I love it when I do what I do

Today, my gift has become a gift to another (:

Writing has never given me such fulfillment before.

I am more than happy to help out with your graduation recital, band mate, as long as I am not tasked with playing the piano or anything drastically stupid as that. 

Glad my magic with words, and not the wizard one in Maple Story, is able to ease work for you.

P.S. I have freckles! Albeit red ones. I feel so non-Asian at the moment.

I'm unwritten, can't read my mind, I'm undefined

I hate it when I am about to drift asleep, teetering on the brink of unconsciousness, and an entire essay/the start of a new story/the words I have been struggling to fish up, suddenly pops up. And no matter how many gazillion times I run it in my fuzzy head, it is GONE by the time I wake up, EATEN by my lethargic dreams.Which is why I tend to stay up late, always harboring that mad hope of catching all the butterflies of thoughts before I give in to sleep. I would play song after song after song, trying to dredge up the needed words for my journal or assignment, my playlist acting as a strong gust of wind bellowing sparrows of ideas from their comfortable perching on the ground and amongst wild grass. Then I would end up so exhausted mentally from the attempts that I simply let go by welcoming sleep, which is the exact moment the words flow down like a finally unclogged sink.

Even my brain cells are conspiring against me. FML.

We got the power to sing what we feel

Is it that cursed to listen to pop songs? I am not Snow White and they are not poison apples. Even if they turned out to be so, all that would happen is me falling into a coma and waking up to a Happily Ever After, complete with a royal husband and a multi-million dollar property, no?

I mean, why NOT this 4-chord genre? Because it is a blemish to the oh-so-complex minds of the musically inclined; because it stunts and deteriorates our musicality; because it is too mainstream and minions who are outliers of our music world could tune in to it, diluting any specialty it has?

So what happened to ‘music is an expression’? And that there is no such thing as a bad music, just a differently expressed one? I am sure this theory applies not just to jazz, fusion, latin, funk and all that lot a commoner would find incomprehensible, but simple, no brainer pop as well.

No two people in the world listen to music for the same reason, much less the same songs. Let me tell you this: I am a language person; I am more sensitive to strings of alphabets and their structure and meanings than those of notes; I am a weaver of words. I spend my free time sifting through thesaurus, not lead sheets. So, the foremost thing I would look for is lyrics.

Danceable groove? Cool. Lustrous harmony? Cool. Demanding technicality? Cool. Blinding chord changes? Cool. No lyrics? Go write yourself out. Because if a song ain’t got no meaningful lyrics, it ain’t no story I wanna hear.

No wonder I hate transcribing those mind-boggling songs. They are always either instrumental or the lyrics is plain mad babbling. Then again, ALL of my graduation pieces are instrumental. The irony. Huh.

It is not to say I am disrespecting the genres of music I am learning throughout my course, God knows I could feel the weight of their history and could do nothing more but be awed by how they came to be and how they are. And I have developed an affiliation for the tranquility of bossa nova, the zest of latin and the serenity of jazz ballad.

But I have also maintained my ties to pop. English pop, that is. Partially due to the fact that I grew up with it (I never knew Sesame Street was so educational in music), though mostly because it saw me through my journey to where I am now. Many occasions were celebrated with a helluva off-pitched serenading of pop songs; It Ends Tonight for after-examinations in high school, I Gotta Feeling for pool parties, Fergalicious for the mockery of a certain teacher, We Are All In This Together for choir and the list dwindles on to where my memory lost grasp.

Plus, without my shameless playlist of pop songs, you would not be reading this post, nor any of my previous articles/journals/stories/writings. Maybe it is the simple chord progression or rhythm or the set of mood or the play of psychology, I do not know. It helped me pen my thoughts and would continue to do so for a long time more.

So who are you to judge when you do not even bother to understand what songs or music mean to me? 

If I just breathe, let it fill the space between

I know I am a late bloomer but I never thought it would be in the sense of experiencing hormonal rebellion, the sort of deviant syndrome normally found in the raging years of teenage hood, where all you wanted to do was procrastinate, dwell in a dreamlike state, survive the wreckage of disorganization, savor the satisfaction of going against every rule and live through an impossibly insane period to tell the tale. 

Either because I wasn’t that crazy back in the old days, or my teenage drama/trauma had yet to pass, like an under fledged chicken pox returning to haunt you, but I seem to be dragged though another phase of that immature disease again. Not that I am saying it is a bad thing. Because I have not smiled and laughed as much as I have this entire week, and the freedom I feel is so intoxicating. Procrastination and mismanagement and tardiness have always been my snuck biscuits but now they are made all the more sinful with the group of us practicing them.

Yes, I have been slacking on practices and lessons, though I could justify it with the fact that midterms have passed and it would be a while before the next climb to finals. And yes, I have worsened my detachment-from-reality condition with Maple Story, even Maple-Magicianized as YingPork in the virtual church of Ellinia within a day.

I even introduced Blob to them, and they Gung Gung and Bibi me. You people have no idea how relief I was that I was not the only who draws comfort from cloth-and-cotton inanimate objects.

You have a right to be worried, because so am I. I am so used to following my half rigid half flexible self-dictated schedule that this period of deviance is rather unsettling; I don’t mean a timetable with specific slots, God knows I can’t handle such discipline, I am talking about adhering to deadlines with days to spare, pinning down substantial amount of practice before classes, and churning out assignments ahead of everyone else, all done with a rough outline of daily to-accomplish list.

But childishness could be so addicting, especially at this age.

Is this the extreme I have been searching for? People do need to flex their personalities of opposite polarities to counterbalance the stress they are facing. The way adults turn to video games or mindless hobbies to avoid being crushed by the weight of the burden they carry daily. Or maybe I have suppressed and still the need to uncoil for too long, always choosing practicality over emotionality; always fussing about what had to be done, how to surpass my past achievements, busy being the girl next door.

With the exception of Les Sluts and disregarding the distant past that is my bittersweet Foundation Year, I am more or less a social pariah, which makes me question my ideal picture of college life. Am I being Asian by wanting perfect grades and attendance? Or is this drive for academic satisfaction a residue of my high school days?

Whatever it is, I want it stopped. NEED it stopped.

My graduation should not be a reflection of just my technicalities and skills I have donned these four years; it should be of my journey and my growth as a musician, as well as a person. I want to graduate as me, a more mature, open-minded, stronger me; not a product of vigorous training and blind obedience.

For now, I would take up this offer of a joy ride through the remaining weeks of the semester, hoping to glean something I would not have on my own. 

I'll keep you my dirty little secret

I am suffering from much grievance over the tainting of my water bottle.

To say the crime was obscene would be to understate the severity of the situation.

Disgusting would not even cover half of what it was like.

No. I am not entirely angry about it; just amused, and slightly berserk.

And In-Between would never be the same for me again. The way I find whip cream distasteful, thanks to Eu Chern’s fetish imaginations.

All it took was just one mastermind and five other crooked ones to change anybody’s perspective about the game.

Go read up on In-Between if you have such an unfortunate life to not have a chance to play it.

Mild enough game, no? Though a tad bit spicier for gamblers. 

Now here’s the twist: upon your turn, you Dare a person of your choosing to bid an evil deed, calculating the probability based on your range. The wider the range your two given cards provide, the higher the chance for the third card to fall within it. So if the card opens and it falls into the range, your victim perform the Dare; falls out, it has a boomerang effect; turns out to be the sister card to one of yours (e.g. a King to your King), the Dare you dealt DOUBLES UP: congratulations and good luck.

I wish I could chronicle the entire game/night for you, but this happens to be a What Happens in Vegas, Stays in Vegas matter, especially the period after 2am. But I suppose I could keep you my dirty little secret. At least a couple.

1. Ace and Queen. Obese range. So I Dared Triple K to give the dining table a lap dance. Sensually.

I got Ace.

I screamed while head banging against my knees. Thank you, Beethoven. Your hand could not have picked a lovelier card.

At least the alcohol drowned out my conscience. I was sure my body wriggling, ass S-shape shaking and spastic facial expressions were entertaining because the singing of Bad Romance to accompany my Dare dance was suddenly cut off and everyone looked like they choked on their beer.

2. Another relatively huge range. I Dared Bruhder to catwalk.

You do not even have to guess. DOUBLE DARE again.

I did the runway twice. First time a cross breed of barbaric and epic fail model posture, with my hands on my hips and QWOP (check it on Memebase or Google) the way through, striking oh-my-God-I-just-farted poses at the end. Second time saw me as a bobbin’ demented windmill; I just spent the pose-time laughing at everyone laughing.

3. LL Dared Bruhder to ‘ride’ on my water bottle and execute some sexy torso movements. He looked like a robot being splashed with water and experiencing electrical spasms. I looked like a substance going through sublimation and condensation simultaneously; I was torn between laughing at Bruhder and staring in horror at the position of my drinking bottle.

4. LL Dared Triple K to ‘ride’ my poor bottle and hop down the runway, frog-style. All I could see was the cap of the bottle a yellow buoy blobbing up and down the ripples of fluid actions and the folds of pants. Good God.

5. My water bottle was now secured under Bruhder’s armpits, while he tickled it adoringly and went, “Oh! You are so cute!” In Mandarin, that is. Mamma mia.

6. KP Dared LL to slide her hands up her legs in an arousing manner, pose and declare, “I’m so sex-ay!” Ooh la la. But it turned out a comedy than the intended sensuality. Triple K tsk-ed in disappointed. Well, at least my bottle was excepted this round.

7. Bruhder Dared Triple K to stare at my bottle (AGAIN) squarely and manly, and profess his love to it.

He got Doubled Dare instead. TEEHEE.

So Bruhder ended up having to eye my bottle adoringly and with as much femininity as he could muster, murmured softly to it, “You know, I love you so much,” with the addition of whispered sweet nothings.

My image of him was flushed down the drain; so was our breathing. Triple K and I collapsed into each other, the rest into the arms of the sofa, laughing AND trying not to die from it.   

8. Beethoven Dared me to screech the Happy Tree Friends theme song, while adding fugly/retarded/funny gestures to my mesmerizing performance. I had no idea how and what I look like during that 30 seconds dance but I thanked the gods for their not bringing a video camera for this gathering of banshees.

9. Triple K wrapped the game up with advertising my perfumed bottle   He was Dared (by me, nonetheless) to sniff and inhale the scents deeply, then enthusiastically promote each of the three unique aroma. You know where the bottle had been. I did not envy its journey throughout the game and the destinations it was assigned; and everyone did not envy my having to drink from it in the days after the trip.  

10. We spent the rest of the night/morning rolling the dice and drinking till the alcohol dulled our senses and we dropped dead. It amazed me how we could come up with a plan of who-sleeps-where. I could have just plonked there and dozed off sitting upright of they let me.

Oh. None of us brushed the teeth. Ah, the refreshing morning breath stench.

The trip was a bomb! Too bad we wasted the entire morning in deep coma. KP said I giggled in my sleep. Yay me.

Melacca next? Or up north again?

I just wanna live when I'm alive

Oh. Am. Gee.

I still can NOT believe I went into XX’s room, threw open his cupboard, snatched the nearest underwear I could grab, ran out giggling then flung it across the floor to the pair of screeching banshees who punished me into this atrocious dare.

You must think I was smoking weed or something. But I was not. Nor did I consume high dosage of sugar. I was just plain drunk on exhilaration. And it manage to fuel two hours of non-stop Extremeties, as Triple K called them dares.

What made me sucked in my breath and bit my cheeks to still my giggles, and strode up to XX to demand, “XX! 你会娶 我吗?!” (Translates to: XX! Will you marry me?!”) Yes, I shouted the question at the poor guy, hands and hips, though I sounded as if I were having a verbal diarrhea. Then, I collapsed laughing at his feet before I could spit out the last word.

To Triple K and LL, even in their twisted and incomprehensibly bizarre sense of fun, I had just made history. Oh God.

You have no idea how surprised they were when I acquiesced to the first dare. The quiet, obedient, mild Ying Hui doing THAT? Pop my eyes out and barbeque them, baby. And I did. They sounded like hyenas throughout the game.

Especially when I was made to bang on R’s door as obscenely loud as possible, then run and take cover once my knocking woke him up and could hear him approaching to open the door. I freaked out, but kept conking it anyway, hesitatingly calling out his name while shooting the two devils the death stare in between intervals. After it was obvious the guy was sleeping like a pig and only a bomb could disturb him, I skipped back to the two, squealing all the way.

“I can’t believe you did that! Didn’t you see him walk past you just now? He was on his way out.”

So I was knocking on a door that would never open because the room was empty, thus pissing myself from fear for no valid reason. What the heck.

Twenty going on twenty-one and my mind has yet to mature, or more specifically, my idea of fun. But I guess I would be enjoying or tortured by this sort of entertainment for a while, and I have no intention of giving this bunch of people up anytime soon; certainly not when they seem to be worshipping me, as of now.

 Plus, the amount of laughing I do with them does burn up more calories than if I worked out, e.g. playing the dumbbell viola.

And yay! I’m no longer a freak.

P.S. All names, except yours truly, are censored and initialized to protect the said people.