The Ollies are over

It was a magical Olympics. I'm glad it came as it was supposed to and it treated my senses to a journey i would never forget. How not to swell with pride as we watched our young shuttler and paddler giving 110%, facing their foreign opponents whose eyes only gleamed of hunger for victory and not that of sporting camraderie? I would have puked all over my Thai/South Korean opponent and ran out of the stadium with pee trickling down my legs.

I've watched previously disinterested friends on the sofa at the apartment yelling out random verbal abuses or thralls of displeasure as they watch boxing, soccer, fencing and bad advertisements. I myself became a self-proclaim 3m dive specialist, not bothering to mince my words when i suggested to my French-Vietnamese exchange student friend that ".. the Greek girl should have not tried such a difficult dive and stuck to a simple 2.0 difficulty.." and that "..the American Synchronized male divers are definitely gay partners because they wear their hair the same shade and style."

The most scintillating of all events was the women's handball finals against Denmark and South Korea. 2 extra times and they were still 34 even. The Korean girls looked tired, the Danish girls had hair like light refracted through crystals of ice.. platinum blond with eyes as green as emeralds. I couldn't stop looking at them. They were visibly more attractive than their South Korean counterparts who could probably double up as taekwondo competitors. They went into penalty shootouts and the Danish girls prevailed. It was a great match, and they were SO.. cute.

The floorball match

Three periods later and there i was, eyes stinging from the mixture of sweat and sunblock, legs sprawled over planks of parquet, my mood as saggy as my socks. I hate losing. Firstly, winners always look better after a game. Secondly, i never seem to understand the meaning of participating in the "Spirit of The Game" unless it meant that the winner gets to command the Grim Reaper or the Devil himself to claim the souls of those fallen.

It was my first match. And since the first impression matters most, i made sure that chick's face was planted firmly against my armpits when she collided with me. I hate the part when the fianl whistle blows and all of your efforts come to zilch because you are hauled back to reality only to realize that the cheer was for the opposite team and not yours, because no one really cheers for the losing team, unles of course, they brought their mothers/girlfriends/pyscho random spectators along.

And then there is that cheesy, sniggering/camraderie/"spirit of the game" shit where you have to form a line and congratulate the winning team and shake hands and stuff. What's up with that? A more civilized, legitimate, "pie in your face sista" kinda ritual? i know they'll probably go like, "hey! you played well! Good game!" and shit but in their heads they will be like, "You suck, go back to Bukit Timah you media whores!" and besides i fear physical intimacies and handshakes with sweaty strangers might trigger random acts of terrorism.

I couldn't look them in the eye while i shook hands because i wouldn't want to chance upon that glint of joy/gloat and try putting my fist down their throats. So i just look down at their feet, let my bangs cover my face and go for psycho muttering under the breath exchange of niceties. So they go like, "Thanks for the game," and i go like, "Fuck you bitch!" or "I'll beat your ass next time." I get away with my un-sportsmanlike behaviour because the whole procedure takes like 20 seconds since everyone rushes through it so they get a cubicle to shower in later; plus i do a perfect Dustin Hoffman Rain Man kinda thing so they leave me alone fearing i would bite them and give them rabies.

I'm such a sore loser.

Second week of school

It's Week 2 and nothing has really started. The only class i attended last week were my Spanish classes. I decided to use the "It's only the first week of school!" excuse to skip classes and be tardy.

Knowing the shallow superficial self-conscious bitch that i am, i always end up taking an hour/ hour and a half to get ready for school. The perennial question would be what to wear to school. This question will of course be subjected to a variety of factors like: What time am i leaving the apartment for school? If i'm leaving in the a.m but before 11, i'll wear something long sleeved because then i wouldn't have to lose a third of my body weight in sweat when i walk across the Botanic Gardens to reach school.

Other factors include: Do i have training that day? Because if that is answered in the affirmative, i'll have to carry a bigger bag because i would have to bring my running shoes, a change of clothes, towels, sport stuff.. etc. And i would have to stuff that in my training bag which is dark blue. So whatever i would be wearing would have to match with dark blue. I'd usually opt for a sporty casual look on these days. And because denim is oh-so-easy to match, i can be more liberal with what i want to match my denims with.

A digression: I asked the maid that usually swings by our apartment to clean up for $10 an hour to come by on SUnday morning to iron some of my clothes. I thought that she'd take an hour or so to iron about 25 pieces of clothing and that would be less of a hassle than piling of it into the car and driving home to let my maid, who works for peanuts, to iron. I was not at the apartment when she came over and i had left instructions for one of my flatmates to call when she's done with the ironing. The maid was supposed to have reched my apartment at 10am. I received a call at 3pm.

B: Hey, the maid came in at 1030 and she just left.
me: (looking at watch) Oh, did you guys get her to do other stuff?
B: Yeah, we made her clean the living room, kitchen and bathroom.
me: oh, ok. so how long did she take to iron my clothes?
B: Erm.. she took 4 hours.
me: WHAT! 4 freaking hours to iron my shirts??
B: It was 25 pieces ya..
me: Still, i thought it would take an hour or so!
B: Apparently you have never tried your hand at ironing..
me: What has that got to do with anything??
B: Well, then you'd know..
me: *swears*
B: Oh yah...
me: WHat?
B: The ironing board broke.
me: What do you mean it broke?
B: As in the plank, the wooden plank, its broken in two.
me: You've got to be fucking me.
B: Apparently you have never tried your hand at ironing...

Ollies

It was a heartwarming sight. Almost as hot as the bloody weather. Still haven't got used to the humidity since melbourne. I was at the foodcourt in school when i noticed that almost everyone's necks were craned towards a particular televison set at the corner of the foodcourt. I sat myself down and joined in the watching.

It was a man. Not too good looking. Not too tall. Contorting. Grunting. Sweating. He was wearing a black shirt and shorts. He looked like any other guy you see on the street. After a few seconds, it dawned on me that he was not so ordinary after all. On the back of his shirt was emblazoned bold in white, a familiar name; SINGAPORE. And he was in athens. And that man was Ronald Susilo. David. And he was facing a German opponent who looked as pale as his socks. Maybe it's true what they say, "In the presence of the truly great, one does really pee in their pants."

I'm taking Spanish this term. It has been fun so far. I know how to say Hello and Goodbye and Good day and all that shit. I'm waiting for full sentences so i can do a telenovela kinda thing.

Because it is important to keep in touch...

It's nice to be in melbourne. your body goes through a whole new environment that it will desperately try to adapt to. Sensations in toes, fingers, or any protuding features on your body are no longer in existence. Nevermind the woollen socks, stocking, combat boots, leather gloves, hot cocoa in hand; you won't feel a damn thing anyway except for the trail of mucus on your upper lip and the wind piercing through your sternum.

At last..

It's my last day at the bank. I'll be officially ending my internship today. Unofficially, they have offered me a part time post while i study. Supposed to chalk up points. But i'm so tired. Is the money worth it?

I had a filipino girl whack my left jaw with a stick. It was painful. She was sweet thought. Kept wanting to "make it up" to me. Right. I just told her that i would sue her under the pretext of her causing grievous hurt.

I have absolutely nothing to do at the office. Which is why i'm updating my blog right now. What can i write about? As if my creative literary juices have not been tainted with all the rudimentary finance crap they make me do here.

My little enclave here, at the office, is made up of about 10 people. 7 of them are "Phone Banking Officers" which basically means that they answer calls from our corporate and retail customers who call in. The other 3 are my manager, my other supervisor and my fellow intern E.L. i like my desk. the walls surrounding them are made of some soft wood thing so i get to thumbtack posters and postcards around my table. I have 3 green T-rexes, free gifts from the Kid's meals i buy downstairs at Burger King. i've decided to give them away to my managers. I have my calender, complete with the bank's logo which i use to mark out dates and countdown the days to my freedom.

I'm going to miss it here..