if i can't be reached...

i might be here

change is good.

one at a time

Kinda glad the week is over. Trouble is, I can't wait for the coming week to end too.

But in between, there's a lot of life to be lived. Take a deep breath, bring on the madness. We'd skip it if we could, but hey, we've been through worse.

Almost Last Thing Thursday Not-Quite Night

Doin' the swap-swap subba-du-wap.


Almost bursting into laughter.
And very bad hair. Tsk tsk. So fail.

I look better.


I STILL look better.

*grin*
____________________________________

From cin and I, happy birthday, ditz

bla bla blergh

Talk, talk, talk — that's what most people I see everyday are good at.

But when it becomes the only thing they're good at, you can't help but wonder: what exactly are they good for?

pause

Outside, the rain goes pitter-patter. Inside, Chris Martin beckons me to abandon my plans for the day.

Forget the gym.
Screw the haircut.
Postpone work.

I think about the everyday chop-chop-let’s-get-things-done routine that I’ve grown so used to. It’s a routine that ensures a relatively comfortable life at the end of each month. But true to my Chinese nature, there’s always more to want.

And yet, when you think about the simple things in life — rainy afternoons, the chance to hide under sheets, surprises, sushi breakfasts, piggybacks, movie dates, ice cream under a shining sun to the sound of calm waves, cuddles, hearty home-cooked meals, morning hugs, midday hellos, quiet walks with the ones who fit, snail mail letters, sleeping in, a few good friends, chicken soup, massages, dim sum, forehead pecks, the right tunes at the right time, being silly, thumb games, car rides, post its, mamee snacks, singing out of tune, stupid jokes, childhood pictures, late-night/early morning suppers and all the other things you’ve missed but are beginning to forget — you can’t help but wonder: aren’t you getting the shorter end of the stick?

the trouble with being me

As the last drops in the mug are over and done with, you find yourself back at that familiar place. You circle your fingers around the rim. In the quiet, the questions come back again.

Long before, you would have dwelled, analyzed, wondered, dissected, and more often than not, self-destructed.

In a long chorus of groans and moans, you would have convinced yourself that there was no meaning waiting to be found. There was no silver lining. Fuck, there wasn't even any kind of line to begin with.

So it's somewhat comforting to find that you have learned some lessons along the way. For starters: drinking and wondering aren't the best of partners.

Nothing terribly good has ever came up from those moments. Quite the opposite, really. Perhaps these lessons have got something to do with an increased tolerance of alcohol and melancholy. Maybe it's the age. Maybe it's the denial.

Or maybe — and this seems to be the most plausible explanation — you're tired of wondering. Let time answer the questions that your mind will never be able to figure out. And until those answers appear, go make yourself useful.

Which is possibly why, like a sick, masochistic habit, you find yourself back at this place on a quiet Saturday night.

It gives you something else to think about.