Or should I say, plastic culture?

Disposability seems to be the keyword these days. Disposable pens. Disposable containers. Disposable clothes. And disposable people.

Don’t get me wrong. Some things are supposed to be disposable. I am not the type to keep all sorts of memos; I’m no Sherlock. And if I did that, it’s very likely I’d have already drowned in seas of papers that I’ve written on. Information is paramount in my family, which means that there are sheets and sheets of information written in various hands, located haphazardly throughout the house. A book there, a memo here, some random receipt on the piano, a post-it note from seven years ago stuck on my Bach. But that’s not the point.

The point is, things are getting too disposable.

Maybe this is just a trend occurring in the very consumerist countries. But of course, I haven’t really lived in any country but first-world, which are all becoming very consumerist. Expensive items bought cheaply, hen thrown away as soon as it’s not functional seems to be the keyword nowadays; “fixing and using” seems to be completely out of option. So there goes the cobbler that I used to frequent.I’m all for mending shoes, since many of them are good leather and I’ve worn them for years, and it is a rather common knowledge that leather shoes fit to your feet and undoubtedly become “your shoes”; meaning, they are fitted to your feet and no one else’s. But If the current cobbler that I frequent decides to close shop, I’m in serious trouble.

Shoes are one thing. But what about people?

I’ve had friends for years. Some date back to when I was still in year three. I’ve kept (semi) regular correspondence, a letter now and then, a phone call… and they know me well enough to keep in touch, despite my ups and downs that make my correspondence rather haphazard in frequencies. Relationships aren’t very disposable for me, and I’m the kind who remembers my year 1 class – everybody – by name. (Oddly enough, I don’t remember 99% of my high school class. Goes to show just how much I disliked that school, but that’s for another day.)

But that’s me; and that’s only with a handful that I’ve come to cross paths with, out of hundreds. And I mean hundreds. With the advent of Facebook, suddenly it became very easy to keep in touch… but it also meant that it was well nigh impossible for the most to keep in touch with those who didn’t. And ever since I joined the latter group, my “friends” list – a misnomer, if there ever was one – has been whittled down to about six out of six hundred. That’s 1% of the friends list. It appears, in the end, that “friends” now mean those who update regularly on Facebook, or those who have regular parties with you.

But to be entirely honest, I don’t consider those people to be “friends”. “Friends” are those who come to your rescue when you feel you are all alone and desolate, and we all have those times. “Friends” are those who remind you that they are there when you’re quite sure they’ve forgotten about you. And when it comes to that – most fail.

But surely those relationships that one had to resurrect on Facebook died for a reason. Perhaps either party wasn’t committed to keeping the relationship alive; perhaps common interest was no longer common; but the reason is there. You don’t just fall out with people for no reason. As long as each party is committed, and as long as both parties have things in common, friendships can last. Maybe it won’t be as dense; maybe it won’t be as frequent; but it won’t die.

So a friendship died for a reason. Why resurrect it? I’m not entirely sure. I’ve lost touch with James for years, and I don’t really regret it, as all we’ve had in common was school and that commonality ended when I moved away and changed schools. And what exactly is one to talk about with someone you haven’t talked to in years, who have no common interests with you? “Hi, how are you?” “Good” is probably all that the conversation amounts to… and if all you want is that, then you can do that in Starbucks.

Stanford recently released a study that Facebook users are more likely to be miserable and depressed than those who aren’t. I wasn’t surprised; these social networks create a false sense of human contact when all there is are windows into someone else’s life that you most likely won’t have much part in.

Richard Bach once said,

A farewell is necessary before you can meet again. And meeting again, after moments or lifetimes, is certain for those who are friends.

Well, then maybe that last farewell you said to the person who sat next to you in year five was the last farewell because of obvious reasons. Beating a dead horse isn’t going to get one anywhere, and continuing to beat it in vain hopes that it might be resurrected is just clinging on false optimism that is bound to crash. We talk about consumerism often and how “bad” it is, but we never stop to consider “why” it’s bad; just that it’s bad. But one needs to know why it’s bad before one stops doing it, and because no one actually considers the why, we continue down the road of falsified relationships that can end with one click.

Message that I receive everyday from the silence of the phone is:

People are disposable. You are disposable.

(Many thanks to all of you who continue to write to me in my utterly selfish campaign to not use electronic communications. Your efforts are very appreciated… and I keep all your letters.)

It’s been a common complaint throughout the ages that “the younger generations are worse than us”. It was said during Marlowe’s time, Hardy’s time, Waugh’s time, my time, and probably hundred years from now. But just how much of this is the truth, really?

The truth of the matter is: in matter of things that require long time to develop, probably.

Our lives have been getting busier and busier. Back in Hardy’s day it’s rather clear a woman could learn handwriting and had time to read; then Waugh’s time came and girls were flitting around having parties; nowadays handwriting is almost virtually unheard of.

Busier and busier means less and less time. No, a day is still 24 hours, but there is less time to spend per activity. And as our lives get busier and busier, things get more mass-produced and quickly digested (seriously, how many books have you read the past month?). Reading is out. Movies and games are in. And if you read, well, congratulations, you are now a minority group. Borders is closed, Spenser is kicked off the bookshelf… if such thing even exists in people’s houses.

I’m not saying yesterday is better, but I think we had a bit more emotional capacity in the past. People used to write love letters; now skype and text have replaced them, and quite frankly, they’re about as dry and tasteless as a week old slice of bread.

Sarcasm, it seems, would be the English virtue, and not much of a virtue anywhere else. Of course, for those who consider the world to be a stage, sarcasms are just as witty as any other types of humour, and taking jibes at each other would be something that shows witticism and brevity, not a personal insult.

This would be a personal insult:

“You are ugly.”

This would be sarcasm:

“Your face is so beautiful I think I want to gouge my eyeballs out.”

The thing is, sarcasm can be taken as a way to circumspectly insult someone else, but the insult has to be received by someone who has an equal or better comprehension of the motives behind the word choices. In other words, one needs a sarcasm sensor to not get offended by it.

In many cases amongst the islanders, sarcasm is so ingrained within everyday conversations that one doesn’t even consider whether it is a personal insult or not.  This would not necessarily be meant to be hurtful, rather the acerbic tone is just a characteristic, and not meant to be taken personally. It’s a fine line that does not seem to translate, even if there are very little language barriers.

Case in point:

A: “I hate Dostoyevsky.”

B: “I find him quite interesting.”

A: “Don’t be ridiculous, you haven’t read a book in your life.”

This is rather direct, and therefore meant as an insult. It better be taken as an insult, otherwise Speaker A would officially categorise Speaker B as an imbecile and any kind of discourse would be over. Oh dear, this person can’t even identify insults. He would need to be fed and taught how to sit on hind paws would be what speaker A is thinking, in all possibilities.

However:

A: “I hate Dostoyevsky.”

B: “I find him quite interesting.”

A: “You read?!”

This conversation leaves B with two choices: one, to take the final remark as an insult and get mortally offended, in which case Nesbit’s observation that a person gets angry when the truth is told might be proven true; or two, B can come back with a witticism, in which the ball is back in A’s court. Thus a lively banter continues, a competition of wit as well as patience.

However, this kind of verbal tennis requires training, of which most do not grow up with. And then they get mortally offended, and the speaker A walks away, shaking his/her head, thinking “so much for humour and esprit. What happened to the sense of wit?”

My pen fancy has struck me again, and I've been having fun with my pens and inks, partly because suddenly I have found myself inundated with correspondence and just things that requires actual writing, as opposed to e-mails and other modern technologies. There are quite a world out there that you can designate as your combination, with nib widths, ink colours, and paper.

For example, I use moleskine for my notes. A red cahier, actually, and I use Platinum Preppy and Lamy EF to write in them. My colleague uses Rhodia and Pilot. Quite a different end-product (mine definitely looks more feminine, hands down). Mine’s a bit more colourful, owing to quite a few Preppies I have at my arsenal.

It’s been a while since I’ve written this much by hand. Sure, I take my notes by hand, mark papers by hand, but they’re jotting, really, not much more than a few sentences at a time. But with these, letters included, they’re proper writing, with sitting down, thinking, picking up a pen. It’s a rather methodical process: sit down, select the ink (or make sure the ink is loaded), ponder what to write, place the ink eradicators and whatnot around, uncap the pen, begin writing. It’s a bit different from snatching a Bic from the table and jotting a few notes.

Writing (not typing, but writing), as I’ve recently rediscovered, is a rather thoughtful, meditative process. I’ve written letters – constantly, even, as Mr “I want to remain nameless” and I have kept steady correspondence across the Atlantic and across the continent for the past seven years – but only recently have I closely examined the actual process of writing, both mental and physical. Unlike word processing, you can’t really just hit backspace and delete the sentence you wrote, so you tend to get more careful as you write. Word selection becomes a little more important; penmanship becomes a little more of a concern; and unlike e-mails, there is an actual physical process of destroying letters, as opposed to just hitting delete, so each word becomes heavier.

Your emotions do show up in your penmanship. When I am distressed, my handwriting becomes a little more erratic; when I am calm, they are neater, more regular. My ink colour selection also reflects my mood; when I am feeling prim and proper, I tend to select blue; when I am feeling fanciful, brighter colours show up.

I think, as we progress through technology, we are losing more and more personal touches. Letters became phone calls, which became e-mails and instant messaging; and severing ties became easier and easier, until all it took were two buttons to hit delete. Cards became replaced with facebook messages and e-cards, which get lost in the myriad of electronic information we get bombarded with. Relationships between two people can be quickly forgotten with a few clicks, the past sealed away.

Is this a good thing? Perhaps. Perhaps it is a good thing to be able to forget the past and seal away previous acquaintances. But I am glad Mr Nameless had written me letters all this time; I’d be cleaning my room and stumble upon the bundle of letters he wrote, and I’d remember the ache. Once upon a time, he and I were happy. Those moments were forever crystallised in those penned words, and it’s much harder to rip up letters than hit delete on a phone.

Mr Nameless has taken a step further (oh dear). He has decided that pen nib, his penmanship (or a lack thereof…), and his ink colours don’t quite identify the sender as himself. And so, enter sealing waxes.

Originally, as we know, sealing waxes were designed for hand-delivered letters, to prevent tampering. It’s a bit more ceremonial these days, but I think he wants an ending action to his letter-writing. After all, he writes to me the most, and apparently, he has a sort of a ritual; a nice cup of tea, a pen, an ink colour selected out (although it’s usually blue… different shade of blue, perhaps?), good writing pad in front of him, looking out the window, music filtering out from the speakers. Writing is reaching out to the recipient through pen and paper, and the paper is actually something the writer has touched, felt; it’s different from a printed out e-mail. It is akin to what Cyrano said, in Edmond Rostand’s play Cyrano de Bergerac:

Un baiser, mais à tout prendre, qu'est-ce ?
Un serment fait d'un peu plus près, une promesse
Plus précise, un aveu qui veut se confirmer,
Un point rose qu'on met sur l'i du verbe aimer;
C'est un secret qui prend la bouche pour oreille,
Un instant d'infini qui fait un bruit d'abeille,
Une communion ayant un goût de fleur,
Une façon d'un peu se respirer le cœur,
Et d'un peu se goûter, au bord des lèvres, l'âme !

Not quite a kiss, our letters, but a promise all the same; a hug stuffed in an envelope, a kiss lovingly tucked into a page. And when he finishes tucking that hug into the paper, apparently he wants to seal it with wax and a seal that says, “it’s from me”.

And so he has his seal, and he has his samples of wax. He’s trying to decide between midnight blue, forest green, and silver. He’s leaning towards green but he also likes silver. I’ve told him to maybe mix both. He’s pondering. Another mark left on paper to tell me that he’s in my life, and that we share moments, even when we are apart.

Beautiful, isn’t it?

I’m reading Proust. Partly because my abdominal pain’s so awful I need something so utterly mind-numbing for me to distract the pain; partly because I’m that bored. Either way, I’d have to say A la Recherché du Temps Perdu is pretty boring. But putting that aside, it started to make me think of what it means to be cultured.

I am often called that. I suppose I can see why, although within the household I live in, the level I am at is fairly standard. There are books my parents have read that I have not, and vice versa, but we share information, and exchange opinions over the dinner table. My father knew about “Gerrymander”, and I did not (and amazingly that term is registered within my spellcheck). My father did not have a particularly defined opinion on the definition of artistry, and I did. Exchange of knowledge and opinions. That is what our conversations our made of.

But what does it actually mean to be cultured? Being cultured is one of the hallmarks of being middle class, it seems. But why is it important? Jack, I’d say, is cultured; speaking two languages, learning two more, well-read (partly because of me; we share books quite often), interested. His sphere seems rather large compared to others. He’s a classical pianist but he listens to anything (he seems to shy away from country and rap, but he also said that he’s “just not used to it… I haven’t listened to the genre enough to pass judgement”). And why is it that some arts seem to command more respect than others? If all arts are equal, then listening to Dr. Dre should be treated just the same as listening to Wagner.

Does it? Nope. Not at all. I have yet to meet someone who goes “I’ve always wanted to go to one!” when I say “I’m going to a Linkin Park concert”. But operas? Sure. All the time.

It seems that nowadays, people have very rigid, tiny definitions of “culture”. “Cultured person” seems to mean “someone who is well-read in books, who has watched and engaged with classic films, has a refined appreciation for art, etc. To be cultured is also to be educated about the world and its languages, to understand world politics and be well-read in world history”. Which translates to: doing boring things.

So I pulled out my arsenal of middle class people. According to them, “culture” is being interested in things other than your immediate sphere of interest. Reading is a prime example of it; I don’t live in France, but I read French authors to see the world from their eyes. To know what French people are like. What France is like. (That is not to say that I particularly enjoy Proust.)

But it’s undeniable that classical music gain more respect culturally than rock. Why?

Connor (my flautist friend) gave me an interesting answer. He agreed that Mozart was the 1800s Lady Gaga; he pulled up ladies’ skirts (how naughty), wrote very inappropriate music, and was just plain scandalous. But why is it that Mozart commands more respect than Lady Gaga, then?

“Well, people associate culture with it because our generation is that of popular music,” he said.

“So it's because opera and Rachmaninov and Monet are far more culturally distant that they're so valued? (apart from the amount of pure hard work we have to put in to perform them, as opposed to Katy Perry.)”

“I think that’s pretty accurate. I also think the amount of theory they used was a big thing. Mozart used musical logic to explain emotion.”

It seems that culture just really amounts to having interest in the world outside of what you know. And vaster the interest is, more cultured you become, because you naturally try to go and learn by reading, listening, seeing; I watch breakdancing, line dancing, Irish dancing, ballet. I’m only familiar with ballet myself, but others are interesting to me, and I’ve learned a few things about rhythm from all of those sub-genres.

On the other hand, there are some utter rubbish in any genre. Those should be weeded out.

During a recent discussion regarding preferred dog species, my past failed relationship, and whether Charles Ryder needs to be so utterly homosexual in the 2008 release of Brideshead Revisited, Jack made a point that there was one factor that doomed my relationship to utter failure, before I even uttered a hello.

Class.

Now, living in United States and Canada does give one a different rationalisation on class. It is based on financial assets; therefore, it does not matter whether you are a Harvard MBA or a Hollywood DJ; upper class is upper class, end of discussion, without much regards for preferences. Of course, middle class do tend to frequent Sur la Table and buy extra virgin olive oil, but that is not the hallmark of class. It is how much you have in your bank account, not which bank you use.

Not quite so in England, Jack said (which was rather old news to me). Case in point: class is determined by your priorities which you inherit from generation to generation, despite the recent degeneracy that has been occurring. Therefore, a Tory’s son would most likely be a Tory, go to Oxbridge (or Edinburgh or Durham or London, depending), drink appropriate tea brand and eat certain foods. Because that’s how it is done in the family.

“That seems a bit bizarre,” I said. “What class am I?”

“Solidly middle, I’m afraid. You are the female version of Charles, worrying about everything and hanging on in quiet desperation.”

“How dull.”

Middle Class, said Jack, is formulated by a single, underlying philosophy: long-term thinking. Being the historical supporting class of Great Britain, they are the ones who have always received the brunt of political and social upheaval, and therefore, like to be prepared for disasters. Of course, this underlying philosophy has somewhat disappeared under the pretentious (not my word, but his) formalism, but it is still there. Therefore, you eat fair trade organic (healthy food means healthy body), go to museums on weekends (I don’t quite understand this one), send children to grammars or independent (better college means better university, which means more stability in life later on), select a few choice areas in which to use money (because that, in turn, actually means less expense after all).

Now, there are few random things that middle class do spend money on, Jack said. Tea for instance. And coffee. And wine. A middle class person goes to operas and ballet, play classical instrument quite often (why?), use Wedgwood or Royal Doulton dishes, sing happy birthdays in mortified hush in restaurants, agree that Thatcher was a good idea, listen to BBC radio and watch BBC1 (or 4? I’m never too sure, I do not possess the modern discovery called television).

“Alright,” I said, a bit huffy. “Explain how ANY of that works into my failed relationship with him and my rocky yet successful, undefined relationship with you.”

“Right.” He thought. “What tea does he drink?”

“Tea?! I’m asking you to explain the doom of my love and you’re asking me about tea?!”

“Tea is a big indicator, dear.”

“Tetley’s?”

“I could have told you that your relationship would never work out, just from that. You staunchly cling onto Twining’s.”

“What about Janet?”

“She’s African by origin. Different rules.”

What was I supposed to say?! Sarah and Jack both drink Twining’s. Ugh.

“Favourite author?”

“I have no idea.”

“Wait.” Jack paused. “You’ve known this fellow for over a year and you don’t know his favourite author?”

“No.”

"How curious. Favourite pastime?”

“Video games.”

“Doom yet again. Play an instrument?”

“Bass.”

“… Double bass?”

“No. The electric one.”

“See, Gabrielle,” Jack said, in a resolute tone, “you and he are too different, it’s almost as if you live in a different world. Can you imagine Harry playing bass?”

“Double bass?”

“No, the electric one.”

I pondered. I giggled. It is very difficult to imagine Harry playing electric anything.

“But his father’s a typical middle class, I think. Master’s degree and the sorts.”

“Gabrielle,” said Jack, “a child’s class is not determined by the father. It is determined by the mother, since the child has far more exposure than the father. I can assure you that you would never have associated with that fellow in real life.”

“School?”

“You went to a local independent. I doubt he did.” (He didn’t.)

Jack continued, ignoring my flabbergasted silence. “You have to realise that class plays a far larger role than any of us would like to admit. It determines the hobbies, interests, books we read, music we listen to, tea preference, newspaper, food, wine, to educational policies. There are blurred lines but there are people who’d fit in middle class anywhere in any recent historical period. You and he had nothing in common.”

“And you and I do?”

“More than what you and that fellow had, yes.”

“Are you insinuating that my relationship ended because of tea brands?”

“That’s symptomatic, not causal. And besides, let’s postulate that his mother is indeed from a good, British middle class…”

“Define good middle class.”

“Well, you know my mother. Would you think my mother would marry someone from the Commonwealth? American, maybe, as they are undeniably world’s superpower, but can you imagine my mother marrying an Australian?”

“Now you’re making it sound like Julia Marchmain and Rex Mottram.”

“And you see how that marriage ended.”

This sounds as if the conclusion is “if the family does not drink Twining’s, stay away”. This sounds preposterous to me. But I’m starting to sound like Michael Meacher, so maybe I should shut up.

Perhaps the British population fears being labelled “middle class” because it automatically means (nowadays, anyway) that you undeservedly receive the products of wealth (music lessons, ballet and opera, good wines, cheeses, e.t.c.) without working for it. I don’t think people realise that middle class may continue buying those things even during personal financial crisis. It’s the preference that makes one middle class, Jack said, not the ability to be one.

Anyway, I compiled this quiz to determine what class you are… I am an ashamed (or upper) middle class, apparently. Ah well. Here are the original quizzes, if you are interested in looking at them. They’re supposed to be tongue-in-cheek, so please don’t come shrieking at me for whatever answer you get.

The “Which Class Are You?” Quiz (Some only applicable to British residents!)

1. The politician you most admire is...

a) Margaret Thatcher. She got Britain interested in property. (10)
b) Margaret Thatcher. She saw off the Argies. (5)
c) Margaret Thatcher. Such fine ankles. (15)

2. The best way to lose weight is:

a) Going for a bracing walk on the moors with the dogs. (15)
b) Getting the NHS to provide you with a free stomach staple and cutting back on the body-building steroids. (5)
c) Stepping up your attendance at the gym and getting a few personal-training sessions under your Lycra. (10)

3. Your TV schedule highlights are:

a) Newsnight, University Challenge, Marple and Midsomer Murders. The more inquisition, the better! (10)
b) EastEnders, The Jeremy Kyle Show or anything with an ‘X’ in it. The more fighting, the better! (5)
c) Anything involving Professor Brian Cox or Sir David Attenborough. The more nature, the better! (15)

4. Your view on tax is:

a) It’s there to be dodged. Get paid in cash. (5)
b) I pay far too much of it. (10)
c) It’s there to be dodged. Put pay in offshore trusts. (15)

5. Museums are . . .

a) Always full of dead stuff with small labels on it. (5)
b) Always a good option for the children on a rainy weekend. (10)
c) Always asking one to be on the fundraising committee. It’s good not to say yes to too many. (15)

6. Your youth was spent:

a) In the Bullingdon Club. You’ve been trying to hide the photos ever since. (15)
b) In Borstal. You’ve been trying to bury the conviction ever since. (5)
c) At Bristol University. You’ve been trying to recreate the good old days ever since. (10)

7. When you feel nostalgic for your childhood, you:

a) Buy some chintzy Cath Kidston kitchenware. (10)
b) Thank God you live in the house you grew up in. (15)
c) Call Nan to be shouted at. (5)

8. You have a day to kill with the children. You:

a) Let them run riot on a National Trust estate. (10)
b) Let them run riot on council estate — avoiding men with shotguns. (5)
c) Let them run riot on the estate — avoiding men with shotguns. (15)

9. A dapper man wears:

a) His grandfather’s Savile Row and some well-worn tweed. (15)
b) Designer gear with no collar, high-waisted trousers and trainers — like Simon Cowell. (5)
c) A decent suit. (10)

10. Your daily journey is . . .

a) From the fridge to the sofa clutching a Red Bull. It takes about two minutes. (5)
b) On a Boris bike to work. (10)
c) From the parlour to the estate office. It takes about two minutes. (15)

11. Childhood ambition:

a) To be unemployed and to sit in the pub all day with your rellies playing darts. (5)
b) To be a web entrepreneur. You have plans to sell a loss-making website for a fortune and then spend the cash on installing central heating. (15)
c) To be gainfully employed at something respectable. (10)

12. Your male influence was:

a) Your dad. (10)
b) Your mum’s last boyfriend. (5)
c) Your grandfather, a war hero. (15)

13. Your female influence was:

a) Your mum. (10)
b) Nanny. Funny, your wife looks just like her. (15)
c) Your big sister, who turned out to be your mother. (5)

14. Eyebrow and hair colours that don’t match are:

a) Weird. Like Alistair Darling. (10)
b) For badgers. (15)
c) Glamorous. Like Jordan. (5)

15. Your views on tattoos:

a) The more the merrier — but they have to be obvious.
b) Gross.
c) Quite sweet, if discreet.

16. Your idea of a perfect evening's family entertainment is:

a) Trivial Pursuit. (10)
b) Charades. (15)
c) Everyone on the sofa with their own PSP (PlayStation Portable). (5)

17. Your views on vegetables:

a) No, ta. (5)
b) Organic only. (10)
c) Grown on the home farm with plenty of pesticide. (15)

18. Nails need to be . . .

a) Tastefully plain, with plain or light pink nail varnish. (10)
b) A full set of acrylics painted green with diamanté stuck on. (5)
c) A mess. (15)

19. Make-up must-haves:

a) False eyelashes, fake tan, plumped-up lips and spidery mascara. (5)
b) Practically nothing with shiny hair and a nice, jolly lipstick. (15)
c) Fresh-faced make-up — blusher, tinted moisturiser and a dash of eyeliner. (10)

20. Your idea of fast food is:

a) Jamie Oliver’s 30-minute meals — so long as you do the chopping fast. (10)
b) Super-sized, served in a bucket and costing 99p. (5)
c) Skipping the starter and eating pheasant from your own estate. (15)

21. You live in:

a) A council house. (5)
b) A mortgaged house. (10)
c) The Big House. (15)

22. Your cousins are:

a) Your cousins. (10)
b) Locked up. (5)
c) Distant, but they all appear in Debrett’s. (15)

You’re halfway there! Have a cuppa.

23. Kate Moss-style smoking on a catwalk with your bum on show is:

a) Perfection — fame and a fag. (5)
b) A terrible example to girls. (10)
c) Who cares? Fashion people are all mad anyway. (15)

24. You will be spending this August:

a) First on the estate in Scotland; then at the house we always take in Rock: the boys do so love the surfing in Polzeath, and Rick Stein's is just a ferry ride across the estuary. (15)
b) Magaluf; Benidorm; San Antonio in Ibiza - anywhere they do proper fish 'n' chips and English lager. (5)
c) Well they do say Croatia's on the up-and-up, though I do worry there might not be enough art galleries for Jonquil and Tarquin. (10)

25. In the morning you are awoken by the gentle strains of:

a) Radio 4's John Humphrys and Jim Naughtie talking about Jordan's politics. (10)
b) Radio 1's Chris Moyles raving about Jordan's knockers. (5)
c) James, your valet, murmuring a gentle reminder that Jordan's King, Abdullah II, may be dropping by for dinner. (15)

26. At breakfast you prefer:

a) India tea, freshly squeezed orange juice, then some kedgeree washed down with a spot of fizz. (15)
b) Warm water with a squeeze of lemon juice, fresh fruit, decaffeinated coffee, organic wholemeal porridge. (10)
c) Sunny Delight, Pop-Tarts, Coco Pops and a bowl of Sugar Puffs sprinkled with sugar substitute.(5)

27. You prefer to answer the call of nature in a:

a) Toilet (5)
b) Lavatory (10)
c) Loo (15)

28. At home, the central heating is:

a)The latest eco-friendly design with thermostatic controls which maximise fuel efficiency. (10)
b)Usually on full blast. (5)
c)Never turned on until the frosts in December. (15)

29. Your perfect pair of earrings are:

a) Big-hooped golden ones from somewhere mega-posh like Gucci. (5)
b) Chic, crafty ones from somewhere hip and recherche. (10)
c) Old, diamond ones from the family safe. (15)

30. Your most oft-repeated catchphrase on your first job was:

a) 'Doors to manual', as an air stewardess.(10)
b) 'Salt 'n' vinegar?' behind the bar at the Dog And Duck.(5)
c) 'No, sorry, can't, that's when Torty and I have our ski break,' as a chalet girl in Klosters. (15)

31. How many TVs do you own?

a) A crusty old black-and-white number, bought as a novelty item shortly after John Logie Baird invented it. (15)
b) One in the sitting room, one in our bedroom, and one for the au pair. Milo keeps nagging us to get one for his room but he'll have to wait until he's 16 - screens do play havoc with a child's reading development. (10)
c) Er, how many rooms have we got, 'Chelle? Is it ten or 11? Eleven then. Unless you count the new ones we've had put into the back of our car seats, so the kids can stay happy on car journeys. (5)

32. You refer to your grandmother as:

a) Nan (5)
b) Grandma/granny (10)
c) Tootles/MinMin/Gaia/Toto/ whatever eccentric agenon-specific nickname the old girl prefers: it's not too late, after all, for her to change the inheritance. (15)

33. You sleep with:

a) Lead-paned windows wide open even when there's a blizzard outside. (15)
b) UPVC windows tight shut and the electric blanket on. (5)
c) Newly installed sash windows, opened two inches, with a burglar lock. (10)

34. Your culinary role model is:

a) Jamie Oliver (10)
b) Mrs Beeton (15)
c) Colonel Sanders (5)

35. Your dog is:

a) Your best friend; marvellous with the kids too. (10)
b) Damned fine at retrieving fallen grouse, almost as good as the last one you unfortunately had to shoot because it was worrying sheep on the estate. (15)
c) A Staffy called Tyson, and I shouldn't get any closer mate. He'll 'ave your arm off. (5)

36. Your favourite wine is:

a) That claret Daddy laid down, now what is its name? Cheval-Blanc '47, or some such. Not that one cares - it's all bloody alcohol isn't it? (15)
b) Chardonnay. What's good enough for Coleen is good enough for me. (5)
c) That rather presumptuous Riesling we picked up in Waitrose last week, with a zingy apple nose and the faint notes of tar, yam and slightly overripe lychee. (10)

37. Guacamole is:

a) A marvellous avocado dip, which goes perfectly with tortilla chips. (10)
b) Frightful stuff. Can nobody run to caviar these days? (15)
c) Terrible place, where the Americans keep them poor orange prisoners locked up. (5)

38. Your children are called:

a) Shane, Jordan, Chevelle and Shareen. (5)
b) Milo, Jack, Zac and Poppy. (10)
c) Harriet, Emily, Freddie and Xan. (15)

39. You dress your salads with:

a) Cold-pressed single estate from Henry and Annabelle's place in Tuscany: £50 a bottle if one ever had to pay for such things. (15)
b) Sainsbury's Taste The Difference Italian Extra Virgin Oil. Bit pricey but you really can taste the difference. (10)
c) Salad cream. Obviously. (5)

40. The carpets in your house are:

a) Shagpile. (5)
b) Threadbare. (15)
c) Replaced by natural oak flooring. (10)

41. When travelling by car with another couple, what would the seating arrangements be?

a) Two men in front. (5)
b) Man with his own partner in front. (10)
c) Man with the other partner in front. (15)

42. At Christmas you spend roughly how much on each of your children?

a) Less than £50. (15)
b) Between £50 and £150. (10)
c) More than £150. Spending on the kiddies. It's what Christmas is all about. (5)

43. There is egg on your chin. Do you wipe it off with:

a) A serviette? (10)
b) A napkin? (15)
c) The back of your sleeve? (5)

44. Do you send your children to:

a) An old public school? (15)
b) The local school? (5)
c) A church school near which you have moved? (10)

 

RESULTS:

0 to 250 - You are a fearful oik. The closest you can ever hope of getting to Posh is if one of your children marries into the Beckham family.

260 to 340 - You are lower-middle class. You dream of higher things but you're trying too hard. Maybe you think fish knives are smart (they're not) and you probably pronounce the letter aitch as 'haitch'. Give up now.

350 to 470 - You are desperately upper-middle class. You fret far too much about everything (global warming, your children's manners, how to cook perfect polenta). You are doomed to be sneered at as a poncey imbecile by the lower orders and despised as an incorrigible bourgeois by your social superiors.

500 to 600 - You live in a damp, unheated house. You live like a savage. You are quite possibly the victim of centuries of inbreeding. You are upper class and the perfect match for Wills and Harry.

MORE than 600 - You are hopelessly, irredeemably upper class. Even the vulgar, arriviste Windsor family are too common for you. More likely, you are a huge cheat and a ghastly social climber who looked up all the right answers.

 

Some of them make little sense and some of them I can see the reasoning behind it right away. Quite a few of them made me laugh out loud (IE: Questions 6, 8, and 14… 8 in particular, because in the original quiz choices B and C are identical). Anyway, I’m apparently a poncey imbecile/incorrigible bourgeois. What were you?

I never understood people who can be BFFs with their exes. Especially when you still hold torches for them. Won't they break their hearts, realising that they will never touch their exes' lips ever again, or hold their hands, or have the exes look at them like nothing else matters, or get embraced?

A thought popped up while listening to "Cool" by Gwen Stefani today. It's kind of clear that the narrator in the music video still has feelings; so why does she go through with it? How can she? If I broke up with Will and he started dating a new girl, god forbid we live in a different country (at least) because I'd probably go insane if I saw him kissing someone else. I may end up killing them both then plead innocent by the reason of innocent in the court.

Anyone have ideas? Because this is a mystery.

It’s a bit weird to be looking back, perusing through my blogs (which I have maintained since junior high), trying to remember my high school days. I’ve been away from the environment for six years now, and I never, ever want to return again. What made me return to the days of my mental torture was Sandy Hook Incident, and how the shooter was a quiet bright man who was almost a complete recluse in high school.

I was a recluse in high school. Maybe it doesn’t qualify as bullying, but it sure felt like I was ostracised; there was a glass panel between “me” and “everyone else”, and no matter how much I rammed on the panel, nobody could hear me, and I felt as if the world was going by while I was in a glass box. I hated almost the entire school, and I actually had a few murderous thoughts throughout my career. Academically, I was a star; socially, I did not exist. I spent most of my afternoons and evenings studying or prepping for my various extracurriculars, of which I rarely took any joy in. My life was work, work, and more work, with almost no friends and no play. It did not help that I had Asperger’s Syndrome, then unknown, and was unable to read the minutiae of the nonverbal cues people give off. I did not take jokes well; unless its meaning was obvious, I took it rather literally. I was Asian in an almost completely Caucasian school. I didn’t join the fashion cliques. I was different on almost every aspect, I thought differently, I had different priorities. And for that, I was punished, because for all the freedom and diversity the social system advertises, the society does not. Mean Girls isn’t just a film, it is a fairly accurate portrayal of many high schools across North America, where if are different in one way, shape or form, be it race, the way you think, or the way you dress, you are ostracised. And if you are not part of a group, you are, in fact, not one of them, and therefore you are an easy target. (I’ve also lived in Japan and England, and for some reason, I’ve observed this tendency far less often in those two countries.)

In the end, my mind was going through torment overload. A teenager is fragile, unsure of any direction like a new butterfly emerging; the wings are wrinkled and still unstable, and they are vulnerable and unable to take flight. Even the slightest jostling can ruin the beautiful wings. And we are jostled all the time; we don’t finish drying the wings all at the same time, and some take flight far earlier than others, causing turbulence and wind that disturbs the drying butterflies. I dried very slowly.

I almost didn’t at all.

I’m not vouching for all teenagers – some seem to have happy high school lives – but I didn’t. Each day was a slow agony. I was eccentric, and that meant laughter was in order, and even if they had not meant it, I took it as a ridicule. But I knew that murdering others wasn’t an option – if I survived through the ordeal, there’d still be repercussions – and so the murderous energy, the fury and rage, turned in on itself.

On me.

I did not pull the trigger in my mouth. We do not keep guns in the house, probably a good thing. But I started starving myself, under the pretext of getting in control of my life, because I felt my life was spiralling out of control. University applications were a chore, and even with that I was going down a different road; I was applying  to British universities, which was the very first in my school. I was on a strictly regimented diet that would barely sustain a newborn let alone a 5’9” 17 year old. I began to visibly lose weight. I was borderline overweight when I started, and when I graduated, I was a measly size 000. When I bent down, my vertebrae stuck out. It was a mental suicide, if not a physical one, because in a way, it was either them or me; we could not coexist in the same world, so one of us had to go.

This is not only my story. This is my friend’s story. This is my student’s story. I hear this story everywhere, and people ignore them, because the good majority are in groups and those who are not in groups are invisible. We are the invisible walkers in the hallways, until our minds cannot take it any more; invisible people cannot coexist with visible ones, so one of us has to go. Very often it’s yourself, and while you may not kill yourself completely, you do go through some sort of a mental, ritual transformation to leave that chrysalis behind and emerge to the sky as a butterfly. A differently winged one from the vast majority; we were not counted as butterflies because our chrysalis had different patterns, so it is only natural that when we fly, our wings look different from the rest. The Ugly Duckling is a surprisingly accurate allegory that tells us this phenomenon has existed for centuries.

What I am not trying to say is that I am Adam Lanza. But what I am trying to say is that this is not just a problem about guns, or violence. It is also about the mentally unstable son of Liza Long and Liza Long herself, and that invisible teenager who is getting mocked and teased every day in English class because he is a social recluse. I am not defending Lanza – what he did is heinous, despicable, and should not be forgotten or forgiven – but what I am saying is that, sometimes, it is a thin line that divides you or me from the shooters at Columbine High School.

We all need saviours. A gentle word from a teacher, a caring smile from a classmate might be all one needs. But in order for that to happen, someone has to notice you, and if you are invisible, then that’s impossible.

Sometimes, we are banging on the glass wall, never to be heard by the passers-by. But it takes one person to notice and shatter the glass wall down.

My family recently decided (recently as in for a few months) to purchase an espresso machine. As some of the readers may know (or not), my family is a huge lover of teas and coffees, and it didn’t really make much sense not to have one. Oh, we had one, yes, but it was one of those really old manual style ones before the semi-automatics came into being. So I was sent on a hunt.

Now the thing about espressos (or coffee or wine or tea, for that matter) is that it’s sort of an art. Not a science, no. It requires a very sense-based adjustment that doesn’t have a formula, and the opinions vary from one to another: aluminium is good. Aluminium is not good. You want a big portafilter. You don’t want a big portafilter. the grinder should be separate. The grinder shouldn’t be separate. One shouldn’t buy a grinder at all, but instead by ground beans. E.t.c. E.t.c.

To be honest, I don’t think it makes that much difference. I have never heard of anyone going “Oh, you rotten person, you didn’t brew this correctly! Clearly you didn’t use a big portafilter” upon imbibing. But clearly they make a difference, or something.

Anyway, after much consideration and seeing a $100 off from a Gaggia machine, we decided to purchase it. It shipped fast (yey for UPS); it was packed quite well; and the price was good. And it arrived today.

I should have known it would be a perilous quest to get my first drink of espresso, considering that it’s a freaking Italian product.

First, the beans. As we don’t have a burr grinder (yet), I was sent by my mother to buy the beans on the way back home from uni. Fine. I searched on Yelp, found Lavazza very close to my other campus, and after surviving through the physical chemistry exam and a differential equations class, I hopped onto the shuttle bus. I got dropped off. I turned on my GPS service on my phone. Yelp stated that they close at 9:00 PM. Fine.

So I walked from E. Pearson to Walton, which is about a five minute walk. Mind you, this is before five pm. Clearly still normal business hours. The Lavazza was a teeny tiny place, but looked cosy. I pushed the door open and…

nothing happened.

Pushed again. Nothing happened. Some fat git inside (I think he was the barista) looked at me, but did nothing. Pushed again. Nothing. Puzzled, I looked at the operating hours.

… FOUR PM?!

If this was NatWest in the colonnade at Guy’s Campus, I’d give up. But this was Michigan Avenue. I was irritated. Six might be a reasonable time, but four clearly isn’t. There are still businessmen working at 4 pm. What if they wanted a cup of coffee? Starbucks would be operating; Lavazza would lose money.

But clearly they weren’t concerned.

Irked, I walked down the street, went to John Hancock Centre, and went into the Italian food shop/restaurant. They were open (they close at 7.30). Bought the beans. Went home. Unpacked the espresso machine. Ate supper. 

And then came the time to use the Gaggia Baby Black. First thing that puzzled me was there were three filters, while the manual clearly indicated just two. One was clearly just a single; the two others were doubles, but one just had one hole and the other had slightly larger holes (plural to a greater degree). Not sure about which one to use, I dug out the manual.

Nothing.

Read again. Nothing. Irked, I looked through the French translation. Utterly nothing. What kind of a manual was this?! I looked through the directions to making an espresso. Still nothing; what was even more puzzling, it said “to fit the filter (10 or 11) into the filter cup holder (9), then fit 9 to 11. How can you fit something into another, then fit that other thing back into that thing? That is physically impossible.

After searching on google and coming across a post by someone who had the same query, I proceeded to make my first cup of espresso. I used the double cup filter, pressed on, and waited…

and brown liquid sprayed out, some into the cups and a lot on the table cloth.

I was beyond irked at this point. I was also hating most Italians at this point, and was cursing most of the famous modern Italians, starting with Berlusconi to Carla Bruni (who is politically a French but she’s still an Italian). Italians clearly can’t be related to Romans; Romans made the aqueducts that are still in use today, while the Italians can’t even properly make a freaking espresso machine. The manual said NOTHING about “OUR MACHINE CHEERFULLY SPRAYS COFFEE ONTO YOU AND INTO THE CUP” clause. Instead, there was a curious black plastic part that evidently was supposed to go with “the good crema device”, but the good crema device wasn’t even in there.

“Maybe that black thing goes into the holder”, said my mother.

“That’s not what it says in the manual.”

“Oh, come now,” said my mother, “do you really thing Italians would read the manual before using this machine? Just try it.”

So I did. And lo and behold, no more spraying. My question is, why didn’t they just scrap with the retarded engineering which clearly is a failure and just make a better filter holder? Instead they just added this black plastic thing the size of my pinkie fingernail and did away with it. It’s prone to loss, breakage, and it’s just plain bad planning. I knew Italians weren’t exactly Germans (my philosophy professor or S. Git Giachetti, is a prime example) but this is beyond belief. Can’t they do anything right (apart from make shoes)?!

Needless to say, I can never live in Italy until I retire and no longer care about personal growth. When I’m seventy and am just looking to live my life as hedonistically as possible, I might move there. But spending 30 minutes trying to figure out the manual is just a waste of my time.

Gaggia, I am very very disappointed in you.

I have slept for the total amount of 12 hours for the last three days. Last night, I had to write three papers that are due next week. I have a physical chemistry exam this Thursday, a Modern Physics exam next Monday. And it literally feels like somebody is whipping me to trod forth, as if I am a racehorse that needs to finish a three hundred mile race before the end of the day.

Needless to say, not happy. At all.

This is literally how America works. You start running. And then you run faster. But everybody's running faster than before. So you run even faster, trying to get ahead. Some people still run faster. You run faster and faster, and the lactic acid's killing your legs, but you just can't take a rest...

What I'd love to do is take a nap. But I have a student coming in for writing instruction in 23 minutes. Lovely.

Contrary to what everybody tells you, majors evidently do count when it comes to the hard green cash. Of course, you’re better off majoring in mathematics when applying to law school just because your scores will be better, but looking at just bachelor levels, it seems that you’re better off doing cold, hard sciences.

The top achievers were engineering (of course), but other scienc-y stuff came in as well, such as applied mathematics and physics.

On the other hand, those which are generally called as Humanities came in quite low. What was surprising was, fashion design beat psychology. Granted, they seem to be the same in rigor of the curriculum (do you have to trudge through 50 pages of nothing but formulae and derivations? No. Do you have to sit in the lab for three hours watching the proverbial paint dry? No. Do you have to solve 50 problems for homework and hope to god that what you’re doing is right and not quietly developing an impossible physics phenomena? No.) but I think this is because of the flooding of the psych majors.

As for Philosophy (cough-junkie-cough), all I’ve learned so far is that as far as you write semi-coherently, you’ll get an A. This conclusion came from my philosophy class taken over the summer of which, I learned precisely the following:

1. Italians can’t understand German or English philosophy
1. This is probably due to the fact that they don’t need to suffer much. Good looking women, good food, good weather? What do you need to suffer about? (said Dietrich the German, not me)
2. Italian professors evidently have penises for brains
3. As far as you use big words and write something that vaguely sounds intelligent, an “respected professor who writes books” will give you an A. Never mind that I did not even crack open any of the assigned texts, missed half my classes, and wrote my final 2 hours before it was due (PS: I don’t understand why people try to establish “this professor’s very respected” just by the amount of stuff they published. If Naomi Campbell can publish a book, then it certainly doesn’t require much intellect to do so. And no, publishing papers in the Journal of Philosophy means nothing to me. If Socrates said an orange was an apple just because he was purely delusional on hemlock, we’d be tested on it and be forced to analyse it to death today.)

But then again, I’d better get paid better than those English majors, thank you very much. I have to sit in a lab, derive equations, argue with professors for hours on end just to see how time expands.

And for those of you who say “you go there to expand your horizon!!”, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I have not improved my writing skills since I graduated high school, not because I don’t learn, but because my university decided to place me out of the writing curriculum because evidently I write spectacularly. And training cognitive processes aren’t what you do at university nowadays; that’s what you used to do, back in the “good ol’ days at Oxbridge” as J’s father said once, but you are thrown information of which you are to digest it and regurgitate it on paper as much as possible and as fast as possible. Mathematics and the sciences may require some understanding (induce, deduce, the works) but English? Anyone with some reading skills and some thinking ability can do that, as I’ve learned.

Of course, if you say “Well, I’m certain I will become the next John Locke! People will analyse my texts and my notes for eons”, then I defer to thee, my friend. But as long as what you did in university was sit on your rear end and get stoned, too bad if you don’t land a job in this career-appalling day and age.

Said IM yesterday morning.

And to be honest, I’m inclined to agree.

IM and I have been faithful T-mobile users in the US. Heck, I was a T-mobile user back in London. My best friend in London uses T-mobile. My best friend here and my research professor both use T-mobile. And apart from one crappy incident during which I had no service over the weekend, the company’s doing fine. I like their monthly pay as you go plan, and I don’t mind not having top notch smartphone. It’s a good enough company that offers my needs at a cheap price.

It certainly beats AT&T, aka “the demon reincarnate from hell”, as IM said. AT&T just plain sucks. Dropped calls, bad customer service. E.t.c.

So when those two merge, we’re in big trouble.

A. We hate AT&T. That’s why we chose T-mobile. As internationals (as opposed to ‘I’m rooted to the USA and will never leave this country’), GSM is a must. Only T-mobile and AT&T offers this.

B. AT&T are just plain more expensive.

C. Their customer care stinks.

D. Did I mention the DROPPED CALLS?

So it’s either half the nation petitions Verizon to get GSM service, or we're going to hope to all the deities out there that the DOJ would block this merger.

On the other note, I managed to ding – ever so slightly, to the point you need magnifying glass to notice it – my new phone. I’m greatly annoyed. Why does that bloody phone have to be so difficult to open?

Of course, JB is gloating, much to our chagrin. IM and I use android, but he’s a freaking iPhone (jailbroken) user. In fact, he uses MacBook and an iPhone. I’m surprised he hasn’t proposed to Steve Jobs.

Guess who’s more computer savvy? Definitely not the Apple User.

Having attended both American and British universities as a full-time, non-exchange student (aka you’re my homie and you won’t be pampered like a guest), I’ve come to realise that there are quite a few differences across the pond. So, instead of sucking up to Stefano the idiotic philosophy professor (who, by the way, is a freaking communist and evidently thinks Nietzsche is the greatest man ever to grace this world) by reading some asinine chapters from Machiavelli, I will be reviewing the differences of these to types of students. Let’s name it…
the inter-continental face-off.

	US	UK
Study time	US wins hands-down. I’m amazed we don’t keel over and die from the amount of stuff we have to do (I have no idea about the humanities, but we sciences have it rough).
Partying		Gotta give it to the UK folks. I was getting clubbing invites EVERY SINGLE DAY. And I know some people went EVERY SINGLE NIGHT.
Stress level	US hands-down again. Loans, homework, “OMFG I got a B and now I can’t get into law school”…
Relationships	Easy screws are common. But I certainly don’t see any girl bawling her eyes out over a man.	I saw a girl bawling her eyes out over a guy at least once a year.
Maturity	US kids are much more mature. You have to be, if the tuition’s sky-rocketing. That, and marks count for your future career.
Extra comments	American university students are American workers in waiting, and therefore the lifestyle is a cushier version of it. Which means, by the end of the term, half of us are blue with worry, half of us are white with fatigue, and half of us are green from just ill health. Our lives are ruled with gadgets, e-mails, and professors demanding papers turned in via e-mail because the professor doesn’t want to carry 50 papers home to grade. Coffee is the staple of our diet.	British students seem to enjoy the last vestige of childhood before being sent out to service the unemployed and the Royal Family, but it seems in the inside they are envious of American yuppie-esque life-style with Starbucks runs and laptop totes. Nevertheless, they seem not to realise that the reason we need Starbucks is not to look cool but because we are so freakishly tired most of the time with the exams and we need caffeine to wake up. Well, some of us. Either way, they seem to have more fun.

So that’s it, folks. My comment? If you want to work like a racehorse and actually do something with your life that involves career advancement, come here. You’d certainly get paid for all the hard work you’re doing (at least, it won’t go ignored). Looking for family holidays every summer? Forget it. Stay in England.

Okay, maybe not. But people are DESPERATE.

I’ve always been interested in how people decide to mate. With primates, it’s fairly easy; the biggest, baddest, toughest gorilla gets the biggest, strongest, most fertile gorilla. The end. No “that gorilla is skinnier” or “that gorilla is funnier”. It’s straightforward and simple.

Evidently mankind had to take it a step further and make it all confusing, because I have signed up for okcupid under the pretence that I am looking for a boyfriend, and… –gasp!- men are desperate. I’m supposing to get laid. Is sex that important over here?! I’m not saying Europeans or Asians are any better (after seeing JB’s perverse preferences in poetry, I’m inclined to say that he has pretty weird fetishes going on there), but crikey, as soon as one says “I’m not going to sleep with anyone until marriage”, goodbye.

Anyway, so here is what I’ve found out:

1. American men of white descent (dunno about European or Australian or New Zealander) are REALLY picky. Message them, no response. Nada. Sorry, boys, you are not that good looking. As far as I’ve seen, I have not seen anyone on par with J… and he’s certainly not that cocky.
2. European men dig my looks. American men don’t at all. Hmm. Wonder why.
3. What is conventionally artistically beautiful is NOT attractive over here (dunno about Europe). A rejected snapshot of my modelling portfolio is gaining more attention than what I deemed a better photograph.
4. JB is now officially a really cute, sophisticated, and utterly handsome nerd. Which is a rare species.
5. IM is one HELL of a hot dude.
6. J is a freaking Adonis. End of discussion.
7. Some people try too hard to be nice.
8. I evidently only get attracted to people who are mostly pure-blooded (90+% one nationality).
9. African Americans like Asian women. Unfortunately that is not reciprocated.
10. Some people cannot spell to save their lives.

So, folks, here is the lesson to be learned today: hanging on in quite desperation is not just the English way, it is THE way. But hey, what the hell, most people are looking for sex anyway.

I wonder if they’re aware that they’re really barking up the wrong tree. As the trio of men can testify quite extensively. I have half a mind to say yes to JB, but he’s currently seducing a drow priestess into joining his cause (JB, weren’t you a sun elf paladin? Are you supposed to be seducing people…?), so maybe I’m doomed.

Also, Benjamin Bunny is FREAKING MARRIED. There goes the first love of my life.

So the Royal Wedding occurred. Good for them.

Or not.

I was never a fan of the Royal Family of Great Britain. Their scandals were a bit too numerous to hold them in high regard.

JB, on the other hand, didn’t hold them in high regard, but didn’t have anything against them either. Until now.

JB: I can’t care less if Kate Middleton drowned and died tomorrow.

Me: That’s hardly loyal.

JB: I can’t be. Throwing a costly wedding when people are losing jobs is hardly responsible. I have had enough with the Royal Family. I certainly don’t seek the Jacobins to come storming in, but this is disgusting.

Do keep in mind that this gentleman was educated in Eton, went to Oxford, and is fully ingrained in… well, Britain. He even votes bloody Tory.

So after the earthquake our university, like any other university, is hosting events to aid those in NORTHERN Japan.

Keyword being northern.

The thing is, they are doing bizarre things to get this done. Let me give you examples:

• Folding a paper crane when someone donates – no, you will not get the crane – and then sending it to Hiroshima, which is nearly on the other side of the country
• Raising money, and then, for some inexplicable reason, sending it to a sister university, which is located approximately 200 miles away from where the earthquake happened
• Expecting that people nowadays are good-hearted enough to walk by someone asking for a donation and then donating

Umm…?

I am baffled.

Do they even know where Sendai is?

As much as I admit that I am biologically fully qualified as a female, it seems that I had completely missed out on female friendship lecture given throughout one's life. Most often the small intricacies are lost on me, nuances go over my head, and inevitably I am no longer able to keep up with the minute dynamics that hold the female friendships together, and all around me it tends to go caput. So understandably most of my friends are steadfastly male, meaning that I get even less chance to get exposed to the said social rituals the females go through.

What I had noticed recently is that there is A LOT of backstabbing in female friendships, and evidently that is what friendship is about. Which baffles me; if you don't like that person, I'd call it self-inflicted torture to be in that person's company, and certainly I'd avoid that experience at all costs. But their relationships are convoluted on so many levels; they maintain a facade of pleasurable company, then whenever there is something that they do not like they go to a common acquaintance/friend and complain as if that friend is a customer service, then when it gets bad they proceed to stab each other in the back under the justification that it is all because of "the other person", or "they had it coming".

What I cannot understand is why men deign to date and eventually marry these females. Do they expect they would get a preferential, sincere treatment just because they have a Y chromosome instead of X? As much as I am not knowledgeable in this matter, I doubt it; of course, there is no 'common friend' this time (apart from the offspring), and so there is no wonder that the divorce rate is so high.

In conclusion: females are more treacherous than the males. Of course, there is a caveat to this statement, but I digress. And people wonder why I don't dally with females too often.