Untitled Document

i loathe this lethargy. it violates my mental space. now how do i write without sounding mundane?

i apologise for the dismalling desert of this space the last few days. when you expect to be paid for the normal hours you keep, you've signed your name along the dotted lines of social and personal compromises. such an odious arrangement. i am beginning to think i am ill-suited for normal hours.

and i have been sitting here the past half hour composing random phrases that had nothing to say. the train to the georgia of my mind runs at half steam, its passengers thoughts incoherent and mostly of the normal hour disaster. somebody carry me back to my satin beds of prosing please.

then lock the door and break the key in half. what is life when away, you miss this, but here you're too dull to write.

no, i don't know why. i did write a few days ago that the visual element was starting to entice me. the seduction is complete. this place is not plenarily devoid of hues, but neither is it the rainbow it used to be.

i spent my entire waking day exposing photography to the brash elements of photoshop. everything about me is latrociny. i pillage applications i misappropriate graphics i brigand links i plagarize concepts. i am the original thief, pirate, mistress of rapacity.

my head is functioning in monotone. i have less than 8 hours before i need to worship the broken heater god, and still i can't sleep. last night i set my alarm for noon, so i won't rob myself of sleep tonight. but when you're rocking in the arms of somnolence, it is with such infinite ease that you just stretch your hand and quell the cavalcade of clockwork/digital screaming. and slip back to sit with Morpheus. i wish he would pay to keep my company.

i hadn't slept a wink. sometimes i wonder why it is life has to immerse itself in the social whimsies of irony. they are very evidently the best of friends. irony lends life colour, like the rose blushes on the teenage cheeks of a schoolgirl, like the fathomless, rich, scarlet of blood dashing through mad highways of arteries, like white knuckles of consternation, all fabulously suffused at the sight of muse. and i long to write more but it is time to conform. i take my leave now to inject myself into the epidermis of normal hour.

sha, as only she could, demanded to know how i submit this altiloquence. she claims everytime she logs in here she drowns in the froth. the raw truth is - i cheat. i imagine an adjective, and then i submit it to the thesaurus, and then i replace it. have i not repeatedly confessed my thievery?

in the taxi on the way home, admist my languor (i've not slept since wednesday's entry), i wondered if i was fraudulent. and here is my conclusion - i am. and i am not. i hijack words with a rabied fanaticism, my thesaurus my accomplice. but these proses you read, the stories i weave, the subjects i broach they are my children. i've said these exacts words to hamdan once before and i repeat them here for you - my writing is my fucking frenzy. the end product, the proses you read here everyday (or every other, or once in a while, or perhaps not at all) is my orgasm. i shall be arrogant when i state this (but i find i cannot do it any other way) - this place is my canvas, the thesaurus my palette, the keyboard my paintbrush and the proses my colours.

it was quite painful in the taxi letting myself believe that i may be anything remotely close to a fraud, but alas it is truth. sha asked who i write for. i write for myself, first and foremost, as hard as it may seem to digest. i've always been more the arts linguist in secondary school. i lost it, by choice in poly. and now it re-emerges, to reconvene with its mistress.

i know you find this obsessively repulsive, and i have broken my own cardinal rule when i first created these pages - never self-indulge. and here i am doing it every single day. is my ego so amplified that i am addict to its feeds? yes. i am egoistic. i am narcissistic. and i write for myself. it's been an intensed hunger to keep writing. and my stanzas replenish. over and over again. i apologise if you feel cheated. i am egoistic. i am narcissistic. but i write for myself.

there is a nauseating sense of regret that's waltzing with trepidation whenever i remembered to check my mail today. if you're really reading - i don't know why i did what i did. but i know i am sorry i did it.

hamdan, what do you say to a friend sitting on the ledge? what would you like to hear? if you go, you will shatter first and foremost your mother. if you go, something inside her will leave with you. something inside all of us will. and if you will not believe you'd rob any of us your friends and acquaintances, at least submit you will rob your mother.

i cannot think of a more powerful refuge at this very moment than in the arms of God himself, and i know where you stand where he is concerned. but i know he exists. because he must. hamdan allow yourself a conversation with him. he listens, if only you'll call. because he must. ask for one reason to stay. he will give it to you.

i am writing for the sake of writing because Morpheus he has been calling for me the past few hours but i keep declining him (i know you're wondering so here it is explicitly - Morpheus is the mythical god of dreams). for my constant rejection, he delivers me a pair of warriors whose weapons are the fairy dusts of somnolence.

how is it that our morals are allowed down the gutters of society's fibres but painting that picture and singing that song is taboo? when will we stop composing the mona lisa and start on true photography? perhaps on another day when i am a weary (wary?) parent i shall be conducting the same republican orchestra, but for now i stand that envelopes should be kept pushed, however far the letter's exposed.

i think parents who trust that the media should understand the fences of social boundaries, explicitly define it in black and white, should stick their fists up their own asses. the television, the cinemas and the newspapers are but mere hovers, that turn observers, then spitters (albeit scented innuendoes). but what is the audience if not to absorb, debate then conclude? the final say of the day is yours. unfortunately the majority of society is lazy. they consumate with two of the three, but they conveniently alienate "debate", which is basis for all things personally singular and individual. absorb and conclude creates sheep. then when the parent sheep is aversed to the pink/green/blue hues his offspring sheep has adopted (courtesy of 21st century technicolour), he accuses the parrot, the poor silent photographer, the xerox machine. they forget the remote, that inanimated, plastic circuit of gamma radiation that sits reposed in the curls of their fingers. if you don't like the reverberations in your ear, the moving stills onscreen,

alas she is named. she would have invited fireworks of elation had i figured it out myself. but i give credit where it's due - zarfan deduced it, like the pseudo cyber holmes that he is (it was trial and error actually). who cares?! she is named, and i am satiated.

it's so completely irrational i cannot explain it, define it, dissect it, dissert it. when you thought you knew yourself, when you thought you knew exactly the hues that make your painting, the subjects that make your frame, they all turn on you and walk right away. and they leave you with all you'd never thought to think about, and should you compromise?

and if they don't stop their sweets then you know you will relent, and that's the last that should happen because you reckon you know exactly what makes that clock tick. and it's not your kind of dynamite.

i feel removed from the greater sphere of society, like an observer, the voyuer of the masses, always looking in. it is not an alienation, because pressing my hands against the glass panel windows was a choice i made, not something of compulsion. i don't care for the crowds, although their colours and their stories set against immaculate and expansive concrete poems intrigue me. i think this comes because even as i am exclusive to crowds, i am surrounded by extraneous individuals, and conversations are superficial and impersonal. and sometimes i wish it were not so, since current circumstances are insinuating i spend more time with them. but alas it is, and i am not a beggar for company.

i rise and i feel a familiar tremor in the cavities of my chest and the first thing i do is reach for the blue box and i hate it. i will not be addict to sanguine expectations again. i will not fall victim to the arms of sweet bouyancy. i will not watch as reckless, intrepid clouds of inclination invite themselves into the briers i've worked hard and long to nurture, the thorny moat around my castle. this is madness and would i please not fall into it?

it is this accreting hollowness, the extending emotional orifices that bring about this paralyzing familiarity, this consternation. i have quite forgotten how it feels for absent solid ground from beneath me, erratic tempests of fancy. and please let it stop so i may rest easy on my complacency again.

The African bullfrog, or Pixie frog as it is often called (because of it's latin name, not because it's as cute as a fairy!), is one of the largest frogs in South Africa. Usually, they hang out in open grassland, and if there are any to be found, they'll sit around in puddles. When startled, these frogs will blow up like balloons to scare away the intruder! In the dry season, they will burrow into the ground. These guys eat lots and lots of really big bugs, fish, mice, lizards, and even other frogs.

Second finger eh? The index/main finger, making you the reliable one, the one whom everyone can depend on. Pretty down to earth though sometimes your reliability gets too much for others to bear and they think it's strange how much you plan.
Which finger are you?

that was your dose of graphics, as opposed to all text, all day. i am so very tempted to pull them all off but what of the effort, of the heart i'd invested in all that vacuousness?

i was seated here just deliberating when it struck me that we are all far removed from each other, and the friendship is peaking at an all-time high of bitter (mis?)conceptions and compelled superficialities. sometimes i am ill-conceived about whether it is good or bad that i am the most distant value in the trigonometries of our sorority.

hardly 22 and we're all tired of the other. hardly 22 and we are each our own deserts, as far apart from one another as actual geography. it is individual intolerances rolled into balls of yarn, then sprawled over and around us. and we have verbally disserted topics of this nature once or twice or countless times before but it keeps coming back and repeating itself. and it is gleeful and it is omni-present and it knows it is taboo, so it revels, delights and frolics in the satins of our silences.

why have we grown so completely overbearing, supercilious, flippant? this excursos is beginning to nauseate me because it's starting to look self-righteous. believe me it is not intended to. i am just as guilty, perhaps even more, contributing to this dissension.

so now the ends of this tractate is lost to me. i am unable to close it for lack of bouyant eidolons.

i see it has been a day of reunions for the some of us. the full cup of cold chocolate, 8 sticks of menthol and several capsules of apple + cinnamon are taking its toll on me. my hands are shaking, reflective of an introspective trepidation bubbling beneath my chest. i am in the grips of a paroxym again but the stories in my head are far between each other. nothing is a solid hue.

once more the ground beneath me has fallen away but i am not in the know of its cause. i do not think it is my muse but it plays around in my mind, twirling clouds of imparadise between its fingers, luring me, seducing me, imploring me to stay. and once more i repeat that i hate it. it has been so long since i have been enamoured and i do not wish to be the helpless again. they say it is bliss but when it decesses, you are fractured and alone and the journey back to an independence of body and soul is wrought with thorny ashes. mostly of despair. and they are these infinitus passages of despondency that i wantonly keep away from. nothing forays you more than your own regiments of desolation.

i am back to square one in the language of finances. i was slated for an ambitious project, sequel of sorts to a (almost by local standards) notorious depiction. alas the powers that be developed a distaste (for the cast? the plot? the team?) and it has been maimed. reduced to a shadow of itself i do not think they are possessed of the budget to accomodate my humble self. this plenarily sucks eggs. i am back on the streets of misdirection. i am the labarum of unemployment. would anybody be in need of pompous writers?

it suddenly felt worth working on and so i did. the concept hit me in the midst of its construction. and so the desertion page is reborn as prosternation. it is old material, with new narration. i hope you enjoy it.

sunflower complacencies
the trepidation
the inquietude
the quivering, the shaking
the apprehension
the consternation
the propensity of panic
the paralysis
a cowardice

it is completely due me, that when i really need someone, nobody's around. and i am merely lamenting. and i am ravenous, and insomnic, and aching and completely, completely baffled. and i wish so much to talk to you. morpheus prides himself the audience in my play this morning. he refuses to behest for me because this is simply too juicy. and i want to sleep! and i want to talk to you! and i am pouting, you better believe it.

i am so irrevocably pathetic i have taken to other people's blogs for solace. and if they are all untouched since my last visit i would feel as if i exist plenarily on the moon 150 000 km (?) away from civilization. it is friday night. i am seated here. typing this. that is the second volume (this stanza alone) in the series of my literal still-life gymnastics.

it is the passageways of inanimation that i awoke to about an hour ago. i am impoverished, malnourished, deficient of a something and i cannot describe it because i have not found it. and if i ever had at one point in father time's cavalcades, then for sure i've lost it. so long i've forgotten it.

a happy birthday to ezal. he turns 23, and all i could mumble to him was an incoherent apology about the insufficiencies of his "bash". i grimace ruminating how i might have looked like wiggling on the dance floor. in the moment you're supposed to let the eagles of beat prey on you, biting into you chewing your soul. but really the day after when you're sober again (and please do not take a literal translation upon that) it's almost completely gratifying knowing they were just momentary lapses in time no one could have captured for solid keeps. unless everyone else around you had photographic memories. in which case... no, you really would not like to ponder bout that.

the end of the week is ending and if you thought bummers are white horses to the monday blues then perhaps you'd like to try delighting in unemployment. and while you're at it, throw in hoards of bestfriends and good buddies with full-fledged careers. i wish late saturdays were infinitus - that last hour you spend swinging your crossed legs, catching up with bestfriends you've not seen since whenever, waiting for the (perceived) red carpet arrivals of the (perceived) fashionably late, anticipating saturday's shenanigans.

it is so reprehensibly humid, the damp heat wraps around my skin like moist towels in a sauna. how could the weather be so mercilessly temperamental. two weeks ago the streets were lush with skyjuice. today they are insipid and plenarily arid, and if pavements were as pliable as the earth they'd be literally cracked and barren as well.

i have moved my fellow Gen Y-ers down to make room for the expanding library, the latest trooper to this conglomeration of misfits being zarf. i've featured him once before, but today he returns with the resolute of hungry lionnesses, betrayed only by a sporadic flight of almost tipsy humour. pay the plains of his impassioned gallery a visit.

i sit here languishing in humidity, sluggish and inclined to the mistresses of ennui. and still there fashions mild throbs of affecting thoughts, a coveting, a partiality for Aphrodite's acquaintance. and you know the tip of the honeyed arrow he's running slow and sensual on your lips leaves moist, sticky trails of the ambrosial poison. but you stick your tongue out anyway, and you lap at the venomous treacle because it's begging you with the song of the Sirens and you can't stand to resist anymore. and really, the liquid juices of surrender taste of indelible, saccharine sorrow. and immediately you are remorseful. but you know it comes too late, because the vile sweets from the love affair is ebullient in your blood.

for now it is still only affecting thoughts and the coveting, the partiality for Aphrodite's acquaintance. for now he is still only dipping his poisoned arrowtips. i am waiting for the treacle on my lips.

disclaimer: the former was written in untamed weather, affecting the author's ability to think rationally, rendering her a flushed paroxysm resulting in fevered proses that in the end do not make very much sense to her. even now.

sometimes i wonder how it is i can never be straight with my entries. i go over and under and all around but never, never rightsmack deadcentre. curling fingered proses. so this place wouldn't be the best choice on languid, deadpan days.

i feel like screaming right now because i can feel everyone crawling beneath my skin but the difference is they are frolicking outside to the beats of the streets and it doesn't matter that the days are so hellish. i would really rather be working than stuck at home. where i've been since sunday morning. would someone please rescue me from the dismal decomposition of my social karma?

i just realised that right now, today, is may 15th. which would make tomorrow may 16th. i thought i had two weeks. we shall all know, in less than 48 hours, if the honeyed arrow meets its mark. goodysome.

my poor entries and uploading have been plagued by typos and time-outs. i am anal and impatient i do not need this.

warning: potentially detrimental towards star wars 2 idealism.
disclaimer: the following is purely subjective narration.

i did not almost orgase, as opposed to the phantom menace when i witnessed, albeit very bated breath, the sexy mortal combat engagements of sith and jedis. in fact, in clones, i hardly even held my breath. but i was restless, and interjecting quite a bit (according to someone). that was about all the action clones managed to wring from me. what a floozy.

on the allegory front, someone would very much like to see me compose the following, so i shall oblige.

in the spirit of million-dollar, intergalactic forays, the youngest padawan initiated today is darla. classic blend of youth and wholesome intellect. you'll soon find out.

fyi, the weather is immediately relative to the timeliness of this place, as has been proven thus far. when you see zealously regular updates again it might be one of the following:-
a) the weather recovers
b) i am rocking to emotional disarray
c) both
d) i am in diuturnal aridity.

i don't know how it started, or where. it just did. and i can find no discernable explanation, no rationale, no system to it. and i guess that's about the only consistence to this mini-tornado - the fact that we can't even line a logical series of contentions pertaining to us.

it has everything to do with me. i'm the skeptic, i'm the disbeliever. two years ago i would've fallen into you no questions asked, and then you would have very well walked away. so i really can't explain why it has chosen only now to come to us, when it could just as easily have elected two years ago. i know you wouldn't know either and see? didn't i say you were predictable? *grin*

i don't have anything of value (at least, superficially) to offer you. i don't "roll with the (goddamn) homeys", i'm financially miserable and you've told me enough that there's nothing remotely physically attractive about me to you (and can i please explicitly tell you here that i find that so completely obnoxious, amusing as it is? *scowl*).

and if it's my heart you're seeking to break, another trophy for your glorious wall, it's already broken. all of it. i am not worthy game for your hunt. i'm the injured rabbit. you either finish me or leave me alone.

i don't know how much this means to me. i've not even begun to absorb its incipience. but i do know that if it didn't mean a thing i wouldn't still be here. unlike you (or your old self as you have had to, and probably will, continously assert), even though it is within my capacity to (as it is everyone), i can never play the field. i see too much in the faces of strangers. and so since i am not participant to this vile game (by choice, as always), i hope the players respect my undeserving. especially you.

i could not drift back to sleep, despite a physical lethargy. my head swirls with too much, thanks to mister sticky, who jumps on my tightrope and walks in my head.

my dream included a beautiful white persian with streaks of grey, a tame doberman, some (inconsequential) chocolate, and the number 8, which appeared as a cracker devoured by an inexorably selfish girlfriend. in the dream of course.

and i would go into pro-offered rationales of it all, cept that would make banal reading.

sunday may 19th 1817 hours

dnb is an acquired taste. unfortunately for me, i've acquired it.

superb weekend. charged saturday, and today's lazy sunday makes a fitting end - the madonna of all wind-downs, because i miss my bestfriend and i shall be meeting her. the only fly in my soup is my pocket's current state of poverty, and my wallet's state of absence (from me). you! take care of her and please, no more peaking.

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monday may 20th 1233 hours

i've only recently recovered my appetite. before that, it seemed i was content with however little and whatever eatables there were that chanced to be lying around (and usually there weren't any). the thing about forgetting to eat is that you're rarely hungry. once you start again, you're almost always ravenous.

i am in severe need of projects. it's damned near impossible to be regaining a social life with only pockets full of coins. i've pulled it off before but the hours i'm starting to keep outside demands more than my fistfuls. i need a curfew (i already have one, i'm just always crashing it).

i was lamenting to mr sticky that i haven't been in the right frames to be writing much these days, and he asked if that's cos i was happy. and frankly, in part i suppose that's not far from the truth. and as such then if i were to pursue a career in writing, i shall have to become a nun of the highest order. how absolutely novel.

by the way, i'm always forgetting to note this but now that i've remembered to... i think hamdan has completely, with a fierce finality to it, pulled his journal off. he's either moved and snubbed me or it was a paroxysm of all previously latent frustrations that hissed at his fingers to literally rip the writings off the wall. perhaps he went "oops." after. perhaps not. whatever he's doing, i hope he's happier.

tuesday may 21st

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wednesday may 22nd 0255 hours

the maiden surrenders. she tires of sleepless nights and absent intimacies. she tires of introspective spars. she tires of financial, emotional and spiritual poverty. she tires of cowardice. and she tires of waste. she wants her life handed back to her. does not matter it returns dusty and insulsed. she has never seized the day. she yearns to start.

and she hopes she's made the marauder a happier rogue general.

0317 hours

rome stands down
the hours before have transcribed the ends
of the ardous journey for him.
impulsion, impatience, desire once more,
her thorn, her archille's heel.

merciless cavalries of the marauder's men
sleek black steads, stoic stygian armour.
at its helm he stands looking, pacing, seducing,
irises of defiance, obsequitous ardour.

from behind the gates she returns the look,
she's the charmed fish, who's baited and hooked.

the hours before have transcribed the ends
of the ardous journey for him.
the gate's unlocked, and rome is inviting,
her army stands down, at will.

1757 hours

because i thought this picture was pretty, laura of mewing.net told me this: "you enjoy sitcoms, popcorn, horses, and perhaps surfboarding. you lost your virginity either very early (under the age of eleven) or very late (over the age of thirty). you take politics and religion very seriously, and when you were a kid, you had a penchant for getting lost in shopping malls and/or amusement parks. your favorite color is most likely blue or green, and you are terrified of spiders." whatever will laura tell you??

true, true, true, wouldn't know, no comments, quite, can't remember, true, not true.

which Episode II character are you?

Probably the greatest Jedi Knight of all. Like Obi Wan, you are wise and keep your feet on the ground at all times. You will not be outsmarted by anyone. You are always faithful to your friends. Be careful though, danger lurks around every corner - you could even be betrayed by those closest to you.

take the butt quiz.

take the non-offensive quiz.

Which Season are you?

Which era in time are you?

2039 hours

made some changes to rome stands down, because the marauder insisted his armour (and his cavalry) sounded a tad too happy (read: "eh wot shiny armour? don't want shiny ah... i am the emperor you know"). so the next day the marauder's men transform into regiments of sundown. i hope you like your new menace, luv. the story of the stanzas remain unchanged.

2303 hours

i've never really been any good at poetry. i consider the trio i've penned so far (and several other limericks/odes lying around here randomly) chance meets of the verse fairies. the magic dusts that fell from their tittering chatter landed on my head and osmosised their ways into my brain and then suddenly i'm writing. some people write poetry everyday, and i wish i were part of that particular some people clan. but i'm not. if you've been regular here then you'd have already read all three. no matter. they have a proper place in this place now.

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thursday may 23rd 0247 hours

a new one in verses.

1726 hours

latest initiate the red-one. you gotta love his visuals.

took hamdan off the library of misfits because he's promised he will be back. not quite the same, but he will be back.

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friday may 24th 0258 hours

i spent the whole of today (technically yesterday) begging for morpheus but he abandoned me for hours on end, and only came to grant my peace of mind with extremely frugal portions of time. i'm wondering if my dawdling, my languor right now has anything to do with the lack of his company.

and there's a dull malaise eating away in my chest right now, chiselling, breaking chunks off my ribs, sustaining itself. it stems from my perplexity, the enlightenment of how utterly appalling my physical state of being is right now. at nearly 22, i am still incredibly financially dependent and the knowledge of this is fine dining's succulent sauce for my malaise. how are my ribs, good no?

1602 hours

it stumps me how god taps you on the shoulder exactly when you've forgotten about him (or was simply to pre-occupied to be saying how do you do). i was deranged for a full half-hour. i think i scared mr sticky, i think i spooked the spook. no matter. for every 15 minutes of fame (didi, izad and especially ratno i gather, will sternly attest to this), you get half an hour of delirium and the rest of your life to cogitate over all repercussion. but what a half-hour! it was a sensory overload, a super seratonin nimiety. i've never popped an E but i imagine i should be anticipating events similar should the day come when i decide i'd like to get chemically affectionate.

whoooooo-eeeeeeeeee!!!

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saturday may 25th 0759 hours

up until this week, it had been more than a year since the last inamorato - since i've enthusiastically fancied (and been similarly fancied), since plenary fascinations, since bewitchery. a year since complete enamoury, a year since wild enrapture. one year constructing what i had hoped was the edifice of emotional independence, and it takes him just two weeks to come along and dismantle half my introspective architecture with sledge-hammers of his poetry.

the next paragraph i wrote spawned a whole assemblage of verses.
it's called the obstinacy of the enamoured.

0955 hours

the first ever visual depiction is available and up for inspection. look for it.

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sunday may 26th 1616 hours

it's completely gorgeous weather. 4 in the afternoon and it looks like a very cool 7 pm. if it stays like this then we can all pretend the sands in the hour glass froze. the only thing missing are the boys on the court. every week the younger kids in my block receive free tutorials in the art of enunciating expletives.

"eh cheeeeebai here lah here lah!!!"
"eh fuck you!!"
"eh narrrrbayyy pass to meeeeee!!!!"

i don't know why they're all missing. a little bit of rain's never stopped them before. last night was a completely droll saturday. perhaps the bad karma rubbed off on today. perhaps they were all dragged to some wedding (it seemed a whole throng of people had weddings and social events to attend this weekend). that explains last night's supposed monotony. then there shouldn't be much to sleep off today. no matter. if you're still with morpheus right now, you're having less and less time to be stuck in this moment.

Which Kiss Are You?

You're ANGER! You're not the most pleasant person to be around! You've got a short fuse, and you're almost always mad at the world. You're represented by the color red.

i'm spending the best weather in weeks sitting at my table doing online quizzes.

1755 hours

i was pleasantly surprised to see, for the first time, alfie whining in sha's comment-thingiemajig. so since i had access to his space i've added him to the posse.

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monday may 27th

tuesday may 28th 0019 hours

i've been on the proverbial rollercoaster the past few days. if things don't stop flowing the way they've been i'll be on my way to THE hugest break accorded me in one whole focken year. i don't wanna count them chicks yet but at least one has hatched and its downs are a technicolour rainbow, the industrial light magic effect for my current banal existence. thank you Sha. thank you thank you thank you i am forever indebted to you thank you to the power of infinity and then some. i still can't believe my focken luck.

0058 hours

i couldn't resist. hello my technicolour rainbow.

2251 hours

there's a general sense of dull alarm that's cruising around on the highways of my chest. and there shouldn't be. i need to absorb the fact that i'm going to be keeping crazy hours again. i think the most tragic chapter in the annals of my vanity doctrines writes about the fact that i, for the first time in the entireties of my life, shall be TREKKING (reserves, nature parks, maybe forests... the works) under the furiously ebullient star. i swore off the great ball of fire since the days of secondary school (and since fulltime unemployment i've almost completely sworn off day itself). i've contrived and manipulated the schematics of shades and shadows at midday. i'm the artful dodger of the sun.

but in a week, for purposes of monetary and mandatory opportunities most exigent, i will finally yield. the problem starts when i reach beyond the gorgeous golden tan. and i have superlative talent for that. focken vitamin Ds.

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wednesday may 29th 1456 hours

a happy, happy birthday to K
and i'm broke, and i'm broke all the way
and i'm sorry, i'm sorry it won't do
i'll return and i'll bring HIM (quantity: ONE) for you

Who's Yo Daddeh? Find out @ blackhole

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thursday may 30th 2305 hours

to the general yardstick and all its idolators
disclaimer: an objective dissertation. i was not angry when i wrote it.

a lauryn hill rant
what do you have to prove and to who? why? it shouldn't matter if someone deliberated you weren't pretty enough, or rich enough, or hip enough. society, specifically the male yardstick can go to hell. i don't give two balls that i'm an A cup, or my legs don't stretch forever. i couldn't give a flying fuck if my face doesn't please you. and if my hair is limp it sticks to my head, not yours. you couldn't even begin to handle my bolts of shots, and that's really all the knowledge i need everytime a bunch of ball-heads instigate the rating of my genes and my biology. and i bid more sisters the same enlightenment.

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friday may 31st 0455 hours

i couldn't resist. stole this off alfie's blog.
i did some work on it. check out before and after. but it speaks for itself (the poster i mean, not my work).

1832 hours

i entered a pseudo visual-political frenzy. there's a new branch in town and it's called left.

1927 hours

the day continues to piss me off.

2315 hours

the fairies of reason have waltzed into my mother and effectively carried off all their magic periwinkles. tonight of all nights she chooses to come to me, armed with grenades of questions completely out of her character, and giggling intermittently to top it all off.

the matriarch's absence of soundness
ACT I
mama: you broke up with him didn't you?
me: ??? no!
mama: you and your temper.
me: it's not always my temper ok.
mama: what's his sign?
me: ?? wot?!
mama: his star sign lah.
me: don't tell me you believe that bullshit.
mama: no no i don't. but what's his sign.
me: he's a leo.
mama: (grinning) leos have a temper you know.
me: really..
mama: you got temper he also got temper. eh you know how your father and i can last anot? it has been 23 years you know..
me: here we go...
unfortunate daughter inwardly laments the timeliness of her ill-fortune.
mama: it's because we have an understanding with each other. if you don't like the boy, you shouldn't have gone with him.
me: (retorting) i like him la that's why i go with him.
victimised daughter trots off to her room. mother follows cheekily behind.
mother peeks in through door.
mama: you fought right just now?
me: eh why you so kepo?? go away!!
mother laughs as perplexed daughter pushes door shut.

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