Repeated musings

After taking a peek read at my old writings on my journal book, I've realised how much I missed Milan Kundera's writings, because it seems as if my style of writing (about love) is a copycat of his.

But even copycats need a break at times.
What restores my sanity and makes Edward Edward, besides the overwhelming collection of music in my iTunes has been mainly two pieces of work:
Stephan Pastis' comic strip Pearls Before Swine, and contributions to McSweeney's Internet Tendency.

There has been a lot more moments for the past week - than the number of foreign talent (only those with diplomas degress are considered so, sorry) we have and are getting in our island - that I felt that my words, written-typed-or-floating-in-my-head were insufficient to where the mind was heading to, in terms of places. And I don't mean just my dream world, because I probably can write another book on that.

I've been living in bliss, as in I no longer have to torture myself and my poor butt on vehicles with poor suspensions and seats that attempt to gnaw at whatever is left on your butt. My pretty silly face has been restored to its former glory, and I cease my complaints. My ActionSampler lomo photos turned out better than I could have wished for, but of course, herein lies the trouble; I'm too lazy to scan them in.
I've adopted a new mantra for myself and to hinder my procastination: if something that needs to be done can be done is less than two minutes, do it right away! Get it out of the way.

But I want to have more than two minutes to appreciate the cows and the boughs. In the hurry of completing a major event in my work commitment, I forget to plan after the life-after. I find myself getting caught in a mess of manure , and I say exactly that because one of my superior painted this really bizzare image in my mind: on teamwork and integrity, I had imagined a group of lemming-like people all on the sides of this giant toliet bowl. One falls in, into the toliet bowl, into the sewage of human. The rest, in an attempt to save him, fall into it, in a chain of bodies. With brown stuff on their foreheads and knees, they contemplate and try to haul themselves out of the toliet bowl.
It's an image best presented if it was on a piece of paper as a drawing or comic strip, but that is if I could draw better than stick figures with no distinct genders. It won't work.

I've resolved not to take money too seriously, therefore, on the morning of the day after tomorrow, I will be on my HBB flat's corridor, throwing out change and money of my entire possession. That will happen, only if I did live in Roald Dahl's world (read the Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar).

I have absolutely zero patience, despite having to squeeze patience out of me at work like what the old folks used to do to rocks. The courts have decided on my punishment: to witness a dying kitten, with broken legs and probably spine, reject my supposedly kind gesture of pseudo-milk (read: soya bean drink from a can). I've had a sneak preview: I had to wait for water to boil. I was allowed to throw in more fire starters, but it got me hotter and madder than the mess tin used to boil the water. The leak on the plot of the upcoming, hotly-anticipated sequel to the first picture? I will be forced to witness someone get crushed -metaphorically- by the steamroller, and in the end state, my heart will be broken -literally- and out of sync with my grey matter.

Cookie monster needs the best kept lor-mee secret. The magical Ipoh hor-fun. The habitual special from Soup Spoon. And un-moderated tea. Comfort food and drinks.