Tripped and fell. Hard.
It had yet to bleed though.
Hope it wouldn’t. The process of scabbing over is excruciating.
Can’t say I would be surprise if it does.
It IS a deep cut after all, not the usual graze on the surface.
Am probing at the sides and waiting…
wheniwaslittle I thought that my dimple was a deformity and I would puff up my cheeks every time I smiled to fill up the hole.
wheniwaslittle I enjoyed giggling alone. Seriously, I could just stare at something, even someone, and simply explode in a fiery ceaseless flow of hee-haw for seemingly no reason. I’m beginning to wonder I was somehow autistic. Hmm…mom?
wheniwaslittle I hated reading books. I would pout and fuss and loll about until my mom had to anchor herself beside me and clamp me down. Then I would go through the painstaking process of picking the shortest story (from Enid Blyton) and counting off the pages (sometimes even the sentences) one by one as I read.
wheniwaslittle I talked to my soft toys. Not dolls (they crept me out), but stuffed animals. I would tweak their heads to look at me while I spoke to them, then my hands would animate them as I squeaked their replies. Perhaps they were a different kind of imaginary friends. HAHA.
wheniwaslittle If I didn't like the soup I had to drink, which was most of the time, I would lick it like a cat so the bitter taste would not get to the back of my throat.
wheniwaslittle I relished sleeping in cupboard boxes. And cramping myself in tight and narrow spaced places. Ask my maid. I could hide in the oddest spots in my house. Squashed under the bed, the table or the lowest plank of an open cupboard; Snuggled within the folds of the thick wall-length curtains; Flatten behind doors. Honest. Either I was playing damsel in distress in my mind or suffocation was my kind of fun.
How retarded were you when YOU were little?
Till today, I do not, and could not, immerse myself in shopping. I simply refuse to comprehend the thrill of it. The ceaseless stroking of hysteria-driven quivering fingers against the velvety surface of the cloth, the almost-predatory glint in the eyes as they scoured rows after rows of footwear, the adrenaline rush brought on by the tireless draping of countless pieces of clothing over themselves, the craving to own them all evident in the fervent cam-whoring in the changing room, and once self-approved, the raving exhilaration of being handed the plastic bag containing the fruit after a hard day’s labour of sifting through shelves of brand new goods to pick one, or more. I have yet to experience any of that.
Speaking of which, I detest wearing pumps, boots, and any form of elevated shoes even if I feel sexy in them. They affect your ankle, feet (the weight of the body would be directed onto the balls of the feet, causing nerve problems and the shortening of Achilles tendon), knees, spine (the lower back would become more arched and protruding), hips and mental health (blood vessels and nerve supply would be constricted). In simple English, they shorten your life. So there. Of course, there were inevitable moments, during which I would turn to wedges (bigger surface area so less pressure).
And I supposed you could see this one coming: I loath make-up. Full stop. No explanation needed, other than the fact that it makes me feel pretentious and fake.
I am a poor excuse for a girl.
In my materialistic world, or as materialistic as it could be, there is only books. A productive day for me would be pouring over ant-sized words inscribed on creamy paper for hours on end. Coupled with curling up in the recliner next to the window/door, bathed in the flood of sunlight, and a mug of chocolate: HEAVEN.
Though ironically, I seem to own more clothes than books. I have an entire cupboard bursting with blouse, shirts, skirts, jeans and rags I wear at home, while I only managed to fill 3 rows with novels that I personally chose and bought (the mountain of encyclopedia and reference books are not counted). Probably because of my policy of purchasing only if I really love it or desperately need it. God knows how long I take to pick one single book. So, up until miracle struck and I found BookXcess, I got an average of 2 books a year. I survived on my cousin’s and Amanda’s home library.
Yeah. I exude an aura of abnormality. Though it affects the male or female species more, I have no idea.
P.S. I seem to have taken a keen interest on philosophy and psychology lately. I even posted a random thought-inducing observation I made, on Facebook. Weird.
So someone had his first Subway sandwich today. HAHA. But seriously, it was kind of depressing. Living in KL for almost 2 years and hadn’t had a Subway before.
Took us about 15 minutes to hunt for that dumb store, even scouted the junkie-filled Lower Ground floor, only to find it outside next to Starbucks.
“Oh. So you knew Subway was here all along but you still took me around the shopping mall to look for it huh.”
Incredulous.
Since I could only gap like an epilepsy-stricken goldfish, I just head straight for the shop. I must say, I was kind of disgusted with the place. Open-air, smothering heat, infiltrated with cigarette smoke, tables and seats clumped together 3 feet from the booth and litter-scattered floor. Ugh. What to do. I’m still on a strike against Secret Recipe’s food, not cakes and pastries, mind you. The indoor mamak and a Chinese coffee house didn’t seem too appealing. Starbucks’ menu contained mainly of caffeinated liquid varieties which would not do for a meal. And another serving of A&W would probably be the death of me.
So, despite the disagreeable condition, there was probably no better choice. The food would make up for that.
The whole lunch was a blur of conversation on random topics. A good thing, considering I was struggling with my dripping and sliding Honey Oatmeal 6-inch sandwich. Not a pretty sight. Gah. Reminder to myself: start training on how to eat various forms of sandwiches, especially oblong ones, in a ladylike manner.
Then, we left for my land of books. I hunted for my sci-fi, as well as novels I promised to watch out for, like Jia Wen’s shopaholic series, Audrey’s Michelle Piper and my sis’ Nicholas Sparks, while Darren scanned for his horror books brimmed with revolting human torture.
So, yeah, basically, it was just an hour plus of books, books and more books. Me loves. Too bad they had neither Shopaholic and Baby, nor any Nicholas Sparks’ novels. And my ‘The Lost Symbol’. Guess I’d have to be patient.
Reached home just in time for teacher Max to pick me up to the charity concert we would be playing at. First exhausting day since Jury. Ha.
Blah. The photo he said he looks cool in =.="
I bet Jia Wen, Rachel, Audrey and Carmen must have been exasperated with me.
First, I dragged them by hook AND by crook to hang out with me in PJ, which was literally a whole continent away for 3 out of the 4 of them.
Then, ‘inevitably’, Audrey and Carmen were ‘unavailable’ (for preposterous excuses that I have no intentions of splashing them across this blog), leaving only Jia Wen and Rachel, a disastrous situation which I fretted over in a suppressed frenzy. And somehow, due to a certain twist in the means of route, and Rachel’s magical power of hypnotizing persuasion (and her uncanny knack for arranging and organizing), those 2 were back on our entourage. Whee!
And then, after all the countless roundabouts and U-turns we went through, after clearing up the skies for me, I decided to play elective mute. Or at least 95% throughout the entire social event.
AHA.
*I can almost hear shouts of ‘Belanja!’*
Anyway, how we wound up in Atria’s Big Book Store instead of the planned Amcorp Mall’s BookXcess was beyond the logic grasp of my lethargic mind. And apparently I wasn’t alone. Darren had no inkling whatsoever either that we weren’t in Amcorp Mall till we were walking halfway towards the shop in the mall, even after staring at the word ‘Atria’ in the face as we drove in and 10 minutes of searching for parking lot.
Right.
So we got there, knowingly or unknowingly, and then everything else didn't matter. It was like the rest of the building just fell away.
And I became blinded by books. Literally. My eyes just skimmed over the titles and authors in a feverish manner without being able to focus on any 1 for a while, as if trying to see through a haze, with my mind on fire. I nearly giggled hysterically.
HEAVEN.
And there were even 2 parts to the shop, fiction and non-fiction, though the line between them was fuzzy and you could find fantasy novels scattered among autobiographies. Whatever. My book appetite heed no petty spillovers.
The others seemed to be in the same state of ecstasy, despite not finding the particular book(s)/author(s) they had in mind. Oh well. But all of us did get a book each. Or more.
Jia Wen and her Torey Hayden.
Rachel and her basket full of books.
I can’t quite remember what Audrey and Carmen got, other than the same book I picked up too.
Darren and his Killer Excuses.
Me and my, of all things, Jazz Encyclopedia.
Don’t ask me. Probably the sudden spark of enthusiasm for jazz. Or simply the thrill of possessing a music-related encyclopedia in hopes of acing Popular Music History 1 next semester.
Blah. All I know was that I FREAKING BOUGHT A BOOK. Heehee.
We left for Amcorp Mall after God knew how long and finally got round to ponder the term ‘lunch’. If it was still called a lunch, that is. The clock on my phone said it was 3.40pm. Decided to have it at A&W.
To Wen Dee and Andrew: the fried chicken was CRISPY and STEAMING HOT.
In the end we bailed on Amcorp Mall. Sad. But there's always a next time, no?
P.S. OMG I just realized we didn't take any photos today :(
Two words to sum up tonight’s concert: MIND BLOWN.
Like, “KA-BOOM”
And trust me, I’ve never used the term on ANY MPO-hosted performances before. Ever. Enraptured, yes. Breath-taken, yes. Inspired, yes. Dull and heavy, yes. Void of emotions thus no comment, yes. But mind blown? Non. Nay. Nary.
My condolences to the Classical enthusiasts for having their sacred, fervently preserved pieces twisted to bizarre proportions by Igudesman and Joo with seemingly much glee.
Of course, their virtuosity and eloquence in the ancient music are to be credited to the highest degree. No doubt their skills are the catalysts to mutate something rooted in Classical to Contemporary, which got me thinking…
>:) Guess who’s going to drill her Classical pieces soon? Nothing drives me more than the look of horror and disgust on Dr. P’ng’s face when he hears the jumbled-up, distorted version of his sanctified songs. Ah, my sweet, sweet revenge success.
And a superb motivation for me to amend my degrading viola skills. Hmmm. Speaking of which…
“People tend to assume that violas are bigger than violins. Wrong! Violas are NOT bigger than violins. It’s merely an optical illusion! You see, this is because violists have smaller heads than violinists.” I think it was from a short scene on the bipolar personalities of a violinist.
Incredulity was written all over my face.
Nah, I knew it was a joke. BUT STILL.
So, I confronted them after the autograph session and having my photo taken (dad insisted that I should queue up for an autograph or a picture with them and forcefully extracted the camera from my hands so that he could snapped as soon as I got close enough).
“I play the viola and my head’s not small,” I mock-indignantly told Aleksey Igudesman.
“Aww. Don’t get offended. It’s just a joke!”
“Haha. I know, it’s o-“
“You play the viola?” Richard Hyung-ki Joo looked as if he was witnessing some random predicament of his materialize.
“Yes…”
“Anyone else here plays the viola? No? So, you said you play the viola and your head’s not small?”
“Yeah…”
“No worries on that. It’s a joke about violinists. It’s just to say that violists are not big-headed.”
Whoa. Wicked twist in defense.
You’ve found yourselves a new fan here, mates.
Seriously, if every other MPO concerts were half as cracked up, I would have gladly and willingly take the time to purchase the tickets and even be dolled up in loathsome dresses and heinous heels, just to counteract my college’s torture device. My days would have been sheltered by an interminable stretch of student recital-free blue sky.
Emma in full formal wear. Priceless.
Rachel (:
I guess there's no need to point out which of the 2 is Richard Hyung-ki Joo and which is Aleksey Igudesman.
25th December is approaching. The flames of Christmas spirit have begun to hiss and crackle into life. College mates are gearing up for a full blast fortnight caroling on the Hill of Entertainment. And I’m not included.
No, I’m not jealous, neither am I angry or in a vengeful mood. But yes, I do feel hurt, though in the mildest manner, a scrap on the knee. Kind of like standing on the outside, looking in.
God, I sound like a whiny and whimpering child.
I mean, who am I to blame? I did not take the initiative of enquiring and collecting information on the job. I did not make the move to probe around and be nosy. In the blur and undistinguishable entanglement of classes, assignments, practices and exams, I became lethargic and expect people to spoon feed me.
And now, I feel like a tribesman using a spear and shield to hunt for an internship, all on my own.
I guess Procrastination isn’t my middle name after all.
Passivity is.
P.S. I promise I’ll go up to Genting to support you guys and hopefully it doesn't come down to weekends (coz all we would be doing then is hiding in your rooms from the suffocating crowd) (: Maybe I could sneak in and crash in one of you people’s rooms…
I remember when we were on our way to catch Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs, Jia Wen asked about the smells we liked. I couldn't think of anything then. So I guess I owe you this too, gal.
I love the smell of books. New, ancient, crisp white, dusty, paperback, hardcover, leather-bound, whatever, the scent is simply intoxicating. And if words have a smell, I would love that too.
I love the smell of after-rain, when the world is sprinkled with crystal droplets of a light drizzle or bathed in sheets of the pearly white of a storm.
I love the smell of early mornings, the fresh earthly scent made cool by a blanket of dew.
I love the smell of steaming coffee, even more so as it thickens to a paler shade of brown when you stir in the milk and cream. Ooh la la. Screw the caffeine. I enjoy getting drugged, so what?
I love the smell of baked food. Bread, cakes, cupcakes (me loves most), muffins, cookies and every other sinful dough-y indulgences, my nose succumbs to them.
I love the smell of melted chocolate, the simmering, molten, velvety flow of chocolate that is usually used for topping cakes or cupcakes, or, Praise All Things Beautiful, turned into a fountain of ecstasy. God forbid that someone should find a cure for my obsession over chocolate fondues.
