Ling Shuang Ning was a Graceful Wine Taster in a past life. Discover your past lives @ Quiz Me

Further proof that I am obsessive-compulsive:
I feel nauseous right now because I have to take a certain pill every night and the very thought of taking the pill makes me feel like hurling my dinner - more so than actually taking the pill itself, because it is so small. That is so easy. I know it is not a problem. But I feel like puking all the same. Like something is stuck your throat, powdery and pilly-shaped. Like a mini-Smartie without the chocolate.
Ewwww. And it haunts me on a daily basis. I think of my mum's famous wantan soup instead. Sometimes it helps.
I have to edit my poetry compilation again, and I'm SICK OF IT. The more I look it, the more cloyingly self-centred it becomes and it grows until I am trapped inside my own life-sized soapbox!!!
So I'm reading the papers again but still can't stomach Newsweek. My brain is too underdeveloped as yet - yeah, shameful. Don't have to remind me. The bricks I throw at my glass bubble are still as feeble as sponge.
Started Maths tuition (Econs begins next week), bought a new unnecessary journal from Kino, went for lunch with my mum and bought slippers and the very Disney-ish but still sniff-worthy Tuck Everlasting VCD, failed to get tickets to Bandfest, bye bye Mr. Loh. Hello load of belated GP holiday homework from a decidedly UN-slack new GP tutor.
Listening to my sister play Christmas carols on the piano, I recall the ones I'm supposed to be practising for sectionals. Much to Hannah' s frustration, I think it will be a bit of time before I remember all the members of the new Guitar 3. Guess what! I still possess the ability to get lost in Botanic Gardens, which I live across the road from.
Prescription: Strawberry pound cake and the night sky.

And some people sang:
Drop your things
and burn your clothes
why we're here
no one knows
watch the bombs explode

He sold you a dream
and carved you up like meat
lay down
the law
locked your heart behind bars

While you were sleeping he would whisper in your ear

The monkey will bite
better eat your poultry
till' there's no use
don't try to
ask a doctor
what's going on inside you head
just fall out and get in line
like all good soldiers do
- Saves the Day, Monkey

Snooze! I will wake up at at earliest 9 tomorrow. It's over and I am (gasp!) a weeny bit sad. No really. I especially enjoyed the poetry and film workshops. If only we were given that in school.
Wrote 4 poems in 5 days. Is that a good count? And no, I was only made to write 2 of them, and only 1 had a specific topic. The CAP CUP game: *clap clap taptaptap clap cupup cupdown, clap upsidedowngrabcup cupmouthagainstpalm cuprightsideupontable transfercuptolefthand taptable cupoverrighthand, cupupsidedownontable. *
I remember I still have a very hectic holiday. And three more weeks till Adelaide. (Want Adelaide!!!) Only I'm supposed to have finished all my work by then. (Cue evil and skeptical Demon-King-from-Chinese-Opera laughter)
Apparently an essay I wrote back in Sec. 3, edited and entered in my portfolio was selected for reading in Goh Sin Tub's JC Prose workshop. But I'm in poetry. Huh? I know I SAID I was sick of poetry, but I'm not. How can I be??? The last during-CAP one I wrote is stupid enough for ACAPpela publication, written promptly after its demise, maybe on purpose. Oh, and it's about a doughnut.

The toothpaste-filled doughnut
The toothpaste-filled doughnut wished
It was sweet, although it had no sprinkles.
People bite into pastry to ruin their teeth -
Not clean them.
But he did not understand this!
(No longer just an it) he flinched no more,
Even if his skin was thin
Never swore, even if he didn't win.
Imitated tires, pseudo-rolled down the road:
Often squashed the air out of the empty lungs
And crammed-up abode in an oven.
In the hell-rising heat others rose
Around their centres, him a pancake
Still, and in a suicide attempt
Ripped past the dough, to find a soul
Still half-baked.

"Have a nice life." - Mr. Lee

Day 3 of CAP. My eyelids feel as if someone has hung 6kg weights on them, but I'm busy emailing photos and poetry *inspired* by the Botanic Gardens. Lame-a** s***s. (Spending so much time with Yi San has led me to talk like her.)
I feel guilty. Does reflective = self-absorbed? Everyone else associates with the outside world. Finding it difficult to write something without "I" or "you" in it. Suddenly there's RELIEF in not being under pressure to exude creative brilliance in every sentence. Thank you keyboard. I wondered if this camp would lead me to changed my impression of councillors. What was I thinking? It didn't. Now if I were into bitching it would be a good time for one, but I decided once you get started you often say stuff that is more clever than true.
Get this! For TWO actors in a one-minute film only one out of ten callees was available. What do people do on Wednesdays? Oh. Train. But in the end Yi San's sister's nice and obliging boyfriend was roped in, and Andrew after haggling somewhat. Okay, so we all had a good laugh at his expense. Heeheehee.
You can wear a red shirt inside out or back to front if you wanna hide the logo.
I was thinking about posting this poem about ulcers I wrote under Chris Mann's direction, but actually I'm sick of poetry and you probably are too. Goodnight.

[Final "I" count: 9)

It'll be CAP the whole of next week. I wanna have some fun and of course learn a few things...
Considered wringing somebody's neck over the Metro mix-up. But I recognize the horrible feeling of screwing up and having everyone think you're irresponsible (even if you are). And WELL, it isn't nice to pelter people with blame.
I'm reading Girl, Interrupted again and wow! It's so much better than I remembered. I laughed genuinely this time. Besides it's a light pancake batter when placed next to the beginning bit of The Lovely Bones. I will never be able to look at a snow globe again without all the next and the next related imagery springing out in starkness... and beauty.
I will not walk so aimlesslyyy.

Suburban Rhapsody
(inspired by...)

When the regular lace curtains sweep
Down upon our faces in a
Sweet toffee-apple breeze,
We laugh at it with all the
Brilliant flash-in-the-pan,
Jokes about your life span long
Before it ended, and
How you never met a-one
Sane in an insane-abound land.

Romance these days thrives where
Closeted darkness is your prey and
Like vanity, you'd sooner spit on
Pavements, than say the word.
And when it happens, one triangle
Will always poke painful, with its
Corners and degrees, when blurred.
The streets I pass only for college are
Imprinted on the soles now.

And despite the metaphysics on TV,
If it were more direct in one sense
I would for once proclaim
The glass isn't half-empty.
Where you know that this is wrong, no
Locker-story would bring all down to
This level (or that storey). Yet one
Is upright this side of the looking-glass,
Parallel in one city where
Nothing quite holds fast.

Send in the Metaphors

And they act on TV and you laugh at how
They move because it isn't right in the
Eyes of this or the sound of rain hitting the
Wall between your houses,
And no one talked about what was right
To do as it sounded like a cymbal that
Fell, or a tamborine you weren't supposed
To play, or were embarrassed,
Or maybe for once you missed your parents,
And the jigsaw puzzle piece that fell into
Place was really broken by a baby who
Thought it was something good to eat, when
It was a simple thirst that needed to be
Quenched.
- Me

All alone on the overpass
Wired and phoned to a heart of glass
Now I'm falling in love too fast
With you or the songs you chose
And all the stars
Play for me
Say the promise you long to keep
I can hear you sing it to me in my sleep
I can hear you sing it to me in my sleep
- Semisonic