"I don't think that being a strong person is about ignoring your emotions and fighting your feelings. Putting on a brave face doesn't mean you're a brave person. That's why everybody in my life knows everything that I'm going through. I can't hide anything from them. People need to realise that being open isn't the same as being weak."

- Taylor Swift

Monday, December 29, 2008

The Six Wives of King Henry VIII

Everyone knows King Henry VII of England - how he tore apart Britannia in his desperation for a son, who ended up being a daughter, who ended up being the greatest queen England has ever seen.

But his wives are sometimes brushed aside. And the funny thing is, I can relate to every single one of them.

For the uninitiated, this is a crash course on The Six Wives of King Henry VIII (it's very brief - it took me five years to remember everything about them, and you only have about five seconds).

Catherine of Aragon, born Infanta Catalina de Aragon y Castilla, was a Spanish princess and widow of Arthur, Prince of Wales, who was Henry VIII's elder brother. She married Henry VIII and was coronated beside him, and they were married for about twenty years. Henry, dissatisfied with the issue of the marriage - Catherine only managed to bear one surviving daughter, who went on to be the infamous Bloody Mary - and divorced her. She died of cancer at the age of 50.

Anne Boleyn was a French-educated English noblewoman who was an infamous seductress in the court of Henry VIII. She married Henry VIII after a long courtship when he finally managed to break off from his marriage to Catherine of Aragon, breaking England away from Catholicism in the process. She was the mother of England's most famous and well-known queen and icon, Elizabeth I, although her failure to bear a male heir caused her to be charged with fabricated charges of adultery, incest and treason and was beheaded in the Tower of London.

Jane Seymour was the third and favourite wife of King Henry VIII, whom she married a few days after his previous wife, Anne Boleyn, was executed. She dutifully fulfilled her duty as queen and royal baby-making machine by producing a son, although she died in childbirth.

Anne of Cleves was a German princess who married King Henry VIII as part of a treaty to improve relations between England and Germany. She was never crowned and her marriage was never consummated as the King disliked her ugly and unfashionable appearance.

Catherine Howard was a young English noblewoman who married King Henry VIII shortly after he annuled his marriage to Anne of Cleves. Young, naive and pretty, she ignored and misunderstood politics and was eventually beheaded for charges of adultery and high treason like her cousin, Anne Boleyn.

Catherine Parr was a twice-widowed, childless English noblewoman who is best known for being the queen who 'survived' Henry, alive and still married. After Henry's death she married her long time lover, Thomas Seymour, and after a scadalous turn of events involving the young princess who was the future Elizabeth I, she died of childbirth shortly before her husband was executed for treason.

So there you have it - the most simple and to-the-point history lesson of the century.

I can relate to Catherine of Aragon because of her strong sense of duty and pride, and her belief in destiny - not that my destiny is to marry some English king. I also understand her feelings of betrayal - twenty years of enduring miscarriages and failed pregnancies whilst your husband chased other women, and then he turns around and divorces you. Ouch.

Anne Boleyn is by far my favourite of Henry VIII's wives - I think she's misunderstood, like I am. I love her daring goals, her bold ambitions, her rebellious nature and defiant personality, and how she quite literally gave birth to a new England - in the form of her daughter, Elizabeth I.

Jane Seymour is often portrayed as meek and timid, a doormat, or at the very least a pushover, but you must admit, in a time where being bold meant having your head cut off, she played it safe - but died anyway.

Anne of Cleves also played it safe - she made the best of a bad situation. I know what it's like to be discriminated against for being ugly and different.

Catherine Howard was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time doing the wrong thing. At least I get let off with humiliation and embarassment - she gets let off with an execution.

Catherine Parr defied the odds - something I hope to do - I mean, c'mon, she survived something that claimed the lives of five women. That's pretty damn good.

I don't know why I wrote this. Do you know why I wrote this?

Wednesday, December 24, 2008

My Dog is Weird

My dog is really weird.

Okay, so she's not my dog - thank heaven for that, if she were mine I would have seriously done something about her brain damage by now - she's my sister's who failed to put any sense into that ball of fluff because she was so adorably cute.

She is cute, but she looks so dumb - she is dumb. She has exactly five words in her impressively small vocabulary, only two of which she fully understands and attempts to remember with enthusiasm - the others she isn't quite sure of. Originally, we thought 'at least she's smart enough to know her name' but we found out that wasn't the case - you could call her 'Boot polish' or 'Tomato soup' and she'd respond, comically cocking her head to one side, as long as you said it in the same high pitched voice as we'd used to call her by her real name 'Skye'.

She is the most disobedient dog in history - I'm actually surprised we managed to toilet-train her to go outside rather than on our beds, where she sleeps. She only knows one command - 'Sit' - but she only obeys it when there are considerably large food rewards, and even then, only when she feels like it. Her favourite pastimes are eating, sleeping, annoying our other dog, eating, sleeping, barking, eating, sleeping, building a mini London Underground in our back lawn, eating, sleeping, looking dumb, eating, sleeping, acting dumb, eating, sleeping, being dumb, eating, sleeping, playing with the water in her water bowl, eating, and sleeping.

Edward Cullen thinks that Bella Swan is entertaining when she sleeps - well, he should get an eyeful of Skye when she sleeps - which is about 90% of the time. She sleeps, four paws in the air, on her back, absolutely no modesty at all. When she dreams, she yaps and barks and flaps her paws around. It's so funny.

You're probably thinking - why am I writing this? Isn't it a bit spontaneous?

Well, it is spontaneous, and I am well known for being a very spontaneous person. But do you know what inspired me?

I was helping mum with preparing the Christmas Eve dinner in the kitchen just now, and as I was finishing up a job, I peered over into the living room to see if the T.V was still on.

And there was Skye, all alone on the sofa, head on paws with a very serious expression, watching the news gravely.

What the heck?

Tuesday, December 23, 2008

Dear Diary

Dear Diary,

I've deleted you. I'm sorry, but mummy can't afford looking after you,

Lady Renegade

I've deleted my blog, The Diary of a Misunderstood Princess. Why? Because I can't be bothered putting anything onto it.

Friday, December 19, 2008


Whoever said true friendships last forver,
Lived in a world of lies,
Because some friendships,
Sooner or later,
Will meet their demise.
But it doesn't matter how it ends,
It just matters how it was,
Because every friend,
Past or present,
Are worth their weight in gold.

Through all my years at primary school,
I've had many friends.
Some have stayed with me time after time,
Some just came and went.
But a true friend never becomes an enemy
And they never stop being friendly.

A friendship is not a relationship without arguments or tears,
It's not bliss,
It's better,
Every moment

Friendships don't have use-by dates,
Instruction manuals or user warnings.
Everything is trial and error.
And sometimes, your trial is too bold,
Your error too great.
But mostly,
You work things out,
As time and events unfold.

So as our time together draws to an end,
It becomes clear that some friendships will last forever.
Others will drift away,
And happy times,
Become happy memories.

This is the poem I wrote and read out for my graduation ceremony, which turned out to be a disaster... but anyhoo, I hope you like it. I only changed one thing from the original version - I just edited out the name of my primary school for privacy reasons.

Everyone else (who didn't recite poems - just regular speeches) wrote about all the good things that had happened, misting over the dark side of primary school. They created a picture so free of of error and mistakes, it was hardly realistic. Like they were royal painters in a vain attempt to make a portrait of an ugly queen more sympathetic.

I was the first person ever to submit a poem to be considered as one of the six speeches. I was competing with a lot of people - speeches are memorable and exciting, a rare opportunity - and I hoped that my unique approach to the challenge would secure my place. It did, although reception of my poem was clearly mixed.

You see, teachers are used to students who cover up all faults, both intentional and accidental, without a second thought. Originally, my poem was rejected for being 'too dark' - but she'd only read the first two lines. That to me was judging the book by it's cover - or, in this case, judging a poem by it's first two lines.

So I was very careful to create a poem that conveyed my opinions clearly, but light enough so that teachers could hardly object. Other teachers liked the emotion that fueled the poem, and I received some commendation for that. Some students blindly praised me, as they always do, some congratulated me genuinely and affectionately. Others, either resentful of my coveted talent, openly critizised every possible angle of the poem, some accusations of which were actually quite funny - so obscure and bizarre. Others, bitter at having the finger of blame pointed indirectly at them, especially in this verse:

Through all my years at primary school,
I've had many friends.
Some have stayed with me time after time,
Some just came and went. etc.

Just glared at me, incapable of producing a sufficient accusations, mostly because I didn't mention any names or specific cliques - I'm not that dumb.

I published this on my blog mostly because I like posting my poems, but also because I really want to know:

What do you think?

Thursday, December 18, 2008

The New Chapter Awaits...

It's all over.

Primary school. Finished.

There was lots of laughter, lots of tears. I joined in blindly. Now it's just...over.

It took me a long time to get home - I went to every part of the school, trailed my fingers along the fences and walls, twirled around every pole like I did when I was little. I closed my eyes and ran through every memory I had as a child.

I don't think the book is closed, in that sense. I've turned the page over, begun a new chapter. The next episode in the most enthralling and exciting saga I know of - life.

Life as I knew it isn't gone, it isn't a book put back on the shelf - it's a chapter that is hidden by a new page. I'll never have the thrill of reading each word, experiencing each event as they come again, but every now and then, I can flip back to the beginning of the book and relive a few moments. The world hasn't closed on me - it's opened up even more.

Wednesday, December 17, 2008

Yet Another Blog...

Yes, I have another blog.

Now that Splinters in Our Hearts has gone public, I have my new 'me space', and no, this one will not go public. Not that I regret making Splinters in Our Hearts a combined effort, but I need some me space.

It is a private blog, and if I have given you an invitation to Splinters in Our Hearts then it is most likely you will be invited to my new blog, The Diary of a Broken Hearted Princess.


Graduation = Emotional Tornado.

It started out great. Filed on, recited my poem perfectly (go me). Then the awards came.

I didn't expect to get a citizenship award. I am too rebellious to be considered a kind, concientious citizen. I think the people who got the citizenship awards deserved them - except for my ex boyfriend, don't quite know how he managed to deserve that. The endeavour award was also a no-go zone, because...I don't try too hard at things. I have no incentive. There is no reason to work for people who don't appreciate your work. I don't want money or food or rich bits, all I want is someone to appreciate my work. No appreciation = no work. The world has to live by give and take, not give give give and get nothing back, or vice versa.

I knew there was no hope for Sport, Maths or Science, either, because I do try hard in them, and I get passes - Bs and Cs - in them, but I'm not brilliant. There are better mathematicians and sportsmen and scientists out there than the likes of me.

I knew that the only three awards I would have any hope for were the LOTE, English and Music awards.

I wasn't really hoping for the LOTE award - it wasn't much of an honour. I was, however, hoping for the English and/or Music awards.

At the start of the year, I wanted both. Throughout the course of the year, though, I've humbled myself. One award would do - no need to get cocky. My sister lived with one - and I would survive with one too.

The English Award I wasn't entirely sure I'd get. I knew that she'd look at English homework sheets, most of which I hadn't turned in. But I was pretty strong in Reading, Society and Environment and, of course, writing, so I knew I stood a pretty good chance.

The Music Award I was a bit more confident in. I wasn't the best musician, but I was the principal violinist, the concert master. And no-one had contributed more to the music program than I had.

The English Award went to Bubbly, one of my best friends. That was a blow, but I was more prepared for that blow than the next one.

The Music Award went to the lead cellist in the school. He's a good musician, better than I am, but he didn't really contribute to the school at all. He's only in the orchestra, and the choir because he's forced to. He was given a role in the school play to play a 'nerd', but that wasn't by his own merit.

Blow after blow.

Eight years of working for this school, eight years of being the weirdo, the freak, the nerd, and this is all I get.


I'm not overconfident or showy. I'm not cocky or arrogant or over-expectant. I'm not demanding, and my ego isn't too big for my brain. Just when I start to feel confident, feel good about myself, they pull the rug out from under my feet.

I'm nothing. I'm not even a good writer. I'm just a stupid girl with stupid dreams and a stupid life.

It's All Happening So Fast

It's all happening so fast.

But is it happening too fast? Or not fast enough?

Tuesday, December 16, 2008

1,2,3,.................4,5,6...getting bor-KABOOM

Everything is happening so fast.

One minute I was a dorky twelve year old dreaming of high school. Then entrance exams. Fights. Crushes that went too far. Betrayals. New friends. More fights. Laughter. Tears.

Now graduation.

We've had a lot of time to come to terms with leaving behind life as we have known it for as long as we can remember. Dancing lessons. Endless talks of 'In highschool it's completely different'.

But it didn't hit me I was leaving, going to the big bad world of highschool, until today, the day before officially graduating and two days before saying goodbye primary and hello high school. Writing my speech for the ceremony. Still didn't sink in that I was never coming back, moving forward without a backwards glance.

All this year I've complained how much I've hated primary school, how much I just can't wait to go to high school, where finally I might be loved and accepted by more than just five people.

But now I've begun to see the little good things hidden in primary school, the things I had never really took for granted, but accepted as my right. Leader of the orchestra without any effort. Easily the best writer without any blood, sweat or tears. Even coming within the top five in mathematics, my worst subject apart from sport and art, would be an honour I would have to live without in a place of 170 thirteen year olds that are just as good as me, some much, much better.

Of course, the bad things are still there. The teachers that confuse twelve years old with twelve months. The pathetic, bunsen burner-less science courses that all seem to be exactly the same. The boring homework, the unchallenging curriculum. The bitchy girls. The heartbreak of unrequited love.

But all of it, good and bad, is familiar. It's all I've known for eight years.

And even though I hate it, I'm finding it hard to give it all up - to just let go and venture out into the exciting unknown.

Saturday, December 13, 2008

(Don't) Kiss My Ass.

I hate it when boys don't look at my face, my mind, my brain, my soul, my heart. They just look at my body.

Okay, I don't pretend to have a supermodel body. But, I am older than most kids in my grade, being a February baby, so my body is more...developed than the others. My hourglass. My boobs. My bum. My stomach is starting to flatten.

But seriously, is that all boys care about? Can they just love me, and not my booty?

I catch boys checking me out all the time. It's really sick. It makes me feel so cheap, like some call girl or something. It's so degrading that boys just look at me for what I look like, not for who I am.

And I'm not even pretty. They don't look at my face. Or my legs, because they're so horribly scarred.

I'm just an object to them, empty and eye candy. Not a girl, not a being, not a soul.

How Do You Defy?

How do you defy all that is expected of you?

How do you defy the odds?

How do you defy life, and death?

How do you defy all stereotypes?

How do you defy all you love, and all you hate?

These are the questions I ask myself, time after time. How do you defy?

I Heart Twilight!!!


My first ever Girl's Night Out. Watching Twilight. YAMEE!!!

I went with Nyshie and Bubbly (aka Fifi but she doesn't like that name). Carina was going to come, but she couldn't, so it was just us three with Bubbly's mom and sister.

The commercials drove me crazy - fifteen minutes of them! I ate half of my popcorn (which came in Twilight box) and sipped impatiently at my soda (which came in a Twilight tumbler). Then it started.

I could hear my heart fluttering, fluttering.

It was brilliant. Not as good as the books, sure, but certainly not disappointing.

The first section was a little slow, but that was sort of necessary to build up the tension. My doubts of Robert Pattinson completely flew out the window - he was the perfect Edward. He just captured the anger and self-hate so beautifully, it's easy to forget he doesn't look anything like the Edward in my mind.

"As if you could outrun me! As if you could fight me off!"
- Edward Cullen

But he couldn't match up to Kristen Stewart, who plays Bella Swan, the main female protagonist. She's a legend.

"I'd never given much thought about how I was going to die. But dying in the place of someone you loved...seemed like a pretty good way to go"
- Bella Swan

Charlie Swan, played by Billy Burke, was a crack-up. Sooo funny. The whole pepper-spray and "I'll keep her safe" were two running gags that were continually popped up through the whole movie.

My personal favourite character (aside from the totally hot vamp boys - Ed and Jazz)? Alice. Alice is awesome. Alice is just...Alice.

Wednesday, December 10, 2008

Real Women Have Curves

You just can't win.

When I was a pre-teen (and I count myself as being teenager since twelve, because medically I am considered a teen) I wished I had curves. My sister was skinny and curvy and gorgeous and all the boys loved her. I was the fat little dumpling who was too short, to pudgy and far, far, too flat to be sexy.

Now my sister is so skinny her bones are poking out (long story), and I'm the one with the almost-flat stomach and the curves. Oh, but no boys for me. Just jerks that check out my ass and are conveniently too short to look me in the eyes, if you get my drift.


Tuesday, December 09, 2008


It's easy to say that you're loyal to your family, your club, your friends.

But when are we ever loyal to ourselves?

I for one have just begun being loyal to myself, my rebellious persona, my fish-outta-water status and fiery attitude all included as part of the package. I'm beginning to love myself - for who I am, who I was and what I could and can be. Do you guys ever look at yourself in the mirror and say 'I love you'?

I am at heart a writer, and a rebellious one at that. I am far from studious, although when I was young I tended to be just a bit bossy and goody two shoes. I think now I'm beginning to be truthful to myself.

It is easier to defy the odds, defy all that is expected of you and be simply who you want to be when you love yourself.

Sometimes, you feel like you need to blend in, or be the person that the boy next door wants you to be to garner his attention. I've learned the hard way that that...just doesn't work. And whilst you're busy trying to impress this guy that will never like you, you're missing out on the attentions of a guy that would really like you for who you truly are, without all of your masks.

Follow your heart - it will tell you what to do.

Saturday, December 06, 2008

Why Can't A Man Be More Like A Woman?

I just took the words right out of Henry Higgins' mouth and inverted them. Why can't a man be more like a woman?

Okay, I don't really mean it that way. If we didn't have men women wouldn't have crushes, or boyfriends, or fiances, or husbands, they wouldn't have someone to kiss and they wouldn't have someone to nag or hug or a shoulder to cry on.

So I'm not saying we should exterminate all men, or sex change them all, for that matter. I just mean that men need to learn more from women, and not go 'I'm a man and so bloody charged up with testosterone that I can do any bloody thing and I want and it will be so bloody right that I will be hailed as a bloody saviour'

Things just don't work that way.

Men aren't sympathetic for women. Women are sensitive, in one way or another, and are delicate - either physically, mentally or emotionally, or all three. Women go through tough times - unrequited love, crushes, bad boyfriends, getting dumped, PMS, childbirth - you name it women have to go through it - wherelse men just seem to wake up, get dressed in a suit that looks exactly the same to all other five suits they have, put on a tie that looks exactly the same to all other five hundred they have, go to work, come home, grumbling about dodgy buses or lousy collegues, get changed, and go out with mates! Then come home drunk, rant about how lousy the beer or the music at the pub down the road was, then fall asleep, keeping their poor wife, who has probably been slaving all day, awake by snoring as loud as they can! If you can call that snoring - men don't snore, they impersonate chainsaws.

If a woman says she has a stomach ache, it's not from food poisoning. If she says she doesn't want to swim, it's not because the water is too cold. If she's grumpy, it's not because she hasn't had enough sleep. If she screams at you, it's not your fault (actually, it is, but anyway...). If she stains the sheets, it's not because she wet the bed.

Women have it tough. The pressure to be sexy is ever present and crippling. Men have to be understanding, kind, sympathetic.

Everything they're not.

Thursday, December 04, 2008

Good Girl Gone Bad Rebel

I'm not a good girl gone bad. I'm a good girl gone rebel. Rules are not made to be followed, or broken. Rules are made to be bended.

See, we have this rule at school that hair longer than shoulder length has to be tied up (stupid rule). We also have a no-makeup rule.

No-one 'breaks' these rules. Almost everyone 'bends' them. And who is the only person that gets told off? Me.

Immy C wears her hair down. So do a lot of people. Lots of people wear eyeliner. Some wear clear mascara, or lipgloss. Lots of people wear tinted moisturiser, like me, and that isn't even counted as makeup anyway - it's classified as suncream.

I really like wearing my hair down. If you tie it up, it falls out, you lose your lackies and clips and bobby pins, you can't put your hat on properly and I look really stupid with my hair up, anyway.

So, I 'crimped' my hair by putting in lots of braids overnight, then unravelling them in the morning.

Everyone knows that curled or crimped hair is shorter than straight hair, so my hair just touched my shoulders. Perfect.

I wore my hair down to school, and a little tinted and some sunscreen lipgloss. Not my fault the curls started to unravel during the day until they eventually hung halfway down my waist, like my straight hair normally does.

I got told off six times. SIX TIMES!!! Immy C doesn't even curl her hair when she wears it down, and she never gets told off.

Most kids say 'Why me?' when they think they are the only ones that get told off when in fact everyone does. I say 'Why me' because, I am, genuinely, the only person that gets told off. How can she turn a blind eye to everyone except me?

How unfair.

We went to indoor volleyball yesterday, and because I didn't feel like flaunting my underwear to all the boys, I wore bike shorts under my skirt. But, despite wearing the shorts, everyone thought that when my skirt flew up they were seeing my underwear, so wearing the shorts were useless - I might as well have worn a hot pink G-string for all the good the shorts did.

There were three girls that wore shorts under their skirts - I was one of them. For the volleyball, we changed out of our skirts so we could play just wearing our shorts, just like the boys could.

Oh, and apparently, wearing shorts so boys don't see our underwear is against the rules, so I got told off, but by some miraculous miracle, the other two girls got let off the hook.

Why me?

Tuesday, December 02, 2008

Splinters In My Heart

I have a new blog!

Beware, it isn't fun and bubbly like this one (sometimes) is. It's darker, moodier, deeper, and more emotional.

But if you want to know all about the loves and woes of a twelve year old, ask politely for an invitation!


1. You have to be a girl (not meaning to be sexist).
2. I need to know you from real life or Wikipedia.
3. You can't be a boy.
4. You have to be nice to me.
5. You have to ask politely.
6. You STILL can't be a boy.

Write a nice, polite comment, and include your current email address, and I'll decide whether or not you're worthy to be a reader on SPLINTERS IN MY HEART.

Monday, December 01, 2008


Almost everyone I know wants a superpower - BSC, my other friends, both guy and girl - everyone.

Lets list a few to get you in the whole superhero mood.

Edward Cullen, the resident vampire hottie of TWILIGHT, can read minds.

Jasper Hale, the resident vampire hottie's brother who also happens to be pretty cute, can control other people's emotions and can sense and is heavily controlled by them.

Alice Cullen, the resident vampire hottie's brother who also happens to be pretty cute's wife, has premonitions based on the most likely of events that will happen in the future.

Bella Swan, the resident vampire hottie who has a brother who also happens to be pretty cute and has a totally awesome wife's sweetheart, is a 'shield' and can block any other vampire power except for her vampire hybrid daughter, Renesmee.

I do apologise that I don't know any other superheros outside of Twilight. Okay, Jedis come pretty close, and I know a tiny bit about X-Men, but....

When I was little, I wanted the ability to fly. The ability to fly seemed so cool. Now I think that the ability to fly will only induce nausea and fear instead of euphoria.

Now, all I want to do is read minds, like Edward. I really want to know what the popular girls are bitching about behind my back, why I wasn't invited to this or that, what boys really think about me. That last reason is the most important - it's infuriating, fustrating, irritating and heartbreaking beyond belief that I can fall in love so easily and just get out of it bruised and shattered. I want to know why. I want to know everything the boy thinks about me.

The ability to control emotions would be cool, but it wouldn't be binding. I could make Hayden Christensen fall in love with me if I wanted to, but it would fade as soon as he were out of my sight. What kind of love is that? It would be like a love potion, something that was bound by fate to be doomed, like Merope and Tom Riddle Snr. in Harry Potter. I can sympathize Merope Gaunt now more than any other point in my life, in more ways than I ever dreamed of.

Actually, being a witch would be cool. I can relate to almost all of the key female characters in Harry Potter: Hermione Granger, Cho Chang, Merope Gaunt, Ginny Weasley.

Hermione Granger, for non Harry Potter freaks, is one of Harry Potter's best friends and one of the only females he is close with. Her relationship with Harry Potter and Ron Weasley reminds me of me and my guyfriends, especially BSC, only my friendship with them is not quite so deep. She's academic, and is sometimes viewed as a nerd, which I totally understand, and her talent is often misunderstood.

Cho Chang, who is Harry Potter's first love interest, by the way, is another I can relate to, not just because we're both Asian. I don't quite understand her pain, because I've never had someone like Cedric Diggory so close to me that it would hurt so much if I lost him, but I know how fustrated and heartbroken she feels about Harry Potter's inexperienced and tactless dating - boys are so difficult, sometimes!

I can relate to Merope Gaunts desperation for the handsome boy that lived next door to her, and I understand why she went to such desperate measures to get him. I would have done the same, if I were as desperate and young as she was. She was very young, in her mind, dreaming of Prince Charming. She didn't know that Prince Charming doesn't exist, and he's just out there to break your heart.

Ginny's crush on Harry is something I really understand. The hardest kind of love to endure is unrequited love - it's kind of like your love is a brilliant light, but instead of fueling a light globe it reflects off a mirror back to you, blinding and callous. She got her happy ending - will I?

Ignorance is Fish

This is a funny story that I'm going to record so I can keep my mind off my not-so-funny love life. (see post below).

I went to Singapore last January to go to my uncle's wedding, and catch up with family. We went to a little resort island that my uncle part-owned for a day, to have some fun. We went climbing, flying fox, soaked in jacuzzis and swum in pools. The climbing was scary - because we had to climb to the launch pad of the flying fox, climing up a big pole - VERY big pole. We were all wired up, of course, and when we got to the very top they unbuckled us. The launch pad is a little hut thingy about ten stories up from the ground, with wooden beams around it to stop people flying up to God. The beams have a little gap in between them - wide enough for a child to climb through, and they were low enough so a reasonably fit adult would be able to slither easily on top of them.

So, I was at the top of this ten story wooden thingy, which suddenly didn't seem as stable as it looked, completely unharnessed, with a guy I didn't even know gripping my arms like tourniquets, and he said climb over.


Dude, I was unharnessed, you could drop me any minute to my death, and I was frickin ten stories off the ground, and you expect me to just climb casually over these bars, which suddenly don't seem to be so low anymore!?

Obviously, I made it, but that was freaky.

But that wasn't the main story. The title is Ignorance is Fish for a reason.

There was a big pond right in the middle of the island, and the restaurant was smack bang in the middle, supported by wooden beams. For twenty dollars during the day you could go inside these ENORMOUS beach balls and float around on the lake for fifteen minutes. I was the first kid to sign up, followed eagerly by my sister and cousins.

By God, it was hot! Really hot in those beach balls - after five minutes, I was sweltering and dizzy. But it was kinda fun though.

Later that day, after we had soaked in jacuzzis and showered and watched a decent amount of TV, we headed to the restaurant for dinner. One huge tables for adults, one huge table for kids, and plenty of seafood galore - it was an island, after all. Us kids wolfed down the steaming fish and cereal prawns (a Singapore speciality) eagerly, all of us standing up, armed with chopsticks and violently attacking the side dishes. We finished with a couple of fish bones, a few prawn heads, empty dishes, full stomachs and a very messy table.

On the wide balcony that wrapped the restaurant, there were a few of those Timezone-esque games and outdoor tables and chairs. After playing with the games, we looked into the now-black lake, and suddenly saw a great big pair of red eyes staring back at us.

They were fish. HUGE fish. Enormous and black, with glowing red eyes.

We dropped leftovers into the water (from the adults' table, of course - there was absolutely nothing edible left on the kids table) and the enormous fish gobbled them up. The biggest was the size of a shark - at least three metres long and as thick as a man's thigh.

And then it struck me.

I had waded in this pool. I had floated on the surface in a flimsy little beach ball. I could have been fish patty anytime.



I don't want to be the mistress,
I want to be the wife.
I want love and commitment,
Not pain and loss and strife.
I don't want to be the one he goes to,
When the wife isn't here;
I don't want to just materialize,
And then,