Mixed Tape Series: The Jacksons - Scream

H: Times like these, I wish I still had a therapist.

P: How very LA of you. What's wrong homie? Talk.

H: You know me. I don't talk. Never was one for words. So I write. Or try to.

P: Har har. Another one of your therapist's advice hey?

H: Good advice though. Typing is therapeutic. The feel of pen on paper is therapeutic.

P: How about having your thoughts published?

H: Quite. But it's also therapeutic when you write a long-ass spiel and drag the whole document to your recycling bin.

P: Right. So what's the point? If you write stuff and not do anything about it?

H: Dunno. I guess it feels good to be able to release it I suppose. And it feels like you can say all things uncensored. With nobody else talking back to you and having to justify everything you say which is pretty pointless. Kinda like now.

P: You're saying it's pointless talking to me?

H: You're my best friend. Of course you will talk back. Of course you'll judge and of course I have to justify. Of course sometimes it's pointless talking to you.

P: You know I love you though right?

H: But then you say things like that and it's all better. Stop playing When Harry Met Sally. You know it'll never work.

P: I know. Incestuous. It's worse than kissing my sister. Eugh, I can feel the cringe. Anyway get some lunch and I'll go to sleep. You know I should charge you out of hours for this. I'm better than Dr. M plus you don't have to go on that couch. Night sweety.

There was never a couch. Just issues, but never a couch.
And it was all good again.

27 before 27 blog countdown: 44

A case of the ex (this is not a book review)

I used to read a lot but these days, I've lost time (and perhaps a bit of interest) to do so. Hence I've set a realistic challenge of reading at least 10 books before I turn 27. I've finished 1/10 so I've got seven months to finish nine more. I didn't want anything too intense for my first book so I chose Jane Moore's The Second Wives Club. It wasn't life-changing - quite predictable and oftentimes unrealistic. It had, however, a universal theme that everyone else can possibly relate to - the impacts of an ex.

OLD JOURNAL ENTRY: Oh, but I can't read your mind

I used to be very good at reading minds especially when I know the person all too well. My instincts were always spot on and I felt like I had this bizarre superpower to be able to phone someone in despair at the right time without warning. At the same time, I felt that I was tough enough to act as a sick bag (your verbal vomit is safe with me!) and cheeky enough to point out what I thought was wrong. Or what I thought that person would do. I used to be able to muster up some sort of bull that actually made a bit of sense in a blink - and that was good enough for the time being until friend in case needed my sick bag service again.

That changed when I moved. The whole “I’m off to England” shebang brought forth several issues that I forgot to deal with myself. Suppose you can say I’ve been selfish for a while and I had to spit and swallow my own deal. I’ve strategically distanced (no pun here, seriously) myself from everything and everyone until I got my groove back. I felt better and by all means I was ready to pack myself up in a shiny spangly box labeled “Your Friendly Sick Bag, Improved!”. It wasn’t exactly as great as I thought, because I still felt a bit.. detached. It’s not that I don’t care because I really do. It’s just that I feel so far already.

I guess I forgot to remember that people change as you do, and that the distance you impose can grow twice as fast as you think (with the exception of several friends who know you too well and vice versa). Perhaps that’s why I get so frustrated sometimes, because as I remain 9000++ miles away from the friends I care about most, I still expect to know a lot when I myself have not been talking. Maybe I didn’t have to be the receiving end at all times - relationships are only great on a give and take basis after all. Maybe I should’ve said something as well. Unfinished business remains unfinished and closure may be hard to find. You can’t just expect things to be the same as they once were because sporadic fits of déjà vu will never bring the past any justice. And no superpower can let you fully understand someone you haven’t seen in ages. That’s a shame, really. But I still wish I could read minds.

27 before 27

Image from Cakes by Kali

I'm 27 in seven months and a few days. Yes, yes, my birthday's tagal pa but I'm overly excited about this one. 2011 has been good to me so far - heaps better than 2010 - and I can only pray that this continues through the rest of the year.

Joining the late-twenties populace feels like some sort of turning point, some sort of end to an era, some sort of wake up call. I used to taunt 27-year-old friends when I was an in-betweener, thinking Gosh they're so old! and now that I'm about to step into their shoes I feel I deserve a slap on the wrist for being mildly cruel. I'm not really feeling much of a difference (yet) but I can imagine the pressure of having to be relatively more responsible and more mature about things. When you enter the late twenties it seems that you're somehow expected to be achieving the serious goals in life, and the margin for error becomes way too narrow you're almost left with none. Oh, and of course, there's the pressure of body clocks and making babies for the delight of my parents. Oh. Now that is PRESSURE.

My best guy friend P and I talk every year about life goals since we hit our twenties. We've had a conversation a few weeks back and we've both realised how far we've come and how we've achieved most major goals we've set for ourselves - the usual by 21 we should be this, by 25 we should be that. Last year I've achieved my goal of 'not settling' (another story...) and he's achieved his goal of 'settling' =) This year, I've realised that I've not really set a main goal just yet. P asked me what I wanted to achieve this year and for some strange reason I blurted out the silliest answer ever.