I allude to no deep emomomomomo meanings when I say that the waiting games are over. By that I mean not frustrating, exciting mind games wrought with sexual tension, like those constructed by bad writers who attempt to portray pseudo-intellectuals falling into True Love. It is frighteningly literal. Ho. Hearts. Solitaire. Spider solitaire. Blah Blah. They shall always carry that vaguely panicky, dark, uncomfortable connotations. But for now, I shall be cheerful and comment that it is nice to know that for once, I was waiting for the wrong thing.

School. PE. Camp 1 and camp 2 and failing to turn up for future skating outings. Blah. (:

DONCHA WISH YOUR GIRLFRIEND WAS HAWT LIKE ME?

DONCHA?

1. I hate you sometimes, because you are emo mo mo mo (like me) and it messes with my brain, and er don't come back please.

2. I hate self-righteous people. Or maybe I hate people who are so terribly blatant, for whom emotions can be described so easily, without the tiniest bit of self preservation. After all, I have always enjoyed dismissing the real things. Live in your head, House says. ):

3. I am not a lesbian. I think.

4. Ho. Ho.

5. Oh the mightly God of OHM/RAVI/YO/HO/MU/WMD/LOBLOB, throw someone, anyone who is at least half-talented down at me. I need inspiration. -.-

6. Loss. Regret. Guilt. Inevitability. Fate. I like my moments well-captured, scenes well-described, characters well-constructed. That is all that I want, really. I like words. I like stories. But I really should start liking people better.

7. I have two CCAs. Like, YAY.

8. Er. Whoever reads this reads this. Remember ISLE application form. In by 2nd Feb, to staff room receptionist. LIE AND CHEAT YOUR WAY IN.

I don't think I handle rejection very well.

And even without that, I am horribly depressed, which should not be the case at all because if nothing, this weekend has been full of LOVE. It is Sweet for you all to do things for me, like buy me kinky lingerie and the little muffin and the cake with pretty marzipan hearts and the (ugly) scarf which I will never ever wear again, mainly because the thread is coming out already. And the messages from people in class, which are signs of Blossoming Friendship.

Still.

I think two weeks of excitement is about enough, and despite the fun of lectures, running four continuous rounds around the track, feeling emotionally superior because I am so not in love with anyone, enough is enough and really, I miss my friends. My future is bleak because I must be emotionally handicapped or something, considering the way I fail to warm up to new people. And really, I need someone to cry to, since I have never properly cried to anyone before, with the possible exception of Meow Meow, who doesn't count. We must go out someday. Or loiter in school till night, hide in some dark corner, and CRY.

And because everyone thinks I'm Horrible and Mean, which I am, but it is still rather upsetting, and because I enjoy Saying What I Really Think occasionally, I will say that I love all my friends and nobody will ever replace any of you. So, LOVE, really.

Because I am incapable of handling my own emotions, I will blame it on the Indian local author who wrote Love Letter and said OH HOW LONELY YOU MUST BE IF YOU ARE SURROUNDED BY THOUSANDS OF PEOPLE AND STILL FEEL LONELY.

I can see no light at the end of the tunnel, Mr Gopal Baratham, because of you.

Reading material. ))))))):

Wrote long rambling post about Son of a Witch, which I shall save for better days when I am significantly more coherent and have vocabulary beyond brilliant and bleak. But really, I am horribly depressed, horribly lonely, only because in a show of support towards Singapore literature, I am reading The Man in the Cupboard (Colin Cheong), which is actually quite amusing and an extremely insightful study on repressed identities and isolation (or so the summary claims). And it is interesting to see talented people write in such simplicity. No need for grandiose vocabulary, elaborate metaphors, or long, pretentious words like iridescent to impress. It is like his talent simply seeps out, and it flows so prettily with the clear and simple prose, which is complete love. Reminds of Never Let Me Go, actually.

But the point is, so the story goes like this: Ho. Spiritually boneless, physically infertile man is married to condescending, high-achieving wife for fifteen years. So it is fifteen years of repression, humiliation, and one day man cracks, decides to kill wife. Maybe this is one big metaphor about repression in Singapore. A cautionary tale about people who fail to, hem, self actualise. Whatever. I am simply convinced that in all my unpleasantness, curtness, and probably cruelty, I shall be murdered in cold blood by my spouse before I even turn forty. And what is scarier is probably the notion that someone might by repressed by my words. Which is like sdkl;fnsdkl;afn. )))))):

End of story.

But of course, I haven't actually finished the book. So I will cautiously anticipate the interesting twist at the end. That, and find a way to get my hands on Great Expectations, because I need a great tragedy to sob over.

BLAH

So nightmarish mass OG convo on MSN crashed upon my night of peace and quiet contemplation and killed my budding literary inspiration. Or rather, my constant musing along the lines of 'oh ho, should I open Microsoft Word and work on GENDER ROLES or not'. -_-

But, well, orientation. Blah Blah. I love MR11, and we are so valiente, what with illegally seizing a playground specifically reserved for children between ages 5 to 12. And I love making new friends. Blah Blah. Interesting activities which involved me dancing in public, near my house, where scary neighbours aka Aunties of Doom could have seen me. Blah Blah. It is tedious to record everything and if there is anything I would like to say, it is that any of my attempts to smile all the time apparently wears out all of my good humor in three days. It is a good thing that I actually like the people in my OG then. What with there being no need to smile unconvincingly during group stoning sessions. Ho.

Well. Really. Blah Blah. I am tired. Thinking about my class only makes it worse, and its like blah blah blah blah blah.

Strange to be in the same school with some people. Especially with Jasmine being really really high over HEMHEM, and I think I don't care at all but someone else being high always makes me uncomfortable so really, BLAH. It shouldn't matter, in any case, for I have far better people to obsess with and harbor lesbian thoughts about. Ho. It was really an interesting period of my life, huh. Rather funny, to think about it. And now I bask in the serene calm of the emotionally detached, though some semblance of embarrassment and possibly remnants of my teenage lurve prevent me from initiating conversations.

Ho. No more emo, painful posts about the pseudo pain of secret love then. Not necessarily a good thing though, for it effectively kills my ability to come up with quirky metaphors and whatnot. Goodbye beautiful plot devices and the exciting need to prove myself somehow. Or maybe, goodbye my muse. Hahaha. It is so late and I am so drunk on night air.

Blah. This is misleading. So disclaimer: my primary school lurve (you, and practically everyone, know who you are), just in case you ever come across this, the previous paragraph is so not about you hahaha.

Hahaha. Quote of the day: Unrequited love is like emotional suicide. You die from the inside. And become grumpy, like Meow Meow. - DEBBIE LEE.

HAHAHAHAHA.