Covet Thy Neighbour’s Sleep

Some people have it all; good looks, a great job, wonderful family, money to buy super cool gadgets that they vaguely know how to use… the works. I don’t envy those people. Unless they get to sleep in more than I do.

Out of all the wonderful things life has to offer, sleeping in is pretty high up there in my Orgasmic Things That Make Me Fear Death list. It’s so high up there that I envy people who are asleep when I have to be awake. In fact, it’s so high up there that animals are not spared when it comes to my envy.

Everyone knows I’m not a morning person, and if they don’t, they should know for their own safety. I think it’s mostly because I sleep late, but there’s definitely a part of me that looks pissed because I’m thinking about all the people who don’t have to be awake when I am. It’s a long, horrible thought, only stopped by my acknowledgement of time zones.

Two incidents made me realise that I need help and/or more sleep. One involved my dog as a puppy and the other had something to do with half the population of Malaysia.

In 2003, when I had just started college, I got myself a puppy. An adorable little bugger I decided to call Wishbone. He was the cutest thing ever, with his floppy ears and huge eyes. There was just one issue though, I had to wake up at 5.20 in the morning for his poo walk. Wishbone had a very small time frame when it came to his morning defecation. At 5.20, he’d be asleep, but come downstairs at 5.30 and he’d be asleep, 3 feet away from fresh poo. Snoozing was not an option.

Anyway, I’d put his leash on and drag him out at 5.20 and all that lazy cunt would do was take a few steps out the door and sleep on the street! If you lived nearby and were awake, you probably would’ve heard things like, ” I could be SLEEPING NOW, YOU INGRATE!” and ” fuck you, I’m buying doggy diapers.” The worst part was, I didn’t even feel bad that I was yelling at a 10-week old puppy. I would sort of loathe him when I had to leave for classes at 6.45 am and he would be curled up in a tight ball, fast asleep.

That was ten years ago, when I was young and selfish. Turns out, not much has changed. If anything at all, I’ve become more ridiculous with this sleeping business.

Last week, my family couldn’t attend Mass on Saturday evening because of a potent combination of rain, a Nike 10km run and a 3-hour traffic jam. This meant that we had to (i.e. THEY had to) attend Sunday morning Mass, which was at 6.45am. Insane, right? So, there I was, waking up at 5.30 in the miserable morning, trying my best not to snap at anyone because my mum HATES it when I bring others down with my bad mood and fantasising about throwing the motherfucker of all tantrums in the car. All the way to church, while staring out into the dark sky, all I could think  was, “28 million people, half might have woken up for dawn prayers, maybe a few thousand more are working right now and the rest are sound asleep. FUUUUUUCK!”

Envy is a crazy master.

How Lent And Me Roll

Lent begins in a week. You may think that this isn’t a big deal for me, but it kinda is. I actually make an attempt to observe it every year. And every year, I do it wrong.

Most of us know Lent as that time where we give up something we like ( usually food). In Sunday School, I vaguely recall someone saying something about self-reflection, prayer and sacrifice but I wouldn’t really bet money on it. I spent most of my time there being ticked off that my mom and uncle were having breakfast and I was stuck in a classroom.

So, this is roughly my (highly likely wrong) understanding of Lent: I physically give something up to help me gain spiritual strength. For this spiritual strength, I must be patient, have willpower and discipline and all that other good stuff. That way, not only do I get to know how hard it must have been for good ol’ JC to fast for 40 days and 40 nights, I get all this good stuff for my soul and I end up being a better person. (Unrelated: doesn’t ‘spiritual strength’ sound like something out of Slothmud?)

I usually do okay with the physical bit. I pick something to not eat, maintain low expectations of myself and somehow make it through the forty days. This usually results in me acquiring a taste for something that I ate to compensate for whatever I was abstaining from, something that I will like so much that I’ll probably have to abstain from for the following Lent. But that’s a different story.

It’s the spiritual part that’s a bummer to me. Even though I manage to stay away from meat and chocolates or whatever, I’m not quiet about it. By Day 30, I’m a rabid mess; I start dreaming about all the food I can’t have, then I tell my roommates about it. I make insane declarations like, “farm animals will fear Easter, for I shall slaughter and devour them all!”

I basically do everything the Bible says not to do when fasting or praying.

Don’t even get me started on the whole impure thoughts thing. I swear, every annoying person that has ever been in my life will choose to come in contact with me during Lent and show me precisely how painful it is to know them. I know that the right thing to do is consider it a temptation from the devil and take it all in stride. I even think this when these people are sticking metaphorical needles in my eye, but instead of taking a deep breath and asking God to grant me patience, I start making lists of diseases I want them to suffer and die from. My favourites are gonorrhea, gangrenous testicles and strokes. Some days, I don’t even TRY to be nice. You can see how this is a damper on the whole gaining spiritual strength thing.

However, I’m nothing if not optimistic. I’m counting on the physical abstinence to score me a few points at the Pearly Gates. It’s gotta count for something, right?

Which is why this year, I asked my friends to suggest something for me to abstain from. You know, maybe they’ve seen me obsess about something and I’m in denial so I’d never think to abstain from it. I need something epic this year, because I foresee myself being a spiritual ass and I need to counter that with some serious sacrificing. Yes, I also know that what a person does during Lent is supposed to be deep, meaningful and personal. Somehow I’ve managed to make such a big deal out of it publicly that I’m just waiting for someone to offer me a reality-TV show contract.Strike three, maybe?

Back to my story. One suggested I become vegetarian for this period of time and another suggested I give up Twitter for 40 days. While I seriously am considering the first friend’s idea, to the latter friend I immediately responded with, “fuck off and die.”

Something tells me this year’s Lent will be  completely wasted.


How NOT To Tackle Exams

For the first time in two weeks, I’m up before the sun is. Seeing that sunrise is at 9.54a.m., you know what I’m getting at. I wish I could say it’s because I’m hard at work, drinking in page upon page of my Surgery textbook, but the truth is, my friends and I have never been this lazy before an exam, especially not one this important.

Today is the day I attempt to do work instead of sitting around like a House-addicted twat (yeah, I know. The show’s not even cool anymore.)

But before I do that, let me pull some wisdom out of my bum and tell you how NOT to prepare for important state exams that determine your future.

1. Get At Least 10 Hours’ Sleep

I’m usually a person who only needs about 5-6 hours of sleep and some coffee to function somewhat well. While I was happy that classes were over and I wouldn’t have to wake up before birds did, I was confident I wouldn’t sleep more than the luxurious 7 hours I normally give myself on weekends.

What rubbish.

My body has been a pathetic disappointment. I’ve been sleeping at 5a.m. and waking up at 2p.m., followed by a 90-minute nap after brushing my teeth and reading the news. Add my chores like cooking and laundry to my day and I’m left with very little time with the books.

2. Eat Lots

This is my procrastination method of choice. I could read while snacking or having tea, but this person who used to sneak a book to the dining table as a kid now has issues with reading and eating at the same time. Let me give you an example of how I use eating to ruin my chances at a decent exam results AND fitting into a Karen Millen dress:

2p.m. – Roll out of bed

2.10- Weigh out the pros and cons of my breakfast options while reading tweets and Facebook notifications

2.30 – Have breakfast

3p.m. – Brush teeth and make myself look generally presentable for human interaction.

3.30 – Realise that I could’ve had lunch as soon as I woke up. I mean, it’s the afternoon, right? It makes perfect sense.

3.35 – Surf the Net for lunch recipes that are healthy and not boring.

4.30 – Decide that everything on the Internet is too fancy and settle on making anything that has the chili supply of a small country in its gravy.

4.35 – Have a cup of coffee and biscuits before I begin cooking (you know, because cooking is such a taxing task and breakfast may not be able to sustain me till I’m done.)

5 p.m. – Start cooking.

6.30 – Have lunch

7p.m. – Have tea and Kinder Bueno for dessert

7.20 – Hang out with friends while food makes its way down the GI tract.

8p.m. – Have coffee so I can stay awake to study

8.30 – Realise that it’s late enough to have dinner…

You can see where I’m going with this, right?

3. Live On Social Networking Sites.

Imagine Twitter is a bright shiny thing. Well, I’m the fucking magpie that keeps flying to it. I swear, the tab is always open and I check Heck, if Twitter were a person, they would have a restraining order out for me. What’s worse, I talk to my roommates about tweets I find funny. I bet they’re looking for a Twitterholics Anonymous in Moscow or something.

4. Find New/Interesting/Creative Music Videos On Youtube

Every time I have an exam, I create a playlist of about 400 songs that I’ll never be able to listen in one sitting because I have the attention span of a goldfish with ADD. This year is no different, except that I’m a little bored with the songs on my iTunes and the world is not coming out with anything worth listening to. Thankfully, the good people I follow on Twitter sometimes share music links. While I may not like the song they’re sharing, the related videos featured on the page may have some gems. Here are my current top three favourites:

1. Utah Saints – Something Good
( I prefer the High Contrast remix, but this video is pretty cute)

2. David Armand (as Johann Lippowitz) and Natalie Imbruglia – Torn

3. Gotye – Somebody That I Used To Know

Okay, I probably should use my burst of early morning energy to read about pancre….Oh, new tweet! Gotta go.

Frayed Nerves

I’ve been pretty good, I’d say. I’ve not written a rubbish post since May. Of course, this also means I’ve only been blogging like, once a month, proving once and for all that writing would’ve been a horrible career option for me.

It’s been ages since I wrote random rubbish, so here we go!

A few weeks back, we had our Occupational Diseases’ cycle. The guy from The Making Out Couple was there. If you don’t know this, I hate him. He’s an annoying apple polisher who makes out with his girlfriend pretty much any time the teacher is not looking. Bastard. This time around, he was sans girlfriend and looked really skinny.The vampire-loving ones in my group decided that he looked like Edward Cullen, making him cute (I still can’t remember whether that’s the actor’s name or the fictional character’s, so you can tell that was two fucks I didn’t care about.)

To top it off, he was fucking the class up. I wasn’t over the moon or anything, but it certainly felt better to see the teacher get exasperated with him rather than call him brilliant and all that other junk. I know, I know. I’m SUCH a petty bitch and all that. Let’s continue.

Turns out, this slump lasted all of two days. He was back on form after the weekend and aced the class like he’s been doing since he could babble coherently or something. You must be wondering why I despised some guy I’ve never even spoken to. Trust me, I was wondering the same. Seriously, what was it about this guy that made me want to kick him in the shin?

I found my answer on the last day. Turns out, he wants to be a neurosurgeon. I have nothing against neurosurgery, just the surgeons. They all seem to be cocky bastards who look down upon others. This awful personality is not something that comes instantly once they become neurosurgeons; it’s something that takes form and develops from med school just so they’re the right degree of syphilitic cunt by the time they’re done specialising.

I’m not usually this big on stereotypes, especially when it’s merely an observation made by me and my roommate about a few people we know. I’m probably wrong. I’m sure there are some nice ones out…oh, look! Is that a zebronkey trotting down the street?

Boys and Eyes

This blog is moving so slowly, snails want to give it a ride. I’ve been wanting to post stuff for a while, but nothing good has come to mind. Until now, when I’m on sick leave and probably experiencing mild intoxication.

For reasons unknown, I’ve been ogling guys like a lusty wench (far more socially acceptable than a crazy wench.) Most of my lusting takes place sat in front of my laptop, which makes me kinda loser-ish but whatever. My latest loin-crush is thanks to @nosweetnothings on Twitter, who mentioned a player from the French rugby team during the Rugby World Cup finals. Curious to see her specimen of choice, I Googled the team and came across a very lovely calendar called Dieux du Stade (Gods of the Stadium) instead. This is where I found him:

He is Thomas Combezou, the something for Montpellier Hérault Rugby Club. Okay, okay I’m not that shallow. He plays centre. From my “research” I’ve gathered that his job is mainly to tackle anyone who has the ball. What else could I come up with after seeing practically every photo of him playing with his face in somebody’s ribs?

Me lusting over him and making it known to the whole world even before blogging about it has resulted in two things: bacterial conjunctivitis and the catty side in guys. Well, the latter has always been there, but Combezou is the one that helped me get some clarity on the matter.

First, let’s talk about the conjunctivitis. I didn’t want to admit it at first, but I think prolonged staring at hot/cute guys results in me getting some sort of grotesque eye issue. You may think I’m being silly, but when it has happened three times, people stop laughing.

1. In November 2007, I discovered the awesomeness that is Gerard Butler in the movie “300.” He was big, ripped, in minimal clothing and killing other men violently. My knees were liquid. I also had a subconjunctival hemorrhage that took 2 weeks to get better.

2. In January 2009, I watched Seungri’s music video for “Strong Baby.” It’s not much, if I want to be honest about it, but something about him and that slight hint of developing rectus abdominis made me like him. Bam! Kerato-conjunctivitis for 3 weeks, followed by another subconjunctival hemorrhage. That was a total of FIVE weeks with a shitty looking eye.

3. November 2011 (are you seeing a pattern here? I am.) I am blessed with the knowledge that a sculpture like Thomas Combezou exists. After just a week of gazing upon his (insert any word that describes Adonis-like perfection) I have bacterial conjunctivitis. My eyes are spewing colonies and their by-products, and I’m praying that it will be gone in a few days.

Now, about boys being catty.

I’ve gone on about how crazy and ridiculous women can be sometimes, but I’ve never really touched on the topic of male behaviour. I have a fairly decent number of guy friends, and they’re all lovely chaps. Some girls even want to date them. *snigger*

These guys are also the ones who call us girls petty and jealous when they point out an attractive woman and we don’t agree with them. This is their classic line:

“you girls can never admit that another girl is beautiful, there’s always some justification. Look at us guys; if another man is handsome, we have no problem admitting it.”


Guys can only say that another man is attractive when THEY are the ones pointing it out. If us girls point a handsome or physically attractive man out, these are the most likely responses:



“small penis”

“what the fuck is wrong with you?!!”

Usually, these words further prove to me that my eye-candy is indeed hot and bonk-worthy. I heard all of the above when I showed my guy friends that picture. Perfect.

Not only that, it shows that men and women aren’t very different when it comes to being envious. Women are capable of looking at other females and thinking that they’re attractive too, just not the ones you fellas point out.

Oh, my snail’s here. I’ll see you around!

He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not

It’s been a while since I had a proper crush. By proper crush, I mean I like the guy but I don’t want to pounce him. I think the last time that happened, I was still wearing a school uniform.


When I liked a guy in school, I went through a period of self-loathing. I have no idea why, but I was convinced that liking a guy whilst in school was a bad idea. In my head, liking boys meant that I was neglecting my studies and forgetting my priorities. I used to beat myself up a lot about it. I would do my best to try and forget the object of my affections. Stupid, I know. Who was I to go against raging hormones? It didn’t stop me from trying, though.

Most of you may know this, but to those who don’t, I was far from attractive in school. My plan was to get by with my brains and wit. Not my best plan, but that’s another story. Back to not being attractive. Glasses, braces, overweight and some inexplicable belief that I’d never find jeans that could fit me made me hide behind cargo pants, baggy t-shirts and boots. Till today, my cousin will never let me forget that I bought men’s shoes once. To 16-year old me, my (lack of) style made perfect sense. My personality and my taste in music were married. People were supposed to “get” me by knowing what sort of music I listened to. I was into bands like The Smashing Pumpkins, Bush and Garbage. The fact that rock chicks did not dress up like Gavin Rossdale or even Kurt Cobain totally escaped me. Don’t ask me how I didn’t notice that Shirley Manson wore short dresses and looked totally hot while singing “Only Happy When It Rains.” It also didn’t occur to me that the guys I liked were at that age where they might be confused about their sexuality and if they had any sort of attraction to a girl who looked like she could skin a moose in 2 minutes, this could leave some pretty bad scars.

The guy I liked studied at the school my mom worked in. My mom worked in a library and with the sort of curriculum the students had, trips to the library were frequent. Back then, there was no Friendster, Facebook or broadband internet and stalking was done physically. So I’d miss school and follow my mom to work to study in that library. I missed a total of 25 days of school in an academic year, but my grades were fucking awesome. How did that work out? I kept telling myself that if I studied, God would reward me with a glimpse of my crush. Lame, I know. I never said I wasn’t.


One gorgeous afternoon, while I was berating myself for liking someone, my friend Farina stopped me and said, “Being in love is nice, you idiot. Why can’t you just enjoy the feeling?” I’m pretty sure my answer was, “but but but..” and nothing more, but it got me thinking. Why CAN’T I enjoy it? Liking a person makes me all warm and happy inside, and being happy is good, right? Why was I denying myself happiness? Since then, I stopped getting on my case about liking a guy. Nowadays, I only stop short of throwing glitter at people on the streets and farting rainbows when I like someone.

On the fashion front, I discovered plus-size clothes that are stylish and feminine. Not only that, I’ve learned that dressing up like I’m part of the Vans Warped Tour ain’t gonna get me any sugar, if you get what I mean. This doesn’t mean I’ve sacrificed any part of my identity by changing the way I dress up. I just know how to look (somewhat) appealing now and on a good day when I think I may see the object of my affection, I even make an effort. You know, with makeup, earrings and high heels.

You’d think that with the avalanche of social networking sites and the awesome Internet speed here in Moscow, I wouldn’t even have to leave my room to check out what been going on with the apple of my eye. Fat chance. I have to like the one guy who only has an account on a Russian site and rarely does anything there. On the bright side, my class attendance has never been this good. I keep going to class with hopes I’ll see him at the bus stop in the morning, or maybe we’ll be in the same hospital. To make things even better, I still maintain the belief that if I study, God will let me catch a glimpse of him, so my work isn’t suffering, either.

Clearly, I’m much better at this crush thing now. 🙂

Will There Ever Be A Perfect Church?

I’m a Catholic. This means I’m either pious to a fault or I’m a tart. You’ll probably know which I am by the time you’re done reading this.

When I was a kid, I was told that I was expected to attend Sunday School until my Confirmation. I was six when I went for my first class and at the end of it, I asked my mom “So, is Confirmation a long time away?”

Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for the Jesus-died-on-a-cross-so-that-I-can-slurp-cloudy-milkshakes-in-the-sky. I believe in God and I’m very grateful for all the times my ass gets saved when I do something stupid. I’m just not a big fan of all the rules. And there are SO. MANY. RULES.

My family isn’t very conservative, but it’s just my luck that I got the mother who only misses Sunday Mass when she’s at death’s door or something. Naturally, she expects me to be the same. I don’t see the point of going for Mass if I’m going to be daydreaming or falling asleep throughout the whole thing. It’s not very polite and I feel like a hypocrite.

Have you ever tried that sort of excuse with a devout mother? I’m convinced that the only reason she hasn’t disowned me is because I’m her only child. Instead, she has resorted to lecturing me every Sunday morning when I refuse to wake up. To get her to stop, I drag my sorry ass out of bed and get ready to go to church.

When I’m in Moscow, my church attendance is paltry at best. No one notices me and I like it that way. The last thing I need is people expecting me to be there every Sunday. I generally show up before and after exams to ask God to help me pass and to thank God for letting me pass.

I’m home now and last Sunday morning was one of those rare days when I was bright-eyed for Mass. Even my mom was surprised, almost suspicious. If she knew what was going on in my head, she would have figured that it was a false alarm.

I was sitting there, picking holes in everything.

There was a poster of a stick man on a cross. Seriously, this is how we depict the person who died for us? I wouldn’t care if it was a doodle in a notebook (although I may be wondering why someone would doodle a man on a cross), but this is a church. It looked out of place. It looked like a joke.

The church choir seemed to only know one melody for all the hymns. To make matters worse, I felt like they were singing to a group of kindergartners; it all sounded playful and childish. I’m aware that hymns can be dull and they’re trying to liven things up, but the best way to describe my feeling would be to say that I felt patronised. As I was sitting there, listening to people sing as if they were doped up on Prozac, I realised that I bitch about the choir in the Moscow church as well. They’re too old-fashioned and dull.

Then there was the sermon. I’m sure that if I Google some of the keywords, I’ll find it as some excerpt from one of those religious self-help books. I felt a little sad. I don’t know how much priests have to do during the week, but I’d like to think they put in more effort into what should be the highlight of their work week. In Moscow, the priests are French and while their sermons sound more heartfelt, I can’t help but think that some of it gets lost in translation. I don’t know, am I being too demanding?

The clincher for me was when the congregation began reciting a prayer for St.Ignatius, the patron saint of the parish. I didn’t even know what he was the patron saint of, so I just kept quiet. Then I began wondering all sorts of rubbish, like whether anyone in the church considered him their patron saint. My grandma picked St.Jude for my family (She had excellent foresight; he’s the patron saint of hopeless cases) and I rarely even acknowledged his existence. Was everyone just reciting it because they wanted to be good Catholics? Did THEY know what St.Ignatius was the patron saint of? Did it matter? Yes, rubbish thoughts.

I came up with a conclusion. My perfect church would be one where the patron saint would be St. Jude (even though I don’t pay much attention to him), with a choir that is upbeat enough to make me want to sing along, a priest that means what he says and preferably conducts Mass a few solid hours after sunrise.

I may have better luck keeping a dodo as a pet.

The Heart Is Pierced, But The Tongue Bleeds

Between 20th December 2007 and 16th June 2008, three people who were very dear to me passed away. I don’t think that I showed much grief, not more than the average person anyway. Without me realizing at first, these deaths, especially the last two, left a significant mark on me.

Prior to this, I looked at death in a very detached manner. I understood that the pain that comes from the death of a person is simply because we will miss the deceased. I believed that they were headed to a better place, and they were no longer subjected to the nonsense that happens here on Earth.

I still believe those things, but now I know exactly how much I can miss a person and I know exactly how much it can hurt and how long it takes for the pain to go away. I don’t want to feel that for a long, long time.

During those dark six months, a few things happened:

1. The one person I really wanted to comfort me was nowhere to be found. The person’s absence cemented my secret fear: they didn’t care and didn’t want to have anything to do with me at all.

2. The people I had just gotten to know a little better were more comforting than they could have ever known, even though their methods were slightly unconventional to me.

3. I found out that work and anime are excellent distractions.

4. I much rather someone quietly hug me than say something like, “you’re still upset? But he died yesterday!”

All in all, this whole death business changed a very big part of me. I try not to say hurtful things when I’m angry. It’s not easy, since being hurtful is a talent of mine, right up there with hair trimming and making bad jokes. I consciously make an effort to not make something worse than it already is. I worry about those who are dear to me every single day. Most of all, I do everything within my power to make sure that I don’t have many regrets if I do lose any of them.

Why am I bringing this up suddenly? Because there are some people out there who are making me choose between being quiet and keeping the peace with them while others suffer, and saying hurtful things that will make me look like a hypocrite but may force their eyes open.

My Winter Break (I Kid You Not)

I can’t believe I’m going to type this. This used to be my least favourite topic to write about in primary school, and here I am, posting it on my blog for people (yes, all four of you) to read. The exams must have fucked me harder than I recall.

My two-week winter holidays have finally come to an end. I’m looking forward to classes, mainly because this is what I’ve been up to:

1. Swatting flies. Literally. Thanks to Pedro, my half-blind, fully annoying guinea pig. Apparently the perfectly balanced combination of rodent poo, bedding and hidden stashes of food is excellent for breeding noisy, filthy flies. There are so many of them that I’ve gone slightly nutty. I am convinced that they have favourite spots, strategies to avoid me (sitting anywhere above 160 cm from the floor seems to do the trick) and personalities. I’m pretty sure that any sane person will know that I’m expecting too much from an insect that lives for less than a month.

Pedro in his home a.k.a Diptera Love Shack

Either way, I’ve invested in a decent fly swatter. Whenever I go on my daily “hunt”, it looks like I’ve combined badminton with basketball and pro-wrestling. I add pro-wrestling into the mix because there’s a fair amount of smack talk from me while I’m on my killing spree, ranging from “I’m going to kill you and spit upon your buzzing corpse” to “Hah! Go ahead, fuck around with me. Make my day.”

2. Shopping. This one was quite disappointing, not because there weren’t enough outlets with mad sales, or because there was nothing appealing to me. I just can’t shop. I’ve tried. I’ve gone with friends, I’ve gone alone, I’ve tried going early to avoid crowds, I’ve tried going when I had more time than I could care for. For some inexplicable reason, I cannot walk into every shop in a mall and scrutinise every item on display just for the heck of it. I rarely buy stuff because I want it, and even when I do, I rush into a store, quickly scan the place, buy the thing and scurry out. I’ve been in denial for some time now, but last week, when I was impatiently weaving through people to get out of a mall when I has absolutely NO reason to rush, I knew that it was pointless; I just don’t do shopping.

3. Eating. This wasn’t part of the plan, well at least not my plan. My plan was to spend some quality time walking outside with my pedometer on so that I could finally conquer virtual Tokyo and maybe have a small victory in the Tight Jeans Battle. My friends’ plan was to cook all sorts of lovely, decadent meals that would render us motionless after consumption. The choice between gobbling good food and walking in subzero temperatures was not a hard one to make. Class is on Monday, I’ll be wearing track bottoms.

At this rate, my Gynaecology cycle is beginning to look very inviting.

Irregularly Irregular

I could write a whole post on my futile attempts to buy Corteo tickets, but that will probably just make me super bummed. It’s bad enough the damned adverts are plastered in almost every Metro station I go to.

Instead, I shall humour myself (and possibly you) with my soliloquy.

1. The 25th birthday was pretty awesome. There was cake, gifts, ice cream, booze and karaoke. All in that order.

2. For ONCE, I have a really cute, sweet, young, male teacher for a two-week cycle. Have I mentioned that I LOVE November?

3. Snow’s not here yet, and the weather has been pretty decent. I wouldn’t mind the current situation dragging its feet for a while. At least, my pedometer is being put to good use again.

4. There’s a lot to say, but sometimes I don’t know what to say to whom, so it’s probably safer to say nothing to no one.

5. I still need something to excite me. The need is apparently so great that I’ve had dreams of  roller-coasters and Flying Fox. I’m sure being scared out of my mind will do the trick, though.

That’s all, folks!