Pink Tuesdays

I just saw my aunt and my cousin from Australia (my family’s far and wide… but I’ve never been out of this dreaded cesspool - part and parcel of being an refugee race). The cousin is hot. Goodness. I can’t help myself.

But over tea with some pisang goreng and keropok, my aunt had to go into the usual routine on asking about my life. And why I don’t want to go to a public, government university. And then suggesting getting a scholarship. Then getting repelled when I tell her my forecast grades. And then chastise me for being lazy. And then did something unique normally only parents worldwide have a perogative in - compare me with her daughter.

You know, the usual: judging me, questioning me, looking down on me.

The thing is what I’m doing now is because my parents placed greater value in renovating the house than in my education. Okay, fair enough. But now, all I want is for them to spend at least a tenth they had put in with my older brother’s education in my education. And that’s not counting what they need to pay once I get a job. At this point, I think I’ll be doing my degree part time. If my parents won’t pay for it, I would. I won’t go to university for the sake of going to university where I have to spend a year and a half more than UK twinning courses and then coming out to join the local unemployed scene.

From the second episode of Desperate Housewives:

In the hospital, Rex is in a hospital bed with Bree sitting by his bedside.

“Bree sobbed quietly in the restroom for five minutes. But her husband never knew. Because when Bree finally emerged, she was perfect.”

Of all the characters in Desperate Housewives (its a different addiction I’ll deal with later…), I connect most with Bree. I may not be obsessive compulsive, but I put out a facade, some sort of mask so that people think I’m perfect even though my life may be crumbling. I remember once I was passed over for a ministry in church because of my brother (long story), I walked to the bathroom. I sobbed the entire sermon. But when I finally emerged, I was perfect.

Anyway, yesterday on the bus, I met a old friend ex-classmate. My goodness, I never realize how brain-numbingly annoying he is - not kidding on the brain numbing, if I wasn’t late for class I would have detoured to a 7-11 and both some asprin. He’s the kind that is extremely enfeminate (take the most feminine girl you know, put her next to him, she’ll look butch) but takes any suggestion that he’s *gasp* gay extremely hostile. Yeah, I can relate with that, but goodness, he’s so annoying I don’t actually care.

At one point of the “conversation” (pretty much he talks loudly, me can’t wait for him to leave), he said, “No wonder you’re enemies with a lot of people.” I went “Huh?” “Most of the class hates you. Especially FH.” FH is one of my good friends, though he’s in Canberra now I communicate with him quite often. Heck, I even risked jail time for him (calling, and taking a Muslim to church around here… slightly more than frown upon). The other people he named, Oz, Jackson, Visa, Robert, etc. - are all good, close friends. To this day. Either that or they’re conniving two-face bastards. But I would go for the prior (BTW, all names have been falsified to protect my identity).

Well, it is true, I don’t actually have the whole “good friend” deal with anyone. But that’s because people who befriend me is befriending the Perfect Rex, while exactly four people know who I really am. Friends come to me with their problems. But it doesn’t work the other way. Goodness, no, it doesn’t. To friends, I’m one who’s relatively problem-free. A few minor quirks. That’s about it. And they say, birds of a feather flock together. And when you are unique in your feathers, you tend to hang out with loneliness.

So enemies? No. Good friends? Nah.