Blogging IS Bitchin’

A friend of mine is marrying another friend of mine, and many are of the opinion that she’s got herself quite a catch there.

He’s generous, giving, insanely wealthy, and gregarious. Even better still, he’s always been mad over her (even before he managed to win her heart I used to have to sit through hours of him waxing lyrical of her many merits, more so of that after he got her), and does sincerely feel that she’s The One.

Lucky girl, and yes, she does deserve him, she’s a pretty nice individual herself.

Anyway, I made the stupid mistake of mentioning all that to my parents. The conversation went on a most most bizarre turn for the worse.

“So when are you going to land yourself your own big fish?”

Huh? What the fuck? This coming from my uber-feminist mother who used to repeatedly and vehemently try to lodge into my consciousness that “women should not aspire to getting a wealthy husband, or rely on the money of any man” was a highly shocking statement.

I hastily tried to avoid further exploration of the subject by muttering something about “not looking for any fish at the moment, especially not in backwater Malaysia”, only to be further astounded by Dad, who had silently decided to switch allegiance to my mother’s side.

“You already know we expect you to go Aussie in a year or two. Maybe you could find yourself a nice (read: obscenely loaded and unreasonably generous) husband there.”

Christ. This coming from my no-man-is-ever-good-enough-for-my-baby father? To say I was flabbergasted would’ve been a major understatement.

I choked on the crab I was happily savouring up to five minutes before that exchange, and made for a hasty change of topic.

Sigh. Matrimony’s not a subject a twenty-one-year-old should even bother thinking about, especially one as screwed up in the head as this one.

Even if the right guy comes along, a piece of paper certifying a legal commitment won’t do much help so long as I cannot deal with relationships rationally or reasonably. And with my inherent penchant to self-destruct… there isn’t much of a point, is there, to get hitched?

Mum and dad will just have to wait another half a decade or so before they hear wedding bells coming from my way LOL. For now, Cookie will have to play the much-maligned role of “grandkid” heheh.

Let this be a lesson learned: Wearing contact lenses for extended periods of time (ie. an entire week) + a persistent emotion-fueled leaky faucet problem with the eyes + too much rubbing at aforementioned watery peepers = severe conjunctivitis.

My left eye is a bloody shade of red that would make Mr. Dracula salivate. It now suffers a persistent stabbing sensation akin to being jabbed continually with a needle. All I have to do to ensure my lids get securely glued together is close my eyes longer than an hour, the duration in which gooey secretion leaks out and seals both upper and lower lid together, as well as encasing my lashes in a layer of gummy material.

This is just shitty. This is plain agony. And I am now stuck with wearing slutty-librarian spectacles that’s a bitch to clean when it come to polishing off the crusty tear-stains that invariably seem to form on them every other day from my constant boo-hoo-hoo-ing.

Sobs. I hate being a myopic crybaby.

OK, spent like God-knows-how-many hours watching a drawn-out tennis match of marathonic proportions between Andy Murray and Rafael Nadal, and just for personal amusement, spent about the same amount of time bitching about the physical appearances of both players with Phyl via MSN.

Conclusion: the following traits are not attractive in a man:

• sparse bits of facial hair (Murray)
• pale maggoty skin-tone (Murray)
• black nipples (Nadal)
• huge butt accentuated by very gay, very tight three-quarter pants (Nadal)
• no waist/thick trunk (Nadal)
• heavy caveman-type brow (Nadal)
• overly ‘Brit’ features overall (Murray)

OK, the last one is probably a bit racist, but never found Englishmen very attractive, it’s just a personal preference thing, but I prefer my men with a little more colour (not that I like very tanned guys either).

And what the hell is with Nadal’s moan/sigh each time he hits the ball? It’s like his gonads are being delivered a good kick everytime he serves. Maybe it’s the constrictive pants eww.

Dude has a bright future in phone-sex lines, I reckon.

I hate rainy weather. Especially cold rainy nights, when the perils of stepping into a good-sized puddle is compounded by the darkness. I hate cold rainy nights mostly when I am unable to sleep, and the roar of a tropical downpour becomes some sort of pervasive white noise that rings in my ears.

I hate the damp in my hair, on my skin, a cold clammy thing in the air. I hate the singing of frogs that almost always accompany a shower in the residential areas of Kuching. I hate the lack of human activity out on the streets when it rains. I hate the creepy-crawlies that venture out in this weather, unscathed by our tropical sun. And I hate the mold I’ve always associated with wetness of this sort. If there really was a hell, it’d be perpetually cold, wet, and dark like this.

It’s depressing, this weather. I cannot sleep so well in it, the pitter-patter of raindrops aggravate my insomnia. I cannot go out without at least getting damp, if not completely drenched.

And the sound of the rain always makes me feel so alone, a reminder of all the cold solitary nights I stayed awake waiting for dawn to break, terrified of the yawning emptiness in me, terrified it’d still be raining when daylight came, terrified of the watery cold.

All the more reason to leg it out of Kuching once I get my degree.

I’m no water-baby LOL.