Decked in effortless black and white is the way to go when I hit 49. Limi Feu, I am on my way.
This is a raw afternoon. I need to trundle out of my bed and courier my fat ass to Ruby. Sometimes, I get hypnotise by the incessant beauty I find online that inertia becomes rather comfortable. My photos await me. Oh January, now that I am about to surrender to the thirtieth year of my life, you are ever so precious.
Andrew Bird, he comes knocking January 26. Chin up, J. He will serenade us with urgent emotion and infinite love. Take heart.
We are a year and a day old. Sorted. 🙂
And it made me wonder, is simple the new pretentious?
“Please do not lock the door, I promise that I won’t ever touch your things, pack your room or even step into it, otherwise I’ll be eaten by the tiger,” she exclaimed.
I furrowed my brows and cocked my head. “This is the year of the tiger!” she added. That was rock solid words of gold from the mum. Priceless.
That said, theoretically we are still in the year of the cow, I think.
“ 那么我们，就这样吧， 反正现在都已经是二零一零。我想过了一段时间，我应该可以好好一个人生活。
The package finally arrived! After close to three weeks of relentless anticipation and impatience, it came! I feel blessed for having someone with decent tastes in the purchases. There were no rude surprises. The gifts were all sweet and simple chic that I could not fault, and that matters because I am superficial like that. Please do not gag, perhaps it’s the euphoria, but I currently feel the need to personally model the clothes that T. got me from H&M in my UK size 10 -12 self when they are all clean and ironed, but of course, currently to me is but a fleeting adverb thus, when all the apparel have been lovingly placed in my wardrobe, by then, pictures of the gifts themselves might simply suffice. The following is part I of the bundle of affection.
And as if it cannot get any more blatant with all the larger-than-life calendars, the year is coming to an end and for the first time in many, many, years, I will probably be spending New Year’s Eve at home. To a handful of people, New Year’s Eve is just another overrated day of the year so that we can over consume, get drunk and have an excuse to kiss the next beautiful stranger that comes along the way but I guess as much I want to rebel against conforming and think I can probably celebrate New Year’s Eve come March 16th 2010, in my hearts of hearts, I just want to be part of that festive picture instead of living it up at home. Don’t get me wrong. I love spending time at home, but I guess 31.09.2009 is not the most apt of days to be parked on the settee, drinking tea with the mother in front of Channel 55, then again, it just might be. In any case, Merry 2010 to you and you!
P.S: Somewhere in the blogosphere, I discovered this gem and in my opinion, it’s the blog epitome of “Quiet is the new loud, this is how it goes…”. Heart and inspiration. Props.
I am not sure if stewing in my bedroom with a pile of papers and mess, pacing aimlessly around the living room, and thinking of what to eat at 3.19pm have resulted in the following breaking news but I am now a fan of Lady Gaga. [Cue the sonata allegro from Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5 in C Minor]. Er. No, apocalypse has not descended, this is merely, revelation and discerning taste. I hereby pronounce that Lady Gaga is the Mcdonald’s of music. So bad that it is actually good for you. So good that you just have to have it. And once you had it, you just can’t stop it. Lady Gaga is comfort food, she does what 9-piece Chicken Mcnuggets plus a medium fries do to me at 2:27am. Gratifying? Check. Sinful? Check. Soulful? Check. Guilty? As charged.
While the revered Lady Gaga continues to aurally assail the ears of music snobs let me tell you something, the force is palpable, strong and you shall succumb, because once you’ve been touched by the grace of Her Highness Gaga, there is no turning your back on all things fun, pop, graphic and over-the-top. So to the fans of obtuse cum jarring licks who often disassociate themselves from the mainstream fare, in the name of the entertainment, I suggest you give this Gaga Lady a go, because she not only does her job, she does it hell, well.
Oh, just so you know, this dedicated entry about Lady Gaga stemmed from the fact that Bad Romance just sets the perfect mode for the mandatory bedroom dancing. Ga Ga, ooh la la.
Yesterday ended on a high note. Lady S. and myself were treated to Acid Bar’s resident “live” duo belting out radio-friendly tunes that sat really well with us but of course, when one sings “I’m Yours” with that much emotion and panache, what’s there not to love. Do note that this entry is not about how much I love listening to ballads or how I nearly disintegrated where they were singing “I’m Yours” or how I wish I could have spent the whole night listening to them singing “I’m Yours”, of course not. I have my guilty pleasures but listening to a hit over and over from Jason Mraz is not my thing. No! No!! No!!! Affirmative no.
Right, this entry is a more of grouse to recount my faux pas that I made yesterday kudos to my half-baked eyesight. For the uninitiated on my financial status, I am currently strapped for cash and lately, I don’t enjoy wearing my glasses. Of course, having compromised vision is risky business but since I often get my priorities wrong and value buying gifts,with whatever is left of my paltry dough for my loved ones over contact lenses, I should have mentally prepared myself for the awkward situation. You know, the awkward situation like waving frantically, fanatically and psychotically at a random stranger, not once, not twice, not thrice but four times!, whom I’ve conveniently mistaken for the ex-boss. Awkward Times! Eeks! And even after she darted some “you-are-a-psycho-bitch-from-hell-please-stay-away” stares at me, I was still pretty convinced that she was the ex-boss, yes, yes, go me! The resemblance between her and the ex-boss was uncanny, save for the following: the former was shorter, pudgier, and well, to put it politely, she ain’t exactly a sight for sore eyes. Um. Yes. Shit happens.
Oh, did I mention that we had Ippudo ramen for dinner and well, although the texture of the ramen and the tangy broth agreed with my palate, Lady S. and myself agreed that Ippudo didn’t live up to its hype. I’ve had my share of better ramen adventures, like the one, Ms. S and myself had when we were in Sapporo some two years back. That. Was. Dope. Memories. Sapporo and its ramen, you’re going to be my bitch come 2010. I’m making my way! Gambatte! I need to scoot off to the December girls’ party now. Let the good times roll. Yay!