How to break.

I’m thinking about it so much more now that it’s falling apart. Where the pieces are beginning to show cracks that I had surreptitiously patched up with crossed fingers that no one would ever find out. When I started to hide the truth about what really matters and tossed it aside whilst keeping my head in my hands, believing that it could all change. Who do I turn to now because you have made it so impossible for me to bare my heart to someone else that isn’t you. And just how to break. Because I’m breaking. Somehow, you probably are too.

There’s only so long that someone can really pretend that things close to the heart don’t matter. Then comes the cracks, the holes in the trees you whispered into, the strangers whom you came across and poured your heart into that you thought you’d never see again; everyone and everything that threatens to tell the truth, with or without your consent. Secretly, you think, let them. Maybe then it’d stop killing you slowly.

A lot of =.=”s

I was trying to download a song last night, so I searched for any song under the band name ‘the xx’.
Wanna take a guess as to what started flooding the screen? =.=”

* * * * *

Mom: Naaah, hand cream for you.
Me: Oh okay. Eh, anti-ageing…
Mom: What? You didn’t see your hands lately ah?
Me: … =.=”

* * * * *

Me: So you pick us up at 6:45, okay?
Ti: 7 o’clock la.
Me: I’m hungry la.
Ti: Okay, 6:50.
Me: Why?
Ti: Hah? I’m playing pool now.
Me: …. =.=”

Playing pool is more important than feeding your hungry sister. Phail.

* * * * *

Mom: You want cheese in your sandwich?
Me: Nope, sick of cheese.
Ti: Yalah, here got so much cheese. *whacks me on the leg*
Me: …. =.=” *whacks him back*

* * * * *

My two grandmothers are coming to visit next year! They’re both flying in at different times and we’re getting them the premium seats on the plane.

Mom: Mama (maternal) said she doesn’t need the premium seat. Or the blanket.
Ti: Yeah, right. Later they (both grandmothers) will talk about it together. You know ah, when you sit aeroplane ah…
Me: Lu zhay buay kee lai hor, oo zhay hee leh… (lousy Hokkien pin yin for ‘when you sit aeroplane come here ahhh you got sit the…’)
At this point, there is no need to complete the sentence cause I’m in stitches.
Dad: Yah. Imagine when you’re older and you buy your mother-in-law the premium seat but not your mother.
Me: Mom will disown us!

Reprimanding Portmans

Look, Portmans, you wicked wicked darling.

It’s not cool to bombard me with ads like this during exams.

Reminds me of all the shopping I’m missing out on.

Yes, I’ve seen your latest collection, so it’s especially not cool when it looks fucking gorgeous.

Portmans Spring ‘Fashion on the Field’ Races Season Collection

From what I’ve heard, it not only looks gorgeous but feels so too. *whine*

I must say, your model looks like she suffers from serious malnutrition though.

Now can I get back to my email blog-writing revision?

Thanks, mate.

Yeah, I love you too. *wink*

Can you hear the music?

I went to my favourite fashion portal on the web and usually, it’s just a simple browse, mmms and aahs, and close.

Tonight, I stopped. And stared. And silently moaned (in a non-sexual manner).

It’s so bloody perfect.

*sigh*

Go browse The Music Collection. And drool at its perfection.

Delicate.

Sad songs are written about things no one really wants to talk about but speak of the coldest truth. Why sugar-coat it when it eventually comes out in the open, in its most bitter and raw?

* * * * *

‘Almost Here’ by Brian McFadden & Delta Goodrem

Did I hear you right
‘Cause I thought you said
Let’s think it over

You have been my life
And I never planned
Growing old without you

Shadows bleeding through the light
Where the love once shined so bright
Came without a reason

Don’t let go on us tonight
Love’s not always black and white
Well, haven’t I always loved you?

But when I need you
You’re almost here
And I know that’s
Not enough
And when I’m with you
I’m close to tears
‘Cause you’re only almost here

I would change the world
If I had a chance
Oh, won’t you let me?

Treat me like a child
Throw your arms around me
Oh, please protect me

Bruised and battered by your words
Dazed and shattered, now it hurts
Oh, haven’t I always loved you?

But when I need you
You’re almost here
And I know that’s
Not enough
And when I’m with you
I’m close to tears
‘Cause you’re only almost here

Bruised and battered by your words
Dazed and shattered, now it hurts
Haven’t I always loved you?

But when I need you, you’re almost here
(Well I never knew how far behind I’d left you)
And when I hold you, you’re almost here
(Well I’m sorry that I took our love for granted)
(Now I’m with you, I’m close to tears
‘Cause I know I’m almost here)
Only almost here

Source

To be on the other side.

It’s easy to insist that I should be allowed to make my own mistakes, but were I to be a friend watching apprehensively, wincing and waiting for the worst to happen, I’d hate to be told that I need to let go too. So I get it… but I kinda don’t.

Sucks.

Spell it out.

I wanted to lie and say that I don’t care what the world thinks. But I do. So I told the truth.

I wish I could be so carefree as to say that life could just throw us what it wants and we’ll deal with it as it comes. But I can’t cause I hate being unprepared. For all the times that I proclaim spontaneity as the key, I know that it only goes so far; it provides a bit of unpredictability in a life that I would prefer to be so damn written out and obvious that I could close my eyes and not feel any kind of apprehension about the future.

Two sides to every coin.

Where’d you go?

I won’t be there when you get home;
I won’t be there if you need someone.
I won’t be there when you’re all alone;
I won’t be there for the said and done.

I won’t be there to hold your hand;
I won’t be there to warm your bed.
I won’t be there to understand;
I won’t be there to hope and wait.
‘Cause it’s too late, too late…

* * * * *

And this, kids, is what happens when you watch too much Grey’s Anatomy.

That’s life.

My plans are all up in the air. Funnily enough, because literally, they’re about travel. And parties. And work.

C’est la vie?

* * * * *

My feet kept pounding the pavement; the sound of my footsteps so loud in my own ears despite the music meant to shut everything else out. I ran so hard, but it felt like I wasn’t moving at all.

It’s how I feel sometimes when I’m with you; we’re not going anywhere. Yet I persist. We’re on parallel paths, destined never to meet. There’s something so wrong with this picture. Why shouldn’t two people who love each other… work? It always seems so baffling when things don’t turn out as they should, because we’ve been told what ’should’ happen: the boy + the girl + love = happily ever after. Then you realise the truth. Why are there so many other elements in the equation that can fuck it up, but are never written about? Oh right. Because we all want things to be fine and dandy and well, happy. So it’s always a beautiful picture that’s painted, one without a touch of realism, or cynicism, or maybe, just reality. Someone should have made it a crime to tell such lies, even if we want children to grow up having some kind of optimism, some sense of hope for what we call the harshness of life.

I want to stay. I want you to stay. I want us to stay. But where is this story really going? Is it even going anywhere?

Jumpstart my heart

She wondered if it was normal, this. Caressing the butter yellow bedsheets, she began fluffing the pillows in an absent-minded manner. Then she lay down to stare at her ceiling, examining patterns only visible to her eyes. The heat got to her, so she lifted her sleeve to wipe her forehead. Her mind danced about on its twinkle toes as she moved her hands to draw what she could only imagine. If only life were simpler; but we are designed such that we must shut down every now and then to cope with all these intricacies that take forever to learn. Is anyone out there well-versed in this thing called life? Could you just teach me how it feels to wake up in the morning and immediately feel as though life is actually conquerable? Or do we all just need to accept that we need a macchiato or any sort of equivalent as a kick-start?

* * * * *

I stumbled upon another gem of a blog today and even though the reason why I initially went there was a post entitled ‘Hot chocolate in London‘, I’ve found another reason to love it: she waxed poetics about food.

Oh. my. God.

And she used two words that particularly struck me: sober sex.

How fucking awesome is that?

The title of that post: Favorite ingredients

(I even forgive the American spelling)

Honestly, it’s not my cold meds speaking; I’m really amazed by it.

Ah Shuna, how quickly I have developed a girl crush on you. It only took two bloody words, not the typical three.