To the uninitiated, this blogspace has seen two resurrections, therefore making this lucky #3. Or maybe not so lucky, depending on how I go with this last attempt at the fine craft of blogging. Hah. I figured at 32 years old, if I'm going to blog again and still not succeed at keeping even myself interested in the act, then I might as well fold and call it a day on the world wide web.
Like a long tumultuous relationship with an emotionally unavailable lover, it keeps happening and then not. It goes high and then low. It is there and then it's not. It gets hot and heavy and then disinterested, uninteresting. And on and on it went for 12 years.
It started way back when I was a wee 20-year old. Young, restless and out to prove to the world whatever. Studying in New Zealand, experiencing independence for the first time. No curfew woo hoooooo! Life was about detailing every single thing. Back then there was no Instagram. Facebook was just starting. The blog, YOUR blog was all there was to it.
Then came my mid-20s. Graduation. First job. What a bummer. No freedom. No time. No money. No idea what I wanna be. Blablabla...all that boring self-inflicted existential drama thinking people actually gave a damn about your bleeding heart and the injustices of social expectations upon you. Young adulthood was the bane of my then existence. Hindsight is always 20/20 and so, on hindsight, I wouldn't change one bit of it.
December 2010 - the year I relocated to Singapore. Ah...new life, new adventures, new everything with a bit more focus and maturity. I grew up, grew older, grew my waist size, grew my bank account, grew my life experiences, grew my hair to new lengths, grew in my world view...I just grew. And I decided life isn't going to be bad from here on out. At which point, the writing stopped.
Because I got bored of writing about myself. It was tedious. Self-indulgent. A waste of time. Because Facebook was what you documented your life on now. Rants. Raves. What you like. What you don't like. We revel in the 'Likes' and 'comments'. Nobody had time to read about your day in great lengths - time is money and anything more than 140 characters is not really that important, especially if you're going to let the world (more specifically your idea of your world) know you just had lunch and what you had. It was a tussle to decide what would be more important - the action or the object. And speaking of objects...the objects of your/my/our perfect life - behold Instagram. Dear Lord I love Instagram and all its filtered glory. It gave you a sense of what life should really be like - tinted and cropped to only reflect the best parts of it. No one wants to see the nasties that came with your perfect cup of coffee, your perfect gym routine, the perfect salad/cake/meal/holiday/outfit/thing... all the perfection, it had to be documented. And I am not ashamed to admit I subscribe to that perfection too.
Because God knows, I'm imperfect. And this is where there will be an account of it (among other things, of course. No more drama kthxbai. Ok, maybe a smidge of hulk rage and whinery). With that, and at 500 words too many, I present to you the first imperfect object of my day. My empty lunch bowl. Well, it's really a tupperware. Imagine a heaping mound of coral lettuce, pea sprouts, corn, chickpeas, cherry tomatoes, julienne carrots, a roughly cut hard boiled egg, some spiral pasta (need my carbs yo!), all mixed in a creamy Goma dressing. Imagine...to my horror...the clothes that no longer fit me well, hence the rabbit food. Imagine...all the people...living in harmonyyyyy......
Ok. Work day resumes. Thanks for reading.
Like a long tumultuous relationship with an emotionally unavailable lover, it keeps happening and then not. It goes high and then low. It is there and then it's not. It gets hot and heavy and then disinterested, uninteresting. And on and on it went for 12 years.
It started way back when I was a wee 20-year old. Young, restless and out to prove to the world whatever. Studying in New Zealand, experiencing independence for the first time. No curfew woo hoooooo! Life was about detailing every single thing. Back then there was no Instagram. Facebook was just starting. The blog, YOUR blog was all there was to it.
Then came my mid-20s. Graduation. First job. What a bummer. No freedom. No time. No money. No idea what I wanna be. Blablabla...all that boring self-inflicted existential drama thinking people actually gave a damn about your bleeding heart and the injustices of social expectations upon you. Young adulthood was the bane of my then existence. Hindsight is always 20/20 and so, on hindsight, I wouldn't change one bit of it.
December 2010 - the year I relocated to Singapore. Ah...new life, new adventures, new everything with a bit more focus and maturity. I grew up, grew older, grew my waist size, grew my bank account, grew my life experiences, grew my hair to new lengths, grew in my world view...I just grew. And I decided life isn't going to be bad from here on out. At which point, the writing stopped.
Because I got bored of writing about myself. It was tedious. Self-indulgent. A waste of time. Because Facebook was what you documented your life on now. Rants. Raves. What you like. What you don't like. We revel in the 'Likes' and 'comments'. Nobody had time to read about your day in great lengths - time is money and anything more than 140 characters is not really that important, especially if you're going to let the world (more specifically your idea of your world) know you just had lunch and what you had. It was a tussle to decide what would be more important - the action or the object. And speaking of objects...the objects of your/my/our perfect life - behold Instagram. Dear Lord I love Instagram and all its filtered glory. It gave you a sense of what life should really be like - tinted and cropped to only reflect the best parts of it. No one wants to see the nasties that came with your perfect cup of coffee, your perfect gym routine, the perfect salad/cake/meal/holiday/outfit/thing... all the perfection, it had to be documented. And I am not ashamed to admit I subscribe to that perfection too.
Because God knows, I'm imperfect. And this is where there will be an account of it (among other things, of course. No more drama kthxbai. Ok, maybe a smidge of hulk rage and whinery). With that, and at 500 words too many, I present to you the first imperfect object of my day. My empty lunch bowl. Well, it's really a tupperware. Imagine a heaping mound of coral lettuce, pea sprouts, corn, chickpeas, cherry tomatoes, julienne carrots, a roughly cut hard boiled egg, some spiral pasta (need my carbs yo!), all mixed in a creamy Goma dressing. Imagine...to my horror...the clothes that no longer fit me well, hence the rabbit food. Imagine...all the people...living in harmonyyyyy......
Ok. Work day resumes. Thanks for reading.
