Bounce

Waking up to the pattering of raindrops, I take comfort in the fact that it reminds me of home.

A sunny island that rains like hell every once in a while.

The cloudy skies of Britain brings nostalgia along with the cold, as I lay huddled up in bed, wishing for the scene to change, and for me to be woken up to my mother’s incessant nagging.

But the truth is I am still here. And the scene doesn’t change.

Instead, all I can do is count down to the day when I set foot upon that tiny sunny island.

An island that I have come to love because it has clothed, fed and raised me.

No offense ma – your food is good. But that ah pek at Toa Payoh selling carrot cake is WAAAAY awesome.

 

What is my worth?

So Margaret Thatcher’s funeral is being held officially today, and the club in my city is partying it up with an event.

Why are all these people so classless?

Surely I can understand that loads of the older generation would be pissed off with Thatcher’s policies, but what have these youths got anything to do with her “radical” solutions to the UK’s financial crisis at that time?

They have very little, if any, to complain, but they seem to revel in the bitterness of their previous generation.

Or maybe they are just trying to make an excuse for another skanky night out. Complete with cheap vodka and roadside puking.

And of course, “an unforgetable night”.

This is a culture I find difficult to understand.

Why intoxicate yourself so much that you don’t remember the “fun” you’ve had?

Do you think you that you are gonna get all the drunk bitches tonight?

Well, the only “drunk bitch” you are going to get is the one lying on the street, in her own puke.

Sexy.

My only hope is that for everyone who seems to think that Thatcher’s death is reason enough to celebrate it with tons of booze and/or casual sex with the next mentally incapcitated person, I hope you wake up the next day to find that beauty you hooked up with is a whale.

I hope it’s a frigid whale at that

Pick your fights

Things have been going sour lately, the relationship between me and my confidence is starting to wane.

The last thing every girl wants to hear from anyone has finally been said to me, “You’re fat.”

By a bra fitter no less.

Though those weren’t exactly her words.

I may have exaggerated a wee bit… or a lot.

My point is, due to that incident, I have been on a diet ever since.

Oh and all hell has broken loose.

My Fitness Pal became my new best friend, confidant and advisor.

I would log everything religiously (as I could of course) and the pay off is the harsh truth that fish and chips are seriously fattening and shish kebab is only worth 900 calories. ONLY?! No! My life is now that of a rabbit.

No wonder I never caught on to their gamey, lean legs. Eurgh.

But this is a battle I have to fight. Or die.

And frankly, I don’t intend to have a customised coffin built for my decaying body made, only because I’m too fat to fit into a standard size wooden box.

I also don’t want my last photograph to look like this.

My CURRENT Funeral Picture (adaptation)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Imagine what people would say when they have their last look at me.

It definitely wouldn’t be: Oh even in death, she looks so graceful.

Instead: Well, at least the kids in Africa have food now.

Mm… No. That is not my way to go.

Bottom line, I hate that bra fitter.

Jobs are stupid

There I said it.

To be rejected time and time again is just so disheartening, I don’t even know where to begin.

See, to be told that “We found someone more qualified,” I can understand.

So I always strive to be the best.

But to be told that the only reason why the next candidate is better than you is because of the number of previous job titles he held?

It is ridiculous.

But it is a lesson learned, because it made me realise that being the best in the room is not enough, you have to show that you are the best in the room.

I’m not talking about your looks, or your dressing, I’m not even talking about how fanciful your resume looks.

I’m talking about how much bullshit you can truthfully crap out to your potential boss.

It’s like saying, “I’m a domestic engineer,” instead of “I’m a cleaner”.

Detail every single thing you’ve done.

Even if it is for the most trivial company, like working at your local convenience store.

So I will say here now: I worked at this fashion retail store called ‘This Fashion’ as their ‘retail executive’.

In other words: I worked at this clothing shop down the road from my house as a shop assistant.

Great. This lesson on crapping and fluffing up your CV is done.