pms. permanent.
written: 8:10 p.m. on Sunday, Jun. 27, 2004

To the person who signed my guestbook as 'finally': Who are you? Do I really know you or do you say that I'm acquainted with you simply on the basis that you read this?

Reading Vernon God Little. Yelen went back on her little promise to herself not to touch another book until the A Levels are over but she couldn't resist it yesterday and now Yelen is hooked, which means homework which are due practically tomorrow are still not done, notes are not read, etc etc etc, believe me, you've heard it all.

I usually scoff at reviews of certain books that compare the book it is reviewing to the sacred The Catcher in the Rye. Vernon has been hailed as the new Catcher, and initially, I was like, "Fuck off you shitheads", but now, I really understand why.

Vernon G. Little is the 21st Century Holden Caufield. Honestly. I don't know if DBC Pierre purposely modelled his narrative style after Salinger's, but whatever it is, as I was reading the first hundred pages I almost felt as if it were Holden speaking to me from some shit-ass little town in Texas, only difference being the liberal usage of the word "fuck" and its various variations instead of "goddamn" or "damn".

Ah, how I love Catcher. I love it so much that I would boycott anyone who even harbours the ill-conceived notion of adapting it for the silver screen. I swear, it's impossible. Nobody can play Holden Caufield and still do justice to the novel, not even Joaquin Phoenix and James Dean, if he were alive today and 24.

You just don't fuck with a character/novel like that. Somebody - don't know who - attempted it with The Little Prince; I saw the VCD at the Video Ezy store at King Albert Park. I'm sorry, but whoever did that should be shot. The Little Prince is another novel that should not be fucked with. I love movies and all but sometimes, a line has to be drawn, and I think this line must be drawn for novels like Catcher and The Little Prince.

It's like trying to paint a picture of a person's most intimate dream, a dream that the person hasn't even the words with which to express it.

It's futile, people. Don't even bother trying. That would be committing suicide, ten times over.

Note to A Person Who Shall Not Be Named: So guess what? I've been wanting to say this for a long, long time.

I think you are a pompous, asinine fuckhead who is pathetically vying for the attention which you will not receive. Nobody gives a shit. You could totally kill yourself and the world would not care. Stop being such a goddamn know-it-all because newsflash, you've got your fucking head stuck permanently up your goddamn ass. It's been there your entire worthless life and you don't even fucking know it.

Get a clue, bitch. Stop acting. The stage lights are off. This is not a drama production. This is your life, and mine too, unfortunately. Either get on with it or get your cheap thrills elsewhere because very soon, I'm going to cease to be interested.

And without me, where the FUCK would YOU be?

Yeah, so I went to Mango. The one at Raffles City. I was in severe need of new skirts so I went with my mom, all excited and shit.

And guess what?

Somehow I think I should have anticipated it, but as always, I give my fellow countrymen way too much credit and benefit of the doubt.

I was in no way prepared for the scene of gross carnage and human filth (literally) that greeted me when I stepped into the store.

People everywhere. A lot of jostling. Pushing. Fighting. Cat-fighting, if the fucking idiotic women present weren't so self-conscious about letting their claws out. And the most disgusting bit? This mild stench, like the remains of a very, very screwed up sewage pipe burst, or the result of a hundred people having a mass orgy in a room with all the windows closed, permeated the entire store, and it got worse the closer I got to the fitting room.

At first I was optimistic, although very defiantly so, but when I saw the queue that formed outside the fitting room, I dumped the two articles of clothing that I held and split.

My mom left earlier than me though. She doesn't like Mango; that should explain it.

Managed to get my greedy and insatiable hands on two new tops though. Finally checked out the discount racks at Esprit, the nice big one. And I found out that they play the same silly songs (wow, triple alliteration) in all their outlets, but nevermind about that.

So I got two new tops. Yay.

And I got new underwear too. Yay.

And I had dinner with the entire family, Mom's side, at Furama Hotel. The food sucked. Whatever happened to the Ritz Carlton days?

We so need to be rich again.

Or rather, I need to get out of school fast and earn money and save most of it and whatever and I don't know, money is the most important shit in the world and unlike most (spineless) members of my preposterous sex, I'm going to get rich all on my own and not depend on some stupid, fat and ugly old man to provide for me.

I can do it myself, thank you very much.

No, I'm not in a very good mood today. School starts tomorrow. That should explain everything.

before sunrise // before sunset

Previously:
- - Tuesday, Aug. 29, 2017
I'm moving. - Sunday, Jul. 11, 2010
In all honesty - Tuesday, Jul. 06, 2010
What I want for my birthday... - Sunday, Jul. 04, 2010
On Roger's behalf. - Friday, Jul. 02, 2010