Hello, I blog!
I share all my sporadic and toilet thoughts in here, because I am random like that.
I want this hat!
Each time I step into River Island, the first thing I’d do is to dive straight for the accessories section and single out this particular hat.
Making a face to match the hat.
I’d put the hat on, make a bunch of ridiculous faces, and then peer into the mirror to check out how awesome it looks.
Even better if you have a friend around to capture every bit of your fanatical behaviour on camera. (Out of the salespeoples’ line of vision, of course – I doubt photography was allowed in the store.)
Smiley-head.
It’s an off-white knitted ski cap with this huge black poofy … thing at the top. And a huge smiley-face at the front.
Damn, I want this hat. Oh, so bad.
The deviant child
It’s not easy being the deviant child in a world full of norms and conventions, and expectations. You receive loads of frowns, disapproving looks, and remarks brimming with barely concealed skepticism.
Conformity is dead.
That fact that I:-
1. Refuse to put on a mask in a two-faced society, of which its notoriety strips people off who they are at heart and become someone else altogether; what society wants them to be and not what they want to be.
2. Choose to work in a dynamic start-up known for their instability and susceptibility (bearing in mind the cold hard fact that 9 out of 10 startups fail) because of rather than take the conventional route of looking for work in a Big 5 Company or an MNC.
3. Choose to chase my own dreams and do what I want to do despite its risks. Rather than “making practical choices” or going with “what works and is more likely to succeed”.
4. Am an asexual being in an Asian society where coupledom, marriage and starting a family is much encouraged (or even expected), and being surrounded by friends who all have partners themselves.
5. Am the only tomboy in an extended family full of pretty faces – both sides of the family, material and paternal. All my like-gendered cousins are drop dead good-looking. No doubt. And very feminine. Whereas I choose to prance around in tees, jeans, caps and sneakers.
(Until today, I’m pretty sure the aunts and uncles think something, somewhere has gone horribly wrong. We all know the older generation – any form of deviant behaviour is a defect to them.)
6. Refuse to betray in the face of an increasingly vindictive society. In a world where politics and boot-licking are rife, I choose to play fair by competing based on ability and skill.
7. Defy authority. Not to the point of breaking the law. But basically, challenging conventional, old-fashioned behaviour, or rules meant to ‘put you in your place’ or to ‘ensure conformity’.
8. Am an Atheist in an extended family of Christians and Catholics.
– makes me deviant on almost all possible angles.
(Note: Not all mentioned conventions, per se. Some of which are increasingly common behaviour in which new players are “expected” to take on, otherwise “they’d be at a disadvantage”, so to speak.)
The fact that I am deviant and (usually) unable to hold my own in a verbal dispute makes me particularly vulnerable. My mind may be rife with my own thought-processes, which I am unable to properly articulate because emotions take over very quickly. I stutter like hell.
This means that I’d better grow a solid pair of balls. Fast. Before I lose my ground against someone who comes along and stares me down like I’m some freak of nature.
I am beyond proud, and happy to be who I am, and where I am now, and I do not want to lose that.
What are your deviant traits and how do you stand your ground against your sceptics?
Possibly Gran’s most interesting birthday
My grandmother turned 88 today.
After a huge dinner with the rest of the extended family – including my 9 uncles and aunts with their spouses, children (my cousins) and their children’s children (err, quite a number of my cousins have their own families too) – we gathered around a row of tables for the mandatory (out of tune) birthday song and cake.
And that was when the drama began.
Little Luke – my older cousin’s three-year old son – bounced happily on my grandmother’s lap, clapping and waving his hands around wildly while the rest of the members of the new generation (more of my cousins’ kids – comprising another three-year old boy, two one-year old girls and one eight-year old dude) looked on.
Till now, I can’t get over how noisy little kids can be. They look so cute and innocent in small, bite-sized packages, until they open their mouths and … OH. MY. GOODNESS.
Oh yeah, I digressed.
Little Luke eventually couldn’t hold back the sight of the huge cream-filled cake in front of him, leaned forward and glomped down an entire mouthful of strawberry cream straight off the cake.
The response from the rest of the extended family looking on was a mixture of surprised yelps and some laughter. Little Luke, obviously pleased with the response he got, flashed a cream-smothered grin and proceeded to bend over the cake for a second mouthful.
My older cousin eventually responded (where was she the first time round?!) by running forward and grabbing the little fellow before he could attempt a third round. But alas, attempting to restrain Little Luke was a major struggle. Even with her firm grip on Luke, the latter had still managed to brush the tip of his tongue against the cake for his third helping of cream.
The extended family had eventually decide to ignore the little cream-obsessed monster and launched into an off-tune version of ‘Happy Birthday’, followed by a shower of saliva spray as members of the new generation (the little kids) blew out the candles.
Little Luke continued to bounce around on my grandmother’s lap, clapping his hands happily and flashing his (still cream-filled) grin at everyone around.
In the midst of the din around, my grandmother suddenly gave a yell. This was soon followed by another yell, and finally an extended call of distress.
Some of us dashed over, only to spot a huge wet patch of I-don’t-know-what on her right pant leg. Some of the sliminess was dripping off Little Luke’s right arm. Puke? We didn’t know. Little Luke was still happily bouncing around on my grandmother’s left leg while my grandmother continued to whine.
A few seconds later, Little Luke flashed another grin. This time, his grin was peppered with a mixture of strawberry cream and some remnants of puke. Plus, the stench was beginning to diffuse around the room like wildfire.
I could no longer see up-close what was going on at the scene because by then, I had already backed up at least twenty-feet away from the source of that offending stench (Little Luke and my grandmother’s soaked pant leg). Geez, I totally hated the stench of puke.
The birthday lady and the little puking machine were quickly escorted to the toilets for a quick clean-up while the waiters at the restaurant took the cake away for slicing.
Considering Little Luke’s close proximity to the cake, nobody actually knows whether he had puked on the cake or not. But from the looks of it, everyone is assuming he did because everyone was suddenly so reluctant to eat the cake after that.
Me? I didn’t touch a single slice.
Um, Happy Birthday to my Grandmother anyway.
And what’s an extended family gathering without some drama?
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