银色小船摇摇晃晃弯弯悬在绒绒的天上
你的心事三三俩俩蓝蓝停在我幽幽心上
你说情到深处人怎能不孤独
爱到浓时就牵肠挂肚
我的行李孤孤单单散散惹惆怅
离人放逐到边界
彷佛走入第五个季节
昼夜乱了和谐
涨泛任性涨退
字典里没春天
离人挥霍着眼泪
回避还在眼前的离别
你不敢想明天
我不肯说再见
有人说一次告别天上就会有颗星又熄灭

<333333 ISN'T CHINESE REALLY BEAUTIFUL? And for the first time, say, in my life long education, I kind of wish I'd studied it better.

And yes, it is you, the ugly bespectacled man who looks like a chicken and sings like a girl, I LOVE YOU a;sldkfasdklf and the even uglier man who sits beside you and writes all your songs and plays the guitar. <333

PRAY, GO AWAY IF YOU DO NOT KNOW ABOUT THE CAKE DUO

This is an ode to you-know-who, because OMG why can I not get you two out of my mind? And this is the time I really really hope for LJ cuts. -_-

1. You dislike him the first time you see him, partly because of the responsibility stamp your parents anxiously forced on you, and partly because of the five red sweets crammed in his mouth. Even at four years old, you have had enough of social calls with over-fed, under-mannered children.

He offers you a blue sweet. You can see part of it already melting onto his chubby fingers, leaving a sticky, ghoulish stain. You decline (even at young you had a sort of instinct for hygiene) and is rewarded with a hungry and garishly red smile.

2. When you are older and much taller (than him) you think of that moment as the beginning of a beautiful relationship.

3. The first time you step behind him you are thinking about the laws of physics, and how no amount of karate-inner balance is going to stop gravity from working its magic on those sugar-laden body cells. Especially considering the way he bounces around blindly, apparently ignorant of his considerable weight (every heavy thud like a hammer to your heart).

One day he is going to trip over a stone, smash his face into a glass wall, or get run over by a sports car.

If years of ancestral partnership (you are in healthy denial about implications of slavery) depends on you shadowing his every step (and upping your risk of contracting trauma-induced heart problems), why not?

4. Of course, eventually you realize he will never trip over a stone, smash his face into a glass wall, or get run over by a sports car. Something about him - and it just might be the curious metaphorical pink flowers hovering around his head - works like a talisman, God forbid if any wisp of reality shall taint his pure, sugar-composed soul.

By then, however, it is way too late to fall into step beside him. Not like you will ever lower yourself to bounce like him in the first place.

5. This is what you remember of him later - waving a forked strawberry like a victory flag; stabbing a disturbingly large piece of cake with karate-precision and carnivorous strength (you holding your breath lest he breaks the expensive china); eating/ogling/fondling/lusting cake and cake and more cake, pink flowers swirling above his head in an anti-clockwise direction.

All the while you think about cavities and diabeties and other metabolic diseases, feeling old.

6. No one who consumes sugar in such a compulsive, almost suicidal manner deserves to be worried about. No one.

7. The truth is (and you've known this since the first time you met him), he sees only the things he wants to see: in his world, all is dark except for a pink star for strawberry cake, a brown star for chocolate cake, a white star for vanilla cake, and a shiny silver star for anything with sugar content higher than fifty per cent.

(What you don't know is that his biggest, brightest golden star is reserved just for you.)

broken chord: the major fall and the minor lift

Sometimes. It is better not to look. It is like this - and this is this is this - that I hate smart people. Not smart in the academic way, but in the ways that matter. You know.

One day I may have to flip a coin to decide my future. Until then I think I shall wait till the end of exams, when I shall attempt to pour my heart out in an appropriately heartbreaking way. You know, all the crazy desperate violent movements to dislodge venomous abnormalities from your vitals. Like that.

There are things that we do and there are things we do not do. There are empty spaces to fill and overcrowded spaces to vacate. There is the good and there is the bad. What does one moment mean? It is fleeting and selfish. I expect if you string all of these moments together, you will get a collage of seemingly important details, and you will fuss over them - memorising them because if you do they might actually matter - and in the process throw your life away.

This is what smart people do to my brain. >< I think I have to wait till next tuesday to really really come up with a way to achieve closure. Hallelujah.

To EMO teen: there is NO pleasurable pain in biting on a broken tooth

I hate gay stories when everyone is gay. And the sexy flamboyant gay says to the geeky mid-sexuality crisis gay: Oh pretty gay boy. Please come and fuck me. If not I will go fuck my colleagues, all of whom are gay and want to fuck me.

I hate gay stories when no one is gay, and the love-strucked gay couple has to meet in public toilets to have hawt desperate sex, after which one of them will die of AIDS. And the surviving gay will marry his childhood love and think about AIDS gay everything he copulates with the wife.

WHY ARE THERE NO NORMAL GAY STORIES? X.X This is why I prefer to read Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell and imagine them being gay, though that is really very disgusting because Mr Norrell is like 2394 years old.

Tragic love of the century: A loves B. B loves cake. A and B turn out to be cousins, and no amount of cake can change genetic history.

So exams are coming. I feel oddly excited, mainly because I keep thinking of xiaolongbao and other binging plans. Of course, after the exams, I shall have keyboard smashing sentiments and say things like: oh FUCK, I should have studied instead of taking in 249143 calories.

some devilll

I am very intrigued by the enthusiasm the school generally shows for National Day community singing. This is when classes gather in united circles, link arms, and start bouncing up and down. Of course, why shouldn't we? Singing is always fun, especially when you are a girl and has a high floating airy voice and doesn't have to go one octave lower like a certain Y-chromosome population. But then again, we don't sing the national anthem. Not even on National Day celebrations. It seems very strange that we explode with such a spurt of patriotism 90 minutes later. If the Government is hoping that community singing will breed such patriotism, then well HAHAHA I suppose Singaporeans will just have to burst into song when Malaysia bombs a hole in our water pipes.

As always, I am in denial about National Day. There is something about the parade, you know, the whole red-and-white deco and enslaved primary school children forming giant formations that do not really make any sense but we interprete as symbols of unity, diversity, racial harmony, and OMG our cleaniless. I expect it shows Singapore's creativity and er appreciation of fine arts.

I get the feeling that I am supposed to say that school has taught me all the bad things about our country: the perverse way Singapore spreads her legs, her lack of principles, her failure to become a global city COUGH, how she ranks 3034455 on press freedom, and her unfortunate resemblence to a bespectacled geeky American (!) kid. But despite all of this, Dear Country, I can see your beauty and I love you in spite of all your failings!

Well. No. I don't. I dislike you Singapore. Just like how I dislike the Bush administration and their abuse of Christianity. I really really dislike you and your little subordinates. Because ohmygoodness Straits Times your political agenda is paper micromolecule thin. But then again it is probably stupid to dislike all of this because, well, everyone else is just like you my dear country. Just that maybe they conceal it better.

O.O Have been emotionally unstable these days. Wept copiously at Animal Planet program when horrible American woman took away wolf puppies from their mummy and then said, in a very matter-of-fact way: I expect the mother is going to spend a few weeks looking for her puppies. It's a very sad thing to watch. O.O DIE ANIMAL PLANET DIE. After that I watched a lot lot lot of HK dramas and made excited comments like "Oh. They are both fucking other people!!!"

Oh isn't it so much easier to love fiction? But I suppose it is more important and more rewarding to love real people.

eta: Words transcend all of us. Mrs Lee HC, right? Primary three. I shall never ever forgive you for writing "is she thirsty?" next to my line her mouth felt dry suddenly and killing any of my budding literary aspirations. There are things called literary devices, and god I hope I took lit so I would at least be able to name them. Still. It is important to believe to believe in yourself isn't it?

OH HITLER TOMORROW DOES NOT BELONG TO YOU

Last week, I watched:

1. Caberet. It is brilliant in an inexplicable way and I love it so. It is beautiful in a very strange way. Well, I suppose it is because there is young people love (I press myself against your body, I talk about anything but myself, I consume alcohol, and OMG HOT SEX!!!) and old people love (one pineapple, dancers dressed as pineapples, one closed door, one spinster, one Jew). I like the contrast of old people love against the scandalous background of 1930s Berlin. Which is, if you recall your History lessons, during the Great Depression and people lived on almost non-existent money. No money = no morals, thus the decadence.

I love the creepy patriotic song sung in the mindless, spooky way, with the Nazi officer shouting at appropriate patriotic parts (FAZZERLAND FAZZERLAND. Oh Hitler oh Hitler you were such an inspiration to your subjects). I lovelove the Grand Tragedy plot, especially the Jew who was oh-so-ignorant, or maybe oh-so-in-denial. I lovelovelove the characterisation. Because Sally talks too much and too fast and not enough about herself. The spinster is OMG pragmatic. The Jew is shy shy shy! The American is very American and appropriately stupid to be marginably likeable as the protagonist. And as much as I do NOT like Fei Xiang I liked his little songs. They were, at times, very insightful (gorilla gorilla JEW gorilla!). That does not include the parts when he made phallic symbols with the bolster. Though ohmygoodness I wish I was in the front row! Ahaha, I'd think that this is an extremely retrospective piece, and would have probably scored 424% for our History PT.

Next time I shall go see theatre, which is poorer and songless, but Adrian Pang I love you so! GAH. I want to go for the Singapore Theatre Festival (?) because I am very curious about theatre and because I love the person sticking his head into the Merlion. But GAH. EOI. -_- Besides, ANTI-SOCIAL friends, remember?

2. Pirates. HAHAHA. Well. There were a lot of big round objects, which is very appealing. The giant octopus is as well, conceptually. Only the real one looks like an alien from Man In Black. I suppose all the setups (manymanymany eyes!! Giant octopus!! Giant hamster wheel!! Big spherical cage!! Paprika!!) are meant to be entertaining. Well. They are not. I love the ending so, though. But only because it effectively martyrs Jack Sparrow, and oh oh oh that paves the way for so much. He is going to come back covered with Giant Octopus intestinal goo and much angst, much anger. Not least because pretty Elizabeth duped him with her sexual powers OMG, but because he is actually glad it was him that was eaten by giant octopus. Then he will discover his kind and self sacrificial side and go into denial and depression and put on more eyeliner and drink more rum and turn homosexual and become a punk rocker OMG. Indeed.

3. Parkinson. It is not spectacular. Just wanted to remember that Will Young is OMG GAY GAY GAY. And I knew bald guy from Little Britain was GAY GAY GAY as well. I bet the other one is as well. Oh they are doing tours. Maybe they will come to Singapore, and I shall be there, waving my little banner of THE ONLY GAY IN THE VILLAGE. <3

Meh. HAPPY BIRTHDAYS I suppose (hamster! Barney! Bunny! OMG!)