Dawn Of The Yawns


It’s past the witching hour here and my eyes are screaming at me. I’m really sorry for being a bad caretaker, my dear Eyes, but sometimes things must be done before I can rest in peace (no, not die), and that is crucial in making sure that you don’t start working in the middle of the night.

So. Today was the final day of Year One. It’s amazing how the word ‘final’ conveys a much stronger message compared to ‘last’. Anyway, school was the usual, albeit a little dry and lengthy as we were going through our Chemistry quiz (*double yawn*). After a very (un)productive study session (blame it on the sinus, baby) in the library, we headed off to lunch. I had this heavy tray with a mini pan, a saucer filled to the brim with Honey Brown Sauce and a bowl of hot soup with my utensils sticking out of it (it was so filthy I had to dip it in). Walking… Walking… “Whoa whoa!” by this group of students trying to keep out of my way… and then…

The Glass Door.

The school did a great job with the maintenance of its facilities so the door was as shiny as ever. The metal handles gleamed in the daylight. I would have grabbed it and pushed, but my hands were really busy (did I mention I’m really clumsy with trays?). While praying for a kind soul to give me a hand, I started edging the door open with my left foot. I reckon a girl with weak hand muscles carrying a tray loaded with food and doing her best with her foot to get the door open wide enough was really not pathetic enough for someone with free hands (and there were many) to just hold the door for her. That must be it. Next time, she’ll just have to carry the tray with her feet and push the door open with her hands.


Looks like my brain is severely deprived of oxygen. It’s going to be like this for the next week or so, with the study week and exams popping up. I’m never a consistent worker. I study only the topics I have interest in and that makes me better in those topics than I am of the others. However, that doesn’t change a thing. I still study my best topics. It irks me sometimes, but I guess that’s just me. If you don’t like it, leave. If I don’t like it, you leave too.

*Yawn yawn*

Any other worthy-to-share issues? Yes. This. Is. A. Must.

I won’t be super specific because of sensitivity issues, but here’s the gist (yeah right) of it. You know when organisations conduct surveys? “All your details and responses will be kept confidential.” Is it just me, or does anyone else still feel uncomfortable sharing your deepest thoughts? Most times though, that squeamishness just subsides because the matter is no longer pursued. However, when the person being surveyed confronts you, how would you feel about such matters in the future? That awkwardness, that feeling of guilt even when there’s no guilt. Such a wonderful experience!

It’s human (or beast) nature that when receiving negative feedback, you become defensive. That degree of defensiveness varies from one human being to the other. Apparently, some people can’t let it go and thus comes the word ‘confrontation’. “I want to know who said I was ‘blah blah blah’ and I want revenge.” This statement is usually printed on the unhappy party’s forehead when she’s trying so hard to extricate information from those poor few who are standing right under her nose. Too bad, rolling of the eyes isn’t going to do much help except make the next feedback worse than the last.


Here’s a song I recently got obsessed over. It’s called Skinny Love, sung by Birdy. In case you were wondering, it’s not a recording of chirps. Birdy is a girl as young as my second sister. She’s from the UK if my brain’s not screwed up and she’s good, bloody good.

Come on skinny love, just last the year.

*Yawn yawn YAWN*

Well… Bonne nuit.


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