PhotoHunt - Electric

the street at night.

of nudges and societies.

"what is society?"

"what is society to you?"

"what is society?!"

"what is society?!!"

"you! what is society?!!"

i swear, the man was getting berserk.

this man was professor xyz from the university that must not be named. it was during a particular tutorial lesson that he initiated this spit-infested proclamations and scared the heck outta everybody. (i had pressed my fingers to my pulse at one point and realised they were going at a heart rate of 1766726 per minute.)

i had an exclusive view from the back - i could have sworn the people in front were shaking. poor things.

just because he's passionate about society doesn't mean everyone's as passionate about society. and bah, that surely isn't normal societal etiquette.

the back row weren't spared from prof xyz's er, passion. unfortunately. he called on me, at one point, whilst i was busy ignoring the presence of nugget beside me. unfortunately, i was so busy trying to ignore, i ended up not ignoring.

and so, as i was busy wondering whether i should really start to breathe normally (probably explains the heart rate) - i didn't before, because nugget was in such close proximity, i wasn't aware that prof xyz had already moved on to his next quarry (aka me) and was already gnawing on the joints (aka my joints).

"YOU! what is society?!!?"

i didn't respond.

"YOU! are you listening bth - ?!!!"

hmm. was that the bordering word for biatch?

i didn't care. because i was suddenly aware that nugget was nudging me. oh my gawd.

nudge 1 (nj)
tr.v. nudged, nudg·ing, nudg·es
1. To push against gently, especially in order to gain attention or give a signal.
2. To come close to; near.
n.
A gentle push.

you do realise the implications here. this is body contact we're talking about. BODY CONTACT.

*hyperventilates*

unfortunately, prof xyz was already turning dangerously purple. in view of his health and safety, i managed to divert my attention back to him and croak out an answer.

but after that, it was all, "OMGAWD, NUGGET NUDGED ME!"

i have not washed the spot (the point between my shoulder and arm) since.

PhotoHunt - Orange

the orangeness of nature.

the founding father?

in a particularly patriotic discussion recently about who the heck our founding father of the country should be, i was disturbingly aware that i didn't give much thought as to why sir stamford raffles and not sang nila utama (or anyone else for that matter) is our founding pops.

it was perhaps this severe bout of sickness all post-1965 singaporeans acquire: this huge dependency on the government, that whatever we would come to know was already fed, given, authorised and stamped by the government. it's this spoon-feededness of the country that scares me.

as to why stamford is our founding father, it wasn't by chance. it was a mere matter of choice. not our choice, mind. it was their choice. not that it matters. because they believed their choice is our choice.

i mean, if i had a choice, i wouldn't choose stamford as our founding father. he's so money face economically driven and it would appear that he looks down on us with that annoyingly conceited stance he decides to pose at boat quay.

honestly, who decided he had to stand that way? did he arrive by ship, get down and the first thing he did was to pose like he was disgustingly displeased about something? did his crewmen recorded his stance in the archives because they thought it might come in useful someday? questions, questions, questions.

one of the main reasons stamford was named founder was due to the neutrality of his persona. this was an angmoh who was not ethnically chinese, malay or indian and who was driven by economic profits. this laddie was someone everyone could eventually accept as a founder because the economic issue was something that could be woven within the three ethnic groups and not cause a racial hullabaloo.

somehow, i always wanted a founder who was more flamboyant. like sang nila utama. this was a prince who was more colourful than andy lau's secret marriage. it's not everyday you know someone who mistook a tiger for a lion and then unconsciously restructures the history of an island-city. and this man knew sacrifice. he threw his crown to calm a sea - doesn't this sound suspiciously biblical?

stamford should learn a thing or two from him.

PhotoHunt - Surprise

that's patrick star, by the way. in case you couldn't recognise him amidst the Shane Jeans sweater. i reckoned the people found him too indecently exposed and decided it was best to dress him up a bit.

salivating

"you were salivating." the best friend said as we took a bus home. it was 6pm, a time incapable of breathing as our bodies and that of strangers amalgamated into one very constricted tin of sardines.

i was sweating profusely, nearly fainting from the lack of proper ventilation. "what?" i had managed to reply, albeit weakly.

"nugget," he said carelessly. "you were salivating over nugget like a damn fountain in a damn river."

nugget? nugget? nugget? - my brain not at its best state of mind at grasping information at the moment.

and then...

NUGGET!

oh nugget, nugget, nugget.

i turned my head to glare at the best friend (a minimal effect, considering how terribly constricted we were).

the spotlights came on, illuminating the both of us as the background of the terribly constricted bus faded into the shadows. it was now just he and i.

this was war.

"i did not salivate." i said adamantly, jabbing my finger at his pseudo-abs.

"yes, you did. like a british bulldog, i might add." he brayed wildly. "i mean honestly. he was just nugget."

"he was not just nugget. he's not like any old nugget. he's nugget. THE nugget."



he brayed again. "look squiggies, it's unhealthy to rekindle old flames."

"i'm not rekindling anything! besides, we never really started in the first place so it isn't called rekindling." i sighed. "did you see his tan? it was the tan's fault."

"ha!" he announced triumphantly. "so you did salivate! over his tan, no less."

"i don't do salivating," i replied snobbishly. "i merely swooned."

"it was four years ago, sweetie. let it gooooooooooooooooo." (the bus had took a patricularly steep curve just then.)

"i can't. he was all i could think about all day." smiling stupidly, i allowed myself a little nugget thought.

"you're thinking about him again." the best friend commented wryly. "stop it, it makes you look stupid."

men, they never understand women. they never do.

take for example, you sign on to msn just 15 minutes after he logged on (you counted the minutes, because all the while you were appearing offline), hoping he'll initiate a conversation but heck, he doesn't. you begin to wildly wonder if he's talking to other women. then after an hour of obsessing, you realise this is stupid. but you'll do it again anyway.

and then what about text messaging? he initiates a text for the first time and you go wild, thinking it must be loooove. so you texted him back. and being polite, he texts you back. and playing hard to get (and also unsure of what to say because you don't want to appear stupid), you don't text him back, all the while hoping he'll text you back. but he doesn't.

men.

and their stupidities.

okay, the argument probably sounds more valid if it was: women and their stupidities.

so be it.

i hate nugget anyway. it it weren't for his tan, i wouldn't be salivating after him. no sireeee! i wouldn't. i didn't just spend the last four years trying (and failing) to forget about him.

"yeah you did," interjected the best friend.

stop listening to my thoughts, you stupid bastard.

we never began, but i think i never let go either.

this is really unhealthy.

The Best Friend who's male.

the other day, we (meaning people you don't really care) were heading towards the campus' only decent food joint for late lunch, when one of my girlies suddenly pipped up that she hated me.

i wasn't sure if she meant it as a tease or something. but i decided it was, because normal people just don't say these sorta things to your mates. so instead, i asked her why she hated me.

"well," she had said, her eyes casting me an apprehensive glance, as if caring whether i minded what she was going to say. because if she cared, she wouldn't have said whatever she was going to say if she actually bothered to cast me an apprehensive glance (complicated, i know).

"your best friend's a guy," she concluded simply. like that was enough reason to hate me. women - they bitch fit about anything.

"i'm just so jealous!" she continued, animatedly. "i wished my best friend was a guy." i glanced over at her best friend who wasn't a guy. i could tell she looked a bit despondent.

in the women-y world, there's a mantra that says you should hate the girl who has a male best friend. because to the other girls, it was like having a constant boyfriend who's not a bastard.

and boy, that is the single most scarce/sought after thing in the world next to fuel supply.

as such, they would look at you with such evilness in the eye that you would beg to be looked at by the snow queen. i happened to let slip that my bff was a laddie during one particular too much red bull afternoon. big mistake, that was. the woman now looks at me with such distaste, it's a wonder we could complete luncheon together.

but there are the disadvantages to having a male bff, i told her. unless he's truly into shopping, he's just better off staying at home. the best friend ended up sleeping in the women's wear department the other time we went out shopping. and then i couldn't possibly tell him about women-ly issues. well, i do... but it's never to the extent if i were to tell a female for example.

she huffed, like those were all very trivial. "he's nice to you. and at the very least, he's still a decent hot-blooded male."

well, yes. i do suppose she's right. ♥