I started my weekend (i.e. Fri night) doing household chores- changing the bedsheets and towels, cleaning the toilets, doing the laundry, wiping the dust off all surfaces. Mopping and vacuuming, thank god, are not my duties.

Housework is an onerous undertaking- it’s time-consuming (from 7 to 10pm!) and gives me aching joints. The only perk: the satisfaction of a squeaky-clean home, fresh sheets and gleaming glass surfaces.

What’s gonna be for the rest of the day: head to the gym (I’m trekking in 3 months’ time and I need to get fit fast), go for a manicure (either french or a shocking pink to go with my toes), dinner, a movie marathon, and hopefully, a glass of red wine.

Here’s to the weekend=))!


We Doodle!

My current obsession on the iPhone. Nope, I don’t own an iPhone and am probably one of the last people on earth to still carry Nokia. But that poses no obstacle to me when i want to doodle- I just transform into a pain-in-the-ass who eyes my friends’ iPhone sets. Whenever their sets are idle, I just chirp: “Let me play We Doodle!”.  They usually can’t say no because I don’t stop whining until I press the play button.

Just for this, I might, I just might, cave in, go against all my principles and get the bloody iPhone.

And while I’m in the mood,

I’m also gonna gush over Eminem.  And that says volumes about his talent. I mean, I don’t like rap, I don’t get the whole I-am-screwed-up-sh** act, and I don’t appreciate the liberal use of sex and violence in pop culture. But man, I actually like some of his lyrics.  He writes so  well, it’s almost poetic.

 can’t tell you what it really is
I can only tell you what it feels like
And right now there’s a steel knife
In my windpipe
I can’t breathe
But I still fight
While I can fight
As long as the wrong feels right
It’s like I’m in flight
High of a love
Drunk from the hate
It’s like I’m huffing paint

It’s so insane
Cause when it’s going good
It’s going great
I’m Superman
With the wind in his bag
She’s Lois Lane

I’ma name her Bonnie
I read about your Uncle Ronnie too I’m sorry
I had a friend kill himself over some bitch who didn’t want him
I know you probably hear this everyday, but I’m your biggest fan
I even got the underground shit that you did with Skam
I got a room full of your posters and your pictures man

She sings oh so beautifully

I’m talking about Hayley Williams, the 21-year-old songwriter and lead vocalist of band Paramore.

When I first saw her, I thought she was just a much prettier version of blah-i-really-can’t-get-why-she-wins-grammys Taylor Swift (whom i kinda dislike with a strange vehemence. Like seriously, all her songs sound the same, the lyrics are the same, the hair is always the same, she is just…blah.)

Love the shocking hair, the gamine prettiness, and the sweet allure of youth

But waifish looks aside, this girl can sing. Her voice spans octaves, and is in contrast to her looks, powerful, deep-throated, sophisticated, sexy and almost..raw.

B.O.B’s Airplanes. Just about 2 weeks ago, this song was on repeat mode on my playlist (i’ve since gotten sick of it haha) but it’s a beautiful song and hayley just adds to it=). Apologies for this vid- there are copyrights for the official version and this, well, has lyrics! Can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky are like shooting stars? ~

And if you still doubt her talents or vocal abilities, check out her rendition of Lady Gaga’s Bad Romance

She’s so good she can just do an impromptu song item on the streets with some lucky random chap. And so cute while at it!

Ok, i know i sound infatuated, but i really, really like her voice! This trumps all the Swifts and Biebers (whom I also have a strange distaste for lol).

Here she is, talking in that voice I am so mesmerised with, about her pair of Grammy 2011 nominations for Best Pop Collaboration and Best Pop Performance

A slew of good movies=))))

First up, Black Swan starring the always-poised Natalie Portman and the sizzling hot Mila Kunis. Very interesting, intensive and beautiful cinematography, excellent acting, a strong plot – albeit one which is rather discomfitting – and basically just a film which captures a person’s attention from beginning to end.

The Town- Gritty, and i hearts Ben Affleck. Gritty, tragic, but humourous, all at the same time. Wonder why the Academy didn’t like it.

The Social Network- yes, i know i caught it late and on DVD, but what the heck. Great film- fantastic dialogue, looks like it is about the finding of FB but really is more about human nature and betrayal. And last but not least, Hereafter in the movies- loved Clint Eastwood’s Gran Torino and while I didn’t like Hereafter that was still way above average.

I’m just too tired to write proper reviews anymore- this is what happens when you make your interest your income source. Wtf. Whatever, these films make me happy=))))

You should date an illiterate girl

Just wanted to share this beautiful piece by Charles Warnke. This is the joy of language. So, so, so satisfying a read=)

Date a girl who doesn’t read. Find her in the weary squalor of a Midwestern bar. Find her in the smoke, drunken sweat, and varicolored light of an upscale nightclub. Wherever you find her, find her smiling. Make sure that it lingers when the people that are talking to her look away. Engage her with unsentimental trivialities. Use pick-up lines and laugh inwardly. Take her outside when the night overstays its welcome. Ignore the palpable weight of fatigue. Kiss her in the rain under the weak glow of a streetlamp because you’ve seen it in film. Remark at its lack of significance. Take her to your apartment. Dispatch with making love. Fuck her.

Let the anxious contract you’ve unwittingly written evolve slowly and uncomfortably into a relationship. Find shared interests and common ground like sushi, and folk music. Build an impenetrable bastion upon that ground. Make it sacred. Retreat into it every time the air gets stale, or the evenings get long. Talk about nothing of significance. Do little thinking. Let the months pass unnoticed. Ask her to move in. Let her decorate. Get into fights about inconsequential things like how the fucking shower curtain needs to be closed so that it doesn’t fucking collect mold. Let a year pass unnoticed. Begin to notice.

Figure that you should probably get married because you will have wasted a lot of time otherwise. Take her to dinner on the forty-fifth floor at a restaurant far beyond your means. Make sure there is a beautiful view of the city. Sheepishly ask a waiter to bring her a glass of champagne with a modest ring in it. When she notices, propose to her with all of the enthusiasm and sincerity you can muster. Do not be overly concerned if you feel your heart leap through a pane of sheet glass. For that matter, do not be overly concerned if you cannot feel it at all. If there is applause, let it stagnate. If she cries, smile as if you’ve never been happier. If she doesn’t, smile all the same.

Let the years pass unnoticed. Get a career, not a job. Buy a house. Have two striking children. Try to raise them well. Fail, frequently. Lapse into a bored indifference. Lapse into an indifferent sadness. Have a mid-life crisis. Grow old. Wonder at your lack of achievement. Feel sometimes contented, but mostly vacant and ethereal. Feel, during walks, as if you might never return, or as if you might blow away on the wind. Contract a terminal illness. Die, but only after you observe that the girl who didn’t read never made your heart oscillate with any significant passion, that no one will write the story of your lives, and that she will die, too, with only a mild and tempered regret that nothing ever came of her capacity to love.

Do those things, god damnit, because nothing sucks worse than a girl who reads. Do it, I say, because a life in purgatory is better than a life in hell. Do it, because a girl who reads possesses a vocabulary that can describe that amorphous discontent as a life unfulfilled—a vocabulary that parses the innate beauty of the world and makes it an accessible necessity instead of an alien wonder. A girl who reads lays claim to a vocabulary that distinguishes between the specious and soulless rhetoric of someone who cannot love her, and the inarticulate desperation of someone who loves her too much. A vocabulary, god damnit, that makes my vacuous sophistry a cheap trick.

Do it, because a girl who reads understands syntax. Literature has taught her that moments of tenderness come in sporadic but knowable intervals. A girl who reads knows that life is not planar; she knows, and rightly demands, that the ebb comes along with the flow of disappointment. A girl who has read up on her syntax senses the irregular pauses—the hesitation of breath—endemic to a lie. A girl who reads perceives the difference between a parenthetical moment of anger and the entrenched habits of someone whose bitter cynicism will run on, run on well past any point of reason, or purpose, run on far after she has packed a suitcase and said a reluctant goodbye and she has decided that I am an ellipsis and not a period and run on and run on. Syntax that knows the rhythm and cadence of a life well lived.

Date a girl who doesn’t read because the girl who reads knows the importance of plot. She can trace out the demarcations of a prologue and the sharp ridges of a climax. She feels them in her skin. The girl who reads will be patient with an intermission and expedite a denouement. But of all things, the girl who reads knows most the ineluctable significance of an end. She is comfortable with them. She has bid farewell to a thousand heroes with only a twinge of sadness.

Don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are the storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so god damned difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. You will not accept the life that I told of at the beginning of this piece. You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being storied. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take your Hemingway with you. I hate you. I really, really, really hate you.


好喜欢, 好喜欢, 这首歌.

曲:袁惟仁 | 詞:楊明學 | 編:黃中岳 | 唱﹕王菲


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