a little less than the girl next door (in_transit) wrote,
a little less than the girl next door

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abit of a review and some fan fic soundalike

hesitating whether or not to update. let's see if i'll post this up eventually.

went for dinner with rina and shuqi, and the senior class people... which means, ken, ian and sukiang. more or less abit awkward lah, but overall still ok lor. they're generally rather nice people... think i shall leave off further comments here... before i start myself remembering year1 incidents, and spark off plenty of comments reminding me too... wahahaha.

so i finally received my book 9: winter's heart this evening. was too paiseh to admit that i'd finished reading it a long time ago. and also felt slightly guilty 'cos ken was like, a little... like, not his usual self tonight. don't know why. aiyah, i'm feeling quite awkward on my own journal right now...... wah lau, what's the matter man...

anyway, after pizza hutting, eng wah wasn't screening any movies but for the r(a) kill bill, which we all (haha!) are unable to catch. rina was secretly delighted, but as usual, it didn't show on her face... hahaha... i was ok with anything, just a little apprehensive about the journey home. rina finally revealed her intentions to go home and mug her programming, and i was so relieved when they decided to take a cab! somemore i didn't need to pay again this time... haha... 'cos sukiang said ken covered the fare already. suddenly he (ken) seems like a changed man. hm.

k lah, i think i shall end my evaluation here, 'tho it prolly sounds more like a summary than a "gan3 xiang3"... this entry sounds quite unnatural to me. don't ask me why. it's guilt coupled with abit more.

very late last night (or this morning, rather), i came up with a piece of... text... which is really, the result of r.e.m, a scene observed through a 60 bus window once, and some fantasy. eeks... it's embarrassing, and i also hesitate to post it, 'cos it isn't at all brilliant, since it's more like some lousy fan fiction. my sister's pressing me to go sleep now, so i think i'll just cut-and-paste and be done with it. oh well, it's my journal and i'll post if i want to......

as with every other evening for the past two years, out of the mere habit of doing so, i stand in between those metal poles, peering out of the scritchy panes of the bus doors. as with any other evening for the past two years, perhaps for the mere habit of doing so, he stands leaning against that pillar at the bus stop, peering through the scritchy panes of the bus doors, searchingly.

i alight, taking tremendous care getting down the steps. he straightens, somewhat nervously; his gaze, questioning. extreme interest on the pavement... walk on, confidence, ignore. pushing those shoulders back, he creaks his neck wearily; sticks his fists into his bermuda pockets, then slouches. i visualise his bewildered shrug as his feet drag reluctantly behind me.

i'm suddenly filled with senseless fury. is that all? nothing more? really? quick, short, angry steps... i'm bristling. i think i hear him wring his arms in despair. he's probably frustrated. that clout. i think: you could have saved a lot of that energy by just putting them round me. but you didn't, and it's too late.

i can hardly help but to stamp my heels in temper. i feel eyes swerve toward me from across the road, but i couldn't care less. i'd kick these bloody heels off in their face if they stared a second more. but i don't look up to make sure. he releases a long sigh; it sounds resigned.

"what is it, now?"

ignore. walk, walk, bristle, kick, stamp. stamp. a little thought occurs to me: now i know why my shoes wear out so quickly. bristle, bristle, kick, kick, stamp some more.

"what's it?"

finally, one arm rests around my shoulder. i feel very much like giving my backbone a break, right now. but i resist, and i shrug that arm away, with all the feigned anger i can muster.

apparently, i am very successful. my shoulder experiences a tremendous sense of loss. part of me feels extremely disappointed. the other part is still pretending to be pissed. and beginning to believe myself.


i'm lucky. very lucky. that warm arm returns. for fear of losing it again, i discard my vaguely developed plans, complete with mental image of screaming, shouting, and ugly frizzed-up frenzied hair.

my feet just give up moving. have they even ever moved before, i'm unsure. do spines exist? do i have one? and if i did, it sure has abandoned me. fuzzy memory of wondering: hey, this space can surely take more than two of me... i feel like that konnyaku stuff the maid makes, being returned into its mould. dizziness.

i guess he's pleasantly surprised. i sort of turn around a little, and take a deep breath in. white t-shirt today. (hey, aren't those adidas stripes?!) i realise again that my head only reaches up to his chin. but if i tiptoe... if i tiptoe a little, his lips are within reach. for a while, he seems to read my mind. i wish we were home already. we wish we were home already. i can read minds too.

carry me home.

the stuff dreams are made of... what are they? 5 letters.
Tags: pix an' proems

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