just minishorts.

I know that minishorts.net is most of the time a horribly sad place to be?the term 'intense' is just a very weak moniker to substitute this truth: THIS PLACE SPELLS DEPRESSION. So after so many years, I'd like to apologize for my lack of fun.

See, the truth is, minishorts has always been ghastly at her feeble attempts to humour the public. Now she has been trying very, very hard to be funny?but it never works. The problem lies in the admitted FACT that minishorts is too kiasu-ist and too feminist of a woman, which results in an ongoing outburst of rantings, rantings, and more rantings.

This makes for the ultimate woman syndrome. Disclaimer: Sweeping statements ahead!!! EVERY WOMAN WILL EVENTUALLY DEGENERATE INTO THE NAGGING HOUSEWIFE. Every woman will. I kid you not. She will, she will…. I mean, the perfect example is talking to you here.

Look, see! EVERY SINGLE DAY I come here to nag, nag and nag… nag nag nag. It's such a non-stop exercise, this blogging self-nagging activity, that I can't, for the love of God, fanthom why I keep doing it. But I just do it. And this blog, OBVIOUSLY, has morphed into a perfect excuse to do it in artistic finesse. Hah. Kononnya. Hah.

Maybe I got this from my mum, she got it from her mum, who, in turn, got it from HER own mum. AND I THINK IT'S THE SAME THE WORLD OVER, ALL WOMEN like to nag, because they are in love with having problems, and when they are not suffering from a problem, they will nag and nag (woe befall the poor man who has given his weak heart to her) until he cannot take it anymore and *GASP* does a 'I-can't-take-it-anymore-therefore-I-shall-leave-you-forever-you-bloody-biatch' move.

That's why you see ah, when you read a damn funny satirical blog, it's written by a man, and the sad sad 'OMIGOD MY HEART'S IN PIECES' blogs are written by women.

Actually I think most women are addicted to depression. Kalau tak depressed pun they make up stories to kid themselves so that they will be depressed, so that poor boyfriend/lougong/abang/korkor/hubby will come to the rescue and be that temporary 'knight in shining armour'.

But I digress and move on to what happened at 9.30 a.m. today.

Minishorts is checking her e-mail. Phone call from Mummy.

'Morning, are you free to talk?'
'Yes Ma. Free. Talk.'
'What were you and Eric doing downstairs after I went to bed?'
'Watching TV, reading Female magazine and talking to each other lah.'
'Really?'
'Of course, really. Why?'
'Are you sure?'
'Ma… can you tell me what's wrong?'
'You tell me what's wrong?'
'Huh?'
'I found your bra under the cushions.'

Wooops.

'So?'
'You didn't… did you?'
'Did what???'
'What-what …'
'What???'
'You know lah… Aiyoh…. what is happening… how can you do this bla-bla.. bla-bla-bla… bla bla bla bla bla…'
'Wait wait wait…'
'You don't love yourself bla bla… bla bla bla… bla bla bla bla bla…'
'WAIT!!! Ma… I never wear a BRA to bed… you don't encourage it, remember?'
'Yeah… but why do you leave it downstairs? You know ah… bla bla bla….'
'Wait wait wait… WE DIDN'T DO ANYTHING LAH… he left early and I stayed up watching Latte…. then I took it off lah….'
'Then why is it under the cushion? Ha? Bla bla bla…'
'Wait wait wait wait wait…. Ma, I just threw it there lah. Didn't take it up…'

Pengsan.

Well. That is the whole piece of truth. Take it. Or leave it.

And, urm. This message goes out NOT only to my mum. You tak b-lif, you punya pasal.

I have always struggled with this craving for anonymity. With this blog, my struggle is a lost battle, a fact that I have resigned to.

I have come to accept the open-book quality of my life, and that this public alter ego is something that I have to live with. At several pockets of time past, I dreaded the nakedness, but I have learnt how to acquire the strength to feign ignorance, and on many occasions, even though I feel remorse for allowing this public intrusion into the personal quarters of my life, I try very hard to take all of it in stride and do the very best that I can.

Yet there is nothing I wish more than to turn back time and erase the opportunities for you to have known who minishorts is, the life she leads and the predictability of the future she is bound to face.

Herein lies the dilemma of the jaded blogger, at a point of her development in life, when she realizes that the very act of blogging has become internalized. Blogging has become as necessary as breakfast in the morning: on occasions, yes, she skips a post, but more often than not, it is rudimentary and habitual, even boring. It is occasionally spectacular, like those once-in-a-while trips to Klang for bakuteh, and other occasions may prove memorable enough to call for photographs too.

Alas, unlike breakfasts, blog posts are not excretable via the rectum. They remain locked in cyberspace, or in private collapsible folders. Of course, you may say that the option to flush away all these dreaded recordings lies at the tip of a forefinger, literally, click a mouse and it will all be trashed.

But I daren?t do so.

And so I was left with this dilemma. Almost three two and a half year?s worth of past memories? kept in the recesses of the vast blogosphere. What do I do with this junk?

Times like this I cross my fingers and hope to death that a tainted past will not affect a hopeful future.

Diflucan 150 mg is such a miracle drug. Now that I've popped a pill, I'm feeling rather accomplished, and terribly relieved. I now know what those Whisper microgel pads are all about. And they are absolute miracle inventions. This experience has taught me to be extra cautious and extra hygienic, and be dry, dry, dry and dry.

The day it happened I told my bosses (discreetly) about the (not-so) embarassing situation, and they literally kicked the yoghurt remedy out of the window. Seeing that I was okay again, the first thing the manager said to me was, 'Are you back with the living?'

'Why yes of course.'

Then she stared at the senior editor and all three of us burst out laughing as we started to discuss the eventual handover.

For the uninitiated, I've resigned from the day job. While there may be other outstanding issues that cost me to deliberate and finally implement this decision, in my letter I cited a need to complete my degree as the pushing factor. And this is, in truth, the actual reason.

I'm going to be a full time student and an part time worker again. Mmmm.

I've always believed that failures are, more often than not, attributed to a lack of trying, but last night, I've come to ponder whether there is such a thing as trying too hard. At the end of it when it finally dawned upon me that what I said had sliced a cut through another person's feelings, it pained me to no end.

This morning I awoke and dilly-dallied over the wash basin. While pondering over the conflict which occured last night, I thought of conflicts in the literary plot theory, and this was quite some food for thought. Rising actions and conflicts will eventually lead to a climax, and in our tragedy-obsessed society, climax seems to love being unhappy. When the descent begins in the aftermath of an distressed climax, the resolution usually results in that feeling of, 'I should have…'

That's NOT VERY GOOD, mind you!

So I have decided to attempt something else.

In the KBSM syllabus (for English), the student is exposed to two Level Three skills (teachers will be familiar to this concept of levels), 'Identifying Cause and Effect' and 'Making Simple Predictions'.

Most of us do these in real life, but when emotions override the common sense, we forget that these are necessary actions to take in order to prevent (and resolve) conflict. I definitely should serve myself more of these reminders.

Na-ah. No more extremities. Moderation is a virtue.

Well, it's exactly a week to Chinese New Year and I am DEFINITELY looking forward to that. Mum's gone and spruced up the deco in the house, and with a new set of Chinese wild berry-peony arrangement greeting the occasional visitor to the minishorts household, it looks like an interesting year to look forward to.

I'm going rather broke though. For the first time in my life I am actually contributing in cash to the expenditure, and coupling that with an impending cut in monetary income makes my lack of financial stability lagi memalukan. But I've ordered the lot, including nga ku from Carmen's mother, and some biscuits here and there.

Hopefully the visit to my mum's hometown will be fruitful one. We all love angpows, yes we do.

I actually pondered for a bit between whether this was an open thing to blog about. But then, seeing that three out of four women experience vaginal thrush at least once in their lives I suppose its about time.

IT ITCHES LIKE MAD!!!

I will never ever glare at the next ugly guy who scratches his balls in public again. Ever. Having an itchy crotch is terribly uncomfortable, and try forcing your way around the corridors of the office plans, or trying very hard to keep your professional smile in place as you attempt to keep your fingers from prying into the secret folds of your lower body.

Yucks.

I probed our good resident pharmacist Fer for home remedies (didn't want to spread my legs wide at a strange panel doctor) and she messaged me about the yoghurt remedy.

'Stick a tampon in yoghurt and insert it up your vagina.'

Like. Ewww… that's pretty DISGUSTING, ey?

Then I told my senior editor about it, this nice lady who's old enough to be my mother, and she literally forced me to go see 'the nearest lady doctor'. This was when I was introduced to the concept of pessaries. Candistatin Vaginal Tablets. Yuckie kuaci-like yellow tablets that you push into that part of the body just before you head off to sleep.

Last night was a horror. Bad enough that it felt horribly uncomfortable having something stuck up there (I swear I'd rather sleep through the itch), but no one told me about the non-stop excreting of yellow mucus, as the tablet dissolved within me. And I've got to do this every single night for five nights in a row.

This is bad, bad, bad. I'll never look at bread and beer in the same way again. Yeast is such a horrible bacteria fungi fungus. Horrible.

*Eric is so going to kill me for posting this.*