I seem to enjoy writing at unearthly hours.

When I was a baby, I fell off my parents' double-decked bed. According to them, I didn't cry out or make a single sound. I just laid there on my back with a shocked expression on my face, waiting to be rescued. 

When I grew a little older and my parents got their divorce, my mum and I shifted into my maternal grandma's place and shared a room. She would wake up really early in the mornings and be off to work, leaving me confused and bewildered whenever I woke up to an empty house. I would repeatedly request that she bids me goodbye before leaving, but apparently I sleep like a log and am impossible to wake. 

This went on all the way till we shifted out of that room and into our own home. For the first time in my 11 years of life, I was to sleep alone in a room. I kept putting off unpacking in hopes that my mother would relent, but apparently my lack of independence is unhealthy.

To date, there is nothing that scares me more than having to sleep alone in a dark room by myself. This, of course, could be easily solved with a night light, except that lights distract me and keep me awake. I learned how to stay up all night, waiting for the gentle rays of the morning sun seeping in through the curtains to lull me to sleep. This would probably explain why I was hardly ever awake or even present in school.

I think the truly scary thing about being the only person left alive during a zombie apocalypse isn't the zombies. It's having to go to bed every night alone, and wake up alone, and know that you're going to be alone for the rest of your life. There's no one to hug and rock you to sleep, no one to rest a hand on your chest to calm your furiously beating heart. You're alone, indefinitely.

I'm not afraid of spiders or lizards or armies of fire ants crawling around in my underwear. Loneliness is my Achilles' heel.

(This post is written in response to a question an anonymous person left on my now inactive Formspring ages ago.)

Running out of witty things to title my posts.

It's very difficult to be funny and light and humorous when you're writing with a heavy heart. It's very difficult to be clear and concise when your thoughts are whirling around in a mess all jumbled up like the cords on your earphones get when you leave them in your bag for too long. It's very difficult to tell a person (what more an audience) funny anecdotes and attempt to be funny when you don't feel remotely funny. 


You know what the worst thing about feeling like this is? When you don't know why you feel like this. It's the same with being happy for no apparent when you wake up, and it feels like sunshine and butterflies and unicorns when in reality it's pouring buckets outside. You don't know precisely why you're happy, but you let it go and don't let it bother you because it's a good thing. You immerse yourself in the feeling, and enjoy it for as long as you can. You walk around the entire morning, desperately clinging on to that feeling, pushing away and ignoring every thing that threatens to burst your little bubble.You're happy, and you just don't care.


Well, it's the exact opposite when you're down in the pits. You analyze and think and over-think and stay up all night long wondering what exactly is wrong with you. Something's gotta give, you figure. But no, nothing does. Now you're desperately trying to remember when was the last time you smiled, and why. You watch an episode of a comedy, you watch the entire fucking season; you read shit, funny shit stupid dumb shit depressing shit; you listen to music, the entire range from classical to opera to house to r&b to Justin fucking Bieber. Nothing works. You're back to obsessing about the trigger, that tiny little thing that set you off. You rationalize and hold a mental debate and come to the conclusion that you were over-reacting. You feel worse. And you start from the top again. 


Whenever I feel this way, I cut my hair. I can't do it this time because I just went for a haircut yesterday. 

Carey Mulligan's look was more or less what I was aiming for.

Looks better/worse (depending on your angle and height) in person.

I guess I only have my deluded self (and this blind friend of mine who told me I sort of looked like an Asian version of her) to blame. I am now stuck in my vicious cycle of depression, with no hair left to cut.