The Wallflower Diaries.

Sunburnt

2010-08-29T11:45:00.001-07:00

At a beach

The children watch

the

grains

sand.

Fall from the badly placed

toupee of an

Old Man.

Who is trying too hard to look

like the

Youth.

Who are not balding

Like he is.

Who are not fat

Like he is.

Who are not the past

Like he is.

The children watch

As he walks

With sunburn on his nose

his forehead

his shoulders

his everywhere.

Salmon pink

flashing arrows

Sore, painful

Wrap themselves around his

Body.

A warning from

the Sun.

Your roots are showing.

Oxygen.

2010-08-29T11:28:00.000-07:00

Are you swimming yet?

Are you swimming?

Freestyle-

Breaststroke-

Tread water- anything

Keep your head

Up. Higher. Higher. Higher.

If not

you may

Drown. And then

what will you do?

The water will keep

keep-

Pouring into the glass

tank-aquarium-cube-box.

see-through

Outside, inside, everywhere

is transparent.

Why can't you swim?

And you flounder in the

clear water.

splishsplashsplish

like a fish in the net

of the fisherman

with the broad hat

and the small boat.

You don't know

where you are from

why you are here

why does it matter?

You just have to

keep swimming.

In this tank that

you built.

In the water that

you wanted.

In the clear water of the clear bowl

but

wasn't it you?

didn't you want people

to see you drown?

"We're planning on smacking them down like the hand of God."

2010-03-17T19:01:00.000-07:00

Hello.

I don't know how to start this blogpost. I spent twenty minutes typing "Hi. Hello. Hey. Guess What?" a billion and three times. And then spent a further ten minutes searching for cool quotes/anecdotes. After which I went to get chocolate because I felt inadequate and God knows chocolate is the one and only cure for feelings of inadequacy.

Anyhow.

After an incredibly long hiatus, I am back. And I bet another ridiculously long hiatus will follow this blogpost. But we'll see.

For once in my life, I don't have a particular topic to blog about. Which means I'll just sort of update you on what has happened since I last left off. (I say, sort of because you probably already know about all these events and whatnot.) SO.

SOTA moves into her new campus on Zubir Said Drive. The uber "Z campus" as the teachers refer to it.
It's big.
It's grey.
The ceiling fell down. (Prompting much "THE SKY IS FALLING, THE SKY IS FALLING!"-type hysteria. Complete with the panicky running around in circles, might I add.)
It's infested with ants, who incidentally only take up residence in the theatre and dance studios. (And no, it is not because the theatre students leak sugar, okay?)
There's a pwetty wooftop. (Complete with astroturf! And enough centipedes/millipedes/general creepy crawlies to make your own Insect Farm. But still, pwetty.) And okay, we're not allowed to play any form of sports that include flying objects, like say soccer, because we might end up with a football in the middle of Hotel Rendezvous, but at least the year above us is doing Romeo and Juliet on it. (I mean the rooftop, not Hotel Rendezvous.)

Theatre!
Theatre's awesome and will be forevermore, but it's changed. I miss our blackboxes and our theatre studios because all we have now are these big grey cement rooms with hard floors (and these idiotic slopes up to ALL the doors of the theatre studio that I may or may not have tripped on several times. Okay, fine, every time.)
Now we have an actual fixed schedule on which teacher takes us when and for what lesson. It's strange compared to Year One, where Mr. Lofthouse (I still call him that. Is that strange? Everyone calls him Lofty but I feel disrespectful.) used to walk into class and decide pretty much on the spot what we were going to do.
And not only that, theatre's becoming a lot harder, especially with Peter Brook's #*&#%@& book 'The Empty Space' for Theory and Context. I like theory, really I do. And I appreciate Peter Brook's efforts to create standards to which we can define forms of theatre by. And I'm sure it's a great book for theatre practitioners. But I think it's so extremely vague, which is understandable because theatre in itself is extremely subjective. Seriously though, I highly doubt we're going to be able to write an essay dissecting a excerpt of a play and relate it back to The Empty Space after a term of weekly lessons. Which, of course, means I am totally going to fail the examination. Fan-freakin'-tastic.
By the end of the essay, my handwriting looked a little bit like the writing done by the machine they use to measure the intensity of earthquakes for the Richter scale. Or like one of the life support machines that measure heartbeats.

Physical Theatre.
We have it every Wednesday and every Friday. After which, we go home with a multitude of bruises whose pretty colouring make us look a bit like the Zombie Barney Parade. But, you know, just a leeetle bit.
I enjoy these lessons, though (Fur-reak!). We get to move about and actually DO something. Even if it is doing back rolls on the floor and dropping your partner halfway through a carry. Pshht, bruises the size of Australia? No sweat.
My lift/carry/drop partner, Nicole, and I have a running joke about insurance. So before every attempt (and I use the word 'attempt' here very loosely) we say, "At least we have insurance!" (before falling and smashing face first into the very expensive spring flooring of the dance studio in which we have these classes.)
Now, however, the thought of our next lesson fills me with deep despairing dread. (Look, alliteration!) This is because we are attempting a piece of theatre called Mama Looking For Her Cat by a local playwright, Kuo Pao Kun. And after a certain someone (ahemvirajahem) was supposed to be Mama, she decided I would be a better Mama. Seriously. Me. So I, in accordance with orders from our Physical Theatre teacher, have to age myself and quit looking like a kindergarten teacher when I'm supposed to be a fifty year old woman.
_________

That's what happened in school. I'm sure a lot of other very random interesting things happened, but I'm really can't be bothered to go through them. Maybe I will, some other day (fat chance.).

It just hit me. Like a duck in a bucket to the head. (I don't know why the duck is in a bucket, okay?)
I'm fifteen this year.
In three years, SOTA'll be over.
I am at the prime of my life. SOTA is pretty much the best time of my life.
And it's going by so fast. Everyone says, enjoy childhood, enjoy youth, enjoy school. While you can. And I won't be able to for much longer.

At my age, people look at you and they see potential. You know, something greater that could come out of your acne-riddled, hormone-driven teenage body. But after you graduate, that's it. You're not merely potential any longer. At that point, people expect you to have gotten your shit together and made that potential INTO something. That's scary.

I am happy.
With my life, with my school, with everything. (Generally.)
But how long will it last before things have to change? Before I'm expected to change?
I have three years and already I'm feeling like it'll be over too soon.

But then again, I suppose you could always see it as a progression. A chance to be who you want to be, I suppose. Growing up means I could do what I want to do, actually DO something, make a difference.
But do I want to make a difference if it meant things had to change?

Sorry about the depressing interlude. I couldn't, in good conscience, write a blogpost without a thinking point.

Time for an anecdote that isn't really and anecdote and should really be a section called "Sarah Is Strange."

So, as my mom and I were walking back from the IT show with new Epson printer in tow, I realised that human traffic had instinctively split into two lanes - the ones heading toward the show, and the happy satisfied customers returning from said show.
My mom wanted to go into GNC and in doing so had to tow said printer across the teeming mass of people heading in the opposite direction.
I stood stock-still in the said teeming mass and cried, "NOOO MOM! YOU CAN'T BREAK THE FLOW! THE FLOW! NOOOO!" (or something to that effect.)
I don't actually know why I did it. I blame the Panadol I took to combat my idiotic flu. Whatever the case, people stared. Now I can fully appreciate the face of a stunned Ah Lian. (It was possibly even better than the Rachel Berry face!)

I don't know why I bother pretending I am even remotely human.

Anyhoo, I'll just go now.

Bye!
Love, Sarah.

“Have you ever gotten the feeling that you aren't completely embarassed yet, but you glimpse tomorrow's embarrassment?”

2009-11-30T01:28:00.000-08:00

Hello all readers of my blog! (Note: 0)

I’m back. Whoopee. After re-reading my scintillating blogpost ridiculing the size of women’s boobs, I conclude that there must, in fact, be something seriously wrong with me if the only thing I can think to write of as an unofficial inauguration of my blog is about MC’s boobs.

Anyway, I decided to write this blogpost as a sort of condolence to myself after not winning the PeRUNakan! race thingamajig. Well, I don’t know I haven’t won it. But I probably haven’t.
What in the name of all that is good and holy is a PeRUNakan, you say?

Weeeell. The PeRUNakan is this online competition in which participants go through several grueling rounds of online quizzes and games aimed at raising awareness for the Baba Malay culture (aka Peranakan.) And out of god knows how many participants online, the top 50 were selected to take part in an amazing-race style activity. The grand prize? Three thousand dollars.

And it just so happened that my mother, my brother and I religiously played those online games and made it to said top 50. So today, we gathered at SMU and embarked on a Chinatown-Orchard-close to SMU race to fill out a fact sheet and get stickers to verify we’d been to the following places: SMU, Singapore Philatelic Museum, Singapore Peranakan Museum and the Singapore Notes and Coins Museum.

So, after much running around like headless chickens shrieking “WHERE IS THE @*#@^ THING!?”, we arrived back where we are now. SMU. Which is where I currently am, sitting here writing this and eating Nonya Zhang. (great food fair too.)
And we didn’t even come in like 5th, or 6th. We came in 16th, 17th, and 18th. Yeah. Pretty pathetic since only 29 people showed up for the race out of the 50 that were supposed to be here.

I fell twice. I feel that this is a personal record for non-falling whilst running. And the first fall wasn’t even in the race. It was when I was struggling with my @*^$ umbrella that refused to shut whilst walking down a bunch of slippery steps. I slipped and fell down the steps and landed on my ass. Pretty glamorous stuff. But not like that was the most embarrassing thing that happened to me this week. Let me list in out for you, for your reading pleasure, of course.
So.
1. My brother and mother wanted to visit this video game shop in Vivocity, so I tagged along. You’d think Sarah in a video game store would be awkward enough but nooo. Just as we were turning to leave, a little toddler that was probably four or so, grabbed ahold of my hand by accident, mistakenly assuming I was his elder sister. Then, he started screaming. “JIE JIE JIE JIE!!! LOOOK! COME!!” I’d like to ask you, what DO you do when a little screaming boy won’t let go of your hand? Me, I made like a cactus and froze, pretending to inspect my other hand. Hmm, my black nail polish chipped. And then as a result of the boy screaming bloody murder, the rest of the store (and let me tell you, it was pretty packed) turned around to stare at me. As I swung my gaze desperately between the little tyke and said tyke’s mother, everyone started laughing. Greeeaaat. After the little boy realized that I was not, in fact, his Jie Jie, he refused to let go. I gently pried my hand free and made like a bat out of hell. I realize this experience is probably more humiliating to the small boy (right, Punk? You have personal experience, so I’m asking.)but ughh.

2. Okay, this second one’s way more embarrassing and totally my own fault. So one day I was at the mall with my mum, standing in front of the detergent section when I heard a voice say, “HI SARAH!” Cue immediate panic. I kept my eyes on the Mama Lemon, praying that she’d just go away but she just got nearer and repeated, “Hi, Sarah!” I recognized her as an ex-schoolmate (I think. I wasn’t wearing my glasses so I’m certifiably half-blind.). Obviously, she expected me to respond. But no, that’s not what my idiot self did. You know what I did? I turned around, stared at her in horror, picked up the shopping basket and ran away. Yes, you read that right. I picked up my shopping basket, stared at her and then turned tail and fled. I went to hide in the Shampoo Section of the grocery store and started examining some miracle serum for your hair very intently until I was sure she’d either a) abandoned all hope of finding me or b) thought I was crazy and her self-preservation instincts kicked in and made sure she left me alone. I think I am crazy. I don’t even know WHY I ran away. There is no perfectly rational explanation for my extremely bizarre behaviour! Who, upon meeting an old friend, turns around and RUNS AWAY!? I feel horrible. She must think I hate her or something. But I swear, I just panicked!

“Have you ever gotten the feeling that you aren't completely embarassed yet, but you glimpse tomorrow's embarrassment?”
I hear ya, Tom Cruise.
Updated, Nov 30, 5:19 pm.

Well. So. We totally didn’t not win anything. Apparently thirteem people in front of us got their answers wrong. Which meant we won stuff. Stuff.
Stuff like a Sony Playstation 3. Oh, and 2 Ipod Nanos.

Y’know. Stuff.
My mother, my brother and I came in 4th, 5th and 6th respectively. The 5th and 6th prizes were the Ipods and the 4th prize was the Playstation.
Yeah, pretty cool.

No, more like HolyMotherOfChickenBiscuits are you SERIOUS, we WON?
Anyway. Just to update because this was on the verge of becoming a vampire blog.

And speaking of vampires…. NEW MOON.

Just saying.

Okay, bye!

Just because the student population is morally bankrupt doesn't mean they're blind!

2009-10-30T02:43:00.000-07:00

So I switched blogs. It kind of felt like a natural progression. End of a year, new campus and what not.

This is technically my second blog post on my blog - I just deleted the previous post because it started out sounding to Meg Cabot-y. Not that I don't like reading Meg Cabot, I just get annoyed how bloody pretentious her characters get. Which is appropriate for say, light summer reading when you're bored out of your brains and feel like reading something fluffily brainless.

Speaking of fluffily brainless and shiny exteriors, that is exactly what prompted me to start blogging again (that and the fact that I'm bored out of my brains and Womanizer by Britney Spears is playing on MTV.)

I'm actually afraid my blogposts are going to end up sounding like ARC essays (I'm lying, I actually couldn't give a tuppence about whether you get bored reading this.)

Anyway, back to the actual substance bit of the blog post.

What is up with the media's fixation with women with boobs the size of friggin' watermelons?

Or perhaps this is better phrased: Why are WE responding positively to the ridiculous amount of sex emanating from any form of media? Actually, why are we actually responding to ANYTHING the media says?

It's sort of like this: SEXSEXSEXYSEXYBOOBSPRETTYTHINGLAMGLAMPRADASEXYSEXYSEX.

And I'd really like to ask WHO sets trends in the first place? Who decided that crazy fluffy hair was cool in the 80's? And why is retro making a comeback? Why are a pair of Converse THE shoes to have?

I don't know, honest-to-God. I mean, if you think about it, it's really pretty ridiculous. I own a pair of Converse and I tie them so tightly my feet go numb sometimes because otherwise I think they look ugly on me.

And why do all girls complain they have sooooo little boobage? Why the hell anyone would want random bowling balls attached to their chests is beyond me. So what if we all don't have melons like Mariah Carey (Her song Obsessed is playing now.)? Boobs are kind of impractical if you think about it. I mean, sure for the whole providing-milk-for-your-tykes bit, then sure, knock yourself out (I'm pretty sure some women could, actually, knock themselves out with their boobs. But I digress). But honestly, most women just buy formulated milk powder nowadays. Yet everday, women visit their doctors to get SILICONE implanted in their boobs.

Maybe it's a way to get guys (why GUYS like women with big boobs, I'll never understand.). Maybe it's a mating ritual gone wrong. Peacocks show off to the peahens with their pretty feathers - women show off in a game of Ha-Ha-Look-At-Me-I-Have-Bigger-Boobs-Than-Her! You never know, maybe we have actually screwed up that much because I'm pretty sure Shakespeare, writer of many a romance, did not picture Romeo falling in love with Juliet because of her massive jugs. I'm sorry but that completely ruins the romance of forbidden love.

If Juliet was on that balcony saying, "O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name;Or if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love and I'll no longer be a Capulet."

And if Romeo were down below listening and getting a good look at her boobs and said, "Juliet, oh Juliet, be mine for your chest enraptures me. Thy bosom calls to me, thus I must be with you!"

Thaaaat pretty much screws up all possible romance. And also, Shakespeare's name would probably not go down in the annals of history too well.

But anyway. Back to the topic at hand. Boobs, sex, objectification.

I'm not saying that women are completely innocent as well. I mean, what is with the stereotypical falling for the quarterback of the football team crap? Are women drawn to big muscles or something?

I personally think if you looked as ripped as some of the guys on the World Wrestling Federation do, everyone'd run away in fright. And how do you FIT through a typical doorway anyway, looking like that? Just sayin'.

I have a theory as to why girls like guys with muscles though. I actually think it's a throwback to our damsel-in-distress stereotypes. Because guys with muscles can protect us or something, I guess. But big boobs. Seriously. I mean I'm sure you could protect your guy if you pumped your chest full of implants and stood at the frontline of a battlefield. Everything'd richochet off, thus effectively protecting your guy. (Nah, this is bullshit. And I know it.)

Or maybe when we girls have too much boobage, it causes our centre of gravity to tip, thus allowing for the whole I AM BIG STRONG MALE I SAVE DAMSEL IN DISTRESS WITH BIG BOOBIES. (You never know.)

And to further solidify my point, let us take a quote from the Amanda Bynes movie, She's The Man: "because heels are a male invention designed to make a woman's butt look smaller. And, to make it harder for them to run away."

I tell you, I have the best, most reliable sources in the world.

I will leave you now, my liddle chickadeees. (Too much chocolate does this to my brain, I apologise.)
With a quote from one of my favourite movies. (Nothing to do with this post whatsoever, I just like it.)
Lily Moscovitz: Just because the student population is morally bankrupt doesn't mean they're blind!
Ahh, I love Princess Diaries. (shhh. I like the movies. Reading the books, I feel like slapping Mia. Hard.)
xoxo
Sarah.