I Once Lived Life Atop a Bartop

Reflections

2007-05-17T22:27:00.000+08:00

I'll be fair and come out and say it. He has not cheated. At least, I don't think he has.

But there are things about his past that I'm only now starting to discover. The lines are blur because I do not know when things ended, and I do not know exactly what these things were. I do not know who to believe because everybody is selfish and everybody has an agenda of his own. Some people are angry, some are opportunistic, and very very few are objective.

I believe his feelings for me now are true. I believe he feels them now. I believe he believes in them. I believe he has not cheated. I believe he means what he says, and the promises he makes.

That said, I also believe he isn't telling me everything. I'm sure he was a bastard, an arse, a cold unfeeling jerk who used people and disposed of them once he was done. I'm sure he was unconcerned with people who he was hurting, even less concerned with how much he'd hurt. I'm sure there are things he's censoring and keeping from me. It's probably to protect himself, but then again, it could also be to protect me.

I've heard horrible things the past few days. She says he's a monstrocity, selfish, goes around thinking he can fuck up women's lives. And it's hard for me to reconcile this horrid picture of him with what I know, with what he is to me. Because when we are together he has been sweet, generous, and very affectionate.

He cuddles me all the time. He kisses me all the time. He cooks with me. He watches me sleep. He cuts mangoes for me. He feeds me cherries. He brings me shopping and parades himself around in Zara clothes at the changing room for my benefit. He shows me to his friends - girl friends, guy friends, work friends, school friends, hall friends. I catch him stroking my hair sometimes, caressing my back absent mindedly for no reason at all. I hear him mutter to himself that life now is happy and simple and that's all he wants. I see him look at me, I hear him mumble to himself that I'm smart and cute and hot and I can cook, and what else could he ask for?

He asked me the other day, "Does it not count how many times you've had dinner with my family, that you can show up at my home any time you want, that I see you every day, that I spend most of my nights with you?"

Can a man really act so well?

I'm sure he's lying about so much of his past, but at the end of the day, does it matter? Does it matter even if the lines were blurred and things ended only after the day that we technically became an item? After all, I haven't been that much of an angel either.

But still, I have so many doubts. What makes me different?

What made them fucks? What makes me THE ONE?

Love bites

2007-05-16T01:50:00.000+08:00

I sacrificed 10 years of my life. I sacrificed my friends. I sacrificed my daily routine. I sacrificed what I had known adult life to be ever since I left school.

You wanted my time, I sacrificed my time.

I was broke. My cheque was stuck. But no matter. I sacrificed my financial stability.

I was lonely. I wanted friends. I wanted to dance. I wanted company. But no matter. It made you uncomfortable. So I sacrificed my social life. Stayed at home. Smoked cigarettes. Spent time blogging. Playing with the dog. Watching television. Reading books.

I missed you so badly, so I sacrificed work, contacts, potential new jobs, assignments. I lied to the people I worked for. I lied to the people I worked with. I lied because everything else didn't matter as long as I got to put my footprints alongside yours on the beaches of Sunshine Coast, as long as you shared Hog's Breath with me in Noosa, as long as I got to share your bed.

I sacrificed everything that made me DiDa at the drop of a hat just because I wanted to be with you.

And you just had to call out my name and you knew wherever I was, I'd go running. Running, running, running, to see you again. Winter, spring, summer, or fall, all you had to do was just call. And I'd be there, to see you again.

When you're at your happiest, when you least expect it...

Life. Love. It bites you in the back.

Friendster

2007-05-15T23:51:00.001+08:00

Friendster is such a wonderful thing when you wanna find out which girlies your boy has been seeing behind your back.

Torn

2007-05-15T22:52:00.000+08:00

He says he loves me. He says he fucking loves me. He says I'm fucking important to him. He says he's never cheated on me. He says he'll never cheat on me. He says it hurts him when I cry. He says he wants to marry me. He says he's never loved anyone the way he loves me.

It's okay when I'm with him. It's so easy to put my head on his chest and let him hold me, let him kiss my forehead, look in my eyes, caress my hair, touch my face, pull me close, say all the things I want to hear.

Then I'm home alone. And my questions beget answers which lead to more questions which beg for more answers. Then I cry again and I call him and he gets frustrated, annoyed even, and he tells me it was just a fuck, that it never meant anything. And I cry again because I feel stupid. It's all past, he says. It's all past, I remind myself. It's okay. It's all past. It was nothing. It was just a fuck. Just a fuck.

What's it matter when I came after? Everybody has a past. I want to believe him. For a moment, I do. And then the questions come back, and there are so many what ifs. Did I come after? Did I really come after? Or did we come together? Who do I believe?

Then I find her picture.

And I want to stop digging. I don't want to know. My heart starts pounding so fast I can feel the blood swishing past and flooding my ears. My hands grow cold and I feel the dull thud thuds pushing against my chest. I stare at the ceiling, and I blink. I stare at her picture, and I blink. I look down at my hands, my cold cold hands. And I blink.

The tears blur my eyes. I feel one drop trickle down the side of my nose. Another down my cheeks. And they fall. Plop. Down on my bare thighs. Plop plop plop on the computer table. Plop on the floor. Plop plop plop.

Plop plop plop plop plop.

For you

2007-05-12T03:06:00.000+08:00

Baby,

I wish you could do something for the pain to go away. I am trying my best to be happy again. I try not to think about all the stuff that's happened. I try to think about you and my monkey and my crab walk - all the crazy things we do together that make me so happy.

You are my everything. I don't know why I love you. I just know that I do. I've never loved anyone the way I love you, never felt so strongly for anyone the way I do with you.

And now I cannot stop crying because every time I think about all that has happened, I don't know if I can keep my sanity. Why is it that all the answers you have for me are that you don't know, or that you don't remember. I am not a fool. I know what is believable, I know what is a lie.

Can you give me something a little more? I don't need the whole truth. I don't care if it's the whole truth because I will never know what the truth is. I know you lie. But it doesn't matter. Make something up. Tell me something I can believe. I need something I can believe, so that I stop feeling empty, so that I stop crying, so that I stop feeling miserable.

But please don't tell me you don't know. Please don't tell me you don't remember.

What do you have to hide? Is the truth really so horrible? Why can you not put away your pride and let me know who you really are? What does it take for you to be fair to me and to give me back some peace of mind. Tell me what happened. I don't care if you flirt. I don't care about the many girls before me. I won't care if you are honest with me. I cannot stand not knowing. I cannot stand trying to believe you and knowing in my heart that everything is a lite. How can you not know? How can you not remember?

I want things to be like before. Do you remember walking along Mooloolaba with me? We played hide and seek. We played catching on the beach. I always lost. You always won. Remember our kung fu fights? Once again, I always lost. You always won. Remember Jamaica Nut Rum ice cream? Remember Love Potion #11? Remember eating ice cream and hunting for flourless chocolate cake? Remember lemon tartlets and lime pies? Remember shopping at Coles for bacon and chicken breasts? Remember that chocolate cupcake I got you for your birthday? The one with candles in every colour of the rainbow? Remember I made you close your eyes and you laughed at me because I looked so uncomfortable and you knew it was the first time I was doing such a thing? Remember the Sunshine Beach? Where you made me walk the trail up to the top of the hillside cliffs? Remember Noosa and Rum and Raisin ice cream? Remember Hungry Jacks and grilled chicken burgers?

I would have you back no matter what you did. But all the sorries and the I-love-yous in the world don't mean a thing if you cannot be honest with me, cannot be fair to me. Do you not think you owe me that much?

You promised me when we first got together. You promised you would never hurt me. You promised you weren't fucking with me. You promised me everything. You promised to give me the world. So now, don't tell me you have lost me, lost everything. It is I who gave up my life as I knew it to be with you. I gave up my friends. my daily routine, life as it had been for 10 years of adulthood to be with you.

Because I couldn't imagine not being with you. I couldn't imagine not seeing you, not kissing you, never being in your arms again. I wanted you for mine, and I wanted to be yours. And I know the beginning was difficult. You couldn't trust me and alas, it was all my fault. But I tried. I tried to make you feel secure. I wanted you to see that you were everything in the world to me.

You still are. I love you. I love you so much, and now the pain hurts me so much. Why must it be this way? I want to be happy again, but I don't know how to stop crying. I don't know how to stop hurting. Can you help me? Can you make it better? Can you please heal me, love and kiss me and hold me in your arms again?

But first, can you be honest with me? Be fair to me. Please be fair. I cannot take this anymore. My heart is so tired. I am so tired. Please tell me what happened. I really need to know. I really need some form of truth to hold on to if we are going to start again.

Please don't tell me you don't know and that you don't remember. Make something up. Tell me something I can believe.

If not, goodbye.

Thank you for everything. For teaching me how to love. For showing me happiness. For making me feel for a little while that all I needed in life was you.

I love you so much...

Your monkey

"Summer has come and passed
The innocent can never last
Wake me up when September ends"

Wake me up when September ends

2007-05-11T16:20:00.000+08:00

They says it's lame to post lyrics of songs. But I don't care. This is my blog. This is my pain.

Wake Me Up When September Ends
- Greenday

Summer has come and passed
The innocent can never last
Wake me up when September ends

Like my fathers come to pass
Seven years has gone so fast
Wake me up when September ends

Here comes the rain again
Falling from the stars
Drenched in my pain again
Becoming who we are

As my memory rests
But never forgets what I lost
Wake me up when September ends

Summer has come and passed
The innocent can never last
Wake me up when September ends

Ring out the bells again
Like we did when spring began
Wake me up when September ends

Here comes the rain again
Falling from the stars
Drenched in my pain again
Becoming who we are

As my memory rests
But never forgets what I lost
Wake me up when September ends

Summer has come and passed
The innocent can never last
Wake me up when september ends

Like my father's come to pass
Twenty years has gone so fast
Wake me up when september ends
Wake me up when september ends
Wake me up when september ends

It will never be the same again, will it?

Why?

2007-05-10T05:11:00.000+08:00

Broken into a million little pieces. A million little tiny pieces. Broken inside of me into a million little pieces. A million little tiny pieces. A million jagged little tiny pieces. A million shattered jagged little tiny pieces.

Do you see the sun coming up? Because it's nearly six. I can see the beginning of day, the start of light. New day, new beginning, new hope.

But I do not want to feel. And even if I wanted to, I cannot feel again. My heart is dead.

See this? This is me. This is me. The me I reside in. I breathe. I live. But I have no soul. I have no hope, and I have no heart.

Because my heart? My heart? My heart is dead.

Why must you do this to me? I loved you with everything I had.

And sadly... I still do.

Alas...

2007-05-07T02:13:00.000+08:00

I remember the past just past
when the sweetness sucked me in,
caressed me softly, kissed my cheeks,
and the silky warmth of its embrace
swept me deep in sleep.

Then blink. And the past has passed is past.
All that lingers are pretty pictures
that only the mind's eye sees

And I look back longingly, wistfully.
At the past that's passed. The past
out of my reach, out of my grasp.
And all that's left are memories,
beautiful but fading fast.

Of roast duck, dim sum, and Cantonese stir fries

2007-05-05T12:49:00.000+08:00

One of the things about China that everybody talks about, after they've gotten over the spitting, shoving, and snatching, is the food. China is the land of roast duck and barbecued pork, of stir fries and fried rice, so skillfully swished about in the wok you can smell the wok hei with every spoonful you shovel inside your greedy lips.

Now, I am an absolute foodie. I love my food with a passion, and I pride myself on being able to distinguish the mediocre from the gourmet. That's why I prefer my durians bitter, scorn the lowly milk chocolate in favour of dark blacks (at least 75 per cent cocoa, please. If not, that's not real chocolate.), see no shame in sucking lustily at the heads of tiger king prawns, and scoff at gimmicky food creations such as fried maki or char siew pizza.

So I couldn't wait to feast myself silly in China and to stuff my belly full with every imaginable Chinese street delicacy. When it comes to food, I eat first and think later. Who cares about that expanding waistline when there's scrummy xiao long baos sitting nice and pretty on the table. I mean really. Do a few extra kilos really matter when just under your nose there's a gorgeous platter of seafood fried rice smothered with a creamy XO sauce, under which, crunchy morsels of bright orange prawn flesh and strips of soft, tender squid peek out?

I think not.

So that's why I totally cannot understand it when in the midst of my hunt for the best Cantonese street food available in the city we're staying in, pilot boy suddenly blurts a major shocker. He wants to eat MacDonald's he says. He's sick of Chinese food and all he wants to eat is a huge hunk of beef.

I turn to him and I look at him, slack jawed, eyebrows furrowed, in stunned disbelief. Holy goodness Goddess of Mercy, I think. We are in China, one of the few culinary capitals of the world, and all this fast-food junkie wants is a Big Mac, fries and a Coke? Beggar's chicken, Yang Chow fried rice, suckling pig, Peking duck, how you must suffer the indignity! A hamburger in favour of Cantonese food? What profanity! What sacrilege! What total and utter blasphemy!

For the past couple of days, I had been getting increasingly frustrated because no matter where I looked, and how much I was prepared to spend, it didn't seem like I was getting much bang for my buck. All we had had were tasteless thick-skinned dumplings that stayed intact, even after endless proddings with a chopstick. We'd also spent close to an atomic bomb on a meal at a famous restaurant, supposedly helmed by an equally famous Cantonese chef, only to be disappointed by wok hei-less Yang Chow fried rice scattered with stale bits of char siew, a greasy, starchy fried fish dish that was more salty than flavourful and a very average version of white cabbage with Chinese ham.

But, like I said before, I am a foodie, and I really wasn't about to give up the hunt for my holy grail. I wanted roast duck with skin so crispy it would flake apart with a mere flick of the tongue and ooze delicious fragrant duck oil from underneath; or fried rice so fragrant that the steaming oil vapours would float right up to my head, coat my hair and stick to my clothes; or shiu jiao mian with chewy, crunchy noodles and little yellow parcels stuffed to the point of bursting with pork, shrimp and bits of water chestnuts; or garlicky, gingery and oniony stir fried meats with gravy so rich in flavour it would have tasted like heaven just paired with a simple bowl of plain white rice; or steamed sea bass garnished with every possible condiment from Chinese mushrooms to spring onions and ginger, the meat wobbly, falling off the bone, and so fresh you could still taste the smell of the sea and savour its sweet-salty juices with every bite.

My pilot boy says he's a foodie too. But I don't know. He's the kind who's easily satisfied with a coupla strips of meat, dipped in batter and deep fried till crisp, eaten with tomato ketchup and chilli sauce. And that... Well, that just isn't real food to me. That's fake food, engineered to satisfy the undiscerning tastebuds of the masses and to frustrate the real foodies like me.

So I go around the Chinese cities, asking the locals, pestering, nagging, almost begging even, in my stilted pu tong hua keyi ma? where to find the best dim sums and yum cha restaurants. And pilot boy looks at me mystified, stands to side and taps his feet impatiently while I get hysterical in my failed attempts to communicate in and understand China Chinese, yet I refuse to give up because I absolutely need to eat at least one good meal in China before ending my holiday. I eh and uh and umm and punctuate my sentences with English words and everybody looks at me with amusement because they have no idea what this greedy little girl with the flinging arms and salivating mouth is trying to say.

But finally, finally, finally, on our last day in China, after a lot of hard work and broken pu tong hua, we finally step into a yum cha restaurant where I promptly order enough food to feed an entire battalion. I want my har kows, I insist, jabbing at the menu, which is printed in traditional Chinese, leading both of us are to hunch over the little piece of paper, trying to decipher the complicated Chinese hieroglyphics.

So I get my har kows, and he gets his char siew buns. I get my shao er tui and he gets his ji jiao. We order xiao long baos and shui jiaos and mango puddings and durian wraps and fried XO rice and glutinous rice with beans, pork and salted egg yolks. I want my fried yam balls desperately, but pilot boy has no idea what yams are called in pu tong hua, we cannot speak Cantonese, and the poor waitress has never heard of the word 'yam' in her entire life. So I forego my yam balls and we order radish cakes, and pigs trotters and more har kows and char siew buns.

We stuff ourselves like we've never eaten before and I'm a tad embarrassed because everybody who walks by our table stares at us, glaring daggers both at him and myself for our blatant gluttony. I cannot finish the har kows, and he cannot finish his glutinous rice. By the time the fried seafood rice reaches the table, all I have space for in my rounded tummy is just a small scoopful in my Chinese spoon, and one little prawn.

"You fucking enabler," I yell at pilot boy. "What enabler?" he yells back, the venom of indignance spilling out from his ears. "You're the damn enabler!" he counter accuses me, waving my takeaway packet of seafood rice at one side of my face, and my other takeaway packet of har kows and radish cake at the other side.

Back at the hotel room, we have boxes and boxes of Krispy Kreme doughnuts, cans of Pringles potato chips, packets of Godiva chocolates (which I have no idea why I bought) more bags of lao po bing and a whole fucking truckload of alcohol, courtesy of the boy, who's favourite indulgence stems from fermented barlies with fancy names like Erdinger and Stella and I-cannot-remember-cos-I-not-stupid-and-I-don't-drink-horse-piss.

I have no idea how to finish all this food. But I am happy. Full belly and more food to fill it up when it gets empty. It takes so little to make me happy.

Holiday

2007-05-03T22:39:00.000+08:00

A big thanks to all concerned readers who emailed me thinking that my lack of posts in the last couple of days was a sign that something between pilot boy and I had gone very wrong.

It's nothing like that really.

It's just that both of us are now on a little holiday. We've spent the most part of the last one week in China (fake LV, Gucci, Prada bags galore! Woohoo!) eating, shopping, eating, shopping, and eating and shopping.

His control freakiness gets on my nerves sometimes, the same way my let's-just-go-and-see-how-it-goes attitude gets him all jumpy too.

But for the most part, we're good.

Back soon.

Oh. And by the way, I absolutely luuurrrrve budget airlines.

I am not a man

2007-05-03T22:36:00.000+08:00

For some reason, I feel compelled to write this post despite knowing that some people will inevitably still accuse me of being a man. Call this a part rant part reply directed at a certain anon (who has somehow managed to irritate me to no end), or the mad ravings of a hormonally unbalanced psychobitch at the tail end of her 21-day Yasmin cycle. Or both.

For sure, it would be a hoot to discover that DiDa is, in actual fact, a 69-year-old lau ah pek whose only excuse of a head is a wrinkly egg-shaped knobbly little stump from which a couple of straggly grey hairs strain to show their presence. Maybe you like to think that my only hobby is peering through my black-rimmed glasses, staring open mouthed, google eyed at Japanese S&M porn showing on the telly screen, while I scratch my balls and masturbate at the same time.

Or you know what? Perhaps I spend my sad lonely existence wishing I were DiDa, and every night before I go to sleep, I dig out my hidden treasure trove of stolen women's undies - yellow and pink and lacy and skimpy and I pull them up over my protruding male crotch and admire myself in the mirror, thinking about how beautiful life would be if only I had real tits and boobs. And maybe it might be fun to think that the curves that DiDa so proudly speaks of are no more than mishapen lumps of lard, oozing out from all the wrong places, settling stubbornly into three wobbly rolls of fat in the mid section of my stomach.

But really. I mean really. Really really. I am all woman. It says so on my identity card. I am a female. Woman. Girl. Lady. Bitch, maybe. Slut, perhaps. Whatever. But still WOMAN. With breasts and a vagina. I know it because every time I look down at my privates when I take my daily shower, I see them. They are there. I know it. I see them everyday. I feel them everyday. So yes. They are there.

And yes. I might not be a Giselle Bundchen because I am about 10 metres too short, and 100 kilos too heavy. And yes. Maybe I do not have the soulful eyes of Natalie Portman, or the refined nose bridge of a Nicole Kidman, or the full, pouty, sausage lips of an Angelina Jolie. But I promise you that I do not look like the bride of the Pillsbury Doughboy. I promise you that while I might have one or two little rolls of fat forming on my tummy, the result of a hiatus from bartop dancing and eating one too many xiao long baos, I promise you - in fact, I guarantee you that I bear a total, complete, and utter non-resemblance to the Michelin man.

So please. Stop irritating me. Stop telling me I am "man who have tasted his girlfriend before marry" or whatever. Because the one thing that annoys me even more than bad grammar and syntax, is people telling me what I am when I know that is what I am not.

I feel...

2007-04-25T19:22:00.000+08:00

Hands cold.
Heart heavy.
Eyes teary.
Head angry.

That, THAT, Dat

2007-04-25T17:00:00.000+08:00

So what's a girl to think when he says that, insists it to be true, and then she goes and finds out, thanks to her overworked curiousity and snoopy little psychobitch mind, that perhaps that really wasn't true after all?

And what's she to think when she says, hey that's funny cos you said that, and now I find this, which implies that that might not be that after all. And in the meantime he still keeps saying he doesn't know and insists that to still be true?

Then what happens when she questions further because the things don't add up and she finds more indicators that that could most probably, but not 100 per cent surely, have been a lie. And then he says oh yes, I remembered one thing, and finally says, yes, that was actually THAT and the reason why he said THAT was that was because he forgot?

And what happens when she does more snooping and digging and prying and other psycho Norman Bates stuff and she finds out that THAT might not even be THAT. And what happens when she confronts him with the signs and all he has to say is THAT really is THAT, and didn't I already tell you before?

Then what happens when she tries to think back for what he said when he said THAT, and cannot recall that he did, and that the THAT that she recalls him speaking about was a DAT.

And what happens when she says you didn't say THAT, you said DAT so why are you saying THAT now, and he says he loves her yet still keeps insisting that THAT has always been THAT and that he only said it was that because he forgot, and besides, it was never DAT.

So what happens what she presses him harder and harder and fishes out the signs and the indicators and the perhaps and the most probably but not 100 per cent surelys and finally he gets angry and he says, look, THAT is THAT, and if you think it's not, what can I say?

And what happens when she asks him to explain and still he does not explain, still he only insists?

And then, finally, what's a girl to think when he shuts off the coversation by saying if you think THAT isn't THAT, then go do whatever you want?

Where do we go from here?

2007-04-19T14:05:00.000+08:00

Do you remember how it was?

Those nights when I was so so lonely, those nights that I couldn't sleep because I stung from the fresh hurt of betrayal, those nights when I sat on the floor, huddled over the phone and wishing you were with me. Those nights when you were so far away and my eyes made tears even when I willed them to behave.

It might have started with no more than infatuation. It might have just been your chocolate skin, your crinkly eyes, your musky scent, that stirred up those feelings of want and desire in me. And it might have stopped after the sheets had been ruffled, my flesh had been tasted, and my passion had been sated.

But you got me with that kiss. And from that moment on, I was yours. Yours to hold and yours to love. Yours. All yours. Just yours.

I never knew before that love could feel like this.

This? This was love? This was love!

But of course it was love. Because what else could it be that made your crinkly eyes, your chocolate skin and your musky scent creep into my thoughts so stealthily at any time of day? And what else could it be that I would have done anything to make you feel happy and secure. What else could it be that made my heart swollen with joy just to see you smile, to have you stroke my hair, to have you laugh and pull me closer, to have you make love to me over and over. And really, what else could it be that night on the sandy Sentosa beach?

Do you remember how sweet it was? Do you remember how I grabbed your hand as you stood to leave, terrified that you would walk away from me forever? Do you remember what you said to me that night, why, despite all that had happened, you chose to take my hand and stay with me anyway?

Even now it makes me tear because I cannot imagine a world without you to make it come alive. I cannot bear to think of those nights that I will have to wait by the door, to crane my neck and strain my ears for your footsteps I will no longer hear. And it will be no less than a bleeding void that fills my heart when there is no you to be happy with me, feel sad for me, and rage because of me.

So it hurts to think of last night. It hurts to think of how you crushed the part of me that was willing to give you everything. And it makes me cry to remember how you flung me aside to the floor, callously, carelessly, contemptuously. For that part of me you swore never to undo, and that part of me was everything I felt for you.

I need you to make it better. Heal me. Kiss me. Love me. Show me everything will be okay. Because now, it is I who cannot walk away. And even though my head says no, I choose to take your hand and stay with you anyway.

How to eat a crab

2007-04-18T17:51:00.000+08:00

I bet you don't know how to eat a crab the way I do. And oh, what a pity, because the way I eat a crab is the best way to eat a crab.

First, you have to find a good crab. Gourmet restaurants will bill you a pincer and a leg for Alaskan, Dungeness and Snow crabs, but guess what. They suck. These gourmet crabs which ang mohs claim are delicacies suck. And the reason for this, people, is that these poor ang mohs, well, they love their crabs with meaty legs and fleshy pincers, when any self-respecting crab aficionado should know that the best part of the crab lies in the yellow muddy wobbly roe that sits pretty in the middle of a freshly opened crab shell.

Now, that. That, people, is the best part of the crab, which is why the Shanghainese hairy crab is the real mother of all crabs. If only it were in season 365 days a year, and if only I were rich enough, I am quite certain the Shanghainese hairy crab would be the only crab I would ever eat till the day I die.

But back to reality. The second best crabs are the ones you find at tzi char coffeeshops - the black ones piled in a heap atop one another in dirty glass aquariums, fat pincers straining to burst through the pink or yellow raffia string that ties them together, little black nobbly eyes peeking at you with sad resignation in the knowledge that a few minutes later, they will adorn your dining table drowning in a haphazard mess of tangy eggy garlicky chilli gravy or slathered with a thick layer of buttery black pepper.

Chilli crab, black pepper crab, salted egg yolk with crab, butter crab, cheese crab, white pepper crab - I'm sure they are all very nice. But the best way to taste the salty sea and feel the crunch in a really fresh mudcrab is to eat it straight from the pot, where it has just been steamed with just a little ginger and spring onion.

First you open the crab shell, taking care not to spill any of the juices that its fat body has retained inside. Then, sip, gulp and slurp down that warm, salty goodness till the shell is completely dry. If a little bit of licking is necessary to achieve this, by all means, roll your tongue over every inch of the shell.

No need for table manners here. No need for table manners when eating a crab.

Then, use your finger and peel off the dangly bits of roe that are hanging precariously from the edges of the crab shell. Pop in between your lips, and mash the soft mushy roe with your tongue against the roof of your mouth and savour that musty, bitter-salty flavour that oozes straight down your throat. Once again, paint the entire inside of the crab shell with your tongue to make sure that no little bit of crab roe is wasted.

No need for table manners. No need for table manners when eating a crab.

Now, the next part is a little bit controversial. Judging from what happens at dinner outings, the crab claws are the most sought after parts of the crab. They are huge and meaty, and it's easy to crack them open with a nutcracker. Or, just slam them against the table, chip a part of the shell or two, and you're ready to dig out the crunchy white flesh hiding inside.

But the best part, people, the bestest best part of all is not the claw, but the body of the crab. Break the body of the crab in two, and you will have two halfs of tender white crab flesh, intricately encased in fragile, semi-transluscent shell. Peeking out from the top ends of each half, once again, will be that yellow muddy wobbly roe that is precisely what makes a crab so worth the trouble.

Bring your mouth towards the glistening roe-filled top end of each half, pucker up your lips, and suck for dear life. Suck up every single glob of yellow muddy wobbly roe. Caress the meat with your tongue and dig out the stubborn bits that lie hidden deep in between the folds of flesh. Suck and slurp. Suck and slurp.

Once again, people, no need for table manners. No need for table manners when eating a crab.

And when you have slurped all there is to slurp and sucked all there is to suck, and there is no more yellow muddy wobbly roe left in any inch of the crab, when there is nothing left but white, meaty flesh in annoyingly hard bits of red shell. Well, that. That. That is when all the joy of eating a crab has been savoured. That is when there is nothing left to savour. That is the end.

And THAT is how to eat a crab.

Love

2007-04-17T14:28:00.000+08:00

Extremely cynical, but it's one of the most intelligent things on love that I've read.

"So after time, love wears thin with its pretty adornments. It wears down to its bare bones, where it's a necessity. Like sitting on the toilet in the morning. Like lifting a fork to your mouth. It becomes nothing more than the things you do everyday and there is no more need to grace it with pretties."

beautifuk.blogspot.com/2007/04/every-you-every-me-walking-home-tonight.html

I couldn't have put it better.

So will you marry me?

2007-04-11T12:11:00.000+08:00

There's one thing I absolutely have to do before I turn 30 at the end of the year. I need to get married.

Now, I need to get married not because my maternal clock is ticking, not because I've suddenly found the secret joy of motherhood. I still hate babies. I still snarl at little kiddies I still think that to make life a lot more pleasant, children should just disappear from the face of this earth (no offence to all Mums out there. It's not personal. I'm sure your kids are adorable and wonderful, but to me, all human beings below the age of 12 are annoying spoilt brats)

Nor do I want to get married because I want to play house. I can play house without getting married. See, in Maroochydore, I was cooking for the boy almost every evening and making breakfast on rare mornings when I could find it in myself to crawl out of bed before noon. We even did the grocery shopping together. We piled the trolleys high with bak choy and bacon and chicken tikka masala spice mixes. So, no. No need to get married because I want a cuddly hubby who will come home to me every night while I saute onions over the kitchen stove in lacy undies.

I want to get married because I want to wear a nice white dress that will have everybody oohing and aahing at me as I walk down the red carpet. I want the little kids (yes, that's all little boys and girls are good for) to stare at me and point and say how pretty I am. I want to be a blushing bride, radiant and pink on a beautiful romantic evening on the happiest day of her life. But you see, the thing is, past 30, you can no longer be a blushing bride.

A blushing bride is a bride in her 20s. That's why she's blushing. She's a blushing bride because she's 20, young, and coy and shy. You can't blush once you're over 30. Over 30 you are no longer young and coy and shy, and there's no nice adjective I can think of to describe a bride who's old and bold and will be 40 in 10 years' time.

So yes. I want to get married. Even if it lasts for just a day. I just want to wear a white dress that shows my tits and ass before they sag. I want to wear flowers in my hair and I want to be the blushing bride that everybody stares at and points to before gasping about how pretty I am.

So marry me, okay? Before 30? Can?

Just not good enough

2007-04-10T18:45:00.000+08:00

My Mama's not been pleased with me over the past couple of weeks. It's kind of my fault. I fucked up. Quite badly, but not so badly that it warrants incessant nagging, and constant reminders that while my peers have sprinted all the way up the corporate ladder, DiDa here is content to wake up at noon every day, do work only when she feels like it, and has been left trailing behind in a rubbish heap at the bottom of the pack.

The problem with me is that while I'm a good saver and not much of a spender, I fail badly when it comes to admin matters, resulting in my being a horrible debt collector. For the last year or so, I got by on payments from some of my clients who already had my banking details and would automatically deposit my fees into my banking account on completion of every new project. But most clients only release payment upon the receipt of an invoice, and I have been extremely sloppy in these administrative details. Because of this, the amount owing to me by a huge company now stands at an almost mid five-figure sum. A large cheque that was supposed to come in the mail two months ago got held up because of accounting matters resulting from my late invoices.

Coupled with astronomical phone bills and a six-week-sorta-holiday Down Under to see the boy, which depleted my bank account by no less than 10 fricking thousand dollars, I am so broke now that if my large cheque doesn't come in the mail by the end of this week, hell... I am probably going to have trouble just buying toothpaste and shampoo or shopping for groceries at NTUC.

No doubt I am a stupid stupid girl. Stupid stupid stupid because I always thought I'd have enough. Stupid stupid stupid for sitting on those damn invoicing duties for so long that receiving payment for work already completed months ago is proving this much of a challenge. But mostly, I'm stupid stupid stupid for actually opening my big arse mouth and asking the Mama for a loan.

Because now my Mama is throwing a little bit of a fit. Where is your money, she wants to know. Do you have CPF, she asks repeatedly. Have you been saving, she asks again. You have no financial security, she says. You need a job. You need to go to work. You need to be normal. You cannot wake up at noon and sleep at three in the morning. You need to do what people do. You need to be more motivated. You need you should you must you ought to.

Just two months ago, when I'd first come back from the first trip down to see the boy, she'd been so happy, so sweet, so understanding even. It's okay to spend as long as you think it's worth it, she said. You can always earn it back anyway. And when I happened to mention that the two trips were costing me more than I thought, she even asked me if I needed to borrow some cash.

So stupid stupid stupid me thought that it would be a non-issue to open my stupid stupid stupid mouth and ask her to help me out with my astronomical $1,500 phone bill which I would pay her back with interest once my huge cheque came in.

You know, I'm not one of those spoilt brats who makes it a habit to go to Mama and Papa, stretch my palms out wide and expect a shower of cash to rain down on my begging hands. When the family goes out to eat, I pay most times. I pay for utilities, and give my Granny money every month. I pay for newspapers. I pay for groceries. I'm paying half for the new aircon my Mama just installed.

I really really really do not expect anything from my parents. If they leave me nothing in their wills and donate all their assets to charity when they pass on, then so be it. I don't want my parents' money. It's their money. I don't want it. I don't expect it.

I've not taken a single cent from my parents in 10 years. But now I've hit a rough patch. It isn't even as if the reason for my sad state of financial affairs is because I've been slacking off and bumming my life away. I have money. I have savings. It's stuck in a cheque. I need a little help until it arrives in the mail. That's it.

So why is it such a big deal that my Mama is wringing her hands and pulling out hair out over her sad little failure of a daughter. I'm not going to bail you out the next time, she tells me. And then she adds, this is tough love.

Tough love, she says. Tough love, WTF? This is the first time I have ever asked my Mama for financial help in 10 years - a loan of $1,500, which I am expected to pay back with interest. The way she puts it I might as well be an unemployed tenth-time-recovering-drug-addict cum single mother who cashes out her New Singapore Shares and forges signatures for drug money. Fuck. I don't do drugs. I don't even like alcohol. I have sex, yes, but I do not have 10 little babies running around my side, each belonging to a different father.

I have been doing my own thing for just over four years. I've saved up a tidy little five figure sum - no doubt stuck in a stupid cheque, and I've had enough to go on long holidays and short breaks as and when I've felt like it in the last couple of years.

Have I really done that badly for myself?

Money isn't a great motivator for me. A competitive job, a spot in the rat race, well, I don't want that either. I don't really care if my friends are directors and managers. I do not want to belong to that group of people who rush up the trains and buses at 8am every morning, then rush back home again at 7pm every evening. I want to be able to take one month long vacations when I feel like it without having to worry if the boss will approve my leave. I like going to town in the middle of the day just to sip on coffee at a Starbucks cafe while reading a book just fresh off the printing presses that I might have picked up at Borders the day before.

And I really don't care that if I had taken life's normal route, I might probably be in a managerial position, an editor, a senior reporter, a corp comms manager, an account director. But that's what my Mama wishes I'd become, and instead, all I am right now is DiDa, the freelancing writer who is so bad at administrative work that she does not even know how to collect her money.

I'm not one who wants a lot of material things. I like travelling, yes I do, but I'll stay in cheap motels and eat crap food. If I could drive, I'd probably own the cheapest car there was because it's just a bloody car. If I bought a house, I'd be happy with a two bedroom HDB or a teeny tiny little studio. I'll never shop at designer boutiques. I'll probably eat at Les Amis just one time simply for the chance to say that yes, I know what French cuisine in Singapore is about. But give me tzi char and Founders Bak Kut Teh any time, and that's enough to make me a very very happy girl.

I wish my Mama could understand that. I don't want title. I don't want status. I want some money, but I don't need a lot of it. It doesn't mean I'm not making use of my brains. I use my brains every day. I do not rot at home and play Warcraft all the time. I do it when I need a break. I do it when it's evening, and deadlines are tomorrow. I keep up with current affairs. I do think about the news. I read a lot. I read a heck of alot.

Just because I stay at home doesn't mean I don't do work. Sometimes there are lull periods when there isn't much to do. Other times I am so busy that I don't even have time to pee, to eat, to drink or to answer the phone.

You know, when I was a little girl, I never felt like I was ever good enough. My cousins were better behaved, more hardworking, and got better grades. They got scholarships. I just got plenty of boys. Which made everybody think I was a naughty boy-crazy little girl. I wasn't. I just liked the attention. Who wouldn't? Was it my fault that perhaps I was a tad better looking than the average girl, and thus I had more opportunities?

But that aside, it's happening again. I still don't feel like I measure up in any way. I should have just been normal. Dive into the corporate world. Endure the competition. Try to stay alive. And perhaps, then my parents would feel like maybe, I was good enough after all.

A ramble

2007-04-09T02:01:00.000+08:00

Did I ever mention that my Mama loves pilot boy?

It's almost as if she's living her youth vicariously through me, sucking in the joy that I so obviously radiate whenever I talk about him. In fact, she so approves of his 75 kilo chocolate brown body that she's begun to stop calling him by name.

Hero, she calls him. Hero.

It's nice that my Mama's likes the boy, but it's also kind of irritating some times. You see, Mama's a control freak. She likes things done a certain way for no other reason than because that's the way it's supposed to be. Like, for example, she hates it that I freelance and I don't have a real job because "that's not the way life is supposed to be." And it irks her that i'm not terribly ambitious, and that all I ever want out of life is to be able to pay my bills and have a nice dinner out at Lei Garden once in a blue moon. My Mama's also fussy about keeping things clean and neat, particular about being orderly and organised, and she absolutely must be able to plan and anticipate what life might bring in the future.

Now, I'm not like that. I don't like to live life "the way it's supposed to be" because I believe that life is what you make of it, and as long as you don't hurt anybody and you are satisfied with yourself, it doesn't matter if you live in a cardboard box or in a hundred-bedroom mansion with surrounding hectares of sprawling greens. I'm also an incurable mess. I like my books dog eared and tatty, I'll turn a blind eye at a little bit of dust, and I absolutely cannot work effectively unless it's last minute.

I won't say my habits are desirable, but the same traits that make me messy, disorganised, uncompetitive and a procrastinator are also the exact characteristics that make me spontaneous, carefree, and fun to be with. My faults may be annoying, but they also make up much of my charm.

I'm not a huge worrywart. I can't be serious for too long a stretch, and my attitude to many of life's obstacles - money, relationships, work blah blah - is that while something might seem insurmountable right now, it's probably not going to matter very much in the future. You see, I've always believed that the biggest problems I'm ever going to have in my life are those that I never expected or worried about in the first place.

(Ok, I realise I've been whining a lot in this blog, and that many of my posts seem to point to the fact that I am in actual fact, a bigger worrier than I now claim to be. But the thing about me is that I moan and I sulk, and it makes me sick in the head for maybe about five hours or so, and after that, I look out of the window at the people going about their daily business downstairs, stare at Misha's dirty but adorable little shihtzu face, and then I feel happy and alright again.)

But the boy's alot like my Mama in terms of personality. I hate it because both of them think I'm some sort of free-swaying lallang with no direction in life and they gang up on me to bug me about getting my driver's license, getting a real job with CPF contributions, buying insurance, planning for retirement, cleaning my room, organising my mess, ironing out my admin matters.

My boy is like my Mama. He likes control over what's going to happen. He likes to plan. He likes to make sure he knows exactly what life's next going to throw at him. He doesn't like mess. He doesn't like dirt. He wants everything to fall into place exactly how he planned it, and if it doesn't, he worries, worries and worries. In some ways, I like this aspect of him. He reins in my boho side, and I'd like to think that my who-the-heck-gives-a-shit attitude loosens him up a little. But sometimes, these differences give rise to a more misunderstandings between us than I'd like.

His need for control results in an extremely rigid and unforgiving attitude when we fight. To him, promises are promises are promises. There's right and wrong, black and white; no room for maybes and what ifs and perhaps, no shades of grey, no hazy pinks, smoky blues, no in betweens. But I like in betweens. I thrive on in betweens. In betweens are inevitable because life is fluid and ever changing. You can't predict with 100 per cent certainty what's going to happen. And even if you could, you can't predict with 100 per cent certainty what your reaction's going to be anyway.

It probably doesn't sound very adult, but the truth is, the large part of me lives only for the now. Because, really, what's the point in worrying about the later, when now is the only thing that will ever matter?

Insecurity

2007-04-03T12:15:00.000+08:00

Both of us are such slaves to insecurity that one day it's just going to turn around and kill us.

Curiosity

2007-04-03T01:47:00.000+08:00

The problem is that I'm too curious for my own good. I want to know and I don't want to know and then I want to know all over again. I need stuff to do. Right now, I don't have much stuff to do and I wish I had loads of stuff to do because I am spending way too much time being curious.

Curiousity isn't good. It killed the cat, remember?

Well, it's killing me slowly. And if it ain't gonna kill me, then it's probably gonna kill us. I need stuff to do. Give me a colouring book or something. I remember that used to please me no end as a child. Or Enid Blyton and Famous Five! I loved those books when I was little. Give me something to do. Something brainless, something stupid. Something. Just anything so I'll stop being curious.

Perhaps someone could just smack me on the head instead. Smack me and remind me that some things just don't really matter very much in the bigger scheme of things. Macro, DiDa, macro. Micro is for petty little nibbly mice with blinkers on their squinty beady eyes. I don't want to be a mouse. I don't want to be a mouse because cats kill mice and curiousity kills cats.

So I'll tell you what. I'm going downstairs to buy cigarettes. Then I'll come right back up home and pretend like nothing ever happened. I'm amazed. Life offers the easiest solutions in a little white stick filled with tar and nicotine.

Brilliant. Just brilliant.

My boy's girlies

2007-04-02T11:11:00.000+08:00

I don't know what it is about my pilot boy that makes him such a popular girl guy friend. I've never known a guy who's had that many good girl friends before. In fact, I've never known a guy who's had a girl friend he doesn't secretly want to fuck. And even if I do know a guy who has a girl friend he does not secretly want to fuck, she wants to fuck him anyway.

The kind of girl friends my pilot boy has are not female acquaintances who he knows because they are the girlfriends of his other guy friends, or the sisters of his guy friends or the friends of his guy friends' girlfriends. I mean, my pilot boy has girl friends who he dates out on a regular basis for coffee or for dinner. They meet up to say bye bye and have a nice trip before he goes overseas on training, and they meet up again to say hello and how have you been when he comes back.

I get uncomfortable sometimes because even though he insists they are just friends, some things are just plain weird. Like how pilot boy claims he and Friend A are just friends. They met in church when he was on overseas training, and began hanging out together often enough. He claims she's ugly and that he doesn't have the slightest interest in her. Yet he's met her mother who has apparently taken an immense liking to my pilot boy. In fact, Friend A's mother likes my boy so much that she took him out for a nice family dinner just before he left for Maroochydore last year. It didn't matter that Friend A wasn't even present at that dinner because she's now studying at some donnowat university overseas. Friend A's mummy, sister, and sister's boyfriend were more than happy to play host.

I don't know if it's just me, but I find this whole dinner-with-the-family-of-a girl-I-am-not-the-slightest-bit-interested-in incident very very strange.

Then there's Friend B, who pilot boy claims is also just a friend. A long-time friend who he met back in his teenage years when he was still pimply and skinny with a communist centre parting hairstyle. He was an athlete. She was an athlete. They trained together and became good friends. Today, they're still good friends. They're such good friends that the last time she went on holiday with her boyfriend, she came back home with gifts for MY boyfriend. I wouldn't have been disturbed if she'd come back with a cheesy souvenir that people buy just for the sake of being able to say, "Hey I went on holiday and you were on my mind and see, here's what I got for you!"

Nah. Friend B, I suppose, must be an extremely thoughtful friend because my pilot boy received a free T-shirt and a complimentary pair of drawstring pants. Fortunately, this sad nitwit of a girl has absolutely no fashion sense at all and thus I feel no guilt whatsoever dissing her. You see, it's not that I'm a bitch. I don't want to be mean. I'm a nice girl. Really, I am. I'm nice to all my boy's friends, male or female. But neon bright citrus colours and horizontal stripes? Wtf girlie? WTF? Are you trying to make my boy look like a clown in a circus for clowns?

What really got to me the other day was Friend C who was bold enough to make my boy's phone beep with a text message at the unearthly hour of five in the morning. Once again, I don't know about everyone else out there, but in my world, it doesn't matter if I've known the boy since university days, junior college days, secondary school days, kindergarten days, nursery days or since I was a squealing eight-month-old toddler with a pacifier stuck in my mouth, I do not send boys text messages in the wee hours of the morning. The only exceptions are if:

a) the boy is my brother or my cousin or someone related to me by blood
b) there is a madman in my house who is threatening to roast my dog over an open fire
c) a mutual friend just died in the most tragic of ways
d) I am a ditz who does not think it improper or over-familiar to beep a boy who is unrelated to me by blood at five in the morning when even the fricking roosters are too sleepy to cockadoodle doo.
e) I want to send the wrong signals to this boy because I have been waiting years for the moron to make his move on me and perhaps this unearthly beeping will somehow cause some stirrings in his pants.

Pilot boy says Friends A, B and C are all just friends. Just friends, he says.

Just friends, I question.

I guess what really irks me is not so much the fact that he has all these girl friends. It's more that he cannot see the improperness of these actions. I mean, seriously, if you get antsy about me being over friendly to strangers, then surely you can see that some things these girlies do are inappropriate, smack of overfamiliarity and are, from my perspective, crossing the line.

I don't begrudge the fact that he has many girl friends. I don't believe in platonic friendships, but I accept that for him, they may exist. I'm willing to see his point of view and consider that perhaps, I may be attracting too much attention because I tend to be overly trusting, over friendly, even to strangers I have just met. But then, it's my hope that he too, must also be willing to see my point of view and think about how disturbing all his girlie friendships must be to me.

He always says it doesn't matter that when I am friendly to strange men, I have no intention to flirt. Others may not see it that way.

Similarly, him being that close to his female friends might well be harmless. It's probably not his intention to fool around. But people may not see it that way.

And he could insist on it till his face turned blue, that these girlies are not the slightest bit hopeful of taking things further, and that they treat the relationship purely as a friendly relationship. But you see, girls never do the asking however much they're dying for something more. They won't come out and say, hey hot stuff, what say we get together and see how things go. Girls are girls and they're just going wait until something happens and the boy makes the first move. And if that doesn't happen, then they'll just wait somemore and stick around until he does.

I hate you girlies. I'll be nice to you and smile and flash my pearlies at all of ya if we ever do meet one day. But keep your slimy hands to yourself. Tuck them in your pockets and tuck them in tight. I don't care how angelic and chaste and pure and innocent and holy you look. Look at me at 16, all braces and glasses and white uniform and yet I was a horny little girl. You are all fucking little horny cheebyes just like me. The difference between us is that I'm real enough to admit it and you monkeys are prissy cowardly morons who wear white cotton panties and pretend you never get wet.

Oh, and also, I have the body. You don't.

So it's okay if you wanna meet my boy for coffee or go out for dinner. It's alright. I'd hate it, and I'd sit at home and fume and cuss like a bitch to myself and probably go smoke a coupla cigarettes to calm the nerves (yes, yes, I caved. BITE ME!), but it's alright. People are different and even if I don't believe in platonic relationships, I can't help it if he does.

But stop introducing MY boy to your family. Stop buying personal items like clothes for MY boy, and stop texting MY boy at five o fucking clock in the morning. These privileges are reserved solely for me. Your mama does not have to like MY boy. MY boy does not have to wear your clothes, and MY boy does not need to be texted at five in the morning when it is MY bed he is sleeping in.

MY boy. MY territory.

Stop stepping all over it, bitches.

Survival 1101

2007-03-28T18:57:00.000+08:00

Come on. Who are we kidding? Acts of charity? Acts of love? Religion? People do good things not out of the goodness of their hearts. People love not because they are selfless and people pray not because they love God. People are charitable because they want to be able to puff up their chests and think, "See how noble I am? See how great I am?" People love because they want to be loved back. And people believe in God because they want to believe that their selfish acts will be forgiven, and because they are scared self-absored little cowards who cannot accept that they will one day die and turn to dust, leaving the world devoid of their self-assumed almighty presence.

People will do anything to make themselves feel good, even if that means being selfish. And if that selfishbness makes them feel bad, then they try to be charitable, try to love, and try to pray, not understanding that easing guilt in this manner essentially makes them even more selfish and self absorbed than they started out being in the first place.

Oh please. Do you seriously think nice people still exist? They never did. They don't, and they never will. And that's because, people are humans, and humans are animals. We may have computers and aeroplanes and fancyshmancy technological know-how, but underneath that glossy veneer of civility, humans are pieces of shit who are selfish and know only how to think about themselves for themselves.

Darwin's theory, people. Survival of the fittest remember? That means if you don't see the necessity of stepping on your neighbour, backstabbing your colleagues and clawing your way past the swarms of other human beings you share this earth with - regardless of who the fuck you hurt, well, then you're probably lost somewhere in that cesspool of naive idealism that guarantees your eventual extinction.

If your heart is pure and saintly and you can truly do no wrong, then, well gee, guess what? A million other fitter people, with no such stupid ideas that humans should be charitable and help those around them, are going to step on you, backstab you, and push past you with their filthy selfish paws. And thus your unselfish, generous, kind, giving, but defective genes will die and disappear. You will cease to exist, and your non-existence will mean there is no chance for your unselfish, generous, kind, giving, but defective offspring to inherit your genes and spread peace on earth and goodwill to men.

So really. Fuck everything. Fuck everybody. Nothing matters. Nothing except yourself. Do not love unless you are loved back. Do not help until you are helped first. Most importantly, do not give until you have received. And that is how to survive this shitty little world that we all live in.

Ready, set, compete!

2007-03-28T00:51:00.000+08:00

I don't know which moron came up with the idea that the friends you make in school are the friends who will stay with you forever.

The thing about school friends is that while you might have had plenty in common and so much to talk about back in junior college when common tests and screechy economics tutors were the only things you worried about, once everyone dives into the real world of work, career, marriage and kids, everything becomes different.

And you might have played chor dai dee in the back of the classroom together, trying to hide the cards away from a boring tutor's eagle eyes. And perhaps, you might have had a group of friends you could rely on to sneak in the correct answers when you hadn't studied hard enough for your common test. Together, you might have run for students' council, whooped with joy when you were voted in, and stood proud and tall side by side during the investiture. These were the friends with whom you had sleepovers and talked about which boy you thought was cute. You formed bitchy little cliques with these girls, and you all giggled and pointed at the ah niangs and ah lians in school, gossiped about which guy you thought was gay, and which girl you thought was butch.

Those were who my friends were. Those things were what we did. I thought things would always be the same, and that we would always remain the best bestest of friends no matter what happened. And then, we all grew up and I slowly began to realise that none of us really have anything in common with one another at all.

Instead of being friends, what all of us really want out of this bogus juvenile friendship is a chance at being the alpha-female. And nobody really cares about one another anymore, at least not in the genuine way a real friend would. The friendship has degenerated into a pathetic childish competition of who earns more, who has the most pompous sounding job title, who's husband/boyfriend/fiance is the most handsome, the most capable, the smartest, the richest and the nicest, who has the biggest car, who carries the most expensive designer bags, and who, at the age of near 30, still looks the best.

I'm so sick of the snide remarks that characterise these toxic relationships - the little verbal barbs that are thrown around with little regard for people's feelings. I hate the sarcastic remarks, said nonchalantly but deliberately, the subtle put downs that appear to be said out of concern, but are, in actual fact, callous insults meant to shrivel you to a size of a peanut.

"You look haggard today, don't you," says one.

"I'm not so sure you can do that. Have you thought about it carefully? We don't want you to fail, you know?" says another.

"You want me to arrange a meeting? I don't think you're used to handling people like that, but l'll think about it" adds yet another.

So instead of being able to rely on these group of friends for support in anything I do, being with them is the most exhausting experience ever. I wish I could tell them that I don't care anyway, and that I'm out of the race. You can have it all people. You win. I lose. I don't just lose. I lose badly. I'm the little amoeba that's clinging on to the tail of the last rat in that big rat race. I don't even have a job, people. I freelance, but that's about it. Technically, I'm part of the three per cent of Singaporeans who are unemployed. I have no job title. I have no money. I have no car - heck I don't even have a driving license. And besides, hey, I'm unmarried. I've had one abortion. I have no kids. I still live in my Mummy's house and take the MRT to wherever I need to go.

I wish we could all go back to the time just before all of us graduated and found jobs, when everything was fun and happy and easy and when there was less need to compete and compare. Today, everybody is desperate to prove herself, as if to make up for some awful hidden deficiency that's lying dormant deep inside.

Ten years ago, we competed for the best grades. Today, we compete for who has the best career/boyfriend/financial standing. Tomorrow, we will compete for who's kids are the smartest, prettiest, and in the best schools.

Such is life. And such are humans.

You all make me sick.

To add...

2007-03-26T01:25:00.000+08:00

Coming out of a 10-year relationship into one that's pretty much still in its infancy takes so much adapting, especially when this is really only my second real relationship.

How sad is it when you are pushing 30 and you hardly know what a relationship and courtship these days is all about? And when the last time I really dated was 10 years ago, how the fuck am I now supposed to know what is alright for me to expect, to demand and to want without seeming like a total nutcase.

Back then, if I wanted to have dinner with Babes, I say, eh, let's have dinner. If I was lonely and had nothing to do, I'd say, eh, come home early leh. If I needed cash, I'd say, eh, fuck leh, got 50 bucks or not, I lost my ATM card. If I wanted the plumbing fixed at home, I'd say, eh, fix the cheebye sink leh.

Now, everything is a guessing game. Do you wanna have dinner? Cos it's okay if you don't want to because I don't want to have dinner with you unless you want to. Do you wanna come over? Cos it's okay if you wanna stay home and study or do your thing cos I don't want you to be over if you'd rather be home. Are you saying things because you know I want you to say them or are you saying things because you really mean them? Are you lying to me? Because how can you forget that you did something when there was such a compelling reason that made you do that something in the first place.

He's seen me naked. I've seen him naked. I have sex with him. We fuck. I take Yasmin because we fuck. And yet I still cannot say to him, please come over soon because I fucking miss you and I do not want to spend my nights alone because the nights are lonely and quiet and I am fucking scared to be alone because I do not want to wake up tomorrow and find that you never meant the things you said to me yesterday.

I say I love him. I say I miss him. But there are times when I want so much to say I love you and I miss you, and will you stay over a little longer, and have breakfast and lunch and dinner with me and my mouth stays pursed and sealed, and I smile and say bye bye go home, I'll see you later. I do this because I do not want to be one of those desperate clingy little girls who are so repulsively irritating that they cannot function without their men by their sides.

But deep inside it doesn't change the fact that I am needy anyway. I am needy because I am scared. I am scared because if there's anything I've learnt from my one miserable little failure of a relationship, it's that it doesn't matter if a man comes home to you every evening and spends all his nights beside you on your bed. Every minute that a man is not by your side is an opportunity for him to fuck around outside.

How much I want to trust. How much he wants to trust.

But mostly, how much I want to be able to say everything I feel and mean and wish I could say without being so paranoid, so afraid that I'd wish I'd never said anything in the first place.

I'm happy-sad

2007-03-26T00:43:00.000+08:00

So are you going to give me the key to your house when I get back, he asked me one day over the phone. That was some time back, just a couple of weeks after he'd left, when both of us - at least I know I was - were miserable because there were 3,800 miles of land and sea separating us and keeping his chocolate body away from my bed at night.

It made me happy to hear him gush like that, about how he wanted to marry me, and how he could see himself going to bed and waking up with me every day. And now, he wanted my key.

I don't know what that means to the average person over here. But to me, asking for my key was just as good as saying he wanted to move in with me. To spend time before work with me. To be with me after work. To watch the telly with me. To have breakfast and lunch and dinner with me. To just be there and around me even if there wasn't anything particularly couply or interesting to do.

And it made me happy. Because yes, it's fast. And yes, perhaps I was being a little too rash. But I was happy. I was happy because it meant that he really wanted to be with me. That my sleepy face every morning wasn't that horrible to look at. That my morning breath was probably horrendous but despite that, it was still okay. He wanted to be with me anyway.

Only girls gush like that, like... I want to ride off together with you on a pink pony into an orange sunset past soft green fields of grass where we will always be together forever and ever. I gush like that all the time - when he strokes my hair as I'm watching the telly and I pretend not to notice; when he tells me he loves me; when sometimes I stare at him for no reason at all; when he goes to sleep with that little frown in between his forehead. Except that I gush about it in my head, and I never say it out loud.

But he says everything out loud. I want to wake up with you every morning. I want your key. I want to marry you . I want to be with you every minute every day. I want you. I only want you.

And sometimes I think to myself. That's really all very nice and sweet. But how much of this were you saying because you were lonely and away from me and caught up in the moment, caught up in whatever you so happened to be feeling at that time?

Girls gush. Or at least, I gush. But I gush, and I mean so much of it. I do want to ride off together on a pink pony, to spend my days and have fun with him; I do want to gallop towards an orange sunset because next year, and the year after and the next after, I still want to be with him. And yes, horribly cheesy as it sounds, I kinda do want to spend forever and ever with him.

Men say things and make promises. But they are fickle fickle fickle people. Men say things because they feel it then, and they think they mean it then. And so they say things without considering what the words really mean, and what consequences they bring. They don't mean to make you wonder. They don't mean to disappoint you. They don't mean to hurt you. They just do these things because men are driven by testosterone and they are unable to think before impulse gets the better of them.

And so I guess I'm sad. I'm happy still. But at the same time, I'm sad.

For my brother

2007-03-14T08:37:00.000+08:00

If I remember correctly, it was the time I was in between jobs. That eight month period or so after I left the bitchy advertising agency I had worked for and was sniffing around for a position of a journalist or junior reporter. I was still quite fresh from university and I was probably about 22 or 23, brimming with all the naive idealism of youth.

My brother, six years younger than I, called me on my mobile one day. I think I remember him sounding nervous, like he knew what he had to say might upset me.

"I saw him with another girl, cheh," he said.

I laughed it off, feeling irritated and defensive at the same time. It couldn't be. He wouldn't cheat. He just wouldn't. He wouldn't because I knew he wouldn't.

And what did my little brother know anyway?

Besides, that girl was his cousin. No big deal. Hadn't he just called me a couple of minutes earlier to let me know his relatives from abroad were in town and he had been given the responsibility of showing them around?

Seven years later, I cannot imagine how stupid and blind I was. I feel ashamed for trusting an outsider, for failing to see that I was merely his trophy prize and that I never meant anything to him. He never loved me despite claims to the contrary.

I'm sorry. You really are the best brother in the world. Sometimes, you might look like a chao ah beng with your messy hair and noisy bike and Hokkien peppered English. On the outside you might look like a loutish hooligan (the way I can sometimes look like a lian). But we all know that underneath that sloppy exterior, your intelligence carries you a notch above the rest. I'm not just saying it. I really believe it. Your views on people, the world and life itself show way more insight and maturity that many others older than you have yet to develop. I don't know exactly what the purpose of this post and this italicised message to you is. I guess what I really want to tell you is that I love you and that I'm bloody proud of you.

Do you really still?

2007-03-14T00:01:00.000+08:00

I always tell my pilot boy that the first time we kissed was when he stole my heart. In response, sometimes he just hugs me closer. Sometimes he says he loves me back. Sometimes he keeps quiet. And sometimes, he asks me, "Really?"

Yes. Really. Really really. Really really really.

I wish it were something that I said only because it sounds dreamy and romantic, that it's something I made up because I want to create a perfect start to my very own fairytale. Because then I wouldn't have to wish that I didn't remember what it was like - that I nearly started wheezing because I almost forgot to breathe and that I felt as if my chest and stomach were beginning to suffocate me with wave after wave of giggling, tingling joy.

Because then I wouldn't have to look back wistfully and wonder if it's just my imagination at work, or whether it's true that he really doesn't feel the need to kiss me like that anymore.

I feel silly. And girly. And irritatingly emotional. Many times I wish I could just give myself a good smack on the head and snap out of my annoyingly maudlin behaviour. Because I ask the questions so many times that even I am losing patience with myself. Do you still love me, I ask. The same? The same? Do you really still love me the same? Do you still want to marry me? Am I still your Mrs Pilot Boy? Do you still want to kiss me? Do I still make you horny? Do I? Do you still want me the way you used to when we first got together? Really? Really really?

And he says. Yes. Really. Really really. Really really really.

Just a couple of days before the end of my second holiday along the Sunshine Coast, my doubts begin to snowball, finally crashing in a huge avalanche of emotion where I begin to tear suddenly and profusely for no reason at all.

I get so embarrassed at my pathetic display of weakness, my ridiculous show of insecurity, and that stream of tears that mocks me by forcing its way out of my eyes and down on my cheeks that I make up excuses for myself.

It's the damn pill. My period. My ex. Friendster. Money. The weather. Something. Anything.

Anything as long as it's not me because my name is DiDa and DiDa does not cry over ah niang things like do you love me and why won't you kiss me the way you used to? And DiDa is DiDa who is rational and logical and mature and worldly wise about life and the way it's supposed to be. And DiDa is DiDa who should be sensible enough to know that sometimes talking, kissing, hugging and fucking are out of the question because stress and loving don't make good bedfellows.

Pilot boy is frantic with frustration because I just won't tell him what's wrong. I just don't see the point. A simple question of why won't you kiss me the way you used to will invariably progress to are you kissing me the way you used to because you know I want you to kiss me the way you used to?

Voice your doubts one time, and a million others appear.

Can't win, can I?

One thousand five hundred and fifty dollars

2007-03-13T13:27:00.000+08:00

I'm back in Singapore after too many lazy days along the Sunshine Coast. I really intended to blog about stuff that's been going on with pilot boy and I in the last coupla days.

But my eardrums nearly popped and I'm still feeling a stunned buzzing in my head after getting off the phone with the Singtel lady who explained that the reason why my mobile phone line had been cut so abruptly two days ago was because I have an outstanding account of a whopping $1,556.

One thousand bucks. How the FUCK did I spend one fucking thousand bucks on handphone bills in the last one and a half months.

Oh god. I need to go somewhere and cry.

What's in a laugh

2007-03-02T11:48:00.000+08:00

My pilot boy has this wickedly fake laugh that he laughs during times when he knows he's expected to laugh but really doesn't feel like laughing. I love his fake laugh because only I can tell it's fake. It took a while at first for me to distinguish between his fake and real laugh, but eventually I caught on to the signs that a deep, low bellow is a fake laugh, and his higher-pitched, squeakier laugh is a real laugh.

It's great, these fake laughs of his. Because they save everybody a lot of embarassment and discomfort. Like during that media dinner at Fraser Island that I'd hastily arranged in the hope that I could make some money and recoup the tonnes I've spent on the two trips here. My media contact would be muttering some sort of joke, and I would be sitting there, smiling politely, struggling to think of something clever to say so it wouldn't be too obvious that the guy's jokes were lame and that nobody actually found them funny at all.

Then, all of a sudden, my pilot boy starts doubling up in laughter, giving out these deep bellows and guffaws as if what had been said had to be absolutely the funniest thing in the world. I continue smiling politely. I try to laugh my own fake laugh, but I don't have a very convincing fake laugh, so eventually I just keep quiet and let my pilot boy do all the laughing. So he laughs his fake laugh, the media guy laughs his real laugh thinking he must be the wittiest, most entertaining host in the media industry, and the evening is saved.

The first few times I head my pilot boy's fake laugh, I remember feeling totally puzzled. Is my pilot boy mad? I thought. What the fuck is so funny that he's laughing like a hyena watching Comedy Central? Am I dumb, I thought. Is my sense of humour so totally off that I don't find anything funny and my pilot boy is ho-ho-ho-ing away and doing a jolly old merry Santa Claus?

But now I know he saves his real laughs for me, and his fake laughs for everybody else. And really, it's an absolute delight whenever he laughs his fake laugh and everybody else laughs along thinking we all get the joke, and only he and I know that we both actually have no idea what these crazy ang mohs are mumbling about in their weird accents.

Where I would live

2007-02-27T11:40:00.000+08:00

It's making me increasingly irritated that so many people are blasting my choice of Where I Would Want To Live If I Could Choose

I never said the United States was a perfect place. Hallo. I know this is the real world. Nothing is perfect. I'm not perfect. You are not perfect. Singapore is not perfect. Australia is definitely not perfect, and yes. The mighty US of A is not perfect.

I know that people kill each other there. I know that there are some siao langs in America who think nothing of gunning down people just for the heck of it. I also know that food sucks in America. I know that the Ku Klux Klan is alive and kicking in some parts of the American midwest (and probably in others as well) and that as a minority race in America, it's probably inevitable that I will, at some point or other, encounter racial slurs of some sort if decide to move Misha and all my barang barang to some idyllic ulu mountain in Montana.

But the thing is, I'm not saying I want to live in America because of pretty rose-tinted images I have of the country from movies and books and television. It's not like I haven't been there before. Not like I haven't made frequent enough visits back and forth to visit my relatives there that I don't know what it's like.

I remember feeling scared in San Francisco even in broad daylight because there were these dodgy people hanging out everywhere in sleazy alleyways and sidestreets. I remember thinking how old and ugly Spokane in Washington was, and how dangerous it felt to be strolling its streets one bright afternoon just before the 4th of July celebrations.

But despite all the potholes and pimply, craggy warts that dot its seemingly glossy exterior, I do think that America of all places, would be the one place I would choose to live in if I had a choice.

And I absolutely hate it when people say I don't know what I'm talking about when it's precisely THEM who do not know what I'M talking about.

Australia

2007-02-27T10:57:00.000+08:00

I do not like Australia.

I do not like this country because it is so damn hard to find wireless Internet access down here. I literally spent half the morning on my first day back on the Sunshine Coast walking up and down the Maroochy River carrying a huge heavy laptop and popping into practically every cafe by the streets going through - over and over - the same darned:

"Hello, how do you do? Fine? Good good. You? Good? Good. Yes, how's it going? Yes. Good good. Great. Fantastic. Good good. Do you happen to have wireless Internet access here? No? Oh shucks. Oh well. Thanks anyway. Have a good day. Yes. Thanks. Cheers. See you. Yes. Good. Yes. Bye"

Adding on to the fact that this first-world country has dismal third-world Internet access, I do not like Australia because I feel this is a goddamned racist country that is so racist you don't know when people are being racist. It's a subtle form of racism that does not have people call out, "chinky yellow chink with slitty eyes!" at you whenever you walk the streets. It's more of an indirect manifestation of racism which has you feel that people are looking at you out of the corners of their eyes every time you cross the road to grab a cup of coffee, that has you wondering why the cashier is smiling at you with pursed lips, and that has you scratching your head and wondering why the shop falls silent when you walk inside.

Australians are friendly people. By and large, they make small talk and greet you and ask you how's it going, and have you had a nice day. They are very friendly people, but they aren't friendly at all. Their every cheers, hi, mate, g'day smacks of insincerity so glowingly fake I wonder why they even bother at all.

And it sucks. It really really sucks because I've never felt like this in any other part of the world. Most times, people don't make any effort to be friendly because they genuinely don't give a shitty damn. And in other times, people really are friendly, because they want to be friendly, and they are friendly. Down here it's a grudging kind of friendly. A do-for-the-sake-of-it kinda friendly because that's what's Australians are supposed to be: friendly.

But mostly, I do not like Australia because this place is full of tiko angmohs who assume that all Asians are meek little dwarf like things put on earth to satisfy the sexual urges of white men. The whole problem is that this country is too close to places like Cambodia and Vietnam and Thailand where the sex trade is doing a roaring business, and thus every Asian women is to them a delicious little sexy tidbit to nibble on.

I was doing nothing even vaguely provocative to encourage that Australian pervert with the bad breath and horrendous body odour who was sitting beside me on the plane during the flight from Singapore to Brisbane. In fact, I was babbling on and on about my pilot boy who would be waiting for me at the airport with kisses and hugs and open arms that I would happily fling myself into. And he had, or so he claimed, a wife and a 10-year-old daughter who could play the clarinet and the flute and rode horses.

Perfectly decent, normal conversation, I would think. I would have had this small talk with practically anybody else - male or female - just to make time pass faster, and just to make a long flight a little more pleasant.

But this pookimak apparently takes my civility as an invitation to grope me because about five hours into the flight, when I am just about dozing off, I feel his hand wriggle onto my knee. And it's a difficult thing to explain. It's so difficult to articulate what you feel when something like that happens to you. And strangely, when common sense dictates that the only legitimate feelings you should be experiencing at a time like this are that of anger, the sad truth is that your whole mind becomes caught up in a terrible whirlwind of practically every emotion you have ever known.

Instead of being angry, I felt doubt, fear, insecurity, outrage that I could be so presumptuous that someone would want to grope my ugly knobbly knee. Did I do anything to encourage him, I thought. Did I smile too much? Talk too much? Say something inappropriate? Was it my fault? Was he molesting me? Was that grope on the knee cause for me to get angry and call a flight attendant? Should I make a fuss? Should I let it go? What about his 10-year-old daughter? What would happen to her if something happened to him? What if people didn't believe me? What if the snotty Qantas stewardess thought the same - that I was merely a cheap little Asian hussy? What if I said something and nobody did anything? What if he did it again? What if he didn't? Did that mean I dreamt the whole thing up?

I gave him the benefit of the doubt the first time, thinking he had accidentally let his hand slip onto my leg. But the second time it happened, he got bolder, grabbing on to my thigh and starting to move his fingers, and that was when I got really really angry.

"Excuse me. But why are you resting your hand on my thigh?" I yelled, just about loud enough for the entire cabin to hear me.

And I think he realised he'd misjudged me, that I wasn't just another docile subservient Asian little girl who would sit meekly in her seat while he had his way with his right hand on my thigh and left hand on his penis. So he apologised profusely, and the more he did, the angrier I got because this was a cheebye lang who was going to make the rest of my flight extremely inconvenient and uncomfortable.

So I don't remember everything I said to him, but I called the flight attendants, and demanded they move me to another seat. I also recall saying in my calmest voice that "friendliness does not mean that I am a hussy", and "don't be sorry. You know what you did," and that he should "save your sorries for your 10-year-old daughter who I am sure will be more than mortified to know her father gropes strange female thighs onboard airplanes."

I could have yelled and cussed and screamed, I suppose. And when I told my pilot boy about what happened, his first instinct was that that was what I should have done. But really, in situations like this, staying calm and composed always makes you look like a better person. It also makes you more believable especially in the face of an incident that puts your word against someone else's.

If something like this had happened to a fellow passenger on board the same plane I was in, I would have infinitely more respect for someone who kept calm instead of yelling and cussing like a loony. After all, in situations like this, when you only have yourself to rely upon, behaving with dignity makes you look so much more credible.

My bed is red

2007-02-16T00:12:00.000+08:00

I sleep on a red bed. It's a nice big red bed with enough space for my pilot boy and I to do the whoopee whoop before I cuddle up in his arms and we go to sleep at night. It's also springy and bouncy enough to give me giggly thrills when I do the trampoline, complete with the infectious (eh, face it la. Numa Numa is a damn good song lah.) thump-thump beats of Numa Numa on it.

I like my red bed because it's red. The colour red reminds me that there is plenty to be happy about. So even when the skies are overcast and the clouds make everything look so gloomy, my red bed sits chirpily cheery in my tiny, dingy, heartlander room, and I'm reminded that despite the fact that I can't find Jolly Ranchers and In the States anymore, it's ok. I have a red bed.

I think my red bed used to be a clean red bed, even though Misha (my dog la, my dog) has this annoying habit of crunching on cucumbers/tomatoes/oranges/carrots/apples/
grapes/leftover cai sim stalks/broccoli (say BRAW-klee, people. Not bro-KAW-lee) on my nice bouncy springy red bed. I think it used to be clean despite the fact that Misha loves to roll all over the bed and leave ticklish little wisps of fur in her trail.

But now I have a dirty red bed. Because on my red bed is a dirty smelly T-shirt that has not been washed for, let's see, a month? It's an ugly grey and it has that distinct human smell that tells you it has been worn, but not washed.

This dirty smelly T-shirt belongs to a dirty smelly boy. This dirty smelly boy is also my pilot boy, and he gave me his dirty smelly T-shirt to bring back home here when I said my teary, slobbering, blubbering, messy, drama-queen farewell to him at the Brisbane Airport. This way, even if I couldn't see him back home, here in Singapore, at least I would be able to hear him over the phone and smell his dirty smelly smell on his dirty smelly T-shirt, he said.

So now I sleep on my red bed. With a dirty smelly T-shirt.

I like.

Silly

2007-02-15T09:19:00.000+08:00

Oh! I am so happy! My pilot boy loves me. He loves me. Oh yes he loves me!

Poor roses

2007-02-14T17:59:00.000+08:00

This is so funny.

I'm currently sitting at a quiet corner of a MacDonalds restaurant near my home. I was forced to come here to check email and do all my online crap because the good folks at Singnet decided to gently remind me of my outstanding bill by abruptly cutting off my connection.

Not that the connection was any good to begin with anyway, despite me dutifully forking out 82 fucking bucks each month for a very unpredictable 1500 mbps connection. I hear that it's now.. what? Just 36 puny dollars?

(EAT MY STINKY SOCKS THAT I HAVEN'T WASHED IN TWO MONTHS, SINGNET!!)

But greedy fuckers at the top of the Singnet hierachy aside, I'm so amused because I've just witnessed a classic case of Valentine's Day nonsense.

Long-haired heroine is sitting by her lonesome self, just like me, in a corner of this MacDonalds restaurant. She is reading a copy of 8 Days, tapping her toes and waiting for her tall dark and handsome hero to make his obligatory Valentine's Day appearance.

He swoops in, over the mountains, across the oceans, and blazes through the fingerprintey glass door of this MacDonalds restaurant. He races to his sweetheart's side and presents her with a pink plastic wrapped bouquet of 12 red roses.

She looks up. She accepts the roses. She says thank you. She puts the bouquet on the chair beside the one she is sitting on. She goes back to reading her 8 Days magazine. He sits opposite her, across the table, plugs in his headphones and reads his copy of Maxim.

They don't talk. They don't look each other. She reads her magazine. He reads his. And the bouquet of roses sits forlornly on the chair.

I pity the roses.

(Speaking of which, why must it be roses? Roses are just red. They say jack shit. Someone give me Forget-Me-Nots anytime because at least Forget-Me-Nots say forget-me-not.

Oh, but just for the heck of it, Happy Valentine's Day to all you less cynical lovebirds out there.

Insecurity

2007-02-14T03:11:00.000+08:00

I hate it that, sometimes, the person who makes you cry is the one and only person who can make you stop.

I do not want to know

2007-02-13T22:56:00.000+08:00

Sometimes, there is no point asking questions because some questions have no answers. And even if there were answers somewhere out there, they would never be the right ones. I choose not to ask because I do not want to add questions to questions. I do not want to know because knowing will bring more questions.

I hate that you had a past before I came into your life. I hate that I wasn't there to share it with you. I hate that I wasn't always your special someone. I hate that I'm not the only girl you've said those words to. I hate that these thoughts bother me. I hate that they make me wonder. I hate that they make me think. I hate that they make me ask.

I hate that I ache to know. At the same time, I hate that I hate to know.

I prefer not to know. I think I prefer not to know. It would be better if I preferred not to know. Because I choose to believe in now, and I choose to believe in us. You might have once been hers. And hers. And hers. But today, the lips you kiss are mine, and the arms that hold me are yours.

So I am not the only one with a past. You are not the only one with questions. And just because I do not ask does not mean I do not question.

I wish all my questions had answers.

I wish you had all the right ones.

Then again, I do not want to know.

Please lock it. It fucks with my mind and I don't want to read it anymore.

I quit my smokes

2007-02-13T12:10:00.000+08:00

I have not touched a cigarette in one week. It's really funny how hard this is, considering that I was smoke free for a good year or two. But when shit happened, it was almost impossible to resist temptation and I ended up seeking solace in the macho Marlboro man.

It wasn't that I didn't know smoking was bad for me and that I might end up with black teeth and tarred lungs. But you see, I just wasn't used to being alone. And my hands, my hands. I didn't know what to do with my hands.

I think I mentioned it before. I hate my arms and hands. Where do you put your arms and hands so they don't feel like two pieces of deadwood that fling about in the clumsiest of ways? And just what do you do with those fingers when you're feeling restless, biting your nails in public is not an option, and you feel a compulsive need to fiddle with something?

But as much as I like my smokes, all this has got to stop. The combination of Yasmin and cigarettes is making me bleed irregularly, and well... bloody sex just isn't very sexy. Plus I don't want to keel over midflight on my way to visit my pilot boy because smoking and birth control pills has caused my poor abused body to protest by way of pulmonary thrombosis or DVT.

Quitting is so hard.

I miss that cherry sweet smell of my favourite SKLs. I still think about smoking each time I'm typing away on my computer, rushing a deadline. Somehow, working is a lot less stressful if you puff and type and write at the same time. I also miss smoking in my room just before bed, vegetating and doing absolutely nothing, except inhale and exhale and watch little spirals of cigarette smoke fill the room. I hate that once I quit, I will never again be able to hang out at cafes in town, read my book, sip on a long black and drag on a cigarette at the same time.

But thank goodness Chinese New Year is around the corner. Because taking the place of my cancer sticks are Glory pineapple tarts - soft and crumbly on the outside, sweet and chewy on the inside. And at the rate I'm polishing off jar after jar, my pilot boy's gonna be wondering how that hot chick at Rochester Park's Da Paolo's got to become a carbon copy of that wobbling walrus at Hungry Jacks.

You'll still love me right?

Mind your grammar

2007-02-12T23:24:00.000+08:00

I just happened to catch a television trailer on Channel Five about the story of some girl with cancer, and how she fights the disease.

I don't remember every bit of it, but certain parts of the script were so glaringly ungrammatical I swear I literally saw the text jump out from my telly screen and bite me in the eye.

1) Someone please tell the clueless scriptwriter that certain words are found in plural form only.

It's not possible for someone to have "lost her tress". People lose their tressES. You cannot count tressES. No such thing as one tress, two tresses, three tresses. Tresses are tresses are tresses.

2) Please also gently remind this scriptwriter that English and Chinese are two totally different languages.

Thus, while it might be correct to say zao hui in Chinese, a direct translation of that phrase to "found back" in English makes no language sense. You can't "find back something". You either find it, or you don't find it. Plain and simple.

I suspect the word "rediscovered" might have expressed what the writer meant a lot more clearly, and a lot more grammatically.

Someone, please do us all a favour and slap the writer who wrote the script, then shoot her equally moronic supervisor.

And you wonder why English standards in Singapore are deplorable?

I pity the poor guy who did the voiceover. I wouldn't want to be caught dead reading something as horrible as that on national television.

The Singapore Girl

2007-02-11T13:29:00.000+08:00

Ever since the beginning, the Singapore Airlines branding has always been the Singapore Girl. As much as it wanted all of us to believe, it was never about the excellent service, the Asian hospitality, the lengths it would go to make a passenger feel comfortable. The truth really, is that Singapore Airlines has always been about the pretty girl in the Pierre Balmain designed sarong kebaya with the red lips and the beehive hair. And if you ask me, this was all designed to cater to the Westerner's ideal of a subservient Asian woman.

So now, for the first time in 35 years, the airline is tendering out its advertising account, and it seems, the Singapore Girl might well be history. I think that's an excellent idea. SIA has long achieved worldwide recognition as a premium airline - if the ticket prices are not convincing enough, just look at its slew of awards in 2006 - and now, there is no pressing need to quickly win over the global market by prostituting the exotic image of a pretty Asian lady.

But all this is not going down very well with people like Madam See Biew Wah, who was the SIA stewardess on which Balmain perfected the famous sarong kebaya. And she indignantly says that the uniform has always been the source of her strength and pride.

And she says, "The first time we wore the kebaya in Europe, several pedestrians walked into lamp posts because they were so engrossed. It's a beautiful uniform which brings instant recognition."

Madam See left SIA in 1980, but she still claims to wear an "invisible uniform" that keeps her "strong and confident". She adds, "Once a Singapore Girl, always a Singapore Girl."

I have nothing against the Balmain kebaya. It is quite beautiful, and it really does show off the tits and ass of an SIA stewardess to dramatic effect. And yes, everytime I think SIA, I do immediately think of the kebaya as well. But "source of strength and pride" that keeps one "strong and confident"? That I don't understand.

I suppose Madam See takes pride in having once been the face of our national carrier. And I do suppose her confidence stems from being one of the few chosen to represent the image of SIA.

Yes, the Singapore Girl has long been synonymous with Singapore Airlines. Yes, I see why Madam See thinks that's something to be proud of. But has nobody stopped to think for a bit and realise that she is also the living, breathing representation of the meek, docile, brainless Asian woman who was created by a white man for the white man?

Let's all face it. SIA stewardesses are selected for the way they look (and frankly, it's not as if they look that good either). In satisfying the fantasies of the white man, the Singapore Girl must be Asian, must look sweet - ie timid - and must smile all the time.

Singapore Girls cannot be too fat or they will not fit into the kebaya. Not too thin or disproportionate either, or there will be no tits and ass to fill out the kebaya. Pregnant? Once your stomach shows, you had better hide your swollen belly away from passengers who would much rather be served "the chicken or the beef, sir" by a svelte smiling doll than by a waddling sow. Too old? Wrinkles making their silent, stealthy appearance? Then it's time to think about other career opportunities in the airline that do not require smiling and looking pretty.

And thus, there is nothing remarkable in having once been a Singapore Girl. I would tend to think that in many instances, it is more cause for embarrassment than pride and confidence. You could blindfold me and I could tell an SIA flight right away because the stewardesses will bring oh lane joo (orange juice) and serve nooder wee mahsoom (noodles with mushrooms). Or sometimes they might attempt to speak with a clipped British accent ("Ohn-borrrd, we HAHve AH-pel tea, LEH-mon tea, or PEA-ch tea. Wot kahn I get yew, MAH-dm?), only to lapse into horrible sounding Singlish once they think they are safely out of ear shot.

Speech aside, the Singapore Girl also needs some personality lessons. It seems the only thing they know how to do is smile. (Although I must admit that putting on all that make-up and fixing that rock-hard beehive hair probably needs some very special skills.) Have you ever tried to engage in lighthearted banter with a Singapore Girl, or attempt a simple conversation, and elicited more than just a blank stare and vapid smile? Or perhaps theempty head of the Singapore Girl a deliberate marketing strategy, in keeping with the white man's fantasy of a witless, smiling, Asian bimbo.

Substance. Where is the substance?

There is nothing wrong in wanting to be a Singapore Girl. Girls want to look pretty. Girls all want some sort of validation that they are pretty. Being a stewardess can be a rewarding job if you're young and clueless and want to travel the world for free. But the SIA sarong kebaya is no badge of honour.To take such immense pride in having once been a Singapore Girl, going to the extent of declaring proudly that it makes one "strong and confident", well...

That is seriously a bimbotic thing to say. Especially at the age of 62.

Die, Friendster. DIE!

2007-02-10T15:38:00.000+08:00

Dear Friendster,

I hate you.

You reek of evil. Your stink was born from malice. Your hate is caused by spite.

Not everybody sees beyond your smiling mask, your seemingly harmless exterior. And you hide your true intentions so well, yet within your generous bosom lies a festering rot, the birthplace of distrust, suspicion, and jealousy.

I hope your decomposing stench attracts a million flies who will all shit and lay eggs on you. I hope a billion maggots come to live amidst your corrupt appeal, and I hope they will all burrow deep inside your hypocritical facade and feed on your malevolent venom.

Simply put, you are a fucking cheebye. I hope you die.

Die, Friendster. DIE.

Yours hatefully,
DiDa

I still believe

2007-02-10T02:20:00.000+08:00

I'm sorry we both said horrible things to each other last night. I'm sorry for my little outburst, and I'm sorry we both got more angry than we really needed to.

And despite all the unpleasantness, you know I love you. I love you more than I dare to show, more than I thought I would.

I still believe you were made for me. I still see stars when you kiss me. And I still feel there is no other place I would rather be than nestled tightly in your arms.

We belong together. You said that once. Do you still believe that now?

Because, don't you see how my head fits perfectly in the crook of your neck?

Don't you remember how my hand reaches out for yours in the middle of the night, and how our fingers then instinctively meet and intertwine?

Can you still see our footprints on the beach - mine, small and faint, yours, large and heavy on the sand?

I left my heart in Sunshine Coast, you know? I left it there because of you. I left it there for you.

And it will always be there. With no one else but you.

Token Valentine's Day post

2007-02-08T12:07:00.000+08:00

I used to think that receiving a bouquet of roses would be the most romantic thing that could ever happen to me. Until it did.

A former boyfriend took me out on Valentine's Day and presented me with the obligatory bouquet of roses - you know, 12 stalks, all red, wrapped in plastic, surrounded by baby's breath and a couple of other purple coloured weeds. I remember looking at the bunch of flowers, gasping for air and water after having been subjected to the ordeal of squeezing up an MRT train, past sweaty armpits and sticky shoulders, and feeling so terribly awkward because at that moment, I wanted nothing more than to shove the entire package into a bin and pretend it never happened.

But of course I didn't. Because I saw the glee and hope in my boyfriend's face, and I knew he was expecting dramatic gasps of joy and perhaps wanted to see a tear or two glistening in the corners of my eyes. So I faked it and gasped for joy. I tried to cry, but the urge to giggle was so overwhelming, I decided the best I could do was keep a straight face.

The evening turned out to be insufferable. There I was, carrying a bunch of wilting roses, unwittingly a participant in the unofficial which-girl-has-the-nicest-bouquet-of-roses competition that kicks off annually on the morning of every Valentine's Day.

I could have shoved the flowers to my boyfriend, but that would have made him look like an even bigger loser, joining the ranks of men-who-carry-their-girlfriends'-pink-furry-Hello Kitty-handbags. And contrary to my seemingly bitch-like nature, I am a very considerate girl with a big heart, and I certainly did not want my boyfriend to parade around town looking like he was a henpecked boy who was used to carrying his girlfriend's disgusting pink feather boa-decorated purse.

I'm sorry. But I think Valentine's Day romance is silly.

What in the fucking world would I do with a bunch of roses? Yes, I know you're supposed to unwrap the plastic and put them all 12 stalks in some nice tall black vase a quarter filled with water. Then you're supposed to put them on the table and ooh and aah, and be constantly reminded of love and romance and everything sugar and spice (oh do I overuse this phrase!). It's all very nice while the flowers are still alive. But then, they die because stalks of flowers have no roots that nourish them with the nutrients needed to sustain them as living things, and then, what joy could I possibly derive from a bunch of 12 dead, smelly, rotting roses?

And even if there were no roses, what the fuck would I do with a brown fluffy teddy bear that holds a heart shaped pillow declaring that he loves me? I do not love brown fluffy teddy bears because they are inanimate objects, and thus I do not give two shit, or ten shit even, whether they love me or not. Besides if my boyfriend wanted to let me know he loves me, I'm pretty sure he's more than capable of articulating those words himself instead of relying on a stuffed piece of fluffy brown cloth with googly eyes and a loopy grin.

Which is why I hate walking down the streets of Orchard Road on Valentine's Day. I hate being accosted by little boys and girls who tout their pink chocolates and blue roses and red balloons. And instead of putting me in a lovey dovey mood, what I really want to say is:

"No I fucking do not want a fucking rose and quit asking the boy beside me whether he would like to buy me one because firstly, he is not my effing boyfriend. Secondly, even if he were my effing boyfriend, it would be disastrous, unthinkable, pathetic and fucking fucking insulting, if he needed you to remind him to buy me a Valentine's Day flower, that is, if I even wanted a feckin rose in the first place.

"I mean like.. FUCK. I really do not want a fucking rose, and all of you on the streets should stop looking at me with pity in your eyes just because I lack a bunch of wilting flowers in my hand. Please stop feeling sorry for me because there is nothing to feel sorry about, and for the last time, for fucking God's sake, I do not want a fucking rose or a teddy bear or a balloon, so please keep those horrendously red Valentine's Day knick knacks away from me before they make me blind."

Because you see, real romance is not about big, grand gestures. Romance is not about doing things simply because you know it's expected of you, or because everybody else is doing it. Honest to god, I see no romance in a marriage proposal that's spelt out in the sky by a whizzing convoy of F14s/15s (or whatever la. My boyfriend is a pilot but I know shit about aeroplanes). I see no romance in elaborate dining rituals at extravagant restaurants with seranading violinists.

Aeroplanes were made so we could go on holidays from Singapore to New York in 20 (plus minus cos I don't know) hours instead of sailing for 100 months in the cabin of a dingy steamship. Plus, when I go to a good restaurant, I want to eat, not listen to music and make goo goo, lovesick eyes.

Big gestures do not make my heart go a thud thud or my stomach go a flutter. What really brings a smile to my face and makes me feel warm and fuzzy and happy are the small things. Like when my boyfriend is roused from a slumber in the middle of the night, and instead of going right back to sleep, he calls me just to say, "I love you baby, and I miss you so much."

THAT is real romance.

Magic

2007-02-03T16:36:00.000+08:00

Love is such a wonderful thing, especially when everything is going so well. Sometimes I catch myself thinking that the only reason why pilot boy was created and put on earth was specifically so that he could be with me. He was made to come swooping in on my life, so that he would scoop me up and put me in his arms, to rescue and save me from myself.

And just the another night, I experienced one moment, that single moment of epiphany that appeared to cement all of my ridiculous imaginary fantasies, and make them seem even more real.

Both of us were cuddling up to each other that night, trying to get ourselves sleepy seeing that it was not even past midnight yet. The thing about being on holiday in the Sunshine Coast for that long a stretch is that after some time, there really is nothing else to do. The mornings and afternoons are fine, because even though pilot boy may be at work, the beach and sun and my goal of achieving an even tan keeps me occupied enough. But in the evenings, when all the cafes and restaurants and shops are closed, it's hard to find anything else to do other than watch Travel & Living on cable telly.

And honestly, even if the cafes and restaurants and shops remain open till late at night, we couldn't possibly hang out there and eat and drink ourselves silly every evening because, well, my father isn't Kwek Leng Beng and his father isn't Ong Beng Seng.

So anyway, both of us are lying in bed together. My head is on his chest and I'm half kissing half sniffing his neck the way I always do, and he's just staring up at the ceiling absentmindedly stroking my hair. Then suddenly, at exactly the same moment, for totally no reason I can think of at all, both of us stop, turn to face one another, and we both say in unison, "I'm happy."

And it happens again the next day, when both of us are strolling along the cafes and shops along the Mooloolaba beach. I'm holding a Baskin Robbins Chocolate Mousse ice cream in my hand, and he's sipping on a cappucino. We're walking hand in hand, not saying very much, yet content just to have one another for company. Then, just as I feel a sudden wave of affection for him, and begin to put my arm around his waist and pull him closer, I feel him doing the exactly the same thing. And once again, we stop, look at each other, and we both say in unison, "You're mine."

I don't know if this happens to all couples after they've been together for some time. You become more in tune with one another, more sensitive to even the most subtle of body language, more familiar with the verbal phrases your partner likes to use, that coincidences begin to take place all the time. You think the same things, say the same things, do the same things, all at the same time. I'll bet there's a science to it. I'll bet if someone conducted studies on telepathic communication, they'll find that it happens a lot with people who have established strong bonds with one another.

But really, fuck the science of it all. You see, at that moment, it felt like magic. And because it seems a lot more romantic to think about it this way, I'm going to keep on thinking that that was what it was. Magic.

Questions

2007-02-02T15:46:00.000+08:00

Do you still see stars when we kiss?
Do you still want to hug and hold me all the time?
Does your heart still flutter when you see me?
Do you still think about me every waking moment?

Does it still make you happy just to know I'm on the other side of the phone even though we've talked about everything there is to talk about and there is nothing left to say?

Does it bother you that I'm a slob?
Does it bother you that I cannot drive?
Does it bother you that I'm picky and I love to complain?
Does it bother you that I'm vain and can be so ah niang?

Do I still make you happy?
Do I still make you laugh?
Do you have fun when you're with me?

Am I more special than all your other former girlfriends?
Are you sure you didn't want to marry them too?
Are you sure you couldn't see yourself waking every morning beside them, the way you say you can with me?

Do you think I'm too short?
Do you still like my curves?
Do you still think I'm hot?
Do you still think I'm pretty?
Do you still want to make love to me all the time?

Do you still think we belong together?
Do I still mean the world to you?
Am I still your everything?
Am I still everything you ever wanted?

Because to me, you were perfect from the start.
And you are still perfect to me now.

All I want is a plate of hor fun

2007-02-02T11:42:00.000+08:00

Food in ang moh countries sucks. You just have to take one quick look at the kind of crap that's available on their streets to come to the conclusion that ang mohs display a blatant lack of creativity in the kitchens.

See, we Asians stir fry our foods. We braise them, we steam them, we fry them, we double boil them. We have soya sauce and oyster sauce and fish sauce and fermented soya beans and sesame oil and rice wine and five spice powder. We have coriander and ginger and galangal and tumeric and lemongrass and cloves and chives and pandan leaves and chillis.

Now. Ang mohs just dip their meats in flour and batter and bread crumbs and deep fry them. There's only two types of seasoning: salt and pepper, and maybe, but very rarely, the occasional garlic and onion. But that's it. Vegetables are either cooked till soft and mushy with salt and butter, or left raw (because ang mohs just don't know what else to do with leaves) and smothered with creamy dressing that hides the taste of every single tomato/cucumber/lettuce leaf found inside the salad.

Of course I'm not saying that there are no creative ang moh cooks. The problem is that creative ang moh cooks are not cooks. They are chefs, the Heston Blumenthals or Ferran Adrias, the it names in molecular gastronomy who concoct weird dishes like whipped Nitrogen mousse of Beluga caviar with egg ice cream. They are the chefs who offer degustation menus and seven course dinners served alongside wines with oakey, buttery, citrusy, flowery, fruitey, chocolatey, vanillaey, maple syrupy undertones.

Walking the streets of Sunshine Coast makes me very very sad when I'm hungry. This is the Queensland coastline. Imagine the tonnes of fresh fish and mudcrabs and prawns happily floating around and bumping into each other in the ocean! Over here, seafood served to you on your plate is probably so fresh it'll probably come alive again and start swimming if you throw your food back into the water.

I can think of a billion ways to cook all this seafood - the freshest drunken prawns, the sweetest pepper crab, the most tender, most delicate steamed fish, firm crunchy braised scallops. But over here, they take their prawns and fish and scallops, dunk them in flour or breadcrumbs and deep fry them.

I thought you only deep fried seafood if the fish meat was rotting and the prawn heads were falling off. I always assumed the reason why anyone would coat everything with salt and flour and oil was to disguise the putrid smell of rotting seafood. And over here, they deep fry perfectly fresh fish, prawns and scallops, so that it really doesn't matter how fresh the seafood is anyway because all you can taste is the flour and the oil.

What a waste of all that good seafood. I really should come here and set up a tzi char stall.

The Eumundi Markets

2007-02-01T22:21:00.000+08:00

The beaches are the greatest attraction here on the coast of Queensland, Australia, stretching for more than 1,700 miles (too lazy to convert to kilometres). Of course, everybody who steps foot on its sandy shores will most probably end up at Surfer's Paradise in the Gold Coast, or much further up north where The Great Barrier Reef basks in all its colourful marine glory.

I, of course, am in Sunshine Coast, nowhere as tourist infested as the Gold Coast, and significantly less spectacular than the almighty reef itself, but you can be sure that if it's anything to do with the sun, sand, and sea, the whole of coastal Queensland has what you're looking for.

Down in Sunshine Coast, if you want a river, there's the Maroochy River. If you want calm waters with only the occasional baby wave, there's Caloundra and its surrounding beaches. If you want a sandy island that looks like a comfortable ten-minute swim from the shoreline, there's Bribie Island. If you want to see first-hand what your geography teacher meant when she tried to explain what a spit was, there's Mooloolaba. If you want huge waves and a wide expanse of open beach, there's Sunshine Beach. If you want hip cafes and swanky designer boutiques and restaurants, there's Noosa Heads.

But really. after a while, all beaches look the same, you don't think?

A cackling sun amidst a bald blue sky left only with little tufts of sparse white cloads. Miles and miles of powdery white sands that look deceivingly soft and comforting only to sizzle and bake your barenaked feet the moment you take off your slippers. Wide expanses of salty ocean water, some with big waves, some with smaller waves, some with no waves.

Sun, sand, sea. Sun sand, sea. Same thing over and over. After a while, you start feeling a little bit like... so what? Which is why if you ask me what the most interesting thing I've done on the Sunshine Coast has been, it would be that visit to the Eumundi Markets.

The Eumundi Markets can be found in the town of - where else - Eumundi, population about 500, and situated maybe about 20 minutes away from Maroochydore. The markets are made up of small-time farmers, craftsmen, painters, cooks, bakers from the town who set up their tiny stalls for business every Wednesday and Saturday. Now, this doesn't seem very interesting, but considering that the markets are one of the main sources of revenue for this tiny town, they probably have much more to offer than the typical pasar malam we get here.

We didn't know how much there was to browse and look at, taste, drink, and sample at the markets, so pilot boy and I wasted precious time dilly dallying and mooching around our rented apartment wrestling each other in the morning, and only got to the town one hour before closing time.

It was such a waste because there must be hundreds of these tiny stalls, bustling with tourists and smiling locals who sell what must be the freshest farm produce on the Sunshine Coast. I never checked this out thoroughly, but if memory serves me correctly, a quality standards test has to be passed if any townsperson wants the privilege of hawking his goods at the Eumundi Markets, which stakes a claim as being famous the world over.

There was homebrewed ginger beer, sweet with a hint of spice and just a slight kick of alcohol; bursting bratwurst sausages, its juices spilling out and mixing with the tongue-curling tanginess of sweetsour sauerkraut; the most fragrant smelling peaches I had ever tasted, still firm enough to produce a satisfying crunch, and exploding with sweetness in the mouth; chunky chicken and steak pies chockful of meat and mushrooms and oozing with tasty, homemade gravy. There was even a farmer we spotted, a former Chinese national from Guangzhou province, who was sitting behind her own stall hawking fresh pak choy, huang di cai, kang kong, and long beans.

You see, after countless days of the beach and the sun and the sand and the sea and the beach and the sun and the sand and the sea, the Eumundi Markets were a refreshing change. And at least it was something to break the monotony of endless sunshine, suntan lotion and bikini sunbathing.

If I could figure this out

2007-01-23T10:31:00.000+08:00

I'm minding my own business by the beach one very hot afternoon when my pilot boy is cooped up in some stuffy jet plane cockpit learning how to fly a jet plane.

It feels just as humid as it does in Singapore, but Mr Sun is considerably stronger that it is back home. I'm perspiring profusely from the heat, trying to ignore the fact that Mr Sun's scorching yellow rays are boring relentlessly into my poor sweaty head, determined to melt me up, then pin me down into a squishy, squelchy heap in the sand.

I'm looking at my toenails which, once beautifully manicured, are now chipped and cracked and staring up me in a sad, forlorn way. I blame the beach, and all the hours I've spent digging, snuggling and hiding my feet in the warm sand, watching the cool ocean waves wash over them, dragging the little pebbles away with the gentle backwash so that my tiny gold-painted toenails reappear again.

I'm rearranging my body on the beach towel, trying to even out a patchy tan when I happen to glance up and meet the eye of some Aussie guy standing a small distance away from my spot. He's got pointy ears and slitty eyes, and I can't decide whether he looks more like Jughead or that funny guy with the pointy ears and slitty eyes in that sci-fi drama - was it Star Trek?

Anyway, we get to talking. It starts off with innocent conversation at first, like... isn't the beach beautiful... what a lovely day it is... isn't it hot... blah blah. Now the thing is, if this had happened back home in Singapore, I would have known this guy was trying to hit on me straightaway. But I'm in Aussieland, and things work a little bit differently don't they?

It's like in every ang moh country. You catch someone's eye, you say hello, and how do you do, and have you had a nice day? You smile at the cashier who keys in your grocery purchases, you say cheers to strangers in the lift lobby, nod your head at the fellow diner in the cafe you're having lunch in.

It's not like back in Singapore where if you catch someone's eye, you better quickly avert yours unless you want to risk an all-out "kua simi lanjiao!? Ai pah arh??!?" fist fight. And if I were back in Singapore, I would never reciprocate small talk with a strange man I did not know because if I did so, this strange man would most probably think I was some horny prostitute who hankered to suck his dick and let him fuck my ass FOC.

So I exchange niceties with Jughead, and everything is fine and dandy until, out of the blue, he suddenly blurts that he's an extremely skilled foot reflexologist. I'm confused and a little taken aback, but I still continue being nice, because, hey... maybe this guy's just taking some pride in himself. And who knows... maybe he really IS an extremely skilled foot reflexologist.

But I get increasingly suspicious of this strange guy's intentions when he starts to insist on giving me a free foot massage. All of a sudden, I feel desperately naked, and the funny thing is, I am not thinking about my spilling boobs or my little bikini bottom. I'm feeling vulnerable and violated because I am barefoot and my pink sandals are buried somewhere in the sand.

Remember that episode from Sex and the City where Charlotte gets free shoes because Buster, the salesperson has a foot fetish?

You see, I was starting to wonder if I was being offered free foot massages because Jughead had a foot fetish. (No doubt it was more likely to be a fetish for ugly feet dotted with corns and calluses and dead skin, because my feet are the ugliest stumps you'd ever see on a girl)

Anyway, unassertive me starts to fend him off with weak nos and nervous excuses of "I'm sorry, but my feet are really ticklish." For about ten minutes or so, Jughead just sits there in the sand beside my beach spot and tries to convince me to let him perform a free foot massage. And I've very nearly had enough of this strange boy here, almost picking up my beach towel and other beach things and shifting to another spot far far away from him, when almost as quickly as he began his I'm-an-extremely-skilled-foot-reflexologist pitch, he stands up, declares that he needs to go shopping, and walks off.

I'm flummoxed, really.

What was that all about?

I want to stay here forever

2007-01-22T12:34:00.000+08:00

You know... I'm getting so used to being here. I love sleeping in till noon every morning and waking up to a very happy, smiling sun, and knowing that it's ok because even though I have work to do and deadlines to meet, it's still only 10 o' clock in Singapore, and my bosses will not be chasing me for work due yet.

And I love lazing around having absolutely nothing to do except watch Discovery Travel and Living, and eat Macadamia and Ginger Anzac cookies or Sour Cream and Bacon Red Rock Deli Potato Chips. I also love waiting for the day to pass by and anticipating the kokkokkok noise at the door that signals that my pilot boy is home from a hard day of work.

And it makes me happy to wander the streets of Mooloolampah even though the shops are same old same old. I love sipping on long blacks which are so much stronger here than in Singapore, and scarfing lime pie after lemon pie after lime pie down my greedy mouth.

I love it that I laugh so much nowadays, and that I'm behaving like a silly little girl all over again. I like playing catching with pilot boy on the sandy beaches even though I have short legs and my stamina is non-existent and I know I can never win, or playing I'll-splash-you-with-hot-water-if-you-splash-me-with-cold-water and causing a minor storm and ruckus in the apartment bathroom.

I'm so happy. I want to stay here with pilot boy forever.

I don't want to go back to Singapore.

*Sulk*

Pilot Boy is so vain

2007-01-16T10:56:00.000+08:00

I think my pilot boy is very vain. He uses eye creams and Clinique soap and moisturiser. I think he even has some kind of body scrub thingamagic that he uses to keep his chocolate skin silky smooth and free of all kinds of ugly manly bumps.

Me? I use shower gel and water. Sometimes, if I run out of shower gel, I use shampoo and water.

He doesn't let his chin hair grow out and he cuts his head hair once every two weeks. Sometimes, I can barely tell the difference between his cut hair and uncut hair but he's so sensitive to the slightest follicle modification that when the hairstylist accidentally makes a 0.0000011111121cm snip too much, he starts whining that he looks very ugly, and he won't go out without a cap on his head.

Me? I trim my hair like... once a year. It was only recently with the major changes in my love life, that I went a salon and had it dyed and streaked with highlights. If not, I'm a DIY kinda girl.

He doesn't even have ratty tatty underwear that all men secretly have, and which they'll only let you discover a couple of weeks into the relationship when everything becomes all nice and comfortable and they feel not the slightest bit self-consciousness such that they even begin to scratch their balls and armpits and fart in front of you. No. My pilot boy wears Calvin Kleins. His genitals must be safely stored away, luxuriously wrapped in between the name of a famous fashion designer.

Me? Some of my cotten panties have holes in them. They're falling apart, but they're very comfortable. I don't think he knows because so far he's only seen the nice lacy stuff. I still don't dare wear my holey undies when he's around. Shush! Don't tell.

His clothes must be Billabong or Roxy or cool surfer stuff. Bag also. Cap also. Slippers must be of Brazilian origin with the Havaianas stamp. Just yesterday he was relating some story of how he went to Krabi and bought a $50 pair of boardshorts and, "Wah! Very cheap." He even pointed to some teeny bits of cloth that stuck out from the sides and assured me his shorts were authentic goods because "See? Got this thing. This thing means genuine, not fake." Inside my humble heartlander soul, I thought, "Siao arh? Pay 50 bucks to wear something to go wading in the salty seawater just because got BILLAFUCKINGBONG on it"

I wanted to say what I thought, but then I decided, better not. Because my bikinis cost $70 a piece and I knew he would have plenty to say about the amount of cloth used to make my beach wear versus the amount used to make his. So I shut my mouth and nodded as if I so totally agreed.

Die lah, like that. At this rate, when we age, he'll be wearing Prada and Armani and I'll still be shopping at little boutiques for tweens and teens around The Edge or in Bugis Village.

Oh. And I believe I'll still be wearing my Tai Sun slippers.

Anticipating our first fight

2007-01-15T16:48:00.000+08:00

My pilot boy and I are getting on so well that the anticipation of our first big couple fight is really starting to get me wondering.

I mean, right now, things are almost too good to be true. He still kisses me on my head and calls me Mrs Pilot Boy and sweets and tells me that I'm his lifesize Barbie doll, and just the other day, I caught him looking at me and half-muttering to himself about how he simply must be the luckiest guy on earth because I'm a - if I heard his hushed whispers correctly -"smart ass bitch and my hotstuff girlfriend," or something like that.

But the first couple fight is an eventuality that will take place, and I'm curious as to how the whole thing is going to play out.

You see, I don't normally get very very angry unless I'm provoked. I hate it when my partner says things purposely to hurt me, pretend that he doesn't understand me when he knows all along what I'm trying to say, or seeks my weakness and then stabs at it with all the ammunition he can muster. To me, an arguement needs to be constructive. You tell me what's wrong, and I defend myself. Or I tell you what's wrong, and you explain things to me.

I fly into a wild rage when my attempts to reason, explain and talk things through are met with a couldn't-care-less attitude or half-hearted apologies that are made for sake of shutting me up. I mean, if you don't understand why I'm upset, why the fuck would you even be apologising?

Oh of course we've had small disagreements. He says I'm a slob and I cannot read maps, and that I'm frivolous and fickle and a huge flirt. I think he's a control freak, unreasonable and overly jealous sometimes, and it bothers me that he gets angry at things that I have done and said even before I met him.

But we haven't had a huge huge couple fight yet. And I'm really curious as to how I'm going to react now that I'm in a new relationship with someone who I'm not as comfortably familiar with yet. Because it doesn't seem obvious to my friends or people I work with, but I have a terrible temper that can be quite frightening to witness.

It's not just simple yelling or screeching that characterises my anger. I get eye-poppingly mad. I start to wave my hands wildly around my head. I scream and I shriek and every sentence that comes out of my mouth is punctuated by an expletive and I yell all sorts of horrible, crude Hokkien expressions that would really put even a butcher in the market to shame. I have a spiralling temper that gets quite out of hand if no attempt is made to pacify me, or someone says something remotely insensitive. Sometimes, I start pulling at my hair, or biting at my knuckles. I get insanely, uncontrallably angry, and nothing will shut me until I finish my ranting and raving and punching and kicking and screaming.

Yes. I know. I don't like myself very much when I behave like this either.

The funny thing is that with my pilot boy, I'm betting that I'll never get like this. And it's not just because I think there will be no opportunity to, because there WILL be. All couples fight, and it's just a matter of time when the mother of all fights will surface and both partieis will battle it out. But I really think the dynamics are diferent this time round, and instead of fuming at his inadequacies or making futile attempts to punch at his insensitivities, I think I'm more likely to cower in a corner and hope that everything will be okay.

The thing about pilot boy is that he also has quite a bit of a temper. He gets eerily quiet, and when probed, he launches into a full-fledged attack that fires with brute force into the inner walls of your most protective shell. He can be very harsh and unforgiving, and to tell the truth, he scares me. He intimidates me so much that I forget how to be angry, and I lack the courage to defend myself.

He makes me shy and turns me into an insecure wreck who can only wring my fingers and keep silent and hope that the calm after the storm will soon approach. Being wth someone hard and forceful like him has turned me into jelly, and I'm finding that I'm a much softer person than I initially thought I was.

The person you are with influences your personality and the way you behave. It's creepy to discover this only after 29 years of living.

The Eastern Australian coast

2007-01-15T10:07:00.000+08:00

I'm not really sure why the beaches of Queensland Australia are such a popular holiday attraction because as far as I'm concerned, I remember the California sands along the Pacific Coast Highway 101 being so much more awe-inspiring. I mean, people talk about the Gold Coast all the time, about the neverending beaches, about the beautiful people, about surf culture, and the trendy cafes and boutiques along Surfers Paradise. It's not like I don't want to come here with an open mind and give this place a chance, but this is my second visit here and it's also the second time I'm feeling disappointed.

Sure, the Gold Coast has some pretty long stretches of yellow sands, and yes, you can find Gloria Jeans and Starbucks and Baskin Robbins and New Zealand's Natural everywhere. There's Prada and The Hour Glass and all kinds of other expensive shops selling overpriced fashion stuff too. And I do suppose it's kind of a nice place to see and be seen if you want to spend a lazy week doing absolutely nothing except sit in a cafe, smoke cigarettes, drink coffee and then go out and empty your wallet later. But other than that, I don't know if it really is all that it's hyped up to be.

I contrast that to the first time I laid eyes on the beaches along California, chockful of dramatic sceneries with rocky cliffs to one side, gigantic waves crashing to the rocks before finally meeting the flat beach sands on the other side in a gush of white, creamy foam. Then just ahead in the distance, you spot the grandeur of erupting mountains, emerald green with thick pines and redwood trees, rising tall into the horizon to meet a sapphire blue sky. And if you travel further north along the coast, cliffs and rocky beaches disappear to form golden landscapes of sprawling sand dunes that settle into a powdery dust beneath the feet of more towering redwood trees.

Perhaps there are not as many cafes and shops and touristy attractions in the northern coastline of California. But hey, this is the place that inspired some, or part of some, of the works of Steinbeck and Hemingway. If you are looking for beautiful beaches and want to witness first-hand the miraculous creations of Mother Nature, the Californian Pacific Coast is the place to be.

Maybe it's different for everyone. But the glossy cafes and shopping streets, the touristy crowds, the screaming beaches, the surf culture, the cheesy themeparks, the neon commercialised atmosphere of The Gold Coast, it all just doesn't really do it for me.

Pilot Boy and the Pea

2007-01-14T22:30:00.000+08:00

So we finally check into this self-contained apartment along the Sunshine Coast that I'd pre-booked for an extended two and a half weekstay. And the first thing my pilot by does when he steps inside is to complain and to complain and complain.

Old and dirty, he mutters, running his fingers along the kitchen cabinets and examining the sink for remnants of food that previous guests might have left behind.

I look at him and roll my eyes because my pilot boy has obviously been spoilt by an over-indulgent employer, who has in turn, been encouraged by an over-optimistic group of investors.

Let's just say that the Sunshine Coast is a sun, sand and sea playground for tourists with too much money to burn. This holiday destination was created by the rich, for the rich, and poor struggling plebians like me find it impossibly hard to keep up with the glossy beachside way of life.

Holiday apartments down here cost a bomb a night. Eating out every meal is not an option unless you have plenty in your coffers, and even shopping at the supermarket takes a lot of planning and budgeting.

I mean, seriously. Six chicken breasts for AU$8, anyone? I can get fresh chicken for no more than S$5 at the local wet market.

So I look at my pilot boy and tell him that the next time I get my "royal arse", as he so politely calls it, down to the Sunshine Coast, I will be staying at the cheapo Beach Inn Motel, or the Coach Inn Motel.

Hallo. DiDa is but a freelance writer. Bestselling author Candace Bushnell I am not, and thus I cannot afford to fork out AU$100 a night for shelter. Warm bed in cheap motel with sticky floors is the same as warm bed in expensive resort with plush carpets and beachfront balcony.

But pilot boy has other ideas. And this time, HE rolls HIS eyes at ME, and shakes HIS head because he likes his silver coffee percolator and his nicely carved wooden salt/pepper/coffee/sugar holders and his spa bath and goodness knows whatever other frills and thrills and spills and other ills.

"Like that how you go travelling with me," I ask him.

"Why cannot," he says.

"How? You want to stay in the Hilton. I don't mind staying at Pete and Pop's Budget Inn and being a waitress to fund a holiday around the world," I say.

He laughs at me and says that's all very well by him as long as I'm the one who will wash the dishes and wait tables and bring back the bacon while he sits by the deck chair and drinks his Merlot and waits to go sightseeing.

I want to say ninabechaocheebye but I look into his crinkly, smiling eyes and feel his arms around me and all I can do is shove my head back into his chest and kiss him again and again.

Arrival in Brisbane

2007-01-14T21:33:00.000+08:00

I'm lost when I get to the Brisbane airport because there's people everywhere and I'm lugging an extremely heavy suitcase that weighed in at 19.6 kilos plus a laptop, another very heavy handheld bag and a bottle of liquor specially bought with all my tender loving care for my pilot boy.

And the first person that greets me is a tall ang moh lady who pretends to be friendly and asks me if I need some directions. A billion questions later and I realise that this friendly Aussie femme is gently trying to find out if I'm a genuine lost traveller or whether I'm a cheap slutty hussy who's making her way into Australia for a quick buck through the world's oldest profession of simply lying there and spreading my legs.

"Where will you be staying?" she asks.

And I'm smiling and happy and eager and overenthusiastic because I'm on holiday for about a month and I'm about to see my pilot boy the love of the my life who makes my heart skip a beat everytime I think about him and who I've been missing like crazy for the past 28 days. So I grin like a moron and I answer as if she were my long lost friend. I chat with her about Maroocheebye - oops, I mean Maroochydore - and the Sunshine Coast and I talk about how much I'm looking forward to seeing the beaches of Mooloolampah - oops, I mean Mooloolaba - and how handsome my boyfriend is and how he'll be waiting for me with arms outstretched and a billion kisses in store at the arrival hall.

Then she asks me if I have an air ticket back home. And I nod my head like jack-in-the-box with faulty springs and ramble on and talk some more.

Then she asks if I can show her my air ticket home, and I'm thinking, hey lady, you're a weird one, aren't you a bloody kaypoh, but that's okay because I'm going to see my pilot boy and we'll be making sweet love soon and crusing along the highways of Sunshine Coast and Gold Coast and walking the bustlig streets of Surfers Paradise. So I fish out my electronic air ticket and proudly show it to that nice tall blonde haired lady like it's some medal of honour.

She still doesn't let up and then she asks me how much money I have. Now, this is really strange, but I'm in such a good mood that I answer more of her questions: How long will you be staying? Where will you be staying? Is this your first visit to Australia? How will you fund your stay? Do you know anybody in Australia? What do you work as for a living? What kind of writer are you? Who do you write for? Do you have credit cards under your name? Can I see them?

The baggage counter is clearing and I'm getting impatient because I want to see my pilot boy and this crazy kaypoh bitch is asking all kinds of kaypoh questions. Now, there's only so much a happy girl in love can take, and I'd just about reached the point where I wanted to swat her over the head with my heavy Acer laptop when she finishes thumbing through my Singapore passport and says - FINALLY, "Thank you for your cooperation. Have a nice stay in Australia."

My happy mood returns again, and I think to myself that it's just a short way across the customs counter before I finally get to see my pilot boy. But I obviously looked as if I was some delinquent no-gooder because as soon as my big toe steps into the customs section, I'm whisked away yet again by another seemingly friendly tall ang moh gentleman who insists on asking me the same questions all over again.

And this time, it's not just answers he wants to hear. Because this bearded ang moh customs officer starts opening my 19.6 kilo suitcase and digging through the mountain of clothes, shoes, toiletries and... lacy undies that I'd taken so much care to pack.

Out goes my lacy white bra. Then he throws up my three packs of SKL cherry cigarettes, examines my Knorr chicken and ikan billis cubes, and goes through my box of tampons and panty liners. Out goes another purple thong and my black bras, my jungle bikini, my playboy bikini. He holds my Milo tin in hand and examines my Baldur's Gate CDs. He looks at my Issey perfume and sniffs at my Ralph Lauren Romance. And when he finally decides he's embarrassed me enough, he shoves my things back into my bursting suitcase and waves me through.

Nabecheebye. I guess these strict checks are what my AU$300 taxes are paying for. A brilliant start to my three and a half week stay along the golden beaches of Queensland, Australia.

I dunno leh. Maybe I really look like a coke-addicted prostitute.

Anyways, I'm finally through the customs counter, struggling to waltz along with my 19.6 kilo suitcase and the other barang barang that's threatening to weigh down my limbs and yank them from their sockets. I'm scanning the arrival hall for pilot boy but all I see are blonde-haired blue-eyed ang mohs with signs that read "Seaworld Nara Resort", and "Mr Kevin Fingerman and family" and "Eco-Adventure Tours".

I look like a poor lost child.

Then, from the blurry corners of my dry contact lenses, I see my yummy chocolate brown boy trotting towards me. He looks like what I remember he looks like, and he grabs me from the front and hugs me.

People are pointing and I hear an old ang moh point at us and chuckle, turn to his wife and say, "Look what's going on there."

I hug my pilot boy back. It feels so good to be in his arms again, to put my head against his chest and hear his heart go a-thud-thud, to smell the perfume on his neck, to see the small crinkles of joy appear around his eyes again, and to hear him call me sweets as he kisses me on my head.

And he hugs me and I hug him and we spin around and do a sort of hug and dance in the middle of the busy Brisbane airport.

This is what it feels like. This is what it should always have been like.

This is love, and I am so, so happy.

He hates my Ellen dance

2007-01-12T08:30:00.000+08:00

Everything is still perfect!

Although I cannot for the life of me understand why he does not like my Ellen Degeneres dance.

A little bit of magic

2007-01-09T12:42:00.000+08:00

It doesn't matter if it rains and the skies are cloudy and the beach is muddy on the Sunshine Coast, and I have no opportunity to wear my bikinis and strut my stuff. Because I don't see grey skies anywhere. I see pink skies and cotton candy clouds raining little drops of multi-coloured jelly beans, and the beach sand is sparkly gold powder that turns up a cloud of fairy dust each time I kick my feet in the sand.

It also doesn't matter if all there is to do is sit around at the same old boring Aussie cafes and walk about the same old streets and see the same old sights.

Because really, I've never been so happy in all my life. I've in love. I'm so in love. I'm so so so in love.

He's perfect. We're perfect. Everything is perfect.

Hey, you! Yes, you!

2007-01-07T12:30:00.000+08:00

Just wondering...

...Did some of my pilot boy's fellow cadets-in-training accidentally come across this blog? Are some of them reading this blog and ruffling through the archives to find clues that might point to who he is?

Is it you?

Why are you trying to find out who he is? Does it matter?

Don't be so kaypoh can?

For sure he's handsomer than you are, speaks better than you do, and is smarter than you will ever be.

I mean, you're welcome to read. I want you to read. But don't read just cos you want to find out who my boyfriend is.

Thank you hor.

Mr Lonely

2007-01-03T03:49:00.000+08:00

Mr Lonely knocked upon my door today.
Then barged right in and smacked my face,
spitting gleefully that he was there to stay.

But why, I asked him. Why now, I said.
You promised you would never come again.
I'm sorry, little girl, he shrieked.
I lied to you. Shut up and deal.

I stepped aside and tried to plead.
Go away. Let me be happy, please.

He slapped me harder and cackled again
Happiness is not for me to give
for you alone decide the way you live.
You've let your past decide your path
So who's at fault if nothing lasts?

I felt my anger rise within.
You know not what has been, I screamed

He hissed at me and bared his teeth.
Don't piss me off you little bitch.
I'm all you have, so don't protest.
You once had hope and knew to trust
But now you're sick, you're weak, you're worn
It's just your fear that brings you scorn.

I felt the tears sting up my eyes and
Mr Lonely saw his chance, his prize.
He sneered at me and licked his lips
Now, now child, don't cry, he said.
I'm here for you. I've always been.

I whirl, I twirl, I twist and spin.
As he holds me tight in iron grip.
I wish I stop and pull from him,
but then he flings his his arms and flings them wide
And I surrender fast and fall inside.

Old-fashioned RPGs

2007-01-02T18:58:00.000+08:00

Whatever happened to really good RPG games? Have they gone extinct?

Why is it that the newest games in the market, whether for the XBox or the PS3 or the good old PC comprise only brainless, senseless shooting ping piang I-blow-your-brains-out-you-blow-my-balls-out retarded meant-for-morons titles?

Or else they are multiplayer online RPG games that do not count because if you really want to become almighty and powerful, you need to belong to a clan or a guild or something.... I think.

I miss those old days when RPGs were about leading a party of your own, fighting kobolds and gibberlings and slaying silver and gold dragons, collecting magical weapons, comparing the best armour for the best price at different taverns in surrounding towns. I could keep at the game for hours.

Remember Baldur's Gate? Might and Magic? What happened? Why don't they make games like that anymore?

Happy New Year

2007-01-01T13:27:00.000+08:00

It's the start of yet another year today.

I forgot all about Christmas because I was in a bah-humbug kinda mood. But I'm off to see pilot boy soon and my spirits are on the up and up, so warm, snuggly, furry, New Year greetings are in order.

Happy New Year!

My hopes and wishes for the days ahead are simple: Better mannered Singaporeans.

1) I hope for commuters on the MRT trains to learn to behave themselves. Stand aside when those inside the trains are alighting because if you block the bloody entrance, then I cannot get out, and if I cannot get out, then you cannot get in.

There is also no need to run across the platform like prison escapees when you switch trains. The last I heard, SMRT does not give out prizes for Quickest Commuter to Snag a Train Seat. This is not The Amazing Race. It's not The Amazing Race Asia. And hell, no. There is no such thing as The Amazing Race MRT Trains Singapore.

2) I want for people to know the importance of eating with their mouths CLOSED. There is no need to show the whole world what a great snack you're chomping about in your mouth. Nobody wants to see bits of food somersaulting and hurdling and skipping and sprinting over your tongue. Neither does anyone want to hear the horrible chiap chiap sounds resulting from your overenthusiastic mastication.

Eating with your mouth closed means that both lips must touch each other at all times during the chewing and swallowing process. Semi touching does not count. Teeth touching without lip touching also does not count.

3) I want for Singaporeans to understand the concept of personal space. Take a few lessons from primary school science class. I am a human being. I am matter. I have mass. I have weight. If you insist on running into my path, rushing headlong in my direction, then a collision is likely to take place.

You cannot run through me because, once again, I am matter. I have mass. Instead, you will knock into me. You will bump into me. You will inevitably rub your sweaty, smelly, dirty, grimy, pervy arms on my shoulders. And I will get fucking pissed off.

Because I don't think I am invisible. My dog can see me very well. My ah mah can see me very well because she points her fingers at me and makes me mop the floor every week. And if I couldn't be seen, pilot boy would never have confessed that he thought I was ninabeh kan chio (shameless! shameless!) when we first met.

These are the rules for approach when walking by a fellow human being: Estimate first how big you are. Observe how big passer-by is. Agarate the space needed for both of you to pass through one corridor. Increase space by half a foot to create personal space. Proceed to walk past passer-by while keeping to the outermost side of the total imaginary space.

And that's it. Just three simple wishes for the New Year.

But for the sake of sounding benevolent and saintly, I also hope Saddam Hussein rests in peace despite the atrocities he committed. I hope Ban Ki-Moon continues the work of the UN in the crusade against human rights abuses. I hope for the Sunnis and the Shi'ites to live happily ever after. I hope for the Israelis and Palestinians to kiss and make up one day. I hope for stability.

I hope for WORLD PEACE!

Don't fight leh. I'm your friend. You're my friend. He's your friend. We all friends. We are one big happy family!

Oh... before I forget *roll eyes* pilot boy says:

"Eh wish k? Tell your readers I wish them Happy New Year k? K? Kk?"

*Roll eyes again* My pilot boy wishes all my readers Happy New Year!

And I wish you all too lah.

What you never knew

2006-12-30T19:47:00.000+08:00

I didn't want to take off my shoes because I had ugly feet - rough and calloused underneath with chipped toenails and erupting red blisters all around my ankles. But he gestured towards the open couch and I obediently sat on its edge, kicking off my stilettos before carefully reclining sideways against the raised cushions, then slowly arranging myself to settle into what I hoped was a dramatic pose that would show my curves off to full effect.

I hadn't planned on asking him out tonight. I was going to be a good girl and go straight home after the performance. But that lingering memory of dinner and drinks two nights ago - his eyes that crinkled every time he smiled, the way he'd tilt his shoulders towards the side then throw his head back slightly before bursting out in deep spontaneous laughter, how he'd put his hand on the small of my back and winked goodbye at me - had left footprints in my head, and the urge to see him once more was startlingly irresistible.

So there we were. Me, stretched out on a couch too big for me, and him slouched casually on a chair just beside, both of us shaded by the swishing leaves of an old, wrinkly angsana tree, and bathed in the luminous, soft glow of an indulgent moon.

And I found myself staring into his face again. He was so handsome.

I wanted to lean towards him and reach my hands to touch his face, to caress his velvety tan, to trace his chiselled features with my fingers, to run them lightly along his jaw, his chin, then flit my fingertips lazily down his neck and across his chest.

He was looking at me, smiling at me as the corners of his lips turned upwards ever so slightly, and taking pursed sips from his glass of wine. He seemed pleased with himself, contented, happy. And secretly, I allowed myself to wonder if perhaps, just perhaps, he'd been just as eager as I was to meet up again that night.

The other table in front of us was made up of a group of Europeans who were whispering softly in muted tones, peppering the stillness of the night with their melodious French, the nasal vowels and soft, spitted Rs so characteristic of the language gently lulling me into a relaxed state of romantic bliss.

I imagined what it would be like to walk beside him, my footsteps gently plodding along in rhythm to his stronger, more forceful strides. I wondered how it would feel like to hold his hand, for despite his iron-grip handshake that nearly had me yelping in pain the other evening, his palms were as smooth and soft as baby skin.

And then it dawned on me in sudden epiphany that perhaps there could be something more to this.

Perhaps there would be something more to this.

Ed: Gosh, this isn't someone new! Perhaps I didn't make it clear enough but this is my pilot boy, my one and only pilot boy, and this night was when I realised that my heart was in big big big trouble.

Poor enunciation irritates me

2006-12-29T21:46:00.000+08:00

Is it so difficult for people to enunciate their words clearly?

I will be crossing the waters and going 'over the sea' to visit pilot boy, but when I am there, I will be overseaS, not oversea.

OverseaS. Not oversea. Because I cannot be dangling in mid air, hovering just above the waters with my arms flailing every which direction over the damn sea. It's not possible, people. It's just not possible to float over sea.

And while I'm at it, I might as well get this off my chest. You go upstairS to your room, not upstair. You go downstairS to the kitchen, not downstair. You can go up the stairway and down one stair, but you cannot go upstair or downstair. You go upstairS and downstairS.

One more thing. It's one two three four fiVE, not one two three four fai. And it's also six seven eight niNE, not six seven eight nai.

Why don't people geddit? There are extra letters at the end of a word because they are meant to be pronounced, not ignored.

Yee nor peopeh weh be speaki lai di.
(If not, people will be speaking like this.)

Platonic relationships are a load of crap

2006-12-29T17:53:00.000+08:00

I used to have a number of friends who were boys, and I used to think they were really just friends. And whenever Mum asked where I was going and who I was going out with, I would simply tell her that I was going out for dinner with 'a friend'.

About 10 years later, one year short of 30, I realise that really... there is no way that a boy can just be 'a friend'. A boy can be your boyfriend, or your ex-boyfriend, or someone who wants to be your boyfriend, or someone who wants to get into your pants. But there is no such thing as a boy who is 'a friend'.

Of course, there is the possibility of having friends who are boys, but in such cases, these 'friends' will happen to be friends of your boyfriend, or your girl friend's boyfriend, or your brother's friends, or your friends' boy friends. But when it comes to having a boy who is 'a friend', and who did not become your 'friend' through contact with your other friends, then really, that boy is not a 'friend.

I didn't always think this way. I used to have several boys who I thought were my friends. But one by one they stopped being my friends because one suggested going to Hotel 81 for a cheap fuck, another tried to kiss me, and yet another kept asking me out for movie dates and would call me every night before he went to bed. I don't know about you, but in my world, friends do not do such things.

I don't know how it's possible for a boy and girl to be 'just friends'. Boys and girls are different. The reason why the human species is made up of boys and girls and not just all boys, or all girls, is because boys and girls were put on Planet Earth to procreate. Put one boy and one girl together, and there will be sexual tension. If there is no sexual tension, then either the boy will leave, or the girl will tell the boy to fuck off.

And if boys and girls insist that it is possible to be 'just friends', then one of them is telling a fucking lie. The boy wants to remain 'friends' with the girl because he's secretly hoping for a chance, just one opportunity to make his move on her. And even if the boy doesn't think so, and really wants to be 'just friends', the girl is sticking around because she's secretly hoping against hope that one day the boy will make a move on her and they can live happily ever after.

young & dangerous left a comment in my previous post that says:

"Dida: U should be proud if men wanted to be so called "friends" with you.
That would suggest that you are one attractive woman...enjoy it while youth is
still with you..."

Which is precisely my point. Boys do not want to be friends with girls because they want to be 'just friends'. They only want to be friends because the girl is chio/a good lay/horny. Really wanting to be friends with a girl means still wanting to be friends with her regardless of how ugly/fat/pimply she looks. But of course, as young&dangerous implies, few boys want to do that.

And you know? I fully agree with Prick: No such thing as friends, real friends, fuck no.

There is no such thing

2006-12-29T04:32:00.000+08:00

Platonic relationships are a load of crap.

And that is all I have to say about the matter.

I want to make it last

2006-12-28T01:03:00.000+08:00

I think that before my pilot boy, I'd been out of the dating scene for so long that as it turns out, I don't really have any clue what it takes to sustain a new relationship nowadays. My idea of going out with someone, seeing someone is still childishly junior college-ish, not to mention ridiculous, especially since it has been 12 years since I last put on my uniform.

Remember those old-fashioned times when the boy was supposed to do all the chasing and the girl was the shy, virginal, chaste, untouchable thing of beauty? I remember camping out next to the phone every evening, willing it to ring, and hoping against hope that the voice on the other line would belong to my love interest of the month. I would be dying to pick up the phone and call first, but the dating protocol at that time and age was that girls should never ever ever ever make the first move.

You see, back then, all of us believed that the more you threw yourself at a guy, the less interested he'd be. But if you acted like he didn't mean a shit's ass to you, then the more you'd captivate his interest. Men liked the thrill of the chase, we thought, and if that's what they wanted, then that's what we were gonna give them.

So even when I'm one year shy of 30, that's how I still assume that things work, much to the chagrin of my pilot boy.

Things are going perfectly for the first week or two. I'm messaging him furiously - cutesy, stupid, lovesick messages complete with moronic smiling faces and squeamishly mushy expressions of love. I call him whenever the distance becomes a little too overwhelming to bear and I feel the need to hear his voice - no hesitation whatsoever.

But at the end of the second week, my nerves begin to call my actions into question: Should I really be calling so often? Is he getting sick and tired of having me on the phone and listening to my boring voice when I don't even have much to say? Am I running out of funny stories? Is he just obliging me? Maybe he can't wait to get off the phone? Does he look at my messages and think about how pathetic they sound? Does he think I'm a 30-year-old past-my-shelf-date auntie trying to act cute?

And then, I start to doubt if I'm really playing this game right.

I don't want to play games. I hate for this to be a game. I wish I could let all my inhibitions go and just throw myself into the moment, and not worry about the what-ifs and the oh-nos. Then I would call when I want to and text him when I want to. But the reality is such that life, in actual fact is one big game, littered with a variety of other small mini-games that you have to win in order to survive.

Relationships. Relationships are games.

When I was a teenager, I'd make myself behave like a little nun for one week so that Mum wouldn't kick up a fuss when I asked for permission to stay out a little later with the boyfriend during the weekend. When I was still working full-time and wanted extra recognition during lazy periods when I knew I'd been slackingly a little too much not to be noticed, I'd quickly volunteer to organise all the boring department bonding sessions to gain credit that would make up for what I'd lost. When I need a lift from my brother, I whine and say how tired I am, how broke I am, and how late I am so he feels obliged to offer his extra helmet and a seat on the back of his bike.

These are all little mind games that everybody is guilty of playing at some point or other. But I'm not sure my pilot boy gets what I'm trying to say.

Perhaps it's because while I'm perfectly capable of expressingly myself reasonably well in the written word, I stutter and stammer and my thoughts get knotted up in a bunch when I try to say them out loud. I get confused, distracted, and forget what I was trying to say in the first place.

And my pilot boy gets a little miffed that for the past week or so, he's been doing all the texting and the calling and trying.

But you are the man, I try to tell him. You know... the human species with the underdeveloped emotions and the predatory instincts. You are the man, and men turn fickle after they determine with full certainty that the conquest is complete. And I, I stutter. I am the woman. The one with the overdeveloped emotions and the soft, pliable heart that renders me yours and yours only once the faintest feelings of attachment begin to surface.

I want to explain that it's not that I'm not missing him, or that I'm starting to forget, or that my feelings are not genuine and real. I want to tell him that I'm scared that if he knows how much of me he's won over, then perhaps, his predatory instincts might proclaim the conquest complete and push his subconscious to conquer yet another.

And then, where will I be?

But my pilot boy doesn't understand, and he says I disappoint him because it seems as if I'm not trying, and I don't give a rat's ass about him anymore.

The truth is I think about him every waking moment. I stare at his picture before I sleep, when I wake. I cannot stop talking about him to my friends, and Mum is getting annoyed with my bleating whimpers, my constant moaning that I miss him and I miss him so much. I still get my jelly-like feeling in my tummy when I think about him. I imagine his kisses, and I close my eyes before I sleep and think about what it feels like to be in his arms. And sometimes, when it's really late at night, and everything is quiet, a pang of immense sadness hits me so hard that I end up tearing all over my silly face.

Thinking back, I'm still in shock at how wonderful everything is at the moment. I am crazy about him, and I think he's just as madly in love with me. Yet what I really want to know is, does such magic really happen in the world? And when it happens, how long does it take before it fizzles and fades away?

I am overanalysing, perhaps, and being too cynical for my own good. But isn't this life? Isn't it true that good things seldom last? Life isn't always perfect, and the faster something builds up, most of the time, the faster it comes tumbling down.

I am in love with being in love. But at the same time, I am so scared. And all I want is to make a beautiful thing last for as long as I can.

Flying and fucking

2006-12-22T00:56:00.000+08:00

Tai Tai, Smarmy and BP gave me wide-eyed googly stares when I told them about pilot boy. I was gushing about how sweet he is, swaying slightly, giddyheaded from the whole experience of being in new love, and I had a silly smile stuck on my face that just wouldn't seem to go away despite my bestest efforts to stay solidly grounded.

"He's a pilot, you know," sniffed Tai Tai, waving one hand dismissively across my face. Smarmy was squinting one eye at me and trying not so subtly to convey his disapproval. BP looked at me and went very very quiet, and I knew what she really wanted to know was whether I was even aware of what I was potentially getting myself into.

"Do you know what pilots do?" Tai Tai asked me with a scowl.

"They fly planes, yes. But do you know what they really do?" she asked again in the seasoned manner of someone who had been scorned one time too many by pilot boys.

"They fly, they fuck, and then they forget," she spat, slamming her fist down on the table and nearly toppling my Erdinger (which is something I wouldn't normally drink, but I was missing the boy a little too much and if horse piss was going to make me feel a little bit closer to him, then horse piss it was going to be that night).

But this one's different, I argued. This one tells me he loves me and that I make him happy, and that he wants to take care of me. This one spins me around in the soft beach sand, shows me off to his friends and says he wants to marry me. This one watches boring DVDs with me, fixes my computer and mops my floor. This one's different, I said.

"Bah. Different," Tai Tai scowled again. "That's cos he's a cadet. When he becomes a real pilot, that's when all the flying and fucking is gonna start."

And then she proceeded to give me the sordid details of all the pilot boys who'd ever broken her heart: the married pilot with the kids, the wife, and the girls. The other pilot with the girls and the girls. The pilot friend of that pilot with this girl today and that girl the next. The former-choir-boy-turned-pilot with the girl, the girl and the girl.

BP and Smarmy sat there silently, punctuating Tai Tai's rambling tirade with the occasional nods and uh-huhs, keeping their eyes peeled on my mobile phone for pilot boy's number flashing on the screen. And when he called and my face lit up and I scampered to answer the call, all three of them narrowed their eyes and looked at me with disapproval.

"That's very rude," said Tai Tai, who in her half drunken state was starting to wave her hands and gesticulate wildly above her head.

"You haven't seen us for so long. The least you can do is put him aside for just one night," said Smarmy. "Pilots are just not worth the effort," he added before snatching my phone and slipping it into his trouser pocket.

And I looked at him with pleading eyes because even though I was getting a little scared of all that pilot-boys-are-evil talk, I still wanted to hear my baby's voice.

"Pilots are bad news," said Smarmy. "You are not dumping us for bad news. Because when he's flying and fucking, he's going to be dumping you."

I must have looked like I wanted to cry because BP suddenly spoke up and offered the most positive comment I would hear that night. "Well, maybe he's one of those rare pilot types," she said reassuringly, but unconvincingly. "Maybe you lucked out and got yourself a nice one."

Tai Tai nearly choked on her Hoegarden, and then she shrieked. "Oh yes! Right. And I'm a 30-year-old virgin!"

As if right on cue, Smarmy and BP began hooting and whooping hysterically. In the meantime, I felt little shudders of paranoia creep into my messed up head, and I forcefully shovelled a huge spoonful of pavlova and passion fruit into my mouth to ease the sickening fear that had begun to take root in my belly.

I was scared. In fact, I still am.

Pilot boys are bad news, they say.

And I'm scared. I'm really really scared.

A silly one

2006-12-20T00:02:00.000+08:00

The fucktard loves this retard.

And this retard loves her fucktard.

Happy? *Huge guffaw*

DiDa is no maneater

2006-12-19T21:20:00.000+08:00

DiDa is not some huge, gigantic maneater. She can be horny, and she can get horny, but she is not horny all the time, and she does not want to have sex all the time. She does not go "woohoo" everytime she sees a penis, and she does not think about making out with every man on the street who has a large chest, and who is not gay.

Yes. DiDa can sometimes look like all she thinks about is sex because she refuses to wear normal clothes that cover her navel (Hallo. People wear belly rings to show them off, not to hide them.) and she loves to show off her boobs. But that's not because she's horny and wants someone to come up to her and say, "hey sexy, let's fuck." It's really a simple matter of knowing that she has quite a nice body and she had better flaunt it before it gets saggy and old and even Woffles Wu cannot help her anymore.

DiDa doesn't really mind people looking and staring at her because she knows that if she's going to show off her breasts, belly, and butt, then people are going to look. Some might think she's slut spawn of Satan, they might tsk and glare, and some men might lick their lips and boldly peek into her cleavage, but DiDa doesn't mind all that because if you dare to bare, you must expect that people will stare.

And yes, DiDa gets quite lonely nowadays, especially since pilot boy is far far away and her bed remains cold and empty at night. She misses the pillow fights, the one-sided wrestling matches, and the constant bickering over who should get the last cherry in Ben and Jerry's Cherry Garcia ice cream. And every morning when she wakes her lazy head and rolls over to the other side of the bed, there is nobody there who will open one sleepy eye and kiss her on her forehead.

There are no more evenings at Holland Village or crab dinners in Ang Mo Kio or spontaneous trips across the Causeway. DiDa misses the way her pilot boy sometimes tries to scoop her up and fling her across his shoulders, and she misses how he laughs at her because she cannot tell her left from right and her right from left. And she aches so badly to see him smile and wink at her and call her his silly girl, his sweets and all kinds of other made-up names.

So yes, DiDa is very lonely because it hurts to be so far apart from the boy she loves. And she would do almost anything just to see him, to touch him, to kiss him and hold him, to let him make love to her, and spend the rest of the night snuggled in his arms with her head on his chest.

But just because DiDa dresses to attract and she is lonely and sad doesn't mean DiDa will hop into bed with "just any guy". She might revel in the attention and all the admiring stares, but DiDa is no maneater and she doesn't want "just any guy". For her heart has been stolen and her spirit has been tamed, and all she wants now is to love her pilot boy.

Hit the world

2006-12-17T13:40:00.000+08:00

I love grocery shopping. Really. I love to look at the colourful rows of fruit and vegetables - lemons sitting yellow and prettily sour, against baskets of luscious blood red cherries, fat, round portabello mushrooms begging to be seasoned with balsamic vinegar and olive oil, and green leafy spinach, or kang kong or chye sim that I pray will do wonders for my clogged arteries and tar-stained lungs.

And even though I don't usually end up putting that many things into my grocery basket, I like browsing the aisles and looking at all the things that other people might use in their kitchens. Like Lee Kum Kee sauces and McCormick spices and ready-to-eat bak kut teh mixtures or curry powders and other strange cooking nonsense like saffron and cinammon and cloves.

So it's really not as if I'm a grocery shopping snob. Because really. I really do like to shop for the most ordinary things like soap and shampoo, tampons, 3-in-1 coffee mixes, toilet paper and toothpaste. But the thing is every time I return from a grocery shopping expedition to the local supermarket downstairs, I end up bursting a blood vessel, and my overworked cholesterol laden heart begins a thud-thud-thud that is so loud it even echoes in the lift.

Grocery shopping is a very irritating thing to do in Singapore because the aisles of the country's favourite supermarket are just wide enough to accommodate one overweight auntie's big fat arse. So sometimes, I'm looking over at the fish section from the chicken section, and there's this huge lady with a flowery T-shirt and fuchsia pink leggings who's nonchalantly yabbering over her handphone and making no effort to move her huge ass from the middle of the aisle.

I suppose I could turn around and walk up from the next aisle to the fish section, but everywhere I look, there are huge aunties with curly hair wearing flowery T-shirts and fuchsia pink leggings who are a) immersed in exchanging gossip with another huge auntie with curly hair wearing flowery T-shirts and fuchsia pink leggings b) taking forever to compare and contrast the merits and unmerits of Lee Kum Kee's black pepper sauce as opposed to Kee Kum Lee's sauce pepper black and c) doing legitimate efficient shopping, but with a screaming four year-old so-fucking-irritating-I-just-want-to-slap-your-face little monster at the side.

A long long time ago, before I familiarised myself with the ways of the world when it comes to grocery shopping, I would say very politely, "Auntie, excuse me." But this timid gesture would only get me ignored at best, or earn me a very hostile glare. So today, I go down to the local supermarket armed with elbows that stick out at the sides and a frown so intense that even fresh, leavy green kailan wilts before my very eyes.

The shitty thing about Singaporean grocery shoppers is that nobody understands the concept of personal space. They are perfectly happy to squish past you, rub their smelly behinds and their sticky, sweaty arms into your perfectly groomed face and manicured fingernails because as long as that is what will get them to the other side, that is what they will do.

So sometimes, I could be minding my own business doing my shopping, digging for the last available tub of Ben and Jerry's Cherry Garcia ice cream, and someone walks straight into me, nearly causing me to tumble and fall and spill the contents of my shopping basket onto the supermarket floor. And then, when I finally regain my composure and find my indignance, I suddenly realise that my left arm has an smelly sticky patch of fish juice left on it.

And that's the only time I start praying to God. My God. My God in the religion of DiDa Who Once Lived Life Atop a Bartop. Please send a meteor to annihilate all these stupid, rude, irritating people that walk the face of this earth. Please hit the world. Hit the world and make it a better place.

Whatever whatever I don't care

2006-12-16T22:30:00.000+08:00

Please don't give me any work to do. I don't care about my dwindling savings. I don't care if you think I'm irresponsible or unreliable. Because right now, I just want to lie in bed and eat Tim Tams and drink brandy and be a slob. I'm really in no mood to do any work right now, and besides, whatever I write nowadays i likely to be crap anyway. I don't care about deadlines. You can call me and I won't pick up. And I will just let my phone ring and ring till it might explode and I still won't give a fucking shit. I know there are bills to be paid and invoices to be sent out. But I don't care. I really don't care. I really really do not care. This shit will get done somehow. One day. I don't know how. But it will get done. And in the meantime, I really don't care to care. I know that I am acting like a pathetic five-year-old child, but guess what? I do not care either. You can all laugh at me and call me names, but seriously, I still will not care. And you can offer me sympathies and pat my back and give me hugs and tell me everything will be okay and I will just be like... whatever. But I would do anything to see him now because all I can think about all day, every hour, every minute is him him him. I hate thinking about him all the time because I can't function like a normal human being and while I say I don't care, I know I'm being an annoyingly insufferable whiny little insect and... oh yes. I don't care. So please leave me alone and let me sit and mope and cry and sulk and throw tantrums and not give a fuck about what else is going on in the world. Because I have never felt like this before and it hurts so bad that I cannot bear to look at his picture and every time I hear him on the phone I want to cry. Let me be. Let me coop myself up in my room and do not try to "cheer me up". Nothing will "cheer me up" unless you can somehow magically transport me 3,500 miles away to the not so Sunshine Coast of Down Fucking Under.

I miss him

2006-12-16T12:52:00.000+08:00

I miss him, I miss him.

I miss him so much.

What you don't know can't hurt

2006-12-15T12:39:00.000+08:00

I've been meeting and catching up with old friends in the last week, and it scares me to think how jaded and cynical about the world we've all become, especially when it comes to love and relationships. Almost all my friends have a story of some sort to tell, and even those who are now happily married with kids have been seriously hurt in love before.

Our thoughts and perspectives of life are now so different from when we still in school and untill we were in our innocent early 20s. I remember the silly pranks we used to pull off in school. Playing truant, sneaking under the hole in the ground underneath the school fence, cheating blatantly during our common tests, skipping lectures, playing mahjong on a carom board in hall, getting smashed three times a week at Wong's, at SOS, at Ridleys, at Guild House, signing up for tutorials in Uni, taking turns to attend classes so we would all have a complete set of notes despite being absent three quarter the time...

We were all so young, naive and innocent, oblivious to the fact that life hurts most of the time, and the world is really a cruel cruel place to live in. Most of all, we all believed that love was an easy matter, and that it would be pure, and sweet, unchanging and everlasting. We all believed it was as simple as looking for someone who we could find attractive, who would love us back and that everything would end in happily ever after.

I guess we've all matured. Finding out that the person that I had once wrote about in this blog as being the only one outside my family circle I would trust unconditionally with my life had never been who I thought he was, has changed me overnight. And sadly, I'm bringing this emotional baggage along with me, and I cannot help but question if the sweetness that I now share with pilot boy will one day crumble as well. Perhaps one day, when his infatuation with me fades, when the excitement of having someone new to laugh and talk with disappears, he too, will cheat, especially since his chosen career is somewhat high-risk in this area.

(Fuck, baby. Can you please be a teacher? Or a computer engineer?)

And the reactions of all my silly friends - the ones who scribbled obscene messages about our school principal on the canteen benches (If you think Madam So and So is a horny old unmarried maid, pls draw a star here.), the ones who once threw me into the school pond because I was small and light and easy to push around, the ones who helped to zip me up into one of those huge rugby bags and subsequently paraded me around the school, the ones who played chor dai di at the back of the room during GP classes, the ones who ate peanuts and scattered the shells all over the floor of the lecture theatre when the teacher got suspicious, they all said the same thing.

"You cannot be with a man and expect him never to cheat."

"He will cheat. It's a question of when, and how many times."

"But why would you want to know if he cheats or not?"

"As long as he comes home to you every day and you are the one he loves, that has to be enough."

"It's hard, but you must find a way to come to terms with that because it's the way that men are biologically programmed."

"Don't ask too many questions unless you are prepared for the truth. If not, look the other side and pretend that everything is okay."

And the most heartbreaking comment of all:

"What you do not know cannot hurt you."

I'm not sure all this goes down well with me. As one anonymous commented on this blog some posts back,

"wouldn't it scare you if you've been with him for 3 years but he's also been seeing and sleeping with 36 other women during that same time? love is selfish. would you accept that because he's still with you eventually? would you be able to accept that so many other women are sharing the taste of that delicious chocolate skin while you go to bed with him every night? would you notfeelsad if you do find out that he had just brought someone to a hotel for a quick romp before cominghome to share the same bed with you?"

I know it will break my heart. At the same time, I don't think I can bring myself to look the other side and not ask questions. I cannot share the chocolate brown skin of my pilot boy. I cannot share his lips, his kisses and his affection. And before, when I had no idea what it felt like, I almost convinced myself that I could deal with it if someone cheated on me for a one-off fuck. It's just physical, I told myself. It's the emotions that are most important. But really, it's the same thing. Physically, emotionally, mentally, I need my man to be mine, only mine, exclusively.

Men cheat. Women cheat. But we both cheat for very different reasons. Men cheat because they are not content to have just one. Men cheat because while they may love The One, it's not enough to stop them from satisfying their egos, their sexual urges, their predatory instincts, and they want to go out, command and conquer, then sow their seeds.

Women cheat because they hunger for emotional fulfillment. Something is wrong in the relationship that they may or may not yet know about. However, it's seldom about sex. More often than not, women yearn to be pursued and to be romanced. The actual act of sex itself is less important than a desire to be loved, to be possessed and to be protected. But once a woman perceives that all these conditions have been met, sex is offered as a token of gratitude and appreciation, sex is offered as way to continue being loved, being possessed and being protected. And while sex may still be pleasurable, its is still the process of being courted that is most important.

Men enjoy sex. Women enjoy being pursued for sex.

Men can separate the physical from the emotional. But women get hurt all the time because they are convinced that the physical is the emotional. When whoever it was put human beings on earth, he gave men a penis and easy orgasms. But he gave it women vaginas, made it difficult for us to achieve orgasm during sex, but made it all up by blessing us with an overdose of emotions.

Blessing us? I think it's a curse.

Women are soft, vulnerable, pliable creatures, regardless of how hard we appear on the outside. We are sensitive and compassionate; we are instinctively programmed to consider the plight of others before ourselves, and therein lies our greatest flaw.

I do not believe in god. But if I am wrong, and there really is such a thing as an afterlife or reincarnation, I ask for the chance to be born again as a man. Because there is so much to lose in being a woman.

What I want for Christmas

2006-12-13T15:17:00.000+08:00

I want an air ticket to Brisbane.

To sit under the powdery blue summer skies, to run my fingers through the milky white sands of Surfers Paradise, to feel the sticky, salty sea caress my face as the glare of a smiling sun stings my eyes.

I want to walk along the beach, by the waters edge, and feel the playful sea waves nip and bite my toes and feet, while cawing seagulls glide overhead, then swoop and dive for their daily catch of fish.

I want to hear the noisy medley of playful laughter, the squeals and screams of children as they run pitter patter, the roar of the ocean as it rises, then crashes down again in a glorious blaze of thunder.

When the sun has said goodbye, I want to lie beneath the gleaming skies of deep graphite, gaze into the twinkly stars against the blackened night, and stare into the fuzzy glow of distant city lights.

I want to welcome in the cool sea breeze, and feel the tendrils of my hair whip the air and tickle my cheeks. I want to feel my boy beside me, his body warm against my skin, his arms around me, pulling me in.

And I want to kiss him desperately, to hold him close and hear him whisper, that I am his, and he is mine - for now, for always and forever.

I miss you

2006-12-11T15:18:00.000+08:00

It's only been one day and already, I find myself falling apart.

I know it's just three months. But I cannot even take one day.

How will I last? Why is it so hard?

Love is just a word

2006-12-11T00:52:00.000+08:00

And here I am in the dead of the night. The air is still. Silence. Everywhere.

And here I sit, wishing my heart could empty. That I did not feel. And that I were dead.

For I hurt more tonight than all my life put together. And my emotions feel like a humiliating waste of time.

A most opportune moment you chose, to reveal that the past ten years of my youth has been a complete and utter farce. I was willing to sacrifice so much for you despite loving you no longer. The spark was gone, but it cut me deep to tell you so. It would have ripped me apart to turn my back on you, and leave you struggling against your darkness.

It was your darkness. Not mine. But I took everything into my hands and made it ours. Because I believed that we were us, and that it was us against the world. I wish you didn't tell me. I wish you kept it secret forever. Because I now feel like a foolish wretch who trusted too willingly and cared too blindly.

I gave up my youth for you. I defended you and I protected you. But you betrayed me not once, not twice, but again and again, despite the heart wrenching promises that you loved me and that you were true.

Why must you do this to me? Why are you so selfish? Why are you so vindictive, so spiteful, so cruel? Does it not mean anything that I stood by you when you had nothing? You had nothing. You were nothing. You would have been nothing if I hadn't been there and helped you up each time you fell, every step of the way.

How many girls have there been? How many have you fooled around with? How many times did you fuck one pussy and then come home to mine? How many times did you lie when you said that you had never done anything to hurt me? How many times did you look in my eyes and swear with hypocritical sincerity?

But please don't tell me. I do not want to know.

For you to act the saint while I trapped myself in misery, not knowing that all the time, the beautiful professions of love and commitment were nothing more than empty words. It's the person you are, isn't it? Empty words, empty promises. Empty. Everything about you is empty.

You tricked me. You fooled me into believing that I was the only one, and that you would fall apart if I ever left you. And so, even when I didn't love you anymore, I forced myself to try harder, to try again, to try until I did.

Why are you so cruel? Why couldn't you be fair to me?

Because even when it repulsed me to be with you, I forced myself to stay. I had to stay because I felt guilt seeping from every pore of my body and engulfing me in shame, berating me for my wicked ways, that I was unable to reciprocate the one person I thought would love me and only me. The guilt stung me every time I thought to leave, and it killed me because I thought you were true, and you were genuine, and that there was no one else who would love me the way you did.

Why could you not leave me be? Why did you have to come and mess it all up? Why were you so selfish, and why could you not let me go when I said I'd found the one? You say you love me, but all you intended was to destroy my happiness. Because of you, the sweetness of this happiness, its beauty and its magic, has been tainted by doubt and insecurity.

And I must say again, that you chose the most strategic moment to deal this blow. Because tonight, I sit alone. I am alone. There will be no sweet whispers in my ear to reassure me and there will be no soft kisses to put me to sleep.

He is my happiness. Why did you have to destroy it?

Your actions have aged me in just one night. I am now jaded, and sad, and cynical about men and the world. Because I trusted you unconditionally, and I truly thought you loved me and that you would never do anything which might hurt me. I was willing to give up my life for you, just to make sure that yours turned out okay.

But even you betrayed me, time and time again. And if you did, then what more him?

I feel like my heart is dead. I am exhausted. I am scared. I am lonely, and I am sad. I am so so sad.

Love is nothing. There is no such thing. Love is not love. Love is just a word.

Tonight I feel empty. The night is still. Silent. Peaceful.

And all I can do is cry.

An afterthought: At the end of the day, despite my nabecheebye, my fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck, my if-you-don't-think-like-me-you-can-go-stick-a-finger-up-your-ass, my I-want-to-fuck-like-a-man, all I want is someone who I can love, and who will love me back.

And off he goes...

2006-12-10T22:08:00.000+08:00

I sent my pilot boy off at the airport today, and ended up a horrific crying mess. I was so horribly selfish and emotional that I forgot to say bye to his family and thank them for dinner just before I left.

I am a terrible person.

I am such a crybaby. I should have been happy for him. This three months is good for him. It's what he needs to be the pilot guy he so much wants to be. And I couldn't be happy. All I could think about was myself and how badly I'll miss him when he's gone.

My thoughts are jumbled now, and I cannot type properly because my tears are flooding my eyes and blurring my sight. I miss him so badly, and I am so scared that when he returns he'll change his mind about me and about us.

Prick is right. Because of events past, I know now who I am because I now know who I am not. And following that same vein, I now know more clearly than ever what I want and what I need.

I want this one so much. I want him so badly. I cannot bear to let him get away.

Please baby, don't break my heart. Please.

Why I couldn't be with you anymore

2006-12-10T14:23:00.000+08:00

Why is it that you have the capacity to make me so angry even when we are no longer together? I thought that this whole tragic turn of events had combined to make you a better person, and that you had grown up and matured tenfold in a space of just over a month.

But the truth, really, is that you are the same. You are still irresponsible, manipulative, arrogant, and inconsiderate.

I don't deny that you loved me and that we both shared many good times together. But sadly, you were also the cause of much of my anguish, frustration, and sadness. You never really understood the meaning of keeping your word, of being responsible, of respecting others and not imposing on other people. To you, it was as if the world owed you a living. You didn't need to think and consider the consequences of your actions because there were people around to form a protective brick wall and shield you from everything.

And when there weren't people to do that anymore, I tried to take that place. I made excuses for you and for myself. I told myself that you are a good person. I defended you aggressively from people who thought you weren't right for me. I believed wholeheartedly that you were what I wanted.

Nobody else has the capacity to make me so angry. The unfortunate thing is that deep inside, you know the source of my dissatisfaction, the cause of my anger. But instead of confronting this head on, you choose to skirt the issue. You find excuses for yourself. You bring up other topics from way past. You refuse to admit your mistakes.

You are a coward. Just like me. The only thing is that you are more manipulative than I am. You are a manipulative coward. You bury your mistakes, then distract by grabbing the loosened soil and throwing it back on your accuser.

Your sorrys are not sorrys. They are meaningless, just like most of your words. They are just noises you make because it's what is expected. You have never truly paused to consider your actions, the consequences, and the impact that they have on people around you. Or maybe you have. And you simply don't think it matters.

Do you not realise that you are not the only person in the world? You do not expect people to hold the same values as you. You cannot expect people to live the same way as you do. And you must respect these differences if you care about the people around you. It is not fair to assume that everybody has the same threshold of tolerance as you do, and thus, the only safe and civil way, is to assume that everybody has a tolerance level of zero.

I need someone to take care of me. I am very very tired. I am tired of feeling tired. I am tired to being so angry I cannot speak. I am tired of feeling all that frustration sap the energy from my entire being. I am so so tired of making sure that everything is ok. I am so so tired of explaining why you have to think of your actions, and why sometimes, sorry just doesn't mean a fucking thing. I am so so tired of your manipulative ways, pulling puppet strings and making yourself seem like a godly saint who can do no wrong, while I angst and cry and beat myself up, and struggle with the many emotions pulling and pushing against me.

I do not want to hear excuses. I did not know. I did not think. I did not mean it. I did not intend it. Adults know better than that. Adults know how to know, to think, to mean and to intend. And as an adult in this real world, you must know to know, to think, to mean and to intend before carrying out any of your actions.

There are consequences for your actions. There are consequences for the promises you make and subsequently break. You are not young anymore. Why do you not see that a man of worth is a man of his word?

You do not know this. Thus, you cannot take care of me. You will never be able to take care of me. Being able to take care of me is not about being controlling, or selfish, or chauvinistic. You fail to see the essence of what taking care of somebody is. Taking care of someone means being able to provide security and stability, a sense of calm and peace, the assurance that there will never be a need to worry about the world.

You cannot even take care of yourself, you are irresponsible, and you are always blaming others, fishing out excuses for yourself. Your life was fucked, your father was fucked, your circumstances were fucked, and thus, it is through no fault of your own that you are fucked, and you can continue to be fucked?

Please grow up. You are a man. This is the real world. You yourself are responsible for who you are. You are answerable to yourself. If you are a man of honour, your actions will show respect. Both to yourself, and the people you care about.

And if you must know, this was the biggest reason why I couldn't be with you anymore.

Who says I care?

2006-12-07T12:37:00.000+08:00

Insecurity is a bitch. Because it makes you imagine all sorts of ridiculous what-ifs that ordinarily shouldn't be much of an issue at all.

Such the billions of SMSes that my pilot boy gets late in the night. I desperately want to peer over and screech, "Who is that? Are you calling someone else sweets? Are you sending honeyed text messages to some other blogger you met in the same way that you met me? Are you? Are you fucking with me? Are you SMS flirting? I hate you I hate you!"

But I play it cool and pretend as if I don't care because I don't want to seem like I'm a psychotic paranoid with schizo tendancies. Although sometimes I find it really funny that he gets all antsy about blog readers who email and message me, and he doesn't see the parallel between his late night SMSe and bursting Friendster account that I refuse to look at because what I don't know (if there's anything to know in the first place) cannot hurt me.

I hate Friendster. Friendster is a motherfucking cheebye. Friendster is just a sore excuse for boys to know girls and girls to be known by boys. It's just like a dating website except that it's called FRIENDster, not DATEster or FUCKster or LOVEster. I mean, it's the same thing, right? On dating websites, everybody has a profile. On Friendster, everybody has a profile too. On dating websites, you can send messages to people you like, and if they like you back, they message you back. On Friendster, you can send messages to people you like, and if they like you back they add you as a friend.

Friend my arse.

If you're a boy and you're not gay, and a boy wants to be your friend, I'd think it a little strange, but yeah. I guess you could be friends.

But if you're a boy and you're not gay, and you want to be friends with a girl, I'd show my third finger and say, "Fuck you, don't nabecheebye bluff me. Platonic relationship, friend only my ass. My arse! My backside!"

Boys do not want to be friends with girls because boys only want to be friends with the girls' cheebyes. Girls do not want to be friends with boys because boys don't understand make-up and Abercrombie skirts. Boys and girls only want to be friends because actually, they don't really want to be friends. They say they want to be friends only because neither wants to come right out and say, "Actually, let's fuck."

I cannot say these things to my pilot boy. Because he's going to think I'm ridiculous and and when he goes Down Under he's going to keep his eyes peeled for someone else who's prettier and smarter and funnier, and most importantly, less ridiculous.

So I shall just pretend I don't care.

I don't care.

Really. I don't.

He is the boy

2006-12-07T10:49:00.000+08:00

When my pilot boy gets upset, he becomes very very quiet, and his face gets hard and tense. He pulls his arms from around me, folds them across his chest, and for some time, he just sits alone and refuses to say a word.

It scares me when he gets like that, and I have no idea why. I'm not used to this. I'm not used to being at a loss for words. I'm not used to panicking because I have no idea what to say. I'm not used to silent, brooding disagreements because the only way I know how to fight is to shriek and scream and get crazily mad.

But my pilot boy intimidates me, and I shrink inside my little shell whenever he gets like that. Perhaps it's because a lot of what he says makes logical sense, and he refuses to sugarcoat his words. He can be very harsh, and I'm just not used to being told the things that he tells me. But even more so, it disturbs me when he gets angry because there are so many things that I want to say in return to his accusations. At the same time, I do not feel comfortable telling him these things yet.

He's staring off into space yesterday night, and I know something is up. "I'm not used to feeling insecure," he finally says.

We've been through my list of faults a billion times before. I am frivolous. I can be a hopeless flirt. I am a desperate attention seeker. I wear clothes that make men want to hop into bed with me and that make women hate me. I seek validation all the time. I have esteem issues. And all this translates to him worrying about what I'm going to do when he's Down Under and I'm feeling lonely and empty back at home.

"You meet people through your blog, and through your work," he says. "People like he-who-claims-he-misses-you," he says.

I gape.

Because I really don't know what he's worrying about. He is my pilot boy. He is the boy whose text messages kept me going during the insanely boring Singapore Motorshow. He is the boy who calls me sweets, and whose phonecalls make me smile and my heart jump with excitement. He is the boy I miss every waking moment, want so desperately to see after work and want to share my bed with every night.

He is the boy I threw away 10 years for. He is the boy I gave up my friends for. He is the boy I gave up my life as I'd always known it to be since university days. He is the boy who renders me speechless when he gets angry with me. He is the boy who makes me stutter whenever I try to say to him what my heart feels. He is the boy with the eyes I cannot look into because they make me shy and frightened and insecure.

He is the boy I do stupid things for. He is the boy I'd gladly spend hours waiting alone for at a Starbucks cafe. He is the boy whose phonecalls I'd never pick up until the fifth or sixth ring simply because I didn't want to appear too eager. He is the boy I tell Smarmy and Tai Tai and BP about. He is the boy my family wants to see because all I can do is talk about him. He is the boy I tell them all is handsome, and smart, and reads Kazuo and the newspapers, and a brilliant athlete and sportsman and self-assured and confident and witty, and who makes me the happiest I've been in a long time.

He's the boy who will change my contact lens solution every night, mop my floor, dust the bed and fix my computer. He's the boy who pointed out the dust on my cupboards and shook his head in disbelief. He's the boy who wants to help my mother change my sloppy habits and make me less of a slob. He's the boy I call the neat freak, and he's the boy who calls me a slob.

He's the boy who showed me that an Erdinger is a good beer, and not horse piss. He's the boy who got me drinking beer, instead of that "pussy drink" made of coconut milk, rum and watered down pineapple juice. He's the boy who laughed at me when I said the difference between a Shiraz and a Merlot is that one is white and one is red. He's the boy who laughed even harder when I daringly said that port is nothing more than aged wine.

He's the stupid boy who cannot tell left from right and right from left. He's the stupid boy who eats the whites, and not the yolks, of salted duck eggs. He's the stupid boy who prefers sweet durians to bitter ones. He's the stupid boy who hates the taste of prawn and lobster. He's the stupid boy who likes mushy ice-cream without nuts.

He's the boy who can be wildly passionate, rough, and violent in love. Yet he's the boy who's also tender and sweet and loving in the aftermath. He's the boy with the kinky vocabulary of a celebrity porn star, but he's also the boy who's careful and gentle and who says he's sorry that he hurt me.

I'm crazy about my boy. I am madly, foolishly, stupidly, dangerously crazy over him. If he feels insecure, I'm sure I feel it just as badly too.

"Put it this way, if you can see the gem in him, so can many of those girls, some of them are vicious."

"cynical as it may sound but true love doesn't happen at first sight. neither does it take such a short time to develop! i kid you not."

"You are no fool, you have been around, you know the rumours and myths about pilots, the llifestyle, the escapades."

And just like I cannot believe his feelings for me despite the many times he's said so, I think he, too, doesn't understand just how desperately I want him, doesn't believe how much I feel for him, and how badly I want to be with him.

Will you still love me tomorrow?

2006-12-05T14:43:00.000+08:00

My pilot boy is going.

He's really going.

He's going off this weekend, and he'll be back only in three months' time. It never hit me that hard because while I always knew that he would be going, now I know that he really is going.

It's just three months, they say. But three months is more than 12 weeks. And 12 weeks is more than 80 days.

80 days is a long long time, especially when I've been his girl for so much less than half of that.

Tears are a useless waste of emotions. They strike you mute, unable to speak, unable to think straight, and leave you with ugly, puffy eyes the next day.

Besides, only weak people cry. I'm not weak. I'm strong. I'm cowardly, but I'm still strong.

I am.

Really. I am.

Because I say so

2006-12-04T19:31:00.000+08:00

I hate all you marcom morons out there who think you know everything but who actually do not know shit from fuck.

Can you keep your bad grammar in your personal work files/documents/letters etcetc and not force me to use what you think is correct in my copy?

I know you hold my pay cheque. But when I say it's wrong, it's wrong ok. Can you not be keh kiang?

You hire me to edit your stuff, but if you're going re-edit what I edit, then you might as well do it all yourself.

Save the money, put into the weekly company bonding budget or whatever shit, and save me the head pain of going through the re-edited edited copy and then having to re-recorrect and re-rephrase what had already been corrected and phrased exactly the way it should have been.

Seriously, fuck you all low life minions. Fucking plebs who think you know the world.

Nabecheebye.

Internal conflicts of the mind

2006-12-04T01:00:00.000+08:00

You know he means what he says.

I don't.

But he says it all the time.

So?

Why would he say it if he doesn't mean it?

Maybe he means it now. Maybe he feels it now. Maybe he believes himself now. The operative word, as you can see, is now. But later... Later is not now. Later is later.

And what can happen later?

Too many things. He might hate that I'm a slob. He might hate that I'm old. He might hate that I'm ugly. He might hate that I'm boring as hell. He might hate that I don't run, or swim, or watch football. He might hate that I'm not the DiDa he thought I was. He might hate it that I'm me.

But you're all of that now, and he says he loves you.

Maybe he doesn't know what love is. Because how can you love someone who lies and cheats? And how can you love someone you've known for just awhile?

But you say you love him too. And how can you love someone you've only known for just awhile.

I am me and I know what I feel. But he is him, and only he knows what he really feels. And if I am not him then I cannot know what he really feels and thus the only safe thing to do is to remember that all men only want to get in my pants and that's all there is to it.

But he's already gotten into your pants and he still loves you.

There's just three possibilities. I'm the most fucking lucky girl in the world because he's everything I think a man should be and he's crazy over me. Or maybe he's a darn good player and he's trying to see just how far he can string me along. But most probably, he's deluded. He thinks he loves me but he'll wake up one day and find out it was never so at all. Just like how I woke up one day to find out love was never really love at all.

You're testing his patience.

I can't help the way I feel. I just know that in life, always expect little to avoid disappointment. This way, you'll never be hurt. And in the oft chance that something really wonderful happens, then the something wondrous becomes twice as wondrous.

He says he's scared too.

There's nothing to be scared about because I am me and I know how I feel, and I know there's nothing for him to be scared about. But he is him, and I can't know for sure how he really feels and so there's everything for me to be scared about.

You're selfish.

Well, that's me. Deal.

You'll push him away.

I will, won't I?

You will, psychobitch.

So what should I do?

What should you do?

I'm asking you.

I'm asking you.

I don't know.

You have issues.

Yes, I do. So?

So trust him. He says it, he means it. The whole world thinks so.

Trust is a bad word.

Why?

Because.

So. Now what?

I don't know.

Don't know what?

Don't know.

How now, brown cow?

Don't know. Don't fucking know.

And so?

Fuck off.

Why?

Just fuck off.

Why?

I don't want to think about it.

Are we running away again?

Yes. That's me. Deal.

Shit's gonna happen if YOU don't deal.

Well, when it happens, it happens. Fuck off.

You're still gonna have to think about it.

Fuck off. Out from my head.

You know you need me here. I'm your only sane voice.

Fuck. Off.

Whatever.

Whatever.

You sure you want me to leave?

JUST FUCK OFF AND LEAVE ME ALONE. CAN?

One night at the beach

2006-12-03T15:34:00.000+08:00

Pilot boy brings me to see his friends on Saturday, and I start the night off feeling extremely, immensely, uncharacteristically, painfully shy. So he cocks one eyebrow at me and waggles his hand in my face and begins to laugh. "You? Shy," he sputters. "Since when?"

But I slump down in the back seat of the car and continue keeping as quiet as a little churchmouse. What did you expect, I thought. These are your friends, not mine. And besides, the last time I actually had friends who were free to come out and hang together as a group was a gazillion years ago.

I was feeling fucking sore about it. The boy I'm dating is just two years younger than I am. But when it comes to the stages of life that both of us are at, I'm starting to feel like an old wrinkly banana left out in the open for seven weeks, covered with horrendous patches of black and surrounded by swarms of buzzing fruitflies.

Fucking hell. This makes me feel too old. I graduated a good motherfucking seven years ago. And some of pilot boy's friends are still in school, finishing up their last years, doing their masters, looking around for a great company to start their professional lives with, job hopping, plotting out a feasible career direction, deciding what they want to do with their lives. They are gatecrashing parties and getting drunk and hanging out together and talking cock 24/7. The memory of NUS, and hall, and lectures, and jam and hop and rag, and orientation - all that is still fresh in their minds. They still remember how to squeeze in through the elaborate maze of long kangs, cross the lallang fields, hop up the drain steps and find their way to Fong Seng. And me. All I remember is that Fong Seng had good sotong balls, and that's all I ever ate at Fong Seng. Hell, even the Fong Seng area doesn't look like the Fong Seng area anymore, and since when was there a prata shop next door?

DiDa and company on the other hand, are a bunch of old hags. School was aeons ago. So long ago that we can barely remember what hall rooms even look like. We the ancients don't even meet up anymore because many of us (not me, them) are married, and the sad fact of life is that when you get married, you meet up with hubby's friends, not with wifey's friends, if you even meet up with friends at all, that is. It's hard to get people together all at once because Friend A might be pregnant, Friend B needs to spend time with her screaming, bratty two-year-old nuisance at home, Friend C's gunning for a new opening for a directorial position in the company and needs to put in extra overtime, Friend D needs to go drinking with her office colleagues and bosses because "that's just what's expected in the industry" and Friend E is on overseas assignment in London/Hong Kong/New York.

Most of pilot boy and company are at the point where there are choices to be made. Life is fun and exciting because most of it hasn't even begun yet. But DiDa and company are the the point where choices have already been made, and like it or not, the only option is to stick to them. Life is monotonous and boring because that's how life has been for the past five years, and that's how it's always gonna be.

The bottomline is that it sucks. I feel so fucking jealous and envious because I remember how it all used to be before my friends started getting married, having babies, pursuing careers, and dropping out of the social scene. And because I'm not married, will probably kill my own baby, and am an expert bummer by profession, all I have for company are Gilmore Girls and Ben and Jerry's, which by the way, I am getting extremely sick of.

But back to that night. I feel like a mother hen going out with a bunch of little children no older than my kid brother, and much as I absolutely hate the way I'm reacting, I'm becoming extremely self-conscious. So I down as much bourbon and coke and a bunch of other alcoholic shits as fast as I can. "You're going take me home if I go bye bye, right," I ask my pilot boy, who immediately puffs up his chest, puts a protective arm around me and reassures me in his most macho-shit voice, "not to worry. I'll take care of you."

And the night begins to get a little better because his friends are a crazy ass bunch of 20-somethings who behave more like little boys trapped in pre-teen tomfoolery. They are talking shit, yelling like morons, cussing like fishmongers and gaying with each other as if homosexuality were the new in thing. I look at them and they are stupidly, nonsensically hilarious, and yet they fucking piss me off because they remind me how it used to be with my friends, and how it's not anymore.

Then, when I'm three-quarter-way to byebye-dom, my pilot boy grabs my drunken hand and pulls me to the beach. He wants to do the salsa, he says. But he sucks at twirling and leading, and my high heels are sinking into the soft, dry sand. I end up walking like a duck, falling all over the place and grabbing on for dear life onto his neck.

"You suck," I say. And he laughs and tells me he loves me. "You don't know how much I fucking love you," he says. He twirls me around, and I fall again. He grabs my hand and picks me up and he keeps on telling me he loves me and that I don't know how much. And then he pulls me to him and he kisses me, and then he twirls me around again, tells me he loves me and kisses me again.

"I could so marry you right now," he says. "I can so see myself being with you for a long time."

I'm kinda high from that potent mix of alcohol, dizzy from being spun around and around in the soft beach sand, and then, hearing him say all that combines to send me into new heights of giddy, dreamy ecstasy. Because I know that my pilot boy is what I want, and I know that my pilot boy has what it takes to tame me and make me happy. And I want to touch his chocolate brown skin, and look in his eyes, and hear him tell me that he loves me for as long as he wants to.

He says it to me over and over again that night. "I fucking love you, DiDa," he says. "I can see myself waking up beside you every morning."

And my heart aches so much to believe what he says. But it's still early. We haven't been together long. He hasn't seen psychobitch DiDa. He hasn't seen me lose myself and behave like a raving maniac on the verge of uncontrollable lunacy.

Yet he says it over and over. "I love you, Dida. Do you know how much I fucking love you?"

Then the night gets later, and my macho pilot boy who swore to take care of me is lying on the sand and puking his guts out. And I make him lay his head on my lap. I brush the sand from his face and neck and I sit on the sandy ground just looking at him.

"I love you, baby. I know I could be with you for a long long time," he mumbles.

I watch him close his eyes, and feel his whole body slump over my lap. And then I know that it was just the alcohol speaking and that he probably never knew just what the fuck he said that night.

How did it happen?

2006-11-26T17:58:00.000+08:00

I don't understand how I got so lucky that I met a boy who's handsome, smart, can tell me the ins and outs of stem cell research, reads Kazuo, flips first to the Review/Commentary pages of the newspapers every morning, watches Grey's Anatomy, fixes my lamps, offers to drill holes in my walls, mops my floor, cleans up overturned wastebaskets when the dog upsets them, eats only the whites, not the yolks, of salted eggs, buys Ben and Jerry's ice cream, says Mer-loh and not Mer-lot, Moos-kah and not Muss-cat, wears Calvin Klein boxers, looks effortlessly sexy in jeans and a T-shirt, flies aeroplanes, asks me what I want to do before deciding what to do, thinks my boobs are hot, thinks my ass is hotter, thinks I am sexy, wants to show me off to the world, sends me honeyed text messages all the time, calls me sweets, and who has since made me his girl.

Human carrots and prideless women

2006-11-26T13:59:00.000+08:00

As it is, I have just as much difficulty understanding my own kind as I have understanding men. Too much oestrogen makes women catty, bitchy, petty, jealous creatures. It's this stuff that makes girls form cliques in school or create slambooks to ostracise a group they do not like. It's also the reason why girls check out other girls in the streets, and make disparaging comments about absolute female strangers they happen to walk by.

And just like men can act like completely spastic idiots when it comes to football, tits, ass, and beer, women degenerate into moronic children when they feel threatened by an apparently more superior specimen of their species. In this situation, logic flies out of the window, only to be replaced by irrational whining and high-pitched screeching that "even though that girl has such a pretty face, she has got fat fingers and they make her ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly, and which man will ever want to go out with a girl with fat fingers because fat fingers are ugly."

But perhaps all this is understandable. It all stems from insecurity and the need to prove superiority. We all learn about survival of the fittest, don't we? And stupid as it sounds, if you keep saying someone is retarded/ugly/boring/ often enough, you might eventually believe the cleverest, prettiest, most entertaining person is in actual fact, retarded, ugly, and boring.

What I really don't understand about women is the fact that some of them have absolutely no qualms fleecing off the wallets and bank accounts of their men. Ask them out to dinner and they point out Les Amis, raving about the rich flavours of French cuisine, despite secretly not knowing the difference between a souffle and a quiche. Take them shopping and they will ooh and aah shamelessly at Tiffany jewellery or beg to stop by at the LV boutique "because their new designs so niiiiice!" (Eh... nice my foot la. The LV monogram is fucking ugly la, if you ask me. My Tai Sun slipper logo looks nicer.)

And every little comment they make is aimed at making their men feel duty obliged to buy a little gift, a little something that she likes, just to make a little woman happy.

I don't even feel good having someone pay for dinner or drinks, regardless of who asks who out. God gave me two hands, two legs, two eyes, two ears, one brain and one mouth because he intended me to provide for myself, not live off the hands, legs, eyes, ears, brain and mouth of other people.

When they make babies nowadays, do they forget to arm them with important human qualities like pride and self sufficiency?

We've come a long way since the age of the caveman when all men hunted and provided for their women who cooked and cleaned and spread their legs, and who in turn judged whether a man was a competent enough mating partner from how big a moose/monkey/giraffe/other game animal he could bring home to the cooking pot.

What I really want to know is at the end of the day, after a $500 meal at some disgustingly overpriced restaurant, after receiving extravagant gifts, after being given air-tickets to jet set the globe and holiday for free, you not paiseh meh? Surely after spending so much money and effort on a smiling bimbo with a cheebye, all the fat, pot-bellied, balding man wants to do is, well... get into your cheebye la.

And even if you claim, you never forced him to indulge you, and that he was hankering to become your human carrot from day one, and that that in no way means you have fuck him, I say one more time, you not paiseh meh?

New relationships

2006-11-25T12:40:00.000+08:00

The beginning of relationships is always so sweet and beautiful. It's like being on an extreme sugar high. Newfound love is intoxicatingly attractive, and the addiction to something fresh, something new, something you've never had before is strangely difficult to keep under control.

Somehow, all you crave for during this period is this new person. And you would gladly spend the rest of your days making out in bed, feasting solely on potato chips, ice cream and bak kwa, not giving two shit that work commitments and social responsibilities are now languishing in a state of dangerous neglect.

Because as brainless as it sounds, you really do start to enjoy all the silly little things you cannot help but indulge in during this honeymoon period. First, there are the ridiculously stupid conversations.

"I love you."

"No. I love you!"

"Really? How much?"

"Just a little bit."

"And me? Just a little bit more than you."

Then there are the seemingly unexplainable disappearing time lapses because while a normal kiss takes maybe about three seconds, a honeymoon kiss could take as long as 15 minutes. And then, there are other missing hours spent on long, lingering gazes into one another's eyes, fervant declarations of devotion and enthusiastic promises.

If I could detach myself from my body and emotions and look upon my behaviour from a more objective perspective, I believe I might be quite disgusted. Through my relationship with Babes, I had assumed that I had my little head fastened tightly to the ground, that I was way too adult for whispered sweet nothings, and that passionate kisses and embraces were the stuff of a teenager's fairytale world.

You see, all along, I'd always taken pride that I was more of a pragmatic than a romantic.

Now of course, I realise that I am quite capable of being starrily cross eyed in love, and that there's something very Jane Austen-like about this whole situation that's making me feel like a character out of one of her 19th century romance novels (eh... frivolous stuff she writes, you don't think?) minus the parties and the balls and picnics and the hypochondriac/overprotective/filthy-rich landlord father.

Actually, I kinda like it - being giggly and sunshine happy all the time. I don't even remember feeling a tad bit grouchy when Fussy Client Number One said to cut text from one page to three quarter page but had difficulty telling me which points were cuttable and which had to be retained. This I-am-flying-so-high-in-the-sky mood also got me through the painful eleven days of the Singapore Motor Show which I passed by slumping myself over the side of a car, pasting on a frozen smile on my face, before daydreaming and replaying all the events that had taken place with my pilot boy the evening before.

What I really don't like however, is the uncertainty involved in this new relationship. It's exciting to be with someone different. It thrills me, it makes me yearn for more, but it's also frustrating having to second guess someone you're desperately in like with, instead of being able to go all out and say straight to his face, "I want to see you NOW."

So everybody skips around the delicate little situation very carefully.

"Dinner?"

"Ok. But you don't have to if you don't want to."

"I want to. Do you want to?"

"I want to. But if you're too tired, it's really ok."

"I'm not too tired. Are you too tired?"

"No, no! I'm fine. I'm not. Really."

"But you sound tired."

"No, I'm not. Unless you are?"

"A little bit. But...

"Oh, then it's ok. You really don't have to see me everyday, you know."

"But I want to see you."

"You sure? But if you're tired, you should go home."

"Erm... but... well, ok. Then I'll see you tomorrow, I guess."

"Ok."

"Ok."

"Bye."

"Bye."

Actually what you really want to say is, "Please please come see me even if it's for a little while because I've been thinking and daydreaming about you the whole day and if you don't come kiss me senseless and let me smell your neck, I'm going to go to bed extremely frustrated and very very sad."

But new relationships, however much you want it not to be, are always strategy games. You cave first, you lose. You act blase, you win. You act like you're desperate to see someone, and the someone gains the upperhand - like haha, you want me more than I want you.

So you have no choice but to tread around the whole situation with utmost care. One wrong move, and you lose the game. One right move, and your relationship comes out a little stronger. But the tricky part about it is how to achieve the perfect balance so that even with the second guessing and the desperate yearning to see the object of your desire every waking moment, you still end up winning every single strategic move.

It's beyond the physical

2006-11-24T16:33:00.000+08:00

Not too long ago I used to think, "what is there that a man can do that a woman can't?" And I always thought that save the differences in genitals and mammary glands, Adam was the same as Eve, and Eve was the same as Adam. I used to think that male or female, we were all the same. We perspire, we shit, we pee, we sleep, we think, we breathe the same air, we eat the same food, and we inhabit the same earth.

But really, gender equality is an unachievable ideal. A man is a man, and woman is a woman, and that alone is enough to make us as different as durians and peaches. Despite my stubbornness and pride, my strong will, my prickly exterior, my insistence that I will do things the way I fucking want to do no matter what, at the end of the day, I still want someone who will take care of me, make decisions, and allow me to feel safe, warm and secure.

I am a woman and I need a man who can take charge. I need someone who will tell me when I'm being frivolous, who will voice his discontent if I'm lapsing into frilly fluffy kuniangdom, who will insist I take out my contact lenses because my eyes are red and dry. I need someone who will challenge my perception of life, and I want someone with the drive and the motivation to explore and attempt new experiences together with me.

I don't know what brought you to me, or why I met you in the first place. And at first, the attraction was purely physical, as I am sure it too was for you. Yet today, your appeal to me goes way beyond your tanned dark chocolate skin, your bulging chest, and your boyishly handsome face. I find myself falling deeper and deeper because you are what I now know I am looking for. You are confident and assertive, with a mind of your own. You are strong, driven, know exactly what you want, and the word, "intimidate" does not exist in your dictionary.

And you have no idea how vulnerable and scared I feel, because for most part of my adult life, I have always been the strong one. I was always the person you could rely on to take charge and make all the right decisions. I was always the one who was worrying and angsting and wondering and planning. People were dependent on me as somone who could set things straight and who would make sure things didn't go wrong. But now, the controls are out of my hands, and the driver's seat no longer belongs to me.

It's liberating not to have to worry any longer. Yet it's also frightening. Because it also means that I've relinquished the upper hand.

And served it straight to you on a silver platter.

It's the damn Motor Show

2006-11-19T02:32:00.000+08:00

Hey hey. I really don't mean to ignore all the SMSes and emails and comments and tags. It's just that the Singapore Motor Show has kept me superkalifragilisticexpielidociously busy.

What to do. Smartypants me thought that it would be oh-so-fun to don a cute uniform and stand for hours posing like a fucktard with some hot racing car while people take pictures. Attention-seeking kuniang me thought it would be such a thrill to be the girl that all the ah-peks would point at, to be the race queen that photographers would scramble to take pictures of. I actually thought it would be the most entertaining thing int he world to wear a cheerleader outfit and stand for hours, shoulders out, back arched, stomach in, face frozen in smile for ten hours every fucking day for the last eleven days.

I so want to collapse, roll around the floor, pound my chest and guffaw hysterically at my moronic naivete.

Because the truth is, it really would have given me quite a kick to be the bimbo-by-the-car for two hours. Maybe three. I think I would even be able to handle half a day of brainless smiling and uncomfortable posing, no problem. But it's been ten fucking days that I've been grinning like a jackass while contorting my body into impossibly ridiculous poses that even a prodigious gymnast would find somewhat challenging, and I tell you...

It. Is. So. Not. Fun. At. All.

I suppose I really should be in bed right now, so that when I wake tomorrow, I will be bright eyed, and my skin will be glowing, and my human engine will be revving itself to take me out with a big bang on the last (I thank you, dear God for showing mercy) day of the show.

But you see, I'm busy thinking about my pilot boy. Yep, the one who reads Kazuo and has delicious chocolate skin. I'm thinking about his kisses and the way his hands feel on my body. I'm thinking of the way he smells, the way he smiles, the way he stares off into space when he's tired, or occupied in thought.

I'm also thinking about how much I should trust him, despite all the promises, the declarations and pledges of undying devotion. After all, if there is anybody who knows how fast the heart can change its course, well, that person is me.

After all that has happened, I've come to this sudden realisation: If you ain't related by blood, relationships will always be dangerous.

He reads Kazuo

2006-11-17T10:21:00.001+08:00

It's hard to find a boy in Singapore who reads real books. Most boys in Singapore are more interested in boring things like souped up Mazda cars, or computer games, or shiny metallic handheld tech gadgets.

Or else they read trashy pop fiction by writers such as Jeffery Archer, or David Eddings, or John Grisham. And their idea of reading the newspapers every morning is flipping to the comics section first, before rounding up their knowledge of current affairs with an in-depth examination of why which player in which football team was given what card by what referree because of what infringement against which rule.

Most men in Singapore have not heard of Kazuo Ishiguro, and they think Sophie's Choice is some kind of karaoke pub in Tanjong Pagar. And when you try to strike up a decent conversation with them about Tuesdays with Morrie, they stare strangely at you and ask about what else you then did on Monday and Wednesday.

My boy reads Kazuo, whose works I do not particularly enjoy, but who I respect for his ability to provoke thought and recreate vivid images through the cleanest, simplest prose. My boy has thumbed through the pages of Sophie's Choice, proudly proclaiming it to be too convulated and boring (and I totally agree). And he might not have heard of Frank McCourt, who is my mostest favouritest writer in the world right now, but he knows who Wurtzel is and understands that Lolita is the name of a book, not a porn website featuring pre-pubescent underaged girls.

Sure, I hate the fact that he watches football, and runs and swims and plays all kinds of sports games involving men who run around a small rectangle court/field/pitch chasing after balls. I hate it because then, when he wants to swim laps in the pool or cycle long distances or go running at East Coast Park, I'll just have to sit and wait under the scorching sun and swat at the mosquitos feasting on my kuniang twiggy legs and arms. And then when football season comes on, which is pretty much all the time, I'm going to have to feign interest in offside goals (whatever the fuck that is) and whoop everytime Arsenal scores. (Not that I really care, of course.)

But I like that he's a pilot. My boy flies planes. The kind of planes you travel on when you're going to places like Bali, or New York, or Frankfurt, or London. He'll be the guy in the cockpit who tells you stuff like how high you're flying and how he hopes you're having a pleasant journey, and that there's turbulence ahead so please stop visiting the toilet and sit your sorry arses back down on the seats and fasten your seatbelts. And when you land, he'll be the guy who tells you what the local time is and the weather forecast for the day.

He'll also be the guy the kebaya clad stewardesses will drape themselves over. Because when he becomes a full-fledged pilot he will make lots of money to buy gifts of LV handbags, and Prada wallets, and Gucci donnowhattheshits that 21-year old Singapore girls all covet. By that time I may be old and wrinkly and my belly ring might well be covered under a think layer of fatty blubber, and then maybe DiDa just won't be so interesting anymore.

I wish he didn't need to go away so soon. After all, it's only been a week since he's been my boy and I've been his girl. But he likes his airbuses and his Lear jets and other non-avian things that fly, and he really does want to be a pilot guy. So he'll be leaving me all alone down here while he goes on training in the land where everybody is a matey who says things like, "How's it going" and "Not a problem".

And maybe he'll come back with a gorgeous Aussie chick of exotic mixed parentage hanging on his arm. She might be 23 years old, and taller than me and have nicer boobs and ass, read Plath and Salinger, play beach volleyball and understand the difference between a penalty kick and a freekick. And I'll be old and 29, with sagging tits and an expanding ass, and the inability to differentiate Liverpool from Manchester.

Then maybe he'll decide that he doesn't really like DiDa that much anymore.

My pilot boy

2006-11-17T01:13:00.000+08:00

My new boy is a delicious chocolatey shade of brown, made all the yummier with the twin mounds that make up his heavenly man chest, but of which he insists, "there's nothing inside". I suppose he might be a little tubby, and his legs a little chunky, but he's all man because I think he's gorgeous and he makes me squirm and feel all sorts of unbecoming, lustful thoughts that I find quite hard to hide.

But it's his eyes that really get to me. Because they are constantly prying into my thoughts and searching for answers, penetrating deep to uncover my secrets that I'm far too scared to show him yet. I don't want to meet his gaze because I'm unsure of myself and I feel somewhat shy, and I'm so terrified that the more he looks at me, the less of me he'll like to see.

And my boy is boyishly manly. He looks like Adam Chen - just a little bit. I love his stubbly chin, especially when he forgets to shave, and his well-defined jaw that traces the outline of his angular face. Sometimes he smiles at me, just for me. And then he winks, and my knees buckle below me, my face goes slack in dreamy, drunken joy.

My boy makes me feel crazy things I never thought I was capable of feeling again. He calls me sweets, and I smile in giddy-headed disbelief over the other end of the phone. He tells me he likes me more than I know, and I blink my eyes and start to wonder if all this is really happening. And then he says he wants me to be his and his alone, and I am desperate to fling myself into his arms and kiss his neck and face and tell him that yes, I am, I am his and his alone.

I never thought it would happen so soon. But then he turned to look at me and gaze at my face. I will never forget that flash of anger I saw in his eyes, his rage, his passion. I was taken aback, frightened of what he might say or do.

Then I heard him say, softly, "Because I love you."

A new chapter

2006-11-08T14:32:00.000+08:00

Love is a brilliant magical formula in the movies, is it not?

Take one boy and one girl, and throw them at each other. Introduce problems of some sort to create drama. Then finally, resolve the pretty little story all in a row with a rose petal strewn heart-wrenching kissing scene with melancholic orchestral violins followed up by blazing, triumphant trumpets.

How sweet.

But then again, not everybody in this world is like me. I am fickle minded and hate to face my problems. Present me with something I cannot solve, and I will run like the wind. Perhaps I might have to deal with it tomorrow, but today is today and tomorrow is later, and life's many unpleasant moments can wait till then.

And I would love to stay within the warm cocoon of familiarity, to curl up and snuggle against its soft interiors, and tell myself that that everything is alright. Soft and warm and familiar is safe - calm and peaceful on the inside, protected from all that's strange and unexplored outside.

For years I might have been lying to myself, preferring to turn my face away, refusing to confront my demons encroaching on my space from the other side. It was easier this way. Life could go on as normal, the way I'd always known it. And there would be no tears and anger, no harsh words, no regrets, no instability, no fears, and no uncertainty.

Most of all, there would be no guilt.

Guilt eats away at you starting from the inside. Because you can never stop feeling like a horrible person. Because it never ceases to get up and snap at you, reminding you constantly that each and every consequence that has manifested itself today is a result of your own selfish actions. Because people get hurt, and feelings are ripped apart and abused, then slammed into the unknown depths of nothingness.

In the meantime, all you can do is stand towards the side and watch. And it matters not if your heart is bleeding or your head is exploding from the myriad conflicting thoughts screaming at you from within. Your tears can no longer fall because your soul has shrivelled and dried up, disintegrating into fine, brittle bits of powdered dust. And you wish that everything could be normal again, if only you would scramble back into the warm, safe, silent white cocoon of familiarity, where everything was peaceful and content.

I could do that, and everything would fall back in place. Yet what use would that be? Because I would be safe. I would be familiar.

But I would also cease to feel alive.

Happy Birthday to me!!

2006-11-02T15:32:00.000+08:00

I know nice girls normally don't go out and MAKE other people wish them Happy Birthday, but I'm not a nice girl, and today is my birthday. I am 29 years old today. Twenty-nine long years old! That gives me just one more year before I turn 30.

I will be spending the first day of the last year in my 20s riding in a tuk-tuk along the Cambodian countryside. No doubt, the roads are dusty and pebbly and I will definitely be crunching and eating up loads of sand as the wind sweeps the dirt into my gaping city-girl mouth, but at least it's something new.

Because I normally spend birthdays singing to myself and hugging my dog. And Babes.

This is gonna make me all sad.

But oh well. New boy (maybe), new life, new things ahead. Time to move on.

Today, I'll celebrate by distributing some of those yummy Cherry Pop Tarts to the Cambodian children.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME! I AM FUCKING GORGEOUS AND SMART AND WONDERFUL AND CUTE AND BEAUTIFUL AND NICE AND FUNNY AND INTERESTING AND LOVABLE AND ALL THE GOOD ADJECTIVES YOU CAN FIND IN THE DICTIONARY AND I SO FUCKING LOVE MY FUCKING SELF.

Too much lemongrass

2006-11-01T09:09:00.000+08:00

Every tree, shrub and plant in Cambodia is probably a lemongrass tree, shrub and plant because every Khmer dish that I have had so far is heavily perfumed with the herb. You can't escape its sweet scent because it's in their curries, stir-fried dishes, soups, and even their Pina Coladas.

Seriously. A Pina Colada with lemongrass? That's something new.

The first local dish that I tried was the Khmer amok, the unofficial local dish of Siem Reap, which is saturated with little bits of finely minced lemongrass. It's a little bit too unsubtle for me, and coupled with the unnaturally sweet coconut curry that lacks even a hint of spice, well.. amok is not exactly what I would call excellence in culinary skill.

Truth be told, Khmer food sucks. Khmer curry is chicken soup with coconut milk and lemongrass. Fish soup is catfish in fish paste broth with lemongrass. Fried pork with vegetables is minced pork with chopped up basil leaves and lemongrass. Everything is something with lemongrass. Most of Khmer food is so coconutty, unspicy, and reeking of lemongrass that eating just one dish leaves you feeling stuffed and bloated.

The worst bit of it is that you never come out from a meal feeling thoroughly satisfied even though your stomach is churning from all that lemongrass and coconut milk. Khmer cooks use very little meat in their dishes, and something on the menu that might say beef with tomato is more accurately tomato with beef.

I like my meats. I hate having to plow through a mountain of onions and leek and lemongrass and basil just to find a tiny shaving of pork. And by the end of yesterday afternoon, I was craving so badly for a huge hunk of chunky bloody beefy beef steak. The Singy guy I met on this trip - who, by the way, to satisfy the curiosity of a very kaypoh anonymous commenter on my last post, I have so definitely not fucked and am even more definitely so not fucking - had to be polohsoh-ded and yiang-oh-ded ten times over before he grudgingly agreed to "please have dinner at that nice looking Western restaurant"

Me and Singy guy ended up at Cafe Indochine, a very pretty restaurant around the Centre Market area (Siem Reap's equivalent of Orchard Road, I would suppose) that had nicely set tables with white cloth and tall wine glasses, and was decorated in distinctly Southeast Asian style - cane chairs, ceiling fans, and lots of wood.

He ordered a Steak Fillet with Mushroom Sauce, and I had a Steak Fillet with Green Pepper Sauce. But we both ended up very very disappointed when our food came because all that lovely meat was drowning in a thick cheesy white cream sauce. I'm lactose intolerant, and just one bite was enough to make me start shaking with nausea.

It's the supermarkets here in Siem Reap that offer much better choice. I mean, would you expect to find Pop Tarts (woohoo!! I've never seen them in Singapore!!), maraschino cherries, smoked ham pate and mushrooms, pickled olives, and Spam in Cambodia? There's even HP sauce, Lee Kum Kee products, and all sorts of other familiar things you can find back home in Singapore.

I haven't had a truly decent meal in four days, and I'm beginning to feel just a little temple-weary and a tad overdosed on Buddhist history and Hindu folklore. I can't wait to get home to Misha-doggy-love-of-my-life who I hope has not chewed up too many of my new shoes and gotten herself trouble with Mum, her temporary babysitter.

Oh... and I'm also starting to miss that special someone who calls me sweets just a little bit too much.

Only three more days till I get home, babe.

They have so little

2006-10-31T16:11:00.000+08:00

Did you know that the town of Siem Reap was given its name by Cambodia's French rulers, and that it means Thai conflict?

This little city is so old, and dirty and rundown, and everything about this place makes me feel sad and puts a huge lump in my throat. All the most famous civilisations of the world have gone on to greater things. The Indians, the Chinese, the Romans, even the Persian. Angkor might once have been the sparkling gem of Southeast Asia, but all that's left of it now is shanty towns, rickety wooden huts, naked beggar children and dusty sand-covered roads.

The heart of Siem Reap is populated by hundreds of tourist guesthouses, most of them spanking new - no more than three years old - and foreign owned. According to my very able guide, Saroeuan, before Tomb Raider was released, Siem Reap had only three locally-owned guesthouses. Today however, there is the Raffles Grand Hotel D'Angkor, and the Le Meridien, both of which have starting rates of about US$300 per night. For extreme luxury, there is the Amansara, which goes for a fucking exorbitant US$800.

I'm in two minds about all the influx of all this foreign investments because most of the profits earned don't go back to the locals. Instead, they line the pockets of the already rich businessmen who take all the money out of Cambodia. Of course, all the increase in tourism and foreign investment point to increasing employment opportunities for the locals, which I suppose is a good thing, but there are plenty of unscrupulous businesses here who start their own travel agencies/transportation companies/diners, and yet refuse to hire locals, preferring instead to bring in workers from their own countries.

And as Saroeuan adds, "They don't need pay taxes. Because they pay the money under the table, and the officer just throw away the paper, and they take back all the money. So make money here for foreigner very easy. Invest very little, but make a lot money."

Then there are some groups who seem to have no qualms exploiting the local people at all. Likee the Korean profiteers who hire groups of village folk to go deep into the countryside to harvest lingzhi mushrooms, buying the precious commodity for just US$5 per kilo, but charging unsuspecting tourists something like US$250 per kilo.

It's things like this that make me so sad. It's just like leeching off the land, hoping to make heaps of cash, yet not planning on giving back any in return. How can anyone feel right doing this?

The average income here is only US$80 a month, and I almost feel guilty for staying in a room that costs the same amount a night. I feel even worse that I tried to bargain down the rate when Saroeuan first quoted me just US$20 a day to hire him as a guide.

Me, together with another Singy guy that I happened to meet on this trip, who's also travelling alone, are planning on taking him and our tuk-tuk driver out for a really nice dinner and night out this evening. I don't have loads of money to invest or to give away, but perhaps, just sharing a little bit of what I have, and treating him as a friend will give him something to remember.

Khmer are telepathic

2006-10-30T15:22:00.000+08:00

I am absolutely fascinated with the fact that practically every Khmer here in Angkorland seems to have been blessed with unbelievably gifted telepathic skills.

The city centre in Siem Reap is laced with an intricate but haphazard network of dirt tracks, small alleys, potted roads and muddy paths, and there are tuk-tuks, motorcycles, bicycles, and people everywhere. There are no traffic lights, proper pedestrian crossings or road junctions. There doesn't seem to be a right hand drive or left hand drive system either, because motorists generally prefer the I-drive-on-whichever-side-I-fucking-feel-like-this-morning rule. But strangely, everyone seems to know which direction everyone else is heading.

Last night, I stood for the longest time staring at my hotel from the opposite side of the road because I couldn't figure out how to make it across without having some tuk-tuk dismember my limbs and another tourist van do a steamroller over my remaining body parts. But I was hungry, sweaty, sticky, and looking very unglam, and the prospect of a long bath followed by a cigarette on the balcony was arousing all sorts of embarrassing lustful thoughts in me.

I took my first step out and caught the glare of headlights from an oncoming tuk-tuk. And just like the closet kuniang I am, I did no sensible thing like step back or run forward. Instead I stared the yellow lights straight in their eyes, froze, and yelped. The guy on the tuk-tuk screeched his beaten up half-motorcycle-half-rickshaw contraption to a stop, and laughed at me. Lots of yelps and helpless kuniang doe-eyed stares later, I had made it across the road to the lobby of my hotel.

Do you wonder why I'm in Siem Reap alone?

Angkor is one of the greatest archaeological monuments left in the world, and it would be such a pity not to see this at least once in your lifetime. Sure, you see the algae covered stones and elaborate carvings in shows like Tomb Raider, and on Discovery Channel, but lets face it. Everyone watches Tomb Raider for Angelina Jolie sausage lips, not for Angkor, and Discovery Channel does this ancient wonder no justice at all.

Because, you see... it is impossible to truly understand the significance of Angkor until you have actually explored the temple ruins, run along its crumbling corridors and attempted to climb its steep, narrow steps. Can you imagine that all this - about 200 temples, some huge, some small, some tiny - took 300 years to build? Angkor Wat itself took a full 30 years to complete, and back in the 1100s, there were no cranes or trucks, or lorrys, or whatever complicated building devices one needs to build a structure as large as this in modern day. Standing in the midst of temple grounds takes you back in time, and without all the pesky tourists (Taiwanese are bloody rude NBCB), you can almost imagine a bustling city filled with thousands of devotees in colourful traditional Khmer garb.

I could go on for hours about Angkor, but Internet here at this overpriced hotel is bloody expensive. And besides, I am - again - hot and sticky and sweaty and smelly and looking very unglam. Besides some irritating Taiwanese auntie is looking over my shoulder, reading every word I'm typing now.

HELLO AUNTIE WHO IS READING WHAT I AM TYPING NOW. YOU ARE VERY RUDE!

I'll be back Saturday.

I'm in Cambodia

2006-10-30T10:15:00.000+08:00

Hello all!

I'm in Siem Reap, land of the great Angkor Wat!

My guide is waiting for me in the lobby and I'm hurridly using these precious few seconds on a very fucking expensive Internet connection to type this out.

So I'll be really brief.

I tried to climb Angkor Wat yesterday. But the steps were so steep and narrow I chickened out when I reached the halfway mark. FUCK FUCK FUCK. I always knew I was a closet kuniang.

Cigarettes are like only US$1.

Khmer food sucks

I miss he-who-calls-me-sweets like crazy.

I miss he-who-calls-me-sweets like FUCK! I see the carvings on the walls of Angkor and I think of him. I see dancing Apsara with different hairtyles and I think of him. I eat Cambodian amok and I think of him. I watch Cambodian soap operas and I think of him. I see half naked blonde-haired Japanese boys with bronzed brown chests and I think of him.

But enough of this. I'm off to see Ta Prohm... where the Jolie with the sausage lips filmed Tomb Raider?

Ta guys! Will be back Saturday!

Why I don't like getting head

2006-10-25T16:19:00.000+08:00

I cheated on Babes four times during the very early start of our relationship.

Guy number one was a diver. He had tattoos everywhere - on his arms, on his back, and on his ankle. He also had a lip ring, belly ring, chin stud, eyebrow stud, tongue stud, and a billion ear studs. He also had a chest like Superman, and an unbelievably, flat, stomach that had the compulsory six pack of gorgeous bulging muscles. He was dark and brown like a hot Latino hunk, and he told me he loved my hair and that my eyes were beautiful.

I swooned and giggled and let him make love to me.

Guy number two was a guy from hall. He was skinny and fair and he smoked like a chimney. He wasn't cute. In fact, he was quite ugly and he had breath that stank like a fermented ashtray. But he was a talented dancer, and there was just something about the way that he walked - kind of like a half swagger, half crawl - that made me think he was godly cool and desirable. He was lazing about, smoking up my room with his umpteenth stick of Marlboro Reds that night when I asked him if he had a girlfriend. He said he didn't, one thing led to another, we kissed and I let him put his hands underneath my cherry red thong from Knickerbox.

He had a small dick and he came in... 10? Eight? Five? Three? seconds. *Snigger*

Guy number three was a bartender. He was tall, but his body wasn't perfect, although he did have a very nice face, with high ang moh cheekbones and the longest eyelashes I'd ever seen on a guy. He didn't speak very much the first night I met him, but he kept plying me with margueritas and tequila shots. I ended up being so sick that I didn't really object when he gave me his leather jacket, scooped me up and put me behind on his Harley, and gave me a ride back to hall. He grabbed my breasts and I puked a sour-smelling yellow liquid mixed with orange specks of food all over his shirt

He took off his clothes and we had sex. I think.

Guy number four was a guitarist in some wannabe band who also owned a jamming studio downtown. I thought it would be cool to seduce a rocker dude who wore heavy silver chains and knew all about Perfect Fifths and Major Thirds and Diminished Sevenths. So I unabashedly made goo-goo eyes at him and left him no choice but to come talk me. I was helplessless smitten with him at first, but one day, in the midst of post-coital conversation, I looked at him and wondered what the hell I'd been doing all this time. He had booked a trip to go with me to Phuket for the weekend, but I suddenly had had enough, and on the day we were to leave, I disappeared - left him at the airport waiting at for me, ignored his pages and all phonecalls.

He was the first guy who ever gave me head. He's the reason why I don't like getting head very much.

Why did I cheat?

Because I'm not an angel. Because II'd just discovered the pleasures of sex. Because I'd always been geeky and ugly in school, and guys had never taken much interest in me. In secondary school I was fat and obese. I wore braces, huge pink plastic glasses, and the only haircuts I ever got were from my mum, which meant I always ended up looking like a coconut head.

In junior college, I had lost the weight and the braces. I also got myself contact lenses and grew out my hair. But boys still thought I was short and fat and ugly. They weren't smart enough to realise that I only looked that way because the school uniform was grey and baggy, and my large set of boobies was making my body look way fatter than it really was.

(Suck my fucking toes all you miserable rugby boys. For all those years I had ridiculous crushes on you and none of you ever liked me back. Well, suck my fucking toes you losers because now I am hot and YOU CAN NEVER - I repeat - NEVER - EVER HAVE ME. Woohoohoo!)

So when I finally got my matriculation card and checked into hall in university, I was pleasantly surprised that hey.... I was actually turning out to be quite a popular chick. Guys were checking me out in the corridors, and whispering about me. I was getting secret notes slipped under my door and boys wanted to sit behind me in the lecture theatres so that they could sneakily steal peeks into my cleavage.

SO FLATTERED, YOU KNOW??

It was unbelievably empowering to discover I had that much sexual appeal. My confidence level surged. I didn't walk anymore. I strutted. I wasn't afraid to flick my hair and look into a boy's eyes because most often, they blushed and turned away, and inwardly I smirked and felt extremely satisfied with myself. I loved it when the cool boys looked at me, because every girl wants a cool boy to look at her, but not every girl gets that chance.

Besides, sex was a new toy for me. I was 18. I wanted to have sex, and boys wanted to have sex with me. Babes, well. Yes. At that time, we'd just started going out. I liked him, but I also liked other boys, and he was only ONE boy out of so many I could have. He was my boyfriend. Maybe, kinda, sorta. I should have been faithful.

But oh well. I wasn't. I cheated.

I'm sorry I was a slut.

Confused babble - Part 2

2006-10-24T16:37:00.000+08:00

I seriously do not understand why we cannot all start being mature adults and quit all the pretending. People are merely horrible, unfeeling actors on a pretty stage that's been fluffed up so that we can all pretend we are nice and caring and loving and happy.

All the world's a stage and every man must play his part, remember?

Human beings are selfish. We only do things because there is something to be gotten in return. No fucking body in this whole world does anything because he is good and kind. People do things for money. People do things to feel good and people do things for sex.

So today, I finally understand the whole psyche of the Singaporean race, and I swear to you we are considerably more intelligent that all the rest of the other human beings in the world. Because we push and we shove and we are rude and we spit and we give FUCK SHIT about everybody else around us because we are smart enough to understand that the only thing that really matters in this entire fucked world is ME ME ME ME and ME.

There is no need to waste time worrying about someone else's feelings because they do not matter. What matters is worrying about your own feelings because when shit happens, you will be the one who feels like shit, and that is the only shit that is ever really going to matter.

Why is there no man in this world who will just be brutally honest. I will have no issues with you if you would just pick me up and screw my brains silly. But you have to fuck it all up by telling me things that fuck with my head, appeal to my emotions and screw up the part of me that knows to to rationalise logically and think.

Just what is the matter with you men? Is it not enough that I put out? Why is it not enough that you feel it necessary to play with my mind? Does it seem like fun to you?

It's not fun for me. I do not want to keep on having to figure things out. I do not want to keep on having to decide if you mean things or not. I do not want to think about whether I'm going to hurt you if you mean it, and I do not want to think about whether you are fucking laughing your ass off at me behind my back because I've been stupid enough to think you mean it. And I do not want to start thinking you mean it only for everything to come crashing down on my head again.

By all means. Pick me up. Have sex with me. Just please do not say nice things to me. And even if you do not want to just have sex with me, still do not say nice things to me, PLEASE.

Oh by the way, Happy Hari Raya.

The world is round, you say

2006-10-24T15:20:00.000+08:00

I cheated on Babes four times during the very early start of our relationship.

It sure has taken a long long time.

But you are right. The world is round.

And it's all coming back to me now.

How nice.

Confused babble

2006-10-24T12:04:00.000+08:00

So Babes left. He-who-claims-he-misses-me aka Cowardly Motherfucking Bastard was manipulating me, telling me shit stories and sweet talking me with fucking crap all the time.

The one thing that I realise now that I didn't before is that men have absolutely no regard for emotions and feelings. In fact, men are just motherfucking bastards who shit talk and mean nothing of what they say. And I'm really sorry to offend the male species and half of the world's population but all this is true and if you happen to own a penis yet disagree with me, you're probably just another coward.

The whole thing about men is that they say what they say because they want something, not because they mean something. Men are highly evolved children to whom the whole world is a gigantic toy department store. Saying the right things will mean a free Mazda Sports. Or a free PDA phone. Or a nice, big, bouncy set of tits.

Why do you say the things that you say?

That you are falling for me? That you are smitten with me? That you are addicted to me?

I cannot deal with this right now. I'm sorry if you happen to truly mean it, but at this point in time, I do not believe in emotions. I do not believe in feelings. And even if I do, I do not believe that men have any ability to feel this way. And I'm sorry if you really mean to be nice, but I cannot afford to open myself up right now because I am a mess.

I do not trust anyone, and I do not trust you.

I don't care what you say, or how wonderful your kisses are because I'm probably just a toy to you. And right now, you are smitten with this toy because it's shiny, and bright and brand new. It's got great features and functions, and you're all excited because everything about it is something you've never seen before.

I'm sorry. I know it's strange, especially since I've hardly been an angel myself. But please stay away from me and stop telling me stuff. I have no energy left to go through something like this again.

I'm supposed to be having sex like a man, remember? There will be no emotions and feelings. It will just be sex. You will not come near my personal life. You will not disrupt my personal routine. You will not make me spend nights away from home, and my dog. And you will not disturb my memory of a relationship that I thought would last forever.

Because I am just not ready for it.

I'm sorry. I didn't want to make things a bitch for you. I wish I could be okay, but I'm not. And until then, you might want to consider going somewhere else, because if you don't end up hurting me bad, I'm going to end up hurting you.

So which is it gonna be?

You?

Or me?