I never cease to amaze me

I never cease to amaze me

*msn: Senility is my new friend...at least I *think* it's new...

If ever I question again the usefulness of blogging, remind me of this:

That had I not idly read through my past entries to see where I’d left off (yes I realize I wouldn’t have to if I wrote more often but this is not, currently, a matter for discussion) and come across my particularly memorable (oh the irony of this phrase) passing of final exams, I would not now be seized with a horrible cringing feeling and acute discomfort;

It is Friday, and 45 minutes ago I had an appointment to view my International Finance exam paper.

Emphasis: AGO.

Words fail me, as undoubtedly my memory already has.

(As an aside, and to satisfy your curiosity and my insatiable need to, you know, talk, I wanted to view my paper due to the slightly startling fact that, for once in a very very long time, I’d expected to do better than I actually did.

Of course, now that we know just how well my powers of recollection are, perhaps it’s best to let things be and assume that the apparent ease and stellar responses with which I completed the paper were simply that – apparent, and nothing more.)

It’s also quite telling, I think, that I have allowed something quite so momentuous as becoming a graduate to slip my mind. Not to be a record here, scratched and broken, needle-jumps galore, but it may, just may, have something to do with my lack of gainful employment.

Which is not to say I do not have a job.

I do. It’s just that it is:

1. Not in any way related to my degree.

2. Not gainful as I have only just finished training, which is basically unpaid work.

3. Selling Subway sandwiches. (eat fresh!)

The only person that seems to have benefited so far from my recent appointment would be the waiter at that fancy-schmancy restaurant I was at last night, where I, with newfound respect for all in the service industry, left him a 20% tip. (Actually just 10%. I made Boyfriend leave the other 10%. After all, it’s not GAINFUL appointment.)

But what, I hear you wonder, about my employer?

In this case, the truth is plain and fairly simple.

Since I began work on Tuesday, I have:

1. Yet to learn where the buttons are on the cash register screen, and hence spend more time searching for the right items to key in (all the while muttering maniacally: “Foot-long ranch…foot-long ranch…foot-long ranch…*desperately loud and cheerily* WON’T BE A MOMENT SIR!! *mutters again* foot-long ranch…foot-long ranch…AHA!!!...one small drink…one small drink…”) than it did to make the sub in the first place.

2. Been the cause of an awful back-up on the lunch production line because I shamefully cannot wrap a sub to save my life.

3. Resisted the urge to throw a sub at the customer who not only mumbled, swallowed her words, and had such a thick accent that was impossible to understand, but, on my (very polite, might I add) request for her to repeat her order, assumed that I was either retarded or lacking English language skills (since I look and sound foreign) and proceeded to speak with exaggeratedly pronounced words and quite deliberately pointed at everything she wanted from that point on, with the most condescending of looks.

4. In an attempt to be helpful and look self-motivated and proactive, I decided to get a cup of hot chocolate for a customer all on my own without bothering the more senior staff with trivial details such as, you know, how to work the hot drink dispenser. (Please use your imagination. It is literally too painful a memory for me to dredge up.)

5. Dropped countless items, with what seems like a positive penchant for doing so during the busiest of times.

The list goes on, but I shall not. Much much too depressing.

Also have just heard wonderful wonderful news (like just after I wrote that sentence) and therefore am not upset anymore.

No I haven’t found a “proper” job, but it’s much better I think.

No more details. (Especially since he won’t give me any, the meanie.)

Congrats, Breakkie.

A tribute

This should be for yesterday, but I was, you know, working.

To Boyfriend.

I know you wonder, and I wonder too, just how you’ve survived the past four years.

But I’m glad we did.

*coughs and looks at anywhere but you*

A change of subject

I want to do all of these:

Latourex

Anyone?

A picture’s worth a thousand words

And the subject of this one:

makes me very, very happy indeed. (a thousand times so!)

*msn: Haaaaaary Potter, Harry Potter, Harry Potter, Haaaaaaary Potter, Harry Potter Potter YEAH!

I am trying to read it at a positively dribbly speed and not, you know, inhale it like I would normally do. Just so I can make it last as long as possible, and the gratification at the end of all that abstaining will be all the better.

A friend said it was like saving sex for after marriage, a notion I pooh-poohed. Books are obviously better. They last for hours.

(And are always up for seconds…or even thirds.)

On the subject of pictures, however, while transferring images from my digital camera to my woefully overstuffed laptop (480 MB remaining is quite dire, I think), I realized I had taken eighty-four pictures in three days.

Considering I only went out twice in those three days, and then only to a lunch and a dinner with no sight-seeing whatsoever, this worries me.

I have a sneaky suspicion that I have subconsciously taken to taking as many pictures as possible in desperate hopes that a few of them, at least, will be worth the effort, time, and hard drive space.

Well an ‘A’ is always good, even if it’s just for trying!

‘Like’ is an overused but somehow generally appropriate word

*msn: There are days when the intangibles of reality seem somehow more lasting that the kind you can see and touch.

I like words

It’s funny how, if I don’t write for a day, two days, and suddenly it becomes so long ago I don’t even remember what I last wrote about, the little narrator in my head (she’s little, yes, and has large glasses and even larger hopeful eyes and watches everything) just…stops.

It’s as though she gets tired and goes off to find someone a little more willing to make her words solid before they disappear.

And disappear they do, the way bubbles on a soapy-smooth surface do, when you stare at them, holding your breath, watching the colours swirl and abruptly twist and bend, getting ever so faintly fader until there is only a vague bluish webbing skimming across the surface, then – nothing.

I have a memory the consistency of molecules loosely bound by surface tension, and hence no stories. I am on holiday, and by the time I get to my computer, I have forgotten most of what I’ve done.

Funnily enough though, I do remember this: every day for the past week or so, I have been greeted by Boyfriend thus: “So…do I look like Andy Roddick?”

He was growing his beard you see. Chinese sparse-haired (facial, anyway) genes be damned.

He shaved today. (A daily decided “No” sufficed.)

I like writing words

There are occasions when I wish I couldn’t speak, if only because then I would have the excuse to communicate entirely in writing.

Then I wouldn’t have to listen to myself make all kinds of grammatical mistakes aloud, simply because I’m used to speaking that way.

Then I wouldn’t then cringe and stutter and stammer because I am so distracted by the way I speak that I forget what I am talking about.

Then I wouldn’t take a disproportionately long amount of time to reply because I’m trying to remember.

Then I wouldn’t have to see the disdainful looks I get from people who assume, simply because I have a foreign accent, that I can’t speak English well.

Then I wouldn’t get things like “Do…you...understand…?” and pityingly patronizing looks.

Then I wouldn’t hate myself for not being able to talk to people properly simply because we are not the same.

Then I wouldn’t hate myself for hating myself and end up all tense and irritable.

It’s all a matter of confidence, I think, and the fact that I have none.

Darnits.

I like pictures

I am still wholly and completely immersed in ‘new-camera-owner’ state of mind.

Picture phobic people now avoid me like the plague. (I also like alliteration.)

Lately I’ve taken to taking pictures of light, reflections, shadows, and caught myself one night attempting to capture the sudden incongruous good music suspended in the wintry air outside the Geology building.

(I now have the picture of a nondescript window behind some even more nondescript bushes sitting in a folder on my laptop, laughing, I am sure, at me, because I can no longer recall that elusive tune.)

I think it’s the idea of realizing the unreal that appeals to me.

Anyway, in the spirit of picture-taking and the Fantastic Four movie I watched Tuesday night, (*sort of spoiler ahead*);

What happens when you rapidly run cool air over a dangerously overheated glass-surfaced stove?

In the spirit of Shaggy, it wasn’t me. Really.

I do not like

A lot of things, but most of all, people who think that killing innocent people is ever justified.

It is not.

Even if you lack basic human emotion, morals, or a sense of the sanctity of life, for the love of whatever it is you love, please realize that it is stupid.

And pointless.

Because it will only make things worse.

Worst of all is when you die doing it, because then you will never know the utter futility and insanity of your actions.

You will never understand.

You will never learn.

Worst of all, you will never be sorry.

Dying, believing you have done something great, is a death you do not deserve.

It is infuriating and I hate it.

I don’t mean to be preachy…it’s just that…sometimes…things happen…which make me wonder just how someone, anyone, could bring themselves to do what they did.

What made them hate so much that they could do this?

What made them love so little?

Aha

*msn: Happy birthday Lizzie, the Milis fish.

I passed.

No, not spectacularly (not even close), but let’s not quibble.

(I actually said this to my mum, who, after years of putting up with me and my chronic underachieving, has finally learnt that to expect nothing means to be pleasantly surprised each and every time, and therefore was suitably impressed.)

Of course all this means is that instead of being merely a student awaiting her results, I am now officially an unemployed bum in search of the nearest Centrelink office.

I think that calls for a celebration, don’t you? *failed-attempt-at-sardonic-wink*

(On you, of course. After all, I AM broke and jobless. Hahahahahaha.)

Yes of course I’m really pleased. After all, I am now a graduate. A graduate. And Boyfriend is not. Finally, I outrank him. Hahahahahahahahahahahahaha……

(Almost) Dead Girl Typing

*msn: Prowly vegetarian jungle cat – where is my potato……

(don’t ask)

Jittered up higher than I’ve ever been, feel like I’m on extra-strength caffeine, and dull rods of prickled pins are poking at my feet.

My back is all creepy-crawly and my heart is going bumpity-bump-bump-bump; a thousand bumps (or more) a minute.

Results tomorrow.

Can’t write – fingerbones a-queasy.

Do me a favour; if I don’t mention I passed everything, don’t ask if I did.

Scrambled Thoughts (on Toast)

*msn: In the land of Tennis – Federer. Is. King.

It’s all in the conditioning

The other day, Boyfriend submerged himself in a newspaper, finding himself a little oasis of normality (although news is never normal, since normal is definitely not newsworthy) in the scrappy, messy, silly world that I bring with me wherever I go.

Obviously, this was just not acceptable.

So I (dexterous as always) sprang onto the piles of print, beamed up at his mildly perturbed face, with eyes all aglow, and bushy-tailed to boot.

Me: Did you know that if you want to commit suicide by slitting your wrists you shouldn’t cut across them, but instead lengthways down your arm?

Boyfriend: *blinks*

……………………………………

A few weeks later, on our way home from Safeway, I, inexplicably (even to me), fancied myself a cymbal-bearing toy monkey.

And so I walked stiff-legged the whole way home, banging my over-sized jacket sleeves together, yelling “Ding Ding Ding!!!” as loudly as I could.

Boyfriend never walked so fast in his life I’ll bet.

……………………………………

This morning I:

1. Was an hour late to leave for Victoria Market, as I was chatting with my sister online and mindlessly surfing when I should have been showering, etc. etc.
2. Declared that I was still in pain from a badminton session two days ago and steadfastly refused to do anything but stand around complaining as Boyfriend both maneuvered the trolley around awkward corners and legs and made our weekly purchases.
3. Spent 15 minutes staring at a selection of nuts and grains before making up my mind to have none.

……………………………………

Half an hour ago, Boyfriend insisted I leave him alone for 1 ½ hours so that he could prepare a surprise dinner for me.

Me: Ooh, what occasion??

Boyfriend: Anything for you…

Me: *melts*

Boyfriend: *looking slightly crazed* …to go away for a while…

Yes. Yes.

All goes according to plan.

(forget the means when you’ve got the ends says I)

Extreme Contradictions

Sometimes, I think, I don’t make sense at all.

I play no sports, nor do anything more strenuous than walk to Rowdy (my darling Rowdy), but two days ago we went to play badminton (Boyfriend, Lizzie, Miriam, and I) and I jumped, slid, ran, hopped, and fell so much that I am now in almost-constant pain. (Yes, that’s right, I’m still not done complaining.)

I like it when people think of me in a certain way; someone who always has something to say, or someone who likes home-y stuff, like knitting and baking and such. But I hate it when people refer to me as “the girl who can’t keep a secret” (I can too. *glares*), or as “housewife material”, as if that’s all I can do.

I like it when people think I’m stupid (or at least stupider than I am) so they’re easier to impress (hah!), but I hate it when people make fun of me for being dumb.

I hate the cold, have two heaters on at all times, and bathe in scalding-hot water, but I will go out to 7-11 at 3 a.m. on a winter morning to get myself an ice-cream.

A few years ago I went through a near-anorexia phase, followed by a near-bulimic phase, and hoped-wished-prayed to look like Ally McBeal. I got over it (now I want to look like Mischa Barton) and now I over-eat on a regular basis because I am trying so hard not to become That Diet Girl again. Of course since I don’t exercise, this means I will soon outgrow everything I own and will have to stay at home and wear bathrobes forever.

I used to kick and scream (this is, sadly, no joke at all) whenever my mum brought me to the hairdresser, and would go through the entire process with tears streaming down my face. The year she finally gave up, I refused to cut it for over 3 years, and it grew past my bra strap on my back. However, I finally pushed myself to get a haircut in the middle of 2004, and have had about 6 haircuts since, culminating in the shortest hairstyle I’ve had since I was 15.

It takes me a day to read one of my lectures, but the same amount of time to finish a 700-page novel. (although I suspect this is not a condition unique to me.)

I am very proud; but I have low self-esteem. This basically means I will hit you if you doubt me, or put me down, but I will take what you say very, very seriously and obsess about it for weeks.

I like it if people read what I write, but I cringe at the idea that they read it in the first place.

I want to be thought of as intellectual, but I love Shin Chan.

I claim I am not self-absorbed, but have set up a blog all about Myself.

Well.

Variety.

Is.

The.

Spice.

Of.

Life.

So.

There.

News of the Week

Old news, yes, probably not even the same week, yes, but important just the same:

Canada has legalized gay marriage.

This makes me happy.

If it makes you unhappy, frankly, I don’t really care. Just as you shouldn’t care how I feel about it.

(Please don’t try to change my mind, and I won’t try to change yours.)

(on Toast)

I like making it. Hot fry-pan, stacks of bread, crumby-buttery-singed fingers. Real butter. Aah.

Right right, shower now. I have a dinner to attend, remember?