jolene needs a focal point.
Like how undigested fibres ends up in the toilet bowl, unprocessed nonsense gets discharged here.
Do you get, do you get a little kick
out of being small-minded?
You want to be like your father
It’s approval you’re after
Well that’s not how you’ll find it
Fuck You (GWB); Lily Allen
dialogue
jack-in-a-box press it pops
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Disappear!
I'M GOING AWAY TO THE LAND OF THE RISING SUN, CHOKE ON WASABI AND GET POISONED BY PUFFERFISH.
SO LONG :D
<3
Thursday, December 4, 2008
An After-thought
I sound socially deprived.
Like an anti-social retard back in my secondary one days.
Oh what the heck.
I mean, my friendster friends' count still stand at what, a hundred? Plus my facebook is like the living dead.
Welcome to Earth, Alien.
"And I like large parties. They're so intimate. At small parties there isn't any privacy."
So said Jordan, in The Great Gatsby.
If the world was a giant party.
My favourite thing to do this holidays was to walk to Subway at West Mall and chomp on a veggie delight and watch the crowd go by. All by myself, I'm a big girl now. Okay, so on this one occassion I was reading Emily Bronte's Poems of Solitude while smelling my freshly toasted wheat bread, when I suddenly experienced an epiphany.
Because there are so many people going on with their own lives you get privacy, enjoying the time crawl by while staring through the glass windows, and taking another bite of fibre-goodness. Even when you take an extra big bite, the contents spill, and honey mustard sauce gets onto your cheek, nobody saw. You wouldn't mind. Nobody noticed, nobody cared.
And you're free to do whatever you want without being subjected to the supervision of others.
Keeping to yourself.
Crawled back into your cosy shell, hermit crab.
After a month long of solitude, going back to close proximity with forty nine others was so overwhelming I forgot how to communicate.
Like how neurones in my left brain has degenerated to render me unable to do math, I have forgotten how to, well, talk. Responses take their own sweet time to connect my brain to my mouth and for the gazillionth time today I felt like a moron. Stone, blank stare, stone, another programmed movement. I feel strange. I have all these words in my head, but they don't manage to get out of my mouth. By the end of the day, even though I hardly broke a sweat, I was so drained out by trying not to be drained out.
What a recluse, you might say.
Shrugs.
How awkward, how awfully self-conscious, how difficult it is, when I can easily smile at strangers and banter with people I don't know.
The irony.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Domestication 101
My mother went on a strike.
Of course, she did not wear red and do a one-woman demonstration at home, but she went straight up to the boss and applied for two-weeks (read: infinite) leave to balik-kampung. Despite the economic crisis, the boss paid for her ticket, gave her lots of paper to spend, and now she's happily eating gan-luo-mian in her hometown in Malaysia. Then again, she works in the informal economy and her contributions are not accounted for in the GDP of Singapore. Plus she sleeps with the boss.
So yes, my mum went on a holiday.
But before she left, her last words to her lovely daughters were: Maria's gone! Goodbye!
Which, translated, means, so long suckers. Enough of doing housework all day while you two do homework, even though we all live in this house we call a home. Her sadistically happy tone lead me to conclude that she was going on a strike to prove something. Why people usually typify Maria as a maid is another thing I've pondered for an extremely long time, and now I've digressed.
Now that the housewife is gone, the running of the house shall fall squarely on the shoulders of the housedaughters and househusband.
In the Ng family there's a system: Father brings home the dough, Mother does the housework, and the two daughters undo whatever they've done. My parents don't say it, but I know my sister and I are quite the disappointing investments and I bet they're totally regretting their two moments of folly.
Without the mother, it seems as if my dad's co-habitating with two other fellow bachelors. Except the fact that his roommates have a penchant for cross-dressing and show no appreciation of soccer. In order to console my father there's no male to carry on the family name, my sister and I have gladly dumped all our barbie dolls and evolved into burping, farting machines. Yes, it's a stereotype, but we're such slobs we're like the sons my dad never had.
This means that when my mum comes back from her trip home she'll be greeted by cobwebs and dust-bunnies. That's when we'll convince her we've thrown a post-halloween party for her, but excuses come later; there's still another week or so and by then I'll be far away in the Land of the Rising Sun, ha!
My mother's absence means that someone has to cook meals. "I'll cook," I volunteered. Afterall Tan Geok Lian had taught me well, and an A1 for home econs is a feat. Culinary disasters aside, at least there's food, right? My sister stuckout her tongue at me. In order not to hurt my feelings my dad replied, no no cooking, we'll have to clean and wash up.
"Everybody eat out!"
And then he went out to buy packets of instant noodles and chocolate cookies and bread like we were stocking rations for a disaster.
Oh well. At least I can now eat veggie delight everyday.
Next, the laundry.
I vaguely remember my mother teaching me how to operate the washing machine. But like all things with buttons such as the GC, I can barely work the thing. My sister is the only one who has the secret manual of washing-machine operation in her head. And I think she's getting obsessed with pressing buttons on the machine, because everyday she's looking for clothes to dump and wash. It's like arcade at home, or something.
My sister declared, "one thing good about mummy away is that I can clean up at my own pace without any nagging."
When we came home after dinner yesterday, she opened the door to see ground-zero, and like how people are when they stand around and appreciate artworks hanging on museum walls, said, "omg it's freaking messy!"
But, as an afterthought, "I'll clean up later."
And, they say, tomorrow never comes.
Me, well, as I've announced before, I see organisation in chaos ("What rubbish," said the mother. "Now go clean up before I dump everything and sell your notes to garang guni." The prospect of my precious notes reduced to paper pulp is usually too hard to bear.) Plus, the mess in the council room makes everything else fall into perspective, so I have really low expectations of neatness.
My dad, well, he is blind to everything except the newspaper and the television at home.
While we suffer at home, my mum is happily enjoying feeding the mosquitoes in her kampung. She did sms my dad on December 1st:
Happy Birthday. Did you help me record my korean dramas?
Nope, no questions about whether the house is infested by ants by now. Nothing about whether we've burnt the whole house down. Nothing about malnourishment of her daughters. She's rather the evil mother.
Right, by now, you might be recoiling in disgust at how unfilial Jolene is. How sloppy Jolene is. And she's a girl!
Bah, gender discrimination once again.
But before you make more prejudiced judgements, I'm proud to declare that I did housework today. I've finally conformed to the age-old stereotype that women are domesticated creatures.
Yes, in vaccumming the floor today, I'm appreciating my mother more and more.
It's tough work, housework.
I think I have abs from mopping the floor already.
Previously
November 2008
December 2008
March 2009
CREDITS
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