the soliloquy of a lion-hearted girl

Occasional unrequited self-love

Mon, 28 May 2012 14:24:32 +0800

I like that I’m generally hard to read. But sometimes I feel really lonely when I cannot think of a single person I can speak to regarding irrational nostalgia for people I barely know, the random sadness that plagues me at 4pm, or the look in your eyes that makes me both overjoyed and breaks my heart all at once. You can wear your heart on your sleeve but you only have yourself to blame when it gets worn out. This is why the walls you build to protect yourself are the same ones that end up fencing you in.

Unbeautiful by Lesley Roy reminds me that all good things come to an end. Even if I once felt...

Sun, 27 May 2012 21:11:00 +0800

Unbeautiful by Lesley Roy reminds me that all good things come to an end. Even if I once felt perfect in your eyes, I remember too clearly the nights when I never felt good enough, smart enough, understanding enough. But yesterday when I saw you smile, I finally, finally, fully understood the meaning of how fearful it feels to love something death can touch. And even though I might not always have felt this was right, I remember why I never once felt it was wrong.

Workaholic barbie

Fri, 25 May 2012 12:35:00 +0800

I cannot believe I wiped clean any memory of uni results being released on Monday. I’m currently feeling the full effect of pre-doomsday jitters, courtesy of a memory lapse. Here’s to hoping I don’t mess up too bad this semester that my parents restrict my freedom the next. While I’m definitely expecting less than stellar grades this time round, my fingers and toes are crossed that I don’t fail anything.

I started working while studying last semester, and for anyone who tells you it is possible, is either (1) not studying in a Singaporean university, or (2) has insane time management skillz that I need bottled up and Fed-Exed to me, pronto. Working while studying is all sorts of wonderful and exhausting though. The extra moolah on the side really doesn’t hurt, and it feels liberating to buy something with your hard earned cash. Plus, I’ve always been an advocate of work experience > studying. But that might be just me yearning to throw myself head first into anything new that pops up.

I have a plan to kill myself by taking on more part time jobs next semester. In fact, I have just filled out a CV for sales exec at Zara. (Yes, retail is sorely enticing. Not for the pay but for the hustle bustle.) My common sense is winning on this one though so I’ll hold out for awhile before I send it in.

In better news, here is a snap of the best mussels I’ve ever tasted.

The sauce. The sauce. The motherfreaking sauce. What a party in my mouth. Then again my opinion is biased because I have never eaten mussels before this. Not enough to turn me into a seafood lover, but definitely keeping a lesser distance from them mollusks from now.

Available at The Pump Room at Clark Quay, or in my tummy.

Love Is Not A Saturated Tumblr Image

Wed, 23 May 2012 12:02:39 +0800

Reading Chelsea Fagan’s article on Thought Catalog about the backseat that ‘boring’ love takes when compared with unrequited and melodramatic love really struck a chord. This generation appears to be obsessed with building walls around the heart, heartache and loss, to the extent that it goes beyond mere poetic inspiration. The most obvious place we see this? Tumblr.

Spend days trawling the corners of the site and you’d find a common pattern: lovelorn quotes and lyrics, presented from the likes of Sylvia Plath to handwritten script on a frosted window pane. Do we have an inherent yearning for a death wish? Or is there a dark, twisted desire to get our hearts trampled on by people who keep us coming back for more, but never have anything to give?

Perhaps it is the ease of micro-blogging that creates such a buzz among the emotionally weary. No other outlet allows for such free and creative expression of pent up emotion. After all, it is comforting to know that people get you, that you are not swimming alone in this sea of sadness, when you see a melancholic post get over 1,000 notes. Lord only knows how many 2ams were spent on tumblr, trying to purge my unsaid feelings to an audience of one blinking cursor, painfully aware of the emotional demons that manifest in the dark. As much as I understand too well the feeling of falling apart, it is also obvious that too much and too often is never too good.

Love is not movie screen captures of Natalie Portman desperately asking why love isn’t enough, nor Joseph Gordon-Levitt’s Expectations versus Reality. Sadness does not feel as good as it looks in sepia, complete with subtitles. Betrayal does not soothe over by placing white Helvetica text on bad vintage photo. And certainly, the insanity that comes with losing your mind for the sake of your heart does not feel better because you write about it on the back of a Starbucks napkin in black Sharpie.

Love is ugly and brutal when it is bad, and bleedingly beautiful when it is good. I understand and accept that there is beauty in the breakdown and sometimes the most electrifying art comes from the most broken of souls. But the danger in thinking that a 500 x 340 px image will do the majestic feeling any justice is that we tend to romanticize the ache, giving it overt importance and allowing it to define who we are.

Gotye hit home with the currently oft-quoted lyrics, “you can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness”. We become so familiar with breaking our own heart that we subconsciously shut out any form of happiness that tries to mess with our comfort zone; we don’t know how to navigate the terrains of pure bliss because it is foreign territory; or we convince ourselves that we are satisfied in our perpetual morose state because pain is what we know, when what we really need to realise is that sometimes, it is the ones we know best that have the power to hurt us the worst.

(Also published in Fever Avenue)

A Restless Girl's Quest for Contentment

Tue, 22 May 2012 11:59:13 +0800

Five years ago, I fell in love and managed to graze the perimeter of the fleeting emotion. For a decent period of time, I believed contentment lay with the people I gave my heart to. I found myself wanting nothing more than where I was and who I was with. The blanket of happiness I was constantly draped in was too overwhelming to think it was anything but genuine.

But after awhile, the glitter fades when you realise that you can’t possibly find it in another if you do not first understand that something so complex yet basic has to come from within. Even with the heartstrings binded to another, there are days when what grips my heart is a deep disquiet, and I am unable to quell the unspeakable desire to indulge in sudden and reckless escape.

My problem is that I yearn for a little too much, a little too often. Desire and passion are all well and good, but it’s the fine ones that cause you to set yourself on fire until you no longer recognise the debris that remains. On hindsight, perhaps the blanket of happiness masqueraded as a shroud of delusion surrounding my perfect concoction of love, faith and hope.

Short of attempting an Eat, Pray, Love, I opted for soul-searching budget style. I came to terms that switching up geographical coordinates would not cure the restlessness in me. Mere travel allows me to taste temporary euphoria, but then leaves me wanting more than before. Contentment doesn’t involve grand actions, but instead allows for tiny realisations of the value in every moment, teaching you to make magic from the mundane and radiance from the rust. It is a state of mind that neither flights across oceans nor exotic people and places can provide.

After a couple of months searching for the quiet lull of inner peace and struggling with fruitless chases, I found it strolling the supermarket aisles at 1am, doing wee-hour grocery shopping. I found it in the smell of memories permeating the air in a secondhand book store. I found it while sitting alone at a café, watching the rain create patterns on the window pane. I found it in the joy of having my iPod play my favourite song first on shuffle mode. I found it people-watching in the middle of the central business district, wondering if behind the powersuits and briefcases hid a person who liked his tea cold or his sheets messy. I found it in a kind word, a sideway glance, an uninhibited laugh.

Everyone seeks contentment, but a rare few ever manage to go to bed with it at night and wake up knowing it did not slip from your clutches while you were asleep. Some people spend their lives awaiting the moment when the puzzle pieces fit, before they finally stop their quest for the intangible. And right there, in my own backyard, in the most ordinary actions and in the depths of my very soul, I had stumbled upon it.

There is only so much longing and yearning the wretched heart can take before it calls it quits. Yet it is unfortunate and inevitable that the elusive bastard will slip from my clutches before I know it. So while I can, I plan to take a mental snapshot of this moment — when I wake up deeply satisfied with my life, wanting nothing more than what I already have.

(Also published in Fever Avenue)

Parental Guidance

Mon, 21 May 2012 22:18:00 +0800

Every so often, I have the urge to do something drastic or spontaneous because life is horribly stale without pushing its boundaries. Besides endangering my existence, I have actually managed to accomplish some small (and not so small) acts of rebellion against my Asian parents. These include getting my motorbike license (for a good six months behind their backs), getting my helix pierced, going down the poly route yada yada.

The best part about having strict parents is that it feels so much better when you get away with things they would put an immediate stop to if they even smelt the faintest whiff of the idea brewing in your head. I must admit, the mischievous side of me occasionally does certain things more to see if I can get away with it than because I actually want to. So much thrill in the chase, but none in getting what you want without a fight.

Sometimes, though, I get the feeling that they object just to exercise what little parental control they still have, because they know nothing and no one changes my mind once it’s made up. They probably figured it out when I was the most stubborn five-year-old brat who insisted on going for every single lame 20¢ kiddy ride in shopping malls.

Anyway the point of this ramble is just to say that I am planning on getting purple and turquoise highlights in my hair (and subsequently proceed to ~~surprise~~ shock my mom). Cheers, yet another reason why I’m not in the running for Good Daughter of the Year.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my parents so much, and a little more so because they love me unconditionally even though I am possibly more than they bargained for. But they need to realise they are dealing with a Taurean daughter here. Stubbornness is not just a character trait or something you hope will quietly make its exit once we hit adulthood. The damn thing is our entire frickin’ identity.

And yes, I am mentally prepared to get whacked in the face by karma in the form of my future children.

Stray

Mon, 21 May 2012 13:50:45 +0800

I want you to know that even if I am a little distant sometimes, even if I don’t share why I’m sad because I don’t want to hurt you anymore (can’t you guess though?), even if sometimes I wish you came before everyone else just so I would not be so emotionally jaded, even if I lose my way often and talk about giving up, I do love you — very dearly and with all my wretched heart, although never nearly quite as much as I would like to.

My mind might love taking unwarranted walks by itself but my heart is always here, right beside yours and beating in tandem for as long as you allow it to and then some.

No. 49, Memory Lane

Sat, 19 May 2012 01:07:00 +0800

I miss writing about you.

About the time we spent together, languid and enveloped by the hazy dream like caricature of youth. About the words I used to imagine you could say, full of magic and mystery when they were really reality checks one after another — just the way I liked it. About how you made me feel absolutely secure, like I had known you my whole life and more. (You know, perhaps I did.) About how you made me laugh the way nobody else could, because I was so enamoured by silly things that became funny once you spoke of them.

Some days I’m convinced I will never again open a new text post, stare at blinking cursor and prepare myself for a long night of purging unsaid feelings towards you that I never publish. Some days I’m not quite sure. In another universe, maybe this would have played out differently. Sometimes I imagine an alternate realm where our lines never crossed (and then subsequently split), where we ran parallel to each other forever and still led perfectly blissful lives. You and me, complete strangers on the street, never knowing happiness at the mere age of 17 and thus never experiencing total heartbreak. Or you and me, only ever friends. We were actually amazingly natural at that. The memory serves to remind me that sometimes the good is truly good enough and better is not necessary.

I miss the warm feelings associated with you, but I’m not sure if that translates into missing you or missing a part of myself I used to know. The moment is fleeting, like every other strong emotion I have. But I do know Steve Almond was right about one thing — “it is in these moments of tender and ridiculous nostalgia that I know something inside me is still broken”.

Hard to write, harder to write right

Tue, 15 May 2012 23:45:00 +0800

There was a point in time when I assumed freelance writing was a job that was tailor made for someone who merely constructed impeccable sentences. Thankfully, a few weeks ago, I sobered up after I read something (sources are best kept private here) about how difficult it is to find a good freelance writer. In other words, one who can churn out 300 words about a given topic are a dime a dozen but endangered is the person who can convey a message in the tone that appeals to the correct target audience, who is wonderfully versatile enough to be versatile.

Being a freelance writer is not about keeping your floaty, flowery style that would resemble a screenshot of a Sofia Coppola film for a piece that requires short, snappy sentences. It is not about pouring emotion into every misplaced semi-colon when you are not writing a feature. It is about adapting to different voices of different publications, while maintaining the nuances of your style that no one can imitate and still being proud of having your name run in the byline. There is only so much the best editor can teach, and pizzazz isn’t on the list. The ability to create wonder from word-vomit with finesse is inborn to a certain extent.

It is easy to fall into a cycle of self-doubt and hurtful questioning when you sacrifice your voice for another’s. But when you are a freelance writer, you are the product. You are a living, breathing brand promise — and there’s nothing quite as rewarding nor overwhelming. You sell yourself in every comma you place, every apostrophe you erase. Every choice of word is a glimpse into the inner workings of your brilliant, dynamic mind, which ultimately provides for your next paycheck. I’m still learning how to balance a job well done with the elusive sense of satisfaction — especially when I have to tone down on my use of metaphors for more newsy, less personal pieces.

Writing is a fine art that good grammar and impressive vocabulary do not even begin to cover half of. It is not for the criticism-wary because there is possibly nothing (at least in my myopic range) that leaves you more vulnerable than taking on different personas and still getting judged for being yourself.

The above paragraphs were inspired by minimal experience, the hunger for more and procrastination (but of course). Writer shall not be held responsible for jobs lost or illusions shattered.

Strange faces, distant places

Mon, 14 May 2012 21:08:00 +0800

It is almost two years now since the day you left me feeling less sad than I should have been. That day I carried around the guilt of being surprisingly comfortable with your absence. We were young and hopeful and I remember being in love. But I don’t remember how it felt. Every so often nostalgia creeps into the back of my throat and I taste bitterness, and I think that perhaps the aftertaste of a love gone sour is what truly stays with us in the end.

Five things I learnt about interning at a magazine: Week 1

Sat, 12 May 2012 19:35:36 +0800

i. Errant bra straps do not help when you are running around with ten (mildly under-exaggerating this one; it’s more like fifteen on average) shopping bags hanging from le breaking arms. Wear secure bras next time, Grace. Or proper outfits that ensure slip away lingerie is not on the menu for the day.

ii. Comfortable shoes are not only advisable, they’re also necessary. Always prioritise comfort over pure style because there’s nothing like an inopportune blister to slow you down. But always keep a pair of fancy shoes (nude heels, in my case) at hand in case you need to run off for a PR event or food tasting sesh. Wouldn’t want to show up in sneakers now, even if they are expensive $60 Converses.

iii. Speak up for your rights. The only thing worse than being shoved around is taking it lying down. Not happy? Say it. I am learning it the hard way because my pride and ego render all my cries for help non-existant. It’s not so much about the way people will look at me but how I’d look at myself. I like to believe I’m efficient enough to deal with impossible tasks. This has proven overly idealistic. Even the best fall down sometimes, and I am barely even a quarter of the best.

iv. Breaks are God sent. I use mine to eat my carbs because very often that is the only meal I get for the day. I say this with complete disdain when I don’t understand how some people are content with wolfing down …salad.

v. The Devil Wears Prada is actually a pretty accurate depiction of the industry — complete with cray cray emotions. Minus the glamour, empowering soundtrack and intimidating boss (thank God). I suppose no matter how promising something seems in the beginning, even the glitter loses its shine. Cliche as this sounds, it really is about rolling with the punches and chanting pseudo feel-good mantras in your head to keep yourself grounded. The stress has its way of making you break down in the middle of shopping malls or in the back seats of taxis (every single day, at least twice), but the fact that you make it to the end of the day without willingly throwing yourself in front of a bus only means you have it in you to endure bullshit of insane proportions. If that isn’t bulletproof hardware over your heart, nothing else will be.

Photo

Wed, 09 May 2012 23:59:02 +0800

Like crazy

Wed, 09 May 2012 10:26:00 +0800

I wish I could tell you it no longer means as much to me, or that after all this while, I have finally grappled with the possible truth — but I have reached my lying quota for the year by constantly feeding myself beautifully packaged ones to keep my chin up, back straight.

It is a painful moment when you realise you could possibly love someone more than you love yourself. Everything else from there on out is done for them, without yourself in mind, and in the long run, you give and you give and you give until you have nothing left of yourself. And even then you keep on giving. It becomes impossible to be yourself anymore when so much of your heartbeat consists of the existence of another. There is nothing self-sacrificial nor unconditional about giving because one always subconsciously expects something, anything in return.

I am most afraid of the beginning of the end, because the few moments before final resignation are tainted with the desperation of a dying man who realises he will miss the air.

Like a kid in a candy store

Tue, 08 May 2012 20:03:00 +0800

Work has eaten me alive, and I’m all too happy ‘bout it. Working in a magazine company / living your dream is pretty darn fascinating stuff. It’s almost exactly what I expected and that says a lot, considering how I have sky-high expectations. It leaves me with near zero energy to do anything after work though, but the mega energy drain might be age-related instead.

Yesterday I dragged my tired, sorry ass to town and met with the girls for dinner. These people have known me since I was prepubescent 13 and horribly messed up, so I owe it to them for sticking with me through the years. While walking along the roads last night, I had a flashback of the four of us in class 9 years ago. C - at the back sleeping, P - being ever studious and doing her work, XF - working on her art, and me - secretly (but not really) text messaging away under the desk.

Fast forward nearly a decade and here we are: C - dealing with drugs …as a pharmacy student, P - dabbling in psychology, XF - math-lover will soon be a true blue accountant, and me - a little confused, a little unsure but mostly passionate about all things media. The four of us were different back then, and we are still worlds apart now, but our rock solid friendship is built on our shared love for simple, no frills company. We don’t necessarily talk often nor share innermost secrets reserved for a handwritten diary, but these girls are my refuge, the proverbial lighthouse in a storm — ever shining, hardly dimming.

As much as I miss having 24 hours all to myself, free to let the imagination wander into ambitions too lofty or spaces too unfamiliar, I love my work place — and its surroundings are pleasant, especially in the afternoons when the sun shines hot in the cerulean blue sky and you’re torn between running inside because you fear being scorched and staying out to enjoy the occasional breeze near the nape of your neck. I love what I am doing, the interspersed plans I have lined up for May and June, and the rush of being busy with things that matter.

But life is life and that means tears and fears don’t go on hiatus just because school does. So swing round every week or so. I’ll try to get something up.

"Love bores you" / "No, it disappoints me"

Sat, 05 May 2012 19:30:00 +0800

This film is perfect. I never watch movies again within the span of six months because I remember everything, but I watched Closer twice within less than 24 hours. The good parts? For starters, the sharp dialogue and the haunting soundtrack (think Mozart and Damien Rice as part of the brilliant assembly).

And, two words you will remember long after the 100 minutes of genius: Natalie Portman. If I did not understand her attraction previously, I am now a convert.

But mostly the raw, almost brutal, honesty about love and its dark (and very real) dimensions. It was like standing on the edge of a cliff, arms outstretched and facing a black, raging ocean — then allowing the sheer magnitude of uncertainty to engulf you.

A symmetry

Wed, 02 May 2012 11:09:00 +0800

i.
It is 10:31 on a rainy Monday morning and I think, I think there are only finite ways you can think about one thing before you exhaust all possibilities but there are infinite ways you can feel about it. Because sadness comes in varying degrees and depths of each degree and depth, but then so does happiness, joy, bliss, heaviness, emptiness, and when you combine two degrees of sadness with 50 of joy and the remaining 48 of nonchalance, you get a concoction of mildly disquieting Wednesday afternoons.

ii.
I can’t tell you how I am feeling most of the time because there are no words in the Oxford English Dictionary to describe why I am especially sad in the afternoons but at the same time incredibly hopeful, or how dreams about a past lover never make me sad anymore but instead odd because I no longer recognize the stranger in my dreams, or why it is that the ones you want are rarely the ones you need but you want them precisely because of that. But I like the word ‘kaleidoscope’ so it will appear excessively and unnecessarily in conversations.

iii.
I’ve been reading online blogs, mostly of people who write, and I am amazed at the spectrum of the human emotion. The world is not big nor strong enough to hold it all which is why I think it gets distributed among its population, unevenly and often to those who can’t handle the monstrosity of melancholy. I would like to experience more than the emotional range of a teaspoon, but only when armed with a pen and paper in case it threatens my very existence after awhile and I need to rid it from my bones through ink.

iv.
Today I am going to spend some alone time strolling the streets and perhaps the evening will find myself nestled among the shelves in a library somewhere. It is the good type of silence and comfortable solitude is the best type of company.

Run, run, run

Wed, 02 May 2012 00:42:00 +0800

If I had prepared you, would the lonely nights have passed easier, instead of straining under the weight of all the emptiness? There is a reason why the worst monsters are the ones you never see coming, the ones that only make their presence known once they have firmly weaved themselves into the tapestry of the strongest bond, strand by strand unravelling it from within. You end up dead while being alive.

On turning 22 (reluctantly) (very reluctantly)

Tue, 01 May 2012 14:27:00 +0800

(originally a Facebook note)

I spent the first hour of my 22nd dealing with the sober realisation that after a certain age, it is inevitable to feel more jaded on your birthday than to see it for the joyous occasion pop culture claims it should be. Part of me wonders if this disenchantment comes from the vast disparity between grandiose expectations of birthday magick and the stark reality of a simple occasion, that could have been otherwise pleasant if not for comparisons.

Where birthdays are concerned, I was always one for quiet affairs, preferring to spend my birthday with one person or a select few instead of a large group. There exists so much more meaning in spending one-on-one time with a friend than with a bunch of people you are never going to talk to very much for the rest of the year anyway. Life is too short to engage in the meaningless.

Besides, I’ve noticed that my daily life often consists of dealing with highest of highs to lowest of lows, so birthdays serve as a refuge to recuperate and recharge the soul, as the one day I can safely say ‘I am entitled to not care about nor not do anything today, and if I want to sleep my day away, no one can say anything’. Perhaps part of the reason why birthdays are terribly anticipated is because of the slight degree more of freedom attached to the choices we make on the day itself.

I started off this note wanting to thank the people who have made the past year special, because too often when we tell people ‘you know who you are’, they actually don’t. So in the following lengthy paragraphs, this is thanks to Doreen for showing me distance is irrelevant in friendship, Laura for relating to me on a level no one else can, Cheryl Choy for your unwavering faith in me, Joel for being my world, Violet and XW for the unexpectedly solid friendship, Azizah and Siti for being my source of pure joy and laughter, Timotheus for being the brother I never had, Joyce and Jesley for being the rare few I can still talk to comfortably regardless of how often we speak, Heather for teaching me things far beyond your years, Aniszah for allowing me to be my most vulnerable and vulgar (simultaneously), Ivan for being an unexpected listening ear, and XF, Cheryl and Penelope for 9 years.

And because a new environment means building new friendships and rekindling old ones, thank you Jianlin for sharing and listening, Vera for sharing my slight degree of idealism and being genuine, Raphael for becoming a great friend from an acquaintance, Alvin for picking up perfectly where our friendship left off 5 years ago, Kaijie for keeping it real, Jeremy for the multiple confession sessions and knowing exactly how I feel with regards to academics without me saying anything, and Prasatt for our bond from the very beginning.

My mother says I should be thankful for having survived because 22 years ago I was in a test tube and what are the odds of surviving there. But God forbid I should merely be thankful for survival. I want more than the bare minimum. So this year, especially, I am thankful for the ones who help me love myself a little more. As far as birthday gifts are concerned, this is by far the best.

This is release

Mon, 30 Apr 2012 09:04:00 +0800

I write to come to peace with certain things and certain people. The fact that I rewrite and rationalise specific events in my life only mean that I have not yet gotten the closure I want — and so I will keep writing from every possible angle until I milk the memory for all its worth. Until every word and every metaphor for every emotion becomes so hackneyed, I can finally think of you without simultaneously reviving the familiar dull ache. Mostly I write to remember, but sometimes, sometimes, I write to forget.

Diamond dashing

Sat, 28 Apr 2012 00:36:00 +0800

Saw this a few days ago, and it is disturbingly good. This one had my hair standing on end by 4:54 and thanking God for the invention of YoutubeRepeat.

I am three days away from three months of sweet freedom. Except, it’s not even three months; it’s more than that. Three months and two weeks. Two weeks! The world can be conquered one continent at a time, messes can be sorted and tidied up, hearts can be broken and mended in 14 days. Essentially, a lot can be accomplished in 14 days — but a lot won’t.

Instead of volunteering with the needy, packing my hurricane-struck room, or filling my days with stereotypically enriching activities, I foresee myself lounging on the couch at home or on a deck chair by the pool, book in one hand, food in another, convincing myself that I deserve a lazy break after a two-month predictably emotionally exhausting but otherwise mentally invigorating internship at Cosmo magazine. Or I might book myself one last trip out of the island before school officially resumes on 13 Aug. We’ll see where spontaneity takes me this time.

Yes I am going to throw myself amidst stress far worse than exam nonsense, less than a week after my final paper. Am I mad? Slightly but mostly just incredibly hungry for the opportunity to work in one of the world’s biggest lifestyle magazines.

And here, I place a short story, otherwise known as an abrupt digression before an abrupt ending.

“HI PRINCE CHARMING YOU LOST IS IT WHY TAKE SO LONG TO FIND ME MRT BREAK DOWN SO YOU STUCK IS IT SORRY SINGAPORE CANNOT RIDE WHITE HORSE CONFIRM MUST PAY TAX FOR HORSE BREEDING BUT GOT WHITE CAR ALSO CAN MRT IS NOT CONSIDERED WHITE OK YOU GOT IPHONE RIGHT CAN GOTHERE.SG AND FIND ME FASTER OR YOU WANT ME TO GO FETCH YOU”

A friend’s FB status. Hilarious, no?!?!