the best part of eating indomie is nibbling away the white halo of a sunny side up, and then ripping the yellow sphere apart, mixing the delicious lava that flows forth into the noodles…
world-class dish for a dime! 
(i would usually boil the noodles with a piece of cut chilli padi to get a little spicy kick that’s not too overwhelming for my delicate taste buds)
so i turned 23 yesterday. and ate. alot.
wed – seafood paradise with the y5
thurs – umami dining lounge with the bf
today – shangri-la media lunch
tomorrow – seafood paradise part 2 with mom
what a glorious 23rd 
in my humble opinion, people can be basically classified into three distinct groups
1. those who do nothing while crapping
2. those who smoke while crapping
3. those who read while crapping
there are absolutely no grey areas between these classifications.
i personally fall into category 3.
i really enjoy taking a leisurely sunday crap in my spotless, citrusy smelling toilet while reading.. it’s such an understated pleasure, to be able to take my time to urm, “drop the kids off at the pool”, while absorbing the lifestyle section of the sunday papers.
weekdays are different though, as i’d have to go about my daily business in the not-so-sanitised office toilet. it’s a hurried affair, and my handphone would double up as a book of sorts, with the inbox providing some quick reading material, and also as a timely distraction from the grimy corners of the cubicle..
right. now that was some pretty random friday musings
(so what category are you? i have a feeling someone is going to come up with a “i belong to category 4; i wank off while pooping”)
now that’s taking multitasking to a whole new level.
it was a dream job when it was still an ambition.
now.. it’s just something i do to pay the bills.
i really can’t wait to begin french lessons proper; translation may or may not become a lifelong career, or the EUREKA! of my life, but it might be able to pull me out of this uncreative lull that has been plaguing me for awhile now.
learning a new language isn’t an overnight matter. though i do believe i have a certain passion for the french language and its culture enough to actually want to further enhance my knowledge of it to benefit others.. what i’m saying/feeling now sounds disturbingly like what i used to say back in school – that i have a passion for writing.
honestly, i can’t even bear to read what i write nowadays. i sound like.. a press release.
i think the best parts of my writing career were my intern days back at cleo – i miss the snippet-writing, ikea-bag (full of loaned outfits) carrying me.
my mom is the complete opposite of my dad, and i have entirely inherited her personality. i have no idea why they got married, but i guess they found out their differences soon enough and divorced shortly after their marriage.
its amazing how my mind works exactly like my mom’s, while i am a physical replica of my dad.
met mom for lunch for first the time time since…. well, a year ago i’d reckon. as usual mrs jewelry expert wanted to offload all her worldly possessions on me including her massive 1-carat diamond solitaire and mumbled her usual morbid ramblings on how everything she owns now would eventually be mine when she dies.
sounds like me actually, always going on and on about dying and all that jazz.
my dad is a man of few words. wait, i mean, of few monosyllables.
but when he gets angry, boy he launches into a tirade that nobody listens to.
so i forgot to switch off the aircon before i left the house today. sorry, my fault.
my apology did not appease the father a single bit and he went berserk and started questioning how on earth can you be a writer when you’re so stupid, so stupid that you can forget to switch the bloody aircon off and also scatter powder all over the floor do you know how fucking annoying powder is on the floor i have to clean up after you?!?!?!
before i continue, let me just go into a little bit about the powder issue. my dad apparently thinks that i douse myself in waaaaay too much baby powder ,so much so that it ends up creating a puddle of powder on the floor (it doesn’t), and our sad pristine matte (MATTE!!!!!! i would kinda understand his ire if the tiles were glazed!) white tiles would be severely tainted by the barely visible intrusions, though in his eyes they probably look like tar slicks.
oh you vile vile powder.
he is also the kind who would scream blue murder if someone forgets to screw the toothpaste cap back on.
anyway so after about ten minutes, he closed his monologue with the statement of the year
“MALAY GIRLS YOUR AGE WOULD HAVE FOUR OR FIVE KIDS ALREADY SO WHY CAN’T YOU BE AS RESPONSIBLE AS THEM?!”
wow dad. worst.analogy.ever.
have i also mentioned before that my dad is also probably the only person on the face of this earth who watches CNN while drinking beer at night?
the time now is 10 past 2am, and m is snoozing peacefully on my bed in his usual arm-over-head-armpit-airing position.
today we had a mundane date with a mission – to get a lamp for my room. but oh, we did have such fun at ikea, poring over shot glasses and coffee mugs before finally taking our time to choose the choice of illumination.
i’m really glad i have him here with me, despite the fact that he tried to insert my finger into his very m0ist nostrils earlier on, among other lascivious details that i shall omit for my reader’s peace of mind.
after switching off the computer, i shall nestle myself into the tiny spot next to him. though our sleeping styles are nowhere romantic – we sleep facing away from each other hugging our bolsters instead of the spooning position that most couples favour (but hey c’mon, spooning is only comfortable only for the first few minutes.. admit it!), but i really sleep best when he’s around. so much so that most of the time he stays over, i end up cabbing to work because i’m so reluctant to leave the bed!
and, oh yes, we did buy a standing lamp, thought we spent too much time deliberating over which one to get. heh.
in india, you’re either rich or you’re real fucked.
mumbai has opened my eyes to things and situations only previously depicted in my mind’s eye; and that’s despite having visited bangalore and goa just months before.
the disparity is not alarming; but depressing.
then again i’ve seen the half naked little boys pottering around the slums, taking a dump as and when they wanted – it was just a matter of pulling their tattered shorts down and shitting. yet, they seemed happy, the crazy cacophony of incessant horning not bothering them in the very least.
i say that they seem happy- or is this plain delusion on my part, to close my eyes in ignorant bliss on the poverty that’s plagueing a good percentage of india’s population?
anyway shall end this with.. HORN OK PLEASE – a sign that’s painted on every vehicle’s backside. i wonder why.
her hair smelled of smog – the signature heady scent of shanghai.
hi, he said as the door opened. there was an air of vague trepidation in his apartment – the curtains too tightly drawn for the time of the day, the place too clinically clean for a bachelor’s pad, and the dog too quiet in the presence of a stranger.
stay, the monosyllable almost inaudible from his pursed lips. she sat down in a plush settee meant for two, and had a little difficultly crossing her legs demurely in her made-t0-measure (well not exactly, she had the tailor take off two inches from the official measurements) cheongsam, woven from luxuriant silk satin which formed glossy ripples against where her waist meets her buttock with each step.
drink, and he poured an amber liquid from a decanter into a bottom heavy glass. it seared her throat while her hands were cold from cupping the glass with faked earnest.
don’t, his tone was a little harsher this time as she fidgeted under his unwavering glaze and mostly from the decanter’s cool stopper lid that was pressed against the area of naked flesh in the cheongsam’s slit.
“today’s safe word will be deplorable”, and then the cable tie was fastened.
