The reader accepts, on reading of this disclaimer, that the Internet is a vast wasteland of crap that spews out of human minds. This blog is no different. Any assumptions or conclusions that the reader draws from this blog are not the responsibility of the author, along with any physical or psychological harm that might result from the reading of this blog.
Author
The author is a paranoid, deranged and cynical misanthrope who records snippets of her life so that she will remember them when she grows old and withered. The identities of any names or initials on this blog are based on the assumptions of the reader unless otherwise specified, and the author claims no responsibility for them.
Reality
The author somehow got into medical school. Yes, you of the general public, shudder and fear the wrath of an inept doctor.
Loves
Reading, Maisy (my dog), tea, writing (albeit badly), piano, music, junk food.
Hates
Almost everything else besides the things mentioned above.
Friends
Bao Cheng' Bernice' Chien Young' Chun Hing' Claire' Faustina' Felicia' Ferly' Gloria' Irene' Irene & Jiaying' Jac' Jiamin' Jiasin' Jiaying' Lutheng' Karene' Marissa' Melesa' Mingyi' My fictionpress' Pamelia' Pei Rong' Qiu Ting' Rachel' Satires Site' Stasia' Sylvia' The Clique' Vinette' Wenjia' Xin Rong' Xue Ying' Yanne & I' Yanne & Jamie' Zeena' 203'
Archives
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12/01/2013 - 01/01/2014
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05/01/2014 - 06/01/2014
Chat area
Here Jolene is, at the ungodly hour of 1.35AM, smelling of incense from the mass in church. The neighbourhood is ghostly quiet, except for the occassional noises from crickets and the clicking of the keyboard as my fingers dance back and forth.
Mass started off at the usual time: 11.30PM, but my parents, fueled by the Singaporean spirit, rushed us off to church at about 11PM. My phone call with *censored* was cut off due to mom's incessant banging on my door in a desperate attempt to make me hurry, like how she always phones the pizza hut delivery guy to hurry along with the pizzas (we never do that now).
The pageant was really disgusting: 5 animals and a baby. I never ever knew that animals could speak SINGLISH. Or even dialect for the matter. I was rolling my eyes and twirling my hair all the time.
Mass, as usual (for the Christmas vigil), took about an hour and a half, and thus, here I am, muling over the inane questions that my brain produces even at such an ungodly hour...
Mangers with light bulbs in them, Christmas trees, bags filled with presents large or small, tinsel and golden stars... Symbols of Christmas that are recognized worldwide. In the midst of all the hustle and bustle of doing last minute shopping at Orchard Road and getting frightened by singing dustbins (those umbrella-like things above them at Somerset MRT SING, but with my humurous flair, I'd thought that Singapore was so advanced, dustbins could sing), perhaps the true meaning of Christmas is embeded in yet another year's load of gift wrap and sky-rocketing electric bills.
Every year passes by, a flash after yet another, as time trickles out of our hands like sand through our fingers. Each year, tables groaning under the weight of stuffed turkey, log cakes, honey-baked ham and many other goodies herald Christmas, the season of giving (not to mention the truckload full of shopping and credit card bills). Indeed, buried among all these, ignored and forgotten, lies the true meaning of Christmas: Not giving credit card companies great business, but of care, love and sympathy.
I shall stop being such a killjoy, and have my bath, then go to bed.
1:35 AM