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.