Rabbit.

It’s good luck if it’s the first word you say on the first day of the month. I’m saying it, just for good measure. This month, I’ve got a feeling I’ll be needing it. I’m starting off with lights in the wee hours of the morning and droopy eyes in lessons, and my spunk has gone down a few notches. It hasn’t been the best week, and I’ve been feeling boring for days in a row now. It scares me a little, and I want my schnazz back.

So, just in case, I’m going to say it again.

Rabbit.

I’m sure you’ve had heard me grouse about pesky little kids before. Irritating, noisy, always wailing loudly, as if their parents were standing ten miles away. You probably think that I won’t have kids because I simply couldn’t stand it long enough till they grow up. Truth is, I’m more afraid than anything else. I’m afraid. I’m afraid of wielding such immense power over someone else’s life. I’m afraid that I’ll screw up and screw them up. Most of all, I’m afraid my parents will pass through me to my children. I’m afraid my children will end up like me.

Isn’t it ironic that those who like things organized are accused of having a disorder? (Silly doctors.) Pardon me for my ironic obsession with order then – but there’ve been one too many empty plastic cups lying around the council room. I bet there are definitely enough of them to build an opulent Plastic Cup Castle, with a fortress and a moat to go around it. If we’re lucky, we might even be able to build a whole town adjacent to it, with the straws as roof antennas. I’m not gonna take this lying down; no siree. Just wait and see.

Send someone to love me; I can’t do this alone. Send someone, but not just anyone. Don’t come near me, unless you’re positive you can be with me forever. Don’t, because I’ll think of your smiles and your laugh and a million other things about you. Don’t, because I’ll never be able to fill the hole in my heart I’ve dug out. Don’t, unless you promise to sit next to me on park benches and watch the world go by when we’re sixty-five, and be my Xbox partner everyday. I wish I felt otherwise, but I can’t lie, can I?

Hell hath no fury like when I’m scorned
I can take on the world in my stilettos

I am a warrior princess, a contradiction
I can conquer mount Everest
but watching a rerun of Titanic still makes me cry

When I talk about a problem
I'm not always looking for a solution

Rembrandt, Shakespeare and Brahms
found their muse in me

I am Adam's temptation.
I am Eve.

- advert for UOB Lady’s Card

Empowerment, YO! We are an awesome generation of can-do and fine capabilities, and we’ll bulldoze anything that dares stand in our way. So there, male chauvinists! Pffrt!

Forgive me for asking, but when do grandmas die? I need to know, because I’ve gotta start slogging for those jade earrings mine are hankering after. She’s almost turning into a lemon with all the jealousy. I still owe her a real treat at that bourgeois restaurant. She owes me all the tricks she’s got up her sleeve as the matriarch ruler of the kitchen, and the stories behind her calloused hands. Keep her safe tonight, please? She’s gotta wait. At least, till I’ve had a chance to learn how to be the World’s Best Grandma from the master herself.

Star light, star bright,
First star I see tonight,
I wish I may, I wish I might,
Have the wish I wish tonight

Stars. Swallowed by city lights, haze of distant hope. Mucho gusto; she’s wishing fervently. Silenced by solitude, filled with emptiness. A beautiful sadness, with a solitary tear sliding down her cheek. She wonders, when’ll the star she’s wishing on die out? Captivating tunes continue to play on the grand piano. As the sweet notes fall from the keys, noone could possibly miss her sorrow. Desperation resonated with every chord, and it was almost unbearable to listen to.

Right. That’s what I always have to be. Right. Always, right. Sitting on the right side of the car, taking the cup on the right side of the shelf, using my right hand to write. Since I was old enough to remember, I’ve always liked the right better than the left.

Lately, I’ve been rather left. Left brained, that is. I can’t deal with complexity, I can’t determine spatial relationships anymore. I can’t see the whole picture. In fact, I can’t see anything anymore. Maybe, my right brain has been eaten up by my left. Not right. Not right anymore.

Like you said yourself, you’re trying to be someone you’re not. I’m not really sure what you think of it, but at that time you seemed like a deer being startled by a jeep’s floodlights. Trying to disguise something won’t make it go away, and neither does chanting “it’s gone” repeatedly. There’s always tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow, and the day after that. There’ll still be buses to catch, and there’ll be deadlines to be met and there’ll be reveries to slip into. So, take some time, cry a little, laugh a little and it’ll be better. Trust me.

My eyes tingle from staring at the computer screen for too long, and I’m not really sure how long I’ve been here. My clock says it’s 2, but my body tells me it’s 4 a.m. Two’s company but three’s a crowd – I guess I’ve drunk one too many cups of coffee. Looking at the congregation of empty mugs on my desk, I’m astonished at myself. Coffee’s not my usual self, but today, I let my head make up its own mind. Mind you, it’s a little risky, but a little surprise now and then won’t hurt. Coffee it is then.

Biting my lip, I try to focus. There’s something wrong with me, because I can’t seem to keep my eyes trained on Physics. I steal a look, but you catch me. Stunned momentarily, my reflex kicks in. Smile. That’s what I do all the time.

Smile.

When I smile, you’ll smile right back. And when you smile, I’m thrilled. You'll ask “What?” with mock indignation. With a casual shrug of my shoulders, I'll reply with the most nonchalant “Nothing.” I can muster. Guess we should just go on smiling forever then, because I’m over the moon just thinking about it.

Yesterday, in class, a girl at my table turned in mid-sentence, looked me in the eye, and said, “You’ll find him soon.” Amidst the chatter about magnetic field lines, Fleming’s right hand rule, and induced currents, amongst strangers who knew nothing, it was impossible to respond. Such perspicacity! Such audacity! A jest, surely, flung at me as I brokenly tried to wrap my head around earnest banter about where the wire might move to. For the rest of the lesson, I couldn’t figure out which hand was my right or left.

Oh, if only she knew what she had said.

You’re so close, you can smell the putrid breath from his decades of diehard smoking. You struggle to turn around, only to face a head of hair full of distasteful blond streaks. You’re so close; you can see the roots of her hair which desperately need a dose of dye. Barely balancing, you look the other way, this time almost bumping your head on the aluminum pole sullied with countless greasy handprints. Gingerly, you choose a spot and hold on tight, praying that when the train stops next, you won’t land on the lap of that punk sitting opposite you.

I don’t really know how, so tell me please. How do you stop being someone’s friend? Do you search out every single piece of evidence attesting to her existence and burn it, and hopefully you’ll forget about her? Do you pretend she’s invisible and pretend it’s a gust of wind when you walk by? Do I end it with a letter? Or do I just lapse into the you-are-non-existent phase of my life? Do I proclaim to the world that you don’t have a place in my heart anymore? Tell me please, how to, because I really don’t know how.

Do you know what’s it like to die? For the first time, I do. Not just any death, but repeated death. Imagine being poisoned to death, over and over again. Repeatedly. Each time, by the same cruelty. You can feel every single molecule in your pores, and mortality stares at you right in the face. Each time I read a few pages of my Chemistry notes, it feels as if arsenic’s seeping through the pages. After you think the worst is over, you return and continue reading. Two pages later, you feel like you died all over again.

Chemistry Kills.

I’m angry and cornered and lost and uncertain and angsty and… I think I’m scared. Everyone has gone and concretized into their own person and I’m still here clueless about myself. A bit of me feels glad that they’ve found themselves, but a larger part of me still feels surly and jealous that I don’t have the luxury of clarity. Not one bit. The future couldn’t seem more uncertain. I feel like screaming. I feel like screaming until my lungs burst, until my voice box explodes, and till the whole world freezes in their footsteps and turns their head and…

On some days, you feel like hiding under the table and go missing for a day or so, let people panic, trying to find you, just so you know that you matter to them. But there’s a difference between thinking about it and doing it. I hid under the table for a good hour, but no one realized I was missing. I didn’t expect it to work anyway, but secretly a tiny part of me wanted someone to call me to ask if I’m okay. Perhaps that’s why I took my handphone with me to the Land Under the Table.

Today wasn’t a good day. My laptop’s having its bad hair day, PMS and menopause all rolled into one, and I’ve had a hard time trying to hook up my wireless. Perhaps it’s a physical manifestation of how I’m feeling, because I’ve secretly avoided too many people today. Overdue homework aside, decent human contact today felt a little too ambitious for me to achieve, and I felt cranky enough to bite off someone’s head. Aspirations of being bright and shiny got blown away by the wind, and I must’ve looked like Mr. Grumpy for the larger part of the night.

It served as a good reminder and a wake up call. I felt truly insignificant, merely a speck in the boundless universe. Choices and intentions aside, for the first time, I realized that my abilities were so limited, and so human. Despite all the careful premeditations, all the precautionary measures, and the most foolproof plan, we were foiled. We failed, in the most unprecedented way ever. For the first time, I was utterly defeated and for the first time I realized that sometimes, despite all your best choices, and all your best intentions, Fate wins anyway. Fate always wins.

Always.

Did you really think that they’d live happily ever after, just like in those fairytales and love songs? Oh, poor thing, your fantasy bubble is burst! Dear me, you meant you just heard about it? That’s so last season, and I can’t bother chasing after it. What did you say? Perhaps they’d get back together? Forget it; they’re too self-absorbed to think of anything except how they look in the mirror, and maybe the new model on the cover of Glamour. Obviously there’s no sadness about the loss - their relationship hasn’t reached that level yet! You must be dreaming.

Where do all these memories go? I can feel my eyes swallowing them into the back of my mind. I think about blanks; there are different kinds. There are blanks of different colours. I see blanks in the colours of you. I’m glad I haven't seen too much of you. But if too much never reaches enough…

Where do your memories go? Will they fade in time, like the yellowing of pages? Or, will they diffuse, like ink blots on chromatography paper? Perhaps, they’ll float away with time, like dandelion seeds...

If I close my eyes long enough, it will...

RAWR I HATE THE WORLD THE WORLD HATES ME! RAWR I HATE THE WORLD THE WORLD HATES ME! RAWR I HATE THE WORLD THE WORLD HATES ME! RAWR I HATE THE WORLD THE WORLD HATES ME! RAWR I HATE THE WORLD THE WORLD HATES ME! RAWR I HATE THE WORLD THE WORLD HATES ME! RAWR I HATE THE WORLD THE WORLD HATES ME! RAWR I HATE THE WORLD THE WORLD HATES ME! RAWR I HATE THE WORLD THE WORLD HATES ME! RAWR I HATE THE WORLD THE WORLD HATES ME! RAWR I HATE THE WORLD THE WORLD HATES ME!

RAWR

There are two kinds of secrets in this world. The first is the ones which you keep from those around you, and the other, the ones you hide from yourself. Many times I’ve found myself patching the fabric and desperately sewing the gaps shut to keep those around me from finding out my deep dark secrets, only to realize that instead of me keeping the secret, the secrets are keeping me. Have you ever kept a secret? It nibbles at your soul, itches a little but it hurts just like a papercut. I want to stop being nibbled at.

Now.

When I take off my spectacles, everything becomes blobs of coloured lights which seem to bleed into one another. It’s a rather pretty sight really, especially when my slight astigmatism gives a halo of light to anything that emits photons. Sometimes, I do it on purpose so everything looks dreamy, just so I can pretend that this isn’t real. Time feels infinite, and everything is staying in a static blur… Lying on the grass, I’m tracing the starry constellations in the blanket of dark cloudless skies, and I can’t help but think that they’re twinkling at me. Maybe, maybe not.

Today, the car was positively bursting at its seams trying to get all of us to school. I, on the other hand, couldn’t help but punctuate the journey with my periodical outrages whenever my personal space was obtrusively invaded. From time to time when the car jerked when it went around a bend or over a hump, my sister’s hand would brush against mine and each time, we would both be flabbergasted at how squished we were, and how we had to tolerate being in each other’s presence. Absolutely, unbelievable. Pardon me, but were sisters meant to be like that?

I think you're too right - that's more than you could ever say for yourself. I’ve always thought the most anyway, despite what I say in fits of agitation. In a slight of anger and flight of truth and the light of my pride, in all unclouded judgment I feel you are sheer brilliance. Now left to my defenses and in this body, I feel so exposed. I turn my eyes away, they flicker and my face stammers in shame. I have worn these words on the outside; I felt I was worth their weight. Funny, how the truth is...

A Hate Letter. I’m writing you one, not because I still hate you, but because I pity you, and to give myself a reason for validation. Somewhere deep inside you, there’s probably a morsel of a conscience, but it’s all buried deep under your pride, your pompous self-importance and the ostentatious disregard you have for everyone around you, including those who care for you. Before you die a lonely person, I’ll write this letter and perhaps you can extricate yourself from your own self constructed misery. If the price is our friendship, let it be. Las Vedanya, dear friend. Goodbye.

This, by far, is the most amusing thing I’ve heard since the entire month:

And they have other... strange people like XXX, whose favourite TV programme is ch8 news he doesn’t have favourite music, but if he had to choose it would be the theme of the news because it announces the arrival of his favourite TV programme. I mean...

The world never ceases to amaze me. I know that there are eccentric and eclectic people in this world, but I never thought there’d be this many, this extreme, anywhere near me. And I wonder why people call me weird.

Packing gives me a sense of solidarity and security. If you’re wondering, it probably is a way to reassure myself when I feel a little overwhelmed. Packing allows me to arrange them just the way I want to, and the knowledge that everything will remain where I put them gives me a suffocating sense of control and power. My cupboard is arranged according to clothing types, then by colour. My jewelry is lined up neatly on a rack, and my books are arranged according to author and alphabetical order. Even my computer folders are in chronological order. Now that’s reassuring.

Fool’s Ball is possibly the most brilliant game in the entire world. Ironic, isn’t it, having such a namesake. Words don’t cut it. The euphoria and the ecstatic flailing of arms and mad jumps around the table transcend all boundaries. Nothing comes close to the satisfaction you get from the resounding “thwock” that you get after you’ve just scored a solid goal, or when you’ve gotten the ball to traverse the entire length of the pitch just with one flick of your wrist. I could stay up all night just playing. Wish I could say that about real soccer though.

I’m always caught in this situation: staring at the purple boxes of the calendar on the 100 words website thinking to myself “How the hell am I going to finish writing all these entries before the deadline’s up? Crap.” and continue to plough through my calendar and scraps of paper here and there thinking about what to fill the empty spaces with. Amongst high ideals and low morals, I still can’t find my answers. Each box tells me that the beginning of the end is nearing, but nothing more. I’m left to find out what goes in between. Go figure.