She to Me: You love too deep.

Me to Her: And not myself enough.


***


Some "unauthorised personnel" have been reading my blog lately.

I'm particular about people I know reading my blog. Some of my best friends do not even have the link to this space until very recently. Some of them do not even know about it at all.

It's not that I mind sharing my thoughts with the world in general, after all, I chose to post them on a blog which technically, is on the www and nothing on the www is, or ever can be, private.

But the thing is, I do not appreciate the modus operandi. If you're genuinely interested in delving into the intricacies of my mind, ask like you would for anything you want from a friend. Do not snatch as if you are a bandit. Oh, but I forget, the person in question has never mastered the art of social courtesy in the first place, don't we all know that (i.e. take first ask later).

And the worst thing which truly pisses me off? You parade and act around others as if you have attained some special access to a private event which only you have been given, and which was how I found out that you have this site address in the first place.

What can the next worst thing be, pray tell?

You or anyone else acting as if you know me freaking well just because you read my freakin' blog. Well, get this straight. You only know what I choose to write. So if you believe every single shit that I write in here and equate it to the one true me, or worse, create your own false conclusions about me, God help you.

Some people are such idiots, really.


***


Got this from a fellow blogger and friend. Dunno why, but it reminds me of the infamous Sudoku game that's a huge craze right now. Try it.

http://kevan.org/johari?name=musingsofaningenue

Sometimes we imagine our relationships to be more meaningful than they really are

--- Desperate Housewives



I caved in and declared MC today even though I have a meeting with several TLs scheduled in the afternoon.

I think that signals the point of no return.

It's not like I'm very very ill, all I have is a headache, aches all over my body, a blocked nose, and an overwhelmingly intense notion not to get out of bed. So yah, an MC.

Speaking of which, I ended up only waking at 4pm in the afternoon. Kudos to me.

I think that I am so very sick and tired of my work and the situation that I’m in that I am rebelling in ways that are subconscious even to me.


***


This is totally unrelated, but for the first time in my entire msn-using life, I have a strong urge to put someone on the “Block” list.

It’s because here I am trying my best to blog, which isn’t easy considering I had just woken up and am feeling groggy and sedated, and someone keeps trying to have an online conversation with me.

He so does not get the hint that I am simply not interested in talking to him. Even though I am currently on “Away” mode or “Busy” mode. BUSY, you get it? What’s it with men? I’m a weirdo magnet even at age 24. God help me.

Speaking of weirdo men, I had an encounter with one last Friday outside Zouk.

I was with my colleagues and as usual, we were standing around debating on our next course of life at the taxi stand.

So there I was, in another dimension of the universe as usual (i.e. stoning), whilst they decide where to head to next, and suddenly, this angmoh appears in front of me and blocks my vision of the line of taxis with their blinking lights.

I was enjoying the moment, just staring into the blinking lights and not thinking about anything in particular (i.e. stoning) but no, he has to get in front of me and start asking a train of strange questions, such as, am I heading to Jurong (which I replied no), where am I heading to (probably the east, I said), is anybody in the group heading to Jurong (no, I don’t think so), was I in Zouk just now (no, Velvet), will I be in Zouk next Friday (no, I don’t think so), where do I usually go, MOS or Zouk (neither), blah blah blah.

And then his friend appears, which is a really fortunate thing, and it looks like they will be hopping into the next available cab (a definite fortunate thing by now), and I thought I would be rid of entertaining a weird angmoh stranger who keeps staring straight into my eyes during the entire weird exchange.

And then just when I’d thought that this was all over but waddaya know, he manages to appear mysteriously behind me again (without a sound), which utterly spooked me and I told him that in his face, you-gave-me-a-fright, to which he again smiled that spooky smile of his.

And this time, he tries to stuff his namecard into my open bag.

And I had thought that angmohs are supposed to be way better than local men at picking up women, a stereotype I know, but so what, ‘cos this one here proved the stereotype wrong once and for all.

Speaking of which, I ought to google for his company.

The above incident merely served to convince me beyond the shadow of a doubt that I am a weirdo magnet.

I am so not proud of that. So don’t you dare laugh when you read this. Yes, I mean you.

I hate my job.

Somebody just kill me.

I feel like chewing off somebody's arm right now. Grrr.

Everyday, I tell myself that I am on the road to recovery.

That I am slowly but surely getting over him.

But then again, all it takes is for something small to happen, and it proves me otherwise.

Like him turning up late for a dinner which you had painstakingly planned for you and your friends.

Like him telling your girlfriend on the day of planned dinner that he will have to leave early that night. As with all other nights.

You still get upset that he no longer goes home together with you, no longer offers to send you home like the way he used to.

All it takes is for you to remember that the 2 of you aren't talking as much as you used to, and the tears return again.

Does this mean that even the old friendship can't sustain?

Human relationships are just so so fragile.

And in the words of someone in a similar plight, it's just so ironic that your greatest joy and happiness, and your greatest sorrow and pain, stems from the one same source.

And after all this, he tells you that he's still your friend.

You're not quite sure if you believe him.

An SMS convo:

Me to Her: What happened, gal? You sound upset.
Her to Me: Don't worry. Love is nothing.
Me to Her: Love is everything, gal. It's the only thing that keeps us going in this world. Love, and the hope of love. Without these, we are nothing.

I am so surprised I actually said those words.
And this convo made me recall what a fellow blogger wrote:

What keeps us going?
Love.
What if there's no love?
The hope of love.
What if there's no hope?

Yes, what if there's no hope? That's when you drop dead into a well, like me.

Happy Valentine's Day, everyone.

And just for the record, I plucked up my guts to sms him a happy valentine's message at 9.35pm tonight.

I know it's only a small step, but I'm making my way through a snowstorm.

"God, I wish I knew how to quit you"

--- Jack Twist to Ennis Del Mar
--- Me to You


***


Brokeback Mountain is gawddamn brilliant.

It may be too slow for some, but it's perfect for me. I simply love its understated, subdued sense of longing, passion and desire. There's hardly any confrontational scenes between the lovers (just one in the entire movie), and I like that. That nothing explodes big-time in your face, but when it happens, it moves you because its true nature is weak and powerless - the exact spirit of a lonely, suppressed soul.

I'm not sure if I buy into the "it's simply a love story" shit; the way I see it, sexual passion and love are irreconcilable in this episode. In almost everything, I guess.

Which makes me think.

Ennis Del Mar and Jack Twist are on the pathway to no return after one night of released pent-up desire culminating in intense physical pleasure. And like an addiction, they can't run away from it.

Me? I'm not sure if there was ever an "us" to begin with, and there's definitely no sexual tension to speak of; I'm not in love with the dude because he turns me on the right way.

Why then can't I quit him?

It makes everything, all this that I have, a joke.

"On bad days, I lie in bed and think of things that might have been"

--- Paul Simon, Slip Sliding Away


Suddenly I realise that I've been afraid for far too long.

I've possibly been afraid of so many things, for such a long time, that unknowingly, I've turned into this person whom I've grown to dislike, and even God-forbid, loathe.

All this whilst the other more natural, more loveable side of me is not surfacing, the way it should be. I've managed to suppress her with all of my fears, it's like she's trapped in a 10m-deep well that she can't climb her way out of. You've got to surf through all the few hundred channels of cable tv just to find that specific one to lure her out of the tv screen.

And I have to admit, these 2 gals know which buttons on the remote control to push for me. I like how I am so much so much more likeable (to myself, especially) whenever I'm with them. Somehow, for some strange reason, they unwittingly manage to bring out that rare side of me whom even I secretly adore sometimes.

This is the me who takes things lightly, who always cracks others up, who acts like a kid and mock-pouts and mock-sulks. This is the me who's cheeky and who's not afraid to goof up. This is the me who plays with soft toys and talks to them and imagines I'm them and doesn't find anything wrong with it. This is the me who grabs at people and force-hugs them if I can. This is the me who's not afraid to look silly, to look ugly; who's not afraid about whether the colour of her top matches her skirt and what's so-and-so gonna say about it, this is the me who is just plain me, myself and I.

In other words, they possibly bring out this better side of me which even I did not know had it in me.

Without them, I would not have known that I'm capable of behaving in this bimbotic fashion, capable of making fun of my situation and my depression, capable of simply not being afraid to speak my mind and not afraid of people judging me in whichever manner. Capable of every gawddawn single thing.

And that's when I realise: with him, I'm always afraid.

I'm afraid of 101 1001 things when it comes to him - afraid of how he'll view me if I tell him that yes, I do get jealous when you're too chummy with my best friend, afraid to let him know that I'm insecure to the power of 100,000, afraid to show him just how often I think about him all the time, afraid to speak badly, behave inappropriately, curse and swear in front of him, afraid to show him all my bad points and display them like deck cards on a table. I'm.plain.freaking.afraid.all.the.time.

And the thing is, I did not use to be like this in front of him.

I was that same childlike character (even more so) because he brought out the best in me. And then, I don't know exactly how or when I did it, but I killed her and buried her in the well myself.

And you know what? He probably liked the before me much better than the after me. I wouldn't blame him. Not one bit.

And so I've decided, it's about time to end the charade and get over all these fears.

I'll start being more comfortable with being myself, start getting used to wearing my emotions on my sleeves when I'm around him, even start to stop pretending how much I care about him in front of him. I have to face my fears and face up to my emotions. I have to stop being a plain puss wuss.

And maybe, just maybe, I'll even start becoming happier. Because now, I like myself better.

Each time I forget anything that I've written here, someone please slap me.

I think "happy" is a word that is greatly overused.

Eating home-cooked meals makes one happy.

Reading an awesome, insightful book makes me happy.

Enjoying good times with great friends most probably makes you happy.

Seeing that smile on his face and that sparkle in his eye makes even me happy.

Until soon enough, happy isn't sufficient a word to describe all that you're feeling anymore.

What's beyond happy and the simple pleasures in life that make you happy?

What word do you substitute to refer to that level of happiness beyond mere happiness? What do you call that feeling?

That's what's lacking in my life. Not merely being unhappy or not happy.

Have we grown to numb our senses, to desensitize ourselves so much that we no longer find joy in even the simplest things which so easily lifted our spirits?

Or have we merely grown up and moved on, knowing that that superficial level of happiness is not enough to sustain us; not adequate for our long-term survival in a hugely depressing world, a world where we're constantly fighting to retain our sanity?

Give me that feeling beyond simply being happy.

I demand it.


***


It's the same with love.

One person's definition and scope of love differs from the other. What's love to you may not be to me. What's love to me may be strange and absurd to you.

At any single point in time, when we're so absolutely certain that that is the thing that we love; unconsciously, without knowing it, we demand to have it; to own it. It's our gawddamn right.

It ought to have been mine.

Like what Ellie wrote, depression is terribly narcissistic. And I have to agree.

I have to admit that this provided a great avenue, a mighty excuse, for my depression to swim to the surface all over again, to take root and flourish, because I was getting so self-absorbed. It all started very simply, a pure feeling of innocent love, whereby you expected nothing and the little things were enough to keep you bright as a bulb for the rest of the day. And then the little things kept growing onto each other and everything began to grow like a slow poison, slowly infecting you from within, until one day, you're hooked onto it like a drug and you didn't even know when it started. Suddenly, without realising it, you can't imagine life without him, and you sink deeper and deeper into this self-inflicted mire by harbouring thoughts of being with him all day, everyday, and having him all to yourself. Before long, you start to believe that he was the only one who could rescue you from this abyss that only you'd created yourself; he was your saviour and knight in shining armour, and you, his Cinderella, and what could she do but wait for her fairy godmother to bring them together?

Only thing is, in this case, the fairy godmother never appears.

And so you think you have a reason to be depressed, it's entirely warranted and you're not being spoilt and unreasonable.

Like I'd said, it's a perfect excuse.

Watching him play tennis fills you with an indescribable sense of pride and 感动.

It's silly and ridiculous; how standing there watching from the sideline, your whole vision contains him and nothing else, how everything else fades into the background as you watch him return the balls with precision and effortlessness.

It's the first time that you've watched him play the game that he's played since age seven.

And you know this is it, when you are merely contented with standing there watching him play, even if it's for the entire time in the mildly drizzling day, at a game that you're not crazy about.

That, and chicken soup with ginseng cooked by the tender hands of your best friend's mum; those two things go down in your list of "感动"s for the day.

How does it feel like to walk around aimlessly in the dark looking for a place to hide; to not be seen by any soul, and not finding one?

How does it feel like to want to escape from it all, to want to be the only soul prowling the streets in the dead of the night, with only the blackness as your cover? How does that feel like?

I know that feeling tonight.

I wouldn't stop walking; I must have walked like a crazed woman with a mission and circled the streets around the train station for more than an hour, even though I was supposed to be on my way home. It was, after all, late (at 12am) when I'd alighted the train and I was tired from a long day.

The prancing felt like hours though, because I'd covered so much ground. I'd even walked past the same 24-hr MacDonald's twice.

It's no surprise that, during the entire pilgrimage, my face was drenched in tears.

I wouldn't stop walking until all my tears had completely dried up. They took their time. So did I.

I swear however, that I would have started running on the streets just to get my adrenaline pumping and blood running if I were not wearing my inch-high gold heels. Now I understand why some people like to jog in the wee hours of the night. Not only does it work your body, it's also deeply therapeutic. There's something about the strange calmness of the dark that contrasts with your riotous emotions, that seemingly, has the power to quell it and bring it under control. I looked up at the dark sky and there were no stars tonight. No stars.

The darker the place, the more secure I feel.

There's only one thing I'm ashamed of.

I turned the bus driver away rudely when he stopped (yes, stopped!) the bus in the middle of road, opened the front entrance and asked me to not be upset anymore and to go on home (in case you were wondering, he was driving an empty bus because it was so late at night, all bus services had terminated).

I don't know what I was thinking of then, cross my heart. I must have been so ashamed to be caught crying by a total stranger, and a bus driver at that (no offence to bus drivers), that I absolutely gave him the blow-over when all he did was to worry about my safety and advise me to go on home. I was, at this point, just walking on the asphalt next to the main road, desperately looking for a place where no one can find me.

He must have thought that it was part of his duty to ensure all passengers (even lone, distraught girls) arrive home safely. I was, after all, sitting in the desolated bus interchange for a good twenty minutes just head-bent, sobbing.

God bless his kind soul. Although I'm not sure if it's the same bus driver on both accounts (because I did not look at either of them in the eye), God bless their kind souls.

I went out of my mind today.

I went totally ballistic and started punching the wall with my right fist. Repeatedly.

The result?

I have a bad bruise on my right fist, at the knuckle of my smallest finger.

The doc wants it x-rayed.

I totally asked for it, yes I know.

Besides therapy, I may need anger management classes. Problematic child.


***


I know I have friends who are trying to make me snap out of whatever I'm in, and I know they're trying hard. Real hard.

Thanks to the 2 great gals who had dinner with me at Simpang Bedok tonight. I know it was for me that they'd planned this. They were so worried that I'll be gone before they could even catch hold of me.

But don't worry, gals. I'm crazy but not that gutsy yet. And I don't have the right tools to do anything serious except hurl myself from a HDB building which, by the way, requires a truckload of guts. So no worries there.

And as I'd said, I'd injured my right fist so that may take my mind off death quite abit.

I now it sounds very disturbing but I get a kick out of seeing the bruise on my hand. A result of my anger and frustration, a result of the culmination of intense feelings manifested physically on me, myself and I. It's.very.fascinating. The power of human emotions at its height and depth. And I get to flaunt it like a prize trophy. There, there, see this on my hand? I did this to myself.

As I've said, I'm sado-masochistic.

Let's see if I sleep soundly tonight.

I'm in deep shit.

This is the second night in a row that I have woken up unexpectedly at 6am in the morning. 6 freaking am.

And I can't get back to sleep.

Something is really wrong when I start waking up in the middle of the night. Me. Never one to find sleep sufficient and one to sleep through a thunderstorm if I could.

And the first thing that I thought of when I woke up?

Her.

How good she is, how right she is for him, how happy they are together, how much better she is than I am. Than.I.am.

The lady's even got prettier shoes than me.

And I started crying.

I need to see a shrink.


***


I might as well say this since I'm up and blogging.

I hate how I look in pictures these days.

I think I look alright with rebonded hair ('cos that's what I see in the mirror), but take a photo of me now, and I cringe.

I don't like what I see in the photos. Any photo.

Maybe I should really cut my hair off like Denise Keller. Like Charlize Theron in Aeonflux. Who knows. This could be a sign. Hair-hating moment? Check. Self-loathing moment? Check. Whole-life-in-peril moment? Check check.

And I forgot what it was that I wanted to write about when I edited this post.