It's 8:20 am and I'm sitting on the train, self-consciously covering as much thigh as possible with my bag to disguise the fact that underneath, I'm wearing pretty much nothing at all.
I get off the train at Lewisham and go to Jez's house. I switch on his computer and mumble something about preparing for my forensics speech, but he knows what I'm here for and I drop the pretense.
An hour later we leave for uni. We're both outrageously hungry and buy two pies from 7-Eleven. I take two bites out of mine (cheese, bacon and steak), read the nutritional content on the back of the packet (500 calories per serve) and throw it out.
I arrive at uni early and sit in the computer room of Badham library. I type up my part of the afternoon's speech and fail to shake off the feeling that something about our powerpoint presentation is very, very wrong. Andrew arrives and adds to the presentation several more slides. It still feels wrong. He comments that it was very pretty. I spent a few minutes last night changing the backgrounds of the slides to various mod colours inspired by the sushi plates at Umi, and the effect is asthetically brilliant. Pretty and lacking content. Just like my mother's description of me.
After finding nothing to add to the presentation, Andrew and I head off to the speech room.
The first group is Mari and Fady. They bring up a slide which describes a fictional patient whose case they, pretending to be forensic scientists, have taken over. Andrew and I look at each other, horrified. We didn't have a patient. We're not pretending to be forensic scientists. Our game plan involves pretty much just reading off the slides.
The second group. The third. My mind starts wandering. How many calories have I eaten today? What colour should I paint my nails? It's my auntie's birthday tomorrow. Should I buy Jez an iPod? Is it really impossible to time-travel? I haven't seen Abhi in awhile.
Soon enough, it's our turn and we're the last group. I try to smile but yawn instead. I look down at my notes and read from them. I think of Jez's Ebay-man speech and am envious that he could feel free to be witty. There's absolutely no humour in the pharmacokinetics of diphenhydramine. Not even Russell Peters could make a joke out of this.
I'm annoyed because my beautifully-coloured backgrounds are projected into flat, highlighter shades. How a deep, mossy green could translate into fluoro lime is beyond me. So much for brownie points for presentation.
To add insult to injury, Andrew is as professional as a wild gypsy. He calls N-diethyl groups "nitrogens", and describes mass spectra fragments as "the thing on the end", and "that bit that goes like that". Of course, it's unlikely that I would have done a better job. But you know. Come on.
8.28.2008
8.27.2008
Day Thirty
Reminder to please please order a copy of APF as soon as humanly possible or pray to God that the next formula doesn't come from the 20th edition.
I'm in the library. Bumped into Doey earlier, who with my grudging consent snatched half a packet of my favourite Japanese chewy strawberries and left a compliment about my appearance, which coming from him is unlikely to be a compliment at all.
I'm in the library. Bumped into Doey earlier, who with my grudging consent snatched half a packet of my favourite Japanese chewy strawberries and left a compliment about my appearance, which coming from him is unlikely to be a compliment at all.
8.26.2008
Day Twenty-nine
Today was one of those mind-numbingly uneventful sort of days. And while frustrating on Mirjana's behalf, I found just a tiny speck of excellent entertainment from a woman with a prescription for ramipril.
For those of you who are unaware (i.e. you, querido), ramipril is the name of an antihypertensive drug. It goes under several brand names including Tritace, Ramace, GenRX Ramipril, etc. They're all interchangeable, because they're exactly the same strength of drug with the same pharmacokinetic properties, manufactured by different companies who package them in different coloured boxes and charge different prices.
GPs can write on the script either a brand name or the drug name. Unless "brand substitution not permitted" is ticked, the pharmacist or patient can feel free to pick their favourite.
In today's case, the customer was a posh middle-aged woman wearing a stiff uniform with "NSW Art Gallery" stitched across the pocket. She handed Mirjana a script for ramipril from the same doctor who pulled out a blank piece of paper during my consultation and drew me a detailed diagram of the female reproductive system. He has a quirk of prescribing in drug name only.
Mirjana pulled a box of Ramace off the shelf. The woman frowned at it and asked why she was given Ramace instead of ramipril. Patiently, Mirjana explained that ramipril was the drug name, while Ramace was the brand name, yada yada yada. The woman explained that she had never taken rampiril before, and wanted to make sure that she was getting the right drug. Mirjana explained about generic substitution, and how there are a number of drug companies that manufacture the same ramipril tablet, and that because the doctor hadn't specified which brand to dispense, she took liberty.
"Why did you pick that one and not one of the others?" The woman asked.
Mirjana stared. "Because it was the first one that I saw on the shelf."
Bad answer, I thought. Here was a pedantic and confused woman who can't get her head around the difference between brand and drug, and you give her the impression that you're subjecting her health to your own convenience.
"I don't understand why I can't have what the doctor prescribed me." The woman was saying.
Barely hiding her exasperation, Mirjana grabbed a marker and underlined the word "ramipril" on the Ramace box. I tuned out at this point to focus on my bowl of strawberries.
A few minutes later, Mirjana had me call the doctor to ask which brand he would like to recommend. We exchanged a look, fully aware that this was possibly the most ridiculous call we'd ever make to a GP, and that we were lucky he happened to be one of the better-mannered. He was out to lunch. The woman decided to go back to the medical centre herself.
After she left, Mirjana sat down (to lower her blood pressure, I suspect). I deleted the script and peeled the label off the box of Ramace 2.5 mg.
Half an hour later the woman returned with a new prescription. It read "Ramace 2.5 mg". I retrieved the box I had just put back onto the shelf and processed a script that was identical to the one I had just deleted. She left happily. I suppose that was all that mattered.
God, I took ages telling that story.
For those of you who are unaware (i.e. you, querido), ramipril is the name of an antihypertensive drug. It goes under several brand names including Tritace, Ramace, GenRX Ramipril, etc. They're all interchangeable, because they're exactly the same strength of drug with the same pharmacokinetic properties, manufactured by different companies who package them in different coloured boxes and charge different prices.
GPs can write on the script either a brand name or the drug name. Unless "brand substitution not permitted" is ticked, the pharmacist or patient can feel free to pick their favourite.
In today's case, the customer was a posh middle-aged woman wearing a stiff uniform with "NSW Art Gallery" stitched across the pocket. She handed Mirjana a script for ramipril from the same doctor who pulled out a blank piece of paper during my consultation and drew me a detailed diagram of the female reproductive system. He has a quirk of prescribing in drug name only.
Mirjana pulled a box of Ramace off the shelf. The woman frowned at it and asked why she was given Ramace instead of ramipril. Patiently, Mirjana explained that ramipril was the drug name, while Ramace was the brand name, yada yada yada. The woman explained that she had never taken rampiril before, and wanted to make sure that she was getting the right drug. Mirjana explained about generic substitution, and how there are a number of drug companies that manufacture the same ramipril tablet, and that because the doctor hadn't specified which brand to dispense, she took liberty.
"Why did you pick that one and not one of the others?" The woman asked.
Mirjana stared. "Because it was the first one that I saw on the shelf."
Bad answer, I thought. Here was a pedantic and confused woman who can't get her head around the difference between brand and drug, and you give her the impression that you're subjecting her health to your own convenience.
"I don't understand why I can't have what the doctor prescribed me." The woman was saying.
Barely hiding her exasperation, Mirjana grabbed a marker and underlined the word "ramipril" on the Ramace box. I tuned out at this point to focus on my bowl of strawberries.
A few minutes later, Mirjana had me call the doctor to ask which brand he would like to recommend. We exchanged a look, fully aware that this was possibly the most ridiculous call we'd ever make to a GP, and that we were lucky he happened to be one of the better-mannered. He was out to lunch. The woman decided to go back to the medical centre herself.
After she left, Mirjana sat down (to lower her blood pressure, I suspect). I deleted the script and peeled the label off the box of Ramace 2.5 mg.
Half an hour later the woman returned with a new prescription. It read "Ramace 2.5 mg". I retrieved the box I had just put back onto the shelf and processed a script that was identical to the one I had just deleted. She left happily. I suppose that was all that mattered.
God, I took ages telling that story.
8.25.2008
Day Twenty-eight
I've just finished reading Chasing Harry Winston. I suspect it might be a result of more serious themes of The Kite Runner and My Sister's Keeper, but I thought it was absolutely shit. I might as well have been reading some random person's Livejournal.
In a nutshell, the book was about three friends:
Leigh: Has been dating most-perfect-guy-imaginable for a year. Has excellent job. Is unhappy with life.
Emmy: Has just been dumped by boyfriend of five years. Serial monogamist. Hugely depressed about break-up.
Adriana: Sexy Brazilian babe. Unemployed socialite and high-class slut living off her wealthy parents.
Leigh ends up editing a famous author and then sleeping with him. She breaks up with her boyfriend and ends up with said author. Emmy travels the world for her job and fucks any man she could get her hands on. One of them who she thought had rejected her seeks her out and expresses interest. Her ex shows up at her apartment the day before her thirtieth birthday and begs for her to come back, only to be kicked out. Adriana ends up in an open relationship with a famous director and writes columns for Marie Claire.
Riveting stuff.
In a nutshell, the book was about three friends:
Leigh: Has been dating most-perfect-guy-imaginable for a year. Has excellent job. Is unhappy with life.
Emmy: Has just been dumped by boyfriend of five years. Serial monogamist. Hugely depressed about break-up.
Adriana: Sexy Brazilian babe. Unemployed socialite and high-class slut living off her wealthy parents.
Leigh ends up editing a famous author and then sleeping with him. She breaks up with her boyfriend and ends up with said author. Emmy travels the world for her job and fucks any man she could get her hands on. One of them who she thought had rejected her seeks her out and expresses interest. Her ex shows up at her apartment the day before her thirtieth birthday and begs for her to come back, only to be kicked out. Adriana ends up in an open relationship with a famous director and writes columns for Marie Claire.
Riveting stuff.
Day Twenty-eight
According to yesterday's Sun Herald, the body type that appeals most to men is an elongated torso and shorter legs. I was torn between laughing at the mental image of an orangutanesque woman this description generated and feeling self-conscious because I suspected I fell into this alleged but highly doubtfully desirable category.
If my mother was on cue she'd be yelling that I am perfectly proportioned, and that any scrunching of jeans around my ankles are a consequence of my petite stature and nothing else.
I'm not so optimistic.
Tomorrow is Jez's birthday, which means the agonising 6 days of being technically one year older are very nearly over. For some stupid reason I wanted to buy him a present. Stupid because we've already accepted the fact that we're just not present-giving people. And for good reason, because I went home empty-handed having failed to come up with anything plausible.
We browsed Myer this morning, passing the toys section in which a giant Lego masterpiece of the Eiffel tower stood. I took this idea into enough consideration to go back after work and check the price. No box of plastic is worth $395.
After that idea was out I was completely lost. Clothes? The boy is too picky. Books? I have $200 worth of new books sitting at home. Cologne? Worst idea ever. Underwear? Very much needed but hardly something I could pull out in front of his parents tomorrow night. I had a wild thought of buying him a jumbo box of Mrs. Field's cookies, except of course I'll be the one eating all of it.
Well, better to give nothing at all.
When I walked home from the station I caught a whiff of a deliciously familiar scent. It was the smell of walking to the sandwich place after gym for a mango shake. God that was good mango shake. I'd bite the top of my straw until it was flat, so that the liquid flowed through it slowly and I could savour it while I walked around Coles shopping for the chocolate that would soon enough cancel out all the calories I've just burnt.
If my mother was on cue she'd be yelling that I am perfectly proportioned, and that any scrunching of jeans around my ankles are a consequence of my petite stature and nothing else.
I'm not so optimistic.
Tomorrow is Jez's birthday, which means the agonising 6 days of being technically one year older are very nearly over. For some stupid reason I wanted to buy him a present. Stupid because we've already accepted the fact that we're just not present-giving people. And for good reason, because I went home empty-handed having failed to come up with anything plausible.
We browsed Myer this morning, passing the toys section in which a giant Lego masterpiece of the Eiffel tower stood. I took this idea into enough consideration to go back after work and check the price. No box of plastic is worth $395.
After that idea was out I was completely lost. Clothes? The boy is too picky. Books? I have $200 worth of new books sitting at home. Cologne? Worst idea ever. Underwear? Very much needed but hardly something I could pull out in front of his parents tomorrow night. I had a wild thought of buying him a jumbo box of Mrs. Field's cookies, except of course I'll be the one eating all of it.
Well, better to give nothing at all.
When I walked home from the station I caught a whiff of a deliciously familiar scent. It was the smell of walking to the sandwich place after gym for a mango shake. God that was good mango shake. I'd bite the top of my straw until it was flat, so that the liquid flowed through it slowly and I could savour it while I walked around Coles shopping for the chocolate that would soon enough cancel out all the calories I've just burnt.
8.23.2008
ANTM Winner a Fatty
So the winner of ANTM cycle 10 was Whitney. In the fashion industry she's a plus-size model. On the street she's probably thinner than most.
There's a store in Westfield called Big City Chic that stocks clothes for erm, fuller-figured girls. Correct me if I'm wrong, but is the purpose of its existence not to provide clothes for women whose physiques will not permit them to fit the standard size range? So why is the model on their posters a size 10? She might be sneered at in a Oxford St boutique, but she'll still be swallowed whole by a size 14 dress.
People in the fashion industry have a warped interpretation of physical size. Someone needs to show them what fat is. The man I couldn't push a trolley past in the supermarket because he took up three quarters of the isle. The woman who tried to sit beside me in a two-seater on the train and couldn't, even when I flattened myself against the wall so that another two of my friends could have shared my seat comfortably. Manuel Uribe Garza. Even without going to these extremes, the average girl in the Krispy Kreme queue is bigger than BCC girl or Whitney.
I can see this is going to turn into a fat-bashing. I'll stop. After eating God-knows-how-many squares of Cadbury crème brûlée today I'm joining the fatties soon.
I had an appointment with the dentist at 9:30 this morning. Partly due to trackwork and mostly due to sleeping in, I missed it. I was secretly happy to be excused from the saline rinse, the metal tools, the suction and not to mention the fluoride gel at the end. Whoever told me it tasted like strawberries had obviously never eaten one. Jez and I ended up booking our next appointments at the same time, so we suffer together. Sweet, yes?
With nothing to do in particular, we played Mariokart over croissant and coffee, and then visited Bat-dog at Pets Paradise. Bat-dog is a black labrador who has shiny fur and does nothing but sleep. The first time we saw him, he was slumped near the front of his cage, his eyes open in a sleepy slit. Jez put his hand under Bat-dog's chin. Bat-dog simply rested his weight on Jez's fist and continued to doze. A few minutes later he decided he was thirsty. He crawled over to his bowl, looked at it with sleepy eyes, and then very slowly and very deliberately stuck out his tongue and licked the side, all the while slumped all over the place. We couldn't stop laughing.
Oh and I forget why we named him Bat-dog. But yes, we're still naming pets that aren't ours. I remember listing a few of them many months ago. There are a few new additions:
Annie: This one I named after myself in a fit of narcissism. Annie is still a kitten. She's pure white, except for her tail, which is striped with caramel. She belongs to the house on my way to the station that is the home of several other cats that have been there for as long as I can remember.
Alice: A tiny cream-coloured pomeranian and one of the cutest puppies I've ever seen. She's still in Pets Paradise, last time we checked. Named by Jez after Alice Cullen.
Mocha (pronounced "mo-chah", not "mo-kah" like the coffee): Cross of shih-tzu and something else. Tiny. Black and brown. Hyperactive and has body shaped like a jellybean. Recently sold from Pets Paradise hopefully to someone tolerant of crazy dogs. Jez named him.
The past two nights have been spent celebrating our birthdays. Last night we ate at Prego's with Jez's parents, who for reasons beyond my understanding decided to give me the present of a $250 Myer gift card. I contemplated using it to buy Jez something for his birthday, but later decided that we'd use it on something worthwhile that both of us could use. At the moment I honestly can't think of anything that could satisfy these conditions.
I hate buying make-up. Mainly because quality make-up is expensive, and because they come in such measly little containers. Unfortunately I had a past of experimenting with rather horrible looks (i.e. blue liner, purple liner, purple lipstick, don't ask), and own a stack of cosmetics that I haven't yet thrown out only because of the price at which they came. I've now learnt to stick with the staples. MAC Powerpoint liner in duck. MAC SPF 30 concealer shade 31. Maxfactor Masterpiece mascara. I'm trying to wean off blush, but I'm just so goddamn pale without it.
Just when my make-up bag is at its lightest, some genius shows me a brow trick. I've managed to live with the fact that my eyebrows look like they came from two different faces, until the girl who waxed my eyebrows yesterday made them (gasp) identical. She used a little tub of brown powder that looked like, but she assured me wasn't, eyeshadow.
Later, I wandered around first-level Myer waiting for Jez to finish work. I stopped at the Benefit stand and was immediately spotted by the make-up consultant who gushed on and on about what an adorable little pixie I was. And what lovely eyebrows I had. It was the first time, in my entire life, that anyone paid me compliment on possibly the ugliest feature of my face, except for my nose, of course. I made myself a promise, right there an then, to start taking proper care of my brows. And to never let Jez fluff them up with his lips. Ever. Again.
The Benefit lady explained to me that the little compact contained a wax designed to flatten unruly eyebrows. I should have known that nothing in the world was going to tame my spiky spikes. I imagined Jez's face if he had witnessed her frustrated expression as she attempted, in futility, to make my brows lie flat.
There's a store in Westfield called Big City Chic that stocks clothes for erm, fuller-figured girls. Correct me if I'm wrong, but is the purpose of its existence not to provide clothes for women whose physiques will not permit them to fit the standard size range? So why is the model on their posters a size 10? She might be sneered at in a Oxford St boutique, but she'll still be swallowed whole by a size 14 dress.
People in the fashion industry have a warped interpretation of physical size. Someone needs to show them what fat is. The man I couldn't push a trolley past in the supermarket because he took up three quarters of the isle. The woman who tried to sit beside me in a two-seater on the train and couldn't, even when I flattened myself against the wall so that another two of my friends could have shared my seat comfortably. Manuel Uribe Garza. Even without going to these extremes, the average girl in the Krispy Kreme queue is bigger than BCC girl or Whitney.
I can see this is going to turn into a fat-bashing. I'll stop. After eating God-knows-how-many squares of Cadbury crème brûlée today I'm joining the fatties soon.
I had an appointment with the dentist at 9:30 this morning. Partly due to trackwork and mostly due to sleeping in, I missed it. I was secretly happy to be excused from the saline rinse, the metal tools, the suction and not to mention the fluoride gel at the end. Whoever told me it tasted like strawberries had obviously never eaten one. Jez and I ended up booking our next appointments at the same time, so we suffer together. Sweet, yes?
With nothing to do in particular, we played Mariokart over croissant and coffee, and then visited Bat-dog at Pets Paradise. Bat-dog is a black labrador who has shiny fur and does nothing but sleep. The first time we saw him, he was slumped near the front of his cage, his eyes open in a sleepy slit. Jez put his hand under Bat-dog's chin. Bat-dog simply rested his weight on Jez's fist and continued to doze. A few minutes later he decided he was thirsty. He crawled over to his bowl, looked at it with sleepy eyes, and then very slowly and very deliberately stuck out his tongue and licked the side, all the while slumped all over the place. We couldn't stop laughing.
Oh and I forget why we named him Bat-dog. But yes, we're still naming pets that aren't ours. I remember listing a few of them many months ago. There are a few new additions:
Annie: This one I named after myself in a fit of narcissism. Annie is still a kitten. She's pure white, except for her tail, which is striped with caramel. She belongs to the house on my way to the station that is the home of several other cats that have been there for as long as I can remember.
Alice: A tiny cream-coloured pomeranian and one of the cutest puppies I've ever seen. She's still in Pets Paradise, last time we checked. Named by Jez after Alice Cullen.
Mocha (pronounced "mo-chah", not "mo-kah" like the coffee): Cross of shih-tzu and something else. Tiny. Black and brown. Hyperactive and has body shaped like a jellybean. Recently sold from Pets Paradise hopefully to someone tolerant of crazy dogs. Jez named him.
The past two nights have been spent celebrating our birthdays. Last night we ate at Prego's with Jez's parents, who for reasons beyond my understanding decided to give me the present of a $250 Myer gift card. I contemplated using it to buy Jez something for his birthday, but later decided that we'd use it on something worthwhile that both of us could use. At the moment I honestly can't think of anything that could satisfy these conditions.
I hate buying make-up. Mainly because quality make-up is expensive, and because they come in such measly little containers. Unfortunately I had a past of experimenting with rather horrible looks (i.e. blue liner, purple liner, purple lipstick, don't ask), and own a stack of cosmetics that I haven't yet thrown out only because of the price at which they came. I've now learnt to stick with the staples. MAC Powerpoint liner in duck. MAC SPF 30 concealer shade 31. Maxfactor Masterpiece mascara. I'm trying to wean off blush, but I'm just so goddamn pale without it.
Just when my make-up bag is at its lightest, some genius shows me a brow trick. I've managed to live with the fact that my eyebrows look like they came from two different faces, until the girl who waxed my eyebrows yesterday made them (gasp) identical. She used a little tub of brown powder that looked like, but she assured me wasn't, eyeshadow.
Later, I wandered around first-level Myer waiting for Jez to finish work. I stopped at the Benefit stand and was immediately spotted by the make-up consultant who gushed on and on about what an adorable little pixie I was. And what lovely eyebrows I had. It was the first time, in my entire life, that anyone paid me compliment on possibly the ugliest feature of my face, except for my nose, of course. I made myself a promise, right there an then, to start taking proper care of my brows. And to never let Jez fluff them up with his lips. Ever. Again.
The Benefit lady explained to me that the little compact contained a wax designed to flatten unruly eyebrows. I should have known that nothing in the world was going to tame my spiky spikes. I imagined Jez's face if he had witnessed her frustrated expression as she attempted, in futility, to make my brows lie flat.
8.20.2008
Day Twenty-three
I tried on a skirt today. It was from Forecast. I haven't set foot in Forecast for a couple of years because I've been busy paying hefty amounts of money for clothes I could have bought from lowlier places for one fifth of the price. Price-tags do curious things to me. I suspect it's purely psychological that out of a sale item and a non-sale item, I always pick the latter because it's more expensive. Then again, I have a funny knack of entering a store and walking straight to the priciest dress on the rack.
I suppose my shopping habits also factor in my taste, which is summed up in two words - cream, and pretty. There's one store that does cream and pretty excellently. The QVB Kaviar girl and I are almost friends now. She looks like Nicole, by the way. Fun fact.
I hardly ever shop anywhere else. I'm completely over Witchery save accessories. Sportsgirl has gone off on a hippie tangent that I find aesthetically annoying. Kookai seems to have retained the same stuff for the past 10 months. I haven't been to Cue since I stopped properly presenting myself at work. I can't afford what I like from Myer. I'm scared of further crippling my savings by going to DJ's. I train myself to avoid diverting my eyes from my objective (Cheap Monday jeans) when I'm at The Strand.
Sometimes I pop into random little boutiques. Sometimes I comb through every thread in SES. Most of the time I don't buy anything because of one of three reasons. One, it sky-rockets out of my price range. Two, it looks as cheap as it is. Three, it doesn't fit.
The Forecast skirt fell into the third category. It was very cute. Didn't reflect its measly price of $30. Except once I had it on, there was something very off. The shape was all wrong.
"It's a high waisted skirt, by the way." The shop assistant called from outside the cubicle, as if she had read my mind.
"Oh," I said. It was sitting on my hip.
So I guess I saved $30 today. By this logic I guess I also saved $50 by not taking the taxi home, $50 by not dining out at Wagamama, $170 for denying myself hair treatment, and $2 for ignoring the hobo on the side of the road. That adds up to $302! High five.
Today is my birthday. I don't really want to think about it because for the next six days, I'm 21 and Jez is 20. Yuk, I just typed that out loud.
I suppose my shopping habits also factor in my taste, which is summed up in two words - cream, and pretty. There's one store that does cream and pretty excellently. The QVB Kaviar girl and I are almost friends now. She looks like Nicole, by the way. Fun fact.
I hardly ever shop anywhere else. I'm completely over Witchery save accessories. Sportsgirl has gone off on a hippie tangent that I find aesthetically annoying. Kookai seems to have retained the same stuff for the past 10 months. I haven't been to Cue since I stopped properly presenting myself at work. I can't afford what I like from Myer. I'm scared of further crippling my savings by going to DJ's. I train myself to avoid diverting my eyes from my objective (Cheap Monday jeans) when I'm at The Strand.
Sometimes I pop into random little boutiques. Sometimes I comb through every thread in SES. Most of the time I don't buy anything because of one of three reasons. One, it sky-rockets out of my price range. Two, it looks as cheap as it is. Three, it doesn't fit.
The Forecast skirt fell into the third category. It was very cute. Didn't reflect its measly price of $30. Except once I had it on, there was something very off. The shape was all wrong.
"It's a high waisted skirt, by the way." The shop assistant called from outside the cubicle, as if she had read my mind.
"Oh," I said. It was sitting on my hip.
So I guess I saved $30 today. By this logic I guess I also saved $50 by not taking the taxi home, $50 by not dining out at Wagamama, $170 for denying myself hair treatment, and $2 for ignoring the hobo on the side of the road. That adds up to $302! High five.
Today is my birthday. I don't really want to think about it because for the next six days, I'm 21 and Jez is 20. Yuk, I just typed that out loud.
8.17.2008
8.11.2008
Day Fourteen
It's annoying the way that something that's always there disappears the moment you decide that you need it.
What I need and can't, at the moment, seem to find, is a depressed person. On an average day I trip over myself trying to avoid script after script of Zoloft or Prozac or Efexor or Lexapro. Yet when I'm actively seeking a sad panda, they decide to scoot.
Even if I manage to find one, the task isn't easy. The tricky bit isn't to find just a patient dosed up on tricyclics or SSRIs, but to find one that's willing to talk about it. You'd probably be more at ease telling me why you have glaucoma than why you've become so miserable that you feel the need to modify your neurotransmitters.
Then there are questions involving treatment, which will inevitably involve adverse effects, which broaches another sensitive area - weight gain. Antidepressants will turn you into a fatty, which raises the complication that even if you're no longer brooding over whatever made you turn to them in the first place, you now have to worry about your colleagues rubbing your chubby belly for good luck.
So I braced myself for a series of rejections, only to spend six hours handing out Amoxil.
What I need and can't, at the moment, seem to find, is a depressed person. On an average day I trip over myself trying to avoid script after script of Zoloft or Prozac or Efexor or Lexapro. Yet when I'm actively seeking a sad panda, they decide to scoot.
Even if I manage to find one, the task isn't easy. The tricky bit isn't to find just a patient dosed up on tricyclics or SSRIs, but to find one that's willing to talk about it. You'd probably be more at ease telling me why you have glaucoma than why you've become so miserable that you feel the need to modify your neurotransmitters.
Then there are questions involving treatment, which will inevitably involve adverse effects, which broaches another sensitive area - weight gain. Antidepressants will turn you into a fatty, which raises the complication that even if you're no longer brooding over whatever made you turn to them in the first place, you now have to worry about your colleagues rubbing your chubby belly for good luck.
So I braced myself for a series of rejections, only to spend six hours handing out Amoxil.
8.09.2008
Day Twelve
I'm not sure why, but lately I've been obsessing over clothes.
I have an outfit in mind. I haven't a clue where the idea came from, but it involves a dressy white halter and a canary yellow pencil skirt.
You say ew. I say hmm.
I have an outfit in mind. I haven't a clue where the idea came from, but it involves a dressy white halter and a canary yellow pencil skirt.
You say ew. I say hmm.
8.07.2008
Day Ten
I wore my Wrangler tee today. People were surprised. But you never wear t-shirts! They said.
This afternoon I bought another one. I was strolling around Centrepoint with Jenny. The shirt was cheap, but the catch was that the only size left was 12. That's ok, Jenny said. You can wear it loose. Loose, I said. Really. It reminds me of a Sass & Bide top, she added. Well, when you put it that way ...
I bought it. It hangs off me like a poncho, but like, I'm wearing it like, loose. Like.
I usually avoid shopping at GP because their kooky labels are poor in quality and ridiculous in price. But hungry for more tees, I took a look around today and found a pair of Tsubi or Ksubi or whatever jeans for $150. High-fived myself.
It's no longer possible for me to caught within ten metres of Starbucks without a hot chocolate in my hand. This afternoon I bumped into my best friend from year 7, of all people. Only last week I bumped into my bestie from year 6. Ex-BFF fest.
Her name's Vivienne. She once made fun of me for eating a pastry that in her opinion looked like a penis. That's about all I remember of her.
She was at Starbucks today with her boyfriend. She looked different. Older. He was dark. Even darker than my boy. If that's even possible. We stood around awkwardly and I could nearly hear their brains ticking down the seconds until their coffee is served and they could leave.
This afternoon I bought another one. I was strolling around Centrepoint with Jenny. The shirt was cheap, but the catch was that the only size left was 12. That's ok, Jenny said. You can wear it loose. Loose, I said. Really. It reminds me of a Sass & Bide top, she added. Well, when you put it that way ...
I bought it. It hangs off me like a poncho, but like, I'm wearing it like, loose. Like.
I usually avoid shopping at GP because their kooky labels are poor in quality and ridiculous in price. But hungry for more tees, I took a look around today and found a pair of Tsubi or Ksubi or whatever jeans for $150. High-fived myself.
It's no longer possible for me to caught within ten metres of Starbucks without a hot chocolate in my hand. This afternoon I bumped into my best friend from year 7, of all people. Only last week I bumped into my bestie from year 6. Ex-BFF fest.
Her name's Vivienne. She once made fun of me for eating a pastry that in her opinion looked like a penis. That's about all I remember of her.
She was at Starbucks today with her boyfriend. She looked different. Older. He was dark. Even darker than my boy. If that's even possible. We stood around awkwardly and I could nearly hear their brains ticking down the seconds until their coffee is served and they could leave.
8.04.2008
Day Seven
I have a girl on my MSN contact list.
She's a masters student who did her externship (or whatever the equivalent is in the masters course) at Alpha pharmacy.
Anyway, I don't talk to her. I never have. Yet I have her on my list.
You know when some people send you a message that goes "Hey! I just saw a photo of you on the internet! Is this you?" and post a link. Presumably when you click that link you computer dies.
Well, this girl sends me about ten of those messages a day.
I've been ignoring them for as long as I can remember, but today I decided to reply.
I said, Zara, you're a fucking virus.
She's a masters student who did her externship (or whatever the equivalent is in the masters course) at Alpha pharmacy.
Anyway, I don't talk to her. I never have. Yet I have her on my list.
You know when some people send you a message that goes "Hey! I just saw a photo of you on the internet! Is this you?" and post a link. Presumably when you click that link you computer dies.
Well, this girl sends me about ten of those messages a day.
I've been ignoring them for as long as I can remember, but today I decided to reply.
I said, Zara, you're a fucking virus.
8.03.2008
Meow.Day Six
Dear Professor Chan,
I found the Andreasen apparatus part of today’s lecture a little difficult to understand. Could you please help me with a few questions?
1. I just wanted to confirm that the purpose of the apparatus is to measure particle size
2. What is the purpose of evaporating the samples after they’ve been collected?
3. Samples are drawn every 10 minutes. When do we stop taking samples?
4. How are the larger particles that have settled to the bottom measured?
Thank you!
Annie Dou
I missed the next PPF lecture because I called Jez in the morning.
Here's Kim Chan's reply.
I’ve addressed your questions in the lecture this morning, were you there?
Pwnd.
I found the Andreasen apparatus part of today’s lecture a little difficult to understand. Could you please help me with a few questions?
1. I just wanted to confirm that the purpose of the apparatus is to measure particle size
2. What is the purpose of evaporating the samples after they’ve been collected?
3. Samples are drawn every 10 minutes. When do we stop taking samples?
4. How are the larger particles that have settled to the bottom measured?
Thank you!
Annie Dou
I missed the next PPF lecture because I called Jez in the morning.
Here's Kim Chan's reply.
I’ve addressed your questions in the lecture this morning, were you there?
Pwnd.
8.02.2008
Day Five
You know you've bought too many cream-coloured clothes when they take up more than a third of the width of your wardrobe. And that's not even including the two dresses your friend hasn't returned.
What can I say, they make me pretty.
I think that by the time I fell asleep, it was very legitimately morning.
I'm drooling all over my pillow when my phone starts to vibrate. I ignore it. Probably a SMS.
It keeps vibrating. I squint at the screen. Jez is calling me.
We talk. It's 8:00 am. He declares he wants to sleep some more. I can't agree more because I've probably slept for no more than fifteen minutes before he woke me up.
"Can I call you when I wake up?" I ask.
But I don't, because I keep sleeping. And my phone starts to vibrate again.
We talk again. We hint at each other that we want to see each other in person. Jez hints that he wants more than just to see. But neither of us are brave enough to make a decision.
He's sick again. I'm tired of telling him that he should recover completely before going to the gym. He's tired of hearing it. So he's going to the gym today.
I'm fighting every urge to take care of him. He didn't have dinner last night. I want to bring him lunch, I want to hug him, wrap my arms around him when he sleeps, make him hot chocolate. But I'm afraid, because our relationship is too delicate. We'll hug. He'll try to kiss me, expecting me to be responsible for stopping him. I won't be able to. So we'll kiss, we'll lie in bed and talk until he starts to edge his hands under my clothes. He'll think I'm responsible for stopping him. I won't.
And afterwards we'll play X-Men. And order self-designed pizza.
Someone stop me, please? I think I'm walking out of the house.
What can I say, they make me pretty.
I think that by the time I fell asleep, it was very legitimately morning.
I'm drooling all over my pillow when my phone starts to vibrate. I ignore it. Probably a SMS.
It keeps vibrating. I squint at the screen. Jez is calling me.
We talk. It's 8:00 am. He declares he wants to sleep some more. I can't agree more because I've probably slept for no more than fifteen minutes before he woke me up.
"Can I call you when I wake up?" I ask.
But I don't, because I keep sleeping. And my phone starts to vibrate again.
We talk again. We hint at each other that we want to see each other in person. Jez hints that he wants more than just to see. But neither of us are brave enough to make a decision.
He's sick again. I'm tired of telling him that he should recover completely before going to the gym. He's tired of hearing it. So he's going to the gym today.
I'm fighting every urge to take care of him. He didn't have dinner last night. I want to bring him lunch, I want to hug him, wrap my arms around him when he sleeps, make him hot chocolate. But I'm afraid, because our relationship is too delicate. We'll hug. He'll try to kiss me, expecting me to be responsible for stopping him. I won't be able to. So we'll kiss, we'll lie in bed and talk until he starts to edge his hands under my clothes. He'll think I'm responsible for stopping him. I won't.
And afterwards we'll play X-Men. And order self-designed pizza.
Someone stop me, please? I think I'm walking out of the house.
Day Four
I realised that Jez had SMS'd me earlier and asked if I was still out. I wonder whether it was out of concern for my safety or something else.
Safety. A sober Derek drove four of us home. We left Croydon at 1:00 am. I stayed up because I was determined to blog. Breaking Dawn breakfast isn't tomorrow. It's Monday.
Something else. I drank less than the volume of liquid I'd be allowed to carry on an airplane. The type of recklessness that takes place in bars or clubs or vodka bottles is not the type I'm after.
I feel kind of silly. Well, who wouldn't at this time of day, fighting sleep only to record in writing two little pieces of the colossal puzzle of themselves they've put together.
I had a sudden realisation.
If you draw a line representing the duration of our relationship, and place a dot on each day we spent time together, there would be a scatter of dots around both ends, and a shitload of them in the middle.
Back when we used to keep a date journal, I paid attention to the lengths of the intervals between each entry. There were on average one entry per week. Two at the most. Gradually, the intervals shortened, until they didn't exist anymore.
During a couple of months, Jez and I saw each other seven days a week. I stayed over on Friday nights. Some saturdays. When I found out that I couldn't go to camp with my friends, I camped in his room for five days straight. Being inseparable doesn't necessarily mean being unseparated. Not that I was aware of it then.
This is all very embarrassing. Embarrassing because I had the nerve to go to such lengths to deceive both my parents and his. Embarrassing because I permitted myself to do things my conscience struggled against. Embarrassing because I might not be sinking in misery now if I had any self-control then.
It was reckless and irresponsible. When two people share the same home, it's natural for them to spend time together everyday. We were getting ahead of ourselves. We hadn't reached that stage, yet we wanted to live like we had. We forced everything else to accomodate what we wanted. We neglected our families, our friends and ourselves for each other. I should have forseen the consequences. I should have known that we had made a ticking bomb.
On many Friday nights I dreaded going home with Jez. I loved the satisfaction of knowing that we could be together til morning. I loved the warmth of his bed. I loved the warmth of him. But I knew that it was the wrong place to be. I never stopped myself because I craved Jez more than I wanted to be responsible.
I remember days when I'd sit blankly at home, wondering why I have so few close friends and realising that having spent all of my spare time with Jez, there was never room for anyone else. I never tried to change, because I thought it was a fair sacrifice.
At times when I felt miserable, I went to Jez. He made me forget everything else.
It was already too late when it finally hit us. We gave up sleepovers. We spared more time for our families. But there was no reversing a bomb that had already gone off. It was a brave attempt. An idealistic plan that failed abysmally.
It failed because we had already formed the habit of always having each other around. Breaking that habit did funny things to us. The relationship started to feel out of place. I became moody. Jez became elusive. More problems stemmed from this one, and they never stopped until we did.
I can only speculate, but I'm certain that I've pinpointed the beginning of our demise. It wasn't when we broke the habit. It was when we formed it.
I think back to the earlier months. They were blissful. I remember the time when I stuck post-its all over Jez's room, hiding them inside drawers and under book covers, laughing at him as he tried and failed to find them all. Every one of them read "I ❤ Jez". I remember when I was sick and he appeared like magic on my doorstep with Deathly Hallows and chicken soup. Later on, it became a sad memory when I realised that was possibly the only time he showed up at my house without being asked to. I remember going swimming with him, nervous because he had never seen me in a bikini despite the fact that he knew every part of my body. I remember when we had dinner and Umi and forgot to eat because we never ran out of things to say.
Memories are dangerous.
Safety. A sober Derek drove four of us home. We left Croydon at 1:00 am. I stayed up because I was determined to blog. Breaking Dawn breakfast isn't tomorrow. It's Monday.
Something else. I drank less than the volume of liquid I'd be allowed to carry on an airplane. The type of recklessness that takes place in bars or clubs or vodka bottles is not the type I'm after.
I feel kind of silly. Well, who wouldn't at this time of day, fighting sleep only to record in writing two little pieces of the colossal puzzle of themselves they've put together.
I had a sudden realisation.
If you draw a line representing the duration of our relationship, and place a dot on each day we spent time together, there would be a scatter of dots around both ends, and a shitload of them in the middle.
Back when we used to keep a date journal, I paid attention to the lengths of the intervals between each entry. There were on average one entry per week. Two at the most. Gradually, the intervals shortened, until they didn't exist anymore.
During a couple of months, Jez and I saw each other seven days a week. I stayed over on Friday nights. Some saturdays. When I found out that I couldn't go to camp with my friends, I camped in his room for five days straight. Being inseparable doesn't necessarily mean being unseparated. Not that I was aware of it then.
This is all very embarrassing. Embarrassing because I had the nerve to go to such lengths to deceive both my parents and his. Embarrassing because I permitted myself to do things my conscience struggled against. Embarrassing because I might not be sinking in misery now if I had any self-control then.
It was reckless and irresponsible. When two people share the same home, it's natural for them to spend time together everyday. We were getting ahead of ourselves. We hadn't reached that stage, yet we wanted to live like we had. We forced everything else to accomodate what we wanted. We neglected our families, our friends and ourselves for each other. I should have forseen the consequences. I should have known that we had made a ticking bomb.
On many Friday nights I dreaded going home with Jez. I loved the satisfaction of knowing that we could be together til morning. I loved the warmth of his bed. I loved the warmth of him. But I knew that it was the wrong place to be. I never stopped myself because I craved Jez more than I wanted to be responsible.
I remember days when I'd sit blankly at home, wondering why I have so few close friends and realising that having spent all of my spare time with Jez, there was never room for anyone else. I never tried to change, because I thought it was a fair sacrifice.
At times when I felt miserable, I went to Jez. He made me forget everything else.
It was already too late when it finally hit us. We gave up sleepovers. We spared more time for our families. But there was no reversing a bomb that had already gone off. It was a brave attempt. An idealistic plan that failed abysmally.
It failed because we had already formed the habit of always having each other around. Breaking that habit did funny things to us. The relationship started to feel out of place. I became moody. Jez became elusive. More problems stemmed from this one, and they never stopped until we did.
I can only speculate, but I'm certain that I've pinpointed the beginning of our demise. It wasn't when we broke the habit. It was when we formed it.
I think back to the earlier months. They were blissful. I remember the time when I stuck post-its all over Jez's room, hiding them inside drawers and under book covers, laughing at him as he tried and failed to find them all. Every one of them read "I ❤ Jez". I remember when I was sick and he appeared like magic on my doorstep with Deathly Hallows and chicken soup. Later on, it became a sad memory when I realised that was possibly the only time he showed up at my house without being asked to. I remember going swimming with him, nervous because he had never seen me in a bikini despite the fact that he knew every part of my body. I remember when we had dinner and Umi and forgot to eat because we never ran out of things to say.
Memories are dangerous.
Day Five
Like chicken.
Flavour arises not only from the marinade, but from time. Let's say your timing is perfect. You put the chicken in the oven. Will it come out burnt to a crisp? Will it turn out wrong for no apparent reason? And what if it comes out exactly as you wanted? You savour it, piece by piece, until there's nothing left. What then?
Like an expensive dress.
It's outside your budget by a mile. You save up for it. You buy it. You love it. You treasure it. But what if you show up at the store to realise that you were too late? What if it had been bought by someone else while you were scraping up the funds? Would you feel comforted, knowing that at least you've saved some cash?
I don't have answers to any of these questions.
I may look like somebody had just died, but failing to make an effort for somebody's 21st is just disrespectable. I picked out a cream (of course) dress. Black stockings. Black flats. Leather jacket.
I had an inspiration to shop for boots, and somehow found myself at Scooter in Greenwood Plaza. Of course I didn't buy anything. Full-priced items are never in a hurry to go anywhere. There was time to contemplate whether forking out $200 could really be justified. I have doubts.
It didn't surprise me that I ended up at the pharmacy. It has become a place of solace. Don't ask me how. I like to find John or Mirjana there, because I could feel free to be a child. I don't deserve it, I never asked for it, but they spoil me. All we ever talked about was me. How I was doing at uni. Where I bought my new shoes. Whether my boyfriend was still sick. I didn't tell them about Jez. I had had enough of the world revolving around my life.
Mirjana would never let me vacuum. When I wiped dust off the dispensary shelves she actually thanked me. She'd praise me after each script I process correctly, even though it's one of the lowest, most basic expectations of a pharmacist. She never let me pay her when we share lunch.
When I arrived, she had already left. I found John in the dispensary.
"Mirjana would have been disappointed she didn't see you." He said.
I pouted. "I miss Mirjana."
"She misses you too. She talks about you all the time."
"What does she say about me?"
John laughed at the sight of my expression. "She says good things. She really likes you. We all do. You're a good worker."
I snorted. Yeah, right. But I wasn't stupid enough to contradict my boss on that one.
I sat down on the carpet, next to the unkempt boxes of Famivir. It had been awhile since I tidied the dispensary. I felt guilt, like a little worm, wriggling in my stomach. They treat me far better than I deserve. I couldn't figure out why. They even ignore the mistakes on my time sheet when I end up working less hours than I filled out. Even when I insist on correcting it.
So despite the fact that I spent over two hours dispensing, I made it clear to John before I left that I was not to be paid.
He just smiled. "Riiiiight."
The Pharmacy Practice tute this afternoon consisted of nothing more than a follow-up of our second-year turbuhaler technique research project and orientation around tables of lollies. I picked absent-mindedly at a yellow gummy snake and didn't hear a word our tutor said.
I planned to go to Jenny's house, where someone will pick us up to go to Alan's together. She was still out when I left uni, so I went to Burwood to kill time.
The less time there is left before my birthday, the harder it is not to think about it. I've already confessed to Mylinh and Jenny that I may not be in the mood to celebrate. They understood. Nevertheless I wasn't going to get away with it without at least a formal dinner with the girls. Rather depressingly, I strolled around ground floor and browsed for a dress. A LBD caught my eye. I scavenged for a 6 and retreated to the dressing room. It was a bit of a disaster. The top half hung loosely around my waist, and the hem flared out unsuspectingly, like a mini satin umbrella.
"I'll think about it." I told the sales assistant.
"Don't think too long," she said, "they're selling fast."
"Well then I definitely won't be buying it." You don't sell an item of clothing by telling the potential buyer that everyone else is already wearing it. You just don't.
I ended up another Jodi Picoult.
No boots. No dress. A book. Am I still me?
We arrive at Alan's reasonably early. Everyone seems determined to puke by the end of the night. I decide to drink to forget. However, by the time the first diluted Midori shot makes its way down my throat I realise that alcohol and I may never be friends again. I let myself catch the contagious drunken atmosphere instead. It wasn't long before I was desperate to leave.
Time was the right move for me and Jez. It has only been a couple of days, but I'm already beginning to figure things out. I feel like starting a new post.
Flavour arises not only from the marinade, but from time. Let's say your timing is perfect. You put the chicken in the oven. Will it come out burnt to a crisp? Will it turn out wrong for no apparent reason? And what if it comes out exactly as you wanted? You savour it, piece by piece, until there's nothing left. What then?
Like an expensive dress.
It's outside your budget by a mile. You save up for it. You buy it. You love it. You treasure it. But what if you show up at the store to realise that you were too late? What if it had been bought by someone else while you were scraping up the funds? Would you feel comforted, knowing that at least you've saved some cash?
I don't have answers to any of these questions.
I may look like somebody had just died, but failing to make an effort for somebody's 21st is just disrespectable. I picked out a cream (of course) dress. Black stockings. Black flats. Leather jacket.
I had an inspiration to shop for boots, and somehow found myself at Scooter in Greenwood Plaza. Of course I didn't buy anything. Full-priced items are never in a hurry to go anywhere. There was time to contemplate whether forking out $200 could really be justified. I have doubts.
It didn't surprise me that I ended up at the pharmacy. It has become a place of solace. Don't ask me how. I like to find John or Mirjana there, because I could feel free to be a child. I don't deserve it, I never asked for it, but they spoil me. All we ever talked about was me. How I was doing at uni. Where I bought my new shoes. Whether my boyfriend was still sick. I didn't tell them about Jez. I had had enough of the world revolving around my life.
Mirjana would never let me vacuum. When I wiped dust off the dispensary shelves she actually thanked me. She'd praise me after each script I process correctly, even though it's one of the lowest, most basic expectations of a pharmacist. She never let me pay her when we share lunch.
When I arrived, she had already left. I found John in the dispensary.
"Mirjana would have been disappointed she didn't see you." He said.
I pouted. "I miss Mirjana."
"She misses you too. She talks about you all the time."
"What does she say about me?"
John laughed at the sight of my expression. "She says good things. She really likes you. We all do. You're a good worker."
I snorted. Yeah, right. But I wasn't stupid enough to contradict my boss on that one.
I sat down on the carpet, next to the unkempt boxes of Famivir. It had been awhile since I tidied the dispensary. I felt guilt, like a little worm, wriggling in my stomach. They treat me far better than I deserve. I couldn't figure out why. They even ignore the mistakes on my time sheet when I end up working less hours than I filled out. Even when I insist on correcting it.
So despite the fact that I spent over two hours dispensing, I made it clear to John before I left that I was not to be paid.
He just smiled. "Riiiiight."
The Pharmacy Practice tute this afternoon consisted of nothing more than a follow-up of our second-year turbuhaler technique research project and orientation around tables of lollies. I picked absent-mindedly at a yellow gummy snake and didn't hear a word our tutor said.
I planned to go to Jenny's house, where someone will pick us up to go to Alan's together. She was still out when I left uni, so I went to Burwood to kill time.
The less time there is left before my birthday, the harder it is not to think about it. I've already confessed to Mylinh and Jenny that I may not be in the mood to celebrate. They understood. Nevertheless I wasn't going to get away with it without at least a formal dinner with the girls. Rather depressingly, I strolled around ground floor and browsed for a dress. A LBD caught my eye. I scavenged for a 6 and retreated to the dressing room. It was a bit of a disaster. The top half hung loosely around my waist, and the hem flared out unsuspectingly, like a mini satin umbrella.
"I'll think about it." I told the sales assistant.
"Don't think too long," she said, "they're selling fast."
"Well then I definitely won't be buying it." You don't sell an item of clothing by telling the potential buyer that everyone else is already wearing it. You just don't.
I ended up another Jodi Picoult.
No boots. No dress. A book. Am I still me?
We arrive at Alan's reasonably early. Everyone seems determined to puke by the end of the night. I decide to drink to forget. However, by the time the first diluted Midori shot makes its way down my throat I realise that alcohol and I may never be friends again. I let myself catch the contagious drunken atmosphere instead. It wasn't long before I was desperate to leave.
Time was the right move for me and Jez. It has only been a couple of days, but I'm already beginning to figure things out. I feel like starting a new post.
8.01.2008
Day Four
My friend said she had never heard of another couple finding breaking-up so hard.
Well, you know the way it works. If something doesn't happen to anyone else and it's bad, it's bound to happen to me.
Like when I went to the doctors on Wednesday night and he actually resorted to Google because he had never had another patient with my condition. His pointer paused at the Wikipedia entry but I think he was too embarrassed.
It's okay, I said. I trust Wiki.
Well, you know the way it works. If something doesn't happen to anyone else and it's bad, it's bound to happen to me.
Like when I went to the doctors on Wednesday night and he actually resorted to Google because he had never had another patient with my condition. His pointer paused at the Wikipedia entry but I think he was too embarrassed.
It's okay, I said. I trust Wiki.
Day Four
Doubt thou that the stars are fire;
Doubt though that the sun doth move;
Doubt truth to be a liar;
But never doubt that I love. - Shakespeare, Hamlet
I woke up horrified by the sight of my hair, made many hundred times worse by the fact that I now have a giant mirror in my room to confirm it.
After some grooming, however, it synchronised quite well with my pale skin. But despite the fact that it brought out my eyes, I'm beginning to regret the decision. High-maintenance isn't something I could easily afford. Financial burden aside, I haven't the mental capacity.
I have voices in my head that talk to me. There's my favourite one that quietly points out every fatty in the Krispy Kreme queue and makes me run as quickly as my legs could carry me in the opposite direction. There's the one that instructs me, however unsuccessfully, to study. There's one that tells me my top clashes with my skirt.
The one that has supernatural perception of boys told me that high-maintenance has never been so necessary. I've been wearing the same outfit who knows how many days in a row and my hair has been stuck as a bun on top of my head for so long that I forgot I had any. Until my stupid trip to the hairdresser's yesterday.
It's probably right. Looking one's best is nearly a prerequisite to being single (there I said it, I hope you're happy). Besides, even in the absence of any potential Edward Cullens there's always the off chance I'd bump into Jez. And if by good fortune he had remembered me being beautiful, that would probably go out the window the minute his eyes fall on my unkempt self.
Nevertheless it doesn't change the fact that I haven't the mental capacity. Being forced to look after my hair is already pushing it. And the fact that Phil and Alan's 21st tonight pushes me so far off the edge that I seriously considered not showing up. I haven't been eating. I'm skinny. My skin looks more tired than Mirjana does at the end of the day. I have a permanent look of misery plastered on my face. A pretty dress isn't going to fix any of that.
Jez had said some things to me last night. Mostly revolving around demanding that I stop talking to him and that he doesn't like me. I've already met my quota of psychological distress for the year. Nothing anyone says or does could make me feel any worse. As a result I found Jez's remarks nothing but irksome.
At night I lay in bed, fuming. There I was, tucking my hands under my arms to stop myself from calling him to demand an elaboration. There I was giving him exactly what he wanted. It didn't sit well with me, and despite the fact that I was uncontrollably sleepy, I reached for my phone in a spurt of recklessness and decided to ring him until he either answers or switches his mobile off. I justified my actions. Every damage has already been done. Everything has been lost. There was nothing left to be taken away from me.
The call was short. I had no idea what I wanted to say to him because I banked on him refusing to answer the phone. So I made something up. I have to tell you something, I said, knowing that I wouldn't have to think of what, because he'd never let me say it. I was right. Send me an email, he said, and hung up.
Oh and he said that he hated me.
I couldn't stay awake long enough to properly contemplate it. In the morning, I woke up feeling as though the anger had been brewing while I was unconscious. Nobody hates me, least of all the boy to whom I was once everything. And if he claims otherwise, I wanted to know why.
So in spite of myself, I called.
"What do you want."
We stumbled around with hostilities on his behalf morning-mumbles on mine. Eventually he told me what I had called to find out.
"I hate you," he said. "I've hated you for awhile. You're boring. You're immature. I dreaded seeing you. I dragged it on because I felt sorry for you. I hurt you because it was fun. I wanted to see you do all those immature things you do."
And even though it didn't make any sense at all, I believed him, at the same time marvelling his acting. Nobody could say "I love you" to someone they didn't love with such conviction. I wanted to yell at him to go to take up acting and slam the phone into the wall, but instead I pointed out that either he's lying now or he was lying ten minutes ago when he said he didn't want to hurt me.
He told me I can go figure out which one it is.
"It's not a puzzle," I said, "It isn't about what I want or don't want to hear, and it isn't about what would hurt me less or hurt me more. It's just the truth. Tell me the truth."
He paused. "Do you really want to know the truth?"
"Are you going to tell me the truth?"
"Do you want the truth?"
"Yes."
Okay, I thought. He's going to tell me he doesn't hate me, but that he doesn't have any other feelings for me either. He's going to tell me he has moved on. He's going to tell me he's interested in someone else. He's going to tell me he's gay with Craig. Sometimes the word "truth" sounds far more threatening than it has the right to, and every microsecond that passed before he spoke again my mind fabricated a hundred more horrifying possibilities. My certainty wavered. I wondered if I really wanted to know, after all.
His voice was suddenly quiet. "I love you. I love every part of you."
And then I started crying.
Letting something go to see if it comes back. This isn't really like that, is it.
More like, marinating the chicken before it bakes.
Doubt though that the sun doth move;
Doubt truth to be a liar;
But never doubt that I love. - Shakespeare, Hamlet
I woke up horrified by the sight of my hair, made many hundred times worse by the fact that I now have a giant mirror in my room to confirm it.
After some grooming, however, it synchronised quite well with my pale skin. But despite the fact that it brought out my eyes, I'm beginning to regret the decision. High-maintenance isn't something I could easily afford. Financial burden aside, I haven't the mental capacity.
I have voices in my head that talk to me. There's my favourite one that quietly points out every fatty in the Krispy Kreme queue and makes me run as quickly as my legs could carry me in the opposite direction. There's the one that instructs me, however unsuccessfully, to study. There's one that tells me my top clashes with my skirt.
The one that has supernatural perception of boys told me that high-maintenance has never been so necessary. I've been wearing the same outfit who knows how many days in a row and my hair has been stuck as a bun on top of my head for so long that I forgot I had any. Until my stupid trip to the hairdresser's yesterday.
It's probably right. Looking one's best is nearly a prerequisite to being single (there I said it, I hope you're happy). Besides, even in the absence of any potential Edward Cullens there's always the off chance I'd bump into Jez. And if by good fortune he had remembered me being beautiful, that would probably go out the window the minute his eyes fall on my unkempt self.
Nevertheless it doesn't change the fact that I haven't the mental capacity. Being forced to look after my hair is already pushing it. And the fact that Phil and Alan's 21st tonight pushes me so far off the edge that I seriously considered not showing up. I haven't been eating. I'm skinny. My skin looks more tired than Mirjana does at the end of the day. I have a permanent look of misery plastered on my face. A pretty dress isn't going to fix any of that.
Jez had said some things to me last night. Mostly revolving around demanding that I stop talking to him and that he doesn't like me. I've already met my quota of psychological distress for the year. Nothing anyone says or does could make me feel any worse. As a result I found Jez's remarks nothing but irksome.
At night I lay in bed, fuming. There I was, tucking my hands under my arms to stop myself from calling him to demand an elaboration. There I was giving him exactly what he wanted. It didn't sit well with me, and despite the fact that I was uncontrollably sleepy, I reached for my phone in a spurt of recklessness and decided to ring him until he either answers or switches his mobile off. I justified my actions. Every damage has already been done. Everything has been lost. There was nothing left to be taken away from me.
The call was short. I had no idea what I wanted to say to him because I banked on him refusing to answer the phone. So I made something up. I have to tell you something, I said, knowing that I wouldn't have to think of what, because he'd never let me say it. I was right. Send me an email, he said, and hung up.
Oh and he said that he hated me.
I couldn't stay awake long enough to properly contemplate it. In the morning, I woke up feeling as though the anger had been brewing while I was unconscious. Nobody hates me, least of all the boy to whom I was once everything. And if he claims otherwise, I wanted to know why.
So in spite of myself, I called.
"What do you want."
We stumbled around with hostilities on his behalf morning-mumbles on mine. Eventually he told me what I had called to find out.
"I hate you," he said. "I've hated you for awhile. You're boring. You're immature. I dreaded seeing you. I dragged it on because I felt sorry for you. I hurt you because it was fun. I wanted to see you do all those immature things you do."
And even though it didn't make any sense at all, I believed him, at the same time marvelling his acting. Nobody could say "I love you" to someone they didn't love with such conviction. I wanted to yell at him to go to take up acting and slam the phone into the wall, but instead I pointed out that either he's lying now or he was lying ten minutes ago when he said he didn't want to hurt me.
He told me I can go figure out which one it is.
"It's not a puzzle," I said, "It isn't about what I want or don't want to hear, and it isn't about what would hurt me less or hurt me more. It's just the truth. Tell me the truth."
He paused. "Do you really want to know the truth?"
"Are you going to tell me the truth?"
"Do you want the truth?"
"Yes."
Okay, I thought. He's going to tell me he doesn't hate me, but that he doesn't have any other feelings for me either. He's going to tell me he has moved on. He's going to tell me he's interested in someone else. He's going to tell me he's gay with Craig. Sometimes the word "truth" sounds far more threatening than it has the right to, and every microsecond that passed before he spoke again my mind fabricated a hundred more horrifying possibilities. My certainty wavered. I wondered if I really wanted to know, after all.
His voice was suddenly quiet. "I love you. I love every part of you."
And then I started crying.
Letting something go to see if it comes back. This isn't really like that, is it.
More like, marinating the chicken before it bakes.
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