Logan Echolls on my morning train

8am in the morning is not my favourite time of day. Especially when I have to be on the morning train to show up and serve my 8 hours at work. In zombie mode before my first coffee, I am stuck in my daydream, nested away in my own little world.

I was staring blankly across the train until I saw the Logan Echolls personified. Logan Echolls, the troubled bad boy of Veronica Mars fame, the one of LoVe, destined to be embroiled in epic love with Veronica.

He was dressed in a brown well-fitted polo shirt and jeans, crouched over his seat, somewhat nevrously tossing a football between his hands. His gaze was confident, if not slightly apprehensive and detached. Somehow, he looked sad, carrying the same killer brood that Logan always had.

My stare shaded by the reflective gaze of my aviators, I observed him intently. Logan was lost in his own little world too - it seems to me he is hatching a grand plan of some kind, perhaps a grand gesture to get Veronica back. Or maybe he is on his way to meet Duncan, who is supposedly in Australia.

The train comes to a halt as it approaches the final stop, waiting for the oncoming train to pass. Logan flinches and tosses the football between each hand harder, more loudly. He is impatient, as am I, to get off the train.

The train finally moves, we stop at the station and I watch him breathe a sigh as he walks away from me.

my mom is a crappy cook

There, i said it. Growing up, I have never really enjoyed home cooked meals cooked by my mother. In my mind, I associate home cooked meals with bland, repetitive and boring, it was more of a requisite coming home to eat rather than something really enjoyable.

My grandmother, on the other hand was a brilliant cook - I remember her pungent, slightly sweet but definitely salty braised duck to this day. The smell of braised pork claypot congee stewing over a charcoal stove for hours still lingers in my mind. It could be that I was never allowed a huge serve of it as she made it to feed my then toddler brother that made it all the more precious but I can almost still taste the smokiness of the congee off the tip of my tongue.

My theory is that this cooking thing skips a generation. My grandma was a great cook so my mom never really had to learn to cook well. And because my mom is a crappy cook, I made myself master of the kitchen.

So Unpretty

I want to be thinner, prettier, hotter - more desired. These are probably drivers that motivate 80% of the western female population. Unless of course if you're starving, then I guess that's not really top of the priority for you.

For all my other achievements and talents, I am most obsessed about looking hot and perceived as desired. Shallow, pathetic but true. Ironically, I am not one to wear make up constantly and spend ridiculous amounts of time primming myself but I really really do care whether someone I meet thinks I am hot. Much more so than if that person thought I was smart (because in my conceited mind, I take that as a given!)

And so it really makes my day when a guy chats me up - its a real booster to my self esteem. So much for women's lib, I help take a step backwards.

do i believe in fairytale love?

There is something out of this world abour the way new love feels - the slight flush, the palpitating of the heart, the incessant gushing and the way your whole world is now focussed on only that one person. This feeling, commonly known as butterflies in the stomach, usually doesn't last for very long. While it does, it makes my world go round and round and keeps me dazed and entranced within its magical realm.

So what are we left with when this feeling goes? Is my beloved really The Beloved once I stop having the knots of anticipation?
When I was younger, I believed in fairytale love, discarding my beloveds once that magic feeling is gone. As time passed, I learned to hold on to being comfortable, knowing the bends and nuances of my beloved, relishing the familiarity as a different type of magic feeling - but is this the real true love, or simply a compromise?

I think I still believe in fairytale love, but I don't live in fairytale land.

When drugs are bad

There is a fine line between yes and no, especially when drugs are involved and when you have taken them voluntarily. The drugs were weed and GHB, the company was a former fling and sometime booty call.

He called to "catch up for a video at mine". As a fully consenting adult, I said "Sure, come around". He rocks up at 8ish with a boring, crappy video in hand and we get that thing playing. We start making out for a bit while I chop up some weed and he starts pulling out a little green vial.

"Want some G?" I have had GHB before and I remember it to be some vile, nasty shit. It wasn't even really a fun experience, I was just kinda knocked, a bit carefree, but barely able to walk and stand up straight. Never been one to really say no to drugs, I nodded at him, "Sure, why not."

I scrunged my face as I swallowed down the green contents from a re-filled Japanese goldfish soya sauce container. Man, that shit taste as nasty as I remembered it. I followed that up my pulling a cone and sometime in the next hour or so (details somewhat hazy), we managed to stumble into my bed.

I was completely out of it. He came on to me. Being somewhat physically incapacitated, I really wasn't in much of a mood to get my freak on. He was rather insistent, pleading with me. I just really wasn't into it at that point so I simply turned away with whatever motor neurone abilities I had left. At this point, I really couldn't even move all that much and was barely awake.

I was however awake enough to know that he proceeded to fuck me. I didn't enjoy it and I didn't want it. But it happpened and I could not move to save myself. Then I fell asleep.

The next morning, a little awkward but not much different from any other booty call morning afters, I bid him goodbye and sent him on his merry way. We didn't exchange words and I didn't call him again.

Those damned little French cookies

One week, 12 foiled and 4 successful attempts. No confectionery has ever vexed me the way Macarons have. Seeing as it is Christmas and I was too broke to buy gifts for my friends, I decided to play super homemaker ala Martha Stewart and attempt some posh Christmas baking as Christmas gifts.

The general acknowledged truth about Macarons are that they are tough little buggers to master and chocolate macarons are the most challenging amongst all the macarons. This the ironic part. I am proud to declare that i have mastered them chocolate macarons.... BUT the art of the basic macaron still escapes me!

The aftermath of my experiments have left a macaron graveyard where the mishapen and footless would have been macarons go to rest - RIP little ones.

A caged bird freed

I feel like a caged bird freed. There is something quite ironic now that I am finally freed from my sell my soul to the devil job, I find myself paralysed, tittering around aimlessly, fearful of flying full force to pursuing my dreams.

This is supposed to be my time, the renaissance of me, where I flourish in my creativity. Every (now very free) second and minute should be used to write, read and draw, but its just not happening.

So I am still hovering within the comfort of my cage. The door is opened, but I am just not stepping out. I am sure there is much psychobabble as to the exact workings of this, but I just want to grab myself and give me a good shake, "wake up bitch!".

I will fly out soon, I promise.