He is so sweet. A nervous wreck who masks his shyness with noisy, at times completely useless, chatters. Adorable in his own little quirky comfort zone, peering out into the world with that pair of bambi brown eyes (does bambi have brown eyes?).
If this sounds like the writing of someone on the verge of falling in love, then I must be.
(but don’t worry Tim, I’m still set on honouring that promise of being celibate for 1 year. I'm just having a little fun with these butterflies in my stomach.)
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Friday, December 28, 2007
This Christmas
I did it last night.
Yes! Yes! Yes!
If you're thinking When Harry Met Sally, I'm afraid the next few lines will disappoint though. It's not that kind of yes :)
Called the parents last night to say merry christmas and it was, euh, lovely. My dad was unusually fun to talk to and he sounded pretty excited at the prospect of me staying in Montreal next year. Then mum came online...
"Did you go to Christmas mass?"
"Ermm, no."
Immediately I could imagine this giant wave of panic taking over her and hear its powerful crashing sound travelling through the air between us.
Where was I on Christmas eve anyway? Probably boogie-ing the night away - loud, red-faced, and very very happy. Much happier than I would've been had I been at a mass.
But of course, this whole "not attending church because it conflicts with my beliefs and thus it gives me peace" rationale does not make any sense to mum. Not even when I pleaded my case, "But I DO believe in God, it's just not the one called Jesus Christ!"
Mum had seen it coming though, so this time she shot me her last bullet, "But you have been baptised, you're Catholic!"
Too bad for her, because I always have answer for everything. "But I was 1 year old then, I couldn't say no!"
And at that point, she gave up, and not long after, she hung up.
I am pretty sure she won't bug me about going to church again from now on.
Yes! Yes! Yes!
If you're thinking When Harry Met Sally, I'm afraid the next few lines will disappoint though. It's not that kind of yes :)
Called the parents last night to say merry christmas and it was, euh, lovely. My dad was unusually fun to talk to and he sounded pretty excited at the prospect of me staying in Montreal next year. Then mum came online...
"Did you go to Christmas mass?"
"Ermm, no."
Immediately I could imagine this giant wave of panic taking over her and hear its powerful crashing sound travelling through the air between us.
Where was I on Christmas eve anyway? Probably boogie-ing the night away - loud, red-faced, and very very happy. Much happier than I would've been had I been at a mass.
But of course, this whole "not attending church because it conflicts with my beliefs and thus it gives me peace" rationale does not make any sense to mum. Not even when I pleaded my case, "But I DO believe in God, it's just not the one called Jesus Christ!"
Mum had seen it coming though, so this time she shot me her last bullet, "But you have been baptised, you're Catholic!"
Too bad for her, because I always have answer for everything. "But I was 1 year old then, I couldn't say no!"
And at that point, she gave up, and not long after, she hung up.
I am pretty sure she won't bug me about going to church again from now on.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Longest holiday of my life
Oh God. I don't know what it is with this place. It just makes me want to stay, stay and stay. Is it the food? Maybe (poutine is great). Is it the weather? Perhaps (snow is cool). Is it the people? Ow yeah you betcha (Canadians are the best!).
So, looks like KW is staying a bit longer. I'm thinking two years. I know it, I can feel it, this city is the perfect place to spend the last two years of my twenties. And I promise you (whoever you are) that by the end of those two years my tongue will be rolling in french like any Quebecois worth their poutine.
But first, I have to go back to Sydney; take care of a few things, get rid of a lot of things, say good-bye (properly) to a few people.
This will not be good news to my mother.
So, looks like KW is staying a bit longer. I'm thinking two years. I know it, I can feel it, this city is the perfect place to spend the last two years of my twenties. And I promise you (whoever you are) that by the end of those two years my tongue will be rolling in french like any Quebecois worth their poutine.
But first, I have to go back to Sydney; take care of a few things, get rid of a lot of things, say good-bye (properly) to a few people.
This will not be good news to my mother.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Pamela Anderson files for divorce
I got angry when I read this piece of junk - the link is there as reference but don't bother clicking it. I was angry because 1. I was being such a sucker for entertainment news headlines, and 2. people like her have truly bastardised the concept of marriage by making it and divorce - its sequel - seem so easy as if they can be picked off the supermarket shelves. Reason for the failed marriage: irreconcilable differences. A.k.a. lazy.
Of course we all have differences to each other - otherwise we'd all just be carbon copies. But what's irreconcilable? Not being able to adjust to each other's hectic schedule? Not being able to tolerate each other's annoying little habits? Not being able to make a compromise on each other's values? And to think that Pam's marriage is only 70 days-old. Irreconcilable as a word shouldn't even exist. Afterall, there's nothing in this world that cannot be solved - even the cold war eventually ended, right?
I won't be surprised if it was a divorce lawyer who first came up with this so-called irreconcilable differences.
Having said that, I do feel that not all marriages should be saved. Provided that you've tried your very best - and that includes talking things over and reflecting over a period much longer than 70 days - I think that sometimes it's just better for your mind and body to just call the lawyer and get it over and done with. But even in that case, you still shouldn't cite irreconcilable difference as the reason for divorce. Try this: failure to stay in love.
Of course we all have differences to each other - otherwise we'd all just be carbon copies. But what's irreconcilable? Not being able to adjust to each other's hectic schedule? Not being able to tolerate each other's annoying little habits? Not being able to make a compromise on each other's values? And to think that Pam's marriage is only 70 days-old. Irreconcilable as a word shouldn't even exist. Afterall, there's nothing in this world that cannot be solved - even the cold war eventually ended, right?
I won't be surprised if it was a divorce lawyer who first came up with this so-called irreconcilable differences.
Having said that, I do feel that not all marriages should be saved. Provided that you've tried your very best - and that includes talking things over and reflecting over a period much longer than 70 days - I think that sometimes it's just better for your mind and body to just call the lawyer and get it over and done with. But even in that case, you still shouldn't cite irreconcilable difference as the reason for divorce. Try this: failure to stay in love.
House party at St-Hubert
Once in awhile something happens that reminds us that we're not invincible. For me that something happened last night.
Oh what a night, oh what a mess!
It turned out - and I found out the painful way - that all those Friday drinks nights at Challenger weren't sufficient training afterall. Three bottles of Boris Cool and three vodka shots later, I passed out on the host' couch, only to be woken up not long after by an urgent wave of the aforementioned liquid travelling up from stomach to throat. The last time I vomited like that was in 1996, on the last day of high school, caused mainly by three shots of tequila (I still remember).
I guess doing things in three's doesn't work well for me.
Nevertheless, there is one positive thing about last night in the form of a new experience that, despite the disgusting image it conjures up, sounds rather cool to me: puking in snow - once you finish, just bury it in more snow to cover up your trail!
Oh what a night, oh what a mess!
It turned out - and I found out the painful way - that all those Friday drinks nights at Challenger weren't sufficient training afterall. Three bottles of Boris Cool and three vodka shots later, I passed out on the host' couch, only to be woken up not long after by an urgent wave of the aforementioned liquid travelling up from stomach to throat. The last time I vomited like that was in 1996, on the last day of high school, caused mainly by three shots of tequila (I still remember).
I guess doing things in three's doesn't work well for me.
Nevertheless, there is one positive thing about last night in the form of a new experience that, despite the disgusting image it conjures up, sounds rather cool to me: puking in snow - once you finish, just bury it in more snow to cover up your trail!
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Last day of being 27
There is a reason why I called this blog 27yo.
Nobody is young forever, that I know and accept, but I do want to carry the memories of this very special year forever. Afterall, 2007 is the year that I have finally gained control of my own life. It - whatever it is - no longer tells me what to do, what to say, what to think, and how to do them, though I admit sometimes it comes creeping back in tiny doses (but it's ok sometimes we all need a break from routine).
2007's been a year of shocking revelations. About the world, people, and mostly, about myself. The mind is a powerful thing, you know, and I guess this year I finally managed to turn it on the positive.
That includes, among other things, renouncing the things I have been raised to believe in since childhood. Going to church makes me miserable, so I just stopped. Lying to my mum about going to church makes me miserable, so I just told her so. Honesty is not always the best policy, but sometimes it's the only thing that can save you from going insane with guilt.
Last night while going down the ladder of my loft bed, my foot missed a step and I fell down. My head just nearly missed one of the wooden legs of the bed and the heater. In doing so, however, I have somehow twisted my left upper arm and its adjoining shoulder. In the following five minutes that followed I just sat there shaking, too shocked to move. I was convinced I had broken something, and that it definitely wasn't the bed, nor the floor.
After the pain had subsided to the point where I was finally able to move the poor arm to lift myself off the floor, I took a sip of water - the reason why I went down from the bed at the first place - and went back up. Tucked safely back in bed, I started thinking about those people whose arms had actually been broken. Then I thought about those people who had been in serious car accidents. And then I thought about my late aunt, who died after 30 days sustaining 99% of burns to her body.
At that moment I felt lucky, very lucky. Falling down the stairs is the best birthday present I have ever given to myself.
Nobody is young forever, that I know and accept, but I do want to carry the memories of this very special year forever. Afterall, 2007 is the year that I have finally gained control of my own life. It - whatever it is - no longer tells me what to do, what to say, what to think, and how to do them, though I admit sometimes it comes creeping back in tiny doses (but it's ok sometimes we all need a break from routine).
2007's been a year of shocking revelations. About the world, people, and mostly, about myself. The mind is a powerful thing, you know, and I guess this year I finally managed to turn it on the positive.
That includes, among other things, renouncing the things I have been raised to believe in since childhood. Going to church makes me miserable, so I just stopped. Lying to my mum about going to church makes me miserable, so I just told her so. Honesty is not always the best policy, but sometimes it's the only thing that can save you from going insane with guilt.
Last night while going down the ladder of my loft bed, my foot missed a step and I fell down. My head just nearly missed one of the wooden legs of the bed and the heater. In doing so, however, I have somehow twisted my left upper arm and its adjoining shoulder. In the following five minutes that followed I just sat there shaking, too shocked to move. I was convinced I had broken something, and that it definitely wasn't the bed, nor the floor.
After the pain had subsided to the point where I was finally able to move the poor arm to lift myself off the floor, I took a sip of water - the reason why I went down from the bed at the first place - and went back up. Tucked safely back in bed, I started thinking about those people whose arms had actually been broken. Then I thought about those people who had been in serious car accidents. And then I thought about my late aunt, who died after 30 days sustaining 99% of burns to her body.
At that moment I felt lucky, very lucky. Falling down the stairs is the best birthday present I have ever given to myself.
Saturday, December 1, 2007
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