Take My Hand, We'll Make It, I Swear,

Whoa,
Living on a Prayer...

Or rather, living on four hours of sleep and a truckload of caffeine. I'm so tired and exhausted, but today was a good day, for the most part. In my sleep deprived state, everything was hilarious; I laughed a lot, but I'd like to think that it wasn't just me; that all those moments were amusing as hell. You know, one of those days, where everyone's on a roll and you love those days, with their continuous awesome ;)

I'm on the phone so I may update this later, I'm way too easily distracted and confused to do more than one things at a time... I suck lol

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I Think I'm Getting Dumber.

And you may think I'm secretly blonde once I have told you the story of why. My friend told me that I was dumber than Paris Hilton - I'm so ashamed. (There'll be a poll at the end, don't worry.)

And btw, my Google Reader is fucked at the moment, what with my following 207 blogs and all (yes, two hundred and freaking seven) so I'm desperately trying to catch up on everything and if I don't comment on some kick ass post, yeah sorry. I know you'll miss me. -_-

So today, I'm kind of disheartened because it seems like I'm turning into one of those people who break everything they touch to the point where it's just plain embarrassing rather than funny, and you kinda wonder whatthefuck their point on earth could possible be other than to make you feel like a person of more worth. Take, for instance, the character Frank of old BBC comedy "Some Mothers Do 'Ave Em", which my parents are currently watching on DVD.

Case in Point 1.

This morning, I was about to leave for school, when, with one last look in the mirror, I noticed a dark stain on my jumper. At first, I, somewhat confusedly, thought it was blood, possibly because at the same time I accidentally stabbed my finger on one of the open safety pins that were supposed to be holding the strap of my bag in place, although they do that barely. That broke again today, irrepairably. Or, you know, I came to that conclusion because I am quite simply, morbid as fuck. It was also a strange reversal of an incident that occurred many years ago when I was a child, when I cut my hand opening a tube of tennis balls (pulling off the foil covering under the lid) in the car in the dark and was bleeding all over the tennis balls but somehow thought it was ink or oil...

I soon realised it couldn't be, and was attempting to wash it off when I realised it was ink that must have leaked from a pen in the pocket of my jumper. In washing it out I left a huge wet mark on my jumper. I was already wearing my school bag and didn't want to waste time, so... I proceeded to try to iron the wet patch on my jumper... while still wearing it.

I always knew it was a stupid idea, although I guess I never really worked out why... I thought, it's my jumper, it's wet, so the heat won't penetrate to my skin. I AM INSANE.

Less than 5 seconds later, I yelped in pain. OHMYGOD. It was so hot.

Duh.

So I ended up ironing my jumper on the ironboard after removing it, leaving faint ink stains on the ironboard cover in the process.

As a friend pointed out to me, why the FUCK didn't I use the hairdryer on it?

It never even crossed my mind.

I fucking suck.

Case in Point 2.

Why is my school bag broken? Well, it all began when walking through the library doors, where they have the same sort of things on the side as at shops, to make sure no one just steals books. I caught my bag in one of these without realising, kept walking, and tore the strap off the bag at the bottom. I have been attempting to hold it together with a whole bunch of safety pins since the bag is plastic and I know that if I tried to sew it back, things would only worsen.

Safety pins really aren't doing it anymore.

Case in Point 3.

We had a Biology practical today which involved cutting up Agar into cubes. Agar is jelly-like, but firmer, and I amused myself by drawing on the leftovers with my pen that is not a ball-point and I can't work out what type it is. Said pen no longer works. At all.

It was new.

Case in Point 3.

Today we had Maths, since we don't have every lesson every weekday. I forgot my Maths workbook, textbook, and calculator. I'd say the only thing I had that was able to be used in that subject was my pen, but I had already destroyed that earlier, in Biology, and happened to have on hand a pen I have borrowed from somebody else, forgotten to return, and now cannot recall who owns it, and no one else seems to know.


I could go on for hours but it's becoming a little too depressing and I'm going out soon so time is not on my side, although thank God, in this situation.

I'm angry at myself, because in our Biology practical, we used razor blades to cut the cubes, and everyone laughed over the brand of these blades being "Happiness". The irony here is obvious, but the thing is, I contributed by saying something about Emos, etc. It's not hard to work out the gist of any of those comments. But the thing is, I have been there, I know certain other people in the same area have cut themselves and I was completely insensitive and cruel about it. Talk about contributing to the stereotype. Because it isn't funny, and even though some people do it for attention, a lot of the time that is because they need help but can't express it in a normal way. I've thought that since before I ever did it, but as to why I did, there are so many different reasons. And I could never have stopped without one particular person.

The first person I told besides the ex ex best friend, and who stuck around for my relapse and getting through trying to quit again. I can't remember if I ever told her how grateful I was and am to her, specifically, although there were many general thank-you's to all of my friends who helped in some way, and I hope so much that I did, because I don't think I could ever have stopped without her. And she was right there in the room and I wondered if the conversation reminded her of me - what a terrible thing to connect with me. I see her more often than the others, and its excruciating because I think of how this time would be spent if things hadn't gone the way they had. And even when sometimes I think, fuck it, I'm going to leave my arms and stomach in shreds and pouring with blood, it's for her I don't, although I don't even know if it matters to her anymore, and I half hope it does and half that it doesn't, because, really, which is worse? I don't know anymore. Better for her, better for me; is anything best for the both of us??

And why I am I speaking about her now when I have tried so hard and so long to block her out? That sounds terrible, but if I didn't I don't know what I would do. In some ways, that's the hardest to deal with, because we were the ones who talked. I'd tell them all the same stuff but just, it was different, with her. We talked in depth about freaking everything. And it's talking about the really serious shit and just typical teen matters that I miss. Just, the way that we talked. Kathleen is great, but. It's not the same.

Nothing with other people could ever be the same.

And finally, for the answer to my question, I actually let myself read her blog [and the other's] tonight and then, well, then I obviously couldn't block it anymore. Now I'm more confused than ever. And there's only four days to go and I don't want it to get here, because one was bad enough. And even though the day before I'd done the stupidest thing I could have, that was barely on my mind.

[And, well, I guess that maybe you're reading this [?] and I wonder what you'll be thinking, but I have nowhere left to go, and I decided a long time ago that this was where I would write what I was thinking. I don't fucking know, I hide in every other way, I don't want to leave here too.

So maybe I won't write that letter. Because half the time I'm writing to all of you on here anyway.

You know, this post began and I was determined not to think about you, to make it to you or about you, all of you, for once. But what you said is running through my head and I'm trying to make sure I understand.

I hope you'll never think he was more important. He was just the one who was around the most, and from all that time together, to nothing. Fuck. I still don't know, I still don't think it was that way. But I wonder. "What's it like to kiss someone with a beard?" I remembered her asking that the other day, when I'd told both of you about hooking up with the exbestfriend, and how you both laughed as we walked our separate ways to different classes. That made me laugh.

But you know what? I realised, months ago, that I can deal with not being his friend. I always knew we wouldn't be "best friends forever". But I truly thought that about you two, and I guess, I guess that we all thought that but, I dunno. Semester One exam week, last year, sitting at the shops; do you remember the old lady who had the hair like the scary woman from Spirited Away? And how after we laughed at her, we talked about how we had to still be friends when we were old and had grey hair?

It's things like that I wish I could forget.]


In other news, guys, I may be getting back with Jimit. We were talking about it, and I dunno. I do like him but a friend says it would be a bad idea for me to get into a relationship with anyone at the moment, and I know that's probably true, but I just disagree. I can't really think of a reason why not to, so enlighten me, as I'm sure I'm just too fucking blonde to realise.

Anyway, after the longest-ass and most rambly post I have written in fifty years, here is your poll. What is your opinion on my level of blondeness? Dumber than Paris Hilton, secretly blonde, dropped on my head as a child, my mother drank while pregnant with me, or what? All conclusions welcome ;)

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Shop Till You Drop Part II

Or, Why I Hate My Bra Size

ISWEARTOGODITISIMPOSSIBLEFORMETOFINDBRAS. Okay, near impossible. My mum tells me I should quit with the exaggerating, but where's the fun in saying "I haven't seen you in a week", when I can say "I haven't seen you in like, fifty years!"? Lie? Yes. But, entertaining to me for some completely unknown and probably inexplicable reason? Also yes. And that, folks, is what counts. [And yes, I do use "like" far too much in conversation. However, no, I never actually say "folks"...]

Now, I used to like bra shopping. So many pretty bras. Then... Well, I became the bra size that I am today. I actually hate bra shopping. Bras in my size just aren't that common, and even when I do find any that are the right size on the tag, each bra is different blah blah, and more often than not, they don't actually fit me. Apparently big cup size and small chest don't normally go together. You know what I have to say to that? Fuck you, bra makers, and fuck you, 10DD.

I don't want to wear granny bras! Besides, my mother doesn't like to spend over $50 on one bra, especially since I am "still growing" and therefore, she'll need to buy more later on. Uh, mum, I actually still need bras now, even if I will need different sized ones in the future! Just sayin'.

But yesterday, I actually found some that fit and were average looking. I don't care if no one else sees my bras, I freaking know what I'm wearing and I want it to be pretty damnit {I am aware that damnit is actually properly spelled dammit, although it is slang and thus, shouldn't even have a proper spelling, to my mind. However, even though it irritates me, I picked it up off a dear friend and it's one of my ways of remembering him, so forgive me this continual spelling error thing... Oh and P.S. Mozilla Firefox spell check, "spelt" is a word >.<)!

Average looking? That ain't gonna cut it. I don't want to be average, I want to be above average. Although you wouldn't be able to tell by my school work...

You know how sometimes I say that people suck? Well, people make bras. Therefore, people suck.

P.S. Remember how the other day, I was bitching about Lady Gaga? That said, this cover of Poker Face is freaking amazing, and I discovered it all thanks to JoJo at I Once Was Captain of Whatever.

Seriously, take a look. It's pretty cool.



And, FYI, I'm actually getting a B in three out of five subjects this term. Don't ask about German and Biology. ;P Also, thanks to my terrible critical analysis skills, my English grade would have been a C, but my recount and oral and the like brought me up, and then my teacher gave me an extra mark for some reason ;D Must work harder next term.

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Shop Till You Drop

or, I Feel Slightly Derro Because It Took Till My Jeans Wore Through Before My Mum Would Take Me Shopping

My mum took me shopping at the mall today for an hour and a half before she went to work, because, let's face it, I really needed new jeans. You'd be crazy to deny me that. I'm also low in numbers when it comes to bras, and just, clothing in general. My mother has been convinced that she "bought me clothes only recently" for the past year... Just like she's been saying that she and Dad moved to Australia from India "fourteen years ago" for the past four years.

So anyway, in my unending complaints about the fate of my jeans over the last few days, I've been informed that this happens to many people. So it wasn't, as I was worrying, that my legs are huuuuge and thus caused this to occur. Also take into consideration that I wore these near constantly. So, the wearing out justified, I was all good to search for some more. The problem is, it took me a very long time to find these jeans. I'd wanted black skinny's for ages but every pair I tried on made my legs look fat. It was the jeans, of course. Not my legs...

So, after finally finding the perfect jeans that were now torn beyond repair, I was somewhat nervous to look for some black jeans once more. If I seeked suck? sucked..? oh fuck it: searched, would I find? (Although come to think of it, I really do suck.) It was a question that desperately needed an answer.

It was of some urgency, too, since at school we must wear black pants, and I'm not willing to wear proper school pants, nor trackies. I look utterly slightly ridiculous in both. Anyway, I found a pair pretty much straight off the bat.

It is true, I use nearly every cliche in the book. Even that was a cliche. Was it not? (I wanted to use a cliche just then so it would be funny, but... I kinda really fail at life, like, a lot, so please insert one here)

I wasn't sure about the jeans after trying them on, though, and so, this is the conversation that followed.

Toivoa: "Do these jeans make my legs look fat?"
Toivoa's Mum: "Your legs are fat."
Toivoa: Should have seen that coming. "Be that as it may, does it make my legs look fat? My other jeans didn't."
TM: "That's what you think."
Toivoa: How is my self esteem even as high as it is? "Um. Regardless. Do my legs look fat in these jeans???"
TM: "Just get them..."
"You need to exercise. You eat so much junk."
Toivoa: BAH! (I have good mental comebacks. I copyrighted that one, but you can use it if you want. You're welcome.)

These jeans are really tight. When I put my jeans on, I end up doing this dance in which to get my legs through my jeans because it happens to be more interesting than, well, however ordinary people put their pants on. I kick my legs outward like I'm trying to Irish dance like a Leprechaun, or something.

What can I say? I exude awesome. So much awesome my pants can't contain it. (Which is why my previous jeans tore and these ones are so tight... No? No? Fine.)

I should stop that train of thought.

I do often fall over during this process. Come to think of it, I fall over often full stop. Today, while walking in my jeans and wearing heels, I caught one heel in the folded bottom of my other pant leg and fell onto the couch. My sister and her friend were amused. Charming and graceful.

So, due to the tightness, it takes five minutes to do the fly up. Okay, that's a lie. It does, however, take longer than doing up one's fly ever should. That much is true. I don't really do much to support my "my legs aren't fat" argument, do I?

Although here, my hips are the problem. Okay, so I may as well be screaming, "Hey, it's not just my legs that are fat, but my hips and probably the rest of me too!", but I've never been one to refrain from saying something because it will shoot down my own argument... I'm sorry? Me, illogical and somewhat lacking in brain cells?

... yeah, that sounds about right.

However, I did get the jeans! Then began bra hunting. But I'll leave that for tomorrow...

P.S. On a completely different note (and sorry about this), the shocking state of our world never ceases to horrify me. I can't quite comprehend how a person could reach this point in life. Committing suicide is a horrible enough thing, but deciding to take other people with you, innocent people who you do not even know, who have nothing to do with your situation; that bewilders and sickens me. It makes me so sad.

EDIT (11.53PM): And on another note entirely, I still freaking like Chris. A lot. Can someone tell him that? Since he doesn't seem to know and I don't even see him or get to talk to him, really... I'm so confused!

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And my mother told me "It's no use crying over spilt milk"

Actually, what she said was more along the lines of "You're going to spill that milk."
"... [smug look]"
"You think you're so smart."
"... [smug look]"
"You'll see."

And less than ten seconds later, I did indeed see.

Last night I was drinking milk whilst using the laptop. Of course, being
ingenious, as I am, I was holding the cup between my teeth [look, no hands!], prompting my mother to issue her dire predictions.

Whaddyaknow. It fell. All over the laptop, over the lounge I was sitting on, on the floor, on my pants (yes, those ones >.<), on my hoodie, in my hair, over my face. EVERYWHERE. My mother was not amused. Needless to say, I was, although also somewhat abashed...

Shoulda taken a picture.

"And Cinderella Lost her Shoe", bringing you Toivoa's extremely uncoordinated moments (or epic fails) online since October 2008 (although under several different names). All events created and enacted by Toivoa, who's simply been bringing them, since 1992.

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OH GOD MY LIFE BE OVER

No, really. Losing the most important people in my life, having to deal with reading "Fresh and rosy-fingered Dawn" every five pages in the copy of "The Odyssey" we are studying in Classical Studies, failing German, crappy haircuts that apparently make me look like John Lennon, breaking my life line aka my mobile with no likelihood of a new one anytime soon, my dad being overseas for three weeks, lack of sleep; all of that, sure, I can deal [that was only half sarcasm]. BUT A HOLE IN MY FAVOURITE JEANS??? You have got to be shitting me.

I mean, come on, I practically live in these jeans. I had hunted for a pair of black skinny leg jeans that my legs didn't look fat in for freaking forever, and when I found them, well, I freaking wore them all the freaking time! I wear them to school, I wear them out, I wear them to church. I wear them everywhere. Sometimes I even wear them to bed. I wore them to Soundwave, an Australian alternative/metal music festival on a day with very high temperatures. They were filled with dust, but they lived through that awesome day with me. How, how can they die now? I do not understand.

See, this happened with one of my previous pairs of jeans also. The hole is suddenly there, so high up on the inside of my thigh that it's almost in crutch area. Okay, it's pretty much there. Yes, I know. It seems really suss. But. WHAT THE HELL??? I just do normal things that one does while wearing jeans. You know, sitting, standing, falling over, running, whatever the hell you do in ordinary life. Occasionally I'll slide on my butt somewhere in them but, come on. HOW DOES THIS FREAKING OCCUR?

I don't understand. Is it because they're really tight and I always sit cross legged in them and they just... frayed? I don't know! All I know is that, well, it's not really advisable for me to wear them any longer. I think I'm going to die. I have no other option. I love my jeans, I am a jeans girl. I cannot pull off trackies, which is why I only ever wear them around the house. I wear jeans on long flights, on long car trips, everywhere. They're so comfortable. I love them. This can't be the end of our long and beautiful friendship, in which they look good on my legs and cover my scars and keep me from having to wear shorts or the school skirt which I need to continually readjust and also expose my scars.

Not all that keen to be labelled the school emo.

Fuck my life.

P.S. Guys, head over to my friend Kate's blog and give some sympathy to someone who really needs it, having lost all information on their hard drive of the last three years. Devastating? It actually is, when you consider all the memories in the form of photographs and other such mementos contained on her computer. So. Send her love, she's awesome. (:

P.P.S. [10.01PM] I. Still. Cannot. Believe. That. Ifrickinbrokemypants. Broke all my phones, broke the keyboard thing, broke my friendships, broke every pair of headphones I have ever owned, broke my flute somehow, and a whole crap load of other stuff. It's official. I break everything.

In other news, I managed to score 75% on an in-class essay about The Odyssey in Classical Studies that I did practically no study for prior. I'm pretty stoked. Chuffed, let's use that. I'm pretty chuffed. But I can't keep fluking it. In the holidays, I will get organised. I want my TER (tertiary entrance rank) score at the end of the year to be a minimum of 90. Not sure if that's even achievable anymore. I need to check that.

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Advertising at its best

I haven't had a Macca's Filet o' Fish burger since I lived in New Zealand when I was around six, and just personally, I'm keen to keep it that way. All the same, the ad below is making me crave some of that greasy food, any of it, from that place with the golden arches we love so much... Okay, maybe nothing with the new seared chicken. >.< Or the apple slices that are a choice in Happy Meals. Come on, we do not go to Macca's for healthy food,and especially not apple slices!

McD's --> grease grease grease. Golden fries dripping in grease. Burgers with melted plastic cheese and meat patties we learn not to look at, for our own sakes. Food that is so bad it cannot be anything but great. Don't try to understand it. Just embrace it. After all, Macca's is what our inner children know we need. And our inner child knows best.

We are the fattest nation in the world, and if I contribute to that by my consumption of McDonald's, I gotta tell you, I can deal with that.



P.S. This ad is addictive (kinda like Macca's). I can't stop watching it, and the fish song is in my head... You have been warned.

UPDATE: My sister now can't stop singing it either. ;D

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What the crap?

What is up with noodles these days? Yes, I did a noodle post not all that long ago, but come on people! The issues that noodles bring are endless. Let's consider my current problem.

I am, as I type, in the process of trying to enjoy eating two minute cup noodles, in a "super big" and "mega" size. 100 grams, in fact. These super-sized noodle cups can be a great source of messy delight, but when in a flavour called "Smokin' ribs"? Even before opening it, smelling it, let alone eating these noodles; that flavour does not bode well for your tastebuds. It was sitting on the kitchen bench top as I arrived home, and I was invited by my mum to eat it, which I gladly went to do. Until I saw the flavour.

Smokin' ribs??

Just for a start, the apostrophe replacing the simple "g" implies a "tryhard-ness". Is it really that hard to say "Smoking"? Really? I know, Australians are lazy with grammar, spelling, and the like. But, even we are not necessarily that slack. So what are they trying to compensate for..?

And for the love of god, what has happened to the simple flavours we grew up with, beef, chicken, oriental; and those more daring, like chicken and mushroom? I know I've missed something major, forgive me.

Thankfully, we have not lost these classics yet (touch wood), but the influx of new, fancy flavours on the market, and not just among noodles, is something that disturbs and irritates me. We have enough choices to make in life already. Why make it harder for us who only want easy, quick foods? Is not my generation indecisive enough already??? I dread the thought of what today's toddlers will grow up to be like...

And as for McDonald's... Happy Meals used to be simple. You decided between chicken nuggets and a cheeseburger, the flavour of soft drink, and possibly the toy. And now. SO MANY CHOICES. There's the orange juice, soft drink, apple juice, and whatever other options there are for a drink; and then there are choices of apple pieces and God only knows what. It saddens my heart, my wonderful mega fast food chains who destroy people's livelihoods and nature and most things to bring us those lovely greasy fries, so well symbolised by your hallowed golden arches. Please consider slightly more. We do not come to you for healthy options. That we go to Subway for. And while Hungry Jacks and KFC also have their hold on us, nothing compares to Macca's with your beef patties that are best eaten without being seen.

I think it is now time for me to quote some lines from one of my favourite (and possibly one of the most random) books ever,

"I am Ronald,
of Mordor,
the Mage, the
Destroyer.

Taste the scorched fruit
inside my pies.

Chew the bitter towelette
of truth.

Die, you seedy little elves
who refuse to accept any
new menu items added
after 1975.

I scorch your loins with
coffee that sears like a
molten steel patty
flipper.

I smash your bones on
rocks of ice churned by
spews of cola.

I till your soil, steal your
potatoes, circumcise
their skins, cook
them in tallow
and tell you
they're vegan.

I shall castrate your
bulls, rendering them more
juicy and docile,
and I shall salt them with
hormones, making them
girly-cows.

You shall wander the
wastelands in search of fishwiches fallen from
the sky, frozen and plump
with weevils and sauce
of fiercest tartar.

My face is stripped of
pancake makeup,
staring at the sun,
burning, awaiting
balloons and a helium
canister that will never
arrive.

You ears shall hear only
the sound of a french-fry
computer that beeps
eternally.

You shall remain forever
parched with a
bottomless Styrofoam
drinking cup.

You, my imprisoned
sprite servants, I shall
deprive of both minimum
wage and nutrients.
My cooker writhes
with yellow frybabies
your lips shall
never taste.

I shall pierce your being
with shakes made of
ground bones, nay,
chalk.

You shall beg for death,
but instead shall receive
only laughter and
choking hazards
disguised as plastic toys.

In my costume of yellow
bib and coarse
enormous red feet, I will
smite you with burgers
laced with thorns.

Inside your bird nuggets
you will find razor
blades, rats and tumours.

The only real clown is a dead clown.

I ONLY MAKE YOU FAT SO THAT YOU'LL SIZZLE WHEN YOU BURN"

As you can see, it's incredibly strange. The book, "JPod" by Douglas Coupland, is obviously not everyone's cup of tea, but it is something I find highly amusing.

Anyway, apart from my divergance onto my inexplicable love for McDonald's, something that seems to afflict many teenagers; my original point is that weird flavours are a no-no for me.

My noodles taste terrible. Sigh.

And society complicates far too much.

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Typical toivoa moment

So today I decided to fry some eggs.
There were a few sitting there in the egg shelf of the fridge door, so I grabbed two as the oil was heating in the pan. All seemed normal...

The problems began when I attempted to crack the first egg. It was rather hard and when it actually did crack I wasn't paying much attention. I held it above the pan, trying to break it apart, thinking that what I was meeting resistance with was that filmy white layer you get just within an eggshell. Not looking, I was thinking, this is soo thick... :s Once I finally came up with the brilliant idea to look at what I was doing, I realised what I was actually holding was an already boiled egg, obviously done by my mother.... Feeling like a bit of a douche, I had another look in the fridge and took another 2 eggs from the carton I found there.
Now, this egg was also quite hard as I hit it to crack it. I got a little bit impatient and tried cracking it simply with the force of my fingers, whereupon it promptly broke and the egg splattered all over me...
I was left standing there, bewildered, with the broken pieces of eggshell in my hands and egg yolk slowly dripping down my top...

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Oooooodles of Noodles

I love noodles. Really. Chinese food is great. Indian-Chinese is also good. Seriously, in the four year gaps between our visits to India, I draw up from my memory the taste of food from a nearby Chinese restaurant to my nana's home in Pune, India, time and time again. It sustains me as I pass by the days, eating mediocre food. Haha well, not exactly.

And, please, explain to me this fascination with Indian food people seem to have. It's good, but not that good. It delights me to find non-Indians /people from similar countries who dislike or at least don't love Indian food. That's one more person to shove in the face of my parents as evidence that not all others love Indian food and I am not just strange and alone in my non-loving view of it. Or something.

Then, I love 2 minute noodles, noodle cups, and stir fry, etc. Any noodles are good. (:

However, there is a problem when it comes to my eating of noodles...


I am rather uncoordinated. If I was easily embarrassed, I am of no doubt that my face would permanently be a bright red. Although, I'm not too sure if my face actually does turn red when I am embarrassed, since my skin is dark(ish), but... metaphorically speaking...

Anyhow, much laughter is had at my expense, on my side as well. Our sloped driveway has me tripping almost every time I get out of the car, I fall over while simply walking, stumble on nothing, and drop things a lot. As for my phones, they're lucky to survive as long as they do. I believe my mobile comes into abrupt contact with the ground at least twice everyday, no matter how much care I attempt to take. I'm forgetful and easily confused; not to mention incredibly disorganised.

It's not even that I'm disorganised as such. Really. ;P I love organisation. I love matching sets of items.
The problem, you see, is that I am too organised. If something is messy, I want it organised. But I have a specific pattern that things must be in. I will not half organise. I want matching kitchenware, complementary furniture in a room... Matching holders on a desk, rooms with a particular style to them. It drives me absolutely crazy how, in our house, some of the furniture in a room would be appropriate for a country style home, others fitting for a simplistic, modernised set up, yet others casual and comfy in earthy shades; or bright colours; with others formal... the list is endless. I see all the possibilities to theme different rooms, or the same room in different themes. I considered interior designing as a possible future career but I passionately want to have a job where I can help people in important areas, make a difference in people's lives, not their homes.

Okay, our home doesn't clash that terribly, and thank god. I am still irked by the lack of a theme. (And yet, I hate themed parties. Dress up parties, that is. If I had loads of money to go out and create fantastic costumes, they would be fine. As it is, working with my $35 of pocket money per month and added grade money each term [remind me to do really well at school this year!], it is not something that brings great joy to my heart. [I really really want a Star Wars themed party some day, just by the way. I would be Queen Amidala LOL.])

How am I too organised? Well, if I can't organise something perfectly, I refuse to organise it at all. When I clean my room, I haul out everything out from the depths of my wardrobe, dresser, and under my bed. This, firstly, makes my room messier than it is, and is more time consuming. My mum cannot understand it. She says I should do things one at a time, i.e. clean the outer messiness and at another time do all the concealed stuff. But I want to do it all in one shot. And of course, I must take advantage of my mood. When I start doing something, if I leave it unfinished, I am likely to leave it so for a long time.

When the urge to cook attacks, I will make three or more things in one hit. As for cleaning, when that urge comes, I clean everything I can possibly think of. Another point of complaint for my mum. She wants me to cook more, after all, I am sixteen, blah blah. When I do cook, she usually complains that my delectable (or not so) creation is unhealthy... Cleaning? "Good. Now if only you'd do it more often. (Also applies to the cooking scenario)" The woman is impossible to please, I swear.

I like my stationary to be matching and look good. What I write in and what I write with are very important to me. I like the expensive stuff. It's not on purpose, it happens with clothing too. I see it, I like it, I want it, I check the price tag and tend to be somewhat incredulous. I will not spend recklessly, always. Even if I really love something I find, if I find the price ridiculous, I will put it back (reluctantly) on the shelf and move on. Mostly. (Shoes are my biggest weakness. It seems it's a female thing. I fall in love with heels even faster and perhaps more often than I fall literally. Haha, I'm hilarious. >.< I think I've been around Jimit for too long.)

The point is, if something cannot be organised as well as I would like, I deign to organise it at all. Probably not the best way to go about life...

So. Uncoordinated. That's me. Ask my friends to recall a funny moment involving me, and it will either be an incredibly "blonde moment", or a time in which I fell down or off something. Without even trying, at least 5 events come to mind. I shan't go into those now... I was meaning to discuss noodles.

So, the other night, I was eating noodles from a noodle cup. When eating noodles, there are a few minor issues resulting from my lack of coordination which I urgently need to address. Firstly, I am incapable of twirling noodles onto a fork. How is it done??? I try, but as I turn the fork over to add more to the bundle of noodle, the previously twirled noodle untwirls off the fork... Then there is how noodles seem to, while being put on the fork, drag others along with them, so twirling can never be finished, even if successfully done. I suppose I could just cut it, but I'm too fearful that any twirling half accomplished will be completely undone by trying to cut the noodles. So I end up with noodles ends dangling from each side of my fork.

That is not all, folks. The worst is yet to come.

Due to my twirling incapability, I usually just shovel noodles with my fork. Again, this drags other noodles from the bowl or plate with it, and the problem of dangling noodle ends makes an appearance once more. Why do I never actually try to cut it..? Definitely need to consider my options more.

Now, most noodles are accompanied by something liquid - sauce, curry, or the flavoured water in 2 minute noodles. The problem then, is this: when I am eating my noodles of the fork, the dangling ends must enter my mouth eventually. Even if I try to use the fork to bring these up to my lips, they flick. If I don't use a fork here, they flick. They do that. Even if they don't hit my chin and leave my face covered in gook (not that I don't love the "baby-who-has-just-eaten look", however it's not really my thing), liquid tends to fly, onto my shirt, onto the table, etc. I am a) confused, b) grossed out, and c) embarrassed by this.
It's not that I don't understand how it happens, I understand, all too well. But why, why can't I eat like a normal person???

Don't even get me started on what ensues when I eat a yiros. Particularly, that time I ate a yiros when my collarbone was fractured and I couldn't really use my right arm...

Postscript - I said "folks" in this post. I fucking said "folks"...

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