When I curse someone with so much hatred, with so much concentration, with so much ferosity, that person will usually bear the brunt of it, mysteriously.

Remember the last time I cursed a certain sleaze shop agent who tried to pimp me off, I cursed he'll get inflicted with a horrible painful disease and die a horrible, painful death. Well the last I heard of him, was that he got struck with some cancer. Too bad the 2nd part didnt come true, but well the first part did.

And now, with my powerful, intensive, evil hatred, I summon thee all the shit from the sewers and rubbish from the entire Mustafa area into your mouth. Hope you choke on rubbish everyday and explode.

And if you fucking don't pay me the amount that we agreed on after so much trouble, I'll send EIGHT BIG, BLACK, and HAIRY bangrahs from Mustafa area in replacement of the 8 gorgeous models that you asked for. I'll just go down one lunch time to round 'em all up and ask the Prasad from my dad's office to ship them down. Or even better, round up the bunch of bangrahs from my dad's construction site.

You can be assure of a hell of a time when they canoodle up to you with their contrastingly bright smile and warm personality.

Seriously. go fuck yourself and die man.

I am just hoping that I won't regret this for the rest of my life.

I JUST REJECTED AN OFFER OF EMPLOYMENT FROM GUCCI.

Yes, it's that GUCCI, Gucci. The brand that China pirates extensively.

They called me regarding my application to do in-house PR for them. THEY ACTUALLY CALLED!!!! :P:P:P:P

But guess what, I was just made an associate today, and I felt bad leaving my company, especially after the boss has been so nice to me.

So I said, "Uh ummm, actually, ummm you called too late. I found a job."

I almost ripped my hair out when I said that. Why do they take so freaking long to call me?!?!?! I could have been sitting in a civil-servant-ish job, that's 9 to 5, being situated in a department of resource-wasting PR department, doing paper work, yet I chose to slave in a PR firm....Just what am I thinking....I just wish I won't live to regret this forever, especially when the going gets tough.


Oh btw, while researching for a paper on pop-culture, I finally found out the meaning of O.P.P....hurhurhur.

I AM PISSED. FUCKING, BOILING, OVER-FLOWINGLY pissed.

And I'm glad I do not get such clients for accounts in my day job. At least not yet.

But there is a certain fat, pompous bastard/piece of shit who really pisses the hell out of me.

Becasue he is indecisive, tee kor, stingy and just bloody likes to waste everyone's time.

For one thing, casting = choosing models that fit the image your company wants to portray. AND IF YOU WANT TO SEE MODELS FOR 5 times before you select them, then you please jolly well need to pay. Even LG or Samsung do not go through sooo many girls to do their booth.

If you want Russian models, you need to pay MORE. Even the Russian prostitute in Geylang charges a MUCH higher rates than the normal PRC whores. Not that I'm associating myself with the hussies; the point is that, they come with a different price tag. Period.

If you want diversity, choose Indians, choose Malays, whatever....Yet as an indian himself, he rejected all the indian models brought to him, and slammed all the Malay models (even I dont understand the racial discrimination here). I have for him, Korean, Thai, Dutch, Indonesian, even MOngolian, on top of the usual chinese fare, what more does he want??!!

And at the end of the day, you are not the only one who is BUSY. Taking a rain cheque on our casting for 4 times the last minute is quite frigging irritating already. Not to mention the leaves that people take in order to come to let you assess them, the hee hee hor hor and telling your staff you forgot how they look like, and ask them to come again. You've seen too many girls, and you are just seeing for sport.

One day you say you like this girl, the next day you say the same girl is not pretty...

You are not choosing a bride for GOD's sake, or someone to suck your dick, for that matter.

It's just a company's ambassador.

And for that, I curse you to go eat shit and die

手贱

This glorious term is more commonly manifested in Hokkien, and it's pronounced as "Chiu Jian". For the benefit of those non-Hokkien speakers, when you say that a person is 手贱/chiu jian, you are saying that the person has itchy fingers, is meddlesome, and KPO.

Chiu Jian is when you were young, despite your mother's repeated warnings not to touch that boiling pot of water on the stove, you had to have a go at touching the shiney metallic surface of the pot. You end up burning your hands and you cry, even though you know that your mother told you that you will. That is being Chiu Jian.

It is also when you were in your adolescence, and had a small tiny pimple somewhere hidden, but you are going on a date the next day with the boy you've been eyeing for eons. So despite knowing that the pimple is innocuous, and that popping zits are a big no-no, you just had to have a go at it. In the end, the pimple got bigger, redder and angrier looking, and you could feel the boy of your dreams talking to the pimple everytime he looks at your face, and the dream bubble being pricked.

That is Chiu Jian. Meddlesome. Itchy hands. And I'm a damn bloody Chiu Jian person.

Because recently, as part of my quest to becoming a domestic goddess, the bf bought me a sewing machine as a gift, at my request. A small, white, portable electric sewing machine by BROTHER, all for me to conquer. It was a really cool gadget, and my brain immediately churned out a sewing agenda the moment I laid my eyes on it.

Without first signing up for some sewing course at the Community Club near my house, I nose-dived right into my new found hobby, and I set out to 'beautify' the existing clothings that I have.

I took comfort in the idea that I wasn't exactly the type that had no sewing skills, despite breaking 3 FAT needles on a sewing machines in 1 hour during HOme Econs class in Secondary School, that I had to pay a fine of $1.50 ($0.50 for each needle that I broke)after that. I tagged the hem of my school skirt when I was in JC, so that my skirt was substantially shorter than the "nerdier" girls; I sewed on extra paddings onto my old Bikinis to build something upon nothingness, and I used to mend all the popped buttons on my clothes, by hand, all the time.

So I told myself, hey if I could do all that by hand in the past, why not by machine? And who cares about the stitches at the back of the cloth, nobody's going to see them anyway. And all I was doing was nipping in a little of the cloth here, and sewing a little there. Nothing too difficult.

Turned out that the beautifying effort wasn't exactly what I had in mind. Perhaps I was a little too ambitious, and cut up a bit too much cloth, but mostly I was just very chiu jian. The clothes that I took to mend were mostly already fine in their original state, but I just had to "change the straps a little to make it sexier", "cut the skirt shorter", "pull in the waist, so I'll look less like I'm swimming in it". Meddlesome, itchy hands. A few of the attempts ended in success, like the tube top from Victoria's Secrets, that I had to take 3 inches from each side, so that it wraps around my bosom nicely without slipping down to a free-for-all show, and my mother's boring satin top which I sewed on black lace to sexify it; most of my 'subject' clothes ended up strewn all over my room in a tragic sort of way.

Chiu Jian-ess is like an infliction. It never goes away. And I never learn from my lessons.

And in case you were wondering, I was recounting my experience as a kid and as a teenager, with my aforementioned examples of itchy fingers.

I have been faerie struck since about 2 years ago because I was enamoured with Arwen and Eowyn from LOTR. Or more specifically, their hair, like that...




After contemplating for about 2 whole years, and asking almost everyone to cast their vote for my hair to be straight or curly, I finally gave in to temptation...

Straight hair yesterday...


Curls today...


Yayness~

Recently, I'm addicted to this blog. http://www.xanga.com/ricebunny

Seriously, I think the blogger is wayyy cool and I lurrrve her tutorials. She has a serious talent for wielding the brushes and sponging her face. At least to me, who uses her finger to put on all sorts of gunk onto my face, she is good.
She is pretty and she knows all the tricks of proper cosmetics/beauty application, yet she is not stingy about sharing them.

I mean, think about it this way, she could just hoard all the beauty secrets and secretly wish that those who are ugly will forever remain ugly, and those who are already pretty and well-versed in make up tricks, will never surpass her. Right?

And the coolest part is she gets down to the details, which sits really well for people like me, who loves to be spoonfed.
For example, my favourite - her tutorial on the Aspirin mask. She even tells you what brand of aspirin is good to use, so that you wouldn't spend a bomb trying different brands of aspirin. And I love it when she tells you to "sprinkle and I mean sprinkle drops of water".

Anyways, enough of gushing. You guys can go check out her blog yourself. BTW, I'm in no way related to her, I'm just sharing a cool new site that I found, to all those makeup junkies/wannabes/dunnohowtobes out there.

I was in TTS hospital pretty often lately because my grandfather was admitted after a fall.

In the past before the hospital's facelift, on the rare occassions when I went to the old facilities to visit some distant old relative on his/her dying bed, I'd be holding my breath for fear of contracting some airborn virus from the mouth of some coughing old man with terminal illnesses. Even after its facelift, with it's swanky new lobby, starbucks and all that cool shit that defines a cool new place, I still get the creeps the moment I stepped into the place.

Sharing the room with 5 other ole man, Gramps was occupying the window bed. He looked just like he always look, on weekends when the whole family would go over to have dinner with the folks. He didn't look too bad, except his usual strong voice is replaced by a barely audible whisper; and he constantly rubbed his tummy with a pained expression, while sniffing his medicated oil that I've always seen him sniffed for 20 odd years. He didnt look scary, but the scene around him did. Morbid, rather.

The old men were in varying stages of consciousness and mobility.

The old man lying at the other far corner had a tube that extended in the depth of his nostrils and he kept hacking up terrible things.

The old man on the bed beside my Gramps was extremely grumpy to all those around him. He was calling for the Missy, and was cursing and swearing and demanded to have his teeth brushed, although he looked like he was delirious, because he kept muttering some thing about some unfilial son in a mixture of Hokkien and ENglish.

The chap lying in the bed opposite gramps kept asking his wife and his maid, which of his friends had died.
"Eh, Aloysius died right?"
"Then what about Sam? Sam died too right?"
"Ah David, is David dead? Yea i remember, he died"
"Oh and there's Christopher, he's dying too right? He doesn't recognize anyone any more, right?"
ANd he goes on endlessly...

But through all the poignancy and gloominess, all around in the room, toothless old ladies held on to the hands of their significant half, stroking their arms occasionally and listening to the old men's barely audible whispers.

Looking on, I asked the bf, would he find it a hassle, that when I grow old and wrinkly and ugly and sickly, and my pau cheeks no longer bouncy and I'm no longer sexy, to take care of me everyday, wipe my drool off my cheeks, even if I do not recognise him anymore?

He said he would. (it's a Ten-year series sort of no-brainer answer for now.) But I believed him.

I believe that he loves me, and would want to take care of me for the rest of my life, but to love someone, you need to love something about that somebody. Something about me must bring him joy: make him happy, cook nice food for him, have great sex with him every now and then, try to look cute all the time, be fun to be around, connect with him intellectually etc, for him to continue loving me. That's why I would try to not be ge gao, unhygienic, ugly and fat even when I'm 40.

But the point is, when I am delirious and gross, and have clean forgotten him and our lives together, the only reason why he'll be be my bedside cleaning up my drool is probably because he feels that it's his responsibility to take care of me, his partner for life.

Responsibility. I don't want responsibility without love, I said.

He said, by then, love would settle into a quiet sort of comfort between a couple. It's accountability, responsibility yadayadyada....And I would treasure the memories we had together, and I can hold on to that to love you.

Digressing, if memories were sufficient for passion to burn, then he would still be in love with his ex gfs wouldn't he? <--Not trying to be ge gao here

Even though I've always been cynical about love, I'm ironically a romantic at heart.
To me, love is a philosophy, an emotion. yet to him, he walks the straight and narrow path on the idea of love that has been passed down for generations: responsibility and companionship.

So even when I am 89, stricken with Parkinson, lying immobile on a hospital bed, drooling, he would take care of me, and maybe thinks that he loves me.

Me? If we grew old together, and he got into the above mentioned situation instead of me, I would defintely be like one of those old ladies there gingerly scooping water for him and taking care of his every needs. But would I call that love? That I'm not so sure.

I might, when I'm 50, have seen more of life, and is greying myself,. But I guess I'm still too young to comprehend how can there be love without attraction.