anotherlongshot (anotherlongshot) wrote,

Coffee and Juice.

Wimbledon 2009: Federer d. Karlovic 6-3, 7-5, 7-6(3)

All I can say is...

Roger is magnificent.

Oh, and this:

Ivo Karlovic has a grand total of no groundstrokes.

I'm glad this nightmare match-up ended fairly painlessly. It's amazing that Roger only needed to play one tie-break. Karlovic usually gets through his matches by putting his opponents through tie-breaker hell...but oh wait, sorry, Roger isn't any random player. Duh.

Roger's forehand return-of-serve winner, off a Karlovic first serve at that, at break point, 15-40, in the first set was AMAZING. In fact, his backhand return-of-serve winner in the preceding point that set up 15-40 was also AMAZING. Those two points were actually quite reminiscent of his backhand winner on match point against Pete Sampras way back in 2001...but of course, maybe it's just me. I love this man too much. I covet his tennis like you wouldn't believe, and EVERY SINGLE TIME I watch him play I still wonder if he's actually real, and more importantly, if he's actually human.

Two more matches. Two more matches, and he wins Wimbledon once more! I can't wait. My weekend is officially dedicated to Roger Federer and Wimbledon!


Here's what I wanted to say in the previous entry:

The last time I was in a relationship was approximately two years ago. I'd pinpoint it more accurately, but the truth is that I can't be bothered to think too hard about it. The last time I was involved with someone for an extended period of time was about eight, nine months ago; that one failed to crystallise, and on hindsight, he and I both dodged a bullet. Good for me then.

These demons, ghosts, from the past haven't entirely stopped haunting me. The epic love story has crashed and burned, fading furiously into ashes and smoke, blown away by the wind. The almost self-destructing, cavalier, and careless rondo with my unromantic side at its most cynical, most callous, most uncaring, went out in a whimper, followed by my trademark cutting off all contact, as if nothing happened. Not because I still hurt, or still care; but precisely because I don't anymore.

Along the way, who knows how many more toes I stepped on, and I can't remember the faceless guys that have come and gone whom I've liked, or was interested in, but never enough to once again step up to the starting line, putting myself in harm's way, and risking it all, all over again. I came close eight months ago, and even thought I wanted to plunge in once more. But the shadiness of the genesis of that brief bout of interest, the inherent repugnance of it, already tainted whatever else was capable of happening - therefore, I dodged a bullet (so did you, maybe. Good for you).

With him, though, it stretches back to junior college, first three months, my impression of him as some act-cool poseur, and subsequently appointing him the joke that Mel and I always laughed at for no real reason. It goes back to the first week of May, Mel asking him along for a dinner that a few of us girls were having. Then a squash match that I watched purely out of curiosity and boredom, a tennis game where I was sliced off the court (which would soon become a running feature of future tennis games), and a slew of text messages transacted by phone, daily, ceaselesly. At first it was as big of a deal as texting a friend could be; later it became a habit. My phone bill for the month of May reached an entirely uncharacteristic $90, and I uncharacteristically sent out over 1200 text messages. I can safely say that at least 70% of those text messages were sent to him.

With him, there is the baggage of our collective experiences between us. The adjusted expectations, qualified wishes; the cautious hope. Adjusted, qualified, cautious hope. But it is hope nonetheless, and with him, he makes me feel light and grounded all at once, secure, finally, in the gratuitous promise of his attention, his faithfulness, his companionship.

He's Ralph Lauren, Fred Perry, squash, endless cab rides, Tony Roma's, McDonalds' at 3 AM; he buys me food for the office and forgets to bring them when he meets me but it's always the thought that counts; he's quick-witted, tells nonsensical jokes, thinks up weird ideas all the time, making me laugh effortlessly, my personal clown; he's Jurong Junior, my past and my present - my lightly-poised present (England, England, Julian Barnes). He's the reason I've been smiling like a fool at my phone for the past two months, also the reason I'm writing this entry, and also the reason I have let down my guard - albeit not completely, but enough to expose my girly, vulnerable side, and let him in.

He's wonderful, like coffee and juice. He's my boyfriend. And I'm very happy right now.


Clearly, all the stuff above is a long way of saying one simple thing: I'm in a relationship with...actually it's plenty obvious if one's been keeping up with my entries. It's so obvious that stating it would actually be pretty anti-climatic, so I'm just going to leave it.

It's still kind of weird, in the sense that I'm not used to being able to use the word "boyfriend" in reference to someone who is not someone else's boyfriend, but mine. I've been single exponentially longer than I've been attached my whole life, and the latest bout of singlehood has grown so comfortable that it felt like a second, protective skin. Did I want to venture out of my comfort zone? Not really. But you don't plan for these things to happen; they just do. They happen, and you react, and you decide to take the next step because you like him enough to do so. Clearly, then, you like him enough to make the necessary adjustments in your head and expand your comfort zone to include him.

But it is still something to get used to, I won't lie. Yesterday I was talking to Olivia and wanted to say something in reference to him, and I couldn't say the words "my boyfriend" because it felt so weird. Not because it's him per se (though, yeah, that's a bit strange too), but because of the whole idea of having a boyfriend.

I'd say this quite honestly: it's not the thing I want. It's the person. And if the person has to come with the thing, then I'll take the thing too. Does that make sense?

On the bright side, it got a lot easier saying it today. And I can't wait until he comes back from Japan next week.


I'm very tired. I've been sleeping quite late the past three nights (no prizes for guessing why) and I think it's really beginning to take its toll on me. Work is still the same, though today was more stressful than usual because I honestly did not understand this civil procedure thing that I was tasked to do, serving something out of jurisdiction. And it was even substituted service to boot. How wonderful. I didn't understand what the summons were going on about at all and I got a little bit stressed out as it was the first time since pupillage started that I really didn't understand something. Thankfully my boss is so nice that when I went into her room and said, "I'm really confused. I don't know what's going on", she helped me make the necessary amendments on the hard copies I had and talked me through it.

She's seriously nice. I finally drank her capsule coffee today and it was awesome! Of course, drinking coffee and watermelon juice back-to-back probably didn't do my problematic stomach any favours, but well, it was good, so whatever.

My watermelon juice, by the way, cost fucking $3.20. And it was from fucking Banquet. Fucking daylight robbery. Sure it was good, but since when did WATERMELON JUICE cost that much? And I didn't even put much ice. Bleah.

In other news, Andy Murray is still not losing. He was down a break in the second set against Juan Carlos Ferrero but eventually broke back and broke for a 5-3 lead. Fuck. There is no justice in this world.

Nole also lost. To Tommy Haas. Again. Oh my god, Roger's gonna have to revisit his French Open five-setter against Haas which he was THIS close to losing. Roger HAS to win Wimbledon no matter what!

Okay I'm going to shower and sleep. Yep. Awesome.
Tags: love, novak djokovic, pupillage, relationships, roger federer, tennis, wei chuen, wimbledon

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