death by shampoo - roach assassination chrolonicles

i met a roach on the way to the loo today. rather, i met it when it was skulking behind the door.

i wasted to time, no action and fired shots with my squirt-head lotion bottle - and missed. mostly, anyway. then the cunning villain scuttled underneath some piece of furniture with legs and i had to do battle with it through the obstacles.

managed to get some on it; but it got away. thought it'd have dropped into the pipeline through the holey leaf-stopper plastic things to have a nice bath to wash the shower foam off and taunt me in the morning -


but oho! it greeted me in the morning with legs in the air right beside the loo seat.

now that's a good start to the day!

weather? bah.

this day i wonder: people learn things from me. and do i learn things from people? am i too obstinate to see the lessons in which i provide to others is also, in itself, a lesson to me? heh.

and what do i have to offer, save self-respect, a semi-strong grip on my sense of being, and an obstinate optimism tinged with negativity at the frayed edges?

thus tonight, i asked my good, respectable self, what i had gained from all of this. if i were so respectable and so good, why am i finding myself not being able to tell right from - well, the other one? why do i write people off, after having decided that "enough is enough" then feeling weighed down about it? is it just feeling "under the weather"?*


most importantly, "am i a lesson?"


- ever read the email that's titled: "everybody occurs for a reason, a season or a lifetime"? i think i might just be the "reason and/or season". the only one stuck with me for a bloody lifetime is probably my ma. then again, she's not stuck with me, i'm stuck with HER.


...

..alright, other-deprecating jokes aside. methinks i'm one of those who can't see past her own glow of self-greatness. tis all about me me me me me and then, if i have the time, myself. it's the glow from my cocky being, i tell you. but truth be told what does that light of greatness do? other than granting me confidence and poise, i mean?

also, to quote a well-loved terry pratchet, "in the dark the light blinds you - " apparently you do not strike the match when you're surroundedby the "oppressing darkness". you stare at it till it backs down. and that's just it. light blinds you when you're in the dark, and you can see only where it reaches; you're blind beyond that. and god-forbid the possibility of someone training his end of the gun at you.

that's why ninjas wear black and don't carry lanterns when doing their funky roof-hopping, no?


anyways. methinks it's all a load of bull and maybe i should dim the self-glow and try to see past my pretty nose for a change, eh? look past the mirror, through the mirror and AT my SELF. and see what's there, what's REALLY there. then maybe, just maybe, i can figure out what might be the cause of this want to slam the door shut, lock the windows and bury my head underneath a big, hardcovered book.

and if i stared really hard, maybe, just maybe i'll see what's there in the mirror, y'know, complete with minute refractions and absolute reflections - and maybe i'll realise that the pimple on my my nose is really the issue.


---
* i realise there's no way you can stay be above the weather unless you live in the mountains. even then, the snowstorms get to you sometimes.

horror, horror!

about a man who likes a girl who shagged a girl who wasn't.

ye gods. the stories you hear when the lights are dim and the music's loud and the drinks are flowing all the way to your nostrils.

f*!

sex and steak

sex and steak are highly similar.

think about it.



KFC just doesn't cut it anymore...

coming home to roost.

tired.

aye, tired. being there for people isn't as glamourous as it sounds. especially when the morons take you as a safety net. when they're happy they don't quite recall that you're there but hey when they're clawing at the threads of reality when they're merrily sliding downhill you're the first person they call.

don't mistake me, i'm perfectly fine with the whole idea of 'being there' for someone. but truly, where the heck are they when YOU're tired?


..some people never learn to treasure those they rely on.

and then there are the random people i find on my msn contact list when i sign in. where the hells do they come from???


might be a stroke of luck if i want to loose my tongue at someone.

yes... that must be it.

for once...

for once i have nothing to say.

now ain't that grand.

lions and gazelles

i'd met some people who are apparently members of the yatch club and then some.

they opened bottle after bottle of johnny walker and talked and laughed and talked some more. it was nice company.


but one incident made me take a step back and look harder at this bunch of people: i remarked that i was hungry and it was one in the morning - this gentleman offered to get the kitchen to whip something up. but alas, only the cleaners were about.

said gentleman casually took out a hundred dollar note and tossed it onto the counter to the cleaner, asked for a steak.

the cleaner would've taken it if there weren't any cameras fixed on the ceiling directly above them two. heh. i was bemused, but i was a little put off. what's he trying to say?

please, correct me if i read this wrong but it sure looked like a bid to impress this young seemingly wide-eyed girlie with double-zeroed notes. i've seen money before, thank you very much, having notes tossed about like that seemed like an insult. there is a very distinct difference between being a gentleman and being an educated but unschooled rich man.

i may be poor and despite my rants about being a gold-digger and rich, naive young men, i guess i'm not as "gold digger" i made myself out to be.

no, i was not impressed. flattered that such generousity be displayed to get me some food when i said i was hungry, but if that gesture was meant to prove a point i must say that the point was blunt. and i suppose i'm not quite suited to this kind of crowd.

they're a pride of lions and i am but a gazelle. different species altogether.

the purpose

sometimes the things you do follow a purpose. sometimes it's hard to follow through and sometimes, it's easy.

all in all, to skip all the explanations that you already know and arguments you'd heard before: purposes are there for a reason. paths are there so you can get to your goals.

it ain't easy. nobody said it would be.


and all we can do is to try to go through it swimmingly.

strength.

fancy schmancy cars

these few days walking back home had been quite a pain. literal pain.

reason? someone bought a glittery silver two-seater BMW with red seats (red seats!) and is making funky appearances out of nowhere when i return home. not only that, it sometimes is parked two doors down and i cannot help but notice its deliberately quiet presence. each time i pass by it i pinch myself to make sure i'm really seeing liquid acceleration in statis - the gorgeous things that's got enough sparkle and shine to last them through enough starless nights in a lifetime paired with just the right amount of sexual leather. and the steering wheel - OH good heavens the steering wheel! wrapped in leather and stitched just so - and not dreaming.

what i would give to sit inside, have a feel of the vehicle, run my hands on the inside of the car, knowning what i touch will be c-l-a-s-s (trust me, if i could change the font for 'c-l-a-s-s-' to something curvy and elaborate here, i would) - though i do think i would be even more appreciative if i knew how to drive. THAT's when sitting in the driver's seat will really, REALLY, make my day. (wow) did i mention i have a thing for being the driver? i have a thing for being the driver.

anyways - back to the two cars that appear in my neighbourhood - sometimes when the silver surfer's real life steed is parked on my lane, his friend wonder woman must have decided to visit cause i ALSO get a leather-topped blue two-seater SOMETHING (i don't know what it's called) cruising through my lane with what, maroon seats (?) and furry white dice dangling from the rearview mirror.

oh. wait. dangling white dice - maybe that'd be superman.


but i digress. so these two very pretty cars make their independent appearances and i go weak in the knees though i try very hard not to stare and be cool about it, walking down my lane jauntily, pretending not to give a hoot whether it's a lotus or a panini. but after it passes i would say to myself - good golly, that's a FINE car! - and mean it.

for, motor moron or not, i certainly appreciate a hot ride; whether i can tell a lamborghini HEATHEN and jaguar 5000 series X1322 apart is another question altogether. (merc? too common these days and nobody really bothers what its model name is. not me, at least. heh)


...having said that, i do, of course sometimes question the sensibility of parking the convertibles in the open with the hood still tucked away somewhere. i mean, what if people aren't polite appreciators like me and aren't content with just admiring it without touching it? what if they - God forbid - decide that they'd take liberties with my apple red Siren and hop in, have their way with the steering wheel and gear shift and (oh good heavens) have a friend take pictures - PICTURES! - of them with their low-quality mobile phone cameras?? what if they make obscene F1 racetrack noises while they're still inside my baby??!?!

OH GAWDS NOHOHOO!!


what if it rains? people keep a lid on their drinks for a reason too you know - and it's not because they like to drink outdoors when the storm is brewing. i would NEVER want my beloved darling car to be caught out in the rain like that - i would hold a BIG brolly over it and sit with it through the dark frightening nights when it's pouring buckets.

because putting a plastic sheet over it and allowing the rain to pound on it is wrong. just wrong. and even more wrong because it's like a blanket party. >:x

yes i could simply draw up the hood and sit inside while playing the radio but you're missing the point altogether.






hm. you know what?

i wouldn't want to own a car like that. i know, i know, after talking about them as if they're gifts from the Almighty - and they may well be - i wouldn't know how to keep them in their best condition and i'd hate have to deal with the aftermaths of nonsensical people taking turns at my car without my key. heck, even that sounds like molest, or worse, indecent exposure. think of the horrors my baby-poo would have to put up with!

...best leave it to the people with the knowledge and the means to upkeep these pretty things. meanwhile, i guess i can only look on in envy and appreciation, and respect the sleek little thing for what it is.


a toast to that.

when you realise you're in love

yes.

when you realise you're in love. with your friends, with your family, with everyone that you ever called when it's dark and quiet all over your neighbourhood. you realise that it is these very people that you call friends, and they, you.

sometimes it takes just a hello call, regardless whether it is you calling them or they calling you, to be reminded just why you love them so.

and because of that particular call, i am inspired to write about how to kill a cockroach. read on.

---


there had been rumours that, if you were to take a roll of newspaper and smack the literal living daylights out of the roach you see, chances of you having:

1) to wipe up the brown stinking remains are - very high
2) them trailing all over your vanity (or your trophy case) because you missed - very high
3) smashed a few things - low; cause i hope you know to pick your battles
4) spread them eggs wherever you brought The Newspaper Roll of Cockroach Doom down onto that brown scuttling no-good - super duper sky-high

and the best part is that you can't see them eggs. those brown guinea pig-output-like pellets you see stuck onto some surfaces? they're not roach poo, neither. no, they don't exactly work like lizards that leave little surprises on random surfaces - those are roach eggs in a case.

..but you know that. ;P


so. if rumours were true (i don't want to find out, though i probably should have done the research, considering that the saying "the more you fear/hate someone/something, the more you should know about it" is my motto) - then smacking them would be a BIG no-no. plus insecticides don't work as well no more cause the roaches are developing resistances.

therefore if we were to continue trying to eradicate them with insecticide, we will eventually knock our kids and dogs out with the very same can of yuck. that's also why, on top of marketing/business strategies, we get "STRONGER, MORE POWERFUL THAN BEFORE!" cans of spray every once in a while: they get updated.

thus, to nip that in the bud: kill said six-legged freaks with shampoo. or body lotion.

rationale? nothing - i repeat: NOTHING - survives without air.

(well YOU try breathing when your head's submerged in shampoo. it's thick and gooey, easy to wash off only when you have a steady stream of water AND hands: something insects do not have a habit of having brought with them)


so - do try to muster whatever quivering courage you have, get near to the scuttling creep, and generously dollop the cancer-causing concoction over its head.


that's right. it's head. and when i say dollop, i mean DOLLOP - plural if you've bad aim - for if its head is slimed then running will be quite hard indeed. that's when you cover the sucker with goo on its head and shoulders.

i normally concentrate on its head for i've noticed that they stop moving after a while and continue to stop moving for a few days after when i didn't have the guts to remove the body.

you may, of course, choose carry on with the rest of its body. just to make sure it's dead, you know. i, for one, will understand perfectly. :D

good points of this method: -

1) whatever mess you have created smells nice. it should, for you wouldn't buy anything that stinks to wash your body with, now would you.

2) cleaning up is easy, considering it's just shampoo/lotion AND still in one piece. it's simply about wiping it all away, sans the yuck juice. plus a bit of water, if you're conscientious. insecticides tend to leave an oily film that not only smells bad it's not healthy to keep about. never mind that it helps KO unsuspecting wandering insects - you know how often you have to pass by that spot. if it's worth it, by all means. otherwise - don't, cause cleaning up an insecticide stain can be as bad as having to clean up roach juice (chemicals. hello?) - that and you require some soap to get rid of it and that's additional work on top of you having to endure every moment of its fragrant insecticidey existence.

3) said dead insect still intact, so chances of tiny eggs getting stuck between the wood on your parquet flooring after being splattered all over - assuming, of course, that the egg-spreading rumour's true - are reduced to a virtual zero.

4) great way to ensure the roach is deader than dead, cause insecticides only KNOCK THEM OUT. if you threw them out without some friendly crushing (assuming you're not keen to stomp on them outside only to wade back to your home with roach eggs on the soles of your footwear) to they actually come to and make a happy meal out of your thrash.


thus.

of course, killing roaches like that involves some dexterity and it helps you get over your fear of them. having said that, though, i have to mention that it's an entirely different issue they're flying.


that's when you run the heck away.

cut it out.

cutting it out. i think i'd cut someone's heart out today.

i must be heartless.

i don't feel good about it, i don't feel bad. maybe i really am emotionless, eh.


i'm so sorry.

existing in my own home

today i existed in my own home.

cruised the waters of time after i stepped off its sands. typing out something while sitting on my bed with the radio singing oldies goodies in the background. and i felt at ease with my staying at home.

no, i didn't need a companion. if there were to be 'the other half' somewhere it wouldn't have quite made any difference. ...and i guess i'm happy being single, being solitary.

there's a hole in my bucket!

There's a Hole in the Bucket
Traditional


(Boys)
There's a hole in the bucket, dear Liza, dear Liza,
There's a hole in the bucket, dear Liza, a hole.

(Girls)
So fix it dear Henry, dear Henry, dear Henry,
So fix it dear Henry, dear Henry, fix it.

With what should I fix it, dear Liza, dear Liza,
With what should I fix it, dear Liza, with what?

With straw, dear Henry, dear Henry, dear Henry,
With straw, dear Henry, dear Henry, with straw.

But the straw is too long, dear Liza, dear Liza,
The straw is too long, dear Liza, too long.

So cut it dear Henry, dear Henry, dear Henry,
So cut it dear Henry, dear Henry, cut it!

With what should I cut it, dear Liza, dear Liza,
With what should I cut it, dear Liza, with what?

Use the hatchet, dear Henry, dear Henry, dear Henry,
Use the hatchet, dear Henry, the hatchet.

But the hatchet's too dull, dear Liza, dear Liza,
The hatchet's too dull, dear Liza, too dull.

So, sharpen it, dear Henry, dear Henry, dear Henry,
So sharpen it dear Henry, dear Henry, sharpen it!

With what should I sharpen it, dear Liza, dear Liza,
With what should I sharpen, dear Liza, with what?

Use the stone, dear Henry, dear Henry, dear Henry,
Use the stone, dear Henry, dear Henry, the stone.

But the stone is too dry, dear Liza, dear Liza,
The stone is too dry, dear Liza, too dry.

So wet it, dear Henry, dear Henry, dear Henry,
So wet it dear Henry, dear Henry, wet it.

With what should I wet it, dear Liza, dear Liza,
With what should I wet it, dear Liza, with what?

With water, dear Henry, dear Henry, dear Henry,
With water, dear Henry, dear Henry, water.

With what should I carry it, dear Liza, dear Liza,
With what should I carry it dear Liza, with what?

Use the bucket dear Henry, dear Henry, dear Henry,
Use the bucket, dear Henry, dear Henry, the bucket!

There's a hole in the bucket, dear Liza, dear Liza,
There's a hole in the bucket, dear Liza, a hole.

flaky li'l tart

...and since i don't have the wealth, let me be the money-hungry gold-digging little tart that the naive (but rich!) young man falls in love with.

and then i shall, through his determination to be with a poor shrimp like me and opposes family wishes and therefore absconds from his gilded and cushioned jet-setting cage and abandons his platinum credit cards and elopes - against my wishes - with me - realise that love is not about money.

it's about leaving money for love.


...and i have to curse the living daylights out of my stars. nabeh.


how romantic. :D

another brick in the wall am i

this is another reason why i don't want to fall in love.

you think you'd found the perfect one. then you realise you're doing that thing you do again. and you step back, reminded why you aren't attached to start with, the reason why you're 'a player' then, and when you're not 'a player' you're 'heartless', even 'cold'.

who's this magnanimous to accept you for who you are?

who'll be so blind to say 'i love you for you' and mean it, and take you, warts and shoe fetish and all, and endure 'to have and to hold'? men don't do that. and women, progressively, don't do that neither.

methinks i'm one of the few.


on the other hand, i may be wrong.

and then there's the third hand................ good Lord.

how true!

courtesy of msn:

1. Everything we buy for ourselves--shoes, a skirt, even just stuff from the drugstore--really costs 20 percent more than we tell you it did.
Just because it's a classic sitcom plot doesn't mean it isn't true. "Sometimes I'll buy an outfit and charge half of it on our credit card and pay for the other half in cash so my husband doesn't know what I'm actually spending," admits one 32-year-old, who requested anonymity to protect her sneaky secret. Yeah, we know honesty is the best policy, hiding your spending habits is bad, blah blah blah. But sometimes we just don't want the hassle of arguing over the price of the fancy shampoo. Is that so wrong? We don't think so.

2. We actually think about sex--with you!--a lot.
Sometimes we think about it all day long. It's just that by the end of the day we're too damn tired to do anything about it. Now, if you could only catch us at lunchtime....

3. We're just as nervous about commitment as you are.
True, many girls grow up dreaming of Prince Charming, the white wedding, and happily ever after. But we're human, just like you, and when it comes down to the reality of tying our life to another person's, we get scared, too. "The idea of getting married completely freaked me out at first," says my friend Lisa, 34. "I know this sounds like a guy cliche, but I saw it as giving up my independence and being tied down." The good news is, once we're hitched, we're generally pretty delighted about it. Says Lisa, "Now that I am married, having a life commitment is so comforting and wonderful. I love knowing that we are a team and that we're going to be on the same team forever."

4. We may be modern and independent, but we still want you to be "the man."
We do want you to be sensitive, caring 21st-century males, but even the most ass-kicking, take-no-prisoners woman still wants to feel taken care of by her man somehow. Whether that means you take charge in bed, know how to fix the car and kill spiders, or even just carry the big suitcase when we're on vacation--when you act all manly, even if you're 98 pounds soaking wet, it makes us feel more feminine, more safe.

"I love that my friends and family always comment on how my husband opens the door for me and does all kinds of other chivalrous things--especially when I was pregnant, when he was so protective of me and my belly," says Lorraine, 29, of New Hartford, NY. "At the end of the day, being in his strong arms is definitely a good feeling, no matter how independent I know I am."


5. Our ex-boyfriends were not completely terrible in bed.
You know how we're always telling you things like, "Oh yeah, you're definitely the biggest I've ever had" or "No one does it like you do"? Um, yeah. Well, we may have been stretching the truth just a teensy bit. But we'll never actually tell you that a past lover was a bedroom dynamo--we're smarter than that. Just know that whatever toe-curling orgasms the other guy gave us, sex with you really is a million times better--because it's you, and you're the one we really want.

6. We're scared that we'll turn into our mothers.
We love our mothers, really. We admire them, we're grateful to them, we think they're the most amazing women on the planet. We just don't want to be them. That's why one of the worst insults you can hurl at a woman is, "You're acting just like your mother."

But here's one that's even worse: "You're acting just like my mother." It sends a horrible oedipal shiver down our spines--did he marry me because I'm like his mom? Will he start expecting me to cut the crusts off his PB&J? So please, if you value your sex life, never ever compare your wife to your mother. Out loud, anyway.

7. We want you to be jealous--but just a little bit.
We want you to notice--and care!--when the waiter flirts with us, or when other guys check us out on the street. It makes us feel that we matter to you. But please don't get all Neanderthal and possessive on us. "I'm very loyal, and if my guy can't understand that I would never do anything with anyone else, then that just makes me mad," says Paulina, 22, from Brooklyn. So, to recap: Raising your eyebrows when we introduce you to our cute coworker--good. Punching him out--very, very bad.

8. Yes, we fantasize about hot celebrity guys, but that doesn't mean we want you to be them.Christian Bale is sexy and all, but can you imagine having to clean that Batcave?

9. We tell our girlfriends more than we admit to you (but less than you fear).
Yes, we tell them about the latest marital spat, complain about our mothers-in-law, and sigh over the hobby that sucks up all your free time. But we don't tell them how big your you-know-what is or that you cried in our arms when your dad died. Some things are just too important and intimate to share. "I definitely don't tell my girlfriends details like what my husband said when he proposed, the feeling I have every time I see him look at our daughter, and the little wonderful things he does for me every day," says Lorraine. "Those are just for me."

10. We really do notice and appreciate all the chores you do.
Why don't we say so often enough? Because we can't get over all the things you don't do. My husband, for example, is incredibly diligent about keeping a 6-by-10-foot carpeted patch of our apartment vacuumed and cat hair-free, and I love that. But it kills me that it never occurs to him to dust the furniture sitting on top of that piece of carpet, or to sweep the hardwood floor adjoining it.

Blame our lack of positive feedback on that stubborn female belief that there is Only One Right Way to do any given household task--our way. It's probably the real reason why men don't shoulder a greater share of housekeeping duties; we complain about how you did it wrong, so you never want to do it again. (Sounds familiar, right?) Let's make a deal: You promise to dust the lampshade (or wipe down the kitchen counter after you wash the dishes, or take out the garbage and then put a new liner in the can) once in a while, and we promise to sing your praises. Agreed?

11.We love you with all our hearts, but we still get wistful about the fact that we'll never feel that falling-in-love sizzle and spark again.
I'll just come right out and say it: Most women are love addicts. And while we appreciate the depth and richness of long-time love, there is simply nothing like the giddy, fluttery, crazy feeling we get (or rather, used to get) with a brand-new guy. We know we'll never feel that high again, and there's a little part of us that will always miss it. (Why do you think we watch so many romantic comedies?) But in the end, what we get instead--you, and a lifetime of true devotion--is more than worth the price.

there you go. definitions.

"a misandrist hates persons of the male sex, a misogynist hates persons of the female sex, and a misanthrope is a hater of mankind."

a rose by any other name...

what if i were to call myself 'rose' one of these days, while wearing some pouffy thing with lacey sleeves?

with my current arched and thin seductive eyebrows and bob, i could've easily introduced myself as 'mary. rose. mary,' while i try not to die of swallowed laughter as i struggle not to add 'and you may kiss my hand'. >XD

i mean, ye gods! it'd be so wayang! and go around with the smouldering look in my suitably mascara-ed eyes and slight pout and batting my eyelids at people coyly when they talk to me - wah piang. that's going to be a killer.

geez. the weird things i think up. -laugh-