How do people get to that stage in life, and still live it with so much zest and love for life and their partners?A puzzle and an inspiration, that surely is.It's Boxing Day - Saturday. The air outside my window, the one facing my churchie-youth-group neighbours' house is thick with BBQ-induced smoke. Half the Youth Group must've been invited to the after-camp get-together at their place today. It's a bit odd peering out my window and catching sight of some of those kids we used to take care of at children's camp all grown up now. Sometimes, I miss me summa' those days: of laughs, friends, acquaintances and small talk, and just bein' and chillin' at someone else's parents' house. When you're at the end of the road,And you've lost all sense of control,And your thoughts have taken their toll,When your mind breaks the spirit of your soul.Your faith walks on broken glass,And the hangover doesn't pass,Nothing's ever built to last,You're in ruins.We go our separate ways in the same direction.Thanks, green day and sara bareilles. "Being alert is something important. Alert in the sense of letting our senses have a strong presence in our lives. When we go too fast we miss a lot because we don't let our senses absorb what's happening around us and within us. If we learn how to keep an alert mind then we become more sensitive to those little things that could build up in some areas of our lives and hurt us later."- Elsa MoraMy work desktop's an unholy mess, but I somehow am able to recall where everything is kept.Organised chaos is a metaphor for my life, and for the inside of my mind.Thanks for those words, Elsita.I shall always strive to notice things, my surroundings and others' reactions, and to be alert. Oh no someone help me please I am so hooked on Poker Face.There's a danger in loving somebody too much. And it's sad when you know it's your heart you can't trust. I'd previously only heard of Ira Glass, his name rang a bell, only sorta. Watching this video for the first time not only comforted me - it was a wake up call to Not! Give! Up! . To some extent, it also felt like my mediocrity was validated, justified, almost. But then again, now I know who Ira Glass is. Nosso bad. After months of thinking about abandoning Interior Design, or Design in general, and after a long chat with M, I've come to realise it's not about not doing Design. In fact, Design will most probably be the passion of choice - that was a really odd mix of words, passion of choice. Hmm. Rather, it is, perhaps, about not being stuck or sucked into an office environment and allowing yourself to get too comfortable there.So. Always a nod to discomfort. To not wanting to be here, but there. To casting around. To saudade.Have been entertaining thoughts of becoming a butcher in my next job. Have been very drawn to the idea of machismo, the sensitivity and the delicateness of wielding a cleaver and providing choice cuts and a general sense of well-being to customers. It's been an overworked year and 4 days. There's been learning, joy, laughter, pain, tears and suffering involved. Growing up's hard work; I want the simple life: living off and giving back to the magically regenerating abundance of Nature, appreciating sunrises and sunsets, marking time by the seasons, knowing weather patterns by looking at clouds. The rural dweller in me is yearning to get out of a design- sweatshop job with over-long hours devoted to the blinding computer screen and an over-reliance on technology. I need to plan my route out. To work with my hands. To make, to create with love, to go for walks, to breathe the fresh air and smile. Yes, by George, I will do that indeed.The 2010 ikea cataloge is out. Much happiness from cheap furniture porn. So freaking good it blows. Every time.Can't listen to it on loop. I can't breathe after each replay. Randomness: a lucky seven 1. Though Gertrude Stein's work tends to give me a slight humming throb someplace above my eyebrows, I found this really hilarious.2. New favourite word to describe someone cool (thanks, Sri): enigmatic (sadly Sri wasn't describing me)3. The black cat in my life is feeling a little emo today; might've lost a fight sometime last night. Again. 4. 2 days til Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince opens! So excited! R's got me tickets!! The countdown is getting quite intense (from about 10 months ago - thanks so much, R!).5. Wishes you make when you see shooting stars may not always come true immediately.6. The moment I *think* I've lost a friend's expensive Japanese magazine and decide to buy one back for him, it will mysteriously turn up right under my nose on a bookshelf I check very often. 7. Have been hopelessly addicted to this song for about the past fortnight now. Have have have to play it on loop at least 4 times daily. Gah. Along with a Sascha Funke remix of a Gui Boratto song, some Elliot Smith, and definitely, still, the Killers, and lately, Ladyhawke. (Thanks, S!) After a third failed attempt at Circuit Assessment (no more third time lucky - the cycle of threes has been broken!), the allure of motorbike-riding begged itself to be relooked. No, I don't feel liberated with the wind on my face and air around my knees and elbows; riding at 90kmph with impatient asshole drivers on the Central Expressway scares the shite out of me; watching motorcyclists become prime victims of traffic accidents gives me the worst kinds of premonitions; crashing my bike with a pillion rider behind me isn't particularly exciting, either.But now, at Lesson 5 out of 7 (most lessons with innumerable repeats), the show must go on. When I have a bike license, the luxury will be in the choice I make: whether I ride, or not. Whether I choose to take public transport; or have no choice but to take public transport. Being given the opportunity to make that choice - therein lies the luxury. By the ever witty and Neil Gaiman:I Google youlate at night when I don’t know what to doI find photosyou’ve forgottenyou were input up by your friendsI Google youwhen the day is done and everything is throughI read your journalthat you keptthat month in FranceI’ve watched you danceAnd I’m pleased your name is practically uniqueit’s only you anda would-be PhD in Chesapeakewho writes papers onthe structure of the sunI’ve read each oneI know that Ishould let you fadebut there’s that boxand there’s your namesomehow it never makes the paingrow less or fade or disappearI think that I should save my soul andI should crawl back in my holeBut it’s too easy just to foldand type your name againI fearI google youWhenever I’m alone and feeling blueAnd each scrap of informationThat I gathersays you’ve got somebody newAnd it really shouldn’t matterought to blow up my computerbut instead….I google youAnd here it is, sung by the ever lovely half of the Dresden Dolls, Amanda Palmer:I like having Gaiman-inspired ideas floating and flitting about in my head all day. Very agreeable. In a time when it was I was lost without oversized t-shirts, when I was unsure of what I'd do if I didn't belong, when staying back in school was something the popular girls did, when petty personal friendships were all that mattered (besides schoolwork, of course), when matte silver spectacle rims and braces were what I had, when Pretty Woman was risque (to me at least), this song brings back much memories. Love love love Roxette. Have not much love for these sugar-coated marshmallow Peeps, but seeing these photos from here has rekindled my dream of working, someday, in a candy factory. Or a candy store. Or as a sweet-maker. Freshly pressed Peeps are seen before they are coated with yellow sugar as they move along the production line.Peeps have their eyes imprinted.Jimmy Case, an employee at Just Born picks out badly formed Peeps from the production line.Marshmallow Peeps are dropped into boxes from the production line for packaging.I know Easter was some weekends ago, but! Better late than never, I always say. There's something about the French language that just kills me. In a good way.Why, oh why am I lousy with languages?I need to watch this film. Stat. I am still alive.But of late, I have allowed work to get me negative and morose.To counter the bad chi, I've decided to list stuff that make me happy, and not just limit it to five items.^ popping M&M's, one after the other, and chewing on them the moment they're in my mouth^ honey glazed chicken wings^ being home in the afternoons while it rains (as opposed to being stuck in the office)^ polka dots and grids^ the smell of freshly printed books^ the rough texture of wood-free paper^ the idea of home-made bread (though I've not made any yet)^ buttered salty popcorn-in-a-bag, freshly out of the microwave^ crafty craft blogs^ a mug of steaming hot coflo (coffee + milo)^ the smell of freshly cut grass^ an occasional meal from McDonalds^ grapefruit juice^ listening to a cello well-played^ currently, most songs by Vampire Weekend^ insect-and-rain-free picnics^ freshly sharpened pencils^ a full and neatly arranged bookshelf ^ intelligence and humour^ receiving nice catch-up emails (or better, snailmail)^ a nice hot shower^ watching a movie in the daytime^ lovely pristine beaches^ sleeping undisturbed for a stretch of 12 hours once in awhile^ the InternetAlso, this is my attempt at waging a battle against embitterment. [Via A Cup of Jo]This guy is funny. I'm going to do a copycat series, inspired by his Lego works when I find my own set (that's been too carefully stashed away in my room that I forget where they are).Before Nintendo, life was all about Legos. All. About. LEGO. But I want to ask: have Lego blocks always been available in gray and brown? Or is that a recent addition, like blue M&Ms? When I saw this video, I thought, vaguely, that I could feel a bit of that 50ºC inferno blazing through Victoria. After an afternoon of shopping and squeezing through sticky, noisy, literally pushy teenybopper crowds at Bugis Village some weeks ago, we finally dropped, and had to find someplace to sit, order a drink and recuperate. Pronto. And it was no wonder: no place is safe two days before reunion dinner. While me, Q and K were sipping our drinks and waiting for the ache in our tired feet to go away, who should decide to appear but N! So. There was dinner. And then there were drinks. And then this photographer, who was looking rather stoned for 10pm, appeared. "Would you like your picture taken? It's going to appear on this website." Or he might've said "My grandmother's baked you girls some oatmeal-raisin cookies. I'd really love to have a photo of you lot with those cookies." For the viewing pleasure of all and sundry.'Why not? We're photogenic people,' we thought, and grinned gleefully at our photogenic selves. As we waited for those cookies. And. By golly, did we look smashed. "The angle of the wineglass says it all," N texted me, all knowledgeable, some days later. I concur.And I don't even like oatmeal-raisin cookies. I did this card 2 days after coming back from Beppu, so I like to think that it is inspired by Japanese-ness. Come to think of it, it is looking a lot like fugu. Which reminds me of Y - little miss fugu herself. The one who slurped two bowls of ramen in a single sitting.Over two consecutive days of Chinese New Year visiting, I came across, on two separate ocassions: men referring to their partners, or wives, as maids. Disgusting. One referred to his wife as 'the maid I sleep with'; the other - who, referring to himself as the alpha male and the one his lovely Golden Retriever listens to - to his girlfriend as 'the maid who cleans and feeds the dog'. And they wonder why girls are not falling head over heels in love with the local boys. Tsk.In other news, these typography-inspired videos are keeping me happy. Especially the one from V for Vendetta. I have a sudden urge to watch that again. Southwest of Tokyo, is a city in the Oita Prefecture called Beppu. And in Beppu, one finds the onsen capital of Japan. Devilishly hot springs - some smelling egg-like with their sulphuric steam - where bathers, after 5 minutes of soaking, emerge looking raw. But healthily so; for in Beppu, you would be considered a prude - an indecent prude - for not yielding and getting jiggy wit' it with the rest of the bathers at an onsen. Perhaps this is where Devilled Eggs originated."Before even submerging themselves in the 42ºC water, men let out a grunt as they step in, knee-deep, even before proceeding to ease themselves into the onsen," T intoned casually after several sessions there. After some ascertaining myself, I offered, "T, the women don't make a sound as they enter the water at all." "And that's why they're women, and we're men," it is possible that at this point, T sniffed his appreciation at the apparent brutishness of his gender. I merely smiled. Demurely.Inside our ryokan, it was cold. Perpetually. And when it was warm, it was because of the air conditioning, which then made it dry. Lip-crackingly dry. And inside our 8-tatami room, I was mindful to keep it not-too-warm, lest E, my Tokyo-ite roommate wilted or melted into a puddle from the heat. Me? All things considered, anywhere that is not musty, humid sweltering Singaporean heat is cold. Cold is the absence of heat, no?And in Beppu? The coldness not only manifested itself in windchill, but there was also, for the first time in my life, flurries of minute snowflakes. Powdery snow on our shoulders, and with a 14-hour hand-warmer in hand, we head out to walk the streets. Mikan season made for citrus-peel-scented rooms. We stuffed our faces with lovely honey-oranges. In general, that refers only to me; the Japanese hardly ever stuff their faces, if at all. Oh, besides Y, of course. This girl will finish up any unfinished food within a 2 metre radius at mealtimes. But me, my face was stuffed, alternately, with mikan and onigiri.There was this old house - actually, there were these many old houses - down in Beppu. Many well-loved old houses, and many unloved plots of frozen, dying grass. And in these well-loved old houses, its inhabitants are in the habit of removing their footwear upon entry. And they enter a house backwards, so their shoes are facing the correct direction when they leave. Well, I never. Colour me amazed. Converse high-tops didn't stand a chance; I became well-practiced in lacing up (and down) real quick. Meanwhile, the group waited patiently outside if 'real quick' turned out to be 'not quick enough'."Told you so," I'm certain R would've loved to crow smugly to my face while my fingers, numb with cold, clumsily did up the shoelaces. One morning, I sat, just me with my styrofoam tray of fresh sushi, there, along the edge of the water, watching the sailing club make their way out to sea. It was a clear day, with blue skies that stretched out to forever. The kind that made the samurais believe in Justice, Benevolence and Honour. That kind of blue. I stretched out, after my 9th sushi, under the endless sky, and took deep breaths, and grinned, and felt at peace with the world. That's the doggie at the go-karting range (if a winding stretch of asphalt can be considered a range): bored. Not even the sight of overgrown idiots fitting themselves into lawnmower-sized motorised vehicles travelling at eardrum-splitting frequency can rouse him. He has reached his state of Nirvana and there he is content to stay (til mealtime). I was the party pooper who did not deign to shuttle around a little circuit at an inch(!) off the ground. I mean, go-karting when you can drive around in air-conditioned comfort and wag your middle finger at the twat who's just cut your lane without signalling? Why bother?The other night, after a downpour at dusk, I saw a g i a n t snail making its slow way up someone's boundary wall. The snail was so enormous and its shell - commensurately large - was weighed down so greatly by gravity that its mid-section was sagging to the point of distortion. Still, it made its way diagonally upwards. I can't make up my mind whether it's lovely to have an instantly accessible porta-home, or if it's a god-given / self-inflicted hassle. As a kid I'd been fascinated with the idea of snails and their little take-away dwellings. I dreamed of travelling in caravans, and having all my worldly possessions with me as I went along. Now I no longer think that way. Where once I craved change; I value stability now. Dilly, the monster of insatiable appetite, has recently developed a sweet tooth. Spot the odd one out: Cadbury Fruit & Nut chocolate, lemon barley drink, kitten kibble, and cranberry vodka. Which? Ah yes!, of course, it's the chocolate; it's got milk in it! Or, yes!, it's the cranberry vodka, for its 42% alcoholic content. Oh, it can't be the kibble, 'cos why? 'Cos that's just boring ol' cat food! "Why settle for less when there's chocolate and vodka readily available", the little kitten thinks, before drifting off into a state of chocolate-induced bliss. What happened after the cranberry vodka? That's a story for another time.The ella ella I bought when last in Hong Kong has been serving me well. It's only the second ella-ella I've owned that was solely mine. And I nearly lost it, when carelessly it was left in a rather fetching umbrella stand at some fancypants lifestyle goods shop in HK, after just four days. Typhoons can be such happy occasions sometimes: wellies (with fancy print), happy umbrellas, or being all cosied up at home and feeling safe. From being merely tolerable, stormy weather has become accepted and even embraced and looked forward to. By me. Thanks to a vertically-unchallenged colleague, it's so pretty to see the ella-ella hanging out to dry in the pantry. Just wish, sometimes, that I was at home rather than at the office when the storms come. It'd be so nice, once in a while, to have a random holiday declared due to inclement weather in Singas.So wrong, but so good: I can't stop staring at Shane, and not Beyonce. And November's here. Just like that. There was a picnic - amidst birthdays, a massive deadline, accidentally discovering a new exitless, signless expressway (which was later revealed to be the new KPE or some other acronym); things have been falling higgledy piggledy out of each day, like apples from a tipped-over basket. Always nice in retrospect to feel like we've been productive and efficient, but hardly ever peachy while we're stuck in it. So. There was a birthday picnic complete with strawberries and bubbly. Thanks, A and J, for arranging this lovely respite. We've not been in the Botanic Gardens in the last five years that I was all amazed by the lovely plants there now. Who looks at plants anymore, these days, I ask, who? Sometimes I amuse and console myself by imagining how life would be like, as a gardener, or a florist. Something botany-related. Would be good for the nerves, methinks, not to mention the environment. A coupl'a weeks back, when we brought Dilly to the vet's for his booster shot, I started talking to this girl who had her very sick cat in its travelling basket. While Dilly was meowing gustily, as if the life of an innocent prisoner depended on it, the other cat's breathing was slow and shallow. "Nothing a jab and some pills can't fix," I'd intoned optimistically to the girl, as if it was some form of encouragement. Her cat was just under 2 years old. After an hour's wait, though amongst ourselves we muttered about this girl and her cat cutting our queue, we learned it had passed on, on the vet's table. The shock and the guilt? I never want to bear that again. It was a sobering experience. I may have tried to pat the girl's shoulder and maybe given it a sympathetic squeeze, but nothing could've brought back her cat. I wonder how she is doing now: it's funny how you strike up a conversation in waiting lines, especially one with shared interests like the vet's, for instance, and go on and on about stories, habits and experiences. And not really get to know the person behind the pet. It is perhaps deemed appropriate to speak about a being that is not yourself in those times. After spending the last weekend in Johor Bahru with my colleagues, there has been a bit of a dengue scare over at my side the past few days. Or Chikungunya. Have been to the doctor's and he's ascertained that it's a viral infection - untreatable by antibiotics. So there's a bug. Inside of me. I've got a new (albeit unwanted) pet. And my insides have become the unsuspecting venue for a battlefield. Being bedridden for the past 4 days has been great. Not. I have experienced the greatest number of hours of sleep I've ever had in my life. Awake for about 3-4 hours each day, it's what my dad calls "payback sleep". I have been pottering about the house and not doing much at all; and I wonder: is this what the life of an invalid is like? Having been a great fan of Susan Coolidge's What Katy Did series in my childhood, I've always held a rather romanticised view of invalids, of being bed-bound, yet patient, gracious and dignified. I've been nothing more than a grouch in the past 4 days, whilst worrying about the [ever growing] pile of undone work sitting on my desk at the office. I've never been this sick in my life, so this is yet another sobering experience. Seems to be an onslaught of sobering experiences recently, in spite of brimming work schedules. I really can't wait for December to come; October and November have proved to be such monsters.Monster taking a keen interest in water flowing from a faucet Though, on principle, I don't give a rat's arse about speed or car racing, I was suitably proud of Singapore for hosting the world's! first! night! race!. Typical, typical; but still, I wouldn't expect any less: c'mon, it's Singapore we're discussing here. One-upping the Joneses as always. With a smile. Hell, with five million smiles amidst a commensurately large amount of greenhouse gas emissions and electricity usage; I was blinded on the way to Suntec the other night. And did I mention, a lot, a lot of noise pollution. My interest in sports - especially noisy ones that involve speed and high levels of testosterone - can be described, at best, as lukewarm. R was, on the other hand, glued to the screen the whole time I was nursing my high pitched engine-induced headache. The kitten worked itself into a yarnball-chasing frenzy fuelled (un)helpfully by the incessant screeching of engines. The kitten - Mine! - has been the bright spark in our lives for the past week now. Dill is the softest and mostly pliant little thing, and I owe last week's worth of dinners at home to him. We do stuff together, me and Dill. This is going to be the start of a beautiful relationship, I hope, I think, I know. He's going to be so spoilt yet so lovable. This arvo, I did something I have no recent recollection of doing: I ordered a bowl of fishball mee-pok on my own. Yes, that means I also ate the whole damned bowl of noodles for lunch - which was, surprisingly, satisfying despite being less so than my usual rice with 3 sides. No, a noodle girl I most certainly am not. Wasn't aware there were noodle options to go with the fishballs; didn't occur to me that soupy noodles would not already be served laced with chilli: the noodle uncle glared with suspicion.Have been loving bicycles lately. This one, from Allan, The Gallant is so. to. die. for. And that dreamy orange one? On ebay, here, for which I may never be the top bidder. Auctions are scary that way - also, I am a wuss that way too. Sony DIME 'Foam City' Making Of from James Lowrey on Vimeo.Foam and bubbles have always captured my attention. In my childhood I once was absentminded enough to suck and ingest detergent through the straw I was supposed to blow bubbles out of. Watching the making of this ad had me enthralled for a good five minutes.There has been an incidence of one overnighter, and one near-overnighter in the space of the past 2 nights at the office. I swear designers can be such masochists sometimes: slaves to their ideals to the point of forgoing their health. And sleep. We trooped back home zombiefied, this afternoon at 4pm, after the boss sent our competition entry to its stipulated submission point. Up to five years ago, I would've weathered these things a lot better. Now I'm just worse for wear. In the last two days, it's been brought to my attention, twice, that my eyes betray the jadedness of my age. How depressing.One consequence of staying up all night: the discovery of Songza (thanks, G), which led to this bloody song getting stuck in my head. Contagious, now I've got S humming it also. The UNIQLOCK music'd been getting on my nerves lately, so it's finally off. Vamooshed. Annihilated. But I really miss knowing what time it is back in Melbs somehow. Odd, coming to think of it; perhaps I've really left a fragment of my heart back there. Might look for some other web application to show me Melbs' time - it's so tiring having to figure out whether daylight savings has ended, or what's two hours after my current time all in my head. It's sad, because I *think* I used to be quite the nimble mental summer. Speaking of mental sums, I was one of those detestable little girls who would guard her answers fiendishly, with a non-math-related exercise book of course, obscuring the answers to the previously given sum. Rather Hermione-ishly, I'd make a concerted effort to lift my head and look attentively at the teacher as soon as my answer was carefully written out. Just so she could be sure that I was ready and confident my answer was indisputably correct. Tsk.Over dinner, E handed over, somewhat unceremoniously, a nondescript-looking package in a white, square MJ Multimedia plastic bag. I reached in, and to my delight, Paprika! We watched it back in Melbs and I loooovvved the procession scene. The soundtrack + the parade = mesmerising. Perhaps this is alluding to something. A thing. A thought I've been nursing for awhile: that I should go back for a visit. My first encounter with the works of Louise Bourgeois was in Second Year, while I was doing research for Herzog and de Meuron's take on Tate Modern. They were deliciously low-key then, which I liked. So. Maman, the 9.1m tall spider, where I'd imagine visitors only ever seeing its underbelly and its spider sacs - sound spidery, whatever they are. This video has put a voice to the remarkable sculptor, whose name's spelling I had been determined to memorise in Junior College.Serendipitiously, I'd found a link (not that I'd been looking hard for it, really) to good ol' Gropius' Manifesto for the Bauhaus movement. Only these days, whenever I think of the word Bauhaus, my mind automatically intones Bela Lugosi's dead. It's funny how, for those poseurs from Archi or Design schools, we start referring to influential (read: widely publicised) Designers as someone we actually know, whether by reference to first names or casual name-dropping. Oh, Rem said such and such. Oh, Mies was blahblahblah. Corbu this and Eames that. The last few days, I have spent my energy designing wardrobes. My virgin attempt at Interior Design has - though I'd never known there'd be such a science to it - taught me some things about heights, width, sliding or hinged doors, and general construction details, etc. While it's nice to be part of a team for realising someone's dwelling - I wonder why they'd entrust such intimate decisions to strangers. Residential interiors should best be made of by its inhabitants in time, rather than to be made by someone else against time.Last Friday, Tan Pin Pin's box set of 3 DVDs was launched at Books Actually. Singapore Gaga, Invisible City and Moving House. I went, and immediately purchased the set because I had been so desperate to watch Singapore Gaga. It was launched while I was away in Melbs. My research, at that time, concerned sights and sounds of the street in Taiwan, Singapore and Melbourne. I had this whole gamut of sound recordings: vendors' street cries, the sound of passing traffic, disembodied voices, blind buskers, alongside hours' worth of video footage of street-related encounters. An incoherent jumble that I have still maintained, until now, as that. Perhaps one day it will come in useful as a soundscape project. Or otherwise. Or perhaps not. My paper has been published. Yay! But at such a price. I don't reckon I've got the makings of an academic researcher or writer. So tiring. How do some people actually enjoy this process of whittling and editing draft after draft? Actually, it may not be such a perverse activity after all, especially when it's self-inflicted. But it may be another age before I actually decide to attend these conferences, the draw of legendary arts festivals notwithstanding. Whoever did this, I want to send you flowers.*wipes tears of happiness*The permutations! Sheer possibilities! The work! Oh! But you MUST feel the guilt for every magazine you chuck away.The designer's Blood! Sweat! Tears! Bile! 3 weeks of all-nighters. That's all it takes to formulate the revamp of a bi-monthly publication with 40 plus years of existence. My temperature, scratchy throat, pounding headaches and a stuffed nose occuring at random times all point to: heatiness. No, I'm not fussed about the onset of auntiedom; desperate times call for heap-til-overflowing amounts of desperate measures.In the past 3 weeks, the world has passed by around me. The Olympics has come and gone; National Day was but a blink of a bloodshot eye; I'd missed the National Day Rally on the telly; I'd only met up once with A who'd returned from Hong Kong for a weekend; my poor old cat died - she'd been poorly for awhile now. And too many things besides. I was looking for a job and then I found a jobAnd heaven knows I'm miserable nowIn my life, why do I smileAt people whom I'd much rather kick in the eye- Morrissey, Heaven Knows I'm Miserable NowTake me out tonight.As I live and breathe, you have killed me.Morrissey is so eloquent.The rain over the weekend was so good. At least we managed to share a bit of that typhoon - I've always wanted to be told to stay indoors because of a blizzard or typhoon. Sadly, it hasn't happened yet. Not in boring ol' 25-32ºC Singas. I saw 4 black cars in a row the other day, on my way to work. Before I could stop myself from drawing references to Mark Haddon's The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, I thought, 'today's gonna be bad'. And it sort of was. Why do I let these signs affect my expectations psychologically?Was chuffed to find a copy of the 2009 IKEA catalogue sitting on my staircase landing last night. Felt a deep furniture-based joy welling up inside.I once stole picked up a yellow button from Spotlight, back in Melbourne. It was on the floor, and away from the usual buttons section. It looked vitage-y, and didn't belong in any of the button canisters. I considered kicking it through the door so I could rightfully morally pick it up outside, but we were too far from the doors. So I bent down, pretended to tie my shoelaces and held on tightly to my newfound treasure.While watching the opening ceremony of the Beijing Olympic Games last night, I felt a glowing pride for my Chinese heritage, if not by sheer default appearances alone, then at least by trying to show an appreciation for my culture's innate elegance and history. The screen of the iMac at my office is so huge I have to physically turn my head from left to right to take in all there is. It makes me appreciate Wilmot's lovely 17-inch screen. Cosy! OMGOMGOMGOMG! Half-Blood Prince trailer's out! This one's a keeper.It's looking mighty fine.Am all excited about it: in 113 days exactly.SQUEEEE~! ♥I 'ma gonna read me them books again. Fangirl becomes me.Oh, and here be some screencaps for closer scrutiny.Good times!