| Where do we go now???? |
One can describe my current activity as "furiously packing and trying to squeeze all worldly possessions into 2 luggages and 2 duffel bags and not really succeeding; all the while taking swigs from bottle of umeshu as an act of panic-displacement".
Taking a break now. ARGH ARGH. I have so many gorgeous pairs of shoes and bags, I am DEFINITELY UNABLE to choose which to bring. FUCK! How HOW HOW??!?!?!?!?!! Stupid airline limit!!!!
Right, anyhows, here's the Paula Meehan poem.
Quitting the Bars
Quitting's hard but staying sober's harder.
The day by day; the drudge and boredom bit;
not sure if the self is cell or warder.
You quit the bars; you quit the sordid ardour;
you quit the tulpas sucking on your tit.
Quitting's hard but staying sober's harder.
You sometimes think you got away with murder.
The shady souls regard you as you sit -
you wonder if they are wards or warders
in this sad cafe. The mind's last border
dissolves. Guilt has done a midnight flit.
Quitting's hard but staying sober's harder.
So sip cool water; the light's a wonder
streaming out in wave-particles. You've lit
up bright your prison cell. Body - warder
of your dreams - will be the dream's recorder,
though wrapped now in a skin that doesn't fit.
Quitting's hard but staying sober's harder;
stranger for you being both ward and warder.
-Paula Meehan
That's quite an accurate account, put economically and beautifully into a poem. I hate writing poems. It's such a difficult thing to do, it makes me feel small and stupid when I try and all that comes out are cheesy, cliche lines.
Ah wells.
I'M QUITE EXCITED! 6 MORE DAYS!!!!
And I'm getting an apartment! So everyone's invited! My door's always open!Labels: hungary, packing, poems |
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| God's little helpers. |
AAAAARRRRGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
BITCH!
That's a guttural cry of frustration, exasperation and every other fucking -ration in between for you.
It's like, nowadays, I don't even bother to try anymore because I know the results will always be the same.
It's God's subtle little way of showing me the middle finger and telling me to fuck off.Labels: bitch, fuck off, god |
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| And that's the way it ought to be. |
You know, I've always wondered why Dipsy has such a tanned face. Is this something racial or what??
Anyway, found another lovely poem by D. H. Lawrence. Have been reading lots of poems lately.
To Women, As Far As I'm Concerned
The feelings I don't have, I don't have.
The feelings I don't have, I won't say I have.
The feelings you say you have, you don't have.
The feelings you would like us both to have, we neither of us have.
The feelings people ought to have, they never have.
If people say they've got feelings, you may be pretty sure they haven't got them.
So if you want either of us to feel anything at all
you'd better abandon all idea of feelings altogether.
-D. H. Lawrence
And that's the way it ought to be, and should be.
Well, just got home from a loooooong night. A long, sober night. As Paula Meehan puts it in 'Quitting the Bars', "Quitting's hard but staying sober's harder." But that's a poem for another time. A poem a day, I say! Before bed! After sex!
Anyway, it was a long night spent dissecting the internal mechanisms of Fatties. Yeah, I'm a fattist, so what? People discriminate against alcoholics, smokers and divorcees, and this is no different. In fact, we fattists ought to form a political party and exterminate them! I mean, I can deal with those mildly overweight, pleasantly plump but with a nice, hot face kind. Everyone has their mildly-oveweight days, right? But not those with paunches, moobs and the works! UGH. The day I will submit to the will of a Fatty is the day Palestinians and Israelites make peace.
Am I a horrible, judgemental, critical, superficial bitch?
FUCK YEAH! At least I am not afraid to admit it, how bout you deal with your eating problem now, bitch?!
It was a long and hilarious night. I can't really remember my brilliant tirade, but I can assure it was funny as hell. Perhaps next time. I'm fucking shagged as hell.Labels: fatties, poems, teletubbies |
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| 120 days of Valentine - and counting. |
Had a sudden bout of inspiration while baking my buns at the pool.
This may be 6 months too early, but I know what a certain lucky fella is getting for 2009's Valentine's Day.
Ladies and gentlemen: (well, what do you think? try your hand at literary criticism!)
120 Days of Valentine
Look at me, my sweet Valentine.
Look at me like it's love at first sight.
Kiss my lips, my sweet Valentine.
Kiss me like a Hollywood movie.
Spoil me, my sweet, darling Valentine.
Bring me the moon, Jupiter and Mars.
Explore me, my sweet Valentine.
Explore me like Columbus did.
Fuck me hard, (yes yes YES!)
Fuck me dirty like first-class porn.
Flog my hide, my sweet Valentine.
Flog me like the Marquis de Sade.
Suck me up, my sweet Valentine.
Suck my blood like Count Dracula.
Cut me open, my sweet Valentine.
Carve me up like Jack the Ripper.
Take my limbs, my sweet Valentine.
Keep my ear like Van Gogh's whore.
Decapitate me, my sweet Valentine.
Decapitate me like Henry VIII did.
And when you are finished,
my sweet, sweet Valentine,
Eat me up, my sweet Valentine.
Eat me up like Hannibal did.
Labels: poems, valentine |
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| Sometimes, I feel like I Have turned into Miss Havisham. |
Havisham
Beloved sweetheart bastard. Not a day since then
I haven't wished him dead. Prayed for it
so hard I've dark green pebbles for eyes,
ropes on the back of my hands I could strangle with.
Spinster. I stink and remember. Whole days
in bed cawing Nooooo at the wall; the dress
yellowing, trembling if I open the wardrobe;
the slewed mirror, full-length, her, myself, who did this
to me? Puce curses that are sounds not words.
Some nights better, the lost body over me,
my fluent tongue in its mouth in its ear
then down till suddenly bite awake. Love's
hate behind a white veil; a red balloon bursting
in my face. Bang. I stabbed at a wedding cake.
Give me a male corpse for a long slow honeymoon.
Don't think it's only the heart that b-b-b-breaks.
-Carol Ann Duffy, from Mean Time
I love this poem. I love "Mean Time". I love Miss Havisham. I love Carol Ann Duffy.
She speaks to the heart.
Feel extraordinarily inspired, and am going to pen some angsty, angry poems.Labels: carol ann duffy, havisham, poems |
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| TAKE IT! IMMORTALITY - IT'S YOURS! |
BEHOLD, LOWLY MORTALS. I HAVE FOUND THE ELIXIR OF IMMORTALITY: THE SECRET TO RUNNING 2.4KM IN INSANE TIMING!
HAHAHAHAHA
3 CANS OF RED BULL IN 15 MINUTES.
GREAT STUFF THERE.
I FEEL ANOTHER 6KM FITTER.
Hmm, I might actually come to like running.Labels: immortality, red bull, running |
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| What turns me on? |
Double-necked guitars are the ugliest things in the world, but also the sexiest at the same time. There's something so powerful about it. Hmmm. I like men with power.
 This is THE SEX (of course Slash (GOD I LOVE THAT TATTOO) himself is a contributing factor).  This is just one (three) too many.
Labels: double-necked guitar, sexy |
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| See? I'm not a total SPG. |
I don't even want to begin to describe my pain from yesterday's fiasco.
As the day wears on, the more my thighs, calves and ass hurt.
Why the fuck does my ass ache?! But that's good, anyhow. FIRM IT UP BABY! Not that it ain't firm already. But the ugly tan-gradient is making it look hideous! Must work hard on that next.
I am immobilised by pain. Watching 'Letters from Iwo Jima' for the fourth time. Seriously, it is SUCH a good film. Will cry every time without fail. LOVE Ken Watanabe. Men like him get better with age. MMMM. Older men are better. Heh heh heh.
Look at that intense gaze man. Who can resist it?! Ah shit, I'm smiling bashfully (hahaha never thought I'll have the chance to use this word. 'BASHFUL'.) and contentedly at his picture. His charisma radiates from the screen. OK THIS IS GETTING CHEESY SO I'MA STOP NOW. See? I'm not a (total) SPG. I can like Asian men too. Labels: ken watanabe, legs, men in general |
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| I... fucking... hate... running.......... |
I hate running. I bloody hate running.
Finally managed to haul my fatass off the bed today (after 2 weeks of procrastination and bumming) and went for my first run in 5 months.
IT WAS HELL, I TELL YOU. HELL.
All was well UNTIL I FREAKING GOT LOST!!!! It seems that after 5 months, I am unable to recall my usual route and totally went off-track. I would estimate my total distance clocked to be about 6km. The RUN eventually slowed to a JOG, and then a painful, half-hearted SLOW JOG, and finally came to rest at a BRISK WALK. Anyhow, they all say that brisk-walking is supposedly better than running, eh? So, there I was, idiotically walking around, trying to look cool like I know where I'm going and too proud to ask anyone for directions, while I was thinking "Fuck! Fuck!" inside all the time. When I FINALLY EMERGED from that hateful maze of private housing into the main road, I was so relieved I wanted to cry. Ok, I did cry a little. So I was running and crying at the same time, much to the amusement of random people.
And MA THIGHS!!! MY THIGHS!!!!!!!!!
Oh god, I cannot believe how unfit I've become. I am sure I will awake tomorrow, unable to move a limb. Ugh, it's depressing enough to make one want to give up and just leave it all to nature.
I fucking hate running. The next time, I'll just go swim, like I always used to. But only at night, or I'll get those hideous tanlines I've worked so hard to even out. (Hmm, actually come to think of it I didn't reall "work hard". It was more of laying around at the pool in glamorous fashion and letting the sun do its job. Hmmm.)Labels: fucking unfit, got lost, running, swim |
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| I'll blow my horn and I'll blow yours too! |
Man, there's nothing like an ICE COLD BEER and CHET BAKER on a HOT SUMMER'S DAY.
It is about 35 degrees Celsius right now.
I have an ICE COLD Franzisakaner Weißbier (it has yeast in it! yes yeast! coolest beer ever.).
I have Chet Baker singing and blowing his horn. (ok, trumpet, but horn sounds more appropriate in this sentence.)
This is THE life.
(I'll upload the music later man. Bloody internet is fucking up again.)
(YOU HAVE TO READ THIS! YA HAVE TO! YA HAVE TO! IT'S LIKE.. WOW.)
YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT LOVE IS
You don't know what love is
Until you've learned the meaning of the blues
Until you've loved a love you've had to lose
You don't know what love is
You don't know how lips hurt
Until you've kissed and had to pay the cost
Until you've flipped your heart and you have lost
You don't know what love is
Do you know how a lost heart feels
The thought of reminiscing
And how lips that taste of tears
Lose their taste for kissing
You don't know how hearts burn
For love that can not live yet never dies
Until you've faced each dawn with sleepless eyes
You don't know what love is
You don't know how hearts burn
For love that can not live yet never dies
Until you've faced each dawn with sleepless eyes
You don't know what love is.....what love is....
'Tis like, the most poetic love song ever (see below). I'll instantly marry the guy who writes something like that AND sings like Chet, AND plays like Chet.
Which is humanly impossible HAHAHA.
RIGHT RIGHT! OFF TO TAKE A MID-DAY NAP BEFORE WAKING UP FOR KEROPOK AND CHILLI AND ANOTHER SIMPSONS MARATHON! WHO LIVES LIKE THIS, EH?
ME!!!!!
Screw the health regime.Labels: beer, chet baker, hot summer day |
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| HERE'S A LESSON ON EUROPEAN GEOGRAPHY! |
AND BY THE WAY, HUNGARY IS A COUNTRY!!! AN INDEPENDENT, SOVEREIGN COUNTRY!!! That used to be part of the Austro-Hungarian empire in the 1800s!!! It is NOT some town in Germany, nor is it part of Russia!! HERE'S A MAP!!! I guess Americans aren't the only geographically-illiterate ones!!!
Labels: europe, hungary |
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| Well honey, it's all the same, init?? |
Because SUDDENLY, everyone's asking when I'm leaving, I'll just announce it right now, yeah? Like, WOAH DUDE. Can't you guys be less obvious in hustling me out of Singapore? I can't believe I'm so unpopular! :( Haha.
Anyway, I guess I'll be leaving on the 8th of Septemeber. Or thereafter. Depends on if I can get cheap air tickets. School starts on the glorious 15th! And all hell breaks loose then. My, my. I'm somewhat oscilliating between "Waheee!", and "HOH MY GOD I AM SO SCARED SHITLESS".
I don't know.
Fuck man.Labels: fuck, hungary, scared shitless, school, singapore |
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You know the feeling where your're like, high, but not drunk enough to collapse into bed/party some more/read a book?
Yeah, that's kinda how I'm feeling right now.
SO... FREAKING.... BORED!!!!!!!!!!
SINGAPORE SUCKS!!!!!!!!!!!!! When you live here for 18 years.
I'm sure I'll start missing it once I go back to Hungary.
That's why I'm eating bakchormee everyday. So that I'll be disgusted enough to not crave it in Budapest.
On a second note, should I go for singfest tomorrow???Labels: bakchormee, bored, budapest, not drunk enough, singapore, singfest |
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| Feel like shit but cannot look like shit. Or. Look like shit but cannot feel like shit? |
Hmm, yeah, kinda saw that coming.
Like the second coming of christ.
Pfft.
In other news: I PASSED MY GERMAN!!! 'Horen' und 'lesen' sind sehr gut, 'schreiben' ist gut, aber 'sprechen' ist nicht so gut. Whatever, I PASSED THE BAR WOOHOO! NOW I'm one step closer to... what I don't know. But it's still one step, so HELL YEAH!
 Dude. Feel like shit man. Nose is rebelling and trying to break free from face. Who was it that said, "Feel like shit, but cannot look like shit".. Or is it the other way round? Never really got it right. I guess it depends on how ugly you are. HAH! It's true both ways anyway. OK, gonna do a mask, pop 2 (or more, hmmmm?) and then pass out. Whoo! Passing out is always good cos you get the best sleep. Szia! Labels: german, hmmm, shit |
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posted by mia at 
