The Secret World of a Pariah.

seventoeight.

2012-02-16T16:33:00.000+08:00

I don't really want you to know
That sometimes I sit
And watch
And wait
For the numbers to flip
From seventoeight.

You have become my
Tom Riddle's diary
I don't want to be
With or without you.

But
Just now
I had the most horrifying image.

I saw myself sitting
All alone
In a housethatwasnotahome,
Cupping in my hands
A mug of tea.
I'm watching something you don't like
And even though I'm "home"
I've done my hair the way you like.

You finally walk through the door at
halfpasttoolate,
Back from people who don't
Scare you like I do.

And I press "pause" in the middle of the best part
Ready to become a heavily edited
fine tuned
watered down version

of the passion and sordid fantasies
I keep hidden inside.

And just when I think we've become teenagers again
With our
mindlessemoticonbanter

And that you're laughing too much in your
funnydeepvoice

I look back and realize

When I was sixteen I said you were a shadow of what you really are.

And when I was sixteen I swore I would never turn my back on
meforyou.

So I don't know...

I don't see...

I don't think
I should spend
any
more
time
Watching the numbers flip
From seventoeight.

my dear rochester.

2012-02-16T16:07:00.001+08:00

It takes me a little while to forget
And then remember

That in person
You are a mere shadow of yourself

Metaphysically
You lack the transparency
That defines you in person
More than anything.

But you live in the kind of world
Where who you are
Not what you are
Is the question.

I know
I do not fulfill your criteria
But you cannot deny
That I am rather interesting to talk to

You are a charmer
But only half the time
So you're only half the charmer,
And therefore hardly worth my time.

You are such the consummate actor
Sometimes you even have me fooled
But I have faith
That mask is not you
But I am scared of
Hewhoisnotyou,
You've turned this femme fatale
Into another one of your simpering ingenues.

Although
Sometimes
I admit.
I do not know
Whether you pretend to care
Or you pretend not to.

You go
onandonandon
About all that you've done to me.
If you truly feel guilty
Why can't you mend your ways?

Eventually
You will come to realize
That without
Your soul
You are nothing

ergo...nothing to me?

I jest

I am just that fool
Watching
The numbers flip
fromseventoeight

There are other people
In your world
To do that for you.

But...

If you fly your true colours
I can guarantee that blanche will leave.
She subscribes
To your philosophy.

...but jane...jane might stay.

Fearless

2012-02-16T16:06:00.000+08:00

true love is
sleeping peacefully
in the arms of a man

who has,
in his belt
a sharpened knife
and a loaded pistol.

and in his pocket
the kind of poison
that can kill without a trace

and knowing,
trusting,
with absolute surety
that no harm will come to you
in his embrace.

true love is reckless
but a true lover is fearless.

2012-02-12T22:43:00.000+08:00

Three years ago my first boyfriend asked me out, and then dumped me, online.

Three weeks ago a conversation started, via email.

Three days ago my so-called friends told me to keep walking, via text.

Why is it that nobody can ever say anything to my face?

The Ocean's Mistress

2012-02-11T08:20:00.000+08:00

The beach was my lover today.
A cool cloud of foam swept up
And kissed my feet whilst
A piece of sea lace
Curled,
And caressed my skin.

The spray climbed
Higher...higher...higher
The sun and the breeze
Wrapped me in a lover's embrace.

The waves rolled in....and out....
A constant, gentle, seductive siege.

It is the most romantic thing
To walk into the sea
And never come back.

I would be content
To while away eternity
As the ocean's mistress.

2012-02-10T19:01:00.001+08:00

Make me write my name in my own blood,
Pour out my heart,
Bottle it,
Keep it safe,
Use it against me

Blind me with a facade
Sixteen summers of innocence
Broken
By a rude initiation

I do not understand
Why you insist on crowding me
Trying to write your name on my heart
and then
Leave me for the more worthy.

It is one thing to humble my hubris.
But you broke my back,
And broke my broken heart.

So leave me here
With my fickle, disappointing
writer of apologies.

I am well used to solitude.

I knew it all along...but it was nice, pretending, for a while...that I had friends.

in- retrospect

2012-02-08T22:48:00.000+08:00

in-              retrospect
you apologise

an afterthought

a careless hurt
atoned by
a toolatesorry.

make my heart go
pitterpatter
thudthud

butterflies
in my stomach
turn into

the monsters

that haunt my dreams

in-             retrospect
you are all you
ever should be

my brain's a blur
with a thousand thoughts of
meandyou

you try so hard
to get into my good books

and then

run away

in-             retrospect....

i still
don't know
what to think.

Operation Get Fit: Depression screws with everything.

2012-02-07T19:00:00.001+08:00

Before I was serious about losing weight I never cared about what I ate, or how much I ate. I always had a tummy, but I had wafer thin arms and legs and got away with it. When I was really little I hardly ate, anyway - food simply wasn't interesting.

Then when I got to about eleven I began eating ravenously, and shot up from about 4'8" to 5'2" - the leads from my pacemaker snapped (this doesn't even happen during pregnancy, usually), I lost my little-boy figure and got some lovely stretch marks here and there. After various stints of gymnastics, acrobatics, ballet, jazz - none of which I was particularly good at - I began playing basketball quite seriously; in that it was my biggest sporting commitment to date. I was eating more than my dad, but I was relatively fit for a timee; but eleven was also when depression set in.

It's impossible to describe how mental health and physical health are so deeply interconnected. When I was little I was a dapper little kid, a little fighter; I bore the brunt of my heart condition very well, and I was as healthy as I could be given my medical problems. At about eleven something just went wrong, and I was very depressed for a good three years. Depression in itself is purely a mental thing, but what it makes you do to yourself is quite alarming - you know you should be taking better care of yourself, but you're beyond caring. You just don't have the energy to care.

High school started, I moved away from the basketball stadium and my basketball team, and I sort of lost it. It took me eight years in primary school to form tangible friendships, but I went to a high school quite far away from where I grew up, with only a couple of familiar faces; but I didn't really get along with those familiar faces. I skipped a grade, losing any kind of social status in the process, and starting drooling over anyone remotely Y-chromosone. But I still ate as if I was still growing like a weed (I wasn't - between twelve and sixteen I've grown about an inch) and not really caring what I shovelled down. This was also the height of my ramen addiction - ramen being a rather noxious combination of refined wheat, sodium and a cocktail of chemicals and preservatives.

But this was when food became an obsession - I had become so unhappy and frustrated that I tried to replace everything I wanted with food. I became a coffee fiend, a ramen fanatic, and a faithful worshipper of anything calorie-laden and fattening. I was already unfit, but as I stopped exercising even walking the dogs became such a monumental effort I would go for weeks without properly exercising. Every day I would drag myself up staircases and wind myself if I ever tried to run more than a few metres.

Now, I don't drink coffee. I work out every day, and I watch what I eat; within reason. I don't deny myself the joys of birthday cake, pour exemple - life is too short to not enjoy your sweet sixteen, and when you're permamently the baby of the grade, it's nice to feel grown up. But most of all, I'm happy - I'm happy beyond words. Last year I really felt like I've shaken off my depression, and although my life is far from perfect it's much more fulfilling, and I'm much, much, happier than I was before.

So, if you're gaining weight, don't look at it as a problem in a vacuum. For me, the real root of the problem was my depression - depression, not laziness or genes or puppy fat or anything else - that had caused my weight problem. I had to face my depression and conquer it before I could even think about shedding pounds. If you're happy, you're halfway to being healthy.

Operation Get Fit: I hate my scales, and my dog hates my workout

2012-02-06T20:23:00.000+08:00

I've spent much of Operation Get Fit obsessed with numbers. I know my BMI at the moment is 21.3 but used to be 22.7, which is shockingly close to overweight (which is 23 for Asians, not 24.9 like it is for Caucasians). I know that I am definitely overweight once I'm over 57kg and I'm okay at about 55-56kg, but I only really start feeling good once I'm under 55kg. I know my BWH measurements, and all other sorts of random crap.

But now, that's all out the window.

When I wasn't working out and just Sundowning, I was losing all the surplus weight I gained whilst eating my way through Asia, and that was quick and easy - three kilos in two weeks. But then, it stopped, and it didn't matter whether I ate or starved, I was still 55kg. It was pretty frustrating.

When I first started working out, it went down to 54kg! But then it climbed up, and down, and up, and down, and frankly, I'm sick of it. I quit maths to escape the indoctrination of numbers.

Scales are indiscriminate. They don't care whether you're light or heavy because of the presence or absence of fat, muscle, guts, brain, air...it's all one and the same. But it doesn't work like that. I'm not a walking ball of fat. I'm working out, and I'm feeling good, and I'm looking better. I am not gaining weight, not as fat, anyway, and if my scales don't agree with me then that's the end of our very tempestuous relationship.

My scales are so ancient they should be in a museum - they're one of those tired, world-weary, older-than-thou specimens from your mother's trousseau. It literally throws every number in the book - if you step on it too hard, you'll suddenly gain ten kilos, but I have been known to miraculously become like 30kg if I don't step on it 'right'.

So that is that. I don't care what I weigh anymore. As long as I feel good, and look good, I'm happy; no matter what number the scales throw at me.

My workout at the moment is a half an hour affair, and it's fun. I can't emphasise how much fun it is to just throw yourself into some hardcore stuff for half an hour, and forget about the dramas of school, and study, and exams, and homework, and ball, and boys. I work out with my iPod which has lots of 'workout' playlists that I've made on iTunes: something understated to warm up to, two tracks of weights, two tracks of cardio and two tracks of dancing, and then another quiet track to cool down to. That's eight tracks, which, in this day and age, is about half an hour. It doesn't have to be very accurate.

But my dog hates it. I race up and down the stairs, I run, walk, jog, skip around the house, and she always thinks I'm rushing around to go out (because I normally fly up and down the stairs collecting random things for my school bag/purse when I go out). I dance to music that she can't hear. She spends my entire workout attacking me (when I'm stretching on the floor) or chasing me up and down the stairs on the off chance I'll walk out the door and take me with her.

Dancing is amazingly fun. Our school did a brief stint of Zumba, which is corny but ridiculously fun, but then they made the oh-so-wise decision to start it again halfway during exams, so it was scrapped. Zumba was fun, but also extremely harcore and quite long - two hours - and I was seriously concerned that my heart condition could not put up with it. I'm not a trained dancer - I mean, I did ballet and jazz a long, long time ago in a galaxy far, far away - but any girl can swing her hips to the beat. Bellydancing is soooo much fun, and it makes you feel super good - it unleashes this hidden, don't screw with me Amazon in you, and I love it. It gets my endorphins humming.

Operation Get Fit: Keep your pants on...

2012-02-04T22:28:00.000+08:00

Update: Down to 54kg, and I have lost TWO INCHES off my waist! At the moment I'm roughly 35-28-37. It would be nice to be, oh, I don't know...37-26-37...;P

I have a leetle weetle problem.

I bought most of my pants that I have now in my wardrobe when I was 58kg and my waist was nearly 30 inches. All my other pants were like, girl sizes, for about a 25 inch waist, so they're all gone, baby, gone.

But now, I'm stuck with all these really nice pants that...don't really stay on. Insert inappropriate joke here.

So now I gotta find all my belts ;)

I'm still Sundowning, which is sometimes a challenge (I mean, during CNY that all went out the window ;P) and going back to school and all the running around and stress has been...slimming, to say the least. But, more importantly I've been, rather uncharacteristically...working out.

It's really important in year twelve to stay fit and healthy and, being the nerd that I am (I love all my subjects and can't bear to do badly in any of them) I know how easy it is to get bogged down in study and forget about exercising or eating properly. Every morning I do fifty reverse crunches and five five-second planks, which hurt like hell but wake me up, which is hard to do after a good two months of holidays. Then, every day, I do half an hour of stretching, cardio and weights - on weekends I do an hour. When it's not too hot outside I walk the dog. And, in less than a week of doing this, I've lost half a kilo and an inch off my waist. Not bad, huh?

Stalin Smiles

2012-02-04T17:45:00.002+08:00

I walk the streets,
Barely a person,
Let alone a woman.

It is as if ink has
Become my mask;
And note paper my veil,
My identity.

It is as if the sweat on my brow,
Is from a man's labour,
Not a woman's dance.
It is as if the swirl of my gown
Is a smithy's apron,

When I walk,
I march a soldier's march.

Somewhere in hell,
Stalin smiles.
I have become one of the

genderless proletariat.

2012-02-02T16:39:00.002+08:00

I am glad I was your hone.

But
Shouldn't I get some kind of commission?

I've always found it quite tragic
That when we are mortal

We have nothing to say.

Immortality makes us drunk
And pour out our hearts

But in the real world
You put your armour on

Not afraid of I the alien
But they the comrades.

It is not enough to say sorry
And then continue on as before

But it's okay.

I forget you at the dance of my pen,
And the sway of my hips,

To and fro.

he who was never mine

2012-01-28T21:33:00.001+08:00

he who was never mine
wanders lost
and then comes into my open arms
weeping with relief
lulled to sleep by my cracked bleeding lullaby

he who was never mine
hunts the doe in my forest
but only for the chase
abandoning
she that lies scarlet on the forest floor

he who was never mine
sings my praises carelessly
as if he does not see
that i know they mean nothing to him
and everything to me

he who was never mine
has boundless energy
regaling me with the stories
already etched in my soul
tales of a time gone...going...gone.
soon i will walk on

but he will follow

unable to leave
not knowing that he should stay here

in my heart

he who was never mine
would be safe with me

get your bitch on.

2012-01-28T09:13:00.001+08:00

So it's the summer before year twelve and, naturally, I'm doing what all year twelve girls do just before the final year of school starts - freak out over ball ;).

Actually, I haven't had a lot to freak out about. Everything is set. The way I like it.

But seriously, ball is just a hormonal signal to the female brain that says GET YOUR BITCH ON.

They've gone crazy.

There's a page of facebook now dedicated entirely to posting a picture of your dress for the whole grade to see to 'prevent doubles'. I'm sorry, but isn't that kind of meant to be a surprise? The only person who knows exactly what I'm going to be wearing is belephant, and she hasn't even seen me all dressed up. It's my little secret that I've literally kept in the closet for years.

Luckily, I haven't had to bow to peer pressure and spoil the surprise because absolutely nobody will have my dress. It's that ugly. No, I had a beautiful gown custom made in Shanghai - and yes, that was back in year nine. And seeing as it is my own personal design, and I have been branded a freak of nature by just about everyone in the grade, it is pretty impossible somebody will show up looking exactly the same as me. Actually, it's probably never occurred to them that the grade skipper might actually show up looking half-decent.

At any rate, even if they did, would they look exactly the same? Would they be Asian, 5'3", 54.5kg with the exact same date, makeup, hair, shoes, etc? No. I like to think that individuality transcends apparel, but apparently nobody agrees with me on that. They're all like 'if anybody gets anything similar I'll kill you' followed half heartedly by 'rofl lol luv ya'. I mean, how do you think the boys feel? All suits look the same! It's just mean to be so self obsessed for something like this. Is it copying if you find something that looks breathtaking on you and somebody else thought it was lovely, too? So what if someone looks similar to you? As long as you yourself look good, it doesn't matter. I will look exactly the same in my ball dress even if everyone else looked the same as me.Because I'm me, and it takes more than a dress to become the kind of person I am. Individuality is not stopping people from doing what you do, but doing things nobody else would dare dream of.

I just would have thought that friendship and keeping the peace is more important than making sure you look like the odd one out.

On a side note, there are absolutely rubbish resources for people trying to organize a ball. My friend and I had to sort through what felt like the entire world wide web to find the best deal on the limo, etc. After the ball I'll post what I did, and tips, etc.

Operation Get Fit: how the hell do you lose the last five kilos?

2012-01-26T10:07:00.002+08:00

So I found it really easy to drop from 58kg to 55kg. It was three kilos, but I lost it in two weeks.

But now I'm stuck in a rut. I've been 55kg for what seems like ages now, and it doesn't matter what I do, it doesn't go up (good) or down (bad). I feel good, and I look good, but...I know I can do better. I used to be 50kg. It wasn't that long ago. It was before boys and ramen screwed with my head, and stomach. It's like getting 95 in an English essay when you're pushing for 100. You get there eventually, but those last five marks are the hardest to get.

How do you lose the last five kilos? Any tips?

2012-01-24T17:25:00.004+08:00

after a month of coldplaY and paramOre it's pUre irony that my life is now playing like a taylor swift song.

it's the week BeforE schooL starts. nOrmally, this is wheN i start panickinG and Willing tIme To go slower. but tHis year, of all years, i'M not. bring it on. bring on ball, and Exams, and graduation.

Tag: Get Your Freak On!

2012-01-24T00:24:00.001+08:00

1. What's a nickname only family call you?

Well, for obvious reasons, nobody in real life calls me 'Lady Renegade' or 'Lady Solitaire'. My dad and my Korean family are really the only people who say my name as it's meant to be - last name first, with the proper Korean accent - everyone else just says it in the Western way, warped in a variety of different accents. My sister, naturally, has a variety of derivative and mildly insulting nicknames for me, which I'm sure you can figure out.

2. What's a weird habit of yours?

Everything I do is weird.

3. Do you have any weird phobias?

I'm still scared of the dark...

4. What's a song that you secretly love to blast and belt out when you're alone?

Oh, loads. When I'm around people I only play alternative stuff, because that's the kind of school I go to, or the generally accepted Taylor Swift. I LOVE Horrible Histories, and as a consequence of that I know the lyrics of most of the songs, which I sing alot :). Despite my long-standing boycott of K-Pop, I do have a couple tracks on my iPod, which I play when nobody's within earshot. But my biggest music sin is Miley Cyrus. I may get lynched when I go back to school.

5. What's one of your biggest pet peeves?

I hate it when people SNIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIFF really loudly. I hate it when I'm not in uniform and people make me give up my seat on the train. I hate it when I wake up and my hair looks like it's been hit by a train. Stuff like that. Just so I don't sound whiney, I love it when I wake up and my hair looks super cool. I love it when I wake up and there isn't a giant zit on my nose. I love lying on grass and watching the clouds puff by. I love writing poems. Stuff like that.

6. What's one of your nervous habits?

I had a really bad stutter when I was a kid, and when I'm nervous or wound up I can actually get rendered speechless. Highly embarassing. I'm also a really bad public speaker, so I wind up laughing at my own jokes when I'm nervous.

7. What side of the bed do you sleep on?

I always sleep facing the door. I can't sleep facing the wall. I feel like Dracula's going to creep up on me and say BOO!

8. What was your first stuffed animal and its name?

I have a violet bunny rabbit in purple pyjamas called Rabby - inventive, no? Rabby has a special place in my heart - she was the only person who stayed by my side during my operation when I was five. Apparently when I came round the surgeon said 'Oh look, she's got her teddy bear with her' and I told him, grumpily, 'Can't you see it's a RABBIT???'

9. What's the drink you always order at starbucks?

I have boycotted Starbucks, for no other reason other than THEY MAKE SHIT COFFEE. I love going to Miss Maud's for lattes, though, and in the summer I love Gloria Jeans Voltage, which is just a strong shot of coffee with lots of milk, ice and sugar.

10. What's a beauty rule that you preach, but never actually practice?

I used to be a makeup addict, so I know every single beauty rule in the book. But I'm also extremely lazy, so I don't do any of them other than washing off my makeup before I go to bed - not so hard now that I hardly wear makeup. I think my biggest vice is not washing my makeup brushes enough...when they're dirty and in a hurry I just use my fingers....

11. Which way do you face in the shower?

Towards the door. I watched Psycho.

12. Do you have any weird body skills?

I don't need any. I just tell people I'm a cyborg. It's kinda true. Because I'm so medically screwed up, I can't really donate my body to science, but I could donate a lot of scrap metal...

12. What's your favourite comfort food that's 'bad' but you love to eat it anyways?

When I was younger ramen was a multi-purpose pain killer, anti-depressant and ex-boyfriend killer. Now my favourite comfort food is chendol, which is a South-East Asian dessert made of coconut milk, shaved ice, palm sugar and red beans. Soooo unhealthy....luckily, the only place in Perth that makes decent chendol is a million miles away.

13. What's a phrase or exclaimation you always say?

I used to pick up things from ex boyfriends, so when I was younger I would say 'n'duh' and stuff a lot. Now I've picked up something from Horrible Histories: saying 'serious question?' in a bad French accent whenever somebody asks me something.

14. Time to sleep. What are you actually wearing?

Malaysian batik. It's a standard uniform for the women in my mother's family. Although, in year eight, I did cause a bit of a stir by showing up to breakfast at school camp wearing a rather hideous pumpkin-orange jersey and mickey mouse trackpants...

Promise

2012-01-23T15:18:00.001+08:00

Do you still remember those very painful matters,
Counting the days until my love returns.
In silence I remember my pain,
For you go where I cannot follow.

Could you not return to my side?
Could you not fall in love again?
My heart cannot forget you,
Do not forget our love;
When you suffer I will be by your side to protect you.

Could we not stop here?
Could we not forget our path?
My heart cannot forget you,
Do not forget our love;
When you suffer I will be by your side to protect you.

A translation of 'Promise' by Jang Yoon Jung, from Yi San.

the cuckoo has to leave the nest someday.

2012-01-22T00:15:00.000+08:00

I often wish I was more patriotic than I am. I wish I had that kind of desperate love for my country, the profound desire to live and die in service of my homeland. But I don't. I appreciate that Australia is a good place to live, but my connection is cool, detached, and easily breakable.

I've often attributed my cynicism to being a second-generation immigrant. As an immigrant, you see the opportunities and abundance of a new, wealthy nation. But juxtaposed with this is the problems of being born here, but not really belonging. The flaws have more significance to you, and are deeper and more troubling than they are to other people. I see a society enjoying a pleasant facade of peace and security, but ever so close to breaking point. I see little tiny cracks in the system that are hushed up, ready to become full blown faults ready to send the whole institution crumbling.

Optimistic, huh?

My mother comes from Singapore, and from her side I am descended from Cantonese peasants - people who were born as nobodies and died as nobodies. Their lives, loves, tragedies...none of it is known. My father comes from South Korea, and from that side I am descended from Korean nobility. My Korean ancestors are people who wrote history - ministers, generals, the wives and mothers of kings. It's a very strange mix.

My paternal family is very patriotic - most Koreans are. Everything is bigger, better, and Korean. The Koreans are very proud of their rich cultural heritage, their people and the challenges they have overcome - and so they should. My grandfather has spent his whole life upholding the family name and traditional Korean principles, marred somewhat by his youngest son's marriage to a Singaporean woman. My grandfather is a true pater patriae, and he gets much of his strength from that. At nearly eighty, he's hardly young, but he's full of energy as he dashes around, spending his retirement doing what he loves. I wish I had that kind of zeal. My dad is the first person from our line to leave Korea to create a life of his own.

My mother, however, comes from a family of wanderers. They left Canton for Singapore. My mother and her siblings have left Singapore for the world - America, Germany, England, Australia, Malaysia, China. Some came back, others left for good.

My mother is a wanderer. Singapore never clicked for her. It's her story, but she left and built her own life for herself. Built a career, got married, started a family. Starting from the bottom, working her way up.

I want to do that. I want to leave and start again. It has little to do with how good or bad Australia is. I am a wanderer, like my mother, like her ancestors. I want to be reborn. And maybe, I'll find a place where I can truly be a patriot.

2012-01-21T23:19:00.003+08:00

There are a thousand things I can never say.
A thousand things I will write,
Then burn.
A thousand things buried in my heart,
To become one with the earth.
As ashes, swept away from the hearth.

kai su, teknon.

2012-01-18T01:09:00.000+08:00

Speak.
I hear.

When you are with her
You are an actor.
A courtier;
In a world where everything rhymes,
And water turns to wine.

But with me,
You put on your glasses,
Pull off your tie,
Crack open a beer;
Pour open your heart and then
Sleep, contented.

You throw down your armour,
I am not a prize.

When you see me
We play a game.
I believe they call it
Tit for tat.

But when I take the veil
I am
Just
An ear.

To you,
My skills as an actress are
Deliciously

irrelevant.

2012-01-07T22:47:00.002+08:00

I've decided to embrace my inner nerd. A few days ago I went out and bought the biggest pair of tortoiseshell glasses I could find. If they're gonna treat me like a freak, then I'm going to act the freak.

This is still no excuse for not having a d-word so close to the Date.

Humble Pie, Part Deux.

2012-01-05T18:42:00.002+08:00

A few weeks back I wrote about bombing an English essay and eating a very, very humble pie.

But I never did manage to tell you what happened.

After deciding that I shouldn't do any more risky pioneering into foreign territory, I decided to write on the used and abused path of James Bond - nothing new, but there was lots of research from which I could pull something interesting. I wrote about how James Bond is the people's hero, and how different elements of the Bond franchise have evolved over the decades to keep Bond a relevant icon in a changing society.

The essay I wrote in the three days before exam week was the hardest essay I have ever written. Firstly, the work load was huge - although I had written brilliant essays in a mere few hours (actually, I very rarely stretch out essays - I do it in one short burst of inspiration) I normally take my time with the research. The amount of Bond I read, researched and watched during that long weekend was ridiculous. Casino Royale remains one of my most favourite movies, but if I ever see Sean Connery's fat fuzzy chest again I'm going to scream.

But the hardest challenge this essay presented was the insecurity. I have spent much of my life writing shit and feeling very very confident that it was still awe inspiring stuff. I've never had any problem writing before this - anything from essays or blog posts. But I would start this Bond essay, delete it, and then start again. I wrote five million plans and had about three million openings and conclusions, but nothing gelled, and from the insecurity arose panic. I had millions of ideas bouncing in my head, but I couldn't write it. I very nearly gave up.

And then finally, it clicked. Just like that. All the research and drafts and plans and beginnings and endings and ideas all glued together. I was back on home territory and I wrote it from start to finish. I polished it up, compiled my bibliography and emailed it my amazingly brilliant teacher, made more edits, and emailed it again.

To this day I don't actually know what I got for that Bond essay, and I did have six exams to write after that, so I had no time to think about it once I sent it. What I do know is that my teacher loved it, and that was really all that mattered - that I'd done a good job, and I'd made my teacher proud. Actually, I didn't know what I got for any of my subjects until I read my report a few days ago, because even though my teacher emailed my exam results my email stuffed up and I didn't actually read it until about twenty seconds ago.

I have never had a harder academic challenge than this essay. Nothing else has humbled me more than sitting at my computer, the weekend before exams, struggling through the insecurity of writer's block to write an essay that was up to my standards. But nothing has been more rewarding.

I have been wanting to be top in English ever since the year seven awards, where I missed out on the English award because I had some racist asshole for a teacher. When I got to high school and skipped a grade I'd always missed out on being top because, being at the top school, there are many weird and wonderful geniuses to compete with, all of whom had the advantage of an extra year's schooling with some of the state's best English teachers. The talent in Perth Mod is electric; hell hath no fury like a lit class full of overreaching, overachieving lit bugs, always engaged in a friendly yet all-consuming battle to be the best. But I've never given up on the hope that someday, somewhere, I'd be named as the best English student.

I opened my report, and I saw the Bs and the C and the shitty attendance rate that kicked me out of the Sphinx Society. But to be honest, this is what I saw first:

English
Final Mark: 96
School Examination: 100
Honour Certificate for Highest Achievement in English: Year Eleven, Semester Two.

I did it.

When you're a kid...

2012-01-05T00:45:00.000+08:00

When I was a kid I dreamed of being sixteen. Being sixteen would straighten all my problems out. I'd be tall and beautiful, and smart, and I'd be on my way to Oxford and all the boys would adore me. I'd have big boobs and I'd be learning to drive a flashy car. I couldn't wait to be sixteen.

Now I am nearly sixteen, and I'm not tall or beautiful. I am smart, but in Australia that's not necessarily a good thing. I don't know if I'm on my way to Oxford and 'all the boys' certainly don't adore me. I do have big boobs, but I can hardly walk in a straight line, let alone drive. But I have something that I never thought I would have: a little tiny faint glimmer of wisdom.

When you're a kid you hold on to things, hold life-long grudges. When life is such a short blur the most trivial things cut deep, leave scars. I remember the day my sports teacher yelled at me for 'creeping around his shed' when my teacher asked me to go get some sport equipment. I remember almost every instance of getting into trouble, being bullied, being rejected by countless boys. You forget about the teachers, the bullies, the boys; you hold no emotional connection with them after a little while, but you never forget the surge of emotion that floods the hot little head of your childish self. At least, that's how it is for me. I don't forget things easily, and I remember them because the emotion floods back, as if I were a little six year old with scabby knees all over again.

When I first started high school I fell in love with my best mate, and after one year of stupid hopes and prayers it all came to a rather messy end. To this day I have not been able to adequately explain to anyone how something as simple as that led to a wave of depression - how it sparked such bitterness and anger. He was nothing special, I was nothing special, and whatever we had or did was nothing special; and I have been told that many many times since. There were other boys and other heartbreaks, but this one hit the hardest. There was lots of guilt, too, because here I was being all miserable over some little boy when there were starving people and babies dying of AIDS - people don't hesitate to remind me of that either. God only knows how many friends I lost, how much time I wasted over this, and to be honest, I don't even understand it. I've been through heart surgery and much bigger things, but this was the thing that threw me into the deep end.

To everyone who stood by me through this and everything else, to everyone who was bewildered, frustrated, angered and insulted by my rather spectacular display of schoolgirl patheticness, I'm not going to justify going crazy. I'll just say that that was the Last Grudge - the last moment of bitterness I'll remember from childhood; the last little trivial thing from the early days to bring back that kind of emotion. Life gets longer, and the little heartbreak kid gets wiser - and since then, I have never had one of those moments. But my little nostalgic trips down memory lane is full of these moments of pure emotion that I can recall as if they all happened yesterday: and this, my friend, is one of them. It's these little things that make you stronger.

Operation Get Fit: The Sundowner Diet.

2012-01-03T23:57:00.001+08:00

Update: A month of Asian binging has pushed my weight up to 56.5kg, but I did drop 1kg in 2 days and I have now been sitting on 55.5kg for a couple of days now. And I credit the Sundowner Diet.

The diet: no carbs (potatoes, bread, rice, pasta, noodles etc.) after sunset. Which is, at present, about 7:30pm, but can be as early as 5pm in winter. This in conjunction with a diet high in protein and fibre and low in fat and carbs is the key to healthy eating and non-crazy weight control.

The Sundowner Diet has joined a list of celebrity fads, most of which were invented in the 20s. But this one, I think, has a little bit of credibility, and the proof is in the (lack of) pudding - I have been on this diet for a week, and this is the longest time gluttonous yours truly has ever stuck to a diet. And it makes so much sense.

The main sources of energy are fat, carbs and protein, and too much of any is never a good thing. This is why soulfood, which dates back to African slavery in America, is chockers full of fat - to keep up with the hard labour of the black slaves. But fat and carbs consumed that aren't burnt become, well, fat - namely spare tires, muffin tops and fat thighs. And because nobody runs marathons after dinner, dinner shouldn't comprise of fat and carbs.

So what do I eat? What I love: protein. Dairy and meat, just the low fat kind - so semi skim milk, lean meat, small amounts of cheese (but not my favourite, uber-fatty cheddar) and eggs. And lots of vegies - just not potatoes - and fruit (mangoes and passionfruit are in season! Yay!) And the stuff that is all so often pushed around and forced down - rice - is completely obliterated from my dinner time menu. Bread and noodles, which I like, are eaten before the sunset deadline.

And I have been exercising! Swimming and walking, and I hope to get back to ice skating before I completely forget how to lace my boots up. After I came back I was bloated from air travel, aeroplane food and massive quantaties of Asian delicacies, and evidence of it popped up in quirks like moodiness, strange pains, breathlessness and the gag reflexes of a pregnant woman, which was just lovely, I tell you. Aside from the odd hot-chip cravings and having to pick up dog shit in the park, healthy eating and exercising has been a joy.

The thing about this diet is that it is encouraging a very balanced diet, which is not what you can say about other diets. Do I get hungry at night? Yeah, sometimes, but that happens: diet or no diet. Plus, I am getting all my energy from all the veggies and meat I have been consuming, and no carbs conbined with my awe-inspiring caffeine tolerance means that I am getting a very good night's sleep.

So there you go. I'm a Sundowner, and proud of it.

So that was it, then.

2012-01-01T00:28:00.001+08:00

So that was 2011! What a year it's been. Life is a rollercoaster, enjoy it before you have to trot off and buy ridiculously expensive fairground food.

I look forward to 2012 - graduation year - with excitement and great motivation. I am, after many ups and downs both academically and emotionally, on the home stretch, and I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. That being said, I've had a marvelous 2011 - one of the first years in a long time I have felt truly happy and appreciated.

Four years ago I started this blog out of anger, resentment and boredom, but from there it has blossomed into a much-needed creative outlet and a very small but encouraging hub of readers. I hope that each and every one of you enjoyed a fulfilling 2011 and look forward to the surprises that next year has in store.

Happy New Year!

soooo....i'm back....

2011-12-30T11:56:00.003+08:00

I'm back to good ol' Perthy after a month of galumphing around Asia and yeah, it's good to be back - back to my own bed, my own computer, internet that actually works...

More later when I'm less pooped.

monsoon dreaming.

2011-12-14T22:35:00.003+08:00

Inspired by Kuala Lumpur, my home for the last few days. Tomorrow I embark on the final leg of my journey - Singapore, my mother's childhood home. Missing belephant and smelly belly.

the sky cried on the streets today.
smoke and steam.

muddy puddles.
motorbikes.
pay-by-the-hour hotels.

smell,
spike,
crack,
eat,
lick.
heaven stinks.
literally.

men stare.
sweat like diamonds
on brow, back and breasts.
i'm pretty sure you-know-whos aren't Sharia.
and then

drip
drip
drip
splash.

run.

The definition of atheism.

2011-12-14T00:50:00.001+08:00

The dictionary definition of atheism is the rejection of the belief of the existence of deities. Clear as mud, huh? Well, I'm an atheist, and this is my take on what atheism is.

This isn't the ONE AND ONLY definition of atheism, and is certainly not the one and only CORRECT definition of atheism. This is just one atheist telling it how she ses it. So no hate mail, please.

As an atheist I reject the existance of a God or gods plural. I do not reject the possibility of the existence of deities, nor do I affirm the impossibility the existence of deities. So, to put it simply, I do not know or believe that the existence of deities is either possible or impossible. I simply believe that, in this world and in this life, there is no God.

There are other kinds of atheists out there. Some believe that deities can exist, they just don't, whilst others preach the impossibility of God. Others believe there might be something out there but it is not sentient, or at least uncaring of human activity.

The primary thing that atheists reject, however, is not God or gods plural, but religion. Religion is restrictive, confining and, to an atheist perspective, a futile sacrifice and, at times, at odds with human rights and human nature. I believe that we have evolved into intelligent, powerful, dangerous, sexual beings and religion suppresses what we are and what we are meant to be. Religion makes me ashamed to be a woman, to be a person, when I am on this earth as a person wholly in charge of my destiny, a bringer of life, put on this earth for a purpose and taken away when my existence becomes obsolete. Religion is a label, and to me, a prison. I cannot find peace in an institution which may have good intentions but is so vulnerable to corruption, violence and suppression. To me, atheism is freedom - freedom to be who I want to be, do what I want to do. I feel that I am a better person as an atheist, because I am free of guilt. I was not born a sinner, and I will not die a sinner. Death feels a little like a dead end, but there is nothing wrong with that. If there's no heaven and no hell, then the only thing death will bring me is a legacy, and if I am remembered as I want to be remembered then that isn't all that bad.

sharing food with the dead.

2011-12-05T10:33:00.001+08:00

Broadcasting from Korea!

This is my last day in my father's hometown, Suncheon - tonight we take the bus back to Seoul for a few days before flying to Malaysia. Sorry I haven't updated in a little bit, but we are, ironically, suffering from prehistoric technology here.

One of the first things we do whenever we come is visit the graves to pay our respects. The most important grave we visit is that of my great-grandfather, who died when my father was four years old, and my great-grandmother, who died the year my sister was born. I don't know whether you've seen a traditional Korean gravesite, but it's actually very beautiful. An area is cleared out on the mountain, which is covered in dense forest, so that the dead can have a nice view. They are buried a few metres into the ground in simple wooden coffins and then it is covered in a mound of earth aout a metre high and two metres wide. Thatchy grass grows on the mounds as the years turn, and there is always a marble table in front of the grave with the deceased details etched onto it in Chinese. Some people, like my great-grandfather and great-grandmother, are buried side by side - spouses bound for eternity as they become one with the earth together. When we go we set up the small table with all sorts of food, and the thing I've always found funny is that it's all of my uncle's favourite foods - rice wine, rice punch, rice cakes, choco pies, chips, fruit and other miscellaneous junk food - because after bowing several times to the graves, the food becomes afternoon tea. Waste not, I suppose.

In other cultures nobody would dare eat the food offered to the dead, but to me it's almost spiritual. The Koreans love their food, and food is a big family thing. Food is shared, passed from parent's chopsticks to the rice bowls of their beloved children and nieces and nephews, heaped into huge portions and offered to the elderly. I've never met my great-grandparents, but somehow, there's something very nice about sharing a choco pie with them. It's how things should be.

jumping the gun a bit.

2011-11-24T11:07:00.001+08:00

As I make my way to my second to last year eleven finals, I have in my head resolved that next year I will do things a little differently.

All in all, I'm proud of how I've done this year. I've seen so many overconfident year tens crash and burn under the pressure of senior school, but I've borne the brunt of it and walked away relatively unscathed. Sure, I get tired and lazy and addicted to YouTube at times, but I've managed to get through the year in the good books, without failing too many things.

To me it was very important that I keep myself calm and relatively untroubled by year eleven. Too many people freak out and are burnt out by too many overnighters by the time year twelve hits - and that, my friends, is the big cheese. I took it easy. Tried not to obsess over marks. And I think it's paid off. I look forward to year twelve with much excitement and energy, and that was the main goal of year eleven.

Next year I will study more. Blog less. Work harder. Set more academic goals. Get iTunes set up again so that I can listen to music without the temptation of videos (ATM I listen to all my music on YouTube).

Next year I hope to:

1. Walk and get some fresh air at least once, if not twice a day (at least twice on weekends).
2. Set up to-do lists for each study session.
3. Only go on YouTube AFTER to-do list has been exhausted.
4. Write practice essays for each of my subjects at least once a fortnight (I have been very lazy about this, but I know it will help my Modern History.)
5. Use more sites other than Wikipedia (my Ancient History teacher warned me that the year twelve ancient history teacher has zero tolerance for Wikipedia)
6. Go to bed at ten. Sharp.
7. Wake up at six to study in the morning.
8. Continue to obsess about 90s for English and Lit (it is good for me. It doesn't sound like it, but it is. Trust me.)

I think that's it!

archiving is embarassing.

2011-11-24T09:25:00.001+08:00

I honestly have no idea what was going through my head as a twelve and thirteen year old. I'm nearly sixteen, and quite frankly, the person I was four years ago is ridiculous. How could I have called all those people friends? Why did I write this and that? Why did I think I was being so witty and clever and funny? And WHY OH WHY did I fall in love so hard and so fast? Okay, I still do, but at least words like 'phwar' don't pop up too often now here. Except for Mathew Baynton. Phwar. But it's okay, because I'll never ever see him. 'Phwar' is not an appropriate word for a person you have to spend lots of time with.

I wish there was a polite way to tell a younger, innocent self that I might as well be a nun for all the luck I've had in love. Nothing is fair in love and war.

to my, like, wonderful readers LOL

2011-11-18T18:46:00.001+08:00

I don't, um, really live in the world of like ROFL like LOL.

I mean, I like, live in it but I don't really get it. LOL.

This isn't really, um....a blog 4, like, peeps who don't know how 2 like, y'know, talk properly. Gottit? gr8. I like, um...don't really care if you, like, know my like ex-bf or whatevs man because y'know what? We, like, go 2 the same skool so I can, like, see all of U laughing and shiz. I mean, like, whatevs man. Totes not cool. Sum peeps don't like telling the whole world that they a) can't talk properly and b) don't understand anything.

Ok? TTFN!

I may possibly take a leetle weetle break...

2011-11-15T16:02:00.001+08:00

Exams + vacation: possibly inactive Lady Solitaire.

I don't know how much time/access I'll have to this blog in the coming weeks, so I might take a summer snoozer. December 2011 may be the first time in THREE YEARS OF BLOGGING I have failed to post anything!

To keep you busy, here are my personal favourite internet haunts (I don't spend all my time here, you know):

Dirty Diaper Laundry - don't get put off by the title. Kim Rosas is a work at home wife and mother, and a super awesome environmentalist/cloth diaper advocate. You could watch the 200+ cloth diaper reviews but if you're not having babies then that's just a bit weird - she does have a personal blog which is baby related, but not so much. Kim is so not your average WAHM - she's funny, insightful, intelligent and down to earth. Also check out oatmealr, which is a YouTube channel dedicated entirely to her cute-as-pie sons, Fletcher and Everett.

Mama Natural - One of my all time favourite vlogs - Genevieve Damascus posts twice weekly on natural living, parenting, and life with her GORGEOUS baby GriffyD (CUTEST BABY I HAVE EVER SEEN) and her hubby, Mike. Warning: following this blog may lead to GWS (Griffin Withdrawal Syndrome) as the cute bub doesn't appear in every single video...nooo...

Karen Cheng - A Perth favourite. Food, fashion and family life.

Charlieissocoollike - I don't actually know any teenage girl who doesn't follow/obsessively stalk this Brit. Seriously.

H O R R I B L E H I S T O R I E S - Just type in 'Horrible Histories' into YouTube and go MAD! It's CRAZY FUN! (yes, I did just do about 20 links to Horrible Histories.)

Kurthugoschneider - Uh-May-Zing.

MetroDad - he doesn't post often, but when he does, it's gold.

Nigahiga - because nerdy Asianness isn't just skin deep.

Megan Nicole, Savannah Outen, Caitlin Hart, Tiffany Alvord - internet talent, sans Autotune. Good times.

So...probably adieu...for now...

Vanity vs. Morality

2011-11-12T15:33:00.001+08:00

I am now a size six, 32DD. Mwahahaha....

....not really.

A few weeks ago I was a model for one of my friend's photography project, in which she was making fake Levi jeans adverts. The photoshoot involved me, then nearly 60kg, prancing around in baggy jeans (jeans and I don't have the best working relationship) and very unflattering tank tops. I didn't mind too much because a) I should not be judged by my spare tires and b) I knew it would be edited to oblivion anyway.

I saw the end results and I must firstly say that my friend is very competent at all this photography editing stuff. Looking at the pictures, you'd probably think that the model was a spot free, size six, 6 foot model with a nonexistant waist. But it's not. It's a heavily edited picture of a short, spotty, dumpy teenager.

I am fundamentally opposed to photoshopping adverts. I have been all too often a victim of the portrayal of unhealthy body images and, as a sufferer of depression, I take attacks on self-esteem very seriously. Young girls these days have too many things to worry about.

But, this is where my vanity kicks in. I am just a normal, hormonal, teenage girl. I have my insecurities, but more importantly, I have my own vanities. I love looking good. I love how I look in those photos, even though I know if I were that skinny in reality I would be very, very unhealthy (and I wouldn't have such big jugs). But I can't help loving how I look in those pictures. I've been brainwashed. I'm still opposed to photoshop, but I can't help but like how I look with photoshop. You can't win.

So I'm a hypocrite. I know. But at least I'm hot.

eating a very, very humble pie.

2011-11-08T21:44:00.001+08:00

I have absolutely no problem in saying that I am cocky. I know what I am good at, and I'm damn proud of what I'm good at. We all have a right to be so.

However, I'm not too proud to concede defeat. I'm not the sort who cannot fly a white flag. I'm not scared of admitting that I've stuffed up, and asking for a second chance. I know my faults, and I know where I go wrong. My ego's been deflated but it's a learning experience.And now I am eating a very, very humble pie.

I remember vividly the very first essay I got back when I first skipped a grade. I was fresh out of primary school and I had no idea how to write an essay, no concept of academic writing. I gave it my best shot and prayed for the best. At that time I was a very cocky kid, terrified of failure. At least, that's what I thought.

I must tell you that I set very different standards for myself than other people, and I have very different standards for some subjects than others. For example, for all of my subjects I am perfectly happy with 70s and 80s, and so are my teachers. But for English and Lit I will fight tooth and nail to get 90s. It's just how I work.

Anyway.

I got this first paper back, and it was a 73%. 22 out of 30. This was a top class where a good half of them were getting 31 (English teachers are not known for their mathematical skills). An utter failure for my standards. Even now, I still cry a little when I don't get a 90. But back then I didn't feel shocked, or sad, or try to justify my failure with 'I've just skipped a grade'. I had lived for eight years getting nothing less than perfect for my reading and writing. It made me restless - knowing I wasn't yet a good writer, but not knowing how to make myself better; knowing I didn't yet deserve perfect scores, but getting them because teachers couldn't be bothered, or simply couldn't, dig deep and pull out some flaw. I had lived for eight years helping teachers mark work, helping teachers mark my own work, writing and working without a single praise or critique. And here was a teacher willing to scribble out page after page of what I didn't do, what I did wrong, and what I could do better. Nothing was harsh or cynical or judgemental. It was you suck the big one, but in a nice way.

I left year nine, as a year eight, a perfect 30 student. Every essay I got back that wasn't perfect, there was always help and guidance, and more importantly, an internalized drive to do better.

I realize now that I have lost this. I'd gotten lazy, overly confident that I wouldn't slip too far even if I didn't put the work in. Don't get me wrong, I did work very hard on this particular disaster, but hard work is futile if you haven't got the bitterness of failure on your tongue. I was fighting against failure, but I had forgotten what failure was like. I'd forgotten what it was like to fall short of my own expectations.

I could have endless, perfectly-valid excuses as to why I had missed the mark. I have skipped a grade, after all. What I did end up getting is more than most people dream of. It's not such a bad mark, and, in the grand scheme of things, English isn't going to count towards anything, Yeah, that's true. But I didn't take English so I could flunk it, and waste my time. I took English because I love it, because I'm good at it, and because I grow and learn so much in English. And yes, the mark I did get isn't so bad. In another subject, I'd probably very happy. But I have my own standards. I know what is good and bad for me, and state averages aren't much of a comfort to me. An Olympic swimmer isn't going to be satisfied with what I would consider a fast lap time, but he'd probably take my essay scores, even my 'bad 'ones, anyday. All I know is that I normally do better, and now I feel bad.

So I'm going to do it again. I'm going to take a break, catch my breath, and throw myself into it. Just like I did, a long time ago, as a scared year eight girl out in the big world.

But for now, I have to finish my very, very humble pie.

Operation Get Fit: The rewards, or, how to get a glutton to lose weight.

2011-11-06T23:34:00.001+08:00

Update: Aunt Flo being a bit temperamental, but otherwise I am down to about 54.5kg. Woot!

When I was my old 57kg self, I told myself that my life would not get any better if I was skinnier. That there was no point; it wasn't worth the effort. I was in a pretty happy place, and I'd been skinnier before, but I'd also been unhappier before. I had lost, probably for the greater good, the connection between weight and happiness. But just because I was happy being 57kg doesn't mean I would necessarily be happy and continue to pile on weight. I had reached 57kg after a 7kg slippery slope since my first bout of depression three or four years ago. My reasons for eating had changed, but the point was I was still eating, eating, eating.

I am a self-confessed, happy-go-lucky glutton. I have always loved food - specifically, I love good food. Food makes me happy. Going to my favourite restaurant and realizing the food has turned shit is akin to being dumped. The consequence of my epicurean habits is that I have often used food as an anti-depressant. Not such a good idea when I suffer from depression. Food as an anti-depressant + person who suffers from depression = one fat, depressed person.

So here is how I to get a glutton to lose weight:

1. Don't quit cold turkey.

You can't quit ice cream cold turkey. In fact, in my opinion, if you do quit ice cream you've lost any reason to live ;). Slow and steady really does win the race.

2. I wish I could lose a dress size every time I walk the dog. But it doesn't work like that.

It has been about 3 weeks since I started Operation Get Fit, and I have lost 2.5kg. This isn't losing a dress size, but it is losing a muffin top. It does work, eventually.

3. Big tip: Eat sloooooowly.

Multitasking whilst eating is a big no-no. When you're chewing, don't think about what you're going to eat next, or arrange the next mouthful on your fork. When you're hoovering down food you almost always eat too much.

4. The people who love you tell you you're fat.

My mother has been nagging me about my weight for ages. And to be honest, it really hurt to have my own mother tell me I was fat. But the people who really love you tell it like it is. K used to swear I wasn't putting on weight. No points for guessing who's the douchebag out of the two.

5. If you look for them, the rewards come thick and fast.

Things that have changed since I've lost some weight (and this is only 2.5kg!):

1. I no longer have insomnia.
2. No more muffin top!
3. I fit into all my jeans now (jeans hate me, because I'm too short for size 10 but too wide for size 12.)
4. I can climb up two flights of really steep stairs without dying.
5. I can run to class without dying.
6. My boobs look bigger ;P.
7. I'm off ramen. Strange, huh?
8. 'Healthy' options aren't all that gross, as I've found out. Replace salty, oily chips with semi-dried tomatoes and crackers. Yummy.
9. Losing weight isn't as hard as I thought it would be. I still eat - a lot - but I'm already losing weight and I already feel the difference.
10. My weight doesn't fluctuate that much. I mean, it still does, it probably always will. But now the difference is like 1kg, not...you know...7...

sometimes it's nice not being all hormonal.

2011-11-04T23:46:00.003+08:00

As you may have guessed, I am a bit of a lovebug.

I'm not exactly a love magnet, but that's another story.

But sometimes it's nice having guyfriends. Guys who hold no attraction to you apart from laughs, back massages and good times. As silly and girly as I can be, sometimes all I want to be is one of the boys. I hate being all self conscious and shy around guys, especially when I know I'm wasting my time and that nothing's going to happen, ever. It's tiring and frustrating and in the end, I'm the one who ends up getting hurt.

There are a handful of guys now that I'm truly comfortable around, and for a change, the non-romanticness is mutual and comfortable. We talk about school and stuff. I can ask them someting academic without worrying about sounding nerdy. It doesn't matter if I'm not wearing makeup, my hair's a mess, etc. There's lots of hair ruffling and shoulder punching and sitting on laps. No kissing, no flirting, no hugging, no asking out, no goo goo eyes. Just how I like it.

I haven't had effortlessly platonic relationships with boys for ages and ages and ages, and it's endlessly frustrating. I remember back when I was little I had lots of friends who were boys and playing with them was some of the best times of my childhood. It was so nice to be around people who haven't got that Inner Female Bitch Gene. I acknowledge I've probably messed up two perfectly good friendships - BSC and K - by falling in love with my best mates. I mean, I love my girlfriends to pieces, but sometimes you need a bit of yang to your ying. Platonic yang.

I think some guys - especially the guys that, ahem, seem to go through girls fairly quickly - are a little envious of all these guys who have lots of girl mates, the kind of guys who have probably never gone out with anyone but have no shortage of female company. In some ways you can be closer to your friends than you ever can with a boyfriend or a girlfriend, because attraction is completely out of the equation - it's like even if I was going out with someone, there would still be some things I'd only talk about with Cristy and my friends and not said boyfriend.

I love being myself. I've tried to be myself around everyone, even people I really, really, really like, but that doesn't always work out. I love being myself, and I love having friends. I don't care that my guyfriends don't look like Brad Pitt, and they don't care that I don't look like Angeline Jolie. Girlfriends - at least my girlfriends - aren't picky like that, and it's probably because the attraction isn't skin deep like so many high school romances. Sometimes with guys, and friendship, romance really is the kiss of death.

Paradise...

2011-11-02T23:19:00.002+08:00

dreaming of meeting kindred spirits <3

I feel as if I was made
To walk this earth alone
But people cross my path
Like black cats and
Smashed mirrors
I'm always walking under ladders.

I feel as if I was made
As a kind of trick,
The joke's on me.
I'm walking onto Noah's Ark
Without a pair
I used to be scared, but

Now I cannot take human company,
I dream of something more ethereal.
I have to win this gamble,
I must win this game;
My soulmate will not be fully human,
For I am not fully sane.

When I was just a girl,
I thought I could rule the world.
But now I see,
A queen must have a king.

When I was young and idle
I dreamed of meeting
Friends for life.

I never realized that
I dreamed of nothing short of paradise.

for my partners in crime,
belephant and renegade.

Inspired by 'Paradise' by Coldplay

Princess of China

2011-11-02T19:37:00.004+08:00

if you had hated me
as i loved you
we would have been complete.
yingandyang.

That is the difference between
annabolena
and
anneofcleves.

a crime of passion
is a passion nonetheless.
but to live and die
unwantedandalone
is the greater punishment.

you are the kind of man
who can walk away from
the greatest of prizes.

the kind of man who takes for granted
what other men only dream of.

at least,
that is what i am told.

i was a Princess of China,
you could have been king...

now we are neither,
and as our castle burns down
around
us

you smile.

Inspired by 'Princess of China' by Coldplay.

Incidentally, I am just a little self conscious now that I know exactly who is reading this blog, but life goes on. Or blogging does, at any rate. It's called strength of character, and not being a floozy.

Operation Get Fit: Why teenageness makes you fat.

2011-10-30T15:22:00.000+08:00

Update: I have lost a kilo! 55, baby!

In my opinion, the teenage years are the worst for people who have slow metabolisms and tend to pile on weight easily (read: me).

Firstly, there's the hormonal crap. Did you know that teenagers can gain up to 50% of their normal bodyweight due to hormonal craziness? Female puberty prepares women for childbearing, and fertility requires fat. Which is why you bulk up a bit during adolescence. How sucky.

But mostly it's our eating habits. When we're studying, we're so frenzied that we'll eat finger foods so that you can multitask with your physics homework. Sit down meals seem like an incredible waste of time. But when you multitask with food - so studying and eating, watching tv and eating, etc - you lose track of what you're eating and how much you're eating. For example - would you seriously go through a jumbo box of popcorn if that's all you were doing? No! But at movies we steadily chomp through unreasonable amounts of food because we simply don't realize we're eating at all, half the time. Habit eating, which is a rather bad habit of mine, is a sneaky cause of weight gain.

My other little vice is what I call NOTHING IS GOING RIGHT IN MY LIFE WAHH I'M JUST GOING TO EAT EAT EAT EAT BECAUSE FOOD IS MY ONLY FRIEND!!!!!!! I have been known to go slightly off my head at times, and with that, I go off my face with food. My biggest binging times were:

1. Year Seven, aged twelve - The last time I was under 50kg. I was SO OVER eight years of PURE HELL, so I concentrated all of my self-pity into daily binges of ramen noodles.

2. Year Eight, aged thirteen - Lose a boyfriend, gain a kilo (or three). Basically, more ramen.

Since then I have pulled back on my ramen obsession, but I haven't really been very conservative with portion control - okay, I had no concept of portion control until recently. I ate until I couldn't get another bite in and always went to bed feeling very full and slightly sick. My theory is that all the food you eat until you're no longer hungry goes into energy and fat reserve, and the food you eat until you're full just turns into, well, fat. My eating patters were also different to normal meal times, so I found myself eating when I felt like it (a full meal midmorning and after school) AND during normal mealtimes (breakfast, lunch, dinner). That's five meals a day!

My love affair with food continues, but we now have a pre-nup. Portion control.

CHOGM.

2011-10-29T13:12:00.001+08:00

The Queen is in Perth today.

No, I haven't seen her.

No, I don't plan to see her.

No, I don't hate her.

But yes, I am a republican.

the narrow mindedness of getting the hell out of here.

2011-10-28T00:00:00.002+08:00

There are two problems with Australian people: we shamelessly advertise our country even if we know we're a leaky luxury ship, and we insist on pretending everything's okay when most things are not.

I'm a cynical second-generation immigrant. I don't have cash to burn; my 'back up plan' is Centrelink, not an inheritance. I really don't have any room to fail, nor do I have any interest in experimenting with failure. It's become a taboo to love to succeed, to love to win, but I do and I'm not ashamed of it. I don't have a bleak outlook on life; I have a bleak outlook on some people in my life. I complain a lot. I don't really fit in.

I have spent pretty much all of my life in Perth. I have also spent pretty much all of my life trying to get out of Perth. Don't get me wrong, Perth is a lovely place to grow up, because it's nice and boring and pretty hard to run into trouble. But I'm fifteen, and I'm a rebel without a cause. I'm tired of lovely, nice and boring. I have been for a very long time.

I've wanted to go to Oxford since I was eight and my mother explained The Story Behind Her Oxford Jumper. Now I have a jumper of my own, and I'd still love to go to Oxford, but it's appallingly expensive and notoriously difficult for undergrad international students, so for me it's more a postgrad plan. Yes, I am one of those nerds who wants to do postgrad. Got a problem with that?

But Oxford is in England, and going to England involves getting on a plane and waving bye-bye to good ol' Perthy. And people don't like that, because it's acknowledging that Perth is a boring, lonely place to live.

I want to get a lit degree. I want to do big things. I don't see many other options aside from going abroad and trying to strike it big. Nobody is going to listen to a little Perth schoolkid, and uni degrees mean less than nothing now. I need to have more than that. I need to be the kind of person that people sit up and listen to.

I told my teacher that, and he said 'you've failed already'. Gee, thanks. Just what I want to hear from a teacher.

There were two hypocrites in that class in which this conversation took place. I'm sad to say that one of them was not a clueless student.

The clueless student, with permed hair, makeup and fake nails, said to me 'I think you're too obsessed with what people think about you. I mean, it's not our fault you're so insecure that you need to do all this stuff to make yourself feel better'.

The clueless non-student said 'Right, now lets go listen to JUSTICE MICHAEL KIRBY who was a FORMER JUDGE in the HIGH COURT who went to the UNIVERSITY OF SYDNEY. We're REALLY PRIVILEDGED to HAVE HIM HERE'.

So, according to the above, Michael Kirby is obsessed with what people think about him and is insecure, and we would totally be skipping class to be listen to seventy-year-old dudes, even if they weren't HIGH COURT JUDGES or similar. If they were just random nobodies.

Just like me.

I'm not narrowminded for wanting to leave this unintellectual place of eternal boredom. It's not a flippant decision. I've lived here for FIFTEEN YEARS, and I think that's quite enough time to establish that this is not the be and all and end all of everything. There's nothing narrowminded about wanting to see the world, step out of my comfort zone, become the sort of person I want to be and to respond to a higher calling. I am not so idealistic as my dear Perth lovers. I am a nobody, and nobody listens to a nobody. My goals aren't the only way to establish yourself, but establishing yourself not only on a local level, but also on an international scale is the only way to make people shut up and listen. Because we all have good ideas; we all have the potential to be geniuses. But we don't live in a time and place where people throw money at nobodies with potential. You have to be somebody to do something.

Relief Teachers.

2011-10-25T23:11:00.003+08:00

Being a relief teacher is tough and irritating, but don't expect too much sympathy from students; after all, it is your job, and you do get paid for it. You're replacing probably a much-loved, easygoing laid back teacher, and any kid is going to be grumpy about that. So don't make it worse.

1. Go with the flow.

Students are creatures of habit, and dislike breaking routine. A teacher who is obsessive compulsive about method and procedure really shouldn't be a relief teacher, because it never, ever works.

2. Don't deprecate yourself.

"I'm new here", "I don't understand what's going on", "I'm just a math teacher, I know nothing about history" and "can someone please tell me what to do" sounds wimpy, and students love to pick on wimpy people. Be strong.

3. Get a kid to do the roll.

A whole slew of badly-pronounced names is irritating and a waste of time, not to mention a huge potential for massive embarassment on your part.

4. Follow the old teacher's rules.

Many teachers take a very relaxed approach to teaching - these are often the classes that don't have behavior ir discipline problems because the teacher treats the students more like human beings and less like puny insects. So if the old teacher allows it, you should allow it. Let the kids sit on the tables and listen to iPods. Deal with it. It won't kill you.
5. Don't ask one single kid to explain every detail of day to day routine.

They'll always get it wrong or make it up. I guarantee it.

6. Don't set yourself up for mockery.

The normal teacher can probably get away with mumuus and purple lipstick You never will.

7. Don't demand TOTAL UTTER SILENCE.

All you will get is TOTAL UTTER HATRED.

8. Remember that students have many outlets for revenge.

And most of them are very, very public.

Operation Get Fit: Who you callin' fat?

2011-10-24T23:23:00.002+08:00

Update: I have lost about half a kilo in a week. So my weight now fluctuates between 49.5-56.5. Anyone know how to stop it from moving around so much?

Most people I talk to put weight down to a number, a dress size, a particular appearance. For most women, 60 is the magic number, as in 60kg. Under 60, and you're pretty trim. That's the main idea.

But it doesn't always work like that. I'm a good four or five kilos under 60, and I'm not really the trimmest person to walk the planet. In fact, I'm pretty sure if I ever hit 60 I'd be one chunky monkey. So it does vary, a lot. For some women (like me), 50 or 55 is pretty much the max. Other women can hit 60, 70 or even 80 and still be healthy.

You can't tell how healthy you are by your appearance. Fat cells are decided genetically - as in, you can't control it. You'll always have a minimum weight that you can't avoid without becoming seriously ill. You gain or lose weight by filling these fat cells with fat, but they're always there, and they always have a little fat in them. It's healthy and perfectly normal. This is also why some people find it hard to gain weight. Fat, and acceptable levels of fat, is also dictated by your racial and ethnic background - for example, if you're white with a medium build you can probably get away with a few more pounds than someone who's the same height but Asian with a slightly smaller build. Conversely, some races are just naturally plump to endure conditions in native lands (i.e. Eskimos).

Fat is also only one factor in general wellness. You can be fit and active and still be 60kg with generous love handles, but you'll be miles healthier than a skinny stick who smokes and eats burgers all day. The problem is that in this day and age we associate general health far too much with the number our scales churn out, and a lot of people think they're fine because they're thin when in fact some are more unhealthy than people who are a trifle overweight.

You can't always tell if you're the correct weight by appearance, either. Fat in different places mean different things, for example, fat in the breast, buttocks and thighs are actually healthy and essential for female fertility, but fat in the stomach is linked to diabetes and heart disease.

Stretch marks can be caused by weight gain, but are more often caused by pregnancy or the sudden growth spurts in adolescence. This is why babies have such lovely fat rolls, because this is when human beings do the most growing - if babies were as slender as adults they'd have stretch marks all over.

BMI calculators are also pretty flukey, because they don't take into account ethnicity, metabolism, age etc - Arnold Schwarzenegger would actually be chronically obese according to his BMI (he probably is now, but I was talking about his Terminator days). I have a pretty low BMI, but it doesn't mean much - a BMI calculator is useful in ensuring that your goal weight, if you're trying to lose weight, is healthy. I would like to be about 50-53kg, which is still well within the healthy BMI range. That's pretty much the only time I'm going to use the BMI calculator, because according to it I could go up to 63kg without being 'fat'! I'm 'fat' already!

My advice about getting fit is not to stress too much about it. Focus on being fit and healthy, not the abuse your scales give you. A little bit of icecream won't kill you, and no matter what, you're never going to look like Miranda Kerr.

I'm always going to be a big girl. But big girls still have to climb a few flights of stairs without having heart attacks. It's part of life.

sex appeal is overrated.

2011-10-24T21:46:00.000+08:00

in other news, I met JACKIE FREAKING FRENCH today! again.

Sorry, I'm one of those people who gets startstruck by authors. But it was very, very, very, very, very, very cool.

Anyway, about sex appeal...

I'm one of those people who's a bit slow to hear about music. As in, I've only just gotten into Viva la Vida. Yeah. That slow.

One of the songs that's kind of stuck in my head lately is 'Superbass', by Nicki Minaj. But I can't always watch the video. To me, it's just too overly sexual.

Now, I don't really have a problem with the lyrics. Strange, huh? But I honestly don't mind it, even when he make you drip drip/kiss him on the lip lips. I mean, I would be comfortable with a two year old singing it, but whatever.

It's the video that bugs me.

It's not jus the fact that every second frame is a full-frame shot of somebody's boobs. It's the six packs and just the overall obsession with physical appearance.

I've grown up in this world where everyone is obsessed with how everyone looks. I grew up genuinely believing I wouldn't be happy unless I was 30kg and six feet tall, with a six-pack husband. So, essentially, Orlando Bloom and Miranda Kerr.

Now that I'm older, and hopefully wiser, I've accepted that I'm not going to get that. But apart from that, I sometimes feel like I'm the only person - at least in high school - who can almost completely see past appearance and appearances. It doesn't mean I haven't got an appreciation for beauty, because I do. It doesn't mean I shy away from the sexy and the sexual, because I don't. But I'm human, and I'm tired of being pressured into being a plastic doll, liking plastic dolls. I guarantee I'll be just as smart, just as dumb, just as clutzy and just as annoying if I had 32DD and could squeeze into size two dresses. I'd be the same person with a slightly creepy and extremely temporary shell. But that's not what I want.

One day I'll be fat and fifty and I want to be holding hands with someone fat and fifty and think 'you and I were young and beautiful once...but now we're not and I still love you, and you still love me.'

Have a Heart for the Homeless.

2011-10-24T20:57:00.001+08:00

I am truly disgusted at our country's immigration policy. It truly makes me sick. It makes me ashamed to be Australian.

People don't understand how important innocence is to innocent people. If you put people who have committed no crime other than to seek a safe place to live in a prison, it's going to mess with their heads. People don't realize just how much of a prison detention centres are; they don't realize it's a breeding ground for mental illness and insanity. People go insane in there. I know I would.

We treat immigrants worse than we treat murderers and rapists. They are victims of war, of poverty, of illness, famine and corruption. Things that many of us cannot even contemplate, and yet we treat them like animals until they behave like animals. Can we not take some responsibility for the riots in the detention centres? Or, more importantly, can we not take responsibility for the suicides and self-harm in the detention centres? Every day we keep these detention centres open and running we get more blood and shit on our hands.

We are a racist, xenophobic bigoted lot. We don't know what it is to be hungry, persecuted, unwanted. We take for granted food on our tables and roofs over our heads. We take for granted the ability to pursue a free and happy life and to raise a safe and happy family. There are many people the world over who can only dream of these rights, and we shun them because - well, why don't we say it like it is? They're black, poor and foreign, and we just can't take it.

Have a heart for the homeless. This is Australia, land of the free.

Viva la Vida.

2011-10-23T19:45:00.000+08:00

A funeral.
In a dreary graveyard.
The funeral director,
Too fat,
Cried oniontears for mum and dad.

We called him
Caesar Grandfather;
Which was a polite way of saying
Dictator;
I cried oniontears for mum and dad.

The next day.
School;
Where everything runs smoothly with
a little
catnip and
bubblegum.

As I walked past locker E46
I whispered:
The old king is dead,
long live the king.

Inspired (vaguely) by Viva la Vida by Coldplay.

Mistletoe.

2011-10-22T16:50:00.002+08:00

I just watched Mistletoe.I now have to find a place to throw up.

Really early Christmas greetings from Justin Bieber and the Cranky Spinster.

Recipe: Semi-Dried Tomatoes.

2011-10-22T16:32:00.001+08:00

This is SUUPER easy to make and super versatile; add to pasta, sandwiches, or eat with brie cheese and crusty bread. Yum.

You will need:
~ Tomatoes - any sort, and as much as you want.
~ Thyme and/or Rosemary - again, as much or as little as you want. I suppose you could use basil, oregano, etc. For about 2kg of tomatoes I used ten big sprigs of rosemary from our garden. Use dried if you can't get fresh.
~ Garlic - mince finely or it'll burn. I used almost a whole globe for 2kg of tomatoes, but you can use as little as one or two cloves.
~ Olive Oil
~ Salt - about 1tsp per kilo
~ Sugar - about 2 tsp per kilo
~ Boiling water
~ Iced water

Method:
1. Preheat oven to 100-120 degree Celcius.
2. Wash and de-core tomatoes, score a cross lightly into the bottom.
3. Place tomatoes in boiling water for 20 seconds, then place into iced water.
4. Peel tomatoes and slice in half.
5. Finely chop herbs and garlic, combine with salt and sugar and cover with olive oil. Stir.
6. Arrange tomatoes on baking trays and smother each with the oil mixture - about 1-2tsp for each tomato half.
7. Put in oven and forget about it.
8. Bottle with any oil on the tray. Cover with more oil if necessary.
9. Will keep for 2-3 weeks

How long do I cook them for?The tomatoes won't do anything for at least two or three hours. I normally take them out after four or five hours, mostly out of impatience. They're good and cooked by then, but still juicy. Some people leave it overnight. Be careful oven is not too hot because garlic and herbs can burn. Tastes best when slow cooked in a slow oven.

The Most Important Things I've Ever Learned.

2011-10-22T16:23:00.000+08:00

1. High school is essentially the bargain bin of boys. You get what you pay for, no refunds or exchanges.

2. Life is too short not to order the chocolate cake.

3. Butter makes everything delicious, a two year old will eat anything if you drown it in ketchup and when in doubt, put on bright red lipstick.

4. The only friends worth having are those you would trust your Porsche and your Tiffanys with.

5. No matter what, your mother is always the best cook.

6. Never buy a dress or date a boy that needs altering.

7. It's fine to spend all day in your pyjamas, but people who wear crocs have given up on life.

8. Coffee is not a substitute for sleep.

9. Never understimate knitting grandmas. It's frickin' impossible to knit.

10. A man should always walk curbside, open doors, offer his jacket, wear his wedding ring and pay for the first date. We have to go through labour and PMS.

11. You're only in love when you can hang out with someone as if you were hanging out by yourself: air-guitaring and bad karaoke included.

12. Don't listen to the critics. There's nothing better than a chick flick on a lazy Saturday night.

13. Don't kid yourself. Everyone likes ballroom dancing.

14. The best cure for a cold is ramen noodles.

15. The Devil really does wear Prada.

16. Real women eat steak.

17. You're never too young or too old to dye your hair bright red.

18. Any good Korean can fix anything with ginseng and chicken soup.

19. Quick-dry nail polish never dries quickly

20. We gotta work together. None of us gets out of this alive.

2011-10-17T16:43:00.001+08:00

I'm a renegade, it's in my blood.

I'll let you in on a little secret...

2011-10-17T16:16:00.002+08:00

I often pretend to be much more tolerating of other people's religious beliefs than I actually am. Deep down, I am often very impatient and skeptical of the whole institution. Perhaps a little too much so for the benefit of civil peace.

People often accuse atheists of acting superior or being condescending to the religious sort, and to be honest, it's often very true. But is that any different to anyone else? No matter how tolerant or accepting one person is of another person's religious beliefs, or lack of religious beliefs, we all secretly think that we are right. I would not be an atheist if I did not genuinely believe that there is absolutely no God, and if I did not genuinely believe that there is little point in prayer or worship. And I reserve my right to think so.

There's no shame in the 'I'm right, you're wrong' thinking; it's why we are religious or anti-religious in the first place. It's not just religion; we all slip into 'I'm right, you're wrong' every now and again. How many times have you battled with your parents, with your children, with your friends over the most trivial things because each person thinks that they have a better idea? The world still turns round despite this.

The key is tolerance. The key is pretending to be much more understanding than you are. The key is to not let it bother you; in the end, does it really matter what religion everyone is? There are religious differences even in our circle of friends, but it doesn't bother us even though we do talk about religion quite a lot. We all have a different opinion, but that's not the problem; the problem is when we forget to agree to disagree.

Things that Are Uniquely Australian (that sometimes confuse the hell out of tourists)

2011-10-16T19:24:00.003+08:00

1. Tipping is rare and usually not necessary, given the high labour costs and massive spike in the prices of goods such as petrol and fresh produce. It is, however, expected that you give someone a tip if they are a friend or acquaintence and/or they did the work for free. Tipping has also become a cliche expected at first dates.

2. There are no hard and fast rules at restaurants. Some prefer you wait at the door; others don't mind if you wander around and pick a table. Some have waiters to take your order, others prefer you to order at the counter. Most of the time the bill is paid at the counter, not brought to you in a folder.

3. Thongs in Australia are sandals, known as flip flops or slippers (don't call them that here, it's weird). The underwear known as a thong in Australia is known as a 'g-string'. Bathers and nappies are swimsuits and diapers; pants are trousers, not underwear - underwear is boxers or jocks for boys and knickers and undies for girls. A singlet is any kind of sleeveless top; a boob tube is a strapless top.

4. A creek in Australia is a stream or small river, a paddock is a field, the bush is just country areas in general, and people use the word 'mate' for absolutely everybody in pretty much any context, even if they're pissed off; i.e. 'WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING, MATE???' A man is a bloke, a woman is a sheila, but only in the outback. G'day is used interchangeably with 'hello' or 'hi'. A cuppa is a cup of tea, damper is bread cooked on an open fire.

5. There is not one universal Australian accent; it varies from region to region and also by socio-economic status. The working class tend to use more localized grammar, Aboriginal-loan words and slang vocabulary, whereas the richy rich try and fail to be people fresh out of Austen. A good way to tell is whether they call the last meal of the day 'dinner' or 'tea'.

6. Chips are crisps, as in the ones sold in packaged air. Hot chips are chips, as in the ones in fish and chips. Fries are skinny chips.

7. If the soft drink is black, it's Coke. If the soft drink is yellow, it's Solo. If the soft drink is clear, it's Lemonade. The word soda is only used in a cocktail context, and nobody ever calls anything cola. To be safe, use brand names.

8. Nicknames pop up ALL THE TIME. Barry becomes Bazza. Nobody ever calls anybody here 'Christopher' or 'Edward'. Bluey is common for people with red hair. You can get away with pretty much anything except for abo or nigger.

9. If you're unsure what to call something, use the British English term, especially amongst older folks. However, most Australians will know both the American, Australian and British term for most things (it's like knowing three languages!)

8. A bikkie is a biscuit, and is usually sweet (savoury biscuits are crackers). Zucchini, snow pea, eggplant, capsicum and rockmelon are courgette, mangetout, aubergine, pepper and cantaloupe. Most people know what a courgette, aubergine and cantaloupe is. Nobody knows what a mangetout is. We know that a pepper can be a capsicum but for us it's almost exclusively the spice.

9. Tomato sauce is ketchup. We don't understand why the Brits and Americans must call every sauce by its colour (red sauce, brown sauce, orange sauce, white sauce). Most people have forgotton what McDonalds is - it's always Maccas. Always.

10. A dollar is a buck, and is a coin. If it's a large amount of money, it may be referred to as 'smackaroos' (e.g. it cost me a thousand smackaroos).

11. A flat white is an expresso drowned in enough hot milk to fill a cup or mug. A long black is a flat white made with water instead of milk. A short black is an expresso.

12. Cheapo wine is very popular, and sold in casks, known as goons. Some people take the bag out of the box (taking the silver lady out to dance) to get every last drop, and to use it as a pillow.

13. Almost everyone here loves sport. Having a football team is almost mandatory. It is judged by geography, but people who live in an area with a shit team sometimes say, or pretend, that they used to live in /grew up in another area so that they can support a better team. The hierarchy of teams is known as a ladder. Cricket and tennis is also super popular, although baseball is not.

14. Football, footy, Aussie Rules and AFL all refer th Australian football. Soccer is for ther European-type football, and nobody really plays American football. Rugby is known as, well, rugby, and also league, union or thugby (although don't say that to a rugby player!)

To barack is to support a sport team. People don't 'root' for a team because root means sex (dunno where that came from)

15. A ute is a pick up truck, and an SUV is a 4WD. A truck is usually one of those big industrial road trains.

16. The big vans used by the police for random breath testing is known as a booze bus.

17. A soldier is usually known as a digger.

18. The words 'vacation' or 'abroad' are very rarely used 'holiday' or 'overseas' is more common. Fall is Autumn.

19. A stubby is a bottle of beer.

20. Dressing standards are extremely casual, and people often walk around in nothing but board shorts or a bikini. However, thongs, hats and singlets are not permitted in some high-end restaurants.

21. The legal drinking age is 18. The legal age of consent is 16 in most places, 17 in a few states. You can drive at the age of 16 (learning).

22. White Australians are notorious for attempting to impose Western manners onto others; malicious intent or not. This is a terrible generalization, and of course there are plenty of non-patronizing people of all races in Australia. But if it happens, don't take it too seriously, but don't let them get too condescending.

23. Australia's a weird place. You learn to live here.

you know...

2011-10-16T15:12:00.004+08:00

I'm making semi-dried tomatoes but they're taking ages to, you know...dry...

I'm pretty sure I saw Sam Worthington in the city today, but he was wearing sunglasses and, you know, all Aussie blokes wearing sunglasses look the same...

School starts tomorrow and I'm, you know, freaking out...

I went for a run last night and I, you know, died...

Operation Get Fit.

2011-10-15T17:36:00.001+08:00

I am on a mission to get fit.

On the side, I would like to lose a little weight before ball. Not something crazy. Just three or four kilos so that everything is nice and smooth. I'm not actually too worried about the weight - I'm more concerned about getting fit.

It's no secret that I'm not fit - I never have been and I never will be super duper trooper fit. But I feel tired all the time, super sluggish, and I cannot walk long distances at all. My biggest killer are staircases - and in a school like mine, I walk up and down about twenty staircases a day! Even more when I catch the bus!

This is my main concern, because it's making me chronically fatigued and really not nice. I would like to be able to walk up a flight or two of stairs without feeling like I'm going to DROP DEAD.

I also have a heart condition, so I really should be a bit more careful about my health than I am now. I don't eat chocolate or candy anymore (I don't like it much, anyway) and I've restricted the unhealthy stuff that I do like, like ramen noodles. At the moment I'm working on portion control. But the most important thing is to never stop loving food - life is too short not to order chocolate cake!

The third thing is weight. To put it out there, I'm about 5'3" and I weigh about 110-125 pounds. The reason for so much variation is that my weight fluctuates a LOT - on a really good day I'll wake up about 50kg, but after eating and so on I'll normally fall asleep at about 54 or 55. If I'm bloated or pigging out too much it can go up to 56 or 57. Now, this might not sound so bad - and I know lots of girls my height who can get away with being 60kg - but I only have a small/medium frame, and I'm Asian, and Asians don't do so well with weight; statistics show that the Asian anatomy combined with a Western lifestyle is a bad combo and can lead to birth complications and health problems later in life. I'm also pretty short, and I don't have the lovely voluptuous gene - it's more dumpy than voluptuous. Because of my height I can only wear small or medium clothes, but size small is getting a little, well, small. Also, my weight is not really where I want it to be - fat around the hips, thighs and buttocks of a woman is actually quite healthy, as unsightly as it may be. But I have trim legs and decent hips, so all the weight is on my Buddha belly - between my waist and my hips; this not only looks weird but is actually the worst place to have fat (this is why men, despite having lower levels of fat then women, are more prone to fat-related health issues). I also have an hourglass shape figure, which means that stomach fat on me is even worse. So I'm not trying to be super duper skinny. I love having hips and boobs. I love being curvy and I know that if I drop below size ten I'll look really unhealthy. I love being an hourglass shape. But the bottom half of the hourglass just as to trim up a bit.

I think I was the unhealthiest when I was about twelve or thirteen - I was sad, bored, frustrated and depressed. I hated school, I didn't have many friends, and I was beginning to discover just how fun douchebag immature pre-teen boys are. I drowned two successive dumpings and countless unrequited loves in cookie-dough icecream and potato chips and endless bowls of ramen. I began replacing boys with food, friends with food, a fulfilling education with food. I spent all day dreaming of what to eat and when I came home I ate like there was no tomorrow.

Obviously, I'm over that, but that still doesn't mean I'm fit. I don't want to go to the Olympics or walk on a catwalk. This won't end all of my problems and get me my happily ever after. But I just want to be happy and healthy.

So I've started Operation Get Fit. Wish me luck.

In Memory of Steve Jobs

2011-10-07T00:32:00.002+08:00

Rest in peace, Steve Jobs.

Now I'll never know how to get my iPod to behave again.

Steve Jobs 1955 ~ 2011
Co-founder of Apple Inc.

Would all the gentlemen please stand up?

2011-10-06T16:56:00.001+08:00

I have decided that

A place like Australia

And a setting like a high school

Is not really conducive

To the kind of Darcy boys

That I know

Exist

Somewhere

In a far off world

With their

Caroline Bingleys.

Rome: Social Hierarchy.

2011-10-05T00:43:00.002+08:00

Rome was a sprawling multicultural metropolis, but it was as hierarchal as it was motley. The social hierarchy, as I understand it, is as follows:

1. PATRICIAN

The patrician class, also known as the Famous Families, was the social elite, and only patricians had access to the prestigious religious, political and military positions. Patricians had full Roman citizenship and were descended from the founders of Rome, and, apparently, from the gods - the Julii (the family of Julius Caesar) claimed to be descended from Aeneas, son of Venus - the Roman goddess of love. To be patrician did not automatically equal wealth, however, they had a certain social standing that could not be disputed. Patricians adhered to the strict naming conventions and married confarreatio, which was a traditional patrician form of marriage that was binding for life, and notoriously difficult to divorce from. Patricians married other patricians; it took a very wealthy and influential equite or pleb (known as a New Man) to secure a patrician wife. Gaius Julius Caesar is a patrician of note, being a member of the noble house of the Julii. It is estimated that less than 1% of Rome's population were classed as patricians.

2. EQUITES AND NOBILES

It is often difficult to differentiate equites from nobiles, and they do overlap and the terms are used interchangeably from time to time. An equite is someone of either patrician or plebeian status who is wealthy enough to buy horses and serve as members of cavalry in the Roman army, as opposed to a mere foot soldier. A nobile is someone of either patrician or plebeian status who either is a consul, is related to a consul or is descended from a consul. Some equites and nobiles are not considered patrician because they either come from plebeian backgrounds or they were of 'new money' - their wealth was not directly hereditary. The term nobile does also extend to cover patricians, however, it is commonly used for 'New Men' such as Gaius Marius or Cicero, who both rose from non-patrician, non-consular Roman families with Latin origin.

3. PLEBEIAN

A plebeian or pleb was someone who could not claim direct ancestry from a founder of Rome and/or a god, but had full Roman citizenship - this included some equites and nobiles. Plebs were divided into classes according to wealth, and this determined one's place in the army and therefore one's political prospects. A common way for plebeians to rise was to gain money through investment and business, become a tribune of the plebs (a role off limits for patricians), marry a wealthy patrician woman and then crawl their way to the top - someone who achieved this was known as a 'New Man'. Plebeians married into all classes, although a marriage between a wealthy plebeian man and a patrician woman or a poor patrician man with a wealthy plebeian woman was common. Perhaps a good example of a plebeian who rose to great heights is Tiberius Sempronius Gracchus Snr, who married Cornelia Africana and was a renowned consul, and father of the legendary Brothers Gracchi.

4. PROLETARII

The proles, or 'head count' were the poorest of plebs and had the lowest prospects, however, they still had Roman citizenship which was prized above both money and prospects. Proles very rarely changed either their social or economic status as patricians and plebeians considered proles to be beneath them as spouses or business partners.

5. IMMIGRANTS

There were many immigrants in Rome who sought trade and business opportunities; evidence of Egyptians, peoples from other parts of conquered and unconquered Africa, the Middle East, Jews, even people from the Orient would have lived in Rome. They lived amongst the plebs, and some even had ties with the patricians - however, they were not Roman and didn't have Roman citizenship, and so were considered below the proles.

6. FREEDMEN

Ex-slaves, or people descended from slaves. They were bound to their former masters in a patron-client relationship, and could be resold as if he were a slave if the ex-master found it necessary. Freemen were often from conquered lands, and were therefore neither Roman or had Roman citizenship.

7. SLAVES

It has been estimated that up to 70% of Rome's urban population were slaves, and they had quite an unusual place in society. Slaves were imported as spoils of war from conquered lands; some were barbarians or proles who sold themselves into slavery. The most well-off slaves were learned Greeks who, after educating themselves, sold themselves into slavery where they educated young patricians in the fashionable Greek arts of rhetoric, metaphysics, geometry and philosophy. After saving up they bought freedom, and then aimed to seek Roman citizenship. Sex slaves, male and female, were both valuable and highly sought after; patricians and plebeians required slaves for both domestic use and as a symbol of wealth and prosperity. Slaves were generally treated well in domestic settings, and often were trusted confidantes and assassins.

Rome: Naming Conventions.

2011-10-03T12:19:00.001+08:00

Finally hopping back onto the Rome wagon ;).

One thing that PISSED THE SHIT OUT OF ME when I first started studying Ancient Rome was that they ALL HAD THE SAME NAMES. I mean seriously. Caesar? Which Caesar? Sextus Julius Caesar? Lucius Julius Caesar? Gaius Julius Caesar the Elder? The Younger? The Stupider? WHOOOOO?????????????????

Let's take the name Gaius Julius Caesar for example; because everyone's familiar with it. Gaius is the praenomen - his given name. Julius is the nomen - his family name. Caesar is his cognomen - his clan name. This means that the 'Julius Caesar' is the hereditary bit, and all men in his family will share this. This is the part that confuses a lot of history rookies; we always assume that his first name is 'Julius', when in fact referring to Julius Caesar as 'Julius Caesar' is like referring to Tommy Lee Jones as just 'Lee Jones'.Every family had their own set of rules when they were naming their sons. Some have a set order - for example, Sextus was the name given to the first born son of each Julius Caesar, followed by Gaius and then Lucius. This is not always followed; some sources claimed that Lucius Cornelius Sulla should have been properly named Publius Cornelius Sulla as he was the only son. Sometimes the eldest son was named after the father, and then the younger sons after grandfathers and uncles - this is essentially why everybody has the same name, because they're all named after each other.

For some poorer patrician families it was not profitable having more than one son; 'surplus' sons were adopted out to wealthier families - a son of a senatorial family was nothing more than a burden until he married and brought a daughter in law, children and a dowry; he was not of any political importance until he entered the Senate at the age of thirty. For example, Publius Cornelius Scipio Aemilianus was not an actual Scipio; he was adopted by Publius Cornelius Scipio and named after him, but because he was originally the son of Lucius Aemilius Paulus this is acknowledged in his agnomen, or fourth name, 'Aemilianus'.How you referred to someone, and how someone preferred to be known was a status symbol. For example, prior to Caesar's rise to power he was merely a member of a senatorial family, and would have been formally referred to as 'Gaius Julius' - just 'Gaius' by friends or relatives. As Caesar grew to power everyone, including himself, referred to him as merely 'Caesar' - this is saying he is not just 'a Caesar' but 'THE CAESAR', and has eclipsed everyone in his family in fame. Yes, Caesar did refer to himself in the third person.

Caesar did not acquire an agnomen in his time, which was common after prestigious military or political feats. Sulla became Lucius Cornelius Sulla Felix, which means 'lucky' - Gnaeus Pompeius didn't have a cognomen so made up for it with the hilariously up himself agnomen 'Magnus', which is 'the Great', and is now known in history as Pompey Magnus. Some, like the aforementioned Aemilianus, had several agnomens: his full name was Publius Cornelius Scipio Aemilianus Africanus Numantinus, although he is now known in history as 'Scipio Aemilianus'.

By the late Republic patrician girls were not given praenomen; they only existed in the lower classes. A girl was named after her father's nomen - so Gaius Julius Caesar's daughter was Julia. This meant that all your sisters, paternal aunts, grandmother, cousins, nieces ALL HAD THE SAME NAME AS YOU. Girls were 'distinguished' by either the use of a cognomen or by nicknames, for example, Julius Caesar's daughter was referred to as 'Julia Caesaris', marking her as the daughter of both a Julius and a Caesar. If there was more than one daughter they could be Julia Major and Julia Minor (Julia the Elder and Julia the Younger), or Julia and Julilla, or they could be given a numerical nickname; Servilia's daughters were known as Junia Prima, Junia Secunda and Junia Tertia (Junia the First, Junia the Second and Junia the Third). If you were minted onto coins (not common for women, but not unheard of) you could be distinguished by your male relatives; Julia Caesaris was minted as 'Julia Caesaris, Caesar's Daughter, Pompey's Wife' and Caesar's mother Aurelia was known as Aurelia the Mother of Caesar. Aurelia was not the only woman known by her offpsring: Cornelia Africana was always known as Cornelia the Mother of the Gracchi - Cornelia was known as 'Africana' because her father was Scipio Africanus. It was also common for women to take their husband's nomen; the Julia known as Julia Antonia was actually a Julia Caesaris, but married an Antonius. Some women were named to boast their father's importance by using his agnmomen the daughter of Lucius Caecilius Metellus Dalmaticus was known as 'Caecilia Metella Dalmatica' to boast of his defeat of the Dalmatians. Have I confused you enough already???

BLOG ETIQUETTE

2011-09-27T22:35:00.000+08:00

1. Do not read a blog with the blogger knowingly present.

2. Do not directly ask questions about a blog or the content of a blog.

3. For fuck's sake, do not fucking swear, WRITE IN CAPITAL LETTERS, spel tinges rillie badli or be rude when you comment. It shits me.

4. Bloggers are real people. They occasionally write shit, typos, doggerel and silliness. Bloggers do not have editors and spellcheck don't work so well in a world where TTFN ROFL LOL LMAO AWOL BRB SJRTMSRTHSERHSBFRGSAWRAHRJNASRD is considered satisfactory communication. Take it all in good humour.

5. Do not post real names, addresses, phone numbers or other personal information.

6. If you don't like it, don't read it.

7. Have fun. Smile. Be happy.

gifted education.

2011-09-27T22:13:00.002+08:00

The best thing that has happened to me was when I was removed, at the age of twelve, from my mainstream government primary school to high school for the academic elite.

Now, it's not as dreamboat as it sounds. There are still crap teachers and dumb people. But the EPIC AWESOME THING is that there are actually SMART PEOPLE and GOOD TEACHERS here and there, every now and again. IT'S SO UNBELIEVABLY AWESOME.

Another really cool thing is that I've been able to 'tailor' - bullshit - my entire high school curriculum. I can do more of what I like, and what I'm good at, and less of what I HATE WITH A PASSION.

There are some people who don't like the idea of academically exclusive school. They think we don't deserve special treatment, that we're no better than the rest, that it's not an average child's fault that they're, well, average, etc. Some shit like that. But I'm all for it. And I'd say that even if I didn't get into an academic school, even if, in the future, my children don't get into an academic school. I just think it's so important.

Lets look at the emotional side of things. It is inevitable that a gifted child is going to be bullied at some point in their lives. People feel threatened and put out by smart-arses and teachers pets. Teachers hate them too, for some reason. Now, bullying may not affect everybody drastically, but to some it can cause great psychological damage, social problems, and even mental illnesses and suicide. Is it not every child's right to have a safe and secure learning environment? The theory of academic elite schools is that like minded peers don't beat the shit out of each other so much.

Another thing is that there are specialist schools for everything: sport, music, art, languages, etc. If you have a talent, you need proper training; any fool on the street knows that. If you want to be a plumber or a chef or a carpenter, you need a proper apprenticeship. An academically elite schooling is an apprenticeship for the academic world.

Three, we were born this way.

Four, a gifted child has the equivalent of an IQ of 130 or higher. I say this because IQ tests are neither an accurate or conclusive way of testing intelligence; nor are they particularly effective for children. I'll put it out there that my IQ is only about 120-125, because an IQ test is numbers and patterns based and, well, I'm more Shakespeare than Hawking. An 'average' IQ is 100; a 'retarded' IQ is 70 or lower. This means that the difference between an average and a gifted child is the same as the difference between an average and a retarded child. I don't know anyone who thinks it's either fair or healthy for a retarded and an average child to be educated together in the exact same environment under the exact same conditions, so why do we impose this onto the gifted and talented?

Some say that academic selection, grade skipping and enriched programs spoil a child, and alienate him from society. But the thing is, we're weirdos anyway. Nothing people do or say is going to change the fact that gifted people will always be treated differently, for better or for worse.

In the end, it's a...strange experience being a 'gifted' child. You grow up knowing you're different, but pretending you're not. It's my worst kept secret; it's my pride and joy and my greatest shame.

born this way.

2011-09-27T19:38:00.000+08:00

Often people tell me that my talents 'don't count' because, you know, I don't really work for them.

It's often true. I have been known to scribble my essays down on the night before, and to do all my reading on the way to school. Well, I can't really do that now that I'm in year eleven, but I did it rather prodigiously until then. I've never in my life studied for a spelling test or struggled to read a book. I've had a sound grasp of language for as long as I can remember, but I can never in my life remember working for that.

But it's still a talent, nonetheless, and I deserve all the trophies and rewards and praise I can get my hands on for it, because I was born this way.

People are born pretty - I happen not to have been born pretty. Those people don't work their pimples off, they never had pimples in the first place! They're the ones strutting down the catwalk and being cooed at by lovestruck boys, not me. People are born smart, or they're born dumb. People are born pretty, or they're born ugly. And people pick on people when they're dumb, or ugly, even though it's really not their fault. So it should work vice versa.

People are born athletic - sure, they might work for it, but there is no way in hell that I will be an Olympian or a footballer, yet there are people who seem to be born with a cricket bat in their hands. We have to understand that sometimes we have things that we don't work for, but because it is natural for us to pick on natural shortcomings, we should also strive to praise natural gifts as well.

I've had my fair share of down time for my slights and faults and shortcomings. I know I'm too short, too tubby, too snappy, not great at maths, and not the hottest chick on the block. And it's no secret; people delight in telling me, berating me, scolding me, punishing me. But I can write, and I can write damn well - but people look the other way and say it 'doesn't really count'. How fair is that!?

Feeling smug.

2011-09-27T18:36:00.005+08:00

it turns out a lot more people Know about this blog than i think.

i have been shamelesslY promoting my bLog sincE it launched a few years back, but i never thOught anyone paid attention to it. But i never knew that a lot of people who read this bloG are people i know.

my parents reaD this blog rEgularly, aNd tell me off when I swear too much.

the propaganda minister iS one of my classmates, and calls me 'young one' with the pretext that i am a year younger and a foot shorter than him. he studies politics and literature with me, and is a little bit of a history nut. actually, he's Just nUts.

belephant is, you may have gueSsed, cristy - my parTner in crime.

i Am almost sure that the boy, also kNown as rochester, reads this as well. bsc read this when it first began, and k has been knOwn To stalk tHis occasionally - rEfer to oldeR posts from a more PathetIc version of me. actually, i've long forgotten why he was ever Called bsc in The first place.

the rest of them appear to be the dUmb bums, the peRoxide blondEs, the wannabes and The queen bees Of my years of schooling. i highly douBt they Understand one iota of what's on this blog; i'm pRetty sure the majority of them caN't read. sometimes i get to school people are like 'oy! why the hell did you write that oN yOur $%$&#* blog!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!' but As i said, anonyMity is bliss. and i'm feeling a little smug about that.

what has cOnstantly bUgged me over the years is that i have giveN douchebags and hearTbreakers the right tO anonymity. there have been three i have been itching to name; but perhaps only one truly, utterly deserves it - i mean, they all do, but this one more than the rest. i wonder iF there's a way around that? ;). when you're being bullied, there is no anoyMity; there iS no privacy - it's all humiliatioN anD degredation. when you're being dUmped, the whole world knows; the whole world knows that you put your hand in the fire but he didn't want you, and you weren't good enough for hiM. when you feel alone and isolated, you're still not nameless; my name has been used and abused by the young and the heartless. i'm young and bitter, but hey, it makes my writing better. and in the end, that's all that matters to me. the only thing that matters to me in this world is what i write and what i write about.

over the years you learn a lot of things. you learn never to trust your father to wash wool. you learn that the biggest conundrum you will ever face is 'to c cuP or not to c cup, that Is the questioN'. you learn that boyfriends are a poor substitute for mummy huGs and mummy cooking. you learn that heels are painful but Going barefoot In a mosh pit full of heels is a bad idea. you learn that being five foot three isn't as bad as some people make out. you learn to neVer usE your Sisters 'drY and damaged hair' shampOo by mistake on adolescent oily hair. yoU learn that the british have the best sense of humour anD that the chaser boys are epIc. you learn that you should never paint your nails on a bloGging spree aNd that everythIng can be cured wiTh chicken soup, honeY and ginseng.

There's a little man with a tickly beard who has lit a campfire in my throat and is starting to cook sausages.

2011-09-26T22:27:00.000+08:00

Which is a rather cute way of saying that MY THROAT IS ON FIRE.

The Things That Make Me Asian.

2011-09-25T18:09:00.001+08:00

Recently I blogged about being a lousy Asian, but then I realized; I'm much more Asian than I think, I just don't always notice it.

THE THINGS THAT ARE UNDENIABLY, IRREVOCABLY AND AWESOMELY ASIAN ABOUT ME:

1. I feel intensely uncomfortable wearing shoes around the house, or anyone else's house.

I have never in my life been allowed to wear shoes inside the house; it is a very Asian tradition. I have fond memories of crawling on my hands and knees whenever I forgot something but was too lazy to take my shoes off. When I was in Korea my uncle's apartment had a small room at the door dedicated to taking shoes on and off, and when entering more traditional restaurants or public rooms within restaurants you were expected to abandon your shoes at the door. Special shoes are worn in the toilet and are left at the doorway after using to prevent germs from the toilet floor spreading around the house. I always feel very strange walking around people's houses with my shoes on.

2. Alternative therapy for the win.

Our cupboard is full of strange potions that smell like chicken marinade for insect bites, bruises, tight muscles, colic and stomache ache - Asian babies never have colic. My maternal grandmother in particular is a big fan of alternative therapy, and my paternal grandmother swears by the traditional Korean remedies of honey and ginseng for, essentially, everything; whenever we go there we bring lots of premium Australian honey and in turn we are given 20 years supply of ginseng tablets. Being Asian, we are also introduced to the faithful worship of the mystical powers of chicken soup, in which are hidden all sorts of lovely stuff including, but not limited to fish maw (stomachs), grubs that look like maggots, starfish, shark fin and sea coconut. I have never had an illness that could not be fixed by a big batch of steaming chicken or beef bone soup. Whenever I'm sick, I always amuse myself by making a big pot of congee; or the lazy-girl version, which is essentially rice drowned with boiled water and eaten with canned fish. Like most kids, I hate pharmacy cough medicines that smell like vodka and strawberries and taste like RAW HYDROCHLORIC ACID BEING TIPPED DOWN YOUR THROAT - but unlike most kids, I have an alternative; a thick syrup made of loquat and honey extract which is strangely addictive. I know most people think that this is hokum and yes, I have shown up at school smelling like a chicken wing; but I don't care. This shit works.

3. I eat chicken feet.

Every Chinese mother dreams of fighting with her children for the last chicken foot; I hope I can share with my children the intrinsic joy that is wrestling a foot and spitting out the bones. Chicken feet are a delicacy from the Guandong/Canton province of China, and is an essential part of any dim sum/yum cha experience. As I understand it, the chicken feet are deep fried and steamed to make them puffy, then slowly stewed and simmered in a sauce of black beans, soybean paste and sugar. I suppose it's like haggis or snails; if you don't think about what it is it doesn't bother you; it never bothered me that I eat feet on a regular basis. Chicken feet do not have a lot of meat, but are very gelatinous; think of it as anti aging, because chicken gelatin contains lots of collagen. I have been eating chicken feet for as long as I can remember, but to be honest, the best part is watching the look of SHEER HORROR on people's faces when the see them.

4. Fueled by Ramen.

To be honest, two minute Maggi used to taste like salt and now, 'new and improved', it tastes like celery. Our cupboard is stuffed with noodles in various sinus-clearing flavours such as Tom Yum, 'rich and tasty soup', beef and - get this - one of them is just called SPICY. Proper Korean ramen is cooked for five minutes, with an egg cracked in with 2.5 minutes to go, and eaten with chopsticks and kimchi. Bowl and washing up optional.

5. Rice. Ooh-Rah.

We eat rice at least once a day. Even the dogs eat rice. When we're not eating rice we're eating rice congee, rice noodles, rice cakes...

6. The wok is my mother's best friend.

For as long as I can remember my mother has had an enormous iron wok that was used and abused on a daily basis. It is used for absolutely everything. I'm pretty sure it has a mindreading function, too.

7. I am bogan in a very un-bogan way.

I love bargains. I cannot contemplate spending more than $20 per head at a family dinner. Food is good, life is good, but both must be cheap, lah.

Oh, I must add something else:

8. Don't be silly. There no God lah.

Now this might sound slightly strange, given the ridiculous SPIKE in Christianity across Asia, but it is true; only Asian parents like mine could be so hardened and jaded towards the idea of God. There are no greater skeptics than a pair of Asian parents in a philosophical debate in their second language with their lit-freak daughter. I worship more sentient things, like food. And food. And food.

MetroDad.

2011-09-24T15:10:00.000+08:00

I read about four blogs regularly. They are, in no particular order: Mama Natural, Passionate Homemaking, Karen Cheng's Fashion and Life, and more recently, MetroDad.

Mama Natural is a blog run by Genevieve Damascus, with her partners in crime Mike and GriffyD (her husband and son). She uploads videos twice weekly about natural living and bringing up her adorable son, and she's very, very, cool.

I honestly have no idea why I read Passionate Homemaking. It's written by a bunch of give-it-all-up-for-the-LORD women, and is mostly managed by Lindsay Edmonds, who is 'first a lover of Jesus, wife, mother of three, homemaker, writer and doula'. Exactly my cup of tea. I think the real reason why I read it is to open my mind up to new things, to new people; to learn from others and to learn to accept them, the way they are, even if I don't agree.

Karen Cheng's Fashion and Life is perhaps the most famous and well-known blogs from Perth. Karen Cheng is a graphic designer/artist/illustrator/SAHM who blogs regularly about fashion and her life with her husband Andrew and her three ADORABLE Scottish/Chinese boys Callum, Sean and Liam.

MetroDad is written by Pierre Kim, an American-Korean living in Manhattan who blogs about life as a single father to his adorable daughter The Peanut and his ex-wife BossLady.

Originally, I thought I could relate a lot to Karen Cheng. And in ways, I do - but she's more a projection of the future. I enjoy reading about her life because I can see myself in it, one day. But not yet.

Actually, the blogger I can relate to the most is MetroDad. He is a kick-ass writer, and he's given me faith. He's given me faith that no matter how weird, alien, bizarre strange and sometimes downright shitty it is to grow up as a foreigner, an outsider, a pariah; life goes on, and life is pretty good, too. But he's much stronger than I am. He's recognised that he didn't have the most idyllic childhood, or the most perfect parents; he's open about it, but more than that, he accepts it. He's resolved to be a more understanding, conventional, openly loving parent than his Korean father was. From one ABK to another.

Flyin' Solo

2011-09-24T14:22:00.001+08:00

Cristy celebrated our Year Eleven Dinner Dance with a toast: SINGLE LIFE SUCKS!!!

However, mosh pits really are for flying solo, because when you're in the middle of a mosh pit you are simultaneously That Idiot Trying To Dance, That Sweaty Chick and TEH SEX. If you're with someone, you are only allowed to be the latter.

We singletons ate like there was no tomorrow, drank about fifty litres of Sprite, and danced the night away in the arms of about fifty different boys. Okay, maybe not fifty. But the poor 'taken' girls hardly dared to look at their guyfriends, lest Mr Boyfriend sees.

Really loud music allows you to do all that you want to do as a bitter spinster that you're not normally allowed to do around people with unimpaired hearing: 'obliviously' playing the third wheel, bitching about various couples, etc.

The missuses stood, with their boyfriends, shoes on, hair up, awkwardly bobbing to the music.

They also miss out on the beautiful moments: sharing food with your girlfriends, taking pictures with your girlfriends, dancing with your girlfriends, singing 'Firework' with your girlfriends, bitching with your girlfriends.

Boyfriends can't do that.

And that's why I am flyin' solo.

2011-09-24T14:12:00.001+08:00

My back hurts.

My legs hurt.

My feet hurt.

I've got the most alarming sore throat; I think from the lungs up I am RED PUFFY AND SWOLLEN.

I am regressing back to Year Nine Slobbery - pjs, blogs and YouTube.

I am on a steady diet of honeyed water, heavily sweetened tea and cough syrup.

I was stepped on about twenty times with killer stilettos, I had a massive foot cramp right in the middle of the dance floor and I have a disturbing cut on my leg accompanied by a strangely green bruise.

But it was all worth it.

I love parties.

A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down.

2011-09-22T23:34:00.002+08:00

A mother gives her child medicine and tells him to suck it up. This is the harsh mother.

A mother gives her child sugar and waits 'until he grows up' for the medicine. This is the spoiling mother.

A mother coaxes, begs, threatens, bribes her child to take medicine, to no avail. This is the weak mother.

A mother gives her child neither sugar nor medicine. This is the bad mother.

A mother gives her child a spoonful of sugar to help the medicine go down. This is the good mother.

The Secret World of a Propaganda Minister.

2011-09-22T22:57:00.002+08:00

I have estimated that I have perhaps 100 steady readers.

Of them, I suppose a dozen or so are people I know. Mostly people I love, and people I hate. And The Propaganda Minister. He's in a class of his own.

I do urge you to check out his blog, The Secret World of a Propoaganda Minister (I wonder where he got that from?). The Propaganda Minister is an extremely intelligent, capable, witty political young man - although not as much as he thinks he is - and has some, um, unusual opinions. And some lovely graphics of our school principal and the Prime Minister.

FYI, TPM, Ein Joll looks exactly like Umbridge.

I cave.

2011-09-22T16:19:00.001+08:00

Tonight I am performing at the Perth Concert Hall in the WAYS Alumni Concert.

It's a sort of last hurrah for my formal music career.

When I first got involved in the concert, I swore that I wouldn't put any more time into it than I had to. When I found out that the dress code was black, I decided to wear velvet trackpants. Because I'm a bogan.

But today at the rehearsal all the girls were talking excitedly about dresses (black?) and lipstick and heels, and I sort of caved.

So I have fashioned a dress out of a black shirt, school tights, a lace camisole, a belt and one of my mum's pre-pregnancy business skirts. It's not one of my most fashion-forward moments, but...

Oh well. Lipstick solves everything.

WAAAAHHHH...

2011-09-22T15:18:00.006+08:00

A few weeks back we had an English assignment that was pretty much open topic. Whatever we wanted. And I really, so desperately wanted to write something funny. Black comedy. Blue humour. Irony. Sarcasm. Etc.

It didn't work, and I got the bone-shatteringly appalling mark of 88%.

But now I'm here, bored out of my mind, trying to write a proper straight-laced academic essay on Emma - which is perhaps the most boring book in existence despite my attempts to say otherwise. This is not the best essay I've written, but it's mind-blowingly hilarious. It reads like a parody - mostly because I'm pissed off, and because I've written the majority of this essay in varying amounts of pain; antibiotic-induced nausea, sleep deprivation, stomach ache, back ache, hunger, PPMS (Pre-Pre Menstrual Syndrome) - this has made everything I write have a slight edge to it, the kind of dry humour I so desperately wanted a few weeks back.

I love it. I'm just not entirely sure it's appropriate.

And So The Uncool Ship Sank.

2011-09-21T21:49:00.001+08:00

You may have noticed that there is no longer a reactions bar under my posts.

To be honest, I am rather sad to part with that.

But I know that it was mostly just being used as an ego basher, and as unorthodox and eccentric and, God forbid, intelligent as I am, I know I don't deserve that.

Now, I'm quite resilient to this. I have been bullied since I was five years old. But I have school to do the ego bashing. I have peroxide blonde girls with bubblegum and bad deodorant to make me feel like shit. And I get more than my fair share, believe me. So when I come home and my baby is throwing the shits, I've had enough.

The reactions bar was installed for people too lazy to comment. So that I could gage what people found interesting, and what made people's eyes bleed. But now all it shows is the small percentage of people who have a brain and appreciate my work and where I'm coming from, even if they don't agree, and the majority, who for one reason or another hate my guts but don't have the brains to figure out that my blog and the opinions I publish will never change and will never stop pissing them off.

It's a sad reflection on society, and the cybersphere. When I first started blogging when I was twelve I never had to put up with this shit. I didn't have to worry about people were saying or commenting; mostly because nobody read my blog, but anyways. But then, that was back when I naively assumed that most people have a brain and a vague sense of decorum.

Caramel.

2011-09-20T22:57:00.002+08:00

you are all store-bought
chocolateandcaramel.
instant gratification.

but there is no depth,
no complexity;
merely sickening sweetness.
i the connoisseur
am left wanting,
just searching,
never finding.
bittersweet.

you're sweetly wrapped
but not worth my time;
a penny today, tomorrow a dime.

i am not
afraid
as you are.
i know what i am.
my caramel has battlescars
but i am not afraid.
can your chocolateyes look at mine
and repeat that?
chocolate melts in fire.

you are
dis-joint-ed.
you are a beautiful sculpture
smashed,
and then put together.
humptydumpty.

so hollow.
so empty.
so shallow.
you do not seek as i do,
you are scared of what i know.
and i know you better than you think.

you make me sick,
sad,
slow.
but you cannot see pain,
because you are afraid of flame.
all you see
from me
is a sugarcoatedsmile.
and a chocolatetear.

so go find your
candycolouredtwin.
i am made of stronger stuff
than brittle
bitter
caramel.

CONTEXT: I offered a boy a chocolate because, you know, I don't like chocolate. But such is the world that Random Acts of Kindness are not appreciated. He probably thought I poisoned it. I thought he was being a bit shallow, and I got offended. So I wrote a poem. As you do.

Damn You, Plutarch.

2011-09-19T20:37:00.002+08:00

Cristy and I read Ancient History. D and E do not. D does not do Lit, either.

Cristy: Have you found your sources yet?

Me: No. You?

Cristy: No.

E: What's this for?

Cristy: I can't find any ancient sources!

Me: I know! I found Suetonius, that's it. Suetonius, Suetonius, Suetonius.

E: WHAT'S THIS FOR?

D: Whuzzgoinon?

Cristy: I found Suetonius and some modern dude.

Me: Which modern dude?

D: What's Suetonius?

E: What about Plutarch?

Cristy: We're not allowed to do Plutarch.

D: What's Plutarch?

Me: I was trying to find Cicero, but all he does is ramble about some other shit.

Cristy: Suetonius was talking about Cicero talking about Caesar.

Me: Helpful.

D: What's Cicero?

Me: I have so much work to do. Have you started your Austen essay yet?

Cristy: No.

D: What's Austen?

Me: Are you doing Marxist or feminist?

Cristy: Marxist.

D: What's MARXIST? WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON? I THINK YOU CHICKS ARE SPEAKING A FOREIGN LANGAUGE!!!

Random Things About Me (that you may know from being a serial follower)

2011-09-18T22:50:00.002+08:00

1. I've never broken a single bone or had a single cavity in an adult tooth

2. I've never actually read an Austen novel cover to cover, although I have read about 85% of Pride and Prejudice. I've also watched both the 1995 and 2005 adaptation of Pride and Prejudice and the 2009 adaptation of Emma.

3. I never read more than one chapter of the first book in the year nine reader in English - the year that I skipped a grade.

4. For a hospital baby I have an extremely low pain threshold. In my defence, I also have quite a high pain tolerance, which is a really stupid combination in my opinion.

5. I've never actually had a crush on an Asian guy. I have racist hormones.

6. I've had this hunch for quite a long time that I'll probably end up with someone white, ten years older than me and a math professor. I don't really know why.

7. I want two or three children: two girls, one boy.

8. I have an elder sister, who is seventeen and skinny and pretty. In contrast, I am fifteen, short and kinda dumpy. I think she would rather walk over hot coals and eat a live whale than write as much as I do.

9. I found out last year that I am allergic to opiates. Something you only really find out if you're a hospital baby or a drug addict.

10. My family (paternal side) has one of the oldest extant printed genealogies in East Asia, with over forty generations recorded. We are directly descended from Silla and Koryo nobility and our family include several queens and concubines to the Joseon kings - so we are related to the pretenders to the crown of the Empire of Korea.

11. I am a former makeup addict. Now I only wear it when I feel like it.

12. I have weaned myself off chocolate and most confectionary.

13. The first M rated movie I watched was Mean Girls, when I was about eight.

14. I only watch three shows on a regular basis: Mythbusters, The Big Bang Theory and The Gruen Transfer.

15. I don't like wearing shoes.

16. I have a phobia of waiters and air hostesses.

17: The most played song on my iPod is 'Playing God' by Paramore.

18. Out of my Top 25 Most Played playlist, 16 songs are Taylor Swift.

19. Some people are a little confused about my grade skipping. Essentially, in year eight I did year nine English, and in year nine I did year ten English and Social Science. Now I am a full year eleven.

20. I kissed goodbye maths and science with a 'C' grade in year ten state-level maths and an 'A' in Perth Modern School year nine standard science last year.

21. I have trypanophobia, which is a fear of hypodermic injections.

22. I have been an atheist since I was about thirteen years old.

23. I have Asperger's Syndrome, which is a higher-order autism. I get pretty weird obsessions - Enid Blyton books, Elizabeth I, Tudor history, Pirates of the Caribbean, Star Wars, Korean history and now...babies. Not the most socially accepted obsession for a fifteen year old.

24. I don't wash my hair on the weekends. I don't really know why.

25. I am completely desensitized to blood. I have quite a strong stomach for blood, but I am squeamish about surgical procedures for personal reasons.

26. I love to cook, and I'm very bad at it.

27. I know how to knit, and I'm very bad at it

28. I used to tell people that I'm allergic to eggplant and mushroom so that I wouldn't have to eat it. But now I've encountered a slight problem; I LOVE shiitake! What am I supposed to do!?

29. As much as I whinge about not having a boyfriend, I don't actually know what I'd do with one. I've seriously only considered what would happen if I were in a relationship involving marriage and babies.

30. This list is much longer than I wanted it to be. I'm just experimenting with different kinds of posts and their popularity. Feel free to attack the uncool button if you NEVER WANT A LIST LIKE THIS EVER AGAIN.

???

2011-09-18T19:03:00.000+08:00

I read a lot of blogs, mostly written mostly by women, and yes, most of them are mothers.

I just have a more mature taste in blogs.

(insert inappropriate joke here)

What I don't understand is all these perfectly capable women throwing all sense of individuality or, I don't know, sanity out the window the second they trip down the aisle, and letting men have the final say in such intimite and intrinsically feminine issues such as childbirth plans, breastfeeding and diapering. I mean ????

They talk alot about submission; and how 'submission and leadership are two sides of the same coin' and how 'submitting is not degrading'. Last time I checked, I'm pretty sure it was.

They talk alot about 'evangelical feminism' and how it's coming between women and 'God's word'. They make me sound like some angsty lesbian slut who's going to exclusively feed her adopted children soda and banana milk or something.

I have nothing against them for being Christian, or housewives. I just can't stand that they let their husbands have so much say in stuff that is really their own personal business. Are their husbands going to tell them what contraception to use? Which tampons to use? When does it end!?

Lactivism

2011-09-18T15:58:00.003+08:00

Lactivism: the promotion of breastfeeding, and the prevention of discrimination against breastfeeding mothers.

The world has become a sad, sad place. No sex before marriage. Cover up, neck to ankles. Don't breastfeed your children. Men can do what they want, but no, women have to be on their knees praying that a nonexistant God saves them from nonexsitant sin. Etc, etc.

Well, I gotta say, I'm a lactivist, a feminist, and a topfreedomist.

I'm a person; I'm a woman; I'm a teenager. The boy meets girl instinct has thoroughly kicked in. It's sad that, in this day and age, women are not accepted as sexual beings; we are seen as sexy only for the enjoyment of men. Men are allowed to screw around, perv on anything that moves, and we're essentially nuns. I'm a PERSON. I have a BRAIN and NERVE ENDINGS. You do the biology.

I'm a topfreedomist because I believe that breasts have been overly sexualized and that they should be put in their original state; normal parts of the anatomy, and tools for feeding young. It's ridiculous that men and boys can walk around top free and women can't. I want to live in a world where we can wear, or not wear, anything we like; man, woman, child.

There is so much shame surrounding the body, and bodily functions. We keep things - condoms, tampons, breast pumps - hidden, like secret, illicit items that must never ever ever see the light of day. I have periods. Get over it. I have breasts. Get over it. One day, I'll have a baby. Get over it. And when I have a baby, I would like to breastfeed him/her. GET OVER IT. We are afraid of sex and sexuality and the beauty of reproduction, but we've extended that to something as pedestrian as EATING. Do we throw a blanket over ourselves every time we eat a sandwich? Why are we so ashamed, so afraid? I'm not ashamed or afraid of what I can do; I'm not ashamed or afraid of what my body can do.

Split Personality.

2011-09-18T15:37:00.003+08:00

Many people comment that I am uber-intellectual on this blog and I am a completely silly nutcase in real life.

There are many reasons for this. Firstly, I find it much easier to be silly in real life and serious when I write. It doesn't often work the other way around. Silly writing is a pain to write and a pain to read, and serious people are boring.

Secondly, I was forever picked on for being sullen, depressed, grumpy, unappreciative, etc. whenever I wasn't in my TWENTY FOUR HOUR SMILING MODE. So now I'm almost permanently in that state. I blame the education system and LAME ASS PRIMARY SCHOOL TEACHERS. People don't like hearing about me whinge about PMS, about gay rights, about how I'm shit-scared of childbirth and how I have depression, OCD and Asperger's syndrome. But they like reading about it, for some reason.

Thirdly, I'm the youngest child. I'm used to babying it up a bit. And skipping a grade and hanging out with people older than me doesn't really help.

Fourthly, I grew up in a very unintellectual environment, where people were openly hostile towards anyone with a brain. I learned to cover it up, until I discovered this thing called the internet where HEY! I'M ANONYMOUS!!!

In the end, it's partly about insecurity. I'm not really myself either on this blog or in real life. Nobody, not the people who know me or the readers who follow my blog, truly knows who I am - only I really know that. From a young age I was taught to cover up, lie through my teeth, pretend, act, charade. I'm sick of it, but it's almost set in stone.

2011-09-18T11:02:00.001+08:00

You know
I probably should be
Just a little bit upset
About all the 'uncools'
That have been popping up everywhere
Around my blog
Considering how sensitive I can be
And how susceptible I am to
Bouts of depression.

But
It's very hard to be upset
And piss meself laughing
At the same time.
;).

The smarts.

2011-09-17T20:33:00.001+08:00

You know what's shit? Being smarter than average.

Now I have almost no problem with it. I'm smart. That's that. I can do things that most other people can't. Woohoo.

But it was really hard when I was younger. It was the badly-kept secret; and I didn't even know why it had to be a secret. I knew some kids were smart, some were pretty, some were good at sport. But nobody was supposed to know that I was smart.

Of course they did, and of course they resented it, and of course the teachers did all they could to make sure that they wouldn't be sad because the short dumpy Asian was smarter than them. But does anyone stop and think about how the smart kid feels? I knew people were taller than me, prettier than me, faster than me, stronger than me, and I hated that. But I got over it. We cushion average kids from the elite so much that they resent them for life.

Going to high school was the first time I said 'what the hell' and dived myself face first into whatever intelligence had to offer. I started talking more about bigger things: religion, politics, social policy. I skipped a grade, and now I rake in rewards. I'm in the Sphinx Society.

And I'm loving it. I'm really proud of myself; I'm really happy at the moment. But at the same time, I look back at all the sad times and teary nights and bouts of depression that this has caused, and I almost start to think 'Is it worth it?'

I try really hard not to show off. I just tell it like it is. I didn't choose to be intelligent; sometimes I don't even like being intelligent. But I am, and that's that. And if that means that I get into Perth Modern School and you don't, then so be it. You're probably going to the Olympics and I most definitely am not. Why must I always be attacked, penalized, scolded, for something I can't control?

All I want to do is write. All I want is for people to understand that I came to this Earth, as I am, and I do my utmost to respect that other people did too. Whenever I look at athletes winning gold, or models strutting their stuff on the catwalk I always think 'sigh...I could have been there, and I probably wouldn't be bullied in the process' but I know that my place is in the world of academia; the world of literature. I know the closest I'll come to being a celebrity is an author - but hey, book signings and movies are EPIC. I know my place is in the mystical realms of babies and motherhood. But I also know that my place should be in a world where I'm not picked on, bullied, forced to keep secrets. But I am. And that's that.

I should not be judged by the land I walk on.

2011-09-16T23:19:00.001+08:00

I try not to take sides in war. War is unnatural and bloodthirsty and comes between all that is natural: husband and wife, brother and sister, mother and child.

But regardless what side I am on, or what side I am supposed to be on, I weep for the innocent who die in war. It doesn't matter who they are or where they come from; to die blameless is a terrible thing. Wars are battles between countries, not civilians. I mourn the many who perish in the ongoing Afghan/Iraqi War. I mourn the many who lost their lives in 9/11. I mourn those who died not from fighting, but from being in the wrong place at the wrong time; because who knows? I might be next, and I am not some bloody soldier, I am not a murderer; I have the right to die, but I do not deserve to be killed.

We cannot be judged by the colour of our skin or the place we are born into. I for one do not want to be judged by the land I walk on. If I'm Australian, then that is that. But more importantly, I am a woman, I am a person, I am a child. Is that not more important than where I live? Why should I be judged by what my leader chooses to do? We do not choose our leaders; we do not choose our lives. But we can choose how we treat others; with contempt, or with compassion. I prefer to choose the latter.

Being a Bad Asian.

2011-09-16T23:09:00.000+08:00

I've always been proud of being Asian. There are the perks of being Asian: black POKER STRAIGHT hair, never having to fake tan, a distinct lack of (or at least reduced amount of) body hair, BIG RED UGLY PIMPLES only looking KINDA BIG RED and UGLY.

But I've never pretended that I wasn't a bad Asian. I love Asian food and I love wearing my hanbok (amazing to cover random lumps and bumps that appear in the gory glory of adolescence) but that is literally about it.

I am an English nut, and this doesn't work so well with the all-Asians-are-good-at-math stereotype. Hell, I couldn't write numbers properly until I was eight and I still struggle with times tables. Now, in Australia, it's really fine to be bad at maths - actually, it's really fine to bad at anything remotely academic. But not if you're me. Not if you go to an elite academic school. Not if you're, well...Asian. With a mother, father and sister who are all freakishly good at maths (at least in my book). My sister got a certificate for maths the other day; don't think I've ever got one of those. The only post my parents got from the maths department about me were LETTERS OF CONCERN.

I don't know why I haven't got the Freaky Asian Maths Gene. I just don't find it remotely interesting, or useful. Before high school I survived THIRTEEN YEARS without having any 'proper decent maths skills'. And you know what? I'm still surviving without 'proper decent maths skills'. I can add up in my head. I know how to round and shit. I know how to use a calculator. So what's the problem?

A lot, apparently. Apparently teenagers have plenty of use for linear equations and algebra and chemical formulas and all that jazz. I never understood it, never saw the point of it and - and here's the lynchpin - I was clever enough to do my own research as to WHEN THE HELL I CAN STOP STUDYING THIS SHIT. I also got very good at IGNORING TEACHERS FOR THE GREATER GOOD. And so, I managed to wiggle out of the math/science shit.

Which makes me a bad Asian.

Any self-respecting Asian would never comprehend why I like Lit. I mean, as an Asian, I'd be expected to be *good* at lit, but it's just one of the many chorey things that Asian kids have to do. But I genuinely love it. I love writing, I love reading, I love arguing. What's not to love?

But that also makes me a bad Asian. Sigh. It's so hard to be good!

The main thing is that I can't speak another language - English is my leading man. I can speak a few words of Korean and even less Chinese but essentially, I can really only properly communicate in English. Which is quite sad, I know, because Korean and Chinese are beautiful languages and it's sad that all I hear is YADIYADIYAH when Chinese people speak. I wish I could communicate in such an elegant, beautiful language, but alas, it is not to be. Which is rather inconvenient in places like Hong Kong, where people will just go YADIYADIYAH at me in Cantonese, to which I reply, in English 'I'm sorry sir/miss, I don't speak Chinese'.

It makes them pause. Stutter. Reconsider the meaning of life. And then.

They make the VERY HELPFUL SWITCH TO MANDARIN!!!! YADIYADIYAH!!!!???? ARRRGH!!!

What shits me is that they never treat white people like this. I don't even look like I should be speaking Cantonese - I have too much Korean blood in me. But places like Hong Kong are a bit like France - they know how to speak English, they just don't wan't to.

Bad Asian Trait No.3495083328489726347: I'm not a huge fan of Asian boys.

I don't get along with Asian boys; Asian boys do not get along with me. Asian boys think I'm too fussy, too bookish, too opinionated, too feminist, too ang-mor (white bastard), not quiet enough, not smart enough, not good looking enough, not skinny enough...the list goes on. I would be a terrible Asian daughter-in-law. Conversely, I'm not in love with Stereotypical Asian Boy Behaviour; and you know what I mean. Only child with a bit of a chubby-cheeks problem, serious mummy issues and Help Me With My Homework Bitch attitude. I just don't like it; I don't like it in any guy, regardless of race. I have a very liberal, Western view towards love and marriage and family life; respect is as important as love, I want a companion, not a master for a husband, and if I have a family then the father will have to PULL HIS WEIGHT. Most of the diehard 'I hate Australia!' Asian boys would not be too happy with the above. I know I'm being stereotypical, but seriously, how long can we hide behind race? It's a generalization, and a horribly cliched one at that, but it's TRUE. I have PROOF.

The last of the Un-Asianess is really quite serious. I absolutely can't stand K-Pop, and I only like historical K-dramas. Shoot me now, I know.

It can be challenging, sometimes, looking one thing and being another. It's hard knowing that you'll never fully fit into the world you've been born into. I know that I'm not fully accepted by the Anglo-Saxon community; I know there'll always be a level of racism and discrimination that I'll just have to forgive and forget. But the hardest thing is not being accepted by those of your heritage; and not being able to reconcile myself with people from my fatherland. The number of times I've been accused of being racist against my own race is ridiculous; but it takes an ABC like me to see the strengths and weaknesses in all races, even my own. We can't hide behind the 'racism' forever; there are race-specific flaws in every race that we must learn to overcome rather than pointing fingers of blame.

9/11

2011-09-11T18:16:00.000+08:00

Today on the tenth anniversary of 9/11 we remember the lives lost and the heroes that were made on that fateful day. We pray for peace and we fight for justice. May we one day find the strength to move on into a brighter future for our children.

Lady Solitaire.

Shoot to Kill.

2011-09-11T17:26:00.001+08:00

I have been an outspoken opponent of the use of Tasers in the police force since they were introduced in Australia. The reason? It's simply barbaric, and could quite literally kill you. Or kill me, anyway.

I have what is known as a second degree heart block, situs inversus and dextrocardia - essentially a heart deformity that requires a pacemaker. I don't really understand how tasers work our how my heart works but the long and short of it is that I've concluded that me plus a stun gun would not equal something pretty. Even if I do something wrong, police officers have no right to shoot me unless I am armed and dangerous. Yet they are allowed to cause what used to be referred to as 'cruel and unusual punishment', maybe just for being then and there. Or at least, they used to call it 'cruel and unusual punishment'. Now they call it 'standard procedure'.

It is the human psyche, when faced with something stressful such as a violent situation or a language barrier, to whip out something that will just uncomplicate matters. In America, it's guns. Here, it's Tasers. Frankly, I don't know which is worse.

I literally start shaking when I see police officers walking around with Tasers. Police officer or not, no human being has the right to have the power to inflict such pain on another human being.

And what's with Tasering someone two, three, up to twenty-eight times? How much of a raging looney was that Aboriginal man who died of a heart complication to warrant twenty-eight Tasers? If he was white it would never have happened, but no, we have a heartless police force with no sense of justice that is not just content with the ability to inflict pain, but the ability to kill lawlessly. We are being kept in check by torturers and murderers.

We used to live in a world of witch-burning and black lynching. Now, we live in a world where we torture the innocent. What is happening that we destroy our humanity? Are they the terrorists, or are we? We all die drenched in blood.

When we swap religion with, well, common freaking sense.

2011-09-09T23:20:00.000+08:00

I am so sick of people using religion as an excuse to ban everything that isn't TRADITIONAL or blah blah. Last time I checked, using non-existant friends in a legal or social context was called SCHIZOPHRENIA.

I don't honestly care what God's opinions on gays are, just like I don't honestly care whether God exists or not. All I care is that there are people in this world who are suppressed and denied their basic rights even in the most sophisticated, first-world countries. GAYS.

It bugs me so much that people use religion against gay people - I mean, people have been using religion against That Scum That They Don't Like since the dawn of time - blacks, women, Asians. I'm just so over it. All these people make me think is that God must be some angsty homophobic misogynistic redneck - because religion just seems to favour these people so much, you know?

People consider marriage to be a wholly religious thing; old geezer in bedsheets, church and steeple, etc. But what people don't understand that, especially in this diverse and multicultural world, the religious element is more a personal than legal thing. Nobody actually cares where you get married now, or how you get married; nobody actually cares if you get married at all. What matters is the rights, the responsibilites of marriage - the right to get married in itself. That is the lynchpin of this argument: everyone has the right to marry whoever and however they want. I don't want some Bible-basher to tell me who I can and can't marry.

Our Indoctrination of the Future Generation.

2011-09-09T22:45:00.000+08:00

Australia is a conservative country pretending to be liberal, just as Singapore is a dictatorship pretending to be a democracy. Anyone who thinks otherwise clearly doesn't have a human IQ.

There's something pure and innocent about children; something we cannot recreate no matter how charitably and chastely we try to live. I was in daycare from six months to four years, and I don't remember ever being bullied. Sure, I was lonely, but that was pretty much my own fault. I've been a loner since I was born.

Children are born so whole and loving. Sure, children are egocentric - it's a psychological state that we can do nothing to change - but they love freely and unconditionally, they don't judge or accuse; that is the true, raw beauty of humanity. Innocence is bliss.

But in pre-primary and primary school things started to change. Sweet innocence was replaced with dangerous ignorance, but the shocking thing is that they were marketed as one and the same. Children were old enough to be indoctrinated, but not old enough to reason. There were boys abusing girls before they truly understood gender roles. There were children preaching God before they knew what God was. Children picking on 'poofs' and 'fags' before they even knew the facts about homosexuality. They formed ideas about race before they had evidence to back the stereotypes. The 'pretty' girls got 'boyfriends' and taunted the 'ugly' girls (you can guess which category I fit into). Horrible, adult things like that.

Children are so easily influenced, so easily swayed, too easily fooled into believing without truly committing - or perhaps it is the other way around; I think the saddest thing is when I see children committing to a God without truly believing in Him. Parents are blessed with the truly wonderful task of raising children to be gentle, diligent citizens who have their own independent opinions, but respect both the opinions of others and the right for others to form their own opinions. A parent should never dare to tell their children what to think; a parent should be chiefly employed in teaching their children just to think in the first place.

Australia has become so narrowminded and shortsighted. We don't think, we don't believe, we don't care, we don't commit. We don't see things the way the world does; we're so obsessed with our little bubble of money and our warped reasoning of right and wrong. I'll teach my children not to spend their lives being a colour. Every night I pray for those trapped in the blindness of indoctrinated, outdated beliefs. I pray that religion and society can become more open-minded, more tolerant and accepting. I'll teach my children the beauty of life and parenthood; the uniqueness of men and women. I'll teach my children to think and to care; about what I don't really mind. I'll teach my children to be proud of themselves and to aim to live in a world that they're proud of; I'll teach my children to respect other opinions and people from different walks of life. But at the moment, I'm teaching myself to pray for the indoctrinated - children who grow into narrowminded, shortsighted clones of their narrowminded, shortsighted parents who are unable/unwilling to know any better.

Pluck a Rose, Snap a Lily.

2011-09-08T00:08:00.001+08:00

As I lay broken on the ground,
It's hard to see you turn around and
Pluck another rose.

As I grow strong and touch the sky,
It's sad to see you turn around and
Snap another lily.

Will this rose be as sweet to you,
As I was when I was a bud?
Will you love her when she's in full bloom,
Then toss her in the mud?

You saw a lily floating down
A river of tears and laughter;
You picked her up
And without a second glance,
You crushed me in your hand and drowned her.

How quick you are to replace perfection,
How quick you are to regain affection;
You took me in
And bled me dry,
But I'm just another flower for you to kiss goodbye.
For me,
Love is a luxury;
I am a pauper in this land of plenty.

I've yet to replace you, my love:
I'm yet to find a gamekeeper as cruel as you;
I've yet to find a gardener as cold as you.
I'm yet to find a man with fresh blood on his hands.

But as that rose wilts,
This rose, stained scarlet,
Still shines.
And as that lily dies,
This lily is still white;
This lily, my love,
Remains alive.

For a dear friend,

And a sworn enemy;

I was a fool to pluck my rose too soon,

A fool to snap my lily.

Inspired by 'A Daughter of Eve' by Christina Rossetti

Can of Worms #9

2011-09-05T22:57:00.000+08:00

Worm #19: Is it OK to smack your child?
The long and short of it: No.

My say: Corporal punishment is a violent means of instilling fear in your child and leads to an unhealthy parent-child relationship based on terror rather than respect. There are plenty of ways in which discipline can be successfully enforced without physical means; my parents never hit me and I never became a juvenile delinquent. I've babysat toddler cousins before; I've never had the slightest inclination to hit them. I know it doesn't really compare to 24/7 parenting, but nonetheless children as young as two can be reasoned with when a) they're not in the throes of a tantrum and b) you do it properly. If your child is really too young to understand reasoning, then they're definitely too young to be smacked. Smacking is outdated and completely useless; not to mention it violates many federal laws and basic human rights. Children retain things much longer than adults; things that adults forget in six seconds turn into lifelong grudges in children, and it is unhealthy for children to view their parents in any other way than with love and respect. Being a parent is a priviledge; a difficult priviledge, I'll admit, but your child has only you to turn to for love and support, and smacking is a surefire way to destroy that bond. Any parent who hits their child is disgusting, unfit to be a parent and is a perpetrator of child abuse.

It's sad that men are more likely to smack their children than women (Can of Worms). Children, especially girls, should learn to have both a healthy respect and a great affection for men, and should always be exposed to friendly, loving relationships with men, particularly her father. Fathers don't know how much one loud word or one smack can damage their child - and I know from experience.

Worm #20: If a woman has had a boob job, is it an open invitation to look at them?
The long and short of it: No.

I don't really approve of cosmetic surgeries, particularly because I take surgeries very seriously - it's scarring, going through that when you're five. But, I respect every person's right to do whatever they want with their bodies, and their rights shouldn't be forfeited just because they get some work done. I say this because it is not civil to stare at large chested women - you know, larger women, pregnant and breastfeading women, etc - and how can you be 200% sure that the woman you're ogling at is fake, and therefore it's okay? There's no true way of telling. Also, not everyone with a boob job gets it for pure cosmetic reasons - many women get them as a result of masectomies, inverted nipples etc. If you don't know, don't look.

Do women like being looked at? To be honest, sometimes. We're very aware of the social and biological impact of boobs. But it's not the be all and end all of everything - it's just one of the many things that add up to make a woman physically attractive or unattractive. And there's a different between looking and leering - I go to a co-ed high school, and trust me, teenagers look everywhere all the time. But if it's more than a brief glance and the guy is well, not really Gen-Y then that's just...creepy.

Would I get a boob job? Probably not. I say this because I'm terrified of surgeries and I hate hospital, and even though it's inevitable in my lifetime I would rather not go voluntarily. I would only do it if my appearance was so unflattering it was affecting me psychologically - but I doubt it. Genetics tells me that I won't end up looking so bad, and I think my self esteem can endure not having melon breasts. Actually, I think my self esteem would be a good deal healthier without melon breasts.

If you have any worms that you would like me to respond to, please email or comment below.

Dear Mummy.

2011-09-05T15:55:00.003+08:00

I've been blogging for three years now. I've been bullied for much, much longer than that. And I try to pretend to be okay with it, really, I do. But when you cry yourself to sleep, when you fly into murderous rages you know deep down that you're really not okay with it. I'm tired of being picked on, mummy. I'm tired of being told that I'm wrong and they're right. I'm tired of being squashed.

All I've ever wanted to do is write. I've been writing since I was a little girl, and it's the only thing I'm good at. I want to make people happy; I want people to read my writing and learn, and to laugh and cry. It makes me happy when people enjoy what I write. And when this is your whole life, it hurts when people are so callous.

People forget that people on the net are, well, people. I'm only fifteen, and I've been sick and lonely for a lot of my life. I was bullied a lot as a kid, and people don't understand mental disorders and depression in young children. So I battled it out alone.

It was this blog that kept me strong. It was ranting and raving and whining on this blog that made me brave. And as I got older my opinions got bolder, and I post them here, on this blog, to make a stand; to tell the world what I think. So many people do this, mummy; so many people make big changes by writing. but it seems like every time I do, I get attacked for being...well, for just being me. I can be strong and brave, mummy, but I'm tired. I'm tired of being picked on. I wish people could see my point of view, understand where I'm coming from, agree to disagree. But they don't. All they do is call me ignorant and stupid when I've probably had more education than any of them ever had.

I wish all this stuff didn't affect me that way it does, mummy. But it does. But I'll keep pretending - for you, mummy. It's the art of being a woman; it's the art of being a writer.

Emma: A Student's Guide.

2011-09-03T23:29:00.001+08:00

Emma by Jane Austen has the unfortunate reputation of being the most boring high school and college novel to study. At first, I was not enthusiastic about studying it at all; I tried reading it in the summer holidays before year eleven, but couldn't really hack into it. But now we're actually studying it, I'm beginning to really enjoy it.

One thing that puts Emma off modern audiences is that it's character driven, not plot driven. This is true for most of Austen's novels, because of the genre in which she write (comedy of manners) - this has established her reputation as a sharp critique of human personality and social interaction. However, Emma is by far the most character-driven Austen novel, made even more difficult to swallow because a) it happens in a world so far removed from our own b) most of the exciting stuff appears to have happened before the book (deaths, weddings, adoptions etc.) and c) nothing much actually happens in Emma; it's a personal discovery, not a physical journey.

Often people run into trouble when studying novels because they approach it in the wrong manner. When studying a novel, it is important to read it differently than if you were reading it for pleasure. Before studying it always pays to read the book cover to cover, or if this is too difficult to swallow read a synopsis (Wikipedia is always good for plain, sensible language) and watch an adaptation before attempting to read - this gets the storyline in your head and puts faces to characters. Newer adaptations are always easier on the modern eye, but the trade off is that they are often heavily compressed and romanticized - older adaptations from the traditional documentary era are normally meticulously faithful to the text, but are often long winded, badly acted, slow-paced, endlessly boring and old fashioned. For Emma, I've found that the 2009 BBC adaptation is excellent as it is set at a brisk pace, but is extremely faithful to the novel and the characterization is excellent. Remember, when you study a novel you are studying the text, not the plot - and this is why Emma is considered such a good study novel, because the language and characters are so much more important than the plot. So don't be afraid to read spoilers, or flip to the back of the book so that you know that it finally ends sooner or later.

I'm adding pictures from the recent 2009 adaptation because I think it's important to have a vivid image of what things look like inside your head - and what they exactly look like is neither imperative to the novel or the study of it.

SETTING: Emma is set in the country - where most of the gentry resided when not 'at business' in 'town' (London) - near a fictional town called Highbury, which is in Surrey (which is real). Most of the characters are of gentry class, or former members of the gentry.

CHARACTERS:

HARTFIELD ESTATE - Residence of the Woodhouse Family.

The Woodhouse Family is, aside from the Knightley Family, the most socially elite family in Highbury. Based on Emma's dowry, the annual income of the Woodhouse Family is about 20,000 pounds (about 2 million in today's money). The Woodhouse family home, Hartfield, is considered the heart of Highbury and attracts all the worthy company in the neighbourhood - Mr Knightley walks there almost every day. The characters in Emma from the Woodhouse family are Mr Woodhouse, Emma Woodhouse and Isabella Knightley.

Miss EMMA WOODHOUSE

Emma Woodhouse is the heroine of the story, and is Jane Austen's wealthiest and most socially elite heroine, being the heiress to 30,000 pounds (about 3 million) (in comparison, Lizzy Bennet's dowry is only 1000 pounds, or 10,000 pounds in today's money). Emma is twenty-one and kind-hearted, pretty and intelligent, but also spoiled, meddlesome and haughty, spending much of her time meddling in the love lives of the people of Hertfield.

Mr WOODHOUSE, Esq.

Mr Woodhouse is a wealthy widower and father to Isabella and Emma Woodhouse. A pessimistic, old-fashioned hypochondriac, Mr Woodhouse is an affectionate, if overbearing father with little patriarchal authority who delights in spoiling his children and grandchildren. He is also 'gently selfish', unable to see things from another point of view.

Mrs ISABELLA KNIGHTLEY (Miss ISABELLA WOODHOUSE)

Isabella Woodhouse is Emma's elder sister and at twenty-eight is seven years her senior; married to John Knightley and mother to five children: Henry, Little John, Bella, Little Emma and Little George. She is motherly and domestic, and not Emma's intellectual equal.

DONWELL ABBEY - Residence of the Knightley Family

The Knightley Family is the most socially elite family in Highbury, based in the family residence of Donwell Abbey, which is only a mile off from Hartfield. When the book begins only George Knightley, as the eldest son, lives at Donwell - his younger brother and family, as is custom, move to town to on their own estate. The characters in Emma from the Knightley family are Mr Knightley, John Knightley, Isabella Knightley, and John and Isabella's children Henry, Little John, Bella, Little Emma and Little George.

Mr GEORGE KNIGHTLEY, Esq.

Mr Knightley is the wealthiest gentleman in Highbury, being the master of the richest estate in Highbury. A close friend of the Woodhouse family, he is the brother-in-law of the Woodhouse sisters through is younger brother's marriage to Emma's sister. About thirty-seven at the beginning of the novel, Mr Knightley is wise, compassionate, intelligent, gentle and paternalistic, and serves as a father figure to Emma, his oldest friend, whom he deems silly and immature.

Mr JOHN KNIGHTLEY, Esq.

John Knightley is Mr Knightley's younger brother, and lives in a London estate with his family in the absence of an inherited property. He is an indulgent family man who gives in to his family's desires for holidays, outings, visitors, and visits to Highbury at the expense of his desire for a quiet family life. Like Emma, he has a shrewd eye for matchmaking, but does not often interfere.

RANDALLS ESTATE - Residence of the Weston Family

Randalls Estate is the neighbouring property of Hartfield, being the new residence of the recently wealthy Mr Weston.

MR WESTON, Esq.

A sanguine, placid, optimistic man, Mr Weston is a widower and father of Frank Churchill. Married beyond his means to a spoiled, wealthy young woman who ruined both herself and her husband before her death, Mr Weston is nonetheless a well-liked and respected man in Highbury, especially after his unexpected marriage to Emma's former governess Anne Taylor.

Mrs ANNE WESTON (Miss ANNE TAYLOR)

Anne Taylor is the former governess of Isabella and Emma Woodhouse, appointed after the death of their mother. To the distress of Mr and Emma Woodhouse, Miss Taylor marries Mr Weston and moves half a mile away to Randalls Estate.

Mr FRANK WESTON CHURCHILL

Flamboyant, fashionable and fiery, Frank Churchill is the son of Mr Weston and the nephew of his aunt and guardian, Mrs Churchill. Confined by his sickly but controlling aunt, he has grown into a good-natured but impatient, reckless, impulsive and accidentally selfish man.

Mrs CHURCHILL

The estranged sister of Mr Weston's first wife, Mrs Churchill adopts Frank Weston and keeps him away from his father and from Highbury, whom she sees as below the prosperous Churchill family.

THE VICARAGE - Parsonage of the Elton Family

Most country towns like Highbuy had a single church, with a modest house provided for the vicar called a parsonage. A vicar or clergyman was a good catch for a modest girl, but most aimed to improve their fortunes through marrying higher, using their religious education as social leverage. The residents at the vicarage are Mr Elton and his wife, Augusta.

Mr PHILIP ELTON

An ambitious, charming and charismatic young vicar; an eager social climber with sights on a beautiful bride with a large dowry; i.e. Emma.

Mrs AUGUSTA ELTON (Miss AUGUSTA HAWKINS)

A moneyed young woman from Bath, Mrs Elton is pretensious, irritating, flamboyant, condescending and patronizing; an equal match for her husband. She treats the country folk with disdain, even though she is amongst her social superiors with members of the landed gentry. Her treatment of her social inferiors Harriet Smith and Jane Fairfax inspires the people of Hartfield to be more sympathetic towards them.

THE BATES FAMILY

The Bates Family was formerly a member of the gentry before they fell on hard times and plunged, without a solid income or a patriarch, into relative poverty. The characters in the book belonging to the Bates family are Mrs Bates, Miss Bates and Jane Fairfax.

Miss BATES

A talktative, dimwitted but kind-natured spinster, the eldest daughter of Mrs Bates and the aunt of Jane Fairfax.

Mrs BATES

The mother of Miss Bates and the grandmother of Jane Fairfax; she does not talk. Ever. As in, never.

MISS JANE FAIRFAX (Mrs JANE WESTON CHURCHILL)

The orphaned niece of Miss Bates and only granddaughter of Mrs Bates, Jane Fairfax was sent away to become a ward of a wealthy family friend. Unlike Emma, she has no fortune of her own and so must become a governess, even though, as a gentleman's daughter, it is below her station. Shy, reserved and passive, Emma is jealous of Jane because of her accomplishments and the sympathy she attracts due to her poverty.

OTHERS:

Miss HARRIET SMITH (Mrs HARRIET MARTIN)

The 'natural' (illegitimate) daughter of someone-or-other, Harriet i had been brought up at Mrs Goddard's school in Highbury as a parlour boarder - a wealthy student who is elevated above the rest and given special priviledges. Despite her illegitimacy she has been comfortably brought up, with her anonymous family providing her generously, but she has no dowry and must stay at the school or leave and earn her keep as a governess. She is pretty and good natured, but unsophisticated and not intellectual. After the departure of Anne Taylor she becomes Emma's protege and companion; Emma is convinced that she deserves to be a gentleman's wife, and goes about making sure that happens.

Mr ROBERT MARTIN

A gentleman-farmer who is considered by Emma to be her, and therefore Harriet's social inferior. He is intelligent, sensible, practical, warm and generous, but Emma is convinced that he lacks class despite evidence otherwise. He lives with his sisters and is in love with Harriet Smith.

SYNOPSIS:

After the death of their mother, Isabella and Emma Woodhouse grow up in the comforts of Highbury with their affectionate father and doting governess, Anne Taylor. Other children in Highbury are not so lucky; after the death of his mother, Frank Weston is adopted by his aunt Mrs Churchill and removed from his father and from Highbury. After the death of both her parents, Jane Fairfax's well-meaning aunt sends her to be the ward of a wealthy family friend, and she grows up away from her family and from Highbury as the companion and chaperone of a wealthy girl, knowing that she will eventually have to leave their hospitality and make her own way in the world.

After her sister Isabella's marriage to family friend John Knightley, twenty-one year old Emma Woodhouse finds herself mistress of her father's house, her hypochondriac father's chief carer and enjoys the luxury of country gentry living and the assurance of independent wealth. Because of this, Emma is uninterested in marriage, instead preferring to play matchmaker to the residents of Highbury.

After the marriage of her governess Anne Taylor to their recently-wealthy neighbour Mr Weston (for which Emma takes credit for arranging), she takes on the pretty, unsophisticated parlour boarder Harriet Smith as her companion and protege. Despite Harriet's lack of fortune and family, illegitimacy and unsophisticated manner, Emma's class prejudice makes it inconceivable to her that any friend of hers deserves anything less than to be a gentleman's wife.

Emma attempts to match Mr Elton, the dashingly handsome vicar with Harriet, and convinces her to reject a marriage proposal from gentleman-farmer Robert Martin. Mr Knightley, Emma's brother-in-law and father/brother figure, chastises her for being narrow minded about Robert Martin's situation and unrealistic in her matchmaking for Harriet Smith, pointing out that Mr Elton is thoroughly aware of his good looks and social standing and would wish to seek a rich bride. Emma ignores this, and continues to encourage what she sees as a growing attachment between Mr Elton and Harriet, and Harriet becomes infatuated with Mr Elton and his charms.

Soon, however, Emma realizes the truth of Mr Knightley's words when Mr Elton instead professes his love to Emma and attempts to propose, despite her protests that Harriet is a much more suitable candidate. Thus Emma's attempt at matchmaking ends up with all three parties hurt; Mr Elton is offended at the idea of Harriet being considered his equal, and leaves Highbury only to return with the wealthy Augusta Hawkins from Bath in tow as his bride; Emma is humiliated at her misunderstanding and furious that Mr Elton's attraction was purely based on her wealth and social standing; Harriet is heartbroken at being rejected in favour of her friend and then abandoned completely by Mr Elton.

Whilst attempting to comfort Harriet, Highbury encounters two newcomers: Mr Frank Churchill, Mr Weston's son, and Jane Fairfax, Miss Bates' niece. Emma is attracted to the fashionable and flamboyant Frank Churchill and spends much time with him, at the expense of her friendship with Mr Knightley, who is accustomed to walking to Hartfield every day to spend time with Emma, who is sixteen years his junior. Mr Knightley is suspicious of Frank's apparently unusual behaviour - such as travelling all the way to London for a haircut - and it is implied that he is jealous of Frank and his relationship with Emma. Emma receives Jane Fairfax with less enthusiasm; despite her lack of funds Jane is beautiful and accomplished, and Emma is both irritated by her cool reserve and jealous of her accomplishments.

Mr Knightley, compassionate by nature, is sympathetic and caring towards Jane Fairfax, and Mrs Weston suspects that it is due to a romantic attachment; Mr Knightley being relatively old and unmarried, is wealthy enough not to require a rich bride but socially elite enough to desire a well-bred wife. Mrs Weston and others also assume that Frank and Emma are becoming romantically attach; Emma resists both assumptions, as she cannot imagine Mr Knightley taking a wife and imagines Frank to be a potential suitor for Harriet.

Mrs Elton turns out to be the most disagreeable woman imaginable, looking down on country folk and country living, even though Emma and Mr Knightley are arguably her social and financial superiors. Because of her condescending attitude towards Jane Emma begins to treat her with more kindness and respect; at a ball Mr Knightley offers to dance with Harriet after she is humiliated by Mrs Elton and snubbed by Mr Elton. The next day Frank saves Harriet from gypsy beggars and brings her to Emma; Harriet tells Emma that she has fallen in love with a man who saved her and is above her station, and Emma assumes she means Frank.

Knightley begins to suspect that Frank and Jane may have a secret understanding and warns Emma not to become too attached to Frank; Emma ignores him and, on an outing to Box Hill she flirts with Frank and insults Miss Bates, who is kind-hearted but dimwitted and incessantly talkative. Mr Knightley reprimands Emma and she weeps, and attempts to make up for her insult.

After news comes that Frank's aunt Mrs Churchill had died, it is revealed that he and Jane Fairfax have been secretly engaged since before their arrival at Highbury; Frank's attentions to Emma have just been to conceal the engagement, which would not have been approved of by his aunt. Emma is furious that she has, once again, been used; but realizes that she was never truly in love with Frank, and so no real harm has been done. Emma expects Harriet to also be heartbroken at the engagement, but Harriet instead says that she was referring to Mr Knightley, not Frank, and now believes that Mr Knightley returns the favour. Emma then finally realizes that she is in love with Mr Knightley, and has been all along, but due to her own meddling she has lost her opportunity to be with him.

Emma expects Mr Knightley to admit his affection for Harriet, but instead declares his love for Emma, and his disgust at Frank's behaviour. Frank and Jane earn the forgiveness of the Westons and the Woodhouses and marry; Emma and Mr Knightley get engaged, and Robert Martin proposes a second time to Harriet, who accepts. The novel ends with the marriage of Harriet and Robert Martin and Emma and George Knightley.

And there you have it.

THINGS TO NOTICE IF IT GETS REALLY BORING:

1. The relationship between Emma and Knightley

This is perhaps the most interesting element of the book - the curious, kind of paedophilic mildly incestuous relationship between Emma and Knightley. I don't really see it that way, but there are Knightley haters that do.

Mr Woodhouse is not the archetypal patriachal backbone of his family, being elderly, frail and an obsessive hypochondriac; Mr Knightley is therefore introduced as both a father substitute and an elder sibling substitute, especially with the marriage and departure of Emma's sister Isabella. Mr Knightley is introduced as being wealthy, sensible, fatherly and, well, old - sixteen years older than Emma. This age gap is further widened by the fact that his younger brother is married to her elder sister. He also takes on the role of a parent, chastising and disciplining Emma when necessary. In the end, though, Knightley is the only one of Emma's love interests who truly cared for her; Mr Elton was only interested in her money and Mr Churchill only used her to cover up his secret betrothal. However, Knightley makes no secret of his attraction to Emma, claiming that he 'loves to look at her' and 'has been in love with her since she was thirteen years old' - this is slightly creepy in an Austen book. What do you think? Should Emma really marry her daddy substitute?

More to come...I'm gonna go hit the sack.

The First Wife

2011-09-02T19:16:00.001+08:00

There must be
A thousand different emotions.
Some are named,
Most go unnoticed.

It is not jealousy,
Because I do not want what they have got.
It is not nostalgia,
Because I cannot see myself in their youth and their beauty.
It is not dread,
Because I know that pride must come before fall
If we are to learn how to fly.
But
There's no word to describe
That twinge,
That whisper;
A little shudder,
A tear,
And soft glow...

The joys of being
The first wife.

Routine Infant Circumcision.

2011-08-31T23:07:00.001+08:00

I must say, the response to that post about infant circumcision was...actually quite surprising. And nice. So thank you. I'm glad to increase awareness on any of the many issues I consider important - and routine infant circumcision is one of them.

To be honest, I'm just like any other teenage girl - I am just a little squeamish about talking about, y'know, down there. But I think it's important; it is, after all, just part of our bodies; and we should be proud of who we are and what we look like. Besides, should we let such a pressing medical matter pass just because it's about the nether regions? If we were routinely cutting ulnas off our elbows we'd be much more open about it.

I was inspired to write that post by this video off of Mama Natural's vlog. Mama Natural is one of the blogs I follow, and it's written by Genevieve Damascus, aka Mama Natural, about her beautiful baby boy, Griffin. Circumcision is not something that's given that much thought here, especially amongst teenagers (teens just tend to talk about peacocks in general ;)), and especially because it is not a routine medical procedure here; it's done more as a religious thing. But then I thought about it a little more; why do we modify sexual organs of infants for no apparent reason? There are some medical conditions that require circumcision; and I'm not opposed to it if there is a genuine medical reason, but are we perhaps freaking out when we say we do it for 'preventative' reasons? Should we remove breasts so that our children won't get breast cancer later on? And I don't entirely buy the premise of 'for religious reasons' either, especially because it's your religion, not necessarily your child's.

In the end, I'm not a mother, and I don't have brothers, and it's not something that's commonly discussed in an extended Asian family; so I'm not an expert. All I'm saying is that I'm opposed to the idea, especially if there's no reason for doing it - I'm opposed to parents not thinking before allowing things to happen to their children. To me it just seems excessive and barbaric and a practice of the past, one of the many things we need to leave out of modern society. If I do anything in this world, and for the people who walk this earth, let it be that I taught people not what to think, but how to think, and why.

Rolling in the Deep.

2011-08-31T19:00:00.001+08:00

I wonder, sometimes,
If you knew
If you know now,
How much you hurt me.

With every hurt there is a wound.
You are a wound.

With every wound there is a scar.
You are a scar.

With every scar there is forget.
With every forget there is forgive.

It is not my choice,
But my hate kills me faster
Than it would ever kill you.
And so,
I am forgetfulness
And forgiveness
Personified,
Whilst your
Cruelty
Is almost a deity
In itself.
I am the honesty,
The decency,
That you never had.

I can forgive your cunning,
I can forget my foolishness,
But
I'll never forgive what you took from me.
I'll never forget that we could have had it all.
I'll never forgive that,
It is
Still
Just...

A dream.

Inspired by 'Rolling in the Deep' by Adele

Guys, Calm Down.

2011-08-31T16:30:00.000+08:00

I am a fifteen year old girl. I never claimed to always write 100% seriously. Some things on this blog are quite obviously silly and/or badly written. Sometimes you need an outlet for inferior goods; I don't think we have enough exposure to stuff that's so bad it's good. So it's really not fair to dismiss my decent poems and throw criticism at the silly ones. I'm a blogger, not a genius.

I am an atheist feminist and one of the purposes of this blog is to advocate, promote, discuss and educate people about the feminist and atheist theories. I think that what I believe is right; but I also respect that other people are entitled to their own opinion. Many people don't know this, but I actually read this blog called Passionate Homemaking , to better understand women from all walks of life. And you know what? I actually agree with a lot of things on that blog, such as frugal living and the beautiful responsibility of motherhood. I didn't think I'd have so much in common with devout God-fearing people, but I think it's the woman in all of us that connects us. And the way of living that they advocate is a perfectly healthy way for women to live - but it's only one option. So with this thinking, I don't actually advocate one lifestyle for women over another; all I advocate is that women have the choice; the free choice of how they lead their lives. It's a basic human right.

Please know that, as a blogger, I have the right to moderate comments, and to refuse to publish comments I find to be hurtful, rude, pointless or cyberbullying. I'm a highschooler; I'm not dumb. I know what bullying is and I know that I should not have to put up with it. I also know that the bullies are the real people hurting; I know that, when people try to drag me down and make me doubt myself, it's because they're afraid of what I can do. But, as readers, you have the right to express your opinion on my writing and I respect that. Therefore, my policy is to publish all coments that are civil and are non-personal, regardless whether people agree with me or not. Because none of us have the right to expect that everyone will agree with everything you say. I believe that what I believe in is right; but there is more than one right, and more than one wrong.

The Beauty of Secular Politics.

2011-08-30T22:00:00.000+08:00

A religious affiliation should be a voluntary, educated decision. I made the voluntary, educated choice to be an atheist. It is my right and my responsibility.

However, religion and politics is a dangerous mix. We use politics as a tool to impose our religious beliefs on other people. There is no universal religion; but the law is universal. Why do we impose our own beliefs on people we will never know? Why is your version of right and wrong THE version of right and wrong for everyone?

Religion is a static thing; it does not change, it does not move with society. It keeps people locked in the past, with ideas so old they are virtually alien. Times have changed. Society has changed. Religion? Hardly.

It is everyone's right to have whatever religious affiliation they choose. But please, from one person to another, don't impose your views onto others. Don't deny others the gift of choice.

Politics and law are secular elements of society. Keep it secular.

This is why I do not approve of religious political parties or religious political pressure groups. It is unfair to impose religious ideology onto a fast-changing, liberal secular world. The world needs things, like gay rights and sexual liberation, that religion is not prepared to give. Religion, especially Christianity in particular, has had almost free rein to freely, openly and proudly practice their religion and lead their lives how they want; why can't they return the favour? I'm an atheist, and I deserve no less than you. If people are gay, they deserve no less than you. Women deserve no less than men. Black deserves no less than white.

I'm not anti-religion. I don't dispute our rights to choose our religion. But what I do have a problem is is when we take these religions and inflict the good and bad of them on others. It's neither fair nor right, and sometimes we have to think; how much of other people's business do we take too personally?

Lost in Austen.

2011-08-29T22:40:00.000+08:00

If only we danced
Two by two,
Four by four.
When young men stood and bowed
When you walked through the door.
If only we sang
And sewed the day away;
If only we knew
The innocent way.
If only we could go back to the times
Where the pianoforte forced civilities;
And the ballroom allowed for no liberties.
If only there were some kind of portal,
A paradox;
For there is a world in which I would like to get lost.
If only we lived as we did back then;
All I know is that I want to be lost in Austen.

Inspired by the hit TV series 'Lost in Austen'.

Can of Worms #8

2011-08-29T22:08:00.000+08:00

Worm #17: Should euthanasia be legalised?
The long and short of it: Yes.

My say: I don't get it: if we have a bad day and jump off the roof, that's legal, but ending your life when you're extremely ill and incurable is illegal. I believe we all have the power of life and death over ourselves, and we have the right to end our lives and ask others to help end our lives in times of great pain.

I do, however, think that this should be regulated; all too often you hear of elderly people being despatched just so that greedy offspring can lay hands on the cash flow. There must be proof of illness; there must be proof that it cannot be cured, or cannot be cured without extremely invasive procedures. There must be proof of little hope of a good quality of life.

I don't really think that family members should really have any say in it; it's a personal decision. It should, however, be approved by doctors, and I think religious pressure groups have no right to say when I die.

If someone I loved was truly terminally ill and in a lot of pain and asked me to help them end their life I would do it, and I wouldn't feel bad about it regardless of the consequences. There, I said it.

Worm #18: Is it okay to go elsewhere for sex if you're not getting any at home?
The long and short of it: No.

My say: If you're married or in a relationship it is definitely not okay to contemplate going elsewhere for sex, regardless of the circumstances. We live in the sexualized world where we completel detatch sex from any emotion or sentiment, where wife and whore are interchangeable. If your spouse is pregnant, just had a baby, injured, ill...get over it. As a spouse, you should have more compassion and respect.

However, I do think that many people feel deprived in relationships where lack of communication has led to sexual problems. For example, if you're not married and your partner wants to wait until the wedding night, think about it: is there any chance for a compromise? How important is it to my partner and/or her family and their beliefs? Is one guilty night worth jeopardising a relationship? I don't think call girls are going to solve the problem in the long run; a good relationship relies on communication in all things, and so maybe you'll just have to bite the bullet and have the sex talk. It's not that hard. I don't think.

Coping Without God: Death.

2011-08-28T00:09:00.001+08:00

I'm watching a little bit of Can of Worms (it was the religion!) and they're asking how you help a child cope with death and grieving without God.

Maybe it's hard, to be told that there's no heaven, no nothing, no place where you will see all that you have lost. I don't actually know, because I've never for a second believed in heaven, or hell, or all that jazz. I don't believe in reincarnation, either, mostly because I know my karma's screwed and I'll come back as a dung beetle or something. No, I'm actually frightened that I'll come back as a murderer or a psychopath or someone who has been broken or something; I mean, as much as I complain about this life, it's not that bad, so why can't we just leave it at that?

Most people don't know this, but I had a brother once, a long time ago. I don't remember him; I was two years old when he died - he essentially had all my problems, but much worse. He'd be thirteen now, and his ashes are under a beautiful liquid amber tree behind a women's hospital that's taller than daddy, and to me, that's proof that he's happy, wherever he is, and that's how I find peace in that. Of course, perhaps this doesn't really count because I don't remember him at all, I never saw him grow, never spent time with him to make his death truly heartbreakingly painful.

I don't really know what happens after death. Sometimes I feel like my brother's watching over me, but not like a God; just a child, observing, watching a world he could have been a part of. I don't think he's physically up in the clouds dancing around with angels; the idea is silly to me. I don't think I'll ever see him in a physical form when I die, or truly know what he could have been like; but I'm of the school of thought that we are not purely bound to our physical form. His spirit is somewhere, but his body is unconscious and will never come back; I've accepted that. I don't think we'll ever meet, but I don't think he'll ever truly leave. But I guess I'll never know until I'm in a state in which I can't really tell you, eh?

I'm not afraid of death; it's part of life. I'm not afraid of me dying, and I know my mother would be a seriously pissed off spirit if I had jumped off a cliff after her funeral or something. We all live and die for a reason, and whatever is after death, if there is something after death, will be what it is, whatever it is. To be honest, I'm kind of excited to find out what's after death; it's more fascinating than frightening to me. There are more things to be afraid of than death.