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?