Passé

Haven't been blogging lately.

My workload is not really the excuse. Truth is, my inherent lazy streak is rearing its ugly head again though I'd rather attibute my virtual absence to a sore lack of life materials to blog on. I am such an ordinary gal with a capital O. Well, this also means I am losing the novelty to blog every minute details of my everyday life.

For a start, I lead a mandatory slogger's life, my thoughts for the day are usually flat and conservative (though I have some friends who claim I am one zany sweet fart), I am so in love and contented with the SO sedate Mr. Gecko, contrary to what some think we are having a combustible relationship (one friend asked us to stop shagging so much coz' I always appear tired - for the record, I'm still a virgin), that said nothing pleases me more than rolling around the bed with Mr. Gecko (clothes on) on a lazy Saturday morn.

Basically, I am a classic crowd pleaser and no oddball. I act too sweet for my own good so friends revert with their own placidness. I no bitch to others except secretly to Mr. Gecko so all bitchiness towards me is also behind my back which I don't get to hear. So no life materials lah, geddit? Ten points for my blatant honesty.

I did keep a sorta diary when I was sixteen. That, I kept concealed to everyone bacause of all my angst and vulgarities burnt into the pages. Not ashamed though. The entries were mainly about my struggles to get over my first boyfriend whom I had liked since we first met when we were just ten! I was so bloody humiliated he dumped me for another fat girl, I moped over this for a year or so and trying to justify my pain through expressive writing.

Flipping thru' and re-reading the pages, I can be taken into surprise by the doodles all over the book. It truly felt like that was the golden age of my creativity. Writing / scribbling manually with differing colored felt pens and markers, the pages strewed with lyrics of love-pop songs, my sista-friends' encouragements and nonsenses, quotes of the day, attempted poems, pages scented with St. Michael's dewberry... the book was totally bursting with colors and to me now, a really heart warming memory lane. Picasso would have felt the same way, after ten years looking back at his masterpieces, "How would they all come about?"

Fast forwarding to my present pratings here, this is about a mellowed me who finds a certain sense of ordinary fulfillment at this point in life. Yeah, I know my kind is so passé but that is good, I don't have to live up to expectations and can keep on with my self-consolations. I really don't need too much excitement now.

Still, I am definitely keeping my space here . Somehow I am convinced I can morph into another D.H. Lawrence if I keep trying in this space. Mr. Gecko will SO tsk in disapproval at my modesty.