Sunday, 9 May 2010.

See, this is stupid.

This is so incredibly, incomprehensibly annoying.

This is a blog, a diary, an I-don’t-know what; I can’t write secrets, even in grey. I can’t doodle in the margins. I can’t scribble away like it makes a difference.

(should I look for the stylus?)

(I don’t know.)

I’m studying Japanese.

戻りたくないよ、学校へ。

Still studying Japanese.

こんなに生活が嫌い。

どいつもこいつも信じられない。

よく聞けよ。僕も、信じられない。

どうして‘ぼく’？

男じゃないよ、私は。

月曜日は休んだらもいい？学校、大嫌い。

休んではいけません。お前が、大嫌い。

‘お前’って？

私じゃないか？

I seem to favour yodaspeak in Japanese.

Not to mention my horrendous grammar fail, because, you see, I am an Amateur.

Suddenly I want to see how the above will look on Google Translate.

Unfortunately, my internet is in the Epic Fail stage of its life cycle, and hence I am typing this out on Microsoft Word.

Today I drew.

It’s nice to just be able to create something, pen-on-paper, nobody to look over your shoulder and tell you how badly you draw, I guess.

Maybe a paper sort of journal would be better.

But who really writes secrets down? Emo eleven-year-olds whose worlds are caving in, I’ll concede you that; I have old diaries.

But secrets, those are for late-night MSN conversations, giggly games of truth-or-dare, and sometimes just looking someone in the eye and letting them know. This is who I am. This is what I’ve done.

What have I done, anyway?

Depressingly little.

There are some people I’d rather like to talk to right now.

Some things I’d like to say, but I don’t have the courage; I’m sorry I betrayed you I’m sorry I forgot you I did all the wrong things and I’m sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry.

Why does it always boil down to an apology?

I’m just sad, I guess; the world is one big circle of using and being used, and I didn’t need to know that quite so soon. I’m angry, because what we’re told and what we encounter is the same in the world as it is in a chem practical.

Zinc chloride is supposed to dissolve in water.

I had dreams, but now they’ve all tumbled in on each other; it’s time to smile and find new ones, and realize my life is not even half as black as I paint it.

(remember my watercolours?)

And the starving children in Africa, so eat all the food on your plate.

And if you don’t eat, then don’t not eat, it’s bad for you, it’s bad for you, eat something you anorexic person, I’ve told you a million times, can I take it back?

I believe in free speech, in free will. You don’t believe in free will. I scoff at your not believing in free will.

Do I believe in free will?

Cut yourself, then, it’s not like I make a difference when I tell you not to, do I? Is this what makes you happy? Is this how the world works? Is this what you want, because you have free will, we all have free will, you’re not hurting anyone except yourself.

We all have our coping mechanisms.

And chew on pins; even if they’re class property, who am I to tell you not to, who am I to tell you how badly you fail at your teacher-appointed job over and over without end?

I’m sorry, too.

Because this is a prickly world, and we all have our issues, and some of us internalize them, and those are the nice ones.

The board is still switching to bluetack, (can we trust you not to chew on staples?), because I think I still care, but

Why bluetack?

Why graffiti, why pins, why did I misspell ‘graffiti’ and have autocorrect mop up my mistakes?

Why am I sitting here in the lamplight not studying?

Why Google Chrome, why does my flight get hijacked—do I jinx myself—why willpower, why grace, why back out from a tough situation. Why duck across the ceiling; why look at the sky; why don’t we all fall through the gaps?

Why do I self-censor

we don’t write about hate here

we don’t write about love here

we don’t write about other people too much by name, or we can’t look them in the eye, can we, my preciousssss

and yet protest against censorship,

because I believe in free speech, remember, but not libel or slander or hate speech (I hate you?) and autocorrect has stopped bothering about capital letters, all hail it, although I’d like to think it matters.

And it’s started again.

You know it’s late when you think your computer understands what you’re saying, and there isn’t even Internet.

Oddly enough, I’m still writing.

I thought I’d run out of steam at the second page or so. This is the fourth.

But I have doublespacing.

And it’s not even raining; not the weather to turn up the volume and look at the concrete through a curtain of water, because that’s perfect for being emo, and this is just arbitrary and random and I don’t have anyone to talk to, because, remember, the Internet is down.

So I’m talking to my computer.

I wonder why I emo and don’t lock my blog, or post it in locked livejournal posts, or something; it would probably be a good thing.

Funny, how the world works, isn’t it.

This is now one thousand words.

As of that full stop after ‘words’.

Well, it turns out sulphuric acid was covalent, so the seniors are wrong, but it’s not the randomly sulphur-centric snowflake I thought it was, so I’m wrong anyway. Lovely.

Japanese is nice.

すみません。英語でも一度言ってください。

すみません。

英語でも一度言ってください。

Isn’t it?

….what is with this.

I should be aspiring to write a novel or something with my spare time. Get a six-month start on NaNo. Not monologuing away, because guess what, half the weekend is almost over, and I need to actually study.

Yesterday I was alone.

Sometimes being alone is, you know, just being alone. But sometimes solitude kind of just punches you in the face.

I wanted to ask Clara if I could go back with her, actually. But I figured she was probably being picked up by her parents, and once is pretty much the limit for accidentally inviting yourself for a lift home in someone else’s car.

So I walked down to the bus stop, in the beautiful weather which was incidentally blazing like a googolplex of heat lamps, and sort of stood there randomly at the bus stop in oversized grey pullover until the bus turned up.

I saw Wee Thian and company from the hostel, who were apparently going on an outing. Lucky no-more-exams people.

Then eventually after maybe twenty minutes, the 151 made its appearance, and I sort of found myself a seat and sat there emoing.

Maybe ‘emoing’ is the wrong word.

Not ‘emoing’ as in ‘the world hates me’, or even ‘emoing’ in a negative sense. I just sat there…contemplating. In the solitude. It’s a rare commodity.

I’d like to say I achieved enlightenment, or came up with some sort of answer to Life, The Universe And Everything that’s better than forty-two, but I didn’t.

Why does Life, The Universe And Everything even need an answer? It’s a popular concept, you know, the meaning of life. But I don’t think there really is one, although probably the manically religious will barbecue me for this—I think Onion-san gave up on me long ago, though. >D

It’s like the girl in the xkcd strip, which I may or may not link once I get back my Internet.

“If the question of what it all means doesn’t mean anything, then why do I keep coming back to it?”

Maybe popular culture’s obsession with it, which would come across as a bit of a self-propagating meme, or maybe it’s just that at some point every person comes into conjunction with that question, and so many people never answer it satisfactorily enough even for themselves…

…I can’t believe I’m discussing the meaning of life on my blog.

A bit pretentious, no?

Technically speaking, though, right now this isn’t my blog, just Microsoft Word.

(what sort of epic spammage is this? I’m on the seventh page.)

I wonder if anyone will read this.

Where was I, anyway. The bus. 151, which I usually don’t like so much, but I really didn’t feel like walking down to the 154 bus stop in the sun.

It was enjoyable. Also I typed a lot of stuff that went here before I backspaced it all, because it was just a lot of rambling about how it’s fun to travel from an arbitrary Point A to an arbitrary Point B.

Someday when I have too much free time I will call up Ri-chan and we can randomly take MRTs and buses around until we end up somewhere completely unknown and fascinating.

I notice I’ve rather neglected emoticons in this post—am I really going to post this? All eight pages of it? I don’t know. I guess I put them in when I don’t have much to say, and although I don’t have much to say right now either, I’m certainly saying a lot.

I suppose this is basically a long exercise in writing about absolutely nothing at all.

If so, I must say, I’ve succeeded.

Am succeeding.

It’s not as though I’m finished; I want to get to at least ten pages. The spammage will be such as is utterly unrivalled in modern history.

(is anyone still reading at this point?)

(I bet not.)

Also, I finished the take-home quizzes Mariko-sensei assigned me. =DDD

I wonder if that counts as studying.

I guess I did study today after all.

(studying is for noobs?)

Isn’t it a lovely day. Pitch black, and the moon is probably out, bobbing about in the sky like a waxy gibbon.

Gibberellins promote stem elongation, seed germination, flower production, fruit maturation?

We’re going on a bear hunt. It’s a beautiful day. We’re not afraid.

Because we live in a children’s book, green and pink and cocoa in watercolor- (remember my watercolors?) and it’s a beautiful day; we’re not afraid, and at some point there is a bear after all, and not all of us can make it back home to hide under the covers.

We’re going on a bear hunt. We’re going to catch a big one. It’s a beautiful day! We’re not afraid!

Oh, no! A great big river! We can’t go over it, we can’t go under it; oh, no! We’ve got to go through it!

That was my favourite children’s book, always; the five-person family, dangling sneakers and all, on their quest to find the bear—until they find it, and it chases them home.

Very morbid really.

What if it’d eaten them?

And then there was Christabella’s one line.

“It was a beautiful day.”

I can remember her repeating that one line over and over, and the drama teacher was never satisfied, and in rehearsals I’d go crazy and hyper because I felt like it, and wasn’t that how the nickname came about?

Ri-chan.

The cross-dressing monkey-morphing compulsively apologizing character; hardly flattering, really.

I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry.

That was me—I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry—but the one who ended up Ri-chan was her.

I’m sorry.

Why does everything keep boiling down to an apology?

Like if you took everything in the chemistry lab, and threw it together, and heated it over the Bunsen burner—don’t stick your hand in the fire; even if you can’t see it—until all the water vaporized and went diffusing off through the national atmosphere—when the liquid boils dry, and the residue sticks to the bottom of the test tube, all you’d have left is an apology, or the remnants of one.

Also it’s seven minutes to eleven and my grammar is shot all to hell.

Night.

(it was long ago, and far away/ a world was over, yesterday)

How many times do I have to apologise

to make everything all right again?

If it were you who stabbed me in the back, I don’t think I’d forgive you

(would I?)

So all I can really do is apologise over and over and know it won’t help.

See, it’s not that much fun to play the double-agent after all.

{ 11:43 am }