less sulking, more smiling!

Something from Debbie Millman to start off this post:

If you imagine less, less will be what you undoubtedly deserve. Do what you love, and don’t stop until you get what you love. Work as hard as you can, imagine immensities, don’t compromise, and don’t waste time. Start now. Not 20 years from now, not two weeks from now. Now.

And in that vein,


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(Oh, Misha. How he manages to switch between himself and Castiel is beyond me.)

Plus, I’m going back to Blood Promise, and making the final edits before sending it out to the agents who professed interest in it before. Things to do and things to look forward to! No more wandering and wondering in Writer’s Block-ville.

Oh yes, merry Christmas, indeed.

I don’t know about you, but for the first time in my life, I’m feeling … excited for the coming year. New Year’s has always been kinda meh for me: they either meant another year of slogging it out at school, waiting for my life to start, or another year where I had no idea where I’m headed.

This is an excerpt from my New Year’s Eve post in 2007:

I’m so fucking sick of caring.
468 calories from 3 scoops of ice-cream, 525 calories from a lunch of bread and scones, 486 calories from a breakfast of pizza?
Fuck it all. Fuck calories, dress sizes, flat tummies, skinny thighs, sharp noses. Outgoing, athletic, bronzed and confidently cool? That’s something I never will be. I’ll always be ugly, stumpy and miserable: a pinched-faced girl with an over-the-top obsession with calories, fats and her appearance.
It’s okay. I know I’m pathetic. I think I’m pathetic. To the extent that I think I hate myself. 
How is it that some girls can stand in front of the mirror, look at their bodies and shrug at their love handles, the pudge at their tummies, and their thighs glued to each other? Why can’t I? In what way am I lesser than them? In that they love themselves more than I appreciate myself?
It’ll be 2008 in about half an hour’s time. I don’t see what’s so great about it. It seems like I’m entering 2008 just as clueless as I have been in 2007.

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Oh yeah, I was a bright ray of sunshine back then. Must be all the food I was not eating that made me such a miserable, pinch-faced bitch.

But this time, it feels different. Like I have every power to change whatever I’m not satisfied with in my life, instead of sit on my ass and wait for life to happen to me. It’s an entire year of changes waiting to be made! And it’s not just because I’m off what I call the “starvation diet” now (which is the stupidest thing I have ever done – DO NOT do that to yourself ever).

Maybe it’s because we get more bigger picture-y as we grow older and stop zeroing in on the smaller stuff. When we were younger, in our teens, every bit of emotion and experience is heightened, and what people say to us or think of us becomes blown out of proportion. We place too much stock in these things, and when things go awry or fall short of our expectations we are slayed. It’s the end of the world for us, and we rant and weep about it, write emo poetry in the middle of the night, thinking we’ll never be happy again.

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Now, though, it just seems so stupid to fret over the things that don’t matter in the long run. A bite of French fry isn’t going to make me a whale (although more bites might), a bad day will be better after some sleep and a long swim, one piece of criticism doesn’t mean that the entire world hates me.

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I think you can only be as happy as you choose to. I was miserable then because I gave myself the excuse to. It’s because I’m not eating that I’m so cranky. It’s because I need to be in control that I’m not eating. (Which is ironic because I ended up spiralling even more out of control as a result.) Maybe the best we can do is be happy for ourselves, so that we can be happy for the people who matter the most to us.

We’re still one week away from year’s end, but I’m tacking this on my list of New Year’s goals (goals because the word resolutions is just begging for you to fall off the wagon right off the bat). What are your New Year’s goals? :0)

of prime numbers and little pleasures

So I turned 23 last week.

Not terribly old, but not young anymore either. It’s that in-between number that makes you feel as though you are suspended in that space between a kid and an adult. But it’s safe to say that I am no longer regarded as a wanton, brash (although I doubt I have ever been brash) teenager with the world dangling at your fingertips.

The truth hits even harder now that I’ve graduated from university. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve wished I could return to school. Passing by a secondary school this morning on the way to the pool, I saw students hanging around the staircase leading up to the doors, loitering around the courtyard, making their way to classes, some looking a little beleaguered but otherwise still cloistered in the certainty of their lives. No worries about jobs or money or promotion. Has it been SEVEN years since I was left secondary school? Kind of depressing to realise that you can’t ever go back to those times. The world spins madly on as you keep looking back, and then you find yourself dragged forward.

As storm clouds loomed in the distance while I was in the middle of my morning swim, I got to thinking if I would regret anything if I were to die now. Yeah, I think about things like that sometimes. Welcome to my weird, macabre mind. And of course, there’s much to regret. Because while I have lived more than two decades on this earth, I haven’t really done a single thing to write home about, and while I do have plans to do what I’ve set out to do since I was thirteen (become a best-selling full-time author) I don’t see any end in sight, no clue as to whether I’m ever going to succeed as a writer.

So, no: don’t let me die yet. At least not until I’ve received an answer from the contests and literary agents I’ve shipped my manuscripts to. I haven’t even collected the hard copies of the manuscripts I intend to send out for the Asian Scholastic Book Award contest from the print shop. Imagine if I died and the print shop called my cell to ask when I was going to collect the damn pile of paper sitting in their shop, the pile of manuscripts that were never going to be sent out or published or ever get an audience….

Okay, I did not mean for this to be such a morbid post.

*pulls head out of ass*

Let’s start over:

So I turned 23 last week.

And I finally got my hands on this:

Had a good laugh over THIS. (Who knew Disney boasts such witty gems? They just don’t make cartoons like they used to anymore.)
Saw this lovely view:
Spent time with these people:
And *ahem* swooned over this:
Those eyes! That smile! Instant perk-me-up.

And, finally, listened to this:

Yup. Little pleasures in life. There’s still much to be thankful for.