Hell freezes over
Come think about it, it’s about that time of the year to spring-clean my friends list again, much like how I delete people off my Friendster once every so often.
Some individuals are just detrimental to my sanity and my health. Some just stay friendly to leach off me one way or another. Some are just… non-friends masquerading as friends.
But I think I might be too weary to actually be arsed to do anything about everything. Not that I’ve actually been actively catching up with anyone recently, friends or otherwise, been getting increasingly anti-social of late, which is in direct contrast to the festive season occuring right now, but what the hell, I’ve been feeling too exhausted to deal with anything other than dragging myself out of bed of late.
So, well… just so you know, yeah, I know, I’m just not motivated enough to be a potty-mouthed smarty-pants. Or blatantly bitchy, depending on who you are. Yes, go ahead, be a prat if it makes you feel much better, I shall leave you in relative peace.
And if anyone really wants to know, depression feels like… hurt. A constant, nagging, throbbing hurt, just to live that extra minute. Hence the lethargy – apparently just pretending to be sane is a task requiring Herculean effort, so hell no, don’t tell me it’s just a phase, not when it hurts a bitch just to stay in touch with reality.
When it hurts all the time nothing really matters anymore, and once again it’s just… cold, in this big black void.
There’s no secret garden, really, just an uninviting hell of the endothermic variety.
Spurt
So if each time a man ejaculates, he discharges roughly enough sperm to create enough individuals to match the entire population of the United States…
Does that mean every time all that semen is erm… discarded without achieving mission objective, what we’re really doing is flushing an entire US-population-worth of could-be people down the loo?
Heh, really incongruous thought to pop into mind at this odd hour, but the notion amuses me no end, for some odd reason…
Unfriendly fire
It’s just like how my sister Jen puts it – being home is like being in the middle of a damn battlefield, with verbal bullets flying freely around in the air.
I’ve always had to answer queries on my apparent role of the prodigal daughter of the family. Maybe it’s true, I really shouldn’t shrug off my responsibilities as the eldest. But living in the crossfire of my parents’ constant bickering is unpleasant, painful, and downright traumatic.
Especially if one’s expected to play the damn role of impromptu marriage counsellor to the two people who should have been role models to my sisters and I instead of causing so much chaos in a house that doesn’t feel much like home anymore at times like this.
I’m no one to judge, but I’m getting effing weary and completely exasperated at how it seems to be yet another repetition of every issue brought up the last tiff; how I don’t see how either are right, yet cannot completely remain apathetic to their perspectives; how it can feel so lonely, having to sit out yet another cold war where the atmosphere can get frostier than the Antartica; and how completely unnecessary all this really is.
Maybe it’s because their relationship dramas don’t come close to the severity of my own, but I find this mindless bickering downright stupid and childish and completely unnecessary. It’s frustrating. Two grown-ups married over two fucking decades should’ve learned how to settle minor disagreements in a more sensible way by now, instead of blowing shit out of proportion and making mountains out of mole-hills.
This year’s reunion dinner was just… shit. And I left the house after being made utterly miserable by how it all went.
I’ve got too much on my own plate to want to have anything to do with this endless reenactment of domestic dischord. It’s not like I don’t have my own crap to worry about, in fact, compared to my own burdens, these two warring middle-aged people have absolutely NO reason for all this drama.
Maybe it’s because it’s just that that’s the cause of all this madness – and they’re really two bored middle-aged people throwing temper tantrums for the heck of it, because there’s nothing much left to say or do. I don’t know. And I really shouldn’t give a flying fuck about the reasons behind the escalating tension at home…
I’m lonely in my silence, and frightened, and terribly depressed, but it does feel like I’ve nobody to turn to. I’m chronically tired and I’m just feeling hurt all the time, and there’s no way I can seem to verbalise the all these emotions to anyone, so I paint on this painfully fake smiley face, and continue going through the motions of everyday life, but it’s getting to the point where I… so badly just want to break down and cry.
And there’s no one I really want to confide in, nobody I can trust to listen to my myriad of concerns and remain objective and understanding and supportive, nobody I know that won’t just deal me a few sound slaps and tell me to get a grip on myself and straighten up my life somehow.
So I wrap my arms around myself and give myself a hug.
Maybe when I open my eyes again sanity might just be restored to my world, and my upside-down universe of bewilderment and uncertainty might just make some sense.
Nomad
I just got back to Kuching today. After a week on the road.
Realised that since the summer holidays started in November 2006, I’ve been back here in Kuching for barely three weeks. Been home to sleep about half that amount of time, was never comfortable in my own house and probably wouldn’t go home if not for Cookie (and maybe the wi-fi, tee hee!).
Travelling Irene. Running Irene.
Frightened Irene.
It’s almost Chinese New Year. Time to start settling a little.
Meanwhile, I think I’ve got a new crush. Introducing Steven Lynch!
Laughter IS the best medicine.
Happy Valentine’s Day all.
Especially to you.
To all you horny men out there:
Just something I think all men should know, if just to spare me from horrendously tacky pickup lines:
Compliment a girl’s physical attributes and you’re likely to be written off as yet another sleazeball trying to get between her legs. Pay attention to the small things, and compliment her on things such as her smile, her intellect, her choice of fragrance (being able to recognise the perfume she’s wearing helps) or maybe even the way she does her hair up, and you increase your chances of scoring.
One must also realise that copious compliments amount to nothing when emitted from an empty skull. Ferchrissake’s sound intelligent when you do so, instead of parroting empty flattery that just sounds insincere and downright sleazy when said too often and at the wrong moments. Use your bloody brain and know when to slip in something nice.
Which leads us to the art of conversation, an obscure concept some caveman types have yet to master. It doesn’t matter how sizzling hot a man is, if all he can do is grunt monosyllables he is a fucking bore. If his vocabulary isn’t limited to single-word answers, but all he can do is spout effing lame one-liners that, it must be added, DO NOT come off as witty, he is a fuckwit not worth any self-respecting female’s time. If all he can talk about himself, he is likely to be a selfish lover. If he cannot converse intelligently, he’s liable to be written off as a waste of time as well. A man who tries to hard to sound intellectual will like be sussed-out in five seconds flat, and be labeled a try-hard and a pretentious idiot. Remember, the fairer sex is in possession of intuitive abilities beyond any man’s ability to grasp. So brush up on being a charming, interesting conversationalist, and maybe you might be able to at least catch a girl’s attention, instead of inciting a bout of yawns from her.
Lastly, treating her like a lady - that is, with respect, will earn her respect for you in return. For those of you who are too fucking thick to know what that means, well, that entails actually listening to what she’s saying, being tactful of her feelings, and showing her the courtesy and chivalry she bloody well deserves. Gain that respect and she might think you’re actually nice enough to pay a little attention to, and from there maybe things might progress to your way, and there won’t be screaming hysterics the next morning to content with.
After all, no matter how long you intend the tryst to be, we are, after all, fellow humans with equal rights to being treated with kindness and compassion.
Now fucking cut it with all the lame shit I get! “Do you want to fuck?” is NOT the sorta crap I need or will respond positively to (ie. give you the time of your day), so just bloody get it into your thick skulls, fucking losers
However, in the event you for some reason (ie. mental retardation) cannot be a gentleman, well I guess what my grandpa used to say could apply instead…
“死老鼠都有盲猫拖。”
More or less meaning even dead rats are sought after – by blind cats. There’s gotta be someone out there for everyone, even sleazeballs.
Don’t bother me. Go look for some undiscriminating girl who’ll make Mr. Happy happy, if just for a night.
Pfah.
PMS princess
I have PMS.
That only became really apparent last night, when I started crying halfway through Mighty Joe Young, of all movies - where nothing tragic had really happened yet.
Since then, I’ve been getting teary through EVERY movie aired. Yes… that includes comedy.
I think I am becoming a nuisance to everyone. Leaky waterworks does not a fun person make.
I shall isolate myself from the general population for the next one week or so.
All that’s aired on the idiot box ain’t just trash
I’ve been watching a lotta movies that’ve really made me think hard. About a lot of things.
There’s Cinderella Man starring Russell Crowe and Renee Zellweger that was a favourite last year, and still doesn’t cease to inspire to this day. I guess it gives me hope that an indomitable human spirit and enough persistence and faith will get me through anything, even the most fucked up shit that hits me. All I need is a little strength, and some trust in the fact that at the end of the day things WILL work out for me.
Maybe I should buy the DVD and take it out to watch everytime it hurts to much to go on. God knows I need all the reminders I can get to not give up on myself.
Cake with Heather Graham in it kinda struck a nerve too.
I’ve been living too long in denial when it comes to relationships with men. A friend once commented that some of the “temporary arrangements” I’d had was because I was a commitment-phobe, choosing brief trysts over stability because I was afraid to love and risk having my heart broken.
I laughed that observation off and promptly forgot about it. But he’s right, so right.
When I do meet a nice guy I feel deeply about, when I find myself falling for a sweet man, I’ve always run away. By breaking his heart, pushing him away, or just pretending it wasn’t important enough to bother with.
All I’ve achieved in doing so was to hurt myself more instead of protecting my heart. Because in taking away my chances for having a loving man in my life, I’ve just left myself with too much remorse at not having the courage to try harder, and the pain of knowing I’ve hurt someone who would’ve made me happy.
I want so badly to let go of all my apprehensions. I want to learn optimism. I want to stop holding on to the past.
May I finally succeed this year.
Matrimonial madness
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.
Affection vs Salvation
A person should fall in love with another, not get with the other to seek salvation in the aforementioned person.
It’s not fair to expect a lover to save your soul from your demons.
You cannot love another unless you love yourself.
Because if that is not so, the monsters in you will consume the one you swore to love.
Love shouldn’t be selfish.
We all should love, for the sake of loving, not out of the selfish desire to salvage oneself.
If I’ve learned nothing in these two years, at least I’ve come to be able to differentiate true love from a selfish “affection”.
Of bloody eyeballs and salt deposits
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.
