Category Archives: Reflection

Blogging Goes in Deeper than Social Intercourse

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Blogging is public sex, or masturbation in the least (yes, I’m still God’s little virgin. Bless me), albeit one without the physical excitation save for the orgy of triggered nerve impulses in my retina.

Disturbing, I know, but if I cannot even state what I have in mind (which flashed for but a second) in the virtual world, why I might as well join the Skulls and Bones Brotherhood (a secret society with a secret unbeknownst to this testosterone-filled intelligentsia but me: I am WOMAN, one and only, hear me not).

Rosie the Riveter

So why the bawdy, South Park worthy analogy? Why not compare it with the more innocuous acts of singing, of breastfeeding, of smacking gum? Singing, my dear, has its many modulations (unless you’re Ken Nordine singing droning ‘Orange’) and can be a ticket to gaining popularity and security in reality. Yes, the virtual world with all its colours and adjustable lighting and offerings of global surfing and non-archaeological Diggs is not real! The very notion of us bloggers’ desires to increase traffic is inconceivable; If all the governments in the world are to announce the implementation of halt/ increase traffic policies worldwide simultaneously, a Guinness world record of the highest number of mouths agape will be broken… and being the Delphic wonder that I am, I’m forecasting the record will be broken at peak hour.

No, seriously.

But of course, I’m deliberately omitting the magic word ‘blog’ here. As for breastfeeding from what I’ve unwillingly perceived throughout the years, it is quite all sucky business for both sides. The sound of smacking wads of gum need I really say, is galling, oh-my-god-I’ve-recreated-my-neighbour-in-my-caput stuff even to the chewer himself.

Perhaps blogging is just that, blogging, and is so incomparable it transcends all attempts to categorise it.

Does this though, elicit any particular response from you?

Might I also say, Wikipedia is quite the Don Juan?

Quite the Don Juan, indeed.

I guess my blog isn’t really much of a turn-on in the long run until recently. Blogging once in a blue moon gives way to days of extravagant blogging which is also reflected in:

Shut your eyelids!

It stings the blogger’s pride too when an expectant day of blogging is ignored by readers. You hear me? This is coming from one victim out of billions worldwide, of blog impotency. Despite the ubiquitousness of the Internet, Blog Viagra® is alas, non-existent as of April 2010.

I’ll end this unorthodox rebel of a post with an excerpt I found on and let it suffice to say that ‘Tottering in the Zephyrs of Escapism’ will not be as distastefully explicit in the future- I am seeing myself as a male eighth-grader, with face made craggy with zits and eyes secretly occupied with crumpled copies of Playboy. Oh no!:

“it seems to me that talking about your blog traffic is kind of like discussing the frequency that you’re fucking. Either you’re not getting any and lamenting or you’re bragging and inflating the truth. Either way, it’s always awkward and often dishonest.”


The Allure of Unrequited Love

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“Why do you feel you need narcotics Mr. Lee?”

“I need it to get out of bed in the morning, to shave and eat breakfast.”

‘Junky’ by William Burroughs

Unrequited love is junk which perfectly counterbalances Mr. Burrough’s symptoms. With it, one cannot “get out of bed in the morning, to shave and eat breakfast”.

So what is it about unrequited love that causes us to keel over with legs akimbo with misted, teary eyes as we woolgather on our beds, or to crook our smiles to that of a goosey pudding-head (think ‘Dumb and Dumber’ promotional posters), or to voodoo our heads to function like my Kevin Rudd bobblehead figure (“yes, yes, of course we’ll give them their financial rights. When? We will, okay. But of course, there will be no gay marriage, absolument nada, don’t you worry Reverend So-and-so, we esteem the traditional… ancient Greeks? Yes, what about them?”) for our unwitting loves’ requests.

Can you goddamn send me messages that are over six words long? How can you not see me? Woohoo? Come on, come on, talk to me already, you see those friends every single weekday and me… well, I am withering from being able to see you only twice a month average these four years!!! What grievous deeds have I committed to be shackled to you? Where are the keys to quit you once and for all? Let me quit. I want to quit you. I must quit you.

I cannot.

Addicted to love.

I cannot.

Anyway, during these six miserable years (scantly peppered with minutes of expectant joy throughout), I’ve never mustered enough courage to move the earth under my feet… I still hear my pathetic scrapes against this arid earth, waiting for a drizzle, a rain, a tempest to colour this sorry sight.  I dream of gazing askance at my love whilst holding hands, blanketed by 1825 tulips to mark my five years’ loneliness, I dream of thornless red roses entwining us closer and closer, of snuggling together and discussing Breakfast at Tiffany’s at 2 am by firelight, of laughing over our disastrous but innocent endeavours to prepare a meal, of sitting on the kitchen floor, whispering, screaming the words “I love you.”.

Five to six years out of seventeen, jailed in a dream. I don’t feel young.

The deep chasm erected between the two of us, one that mockingly returns empty echoes of my pleas,  is always there. Always. Where is the long-awaited earthquake which will collide our posts together?

Damn, I am desperate, and smothered, with invisible walls closing in around me.

In the meantime, I’m married to my iPod wishing that someday, I’ll supplant my songs with songs which celebrate reciprocated love.

What can I say? Having my heart manacled by an unsuspecting jury is the sweetest nightmare.

‘The Art Teacher’ by Rufus Wainwright poignantly oozes unrequited love, with style.

Discovering whiffs of me in ‘Benny and Joon’

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And they sure are pungently sweet- you know, a potpourri of cinnamon, fairy-floss and indeed, the sharper smelling juniper (for the sake of convenience; Juniper is the lead female character of this stunning film). Starring the incorrigibly gorgeous Johnny Depp as an eccentric hubcap-twirler, Buster Keaton aspirant, connoisseur of the art of ironing sandwich slices, the sweet romantic comedy possesses an abstruser, somewhat deeper strain of reality through its emotional sashays from the inventively whimsical to bitingly real, now humorously deadpan, now tear-wrenching (though not for me… my tear ducts, I believe, are reserved only for the self-pitying episodes during  turbulent pre-exam or post-debacle moments). Depp’s fantabulous performance as well as Mary Stuart Masterson’s as Joon and Aidan Quinn’s as Benny really set the flavour of ‘Benny and Joon’ (1993), magically transmuting what could have been a sappy chick flick into a classic genre-defying ‘film’ (though I guess it lies comfortably within the romantic comedy genre).

Capable of thawing even the iciest of hearts, ‘Benny and Joon’ is tastefully colourful in palette and sense (i.e. it provides the much needed absence of garish bloody scenes, sex scenes– though a single cinemaphile like me cannot thrive long without them, the latter in particular ;P). Plus I now know that wool setting is really the only recommended one for making the best grilled cheese. Best practised on an ironing board, too.

And sweet Jesus, I must get this poster! Off to haunt the poster store in Newtown.

Excuse me for the many odd expressions employed this night. I’ve been criticised many a times so please be kind. 🙂

Meet Sammy Davis Jnr. Jnr. and co.

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An intense examination period has flitted away, and a fleeting anticipation of all things sweet and saccharine awaits.


Now, reflecting upon the tediousness of high school life and the warped correlation between the labour input and the output (bloody marks), I must confess (and I am so glad that this blog is unearthed by inquisitive e-prowlers… it’s too fucking embarrassing) that I am extremely disappointed. My dashing hopes can only be vented via a potpourri of sheebus-outlets, viz. genetic undesirability, hereditary procrastinator’s compulsion, possible onsets of catamenia, forgetting to bring along my lucky pen/pencil/bracelet/bra/note etc.

The list goes on.

So you see, I have cause for celebration yet.

After being dismally discharged from an English task concerning Shakespeare and Foer (who used to be my favourite, favourite author to being meh), I’ve decided to relive Foer’s genius again, this time, with the aid of the silver screen. ‘Everthing is Illuminated’ directed by neophyte director Liev Schreiber is an amazing telly experience, though it lacks the multifarious flavours of its original counterpart. Now, I’d love to detail the happenings and I-love-this-hate-thats of the film, but tempting as they are, I’ll pass. Alexander Perchov, also dubbed Alex because it is a ‘more flaccid-to utter version’ of Alexander and an American-Jewish collector with a shocking OCD issue masterly emoted by Elijah Wood bestow the film its well-deserved commendations. That is it. Oh, and I LOVE Sammy Davis Jnr, Jnr., the Michael-Jackson trotting border collie (image inserted below).

NTS: I’ll blog about other films and literary works sometime, including the psychedelic experience of ‘Across the Universe’ directed by Taymor, the 1978 BBC version of ‘As You Like It’ starring the most amazing actress Helen Mirren, and ‘The Diving-Bell and the Butterfly’- a poignant memoir narrated firsthand by Bauby, a man literally trapped in his skin.

It’s been the  most ‘premium’ fun writing for this ‘first-rate’ blog. Now, to ‘manufacturing Z’s’.

In the words of Porky Pig, ‘That’s all, Folks!’

Porky Pig oinks toodles!