All grown up and nowhere to go

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Ah! ’tis a new dawn
How fresh it feels as I stretch and yawn
I can feel the sun, the breeze on my skin
I feel awake after my hundred-year long.

And who’s that I spy from behind my lids
(Oh, how great it feels to blink and flutter)
A blurry vision, my Prince Charming
Who left a kiss after my hundred-year long.

I touch his face, like porcelain
His thick dark hair like luxurious fur
His piercing eyes, though his nose is crooked
He’s the one I wait for, these hundred years.

Soon he pulls me up,
He flies me away to his castle in the air
We’ll be lovers, we’ll bear children
We’ll live happily everafter, less a hundred-year long.

But stop, wait, I get carried away
All these must happen, and yet in future
I’ve yet to wake, this must all be a dream
For I’m still within
My hundred-years slumber.

I sleep, I worry, my heart beats still
Would he make me wait down here too long
A hundred years, and my time is up
I hear the maggots eating into the casket

I fear my skin falls away to dust
Would he be fine with my hair falling out
Or would he not come, even after these hundred years
And my one kiss would be the kiss of death.

Oh come, Prince Charming,
Don’t lose your way anymore,
Don’t be distracted again by the
Mermaids down the road.
Their bodies may be yours, but their hearts
Like their voices, have been broken
A hundred years ago.


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There is something truly magical about night time. In the darkness, everything transforms. Street lamps glow that more mysterious, the ordinary becomes the extraordinary, and the devils awake in our hearts to play with sins.

We undulate like dancers in the night, covered with sexy slinky slithery darkness, we become invincible. Alcohol downed imbues strength, vices prevail and money pays for pleasure with the shuffling of cards, a deft twist of roulette fate, the glowing window display of prostitutes.

Forests hold fort to ghosts, our shadows in the street wave hello. Only the sliver of moon above bears witness to frisky couples in parks, uncoupled from their righteous partners. A few more suicidal thoughts sneak into someone’s head – a calling, a longing.

Magic, so dangerous, yet it stirs a warmth in our bellies… The hunger of something to die for.


My house has too many people living in it. The whole place was packed with stuff. Which, I suppose, was why the parents decided to go on the warfront and beat these stuff down, pack them in boxes, throw them down the chutes, whatever way will annihilate them.

Coincidentally, having just arrived back from overseas, I have my own spring-cleaning to do as in my absence my clothes have decided to procreate and multiply exponentially. Tch, figures.

But spring-cleaning on your own volition vs spring-cleaning as ordered by Daddy, while he shoves empty plastic bags down your throat, are two different things. Which was why I became largely discouraged to do the former (because in doing so, I will inadvertently do the latter, which I didn’t really feel like doing).

In any case, I finally got off my arse to start the cleaning tonight. What I have accomplished: 1) moving stacks of shoeboxes from my room to the corridor, which is located exactly 2 meters away. 2) Packing away old bags, belts and other bells & whistles into said plastic bags and leaving them in the corridor, which is, as said earlier, located 2 meters away.

Therefore a re-emphasis on the point on this house: it is way too small. Methinks it’s about time I flit away again to some other country for another 7 weeks, or more. God yes, more sounds awesome. More sounds like the perfect escape route because, having lived on my own for the past 2 months or so, I’m suddenly having space issues. No, I’m not going to clean up the ‘gigantic mess’ that is my bed because yes, I do like it like that. It is an organised mess, an art form perfected through a series of seemingly unconscious tossing-of-clothing-articles-around. There’s a method to this madness, everything pre-planned from the start.

See, if I live alone, I can convince myself to believe in the above statement, whereas Mummy will just slap me silly.

I love living out of a suitcase, love it love it love it please let me do it please send me somewhere else. I promise I will be good.

But I do digress. When I typed the title of this post, what I had in mind was to write down my amazement that I actually stopped writing. As in, when I was a teeniebopper, I used to write stories and poems and things. Yes, I was an emo kid. The kind that spoke perfect English and never said the wrong things because everything was pre-meditated. But good God my writings were brilliant! I came across old essays and notebooks while cleaning up and were it not for the handwriting, I’d have thought someone else had written those stories. Perfect grammar and lyrical sentences, all sewn up nicely together. Wonderful use of metaphors. All these from a 14-yr-old… I could weep.

Why the hell did I go the science-accounting-banking route? I could’ve been real artsy had I taken up lit. Feck. Shite. More importantly, how come I can’t comprehend my own fancy-schmancy use of vocab now? Language degradation… I blame it on beer consumption.

Can’t believe I stopped writing. It really would have been a whole nother life. On the one hand, I may have ended up with slit wrists in a dodge bathtub somewhere, writer’s block-induced depression and all that. On the other, Best Newcomer’s Fiction Award. Do writers earn loads anyway? Besides JK Rowling, she’s an anomaly. Meh. As an artsy individual, I would’ve been content living on a grass patch with a potato sack dress and an imaginary boyfriend.

(On that note, To be continued.)

The past few days have been filled with abrupt unexpected changes. My laptop was invaded with a virus unrecognizable by my then existing antivirus program (stupid, stupid, useless piece of -!) so I had to back up, reformat, start afresh. I forgot to back up some stuff, which is now lost forever.

My mobile split into two. I had difficulties trying to obtain the data stored inside it at the Nokia Care Centre. The girl initially serving me seemed to not want to do much, apparently not one to do the math between hysterical demands + sunglasses in an enclosed environment + phone split into two. She kept insisting the motherboard had already exploded and everything inside was ruined. She then modified her statement by adding “probably”. Fishy fishy. I pushed and pushed and they had to replace her with another person who’s clearly more experienced. My data was all there and he helped me back up everything into the memory card.

Have to use my sister’s phone now, an old Nokia model as chunky as a Toblerone bar. I need to get a new phone soon. The backup phone is flaking round the edges, not something you can be seen with in the high-tech Blackberry environment of the bank. Despite having ‘reserved’ an iPhone, Singtel requested us to set yet another appointment for God knows what. I thought the point of making a reservation is for you to get what you reserve in the end. What a farce.

And yet the changes seemed Meant To Be in the end. Something’s got to give, nothing can stay stagnant forever. Just like cake grows mould, fruit becomes rotten, milk goes sour.

I have already made a vow that I won’t be blogging sentimentally anymore but somehow these days I keep breaking that vow. Right now I really can’t abide by that vow, everything is still too fresh and painful (obviously I’m not only mourning a bunch of electronic gadgets). I’ve ceased to know what I want.


If you really care about someone’s feelings, would you say certain things, act in a certain way, and never give in?

Today, I rediscovered the fact that I’m not a very good poker player. Was so disappointed in myself. I had fantastic hands in which I betted too aggressively too soon. I had mediocre hands in which I betted too aggressively as well. I was impatient the whole night. I suppose quarreling doesn’t help, in which case I shouldn’t have started playing before I cooled down.

But whatever. I was playing a game with unknown stakes, only knew the real stakes after it was over. And it results in me only retiring at 3.30 am in the morning, compounded by the Story of the Pillow.

The Story of The Pillow:

I bought a new pillow yesterday. Jap brand, very pouffy and soft. Syd said all pillows have the same size so I had no qualms. So just now at 3.15 am I was removing the pillow cover off the old, flat, lifeless and probably droolfull old pillow and putting it over the new Jap one.

No matter how much I squeezed, it still wouldn’t go in. Honest. Even the chambermaid at Ritz Carlton who should be expert at making beds would not have managed to squeeze the Jap pillow in. It’s just too pouffy for my flat pillow cover.

So I suppose it’s true that there’s only one pillow size in Singapore, but it’s a different size from the uni-size pillow of Indonesia, which was where my pillow cover was from.

But anyway, that episode left me very frustrated. I’m currently resting my back against a misshapen lump that’s the half-squeezed in Jap pillow. Its shape wouldn’t budge no matter how much I whacked it, as if a testimony of my failure.

But I do digress. Despite the fact that the digression is partly relevant as it results in much added frustration. In fact, I’m starting to feel like a relationship is just like pillow-cover-fitting. Sometimes, when you buy a potentially comfortable-looking pillow, it might not work out. Because the pillow simply wouldn’t fit the cover no matter how hard you squeeze it. In the end, you end up sweaty and upset, your pillow cover ripped and you can’t even punch the stubborn pillow to hurt it because your fist will just bounce right back.

And I’m just wondering, you can’t throw away the pillow after you’ve just bought it. So what, do you take the time to sew a new pillow cover after getting the pillow’s measurements right? Or do you simply hang on day by day, hoping to fit the cover onto the pillow by some lucky break one night? To be honest, the latter sounds quite stupid and it is indeed stupid.

Sewing a new pillow cover takes time though, and it needs the pillow’s co-operation. What if everytime you put a tape measure over it, the pillow slides right through? Despite the fact that you’re showing the pillow that you’re trying your best, the pillow keeps quiet and doesn’t say anything, and repeats its act every night of not getting into the pillow cover.

Frickin’ Japanese pillows. Goddamnit.

July 2018
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