Friday, October 31, 2003

I dressed up as a battered wife today, at school. I wore a black and white polka-dotted dress with a sweetheart neckline. Drew in some very real looking bruises and prepared to offend.

"What are you dressed up as?"


"Cruella de Vil?"

"A battered housewife."

"You're sick. That's disgusting."

"Heh heh."

In Politics today, we had Bistro Day. Ate homemade cookies and brownies and drank virgin marguaritas and daiquieries straight from the in-class blender. Political chats were interrupted by musical interludes by our in-house jazz band. And sly remarks were made by my in-school heartthrob. It was a wicked cool hour.

Thursday, October 30, 2003

I'd like to analyse the song "Pennies From Heaven" sung by various people, but done best by Sarah Vaughn (Billy Holiday's version is alright, but I couldn't find her's to download).

Ev'ry time it rains, it rains pennies from heaven
Don'tcha know each cloud contains pennies from heaven?

You know, I wonder what would really happen if it rained pennies. Considering they tell you not to drop pennies from the CN Tower, the consequences might not be all fine and dandy. Those shiny trinkets, as they fall from the sky, might cause mass pandemonium when they start slicin' and dicin', after drizzlin' and sizzlin'.

You'll find your fortune fallin' all over town
Be sure that your umbrella
Is upside down

I don't think it would matter if your umbrella was upside down or not. I mean, those tiny disks of heated metal would just start puncturing your body like Bonnie and Clyde, even with that thin nylon membrane above your mangled head. I can just hear it now: *pop* *pop* *pop* *ssssssss* (<--that's the sound of searing flesh). So, if pennies did fall from heaven, you should save your expensive Burberry umbrella and keep it closed.

Trade them for a package of sunshine and flowers

This verse actually makes the most sense to me. The "sunshine" must refer to the sheen those darn pennies give off as they fall from their mothership (aka. clouds). And those "flowers" are what will be marking your grave after you die a slow, painful, death due to those pennies taking their sweet time lopping off everything, but your vital organs as you bleed from your mortal wounds.

If you want the things you love, you must have showers

Ooh, disgruntled ex-lover. Me like.
But in all honesty, what can you buy for pennies nowadays? Before, you could get a French hooker who brought all her equipment along with a free offer to shave her. Now, you're lucky to get a Nigerian hooker who does naked back massages.

So when you hear it thunder
Don't run under a tree
There'll be pennies from heaven for you and me

Man, that's harsh. It's like wishing someone a successful double suicide near a burning tree. If I hear thunder, I'd jump into the ocean. The water would cool and slow those little fuckers down so they wouldn't reach me in their deadly state (remember that D-Day scene from Saving Private Ryan? *whooosh* *ping* *gurgle, gurgle*). Yes, I'd probably be electrocuted. But that's cool. At least, I wouldn't be the chick who gets killed by a freak dinero storm, then placed in the Human Interest/Oddly Enough section of the newspaper to be laughed at: "What an idiot. I would've brought an upside-down umbrella." And that's just not gravy.

Pffft. Pennies from heaven. Why the Dickens would you want that?

Wednesday, October 29, 2003

I'm currently staring at the six different bottles of designer perfume I bought in France (re-packaged for the frugal). I am now smelling Jean-Paul Gaultier's Fragile... again ... and again ... and again.

And yes, I do admit to acting like a crack whore at Courtney Love's.

The way my wrist is obsessively nearing and smearing against my nose ... I probably look like her, doing what she did in bathroom stalls all through the 80's ... 90's ... uh, last night.

I found a website, fit for Hallowe'en: Extreme Pumpkins. This is my favourite. It's scrumptious! Enjoy!

Tuesday, October 28, 2003

New Template

Seeing that this is a new format, full credit goes to Stephen D'Ang*lo (name withheld). Thanks a buncho for getting rid of everything (especially that damn fish I took forever to put in). And in a few months, I'd probably ask him to change everything again *fingers crossed I don't get bored easily*. Haha. Fat chance. See you in 2 months.

But thanks again Steve.

Monday, October 27, 2003

Man, if I ever decide to get married (and I'm hoping that's never), I'd want a gigantic carrot cake covered in warm, gooey, cream cheese icing. Mmm ... sweet, delectable, carrot cake. How I adore you.

Why not eat one now, you ask? Well, who's ever heard of giant non-wedding-associated sweet baked goods? That's just crazy talk.

But I tell ya, of all the carrot cakes I've ever had in my life, the coffee shop inside London's St. Paul's Cathedral makes it the best. For £2.50, you too can have a large slice of heaven smothered in sin.

*Mmm ... carnie fried donuts.
Oh Coka-god! I'm craving for some mashed potatoes & gravy right now. Or some Linguini Chicken Alfredo with extra sauce. Or better yet, some mac 'n cheese.

Or a really nice juicy steak.

Or no, maybe some buffalo wings.

Some fajitas would be nice right about now.

Damnit! There's nothing in my fridge!

I'll just have to resort to eating No Name brand Ice Cream Sandwiches ... *drool*

No Name brand rocks.

Sunday, October 26, 2003

My friend sent me the harlequins I wrote awhile back (which was based on the two, most masculine, men we know in our grade):


T was sprawled on the lavender scented couch, in a drunken daze.

"Oh my jeepers," cried T as he wrapped the cherry afghan around his muscular tr*ck body. "I can't believe this is happening. Gawd, this is a nightmare."

Just that moment, there was a knock at the door.

"It's me, T. Open up." It was A.

"I'm sorry, T isn't here at the moment. Please leave." yelled T, as he tried to conceal his voice using Listerine pocket packs and gauze.

"Baby. Open up. Or I'm gonna have to get my key out or break the door open in a moment of passion." A boomed back, through the door. T put on his Gary Coleman-inspired robe (aka. extra small), and slouched to the door.

"Is that you?" asked A.

"Yes. I'm here. And I'm waiting for an apology. I need to know I mean something to you. I need to know you're ... sincere because I'm real upset right now. I've been goin' saloon hopping."

"Okay, T. You're getting upset over nothing. Yes, I met Ulas. Met him, didn't like him, end of story."

"But you said he was irresistable! You did! I heard you!"

"No," A calmly pointed out. "I said he was irreversible. Being a doctor, I told him, 'Your stupidity is irreversible.'"

T, choked up with guilt, finally opened the door, but with the little hangy chain still intact. Their eyes met. One look at T's sultry, sweaty body from imitating the Buns of Steel exercise video, did it for A. He felt an urge he hadn't felt since reading the Tropic of Capricorn by Henry Miller. That ... pull of desire. Not to kill. No, not this time. But to ... fill.

Fulfil that is. And he got it. Awashed with desire, the chain was ripped from its hinges. A stared deeply into T's dark, deer-in-the-headlights, eyes as he ...


*sigh* That was a great time in my life.
I'm sick of this template. I need a change. The words are too big. The site's too orange. And what's up that goldfish? Where the hell does he think he's going? You know what's going on in his head right now, while suspended in mid-air? He's thinking, "By the time I hit the floor, I'd be long gone from suffocation." Yes, that's what he's thinking. And he'd be right on the money. I'd probably walk over to his lifeless body, impale him with my stiletto heel and bend over to scoop him up in my sister's hoodie to give to the homeless. Yeah, that's what I'd do. That's for being so smug about that time we went shopping and he was thin enough to fit in that Dolce & Gabbana tank top I wanted. He doesn't even look good in blue! Bastard.

Man, I hate brooding guys. But first, let me check the definition of "brooding" in the dictionary.

1. To sit on or hatch eggs.
2. To hover envelopingly; loom

Kept for breeding: a brooding hen.

Uh ... anyway. I hate brooding guys. They think being pessimistic, dark and constantly deep in their morbid thoughts (or just looking like they are) will attract curious characters of the opposite sex. Well, they're right. You know, these guys have fine tuned looking mentally busy to an art. Looking down, staring at their hands ... or crotch, they beckon to be asked what's on their mind. I've learned to avoid these penis-peddlers. These deadly, silent types. They hide behind their porno mags and guitar stools, craving for someone to say, "Hey, dawg/man/other ghetto variant. How's it going?" In which, they reply nonchalantly, "Nothing much." But when you turn to walk away, they start talking again: "How was your day? What do you think of me? What do you like in bed?" Oh, one of these days, these sorry asses will start learning some social skills ...

Friday, October 24, 2003

Colin Farrell has eyebrows the size of Ice Age rodents. And when you think about how he looks without having to shave above the bridge of his nose, doesn't he sort of look like a chain-smoking ewok?

I'm goddamn there's-a-leech-in-my-head mad.

Why? Well, if you had siblings with insatiable appetites, you'd understand. They're living vacuum cleaners. They're Survivor contestants after they get knocked off the island. They're ... Jabba the Hutt. I left some German Kinder chocolates on the kitchen table yesterday. I thought they'd be safe there since there was about 8 bars in the box so that even if the young'uns did get their grimy little hands on it, I'd probably still have some left. But guess what? They're all gone. Not only did they eat my previous box of German Kinders, but they've eaten this box too! And surprise, surprise, who ate most of it? No, not my chubby little brother (the one with the Beyblade obsession). It was my satanic sister. The stick figurine with the centralised abnormal belly. So I freaked out and said, "This!" while pointing at the bag of BBQ chips she was now eating, "Is. The. Reason. You. Have. That!" This time, pointing at her ... then slowly dropping my outstretched arm, until my index finger aimed at her stomach. She pulled her shirt down and smirked. The satisfaction of knowing Lily didn't get her chocolates overshadowed her own health concerns.

What a bitch.

Wednesday, October 22, 2003

Unhappiest man in the land

Elliott Smith died yesterday. Dubbed the "unhappiest man in the land", his live-in girlfriend found him with a knife in his chest. It's an apparent suicide. Oh man ... I played his "Miss Misery" over and over again when I read this. Which put me in a melancholy mood. I wasn't a huge fan, but his music moved me. I never understood how people could cry over stupid lyrics like, "I'll follow you forever, but I'm currently dying ... so remember me for eternity" or something in that realm. The idea of anything "eternal" or "permanent" made me want to vomit the words right out of my mouth (due to my fear of commitment ... to anything.) But he was different. His lyrical simplicity somehow made an impact on me:

I'll fake it through the day
With some help from Johnny Walker Red
Send the poison rain down the drain
To put bad thoughts in my head
Two tickets torn in half
And a lot of nothin' to do
Do you miss me, Miss Misery
Like you say you do

Of course, I don't drink nor am I a reformed alcoholic (aka, sobered-up drunk) ... but his conscious, coherent, rational thoughts make more sense to me than anything Madonna tries to pass off as deep. I mean, yeah, as deep as a leaking midget wading pool.

I'm currently listening to the Doves' "The Man Who Told Everything" from their Lost Souls album. This and their "Sea Song" really makes you want to cry for melodic beauty, which I think is missing in modern music. There's too much experimentation and self-gratification in the music industry nowadays and not enough, I think, promotion of the arts as is, without all that pseudo-psychology crap they try to pull. It's an obvious tactic to hide the shame of being elementary school drop-outs who've acquired their vast "knowledge" from exotic gurus and illicit pharmaceuticals stolen from Hy & Zels:

"Quick! Fill up my underwear with Visine ... c'mon! Hurry it up, bitch! I don't got all day ... I got places to urinate and people to procreate. Okay, let's roll ... wait. Get me some of them blue pills there too. The old lady back home gon' get herself a sweet surprise tonight. Yee-haw!"

That was really off topic.

Anyway. Delibes's "Viens, Malika" and Debussy's "Arabesque, No. 1" (No. 2 sucks monkey ass compared to the first one) are also universally beautiful songs.

I've been listening to some Dodgy, Neil Sedaka (Woohoo! Bad Blood, oh yeah. It's the shit. A song about ... venereal disease?!), and Floetry. The last time I heard someone fake orgasm on record was Chaka Khan with her "Love To Love You Baby" and that sounded more '70s porno than sensuous eroticism performed by the latter in "Say Yes".

I guess this was my music blog. Power to the accordion!
I stand corrected again. The fat man was not "rolling" all over the young lady but "slippin' and slidin'" all over her like a greased up hobo with large Himalayas ... and no pants on.

And yes Jenn, even customers had to pay to get into a McDonald's lavatory. And I flat-out refuse to give my money to any gypsy (no offense) sitting outside bathroom stalls awaiting payment. But I had to pee, so I gave in ... time and time again.

Tuesday, October 21, 2003

I apologise. Europe isn't like America at all (*eyes dart back and forth suspiciously*). No, really, it's not. All the ladies with George Hamilton tans must've threw me off.

Monday, October 20, 2003

I've decided not to describe my trip. I mean, what is there to explain? There were the usual monuments and tourist traps often associated with world famous cities and towns. When I say "tourist traps", I mean areas where people, fresh off the boat, hassle you with fake Rolexes and metal bracelets (Ethiopians screaming out nee-how-mah's until their throat was sore, for example). Now, now. I know that's how they make their living and they earn meagre wages, and all that. But for me, personally, their appearance (most predominently in Pisa) ruined my perception of Europe, as a whole. To me, what significance does an ancient building still have if it's now surrounded by unrelated public decorations consisting of stands selling humping puppets and penis postcards for 0.50 Euros? But seriously, if it is to be preserved for future generations to see, give it more respect than that. Yeah yeah, I know I'm being naive for saying this. Again, I know this is how people make their living. But still ...

I liked Amsterdam. No, not for its famous red light district (although my aunts went and said all they saw was a fat man rolling himself all over a young lady: "At least the men in the audience got off." *shudder*). And also not for its bong shops (though I did stop to look at a few creative pieces ... like the one the size of a door.) But simply for its laid-back vibe. People there are warm, helpful and duh-amn tall. Average males are 6 ft and up while females are all at least 5'7". Most of the other cities didn't really make an impact on me. They just became obstacles to trek through to take me to the end of the day, where a decent night's sleep awaited me.

Though I sound more pissed than pleasant when reminiscing of my recent trip, I really am grateful that I got the chance to go. In all honesty, I liked every country ... except Italy (to be fair, only the north) and Monaco ("Excuse me. This is a private bank.") And I'd totally go again if I got the chance to go with a friend. I mean, my mother wouldn't shut up. She was the Asian equivalent of a hairdryer: too much hot air and just as loud. My two forgetful aunts who brought with them 48 bags of instant noodles, a sack of "specialty" rice and a rice cooker got on my nerves too. But other than that, the trip was a real eye-opener. I now realise, Europe is America with a longer history and BBC. Money-sucking public restrooms and better looking men and ... yeah, that's pretty much it.
Just got back 50 minutes ago from the Pearson Airport (Aeroport?). I've just returned from my trip to Europe which spanned ten countries and many cities in between. They were:







The Vatican
San Marino

Needless to say, a much more detailed account of my trip will be written some time in the near future (fingers crossed). However, I will leave you with a satirically written quote about journeys that might bring you some insight as to how my trip went. It's from Le Voyage by Charles Baudelaire:

We saw stars
And waves; we saw sand too;
And, despite many crises and unforeseen disasters
We were often bored, just as we are here.

Oh yeah, bought a pair of authentic GUCCI sunglasses. FLORENCE KICKS ASS! Just not when its citizens are trying to rob you.

Oh yeah, again. Met Omahyra Mota (the supermodel) at the Paris Eurostar train station when she was getting ready to check-in. We took a picture together. Then, I saw her the next day on London's Oxford Street looking through the window of ALDO with another model friend, just as I was walking out. My mom said she and I are fated to be together. I said that was stupid. I told her it was really a sign from the Great-Runway-Of-The-Sky trying to tell me to fulfill my dreams in the fashion industry (maybe in the advertising sector, but I'm still waiting for that sign to happen *hoping for a falling billboard ... a murderous falling billboard*). She rolled her eyes at me. I laughed, but really, I was crying inside. That is, until she bought me a jacket from H&M. Then it was alllllright.

Wednesday, October 01, 2003

I guess I do talk too much. But I just have so much to say!

That, or I over-compensa ... no. I'm just going to stick with "Silence is awkward. Fill it with noise."