I Have No Idea How To ACTUALLY Accomplish All These Shits

Today is the 30th of December. Tomorrow will be the 31st. The day after tomorrow will be the first day of the year 2008.

I’d like to take this opportunity to wish all my family members the very best in the New Year, even though there’s a 95.1% chance that none of them is going to read this blog. At least the thought that counts. I am getting too melodramatic these past few days. Listening to Natalie Imbruglia’s “Counting Down the Days” doesn’t make it better either.

For this reason, I haven’t got the strength to write anything long/interesting/funny today. Heck, I won’t even try to be funny in this post. I however will make a list on the things that I want to accomplish in the year 2008 and the many, many years to follow, preferably in the course of my life before I die. I’ll try to list to 100.

>Call my parents and my siblings to tell them how much I love them and how I wish I could be there with them to celebrate the New Year.
>Study harder and achieve better results in my studies. In fact, I’ll (or at least try) to get that 1st class degree honours under my belt.
>Be in an ACTUAL relationship, rather than making up fake romantic stories in my head. I’m sad, I know. Don’t judge me.
>This also means that I have to take more risks where the romantic chapter of my life is concerned. I have no idea how I’m going to achieve this.
>Be more enthusiastic about life in Greece and make the most out of it.
>In order to do it, I will make more new friends and make sure that I will not lose those I have previously befriended here. This includes constantly texting them to hang out, even if it annoys them.
>Also, I will make sure that I will get paid accordingly to get me through the life here.
>That also reminds me to quickly buy those kick arse shoes once I get my first pay. Only if they cost 40 Euro as I thought they were.
>Call (or at least email – I’m not made out of money, am I now?) my friends who mean so much to me and tell them how I value their friendships.
>Go out of the room more often (often depends on how many new friends I make).
>Stop being shy about silly things like going to the office’s pantry (I don’t know why I’m ashamed of going to the pantry to get a cup of hot chocolate!).
>Get rid of unnecessary insecurities, mostly physical insecurities.
>Be in a better shape and gain more weight.
>Eat healthier (it’s hard to accomplish this in Greece so it only applies once I’m settled back in Australia).
>Exercise more. Get those 6 packs to show up. Also, this only applies when I get back to Australia. Knowing me however, I would say that there is a pretty slim chance of this happening. I once made a deal with a friend that I’d jog everyday for 1 month or he’d kiss his arse, literally. I jogged for only 2 days (5 minutes each day) before I quit.
>Take up a sport and be good at it. I’m thinking volleyball. I took it up before but quit because of my stupid physical insecurities. So, this time around it should be easy peasy. Maybe rowing.
>Continue learning French and be superbly good at it. This will come in handy later [refer no. 52].
>Brush up on my English and learn how to write better. Again, this will come in handy later [refer no. 42].
>Continue writing this blog until I die (or at least until I get bored and have another hobby).
>Get the fashion sketching going.
>Design and make clothes.
>Collaborate with friends and make money by selling said clothes.
>Be more creative when it comes to dressing up.
>Travel to as many places as possible (where time and money permit).
>See the Eiffel Tower and the London Bridge.
>Skydive and go for a Bungee Jump.
>Get a new awesome part time job that promises more money.
>Send more money to family.
>Go on a road trip around Australia with 2 of my besties.
>Figure out how to drive around Australia considering the fact that none of us has a license.
>Not be a tight arse (this has 99% chance failing).
>Work harder (in current job) including arriving on time, if not earlier.
>Produce a better quality work.
>Practice playing the piano/keyboard.
>Learn how to read the musical notes correctly and quickly.
>Get an actual keyboard, instead of playing on a fake keyboard sketched on a piece of paper.
>Learn how to play the guitar (failed on many attempts).
>Compose songs – cool songs.
>Set up a band.
>Have at least one (dodgy quality is acceptable) record with the band.
>Become a successful fashion designer.
>Start a successful international fashion label.
>Become a successful journalist or at least a news correspondence.
>Travel around the world as a journalist/news correspondence.
>Cover stories about the poverty in Sudan, or any war in the Middle East or anything of similar nature (humanitarian).
>Become a volunteer for any humanitarian organization (think Medecins Sans Frontier etc.).
>Work in Los Angeles (preferably before 30 years old).
>Reside in Los Angeles for a year or two.
>Be immersed in the awesome (I just found out about how awesome LA is) culture of Los >Angeles – fashion, etc.
>Reside and work in London.
>Track down the descendants (other than the ones I already know exist) of my great grandfather, who was English (of some sort). Story: Great grandpa came to Malaysia during the WWII, married a local and produced my grandma, left for England (or somewhere there), abandoned grandma and never to be seen again.
>Reside, work and eventually settle down in France.
>Take my parents around the world when I travel.
>Take my siblings around the world when I travel.
>Buy an awesome house, complete with all the state of the art technology.
>Rent out the awesome house.
>Make a handsome income out of the rent.
>Own/Rent a studio apartment that has artistic features, including from the Victorian era.
>Live in this kind of apartment wherever I reside.
>Take awesome model-ish photos.
>Send photos to casting agents.
>Become a real paid working model.
>Become a model for Dior H’omme.
>Travel around the world as a model.
>Wear fashionable clothing (not necessarily expensive), gotten for free because I’m a model.
>Become a fashion icon.
>Learn Greek as much as I can (I actually have received many praises on how good I am based on the Greek words that I’ve known since I came here).
>Go to as many interesting places as possible in Greece including Athens and maybe one of the islands.
>Have the strength to make it to the 100th list before I go to sleep.
>Get another degree, something non-science related.
>Learn and be good at 5 (or more) languages (French and Arabic are a must).
>Get a Masters and a PhD. (whatever they are).
>Extent my personal network (friends) to all parts of the world.
>Become an excellent barista.
>Spend ALL Eids with my family in my cosy house where I grew up in.
>Be with my family as often as possible in my cosy house where I grew up in.
>Spend Christmas and New Year in a log cabin up in a snowy mountain.
>Be in love (like really, really in love).
>Love ends in a happy ending.
>Be closer to God.
>Become a better man (religion wise) before I die.
>Be true to myself even if people disagree.
>Have a real job (modeling isn’t a real job) that I really like.
>Getting paid real well for the job.
>Be involved more in university life including making more worthy friends.
>Have a real Halloween party (costume party) at my house with loads of my friends.
>Buy a retro Volkswagen Beetle convertible as my first car.
>Paint the car yellow.
>Get a license so that I can legally drive the car.
>Direct a short film.
>Get the short film noticed internationally.
>Get awards for the short film.
>Buy a new vintage bag.
>Buy a new pair of vintage boots (more like meels).
>Own a pair of the original Ray Ban’s Aviator sunglasses (I have a fake one).
>Have unlimited and efficient Internet connection wherever I live (not like in this house right now!).
>To talk to my family (particularly Mum) whenever I want, regardless of where I am and how >much money I possess.
>To see all of my family members happy and prosperous.
>To see myself happy.
...........................>100. To be me and free!..............................


So there it is – the New Year list. As you can see, not everything can be accomplished in 2008. Heck, some of them can NEVER be accomplished for as long as I shall live. That doesn’t mean I won’t try.

Dior H’omme, here I come!

Wish me luck.

You Bet Your Arse I'm Celebrating

Happy New Year folks. See if I'll encounter any stupid/random/interesting things on the first of January. Until then, I'm off to borrow (stealing with the intention of giving back) some cookies from the office's communal fridge.

Bus Hunting Is Just For Crazy Old People, Illegal Shower & My Coolest Friends

There are some things that I find amusing. For instance, I find old people cute and amusing, well, in general. My grandma was cute, adorable and somewhat amusing. Amusing as old people are, I can’t help but feel sorry for them. I don’t know why. But to tell you the complete truth, I have no idea what I’m talking about. I really don’t.

Anyways, now that I have regenerated Mr. Brain by giving him (my brain is a male) the much needed dosage of slap in the head, I really want to go to sleep, but I can’t because I’m now at work. I woke up so early today and got to work on time (10 minutes late) so I’m feeling a bit drowsy. And the music that my supervisor is playing right now is killing Mr. Brains out. Also, I have to be extra careful when reading other people’s blogs because some of them are full with inappropriate photos that are not suitable for work. And I’m sharing computer with another older dude. Damn!

Bus hunting is a really popular sport here. What’s that? You’ve never heard of anything so absurd and retarded? You think I’m making this up? No I’m not, especially on the retarded bit. Let me enlighten you, fellow readers. Bus hunting is much like ordinary hunting, where you go the woods and start shooting rabbits or antelopes or giraffes or baby seals, except, you’re hunting for bus (no, this is not some kind of animal, it’s a form of vehicle. D’oh). And you don’t have to shoot, which is a real bummer as I’m constantly trying to find ways to perfect my Resident Evil moves a la Milla Jovovich, as well as her Revlon ad. Campaign (Because You’re Worthless!). I personally believe I can kill all the zombies in Raccoon City, because apparently Milla is not capable of doing so (huh, and you call yourself a supermodel). I’m not sure about this because the DVD was fucked up somewhere around the BEST part EVER of the movie which led me to make such assumption. I’m waaay hotter than Milla anyway.

Moving on, here’s a description of the sport:

What: Bus Hunting.
When: Winter (especially when it rains) around 5 p.m. when everyone’s going home from work.
Where: Kharilaou Stop during the interchange of bus 66 and 10.
Contestants: Bus commuters. Priorities are given to annoying old people coming back from the huge ass cemetery wearing all black ensembles.
How:

• Warming up on Bus no. 66, two stops before reaching the designated hunting spot, Kharilaou Stop. This includes pushing the person who sits/stands next to you and securing the best position – nearest to the exit door. 50 bonus points are up for grabs if you are below 30 years old and at least 2 inches away from the door. No points will be given to those who are 35 years old and beyond because chances are you’re going to be near the door anyway, after you’ve successfully pushed EVERYONE away.
• Get in the “Ready” position when you’re about to reach the destination. This includes spreading your arms sooo wide that no one else can overtake you. Remember, location is key. You need to be as close as possible to the door. Don’t let some hot Asian dude get in the way between you and your door. Never.
• Once the door is opened, even before the bus comes to a complete stop, you need to jump out of the bus and start running. 50 bonus points if you are the first person to do so. Remember, this is a hunting competition. Therefore, instead of just running blindly, you need to keep your eyes wide open and start hunting. Just think of yourself as a lioness, eyeing on the cute, tantalizingly fresh baby elephants (1. Lions do eat elephants. 2. The elephants in this context are no.10 buses).
• The moment you spotted your prey (i.e. the no.10 bus that’s ACTUALLY working, out of the gazillion dummy no.10 buses), run with all your might to catch it. Do whatever you must – punch that guy on the crotch, slap that girl over her face, tackle that old dude with a cane so that he falls to the ground and rolls over the road and gets eaten by the vast number of stray dogs that inhabit the area (I swear they are wolves, not dogs) – like your life depends on it. Jump on to your prey and start searching for the perfect seat. Once you found the perfect seat, you are officially a winner. Not the winner, just a winner because there are 30 seats altogether and that means there’ll be 30 winners and having to share with other 29 winners doesn’t make you the winner now, does it?

Moral: You’re going to get to where you want to go anyway, even if you don’t get the perfect seat. So, all the energy thrown at pushing, jumping, running and hunting is not that worthwhile after all. So why bother? Yes, I’m talking to you, you annoying old grandma wearing all black.
Past winners: Annoying Old Grandma Wearing All Black (allegedly visiting the grave of deceased husband), Annoying Old Grandpa With A Cane and The Pre-Menopausal Momma With Too Much Make Up That She Looks Like A Clown.

Addendum:
I find that there are many old people commuting by bus. This is perfectly fine, I guess. But it’s not the point I’m trying to make. My point is that most (not all) relatively younger/healthier/stronger people seem to be ignorant/pretending to be about the common courtesy of offering their seats to old people who are standing on the bus. This makes me wonder if it’s one of the things that falls under the “just the way things are here” category. In some occasions, I can’t help but to oblige. Most of the time, I do what I’m supposed to do – offer the old folks my seat, with the occasional pushing of old guy with a cane to the ground, of course. What? I need to be in the spirit! Happy Hunting, Folks!

++One lady fell asleep on my shoulder for about 15 minutes or so while riding the bus one day. I thought it was just her hair, but it was actually her head resting on my shoulder. Since the bus was packed, I couldn’t do anything. Plus, it’s nice to know that you are giving your shoulder to sleep on, literally.

*******************************************************************************

This is the post where I’m supposed to write on how awesome I am. Really, sometimes I think I don’t think I give myself enough credit. While I am neither too hot nor too smart, I pride myself for being somewhat hot and smart. It all depends on your definition of hot and smart. In my dictionary, hot is defined as believing that you are hot (say you rate yourself 7 out of 10, 10 being the hottest man alive) and that you can one day, if you believe hard enough, become a Dior H’omme model. Smart on the other hand is defined as conducting foolish acts as a way to prove to others you are sooo cool that everyone wants to be your friend.

So the other night, being the smart guy that I am, I did something awesomely cool. Here’s the story. NJM was taking a shower when he accidentally (maybe deliberately, I still don’t know) broke the tap. Water was pouring everywhere (A lie. Water just poured in the bathtub into the drain) and there was nothing we could do to fix the tap. The only way to stop the water from running was to shut the main tap which meant we wouldn’t have water for the whole day. Me, being the cool/hot person that I am, had not taken shower for 2 days and on this dreaded day (the 3rd day), I was in desperate need to shower, or at least wash my face and brush my teeth. What was I to do? Stab my self with a blunt knife so that blood would pour right out of my arteries and then take a shower, or possibly a bath with my own blood? I contemplated my somewhat creative options when NJM suggested a cool idea (See, this is why I think he deliberately broke the tap). Why not break into next door’s toilet and take shower (the flat next door was already abandoned by this time)? I thought this was the most brilliant idea. Besides not having to pay for the electricity bill (water heater), I could also enjoy a long hot shower without any interruption (hot water suddenly turns cold).

So, I began my cool adventure breaking into next door’s toilet. There was only one way in – through the tiny ass toilet window, strategically located just beside my kitchen door. “This is going to be easy peasy. Plus, there are 4 walls covering the tiny ass window. Perfect, no one’s going to see me”. NJM was more than happy to help me and admitted that he has mastered the art of getting through the exact tiny ass window, having done it countless of times before (Another reason why I think the whole thing was already planned before hand. It’s a conspiracy theory, I tell you). First, right hand grabbing pipe, left foot securely positioned. “Shit, there’s a spider! Not even a spider can stop me this time!” I braved through the cold winter night and my phobia of spiders (and everything with more than 4 legs). I squeezed into the tiny ass window. “Where’s my right foot? Ouch, that’s impossible!” I was impressed by how many acrobatic moves I pulled off in the course of just getting my skinny arse through the window. With meticulous thinking and awesome moves, I succeeded. I turned on the heater, went back to my flat through the front door, waited, went back into the toilet through the tiny ass window (huh, not so smart after all!) just to have a SHORT shower (1. I was afraid the landlord was going to come and catch me red handed. 2. The toilet light was not working so I had to take shower with the door wide open and it would be excruciatingly humiliating if the landlord came and saw me. 3. I was afraid that a giant spider would unsuspectingly jump behind my back and eat me alive.

So there was it, just another ordinary day.

I think Mrs. Spidey came back to stalk me in the toilet yesterday.

******************************************************************************

So how was your Christmas? You want to know how mine was? Sure, I am more than happy to tell you.

22 December: NJM’s going away get together. Hope he comes back soon.
23 December: Depressed that NJM is now gone and there’s no one to talk to and eat with. Went out shopping with CC.
24 December: Stayed in bed watching crap Christmas movies on t.v. Christmas Party that got boring. No pictures taken.

25 December a.k.a Christmas day:

• I go to 3 bars namely Thermaikos, PastaFlora Darling (short lived because it was waay too crowded) and The Resident. Seriously the best bars I’ve been here. They just reflect who I am. Eclectic and chic at the same time. God, I’m hot!
• Mak and Nat are with me. Nat, being the coolest chick that she is, knows the owner of the Resident. The owner hugs and kisses (on the cheek) her. Holy crap! The closest thing to awesome that I could get when it comes to bars/clubs is to have a friend who knows (bf/gf/ex love interest) the DJ. That’s about it. And Mak still maintains his coolest-as-hell hair of all time.
• I just want to thank these 2 lovely cool people for taking the time to reply my messages/answer my calls and inviting me out. I’m touched when you guys said that your dream of having an international friend is now fulfilled. You said friend, which makes me even more touched. Sob, sob. Then Nat goes on to say “But be careful of what you wish for”. Sigh, I hope that doesn’t mean anything bad because I’m anything but bad and I’m nothing but cool. Woooyeah! Thanks also for speaking English when I’m around. I don’t feel so lonely anymore. I had fun!
  
  p/s:
• Mak and Nat, if you stumble upon this blog while googling my name (I hope my boss doesn’t do this), let me know what your plans are in New Year. What ever you do, invite me…I promise I’ll increase my cool level to be as cool as you.
• Mak, hope your diet is going according to plan and Nat, I think I can be a cool toy boy too if you just introduce me to the owner of the bar. I promise.
• I forgot to take pictures. Damn! This also means we need to hang out more often and take pictures.

The "There's A Very Scary Woman Sitting Behind Me" Edition

I'm keeping this short, because I'm about to wet my pants in just a few minutes now. Not because I have a serious bladder/prostate disease or anything like that, but because of this woman sitting right behind me.

I work (blog and surf the Internet) in a relatively small office. There are only 6 of us. 2 of us don't work on Wednesdays (including me) because 2 other people from God knows where come to use the computers. The point I'm trying to make is that my office is small. And there are too many people. My desk (not really mine as I sort of invade another person's desk) is strategically located in the corner (see, my blogging habit is nurtured by the course of nature) . 4 of my workmates including my supervisor have their desks parallel to mine, which may seem not a big of a deal to you but trust me, this awesomely well thought orientation is ideal for me to fulfill my blogging/facebooking/emailing desires without getting caught (you know, instead of actually doing research and writing reports).

One problem. A major one. So major that I consider of copyrighting the word "major" which is not only a totally awesome idea but it also prevents Posh Spice from using the specific word and getting waaay tooooo muuuuch money out of using the said word.

My desk is directly (and I am using "directly" in the truest meaning of the word) in front of this huge woman's desk, which means that she can totally see what I'm doing all the freaking time. That's not really major because you know, being the intelligent person that I am (exam results may suggest otherwise), I have come up with brilliant ideas to combat this problem such as not putting the window in its full size and covering the now oh so small window with my rather large head (Ok. Not my head, my hair).

The most major problem is that this woman (until now, I still don't know her name and had only exchanged one word with her (i.e. "bye") despite working here for about 1 month now -- which makes me wonder when will I get my salary?) always talks loud. Really, really loud. That's not a problem per se, but she speaks Greek (making me fail to understand any word that comes out of her mouth) and everytime she engages in any conversation with my other workmates, she always seems angry. So maybe I should rephrase my sentence. She always shouts. It's as if she knows what I'm doing, disapproves and she goes on telling everybody about how I'm such a slacker and that they should all kill me and feed me to the stray dogs after ravaging my poor innocent flesh.

I don't know. Maybe it's a menopausal thing that she's having or it's just the way she is. I still remember one incident where she literally smacked the phone and almost threw it across the room because the phone rang non stop and no one answered everytime she picked it up. Fair enough I guess, but c'mon, you don't have to shout EVERY time you want to say something. Plus, she doesn't even talk to me, so how should I know that she's not plotting some kind of kidnap-and-kill plan. She has this really deep voice, similar to the opera singers, that just creeps me out.

Oh no... Oh here it is again... The shouting rampage... Drawer banging...

Okay, okay... I'm sorry... I promise I won't blog again when I'm supposed to write reports. Oh, holy crap woman... Please, please. I beg of you... Don't kill me! ARRHGH. DOn't kill me. O Lord, help me!...

Owh, okay. She stopped...I'll survive another day...

No, I didn't wet my pants.

Long-ish Post About Random Things

I have a feeling that this entry is going to be a long one so brace yourself and fasten your seatbelt. Not that you really need to, because obviously you don't have a seatbelt and neither do I, but I'm just saying.

********

I think my results are out. They are finally out! But I don't have the guts to check. A woos, you say? I am. So deal with it and move on with your life, while I'm stuck here contemplating whether or not I should check my exam results. Hmmmmm....

********

Yesterday, I woke up late. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just late as per usual. Still arse-freezing cold. I made my way to the stinky toilet. I looked in the mirror. I couldn't see my reflection! I was blind! I panicked. Then I remembered that I hadn't had my glasses on, so problem solved. As I was brushing my teeth, I contemplated whether or not it's a good idea to have a shower. I decided not to namely because a) I was already late. Showering would mean I'd be even later and b) It was too bloody cold. Excellent choice. I gave myself a pat on the back for making such a brilliant decision. Then I proceeded to washing my face. As I was washing my complicated face (as in skin wise not awkward no eyes/no nose kinda thing), I spotted something out of the ordinary on my head. In fact, it was so out of the ordinary I'm going to use the word extraordinary. Mind you, that I was blind at this time and yet I could still spot the extraordinary little piece of thing on my head, amidst all the frizziness that my ever so shiny black hair always makes everytime I get out of bed (urm, is this sentence correct? I mean, can my hair make frizziness? I'm so confused).

That little piece of thing shines under the light (no, it's not a halo and I'm not an angel...and no, I can't grant make you win a million bucks). I freaked out. It couldn't be. It just couldn't be. My mind went blank for about 2 minutes (damn, now I'm sooo going to be late -- every second is precious. I can eat breakfast in 2 minutes without choking myself to death. That's how important the 2 minutes were). I stood there frozen. When I finally regained consciousness and was in a relatively stable state of mind, I mustered the courage to look closer. My heart was pounding so bloody fast. It couldn't be. It just couldn't be (why am I repeating myself?). I lifted that little thing up. Since I was blind, it took a little more time to actually lift it up (there goes another minute. Damn!). It was a strand of WHITE HAIR. ONE FREAKING WHITE HAIR! I was so down I opted to call in sick instantly. I couldn't possibly go out with a white hair damaging the even black colour tone of my hair. No way. So I did what Mum and Dad have been doing all these while. I plucked it out. It worked and I safely reached work...late...again.

Am I getting old? Is it the weather? Is it the shampoo? Having a kick arse hair (everyone says so. This is totally not my own judgment), -- asymmetrical on the back with a so-awesome-you'd-die-looking-at-it side fringe -- I can't afford having anything white on my hair. Unless if I had my hair dyed white, then that's a totally different story but based on personal (bad, really bad) experience when I was 15, I will never get my hair dyed. Ever. Not white, not black, not pink, not anything. Period. Until I can figure out what's wrong with Mr. Hair who yesterday decided to scare me to DEATH by breeding a single white hair (or more like adopting a white hair), I will stop talking about it because just the thought of it makes me sad. I'll update you on Adopted Single White Hair later.

********

It snowed last Saturday. The very first time that I experienced snow. I lied, sorry. I went skiing before but I don't consider it as snow-experience, it was a ski-experience. Get the difference? No? I don't either. Anyways, it was so cold that I didn't get out of the house at all. I mean, not at all. I lied again. I did get out of the house just to check if it was really snowing. It did. So I went back inside and never to see the sun shining ever again. Well, not that day at least. Looks like it's a white Christmas afterall. I have always experienced hot Christmases (is this plural for Christmas?) in Malaysia (d'oh. Tropical climate!) and Australia (double d'oh. Summer!). I remember enjoying Christmas in Bondi Beach with Santa surfers and erm, bikini-clad elves. Yes, elves still creep me out.

I feel that I've been talking bout Christmas waaaay too much. I don't really celebrate it per se, you know. But being here, where everyone is stoked about Christmas, I somehow got sucked into the Christmas spirit whirlpool. I'm sad, however to not celebrate the Eid with my family yet again. I'm so sad in fact that I managed to write a poem (yes, a poem complete with the rhymes and all) on that snowy night. I will not, however post it. It's too sentimental and I'm sure there are too many words that don't make sense (Why o why need I be? - Seriously, what was that all about huh?). Anyways, Happy Eid Adha to everyone! Save some slaughtered goat/cow meat for me!

But speaking of Christmas, I have the need to buy me (I know, I'm sad) a present. A pair of Converse shoes. The original one. What do you think? If you question why I need to buy a pair of shoes (a rather common one I might add. It's not like they're Prada) instead of say, a turtle or a house, you might want to read the previuos entry on the staring people on bus.

********

I went to yet another party last Saturday night. That does not only mean that I had fun, but I also lied about the I-never-get-outta-the-house-at-all-the-whole-Saturday thing. O well. Everyone lied. I'm everyone. A hot everyone. Yeah, about the party. I went there with Corina (CC) and Henning (HB). I had fun but most importantly, I got numbers. Owh, my precious numbers. I thought they (yes more than 1 person. 2 is still considered more than 1, ok!) would never reply my message but they did. And they are A-OK to hang out. You know what this means? This means I have at least one person to hang out with during the holidays. Wooohooo. Everyone I know from my brothel flat/building is going away for the holidays, perhaps just for the sake of annoying me. Well, you succeeded guys. You succeeded indeed! Don't get me started on who's going and when. Let's just say that there is 99.9% chance that I'll be alone in my flat. But, mirrors. I forgot about the mirros. Maybe, if I'm creative enough (and I like to think that I am), I can make my reflections my friends. My only friends. Crazy? I call it genius. Pure genius.

So, on to the people I met at the party. The first number - Kat (not the real name). We clicked instantly. She started by asking my name. I complemented her accent. She totally fell for it (but seriously, it was a good accent!) and exchanged numbers. Score! The second number - Mak (not the real name). He's got the coolest hair I have ever seen. I think I complemented his hair more than 5 times that night. He was getting sick of it, I think. But hey, when you got it, flaunt it, right? I asked for his number. Score! Then there were a whole bunch of people and my number-friends' friends. They were all so cool and accepting. I know that I'm such a hottie (or more like awkwardly hot) but I was overwhelmed by how everyone received me. There's this cute couple who actually remember my name when I bumped into them on the street. I couldn't even remember their names. Also, no numbers. Sigh...

********

When reality hits, it hits hard. Starting next week, everyone will slowly disappear (but not like Invisible Man or anything like that) and I will be left alone. I hate loneliness like I hate the fact that my skin is developing scales, like fish scales (I totally blame it on the weather). I also hate how there's a mysterious big-arse bruise on my knee and I have no idea how or why it got there, just like I have no idea why Mr. Hair suddenly wanted to adopt Single White Hair.

Life must go on and I'm now off to find (stalk) more unknown friends (bloggers) near where I live. Hmmm...Somehow I think that I'm turing into a psycopath and that I'm losing my sanity. But why?

My Previous Flat. Not Current Flat. There's Only 1 Mirror In Pix. Trust Me, There Are waaaaaay More.

I was just blog hopping* when I suddenly realised that I have not posted anything about the wild last-night-with-Martin night despite promising that I will ACTUALLY write something decent about it. I am deeply urged (by who else than Mr. Boredom) to elaborate more on the story, much by the disapproval of Mr. Conscience, who knows better and thinks more rationally than Mr. Boredom. So I think I'll just stick with Mr. Conscience cos I know he's smart and being a smart person myself, I can't help but to agree with everything he says.

So, I'm keeping this short.

Key actors: Moi, Non-Jew-Michael, Nice-Smelling-Socrates and MArtin himself

Not so key actor (in fact his role was to only appear when everything had settled down or very anti-climax role): Very-French-Pierre.

Martin came with all the 'goodies". If you asked me, I'd say that the "goodies" were not in fact goodies but just some stuff that he needed to get rid off because he's leaving the next day. More like junks but good junks, you know. I said good because these junks made us feel good. So they were good-junk-goodies ok. Don't argue with and learn to deal with it. Moving on. NJM and I were just minding our own business and chatting about when Socrates came. Wait. I totally lied there. The true version is I was alone in the flat when NJM and NSS came to the flat. I figured if I somehow change the story a lil bit, no one would think that I'm anti social. I am so not anti social. Anyways, moving on. That was when Martin came with the goodies. So we sat there, chatting about -- mostly about our landlord and why on earth there are so many mirrors in this bloody house, and of course why Martin should never leave us -- accompanied by the ever so lovely 80's songs courtesy of NJM's radio (Remember the Last Christmas song? Yep. That's it). Things cut short, we danced and danced (basically dancing was the only thing that we did that night apart from chatting and eating) for TWO bloody hours until ONE mirror came crashing down. It may had been my fault but it was later unanimously concluded that everyone was guilty of the crime. We continued laughing and dancing in circles, with "brief" interruptions from NSS who had to excuse himself to the stinky toilet to vomit, like urm, 20 times. Then NSS and I somehow ended up in NJM's room (owh, shoosh people! Nothing of that sort that you're thinking about) until we suddenly heard a loud crashing sound. It was the SECOND mirror of the night! Well clearly, NSS and I weren't to blame because obviously we were in the room. Martin and NJM were outside. Obviously, one of them did it. NJM, amidst all the laughter and more crashing action by feet later admitted that it he delibarately crashed the mirror simply because he didn't like it. Well, no one cared really, the music was still playing, NSS was still vomitting, NJM was still trying to jump on the broken mirror to further crash it into even smaller pieces and Martin was still, urm, to be honest I can't really remember what he was doing. And then, at approximately 3.00 o'clock in the morning, VFP came home. We invited him for more crashing action but he declined and went to sleep because he was tired. You see, if VFP says one thing, we are compelled to agree and follow whatever he says. Even the landlord is afraid of VFP. He's good, I'm telling you. Then we all went to sleep. At 3.00 o'clock in the morning. Then I had to wake up at 7. Then I was late for work. Now, can you really blame me?

So, you might now be wondering why we have so many mirrors in the house? Let me explain.

There are rumours that the house (well, not exactly a house, more like an apartment unit only much much less attractive than it sounds) used to be like a bath house, with less bathtubs, more women and even more stinky old men. So that makes the whole building (and yes our flat too) a brothel. A BLOODY BROTHEL. Wow! Never in my wildest dream had I imagined stepping foot in a brothel. Let alone living in one. But here I am, with my fellow flatmates or should I say whore-mates? No wonder there are so many mirrors. Like seriously, in my house alone there must be at least, at least 10 (minus 2 broken ones) mirrors. And my flat is considered small. Plus, on EVERY ceiling in EVERY room, there will always be 4 baby angels with their private parts carefully covered with green leaves, bright yellow stars (depending on how wide your ceiling is) and most importantly mirrors. And the landlord is an almost bald, fat, 70 sthg guy who most of the times creeps me out with his creepiness. No words to describe. I might need to get a picture of him for you to judge by yourselves. He likes NJM, though. Hmmmm.....

Sweet dreams lil angels...

p/s: I'll post more pics later...

"Could Take a Picture...ooooo...You Can Get One Too" -- Sneaky Sound System

Moi, Ife & Gratsia

Note:

• While my intention of getting everyone's names right is holy and pure, I have a feeling that these are not how their names supposed to be spelled or pronounced. For that I sincerely apologise.
  

Martin and Moi

Note:

• 
  
  I don't normally include other people's photos but I've done it and see who cares? No one, like I thought.


• 
  
  Also, I am not a model for Levi's. I'd say, it's their loss!


• 
  
  And look at my right arm. More like a stick if you ask me!

It's Only - That's a Bike...Yes in a Bar...No, My Camera Phone Isn't Crap..You are!

The Greek Dancing Group (Note the VeryHighHeelsLady on far left)

The Foreign Singing People

I'll be back

I was sick on Tuesday. That means I didn't go towork which also means that I didn't have time to post any photos. I'm off every Wednesday. I have to leave work today (Thursday) cos somebody's coming to use the computer. Therefore, I cant post another entry today. So sorry. I'll be back tomorrow. Typing as fast as I can before the guy comes. Meh....

Tis The Season To Be Jolly! Yeah, if you have someone to celebrate with!

Christmas is coming. It's just round the corner. It's creeping slowly, and time doesn't give much opportunity for me to ignore it. You see, it's not that I don't like Christmas. I do, even though I don't celebrate Christmas. Well, that's somewhat a lie. If to celebrate you mean to go to other people's houses eating chocolates, candies and getting money, why yes, I do celebrate Christmas. If to celebrate you mean I have to believe in Santa Claus and his Missus and his creepy looking elves [they somehow look like child molesters to me -- you see, they are fooling us all. They disguise themselves as Santa's helpers and be cute and green and all, and because of some genetic disorder they have small statures to further give the illusion that they ARE in fact kids, they can easily mingle with the children and before you know it, they have already"presented" their "PRESENT" to your kids -- well, that's just my theory & coming from me who once believed (maybe still believes) that Harry Potter is REAL and that I am actually a WIZARD, you can tell that the theory is a bit faux...I'm yet to receive THE letter from Hogwarts. Sigh], then I can say that I don't celebrate Christmas. No, no. Not with those elves!

Celebration is done quite excessively here in Thessaloniki. You might recall my mentioning the giant ass christmas tree in one of the previous posts. Not content with only a GIANT christmas tree, the mayor (or whoever that runs this place) decided that a giant ass SHIP is needed to complement the tree. Uh huh. A GIANT SHIP - complete with ever so bright lights, just like the ones used to decorate the tree.

And you might think "Surely there cannot be something more. I mean, not unless they want to decorate the whole CITY with too-bright-almost-blinding lights right?". You're right. They don't have giant reindeers or elves or anything like that. They do have however the power to control the radio stations. O yes. You forgot about that! You see, they (by they I mean the Mayor and his loyal confidants) know I don't understand Greek. Since most of the tv programs only offer Greek-speaking shows (well, yes they have Braveheart (uh huh, can you imagine, BRAVEHEART!) and The O.C, old episodes mind you - earthquake hits, remember that), I have no choice but to listen to the radio. As a direct consequence of constant radio-listening, let's just say that I am close to remembering the WHOLE words of "Last Christmas" by WHAM. Uh huh. Wham the band. Yes, yes, the one where George Michael was a member. Oh no. he's not in it anymore. Why yes, thank you for noticing that it was freaking 1000 YEARS AGO! But I love that song. It also helps if your housemate turns up the volume EVERYTIME the song plays. So shutup, move on and sing along......

Last Christmas, I gave you my heart...The very next day, you gave it away...Lalala

My supervisor just told me that I'll be having 5 days off (well, not exactly - 2 of them are in the weekends) for Christmas. I still don't know what I'll be doing. Everyone is going away. I'll be left alone. Meh. England looks like a good option. Visa kills the option. 'Expeliarmus', I said to the visa, as I point my wand to it, fully knowing that Visa is the equivalent of Voldermot who constantly tries to ruin my HOLIDAY PLANS!!!

Erasmus* threw a christmas party last Friday night. Having people from all around Europe/Asia (cos Turkey is partly Asia. You see, I do know my Geography), one of the highlights was the let's-sing-christmas-songs-in-our-national-language event. Although I was dissapointed that Last Christmas by Wham was not the "it" song of the night (I could have gone on the stage and started singing, but I a: was not dressed as an elf, or a reindeer, or Mrs. Clause b: am not an Erasmus member and c: didn't have time to translate the words into Malay - it would have been perfect otherwise), I was entertained by the the people who did sing in their own language. I find the French to be most interesting (maybe I'm biased cos I find anything French related to be super cute. Don't judge me). The Turks were not that bad too. And then, as the highlight of the highlight, the Greek traditional Dance. O yes, you can't forget that. I would like to point out here that if a dance requires you to jump like, I dunno, 1000 feet above the ground and to be VERY VERY precise with your steps that gradually get harder and FASTER with the music, you might want to rethink wearing those VERY VERY high heels. Seriously woman, what were you thinking? Have you forgotten that Mr. Gravity isn't fond of high heels? No, no. They make him angry and when he's angry, he takes you down. Hard. But, the highlight of the highlight of the highlight was the PARTY. Somebody even took a random pix of me and her because she thought I was cute (Whilst I'm not denying that I'm cute, the reason of her taking my photo is still unclear. The most logical explanation at that point of time was because I'm cute. Come to think about it, it IS the ONLY logical explanation. What else could it be?). Good music + Good crowd = Good fun. That's the law of Mr. Fun for you, Mr. Gravity! ...Is that Last Christmas playing?

Then we (Surprise, I wasn't alone. In fact, I was with 5 other people. Thought you might want to know) went to this electro indie club - It's Only. Before you make any judgment of me being a party animal, it's only wise for you to know that this was a Greenpeace party. Yes THE Greenpeace. The one that saves whales and cute lil baby seals and stuff. They even showed cute lil baby seals in the club, not literally. And that my friends, how I officially found my favouritest club in all Thessaloniki. That is until I find another one that's better, which got me thinking. Is there any Club somewhere in or near Hogwarts? Why don't Harry, Hermoine and Ron go to this Club? Is it in the forbidden forest? Are dementors the bouncers or the bartenders? It's not like just because you're a wizard, you're not allowed to have fun, right? I mean, I'm a living proof. Anyways, the dj played all the songs that I liked - The Killers, Strokes, New Order. ...Still no sign of Last Christmas.

Then there was Martin's last dinner on Saturday night. Then there was me falling off the steps. Then there was me injuring not only my left wrist, but also my left foot. Then there was martin's going away party in my flat (yes, the one that has the stinky toilet which this morning I found a freaking unidentified black BUG crawling in the bathtub while I was in a hurry to take a shower. I have successfully killed it by hosing it down the drain and never to be seen again. Urm, well, maybe). Then there was us crashing (no, no not breaking...crashing is more appropriate) 2 BLOODY BIG MIRRORS. O yes, not content with only 1, we crashed 2. T.W.O. I will explain in the next blog on how we crashed the mirrors and why on hell do we have more than 1 BIG mirror in the flat. WHAM (yes, finally Last Christmas) was kind enough to put me to sleep. So did Cyndi Lauper and Mel-C from the Spice Girls (zig a zag ah)....Late again for work...

C'mon Everybody. Hit it.

Last Christmas, I gave you my heart...The very next day you gave it away...

this year, t save me from tears...I'll give it to someone SPECYYYYEEAAL...

p/s: I'll post more pixs on the next blog. I didnt have time to transfer the photos into my USB this morning when I found out that I was LATE.

*Erasmus is kinda like an exchange student program/org.

The "I find myself copy-pasting other people's blogs so that I can read them at home" Edition

So yes it's true. I am a blog JUNKIE. The fact that I wrote and deleted and tried to write again but ended up deleting everything and then convinved myself that what I wrote was finally, FINALLY good enough for any of my readers out there (I know you're there somewhere) which consequently will attract more readers (because the world revolves around me) but ended up AGAIN, deleting every.single.puny.little.word. that I have typed and it's making not only my fingers hurt but also my brain (mind you that my brain does not appreciate this kind of pressure. It's too much for him*).

Not only that, instead of doing the report or any work-related stuff that I know I should be doing, I resort to reading other people's blogs which in turn leads to constant silent giggling and not just the normal giggling but giggling till you can't bear it anymore which often results in involuntary farts. Do you know how hard it is to hold your laugh with your left palm covering your entire mouth (done deliberately so that the others don't suspect that I'm reading something non work related) and at the same time maintaining the damn-I'm-stressed-reading-this-work-essay-thingy look where your eyes just don't blink to make it more dramatic and real? I swear I almost choked on my own saliva when trying to hold my giggle from turning into a crazy burst of laughter in front of my workmates. Not once but THREE times. I counted and thanked God that I'm still alive. Seriously, God knows how many times I came face to face with near death experience of choking on water thanks to the the laugh-while-you-drink effort.

<<<<>>><<<>>><<<>>>

............owh sorry, i was trying to get some inspiration from yes, another blog and yes, I put my left hand on my mouth and o why yes, thanks for asking, I did indeed CHOKED on my saliva again............

Anyway, back to my blog addiction problem. I am still not quite sure whether or not I am already an addict. Because you see, based on personal observations, I have concluded that anyone who is an addict of any kind ends up killing themselves with their dead bodies being eaten by stray cats and leaving a huge financial debt behind. Since I am neither dead nor is my body currently being eaten by stray cats (although the increasing number of house flies in the office might suggest that there is a dead body somewhere, or at least an insanely huge ass FREAKING DOG POOP around the office -- seriously if I hadn't known any better, I'd thought that this office is a dog pawn), nor am I in any financial debt whatsoever (No. I refuse to accept that owing $3 for a bloody hot chocolate constitutes as a financial debt), I therefore declare myself as a POTENTIAL (which implies a possibility but never truly) blog addict.

You see, I use the word potential because of the following reasons:

• I think about what I'm going to write when I'm on the bus, when I'm eating and before I go to sleep. I constantly have to revise what I should write about and whether or not it's good enough for my readers, and most importantly me (because the world revolves around ME).
• I wake up thinking whose blog should I read first once the computer is switched on and will I be able to finish up reading the whole huge ass archive (some dated back to the year 1998) and what should be done should I REALLY, REALLY have no time (you know with the work stuff and all). I once in a while (regularly) neglected (completely abandon) my work AT work.
• I COPY and PASTE other people's blogs into word documents (as big as 2MB each) so that I can read them at home before I go to bed knowing that I don't have Internet connection at home and thus making it impossible for me to read their blogs (although, I suppose I can go to an Internet Cafe and pay a huge sum of money which I don't really have and as a result, I might borrow my friends' money and ultimately leaving me broke with a huge financial debt -- I am not going to be this person). This reason alone has made me feel that I am truly on the way to being eaten by stray cats.

And then, I found some more interesting blogs. To my surprise, there are so many out there who face the same problem as I do, although they cleverly disguise the "problem" as something that they like doing and on top of that getting paid for doing it (I know they don't. I checked). My only concern is that these bloggers get like 50 comments, some even 100 comments and there's this one particular blogger who is so popular that she threw a BLOG PARTY for her readers but I have only 5 comments (2 of which are MINE, another 2 by the same person) for the entire 7 posts. That is SAD! And don't even get me going about the constant headache from constant researching for inspiration (hello, life on the bus?!?) and the back pain and the finger pain. However, I hope one day I would become like them (well not in terms of having a life though because two of them live with cats and most probably end up as the town's cat lady whose body gets eaten by their own cats when they die because nobody in the whole damn town knows that thye're dead and one of them speaks to a dog -- While it is true that I have a cat named Paris and that italk to her sometimes, I am still maintaining the fact that I am still SANE). And although my level of wit is still in question, I do write in my own way that reflects who I am and in a rather, sorta understandable English (English is not my first language so lay off and let me blog in peace!).

I have just recently found out that I have readers (thanks Hai). Yes more than 2 people. Maybe 3, or 4 if I'm lucky. They're just shy to leave their comments, to which my respond will be:

"This is SO TOTALLY not the time to be SHY. You can be shy in front of the mirror but clearly, my blog is not a freaking mirror is it now? Or perhaps you see my blog as a metaphorical "mirror" to your life in which I totally understand if I was a shrink or a homeless man, both of which I am not and feel sorry for? Unless you're homeless or a shrink, which is so totally not possible because homeless people can't possibly afford the Internet and shrinks just don't have normal lives (I mean not with the amount of money that they're getting paid for telling lies and talking bull), I suggest you leave your comments and write them like you mean them".

p/s: I am so totally not pissed off or feeling sorry for myself for not getting much appreciated comments. A lot of the bloggers I read now experienced the same situation when they first started ( I told you, I read the whole lot!) so I should be expecting the same thing too. And now, due to popular demand (by that I mean, 1 person request) comments can be made by those who wish to remain anonymous.

ooooh, I have so much more to write about. Keep you posted.

The "It's Too Early To Lit up A Huge Ass Christmas Tree" Edition

The It's-waaay-too-early-for-christmas celebration

As many* have noted in the previous post, I did talk about a huge ass** christmas tree. So here's the pix, along with the firework celebration.

*many here refers to 1/2 readers and myself.

**ass here is used to bring out a positive connotation. Mum may not like the word but in my defence, that's the only word I can find that clearly describes the tree.

p/s: I seriously do not know how to post my photos in such a way that they will be posted exactly WHERE I want them to be, not just at the very top of the post EVERY.FREAKING.TIME. Meh. I am such a novice.

The "Hey look at me. I'm so dumb I don't know that I'm drinking coffee" Edition

I totally hate coffee. I thought I was drinking a hot chocolate until 2 empty cups later...

..."Wait, this doesn't taste like chocolate"

...to which my ever so conscious mind eagerly replied "That's because it's not chocolate, you idiot! It's coffee". It then continued " O Mighty God, what did I do to deserve this body?".

...I'm like "Totally. It's Major", while having a Victoria Beckham moment.

Because The World DOES Revolve Around ME

Yes, the world revolves around me and Oprah Winfrey speaks Greek.

Why you might ask? Here's why:

The day started same as always - Waking up feeling sorry for myself knowing that if I had put the heater on full blast last night, I wouldn't feel this ridiculous amount of cramp pain in my right foot. Snoozing the phone alarm for 45 minutes thinking it's too bloody cold to wake up just yet, not with the late night watching some big ass christmas tree being lit up at the Aristotleous (i somehow I doubt my spelling competency) Square followed by a glass of bloody BITTER frappe (I mean seriously, what part of "Can I get a lot of milk in it" don't you understand?) and more drinks (coke = caffeine = drug keeping you up all night) in a cool bar till 3 bloody o'clock in the morning, only to find out that it IS already 3 o'clock in the morning and you need to get home but couldn't find a cab and finally resorted to CLIMBING up the HILLS (yes, plural) to get home. Contemplating whether or not it's a good decision to have a shower because it takes bloody 15 minutes for the heater to actually work but eventually giving in to getting wet in a dirty old bathtub that smells like piss because somebody, somehow forgets that urinating is only to be performed when you can physically see the toilet bowl and not just randomly spray on anything that MIGHT look like a toilet bowl (While this is only an assumption, I am still adamant that the bathroom smells like urine and don't get me started about that smell that smells like something weird all around the house). Freaking out just a lil bit when it's already 8.15 am knowing that I have to get to work by 9 and the fact that I have to take 2 buses that are usually cramped wth STARING people, but decided that I was gonna be late anyway so why bother and predictedly arrived 30 minutes late. Did anyone care? No. Perhaps Mum.

At work, I received this comment from the supervisor: "Excellent. You can proceed to develop further chapter 2 & 2.1". Only the thing is, I have NO clue what Chapter 2 and 2.1 are. Bah.

I have taken pride from the sole fact that I'm adapting nicely to the new environment here. Well, minus the fear of going into the office pantry to eat the home made lunch which consists of canned sardines in tomato sauce, burnt omellette and well cooked rice (I can proudly admit that I make the best plain rice ever) in case anyone asks what I'm having for lunch to which I would answer by raising the question "Do I know you?" which not only would make them stop asking (or looking and repeatedly eeewing at my food) but might also imply that I am not a people-person. I am so totally a people-person, by the way. You see, I grew up with these staple food. Having working parents meant that us kids have to survive on eating/making the quickest and cheapest food namely eggs (you can do wonders with eggs) and rice. Owh, and who can forget the good old soy sauce. If I get lucky, maybe some fried shallots to add to the finishing touch. So it is in my nature as a good, responsible child to continue the tradition - the tradition that has kept me alive (and fragile on several occasions) all these while. But not today. Today I thought to myself that it will be a bun day. BUN day for a FUN day (I am so getting the expression copyrighted). This, I feel would stop any of my workmates from potentially judging my food, and ultimately me (I mean, c'mon...they wouln't do that would they? I mean, if anybody was to be judged, it would be because of their camel toes, right? ...more to come...). So lay off and let me enjoy my food. Huh, talk about being insecure!

Anyways, to my point. I personally believe (relieving the moment Miss South Carolina tried to convince the world that she knows what a map looks like...and that she has a brain to kinda imagine how a map would look like. She had fooled us all. That blonde hair - totally extension) that the world revolves around me. I mean on the bus...OMG, where do I start? if I could blog about my life on the bus from home to work minus the 10 minute walk to the bus stop, I would totally do it. I mean, seriously. Owh, okay, I would totally blog about it. Being on bus no 10 and 66 is like being at home (not smelly toilet home, but home home). I TOTALLY feel welcomed. I mean, look at those staring, glazing eyes. So perfect that they deserve to get MULTIPLE STABS, resulting in permanent blindness. I know that I'm hot, but people, all the attention is creeping me out! Some people told me it's because I look Asian. I'm like, d'oh I AM Asian. Not that I'm saying that there is a cloud of racism filling the sky of everyone's mind that as a direct consequence, it has invaded the whole population of this area and that as yet another direct consequence the area is now filled with THAT cloud of racism, because if it was true, this place would be called "Cloud of Racism State of Thessaloniki" in which is totally false. My point being the people are NOT racist. I have come to realise that because there is only a small number of people like me (this is in fact another false statement because just recently I was told that there is somekind of Chinatown somewhere west), the locals are intrigued. I mean, with THIS (making loops with the finger around the face in the y-axis plane) bone structure, how could they not be intrigued? I am therefore taking this newly found self-appreciating assurance as a ticket for a greater and less insecure future.

One thing but. I haven't got cool clothes. What's that you say? "Cool is totally subjective. To some, Donald Trump and Britney Spears are cool". Yeah, totally - if you're either Paris Hilton or Miss South Carolina! Let me clarify. Cool clothes to me are the clothes that make you feel that you're you but at the same time look attractive and that they totally match your personality and all that bull and that won't make other civilians who are not visually impaired feel like you're making a fool of yourself. Or in my own definition:

Cool: Clothes matching personality, Vintage, Feel good about yourself
Uncool: Camel toes, Tramp-ish (unless you happen to be one in which case the clothes totally match your personality), camel toes, Age inappropriate (refer the mid thirties in the last post), BLOODY CAMEL TOES

But I totally know what you mean. Cool is subjective. So I won't judge, although being somebody who is analytical (judgmental) when it comes to fashion (wannabe trend setters), I have to say fashion faux pas (camel toe) is something that I can't comprehend. Yeah, okay, so you're artistic, or you smoke cigars, or you're a punk/goth/emo and you wanna wear clothes that reflect who you are. I totally get it. But if you're tittering over the line of fashionable and craziness/overly-insanely quirkiness, you are most likely to be in the UNCOOL side. So, being very conscious about the clothes I wear (or more like how to pull off the clothes that only I can afford..think, 2nd hand shops, reject shops and the like..and convince myself that they're all vintage pieces), imagine my terror when I, myself feel that my clothes are not cool anymore. Thanks to the, o yes, STARING EYES.

I mean I know that my shoes have holes and they are dirty. But not like you have never got your shoes dirty or wear out. Besides I like to think that these kind of things give me the right amount of edginess that I always think I have. And I'm a student. I can't afford D&G shoes. You can say whatever you want cos I'm not the one with a freaking CAMEL TOE. (To the ignorant, camel toe refers to the shape of a camel toe that you get when you wear your pants especially jeans too high. Moderation is key here). Yes, my clothes look old. At least they're vintage. Sure you won't wear them. Who cares, at least they look cool on me. You know what, I'm done with this. Not because I am so pissed off that I can't talk about it anymore, nor that I am unable to find something amusing to say (for which the latter is true by the way). It's just that I suddenly remember that I haven't talked about Oprah yet and my bun is calling for me.

So now Oprah. Let me tell you something girl! (it's funny how I suddenly morphed into this african american lady character with a ghetto accent to further elaborate the story related to Oprah). Oprah speaks Greek. Ima tellin ya sista. That girl can speak Greek, ya know! (ok, so I suck...so what, suck is totally subjective!). In fact almost everybody in every american tv shows can speak Greek, minus the Simpsons and ANTM. And the tv stations are totally obsessed with 1980s movies (Hello, Police Academy?). I can't recall how many scrunchies or big spectacles or even that disgusting big, bushy thing on top of the upper lip, just below the nose - I think it's called a moustache, or more fondly a porn-star moustache I have seen on the tv since I got here. While i am not denying that ANTM is not produced in the 80s (although Tyra became a model in the 80s which technically means ANTM is actually 80s related), I can't see why they can't get newer movies on tv. And, for the love of humanity, please stop dubbing/voice-overing the Oprah Winfrey show. Seriously, I can still hear her REAL voice in ENGLISH, though really faintly. I mean, if you really want to do it, you might as well do it correctly.

My brain is dead. Will continue shortly after replenishing the stomach with bun - BUN day for a FUN day!

Επομανι Στασι – Καμαρα

Whacky Umbrella Art Thing (This pix wasn't intended to be put here, but I don't know how to put it somewhere elsecos I'm a novice so shutup)

Alexander the Great

Translation: Next Stop: Kamara (I have grown accustomed to the sound of the bus PA that I thought I should share it with you. Plus, it makes a great title because you would be wondering what do these words mean and therefore be more interested to read more…not that I’m saying that I have no readers).

Goodbye. Goodbye to Raphael, I bid, for today is the day that he steps on that airplane and flies back to the comfort of home – Germany. Lucky bastard!

Pity. I pity Raphael for not enjoying his farewell party at the Malt & Jazz Bar last night. Seriously, I would be offended too if somebody subconsciously (let alone deliberately) plays James Blunt straight after “Can You Read My Mind” by the Killers. Oh, I was deeply offended and hurt. The story of a lost soldier not fit to be in the army, trying to pursue career in the music industry but instead ended up screwing chicks, which we all know was his first intention anyway is just sad. Plus, sitting for 2 straight hours on a chair trying to enjoy live music is really a tough thing to do if you ask me. Not only do your buns hurt, but it’s bad for your ego too if you’re a self confessed rock fanatic who pretends adoring the Kiss just because they’re like the biggest rock legends ever although you have no idea what they look like except seeing some caricature features of them on some dodgy T-shirts sold by Raben Footwear, let alone heard any of their songs.

My point is, you should go all out and you shake whatever things that can be shaken when you’re listening to songs that have unquestionably shaped your childhood days like Zombie by the Cranberries and I will Survive by erm, Gloria Gaynor (or was it that other African American woman?). Instead, you’re left feeling guilty and more like a weirdo when you sing along to those tunes because some people just think it’s okay to stare at you with the “whoever asks, I don’t know that person and I’m going to pretend I’m not looking” look while being completely fine with it. Well, sorry if I’m not good enough for you (ghetto style, please)! Plus, there’s just something wrong watching a bunch of mid-thirties ladies dressed up in figure hugging outfits that accentuate their cleavages dancing, in fact not just dancing, but belly dancing to some rock songs (and I mean Staind rock songs) sung by a guy who’s wearing a shirt with a red sequined dragon print on the back of his shirt. I think that’s why and ultimately how a stylist is born.

I went back early.


Liberating. There’s something so liberating about walking along the harbour side on a nice, sunny weather. Thessaloniki’s harbour side is magnificent. I mean, on a gorgeous day such as today, with the White Tower and some whacky umbrella design as the backdrop, it’s just divine. Sure a friend is leaving and you might never see him ever again, but that’s beside the point. The point is, enjoy the good feeling while it lasts. Even though it means getting a Mocha at Starbucks, which you have sworn to never will (there’s this thing about ‘why Starbucks when Campos is just round the corner’ mentality that I adopted a while ago – well, more like an excuse that I and many Sydney-siders use to justify that Starbucks make dodgy coffees) because it turned out to be pretty good actually. See, what did I tell you about enjoying the moment? I mean what more can you ask for? I certainly didn’t ask for Alexander the Great, but that’s what I got. I’m glad that he and his horse enjoy being under the winter sun while some kids skate freely around him, scratching and basically ruining his marble body (I’m not sure if it’s marble or something else…but looking at the picture, it’s clearly not marble so I’m going with granite).


P/s:
1. I have some pictures I intended to include in this blog, but the office internet is moving at a snail's pace, in fact much more like the pace that Paris my cat makes everytime I give her the monthly Revolution (almost typed Resolution). Like she's about to die. Don't you dare die on me you bloody slow Internet!

2. I have never tasted coffee from Campos. Why? I don't drink coffee - only strong on the choc but weak on the coffee Mocha. It's still got coffee.