Words of a Naive Schoolgirl

1. ” God made sex something enjoyable so that people will want to procreate.” Clearly He did not foresee the invention of condoms, the Pill, IUD and spermicide. He may have overdone the pleasure factor.

2. “Guys don’t only take looks into consideration. Personality matters, too.” Sure. Kim Kardashian’s butt is NOTHING compared to her ability to hold an intellectual conversation.

3. “People will be less shallow when they get older.” Yes, that’s why there’s a landfill of shows that judge clothes, physical attributes and social status.

4. “When you study your specialty in Uni, you’ll probably meet more people you can relate with.” Ever heard of parents forcing kids to do what they don’t want to?

5. “Things always turn out fine.” No, you dumbfuck, they don’t.

The Death of Secrecy

This post is too premature. In an ideal world, its date of maturity is close to never.

In a bid to be opaque, I’ve gotten pretty damned close to having a face full of eczema. I’m more vain than proud, so I much rather pour out my feelings than invest in steroid creams.

He does and does and does some more. Anything to make her smile. Anything for a sense of approval from her. He doesn’t want to rock the boat, for fear she may fall overboard. He can’t lose her, she has seen so much of him. No one has seen him the way she has.

Yet, he knows nothing about her. Her past, her future…nothing. To her, he is not worthy of such knowledge. He lulls himself by thinking that only a privileged few are enlightened to see the nooks and crannies of her soul. Unfortunately, most of the time, it feels like the whole world is privileged except him.

It gnaws at him when he sees her with others, without a care in the world. A needle punctures his heart everytime she sees others but never him.

He summons up the courage to make himself known, fights to open her eyes so she can see him. But all she ever does is dismiss him, shoo him away like the nuisance she perceives him to be.

He convinces himself that it’s the last time she steps on his pride, that enough is enough and he will move on. That conviction never lasts long. He loathes himself for clutching on to a foot that kicks his face.

Throughout all the pain and torture, the tears and the sadness, the longing and the envy of others, his one question is constant,

“Why do I mean so little to you?”

Too Late For HNT

If you think I’m on a blogging spree, you’re wrong. I’m just procrastinating. That is supposed to explain this set of randoms.

  1. I’m supposed to be doing my Psychiatry patient history. It’s not long, it’s in English and I seem to be taking forever. I keep thinking that my teacher is going do a mini evaluation on me based on how I present this history. How self-absorbed am I, eh?
  2. I’ve recently (i.e. yesterday) started watching Californication. It’s Abilash’s fault, really. He said there was this show with a lot of sex in it. I jest! Not about what he said, but the influence of his words. Anyway, I downloaded the first season, and I like it. While there are too many boobies for my taste (truth: they have made me even more self-conscious than before) and the lines are pretty vulgar, the story is a nice one. I want to hate Hank Moody (played by David Duchovny) for being a drunken ass-hat with a dick that might as well have an “Occupied” sign hanging off it, but he has principles in the weirdest of ways. Can I relate? No, I have no principles.
  3. I’m about a decade late, but I seem to have a teensy, almost non-existent fan-girl crush on Rivers Cuomo of Weezer. If we were in high school together, I’d totally want to hit that. He’s adorkable, if possible at the age of 40. Needless to say, I’ve been listening to old Weezer songs, and reminiscing about the good old days when songs weren’t about auto-tune and paying royalties to other artistes.

Next time: Nathan Fillion, crap Russian weather, and the desire to eat a shaurma every time my tight jeans start fitting me right.

I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar!

Or at the very least, watch me grit my teeth while trying to mask the urge to grunt like a wounded wild boar.

(Now would be a good time to warn you that the details of this post are explicit and may cause great discomfort)

Ever since I turned 19, I’ve had an issue with hair. The strands on my head began dropping and the ones on the rest of my body were becoming more obvious. I’m not saying that I’m part lycan or anything extreme like that. In fact, I can safely say that I’m more fortunate than many women.

My problem/insecurities regarding body hair stems from the fact that the females from the maternal side of my family are a head of hair away from being this:

I was left to my own devices when it came to learning about wearing a skirt without making the general population cower in fear, since my mother knew close to nothing about it. Countless hours of research and copies of girly magazines later, I settled on using depilatory creams to solve my issue.

After five years of using the same old method, I decided to try something new. Give the follicles a bit of excitement, you could say. I was against the idea of shaving because I knew myself too well; there would be too many nicks and too little Band-aids in the world to save me from bleeding to death. Laser treatment was a bit much for the bank balance, so that one got tossed out the window as well.

That left me with waxing. I wasn’t really worried about the pain. I just figured it would take too much time to heat up the wax, and there was this paper thingy that is put on the wax-covered limb…all in all, it seemed like too much work.

Either way, I headed for the store that sold girly stuff and parked myself in the hair removal section. As soon as I got there, something caught my eye:

The Lazy Chick's Blessing

The box said everything I needed to see: no heat formula, perfect for first time users…caramel. I have NO idea why the thought of caramel scented wax appealed to me, but it did. Needless to say, I was sold. I skipped along to buy this miracle wax and rushed home to try it.

When I got home, I picked a spot on my body that no one gets a view of (in case of mistakes) and should be able to handle hair being ripped off. Armpits were the clear winner here.

Mistake #1: Putting on the wax BEFORE reading the instructions. Apparently, I was supposed to apply the numbing solution that was provided. While I am an advocate of manual reading, I got excited when I opened the jar. Not only DID it smell like caramel, it looked like this:


Oh well, what’s a little numbing solution? I slapped on the wax and put the so-called muslin strip on the wax. Finally, with manual in hand, I saw that it said there was no need to wait after putting the paper strip. Oh, joys! This is supposed to be fast, too? Excellent. One hand raised in the air, I yanked the bugger off my pits. There was no pain, and..there was no hair on the paper either. I was pretty sure that cold wax or not, this attempt was not successful.

Not about to be defeated by mere wax, I attacked my underarms again by slathering on the wax, plastered the paper and this time, I waited. After a few minutes, I yanked the paper off. I figured that I must have done it right this time around, because the pain was EXCRUCIATING. After I wiped my tears, I inspected my paper. There were about three measly strands of hair and a small patch of blood.

You’d think that something like blood would deter me, but noooooooo. I’m nothing if not stubborn, so I went for attempt #3. Since the waiting thing made a few hairs come off, I concluded that waiting longer, and letting the wax really bond to the hair would be the clincher. So, there I was, arms raised in the air, standing in front of my fan trying to marry off caramel wax with pit hair. I waited ten whole minutes and pulled. There were more tears, hairs and ( what I started to believe was obligatory) blood. Can you say, “epic failure”?

No way is that stuff making its way to my bikini area.

Wanted: Makeover

Inexcusable, I know. I promised a proper entry in July and I’ve still not gotten around to it. I promise, if it’s not up by this weekend, I WILL pluck each and every leg hair of mine with tweezers. Gross much?

A lot and nothing have happened at the same time. By a lot, I mean the usual things like sunrise, sunset and the chores in between. And nothing…well, it speaks for itself.

I’m pretty sure I’ve ranted to a few people on separate occasions about my mini quarter-life crisis. I fear it’s not one of those things that sound silly once it has been said out loud. I don’t even know exactly when it came about, it’s not like I woke up one morning/afternoon and decided that my life has nothing much in it.

I’ve been feeling like I could have done a lot more with all my years that have passed. I doubt I’m alone when it comes to this gnawing. Even though misery loves company, this battle must be fought alone. The problem is, I don’t know HOW.

Everything bores me, save my education. That’s most likely because the thought of being a crap doctor scares the hell out of me like Lucifer wouldn’t believe. Everything feels recycled. Everyone seems to be just going through the motions. I need something to remind me that I’m alive, young and capable of anything. I need excitement, adventure and fun.

Or maybe I just need to get the fuck out of here.