just minishorts.

Not too long ago I was intrigued by how the recycling battle of the sexes that had woven its way into my life. Living life as one half of a learning relationship seemed to allowed me the 'upper hand' of being 'in the know'. Admittedly the was an overt display of narcissistic feminism in those angst exclamations, ranted in an all-too-daily basis here, on public domain.

In real life I'm pock-marked. Plain. I suffer from the perils of a shining-T zone. I exhibit with glee, this obvious insecurity, but if you're really the genius you say you are, then you must have been blind to realize that I've exhibited all of this disability to come to terms with myself in this blog. Except for the part where I scarf on my food and indulge in gratuitous facial tics. Such needless verbosity, but heh, here I oblige.

A self-professed inner geek residing within an outer jock would have generously labelled me a feminazi,thanks to the lack of a marvel-girl performance that I've neglected to complement with the swordful verbiage such as displayed on this blog.

It just so happens that some people like to build up expectations about a person's character. Oh any idiot (except self-professing geek-jocks) ought to have realized this, When you build towers of expectations, they're more than likely to come crashing down on you.

So that marvel-girl dream went crash, boom, bang during a single makan-meeting, eh?

Ouch, too bad.

Here I have to confess. Having witnessed (far too late) that little squawking outburst, the most of me feels humoured at the fact that letting down someone could lead to so much ranting heart ache, in a specimen of the male species nonetheless. I'm also tickled because the post sounds suspiciously as if written by a 16-year-old girl with reasonable English that had possessed the dear boy's soul.

Or maybe, he IS a girl after all, notable from the bitching that's apparently overflowing in his verbal vomit.

Oh I must admit I'm actually hurt, because there is this pinching thought that a good friend of mine was approached in order to discuss this sudden 'shock-of-the-century'. At least, according to the dickhead's squawk, this great pal of mine seemed to have contributed to the affirmation that the geek-jock was geniusly correct in his observations all along. Woohoo, congratulations, nothing feeds your ego better than to be given an applauding affirmation by mutual friends hoh?

Anyway I wasn't a part of that conversation and it would be far too presuming and suspicious of me to piece threes together. Already this jungle of life is such a troublesome place to me. Besides, I prefer to blame it all on a self-proclaimed geek-jocks who has to seek girly support to be assured that his inch-wide world-view has its validity. For heaven's sake, have more faith in yourself, would ya?

I must mention though that I've never expected my friends to always dish out flattering comments about my character (which has its holey segments). And since I'm so apparently still, itching to be proposed to, all close friends get your invites when the time comes. If it comes, that is.
Yet this experience just approves of self-professed geek-jocks as problematic creatures simply for the fact that they've got their heads growing out of where the dicks ought to be. I'm tried to imagine what the world must look like to these pitiful creatures, alas it's impossible because I do not have a dick!

Read this. Yes I have my issues in my life and I have my problems with the people I care about (or even the people I don't care about). But doesn't everyone live through their days (it's not as if we have another choice anyway… suicide is not an option) good and bad? So on bad days, towers of expectations have to come falling down, and that was exactly what happened.

I asked a more reliable MAN, no, not another Superman/Clark Kent wannabe, what would a stranger expect of me, and he said simply this, 'You write very well.' And added on to that, 'It's not nice to build expectations of people you don't know'.

These days I'm happy to be mediocre, whilst admitting that my career allows to be a weak writer with a less than amicable appearance and manners, hooray. Oh if you haven't noticed this already, I'm still the girl who will cry when a mosquito drowns in her Milo.

BTW, I'm attending the Bloggers Together Gather function this Friday. See you there!

That was so obviously a feeble attempt in constructing a pun.

Actually there are several things which I'm afraid to admit. Where personal dreams are concerned, I've always been a shape-shifter, but the core has thankfully remained the same.

Since a young girl I have fascinated by the written word, and plodding along in life, circumstances has made it easy for me to somehow, find myself doing and learning what I loved to do. So in the midst of more 'glamourous' and 'outspoken' involvements such as the debate club (and perhaps, later on in life an engagement in AIESEC where event-management was rather core), I was still surrounded by the written word.

Oh yes, me, the boring librarian. The boring editor. The boring writer. The boring language teacher.
March announces its arrival promptly. Two weeks ago the CEO, my boss, had his tenure renewed for another three years. A week ago the country's stock market started a dive in sync with the rest of the world's, yesterday it plunged some more. Today my boyfriend's driving home from his business trip. And I've got another planning meet south of the city happening next week.

For some reason I'm a mixed bag of emotions over the kind of work I'm doing here. A part of me loves the travelling, the meetings, the socialising. Yet another part of me, the core, is strangely distracted. But first I have to say this, it's not that I'm not allowed to write. I do it every week, and it's more focused than anything I've ever done previously. I'm included in the media circle, even if I'm on the other end of it. But this genre, this stiff limitation of what I'm allowed to express, and how I'm supposed to compose the expression, somehow, all of this is taking a toil on the kind of compositions I now write.

I have to admit that in the past, I was susceptible to producing a series of needless verbiage, and often I tried miserably to control that excessive need to say what was rattling in my mind. Now, having gained control, I'm surprised that I'm not as happy as I hoped I'd be. Instead, because of this control I'm left voiceless, not knowing what I can say or what I should say.

Still, I realize this. Unlike before, I'm not frustrated by the silence. Unlike before, when the thoughts flow in, I'm not eager to rant them. I like to imagine that up inside my head there's a sieve that's learning to function well, and the filtration system is just but starting to function in a better way. Knowing that I have control over what I say is one thing, understanding and practising that control is but another. I'm probably still a newbie at this, and it's interesting that being 27 (yes I'm that old this year), I still have to say all of this in-my-brain conversations out loud (much to the annoyance of people who seem to suspect I'm a kiddo pretending to be a mature Auntie). Realize I'm recording it not because I can, but rather because I want to and I feel I have to.

Having said that I probably should have inserted the other cliché line: Oh this is my space and I can say anything I want. Add on with this: And I'm saying all of this because I feel I need to. And another: Since so, I will.
There's a breathy tremor wafting its way through me because I feel the connection, and it excites me.