Joao likes his well done.

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Me: (In reference to a picture someone sent me) That's got to be the sweetest thing anyone's ever done for me.*

Mom: Cough cough.

Me: Geez...alright, the sweetest thing anyone's ever done is giving birth to me.

Mom: And what a mistake that turned out to be.

*Alright, maybe not the sweetest thing ever. But it was still pretty damn sweet.

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Mystery!

There is a phone number in my mobile’s contact list. True, it’s something you would expect to find in a contact list. But I have no idea how I got this particular number. And to make it more interesting, the mobile number in question belongs to my hot tutor from last year.

This is like unexpectedly finding a ten dollar bill in your pocket. Only better. Because with a mobile number, it’s much easier to stalk someone.

I do wonder though, how did his number appear in my phone? For someone who has a perfectly good office number and doesn’t like meetings outside class hours, surely this is out of the ordinary. I ask my coursemates if they have it as well (i.e. I wave his number in their faces, dancing and singing “Na na na na na!” in the manner of a five-year-old with the latest must-have toy). But it appears that I’m the only one able to ring him up at all hours of the night. For phone sex help with my thesis.

Help me out here. So far, I’ve only been able to come up with two possible scenarios:

1. During a tutorial, I left my phone lying on the table while I walked over a friend to discuss something/copy his answers. He must’ve taken that golden opportunity to snatch my phone up and quickly key his number in.

2. He gave me his number after a wild night of debauchery and sin. Unfortunately, the alcohol and drugs involved had erased my memory of the night, leaving me inexplicably pleased with myself in the morning. Also slightly confused over waking up with handcuffs dangling from one wrist.

He may still be waiting for me to call.

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Nyeaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!

Another cut! I’ve been cut again! My precious fingers, once so smooth and delicate, are now marred by another ugly scar! And now nobody will want me because ugly-fingered people are not worthy of love. My only option left will be other ugly-fingered people. Yuck.

You may think that I have only myself to blame. Serves me right for playing with knives. Two cuts in as many posts? That’s obviously an indicator that I need to be more careful when handling sharp objects.

But you wrong me. I didn’t do this to myself, it was the KNIFE! 22 centimetres of bloodthirsty steel, capable of lopping entire limbs off with one lop!



Scarier still, I’m not the KNIFE!’s only victim. Barely five minutes after it was purchased, it had its first taste of human blood. It cunningly slipped free of its cardboard prison, sliced its way through the shopping bag and sank its murderous point into my unsuspecting housemate’s thigh. So sudden and clean was its bite that he wasn’t aware that he had been attacked until a salesgirl directed his attention to the blood trail marking his progress through the mall. To which he reacted by falling to the ground and screaming like a little girl.

I honestly don’t feel safe with the KNIFE! in the house. It obviously hungers for warm human flesh. It’s been put away on a shelf out of my reach, but that just makes it easier for the KNIFE! to stab me in the brain. And then even ugly-fingered people won’t want me.

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I am bleeding.

Horror of horrors, I am bleeding.

This, kids, is what happens when you play with knives. How foolish I was to attempt to cut a tag off my shirt with a penknife. I should have let my little sister do it for me.

And now here I am with a wounded finger. It may not be a fatal wound, but still it bleeds. Look at it...dripping,
          dripping,
               dripping.

I rummage through a drawer in search for a plaster, leaving little dots of blood in my wake. It doesn't look dramatic enough, so I smear the little dots into medium dots. I would prefer them to be large dots, but there isn't enough blood for that.

I find the plasters. We've run out of dinosaur plasters and I have to make do with a regular flesh-coloured one. Curses. I don't like flesh-coloured ones because they camouflage too well against the rest of me. If no one notices it, who will fuss over me?

MY MOTHER WILL!

I shakily make my way downstairs in search of my angel of nurturing love. I hope that I do not pass out before I get to her. The last time I passed out from a cut, I woke up again before anyone found me. That was more upsetting than the cut.

I stumble from room to room, already dizzy from blood loss. "M-mom?" I call out in a tremulous voice. How can she be playing hide-and-seek at a time like this? I try again. "MOM!!!" I bellow.

"WHAT?!" Her tender reply drifts in through an open window like music.

I slowly make my way to the window through a haze of pain and lean out. There she is, my beacon of comfort, sitting with the dog and scratching her chin. The dog's, not my mother's.

"Mommy, I cut my finger." My voice trembles with the effort of staying conscious. "Look." I shove my finger towards her.

She doesn't look away from the dog. "Mmm. Stick a plaster on it."

Duh. "I brought one. Stick it on for me."

"Do it yourself. Your dog's enjoying her scratch."

I glare at the dog. She is indeed enjoying herself. Too much. Her eyes are shut in ecstasy as my mother (MY mother, MINE!!!) lavishes attention on her. My dog (MY dog, MINE!!!) doesn't bother to inspect my wound either. Let's see how she likes it when I bleed all over her (the dog, not the mother) in bed tonight. Bitch.

I turn away from the window in rejection. In dejection. In heartbreajection. As I make my way back upstairs, I hope that my finger bleeds on the floor. Bright red blood on the cold white marble, cold as my mother's and dog's hearts, to confront them as they walk in.

It doesn't happen, my finger has stopped bleeding.

But my heart hasn't.

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Got this off Paul's blog.









I like it. It makes me want to shag myself.

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In less than a couple of hours, the Crusaders will open this year's Super 14 season with the Blues.

This game will be very interesting because it'll give us an idea of how the Crusaders will perform without the seven players they've temporarily lost to the All Blacks World Cup conditioning programme.

Closer to home though, the game's gonna be even more interesting because it'll decide who will be skipping into a gay bar on Lesbian Mud Wrestling Night, decked out in fairy wings and a tiara.

Update #1: Kick-off!!

Update #2: Half-time, score is at 19-13 with the Blues leading. Noooo!! I don't want to wear fairy wings!!

Update #3: Betrayal. Sigh...fairy up.

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I loathe going to the hairdresser.

Sitting there in a swivel chair that doesn’t swivel properly (i.e. I can’t go “WHEEE!”), putting my fragile self-esteem in the hands of someone I only just met. Trying to describe the hairstyle that I want, but it’s a total waste of breath, because the result is never the image of beauty I envisioned.

Silly girl, you might laugh. Silly girl, either go to a hairdresser who speaks English or take Mandarin classes.

Aha, that may be so, but that’s not all. You see, I’m not the sort to spend hundreds on my hair and to scream “EMERGENCY TREATMENT!” if I get caught in a drizzle while dashing across the carpark. I blow dry my hair by rolling down the car window. And hairdressers, I’ve found out, look down on this sort of thing. If they could, they would try to convince your hair to just leave because you shouldn’t stand for it and honestly darling, she doesn’t deserve you anyway.

So there I am, sitting nervously in my non-swivelling chair. Because I know exactly what will happen the minute the hairdresser ruffles his fingers through my hair.

“Y’know, your hair’s quite dry.” An innocent enough comment, if not for the thinly veiled condescension accompanying it.

This is where I have to make a decision. How should I respond? Do I go for abject misery, where just one more negative word about my hair will push me to lunge for his scissors and end my pathetic, empty life right there and then? Or indignant and defensive because buddy, I’m paying you to cut my hair so shut it and get to work.

I decide to go with a lofty, such-little-details-are-beneath-my-notice approach. But what comes out my mouth instead is weak denial.

“Noooooo…” I protest in the tone of someone who’s just been pulled over for doing 140km/h in a 90-zone.

“Yes, it is. Don’t you go for hair treatment?”

I scramble for an excuse. “I’m err…very busy. Busy busy busy.”

The hairdresser cocks a sceptical eyebrow as he stares pointedly at the peculiar flatness of my hair which can only be achieved by lying down for extensive periods of time. Evidently he doesn’t appreciate the huge amounts of discipline and willpower required to stay in bed all day.

There is just no winning, I tell you.

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