Birthdays to me

At 5,
It meant going to school with blackforrest birthday cakes and pretty hair ribbons.
It meant I was the envy of all the boys and girls in kindergarten, with gifts of pink lollipops, and apple flavoured gummies.
It meant excitement.

At 8,

It meant Daddy coming home early with a birthday cake and McDonald's nuggets.

It meant wishing upon the candle wick that I'll grow up to be pretty and smart.

It meant simple, uncomplicated joy.

At 10,
Birthdays meant lots of friends, slumber parties and sweet valley kids books.
It meant going for water-rides in Sentosa, eating popcorns and hotdogs.
It meant fun.

At 12,
It meant having a new little brother who commanded everyone's attention.
It meant tolerating your Mother's post-natal depression - yelling, crying and bearing the brunt for everything that went wrong in the house.
It meant responsibilities.

At 15,
It meant being asked out on a date, with a single stalk of rose and earrings from Perlini's Silver.
It meant trying to look nonchalent when he tried to hold your sweaty palms to cross the road.
It meant a whole night of insomnia, feeling dizzy with the thought of having a boyfriend.
It meant the taste of first-love.

At 18,
It meant that Daddy couldn't come home and nobody remembered.
It meant putting on a brave front despite all the screaming, anger, and flying objects.
It meant nursing a boyfriend problem.
It meant hours of crying under the table, and blowing out a single candle by myself.
It meant sadness.

At 20,
It meant going moving away from home to live on campus, without your parents.
It meant making new friends, clubbing and drinking for the first time.
It meant cussing like a sailor.
It meant a new found sexuality.
It meant freedom.

At 22,
It meant being in-love, and being loved.
It meant a familiar scent, your favourite wine, and a quiet celebration with the family eating crabs at Toa Payoh.
It meant contentment.

At 24,
It meant working in front of your computer.
It meant numbing yourself with episodes of transient happiness.
It meant crying your eyes out because you feel all sucky and you don't really know what you want to do with your life and you have nobody to speak to.
It meant loneliness.

Konnichiwa!

Greetings from the Land Where You Can Never Be Over Dressed.

Or no matter how over-dressed you think you are, you can never be more dolled up than the majority of its metropolitan population.

In Kyoto to be exact and I[m going to go for some Suki Yaki buffet with lots of beef later. And just last night, I went chasing Geishas around the Gion district just to get some photos with those super exotic beings.

Anyway, I cant write too much not only because the keyboards are in Hiragana and Katagana with millions of othe tiny Jap character, but also because I{m limited to 10min per usage, and the loading time for this shared computer alone takes half a day...

Man talk...

This is what a man who is into you, will tell you, when you ask him to rate a girl:

Me: Am I pretty?
Him: Of course you are, the prettiest in the world.

Me: So is A pretty? (Even though A not bad looking)
Him: Nope...

Me: Okie if A is not pretty, then B ley? B is pretty right? Hot too...(B is prettier than A)
Him: Hmm not really....

Me: Then C ley? I think C is damn pretty. And damn bloody hot. (C is drop-dead gorgeous)
Him: Okie okie only la...50% pretty only. Why do you always think those who are not so pretty pretty?

Me: HUH??? C is okay only? If C is okay only then why do men check her out all the time? How come C has soo many guys chasing her?
Him: Dunno, because they haven't seen you.

Me: *ROLLS EYES 360 degrees*

Me: Okie fine, so is Zoe Tay, Fann Wong and Zhang Ziyi pretty?
Him: Not really

Me: Sarah Michelle Gellar? (He's a buffy fan)
Him: Hmm not really

Me: Fine, Fiona Xie ley? (He has/or had a crush on Fiona Xie, so he can't say no)
Him: Okie only..50% only la....

Me: Wah...that means I'm prettier than Fiona Xie la? Then why am I not as famous? Why didn't OSIM ask me to model for that Slimming Belt thinggie?
Him: ......!!!


Okie so this is my conclusion...
When a man who is into you, tells you that another girl is

A) Not pretty -> he means to say she's not bad. Kind of attractive, but perhaps not his type that dominates his fancy dreams

B) Not really pretty -> he means to say that she is pretty, with a fuckability of say 7/10.

C) Okie, only 50% hot -> he means to say that he thinks she's damn hot. With a fuckability of at least 9/10. But because if he says so, he'll loose all chances with you, and the chances of him ever mating with that particular 9/10 babe is near to zero, he'll rather say that you are prettier.

Why do I say that?

Because before I ask him about girl A, B, and C, I asked him about GIRL Z.

Not GIRL Z is not particularly attractive in my opinion.

GIRL Z probably doesn't look as disturbing as this...


But more of a plain jane...Not the kind you will pick up at clubs, nor the type that you will take a second look on the street even if she wears a short shirt. But she's not likely to be left on the shelf, unless there's something fundamentally wrong with her character or her head.


But guess what the guy said?

Me: Eh do you think GIRL Z is pretty?
Him: Eeeeeeps!!! *Gags* *Vomit...vomit vomit!!!!* (Makes the vomiting sound from his throat...Pretends to faint) Eeeeeeps!!!

The Closet Ah Lian

A closet ah lian is a true blue ah lian who keeps her ah-lian character suppressed. Given that she grew up in a completely chinese/hokkien speaking family, she prides herself on her air of sophistication that she can exude in front of most people, and her ability to speak impeccable english at times that call for it. Despite her seemingly harmless outlook, she can actually curse like a Hokkien sailor, and she can win a quarrel with a telephone operator from the bank.

She wears jewellery from Tiffany's and carries a mustard colour Braun Buffel wallet, but not Louis Vuitton because she knows that LV is so widely pirated that the public will start to doubt its authenticity regardless of it. Plus, she is not cheap enough to fish a uncle-ish sugar daddy who can afford to splurge on a Chanel Tote for her. That's why she's "in the closet". She selects her brands well, and she picks the total number of pieces that she'll be seen in each time, so that she won't be seen as a brand whore. Afterall, she's a cunning one...not quite like the typical ah lian because this one has actually been to NUS, studied in Arts and Social Science, so she doens't want people to think that she's a brand whore. BUT she is secretly pleased everytime people "OOooh!" at her exquisite taste in whatever branded (or "branded") item that she carries.

She likes her man with a little bit of edge, at least at the first impression. And she finds the ability to reverse the car with just ONE hand guiding the steering wheel, the gangster-ah-beng way, extremely manly and extremely attractive.

She also secretly thinks that Victoria's Secret is branded. Sometimes, she likes to carry her oversized, and super heavy metal studded GUESS bag, just because of the big metal "G" that is prominently displayed on the front flap of the black patent leather bag. It delights her for some reason that even I cannot fathom.

Despite being in love with clothing items from Victoria's Secret and shoes from NINE WEST, she harbours a secret ah-lian urge to shop in This Fashion whenever she passes by one of the local heartland fashion chain, with all the super garish looking clothes and mass produced halter neck tops with metallic buttons. She tries to suppress this urge, and luckily for her, there isn't many This Fashion boutiques around where she lives, or works.

But ever since she quit her lousy sonofabitch job, she started wandering around in the heartland areas, and then she chanced upon this huge-ass This Fashion boutique at where she used to hang out during her Secondary School days. So she took a deep breath, snuck in, and hoped to death that she won't be caught dead shopping in a shop that epitomizes the cheapo Ah-lian fashion. "It's unlikely...she thought to herself, it being in the middle of the afternoon, when everyone is either napping, in school, or at work."

She, the self-proclaimed fashionista cum closet ah lian snooped around in that heartland This Fashion shop, and while she outwardly snorted and wrinkles her nose as she picked up a gaudily coloured tube dress, like she would pick up a fish from the wet-market, she was smiling inwardly to herself.

What's more, there's 50% off the original price tag of $28. Goodness, the ah lian's body quivered with excitement, because dresses with price tags like this, she can buy more sexy bareback mini-dresses (with the super big and unclassy silver buckle)to wear when she go chiong with all her ah lian friends. Then out of the corner of her eye, she spotted an electric blue trio-palette eyeshadow set, which set her heart aflutter. Since there was nobody that she knew around her (because she has always condemned blue eyeshadow when she secretly thinks that they look damn chio), she quickly grabbed one and proceeded to make her purchases.

This closet ah lian then stuffed the content of the "THIS FASHION" bag, into the Victoria's Secret Duffel bag that she was carrying, perched her ELLE sunglasses on her nose, and trooped silently (and quickly) out of the shop, with her secret ah lian desires completely soothed and satisfied.

Pot calling the kettle black..when the kettle is not black

Whee~~1 more week of handing over to go, before i can completely wash my hands off this place, away from being discriminated, from being cattily treated, simply because I was the only junior staff(interns not counted), the lone infantry, who hasn't been sacked/scared away by the hostility.

I mean the turnover of 4 staffs in 2 months is no joke man, with more contemplating to leave.

A while ago, I was dumped with doing the PR for this fashion account, and I was required to come up with a series of suggestions with regards to what programs I'd like to put into the whole campaign.

Thereafter, the next morning, a certain senior colleague called me and screamed my eyeballs off demanding to know why I didn't add in one certain "very important" element into that campaign.

I thought she kicked up a fuss of the magnitude that she did because she knows nuthin about fashion, so I attempted to tell the she-who-epitomizes-a-fashion-disaster that what she might actually want to reconsider including that, because that style is so last decade that nobody regards those as style icons anymore.

Then she said in her cattiest tone possible, "Sorry, you are not the celebrity okay? You can think you are very stylish, but nobody is interested in your opinion."

Okie lor, so showing off your Thunder Thighs (bold, with 2 capital Ts) in a super mini geometric-print chiffon dress for an important client meeting, is very hip la?

And did anyone even notice that she ASKED me "WHY DID I NOT ADD IN??" in the first place, hence my reply as to why it's not included.

I've tried to be objective about things, tried to be empathetic and helpful, but among the 1001 reasons for why I'd want to leave, it's tough when someone discriminates me for my face (can you even imagine how unprofessional is that?), calls all my ideas "stupid" when they are not, and likens all my proposal to be like me, "all packaging and no substance", no matter how hard I try; while the other one is a prima donna who takes brutal advantage of my inexperience, and backstabs everyone else at every opportunity possible, and is super pro at delegating blames onto junior staffs. That aforementioned run-in with the un-fashionista is just a pin in the haystack case.

***One more thing, sistas, I like my face very much, and I ain't gonna change my perfectly mascaraed lashes, and dewy complexion for a place in that lousy, uncool office of yours.

BOYS...

I'm depressed on the Boyfriend's birthday.

I promised him that I'll try to cheer up for his sake, but I can't.

Y? Because I've been working so much that I didn't manage to get him a present.

Sure I made reservations at 5 places that I stumbled upon while looking for places to hold my media events/press conferences. 5 nice places with fine dining style cuisine and attas ambience. I told myself that finally, now that I am working, now that I have a stable income, now that I am no longer ad-hoc jobs as a model trying to earn pocket money while juggling school work, I can finally treat my mao cow to somewhere nice. Finally. But I left out the present.

But alas, I'm stuck in front of the damn computer doing a fuckened media list, for a pointless project (in my personal opinion), which is due tomorrow morning, first thing at 9am.
After which as in after the media list, I'll be doing up a goddamn Proposal for a nation-wide campaign that will most certainly be gunned down by the boss once it reaches the office in the morning. Which more or less translates to : I'll only get to sleep at 4am.

It's hard to be happy when you are tired. It's hard to be happy when you love your job, but hates the company. It's hard to be happy when you want to do so much for someone who has given you so much love, but you are just too tired to do anything. And it's really hard ot be happy if you were doing a fuckened media list at 2am.

SPeaking of whom (the boyfriend), for all of you who knows me personally, knows that the bf is particular about cleanliness. Yours truly, however isn't.
So it's always a case of him nagging at me to not drop crumbs on the floor, not to get my hands sticky with Coke, not to eat food that has fallen onto the table, to wear the clean slippers in his house, to change into clean clothes before climbing into bed yada yada. It's always him who makes a big fuss out of a coackroach sighting (and for my sake, I shall insist that he doens't yelp when he sees insects), him who always had an issue about me leaning on lift walls etc.

In a nutshell, him = clean, neat
me = dirty, unkempt, disorganized

But surprisingly, my bf is not meticulous about washing his face.

The other day, I caught him applying pimple cream to a spot on his look-slightly oily face. Immediately, i asked him if he had washed his face.

This was his reply," Oh yes, I washed the spot where the pimple is, because you told me I had to wash my face before applying pimple cream."

BOYS...

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.

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 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.

Let's just say that sluts get all the fun...

With nothing less than flirty fake eyelashes, 5 inch strappy heels, boobs perked to dizzying height and confidence the size of 5 Moses Lim, one could gain entry into any clubs in town for free, by just posing outside the door.

Coupled with some slinky moves on the bartop, and a devil may care attitude, you can bet that guys, who don't already have a girl in tow, will be fighting to buy you drinks.

Accept the offer, bat your super long eye lashes, down the poison in a couple of gulps....

Then RUN....

So I have not been updating....well, new job = new found busy-ness. Newer new job means new responsibility, new people to remember, and more OT.

With the newfound level of stress and insecurity, I was inflicted with a very bad case of breakouts. Not even when i was at the pinnacle of my adolescence, when everyone had red warts covering their faces did I have such major acne problems.So u can imagine how depressed I am.

Although the peeps at my new place are decent enough, but the lunch culture there is severely lacking. NOBODY EATS LUNCH LA...

I'm always a firm believer that lunch is not just the packet of chicken rice that you tapau and scoop them into your mouth without tasting them, as you loose your mind in the figures and information stacked high in front of you.

Lunch time is a time when people joke and talk with each other, about everyday nonsense. It's a time to not think about work at all. And it's a time to unwind and get recharged to get ready for the next half of the day. But no, people at my office makes calls, thump on calculators, write long reports and stare crazily at their computer screens during lunch. So almost every lunch, I'll be sitting alone in one corner of the marketplace, overwhelming with groups of execs from Raffles place and Shenton way area. I'll be starring down at my plate of wanton mee sullenly, trying to avert my eyes from curious gaze from passers-by. Because it sucks to eat lunch alone, and I totally miss the peeps back in Huntinton. Even when I was teaching, I would have lunch company almost everyday. People would jio everyone to lunch everytime, unless our timetables clash; even so, we'd try to wait for each other.

Back in Huntinton, even if I had lunch duty, Eunice would always wait for me and accompany me, and me vice versa. And we'd spend that 1 hour of our time, feasting on big plates of char kway tiao or economical rice, and top it up with tau hway and 2 slices of cut fruits. And no I didnt gain weight at all. Even though some of the assocaites would sometimes insist on packeting food back to the office, we would always sit together at the meeting room, and talk about silly nonsense to political science and lousy clients over lunch.





I miss my friends there.

I was actually damn sad to leave, and so were the students. They wept, they begged, but I told themeven if this had been my chosen career path, I'd need to go to NIE.

And so I left for greener pastures...

And the good thing about my work place is that there isn't any stupid males around. Everyone in my office is a female. Noobody is ugly, and nobody is stupid. They can speak well, conduct themselves very well. Because I am really allergic to stupid males.

OMFG!

I just signed up for an exotic dance class which spans over 6 weeks. When I was a kid, I used to pout and try to wriggle my way out of ballet and chinese dance classes when my mother signed me up for them, but now I signed up for an exotic dance class on my own accord. So I think I'm really crazy, because as I type this, i still can't believe that I've actually forked out $150 for 6 sessions of 1.5 hour Exotic classes for beginners. And I remember that every first dance lesson that I was forced to go to, the teacher would take alook at my limbs and automatically grouped me with the more graceful girls, thinking that I can dance the cheemer stuff. Budden, I always get kicked out of dance classes due to inattention, too much giggling, or get reprimanded for being 3 counts behind the rest of the class. Aiya because it's embarrassing to do those monkey poses in front of a mirror mah...And it's not seh like when you do a catwalk. To me, I look goofy when dancing.

People who knows me knows that I own 2 left feet, and I can only do a semblance of a dance when I'm slightly drunk.

And I just found out that I've been writing "Enclosed is my resume for your preview" Instead of review in all of the recent cover letters that I've sent out. Duh-uh...this is damn fucking emabrrassing, for who'd wanna have a PREVIEW of my resume...

Ahh I'm returning to the blogosphere again...A proof of a stale life.

For once, ever since I start teaching, I am looking forward for the weekends to end and for school to start... ...

That is like how retarded right?

She looks like she don't care
Smooth as silk
Cool a air
Oh it make you wanna cry

She doesn't know your name
And your heart beats like a subway train
Oh, it makes you wanna die...

Maria, You've gotta see her
Go insane and out of your mind

I feel like 13 again and I think I'm going crazyyyy

Tampex Sucks, O.B. by J&J rules.

You want updates? You got updates!!!

Oh or did you mean my reaction to a certain..... LETTER?

You want to know if I cursed and swear and tore out my hair over that little piece of 'threat' that you thought was smart of you?

Too bad for you, not much excitment as you thought it would ignite.

I simply handed it to the police.

We'll hear from them soon.



Basically, nothing much...

Oh and btw, don't need to use this kind of I know where you stay kinda shit to scare me. I hardly go home.
And anonymous.com doesn't work

*BURP*

And just to let people who are very intersted in my blog know, I am pretty well connected. Policeman, MOE officers, NIE lecturers, journalists, lawyers, etc.
*Ponders for a second) Hmmm maybe not losers. No I don't remember any losers.... Yea defintely no losers.

I know it's unfair... Too bad.

**BURPS**

I'm flying off to the land of hot (or not) beetlenut girls, and XXXL chicken steak, supposedly fantastic shopping, and erm...err....crazy politicians who whack each other in parliament. The last one is really none of my business.
I'm going there to smell the air soon...so See ya'll!!

I was wondering if I should update my blog as I travel or should I wait till I come back, because knowing the photowhore that I am, I'd be taking lotsa lotsa lotsa photos. And If I were to upload them all at once, the dumazz blogger is sure to hang on my again.

Actually it doesn't matter, cos I'm going on a holiday. So much to pack, then un-pack, then pack again. Sigh

Making Random noises...

You keep saying you are "NICE" budden since when are you ever "NICE"? How come you've never came across to me as NICE? That's such a ah gua adjective for yourself. Oh and you're a hypocrite too. <---For all the concern souls, I'm not scolding ZY yar? I love him and will never call him by an ah gua anything.

Next person--You!! I would like to hang you up by your chest-high belt using 80kg-hooks from K-mart. Maybe let you hang there for a week...Hurhur <--also this is not ZY. He doesn't wear his belt at the chest-level anyway. He doesn't even wear a belt.

Can't blame me for being pissy...It's 5am in the morning, ZY's sleeping like a whale, and I'm supposed to be studying and yet I don't feel like it. Oh I recognise this as the once-in-a-sem syndrome. That's when I have to study but I cant study. WTF

Photoshoot tmr. Fuck. Liddat how to look nice? My only consolation is my minerals are so nice that hopefully I can glow through and breeze through it. Dammit. And the theme for tmr's shoot sounds like fun. I will have a ball of a time tomorrow. I must. I need to sleep so that I wont look like I just rose from the dead.

My blog is getting boring. It reminds me of a certain someone we all know who has the most boring blog entries in the world, and who blogs on livejournal. Makes me wonder, if people reads my blog because like his, it's so super boring that it becomes amusing to read...Sucks. Lesson at 9am. Tutorial still not done, and later in the day, i'm going to the Singapore Fashion WEek. Liddat how to look nice...? #%$@$#!!!!

Gee I haven't been able to post a picture of my 'FLy me to Neverland' in the post that was supposed to have it. So here's a picture of it.



Oh and I was talking to some friends today, and they've sorta encouraged me that I could post the earrings and what-nots that I've made on my blog, and see who wanna buy. Of course I promise I'll charge minimal. It's really just to fuel my hobby. You guys think it'll be feasible?

My Osama Bai Laden

My mood's been fouled lately, so all I do is study and E-shop, but to cheer me up, this was what Zy did.

Presenting
The adventures of Osama Bai Laden...Directed by: Zy



CLockwise from top left:
1. Sightings of Osama hiding in a cave in Fang bai mountain
2. Facial Hair and dirty face, and growing a bit yellow and smelly...kinda fit the bill
3. Just emerging from his cave. Oh no he look so silly. That Osama Bai Laden
4. He has now rearranged his head gear properly and is looking for mama!