I do not like to blog very much. It majorly stresses me out. It's like, should I be funny, boring, serious, intellectual or crappy? Each word I type reflects who I am, or at least who I think I am, or worse, who I want to become. The problem is then major writer’s block, since I want to become nothing. Or more precisely, I have yet to decide if I should become a slacker in life and collect dust as my hobby, or be a serious intellectual boring woman who collects dust. Hence I cannot decide whether to adopt a boring, crappy or intellectual tone. As you can see, I am a pessimist and chronic worrier who obsesses about every nitty gritty detail in life- why is that woman leaving a distance of 0.5 metres between her and the next commuter? If she moves in by 0.3 metres, I think ½ a person would be able to squeeze up the bus. That evil bitch just caused half a person to be late for work, and then dissed by his rich boss, who has never had to squeeze into public transport in his life. Obviously, my mind makes life very hard to pass by. I don’t like it very much. As you can see, I don’t like many things very much.
Besides, it's hard to type and think when you have a mother who cannot but loves to sing in the background. She is also a full-time housewife. Currently, I am feeling that life is meaningless, and she’s not helping. Much. Okay, maybe a little. She gives me the feeling of hope when she stops her singing for a moment. She also accidentally cooks well occasionally, which makes me appreciate food on these rare occasions. Like today. =)
Also known as 'lucky food', coz she can never replicate the good standard intentionally. With her, it's all luck. I can vouch for that.
I gather from other blogs that to be certified a true blue singaporean girl blogger, you've got to post random act-chio pics and 'pretend-it's-not-me-taking-the-pic-when-it-is-me-who-else' act-chio pics in almost every post. So here they are:
Random act-chio pic.
Random 'pretend-it's-not-me-taking-the-pic-when-it-is-me-who-else' act-chio pic
Random boy who puked on everyone in the car. Including me. and my borrowed dress. Pre-puke picture, omninously taken just when I was almost thinking kids could be cute. Posted in memory of mental note not to have kids.
Perfectly cemented ground debuting outside my doorstep. In exchange for continous loud drilling for days on end. And an enlightening revelation on the Conspiracy Theory of Foreign Workers. Under this theory, laborers intentionally make mistakes so they can drill, slap on cement, wait to dry, drill, slap on cement, and repeat cycle ten times to prolong their stay here. Don't get me wrong; I love that perfect piece of work done outside my doorstep. I think the Bangladesh loved it too, cause he rushed back again when he overheard my mother praising his work in Chinese on our doorstep. He thought that some homecoming and unwitting resident was going to leave her mark on HIS work before it dried, hence immortalising this disgraceful act of plagiarism.
And lastly, while the Japanese boast used underwear selling from vending machines, we have our very own umbrella vending machine. How exciting. Only $6!