How Lit Works:

Calculated. Four papers, each placing 25 marks at stake for a grand total of 100.

On a good day, I score 10.

When multiplied by 4, that gives me ...a measly 40.

I could live with that, thought I.

'til I found out the passing mark was 44%.

I am going to fail, ran through my mind; or rather, it felt like an uphill battle. How forlorn my face appeared, I do not know.

A pat on the head.

A disappointed drop of the eyes, darting back to level defiantly.

This time I know I'm going down, but not without a fight.

Honest Crook

I foresee myself struggling to answer tomorrow's Poetry and Prose - the Poetry part, I mean. Having a mild bout of research frenzy while trying to cope with the niggling details of Thinking Skills.
Which brings to mind...




In modern business it is not the crook who is to be feared most, it is the honest man who doesn't know what he is doing.

- William Wordsworth -

LoL.

Carpe Diem

The days are turning fruitful; I like it this way. It irks me to be in contact with people who are listless, aimless and just, in every way, indolent. The very word to describe them eludes me.
Perhaps it's not so much of the lazy attitude which nettles; it is more of the nothingness of what is done, the insipidness of their existence day in and day out. And the fact that they choose to display it before me, as though expecting me to fill up that void. It seems a rather pointless pattern to me.

Time is the wildest being; none can bend it to suit one's leisure, the same way none can stretch it to buffer one's stress. Take, for instance, a student cramming facts into her head the night before a test, only to admit defeat and crawl into bed not half prepared. Picture the same student, twelve hours later, cramming in both facts and roti pisang. Odd combo, yes. I may be known for disliking the mamak, but dayym, roti pisang sure tastes good.

Several hours after found me at Vary Pasta opposite my father, chattering away while personally wondering why I had to keep tugging my fork out of my food. I was in my first real pair of pumps, golden Venician earrings, and feeling lighthearted enough to have dessert ordered before I'd swallowed my last mouthful of Hungarian sausage - if you think about it, it actually means I made the order without speaking a single word to the waiter.
Go figure. *Winces because those two words are way overused.*

Semester finals are in 10 days' time.

There is so much to know, and so little time to know them all.









P.s. The first photo was snapped by my brother, while in Switzerland.

You Bathe Me, Sweep Over Me

I love all this golden sunshine.

...The Pages Run Out.

My mother has just been invited to a memorial service. The deceased is a church member whose months-long battle with cancer has been put to an end, just last night. He is my ex-youth leader's father, who used to be a backup singer for worship service.

The ex-leader herself is a very admirable young woman, several years older than I am, and full of calibre and down-to-earth people skills. Her mom (wife of the deceased) has been so strong, testifying in church every week while we all hope and pray for her.



All fails now. There was no miracle as we'd been interceding for; no new lease of life as we'd been pleading for. In such an instance, we are prone to question: Where is the justification? Are we really in control as Science has made us out to be?
We think we can determine and manipulate the forces of nature, and eventually gain mastery over an understanding of the universe. But as Christians, we know that we really are that powerless in the view of God's sovereignty.

And yet, the impact of death is universal, transcending all boundaries be they
language, age, or faith...





It looks to be that the first page of my new diary shall be macabre in tone. I'd just filled the last page of my previous one last night; little did I know that more than just the pages of my diary had come to an end. The beginning and ending entries of a diary are significant to me, they stand as points for comparison in the author's state of mind, as well as individual maturity over a certain time frame. How much has a person changed since the pages were first brushed with ink? In what mood does the back cover close upon? These matters are a singular collaboration of author's choosing, and author's circumstance.




... and so the pages run out.

Featuring: MacBecks

Am lovin' it!
A musical comedy on the world's most renown footballer, his wife, and his career. And, as the title implies, it's a spoof on Shakespeare's most famous play.

Victoria Beckhams is given the name Poshoria in the production, and appears as one of the three witches bent on creating the first good-looking footballer in 16th-century England. For a change from your run-of-the-mill love triangle, here we have Poshoria fighting over Becks, and her opponent? A Sir Alex Ferguson-figure called Salax. Makes sense, no? =D


I wish MacBecks would come for a run in Malaysia, but that's not very likely. =(
For more details, hop over here!

Ditto

Puke. Sprayed on the ends of my hair, on the tips of my toes. Mostly, on the great expanse of floor before me as I sought to check the next wave of nausea. Floor was carpeted - bad.

Only seconds before that, I was tottering faintly to the public restroom, uncertain if I'd reach in time to beat the rising queasiness in me. I felt a wave of horror as my mouth filled - but still I refused to unclasp my lips. Then a bigger torrent pushed it out; there was nothing I could do.

The washroom was down the corridor... after a right turn... which was after a left turn...

and ohmygoshHereItComesAgain; I heaved, splattering a second part of public flooring with vegetable soup and barley - I thought those were safe to consume, after having thrown up already not an hour before.

I can only wish my puke looked as pretty as this.

The cleaners glared at me. I crouched by a wastebasket, the vessel closest to me, as I gagged again. Finally I found myself at the toilet sink. And noticed I had red carrot bits up my nose.

When I'd washed away the mess, I gratefully dismissed the waitress who'd supported me all the way from the cafe I was patronising. Collected myself, and stepped out. Past the one particular cleaner who was still glaring at me. Back to Yang Kang who had settled the bill at the cafe.
Whottaguy. But he's taken, soshutyourtraps. =P

I pulled out a couple of notes each for the two cleaners, and went back to apologise for wreckage I'd committed. Surprisingly, the glaring one took the most persuading, but I held my ground. I guess sometimes the fiercest ones are those with the hardest principles, and that's why they judge so harshly.

Was actually planning to stay back for my friends' MUN exhibition, and to see Hong Onn's solo performance - MUN called her just the night before, in a state of panic. But after throwing up twice in the space of an hour, I wasn't up to it. In fact, I was too weak to even carry out the books from my car when I got home.

I just... slept.

Friggin' three-day-old tuna. I won't make that mistake again, trust me. Have never vomited or slept continuously for so long, in years.

Interlude

A few scraps of thought; crossed my mind as I washed the dinner dishes.

On my ex-Economics lecturer, Miss Ratneswary (Ratnes for short), she is still a rare breed of teacher; one that takes me through a lesson instead of dragging me through it.

Take the current Psychology class, for example; excessively peppered with unwarranted interruptions which serve little purpose other than to delay the lesson at hand - and provide a few cheap laughs. Poor justification, in the eyes of any objective observer.