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Showing results for tags 'reality'.
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The lark may as well have been the closest companion to my body clock. At six-thirty, still in the dark of the morning, I awoke, and went back to sleep again. When I woke up once more, it was seven-twenty, and the sunlight peeped in at the corners the curtain failed to cover. Sunlight. Seven- BREAKFAST! Trying to get about the hotel room as quietly as I could (since the second occupant was still resting), my fumbling hands and hindered eyesight (thanks to triple-folded eyelids, a consequence for not sleeping early) found the vitamin box and the Essential Three: Watch, Wallet, Hand phone. I tried to slip out of the room without a squeak, but the door had to be shut with a slam. Tearing down the corridors, it was not difficult to find the breakfast area, given the wafting scent of good food in the air. At once I spotted Jordan and Nicholas, or they spotted me first, I really don't know. We had each other's attention. Piling on a big breakfast, the two boys stared. They just ogled the food on my plate after each trip made. They asked me if I was all right. I did not feel all right. I felt famished. After breakfast, I checked my watch. It was a good while till the trip to the jetty and to Pangkor Island. What could I do? Minutes later, I found that I had wandered to the beach the resort sported. It was a small area of the beach I explored, barely a block. It was a good time of quiet and peace, some serenity before the hectic rush that was to be the day's events. Wandering barefoot on the sand, the turning tides washing over the sand sprinkled feet of mine, I spotted some unique shells upon the sand, the brink of where the waves touched and receded. Brown and white banded shells still connected together, strongly resembled butterfly wings, and a lone shell resembled something that I saw of oyster shells, but it was marine green, like the sea that carried it there, and was the size of my thumb. Gathering the aforementioned shells, I let myself wander the shoreline and watch the waves crash onto some rocks in the distance when my hand phone beeped, alerting me that it was high time to return to the room and prepare for the trip. The entire convoy of (at least) ninety or a hundred embarked upon shuttle-vans to the resort's jetty. Upon arrival, I saw that Jordan and Nicholas were on the upper deck of the private ferry. I shouted to them to reserve a place for me, but they replied that I would have to stand. Finding a place at starboard, the ferry moved off for Pangkor Island. I definitely know that the ferry could go a few knots faster, but the upper deck was literally teeming with people who had to grab onto the railings for support. No chance of a 'wind blowing in my face' experience today. Upon arrival, I noticed that the island's shore was dotted with many houses above the waters, typical of the traditional boardwalk homes of the fishermen. In fact, the whole mass of houses seemed to house people of the sea, for each house had a yellow trawler at their own jetty. The hinterland was an island that held historic importance to Malaysia, being that the Dutch had conquered Pangkor Island first before moving to the mainland. They eventually lost control over the island somewhere in the Seventeenth century. Now it is a tourist attraction, a cultural melting pot for the different races that existed there, though it is still predominantly Malays. We all were herded into minivans to be driven around the island, looking at the different attractions and (as the people of the island would like us to) to purchase the island's goods. A 'Dutch Fort' was the first stop. Nothing much to say about this one. It's just a 'see and you're done' place. The next venue was a Chinese Temple. I did say that this island was a 'cultural melting pot' and the presence of a Chinese temple on a Malaysian island is proof. There was also a Hindu temple that I spied from the ferry, for the Indians. Uncle Albert the cameraman was hard at work, and Aunty Alice trying to handle the administration of the trip. I, even as a staff member, was finally experiencing the 'holiday' bit of this working trip. The next pit stop was a 'satay fish' factory. No need to tell you what 'satay' is, but satay fish? I had to try. Sure enough, it was in a cracker form, and was quite nice too. I bought some, along with some prawn crackers and salted nuts for my sisters and myself (for the coach trip back!) and a cold drink to cool myself of. I forgot to tell you that the highest temperature of the day hit its peak there and then. It did not rain today, while it did yesterday. Monsoon period. Lunch was taken in a small restaurant. The food was good, and by now everyone at the table which I had taken to accompany knew of my 'see-food' diet, especially when it came to steamed fish. I'd attack the belly, the fins (after removing the bones), and the cheeks and... the eyes. Don't mistake me; the flesh that hides underneath it is unique in taste. Tastes good to me. After lunch, I made a deal with Jordan and Nicholas that we'd play at the pool today. I'm just an overgrown child. The bought water pistols, so I hunted around for a larger water gun, preferably one with a pump, and got one, along with tit bits. Pangkor Island was a tourist-based island, one could tell by the strip shops present at every turn. T-shirts and T-shirts galore, all of them literally printed with the island's name on it. They did a good try by making Billabong-like board shirts, I commend them on that, but printing the same words all over again and also boldly putting 'Malaysia' on it bugged me. Too tourist-y. After that was the trip back to the resort that occurred without incident. I did meet the boys at the pool, and they roped in another boy, and two new kid-friends I made joined us. A girl joined us later (The new guy who joined in wanted us to ambush her, but she was unarmed so we did not) and one of the four water guns present cracked. I took the crack-gun and carried out an assault, until the crack-gun became a halved gun. The water guns lost their novelty quickly, so we resorted to another means of fun. There were a group of four adults playing water polo nearby. No one knew who they were, but Jordan piped up if we could play with them. To my horror, they agreed, and wanted to play against us! It was a vicious game we played. I was the oldest and the largest, out of a group of nine and ten year olds who were spunky enough to take on the adults, so I positioned myself at the goal post. The adults, however, ruled the day. They caught the ball and were able to pass it from player to player without any hassle from the tiny shrimps bobbing around them. And worse, in the end, they tricked their way and used really hard shots to get their goals. The kids, however (and I should not have feared) took the game into their own hands. The pool where the game was being played had a waterfall feature, and ‘rocks’, rather abrasive ‘rocks’ I must add, were there to break the water’s fall into the pool. A child could easily stand past the head level of an adult in the pool by standing on those rocks. And that was what the kids did. Two stayed in the water, near me to catch the ball, while the rest positioned themselves onto the ‘rocks’. A chain was formed where the kids would pass the ball without the hassle of the adults till the last one aimed for the goal. Unfortunately, Jordan did not have such a good aim as the two men we were up against, but we did score a few precious goals. Then we went all up. The kids were brawling with the adults, trying to grab their way for the ball, and I collided into the adults more than once, and one such collision nearly made me kick one of the men’s head! They stopped, tired, and so did we. Saying that we were too vicious, they called the game to an end. The kids were still raring to go, but I agreed to close the game with no called winner. A rather short-lived game of hide-and-seek ensued. The girls were the first to seek (a Matilda, another girl whose name I can’t recall, and me) while the boys went to hide (Jordan, Nicholas, Julius and Xavier). The other girl launched before we could, and found the boys first. The three boys Nicholas, Jordan and Xavier took to hiding behind a rock together: their downfall. Julius was paddling away when I spotted him. Then it was our turn to hide while the boys sought. I went off first, dog-paddling as silently as I could manage to my intended hiding spot. The boys made a racket whilst finding their hiding place, giving their places away. I was not to make that mistake. Finding a hiding spot at a blind spot behind some ‘rock’ features, bruising my hands while doing so, I found that the other two girls had trailed after me. Horror of horrors! We could not run, so we pressed ourselves against the rock and hoped for the best. Our time span of absence proved longer than the boys’, but we were found nonetheless. Xavier, the ever sporting one, offered to seek while we all hid. I took to the ‘rocks’ at the waterfall feature, and it was not such a good idea. Matilda and I bruised our knees so badly that they were cut and bled a bit. Matilda hobbled her way after we both were found. I reported this problem to the adults (our adults, not the polo players) and they said it should be a small matter. However, I did not like envisioning a rather irate mother storming up to me demanding why her daughter had a wound. Matilda was smiling again soon after, a hand on her wound and talking to the other girl at the poolside. The boys took to diving at a ‘no diving’ site, even if I dissuaded them to the best of my abilities, but you know how boys are. I retreated and sank onto the deckchair where my items were. The energy drain finally kicked in, and I sat, jaded, at that chair for a good while before I left. Uncle Albert was there, armed with his camera, and Jordan and Nicholas’s mothers, whom I’ve also befriended, were nerved by the sight of the contraption being focused on them. The camera went wild, with a good lot of photos taken, and I had my fair share of lens time. When we finally had a look at the pictures, we could not complain. Uncle Albert had a hankering not for figure photos, but face photos. He believes that the emotion is best captured that way, and the person’s full quality and character is shown via the face. After that incident, I did not mind him keeping the photographs but I left before he could shoot anymore. Dinner was at a restaurant, the last dinner we were to have together I believe, at a wayside piece of land. The food there was a real serving of Chinese fare, and I ate my fill, though I commented later on that ‘I should be worried for my appetite for I’m not full yet!’ You could imagine the shocked faces of those at my table of ten. I had taken two servings of rice while everyone else could not finish their first; I took the most amounts of soup, vegetables and meats, often heading back for seconds. Another family joined us at the table: a couple and their young son, Darren. I’m worried about the little boy. He makes his demands clear and loud, and his parents deliver. But when they don’t, he breaks into whining, his face scrunching up and his eyes squinting. The tan boy would inch into hysteria, and his parents would slowly pacify him with promises. And he had a few bad habits of his own. They’re not the regular kind; they were his kind of habits. He spat ice from the cup of coke his mother had, for one, and when his mother glared at him, he whimpered in Chinese, “Please don’t beat me.” I gave this all a moment’s thought. The boy was a familiar sight. He had given more than a fair share of whining and crying during the trip. The parents were quick to pacify him and preventing a worst-case-scenario of a child overboard. He whined about going back to the hotel. He whined with impatience. He whined for the smallest of things, and his fussy choices of the slice of mango he wanted. I want a big one, Daddy. No, NOT THAT ONE, THAT ONE! Piecing something of a puzzle together, I spoke to the lady beside me of my theory. She nodded, and I took that it was safe, and plausible enough, for the parents to accept. I voiced out my thoughts, but not after reminding them that I was no psychiatrist. Darren is an insecure boy, in my opinion. He is absolutely dependent on his parents, no matter what the demand. He sees them as ‘the fulfillers of desires’, and he knows that whatever he wanted, be it something to make him comfortable or something that he knew he really liked and badly wanted, he knew that, by the end of the day, his parents would provide. Hence he keeps hankering, and pestering them to get him what he wants. If the first attempt fails, he’d go into a state of persuasion, where whining and cringing and crying out a mumble jumble of incoherent words with a swing of his voice intonation (I think that is the definition of whining) to get his parents to give him what he wants. Later on, his parents teased that if he wanted Coca Cola so badly, he could join Uncle, another adult at the table, and get all the coke he wanted from his cooler. He immediately showed that he was adamant, and clearly insisted that he wanted his parents, not some stranger. Darren had it fixated in him that only, and ONLY, his parents can fulfil his needs and desires. No one else will do, and no one else could. Only Daddy and Mummy. With that said, the lady who sat next to me asked me, “Are you a child psychiatrist?” However, I added in as a side note, that little Darren may grow out of his temperament, or his parents can wean him off it. That soothed them quickly, but just then Darren demanded for a refill of the soft drink he wanted. Right now, I’m back at the hotel. Sooner or later, it’d be lights out. Tomorrow is the last day, and I would be a little more than miserable when this trip finally ends. Through this unexpected working trip cum holiday, I found out things about myself, and of others. Through this bedlam of fun and mixing with English-Chinese-Singlish-slang folks, I was able to relate and make friends out of a quiet small circle of genteel I’m surrounded with for nearly all my life thus far. I also found myself to be not overly spontaneous at the dinner table, a common misdeed I’m guilty with for such dinners and functions, and not too zealous about attention on myself, another bad trait I have. Instead, it all went out through another porthole: kids. I was an overgrown kid, my main role being that I was the mother hen and I was mingling with the chicks. I had a blast with them, and would miss them sorely (and quite factually too, being that we all had a fair share of bruises from scampering around those ‘rocks’.) Well, that’s enough from me. I’m bugging out. I have a coach-load of fifteen people to look after tomorrow and I must not look haggard! Time check: 11:23pm. Listening to: Evacuating London – OST Chronicles of Narnia (P.S. This seems like a dose of ranting and reality, if you ask me.)
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Greetings from the land that boasts that it's 'Truly Asia'! Time check, 12:42pm. Listening to: Anywhere Is- Enya. Well, waking at the deathly hour of four, or about fifteen-past-three to be exact, was something I was prepared for. What I did not expect was my grandmother having prepared my breakfast (pork floss sandwiches, two slices and a mug of Milo) and made me a bottle of honey water. Dad had popped into the bedroom to ensure that I had risen (He needn't worry.) and I went to Mum's bedside to let her know that I was going. Both parents had equipped me financially with ringgit. My grandma fuelled me for the day, and she helped me pack in the items I forgot to bring. When Uncle Albert and Aunty Alice came (I should call them Albert and Alice for the trip, actually. Heh.) To pick me up, Lucky looked most miserable. He was disturbed from sleep on his favourite green chair, part of the old furniture of the house, to see me leaving. The gathering point was at Newton Circus, five in the morn. We reached there earlier at fifteen minutes to five to set up the registration booth and the other necessities to kick-start the event. I was hired as a marshal to the coach team. Fifteen participants of the hundred-odd for this tour have opted for the coach, excluding me, and a guide would be accompanying us from Malaysia onwards. We are better off than those who have joined the car convoy. The twenty-six seated bus was only occupied by fifteen, and it was termed as a 'Super VIP' coach, which meant larger, comfier chairs that could recline. Since the trip is long and possibly arduous for the drivers. (12:54pm, the boys on the coach spotted a cow. Moo.) That note above leads me to talk about the jolly crew who have boarded the Coach: two young 'uns, cousins, and thirteen gentlemen and ladies. Ah yes, make that fourteen men for the guide. I'm responsible for him too. Miss Responsibility. Hah. My duty was to simply play the nanny. The longer version of this was that I was to ensure that everyone on the coach stays on the coach, and a head count and query of "Anyone missing?" must be made. If anyone was missing, I’d have to go on a search-and-retrieve mission. The laptop has followed me for the trip. Heh, and it’s on a sixty-nine, no, sixty-seven percent right now. This is my sole source of entertainment for the trip. Go me. We’ve already made a few pit stops: • Breakfast was at Yong Peng, a fish ball restaurant called ‘Jimmy’s Fish ball’. I had mee pok dry with a seed of durian. It was a great way to kick-start the trip as our first of many meals. • Lunch was at a Chinese restaurant, I didn’t catch the name though it had a ‘Lucky’ somewhere in there. The gingko tofu was awesome. The steamed pomfret dish revealed my interest in seafood to the nine others at the table, especially the cheek, fins and… the eyes. • Heading off to a restaurant in a collection of strip shops somewhere near Cameron Highlands, literally a highland, where duck noodles is the speciality. Notice that what we’ve done was mostly eating. Well, this is a Makan Makan Drive-away trip, where the strange word means ‘eat’ in Malay. Most apt for our trip, since we are literally gorging to our heart’s content. Many things have been lined up for us, but right now, it’s boredom on the coach. Thanks to the wonderful hour we woke up at, we all are tired. Some people have said my eyes were slightly bloodshot. I feel like taking a nap real soon, and I am thankful that I’m in the coach. No worries about handling the wheel, sleeping on the wheel, or whatever that follows that vein. Besides, I can’t drive. Everyone else has knocked out. Where one can’t keep going against the flow, one can join them. You will hear some snoring. Please don’t mind it. Time check: 6:25pm. Listening to: Water. We’ve reached the hotel, a resort and spa close to sea. It’s been at least a twelve-hour ride in the coach, and it was boredom reigning since the lunch pit stop. The two new friends I befriended are a pair of cousins, Jordan and Nicholas, feisty nine-years whom I mistook for twins. We launched into an interesting talk at the middle of the long trip to the duck noodles shop, chatting about the things that mattered to kids: Gameboys, internet, toys and… heh… braces and dental care. I may just miss wearing braces. It’s such a conversation starter. The trip that spanned from the duck noodles shop to the resort was mundane! The tour leader had bought a VCD and two DVDs for us to watch, in an effort to while away the time, and the video CD player on the coach pretty much rejects DVDs. The CD was a waste of a movie called Octopus. A typical attempt at ‘animal horror’ which did not horrify me so badly. Snakes on a Plane and King Kong fared better in the scare factor. Time was better spent observing the greenery around me as the coach drove on the highway. If I stuck around the green a little more, maybe my eyes will get better. There were times where we crossed bridges that spanned over wide expanses of river or sea (as we were heading to a beach resort, near mangrove swamps) so it was a treat to see the water running under you. Right now, I’m waiting at the open-air lobby to the resort. The attire I’m wearing is rather loud, so to speak, given that the polo T-shirt I’m clad in clearly speaks ‘staff attire’, and it really does stand out. I’ve got to give the designer credit for this. What it made me, however, was the centre of much awkward attention. There seems to be an issue with the room rental system, as participants kept coming up to me and complaining, or more politely put as ‘airing their doubts’, about rooms missing, being allotted the wrong kind of rooms, their names missing from the register. Worst of all was that I was just hired to man the coach crew. Then again, I am part of the staff. That immediately puts me as ‘someone with the authority’ or ‘someone with all the answers’. The pasty smile helped a lot, Twenty-Two, but I listened to them. And, at the end of their rant, a reply of “All right. What do you want to do about it?” sent them on their way to the check-in counters, or their own rooms. Now, where is my room mate? I’ve got to get ready for dinner, and she’s nowhere about! Ah well, a good distraction to while away the time would be the sunset in the distance. The pastel yellow hazed with grey is breath-taking, with strips, linings and tiny gatherings of clouds lining the sky, and is that some silver lining I see? Or gold? Moving a little to the left showed part of the sunset that was blocked by the pillar, and made it all the more breathtaking. A silhouette of a nearby island in the distance framed the bottom left, and immediately to the east is the glare of the evening sun. A strip of layering clouds shield part of the spherical glare, wispy ones twining between slivers of the dark forms, toning down from a bright yellow at the top to a pale orange-like red at the bottom, before giving way to the dark grey of the sky further away. It is beautiful! I’m going to find a way to get that image up here somewhere. Time check: 11:06pm. Listening To: The Memory of Trees I’ve been given a new role in this trip. In fact, not one but two roles. I’m now a babysitter and a jester, but more likely someone who could be made jest of. Go me. Dinner was a big load of food at one go. I dropped my chopsticks again, the first incident being at lunch. The lady who sat next to me nearly dropped hers too, and they joked that she too had butter fingers. The jesting started from there. The couple who were on the coach were teasing me, but I took it all in well. Someone was bound to end up with that role, and that may as well be me. I did look a little quirky in a black polo tee with orange as the collar and sleeve-end colour. I will need to conk out soon, so I better wrap it up here. My room mate, Sharon, has not arrived yet. She might be at the pasar malam or stuck in her car somewhere. Tomorrow, it’s off to Pangkor Island to see what it’s about: Seafood, and the ‘see-food’ diet. Oh yes, I kicked my aft into gear and spruced up my blog. I don't know if 'pimp' is a real word, but you can say that I've successfully 'pimp'ed my blog. Go me!
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If people were guessing what it's like to be a twin, I may have some good pointers and tips about it. You see, I am part of a pair of twins. My twin sister and I were the two hellspawns which launched my mother into motherhood. Credit for all and most experience of raising children would have come from our arrival and infant years which sent my family on a spree of sleepless nights, expenditure of goods (make that double), and the most expected one: Telling the two apart. No, we're not identical twins but fraternal twins. We're worlds apart. She doesn't like Bionicle and I do. There. Well, for starters, don't think that there's this telepathical bond or 'something special' between ALL twins, despite what the media and cartoons say. She and I only remember one incident of such a happening, which was in a form of a similar dream, and my parents recalled us as infants tossing and turning in two separate cots on separate sides of the bed in unison, and possibly more my parents have not revealed to me. Yet. And now we don't have such strange occurences anymore. If such a bond existed between us, it had all but dissipated from the younger years. All we both are, really, are on good terms with each other and a close pair. We both stuck together when we were in Secondary Three and Four, which should be the equivalent of Year Nine and Ten. Projects, assignments, class exercises, worksheets, at Physical Education even, we both were inseparable. We both eked out a reasonable existence as 'the pair' of the class, she chasing me if I pulled a prank, I chasing her if she pulled the returning prank, both of us putting our heads together for that Geography or History question, she teaching me the Maths, Me helping her with the English.... the memories. Now, we're in separate education institutions. What a pity. However, I still do have my sister almost twenty-four-seven. We're never really apart, savvy? The mystique of twins exists: You can never really pry twins apart. Even if they walk their separate ways, be it due to their paths of life, career, education institutions, simply put as parting, they are undeniably twins, and they stick with this all the way to death, and possibly beyond. It makes them unique, a special status that makes them stand out from the main society. Wonderful, no? That's the reason why the media and cartoons toy with this feat of nature (and not so natural feat, considering that my sister and I were induced artificially) so much! The twin-powerhouses Mary Kate and Ashley are the first names that pop into mind when "Famous Twins" are mentioned. Heh. I shan't go on about those two. I shall not stick myself and submerge into the strange ways of media. That would make this an all-out ranting. Next place that I know which used this was Transformers, mainly the Generation One season. Starring in there were a pair of twins too, Sideswipe and Sunstreaker. Go figure, these two were twin boys, Lamborghini Countachs(sp?) that were, to be termed by their fellow Autobot at arms, red and yellow (respectively) blurrs of doom, for both Decepticons and Autobots. The fanfiction about them always mention the twins either co-operating in a prank on their friends, or pulling off a show of martial arts niche 'jet judo' and it's just the start. Those two are partly, mostly in fact, responsible for luring my fandom interest towards Transformers. Whatever it is and whatever people think, I'm really thankful I'm a twin. I like being a twin, and I cannot lie. (Please snicker if this reminds you of something.) It's a fact I don't deny. Sure, my other half and I had our blown-up arguments and the like, but now we still help each other out. In fact, a few nights ago, we had a most amusing chat when we were supposed to be asleep of the co-education (meaning boy-and-girl) institutions we were in and how we found the boys there. The words 'hot' and 'cool' were never heard in there, by the way. We both had the same opinion of them: not going near any until university. Period. Canny, isn't it? Oh, I shall not be on the Little Red Dot tomorrow till Monday. I'm a part-time marshal for a trip into our neighbour, Malaysia, on a Makan-Makan Drive Trip. (Makan means 'eat' in Malay) I will be documenting the trip as I go along. I'm smuggling this heavweight of a laptop along, even if Grand-Mama tells me not to. Hope the other half won't miss me so much. I'll get something for her on the trip... now what does she like?
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Slowly but surely, the weary girl trudged along, surprisingly ahead of the companion who was with her, but it was no real surprise if the companion was your grandmother. "The place is closed! The door's closed!" The girl looked up at her grandmother's Mandarin comment, her head slightly bobbing at the door. The clinic was closed, wasn't it? Oh no, she saw the crop of some nurse's head bob around through the glass panel on that door. She hated the clinic, but she could not dismiss the fact. She replied back in the same language, "No, Mama. The light's still on. The nurses are in there." And as to prove it, she swung the door aside with little effort. 'The nurses must have been greasing the hinges regularly', she mused, as she let her grandmother in before trudging most miserably behind her grandmother, the sound of old ragtime music jarring the silence of the lift lobby. 'Maybe they'd like to amuse me.' It is not a fun thing to be a nanny. It was not a fun thing to be a granny-nanny. It was not a fun thing to be a granny-nanny for four days running. It was not a fun thing to be a granny-nanny for four days running for both grannies. I was asking for it, wasn't I? I think the previous blog post will be my final testament to the next time I tell my parents that I am bored. Nevertheless, it had some perks. I expect a pay to come in sooner or later. $6.50 an hour, better pay than a waitress job, and I would not have to deal with irate customers who are so fussy over their beef stick being well done instead of medium rare, and (oh please,) add a pasty smile on my face. And what was better, I do like my grandmothers. I don't know what I would do without them. I watch over them in the clinic and the house, strangling the HDTV to work and play their Cantonese soap operas and passing messages to the maids whether it's to prepare lunch, or a reminder to help them iron out a few more clothes they purchased not too long ago. It was a duty enforced into me, ever since birth, that I was not only just a student in a school but an active member of the family. That meant looking after and watching out for the elders, and the youngers (And I don't think such a word or noun exists). And so I did it, and it does not mean that I had to like it. And I have to follow my grandmother on Tuesday again, back to the SAME CLINIC! Pity me, will you? Please stop mocking me for looking after 'ol' geezers'. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Tap tap tap. At twelve midnight, the only palpable sound in the air-conditioned bedroom was the sound of tapping keys. The other members of the room were sound asleep, save for two of them. One was rolling on her bed, unable to ignore or shut out the incessant tapping. Her long hair was getting messier, and her eyes were already shut but still her conscience begged for silence to catch her forty winks. Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap. Tappity tappity tap and-a tap. Her fuse blew up in a silent euphoria of sparks, and she sat up from her bed. Doing a roundabout turn in her covers, she came face to face with the other awake member of the room. The glare of the laptop screen gave out a soft shine of white light, which fell onto the girl's face. The latter was showing signs of weariness: drooping almond-shaped eyes and her gaze right at the computer screen. Her mouth was ajar, limply hanging open, where from her hands came the accursed sound of tapping. "Go to sleep!" She whined at her other half. The other occupant raised her stare from the screen, the whites of her eyes nearly merging with the soft glow from the machine if it had not started to sprout bloodred veins. The eyes rolled towards the wall clock, and a sigh of frustration escaped from the other half. It appeared that she was trying to fight off sleep, but for what? Slipping out of her navy blue covers, she wandered next to her twin and peered at the screen, even as she winced at the sudden onslaught of light. Oh great. She was typing one of her nonsensical online stories again, wasn't she? She was. "Go to sleep! You can work on it tomorrow!" She murmured to the other. "Jie," the other used her pet name, black iris looking at black iris, "I'd love to, but inspiration at twelve midnight is not something to be easily dismissed! I've gotta get this down, lock, stock and barrel!" "That is no excuse to be awake past twelve. GO TO SLEEP!" What that brought forth, which I finished this morning at nine, was this: Toa In Training Finally, after all that spite I spat out in my last post, I felt very guilty. I had no right in degrading others if I cannot pull the stunt off myself. If I cannot write, why should I criticise others and say they cannot? If I cannot play well, am I fit to call others who play horrendously 'not fit to hold an instrument'? That short story was a cool-down for me, and I think I have finally calmed down. Ah, the holidays. The perfect time for inspiration to flow, even at twelve midnight. Tap tap tap.
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Man, this clock is so out of whack. It's only 2:30 sharp right now and on BZP it's, like, 4:somethin! Yeah, my grandpa went fishing up in Canada and brought some northerns back to us. And I felt like taking a note. So there. Haha... ~Kortu
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Premiership is quite innovative. And lifetime costs $35... Now, what does that have to do with pigs? I live on a farm, and get payed for helping ship out pigs. Considering I haven't gotten payed the last three times I've helped, the averaged price I'll be payed next will be... say, $35! I'd be happy to send it in and browse for more premier-doohickeys! ~Kortu
