Can't touch me!

During English class today, we came across this extraordinarily beautiful phrase. Written by Tim Winton, no less. (I'll post it when I bring the book home for revision. Which might, um, be never.)

*Guilty pause*

That's me, too quick to judge.
Or maybe too quick to believe that the first impression is always the right one.

But my gut feeling sustains me.

One word, one line, does not redeem everything.

I lied. Or I was truthful, until 5 minutes ago, when I bawled my eyes out.
I'm not okay, I'm not okay.
All the shit of today, all the shit of last week, all the shit of 2 months ago, coming to a head.

Labels: Boys

29 August 2006, at 10.34 pm, home; a sudden realisation hits me: it's over. It's over before it even began.

30 August 2006, 9.30 am, Camberwell Gloria Jeans; I got a message from him in response to a message I sent last night, asking if he would like to catch up sometime. His message: "Hey. Sorry i've bearly had time to breath. Hope all is going well with u" I quickly exit from my inbox. I'm with Amy and Becky. I can't speak. I stand foolishy looking around with a white hot chocolate cup steaming away on the counter. I can feel the blood in my brain beating hard against my skull. We sit down. I get a comfy chair. I stare at a poster on a wall informing me that coffee beans can only be grown between the tropics of cancer and capricorn. "I have a headache," I tell them, "I hope it's not because of the music." Anthony Callea sings You Raise Me Up and there's a heavy bass beat pounding away, just pounding away, in tune to the blood in my head.

30 August 2006, 10.25 am, Period 2 Lit Class, School; it's the start of lit class, I nearly weep with exhaustion. I want to go home.

30 August 2006, 11.03 am, Period 2 Lit Class, School; we're reading pg 135 of The Children's Bach. Fourth sentence from the top: "'In the next act,' he murmured, 'Margaret waits for Faust. She waits and waits, but in vain, he does not come. He is in the depths of the forest, invoking Nature.' " I bristle like a porcupine.

30 August 2006, 11.40 am Period 2 Lit Class, School; We're now halfway through pg 144 of The Children's Bach. Fifth paragraph from the top: "All these songs, thought Athena, are about the end of love, or its wrong beginnings." With gritted teeth I whisper to myself under my breath, "Do. Not. Let. Life. Become. A. Cliche."

30 August 2006, 11.45 am End of Period 2, beginning of Period 3 Physics, School; I now feel strangely exhilarated. I feel an incredible sense of freedom. Go go go! Exams - full steam ahead, no distractions anymore. I walk to my locker with a jiggle in my hips, thinking, I'll survive, I always do. Survive survive survive. "Live and survive, there's no difference." My God, I'm quoting Tim Winton. I must be a changed person. (See 24/8 entry, "As good as it gets", and you'll understand why this is a phenomenal thing.) At my locker, I read his message again, and the most incredible thing happens, I laugh. He's spelled 'barely' as 'bearly' and 'breathe' as 'breath'. I feel my bitterness ebbing away, because I'm reminded of why I even liked him in the first place. More importantly, why these past two months haven't been a waste of time. Time and money spent making multiple trips to Video-Ezy - not wasted, because he has a gorgeous soul; because he has the spelling ability of a 9 year old.

I contemplate returning his message, but really, there is no need. There is a finality to it that warrants no reply.
"Hope all is going well with u" - It's good luck, and goodbye.
Maybe not all is going well. Not right now. But it will be. Like Van says, I'll 'keep on keeping on'.

Before rushing off to the Physics lab, I think
I hope all goes well with you too.

Labels: Boys

This was what Becky said to me (obviously, Cactus Rabbit) on MSN, just.

- вєсky - says:
breathe
Cactus Rabbit says:
breathing

Labels: Boys

Ouch.

Nothing like a few sharp comments from a well-meaning friend to wake you up.
(I'm still smarting.)
The good intentions behind the words make the wound sting even more. (More than if you were my rival, more than if you were my enemy.)

I guess what you're saying is: Snap out of it.
And wrongly or not I say, "Let me hope."
And rightly you say, "No."
And wrongly I say, "Ok."

What you're really saying is right, right, always right, grounded in common sense; logic, reason infinite.

What I'm saying is, "wait, wait wait wait. Wait just one damn minute."
But I give in anyway.
Becase I dare not, I dare not.

Labels: Boys

I'm falling away from you.

I had an argument with my mum yesterday morning over church.

"I'm not going, mum."
"She looks up.
"What?"
"I said I'm not going. I'm 18 and I have a choice."
To my surprise she says - "Ok. I hope that you'll join us anyway, when you're ready." Then she does this chirpy dance, making her way over to me and giving me a big hug and a smackeroo.

Oh wow! Making some headway here! After reading through a couple of notes for school, I head back to bed for a 15 minute nap. Then I get up, and sit at the breakfast table.

My mum's bustling in the kitchen.
"What are you doing? Get ready for church!"
I stare at her.
"Umm, didn't you say I could choose not to go if I didn't want to?"
"What? Where got such thing one! Don't tell me you can tell your teachers you don't want to go to school? Don't tell me I can just say I can choose not to take care of you anymore? Some things are compulsary, dear."

Oh my. Should have known it wasn't going to last.

I expect I'm a herectic in your eyes. That I'll end up in hell.
But don't you see? It'll be so much easier for me to say I'll keep going to church, I'll keep pretending that I feel as if I have a connection to some higher being, I'll keep pretending that I derive great comfort and solace in weekly hour-long rituals, I'll keep pretending that I can ignore certain positions taken by the church which I disagree with, because I'm terrified of hell. And to no avail, because even if I try to deceive myself, supposedly I'll still end up in hell, because you have to truly believe in order to receive.

Let me tell you what I think religion operates on - fear.

Once a Catholic, always a Catholic, Mr H------- says. Childhood religious conditioning will win out in the end. And my childhood religious conditioning is based on fear. I expect I'll come a-crying and a-begging on my deathbed, but by then it'll be too late. Why, even now it's too late already.

"Women on posters, immense posters of women in factory clothes, in peasant clothes. 'We too can produce for the country.' Women calling to women: Come out and work! Build our country! Women and men with that smile to the fore, looking starry-eyed into the sky."
-Han Suyin, My House Has Two Doors, p.258

I've had to cancel a movie outing with Leanne so I can work on my Oedipus essay. It's such a great play, but I struggle to really work out how much of the tragedy can be attributed to the gods, how much of it to Chance (Chaos) and how much of it to Oedipus himself. I'm reluctant to blame Oedipus much, but because the Aristotilean concept of tragedy (which I find kinda formulaic, don't you?) has worked its way in to modern intrepretation... so he must have a tragic flaw. But it rankles with me so much because I feel he is disproportionately punished for his crime, in other words (of Lear himself, actually - yay for inter-subject cross-referencing!) "a man more sinned against than sinning".

Edited to add: I suppose there is comfort to be had in the words of my English teacher - "better to have complex inconclusiveness than simple conclusiveness."

Ok. So Oedipus has a healthy ego. He rises to anger easily. He's kinda cocky and paranoid. But he's also a good ruler, he's kind, he listens, he's a good father, he's intelligent, he takes responsibility, he keeps to his word.

He could be a perfect man and he would not have been able to prevent the prophecy from happening. AND he did fulfill it anyway, AND was still punished anyway. I'm feeling too lazy to go into all the delicate nuances and finer points of discussion, but basically what Sophocles is telling me is: shit happens.

And I think that just summed up my life.

P.S: Anyway who wants to discuss this with me is welcome to. You think you'll be enjoying a philosophical debate, but in actuality you'll be helping me with my exam it'll be fun! A philosophical debate, no strings attached.

You're an asshole, you know that?
And I'm a fool, the world's biggest fool.

I had a dream like Athena's, where the golden coin of a sun bursts onto the horizon and she cries. It was a beautiful dream, especially since it's never, ever going to happen. You asshole.

No reply for nearly 12 hours. Then, a brusque brush-off, carefully worded to not sound like, "I'm busy, bitch. Leave me alone." I return the hit, I say "It's ok, I'm sorry to hear that. I am too." but the rally stops right... there.

I'm not distraught, no freaking way. I'm just not happy. I go home and cry on my sister's shoulder, but it's not weeping or sobbing, it's more of a few seconds of puddling of wetness in my bottom lids and a "Fuck it! Girl's night out!"

So we dress up and head to Crown to watch Thank You For Smoking. (Hey Qm and JW - you guys watched that right? Let's have a chat about it - it's pretty interesting except the actor playing Naylor's son is such a bad actor you can actually see the cogs in his brain move as he recites, I swear, RECITES, his lines.)

So now I wait. I've waited all my life, so it's ok. Ball is in his court now (resisting urge to make dirty joke) If he serves, I'll return; if he doesn't, we'll call it a game. I'm not a strong person, but I claw and drag myself back to (so-called) normality. I'll sit in my own circle, I'll think of diffraction and inteference and the photoelectric effect; I'll think of amino acids and emulsifiers and antioxidants and browning avocados; I'll think of Oedipus and Jocasta and the cruel, cruel gods; I'll think of Chiang and Mao and Lenin and Trotsky and Five Year Plans; I'll think of Lear mad in the storm, of Athena and Dexter and Philip and Vicki in their worlds of order and disorder, hell, I'll even think of that pitiful coin of sun bursting on the horizon, because it's a metaphor for... nevermind.

And I'll be Ok.

Labels: Boys

Minimum of Two

My hatred for Tim Winton's short stories knows no bounds. It's probably compounded by the fact that my teacher and classmate gush about him, about Jerra and Rachel, and Sam and boy and girl and gravity and blood and water. (Think you're so profound, Mr Winton, ey? I thought you like it when critics call you ocker.)

Sorry, guys. I like to think that I'm a mostly tolerant person, but lately English lessons have become so difficult to sit through. I squirm because the main character, Jerra, is lifeless and flat as cardboard to me. I grit my teeth because his wife Rachel is such an incredible bitch - I find her selfish, self-absorbed, self-pitying, brutal, harsh, irritating, grating, (somebody owns a thesaurus, eh) BITCHY BITCHY BITCHHEAD. (Sorry. Just Needed. To. Let off some. Steam.) Baby Sam is a cutie but he's a gnat - small and sometimes annoying.

It also didn't help that a week or so before my class started on this book, I had my expectations lifted by someone who had already started studying it.

"The last story, " Jane says to me, "will put you off having children."
Oooh, I go. Sounds interesting.

Well, we did do that story today, Blood and Water. And what should have been a terrifying, gory, pyschologically scarring read turned out to be a mild exercise in fighting to keep awake and alert at 3 in the afternoon. The baby should have been ripped and torn out of her body in a glorious explosive splatter of blood, amniotic fluid, raw dripping sweat and fecal matter. For all his raw bloody descriptions, all Winton did was illicit a "What, that was it?" from me. Pffft, come on, could've done better than that.

Perhaps I'm cynical, perhaps I'm jaded. I know I can't write even a tiny fraction as well as Mr Winton does. What I know I can do though, is to respond honestly to a text, and this is as honest (and annoying; again I have to apologise to my friends for Winton-related complaints... I have made a conscious effort to stop them and limit them to a terse smile and a response along the lines of "Oh, Tim Winton? No.") as I can get. I don't like this collection of short stories. I don't like his language - people find it dry, raw, earthy - I find it choppy, disjointed and abrupt. People like the sparseness of his writing style - I find it patchy and thinly spread. People love his dialogue. I find it doesn't ring true. People find strength in his characters - I see poorly sketched out, unsympathetic, hollow characters that bear little to no resemblance to any real people.

That said, I'll try to be a bit less bitchy and say that his non-Jerra/Rachel/Sam stories are OK. And that's as good as I'm going to give.

Ok, my mum is insanely pissed off with me. I sneaked off to video-ezy at half-past 8 and didn't get home till 11.

I bought D---- a Who magazine. It's a private joke.

Labels: Boys

"At another point, I'll get into the more complex angles of this... But, essentially, this has been summed up by nearly every writer in the genre for the past century or more: Literature, as a whole, is concerned with the human condition; otherwise, it is at best "disposable reading matter". [Science Fiction] (or fantasy), however much it extrapolates from the genuine science of its time, is primarily a mythic type of storytelling; it uses the same sorts of tools as have been used at least since the Gilgamesh epic, and it does it for the same reasons that all good literature (when it is at its best) does so: to probe what it means to be human, the sorrows, the woes, the joys and hopes and dreams; the changes, the loss of change (including death, whether of people or of traditions) and the burgeoning hope of the new.... At its best, it probes the heartmeat in ways that much of "realistic" fiction cannot, because it touches us in ways that hark back to our most intense childhood longings, to know, and to understand, and to feel, and to believe...." - j.d. worthington, Science Fiction and Fantasy Forums


Gorgeously put. I notice I have been putting in much unoriginal material in my posts nowadays, but some things are just too good not to share.

Turns out that the 'date' or 'friendly meeting' or 'innocent, innocuous ice cream chat' was good, really good. We talked about school, movies, music, tv shows, computer games, Hollywood celebrities, scientology, video games, Christina Aguilera, books, (a bit of) religion, machinima, rugby, city planning (the geomatic engineer in him rears his head), travel. Other stuff. Can't remember all of it. We sat down at 8pm and didn't leave the gelato shop until half-past 11, then we trammed back to Southbank.

He's really sweet. He refused to let me pay (To Leanne: Don't be angry that I offered!! *ducks*)

As for the other M15+/ NC-16 stuff that occured, MSN would be good for that discussion don't you think? My blog is strictly PG13.

Labels: Boys

Looks like its a date:

Friday night, 8pm at Il ----- ------

Or a 'date' or a 'friendly meeting' or 'innocent, innocuous ice cream chat'.
Or whatever.

Guys are so hard to read.
His messages though, are lovely, absolutely lovely.

Labels: Boys

I'm surprised I haven't blogged about this yet, but this is a true story that happened to someone I know and I've been repeating it to all my friends ad naseum.

I'm going to substitute the names of the people involved with A, B, C, and Donkey. (Donkey, is of course, the butt of the joke, hence the name.)

Right. So A, B, C and Donkey are in this nature reserve in T-------. They go to this seal enclosure, and everywhere around this enclosure, there are signs all over the place saying, "Do not extend any body parts into the seal enclosure", and of course the friendly keepers repeat this crucial piece of information (you guessed it) ad naseum. Donkey goes right up to the seal enclosure, sticks her hand and wrist over it, and immediately this seal leaps right out of the water and sinks its teeth into her wrist, hanging on for dear life. A, B and C stand behind Donkey, nearly killing themselves from laughing so hard. The keeper who comes to help is furious. "I told you not to do that!!!"

Poor Donkey. I hope those seal teeth didn't leave any scars.

Then A,B,C and Donkey head off to another part of the reserve. There's a grassy area where wild kangeroos are free to roam and graze. At one corner, stands a giant red kangeroo. Red kangeroos can grow up to enormous sizes. I mean, these things can be up to 1.8m tall just standing (or would that be sitting, given the unique physiology of kangeroos) Anyway, the friendly keepers issue a warning, do not go near that kangeroo. Donkey disobeys this, walks up to the kangeroo, looks it straight in the face and goes, "hmm." Then she turns around, but before she can walk away, giant kangeroo lifts its arms and gives Donkey what is possibly the biggest marsupial hug in the history of inter human-animal relationships, and refuses to let go. I would scream my head off, but the image I get in my head is of Donkey calmly going, "Hmm. A Kangeroo is hugging me. Now, let me think, what should I do?" And of course, the keepers are furious. Because they you know, warned everyone not to go near the bloody giant kangeroo!!!

Poor Donkey. I hope those strong kangeroo arms didn't leave any nasty bruises.

Now Donkey has to answer nature's call, badly. Unfortunately, there isn't a proper toilet around, and the nearest one is quite a drive away. A, B and C want to take a last look at another animal exhibition, and Donkey goes along, hoping it'll take her mind off a bursting bladder. They arrive at the hippo exhibit. And at that very moment the hippo lifts its hind leg and shoots out a pungent, golden stream of urine. So much for taking Donkey's mind off... things.

Poor Donkey. I hope she made it in time.

"If only those birds sang that sang the best, how silent the woods would be" - Helen Garner, The Children's Bach

Just some encouragement for those who need some. Can't sing? Can't write? Can't dance/rap/cook/invent a cure for AIDs? Just try, man.

And I'm really pleasanty surprised that people are so excited about Video-Ezy (thanks, you guys) - but me? I'm bloody scared.

Labels: Boys

Today I did the usual stuff... went to Video-Ezy, returned my DVD... chatted nervously with Video-Ezy (the person), made a stupid fool of myself... then I asked him out.

And he said yes.

I have to... have to just sit down for a moment.

Labels: Boys

"it should be played as if one saving word, one saving gesture, could have averted catastrophe, just as in our lives we can look back and know that one word might have saved us if we could have brought ourselves to utter it." - Michael Ignatieff for The Threepenny Review

What's that one word, that one saving gesture?
I guess it'll have to be "Sorry", the one word I find excruciatingly hard to utter. I turn blue in the face and my lips puff out and my eyes goggle and the vein in my forehead throbs to the point of explosion. But if I could have said it right there and then, and meant it with all my heart, maybe things wouldn't be the way they are now.

But it's ok, let's all bury ourselves in needless tragedy.
(My lit grade depends on it.)

My mother's back in Melbourne. Alamak how??!

To be completely honest, I didn't miss her a single, tiny bit. Not at all. I was thrilled not to hear the incessant, ear-grinding nagging, and - and (I'm sorry about this mums) I hate the way she eats. She doesn't close her mouth when she chews, which leads to very Dexter-Fox-like lip smacks and lip squelches, making dinner an all-round unpleasant experience.

I guess the fact that I didn't miss her at all makes me all 'idependent' and 'grown-up', huh? I'll have to say yes; after all, when she's around, all I do is rely on her to buy food, cook, clean, give me money, pay my school bills, apartment rent and miscellaneous expenses. That's it.

Pfft, so dispensable.

Oh, today was heaps of fun! Becky, Jane, Leanne and I went to Chapel Street for lunch and shopping. We were actually going to The Cog, recommended by Jane's dad, but it looked suspiciously like a pub (and everyone's underaged, except for me, heh) so we headed off to a nearby restaurant called Pizza Piaza instead. So it was Totellini something something, which was salmon in cream and tomato sauce (sounds gross but it was good) and a Condiana pizza (spelling's probably wrong) which was not filling at all but set us back $30 (for two quite miserable portions). Gloria Jeans was our next stop to fill our not quite full stomachs. I ordered the white chocolate macademia latte which was meh, but the massive caramel chocolate cake we ordered was goooooodd. Very chocogasmic.


Anyway, I'm rambling. The essence of this entry is... I bought grey boots!!! And I'm thrilled with them, they look great and they're really comfortable, much more comfortable than my pink boots. Mmmmm, very shopgasmic.

But most most most most importantly, it's the company of friends. I'm not even pretending just to be nice or politically correct, I mean it. Great day, no school, out with friends - even if I didn't get those damn boots, I would have been satisfied. Mmm, very friendsgas- NEVERMIND. Not appropriate.

But it isn't the only inappropriate joke I made today. I won't repeat what I said at the formal dress shop we were browsing in, but suffice to say it involved a dress with a very low back and something about cracks and pencil holders. Use your lovely, creative flowery imaginations. On second thought though, don't.

What a lovely song. It's so poetic.

Warning by Incubus

Bat your eyes girl
We'll be otherworldly
Count your blessings
Seduce a stranger
What's so wrong with
Being happyKudos
to those who
See through sickness

yeah

Over and over and over and over and ooooo

She woke in the morning
She knew that her life had passed her by
She called out a warning
Don't ever let life pass you by

I suggest we
Learn to love ourselves before it's
Made illegal
When will we learn?
When will we change?
Just in time to
See it all knock down
Those left standing...will make millions
Writing books on the way it should have been

She woke in the morning
She knew that her life had passed her by
And she called out a warning
Don't ever let life pass you by
Floating in this
Cosmic jacuzzi
We are like frogs oblivious
Soon the water
Starting to boil
No one flinches
We all flow face down

She woke in the morning
She knew that her life had passed her by
And she called out a warning
Don't ever let life pass you by
Pass you by

Labels: Boys

Love, love love love love him (platonically). Michael Cera is one talented actor. The line that cracked me up so badly was this:

Maeby: You know that secret you have? The one about the hair that nobody's supposed to see? I saw it.
George Michael: ...

His facial expression? Priceless.

I've got to stop seeing anything and everything as an obstacle.

Today I was just wondering what life would be like if I lived in New York, if my mother abused me, if I had a younger brother who was bullied, if I was an ex-goth turned mainstream, if I lived in an orphanage, if I moved to Rhode Island, if I was in love with a drug-dealing bully, if a timid, introverted son of a woman dying of cancer was in love with me, if I was in a classroom and suddenly stepped onto my desk and screamed at the teacher, "Fuck you!"

I've spent too long thinking about this, you can tell. Any life, any life but this.

What should I do to celebrate my mother country's birthday tomorrow? I guess I could:

1) Walk out of school with my face painted red and white; dressed as a merlion; or a giant roti prata, which I'm pretty sure is a Singapore creation (as opposed to a subcontinental Indian creation)

2) Stay at home, download all the "Our Global City: Our Home" videos, mp3 podcasts and logos available on the very mathspower123!-resque National Day 2006 website.

3) Just do nothing, as if it were a normal day. After all, didn't dear Cordelia say, "What shall Cordelia speak? Love and be silent." I'll just shut up. Let's all love our country in our own way. No fireworks and giant orchid-headed people dancing around in sequins for me this year.

For those of you who enjoy reading about how I make a fool out of myself in front of Video-Ezy (the person)*looks at Van*, today is your lucky day.

I made up some pathetic excuse to head down to Video-Ezy today. I wrote down the titles of two videos we watched in History class on a piece of scrappy paper. It was half an attempt to get to see Video-Ezy and half and attempt to pass my Revs SAC, which is tomorrow.

Anyway, I walk into Video-Ezy, but D---- (that's his real name) is busy serving another customer. After the customer's done (Customer: "Hey, do you have Planet of the Apes?") I say to him, "Erm, this is kind of a long shot, but do you have any of these titles?" He looks at the paper and starts typing stuff on the computer.

"We don't have the first one," he says, "but we have something called 'Heaven' in the weekly section under 'Drama'." (Of course, I find it completely adorable how someone could possibly mistake a Marcom Project documentary on China with a Hollywood flick starring Cate Blanchett.)

"I'll go have a look," I say. And I do go, and of course, lo and behold, it's not a documentary but the Cate Blanchett movie.

I go back to the counter, shaking my head.

He says apologetically, "I'm really sorry."
"Erm, do you know where I can get it?"

He tries really hard to come up with suggestions, including going to another rental store or buying it from a shop, but in the end he says sympathetically, "I'm really sorry."

"Well, thanks anyway," I say. Then I walk out, feeling disappointed. I'm about to cross Sturt Street to get back to Southbank Boulevard, then I turn and sprint back to Video-Ezy (slowing down, of course before I come into visible distance from the shop) and pop back in. He's not at the counter, he's arranging DVDs onto the shelves. I walk to the Arrested Development section, feeling foolish. He spots me and grins at me. I grin back stupidly. Finally I grab AD Season 1 Disc 3 and walk back to the counter. He follows shortly. Feeling embarassed and silly, I explain, "Might as well borrow something, since I'm here."

"Fair enough," he says.
He spots my EFTPOS card and immediately speaks up. "Just take note, there's a minimum of $9.95 to use EFTPOS. So you can get another DVD or..."

"I'll just withdraw cash," I say, triumphant, because it was my express intention to draw out the rental process, to you know, prolong my time with him. "Can you just hang on to that for me."
"Sure" he goes, and off I go to the nearby ATM at the adjacent IGA.

I walk back, he's not at the counter again, still arranging DVDs. He sees me, hurries back to the counter, does the scanning and security device removal, and hands me the DVDs, "Enjoy it." he smiles.

I feel bad all the way home. I just don't think he's into me. Then I realise halfway that I still have spaghetti bolognaise breath from dinner, and that's when I feel like shit.

Labels: Boys

Mysterious Skin Review

It's a terrible movie. It's moving, it's disturbing, it's bleak and it's beautiful all at once - but it's terrible, because it is so agonising to watch.

Two boys, both sexually abused by their baseball coach when they were eight. One grows up to be a gay prostitute, the other an introverted, timid, stay-at-home boy who believes he was abducted by aliens.

I guess I shouldn't have expected a light-hearted fluffy rom-com-chick-flick, but I wasn't really prepared for how painful it was going to be.

In one heartbreaking scene, the coach and the boy sit in his kitchen, eating cereal. Then the coach tears open a box of cocoa pops and pours the cereal all over his head. The boy, Neil (later to be the gay prostitute) laughs, and both coach and boy end up emptying cereal all over the kitchen, giggling with giddy happiness; that scene is visually top-notch - coloured fruit loops and clouds of sugar tumbling through the air is quite pretty; but there are these really disturbing undercurrents of something much less innocent than a boy and a man having a plain good fun - and twenty seconds later the coach lowers Neil down to the cereal-covered ground and proceeds to show him what men do to people they 'really really like'. Ten years down the road, Neil shows other men what he does to people he doesn't really like but does anyway because it pays well. In one scene, one extremely violent man forces Neil into a tub and straddles him vigorously, grabbing a shampoo bottle and smashing it down on Neil's head while shouting "Slut slut slut slut slut!" as Neil's blood pours down the drain. It probably isn't the purpose of the film, but it has really scared me off big silent men with moustaches and frighteningly intense eyes.

Poor Brian (later to be the one obsessed with alien abductions) is the sort of person you just want to hug and never ever let go because the world is just too cruel and evil and damaging for such a sensitive soul. He goes in search of Neil - because only Neil knows what happened to Brian (besides the monstrous coach) and can help explain those strange blackouts, nose bleeds, and nightmares. The last scene with Brian and Neil breaking into the coach's house and sitting on the couch - Brian trembling and crying and bleeding from the nose as he finally realises what happened years and years ago; and Neil crying and tightly holding on to Brian - those two boys, both so equally but differently damaged and messed up and screwed over, with barely any sense of hope or remittance, just makes you want to slash your wrists and wish you were never ever born.

I found out today what Video-Ezy's name is.
I just wish I could have heard it out of the horse's mouth.

Labels: Boys

Oh, my sainted biscuits!
And just when I was ready to give up on Video-Ezy.

I felt really restless just now, in spite of my earlier claim (see previous entry) that I am more motivated and energised this week. So I decided to take a trip to Video-Ezy (the outlet, not the person) NOT to see Video-Ezy (the person), but to rent out Arrested Development, the series I'm currently addicted to. If Veronica Mars is my favourite drama, AD is my favourite comedy, and between the two, I'm hard-pressed to name either the superior - so I shan't.

Anyway, I digress. I had sort of given up hope on Video-Ezy (the person), because the last two times I went (I didn't blog about these two trips for two reasons; firstly they were uneventful and disappointing, and secondly I have decided to take some of the criticism I have been receving - mostly from myself - to be a bit less shameless in my blogging - no one really wants to know boring shit like this.) convinced me nothing was going to come out of it. So I headed to Video-Ezy (the outlet) with the express and sole intention of acquiring AD. No more, no less. I expected nothing more than a quiet night of hilarity and soft, gentle belly-ripping guffaws.

I popped into Video-Ezy (the outlet, not the person; and unfortunately since he is a guy I can't make a dirty joke out of this :p - oh wait I can. But no, NO. Let's NOT go there, please.) and Video-Ezy (the person, not the outlet) was there. He was all friendly, all "Hi, how's it going?" - his catchphrase. So I say my catchphrase, "Good, thanks! (you asshole, you ignored me last week and yet another time snatched the DVD I was returning out of my hand like a rude, bitchy salesgirl)"

I took my time to pick out my DVDs. AD season 1 disc 2, and Mysterious Skin, a movie I've been wanting to watch for a while because I heard it's really good. Meanwhile a couple of loud-mouthed yankees strut around the store yelling to each other, "Hey man, have you watched Sideways?" or "Hey man, let's rent that, I heard it's good man." or "Hey man, this hot chick takes her top off in this - let's get it man!". Wait - did I just say "loud-mouthed yanks"? That's pretty darn redundant. It's like saying French people smell bad or Chinese people are money-faced and Singaporeans are kiasu. It's understood (man), no need to say it again (man).

So the loud-mouthed yanks go before me renting $9.95 of what I can only imagine must be frame after frame of car explosions, beer-guzzling gun-toting kung-fu theatrics and topless chicks. BREAK TIME! I need to get some brain-bleach.

Finally the yanks depart, and the store is nice and quiet and Video-Ezy (the person) can now say to me "Hi, how's it going?" AGAIN without yelling at the top of his voice. I, too, can say "Good thanks" without shouting, which is nice, because I don't have a particularly strong voice.

A nice quiet silence falls as he scans the DVDs and removes the security devices.
"So how was your day?" he asks. I appreciate his concern. Because that is the freaking third (albeit differently-phrased) time he's asked me that in the twenty or so minutes I've been there. But of course I'm pleased - if that came across as bitter and bitchy, just know that I dress everything up with a thick layer of cynicism and negativity. It's a bitter salad to swallow, but it keeps my soul nicely malnourished and fashionably anorexic, so there you go.

"Good, thanks" is my reply. For the freaking third time.

Another silence, which I refuse to describe with an adjective because I always get it wrong. I don't read people and situations well. So as best as I can go, it's non-descript silence.

I feel anti-social and unfriendly, so I decide to say something.
"Actually, I have school tomorrow." while nodding towards the two DVDs, one of which is an overnight loan, so I have to watch it tonight or I'm going to be wasting my money. And I have a practice SAC for English tomorrow so... SHIT.

And he laughs, and my immediate thought is, "God, he's cute."
And he says, "It doesn't matter." It's the exact phrase a suave, casanova-don-juan sort of guy would say with a wink and a sexy lay-on-the-charm smile, but he says it in such a guileless, straightforward manner that I cannot help but really like him for it. For being him, I mean.

"So are you in high school or..."
"I'm in Year 12." I don't know if I should have said this, but it's too late to take it back.
Then I ask whether he's studying as well.
"I'm in second-year uni" he says. (which would make him around 20 or 21. That's not that big a gap!)
"What course are you studying?"
"Geomatic engineering."
And I laugh and go, "Not that I know what that is."
So he gives me the low-down on what 'geomatic engineering is' bumbling and blabbering away about spaces and locations and then finishing off with a sheepish grin... "I bet that sounds really random."

I don't know what to say, so I just smile and shake my head and say, "See ya." (Why am I such a freaking idiot?! I should have asked where he's studying, possibly even take a crack at finding out what his name is) But I don't think I would have had been able to do it - at that moment I was like a mad horse - ready to bolt out of the door.

"See ya," he says.
Please mean that, Video-Ezy. You have no idea how much I want to.

Labels: Boys

I'm in such a good mood today, it's abnormal. The whole of last week I felt exhausted, anxious, stressed and irritable. This week I feel exhausted, anxious, stressed but not so irritable! (That's progress for you! One cheery little step after the other.)

And the only possible explanation I can think of is this... two vitamin C tablets, a multi-vitamin, a 12 million-acididophilus-bacteria pill in the morning, washed down with soy milk and cheerios.

It has had some amazing pyschosomatic effect on me, I have to admit - this is soma for me. I'm having a marvellous soma-holiday that I've actually started getting more productive and motivated. And that is what worries me most.

When I've swallowed my happiness, tablet form, what happens when my bottle is empty?

I had my first Starbucks coffee today.

I know, I know... it's shocking, isn't it?!

In all the years that it has been around (and Starbucks outlets are popping out like rabbit babies, aren't they), I have never stepped into a Starbucks outlet... until today.

Back in Singapore, Coffee Bean did it for me, and I managed to stay clear of Starbucks, which some of you may feel is humanly impossible.

The biggest reason has got to be what it represents - increasingly intrusive 'American imperialism', unbridled market saturation and just the company colour which reminds me uncomfortably of money - that's what they do, breed like lice to make money out of us caffeine-addicts. As I was telling Leanne, the colour green and coffee just don't go. Coffee is not the colour of money, coffee is not the colour of a green-grocer's apron, coffee is not the colour of a cool and moist rainforest. Coffee is not a half-naked woman with two fish-tails. Coffee is warm and inviting and fragrant and steaming and smells like heat and roast. Coffee is the colour brown and black with a dollop of whipped cream. Coffee is a mug with brown swirls. In other words, I'm sticking to Gloria Jeans.

So the next time you want to go to a rabbit-baby outlet to buy coffee that comes in sizes with the strangest names (how nice to know that we can substitute the words "small", "medium" and "large" with "tall", "grande" and "venti". So dwarfs are "tall", an average person is of "grande" size, and all towering giants can call themself "venti". I truly marvel at the Starbucks lingo.), you're on your own.

Edit:
Click here to read an interesting article (from, oh, just two yeas ago - I really am keeping abreast of things) if you want to read more people ranting about the odd Starbucks size lingo. Some of them are truly witty. It's lovely how they call those big evil companies on their bullshit and wave a victory banner for us all.

I love Postsecret so much. Some of the postcards crack me up, a couple make me feel a bit weepy, and some of them (not telling which) make me sit up and wonder if I have clones scattered all around the world.

Anyway, here are some that are great:

• "I use the handicapped stalls in public restrooms... because I like to stretch my legs... when I'm taking a crap" - in case you're wondering, this one is not one of those that makes me 'sit up and wonder if I have clones scattered all around the world'.
• "Truth is, I don't think we will keep in touch." - I feel like that sometimes. A lot of the time. I'm bad at keeping friends, and I'm sorry. (note to self: e-mail Livia!)
• "I hate people with gross feet who wear open-toed shoes in public." - Amen!