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.
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.
*waves*
1 comment:
Welcome back, JJ! ^_^
Yeah. Rarely would parents name a daughter Dellilah, a biblical villainness powerful enough to bring the strongest biblical hero down to his knees.
I just found this:
[In an episode of the TV series Friends, Ross and Rachel consider naming their daughter Delilah. After the baby is born, however, Rachel exclaims, "Suddenly she sounds like a Biblical whore".]
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