Buses and monks…

Today on my way to work by bus I witnessed an incident, which made me quite angry. I was sitting two seats away from the first seat, which is usually reserved for the clergy. Since there was no clergy present at that time, a really old lady and a gentleman occupied that seat. Then a monk gets in, he looked about 17. The gentleman quickly got up and the old lady after much difficulty also got up. Monk sits; I immediately got up and offered the old lady my seat. I could have chosen to look the other way like so many other people, but unfortunately I knew that a guilty conscience is a difficult thing to live with. Getting back to the point, that was when my blood started to boil. I’ve always wondered why the monks/priests get the front seat no matter what the circumstances are. Have you ever seen a nun get a seat? I haven’t, they usually get one if a person with a good conscience offers them one otherwise they travel just like any other ‘ordinary’ person. If we are taught to respect our elders, shouldn’t the monk have been the first person to respect that old lady? Besides almost everyone on that bus serves God in his or her own way, why should the monk be treated any different just because he’s dressed in a robe?

The intention of this post is not to offend people but to figure out how all this started and why it is necessary to continue this age-old tradition when it makes no sense (at least for me).

Somewhere in the subconscious…

She with her long curly hair, dressed in her favourite dress cascading over blue jeans walks along the corridor, with its worn out red carpet while her fingers trail the gold beading running along the edges of the wall. She wonders how the architect could get the colours all mixed up. Her sister with beautiful straight hair and a cheeky look on her face follows her. As they hold hands and skip to the end of the corridor she hears soft music and spots an elevator, which is equally gaudy and strangely grotesque. Just as they’re about to step in, the elevator doors suddenly start to close and fearing that her sister will be left behind she turns around to face this guy who had stepped in between to prevent the doors from closing. He smiles and gestures for her to step in. Once inside the elevator, it morphs into a ballroom with shimmering lights, ornate mirrors and fancy people. She’s taken by surprise and moves forward to grab onto a golden pole, which materializes in front of her. As soon as her fingers touch the pole, the whole room starts spinning and the motion blurs frighten her, she tightens her hand around her sister’s wrist, fearing she would be swept away. The mysterious guy stands beside her and reassures that it would all stop soon. She’s relieved when the whirling finally stops, and turns to thank him. He smiles jovially as she asks him if there was any way she could contact him, he replies saying it isn’t necessary because he knows where to find her.

That’s when I woke up.

21

I waited all my life to turn 21. Now that I’ve turned 21, I feel strange, alienated, unhappy.

The giggle brigade

The giggle brigade comprises of 5 girls (including me) who are addicted to giggling, raucous gossiping and insulting each other. We are a tight fit with the motto “girls just wanna have fun”. We met up last Friday for coffee and had a blast (bad word to use these days) the coffee was bad but the conversation completely enlightening. We discussed extra marital affairs to baby showers to periods while the guys seated at the next table were highly tickled.

The Mother- She leads the giggle brigade with her cunning looks and deviant plans but hides those evil inklings behind a Mona Lisa smile. She’s happily married (or so she says) and tries with brute force to find suitable husbands for Tall One and me, the only two happy singles (or so we say).

Shorty – The oldest member of the group and vertically challenged, hence the nickname is actually a force to reckon with. She’s indeed lovable and cuddly (not that we’ve tried cuddling her) and the sort of person who laughs at our stupid jokes and comes up with equally stupid ones just to make it one big happy laugh fest.

Tall One – Standing at a mammoth 6 feet one, she’s striking that’s for sure with her height, greenish eyes and blond hair which she claims isn’t blond which is extremely blond of her and I think that blondeness is getting to me. She’s the most innocent of the lot so most of our jokes just flies past her head but we still love her to bits.

Max mess – She’s like a little Chihuahua on drugs. Hyper. Confused. Funny. Giggly. All that and more, comes free with every pack of super absorbent wipes. Hurry! Until stocks last. I don’t know why I wrote that, it just felt like a commercial. Sorry. With her petite figure, front bangs and fangs (kidding) she’s a bundle of fun with a great big heart.

Comic relief- that’s me to complete the gang but I’m not going to write about myself because after all how can I possibly insult such a darling me J

Wrong Diagnosis

So it wasn’t a crush really just an infatuation, which thankfully is over. So time to get some sleep.

Goals for 2008

1. Save
I waste a lot of cash and at times when I see how much I’ve spent on utter rubbish, it makes me feel really bad. Then to make myself feel a little better I go out and spend a little more. This has go to stop. Money should be spent wisely.

2. Win a Chillie
My chance of winning a Chillie this year is highly remote, but fingers crossed.

3. Travel
I want to travel the world before I die or before the earth slowly disintegrates, but this year I’m hoping to go to Aussie/England and do a road trip.

4. Get promoted

5. Do a piece of advertising that I can be proud of
I’m happy with most of the work I’ve done but I’m usually proud of what other people around me do so must try to find inner peace and do the best.

6. Fill the blog with meaningful writing.
Sometimes I feel like my writing is childish and when I read other blogs I feel like my one’s extremely mediocre.

7. Get a laptop and a good digital camera.

8. Take part in the construction project.

9. Spend time with my family.

10. My final goal is to live life the way it comes and goes and also to smile more often.

Drowning one’s woes in half a bottle of arrack

“Tipsy eh?” My friend question’s, I stick my tongue out at him. I’m not. I hadn’t tasted alcohol in ages. I don’t miss it. I don’t feel the urge to gulp down that acid tasting substance just to help forget that annoying or upsetting thought process. I don’t think alcohol does anyone justice because the next morning you’re gonna have a thumping headache and feel bile creeping up your throat and guess what you’re also gonna remember exactly why you drank so much and all those thoughts that you tried to forget will come back like a tidal wave, unless of course you’re dead or comatose…

So why do people still believe that alcohol is good when one has problems?

What about indulging in alcohol when you’re happy?

The problem with most people and alcohol is that they don’t know when to stop. So with each drink, you start becoming another person to a point that you make a complete fool of yourself. Is that fun? I don’t think so…also one mustn’t forget that those around who are not drunk love reminding you how cute you looked when you had puke dripping down the front of your shirt. Or maybe they’ll tease you about your lip locking session with that pervert whom you otherwise (when you’re not drunk) consider a “piece of shit”.

Maybe I should end this post with “Drink responsibly” or “Don’t drink at all”. Dunno.