Half. That’s exactly the amount of time we’ve got in the hourglass, and the panic has crept in. No, not crept. It has flooded in, swamped us completely. It is a barrage, a landslide, an avalanche – and we’re brimming over with this deluge, bailing fast and bailing desperately. It’s mere days away, and the ticker has already started. The race kicked off ages ago, but it is only now that we’re brought back down to earth with a sickening thud. Judgment Day is pressing close, and we’re all waiting with bated breaths. The final sentence has yet to be passed.

I have done it again. I have been here many times before. Hurt myself again today. And, the worst part is, there's no-one else to blame.

Be my friend. Hold me, wrap me up. Unfold me, I am small and needy. Warm me up and breathe me.

Ouch.

I have lost myself again. Lost myself and I am nowhere else to be found, and I think that I might break. Lost myself again and I feel unsafe.

Be my friend. Hold me, wrap me up. Unfold me, I am small and needy. Warm me up and breathe me. Pretty please?

I’m so embarrassed; I feel a flush creeping up my face as I walk away. It’s hot. The passers-by are giving me sidelong looks, but I keep my eyes trained on the escalator steps. Obtrusively invaded, embarrassed, and exposed; that’s what I am. It’s not chilly, but the shivers come involuntarily – the same ones I get when I do a little jig in front of the window of a shop display (thinking no one’s watching) and catch someone looking away distractedly when I turn my back. For that split second, it feels as if I’ve revealed too much of myself.

If I had a chance to do it all over again, I’d do it differently. I’d do it, knowing that everything will turn out alright. I’d do it, with the wealth of the new friendships I’ve forged, with the luxury of the bridges I’ve built to get here. I’d do it, all over again, if I could. But I can’t, because I’ve passed the baton on. Today, we officially expire, and the new ones take over the helm. They’ll have the time of their life, and before they know it they’ll be in my shoes thinking the very same thing.

Running makes you feel empowered. You’re gasping for breath, your legs feel like lead, and the thought of you going on is barely conceivable. But you go on anyway. The road seems to go on forever, and the end is taking an eternity to come. But at the end of it, these illusions vanish, and the only thing you can hear is your heart thumping in the dark of the night. All that’s left is a quiet sense of self validation and pride, and a reminder that you can absolutely do anything your mind puts itself to.

Nothing is impossible

Since I’ve started hitting the books, my degeneration has taken the course of a second order reaction – an exponential rate (and it looks like it’s headed for infinite regress.) I’m having difficulty articulating my thoughts, or emotions, for that matter. Many abstract concepts elude my befuddled mind, preoccupied with what element comes before Cu in the periodic table. I’m not sure this is what I’ve envisioned myself to be, but it is definitely what I’m becoming. They say that I’ve not been myself lately, and perhaps it’s time for me to concur and resuscitate my life before it’s too late.

Friends don’t stab you in the back. They stroll towards you, smile sweetly as if they hadn’t a care in the world, whilst driving a stake straight into the centre of your heart without any hesitation. For the record, it felt as if the carpet was pulled from under my feet, knocking out all the air in my lungs. Rational, lucid slosh in my brain evaporated instantaneously, leaving my hapless mind trying to wrap itself around what just transpired. All my mind could cope with were flashing words. “Betrayal” and “heartless” were top favourites, besides “bitch.” Talk about brain freeze.

I’ve been sitting here for the past twenty minutes, with lame excuses for half-hearted 100words attempts. I’ve hit the backspace button so many times; I’ve no idea why the print hasn’t been worn off yet. I’m faltering – there isn’t the sassy edge or careless abandon I used to function with anymore. What’s more disconcerting though, is my lack of drive. Just like a steam engine, only one that’s been on the railway for far too many days, long overdue for a refill of coal. Inching along the tracks, I can’t tell if I can hold out till the next stop.

I think God ran out of things to do with my life, so He's recycling the stories. Maybe that's why everything is the same; everyday fades into a copy of a copy of a copy. There’s a drowsy familiarity, like going round in goldfish circles. But hold on. Something’s lurking within these waters, and a precarious balance just waiting to be tipped before disaster falls. Can’t place my finger on it, but it certainly feels like a goldfish swimming in a blender – all you’ve got to do is to press the button and I’ll be seeing you in goldfish heaven.

She’s petite, to say the least, complete with rail-like limbs and a jutting collarbone to boot. Her cheeks sag so badly, she almost looks like a wax figure – one that’s been left too near the fireplace and long forgotten. The wrinkles on her forehead are worse – etched so deeply that it seems as if someone had caked it on. As she alights the bus, I can’t help but notice her walk – it’s got a gait far too sure-footed for her waif frame (no trace of hobble!), and for a moment I wonder what it’s like to be a hobo-esque grandma.

It’s funny how easily humans shapeshift – how new things grow on us, and how things we thought we’d feel right at home with, suddenly become unfamiliar with our negligence. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, but often we forget that there’s a point. It’s the point which you cross, after being absent for too long. This is the point, where people start moving on, to find other little snippets in life to make living easier, because it’s far too hard to miss you. This is the point, where I conveniently trash your name into the “Dispensable” bin in my mind.

People knew I could get shit. So they gave me rides. The deal was they had to buy me something too. When I couldn’t get rides, I took your car. When I didn’t have money, Freddy gave me credit. He liked me and called me White Boy James, and I became known over there as that. It was fucking stupid and dangerous, but I liked it, thought it was cool, and it allowed me to get anything I wanted whenever I wanted it. I wanted it all the time. My Mother starts crying, my Father stares at me.

– James Frey

Jim: You work here, don't you want good insurance?
Dwight: Don't need it. Never been sick. Perfect immune system.
Jim: Ok, well if you've never been sick, then you don't have any antibodies.
Dwight: I don't need them. Superior genes. I'm a Schrute...and superior brain-power. Through concentration I can raise and lower my cholesterol at will.
Pam: Why would you want to raise your cholesterol?
Dwight: So I can lower it.

This is the singular thing I’m happy about today. You know life isn’t going the right way when you get your daily fix of sanity from a deranged sitcom.

ex•am•i•na•tion (ĭg-zām'ə-nā'shən) Pronunciation Key

n.

1. The act of examining or the state of being examined.
2. A set of questions or exercises testing knowledge or skill.
3. A formal interrogation: examination of the witness.

What they didn’t include in the definition is the pain and anxiety associated with it, as well as the myriad of stressful problems which come attached when one fails to excel in these things. It doesn’t indicate any of the biased judgments, which people make about these inconclusive tests. Most of all, it doesn’t tell me about my relative’s fixated interest in my examination scores.

Recently, I’ve started introducing myself to strangers again, leaving out “Rng.” It felt a oddly unfamiliar to have them call me Rachel the entire day, but that just served to remind me that it’ll be something I’ll have to revert back to when I enter the working world. People will start calling me Rachel again, and their mental image of me would be tagged with that label, instead of “Rng.” I know one day this term of endearment will be relegated to the haze of a distant memory, but for now I’d still like my friends to call me that.

It was never within my knowledge that I’m able to reveal such a staggering amount of secrets to anyone – whatever happened to counter intuitive and my self-preservation barriers? You have this uncanny ability to seek out the monsters I run away from, drag them out from the dank dungeons I’ve chained them to and thrust them into my face. I try to defend myself, but you retort with an axe and a pick – hacking away at my grandeurs of self-delusion and picking at the veneer of nonchalance I’ve so carefully constructed, leaving me defenseless. If was your goal, you’ve succeeded.

I was bored today, so I googled my name.

Random number generator - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
A random number generator (often abbreviated as RNG) is a computational or physical device designed to generate a sequence of numbers or symbols

RNG Validation List
These implementations are validated as conforming to the various Random Number Generators (RNG) as specified and approved in FIPS 186-2, Digital Signature

It turns out that I’m actually a Random Number Generator, and if I ever feel in need of validation, I can always turn to my Validation List! Hurray for me. Instant validation at my fingertips!

It isn’t the typical sitcom filmed on a glamorous set with Greek-god look-alikes (or goddesses, for that matter) milling around, looking pretty under the lighting, clothed in haute couture, like the usual Jerry Bruckheimer productions. It’s a drab, mildewed office lit by unflattering fluorescents. It’s hasn’t got a highly lauded cast, nor does it have any cinematographic effects. But, what it does have is wit, satire and black humour all rolled into a rollicking fun ride, which more than makes up for everything else. I’m hooked; and sometimes Dunder Mifflin seems just as real to me as my desk does.

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Sugar is sweet;
And so are you!

It’s always a nice surprise to have someone remember you when you’ve forgotten about yourself. Though it’s a jolting reminder that you haven’t been dutiful enough to yourself, you can’t help but grin; revel in the thought that there’s someone thinking of you. For a moment, you’re enveloped in warm fuzziness, even your toes; just like sitting by a fireplace on a frosty night. Suddenly all your troubles don’t seem so bad afterall, and you smile to yourself all the way on the lonely bus ride home.

Attack of the Clones Ugly Smileys!

D: D: D: D: D: D: D: D: D: D: D:
D: D: D: D: D: D: D: D: D: D: D:
D: D: D: D: D: D: D: D: D: D: D:
D: D: D: D: D: D: D: D: D: D: D:
D: D: D: D: D: D: D: D: D: D: D:
D: D: D: D: D: D: D: D: D: D: D:
D: D: D: D: D: D: D: D: D: D: D:
D: D: D: D: D: D: D: D: D: D: D:

May the Force be with you.

Itchy-scratchy makeup sploshed on face? Check. Demure frock? Check. Strappy heels I’ll have to totter about in? Check. Extravagant venue? Check. Quarrelling before we’re packed into the car? Check. More quarrelling when we reach? Check. Rowdy and insensitive relatives with no semblance of dining etiquette? Check. Flamboyant mother-in-law? Check. Excruciatingly inefficient service? Check. Unbelievably long dinner? Check. Restless kids galloping around the tables? Check. Awkward smiles all around for the wedding photos? Check. Even more awkward family photo? Check. Inability of family members to leave in peace (or, even leave)? Check.

There we have it. A perfect recipe for catastrophic night!

I’ve been sniffing the entire day, and I’m not surprised if someone mistook me for a rehab druggie trying to stave off the coke by going cold turkey. I hate it when my sinus decides to attack me – it gives no warning and leaves me watery-eyed all day round, longing for the instant gratification a successful sneeze gives. It sucks to have your nose tingle and feel it ebb away without flushing it out properly. More often than not, I’m denied of it and I’m left grumpy for the rest of the day. Not unlike a druggie in rehab at all.

He’s got to be my best friend. He’s got to cherish me for who I am, not who he wants me to be. He’s got to laugh with me; walk down the crowded streets with his hand in mine, because that’s what I want to do when my hair’s turned white. He’s got to have “forever” on his mind, or even better, “happily ever after.” He’s got to wake up early and fix breakfast, because I’m always running late. He’s got to be patient; sometimes even I can’t even stand myself. But most of all, he’s got to love me.

The thing that intrigues me most about ballet isn't the movement of the ballerinas or the dance choreography, but the costume. More precisely, the tutu. Though I often keep my eyes trained on the dancers and their little pantomimes, it’s not the pirouettes I’m watching closely; it’s the rise and fall of the fabric of the tutu which fascinates me to no end. Just like a pulsating jellyfish, swirling along with the current, fluttering ever so slightly at the hem at every spin. Truth is, I secretly pay more attention to the tutu than the dancer herself. Shh, don’t tell.

HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME

WOULD SOMEONE PLEASE HELP ME?

PLEASE?

I'll buy you tea.

It’s been, what, three months since I’ve been here? But it still gives that studious academic grandeur, the pin-drop silence, the high ceilings and the carpeted floor silencing the click of my shoes. Even the view out of the floor length windows stays the same – save for the Ferris Wheel that’s now wedged between the Pan Pacific and the Suntec Towers. It’s always a treat to look up from my staggering mountain of books and see the cars wheedle along, looking like they’re in a Hot Wheels city. If it were up to me, all libraries would be like this.

There’s nothing quite like the joy and excitement of receiving a parcel. You aren’t really sure when exactly it’s going to be delivered, so you spend the entire day in jittery anticipation of its arrival. You try your best with the daily humdrums, but every few moments your mind strays, and your eyes flicker towards the door. Each time you hear the doorbell, your heart does a little leap and you stride towards the door, still feigning nonchalance in fear of being disappointed. Just when you least expect it, the postman rings the doorbell and your wait is duly rewarded.

Is this what I’m supposed to feel? Underwhelmed? I’m a little dazed, but surprisingly cool-headed. No cheering, no little jiggle to celebrate the passing of yet another hurdle. It feels just like any other day would, save for the lunch with friends. Perhaps this is what it is – or I’ve forgotten the thrill of completing an exam paper. Exhilaration, breathlessness and self-satisfaction; where have they gone? Secretly, I had hoped for validation to rain down upon me, but the absence of even a trickle is a cause for alarm. How now brown cow? Because I’ve got wishes no more, jellyfish.