Vanity's Fair 2

As much as i love my team, and the folks on it, I have to confess this is really about shameless self-aggrandisement. And at least looking at all these pics is extremely useful for hyping me up for Sunday. Grr!!

me in trying to cut out p gary's the cross.

an absolutely hideous photograph with my ass crack vivid(i'm so wearing black shorts next time). but I beat p gary here. woot!

some very random shot. but i think i look damn pro liddat. woot

Funerals

I attended the funeral service of a friend's father.



I remember blogging about something akin to this a few posts ago. But no, I have no fixation with death. It's just that I guess wakes, funerals, death itself gives a very pointed reminder to the brevity of what we are.



When I think of life, I think of people bursting out with laughter, like the three of us in the study a few hours ago. I think even, of people crying, like the widow at the funeral, sobbing great big sobs that send her frail shoulders shuddering. I think of those close to my heart, so zealous, so passionate, so driven, so far away. And it becomes terrifying, that all of this ends with a powdered lifeless face with dry leathery skin and lips drawn into a smile with a lipstick of sorts.



On a lighter note, I was once again an enormous klutz. I only realised when I plonked my butt down on one of the white plastic chairs, that everyone else was in either white or black. And myself:


A dark bold red.


Heng people were nice about it. But I need to stop being so sotong...

Ponderous Quandaries

I better dun screw around with this...

I want to look back and be proud of myself. ARGH!

21st Bday Partay!!!

And if you do read this blog, you're probably on the invite-list already. And if in all my scatter-brainess, I forget to pop you an invite, then pls pls pls!!!! just come by.

Details:

6-10pm
My Place.

BUT!!!

I shldn't be complaining really... twas good, very very good.

2B

Of course one needs to be cryptic... but 2 is the number and b the alphabet. fuck.

Sport

The pick and roll, in reference not to Basketball play, but rather, a panoply of things that revolve around matters mainly pertaining to the rolling and Georgetown postgraduate wannabes.

I feel a bit bad right about now. Because I’ve been drawing certain divides that reflect very negative notions (but then again, given the context, maybe not).

If it is a B, then I’d bail, or maybe I’d not bail but never swing for home. If C, I might hang around, and try to get the ball out of the park. And there’s a mighty fine chance if one considers the conversation. Of course done with top end gloves in the Mizuno vein. Er, of course, no Babe Ruth hall-of-famer/ legend stuff. Highly unlikely at least.

Nevertheless, be it C or B, there’s a part of me that wants to do a Houllier-Mourinho. Probably because I’m on unchartered territory. But then again, the desire for adventure pulls me to be more akin to Grant-Rijkaard. It is quite bloody dilemmatic. I don’t know if this is spontaneity or recklessness.

But the conclusion anyhow if I want to tango like Barcelona or Arsenal:

*M I Z U N O*