Exeter, Devon. 1998.

I remember being absolutely in love with this song when it first came out. I remember my best friend hating it so much we had a mini argument as her dad drove us to my house.

1998 was so much fun.

I was living in a tiny city called Exeter. I say city, but it's probably smaller than South Jakarta. Hell.. I know it was smaller. A sleepy, student city. Pretty and peaceful to a 13 year old who knows nothing of pubs and clubs and largely ignored concerts. Sizable library though. And the most breath taking cathedral ever. Even as a clueless kid I'd get shivers whenever I went in.

Quick trips down memory lanes are never enough when it comes to Exeter.. But in 1998 it's filled with beach trips down to Sidmouth, "working" at my friend's cafe, pranking people on the phone.. Silly crushes on sillier boys and generally overachieving in school (hey.. I was once a straight A student! And regularly featured on stage either acting and/or with the Samba Club. Yeysh. I wanna hit myself.) Apple tree swings in Saf's garden, cutesy code words with my besties, and my first interests in shopping sparked by the ever so classy Katie and London-girl Safia.

Also the year I was forced to read Harry Potter. (I remember there were threats about not being fed unless I read at least the first few pages.....)

1998 wast he last year that I enjoyed school. Academically anyway. Well.. Until university.


Being 13 was super fun. My baby cousin is turning 12 this year. And I'm kinda sad. She used to step on my face and drool all over my shirts. I wonder what sort of troubles she's getting into these days? She's a bit old to be honest, it comes with the territory of being the baby of a close-knit family where the oldest cousin is 32-turning-33 I guess. We often forget just how much of a baby she still is. All things considered.. I hope she enjoys her pre-puberty days as much as I did.

RIDICULOUS!

"You have ridiculous short term goals. And a ridiculously short definition of 'short term'.. Ridiculous!"

"Define ridiculous."

"Saying 'I want to write for a living.' and not being able to say anything else about what you actually want to do is ridiculous."

"S'not! Anyway. I've always landed on my feet before."

"Yeah. Well. You got lucky."

"26 years and counting!"

"Your luck won't last forever."

"Ridiculous."

"What is?"

"Your assumption that my luck won't last forever. Ridiculous."

"Ridiculous!?"

"You sound incredulous."

"....."

Conversations with myself never end well. When will I learn that I always talk back? Especially when I know how much of a pushover I really am.

Talk about ridiculous..

say it beetch!

I like using words to say nothing in particular. Because sometimes I really do have nothing to say but babbling seems like the more attractive option. Silence is not always comfortable and warm and beautiful. Sometimes it weighs down on you, so much so that you want to hit people.. But I've been told that physical violence is not a socially acceptable way to react to people being quiet. For the most part, I bow down and obey this particular convention.

But I like to think that I can use words to properly articulate feelings and thoughts when appropriate. Which is why games piss me off.

I'm a little too direct and a little too blunt, a little too clueless to pick up on subtle nuances and hints, and I almost always wear my heart on my sleeves. Which is of course a pretty way to say 'my stupid face gives every stupid thought I have stupidly away. Like a stupid face does.'.. My past experiences (at the sage old age of 26. Yes. I'm making fun of myself.) have pushed me to understand that games are necessary evils when it comes to social interactions. I've learned to tolerate it to a certain degree.

Excessive avoidance of words still piss me off though.

Take a hint.

insanity looks good on you.

Says the pot to the kettle.

Oh wait. No. The pot said the kettle was black, proofing once and for all that kitchen-ware can be just as racist as people. Bad kitchen-ware! Though if I spent my life getting my butt burned, I'd be cranky enough that I'd begin spewing racist, homophobic, sexist comments too.

Fortunately, I'm human.

Where was I..?

Oh yes. I think my family is a pretty good looking bunch. That's not me being vain. Okay, it is a little. But I'm a shallow person, and I like pretty things and good looking people - and I'm pleased with the way my family looks. Spending a long weekend away with them may have further damaged my fraying sanity (remind me to write about the elaborate "jokes" we play on each other.) but it made me come to one conclusion..

Insanity suits my family.

All hectic and arms and legs flailing every which way, evil cackles and booming laughter, and the occasional brat running away from (yet another) fuming brat. Ninja Gramps photobombing the grandkids, cackling as he slowly hobbles past, cane in hand. Grandma being unintentionally hilarious. No adults present. Ever. Because no one in my family can be described as 'mature' in the normal sense of the word.

The Clan is awesome.



Unfortunately after editing the pic to show just how much I love The Clan.. the faces became hidden. NO MATTER! Take my words at face value - we're a good lookin' bunch.

This is what happens when my extended family gathers..

Arrrr!

Was supposed to be playing with 2 year old niece, but my lil' cousin (who's actually going on 12 and shooting up into a gangly teen, ergo not so "lil" anymore..) and I decided it would be fun to play T-Rex vs. Ptereodactyl.

And since I didn't want to loose, I stuck an extra block on her Ptereodactyl and declared that it had a tumor. (I'm so mature.)

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY NINJA GRAMPS AND NAN!

Much love,
Le Silly Grankids.

sometimes I don't remember writing things down..

But then I find a .doc file saved in my folders and I read words that sound completely alien to me. This.. was a file titled 'Death', from April of 2011.

Not sure if 'enjoy' is the right word to use here..

---

Cigarette in hand, bleary bloodshot eyes struggling to stay open and a head full of ideas that just won’t go away. She doesn’t know when she last had a shower, the very stereotypical image of a writer too immersed in her art. She’s even writing about herself in third person, and the stupidity of the situation isn’t lost on her.

But the words have been held in for too long, and she can’t stop them from spewing out. Endless incoherent ideas, and half formed thoughts. Fragments of conversations, whispered by the phantoms occupying her, a thousand faceless characters she dreams of.

They scare her sometimes.

She tried to suppress them, but they scratch at her from the inside, and it was starting to hurt. Her imagination kicks into overdrive and she sees her body as a shell, barely containing an army of gruesome hybrids of... things. Half solid, half phantasm, long claws and sinister cackles. So close. So close to the surface.

She feels as if she’s fighting a losing battle. And soon they’ll be out.

The monsters that lurk in the darkest recesses of her mind.

Her reality and their reality collide, and the already blurred lines fade into obscurity.

Blood. Hands. Death.

Mere words. The blood she sees on her hands, a poetic rendering of her over active imagination.

And outside the sirens blare.

Kinda floating on by

Like a plastic bag wavering, going wherever. Flighty and weightless.

And finally.. Finally feeling 'happy' instead of just 'content'. I liked my job, but some people and some aspects of it just sucked too much out of me. It cut into every aspect of my life, leaving me drained and irritable and prickly. I didn't like who I was becoming.

So I quit. And now..

Hopefully now I can start working on the things I've neglected for a while.