Rambling Eyes

One night in the life of a self-confessed slut – a semi-true account Part 1

2008-02-14T01:26:00.000-08:00

As he sauntered in, I tried not to look but of course I failed. I always do. He looked around and picked a seat almost immediately. “Decisive”, I thought to myself. Oh my god, I was at it again. Sizing up a stranger. He quickly noticed me and I pulled off an “I just happened to glance your way” look but I think my nervous flicking of the hair gave me away.

And then the most wonderful thing happened. A smile, his smile, the sweetest one you ever saw. So warm and so communicative. It was telling me something. What was it? Using my peripheral vision, I discreetly ascertained that there was no one behind me. You know how silly a parallax error in such a situation can make you feel.

Satisfied that I was indeed the object of his appraisal and that flushed, pleasured grin, I returned the favour (at my age they are all favours). I mastered a demure little smile and a gaze which I hoped was saying “I don’t know why you’re smiling at me but I’m smiling back because I am a gracious, well brought up girl, even though I am alone in a club with three empty martini glasses before me”.

It worked apparently. He stood up and started walking in my direction. I took a deep breath in preparation for this unbelievable windfall. With every cell in me screaming, “I’m gonna clinch this one!” I mastered an air of faint interest as his long strides ate up the distance between us.

“Hi, my name is Nigel. You are?” he introduced himself. If Nigel was dashing two tables away, he was devastating up-close. “Me, Cass.” Did I just say that? “Er…hi Cass, can I buy you a drink?” Nigel offered, his voice a nice deep timbre. “Bychee Martini please.” My usual order seemed to have thrown him off balance. I quickly added, “I mean a Lychee Martini with two lychees in it.” That tickled him so much that he threw back his head and gave way to a throaty laugh. “Alright, I’m not sure I can say it with a straight face though,” Nigel motioned for the waiter.

To be continued….

Don't be a pussy. Be a bitch.

2008-02-13T22:08:00.000-08:00

A bitch is born not bred. There’s more to bitching than having a lousy character. It takes intelligence, wit, quick reflexes, excellent timing and flair. To me, there’s no first-rate bitch or 2nd class bitch. You are either one or you’re not.

The 10 cardinal rules of bitching

1. Originality is imperative. Never rehash somebody else’s bitchy one-liners. I’ve seen or heard some bitch wannabes rip off a line from a movie and passing off as their own. How can you be a bitch if you’re a copycat?
2. Delivery is everything. Never fumble or falter when you’re dishing out a scathing remark.
3. When returning a repartee, the slightest hint of hesitation is a total defeat. So confidence is paramount.
4. Always keep an urbane air. Never let a bitching session degenerate into name calling or an all-out fight – poise remember?
5. When you meet a bigger bitch, a good bitch takes as good as she dishes out.
6. Refrain from name-calling, that’s the cheap cousin of bitching.
7. Calibrate your lethality according to your adversary’s level. A good bitch never bullies, merely shows up.
8. In the face of a solid bitch, don’t try to top her and risk falling short. Cut your losses and exit with dignity.
9. Temper the harshness of an observation, no matter how accurate with humour. An outright attempt to hurt is beneath bitching.
10. Aim to entertain, the ultimate goal.

I’m not going to be elitist here. So I’m going to invite bitches, big or small, expert or novice to add to the list.

Breaking down breaking up

2008-02-13T20:52:00.000-08:00

I’ve resisted till this point to write about what I’m going to write about. Because it just seems so cliché – giving vent to pent-up emotions through creative expression. Well as you might have heard or guessed, it’s a break-up. If one were to describe the feeling a break-up brings in terms of taste, it’s the most disagreeable of taste, much like that of an odious, foul-smelling and gooey medicine that lingers in your chest, weighing down your spirit, trapping you in an eternal playback mode, ruminating repeatedly what transpired and what could have been in torturous detail, and robbing you of the ability of looking forward with the tiniest relish.

Some people say it takes half the duration of a relationship for you to get over it. Bad news for me as that would mean I’ll be miserable for the next 6 years. Not to mention old and jaded by the time I’m ready to be back in the game. Yet others say that you go through 4 stages after a break-up: Denial, Anger, Understanding and Acceptance. The things people dream up just to cope with the rude abrupt demise of love. I’ve had only been in one phase so far – one that sees me vacillate between “I want him back” and “set him free”. Guess that’s called denial since I’m agonising over something that’s basically out of my control. Not looking forward to anger, or understanding, least of all acceptance. Yes I’m in denial.

Some songwriters/lyricists are just so irritatingly spot-on with their observations on break-ups. You have the classic Burt Bacharach song “I just don’t know what to do with myself”, Smokey Robinson's “ Tracks of my tears” and scores of Chinese songs dissecting lost love in its every pathetic aspect. Going to a karaoke when nursing a broken heart has become the modern equivalent to rubbing salt in the wound, and a more expensive way to be masochistic. Biting my lips and fighting back tears, I’ve been to such singing/torture sessions with friends. Why? Because “I just don’t know what to do with myself”.

If I let my head rule, I am able to be rational and know that some day I’ll look back at all this and smile, even laugh. But wisdom on hindsight is a belated panacea that never delivered anyone from any misfortune. So I guess I might as well enjoy wallowing in deep, long and unadulterated pain without trying to look on the bright side. Anyone who’s ever had a broken heart knows it’s bullshit. And oh, have a Happy Valentine’s Day.

137

2007-05-29T00:36:00.000-07:00

If you tagged a number to every memorable experience, what number would you be at right now? Of course that would depend on your definition of “memorable” and how long you’ve lived. For me, “memorable” is invariably linked to men and/or their attention, be it positive or otherwise. So it comes as no surprise that my Memorable Experience number 1 is precisely with a man.

Now please don’t start thinking dirty, it was a very innocent incident that happened in primary school. Well, maybe not that innocent…I’ll let you be the judge. Amongst my few vague recollections of my primary school days, one sticks out – My Primary 6 Science teacher, Mr Foo. Gosh, I just realised that he’s the only teacher whose surname I can still recall other than Mrs Tan, my form teacher for 2 years, who slapped me once for my carelessness in doing my corrections. (F**k her!)

Anyway back to Mr Foo. He was to me the handsomest guy I had ever seen and by Primary 6, I had already seen many guys. Even when I was just learning how to tie my shoelaces, I fantasised about tying the knot with him. He wore spectacles and had his hair well combed all the time. He smiled easily, even cheekily. I liked the combination of studiousness and sexiness he exuded.

The most vivid memory I have of him apart from his cute face is his hairy legs. Of course he didn’t walk around in shorts but I got a glimpse of his naked shin by chance or should I say a stroke of luck? We were having an experiential science lesson looking at trees and leaves within the school compound. He must have been looking up at the trees and talking to us because he didn’t see a small drain in his path. (Or on hindsight, it could have been my coquettish ways that distracted him). One of his legs went in (forgot if it was the right or left leg, but who cares, I’m sure they were equally hairy) and his pants got lifted up revealing his shin in all its hirsute splendour! I remember appraising it and nodding in approval before going to his rescue. I shall never forget the sheepish grin that greeted me.

Since that day, the serial numbers have really run and incidents involving boys both funny and poignant have taken place which are too many to recount here. And of course a vast number of those memories centred on one particular boy. Of which I shall talk about in some other posting in the future. Right now, I will look forward to the next memorable experience which I hope will take place tomorrow in some club. You see I’m going for drinks with some people, one of whom I am particularly interested in. I shall name it Memorable Experience no. 137 in advance. If something interesting happens, you will get to hear about it. If not, just be diplomatic and don’t ask me about it. Till then, here’s hoping your own set of numbers runneth over!

Early Poetic Stirrings

2007-05-08T10:55:00.000-07:00

I found some poems I scrawled on scraps of paper stashed away in a box in my cupboard. They must have been written years ago given the dated sentiments and lack of craftsmanship. Nevertheless they are touching in their innocence - not so much in the subject matters but the self-conscious, rather amusing and clearly youthful attempt to be profound. Reading them, I was torn between cringing and giving myself a pat on the back but a frisson of nostalgia definitely shot through me. Here's one that's actually not half bad.

Sweet Love

I've sought love in the strangest places
from nature's groves to urban mazes.
For a taste of its sweetness legendary
in mating songs and poets' eulogies.

I've yearned for love in the oddest hours
taking morning strolls and evening rambles.
To glut the profound emptiness within
surfeiting on the cousin of love - sin.

I've known love in its myriad forms:
a flitting flower or the eternal thorn.
Neither tears to quell nor joy to amass
but keep you wistful to the very last.

To Blog or Not to Blog - A Rainy Day Rambling.

2007-05-02T22:13:00.000-07:00

On this rainy day of days, I decided to start a blog. So here's my first post, or is it posting? – still trying to get into this blogging business and its conventions. I definitely started this because of peer pressure - ironic considering the fact that blogging is all about self-expression and individualism. Well I fully intend to make good though, by expressing myself more in this new and strange domain. Which brings me to another quandary. You see, I'm quite the blabber mouth. I'm the resident open book in my circle. No secret seems too personal to share. I freely dish out all the lurid details of my misdemeanours. So the question is, do I want to do this on a global scale?

Guess I'll have to practise some restraint – but is that not opposing the principle of a blog as an outlet for the effusion of feelings? At this point I can hear my friends saying in unison, "You're thinking too much!". Yes, rainy days get me like this. Come to think of it, I'm like this in all weathers. I'm an all-weather thinker of too much. But I digress. Back to the question of to blog or not to blog. I think one has to try it to know where it leads. Some of my friends become such avid writers that you can expect a new post every day, others become critics of anything from politics to the latest technological advancements, yet others become commercial bloggers making modest profits. So I'll go with the flow and see where my blog will end up.

Phew! All that rambling just to reach this foregone conclusion - my apologies. The next step is to revamp the look of my blog. Do come back and check out this space. Have a nice rainy day!