Excuse me, miss, what's that in your bag?

I watched helplessly as the police officer ruffled through the contents of my bag inside-out. He did a thorough check, until his hands finally closed around the incriminating evidence of me smuggling prohibited items into Singapore.

The four packs of green colour wrapper tainted my front vision, as I struggled with my inner emotions. How was I going to explain myself and get off scott-free?

Finally, the police officer said, "Follow me," while I struggled to retrieve my things, and quietly followed him as he headed for the office.

The sight of people staring as though I was a victim of law and had just committed a heinous crime suddenly entered my peripheral vision, but I vaguely suspect it to be all part of my imaginative mind, my thoughts held prison by the fear, and the greater fear of the consequences.

As I sat down in the office, most of all, I realized I was not scared at all. But my heart was beating like crazy! My physical reaction was clearly not in sync with the emotional side within me.

The two police officers were now in front of me, presumably discussing my case. They were speaking in soft whispers that barely whip up enough vocal strength and merely caress the air around their pursued lips.

Finally, they beckoned me forward, and I stood up, ready to receive my sentence.

----------------------------------

It was a Saturday afternoon, and raining cats and dogs. Inside the car, my dad was grumbling with the same moody and bad temper as the weather that day.

Only the weather decided to present it by rumbling, thundering rain, and then summing up its argument with streaks of lightning, while my Dad was grumbling about how we should have just taken the bus, but no, we had to lust after convenience, which resulted in us getting stuck into a traffic jam in an 'Only Cars' lane heading into JB.

Which resulted in us waiting for the police officer's arrival, thus bringing us into the office, writing our particulars in a bounded book filled with names of people whose cars had to made a U-turn.

----------------------------------

We had little time to spend in JB, only a couple of hours since we arrived in the late afternoon and most of the shops start closing at 9.30pm.

When we finally reached immigration checkpoint, it was close to 11pm. For me, I brought along my Nightmare Before Christmas bag and came home with only my Nightmare Before Christmas bag. Meaning whatever I bought could fit into just that ONE bag.

Now, let's talk about what my Mum bought. Basically, the weight of whatever she bought entailed the assistance of roughly five large, heavy and bulky bags. Which in turn required the assistance of my very skinny hands, not to mention, frame.

No wonder it aroused the suspicion of the police officers! What was a fine, dandy, young, not to mention, super skinny girl doing with three very large bulky red plastic bags whose contents threatened to spill out and were calling out in protest by sticking their thorns into the edges of the bags.

When we entered the immigration checkpoint, my eyes flickered over to the signboard, that had a list of prohibited items. Was that chewing gum I saw? I was still pondering on whether chewing gum was one of the prohibited items listed, when I passed another of the similar board with the list of items again. Now, I saw very clearly, chewing gum with a 'X' right across it.

I casually told my sister that chewing gum was on the list of prohibited items. She panicked, but yet, I brushed off her concern with blatant disregard. Upon retrospective, I now realized that it was a prophecy for what would happen next.

So, at the check-in counter, I placed all my belongings, and when it came out from the other side, the police officer stopped me and said, "Open your bag, let me take a look inside it." And, so, I did.

The contents in my bag underwent a public scavenging, and the feelings of uneasiness in me were growing by the minute.

I watched helplessly as the police officer ruffled through the contents of my bag inside-out. He did a thorough check, until his hands finally closed around the incriminating evidence of me smuggling in prohibited items into Singapore.

The four packs of green colour wrapper tainted my front vision, as I struggled with my inner emotions. How was I going to explain myself and get off scott-free?

Finally, the police officer said, "Follow me," while I struggled to retrieve my things, and quietly followed him as he headed for the office.

The sight of people staring as though I was a victim of law and had just committed a heinous crime suddenly entered my peripheral vision, but I vaguely suspect it to be all part of my imaginative mind, my thoughts held prison by the fear, and the greater fear of the consequences.

As I sat down in the office, most of all, I realized I was not scared at all. But my heart was beating like crazy! My physical reaction was clearly not in sync with the emotional side within me.

The two police officers were now in front of me, presumably discussing my case. They were speaking in soft whispers that barely whip up enough vocal strength and merely caress the air around their pursued lips.

Finally, they beckoned me forward, and I stood up, ready to receive my sentence.

Between the constrained distance between the police officers and me, were a table, and on it spilled the incriminating evidence.

"You are not allowed to bring this into Singapore." the police officer said.

My eyes wavered over to the four chewing gum wrappers on the table, and nodded somberly.

Another officer spoke up. "We have to destroy this."

Destroy? Not confiscate, or throw it away, but destroy? Did it warrant such a strong, provocative choice of words? For a second, the scene of police officers surrounding a circle of fire, and conducting a ceremony to burn all those chewing gums collected over the weeks or months flashed through my mind.

So, I was recorded twice and for the record, on the book, my offence was written as:

"04 x Chewing Gum"

And, to think that, when my sis (tada! the real culprit revealed!) took those four packs of chewing gum, I asked her why she didn't buy more, and thrust one whole large pack into her arms. Later on, the price of that one large pack scared the pants out of us and we promptly replaced it back onto the shelf.

However, for the record, I was not the only one who tried smuggling chewing gum into Singapore. Behind me, a lady was also called into the office for the same reason, only different quantity. For her? A whole large pack of chewing gum, and god knows why she couldn't stop smiling at the police officers.

the sun, rain(iE) and the fashion runaway show ©

8 April 2007
3AM
The Central

I went for Stefanie Sun's autograph session and it was akin to a China Students' Day Out! There are throngs of crowds, but you'll be hard-pressed to find a single Singaporean among the sea of faces. I'm talking about those who genuinely make an effort to go down to The Central to catch Stefanie Sun in action. Unless you're talking about curious, just-happened-to-pass-by-and-stop-to-join-in-the-fun-
because-it-may-be-a-queue-for-freebies, then there are plenty of Singaporeans.



Stefanie Sun's autographed album

I spent roughly one-and-a-half-hour jostling among sweaty bodies for more breathing space, before I finally obtained Stefanie Sun's autograph. And, still, not one of those sweaty bodies belonged to a Singaporean. Well, maybe one or two.



Event Venue

I will strongly recommend anyone to come to this newly-opened shopping mall, The Central, located near Clarke Quay. Besides a generous cleavage view of the sea, the whole design of the shopping mall is very different from those boring straight-four-walls kind of shopping malls that dominate Singapore.



The design was made to resemble a boat, like "Titanic"...Stefanie Sun even gamely posed the trademark Titanic pose, to much laughter from her fans.



I think throughout the autograph session, Stefanie Sun was having some problems with her ear monitor. Hence, when she finished singing her hit song, "Against the Light", and her fan club prompted her to deliver another song, she was rather hesitant at first, as she said she couldn't hear the rhythm of the song from the ear monitor, but finally, she relented to much cheer among the crowds.



Saying "Hi" to the crowds...



Giving out posters, the crowd always gets the most high during this time.





Gifts courtesy of Fan Club...

The Fan Club gave her a hand-made poster, using various mini pictures of her to form the numbers '1' and '0'. The ever cheeky Yes933 DJ asked pointedly what was the meaning behind those letters...and the Fan Club said that it's to signify or commemorate Stefanie Sun's release of her 10th album. The cheeky DJ then replied, "Oh, so it isn't 蔡依林 (Cai Yi Lin aka Jolin Tsai) lah?"

-XX::XX::XX::XX::XX::XX::XX::XX::XX::XX::XX-

My friend went to Taiwan for a holiday trip, and guess who she met over there?



Rainie Yang!!! (cues screams) She was doing a promotional appearance for the brand "Sonia" which she endorses.



Who is cuter? Rainie or the big-headed dolls surrounding her?





Rainie Yang attempts to up the cute factor so as not to lose out to those four cuddly cartoon-y characters.





-XX::XX::XX::XX::XX::XX::XX::XX::XX::XX::XX-

Nanyang Academy of Fine Arts
Diploma Graduation Fashion Show + Exhibition 2007
10 April 2007
Tuesday, 6.30pm



This retro-inspired dress is accentuated by the frolicky, flirty nature of the scarlet hearts that lighten up the entire frock and adds a gentle, vivacious touch to it. Makes you get into the romantic mood of things and oh, dream of falling in love all over again.









































The winning collection...1st prize



And, finally, Stef's design!

Well, Steff got her inspiration from knights. In her own words, "The shield-like pants is unique and successfully transferred from hard metal to fabric."

to: whoever it may concern

No.
I was not going to 'forever remain a cold silence'
neither did I intend to
believe it or not!
maybe I've learned from past experiences
maybe it meant a lot to me
maybe it didn't even seem like a big deal to me!
whatever it is, people were not responding favourably.
at least in the initial stages.
but whatever's that happened has become a past tense
so if anyone of you are seeking a proper closure
here it is!

since I began it with a blog entry,
I shall end it with one.

Beautiful Legs V.S. Ugly Legs

I have a confession to make: I have a pair of extremely ugly legs.

And, when I say 'ugly', I don't mean cellulite-laden, fats-a-jiggling ugly.

Ok, I admit, I used to have issues over those and wished that I could cut off those pieces of meat that made my legs look meatier than the pork trotters that ostensibly emblazon the butcher's stall front at your neighbourhood market.

Nowadays, I just wish I had back those humongous pieces of meat back, otherwise known as thighs.

Don't get me wrong, my thighs haven't slimmed down a bit. Not sure about whether it has increased in size over the years though. Neither has the cellulite erased its unwanted presence on my thighs.

Instead, what I have that can be mildly passed off as thighs right now are those flabs, with the additional embellishments all over my legs in the form of mottled-coloured skin, bumpy and uneven surfaces, and rashes that wake me up every other night just so that I can scratch that bloody itchy area.

Really, if I had knew that I would get such ugly legs in the future, I would have really appreciated my humongous thighs, at least it boasted a clean, pleasant surface, one without any blemishes, devoid of any disfigurements.

As a child, I witnessed my sister being attacked by that dreaded skin disease, which resulted in her having a pair of legs with mottled patches of scarlet red all over. It was hideous to look at, but I never felt repulsion about it, neither did I give it a second thought.

The first time I knew that I would get ugly legs was when the fortune teller told me straight in the face, that my skin would be attacked by a disease, and I was to be wary and on my toes if any trace of it were to rear its ugly head.

One year later, I was diagnosed with Encezma.

At the peak of the disease, it was really a hideous sight to behold! Parts of my lower limbs were robbed of its natural colour and there would be patches of red all over my legs. Not only that, my skin also lost its smooth texture and surrendered to the formidable rashes that broke out and held it captive. My skin was prisoner to the disease, and brutally tortured at one point in time.

The skin would be scaly dry at times, and horrendously wet with pulse at other times. Most often, the itch was so bad that I would scratch my legs every night until it bleed.

The first sight of red would poke its bud of a head out of my skin and say a cheerful, "Hi!", and yet, I didn't stop scratching. The itch woke me up every single night, and I would stay up in bed scratching my legs, until more rashes broke out, and my legs always bled.

Even though well-meaning parents and relatives would blurt out a simple, "Don't Scratch!", it was a struggle not to. Then, I never listened to those fleeting comments, and continued scratching, bleeding, scratching, bleeding.

My condition got so bad that me parents started nagging me to do something about it. Once, my mother scolded, "You better do something about it, or very soon when the disease spreads, you'll gonna have to cut off your legs!"

That ignited some emotions in me. Up till this point, I've maintained my optimistic outlook on life and always thought, "It's alright, I still have a pair of legs."

Occasionally, I would subject my legs to intense scrutiny, magnifying those scars as I secretly wished that those scars would magically disappear under the heat of my flaming perusal.

My abhorrence and repulsion for those mottled patches was very much evident, and reflected in the hateful gleam in my eyes.

My legs were like an ugly newborn child, regaled with the scrutiny of disapproving glances among relatives and friends, and sometimes someone would let loose a disgusted glance that skimmed across their facial expressions. Occasionally, a sympathetic look would make a guest appearance.

I visited countless doctors in my quest to regain my beautiful legs, cellulite- and fats- ridden. Under medication, my condition took a turn for the better. But, once I stopped the prescription, the condition returned. But, not as savagery and brutal as in its initial pre-medication stage.

You know like in those horror movies, when an epidemic wipes out the entire country, and a heroic saviour finally saves the day, but just as he marches off victoriously swanked in regal armour, the camera zooms in on that one single 'disease-originator' that has been left out while the saviour was battling with the widespread problem... and then the story ends there?

Likewise, after my condition improved, there were still side-effects that mortalized later on, maybe even uglier and more devastating than the disease itself.

After the entire saga, once in a while, I get hit with another horrible disease: low self-esteem. Because I have a pair of hideous-looking legs, that means there is an unwritten rule of 'No pants above knee level', which means that I'm probably destined to wear jeans and black working pants for my entire life.

Once I wore a three-quarters pants, and a well-meaning friend quipped that my scars could be seen. I can't say for sure that the black inky orbs otherwise known as laser, watchful eyes of the public doesn't bother me when I walk out the front door wearing pants that make the scars on my legs visible. It may all be a figment or my imagination, or maybe those orbs are really trained on my mottled scars.

Another time, I wore a pair of ankle socks and my classmate approached me to ask if I had fell down, hence 'the bruises'. I was distressed by the unwanted attention, and of course I lied that, "Yes, I had fell down, and the scars would recover in no time."

Nowadays I've adopted a habit of looking at people's legs everywhere I go. If I were to see a pair of really huge and fat legs, but with a smooth texture, I would think to myself, "Her legs are really beautiful, how nice if I could have legs like hers..."

Is this what they call, "You never know what you've got, until you've lost it?" So, please, this is my plea to all girls out there. You may have thunder thighs, or cellulite-infested legs, but they are beautiful nonetheless! Believe me, I've since stopped harping on my thunder thighs. The '5-cents' and '10-cents' all over my legs just distract me and take up too much of my attention!

Fiona Xie once said, "Because it's for charity, I will donate all my pairs of shoes, all I need are my two feet."

Up till now, I consider myself lucky. At least I still have my legs. I've seen people who have the same disease as me and they've not been so fortunate. The disease can be really cruel!

Once, I saw this girl on the street and she had this mottled patch on her neck, it was huge and the colour of scarlet red, and it almost spread up to her face.

Also, my sister says that her pretty teacher is single up till this date, because she has been infected with the same type of disease and it's a horrible sight to behold (her condition is worse than mine according to my sis), hence rumour is that it scared off all potential suitors.

Really, no matter how cheesy that sounds, I thank God for being magnanimous with me while I've been inflicted with this disease. I know it will be a slow, life-long battle, but I'm willing to continue the fight.

At least it's a battle half won.

Life as a Social Hermit

For all of those uninitiated, I've found a full-time job.

Job Name: (Full-Time) Slacker
Job Scope: Slacking

It's the best job I've ever had, and I'm totally enjoying it!

Two weeks into the holidays and I realized I've adopted a cyclic pattern of hedonistic pleasures: eating, sleeping, shitting, reading gossip mags, watching TV serials with zero nutritional value and surfing the net.

Of course, not forgetting that the very special guest that just had to come knocking on my door just inches into the commencement of my holidays. In fact, the bundle came in a 3-in1 package: I had sore throat, cough and flu at different times of the week. And to think that I've been trying to get sick the whole bloody semester, and failed miserably!!!

In fact, the feeling of staying at home is a bit like eating McDonald's; it indulges in guilty pleasure. It feels good in the beginning, but at the end of it all, when the guilt (not to mention the cholesterol) sinks in, you ask yourself, "What have I done?"

I'm enjoying my time-out at home so much that I've been trying to push back all social appointments so that I can spend my time..er, slacking at home. For example, I tried to push back my lunch appointment with dear NJ just because I didn't feel like exposing my skin to the exterior atmosphere. But, in the end, I still got to meet up with her! =)

(Btw, an outing out with NJ is akin to a binging session, and equivalent to 13 hours straight time-out on the sofa at home, munching on anything and everything you can get your hands on, so I would advise anyone who wants to shed kilos off their waistline not to go out with her! Oh no, she's gonna kill me for this!)

Hence, my life as a social hermit is a bit contradictory. Once in a while, I've managed to press the 'off' button on my remote control and shuffle my butt out of the house.

And the last time I had any initiative to call up a friend (please, I've been so lazy to reply to smses!) was at 1.30am in the morning, and she'd just returned from Taiwan. That was Friday the 13th.

Well, so how does this social hermit stay connected to the outside world? (please, I've been so lazy to reply on MSN because crunchyroll is just sooooo addictive!)

Well, apart from the occasional meet-ups with friends (hmm...that will be like twice in two weeks!), I stay very closely connected to what's happening in the celebrity world! The TV and magazines spoon-feed me with daily dosages of therapy to satiate my hedonistic pleasures.

I can sit in front of the TV from Monday to Friday, from 11am to 5pm, it's basically become my full-time job. Heck, even money can't move me at the moment! I'm just gonna sit around and wait for my reply, and if they don't reply..heck! They better.

Of course, there's always that ONE thing that never fails to get me scrambling out of my house!

Anyone care for a guess? Hint: It's famous.

i thought i was happy, but i was wrong

so the decision to go to Australia may take immediate effect after all, since I called up the person-in-charge, and he said that I had to spend 3 years Down Under, as they didn't provide any '2 yrs in sg, 1 yr in Down Under'...

but, actually, the whole affair about throwing water bottles still bothers me a bit, and Dad has agreed that I can go to New York to further my studies instead. Ahhh, I so wanna, and just when I thought, "Hooray! The British are all gentlemen, and they surely won't throw water bottles at me!" I mean, hey, they came up tops in the Reader's Digest Courtesy survey, didn't they? But, Dad had to go on to ask me to beware of Negros, I have no idea whether that term has any degradery sense or not. And, what's the advice about NOT getting influenced by drugs and cigarettes? Yah, like me, hah! I'll not one of those people who get easily influenced, come on! (err...sure anot? -_-)

overall, I say there are more pros than cons leaving sg, there are so many reasons that are luring me to be independent and stand on my own two feet for once. I can't do that here, because I'm so ensconced in the bowels of security and comfort that are omni-present in my life in sg.

but guess what? my cousin recently just went to US to further her studies, and she TOTALLY regrets her decision. says that if she had to choose all over again, she would DEFINITELY stay in sg, because life there is so tough.

in case anyone of you think that I'm so stupid for letting the throwing water bottles affair impede my decision to study in Australia, you are probably right. I'm stupid.

but the thing is, it's not about throwing water bottles. It's a bigger issue that's lurking behind, enveloping in the surrounding darkness and scrutiny, it's the unknown that rips my sensibility and ravages it.

so right now, I'm tearing my hair out figuring what is the next step to take.

and I tell you, my Dad is no help at all. He keeps trying to persuade me to go study at Monash University. Where? Malaysia.

Can you imagine?

Person 1: I just flew back from the UK.. studying Psychology full-time over there..what about you?
Person 2: Oh, me? I just graudated with an honours degree in Economics and Finance, from the London Institute of Management. What about you? (Looks at me expectantly)
Me: Oh, me? (fakes laughter) I..er, went to study overseas too! I'm actually studying at Monash University.
Person 1: (looks interested) Oh, I see, the one at Australia, right?
Me: Er, no...actually, it's the one in um..Malaysia..
Person 1 and 2: ......

blog wars

have you ever been engaged in a blog war? usually nothing good comes out of it, all you get are lots of disappointment, self-affirming pronouncements, because blogging usually means a one-sided argument, where only one party gets to have his or her say, and by the time the other party rebuts in his or her blog, it's usually too late for any reversal of emotions.

there are some things I realized I freaking forgot to mention in my previous entry:

ONE: I wasn't ENTIRELY joking when I asked my friend to come back to school to retrieve my burnt CD for me. When I mentioned in the previous post that "I was jokingly pleading with one of my friends to come back to school to retrieve my burnt CD for me"; what I meant was asking in a joking manner, but deep down inside your heart, you hope your wish would be fulfilled. Don't understand? It's like when you tell your boyfriend you HATE flowers because it's the most unpractical gift he could get for you. And, besides, you are allergic to it. But, then you scream at your boyfriend because he fails to get flowers for you during Valentine's Day, when you are surrounded by those apparently allergic flowers all around you. If I was joking, I wouldn't have asked my other friend to do the same for me.

Another thing: You stated in your blog how come I was so afraid to trouble my fellow classmate to retrieve the CD for me, but was willing to put the burden on my close friend instead. OK, let me ask you what is the difference between a 'classmate' and a 'close friend'?

classmate

noun

an acquaintance that you go to school with [syn: schoolmate]

WordNet® 3.0, © 2006 by Princeton University.

friend /frɛnd/ Pronunciation Key - Show Spelled Pronunciation[frend] Pronunciation Key - Show IPA Pronunciation

–noun

1.	a person attached to another by feelings of affection or personal regard.

As you can see, to fully explain the concept of the difference between a 'classmate' and a 'friend', I checked dictionary.com, and it states that a friend is someone whom you have "feelings of affection or personal regard". Understand what is the meaning of that? It means that because someone is close to me, that I dare to trouble her without thinking that I'm troubling her. Something like that. I'm not thinking very coherently.

I think it's the same logic as we are more daring to be fierce and rude to our family members more so than to our friends. Because we are closer to them. And, maybe, because you know they can't really stay mad at you for so long.

You state in your entry that "True friends do not take advantage of each other". I seriously do not understand why it comes to a point that I'm taking advantage of my friends. It's more like a favour, you see. Give and take in a friendship? If my friend comes late to school and she asks me to help her sign in, does it mean she's taking advantage of me? I would rather see it as a personal favour (i.e. no strings attached) because of "feelings of affection or personal regard".

Secondly, the thing about blog wars is that the dead gets unburied. Har, what am I toking about? It means all the skeletons in the closet gets dug out, all the past issues, all the hurt, betrayal (?) gets scrapped out and conveyed via the blog.

Once, I told my friend to accompany me to an event (of course, to chase my idols!). She was rather reluctant, but after countless pleas, she finally agreed. At the last possible moment, she found out that it was a FAN CLUB event. She got so fucking mad, by the time my father's car drove up to her bus-stop to pick her up, she was already crying so badly, and under the twilight beams, I could see those tears trickling down her cheeks.

The problem was that she KNEW it wasn't my fault, but she didn't like the way I handled the whole thing. She felt that I had lied to her to get her to accompany me to the event, but it was NEVER my intention. Why I didn't tell her was that I didn't know that it mattered so much to her. In my mind, it didn't matter a zilch.

The same thing applies to your case. I didn't know that it matter, because to quote you, "I’m not God you see."

AHH, FUCK. I TOO HAVE COUNTLESS SKELETONS WAITING TO BE DUG OUT. I don't even fucking know if I should even pull out the skeletons in the first place. On one side, it's like the skeletons are pleading with me to let them out, on the other side, I'm fucking scared because I don't know what will happen once I let those skeletons out.

HOW DARE YOU SAY THAT I AM FUCKING SELFISH...OH PLEASE, I'M NOT EVEN GOING TO MENTION WHAT HAPPENED OVER HERE. BECAUSE WE ARE ALL SO SELF-RIGHTEOUS AND WHATEVER WE SAY, THE OTHER PARTY ALWAYS HAS A REBUTTAL. WHAT'S THIS WHOLE THING CALLED? ARE WE HAVING AN ARGUMENT? ARE WE FIGHTING OVER SOME ISSUE, LIKE A DEBATE? HELL, NO! ALL WE ARE FIGHTING FOR IS OUR "FACE". TO SAVE OUR OWN FACE. TO SAVE OUR OWN DIGNITY. IF YOU THINK ABOUT IT THEN, ALL THESE WORDS ARE FUCKING USELESS AND HOLDS NO MEANING. EXCEPT TO ANGER. TO IGNITE SPITE IN THE BOTH OF US.

OK, so right now, you are probably going to ask 'what skeletons? what stupid fucking ass skeletons are you talking about?'

Do you know something? When I first set out to write that blog entry, one thing I kept VERY in mind was to NOT BRING UP ANY OLD ISSUES. Did you know why I had such an unwritten policy in my mind from the beginning? Why I choose only to mention concurrent issues, instead of bringing up the past to beef up my argument? Because then the whole argument will be never-ending, and with the past, you RE-OPEN a lot of old wounds, and the fucking last thing I need is to re-open ALL THOSE WOUNDS THAT YOU CAUSED ME.

OK, right now, you are gonna ask me, "What wounds? What stupid fucking ass wounds are you talking about?"

But, you know what? I'm going to keep things as they were. The unwritten policy still shall apply in this post and in future posts as well. I shall not dig up issues from the past, but I just want to let you know that there fucking WERE issues in the past!

Of course, in any argument, in my heart you're always at the winning end, because I understand that you have issues with yourself. THE LAST THING I WANT IS OF COURSE TO CREATE ISSUES FOR YOU. BUT YOU KNOW WHAT? I'VE KEPT QUIET FOR THE PAST XXXXXX AND I THINK THAT THE VERY LEAST I DESERVE NOW IS FOR YOU TO LISTEN TO WHAT I HAVE TO SAY.

Er, last but not least, the million-dollar question, you say that "I would never apologise to you, because I think I have the right to be angry too." I don't understand why you have the right to be angry, unless your anger is built upon some hurt from the past, then I fully understand. In which case, I then have A LOT to be angry about.

I'm thinking. If I hit 'publish', I may lose you as a friend. But if I hit 'Save as Draft', I don't know who I am anymore. So, I hit 'publish' cause the last thing I need is to lose myself and be someone I don't know.

p.s./ if you want to know what one of those 'skeletons' were, try recalling what you said to me in class on the March 16, 2007. Ahh, fuck, just refer to the blog entry on that stated date.