anotherlongshot (anotherlongshot) wrote,

i will not control myself.

I had a blast with Mel yesterday, parading our Delta (i.e. Brave New World Delta) Jurong uniform all around Orchard and showin' some Jurong pride, yo. (Okay, maybe not so much the latter.) We took two sets of Neoprints, too, because the first set was taken in a crazy-ass machine that snapped photos faster than we could catch our breaths from laughing our asses off and in the end we selected only 4 shots when we were supposed to select 6, because the timer ticked too fast for us to take a proper look at all the shots and select the nice ones. Hence, we weren't very happy with them and so we took another round! The second machine, on the contrary, lagged like shit. It'd pause for a few seconds before counting down 3 2 1 to snap a photo and when we were decorating the pictures it'd freeze up for a few seconds once every, like, 10 seconds. So yeah, that kind of sucked, but compared to the first crazy-ass machine, it was awesome.

Fun times, indeed.


I'm not trying to rain on this happy fun times parade, but yesterday also made me realise how out of the loop I am, how I'm scarcely in my friends' lives. I tend to cling on to memories of before, memories that make me view them a certain way, that trick me into believing that things are still the same.

Things are not the same. A year of being apart, and three more years of being apart and in those three years the distance would get greater, and after these years what then? University life is the time to forge bonds that bind, but the bonds I glued together in junior college have been ripped apart by the diverging paths we've chosen to take. There are only a few people in this world whom I care about enough to call friends, and I can't help but wonder how reliable this label is when it's too easy to drift apart.

It's sad, but I guess this is simply what happens. They have their own lives and at most mine touches the periphery of theirs, a light fleeting touch, almost insignificant. And my defence mechanism springs up like a knee-jerk reaction and it induces me to tell myself, "Who the fuck cares?"

And really, it's easier to pretend that's true than to write an entry like this one that exposes me for the scared little girl I am, deep down inside.


Well, whatever.


If there's one thing I'm most wary of in the world, it's putting myself out there and giving them the chance to reject me. So I deal with this almost-fear by keeping to myself and I'm okay with deluding myself into thinking that I'm living and that it's for the best.

If I like someone or have a thing for someone, my instinctive reaction is to go out of my way to ignore him. I hate feeling stupid and inadequate when I find out that even a geek wouldn't go for someone like me.


Joyce Carol Oates wrote an amazing short story about an emotionally-disturbed girl finding herself in the midst of darkness and pain. What struck me wasn't the plot, or the subject matter, or the story; what struck me was the way Oates told the story through the girl's emotions, her description of the weather as a metaphor for the girl's inner demons. When a writer effectively propels a story using little more than her protagonist's feelings and emotions, there's really nothing in the world that the writer cannot write.

It's so easy to write a standard piece of narrative: I choked back my tears as I felt the sting of his slap on my face. He glared at me and hurled abusives at me. I screamed at him and ran out of the house.

You know what I mean.

It takes quite a lot to impress me, and so I get frustrated when my own writing fails to impress myself. And when I get frustrated, my instinctive reaction is to run as far as I can from the scene of the crime and pretend nothing happened. Unfinished stories lie around untouched in my hard drive for months, sometimes years, and handwritten drafts are so misplaced that I can't even find them, no matter how bloody hard I try.

And yet, despite my attempts at undermining the only thing that's always been true, I know that law school doesn't matter and that nothing matters if I lost the ability to write.


In other news, check out this site.

Um, I didn't think it was possible, but there was another thing that disgusted me even more than the pervertedness of random desperate guys hoping to score by prowling internet chatrooms: their English.

Or should I say, their fucked up, non-existent, horribly wrong English.

Can you imagine the disgusting excuse for a human being on top of you saying things like, "Wah lau" or "I come liao" or "sibei shiok" while on top of you? How sickening is that? Those people deserve to be castrated.

There should be a law against bad English, I swear, especially blatantly bad English. Where do these people come from and what the hell is wrong with them? Help my sanity. Please.


To Mel: I'll always love you, even after I've outlived my usefulness to you.

To my Jurong friends (those who read this, that is): It was fun while it lasted.


Lastly, here's a brief reason why I'm going to fail my exams:

Top left: Legal Theory notes, days before the actual exam.
Bottom right: Legal Theory notes + Crim textbook + random stuff. The mess is still there.
Lyrics courtesy of Radiohead.

Tags: angst, exams, friends, law school, literature, mel, writing

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