Blogging IS Bitchin’

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.

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.

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.