An awkwardness that is necessitated by a world dominated by and thus designed for relatively uninteresting right-handed writers.

Today, I came across someone who writes with her right hand, but who also displays this same awkwardness.

Now, that’s befuddling.

I have no idea why I am rambling on about this.

I know, we are 11 days into the first month of 2012. But I insist that the year is still new, because it is. Granted, it is not still in its shrink-wrap, but let’s not be anal about things so early on. There will be a lot more stuff to get irrationally uptight about in the remaining 356 days (I took into account that extra day we will be getting in February).

Instead of agonising over what I should write in this first post of the year, I thought that the above new year greeting by Neil Gaiman from a decade ago does the job much better than I can ever do.

For me, I am just crossing my fingers that the world will not end. That will be a real kill-joy.

[Although if it does, I will be seriously impressed with those Mayans.]

So, congratulations darlings, we have survived another year. Yay-ness for everyone!

That seems particularly ungrateful of me, but it is just true. When people want you to be safe, they somehow inevitably try to scare you.

And I do not like to feel afraid.

The probability of ending up with nothing is high enough to make me feel very frightened indeed, but that is a risk I think I have to take.

Mostly because the idea of ending up with a bland, mediocre something is so much scarier.

***

For some things, it just is or it isn’t. I cannot do anything about them; they are simply out of my hands.

Please don’t make me do the impossible or manipulate the uncontrollable.

There are only so many times I can say I just don’t/can’t before I start feeling this irrational anxiety.

And then you use it against me. How is that fair?

***

This love thing, can it be eaten?

No, but it is kind of filling.

I miss you every single fucking day.

Sometimes the truth is something that threatens to burst out of you.

Sometimes, it does.

Compared to Paris, everything in Copenhagen appears tiny and cute – even the palaces. Maybe it is this lack of grandeur and ambition that makes this places so charming and lovable.

I want to pick random landmarks up and put them in my pocket.

***

Be still thy beating heart.

Do you really, really want that? I guess not.

***

So, what happens now?

Now, we wait.

Do I hold my breath?

How do you wait without holding your breath?

Somehow, the task of picking a colour fell to me. I dilly-dallied on it for ages (purely out of principle) but finally picked one named “Spring Blush”, a white with the lightest possible tinge of pink. At this point, two things crossed my mind:

1. Why pink? I have never liked pink. Not even when I was almost socially obliged to like pink as a little girl.

2. Why do all paint colours have such cheesy, try-hard names that fail to be poetic (assuming that was the goal)? Who are the people coming up with them? Maybe they are part-timers who are greeting card writers at their day jobs.

Also, you will never believe how many kinds of white there are until you read a paint catalog. Although sometime you need to really scrutinize them to tell them apart.

Case in point: I nearly chose a shade named “Frosted Dawn” that is a tiny margin away from being “Spring Blush”.

I suspect I went for the latter because I like the word “blush” more than “frosted”. There was just no contest.

I like the stairs at the Statens Museum for Kunst in Copenhagen.

***

Recently, I have been feeling the rushing tide of time (I know, very cheesy) more acutely because:

1. Everyone is either getting engaged, married or pregnant. [If you belong to this group, congratulations!]

2. I get a hangover the next day after a few beers. Seriously.

3. A long standing insider joke that I hold close to heart was very purposefully put to a rest. The reason: we are all grown up now.

The last one bites me the most.

But you know, life happens.

On the bright side, I found a wad of Thai Baht worth a few hundred Singapore Dollars while spring-cleaning earlier today. Finding money that you didn’t know you have rocks.

So you see, good thing happens too.

***

I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read on the train.

- Oscar Wilde (via Garance Dore)

And one can only be this arrogant when one has the talent to back it up.

***

I hope you know that you are being an asshole.

I don’t.

That’s why you are an asshole. 

Ladies and Gentlemen, if I could offer you only one tip for the future, learning to treat assholes with indifference will be it.

Another not-so-nice (but definitely more satisfying) tip will be to kick them in the balls (assuming they do have a couple of those hanging around; if not, a bitch slap will do).

Your pick, my friends.

I shot two rolls of expired disposable camera film in Europe. Only about half of it came out satisfactory and even fewer can reasonably be considered nice. Of that handful, this one taken in Paris is my favourite. I love its dreamy quality and creamy blush coloration – almost exactly like a still from a La Blogotheque Takeaway Show.

Of course it is. Everyone is cruel. Especially girls.

Watched this with H and M over the weekend.

I just have one question: why did we do this to ourselves?(!!)

*flop face down on bed and stay there for 2 hours