...now are you sure you want a piece of me?..

Currently listening to: Piece of Me - Britney Spears


THIS pisses me off.
Oh, and THIS one too.

I mean, like, seriously.
Lay off the obsession and, please, cut her some slack.

Honestly, though, up until this point I was completely unaware of these following facts:

1) that every entertainment news journalist out there in Australia is a prolific singer, an experienced performer, and an immensely popular artist who has sold millions of records all around the world - and this totally gives them the right to write disrespectful stuff about, oh, like only one of the world's best-selling artists;

2) that absofuckinglutely no other pop star in the world - other than our beloved Britney Spears, of course - has ever mimed to his or her own song in concerts and live shows before. No, not even Ashlee Simpson did it; and

3) that apparently "fans" of any music artist in the world are freely allowed to refund their concert tickets if they feel that their favorite artists are letting them down by not singing the songs they want to hear or not performing stuff they want to see.

I mean, wow.
I must be living under a rock or something all this time, to have been completely oblivious to these things.
So, what year is this again...? *raises eyebrows*

Those journalists must be really, REALLY insightful.
They must know what it feels like to be a pop star that has been through so much pain and struggle.

I mean, like, are they even aware of the fact that they're dissing an international pop icon?

Are their names included on Yahoo!'s most popular search list for four consecutive years? And has any of them been named The World's Most Searched Person by the Guinness Book of World Records?

Have they sold more than 83 million records worldwide?

Did they go through a heavily-publicized meltdown and emerge out of the chaos alive and victorious?

Has any of them ever performed on a hugely-successful world tour, grossing US$74.6 million in its first 48 US shows, with already 87 shows done so far and twelve more to go, in front of thousands of screaming fans?

Do they have their own names carved on a Hollywood Walk of Fame star?

Has any of them become the first female artist to have five #1 studio albums in the United States?

Answer 'yes' to any of the above questions, and we'll talk.
Otherwise, fuck off.

In an ignorant society that feeds its pseudo-happiness upon other people's downfall, shameless dissing can be the greatest form of flattery.

After all, for a typical pop act desperate for fame, bad press is essential. It gives you coverage and puts you on the map. Look at what Madonna used to do. Or what Lady Gaga does now. One has to stand out in order to get noticed. And that is true.

But for a pop icon as well-known and internationally-recognized as Britney, getting savage reviews from heartless, bitter journalists is inevitable. It's true that many people are rooting for her now that she has managed to clean up her act and lead a highly-successful comeback, but just as many people would love to see her fall from grace for the second time, if that's even remotely possible. When you're as big and successful as Britney, every little mistake you make can cause the whole world to go down on you.

Yet many people forget that underneath the make-up, the hair extensions, and the whole Circus-themed camaraderie, she is still a fragile human being.

And there's no way out for her. This is like a two-way dead-end.
If she sings live and doesn't sound good, people will bitch about her vocal pitch and say she's not fit to be a "real singer", whatever that means. If she lipsynchs her songs and puts on a theatrical show, they then say she doesn't put any effort into singing live and therefore is also not fit to be a "real singer", still.

Either way, she'll lose. So what's the bloody point?

So she doesn't sing live, at least not all the time.
So she hasn't reached the physical fitness level she once sustained at her prime.
So she doesn't yell out city names correctly and barely speaks to and interacts with the audience during her shows.

Big deal. Live with it.

Saying that her lipsynching in concerts is previously unheard of is like saying that nobody knows kangaroos live in Australia. Seriously. Like, what's the big deal?

She's barely a woman. She's 28, with two toddlers in tow. She's been through a lot, more than any of us could ever imagine. She had lost all hope, she had hit rock-bottom, she had experienced some of the cruelest, most terrible things. To have experienced all that and be able, still, to embark on a world tour filled with endless top-class performances is already a miracle in itself. Agreed?

Nobody in their right minds would have thought, two years ago, that the erratic, petrol-station-hopping, cigarette-smoking, British-accented Britney Spears would ever be able to record another smash-hit album and do another world tour let alone reclaim her Pop Princess throne, a title that was left unoccupied when she was gone from the music scene.

Did you think she could do it? Heck, even I didn't think she could, and this is coming from an avid fan who has always been endlessly supportive of her decisions, even when she was going through her ugliest, most horrifying days. But she did recover, miraculously so, like a phoenix rising up from the flames. And now she's back on top of her game, better than ever.

This is supposed to be a good thing. And we should all be on her side. After all, she's still one of us. She's just a normal human being trying to give her best for her fans and haters alike.

How would you feel if you were in her shoes?

*sighs*

We just can't leave our superstars alone, now, can we?
We love seeing them fall to pieces just as much as we wanna see them soar.

It's our money we're spending. And it's our idol we're spending it on.
So please, with all due respect, mind your own effin' business and find something a little less exploitative to write about.

So shut your dirty little mouths up. And please leave her alone.

I'll still come to her concert tomorrow, and I'm gonna love every second of it, no matter what.




I love you, Britney.

...you're my silver lining, covered in gold...

Currently listening to:Breathing Underwater - Marie Digby

.catch the next train home.
City Loop Train, Melbourne, September 2009

It strangely sounds like Mother Nature is wreaking havoc outside my window right now, noisy winds and all, and it scares the hell out of my pathetic little lily-livered self.

Amongst the endless array of hypothetical traits The Good Ol' Creator should have been a tad bit more generous in adding when making yours truly out of His own little brew, I'd say courage is on top of the list, definitely. Maybe it's about time for me to formally acknowledge the fact that I am an absolute fail when it comes to being brave in almost every single applicable situation. I can't even find the strength to slap a passing cockroach with a slipper; no, I'd rather cut myself sore with a nail-clipper instead, thank you very much.

So what makes one think that I can stand fifteen painful minutes of listening to crazy winds banging on my windows with crackling drizzles as the background noise without freaking myself out?
*shivers at the thought*

Thank heavens for window shutters.
At the very least they have spared me the torture of having to visually witness the entire crazy-winds-banging-on-window camaraderie.

And please don't judge me on this one. I know this honest confession doesn't bode well with the social integrity of that squishy piece of flesh between my legs, but oi, what the heck, right? I owe this to myself.

All wimpiness aside (and apparently I am allowed to draw newly-coined words out of thin air now!), I can now merrily tell you that, ta-dah! Summer is here.

And as much as I want to join the melanoma-prone crowd of sunshine lovers who are all gearing up to welcome the sunny days and humid nights, apparently the exact opposite applies in real life.

I have recently found myself guilty of not wanting to move on with my life as a new season rolls by. This is proven by the lingering overabundance of cardigans, jackets, and coats still scattered all around my room, and the pressing urge to always have an extra layer of clothing with me that I still feel nagging on my winter-loving conscience whenever I plan to go out.

I'm not sure if these two trivial facts are in any way relevant to my reluctance towards welcoming summer with open arms; I do know, though, that hotter temperatures will mean longer days, and longer days will probably mean spending more time outdoors, under the baking hotness of good ol' Apollo.

Being such an ungrateful, insecure pussy myself, this smells like a disaster waiting to happen. This is the time of the year when I feel that my insecurity over physical imperfections can be socially justified. It would be sweet to shed off a few kilos in order to look better in those pretty little tanktops and shorts. It would be convenient to have faster metabolism so those post-BBQ fat won't stay in undesirable spots. It certainly would be lovely to have a smooth, flawless complexion. And maybe a slightly lighter hair color tone?

But no, I should stop at that.
Asking for perfection would be pushing the boundaries a little. Or a LOT. You know, the whole preserving-the-normal-distribution-curve deal?

So next time you complain about life not being fair, take some time to stop and think about how boring and uninteresting it would be if every single person around you is skinny, has blond hair and blue eyes, and possesses a complexion so flawless and pretty even flowers will turn around in envy.
Differences are good. Uniformity undermines beauty; without diversity, it would be possible for anyone to stand out. *raises eyebrows*

And the world certainly doesn't need a second Tyra Banks running around promoting self-acceptance and natural beauty while wearing elaborate weaves and make up as thick as a freaking Twilight book half the time.
So I think I'll stick with staying true to my stuck-up, insecure self. I mean, what damage can pale skin and a pair of slanty eyes do?

*insert inappropriate Asian joke here*


...I know, I know.
Sorry if you all just didn't get that.

One's writing finesse tend to get a little rusty after about two months of blogging celibacy. And coherence hasn't exactly been one of my finer qualities all along, so.. your call. *sighs*

Truthfully speaking, I'm still trying to get back on the swing of things.
Thanks to the magical wonders of Twitter, my desire to pour out my disorganized, borderline schizophrenic thoughts into extensive paragraphs has gracelessly fallen down a southern path deeper and longer than the endless escalators at Parliament station. Why waffle when you can bitch your life away in 140 characters, or less?

That might or might not explain the imaginary cobwebs which are hanging, pixelated and virtual, all over this blog's deserted home page. Either that, or maybe your overly-vivid imagination is playing with your spatial sense of existence once again. None of which I give a damn about, honestly.

So, yes.
Welcome back, me.

Now that I've made my point, or NOT, I invite you to simply drag your mouse to that throbbing red square with the cross in its center, then let me do a respectful bow before the curtains are drawn and the lights go out when you make that life-changing click.

Ta.
*waves*

...but don't let it all go to your head...

Currently listening to: Song for a Friend - Jason Mraz

.water traces.
12 Panorama St, Clayton, July 2009

I love how Blogger's built-in spellcheck system automatically strikes a dotted red line under every word that, despite being correctly-spelled as far as general English appropriateness is concerned, doesn't abide to the spelling rules of American English .

It makes me all warm and fuzzy inside, knowing that in a land of ever-changing weather conditions, crazy spelling - the way Aussies (and Poms, in this case) spell every word ending with '-ize', like 'institutionalize' or 'organize', with an 's' instead of a 'z' still intrigues me every time - and crazy accents with oddly-placed vowel emphasis *cringes*, at least someone, or something, in this case, is still willing to give me some credit for staying true to my stuck-up Americanized self.

Notice how I just spelled 'Americanized' with a perfectly-placed 'z' right then 'n there.
Ah, fuck it. I love my Starbucks. Leave me and my capitalistic golden arches alone.

...Anyway.
*raises eyebrows*

There's a reason why people need adequate vocal training if they wish to successfully belt out powerhouse tunes like their throats are made out of gold, or something.
That's because singing properly isn't exactly an easy feat.

I attended a music practice in the city earlier today. The practice was great; I got to meet some super-cool people with immense talent who shared my passion in music. We played a couple of songs, did random jam sessions, watched a couple of crazy videos, and basically had fun together. We even managed to find this rookie band a name! *grins*
More on that part later, in a future post somewhere.

So yes. It was fun, and rewarding.
But then came the annoying part, a few hours after the practice wrapped up.

Two words: throat spasm.
*coughs*

My vocal chords would be screaming in pain right about now if they could.
Three hard-earned years of vocal lessons, in the choir and with a coach, all gone just like that. *snaps fingers together*

In case you huggable trolls aren't aware of this little fact, I gotta tell you, singing is more than just about being able to hold and sustain a note. It is as much about establishing emotional connection with both the people you're singing with - other singers if present and the rest of the band - and the people you're singing to - the audience - as it is about maintaining vocal stamina. And if the current state of my voice is any indication *cough cough*, I'm convinced the latter needs a substantial amount of improvement.

Now I'm totally feeling the strain. And not because I wasn't trying my best to sing properly; admittedly, I'd just been slacking off.

Oh, lost musical forte, where the bloody hell are thou?

Maybe I should start practicing again.
And I will. Soon. Just you watch.
*sighs*

But before that, first I'm heading to bed.
It's late, and I'm tired. Tomorrow's Saturday and we all should be well-rested!

Let's hope I don't wake up with a spastic throat tomorrow morning.
*cough cough*


PS: One of my favorite bloggers just got plagiarized. And clearly she's none too happy about it. Go check her out HERE. :)

...you couldn't have loved me better...

Currently listening to: Already Gone - Kelly Clarkson

.shadesofwhiteandblue.
Sky High, Mt. Dandenong, Aug 2009

Hi. *does a communitychannel-style dorky wave*

So this year's not-so-chilly-but-still-freaking-freezing winter has rightfully managed to remind me of three not-so-trivial things;

ONE, that knitted scarves are unbelievably warm! And as far as my superior sense of fashion goes *cough cough*, I can say they go really well with trench coats of any color and cropped woolen jackets; coats of the big-buttoned, double-breasted variety are still preferable, though;

TWO, that jumpers and jackets go in and out of style nearly twice as fast as Katy Perry's post-"I Kissed a Girl" singles. Yeah, no kidding. If the miserable state of my wardrobe is any indication, I'd probably have to be more careful in color-coding and rotating my not-so-quantifiable collection of winter outfits in the future;

and THREE, that you should never, I repeat, NEVER ever think that leaving the house without carrying an umbrella with you in the hopes of not getting drenched by the rain is a good idea. Like, for heaven's sake, it always rains in winter, alright? No exceptions. And Melbourne's renowned four-seasons-in-a-day phenomenon only make things worse. For you fortunate car owners out there, seriously, good for you. *sighs*

Oh, and also the fact that being perpetually caught in the cold can really wear out one's batteries. Or mood. Or patience. But I know this already, at least I think I do; God knows I'd learned it the hard way last year.

*shivers*

But yeah. Apart from being slightly hypothermic, I actually don't have anything significant to complain about these days. Uni's been pretty okay, and since I'm doing two Behavioral Studies subjects - which are both immensely fascinating, I might add - this semester, I guess it means you'll get to see more of my snobbish, tortured-philosopher-in-disguise side in the future, if that makes any difference.

Don't get me started on the other two subjects I'm doing this semester, though.
Let's just say that even mere descriptive takes on those demented academic mumbojumbos may inflict on their subjected audiences episodes of extreme pain more excruciatingly difficult to endure than trying to listen to Brooke Hogan's so-called "singing".
I'm just sayin'. *shrugs*

Anyway.

On a slightly happier note, I had TWO fancy trips to Mount Dandenong last week. Two beautiful days of awesomeness galore, on two separate dates, with two different sets of friends.

Hold on. Let me marvel on that thought-provoking statement for a moment.
Ha. Take that bitches. I'm a confirmed social butterfly. Does that make you proud? *winks*

That was a sarcastic remark, by the way, for those of you who weren't stupid enough to understand my spastic sense of humor.

*scratches head*

Um, yeah.
These two photos clearly indicate that I really have to work on getting a less mainstream, more unusual photowhoring spot next time. For what it's worth, I personally think Sky High's The Giant Chair attraction has auspiciously achieved celebrity status within the super-trendy Facebook universe, judging from its ubiquitous, almost legendary presence as the defining background element of many people's profile pictures.

I, sadly, had gone down the exact same path, like many others had before me.
'had' being the operative word, which means that as of now I no longer have the commercial pose, as my quirky friend Christy would put in, on my cluttered profile page. So I guess that's behind me.

So, yes, For the shame of it all, I hereby proclaim my complete lack of photo-taking originality. Here are two solid proof.

This is from the first trip;



and this one's from the second;



Same spot, same place, same chair, different time of the day, different sets of people.

Freedom of expression OR conforming to normative trends?
You decide. *shrugs*

Just like what Christopher Lasch once argued, the modern 21st century everyman is indeed perpetually overcome with narcissistic tendencies.

But I won't go into that just yet. It's late, and since my quest for physical fitness requires me to stop imitating a vampire and return to conventional sleeping hours, I think I need to go to bed, like, NOW, or something. *yawns*

So I guess catch you guys later?
I promise I'll do updates more often from now on. :)

Bye!

*does another communitychannel-style wave then heads to bed*

...and you can't fake it hard enough to please everyone, or anyone at all...

Currently listening to: The Places You Have Come to Fear the Most - Dashboard Confessional

.meanbecauseyou'restupid.
Kawah Putih, Lembang, 2008

...You know what?
Good job.

When I was little, you didn't give a damn about how well I could draw, or sing, or write, or fluently recite classical poems kids my age weren't even supposed to be able to read. All you cared about was my freaking academic achievements.
You didn't care how sociable on the surface I was, or how many friends I had. You didn't care how sad, and depressed, and lonely I was as a kid, deep down inside.

When I came home with my end-of-semester report feeling elated because I got full marks for English, you sulked and asked why I almost didn't pass Maths.
When I told you my vocal teacher praised me for nailing that absurdly complicated Ella Fitzgerald song at practice, you pointed out I could've done so much better if I had continued with my boring piano lessons.
When I asked for permission to join the high school choir, you protested, claiming singing would distract me and thus further damage my already messed-up grades.

You never gave me the space I needed.
You say I'm slow. And lazy. And unmotivated. And simply good for nothing.

You got yourself worried sick everytime I came home late from school, even after I reached seventeen. With no reason, because I wasn't even acting out. Not anymore anyway.
You scolded me when I decided to choose Social Sciences over Physics and Chemistry. Then you assured me that I had successfully let go of my one chance to succeed later in life when I made that foolish decision.
From then on, you refuse to acknowledge my academic achievements. Even when I managed to get an almost perfect score for my TOEFL test, you weren't even proud of me.

You bragged about how you were already making money when you were my age, and brought me down for not being able to do the same for myself right now.
You threatened to kick me out of the house when once I had the courage to stand up for myself and question your integrity.
You took my first love away from me at such a young, tender age.
You deprived me of my teenage freedom. And you forced me to grow up far too soon.

You never liked seeing me happy in my element.
You wanted me to embrace your ideal picture of what you thought I needed. Everything wasn't about me being happy; it was all about you wanting me to relive your unfinished ambitions and unachieved goals.

You told me, over and over again, that I would never be as good as you. Ever.

And yeah, come to think of it, I wouldn't want to be as good as you even if I could.
Everything is just so out of control that I don't know what to believe anymore.

Now that I'm graduating soon, you're already starting to worry about what I'm gonna do with my entire future now that it's lurking close right around the corner.

No excuses. No space for me to even worry about myself. Everything is about you, and your thoughts, and your insecurities, and your fucking neverending expectations.

I can't even look at myself in the mirror now because you have stripped me of every last bit of self-confidence that I used to have before all this.
I can't even force myself to believe that I'm at least good for something because you have never convinced me that I actually am.

Hell, I can't even be free to see the people I love, and the one person I care about the most, simply because you have jailed me in my pretty little golden cage. Well-groomed, but trapped. Self-sufficient, but helpless.

And now that everything's said and done, I don't fucking know what to do with myself.
Thanks to you.

"This is for your own good" just doesn't cut it anymore. Alright? And neither does "You'll understand when you're older".
I think I'm old enough to decide what's good for me. Seriously. Back off.

You gotta start learning to accept the fact that this surly, over-demanding son of a bitch is really who I am. Warts and all. Your call.

I'm sick of always trying to be the person I don't wanna be.
I'm sorry. But this isn't what I want.

Please give me some space. To breathe. To break free. To think this over.
And to recover.

Heaven knows this may only be the only chance I got.

...surreal...

.tracesofgoodbye.
SQ962, T2 Changi Airport, June 2009

surreal.

i wake up in a daze, my breaths ragged, my eyes bleary.
my trembling hands lie open, powerless, weak.
with every pulse of my heart that beats in silence, i feel you, i miss you, i so long for you.

my brittle hands, they knew.
last night, in my dream, they were reaching out to you.

i watch, helpless, as the visual fragments of days long gone begin to unfold, engulfing this worn-out soul with the senseless guilt of an unrequited passion.

every move, every smile, every word, every little twinkle of your puppy-dog eyes...
they chase my weary thoughts away, endlessly.
i've got nowhere else to stay, but here. inside the warm confines of my sweet misery.
with you.

and i shudder, as i begin to remember, to recall, to celebrate the trailing steps of your nonexistence.

the way you sing to me the soft lullabies of the stars,
the way your velvet voice entertains my senses,
the way your beautiful brown eyes lock oh-so-gently into mine,
a thousand words communicated in silence,
as your fingers trace the outlines of my lips,
ever so carefully...

so delicate,
the rapturous delight i find within the comforting warmth of your sheer presence...



and so i let myself sway, gently, along the fragile lines of my sorrow. slowly wasting away like an empty vessel void of emotions.

the inane thoughts i have of you are all but a blur, swimming in a puddle of could've-beens, would've-beens, might've-beens...

for everything has an end, each story a final epilogue.
and so it is. our story has reached its afterglow, even far before it has a chance to begin.

what's the use of dreaming about all the things that never were when all i can find is despair and regret?



but i just can't help it.

with no safety net,
i have let myself fall.
deep.

again.





"...imagine there was no tomorrow,
imagine that i couldn't see your face,
there would be no limit to my sorrow,
'cause there's nothing that could fill this space...
i don't wanna put it off for too long,
i didn't say all that I had to say,
i wanna take my time and right the wrong before we get to that place..."