Jade the Flamingo

I’m going to change my name to that -points to title of post-.

Why, you ask.

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That’s why. Complete with matching shorts and toe nails which I swear were pure coincidences.

I’ve been wanting dye the lower half of my hair bubblegum pink for a while now, but since the dye hasn’t arrive I thought I might try a dark pink. Apparently it turned out striking red.

So for the past half an hour I have been staring at it feeling like a goth parade or somebody who should be on a motor bike with studded leather jackets, not someone studying for the end-of-term examinations next week.

The change is, as usual, refreshing. Though this time I definitely see troubled waters ahead..

 

edit/ feeling like Ariel the mermaid. I swear my hair is the same as her on-screen color.

die die die

I need to change my current lifestyle because it’s having very apparent negative results on me (read:i’m getting fat, being unable to concentrate in class and down-spiralling results, eye circles have darkened further. Yeah you never knew that was even possible, very soon now even Eve Pearl’s miracle concealer won’t be able to hide them since they look like endless pits of blackness T_T ).

Staying awake at the wrong time which leads to sleeping at the wrong time (aka after consuming a large dinner having skipped lunch because I’m lazy to bring food) is probably the main cause to my impending obesity.

So …

• Sleep earlier (< 1.am)
• Have proper lunch
• Sleep before dinner, not after it
• Buy masks
• Do homework at home, not 5 minutes before class starts
• Go jogging

Meh wtf I should be finishing my geography homework because I’ve exceeded the 7 minutes allowed for this post. Ok bye.

all i have for company…

… is you.

holding on because while my mascara is waterproof, my eyeliner isn’t

The above excerp from the Omnia generally sums up my day and weekend. It is made up of all the same things in the same order. Starting with a bookstore, walking to another bookstore, window shopping at various places, rest sore feet in a cafe while indulging in an espresso and an occasional cheese cake. Next Saturday, repeat.

But that’s alright. Routines are a source of comfort one can always rely on, except that I’m really too shitassed broke to be buying random stationery every weekend like I used to. Without something to bring home and look forward to using (eg. a new pen, some nice craft papers..), how’d I distract myself from various shits I need to be distracted from?

Good question. Maybe that’s why I just spent a considerable amount of money on a bloody black pen that I intended to use purely for stickmen purposes.

…

Being artsy bartsy silently grants you a right to be weird and/or fucked up. Of course though not all artists and writers are, you have to admit a great number of people who are gifted in this fine area are a little messed up one way or another.

While all I draw is stick people and the photographs I take are light years away from what people would call the Art of Photography, I know there is something artistic in me – however covered up it might be underneath the bad acrylic works, razor blades and dry accounting books.

The very comfort I seek lies in the uncertainty of it all, the “might be” and the “who knows”. How would you know I won’t be a wonderful artist, the world famous photographer, the author of a published novel, if given the correct training?

I’d like to study architecture or interior design in college, but 10 years down the road I see myself like the rest of the family. Packing suitcases and working their asses off each in their own business, barely seeing one another, or to be specific, me.

How sad.

After several attempts…

I have decided that it is virtually impossible to take a full-faced photo of myself without making my boyfriend seem like a pedophile.

I’m 17! To hell with baby fats.

T_T

everybody knows everybody knows where we’re going

Edit/ Tip: press [ctrl] + [+] to enlarge fonts. I know reading small words is a pain in the ass.

Tonight I set aside all distractions, including the accounting test tomorrow and the dozens of projects, assignments and presentations that I would never be able to finish anyway, to sit here and write. About what? I do not know, hopefully not just yet. Hopefully somewhere along the way my abstract thoughts would free themselves from behind those invisible bars I only can feel; hopefully before the sun rises I’d get a little sleep; hopefully you wouldn’t look for me the way you always do and break me from the fragile, budding shell I built, leaving but broken fragments that follow me as I close my eyes, determined to start over again, tomorrow.

I was deteriorating, she said. After a few moments gazing each into our own space of emptiness, she told me that I would not want to once again become who I used to be. She didn’t know what it was exactly like, for I never told her and she never asked, but I knew she understood. The precise circumstances … Of what importance are they when she knew what it felt like anyway? Despite everything, I’ll never like to have the possibly, the mere suggestion of the fact that I’m not strong enough presented before me. Knowing it and having it announced are two very different things. It’s like a crime I won’t ever admit to have committed, not for the physical punishment but for the shame I feel, placed on my name and dignity like an invisible tag.

Maybe this is the reason why we wear our smiles like a favourite perfume – breathe in it, laugh in it, live in it. The fragrance offers confidence to face the real world, making it all of a sudden so much easier for everyone favours a nice, pretty face; not the dark intimidating monster that lives behind it. The best bit, of course, is not knowing the said monster even exist. But what happens at the end of the day when the perfume wears off and your jaw hurts from smiling?

That’s why we sleep at night.

But I didn’t. I sat in front of the computer, constantly checking the digital clock as every 5 minutes passed by and attempting to write, living in metaphorical hell. Maybe, maybe if I just sit here for a little while more I would exhaust myself to a peaceful sleep in which I wouldn’t dream. Not of the Things That Happened in Singapore. Not of the happy days. Not of you. Not of anything at all.

It never really happens.

Do you think you guys will make it through? Do you know where you are heading? Do you have any plans? What do you want to be in the future? Where will you go after highschool? People shower questions, interested to see things lining up like a Korean drama plot. But my answers, the answers, are vague and disappointing, even for myself to hear. What lies ahead is but a curtain of fog and mist, impossible to see any further than an arm’s length. And my arms are short while my eye sights are bad.

Not for the first time this week, I’ll ask, what am I going to do with my life?

I can only see myself spending my last thousand dongs (since I’m shit-assed broke) on facial masks because all this staying up late is just killing my skin and shamelessly ripping brightness off my already dull complexion. Hey fuck.

and the sun will shine for you when the lights go out on you

“ti?ng mua roi v?n âm th?m

trong dêm du?ng nhu qu?nh hiu

trôi v? dâu áng mây cu?i tr?i?

…

có bao gi? bình minh v?i em

khi ngày qua tr?i không buông n?ng?

ni?m h?nh phúc xa v?i v?n âm th?m

tìm trong nh?ng gi?c mo.. “

Cho em – Wanbi

English. (ft a Filipino singer; starts @ 0:38)

M&Ms

I’m one of them. Looks different, but all the same.