26

Found lying in my unposted archives. I can't believe I was 26 when I wrote this. I'm now halfway to 28! To say time flies would be a gross understatement of how fast it moves and how long I have apparently neglected my blog.

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What is this nonsense?! This is not a food post! Yes, I know, non-existent warden of my kinda-food-blog, but it is the nearing the end of the year, which means I'm getting nostalgic, reflective, and downright sappy about life, because in a few weeks, it'll be a WHOLE NEW YEAR. AND it'll be my birthday. AND next year I'll be married (and I've heard that one must be an adult to do that, so therefore I must be an adult now). AND I just read a book called Dear Me: A Letter To My Sixteen Year Old Self, although I am quite a religious reader of fiction only, and it made me think about what I was like at 16, which I then realised is a mind-boggling TEN YEARS AGO. And the combination of the nostalgia and the holy-shit-ten-years-ago?! manifested itself in... a rambling letter to my 16 year old self (what up 16 year old me). Hopefully in ten years 36 year old me (what up to you too) will write a letter to 26 year old me (cannot what up you, because you are me now).

Dear Sixteen Year Old Iman,

I remember what it was like to be you. You're awkward, worried, geeky and unconfident. You desperately want to get out of Brunei. You are constantly disappointed with yourself. You have major insecurity issues. You know you want something better and bigger and more significant, but you can't articulate what it is that you want. When 26 year old Iman remembers what it was like to be 16 year old Iman, she feels like crying, and let me tell you, at 26, you don't turn on the waterworks on very often at all (except for really important things, like Disney cartoons). The good news is: it gets better! The bad news is: not something I want to tell you, because you need to go through it, and sometimes ignorance is bliss. The bad news I WILL share: the next few years will be Arsenal's best, I don't know what happened after that (metaphorically speaking, because obviously I DO know what happens), so enjoy it while you can.

Other things you should know:

- I don't know when it happens, because I didn't realize, but: your acne-plagued skin, will, one day, no longer be acne-plagued. Your hair will, one day, no longer look like it is equal parts mortal enemy of conditioner and product of electric shock therapy. You will always dislike your nose (we did not get a nose job like you wanted), but you will, one day, stop giving a shit what people think about it. You will, one day, be considered conventionally attractive, even though your first instinct will always be to think the person saying that is fucking with you. And if they were, 26 year old Iman would actually (and has been known to) cuss out or flip off someone who WOULD fuck with her, which she is way more proud of than being thought of as conventionally attractive.

- You can do way better than the people you are dating right now. I AM SO TOTALLY NOT JOKING ABOUT THIS. Please dump you-know-who right now. (Don't worry, he will get over it, and also, he never will start that band and become a rock star, so no loss. In case you were wondering, although I know you aren't.)

- You will have your heart broken, and it will suck. But you will get over it with much less pain and grief than break-up songs will have you imagine, and after a few years, you'll actually struggle to remember what the hell it felt like, because all you can remember is that you must have felt some sort of emotion at the time, because last you checked you aren't a robot, but now, you feel nothing. (Nothing is good.)

- Your siblings will grow up, your parents will age. It will happen so fast. Kiss Ali as much as you can, because he is/was hands down the most adorable baby in the world, but he won't be a baby for long.

- Learn to become a feminist, it will be the best thing you can do for yourself.

- Don't feel bad about being one of the few kids at school who doesn't have a Nokia cell phone. In 10 years, these fruit companies will invent smartphones that will make Nokias look like those brick handphones Umi used to have in the 80s.

- You still won't have it all figured out at twenty-six. Maybe no one ever does figure anything out. (Am still waiting for a letter from 96 year old Iman to confirm or deny this.) But life is good, and too fleeting to spend too much time or effort trying to map things out.

- Keep re-reading The Hitchhikers' Guide to the Galaxy at sporadic intervals, because, one day, that will be how you first bond with the man who will become your husband. (I still can't believe it either.)

My Life in Lists

About weddings:
 
Number of days until I become a married woman: 169
 
Number of times I have freaked out about the impending end of my singlehood: None. Strangely or thankfully, hitching my anchor to Alman's boat (or something like that, I'm not a nautical person) is probably the easiest part about getting married.
 
Number of times I have freaked out about wedding planning: Mutiple. I feel like popular TV and rom coms have instilled in me a false sense of expectancy about how much drama I should be feeling. Like shouldn't I be all Bridezilla, alternating between weeping over mismatched tablecloths, vengefully sending out invitations to my douchebag exes (I have a lot. Of exes, and also douchebag exes), sneakily comparing notes and sabotaging my childhood friend's wedding that is planned for the weekend before mine (this is actually happening! The childhood friend's wedding, I mean, not the sabotage)? Oh wait, there hasn't been any drama yet because I haven't sorted out my invitations and tablecloths yet. For now I mostly just panic about not having enough shit done and worrying that my wedding will be too sappy.
 
Number of dresses I have: 3, and they are all gorgeous.
 
Number of venues I've booked: 2 out of 3, and therein lies one of the sources of my panic attacks.
 
Number of minutes in a day I think about how to do my hair in these gorgeous dresses: Too much. My employers would weep if they knew.
 
Things I am secretly hoping will happen on my wedding day(s):
1. Someone will give me a kitten as a wedding present (a girl can dream)
2. I become, overnight, gloriously photogenic and my wedding photos all look fantastic (I tend to freeze in front of cameras and either grin too widely or make ugly faces, it's a disease)
3. Alman cries (with happiness, I mean. On the inside doesn't count. We want to see emotional happy tears, dammit!)

Random things I like:
My new Miu Miu bow bag
I could stroke it all day. I won't, because that would look creepy, but I COULD, because it is gorgeous chocolate brown leather. When I put it on my desk at work I can sometimes catch whiffs of the leather smell as I work. It reminds me why I work the hours I do. (I will be less materialistic when I have a kitten.)

A Song of Ice and Fire by George R. R. Martin
Holy shit, was I obsessed. I bulldozed my way through the five books in three months while watching Season 2 of the series, and am now waiting impatiently for Book 6, which is coming in... a few years. Shoot me, Georgie, this is torture. At least I have all the fan boards online to discuss conspiracy theories and trade George R.R. Martin-isms with. After reading five books in a row, you can't help but notice his favourite phrases: What is this mummer's farce? I must needs drink my Dornish red wine, it is known (but also you know nothing, Jon Snow).

Discworld by Terry Pratchett
So I tired of it for a while (reading 28 Discworld books almost consecutively can do that to you, apparently) but I am now back and on track and set to finish this series before 2013 rolls around. I find it totally amazing how fictional characters populating an imaginary flat world carried by four giant elephants standing on the back of a giant turtle floating through space can be richer and more colourful than some PEOPLE I meet in real life. Reality fail.

Online shopping
Etsy! Fashion Valet! ASOS! (Not Net-a-porter yet though - that's a whole different price range that my online self fears to venture into because if things don't fit me and I've spent that much money on it, I think I'd cry.) Nothing beats working late at night and taking a 5 minute break to window shop without even moving your ass from your swivel chair! Okay so it's sometimes a 20 minute break. Okay and it's not window shopping, its actual shopping.

Random things I don't like:

My stupid oven which keeps switching itself off. I've taken to just standing there by the switchbox thing, broom in hand, just daring the flip thing to switch itself off. And then it does, and then I use the broom to switch it back on and then commences a flip war. Which I am fighting... with an inanimate switchbox. I really hate my oven I tell you. Just to spite it, these are the brown butter oatmeal chocolate chip cookies I made with Yan, NOT with my oven. This was using Yan's nicely behaved oven.

People who come around behind my desk and peer at my laptop. If you're not my boss, you're not allowed to do this. I mean I can't really disallow from doing it per se, but I sure can bitch about you after.

Sleeping with my eyelash extensions. I miss being able to wear a sleeping mask or being able to squash my face into Alman's neck (it looks less weird than it sounds). Damn you eyelash extensions! I know I can't quit you because I am super lazy and not having to wear and remove mascara has probably freed up 15 minutes of my day every day.

 

I really need to get back to work.

Coffee & Cupcake; Wondermilk

One of my most guilty of guilty pleasures, up there on the list along with my moth-to-a-flame must-keep-watching-the-carwreck fascination with the vapid "reality" television show, Keeping Up With the Kardashians (as well as its spawn-like spin-offs Khloe & Lamar, and Kourtney & Kim Take New York... why do I know the names?! The shame!); uninspired romantic comedies with formulaic plots that I WILL scoff at aloud although my heart is secretly warmed by the notion of True Love occurring between the beautiful people on the TV screen, no matter how recycled that Love is; and eating feta cheese out of the jar, is... reading while eating.

Sounds innocuous enough? Doesn't seem like something I should get my panties in a guilty twist about? Sadly, my parents tried so hard during my childhood and teenagehood to break this habit of mine that now, although I am a grown twenty-something-year-old adult, I still feel guilty when I read while I eat. (Please note that although I am now an adult, I am, of course, still entitled to blame my idiosyncrasies on my parents. They fuck you up, your mum and dad... although I take artistic liberty here; I'm not really fucked up: I just like Philip Larkin and I have weird relationships with books and fizzy drinks because of my parents' food rules.)

My parents would plead and scold and beg (in vain, all in vain) for me to just STOP. READING. AT THE. DINNER TABLE. Antisocial, who cares; unfortunate side-effects Remnants Of Food In Books and Condensation From Drinking Glasses On Back Cover, bring it on. I was a really mature, obedient little first child (as in, I didn't even have an angst-y I-hate-my-parents phase kind of obedient), and reading at the dinner table was probably my only form of rebellion.

And now that I'm an adult... I can eat-and-read whenever I want! I also have some truly historic food stains in most of my favourite books from my childhood, but that is neither here nor there. Goosey is never appalled at my antisocial behaviour, mostly because he loves me and love means never pointing out that your partner has flecks of chicken in their Terry Pratchett, but also partly because he has an iPad, which is sort of like a book, only much more expensive and with better graphics, and which he plays with when I'm too busy reading and eating to talk to him.

I forgot what the point of this post was. I think I wanted to say that I had brunch at Wondermilk yesterday while reading The Marriage Plot and the combination of food, coffee, a big fat novel, and it being Sunday afternoon was almost too delicious to bear. DELICIOUS.

Smorgasbord Part 2: Paris

Paris In Photos

1. Food.

Not all that was ingested was photographed (taking photographs of everything that moves and stands and exists in general is like, SO mainland Chinese tourist with a fannypack and secret stash of tourist poses, okay), but I did take my fair share of surreptitious food shots while in Paris.

Duck, steak, crepes, macarons, lattes, croissants, cheese, baguettes, hot chocolate, escargot, profiteroles, rum baba, random desserts, oh my! And in no particular order, the shortlist:

Most Delicious: Steak, pasta and green beans in a little cafe in Rue Montorguiel. I realise steak is not very French, but I am very carnivorous, and if it helps to French-ify the meal, it was partook of while watching good-looking Paris hipster types walk past on cobblestone streets.

Most Confusing Location: Picnic of curry chicken baguette and Pierre Herme macarons by the Trocadero. A view of the Eiffel Tower in front, breakdancers from Canada at the back, tourists all around, and a Chinese couple taking wedding photos somewhere to our right.

Most Over-Hyped Dessert: The Mont Blanc from Angelina's. Is so famous that apparently even Coco Chanel, Proust and Lagerfeld love(d) it, and all the guidebooks recommend that you eat the Mont Blanc while drinking the equally famous hot chocolate. Which I did. And went into like sugar shock coma. The Mont Blanc is a gigantic (okay, maybe just large) meringue concoction with sugar inside, sugar on top, sugar on the bottom, and whipped cream all over. And I ate it with super thick hot chocolate. I have learned my lessons and will never trust guidebooks again. I also didn't finish it. It was my Everest (see what I did there?) but one day, I will return and conquer it. Minus the hot chocolate.

Best Breakfast: Goosey is not a morning person, so this would be the croissants I bought at the patisserie while a certain someone was still drooling in bed.

Best Food Thing About Paris, Ever (last-award-of-the-night-type significance): THE BAGUETTES. I have quite the sweet tooth, I like meat, poultry, dairy products, garden gastropods, but the most amazing food in Paris was still the stuff they gave away for free at every cafe we went to. The BREAD. MY GOD. MON DIEU.









2. Indulgence

Books and bags will be my financial ruin.





4. Love

Was also engulfed in a haze of post-proposal high, which caused me to take pictures of everything romantic I could see.

Smorgasbord Part 1: Brunei

Brunei In Photos

1. Pebbles & Bamm Bamm, my sister's kittens

We don't know what sex they are, because my sister says she can't tell (I already told here there should be two pretty obvious hints in the genital area, but she said I was being gross) and no one else can be bothered to check. Pebbles and Bamm Bamm run around the patio all day like they're high on speed, pounce on each other a lot, devise evil schemes to con their way into the living room, where they're not allowed in because they aren't kitty-litter-trained, and are frequently picked up and cuddled by various members of my family, much to the kittens' annoyance. So adorable I want to gobble them up.




2. Fatimah, my cousin's daughter

Has the juiciest chubby little thighs. Like Pebbles and Bamm Bamm, is also picked up and cuddled more than she probably likes. As she is the offspring of my bossiest older cousin, I imagine that this kind of treatment of her as an animated baby doll will cease as soon as she can order people not to pick her up if she doesn't want to be picked up.


3. My sister's butt

Is like, hugely chubby. Good for playing bongos on when bored. Mainly posted this to cause mortification, because what else are sisters for.



4. Hari Raya breakfast

Lamb briyani, and 2 sisters on Skype in the background.

IT HAS HAPPENED.

So. I am affianced. Betrothed! Promised to another! Committed to love, cherish and support my dear Goosey in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, through Manchester United and Arsenal games, for better (Arsenal winning) or worse (Manchester United winning)... after we get through the Planning of the Wedding, of course (which, I suspect, may leave us much more on the poorer and worse for the wear side of richer or poorer, better or worse).

As a hopeless romantic (seriously: hopeless, because I actually have tried to be logical and boring about these things, but to no avail; such is the extent of the brainwashing afflicted on my malleable mind by the Disney corporation and their princesses and respective true loves) I've been wondering what My Engagement would be like since I found out engagements existed, and really all for the story, because it becomes a part of your relationship and marriage. It's the story I'm going to tell my kids and grandkids, how carefully Ayah/Atok planned to get Umi/Baba to marry him, how Umi/Baba said yes and almost threw away the ring because she didn't see it, how Ayah/Atok didn't reallyyyy cry but no matter, everyone knows he was crying on the inside (don't try to deny it, I know it's true Goosey).

So. I got proposed to in Paris, on the Pont des Arts bridge on the river Seine, amidst padlocks attached onto the bridge by lovers and families all over the world, with the Notre Dame in front of us, and a lit up Eiffel Tower behind us, drinking from plastic champagne flutes (no champagne but hey! Style is about the clinking of flutes, albeit plastic ones, is it not) and Bon Iver playing on the iPad 2. We were about to affix a padlock on the bridge, with our names and date on it; he was all you know this is a big commitment, right, this means we have to get married; I was all, yeah yeah I know; he was all no, seriously; I was all are you serious; he was all will you make me the happiest man alive, but the irony is right then I was the happiest girl alive. Then I cried (I maintain, however, that he cried on the inside) and was too choked up to articulate the word "yes" so had to nod to indicate agreement (this is interesting because of the verbosity to which I am usually prone) and then we put the padlock on the bridge, the ring from the keychain on my finger, and then went to pee because the combination of the excitement and the plastic champagne flutes was just too much for me to handle. And then of course, we went to celebrate. By ourselves. Because we really don't need anybody else to have fun. So although I LOVE our engagement story, and I LOVE the beautiful ring, and I LOVE the fact that Goosey cried on the inside after he proposed, the BEST THING OF ALL is that I am going to marry my best friend in the entire world, and life is going to be such a fun adventure, because it always is when we're together, and now we're going to be together for the rest of our lives.

Andddd that's the story I'm going to tell my kids. At which point in time I am sure their primary question is going to be "What the hell is an iPad 2?"

Thoughts on Ramadhan, and an Eclair

Ladies and gentledudes, it is Ramadhan again. Holy month, refrain from food, drink, vices and excesses etc, we all know the drill.

Despite the constant stomach pains, cavernous-sounding tummy rumbles (I don't know how my tummy makes those noises, it sounds like I'm hiding away the Grand Canyon in my abdomen; though I suppose I should be thankful that at least it doesn't LOOK like I'm hiding the Grand Canyon in there), puasa breath (other people's, obviously. I do not have puasa breath. And if you doubt me I can open my mouth in front of your nose and prove it to you), waking up for sahur (forcing one to answer that age-old question... Sleep or eat?), trying to keep my potty mouth (I swear like a sailor) and temper (I WILL tell you to fuck off and die if you are a misogynist who makes noises at me when I walk past you, even if it's Ramadhan, because I am not a object for you hoot at and YOU have zero manners and very probably a tiny dick) in check, pre-buka crankiness (though for some, this is due more to lack of nicotine than food; I'm not going to point any fingers at anyone but I DO know of a goose who is EXTREMELY guilty of this and who REALLY needs to conquer his nicotine addiction and at least TRY to be cheerful right before buka...), constant whingeing and moaning (see this entire paragraph)... I quite enjoy Ramadhan.

I like testing myself, and I get a perverse sense of pleasure from the pains! of STARVATION! because I am a masochist.

I like appreciating my food more than usual, because I can be quite a glutton and Goosey is always prompting me to think of the starving children in Africa when I can't finish my meals, and with Ramadhan, I get to BE a starving child, except not in Africa, and not really a child. Or a very over-grown one.

Most of all, I like feeling that feeling of camaraderie with my fellow Muslim peeps, because, sadly or not, I don't feel any sort of camaraderie with any of the societal groups that most people seem to identify with -- national, religious or ethnic. Don't feel it, don't fit in, don't identify, and in the case of ethnicity and race, don't even subscribe to the idea of it. So even though it's only a fleeting camaraderie, because I don't get particularly more religious in any other way other than just fasting, I feel quite united with the rest of the Muslim world via my stomach. Which makes my stomach feel warm and fuzzy for a month, even though its empty for most of it.

And now, photograph of random eclair I was craving so much I had dribble coming out of my mouth while I was carrying it home (yes, I am a sexy beast). Two hours to go until breaking fast, COME ON!

Strawberry Cheesecake Cupcake; Bisou

Why do good things come to an end? Why?!

Eating during the day: good thing, coming to an (albeit temporary) end with the coming of Ramadan (which will merit a wholeeee other post, because if you think I can ramble with no point or meaning in sight when I ramble about food, I assure you, I can ramble more when there is a severe lack of food. And brunch! No more brunch! I don't always wake up in time to have breakfast... or brunch, really, but the OPTION to have it: THAT is priceless. And come Monday: no more!).

Grey's Anatomy: good thing, rumoured to be coming to an end with its upcoming eighth season. If I'm going to be honest, I'd have to admit that Grey's jumped the shark around the time that Katherine Heigl was boinking the ghost of her dead but still very yummy ex-husband, but I'd rather be dramatic and mourn its tragic end. No more Cristina Yang! No more Lexie Grey! No more McSteamy!

Amy Winehouse: good singer, now passed. I have been secretly fascinated with Amy Winehouse since I first saw her: that eyeliner! Those tattoos! Those ballet slippers! And that really sexy voice. Such a sad ending.

And (I feel a little awkward segueing from a celebrity passing to a topic that's just a tiny bit more frivolous but it has to be done) Bisou's Cupcake of the Month for July: strawberry cheesecake cupcakes, my new favourite cupcakes in the world ever, coming to an end in August (duh). Why do you have to discontinue your Cupcake of the Month of July 2011, Bisou, why?! And since I'm asking rhetorical questions, why is it called strawberry cheesecake, when it's not really cheesecake?

I love everything in it. The generous dollops of strawberry, the generous swirls of cream cheese (one mustn't be stingy with strawberry dollops and cream cheese swirls, this is like the golden rule of desserts); the Digestive biscuit sprinkles, the fact that it's sweet in the middle (because of the strawberry) but rich on top (because of the cream cheese) but still light overall (because of the vanilla batter), why, why Bisou must you tease me with such perfection and then take it away just because it's no longer July? What is a month anyway, but an arbitrary collection of dates? (Wait, what? Lunar phase what? I'm ignoring you.)


So bring it on, August. A month that will lack coffee, brunches, and the inexplicably-named but magical strawberry cheesecake cupcake. I am inconsolable. In fact possibly the only thing that can console me is the onslaught of pasar ramadhans. And batik cake, if I can find it at said pasar ramadhans. And buka puasa buffets? Also the chocolate cake at the Taman Tun pasar ramadhan. I'm still inconsolable though. Really.

Mid Year Review

Sometimes I feel like Time and I are in one of those estranged divorced-couple-living-together-for-the-children-think-of-the-children-won't-you relationships where we co-exist peacefully, each knowing the other is off doing their own thing, and where one only realizes the full extent of what the other has been doing when one allows oneself to pause and consider it. For example, I exist, usually blissfully unaware of exactly what mischief Time is up to, and Time exists and tick tocks along with no regard whatsoever to my feelings (he is a bit of an a-hole evidently, which should explain why we are estranged) and then when I pause, I suddenly realize, in no particular order and with varying degrees of panic: I'm 26?! When did that happen? I have friends who are MARRIED? But we're ki- oh wait I'm 26. My little sister is MARRIED?! (Actually this one isn't so shocking, because she has been quite the Mrs Monogamy for most of her dating life.) It's already July?! It's already 2011?! WHEN DID I BECOME A GROWN-UP AND HOW DO I MAKE IT STOP?!

The day I find wrinkles on my neck I am totally breaking up with Time, except I can't really because in this very awkward and not really fitting at all analogy, Time and I are in a Catholic relationship that does not recognize divorce. Or domestic abuse in the form of wrinkles.


As it is now July (excuse me again while I freak out about HOW IS IT ALREADY JULY?!) I shall attempt to take stock of 2011, this 26th year of my life, look deep into and ruminate gravely upon my adult soul, and undertake the all-important task of reviewing all the steaks I have eaten this year. Or at least all the steaks of which I have taken photos.


1. Dish
Goosey's birthday steak Part One. Dish has the best steak ever. Period. The reasons I don't go there exclusively for my steak fixes are: a) eating there burns an ugly, RM500 shaped hole in my wallet; and b) if Goosey and I ate there all the time, we'd have nowhere else to go on Special Occasions. As you might imagine, reason (a) takes precedence over reason (b), because if we really wanted to, we could be totally ironic and go to mamak stalls for birthdays and anniversaries. Theoretically.


2. Jake's
Goosey's birthday steak Part Two. (Yes, I am totally unimaginative and just ply my significant other with steak and various pieces of meat on his birthdays.) Burns a less ugly hole in my wallet, still very tasty, and best of all, their placemats have trivia questions on them! Clearly I am such a savvy foodie that I only deign to eat at establishments that have entertaining placemats.


3. Las Vacas
Formerly cute little hole-in-the-wall butcher's shop in Kelana Jaya; now overpriced and overhyped brand with its own twitter account and a restaurant in Mont Kiara. I DO NOT LIKE GOING HERE. Anymore. Like a true hipster steakster, I liked Las Vacas BEFORE it became mainstream, thank you very much. I mean, Mont Kiara? Really? You sold out, man.


4. Angus Steakhouse
Goosey liked this, and I don't really. I like my steak charred and charcoal-y, and Japanese-style steak just feels too healthy. Which is really the exact opposite of the feeling I am trying to achieve when I eat steak, because I could have just eaten sushi or sucked on a salad instead of ingesting hunks of meat.


5. The Fullerton Bay Hotel
Wagyu steak. I wasn't impressed. I thought wagyu steak was supposed to blow my tastebuds, but after this meal, they still remained very much unblown. Of course, this could be because I am secretly an un-epicurean, because the wagyu that I DID like is below, and decidedly unfancy compared to the FBH's.


6. Kissaten
Wagyu teriyaki burger, aka my true love. I know, I know, it speaks volumes (of the bad kind) that I prefer food court wagyu meat to the 5-star hotel kind. OR does it speak volumes of the kind that indicate this wagyu teriyaki burger is the shiznit? Let's go with the latter.


7. Alexis
If you, like me (before I did, I mean) have never ordered the steak at Alexis, I urge you to do so immediately. Do not let the fact that it is not a steak place bias you. It was lovely and tender and delicious, and if it had one middle finger, I would point it in Las Vacas' direction, because that there below, my friends, is how you do steak.


Right. So now I have gotten all that off my chest, I will continue to freak out about HOLY SHIT IT'S ALREADY JULY. It can't be just me who constantly thinks it's still 1992 and that I'm still 16 years old, can it? (The math does not correspond, I was not 16 in 1992. Subconscious Me, like Conscious Me, is not great at mental arithmetic.)

Chili Crab and Mantao; No Signboard

Things that have happened since my last blog post:
1. Work
2. Massive food poisoning at a certain hotel that shall remain unnamed where the company had a weeklong training session for work
3. Work
4. Singapore for work
5. Good news at work
6. Ran my first 5km (Yay! This is a Big Fucking Deal for someone who was (past tense!) as averse to exercise as I was.)
7. Work
8. Singapore for work
9. Work

Things that I have learned since my last blog post:
1. Food poisoning will strip you of all your dignity and remind you that food, particularly bad food, can make your body feel things that you cannot begin to fathom. Have you ever burst into tears on the toilet because of a molotov cocktail of pain: combination diarrhoea, stomach cramps, fever and headache, and then passed out on your way out of the bathroom because your stomach was trying to explode and your pain thresholds just didn't want to take that shit (pun intended) anymore and preferred unconsciousness? I have. Before I descend into TMI levels (yes, there is actually More Information to this story, and you should be glad I am not telling it), I shall summarize by saying those were a very undignified few days for me. And also Goosey, when he somehow got food poisoning too (copycat syndrome or sympathy pains? I still don't know).
2. The Singapore-KL MAS flights after 6pm all stink of body odour. But curiously, the Silkair flights smell daisy fresh.
3. That's it. (I haven't learned much.)

Best
Things About Flying to Singapore So Often
1. Hotel gyms. Why yes please, I would like my treadmill served with ice cold water, ice cold aircon, fluffy face towels and personal TV, thank you.
2. Deep fried buns! Accompanied by chili crab of course (I am not as insane as to just eat the buns without the crab. Though I totally would if I knew no one would judge me), but the buns are the underappreciated supporting actor star of the No Signboard show. Why can I not seem to find this in KL? Does Singapore trump KL, or have I not been hanging around in the right mantao appreciating circles? I am a shameless fan of unhealthy, deep fried golden balls of dough to dip into various sauces. Like KFC biscuits... Mmmm KFC biscuits. Someone recently asked me what I missed the most about the US and I said KFC biscuits, because Asia is lame and only has soft buns (just deep fry it, goddammit) and he thought I was joking. I wasn't.

3. That's it. I am on my way to Singapore right now (see, lest you think I am exaggerating when I say work and Singapore have taken over my life (what, me exaggerate and grandiloquize? Never!) I am so totally not that I am proving my own point right now) and it's just getting tiring.