sotto voce

it’s official – i’m imposing an eternal ban on mr.N.
he’s one confused guy and i’m not going to make my life more difficult than it already is by screwing around with this emotional blackhole.
i say, don’t play with fire eventhough it’s winter. it’s actually more dangerous to play fire in winter, because you don’t realize how close you are to getting burnt because you thought you needed the fire.

he’s someone who doesn’t know what he wants and i’m not going to figure it out for him. it’s hard enough for me to figure out what i want in life, i don’t need another unnecessary task like this. 

so there. i’m closing another chapter and you guys should drink to it.

i’m awesome and tt’ll never change.
oh and btw, you are awesome too, so don’t let anyone ever convince you that it’s otherwise.

my housemates just baked five batches of cunt cookies and labia muffins, to raise fund for an art show featuring (active) sex workers (ie. prostitutes, pornstars, etc.)

i don’t know how i feel about eating those muffins. the icing looks really quite real in terms of shape and color. 

:) i just love my housemates.
i’ll try to post the pictures tonight. hee..

***

haiku of the morning:

smelling the towel
finding your past existence
but none can be found

There’s a war inside of me
Do I cause new heartbreak to write a new broken song?
Do I push it down or let it run me right into the ground?
I, I feel like I wouldn’t like me if I met me
Well I can’t stop talking for fear of listening to unwelcome sound
and you haven’t called me in weeks and honestly it’s bringing me down
Oh I feel like I wouldn’t like me if I met me
I feel like you wouldn’t like me if you met me
And don’t you worry there’s still time
Don’t you worry there’s still time
There’s nothing to live for when I’m sleeping alone
and I wash the windows outside in hopes that the glare will bring you around
I, I feel like I wouldn’t like me if I met me
I, I feel like you wouldn’t like me if you met me

i shouldn’t have told him i was coming to NY and i shouldn’t have agreed to go back to sch with him. but that’s me, always assuming i had my inch-thick armor to protect me from harm when i was bare naked and vulnerable.

***

there were we, standing by the dining cart’s door, separated by the cold wind that gust in once in a while. he placed his cheek in the middle of the door for two seconds, moved away, and once again allowed the chilly winter to caress his shaven face.

"oh. this is nice," he said, and i looked at him quizzically.
"isn’t it freezing cold?" i asked. just thinking about the temperature outside the cart made me shiver.
"well, it is cold. but when taken in small doses, it feels good."
he continued his little face dance with the wind, and said, "just like you."
a wink, and a smile.

***

i’m angry at myself for allowing him to break down my resistance. granted that i closed the chapter without any resolution, and simply assuming that he’s an asshole who doesn’t deserve my time, it was done for good reason: i don’t have the energy or time to feel crappy anymore.
it’s ironic, really. i didn’t want to deal with the problem because i didn’t want to deal with the truth, which i’m afraid will hurt me (and will take a long time to heal). but without any firm truth to rest my case on, the Doubt will always linger and rears its ugly head at opportune moment, like this weekend. the doubt that i’m misinterpreting him and our situation, the doubt that it could’ve gone other ways.

i had let him go, i swear i had. but i didn’t feel proud for being tough. all i felt was an overwhelming sense of loneliness and pain for acting contrary to my heart.
so i let him in, and yet again, i’m back in the stupid game – one that i can never win.

unrepentant fool, i am.

you always imagine christmas in new york to be a sort of glamorous, picture-perfect scene. M&Ms christmas light lining up the street, watching people skate in rockefeller center, christmas jingles in the background.

that only happens in the movie, or when you’re incredibly in love that the world seems like the best romance movie you’ve ever seen. in reality, it’s drab and grey. even soho, which had never failed to perk up my penniless self with its rows of shops offering tantalizing goodies (most of which i can’t afford), appeared like shabby neighborhood to me.

so i did the only thing i knew how, called W. i wanted to apologize for being a bitch on the phone the night before. he wanted to talk to me, knowing i just finished all my exams and final papers and we needed to discuss our holiday plan. but i told him i didn’t want to talk to him because i wanted to watch TV instead, which was a lie, because even though i was indeed sitting in front of a TV, i was also next to mr.N and was definitely more interested in getting a massage from him than what’s on TV.

but the second he said, "sel, i really can’t talk to you right now", i knew he had another girl in his room. recently i discovered that my unfriendly call was directly related to the whole event: he got mad – impulsively dragged a buddy to a club – picked up a girl – and slept with her. it was within his right to do so and it’s all fair game. still, it hurt.
three blows in one morning. how on earth could i possibly still walk with my chin up that day?

as if it wasn’t enough, i still had to pretend in front of mr.N that everything was fine, because i couldn’t tell him i read his conversation and that i knew he was a flaky bastard who was playing me just like every other motherfucker on this planet. so i let him take me to lunch, let him call me , "my cute lil’ girl", let him hug me from behind, when every single quark of my dead soul was dying to ask him, "why are you doing this to me if you don’t even like me?"

my christmas in NY was on its way into crumbles of dust, when a white pigeon appeared from nowhere, landed on my feet and started pecking my boots. i felt i was singled out by this strange pigeon, who would have given me a pat on my back and a hug, if only it had arms, instead of a pair of wings. ‘twas indeed a beautiful sight, and i had my first smile of the day.

that pigeon might be just a stupid coincidence, but if reading it as a sign – that everything’s gonna be alright – could make me shrug my shitty situation and move on, i’ll take it as a sign any time, thank you very much.
just as i took the subway busker’s song as a message specially directed to me:

blackbird singing in the dead of night
take these broken wings and learn to fly
all your life,
you were only waiting for this moment to arise

blackbird singing in the dead of night
take these sunken eyes and learn to see
all your life
you were only waiting for this moment to be free.

blackbird fly, blackbird fly
into the light of a dark black night.

and so i’ll keep on flying in this pitch-dark sky until i find the light.  

oxbridge people might be familiar with their tutors addressing them by their last names, but clearly not here, where 90% of the profs prefer you to address them by their first name, so forget about their ever calling you ms. whatever-your-surname-is.

so imagine my surprise, and fear, when i read an email from my tutor today, who wrote me this:

Ms Txxxxxxxx,

Given your scheduling issues and your priorities, I think the best
thing would be for you to shift to Government or History right now,
and to take my rather inflexible tutorial in the second segment.
Please follow up with Madeleine,

PK

it’s almost like you got a flashback of your parents being really mad at you and screamed, "miss whatever-your-full-name-is, you’re in such a deeeeeep trouble…!!"
i was halfway between having a nervous breakdown and mad angry at the prof for not being understanding enough, until i talked to the secretary, who told me that he always addresses students by their last names.

still, i’m just really unhappy and stressed out today.
i’m already swamped as it is, i don’t need people to tell me that i don’t have my priorities straight.
it’s bloody unfair for my prof to say that being in this major means i can’t participate in varsity sport. similarly, it’s unfair for my coach to prevent me from taking important classes twice a week during practice time, especially if it’s pertinent to my major / future career (didn’t happen to me luckily).
also, it’s ridiculously bureaucratic if a prof kicks a student out of the class because he can’t attend one class per week, when we meet daily, and when the student is an exceptional student whom i’m sure will have no problem catching up.

only my hydrology and cellbio profs are chill, for this semester. mainly because they’re too busy with their dean work / research. my macroecon prof is infamous for being a tough grader and mad intense in class (tried and tested), my international econ prof is racist and sexist and talks as if he lives in the 19th century, my chinese prof reminds me of an evil stepmother, and my philo prof is… well… acts like a typical philosopher.

and, to add to my list of grouses, we had a 30pts game at the end of practice today. basically you play against someone, and whomever chalks up five points first, gets to leave the court and play with someone else. it continues, until you get 30pts. so the idea is, the better you are, the faster you collect 30pts. this is the only time when "some" people are dying to play with me, because clearly they can easily walk out with 5pts within five / ten mins max.
seriously i don’t see what’s the incentive of getting 30pts fast, because you still get released from practice the same time as everybody’s else. so you’re either very competitive or… you’re fucking unreasonably competitive.
don’t get me wrong folks, i love competition. but, healthy competition!! i’m not there for you to kick around, so you’ll feel good abt yourself. fuck, no.
both of us (and the coach) knows without a single strand of doubt that you’re waaaaay better than me, so what’s the point of giving me kills after kills that you know will only make someone feels blardee shitty?
i guess there’s no such thing as mentorship and generosity in this squash team. they don’t fucking care if i improve in my game or not, perhaps they even feel threatened by my improvement.
but the way "some" people walk in and out of my court and how they actually fight to be in my court, makes me feel like a comfort woman. people walking in and out to ‘use’ me.

here’s to another shitty day.  

it’s 9.30pm and i’m still in the office working. wait, wait… let me give you a breakdown of my day: i had meeting from 10am until 3.15pm, training from 3.30pm to 6pm, one hour dinner, and been working ever since. this isn’t bad actually, especially after i look at my schedule for this semester and, no surprise:  i’ll officially have zero time for myself.

checking my mail just makes me even more depressed, because.. HEY!... do you know they now have a Cafe Del Mar in Singapore? and that it’s opened 24 hours on weekends? not that i’d stay there for 24 hours, but just the thought of clubbing and chilling makes me wanna cry. seriously. and it’s cafe del mar for god’s sake…

i already feel loser-ish everytime i talk to my teammates, because all they talk about is party, party, getting drunk, party, getting laid, party, getting drunk some more, getting laid some more, party, party, getting high, and party.
oh baby, baby, i’m so not going to get any of those – not even slightly drunk. it’ll be quite miraculous if i can get laid just once a month . most probably, my counter will say a huge big fat ZERO.

so why, you ask. Why do i want to commit this social and (medical) suicide?
i don’t know man…
all i know is that i’m taking a bunch of classes that i NEED to take – unless, of course, i decide it’s time to drop one of my majors, and that i’m improving so much in my squash i can’t afford to drop it, and that my job is great to brush up my people (as well as technical) skills.

argh. add to that internship application. (btw, i’ve interview with GS this friday. DIE DIE MUST IMPRESS LIKE SHIT!) and SK just reminded me that we both need to start studying for GRE (and LSAT, for me) if we want to write our thesis in peace next year, without being bothered by these dipshit standardized tests. and i might have to help out with some javanese dance performance and a german play next semester. oh, shit, and i also need to help out organize stuff for german haus. shite-nesssss

ok.ok. i think i can do this. i always escape this kind of tight situation unscathed, right? a scratch here and there, maybe, but generally alive in one piece.
now tell me, how do i still find the time to feel depressed about boys? yet i still do.
i am so the winner/champion. if i’m a bull, every farmer in US and other countries would line up for days for my sperm. (clearly, i am going nuts)

but right now, i just want to get through this first week and the rest of the semester will be taken day by day. baby steps, you know… 

there will come a point in your life when you ask if it would indeed be a terrible sin to pursue something for the sake of money.

so, i’ve got this interview with a big name investment bank next week. it’s only first-round interview, no big deals, but still i need to prepare and the amount of effort i put in has to commensurate with how much i want this summer job.

for a long time i’ve concluded that i’m not the financial type. i hate econs, but love political economy. i don’t like the pretentious atmosphere of this business and i can’t stop relating the word finance to evil (probably thanks to hwee hwee tan’s "Mammon Inc").
but no one can deny the financial promise and security that this line of job offers you. plus, i do look good in my powersuit (haha, so irrelevant).

i’m not torn, you know, because i know this is a viable career that can serve as a launchpad to greater things.
by now i’m fully convinced that my calling in life is to open a restaurant (or restaurants) and one of the fastest ways to accumulate enough capital to start this dream restaurant is to be an investment banker. unless, i fall in love with my job and decide to stay there forever.

unlikely though, knowing how easily i get bored.

sigh, i just don’t want to be one of those asians. but  but… i have no silver spoon in my mouth and i just want that darn restaurant, alright.

there’s a reason why stereotype exists. of course, stereotypes are often wrong, but in some cases – like this one, it is bloody true.

sure, labels are for jars, but when people act exactly like the labels they are given, i don’t think they can make a case against people labelling them.
jocks and their locker room bitching, their stupidity and ignorance (outside the realm of sport and pop culture), i swear to you these are true.
yes, yes i  am exaggerating but i’m done trying to fit in with all these phillistine bitches. i feel like i’m being transported back to junior high school, where all the popular kids just dissed me for things i don’t even do. i’m done feeling like shit just because i don’t know who sang that song or what’s the lyric to that song. i’m done feeling like i’ve done something wrong just because i pronounce "gyro" in a weird way.

fuck. you. all.

these people are the normal-est teens i’ve seen around here and gawd, how i hate being around them. of course there are exceptiions, but the select few are enough to get to me and make me feel like strangling them, hit them with a racket and replace their eyeballs with squashballs.

and oh, friend who’ve been "shaming" me for sleeping with one every week should hear our locker-room conversation, because these people (some only) do have quota and targets and are darn proud to have the highest number.
no. i’ve no intention to follow suit. enough of my being teased by my gynae with regards to my problems down there, i am sticking to minimum number, thank you very much.
also, i heard today that my co-manager slept with this bitchiest girl on my team, who, in short, looked like a wrinkly baby elephant with red bowtie. not cute, no. i say, GROSS. because my fellow co-manager (who always calls me "dear") is cute and the girl is NOT.

i’m sorry i’m mean to fat people but i can’t imagine her fucking him. eeeeeewwwwwwwww gross.

well, at least i bitch about her to people who don’t know anything abt her. so, it’s fair , i say.

mmmmmh. why can’t there be more nice people around? 

OH, and do you know why they always relate jocks to stupidity. or below average performance?? i have the answer to that…
practice/training only takes, at most, 4 hours of your life everyday. but socializing with your teammates, having "teambonding" session at night which involves getting thrashed and sourcing your next bedpartner takes at least 7 hours of your life everyday.
figure what causes the below-average academic results..

ha! 

(ADULT CONTENT) 

he did not change, not a bit. still the smooth asshole who picked me up by stepping on my blue suede shoes on the dance floor. only, i was not the same girl who were eager to listen to what was coming out of his mouth.

up for sushi ? yeah sure.

i heaved a silent sigh of relief. the day before, when he told me to meet him on Chamber st., i thought he’d invite me for lunch at his house and it would indubitable go down the same way it did the last time. two people who were trapped in subtle attraction towards each other and incontemptible longing for the past ended up committing acts that were treated as a bastard child – acknowledged but ignored. yes, we did. but no.. we didn’t know how it happened. typical.
so it was a good thing we made a right turn away from his apartment. the further, the better, i thought – although a tiny part inside me did feel disappointed. after all, those affairs were somewhat exciting.

he sauntered into the restaurant with a slouchy gait, i followed behind. something about him always seems contradictory to me. a bad-ass with an attitude, yet treats strangers with impeccable politeness; his booming bass voice jarred against his childishly meek behavior, especially when i tease him. that day, however, i just smiled and kept all sorts of words inside me.

did you change your hair?, he started off.
my hair? what’s with my hair?
you dyed it. oh that… yah, i did.
it looks good on you. (oh you sweet-talker) thanks.

spicy tuna roll. salmon skin roll. eel cucumber roll.

how’s work? it’s fine.

are you going to be in indonesia this summer?
i’d love to visit you there, y’know…
i don’t know, i don’t know.

that’s roughly how our lunch was. boring, uninteresting, and i was just in no mood to invigorate the conversation like i used to. he must’ve thought that i was the most dull person on earth, but i thought, so be it… it’s always been like this and might as well stop fooling myself that we’re great together. we have nothing in common so what’s the use of pretending. 

i continued picking on my food and occasionally asked him about venezuela, about his one-year assignment in qingdao, out of politeness’ sake.

it was indeed a pity, our roller-coaster ride had to end with such an anti-climactic flat line, but that’s us. but seeing how all our conversations died off like a short tennis rally, i knew there was no point in saving it. so be it, so be it.

then, out of the blue he asked me:

do you play pingpong? yeah i do, why?
i have pingpong table in my basement, so we can hit for a bit and then i can go back to my office.

sure, why not. pingpong sounded harmless, and i still wanted to maintain his impression of me as someone who’s apt in all aspect. i know i’m not a good pingpong player, but at least i’m not afraid of challenges.

so we settled the bill and i paid half of it, despite our earlier agreement that it was his treat. he didn’t push away my offering, probably forgetting that he’s supposed to or probably, he didn’t want to pay. you know me, i don’t give a damn about these things.

***

the basement was spacious: larger than his living room and had a drum-set, a pingpong table, plus an assortment of things i didn’t really inspect.
during the game i completely humiliated myself with my off-the-table shots and unsuccesful slices, and i unabashedly blamed squash for my extra strength that caused every shot to be completely off. he, of course, didn’t buy that.

a quick game and it was time for him to go back to his office. i braced myself for a goodbye, knowing i wouldn’t be seeing him for a long time, what with his new assignment abroad. so i gave him a hug and was more than ready to close this chapter of my life as i turned my body away from him. but he pulled my arms towards him and ushered my body into his embrace.

come on, now.

i thought: oh, how sweet, mango is turning sentimental. and i hugged him back, as tight as he hugged me. only he never let go of me after the hug.

...

if only i could tell you i didn’t remember what happened. if only i could tell you my mind became a blur and there was nothing in between the time he kissed me and the time i smoothed my ruffled hair. if only i could tell you he forced himself on me and i went into a state of fugue due to the shock and trauma. how convenient would it be, for me and my pride, if i could tell you one of the above.

but, no.
i was fully conscious when he went from hugging me to  kissing me to necking me. i was there when he sat me on the rattan chair and took my pants off. and i wasn’t just a passive participant in the whole ordeal. i was actively involved out of my free will, although there was no good reason for me to fuck him. i’ve stopped liking him right before thanksgiving and sex with him was incredibly boring and unexciting, compared to what i have with mr.nujabes or D or W.

but i remember what happened alright. the sick feeling i got the minute i got my pants off, because i knew i didn’t want to do it, yet there i was – a rolling stone halfway down the hill. i remember feeling really sick and disgusted by the sight of his fucking face. i remember thinking, while i was on top of him, about mr. N’s conversation with his friend that I discovered that morning. but i also remember how i felt i’ve revenged mr.N everytime mango moaned. and the harder i rocked him back and forth. clearly my logic failed me that day.

i’m sorry, i didn’t expect that to happen
oh yea? i didn’t either.
i didn’t know that…

he couldn’t even finish his sentence.

i was ashamed but the best i could do now, i thought, was to act as if everything was normal. hence my bitchy, strong, non-existent self took over and commented glibly to him : "Wow, I bet you had the most exciting lunch time in the whole office."
don’t i sound exactly like a whore?

and the only way to treat a whore is to treat her like a whore. when i asked if i could use his bathroom in his apartment upstairs, his answer was: "i think my brother is at home. why don’t you use the common bathroom downstairs?"

ho ho ho. i am a ho, who doesn’t even deserve to meet your f-in brother or to use your holy toilet.
i should’ve slapped him right then and there, ...

(to be continued)

winter cold finally gets the better of me and my nose is a dripping tap.

8.20am, supposed to go to work,
but the 8degree weather just scares me, i decided to take the morning off. just so i can hide under my blanket slightly longer.

i deleted all their contacts last night before i went to bed,
but i haven’t blocked them.
Cat: 

ramblinite | Time: 1:44 pm (UTC+8) No Comments »

sorry for the sudden burst of unimportant posts. however, i noticed lately that when i told people (read: guys) i played squash, the subsequent lines will be something along this:

"really? are you good?"

no. not really.

"can i play you in squash then?"

three counts, my dear friends. THREE people, with the same line. not word by word, but you get the idea. so what is this? the latest pick-up line or sth? lame-O.

i still remember riding the ny subway one gloomy day while listening to this song…

Ballad of A Bitter End
The Poems

Whisper soft, whisper low
Tell me things I shouldn’t know
With you I want to grow

If this is love, it hangs in doubt
It will kill you or me if we come out
But what a way to go

Talk to me again..
Please talk for me again…

You’e drawn the breath from my soul
Then you give me life and make me whole,
forever…

And when it ends as it must end
I’ll write a book – the saddest book,
and it will be your story:
"The Ballad of A Bitter End"
of a bitter end, of a bitter end.

(i hardly whine anyway, so i think i’m righteously allowed this whine-space. godbloddydammit)

working and training during winter hols is NOT recommended at all. unless you want to kill yourself – mentally and physically. (see sel jumping up and down while raising her hand.)

working and training during winter hols, while you’re still in the middle of relationships crisis is NOT recommended AT ALL, unless you have ordered a coffin and a grave and prepare the whole funeral thingy for yourself.

OMFG. this is supposed to be a fucking holiday and all i feel is blues, blues, blues. you might as well punch me straight in my face and it won’t make a freakin’ difference.

one. i have four hours of freakin practice EVERYDAY.
although, yes, i do see it as the best way to improve my squash (what… what improvement??), it’s literally painful and it’s driving me up the wall.
the coach is on my ass and she doesn’t sound very happy when i tell her i have doctor’s appointment on friday during practice time. for goodness’ sake, she just doesn’t know the amount of calling back and forth + anguish i had to go through to get this blardee appointment. for all i know i might be dying (trying to remove this unnecessarily morbid thought from my head) and she doesn’t give a damn as long as i’m on court at 10am that day.

and, i’m just pissed AT MYSELF. ok. i know i’m somewhat improving, but at a snail’s pace – or worse, at a plant’s pace, which drives EVERYONE crazy.
i should be the one most irritated because hey, i know how much effort i put in and the result  certainly does not commensurate. i should be the one most frustrated. but no, other people (who play with me) get frustrated too. GIMME A BREAK PEOPLE. it’s not my fuckin fault i’m in the team. ok maybe partly, for being a donkeyhead and sticking to this commitment, but blame coach if you want for accepting me into the team. i’m not a born squash player and it’s not my fuckin’ fault i haven’t played squash since the age of 5.

if not for pride, i’d have had cried on the court today. people left and right, AND myself are just irritating me to the max and drive me to the edge. 

two. yes, ladies and gentlemen, i work, because i need the money.
you said you need the money too? bullshit.
you’re freakin driving a merz / beemer / audi / toyota hybrid or has a house on capecod or whatever shit else you have and you said pathetically that you need money TOO.
sorry mate, but i think we’re on different boats here.
your definition of needing money is too buy that stash of booze or to be gambled on poker table. i need it for my groceries.

so here i am, working my ass off before, in between, and after practice.
it’s fine if it’s those kind of cosy library job where you just sit there waiting for people to check out their books or mindlessly shelving the books. i go around campus on my bike in minus five degree weather, handling irascible broken computers with no sympathy (duh. they’re machines.)
everything breaks down. keys do not work. i have to deal with secretaries from different departments who range from nice to bitchy.
normally i’m pretty accommodating to people, i just want to get my shit done anyway. but these days, when every step is accompanied with a sore ‘ouch’ or ‘goddammit this hurts’, questions like "so, how do you know you’re from wesleyan." make me feel like screwing the questioner’s armpit with my bunch of keys.

first, look at me. carefully.
do i look like a terrorist? NO!
do i look like a thief? NO!
now, do i look like i can lift a 10 pounds PC and carry it silently outside of the room and bring it to my car without falling over?
HELL NO.
if i could, i’d have no problem with my squash game.

people are just so fucking stupid.
urgh.
ok fine, maybe i could’ve colluded with a few guys.
still these things are driving me nuts.

perhaps there is a common thread to all these things.
i hate it when my authority is questioned.
i hate it when people do not trust me.
i hate it when i’ve put all my heart and soul into something – when i do not need to because there are people out there who don’t (eg. cheating during 100 courtsprints. wtf man?~) – yet people are equating me to those losers / lazybummers.

and say welcome back to my asthma. haha. how funny.
sigh.

i’m thinking of going somewhere for the weekend – after my competition. new york will be the easiest, coz i only need to take a train from new haven (where we’re competing). but that will be too much temptation to meet up with mr N, and stay at his place (no paiseh-ness with him , mah.) plus he lives on manhattan so it’s really convenient, whereas the rest of my friends live outside.

so i don’t know if i want to go out, although i know i really need the break badly.

it doesn’t help too, when W calls and acts as if nothing has changed at all. still asks me for favors and advices. and tells me that all his friends do not understand why we decided to break up. and gushes about our hols pictures. and asks me if i’m happy to receive his calls. and calls me ‘darling’ at the end of the call.
that does not help at all.

ohgawd. i want to, and i need to, start next semester with a fresh and sane mind, not one that is frayed and waiting to crumble into a million shattered bits.

fuck.fuck.fuck. 

normally i read horoscopes with skepticism sitting on my right shoulder, but this is just way too apt.

"...there’s something wrong with the Love in your life right now. Not just Love per se, but your relationship to Love itself, your understanding of it, how you view it, etc. Seems like Love and you need to sort things out…"

I could hear myself telling W in the background: "I don’t believe in Love anymore," I announced firmly. It’s not just a statement created for dramatical effect, I really mean it.
It doesn’t mean much to me, for him to say things like: I’ll still love you no matter what. "yeah sure," I thought, "but it won’t stop you from fucking other people even when you know it hurts the other party."

There is Love on one hand, and Lust on the other. One will always trump the other. At least, it’s so in my case.

So, until I really can formulate a working, comprehensible understanding of what the fuck Love really is, I shall pronounce myself an atheist of Love.  

joy oh joy oh joy…

it’s winter holiday alright and all dining establishments on campus are close. tutup. tak ada. nada. and i’m freakin’ starving every single day – mainly because i haven’t had the time to do my groceries, have no money to, and generally am lazy to.
so i’ve been subsisting on the abominable pizza from the cafe across the street, and other people’s instant noodles. or alternatively, air and water. they’re fucking healthy and free. just not very filling.

just as i was contemplating what my hunger plan weight loss regime for the week gonna be,  C told me that everyone in the team gets meal allowance. kachng kachng.. dollar signs everywhere. we’re paid to play, baby. sounds a bit whorish, but whatever, i’m halfway there anyway. haha. bad joke.

joy oh joy oh joy. 

it would be a darn good chick-flick, or so i’d like to think.

although, chick-flick normally has a cliche happy ending, and i’m not sure if i want to have a cliche happy ending.

*** 

"i don’t know whether to say shame on you or shame on me," he said. "your life always turns out much more exciting and complicated and full of drama than mine. how on earth did you manage that?"

i don’t know. i wish i had a clue. so i could make it less complicated and a little bit more straightforward and … nice. everyone wants nice. nice and simple.

 ***

in this chick flick of mine, i would’ve come to a realization that W is my one true love and ditched the rest of the bad guys to move on with my relationship. but of course that never happened. in reality, i ditched everyone after realizing that everyone is indeed a jerk.

i’m slowly moving down my to-do list: dump boyfriend, check; tell mango to fuck himself, check.

well, not really.
what happened was this: last night mango messaged me again. he needed not – we had no more business with each other. especially after seeing the way he treated me the last time i saw him (stories later, perhaps?), i just couldn’t comprehend why he’s being so dim-witted and just continued pestering me, when he so obviously did not have any respect for me nor my feelings. so i told him, "sorry, but i don’t think i can talk to you anymore."

he obviously asked why. my fingers were itching to tell him: "because you’re a fucking asshole and i’ve got nothing to do with an asshole like you." but instead i told him, i feel like a slut everytime i see him, so it’s better that we stay away from each other.

the only defense he could muster was a weak:  "sorry if i made you think i used you. you should’ve told me earlier. but better late than never"

yada yada. of course it’s my fault. who else could it be?
what. an. asshole.
it’s equivalent to saying: i whip you and not consider it abusing you because you never told me so.

breathe in. breathe out.
anyway i’m still moving down my list of to-do.

there is always that moment, right after a break-up, when you wonder if you should’ve stuck it out just a wee bit longer. perhaps there’s just a bit of misunderstanding that needs a little straightening. even  when you know damn well that the guy is an emotional wreck, that he has used physical force on you before, that you’re much better off without him. still, you wonder if being alone is really better than being with him.

of all people, i would think that i stand better chance at conquering loneliness (and its related depression) than anyone else. i mean, this is me, who has no problem with walking down santa monica pier alone, despite ugly inquiring stares from other couples and "alone tonight, beauty?" from the boys. i’m fine with eating by myself in a restaurant, and proudly told the maitre d’: "party of one, please", without a notebook or a book to feign an appearance of business. so by right, i should be fine and well on my own.

but this feeling of loneliness is getting too hard to ignore, especially when i came back from my holiday to an empty apartment (remember i’ve moved all my stuff to my new residence, which isn’t opened for winter hols. bollocks). i’ve to sleep with no sheets – just bare pillows and naked duvet – and the walls are just bare. i never realized how comforting all the photographs and artworks i hung on the walls are. apparently they’re not just decorations. they’re a sort of markers that possessively mark the room as mine. without these possessive markers i feel i don’t even belong in this bare room (although no one else has actually lay claim on this room). like a refugee, belonging nowhere. and i’m a lonely refugee too; think of adrien brody in "the pianist".

i’ve been faring pretty well though. no crying, no serious emotional breakdown, and most importantly, no pleading on the phone with the ex asking him to come back. because that happened before and i do not want, i repeat, i do not want and will not allow that to happen again. i do not want him specifically, you see, i’m merely suffering from an intimacy withdrawal symptom.

i just need a cuddle-buddy for now. a dog, maybe? 

Everyone wants to be number one. But do you know that "one is the loneliest number you’ll ever know" ?

I do.

i’m here, ready to type your story today. ten fingers hovering above the keyboard, ready to strike whenever the word escapes your pouty lips.

so lady, why don’t you tell me your story?

but i don’t have a story to tell, she said.

bah. rubbish. everyone’s got a story. that man with black umbrella. that stern lady in black suit. even that cute baby in the stroller. he might not tell it the way you and i understand, but i’m sure that little man has got a story to tell.

well, she started to concede, maybe we all have a story. but, she said adamantly, whether or not it’s interesting is a different story altogether.

missy, who told you that? we all have great stories to tell! great, mind you, not just interesting. great! worthy of being turned into hollywood blockbusters. 

she looked away from the storyteller, unwilling to unburden her weighed soul onto this stranger, although jumbles of words and incoherent syllables were pushing their way out through every single pore in her body.
slowly she lifted her head, facing the storyteller; that calm assuring face invited words out of her mouth like a snakecharmer working his magic with his flute.

so lady, why don’t you tell me your story ?

***

it took me a while to get the words out. for a while, i thought i’d forgotten how to tell a story.
trust me, for someone with poor memory like me, i’ve a lot of of stories to share.
but it’ll take some time before i can tell you all because some are hard to recall in perfect clarity, others are hard to tell in words. in any case, it’s important for me to get these stories out, else they remain inside me as flashes of images that go back and forth like unedited scrolls of films being screened on shuffle mode. and what a waste will that be.

you think, wth is she talking about.

well.. there’s a reason why i love travelling, and although this holiday trip has pretty much been sucky, thanks to a very unhelpful and irritating travellling buddy, i love visiting new places and meeting new people. old and young, weird and sane, radical and conservative, chatty and pensive. all have their stories and i’ve been lucky enough to taste bits and pieces of these stories.

i wish i had been more selfish and told him from the beginning that i didn’t want to travel with him and prefered to travel solo. dangerous as it may be, it’s as dangerous – physically and emotionally – to travel with him, what with his bad nature, street unsavvyness and all the unpleasantries we had these last few months. what’s done is done and i’m happy i’m still able to look at the bright side of things.
i know i still love travelling, just because every time it gives me new things to feel confident about myself. i’m assured that wherever i end up, whatever profession i choose to be in, i’ll be the same positive girl who’ll excel in whatever she does.
i know i still love travelling, because everytime i meet people and hear their stories which never stop me from marvelling at how diverse and how interesting people’s lives are.
i know i shouldn’t feel depressed or even sad just because i’m surrounded by douchebags. they’re like insignificant ants that happen to pass by the peripheries of my vision. soon enough, they will be gone and none of them will ever be mentioned nor hold any importance in my life again.
and for sure, i know this year’s going to be another amazing year with every single second being lived to the fullest. i don’t need that ‘live as if today is your last’ kind of shit. i already know how.

and i’m ready to tell you my stories.