Extreme exhaustion.

Sometimes I feel so happy, sometimes I feel so sad. Sometimes I feel so happy, but mostly you just make me mad. Baby, you just make me mad.

I'll take that dunk at my fingertips.

this one involves covering your mouth, sitting down on the busiest street corner you most probably couldn't find and listening to whatever balls everyone is talking about. always the same old shit. i could choose to argue, correct things, whatever. but i'd be less tired if i just let people snowball their views into some messed up perspective, what the heck right. let them live with one moment of contentment thinking they're right. you can idealize your own values, i can sit around listening to things i don't believe in. everyone thinks they're right, 'cept they aren't of course.

well, some things trigger emotions we deem impossible or inexistent, things we buried out back with no intention of digging back up, ever. we all have points in life when things get painfully real when thinking about the end makes you re-evaluate the now. that whatever you swore to never resuscitate slaps you back in the face like a fish who's jumped out of the tank, fighting for its life.

Taste of ink.

With th taste of ink, my obsession came back to haunt me. As th poison set in I found myself loving every moment of it.

Little did I realize my addiction for tattoo started when I was just an innocent young kid spending a pathetic sum of 5bux getting myself a stick-on tattoos. I would carefully paste it on my arms or even on my hands. I made sure my sticker tattoos were within th view of all my fellow pre-school mates. Damn those innocent days where my little envious classmates would resort to coloring their arms and hands with magic markers just so they thought they would look as cool as me.

Since then I couldn't help but invest all my piggy-bank money on sticker tattoos from that old shop round th corner. Th old sleazy shopkeeper who made money out of my 'hefty' investment would always shake his head in despair whenever I came around. Soon.... It was my 6th christmas back at Los Angeles with Aunt Molly, I swore I was th happiest kid on earth when I received my very own "Body Paint Kit".

I experimented with th different templates and it wasn't long till I went to school with face paint and butterflies and little stars all over my arms and feet. I fell madly in love with body art. As colorful as I looked... Grammy would always scrub me hard, washing every color off my body. She would cane me and scold me saying "Tattoos are for th gangsters!". That left me crying, I always assured her I was doing it for fun. But no, she wouldn't budge.

As I grew up, falling in and out of love forced me to exchange my obsession for happiness with a partner (then). I thought he was worth giving up my obsession for. But no no no, I was so damn wrong. That bastard knocked me out of my path and soon I went back to square but this time with another obsession with piercings.

I had myself 7 piercings done at one go. Ah, you might have wondered if th gnawing pain had drove me out of my sanity. To be honest, it wasn't th physical hurt but more to th emotional destruction that jerk caused.

Who knew a hero came into my life and pulled me out in time. I swore if I had not met him I would have still gotten my head stuck in that crazy turmoil. I love my partner now. I rly rly love him.
But I don't know why this sick obsession is creeping on me. Pulling me deeper.
I find myself feeling th tingling pain when th needle slowly ink my skin. I sense th deep surge of satisfaction when th cold, cold metal pierce through my skin.

This stupid voice is talling me to get my ink job done soon.
I've never told anyone this but I've always wanted to have tiny petals tattoo-ed down my back. Petals.

Now now now, I am considering to have my eyebrow pierced when I get my pay next month.



I know this confession upsets everyone. But I have from now till pay day to jolt out of reverie.

Save me now or never.

You've got a hole in your shopping bag.

Aren't my nails pretty? Holyshit. It is pretty, I hear you say. But things.. Hmmm. I mean people (customers) I've met for the last five days of REBAJAS (SALES) are far from pretty. They are... Ugly/Nasty/Snobbish. One word for these shoppers- irksome.
In the last five days of ZARA SALES, apart from all that UGLY eyebags/packing/folding/serving customers (which is the deal of my job) I manage to take a peek from another point of view. You see, I have always been a shopper and never a sales exec. So... This job offered me another scope to life. I see the ugly side of female shoppers. Oh yes, to be very exact, FEMALE SHOPPERS ARE THE UGLIEST BEINGS ON EARTH.

Here are simple observations:
1. Heels and clothes that "flew" from one end of the shopfloor to other.
2. Soiled tissue papers left behind in the fitting room.
3. Starbucks cups left underneathe th shelvings (hello miss, you really think you can get away huh?)
4. A hell load of shoving through the pile of $29.90 T-shirts.
5. Blind customers who were oblivious to the sign MAXIMUM 6 PIECES ONLY outside the fitting room.
6. Continuous questioning "Er, this piece got my size?"
7. Women cut queue like noone's business.

Conclusion:-
I've changed my perception that women are demure and gentle beings. They are nothing but a bunch of rowdy rugby players wanna-be. Oh god, please take a good look at your shopping conduct when you look into the mirror next time. Pfffft.

Well, we all know... Dealing with shit every day is certainly no mean feat. Guess what I got as a reward?
A pleasant surprise from Cookie and his family at my workplace. A good 20 minutes with them left me with a smile. I love 'em loads.