Have you ever tried a twiggy?
It's not bad, really. It's chocolatey, sweet (well duh because it's chocolatey) and has chocolate cream inside the chocolate cake shell. There are 2 in each packet. Chocolatey-chocolateish chocolate cake.
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Have you ever tried eating something every day for each week?
Have you ever tried eating something ever day, every morning , every week at 730 in the morning?
Try a twiggy. God knows Twiggy didn't get twiggy from eating twiggy.
Now, don't get me wrong.
It's not that I have anything against twiggies, really. God knows I love chocolate. Chocolate is good. Roman Emperors drank it. Harry Potter ate it in ridiculous amounts in 'The Prisoner of Azkaban'. Remus Lupin handed it out in copious amounts to whoever and wherever, leaving copious amounts for himself too. Children are wild about it, never mind their little rotty teeth. Chocolate inspires literature- a book called 'Chocolate' that is distincitvely smutty (which by the way, law-school tells me it is acidic-pigeon crap). Sex-maniacs love it too. Even the Grinch would be partial to it. Chocolate saves the soul. Chocolate helps that happy feeling which is becoming scarcer and scarcer every day. Chocolate is good. Chocolate has been a prominent feature in some of my happiest memories. I have nothing, absolutely nothing against chocolate.
Except when I have to eat something chocolatey every week day, every day, every week, at 730 in the morning. Some people even ask me why I eat that if I don't seem to like it. Here are the reasons why:
1. It's been put into my bag as part of breakfast. The other part of breakfast is another packet of twiggies.
2. I do not carry breakfast to school to decide that I'd rather eat a curry puff from the Summit (a canteen, really, nothing first-class about that place except that it may be at the top of the slope) and fork out more money for that.
3. I am conducting an experiment to see when a miracle happens and a twiggy does not find its way into my bag. Just like the definition of 'swan', the definition of 'Faith's breakfast' will be radically altered for history. It may be a pau, a sandwich, something infinitely less chocolatey or who knows? Bread and butter! So exciting, so exciting. The unknowns of the future loom before me as I contemplate (very gloomily too), the present trends.
And God knows Faith is so sick of twiggies and so tired of telling the parents that she does not want twiggies for breakfast (and by now, for ANYTHING) that she is willing to be labelled as an 'unappreciative person who takes blessings for granted'. She is so tired of hinting and even going as far as to try and sneak in her own breakfast (something infinitely less chocolatey) that she is willing to go public with the most shocking confession of breakfasters who congregate each morning to see her sigh (in bliss, they think) while opening her bag. This is how far I will go, and I think it is reasonable over months of this torture.
As they say in law school, this is my long answer to the question "Would you like a twiggy for breakfast?"
[Not that it's ever been asked of me which kinda forces me to assume that IF I were asked (another monumental pivoting point in history), this would be my answer]:
I DON'T WANT ANYMORE TWIGGIES FOR BREAKFAST OR ANYTHING! DON'T ASK ME TO PUT THOSE IN MY BAG AND TELL ME THAT I DON'T HAVE TO EAT IT AS BREAKFAST, JUST EAT IT AS A 'STOPGAP' OR WHATEVER THAT MEANS! AND WHY THE HELL DO I HAVE TO CARRY SOMETHING TO SCHOOL WHEN IT ISN'T BREAKFAST OR LUNCH BUT A 'STOPGAP' WHATEVER THAT MEANS? I DON'T WANT TO CARRY SOMETHING MARIE-ANTOINETTE MIGHT HAVE HAD AT HER DOILY-STREWN TEA TABLE- I WANT REAL FOOD! AND THUS:
For the time-challenged, this is the short answer!
I DO NOT WANT TWIGGIES! DEATH TO ALL TWIGGIES! GIVE ME ANOTHER AND I WILL KILL THE TWIGGY!IT DOESN'T MATTER WHAT YOUR INTENTIONS ARE- THE ACT OF GIVING ME A TWIGGY IS ACTIONABLE PER SE.
And if you happen to be in a particularly preachy-mood that day, and preach to me about children in wherever, I will treat you like a twiggy too. See the short-answer for the possibilities of prosecution and the serious offences of me flying into a rage.
Don't tell me to 'count my blessings, you little ingrate'. It's only it's true I'm an ingrate and not a seriously-maligned twiggy-hater if you count 'blessings' as 'twiggies'. And if you've read up to this point and still think so, you deserve to be treated like a twiggy.
2009-11-03
2009-09-09
I thought that Wednesday was Friday
Well people, it seems that almost everyone with eyes realises that I cut my hair quite short.
About a week after I cut my hair quite short, that is.
I must admit that the front looks the same but still. The back is definitely shorter than anything I've experienced in the past decade. (Mostly because my mother got convinced by this screwy gay hairstylist that a boy hair cut would look good- on me!) Of course, one might argue that shorter things do exist- such as last weekened. I think I slept through it.
And I'm still wondering why I thought today was Friday- even at 6pm. Is this some kind of repressed longing for Friday and the weekend? For that matter, isn't my longing kinda obvious, i.e. I openly wish and pray to whoever who's listening to let it be Friday everyday except Friday and Saturday?
Anyhoo, I decided at 6pm that today was definitely not a Friday.
About a week after I cut my hair quite short, that is.
I must admit that the front looks the same but still. The back is definitely shorter than anything I've experienced in the past decade. (Mostly because my mother got convinced by this screwy gay hairstylist that a boy hair cut would look good- on me!) Of course, one might argue that shorter things do exist- such as last weekened. I think I slept through it.
And I'm still wondering why I thought today was Friday- even at 6pm. Is this some kind of repressed longing for Friday and the weekend? For that matter, isn't my longing kinda obvious, i.e. I openly wish and pray to whoever who's listening to let it be Friday everyday except Friday and Saturday?
Anyhoo, I decided at 6pm that today was definitely not a Friday.
2009-08-12
Good God
Maybe I made a mistake.
Pretty soon to be saying that (like TWO DAYS INTO SCHOOL) but I've got some pretty good reasons to think this way.
The good news is, everyone struggles.
The bad news is, not everyone has to struggle insanely.
The worst news- and mind you, it's a whole lot more pain when you realise it- is that-
Oh well, never mind.
Pretty soon to be saying that (like TWO DAYS INTO SCHOOL) but I've got some pretty good reasons to think this way.
The good news is, everyone struggles.
The bad news is, not everyone has to struggle insanely.
The worst news- and mind you, it's a whole lot more pain when you realise it- is that-
Oh well, never mind.
2009-07-17
17thJuly'09- Armani-Malfoy
Warning: No spoilers and things that the trailer hasn't already spoiled.
_________________________________________________
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?)
_________________________________________________
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.
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.
2009-07-13
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
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.
2009-07-10
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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.
.
.
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?
2009-06-26
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.
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.
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