short tails and stories

You name it.

2007-05-01T00:24:00.000+08:00

Let's see, it's already May. Maybe i should start being more active in this space. And May-be, I should stop gorging on dark chocolates.

And here, a wishlist.

1. A new job that isn't so mentally and physically demanding
2. Income!!!
3. New wardrobe complete with a wider collection of shoes
4. Large everyday bag for school days
5. Car!!! My white or yellow Volks beetle
6. To paint my room
7. Queen-sized bed
8. New dressing table
9. Learn salsa
10. Learn to bake /cook
11. Learn to drive
12. FREEDOM
13. More Vitamin L
14. A better love life.
15. No more jerks.
16. Red or yellow or white trench coat
17. What I've always been waiting for.
18. A better re-birthday. It's impossible.

I'm not laughing

2007-01-23T21:36:00.000+08:00

While shaking hands get into a heated thumb wrestling match.

Repeat everything your interviewer says, keep going until he or she yells at you. Then ask if you got the job.

Stick a piece of broccoli between your front teeth, smile a lot.

Sometime during the interview, frown and sniff suspiciously, ask the boss if he or she farted.

Pick your nose and wipe contents underneath your interviewer's desk.

Bring in whoopie cushion, set it off, roll your eyes and look at your interviewer with disgust.

In the beginning of the interview pull out a gun and put it on the interviewers desk in front of you, then say, "Mind if I rest this here during the interview?"

Demand that if hired, you want a desk plate that reads, "Big Kahuna."

As you follow your interviewer to his or her office kick out their heels so that they trip and fall on their face, laugh uncontrollably.

Show up in your jogging outfit, run in place during the entire interview.

Bathroom excuse #1: Excuse yourself to go to the bathroom, as you walk out the door make a loud fart noise with your mouth then sigh and say, "DARN!"

Bathroom excuse #2: Excuse yourself to go to the bathroom, come back with the entire front of your pants wet.

Comment on how much you like your interviewers spouses picture, then take it and put it in your briefcase.

Some time during the interview slip some gum in your mouth, then sneeze as loud as you can launching entire contents in your mouth in his or her face, cover your mouth and say, "I sink I loth by theeth."

As you reach inside your briefcase pull out a sock puppet, introduce him as "Socko" and harass your interviewer with it.

During the interview reach over and grab at your interviewers face and say, "Got your nose" while clenching your fist, demand that you get hired or you wont give back their nose.

Chew tobacco, spit in pencil holder.

Announce that you are committing a hostile take over of the company, fire your interviewer.

At the end of the interview end it with a three stooges eye jab followed by a smack to the forehead finish it off with a, "woo-woo-woo-woooooo....!"

Let me teach you a crying spell

2006-09-30T02:27:00.000+08:00

My crying spells have been ongoing, even now. Only reason I'm updating is because I can distract myself from whatever is dragging me down. I will be okay. That is so cliched. But what else can I say? I can't be depressed forever, neither can I be happy.

Why must we hesitate so much? Why can't we just say what we feel? If we hate, can't we just turn it into vulgar raps and curse and swear? What's wrong? It would be genuine feelings, fresh out of the mouth. That's why I love Eminem's lyrics- to the cut, blunt, frank, direct, cutting, honest, brutal, dirty, raw, uncensored.

Why be so unwilling to dish out love? If we love, can't we just confess? Why the many complications?

If we're mad, why can't we break dishes and plates and bowls and bend forks and knives? Why can't we scream into space, or cry into our pillows? Why must we have anger management? Why can't we just slap the f***ing person? Why do we need to censure such vulgarities with asterisks?

So, why then, can't we cry blood when we're happy? Laugh and gloat when we're sad?

Then why can't the bad die? Why do all the undeserving lackeys get all the luck in the world? Why this? Why that? Why thus? Why?

Because it would be wrong? It would be wrong to be all human?

invisible writings

2006-09-24T23:53:00.000+08:00

Ok, I tried to revamp but I do realise probably nothing's gonna get published. Oh gosh, tearing while I'm typing. But it's just because my heart is breaking from wanting and wishing for too long, too much.

I am fighting my battle- only the initial stage and there's a very high chance I might win. But still, they say, don't pin your hopes on too high. In case I don't make it, I don't wanna go writhing in pain. It does sound vain, but I wanna die beautiful, for the living to remember me by.

It's hard, living as a burden but also knowing that one stays as a burden on the heart, in memories even when one is dead. Meant to fade into oblivion? Or carved into scars that heal once time slips by? Am I about to join him? Why are our fates so connivingly twisted into a similar pattern? Is this some kind of game?

When fate plays with Faith.

2006-09-07T20:21:00.000+08:00

So this is what happens when fate plays with me. Faith. (That's me, in case people start wondering where Cate went to, Cate is Faith. Catherine Faith.)

I just wanna ask. Why me? Why not her? I have been a good girl, (maybe not all year long) but good enough to know what is fulfilling and what's it like to live with a heart. It's so hard feeling so tired, not having enough physical strength to go on; sometimes I just feel like lying in bed. I've got my plans in my head- after I graduate from JC I wanna go round the region with friends, do relief teaching, volunteer again at Bishan Home, work, get into a decent uni to study psychology and philosophy. And more. I don't ask for As, I don't ask for huge bucks, I don't ask for fame, wealth. All I want is my health. My sanity. Whatever, and whoever makes me happy.

She has love. But I can't even love openly. She can do whatever she wants. I am not allowed to. She's not smart. I am. She's shallow. I know the workings of Man's heart, and what changes purpose. She loves fleetingly and unwillingly. I love deeply and am constant. She embodies all that's fun, sun, girlish laughter, makeup, skimpy clothes, small assets, secrets under the sheets, charms and potions. But I am all blood, flesh, frankness, raw uncensored emotions, the heart.

She loves to chatter. I love to talk, listen and get wrapped up in real conversation. She giggles, I laugh, or smile. She talks. I write. She writes with a feathery quill on fancy sheets. I write in honest blue or black on plain lined sheets.

I just hope I don't get taken away too soon. Please. Don't. A plea from someone who just wants to be happy. I am deserving of life. What more should I do to prove this?

Septembers make me cry.

2006-09-02T00:09:00.000+08:00

Because I don't want you to cry. I'll be okay. I have to.

Come on, my beautiful girl...
by Cate V, August 2006

You'll never be blamed
If you take the knife
Upon the lives of your
Kindred.

You're loath to be of their blood
So 'tis Meaningless to beg for
Love so miserably dished out.
Who can sound a natural
Guiltiness about
You,
My overtly beautiful angel of
Blood?

Thus with reason cease with reason fetter;
Thou art not a summer's
Day beautiful,
but a hot Arabian night
Exotic, full of
Wild dances under the Devil's
Wings,
And under the night sun.

There you, my fair
One,
Should but dance away
And be blamed not,
Though your heart be filled
With sulphurous wrath.
________________________________

One-man Show
by Cate V, 30 Aug 2006

I watched a one-man show
Today,
Paid for no ticket,
but rather offered a complimentary
Front row seat upon
where I could
Catch a whiff of the
Girl-actor's
Powdered essence.

So what shall I,
Lone stranger,
Say upon the eyes
of a girl?
A woman
Nurtured and bred by rain,
Toughened by lighting flashes
Weakened by soft drops
Trickling down her
Emerald green skirt
Not reaching her
bloodied knees.

She and I, stood side by
side, Watching the sky rain itself to bits,
To watch heavenly grief:
While mortal pain itself gashed, wounds
Lashed opem,
Wedged a pool between us.
Never once did I attempt to speak,
and neither did she.
All she and I did was
To watch mortal
Creatures take away their
treasures from the
Trusted bloodsucking
Safe-deposit box,
and delighted with their find, went home
to spicy dinners and
Foolish wine.

Then out of the sudden blue,
the girl-actor life
My side, and
went where she belonged,
but why, I disappeared into
the rain, I don't know why.

Frogs are so darn lucky. they get to kiss the princess.

2006-08-13T03:23:00.000+08:00

It's 3.20 am and I'm supposed to be doing up my best 3 achievements for graduation cert but I'm still not doing it. Things are just too messed up, too confounded that I haven't had time to talk to myself recently. (I'm not psycho, I meant I haven't been in touch with myself, nor for anything or anyone else, for that matter).

My crying episodes have been going on for a few days this week, and it sucks.

Oh well, this isn't getting anywhere so I'll just emphasise my realisation today that frogs are really really lucky sons of the bull-frog because they always get kissed by some beautiful princess who has undergone a sex change and plastic surgery, and then they turn into such hunks who croak. Okay, I told you so.

It takes 8 to find the one

2006-07-02T01:44:00.000+08:00

The very first was W. He had sat together with her, watching their favourite cartoon. Then he smiled at her, told her he liked her, and asked her to marry him when they were older. Anxious and worried, he asked his parents if cousins could be married. They simply smiled. And he was 4.

The second girl had an exotic name. He revered in those few blessed syllables, Lawrentia/Laurencia Khoo. It was too beautiful, to profound for him to spell.

The third was the primary school belle. Everyone adored her, admired her, praised her on account for her looks. All except a little fat, quiet girl who topped the class every year but couldn't understand why the former got so much attention. And of course, he paid attention to her, I mean, the belle, not the brain.

The fourth was another belle, co-belle, in more specific terms. She was so fragile, so sweet that he was almost sure she would crack like an egg if provoked. She had hyper-sensitive tear glands, and he felt inclined to protect her, because he couldn't afford to have them cured permanently, neither could he pay for dimple implants. The same fat girl was disdainful of her, of course; beauty and brains didn't mix.

The fifth was a nice, homely girl. She wasn't a belle, just an average Jane, but oh-so-nice Jane. He used to call her up to ask about homework, which, of course, would still be uncompleted the next day. If I really had to spell it out for you, yes, he called to hear her voice. Yet time wasn't on their side. He confessed too early. She realised too late. But they both liked each other all that while of pretence. maybe I'll dismiss it as a mild case of "Teen Tremor #13".

The sixth was a girl he liked from a distance. Funny, isn't it. Limitations over time and space. He wanted to shield her from all the nasty rumours, all the hate generated. His adoration was powerful enough to deflect, reflect, absorb and disintegrate them. But she was just too far, if she were much nearer she would have been blinded by the shine of the armour of the knight who would die for her.

The seventh hailed from the Southern seas. She was beautiful, affluent, and what else but influentially wealthy. She had everything she could ever ask for, save for a constant love. And he was more than willing to offer her what she lacked. They were the bestest of friends, and they loved each other. Though for her it was a kind of friendly love, maybe even a brotherly love. She refused him the answer he was waiting for, and it left him full of questions.

In between the seventh and the eighth he ran into the fat girl, now fifteen. Formerly fat girl.

The eighth was as sweet as the fourth. She was kind, sweet and wholesome. She had plenty of love inside her heart, for God, not him. He had hoped for some sort of reversal, because he had already envisioned her on a pedestral upon which he could worship. It never happened.

The One was void of any of the above qualities. She was a temperamental thing from the Northern seas, adept at cursing and swearing. She was a born Catholic, she went to church and prayed to God, but somehow some faith lacked in her. She had everything she ever wanted, save for love. Familial love. Romantic love to her was cheap, it was strewn all over her feet to be stepped upon, thrown in her direction haphazardly by bums who like all other men, were just sleep deprived. She was oddly beautiful in a mysterious way; she hadn't grown beautiful under nurturing conditions. Her beauty had been made solid by fending off cruelty, reinforced by heartaches and tears gone unwiped. He had taken pity on her, because she looked so confident with a cracking exterior, revealing old and fresh wounds. He never knew he had fallen in love with her, till he found himself dreaming of her.

Did I mention that she had shed all her blubber?

Shoelaces are strings that only complicate your life

2006-06-12T00:54:00.000+08:00

I went for my usual CIP session at Bishan Home last week. At the end of it all, I just wanted to cry.

S and I helped the residents with basic motor skills, and we were assigned to helping out with shoelace tying. I had particular difficulty with that, because in all my 9 years of shoelace enlightment I had only attempted bow tying, not threading it through the holes. Well, I didn't die from a fit, and within 10 minutes I was managing well, surprisingly.

It takes only a few minutes for 'normal' people to learn such trivial skills, but to these residents, we had to painstakingly explain to them; simple instructions, clear and slow and repetitive. Turn by turn they sat in front of us, innocent smiles and childlike curiosity, enthusiasm and questions galore.

"Jie jie", they tugged at my sleeve, "teach me how to tie my laces, ok?"

Then they eagerly sat themselves down, all eager and squirming with excitement. Mind you, they weren't children of 4 or 5, but grown men and women into their 50s. One of them took up a shoe marked "Ah Yong" and promptly started tugging at the laces to pry them loose. I was apprehensive at first, and wondered how I should even start telling them the right way to undo them, much less thread them in and do up the bows and the works.

"Cross them over. Yes, yes, that's right. Now make a small circle like this. No, no. Don't thread them through any hole you like." Each directive had to be accompanied by the corresponding action. Some got it, but some didn't. Even after we had demonstrated almost 5 times or so, and guided them through every hole, every cross, every loop and every knot.

And somehow I didn't get frustrated. I wanted to cry. Whether it was shame, or guilt, or happiness I do not know.

Because each of them gave me a forgotten smile, a smile that had always been lying dormant at the back of my vaguest memories, and now I saw it again, for the first time in many years. I had forgotten, because they weren't those Colgate ad smiles- in fact they were smiles pieced effortlessly out of decayed teeth, dentures, and missing teeth. A correct knot, a right step, a loop done well. Each of that was enough to earn a smile, and a kind of inexplicably simple glow in their eyes.

So complicatedly simple. Too difficult for me. All too natural for them.

And to think that once I could do it so easily. Little Cathy who loved to sing, who loved to play, who loved giving people toothless mischievous grins and who loved blowing kisses.

The woman Catherine who only smiles for ads with her straightened pearly whites. Who looks almost airbrushed pretty during photoshoots, simply cannot smile. All she does is cry. And cry. And go crazy.

"Jie jie! Jie jie! Look!" Their smiles almost wounded me. One held up a fully done up shoe, eyes turned into slits out of sheer joy.

They all had their shoes labelled, yet this didn't stop them from sharing them for the shoelace lesson. We're the weird ones. We're so unwilling to share what isn't marked in black and white. We take over lands, take over hearts, take over minds, and change a person completely, and they're not really "ours".

They colour, and I look over their work. It's all colourful, meticulously filled in with colours of their choice. And when I say their choice, I mean that they really do choose them at random. Blue for the face, red for the skin, purple and all else for the hair- a wild riot of all the wrong colours.

But who are we to say they're doing it all wrong? Maybe this is what they see in their hearts. No conformity; no convention, just uniqueness, just something taken out of an untainted heart and expressed on paper. How would you know this isn't the perfect, most idealistic way to see the world? To see us, not merely as people with the "right, normal" colours, but seeing ourselves as our hearts do.

But can I? Can I bring myself to? Can I stop this thing that wills me going mad?

I don't want to go crazy sometimes. Do you think it's fun to go delirious with goodness-knows-what emotions all jumbled and mixed in all the wrong proportions?

I don't want to grab that pack of medicine on my desk too. I want it all to stop.

I just want to be simple. You want me to be so.

So when I stop posting entries, you'll know I've changed for the simpler.

It's a bit like care bears having no one to care about, and end up sleeping in their own barf after a drinking binge...

2006-06-10T23:03:00.000+08:00

"A" said he had a lot more people to care about. And that is why he has a lot of committments. I don't. I'm not afraid to admit it, because what's wrong with having no one to care about when they're so screwed up anyway?

I told him he's lucky; at least there are people who are worth his time, and he can erase any trace of lonliness when he's with them. Not so for me. It wasn't like that all along though. I did have people I cared about. Hey, I'm not a loner, you know.

It started with my grandma, my parents, and my nannies. I was always smiling, singing, and sucking up to anyone in sight, whereupon they would be taken in by my fat concentration and ironically offer me more candies. The more they found me adorable, the more fat-inducing substances they gave. Well, I was a fat kid then. They cared, and of course, with all my little heart, I cared too.

But when you're in an all girls secondary school when you're fat, not so dandy, and you're 13, and getting your first period was an extremely frightening thing, you won't want to care. I didn't care about them, nah, I just cared about what was being said behind my back. It hurt, and till now, it still does. When I'm smiling for the camera for yet another modelling audition, sometimes I still catch a brief glimpse of a fat little girl in the camera lens. And I feel like crying. Not for her, but rather for myself.

I've had people whom I didn't realise I cared about, till they were long gone. They cared about me, but I was always blind, deaf and dead to them. Till they themselves passed on, did I start caring. To one, I was a special student and a good girl. To one, a favourite niece to lavish treats and gifts on. To one, a true friend whom he loved and never could forget. To all 3, I'm just a sorry being, being played around by time, beguiled by people, swept around by my own confusion.

When these 3 are gone, how could I have anyone left to care about? When A himself can afford to love himself, and to divide his love among the people he has to care for, how is it highly possible that I can afford to understand, and to try to love? When I'm blamed largely for his negative changes, how can I be expected to smile, and say it's ok, when I know it isn't? I'm not a saint, not an angel, not perfect. I am mortal Man, no, woman. Blood and flesh are in me. Desires and lusts lurk within, evil intentions are being brewed indefinitely.

I want to be good. But see, a woman's fury is what I possess. And I'm tired. I don't think real life is like complex numbers, where impossible integers exist and you can manipulate them on paper and get tangible answers. I can always invent imaginary friends and care about them. I can even choose their genders, their names, their ages, their thoughts, which isn't bad.

No thanks. They'd all be like me. And we might end up killing one another.

We need duct tape

2006-06-10T00:07:00.000+08:00

Mamasan,

I am writing to inform you about your stupidity, your brash cruelty and your senselessness in the treatment of your only daughter.

Firstly, it has been brought to my attention (and many others' too) that you have a particular habit of excessively criticising and putting her down. Your daughter is not butt ugly; in fact, she is a model who has lots of assignments pending. She has better than average skin, and her nose, not least her chest, is not as flat as you claim it to be. She has been a high achiever, so I would appreciate it if you would stop comparing her to her incompetent godsister who is well endowed with bitchiness and airheadedness. Your daughter, I am pleased to note, has both absolute and comparative advantage in both beauty, intellect and character.

Secondly, your daughter is not a commodity to be traded off on the marriage market. She has already chosen to be with Mr. K. Please respect her decision and stop being ashamed of her choice. Please do not mention wealthy young men who are due to lay hands on a huge inheritance, to her. Your daughter loves for love, not for money, cash, diamonds or other crap that rich men can offer. They cannot gratify your daughter. She has huge capacities for non-losers. Since you have shown an interest in these men, you are welcome to divorce your daughter's father and be a rich man's old momma anytime.

Thirdly, please allow her to take control over her own life. You have already interfered to the maximum possible extent and she does not require further intervention. She has expressed a keen interest in psychology and philosophy, and has dreams of teaching, modelling and acting. She has shown competence in these aspects, so do not expect her to major in accounting, law, or computer science. In the first place, she is currently an arts student. If you so desire to major in those, maybe you could enter university and dispose of your Bachelor of Science, Fisheries. I also wish to inform you that your major is gradually becoming obsolete- your educational attainment is as good as none.

Therefore, I would like to seek your kind co-operation in trying to change for the better. Otherwise, I will be compelled to take action against you. You will not like it.

Fuck off.

Mine most truthfully,
your daughter.

I'll help you with the noose if you can't get it round your ass

2006-06-07T00:45:00.000+08:00

The entry below is taken from the diary of a confused member of the human race, a victim of her own shallow devices, and slave to her bimbotic, coquettish nature.

"I've proved to myself that I can be likeable (and almost popular) if I try hard enough. I should be happy, right? Not really. Which kinda bothers me. I get the attention, I get the gossip (not that I want any of it) and I'm in 'the group' of the class.

But really, it fuckin' bores the skulls out of me. (An expression derived from 'I will fuck your skull' from the movie, Addicted to Love.) Like my previous post, everything that comes out of their mouths is related to sex. Sex, sex, and more sex. Jeez! Why don't we just have one big orgy and be over and done with it? (I'm totally kidding of course, I'm saving my virginity to my lucky/unlucky husband to be).

My friends' lack of 'substance' suprises me. I look at them and they look so 'adult' like they should know better than me. But I often wonder if they are even capable of having a decent conversation. Decent I mean, not using the words fuck, sex, cock, dick, balls & pussy. I can never ever tell them any personal stuff/details. To them, nothing is private. I feel like they really don't like each other but stick together anyways because there's power in numbers. I'm such a hypocrite, I know. But at least I'm not a back stabber. I don't spill private/personal details about them or talk behind their back. I'm just complaining about their attitudes.

M once told me that you attract people who are like you. That your friends are a reflection of your own personality. Am I like that? Have I become them? Am I them? God, I hope not. I read books cohesively, I'm an English Literature student, a Biology student, a Head Prefect, cheerleading captain...I mean, all that has got to have some worth, right?"

The disgusted and disgruntled author of this blog, and as the extremely exasperated godsister of the above, says:

Firstly, M is wrong. You attract people who are like you? Oh, then can he explain the stupid guys who abuse the English language, who torment it with bad diction, batter it with incorrigible pronunciation and accost it with such gusto, who used to go after me? Maybe THE SISTER attracts a different species. I don't know. M must be overgeneralizing. He won't go far in life.

Secondly, procreation is an integral part of life, and you can't stop anyone from spewing out the sex lingo, my dear Shakespeare fan. I hereby say, with enthusiastic reverie, "OH FUCK. SHIT. BALLS. PUSSY. DICK. COCK. CUNT-RY RETREAT." I have such an extensive language of the lingo, not because I'm vulgar, but because I read Shakespeare and Wycherley and other Elizabethan and Jacobean authors. If you were such a hardcore Literature student as you claim you are, how come you don't know that William Shakespeare was a dirty and explicit writer? Some of his plays are downright bawdy and crude, with sexual puns and jests punctuating most scenes?
As in Measure for Measure, it has been mentioned that Angelo turns horny when he sees the pure innocent nun, Isabella, because he says this, "My sense breeds with it." In case you, my dear Literature student, are now reading this with horrified gasps, spluttering with indignance, I shall make the brief effort to explain. Simply put, Shakespeare means Angelo's got a huge erection and he can't help but fantasize about defiling her. Defile? What's that? It means he wants to make her dirty because he's just a fucking big fetish about nuns and thier chastity.

You're just a big shallow pit. There's more to life than this. THIS SHIT that you're living. Geesh. You're like Mamasan.

Some worth? Only if you made good of those opportunities which passed you by. Head Prefect. Cheerleader. Biology student. English Literature student.

What's so great about those? I was a prefect. A cheerleader. A straight A student. An English Literature student. A Geography student. An Economics student. A Math student. But through all that I managed to learn. I don't need to be popular. I don't need to be the hot topic of the day. I'm just me, at the end of it all. Me. I'm insignificant. I don't need to get famous purposely. I ride on the waves of fame only when chance is the wind behind it.

I am a poster ad model. I'm constantly in demand by clients.

But still I do know, it's love and the strength inside that will tide me over. Because I've lived my life. I've searched for the meaning. Asked questions that I can't answer. And to this day I haven't found the answers.

Maybe it's time you stopped looking. I did.

Go figure. Go hang yourself. Bitch.

Maybe I'll admit it, I'm a little better

2006-06-06T00:55:00.000+08:00

Compare and contrast the following 2 extracts, taken from 2 distinct blogs. Paying special attention to the language and traits of the two characters/writers, write a critical appreciation. (25m)

Extract 1

Stuff I want you guys to know about me. It's about time I let people know what I did/do.

My PSLE aggregate is 239 and I scored an A* in English.
My 'O' Levels score is 13 with distinctions in English and Math.
I have a Diploma in Mass Communications.
I'm a hardcore literature student. I took pure English Literature in high school and I can understand Shakespeare pretty well.
I love to read. And I'm not talking about Shopaholic (although I heard it's a good book). To name a few, my favourite novels are by Elizabeth Wurtzel, Chuck Palahniuk and Jostein Gaarder.
I read weeklys like Newsweek, Time and The Economist.
I enjoy watching documentaries on Discovery Channel and National Geographic paying particular interest in archeology and science.
I have fully functioning brain. So don't call me stupid

NB: The above writer is a graduate of Ang Mo Kio Secondary School, has 6 'O' level subjects to her name, and is currently a student at a private institution, MDIS.

Extract 2

I don't actually need you guys to know this, since these are all pretty mundane and banal tasks any junior college student can complete effortlessly. No fuss. No frills.

My PSLE aggregate is 262, with 2A*s and 2As, plus a distinction in Higher Chinese
I got admitted to a premier girls school, CHIJ St. Nicholas Girls' School, where I graduated with 10 'O' Level distinctions, with a score of 5 points.
I continued on my quest, gaining admission to Raffles Junior College, the top JC in Singapore, dubbed as the 'gateway to the Ivy League'
I'm a hardcore Literature student too. I took Literature for 4 years in secondary school, and because my passion for it was too ardent, I continued with my Literature studies into JC2. I can understand Shakespeare well, as well as other Elizabethan and Jacobean writers. Still a big headache though.
I don't read. Because of the lack of time juggling my academics, and other school-based and private committments, I only read the Straits Times daily, TIME once a week and my Economics notes.
My favourite novels are The Country Wife by William Wycherley, Measure for Measure by Shakespeare, poems by Robert Frost, The Duchess of Malfi by John Webster, Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad, and The Woman Warrior by Maxine Hong Kingston.
I have no time for documentaries. Because the school already offers us the opportunity to delve into the depths of higher knowledge.
sometimes my brain doesn't function well as I would like it to. Well, I'm a JC student. How can you expect me to care about such trivial matters? My brain is reserved for pure knowledge to attain beneficial wordly truths of economics, math, geography and literature.

NB: The writer is none other than the writer of this blog. All facts stated are true to the best of my knowledge.

Princess for a day, slave forever to my mind's games

2006-04-13T22:38:00.000+08:00

He went off to sleep. Again.
At a time when I most needed him, he chose sleep.
I'm tired today too. I want to escape into vacuum. I need to wash my hands off all these, coupled with lots of sterilising solution and Dettol antibacterial soap.
Someone please poke me with a giant pin.
Or better yet, shoot me. Not with your camera phone, you imbecile.
2 cm was all I missed. That's all.
Yeah right, just re-do it. And all will be fine
NO.
It's not it. I gave my best today. Apparently it wasn't enough.
2 O's. 2 C's. What's the big deal bout it?
I can't eat straight As anyway.
Freaking band 3 for PW. Alas! What should I say? Great job?
To think I slogged and worried about it. 1 year's a lot. so is 168 bucks.
Think I'll go for my other calling. Books don't like me anymore.
If I can't depend on my brain for a living, I'll resort to the flesh.
No, not a stewed prune.
I'm gonna try out for the bank ad. My Econs tutor will at least be proud of me. Hey, banks play an important role in the economy's money supply, and I'm going to promote them.
If I can't score in the theoretical part of Economics, I'll take the proactive approach.
Delude people that people who deposit their money with them emerge as happy as me.
Do they know about the reserve ratio thing? i.e. 90% of YOUR money is loaned out.only 10% is left within the banks' precious vaults

Still waiting to be shot.
Still waiting for him.
Still dead and numb.
Still, I do care.
Still, I don't want to be blamed.

Was princess for a day, tiara upon my throbbing head, gowns cascading to my toes, threatening to trip me over, blinding diamonds on my wrists, presents galore, a night of magic, a rose born of fire, dances, candles, cakes, wishes, tears, fame, a pin prick, a ring of blood, a Parisian corsette dress of black and midnight blue, then, nullity.
And now, a slave to my own confusion.
Tests, scores, assignments, liquidity preference theories, meandering channels, gentrification, probability, monetarists, Keynesian theories, horse latitudes, equinoxes, solstices, integration.
I'm tired of them all. I don't know why I do what I do. Just doing things for superficiality's sake, with no thought of tomorrow.
Go away. Before scars appear on my wrists again, before I press the rusty blade to my veins, before I relive the nightmare of a desperate 15-year-old, driven to exasperation. Go, before I return to that moment. Wake me up. Wake me before I go deeper into this wasted state.

And no, I'm not joking. Just no loud alarm clocks please.

then the failry tale moves on, and i drop from within the pages

2006-04-06T21:07:00.000+08:00

Happy birthday to me tomorrow. I'll be 18, legal, and still not getting any freedom. Goodbye sweet 17, I won't miss you. The only thing i'll miss about you is the digit itself.

On another note, I have decided to be a potential bone marrow donor on the bone marrow donor program's database. Even a small pin prick scares me, and it's making me confused. It's not like I have an obligation to, but it's just that when you've lost 2 people to leukaemia, you want to help. Help to save those tears, the pain, and the regrets. My teacher and one of my closest friends lost the battle within a space of 3 years. So here I am, trying to prevent further loss. And because I haven't gotten rid of my guilt for taking them for granted.

I'm sorry. For all those times you were deluded I was your best student by sheer hard work, for all those times you said you were proud of me but I never took notice because I found it pointless to believe you. I'm sorry I was too afraid, and too conscious of what I would have to say if I visited you in hospital. Sorry that I cried too much at your wake, and I never attended your funeral because Mother and dad didn't allow me to. And sorry, because the tears I shed were more of regret and shame than of sadness and grief. Sorry, lao shi.

And sorry to Josh, I've never lived out your last wish for me. I wish I could, but it's just that when things get out of control I can't seem to snap back in reality, and I scream and shout at him almost everyday. Mother and dad are getting quite impossible nowadays too, and sometimes I can't help but wish they'd all go away and leave me be. I've taken all I've could, given and bled my guts out, and I'm tired. Sorry, sometimes you just can't pretend you've had an overdose of happy potion and that everything'll be alright. I can't do it. And you know it. You've seen how I've changed. From a bad-tempered swearing idiot to a more refined specimen. And now I'm back to square one. I just don't know anything. I don't want to know. And I guess I want to care, but really, all this is too much to bear. I just need him to be here for me, and not for him to hang up or walk away whenever I need him. Just 1 wish from you, that you'll make things the way you wanted them to be. And I guess I've never told you how great a buddy you are.

I've never belived in fairy godmothers and the magic they do. Yet I found my real-life fairy godmother. She couldn't be here yesterday, but all they could do was smile sympathetically, motioning that she was no more. I felt my anger burn, and my eyes were painful from the tears welling up. I wish she could save me from all of you. And I continue to wish so.

So, hello 18. Hello booze.

Of Eminem and the mamasan

2006-03-25T23:43:00.000+08:00

So thorughout the Critical and Appeciation paper a song got stuck in my head and wouldn't budge, no matter how I tried to concentrate on "Baby Song" and "Woman to Child". They were just promptly replaced by "Shake that Ass", with a particularly vulgar line punctuating every end of a stanza. "Blah blah blah fucked up..." So much for the appreciation part. But gee, I have to thank Eminem for helping me tide thorugh a truly fucked up paper.

Mamasan was at it again today, and like 3 days before that. I wasn't allowed to get out of the house when i had already, read already finished my major papers, leaving PC, (which was, needless to say, full of the 'f' consonant).

"One day I'll fly away, leave all this to yesterday". That is the hope I'm clinging to right now.

And did I tell you I'm feeling really drained right now because of what I did to you? I just snapped. My thought just whirled around me like a mass of nonsensical objects, and my hand did what it did without thinking. I'm sorry. I miss you. I love you.

In suspension

2006-03-23T18:15:00.000+08:00

Catherine

General of the Army of Narnia

'What" will your business card say?' at QuizGalaxy.com

faith

Destined for a Pauper’s Grave

'What" will your business card say?' at QuizGalaxy.com

Cate

~ will teach you to ~

Groove

'What" will your business card say?' at QuizGalaxy.com

stop...and run away again

2006-03-16T23:41:00.000+08:00

Wakeful Slumber

Moonshine around a misty halo, Clearly cut-out shadows falling At my weary feet. The azure light of white and Turquoise blue Invades, infilitrates and is Welcomed by arms wide Outstretched, heart shut and Bolted fast. To implore, to beseech the Tempters of the Night not To cast disturbing ripples I would not, Lest they do so evadingly approach. Only close my mind, pry open a Waning heart In a half-heart full of Supplication and forlorn Dreams I do sleep.

(penned on 7 March 2006, another crappy publication of nestle kitcate)

I need strength now. I have lost motivation in whatever I'm supposed to do. I am so myopic, I can't see beyond today. Everything's one big blurry mass, and I can't see where I'm going. I need you as my light, my compass.

My life has always gone well. I'm scared. What if my mental condition deteriorates? Or what I realise that everything I know is part of an imaginary world, so complex, yet deceivingly tangible? It's not about e^ix- cos x+i sin x. No. Hell no it isn't that simple. If I could put my life into an equation, it would be LiFe= lithium + iron.

If i could have 3 wishes...
1) that you'll love me forever
2) that I'll be the most beautiful girl
3) that all my wishes come true

I told you so.

I am the orange girl

2006-03-06T22:40:00.000+08:00

So. Now you have looked me full in the face. Yet I don't dare to.

I am ugly. To the woman I call "mother", I am incredulously ugly. How would you feel if the one who is supposed to see you as beautiful sees otherwise? Every blemish I have is magnified ten times over, but the deep gash it makes upon my heart is much more, much more than I can bear.

But why me, Mother? (I can't bring myself to call you 'mummy') I grew darker in the sun, you were extremely displeased and said I was dark and hideous. I had 3 small pimples on my chin, you took the chance to bring me under fire. I had been sick for a week, having the worse flu, yet you didn't bother to have me see the doctor. I coughed on, but you couldn't care less. As long as my face was blemish-free, you couldn't care if I died right there, do you?

I have T-minor. will that give you enough reason to disown me too? You pushed me to my limit, but you knew when to do it. A child has no sensitivity towards unspoken limits, but now I know. All those beatings and scoldings when I refused to play the piano in front of your guests, the absence of encouragement when I emerged 4th in my nursery class, the hypocrisy spewing out when I got my straight As for my major exams.

Go ahead. Take, drain, exhaust, rob, deprive. I don't care what you do.

I just want to be a snug little kitten, cuddling comfort in my arms, dreaming sweet little dreams of yesterday. And hopefully of tomorrow if I live to see it.

Cages

Still lying in the midnight shadow
While the dark-winged butterfly tears its
Wings
To be regenerated and
Thrown
Into some Fire
Of sulphurous hell

Still sitting under the bright shade
Casting no shadow
Glances turn me into cinders
The ash flies
Becoming smaller, then no more
No more.

I smell the scent of grass
Of freedom beyond
I reach, and catch
A breath of air
Only a vapour

Then the sweetness of
Nothingness
Nullity
Wraps me in its finite twine

How I thirst the breaking
Of the bars
Of my bone, flesh, veins

The cage opens
Creaking ever so slowly

But I breathe no longer.

The First Page from the Last

2006-03-02T23:01:00.000+08:00

Now guess: orange girl or blue girl?

In case you haven't been duly informed, (because you're not an acquaintance of mine or whatever reason), my diary-x blog has massive drive failure, so here I am at blogspot.

Here's a smattering of clues:
*i'm in my late adolescent years
*an extremely disgruntled student in a 'premier' junior college (we have to be politically correct)
*fencer
*ex drama actress
*part-time model
*ex-cheerleader
*great-granddaughter of a geisha
*i'm what you woul classify under "The Perfect Angel Species". BUT I would be doing people out there a great injustice if they didn't see this: WARNING. A secret member of the female canine species

Now don't say I didn't warn you.