It's no secret that I love myself, and that I love myself a lot. I'm the type of person that spends a significant portion of her time looking at herself in the mirror, and that's only one of the many ways in which I manifest this obsessive, deeply passionate self-love. Another way of doing so? Cam-whoring. Narcissistic cam-whoring.
In Chinese, we call it zi pai kuang.
But as we learn in law school, never make a statement unless you have solid evidence to prove it*; so here's my evidence, in all its almighty, self-obsessed glory.
*I don't actually know if we learn this in law school. We probably don't. And chances are, I'm not exactly arsed to find out.
What do you do when you get bored playing with your Nikon Coolpix s6 (because the flash is so damn glaring and your hand ain't steady enough to take pretty no-flash pictures)? You steal your mom's new Sony Ericcson 3G with a 2 megapixel camera and play with that instead.
Post-CLT, dinner at Crystal Jade with the folks.
Day 2 of Post-CLT, family lunch at Dragon City restaurant (it's a direct translation, and I think that it's official English name). I look like ass in this picture but I don't care 'cause I ain't got nothin' to prove to no one.
Post-Company, Mom's birthday lunch at Wah Lok Ritz Carlton.
Mom's birthday dinner at Long Beach restaurant, East Coast. I attempted to take a picture of my brother and I by discreetly positioning the camera in such a way that it's sure to capture my brother in the shot, but of course, he's too smart to buy my bullshit and so he quickly turned away. Shite. If only he weren't so adverse to the idea of photo-taking, I really wouldn't have to go through all that trouble.
This picture is not, in any way, shape or form, a representation of what I would like my boobs to resemble. Instead, it's a picture of the first coconut I cleaned out so completely because it was so so so totally yummy. Again, Mom's birthday dinner.
Me at TCC with my iced mon cherie which was too sweet and which I suspect piled on half an inch around my waist. Bitch Club congregation (thanks Simon/BitchS for the word; it's better than 'gathering' or 'outing'. I'm gonna use that from now on) at TCC, for which Baoyue/BitchB was two and a half hours late. We took a picture at dinner afterwards, which was at Spagheddies (I can't spell words that don't exist), but I promised I won't post it 'cause we all look like ass in that picture and I'm a girl of my word and so all I have to offer to present that day (Wednesday 6 December) is this picture. Hence. I'm really not that narcissistic.
But, most importantly:
This is my mother. She looks like me. It's a joke I'll never get tired of. Things have happened lately that have induced some resentment in me towards her, issues relating to independence and how I'm 20 and still regarded a 16-year-old fucking moron, but I'm trying to deal with this like mature person (not adult because I'm in denial) and this collage reminds me of why it's always better to play it diplomatically, not emotionally.
Above all else, I love my mother.
Yesterday was one hell of a memorable day.
A free coffee for the first person to tell me what song I quoted from for the title of this entry. Heh, heh, heh.
Wednesday, Day Two of post-Company and post-exams, I hit Orchard at 10 in the morning and shopped all the way until 2-something when it was time to meet the Bitch Club. We were supposed to meet at Orchard MRT and so I restricted myself to shopping at Wisma and Ngee Ann. Initially, I didn't even want to shop at Ngee Ann 'cause I was too lazy to walk since I was wearing my very uncomfortable and blister-prone URS heels, but I couldn't find this Mango denim skirt I tried on at Parkway when I was really supposed to be studying for CLT at Isetan so I went to the one at Ngee Ann to search. It wasn't there. I was fucking devastated 'cause I was quite set on buying it. Nevertheless, I cheered myself up by going to Zara, trying on a bunch of shit just because it was fun and because it was 11-something a.m. and hence there was no crowd, and ending up buying a top that cost only $19.90. I was glad it was cheap 'cause I was still damn broke.
I had lunch, then resumed the shopping. Went back to Wisma and decided to hit Esprit. I didn't want to initially 'cause I know I'd definitely walk out of there with an additional shopping bag in my hand and at least sixty dollars poorer, but there was seriously nowhere else to go. I looked around Forever 21 whose racks are jam-packed with clothes, but I didn't see a single thing I wanted to buy (it didn't help, too, that the store is perpetually dusty and stuffy). I had like a hell lot of time to kill and so I succumbed in the end.
Well, fortunately, I remembered that EDC members get 20% off on all regular priced items from 7 December to 10 December, so I didn't buy the nice pair of jeans I tried on. Bought a halter later on from Ebase and it was 10 bucks, oh my god.
What I really wanted to buy, though? That denim skirt from Mango. Throughout the whole time I kept pulling up my jeans 'cause it kept slipping and it was getting ridiculous, and I was wearing jeans 'cause my skirts are too big and they look ugly, and I needed bottoms and it's a bitch finding a nice denim skirt to wear, and so when it was five minutes to two and I was seriously damn bored and I considered the fact that everyone was gonna be late anyway, I decided to walk to Isetan Scotts. It didn't matter that my shoes were killing me, that my blisters fucking hurt, or that my knees fucking hurt; I just wanted the bloody skirt and so I walked.
And guess what? I went to three Mango outlets that day looking for one skirt, and when I finally found it and tried on the size-appropriate one (the one I tried on at Parkway was 38; it was too loose), I realised that it was actually quite ugly. It was short and tight and I looked like a hooker. God, I was pissed.
Thankfully, I found a replacement, and it was the same price as the one I wanted and so I walked off happily with a new size-appropriate denim skirt, sixty dollars poorer. Hahahahahaha.
God, I'm so damn fucking broke. On the bright side, I only spent $90 that day which is an improvement, however slight, from the days of old during which two hours max in Orchard can set me back by two hundred dollars.
But then again, I HAD MONEY BACK THEN AND SO I COULD AFFORD TO SPEND.
I really freaking need money. Shopping is so awesome. I can't possibly shop if I don't have money. My life is a bitch.
Anyway, that aside, the rest of the day was awesomeness, too. It was Wednesday, I mentioned. I left the house at 9.30 a.m. to hitch a ride from my mom to town. I reached home that very same day at 11 p.m. Needless to say, my eyes were almost completely dried up when I got home.
We had dinner at Spagheddies and it was fun laughing at people's truly hilarious names, all that jazzy stuff, and after dinner, Baoyue, Angela and I headed to Mohammed Sultan for cake. Angela raved about this awesome cake shop and she wanted to bring us there. Simon had to go off to meet another friend (he had three dates that day, the popular dude) and so it was just the three of us. And we were super full from dinner, and I was all, Eh, let's walk off the dinner. And just like that, we embarked on walking from Paragon all the way to Mohammed Sultan.
I honestly cannot remember the last time I wore heels for that long. Usually I wear heels when I know I'd be getting a ride home, or if the occasion doesn't require much walking, and I wore heels on that day because the pinkish flower matches my red nailpolish. Seriously.
And so we walked, and we walked, and it was fun just walking and talking, comfortable and right. We jay-walked at PS and it was the funniest shit in the entire world. It was pretty dangerous because there were cars turning in to the road we were trying to cross from all three directions, and it was hard catching a break in the seemingly endless stream of cars. When we saw the perfect opportunity to cross the road, we were all, "Okay cross now! Hurry hurry!" And there was screaming, and dashing, me running in heels was quite hilarious, and uncontrollable laughing when we were on the other side. It was so damn funny and it was one of the best moments of the night.
We finally reached the place, just to find out it was closed. HAHAHAHAHA. Angela felt quite bad but it was really okay 'cause spending time with them was worth the pain of walking in those shitty shoes for me. We wanted to have a drink at Cafe Iguana but it was packed and I had to go home soon anyway so we sat down at some random steps in between Brewerkz and Cafe Iguana, talked for a bit, I found myself falling asleep 'cause I was really quite smashed, and after a while I said I had to go home and so that was that.
So that was Wednesday. Fun times, indeed. I love my JC friends.
I don't ever want to be one of those girls who ditch their friends after getting a boyfriend. I despise girls like that, and simultaneously I can't stand girls who are glued to their boyfriends 24/7 like they were Siamese twins separated at birth. It's absolutely ridiculous and unnecessary. I've made it an absolute rule that I'm never going to be one of those girls. When the time comes for me to remember this rule, a few more years down the road, whenever, it's going to be so easy adhering to it.
It's like Troy and Veronica, except it's really more like Logan and Veronica, except it's not like Logan and Veronica at all. It's a combination of the two. You pick the parts you like and discard everything else, you pick your issues to confess to and conveniently leave out the more pertinent ones. You pick and choose and the final picture is an amalgamation of the best of all possible worlds, loosely resembling a personal utopia.
But that's the thing. Voltaire lashed out at the notion of the best of all possible worlds in his scathingly satirical story, Candide. Such unthinking acquiescence to an inherently flawed concept invites complacency, stagnation, an inertia to progress, improve, move foward. And by the very virtue of the fact that the word 'utopia' was a combination of two Greek words that mean 'good place' and 'no place', it can only mean that Thomas More never intended to represent that he believed a perfect world could exist. It strikes me as funny, then, that most people use the word 'utopia' without knowing its etymology to express some misguided desire for a naive conception of 'perfection'. There is no perfection, there is only the here and now, its flaws and blemishes glaring enough to blind.
But it's still the picture you chose to put together. So maybe it isn't as much a personal utopia as it is a personal, conscious choice: This is what you want. This is what you have. And this is what you've chosen for yourself, certainty of term unknown. It's not perfect, and it's not supposed to be perfect. I don't believe in perfection anymore because perfection is self-refuting and contradictory; it's a lie told by idiots, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. As imperfect as my choices are, I take comfort in the fact that I went in with my eyes wide open, and as a result, the only person I have to answer to is myself.
It's easier to deal when it's just you and nobody else.
There's nothing else in the world like writing. You live life to the fullest for the experiences, and these experiences feel life-altering and definitive when you're living in the moment. You think, Nothing can top this, but you come home and pick up a pen, put the nip to virgin white paper, and you sit at your desk and remember that single moment, and the words come crashing into you from all directions and it's the single most orgasmic release you can ever feel. That amazing ability to write, to describe exactly what happened, how you felt, pathetic fallacy and fragmented sentences. Oh, my god.
Plainly put: writing about sex must be better than sex itself.
You live life to the fullest just so you can write things you're proud of.
Seriously, it's never been as clear as it is now: There is a be all end all. Writing is the be all end all. I'm nothing without it, and it's all that I have.