Tweeting Again

A quick note: I'm back on Twitter! To see my tweets or to follow me, look under my picture on the right -->

Every Boy's Dream

She's the girl who has always had all the boys wrapped around her little finger. She knows exactly how to work them, how to manipulate them into doing what she wants, for her convenience.

"We'll get him to do (what we're trying to avoid)," she said to me proudly and conspirationally one day, "he'd do anything for me."

I am utterly fascinated when I observe the way she handles the opposite sex - the way the tone of her voice raises a decibel and lowers a shade in volume, the teasing way she gazes at her targets through her eyelashes, the subtle quirk of the corner of her mouth when she correctly thinks to herself that she has her victim exactly where she wants him. She instinctively knows just how to treat them to make them into her, to make them want to cater to her every whim. It's a skill I've never been able to develop and probably never will.

She's pretty, not because she's super gifted in the gene department, but more because she's youthful and very confident. She's the kind of girl I kind of wished I were when I was in high school, but not really, because our morals and values are too different. For example, she was genuinely horrified when I told her about Karma Face - what happens to people when they do immoral things, especially like stealing someone's boyfriend. Has it never occurred to her that doing immoral things would result in repercussions that would make her suffer? Maybe not physically, necessarily (although that really struck a chord with her), but certainly in some way that would be really awful. I've always thought it would, and it has always been a strong deterrent in me from doing bad things, what little conscience my mother managed to successfully develop in me notwithstanding. But maybe I'm just superstitious.

She's a bit shallow, but a lot of it is just because of her age. I hope and sincerely think she'll get better in that department as she grows older.

She doesn't give off the best first impression to girls, but she is friendly (albeit sometimes too soon) and can be a fun girl friend at times.

She's vivacious and there's something magnetic about her personality that affects men more, but affects women nonetheless.

She clearly adores herself, just like the majority of people around her, and as well she should, because, despite all of her quirks and (very interesting) faults, she is a nice girl.

I think, therefore I am.

I hate being told that I think too much. Isn't that what a brain is for? It's the proof to myself of my very existence. Je pense, donc je suis. Cogito, ergo sum. Descartes was onto something.

If I couldn't ponder, or fantasize, or imagine all possible outcomes so I can try to make the best choice, or imagine what I could achieve, or savour all the good memories I have amassed, and so on and so forth...what's the point of having a brain? Just so I can maintain the ability to keep myself alive and functioning?

My brain is all I have. Don't tell me I think too much.

The Hostess

I stopped speaking and smiling roughly an hour ago. No, that's not entirely true; when I happen to be standing behind my podium while people are leaving, I manage to grind out a (passably) convincngly cheerful, "Thank you! Have a good night! Take care!" and an automatic smile that, I'm sure, they can't tell from that distance doesn't quite reach my exhausted eyes.

I honestly really want to be more chipper, if just to support my manager who has to be here to close the restaurant, because he's sweet and wonderful and caring and understanding and he pats me on the hip in support when he starts to notice that I'm tired and he sings me Lady Gaga whenever we run into each other in the kitchen.

Every time I walk past the cocktail party with the beautiful, gift-shaped cake, I eye their cake longingly, hope they won't finish it and that they will leave soon and decide not to bring the rest home so that I can have a piece. It hurt me to clear up a plate with a virtually untouched slice on it. Someone took one bite and decided to not have any more; how wasteful! I almost want to pinch off a corner and stick it in my mouth covertly when I get into the kitchen but I don't, because it's not the best of times when it comes to contagious diseases.

I'm so, so tired. My feet hurt so much I'm starting to walk with a swagger that could rival the most hardcore rappers out there. I keep willing people to leave soon so that we can call it a day, but I cringe inwardly at the thought of having to clear up everything for all four of the huge parties going on when they finally, finally go. But I have to keep on chugging because I have goals to reach, places to go, things to do.

Just two more hours...

Still

Everything Else