NO BLOGGING!!!

*msn: *hurgh* vomit blood

Where I want to be:

or

Instead...

Where I am:

*grumpus alert*

No mood, no time, no peace of mind to write.

SWOT VAC IS FOR STUDYING!!!

*hurgh*………

p/s: Got a digital camera though…hee hee. :o)

The end of an era

*msn: Funny how it seems like nothing at all.

So this is it, then. Today I went for my last ever lecture as a Melbourne University undergraduate student. (For the sake of posterity, it was Investments by Qi Zeng re: floating bonds and swaps, and will stop now before you stop reading.)

I wanted to write down straight away just how it feels and not wait till later because how I remember feeling is probably never quite the same as how I really felt. (The mind is a frighteningly efficient filter.)

I don’t feel much, though. Maybe it’s because I haven’t sat for the exams yet. Maybe it hasn’t yet sunk in. Maybe it's the fact that most of my Commerce friends (and thus the people I see most often) graduated last year, and so there’s less to miss for me.

But today, and for the past few weeks, I’ve felt like two different people walking around campus; me, and the me who saw it all for the first time 3 ½ years ago.

The buildings I couldn’t find, though they were right in front of me.

The path I used to take from Ormond (where I would, every single day, continually attempt to walk the straightest of lines to avoid wasting energy. I was lazy.) past the athletics track *ogle ogle*.

The swimming pool which was dry when I first saw it and remained dry until the beginning of last year.

The road to the Engineering building – the only place in uni I could recognize during the entire Orientation week.

Student admin, where I, after an 8-hour flight (during which I threw up continually and was unable to sleep), at a Malaysian 6 a.m., took the hideously puffy-eyed photo for my student card which was to haunt me throughout my student life.

The bench outside Wilson Hall where I used to wait for Boyfriend. (In extreme cold, might I add.)

My first lecture ever – Mathematics A, 620-141, with a lecturer whose accent we imitate to this day.

O-week at Ormond; weird activities, and insane, drunk, people.

My room in Ormond, in Picken C, populated by insane, drunk, people.

The shared toilets with *euww* no locks on the shower doors. (I moved out after 6 months.)

Discovering Union House and only ever eating from the Chinese food stall for the first 2 months.

The first meal my friends and I cooked together. (This was nightmarish…8 of us, crowded into a tiny apartment, arguing over how best to cook oyster-black-sauce chicken…

“Cut the drumsticks!”

“No, no, just slice the flesh!”

“Eh, how do you know if there’s enough soya sauce in the marinade??”

“Taste it lah, ha ha ha”

………

“EUWWW DID YOU JUST TASTE THE SAUCE FROM THE RAW CHICKEN???”

“YOU SAID WAN WAT!!!”

“JOKING lah!!!”

“Ai yah, never mind, we’re Malaysian. Everything also can eat.”)

Using the public phone in the lobby of the Royal Children’s Hospital, because none of us had working phone lines for the first few days.

Getting chased out of the Royal Children’s Hospital for using their public phone.

My very first handphone!! (Nokia 3310 - don’t laugh, it was free.)

Even our arrival at the airport, with the small trolleys, adorable sniffer dogs, and unbelievably (like eye-popping unbelievable) long line of Asian students, each bearing carton after carton of instant noodles, seasonings, pots (I kid you not)…we love our food.

Are my memories regressing? Well *pbht* they’re my memories, and they can come in whatever order they like.

Or maybe, just maybe, it’s because I want to go backwards too, and do it all over again.

Okay, now I’m sad.

Memories…fill the corners of my mind…

Too many to remember,

Too easy to forget.

Thank God for the friends who will remind us when we do;

They would not be half as precious had they not been made with you.

You see how corny I am? Now you know how sad I really feel.

And now I know too.

Insanity, thy name is mine

*msn: Sparkles Montana

Oh my God.

Oh my God.

I just took a shower in ice-cold (I am not exaggerating) water.

Please remember I am in AUSTRALIA which is in the SOUTHERN hemisphere and it is thus now entering WINTER not SUMMER. (Because you see, apparently I forgot.)

How cold was it?

My hair is stiff. STIFF. And when I stepped out, the ambient temperature (8^oC) felt positively balmy.

Why did I do it?

Because I was dirty. Ironically (and I usually appreciate irony but NOT now) as a result of cleaning my toilet in nothing but pure HOT water resulting in sweaty, oily, grimy me.

NO I did not use up the hot water. The hot water comes from a huge boiler that supplies the entire apartment building, and so it is unlikely that I could have single-handedly wiped out the hot water supply.

Externally-induced brain freeze is so unfunny.

I think I’ll go put on a couple of quilts now and sit in the oven.

……………………

Melancholic musings

*msn: Stress is a word used to describe people who only started studying a week ago. To describe me, you need many many more.

I liked the way you looked

at me;

Like you knew me,

inside-out,

without asking, or trying, or wanting to.

You left; I looked for you,

in strange faces,

and gazes,

because I was lonely;

without someone to look at me like you do.

And then today I knew:

I look for you less now,

(I’m sad,

are you?

I’ll say it again to make it more true)

I look for you less now.

You know the saying about how time heals all wounds?

I hate it. I hate the idea that you miss people less over time, that you don’t care so much that they’re gone, that you get used to an empty space which grows smaller everyday anyway.

If someone meant so much to me that losing them hurt so much, then when the hurt starts to go away, it’s like I’ve lost something; that, meaning, that they were once to me.

Perhaps when people say that time heals all wounds, they really mean that in time we learn to live with them, unhealed.

I lost my (paternal) grandfather before I was born, and my grandmother when I was very young, and I hardly remember her. Some years after I lost my other grandmother, and though this one hurt more, it didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would.

And in my naivety (for there is no other word) I believed that yes, indeed, in time hurt went away.

And then one day I asked my mother about her mother and what really happened to her, because I never really knew – I had been too young to ask, or be told.

And though she spoke with a smile on her face (it was painless, and she got to say goodbye), there was an aching in her voice and unshed tears in her eyes which she didn’t try to hide.

Then the next year we went to pray at my father’s parents’ grave, and as we placed the joss sticks in the holder, I turned to him and asked, “Do you miss them, dad?” and in an instant, without time for thought or reflection, without pausing even to turn his head towards me, he said,

“Every day.”

And though this time there was no tremble, no teary eyes (like me, my father does not cry), the pain was there, in the quick and simple answer, in the graveness of his tone.

That, I think, is what missing someone is really like. The pain doesn’t go away. It may stop screaming in your head, stop feeling like shattered glass in your throat, but the ache is always there, and an undying longing that, in the end, hurts just the same, or even more.

So be nice to the people you know you’ll miss, because grief is an arduous journey on its own, without having to bear the unbearable – regret – too.

No, nothing happened. Just in a musing, melancholic state of mind.

The Self-Indulgent Spare Human Speaks

*msn: I am the Professional Pony Painter from the Pony People Party. (Vote for us NOW!)

Every now and then I stop and wonder: am I really necessary?

Sometimes I feel expendable.

You know the feeling? Like, there’s nothing I do particularly well, or that someone else couldn’t do better and in less time.

Sometimes I feel that nothing sets me apart from the general population. (Of which Boyfriend is NOT representative..haha..inside joke..)

A few weeks ago I was talking to a friend of mine (who knows my sister as well) about how artistic my brother was. (He made an ambigram! – good. Not for me! – bad.) Anyway:

Friend: Wow, your brother is so artistic!

Me: Yeah, he is!

Friend: Okay, so, don’t take this the wrong way, but, your brother is artistic.

Me: (stares at MSN window, wondering where this is going)

Friend: And your sister is good at public speaking, writing, etc.

Me: (still wondering)

Friend: *pause*…so what do YOU do?

To give him credit (and the benefit of anonymity) he really was asking out of pure curiosity and not to be sarcastic.

But I think it says something, doesn’t it, when people have to ask you what you’re good at? Obviously whatever it is cannot be very good or else it would either have been

a) self-evident; or

b) mentioned by someone else already, hence reducing the need for shameless self-promotion.

Perhaps even sadder is that I couldn’t come up with anything to say.

Maybe this explains my numerous half-baked attempts to involve myself in things.

Cases in point:

a) Oil painting – I’ve only been to 5 classes so far but already I cringe whenever I have to put up my half-finished painting on the easel. Doesn’t help that the girl next to me is probably one of the best artists I’ve ever seen. (Talk about demoralizing…and she’s pretty, too.)

b) Yoga – Yes, I was going to be the most flexible person ever. I figured I’d have an advantage, given my small size and short legs (less distance to stretch to touch my toes!). Of course, I forgot my stiff muscles and short arms. And it got expensive.

c) Pilates – I was going to be the next Jennifer Aniston lookalike. (At this I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.)

d) Hip Hop (dance) – (sometimes it is best to say nothing and let the imagination flow freely.)

e) Blogging – I like writing, so it’s good. But the idea that people read what I write is still somewhat unnerving at times. Maybe that explains my reluctance to really publicize it. I dread the day that someone tells me that I suck at this. Too.

Maybe it’s time I stopped giving up on things, yeah? And on myself.

*smiles a little at herself, and hopes to someday make it a big and confident grin*

I am not fishing for compliments yeah. *stares sternly*

By the way, re: the msn nick, thanks to a link I found on Joyce’s page, my sister and I have become hooked on colouring ponies. Ha ha ha.

My Little Pony!!

Enjoy!

To Spades! To Spades!

*msn: I am not a maggot anymore. Now I am a hermit crab called MonetManetWannabe.

The following is a true story and was based on real people and real events.

Today I strode purposefully (and hurriedly - I was late) along the dusty road from Sunderland to Babel, thinking deep and meaningful thoughts and feeling hungry.

Subito, (‘suddenly’ in Latin. I used Latin because to start a sentence with ‘suddenly’ seemed so clichéd).

*ahem*

Subito, I was stopped in my tracks by a literal wall of sound. It was horrible. Loud, and piercing, a squally squeal that filled the air.

Looking around, at first, I saw nothing.

And then, out of the proverbial corner of my eye, I saw:

A window, half-ajar, in a nondescript, oldish building.

And beyond; pots of green, trembling with every ululation of the undying wail that filled the air.

*gasp*

Mandrakes!

I scuttled away as quick as I could with hands clapped over my ears.

I knew I should have bought those fluffy pink earmuffs I saw in Melbourne Central.

Again, this is a true story. Perhaps it is hard to believe that the Botany faculty is breeding Mandrakes. Perhaps, you say, that the sound was too electronic-y to be the Mandrake’s legendary cry. Perhaps, you say again, that it had something to do with the loudspeaker-shaped formations sticking out from a building within the vicinity.

Well, then, suit yourself. Thou hast been warned. I can do no more.

Random act of procrastination

*msn: Don't ask me, I'm just a Commerce student.

This is a very very short post. (for the benefit of Boyfriend who might say I am wasting time. Pah. What does HE know?)

I was reading through Joyce’s blog and came across this:

-start-

The L Word

Taking a break, i watched the first episode of 'The L Word' i dl at 4 am.

Some lezzies and straights at a party:

"There's this study that says that if your ring finger is longer than your index finger, that means you're a lesbian."
Everyone then pauses to look at their fingers.
"Oh. I'm definitely gay."
"Look at that, her fingers are the same length. That's so weird..."
"So she's bi."
"Wait. *my* fingers are the same length. Does that mean i'm lesbian too?" - guy
"So you're gay."

I'm looking at my fingers now. Are you? I bet you are.

-end-

I remember watching that episode, but not the conversation. Anyway I wasn’t really paying attention. Was just keeping Boyfriend company as he eagerly awaited any sort of lesbian scene. (I will never understand guys’ obsession with lesbians.)

Anyway. I am procrastinating. So:

(yes, my hand can think. Can yours?)

Something tells me Boyfriend isn’t going to be too devastated…

By the way, the above image was “edited” using Microsoft Word. I don’t have Photoshop. So don’t laugh okay, I know it is very ‘amateur’. (Gene, this means YOU.)

Oh, and another picture. I used my webcam to take a picture of the screen showing me the picture I was taking.

This essentially means that the screen was showing the screen showing the screen showing the screen showing the…

Just look at the picture lah. *haiks*

Cool right cool right?

Okay okay I’m going!!!

Jorrs……

How much is that doggie in the window? (part 2)

-part one-

*msn: The answer no longer matters.

Today I went to Melbourne Central again (for the 5^th or 6^th time). And like every other time, I half-expect to see him gone.

(The other half of me secretly hopes that the staff there will notice my devotion and simply gives him to me, because “they can see how much I love him.”)

But it never really seemed possible that he could be gone because he belongs to me.

……

Yeah, he’s gone.

I even went up to the counter and asked them if by any chance he was just being kept “someplace else”, and got two pitying looks in return.

(At this point, the secret half of me then hoped that, a la Enid Blyton, I would arrive home to find that Boyfriend had secretly purchased him as a surprise.)

He didn’t (didn’t really expect him to).

I did get a hug though, and not a single word of “Yeah well, of COURSE someone would have bought him” for which he gets a gazillion brownie points.

……

But dammit, I’m still sad.

* * * * *

p/s: on a brighter note though, today my blog reached 100 visitors. I know it’s small, but it’s a start.

p/s2: It’s Friday the 13^th.

p/s3: I’m not superstitious.

p/s4: Except about the number 4.

p/s5: Just noticed p/s4 was about the number 4. And 1 + 3 = 4.

p/s6: I need sleep.

On/off

On childhood and the imagination

Children should never be bored. Nothing ever bored me when I was a child. I played for hours with nothing but baby powder and a blue coloured pencil. I built kingdoms of bubbles, and went to infinity and beyond on my trusty, cracked, grey leather couch. I fought in the trenches with my rocking chair, and haggled with Arab merchants swathed in knitted blankets. I called upon pagan gods with burnt offerings of the finest bougainvillea petals, and dispensed potions for all occasions in minibar-sized bottles of intriguingly-coloured liqueurs. I waited on fairies while perched on an ottoman-shaped toadstool, and ruled the world with a paper crown and spaghetti scepter.

Now I am old, and all I can do is rack my brains for such fodder to write down and sigh at in the remembrance of how it used to be.

On reading/writing

Reading, especially blogs, where it is easier to believe that there is a real person behind the lines, is throwing me into despair.

Some days it seems that there is no point to my writing, as everything I want to say has already been written down, and in better words.

But I cannot live without reading or writing and so I suppose I must subject myself to an eternity of feeling mediocre and repetitious, or worse, unoriginal.

On language and thoughts

I want to be a baby again, so I can experience emotions without words cluttering up the way I feel.

On memory

Do you ever think of all the memories ever lost?

Like your very first word. (My parents forgot mine.)

Or the crushes you forgot you had.

Or the brilliant insights that didn’t last long enough to be imprisoned in ink.

Or the moments in your life when you thought everything was perfect. Because if you think of them now, chances are you’ll also think of all the reasons it really wasn’t that you just hadn’t realized at the time.

And do you ever think…if they’re really, truly lost…that it’s somehow like they never really were?

On the man who lives on the corner in the cold

He is old, or I think he is, because I cannot see his face. It is too covered by his beard, and I dare not look too closely for I hate being stared at, and I am sure, so does he.

I am not alone; the multitudes of passers-by seem not to sense his presence, though perhaps he is too familiar to be out of place. Did they notice him when he first sat down, I wonder, and how long did it take them to forget?

Bending (perhaps a little self-conscious) to drop more change than I can afford into the always-almost-empty, conspicuously (but somehow not incongruously) pink cup is the hardest thing to do.

Because it reminds me that he is human, and also someone’s son.

And that I don’t want to do this, to throw coins his way and hope it makes a difference, knowing that it doesn’t.

No, what I really want to do is bring him home. I want to let him take a shower, have a shave, sleep the night away on a bed and not the pavement, cook him dinner, then breakfast, then lunch, to chase away the cold from the inside of his heart.

What I really, really want to do is love him, because no one else will.

But no one else needs loving quite so much.

But I can’t. And it hurts.

Off

you go now. I feel like being alone.

Spreading the joy…

*msn: Morbid depressed airhead

Oh my God, you guys just have to check this out:

http://www.big-boys.com/articles/eow.html

If I cursed, I’d say it was damn f*cking funny.

Oops. :oP

*NOTE*: I’ve just been informed that apparently this has been around for a LONG time and that I’m slow. Well why didn’t YOUUUUU spread the joy then?? Huh. At least I’m not selfish.

*pbbbhtt*

Confessions of a 22-year-old Freakazoid.

*msn: Just because I do freaky things doesn’t mean I’m a freak. (yes, interpret that however you like.)

Have you ever noticed that there are some people that we just refer to as freaks without thinking much about it?

It just occurred to me today that I’ve called almost everyone I know a freak at some point, but some only (shh) when they are not present. (Yes I know that means behind their backs but let’s not get caught up in the lingo.)

And for those some, most of the time, I don’t really know them. In fact, they’re probably just someone I met for a few seconds, or heard about from someone else. All it took was one action, or one incident for them to be branded as such.

And then I realized today that I do plenty of freaky things too. (STOP sniggering.) But does that make me a freak? I’d like to think it makes me an individual, nothing more. And if some are annoyed by my antics? Well, I’ve never met anyone who has never annoyed me on one occasion or another, given time.

So do these people really deserve the names we give them? Are they not just like everyone else, caught in a moment of madness?

Ah...’tis a heavy burden on my conscience, ‘tis.

Words of Wisdom

“…my college profs…seemed to feel they was the greatest experts on the most interestin’ subjects and that the students should feel lucky to pay substantial hunks of money for the privilege of worshippin’ at their feet.

What’s more, they tested the loyalty of said students on a regular basis by the simple process of makin’ the presentation dull enough to bore a stone and seein’ who managed to stay awake long enough to absorb sufficient data to pass their finals.”

- M.Y.T.H. Inc. in Action, Robert Asprin

Suddenly it’s all clear to me…

Tips to Zap Zits

1. Use separate towels for your face and for the rest of you.

2. After washing and cleansing thoroughly with warm water, splash face several times with icy-cold water. Apparently this tightens the pores and hinders dirt from getting stuck in ‘em.

Now, I know this isn’t very convincing if I don’t provide proof that it works. However, given that I refuse to reveal even my name here, I think it’s highly doubtful I’d put up a shot of my face, don’t you?

Anyway those of you who know me already know how I look like. :oP

So, caveat emptor, and happy trying!

Hmm…

Today the ice queen told me I was the only person she knew who could be light and dark all at the same time. Not skin colour, but more along the lines of morbid airhead.

I guess that somewhere inside me is a little gothic girl I have made many failed attempts to appease with the use of eyeliner stolen from my mum.

I kinda like her there...she keeps Barbie company.

*crinkled-nose smirk*

I need a brain transplant

*msn: Happy birthday Sylvia..may many happy ones follow.

I must never ever do anything important within an hour of waking up.

I took a half hour nap at Boyfriend’s place just now, finally dragging myself up at the memory of two as yet untouched assignments.

As I was leaving his place, I put on my shoes, and then suddenly started patting myself all over.

Me: Eh? Where are my keys? Can you go check your room, did I leave my keys there? Lazy to take out shoes lah.

Boyfriend: *silence*

*jangle*jangle*

I looked down to see my very own right hand tossing my keys jauntily up and down.

Erh..

So paiseh yeah.

Friends of Shanz

Just noticed I get quite a number of referrals from Shanz’ blog. (See links.)

I can’t help but wonder what they are expecting, but given my dear amoeba’s much less bimbo-itic content, I strongly suspect they are disappointed.

Ah well..I have never claimed to be a deep and heavy thinker. (Come to think of it I’ve never claimed to be a thinker at all…hahahaha…)

And they say university and overseas travel broadens the mind.

The iron fist strikes again

Hahaha..thanks to Kev (again, see links) for the “iron fist” comment.

Anyway, I have been given strict instructions by Boyfriend to either refrain from blogging, or to blog at the very most twice a week till exams are over. Apparently he believes that if I spend less time on other things, I will study more.

Such faith…blind…but touching.

Yes yes I will study lah. (just remembered he reads this blog. *grumble*)

Toodles!

Hundreds and Thousands

*msn: But Angie, I (l) you! :)

*ahem*

“Hundreds and thousands are tiny spherical candies, usually approximately 1mm in diameter, similar to cachous. They are coated in various colours and mixed as a popular topping for childrens' cakes. Hundreds and thousands sprinkled on buttered white bread is known as fairy bread.”

- Wikepedia, the free encyclopaedia.

So this is going to be a rambly, disconnected post with all sorts of unrelated subjects.

Warned ya. :oP

Love is in the air…

Okay, firstly, I am a confirmed blog-addict. For months before setting up my own (perhaps in sheer desperation to overcome this addiction, much like a nicotine patch for a smoker) I used to read blogs compulsively. Like, ANYONE’S blogs. Even total strangers. In fact, make that ESPECIALLY total strangers, since in my friends’ blogs half the things that happened I’d already heard about.

Anyway, I’ve noticed that sooner or later, everyone blogs about either;

1. The meaning of Life; or
2. The meaning of Love.

And whenever I come across those topics, I tend to skip them (unless I know the person in which case I find it fascinating) ‘cos I think these things are basically point-of-view type matters which won’t have any bearing on me.

Therefore I have decided to write a post on The Meaning Of Love To Me.

(Yeah yeah, like everything else I do makes sense.)

These are my basic beliefs when it comes to matters of the heart:

Love is not easy

It takes effort. From my (and many of my friends’) personal experience anyway. It takes effort to be considerate, and sensitive, and caring no matter how bad his/her/your mood. It takes effort to turn down invitations because you promised you’d have a “day in, just the two of us”. It takes effort not to act like you’re single when you see the most gorgeous person in the world. Most of all, it takes effort not to take the other person for granted, even though you probably could. (maybe not forever, but you get the drift.)

Love is not (always) exciting

I have lost count of the number of times someone has asked me whether I’ve gotten bored with Boyfriend yet the second they find out how long we’ve been together. (second question is usually, “SO…when’s the wedding?” followed by a self-satisfied smirk at making such an original statement. Question.)

Truth? It’s not boring, but it’s no sugar-high either. There is mundanity. There is routine. There are the days which seem to meld together without anything in particular that distinguishes them from each other.

It’s kinda like vanilla ice-cream. Good, in an ordinary sort of way.

Love does not (always) make sense

This, I know Boyfriend would agree with.

Firstly, we have absolutely nothing in common, not even music. Secondly, he hates confrontation whereas I am LOUD and PROUD to be it. Thirdly, he actually disliked me on sight when we first met ‘cos I talked too much thus (and this is my favourite part) making it difficult for him to concentrate in class. (And I always wanted to run away with a gangster. Much like in Enrique Iglesias’ Hero music video.)

Oh, and boy am I demanding. Why in Heaven’s name else would I care that he doesn’t write me long and fervent letters declaring undying love, when he will gladly wake up at 3 a.m. although he has a 9 a.m. class the next morning just to change a lightbulb for me? (I AM NOT being unreasonable, I can’t reach the ceiling, even with a chair. Har har har dee har har.)

And, if it comes to that, why in Heaven’s name would he put up with it?

*French accent* Mmm…vairy interesting.

Finally…

*pam pa dush* [I have used this before, and apparently it’s not quite clear what it is (Boyfriend asked) so for the unimaginative (Boyfriend) it’s a short series of drum and cymbal hits which is meant to indicate the revelation of something new! Improved! And at a fraction of the price! (no more sugar for me).]

Love is freaking worth it

Man, I sound so Smug In A Relationship. (For non-Bridget Jones readers, read it.)

For those who say it should be effortless…well I think it isn’t. But the key point here is: I want to make the effort.

For those who say that it doesn’t make sense…well it doesn’t which is half the fun. Hee hee hee. Anyway someone once said that if two people in a relationship are exactly alike, one of them is unnecessary.

And for those who say it should be the most euphoric feeling of all time, all THE time…

Well to me, falling in love is the rollercoaster part. Being in love though…is like coming home after a really long journey. No matter where you’ve been, or where you want to go next, this is where you belong.

It’s no coincidence you know – “Home is where the heart is.”

How much is that doggie in the window?

I really DID go up to the cashier at Melbourne Central’s pet shop and say this okay…too bad, I think he didn’t know the song (do YOU?) so wasn’t as funny as I thought it would be.

Anyway, I have officially fallen in love with one of the Shih Tzu x Silky Terrier puppies they are selling. Where the rest are dark luscious brown, he (or she) is a dirty white with light brown patches. Where the rest are round balls of fur, he’s on the scrawny side and only half as fluffy. Where the rest gambol merrily around (as do Enid Blyton’s lambs), he is a little unsteady, perhaps because he’s the smallest of the lot.

But:

He has the perkiest ears, where the rest have theirs buried in their fur. He has the cutest nose; the rest look flattened. He may fall, or trip, but he always gets up again and joins the rest. He may be tiny, but he doesn’t care, he pushes his way in anyway.

Others may want the healthy chocolate balls of fur. I want the little one, who seems fated to be overlooked, but refuses to let it be.

Oh, and the answer to the question? A$750. Hence he is not here with me, and never will be.

Wah, sedihnya.

Miracles Galore!

Passed my Investments mid-sem!!! LA LA LA LA LA. Don’t ask for the marks okay? Spoilsport only.

Updated Definition

polysexual – n. Attracted to men, women, animals, plants, inanimate objects, and intangibles.

Credited to K (the clown, but NOT Krusty) for the term, me me me for the definition, and Lizzie for the update (in italics.)

Current Peeve

Any of the following happening before falling asleep:

1. Sudden mouth dryness, necessitating crawling out into the cold and stumbling into the unlit kitchen.
2. The opposite, i.e. the sudden need to visit the toilet.
3. Feet suddenly (yes it happens) feeling dusty.
4. Hair feeling oily.
5. Silly people who think speeding up Grattan St. in the middle of the night is absolutely cool.
6. Silly people who think SINGING in the street in the middle of the night is absolutely cool.

Current Complaint

Difficulty falling asleep.

Current Favourite Pastime

Reading scripts of The Simpsons. Trust me when I say I spend more time reading TV scripts than watching shows.

Addicted to reading? No.

Life-dependent.

Observation of the Week

A lot of blogs appear to have the word Ramble/Ramblings in their title. And definitely in their posts. Hmmmmmmmm………

Shout-out

Sylvia, who turns 17 on the 3^rd of May. I would be nothing without her.

Merry weekend to all (what’s left of it), and to all a good night.