Becoming Freer

I've always believed there's something more in me. The ability to put thoughts into words without sounding phony, the crisp style of words usage without flamboyance. But the funny thing is, I always thought I was never good enough until I read how Haruki Murakami started writing.

I remember vividly when I was 11, I received my marked English essay and was very surprised that I had scored a high 38/40. The teacher then announced that my essay was the highest in class and also I had topped all combined 4 classes. I wasn't very impressed with myself but I was nonetheless surprised. Because on the day when I handed in the essay, I had thought I was going to flunk it or score really low. My classmate who sat next to me borrowed my essay to read and then returned it together with a black facial expression. I returned the favour with a blank expression as well.

The both of us clearly didn't know how I had managed to top all classes.

The writing style was nothing to boast, the story plot was nothing spectacular where there's a hidden plot twist at the end, the main character was named John.

I had a thought just earlier today (I always have a lot of thoughts) that I could live on $50 a month at a backward village where if I want to drink, I would have to fetch water from the well. That way maybe I could write something, figure out my life and quit smoking altogether.

My Sacrifice

I think this little speck here in the cyberspace is the most brilliant example of paradox. You see, I fucking well know there's no one reading whatever I write here YET at the same time, these words are possibly the truest form of my reality. No pretense, no lies and a whole load of swear words. Yes yes, and whatever that has taken place in the last TEN years of my life. So I am honestly documenting every thoughts I have, every struggle I go through, every breakup, every men I've known and the list goes on.

Ten years later, check back and you might find baby photos. Fifty years later, my writer daughter is going to turn this into a book.

I have 198 songs in my favourite playlist on iTunes that I can never tire of listening. It should be 199. I had forgotten to pull Foo Fighters - Everlong in.

It's 9 August today. One more day and Carl and I would have known each other for two years. He's been really sweet today. It feels like we are back together. Alas, we are not. According to him, he needs this space to be on his own to figure himself out, as well as his future. I mean... What's there to figure out about his future? I am YOUR future babe. But it's okay, you'll see it in due time. You'll never meet another person like me. You know this all too well. How often does one meet someone who's:

1. all your friends love (without having to buy them rounds of shots)
2. watches football with you
3. plays games with you (and bought you Football Manager before anyone in SG gets to play)
4. debates whether 2pac or Biggie was the best rapper ever lived with you
5. eats whatever shit you eat
6. travels with you and carries her own bag
7. fashion savvy enough to style you
8. has a Mensa IQ
9. almost became a Googler
10. am the best in bed that some call her Sex Goddess
11. has a fucking wicked sense of humour

And the list goes on.

So babe, if you're ever reading this, you're really just plain stupid if you never come back. If you did, which you will, you're being wise.

If you're the new girl of his, well, I have a longer list. You might even start to think I'm perfect for him, not you.

12. i speak my mind all the time.