|Time as white sound|
Sunday, April 27, 2008
It's so hot.
Let me be a muse for theatre.
I will fight tooth and nail for that Gold.
I smell it. I breathe it. I lust for it (okay well... lust is a bit too extreme)
Thursday, April 24, 2008
'I'll tell you what real love is. It is blind devotion, unquestioning
I'M SO PISSED THAT CARLY GOT ELIMINATED ON AMERICAN IDOL!!
This is unfair- almost all of my favourite contestants in any kind of reality TV show never seem to win.
I'm NOT going to watch the rest of this season of American Idol any more.
Grumble grumble grumble... ...
Monday, April 21, 2008
2 stories of incest I've heard.
Straight from the horses mouth.
Strange but very intriguing nonetheless.
I feel so knowledgeable of things forbidden. Like a holder of secrets, I feel power in that sense.
This is one of the days where I feel happy to just be alive and breathing.
Reading. Learning. Eating. Walking. Pampering myself.
I will take Cowboy to the beach.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
I wish I had new curtains for my room. Clean non-dusty ones.
Then I could pull them back without worrying about choking on the flakes of dust fluttering about, and watch sunliught stream into my room.
Waking up with sunlight streaming into my room.
But then on weekday mornings, I wake up when it's still dark.
Within enclaves of shadows. A bivalve of muted silence untouched by light.
I'm hungry for clam chowder.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Sometimes I feel so fucking incompetent in my Lit banded class.
I know I'm not lousy, but I just feel that there's so much room for improvement.
Mrs. Sng was reading out some good answers for the unseen question of Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream. Erika and I both agreed that it was pretty impressive. To me, it was like word therapy.
Therapy from all the trashy colloquial language that we sometimes hear.
But therapy to drive me against the freaking wall, reminding me of the standards that we are expected to attain.
In simple English, I'm unhappy about where I am in my literary response to unseen texts. Wait, that's not exactly in simple English either. Not simplified enough at least. I can do much better. Yes, that's what I mean.
So thank you people for enlightening us with your literary response, really.
Now I'm as envious as hell. Haha.
It's all in the name of good envy anyhow
Saturday, April 12, 2008
I am a pie.
Encrusted in a thing too many.
I lay on my baking tray to rest.
Congrats to T1 for being one of the top 10 classes for Project Work!
It all came as quite a shock, especially for my group which had quite a hard time with the Written Report.
There is a God.
And I suppose I'll be proven so once again as SYF nears.
Which reminds me...
-Quote of the day-
"When you do that sarcasm thing, your eyes get so scary. They look like
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
I believe I wasted quite a fair bit of time today.
Nevertheless, scraps of information about the London Docklands and the city of Glasgow manage to seep within my precious mass of intertwining blood vessels above my eyes.
I am somewhat productive.
This is very much an extremely random thought, but I honestly wouldn't mind take a ride down the entire Circle Line once it opens in 2009/10/11, just like how I did with the North East Line several years back--
The smell of fresh train carriages, ridden from funky body odours, sweat soaked clothing and that general smell of staleness- old, uninspiring and blatantly mundane.
That's the smell of the air in those older train carriages- the ones with the ghastly antiseptic orange and putrid blue plastic seats. Lest not forgetting the sickly green colours too, which reminds you of the garments of surgeons in their pre-stained condition.
Wafts of dull air heaving out from those relatively malfunctioning air conditioning vents. You can just imagine a colony of baby cockroach nymphs breeding within them.
In these outdated carriages, you never breathe in the fervour of metropolitan life on this little island. Unlike those shiny black, modern carriages- like the shiny exoskeleton of a stag beetle. In them flooding with glaring, florescent lighting of surgical brilliance. The gleam of the handlebars like scalpels and trocars. Scissors and knives.
Indeed, at least in being transported by these new bullets- buzzing and zipping past stations, we get sent to our personal slaughterhouses. With more joy at least.
Now everybody do the Locomotion...