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.”

BOLLOCKS.

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:

“steroids”

“gay”

“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!

Pudding And Pools

This summer held a lot of promise. While in Moscow, I was told that I would be living in a new place, and not only did this new place have an air-conditioned room for me, it even had a swimming pool. Needless to say, I was really looking forward to coming home.

You see,  my fifth year in med school was nothing less than a bitch in heat that no dog wants to fuck. It was so hectic, I don’t even want to talk about it. You would need to hypnotise me if you wanted to listen to my traumatic experiences. Okay, maybe it wasn’t that bad. It was stressful, which made me eat a lot. When I say, “a lot” what I mean is, “I only stopped short of raiding my guninea pig’s cage for snacks.” Eating a lot made me put on quite a bit of weight. In fact, it’s the weight gain that I find traumatising.

What does my weight have to do with summer, you ask? Everything. A summer in Malaysia usually ends only in one way: with people leaving as proud owners of a second chin. Food is good, cheap and available everywhere. In other words, the chances of the numbers on the scale going down were very, very low.

Now that I live in a condo which has a swimming pool and since I love swimming, you’d think that I’d make full use of the pool and lose all my exam weight. Yeah, sure. Not even my toe has seen the cool, chlorinated water that I had great plans of splashing around in.

Note How I'm Not In The Photo

To make matters worse, I have an uncle who doesn’t snack between meals; one meal just blends in with the next. He doesn’t want to eat alone, so I’m roped in to keep him company. My stomach has forgotten what it feels like to be empty. Poor bastard sure is gonna suffer when I’m back in Moscow.

If you’re wondering whether my uncle is overweight, let me assure you that he is not. He does enough exercise to keep 3 middle-aged women fit. What he fails to understand is that I barely do enough exercise to keep myself fit. In fact, I probably do just enough to not get a heart attack.

This awful combination of minimal exercise and obscene amounts of food has led to the fastest weight gain I have ever experienced in my life, and I am quite the expert when it comes to..ahem..excess baggage. I’ve only been home for 24 days. Shorts that fit me when I arrived can’t go past my bum anymore and the loose T-shirts that I bought last week show off a pretty revolting bulge where my hip bones used to be ( I prodded and poked, I can’t find them anymore.) There’s only so much shrinkage I can blame on my clothes’ dryer.

That said, I sadly admit defeat and accept that getting into a size-10 dress is a bit like riding a pink and turquoise talking unicorn to Narnia.

Far and Wide

My womanly post is half done, it’ll get here somehow. Today is another set of nonsense.

  1. Infectious Diseases’ cycle is done. Thank God. What kind of mutated person can speak for 3 hours non-friggin’-stop? There are some neurons that I’ve written eulogies for already.

    A Place Where Even Insanity is Contagious

  2. There’s this Nike pedometer thingy on my new iPod and when it syncs with the Nike+Active thingy, it has this cool point system which correlates to the number of steps I’ve walked. Being an air-headed bimbo, it totally made me want to walk till I got enough points to virtually cross the Brooklyn Bridge. Because something like this may make my jiggly finally go away, Fate decided to let it rain the whole day.

    "New York" Here I Come!

  3. Gynaecology cycle has begun. I observed a few normal vaginal examinations. One word: OUCH! Why are all the instruments so big, metallic and scary looking?!! I’m totally not looking forward to my first gynae appointment, which probably should be soon. Is it too late for a sex change?

    Say, "AAAARRRHHHHHH!!!!!"

Okay, I’m done for today.

Point Yet To Be Determined

Honest to God, I really want to write a proper post. I really want to blog. Unfortunately, I feel like a has-been pop-star trying to churn out anything possible just to get noticed. I have ideas for posts, but all my material is in Moscow, or the timing isn’t right for whatever I want to write. With that said, all I’m left with are randoms.

  1. My doctor has a brilliant way of saying I put on weight. Brace yourself for this one. “It’s gotten harder to find your vein, eh?”
  2. My facial wasn’t as embarrassing as it was last year. At least, this year my face was “quite okay”. Last year, the beautician was stuttering when she wanted to tell me that my face was ” actually..uh..well..um..quite..aah…not so good lah”. I’m sure what she meant to say was, ” You ogress, I’d rather exfoliate the rear end of a Sumatran rhinoceros than touch your skin.”
  3. My hair. It’s official: I need hair loss shampoo and hair friggin’ tonic. I have the hairstyling regime of a middle-aged man. Seriously, if you’re observant enough, you’ll realize that my bangs are actually a comb-over. This is called karma kicking me in the follicles for laughing at my Pure Math teacher in college and teasing Abilash.
  4. Isn’t it kinda funny how people rate one’s worth and level of integrity with the activity of their genitals? I mean, think about it. Just because some chick likes to be physical, she’s automatically not respectable? What if she helps out  charitable associations without bragging about it, or works hard to earn an honest living to support her family? That doesn’t count for anything? All that matters is that she likes to put out?
  5. How do we decide who is worth impressing and to what extent do we go to impress them? How much has to go wrong before we cut our losses and move on? Should we even bother with impressing people? How do we tell whether we are being ourselves or subconsciously trying to impress others?

Feel free to answer anything that ends with a question mark. I like answers.