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Wednesday, July 19th, 2006
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12:05 am
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Gift Voucher for Cathay Cineplex [inclusive of a combo meal] going at $8
- Expires on 31st July 2006
- Movie admission for one [irregardless of weekend / weekday]
- Any Cathay Cineplex, for any movie
- Inclusive of one small combo meal
For more information, email barbwire69@gmail.com
Feedback [+6/-0]
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12:00 am
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Gift Voucher for Cathay Cineplex [inclusive of a combo meal] going at $8
- Expires on 31st July 2006
- Movie admission for one [irregardless of weekend / weekday]
- Any Cathay Cineplex, for any movie
- Inclusive of one small combo meal
For more information, email barbwire69@gmail.com
Feedback [+6/-0]
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| Tuesday, November 1st, 2005
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9:50 pm
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| Tuesday, October 25th, 2005
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10:01 pm
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| Friday, February 18th, 2005
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1:11 am
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( Seventeen months, and along came Valentines’ Day. )
Seven more days and I bid goodbye.
I’m feeling so emotionally attached it seems a little hard to let go, but yet again, it’s classmates I’m talking about, and not the beau.
Strange how less than two months can make such a big impact in my life.
I learnt bridge today, and it’s addictive.
Spent hours at Borders’ Coffee Bean trumping.
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| Sunday, January 30th, 2005
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11:05 pm
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My cheeks are getting fatter by the days.
I look like I stole a hamster's pockets, and I'm a living testimony that talking tones cheek muscles.
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11:03 pm
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| Friday, January 21st, 2005
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3:03 am
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Somehow, when you hear about the fantabulous birthday celebrations others have, you tend to compare.
And realise it doesn't seem right when family members forget and cease to celebrate.
I think we're near the end of the sunset strip, but that's not my intended destination.
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| Thursday, January 13th, 2005
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1:00 am
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My seventeenth was the best ever - the surprises, the people involved, the celebration, the works.
Nevermind about the parental units forgetting; the bouquet of roses sitting within reach, the shirt I have on, the zebra print Push Pop in my hand and the Overheated Underwear staring at me lead the random thoughts astray.
I'd write more over the weekend; a blinking MSN conversation brings about a lack in attention, and the nest of cushions and comforters beckons.
The countless mobilephone messengers, the card writers, the emailers, the callers, the well-wishers, the hugs and handshakes, the song singers, the Zies - Pams Quiz Vanns Wans, Sheez and Bobs, the beau YongPing and all others who made my day special in one way or another, a million thanks, and I love you.
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| Tuesday, January 4th, 2005
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12:31 am
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I seldom write about my days, but I know friends would like to know the going-ons over here, so here it is.
It's a new year not alike all others. For once, I'm joining the masses and feeling like a four year old thrown into kindergarten. It was St Nicholas for me, ten years and running, [because it will always be a part of me, no matter what colour its walls are painted - it's a horrifying pale yellow and pink at the moment] and an orientation to me, is one where you form two rows and hang on to your partner's hand, have nametags hung around your neck, and follow the tallest person everywhere, wailing when you deem fit. My primary one orientation, the one and only time I've ever felt lost with regards to a new schooling environment.
My first day at Catholic Junior College [yes, the one with the uniforms that could pass off for a factory worker's] was rather alike my orientation at age seven, with the addition of ten years, at least 500 students [884 year ones] and more maturity. And of course, with the addition of numerous males; some boys, some men.
The transection from secondary school to a junior college is indeed intimidating, especially with the big jump in schooling hours, that will certainly deprive me of my upkeep, that comes along with my social life. I will only be dismissed at 7pm this Friday; late, by secondary school standards, although I really shouldn't grouse, as Anderson Junior College has it worse - 9.30pm this Friday.
6 hours without food was quite a killer, as lunch was at 12+pm. The day basically dragged on; flag raising in the morning [in an air-conditioned hall, much to my delight, although it does make me wonder if it's a temporary till-we-win-the-year-ones-over measure], the breaking up into index groups [I'm in group 32, with a facil who's terribly lame and looks like a gay poledancer, and another called Jackson - anyone with such a name spells pretty bad news, and there's also Bobs, one of my closest pals in SN] - it was good, and I was especially pleased with the announcement that 'interraction within index groups should be minimised', as that meant my worse orientation fears were unfound [for the time being] - all that rolling in the mud, the blowing of flour off fresh-makers. That was followed by a little walk around the school compound [where we got to view what must be Singapore's most creative running track, a field with TWO lanes forming its perimeter - I suppose three must be a crowd], the learning of the banghra dance [whereupon sweaty palms became a major worry for most], lunch [the food remains uncomparable to that over at SN, and prices are quite a stinger for someone who's accustomed to piling little hills of extra ingredients on her plate], the choosing of subject combinations [it's English Literature, History and Economics for me at the moment, although I'm hoping to swop Economics for Art&Design] and finally the learning of the school song [terribly short, so much so it seems incomplete] before heading home.
Being new in a school is awfully annoying, and we spent most part of our lunch figuring out if we had to return the plates and trays back to the stall.
Embarrassing moments never escape me, and today was no exception. I waved madly to a RGS girl, thinking she was my classmate in primary six whom I've since lost contact with, and as she ignored me, I marched right up and insisted that she was a Miss Angeline Ho. And if that wasn't enough, I was one of the three 'princesses' who swaggered into the hall far later than the given time and made many await my entrance.
Junior College should be fun, I suppose. I remain terribly uncertain.
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| Thursday, December 23rd, 2004
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1:32 am
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All I Want For Christmas & My Seventeenth / Sixteenth [for those who still owe me] Birthday
- Adidas Rod Lavers, size 7.5, white.
- Gucci sunglasses, green base with a brown tinge.
- zebra-print stationery, skirt and open-toed heels [at least 3 inches].
- shorts, size 30 - 32.
- tasteful skirts, length of 28 - 30cm, size 30 - 32.
- cds from HMV under the British trip-hop genre.
- bouquet of real poinsettias - the bigger the better, or a bouquet of a mix of ________ & ________ [something I've always wanted].
- Holga.
- solar-tan bikini.
- Fox [the motor-biking brand] denim jacket.
- anything related to urban decay.
- cold hard cash.
( 2004 Reflections [somewhat]. )
:(
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| Wednesday, December 22nd, 2004
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1:01 am
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I'd be leaving for Kuala Lumpur this Thursday morning, so if there's anything you want, holla!
And till my return, just in case I'm forgotten, here's a reminder.
Have a blast this Christmas.
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| Thursday, December 16th, 2004
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3:17 am
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It's the season for mistletoes and poinsettias, glitz and glitterati, feathered and fir trees, giving and receiving and loving, making merry and love [how delightful; product made on Christmas day] and up, joy and fun and laughter - the joys never cease.
May personalised greetings at your doorstep add to that.
Leave your address, if I like you, you'd know what to expect.
Make me smile - you know what to do.
Eileen Lee
7A Woo Mon Chew Road
Singapore 455759
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| Tuesday, December 14th, 2004
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1:48 am
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I hate how everything's going for me at the moment, with all the problems diving into the whirlpool at the same instant.
- No one's asking me out these days, and I miss not having companionship, even in the form of
interesting strangers who'd promise bouquets and scrumptious lunches.
- Golf practice daily at 9am. Need I say more?
- Annoying mother who either nags about my room's untidy condition, mutters about how
hopeless/stupid I am and how incomparable I am to the rest of the cousins/kids of her friends who
end up in top five JCs, or attempts to match-make me to sons of reputable people [think the local
Abalone King, the 'owner' of Raffles Medical Group, an ex-MP's secretary]. Her attendance at a
Ritz Carlton wedding recently only serves to feed oxygen to the famished flames.
- Having terribly messy cornrows and braids.
- Irritating mother who accuses me of heading out with males and cheapening myself whenever I head
out with acquaintances - when they actually ask me out.
- Not having Photoshop installed in my NEC.
This list goes on, but I'm done with the little ranting for now.
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| Sunday, December 12th, 2004
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12:52 am - Roger, can you hear me?
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| Tuesday, December 7th, 2004
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1:13 am
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It was embarrassing to have a measuring tape wound around me at discomforting areas during my interview at Catworkz by a woman, and having the measurements yelled [it sounded amplified to my ears] to a seated male. It's pleasing though, to know that I have a figure most females desire, and according to the Female magazine, many a male lust after.
The latter isn't good news.
I have girl pals who claim they'd kill, literally, for a body like mine, and I do know I have what it takes to draw members of the opposite sex. But it's sad how most choose to take things at face value, to ignore what lies on the other side of the coin, to lust after the greener grass over the fence.
Insecurity is something I do possess too, alike all others, but that's another matter altogether.
These God-given gifts make me wonder if people, especially the dudes, enjoy my company solely because I am good company, or because they enjoy being seen in my company. I have no wish to be an accessory of a friend or lover, to be called out only to be showed off in place of the glorified designer goods one does not own.
I get countless messages weekly on Friendster.com and Wholivesnearyou.com from the guys, and these messages cover a wide range [which I shall probably address in an entry some other time to humour you], but all carrying the same underlying message - I would like to befriend you. And their reason for wanting to get acquainted with me? I really wonder.
Why do some ladies get picked up and hit upon constantly in the streets, while their counterparts have been resigned to the sidelines? The only reply I can think of, sad as it is, is that those belonging in the first category are more often than not labelled 'the babes', while the others, have nothing worth mentioning, apart from their [most of the time] beautiful souls hidden within. Unfairness personified, isn't it?
And like all catty women are, you're probably wondering why this entry. Because I want to flaunt the fact that I get the guys and you don't? Because I want to douse your broken heart with petrol and set it aflame? Because I want you to hate me, because you love me?
I just want to make it clear, that I don't have things easy either. Leering males who somehow manage to mentally rape you, horny dirty bastards who attempt to grope, deluded self-declared studs, green-eyed females who diss you by promoting the plastic surgeon/wonderbra you're apparently visiting or using, as well as the story spinners who rattle incessantly about the many jocks [Tom, Dick and Harry included] that you've been sighted with.. The list goes on, and that aside, there's also the constant intunment of having to look considerably good - society's standards. I wouldn't want to be caught looking like a freshly milled, crisp green million bucks on Monday, and visually discarded as a used condom at the end of the week by the earthly race.
It has been said that men view women as subjects for sexual and aesthetic evaluation, and are effortlessly able to choose the female 'ideal' from a lineup. This I have to agree.
I have taken my photographs off the both sites mentioned earlier for two weeks, and during that period, my inbox remained empty. A blurry pixelised image did nothing much to change the influx of messages, until original photographs were placed back online. This proves that physical perfection of a female piques the interest of a shallow male far more than her inner beauty, which also goes to show that the men who message me with remarks like 'Your write-up about yourself attracted me, and I love the wit you possess..' are clearly liars, with their pants - hopefully - on fire.
This entry is sketchy I know, as I've touched and skimmed slight topics. But it's just a little ranting on my part, brought on by the messages on Friendster that I've received from shameless imbeciles. Turn up your nose at me, and call me a bitch for using such degradery terms on those who've barely offended me, and just touched on a raw nerve. I don't give much of a damn, because if you do, you're probably one of them.
By having to present herself as 'beautiful', the woman remains not fully know. She leaves his bed at dawn to paint over her face. She leaves his arms to run around a barbwired reservoir. She needs to flirt with strangers because his desire for her cannot fill the black hole or compensate her for what she has sacrificed. They both stay counterpoised on the mistrustful axis: her face, her body.
I think the above is unrelated, but terribly true.
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| Saturday, December 4th, 2004
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2:55 am
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Job seeking is hard, and I now know why it's hard for the retrenched to get back in line.
The high standards I have don't help much either. I realise I'm so used to relatively high paying jobs, so much so I turn up my nose with disdain at the so-called 'puny' ones.
My 'work portfolio' would make any prospective employer cringe and think twice about hiring me. Think $80 for 3 hours of small talk regarding my opinions on trends and brands. Lowering my standards a little, it's $40 for 5 hours of work - assisting little tykes in their painting. And there's also been those sidelines - $25 per hour just by sitting in a chair having makeup put on me, $30 for an hour of posing, preening and pruning.
Good money's hard to come by, and if you know of easy peasy money-making, call me, and we'd get the moolah churning started.
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12:11 am
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| Friday, November 26th, 2004
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12:52 am
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| Wednesday, November 24th, 2004
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11:55 pm - feel the world.
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chinoisgumshoe's journal
