My mother was bugging me a couple of months ago about getting a “good” gown.
“Leng ah! Please ah! Please look respectable on that day!” (By this, I assume that half the time I look like a slum)

She’s been leaving mag cutouts of these gorgeous gowns – Vera Wang, Provonias, Packham, Monique Lhullier etc etc on my desk. Lets just say the only thing I inherited was her taste, not a willingness to spend the gdp of some third world nation on a dress I’ll never wear again 

(More on gown shopping )

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and action?

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groggy

]

Yes, that about explains it.

I have reached my week 9 saturation point and am tapping my feet impatiently at the bottom of everyone's emotional well, including my own! Lately I've been feeling like you, me and everyone else could use a little dimmer on the lights and just stop - stop doing, stop fretting, stop the furrowing of brows, stop the deep sighing, silence the skeptics, blink past the detractors, shrug off the unspoken droop of the shoulders, stop the filling of rooms with conversation and manic thoughts so thick you can slice it with a knife.

Give me a little quiet, a little slow dancing, a familiar song. Nothing to do for a day but unravel. I want to feel something other than this woolly cotton tongued mess of distance, space and deafening silence that is duty. Surely we're entitled to that.
 

[

and action?

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bored

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With modernity crumbling, our thoughts turn to antiquity. No lah. With post exams, comes hours of letting your mind sprawl.

At it's most generous, school bestows the rare gift of free time and independence. It's been one of those slow weeks with nothing much to do. (but I'm almost afraid to type that out). I started off sipping a liquid breakfast in an empty canteen, having a long chat with my regular group of boys about world events, presidential debates, and for today, out of body experiences and crop circles (why is it that the girls have so little opinion?) 

The office is too quiet, and at once alive with the sound of mouseclicks - people buying air tickets, FB stalking and trawling through online news (which is infinitely less productive than reading it hard copy). I love the smell of newspapers, especially when they're sunwarmed (being read outdoors) and crisp. I always read the comics first. That's the way the world should be read, no? With a sure sense of brevity and a smile.

Alas piles of journals and magazines are piling up on my desk begging me to PLZ UPDATE SELF ABOUT WORLD EVENTS YOU LAZY TOOT. The lack of motivation lately is startling - it feels like I'm just chalking up hours.
I was just telling drea that night how I'm the last person to give advice on change. My answer will always be yes. Do it. Or at least try. She laughed. It's true though, impulsiveness is an easy pill to swallow but can make for a queasy morning after. For pretty much all of my so called adult life, I've just stood there and grabbed whatever came my way. Ferociously. I don't always make measured decisions. I like a little fight. I like to find out. And then when I get good at what I do (my problem is wringing all challenge out of it), I get bored (naturally). Repeat.

But to be honest, I haven't felt that way in a long time. I still hanker after change, but only to break the monotony of routine: a glimpse of someone to inspire a sketch, an encounter that nets hours of worthy conversation, a class that sets you down a new  path — whatever it is, it will seem predestined, the kind of epiphany that, as many would insist, can only happen to dreamers and kids. Things to look forward to rather than big ticket amusements. Making plans about my drool worthy (imaginary) wall-to-floor library with a sliding ladder. Doing things well, and not budging till I see long term returns. Blue chip stocks at bargain basement prices. Holding power.

To be writing about all this seems really weird as well. Who writes about these things? Why am I no longer compelled to write only when I'm having an ache, am angry or adamant about something? (I'd much rather talk it out or sleep and wake with a different perspective). Maybe this is what growing definitively into your late twenties is supposed to be like. Like being comfortable in a sweet spot but knowing that whenever I want to shake things up, I can.

A molotov cocktail. We could all use something like that.