exaggerated exhaustion 2 Thursday, Jan 31 2008

everyone says britney/lindsay/amy winehouse is pathetic. they say “look, how sad, she’s wrecked her life.” i beg to differ. did you ever think that maybe, just maybe, that’s what they wanted? maybe, they just want to run free and wild? maybe, they have no regrets?

i know that if i’m britney, i’ll love my life. just think: previously, she had to watch her weight, she had to watch her behaviour, and she had to look stunning 24/7. now, she might just be so much happier with her life. she can eat all the pizzas under the sun, she can wear the skimpiest clothes (and feel no shame), she can stuff herself with alcohol, drugs and reckless abandon, and she can still score on the charts and sell records. hell, i’ll be one happy soul if i can eat, sleep, party, eat, sleep and party AND party. now, stop feeling sorry for her.

same goes for lindsay. if i were a young Hollywood starlet raised by a pack of wolves (her parents, i mean) with all the drugs and booze surrounding me like oxygen, i’ll do the precise same thing. it’s human nature. lindsay may or may not like her life, but she’ll like it alot better of the paparrazi stop hounding her. there’s nothing cool about lying in a car, thumped out by cocaine, looking like a prison escapee, but hey, if that’s her conscious decision, let her be. maybe she just wants to break free, and she’s doing it her way.

back to heath ledger. he was having a rough time. life was exhausting. he was separated from his soulmate and daughter. he was in a cold, ruthless and foreign land. maybe, just maybe, he wanted this to happen. he’s probably happier now, wherever he is. he can’t feel pain now. the industry is mourning the loss of an actor, a brilliant one, but this only illustrates our bloodsucking selfishness. we want to use and abuse heath. we don’t want to leave him in peace; now, when he’s finally rested, we still want to wake him from the dead.

perhaps God wanted things to work out this way. heath’s dead. let him be.

stop feeling sorry for him.

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exaggerated exhaustion Wednesday, Jan 30 2008

 About a million people out there now are blogging about heath ledger. He’s dead, he’s history. Depression probably caused him to decide to drop into the deep sleep. Heath was exhausted with life; and so am I.

Here i am. I left school early today. The entire time i was in there, i was forcing myself to be alert and normal. Truth is, i wasn’t, and i still am not normal. In fact i feel seriously abnormal. From 6 to 8 am, i was battling giddiness.

Then came my physics test.

 I stared at the paper and instead of seeing a test, i saw a series of numbers, digits and formulas which meant nothing to me. Automatically, i started throwing in formulas and i saw myself writing lines of numbers on white paper. I stared at them and they stared at me. My head seemed to dislike being part of my body: it violently protested by becoming lighter and lighter. I was sure it was going to detach itself and fly up to the ceiling. I saw myself flip open my file and take out foolscap. Then my red pencil case seemed to swell larger and larger until i thought it was going to push my paper off my desk. Then the test was over.

From 9 to 10.30 am, i tried to add weight to my head by pressing it down to the table. People became long sticks that made noise. I saw mouths open and close, and for a moment i wished i had a ball so that i could throw it in their mouths.  i wanted to switch off all the noise everyone made. Laughter made me sick. I wanted to strangle anyone who laughed. then recess came i thought that food would make me feel better.

I spent the rest of my day thinking about two things: my stomach and my bowels. i wished i hadn’t eaten. I was desperately hoping to vomit; for once, purging seemed so good. Vomit and i played hide and seek; we teased each other. Then it lost interest in me and left.

During Chinese lesson, i saw my teacher move his mouth. I observed his respiratory patterns; when he breathed in, his chest swelled. Would it burst if i pricked it with a pin? I wondered. He stood in front of the whiteboard; and slowly the whiteboard expanded and wrapped him up. The class was white. I hate white. My sudden anger made me want to kick the person in front of me, but instead i had to crush my newspaper.

I decided that it was time i left the class.

I went to get sick leave and i took a bus home.

Now i feel that there’s a hot snake slowly eating the tissue inside my throat. Let me get some sleep. I’m exhausted. Don’t come near me; i might just hug you.

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i take back my words. Wednesday, Jan 23 2008

Yes, ghosts always come back to haunt me. On the 31^st of December I said that I disliked Green Day. Well, how wrong I was. How absolutely judgemental and fickle I am.

I reached home, spent and exhausted, ready to disintegrate. as per usual, i reached for my CDs. The Red Hot Chili Peppers have been on heavy replay for quite some time now, but on a whim, i decided to play Green Day’s International Superhits. This collection chronicles Green Day’s work from 1994-2000.

My A Math book lay crisp and white. I listened to the entire thing. I was blown away. As the last bar chords screeched to a halt, i was convinced of my rashness. A replay confirmed that.

There’s something beautiful about International Superhits. It’s not just a collection of hit singles. A story unfolds about Green Day, the band, and Billie Joe Armstrong in particular. In the opening songs (Longview, Welcome to Paradise), what you get is plain, naive punk, which is about drugs and hangovers and laziness and filth. Whether you’re a straight-A student or a dropout, you just let loose and flip out. You’re doing the funky chicken. You’re a punk before you know it, and in 1994, the three of them were just that.

Then Billie Joe gets married, and kids pop out. A 21-year old rising rock star with kids and a wife: is there a bigger oxymoron? Inspiration doesn’t come easy anymore, especially since he’s stopped living in a filthy warehouse with hookers and dealers, and he has to lessen his drug intake. You can sense the frustration creeping in. songs like Brain Stew, Jaded and Geek Stink Breath say it all. In fact in Jaded, he screams: “I’ve got a fucked up equilibrium.”

Fast forward: 1997. Falling record sales, fallouts with his wife and struggles between rock stardom and family life take a toll on Billie Joe. Punk dissolves and his bitterness is replaced with a numb apathy. Green Day will no longer reach the height they reached when dookie was released. Sounding like more and more like Travis than the Sex Pistols, the closing song Macy’s Day Parade even hints that the Green Day fairy-tale may be over.

Billie Joe is a brilliant songwriter and guitar player. Have you seen him play Good Riddance live on the electric guitar? Have you listened closely to his lyrics? They are pure poetry, maybe not like the ones you get in literature, but poetry that celebrates with you when you are happy, and emphathise with you when you are pissed.

The Red Hot Chili Peppers are marvellous, no doubt. But as charismatic and versatile Anthony Kiedis is, there is really no way you can compare him and Billie Joe. Anthony is the entertainer, the ladies’ man, your favourite rock star with the looks, voice and body. Billie joe is the sensitive guy, the ultimate contradiction, the emotive one, the musical one. The Red Hot Chili Peppers is like a posh five-star restaurant, where you wear Armani and use your silver cutlery for the heavenly ten-course meal. Green Day is like your neighbourhood burger outlet where you walk in with pyjamas, chomp on your burger and burp when you’re done, no questions asked.

So now i do realise what’s wrong with Green Day. It’s the American Idiot Album. Call me an ignorant teenager or what you will, but i simply don’t care about the Iraq War. I want love, sex, life, death, drugs, anger and everything that’s real for me. I don’t want to hear about George Bush or American soldiers in Iraq. Yes, I’m typical. I don’t want to hear an entire album full of anger and restlessness: i want to be taken on a journey. I want to get off at the final stop, and not be left in the middle of nowhere.

I take back my words. I do like Green Day. i just wished that they remained young 21-year olds who sang about life from the bottom of the trash-can. like how my life is.

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keep your hands off my carman’s muesli bars. Monday, Jan 21 2008

you’ve been gorging yourself on Uncle Toby’s.

you’ve been stuffing Quaker’s by the mouthfuls.

you’re sure that Alpen is the best brand for muesli bars.

you swear by Kellogg’s and Sanitarium bars for nutrition.

well, then, you’re PATHETIC. because you’ve not eaten Carman’s muesli bars yet.

they’re BIG. they’re CHEWY. they’re HEAVY. they’re honest people because they don’t put “yoghurt toppings” (which is really sugar) and steal half the bulk content. it’s a true blue MUESLI.

they’re so chewy, they become a source of anger management for me. when i take a bite, i imagine that i’ve bitten a large piece of my enemy’s bottom. so i put all my anger into the chewing and i feel much better because i know that i’m grinding his bottom into a pulpy mess. chew, chew, chew. kill, kill, kill. die, die, die. yummy, yummy, yummy.

carman’s, carman’s, carman’s.

think vanilla and pecans and honey and big glazed oats, chock full of sunflower seeds and stuff that look familiar but i have no idea what they’re called. the only retailer in singapore that stocks this brand is NTUC Fairprice, and it retails at $3.50 per box of six bars. you must be mad to think that Uncle Toby’s was good.

oh, and i’ll never share my Carman bars with anyone. NEVER.

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boyfriend? Wednesday, Jan 16 2008

 So rumour has it two of my classmates have recently gotten attached. And this has caught me by surprise because they never crossed my mind as the dating type. But anyhow, as teenagers, we all have hormones and so we are each entitled to indulge in the rich pie of teenage infatuation, right? So i have no comment, and i wish them well.

This has brought to mind my utterly dull hormonal calendar. Can i make a declaration? In all honesty, the last time i liked a guy was two years ago, when i was nearly 14. No, i have not turned into a complete lesbian, nor do i wish too. It’s just that my last relationship has taught me plenty of valuable lessons, and that since then no one else has been able to catch my fancy. Or is it just my hormones again?

Oestrogen, or whatever that makes us females tick, first exploded into my life when I was 11. Before that boys were just scumbags, another breed of organism similar to chimpanzees and cockroaches. And then bang! i thought i’d fallen in love. There was this boy, his name was Brandon, and for a period of time all that made school exciting was him. looking at him brought on a rush of blood to my head. And when he returned the stare with a smile, I was ready to rise up to the ceiling, head full of silly thoughts and rose-coloured fumes. It was difficult to hide my delight when we sat together in groups, and for a while i thought he was going to be my husband. Silly thoughts became raunchy ones. I was convinced that i was going to die unless i kissed him, until one day, boom! The bubble burst. Later, i learnt that this intense (yet short-lived) was not love, but rather, infatuation.

The next few years that followed were fruitful and busy years for me, and songs become milestones in my teenage “love” life. There was a song for every occasion: Michelle Branch’s “Everywhere” always reminds me of the pre-relationship period, the time where you begin to adore someone. Then there was Lindsay Lohan’s “Over”, which became an anthem for me when was fresh from a break-up. (mind you, my music taste was still quite bubble-gummy then, very girly material.) and so the cycle repeated itself, over and over. There was hardly a time when i wasn’t having a crush on someone.

And then the rollercoaster stopped. In mid-air.

Currently i have no boyfriend. And i don’t intend to have one this year anyway. I’m not ashamed to admit the fact that i don’t have one. There was a time i thought that being boyfriend-less was a big deformity, and i shuddered to think that I would fall into that unglamorous dungeon. I believe millions of other teenage girls out there think that having a boyfriend is necessary to being complete, to being “normal”. I say NO. Everyone, regardless of whether you’re a guy or a girl, doesn’t need to get a partner just to feel normal. Of course, if you actually like a person, that’s a different question. But if you don’t, and no one asks you out anyway, you don’t have to get one on purpose to make yourself feel better.

If you’re having a boyfriend or girlfriend now just to show him/her off to your friends, or because all your friends have one, or because no one’s asked you out and you feel weird, you should be ashamed of yourself. Do you realise what you’re doing? You’re just treating your “loved one” like a Prada handbag. An accessory. Something you flash around in public. Nice, huh?

I take relationships seriously. To me, the entire process is like making a mean, lip-smacking dish of spaghetti. (not those runny ones in the school canteen, which look suspiciously like they’ve been made by a prison chef.) first you fantasise about the spaghetti, its aroma and texture (the infatuation period). Then you decide that you’re going to actually make it (the point where two officially become a couple.) of course, you’ll need ingredients to cook the dish, right? So you buy them, and you prepare them, then you start the cooking. (i.e, you need to put in effort and feelings into making the relationship work.) if you worked hard, and did things to the best of your ability, the spaghetti will be fit for a king. Or else, if you didn’t give a damn, you’ll end up with a runny inedible lump of horse excreta, which happens resemble the one you get in the school canteen.

Of course, you’ll say, “just buy the spaghetti, dumbass!” but the point is.

It is really wonderful to have a boyfriend, or a significant other. The feeling is great. You walk on air, and float around in a haze. But then, hey, you really are walking on air anyway. Gravity gets you, and oof! You fall flat on your face, hard. Breaking up is ugly. The world becomes sour and rotten like the laksa noodles in the school canteen.

(yes, i hate the canteen food. can someone just burn the whole thing down. together with the vendors.)

I feel very much happier without a boyfriend. My head is clear, my social radar is at its best, and when i lie in bed at night, i have no worries. I know no roses will arrive at my door for valentine’s day. No more dates. no more clouds for me to float on. But my eyes haven’t started to secrete pus, nor has my hair fallen out. I’m fine.

I’m living my life. just like that.

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FETISH! Wednesday, Jan 9 2008

 over the past few weeks, several things have made me swoon. I usually reserve my swooning for real humans, not objects. But now I’m swooning over metal and plastic and chocolate.

To begin with, i stopped walking when i saw this shiny, black Mercedes, impeccably polished so that i could see my face in it. it glided along the filthy road quietly and elegantly, barely making any noise, only a soft whoosh, which was a very elegant noise. An equally charming man was driving it. actually i didn’t give a damn about the driver, I just stalled at the sidewalk and stared at the black beauty until it went out of sight. I’ve seen a green Mercedes, and even a pink one once, but nothing beats a black, sinfully shiny, long and sleek Mercedes. There it was, making absolutely no sound, gliding like a serpent, while other cars unfashionably honked and farted out carbon monoxide. It didn’t belong there among the crude cars and the unappreciative people. that car was sexy. that car made me swoon.

My aviators make me swoon. This beauty of mine, with a funky white rim, turns me into an instant camera criminal as i take all sorts of shots with them on. Oversized sunglasses are one of my fetishes. I saw one on Saturday and i bought it, because it was on cheap sale ($8). Which wasn’t enough to justify my purchase, since i already had two at home. Aviators, paired with sensible jeans, a funky top, a chunky chain, and a simple hairdo, can turn you into a Hollywood chick instantly. Trust me on that.

Third fetish: red shiny things. i swoon, and subsequently fantasize, about bright red and shiny objects, whatever they are. When i see a red shiny bag, I press my nose against the display until it turns cold, or when the store assistant rushes over to see if i’d accidentally glued my nose to the glass. i secretly own a pair of three-inch high stilettos, the classic kind that Marilyn Monroe wears in The seven year itch. I can’t wear it, i’m hopeless in stilettos, but i have them anyway because they’re red and shiny. Red shiny stuff turn me on. That’s why i bought my fire-engine red pencil case two days ago: it’s painfully red, and it has this irresistible smooth surface (it’s plastic-laminated cloth.) so these few days I’ve ended up staring, fondling and nuzzling my red pencil case instead of paying attention in class.

Last fetish: merci dark chocolate. In fact i’m letting one melt in my mouth now. Better than oral sex? Absolutely, baby.

Fetishes. They make me ashamed of myself.

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