chalk and cheese

what happens when chalk and cheese try to co-exist?

imagine a piece of chalk trying to live in the dairy compartment of the refrigerator. what is it going to do there? with no board to scribble on, no charts to draw, no powdery floors to roll around in. instead, the air is damp all the time, and artificial light flickers on and off at random. it is dark most of the time. and it is cold at all times. chalk begins to feel soggy from the condensation going on constantly. slowly, it might disintegrate into nothing...

now, how about the cheese moving to the chalkboard instead? regardless of what kind of cheese it is, it is probably not going to last very long outside of the refrigerator. however, if it is brie or camembert, it will perish even faster. chalk powder will also stick to the cheese in uncomfortable clumps, and the poor cheese will be too polite to try and get them off (even if it was possible to).

cheese might try to join in the local activities of writing on the chalkboard. it will then smear itself all over and ruin the playground for everyone. chalk and cheese may even fall out over this.

one might argue that leaving cheese intact with its white wax coating will allow it to sit amongst the chalk powder with chalk quite happily. but come on! who's going to let a nice piece of cheese stay like that forever? surely it must be sliced and enjoyed?

can chalk and cheese ever reach a compromise?

or perhaps, some things are just not meant to be?

how

the hell do ants get into an air-tight container?

o.o

hmph

i am in love with exasperation.

bah!

worried

22 hospitalised.

i hope you're not one of them.

please respond soon.

why

is blogspot so much more complicated than livejournal?

there is so much more bullshit going on. you get weirdos (with names like The Guru) leaving comments. politics and flame wars and shit-slinging.

freedom of speech is abused.

i have always enjoyed healthy interaction on my livejournal, and i have yet to screen or delete any comments there since the birth of my first entry. true, there are strange people there too but none have posted anything truly distasteful.

i was an editor, and will always be one at heart. blame my roots, but i do not appreciate having my publications stained with crass remarks. as much as i approve of freedom of anything, this is my thinking space and i would like to keep it clean. clean content, clean comments.

autocracy? no freedom of speech?

well, if someone comes into your house and takes a dump on your floor, will you throw this asshat out? will you also leave the shit on the floor, or will you clean it up and move on?

this blog is not written for an audience. i am not aiming for hits on my counter or ads. it is a collection of my thoughts, though anyone is welcome to read and share. i don't enjoy flame wars online, flame me face to face if you want. flame me here, and i will simply throw the shit out and disinfect the area. no biggie.

a million thoughts

running through my mind.

i dream of my other home very often. sometimes on consecutive nights, sometimes twice a week, sometimes once a week. always crystal clear, everytime.

i expect no one to make sense of the following, or even to finish reading it. because these are memories of my home in fragments. extremely disjointed fragments. in fact, i would discourage you from reading it because i believe you'll find it extremely boring.

the clang of trams and the crisp cool air. the slanted shadows in my pitched roof bedroom. the stream of sunlight through my tall glass doors. the feel of smooth timber as i clamber down my tiny spiral staircase. patting the life-sized pikachu on the head as i pass it on the stairs. the chill of a wintry morning through my flannel PJ's, as i heat up various contraptions in my kitchenette to make breakfast. the whirr of my oven, the glowing red ring of my electric stove, the hum of the exhaust fan. curling my finger into each metal ring which were the handles to my cabinet doors. flicking on the teevee for the morning news while feasting on bacon, eggs, mushrooms, baby spinach and potatoes. making my couch the way i make my bed, everyday. doing laundry daily even though i lived alone. shrinking my clothes in my dryer for a perfect fit. cleaning the lint (ok, i'm weird like that. i find it really fun). the rumble of the dryer as my home warms up a notch at the same time. being rudely jolted everytime the damned (loud) doorbell rings. the little square of heaven that is the skylight in my bathroom. watching rain/hail on the skylight in my bathroom. wondering when the bird shit will get washed away from the skylight in my bathroom. showering in the hottest water i could ever wish for, from a hugeass shower head like a rain-sprinkler in the strongest jets i ever wanted. stepping out of the shower cubicle into my heated bathroom. the feel of my bath mat as i curl my wet toes on it. doing sit-ups with my feet hooked under my futon bed. sliding the mirrored doors of my built-in wardrobe. climbing five flights of stairs everyday (each way) because my building had no lift. buying three weeks' groceries at a time and climbing five flights of stairs with them. the first time my roof leaked from my balcony upstairs into my lounge downstairs. sitting on my couch watching water droplets hit the basin. wondering if my neighbour downstairs was leaking too. flopping on my bed pretending i wasn't home when the neighbours came a-knocking. sitting in my beanbag corner staring at the blue lava in my lamp. peering up at the sky from that particular angle from the furry blue beanbag, or the reverse direction from my futon bed. watching the way the stars twinkle before i close my eyes for the night. my cloth blinds. the glow of my paper star lamp in the dark of the night. my bear's face against my cheek. springcleaning every saturday. picking hair out religiously from the carpet every saturday. wiping my timber floors by hand every saturday before i bought a mop. the pile of shoes under my spiral staircase. my beautiful french windows, and the friendly tree right outside. watching the city from my favourite window. the elephant and wheelbarrow opposite. echoes of laughter from strangers in the street. the glow of the blue ring on my JVC. using a crappy desk, sitting on a crappy chair, and tapping away on a crappy laptop for four years. staring into space as the 33.6 modem does its very best. cordless phone battery going flat often when i needed a long convo. cooking dinner. the simpson's at 6pm. all the evening programs after that. working my ass off while covering the coffee table with papers and dictionaries. watching the leaves wave at me from outside the windows. trying to do a pull-up while dangling between my first and second floors. watching my best pal try to do the same (and failing). having friends over for dinner. having friends over for tea. having friends over for parties that went on from thursday to sunday. sometimes monday. flopping around in blue furry house slippers. the sound i make from flopping around in blue furry house slippers. my full-sized refrigerator. filling up my full-sized refrigerator. keeping my fingers crossed daily that my $50 washing machine would troop on for just another day. fresh laundry. fresh bedsheets. washing dishes, pots and pans in the best sink ever. long-distance calls from mother. breaking down the barriers and becoming friends over that turquoise telephone. falling asleep on the couch and getting sleep paralysis. learning to overcome sleep paralysis by myself. leaving that little gap in the balcony door. closing that gap eventually and locking it up. vaccuuming the carpets with my little sharkvac. wearing my 'cooking jacket'. wriggling cold feet and hands in front of the heater. being wrapped like a cocoon in my feather and down doona. my futon bed missing two pieces, making it the lowest futon bed in the world. moving in from across the street in the dead of the night. stepping into the apartment for the first time for a viewing that was to change my life forever. setting eyes on the home i fell in love with, at first sight.

when i stood in the empty apartment, before it became my home, i knew. as i skipped across the timber floors of the first level to peer out of the nearest french window, i knew. when i peeked into the cosy attic bedroom atop the tiniest spiral staircase, i knew.

i knew this was where i could live forever.

a challenge

are you going to make me?

i'm looking forward to the answer. so many possibilities for an answer. maybe i should re-affirm a coupla previous offers. or maybe, it is almost time for me to head on back to where i call home.

is it time?

i am so dying to go back. yet, i know i am not ready to.

bah

what the fuck is wrong with cabbies who refuse to change lanes? i went from home to work in the same lane, goddamnit. took an extra ten minutes, it did. and 2bux more.

the sms

my mobile bleeped at the crack of dawn today.

through a fog of sleepiness, i fumbled and peered at my black/white ancient dinosaurus mobile screen with bleary eyes.

random alphabets running along in lines slowly fell into coherence in the fuzziness of my head. i blinked, scrolled back, and re-read it again.

and again.

nothing could wipe the smile off my face after that. i did nothing but smile from ear to ear for a good half an hour. when i fell back into sleep, i went as a cheshire cat.

:)

blood

on my mother's hands. :[

she told me she had scraped some skin off her finger while hanging out the laundry, and had a band-aid on. before going out to her choir session, she asked me for some antiseptic cream as she wanted to change the plaster. i took a bottle of antiseptic alcohol, cotton squares and antiseptic cream to her, when she said she didn't clean the wound earlier. when the plaster came off, i was shocked. it was a deep, gaping wound and a lot of blood. i immediately demanded that we go to the doctor's and she flat refused. i cleaned it as well as i could, applied the cream, and then a fresh plaster. walked back to my room to put everything back while feeling very disturbed. put things down, turned back out and told her again why i think she should go to the doctor's. she dismissed it, changed the subject to her new shoes, aren't-they-pretty, not-to-worry-i'll-be-fine... and off she went.

:[

i'm going to call dad.

*squint*

it's only just past midnight and i'm beat.

amazing what ten minutes of breakneck-skipping can do every morning. i'm bright-eyed when i rock up to work, and pound away at tedious chores right away. no fiddling, no wasting of time, no counting of fluffy clouds outside the glass panels. breakfast is consumed on my way in and finished before i even reach the office. thus, lunch is munched down at a much earlier time. ditto for dinner.

ten minutes of skipping has quite effectively tuned my body clock to a more or less normal routine. everything is advanced by two hours.

wicked.

which means my bedtime is no longer 2am. or later.

the cherry on top is that i have been sleeping very well.

:)

good night, world!

hello?

can i lie to myself anymore if i was this worried? and still am?

maybe we both needed something as severe as this to push ourselves into emotional clarity. maybe it was exactly what we needed.

can he lie to himself anymore as well then? maybe, that is just how he is.

the moment of truth is near.

a staring incident

i glared at a young punk today. twice in fact.

(singlish speak: i siong ah beng two times today!)

not at two different young punks, mind you. i eyeballed daggers at the same one, twice. this said punk had just taken a seat behind mine on the bus, one bus-stop away from where i was to alight. he proceeded to prop his fat leg up against my seat and jolted it merrily and very unnecessarily. i gave him a mild glare as i got my transitlink card out from my bag, and he turned to his pal beside him and told him that i glared at him (ah beng speak: "aye, she tiao me leh!"). to which i immediately turned around and looked at him in open disdain, before getting out of my seat and off the bus.

of course it did occur to me that staring incidents with dumbass punks like these often end in tears (or broken arms, missing fingers, or a knife in the back/head). nothing much i can do about that now. but in case you are that stupid boy i glared at today, i dare you to attack me face to face and not from the back, if you call yourself a man, and i promise i will not turn and run. i will kick your fat face in and punch your fucking lights out.