Category Archives: Personally exposed

I passed JLPT N3

I’m glad my tikam queen powers has not failed me.

I was utterly worried when I saw posts of jubilation on facebook for those who passed the JLPT exams as I have not received the letter.

The test results were pretty good despite me screwing up the kanji section. I got A for both the kanji and grammar sections. WOohoo!

Next up, JLPT N2… … ちゃんまいさんが任せられたwww


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JLPT N3 is Over!!! (^3^) (日本語能力試験N3レベルが終わった!orz)

It was only 5 months ago when I made the decision to dump $55 onto the reception counter to take the Japanese Language Proficiency Test Level N3.
I had a ready pool of JLPT2 notes and textbooks to swim in before the test however… life is always full of distractions.
Let me count the ways:Japan vacation, BL manga, BL novel, Panty and Stocking with Garterbelt, 801 etc
Today is the day of reckoning and I reckon the folks who set the papers are a bunch to be reckoned with. The main grouse we all had, N2 and N1 examinees included, was the load of unfamilliar grammar and vocabulary that ambushed us at every turn of the page. I cannot recall whether I was actually taught the words ‘区切って’、 ‘なだらか’ or ‘暗記’ nor actually seen them.
I can only hope for a borderline pass after spending half of the time playing dice with my eraser with the hope for a divine answer to each question. Other than shading random circles on the optical answer sheets, I took the liberty to decorate the question paper with sketches of the Anarchy sisters.(ちゃんまいさんのおかげで、集中できない)
Was the cramming in the past weeks all in vain then?
Perhaps not.
I was able to comprehend 60% of the Kichiku Megane novel that I am currently reading now without turning to the electronic dictionary for help and getting hooked on sexy underwear.


Filed under Personally exposed, The Funny and the weird, Uncategorized

Narcissism and Me,me,me,moi

”The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.” – Toulouse Lautrec, Moulin Rouge.

The artistic midget could never say it better in the movie than that but just like him, the statement is entirely fictional. That’s what I used to think until now. It’s still partial hogwash since the greatest thing I’ll ever learn is how an eight-legged mollusc never fails to control the destinies of football playing countries, I mean, predict the winners in the  2010 World Cup accurately 8 times in a row.

Yes, it’s a nice  thing to love and to be loved in return. But 90% of the time, I let myself get bulldozed by infatuation for the beautiful people living in my head and cyberspace (Refer to entry ‘Missed Target‘). I’d like to play the game of romance but haven’t gotten anywhere near the finals yet (i.e. birds and bees). And since no game lasts forever, I cultivated a healthy cynicism towards love and marriage. All I’m waiting for now is the One with the right qualities and natural abilities who can complement my perfect flaws and quirks. Any gender or race or creed is fine as long as there’s mutual consent (although I’ve developed a taste for non-con through a steady diet of BL, joking). If all else fails, there’s still ”me” to last a lifetime. Sigh, if only I can replicate another me. I envy Henry in ‘The Time Traveller’s Wife’ …

Then what of the 10%? I enjoyed the thrill of the chase during my love-blinded exploits. From the joy of speaking with the target and learning about his/her life (i.e. through stalking) to the bitter sweet ache of waiting for the target’s arrival. Unfortunately, it seems what goes around comes around. In fact, I feel sorry from the bottom of my heart for even having a crush on them thanks to my overactive pituitary gland.

Based on my narcissistic deduction, I believe a person had (note: past tense, better stay that way) a crush on me in Paradiso di servizio civile.

In the 1st month, I was impressed by his attentiveness and genteel manner to everyone. My tumbler magically filled itself up, lunch invitations and even free porter service to the MRT. Then things take on a turn for the ‘better’. I usually like to end off lunch with a healthy dessert option, like fruit or yogurt. One fine afternoon, he asked me what flavor I prefer for yogurt. I typed my reply ‘Strawberry’ (I wish I can have Strawberry Yazima chan in my yogurt wwwwwストロベリーおいしそうw). The next day, a strawberry yogurt cup appeared on my desk. And the day after, another yogurt cup. And the day after… … I wished I’d replied ‘999K gold bars’ or ‘10,000-Japanese yen note’.

The yogurt cup did not come with a spoon. Without a utensil to consume the item with decency, I would dispense the item into the fridge on my way out of the office. The effort of having to walk to the pantry to take a spoon and cover the same distance twice just to consume the yogurt outweighs the perceived benefits of improving bowel movements. My dad did a great job in raising me into a perfectly useless, maid-dependent adult where I would die of starvation if not fed by hand. Soon, the fridge was filled with strawberry yogurt cups.

He saw that the fridge was bursting at its seams with yogurt cups and he asked me whether I’ve been chucking the lot of ’em inside. I gave him the affirmative and told him he could have them or share it with the others. He said the yogurt is meant for me and no one else. He seemed mortified when I suggested that he should share it with our lovely colleagues otherwise the fridge is going to turn into a cheese factory. Thankfully, he distributed the yogurt cups to everyone and the girls seemed really happy by his sweet gesture.
And from then on, the yogurt cup never made its appearance on my desk again. The end.

In my opinion, romantic love or the perception of being in love is always unsettling because the pervert+hormones=pheromones make the loudest noise
(There is a reason why God made me a woman instead of a man. So I won’t get charged for rape or something along that line for succumbing to the moans of nature, snigger). And when the vuvuzela of romance starts to sputter, the whitewash fades and the horrors of drab, ugly reality rears its head to greet you ‘Good Mourning’.
I believe that a relationship cannot be constructed synthetically with money or other material inputs like foodstuffs, it has to be cultivated with care and wisdom, putting in the right words and actions at the right time.
Yes, even something morally agreeable can come out of a filthy, sex-infested mind like mine. I love you, ME.

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Absent without Notice

Just be glad I remembered the password to my WordPress account.

It’s been ages since I’ve blogged. It’s been ages since I’ve even seen wordpress. *snigger*
I’m sorry I’ve abandoned this blog temporarily to sort out my life (and to have a smashing good time in Japan).
One entry is not enough to record all the amazing (to downright uninteresting) experiences I had in these 7, yes, SEVEN months. I shall hereby document the events of my life that took place from 23rd March to 9th June 2010 in a manner described as ”succinct”.

23rd March to 07 May 2010 – Sent out 17 job applications of which 5+1 was shortlisted for interviews. 3 interviews were successful. (+1 was for a position with a recruitment company)
From the results of the above, I conclude 3 things:
(1) Accounting is never in my blood and the finance managers, who are the interviewers, can smell it.
(2) Although Accounting jobs SEEM plentiful and available, the same cannot be said for the working environment and salaries.
(3) One can score an interview perfectly if one is genuine. (Make it genuine even if you know you’re gonna make a seat reservation in Hell) CON-vince yourself before you CON the interviewer.
(4) If you don’t believe in an unseen higher power, be a believer now. You wouldn’t believe me anyway until desperation starts clawing at your behind.
(5) I suck at numbers and my memory is failing me.

10 May 2010 – First day at work in Paradiso di servizio civile.
11 May to present – Random rocks of responsibilities and a seething pile of backlog files waiting to be processed. This is aggravated by training courses which are dreadfully interesting and dreadful meetings. Kind and patient colleagues help soothe the pain and keep the place happy. Wished you were here.
-Agonized over comicstudio to submit a 4 page manga in exchange for a freebie from Japan. Currently agonizing over SAI to submit an illustration in exchange for redemption due to poor quality of above-mentioned manga.
-Amused by 5 year old brother who tried to stop his fart by covering his behind with his hand.

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Excerpt from a Capote Reader

I only started looking for a quote from an unread book after the picture was finished.
Been reading bits of Ovid’s ”Metamorphoses” and Kazuo Ishiguro’s ”An Artist of the Floating World”.
Simple, vanilla prose really.

Somehow, erotica doesn’t seem to appeal to me as much as when I was in my teens.
I tried reading ”’Caliente!’, an anthology of short sensual stories by Latin writers but was so utterly bored that I kept thinking of ketchup and mustard while the heroine gave the hero a terrific handjob.

It seems I’m turning into a jaded reader.
I’ve no patience to go through the whole book after the 3rd page and good stories that are skilfully told are so hard to come by.
In the past, I could finish a romantic novel in a day. Yet now, I could hardly flip to the 3rd page without tossing it aside and commit the book to a blanket of dust.
Only the likes of Oscar Wilde and other classic literature can make my eyes devour the pages at one sitting.
Have my reading needs ascended the Maslow pyramid or gone the other way round?

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3 days in Chennai and a week in Tamil Nadu – An experience worth more than 3 years at home

I have never considered India a travel destination in my life until a fellow dungpicker and friend, Radeeca, invited me to her wedding in Chennai, India.

In my mind, I can only visualise images taken from a Bollywood movie and Slumdog Millionaire.
A dark human flotsam with Tata Steel cars and autos swirling in the dusty, garbage lined streets.
The chugging of smoking diesel engines and tongue twisting exchanges in the various Indian dialects provide a continuous assault to the ears.
Smog and flies blooming in the air as strays and beggars pick at heaps of litter for some scraps.
Water which guarantees a quick and prolonged laxative effect to the foreign stomach.
The state of the public toilets that is too shocking to imagine.

The 4-hour flight on Striped Cat Airways to Chennai was awful.
The seats were cramped with hardly any foot room to speak of.
The varied odours of its passengers made my nostrils cry.
Even my fellow travellers who could sit through 10 hour flights started to swear that this was the worst flight they’ve ever took.

I hardly slept and was eager to get off the plane, even if it lands in Afghanistan.
Thus I was happy to cough up a few extra hundred bucks for my 2nd trip to South India via S.Ingapore Airlines.

Once we stepped out of the airport, the odour of the city never fails to prickle my olfactory nerves.
A pungent mix of turmeric, drainwater and dust.
Shops of all sizes and colours line along the crowded streets and yellow three-wheelers zip through the spaces between larger vehicles like Indian Initial D.

Unlike the retail clones that cover Singapore, India’s shops and stalls are one of a kind. I’ve yet to come across 2 shops which look identical and sell identical stuff.
Gangly indian men were peddling pirated books, decorative accessories, shirts, slippers, household wares, food, toys… anything to lure the ruppee out a tourist’s pocket.
The real temptation for me lies in the marbled walls of saree emporiums such as Pothi’s and Kumaran Silks.
I vowed never to buy a saree as the only time I could ever use it is for racial harmony day.
I yielded to the platimun service (Saree for you Madame?) and luscious silks which the male sales assistants unfurl with no hesitation.

Gee, what am I going to do with 4 sarees? (^p^)

Thanks to my dear friend Radeeca, I had the opportunity witness a Brahmin wedding and to don in a saree for the occassion.

For my 2nd trip to South India, I joined Bavanee and her family to visit the famous temples of Tamil Nadu.
I felt really fortunate to have them smuggle me into the sacred heart of the temple which houses the statue of the residing god. All I had to do was paste a bindi on my forehead, dress in a chudi or saree and call one of Bavanee’s aunts my mother-in-law.

When some local priests started yelling at me and gesturing for me to stay outside (I forgot my bindi), I realised how the blacks must have felt during the apartheid to be ostracised just because of the colour of their skin.
I was a little worried too that I would be spending the rest of the trip staring at the intricate gorpurams outside the temple grounds like a lone tourist.
I did feel a little upset and incredulous that the same bloody priest still refused to shut his trap even after Bavanee’s family told him I’m a Chinese Hindu.
Well, it’s an isolated case.

We did not encounter any similar problems for the next few temples.
The priests blessed us all the same. More blessings in the form of sachets of holy ash and flowers if one offers some ruppees.
Every temple’s interior is lavishly covered in ornate carvings and surrounded by columns of Yali (a mythical creature) or divine figures in a state of dance. Unfortunately, no photography is allowed within the inner sanctum. Perhaps because the cameras would have been crushed to smithereens by the raging human throng as people jostled to pay homage to the deity.

After traversing through rain-soaked rice fields, unkempt towns, damaged roads in this 2nd trip, seeing how the locals could survive the dust-covered faces of poverty and urban chaos, I finally tasted contentment and appreciation for the modern comforts I took for granted such as hygiene, urban planning, clean roads, order.
When in India, expect chaos and the unexpected.

That’s why it enthralls me, the shifting beauty and ugliness of the Indian landscape, the excitement when one consumes his lunch without knowing how the dish was prepared or what was contained inside, the dizzying array of colourful cloths and glittering jewellery waiting to adorn, the heat and smell of steamy garbage piles as dust-colored cows scavenge for morsels of food in the parking lot.
The chaos and disorder invaded my senses, pillaged my lofty expectations and robbed me of my discontent.
All that was left was gratitude in my heart for what I had.
The routine and order of modern life.
The access to India’s sacred temples where the ancient sages carved the secrets of the universe into stone.
Everything, the pains and the joys, that brought me to where I am now.

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Status:AGM-Auditors Groovy Meeting

This was the 1st and last AGM I’ve attended in my prematurely aged life with Delete Touch Tomatoes.

I couldn’t care less about going to the party district in my office wear on the eve of Halloween.

I’m sure I look hideous enough with the battered company laptop and papers stuffed in my bag and looking zombified after a long, stormy and nauseating ride from Dieco Healthcare to Clarke Quay.

Lion’s Tail and gang had arrived and I joined them at a table piled with enough alcohol to make a Russian happy. There’s red and white wine, vodka allsorts and beer to drown in. The food was high in calories, saturated in oil and delicious. The menu ranged from mushroom puff, prawn fritters, corn nuggets (fortified with MSG), bowtie pasta, fried fish in thai sauce, bratwurst in cranberry (?) sauce, et cetera. After scarfing down the food, I felt a tad thirsty and it made me reach out for 2 glasses of red wine, 1 lime vodka, 1 orange vodka, 1 glass of white wine… which made me a tad tipsy.

After the boring lucky draw event, the floor was open to all to get into the groove. Lion’s tail and me requested for ‘Dragonstadt Din Tei’, which the DJ only understood after I wrote ‘Chicken Little’ on the napkin. The song was dedicated to Jean Dac who is a splitting image of the nerdy little chick.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Abstinence makes the body groove harder.

I really missed those nights of frenzied dancing and letting the music take over. The last time I clubbed was 2 years ago (;w;)


I wanted to dance so bad I dragged Lion’s tail to the floor with me. And when the crowd got bigger, we were pushed to the back, against the bar top. We ended up sitting on the bartop. Next thing I knew, I was shaking my ass on the  bar top and pulling Lion’s tail up along with me. I was so high I accidentally knocked my spectacles into the teeming mass of bodies below me. Goodbye visual clarity, hello hard buttshaking.

When we finally descended from the bar top and felt the ground under our feet, the thumping music kept us shaking and screaming like a bunch of crazed fans in a concert. We were high, we were free, we were absolutely drunk with booze and music.

We grooved till the wee hours of the night. My aching thighs and back are reminders of the excessive nocturnal workout we had. I was really amused when Lion’s tail told me she felt like she just got to know me that night. I guess I look too nerdy for anyone to believe that I used to club regularly years before. I left after talking to a seriously drunk KyaKyen who kept denying he was drunk. Being as blind as a mole (after losing my spectacles into the human abyss), Lion’s tail was sweet enough to lead me to the taxi stand. The queue was monstrous so I took a nightrider bus home. Thank god.

After groping around for railings and other tactile aids, I reached home at 3am, reeking of alcohol.

It was a night to remember.

After all, it’s my first time dancing on a bar top. \(^o^)/


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