Facial Idiosyncrasies & (Bra)Clasps of the Mind

oo my. there's been a subtle shift in things over this ginormous gap between dates of being completely devoid of any feeling whatsoever. no wait, that ain't true, the feeling is there, it's always fucking there despite new and improved policies that forgive but never-in-a-million-years forget. policies that melt facial idiosyncrasies to neutral aspects of self-hypocrisy. hope hope hope hope hope hope is a terrible, yet an undeniable melting pot of our most ugliest, yet most purest emotions, ironically (or not?) like the choir boy's euphonious stage-call to a grumpy, but cuddly messenger of the Gods.

was this drunken night the same as other drunken nights? superficially it was exactly the same, except perhaps a bit more extreme. nothing more than passing absolutely shit judgment on timing and pace of absolut kurant AND absolut classic in less than NINETY minutes...
but i wonder... in this day and age of delusion and denial.. how would i really know how it really is in my mind? does it even matter? i mean, if you cannot feel it, and the only way you are able to find out is through some psychiatrist who has completely based his life on the study of psychiatry (which although a very noble profession is still very imprecise medically), then maybe what you yourself feel should be given more weight? well it's just a thought.. of course unless i'm irrevocably crazy... don't think so.. not yet anyway.. haha.. drama mama is what people call me.. well u ain't met my mama yet!!
facial idiosyncrasy took on more meaning than ever with bloody cuts on nose and a wound just below my nose which by the way, a stupid pimple decided it would be a good spot to grow on! woo hoo! kinda strange i view pimples as living, breathing things.. oh but they are the little fuckers..! (little my ass)

apart from that, i submit an article to my editor for the on-campus publication.. and going from history alone, my kick-ass article have never been chosen.. instead, the slightly bimbotic, casual comedy ones have.. so i decided that since i was too busy doing my assignment for Human Resource Management for Professor Wu Pei Chuan on Work/Family Conflict: Issues and Implications for Individuals, Firms and Nations, I would take this opportunity to take advantage for the magazines's propensity towards inane stuff (as opposed to gay rights, AIDS and alcoholism) and churn out an article in less than 30 minutes on the highlights (and lowlights: although in retrospect it always looks fucking rosy) of my life and times at NUS. i mean what is the point in trying to write abt issues that matter and stuff that is subversive when you get repeated rejection from the editors (who by the way, get an article in every month, regardless if it is about using the over-using the analogy of a bra to describe the process of 'unclasping' the mind or writing about tampons and how uncomfortable they are)? I take offense to her using the analogy in the first place, but over-using it? and also, hello.. this is not cosmopolitan.. and sometimes she accuses me of not knowing who my readers are..... i mean.. like.. are all the people on campus.. female...? or do all of them use tampons? i mean like...er... fuck off! and to further it all: feedback on my article goes something like, its just a rant. of course it is, ur the queen mother (fucker) of rants..

ahh the fuck-all of life.. so why do i feel all shitty abt it.. this person who is clearly not interested gives me mixed signals.. or do i hope that's what they are? bottomline, just feel like shit.. i mean i know this is a theme that has manifested itself in many many previous postings.. but.. come on.. im tired of being left alone, perpetually left alone. atleast around me people are falling in love, exploring possibilities and here i am, thinking that i should explore but somehow never doing it coz, if my heart (corny sounding word) is somewhere else, i'd rather my dick be there... and not in some random's house (dear publisher: pun definitely NOT intended).. therefore i am clearly putting it down here, to all contrary belief: i am NOT a pervert. i DO NOT think of sex all the time.

ok im kinda tired.. so blog-posting will be continued on a better day.. Sukarno and Ho Chi Minh are waiting.. come out come out wherever you are.......

Hasn't your momma ever told you to finish your food... especially so because of the Somalian orphans?

There is nothing worse than being blocked. I put it across as being lazy but then I tell myself, if I was really passionate about writing, wouldn't I be inspired to write down what goes on in my head?

Ahh well, I'm still blocked so I just decided at this very moment to write SOMETHING purely for the reason of satisfying (feeding) my dream of being a novelist one day. And also in the hope that ideas will flow.

Ok up until this moment i.e. 3rd paragraph in blog, there hasn't been any such inspiring idea.. It's been fucking ages since I updated my blog...

But lemme tell u a secret?

I started this posting about 2 weeks back and I couldn't be bothered to finish it.. so right now.. yes thats right.. im just finishing it up so i can blog a new post... shame to waste this one..
alright then,
see u on the other side, one line up.

cranky symphony

Things... are getting way out of control.
I'm just plodding on with life. This time, no apologies, no thought, no regard for anything. I'm just not caring enough to put my care into action. Does this mean, I don't care at all?

Honestly, I don't think it matters. People have called me selfish all my life (that's like the previous 5 years or so) and ironically, the time it starts really affecting me, I see myself becoming the proof to their long standing accusation.

Is it because I've not been prioritizing? I really don't know and I don't have the energy to go into it because I'm too busy trying to weadle myself into a life I want to have and one that I'm finding extremely strenous and draining to do. The strain is spilling out into my life and fucking things up big time.

Oh but things haven't really changed all that much..

The inadequate guilt remains the same.

crushing realities

i've noticed that the art of clubbing, is very much like love itself. when u love a person, they don't necessarily reciprocate.
my desire to go get hammered tonight, is not reciprocated either.
that is the crushing reality of my life, or, atleast the start of my weekend.
it really is intensely personal, this non-mutuality.

and listening to dhoom dhoom doesn't help. nor does being able to taste the alcohol on my parched tongue. and nor does desiring the acrid burning sensation in my eyes upon entering a club.

walauwe!

mind playing tricks/dead body (quite similar, in fact, to dead leg)

writhing bodies, cat-calls, neo-classical funk-bass alternative dance musik, hand-on-ass, cream-cocktails laced with bourbon.

please let the weekend come soon.

(i hate studying, except i love it when i GET stuff. so how?)