I go to the doctor and show her a throat slightly more pink than what it should look like and she gives me a magic paper. I can easily get an understanding look from lecturers, be easily pardoned from my daily responsibilities, no questions asked. Well wishes in fact.
I go to bed and wake up, my body running well and orderly but which doctor can verify that my thoughts are a jumble and my heart is squished. These feelings so tangible I swear they must show physically in some ways. But who will verify, and approve me a leave of absence?
Who will understand that I simply cannot get out of bed because I haven't rested, my body was unconscious, but my mind churning and my heart not ceasing to dent at various angles, trying to find again a shape it can accept, a shape it can recognise as familiar...and settle.
Write me an M.C. for a running mind my flustered heart cannot keep up with. I'm sure we can agree it's worse than the sniffles.
I am happy, contented mostly. I imagine most people are.
I have taken to writing something I am happy about everyday. I planned on making a list, before I begin the daily notations. I have them in my head already.
And then I woke up, and it's like a big ugly monster puked all over my consciousness. Now there's a mess.
I think, I'll write another day.
Got out in a rush again, not my fault this time, stuff just came up.
I started running, traffic was almost non-existent, so that was good. The lights didn't turn green for me, a bit of a surprise, I had assumed its allowing kindness. But not that it knows what kind of a day I've had.
Not that it knows it'll only be one of the many.
So I ran, I don't usually, ego. I looked so beaten already anyway. At so many different points what I really really felt like doing was let my legs crumble, bury my face in my hands and just cry. Cry like in the midst of war, poverty, real long-sanding profound pain that my petty problems trumped all. Finally an outlet for my fluster, fumble and bumble. Finally a stage for my hitherto private mess. But I kept running.
I keep on running.
I've been thinking a lot about lines.
When I wait for trains, I wait way behind the yellow line. Sometimes I get very paranoid unreasonable visions of me standing a little too close to the tracks and then the train passes and I get sucked in and then....wow. ouch. Bernoulli, one of the few things I remembered from Physics. It's like that though, with lines isn't it? At first you know you're drawing the lines with your feet, next thing you know you're sucked over. Except you weren't, you just forgot your quick deliberate decisions. Sometimes you just don't know where to stand. Sometimes the lines are faded out; through wind, weather, time.
Sometimes you need to ask someone where it's supposed to be. Sometimes you take the train alone. Sometimes you just run.
The irony is when you're looking for something and it is somehow misplaced, lost. Then that thing has the cheek to appear on some other day, when it's the last thing you need. The irony is when you find yourself on a cold day unequipped. You bundle yourself and challenge tomorrow's weather to do the same, but it's a bright sunny day. The irony is when you can't think of a certain word, and it annoys you, it escapes you. Another day it just springs up mid-sentence, as if it never left.
The IRONY is when you take leave of your senses or when it leaves you whatever it's perfectly fine, you don't need it. Then as it chooses it returns like a slap in your face and announces its arrival by shaking you and you want to do the same, leave it or have it leave you. But it doesn't. It's there, it's a constant ring in your ear. Go away already.
Night time congratulates you on holding up during the day. It also reminds you that tomorrow is another.
Because I'm turning 20, I shall be in a limbo between my teenage years and my adult ones, 21 being the widely accepted marker. Because I'm turning 20, it doesn't matter to me that it's a 1 week Easter break and I've put myself under house arrest, that the 18th is predicted to be on a fairly lovely sunny day, amongst the cloudy days of the week. It doesn't matter, doesn't bother me at all that I have 2 assignments to finish, due on the Monday after. It's normal adult responsibility, the sight of me on the 19th or 20th itself trying to present something that won't fall apart before it hits the bottom of the assignment box.
It doesn't matter, what I thought of, my picnic on the grass scene. With food baskets, a red and white chequered mat, cookies, cake, some more food, close friends, lying on the grass. Oh, what doesn't matter most, and I wouldn't miss is the sun plus the fresh air and the feeling of no care and.......colourful balloons, turning 20. Turning 20 I don't think of these things, they are a child's dream. Turning 20, i know there are bigger problems, this in comparison is unworthy of attention, of effect.
It doesn't bother me one bit, this heaviness I feel as the 18th approcahes. It is not a date I recognise, nothing special, the 18th of April. Doesn't ring a bell, doesn't prompt a skip. You don't have to feel special, don't have to go to sleep smiling. It is not what I wish for people on their birthdays. Oh no, those are what a 19 year old would want. Because I turn 20, these things don't even cross my mind.
I'll grow up and not let not being able to skip and feel free and smile till my face tires bother me. I don't care for those things, they are not mine, they are for a 17, 18, maybe 19 year old. A 20 year old like myself remains unaffected. It isn't a burden, it isn't a lump in the throat or a squeeze in my chest. The day will pass, you will let it pass, it doesn't matter. You're a big girl, it doesn't matter, it shouldn't matter, don't let it matter.
It will come again, 21, 22, 23, 24. Maybe those 18s will promise better things. Just not now, not this time, let it go. Don't let it matter, let it pass, it won't kill you. 20 years old calls for responsibilities, learn to prioritise. Adults know that when there's work it doesn't matter which king's birthday it is, you work because you have to. Because hey, you brought it upon yourself. You deal with it because 20 year olds deal with it.
It's okay, you can feel special other days, there will be other happy days. Only it won't be this day, the day you turn 20. If you think about it, it's not even a right of passage. 21 is when you become an adult, this one this year is hardly significant. It doesn't matter that you thought about what you couldn't do at home, to make up for the people who couldnt be there. it doesn't matter, it shouldn't matter. Let it pass, let it pass.
For a Journalism class exercise today, we wrote a mini profile feature. I picked my man (ha) and got to work. This is what came out of my little research. I don't think it's awesome, it's a "" kind of discovery and it's....well....food for thought. You'll see
Colonel Sanders’ Best Kept Secret
With white cottony hair, he has on his
famous ensemble of a black bow tie, black framed glasses, white striped red
apron and the accessory that outshines the rest, his inviting smile. This
grandfatherly figure hangs with pride on every of the 6000 plus Kentucky Fried Chicken
restaurants around the world. Harland David Sanders or "ker-nel
Sanders" as one would warmly regard the man of Kentucky roots is one in
the likes of Thomas Edison, Albert Einstein, Nelson Mandela and others.
Sanders’ classic story of men from
not-so-fortunate backgrounds who toiled with sweat and tears and went against
the grain to achieve success has been told over and over again. However, unlike
those gentlemen, Colonel Sanders did so working with some grains, but we'll never know which ones exactly. Food
Network once explained that its secret recipe is kept in a vault in
corporate headquarters.
Apparently, the
recipe wasn’t the only thing kept secret from worldwide fried chicken lovers. Sanders’
daughter, Margaret Sanders opened the closet to an extra marital affair in her
book “11 Herbs and a Spicy Daughter” and let her father’s skeletons come down
so hard on his family man image.
She reveals that while her father was married to her
mother, Josephine King, there was a woman, Claudia Ellen who became his “side
dish”. Ellen, a divorcee with 2 children of her own was said to have created
turmoil in the then peaceful Sanders family. Sanders even convinced his wife to
hire Ellen to help with the house work. He then divorced King who refused to
accept the fact that she could not satisfy the colonel’s physical needs and
married Ellen.
This should not come as a surprise though, since
the colonel himself grew up in a broken family in Indiana. His father died when
he was five years old and his mother remarried. Hope for a happy family with
one father, one mother and their children as so often depicted in his
advertisements was never realised for young Sanders.As he often fought with his stepfather, his
mother sent him to another part of the state.
Perhaps this iconic man was a hypocrite, coating
the image of his restaurants and his fried chicken not just with 11 spices and
herbs but also with rich family values. Perhaps also he was telling the truth,
standing outside looking in on a perfectly happy and complete family….enjoying
their finger licking good meal.
In my little skirts or not, I do so much promotion.
Many have taken their taste buds on trips to heaven with the LOVELYLOVELY Uncle Seng's Noodles near Taylor's College. Many now swear by it, many now tell their friends. If uncle Seng knew this, he'd be liking me as much as i likelove adore his noodles. But of course not, he's too busy to notice that I come twice a week and order deep fried pork noodles large everytime I visit the hot little no-parking-someone's-always-standing-up-being-patronising-to-make-you-leave-if-you've-finished-your-food restaurant for that very few moments of deliciousness. I go there so much, I call deep fried pork noodles DFP now. Like my best friends, who I give nick names to.
Just got off the phone with an aunty from Singapore who tells me that her son, yes I am aware he is my cousin but it feels more like he is my aunt's son than he is my cousin which explains not just the geographical distance. Anyway, aunty called because said son will be doing what I am doing in Monash and she asked if it's any good. And like a good student and loyal student I said yes. Okay, no la. I meant it. If not I'd unabashedly bitch about it and tell her no please no, and please tell my mom to take me out of it. But no, she asks me "how" I tell her "it's a traditional university so it really has its irrefutable standards and that it's very theory based which makes it very academically acclaimed with all its reading, writing and researching requirements. "you like it?" "I do, I enjoy my subjects". Of course I didn't tell her I have virtually no friends but my cousin is cool, he'll fit in. At least he has nice hair. In uni, that counts for a lot.
I'm such a promoter but the thing is, I believed in what I said. You know how many young girls in church now looking to take SAM? besides them seeing me with awful black rings and stress pimples every so often in church? Am I good or what?? So convincing, okay! Of course if something isn't good I'd definitely testify against it. So what does that mean?
I'm making good choices?
Why you should study at Monash...
Totally Justin Timberlake right?
End Note: As I write this, Cry Me a River plays on the winamp. Randomly.
" kind of discovery and it's....well....food for thought. You'll see 
