17thJuly'09- Armani-Malfoy

Warning: No spoilers and things that the trailer hasn't already spoiled.
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Loved the suit. (Sorry- I had to say this).

Loved the character-development, (which was one of the rare opportunities for Draco Malfoy to be less of a whiny brat/ miscellaneous antagonist who's about no. 15 on Harry's hit list- Voldemort being no.1, of course.)

Loved how the movie showed things from Draco's POV, rather than it being Harry-centric at every minute of it- which got boring by the third movie. Finally, a movie that allowed the audience a less staid interpretation of the events- a movie that allowed audiences to watch something that we didn't already know about.

Loved the screenwriting. It was so well-paced and so clearly elegant with rather tasteful takes on potentially lame scenes and lines.

(Case in point: A slightly-too-short-loser-wannabe Harry kissing a slightly-too-tall-and-potentially-tarty-Ginny.)

(Oh and by the way, Bonnie Wright made everything quite nicely understated. Also, she doesn't look like the sort who guys would oggle/slobber over- so her multiple-boyfriend thing wasn't an issue that I would have bestowed with my usual reaction to Guess ads.)

("So WHORE!")

And the acting! I can't help thinking that every single cast member was either good or fantastic. Frankly, I thought Daniel Radcliffe's acting was twice as good as whatever he'd been doing before. Rupert Grint too- a lot less slapstickish and a lot more subtle, which made him rather endearing and not the comical-bumbling-sidekick-who-doubles-up-as-the-loser. But in my opinion, Alan Rickman took the cream. He stole every scene he was in, except the one where Lavendar was the focus (and not in a good way).

So wry. So secretly angsty. So-so-awesome.

And why doesn't anyone agree with me that Snape is a sex-god?!?!!?



My favourite 'ooh-I-love-this' scene was definitely the bit where Katie Bell got cursed. I bet they took that from Blood the Last Vampire or some anime scene.

(Refer to the trailer where the black-haired girl's floating in the air and she's screaming in madness right after she was thrown into it like a puppet).


In short, loved the movie.



Did I mention that I love the suit?

(It was cool to see the wadrobe people finally giving some specific character-styling. Did anyone notice that Draco always looked slightly more sophisticated and aristocratic because his vest was the sleeveless kind?)

Anyhoo, I love the suit.



Slughorn was awesome. So friggin' cute. I'd watch the movie just for the fact that he appears.

Rotten Tomatoes gave it an incredibly high rating. And while nothing's perfect, I have to say that I trust Rotten Tomatoes a whole lot more than The Straits Times. What is it with the perpetual ratings of 3.5/5 regardless of whether it is a crappy movie or not?

I suspect that they gave Transformers 0.5/5 only because they felt a need to show that they had an opinion. And just for the record, Transformers wasn't all that bad, even if it was.

But take my word on this (although I can't justify it without giving away too many spoiler bits), HBP is the best Harry Potter movie yet.

And while that doesn't sound like much (save for the third movie, which was rather a gem compared to the rest), this movie shouldn't even be compared to Transformers, which is what movie-offices have been doing based on movie-takings. Be it in acting, screenplay, dialogue, sets, cinematography, HBP's definitely and infinitely better.


(On a side-note, is this poster-ad screaming gay or what?)

17thJuly'09- Old Hag

I had a really bad nightmare. It went something like this:

Forwards, backwards.
Backwards, forwards.
Forwards, backwards.
Backwards, forwards.
Forwards, backwards.
Backwards, forwards.
Forwards, backwards.
Backwards, forwards.
Forwards, backwards.
Backwards, forwards.

It felt like a roller-coaster that had stalled because of some technical problem. And it was going in that sickening slow motion that makes me think of cars stuck in hour-long jams. The closest thing I can think of that imitates the feeling is the inertia that plagues the oscillation of the grandfather clock's pendulum.

And then I woke up and realised what I had been in my dream.

And that's when the nightmare started.

13thJuly'09- Wacom <3

I really really really like using this tablet. I have been lusting after a Cintiq Interactive since forever. Well, actually, since last year's animefestival, but still.

What's the difference you say? I could discuss this at length, but I shall summarise.

In essence,
Tablet= good, pricey
Interactive screen = very very good, very very very very very very pricey

And so, this is the cheaper alternative people!

This is an example of a Wacom tablet bought from the likes of shady, suspicious men.

(Note: These men are likely to show up looking frazzled and very harrassed under a random Bedok Reservoir HDB in singlets, shorts, and hairstyles that were in fashion about thirty years ago and hasn't seen revival since oil prices went waaay up. Oh, and they tend to wear multiple gold chains that look a tad rusty with jade rings. )

I had the pleasure of meeting one, thanks to my sister's sniffing around on the net and finding someone who was selling wacom cheap. This wacom-tablet came much cheaper than retail price (which we proved before we went to buy it from him under a random, ulu HDB). Please note that parents should also turn up. They have several functions.

a. To ensure nothing bad happens. (It is also the duty of the buyer to ensure self-defence strategies are in place, such as a trusty pen knife in the bag for cutting unnecessary stray threads and appendages.)

b. To ensure further discounts (if the other party is willing, which sadly, was not so in this case, despite much wheedling from the father party).

Anyway, he disappeared soon after that, (but not before asking us to call him if there were any problems) and the number we contacted on his name card doesn't exist. His ex-girlfriend picked up the phone contact he personally supplied, a phone number that was somehow still in use the night before when we met him. And the emails to the yahoo account seem to be going into some cyberspace blackhole.

All I can say is, at least the warrantee's okay and the tablet has been registered and it has been behaving so far for this month. And if the warrantee's okay, then I guess I'm okay. The point is that I have someone I can screw if the tablet screws up.

And look what's been churned out! Wacom and Corel Painter is <3!

10th July'09- Ajikan, I love you!

Like all poser-loser-wannabes, I learnt about ASIAN KUNG-FU GENERATION through its featured single, 'Rewrite' (featured as the 4th opening song for the wildly popular anime 'Full Metal Alchemist'). Anyway, I've been hooked ever since.

Maybe it's Masafumi Goto's 'I-drawl-I'm-Japanese-I-don't-give-a-hoot-except-when-the-chorus-comes' singing style. I really want to drawl like that. But I'd sound either high or very very very drunk.

Or maybe it's how secretly smart they are, with the lead having a degree in Economics, and the others having Engineering and Literature degrees under their belts. It could be the highly-polished Indie thing, which sounds like a contradiction except it's not. It could be the amazing arrangements. Or it could be the wacky, slightly off-kilter lyrics. Read through translations of course (because I'm poser-loser-wannabe like that), but still. Oh boy.

And the art! The art! Not drawn by anyone from Ajikan, but still!

Gorgeous.

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.

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On a side-note, life's still okay. This is just to remind myself that no matter how lousy it gets being in a school when university's (read: REAL SCHOOL) about to start, and no matter how miserable I feel at times, I still have AKFG to listen to.

.

.

Okay who wants to go get some 'Our-lead-drawls-like-a-Malfoy-and-everyone-really-likes-it-with-the-massively-talented-band-backing-him' AKFG? Anyone?

26th June'09- Friday

It's been a rather draining week. I suppose it's because I feel more bloated, fatter than usual, stupider than the normal breed of imbecile, and extremely low where the confidence bar is- which accounts for the said traits of the sad, sorry loser that is me.

Of course, I could be screaming blue murder about what I still think is injustice. I could pit my will against whatever that wants to try and stop my rampage, but the thing is (and listen good here), nobody cares.

Hence my hollow ranting on a page that eventually gets compressed by whatever that's there in cyberspace that builds up as what we call an 'archive'.

And that's the problem, really- nobody cares enough to want to see me fight against what's been decided by a few screwed up individuals who want to screw the world up along with them. (And guess what, they don't even need to try that hard- all they do is sit around, have a cuppa or two and not do their jobs properly, and people's lives or at least confidence levels, take a turn for the worse.)

It's quite depressing that I'm going to fade out, and nobody's going to remember me. (This could be a kind of premise for a weepy, sensationalised Korean DVD set, but at least I have enough humour to admit the similarities to my dramatic whining.)

At least, I'm going to call what I still feel is a form of injustice 'dramatic whining', because it's better that I label it as this before others accuse me of being a sad loser who only knows how to whine in an overly dramatic fashion. It's better writing your own epitaph than have others write it for you, that's what I think.

I'd like to split myself into two and get one of me to commit suicide with a lengthy suicide note explaining exactly why I committed suicide. (In a logical, matter-of-factly fashion, of course. The note will DEFINITELY NOT begin with 'I am not depressed'.) And I'd watch (the other me who hasn't committed suicide) who would go to my funeral, and what they'd say. I'd tape it down and put it on Youtube to let the world know what kind of people are around me and how they felt about seeing a dead me in a coffin.

I have my funeral planned in a very thematic fashion. The flowers will be real- no synthetic ones because those are so- is there a better word that I can use? Oh no, sorry- cheap. And they have to be white. Not because white is the colour of death, but because white is my favourite colour. (White is my favourite colour because it is the colour of death. )

No gaudy, stem-dyed roses, because those are so gaudy. The chairs will be simple stools- as long as they are not red and do not function as bum-resters for fans of the bi-monthly Chinese Opera at the void deck. There won't be silly eulogies and crap like that. The ribbons (if I can condone them) must be black. Not because black is the right colour to have at a funeral, but because black looks great with white. Like Chanel.

There will simply be quiet jazz music, no paid cryers (yes, apparently you can get paid if you join a funeral company to cry about strangers you've never met before in your life until you saw them as dead as a doornail in a wooden box). And then people at my funeral will be asked to say what they did right and what they did wrong. Those living will be the judge.

But that's my imagination, and that's my wishful thinking. In reality, even if I died, those who cared would eventually forget. And no matter if you're Ghandi, Farah Fawcett, Joni Mitchel, someone from The Beatles, or even the roadsweeper who's addressed as 'Uncle' by people who are not relatives, we eventually go like smoke.

With a whimper, people, not with a bang.

It's strange that I never bothered much with Michael Jackson until he died. Yes, I do think he's super and that he was cool once, but I never bothered. It was through Michael Jackson that I realised why I could never live in Disneyland. In defence of the statement I have just made, I will publicly announce (that is if anyone comes here at all), that I have no issues with people who think that life is part of that spectacular, all-encompassing world that is called 'High School Musical' where all they do is sing and dance and get into Ivy League schools. Really, I don't. You must realise that there is not even a drop of sarcasm in my voice here- if I were being sarcastic, I wouldn't even bother writing that I wasn't being sarcastic.

This is how I found out, (thanks to Michael Jackson), that I was a sceptical person in general. I was in secondary two or three- can't remember that bit. And I was in the canteen, sitting with a few friends.

I said (by way of starting a conversation), "Did anyone hear about Michael Jackson dangling his kid like a earring, not off his earlobe but off his balcony?"

Cue the chorus of yeses.

Dorea said, "Do you believe he did that to his kid?"

I said, "It wouldn't be the first funny thing he did to children I guess."

Ruhui said, (probably in defence of wacko-Jacko's wackiness with the children and the 'I think it's sweet, not sexual'), "You believe he did funny things to kids?"

I siad, "Maybe. Maybe not. I don't know."

Ruhui said (in the continuation of her defense on the behalf of the non-present King of Pop), "If you listen to him sing, you'll know that he's innocent. Nobody who can sing like that could be capable of bad things."

(For the record, he sings in something like twitters and squeals- which is actually both quite stylistic and suggestive. Or maybe it takes an evil person to see evil in others/ misread innocent people.)

In defence of general logic, my counterargument would be that George Michael definitely had a romp in the bushes with this overweight, downright fat loser truckdriver. Did his extremely good voice prevent him from having sex with a loser? No. Did his extremely good voice prevent him from having bad taste? Apparently not.

If you don't agree that he has a good voice, you're fighting his fans. For the record, I'm not a fan. I prefer good singers with good taste. (by way of showing my own good taste, I suppose.)

And for the record, I said, (not the George Michael thing- that would have been social suicide of another level altogether), "Maybe, maybe not."

Michael Jackson, I will miss you. I will miss having you as a conversation starter and as someone who spawned a whole line of copycats who could never really copy you because they were called 'Britney Spears', 'Justin Timberlake', and whoever else who fared worse than those who are still recognised as having dance moves 'inspired' by The King.

I owe much to you, Mr. Jackson. I learnt the snarl I will be using next Monday (when school reopens and I go back to teach) from one of your extras who had a hairy face and hands in 'Thriller.' I have photographs of myself as a child, (not taken by me, obviously), with one white sock. A single white sock. Mummy says I would throw a tantrum if I was presented its mate.

And above all things, I will miss how we used to sit around and dissect what you did or didn't do, as if it mattered at all. I think I'll watch as Michael Jackson has his league of zealous fans weep the way they did when Diana was buried in a coffin and in an absolute bower of flowers that might have made quite a few pounds of perfume.

( Though I bet some of those turqoise roses I saw on tv were stem-dyed.)

And you'll be remembered for the good and the bad you did, but only because you've just died. Don't forget- before you died, nobody cared. And when there's enough time that has passed, nobody will remember, and nobody can say they cared or that they cared to remember. And that's actually quite good. Because they won't accuse you of doing things you might have not done, and they won't find out what you actually did either. (unless some loser wants to start his career by writing an autobiography: 'I was The King of Pop's favourite'- but hey, that's all subjunctive anyway).

And then, if it still matters to you at that point, you'll know that nobody remembers anyway.

I just hope you wrote your own epitaph. (Imagine how corny it's going to be if your producers get to write one for you.)

In the meantime, I'll watch the funerals on television, hear all the explanations that can be offered (none of which, of course, will ever be sufficient), take the calls that come, smile and grit my teeth and wait for all this to pass so we can forget.

3rd June '09- Death

Here lies myself, the one who waded through a little more than forty badly-attempted summaries and essays from children who tend to spell ‘accident’ as ‘aciddent’.

Cause of death: An excessive loss of blood. The deceased suffered from this cause for most part, but was dealt the final blow when she read an argument on how censorship should not be done because artists who are ‘academically-trained in nudity’ would lose a platform of expression.

Time of death: The moment when the deceased managed to make sense of the aforementioned argument, if one could go as far as to call a collection of sentence fragments and subject verb errors that.

Epitaph: ‘Don’cha just love midyear exams?’

31st May'09- Bday

I’m nineteen now!

After awholelottacrapandcrying, that is.

(This is where I bitch for the final time, as a tribute to what T.S Elliot described of death and exiting- ‘with a whimper or a bang’. The reader may practice his or her discretion and decide which kind of death the following post will be.)

Things have settled somewhat, although I do feel a bit blue now and then when I think of all the lost time and wasted effort. When I think of my cousin and about a hundred other people (okay, maybe about ten others, actually), I feel a tiny bit of rage. (okay, maybe not a tiny bit.)

And all the feelings and hopes that went into the past few years and the horrible months of trying and waiting and waiting some more. Dear Lord, I’m making this sound like some kind of failed relationship. But.it is rather like one,

(READ: being led on, hoping for a call, waiting for a call, dying near the phone, waiting some more, and then being jilted without even getting a call, calling to ask for a reason, finding none/being offered no good, logical reason to explain the aforementioned development/stagnation of the relationship)

-so I supposed I’m justified with the bitterness that I feel each time I think of the teaching and all the paperwork that was supposed to go somewhere.

I suppose my forms and testimonials got chucked into some bin after the cleaning lady found them on the stairs on her way to supper. This was probably after the main clerks had left the office, but only after the clerks had been distracted with something so incredibly important that application forms got messed up and they didn’t even notice as they traipsed off for their supper and left the forms for the cleaning lady to find.

That’s probably the only logical explanation why. Or maybe, as a good friend of mine said, “Maybe having all the As with the full twelve units, a H3 distinction, a kick-ass portfolio, a super leadership position, the solid testimonials, and having published a book by the age of eighteen is just not what they are looking for in teachers.”

That leads me to my birthday. I’m not sure if it’s because of the wholelottacrapandsecretormaybenotsosecretcrying that I’ve been quite susceptible to for some time now. But I’m definitely not complaining about the awesomeness that’s been given to me during the moments when I was feeling pretty dejected.

I suppose a lot of thank-yous are due, but I know my parents read this blog (which is very irritating since I can’t swear as often as I’d like to or bitch openly or even thank them in case they want to talk about it in the car, which would be like, soooo awkward) and so I’m going to do it in spirit- meaning, in my mind.

For the friends who read this blog but do not discuss my posts with me because they are not parents (yet), I will proceed to thank you. Please do not bring this post up after reading it because I will dissolve in tears and get all emotional.

Oh, and before anyone accuses me of being one of those overly-emotional actors/actresses who only get a golden man with a naked butt but talk until the orchestra is forced to play, I’m going to justify this by saying that my parents and friends were there when I was tempted to kill something in the grisliest, most gruesome way.

Anyway, I’m going to do the ‘thank-yous’ as discreetly as I can on this blog.

1.To the girl who’s been lending me her Geog notes since like, time memorial and then lent it to my A11 classmates when having one parasite-thing was so not enough: thank you. You’re going to be a fantastic Geog. teacher, regardless of the system that is about as good as Beethoven’s sense of hearing in the later part of his life. I’m sorry I couldn’t keep the promise we made to each other, but I tried my best, I really did. If I tried anymore, I might have to hunt down the clerk and torture him/her first for screwing with me.

2.To the girl who denies looking like the Korean dude who got caught with crack or some kind of drug (which is probably the only thing I remember apart from his being the prince in Goong): thank you. I’d be lost without you. Secondary school would have been awful without you- nobody to spazz over gundam seed/ final fantasy with. Junior College would not have been okay without us keeping in touch either. We’ll probably end up attending each other’s weddings and divorces. Oh hey, let’s go plan the GSS route and that Carrefour-cheap-hour sushi party soon.


3.To the girl who cut her hair, and then cut her hair again: try and hook that American boy with a very Singaporean name. I want to know an SPG personally! I mean, thank you and stay strong even though there’s enough homework for you to be the second Edmund Hillary without even going to Everest. Call me if you need help- although I’ll probably be lost navigating that mountain too.

To no. 1 and no. 2, thank you for rushing out and insisting that you’d meet up when you were so busy with paperwork and idiot callers/bumming at home with guitar hero. Aston’s was great when both of you were there to hang out.

To no. 2 and no. 3, thank you for that amazing night at Timber’s and that chill-out session at the river. That was some shitty weather whereby we sweated like pigs, but great company made everything awesome. The bill was horrible, wasn’t it? I’m sorry I even remarked that I wanted to see what Timber was like- I should have insisted that Subway was the definition of a good birthday treat, since even army rations would have been fantastic as long as both of you were around. I feel awfully guilty- so so so so so so so so guilty. It was the most expensive birthday treat I ever received- priceless, actually. (including that bloody GST)
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My dearest A11-ers, I am so glad I am part of a class that has no qualms about forming a cultish-looking circle and editing each other’s research papers, one paper at a time. I am so thankful that I am part of a class that actually appreciates Black Adder and cleverness and does not like Ah lians. I am so honoured to be part of a class that can discern when a teacher is good and when the teacher has something of an empty head. I am so thankful to be in a class that is made up of amazing, talented people who can thrash anything and anyone while slacking quite regularly at the stone tables.

1.To the helmet-hair girl who regularly asks me how life has been (despite us both knowing that the answer will either be ‘okay’ or the cue to start bitching/complaining/whinging/whining): thank you. I can’t imagine how I could have gone for most part of Year 1 not knowing you as the friend you’ve become to me. And sorry I keep sharing with you stuff you probably don’t want to hear, i.e. all the whiny stuff. Please whine to me as much as possible, so I will less indebted to you. Oh hey, jamming session soon. Ukuleles unite!

2.To my SRJC buddies who’ve been by my side (not as if you can pontang and forgo the $65/day) for these months: Work has been so enjoyable (okay, I’m sugar-coating a lot right here) because you’ve been around for me. We gossip, we confide, we plan, we eat breakfast, brunch and lunch and we bitch together. We’ve probably contributed to about 20% of the ice-lemon tea profits at the café or something.


a.To the girl who’s going to be hanging around Bukit Timah quite a bit: Thank you. You never complain when I do, even though you’ve got so much shtick to go through yourself. And just a side note here: I think you’re brilliant. Of course everyone thinks/knows that, but I wanted you to know that I do too. If your monster class doesn’t appreciate you, that’s their stupidity. You’re worth more than all of them put together- not that there was any basis of comparison anyway. Thank you, and no. 1 too, for being my confidantes when I needed to tell someone about something incredibly embarrassing. I’m not referring to the time when I needed a pad like, desperately although you were there for me too.

b.To the girl who’s going where her heart tells her to (I’m making it so romantic, aren’t I?): Thank you. You’re going to pummel the stuffing out of the FASS people. I’m going to watch you and I’m going to cheer you on and feel thankful that I’m not one of them. Thank you for being so sensitive and censoring questions related to MOE/life/shit and for elbowing Bryboy in the face and hushing no. 3 (see below) even when it wasn’t going to make me break down crying and/or cursing MOE. I’m really touched that they asked out of concern and that you muzzled them out of concern. I’d like to hug the air out of you, but you won’t let me because you think I’m getting infected by no.1.


c.To the girl who really needs to get healthy and eat like, only forty cheeseburgers to gain some weight: Thank you for being so indignant on my behalf. Thank you for being the first friend I made in JC when I was beginning to think that I didn’t belong there. Thank you for talking to me and bothering to find out that I liked anime. (I know it was only the second day, but it doesn’t help when your class has somehow formed distinct cliques of St. Nick/Cat.High people, IP, debaters, IP debaters that you don’t quite belong to.) Oh and get healthy soon.


3.To my fellow Geographer/ natoj-basher who regularly photoshop’s A11’s zits/double-chins/eyebags/dark-circles off our class photos: Thank you for being so incredibly fun, clever and supportive. You’re going to be great- business becomes you. I’m sorry that you’re in army, because it sucks to make plans to shop and hang out without you. The army’s seeing more of you than the class, and that’s such a waste because it’s not like the army needs advice on fashion (okay, maybe they do), the places to hang out, and your opinion on Rihanna and Britney as much as A11 does.

(Not that we dress badly or anything- it’s just nice to have a fash hag/ resident commentator on the hideous things that ahlians wear).

4.To my fellow Phoenix Wright addict who like me, is eagerly awaiting the release of the super hot Miles Edgeworth in English: Thank you for being so awesome. You’re one of the most talented people I’ve had the fortune of knowing personally. I feel as if I know a star- nutty Blackadder singalongs and Britney accents included. I hope you get to your dream- lawyer by day, rockstar by night. I can’t imagine a class without you. And for those that exist without someone like you, they probably have half less of the intellect/ fun/craziness A11 has.


29th and 30th May 2009 were incredible days. It was awesome, having one birthday celebration and then another. It was even more awesome having awesome people with me to celebrate my birthday. And being blur helps when on one night, you unwittingly help to carry a cake box in a transparent plastic bag. And it helps to be quite absent-minded when on the next day, you offer to help keep the leftovers in the fridge, only to be met with shrieks of “NOOOOOOO!” and then a hasty, “My fridge is very err- messy, so let me do it.”

And the Moroccan dinner we had at Haji Lane on Thursday night was followed by shopping at Fie Japan. We exclaimed over the cute stuff and exclaimed over the exorbitant prices attached to those, and Exclaimed over a nice ring and the horrible price tag attached. And it was there that Danielle asked me what ring size I wore and I totally did not think of anything else except “Oh my fingers are fat- like very stubby. Wish I had long, slim fingers, grrr.”

Then I went over to Accessorize with Kristi and when we decided to had back to Fie Japan, the nice yellow enamel ring had been bought. I said stupidly, “Wow- someone bought it already, must be the Chinese girls in the shop just now. Haha, must be me and Dan remarking that it was nice so they totally trusted our taste- haha!”

“Yeah,” said Dan, hurrying over and pretending to be surprised (now that I know, anyway), “Like, hmm. That was fast.”

Then when I was at Diva with the girls (Bryan was standing outside with a PSP), I said, “Sigh, nothing on sale here is nice,” and someone said very casually, “Yeah, nothing here looks like what you’d like.”

And I said happily, “Oh then what looks like what I’d like?”

And someone said casually, “Oh, stuff from Fie Japan, y’know?”

“Yah!” I said, idiot that I am.

So when the class presented me with a fie Japan envelope and I opened it and found the yellow enamel ring, I don’t know why I was surprised. Heck, they didn’t know why I was either. Being blur helps I guess. But it was an incredibly lovely surprise, and I promise to flaunt it to whoever who happens to be not blind.

So there are some things I know, despite not knowing why I got blown off in such an ass manner by a system that promises to mould the nation. (I reckon it’s not the overachiever bit.) These are the things I am certain of.

1.I’m one year older and maybe not wiser, but I’m older and surely that counts for something. (‘More sex, more drinking, more driving, oh and hey, two more years to voting’, says Yici.) I’ll think about that.

2.I’m going to read NUS Law. My uncles and aunties on both sides will be pleased that I will not be a pedagogical slave- we have doctors, psychologists, economists, musicians, engineers but no lawyer yet. They say one teacher (my mother) is enough for the family. I’m past the point of caring-at least, not until July 15th when I click the ‘reject’ buttons for St. Andrews, University College of London and Edinburgh. I’m prepared to cry my heart out on that night, but not for now. Not that I’ll be staying in Singapore for as long as I can help it either. Exchange programmes are tough (top 50% of the top of Singapore’s student cohort are eligible for application) but I’m going to try my darndest, or so help me. In the meantime, there’s Ms. Yamagata to soothe my broken heart. (I’m really milking this, aren’t I?)

3.I’m surrounded by lovely people who are all rock stars in their own right, and no. 1 doesn’t seem ass when I’ve got all of them to count as blessings with my ten fingers and ten toes.

12thMay'09- Tuesday

I went for a final interview and a concert on Friday.
I was sleepy.
I got myself to school and sat there marking essays about technology being the best solution to poverty. Which is so not true.
I finished the second pile. Yay. Free weekend to sleep.
Mummy smsed to say my law letter came but I didn't get the sms. Stupid tech.
Mummy called later and was surprised to hear that I didn't show my surprise about 3 hours ago.
I was happy for a grand total of 3 minutes. Really really happy.
And then I was normal.
And then I was sleepy.
And then the weekend flew by and I'm still sleepy.