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i dare you to tell the truth.
(I'd buy the DVD, except I don't re-watch Alias and I haven't got the urge to re-watch Season 1 and 2. And anyway it was on Channel 5. Just pretend that meant something.)
Am fucking sick of trying to study and pretending that my sloppy efforts truly count. I'm looking forward to Friday after the stupid paper because I'd be going to Esprit with my mom, and because I'd have a new Veronica Mars episode to watch at night.
I am also very, very obsessed with VM, such that I'm willing to pay S$36 for a T-shirt that simply says "Veronica Mars" across the chest, with a fugly logo of the network it's on (UPN) in red at the back. What can I say? Me and the shirt, it was love at first sight. Now I'm just waiting for the seller to email me the measurements so that I can justify my purchasing it.
Once again, just pretend that that made sense.
eBay is either a necessary evil or an Evil, period. Most of my online time now is spent on eBay, searching for things that I don't really want, and performing VM searches like, 358728578438758476384925874 times a day (seriously), as if a new item would be added every 0.000001 nanosecond. But eBay rocks and it's perfect for the cheapskate shopper, i.e. me. I just bid on two extended Lord of the Rings DVDs (Fellowship and Two Towers) and the starting bid is US$0.01. That is just amazing.
If studying were that easy and addictive, I'd be first on the Dean's List.
Getting good grades, the process of getting good grades, the wanting to get good grades, have somehow begun to bore me to tears. In fact, this whole academia thing, this getting a degree and studying, it's boring. Granted, I've never been much interested in studying (A Levels were an exception - that is, became an exception two months before the actual exams) but this time I truly DO NOT SEE THE FREAKING POINT. And the irony strikes me as well, because there is supposed to be a point, because this is supposed to be my profession...and therein lies the problem. It's supposed to be my profession, and the italicised word in itself connotes minimal decision-making by the individual.
Which is also a crock of shit, because I kind of chose this myself, but hell, people change, even if we're talking about a mere five-month period. How much of my "consent" was "real"? (Couldn't resist the defences to negligence bad reference.) I still think, after one semester in LS, that this is largely a mistake, probably the worst I've made this year.
Of course, it's only the lesser of two evils, and I'm not in the mood to state what the other evil is. Whatever.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK.
I'm annoyed. I hate exams. Pointless, they are. It's not ONLY my laziness talking; it's the way it defies all academic logic. What is the point of making me write something half-brained in an hour when I can produce a masterpiece if you give me some more time? Like I said: I'd choose the three thousand-word essay (no not sure where the stupid hyphen is supposed to go), but alas, I am not given the choice.
Did I ever mention "FUCK"?
How much longer before my mask slips? I wonder if I can string people along and lead them towards the edge of the cliff by the noses and not believe my own lies.
I just want to see how cruel I'm capable of being, the extent to which I can stretch like a rubber band before it's released to inflict pain on its target.
Maybe you mattered more than I gave you credit, but most likely than not, all this is my pride talking - nothing more, nothing less.
What would happen in my ideal world:
Random guy: Wow, you are so cute! Can I be your friend?
And so on and so forth.
What actually happened:
Random guy: wow.. u r so cute! care to b frenz?
Messages from Random Guy aren't word-for-word, but the gist is basically there.
And you wonder why I moan the lack of quality males in this country, and why I seek to find a male version of myself with whom to sweetly copulate.
A potent sign of insanity: The act of generating conversations with another person in a setting conceived purely in an individual's mind.
The verdict is in. I am insane.
What I can't find and can't have in real life, I cling desperately to when I find it in reel life.
Therefore: I LOVE VERONICA MARS.
To be quite truthful now, I am significantly sadder (if there's such a word) than I let on.
To put it in another way, if I killed myself right now and left no suicide note, my family would be very confused and puzzled. Something in me keeps everyone at bay, even the ones who genuinely care and want me to talk; and while I truly appreciate their concern, opening up is an impossibility.
It's a time-honoured trait, I suppose. My coping mechanism in those definitive teenage angst years have proven to be rather useful: writing as catharsis...but it's that much harder when you don't write that much anymore, and the things that you do write disgust you with their outrageous mediocrity.
And then there are those who don't understand, don't care to understand, want to understand but can't understand, never bothered to understand - people I laugh with, exchange friendly SMSes with, whose problems I listen to and comment on, to whom I ask questions after questions after questions, whose replies I may or may not care about. Best friends, good friends, friends, acquaintances, and it's alarming because the boundaries around these terms that used to be clearly-defined are increasingly becoming more and more ambiguous; over-lapping spheres of influence*; you have him and her and them and all these people and I'm not a part of it.
I can count on one hand the number of people I have under "<3" on my MSN list; as for the people I actually count on...well, I'd need a seriously brilliant mathematician to figure out how to count "zero".
I say I love you and I miss you and I mean everything that I say; but I can't lie and say that I've never harboured any negative thoughts about you too. You and you and you, why do I keep questioning the validity of what we have if it's supposed to be so amazing? My endless fixation on wanting something real, as if my real life isn't real enough, my relationships with the real people in my real life aren't real enough, I don't know what I incessantly hanker after, I can't admit things to others that I have problems admitting to myself, even if I had people who want me to talk to them I push them away and why is that so?, I wish there could be more to what already exists.
And then there are people to whom I say, I don't want to deal with you right now; just take it and leave; I don't know what to make of it, of anything, this intrinsic repulsion towards you, immediate reaching for the remote control to switch you off. What can I possibly say? Only all the things I should have said, taking back all the things I shouldn't have. I don't even hate you anymore - I abhor you, the mere thought of you murders my apetite; all the laughable things you said with which I can make an entire list; you have an extremely screwed up values system; you are so fucking typical that it makes me want to gourge my eyes out; I hate Adrian Pang's wishy-washy character on Channel 8's recycled 7 o'clock drama because he is exactly like you; letsbefriends and hey why don't you toss me another one of your endless cliches while you're at it?; you really know how to hit me where it hurts.
If I could pinpoint the source of my problems, I would. Except, I don't even know where to begin. And then there are people who will probably ask me about it, to which I'd simply snort and say, "Don't even pretend you care."
I dare you to tell the truth - the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. No sugar-coating, fuck the euphemisms, just the truth in all its almighty glory, its grotesque ugliness. After months of latent and suppressed resentment, I think I can handle it.
When I said that I was an emotional train wreck, I don't think I knew how true it was going to be.
And now, because my life is so real and so not a lie, and because it goes on, and because I'm living the Singaporean elitist cliche, and because the "elite" here are really quite ordinary, I'm going to resume my attempts to try to study, seriously.
Sometimes, I'm really torn between cueing the sarcastic, mocking laughter and stepping aside for the broken, heart-wrenching tears.
* - couldn't resist the Southeast Asian history reference