Higgley Piggley Bumble Bee

Soooooo, I am flyflyflying away!

The route is basically Hong Kong- Shen Zhen - Hong Kong. Lots to do, lots to see, lots of people to meet.
My maternal grandfather for one. I've been in a habit of referring to him as "my real grandfather" while talking to people and they keep going, "you mean you've got a fake one?"
It is a big deal for me because well, I haven't met him before in my entire life. I don't even think he knows what I look like. So it's a bit strange.
But it'll be nice to meet him, it really will.

Then there's my aunt and uncle who will be flying over from LA to Hong Kong around the same time, and hopefully, I'll get to meet up with my Godma again. She's just SOOOOO much fun.

I think what I'm looking forward to the mostest, out of everything, is the weather. That kind of weather, and Christmas vibes, and you have a very very VERY happy Charis<3

Managed to have a lovely swim and get a tan today. So I'll look nicely roasted BEFORE going off to look all pale and whale-ish.
There's just an insane amount of shit to get done right now, I think I'm going MAD MAD MAD.
Best be off! I even have to finish math homework first!
poo):

if you find yourself on my side of town,

funky mirrors make hot bodies!

So yesterday was spent doing the last bit of my Children's Christmas Program- planning.
All I had to do was do the little Arts & Crafts pieces. I'm quite happy with them because they look awfully cute!

Then I had to do Rudolph.
So I started out by drawing my own reindeer first.
Now I'm no artist and my drawing sucks balls. So considering all that, I'm quite happy with what I came up with! ^^
Then I took that sketch and made it into a template to cut Rudolphs!
aaaaaandddd


Ta Dah! You have Rudolph the red-nosed Reindeer.


Well, that's work for you.(:


I'd like to wear a pretty little dress tomorrow. Except I'm out of pretty little dresses.
I'm not kidding you! They're all too casual or too NOT casual. There doesn't seem to be any in between, and that's starting to peeve me a little bit.
Groan, all these clothes. All I likey very much! THEN HOW?
blah.

Nope I haven't finished packing for Hong Kong yet. So I suppose I ought to go do that then.
toodles(:

Hurry Christmas, Hurry Fast.

oh Lord, I love Christmas. I do, I do, I DO.
And I'm excited!
So excited:D:D

There's the children's programme (which is why I'm googling for reindeer at 12.20am), and the Christmas parties and the presents (ooooh, I just LOOOOOVE presents!), the night watch services, the Christmas lights, the shopping, the buildup.

Oh I love I love!

Christmas shopping will all be done in Hong Kong, it's the loveliest excuse to shooooooop!


xoxo

a litre of tears

"Do you still miss her?" I ask
"Oh yes, of course. Yes, yes I do." He pauses and smiles for a bit, "I uh, I still keep her picture with me."

It's a realization that hurts, and I am moved to tears.
His daughter, blinded by her anger for him, can't even begin to guess. His girlfriend, with an entire world of priorities and plans and reaches, she wouldn't understand.


That she talks to him in dreams.
That she is happy.
That he is happy, so happy, knowing that she is.

There is a world you wish you could undo, but because you can't, even if you don't want to,
you become stronger.

a trash bag full of what ifs

I saw the sunset and started tearing up. Then I re-focused my thoughts and started organizing.
Throwing questions at myself, I grappled with the reality of the answers that I was providing. I sifted through the melodrama, the self-pity, the issues that stemmed from events nearly a decade ago.

All I was left with was a box of melodrama marked "To Throw",
and the realization that really, I'm fine.

and hold yourself there for 60 seconds. If you feel like dying, continue holding until you do

"You're angry." He says.
scoff
"No I'm not." I reply.
"You're angry. Why?"
"I'm not!"
come on, really? All I've been doing is skipping for the last fifteen minutes!

"I know," he insists, "I know you're angry. why?"
"I don't know."
and I don't. But I do know that I know how to smile and be okay.

"Hand okay?" He asks, startling me a bit.
He reaches for my left wrist and I turn my arm over. It's clean, save for the scars.
"Good." He says, beaming at me.
He nods. "I know," he says simply, "I know."



It's crazy.
It feels crazy, that he sees right through me. That he identified an emotion that I didn't even realize was present.
That he bothered to at all.


That he bothered.

I'm going crazy, I am.
Can't breathe and I just hate crying when I feel like this. Like all knotted up and like there's so many things to do that I can't concentrate on just one.

It's been so long, today.
So long and so tiring and I need to breathe, I need to breathe and I can't.
I want to curl up in bed but I can't and there's just such an insane amount of stuff to do.
I want to look forward to something, but you can't possibly look forward to something that isn't there.

And oh there's just so much, and I don't think I could take it all.
It's only 8:48 in the evening and it feels like it way past midnight. And I'm so tired. I'm tired, I am.

And I feel.like.I'm.going.insane.


help.
please.

Rashes.
Think I'm going to turn into a pile of red lumpy skin in the middle of the night):

And she says having expectations was her fault,
and so does she,
and she.

But then when we realize, it's always a bit too late isn't it?

SI

Hello, I am a cutter.

I've just come back from an amazing and refreshing time in Batam. A time where I was very filled and returned happy as a clam.

But I am still a cutter.
And I have been a cutter for seven years now.
There is nothing, absolutely nothing like the rush of feeling everything flow out from that single exit point. "I'll help that along," you think, and you're laughing, smiling, sickeningly delirious as you blindly swing at your arm over and over and over again.
And then your breathing evens, and you sober up by pressing tissue against yourself in an attempt to soak up the mess that is you.
But in those few minutes, the world is made right again. You are in control because you're the only one who can cause yourself more hurt than the people around you. You are in control because you know of a way to release the anger or frustration that is knotted up in your chest and destroying you from the inside out.

And for a while after that, you find yourself smiling. Smiling because you've a secret under your sleeve that the world doesn't know about. Smiling because they can try to destroy you but they can't come close enough. Smiling, because everytime you press down on your sleeve again, you send a sharp pain searing through your arm. A pain that helps you relax and breathe and smile at people.


Hello, I am a cutter. I've been a cutter for seven years now, and I will likely be one for the rest of my life.
But then, for the first time in seven years, I'm typing all of this out on a public blog.
A blog you will read and laugh at, point at, and pass judgement.
I don't need pity, or shouts of "get yourself on medication!" I don't want people to tell me that anything that I go through is not worth cutting myself over. Because you have no clue. It's not whether or not the issue is worth it, is that this is my coping mechanism.
It might not be the best, or the smartest, but it is what works for me.

And for the first time in seven years, i typed all of this out,
instead of reaching for my knife.

well-deserved holiday

I had an INSANE hair-ripping five hours today, no yesterday. It started in the late afternoon and ended up with Vic and I having dinner at half past ten.
Because yes, I only finished my work at that time.
GRUNT.

I've never spent this much time on an essay, and it's only three, four pages long. eurgh. I don't feel like I've elaborated enough. I don't feel like it's good enough.
I don't feel like it's enough, period.
And it frustrates me. It's my final assignment for this module, the least I can do is freaking get it right, right?

But my brain, it was swimming with all the things I needed to say but it refused to construct decent sentences.

okay, forget it, it's over and I've sent it in.

Noooooow I am off to Batam with the bestest company in the world! (after my famahwee of course)
Hello Sun, sea, sand and awesome worship:D:D

It's very well deserved, I'd say. I finished my last English assignment for the entire module, I finished five shows and a month long of intensive rehearsals, I lost about half a handful of blubber, I did my first write-up for an InwardBound program and I learnt A LOT of awesomely cool techniques during my last two Muay Thai Classes.
omg I love it sooo much.

So yay, happiness much!

Happy Batam! (as Shawn puts it. hahahaa)



xoxoxo

ps: I<3 Vineyard Conferences SOOOOOOOOOO much! I can't wait for this one!

stole

"Hi!" He says cheerily. He is beaming, an honest smile on his face. "What're you doing here?"
"Oh sir, hello. Working part-time only sir, only on weekends sir."
"You sure?" He asks, concerned, because he truly does want to help.
"Oh yes sir, it is okay sir. I only live there." He points straight ahead to government apartments, his mind turning over images of his family, his children.
His boss relaxes, pats him on the shoulder and goes off to pay the bill for filling his Lexus up with a full tank.
As he keys in the numbers and fills the tank up with gas, he strains to peer through the window of the passenger seat; perhaps he might steal just a glimpse of this fortunate man's life. An imagery he can use, when he's lying awake and dreaming of how much better off he could be.
She squirms a little bit, brushes fringe out of her eyes and runs her left hand briefly over face.
This life, it's not hers. It doesn't belong to her, this life. It doesn't.


She balances her 13-month-old on her hip, rummaging through her handbag for that piece of paper. Giving up, she smiles weakly at her friend, sipping her caramel frappe right across from her. She watches her friend light a menthol cigarette and turns away for a second, before turning around to smile. Eying the O level students at the next table, and the stack of manila folders her friend has shoved under an arm, she says,
"You're lucky," pauses to think, sifting through her words carefully. "You have a long time yet."
And her friend, she stares at her, at her little boy, at all that she cannot have. But this life, it's not hers. It doesn't belong to her, this life. She's stolen it and it not hers, not really.


"Hey doll, you gonna finish that?" His words are slurred and his breath reeks of vomit and alcohol. There are spaces in his clothes where pockets should have been, iron-on patches of teddy bears, where expensive brand names once were.
He grabs the bottle of half finished beer even before I've finished shaking my head, curls up on the corner of Smith street and pulls a trash bag tightly around him like a blanket.
But this life, it's not mine. The means to pay for this beer, the handful of chips I leave unfinished on the table. This life, it is not mine and it is not mine to take for granted.


"And I was just wondering if you've got a minute to spare," her voice is posh, crisp, light. "Oh I've got more than that really," comes the reply, "I just wouldn't like to waste your time, you know?"
"Oh no," she laughs, "it's my job, really."
"Well," the person on the other line says, shuffling papers on his desk, "I'd like to arrange for a meeting with your director anyway. Whether or not you give me the whole spiel. Because honestly, I've wanted to call you guys for ages."
After the phone call she stretches, wanders to the window of her office. She stares at the empty ashtray, and glances over at her duffel bag which she knows doesn't contain any smokes.
But oh this life, it's not hers.
It's stolen, taken by force. This life, it's not her at all.


She's lying in a bathtub filled with warm water that's gone cold. A huge vertical line across her left wrist, and her journal, open to the last entry, balanced precariously on the lip of the tub. The bathroom, oh it's such a mess and surely grandma will fret over how to clean it all up. But there's just a hint of a smile on her face, her clothes soaked to the skin and a flash of silver on the floor of the bathtub, quiet and used.
And all she has are scars. Horizontal lines that are proof of her failings.
And this life, oh this life, this life, it's not hers.
It's not hers to have.

they ask why we've got it made?

we don't.

Wait, like, seriously?

Don't know the full story, or the entire drama or whatever,
but I get this thing that you blow stuff way out of proportion.
It's a tad silly, I find.

All your weird analogies and explanations and excuses and melodrama.
I think it's whatever you want to make of it, really.

I think there's an insanely simple explanation to the bullshit.
But why write about that when you can dramatize everything and make it into a long and lovely blog post instead right?



geez.