warning: this entry makes absolutely no sense.
written: 5:08 p.m. on Saturday, Sept. 18, 2004

I can't take it anymore. Just shut up and stop trying to fit in. Ugh. It's so annoying.

It's like, "Hello!!!!!!!!" and I'm like, "..."

Seriously.

Yeah, right, and I'm awfully incoherent today.

People on whom I have a crush:

1. Jielun

2. Joaquin Phoenix

3. Liu Xiang

4. I'm sure I know this but I really can't remember.

5. I'm sure everyone knows this so I really don't need to mention it.

6. Mel

Was reading my older entries. I amaze myself with my stupidity. Pubescent stupidity, that is, many things that make me sick now, but which I revelled in two years ago.

The one thing about diaries is that they have this intriguing tendency to induce moments of 'what the fuck was wrong with me?' in you. The other thing about diaries is that they're like photographs - written snapshots of emotions and thoughts, frozen in time, remaining that way forever. It reminds me, quite a bit, of Holden Caufield's ruminations in the museum of Natural History (I can't remember the exact name of the place), and how the tableaux on display are a strange reflection of how he desires for things to remain constant, unchanging, to stay a certain way that makes one feel warm and comfortable, at ease, without angst. Just like diaries.

The similarity ends there, because Holden likes things the way they are for him, at 16 years old, while I... I'm glad, overjoyed, to have gone through that painful-in-retrospect phase. In fact, every skin I've tried on and eventually shed over the years adds up to that.

Diaries are, to some degree, virtually proof that Einstein's theory of relativity is true. You wonder how one person can be so damn different, as though the person who wrote those thoughts two years ago and the person currently reading them are two separate people who will never get along.

To be quite honest, it can be rather unnerving and disorienting. You understand yourself even less, want to tear out your hair even more, begin to doubt your sanity with more seriousness, wonder if you really should have just killed yourself on that night in the year 2000, even though you think, right now, that your so-called suicidal tendencies were pseudo at best. And then you recognise trends that persist still, things that convince you that it's the same person who wrote those words and the same person who are reading them now, and then you realise, to some extent, that things have not really changed that much after all. Perhaps they're written in a different way, or perhaps they have diminished now, or completely deserted you, or maybe you're just a disappointed idealist but where is the line that differentiates that from a hardcore cynic? how does one identify it? how does one avoid smudging the chalky white imprint?, and mostly, honestly, you're really just ambivalent, not hateful, not celebratory, because there's nothing to hate and nothing to celebrate; it's not quite a metamorphosis, not quite a complete standstill. Like all things, though, it kind of falls somewhere in between the two, and the thing that seems to matter most is the reconcilatory process.

How does one take a break from writing? It's impossible to me. Even in the midst of the most crucial thing I ever have to do in my young life of 18 years I can't keep myself away from this, from my diary, from picking up that pen and putting down the crazy thoughts that swirl around in my head the entire day to virginal paper. This is one penetration process that is definitely a labour of love. Unlike real sex, or whatever people substitute it with, it has got nothing to do with lust, with physical attraction, with primal animalistic instincts; it's love that deflowers untainted white pages, just like the subdued emotions that kind of resemble beauty felt between Ricky and Thora Birch's character in "American Beauty" when they slept together.

When I was 13, I wanted to be a pop star. When I was 14, I wanted to be a rock star. When I was 15, I wanted to be a writer. And that ambition, so to speak, has been the one thing that anchors me to the past, all these years, giving me a sense of direction, my personal Belisha beacon, in times when nothing seems to make sense anymore. I don't think it's realistic anymore, and neither am I sure of what I really, really want to do with my life at this stage, but one thing I know for a fact: I can never, ever stop writing. It's as impossible as taking a fish out of water and still expecting it to breathe and survive.

This is when I'm most comfortable with myself. It doesn't matter if I'm really not any good at it, because I think a lot of it more personal than anything else, and besides, public approval is so overrated.

The point is... I don't know what the point is. I love this thing though. I really do. If the craft of writing were to be personified, I would marry that person, regardless of whether the person is male or female, or asexual, it doesn't matter.

Okay, let me attempt to connect the diaries thing with the writing thing.

Oh fuck, I don't know. I kind of go off sometimes on the quickest tangent I can find. Thoughts are usually disorganised, which should explain the difficulties I face with organising my Lit essays and sometimes, GP essays. How the hell does one categorise one's thoughts into distinct boxes? I don't get it. It's got easier for me for GP because somebody amazing helped me with it but I still stumble sometimes. I mean, everything is so inter-related. Nothing stands alone. Give me a question on politics and I can find a way to relate it to, I don't know, American literature, somehow.

Okay, the tangent thing is at work again. Argh. Sometimes I have no idea either what the hell I'm off about, so I don't blame people for being confused, if they are confused, when they read my crap.

Yeah, so...

Actually, what I really wanted to do was to berate my 15-year-old self for being a total braindead bimbo when she fell head-over-heels for the first ex after merely seeing him in the restaurant on that fateful day in February 2002, but somehow, the entry took a direction of its own and it led me here.

Or rather, my thoughts are so disjointed that I ended up talking about something entirely different.

But really. Oh my god. I can hardly believe how bloody irrational and dumb I was. The stuff are here too, in the 2002 archives, so go read them for yourself if you wanna and yes, you have my permission to laugh at me. I think I deserve it.

Okay, this entry began it all.

Ah fuck it, what words do I even begin to employ to convey the absolute depths of my stupidity? I can't believe the things that I did. How far I went with him. It's a good thing I didn't go all the way, or... I don't know. The healing process would've been a lot a lot a lot more onerous and tedious.

But basically, my conclusion is this: crushes are so preferable to actual relationships. The former is fun, while the latter is a waste of time. Seriously. You're just bloody disappointed after the initial mystery has been shattered and the person exposed for who he truly is, and trust me, most of the time, I can't deal at all, and I don't see why I have to in the first place. It's not like I'm getting married, right? It's not like it's gonna be 'forever'. I don't believe in forever.

Then again, forever can take place if you never get to know that intriguing member of the opposite sex, if all you know of him is that he's amazing with the English language, he's gorgeous, intelligent and almost perfect, beautiful, flawless. If you leave it at that, it's the only impression you'd have of him throughout your entire life.

But because you're human and because human beings invite disaster by instinct (since we're so damn stupid), you'd want to pursue some form of development with that intriguing member of the opposite sex. You'd want something to happen, because at the moment, merely admiring him from afar is hardly enough.

And it's SO FUCKING STUPID because you HAVE gone through all that crap that proves your theory of crushes being better than relationships right, because getting to know someone will always end up, yes, shattering that initial mystery and who the person really is is always nowhere near who you thought he was.

Is this making any sense at all? I'm rather light-headed from the caffeine and the lack of food so the words are flowing with a small dam in place now. But anyway, the point is...

Hmm, good question. What is the point? Haha. My stomach hurts. Shit. Shouldn't have added half a cup of milk to my coffee. Oh well.

Oh, by the way, I dreamt the other night that I got a 19, 19.5 (out of 25) and a 41/50 for my Econs Paper 3 prelim. This effectively means that I would not get an A or anything close to that in reality, because past experiences have shown that whenever I dream of good results, the truth is always the exact opposite.

I'm trying hard to think of a way to deal with that but whenever I think about it I just want to fucking weep.

So anyway. I'm in love with this person but it's not really important. It's funny how I can sit here and type for close to an hour despite not having anything specific in mind prior to sitting here and typing for close to an hour.

Yeah. I so don't wanna do Maths tonight but I don't have a choice.

Whenever my mom broaches the subject of my revision for Maths I just get this immense urge to ask her to shut up and shove it. It's awfully rude and ungrateful and I do feel pretty bad, but the fact is, her yakking on and on about it just makes me feel worse. Thursday morning, in the car, on the way to school, she went off about it again, like, I don't know, some shit I don't really recall and it was all I could do not to open the car door and walk the rest of the distance to school, just to get away from her.

I mentioned a horrendous Wednesday night, didn't I? The eve of the insurmountable Maths prelim. Right. So basically the main agent of the shittiness on Wednesday night was Maths and I was damn morose about it, and I spent my time staring into space, like I said, and she came in, saw the state I was in, and basically demanded an explanation.

I mean, okay, fine, so she has the right to ask, since she's my mom, but come the hell on. At which stage of my life have I ever did the talking thing with you? Especially when I'm in one of my moods? I mean you'd think that after 18 years she'll finally have a sense of how I operate, but NO. It's the same goddamn scenario over and over whenever something like that happens. And I absolutely resent it when she goes off about it the next day, precisely when I just want to forget it ever happened.

She'd be like, "Ah, you better study for your Maths ah! If not later you'd be crying over it again!"

For fuck's sake, the only reason I cried was because Dad came in and started lecturing me and I got damn pissed off. Yes, a wave of tears attacked, but you and him both led the army to finally fire the fucking cannons at me. So thanks a lot. You really improved my situation. I was just waiting for him to reply to my SMS so that I could feel better and move on and attempt to get more work done but you just HAD to assist me in my academic suicide. Yes, academic euthanasia. Thanks a lot. I appreciate it.

Okay, for crying out loud, in case you have forgotten, I'm 18, not 16, and definitely not 14. I'm not going to kill myself just because I don't understand my teachers' Maths solutions. God, by the way she kept fussing over me, you'd think that I was suffering from severe depression or something.

And seriously, you don't have to find every opportunity to remind me that my Maths Paper 2 exam is on Tuesday. I know it myself, thank you very much. I have my own means of dealing with it. I don't need you to breathe down my neck about it. It only riles me up and makes me not want to do Maths even more.

So yeah, talk about major backfiring and shit.

Oh my god I just saw a mosquito with striped legs flying around the computer table! Oh my god! What if it bites me and I contract malaria or whatever as a result? I so should have smashed it when I had the chance but I'd probably freak out at the sight of the squashed bug, knowing my aversion to such business and all. Argh now I'm fucking scared and still reluctant to get off the computer. So I guess I'm not getting off the computer.

This entry has gone to the dogs. Yeah. I think I'll end this here.

This entry took an hour and 3 minutes to produce. Interesting. Not.

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