2011 for me was marked by noises, garish colours, fears and hopes; a pyrolytic fusion of new experiences and a lust for excitement. Much to the (overtaxed) agony of my family, I was out most nights, late and reeking of debauchery and city streets. People often tell me that they find me very much changed in every possible way; they do this without fail.
And 2012 is no exception. I have retreated to savouring a quieter existence, some miles away from my usual syringes-and-used-condoms strewn hangouts. I must confess I do enjoy it. I’m not alone for I have my cat, my dearest Mowgli. Instead of flesh and bloodied friends, I have claimed Tite Kubo’s ‘Bleach’ characters for mine. I dare say I’m pretty un-cool in that respect. Funnily though, I’ll be relying on my homework to rescue me from whatever demise that an unhealthy obsession with Japanese animation would bring. Just yesterday, I’ve done a live radio broadcast at the University, the success of which has supercharged my own lacking social and aspirations life bars.
For every close bond that I forge, I inadvertently sever 80 others. So, my initial 400 ‘acquaintances’ have dwindled to a comfortable company of not five, but three. Some executions had been difficult for me. Nevertheless casual love flings still do come and go, but I’ve decided to postpone the chase until next year, when I will leave my present abode. For the moment, I will fulfil that which people once expected of me: e.g. to be a shameless producer of wonderful scholastic grades, a consumer of free keratin… and all in a black trench-coat. From the ashes, I will wait, and hope that the next junctures of my life will be ablaze with happiness, and nothing more. I will continue to visit the rivers of Lethe; for no good ever comes out of revisiting history. After all, history has always been my weakest subject.
I’ll leave you with a terrific song, girls and boys. It’s Eminem’s ‘Lose Yourself’. ;P
Howdy. It’s been quite some time since I’ve tickled your taste for vulgarity. You must, however, give me some credit for being unusually thoughtful in that I have chosen to not publish the few entries I have written in my absence on WordPress. Think of the black syrup administered to sickly children who are unfortunate enough to not have mastered the all-important skill of swallowing pills. Think of the time(s) you’ve suddenly snorted Revlon Colorstay Mineral Foundation, shade #050. Those are exactly the kinds of things you’ve been missing in my leave.
I’ve been attempting to pick my life up again by re-connecting with the strangers whom I’ve chanced upon in times of tedium. So far, I’ve traipsed about Sydney’s Dee Why (a quirky name for a squeaky clean beach-hood), sung with the quenched weeping willows at the Chinese Garden of Friendship (which is mawkishly but very aptly named), umm-ed and ahh-ed at the diminished collection of street art at the derelict Cockatoo Island, and had an all-out Korean night with my Political Economy buddy. I also window-shopped at the Blue Mountains, a good three hours from where I live.
Of course, it would be remiss of me to not announce that I had my first day of work as an Events & PR ‘Officer’! My band of overly-enthusiastic co-officers rammed in me, the duties that I should, that I could, that I should consider, that I could consider doing. And why not? Am I not one fine applicant who knows five languages and must thus impress them all with explosive shows of initiative? Am I not Vicky, who is so victoriously named and must thus be so in person? Am I not young and charged with lipids and hormones that glandular-ly shackle the need for sleep?
I could only blush like a faux gold-plated brass tack, as I was pressed against these lofty expectations. From a luminous sheen, I dulled to a tiring shade of ochre. To be sure, I was excited, and my agitation was manifest in my always-fidgeting fingers which busied themselves with brushing off the slaking sheet of dust that collected atop my sweating self. But still they lay upon me, layers upon layers of dust, fears of disappointment upon my veneer of competence.
I wanted to do well, and I will try. I need a panacea of sorts to help with the digestion of my old tear-inducing nemesis: fear.
Nevertheless, I feel blessed to be entrusted with the task of building upon the dreams and smiles of youth, and of realising opportunities and happiness for myself. Employment for a grand cause—that is, to publish the voices of my entrepreneurial peers and to stimulate conversations that matter, could be my ultimate elixir. To bathe in it could gently eat away my inflamed worries and cares, my heavy armour. Goodness knows what is contained within said armour, but surely, I could do no worse without it. I’d have space from which to breathe steadily and grow, space to iron out my frowns and winces. The mind could then become a flourishing forest, one that invites in all things pleasant—colours, life, and warmth. The bad would be more easily processed as the basinet, which has only served to build blind spots and to choke its wearer, is removed.
Schmaltzy as this will sound to you, my dear reader, I believe that we are all phoenixes. We are conceived anew through the ashes of time and wild sorrow.
And so we breathe again, in the clearing air.
p.s. You have Cutex Strengthening Nail Polish Remover to thank for today’s inspirational blog entry (that, or for me rushing through it like a manic Shinkansen). The liquid positively reeks!
A country song for the aspiring cow-pokes in all of us! Forgive me for the sharp turn from phoenixes and all things medieval. Yee-haw, it’s k.d. lang’s ‘
Changed My Mind‘, ‘ Diet of Strange Places’, ‘ WTF YOutUbe?!‘, ‘ Curious Soul Astray‘, ‘ You’re testing my patience, youtube… OMG am I blocked?!‘, ‘Got the Bull by the Horns’, which really sums up this post!
Have you ever lost to a book?
I have. I stand before a cheerless crowd, vying for attention of my heart-crusher as I battle against a paperback by Toni Morrison called fuckin’-something-or-other. On this court of friendship and hushed, fagged-out love, the book is Victoria Azarenka whilst I am mummy’s British monkey, Andy Murray.
The metonymical Azarenka emerges victorious in a most unlikely match to claim the equally metaphorical prize, that is, the coveted Black Exotic Oxidised Trophy. But me, a surly, postmodern Neanderthal defeated by a pretty Soviet girl in plaits? Unthinkable!
Likewise, the same baffled expression has been contorting the symmetry of my face for much of yesterday. The shock of Rafael Nadal’s narrow defeat by the world’s top seeded tennis player, Novak Djokovic, has unleashed a torrent of tears that seeps into the cracks of age, past the godforsaken T-Zone where the Cooperative of Angry Pimples (Cr.A.P!) forever resides, and deep, deep into my bleeding heart.
And I have no real lover by my side. No one to fling their fat fingers into the air perilously near my (more) aesthetically-pleasing ones. No one with whom I’d riotously share my TV diet comprising of House, tennis, Peppa Pig, tennis and more tennis. No one with whom I’d compare the rate of sagging in breasts. No one to belly laugh, wish or cry with.
It’s never “with”, but always “for”.
I wish to be with someone important.
I wish to never be without.
I wish to drain the tears that weigh down the lightness of my being.
I wish to use “with”, and sometimes “for”.
I want to be happy.
My mother glutted on the choicest oriental delicacies when she was heavy with me. Abalones, oysters, shark’s fin, bird’s nests, finely iced desserts, you name it. You are what you eat. You reap what you sow.
Once exquisite life forms have been used to construct me.
Oysters, once shelled are ugly, naked, things, wet in the remembrances of the sea. Still living, so long as they are not dried.
Me? I have my sea-wet shell, but it has been prised open. So much so, that if you’ll just peer into me hard enough, you might see the parched heart, the murmur of faded hopes, sunken hollows pierced by hungry fangs, and the empty dent that once cushioned a pearl of satin iridescence.
Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero. Only the latter part is feasible!
That being said, my visit to my psychiatrist is overdue.
Curses! I knew replacing Mister Mascara with a Manicare curler was not the best of ideas. In his spite, the act of replacing the former has landed me with an Overdrawing Approval Fee of $10. And all because I went over my already anorexic balance by $1.63?!
I totally disapprove.
Isn’t it a horror that the richer you are, the lower the fees you pay? Heck, you even could afford to moisten your lips with driblets of Veuve Clicquot-coated saliva, thanks to your morbidly obese savings, compounded interest, and what have you. This pauper’s throat is parched of low $ self-worth. I drink (sometimes) contaminated tap water. You point out that I live in a city governed by regulations (rightly) imposed by our many hypochondriacs. I point at the German cockroaches by the tank, and the mound of tissues that have dutifully shielded my lady fists from pummelled cockroach guts.
I’m not insinuating anything here of the Germanic race. Only their disease-carrying bugs.
Somehow, the cockroaches had it in their little bile-coloured brains that my apartment is Gordon Ramsay’s kitchen. Naturally, this is a tourist hotspot for either human or cockroach.
Much like the great Ramsay himself (I don’t know how great. His looks don’t appeal to me as much as that of Jamie Oliver, so I cannot judge his culinary expertise without thinking of his absent physical hotness), I more than sometimes sling shots of vengeful expletives when displeased. And nothing displeases me more than the sight of a cockroach of any gender, sex, sexuality and type.
In conclusion, I have an alter-ego named Gordon Ramsay who presents himself in the company of one cockroach or more.
Now back to the topic of my poverty:
Don’t go lecturing to broke students about the huge drain income and luxury taxes that leech onto your Alfa Romeos (which are fucking awesome) and your Rolexes (and I cannot emphasise how fucking ugly these are). On the subject of watches, I recommend ‘Zodiac’, ‘Maurice Lacroix’ or the more pocket-friendly ‘Police’ for men. For the ladies, I recommend the same men’s watches, because I staunchly believe that women should be able to tell the time too, and not from anorexic bracelet things. Because squinting, my lovelies, does vicious things to one’s worry lines.
You never know who’s got a watch fetish. That ain’t me. But here’s a tip to all my gay male friends out there: I repeat, you never know who’s got a watch fetish.
I have a thing for rings and cyberpunk jewellery. Don’t ask me, I still have a pickle of a time figuring out the differences between the subspecies of punk. To me, cyberpunk is ‘cleaner’ than the other strains of punk. Rather like a Mac computer, as opposed to a Windows PC. But cyber-villains are using Macs these days anyway, in jolly ol’ Tinseltown. So there’s always that grungy element. But hey, hold your Trojan horses, I may be completely wrong.
I’ve managed to squeeze in the Blade Ear Cuff (with stud) into my virtual shopping trolley. It’s been, say, a decade, since I last had my ears pierced. Zomg, don’t I sound old now? n.b. This slangy ‘Zomg’ interjection was strategically incorporated into the sentence to temper the semblance of aging. The piercings parlour where I will get my ears punctured, will have Just Acces to thank for the extra lobar business. Just Acces, in turn, has Rooney Mara from ‘The Girl with a Dragon Tattoo’ to thank for my sudden obsession with socially alienating accoutrement.
Mmm, j’adore les pièces suivantes!
This ‘YOUR FRENCH WON’T SAVE YOU NOW’ ring positively reeks of me, in a positive way, but at $168? (Why I’ll just not eat that extra $168 of course! Friends, bar me from Oyster Bar, Circular Quay):
To think that it should cost more than a one-way flight to Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia!
Anyway, I’ve been writing this blog entry with half-hearted attentiveness as my right eye has been glued to the telly all the while. It’s Lleyton Hewitt versus Novak Djokovic and it certainly looks that the latter would prevail. Though there is always room for miracles to happen, as my favourite commentator Sam Smith wisely said during the edge-of-my-seat match between Maria Sharapova and Sabine Lisicki. Rafael Nadal aside, I tend to have an uncanny preference for the underdog in men’s singles tennis. For the women, I choose them on the basis of their outfit and victory speeches. Superficial?! I bloody think so too.
Omg, Djokovic has already nabbed two sets. I need to end my bizarre ophthalmic multi-tasking here and shall conclude today’s entry with a list of my favourite tennis players and the reasons for which I chose them. Take heed, you will be alarmed:
- Rafael Nadal
Why: Because he’s got the warmest smiling face after a victory. Plus he is Spanish and has amazing tennis moves (I don’t know what the technical term for fancy backline footwork is). Liking Nadal automatically places both Djokovic and Federer onto my I-don’t-like list. I don’t go for complex triangle lovin’.
- Sam Stosur
Why?: She’s Australian and she’s my kind of wonderful. Need I say more?
- Justine Henin
Why?: I forget why. But she is hugely talented, albeit retired.
- Alexandr Dolgopolov
Why?: His name, damn it.
- Sam Smith
Why?: She’s also my kind of wonderful. Plus, she has a British accent. I’ve never watched her play though.
- Maria Sharapova
Why?: I believe she’s the first player I’ve ever watched. And oddly enough, I don’t mind her >96dB grunting. Mais non, je ne suis pas du tout une perverse.
- UPDATE: Lleyton Hewitt
Why?: He just made me cry when he one his first set against Djokovic, 2012 Australian Open.
‘Too Darn Hot’ by Ella Fitzgerald should totally be blasting through the speakers at Rod Laver Arena right now:
Huh, I’ve got a taste of guerrilla paparazzi on Saturday, when two presumably Korean tourists asked to take pictures of me near the Queen Victoria Building. They thought I was Korean. I corrected them, citing my exotic good looks as coming from my South East Asian mother. I don’t think they understood me. The uncannier thing was, when I got home many hours later, I had a Facebook friend request from a Korean stranger. Either that’s the hugest coincidence to ever occur on a Saturday afternoon, or they somehow got hold of my full name without mugging or threatening or pleading me. Very odd. I don’t get many friend requests, let alone one from Seoul.
Soon after the little incident, I watched ‘The Girl with a Dragon Tattoo’ with a film buff/ curator wannabe. May I just say that I’ve found an idol in David Fincher, the director of this film as well as the great cult films of our time: ‘Fight Club’, ‘The Curious Case of Benjamin Button’, ‘Panic Room’, ‘Seven’, and my personal favourite, ‘Zodiac’ (starring the yummy Jake Gyllenhaal). If you’re into film noir that’s darker than the winter solstice, that’s just as stylish as Daphne Guinness in icy platinum fit, then hop into your brogues and dash to your nearest cinema. Within, you’d be held spellbound by the talents of the stellar cast, most notably Rooney Mara who plays the kick-ass protagonist Lisbeth Salander. You’d have full frontal and back views of human depravity (oxymoron? I think not). You’d wish you took those acting classes when you were little so you could have a 0.00000000000000000000001% chance of baring all à la Lisbeth in a critically-acclaimed film, and you’d resent living Down Under where said classes are few and far between. You’d slaver like an idiot in parts. To my credit, I held my tongue and my libido during the more blood-curdling scenes.
Okay, I’m not one for writing reviews. I could do that impromptu (and hesitantly) along the arty-farty Eastern Avenue stretch at my University.
So let’s go over how I’ve been. Yes, I’m afraid this is a very self-centred post, but what else would you expect to get from a writer with parsnipfeet? Ain’t likely that I could fit in another’s shoes, let alone think in them, now could I?
I am sick. I’ve ravaged the box of Kleenex Eucalyptus with aching fingers. Thank the goddesses the date of my interview has been postponed until Monday since my interviewer is not back from her holidays yet. Now I have a few more days to think of an answer to “Soooooo, tell me about yourself!” or “What is your favourite book?”.
I’m desperate to have this placement because: a) it would shut my relations up, b) it’ll be my first step on a path strewn with media contacts and hopefully, riches, and c) I need a confidant and from what I hear of this organisation, there’ll be many within who’d fit the bill: gay and single of either sex. It’s social nirvana.
My nostrils are already clearing at the prospect.
I spoke too soon. I’ve just received an email from another organisation, that they’ve already employed two Media Coordinators and will contact me in a few months if I’m still looking for a job.
DAMN. I knew leaving the cover letter hanging for a fortnight was a bad idea.
On a different, but no less despondent note, I present you ‘Sweet Painted Lady’ by Elton John. It’s a song about a prostitute. I adore it.
I have self-destructive attachment issues. If I had a penis, I could attribute it to the Oedipal complex, but since I started this sentence with the conditional clause ‘if’, one could assume that I possess the complete female works and so I cannot link my emotional shortfall to that of an ancient Theban king.
My favourite friend is about to leave for Fiji tomorrow, and I haven’t the heart (or geographic comprehension) to check out where on earth Fiji is. Before he announced his sudden desire to intern there for over a month as an engineer, I’ve never given a second’s thought about Fiji. A country whose name has two i’s out of four characters seemed to me, as highly insulated, even self-centred. At any rate, he’s getting that tan he so desired all right. Fiji, pfft. Why not Cuba? There are hot dancers there to wean him off his insatiable need to showcase his perilous salsa moves, at least.
Why not Sydney, until I could find another similar agent of corruption? FYI, it took me two dozen university societies, double that amount of parties and gatherings, and three further chance encounters to find a friend in him, to entrust him with all that I am. He’s my zip-lock bag of me and my shame, as I am his.
I’m surprised that during our many slapdash, slipshod, slam-bang dances, we’ve never danced to the point where you’d see me rattle about in golden crutches with a garden of blisters in full bloom on the soles of my two left feet. No, we get only bashful glances (including glares from me directed at him), or offers of the choicest crack from touchy-feely pedlars. To our credit, we never smoked any. He despised junkies, whilst I hold them in a sort of distanced admiration. I’m something of an outcast, but I’m no William Burroughs. I am an obsessive person myself, one who is prone to addiction, even with seemingly the most innocuous of things. To compound my already pathetic personality with drug use would be calamitous, catastrophic, cataclysmic! I wouldn’t be that pathetic parsnipfeet blogger who pines after her friends even before they are due to go away for two months. No, I think I’d lose them for months eternal.
I’m not friendless quite yet, for there are three more to knock down, and until then, Herr Pedlar, we won’t haggle.
But what of the 350 odd friends you have on Facebook and the lonesome two on Google+, you ask? Let me clarify that for you. When I use the term ‘friend’ on secret soppy blogs such as this, I couldn’t give two flying fucks about my Facebook or Google+ ‘friends’, except for the two within who are fuckin’ fly in my tatty books. Seriously, who uses Google+? What I mean to say is, my friends are the physical embodiments of mind-bogglingly powerful relationships which I’d sever only after the Fates have done so with mine. I.e., only after my death, for those of you who are not well versed with the Grecian fables and were scratching your heads.
Don’t be too alarmed, though. I am a very happy person and am always on the watch for catching fuckin’ fly homeboys.
Bon voyage, bowlful of red grapes that is making its way down my alimentary canal, dying it crimson.
Bon voyage, mon ami. Tu me manqueras.
This marks the end of Sulk Week. Tomorrow, my close university pal returns. Roll in Tarantino and hide David Lynch! Mazel tov.
In honour of those who have recently fed me kryptonite while making sure I still feel like Wonder Fuckin’ Woman through it all:
The English version:
I’ve spent the last half hour interviewing myself but brought it to a halt as a nosy neighbour peered in to gloat at the display of self-reciprocated self-lovin’. I was talking to myself for good reason too, so scrap your psychoanalytical scribbles and read on.
Just yesterday, I returned a call at half past twelve (only because I was still slumbering on when the calls blasted my phone at noon but to no avail), that came from my (hopefully future) employer. Hear this: I might become a Public Relations intern someplace in Sydney’s Ultimo!
But now, don’t you think you could trick me into releasing the name of the organisation yet, because goodness knows that I’m extremely capable of bullshitting rivulets of murky sewage, both verbal and tangible, through all my orifices, when I am nervous.
But fingers and toes crossed that this position is the one for me and only me, made just for me, who will love only me, who will always be there for me… that this is my ‘it’, my ‘Hideki’.
Thank the goddesses I’ve bought a new pair of eyelash curlers for the event, though Manicare can never live up to its lost predecessor, Mister Mascara. Lost, because my tomboy of a friend was so ultra-fascinated with the latter’s clamping actions, brought it someplace (my bed, I shouldn’t wonder), and well, lost herself along with it. Rust in peace, Mister Mascara. I shed my lashes in your honour. If not, Manicare would anyway. It’s a darned vicious thing.
Ready for a change in subject matter? I note your desperate nod of approval and so in three, two, one…
Unbeknownst to all but my cat, I sing a lot, mainly Perry Como tunes because I could sing scream ‘em out of tune an octave below my usual conversational pitch, and no one would notice since no one in my slummy ghetto knows who this wonderful but dead codger is anyway. My favourite singers, you might as well know now before you bruise my heart by posting a gaffe on my parsnip of a blog, are k.d. lang and Serge Gainsbourg. Be well warned. You cannot escape my gushing praises of said duo. I’m not diagnosed with bipolar disorder. Yet.
So I’m writing about myself to an audience of almost exclusively myself, at a most uncharacteristic hour, at 4:36 p.m., as opposed to ante meridiem.
I’m bringing self-lovin’ to daylight, babes.
In memory of Mister Mascara, I give you ‘Tomboy’, by one of my favourite dead oldies, Perry Como: