Greetings

Any of you checking periodically to see if I'm obeying my own rule of writing everyday? I'm sorry - assignments, a visit to Australia, and lost momentum between those two events are my explanations. But yes, all of those things are over and I'm back! - both to the motherland and to the blog. In between those things I've acquired some books, a trench coat, a Beatles mug (comes with a coaster!), and some cute Australian creatures, stuffed. I've finished Stephen Fry in America, Waugh's A Handful of Dust, and am going through Frankie Boyle's autobiography, besides touring Gold Coast and finishing three assignments. Prolific, you must admit, despite the fact that I'm not writing anything.

The good thing here is that I've now have a visit and more comedic panel shows to write about! I'll cobble together something about Australia and have that done with, and put up some lazy posts about panel shows I've been watching almost religiously.

Here's a picture of a hedgehog. See you soon.

'Weep for yourself, my man,
You'll never be what is in your heart
Weep Little Lion Man,
You're not as brave as you were at the start
Rate yourself and rake yourself,
Take all the courage you have left
Wasted on fixing all the problems
That you made in your own head'

Mumford and Sons, Little Lion Man.
Now I dare you to say that this isn't poetic in the faintest.

I wonder, does writing here gives the false impression of substantiality? Of intelligence, of sophistication, of wisdom, of having sound opinions?
Most of my days are spent struggling between working and not working; the time spent doing productive work and wanting a break from it, and the time spent flopping about while feeling guilty about not doing work. I'm a rather crude person, with an all-or-nothing way of emotionally reacting to something, which exhausts me. Being me exhausts me, and I'm rather bored of being me these days, after 20 years, if I'm honest about it. But still, I suppose this is the only mode of living since we're not allowed to be different people on different days. This is the character you're stuck with, which is very tedious.
Oh, I don't really know what's the point I'm trying to make, and this is written very badly. I'm swamped with assignments, and feeling rather uninspired.

I'll play my escape card and show you something brilliant instead of actually writing something.
This is Hugh Laurie, who besides being funny or being a TV doctor, is now also a certified blues musician.




If we can be different people on different days, I want to be Hugh Laurie on Tuesdays, please. Such intelligence, such wit. And I'd get to talk to Stephen Fry loads, which can't remotely be a bad thing.

Fear and loathing.

Something must be done about the cockroach on the third floor.
I was lying on the floor after a bout of migratory reading, having a very short nap. The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was a large cockroach in my vicinity.
It's disgusting. The shape, the color. The way they move. The way their legs scuttle. The quick, loud scrapping noise it made when it scuttled across the room. Everything about it is positively nauseating. So much so, that I had no pity for the obvious, very potent fear it's clearly displaying.
Is this what racism is about? Is this why they gassed Jews in Nazi Germany? This irrational disgust and lack of pity and empathy and humanity?

I can't kill it, so I'll catch it and dispose of it somewhere. But where?

Well, darlings, assignment fever is upon us again. This is, genuinely, stressful yet exciting. Anything with a deadline and expectations are generally stressful yet exciting.
It's also in times like these that I most often imagine sequences of self-harm. It typically comes hand-in-hand with a sort of desperation, which probably instigated the sequences anyway. Entirely cartoonish, but they would, morbidly, involve stabbing myself in the abdomen with a pencil, or putting a gun to my head and pulling its trigger. The sequences have a sort of tragicomedy feel to them, and are entirely unreal; they're probably an outlet, my instinctive way to resolve the desperation.
Well it's better than beating someone up or overeating or kicking poor kittens, I suppose. Entirely in the head.

Stressed by assignments. Can't write well. Tired too.
Full day of classes tomorrow.
Goodnight.

Look, pictures!

Sorry for the very tumblr-like posts. Please forgive because they are after all pictures of books arranged in a very pretty manner, which surely are redeeming qualities.
From bookshelf porn:

Literary.

I was at the makeshift booksale at KL Central this afternoon, whiling away the time waiting for my next train.
There was this young man there, who I noticed was holding a copy of Shakespeare's Troilus and Cresadia, while he was putting back a book on TS Eliot.
I thought, "You must be interesting", and asked if he'd hand me that Eliot book.

How often do you see another person, young or otherwise, who'd be holding a copy of Shakespeare's Troilus and Cresadia, while putting back something about Eliot?
Infrequent enough that I thought this little thing warrants a mention in a blog post.

Lordy, I have 99 words left and I still have the CSR practices of law firms in the UK, the US, EU, and Malaysia, to enumerate.
This would be fun.

The assignment and Other Doings.

I'm 300 words until I reach my word limit, with loads more to stuff into my assignment. My assignment is a turkey given to me that is way too small for the stuffings I've prepared. But such is life.

Want to place bets on how much I'll exceed my word limit this time?

I've been a faithful visitor to the Guardian's fashion and beauty page, especially to the video-only content of their How to Dress segment. I'm not a stickler for fashion, and I hate buying clothes (all the changing and deliberating and assessing - they're a bother I'll only indulge in once a year); God knows why, but they're so therapeutic. I keep telling myself, Right, this is the last one. Go toil over your assignment now; but I keep watching another, and another, and another. I don't even plan to buy anything featured there because they're not really my style.
Is it a British thing? Shows and things about fashion and clothes and beauty that does the miracle of not irritating me? You should go watch an episode of Gok Wan's How to Look Good Naked, or some other of his fashion advice shows. They're also very therapeutic, and aren't ditzy and blonde and irritating.

*The Assignment and Other Doings would make a good band name, wouldn't it?

False promises.

I'm teetered at home today by the promise (not artificial, I hope) of a delivery of something expensive, that everyone is anxious about it being submitted to the delivery process. My parents are certainly more nervous about it than myself, if being woken up several times in the morning gives any indication.

It's my expensive thing - you can call it a decent tool for work or an expensive toy. But it's something I'm not very excited about (I'm just mildly excited) while feeling immensely guilty over, because it's so expensive, and I don't deserve anything so expensive; and what am I thinking spending so much money anyway?

Its last status, as indicated by the DHL's tracking site, said that it's being stuck at clearance at the Shah Alam airport, so I don't think it would be coming today; but still, another hour of waiting to be sure.

I've spent most of my day in an intense, concentrated state; reading, copying for my assignments. So at the end of the day, I have nothing else to offer here. I'm drawn out - all I want to do is nothing.

I'll dazzle you with this instead:



Isn't it wonderful? I listened to this clip exclusively while I was sloughing through my work. There's infectious enthusiasm, a great pick-me-up in the form of Mumford and Sons' The Cave, and the sheer coolness of Bob Dylan (that man radiates cool. It's in his every movement). The fact that all of them up-and-coming folk bands are so childishly excited to be playing for Bob Dylan. The standing ovation at the end.

Art is beautiful.

I should have had a schedule.

It's almost bedtime now, so I'm worn out. Hmm, funny, I thought I've had a very productive day, but on review, I'd only chalked up about 6 pages worth of notes? Come now, that's ridiculous.

The deadline for my assignment is exactly next week, the 17th, and that impending deadline is sending me into a slight panic. I've planned to start writing today, a week before the deadline, but I'm not happy with the amount of information I've amassed, notwithstanding the fact that 40 A4 pages of small script sounds monstrous. So today, and I fear, tomorrow, must be spent in a slight panic, clutching whatever I can to my bosom of notes, while intermittently berating myself for procrastinating. A bit like a flurried squirrel gathering nuts for the quickly-approaching winter, in fact. Squirrels are lovely things, and a friend did say I'm positively squirrel-like in nature, minus the buck tooth and fondness for nuts, so squirrel-analogy it is.

The self-criticising part of me has leaned back and looked at what I've written so far, and said that I've given this impression that I'm diligent and studious and hardworking, and spared no effort when it comes to doing this assignment. Oh, if only you'd known! On the contrary, I don't think I've done enough. I feel like I'm missing something somehow, some important article citing figures, a nice research to make things definite. And the writing part is positively scary - really, a roller coaster ride or a jaunt through a haunted house isn't as scary as this, because those two things aren't parameters to assess your worth, and wouldn't have much of an influence on your future. On the scale of things, writing an assignment is scarier. Everyone else seems to have it so neatly together, while I feel like my seams are falling apart. Of course, I wouldn't know because I haven't seen what they've been doing, and this might be a very pessimistic estimation I'm inflicting on myself, but best not to ignore it and reassure myself and slack off and spend more time watching tv or writing here and -

My eyes are this > -- small now, and I'm peeking through my eyelids with my laziest lazy-face on. Time to put myself out of my misery. Goodnight!

Childlike sincerity.

After a while, I faced the realities of my situation, threw in the towel, and went to nestle on the couch with a cup of milo and a list of ted talk videos streamed to my television.
And of all the videos I watched, it must be that I love the one from the '1000 awesome things blogger' the most. It's only natural, really.



 I think it's the childish enthusiasm, the 5-year-old sincerity engulfing that talk, that got to me.

I'll attempt to provide a more through explanation here tomorrow, but for now, it's to the comfy embraces of my bed.

Goodnight!

In a limbo between sleep and wakefulness.

Oh darlings, I'm tired, so tired today.
There's this blockage at the part of my eyes nearest to my nose. It's the point from which this tiredness emanates - I'm sluggy, I can't concentrate well, and all I want to do is sleep it away. There isn't enough work done to make me happy - most of my time was spent moping listlessly between my bed and my computer, a battle between wills - the desire to sleep, and the desire to be productive.
And dearies, I've tried everything that would normally work - the tea, the naps, the nasal inhaler. Blowing my nose, clearly my nasal pathways, breathing in a specific way; nothing worked. In my desperation, I even tried walking around the living room, vigorously, for 15 minutes - that didn't work either.
Is it hormones? My slothful, unhealthy lifestyle finally catching up with me? Is it a sign that my sinus problem really needs to be looked into? I can't know.

Meanwhile, I do hope I don't wake up like this tomorrow. Please, ye Gods of productivity. Bestow upon me energy and vitality and if you can, inspiration. I am determined to send in well-researched, well-written assignments, things that I can really be proud of - it'd be a waste to let this determination go to waste just because I'm too tired. Any help you can spare would be much appreciated. Thanks.

X
Mei Yen.

Writers.

I like writers. They observe life and present it to you in a neat, beautiful whole.

I'm dipping into Virginia Woolf's Selected Letters a lot these days, as I intermittently would, and I'm slightly saddened by the fact that I can't write anywhere as lovely as she does.

These days, I'm buoyed up by a sort of hope. I'm sure I would do injustice to that emotion with bad prose - besides, it's quite disgusting to talk about one's hopes and fears and dreams and sorrows in the public sphere. It's this happiness to write, and to write well. I'm swamped by three assignments now (oh, the injustice!), and I'd rather write something here, fretting about how a sentence would sound, than to read articles for my assignments.

Wherein I painfully discover that the 'bagai isi dengan kuku' analogy makes a lot of sense.

I'm in such an irritable mood today that I've half a mind not to write anything. Can anything written in an irritable mood be any good anyway?

I did something very odd almost as soon as I woke up in the morning - before I even got downstairs. There I was, walking downstairs in no perceptively different manner, when I hit my right foot against the back of my left one. What followed was a sharp, burning pain; and blood seeping out from under my toenail.
I had, for all intents and purposes, stubbed my toe rather badly against the back of my other leg, which as you can tell, is ridiculous.
To make this sounds more ridiculous, there was no perceptible injury whatsoever on the other leg. You wouldn't have thought pliant flesh would survive such an assault by something like a nail (made of considerably sterner stuff) completely unscathed, but that's what happened.
I'm convinced that this is some miracle of physics.

It still hurts all the time - a sort of tender throbbing that's almost ticklish. I'm still hobbling everywhere, and my brother is still very curious about my toe-injury, and exceedingly apologetic when he does anything to injure it. Like poke it.

Unhealthy cravings. Will die before 30.

I'm having a craving for Dauphinoise potatoes.
This isn't a craving born out of deprivation, because I've, almost single-handedly, finish a kg's worth of potatoes baked in fat cream last week, in the span of two days.
My mother, the purveyor of my weight (a responsibility she has decided to delegate to herself), would be outraged.

I'd like to think this is great practice, a nice-getting-used-to Britain, the land of potatoes and heavy cream (or so I've been told).

And oh, pepperoni pizzas. I think I'm looking ahead to a long life with cravings for pepperoni pizza humming constantly in the background. No matter how much I've ate, or the duration between pepperoni pizzas, I would want some the moment I'm reminded of them.

Fantastic creatures.

Have you ever seen an animal that isn't absolutely wonderful?
Discounting the cases where the animals are ravaged with some disease, or abused to the point where they lose their majesty, animals of any sort naturally inspires a sort of awe, if you're sensitive towards those things.
It might be the majesty of a big cat, the dainty, quick cuteness of a domestic feline, the staunch look of a lizard, the eerie, human resemblance of a giant panda. They just have this sort of majesty humans don't.

Well, I suppose the human form is quite lovely too, if only they don't ruin all that lovely impression by speaking.

If I have my way, I'd have at least two furry creatures padding around the house.
A friend of mine has 14 (at last count) cats going in and out of the house throughout the day (being cats). I think that's wonderful.

I'll leave you with this picture of Tasmanian Tigers (now extinct).

Aren't they lovely? Dog-like with tigers' strips. Australia has a wonderful mix of animals so extraordinary you can't believe they're real.




* I met a dog in bad shape today. I don't know if it's the natural ravages strays go through, or if it was abused. It had haunting eyes - one brown and one black, used to give me a fleet, haunting look.
In the same vicinity, I saw a quick, adorable cat moving between tables soliciting for food. I noticed a long, wide scar on its back in between fish-feeding cycles. 
Now, I might be paranoid and very cynical, but I suspect abuse. 
I feed the strays outside my house. We have an odd sort of friendship. One of them is quite aggressive towards other dogs, and probably get into fights quite a lot (comes with the territory of being aggressive, I suppose), but they don't have scars or injuries that look like that. Both those animals have injuries that looked unnatural. 

:(

How do I go about saying this? - a glass of water was emptied all over my iPod Touch. The culprit my wilfully reckless brother.
The backlight doesn't seem like it's working anymore.

I was plunged into this stupid cycle of fury, frustration, and self-loathing for feeling angry and frustrated for what is essentially the lost of a luxury gadget.
It really isn't starving in Africa or the earthquake-tsunami-nuclear disaster in Japan. Quite disgusting, even to me. It's really a display of first-world brattiness - privileged 20 year old moaning about being 'unjustly deprieved' of the use of a luxury gadget. How selfish.
All that too well chronicled on twitter, so no repetition here.

Wednesday

Today is a day packed to the rim with dizzy excitements, all with the benefit of happening in the comforts of one's own home!

- I made the Dauphinoise potatoes again, by myself! Tastes perfectly this time - I smarted up and added a little more salt than I thought was necessary. Turned out to be just perfect.
A blog post about it might come up? With pictures and everything.

- a lot of tweets. A lot. Ranging from something food-related, to travel, to quoting Oscar Wilde, and to typing out funny things about Harry Potter. Hello, that's variety.

- today, I have tasted the smartest chocolate ever. It was an 'alcoholic' chocolate in the shape of a wine bottle. Expecting a normal chocolate that tastes faintly like brandy, I bit into the center of the chocolate and tasted potent alcohol, in liquid form.
So in effect, the chocolate layer serves the purposes of a wine bottle, containing the alcohol inside.
Isn't that a very smart thing to do? I beam with joy just thinking about it :)

Sentences of sheer beauty.

'I was a man who stood in symbolic relations to the art and culture of my age...The gods had given me almost everything. I had genius, a distinguished name, high social position, brilliancy, intellectual daring; I made art a philosophy, and philosophy an art: I altered the minds of men and the colour of things: there was nothing I said or did that did not make people wonder...I treated Art as the supreme reality, and life as a mere mode of fiction: I awoke the imagination of my century so that it created myth and legend around me: I summed up all systems in a phrase, and all existence in an epigram.'

- Oscar Wilde, De Profundis.

This dream must confirm that I have a deep, secret love for A4 paper.

After running out of A4 paper recently, I had a vivid memory of mum bringing back a pack of them and casually handing them to me. I also remember putting it in a certain spot, heart filled with a secret sort of joy because I like stationaries, and because I can now resume my normal note-taking.
I even remember walking to some spot in the house while thinking about how much I like stationaries.

How can all that be a dream? :(
I mean, I understand the possibility of having dreamt up getting a supply of A4 paper, but to the extent of placing them in a certain spot? And who, in their dreams, would think about how much they like stationaries?
Everything seemed normal, until some time later I found my printer in the spot where I had supposedly put that stack of A4 paper. My 'supply' of A4 paper was nowhere to be seen :(
I had to ask mum if she had bought A4 paper, to confirm it was all a dream :(

But you'd be glad to hear that dad has brought home a pack of A4 paper today :D
(glad for the sake of my sanity, because you are all nice people)

I now have Hitler pictures in my blog.
Not just pictures, but moving gifs.

Does that make me a bit scandalous?

I've just discovered that there probably is more than one tumblr-blog dedicated to David Mitchell.

But don't bother pondering whether that's a good thing or a bad thing. Just savour the loveliness emanating from those tumblr-blogs. Like this:

 

I should probably point out that David-has-Hitler-hair is a running joke in the comedic circles.

David actually seems more aggressively angry than Hitler in this set of comparative gifs. He was arguing a very minor point in a panel show. Hitler was probably giving a speech.
I'd say 'we now know who the real Fuhrer is', but that doesn't make any sense at all.

*don't know which blog to credit, because I don't get the whole reblog thing. But thank you, blog owner. This is a thing of brilliance.

Wherein I discover that there might a tumblr-blog for every conceivable thing in the universe.

Now, about tumblr.
I don't quite understand tumblr, this complex system of pictures and reposts and 'likes'.
It seems to be mostly about re-posting pretty pictures that resonates with you. Now, re-posting pretty pictures made by other people doesn't seem like the best way to explain yourself, which is surely what a blog is about? It seems to be an amalgamation of pictures you find pretty, which is alright for those who wants to collect pretty pictures. But everything doesn't seem quite original, doesn't seem very expressive. Or maybe I'm narcissistic enough to think that having an original voice is necessary for self-expression.
It's just not for me I suppose. Wrong medium of expression - pictures instead of words. I love frolicking about with words, which is why this blog has little to no pictures. Here I should apologise to the ADD ones amongst you looking for a picture or two to give relief to the monotoneous black-and-white. I am sorry if you should one day snap from the strain of it, and go into a nervous breakdown. I try to make things better by embedding in YouTube videos which I have no doubt you would never watch.

But while postulating that I might be the secret love child of David Mitchell and Zooey Deschanel that turned out to look strangely Chinese (why am I typing in such a tedious form today? Postulating?), I turned to google to see if anyone else has used that comparison before.
This is when I found a whole tumblr-blog dedicated to David Mitchell.
It is scary, it is obsessive. It's also glorious.
Reading it, continuously clicking on the 'next' button, will making you hate yourself for procrastinating whatever you're supposed to be doing, and because this reminds you of something a crazy-stalker-fan would do. But a place filled with gifs, pictures, and quotes of David Mitchell being funny, with the occasional video thrown in? It can only be described with the word 'Hallelujah!'.
I am now quite, quite convinced that there is a suitable David-Mitchell-expression for every occasion.

But think about it - if there is a whole tumblr-blog devoted to David Mitchell, there must be tumblr-blogs in the tumblr-world out there devoted to just about anything in the universe.
Pens. Notebooks. Handphones. Every celebrity of any significance, even dead ones or fictional ones. Tea. Politicians. Uranus, Mars, Neptune, Jupiter. Other stellar systems. The meaning of life, the universe and everything.
And of course, naturally, tumblr-blogs made by individuals who decided to have an tumblr blog dedicated to chronicle their lives, like how I decided to have a blog dedicated to chronicle my life.
(Oh god, now that I've put it that way, I sound incredibly narcissistic.)

But isn't that a slightly scary thought, the notion that just about everything has a tumblr-blog dedicated to it?

Interlude

In need of a bit if a rest (and inspiration, to be honest) I tinkered around with the new blogger app, and played the video of the Oscar Wilde documentary I embedded a few posts ago.

It's lovely.
Wilde does make being different look glamorous. So very glamorous.

Dauphinoise potatoes.

The Dauphinoise potatoes project was finally put to bed on Friday.
It was intense - we peeled, sliced, grated, seasoned, and baked with enviable concentration. For a girl who doesn't know what a peeler and a garlic* looked like, it was relatively intense. It was so intense that halfway through I was dizzy from the intensity of the thing, and I had to take a rest, like a pathetic weakling not up to the challenge of a bout of intense cookery.
(it was actually probably because of near-total lack of sleep, but let's go with the theme)

But the result was decent, though under-seasoned. Proper seasoning, I realise, is a skill that only comes from experience. When the recipe says 'season according to taste', there is no way you can get it right if you're an amateur seasoner, unless you're tremendously lucky. But no harm done, perfectly easy to add lots of salt and pepper before consumption.
And funny enough, it tasted better the second time I had it, after it had been in the fridge for a day and re-heated. The lack of sleep probably affected its flavour on the first day. It tasted glorious on the second - rich, creamy, yummy potatoes. Mmm.

No pictures though, because a person who is disoriented from lack of sleep isn't good at taking pictures. A person who is disoriented from lack of sleep doesn't do too well when it comes to remembering to bring along the camera either. Which is actually the first problem of the whole no-pictures fiasco - even if I'd been up to creatively figuring out how to take a picture of something from an odd angle to make it look unconventional, all the perseverance in the face of adversity would have all gone to waste if one doesn't have a camera around.

I still have extra cream (glorious cream!) in the fridge though, so if I can get mum to remember to buy another kg of potatoes, I can give the thing a second go, alone! Pictures may surface if that is lucky enough to happen.

*To clarify - I have seen a peeler and a garlic before. Just, you know, in my life, the occasion where I have to connect the word 'garlic' or the word 'peeler' to a visual object has never arisen before, so both visual objects remained vaguely disconnected to both words until now, where an occasion has rendered such connection necessary. Sentences like these also demonstrate how I bullshit in legal essays.

#6

I should bring this Oscar Wilde thing to some sort of proper terminus. But when I was flipping through my copy, I got a sense of how singularly amazing his works are, so I would be sorry that I would no longer have a motivating factor to get me to flick through his things once in a while.

Maybe, on days when I really have nothing to write, I'll flick through his works and extract a gem that I want to remember. They're lovely.

But on another note, here's an Oscar Wilde documentary. I haven't got around to watching it yet, but if you're interested, here it is:

"In this world there are only two tragedies. One is not getting what one wants, and the other is getting it. The last is much the worst; the last is a real tragedy!"

Wherein I insert in a bunch of links. But still no pictures though.

Remember the cooking thing I was supposed to do?
We settled on Dauphinoise potatoes - lovely things, imagine baked potato with a healthy (well, not healthy if you're talking about cholesterol levels) dose of cream and garlic.
But when I called up my friend on Tuesday, it turns out she has forgotten about it and was en route to Johor.
Now, I don't want to comment on the fact that an increasing number of my friends are seemingly ditching me to do other things, as evidenced from previous blog posts. It's just a coincidence, I swear. I am absolutely confident. No, really.
Or maybe I should throw in the towel, buy utensils, and start making yummy things by myself. This shortbread recipe looks easy, if only I had a baking tray and a rolling pin. Mmm, shortbread.

But anyway, these days I'm alternating between studying (I have tons of assignments to read up for) and putting off studying, and my new favourite way to put off studying is by reading things from The Guardian's Life and Style page. And I've just discovered its makeup column..
I don't like makeup much - it makes me tired, and it's an expectation imposed on me by other people. The best way to get me to hate something is by making it do it. And I'm sufficiently removed from concrete things that any activity requiring me to focus on my face irritates me.
But I saw this picture of lovely dark blue eye make up, and realise that this, is actually art. Just look and tell me you don't find this gorgeous. Absolutely elegant.
Makeup might just be an art form, an outlet for creative expression; not a bastation for the blonde and the vacuous, and liking makeup does not mean that I'm automatically joining their fraternity. Although why I didn't realise that earlier beats me - I have a friend who is a wizard at makeup and fashion, and she's far from being vacuous.
And it helps that The Guardian's column doesn't run like those in most beauty magazines I've read. Beauty magazines irritate me, but this column is so comforting I can read it to procrastinate.

It's Sali Hughes' beauty column on The Guardian, and this is the article with the aforementioned smexy eye-makeup.

*But then again, with my unrestrained fawning over dark eye makeup, the last time I had dark eye makeup on and went home, mum saw me, and in between laughs, asked if I had been punched the the eye(s). You be the judge: a picture, that also has the benefit of proving my existence. And that I can be pretty if I want to. I'm the one on the left of the picture.

I have been writing about That Significant Event I Mentioned. It is taking a while because I am very bad at narratives.

I've been having this dream lately, where I'm rushing to pack my things so I can make it in time for my flight to UK. I'm off to the UK in about a year to finish off my degree, so it's either the Gods warning me that I would do some pretty last-minute packing again, or that I'm eagerly anticipating my time in the UK, so much so that my subconscious is spending time thinking what I should pack for the stay while I slumber.
The second option might be coupled with the fact that so many friends of mine are now in the UK that it's seriously messing with my psyche. My poor subconscious somehow just couldn't take it, and it's starting so see the faces of people who have left for the UK in the faces of strangers (seriously), and starting to panic about missing the flight to UK.

Now that I've analysed myself while typing this out, I'm slightly worried about my sanity.

I think there's this gloom in this post. Must be because I've been reading F. Scott Fitzgerald and listening to a cover of Bob Dylan's You're Gonna Miss Me When You're Gone. The melancholy is seeping in.

Monday.

Relax, I haven't tumbled into a mental whirlpool of my own making. Yet.
It's just that I had something really, really funny happen to me yesterday, that must be written down. It's so funny I thought it was a birthday gift from God, for God's sake. But the fear that I wouldn't do it justice is making me put if off.
I was also thinking about trying to explain my philosophy when it comes to birthdays, since I, rather unfortunately, recently had one happen to me. But I spent so much of my time replying to birthday wishes on facebook that I don't have time to do anything justice, and I have to go to bed now. :(

I'm happy whenever I see my new (acquired yesterday) law textbooks in a nice pile. You can't believe how incredibly sexy they are. You also presumably can't believe how incredibly nerdy I am, now that I've said that.
Forget it. Some things are just beyond people who aren't law students. Like the allure of legal textbooks.
(But frankly, I get similarly excited with whatever book, so I think it's just me being nerdy.)

#5

'There is a luxury in self-reproach. When we blame ourselves we feel that no one else has a right to blame us. It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution'

Therein lies the heart of self-deprecating comedy?
The Picture of Dorian Gray. 

Saturday.

I've finally got around to buy this. It's slightly unforgivable, because I saw this in the bookshop about a month ago.
As far as I can tell, it isn't very well written, but Einstein is my personal hero, and any book about him that's more than 700 pages thick is worth the 30 odd ringgit I paid for it.

I spent the last few minutes of my teenage years watching this episode of Would I Lie to You: 

Now, this constant posting up of comedic panel shows and well, Youtube clips of comedic shows in general, AND the lack of any camwhore pictures wherein I smile and frolic about in the sun doing banal things with my friends, would make you think that I'm a sad nerd and the only thing I do is watch comedy shows at home alone. 

That's where you're wrong. 

Because I devote some time to my legal studies too. 

But while watching the smexy Victoria Coren, and all the other smart funny people on the show, I realise I go about interacting with the world like a plank of wood would. Well, a plank of wood that has to walk about. Yeah, I would be as awkward as that. 

This realisation isn't newborn or anything, but I saw the show and while marvelling at the absolute beauty of it, thought 'oh God, those people are so smart! So funny, and so socially graceful! How do they do that?' And then I reflect on my own acute deficiencies and go sulk about in a corner like Marvin the Paranoid Android.

How do you get social grace? Are you born with it? Do you inherit it from your parents, like curly hair or skin colour? Did they put you in a class for it at school, a class I somehow missed?

Because for as long as I can remember, I've been that awkward one that never knows how to act normal. Even if I do manage to stimulate it, I'd feel dead inside, which is no way to go about life. 

And I'm a stickler for sincerity, which I suspect might be a 'problem'. Not one I'd willingly fix, I'd admit. 

Friday.

I was contently sipping Milo while watching 30 Rock (because that's the only way you should drink Milo: contently), when - wait, do I sport someone that looks like David Mitchell? Someone with the signature Mitchell/Hitler hair, large forehead, moon-like face, and slightly largish eyes that would suggest themselves to be slightly doe-like if you thought hard enough about it? And the same sort of height too?

*That was definitely not David Mitchell.

Yeah, I really do have nothing to write about.
Well, I can write about catty people, or my response re the pictures + videos of Gaddafi being published everywhere in the press. Or what I think about the way Gaddafi/his body is being treated in the most appalling way possible. But I really don't have the elegance to bring both topic off without elements of righteous indignation, which isn't pretty.

#4

"It is personalities, not principles, that move the age."

From The Picture of Dorian Gray.  

Updates.

1. So yeah, the cooking thing didn't work out (I think I mentioned the 'valiant sacrifice').
This friend I was talking about - I'm starting to think that Fate will forever render our relationship asunder, keeping us at physical distance even though we live so stupidly near to each other. Hitherto, our relationship will commence merely on facebook walls, by longingly posting up links of recipes + pretty pictures of food.
But Tuesday is the postponed-to date. We're probably making chocolate meringues.
If something turns up again to muck this up, then Fate, I'd like to have a word with you.

But I've also discovered the BBC's cooking website yesterday. Yay joy! It's a delight to use, and it's so well designed. Guaranteed to make even the laziest of you pick up the cooking-bug.

(Don't go about thinking I'm domesticated now. I hate that - this stupid Chinese checklist a woman has to have to be 'wife-material'. To this I bluntly say: 'fuck off'.
Cooking is just a very fun thing to channel your creative energy into. AND the end products can be eaten!
Besides, no decent 'wife-material' woman would be caught dead trying to make banana + honey + milo as comfort food. Therein I draw the distinction.)

2. The Big Bad Wolf Booksale thing didn't work out :(
Mostly because it's in The Middle of Goddamn Nowhere (you're also allowed to call it Serdang, I think). It's at somewhere I have to take two trains and a cab to get to, and be left with an absurd bill for the cab fares for my efforts. I don't feel very enthusiastic about taking a cab alone in Serdang anyway. I have been inculcated to fear taxi drivers, brought up with enough warnings to think that you should assume that they are All Evil until after you get off the cab and nothing happens to you. And so you should Never Get on a Taxi, and if you have to (say, to go to a library), you Have to Have a Friend With You. The last option isn't even entirely safe - it's something you should do only when you really must.
Long story short, two friends ended up cancelled on me (two!). And on the last day of the sale, when I happened to be in KL, I was sufficiently motivated to go alone, even with the taxi, but I wasn't wise enough to bring money you ought to bring to a booksale.
Needless to say I went home that day needing comfort food, and there is still a hole in my heart for beautiful new books that isn't filled yet :(
I will be heading to Booksxcess tomorrow to fill that gaping hole that can only be filled with new books.

About whether or not to be sorry, and my 'writing skills'

I'd say sorry about last night's omission, but that would mean I'm assuming you even care, or even noticed, which let's face it, you don't. So now, I just don't know what I should say. Say sorry to myself for breaking my own rule? But I'm not feeling very sorry for breaking it.
See what happens when you overanalyse things? Sorry, anyway, if you noticed and was upset. Here's a bit of virtual chocolate.

But if you do like to know: I was studying, and I was tired. Didn't feel too zippy to fire out some sentences for your amusement because I am sure they would amuse no one, not when I'm feeling too drowsy to be zippy. And besides, there wasn't much to write about.

Now, my writing skills is simply appalling. You know it's quite bad when even the writer herself can't stand it, what's with all of us probably having personal egos that convince us we are better at various things than we really are. Even my personal ego didn't feel like it was up to the task of convincing myself that I can write well, and just threw in the towel. Or maybe my personal ego is just the lazy sort, like the rest of me.
How do you suggest I go about improve it? The writing I mean, not the personal ego or the laziness.
(I read a lot of newspaper articles, by the way - not out of fastidious ambition or anything, it's just a very relaxing way to procrastinate - so the typical advice to 'read more' would probably not apply here. I'm most probably reading a newspaper article, or looking for one to read, when I'm not channelling my energies into productive activity. And besides, the Guardian's site is just good.)

#3 From Lady Windermere's Fan.

'I don't think now that people can be divided into the good and the bad as though they were two separate races or creations.'

*

'We all have ideals in life. At least we should have. Mine is my mother.'
'Ideals are dangerous thing. Realities are better. They wound, but they're better.'
'(shaking her head) If I lost my ideals, I should lose everything.' 

Just nice snippets from the play I'd like to pen down on a piece of scented paper and keep in my wallet.
Of course, with smartphones and like devices, I don't have to do something that sentimental any more.

Ventriloquism.

Watched this:




Got curious about ventriloquism, and turned to my Godfather, Google, to ask questions.

Basically, the collector of various trivial hobbies she never bothers to really develop, has now got a new hobby she wouldn't bother to really develop.

I laughed when I found myself in front of a mirror last night, singing a litany of Beatles songs while looking at myself in a mirror to make sure I don't move my lips.

This wouldn't be a serious hobby because I have no shot in hell when it comes to developing a stage presence. My own normal, day-to-day, personal presence needs dealing with in itself.

#2 - To all you brave individualists out there,

"When we are happy we are always good, but when we are good we are not always happy." 

"Ah! but what do you mean by good?" 

"To be good is to be in harmony with oneself. Discord is to be forced to be in harmony with others. One's own life - that is the important thing. Individualism has really the higher aim. Modern morality consists in accepting the standard of one's age. I consider that for any man of culture to accept the standard of his age is a form of the grossest immorality." 

From a brave individualist.

(The Picture of Dorian Gray).

#1

'I never approve, or disapprove, of anything. It is an absurd attitude to take towards life. We are not sent into the world to air our moral prejudices.' 

Well, you've probably heard of The Picture of Dorian Gray (where the above quote is from) and The Importance of Being Earnest. But while going through a copy of his selected works I have lying around, I read The Canterville Ghost, a charming short story that made me laugh. It's so unconventional, it reminds me of Douglas Adams' short stories. I mean, who would think of treating scary phantoms the way they did in the short story? Full of humour, pathos, and unconventionality. And it's a short story, which, in this age where the average attention span is that of a hyperactive puppy, might be a charming quality.

Oscar Wilde.

I love Oscar Wilde. I, quite painfully, lack the faculty of explaining why I like something, but I'm still able to say I absolute adore something, and I do adore Oscar Wilde and his works.
I think it has something to do with genius. Something being remarkably clever, and so absurdly brilliant, that for one moment, you're elevated to an almost divine plane of existence. That genius might express itself through remarkable insight, expert use of language, or wonderfully deviant pathways of thought - and Oscar's work, though more often invoking the first genre, incorporate aspects of all three sorts of genius.

It was his birthday last Sunday, and by a lucky coincidence, I happen to have just finished a collection of his works. I'm sitting here, trying to conjure up a reason to explain why I'm about to say I'm posting up Oscar-related materials here every day, for a week - I mean, wouldn't it be quite boring? - but the truth is that I just love the things he writes, and when you think something is brilliant, you want to tell everybody, whether or not they want to listen.

So here's my sort of tribute to my favourite Irish wit, more a personality and a philosopher than he is a writer - Oscar Wilde.
Happy Birthday.

Travelling books.

Reading Bill Bryson's Notes From a Small Island would make you think:

If I do get around visiting Britain, I really should make a real effort to visit their cathedrals. 

Utterly immodest, eccentrically so.

So I was wondering if I should pretend to be normal, like how a nice Chinese girl ought to behave, or if I should just rock the eccentricity. As it happens, I wondered aloud on twitter.

A friend tweeted back nice words of support, saying something along the lines of how I ought to rock the eccentricity, because I'm eccentric, not just weird like some other people are, which is a completely different category.

That I immodestly do not doubt. I mean, everyone else can be weird, but do they get so many sketch ideas in a day that they don't bother writing any down, because they know when they finally get around to making a sketch, they'll have materials anyway? Is their own mind a reliable source of entertainment? I think not.

But it would be nice to elevate this eccentricity into a glorious form. Instead of being mediocrely eccentric (something I suspect is my current state of affairs), and letting down all the eccentric people out there, I should be gloriously eccentric to the point where I elevate eccentricity into a quasi-art form.

Now this isn't easy at all, because normal people can be such haters, so you have to fight for your right to be eccentric and yet still be loved.

X

Disclaimer:

Most things here ought not to be taken seriously.

This means war.

I'm wearing a ridiculous combination of a zipped-up jacket with no clothing underneath, and an unnecessarily long pair of pants.

Fuck you, mosquitoes.

Bite me some more and I'll fumigate the house with insecticides.

Just dropping by to say a lousy hello.

I do want to write down something here, but I just don't have the energy, or the solitude, to do that.

There just isn't this mad, gleeful sort of mood that compels me to write now, although that mood does come and go throughout the day. Words would just suggest themselves then, sort of segue/bubble into my consciousness. Nothing of that now, because I'm kind of tired. 

Oh, have I told you about my temporary insanity induced by reading Haruki Murakami? It was yesterday night, after reading about half of a short story of his, I got more angsty than I ought to about the fact that I have to take a taxi to a booksale. I don't know, it isn't that the subject matter is depressing, and I've certainly read more depressing things that I loved whole-heartedly (Anne Enright's The Gathering). It's something in the writing style, I think. I just got utterly desperate, quite irritable. My twitter stream is what's left of last night's spell, of which I'm now too tired to describe and be funny. I must warn you that I'm Unusual, but I think anyone reading this would have whiffed that out already. 

Quote.

"Look at every path closely and deliberately. Try it as many times as you think necessary. Then ask yourself, and yourself alone, one question. This question is one that only a very old man asks. My benefactor told me about it once when I was young, and my blood was too vigorous for me to understand it. Now I do understand it. I will tell you what it is:

Does this path have a heart?

All paths are the same: they lead nowhere. They are paths going through the bush. In my own life I could say I have traversed long, long paths, but I am not anywhere. My benefactor’s question has meaning now. Does this path have a heart? If it does, the path is good; if it doesn’t, it is of no use. Both paths lead nowhere; but one has a heart, the other doesn’t. One makes for a joyful journey; as long as you follow it, you are one with it. The other will make you curse your life."

I think I've accepted the fact that I'm eccentric, that I just function differently the way other people function - with a different ethos and different needs, different requirements for happiness. And that's fine, because there is a way to be good at being eccentric - as in, there is a way to be different without feeling like you've completely failed at life - and then there's just failing to grasp at anything.
I think I've tried being 'normal' for too many years of my life - failing badly at it, and being utterly miserable at the same time. So there is nothing to do but to throw up arms and figure out a sort of system where I can still be happy.
But maybe, once in a while, life decides to lift the veil and show me how badly I'm failing to grasp at anything. That what I thought was a relatively stable platform was non-existent, and I'm actually in a sort of fall that I'm not completely aware of, occasionally trying to grasp at something.
It gives me a sort of nervous, desperate lump in the throat when I realise this eccentricity is badly taken by someone one has an innate desire to feel accepted by. That I've utterly failed at everything, that everything must fall.

What is the point behind this long, meandering journey?

This is how I roll.

Right, I've just sliced up three small-sized bananas without a chopping board, and popped them into the freezer. It is there they will nestle comfortably (I don't know, do bananas nestle comfortably in freezers?) until they're cold enough, wherefore I would pop them out of the freezer and proceed to drizzle honey on them and consume them heartily.

You may think this is the product of insanity allowed to run its natural course, but I think this is me following the spirit of Nigella and other TV cooks, or really, just about anyone fun to be around. That's it, whip up anything that comes into your mind, as long as it sounds like it would taste nice. This is the exact philosophy that underlines any invention.

Update: decided, on a whim, to add milo powder to the bananas already drizzled with honey, and the result is what I can only describe as: Homg awesome!

A question of statistics.

I took a peek at my blog stats column (because I'm a mixture of curious, narcissistic, and paranoid. Go on, sue me, haters. Only you probably technically can't because in no where have I heard of anyone being able to sue anyone for casually checking their blog stats for reasons such as curiousity, narcissism, or paranoia. I'm a law student, but admittedly it's only my second year, so I might have missed something. But the idea is still ridiculous.)

As I was saying, I took a peek at my blog stats column, and realise that, as of now, there are more people reading this from the UK than there are people reading this in Malaysia. And this odd spike happened, I think (I haven't been paying attention) after a significant amount of my friends bandied together and flock off, en masse, to settle in various old institutions with pretty buildings in the UK to study.
So a hello here to you UK people! Hope you are all healthy, happy, and having tons of fun.
Do me a favour and leave me a blog link here, if you do blog about your going-ons. At least I can have a look at what studying in UK would be like (and be mentally prepared?), while being able to live vicariously for about 10 minutes from your account of your experiences.

And people from everywhere else: of course you're much loved too. Hope that you all, too, are healthy, happy, and having fun.

- Insert obligatory blog post here -

I'm studying in front of the computer, almost convinced that I can no longer study without putting on the music video of Adele's Rolling in the Deep. Occasionally wondering if various sort of insects can stop cavorting around my table - it's a computer table, for God's sake. No food to be found here. Really.
Well, except me. In the sense that I'm usually the prime choice of food for mosquitoes. I'm caviar to the mosquito world. But those of insects I've made it a point to deliver to them a quick clap of death. That's right, fear my naked palms of speed and terrifying accuracy.
Well, it's not really your fault. You don't deserve death. Just that we're both made in such a way that it's impossible to coexist in a small space without you biting me or me wanting to kill you. Sorry. I'm looking mournfully on the floor, at one of the dead ones I killed, with sadness. Cruel, cruel world. God, you need to find a solution that doesn't involve killing insects, if you exist. I humbly suggest subsisting just by breathing alone? Saves us a lot of time too - no more wondering what to eat for lunch, or spending time eating lunch, and other various meals.
I'm sure we can find something else to do for pleasure.

[look at this - isn't this a thing of sheer beauty? The music video, the craft of the song, the vocals, all top quality stuff coming together perfectly. How can you not be inspired by something this well-made?]

Anyway, after much dithering about (I must be an expert at putting off things), I finally fired up google for some help with figuring out how to get from the Serdang KTM station to MAEPS (where they decided to have the BBW Booksale this year). And homg, what difficulty awaits. So basically, the only way I can get there is by 1. finding someone who can drive, willing to ferry me there (I suspect this is why some girls get into what seems to be completely unsatisfactory relationships: to get their boyfriends to fetch them around. But my stubborn integrity would prevent me from doing something like that, which is unfortunate in this instance) 2. taking a taxi after the Serdang station.
Of course, you can take a bus/walk, but for the bus option you have to walk at least a km.
Walking that distance with a lot of books isn't pleasant at all, and guaranteed to reduce you to a sweaty, disgruntled mess with muscle aches the next day. I don't want to risk ending up loathing otherwise stupendous booksales.

Remember the friend I haven't met in a while because of 'stupendously bad luck', and whom I'm supposed to meet on Thursday?
Bad luck and stupid timing had to stick its oars in again: something came up and I had to valiantly cancel this to babysit my brothers on Thursday.
But we're postponing this and crossing our fingers. I think we should either cook something sweet or something that has cheese in it (because those sort of food are awesome food), and I'm referring to Nigella Lawson's website to find something sweet/cheesy to cook, because Nigella is a GODDESS. Watching her cooking shows gives me the feeling akin to having a mother figure comforting you in times of distress.
It's lovely to watch even in times of non-distress, of course.
Will update you when I have anything to update you about.

X

Reminder

With my atrocious memory (or maybe I just am not trying hard enough), I shouldn't be surprised that I forgot to mention how determined (and lazy) I am to head to the Big Bad Wolf Booksale!...in Serdang.
Go adversity!

And I should stop procrastinating making digital copies of books I ought to make digital copies of (scan into computer, for you laymen out there). Tomorrow, I fervently promise. Yell at me a bit if I don't.

Two feet on solid ground.

Are you desperate for an ounce of reality here? Slowly driven mad by the fact that I never post anything 'realistic' (ie what's going on in my life), or really, anything but the progenies of my (slightly mental) head?

Well, I'll deliver a slight relief to that, though I don't promise pictures, or anything interesting, really.

Written a lot, physically, today (so much so that a part of my right hand hurts and I had to make myself stop, because man, this ceaseless writing can be addictive. They're only law notes, but can they put you in a trance-like state). So technically, I've did a lot of work. Trying to make everything fit snugly, so they'll have a degree of permanence there. Please stay, kindly knowledge. I'll try to treat you well, dust you sometimes, and always use you benevolently.

Facebook is decent enough to permit the introduction of two avenues of actual activity, too. (You can't believe the hissy fit it's throwing these days - I suspect because it's made slightly insecure by the introduction of Google+, and because of the fact that I deactivated it for a while, so it knows I don't like it very much. I've had two - two - friends leaving comments almost simultaneously going along the lines of 'that's weird, I'VE LEFT A COMMENT HERE! Where has it gone to?!') Anyway, one is a warm, snug meet in a college (not mine), where I'm cordially invited for an afternoon of coffee-sipping, brownies-nibbling, and music-listening. All generally very cosy, artsy, and loveable. Something I'd drag my lazy self to, if I can persuade myself to stop being so lazy.

Another is a notice left by a friend who I live 1km away from but I haven't met since maybe 4 months ago (there were a few international sojourns in the way, and just stupendously bad luck after that). I'm induced to a - slightly devilishness, just because it can be so much fun - plan to go cook up something in her house on Thursday, where we would have a whole house to ourselves to cook in. Anyone who follows my twitter stream (of profanities and occasional insight but usually, just a lot of madness) would know of me spontaneously hatching up plans to cook mad stuff when I'm feeling restless. So far, the progenies of such restless states are: omelettes that are just unbeatable because they have the awesome combination of BBQ cheese and onions as stuffings. Nuggets with melted cheese on top. And odd combinations of bread spreads including marmite on bread, and honey + koko krunch on bread. With other mad - and frankly brilliant - spread ideas I couldn't execute because the intended ingredients are beyond my reach. So yeah, nobody says I can't cook, or don't have the inclination to try. My mad inclination to try will beat up your sad resignation to cook.
Before I descend further into the stream of utter hyperactivity, yes, I like cooking. So yes, I would like cooking something fun, very much indeed.
And this would also mean meeting something I can spend hours talking to without feeling bored, which is more than a good thing because frankly, those sort of people are running short in my social life.
Sure, people are lovely, but can they be less boring to me please?

Not-very-sorry.

I know I've broken my own rule about writing something every day here.
It was because I was tired, and lazy. And I'm only slightly sorry now.
My explanation is that Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays are tiring Class Days (because I'm coolly unconventional like that and elect to have my classes on weekends. Well to tell you the truth it's only because I'm lazy to commute/commuting is tiring for me, and this option allows me to travel less, and hence, study more. You nerd), and I come home on Fridays and Saturdays tired and definitely pass 8pm. The only thing I feel like doing after I come home is laze around, besides sleeping.
And I did write something for Thursday. It's nicely saved up in my iPod. But I was too lazy to look for the links I want to provide for it, so it is staying nicely tucked up in my Moleskine app, waiting for a day where I'm less lazy for it to be made an honest article (will it be today? Only time can tell.)

Meanwhile, I've taken the train so much that I have a whole, vaguely-completed set of sketch ideas in my head, all having to do with trains.
Mitchell and Webb would be so proud. Mostly because when the sketch ideas come spontaneously into my head, one of them would inadvertently be cast in the lead role, acting out my sketch.
I watch too much British comedy.

Work.

Yes!

Got a lot of work done.
Enough to be modestly proud of myself, at least.
I think I might have rediscovered my inner workaholic.

Credits given, with much gratitude, to the Pomodoro technique (something I overheard other writers talking about, but which turned out to be the absolute Tabasco Sauce). And Accuradio is also a very good motivator.
Its Classical Radio channel is just unrivalled. Soul-snatching stuff.

Militant sister.

These days, I've made it a routine to teach my 6-year-old brother bits of Mandarin every day. Sweet kid, but he can get a bit restless, and he likes watching tv/playing games too much. And he reads his things so slowly my mum would often quip that one can really fall asleep while teaching him. I just say he moves at a non-human pace altogether when he's reading. Like how slow lorises move at a completely different pace when compared to humans.

I used to do the nice, kindly sister thing when I'm teaching him, but I've recently adopted the militant, angry sister stance.
I'd use a timer and threaten him with something if he doesn't finish reading/learning by a certain time. I'd fling some small objects around (seemingly) in anger where appropriate. A bit of table-banging and yelling. Exposing him to the good ole' Chinese-style education, in short. (If you think that sounds cruel, you've never been to a Chinese school)
And that works quite well actually. The brother isn't too terrified (because I'm just a sister, not his mum. If you understand familial hierarchy/ever had siblings, you'll get what I mean), and he's learning by leaps and bounds. I think he quite likes the excitement implicit in such a routine. And he sure loves the timer.
Plus, today, he got nuggets (that I fried!) after reading. If that isn't reward enough, I don't know what is.

David Mitchell + angry rants.

Now, if you don't know who David Mitchell is, I'll tell you that he's a comedian famous for being posh and for his angry logic rants.




When I watched this, I pictured him being irritated by an inconsistency in a widely touted parable, and decide to use his sketch show to sort of transport himself back to when Jesus was telling that parable, insert himself in it, and have that rant. I found that mental image very funny.

(Of course, someone did make a point that in the bible, Jesus didn't actually use the words 'Good Samaritan' concurrently.)

Mei Yen,

Stop dithering about and start doing some work please?

From the more conscientious, Chinese, puritan part of your brain.

Stray observations (or a lot of 'I was's)

# I was drifting in and out of listening to BBC Radio 4 yesterday (I was studying, you see), and I caught something about a politician heaping abuse on a journalist, using the word 'wordsmith' repeatedly, derogatorily.
I do happen to think that's a very nice word to call someone who fiddles with words.
If I'm to call myself anything, that is what I'm going to call myself. Writer/blogger screams "YOU THINK YOU ARE GOOD, DON'T YOU" (and I'm the cowardly sort who fears, at every moment, someone's going to scream that in my face and go on a spiel about how I'm not very good at all). Author no, because I don't write books.
Yes, wordsmith would do, though I'm not calling myself anything as of now. An inner voice clucks disapprovingly and is telling me I'm giving myself airs.

# I was getting angsty sitting at my table doing tort-lawly things, so I went downstairs with my mind set on cooking instant noodles. I didn't bother turning on the lights of the kitchen, because I can see well enough with the light streaming in from outside the kitchen. In the dark, I sort of saw this fluttery shadow of a black thing darting quickly across a pot I moved, but I can't see anything, so sort of told myself I must be seeing things.
I turned on the lights later, and saw a cockroach hovering around the sink.
Now, I have this odd relationship with cockroaches. I think they're vile creatures and I don't like them, but I do realise the poor things can't help being what they are.
And having read Kafka's Metamorphorsis, and probably too much Nazi-related literature, I now think that me, personally, killing cockroaches (or any other insect that doesn't bite me for a living) is like being a Nazi.
You're killing them off because you don't like the look of them, the slimy creatures. That's exactly what the holocaust was about.
But they're not human, you argue, so killing them is different from killing the Jews?
That's what the Nazis said about the Jews - that they're subhuman, not like us, which justifies the killing.
This explanation is very badly developed, but think about that the next time you want to squash a cockroach.

# I was following the Apple keynote address with slight interest, because I had my eyes on what speculators call 'a cheaper version of the iPhone 4'.
Yes, yes, there isn't going to be an iPhone 5 this year. You can feel the tears, anger (and the incredible desire to lynch someone) from those who worship at the shrine of Apple. After being led on for so long, how would they survive not having a new iPhone 5 to slobber over in the next few days?
But I was also pricking my ears and twitching my nose in anticipation of their new software announcement. There is just this enthusiasm at every Apple keynote event. Apple is one of the forerunning innovators in the current digital universe, and it is exciting to pay attention and see the new shiny bauble they're unveiling, and figure out how you can use it to make your life easier.
Well, they've unveiled Siri this time - a voice-activation programme that actually works.
I'm a bit of a MacGyver, so I can easily see how that can be utilised. I can also see how I wouldn't be able to help but append a 'please' at the end of the sentence whenever I'm using the system. Bit ridiculous, but I can't help but being polite, even to something that probably wouldn't appreciate it. Doing anything else makes me uncomfortable.
But then again, you'll never know - it might be convenient to cultivate a good habit in anticipation of the time they eventually create sentient devices, like those in the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.
I'd like something that would get sulky/upset if you leave out your please and thank yous.

*Ohh, can you choose the 'personality' Siri adopts? I'm lobbying for a Jeeves sort of personality, probably voiced by Stephen Fry.
Instead of dull, generic questions from a sat-nav voice going 'What would you like to do now?' or something of that effect, you get polite questions phrased in Jeeves' posh-English-valet sort of style. An everyday delight.

Writing.

I think I am firmly bringing myself to one side and giving myself a good talk. The talk will consist of me telling myself, in no uncertain terms, that I should write something every day.

Because I do like writing, I want to be better at it, and if I'm good enough at it one day, writing as a living would be the bees' knees.
(Something like journalism. Not something like novels and books.)

And I fear, most of the content will be on this blog. Yes, you would have to read rambling content that probably wouldn't be very good (because I would be forcing myself to write, and there would be days I'd be writing while disgruntled or unhappy).

But I crave approval enough to say: please, stay tuned.

Here's well wishes to all and sundry, and here's a virtual cookie (the wholesome chocolate kind you consume, not the malicious digital kind that clogs up your hard drive).

Stephen Fry + Oscar Wilde + Steve Jobs (and a bit of Douglas Adams)

What I have been doing for the past couple of hours:

while erasing pencil-marks I made in textbooks I'm about to return to a friend
(500+ pages law books, 4 of them - raw, tender thumbs, eraser pulverised into a million tiny bits, eraser droppings everywhere, you get the picture)

Occasionally having odd, unprompted fantasies that the unexplained sounds I heard - a disembodied cough, odd taps, doors closing - is the scepter of Oscar Wilde oddly coming to see me (in the videos he talked at length about Oscar Wilde, you see), and being horribly disappointed when I find that it's otherwise :(

Housekeeping note.

I'm looking at my blog from the Google Chrome browser, and my blog's configuration doesn't seem to suit viewing from Google Chrome at all.
The writing's too white, so I heartily apologise to Chrome users for having to put up with this. I don't know for certain, but I suspect Internet Explorer (is that still what you call it these days?) users might be putting up with some problem too, because I adjusted my blog's setting while looking at it from Firefox, so I tag on an apology for you guys too, just in case. Same goes to you Safari users. Basically this expression of contrition is extended to anyone who isn't reading this from Firefox.

But I can't change the setting because:
1. How do you make a blog's setting fit three (or more) sort of browsers? The answer is 'with great difficulty', and perhaps compromising on style, and the thought of doing that itself is making me lazy. I generally only do these tweakings in a burst of sudden energy (same goes for tidying my desk), which is quite absent now.

2. I can't tweak it to suit Chrome, or Internet explorer, or Safari, because the statistics say that most people who reads the blog read it with firefox's browser. So it's sensible to leave it as it is.

So yes, the best browser to look at this from is Firefox. I'm not demanding enough to say people who use other browsers should flock to Firefox to view my blog because it's some sort of magnum opus you should switch browsers for. But I'm explaining why this might look funny on your browser, and saying sorry for it.
So technically, the title is slightly misleading. No housekeeping done whatsoever, just akin to a housekeeper going, 'Mmm, not very neat is it? Sorry about that.'

(no, I don't know if this is what I came to write before this. It might be.)

Amnesia

Ever stared at a blank screen wondering what the hell you came here to type up?

Yeah, this is one of those posts.

Back again when I remember what it was, but from what I remember of that fleeting thought, it's something inconsequential, so no promises of anything magnificent.

Adjustment.

I'm quite liking the new look of blogger! A clean, smooth, pretty interface is a good thing.
This girl quite a sucker for the clean, smooth, pretty interface that is currently in vogue.

Not quite liking the new look of facebook though. I threw a mini-fit when I saw it.
Why do you have to change how facebook works every few months, for God's sake? I'm not very good with adjusting to change.
And it's like every new incarnation of facebook is designed to reveal more and more of your facebook activites to people, which is a bad thing because facebook is a repository of everyone you know, regardless of whether you like a person a lot or are merely tolerating said person's presence. There's this new column at the left hand corner of your facebook homepage called 'see what your friends are up to right now' that is making me even more paranoid about facebook than I already am.

I have a strange attitude when it comes to sharing things online. On one hand, I like writing blogs and tweeting interesting observations, because I verily think I'm quite good and quite interesting, and people seem to like reading them too. On another, I'm terrified of people reading anything. Strangers are fine, but it's awkward  if it's friends and acquaintances. 'Oh, I know you're happy/unhappy even though I haven't had a conversation with you for months because I read your blog' or similar conversations inevitably make me panic for no good reason. Maybe because I separate and compartmentalise my life online and off. I tend to express myself more vocally when I'm online. I don't like rocking the boat in my daily interaction, because humans are so unpredictable. But that impediment is made invisible when I go online. This is quite silly, and might sound quite sad, but my online persona is a reflection of my private self, things I think about when I'm alone. So I'm like a puppy enthusiastic to share, but at the same time slightly trepidatious too - would you hate me if I express this opinion or use these words?

This online-offline divide we're forced to deal with really needs a new philosopher to reason things out. I'd try to be that amateur philosopher, but I am too lazy.

:)

What I should remind myself to do if I should find myself unhappy:

1. Watch Stephen Fry talk about life, the universe, and everything.

2. Curl up on the sofa and watch Nigella cook.

3. Sit in a dark room free of external stimuli and think.

4. Read something delightfully spun out by Douglas Adams/P.G. Wodehouse.

5. Hum 'Always Look at the Bright Side of Life' and remind myself to be the skippy, joyful, childish sort of silly.

6. Of course, some comfort food must be involved somewhere in between.

What do you do when you're feeling like a rainy weekend in London? :)

Interlude of some cheer!

I read some 14 year old's blog and thought: Dude, this is very well-written.
And then I reflect on my own blog, and realise I've been shit because I'm so morose here.
That is going to change now. I'm going to be so chirpy-happy you'd want to smack me and say 'be seriously, man!'
And I'm pretty sure I wouldn't remember this post and the next post I post would show signs of me being seriously unmotivated. Sorry.

Arranging the words on your screens.

Well, physics and website encoding isn't that difficult, is it?
Once you've got the hang of it, and if you're good at learning things (which I think I am), all you need is time, interest, dedication, and a healthy dose of obsession.

No, the more difficult, the more challenging things are things in the abstract. Like writing is, for me. There is probably very few things I'd rather do in the world, but at the same time, it's so immensely difficult, and such a painful process.

So instead of spending what's left of my days (steadily depleting) figuring out physics once and for all, or finding a whole to the messy bits that is website encoding - or nerdily enough, re-learning calculus - I figured I should spend more time making myself write things. Maybe I'll figure out a method to the madness, and writing would be less distressing once I've figured out why it's painful, or the little personal quirks that makes writing easy. Analyse how sentences come to my head, and then use it. In short, figure out a system to make writing easier, like I've formed a system for learning things that are less abstract.

I don't believe I can't be better through smart analysis, steely will, and brute effort.

Insufferable.

I went to meet old friends yesterday, and when I overheard one of them, now situated in one of Russia's medical universities, telling another that the currency in Russia is the rouble, I sort of butted in, the way you do into conversations, saying that I didn't know Russia still uses the rouble, because I read some old Russia literature (Doestovsky/War and Peace), 17th or 18th century I think, which used the rouble. I'd thought they'd have changed it after the Russian revolution.

Then after a bit, I realised how that made me seem like a showoff, a massive twat. Throwing in your knowledge of Russian literature AND adding in the revolution bit at the end? What a dick, right? I then cower in fear and self-loathing, and had, still have, an inner monologue, playing both the parts of the crucifier and the wheedling accused. In my subconscious quest for absolute clarity, I often mention my thoughts and how I came to have them (it does sounds a bit cocky otherwise - why do you say you didn't know Russia still uses the rouble?), and I'm a nerd who prefers books over most human interactions, so odd vocabulary and esoteric knowledge tend to slip out, even though I must say a lot of said esoteric knowledge comes from the most frivolous sources - the revolution bit comes from watching Disney's Anastasia one too many times when I was small. I'm like Reid, from Criminal Minds, who when sharing information or in normal conversation comes off as having read too much. So I fear I might come off as an insufferable prick too often, when I don't feel that I'm better than everyone else because I know more things, and should show it off. But I read what I read, and I know what I know, and stopping those things from slipping out is too much of an effort, and is a sort of duplicity that I instantly want to rebel against anyway.

So in short, yes, I'm trying to work at being less awkward (where does one start?), but it'll be nice if you'll excuse this knowledge-dropping which might occasionally get on nerves. There's just so many self-deprecating jokes one remembers to insert whenever I feel like mentioning something a 20 year old 'shouldn't know', especially when I'm excitedly in a conversation. Oh, you must excuse me.

Yes, I do realise I might be overthinking things, as I'm very wont to do apparently, and they know me long enough to excuse this as inept social skills, not bragging, or they didn't even notice. But the fact that I noticed it grates on my nerves.

"Rome's finest snappers are again being portrayed on film as Woody Allen shoots his decidedly Fellini-esque comedy Bop Decameron in the city – with the difference that Allen has opted to cast the city's real life paparazzi to play the part.

"Being paid by a celebrity to take pictures of a celebrity was unusual," said Vitaliano Napolitano, a 20 year, moped riding veteran of Rome's celebrity circuit. "And it became surreal when paparazzi not involved in the film showed up on set to snap us paparazzi as we played paparazzi in the film."

Woody Allen's lesson in mindfuck.

excerpt from The Guardian.

Insanity.

I think I'm going crazy. I'm actually having short, one-sided conversations with my modem - calling it a bastard, whatnot.

This blog might turn out to be a document of my slow decline to insanity, induced by Internet problems and a cruel world.

Streamyx.

My internet connection has become predictably unreliable, seemingly calculated to drive me crazy with the pent-up frustration.

It would go on a predictable, 4-hour round of instability periodically throughout the day, everyday. Well it'll do you good to use the Internet less anyway, some of you might sneer, but this is ridiculous, because WE'RE PAYING FOR CONTINUOUS SERVICES. This can be said to be a blatant rip-off, violation of service standards, whathaveyou legal jargons. It's ridiculous when the hours it's actually usable chalks up to being less than the hours where the DSL light on the modem is bloody BLINKING. It's simply unjust when you're paying for something you don't get; it's illegal, and must be nipped in the bud (though I'm quite sure this problem has moved beyond the 'bud' stage).

After this exam I have, if this keeps up, I'm going to muster up the persistence to do battle with them. It's a matter of justice and fairness that I do. I might get dad to stop paying the internet bills until something is done, but I'll most likely just pull my classic Get Dad to Yell At People for Providing Crappy Services. The second one ALWAYS works like a charm to smash through stupid bureaucracy.

(of course I wouldn't be writing this bile if I haven't been through several rounds of phone calls with their customer service department. They promised a technician, but so far, zilch. My problem has apparently been solved, too. But i think it actually got worse.
How I wish I'm in a country with better customer rights.)

Postscript

By the way, for those of you over the targeted age group, I exhort you to buy The Princess Diaries for your teenage nieces and daughters.

You wouldn't think it's anything but frivolous (being about princesses and being so very pink), and the dialogue will probably irritate you if you're over 16, but it's also a great source of odd information.

From the series, I know that:

- if you're in New York City, bagels are the things you should go for.
(my God, come to think of it, if I'm at NYC, I'd consider doing nothing but eating and rambling around their streets)
- the whole of Yellowstone Park being a caldera (a really really dangerous volcano), and it will explode any time soon.
- movies like Blade Runner are dystopic movies, and they happen to be very good.
- a lot of stuff about science.
- the french for grandmother is 'grandmere'.
- Dolphins might die if you don't snip your plastic six-pack holders.
- a lot of environmental, PETA things.
- a bunch of vocabulary.
- information about some good books that led me to reading them.

And these are jut the things I am coming up with off-the-cuff; plenty other bits of information that pops up intuitively when I need them.

Bless.

And I don't need to tell you about Harry Potter of course. Because they're just good.

Nose-block.

My nose-block thingamajig condition is quite awful - my sinuses swells up so much that I can't breathe at all through one of my nasal pathways at any given time - which particular nasal pathway it is depends on time really, they're so capricious that they have to take turns.

So you get this temporary relief when they decided to change places as you feel something draining away, but that relief is short-lived when the other nose gets stuffed up and things go back to normal again - stuffy, uncomfortable normal.

Yes, lovely to be me. I have no social skills whatsoever, am awkward as hell, read loads but about 30% penetrates my thick skull, and now my body conspires to smother me.

The last bit is like my body taking self-hatred to a whole new level.

God knows, if I found myself in an extremely weird circumstance where my mouth is obstructed somehow and I can't breathe from it; and the clear nasal pathway happens to also be obstructed somehow, I'll suffocate to death, fully aware of the absolute moronity of the situation.

Church.

Does it say something when in church, the overly optimistic gospels does not, and cannot resonate, but Rufus Wainwright's version of Hallalujah came into my mind, and I had to sing it, muffled aloud, between tears? Not the tears of joy rubbish, mind you. Frankly, I don't know what those tears were for, but certainly not joy.

I don't think it's a bad thing gospel music cannot move me. Overly optimistic, overly sweet gospels offer a one-dimensional view of religion, 'faith', and life. It isn't that simple, not for me, and quite honestly, I hate them.



'Love is not a victory march, it's a cold and it's a broken hallalujah.'

Sneezity sneezity sneeze.

Holidays: me actually prancing to the living room saying 'prance prance prance prance' in a sing-song tone, and then stopping at the living room, looking at my brother, and saying "I pranced" in a slightly creepy tone.

Holidays: me being reduced to talking with my brother's plush giraffe.

Holidays: feeling useless and unproductive.0

Can't we ever stop loathing and start loving ourselves?
Seems, for now, to be an unattainable goal.
Douglas Adams, you should get to writing about this.