oh shit

I think I just wedged myself into a tight spot.


Now I am not sure how to get out.

Oh no. Oh no. Oh no. Oh fuck.


Hello A, what about B?

Hello B, it was me. I didn't know. I thought.. . . . .

I was just responding! I thought they had all communicated.. I mean, how was I to know. I am miles away here.


Okay, I am fresh awake on a Tuesday morning, I am actually going for class. I might be spooked out later about The Talk (why does it always sound ominous?), and then this. And then The Stupid Fusspot.

Deep breath, deep breath.


Scale of one to ten, because this involves.. . trickier relations, this puts me on tenterhooks. Nerves, nerves, nerves.

toy story

Extremely convenient for inconvenient times. YAY!!!

100208

x Okay, it seems like I have soo many things to do after lining up stuff. It's 芝麻绿豆似的。But, we know everything builds up. I should be happy.

x OH GOD. How the hell did I miss out on my Manolo Blahniks. Right, they are not even mine. Lol.

x Last night I started doing work late again (as usual, fuck), only to realise that all must be photocopied. Oh God. So today I befriended the photocopier again, whilst churning out dodgy copies online and frantically trying to come up with ideas.

x I think I think I think E does not understand what I am saying. Oh shit. So much so that it doesn't even qualify as 'interesting'.

x My teeth are so yellow. Arrrrgh. I am sure the dentist will find at least three holes this time. It's like the last time, zero, must be a fluke. This time, Murphy will find some sneaky way to play a fool on me. Or somehow, some old filling will have chipped.

x You know, I am always scared to have things in my mouth, even brushing my teeth would make me puke up until recently, I am quite surprised sometimes that. . . I keep forgetting to tell sumbardy that. So maybe I won't puke at the dentist any longer.

x The Stupid Fusspot really has absolutely no research background training. It's not like I pride myself on having it-- or being a C student-- but at least I know what I am talking about, and don't pretend to know what I don't, much less impose a fucken format on others, go for class late, and then scream at people who do so. And I can tell you I have no idea what the most advanced stats are about, although I am sure I could learn them if I wanted to. The Stupid Fusspot (her name has officially been lengthened) looks like a bloody ahlian, has a terrible attitude, and God, how can you hate someone you don't know or have never met. But this is officially possible now. And now have I also realised that the 'format' was plagiarised wholesale from some ex-student (who probably has no training as well) and taken as Gospel Truth. Oh my God. Which means she is completely, absolutely hopeless. I just feel so sad for my client who has to pay me by the hour to keep re-ammending the work because The Stupid Fusspot demands so.

x Apparently most men do not know these about their partner: shoe size, clothes size, bra size, natural hair colour, eye colour, date of birth, favourite perfume, job title, best friend's name & favourite food. TEST time!! ;)

x Sometimes you are busy but your folks skype you. .and their webcam keeps glitching. . you waste time trying to de-glitch instead. AHHH.

x "Why don't you go learn Kung Fu"
"I have been learning Malay grammar every night"
"Hmm.. why don't you learn German, or something else that you can use when you travel"
"I need something that the Ang Mohs don't understand"
HAhahahah.

x Sometimes I have this slightly sick fantasy of sliding the huge slippery sweet down my throat and choking. But no, I don't want to die. It probably arises from those times I read about babies choking to death of fishballs. And wondering just how.

x Speaking of babies, I realised Lulu looked half-afraid of a baby, and half-motherly (hahaha I love to tease her!), and she told me, "I am always afraid of babies" and I decided that she is as odd as my brother because no one I know is afraid of babies. Sometimes I like babies (well most are cute) but I am definitely not the typical girl who coos at every baby or takes photos of cute fat babies like my friends. . but to be scared of babies!? Odd! On closer inspection, it did seem as if she approached the baby like she was approaching . . a cat! And then the song 'the baby is a cat' started playing to the tune of 'the lady is a tramp' in all its Big Band glory.

x The whole idea that love can be blind can be fucking scary. Like, imagine if you fell for a racist (her friend did; I am not talking about The Racist here). .sometimes even in my case, I wonder and wonder and wonder too much, then I start to fear and panic. I mean, it is scary. Really.

x And then we also agreed, there are no intellectual + hot girls in Singapore. Why is it that our culture just kills off that combination. How sad.

x "You look scarier than him you know"-- Lulu. WHY am I scarier? He is the scary man. Scary, not as in monstah-freaky, but you know. .scary. I don't understand why he says he fears for his life around me sometimes. Hello, I am. . good. Really :(

x And apparently, "You look like esspeegee around him", followed by, "Good what, esspeegee pretty and sweet. .you want to be ugly and dowdy?". Oh my God. Before I start launching into WHAT an esspeegee is-- rather than her idealised fantasies in which she wishes to be one. Why is it that my wonderfulest friend calls me 'esspeegee' and then there is also that mail-order Thai bride association. Oh poor me.

x Sometimes I sit and am so hyperactive that my hair gets trapped and yanked in between the wall and the chair, and, ouch.

x There are times I feel so. . ungroomed. Lol.

x I feel so devoid of sleep since the weekend. Luckily sumbardy was not here, otherwise he would grumble (I am sure) that I am too busy. All he can think of is, "How many hours did you sleep. .no how many hours were you awake for?". Oh God. Nutcase. Hey, I slept so little! I suspect he thinks that my "I slept at 10am" was actually 'pm'.

x Well, when I finally did sleep in the afternoon it was so delirious, I missed out on loads of calls and texts, and I just conked out totally. Although there was this awesome OBE too. Heh heh heh. I was quite sad to wake up.

x You see, if I go to bed at night, and think I will wake up and do it, I might never wake up. I love sleeping too much. Especially on a Sunday.

x And apparently, people who can sleep extremely soundly will age slowly. Oh, and sumbardy, given his unnaturally young looks (that channel Dorian Gray .. should I be worried!? lol), looks like a little boy when he is sleepy. I should be thankful, he says. Uh huh. Apparently he has Peter Pan genes a.k.a. long telomeres. Interesting.

x "I refuse to look"-- yours truly. When you provoke me into utter defiance, I am that way, I even refuse to acknowledge DGEs.

x "Are those meatballs"
"in the largest sense of the word"
"No . that doesn't look like meatballs"
"Well. . it is a ball of lychee meat"
AHHAHAAH. Sometimes I wonder if I make him more exasperated or bemused.

x My t-shirt smells like pop tarts.Oh, I love pop tarts. I haven't eaten them for like . . ten years.

x Sometimes I never understand my body. The appetite either goes sky-high or rock-bottom during these times. I get feverish and then I feel like puking. But not the incapacitated kinda sick. But still. AHHHH.

x And I can't believe I was so stupid to get something sans wings. AHHH, I have turned into my father. But we cannot blame him for buying those, can we? Lol.

x Sometimes I believe I am absolutely stupid. I keep arranging the open side of the duvet towards me, and then I worry I 'contaminate' my face, because let's face it, this is a college duvet, nobody knows how many people have used it or dirtied it, and duvets are breeding ground for bacteria and viruses. And then when sumbardy changed it (P.S. you hafta change it for me this weekend too :D )he put the open-face at . . the other end. Oh God, genius.

x Now do I know why 'Histon Road' is always nagging on my mind. The bloody association. With what? As I walked there for the millionth time on Saturday, I realised, OH, HISTONES! The proteins DNA wrap themselves around. And now I am all satisfied.

x It's like last night I was trying to remember just what the fuck was the middle ground between Schumpeter's methodological individualism and pure sociology. . and I got a big headache. . and then all triumphantly, ahh, embeddedness. So I stayed up for one hour just trying to think. Lol.

x K is so horrible she makes me strike up conversations with other people, because. . I am supposed to help. And oh God, it is so hard. I still suffer from small talk disorder, I swear.

x Sometimes as you watch the soup start to boil and bubble, you feel so happy. It is the making of a . . magic brew!

x I remember how in October, people here told me I would die come January because it would be fucking cold. And guess what, it is already February! Oh God, half-term is over already! It is sleeting today. .but when they hit the ground they melt. Apparently it will start snowing midweek. I really hope! Then, more snow pictures!!

x So many odd OBEs. .involving strange streets and turnings (this seems vaguely recurring. . in the form of the streets and navigational styles), abandoned houses that do not look abandoned and dead dogs, and odd animals, and. . Oh God.

x I should stop recurring to my cashless habit. AHH.

x Sometimes it is so hard to decide whether you want to wear laundre to the kitchen (underneath your clothes, that is) because if you don't, what if you look obscene. (But hey this is Europe; although I share the kitchen with 5 men, so I should be good), but if you do, what if you look too. .big. Oh God. This is what you get for buying clothes that are too big for you and hence cut too low.

x So anyhows, I was reading that 'long-term eroticism demands risks relationally and sexually' and I really do wonder how can there be no eroticism. Wouldn't that be. . tragic? And like I was also reading, most men hardly get to see The Body. Everything is under the sheets, lights are switched off. This No Body Syndrome is especially acute in winter. Oh, I know a lucky Devil.

x The debate is open as to which is more worrisome. Someone who likes to see things as kinky, or someone who sees obviously (socially dictated) kinky things as matter-of-factly. Lol.

x It's like how I was insisting there were only tasteful nudes on the wall, and no porn, and I don't know how his eyes can be so sharp through the webcam (I wasn't zooming in!) and he went, "Why do I see those two people shagging each other?". Really, she was just climbing up. I mean, posing for nude art! Okay and then he will tell me I have 'such an innocent mind'. Hahahaha. I think he is more innocent for assuming that I really mean what I say. Like I said, since I take these matter-of-factly, I am therefore inclined to imbue some sense of absurdity and warp it all.

x "London is so fucken huge, it's impossible not to get lost"
"So are you"
"So do you get lost?"
"In London, or you"
"Me"
Navigator Extraordinnaire, Misterrrr.

x And back to the whole topic of fuzzy maps with only continents sketched onto them, I remember there was always that voice that went 'it's him'. The flashes. But you keep running away and telling it to shut up, because it's scary how you know something instinctively with conviction yet it doesn't make sense logically. Much less in terms of circumstances and geography. .and the entire incredulous package just makes you say, 'Oh shut up' and commit acts of defiance like a mad delinquent. The thing is, something can be so real, but when it cannot seem overtly achievable, all the more you tell yourself you're being delusional and schizophrenic (oh how I love my psych training sometimes); and eventually your plans bring you to run away to England to start a new life. . .and, hahaha, well, I am starting a new life now :)

open questions

The more I think about the situation, the more I wonder what oh what oh what will I do with my future.

If I stay in the UK, then a job as prison psych. .would be terrible. It is absolutely inhumane. For reasons I don't want to discuss, just that they no longer fucken care but everyone is a risk and a probability to be managed. I don't want to be an academic. I would die as one. If I switch over (later) to a Masters in Clin. . I could potentially rake in awesome clients and talk to them, and have more humane autonomy. But that means. .more money spent. Fuck. And we also know I want the bloody doctorade. But what is the point of the doc if I am going to do Clin. AHHH. Okay, calm down, calm down.

Like, there are loads of people feeling uncomfortable about their secret fetishes. I could work on them! With them! Since I see most of these as matter-of-factly. But my mother would faint if I switched to that. I could do that. Stuff that has always fascinated me, and that I am brave enough to do. As long as they promise not to pounce on me. As long as sumbardy doesn't mind too. Face it, it's like the entire dilemma with prisons. . imagine if he told me suddenly, "Hey I want to be a sex therapist" there would be new issues to discuss. Like, trust issues. And all.

And like, I want to write. I live to write. I write to live. All the time. Even if I am clearly not paid to write the things I love. I know I will write something, but I have no idea how this write-for-a-living will somehow settle into place. Which drives me nuts.

And not to mention, prison psych pays like shit. I cannot survive on 'like shit'. Unless like I tell sumbardy I will just quit my job and perform for him everyday, and have him pay me. But he would be unable to work, then who would pay him? Lol.

Then there are the other more short-term hurdles to jump-- Sing Pris for starters.

W says, "We need a chat about this tomorrow." Which sounds scary. Fuck. Do you pull strings or do you not pull strings, but what if people put the strings in your hands. What if Flow attaches you to the bloody string. I am scared (definition to be advised) of bureaucrats sometimes. But then what else do I do to generate an outstanding thesis?

Anyway, I am not sure if strings here will help me or not. Or would I turn depressed about the inevitability of getting captured into the system. Or or or or or. Or would I get highlighted once again about the dangers of doing so, and the problems of getting hauled into intelligence. I don't want to get interrogated. It will be traumatic. Even if my record *seems* clean, but you never know what anyone might dig up about me. Like some little bits of blemishes when I was say, 15. That are inconsequential. Like, quit uniformed group and hence got an F. And hence is irresponsible. I don't know. God. Like who my parents voted for. Like. . .

I am not even sure if I will get in here for the next three years. Or if I will do well for my next few stuff, or the stuff I have done. OH, feedback is only on 16th. AHHH. Okay, the longer, the scarier.

Yeah, confidence, I know. But I enjoy my human fragility and uncertainty. I don't' like being cocky, because your fucken pride comes before your downfall.

I really know I want the "Dr" in front of my name, even if I won't use it officially. Honestly. Promise. I don't really like people who use it, or are obsessed with it, or kick up a ruckus if others do not. The most humble and the most intelligent people I know with the "Dr" do not use it, but their wisdom just flows. And face it, a "Dr" from Cambridge is ohgawddamnmuthafuckenawesome. It's like your bloody trophy or ammunition to have, because we know how shallow and callow society is. And if you can, you must learn how to survive in it, even if you don't sell your soul.

Like James Scott writes, it is the hidden transcript. You don't hafta internalise it. You just hafta learn how to play the game to advance. Otherwise you either get trampled upon or depressed. And I am sure the folks will be extremely proud. They need something to show off. The burdens of being a bloody Asian. The burdens of being a bloody Singaporean. Alas, the bloody burdens of being a bloody Chinese. And an eldest child. (Fine, elder, there are only two). And being so ambitious since young. AND always being told when you were starting to play with Lego blocks that you would rise up high. When you were just cavorting around when you're in Primary One and all innocent, your teachers tell you that too. Wait, it happened back in kindergarten. And then it goes on and on and on, it's like a fucken self-fulfilling prophecy. Fine, I am thankful for this, brains, abilities, etcetera. . but. .. sometimes it drives me mad.

You see, I still don't understand why Flow led me to C. Even if this was partly my choice. There are loads of things I cannot fully understand logically. I know there is something to do with criminals (which has scary implications, especially for the people in your life, which I didn't really realise being the selfish person that I am, until we talked). I know that this is also inherent with practical value as a job, and is one with some meaning. I also suspect that Flow planned for me to come to C as some kinda sabbatical since it defies logic that I am so free and unstressed. I counsel people, I help people, I work. . I do all sorts of stuff. I shop like mad. I cook nice meals, preparing them meticulously whilst people eat takeaways or cook for seven days, freeze them and defrost them to eat. I keep rearranging my furniture and have time to fold my clothes nicely. I still keep myself well-groomed even if it is winter and no one sees your legs and your toes. And everywhere else. You see, I am completely unfrazzled, unless when it comes the odd existential bout when I think about El Futuro.

I don't know where I will land come August. I don't know where I will even get the money from. I don't know what will happen.

I don't even know how will I fulfil the things I know I must do-- although when I think about, sumbardy was amongst the abstract inevitables (more on that later), and somehow it has all dawned nicely-- but the pain of not knowing can kill you. TM always scolds me, saying I am a blessed girl who stupidly worries and plans too much. But you know, if I didn't plan, I would still be stuck in Singers, I might have caved in and taken a 'proper job' because of pressure. I might be with a 'proper dude' (I am not saying that sumbardy is improper, the only thing about him is that he is scary), just because of pressure and because it is the right thing to do and you have to respond to people (but the point being, I am not a charity case) and extremely unhappy because .. let's face it, I don't connect with most people, no matter how rich or smooth or (constructed) cool or well-traveled they may be, even if they are Radish (I mean, face it, I might just give them a heart attack all minxy, people are sometimes scared to meet their fantasies head on). I might be doing absolutely 'proper things' because I am supposed to be 'grown up' and therein cave into social norms and patterns. But I can't. That's why I left. That's why I was allowed to leave-- otherwise I could have been stricken with something or denied access somehow. I know I have a map, but sometimes I only see continents like that on a gorgeous ancient map, I cannot zoom in like on Google Earth, and hence I feel existentially lost at times.

shove ya into the oven and burn you

I hate hate hate hate hate hate The Fusspot. In fact, I am beginning to suspect that she has absolutely zilch research methodology training and is just fobbing it off.

What kinda idiot gives people a one-hour lecture on that, some notes with some fuzzy outlines, then expects people to produce perfect (i.e. read-her-mind format) anal reproductions of what she wants. And screams at people who don't read her mind. And her outlines that she keeps reproducing contradict each other.

Plus the format is so rigid, I have never seen anything so rigid all my life. And trust me, I have been under rigid, anal people. People who have published loads and gone for many international conferences.

When on earth, heaven or hell did a qualitative-based focus interview start having statistical output. And you want to talk quantitative methodology, when it is just. . fluff!? Seriously, you don't call a fucking bar diagram extremely complicated quantitative. You call time-series and linear regression medium-complicated. You call things like standard deviation easy. Yours is. . . a fucking pie chart that goes "30% like chocolate and 70% like strawberries".

Since when did Harvard referencing style entail (Yes, 2009) rather than (Yes 2009).

And since when did her entire format pass off for HRS.

And since when was HRS' bibliographic referencing so dodgy. Like come on, I do this in C all the time. AND I used to do it for others in Sing before. AND if you auto-generate them using citation machines, they are the same style that I do. I never ever get shot down for referencing formats because I am always extremely careful about that. And I have done about ten different styles before.

And who the hell misuses the notion of 'random sampling'. And research ethics.

And who the fuck has an abstract that is so lengthy and that is broken down into paragraphs. Oh my God.

morning glory

There are some days you wake up feeling like the sexiest thing in the world, even if you have no idea why, but you know it is best not to question. The moment of waking up can sometimes be the most refreshing and if lucky, reminiscent of a blank slate. Why do I say, "no idea why". Because your legs are actually quite wobbly and you are somewhat in pain, and last night you thought that you might be howling and weeping for the next few days from that forecast. It's not like I cannot bear with pain, but sometimes when too acute and the unwelcome type, you want to wail like a banshee. Even if banshees are mad fugly. Because you have also had little sleep, and couldn't really fall asleep. Then you awoke abruptly at 6, realising you still had loads of time left. And then you wake up later when the alarm rings, and it feels like. . you awoke in a bourdoir. And it's not like you want to even remotely complain.

101010101010

By the time I had had had to sleep-- oh why is it that if you stay up all night you get so hungry even if you eat?-- it was about 10am. Ahh, my cellphone's batt had completely died. I knew I had to be on standby (i.e. responsibility, although we all know The Fusspot is sure to make even more noise, AHHH) so I plugged everything onto my bed.

Next thing I knew I was awake at 1230pm. An unfamiliar number. Groggily, I dialled back, because I thought it was overseas (haha) and hence work, then I realised, it's local.

Turns out it's one of my friends. Why do I never save people's numbers these days. Well, at least I now know my own number by heart. Yay!! I had just memorised sumbardy's Cyp line and then now he has a local one which I am sure I might suddenly remember. Happens like this, when you text and you keep seeing the number one day it comes to mind.

I don't text myself (if I did, I would be mad) and hence I take ages to remember my own number. Heck, I can't even remember my dad's car plate number, even if I remember all his cars (because he hardly changes lol) since the maroon one (fine I cannot remember the Beetle.. oh God, I cannot believe my dad used to drive Beetles and ride Vespas. Like the cool ol'-skool kind rather than the sissy incarnations of Beets today. .because I probably couldn't even walk then). .and to be fair, the black one came (wait, is it black?) a week before I left Sing.

As my friend was telling me all about how stressful life here is, I was nodding my head, half asleep (because I had just worked 20 hours straight. God, am I hardcore or what, to think I call sumbardy a workaholic. Fuck. It's okay, we all love moolah), and I heard, "You sound like you were sleeping"

"Ahh yeah. .. I was just doing work for someone all night, and I slept at 10"

"What, you are so free you even .. have a job here!?'



Oh I don't know what to say anymore.

Oh yeah, Second & Third Feedback on the 12th. Oh fuck. I am starting to get a little scared.

These two will mean . . alot. . .

They might determine (well, to an extent) if I manage to stay on. Oh fuck. Maybe I should only book my tickets after I get them back.

hypergraphia

Alice Flaherty was always a prolific writer. The notes she took during her hospital residency were so exhaustive they morphed into a neurology textbook. But her habit went into overdrive in 1998 after the deaths of her prematurely delivered twin sons. Flaherty's family and friends had braced themselves for a descent into depression. Instead, they saw a burst of creativity so intense it was like a muse had taken up residence in her head.

"It was as if someone had thrown a switch," Flaherty says. "Everything seemed so full of importance, I had to write it all down and preserve it." She started waking up in the middle of the night to scribble stray thoughts on Post-its. Soon she found herself scrawling notes on her arm while stuck in traffic. Flaherty, a neurologist at Massachusetts General Hospital, eventually diagnosed herself with hypergraphia—the overwhelming compulsion to write.

Tales of writers possessed by the muse on steroids date back to the first-century Roman poet Juvenal, who wrote about "the incurable writing disease." But it wasn't until the 20th century that scientists explored the brain chemistry behind this lust for language. In the 1970s, neurologists discovered that hypergraphia was often triggered by temporal lobe epilepsy. Scientists later linked it with bipolar disorder. Evidence now points to an abnormal interaction between the temporal and frontal lobes of the brain in hypergraphia. Activity in the temporal lobe is reduced, spurring activity in the frontal, the area that potentiates complex behavior like speech. A writer's inner critic goes quiet, and the ideas flow. What comes out might not be brilliant, or even make sense, but it provides fodder for future editing.

Although antidepressants have been shown to stanch the flow of words in hypergraphics, the condition is so rare that there are no accepted guidelines for treatment. Luckily, most hypergraphics view it as a gift, says Flaherty, who was inundated with hypergraphic patients after publishing a book on the subject in 2004 called The Midnight Disease. "Hypergraphia is abnormal, but it's not necessarily bad," she says. "For us it is mostly pleasurable. You only suffer when you think you're writing badly."

Case Study: David Welch, of Falls Church Virginia

Early Signs: He realized his compulsion to write was unusual around age 10 when he read about a man in Guinness World Records who kept a daily journal for 67 years and immediately thought "I can beat that."
A Day's Work: He spends at least three hours recording each day's activities in 15-minute increments. He's missed only six days in the last 25 years.
Why He Feels Lucky: "There's something out there to learn from people every day," Welch says. "Writing helps me ensure I don't miss those lessons."
On His Legacy: Two hundred years from now, Welch believes, historians might find a detailed record of one man's life useful, so he plans to bequeath his journals to The Library of Congress.
Blog: 38lemon.com/dailyjournal.php
Famous Hypergraphics

Danielle Steel
Edgar Allan Poe
Fyodor Dostoevsky
Sylvia Plath
Joyce Carol Oates
Stephen King
Isaac Asimov



- Orlin van Mourik


[Okay, this is creepy. Medical School Syndrome aside, I don't suffer from that, do I?]

tix for grabs!!

C is such a funny place. When it comes to Sexual Health Awareness Week,


"Chlamydia Screenings in nearly every college! Get a free cinema ticket and a whole bag of goodies when you send back your sample! "





The UK is a really odd place. I can't remember who was quipping this with me, but it ran something like that--

"How come this place is so weird. You get free condoms"
"Yeah you get free contraceptive pills too. They always email you practically asking you if you want condoms"
"But it's so odd to ask your woman's officer to collect"
"Yup .. all the things that would kill your wallet are free. Even abortions are free"

Oh, and I just found the rape alarm. The one that I accidentally told Lulu, "I just got an email saying they are giving out free rape kits"
"What you pervert"
"Oh, rape alarm"




So back to the earlier issue-- if I send in two samples, I will get two free cinema tickets? Hohoho.

the ouchistics of armistice

How did I sleep on my arm. Now it hurts like the devil.