HELLO MOMMY.

While you're here, why not -

1. Leave a comment
2. Tell me how the hell you managed to get these little pages of my weblife. Not from Internet history, I know, since they were saved so nicely in the hard disk, months and months of my life. Tell, heaven knows one day I shall feel the same urge to pry into my daughter's pathetic, unhappening life.
3. Relinquish control of my desktop. -.- I would like to access my desktop icons, if you please.

Or did you not suppose this was me? Amongst the 49302420394 blogs I visit, did you think I was Karen, whose window was open when I came home? Did you suppose I was someone else who was pinker, more unassuming, less words and words and words? Well, surprise surprise, this is me. I hope I haven't disappointed you too horribly. You must have expected somewhat less capital letters, somewhat more along of the lines of OMG I HATE MOMMY I SHALL THROW HER OUT THE MINUTE I GRADUATE, or maybe my Gay Chronicles of Hawt Lesbian Life (trysts with the twins in the handicapped toilets yesterday, cocaine dyke night tomorrow!), or probably, most of all, childish, unabashed musings of my girlish lovelife (today I passed Johnny in the corridors, he smiled at me OMG MY LIFE IS COMPLETE. I shall stalk him forever and our unspoken love will BURN).

Hello mommy, welcome into my weblife. Whatever happened to respect and privacy? But, really, pry away. What I do not tell you, what I do not let you see, you can never really have.

Do at least have the decency not to pretend I am too stupid to know about it though.

-

And to those who have somehow snatched a prime spot in my head? Some things seem to be beyond my control, but I don't mean to push anyone away. Don't leave just yet. Knock a little harder, blow the door off its hinges if you please. I kind of want to let you in.

你是我的诗篇, 读你千遍也不厌倦

So huge surprise, I love artsy, coherent people who somehow, in their own unpretentiousness, exude this fabulous (!) aura of being the Great Queen (like, not the female one) of Language. I love it, how they construct beautiful passages with all their throwaway metaphors, how, like protein sequencing, they link up such simple, unassuming words and arrange them in such a way that it grabs you and slams you against some imaginary wall, leaving you astounded by the sheer brilliance. I love it, and I want to be just like them. Though that probably means I shall have to read not only Murakimi (who at least amused me), but 2935830 other authors with unpronounceable names and works which shall make me want to bang my head against a concrete wall.

I would like to watch:

Solos
Happy Endings: Asian Boys Vol. 3
Stranger Than Fiction

Hey, support local theatre, local gay theatre, and er, semi-art house movies that shall make you weep over the little universes in your head!

I would like to read:

SQ21
Cyril Wong
Alfian Sa’at

I mean, hey, local gay literature! Hooray. And I have great love for Cyril Wong poems, even though he did disillusion me so with his Baby Socks story. But it's just like how some people are brilliant in prose but can't compose poetry to save their lives. Unlike some people, who are perfect in everything they do. Though that's really another issue which brings great pain, so.

Song of the day:

读你千遍也不厌倦,
读你的感觉像三月,
浪漫的季节, 醉人的诗篇

I wish there was someone really like that. Like the most perfect piece of written art. And it'd have a new chapter written everyday, just for me. Sometimes in CAPSLOCK OMG, sometimes without capital letters, sometimes in rhyming poetry, sometimes with really bad metaphors. It'll read like a very cheesy romantic novel, it'll read like literature, it'll read like pseudo-academia shit, it'll read like porn. But it's all just for me. My favourite book that never ends. And I shall never bear to fold its pages, or do as much as tarnish it with my imperfect handwriting by writing my name. Still, somehow, I shall inevitably manage to spill biscuit crumbs all over it, leave chocolate fingerprints on the index, orange juice stains along the margin.

But there you'll sit, untarnished, in all your bookish glory, on my very top shelf. So far, yet so, so near. You'll be my favourite book; everyday, increasing exponentially in content, never widening in girth.

i'll take you as my queen

It is amazing, how we get by, or perhaps how we think that we get by remarkably well. But really, it's only going to take you that one question, one song, one person to realise no, you never did get by at all. Then, naturally, the world as you have conceived crashes down upon your impenetrably thick skull, and you shall never, never get by again. For it is not enough, it is never enough.

And guess who said that and made the world a bleaker, wetter place?

It is one thing to say it when you have someone by your side, in your head, in your heart. It is quite another thing to admit it when you are all alone safe for a messy concoction of memories and sensory perceptions that have come together to form the dubious notion of someone. These days, however, I would much rather not get by, than pass my days in seeming content, never contending for more.

Well, really. What is happiness if not something as fleeting, as unreliable as fluctuating bouts of loneliness? I have been happy: watching the piano ensemble concert and managing not to abuse the circumstances at all, building supernatural worlds inside my head, surviving lit lessons and drawing unnerving parallels between Mrs Bennet and myself, speaking to old people, walking beside you and wishing your face away. Like loneliness, happiness is really a state of mind; wished, rather than bequeathed, upon your consciousness; created, rather than perceived, by the mechanisms of your mind.

Until I drop to the sidewalk, graze my knee, graze my heart (as Cathleen Schine so delicately put), all of this shall mean nothing at all. It is, after all, but a shallow, simple, and possibly stolen happiness.

(And here, I admit, no, I am not nearly as distant or distraught as I sound. But yes, it gives me inexplicable and unintelligent joy to be at least able to convey some emotion with success and (ha!) full self preservation. To prove my point, GIANT SMILEY: (: Or would that be interpreted as over-compensation? Ho. Ho.)