chaka chaka

can i go home now?

in the cards

went to a… future specialist today and he told me i was stubborn, overly-aggressive and followed my emotions blindly. he also in not so many words told me my life is fucked.

i paid good money, dude, please tell me something i don’t know.

fuck all, carry on

remember the sun will rise in the morning and everything will be great again. right?

the first (and probably last) GPOYW

making fucking guai lan faces while it’s still acceptable to do so.

simply because i’m still looking like a schoolgirl while chasing 30.

for posterity’s (and honesty’s) sake though, that was actually a Gratuitous Photo of Yourself Tuesday. i look way worse on a work day than a holiday, duh.

ni baru gambar rabu. ish.

leech

i wonder, has any other single (read: unmarried) female been subject to the same offensive statement that i have recently?

since i’m no longer the young bird/cat/chick i was 5 years ago, the adult thing to do next it to get a place and move my freeloading ass out of my family home. the one consistent theme in the many reactions to this is: “ask your boyfriend to buy you a place”

of course i know i’m a fragile, frail, inept, needy, weakling female and wont to need assistance with every step i take.

but why, oh why must my boyfriend sign 30 years of his life away to buy me a home? is it his manly responsibility? did i just strike it lucky being born without a penis? do men really have nothing better to do? is pussy juice worth a few hundred grand?

maybe my colleagues can get an office collection going and pool some extra cash to buy me one, it makes about as much sense as placing the burden arbitrarily on a boyfriend/husband.

april quadtych

got what i wanted eh?

as a very smart kid, i envied both my brother and my cousin who were warded for various un-life-threatening illnesses. i coveted their magazines and presents and fucking bears with balloons. i glowered looking on at all the fussing and attention they received.

i was warded 2 days last week for my surgery. and boy, was that horrific. i didn’t wake up all chirpy and renewed with new gall-less vigour as hinted by my surgeon. nope, more like 24 hours of cramping around each of my incisions; a chance meeting with a freshie nurse who tugged wrongly at my branula, squirting blood all over my nice hospital gown like some tarantino movie; a bout of UTI, which meant hourly trips to the washroom (it was either that or a catheter since bedpans apparently don’t exist on the 5th floor).

now i’m home sweet home, i realise i’ve taken too many things for granted. getting out of bed on my own? a thing of the past. the stitches force me into a posture that makes me want to burst into song. and i’ve (of course) been experiencing coughing and sneezing fits aplenty. nice one.

can’t wait to get these coverings and stitches removed and get back to the grindstone.

stoner

finally consulted a surgeon who came highly recommended by my uncle, datuk koh (subtle, right? i know). thought it would be over in a snap, but my outpouring of paranoia-fueled questions didn’t end till about 11 (i was in around 9am). doctor ong has this wonderful bedside manner speaking super low and then flashing the most sincere smile you’ll see in 10 years. also you can never go wrong with a droll sense of humour.

me, skin crawling: do patients wake up during surgery?

doctor: i really prefer they don’t do that. they tend to ask a lot of questions.

i was terribly disappointed that he’s self-proclaimed “old skool” and won’t be making me a dvd recording of the keyhole surgery (that’s laparoscopic surgery for those of you who care) to watch with a bucket of popcorn. though, he did promise to pass me the, erm, specimen inclusive of all the little buggers so i can “string them up and make a necklace”.

after a lengthy q&a aka nervous grilling, there are a few things i can safely conclude:

  1. 11 out of 10 persons on the street can’t tell the difference between the gallbladder and the kidney
  2. the same 11 persons dispense interchangeable advice
  3. after 3 consultations, i’m even more confused why the gallbladder (and while we’re at it, the damn appendix) even exists
  4. people who get gallstones are supposed to be Female, Forty, Fat, Fertile
  5. hospitals have late check-out charges just like hotels

my “social” calendar is now strangely full and i feel happening in all the wrong ways. thursday, BAT karaoke. this weekend, krabi. next week, surgery and after a week-long medical leave, minion and i are getting some ink done together. all just before i pop over to the new agency.

totally random, but assunta girls all just give out the same vibe. i can smell them a mile away sial.

that time of the year

image

told manja I was a bit bogged down so she offered to to my  taxes for me.

congrats! it’s a girl!

after a month of constant gastric attacks (one which sent me to the ER), i finally went for some poking and prodding at SDMC formerly known as Subang Jaya Medical Centre.

instead of telling you i could see its little heart beating, sad to say those are just lots of little stones. the biggest just 3.5mm in length or some shit.

the gastroscope was less scary than my chicken shit self anticipated. more painful was the hole-making (small veins, remember) where the nurses literally had to “milk” my arm for blood. ma heard me laughing from outside the ward and thought i had lost my marbles. 5 seconds later  i was groaning at the top of my lungs, while under sedation mind you.

wtf. how freaky.

next step? sit and wait for the countless meds to work. OR. surgery.

yeah yeah, just please get it done by may, when my ING guarantee letter expires. thanks.

things to do in no particular order

  1. save money
  2. buy more books
  3. exercise, bitch
  4. grow up
  5. make money
  6. work on craft
  7. read more annuals
  8. read more ad man books
  9. be neater