Underneath the mistletoe Written a long time ago and found tonight.I didn’t see him enter. My back was to the door, and I was leaning against the balcony railing, looking down at the passersby - some sober, most not - traipsing along, hand-in-hand or clutching a pint of beer. I tried to spot his familiar stride among them, or his dark mop of hair. Nothing. I tucked a stray wisp of hair behind my ear self-consciously when I thought of the first moment he’d see me. It was far from our first date, but he still sent butterflies fluttering in my tummy. It was the honeymoon stage, and two months later I would hate him with a burning passion, but right then I was slightly antsy, mildly intoxicated, and full of the Christmas cheer. I checked my phone for the gazillionth time, hoping to see a text or missed call. Nothing. “Heya, beautiful.” I turned. How do I describe the moment? Shakira's "Hips Don’t Lie" was pounding in the background. Clusters of clubbers milled at the other end of the balcony, where Oriental-styled lamps on the walls were lit warmly against the scarlet walls and wooden loveseats, and flare after tiny, silent flare of flame flickered and glowed as a clique of smokers in one corner lit their cigarettes. The mingled scent of smoke and perfume was intoxicating. I inhaled, closed my eyes briefly. A flutter of lashes. Opened them, and there he was, standing in the doorway with one hand in his pocket, an eyebrow arched and a sincere half-smile on his face. He looked like heaven. “Hey.” A half-smile of my own. I took a step. He opened his arms. I pounced, squealed his name in delight when he lifted me in the air, both hands on my waist. “Merry Christmas, baby.” He looked me in the eye, then swooped down for a kiss. “Mmm. You’ve been drinking.” I remember giggling, and then pulling him back into the club for a dance. Christmas, I thought, is the best time of the year. Good crazy a softer world. While I'm not blogging Something cute in the meanwhile.Thanks Johnny. The girl-child Madonna “Write me a love haiku.” She demands.Ten minutes pass. Her mobile phone buzzes on her desk, squirming on the sheaf of papers carelessly strewn across the rattling surface.“dainty ingénue,frolic amongst the satin.frame, focus, release”A small smile tugs at her lips as she sees, in vivid detail, the picture he paints; her Humbert Humbert, her Richard Avedon, her Pechorin. Baby won't you call me? In response to a friend’s blog entry.Mind games? Waiting three days to call? Deliberately refraining from replying her texts immediately? Sending mixed signals and appearing aloof? *Whips hand out, palm-front* Nigga please. I can’t be arsed with all that try-hard “treat ‘em mean and keep ‘em keen” rubbish. IMO it all smacks of low self-esteem and psychology as laughably dated as traditional advertising. Texting me immediately after you send me home is a nice way to let me know you sincerely enjoyed my company, and if you don’t ask me out soon, don’t be surprised when I fill my schedule with other interesting things to do with other interesting people instead of sitting around, pining and waiting for your call. Not happening.Any girl worth her salt will appreciate sincere but respectful, i.e. don’t inundate her with floods of texts and calls, but being upfront about your interest is cool. All that waffling and beating ‘round the bush – so, so unnecessary. The girls watch the boys who watch the girls watch the boys who watch the girls go by It’s a quarter past six in the evening and I’m on the MRT from Somerset. The rush-hour crowd is pressed up against me, far too close for comfort – sweaty students and washed out office workers all fucking off home gratefully. I attempt to distract myself from the repugnance by plugging into my iPod, and DobaCaracol does the job for a while, but then my phone rings. “Hello?”The masculine timbre of a low, familiar, intimate voice floods through the line. “Hi, sexy...”I roll my eyes. “Yes, Charles.”He giggles. “Where are you?”“On the train.” I say loudly. Everyone around me is nattering.“What?” Evidently he is somewhere none too quiet as well.“On the TRAIN.” I half-shout, trying to make myself heard over the beeping of the doors-closing alert. “WHY WHERE YOU?”“I can see you.” His low, husky voice replies. He would almost pass off for a psychopath stalker in a B-grade teen slasher, if he was anyone but Charles. I start squirming in the crowd. The people around me look unhappy. I ignore them and stand on my tippy-toes, trying to elevate my 5-foot frame.“I don’t see you!”“I can see you. Stop turning around. You can’t see me from there.”“Where are you going to?”“What?”“WHERE YOU GOING LAH??”The train comes to a shuddering halt at City Hall. Everyone starts shuffling and pushing. I hate Singaporeans, I think to myself, but try my best to keep up. Charles mumbles something that I don’t catch.“What? What? OI. I’m getting off here.”“Oh okay. Where are you going?”“Raffles City. Where are you? Are you still on the train?” I am looking around again, trying to dodge angsty weapon-wielding commuters. LV shoves me on the right and Coach strikes me on the other, and the rest of the herd pushes me in the direction of the escalators.“No.”“So where are you? I can’t see you. Why can’t you just come over here so we can talk face to face?” I step onto the escalator, still scanning the crowd; neck craning, body twisting, toes… tipping.“Stop turning around lah.” He sounds amused.“But where are you??!”“I can see you very clearly, Le Raine.” He sing-songs. I start to laugh.“Just come here so we can talk in person lah!”“Not yet… and stop turning around.”“Where the fuck are you?”“Stop laughing. And stop covering your mouth. And I told you to stop turning around!”I’m laughing and covering my mouth with a hand, still twisting around to look for him. “Where are you? Don’t be an asshole. Why can’t we just talk face to face?”“I’m, like, so close to you lah.”This sets me off. I start turning and turning like a dog chasing his own tail, expecting him to be right behind or beside me, but he’s not – not that I can see anyway.“Where the fuck!” I’m amused and exasperated.“Okay. Le Raine. Do you know why we’re so close?”“Why?” I wail.“Because,” he paused meaningfully. “Our hearts beat as one.”I splutter and collapse into giggles simultaneously. “Shut up!”He starts laughing as well. He’s an incorrigible flirt, and he’s always flirting with me – exaggeratedly. He probably finds my usual deadpan responses amusing, I think, but when it comes to Charles it’s like trying to get into the mind of a 5-year old. Honey, why are you wiping your snot on the wall? Because it’s FUNNIE! *shriek of laughter*“So just come over here lah. Stop bullshitting. Where are you?” I still can’t see him.“Sengkang.”“SENGKANG?!” I explode. “Then what the – what – what – why - ”“See how well I know you?” He bursts into giggles.“You. Are such a fucker.”He responds by guffawing uproariously. I sigh. The rest of the conversation continues in relatively normal fashion, but I can't help feeling relieved I was born with a vagina. A one-way ticket It's nearly three in the morning. Just about time when I should be dancing with my girlfriends, drunk on champagne and the rhapsody of throbbing bass and strobe; heart racing, head spinning, swirling like Alice in Wonderland down the rabbit-hole. But I'm sitting on Paul's bed in the dark, wearing his shirt, inhaling the mingled scents of night and cologne and skin, and I suppose this would be just as delectable a way to be drunk, if I were drunk.I am not.He's lying with his back to me, deeply unconscious, and I wonder what he's dreaming of; I wonder what geeks dream of. "Sexy girls and cyborgs", I imagine he'd say if I asked. "And Apple."I have missed this badly; I have missed staying up during the witching hour, languishing and relishing the stark solitude and sweet, violent fecundity of an eighteen year old's wistfulness - yearning for the places I want to travel to, and people I want to meet, and the things I want to write about, and write well. It's too easy, I think, for an eighteen year old to have dreams, and too dangerous perhaps; certainly it is a precarious balance between romantic, naive ideals and hard-headed realism. And so I write at night, and fall in love, and in between I live on reason and rationality and fully encourage everyone else to, too; with the exception of the odd delightful whimsical weakness. Bubble wrap is mine.I shall always remember these nights in Singapore, even when - when, not if - I am miles away from here. And the thing that freaks me out is I'll always be in doubt If you were just slightly more conscious of your instinctive reactions when interacting with others, you would be so different. It’s incredibly easy to think, “God I hate her, she’s nasty”, and just as easy to act on that dislike, but people hardly ever go on to consciously question the rationale behind their instincts.It feels good, doesn’t it, to allow your emotions to be the authoritative center behind your decisions. But honestly. There are better things you could be doing with your time than bearing irrational grudges. (Arguably, all grudges are irrational, but for explanation’s sake let’s just say, automatically disliking your partner’s exes without having ever known them.) Or spending that extra five minutes thinking of something witty or ultra-intellectual to say to someone you want to impress. Do you really need to? If you’re not going to gain something from it, then for fuck’s sakes stop trying so hard.I know some cool people who trust what they call their gut instinct, and I think we all do on some level. And it’s fine if it usually proves you right. But if it just leads to nothing, except perhaps a shallow sense of self-gratification, then you should probably stop thinking without thinking and realize that you’re just… being pretty fucking dumb, really.Edit: And no, I haven’t read Malcolm Gladwell’s Blink. I probably should, except people keep telling me that it’s shit. Prata man "Teh bing one." I say.He nods. "Eat?""One mushroom egg prata.""Cheese!" He agrees, somewhat aggressively."No cheese! Mushroom egg." I correct."Mushroom one.""Mushroom AND egg.""One mushroom one yegg!""No - mushroom and egg. Together. One.""Mushroom?""Yes. With egg."We both exchange forlorn, bewildered stares."One mushroom..." He tries again tentatively."With egg. Mushroom and egg. Satu."He finally nods in understanding. We get our order all right, but I can't help but think drooling trolls have a more efficient system of communication. Moral absolutism I abhor the idea of moral absolutism.That is not to say I don’t understand or appreciate sacrifice, but I think as long as we try not to hurt anyone else, our morality shouldn’t be questioned. I think everyone should try their best to be happy, and not take it too seriously if someone else’s way to happiness differs from your own plan. Drive back baby to me fast, in your car -----Original Message-----From: Hendrik, Le RaineSent: 16 July 2008 09:29To: Bridger, PaulSubject: RE: Check road code testMy test is on Friday, 6.45pm. I need to study study study tonight. Will you help me?-----Original Message-----From: Paul.BridgerSent: Wednesday, July 16, 2008 9:44 AMTo: Hendrik, Le RaineSubject: RE: Check road code testI will be happy to. I'll need to spend a little time with the iMac, but otherwise I'm yours.The best approach will be to do a montage. Scenes should include:- Paul pacing around living room dramatically, asking questions while LR sits on the floor, Paul throws road code book in frustration- Paul and LR baking "road sign" cookies- Lying on couch, casually flipping through road code, Paul rocking back and forth in foetal position in the corner- Paul and LR getting frisky on the bonnet of someone's car in the carpark- Paul and LR standing in the middle of the road, Paul pointing at various road code offenses "THAT - WRONG! LOOK! WRONG WRONG!" Yup - still preferring awareness "I think we need to talk."It's never good when someone says that. It means, "I'm going to break up with you" or "Your dog gives a great titwank", or, you know, just painful news. It means "Brace yourself".So I did. "What about?" I asked."You. How you've changed, how I can't stand you sometimes.""Okay." I was immensely relieved. So much better to get the gist of things out in the open so I know at least what I'm in for; so I can think about what to say and not start blurting things later I'd really regret. And so, so much better to have the unpleasantness unmasked and shoved in your face with the demand for a solution, instead of leaving the resent to fester and burgeon into all-out hatred.So the confrontation lasted all of 2 minutes, because it turned out to be a misunderstanding - one that could have proved costly if it'd been allowed to be resentfully shoved under the carpet, because it's far too easy to do. It's far easier for relationships to be destroyed by nothing than something, and it's that outcome that I really dread; being left hanging forever after, slowly being engulfed in what-ifs and the excruciating answer of silence. Dead line So I'm talking to Adam, a friend of mine, and he asks if I would want to know the day I'd die.Yes, yes I would. The answer seems obvious to me, and I tell him so. Why? He asks.It's more like, why the fuck not. I'm a planner. I live by lists and checkboxes. Given a deadline - literally - I could plan the rest of my life with so much more ease. Should I get a pet now? Not if I'm gonna kick the bucket within the next month. Etc. I'd die happier knowing that I hadn't wasted my time on pointless bullshit, like watching TV for 5 hours."You're only the second person to say yes," he says. "Most people seem to think that it's wrong and immoral."It's the kind of irrational behaviour I expect from people but don't understand. (Neither does Adam, and our half-hearted speculation did not help.) I can only guess that they think they'd spend every waking second dreading that day, or worse still, that it's unnatural and wrong because it's only for God to know."Weaklings." He said. I didn't disagree."They just choose to be blissfully ignorant."Me, I'd take painfully aware any time. You might have guessed by now Working life is making me an absolute crashing bore. I need to be doing something new, I need to be learning. I want to read, and write - I want to devour books. Fucking piles of 'em, actually - I want to be doing something with my time, something worth my effort. But I'm not, and it's not a good feeling. So tired The reason I haven't been blogging - and you must forgive me - is because I've been so busy. So, so incredibly busy.I used to scoff when people told me they were too busy to do this or that - catch a movie, read a book, meet up with friends - because I always dismissed them as having really weak time managerial skills. But the past few weeks have been hellish.The boyfriend is moving into the same estate, and there has been plenty to do. Furniture shopping, house decorating. Picking out the exact shades and textures for the rug to match with the new sofa, musing over fabrics for curtains, daydreaming about voluptuously magnificent bedlinen... you get the idea. Fun, but exhausting - and that's not including my work life. "Exhausting" doesn't quite cut it. Work drains me. The hours I've been doing are just ridiculous. I shit you not.When I get off work nowadays I just want to go home, or have a quiet drink with B because I'm too tired and upset to socialize or be happy. On the weekends we shop for household stuff, and I spend time with my family. I haven't seen my friends in a while and I miss them sorely - it's a deep kind of longing to just.. chill. Do stuff together. B has been very sweet and tolerant of my work stress and moodiness, but man, fuck, I miss my life. Miss stretching out by the pool and drowning in the sun, having rapidfire Singlish conversations about fuckall with friends, sitting in bed and reading during the witching hour. Now all I think about is work, furniture, gaining weight from sitting behind a desk all day, my suffering complexion, and how loathingly self-pitying I am.I'm tired. I just want to get out of the office, have tea and read a little. And there will be moaning and gnashing of teeth Three in one afternoon. I'm on a roll here.Anyway, not an actual post post. Was reading this by the good doctor and trying not to laugh too hard. You do realize, don't you, that Jesus doesn't love you anymore? (I fully agree with you, though)Crab people. Craaaaaaab people! Sniper Eng It says something, doesn't it, that I've been here 2 months now and the only time I've really laughed while in the office is when I read a close friend's blog:"My bulimic days are back, and I'll throw up on anyone who tries to stop me."Sweetheart. In case your willpower wavers and you start to seek justification to start living a bit healthier - I love you, remember, cuddly or not. The beatific banyan tree Metaphors are brilliant and wonderful and are a form of poetry all on their own. They put everything into perspective and make you appreciate situations and people in a way you would never have realised and when you do you want to fall on your knees, stricken and humbled by the beautiful, artful vastness of word-painting. I love Singapore Loyalty -- as much (if not more) a defense mechanism at work as a display of allegiance and/or love. Note to self When I am in some foreign country years from now, either hating or loving my new life, I must remember when I was walking in Singapore in the blazing heat, listening to Blondie and Roxette and Joan Jett.I must remember when I smiled secret smiles to myself whenever I thought of something funny. When I turned heads and silently flirted with good-looking strangers. When I read everywhere I went and danced nonstop for hours. And when I was in love for the first time in my life. I must remember when I was all of eighteen years old and really quite happy. 510 <3 The glass doors slid open quietly and I stepped through, relieved to be leaving the office building. It was almost 11pm, and I was bone-weary. My eyes hurt from staring at a computer screen for hours, my skin yearned for a good rub of moisturiser and my body demanded a shower just a few degrees short of scalding. I needed to go home.The cab was waiting. I got in next to the driver, buckled up and let out a sigh - the soul-deep appreciation kind. The driver chuckled."Work so late..." he smiled, and I detected compassion and amusement in his tone."Yah lor. 14 hours leh, Uncle.""Wah! And I thought I work long hours... ha! Ha!"I smiled a small, polite small. I wasn't interested in conversation. I wasn't interested in pretending to be interested in someone else."Nowadaaay..." He paused; a painful punctuation to his wretched grammar. "..Singaporean all workaholic. Ha! Ha! Haaaii...." He trailed off in an amused, eloquent sigh, fluently local in its resignation and faint sneer of self-mockery and pity. I knew it well, all Singaporeans know it well. "What to do. That's life." *That* sigh.I obliged the conversation on the same vein. "What to do. Client want is client want lor." I heaved a competitively gusty sigh of my own.He glanced over. "You must be very tired ah, Miss.""Of course.""No more life ah... ha! Ha!""Ha ha," I responded weakly. "Wake up, go to work, come home, go to bed, wake up, go to work...""Cannot like that lah... we need to get enough sleep you know. If not, very jia lat one. Need to recharge our body.""Weekend lor..""Ha! Ha! Weekend is very precious hor? But recharge halfway oso, suddenly our friend jio us out... Maybe go for a drink. Recharge halfway, oso must go.""Yah." I mumbled."But, must lah. If not, no so-sher life, oso cannot lah. Hor?""Ah. Yah.""But, a few friend can already lah. No need so many. Got no time to ennertain all oso. One or two good friend, can last you for life, good enough lah!" He smiled peaceably.I agreed wholeheartedly. Wise words, I thought in the brief silence. I must remember that.And so. Just in case I don't get to meet you this weekend - I love and miss you Bibi, intensely so. I am really happy that we're best friends, and I intend to keep you for life. Here's to you, us, and a fuckload of fun years ahead. Happy 19th :) With much ado The first time he'd invited me over to his apartment it was under the amusingly flimsy, universally clichéd pretext of watching a DVD.We both knew what it really meant and his lack of originality drew from me a sardonic smile, but acquiesence. (Much later when I brought up his modus operandi he defended himself: "At least that way we both really knew what was being suggested, which is infinitely better than a nasty surprise at the movies when you suddenly realize, "OMG! He's got his hand up my skirt!")So I went. And we did watch a DVD - to his credit, one that was actually worth watching and not a B-grade horror film he could pretend to be so bored by that he'd fall asleep and "accidentally" have his head lolling over to rest on my tits - and had tea. It was fairly awkward. I remember sitting in his living room - sparsely upholstered with black leather and glass and white walls, all minimalist and masculine. And I, 5 feet nothing, a hundred pounds, felt terribly conspicuous.We discussed the movie, all polite inquisivity and chaste intellect, sitting side by side on his sofa (whose rips I noticed with another sardonic quirk of the lips), knees barely touching in the dark while I stole sidelong glances at his slim, denim-clad frame and wondered, what's going to happen, and how?The suspense was deliciously wracking. I wondered if he was going to make a move at all - certainly he hadn't displayed any sign of physical attraction - not even an intentionally casual arm around my shoulder - and in fact seemed much like a perfectly honorable gentleman who simply wasn't interested in how I looked. The movie stretched on and we watched in perfunctory, uncomfortable silence, keeping to our boundaries like the well-disciplined, socially-groomed creatures we strained to be -- while mentally (though I speak only for myself) we were engaged in delightful debauchery, shredding decency and the damned inhibitions and being finally able to just, you know, chill.It's so much easier to hang out with someone you're seeing after you've both seen each other naked - thoroughly liberating, really. When it finally happened - not that night, as it turned out - I murmured into his chest, "You know, it's the intimacy that I've missed most." Just being close to someone. It felt so right. And he knew what I meant, and agreed. Live and learn sany says:wears a ler wig and pretends to be ler with the blank expression '_'Le Raine says:my face doesnt look like '_'sany says:your blank expression does!!!sany says:ler with '_' : hmmm... (turns to look at you) what?sany says:then if you tell ler with '_' something, she will most probly do either asany says:' . 'sany says:orsany says:' 'v You mess with my food, you mess with me So I was at Starbucks with B this evening, and we had between us a coffee and a slice of cheesecake."I can't finish this," I said morosely. "I shouldn't have ordered it."He took a large bite. "Blah blah blah." he replied. His response was insignificant."Blah blah." So was mine at that point in time. "Do you need to go grocery shopping," I think I asked. I took another small bite and passed the fork."Yes." He said. "Pasta stuff.""Okay." I mumbled absently.He picked up the fork and - like watching a car crash before my eyes, with time slowing by infinite heartbeats and his motion as excruciating as the flow of thick syrup - mashed the rest of the cake. Thoroughly. All over the plate. Squish squish squishy. With nonchalance, or maybe relish. I only remember staring at it in undisguised shock and dawning horror.It seems exceedingly trivial and my reaction exaggerated, but not to anyone who's watched me eat. I have a slightly obsessive compulsion to have my food eaten neatly, and it drives me a bit insane to have it messed up. I seriously don't give a fuck if no one else shares that preference, but I like my plate to be.. organized. Neat. Pristine, if I could have it that way. I'm by no means a neat freak, it's just a quirk of mine.I started spluttering helplessly and giggling anxiously. It was stupid and bizarre, and I knew I was overreacting, but it was too late. He'd triggered something and it snapped and I was going a bit berserk. It took him about five minutes to calm me down considerably, and even then only after he'd covered the offensive sight with layers of napkins. "I d-d-don't l-l-l-like it!" I cried. "I-i-it u-up-s-s-sets meee!" Okay, he quickly said, his mouth twitching uncontrollably, trying to hide a smirk. Okay, I won't do it again.So yeah. Crazy episode. I usually don't get ruffled easily and I've never been like that, even during my period. Fucking weird. Really should not be blogging in the office, but ..am having a remarkably fine day, so far. In to the office early, sit through a staff meet, get all the morning's paperwork and the vital cup of tea done and down, and then I log on to MSN. An IM from Sarah almost immediately:"GOOD MORNING PRETTY PEA"A flurry of loving emoticons follow. Hearts, flowers, rainbows. We chat for a bit and then I leave for lunch with the bf (his office building is v. near mine. Yay for rich corporations).Ace start of the week. All is going well. Hell has a reception desk I have a strong suspicion I will not enjoy my internship. Thus far it has been - all three days of it - somewhat unsatisfactory. Stiflingly dull, actually; largely owing to the fact that I haven't been hurled into the insanity out of compassion for my fumbling inexperience. Yet. The cheer and smirks with which my colleagues assure me that will not be the case for long though, definitely does not bode well. I am expecting many late nights spent huddling over my nondescript desk, feverishly attempting to sort out mountains of paperwork and snorting freshly-ground coffee beans to stave off panic attacks."Why did you choose PR?" is a question I get from my colleagues rather often, and the curiosity lies in their curiosity, like they are genuinely baffled. Save yourself while you can, child, their tired looks seem to say. This is no place for an innocent. Erase and rewind "I haven't replied him." I remember telling Daniel listlessly."Don't. He doesn't deserve the closure." He'd replied, rolling his eyes."You're right." I'd agreed softly. "You're right."But I'd forgotten that I, too, needed my closure, and I'd underestimated my need. Being left hanging in emotional limbo was downright depressing, to say the least - vacillating violently between self-flagellation and self-righteous rage, smiling with the spurious mirth of someone who's struggling not to cry. That sort of thing. I was very unhappy and I desperately wanted it to end.Ten minutes ago, I got the closure I needed - and when I did, I realized I didn't really need it so much anymore. There was no huge sense of relief, or any moral triumph to claim. That's it, that's all there is to it. And it's not made a difference. Because without me really noticing, I've actually became a happier girl. I love my friends, I've got a totally cool family, I'm keeping in decent shape, I'm excited about my upcoming internship, and most of all, I'm starting to fall in love - with someone who's got insecurities and imperfections of his own, but who is brilliant, sweet, funny, and patient with me, which I appreciate a lot more than I let on. Everything is falling into place, and it is this realization that provides more closure than anything else ever could. Mysteries unraveled Discoveries made today:Sakae, as in Sakae Sushi, is pronounced Sa-kah-yee, or Sa-kah-yay.Fung, as in Din Tai Fung, is pronounced Foe-ng.Yet to decipher:inuoviKaneboL'OccitaneIkeaMarcianoEtc.The list would be a lot longer but I'm too sleepy to compile a proper one right now. Now spring is turning For the longest time I have felt sorry for people who aren't romantics - in much the same way religious folks must feel pity for atheists - because they will never appreciate beauty the way romantics - myself included - do. Does that seem appallingly arrogant? It must, and it probably is too, but I cannot think of any way to be all PC about it. Forgive me, and my gracefully sidestepping the almost necessary delving into philosophical bullshit about the (flogged-to-death debate on the) definition of beauty and how to appreciate it, etc.By 'romantic' I don't mean starry-eyed fucker agonizing over how best to demonstrate his love with sweet little gestures. It's a state of mind, not a motive. Romantics romanticize the most trivial and ordinary of details, and beauty (as a result of their romanticism) is more likely to evoke a strong emotional reaction in them as compared to a stoic non-romantic, which is when I suppose we agree that they have a "better" or "deeper" appreciation of beauty.Yet a recent remark from B struck (as well as amused) me. "Mathematical proofs," he declared, "are beautiful." And it makes sense, because it is definitely possible to appreciate beauty - albeit in a vastly different way. E.g. a romantic and a non-romantic could look at a tree in winter, and the former would appreciate the way its branches swayed in the breeze, gently shaking off little piles of snow, while the latter would appreciate the evolution of the tree to survive on its own in the given conditions. Similarly for, say, symmetry - aesthetic appeal and admiration of geometrical precision could both be beautiful.So then we come back, full-circle, to the definition of beauty - but that's better left to the philosophers. I'm just good for meandering blog entries. Sexy talk "Do you have any secret endearments for B that you're willing to reveal?""No, it's all very common. "Baby", "Honey", etc. There's really not much a girl can use, it all sounds so girly and it'd emasculate him, like "Sugar", "Sweetie pie"... he can get all inventive though." And I secretly wish he would, just because his accent guarantees he won't sound like a complete twat. Singaporean guys, for example, cannot make "darling" sound remotely loving. It's all wrong. It just does not roll off the tongue nicely when spoken in a Singaporean accent. When B whispers it in his refined British accent, I experience a delicious little shiver of pleasure. Oh my god aural stimulation is so vital."Lies! There are MANY! Like-""They all sound so girly!""-you mini Rambo wannabe with overflowing mojo jojo.""That's more amusing than loving! And I can't call him that in bed, like "Oh God yeah mmm... you mini Rambo etc!"""Hahaha. Who says you can't? You haven't tried!""I think he'd just stop and stare, aghast. "Wot??"""Then you will smirk at him, with supreme confidence and smartassness, and push his head towards your THINGY-" At this point I break out into uncontrollable sniggering. "-and say, "Shut up and continue. You mini Rambo with overflowing mojo jojo.""