Doctor Faustus. (Christopher Marlowe)
I like to pack everything into a post. For my lack of vitality I make it up with verbosity.
I went to Chili's yesterday. (No, I didn't misspell it.) It had more than what I was expecting: a quiet mellow affair, a Starbucks/Delifrance experience. Instead I was treated to an intense marriage of Swensens and a Clarke Quay night bar, a rambunctious spawn of noise, delicious food and more people. So much so that even with Dead! played out from my phone on full volume I could hardly hear Gerard Way's vocals. It was a furious, raging bout of culture shock right in my homeland. I was very intimidated (or it's because I'm such a coward at times) but I went with two friends twice my age and my sister, they found a table, sat down and ordered strange nacho-lookalikes with plenty of warm, brown and exotic sauce and too much food for ourselves, and after a while I had warmed up to the occasion. It was fun, though. Seeing that I've hardly the chance to bond with anyone of late, and certainly not with people my own age. (Twilight or a suspicious Chinese drama series usually starts a conversation, and I'm always failing to catch up. Social anxiety just puts the last nail on the coffin of friendliness.) I liked people who bother even to start a conversation with me and wait for me to catch up. I liked arguing about which movies were better, why House MD is good (or rather, why Hugh Laurie is downright brillant; everyone agreed on that), hypothesising the genetic make-up of Adam and Eve, why gigs in Singapore usually aren't worth watching unless it's your favourite band, what makes people attractive, etc. Then I've been wishing to mention Nine Inch Nails (August the 10th! Fort Canning Park) in at least one of my conversations, and I did. I've never felt more at ease when I'm wrapped up in nervousness. We talked and ate till 10.30pm, and I realised what a nightlife it must be out at Orchard Road: the street lights, the people, the parties I wouldn't fit into. Nothing too sleazy.
My personal version of a nightlife usually involves table lamps, stacks of books and a backache.
Well I would have to keep on wondering until I'm regarded of age enough to saunter through the mechanically-lit streets on my own and come home in one piece. We went home after the dinner. Or more accurately, the guys made us. Otherwise I would have lingered around, taking photographs, etc.
I wasn't pissed throughout, except by how I've been treated like a child. That affected me a little bit. This might sound desperate, but according to how I look at it I don't share the usual teenage interests, nor do I scream whenever I glimpse a cute guy within sight. Yet I'm always disappointed whenever I'm still regarded so typically. Conformity is frustrating at times.
It's just a case of over-insecurity that I ought to be over with. My final word: it was enjoyable.
Brighter things. I bought additions to my book and music collection: The Black Parade again as I've somehow misplaced mine six months ago, MCR: This Band Will Save Your Life as I've been pretty much obsessed about them lately. I like their songs, but it's difficult summoning words to explain why so I won't. I would have bought something Marilyn Manson-related but second thoughts made me put it back. #1: I wouldn't have enough money left for next week and #2: It would change people's opinion of me, lugging it around in my bookbag. I find myself still contented to be 'the quiet, science-loving girl who sometimes says 'fuck' under her breath but is altogether pretty nice'. Spitting out vulgarities isn't something to be proud of, but anyway not everybody gets to hear that.
Now I musty be getting on with studying for Biology before I muse on transient things, such as when I'm getting my Epiphone.
I'll get by. Like I've always had.