boo. hey look i scared you.

This skin is featuring Audrey's kawasaki's artwork. Layout and icon by: Dawnoflights. Textures are from: lemon end. /// resurgere /// ex-posed /// plasticxromance /// XX there aren't much textures used so i think that's all. It's just scrap and white paint.

Archives over here March 2009 April 2009 May 2009 June 2009 July 2009 August 2009 November 2009

Audrey Kawasaki is awesome.




Hello. Nice to meet you. I shall go change my blogskin. Hello again.

I'm bored. And my computer is making weird noises. And I know I should go to sleep.

Because if I don't I'll get eyebags like Vicki Tan.

Hello, Vicki Tan. Don't take this the wrong way.

She asked me about it once. Well, twice.

I suppose it could be genetic. Or just a part of her DNA. Some people just have eyebags.

Can't help it.

Unless you go for plastic surgery or something.

I have absolutely nothing against plastic surgery. I think it's just a process of beautification taken to new heights, is all.

No different from make-up, perms, corsets and whatever.

Hey, people died from stays in the past. For those illiterate in the language of Victorian garb, stays are goddamned painfull things that force your torso into shapes unintended by nature.

Why am I even posting about stays for. Or Vicki's eyebags, for that matter.

Byebye. I shall go sleep now. Well, I'm blogging. Say yay, Png.

But I really have no clue what to blog about. The last couple of days have been uneventful.

Well, I went for CIP at Calvary Baptist Kindergarden, saturday, and closed the door on this kid's hand and made him cry.

Sorry, kid. Unintentional.

Then he puked.

Think it was the nerves. They were supposed to give this graduation performance. He was pretty freaked out, and saying he wanted his mom and stuff. I couldn't help thinking he was a wuss.

Sorry, kid.

I don't know his name. But I do know he was dressed up to be a mushroom.

I like mushrooms. Unless they're button mushrooms. Then they're gross.

Thankfully he wasn't one. He was a nice shittake mushroom.

There. I blogged. I have hereby resurrected my blog from deadness.

How lovely. Came across a compo from last year when I was clearing my room. I was bored, so I edited it like mad. And here it is :D Rather emo, though.

I originally wrote it to the topic of 'Gone'. Then I edited it, and I realise that it doesn't suit anymore -.- Any one has any ideas?

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

They all stand together, dressed in black, as if huddling together would provide some comfort, some warmth. Slowly, the white casket is lowered into the ground. It will never see the light of day again, feel the warmth of the sun, like its occupant inside of it. Dressed in red, she stands away from the crowd, a gaudy finch among haughty, judging ravens. She remembers.

'I hate you.'

Silence hangs in the air, like a heavy and thick smog, engulfing everything. She is alone in the room, her black dress stark against the walls, painted a harsh, unforgiving white. She cannot see him, his face, over the telephone, but she can sense his emotion. Shock, confusion, denial, among others. Their conversation would seem meaningless to anyone else, but through the minutes of silence, he conveys his feelings better than he had in his entire life.

'Why?' He finally breaks the silence.

Why? she asks herself. Why indeed would I hate my father?

'I hate you for everything.' Her voice is calm, collected. None of the hatred she feels in her heart is betrayed through her voice.

'I hate you for leaving me and Mother alone in the house while you went overseas. I hate you for pretending it was work that kept you overseas.'

'I hate you for making me feel bad that you had to work so hard for us.'

She says all this with no more emotion than if she had been speaking on something as inane as the weather.

Yet it is this lack of emotion, of feelings, that is shooting deep into him, thudding right into his heart, like the sharpest of arrows, laced with poison, embedding themselves deep.

Too deep.

'I hate you for marrying Mother when you knew you could not stay faithful. I hate you for for making her feel sad, disappointed, angry. Worthless.'

A pause.

'I hate you for killing her.'

She hangs up.

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

Halfway across the world, an old man sits, paralysed by the words he has heard. The long beep of the phone is drowned out by the resonating voice of his daughter in his head.

My daughter hates me, he thinks. Suddenly, as if the thought has woken him up from a deep slumber, he returns the phone back into its rightful place, its cradle. The bright, polished red plastic stands garish in the small dull room, making the room's despair all the more apparent. The wooden table is chipped, worn in places. Paint, yellowed with age, peels to reveal gray, hard concrete.

He sits still for a while, absorbing the impact of her words.

hello, my name is diana. all you really need to know. well, not really technically. i am quite sure you can function normally, without knowing my name. Oh well. i tend to ramble. i think you might have noticed by now. and i can't really bring myself to like goldfish.







rachel, the chua.
seiyin, tan.
lee, debbo.
penege, alyssa.
cheng, julia, of the weird blog name.
quek, rebecca.
foo, melissa.
chow, carine.
yeo, fiona.
tan, dayna.
seah, estee.
qijia, ong.
mui, cheryl
yihua, leong.

Audrey Kawasaki is awesome.





Hello. Nice to meet you. I shall go change my blogskin.
Hello again.

I'm bored. And my computer is making weird noises. And I know I should go to sleep.

Because if I don't I'll get eyebags like Vicki Tan.

Hello, Vicki Tan. Don't take this the wrong way.

She asked me about it once. Well, twice.

I suppose it could be genetic. Or just a part of her DNA. Some people just have eyebags.

Can't help it.

Unless you go for plastic surgery or something.

I have absolutely nothing against plastic surgery. I think it's just a process of beautification taken to new heights, is all.

No different from make-up, perms, corsets and whatever.

Hey, people died from stays in the past. For those illiterate in the language of Victorian garb, stays are goddamned painfull things that force your torso into shapes unintended by nature.

Why am I even posting about stays for. Or Vicki's eyebags, for that matter.

Byebye. I shall go sleep now.
Well, I'm blogging. Say yay, Png.

But I really have no clue what to blog about. The last couple of days have been uneventful.

Well, I went for CIP at Calvary Baptist Kindergarden, saturday, and closed the door on this kid's hand and made him cry.

Sorry, kid. Unintentional.

Then he puked.

Think it was the nerves. They were supposed to give this graduation performance. He was pretty freaked out, and saying he wanted his mom and stuff. I couldn't help thinking he was a wuss.

Sorry, kid.

I don't know his name. But I do know he was dressed up to be a mushroom.

I like mushrooms. Unless they're button mushrooms. Then they're gross.

Thankfully he wasn't one. He was a nice shittake mushroom.

There. I blogged. I have hereby resurrected my blog from deadness.

How lovely.
Came across a compo from last year when I was clearing my room. I was bored, so I edited it like mad. And here it is :D Rather emo, though.

I originally wrote it to the topic of 'Gone'. Then I edited it, and I realise that it doesn't suit anymore -.- Any one has any ideas?

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

They all stand together, dressed in black, as if huddling together would provide some comfort, some warmth. Slowly, the white casket is lowered into the ground. It will never see the light of day again, feel the warmth of the sun, like its occupant inside of it. Dressed in red, she stands away from the crowd, a gaudy finch among haughty, judging ravens. She remembers.

'I hate you.'

Silence hangs in the air, like a heavy and thick smog, engulfing everything. She is alone in the room, her black dress stark against the walls, painted a harsh, unforgiving white. She cannot see him, his face, over the telephone, but she can sense his emotion. Shock, confusion, denial, among others. Their conversation would seem meaningless to anyone else, but through the minutes of silence, he conveys his feelings better than he had in his entire life.

'Why?' He finally breaks the silence.

Why? she asks herself. Why indeed would I hate my father?

'I hate you for everything.' Her voice is calm, collected. None of the hatred she feels in her heart is betrayed through her voice.

'I hate you for leaving me and Mother alone in the house while you went overseas. I hate you for pretending it was work that kept you overseas.'

'I hate you for making me feel bad that you had to work so hard for us.'

She says all this with no more emotion than if she had been speaking on something as inane as the weather.

Yet it is this lack of emotion, of feelings, that is shooting deep into him, thudding right into his heart, like the sharpest of arrows, laced with poison, embedding themselves deep.

Too deep.

'I hate you for marrying Mother when you knew you could not stay faithful. I hate you for for making her feel sad, disappointed, angry. Worthless.'

A pause.

'I hate you for killing her.'

She hangs up.

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

Halfway across the world, an old man sits, paralysed by the words he has heard. The long beep of the phone is drowned out by the resonating voice of his daughter in his head.

My daughter hates me, he thinks. Suddenly, as if the thought has woken him up from a deep slumber, he returns the phone back into its rightful place, its cradle. The bright, polished red plastic stands garish in the small dull room, making the room's despair all the more apparent. The wooden table is chipped, worn in places. Paint, yellowed with age, peels to reveal gray, hard concrete.

He sits still for a while, absorbing the impact of her words.