Recently, Hollywood seems VERY hell-bent on ruining every single thing I like. For example… Sherlock Holmes. or Cowboy Bebop.

Hollywood has managed to ruin Speed Racer, made Sherlock into a semi-Latin hobo, and Keanu Reeves is now doing Spike. I don’t even want to think about who’s doing Faye.

Hollywood should REALLY leave non-American culture alone and go back to creating Batman. If they start making Trigun: Live Action, I am REALLY going to get pissed off. Hollywood has already ruined a few of my crushes (read: Legolas) by miscasting them horribly. If they continue this rampage of miscasting, somebody’s going to get hurt.

Every Christmas, I make a promise with our little Julien Sorel to see each other right before Christmas. And every year, it falls through. Well, not every year, obviously, but this is the second year in the row and I have decided to see how long this will last.

It’s stalemate, baby.

Considering that he was on a debate team, his lies are pretty thin. I’m not exactly writing a book on the art of deceiving, but “I have a doctor’s appointment on the 23rd and my mum wants me to do family stuff” is pretty thin as a lie. As a debater this is rather embarrassing. After all, as IM had put once, “debate trains you to pull any evidence out of your ass, lie through your teeth, and sell fridges to eskimos”. For an amazing debater IC can’t really lie to save his life.

Hearing my complaint, IM decided to hold a bet. For some reason JB, J and IM had decided that he is actually going on a date with a new girlfriend and can’t tell me (well, J’s guess was that his dear mummy didn’t want him outside so near to Christmas). Hence, they are holding the “how long will the kid last in his 5th relationship” tournament. I’m giving 5 months tops. IM is giving 3 months. JB half a year (my guess is that he’s an optimist), J 2 weeks. (And nobody has mentioned the immorality of betting on a person’s relationship… that shall remain ignored, methinks. Heh.)

My guess is that this is rather reflective of our own prospects on relationships. I won’t be surprised if J’s relationships average two weeks. I’m a pessimist. IM often gets bored easily. JB… well, he’s an optimist, I think.

The prize is 20 questions. All answered truthfully. I’m not even sure what the true cause of this sudden (and yet unsurprising) cancellation is, so I don’t even know how this bet is staged, but hey, 20 questions, all answered honestly, isn’t going to hurt anyone. I think.

As for my parents, they are impressed that IC bothered to inform me the day before. Quoth my father, “wow, he grew up”.

Well, let’s see who wins. In the meantime, I’m going to say that I am going to win, since I know him the best… and I REALLY don’t want to lose. God knows what they’ll ask.

Hollywood REALLY needs to come up with new storylines. First they made Dragonball Z into a movie. That flopped. I mean, I’m the first generation Dragonball Z kid, who watched it on time in Japan, and when I saw the trailer I rolled around on the sofa laughing for about three minutes.

Well, what does Hollywood pick up next? COWBOY BEBOP. Now, if it was animated or completely CG I wouldn’t mind. I love Spike and Faye, and I really hoped those two would get together.

But no. It’s live action. Not only is that just plain awful, it’s KEANU REEVES playing Spike.

Now, let us compare the two. Spike is a 27 year old, 6’1, 170lb guy who is a former mobster. He (thinks he) was betrayed by his love, Julia, and lives as a bounty hunter with his mate, Jet. His character is somewhat lazy and laid back, with very awkward and sarcastic emotional display.

Keanu Reeves is NOT twenty-seven. He is almost twice that age! This is an insult to Spike Spiegel.

On the other hand, Trigun is becoming a movie as well. This one is animated. And hopefully the same voice actor. So that one should be better.

Trigun movie will be released in Japan on April 24th, 2010.

Il ya quelques jours, j’ai cuis un gratin avec salsa de Bèchamel et endives. Je ne savais pas que la cuisson de la sauce ètait si difficile. Premier, vous faites fondre le beurre et faire sauter la farine dans le beurre. Vous n’avez que jusqu’à ce que l’odeur farineuse est allé. Cela prend une éternité. Alors vous refroidissez, alors ajoutez du lait. Ensuite, vous mélangez-fou afin de ne pas forfaitaire.

J’ai cuis salsa de Mornay, donc j’ai ajouté provolone. Pour endive je l’ai enveloppé pas dans jambon forêt noir, mais le prosciutto di Parma. Donc c’est devenu italien et non belge…

During my read of Tolkien’s Unfinished Tales I came across the sentence “and their chief weapon was terror”. I misread it and read “and their chief was a terror”. This made me laugh hysterically for a few minutes.

The mall is always a terror this time of the year. There are people, people, more people, and did I mention people?, lunatics, morons, and weirdos who flock to the center trying to find the best bargain on some crap that they will never need in their life. I mean, who the hell needs 30 bags of jelly belly’s? My guess is that you will get sick before you get through bag 1. But oh no. I saw some moron buying 30 bags, then trying to fit them into one oversized bag. Some people seriously need to re-study geometry. If the cross-section of a certain figure times 30 is larger than the cross-section of another, then it won’t fit. End of discussion.

On the other hand, oysters are cheap this time of the year, which means raw oysters are no longer expensive delicacies but rather common commodities on the table. I’m very pleased with this. I’m also pleased with the amount of extravagance one is allowed to indulge in when the purchasing ability is significantly higher than the rest of the world. It’s nice to have constant bargains, and it’s also nice to be able to buy things without waiting for three months. Saving up for 3 months to buy the Dior eyeshadow was pure misery.

My hair color is back to raven, which is a good news, because apparently, according to IM, my hair accounts for half my value. Which means if I shave my head, then I am only worth half what I worth now. I wasn’t quite certain whether I was supposed to be pleased with this news or not. J affirmed that I should be pleased, and that it means I have amazingly beautiful hair, but then again J’s weight on beauty is outrageous and he always had a screwed-up outlook on everything, fully qualifying him as a moron. JB said no, but he did like my hair raven and it would be a pity if it turned ruddy. IC did not care. I’m not sure what to think of.

My friend Rachael and I had another fully blown-out discussion on Twlight Series a few days ago. I still not get the charm of that series. It is pure, fluffy abstinence porn and I don’t get the value of it. I have never seen a story so unrealistic, and I don’t mean the vampires part (in the terms of that kind of realism, I’ve read far worse).

What Rachael and I agreed was that in 25 high school lives or so that Edward must have carried out, he would have met at least… 100 girls. At least. Considering that my high school had at least 150 girls per year, I’d say it’s closer to 1000. And out of those, he could not find a girl smarter than Bella, or more beautiful than Bella, or nicer than Bella, or more athletic than Bella. I just simply don’t understand. Is Edward a self-deprecating masochist? Surely not, he’s an overconfident A-hole who strikes me as more than slightly chauvinistic. I mean sure, it’s a holy bingo for Bella to land a certain prototype of Prince Charming, but why Bella? I’d like to believe that this entire farce is truly a farce, because otherwise yours truly average girls will land prince charmings leaving me (and other, above-average people) with… what? Leftovers? So not happening.

What’s even more, Stephanie Myers is Rachael’s school’s alumni. And they were both English majors. And Rachael is ashamed of having such an alum. True, I’m ashamed of certain alumni at my former school as well, but then again I didn’t expect much from the alumni anyway.

I don’t get it. What’s the charm? I read fantasy because well, it’s not real, but then there is no factor that makes it realistic. Raistlin Majere from Solace is purely fictional, and will remain purely fictional; if there was a white-haired, golden-skinned hourglass-pupilled freak walking on the street I’d bolt. Solace doesn’t exist. Magic as Raistlin knows does not exist in my world. Nuitari is just a name. Same goes with Middle-Earth. I’d love to think that Maedhros exists in all his fiery-maned glory, wielding a sword forged by his father fresh out of Valinor as one of the princes of the House of Finwë, but unfortunately the only place I get to meet him is The Silmarillion and the History of Middle-Earth. (There is a fanfiction in which apparently Glorfindel threw up on his boots and that was rather amusing, but then again, still purely fiction. Elrond is not having an illicit affair with Erestor.) Q’arlynd will remain on Abeir-Toril (actually, I’d prefer it that way, I don’t want some religious fanatic of Tyr chasing after me, nor do I want to go to the Fugue Plane for being faithless). Actually, if any of those fantasies were real I’d be shut in my bedroom all day with Reno and I’d never come out.

Edward is half-realistic. Sure, vampies don’t exist, but it’s set in a realistic world, which makes it half-believable.

I kind of envy that, however. If Reno was slightly more realistic I’d never even look at any member of my opposite gender. I’d officially claim Reno as my spouse and be done with it. That'd be easy. No muss, no fuss.

I don’t get the charm of the story. I also asked IC if he watched it. He stared at me as if I was a moron and replied, “no”.

But then again, not everyone is endowed with a Julien Sorel at her disposal.

JB made himself sick eating an entire box of brandy beans then rang me up to consult on the remedy of an immediate hangover induced by consuming an enormous amount of brandy beans. I replied that despite my education, I actually have no idea how to remedy a hangover induced by pseudo-liquor filled cacao-based confections. He hang up, sounding sick.

To be honest, I’m not entirely sure what to think of this. JB was my last beacon of coherence and intellect, but considering that he wasn’t wise enough to foresee some sickness coming by eating an entire box of brandy beans, I’m quite sure that “beacon” had been successfully snuffed out and wrecked. So now I need to find a new one, otherwise my tenuous hold on the belief that world might not be good but at least filled with semi-intelligent people might be lost.

I also would like to know where he got them. I rarely see them anymore. Perhaps I should make an inquiry, that is, after taking a nap.

Today I went shopping with IC. Which was fun. It was rather fun throwing a pseudo-mini-temper tantrum asking him to buy a perfume that was about the size of a baby’s hand, and cost less than twenty dollars. I’m guessing he thought I was going to ask for something ridiculous, at least $50 or so.

I bought him Lacoste Essential deodorant. Apparently in his head using cologne = gay, and he seems VERY afraid of his manhood being questioned. Don’t ask me why… I know plenty of guys who wear cologne and manage to have little black books that is thicker than the bible (I personally think if you start wearing foundation, you are in danger of your manhood being questioned. But apart from the Prescriptives counter guy, who does that?).

We went to C.O. Bigelow as well, did some buying, stopped at Godiva and picked up the free chocolates of the month… all was fine until we went onto State Street.

See, I brought IC along because whenever I’m going home from Michigan Avenue I always have weird sleazebags asking if they can buy coffee for me. I’m more than welcome with coffees from really cute, tall guys, but coffee from sleazebags are just awful. And they stick to you like a wet leaf, no matter how hard you try to shake them off. And yes they stick, or they try to. So I guessed that walking with a male might do the trick. Which did. Until then.

I was walking past Aldo talking with him, Sephora bag in hand, when a woman came up to him. Well, me. Well, us.

“Hi, we’re from Planned Parenthood! Would you like to…”

Now, do keep in mind that I never went out with him. I am not going out with him. He had hair that remotely resembled this guy

 

and had not shaved. I was in jeans and while I was wearing a pink sweater, I had a black leather jacket. Definitely not a date outfit. I probably have looked better seeing my female friends than that. So my question is, why IS IT that we got mistaken as a couple?! IC’s not even 20! (Okay, the facial hair may have aged him, but still.) He’s still playing with Magic the Gathering! I’m more interested in YSL perfume than guys! Hello?! Hello?! Is anybody listening?! WHERE’S THE JUSTICE HERE!

We then wondered, upset, if we looked that old. Then I realised… she probably had mistaken us for a very young married couple or something. Okay, no sleaze bags, but I don’t fancy being mistaken as a married either. I started to think maybe I should wear a big card on my neck advertising my celebrated singledom. Marriage?! YUCK. Parenthood?! H*** NO. Marriage and babies are the farthest things on my mind at the moment. How on earth am I supposed to raise an infant if my biggest problem right now where to but the boxes of perfumes when I get more?! So not happening.

So that was my day. But I did make IC buy this

.

Yes, I know, it’s adorable :D

…JC Penney Opticals told me they’d give me a discount if I buy a batch, and they didn’t. Liars.

It occurred to me today, as IC and I were walking down Chicago Avenue, that what IC views as aesthetically pleasing is very far from mine. And apparently, mine is very far from everyone else’s. I find Grace Kelly amazingly beautiful; Eliza Dushku is NOT beautiful for me. I’ve always heard how beauty is in the eye of the beholder and whatnot, but some people the majority agree that (s)he is beautiful, and others… no. How does that work?

I started thinking about the people I found beautiful. C. Marino, from my high school, for instance, was a beautiful girl to me. And B. Beshk (there is a picture with half his face in it – split down the middle – and I immediately identified him as him. He literally looks like a Greco-Roman sculpture). Grace Kelly. Catherine Deneuve when she was young. Greta Garbo.

Americans seem to like a certain type – firm jawline, slightly slanting down eyes that are on a narrow side, short nose that slightly turns upwards, and rather small lips. Europe, on the other hand, is the EXACT opposite; egg-shaped face, slanting upward eyes, longish nose (well, not long, but definitely not short) that is straight and you can’t see the nostrils very well, full lips.

I happen to be the latter. So I clearly am disqualified as a beauty in the United States. So I’m good-looking in Europe, not so over here. What’s the difference?

Then I remembered the “average beauty” theory. According to the theory, a beauty is the “average” face of the population, and I don’t mean total-wise. If the most popular mouth is a thin mouth, then that’s the pretty mouth. If a long nose is the most popular nose, then that’s the nose you’d want.

Which leads to the conclusion that while I fit the majority of the European population’s facial features, I don’t here. I’m the stark opposite. Actually, most of the pure-blooded people tend to be the opposite. J is purely French. He has a longish nose, full lips, and large, slanting upward eyes. JB is fully English. He has longish nose, average mouth, and I never thought about his eyes but they aren’t slanted down. IM is purely Scottish. He has longish nose, reddish hair, VERY full lips and average eyes.

They are considered beautiful faces. J gets MONEY for being beautiful. Each part of their facial features is average.

So I am not average in the United States. I think being pure-blooded does that.

J pointed out a very good point while discussing the famed Lady GaGa.

"What's up with her model hate?"

"Huh?"

"I'm thinking she must hate them. In every music video they end up dead, or they're really bad people, or something. In Paparazzi they ended up dead, in Bad Romance they sell GaGa off to some whorehouse."

"Maybe she's rebelling against the superficial society, like Everybody's Fool by Evanescence."


"But she only picks on models. As a model, I'm starting to feel like a victim."

J points out a very good point. What exactly does Lady GaGa have against models? They're always these bad people who are never connotative with the good image. They end up dead in the most odd (and sometimes disgusting) way possible, or they're doing something very illicit and illegal. I'm not saying that models are the prime citizens of the society and they uphold all the laws and rules, but come on. Sure, some of them are probably involved in gangs and drugs (actually, I'm assuming most are involved in drugs hearing J's stories), but her presentation of the "model" image is borderline vengeful. Not to mention that her music has nothing to do with models. If Everybody's Fool portrayed bunch of models, sure, I understand, but this one is beyond my comprehension.

So somebody enlightened with GaGa, please enlighten me with this one?

Every year, I say to the world that I will NOT be going to Black Friday this year. I hate the crowd, the noise, the fight over the last sock… and every year, we seem to go. At an insane hour in the morning. Like six.

But this year’s Black Friday has come and gone. J spent it in New York, avoiding the crowd. IM spent it, buying… well, I actually have no idea what he bought, needless to say, they are probably things that he will question purchasing two weeks from now. JB spent it sleeping.

Moving on. IM’s value priority, at least when it comes to me, apparently is hair. Apparently 1/3 of my value is hair; or at least, that was what he had said when I told him that my hair had reddened and it had become dry and brittle. That guy really rubs on my nerves sometimes.

I also created a new blog layout for my friend. A very belated birthday gift. It took me two days, since I wanted to center everything and every monitor lays things out differently. For example, you might say 260 pixels left, 400 down on your laptop, but for your father’s huge desktop that might not be the very center. Apparently the only thing you can center is the background and the image; 2 uneven div’s don’t work. Then I had trouble uploading Chopin; for some reason I kept mixing waltz and nocturne up, so I kept uploading the wrong one.

Well, first, designing became a little painful. I usually have black as a background, but she prefers lighter colors. Then the music selection was difficult. I don’t like light-touch Chopin to begin with – my favorite concerto is Sibelius, and I think that speaks for the rest – but she wanted Chopin, and since the blog was daisies and pink and yellow, I couldn’t exactly bring Ballade No.1 as background music, could I? Rachmaninov was out of question. So I had to ask Mother to pick, since I am no piano expert.

Anyway, I can now layout a blog to a fully customizable level. And my gâteau au chocolat rocks.

Je fais un modéle de blog pour ma meilleure amie. J’ai raté son anniversaire.


Je n'ai jamais réalisé à quel point il est difficile de créer des images blog…

Aujourd’hui je suis allé a Microcenter acheter un clavier numérique et un ventilateur pour mon portable. C’été bon, mais quand je suis venu, j’ai trouvé que le ventilateur était cassé. Donc nous sommes allés retour a Microcenter échanger avec un autre.


Donc je suis trés fatigué. Arrrrgh!

Ou alors il dit.

“Mais tu habites en Paris pour le semestre."

“Je sais, mais il toujours n’est pas.”

…

All my life, I lived in cities. Some were old cities that no longer really qualified as cities; some were blazing young cities. But I always lived in a major city, and these cities were my playgrounds.

So when J asked me why I named my new blog Night City, it made me think. It was rather a spur of the moment, and I didn’t really put in any effort. So his question was valid, and my reasoning nonexistent.

Maybe it’s because I lived in Chicago for so long, but to me, a city is somewhere with bustling streets, cars honking, skyscrapers drawing jagged lines in the sky, where the city never sleeps and it’s always bright. Everything is available to you at any hour (unless you suddenly crave L’Artisan Parfumeur’s La Passage d’Enfer at 2AM, but for some reason I think people can wait until the next morning), cars are whizzing by at 3AM, people never look at you, and you can be so alone when you’re surrounded by crowds.

It’s these moments when I enjoy being in a city. The loneliness, the sense that you can get anything you want except personal contact, is very unique to a city. Each city has a face and a different one at that, but at this all cities are the same. Sure, the pace is different; some cities are slow, some cities whizz by. Every city sins and puts on a pretty face to hide it, like an expensive call girl wearing Dior.

I have never lived in a place where the night was quiet. I never lived in a place where it was completely dark in the night. I go out at 3AM to buy ice cream, go downtown at midnight with my friends, see midnight fireworks on New Years. So these things define the city for me.

A lot of my friends are city kids as well. J lived in Paris and moved to New York, and now he has the jaded ambient decadence of a Parisian and that angry, skeptic attitude of a New Yorker. IC has lived in Chicago all his life (granted, the town he lives in is in the suburbs and he is surrounded by nothing but pure, processed suburbia).

So in response to J’s query: I live in the city, and I’m awake during the night. So most of my thoughts and sometimes even events take place in the city during the night.

And that’s my life.

J, our resident playboy and lady killer, had a little escapade last night.

J: “I got stalked.”

Me: “Again?!”

J: “Yes, but this time it wasn’t a young male or a female.”

Me: “Oh?”

“It was a sixty-year-old.”

JB: “Did you ask her age?”

J: “No, but he sure looked like it.”

Me: “Wait, it’s a he?!”

J: “Yes. a senior male.”

Me: “… MAN, that’s gotta suck.”

So our pity goes to the victim. Apparently the new in things among men are being chased by homosexuals and YSL cologne. The latter I have no problems with, but the former is becoming problematic. Women already have enough problems competing against each other to begin with, we don’t need male population to join the flurry. But apparently good-looking men are attractive to men as well; hence all my friends being stalked by gay people. But maybe it can work in reverse, as a sort of a proof of hotness if you are chased by someone gay (sort of like if you keep getting asked out, you can be pretty sure that you are attractive).

On the other hand, my Sephora shipment arrived. I never knew Marc Jacobs’ Lola was in such a big box. The box is HUGE; it can easily fit four bottles of the perfume itself. There are two more on my “want” list; I’m thinking going with IC just for the hell of it.

L’envoi est arrivé hier.
Ces sont merveilleux, mais la boîte de Lola par Marc Jacobs est immense. J’ai acheté le flacon pour 50ml, mais la boîte est probable que c’est pour 100ml flacon ou 200ml. Il à peine va dans ma armoire. C’est à cause de le capsule. C’est beau, mais pas pratique.

I vaguely remembered a conversation I had with JB a few weeks ago. It was late in the night, I was bored and was browsing Givenchy, he was tired and was feeling argumentative and needed much verbal cuddling.

“You know why I like you?”

“Um… because I have breasts and I haven’t slept with J yet?”

“…No. I don’t even want to know where you got that idea. “

“Do enlighten me, then.”

“It’s because you’ve finally gotten out of the pseudo-feminism era of the 1960’s and have finally embraced your gender. It’s refreshing to see a girl who’s trying to play the game by her own rules.”

“But you guys play by my rules anyway. Why should I bother?”

“Perhaps because nobody else coddles and manipulates others to playing by their rules.”

While I don’t remember the entirety, I remembered this snatch of conversation yesterday and started wondering. There are so many women who are very gung-ho on “equality between men and women”, and then there are Charlie’s Angels, and then there’s Marilyn Monroe. But who actually is the closest to achieving “equality between men and women”?

I first decided to examine the “gung-ho”s. Sure, they recite the feminism manifesto, but after all they seem to be playing by the men’s rules, not the women’s. This is frivolous case but the “Men wear trousers, why can’t I” first takes the priorities based on what men prefer for themselves, thereby judging completely according to men’s priorities. Besides, men can’t wear skirts, so why should women be able to wear trousers to work? (And from now on I’m going to sleep with a gun next to my pillow so I don’t get murdered by the feminists).

I then went to the polar opposite – Marilyn Monroe. This, too, was not achieving the fairness that we all seek. While the former is trying to become a man, the latter is trying to become a man’s plaything and that never really is fairness. It’s fun having a sugar daddy and getting pampered, but that is only fun as far as there are no compensations required. So no.

So I’m starting to think that Sabrina Duncan has the right idea. Be feminine, use that weapon to fight the battles. Men use their masculinity to fight their battles, why can’t women use their femininity to fight theirs? That’s the only fairness that can be relatively agreeably achieved. Sure, Bosley can also probably get the jobs done, but Sabrina probably is better in those missions against men. So which is more efficient and painless?

Going back to the conversation. I can never beat JB in Physics and IM is far wiser than me and J has far more energy and IC is far stronger when it comes to last minute jobs. I’ll never be the girl who can carry 400lb. And I’m fine with that. JB can’t write as well as I do, IM can’t carry out experiments as efficiently, J can’t write thank-you notes and IC sucks at organising. So we all have our jobs.

Men and women are fundamentally different and for some reason even the cleverest women are dragged around by men (take Steve and Miranda, for instance). Men say up then down and women panic; women say left then right, men stops listening and just keep moving forward. Katy Parry sang that boys are hot then cold, yes then no, in then out, up then down, but I think girls do that too; it’s just that while girls notice it, get bothered about it, and make a fuss of it, guys just moving at their own paces without getting bothered by their counterparts’ behaviours.

There can never be a corpus callosum between men and women, but there can be google translate.

J’aime des parfumes et maquillage. Je sais c’est sot, mais je pense c’est naturel pour les filles aimer choses comme ça. Enfin, les hommes aiment les voitures et électroniques, et les femmes aiment parfum, maquillage, chausseres et vêtements. C’est naturel, si un peu sot.

Donc j’ai acheté maint maquillage et parfumes. J’aime Sephora; je pense  elle est l’un des meilleurs au milieu de des boutiques de maquillage. Je ne vais pas lister tous les achats, mais je vais dire que c’était beaucoup de quantité. Il semble que j’acheté toujours ombres à paupières de Dior, et rouges rouges à lèvres de Givenchy. Cette fois-ci n’était pas différent.

L’envoi devrait arriver demain.

Mon stylo arrivé aujourd-hui.

C’est de Mont Blanc. Je avait déjà un stylo de Mont Blanc (modèle de Bach), mais c’est trop lourd. C’est impossible d’écrire; je recevais des crampes main.

Mon stylo nouveau est plus léger, mais c’est noir et pas joli. Mais c’est confortable pour écrire avec, ainsi j’aime le stylo.

J just informed me he got a new girlfriend, because the old one dumped him. He sounded his cheery self as usual, perky as a JV cheerleader; I felt like I was hemorrhaging inside when I realised that it might have been me, if something had gone very wrong. And I probably would have sat in my room wondering what went wrong while J would have waltzed off onto his next rendezvous.

When something goes wrong in the relationship, it always seems to be the female populace who sit around moping and wondering what went wrong. Men are also more prone to forgetting anything that isn’t necessary, which leads to the conclusion that for men, relationships aren’t necessary.

Hmm.

After reading a post online about the second movie of Sex and the City, I’m less than impressed. That series was about “how to live single and still be happy” for me; true, it’s not orthodox, but if you look at the female monarchs they all lived like the girls from the TV show. Eat whatever you want, wear whatever you want, consort with whomever you want and move on when the consorting ends. Who said Elizabeth wasn’t happy living that way? I always thought the classic “she must be so lonely, she’s single without children” to be a stereotypical mistake. Celebrate being free, celebrate your choices instead of moping over it. Be intelligent. Be fashionable. Be whatever you want, and don’t apologise for it.

One of the factors that made the message was Samantha. Eldest of the four, wild and free, she showed one way a woman can live – especially when she shouts out the window “You see us Manhattan?! We have it all!” She never apologises for who she is, happy being who she is.

But then I read that Samantha might be trying to get pregnant and… marry Smith. Meaning that all four girls will now be married, as if in order to achieve happiness eventually you have to get married and have babies. I’m not saying marriage+babies= doom, but marriage+babies does not equal happiness either. If she does get married, everything Samantha had said in the past would be a farce, leaving us with the question: is being single and being happy impossible after you hit 35?

This thought terrifies me. Nobody said I’m going to get married for certain. Nobody assured me a happily ever after ending. I’ll get married if I want to, but do I have to do the reverse apology or actually go apologising if I don’t? Did Samantha always feel that she was missing out on something? What if you don’t want to settle down with any old guy? Very few people actually marry their princes, and the vast majority end up marrying based on compromises and give-ins. What if I didn’t want to? Will I be satisfied, or would I always feel a gaping hole?

And is this what masculine society has forced us to think, or is this the natural course? Because life isn’t an HBO sitcom; like everything else, it has expiration date, and chances of marriage and conceiving decline after you hit thirty. So what if you are Samantha, and then suddenly realise that life isn’t actually worth living if you don’t have a husband and three children, but by then you’re already forty-three? It’s a bit too late for marriage and/or conception.

Being single means certain freedom. Sleeping at 3AM, waking up at noon, wearing whatever you want, buying only for yourself. As soon as you’re married and have kids, you stop caring for you appearance (most of the time), the kid is drooling and screaming in the other room and your husband is hungry. I’m not entirely sure which is better.

So I’m not saying the second movie, if the speculations are right, will be a betrayal to single women. But it will certainly be a betrayal to its premises.

Once upon a time, in the cyberspace that never sleeps, two people were carrying on a conversation in their free privacy that warranted only inhibitions against each other.

“So, what did you do this week?”

“Not much. I bought shoes. I got a discount! They’re Miss Sixty, so they cost about $150, but I bought it for 2/3 of a price.”

“… You bought shoes… again!?”

“Would that be wrong?”

“I have no further comments, your honor.”

It’s always these guys who scoff and laugh at the superficial values who check out the girls in heels, which makes the entire ordeal completely unfair. It’s not the guys who well, not exactly respect but provides no comment about these things who value them, oh no. It’s the guys who do. They’ll laugh and be appalled at $200 sandals from Italy, but then will most certainly check out any girl who’s wearing them.

So I asked him (him being IM), what he thought about it.

“Well, of course we check out the girls. It’s natural.”

“Then why do you guys always make rather derogatory comments about it? $200 strappy sandals from Jimmy Choo are your business too if that is going to be the trigger to you checking the said lady out.”

“We don’t check the girls out because they’re wearing $300 shoes. We check them out because they look hot. And most likely, if a girl’s willing to dish out $300 for a pair of shoes, she cares a hell of a lot about how she looks. So she’ll diet, go to the end of the world to look attractive.”

“How do you know?”

“By looking at you.”

What he forgot to notice is that these expensive strappy sandals also become expensive weapons. So please, don’t mock the shoes. It may not mean much to you, but it means a lot to us.

J: So what have you done recently?
Me: I bought a pair of shoes.
J: AGAIN!? What's it like?
Me: It's suede, it's pink, it's 3 inches high, and it's from Miss Sixty.
IM: 3 inches? I thought your heel preference was like women's preference for [insert the unmentionable body part] size.
Me: I don't wear 8 inch heels.
IM: So you say.
J: Ya know, I'm so glad we don't have to wear heels - yet. Ya never know, Elle made guys wear heels in February, Stephen was complaining about it.
Me: I thought it was only in women's genes to be able to wear heels.
J: Apparently not. Though I think Alexander McQueen went a bit too far with the heel height.
IM and Me: ??
J: Yeah. He made his models wear these 12 inch heels.
Me: Were the shoes cute?
IM: They f*cking defy laws of physics. What do you think?

I was talking to J while reading through some papers when I stumbled across a certain title that caught my eye. I don't exactly recall its precise title; maybe it's just the timing that I was talking to J, or maybe it's the fact that I said goodbye to my teens, but it just stuck to my mind.

The question that arose in my mind was: when is the right time to lose it?

While I understand that it's not some asset nowadays and it's not necessarily something you "lose" per se, along with its connotations, I grew up in the belief - firmly supported by my unfaithful (male) friends and my faithful (female) friends, that virginity should be kept until, well, marriage. A lot of people I know have the same belief as me; well, not all, but a surprising number the people in my address book do.

On the other hand, now that I think about it, I can only think up of very few males around me who follow my belief. Apparently sometime during Genesis God instilled the belief of "No certain expiration date" in women and "Well, there isn't any expiration date but hey what the hell, it's in the fridge let's eat it" belief in men.

Well, maybe I'm being biased. But then I stumbled across another - and rather frightening - statistics in the New York Times. Apparently 1/4 of Japanese people in their 30's are virgins.

Considering that I've never heard of "virgin going on thirty" as being a valuable asset in relationships, I decided to count "virgin going on thirty" as a somewhat negative factor. So people won't be saying "Hey yeah, I'm a virgin" in this survey. Which meant that AT LEAST1/4 of the 30-somethings in Japan are virgins. Which means there may be more.

Not to mention that apparently some guys think virgins are just burdens. I can see that. Those who are virgins in their twenties are probably trying to save themselves for the right guy, regardless of whether he exists, and well, those types don't do well in easy flings.

Which leads to the question: What is the right time?

If you're thirty and unmarried, should you just go do it? Or should you still wait? I'm twenty now, so what about twenty-year olds? (Note: apparently it's easier to get a boyfriend if that factor isn't really important. Never knew...)

Asking J was a foolish thing. His immediate response was, "Why? Trying to lose it?"

"Is that an offer?"

"I'm always offering."

"Right. Go offer it to some other victim."

Is virginity a sign that you're reproductivly challenged? (And mind you, you ARE reproductively challenged if you don't have anyone to reproduce with; for now, anyway.) Or does that mean you're just waiting? Is it a trophy or is it a burden? Is it like a produce, something that you want fresh (I've never seen anyone who likes to drink regurgitated milk) but don't want it beyond expiration date?

Unfortunately the guys around me (read: JB, IM and J) seem to think of it as trophies. But clearly they've had their share of their plays, so I can't really know whether their opinions represent the general populace. Not to mention that it's rather easy for guys to ascertain (to a certain degree) their partners' freshness, with girls, not as easy. As IM said, "It's okay for guys, but maybe not as okay for girls". As much as this sounds sexist, there is cold harsh reality facing the young generation: how many XY's are there against XX's who can claim the same? In my case, not many.

Guys have it so much easier. Spinster sounds derogatory, but bachelor sounds normal leaning on "independent and handsome" (or so my friend said).

Pseudodoctor: I want a gay friend.
IM: Not a gay boyfriend?
Pseudodoctor: No, a friend. So I can take him to lunches and shopping sprees at Barney's.
JB: Sorry love, but I'm not going to sleep with IM for you.
Pseudodoctor: So you'd sleep with J instead?
IM and JB: (Looks at each other) ... NO.

IM: See, there's an ideal. Women should wear make-up, but you should know no change from the face without make-up. That way, you know that she cares about how she looks, but you don't feel cheated when you wake up the next morning and see the face next to you.
JB: It is rather shocking when the light transforms a face into something completely different.
IM: Yeah, you also feel cheated! I mean, we don't have half an inch cream mask to hide behind, do we?
Me: Wait a minute. So you want girls to wear make-up, but you don't want anything to change WITH make-up. What's the incentive for the girls to wear make-up anyway?
JB: I have no idea. I never understood the concept behind cosmetic aesthetics. They say it's to look prettier and get men, but it's going to come off by the next morning, unless you have it tattooed (and then that's pretty horrifying on another level). And if you're pretty enough, why hide your face behind toxic chemicals? Therefore, make-up is useless.

I was talking to IM a few days ago when (predictably) our conversation turned to relationships. IM, the notorious bachelor, seems to enjoy the life of a bachelor but said "I want to settle down someday."

"Um, okay." That's great, what's it got to do with me?

He then continued on without any regard to me, saying "The problem with you, pseudodoctor, is that you have too many limbo guys."
"The what?"
"You know, the guys you have nowhere to tidy into, so you have the ever-ambiguous 'I don't know what this is' category."
"Do elaborate."
"Well, there's me, there's J, there's your debate partner, e.t.c., of which you don't classify them as friends, because your warped definition of a friend is someone you don't have romantic interest in and neither do they to you. You have too many of them."
"Okay, you just put me off my yogurt."
"Sorry to hear that, but all I'm saying is, stop classifying people."

Which made me think. Do I classify people? Probably. I'm rather Aristotelian. I like things packed neatly away according to categories: colour, number, width, height, e.t.c. So there are my best friends, my female friends, my male friends. And then there are a few who don't belong anywhere. And when one of them tries to wiggle out of that little box, I freak out.

It is rather a mystery, because it looks like no one has this problem aside me. Most of my friends have "romantic interest", "friends", "don't care" section, while I have "Romantic interest", "eye candy", "friend", "Enemy", "Friendly Rival", and much more in the pigeon hole, and each person is neatly put away in each drawer. And then there is one drawer in the corner that says "misc", in which people like IM are thrown in pell-mell, regardless of all the other labels they might offer.

Should I stop labeling, or should I start more minute labeling?

Pseudodoctor: I cleaned out my wardrobe, I don't have any more place to store shoes and still I want more. Is that bad?
JB: You and your shoes...
Pseudodoctor: Ooh, hold on a sec. My lipstick just arrived!
JB: You and your cosmetics...

Yeah. Have anything else to say, mister?

This concerns the ladies and therefore the guys might not want to read this, but I recently came to the conclusion that while human beings have made great advancements and can build skyscrapers, they can't make underwear that won't fall down without straps.

Yes, ladies, you know what I'm talking about.

I hate it when people walk around in tank-tops and halters with the straps showing. It's almost as if you're wearing shorts but the grannie underwear's showing underneath. It's annoying, and if you go without the straps then you always have to run to the ladies room to adjust it so it won't fall down. It just irks me.

So... Wacoal, Gilly Hicks, VS... I know you are all amazing, so can you please invent affordable underwear that won't fall down if we remove the straps? Seriously.

I went through a lot this summer, ranging from... well, if you know, you know, if you don't, you don't. Anyway, there are a few things I've discovered along the way, whether for better or for worse, and I'm hoping that I will be able to look back to this summer with a reminiscent smile on my face.

First, IC grew up. Dramatically. He must have gone through a lot more than I had expected, but he did. After not seeing him for a year, he seemed to have grown so much that he was taking care of me, not the other way around. This was jarring, but it also reminded me that guys just grow up like that; one day you see him and the roles have been reversed, and you are both emotionally and physically weaker than him in more ways than you expected.

When I first met him, he was like a little brother for me, someone I had to care for. He was more fragile than I was, more prone to shatters and breaks, and I felt that I had to watch out for him. This continued through high school, with me standing and watching from afar while he went ahead and crashed headfirst into troubles (emotional troubles, I mean). After all, we were both teenagers with teenager-problems.

But then this year, it seemed that he had graduated from my care and he was mentally caring for me. It was rather odd, since in my head I could accept it, but in my mind he was still the Freshman IC. But it hit me finally; he had grown up enough to have enough emotional leeway to care for what I was going through without involving himself to the point that he was breaking.

Or maybe he just realised that I was not the confident me that he knew so well, the one who would crash and then bounce back, but I do have breakdowns and when I do they are bigger than expected.

Even so, it was a nice change, and it's nice to have someone that I can lean on when I'm shattering.

Second, I had come to fully accept that I am a female and therefore there are weaknesses that can be exploited. It is a terrifying thought to be honest; the fact that there are some things that guys can do that cannot be prevented when it happens without any warning. I'm really glad that my friends always maintain enough self control to not do something stupid.

Third, to J, IM, and IB: thanks for being there when I was falling apart. Thanks for not giving me pep talks but just listening. Thanks for giving me your arms when I needed someone to be embraced by.

Fourth, to all my female friends: thanks for having that blind faith in me that only females can have. I won't say that's what's been keeping me going (because it isn't), but it is a relief that someone has faith in me when I never have faith in myself.

So I have learned to breathe a little. And maybe sit back and not run for once.

Pseudodoctor: I love Sephora.
JB: My card doesn't.

I think this explains it all.

Now listening to: Simian Mobile Disco - Hustler - Hustler

Today did not start off well. First, I went to bed at seven in the morning, because I was reading something and I couldn't stop until I came to a good point. Now, I would not have done this if it wasn't for my mother yakking at me to do it.

Sometime while I was sleeping, my father decided that today would be a good day to take my mother and me to the mall, since I wanted to buy something there, and had told him some time ago. Now, this is very fine, except I was notified - rather abruptly - around 10 AM - that we were leaving. Right away. Needless to say, I was groggy, and the last thing I could care about was going to the mall. My mother then gave me a 30 minute "grace period" to get ready, during which I had to get up, throw some clothes on, and rush out. Not happy.

She then informed me that I was ungrateful and I always think I'm always right, and I'm a spoiled brat. As much as I agree with the part that I am quite possibly spoiled, she has NO right to say that I think I'm always right, since she does exactly that. In fact, she is the most inert creature I have ever met. She resists to anyone suggesting her to change like a child resisting going to a dentist. Jesus.

I will NOT be thankful for being woken up after 3 hours of sleep, and I will be grumpy, thank you very much. I don't do well with sudden change of plans since you never did, and while I'm thankful for everything you bought me today, that's actually Father's money, not yours.

And if you're going to do something at your own cost, don't complain or rub it in after you've done it. It halfs the effect and quite frankly, if you have to complain about it then I'd rather have you not do it.

And stop blaming everything on the accident. Sure, half of it might be the accident's fault, but not everything is. You're the one who gave up on rehab, so stop complaining.

But considering that the skin is the largest organ in the body and far larger than the brain, maybe it is logically safe to say that beauty, while maybe not the most important, really is the largest part of your life in some ways. My goodness, this is depressing.

Anyway, I saw J on BYBLOS runway today on youtube. Later on, this conversation occurred:
Pseudodoctor: J! What happened to you?!
J: What?
Pseudodoctor: You look like a normal guy now! Where did my beloved J go?!
J: Did you telephone to make me angry?
Pseudodoctor: No. I just wanted to say that you look good in red.

But J's look has changed, and I'm not sure if I like it. Maybe it was the bad make-up staff.

NOW LISTENING TO: Placebo - - My Sweet Prince

Never thought you'd make me perspire.
Never thought I'd do you the same.
Never thought I'd fill with desire.
Never thought I'd feel so ashamed.
Last night, I had a dream.

In it, I was unclothed in bed, my hair unbound. I don't know why, but there was a distinct sense of regret in the air; I was watching JB sleep next to me, equally unclothed. It was rather obvious what we had been doing. The air was rank with desire, sweat, and... shame. Despite the fact that at least in my dream, I knew that he was the one. That he was the only one who could break my heart over and over again, the only one that I'd let my heart broken by. I felt defiled, worthless, and an utter failure.

I woke up crying.

A lot of things I hold dear to me because I can't take things for granted; I'm not saying that I'm the most unfortunate person in the world, but there had been so many things that I had to go through that others did not. Moving around the world (literally), parents' instability, my mother's car accident debilitating her, my own mental problem... everything I have right now I had to fight and beg for.

Some have managed to breeze through life. Not many nights where you cried yourself to sleep without even knowing; not many mornings where you woke up with tears on your face. Z once told me that he had his heart broken; but I always wonder if he knows the true meaning of getting your heart broken, that dark desperation that this is all a bad dream. Whether it is someone you love or something you had spent your life on, having that taken away from you can't be described with any word. I remember every sense becoming duller, as if someone had suddenly taken a vibrant photograph and marred it by dulling the colours; life seemed to move slower, especially when I wanted it to move faster so I could flee the numbness. It was no longer pain; it was just numb. No tears would do justice to the pain. It was so life-altering that I still drag the remains of the incident behind me to this day, and I think I will for a very long time in the future. Each love is a battlefield, and the winner and the loser both emerge with scars.

JB is one of the very few people who is sensitive enough, delicate enough, yet strong enough to go into battle. He had his heart broken just as I had mine; he had felt rejected by something he had spent his life on, time and time again, felt desolate and hopeless, yet he always stands up and walks back into the foray of battle again, knowing that whether he is victorious or not he will be bleeding even worse than before.

Each love is the same, in a way. Love is not peace but war, and both parties come out so hurt and so battered that it makes one wonder why some people go back into battle time and time again, bodies covered in wounds, blood spilled onto fresh earth. It is so easy not to go back, to let go; yet some keep fighting, knowing that when they finally die no one will recite their heroics. We wear the crown of thorns and bear our own crosses, knowing that it is possible for us to throw off the cross, take off the thorn and flee; yet we walk through our own Jerusalems, our backs raw and bleeding. Each step gets worse than the one before, and the sun sheds its harsh rays cruelly. And in the end we end up on the hill of Golgotha, waiting for our judgment that is always so cruel.

I sometimes envy those who have easy lives. But on the other hand because I bear this cross every tree I see is more vibrant, every fruit I taste is sweeter than ever. Despite all the wounds I bear, now that I look back I would not trade my life for an easier one. Because each hardship prepares me for the next one. And in the end, even if I do end up on Golgotha, I will know that I have lived my life to the utter fullest, my body full of scars but also filled with memories of every intense pleasure.

I dedicate this post to all those who know what it is to feel that intense helplessness of being rejected by that being you love so much - and those who keep plodding on, despite carrying a cross, back raw with a crown of thorn on the head. For we cannot help but be whatever we are. And we had chosen our path and can only live that way.