Hash browns The next time I hear someone say HARSH brown instead of HASH browns, I am going to grab his head, stick it in a pot of boiling hot oil and fry it to a crisp.Why do people not READ?Why do people make up letters and stick them randomly wherever they feel like it?HASH browns. Not harsh brown. A harsh brown is a kind of brown that is unpleasant in manner. I don't know about you, but I'm not sure something like that exists.Neither is it hush brown. Unless you happen to be addressing your friend, Mr Brown, and saying, "Hush, Brown."Otherwise, the fried oily shit that comes with your Big Breakfast at McDonalds? Those are fricking HASH browns. Sugarcoated truth Please don't make excusesIf you want to, you can.If you want to, you would. Shopping So I was out the other day after work, and after having waited by the curb for 15 minutes without much luck getting a cab home, I decided to pay the nearby mall a short visit to see if there was anything worth spending on.I didn't think I'd buy very much. It was 15 minutes to closing time - what could I possibly buy in that short time. But I walked into Mango and saw a really nice brown leather jacket that would look so cool with jeans, especially in the middle of an colourful American autumn. And then, just as I was going to check out at the cashier, I saw another lovely denim jacket that I tried on as well. It fit perfectly - managed to go all the way across my boobs while still sitting tight against my waist, leaving me little choice but to conclude that since a denim jacket would look really nice with black boots, especially in a mild American winter, I just had to have it as well. So I bought the leather jacket and the denim one, trying not to cringe at the green flashing numbers in the cash register that were yelling at me to cough up 450 of what was still left in my fast disappearing stock of Singapore dollars.I walked out, feeling very poor. But then I realised that while the denim jacket would indeed look nice with a pair of black boots, I remembered my only pair of black boots had been worn to shreds during those weeks in Copenhagen and Paris. So I walked into my favorite shoe shop, conveniently located just next to Mango, hunting for a dark charcoal pair of knee-high boots. I saw one with sufficiently high heels, grabbed it from the display shelf and tried it on. It was very painful, not comfy at all, but I didn't care because the heels were four inches high, the black was shiny but not patent, and the top part of the boots hugged me snug right around the calfs. So I brought the black boots to the cashier, tried not to think about the $200, and made my third purchase in a space of 15 minutes.Now, I am sitting at home, trying my best to exhibit self control and discipline and stop myself from going out shopping again this afternoon. And yet, all I can think about is how complete my autumn/winter wardrobe would be if only I had another pair of brown boots.XY, save me. Please More thoughts So do you remember that milkshake we shared on The Peak? We waited in line for hours just to ride the tram to the top. When we got inside, you insisted on sitting in front to get the best view. You're such a typical tourist, you know that? You're the kind who'll buy useless souvenirs and keychains and fridge magnets just because. So easy to make a quick buck off of you.Anyway, all I could think about was what if something went wrong and the train went rolling, hurtling, flying down the 45-degree steep hill. Would it be worse to be on top and risk slamming into the metal poles as the tram crashed to the bottom, or worse to be at the bottom and risk being buried underneath a pile of bodies in a myriad shapes and sizes? I think you were busy looking out the window and taking pictures, trying to get the best angle and the best light.The view of the Hong Kong skyline was nothing fantastic - just bright neon lights and buildings is all. And I was so cold out there in the open with the wind beating against me and threatening to blow my nose off my face. I don't know why you wanted to stay there so long. What was there to see? But you were taking photos, and more photos, and you didn't quite want to go inside.When we did, I went off to buy Godiva chocolates and you got us a Hagan Daz Belgian Chocolate milkshake. That was the best milkshake I'd ever had. They really do it better in Hong Kong, don't you think? I haven't had anything like it in Singapore.And I wish we were still back there. In Hong Kong, in Macau, in Shanghai, in Noosa, in Maroochydore, in Copenhagen... because even if it was already all a lie back then, at least I didn't know.I don't know why I've been recalling all these little moments lately. Maybe it's because I'll be gone soon. I know it'll take little short of a miracle for us to be good again, and with my departure, well, I guess it's really going to take a miracle.I can't trust you when I'm gone. It's already so hard to trust you now, what more when I'm thousands of miles away in a different time zone. When I sleep you wake, when you wake I sleep. And anyway, you won't even be home most of the time.Perhaps we should say goodbye for good. Perhaps it really is the end this time. Can you see a future with me? When I remain your dirty little secret and you remain mine? Perhaps we should part ways when things are good as they are now; I do not want the drama again.Then again, I do not know what I want. I am so afraid. I have never been so lost in my life.Do something. Please. I need you to do something. Anything. Just something. Thoughts So I sometimes wonder what you think about at night, just before you drift off to sleep. I wonder if you think about me; I wonder if you think about us.I think about you. I think about you alot. Some of it is good. Some of it is bad. But mostly, when I think about you, I get scared. My imagination goes crazy places it shouldn't go. It drives me to the point of neurosis, makes me chew my fingernails and nibble on skin. It brings out the obsessive and the compulsive in me, sends me into what-if fits, and leaves me shaking in a deep, dark place I wish I didn't know.I try to think of the good things that make you, you. I think about Okinawan mangoes and winey grapes fresh from Japan. I analyse the things that you do over and over, reassure myself that there's nothing to analyse, then I start skipping around in mental circles because I go stark, raving mad thinking what if you called only because you wanted to do something else later on, only to wonder a few moments after what if you didn't call because you were already doing something else then.What if I got grapes because she got pears? Are grapes better than pears? If grapes are better than pears, does it matter that I didn't get the pears too? And what if pears are better than grapes? Why then did I even get grapes at all since you still want to give her pears? Were there pears in the first place? And even if there were no pears from the start, did you then give her grapes too?I try to imagine happy things and a happy us. I try to pretend that all the good things that happen to my friends in their sickening smiling Facebook photos could happen to me. I try to make myself believe that you could make those good things happen to me.Like maybe you'd catch a plane and surprise me with a visit in New York. Or that maybe one day after we fight, you'd appear at my door just to tell me everything is okay and that you still love me anyway. Or that you'd finally put up happy pictures of us to show the world. Or that you'd bring me along to meet your friends. Or that you'd want to keep a photo of my silly face in your wallet. Or that one day you'd wear that chain again without me asking. Or that you'd bring me back to Brissy like you said you wanted to.But I know you're just not that kind of guy. You just say a lot of things, but you don't actually do them in the end. You're just not that kind of person. And even if you are, I guess I know I'm the not the girl who'll make you want to do those things.I know I shouldn't love you. I know I shouldn't care. I know how bad you are for me, but I still love you anyway. That's love isn't it? That no matter how silly, stupid, dumb, and fucked you're going to be, you can't help feeling the way you do.Love. You all still think it's worth it? Gaiman? I’m not a fan of fiction and I’ve never been a fan of fantasy. But I was just randomly surfing and chanced upon what I thought was an incredibly clever quote:“Life is a disease: sexually transmitted and invariably fatal”- Neil GaimanMakes me want to pick up a copy of American Gods or browse through The Sandman series and see if he’s really worthy of all that hype. Peeved So you may be under the mistaken impression that you are a writer or a literature snob with a perfect command of the language just because you are fond of using words with more than three syllables. But if you cannot get your subject verb agreement right, do not know how to use subordinating conjunctions properly, or simply do not use your brain, then please, please, do not sully the reputation of real writers and literature fans who have more than just an artificial appreciation of the language.1) because a noun does not end with the letter S does not mean it isn't plural. So it's "a tooth has", but "teeth have". NOT "teeth has".2) Adverb clauses, which are introduced by subordinating conjunctions such as "although", "before", "in order' or "because", cannot stand alone. They have to be connected to an independent clause. They cannot dangle.Subordinating conjunctions are more than just pretty things you stick to the beginning of a sentence just to look smart. They don't automatically make your sentences flow.So you can say, "In order to correct someone's English, my grammar must first be sound." But you cannot say "in order to correct someone's English" and end the clause abruptly there with a fullstop because... WTF, would that make any sense?3) Just because you don't pronounce all your consonants and enunciate your words correctly doesn't mean you should stop using your brain when you write."Worse comes to worst" makes sense.But "Worse comes to worse" does not make any shit sense at all.You don't need to attend an English Language 1101 class to know all this. You don't need to know all the proper terms like subordinating conjunctions and adverb clauses. If you have at least a decent command of the language, you shouldn't even need to think about all this (and while I'm at it, it's "all this", not "all these". "All this" is short for "all of this.") It should come naturally and instinctively.If not, please don't attempt to correct my grammar. Instead, please go to your nearest English language library, pick out a book and start reading. And read and read and read until you know it all. Rant So there is this nitwit at my workplace who insists on conversing at the top of his voice in extremely crass, irritating, sing-song Hokkien. Even worse, the rest of the morons who cannot differentiate between an office and a marketplace are only too happy to follow suit.I am sitting at my area, trying to shut out the nasal tones and vulgar, inappropriate announcements about what he's going to do in the fricking toilet or how many times he farted this morning.All this is making my brain rot. I can feel it disintegrating into liquid jelly inside my skull. And everytime I hear the nitwit open his mouth while rubbing his round hippopotamus belly at the same time, I feel like stabbing him straight in the eye with my four-inch Aldo heel.I have my fair share of Hokkien moments too. But there is a time and place for everything. There is no need to converse in market language when discussing concepts, designs, and sales pitches. Especially not when I have pages of copy to edit and even more pages of copy to write.I cannot write when you are shouting in Hokkien. And for Christ's sake, what's the fucking problem with speaking in English? This is a publishing company. We publish coffee table books and magazines; We create smart marketing communications solutions with clever copy. We are not in the business of writing songs for the damn ko tai.Some discretion, some manners, some civility and some CLASS please. I want to feel safe So I remember that moment. We were down in Surfer's Paradise and you pulled the car to a stop because you wanted to feel the breeze, take a walk along the beach and watch the waves underneath the night sky. I didn't want to get down because I was tired from all that running around and climbing stairs at Wet n Wild. Also, the air was chilly outside and I knew I couldn't take the cold.But still I didn't say anything when you stopped the car. And I got off, took your hand and walked beside you towards the water. I didn't want to be a bore. I wanted to be that fun, happy, full-of-energy girl that I thought you wanted me to be. So I dutifully followed you, ignoring the goosebumps forming on my arms and legs, clenching my teeth so they wouldn't make clattering noises in the middle of that quiet night.And then you put your arms around me and you felt how cold I was. You turned around and blocked me from the wind swooping in towards the shore. You're cold, you exclaimed. Why didn't you say anything, silly girl. You rubbed your hands up and down my arms in a futile attempt to quickly warm me up, and then you hurried me back to the car.That was the last time that I felt safe. I miss that feeling. I miss knowing that you'll always be there for me. I miss knowing that you love me. So thank you for Cinnabons and Krispy Kremes, and stroopwafels and chokotoffs. And thank you for yesterday's sweet, sweet mangoes. You say you're trying. Perhaps you are. But if there's one thing you can do for me, then please, please. Please make me feel safe again. Mango So I'd never in my life tasted a mango so sweet before. Its smooth, shiny skin was a pretty powder pink, but inside it was a brilliant, flaming yellow. And as I cut the fruit in three and peeled away its skin, its pregnant flesh spilled honeyed juice that trickled gently down my knife. I could taste the sweetness of the fruit even before a piece had touched my lips, and when I finally licked its liquid sugar off my sticky fingers, I knew I would never have enough. Longest time The giggling in the middle was a little irritating, but who agrees with me how cool this is!If you know me well enough, you'll know that scrawny men aren't exactly my type. I like my men broad, stout and brown; better broad than tall, better a little untoned than bony. But for some strange reason, I kinda like that small, skinny, skin-as-white-as-snow little guy in black (the one who slaps the fat guy's ass). Panic So you know what's really shitty? The whole world around me is getting married and having babies. They have found their perfect other-halfs and they're all going on disgustingly decadent honeymoons to Seychelles and Turkey and Iceland. Everybody is planning evening gowns and dinner menus and buying homes and shopping for furniture. Nobody wants to meet for drinks and a night out in town anymore because they are all at home watching television with Mr Hubby who buys home liang teh and mangosteens to eat with the family.Either that, or my once girlfriends have turned into power-hungry bitches who have worked hard enough to make their way up to sit right on top of the food chain and crush everyone else below. They are directors and regional managers and investment bankers and lawyers. They might not have family, but career-wise, it's probably hard to beat them at what they do.And here I am. Wondering what I'm going to do when my money runs out after this super not-practical long trip across-the-USA, still clueless as too how long the pittance I'm gonna get writing travel stories to fund this holiday is going to last. I am unconcerned with position and title and what's going to happen with my life, where I will end up ten years, five years or even one year from now. I know a masters program in creative writing is not going to get me a good job that brings in money; at most I'll end up a grumpy academic or a struggling Asian writer in an ang moh country. I do not know how to drive. I am so bad at planning that I pay a fortune in late fees for my credit card bills.I do not have a steady boyfriend. Yet I am not single (or am I?). I tell myself love is a piece of shit, yet I crave it so badly I smell its scent swirling about in my nostrils every day. I want it. Yet, maybe I don't. Then again, I want it, but I tell myself I don't. Actually, that's not it either. I want it, but I don't know anyone who wants it like I do.I am fucking 30 years old. I need a husband. Need kids. Need money. Need direction in my life. I need something. And yet I feel I don't have anything. I will be 50 years old in 20 years. And even then I bet I'll still be a lost soul, wandering about on this earth, wondering why the fuck I am still the way I am.I need safety. I need security. Where do I find those? Tell me?I need to get married. Please please, someone. Marry me. Please. Domesticate me and make me a little housewife who cooks, cleans, knits and sews. I Don't Wanna Get Over You "I don't want to get over you. I guess I could take a sleeping pill and sleep at will and not have togo through what I go through. I guess I should take Prozac, right, and just smile all night at somebody new. Somebody not too bright but sweet and kind who would try to get you off my mind. I could leave this agony behind which is just what I'd do if I wanted to, but I don't want to get over you cause I don't want to get over love. I could listen to my therapist, pretend you don't exist and not have to dream of what I dream of; I could listen to all my friends and go out again and pretend it's enough, or I could make a career of being blue--I could dress in black and read Camus, smoke clove cigarettes and drink Vermouth like I was 17 that would be a scream but I don't want to get over you."- Magnetic Fields Love So you ask me if love is worth it? No, no. Love is not worth it. Love is not worth it if you love the way I do. It sticks a million pins in your heart, stabs it relentlessly over and over and over, robs you of your sanity, of logic, of security. It makes you crazy, stupid crazy, willing to take risks no normal person would. It makes you willing to plunge into an abyss so deep you wouldn't give a damn even if you would never crawl out of it alive. It makes you disregard your friends, your family and people who care about you because you no longer care about them, and the only thing that really matters in your breaking, hurting, aching, bruised, battered, bleeding heart is who you love, and why they will not care, why they don't give a damn, even when you are ready to give up the world, your world, everything in the world just for them to love you back the way you do.Love? Love is a piece of shit. Don't love. It's not worth it.If you would give me choice and turn back time so I could decide my life...I'd never love again.I'd rather die. Wishful thinking So sit with me for just awhile. Sit with me a little longer. Because each time I feel a little safer, I watch you walk away again.Once you held my hand. And then, you suddenly let it go. So now that I've put it back in yours, please, please. Please don't let it go.Please stay with me with this time. Please stay just a little longer. I don't want happy hellos or sad goodbyes.I just want the sweetness in between. I just want my happy ever after. Conversation with a friend [15:05] Back from Madrid. Sleep please!: hmm, but are you happy?[15:05] DiDa: well[15:05] DiDa: i am happy[15:05] DiDa: but sad[15:06] DiDa: also cos i donno if there's still a future[15:06] DiDa: after all, i am still going away[15:06] DiDa: and i do sense that some things have changed[15:06] DiDa: but i cannot be sure[15:06] DiDa: and even if i give up the US for him, what does he have to offer me?[15:06] DiDa: will he marry me?[15:06] DiDa: don't think he's ready to. not sure if i want to. so there's nothing concrete to ensure any sacrifice on my part will not be in vain. if i sacrifice, i take another risk. AGAIN. everything is for me to lose.[15:06] DiDa: can i guarantee he will no longer cheat?[15:06] DiDa: no[15:07] DiDa: can i guarantee he will be faithful to me?[15:07] DiDa: i can't[15:07] DiDa: can i take it?[15:07] DiDa: i'm not sure. i'm surprised at the punishment that I've been able to stomach--all this without much anger. i have willed myself to feel more than just despair and sadness. but anger... anger is elusive. i do not know why.[15:07] DiDa: can i trust him again?[15:07] DiDa: i don't know[15:07] DiDa: is he trying?[15:07] DiDa: maybe in his own way, but i don't know if it's enough to convince me[15:08] Back from Madrid. Sleep please!: well, u probably know all the common questions so i won't ask them[15:09] DiDa: yeap[15:09] Back from Madrid. Sleep please!: u are battling betwwen reality and yr emotions[15:09] Back from Madrid. Sleep please!: only u can tell me the ending[15:09] DiDa: yep[15:10] Back from Madrid. Sleep please!: the rest of the world awaits to hear yr story[15:12] DiDa: well, i donno whether i'm being naive[15:12] DiDa: or dumb[15:12] DiDa: or still in denial[15:13] Back from Madrid. Sleep please!: neither, you're in love Pyscho So maybe you think it's cute or something, but when I consistently ignore your "hellos" on msn and refuse to pick up your phonecalls or respond when you text me, it simply means that I do not give a shit about you and that I find you immensely annoying. It also means that the more you "hello" and "what's up"and "I haven't heard from you," the more you will turn me off and instead of simply ignoring you, next time I might actually decide to INSULT you.Christ. I go out for coffee with you just ONCE a long time ago, and you think you own me. There is a reason why the coffee happened only ONCE. There is a reason why I keep cancelling on dinners. There's a reason why I tell you I'm staying home, but you still see me at Butter anyway- only I'm with someone else, and the person is not you.So stop nudging me every 10 minutes. Stop making my phone ring and ring and ring till my battery goes flat. Stop trying to trick me into answering by using different numbers to call. Stop leaving weird messages on my Facebook and popping up on my msn window 24/7. Stop asking where I am. Stop texting. Stop calling.Who the fuck are you? My boyfriend?I don't even consider you a friend. DiDa makes it a point not to have irritating friends with names that begin with SAI. If I do not respond to your desperate attempts to make contact, get the hint already. I am engrossed in more important things - like giants and jellybeans.Please get a life. If not, then just go and fucking die. Where the hell is Matt? So I know you've probably seen this a million times already. But it's such a beautiful video I couldn't help putting it up here for the benefit of those of you who haven't.This video makes me happy even when I feel like crying.Go check out his other vids.And, Matt, if you're reading, WILL YOU MARRY ME? Magic Faraway Place So the gentle giant said goodbye. Fee fi fo fum, fee fi fo fum. And he strode off underneath a laughing sun, sprinkling magic dust as he passed. He stopped by the beanstalk not too far ahead, then shielding his eyes from the golden rays of mirth that floated down from above, he turned his head back for a final glance.There was something gentle in his face, a tiny grin beneath his squint. Then, he dug into his pocket with his giant palms and grabbed a bunch of jellybeans in every shade and hue. And Chicken Little saw them fall, heavy drops of red and green and pink and blue. Oh, it has to be the sky, thought the silly chick out aloud. The sky is falling on my head and painting my feathers red and green and pink and blue.But then Chicken Little looked up from her peasant place below and saw a magic beanstalk rising up above. Fee fi fo fum, fee fi fo fum, whispered the gentle giant, and then he chuckled, laughed and dropped more coloured jellybeans below. Feathers ruffled, yellow beak open in disbelief, Chicken Little squawked and watched the giant climb the stalk. It looked to lead way up high past cotton clouds, through the earth's blue-tinged ceiling into a fairytale - a fairytale she wasn't sure existed in this land at all The way it is So I’d seen it from the corner of my eye, winking and beckoning for me to take a taste. It was pretty enough to stand out from the crowd, of course, and it had a fancy name that suggested there was plenty more behind its cool exterior. I’d never liked chocolate that wasn’t dark and bitter, and this one here was white chocolate mouse with passion fruit gelee and summer berry compote. I suppose I wouldn’t ordinarily have bothered with it at all, but there it was, sitting immaculately on my plate and tempting me to lick its soft, pale yellow cream.I reached out with my dessert spoon and scooped up a little of its wobbling flesh. And then I kissed it off the shiny metal and let the sour sweetness sit and settle slowly on my tongue. It wasn’t half bad at all, for sure. I think I liked it quite a bit. But as its sweetness faded into nothingness, I wasn’t sure if I would remember it for long. There was nothing wrong with passion fruit, of course. In fact, it was very pretty, extremely tasty, and to top it off, it was mighty sweet. But in the back of my head I still craved the dark and dangerous: bitter alcohol-spiced chocolate sauce oozing like molten lava from rich, brown chocolate fondant. Pandora's visit So a stranger stopped by to visit yesterday. I had never in my life seen her before, but she knew all about me, it seemed—she even knew my Chinese name. She was a little scary when she first arrived. Her hair was raven black and slick with oil, and styled to stick out in pointy spikes at the sides. Her eyes were darker than her hair, framed by sticky kohl lids and a glittery shadow in Prussian blue. I couldn’t help staring at her pale and powdered face and the cold, cold whiteness of her skin. And when she began to speak, the voice that came from within her muddy lips was nothing short of ominous to me.They call me Pandora, she said. You should know me well. I looked at her a tad afraid, for I had no recollection of meeting this creature ever before. And there she stood in front of me, in her ghoulish make-up and shiny leather pants claiming I knew her well. Hello, Pandora, I said, trying to be friendly. I’m really sorry if it’s been otherwise, but I don’t believe we’ve met before. She rubbed her lips with blackened nails and I saw the chains of rusted silver twisted tight around her fingers, the noise of clanging metal creating disharmony in my ears. Perhaps you never noticed who I was, she said. But you can bet I’ve come by your home before.Since when, I asked. Since when? And she brushed my questions right aside, ignoring my curious pleas. It’s all over. It doesn’t matter anymore, she said. Despite my good intentions, nobody likes me anyway. I felt bad because it seemed I’d wronged a friend, so I pat her on the shoulder and I asked if she’d like to come in.Then just like that, she burst into smile, the white paint on her face cracking into loosened flakes and crumbs. That’s alright, my love, she said. But you must accept this gift I brought for you. And from inside her raggedy denim jacket, ripped and torn and hanging by fragile threads, she picked out a little box wrapped in pink, with sequined beads of fuchsia and shiny studs of crystal glitter. It’s yours, she said. And then she pulled me close and cupped my face, her fingers leaving icy trails along my cheek and chin.“It’s my gift to you,” she said. “Pandora’s Box. Now, open it.”The box weighed heavy in my hands; its cloying scent of perfumed sweetness suddenly familiar to me once more. And then I knew—I knew where I’d seen Pandora many times before.So I pushed the bitch away, shoved her hard and sent the rusted chains she wore flying into her powdered face, cutting her skin and slicing open her already rotting flesh. She got up and snarled at me. You never understood, she said. Like you, no one ever does. I have nothing but noble intentions, but you cowards are too scared of truth. Then, she turned and fled my home, her heavy boots burning a trail of footprints outside the door, the clanging of the chains she wore slowly fading into a stony silence as she disappeared.And I stood there by the door, Pandora’s Box in my hands. Months before I’d torn open the pink wrapping paper like a crazed kid at Christmas, ripped the beads and crystals off and flung the lid right open. But this time I looked at Pandora’s gift, and I didn’t want to open it at all. If only So the air outside is warm tonight - heavy with moisture and wrapped tight around me like a blanket, forcing me to breathe in tiny little gasps. Its weight is pressing like a brick upon my chest, smothering my nostrils and suffocating all sense of reason, and I feel its sticky fingers encircling me, pinching hard in its unforgiving vise-like grip and leaving red imprints upon my flesh.You've never felt it quite like this, I guess. Because you cannot see at all how and why it hurts. You don't know why I'm bruised, you say. Yet you are the reason why I lay limp tonight, shrivelled back around my drooping shoulders, feeling so alone as night blows dark, damp breaths of air down my neck.I've never asked of much from you. I just needed you to make footprints beside mine on the sand, to hold me tight and catch me if I tripped on a pebble on the beach and fell, to pull me up so I might stand again if I grazed my knees on gravel rock, to blow the dirt from my eyes and wipe the tears that fell from my lids.And I do not ask for much from you; only that you sit here with me a while and hold my hand, soothe away my bleeding red wounds, and kiss away those bruises black and blue. On your next holiday... So many things to see in this good earth of ours - whether it's nature's out-of-the-world sights, or ancient relics from civilisations past. So many great cities to see, far-flung places to visit; so many colourful cultures to experience.Which is why I simply don't understand the goons who save up year after year for shopping trips in Taiwan, Hong Kong and Bangkok. Hot springs in Taiwan? I'd rather visit Iceland for steaming hot lakes against a backdrop of glaciers and mountainous cliffs. Disneyland in Hong Kong? I'd rather Machu Picchu in Peru. Or if you really prefer something more commercial, isn't Vegas so much more colourful?These places may be considerably more expensive. But if you would only just stop it with the shopping for LVs and Guccis and Pradas (which is presumably the reason why anybody would love the shopping in these regional hotspots, anyway), I'm sure the difference in cost would hardly be noticeable.Get a life lah. More to holidays than just visiting regional cities and looking at the same kind of people, eating the same kind of food, looking at the same kind of buildings, the same busy roads.Not boring meh? My Immortal - Evanescence I'm tired of being here, suppressed by all my childish fears. And if you have to leave, I wish that you would just leave. Because your presence still lingers here, and it wont leave me alone. These wounds wont seem to heal, this pain is just too real. There's just too much that time cannot erase. When you cried, I'd wipe away all of your tears. When you'd scream, I'd fight away all of your fears. And I've held your hand through all of these years. But you still have all of me.You used to captivate me by your resonating light. But now, I'm bound by the life you left behind. Your face it haunts my once pleasant dreams. Your voice it chased away all the sanity in me.. These wounds wont seem to heal, this pain is just too real. There's just too much that time cannot erase. When you cried, I'd wipe away all of your tears. When you'd scream, I'd fight away all of your fears. And I've held your hand through all of these years.But you still have all of me.You still have all of me. Getting ready to leave... So I have all these shoes to pack, and I don't know what to do with them. I have too many clothes too - bright yellow sundresses and halter necks, denim shorts and frilly layered litle skirts, backless tops and cropped midriffs, all useless summer clothes I probably will never wear again. I want to bring all my heels with me - yellow open toes and gold pumps, white diamante studded slingbacks and chunky patent four-inch reds.My mum is so unhappy with me because I just won't stop shopping. I plow the shops each chance I get, coming home with bags of useless stuff that will cost me a bomb in shipping fees. She wants nothing to do with helping me FedEx my clothes and shoes - frivolous fuel for my vanity, she says. So I will have to do it all myself - cram my things up in boxes and bags and slowly ship them over one by one.I don't know if I want to leave. Yet three months ago, the prospect of saying goodbye was all that kept my sanity in check. And today, I don't know if I could do it still - say goodbye and end it all once more.Ever tried to blow out one of those magic candles? The ones that never seem to go out no matter how hard you huff and huff. You close your eyes and you burst your lungs with a huge gulp of air, and then you let it all out to watch the flame die and fizzle away, only to slowly burn back to life once more. And you know full well it shouldn't matter, that it's not really how hard you puff; that flame will keep on burning, and till you find the strength to walk away, it'll tease you endlessly again, again, again.I wish there could be a good reason to stay. I've been hunting, hoping, waiting, searching for one. And yet all the reasons I can find only tell me why I should run this time. And I have no idea why you say I'm giving up, have no idea why you're telling me that this back up plan is mine, when you're the one who doesn't see the point in making effort anymore, when you were the one who gave me reason to leave and are now the only one who can give me any reason left to stay. He and him and me So on the one hand, there is him. He sends me boxes of macarons. They are packed tight and neat in a box from Canele, and they come in pretty pastel colours of green and pink and fluffy marshmallow chocolate brown. And he gives me dainty little chocolate pretzels - dark and bitter on the outside, citrusy orange and chewy on the inside. He comes to meet me for work, he says. But I suppose there's more to it than that. And he'll sit with me for lunch at that nearby French cafe, where I slurp on mushroom soup and gobble up my herbed tomato roll.While we eat, he talks. About viticulture and other fancy wine terms I hardly understand; about foam on food and senseless food trends; about raving chefs like Ramsay and what makes kitchens hell. And sometimes he tells me about himself, about his dog, a pair of slippers and a friend's car parked at the lot below. He doesn't need to share these stories, but he tells them to me and he wants me to listen. I see the reason he slips these pieces of himself into conversation, and I know that even if all the world is selfish, perhaps there's one here who isn't so.And on the other hand, there is he. The one who yells at me and screams and calls me names. Who'll leave me limp and broken, crushed in a corner, pinned to the wall. Who feels no remorse seeing me hurt, watching me bleed as I shake and cry and collapse into a pile of nerves. He will strike me harder anyway, kick me around and take what he can, pound harder on my sanity and do it again and again and again. And even as he spits on me, hurls scorn upon my battered, trembling self, I see myself get up and crawl back again for more and more. Crock of shit So have you seen the final episode of Grey's Anatomy Season 3? It's such a crock of shit. Firstly, I never thought McDreamy was all that macdreamy; Meredith was always more interested in creating a nightmare out of her life than in being grateful that her McDreamy thought she was his McDreamy; Izzie was even moreof a cupcake than I am; George sleeps with everything in a skirt and gets away with it just because he looks dorky; Christina loves her cardio surgeries so passionately you'd think she orgasms by cutting up someone's heart; and Alex is a fucking pussy even if he acts like a slut.No fucking man in this world is like McDreamy. No man's going to get his eyes damp tearing at the lit candles arranged on the grass patch outside his home. If anything, he's going to freak out and call you a psycho - "What the fuck is this? Go home la. Siao ah? I need to sleep!" And then once he's shooed you safely out of earshot, he's going to call his friends and talk about the crazy bitch who just littered his lawn with white candlewax and black soot.And then he'll call over a fuck buddy. And then he'll fuck the fuck buddy while you cry at home wondering why he never even noticed that the lit candles were arranged according to the floor plans of the home you wanted to move into together with him.See? That's reality.That's why I hate watching soppy television shows and movies. The whole industry is a big conspiracy constructed by the male species to make us yearn and hope. It's just like in Sex and the City. No man is going to use you for sex in the 10 years he knows you, marry another woman while he is still seeing you, then suddenly have an epiphany at the end of the decade and decide that he really wants to grow old with you and ever thine ever mine Evershine similanjiao with you. More likely, what he's going to do is marry another woman, fuck you on the side, PRETEND to want to marry you when he feels he's losing control, then leave you in white dress at the church during your wedding day, and chuckle about it to his friends all the way home.Ever thine ever mine my ass.I do not want to watch smoochy lovey dovey romantic shows anymore. I even cringe when people post pretty photos of their wedding pictures up on Facebook. Bride smiling, groom laughing, flowers in the air, white veil trailing behind and floating in the wind, black Jaguar with red roses, grinning bridesmaids. Crock of shit. All these, lying, cheating human beings who PRETEND they are in love and PRETEND they are happy when all they are doing is fucking someone else on the side. Fucking hypocrites.I have venom in me. Sick venom inside me and I feel it dripping from each and every one of my pores.I feel old. I really feel so old.It's best to keep away from me, lest I poison your mind and you never ever trust another human being with a penis again. Silent because... So the reason why this blog has been eerily quiet for the last two weeks or so is because1) DiDa's Board of Censors makes me write stuff, backspace, rephrase and delete again.2) I am immensely stressed by the amount of money this three-month trip to the USA will cost me. I am now trying to sell a book idea to someone. Anyone. Someone. Everyone.The whole fucking publishing world in Singapore only does either a) True Singapore Ghost Stories b) educational textbooks c) business management guidebooks d) How to Be a Successful EntrepreneurThis is really ridiculous.(You know, this is really quite out of the blue, but do you realise that Asian English writers always deal with the same old boring subjects? It's always about growing up during the Cultural Revolution or Life After Hiroshima or Childhood as a Geisha or Escape from the Harem or yaddi yaddi. And the only Asian English writer I can think of who did break out of this mould is Kazuo Ishiguro who is Japanese but writes like a native Brit.)3) I need to submit my 25-page essay application for that MFA Creative Writing Program I'm eyeing and I still fucking have no fucking idea what the fucking fuck to write about.4) I have so much to tell you about but I know you all will judge me.5) Telling you what has happened will make me look like a cupcake.I AM NOT A FUCKING CUPCAKE.I will write when I write. Lust and love So after more than a couple of close encounters, despite the fact that I like to believe that I'm not the kind of girl who swoons over pink flowers and necking lovebirds, no matter that I pride myself on being an emancipated female of the 21st century.And I know I'm giggling and shrieking from too many Blow Job shooters and other potent alcohols churning together and having a merry party inside my stomach, my blood is fast being poisoned by vodka and whiskey, and my head is spiralling haphazardly into a dance dance revolutionIt makes no difference that he has bedroom eyes and chiselled jaw, that he strokes the deep void within me with pretty words that dance and make pirouettes to lure me close. His presence is overwhelming; his power, dangerously attractive.Yet, my insides remain still, and even as I hold my breath and wait for the slightest sign of something - anything - I feel quiet. Everything is quiet. And then I realise it's because I do not lust. I do not lust because I cannot love. And because I do not love, I cannot lust. Appalachian Spring So I've been practicing hard these couple of evenings back at home. We're performing Copland's Appalachian Spring for some concert and I'm the only flutist so far.It's not easy, this, especially since I'm not exactly the most diligent musician. I haven't touched my flute for a long time, and without the practice, my lips, my tongue, my cheeks and my fingers are lacking in the strength and stamina that's needed to play.Try supporting a 500g rod of silver with just your fingers alone. It's okay if you're just holding it. But it's not easy when you have to go through running semi-demi quavers and trills and alternate between high Ds and low Es. My fingering is rusty and my notes come out sounding very clumsyI can't even do a low C with ease anymore - I have to concentrate very hard. And it's even harder to go from a low E to a mid E to a high E without making my flute sound like a wailing cat in labour.And in the meantime, my cheeks are straining from the pressure. I am tensing so hard to get a high G#, but my flute is squeaking, not singing. And when I finally manage some sort of resemblance to the note I want, the sound is weak and airy. I must be the only musician who can put a horrible sore throat in my flute.I am only past the first page of my six-page score when I feel the lactic acid paralysing the last two little fingers of my right hand. The arch of my left hand is buckling from exhaustion, and I have to resort to resting my mouthpiece on my shoulder instead of supporting it in the proper way, the way Mr Huang taught me to.And my concert is less than a month away.