Apartment for Private Sale on St Kilda Road, Melbourne, Australia

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A Farewell in August

There are few who truly know, amidst the successes, celebrations, carefree photographs, excitable announcements of the past weeks, and the appearance of complete regularity in persona, that I am labouring through each day with the weight of deep sadness in the very core of my heart and my mind.

I sought strength in self-containment. In fact, in the first week I was petrified of others knowing, lest they give me concessions or treat me differently, and then I would only certainly be reminded of a painful reality. I wouldn't be able to hold it together.

Still there were people who, unbeknowned to themselves, tried to tear down my only avenue of strength - my silence. I couldn't bear to interact beyond the call of duty. I simply couldn't bring myself to go out because I was exhausted from playing normal. I sincerely apologised for breaking the initial engagement and begged please to trust that I had my reasons, but only to receive a response so cold. A response that threatened to crush my already broken foundation.

I uphold a perfectly normal exterior during work hours, but by the time I start heading to my car to leave work, I am already distraught. I let my tired body rest and let myself cry all the way home. I cried nightly, made up my swollen eyes in the morning, come into work with no signs of the night before, worked even more hours as the deadline closed in, and then come home and cry myself to sleep again.

All I want is to be there for the people I love. I am every one of their broken hearts put together because we are family. There is a void, even today - weeks later, that I cannot explain. I never saw it. I wasn't there. I am surrounded by thousands of kilometres of possible self-preserving distractions, but yet, my soul and body cannot deny what has happened. My deep-rooted connection to my family, is clearly unmistakable.

Someone is dearly missed, but will always be loved by family, whether from near or far, in thoughts or prayers. Rest & trust now in the arms of God.

A Private Bathroom With Towels

Joni's Diary:

25th June 2006 (Sunday night)

Arrived into LA for the last time at 11.00pm, and checked into Sheraton Four Points Hotel. I picked it because it was practical – I was arriving late and it was close to the airport with complimentary 24-hour shuttle service and 24-hour day stays (i.e. midnight check-in = midnight check-out – why didn’t the others think of that!?).

For the first time after staying in five different places over the course of two weeks, I knew I was definitely getting towels. Towels! Fancy that. Not to mention a king-sized bed, large open spaces, toiletries, a lobby so massive you could be lost for weeks, and...behold, a lift up to my floor.

Strangely however, in the face of all these universal, modern comforts of a typical Western hotel, instead of falling to my knees and crying Hallelujah, I stepped back and thought - by golly it’s predictable. :s

Then for the first time after staying in five different places over the course of two weeks, I was suddenly immensely glad that I didn’t deprive myself of the multi-faceted, full-flavoured adventure that it has been. I didn’t opt for air-conditioned luxury coaches. I never took a cab to and from any airport. I didn’t opt to be spoon-fed, taken by the hand, to follow the flag of a tour leader, to be told to eat, walk, see the same things as the people on the next tour bus. Yeah, I was on a budget but I shudder to think of all the experiences I would never know of and thus would never miss, if I hadn’t gone cheap. I wouldn’t have experienced charming neighbourhoods, stayed in a lop-sided building in Chelsea, laughed all the way up 5 storeys of stairs in a tipsy state after cocktails with my galpal, savoured the doggy-bag breakfasts at Nana’s Treats, heard the most colourful 'Jerry Springer'-style domestic dramas next door, realised that florists opened 24 hours, or had breakfast on a warm early morning atop a quiet rustic roof overlooking NYC.

What would I get instead?

A private bathroom with towels - metaphorically speaking.

26th June 2006 (Monday)

Caught the $0.75 Blue Bus to Santa Monica after waffles at the hotel. Love floating amongst local Los Angelenos and just observe them go about their everyday lives. Get on the bus. Get off the bus. Sit and stare. Sit and listen to music. Stand and daydream. It wasn't New York. And it wasn't glitzy glamourous 'Hollywood'. They were suburban children, grandmothers, pensioners, housewives, dads and babies. Everyday people of multi-ethnicity and for that 40 minutes we spent together, I was just one of them...

New York: Meeting People - Part III

What's a holiday without cultural exchange?

'We' doesn't mean You & I

Now that was awkward.

And I mean, I'd never been given the face before. The face that wholeheartedly said, "Look, I don't know you, but either way, I'm heterosexual." Holy moly if I only get one chance to be beamed up, Scotty, let it be now.

On 23rd June, rain darting down on Manhattan sidewalks and fizzling like cold water on screaming hot teflon streets, I found myself struggling with my umbrella and map in the southward direction on Fifth Avenue, wondering why it is that I never figure out where I'm going before leaving the hotel.

Feeling aimless, I detour into a quiet breakfast place for refuge. Have to regroup, I thought. Need to rethink my day now that the streets were turning soggy. Sit down, eat, study the map, and regroup.

I asked for their Breakfast Set No.2. You'd think after forklifting my belly out of restaurants in the US would have taught me to order a little more conservatively. So shoot me, I'm a slow learner.

I'll have the creamy cauliflower soup too, thanks. Doh!

Checked out and started chin-wagging with the cashier chick. Asked her directions to an Internet cafe, and where else I could offload my hard-earned cash besides at all the other shopping stores I'd already been to. She was happy to help.

Food arrives and as usual, hungry for food as I am for good views, I ask: "Can we go upstairs?"

I get the face. I don't recognise it.

"Oh, is it closed?"

Now she speaks, one eye-brow raised so high it's lost over her hairline, her body retracting further back and slouching on one shoulder.

"You and I? Go upstairs?"

One...two...three seconds....

Hey Oblivion, meet Realisation. Realisation, say hello to Oblivion.

There's something about having just picked up a girl, unintentionally, and now trying to defend your sexuality, without sounding as if you're covering up your disappointment of her rejecting your lesbian advances. Your stuttering and fumbling does nothing for your efforts to diffuse this sinking misunderstanding you've inflicted upon yourself.

'We' and 'Us' are everywhere in Australia. I do prefer it too. Just seems more polite, I think, instead of 'I want this, I want to go here, Give ME...Please show ME this...'

Obviously, I didn't explain this very well to her.

Before I exit I apologise to her once again, and I'm convinced she's absolutely none the wiser when she replies with deliberate emphasis,"WE don't mind. It doesn't bother US". And she smiles.

She's mocking me, isn't she?

Sigh. I give up.

What can you get for a dollar?

A slightly dramatised story that has a slow start, garnished in the middle with a bit of suspense, a nice-to-know lesson, and ends somewhat in a Hollywood-style finish i.e. happy ending, befitting of its setting at LA International Airport.

Not exactly your episode of 24, but I had exactly an hour to make a phonecall, have my luggage delivered to LAX from a god-knows-how-far offsite storage facility, check-in, proceed through the security screenings and board my flight from LA to NY.

Armed with a dollar bill, I became the one no one wanted to know. While everyone went about their own business, I was the lone wanderer who invaded the personal space of highly cautious and suspicious travelers, not surprising if a dozen security cameras were already closing in on me (keep up, hey? - we're talking American airports here!) as I went in search of someone who could break the bill for me.

"Do you have two fifties for a dollar?"

The African-American taxi attendant screws his face up, shakes his head and says, "Huh? What do you want?"

I tilt my head back to look up at him towering over me.

"You know - I have a dollar. I need two fifties to make a phone call."

"Fifties??"

He takes my dollar note and shoves four quarters into my hands and gets on with serving other people.

My flight to NY proceeds as planned.

The end.

Moral of Story: If you're asking for a particular currency denomination, make sure it's last circulation was not in the 1970s.

Simple Saturday Pleasures

Saturdays for me are about getting back at all the militaristic days between (& including) Mondays and Fridays. You sneer at those painful early mornings by rising slowly, letting the afternoon sun warm your sheets and meet your restful eyes. You pull faces at efficiency & productivity by sitting up on your bed and watching through the window, the world already spinning a few extra hours for those down below - rowing, jogging & soaking in the most welcoming of weekend weathers - and realise...my my, something's missing today. Ahh..that presence of guilt.

(today's picture-perfect view from the window)

Payback for weekday half-hour lunchbreaks at 12.30pm sharp in the cafeteria, is a time-stopping Saturday afternoon alfresco-style Sashimi Don and Salad Platter in South Melbourne at our favourite Japanese restaurant, then taking it back to homebase with a truly unremorseful serving of Christine (brownie biscuit, valrhona milk chocolat mousse, crème brulee) and soy hot chocolate at Laurent. Whilst reading The Good Weekend. Whilst adoring the excitable pooches as they greet each other at each passing by.

There is no day like Saturday to send the work week to another mode of existence, and seeing it only comes but once every seven days, use it oh so wisely...^_^

A Little Lemon & Lots of Love

Following Wednesday's stand-down time, I was marched back to work the next day. This mental decision to interrupt the healing process obviously did not go down well with Body, because then she decided to retaliate. Let’s see you try to go to work without a voice. How’ya like that, huh? Wanna call your manager and tell her you can’t make it? Let’s see how productive you’ll be without Sign Language v.101. Go on, hotshot. Let’s see you go to work.

Friday morning Voicebox malfunctioned, just as Body promised. At every one of the incessant coughs, I felt as if the back of my head was smashing against a brick wall. I was a concussing pro-bacterial human-sized germ. I was a pantomime. A silent movie. A wind tunnel.

Defeated once again, I plumped up my pillows and tucked myself back into bed with my laptop. Here’s where my story really starts.

I want to say, that I’m in love again, simply because, I know I am loved.

Some may say that a year and a half isn’t quite long enough whereby you can belch, spit, snort and expel right in front of each other. Heck, they’re absolutely right. Gav and I never began to draw up a courtesy rule, but somehow have always mutually respected each other strongly in this way.

Unfortunately, recent circumstances would have me in an embarrassing state, where my coughing and blowing would bring about expelling unnameable substances which even to me is already undeniably disgusting, let alone for another individual. Oh and the sounds I make whilst I’m at it. Boy do I pull good impersonations of my grandpa on a good day.

In spite of my most grubby form, Gav battled my surrounding landmine, as he calls it, of soggy tissues to care for me all morning. The wonder of this person is that I never asked this of him. Despite having planned some time ago to take this day off, he was in and out of my bedroom with hot lemon juice and water, then it was breakfast in bed, then my laptop was losing power so it was the battery charger, then it was a top-up of water for my lemon juice. Instead of repulsing him, my grandpa impersonations were what brought him back into my bedroom time and again with cuddles, and kisses to the forehead.

I ask, my head hanging in shame, “Hon, am I grubby?”
“Yes, you are.”
He smiles and leaves the room again.

I especially loved his response to my request for a chilled TimTam from the fridge. Here I was, a mute and a throat filled with muck, and I wanted a TimTam!

I whisper: “Can I have a TimTam?”
“No…”
“Please please pleaseee…I need a TimTam…”
“hmm…OK, but just one...”


If I ever felt more beautiful and loved on one of the worst, daggiest, grubbiest, snottiest days, it would be because of him and the way he made me feel.

To the most wonderful boyfriend an icky girl could have…thank you sweety. Still so in love with you...

Geez...Just Take The Day Off

Perhaps it was overdue. Perhaps this is in fact a picture of strength and not weakness, for the fact that she had skimmed through over 40 hours of flying, 17 days in a foreign country, 30kgs of baggage pulled across NYC streets, some 100 hours in accumulated sleep debt, surviving summer, autumn and more than half of a freeze-me-over-please winter, an overly obsessive week at work - all with the zest of an athlete and the energy of a show poodle.

Perhaps it was last weekend that really steered Titanic into the iceberg, when she was outrageously outnumbered on the dancefloor by ridiculously young freshies who looked like they should be back in their dorms studying hard for some exam, or at least be sparing if only just a cheap after-thought for their parents' money instead of spending it all on make-up, skimpy clothes, hair rollers and buying every cute female a drink so that these girls might think something of them, though sadly not realising how wrong they are on that one, or how about something a little more original like not making repeatedly stupid mistakes for the next couple of years that they'll regret but seriously who cares because when that time comes they'll conjure up some philosophical excuse to console themselves that this is all part of growing up, and learning to be stronger, wiser, and whatever the yadda yadda yadda is. Yes, they were still there when she left the club. Youth wasted on the young. Tragic.

Anyway, now Miss Immunity, long-standing employee, has decided to go on vacation after having worked tirelessly for the past 6 months. I sure wasn't going to approve it, but she threatened to quit. No arguments there. So out she went, the ink off my signature barely lifted from my pen, her straw hat on and bags packed, and she was gone.

The tissues are mounting. My glands are having a field day. My taste buds are going on strike. My throat is conducting a science experiment. My ears are turning bionic. My body is on lockdown.

Now I know that defeated feeling of late last week was merely a prelude.

Let the opera begin.

The Feeling of Defeat

OK. So I spoke too soon yesterday.

Half an hour into the office today, a Friday - the last day of the work week and supposedly the next happiest day to Saturday, I sat slumped at my desk enveloped by a feeling of defeat.

That was just it. The feeling of defeat, even though I wasn't sure what or who had defeated me. It was as if i'd lost my will...to work. The momentum I had fell and landed with a loud thud. The week had finally caught up with me. The late departures from work and later nights to bed. The marathons between emails and phonecalls and meetings and briefings.

Still, though sick leave was just a thought away, I met a supplier, sat in for a food tasting session that turned out to be my lunch, took the photographer on a site tour, and finally finished up at a decent time of half 5. All the while still carrying with me this sense of hopelessless, physical weakness, and a 5-second lagtime behind the normal speed of the rest of the world.

Going to bed now. Here's to a better first best day of the week tomorrow.

If Nothing Else, There's Always Cheesecake

Something huge is happening at work. I must resist from getting down to details, just because commonsense tells me there must be an informal confidentiality clause somewhere in my informal acceptance of this temporary and informal role. That and there'll be media and ministers in attendance, so I guess mum's the word for now.

Last Friday I was offered the blue pill-red pill option. "You take the blue pill and the story ends. You wake in your bed and you believe whatever you want to believe. You take the red pill and you stay in Wonderland and I show you how deep the rabbit-hole goes".

I could have said, "What? Me? But I've never co-ordinated events before. Oh no no no..." But here I am, still falling down this rabbit-hole, just as Neo, despite his comparably more comfortable existence in the Matrix could not look past Morpheus's sales pitch.

Since then, i hadn't been able to find the brakes. I'm free-falling on the fast lane, and every day since Friday has been go-go-GO. The phones are going off, everybody needs answers to meet someone else's deadline, this morning's decisions are useless by mid-morning, there are meetings with PR agencies, photographers, caterers, staging guys, and that's only been the last four days.

Admittedly, i'm loving the challenge. Sure the hours are a little crazier, I've gone from virtually a desk job to suddenly having early morning solo meetings with impressionable suppliers under the pretence that I absolutely know it all, but for a change i'm being paid to not do my job. And changes...aren't necessarily all bad...

To be continued...

New York: Meeting People - Part II

What's a holiday without meeting a few interesting people?

The Empire State Boys

The panoramic night views of Manhattan and beyond atop the Empire State Building can only be described as none other than…surreal. Awesome. Thrilling. Just when you think you couldn’t feel any smaller in the city that has 24-hr pharmacies the size of K-Marts in Melbourne, walk-in diners the size of a buffet halls and buildings that pierce through the clouds, you’re on top of New York City on this clear windy night, trying to comprehend how insignificant you truly are in the scale of things, and meanwhile overwhelmed by its presence.

Dragging our feet reluctantly back to Earth, WF and I went through our visitors’ guidebook on a bench just at the base of the ESB. At midnight, the night was young. What does New York have to offer? Who will answer our call?

“Do you girls need some help?”

We said we were looking for a place to go and they said they knew a cool place, an open rooftop bar nearby that overlooked the Empire State Building. They asked if we’d join them. We put the guidebook away and entrusted our night plans to three local New Yorkers who obviously had better local knowledge than we did.

Turned out they were three friends who’d recently reconnected after years of losing contact - Rob currently a Masters of Philosophy student, Jason a banker and Mick in Finance went to school together. It was an evening of culture exchange over cocktails and beers and getting a crash course on pure strangers and what led each of us to this very place tonight. Unfortunately the cocktail I had kicked in sooner than I would usually expect, and with a promise to meet up again, the boys hailed us a cab back to our hotel. The night ended there, and so does this story. By the way, that open rooftop bar – it was lovely. View of the ESB. Benches lined against the wall with cushions and pot plants. Candles, jazz and the open sky.

When Lindy met Charley O

Was in Times Square when out of nowhere a massive craving attack for Lindy’s famous NY-baked cheesecake hit me like a raging guided missile. I had to get some. But it was on 53rd St, and I was only at about 46th – oh gosh, I’m never gonna make it! Kill me now!

Then I remembered Charley O’s Times Square Grill served slices of Lindy’s cheesecakes and it was only on 49th St at the corner of Broadway. I can make it to that one! Yes - saved!

Ushered to my seat by the window, I scrolled right down the menu to desserts for cheesecake.

I’ll have the cheesecake, please.
Not having any dinner?
No, I’ll just have the cheesecake, thanks.
Any drinks? Our bartender makes amazing martinis here.
No, just the cheesecake. That’s all I want.
You really like cheesecakes, huh?
Yes I do.
Well, next time you come back, I’ll buy you cheesecake. My treat.

Only half listening by this time - fingers tapping away subconsciously, body fidgety from fighting this sudden drop in cheesecake levels.

It was consumed in a slow, satiating process. I stared blankly outside at the silent moving picture that is Times Square human traffic, and simply indulged myself on one of these last nights in New York.

As I was leaving, the usher stopped me and said again that he’d buy me cheesecake the next time I came back. I was about to laugh off his gesture when he suggested a time I should come back. How about Sunday? I could have, but I declined. Equally for the reason that I wasn’t sure what message I’d be sending out if I’d accepted his offer, as that I was fulfilled enough to leave my cheesecake rendezvous-ing days behind me.

New York: Meeting People - Part I

What's a holiday without meeting a few interesting people?

The Dodgy

After many a tray of airplane meals, 2 in-flight movies and having crossed a dozen time zones, I finally landed in Los Angeles. This business of travelling in a time capsule that finds you departing on a Sunday afternoon and arriving 14 hours later, still a Sunday afternoon of the same day, certainly leaves you more than a little disorientated.

It’s interesting that being armed with a couple of hundred dollar US notes don’t get you anywhere outside airport grounds if you don’t have even two quarters to make a local phone call. The 5-hour flight delay had left me with under 3 hours to get to Hollywood, and my only focus was to get to Les Miserables on time! I must have paced back and forth one too many rounds with my big blue bag that I caught the attention of a seemingly kind elderly man in his late 50s/early 60s.

Moments like these he’s God-sent, because he offers you his cellphone to make your call & helps you get your NY-sector luggage into storage. He assures you that he’s an airport ground staff (offering you a business card for proof), his wife works for American Airlines and he was waiting to pick her up. He asks you some general questions and you show him your itinerary quickly. And before you whisk off, he tells you that he lives really close to the airport and if you ran into any problems that night you should call him. You thank him gratefully, and just about forget all of this whilst you applaud with shameless tears the cast of Les Mis in a spectacular standing ovation.

The next morning, my head up in the air looking at the signs for my boarding gate, I bumped into Bill again. Actually, it looked awfully a lot like he had been waiting for me. There couldn’t be that many QANTAS flights, flying outbound to New York, departing in the morning. So there he was, equally surprised to see me but unable to adequately satisfy my question of why he was there. Then he reiterated the same facts he should have known I already knew: he lived near the airport, his wife was a flight attendant (who apparently kicked him for not inviting me to dinner last night) and in that moment whilst still listening and smiling attentively at him, he wouldn’t even realise that I was already processing the loopholes. Something was amiss. I then remembered to forget when I was returning to L.A, not even whether it was an A.M or P.M arrival, what my real name was, and suddenly “dying for a chocolate croissant, so I’ll see you later. Yea, sure I’ll email you when I come back to L.A”.

Just as I was queuing up to board, Bill returns again with a box of chocolates. He says he only does this for “special people”. Well, I guess we’d never really know how ‘special’ he thought I was. I know I could have just been a paranoid pessimist who mistook kindness for deception, but whether my photo ends up a statistical face on the ‘Missing Persons’ board throughout LA, or whether I live to tell the next story, was a decision I faced just hours into my holiday. Curiosity killed the cat, but not THIS cat. She’s going on holiday!!

The Married

On the packed shuttle bus from JFK International Airport to Midtown Manhattan, I took an empty seat next to someone who would later introduce himself as Eric. Finally, two days and 19 hours of flying later, I was in New York! I was completely fixated at the rolling scenery, but he said hi and we engaged in a conversation about 20 minutes into the 45-minute journey. He was Israeli, in New York for two days on business, a record producer at heart but his main business was sourcing American clothing and importing them to his home country. He spoke fluent English, so I don’t know why he said: “I don’t know how to say this in English, but umm…would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow night? I get bored in New York.” The polite chit-chat came to a halt. Seeing his wife gave him that wedding band, and between us we shared a 20 year age gap and an unimpressive conversation so far, it helped my excuses flow oh so naturally. They were half-truths, not lies entirely. Apparently I was meeting a friend and didn’t have a phone to be contacted on, so it was goodbye and good luck.

The African Prince

Yes, bizarre as it was for a tour bus ticket seller to be an African Prince who abdicated the throne to be King, and for him to tell me this within 1 minute of stepping in my path, I might just have to take his word for it. TJ’s theory is that if 10 women walked by and he yelled out only to get the attention of one woman, that woman was destined to be his wife. I looked at him in that ‘you befuddled fool’ look (which channels through as a forced smile) and just entertained his theories. Heck, I’m on holiday – I’ll listen to anything! Big mistake because now he says we HAVE TO meet again. “It’s my day off tomorrow, I can take you on the tour bus for free and we can go sightseeing together.” “I really like you, I think you are really friendly. You must must call me”. I don’t have a phone, but yes, I’ll take your number. Let me talk to my friend first and see what she wants to do tomorrow. But sure I’ll call you. Yup, definitely. I actually thought of calling him just to say I couldn’t make it, but then decided there was nothing more I wanted to add to this story.

The Big Apple Beckons...

Five months have gone by since my return from tomb-raiding temples in the Ancient Kingdom of Cambodge, and believe me when I say i've tried all I can to convince myself to keep focus on life in Melbourne.

Must say, it's been really good so far - upgraded to a new department & now working with some really fantastic people, paid 6 months' worth of mortgage repayments (6 of 100s more?), celebrated birthdays, hosted a girls' night & attended a couple more, had a housewarming, went clubbing, still totally adore my boyfriend, celebrated my birthday, stood up to an evil ex and gave him a piece of my mind (it was three years in the making, & let's just say...I exorcised it out of my system ^_^), and what else...next week co-hosting a private Biggest Morning Tea event at my place - looking forward to it!

Still, the restlessness lingered. Next flight out was definitely to Europe, but we weren't getting on that plane for at least another year or two. A year or two!! Meanwhile, there was waiting, and more waiting, and more contentment, but all the while this itch to take a million photos and awe over new surrounds continue to build up exponentially until suddenly you find yourself in the middle of an MSN conversation resembling something not too far from this:

Thursday, 18th May

WF (in Malaysia): Hey, I'm planning a trip to the States

Joni (in Australia): Looking 4 a partner to come?

WF: Come! I need a shopping partner!

Joni: OK. When?

WF: June

Joni: OK. I'm there!

Friday 19th May - flight booked and confirmed

Saturday 20th May - 9-hr research at Borders with a stack of Lonely Planets & a laptop.

And as they say, the rest was history, or, history to be made! So yes, Joni is going to the US!

Will have a total of two days by myself in Los Angeles (find me at a budget hostel off Hollywood Boulevard!) , followed by some awesome days and nights with my sista living it up in New York, then off to Chicago (no info yet!). The rest of it - who knows! I could be back in Manhattan if I can't get enough of it, catch a baseball game or a musical, concentrate on the neighbourhoods - Tribeca, Soho, or maybe head over to Philly or Boston. I dunno I dunno! But all I can say with certainty is that I can barely contain this excitement under my skin. Hear me!! I'm exciteddd!!!

Sure i'm still an ancient-culture-tomb-raiding-gezillions-years-of-mystical-history sorta travel junkie, but c'mon!! It's New York! It's a cliche in itself and you just can't go past it. I remember being this close to flying to NY from Tokyo because fares were just that dirt-cheap around January- Y32000!! Of course, over a few green teas at an izekaya with Japan-based New Yorker Guliano, I was told your doors and windows are sealed shut from the overnight snow during that time of year. So that was that.

Anyway, I think the last bit was pure rambling, so just ignore it! ^_^ Oooo....can't wait!! It's back to Borders tomorrow for more research!...

p.s. WF - if you're reading this, *muahh* Can't wait to see you in the city that never sleeps, and...neither will we!!

Chocolate Confessions...

Overdose. I never imagined that was possible until I thought I wouldn’t survive to see the end of this weekend. If I could amount the chocolate I ate I’d be rolling in it like a pig in mud on a hot day. If we literally were what we eat, I’d be a chocolate character in the animated Cadbury commercial. Wouldn’t-it-be-nice-if-the-world-was-chocolate…?...

The unforgiving, pure chocolate indulging weekend started on Friday at Kokoblack on Lygon when I did the unthinkable and ordered the Mousse Martini and Hot Chocolate, finishing which I felt completely sickened and dreading the onset of a headache.


Undeterred, the chocolate-themed marathon continued the next evening during Girls’ Nite at my place. Following dinner, we proceeded to dive into one pot of Swiss cheese fondue and two pots of chocolate fondue lasting us till the end of the night. Nothing like dunking bountiful platters of fruits into bubbling chocolate to bring out evil gossips and belly-aching laughter to an all-girls’ chillout session. Love it!

Sunday afternoon, I wake up to a chocolate hangover. Gav hears about the fondue fest and wants some. Two hours, two punnets of strawberries and a bag of grapes later, the candle flame is blown out, and I’m on the floor with a fondue fork in one hand, drips of chocolate on my PJs and drooling chocolate…

I've booked myself into rehab for indefinite period of time. On the road to recovery, thanks for asking. One thing for sure, Easter will be a quiet one for me this year...

But I Think The Knife Was...

It had to be. A second's daydreaming and blood was all over the vegies. The body can't live without the mind. Ok Morpheus. You can give it a rest now.

I see the flesh on my finger opened like a can of baked beans, now spilling tomato sauce without end. Band-aids come alive and play hide n' seek. The ironies of the Matrix. How did machines ever figure out how to create irony? Alright alright! I'm leaving...

My mind blinks flashes of first aid course leaflets I threw over my head into the recycle bin, of flicking to sci-fi movies instead of watching ER or Grey's Anatomy, as I picked the bloodsoaked cotton out of my wound left behind from the band-aid I did finally find. No different to a primitive ape picking lice from its own head. That’s all I know! Band-aids are fix-alls! Ok. Phone call. I’m entitled to my phone call.

Half an hour later, I hear the sirens. Mmm…ice-cream…yum…whuh? Oh, hang on – it’s my first-aider at the door. Honey to the rescue!

Another half hour of dramas & she has a neat dressing on her wound. She’s all smiles again. Next time, Joni…I’ll get you next time…signing out for now, Morphie.

"There Is No Spoon"

I love believing in an ultra-alternative theory about human existence and their real purpose of being. That’s why The Matrix really works for me. Watching it for the first time whilst living in Japan was a cool experience that warped my already mysterious surroundings, where I’d roam the busy little streets, a quiet and anonymous figure, and ask, “Do you think that’s Zarusoba you’re eating?”…”Do you think that wall is really there?”

These questions joined the queue of other stirring questions I’d had since I was a child, and try as I did over the past 20 years to get others to empathise with me on ‘why my mind is my mind and every morning I wake up I’m still me, and I have no choice but to be me, and have to live this same life everyday within this same body’, it was merely silenced by weird looks and shrugs. This is not to say I don’t want to be me, cos’ I kinda like it most of the time, but it’s the why question, and more curiously, why not. The Matrix was my first taste of empathy, though answers and my theories were never going to be any closer to materialising. I will choose to ignore the ghetto street clubbing scene that resemble a HipHop MTV in the Reloaded sequel, but it’s the theory and their relentless fight against the matrix that inspires me to not quit my search.

At this moment you must be thinking, Right. They should really consider revising the movie viewers’ code to 'Not Suitable for Schizophrenics'.

Just my thoughts, hey.
p.s. Watched it again last night, and it was so cool! And here I go again *looking suspiciously around me*: “Do you think the laptop in front of you is real?”, “Do you think…”