Tonight

Tonight, it's not about the lonliness.
It's about the fear of having to entertain myself, to replay a thousand times the scenarios I fear the most, over and over in my mind
It's about getting away from myself,
as far far away as possible

Seeing the finish line

Having 3 more tests to go, I, along with tens of thousands of other students across New South Wales are nearing the end of our 4-week HSC ordeal.

 I wouldn't call myself liberated though, because while the HSC process has been gruelling, challenging and many times cruel and unforgiving, it is an experience that has played an albeit minor, yet still significant role in shaping who I am and what I stand for and what I believe 'education' is and should be.

So I will miss the routine and stability of the HSC, but I won't be left longing for it.
I did enjoy the HSC, but it did not make me happy.

Still in the HSC

It's 2:08am, Extension Engish is technically tomorrow and I thought I'd type up something quickly.

I just finished watching all 8 episodes of Chris Lilley's Summer Heights High, and it had me thinking about the state of government-funded public schools. More specifically, thinking about Lilley's character Jonah, should academic excellence and intellectual progress be prioritised above an individual's emotional and social development? Does one lead to another? And why does the same schooling system produce different students?

I need pizza right now

So there's this thing I've wanted to do for a while

Day #3 of Jillian's 30 Day Shred

So I've been doing this workout program for 3 days. It's 30 minutes of Jillian Michaels shouting at you to keep jumping and squat lower and push harder; I like it because I think her voice is sexy and also because I like imagining myself as a 200 kilogram Biggest Loser competitor about to break their ankles from all the butt kicks and jumping jacks (she doesn't call them 'star jumps', possibly because of its juvenile sounding name- I have a theory you burn 27% less fat doing star jumps than jumping jacks)

I know my body well, and I put on muscle easily (though it's possibly more MuscleBob BuffPants, less Popeye), with the ensuing result being more muscle mass around the biceps and thighs - this is perfect for that S size bodycon I bought off the internet!
Just kidding, I don't buy bodycons off the internet.

I think if you've done Blogilates, Level 1 should be a breeze.
We'll see how I go

Day #8: She crumbles in my hand

The other day, as opposed to just the day, I ventured out on a school night, and found myself in a reclining sofa sitting next to my elusive cousin in a dimly lit gold-class cinema.

Being the first-world, gold-class snob that I was raised to believe that I would never be, I ordered a heap of gold-class food in the belief that I would get ripped off. Over-ordering was be the answer to under-providing.

Who knew that the amount of food you recieve is proportianate to the amount of food you order.

After a main course of lots of fried food  and a weird stinky blue cheese dip, dessert sundaes arrived, as promised, "half an hour after the main course, please". They were the size of my stomach. They were the size of two of my stomachs, if you ripped them open and placed them side by side, stretching them so that they covered as much surface area as possible, like if their stomachy life depended on it they could stretch to cover the universe in dark coverings of never-sun and stomach acid.
They were big.
And we ordered two of them.
And I sat in the dark cinema, trying to spoon moist chocolate brownies and vanilla bean ice cream and candied walnuts and chocolatey choclate ice cream and the richest fudge sauce I've ever tasted into my mouth and down into a stomach already bloated with sweet potatoe fries and buffalo wings.
And my mouth said no.
It was strange.
So strange! I've never said no to food!
I was always disappointed when people said they were too sick to eat something; I've always assumed they had tiny stomachs or were cowards. (Being craven is a big thing in Spartan society okay).

But I felt sick halway through the sundae. I felt sick two-thirds through the sundae. By the end of the sundae, I stopped feeling things.
Just finish it!
Never!
Just do it!
It's too much!
You're a wuss!
Your mother would be disappointed!
By the time I left the cinema, I left a slice of brownie and two wafer sticks floating in shallow pool of melted chocolate mess. I left with my head down and ashamed, walking quickly so that the waiters who cleared the plate wouldn't look over and hiss at me and shoot at me shame rays through their sharp red eyes. But no waiters came, and I left the cinema with a mournful look and raised eyebrows, and I whispered to the sundae,
I'll come back for you.

Should I feel bad for leaving uneaten food?
Doesn't the argument go that since the food is already dead, it's okay to waste it? Because it's already dead? Why not waste some more!

The foods for thoughts never left my mind; even after a few days, it sat, heavy, lonely, annoying, in my mind.

Day #9: Tats

It began in the junior years.
My last name, badly drawn in an poor-effort calligraphical style on my left wrist.
My Chinese last name, scribbled hastily, missing a stroke. Making it not really my last name, but a weird derivative of it. So it really wasn't my last name.

And so I picked it up again. Diamonds was my first idea. The shiny ugly diamonds, with lots of thick lines in black.
Then faces with their tongues sticking out, proper patterns too big to fit onto my wrist.
The next day, I kept the ugly diamond design. Each day I kept it, it got uglier and uglier. I liked it like that, when I looked at it, woke up in the morning, it was there but ugly, almost-permanent and ugly.

So when I tried washing it off, I don't know why I wasn't surprised when I found faint blue lines that refused to slide off my wrist, even with the scrubbing of soap and blasting of hot water.

I guess real tattoos are harder to wash off.

Welcome back!

It's 1:05am and my History Extension exam is tomorrow, but I felt the sudden late-night urge to open up my old blog again. 

I'm fighting the urge to delete my old posts and to start anew, but there's something so poorly written and pathetically funny about them that I've decided against such action.

Dammit if this is Normal font size, then it's too small. I have the inner workings of a cranky 70-year-old. Or a 4 year-old, depending on which one is more tolerable and will make you more money as they age.

And so having gotten a few things off my chest, and my pride and curiosity satiated, I leave with this: