Parties. Who needs 'em?

Hello all.
Haven't been updating. Hur.
So.IT'S CHRISTMAS EVE! =O

I've been having parties over the last three days, and still have more to go to after the holiday.


On Friday, I went out with AT, her little sister, Lil Sis and Miin.
Bloody fun. ><


Then yesterday, it was another party for my mom&dad's friends, including Lil Sis's parents and Briggie.


And now the party for my mom's relatives is in full swing, and I, as usual, have snuck upstairs to use the computer.
Hopefully the guests will distract my mother and father for a little while longer.


Can I just say that I absolutely HATE parties?
I can tolerate them if one or two close friends of mine are there. Really.


But don't you know that practically all parties have little tykes?
Who scream really loudly at the top of their lungs?
And drop food on themsleves?
Not to mention wreck the entire host/ess's house?


Yeah.
That's the main reason why I hate these gatherings so much.


So far, Alexandria (dad's friend's daughter) and the twins (mom's cousin's daughters) have gone into my room WITHOUT PERMISSION and hid eggs in there, only to take them out again and toss them at each other.
And yes, I lost my temper, screamed at them to scram, pushed them out the door and locked it.


Now, my mom's other cousin's daughter and son (Michelle and Bryant) are insisting that they come upstairs to 'explore' the house (translation: wreck the house) and have tried to squeeze themselves into my sister's little chair (imagine the Goldilocks Breaking Baby Bear's Chair scene; those two aren't exactly pixies) and her little one-seat Mercedes (it didn't move. Thank God I removed the battery beforehand).


Damn.
I hate parties.
But at least the presents make up for it. XD


DramaQueen!



Oh, I almost forgot.Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

Pretty in Pink

There she is! There she is!
Miss Pretty in Pink!
Excuse me, Miss--
The chase is on.


Her smile, her laugh makes
them swoon. Golden locks bounce up and down.
Miss Pretty in Pink,
tell us your secret!


Everyone wants to know-- Thongs or panties?


She's on top of the
world, high on her Gucci heels,
Miss Pretty in Pink,
what is your secret?


Do you have any opinions on today's generation?


She's just out of their reach.
Is that why they love her so?
Miss Pretty in Pink,
let us in on your secret!


Are the rumours about you and a certain actor true?


She must be perfect in
every way, a passerby whispers.
Miss Pretty in Pink,
stop a moment, please!


You've been named one of People magazine's most beautiful women! How do you feel about that?


Those heels must hurt, says another,
and indeed, they do.
10 blocks in less than a half hour.
I must tell my personal trainer.


I've had it with these people.


So she whips out her purse,
draws out a tube, and says
into the camera, "Use
Maybelline eyeliner. No smudges,
lasts all day long."


That shuts them up.

Copycat.

Seems that whenever I say a certain thing, someone else goes, "Oh, yes, insert what I said a couple of tags ago."
At least paraphrase it, right? Is there a need to copy&paste?
Or you could say, "Yeap, I agree with so-and-so too! About so-and-so, I mean."

Go out and get your own, sista.

I do NOT need the competition.

MORE Blogthings!

You are a Playful Date

Your dating philosophy? "Fun first, romance later" You rather scream on a roller coaster... Then stare in to some guy's eyes over dinner. Guys to look for: Men with humorous profiles and quirky interests Sure that business suit guy may look boring... But if he likes snowball fights, give him a try

What Kind of Date Are You?

Your Gemstone is Aquamarine

Intuitive, tranquil, and trusting. You inspire others to have faith in themselves.

What Gemstone Are You?

You Are Buffy the Vampire Slayer

"We saved the world. I say we have to party."

What Superheroine Are You?

Your Power Color Is Blue

Relationships and feelings are the most important things to you. You are empathetic and accepting - and good at avoiding conflict. If someone close to you is in pain, it makes you hurt as well. You try to heal the ones you love with your kind and open heart.

What's Your Power Color?

You are White Chocolate

You have a strong feminine side with a good bit of innocence thrown in. Whether your girlish ways are an act or not, men like to take care of you. You are an understated beauty, and your power is often underestimated!

What Kind of Chocolate Are You?

Your Fragrance Profile

The best calming fragrance: jasmine The best fragrance for everyday wear: sandalwood The best fragrance to boost your sex appeal: rose The best fragrance for energy: peppermint

What's Your Fragrance Profile?

The PJ's You Are Most Like: Underwear

You enjoy the simple things in life and aren't hard to please You have an understated, easy sexyness that men love And you're confident enough to pull it off - without being overbearing

What Kind of PJ's Are You?

You Are Artemis!

Brave, and a natural born leader. You're willing to fight for what you believe in... And willing to make tough decisions. Don't forget - the people around you have ideas too!

What Goddess Are You?

You Should Drive a Ford Shelby Mustang Cobra

You have an extreme need for speed, even when you're not in a hurry. And while your flying by, you don't want to look like every other car on the road!

What 2007 Car Should You Drive?

You Are a Boxer Puppy

Energetic, playful and good with kids. You've also got a wild spirit that can't be trained or tamed.

What Breed of Puppy Are You?

Your Hawaiian Name is:

Keandra Lani

What's your Hawaiian Name?

Yes. I'm bored.

Blogthings thing

The Keys to Your Heart

You are attracted to those who are unbridled, untrammeled, and free. In love, you feel the most alive when your partner is patient and never willing to give up on you. You'd like to your lover to think you are loyal and faithful... that you'll never change. You would be forced to break up with someone who was emotional, moody, and difficult to please. Your ideal relationship is open. Both of you can talk about everything... no secrets. Your risk of cheating is zero. You care about society and morality. You would never break a commitment. You think of marriage as something precious. You'll treasure marriage and treat it as sacred. In this moment, you think of love as something you don't need. You just feel like flirting around and playing right now.

What Are The Keys To Your Heart?

In a Past Life...

You Were: A Happy Go Lucky Herbalist. Where You Lived: Central Africa. How You Died: Natural causes.

Who Were You In a Past Life?

You Are a Coy Flirt

You may not seem like you're flirting, but you know exactly what you're doing. You draw people in, very calculatingly, without them even knowing. Subtle and understated, you know how to best leverage your sex appeal. A sexy enigma, you easily become an object of obsession.

What Kind of Flirt Are You?

Your Birthdate: April 27

You are a spiritual soul - a person who tries to find meaning in everything. You spend a good amount of time meditating, trying to figure out life. Helping others is also important to you. You enjoy social activities with that goal. You are very generous and giving. Yet you expect very little in return. Your strength: Getting along with anyone and everyone Your weakness: Needing a good amount of downtime to recharge Your power color: Cobalt blue Your power symbol: Dove Your power month: September

What Does Your Birth Date Mean?

You Should Be A Poet

You craft words well, in creative and unexpected ways. And you have a great talent for evoking beautiful imagery... Or describing the most intense heartbreak ever. You're already naturally a poet, even if you've never written a poem.

What Type of Writer Should You Be?

For the twelve days of Christmas, your true love will send you:

Twelve punk rockers drumming Eleven marshmallows a-puffing Ten reindeer a-leaping Nine ladies yodeling Eight cows a-milking Seven eggnogs a-intoxicating Six Santas a-hohohoing Five golden coins Four calling booty calls Three French berets Two diamond pinky rings And a crazy homeless person in an apple tree

What Will You Get for the 12 Days of Christmas?

You Are Best Described By...

Jeune Fille Vert By Tamara De Lempicka

What Famous Work of Art Are You?

People Envy Your Compassion

You have a kind heart and an unusual empathy for all living creatures. You tend to absorb others' happiness and pain. People envy your compassion, and more importantly, the connections it helps you build. And compassionate as you are, you feel for them.

What Do People Envy About You?

Haha. Blogthings is COOOOL.

Gone are the Days.

Gone are the days where us one-year-olds took our very first (albeit a little wobbly), small step, and where our over-excited parents grabbed their camcorders, much to our fright, and the video, which has been shown on your birthday every single year, ends with a close-up of your little face, crimson with all the effort you put into bawling your lungs out.
(Thank God.)


Gone are the days where us three-year-olds (having mastered the art of what they call 'walking') toddled into our respective kindergartens and, with much gusto and enthusiasm, sang silly little songs about chickens and ducks and geese in Chinese and English. And who can forget the very memorable Graduation Day, where it was time for us to toss our little caps into the air and we ended up accidentally-on-purpose poking the eye of the class bossy-boots, much to the anger of her parents, and for the rest of the afternoon, you were forced to sit in a little corner while the rest of the ceremony continued, much to the embarrasment of your parents.
(And till this day, you are still taking out your personal copy of your kindergarten's class photograph and vandalising Miss Bossy-Boots's face by drawing red devil horns on her with your Magic Markers.)


Gone are the days where us seven-year-olds first stepped into Primary school ("Wah, so BIG!") and had to constantly ask Mrs Tan's help for
a) going to the nearby Level One toilet ("I cannot go myself!")
b) solving the 'tough' Mathematics problems you weren't used to doing ("What is this number, ah?")
c) solving petty squabbles between you and your friends. ("I don't friend you anymore!")


Gone are the days when us twelve-year-olds finally realised how important the PSLE was, and for the few weeks before this very important exam, we were seen in the Library bending our heads over thick textbooks and scribbling down the formula to find the area of a circle upon our pretty spiral bound notebooks.
(Actually, we were secretly bashing up criminals on our PSPs under the table, when the librarian wasn't looking.)


Gone are the days where we finally entered Secondary school, said goodbye to many bosom friends ("RGS?! Why not MGS?! Oh, how could you, Marissa?") and struggled with our seven ("WHAT?!") subjects and fifty-minute periods. We formed many groups ("Cliques." "Naw, we're a HAPPY FAMILY!") and made new friends while catching up with the old. We found teachers we liked (maybe even crushed on. Remember "baka!", Joy?) and teachers we detested ("So-and-so is so !@#$%^&*.")
(Oh, how saddening it is to see one of my besties go to the best class next year, leaving the rest of us PSSs.)


This is just a taste of life.
Bring out the whole dish, Mr. Chef, and let me dig in.

New Skin.

I got this skin (by fedora_girl) 'cause the old one didn't have:
1) Titles
2) Comments,
so I decided to go and look for a new skin.
Sorry, Joy, for making you do all that hard work for nothing!
But I've discovered I really hate seeing my comments down there on the tagboard, since they'll probably be washed away with the other tags, never to be seen again...
So.
Enjoy.

Skittles on the Street

SKITTLES ON THE STREET
inspired by a blogskin that I came across


Lips tainted pink,
gums bleeding red.
Oops, got caught chewing gum again.


Head's spinning with fractions,
equations and
the conclusionary statement:
So 'x' is therefore...?
Upon the chalkboard.


How should I know?! she wanted to shriek,
I never think well without my gum!
So out she was sent, into the hall,
made to lean against the cold brick wall.
{She would've given anything to be smarter.
Anything.}


Soon, she got tired; of what?
Of everything.
10:53 am
Delusioned&disillusioned (which is which?),
she ran out of Hell and chanced upon a convenience store.
10:55 am
No gum was sitting on the racks, she observed.
So instead, she paid for a bag of Skittles.
10:57 am


Munching happily, she strode back to school;
Feeling the Sun's warm smile on her.
Perhaps she would wait on the steps,
in case Mr. Abbetron poked his head out to check on her.


Something caught her eye.


A classic scene, a little boy was just (just) playing with his rainbow-striped ball,
which just (just) happened to roll out onto the street,
and he just (just) happened to go toddling after it.
And a truck was just (just) barreling around the corner towards the cliched scene.


Well, what could she do?


Her hand clenched around her half-finished bag of sweets, and she threw herself at the boy (Watch out!!!), just as the moving vehicle drove straight into her.


Hours later, the paramedics covered up the body with a piece of canvas, and with a relieved mother, drove back to the hospital. The police packed up their official-looking gear and left to report back to HQ.


A small hand, uncovered by the piece of blue canvas, lay upon the gravel road, an empty bag lying in its palm.


The rest of the street was strewn with bright, multi-coloured sweets, each with the letter 'S' printed on it.


Poor Mr. Brisley.
He's working overtime again.

Goodbye.

GOODBYE {by The Corrs}

I never thought one day you'd be gone
away forever more
No one could say, no one could explain
why you were taken.

Oh, where are you now?
Could I get there somehow?

(Chorus)
It's time to say goodbye,
Block out the sun and pack up the sky
Don't let my tears start to make you cry
each time I try to say my goodbye
Try to stop asking why...

Tell me it's true, tell me there's something more
Another time for love
One day I'll know, one day I'll be there
Will you be waiting?

Oh where you are now
Could I get there somehow?

(Chorus)


I really love this song. :DDDDDDDDD
Lately, I've been listening to CDs A LOT.
The Corrs: Dreams is currently my favourite.
OTHER GOOD SONGS BY THE CORRS:
-Radio
-Runaway
-Breathless
-Old Town
-Angel
and, of course, the hit single:
-Summer Sunshine!

Come to think of it, songs are just like poems too, aren't they?
Except, of course, they have the piped-in music.


Hard to say which one I like better.

P/S The violinist of The Corrs is the BOMB.

Writer's Block

WRITER'S BLOCK
for Joy, who helped me with this blogskin.

I am sitting here at the computer, tapping the keyboard industriously, only to have the words wiped out due to the lack of creativity and increasing sleepiness.


I am distracted by several things: the blinkblinkblink of that irritating line which appears after every typed word; the horribly sung Christmas carols over the radio; my now dead MSN conversation {the unseen; seems to be offline}.


I start to daydream.


It is raining.
{Heavily.}
When I came back from buying apple pies just now, I accidentally stepped in a puddle of water.
My new Rockport shoes are now soaked.
I wonder if the leather will crack.


I cannot think.
Christmas is around the corner, and the panic level is getting higher and higher.
I have only bought two Christmas presents so far.
How about you?


I'm surrounded by darkness.
Somehow, I seem to associate it with Happy Feet.
Is it due to their Midnight Black coats,
or perhaps the sea of black the theatre seems to be bobbing up and down in when the movie finally starts?


Writer's Block.
No Panadol can cure it.


Oh, hang on a moment.
I've written something.

The Carousal

Summer-- kids licking
ice lollies run around at the fair.
The wood
beneath
their feet is being
blistered by the afternoon sun.
Families form a long, snake-like queue
to
The Carousal.
Its horses seem alive,prancing
merrily.
Long, flowing manes
whipping
their faces as
The Carousal
goes round
faster! and
faster!
You can
almost
see their muscles
rippling
throught their sweaty coat.
And when the ride finally comes to an
end
, the children, disappointed,
climb off their respective mounts
(awkwardly)
Leaving
the horses in their
sticky, sweaty, but
joyful! glory.
They wait obediently for the next batch of riders,
and for
The Carousal
to start up again once more.


Fall-- it is the
beginning
of their long wait.
The boisterous children,
frantic adults and
the summer sun
have long disappeared.
The leaves of nearby oak trees turn the
colour
of a well-lit fire.
Oranges, reds, yellows, and a hint of magenta dance with the wind.
A chilly autumn wind
s w e e p s
around the now deserted funfair,
causing the old caretaker
("Morning, Mr. Birch.")
to turn up the collar of his battered coat.
The many dead leaves scatter as
North Wind arrives, and as they make themselves scarce,
they make an unusual noise:
skritch. skritch. skritch.
The Carousal
is now frozen.
Their manes, muscles no longer flowing,
looking as if they were abruptly stopped in mid-trot
(which of course they were).


Winter-- people hurry past the
funfair, heads
bent
low. They pull their bowlers over their eyes,
and turn the necks of their coats
up against nippy North Wind.
The Carousal
is covered in a
big, white
blanket of snow[flakes].
The shiny bright eyes of the horses
peeking
out. The horses are freezing,
cold, cold, so cold...
Their paint cracks. It seems very much like
The End, but
the equastrians must endure.
The oaks are now bare,
looking like hands with gnarly fingers.
*shudders*
Reaching out...
And GRABBING!
A tiny nest,
wedged between three branches,
holds a robin,
killed by the cold.
It is lying on its side,
eyes wide open,
ice creeping along its body, like
ants
on a carcass.


Spring-- grass
begins to push out from the
melting
blanket of snow.
All the animals are aroused from their months of
hibernation.
The trees are covered in their
glossy clothes
again, and sparrow busy themselves
with the building of their nests.
And soon,
the sun is shining through a canopy of leaves,
a cloudless sky reflects off the surface of a
still
lake, and old couples walk hand-in-hand,
enjoying nature in a way nobody else can
'till their final years approach.
Mr. Birch, together with two "young 'uns",
stagger
under the weight of some cans of paint,
picked up from a nearny hardware store.
They get to work:
prying open the paint cans, and
dipping their
stiff
brushes into the creamy substance,
getting
The Carousal
ready for the upcoming opening of
the funfair.

This cycle is unique.
It starts at the end,
and ends at the
beginning.

Whiteboards.

I can tolerate many things in a filthy classroom.

Sure, I can leave dirty, snot-filled tissues lying on the ground, black from the underside of classmates' shoes, and not flinch.

I can toss my bag on the rubbish-strewn ground, and not have a care in the world.

I can even glance at the always overflowing wastepaper basket standing in a corner of the room, and not lift a finger.

But the one thing that really, REALLY gets to me, is...

A smudged, scribbled-on (one could say vandalised) Whiteboard.

You want SPOTLESS, SQUEAKY-CLEAN whiteboards, with erasable markers which tips are nice and sharp, and never need to be refilled?
Do you want Whiteboards which actually have lights above and beneath them, for added effect?

GO TO THE LEARNING LAB. I swear, the boards there are the absolute best in town.

The Whiteboard is the medium for teachers to educate us on History, Literature, Maths... The list goes on.

Sure, some of the more high-tech teachers come armed with a laptop, and pull the screen down to start the lesson, but who wants to stare at some typed words (such as this) instead of a Literature teacher's flowing, moving words that actually capture your very short-spanned attention?

As long as we take good care of our boards (read: not scribble, "OMG SO-AND-SO OF SO-AND-SO TEAM IS SO BLOODY HOT LAH!!!", or leave big splotches of marker ink on it, or leave HUGE, unsightly bluegreenred smudges on it), I am sure learning will actually be a fruitful and very enriching experience.

But DAMN, I still fall asleep during Chinese, thank you very much.

Hung Up? Hungover.

I remember how Natty wrote that if you think in colours, your thoughts would be so much clearer.

This morning, after eating a huge breakfast, I set off for tuition.

That's when it started.

The throbbing pain in my temple seemed to grow with every jerk the blue, streamlined Jaguar made at each traffic light stop.

When I sat down at my usual front row (hey, I have BAD EYESIGHT) desk, the flourescent lights seemed to glow so bright that they seemed like those mirrored, '70s disco balls.

ShimmershimmershineshineGLOWWWWW.

My head throbbed even more.

I covered my eyes with my hands, but I could still see the Light.

Too bright, too bright...

I found myself pressing the palms of my hands into my eyes, so that little stars erupted before me.

When I finally lifted my head up, I saw little spots of colours,
PurpleYellowBlueRed,
creeping on the wall,
the ceiling...
Aaaaah, the Light!


Never, I say, NEVER feast yourselves on Kaya toast, Milo, soft-boiled eggs, porridge and dim sum before going for a long ride in your dad's Jaguar to tuition.

Silence

The Silence.










It's unbearable. [You don't seem to care anymore.]

Mummy, Daddy, the Shopping Centre, and Me.

So I just went downstairs for dinner, and my little sister, Elizabeth, was sorting through these pieces of paper.
I went to take a look at her drawings, and I saw one particular piece of paper with a HUGE blue blob of paint on it, which was surrounded by several tiny little blue dots, some of which merged with the big blob.
When asked what this picture was of, my sister replied, "Mummy, Daddy and me going shopping!"
When asked to explain how on earth the blue dots resembled them, Elizabeth pointed to three very small, very inconspicuous dots and said, "These are Mummy, Daddy and me."
Then she pointed to the HUGE blue blob and said, "This is the shopping centre. And the other blue dots are the other people going shopping!"


Abstract art.
It makes my head spin.

WE HATE VIOLIN-- AND WE'RE PROUD OF IT!

for Ristine--my fellow violin loather

"NONONONO!"
Your violin is unceremoniously snatched away by your irate violin teacher.
"That's not the way to do it!"
Hell-LO.
THIS IS ONLY MY FIRST WEEK PLAYING THE NEW SONG.
"Like this."
The teacher lifts the bow, and brings it down on the 'D' string (soundlessly, unlike you), starting to play a wonderful melody that is ear (nevermind EYE) candy.
You stare at her with a heavy heart, knowing that even if you practice a millionbilliontrillion times, six hours a day, you'll never be able to play like that.
The tune ends, and your teacher hands you the wooden instrument, which had lied limply in your arms, only came to life when our teacher touched it oh-so gently.
"Like that."
Your shoulders sag as you take back the violin, and start to play the dreaded tune, (which sounds dreadful as well), the horrible screeching punctuated by your teacher's moans,groans&instructions.
You glare at her. You can't stand her, but how can you hate someone who produces such melodic songs?
After 45 minutes, the skin on your fingertips starts to peel away due to the huge pressure you apply on the strings, your shoulder and neck muscles begin to ache, and the palms of your hands start to become so clammy that you're afraid the violin will slip from your grasp and fall to the ground, shattering into a million&one pieces.
Hey. That ain't such a bad idea after all.
Finally, the magic words:
"See you next week."
Free at last!
You stuff you violin back into its case, zip it up quickquickquick, and race out of the music school, nearly banging into the Spanish piano teacher ("Ay ay ay!").

Your handphone rings.
Ooooh.
It's him!
Hey.
"How was your violin lesson?"
The usual.
"It looks so easy! How can you screw up your pieces all the time???"


Hey.
You play the piano.

One to Twenty.

Hello all! (:
Yes, this is DQ aka Laura N!
Well, this marks the end of this series of poems about Her.
Yes, she did give up in the end.
(But on what? Even I do not know.)
Does her Love for him still exist?

Only she knows the answer.

I was unable to continue writing from Twenty due to the swirl of emotions,
her overpowering Love for him
and a tad too much Merci chocolate.

But maybe a Happy Ending will be in store for her in the end.



I wish her all the best.
It's been great knowing You.

TWENTY.

She stared at her empty flat.

Twenty weeks had gone by.

SOLD. read the sign on her front door.


When she had been packing her things up, she had found a box at the bottom of her closet.

It had belonged to Him.

Of course, she went through them.

Pictures of them at the park, carnival, movies...

Of them.

Together.

It seemed as if she was being transported back in Time.

All the wonderful memories were being shuffled in her hand.

Like one of those newfangled digital cameras, she flipped through them, one by one.


She raised them to her forehead, and pressed them there, absorbing all the good times they had together.

She wanted them to remain etched in her mind,

permanently.


For later reference, perhaps?



Later, on her way out, she stopped by the dustbin.

She ripped the photos into halves,


(sccccccrrrch)



quarters,



(sccccrch)


eights.

(scccrh)


And tossed them into the air.





Like snowflakes, they fell

one by one, into the gaping jaws of the plastic-bag lined bin.




To forgive,
to






forget.

NINETEEN.

Each moment without him is TORTURE

pure torture.

"Forgive and forget" went the Old saying.

And that is what she intended to do.

Forgive,

and







forget




.















Anyone still there?

EIGHTEEN.

She's TIRED.

[OH-SO TIRED.]

Of what?

Of Love.


Oh.

SEVENTEEN.

She went to Popular the other day (to buy a drawing pad)

and found the starkingly white (BRIGHTBRIGHTBRIGHTSHINE) paper intimidating.

Any normal person would have shut the book and put it back on the shelf.

But she slammed it shut and threw it across the room instead.

In the end, she purchased a not-so-bright (but still white) binder.

And spent the rest of the day doodling pictures of Him in 2B, only to rip them out and flush them down her toilet.

There goes her resolution to not waste so much water in order to save more money.

SIXTEEN.

You must be joking.

She raised her downcast eyes to meet her most bosom friend's.

They hadn't met for a year now.

(She and Janice were in the same university in England, but Janice had chosen to stay there while she returned to the Garden City.)

Look, why don't you move in with me for the timebeing and-

But what about him?

Exactly, what ABOUT him?

(Janice was a firm feminist.)

She could never have explained her Love for him.


(It was just there,

And always would be.)


I Love him.

Too much for me to let go.


Janice sank into her chair, gazing at her friend in disbelief.

What's happened to you, Nina?
You've changed.

She picked up her Gucci leather handbag, her crisp suit creasing as she got up.

You've changed.

Downing her martini in one gulp, Janice shot her a look, and walked out of the pub, Fendi high heels making clicking noises on the tiles.


And she was left alone in the Darkness (not counting those ridiculous mirrored disco balls hanging from the ceiling) once more.

FIFTEEN.

12 13 14 15 16 17

Today was her birthday.

She stared at the calendar, biting her lip tentatively.

Would he come home?

She shook her head furiously.

NONONONONONONONONONONONONO.

She had reminded herself countless times to forget about him.

But she still made chicken rice every single night

(sometimes unconsciously).

The whole world was slowly spinning.

She staggered to her chair, and sat there, head in her hands.

When she finally felt fine, she lifted her head, and peered through the curtain of dark locks in the direction of the kitchen window.

It was raining.

She ran to her room, put on her red dress (theonehehadlikedsomuch), and stepped out onto the street.

Alone, in the darkness (save a stray street lamp), she raised her head, arms wide open.

Her red lips parted, tasting the sweet rain.

And let her worries wash away.

FOURTEEN.

She stayed up till 3, watching The Ring.

She remembers how it was the first film that they had watched together.

She remembers how she had clung on to him, like a

babykoala clinging on to its
m o t h e r

Frightened to Death.

He had been so sweet, to let her bury her head in his chest.

Now he was more Burn(ing taste of Demon's Drink) than sweet.


But he still didn't come back.

There goes another plate of chicken rice.

THIRTEEN.

Not surprisingly, his business had failed.

That was when Depression hit:

Everything he had worked so hard for, putting in his best effort, had gone down the drain.

And so he succumbed to the Demon's Drink(s?).

Tiger Beer, Carlsberg, Heineken, Guiness.

It had been going on for more than a year already.

She was on the brink of breaking down.

The pressure was too much- loan sharks were still after her (him), the bills were steadily mounting, and she was still deprived of Love from the man she Loved.

What am I going to do?

TWELVE.

She was a sufferer of Unrequited Love.

Why did she even Love him so?

Believe me, if she had it her way, she wouldn't even put a foot into the world of Love, where flowers and chocolates were given and received everyday, where couples would, hand in hand, stroll along the beach, or perhaps sit on a balcony, gazing at the full moon with the faint sound of violins in the background.

Where no one was spared the Hurt of losing someone.

He hardly comes back nowadays.

She waits for him every night, watching his favourite Hainanese chicken rice (she made it herself) turn cold as the night.

Love.

Sucky, ain't it?

ELEVEN.

He was on the verge of starting his own, albeit small, business.

That's great! she cried, stretching out her arms to hug him.

But there's just one thing.

She stops.

What?

I need a capital.

Oh. She withdraws her arms.

He grabs her and starts one of their regular romps, which often end up

in the bed.

("Those two, ah, so young but still have, what ah, oh yah, pre-marital or something sex, later they have a child, then how?" she heard a neighbour of his say to the other housewives.)

He pulls away.

Don't stop.

Then I need you to help me.

Alright. But how?

I need some money.

Is that all? she laughed. OK, I'll go to the bank tomorrow and withdraw some money for you.

He smiled.

At first, she found that smile genuine, and thought it belonged to the man whom she would be spending the rest of her life with.

But it belonged to a fiendish fox, who had just spotted a fat rabbit to devour.


She was that rabbit.

TEN.

She finishes work.

Instead of going back to a loving husband (or Ah Beng boyfriend, like her colleagues), she returns to an empty flat, unpaid bills and her growing despair.

(No, wait.
She carries the last one with her everywhere she goes.
Hidden in her purple beaded handbag,
squished into its smallest size possible,
Despair is prevented from growing by stuffing the collected dollar bills from the old men into her bag, and zipping it up quickly.

But it's still there.
)

NINE.

She hates the atmosphere of the bar.
In fact, she just hates it, period.

Dirty old men always try to look down her front, and flirt outrageously with the waitresses. Often, after they finish their shifts, they are brought to the nearby Hotel 81 by the old men.
Sickening, she thinks as she sees a gnarled old hand snaking into the pocket of his mistress's too-tight Miss Sixty denim shorts (bought by him, no doubt).

A cloud of smoke hangs around the pub (like the blasted Haze from stupid Indonesia) due to the monstrous amount of cigarettes smoked every night.
She always packs a filter mask in her beaded handbag, just in case.

The stench of alcohol, vomit and toilets is unbearable.

What on earth are the cleaners doing?
Smoking, as a matter of fact.
Like their health isn't deteriorating fast enough.

But she tolerates, telling herself the same thing over and over again:

It's for the money. It's for the money.

EIGHT.

She was skilled at her work, no Doubt about that.

If you ordered a rum with coke ("Easy on the rocks."), you felt (her) Anger (at him) fizzing, merging with the tiny bubbles of carbon dioxide.

She could never be angry at him for long.
She loved him too much.

If a beer was ordered, you felt the way the Demon's Drink overpowered your
mind,
body,
Soul.

And that was the way her love for him overpowered her, too.

If you ever asked for one of her margaritas, you'd know how tempting they were.
And that was how she felt (Tempted) on that fateful night, when all of her wildest dreams were placed in a plam.

His palm.

Come home with me.

It was her Forbidden Fruit.

She knew it would be wrong to accept it.

The consequences, Nina, the consequences!

Come home with me, he whispered (oh, how it tickled her ears!) once again, holding out his hand.

She looked at his palm. It looked so warm, so inviting, but she knew not to succumb to the Temptation.

And then she looked into his eyes.

She saw something in them. Something sparkled in those dark, Belgian chocolate-like eyes.

Was it Love?

It must be! It MUST!

Come home with me, Nina!

And in a split second, she felt herself falling into those peat-bog eyes, letting him caress her, becoming One with him.

She, like Eve, had accepted and taken a bite out of her Fruit.

It is worth it she thought to herself as she lay on the stained (yet spotless) white sheets.

She felt him roll over and caress her once again, feeling his warm skin press again hers.

It is.

SEVEN.

They met in (surprise, surprise) the bar where she works.

He was young.
Charming.
Dashing.

Everything she had dreamed of in a man and so much more.


(But then the Demon's Drink consumed him.

Ironic, isn't it?)

SIX.

Well, someone has to pay the price.

But why her?

FIVE.

She sits at the dining table (a plastic folding one) on a chair (with the words "Yeo Beng Pte. Ltd." printed across it in red, faded ink).

She stares at the bills for rentwaterelectricity.

She turns her head and gazes at the vulgarities and threats sprayed across the wall outside her (their) flat by loan-sharks.

Dismay.

And all she can think about is Money.

FOUR.

She's a struggling artist and a bartender at a pub in Geylang.

He's a drunkard and a gambler.

What in the world do they have in common?

THREE.

It breaks her heart to see him in such a state.

Sunk into Oblivion.


Alcohol.
It's a scary thing.

TWO.

When he does come home, he's usually drunk.

Raving at "Genevieve" ("How could you do this to me, after all I've done for you!") and several other unknown girls.

(He was always a Player.)

ONE.

She waits by the phone all day, everyday.

But

He never calls.