• Inspiration: FIFA World Cup 2010 and the grumpiest scan-man I have ever met

    17 oct. 2010, 5h04m


    I'm in the midst of state exams at the moment, but I couldn't resist the temptation to post. I have received a number of requests to publish something in my journal, even though no one bothers to comment - hence why I assume no one is reading, which is why I don't post. It's all very cyclical, you see :P

    Two questions were looming on my mind as I wrote this in May 2010.

    1. Having just encountered the most misanthropic individual who served me at the local supermarket, I started to wonder what the life of a scan-man involved.

    2. What do people think about before they die? People's lives don't flash-before-their-eyes". It makes a good film sequence, but I bet it's rubbish!

    This also became my creative writing piece for the Crime Writing topic we did at school, hence the extremely stitled middle section for genre subversive effect (I can't write anything abiding by the rules of the genre without it sounding like a Junior Nancy Drew paperback).

    In fact, my first draft for Crime Writing was a story about online cannibalism (inspiration: Armin Mewes, google him, what a freak! xD). I had written 300 words and submitted it to my teacher who looked at me as if she wanted to call the police, so I started from scratch and ended up with this!

    Anyway, I hope you enjoy this - even if it's just for the soccer ;D



    Felipe let out an exasperated sigh as he glowered menacingly at the endless queue that stretched before him. Thursday nights were the bane of his existence. Once again, he found no escape from the excessively generic muzak that dominated the airspace which deafened the pneumatic hiss of his cash register. Slumped over his work station, his head throbbed in a seizing pain as he clutched at his temples in an attempt to regain composure, but to no avail – his brief serenity interrupted by the screams of a toddler throwing a tantrum amongst the confectionery in aisle three.

    It was happening again. Hands shaking as perspiration began to collect at the nape of his neck, Felipe fumbled with the “Register Closed” sign. He sensed thirty pairs of eyes channel their collective irritation and rage at his general direction as he gingerly slinked away from the register, yelling, “I’m taking a break!” at his manager, who was nowhere to be seen.

    Felipe’s feeble saunter turned into a bolt as his airways began to constrict. Nausea and confusion and panic and vertigo rose within his ribcage as he battled desperately to suppress the meaningless stream of barcodes which began to surface from the depths of his memory. Imprints of binary and parallel lines of varying width tainted his mind black and white and infrared as Felipe ran down the aisles crammed with stacked shelves full of products and price he new by heart, grimacing as his mind strained to forget in a fraught endeavor to assume control.

    Weak with fatigue, Felipe slowed to a halt, his chest heaving as he tried to steady his shallow breathing. Heart rate abating, the plod of heavy, shuffling footsteps became audible, suddenly ceasing behind him. Squinting at the strobing lights that adorned the ceiling, Felipe caught sight of the man.

    He was a short, potbellied man with a face like a kicked-in peach; his prominent jowls sagging southwards. Sparse, greasy strands of hair were gelled in a comb-over that exposed his sunburnt and cratered scalp. He stood unnaturally upright which served only to exaggerate his minute stature as he grinned maniacally at Felipe, revealing jagged, missing teeth. Felipe felt his skin crawl in a mixture of disdain and condescension.

    “Could ya tell me where the pantyhose are, mate?”

    The man’s blood-drained lips quivered as he spoke in a hurried fashion. Felipe raised his eyebrows quizzically, bemused at the very thought of the man donning fishnets. Meanwhile, the man shifted his weight from one leg to another, his pupils darting about the aisle, failing to maintain eye contact.

    “Sure,” murmured Felipe as he waved his hand, motioning the man to follow him.

    “They’re for my girlfriend, you know,” the man gasped, trotting alongside Felipe, unable to match the speed of his gait.

    “Ah, she must be a very…lucky woman,” replied Felipe, lying through his teeth.
    They stopped in front of the neat rows of women's pantyhose.

    “Well, thanks,” the man muttered.

    Before turning on his heel and strolling in the opposite direction, Felipe gave the man a cursory glance as he began to peruse the aisle.


    “Oh my god! He’s got a gun!”

    Chaos ensued as shrieks pierced the muzak dominion of the supermarket, shoppers ducking behind sales signs as they clutched their children, others fleeing in a frenzied stampede. Felipe bolted to the scene, surveying the cowering customers, about fifty in all, wide-eyed and whimpering.

    “Get on the goddamn floor, NOW!”

    Felipe stared, bewildered.
    It was crater-face, his asymmetrical head in an opaque stocking, wielding a miniature revolver. Felipe collapsed into uncontrollable peals of laughter.

    “Oh bravo – makeshift balaclava, Aisle 6. Women’s underwear.”

    “One more word from your mouth, and I’ll blow your fuckin' head off!”

    “With what? Humour me, a plastic Colt? Aisle 18. Children’s toys,” spat Felipe, as he advanced upon the gun-toting assailant.

    And with that, the stocking-clad man raised his pistol and fired.
    The bullet pierced through layers of skin and tissue before exiting between the discs of Felipe’s spine with a spurt of cerebrospinal fluid, propelling fragments of his shattered sternum into the atrium of his heart. It is worth mentioning what Felipe couldn’t remember in that split second between life and death, given that there was nothing that was previously known to him in time, space, touch, symbols, taste, signatures or billboard signs that he would have forgotten.

    Felipe did not remember the significance of today, November the 21st, being the second anniversary of his stale and predictable relationship with Danielle – a woman he dreaded. He did not remember her horse-like features that he once found alluring, nor did he remember what he considered attractive in a woman; charisma and an irresistible grin, of which time had robbed Danielle of both. Felipe did not remember the dilapidated flat they shared; its substandard workmanship and creaking doors, its mean little rooms crammed with books filled with now useless knowledge. He did not remember being enthralled by knowledge in his youth, scouring books in the quest for enlightenment. Felipe did not remember any of the languages he spoke fluently (three), any of the Beatles hits he had ever sung in succession (fourteen) or any of the university degrees he had ever signed up for or dropped out of (eight, and still counting). None of these things did he remember, not one. He did not remember an instance in which a customer was ever right – even though one such circumstance had occurred seconds ago, he did not remember that either.

    But what he did remember was the sensation of the knobbly cobblestones underfoot as he marveled at the afternoon sun lengthening the shadows that slid down the street – a memory of 20 summers ago almost lost upon the chain of exploding neurotransmitters that extinguished the synaptic tinkering encased within inanimate grey matter.

    Transported in a fragment of suspended time, Felipe is sitting on the flood wall, tracing sea chill with his fingertips, the crusty salt-laden air engulfing his senses. The eager yelps of the neighbourhood boys milling on the esplanade in tense anticipation fill the air. The main attraction, a frayed and regurgitated mess of a scruffy soccer ball. He feels his body gravitate toward the action, a small jerk in his stomach willing him to partake in the game. Now amongst the crowd, the other boys rearrange themselves to accommodate his presence. He introduces himself and smiles with gratitude; they acknowledge him with a curt nod.

    They advance upon the deserted beach as the game unfolds, feet pattering against the sand as the faux leather of the ball skims the surface – he’s enthralled, transfixed, memerised; sold on the sport’s exquisite simplicity, spellbound by its physical rhythm, its raw energy. As Felipe’s brain faces its prolonged, horrific end, this memory freezes as his concept of time is lost upon nostalgia and poised consciousness. But for now, Felipe makes time. Time for memories tangled in slivers of music, sand and euphoria; his youth, the sea breeze and an endless summer.

  • Letter IV: To The Sibling

    30 sept. 2010, 3h18m

    Dearest you,
    You have a gargantuan propensity for procrastination and you are the Crown Prince of Stupefyingly Lazy. Ironically, you spend longer in the bathroom than I do and yet your hygiene practices still remain questionable - your room a health hazard; the world's cesspool of sudden death and olfactory rape. I avoid lending you money like THE PLAGUE because you have no intention of paying me back. Nine times out of ten, you buy pointless crap. You refuse to spend money on anyone else but yourself.

    Example: Your first date with your horrible ex-girlfriend was situated in your crappy Purple Ford Fiesta parked in a full car park, devouring $6 doner kebabs.

    You are passive-aggressive, a creature of impossible impulse, an elected ignorant and twenty-three going on twelve and I let you know it. I'm an intellectual elitist, a histrionic pre-menstrual psychopath, chronic organisational freak and seventeen turning fifty. I know this because you never let me forget it - it's not as if I don't try, but your words stick. Worst of all, I actually care about what you think. Even worse, I cry hard over the things that you say and do, but it's the things that you don't say and don't do that make me cry the hardest.

    But even when I distance myself from you in social situations or pretend I'm superior because I'm smarter (you always say so!), I adore you more than anyone or anything.I love your physical and emotional strength, your jar-opening hands, your bone-crushing hugs, our muted laughter and slurred 2AM conversations whispered between our rooms about everything and nothing.

    You have a tremendous capacity for humour, tolerance and forgiveness. Even when it's my fault, you always say sorry first. You exist in fragments of interrupted sunshine and contentment - the memories of my childhood. You reign in the recollections of my sepia euphoria which pulses in my beating heart.

    Our filial connection is tangible, strong yet unspoken. Our hair, our lips, our eyes, our origins are one; you, always my brother and me, forever your sister.

    P.S. The year is 2007, a deliciously cold December in Osaka. My hands tremble as I take off my black gloves and capture this moment.
    I grew up in a different country and you dyed your hair a ridiculous shade of orange.

  • Letter III: To The Parents

    13 juin 2010, 10h23m

    Dearest you,
    The lessons you have instilled within me upon seventeen years of instruction cannot be rewritten in one year, so please don't be afraid that I'll change. I have a feeling that the more I ridicule you about how pathetic your fears are, the more you believe them to be true.

    Trust me on this, please! I adore you way too much to leave and never come back. In fact, you are the part of the reason why I would choose to stay, only because I can't bear to see you miss me.

    You have always believed in me and you have encouraged me to turn my dreams into reality. I'm doing just that, and I know you're proud. I acknowledge that the sacrifices you have made in the past have been great. It is through your experiences and noble attitude that you have taught me to treasure the fragility and beauty that is life, to acknowledge my ancestry and embrace adversity.

    When people compliment me, they're really complimenting you.
    I love you more than I can say.

    On another note...
    I find it hard to muster any emotion reminiscent of love or respect toward you. I know that you're scared of being a horrible parent, but the irony is that you ARE.

    Once upon a time, you did hurt me. But these days, if I were to treat people the way you do and blame it on my upbringing, I'd be just as bad as you.

    I'm nothing like you, and that is my biggest achievement to date.
    I'm confident, I work hard, I'm talented, I've got potential. I love, I empathise, I tolerate.
    What's more, I love being the person I am.
    I'm not going to let you make my life a misery, just because you go out of your way to tell me that you don't like me.

    You need to realise that the only person you are hurting is yourself. Maybe one day this will end with a happily ever after.
    But in order for that to happen, you need to turn the pages.
  • Letter II: To The Crush

    11 juin 2010, 11h36m

    To a son and defender of the beautiful game, my Bundesliga superstar.
    I often like to daydream that I could call you my own. All of you - your physical rhythm, your grace and air, that I could be the catalyst for your every smile, that I could embrace every inch of your 5''7'. Alas, you are the property of Germany.. and the unwitting recipient of my adolescent adulation :D


    To a studmuffin (all those cupcakes have nothing on how cute you are).
    I wasn't even looking when you graced my life with your presence. And then you found me. You, a Western European god, with your quite confidence and beautiful soul. You impress me!
    You make every moment special and I love getting to know you more and more each day.
    Won't you forget your shyness, your gentleman's tact, your self-control or your chivalry just for a minute and say that you want me as much as I want you?


    You have the X Factor (and you love The xx).
    You will forever be the secret keeper of my deepest affections. I try to convince myself that you mean nothing to me and I also make it a habit to look for distractions (see above). I hate that you seem to choose to surrender. Won't you fight for what you want?

    If one day you decide to partake in the battle, a part of me will always be here waiting to be (and wishing to be) your lover with arms.
  • Letter I: To The Best Friend

    10 juin 2010, 12h34m

    Dear you, best friend:

    If I punched myself in the face for every time I got angry at myself for not making proper contact with you, I'd be a permanent installment in hospital, along with the crappy fake flowers and the disinfectant.

    The trouble is, you'd probably be in the ward next to me, cracking your stupid jokes and that grin that I've always found so hard to resist. We've both been to emergency before, we know the situation well. We operate - defibrillation for our broken hearts, lobotomies for our addled minds, dresses for lacerations.
    Nothing like hospital retail therapy.

    But no matter how agonising or bloody or gruesome or embarrassing or emotional surgery between you and me often gets, you've made the great operation that is life the single most human experience that I've ever had. It's only when I'm on the brink of dying on the operating table that I feel the greatest urge to fight as a testament to the wonderful work that you do.

    And it's this makeshift practice that we've both acquired in lessons of triumph and disaster that makes me know that you'll be a wonderful surgeon one day. I will travel the world and extend the universal goodwill you have installed within me - a new heart.

    Operate on me always as I will continue to spark life in you.

    "My mind tells
    me to give up, but my heart
    won't let me."

  • 30 Letters from Me to You (the reincarnation of my journal)

    10 juin 2010, 11h50m

    Gosh, I've realised that it's been a ridiculous amount of time since my last post - more than a year, in fact! Can you believe it? I've really missed writing stuff here.

    Something cute that you should all see:

    Unlike everything else that I stumble upon on tumblr (which I absolutely hate. Blogging for people who can't find words to say, thus supplement with "shocking" pictures, quotes and bullshit), I found something rather interesting on a friend's page.

    It's called 30 Letters. Each day, you write one letter addressed to the following people, like so:

    Day 1 — Your Best Friend
    Day 2 — Your Crush
    Day 3 — Your parents
    Day 4 —Your sibling (or closest relative)
    Day 5 — Your dreams
    Day 6 — A stranger
    Day 7 — Your Ex-boyfriend/girlfriend/love/crush
    Day 8 — Your favorite internet friend
    Day 9 — Someone you wish you could meet
    Day 10 — Someone you don’t talk to as much as you’d like to
    Day 11 — A Deceased person you wish you could talk to
    Day 12 — The person you hate most/caused you a lot of pain
    Day 13 — Someone you wish could forgive you
    Day 14 — Someone you’ve drifted away from
    Day 15 — The person you miss the most
    Day 16 — Someone that’s not in your state/country
    Day 17 — Someone from your childhood
    Day 18 — The person that you wish you could be
    Day 19 — Someone that pesters your mind—good or bad
    Day 20 — The one that broke your heart the hardest
    Day 21 — Someone you judged by their first impression
    Day 22 — Someone you want to give a second chance to
    Day 23 — The last person you kissed
    Day 24 — The person that gave you your favorite memory
    Day 25 — The person you know that is going through the worst of times
    Day 26 — The last person you made a pinky promise to
    Day 27 — The friendliest person you knew for only one day
    Day 28 — Someone that changed your life
    Day 29 — The person that you want tell everything to, but too afraid to
    Day 30 — Your reflection in the mirror

    I'll probably give up, but I'm gonna give it a shot! I'm anticipating that it'll get really tedious after a while, but what the fuck. It looks like a good way to write every day for 30 days.

    Also, I think I'll elect to keep identities secret, but in utilising my true talent for tact (of which I hardly have any), if the subject matter is YOU, YOU will know who YOU are ;D

  • It's all about you, baby.

    5 mars 2009, 11h12m

    I'm sick of the abundance of super-boring music questionaires on! I try to write in my journal every month, but instead of talking about me, let's talk about you! Besides, there exists no one who doesn't like talking about themselves.

    So, here's your chance! Answer the following in any way you like.

    Oh, it works if you're a little bit bored with some time on your hands. Some of the questions require a little thought ;D

    I don't expect you to answer them all. If you're feeling lazy, choose a question from each of the sections, or skip over the ones you don't want to talk about.


    FAQ; Your-
    1. Shoe size
    2. Worst thing you've done for money
    3. Worst habit
    4. Favourite word in the English language
    5. Best physical attribute (in your eyes)

    Preferences; would you rather -
    6. Hugs or kisses?
    7. Beer or wine?
    8. Maths or English?

    Sort of a preference question, but not really...
    9. If Russia and the US were to do battle RIGHT NOW, who would win? Explain your rationale.

    Short response:
    10. My last meal would be...
    11. The best ever date I've been on involved ....
    12. People I find really irritating are...
    13. I cried during the film ____ .

    In three words, describe the following:
    14. Sex.
    15. The way you dance.
    16. What you find most attractive in the opposite sex (if you're attracted to members of the same sex, then as follows).

    Extended response;
    17. Your favourite lyrics, and why.
    18. What gives meaning to your life?
    19. I have an extreme irrational fear of .... because...
    20. Is marriage overrated? Why/ why not?
  • Considering my choices, I almost went to school naked.

    1 fév. 2009, 9h48m

    The first three days of senior school have been completed and now that it's the weekend, I'm begging for mercy, wondering where my 6-week summer holidays went!

    For the overwhelming majority of you who don't know, I'll explain. The schooling year in Australia starts in late January and ends in mid-December, as opposed to the September to June/July in most parts of the northern hemisphere.

    There are four school terms, each separated by a 2-week holiday. Each school term runs for 9-11 weeks, and my major holiday is the Christmas/summer period, which is 5-6 weeks. All up, that's roughly 12 weeks of holidays, equivalent to your summer holidays!


    Years 7-12 in my state (New South Wales) is high school, with Years 7-10 being junior school and 11&12 being senior school. In most cases, one school caters for both junior and senior, but there do exist schools that cater exclusively for the two senior grades, although these are not entirely commonplace.

    People have been asking and the answer is:
    Yes, I do have a school uniform.

    Every school's uniform is different, mostly for identification when some idiot convicts a felony in his uniform in full view of the general public. I'm kidding, but it happens a lot.

    There is only one person who I’d get dressed in my uniform on a Sunday to take pictures of myself for, and you know who you are =)

    This is the junior uniform (white shirt with school crest on breast pocket, tartan green skirt and optional tie with stitched school crest), which I love.

    And this is the senior uniform (lemon shirt with green piping and school initials on breast pocket, olive green skirt and optional tie with stitched school crest) , which I've newly adopted in the last three days and I ABSOLUTELY HATE WEARING. The colour makes me feel like walking vomit, not that I can do anything about it.

    The following is a display of how much (rather, how little) my father trusts me.

    Dad: Right, I’m putting your name on the label of your school shirt and skirt.
    Me: Why? It’s not like I’ll be taking my kit off to run around on the top oval in the nude
    Dad: Just in case, ok?
    Me: *mock surprise* You’d think I’d do that?
    Dad: *gives me an all-knowing stare* YOU NEVER KNOW.
    Me: *a mixture of surprise and shock* Whaaaaaat?!

    There may arise an instance in which I actually might get the urge rip all my clothes off and go tearing around the school premises in the nude, although highly unlikely. Imagine the dialogue between the principal when I eventually get caught.

    Principal: What the hell, Emily? (not that she’d say “What the hell”, but something to that extent)
    Emily: I was on fire, miss.

    We also have a PE uniform that we wear when participating in practical lessons as part of the school curriculum, attending sporting carnivals (swimming, athletics, cross country) or representing our school in district competitions.

    I feel obscenely ugly when I wear the senior uniform and the PE uniform. Even Gisele Bundchen would have had a nervous breakdown if Karl Lagerfield demanded she strut her stuff in my uniform. But I guess that means I’m not the only one.

    In the classroom, the past three days have been AMAAZING! I have more control over my subjects I'm taking, which are:
    - 3units of English: 2unit Advanced English + Extension 1; because I absolutely adore English.
    - 2unit Advanced Maths; only because it’s the easiest course of maths offered at my school.
    - 2unit Legal Studies
    - 2unit Geography
    - 2unit Modern History
    - 2unit Economics
    English is the only compulsory subject.

    Humanities all the way, baby ;)

    **Quick word about units: as most courses are two units, two units is representative of 120 hours of classroom time devoted to the subject per year.
    Therefore meaning that I'm undertaking 180 hours of English per year.

    In Year 11, it is a requirement that students study at least 12 units (add them up and you'll see I'm doing 13). In Year 12, students are given the opportunity to do a minimum of 10 (essentially dropping a subject).

    MY TIMETABLE IS TORTURE! Check it out.

    As I'm doing 13 units of study (780 hours in the classroom in 2009), I have 8 periods a day (except on Wednesdays). Each period runs for 38 minutes – don't ask me why, I really don’t know why it isn’t possible to +2 minutes and make it a nice number. Periods 1&2 and 3&4 of each day are double periods i.e. 86 minutes of concentration that I DON'T have. I have one of the shortest attention spans known to mankind. I’m going to die!

    I go crazy decorating my 5-subject binder (we don't tend to write much, and I have this tendency to squish my handwriting. Every year, it reflects my changing tastes in music. Oh, and of the opposite sex.

    Last year’s cover was all about punk rock and Japanese bachelors:

    This year’s cover – featuring all kinds of rock, jumpstyle, hardstyle, trance and Europeans:

    See if you can find:
    - D-Block & S-te-Fan
    - A Qlimax logo!
    - My surname (this one is a bit tricky)
    - Defqon.1 logo! (this one is even trickier)
    - Son of Dork and Steve Rushton on bass ;)

    So much can change in a year!

    Inside cover and very first written page:
    Random fact: I can't write in cursive, or running writing. When I do, it’s slow and really quite illegible.

    I have found the inside cover to be very distracting. I think I'll stick something over it, even though it really pains me to cover up Philipp Lahm (and Josh Harnett, Jude Law, Dougie Poynter, Lukas Podolski, Mitch Hewer, Alan Smith, Aaron Johnson and Marat Safin). But I know that if I don't, I probably won't learn anything :P

    Stuff that really disturbed me this afternoon:
    I walked to the kitchen to grab the plums that I thought I had left in the strainer half an hour ago. My brother started talking to me as I put my hand in the sink and instead of touching a plum, my hand was wrist-deep in something slimy. I screamed and my brother dropped the plate he was eating from and it smashed into a million pieces. I found out shortly that my dad had put the plums in the fruit bowl and had gutted some octopus for dinner and left them in the strainer. Way to totally freak me out!

    Don’t they look charming…

    Soundtracks of my life right now:
    1) Going to sleep at an appropriate hour for the first time in 5 weeks:
    Castles In The Sky by Ian Van Dahl
    2) My brother yelling at me over my bed to get up for the first day of school:
    Rise And Fight by Caliban
    3) Looking back at my reflection after putting on my new senior uniform:
    Ugly by Sugababes
    4) Stepping out of the front door to greet a beautiful day:
    Starry Eyed Surprise by Paul Oakenfold
    5) Getting lost as a result of finding my timetable completely confusing:
    Walking Disaster by Sum 41
    6) Looking at the Detuschland map in my Geography classroom:
    Take Me Away by 4 Strings
    7) Walking into Maths, into a classroom full of likeminded people who hate maths:
    Came Down Here by D-Block & S-te-Fan

    A game and a question:

    The “guess the scary-looking Chinese delicacy” game:

    WARNING: should you have a weak stomach or a phobia of strange Chinese food *looks straight at Hausgeist*, you may just want to skip this bit.

    I believe you may have vomited in your mouth.
    Or, you know what it is and you share my sensory enthusiasm for it.

    The question:
    What has been the most pathetic excuse you’ve made?

    Participate in the guessing game and respond to the question in the journal shoutbox. Have an awesome February ;)
  • Hoarding, holidays, New Year's Eve and kitchen slavery.

    2 jan. 2009, 7h16m

    If I could be surgically attached to an electronic device, it would be my PHONE. I'm no SMS junkie, but I do enjoy chatting on free Vodafone minutes, mainly because my dad is on contract with Vodafone as an IBM systems analyst and he has committed a cardinal sin against his offspring, of which he does not intend to redeem himself with an act of penance anytime soon.

    Being the stereotypically cheap evil asian he is, he has played around with the custom settings of my account using his Vodafone permissions, and since 2004, I have been living off an obscurely created prepaid account that gives me $20 over 4 years, or more precisely $5 for every 365 days.

    I'll do the math for you. That works out to be 1+2/3 texts a month.

    And though it shits me to no end that I have to forever collect free Voda-to-Voda minutes to prevent my social life from becoming officially defunct, it's not what I want to talk about today.

    Apart from free Vodafone texts and minutes, I also collect a lot of (to others) perceived useless shit which are of sentimental value to me. My long-term hoarding has included stamps and belts and lately, it's been postcards and novels/picture books written in foreign languages, of which the latter only started in 2008, my first being a book called "SPEAK GERMAN!" by Wolf Schneider that was given to me by mario2006 <3

    But my favourite and most actively accumulating collection is the one that I carry on my phone. My phone charms! They all have a story.

    1. The beetle from New York.
    This was given to me by a very close friend of mine who is a year younger, on the debating team with me and also happens to be blind.
    She tells the best anecdotal blind jokes. The first time I met her, I heard her yelling at some poor Year 7 kid,
    " Dude, stop shouting at me. I'm blind, I'm not fucking DEAF!"
    She trips over people she doesn't like with her stick and pretends it's an accident. She's insane on the piano.
    .. and you wonder why I love her so much.
    She is one of the most intelligent, high achieving, sensitive and caring individuals that I have been priveleged to encounter in my lifetime. Every time I look at that keychain, it's a reminder that even with the greatest adversity, with determination, passion and anecdotal blind jokes, we can get through anything.

    2. The giant Hello Kitty from Miyajima
    Brings back memories, good and badly funny, of my Japan travels in the Christmas/New Year period of 2007-2008.

    3. The crystal cross made by my athiest aunt.
    This particular aunt asked me what I'd like made in crystal, and I told her a cross. She refused to do it for some time, until one day she surprised by handing it directly to me before she left to catch her plane home to Canada.
    Her parting words:
    " You know Emily, I just couldn't resist seeing you smile."
    She's a Christian now.

    4. Star bracelet.
    A birthday present my brother bought for me when I was 6, when he used to call me "Emstar" (embarrassingly enough, he still does).I loved it so much, but my wrist got too big for it. Now it's on my phone!

    5. Scratched metal Hello Kitty
    From my childhood sweetheart who moved overseas and faded into obscurity - his mum owned a $2 shop! I was 4 and his queen, he was 4 and a half, my king, the best hand-holder and a crazy castle-maker. I sometimes think about him, how he is and what he might be like now. I wonder if he remembers me!

    6. The silver bear
    The keychain that my friend allegedly claims that allowed his company to break even (pay off all debt and begin to make profit), I bought off him for $2.50! A little goes a long way, amen?

    ]7. Good luck charm from China
    My parents, upon hearing that I collect phone charms, bought me this while they were in China in November 2008. Nice that they thought about me while the house was getting trashed!

    In other news:

    1. Here is the Sydney Harbour Bridge in several colours, taken by me with my dad's SLR from the north side of the Bridge when the fireworks went off.

    My favourite ones that appeared in the city newspaper:

    2. I freakin' HATE cleaning my ROOM! God help me, just looking at my desk induces an aneurysm. My dad has yelled at me exactly 8 times to clean up my room, but it's SO HARD!

    See if you can spot:
    - 3 x TIME magazine issues
    - 1 x Carlton Dry beer bottle full of sand
    - 1 x sticky-tape dispenser
    - 1 x pair of scissors
    - 1 x toothpick holder
    - 6 x articles of clothing

    It also hit me on NYE that I should put up my AUS and DE flags above my bed. It sounds really weird, but I used 3 globs of blue tack, 2 broken up toothpicks and a safety pin. It's a completely useless talent of mine to be ingenius bordering on impractical with household products.

    3. Ok, so we're in an economic crisis. For my family, this has resulted in something so peculiar and paradoxical that it's laughable. My mother tends to go to the produce market every week to release her innate female urge to impulse buy anything that is labelled in a red "SALE" or red "SPECIAL", which results in ME (the only person who can BAKE in this household) having to practice a little 1930's depression-style cooking with 6 FUCKING HANDS OF BANANAS!!

    Banana muffins 4 ways; banana fritters; banana splits; banana pancakes; banana cake; fruit salad of bananas, yoghurt and mint; bread and butter pudding with bananas; banana and choc toasties; banana milkshakes 2 ways (see below); barbequed bananas, baked and caramelised bananas; banana and walnut sticky-date pudding;

    ... and banana bread for all:)

    This is the banana milkshake that went drastically wrong - notice the sick grey colour, due to the additives of kiwi fruit and strawberry yoghurt (my fault, because I'm obsessed with strawberries). Looks aside, it tasted surprisingly good!

    If I see another banana for the rest of the year, I will shoot myself in the foot.

    4. A very edible household tradition.
    Every year, around New Years, we sit down as a family and make wontons. It's probably a derivative of some ancient archaic Chinese tradition, but that suits me fine. Ingredients are:
    Store-bought wonton wrappers, black fungus, prawns, dried and shredded scallops, pork mince, eggs, soy sauce, oyster sauce, shallots, cornflour and sugar.


    All done.

    They are then boiled or steamed and accompianed with a clear broth, thin egg noodles and some baby bok choy.

    But.. I like them on their own ;)
    The finished product.

    5. Soundtracks of my life for the past week.
    a) Putting in contacts for the very first time:
    JAWS Theme
    b) Making a crazy new concotion in the kitchen:
    Karma by The Pitcher
    c) Going shopping with my brother:
    I'm Money by Zebrahead
    d)The song that made everyone vacate the dance floor at my graduation party:
    Crank That by Soulja Boy
    e) Driving to the beach on New Years Day:
    Take My Hand by The Cab
    f) Late nights when I couldn't go to sleep:
    Emily by Feeder
    g) Being an angry, door-slamming, emotional youth:
    Walking Disaster by Sum 41
    Revisited by The Fold
    And my favourite past-time...
    h) Tracks I dance to in my room:
    B-Boys & Flygirls by Bomfunk MC's
    Freeloader by Driftwood
    Junk by Ferry Corsten
    War Coz I'm Hard by D-Block & S-te-Fan
    Voodoo by A-Lusion

    So, three questions and statement:
    1. What do you hoard that makes no sense to anyone else?
    2. How has the economic crisis affected you as of late?
    3. Which tracks provide the combustion for your activity?
    & A statement.
  • Not a straight-A student.

    12 déc. 2008, 2h47m

    So, I graduated junior high school today! It's really not that special because I don't actually change schools like you guys do in Europe. It is, however, the end of my basic education, and about 25% of students across the state drop out of school after finishing junior high and getting their School Certificate to pursue a trade.

    Not for me. I intend to do Years 11 and 12, do well in my Higher School Certificate examinations and change the world. Ooh, the pressure.

    For security reasons, I can't show you the actual certification and all the really cool insignias and watermarks and shit. I know there's someone out there that'd like to assume my identity to be able to say that they graduated from my school (it's academically selective i.e. prestigious), but I won't let them ;)

    So, here follows my School Certificate results (state-wide exam) and my School Yearly report for 2008, for reference to the Europeans who have been asking me how schooling in Australia works. Oh, and it's annotated - just for that personal touch.

    I've hope you've gained some insight on our education system and had a good laugh at my embarrassing (lack of) ability at Mathematics. A typical Maths test situation:

    Conscience: Emily, what the fuck are you doing?
    Emily: Well you divide both sides by 4, factorise, integrate, write in index form, log both sides, derive the quadratic formula and find x.
    Conscience: No, that's where you write your name.

    A good friend whose identity will remain hidden: Yo, let me copy in the test, ok?
    Me: Your funeral.
    *4 days later*
    Angry good friend: WHAT THE FUCK! I could've done better if I didn't do the test at all!
    Me: Fuckin' owned, mate.

    I'll miss Year 10 dearly. I'll miss my teachers, the classes I didn't turn up to and the homework I never did. But nothing and no one can take the laughs, the good times and the memories away from me. And for that, I'm grateful.

    And praying that I won't suffer from acute dementia.