Human Trafficking, Slavery, and Twisted A-Holes

Slavery still exists in the world today. A lucrative trade and business, human trafficking is becoming one the top criminal activities around the world today. Labor exploitation, sexual exploitation … any kind of exploitation possible … all for a profit, enforced with beatings, rape, threats, lies, and possibly, death. Though some international leaders have spoken out against this practice, more cooperation, education, and legislation are needed to put an end to this unjust practice.

According to the Somaly Mam Foundation, “Many people are shocked to hear that more people are enslaved today than at the height of the transatlantic slave trade.”

Somaly Mam, the reputable Cambodian activist and creator of the foundation, was sold into sexual slavery as a young girl.  During her period of servitude, she was forced to work in brothels, where she experienced emotional, physical, and sexual abuse.  After escaping the evil clutches of sexual slavery, she decided to dedicate her life to fighting human trafficking, helping victims receive necessary assistance as they re-enter society.

The Somaly Mam Foundation’s Info:

“The Somaly Mam Foundation is a 501c3 nonprofit public charity working to end slavery. With the vision and leadership of world renowned Cambodian activist, Somaly Mam, the foundation strives to get to the root of human trafficking. The global vision will allow the activities currently in the United States and South East Asia to expand to other countries around the world.”

If you are interested in learning more about human trafficking, please visit the links below:

Human Trafficking.org
Human Trafficking Search
Polaris Project: ActionCenter

Disturbing John McCain Video

Warning:  Do not watch this video if you want to avoid seeing pictures of dead people.

I found this video on YouTube, but it’s one of the better compilations I’ve seen over the last couple of months.  Motivations and intentions aren’t always hidden.  Most declarations are done in the open, with people watching and listening – only these declarations are shared openly with those that share the same beliefs.  Thus, a lot of these declarations rarely end up on the news.

It seems McCain, Bush, Rummsy, and other neoconservatives find humor in all the death, lies, and manipulation.  Astounding.  Unbelievable. Gut-wrenching.  Watch and listen to this video as our leaders joke about war, death, destruction, abuse of power.  A glimpse into the minds of those who seek the Highest Office for the worst purposes.

What is your reaction to the video?  Does it bother you?  Do you consider it be bad or good propaganda?  I am interested in reading a variety of people’s reactions.

More Obama Bang for Your Vote

Widespread emails are circulating on the Internet that Obama has his very own celebrity sex video.   Though it would be an interesting development in this current Jerry Springer-like election, the video doesn’t exist.  Those wacky spammers never take a break, but at least they keep us entertained with fascinating subject lines and wild-ass comments. The next step is an actual video with some dude who looks like Obama.

Read More About Obama’s Fake Sex Video

Enough

I took a break from my catch-up work to stay in touch with the Democratic National Convention last week.  My political leanings have varied over the years, which I figure is the natural course of things.  As I get older my perception changes and I re-fine (or re-define) my opinion on certain issues, but I generally stay close to “home”, meaning it’s rare for me to change my mind entirely on a given issues.  Rather, what seems to change is the degree to which I am willing to invest time and emotion into a given issue.

As some of you know, the Obama Coupon represented VibeReview’s official support.  But I didn’t reveal my own thoughts on Obama, because I didn’t want to strain any existing relationships – both personal and professional, sometimes with the two mingling.  Strange as it may seem, I wanted to wait until the DNC to discuss political matters on this blog.  My hesitancy: I wanted to see substance and style, not rhetorical bravo alone – which I felt had been Obama’s main contribution during the primaries.  Of course, at no point did I consider voting for John McCain, a man who has proven himself incapable of truly understanding women – what motivates us, what appeals to us, what we really want, and how we want to live our lives.

(I use “we” very loosely, I know.  I don’t intend to be the singular voice of all women, so please don’t be offended.  My only motivation in doing so is to share my own wants, wishes, and hopes that I know parallel so many other women’s hopes, dreams, wishes, and wants.)

So, Obama sealed up my vote when Hillary Clinton lost in the primaries.  No, I have no lingering bitterness toward what happened during the primaries, as I don’t see such sentiments as being productive in the short-term or long-term.   At this point, during these uncomfortably dysfunctional times, I felt that I couldn’t waste my vote on an Independent Party.  Reform must come from within the two main parties, if this country is going to overcome current obstacles.  While the primaries proved upsetting, I did recognize some of Obama’s brilliance, eagerness, and desire to lead.

Then I watched Obama’s speech.

Impressed?  Inspired?  Grateful?  Humbled?  Excited?  Connected?

All of those things and more.  I feel like I was smacked with a wake up call – not only as it pertains to my own individual actions, but also as it relates to participating in community affairs.  I can be better than I am without feeling bad about where I’ve been.

This is huge.

Breakthrough.

Wild.

I felt a sense of responsibility to my fellow citizens.  Probably for the first time in my life.  Don’t get me wrong, I am a failure on a daily basis if I don’t treat people with respect (even those who don’t deserve it).  I care about people.  But this was a new sense of purpose.  A calling, if you will.  Now I don’t want anyone thinking I’ve fallen off the sanity-wagon, because I am still obsessed with self.  (Sounds silly as hell to admit, but I suppose we are obsessed with self to an extreme.  Only, well, we may not realize it all the time.)

Yes, I feel like I am obligated to myself and others, to say, as Obama did, “ENOUGH!”  Resonates with me, it really does.  No more, no longer, no way.  I hate campaign slogans, but the Democrats hit the jack pot this time around.

My favorite new slogan: McSame.  And true as can be.

Seeing that sea of people at the baseball stadium.  Remarkable.

I enjoyed all the convention speeches.  Gore and Kerry and Biden and Hillary.  Even ol’ Mr.Cant’s Keep.His.Pecker.Tucked.Away President Clinton.  It was a great event that energized me.

Did anyone else watch it?  If so, what did you think?  Agree or no?  And why or why not?

‘Obama For President’ Discount

The political calendar is full of boring retorts that have nothing to do with changing the country for the better. To liven up the situation, VibeReview decided to launch its new ‘Obama For President” Coupon this afternoon. If you want to save a few bucks during these trying economic times and you want to show some love for Obama, this is the right coupon for you.

Obama For President Coupon

You can use the 10% coupon over and over and over until election day. Not a bad deal at all.

And apparently some Diggs are being thrown around:

Obama and Vibrators

The majority of the country went with “Wanted Dead or Alive” during the last election. Why not go with sex toys for equality. Sure, it’s not the catchiest idea in the world, but at least everyone is so busy pleasing him or herself (or each other) that we can’t cause too many problems. Staying busy, getting busy, and having fun – that’s the key.

A Wake to Remember

This is a true story, I promise.  A strange anecdote to follow.  It’s so socially awkward and silly that I am inclined to convince you of its authenticity.  I almost feel like what happened was a fictitious event that I created in my head.  Like one of those days when imagination replaces boredom and goes into bewildering territories, where insecurities – the deepest rooted fears – mingle with idealized events, creating imaginary challenges that one can overcome without ever taking any action.  Anyway – check this story out:

Is there anyone else who has an appreciation of funerals for old people?  Just say, “Yes, of course!  I can’t think of a more lively event!”  You liar.  I am the only person, as far as I can tell, who has this peculiar fondness of old people’s funerals.  There’s something special about celebrating an old person’s life, because he or she actually lived through so much – starting with diapers and eventually, as the cycle goes, ending up in diapers. “Gross!” you might respond.  Yeah, I agree a return to diapers is life’s version of ego-demolition; but this notion of coming full circle is a remarkable feat, one that deserves recognition and celebratory gestures.

So, yes: I get all emotional and introspective and focused at these old-timers events, and I cannot handle a lot of person-to-person communication.  Dagnabbit, please don’t bother me with superficial commentary at an old person’s funeral – I am likely to bite your head off, kick you in the crotch, and while you lay on the ground grimacing in pain, my authoritative fingers incessantly waves.  Hint: Not right now, fella.  I should be more courteous to my fellow mourners, I know it.  Then I realize that the funeral isn’t about me, but is dedicated the old man or woman that can truly boast of MISSION ACCOMPLISHED!  I MADE IT, FUCKERS!  Lordy Be, I need to get with the program.

All of this, a serious digression that’s probably left you scratching your head.  I’m not done yet, stick with me, keep reading – this damn story is coming … NOW!

My great-great aunt died a month ago.  I hadn’t seen my mother in several months, so we figured the funeral would be a great excuse to meet up in Dallas, Texas, where I am originally from.  Our motives, pure – we also wanted to pay respect to this amazing lady that I didn’t know very well.  Any relative with a “great-great” distinction is usually too old, or too far removed from my life, for me to know with any real significance.  I spent, probably, a total of 3-4 days (an aggressive hourly total) with Great-Great Aunt Ellen – and that’s it, like in my entire life.  But like I said earlier, I enjoy funerals for old people.  I was game, ready for the momentous occasion, and hell-bent on catching some glimpse of self-truth in all of this.

Finally.  Time for the wake, which was done with an old school twist – at my great-great aunt’s last place of comfort, her lovely house in the Forest Hills neighborhood near White Rock Lake, in East Dallas.  (If you have sinus problems, stay far away from this area.  You were warned!)  The problem with at-home wakes is that all the family members are packed into fairly small areas, so it’s tough to avoid boring conversations with your second generation cousin, who was recently released from the city jail – having served his “time” for intentionally pissing on his boss, who was having a long conversation with corporate about said cousin’s petulant behavior in the work environment.

Yes, this is absolutely a true story.  I keep pinching myself, praying I imagined the whole thing.  But – it gets worse.  Not understanding the concept of personal boundaries, Steve, my second generation cousin, tells me the story in its entirety – how he was “pissed off” at his boss for cutting his hours at the local pet shop store.  So he pissed on his boss, the only appropriate measure he could think of.  It didn’t help that his mind, soiled by two nights of chemically-inspired fun, wasn’t exactly ticking with the rest of the clocks on the wall, but this guy – wow, he seemed convinced that justice was served, bringing new literal interpretation to the idea of “It’s better to get pissed off than pissed on.” He got two weeks of jail time when the district attorney office viewed the pissing match as a type of bodily assault.

About the time that Steve started describing his cell mates, my mother inched toward the living room.  We hadn’t arrived together, so this was the first time I saw her at the wake.  I quickly interrupted Steve, waving at my mother – the code signal for Get! Your! Ass! Over! Here! – while at the same time validating poor Steve, confirming that I related to his perilous fight against The Man.  Unfortunately, my mother remembered Steve from his earlier years, I guess, when he had curly red hair and a habit of grabbing, scratching his ass without concern for his surroundings.  My mother, I tell you.  She mentioned this in front of Steve while I was standing there, and the poor guy, having been through enough recently, smiled and started waving at someone across the room.  He knows the drill: escape!

“Did I say something upsetting, Heather?”

“No, mother.  You only embarrassed the hell out of guy with an already declining self-esteem.  The Man’s got him down, but I suspect after all of this, he’ll include The Woman on his life’s list of resentments.  Other than that, I think he appreciated the ‘scratching ass’ comment.”

“Everyone, dear – and I mean, everyone – has those quirky habits as a child.  Maybe not <i>that</i> habit, but certainly one that’s similar.  In fact, you used to massage your putty when you were four or five.  There’s noth –”

“Wait a damn minute, Mom.  Not here, not now, not ever.  Imagine if someone heard you!  My God.  Seriously.  Why?”

“I see, I see.  Miss Sex Toy Reviewer seems to be ashamed of her early childhood sexual exploits.  You do realize that all children explore genitalia, trying to see what those ‘things’ are down there? You of all people – the sex toy expert – should know how natural it is.  So Steve grabbed and scratched his ass during the same phase of development.  All natural.  Your children will do the same thing.”

Fuck sakes.  At this point, I might wave at Steve to come back and tell me about his baby’s mama or his collection of fingernails, hidden in a tin can buried in the backyard. (Oh, and if you haven’t figured it out yet, the “putty” my crazy mother mentioned – well, that’s my kitty-kitty.  My mother hates the word “vagina”, so she made up this strange word to replace it.)

“Fine.  I get it.  By the way, you haven’t told anyone that I review sex toys, right?  I asked you to keep that a secret, so if you did … I am going to be super-bitchy pissed at you.”

“I may have told a few people, but no one of importance.  I think it’s funny, and there’s nothing wrong with it – so what does it matter?  Most women play with some kind of sex toy.  Hell, my first vibrator was the nifty massager shower nozzle in my bathroom.  Younger people always assume that parents don’t have a sex life.

“I am going to puke.  Thanks for that.  Too much information, mother.  And you sure are flaunting this information rather loudly, don’t you think – as if this is the usual conversation held at a WAKE!”

My mother blankly stared at me, as if she could see beyond my response.  That’s what happens when your mother is a well-known shrink.  Analyze, analyze.  I could tell she was convinced that I was being too dramatic and my response must be symptomatic of something deeper, dirtier – like a real secret. Body language, which my mother has mastered,  is more effective than verbal communication.

“Clock out, Mom.  Off the job training, unnecessary.”

She ignored the comment, turning her head and walking into the room of all rooms, the one with the casket.  Right as a person’s foot crossed the invisible line separating the living room from my great-great aunts bedroom, the collective disposition changed – in dramatic ways, too.  The loud squawkers, incessant talkers suddenly listened to an internal voice that screamed, “Shut the hell up.  For a minute at least, to pay respects.”  A rhythmic shuffling of feet, echoed in the room.  Mixed in with some deep breaths.

My mother was directly in front of me, starting to lean over the casket when Steve bumped his way to the front, and then, unbelievably asked me:

“I hear that you are some kind of sex worker.  Or that you do something with sex toys.  I’d like to talk to you about my girlfriend before you leave.  Please, don’t leave until we’ve talked.  This is really, really fucking import – ”

“Steve.  Look, right now is not the appropriate moment to discuss my profession, habits – really anything unrelated to the funeral.  Maybe you could emai – ”

“I understand.  There’s no reason to be embarrassed.  No one cares what you do for a living, not in a bad way.  I could use your expertise, in the worst way possible – I mean, good way.  Whatever, you know what I mean.”

“Are you sure we are related, Steve O?  Because if we are, my genetic composition is seriously tainted.  Fuck, fine.  We can talk AFTER! the wake and funeral.”

It seems that my mother, who had sipped three too many drinks before attending the wake, told my Aunt Jackie about my sex toy reviews.  Screwed.  Cooked.  Done.  My Aunt Jackie is our family’s very own Perez Hilton.  Mouth always moving, sometimes exposing morning’s breakfast, with sprays of excited spit traveling from the speaker’s mouth to the listener’s unwelcoming eyes – Yes, that’s my sweet Aunt Jackie releasing the caged gossip queen.

Wrong person to reveal that kind of information.  Before I knew it, even Steve, the social outcast, had the 911 on some of my personal activities.  Wonder-fucking-ful.  And it didn’t help that Steve made no effort to conceal his opportunistic agenda.  My poor great-great Aunt that I barely knew.  I blame my mother, Aunt Jackie and Steve – plus the rest of those busy-bodied family members, who were – I swear – looking at me differently than they had when I first arrived at the house.  Or was I being paranoid?  Not sure, but that’s how I felt.

What did Steve ask me?  I wouldn’t know.  After the funeral I booked it out there.  I didn’t say a word to anyone.  I called an old high school friend, explained the situation, and told her to pick me up at the stop sign.  I left my rental car for my mother to drive.  (She arrived at the funeral with … You guessed it!  My Aunt Jackie.)

Somehow I felt guilty because of these jerk offs running their collective mouths at the wrong time.  I felt kinda dirty inside – not because I do review sex toys, but because I related to yesterday’s biological waste.  Am I being too judgmental?

Late Nights with Navin R. Johnson

Father: “You see that?”
Navin: “Yeah.”
Father: “That’s shit. And this, “shinola.”
Navin: “Shit, shinola.”
Father: “Son, you’re going to be all right.”

(Navin immediately steps on a warm pile of horse crap)

If only more parents and teachers taught their children the basics!  Forget everything else you’ve learned.  Don’t waste your time trying to capture another person’s voice and make it your own.  No, create your own voice, one that’s founded on your very own personal experiences.  Be warned only that “shit and shinola” is out there, and you need to watch out for it.  Someone’s shit might be your shinola.  Conversely, your shit might be someone’s shinola.

Mr. Johnson (Navin’s father) might as well be a distant relative to one of my favorite philosophers, Rousseau:

“People who know little are usually great talkers, while men who know much say little.”

Keep it simple, stupid.  And even then, sure – you might step in a little shit, but keep walking, wash off your boots, and get ready to step in some more.  After while, you’ll step over the shit when you recognize it!

Silence is Sexy

So I’m listening to Flugufrelsarinn by Sigur Rós, covered by the Kronos Quartet in an arrangement by Clint Mansell.  I highly approve of this sort of thing.  But why is it that whenever anything is recorded in a concert hall, some dicknose keeps coughing or sniffing or farting or shuffling his feet or whatever?  Seriously, don’t these people know where they are?  Didn’t they see all of the signs letting them know that they would be recording?  Or do they just not care, preferring to have their every sniffle immortalized in the recording?

Also, very related: check out the cover of Radiohead’s Exit Music done by Miranda Sex Garden.

You know..

That age (and time) is finally winning in its catch-up game with you when you meet up with some friends from school and go “Oh my god you’re 26 this year!”, and some friends are getting/have already gotten married, some have kids.

And you’re only 24.

And you look back and realise, “fuck, where has all the time gone?!?”

Gosh, life sucks.

Okay, I know I said I was going on a break, but I couldn’t resist, one because I had a similar conversation with my friend, and another because I was rather irritated by something that I witnessed today.

I was on the way home and was walking through the carpark. Walking towards me in the opposite direction was this girl who was rather pretty, slim, long hair, nicely-dressed. The usual. Then came this grey Nissan Sunny which was turning out of the carpark, and it gave a light honk. Since it was facing both me and the girl, and I know no one who drives a grey Nissan Sunny, I assumed that the driver might have been an acquaintance of the girl and wanting to get her attention.

I looked at girl. No reaction.

I turned to look at driver with his companion. Both men, mid 30s, one of those contractor types (read: ah bengs who probably smoke so much they have bad teeth). Men start smiling at girl and talk to each other. My only guess at this juncture was that they found her “chio” and wanted to grab her attention, hence the use of the horn.

I have no issues with appreciating beauty. But I’ve experienced this a couple of times, I am walking on the pavement and hear a honk. Naturally most people would look up to see if it was someone to know (more often than not, its in the hopes of getting a ride), and I always end up looking at the face of some random stranger grinning at me (read: ah bengs who probably smoke so much they have bad teeth).

Why do these people do that? Has it replaced the conventional “chut-chut” sound they used to make with their mouths? Have these people suddenly struck gold that they can now afford to drive around in their Hondas/Nissans/insert random Japanese ah-beng car model here so that they can randomly toot their horns at some random girl walking by the road (read: ah bengs who..oh you get the idea)?

What do they expect from this? That the girl would turn around, see their souped-up Hondas and smile the nicest, brightest smile ever?

I personally have never seen it happen, and I wonder why any girl would do that. That is unless you are super skinny, have long straight dyed hair, carry a long wallet, have super long nails and know every single hokkien profanity there is.

I mean, why the fuck do people do this and expect a favourable reaction? You’re an ah beng who drives a zhng-ed car, which at times comes with a red license plate, and when you smile I can actually see black specks on your teeth, a sign of poor dental hygiene. If you want to smoke, for fuck’s sake brush your fucking teeth.

Anyway, I digress. Don’t think that just because you drive a Honda/Subaru/Mitsubishi/Nissan you can anyhow toot your horn at girls.

(this was actually related to something else but with the length of this post, I think I’ll let it rest for awhile)

Allow me..

to rant.

When people often complain that its hard to find talent in Singapore, I always thought they were being picky. I had no lack of friends who would often hog the microphones during our regular KTV sessions not because they were selfish idiots but because they could sing and they could sing so damn well we just let them take the microphone. I’m sure every other person also had friends who queued for days at Singapore Idol  but didn’t make it. I’m sure you would agree some of them could sing nice enough to make you want to sit and listen.

But today I found out I was proven wrong, very very wrong.

It is very hard to find singing talent in Singapore.

Not because those in charge of picking the fruits are fussy, but because it seems that there are people who just have very low standards of aural beauty.

For example, the halls and societies in the local universities. Everyone who has been an undergrad here, or have had friends study in NUS/NTU/SMU would know that it is almost a tradition for most of the halls to put up a production every year. In fact, I think some of the polys in Singapore and even the JCs might have that too.

In this product, people sing, people dance, people act.

I have never been to any of these productions, but I’m quite certain that most of them are of a pretty good standard since I know people who went to them and gave pretty good reviews. Also because we all know how enthusiastic and overzealous some of these people involved are, hence sometimes the selection and rehearsal process can be stringent and gruelling.

But I guess human perception falters sometimes.

Imagine have a quiet afternoon reading in the library when you’re shocked back into reality by a couple trying to sing in tune with each other, accompanied by a piano.

Sitting through 30 mins of that, I came to the conclusion that whoever was organising some bazaar downstairs must be playing a CD of sorts of some random production, because it just kept going and going and going with no one talking in between but just pure singing.

Unadulterated, straining of voices to keep up with the music and often out of tune.

I usually have very low standards when it comes to music. I’m okay as long as the melody is pleasing, and if the singer can at least try to keep up.

But try sitting through an entire 30 minutes of girls and guys who obviously don’t have the lung capacity required for proper singing, nor the voice texture needed for it try to get through 30 minutes of piano accompanied music, and cheap electronica.

Maybe God was trying to teach me a lesson for being so casual with what I listen to. But I swear I almost tore my hair out and cried out begging for whoever it was to just stop.

It was that bad.

And guess what came on after that?

Britney.

Never in my life I was happier than today to hear Britney come on through the speakers.

A wish

…is a dream your heart makes.

So said Cinderella (or was it Snow White?).

But any rational adult worth their salt would know that its just something concocted for the children. Ok, concocted for the little girls who harbour dreams of marrying their Prince Charming, becoming a princess wearing one of those big pouffy dresses like the Disney princesses do and living happily ever after in a nice castle.

I don’t suppose anyone ever grows up still holding on to such dreams, although I think the best way to fulfill such a dream is to just get a job in Disneyland as one of those princesses. Although I must say, how come we hardly ever see the Prince Charmings?

Anyway, I digress. I guess the more cynical ones would say that its all bullshit. A wish is not a dream your heart makes. Well maybe, but we all know wishes don’t come true.

Because if they did, then how was it that I had wished you didn’t forget, but in fact you did?

A very Emo Post.

Its strange the way Life likes to deal its cards. At times it deals you a bad very hand, makes it a little better, making you think you actually can beat the banker, then deal you another set of horrible cards to break your hopes.

But we’re all suckers for Hope. In fact, we all thrive on Hope, and most would go to the extent to say that Hope is what gives people the reason to live.

So, wait a minute, if Hope gives one a reason to live, then why does Hope usually come with Disappointment?

Or am I missing out on something incredibly important here?

Either way, there are just some things that ought to be left unsaid and undone, and left that way.

So please, for the 10000th time, put Unsaid and Undone in the black bag next to the bin, and walk away.

No better, run as far as you can.

Geeez.

How is it possible to fall for someone whom is completely not your type, and who you totally have no intention of falling for? But you are brought together by one common thing that requires you to spend enough time together to actually start to have some form of feelings for each other.

Is that really possible?

I’m saying this only because I just caught “Knocked Up”, where the two protagonists, who are complete opposites of each other have a one night stand, and end up getting pregnant. Girl thinks guy is a loser but guy is in love with girl because she’s gorgeous. Girl decides to keep the baby whether or not guy is in it with her. Over the course of preparing for the baby’s birth the two spend time together and find themselves falling in love for real, with each other.

All in a span of 9 months.

Taking all this out of its context, and placing it in another though, can this really happen? Can two people who otherwise have nothing to do with each other, through a freak coincidence, really start to have feelings for each other?

I’m skeptical.

and I miss you..

like the deserts miss the rain..or so Tracy Thorn sang.

And its funny how we seem to miss a person at the strangest time, for the strangest reasons.

Like how I suddenly miss C for his popping over in the late nights quickies, and then adjourning to his car for smokes and idle chit chat.

Or how you can miss someone you hardly see and speak to, but can remember every single bit of conversation you had. Or how you can have only met someone for a short while, but already miss his prescence.

How you can miss a person for just being there.

Its strange how people can form attachments in such short periods of time, with relative strength. How even a sexual relationship which stretches 3 years, something so very superficial can make you form an attachment to someone, even if its not emotional.

But the beauty of attachments that aren’t emotional is that just as it is so easy to form it, it is easy to break.

But I can’t say the same for emotional attachments though.

So, as Tracy Thorn would go,

and I miss you, like the deserts miss the rain.

Queen of Fuck Ups.

Just when I am getting a good start with a guy, on a non-sexual basis, I always manage to do, or not do something, to just fuck it all up.

This happens even when I just want him as a friend.

What can I say? I’m brilliant.

Molest Stories

I’d like to believe that even in this day and age, us girls never have it better than you men. Case in point; no matter how below average you look, how fat you are, or how grumpy your face is, you would always have had at least encountered this once in your entire life as a female.

Molest.

I wouldn’t say that I encounter this frequently (thank god!), but I think I’ve been a victim enough to feel frustrated. Just when I thought I was old enough to not induce that sort of fetish in men, it strikes again.

I was on travelling on the bus, on the way home and given the long journey, I fell asleep. The next thing I knew this old man had decided to plonk himself next to me. Now, when I say old man, he’s not only old,  but rather large in size as well. There were other seats available on the bus but he simply decided to sit NEXT to me. It didn’t really bother me at first but he when he decided to make himself more comfortable by snuggling closer and closer into the seat. Given his size (and I’m not petite either mind you), I was practically SQUASHED towards the window. I only had about5 more stops  before I alight so I saw no point in moving anyway.

Plus, he seemed to be a fragile old man (he was holding on to a walking stick), so I didn’t think much.

Fuck, FRAGILE OLD MEN ARE THE MOST CHEE KO PEK because they can hide behind their facade of fragility and innocence.

Fragility and innocence my ass.

Anyway, I digress. While I did my best to not be a public nuisance, the final straw came when I started to feel his arms rubbing against the side of my body. Hello uncle, are you trying to feel me up? Thinking that it may be simply because of his size, I tried to move, but he did it again.

So I stood up, got ready to get off (3 stops earlier mind you), and stared at him.

The bugger had the audacity to make a FUTILE attempt to move to give me space. I couldn’t even move ONE thigh out of the damn space.

So I gave up trying to be nice to old folks, took my bag (which carried my laptop) and gave it a nice hard swing in his direction while I was struggling to get out.

I hope you suffer from brain damage.

Which reminded me of an incident which happened many years ago while I was still in college, or pre-university, or whatever you guys called it.

A group of friends and I had decided to check out a warehouse sale near our school since we had some free time in between classes. While making a huge mess out of the place by digging into the trolleys for bargains, I felt a hand grabbing my buttcheek. Thinking it was one of my friends (they had a strange habit of doing it to me), I turned around, it was NONE of my friends because they were scattered all over the place looking for bargains as well. I looked furthur and guess who I saw giving me a  backward guilty glance.

AN UNCLE.

Of course, this time he wasn’t old and fragile, but uncle nonetheless.

Irritated, I came up with the most Ah Lian response I could think of and screamed at him (who was now halfway across the warehouse) in hokkien,

Go home and touch your mother’s ass lah!

I could’ve said worse but hey, I was in uniform and I was in the Students’ Council then, so I thought better.

Don’t these old men have better things to do? Like drill a hole in the wall and fuck themselves with it?

Dry Spell.

I remember it was about this time 3 years ago I was suffering from a severe dry spell. Then I met J and all was history.

The dry spell is back.

And its not doing anything for my self-esteem sanity.

MacBooks & iBooks.

As I posted on sneexe’s post, my year old, super protected MacBook is falling apart.

Actually, I should’ve seen the signs when I first bought it. Shiny and new, the parts didn’t seem as durable as the older iBooks. The overall appearance of the MacBook made it look like a toy, even the white ones. But I was being the ultimate material slut so I didn’t bother.

But I should’ve also seen the signs when I started missing my iBook a week after I gave it away. My iBook, ran on a 256mb RAM, 1.03ghz processor and a 30gb hard disk and never died on me. This on account of the fact that it had acquired alot of “battle scars” over the past 3 years I was using it. Scratches, dents, sticker stains, severe abuse by owner (running numerous heavy applications at one go), it even survived a fall, although coming out slightly warped in shape.

But despite all that, my iBook was faithful. The only problem with it was that it could no longer read CDs or DVDs because the slot drive refused to work and it was out of warranty so I refused to get it fixed.

Now, to add insult to injury, the edges of my MacBook, where I rests my palms, are cracking. The only explanation for this, (even the guys working at Apple Centre@Orchard recognise this problem!) is that the grooves on the top of the MacBook when closed will actually press on the bottom part, which I figured is what causes the cracks especially when I carry the MacBook around in my backpack. (This didn’t happen with my iBook!!!)
Now I gotta rummage through my store room for the receipt as proof of warranty so I can go get it fixed. *grumpy*

Does anyone want to donate a shiny new MacBook pro?

Prelude: A Rant

To no one in particular (and when I say that I actually mean, someone):

You’re not the only person in my life who is willing to give me the things I want. I have no lack of choices and am not afraid to exercise my freedom of choice, so please do not think you can control my life and tell me who I can or cannot see, and where I can or cannot go. Please also do not give me attitude when I say I cannot make it to meet you because it is my life, my time, my schedule. I decide whether or not I want to spend time with you, not the other way round.

If you do not agree with this, then please bear in mind that there are many others waiting in line.

Thank you.

And now, back to our scheduled programme.

Fussypot.

I realised I often set myself up for situations I cannot wait to get out of. Like how, in the heat of the moment I’d agree myself to dates with people and then three days later I’d give it some thought and start to nitpick. I’d start to see the flaws in that person and then realise that person I don’t really want to go out with him.

Then I’d bail.

It’s happened so many times I already lost count. So many dates I’ve canceled out on just because I gave it one thought too many and realised that I don’t really want to go out with this person.

Is this normal?

Not that I obsess about my dates. But I’d just sit and think, and start to nitpick just by the way he converses virtually. All down to the finest detail like the kind of words he chooses to use, and the questions he asks, and the way he asks them.

Ok, maybe I am a little obsessive, maybe just that little bit. And I can already see the kind of questions coming my way, if I’m not going to be open to the idea of meeting new people how the hell am I going to find someone nice to hang out with?

Seriously, I don’t know.

But all I’m asking for is to hang out with someone who doesn’t want sex.

Is that too difficult to ask?

On a separate note, I find myself thinking about the Gargoyle dream again.

*rawr*

Truths

When I was a kid, I used to be really naive and gullible. I believed everything people told me and I  believed in the inherent good of people. 10 years later and after several heartbreak and disappointment, together with the kind of education I’d rather call enlightenment, I learned to take things people say with a pinch of salt.

Obviously, this applies to the blogging world too.

It never fails to amaze me how people could look at something certain people blog about and take it as being real.

Of course, there are those who write the real stuff, they blog about how their day has been, they blog about their real feelings, that’s fine, really. But with so many sex blogs around right now, who can really believe what’s real and what’s not?

Anyone can start a blog, and hide behind a persona and talk about sex. Anyone can sit in front of a laptop and say things like how she went bralass in school or she walked around the neighbourhood with only a t-shirt and nothing else. Anything can say that she gave a blowjob to some random guy on some random public transport. Anyone can post pictures on a blog. I mean, if she is ugly as hell there is always photoshop, and if the picture doesn’t show many facial features, who knows, really?

So why do we buy into these stories, do we really think they are real? If we do think they are real, what does that make us?

If we think these stories are purely fiction, and read them purely for entertainment’s sake, then are we giving these bloggers a sort of false consciousness? That we give them the idea that people read their stories because they think it is real, because they want to make us think that it is real?

On a deeper level, what does it say of these bloggers? If she is a girl who is just blogging to explore her fantasies? Or if he is a man trying to live out some fantasy of being a girl?

Why do we believe wholeheartedly what we read? Does it make the content easily digestible, compared to something which we know may/may not be fiction? Or does making ourselves believe that what we read is real, make us feel that it is ok to be deviant?

What does it say about ourselves, then?

Drats.

I must be cursed or something.

Exams are just about the only time I totally wear myself out and only go to sleep when I’m reaaalllyy tired. Which usually happens in the wee hours of the morning. The moment my head hits the pillow, I immediately fall asleep and not even my alarm clock can wake me up.

Given such a situation, who would expect to have dreams right?

Wrong.

I dreamt again, of him. This time in a different manner. Nevertheless, of all different ways I had to find out that he was already attached and had a girlfriend, and it was written on a blog, in the most cryptic manner possible.

Which was just weird if you ask me.

The funniest thing is that I remember reacting very strongly to it, “OMG!! HE HAS A GIRLFRIEND!! WHO!! WHERE!!!”

Hurhurhur.

On a more serious note though, all these dreams are wearing me out more than my real life itself, even pills which promise of deep deep sleep don’t seem to do the trick. Which is quite disturbing because it hasn’t exactly happened before. So if any witch doctor wannabe out there has a really useful potion I could use, drop me a line. Pleeeeeaseeee.

Nooo..

I cannot put up with so many ex-es (Flings, FBs, FwBs, ONS) all of a sudden.

A week ago it was Mr ONS, this week it is Mr Sticky. Remember Mr Sticky? Sticky not because of anything else but for the fact that he was really..sticky.

Like how he’d want to meet up every other day. I suspected it was because he was lonely but when he wanted to fuck everytime we met, it was too much.

Oh, did I also ever mention how annoying it was when a person sends you an IM/MSN message? You’d either obviously busy or you don’t feel like talking to them. So you ignore them.

And what do they do?

They just keep sending you messages, asking if you’re there, sending you nudges. For over an hour!! Get the hint already!!

And when you ask me the first time if I want to meet up now, and all I can come up with is a “No,” please take the hint.

Please go away.

Consuming for the sake of consuming

After going around and telling the whole world that I have *counts books on shelf* 6 books, dated as far as June last year, not yet read (and some in their shrink wrap). This means that even I have been happily bringing books out of stores, all the books that I’ve bought since June last year have not been read. That amounts to 2 in 2006, and 4 this year (and it’s only April!).

I was at Plaza Sing and guess what? I happily made off with 5 more books. But only because they were going at $3 (*scream) each. $3!!!! For a book!!! This not only extends to those obscure fiction books but non-fiction as well!! Can you imagine a book on America’s War on Iraq that would normally cost more than $20 going for a mere $3???

*nods* I knew you’d understand.

I is a happy girl *beams*

Speaking of reading, I have developed this very baaad habit of reading two to three books simultaneously. I’m sure some of you have the same habit. I attribute this to the fact that every time I feel like reading I have a different book nearby.

Maybe I should stock up on bookmarks too.

Hypersomnia.

A while ago I was suffering from Insomnia. Now it’s quite the reverse.

No amounts of caffeine nor sugar would help to normalize (if that’s what you could call it) my sleeping behaviour.

On top of that, I have been having dreams. Very frequently.

Yes, I dreamt of him again. For like the third time this month. THIRD TIME! It’s only been 12 days into April for goodness sake. If Freud were still alive I think I could qualify as his no 1 test subject.

They say that sometimes you dream what you think of in the day, or that dreams are just random thoughts your subconscious throws up. The really paranoid, anal, obsessive compulsive lot would say that they actually mean something.

Well, guess which category I fall into?

Easily Contented.

Whoever said I was hard to please or have high standards obviously either don’t know me well enough, or have stepped on my toes so many times the mere sight of them just irritates me.

A simple gesture today, although short, and probably meant nothing to you, made me feel happy. Like, genuinely happy, like a night of good sex, kinda happy.

It’s all the simple things that you do that make me happy, you know?

Right, I bet you don’t.

Anyway, it’s funny how sometimes my dreams are a premonition of things to come. It doesn’t happen very often but somehow when it comes to you it works like a charm.

Like how, I was sleeping in the morning and I dreamt that you called, and 5 minutes later you did call to make sure I was awake for school.

Today was the same, when after I blogged about dreaming of you, you just popped out of nowhere. Almost literally.

Strange, isn’t it?

Sit & Stare.

Sometimes I wonder what I’m doing here.

 

Oh gosh the whole world has watched 300 already, except me. What am I doing.

addendum: 
I so hate it when someone calls you and when you’re not around to pick up the call, the person doesn’t bother to call back, or at least drop a message to say what he/she wants.  I mean, it’s ok if I have your number stored in my phone, or if your number shows up on my screen, that’s not too bad because at least then I can call back and ask what’s up.

I mean, if you KNOW that your phone is an unlisted number, thus effectively making it impossible for me to find out who called me just by checking my missed calls, I think it would be an act of courtesy to call back or just leave a message, instead of having me sitting around and wondering who the hell called. Really.

Stillness

still.jpg

 

You know how it’s like when you’re sitting at Starbucks with a drink on the table and a cigarette in your left hand, a book on your right, and you’re doing nothing else except read, and occassionally look up from your book to watch the world go by?

It feels like that nowadays. Except that I am sitting in the corner of a room instead of Starbucks, staring into space and being lost in my own thoughts instead of being lost in a book, and the cigarette in my left hand is untouched, but lighted, its lighted life diminishing by the second, on its own, the room is full of people, sitting, standing, talking to each other, doing their own things.

Whenever I wake from my reverie, I find that the people in the room have moved from the positions I left them. Those who are sitting are now standing. Some have moved on to other people. Some have left, others have joined the room. In short, the world has moved on, but there I am, still sitting in the corner, not moving, not saying a word, not noticeable and not noticing.

Rain

Just when you thought the weather was going to turn warm and humid, the rain comes back.

I hate rain.

I remember how, when I was in school, rain meant that we all had a valid reason to be late for school. Rain meant that we could skip our reading period. Rain meant we would have our PE lessons indoors. Rain was everything good.

But lately, I just hate rain. I can’t concentrate when it’s raining because all I wanna do is to cuddle up in bed and sleep. Rain turns everything wet, and dreary, and I don’t like that. I’ve been dying to head out after being cooped up indoors for 3 days straight but the rain had to come and ruin my plans for the day.

So, for now, for today, I hate rain.

I’m pretty sure that 3 months down the road I’d be praying and wishing and hoping for the rain to come and take some of the heat away, but for now, I hate rain.

I can’t breathe. Not when you’re around, not when you’re not around. Someone make me snap outta this.