Ever since Facebook enabled their quiz-publishing platform, there's been a flood of some of the strangest 'need to knows':
What's your name meaning?
How many girl/boyfriends before your marriage?
What does your birthday say about you?
What is your true age?
Your ideal job.
When will you die?
How will you find your wife/husband?
What's your swim stroke?
When will you get married?
Who will you marry?
How boyish/girlish are you?
My feed is now probably about 60% test results accompanied by some inane comment about whether the test taker agrees or not. I can imagine them sitting there shuddering with every eerily accurate result and denying anything they didn't want to know. Human beings can only survive that way.
I guess we're all seeking some sort of Greater Confirmation. Having said that, I don't fully understand the implications behind what swimstroke matches your personality. There wasn't really ever any doubt on that matter - your coach just yelled at you until you figured it out.
Other quiz results, however, could potentially be life-changing, and it was all a matter of self-awareness. What better than to lead our lives according to the appropriate "What Disney princess are you?" Code of Damsel-in-Distress Ethics.
I'm Belle and if I were a Starbucks coffe, I'd be a latte.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Monday, June 15, 2009
High summer in the city
I'm back by popular demand. Let me qualify that statement for all you skeptics out there.
A grand total of three people have clamoured for more writing, followed by the sentence "I've run out of things to read when I'm supposed to be working!". Thanks, you guys, it does a lot for my self-confidence and budding writing ambitions when I now know that I fill that all-important procrastination zone between your 9am start and your 6pm deadline.
I'm back, but only for a little while, because this outlet also serves me as a bit of a time waster, and I'd rather not fill out job applications on a glorious Monday afternoon when I have a glass of wine with my name on it two streets over. 4.15 is apparently a little too early for a tipple, but 4.45pm is much more socially acceptable, if just barely.
We've also been frantically busy. The CFA came and went with the usual brain-rape-type trauma that leaves you second-guessing all 3 multiple-choice options. Some people walked out way before the bell while others had to have their pencils and calculators forcibly removed. You can never really tell how well you did.
Then we moved to a beautiful flat near the Wharf. It was a long, exhausting weekend, made even more so by the morons that pulled up underneath our window at 6.30am on the Sunday morning and proceeded to have a radio war at maximum volume. Our final trip from the old flat to 'pick up the bits leftover' which turned out to be almost 30kg of washing detergents and other various odds and ends has left Weng broken.
We're now struggling to unpack in any kind of systematic way. Maybe Weng was right and we shouldnt've set up the TV first, but we really need to get going otherwise we'll be eating 2-minute microwaveable oats for the rest of our tenancy.
I've also been trying to determine the X-factor that makes a celebrity blogger a la Mr. Brown and Kenny Sia. It seems like a fairly cushy job - make witty comments about the world and get a heap of free things (for instance, I could really do with a Panasonic LX-3 right now). I suppose the main difference between me and them, if I had to pick just one thing, would be a fanbase. Hmm, I really need to get me one of those.
But maybe not right now. Right now is for making like the locals; when in Rome hey?
A grand total of three people have clamoured for more writing, followed by the sentence "I've run out of things to read when I'm supposed to be working!". Thanks, you guys, it does a lot for my self-confidence and budding writing ambitions when I now know that I fill that all-important procrastination zone between your 9am start and your 6pm deadline.
I'm back, but only for a little while, because this outlet also serves me as a bit of a time waster, and I'd rather not fill out job applications on a glorious Monday afternoon when I have a glass of wine with my name on it two streets over. 4.15 is apparently a little too early for a tipple, but 4.45pm is much more socially acceptable, if just barely.
We've also been frantically busy. The CFA came and went with the usual brain-rape-type trauma that leaves you second-guessing all 3 multiple-choice options. Some people walked out way before the bell while others had to have their pencils and calculators forcibly removed. You can never really tell how well you did.
Then we moved to a beautiful flat near the Wharf. It was a long, exhausting weekend, made even more so by the morons that pulled up underneath our window at 6.30am on the Sunday morning and proceeded to have a radio war at maximum volume. Our final trip from the old flat to 'pick up the bits leftover' which turned out to be almost 30kg of washing detergents and other various odds and ends has left Weng broken.
We're now struggling to unpack in any kind of systematic way. Maybe Weng was right and we shouldnt've set up the TV first, but we really need to get going otherwise we'll be eating 2-minute microwaveable oats for the rest of our tenancy.
I've also been trying to determine the X-factor that makes a celebrity blogger a la Mr. Brown and Kenny Sia. It seems like a fairly cushy job - make witty comments about the world and get a heap of free things (for instance, I could really do with a Panasonic LX-3 right now). I suppose the main difference between me and them, if I had to pick just one thing, would be a fanbase. Hmm, I really need to get me one of those.
But maybe not right now. Right now is for making like the locals; when in Rome hey?
Saturday, May 09, 2009
Shorty get low
Last weekend, we hit a club in Mayfair for a birthday and some more-atas people watching than the usual high-street fare. Expecting some high-class posing, waiting to catch a glimpse of well-paid escorts, and other general social posturing, all we really saw 'neath the strobe lighting was the throbbing one-ness of about forty people bumping and grinding in time (more or less) to the bass.
The one that thinks she can dance
Always the first one to hit the floor, brave enough to take her martini glass for a good shuffle on the parquet.
The one that doesn't want to dance with the one that thinks she can dance
A moment of clarity hits and/or feeling like a very lonely, bopping muppet, she drags her friend along. Reluctant friend is obliging her dancing friend's shenanigans and hand holding like a drowning man clutches a lead weight.
The one that dances because people are watching
Furtive glances around the crowd, amped up body gyrations when someone looks her way, copying other styles that seem to be getting more attention.
The one that dances only because people are watching
Not wanting to be the wallflower or the alcoholic at the bar. Note the forced smile and the halfhearted attempt to earn social acceptance. On the verge of becoming the one that thinks she's a chicken.
The one that thinks she's a chicken
There's a strange no-man's land between actually dancing and just not dancing. It's like you don't want to put your hands up because that would just make you feel way too self-conscious or maybe you didn't shave. So you dance all elbows and knees, half finished, half arsed, and looking, well, like a chicken.
The one that went for dance classes and is determined to use the moves no matter the music
You don't salsa to R&B the same way you don't pop to big band.
The one that learnt to dance with Paula Abdul
There are some moves that were never brought to the 00's because they belong to the 80's. For example, Paula Abdul's 4 minutes of almost-lucidity on American Idol.
P.S. I'll try not to leave you with a picture of a squirrel before disappearing next time. I apologise.
The one that thinks she can dance
Always the first one to hit the floor, brave enough to take her martini glass for a good shuffle on the parquet.
The one that doesn't want to dance with the one that thinks she can dance
A moment of clarity hits and/or feeling like a very lonely, bopping muppet, she drags her friend along. Reluctant friend is obliging her dancing friend's shenanigans and hand holding like a drowning man clutches a lead weight.
The one that dances because people are watching
Furtive glances around the crowd, amped up body gyrations when someone looks her way, copying other styles that seem to be getting more attention.
The one that dances only because people are watching
Not wanting to be the wallflower or the alcoholic at the bar. Note the forced smile and the halfhearted attempt to earn social acceptance. On the verge of becoming the one that thinks she's a chicken.
The one that thinks she's a chicken
There's a strange no-man's land between actually dancing and just not dancing. It's like you don't want to put your hands up because that would just make you feel way too self-conscious or maybe you didn't shave. So you dance all elbows and knees, half finished, half arsed, and looking, well, like a chicken.
The one that went for dance classes and is determined to use the moves no matter the music
You don't salsa to R&B the same way you don't pop to big band.
The one that learnt to dance with Paula Abdul
There are some moves that were never brought to the 00's because they belong to the 80's. For example, Paula Abdul's 4 minutes of almost-lucidity on American Idol.
P.S. I'll try not to leave you with a picture of a squirrel before disappearing next time. I apologise.
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