Thanks, you-know-who-you-are-person.
Wednesday 7 September 2005
Hey, wait a minute.
Today, I realized something. The people who probably have the most accurate impression of you, are strangers. They people who don't know you, and know they don't know you. Because, well, the people who think they know you, they don't, really. It's all very sad, because you once thought you knew someone, had at least the slightest idea, or were convinced you knew that person very well, but in the end, at the very end, like, before you die, you think and whisper, "I don't really know her/him, do I? I wish I'd seen it before." Cause then you could have tried.
People are made up of knobs and knives. Turn a knob, in goes the knife. Take out a knife, the knobs start chaffing. Especially me, I think. But what do I know?
There's something very real about not talking to someone for a while, i.e Jasmine, Shiela, you get to see what it's like to be a stranger. You see things from a stranger's point of view and you start noticing all the things you didn't before.
Strangers are just friends you haven't met.
Or maybe, they're just friends you forgot about.
Today, I realized something. The people who probably have the most accurate impression of you, are strangers. They people who don't know you, and know they don't know you. Because, well, the people who think they know you, they don't, really. It's all very sad, because you once thought you knew someone, had at least the slightest idea, or were convinced you knew that person very well, but in the end, at the very end, like, before you die, you think and whisper, "I don't really know her/him, do I? I wish I'd seen it before." Cause then you could have tried.
People are made up of knobs and knives. Turn a knob, in goes the knife. Take out a knife, the knobs start chaffing. Especially me, I think. But what do I know?
There's something very real about not talking to someone for a while, i.e Jasmine, Shiela, you get to see what it's like to be a stranger. You see things from a stranger's point of view and you start noticing all the things you didn't before.
Strangers are just friends you haven't met.
Or maybe, they're just friends you forgot about.
Monday 5 September 2005
Betrayed, spat out like those yucky pieces of garlic you find mixed in your cluster of food. Thrown aside like those icky bugs you find crawling, half alive, in the rotting fruit you just bit into. And blocked out like the consistant beats of techno music by an elderly one stuck in the old days.
Forgotten, given up like the many bits of useless information you had to memorize when you were in high school. Turned inside out like that sock you took off, just to find out what else there was inside and what it was made of, and having found nothing, left in the dirty laundry pile to rot until noticed. And blended in like the wall paper everybody knows is gross but nobody comments on for fear of hurting someone's feelings if that someone knew the truth that she really ought to know.
Alone, lost like the undisturbed shadow you've owned for your whole life yet you're only vaguely sure of it's existance. Cold like the trembling hands left without the mittens your sister wouldn't lend you in the times of winter. And told to sit in the corner to think like the uncomfortable little boy who sits in church falling asleep and wriggling in his seat because he needs to pee and he just can't stand to sit still, but in the end, he's spanked on the bottom anyway.
Broken, hiding under the bed like the ragdoll your mother bought you when you were a baby, with bite marks and patches showing it's true uselessness, when you finally decide it's nothing and it's time to throw it out. Fading in and out like the frozen picture of a million black-and-white memories dancing across your head, begging you to remember, but the thing is, you just don't. And decidedly unimportant like the advice your grandfather told you when he was trying to spoonfeed you and teach you how to take care of your new pet dog.
At the back of my mind, this is all me. When all I have left is memories, I turn to dust, and nobody thinks of me anymore except maybe that one person who's decided that they should stop sending me Christmas cards since they don't see my anymore and I might as well be dead. But I'm not. I still have to live and witness everything that I really am, just a fading bit of someone's long but lost past. For all I know, I could be the only one who really remembers, and even I probably don't know the best of the times from the worst.
Words float in and out of the walls. Blurred out faces dance through my head and I try so hard to remember their names. And when it comes to me, that's when a smile spreads across my face, when I realize I haven't forgotten them, what I said before was true, "I won't forget you." Even if you want me to. The thing is, I could pretend to move on and forget you. I could tell you I'm doing fine without you, I'm great actually, I've finally found my place. I could do all that, but it all comes down to the fact that I'm just pretending. I can't forget you. And I'm sorry if that hurts.
Forgotten, given up like the many bits of useless information you had to memorize when you were in high school. Turned inside out like that sock you took off, just to find out what else there was inside and what it was made of, and having found nothing, left in the dirty laundry pile to rot until noticed. And blended in like the wall paper everybody knows is gross but nobody comments on for fear of hurting someone's feelings if that someone knew the truth that she really ought to know.
Alone, lost like the undisturbed shadow you've owned for your whole life yet you're only vaguely sure of it's existance. Cold like the trembling hands left without the mittens your sister wouldn't lend you in the times of winter. And told to sit in the corner to think like the uncomfortable little boy who sits in church falling asleep and wriggling in his seat because he needs to pee and he just can't stand to sit still, but in the end, he's spanked on the bottom anyway.
Broken, hiding under the bed like the ragdoll your mother bought you when you were a baby, with bite marks and patches showing it's true uselessness, when you finally decide it's nothing and it's time to throw it out. Fading in and out like the frozen picture of a million black-and-white memories dancing across your head, begging you to remember, but the thing is, you just don't. And decidedly unimportant like the advice your grandfather told you when he was trying to spoonfeed you and teach you how to take care of your new pet dog.
At the back of my mind, this is all me. When all I have left is memories, I turn to dust, and nobody thinks of me anymore except maybe that one person who's decided that they should stop sending me Christmas cards since they don't see my anymore and I might as well be dead. But I'm not. I still have to live and witness everything that I really am, just a fading bit of someone's long but lost past. For all I know, I could be the only one who really remembers, and even I probably don't know the best of the times from the worst.
Words float in and out of the walls. Blurred out faces dance through my head and I try so hard to remember their names. And when it comes to me, that's when a smile spreads across my face, when I realize I haven't forgotten them, what I said before was true, "I won't forget you." Even if you want me to. The thing is, I could pretend to move on and forget you. I could tell you I'm doing fine without you, I'm great actually, I've finally found my place. I could do all that, but it all comes down to the fact that I'm just pretending. I can't forget you. And I'm sorry if that hurts.
Saturday 3 September 2005
Do You Feel At Home - Commander Venus
Nobody's around
Except the basement and the trap sets
And the feeling that you're leaving
That's not much worth believing
Nobody is here
So I guessed it that you left me
And to stay here just gets harder
And the pain makes you drive farther
There's nothing left of what was sacred
If there was, I'm sure we'd break it
Cause that's just the way we are, man
And it's far too late to change it
And the places and the vases
And the flowers cut to fit them
Hey, I'm sorry I didn't notice
Tried to tell you I wouldn't notice
And on and on
With the ones left behind
And where do you feel at home?
That's for you to decide
Everything I said at once (You're all the same)
That I never thought I would (You're all the same)
It's all this time It's all there was (You're all the same)
For it for it for it (You're all the same)
Everything I tried to take (You're all the same)
I know it wouldn't go away (You're all the same)
That's all here. And you're not home (You're all the same)
Forget, forget, forget, forget (You're all the same)
Nobody is home
So I guess I-I'll stop pretending
And the air keeps getting colder
And my friends keep getting older
And I know you knew the answer
It grew inside you like a cancer
Try to stop it, make it leave you
But it won't, and that scares you
And I know it's-it's not forever
Tryin' so hard to be clever
I never wanted this to happen
Why the hell'd this have to happen?
And you left me like you always said you wouldn't
But you did it, and I knew it
It'd have to happen
It all seems to turn back
And on and on
With the ones left behind
And where do you feel at home?
That's for you to decide
Everything I said at once (You lost your shame!)
I never shoulda thought it up (You lost your shame!)
And I can't deal with this right now (You lost your shame!)
It's all the same, Guess who's sorry (You lost your shame!)
Everything you said you'd do (You lost your shame!)
It hasn't meant a thing to you (You lost your shame!)
Now you're gone (You lost your shame!)
I never did (You lost your shame!)
Forget, forget, forget, forget you! (Yeeeeeeeeahhh!)
------------------------------------
I want a friend. Can you be my friend? Do you even want to be my friend? Gorgeous.
Nobody's around
Except the basement and the trap sets
And the feeling that you're leaving
That's not much worth believing
Nobody is here
So I guessed it that you left me
And to stay here just gets harder
And the pain makes you drive farther
There's nothing left of what was sacred
If there was, I'm sure we'd break it
Cause that's just the way we are, man
And it's far too late to change it
And the places and the vases
And the flowers cut to fit them
Hey, I'm sorry I didn't notice
Tried to tell you I wouldn't notice
And on and on
With the ones left behind
And where do you feel at home?
That's for you to decide
Everything I said at once (You're all the same)
That I never thought I would (You're all the same)
It's all this time It's all there was (You're all the same)
For it for it for it (You're all the same)
Everything I tried to take (You're all the same)
I know it wouldn't go away (You're all the same)
That's all here. And you're not home (You're all the same)
Forget, forget, forget, forget (You're all the same)
Nobody is home
So I guess I-I'll stop pretending
And the air keeps getting colder
And my friends keep getting older
And I know you knew the answer
It grew inside you like a cancer
Try to stop it, make it leave you
But it won't, and that scares you
And I know it's-it's not forever
Tryin' so hard to be clever
I never wanted this to happen
Why the hell'd this have to happen?
And you left me like you always said you wouldn't
But you did it, and I knew it
It'd have to happen
It all seems to turn back
And on and on
With the ones left behind
And where do you feel at home?
That's for you to decide
Everything I said at once (You lost your shame!)
I never shoulda thought it up (You lost your shame!)
And I can't deal with this right now (You lost your shame!)
It's all the same, Guess who's sorry (You lost your shame!)
Everything you said you'd do (You lost your shame!)
It hasn't meant a thing to you (You lost your shame!)
Now you're gone (You lost your shame!)
I never did (You lost your shame!)
Forget, forget, forget, forget you! (Yeeeeeeeeahhh!)
------------------------------------
I want a friend. Can you be my friend? Do you even want to be my friend? Gorgeous.
Feeling: Hopeless
Listening to: Waste of Paint by Bright Eyes
Oh, God. Something is wrong with me. Why can't I let it go? Why do I want you to even pay attention to me? You say you want a friend to talk to, why do I beg you silently to realize that that was exactly what I wanted to be - one of those people who never leave you? Why do I try? Why did it shock me to see that the link is gone?Because something is wrong with me. Or is this all right? In that case, something is right with me, and that doesn't happen often.
I'm into whiney music now, which is all the Bright Eyes I have on my computer. But, if you're looking for really whiney, Do You Feel At Home by Commander Venus is the one for you.
Would you believe it, after more than a year, I finally see the great Strawberry, though he is not allowed to be called that anymore, at the place I didn't think of seeing him at then. It was at the studio, and wow, when I went in with Prince, I heard their music playing, and I actually quickened my pace to go see, and there they were! The Airholes! Haha. And Leech. Wow. It's been so long, and it felt so weird, and I was standing there with my hands crossed over my tie because I felt somewhat out of place and weird, even though that's where I wanted to be. Oh, well, that's me, unsatisfied.
I feel like everything has left me now that squiggle is gone. And why the hell am I still talking about squiggle?! Squiggle is not talking about me, squiggle might not even be thinking of me, squiggle could hate me for all I know, and squiggle has every right to. And all I can say is I'm sorry. My God, yes, I'm sorry. But. But. We all knew it was going to come. But why did it have to come so fast?
I know what makes me hyper now. It is not only milo + coffee by itself. I get most hyper if when I'm happy, I drink milo + coffee. That works. But reasons why I'm happy are strange, because there aren't any. Reasons to be happy for me do not exist right now. It's just like a mood, or a time, so when it's time to be happy, I be happy, and blablabla.
I got internet back at home. That's all. I have a headache. I've been having a headache all day. And did you know that if you squeeze someone's temples hard enough, they could die? Well, I think that's cool, cause I always used to do it to my brother and he'd squeel in pain. But he's not dead yet. Okay. Good night. I want to fly a kite. I like rain. And friends who aren't friends suck.
Listening to: Waste of Paint by Bright Eyes
Oh, God. Something is wrong with me. Why can't I let it go? Why do I want you to even pay attention to me? You say you want a friend to talk to, why do I beg you silently to realize that that was exactly what I wanted to be - one of those people who never leave you? Why do I try? Why did it shock me to see that the link is gone?Because something is wrong with me. Or is this all right? In that case, something is right with me, and that doesn't happen often.
I'm into whiney music now, which is all the Bright Eyes I have on my computer. But, if you're looking for really whiney, Do You Feel At Home by Commander Venus is the one for you.
Would you believe it, after more than a year, I finally see the great Strawberry, though he is not allowed to be called that anymore, at the place I didn't think of seeing him at then. It was at the studio, and wow, when I went in with Prince, I heard their music playing, and I actually quickened my pace to go see, and there they were! The Airholes! Haha. And Leech. Wow. It's been so long, and it felt so weird, and I was standing there with my hands crossed over my tie because I felt somewhat out of place and weird, even though that's where I wanted to be. Oh, well, that's me, unsatisfied.
I feel like everything has left me now that squiggle is gone. And why the hell am I still talking about squiggle?! Squiggle is not talking about me, squiggle might not even be thinking of me, squiggle could hate me for all I know, and squiggle has every right to. And all I can say is I'm sorry. My God, yes, I'm sorry. But. But. We all knew it was going to come. But why did it have to come so fast?
I know what makes me hyper now. It is not only milo + coffee by itself. I get most hyper if when I'm happy, I drink milo + coffee. That works. But reasons why I'm happy are strange, because there aren't any. Reasons to be happy for me do not exist right now. It's just like a mood, or a time, so when it's time to be happy, I be happy, and blablabla.
I got internet back at home. That's all. I have a headache. I've been having a headache all day. And did you know that if you squeeze someone's temples hard enough, they could die? Well, I think that's cool, cause I always used to do it to my brother and he'd squeel in pain. But he's not dead yet. Okay. Good night. I want to fly a kite. I like rain. And friends who aren't friends suck.
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