<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?><?xml-stylesheet href="http://www.blogger.com/styles/atom.css" type="text/css"?><feed xmlns='http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom' xmlns:openSearch='http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearchrss/1.0/' xmlns:georss='http://www.georss.org/georss' xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014</id><updated>2012-02-15T22:40:18.877-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Taking Over The World, One Man At a Time</title><subtitle type='html'></subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><link rel='next' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default?start-index=101&amp;max-results=100'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>228</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-6799367915752616351</id><published>2010-07-20T09:10:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2010-07-20T09:10:51.861-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Muse</title><content type='html'>I am writing again&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Come find me&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-6799367915752616351?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/6799367915752616351/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=6799367915752616351' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/6799367915752616351'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/6799367915752616351'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2010/07/muse.html' title='Muse'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-6877953399576994597</id><published>2010-03-28T17:57:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2010-03-28T21:03:48.360-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Poison</title><content type='html'>What is the point of a blog? Some people write to share their stories, to update loved ones. Some people use it as a creative means to get ideas out. Some even more as a place to rant and rave about things known and unknown.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am no novice to blogging. Most of you have been with me through my numerous ones. Each time I have left I allow you some way to find me again. So that my life and yours remains intermingled always. Though we never meet, you will know of what happens to me and the drama-ness in my life.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My thoughts are poison&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;They murk the water of my relationship. Sour friendships. Because my blog as most blogs are, is one-sided. I tell you stories of my pain, wrongs done to me. The people I speak about have no voice to retaliate and you would have to hope that I have given a balanced and just move&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sometimes I do not&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After all, I am only human&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Over the course of the years I have met many men, men I laugh about and regale you stories with. Men that I dramatize with nicknames and such and all the while hoping that I would meet one that lasts.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In recent years, I met someone that means a lot to me. He lifted me up when I was angry and depressed. Brought sunshine and sunflowers into my life. Yes, we have issues, and yes we get angry and we fight a lot. But what relationships dont? And the biggest question that I have to answer for myself is if he is worth fighting for. And if we are worth fighting for.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My relationship means too much to me to poison. My friendships means too much for me to break. And I am too tired of continuously hurting and hurting others. Here or anywhere else.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am leaving.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This room, this empty room was for me to come in and to scream and yell and rant. But this room over the course of time has been filled with eyes and ears of people who do actually know me. Who do actually cross paths with me. This room isnt needed anymore. When I have thoughts that hurt me I should not let them be publicly known. When I am angry and frustrated, sad and heartbroken, no one except the people involved should have to know.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So goodbye my friends. After more than five years, has it been eight now? it is time for me to bid you a real and final goodbye. I am liberating myself from the chains of my thoughts and I will run free and soar the skies.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Wish me well as I wish you well and perhaps one day our paths will cross again&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Cheers&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-6877953399576994597?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/6877953399576994597/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=6877953399576994597' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/6877953399576994597'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/6877953399576994597'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2010/03/poison.html' title='Poison'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-331237112468295640</id><published>2010-03-25T21:28:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2010-03-25T21:30:03.630-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Mood</title><content type='html'>I guess some people were just not as excited and couldnt wait to see me as I did them&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Mood : Annoyed, angry, sad and heartbroken&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-331237112468295640?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/331237112468295640/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=331237112468295640' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/331237112468295640'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/331237112468295640'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2010/03/mood.html' title='Mood'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-3473788914092205726</id><published>2010-03-25T08:37:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2010-03-25T09:06:08.919-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Tell Me</title><content type='html'>Tell me something, tell me anything. Tell me about your life about the smell the sun the skies. Tell me about the place where you run to, about the office you work from. About your house about your life.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Tell me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Tell me about seeing dots flying in the sky. About the way the city looks, the city sounds. Of the food that you eat, the places you see.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Tell me something.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Tell me anything. Anything that lets me know who you are. Who you are becoming, while youre away from me. The hopes that you have. The dreams that you want.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Or tell me nothing. Hush.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But hold me close forever more&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-3473788914092205726?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/3473788914092205726/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=3473788914092205726' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/3473788914092205726'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/3473788914092205726'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2010/03/tell-me.html' title='Tell Me'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-8242925436760003424</id><published>2010-03-21T07:35:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2010-03-21T08:10:18.684-07:00</updated><title type='text'>A step back in time</title><content type='html'>Were we young once? Broken battered and beaten by life. Till we reached the depth of our madness and saw in each other similar tattered souls.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;How did we survive then? Adventures aplenty. We travelled the world, conquered the men and regalled each other with our battle scars.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;How old are we now? Wisened? slow? sages tired of climbing this mountain of life?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But we were there, you and I. To hell and back and back again.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I wish you well Writer. I wish you all the love and joy in the world and hopes for happiness to you. Regardless of what happens, Ive always known, you are fiercely loyal and honorable.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Thanks for the email. I know you didnt have to, which is why I was so honored when you did&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-8242925436760003424?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/8242925436760003424/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=8242925436760003424' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/8242925436760003424'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/8242925436760003424'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2010/03/step-back-in-time.html' title='A step back in time'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-1628232465345767817</id><published>2010-03-13T18:57:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2010-03-13T19:04:29.969-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Tick tock time clock</title><content type='html'>Ive been sent down under, to a country filled with people who would get in line (because there is a line!), a city filled with people where you end up walking fast to avoid everyone. A country where taxi drivers dont really know how to drive and being inside one makes me want to vomit every single time.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I had brunch with some colleagues yesterday and spied a grandfather with a cute grandson, just sitting on a bench by the water watching life go by. The grandfather was really old, and the grandson really young. And as I sat there watching them watching life, I felt my clock ticking too. Would my father be able to hold my son? Would my mother be able to play with my daughter? When would this inevitable family landscape come by? I am 27 this year, by no means old, but by no means young. Conversations with my female colleagues highlights how so many of us in this line of work have had miscarriages, are unable to conceive. The largest failure of us as a woman.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am by no means old, but I do think about these things. I do worry if I would inevitably be able to bring a child into this world. If I wait too late, what are the implications? would it be harder for me? and if its late, then what? what would be worse than not being alive when your children get married, what would it be like to be sending them off to college when I am in my 50's? my 60's?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But I am young still. I love life as it is right now.  I love the ability to just pick up and leave. Of being able to travel wherever I want to go. I love that life is just about me right now. No complications. What will happen when I have a child? What will happen if I dont get along with the Father?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And then of course, there is indeed that. What about the father? Who is that man who will be with me (hopefully) for the rest of my life? Who is this man who would love to wake up next to me in the morning and look forward to coming home to me and our children. Who is this man who would be the father? who would guide and advice, who would be my partner in life?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So many questions, so few answers. And as the clock chimes 27 this year, I wonder, how much time is there left?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-1628232465345767817?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/1628232465345767817/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=1628232465345767817' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/1628232465345767817'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/1628232465345767817'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2010/03/tick-tock-time-clock.html' title='Tick tock time clock'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-1544069551592765639</id><published>2010-03-05T06:31:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2010-03-05T06:37:34.996-08:00</updated><title type='text'>So what else is new</title><content type='html'>I guess its been a while since I bitched about work. But yes, things were good for the past 4 months or so (work-wise). I had been working together with The Boyfriend (was certainly not one of the best ideas), but had been working in my home country with amazing (almost normal!) hours of going back at 6:30-7:00 p.m. every day. I knew then that this was an anomaly. That this was the best kind of project Ive had in my 3.5 some years working in this industry.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;No rose tinted glasses here baby&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But I also knew, it was a sweet dream I was going to wake up from. I knew it was going to be back to working long late hours, feeling insecure and inferior and just hating life in general.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And it is.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The difficulty of having The Boyfriend leave the industry is that I dont think he sees things the way things used to be anymore. I think in general, people who are not in this industry cannot truly understand or emphatize. Questions keep on coming "Why do this?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Which is what Ive asked myself in the past year or so&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Why keep on doing this?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Honestly, I am SO tempted to just quit and bum around for three months or so. After all, I have the savings to be able to do it. So why not?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Well, I do want to have something else firm in mind before I decide to just quit cold turkey. Im still risk averse that way&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But yeah, I think Im going to just tell my new employers (once I can find one) that I want to take off for 3 months or so before starting work again.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What do I do in 3 months? Honestly I have no idea. But perhaps thats the best idea of all =)&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-1544069551592765639?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/1544069551592765639/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=1544069551592765639' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/1544069551592765639'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/1544069551592765639'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2010/03/so-what-else-is-new.html' title='So what else is new'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-3548889311264486015</id><published>2010-02-23T21:39:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2010-02-24T00:45:51.209-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Smackdown</title><content type='html'>I think there might be a few things you should know about me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;1) I dont get mad very easily&lt;br /&gt;2) When I get mad I will fucking try to kill you&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The thing is, after my historical teenage years, my not really meeting expectations college, suicidal thoughts, family history... after all these things, I tend to not sweat the small stuff. Or at least try to not sweat the small stuff.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;If you see me disappearing for a while, its partly because my therapist had adviced me to try and avoid being in situations that stress me out but that I have no control over. Things like my friends problems, other peoples depression. Sounds bad, I know, sounds like abandonment, I know. But these are the things that keep me sane, and keep me from jumping off the bandwagon off a bridge and into a river. These are things I need to do for me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Because after all, if I dont look out for me, myself and I, who else would?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;As a result, I am quite 'edited' when it comes to friends. I have very few close friends, a handful (maybe one handful) of friends that know my deepest darkest secrets and fears, and a lot of acquantainces. Though in recent years, even this group of people have slowly been edited down.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am choosy and particular, as I believe I have the right to be when it comes to people.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So when people let you down, I believe I have the right to unleash my own way.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A colleague of mine (recently an acquantaince. You can refer to her as the frenemy/ bitch) decided to come into my office room and accuse me, in front of my other colleagues, of stabbing her in the back. What exactly did she accuse me of doing and in what circumstance does not matter. Needless to say it was a petty fight, very high school drama queen. And yes, I could have dealt with it better. (I was taken off guard and started raising my voice)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Post fight, I stop caring about her. Seriously, she could get run over by a bus for all I care (yes, this is my second bitchy/ asshole colleague, not the same as the first one). Because at the end of the day, what you accused me of doing and how you dealt with it was truly a betrayal of trust.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And I dont deal well with that kinda shit.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Post-mortem evaluation, I realize that I really couldnt care less about her existance in my life. There were no added benefits. Think about it, she tries to get attention from men (including MY Boyfriend), she asks me to lie and cover up for her when she leaves the office early or without informing our boss, she cheats on her previous boyfriend and tells her parents that she's staying over at my place (when she was secretly staying over at her new bf's place... without even telling me that she was using me as an alibi for her parents until much later).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now what have I gained from her.... hmmm... hmmm....&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;nothing&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, pretty simple decision. I'll just cut her off from my life.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The bitch inside me wants to venge out, the bitch inside me wants to go out and destroy her life. The bitch inside me remembers what its like to walk over someone, to get what I want. To not care about other people.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The bitch is still inside me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But I dont. As much as I do actually want to, I wont. Because repercussions are dear, so even when she decides to insult me for being heartless and for not being compassionate, I decide to not show her how TRULY heartless I can be. I decide to sit around and take the abuse.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Perhaps this is the new me now.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I will not change. Inside my soul is an ice queen, inside my soul is a bitch. I am not clean and pure, I am not white and repentive. This is me. This is who I am. Should I edit myself to show you a fake side of me? a side that can just brush it off like dewdrops on a leaf? what for? whose life lie shall I live?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Inside, my soul is not clean and clear and great and fine. Inside, I am torn and damaged, cynical and gray. This is how I survive. This is how I live.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;If you dont like it. Walk away&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now, when you betray me I can still control it. I can still say to myself, No, dont go out and do something bad. No, dont go out and do something wrong.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But try it again and I cannot promise you that I will remain big enough. Try it again...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;and dont blame me when I fucking come around to blow your house of cards down&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-3548889311264486015?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/3548889311264486015/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=3548889311264486015' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/3548889311264486015'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/3548889311264486015'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2010/02/smackdown.html' title='Smackdown'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-2702345741096493900</id><published>2010-02-19T00:55:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2010-02-19T00:55:16.424-08:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>Bitch.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Im so angry right now&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-2702345741096493900?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/2702345741096493900/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=2702345741096493900' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/2702345741096493900'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/2702345741096493900'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2010/02/bitch.html' title=''/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-2319408881633609193</id><published>2010-02-12T08:44:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2010-02-12T08:59:57.979-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Fate - Intervention</title><content type='html'>I believe in fate. I really do. I believe that sometimes you do the best that you can do, and then it depends on something else. It depends on your luck or whether the wind blows in your favor or the alignment of the stars. It depends on something else. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ive wanted to start over for a while now. The first thing I wanted to do was switch jobs. It all hinged on that. My money, my travels, my clothes, my shoes. It all depended on having this job. Though the past few months have been relatively easy for me (Perhaps the best project Ive had in the history of working at The Company) I know its not meant to last. That sooner or later, I will return to my time consuming job. No time to breathe. No time to walk. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It is hard to extricate yourself from a comfortable position. From a position that you're 'used to'. And Ive gotten 'used to' to a lot of things. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So I wished, to start over again. First things first, I had to deal with The Boyfriend leaving. Put everything on hold, until that dust storm finally settled. Then I got myself a personal trainer, because I want my body back damnit. The BFF once asked me, what happened to my six pack that I had in a picture with Mr. Librarian. I looked at it and remembered, and felt sad, that I had actually lost that. Yes superficial I know, but it makes me feel better, let it go. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Tried to sign up for a 10km night run. To at least set a goal that I can achieve. Sadly that got shot since the registration was closed. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Travel. I thought about starting that over too. I thought seeing where The Boyfriend is right now, would be nice. But I wasnt invited and have never been invited... unless you count me inviting myself over and The Boyfriend saying 'ok'. I thought I would travel with my girlfriends, but the Wolf is preparing for a big move and isnt going to be travelling much till end of the year or early next year. And my Woman (I would need to get a nickname for her) is too busy travelling around the world and helping develop microfinancing policies or grants or something to travel with me. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So I booked a ticket to venture East, all by myself. For the first time in my life. Perhaps I will have adventures aplenty. Or meet new travellers to share my stories with. Or just sip coffee and live day by day like The Writer does. The thrill of the unknown. The thrill of reinvention. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So the body was covered, and so was my itchy feet. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The last leg of this metamorphosis was actually going forth and finding a new job. So I did it. Took the plunge. Woman (shall I call her Miss Big Heart? or Miss Always There since she is actually Always There for me (unless she is travelling... that bitch) helped me out with the CV and cover letter and helped me send it off. And it went off! Two CV's, two cover letters, off into cyberspace. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This is where all my efforts end. This is where fate begins. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I promised myself though, if I make it. And if I take it. And if I have to move somewhere, and The Boyfriend makes no effort to arrange to see me, or move with me, or travel, or sit down to try and find a solution or to fight for me. Then I start over. I start all over again. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This is where fate decides&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-2319408881633609193?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/2319408881633609193/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=2319408881633609193' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/2319408881633609193'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/2319408881633609193'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2010/02/fate-intervention.html' title='Fate - Intervention'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-1556381711026737059</id><published>2010-02-11T07:20:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2010-02-11T07:38:07.015-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Fielding questions</title><content type='html'>You know whats difficult? Fielding questions from people when you ask yourself the same questions, when you yourself dont have the answer&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Q : So, where is The Boyfriend?&lt;br /&gt;Me : Oh, he left already. Last Friday. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Q: How are things there?&lt;br /&gt;Me : He's good, settled down already&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Q : What is he doing again&lt;br /&gt;Me : (goes into long description of what new job The Boyfriend is doing)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Q : When is he coming back&lt;br /&gt;Me : Six months&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Q : When are u going over for a visit?&lt;br /&gt;Me : I dont know, I guess at some point, maybe when he's settled down or something&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Q : When is he coming back for a visit?&lt;br /&gt;Me : I have no idea&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Q : When are you guys going to see each other next?&lt;br /&gt;Me : I dont know&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Q : He's leaving the firm isnt he?&lt;br /&gt;Me : No, just a six months leave of absence&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Q : So whats going to happen to the both of you?&lt;br /&gt;Me : I dont know, just like now?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Q : Havent you guys talked about things?&lt;br /&gt;Me : No... he's only gone for six months&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Q : But, you should talk about things right? Like what's this going to mean for the both of you? He's going to bring you over there at some point right? You guys have talked about getting married right?&lt;br /&gt;Me : hahah, dont know, why dont you ask him?&lt;br /&gt;Q : You know I cant ask him this question&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Q : You guys dont talk about getting married?&lt;br /&gt;Me : hahahaha were so young. There's still time. After all, men... they dont think about these things, and probably wont until much later. He's not in that age group yet&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Q : You guys should seriously talk about things, where things are going to go&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Q : Why didnt you leave and go with him?&lt;br /&gt;Me : I wasnt invited&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(Yes, I am quoting you an almost verbatim conversation someone had with me. Not the only one Ive had to field)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Another conversation that I had&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Q : How is he doing&lt;br /&gt;Me : Good I guess&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Q : What's he been doing&lt;br /&gt;Me : I dont really know what he's been up to. I havent spoken to him in a while&lt;br /&gt;(silent stare of ' I cant believe you dont talk to each other every day')&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Conversations that I will have from now on&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Q : How's The Boyfriend doing&lt;br /&gt;Me : Good&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Q : What has he been up to?&lt;br /&gt;Me : Stuff, I guess&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Q : So, are you going to go over and visit him? / when is he coming back? / are you guys talking about getting married / did you guys talk about where your relationship is going / are you guys getting serious? / are you going to move there with him?&lt;br /&gt;Me : For more answers please field all questions to "theboyfriend@email.com&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Thank you. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What do you think? does that sound too cold?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-1556381711026737059?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/1556381711026737059/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=1556381711026737059' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/1556381711026737059'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/1556381711026737059'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2010/02/fielding-questions.html' title='Fielding questions'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-7609700649894765768</id><published>2010-02-07T19:58:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2010-02-07T20:09:20.702-08:00</updated><title type='text'>The Sky</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-style:italic;"&gt;&lt;blockquote&gt;How do you cage a bird without breaking its soul&lt;/blockquote&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The Boyfriend left. Flew far and away to try out a different life in a different city in a different country. We never talked about it, but I know, part of this different life that he needs involves a different me, or a life without me, temporarily. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Isnt it funny sometimes, that you would need space from the one you want to be with? Isnt it funny sometimes how you need to get away to somewhere else just to redefine who you are? to find yourself again? that you would rather not plan to see the other person again. Maybe not when? maybe not if?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Who am I? What have I become? &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am the incessant breath at his neck. The shadow lurking behind him. I am his ball and chain.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So it is time for him to leave, and with it, no ideas of when we will see each other next. "Sometime" he says. "Sometime" I whisper. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;No tears this time. No sadness at his departure. Perhaps it was a long time coming, seeing, knowing that he needs to get away from me yet again. The difference this time though, I shall no longer chase, I shall no longer want. He will turn around and see that I am not running behind him, tugging at his shirtsleeves. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He can run, and soar and be the great big bird with its wings flapping free. I am no longer his chain, his link. I am no longer his shadow lurking in the dark. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I no longer wait, and hope, and see. I am letting life be. If he wants me, he knows where to find me. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"It is written"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Let the phoenix rise. Let it fly. Let it breathe the fresh air from above. Let my daffodil roots embed itself deep deep deep into the ground so that I may not soar after him. Fly after him. Chase after him. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style:italic;"&gt;&lt;blockquote&gt;How do you cage a bird without breaking its soul?&lt;/blockquote&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-style:italic;"&gt;By becoming its sky...&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-7609700649894765768?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/7609700649894765768/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=7609700649894765768' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/7609700649894765768'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/7609700649894765768'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2010/02/sky.html' title='The Sky'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-8879763572514254583</id><published>2010-02-01T01:43:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2010-02-01T21:41:58.573-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Hmph</title><content type='html'>Week 4 of the new year. Officially, January is over, and my resolution to holding on to my shopping spending, a great success. In January I bought one item and one item only that wouldve made it to the 'shopping' list. A ring. One. Just a funky crystal ring. And that was pretty much it. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So why am I still broke? Well maybe broke is too strong a word, but why am I still not able to enjoy my money? Well in January I spent ...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Gyne trip : USD 110&lt;br /&gt;Changing prescription of glasses : USD 250&lt;br /&gt;Car cleaning : USD 75&lt;br /&gt;Hair : USD 100&lt;br /&gt;Pedicure &amp; massage package for the year : USD 150&lt;br /&gt;Waxing package for the year : USD 170&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;sigh...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*** Update&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That USD 75 car wash? yeaps, I walked out this morning and a bird had pooped on it. Karma's a bitch&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-8879763572514254583?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/8879763572514254583/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=8879763572514254583' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/8879763572514254583'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/8879763572514254583'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2010/02/hmph.html' title='Hmph'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-3660866414140564523</id><published>2010-01-30T07:31:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2010-01-30T07:43:10.941-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Ambushed</title><content type='html'>Memories. Hundreds, thousands, millions little moments of my life. Little bubbles blowing up as I walk around the four corners of an old house. The staircase banister my brother and I used to slide down with my mother yelling, worried we might fall. The cold marble floor that my family and I used to sleep on. Flattening every inch of our body against the cold when the electricity failed. The bed I used to cry myself to sleep to every night when I mended a broken heart. My table, now gone, where I used to spend hours sitting, reading, studying. The beds, shared between my sister and I. The little magical world underneath that I used to hide in when my sister and brother thought it would be fun to bully me. The head of my parents bed, where we all used to sleep together. Where my brother and I spent late nights playing monopoly. Where my mother used to hold us close and tell us bedtime stories. Where I once jumped up and down and twirled around and insisted that I wanted to be a ballerina. Insisted so bad my parents gave in and sent me to classes. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Memories. Pockets of them. So small as I packed them all away. Little by little. Pieces by pieces. Bags and bags of trash. Bags and bags of things to give away. Do we still need them now? these clothes from the 80's? My baby bottle? the coupons my mother used to cut to buy diapers with? Do we need them now? pictures of my father, young and handsome. Laughing as though he was about to conquer the world? My grandmothers organizer. The remnants of her that my mother clings on to? as though knowing what she had planned one early September morning will keep her alive?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So we pack them all away. We clean. We purge. In between it all, we hold remnants of the memories we have all had tucked away. The tears, the laughter, the broken hearts and the broken arm. Twenty years on, we are finally putting our ashes to rest.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_eboqY9vfxq4/S2RTgU4dbyI/AAAAAAAAADg/hiSP2balP-4/s1600-h/PB070194.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_eboqY9vfxq4/S2RTgU4dbyI/AAAAAAAAADg/hiSP2balP-4/s400/PB070194.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5432558865342099234" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-3660866414140564523?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/3660866414140564523/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=3660866414140564523' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/3660866414140564523'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/3660866414140564523'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2010/01/ambushed.html' title='Ambushed'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_eboqY9vfxq4/S2RTgU4dbyI/AAAAAAAAADg/hiSP2balP-4/s72-c/PB070194.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-8837400943145941165</id><published>2010-01-25T22:00:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2010-01-25T22:01:20.155-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Hunting</title><content type='html'>Sigh... Ive been househunting for so long now. I still have no place to call my own&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-8837400943145941165?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/8837400943145941165/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=8837400943145941165' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/8837400943145941165'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/8837400943145941165'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2010/01/hunting.html' title='Hunting'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-7073011274332815082</id><published>2010-01-21T21:43:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2010-01-21T21:46:20.145-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Superstition</title><content type='html'>Sometimes I can be superstitious. An old one that we know about is that when a person dreams about a snake, it generally means somebody is about to propose to you.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Last night I dreamt I was in a car with The Boyfriend. I dreamt a kitten was running around our legs. And then a snake. A baby cobra with gray scales and pink rings around it. Slithering between our legs and bags and on top of our bags. Remarkably close to the kitten&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I remember worrying that the snake was going to bite The Boyfriend. And I tried to get him out of the car. The snake having slithered near the kitten, came out as well.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And then I bashed it and killed it with my high heels. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Each time I smacked its head it returned with a hiss, until it eventually died. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Am I trying to kill the idea of marriage here?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-7073011274332815082?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/7073011274332815082/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=7073011274332815082' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/7073011274332815082'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/7073011274332815082'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2010/01/superstition.html' title='Superstition'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-5526260942237627897</id><published>2010-01-19T23:02:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2010-01-19T23:04:41.481-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Wish list</title><content type='html'>1) Kindle&lt;br /&gt;2) Miu Miu wallet&lt;br /&gt;3) Tods flats&lt;br /&gt;4) House&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE HOUSE&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Im still trying to not spend money. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Week 3 of no shopping... withdrawal symptoms showing....&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;*and luckily The Boyfriend won a Kindle, and is giving it to me!! &lt;/em&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-5526260942237627897?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/5526260942237627897/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=5526260942237627897' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/5526260942237627897'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/5526260942237627897'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2010/01/wish-list_19.html' title='Wish list'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-8898653323250218128</id><published>2010-01-18T19:37:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2010-01-18T19:37:28.395-08:00</updated><title type='text'>The Clock</title><content type='html'>tick-tock, tick-tock&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;time is running out&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-8898653323250218128?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/8898653323250218128/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=8898653323250218128' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/8898653323250218128'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/8898653323250218128'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2010/01/clock.html' title='The Clock'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-2707457944193073371</id><published>2010-01-18T06:26:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2010-01-18T06:26:42.112-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Awkward</title><content type='html'>Brazilian wax + visit to Gyne = AWKWARD!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-2707457944193073371?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/2707457944193073371/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=2707457944193073371' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/2707457944193073371'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/2707457944193073371'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2010/01/awkward.html' title='Awkward'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-951995518573515135</id><published>2010-01-14T05:55:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2010-01-14T05:59:28.429-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Missing you</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_eboqY9vfxq4/S08ikYMeuMI/AAAAAAAAADY/I2LvqHTHAG0/s1600-h/love4.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 380px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_eboqY9vfxq4/S08ikYMeuMI/AAAAAAAAADY/I2LvqHTHAG0/s400/love4.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426594084370168002" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Its not goodbye is it now? Or I most certainly hope not.&lt;br /&gt; &lt;br /&gt;I miss you already&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-951995518573515135?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/951995518573515135/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=951995518573515135' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/951995518573515135'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/951995518573515135'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2010/01/missing-you.html' title='Missing you'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_eboqY9vfxq4/S08ikYMeuMI/AAAAAAAAADY/I2LvqHTHAG0/s72-c/love4.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-3245274765857589210</id><published>2010-01-07T09:22:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2010-01-07T09:29:06.979-08:00</updated><title type='text'>The one way road</title><content type='html'>How do I tell you, &lt;br /&gt;Thank you. &lt;br /&gt;A glimpse of a shadow out of the corner of my eye, &lt;br /&gt;You stray in and out of my life, &lt;br /&gt;Especially most needed. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;How do I tell you, &lt;br /&gt;Thank you. &lt;br /&gt;Loyalty has no meaning between us, &lt;br /&gt;Friendship means nothing between us&lt;br /&gt;We have known each other what five? six? years now?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Our messages ebbing between hurt and pain&lt;br /&gt;sunshine and darkness&lt;br /&gt;daffodils and thorns&lt;br /&gt;and sunflowers&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But it is always love&lt;br /&gt;That we speak off, &lt;br /&gt;You and me,&lt;br /&gt;Sometimes I wonder if you are the only person who really knows me&lt;br /&gt;The only person who really 'gets' me&lt;br /&gt;You understand&lt;br /&gt;My twistedness&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After all, &lt;br /&gt;You were there with me through it all&lt;br /&gt;Through my finding my self&lt;br /&gt;Through my grasping my identity&lt;br /&gt;Through tears, and laughter, soul searching and love searching&lt;br /&gt;Through gothic times, and rebel times, and sunshiny times&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, I guess, I dont say thank you&lt;br /&gt;Because thanks isnt really what we would expect of each other&lt;br /&gt;What we wish for is love, and happiness, and joy&lt;br /&gt;For one another&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Youve wished it so many times for me&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Enough self obsession&lt;br /&gt;Enough self delusion&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;How are you Muse?&lt;br /&gt;I love the reminder of your soul&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-3245274765857589210?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/3245274765857589210/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=3245274765857589210' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/3245274765857589210'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/3245274765857589210'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2010/01/one-way-road.html' title='The one way road'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-3874512037656162584</id><published>2010-01-07T08:52:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2010-01-07T09:13:16.140-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Abuse</title><content type='html'>Its funny sometimes, how we only hurt the people we love. There is a sense of decency somehow amongst the public, that stops us from going that one step lower to trade snide comments and insults. From hurling the absolute (and most painful) truth at someone. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But with our loved ones, we tend to drop our guard more. By sharing our life and our love with them, we supply them with the ammunition to hurt us. By telling them our secrets, our deepest darkest fears, our hopes and our dreams no matter how silly it may seem; we supply them the knife that will inevitably someday cut us. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I witness it a lot, especially since my day to day interaction involves a lot of interaction with couples. Even though I am there, or perhaps because I am there, couples bring out the barbed wire, the fences, and wring it around their partners neck as though it was a joke. And perhaps they really think about it that way, especially when there is an audience nearby. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But why do we do it? air our punishments in public. If there is a trait about her that you dont really like, why should you announce to the world your partners downsides. If he comments on another girl, why must you make snide comments about his past cheating ways. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Why punish in public? or why punish at all?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Its scary, that we do this to ourselves. All of us. After all, we are only human. And in time of anger, and hurt, the only thing you want to do is hurt them back. Try to make them suffer as much as you did. So you do it, pull out everything from the 'deep dark trusting closet' in which they had deposited all parts of their soul with you. You take it all out, and you hurl it at them. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That childhood dream that youve always longed to achieve - Idiot and childish idea&lt;br /&gt;That job that you want to get - You'll never make it or survive there&lt;br /&gt;That dress that you like - makes you look like an elephant/ whore&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It makes me wonder sometimes. Why should relationships inevitably fall this way? Ive always thought you would love each other more as days go by. That the quirks becomes the only quirk that you can count on being there. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;One day when your partner dies, you may only recount these moments. These lapses in time but a big black burning hole in your partners soul when you had hurled an abuse, an insult, a comment that brings them down. And you would probably wonder, why didnt you treat them better. That you did indeed love that funny thing she did when she slept. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Why cant lovers just treat each other well.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-3874512037656162584?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/3874512037656162584/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=3874512037656162584' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/3874512037656162584'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/3874512037656162584'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2010/01/abuse.html' title='Abuse'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-784690954089263854</id><published>2010-01-05T03:02:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2010-01-05T03:09:59.486-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Expectations (Part 2)</title><content type='html'>Is it possible to visit your Boyfriends family without the expectation of getting married?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Apparently, according to all social conventions, No. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am tired of having to deal with all these conversations where everyone asks me how my trip to see my 'In-laws' went. I am tired of the little winks and giggles of when am I going to be married. Tired of smiling and pretending to not matter. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;wtf dude, its none of your business. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Thing is, The Boyfriend and I talked about it before. I told him that the "Asian" in me feels that after dating for two years, it is common courtesy to see the family once in a while. You know, just drop by and be like "oh hey, yeah Im the person she spends a lot of time with". It has nothing to do with wanting to get married, or wanting children, or anything like that. Its more as a sign of respect to your parents, of not going behind their back. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So for me, going to spend time with his family was simply that. I would like to get to know his family better, to understand better the reasons and what has contributed to shaping my man into who he is today. I liked going back and seeing where he grew up, of seeing him in his own environment, in his own element to truly get to know who he is. For example, now I actually understand why he would be crazy enough to go to the snow covered mountains in the middle of winter (its called skiing)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Do I think about marriage? Yeah, sure I do. But do I see him inviting me over to spend the holidays with him as an indication that he wants to marry me? No I dont. Weve had talks about reasons to go down for a vacation, and indication of marriage was clearly not one of them. Testing the waters with his parents were clearly not one of them either. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So do me a favor. Next time you see me, feel free to ask me how my vacation went, did I have fun, was it cold, what did I do. But stop trying to make little jokes about in-laws or getting married or setting up shop or family or anything like that. Its a little annoying to be honest. Because when I do plan on getting married, dont worry, Im pretty sure Ill announce it to the world. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And the part that irks me as well, The Boyfriend never has anyone up in his grill all about it. Whats up with that? Am I the less scary person so people feel like they can say those things to me?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-784690954089263854?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/784690954089263854/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=784690954089263854' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/784690954089263854'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/784690954089263854'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2010/01/expectations-part-2.html' title='Expectations (Part 2)'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-5755033104448165921</id><published>2009-12-18T05:07:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2009-12-18T05:17:44.473-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Filthy shopping</title><content type='html'>The Boyfriend and I can be quite anal sometimes. In our line of work, we become trained to be organized and efficient. We get trained to really a lot more on Excel. In me, it has helped to harness the organization that only comes with a job where every second does count. Every dollar does matter&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So which is why we both have quite tight control over our personal accounts. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The Boyfriend sets out a yearly budget on how much he spends for shopping. You know, clothes/ shoes/ accessories/ etc. I instead will assess every situation and decide then and there if I &lt;br /&gt;a) Need it&lt;br /&gt;b) Can afford it&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Needless to say, with it being the year end and all, we started cleaning up our accounts again. And for the first time... ever! I summed up all that I had spent shopping this year and last...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;... and I had never felt more disgusted with myself. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I will spare you the details except to say that my spending was within the realm of a five figure digit and was easily twice as much as The Boyfriend. As I looked back into a few years trends (I am &lt;strong&gt;that&lt;/strong&gt; particular with my accounts) I realized that it was pretty much as expected. In my first two years working, I spent an even more ludicrous amounts then I did in my third year of working. I guess it went with the whole feeling Ive had since end of last year where I realized, I no longer wanted to buy EVERYTHING. I became more selective. Deciding to buy something only if and when it really made sense. So even though the amount was still crazy, at the very least it was less than my first two years.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I decided to try and be practical about things. Try to avoid buying a million cheaper shoes (some of which have resulted in me having a sprained ankle) but instead to just buy one pair of really good shoes and to wear it until it breaks down. No more skirts, no more suit jackets as I have already amassed what I think is clearly a sufficient amount. More discipline in my purchases.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But then of course since its year end, its also bonus time, and this time it wasnt amazing, but it wasnt so bad. So I decided to get the two things that I had really wanted for a while now, and had planned to buy&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A pair of sensible black shoes for work&lt;br /&gt;A belt Ive been eye-ing for more than half a year now&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was talking to my colleague about bonus when he pointed out that I had actually read the wrong line... and that my bonus was 5 digits smaller than what I had thought I had received&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;AFTER I HAD BOUGHT MYSELF CHRISTIAN DIOR SHOES AND LOUIS VUITTON BELT!!!!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*cries*&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-5755033104448165921?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/5755033104448165921/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=5755033104448165921' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/5755033104448165921'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/5755033104448165921'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/12/filthy-shopping.html' title='Filthy shopping'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-7681207810840563180</id><published>2009-12-13T08:22:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-12-13T22:48:34.237-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Sleep</title><content type='html'>Ive been deprived of sleep for a while now... Perhaps ever since I came back from Egypt and this fiasco erupted in my face. I dread going to bed since I know I will wake up in the middle of the night. At least once, and wake up fully not well rested. The nightmares of the night before vivid in my head. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I dont know what to do anymore. I exercise to tire my body out. I try to meditate right before I go to bed. I breathe, and place myself inside this emotionless box inside my head where I know no pain, no pleasure. But it still doesnt help. It reminds me of my old ways and my old days when it was so much easier to feel nothing. Hope for nothing. Want for nothing. Because then, at least then, you feel no pain, no frustration, no annoyance, no anger, no jealousy, no betrayal of your head over your heart or your heart over your head. When you no longer know what is real and what is imaginary. When your paranoia eats at your heart so much you go to bed even more uncertain than the night before. Even less trusting&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am tired. I am tired because I cant sleep and I cant sleep because my days are spent working and watching and my brain goes into overdrive over analysing everything. I am tired because I am over thinking, over worried, over stressed, and then I go to bed and have nightmares about it. Every night... and I wake up even more tired, stressed and paranoid than the day before. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I dont know what else to do anymore. I think my last resort is to just go back to sleeping pills. Or the anti-depressents I used to take in college. Just something... anything, to at least let me get a good nights rest... so that I can wake up with a cleared mind, rested, and hopefully, one day, with no paranoia&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Or am I just simply, too damaged and broken to truly trust again? and that this is the way my soul is trying to tell me?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*** update&lt;br /&gt;Cough syrup... the one that has a label "This may cause drowsiness". I think that could help in the short run&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-7681207810840563180?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/7681207810840563180/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=7681207810840563180' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/7681207810840563180'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/7681207810840563180'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/12/sleep.html' title='Sleep'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-8564672030296862060</id><published>2009-12-08T00:07:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-12-08T23:43:48.129-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Growing up</title><content type='html'>oh wow... &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;How could I forget these... &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;http://www.thehiddenbookcase.com/sweet_valley_twins_books.html&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;they were SO important to me growing up. I still have the collection. All yellowed pages and brittle and all. I cant wait to pass it on to my kids. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;There are some that I realize I dont have though.. may need to go through the list again and order books that I dont have&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-8564672030296862060?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/8564672030296862060/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=8564672030296862060' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/8564672030296862060'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/8564672030296862060'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/12/growing-up.html' title='Growing up'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-4803872293682478532</id><published>2009-12-02T07:47:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-12-02T07:53:11.787-08:00</updated><title type='text'>The lie</title><content type='html'>so.... everyone lies right? I mean sure there are BIG BIG lies, then there are little white lies. Then there are lies where you dont want them to know the truth because it might hurt them more, cause more grief than anything good. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So you lie. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But what if, for that last type of lie, the person finds out? or worse still, suspects that youre not telling the truth. They dont feel good because they seriously suspect that there is no way that was the truth. And they find out later that you had lied, and would be reluctant to believe you in the future&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Is the lie worth it then? This zero negative game where you gain nothing by lying but lose so much more by doing so. Or should we live always assuming that we will get caught. That something bad would happen if we did lie. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Then everyone could trust everyone else... right? &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And what happens when you do catch someone in a lie. Whats the best way to handle it? Throwing it back at them and telling them there's no way that was true? Saying nothing but believing nothing from then on?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I think everyone has this radar where they can tell when someone else is lying... especially those who dont lie often... coz when they do... theyre pretty bad at it&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-4803872293682478532?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/4803872293682478532/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=4803872293682478532' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/4803872293682478532'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/4803872293682478532'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/12/lie.html' title='The lie'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-3104013490965216500</id><published>2009-12-01T08:28:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2009-12-01T08:35:38.763-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Box</title><content type='html'>Hello you! &lt;br /&gt;Why hello! &lt;br /&gt;How are you&lt;br /&gt;I am fine. &lt;br /&gt;Smile. Smile. Smile&lt;br /&gt;Laugh laugh&lt;br /&gt;nod&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I like you box. &lt;br /&gt;Your padded walls&lt;br /&gt;so soft and bouncy&lt;br /&gt;Bouncy bouncy bouncy&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Its a little quiet in here&lt;br /&gt;But thats ok&lt;br /&gt;I can talk to you right mr. box. &lt;br /&gt;chat chat chat&lt;br /&gt;after all some say I talk to much&lt;br /&gt;but here in my little box&lt;br /&gt;I could talk to you all day&lt;br /&gt;And you wouldnt complain&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Would you mr. box?&lt;br /&gt;No you wouldnt&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Its a little lonely here&lt;br /&gt;sitting in my box. &lt;br /&gt;but you know what&lt;br /&gt;there is nothing here.&lt;br /&gt;emptiness&lt;br /&gt;perfect emptiness&lt;br /&gt;no pain&lt;br /&gt;no anger&lt;br /&gt;no frustration&lt;br /&gt;and I sleep! so well&lt;br /&gt;in my little padded box&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;No happiness as well&lt;br /&gt;No love&lt;br /&gt;No joy&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;(But you know what mr.box, Ive always thought happiness and love and jow was a little overrated... dont you?)&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I paste a picture on your wall&lt;br /&gt;A field of sunflowers&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I sit&lt;br /&gt;I watch it&lt;br /&gt;I see it slowly swaying in the wind&lt;br /&gt;I imagine the sun&lt;br /&gt;shinging down on me&lt;br /&gt;I imagine the breeze&lt;br /&gt;blowing against me&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sometimes there is no difference is there?&lt;br /&gt;Living in a box&lt;br /&gt;its just like living outside&lt;br /&gt;when you have the picture in your mind&lt;br /&gt;you can pretend you move around all day&lt;br /&gt;imagine oh the places you would go&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;but you dont have to&lt;br /&gt;because its safe here&lt;br /&gt;in my padded postered box&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;and no one can touch you here&lt;br /&gt;Not even you!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-3104013490965216500?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/3104013490965216500/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=3104013490965216500' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/3104013490965216500'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/3104013490965216500'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/12/box.html' title='Box'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-6007791088165315443</id><published>2009-11-29T16:03:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-11-29T17:46:40.530-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Fighting the demon</title><content type='html'>I didnt sleep well. I just woke up with my heart screaming at me and my throat dry after endless nights of dreaming. More dreams about him and her, more dreams about not being able to take it anymore. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I wondered what it was that made me dream such bad bad dreams. Of dreaming the worst possible thing that can happen&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I thought back, what could have triggered this off?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;His promise to me, to be less chummy with her&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Then him spending afternoon lunch going all the way to a mall and tie shopping with her. Him spending the entire Saturday with her, going to a market with her. While I was away, yet again &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That was what triggered this off I guess...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I cant take this... I cant take thinking horrible thoughts... I cant take not being able to sleep... I cant take days of nightmares after nightmares after nightmares... I cant take going to bed happy and waking up in tears, paranoid, angry and so hurt.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I cant take going to bed whole and waking up in pieces.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Someone... please help me make things ok in my head again. Please... I cant.. I am so tired... so so tired about thinking the worst in another person. So tired of always feeling on guard. So tired of being paranoid about everything. I am exhausted. Please.... help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me help me....&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;i think im going to start taking sleeping pills. I cant do this to myself anymore&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-6007791088165315443?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/6007791088165315443/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=6007791088165315443' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/6007791088165315443'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/6007791088165315443'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/11/fighting-demon.html' title='Fighting the demon'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-1725852225830767628</id><published>2009-11-27T09:31:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-11-27T09:55:50.633-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Expectations</title><content type='html'>I was on my way into Thailand, enjoying the slow and silent ride. I thought about many things, about my crazy colleagues who decided to get engaged (and now married) after 3 weeks, of The Boyfriends really close female-friend who expects her boyfriend to buy her things, about my parents, and about my relationship. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I wondered about the former two and how they could be so delusional in their expectations of relationships. How could they have this idea that they would fall in love so immediately, that its supposed to last forever. How could they think that he will forever be devoted to her. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;How could she imagine he would forever love her, be loyal to her. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The more I thought about it, the more I realized the biggest differences that we all had between that 'irrational camp' and mine, they had different expectations because the only thing they have witnessed is your quintessential healthy relationship. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;For someone who has seen first hand a dysfunctional relationship; to have to go through that for so long. To be a supporting hand, is it then any surprise that my expectations of a relationship is so warped? That even though I can recognize the signs of a healthy relationship, subconsciously I am out looking for the man that can fit the mould of a relationship I have grown so accustomed to? An abusive dysfunctional one?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After all, I have long ceased believing that a man could love me forever. Sure, I would like to have that happen, but trusting that there could be such a man out there for me... difficult. Worse still when I find out that the men who told me they loved me would so easily take it all back. I go in imagining the worst. I came back after two weeks away and saw The Boyfriend suddenly being super chummy with another girl. My immediate reaction screamed out to me &lt;em&gt;"... eventually he will cheat and leave you too...you've only been gone for two weeks and he's suddenly really close with another woman... how would things be a few more years down the road? what if you leave again and he just gets closer and closer to this other girl... what if eventually he leaves you"&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I had never expected a man to take care of me. To want to earn money for me, to feed me, simply because I dont trust my life in another persons hands. I have always been independent because I know... somewhere down the road, him leaving me, or my leaving him because I can no longer love him or trust him is a real possibility. I never trusted my soul in another person because I know sooner or later he will crush it. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now these other couples that I talk about, she is celebrating her parents wedding anniversary with a big party. I have never had that ever happen in my family. Their family's are still together, tight and loving. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I... have not had the foresight of seeing that happen. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But the scariest thing of all, was realizing... that perhaps I myself am out seeking abusive relationships. Perhaps I am subconsciously looking for these people, or sabotaging my relationships because it is the only way I know how to have a relationship. Like I said... I have gone through enough to know that a man simply cannot love a woman forever, want to protect her, take care of her...as much as I would like to imagine it could be true. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But the thing is... if I am a result of my parentage... will I pass on this curse to my children? Would I end up in a destructive marriage? will my children grow up watching all the fights and hurt and abuse. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Will my children grow up witnessing their father fall out of love with me? &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And will they continue the cycle? Will they too go forth and seek abusive relationships, destructive husbands, because the best that I can do in bringing them up would never be enough to erase the scar my relationship would have burnt into them. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I realized... it is one thing to live through this myself, but a completely different matter to already chart out such an unhappy life for the children I do not yet have. I cannot bear to pass on this curse to them such that they will live through life untrusting, hurting. Unable to have love come to them.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I want this to end. With me. But breaking the cycle is not as easy as one can imagine. Knowing your limits and identifying when you are jeapordizing your relationships are not easy to manage. It is difficult to try and see through rose tinted glasses again when the only pair you have are cracked broken and damaged. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I only know that for my world to right itself again, two things must happen. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A man who is willing to work this out with me, a man who will stick around no matter how much my subconscience is fighting against it is essential. A man who will love me forever regardless of how crazy I become. A man who does want to prove me wrong and that he can be trusted, to prove to me that he does want to build me a safe haven, to show me he can love me forever. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And for me to consciously break the mirror of my soul. Silence the harsh expectations. Jump again into the bonfire with my scarred soul and try yet again, to &lt;strong&gt;believe&lt;/strong&gt; in humankind&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-1725852225830767628?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/1725852225830767628/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=1725852225830767628' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/1725852225830767628'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/1725852225830767628'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/11/expectations.html' title='Expectations'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-6546959331654138841</id><published>2009-11-25T21:45:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-11-25T21:49:12.504-08:00</updated><title type='text'>The gift of giving</title><content type='html'>I was at lunch today and saw a guy and a girl in a jewellery store discussing jewellery. She was recommending to him what to get for I suppose his gf/fiancee/wife.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I dont know why guys would do this. Something as personal as jewellery should always be from the heart and should always be his and only his pick. Do you think a girl would like having a piece of jewellery that was selected for her by another woman and passed through the hands of her partner?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;At the end of the day no matter what the repercussions (her liking it/ not liking it/ detesting it), she would know that her man had made the effort to go to the store, look around, and carefully think and choose what it is that he would like to give to her. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;She would appreciate &lt;strong&gt;that&lt;/strong&gt; above all, the fact that she is wearing something her man wants her to wear, not the fact that she is wearing another woman's taste.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-6546959331654138841?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/6546959331654138841/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=6546959331654138841' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/6546959331654138841'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/6546959331654138841'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/11/gift-of-giving.html' title='The gift of giving'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-8428347000981558325</id><published>2009-11-17T23:30:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2009-11-17T23:30:56.468-08:00</updated><title type='text'>My mother</title><content type='html'>My mother used to tell me, be with someone who loves you more than you love him. I always thought that was a pile of crap.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I get it now&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-8428347000981558325?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/8428347000981558325/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=8428347000981558325' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/8428347000981558325'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/8428347000981558325'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/11/my-mother.html' title='My mother'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-1516384434743118366</id><published>2009-10-06T22:52:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-10-06T22:54:47.530-07:00</updated><title type='text'>whats up with that</title><content type='html'>People who should never be allowed to ask you when you are settling down/ thinking about settling down/ planning to settle down&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;1. Your gynaecologist&lt;br /&gt;2. The US Visa Officer&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-1516384434743118366?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/1516384434743118366/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=1516384434743118366' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/1516384434743118366'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/1516384434743118366'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/10/whats-up-with-that.html' title='whats up with that'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-4573618806681305935</id><published>2009-09-20T04:59:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-09-20T05:02:24.090-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Relationships</title><content type='html'>Sometimes involves doing things you might not be super keen on doing. But doing it because its important to your partner. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sometimes involves nudging someone to the edge, pushing them to step out of their boundaries, out of their comfort zone&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sometimes involves telling them, that they need to think about their happiness first, above and beyond your feelings. So that they can be happy too. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I have learnt a lot from The Boyfriend, and will probably keep on learning  =)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He is a good partner to learn from&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-4573618806681305935?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/4573618806681305935/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=4573618806681305935' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/4573618806681305935'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/4573618806681305935'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/09/relationships.html' title='Relationships'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-1703506411840933597</id><published>2009-09-18T19:55:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-09-18T19:57:35.594-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Slipping away</title><content type='html'>When a man doesnt talk about the future with you. Doesnt gush about the possibilities of more time together, of doing things together. When a man makes plans on his own, future plans without you in it. When he shows no interest in your future intertwining with his. Job plans on his own, life plans on his own. No indication of protectiveness over you. When you cruise on a day to day basis... &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He doesnt want a future with you. And you could be in it all alone. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He may love you in the here and now, but no, he will not love you forever.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-1703506411840933597?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/1703506411840933597/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=1703506411840933597' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/1703506411840933597'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/1703506411840933597'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/09/slipping-away.html' title='Slipping away'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-7326655080054303201</id><published>2009-09-14T03:58:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-09-14T04:05:01.271-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Miss...</title><content type='html'>I miss...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Being touched by someone who loves me. Holding hands while we walk down the street. The small of a palm against the small of my back. The fit of my head in the nook of his neck.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I miss...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Having someone miss me. Long for me. Having someone so happy to see me... of someone who cannot wait to see me. Of devilish smiles when we first meet. Of small hello kisses and goodbye kisses. Of him searching for me in the middle of the night. When he cannot wait to just hold my hand hello, kiss me on the cheek hello&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I miss...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sharing a life with someone. Of having him want to share his life with me. Want to tell me of his day. Want to share with me his hopes and dreams and ideas and mundane everyday ordinary things. Share with me his family and friends. Share with me, my family and friends. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I miss...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Just being wanted by him&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-7326655080054303201?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/7326655080054303201/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=7326655080054303201' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/7326655080054303201'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/7326655080054303201'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/09/miss.html' title='Miss...'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-1733779865917369728</id><published>2009-08-27T23:16:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-08-28T00:11:54.133-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Funny Money</title><content type='html'>Ive mentioned a few times my distaste for women I deem to be gold diggers. I absolutely loathe women who depend on men for money, a way of life, luxury. I especially dont understand this need when the woman herself is in a job of a good position with reasonable pay. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Case study 1: The colleague who got her bf to pay for half of her Chanel 2.55 bag.&lt;br /&gt;Why half u ask? well, do u guys know how much that thing costs? It would be pretty crazy to expect him to buy her the entire thing. Its not even her birthday, or xmas, or valentines day. He truly does not understand why she wants/ needs it. AND as I mentioned, she is my colleague, someone who earns a very good sum... so if she wanted it, why cant she just buy it herself?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Case study 2: A friend recently got himself a gf. A FIRST gf I might add. Theyve been going out for maybe 3 months now, and she is trying to angle herself to get him to buy her a Louis Vuitton Speedy bag. This guy and I are very good friends. He told me it would be sweet of him to buy it for her right? I looked at him and almost struck him. "Its a little stupid I think" After all, he had already paid for her travels to an island (he didnt go), flew her up paid for the hotel and all dinner expenses in Bali, and pretty much pays for everything... AND SHE IS EMPLOYED&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Case study 3: My own brother. He doesnt even live in this country. He works in Japan, notoriously known for being expensive and for having really bad work hours. He doesnt even send money to my parents, but gives money to his gf in this country MONTHLY. I ask myself, why cant this woman GET A JOB. What is she doing anyways? Just hanging out here? I mean seriously, go and earn yourself your own income woman!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Anyways, some people say that this is a result of my upbringing. And that in Asia its pretty understandable and common even to expect presents or gifts from your partner. My mother asks me if The Boyfriend ever bought me anything when we went shopping. I looked at her shocked and said "WHY should he?" After all, I want it, shouldnt I be the one to get it? - this is of course a huge contradiction on my mothers part since she was the huge patron of "You need to earn your own income and life and never have to depend on a man"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, recently I thought about heading out to The Boyfriends home country for Xmas. He invited me up. Immediately the reaction from my mother and Case study 1 colleague was "Isnt he paying for your flight?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My reaction was 0_o ??? &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Why should he?"&lt;br /&gt;"Because he asked you to come visit"&lt;br /&gt;"Yes, but I ask a lot of people to visit, doesnt mean I pay for it"&lt;br /&gt;"But he's your boyfriend"&lt;br /&gt;"So?"&lt;br /&gt;"So he should pay for it"&lt;br /&gt;"Why?"&lt;br /&gt;"Because he's your boyfriend and he asked you to come up and visit"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;As you can probably tell, this would become a pretty repetitive conversation. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, my point is... am I overreacting? &lt;strong&gt;Should&lt;/strong&gt; a boyfriend/ partner be buying you things (for non-special ocassions?)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And should I be ok with it? - ok I mean I am completely fine with him buying me flowers or chocs or something he knows I would really like, like a mask, but am sooooo not ok with him paying for my outfits that I want to shop for or a handbag that I had saved up to buy&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-1733779865917369728?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/1733779865917369728/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=1733779865917369728' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/1733779865917369728'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/1733779865917369728'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/08/funny-money.html' title='Funny Money'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-5553668127572564787</id><published>2009-08-20T08:24:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-08-20T09:58:30.261-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Why dance?</title><content type='html'>(I cant decide to post or not)&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-5553668127572564787?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/5553668127572564787/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=5553668127572564787' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/5553668127572564787'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/5553668127572564787'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/08/why-dance.html' title='Why dance?'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-5277999031031523203</id><published>2009-08-19T07:05:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-08-19T07:19:43.475-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Saving up</title><content type='html'>So Im trying to save up. Why? well, maybe because I looked into my bank account and talked to people and realized that I really havent saved very much in my past 3 years of working. Maybe because I realized Ive squandered quite a lot and am disapointed at my lack of control and appreciation. Maybe because I think I have lost the feeling. That feeling of appreciation of what I have. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So anyways, I am setting a goal for myself, trying to live within my new set goals. Not easy, especially when the funds are so easy to access, so Im trying to be disciplined and move a set amount to a fund that would be extremely difficult to access. Maybe that way I wont just rush through my entire salary. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Anyways, I thought I would share with you some of the things Ive realized. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;1. Shop your closet. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;People have been talking about this a lot, especially in these challenging times. Ive realized its really true though. Cleaning up your closet once in a while, you realize some things that you might have forgotten, or think up new combinations for your clothes. Take a look at it and see what basics you might be short on. i.e. black spaghetti tops, white shirts. And only replenish those. Also, imagine what else you can wear it with, only then, get them. And as a further filter, make sure you can wear it for a while. Not just a weekend.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;2. Sell your stuff. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In my country, I dont think flea markets are a norm. Theyre starting to be, slowly. But things like garage sales deff dont happen here. If youre interested, you can sell off your pre-loved items at a designated flea market. Just google around for your local community ones. Im selling my stuff on 31st Aug. If interested to know where, let me know. Lots of working clothes and shoes (things that I seriously cannot fit anymore, but is really good stuff)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;3. Write up a list&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When grocery/ errand shopping, write down a list of things that you need. And try as much as possible to abide the list only. It at least focuses u and deters u from shopping around. Also, bring your own bag. Nowadays stores are giving small discounts if you dont use plastic&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;4. Check your credit card points. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I never checked this since I am actually quite tech illiterate. I even wanted to get the BFsquared (Thats The Boyfriend and The Best Friend) to try and redeem this for me. But anyways, I realized the other day I can just check it online! hahahha and then! even better! I realized that they can give you cash back. So seeing that I use my credit card for a lot of big purchases related to my job (i.e. hotels) I actually accumulated enough credit card points to pay off 1,000 off my credit card. That was pretty sweet actually&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;5. Check your mall card points&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, I generally redeem these and then just give it over to my mom. But today my mom wasnt around so I decided to use it. Results? My 100 grocery bills? I just paid 12 for &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;=D&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So anyways, thats my few tips on how to save up cash/ be smart about spending. Any more tips from u guys? Would be great to hear what else can be done&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-5277999031031523203?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/5277999031031523203/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=5277999031031523203' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/5277999031031523203'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/5277999031031523203'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/08/saving-up.html' title='Saving up'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-1060847598159908478</id><published>2009-08-12T20:13:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-08-12T20:15:57.994-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>In my depressed state of mind, I decided to say fuck it to it all and walked over to the bookstore. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I found myself on the phone with The Boyfriend, crying and walking past 'books on cupcakes'. Stopped in an aisle to hide and looked up to see that I was in the bartending and alcohol section. Walked away and faced two books besides each other "foie gras" and "The bacon book"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I felt like the universe was trying to tell me something&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-1060847598159908478?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/1060847598159908478/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=1060847598159908478' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/1060847598159908478'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/1060847598159908478'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/08/in-my-depressed-state-of-mind-i-decided.html' title=''/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-9119508216842293866</id><published>2009-08-11T22:48:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-08-11T23:06:28.950-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Tired</title><content type='html'>Im tired of not being wanted. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My man doesnt want me&lt;br /&gt;My company doesnt want me&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Why do I keep fighting to try to make them see that I am worth fighting for?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;If they dont want me, then they dont right? And it'll just be time to move on. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ive battled them both for the past two years now. Pleading, working hard, hoping that they will eventually see that its worth it. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I guess, it really &lt;strong&gt;isnt &lt;/strong&gt; worth it anymore.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;God... grant me the strength that I need to move on&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-9119508216842293866?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/9119508216842293866/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=9119508216842293866' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/9119508216842293866'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/9119508216842293866'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/08/tired.html' title='Tired'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-4442245708526017419</id><published>2009-08-09T20:21:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2009-08-09T20:30:25.137-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Doing it on your own</title><content type='html'>Savings. Blardy painful thing to look at. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Do you remember me? I was the girl who was so tight about money. Planned everything, budgeted everything. Tried to make money out of everything. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Do you remember me? Little girl who used to rent out books. Teenager who used to sell black market food. Young woman who held down three jobs to survive a fun time through college?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Or do you only see me as I am now. A woman who has made it. Has a nice fat paycheck. Not willing to try different things anymore. Not hungry to claw her way up to the top anymore. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am budgeting, to get ready to start the new chapter of my life. And boy, is it painful. Especially after living the lap of luxury of not even caring what I spent on. Not even looking at the price tags of things that I bought. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ah, but I guess this is what got me into this mess in the first place. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Starting anew. Always tough. How much do you put aside anyways? to start over?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A big fat savings and your heart apparently. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I realized this weekend&lt;br /&gt;Ill be starting over, alone.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But what difference does it make right? Its not like I havent been here before. Its not like I havent seen this before. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Knowing that I will be doing it alone. Reminds me of the hunger within. The hunger to start over, to put all pains behind me. Put all hopes behind me. Put all dreams behind me. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Starting from the very bottom, the very raw-ness. Yet again&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I remember the mantra I used to remember as a teenager&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;You have nothing. No love. No money. No hopes. &lt;strong&gt;Nothing...&lt;/strong&gt; But you also have &lt;strong&gt;nothing&lt;/strong&gt; else to lose&lt;/em&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-4442245708526017419?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/4442245708526017419/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=4442245708526017419' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/4442245708526017419'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/4442245708526017419'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/08/doing-it-on-your-own.html' title='Doing it on your own'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-2993981212349075576</id><published>2009-08-02T08:58:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2009-08-02T09:25:07.119-07:00</updated><title type='text'>How friends ruin your weekend</title><content type='html'>A nice party with old friends. Reminded me of life. Reminded me of how it was like before I took this job. Or maybe when I first started this job. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Breakfast with an old friend. He has found himself a woman. He is excited. He tells me about it and I relive how The Boyfriend and I started out. I smile, I laugh. I am happy remembering all these memories that we have. All the good times that we have recently. Cant wait to see him again &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Then he tells me, "She went crazy when I told her I dont know if I love her. After all... its still quite new. Why is she going crazy? I dont understand"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And just like that, my friend reminded me of everything I had forgotten. Everything that remained unsolved. Every pain I had kept hidden. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sometimes friends suck like that&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Im trying not to let this affect me... things are going so well right now... but its like running a race and getting a good pace and having someone trip you... You try to pick up, but your pace is gone&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-2993981212349075576?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/2993981212349075576/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=2993981212349075576' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/2993981212349075576'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/2993981212349075576'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/08/how-friends-ruin-your-weekend.html' title='How friends ruin your weekend'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-8225329435818711201</id><published>2009-07-27T07:00:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-07-27T07:06:04.811-07:00</updated><title type='text'>In my previous life</title><content type='html'>In my previous life&lt;br /&gt;I was an eagle soaring high in the sky&lt;br /&gt;A panther pawing quietly in the grass&lt;br /&gt;I was the sun&lt;br /&gt;I was the earth&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In my previous life&lt;br /&gt;I was swaying purple daffodils&lt;br /&gt;I was thorned bushes grown tall&lt;br /&gt;I was a field of sunflowers with my eternal weight bending me down&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In my previous life&lt;br /&gt;I was the wind&lt;br /&gt;That gusts between your hair&lt;br /&gt;The light in your eyes&lt;br /&gt;The laughter on your lips&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In my previous life&lt;br /&gt;I dreamt of the day you will be born&lt;br /&gt;I whispered sweet nothings in your hair&lt;br /&gt;I was your silent kiss&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In my previous life&lt;br /&gt;or previous lives&lt;br /&gt;of a hundred thousand souls&lt;br /&gt;of pirates and princesses, slaves and ordinary people&lt;br /&gt;of vagabonds&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In my previous life&lt;br /&gt;I will soon enough return&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-8225329435818711201?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/8225329435818711201/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=8225329435818711201' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/8225329435818711201'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/8225329435818711201'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/07/in-my-previous-life.html' title='In my previous life'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-8117248088256741793</id><published>2009-07-14T22:51:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-07-15T00:02:54.772-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Expectations</title><content type='html'>I was in bed watching a movie yesterday (FINALLY) and was borrowing a movie to keep me company. Watched The Incredible Hulk amidst the yelling of my friend who insisted it was a bad movie and I not watch it. She kept on reminding me of it so much that I watched the movie with no expectation. Did not imagine Edward Norton would pull a good job and SURPRISE! I was entertained (I wasnt amazed, just entertained)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Even this weekend when The Boyfriend and I went off to watch Transformers 2, Miss C had already warned me to not have expectations. So I went, hoping for nothing, wanting for nothing, and I came out with a smile on my face. The Boyfriend instead, was disappointed at how the movie had turned out. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The project that Im on, this due diligence. We had been promised hours would get better after a few days, because of course we cant be working from 11 p.m. till 7a.m. continuosly right? &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;WRONG! cancelled dinner dates, planned vacations, sleep, friends. Watching my friends try to explain to their partners thats it going to be &lt;strong&gt;yet&lt;/strong&gt;  another long night. Yet another night without tucking daughters into bed. Slowly, just kills you.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Maybe its life in general, that has made me this way. You expect nothing, want nothing, hope nothing, and in the end you dont get disappointed, you dont get hurt&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;and when things go ok, you are just pleasantly surprised. Pleasantly happy&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-8117248088256741793?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/8117248088256741793/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=8117248088256741793' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/8117248088256741793'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/8117248088256741793'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/07/expectations.html' title='Expectations'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-7196217225085613851</id><published>2009-07-09T09:58:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2009-07-09T09:58:53.639-07:00</updated><title type='text'>One more day</title><content type='html'>I cant wait!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;One more day to his arms around me. His scent surrounding me. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;One more day&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;H1N1 and all&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-7196217225085613851?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/7196217225085613851/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=7196217225085613851' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/7196217225085613851'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/7196217225085613851'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/07/one-more-day.html' title='One more day'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-1281526115323903259</id><published>2009-07-09T02:53:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-07-09T03:01:19.885-07:00</updated><title type='text'>The Update</title><content type='html'>What else is there to say?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My company flew me out on a Friday to work in the office both Saturday and Sunday. As if that wasnt bad enough, we were working until 7am on a Sunday/ Monday morning for a meeting that we had later that day. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We head back to the hotel, sleep for 3 hours then I head back to the office just to find out that The Boyfriend had H1N1! which meant that I had a pretty high likelihood of having it (he came to visit me on Saturday)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So exiled I was, to the five star most expensive hotel here in this foreign country. Not that Im complaining of course. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;3 days later and I am still here at my desk, still working. (Exile just means ur not in the office, not that ur not working). If all goes well (and it seems more likely to be the case) then I shall head off tomorrow, back to my country and home and back into the quarantined arms of The Boyfriend. (What? Two quarantines done make a home?)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This opulent opulent hotel is indeed nice, but after 3 days in confinement am I a little bored? Maybe, but not so, since Im still working from here. Still have things to do from here. But I would rather not be working, rather be lounging and doing nothing (Thats how lazy I am right now)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Further dreams of slipping away and travelling, no b school for me. Just slip slip slip away and join another company, another line of work. One that would allow me to stay home on weekends so that I wouldnt be stuck in this (wonderful) hotel instead&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;One more day, and back to The Boyfriend. For hugs, giggles and kisses&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-1281526115323903259?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/1281526115323903259/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=1281526115323903259' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/1281526115323903259'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/1281526115323903259'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/07/update.html' title='The Update'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-1984223646243872297</id><published>2009-07-04T09:08:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-07-04T10:27:31.640-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Just forget the world</title><content type='html'>I am tired. I am tired of feeling tired. Sick and tired of being tired. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am tired of having to work all through weekends all through nights. Foreign cities, foreign offices, foreign hotels. I am tired of not seeing family, of not seeing friends. I am tired of not seeing the Man I love. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A month ago, I was breaking. Cracking. Three years in this job. When the company is constantly telling you up or out, up or out. When you work work work and your life takes a back seat. I was tired. Ive been tired. Of all this. So a month ago, maybe more than that. I reached breaking point. Cracking down. Crying myself to sleep, loating waking up and going to work. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I took 5 weeks off, but could only do it because my father was sick. Had he not been, it probably wouldve been worse for me. At least the five weeks helped repair some cracks in my soul. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But not enough. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I came back fresh, ready to start over. Try again. But this time, they decided to put me on a due diligence. Notoriously known as monsters of the consulting world. You go in KNOWING this time, that you &lt;strong&gt;will&lt;/strong&gt; be working late into the nights, you &lt;strong&gt;will&lt;/strong&gt; not be able to see family, friends. You work weekends. You dont leave your desk to eat. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So here I am, breaking again. Being told on a Thursday that I needed to fly out on a Friday, work Saturday and Sundays. Stressed out because I dont know my work as well as I should be knowing it. Worried that yet again I will fuck up, screw up. Missing seeing The Boyfriend. My weekend plans to watch cheerleading, to meet up with an old old friend, to attend a wedding. All dashed. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sure, I could be put up in this fabulous five star hotel. But ultimately, I am still here alone. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The Boyfriend coincidentally was transiting through this new city on his way back home. So we met, a brief hour, to be sufficient enough to last a week. Laughter, conversation, kissing. All that kissing. Missing his scent, missing his laugh, missing his hands on me, holding mine. Missing him missing him missing him and the life I am leaving behind. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I dont know anymore. If business school is something I want to do. At least I know now, that I dont want to remain here, in this job. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I want to leave. I want to go. I want to fly everywhere. I want to &lt;strong&gt;LIVE&lt;/strong&gt; not this shelled office life. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The options are there. But making a life changing decision is hard. Do I quit? get a paper pushing job. Leave at the right time, meet the right people? hang out, talk? see the world? leave behind my five figure salary? leave behind this luxurious life?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Do I stay? Move up in this superficial world? Take all the shit being thrown at me in hopes that I would move to a position where I would have to make harder choices, harder decisions? where I cannot guarantee stress would be minimal? Do I keep earning all of these earnings, just to squander it on yet another designer bag, yet another luxurious hotel, yet another title.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But if I leave, the bigger question is. Will he fly with me?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-1984223646243872297?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/1984223646243872297/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=1984223646243872297' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/1984223646243872297'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/1984223646243872297'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/07/just-forget-world.html' title='Just forget the world'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-1382335851317537218</id><published>2009-07-03T20:43:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-07-03T20:44:09.942-07:00</updated><title type='text'>The Best...</title><content type='html'>The best foreplay... is conversation, holding hands, laughter... and a whole lotta kissing...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Cant wait till I see The Boyfriend again&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-1382335851317537218?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/1382335851317537218/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=1382335851317537218' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/1382335851317537218'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/1382335851317537218'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/07/best.html' title='The Best...'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-7778955381840811848</id><published>2009-06-24T10:13:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-06-24T10:21:01.256-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Due D Due D</title><content type='html'>You know what that means? &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After five weeks of leisure, I shall disappear back into the working world. Not just the working world, but the dark abyss that is the due diligence. Something that tends to suck your soul in and spits out a tired, grumpy, sleep deprived and much thinner me&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And just when The Boyfriends coming back too =(&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Hopefully he stays this time. Having him away for almost a year was pretty darn long...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Did I not mention? Somethings happened between us. I feel the old spark again, flutters again. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I feel the old him remembering me again...&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-7778955381840811848?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/7778955381840811848/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=7778955381840811848' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/7778955381840811848'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/7778955381840811848'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/06/due-d-due-d.html' title='Due D Due D'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-6634583038381455637</id><published>2009-06-18T09:15:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-06-18T09:47:21.810-07:00</updated><title type='text'>A lifetime of promises</title><content type='html'>A childhood long forgotten. He wasnt really present. Sometimes in the back of my memories I find a whisper of him. Him holding up a the fireworks for us. Us giggling and watching the colorful lights stream out. Him teaching me how to ride a bike. Holding on to the big bad wheels as I cycled on. But sometimes memories fail you, they reconstruct. Sometimes you imagine things that never really happened. You imagine things that you would like to happen. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I dont remember him being there much... was the biggest thing I remembered about him. He was always working. Working working working. And when he came home late in the evenings, my brother and I would pretend we were asleep, so that he would come and sit near us and then we can jump up and surprise him. But the closer my memories get to the present, the lesser he is present. The less prominent he becomes. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Funny isnt it? How your relationship with your father will form your relationship with the entire male race for the rest of your life. Sometimes you get unlucky and your father is a great fuck-up. What then? Do you think of the rest of them as fuck-ups as well? Do you go off trying to mess up the lives of every single one you can find? Sometimes you get lucky, and your father is a good man. A good role model, and you can base ideas of a perfect relationship based off that. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What do you do when you have an in-between-father? Like all of us?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The things that I remember most, growing up, was that I barely saw him. When I was 12-13, he would send me for trainings every day, so I saw him then, in between falling asleep under my blanket in the back of the car, and being carted back home after trainings. When I was ~13-15, I would see him on the weekends when I was allowed to go home from boarding school. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When I came back home from 15-18, he was virtually gone. I barely saw him, always claiming he was working late. every.single.fucking.night. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;How did I not grow up to resent him? Him being late to anything that I had on. Him not really caring to fulfill the promises he made to me. (I still have a bike that has been waiting to be repaired since 1994) Him not asking about me, not curious about my life at all. Not caring about what I was up to. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It is not easy to keep on believing when you do not trust that he will fulfill his promises. It is not easy to keep trusting, when he shatters the things you hold true. It is not easy to spend a lifetime still with him, when all you can remember is that he didnt really want to spend your childhood with his life. All he ever wanted to do, was to just keep on working. Bring money to the house and all that. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It isnt easy since nothing has changed ever. Fights have come and gone between us. I have even yelled at him, telling him he was not a good father. That he never understood that he needed to take time to get to know us. That I did not care how much money he made for us, that all I ever wanted was just for him to be there. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My father was hospitalized recently. Another countless event of his damaged arteries. Four blockages, two operations later, he contacted a skin disease as well. On his left foot. Leaving him bedridden for more than two weeks. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I came to see him every day. And it wasnt easy. What was there for us to talk about? We had differing views on everything, especially religion. He did not like games. He did not like books. He did not like tv shows and movies. I am not his son. I do not know sports, or care to know them. There was nothing that we could talk about. But I am his daughter, and it is my duty, my blood to be with him. Regardless. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So I read to him, his menu options for the next day. Asked him to choose his food. And after two weeks I got sick and tired of doing that too. Asked him to just read it by himself. Why couldnt he just read it by himself? Lazy?!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;To which he answered "At least Ill get to hear your voice"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Maybe finally, he is beginning to realize how much it had hurt to not have him there growing up. To only see him in clouds and pieces. Maybe he has suddenly realized how much it had hurt to have him betray us all. How much his actions were finally impacting and forming my relationship with men. Maybe he realizes how little of us he knows, how few the memories of us he holds.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Maybe he can stop believing that he had always been a good father and realize how much more we had wanted. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I cannot blame him now can I? He followed a fatherly model that is obsolete now. A father with 14 children could not provide much attention. A father with 14 children will only spend his time finding food so that his children may eat. How do you become a close father when that was all that you learned?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My five weeks is up now. He will recover slowly and go back to work now. Things wont change. He will come back at 12, 1, 2 in the morning just like he has been doing for the past 10 years now. Because he cant change. And I cant change. It isnt easy to forgive, but it is easier to understand why some things remain the same. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You wish you could take back words. Shouts, anger. Curses that are like piercing swords into a fathers heart when you tell him that he wasnt there for you. That he wasnt a good father. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sometimes, and most of the time. I just wish that we could have taken it all back. Gone back to the very beginning, and for things to just work out the way it should. The way it has in so many other families. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He wasnt the perfect father. But I wasnt the perfect daughter either. I guess the only thing you can come to realize, is that we did the best that we could. Maybe he wasnt the best father, but he was the best father he could have been.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-6634583038381455637?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/6634583038381455637/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=6634583038381455637' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/6634583038381455637'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/6634583038381455637'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/06/lifetime-of-promises.html' title='A lifetime of promises'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-5089329872986771805</id><published>2009-06-11T21:07:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-06-11T21:37:19.147-07:00</updated><title type='text'>The Haze</title><content type='html'>Sometimes its not easy, to look out when its hazy. When youre clouded by every which emotion possible. Its not easy to find a direction, a point. Hell its not even easy to find the sun (as is evident by the Haze that has recently hit my country)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Here's a story, of a woman so caught up in her haze, she could not notice she was acting crazy. like CRAZY. could not see the signs of a man who was no longer interested in her. Who decided to crush every last inch of dignity left in her for the dream of a future that was ONLY in HER head. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This is the story about my friends ex. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So I had this housemate. Back in college. He and I were good friends, and we used to have a ball laughing at all these girls that he used to date/ sleep with. Yes, I know, we were mean, but what else was there to do when you hear of these stories. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So lets call him S. Now S was a complete lothario. He's a white guy with serious (and I do mean serious) Asian fetish. This man speaks so many Chinese languages/ dialects and currently lives in HK. While in college, he was an economics and stats major (do you know how many asians are in the bulk of his class?)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Anyways, due to his charming nature and ability to speak the language (to the level where he can compose poetry in Chinese), he dated/ slept with (I swear) almost every asian in school. And since I lived with him, I was the benefactor of all these stories where the girls would just throw themselves at him. All these asian girls who were thinking that he was 'The One' that just could not fathom the thought that it was just in their heads. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Seriously, S and I used to sit around the dinner table and laugh at his girls. So one time, he dated this girl who was a little older than him. And after a while, they broke up. Now this girl was a complete nut job. She used to come over to the house, and shout his name from the ground floor until our neighbors would come out. Until he had to invite her in because it was embarassing. Then of course she tried to get into his room, tried to sleep in his room, in his bed. All the while thinking, of course I can make him want me. He kicked her out, slammed and locked the bedroom door and she sat outside all night. Clawing the door, whispering his name. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Creepy I tell you? Nope not over yet. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;She would call him and not say anything just so that she can hear his voice. She would stalk him on the college grounds and follow him. Crying in public. She held on to his shirt and even after he called her the worst chinese swear known to man (he said it was something along calling her cunt liquid or something I cant remember). She held on to his shirt and he struggled to get away. She ended up ripping his shirt. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Crazy? Nope not yet. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So he ended up going for an internship (we were back in the US then) somewhere in China or HK I cant remember. And she had actually FLOWN OVER to find him. Seeked out his hotel room. They called him and he told them to NOT RELEASE HIS ROOM NUMBER. Somehow or other, the next thing he knows, she is back in front of his hotel room door. Calling for him. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So what was it about this S that made girls act this crazy? (Like I said, he and I used to laugh about his girls, so can you imagine how many crazy stories like these are out there). What was it about him that made girls fly over the sea just to catch a glimpse of him, thinking all the while, well if Im here with him, he wont be able to resist me. If Im here with him and he talks to me, then he must still like me. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What was it that made these women think they were all in love with him. That they were all destined to have a future with him. Made them tell everyone who tried to advice them, that they didnt understand this feeling of love?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Nothing. It was nothing about him. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It was all in their heads. Or in all of our heads, when we justify all these small things. When we make excuses for his behavior. When a fleeting look is enough to make you feel that the both of you were meant to be forever. When every little act that he does gets blown out of proportion. When you dont realize, there is very little he is acting on. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I know it was mean to laugh at her. But honestly, someone who was throwing away that much dignity, that much self-respect. For a relationship that lasted what, all of 3 months? To deplete her resources, waste her time, her emotions. To decide to fly half way across the world for a man who doesnt even love you. Or like you. Or care about you. Or even wants to see you (because if he did, wouldnt he be calling you? trying to meet you?)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Lesson from this? We should always, always, learn to separate the haze. To find reality. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And hopefully preserve some self worth and dignity before its too late.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-5089329872986771805?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/5089329872986771805/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=5089329872986771805' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/5089329872986771805'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/5089329872986771805'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/06/haze.html' title='The Haze'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-4209368309070770989</id><published>2009-06-08T09:59:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-06-08T10:16:23.957-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Doormat</title><content type='html'>A person very close to me warned me that I am venturing pretty close into doormat territory. Reminded me to not give in too much. Reminded me that I have already done a lot, sacrificed a lot. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Reminded me that I was always always always thinking about his feelings. Had he ever made a decision based on mine? Asked me if he has done things to make me happy?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I dont know actually. Because I cant tell if he thinks about my feelings or not. I am casual and have no problems saying to someone "I am doing this because I care about you" or to think about how the other person may feel before I make a decision and tell them I was thinking about them before making a decision. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I cant really tell if The Boyfriend does the same. Because he simply doesnt verbalize things very much. Perhaps he does not have my gift of the hyperbole or flair for drama. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Could he do more? Im sure he can. After all, what is life if it wasnt filled with vast room for improvements. But has everything thats happened been enough?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ill be honest. I really dont know. Our relationship has been evolving so much from the very beginning. Initially I was someone who needed a lot of contact. To hear his voice a lot. See him a lot. Eventually after this became a big area of contention for us, I started losing my need for it. Stopped needing to hear his voice. To talk to him anymore. Does this mean I sacrificed a part of myself, a part of my expectation? I dont know. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We tried, to have longer phone calls, or more frequent phone calls. But then we would end up with lots of empty space, lots of empty conversation. And was that worth it just to check the box that said he had called? No it most deff wasnt. So eventually, the importance on that matter ceased as well. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Then of course, there were the emails. Flying back and forth between work. As well as the messenger (thank god for office messenger) that we would have. Sometimes long lags in between. Mostly short, straightforward, to the point. Did I want flowery romantic emails and constant email from him. Sure I did, which girl wouldnt? But we were practical. And it was enough to remind me that he wanted to at least communicate with me. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Of course, it doesnt beat seeing him face to face. Though that need and desire of mine has not changed. (After all, if a person doesnt actually want to see or spend time with their partner, then hello! there is deff something wrong with the relationship) that too eventually got compromised. Him being posted to the middle east close to what was it, 6-9 months? and then off to Indonesia for another 6. Made it so difficult to keep this option open. Him being closer now does make a difference. And in the beginning we tried to see each other more often. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But with work scheduling and differences. When both of you are consultants and all you want to do on the weekend is sleep or work, seeing each other too, becomes much much harder.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Of course, then (and this perhaps might be my one area of contention) came the conversation about sharing things together. Information. Pieces of your life. I wanted it, he didnt. Essentially told me that he didnt need to tell me things "If they didnt concern me". Why was it important for me to know where he had gone or what he had been up to if I wasnt in any which way involved in it. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;How do I explain to someone who is so independent that this is what you call a relationship. When you just want to know and keep on knowing about the other person. It was painful I will admit when he told me I didnt need to know things about his life that didnt concern me. Felt like I was being shoved behind a big giant door that said 'you dont deserve to be in here'. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Of course, that too was something I decided to bypass. To simply say, fine. If you dont want to tell me fine. I feel like Im being pushed out of your life but if thats the way you feel about it, then fine. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So is this what it is to sacrifice? to eventually have all my expectations of a relationship stripped away? Or are these merely excuses for me to justify behavior?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Am I a doormat that keeps on getting stamped on, prodded on, unappreciated?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I honestly cannot tell.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-4209368309070770989?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/4209368309070770989/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=4209368309070770989' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/4209368309070770989'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/4209368309070770989'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/06/doormat.html' title='Doormat'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-3025802429769456037</id><published>2009-06-06T22:48:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-06-06T23:08:05.041-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Lies</title><content type='html'>I was tired. Tired of lying to everyone so that people would think things are ok. Tired of spending week nights with my friends who are married, who hold hands while he kisses her hair, her forehead. I am tired of even being with my perennial bachelor friend who finally decided to settle down with a girl. Tired of half partners willing to fly in from Spain to spend time together here. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am tired of the happy couples. I am tired of pretending I am part of a happy couple. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So I lie. Grit my teeth and tell everyone he isnt here because he wanted to explore another country. Tell people I am not there because I am needed her by my family. I drop little hints about him so that people still feel that he and I are still together, sharing, happy, strong. That we are independent couples just gone off and done our own things but will eventually come back again. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But above all, I am tired of lying to myself. I prefer not the truth, prefer the truth not be known, because I keep hoping and wishing that things will turn around. That somehow, miraculously, eventually, he would realize how much I am worth to give up. I dont want to break this bubble this spell because I want there to be a chance. I dont want to break this bubble because I still miss him. I still miss us. I still want &lt;strong&gt;us&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;As it turns out, he is tired too. Tired of making up stories for my not being there. Tired of answering questions about me, my situation. I asked him if he would prefer people know, so that they would stop bothering him. He tells me he isnt sure if it would be helpful to him. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I realized then, him not wanting to tell other people, it wasnt because he was harboring the same hope and wishes too. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am alone in this rainmakers dance. Hoping and wishing that enough sitting still on the side and praying will return things to how it used to be when everything was sunshine and rainbows. Or knowing that no matter what the storm, eventually there would be sunshine and rainbows. It turns out I am dancing to no music. Spiralling in a trance. I am the only person wishing for this still. Dreaming of us still.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Perhaps its time for me to stop lying to myself. To realize there is no one left in the room but me now. Burst the bubble and say it out loud so that I am reminded constantly there is nothing left behind. Even our ashes have risen and been blown off. No more hope. No more wishing. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;No more lies.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-3025802429769456037?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/3025802429769456037/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=3025802429769456037' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/3025802429769456037'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/3025802429769456037'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/06/lies.html' title='Lies'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-3063494817314167723</id><published>2009-06-02T09:26:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-06-02T09:41:31.444-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Lists</title><content type='html'>Ive been going through the paces now, one step at a time now. And lists lists lists! keeps popping in my head reminding me of my place in time in history. I must not lie. I will say that I am enjoying my leave of absence. I have a purpose daily : Be with dad in hospital, and study for GMATs. Whatever remainder of time I have, I get to spend on other fun wholesome activities! &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ive&lt;br /&gt;1. Checked out a flea market&lt;br /&gt;2. Gone to a ballet (sorta)&lt;br /&gt;3. Seen Barbies exhibition/ or challenges of age&lt;br /&gt;4. Walked by floating kites in the park&lt;br /&gt;5. Checked out Harpers Bazaars photo exhibition&lt;br /&gt;6. Had dinner with friends in new restaurants like Bar Italia...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I will&lt;br /&gt;1. Go for my first comedy night (attending not participating)&lt;br /&gt;2. Check out the dragonboat festival&lt;br /&gt;3. See 2 new art exhibitions (in 2 separate locations)&lt;br /&gt;4. Watch percussions concert&lt;br /&gt;5. Debating signing up for a book club discussion on One Fifth Avenue (what?! this would be my first foray into the deep book discussion world on chick lit. Time to put to good use my philosophical developments honed through my creative writing course in college... plus theres a Marie Claire goodie bag at stake)&lt;br /&gt;6. Japanese film festival &lt;br /&gt;7. Independent films being shown for free!&lt;br /&gt;8. And of course... my kryptonite... trying to sign up for 3 10km runs. The standard chartered one (if I can get the blardy ppl to let me sign in), the Siemens run, and the Shape night run! in Putrajaya! Should be real pretty, and at least quite unique. Im hoping by signing up for these things and putting money down I would be really motivated to actually go running. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So far, having no salary has been somewhat... liberating. surprised? I know I am. But I try other options for dining, even (aghast!) cooking!. I dont buy things simply because I want it. More on the premise of needing it. And Miss C who has been quite a constant companion with me is helping me out quite a lot by reminding me constantly that I have no money. hahahahaha&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And then of course! the postcard keeps on coming from my old library manager who has promised himself a new country every year! he has reached 54 (though his age is likely to be 45) hahaha sorry Dan. And then, I was like... ooo! What do I have!&lt;br /&gt;1. Malaysia&lt;br /&gt;2. Uzbekistan (dont ask)&lt;br /&gt;3. Canada&lt;br /&gt;4. USA&lt;br /&gt;5. Venezuela&lt;br /&gt;6. France&lt;br /&gt;7. Italy&lt;br /&gt;8. Switzerland&lt;br /&gt;9. Japan&lt;br /&gt;10. Singapore (counts!)&lt;br /&gt;11. Indonesia&lt;br /&gt;12. Thailand&lt;br /&gt;13. Vietnam&lt;br /&gt;14. Laos&lt;br /&gt;15. Cambodia&lt;br /&gt;16. Hong Kong&lt;br /&gt;17. Taiwan&lt;br /&gt;18. India&lt;br /&gt;19. Australia&lt;br /&gt;20. Spain&lt;br /&gt;21. UAE&lt;br /&gt;22. UK&lt;br /&gt;and hopefully by end of year 23. Egypt! With The Wolf!!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;see how my lists gives me things to look forward to? &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;but of course&lt;br /&gt;12 days till I start work again&lt;br /&gt;11 days till I take the exam?&lt;br /&gt;3 days before I register to take the exam? hahaha&lt;br /&gt;and 1 day before visiting the Museum of Islamic Arts with Miss C! &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I must say... I am starting to truly appreciate this lifestyle. Reminds me how life and work should work out...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Of course, would be nice to have a purpose and a salary to go with this as well. hahaha&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-3063494817314167723?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/3063494817314167723/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=3063494817314167723' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/3063494817314167723'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/3063494817314167723'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/06/lists.html' title='Lists'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-109097490440550209</id><published>2009-05-31T07:30:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-05-31T07:55:40.558-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Memories of a 17 year old</title><content type='html'>As some of you may know, Im preparing for the GMATs. Not the easiest thing to do while balancing visiting my dad everyday who is still in the hospital. I was talking to The Boyfriend, trying to remember how it was that I had so much discipline as a 17 year old girl studying for the high school exams. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I used to manage waking up early in the morning, going to school, coming straight back home and studying non-stop until nightime. I remember how my parents used to get worried and would ask me to take a break, to come downstairs and watch tv. I worked like clockwork, changing subjects every hour. I went through a mountain of revision books left behind untouched by my brother and sister. My weekends were a blur of science, history, math, additional math, literature, economics, Islamic studies, english, national language, accounting...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was pretty well prepared for the exam that year. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I remember now, how I managed to do it. I was heartbroken, shattered. Cradling-remnants-of-a-broken-soul-crying-and-hating-the-world-wishing-I-was-dying-heartbroken. He was my first love, a boy back in high school. Tall and lanky with dark skin. I used to skip classes and stay with him in the back of an old ice kacang stall by the river. Used to sit with him and his friends and watched as he smoked a ciggie near me. Laughed as he and his friends talked about the boys and the girls and their experiences in school. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I loved him. Very much. Our parents found out about us. His parents moved him to a faraway state. I pined for him like you can imagine any 16 year old girl would pine for her first love. Saved up money so that I could feed the public phones to speak to him. He wasnt very good to me, that one. Wasnt a very positive effect on me. We used to argue on the phone and he will just hang it on the side, and I would sit there, crying, on the other line, hoping he would pick up the phone again. I would wait for him, sometimes just sitting there quietly for an hour. Hoping. I would spend my time in between classes to try and call him. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Then one day I realized, he never called me back. One day I realized I had put my heart and soul into this relationship and he had barely raised a finger. One day I realized we fought more than we loved. I cried far more than he ever made me laughed. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;One day I realized that no man could be good for you if he makes you hate yourself more than anything in the world. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;No man is worth it if he makes you feel worthless. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So one day, I called him, and I broke it off with him. We cried, enough to seal the seedlings of our youthful love. And then I stopped all contact with him. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I channeled &lt;strong&gt;everything&lt;/strong&gt;. My pain, my anger, my sadness, my frustration. &lt;strong&gt;Everything&lt;/strong&gt;. Into studying. I moved out of myself and relied on structure and practice and organization to get through my day. To heal I spent one hour at a time, looking at questions, finding the solutions, one subject at a time. Then it became 3 hours in the day, 5 hours in the day, and the days just melted by. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My best work comes when I am most depressed, when I feel the worst. Because there is nothing else for me to lose. There is nowhere else for me to go. You destroy yourself so that one day you can rise again like a pheonix in the sky. Hopefully this time stronger. Hopefully this time wiser. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But I think about it now, and I wonder. How healthy is it for me to destroy my soul, to reach into that deepness of pain and hurt and anguish just to singe my skin off and be reborn. How many times can a pheonix rise before the ashes engulfes him through and through. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;How many times can I go through this? At what cost? At what expense? Broken hearts dont mend so well. But a broken soul... a broken soul takes years to heal, if any. A broken soul metamorphosises into something different, every time it comes back. It changes like the winds that carry it back into you, with remnants curling off and away never to return.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I cant help it still. I still seek solace in what is known, what is organized, expected, scheduled. Structure helps keep me sane especially when I am in a sea of fog. But I want to try this time, to move up slowly, to take it one step, one ladder at a time. Sometimes to fall and falter, but to be ready to pick myself up.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am tired of my pheonix wings burning. So tired that if I let it burn this time, it may never come back.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-109097490440550209?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/109097490440550209/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=109097490440550209' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/109097490440550209'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/109097490440550209'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/05/memories-of-17-year-old.html' title='Memories of a 17 year old'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-5200559091783480919</id><published>2009-05-30T10:06:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-05-30T10:07:43.418-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Its all over but the crying - Garbage</title><content type='html'>This song has been playing in my head for a long time now...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Everything you think you know baby&lt;br /&gt;Is wrong&lt;br /&gt;And everything you think you had baby&lt;br /&gt;Is gone&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Certain things turn ugly when you think too hard&lt;br /&gt;And nagging little thoughts change into things you can't turn off&lt;br /&gt;Everything you think you know baby&lt;br /&gt;Is wrong&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's all over but the crying&lt;br /&gt;Fade to black I'm sick of trying&lt;br /&gt;Took too much and now I'm done&lt;br /&gt;It's all over but the crying&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Do you really think I'm made of stone baby?&lt;br /&gt;C'mon!&lt;br /&gt;That we only love the things we own?&lt;br /&gt;Baby you're wrong&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Certain things just happen when you make no plans&lt;br /&gt;And love can really tear you up and it can break you down&lt;br /&gt;Everything you think you know baby&lt;br /&gt;Is wrong&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It's all over but the crying&lt;br /&gt;Fade to black I'm sick of trying&lt;br /&gt;Took too much and now I'm done&lt;br /&gt;It's all over but the crying&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Baby we're done&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;If I could I would&lt;br /&gt;I'd change everything&lt;br /&gt;Cause I can't forget you though you don't believe me&lt;br /&gt;Now I can't walk back&lt;br /&gt;I can't leave behind&lt;br /&gt;Where does it go all the light that we had?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Everything you think you know baby&lt;br /&gt;Is wrong&lt;br /&gt;And everything you think you had baby&lt;br /&gt;Is gone&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Baby we're done&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-5200559091783480919?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/5200559091783480919/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=5200559091783480919' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/5200559091783480919'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/5200559091783480919'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/05/its-all-over-but-crying-garbage.html' title='Its all over but the crying - Garbage'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-5238207958704952601</id><published>2009-05-25T20:15:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-05-25T20:22:14.436-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Melancholy</title><content type='html'>This reminds me... what life is all about&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We'll do it all&lt;br /&gt;Everything&lt;br /&gt;On our own&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We don't need&lt;br /&gt;Anything&lt;br /&gt;or anyone&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;If I lay here&lt;br /&gt;If I just lay here&lt;br /&gt;Would you lie with me&lt;br /&gt;And just forget the world?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I dont quite know&lt;br /&gt;How to say&lt;br /&gt;How I feel&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Those three words&lt;br /&gt;Are said too much&lt;br /&gt;Theyre not enough&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;If I lay here&lt;br /&gt;If I just lay here&lt;br /&gt;Would you lie with me&lt;br /&gt;And just forget the world&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Forget what were told&lt;br /&gt;Before we get too old&lt;br /&gt;Show me a garden&lt;br /&gt;Thats bursting into life&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Lets waste time&lt;br /&gt;Chasing cars&lt;br /&gt;Around our heads&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I need your grace&lt;br /&gt;To remind me&lt;br /&gt;To find my own&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;If I lay here&lt;br /&gt;If I just lay here&lt;br /&gt;Would you lie with me&lt;br /&gt;And just forget the world&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Forget what were told&lt;br /&gt;Before we get too old&lt;br /&gt;Show me a garden&lt;br /&gt;Thats bursting into life&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;All that I am&lt;br /&gt;All that I ever was&lt;br /&gt;In here in your perfect eyes&lt;br /&gt;They're all I can see&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I dont know where&lt;br /&gt;Confused about how as well&lt;br /&gt;Just know that these things&lt;br /&gt;Will never change for us at all&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;If I lay here&lt;br /&gt;If I just lay here&lt;br /&gt;Would you lie with me&lt;br /&gt;And just forget the world&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-5238207958704952601?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/5238207958704952601/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=5238207958704952601' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/5238207958704952601'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/5238207958704952601'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/05/melancholy.html' title='Melancholy'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-977857904065091209</id><published>2009-05-19T10:46:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-05-19T11:01:12.056-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Twilight</title><content type='html'>The confusion. The lust. Tip toeing the borders of danger and safety. Most of all... the excitement. The heady crazy excitement of the pain and anguish and potentiality of it all. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I can understand why people crave this feeling. How I used to live off this feeling. When the edges used to blur between goodness... and the dark side within. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The wish for a happy ending. The endurance of going through it with the other person. Culmination, in the rain or the snow. In the middle of the mountains, by the riverside. In the forests. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That one perfect moment of feeling that the both of you belong together forever. Regardless of the odds, the pains, the challenges. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And that one kiss. That first perfect kiss. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;In the middle of the night. With the moonlight streaming in. The warm body next to you. Fighting every urge of temptation to give in. To not cross the line. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Then that delicious absolutely delirious moment when he turns to you. Cups your face in his hands and kisses you softly, gently and violently. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Your world completely dissapears and all you can taste is his lips on yours all you can sense is the heady excitement of your mingling scents your mind going insane with all the built of chemistry between you two your voice inside screaming Yes screaming No your hands rushing across his body pulling his shirt of frantically tracing his body gently scratching his back onto you your body wanting to pin him down wants to be pinned down wants him on top of you wants him in you wants him wanting him wanting him wanting him that this is right this is right this is right&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That explosion. That crazy confused point. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Then the world quiets down. Your mind quiets. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Hums. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;His lips on yours. His hands holding your face. Your body. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Silence. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That delicious. Softness. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When your worlds. Melt into each other. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That is the moment you live for.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-977857904065091209?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/977857904065091209/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=977857904065091209' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/977857904065091209'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/977857904065091209'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/05/twilight.html' title='Twilight'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-1831614960184712794</id><published>2009-05-18T14:53:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-05-18T15:03:59.565-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Mortality</title><content type='html'>When did it start? &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;As a girl growing up in this culture in this continent I have been marked with certain responsibilities. Parents &lt;strong&gt;never&lt;/strong&gt; go to an old folks home. They must &lt;strong&gt;always&lt;/strong&gt; live with their children when they are old and especially once they lose the other half of their lives. Eventually children start driving their parents around because they dont want to deal with the hassle of parking and traffic jams. Eventually the children are the ones to hunt around for their glasses so that the old eyes can get some help. Eventually you bring them to hospitals, for check ups, you sit by their side while they recover. You wash and wipe their feet and tuck them in. And eventually you receive phone calls in the middle of the night telling you that they need to go to the Emergency room. NOW.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I just never thought it would happen this early. This young in my life. I imagined it would happen when I am older, wiser, more prepared to know and understand whats going on with their bodies. To be able to help my parents get undressed and tuck them into bed just as I would have tucked my children. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I never thought it would be now. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Theyre the ones that you could never imagine growing old. The one that I always know I can go to and cry when things get bad and all they would have to do is hold my hand and tell me things are going to be ok. Or the one I would call for whenever I have problems (like when my car died... twice!) Theyre the ones who are supposed to be strong. Always.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I just dont like that reminder... of my parents mortality. Im not ready for it. Not now. Not yet. I want to forever be their little girl and have them always watch over me...&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-1831614960184712794?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/1831614960184712794/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=1831614960184712794' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/1831614960184712794'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/1831614960184712794'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/05/mortality.html' title='Mortality'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-2381750664588929368</id><published>2009-05-15T09:40:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-05-15T09:53:00.183-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Where my princesses at?/ Republic of Mauritania</title><content type='html'>Last weekend I was vegetating around and thinking about things to do when the realization sinks in. Where are all my girl friends? One was off traipsing Hong Kong with my other friend who lives there. One was off moving from Jakarta to Bangkok. One was living it up in London... or Amsterdam... or Brussels (Where were you Wolf?) and one was ... well actually I dont actually know which country she's in now. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, very few re: One married female friend was left in my country, my city. Its pretty tough because there's only so much clothes and style and tv shows that I can talk with with The Boyfriend. I want to dress up and go and have 'high tea' (snooty English)I want to dress up and walk around and shop around with girls. I want to go for pedicures and manicures and do our hair together. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I wanna do girly stuff too damnit! Not that I dont love being with The Boyfriend (shout out! I &lt;strong&gt;love&lt;/strong&gt; being with you) I do miss being a little princessy sometimes. And a lot of the times, there are just things I want to do that &lt;strong&gt;can&lt;/strong&gt; only be done with girls. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;*sigh* this is what happens when you let your social life kind off die around you. Somehow the boys stick around. (I actually have tons of male friends). Go figure.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;On another note. I was watching The Oprah Show with my mom and there was a very interesting coverage on the Republic of Mauritania. Essentially the women are considered more attractive the &lt;strong&gt;bigger&lt;/strong&gt; they are. To a point where they are force feeding the girls with camel milk (force feeding has now been banned recently) They also prize women who are divorced, and have cellulite!! and the men need to be slim to be considered attractive. Isnt it crazy how we could have such different ideas on beauty around the world? So if your big, have cellulite and divorced, you would be pretty much prime meat in the Republic. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Well, back to the original question... so where &lt;strong&gt;are&lt;/strong&gt; my female friends.... I think I need to find more of them...&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-2381750664588929368?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/2381750664588929368/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=2381750664588929368' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/2381750664588929368'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/2381750664588929368'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/05/where-my-princesses-at-republic-of.html' title='Where my princesses at?/ Republic of Mauritania'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-3596151520664848173</id><published>2009-05-11T08:48:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2009-05-11T09:00:05.256-07:00</updated><title type='text'>20 March 2008</title><content type='html'>Excitement. The lust of a fresh new relationship. The sparks every time your skin touches mine. Our flight into a different land. Music with us. I am happy that we are Taking Chances, you are worried about this chance. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We check into our hotel and never leave the nest of your body and mine together. The laughter, the smiles. The sweat of you and me while we caress each others face. My fingers tracing down your sweaty body. Your palm flat on my stomach. Kisses. Plenty and merciless that we rain on each other. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Dragged out, the promise of the day so close gone. We walk, hand in hand and find the elusive restaurant you had wanted to bring me to for dinner. We have no reservations but luckily we find ourselves a table amongst the brick a brack of the restaurant. Between the masks and the flowers. We walk a little bit more but do not find the beach. Instead we find a shop selling Japanese paraphenelia. One dollar, two dollars. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The sea breeze on our faces. Sitting on the side of the boat. Your hand around my waist. A snapshot of time with your arms lazily dangled over my shoulder. My hand on top of yours. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The beach. Glorious waters. Untamed ocean of blue blue blue. We walk together in the waters... along its coastal line. We dig up a hole and build a giant crab surrounded by a giant moat. I loved watching you do it. The excitement in your face, the competitiveness of building a great claw that would withstand the fight of the sea. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Us. Lazing by the poolside. Reading magazines. Reading nothing. Staring at the sky submerged in cool water. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It was us. You and me. You and me. Madly madly madly wrapped in each other. Against all odds, against all our dark secrets. We made it out of that island, taking chances, hand in hand.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-3596151520664848173?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/3596151520664848173/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=3596151520664848173' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/3596151520664848173'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/3596151520664848173'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/05/20-march-2008.html' title='20 March 2008'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-4843144353571553682</id><published>2009-05-10T05:47:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-05-10T07:10:13.321-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Roller coaster</title><content type='html'>Its not easy being in a relationship where everythings so bright, blindingly bright, that your rose tinted glasses cant help any more. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ill be honest. There are days when it is hard. Oh so hard, when I want someone to fuss over me, when I want someone to go to special places with me. When I want someone to be interested in me, in my life. To be curious about me. To want to know me. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;To want to plan things with me, do things with me. Spend time with me. Tell me things about his life. Share with me his life. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But then of course, all those things come in a relationship when the other person loves you. Once that gets chucked out the window, everything special that comes with it gets chucked out the window too. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I have to keep on remembering that now. Stiff upper lip now. Because my relationship doesnt come with those options anymore. When I feel hurt because he doesnt say hi, or ask about my day, I remind myself he doesnt love me and therefore why &lt;strong&gt;should&lt;/strong&gt; he be thinking about me, why should he care about my day. When he makes plans to go somewhere without me, I remind myself, it doesnt come with the relationship anymore. Not &lt;strong&gt;this&lt;/strong&gt; relationship. So I should stop making plans for him and me. Stop thinking about places we could go to for the weekends... &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;How we used to kidnap each other for the weekends...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Whichever it is. I know some days I cry inside, and I no longer &lt;strong&gt;need&lt;/strong&gt; to turn to him. The pain of thinking and knowing that sometimes he could not be there for me hurts enough to stop me. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sometimes I am reminded of the kid who falls down and scrapes her knee, noticing that no one notices her pain and crying, she just gets up, dusts herself off and walks away. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I miss that though. That feeling of having someone care for you so much. The feeling of voracious hunger to know each other. That feeling of waking up knowing, trusting, that this person wants to be with you. The feeling of wanting to have some plan for the future together. To travel together, to be on adventures together. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sometimes I feel like we are drifting apart. Other times I feel like we are getting better, that things are getting better with us. He tries now. E-mails me sometimes to say hello. Talks to me sometimes. We laugh together, we cry together. We talk, and open up to each other sometimes. We go for beautiful breezy evenings in the park reading together. Go to the bookstore and buy books together. There are mornings when I wake up and turn around and he is there. And there are morning when I wake up when I ask myself if he is there for me. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My rose tinted glasses are shattered. There are days when I stay because I still love him... because I want to be there for him, whenever he needs me. But there are days when I wonder if my love for him is even enough anymore...&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-4843144353571553682?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/4843144353571553682/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=4843144353571553682' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/4843144353571553682'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/4843144353571553682'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/05/roller-coaster.html' title='Roller coaster'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-3060782375270187942</id><published>2009-05-08T11:08:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-05-08T11:10:30.658-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>I think one of those things that are on top of the list of wrong things to do, is to marry someone simply because you've been with them for a long time and think that you're a dick if you didnt.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Wrong move soldier&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-3060782375270187942?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/3060782375270187942/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=3060782375270187942' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/3060782375270187942'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/3060782375270187942'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/05/i-think-one-of-those-things-that-are-on.html' title=''/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-650970828589010736</id><published>2009-05-02T01:44:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-05-02T01:46:26.523-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Its not you and me</title><content type='html'>Sometimes its not about you and me. Sometimes its not about me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Thats the thing about relationships. It teaches you new things about yourself, like the fact that sometimes, the best thing for you to do. Is to just stand by your partner and wait for the storm to pass.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-650970828589010736?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/650970828589010736/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=650970828589010736' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/650970828589010736'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/650970828589010736'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/05/its-not-you-and-me.html' title='Its not you and me'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-4405887972357761767</id><published>2009-05-01T10:38:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2009-05-01T10:44:45.560-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Gone</title><content type='html'>You walk into the house. Close the door. Lock it. You drop the keys into the box. Look around. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Something's amiss. Something's different now. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That face. Looking at you. Eyes that used to be soft. You cannot find that something in there that used to look at you. Long for you. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Asleep. In bed. Its different now. Something's amiss now. Little things that start to build up. Little things that start to pile up. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You look. Inside. And its less painful now. Less care now. Has enough anguish finally broken you down. Has enough despair eventually burnt out the flame. A question. If something is amiss in you now too...&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-4405887972357761767?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/4405887972357761767/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=4405887972357761767' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/4405887972357761767'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/4405887972357761767'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/05/missing.html' title='Gone'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-8141942513235229162</id><published>2009-04-24T08:57:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-04-24T09:08:33.041-07:00</updated><title type='text'>The Monster within</title><content type='html'>What has become of her? she wonders. What has become of the young girl so bent on making her path in the world on her own. What became of her?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What has become of her? she wonders. What has become of the person who fiercely loves those near and dear to her. What became of her?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What has become of her? she wonders. The free spirit that used to roam and flow with creativity, who wanted to tell stories of the world. What became of her?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What has become of me? The face in the mirror I no longer recognize. My sleepless nights haunted by past mistakes now faced. When did I take this turn into destroying my soul. Where was that line that I crossed... where once I would never wish for anything bad to happen to someone close to me, now is the reason for me to seek solace from the world. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I dont know what happened. Did greed and ambition take the best of me. Did I become one of those people who would bulldoze my way to the front, not caring if I am using other people as my footstool. Did I become one of those rich snobs that scoff at everything else, expectation levels high above anything else.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I hope that mirror's cracked. That that reflection isnt mine. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Long gone are days when my conscience was kept locked away. It is finally free now, and I am riding waves and waves and waves of my past behavior. I am worried now, of karma coming back for me. Remembering now, that not everyone deserves happiness, and truly not one such as I. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am reminding myself now, that there are wishes I simply should not make. That that Higher Power up there, could be trying to teach me a lesson. Every corner I turn, I wait. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That reflection in that mirror. Its not pretty. Im not pretty. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What happened to that straight lace honorable loyal arrow I used to be.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-8141942513235229162?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/8141942513235229162/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=8141942513235229162' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/8141942513235229162'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/8141942513235229162'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/04/monster-within.html' title='The Monster within'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-3134542877447673217</id><published>2009-04-15T11:26:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-04-15T12:02:40.660-07:00</updated><title type='text'>2.30 a.m.</title><content type='html'>Its 2.30 a.m.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We are in the office making sure our presentations have the same 'analysis' vs. 'Analysis' (on font size 6 mind you). &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Our giant master model had to be revised... twice! because there was one mis-link that threw the whole market model off. And this after one week of trying to triangulate and make sense of all the data. When I say one week, I mean almost two, working until at least midnight to one every day. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;On Sunday our boss requests us to go into the office from 12.30 p.m. We end up staying there till 1.30 a.m.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;While I write this, its now 3 a.m. and we are still here. Cleaning up some smaller things, nitty gritty things, things that at 3 in the morning, I really couldnt care less about. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;At 3 a.m. my boss asks for 2 more analysis cuts. Imagine how long it takes for us to do under normal circumstances. Now we've been looking without enough sleep for weeks, stressed and still! you want add new things. Killing the team. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My two colleagues on the case have it worst. While most of my work was frontloaded. (sleeping at 5 a.m.) their work has been bad all the way through. Theyve had to work at about 100 hours a week including the Sunday weekend we spent together and us putting in all the work this week. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Its quite bad. I worry about my colleague driving home in these conditions. I worry about us being completely useless on days on end because of this. This isnt even a fucking due diligence for god's sake. Why the hell am I working DD hours. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;urgh... these are reminders as to why I should quit my job. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I miss my bed...&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-3134542877447673217?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/3134542877447673217/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=3134542877447673217' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/3134542877447673217'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/3134542877447673217'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/04/230-am.html' title='2.30 a.m.'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-3782520171689547083</id><published>2009-04-05T07:35:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-04-05T07:46:44.367-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Memories</title><content type='html'>I was cleaning up the condo today. Trying to get rid of more things, to make space for more things. I had done a major spring cleaning about a month plus ago, and gave all my unwanted clothes to my sis. I told her to give it to her friends, or sell it at about two dollars each. Instead, she brought it to her market bazaars, her flea markets, and sold my clothes and her clothes for a grand total of about 150 dollars one weekend, almost 200 the second weekend. (I shouldve arranged for a commission instead of a cup of coffee).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So I cleaned more, tried to minimize my clutter to the only few items that matters to me. Made more space for The Boyfriend. For him to leave his things here if he wanted to. In a more accessible location. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Thats when I found it, a card he had given to me last year. I remember him telling me he had a surprise, and that he wouldnt give it to me until the next morning. He had just returned from Cambodia and he refused to give me my surprise all night. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I opened the card... an alarm clock on the front &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;' Alarm clock... bad'&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;and inside&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;' waking up next to you : just right'&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I love this card. Brought me smiles. Reminded me back of the time when we were in love with each other. Back when things were straightforward... when things were clear. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The water is clearing again, between us... slowly&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That card.... &lt;br /&gt;I love that card for everything it reminds me off... for his signature at the bottom. Those words he said to me, and then took back... the word I dont expect to hear from him anymore...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Back when he would sign it &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;" &lt;strong&gt;Love&lt;/strong&gt;, ...The Boyfriend"&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-3782520171689547083?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/3782520171689547083/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=3782520171689547083' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/3782520171689547083'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/3782520171689547083'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/04/memories.html' title='Memories'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-1874336565357722966</id><published>2009-04-04T09:53:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-04-04T10:07:21.317-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Complementary</title><content type='html'>He comes home this weekend. Home to me, home to me cooking dinner for us for the very first time in this whole time that we have been together. Maybe that is how it is with us, it takes longer than normal for us to move forward. With us dancing left right, behind and front. But slowly, baby steps, we are moving forward. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We talk. I know he is tired, sense his tiredness. But he ceases to snap at me. Instead, he tries to talk to me, instead he listens to me. Instead he laughs with me, and makes jokes with me. He is trying and beyond everything else. I know he is trying and it makes me incredibly happy. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We talk, late into the night. Revisit each others philosophies of life. Of how it would be like to grow older with each other. The first weekend we were together it was a semi joke, something we could laugh at. When we spoke about the white picket fence, about having children, about growing old. About having our own little cooking space and our own cooking utensils. That one evening was a laugh for us. A test, but more than that, a laugh. But now... &lt;strong&gt;now&lt;/strong&gt; those conversations have meanings. They start to hold bigger promises. We choose our words wisely now, look inside ourselves, question ourselves for a little bit, to understand how &lt;strong&gt;would&lt;/strong&gt; we act in the future. It carries something serious now. We talk, and listen, and we will decide if the future together if what we can do. If we have the same thoughts, the same ideas on how the future might be, how we might raise our children if we decided to have any&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I used to think that The Boyfriend brought out the best in me. In his company, I have always wanted to be a better woman. I have always wanted to bury my past and start over. I used to think that I was the lucky one this whole time. That I offered him nothing, but he offered me everything&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I realize now, how complementary it is. &lt;strong&gt;Now&lt;/strong&gt;, I feel that I bring out the better man in him. The man that wants to try, to talk, to make an effort. A man that is checking his temper more. Realizes more, how easy voice and language and diction can hurt someone. The man that I first fell for, the sweet, gentle man with the big heart&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Because at the end of the day, it was his heart that I fell for. And we've gone through the ups and downs, the anger and the crying. But Ive always known that  inside he is a &lt;strong&gt;good&lt;/strong&gt; man. And I am hoping that I am helping him bring it out and shine it up a bit more just as he has brought out the best in me...&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-1874336565357722966?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/1874336565357722966/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=1874336565357722966' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/1874336565357722966'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/1874336565357722966'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/04/complementary.html' title='Complementary'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-1073736182297957485</id><published>2009-04-01T06:56:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-04-01T07:01:15.723-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Things that make me laugh</title><content type='html'>March 21: En Route to Camp David&lt;br /&gt;The First Lady traveled with her husband to the Presidential retreat wearing a rust colored trench coat over cropped cigarette pants and classic flats. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Mrs. Obama joked to the New York Times about the President's close watch of her wardrobe: “He’s always asking: ‘Is that new? I haven’t seen that before.’ It’s like, Why don’t you mind your own business? Solve world hunger. Get out of my closet'&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;Instyle.com&lt;/em&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-1073736182297957485?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/1073736182297957485/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=1073736182297957485' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/1073736182297957485'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/1073736182297957485'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/04/things-that-make-me-laugh.html' title='Things that make me laugh'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-2078382935667199309</id><published>2009-03-31T08:55:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-03-31T09:20:14.765-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Talk to me</title><content type='html'>I was having dinner tonight with a colleague of mine. We talked about so much, about race, religion, choice of religion, choice of partner, deal breakers in a partner, conservative parents, travelling the world, choosing where to settle down, name of children, childrens future options, how tradition plays a part in raising children, how is religious imposed on other people, on families, how families should stick together, when families dont stick together. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It was easy for us, the conversation just went on and on. And I thought to myself...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Why am I not having this conversation with my boyfriend?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Has time gone by so fast and we are so busy that we have forgotten who we are? That we have stopped taking the time to get to know each other?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The last time I saw him, we barely exchanged proper conversations. I always felt that he was on the verge of being defensive, of being cranky, of just being tired and not wanting to talk to me. So we didnt, I left him alone. I spoke to my friends, laughed with them, and let him do what he wanted to do. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Have we gotten so tired by life that we cant put in the effort to find out who the other person is? Or as he had put it before, when we started going out, we were curious, it was exciting, you wanted to learn everything about the other person&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Are we past that point now?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What happened to the us that used to laze in bed and talk with my head pressed deep into your chest. What happened to the us that talked to each other while cooking in the kitchen? What happened to the us, sitting on the sofa, across a dining room table holding hands and unearthing the histor of each others minds and hearts?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We dont talk about future plans, future hopes, how children should be raised, how investments should be split. We make no reference beyond the here and now, and maybe now weve expanded a little to include the soon-to-be's... a month down the road...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We have no plans of you and me and us and the future. So is there really one?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Where are we when we dont have conversations? When I always feel that to talk to you I will end up annoying you, you will end up angry or cranky or grumpy at something Ive said. So I shut up and tune out and we go about and be ok with the silence of each other. Rather than fill it with incessant noise, of empty one sided conversations&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Or do we really not care about the same things anymore?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sometimes it is more important to judge by the silence. If you can survive a silence, you can survive a conversation right?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But what happens when there is no conversation to survive? What happens if we grow old together, and my dancing feet stop dancing, and our travelling feet stop travelling, when the children grow up and move out, when we are too lazy to go out. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Will we talk then? How much would we need to catch up on then? a lifetime of conversation. Of knowing what the other person had hoped and dreamed about. How the other person sees things. Will we know each others philosophies? Will we know the true belief the other person has?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And if we do not talk, will we laugh? how do we create joyous sounds in our home if there was no voice to build it?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Will there be silence... of perfect strangers living in perfect harmony?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Please god, if you are there...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Let there be raucous cacophonous sounds in my life. Let it be filled with conversation and laughter and joy. Let there be sound and merriment, arguments and apologies&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And when that is all over, let there be a smile on my face from all the conversations we've had, of all the laughter you had created in me. And then, finally then, let the silence be all the conversation we would ever need, let your hand in mine be our secret language...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;but then, and only then....&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-2078382935667199309?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/2078382935667199309/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=2078382935667199309' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/2078382935667199309'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/2078382935667199309'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/03/talk-to-me.html' title='Talk to me'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-6154273559500244064</id><published>2009-03-30T09:09:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-03-30T09:25:59.684-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Surviving Venice</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_eboqY9vfxq4/SdDyjIfVqWI/AAAAAAAAABo/KPaRhefL8ak/s1600-h/Paris+14+176.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_eboqY9vfxq4/SdDyjIfVqWI/AAAAAAAAABo/KPaRhefL8ak/s320/Paris+14+176.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5319017845312825698" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;An ex colleague of mine put up some pictures of her recent trip to Venice. It brought back a lot of colorful memories for me. After all that was what Venice had. Color. Lots and lots and lots of color. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But it also reminded me of a really good survival story.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I went to Venice as a student with a very good friend of mine, lets just call her Bicycle (dont ask me, insiders joke). So anyway, the Bicycle and I had been studying in Paris at that time and we decided, hey ! lets go travel to Venice. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I remember the journey there, being on the train, looking out the window and seeing water. Its surreal enough to feel as though youre passing right through the ocean, but suddenly seeing buildings pop out from the water... even more incredible&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We were staying at a youth hostel, which turned out to be an apartment with 4 beds that we shared with other people. We had to scout like crazy for the owner just to get into the apartment! The main area of Venice (you know, the one with the famous Rialto Bridge) is mainly for tourists. Im serious, you cant really find locals on this side. If you want to see the locals, and see the famed Murano glass, youre gonna have to leave your comfort zone. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Venice had cups of coffee at about 3-4 Euros... I wanted to die. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But the great thing about Venice? Yeap, that survival story about Venice?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;They had LARGE pizza slices going for about one to one fifty Euro... EACH. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now, thats a meal right there. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So if you wanna survive Venice and their super expensive tourist exclusive prices, just walk around a bit (I found some good ones close to the bus station) and look around for those cheap and delicious single slices of pizza that would fill you up for a few hours. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And if you want dessert! Gelato's were going for about one Euro each too. I know because I had mine first thing in the morning in a market, and a man walked by to comment how much I looked like I was enjoying my gelato&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Enjoy yours too!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-6154273559500244064?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/6154273559500244064/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=6154273559500244064' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/6154273559500244064'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/6154273559500244064'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/03/surviving-venice.html' title='Surviving Venice'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_eboqY9vfxq4/SdDyjIfVqWI/AAAAAAAAABo/KPaRhefL8ak/s72-c/Paris+14+176.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-471681334550083004</id><published>2009-03-29T08:58:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-03-29T09:27:47.897-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Udaipur</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_eboqY9vfxq4/Sc-hITN4PwI/AAAAAAAAABY/UYT5FEihTOg/s1600-h/DSC_0409.JPG"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_eboqY9vfxq4/Sc-hITN4PwI/AAAAAAAAABY/UYT5FEihTOg/s320/DSC_0409.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318646848917356290" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We arrive amidst the chaos of New Delhi. A lost wallet becomes a stolen wallet as The Boyfriend and I wait in the terminal for the airplane cleaners to be checked. No luck, it is now 12 a.m. and The Boyfriend and I leave one wallet less (his) and check into a hotel 30 minutes away. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The Boyfriend stays awake, late, and we had to leave at 5 a.m. to catch our next flight. India does not seem to start so well for him and I. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;***&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We arrive in Udaipur. Land and take in the clean clean air. It is the first thing you notice. The second, the lack of any sound. You are surrounded by the Indian mountains, breathing clean air and not a sound... Udaipur greeted us silently. Books had warned us of touts at the airport trying to bring you to the hotels you 'booked'. But no one bothered us, in fact no one even stirred. They rather much sat by themselves, taking in the breeze. The laid back feel that welcomed us set the pace for our time there in Udaipur. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We stayed at Jagat Niwas, a heritage hotel facing the famous Pichola Lake. The Lake Palace resplendent in the middle of the waters with the mountains behind it and Monsoon Palace perched up on the top. I was ecstatic. The hotel was amazing. I imagined it would be how Mykonos would be, with its white white washed wall and spanish terrace and steps. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We took a much needed long nap, and awoke just in time to bring ourselves out past 3 p.m and took in some food at a rooftop cafe. Udaipur is filled with these, these rooftoop cafes. And as we sat there eating, an elephant rumbles by below us, winding its way through the winding streets. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The Boyfriend and I opted to walk then... All over the town with its winding streets not unlike Europe. We stopped to watch two men deep fry jalapenos coated in spice and giggled as the owner gave us one for free when he couldnt break our bill. Delicious. Absolutely delics&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The streets lead to I have no idea where, and The Boyfriend leads me past streets selling sarees, streets selling shoes, wet markets, dry markets, and somehow... he brings me back to where we started. Sweaty and tired, we slowly make our way back to the hotel. Saying hello to our roof top waiter when we see him much later. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We go back to our hotel and walk around a little, to find ourselves the terrace restaurant! Our lonely planet assures us the food is good and it deff does not dissapoint. Absolutely delicious, with The Boyfriend beside me, the sun coming down on the lake and the City Palace illuminated in the background. What more could I ask for?!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The next morning we set off early to walk around the City Palace. It takes much longer than expected and we come out sweaty, thirsty and tired. Decided to go on a boat cruise around the Lake. I had been warned by a colleague who had visited, who said he has seen people use the Lake as a toilet and told me to never put my hands in the water no matter how tempted I might be. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We let the slow boat build a breeze and walk a little on land. We decide to go for a late lunch at Queen Cafe, all the way on the other side. It was well worth the trip. &lt;br /&gt;The cafe is small and inconspicuous on a small lane. There is only one table in a darkly lit semi basement and a floor space on the split level. We moved from downstairs to upstairs only to find ourselves in the company of a sleeping young girl who was immune to the hustle and bustle of all these tourists coming by. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The food amazing, the proprieter a lovely lady who had been cooking for a while while bringing up her two kids - I find out, she is my age. What a difference!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;She recommends us to go to Sunset Gardens, warns us that Monsoon Palace is overrated. So we go, and find ourselves in the company of locals who decided to use the cable car. The sunset breathtaking I slowly walk down the slopes. Occassionaly my hand slipped in his.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We go back to take a quick shower (thank god! Jagat Niwas had a good bathroom and allowed us to take a shower even though we checked out) and headed out! for our overnight train to Jaipur....&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;and another adventure continues...&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-471681334550083004?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/471681334550083004/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=471681334550083004' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/471681334550083004'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/471681334550083004'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/03/udaipur.html' title='Udaipur'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_eboqY9vfxq4/Sc-hITN4PwI/AAAAAAAAABY/UYT5FEihTOg/s72-c/DSC_0409.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-8186071058659757586</id><published>2009-03-23T07:14:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2009-03-23T07:34:20.734-07:00</updated><title type='text'>The failure of success</title><content type='html'>I am near tears tonight. Blame it on my hormones, blame it on my missing The Boyfriend. Blame it on endless thoughts of a bleak bleak future. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It hits you hard, suddenly. The pangs of being in a job you do not particularly like. At a stress level you know is leaving you thinking you're not smart enough, good enough. The thoughts of a future where you are going day in, day out, doing something you really couldnt care less about. Something that is slowly eating out your social diary, your soul. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I sold my soul for too cheap I guess. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Why dont I quit you say? Because inside I am a coward and the thought of being jobless is scary if not still freeing. I know that when I leave, even in these economic times, I can find a job anywhere, doing anything. If I am willing to demote myself, decrease my pay, and join an organization where politics is rife, where accountability is close to none and I can punch my card out of the office guilt-free at 6 p.m. So why not? Because inside I am still worried that if I make one wrong move now, I would never be able to rise up again. That even though Im burnt out, worn out, disechanted now, I am afraid by going into Middle Management I will get lost. Unknown. And back to doing something I dont really care about. This time with less stress, less pay but at least with the ability to have a life. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ive thought about leaving the company. Looked around today and there is an opportunity to join an international jeans company. Its retail, fashion. Job seems intresting, timelines seems much longer than usual. Its in a foreign country, and though the country seems boring, the prospect of doing something I could actually enjoy seems ideal. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But the thought of leaving behind The Boyfriend breaks my heart. I couldnt do it. Even now when he leaves me weekly to go and work, my heart breaks a little when we kiss and say goodbye. I am ok all the way until I get back to my empty home. And then the emptiness kicks in. And sometimes the reminder, the realization, that he still doesnt know if he loves me kicks in.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Why dont I leave him? you say. And I cant. I just cant. My heart is too full with happiness every time we are together, every time I hear his voice. His eyes locked on mine. Our kisses. Him telling me he likes holding my hands. Small things, big things. I love him too much to ever think of leaving him. No matter how he feels about me. The pain of a half-known relationship. The feeling that I cannot bury no matter how hard I try to put my stoic face up and pretend it doesnt hurt. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I know to be happy I need to be happy inside. To love myself first and not have someone validate my love. But its not easy sometimes. Staring into a mirror. Sitting in your big empty house. Thinking about yet another stressful model you need to build that you have no idea how to go about doing. When the one person you want to just hold you and kiss you and stroke your hair is gone into another country, another frame of mind. And knowing, how rich you could be. Without that other person, this life might as well be empty&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sometimes on bad days I feel like I have nothing left here, except for broken hearts, broken dreams. A closet full of clothes, a bank account full of money I cant use for the things I really want. A man I want to want me back, but one I cannot force. A future that I wish was bright, but one where I cant figure out which hue to cast&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-8186071058659757586?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/8186071058659757586/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=8186071058659757586' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/8186071058659757586'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/8186071058659757586'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/03/failure-of-success.html' title='The failure of success'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-2709889636152895243</id><published>2009-03-22T07:00:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-03-22T07:10:23.160-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>I love afternoons with you. Lazy mornings. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The moments after we wake up and you swing your arm around me, wrapping me in. The moments when your scent, your smell, sinks into my skin. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I love our little conversations in the morning. Lazing in bed, just talking, just connecting. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I love looking at your face with the afternoon sun rolling in. Kissing. As we curl up in your nest of sheets.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-2709889636152895243?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/2709889636152895243/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=2709889636152895243' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/2709889636152895243'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/2709889636152895243'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/03/i-love-afternoons-with-you.html' title=''/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-358486455437928129</id><published>2009-03-04T11:19:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-03-04T11:21:01.157-08:00</updated><title type='text'>The Model</title><content type='html'>2 Weeks of setting up and getting the lay of the land&lt;br /&gt;5 nights (total) of working till 3 a.m.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;FINISHED THE FUCKING MODEL ON MARKET SIZING!!!!!&lt;br /&gt;Yay!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!&lt;br /&gt;*dances*&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;ok la... just hope the number actually makes sense...&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-358486455437928129?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/358486455437928129/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=358486455437928129' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/358486455437928129'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/358486455437928129'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/03/model.html' title='The Model'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-2188441900137649673</id><published>2009-03-01T06:31:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-03-01T06:34:46.862-08:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>I walk into my house, hoping for the whir of the air conditioner, a pair of shoes on the floor. A stir from the bed. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Nothing...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I visit my friends. One of whom slowly hides behind the door and closes it sureptitiously... I thought I hear his voice, and wait for him to spring out at me from behind the closed door.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Nothing...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Im on my way down on the elevator, I open the door, hoping to see the lights on, luggage on the floor. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Nothing...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Thats the problem with having your boyfriend surprise you with visits. Then you just hope, and anticipate that maybe, just maybe, he'll do it again. And you'll get to see him again. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I miss him. But I wont allow myself to feel that. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Healing still takes time, and Im not willing to jump in head first all over again. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;At least I recognize that emotion now.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-2188441900137649673?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/2188441900137649673/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=2188441900137649673' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/2188441900137649673'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/2188441900137649673'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/03/i-walk-into-my-house-hoping-for-whir-of.html' title=''/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-1135508989381048433</id><published>2009-02-24T07:58:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-02-24T08:11:59.027-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Single</title><content type='html'>I thought life was tough being alone. I thought it was going to be harder and harder as time goes by to have fewer people to talk to. I thought the worst part was when The Boyfriend leaves me. When he tells me he needs some time to himself. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I was wrong. Its not as bad as I thought it would be. I look forward to coming home. I look forward to the quiet of my house. To my own choice of tv channels. Or not. Or to curl up with a good book. Or just vegetate with my dinner. Or to force myself to sit down and study for my GMATs.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I do miss The Boyfriend being around. Its been a while since we've actually spent time together on a constant basis. After all, how would I know if I want to spend the rest of my life with this man, if Im not spending at least a substantial amount of time with this man. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But I guess thats what he is teaching me. That I want to be by myself too. Maybe not as much as he thinks I do. Maybe not as much as he wants to. But I do need it too.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But sometimes there is a need to be careful. In case I suddenly wake up and realize that its no longer my wanting to be alone, but to just wake up and realize that I am alone&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-1135508989381048433?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/1135508989381048433/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=1135508989381048433' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/1135508989381048433'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/1135508989381048433'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/02/single.html' title='Single'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-7942196748793410265</id><published>2009-02-20T23:00:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2009-02-20T23:04:36.153-08:00</updated><title type='text'>The scent</title><content type='html'>A newborn baby yesterday night. A party for my boss who just had his first son. The scent. The beautiful lovely smell of a newborn baby. Innocence, new, breathtakingly beautiful. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The Boyrfriend last weekend. Warm and cosy in bed. The sweet adult musky sweaty smell of him. My favourite smell of him. When I am curled up in his chest breathing it in. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;How does one, transform into the other&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-7942196748793410265?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/7942196748793410265/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=7942196748793410265' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/7942196748793410265'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/7942196748793410265'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/02/scent.html' title='The scent'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-3169644968285825440</id><published>2009-02-20T08:33:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-02-20T09:20:16.832-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Time passing by</title><content type='html'>I got asked today. If I was going to get married anytime soon. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Cue deer caught with head lights on &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;My close friend who is married got asked if she was going to have a child soon. A mother of one was asked if she would have a second anytime soon. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When does this stop? These expectations. These ideas. The roadmap that people have drawn up for u and for the rest of ur life. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Dont get me wrong. I want it. I do. I want the family and the child and the second child. But must it be now? Am I supposed to be reminded that my time is running short? Is this supposed to be the ultimate aim in life?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What happened to the girl before who was single and carefree. What happened to the girl who just enjoyed her life without expectations? Who just wanted to have a good time in the middle of the night and dance dance dance the whole night away. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;What happened to the different plans, to conquer the world. Lets just let things be, and when the right time comes, the right time will come. We dont have to force it all&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-3169644968285825440?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/3169644968285825440/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=3169644968285825440' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/3169644968285825440'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/3169644968285825440'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/02/time-passing-by.html' title='Time passing by'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-4032254448459620857</id><published>2009-02-16T17:01:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-02-16T17:07:11.763-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Nightmares</title><content type='html'>I still have nightmares about him. About us. Of our fight.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I still dream of him saying to me that he is an independent man. That he doesnt need me. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I still remember that he doesnt need me. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I still remember the honestly candidly painful things he said to me. I still replay it in my mind every day. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I still dont trust. A friend of mine once said. The hardest thing to do, is to try and trust the same person again once they lose it. Ruin it. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Dreams of us in a friendly land. Dreams of him leaving me to live his life. Dreams of him silent when I am screaming at the top of my head &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I am here to be with you! I guess we just had different expectations after all"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sometimes I cannot distinguish what is real from what isnt anymore. Battling it out between thinking with my head, and thinking with my heart&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Some mornings... I still wake up crying&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-4032254448459620857?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/4032254448459620857/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=4032254448459620857' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/4032254448459620857'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/4032254448459620857'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/02/nightmares.html' title='Nightmares'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-7733996617334343922</id><published>2009-02-14T06:58:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-02-14T07:09:23.524-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Unhapiness is a dish best served rich</title><content type='html'>A surprise. The most romantic one yet. We had planned on a pseudo date. Watching movies together, having dinner together. Pushed apart only by the sea and miles between us. Him in the Middle East, myself here. Four hours time difference. I thought it was cute. I thought it was romantic. To catch up after our movies were done. To talk, to discuss. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Flowers came on Valentines eve. Beautiful big bouquet of red roses sent to my office with the Message "This is surpise #1". &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A phone call kept me in anticipation at a warning that Surprise #3 had already been slipped under my door. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I walk back right then. Checked my mailbox and saw his card. All the way from Swiss land where he had been a few days ago. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I walk into my house and notice nothing on the floor. The a/c was on and I kicked myself for raising my electricity bill... again...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A glow of a blackberry in the dark. A stir in the bed. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I screamed. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He looked at me. Beautiful eyes at me. Shocked shocked shocked. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;At The Boyfriend who came back to surprise me. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;***&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A weekend of holding hands, of dinner and brunch. Of talking. Of kissing. Glorious glorious kissing. Rolls in bed. Laughter in the house. A blink of an eye.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And then he was gone. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;***&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I wait here now. On a Saturday night. Pull out my laptop and am working. An entire market to size. Both bottom up and top-down. To pull it apart by every sub-segment. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;On a Saturday night. I have to. There's no way I can complete this before my deadline if not. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;***&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The Boyfriend being here. Us laughing, talking, holding hands, walking. Us planning out trip. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Reminds me how unhappy I am in my job. How much I loathe the thought of having to work on a Saturday night. How violently ill I feel at the thought of dragging myself to another day at work. Of coming home after a long day and never beeing able to shake that feeling of guilt that I have to work the rest of the night. That I couldnt do anything personal the rest of the night. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The money... its just money after all. Buys me fancy things. Puts me in fancy hotels and homes. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Its an empty home without The Boyfriend. But even if he was here, we would both be working. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Im reaching my breaking point at work. I dont know how much longer I can drag myself through this mudhole slowly dragging me in. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Him being here. Reminded me of things that truly make me happy. And highlighted all the things that dont.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-7733996617334343922?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/7733996617334343922/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=7733996617334343922' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/7733996617334343922'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/7733996617334343922'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/02/unhapiness-is-dish-best-served-rich.html' title='Unhapiness is a dish best served rich'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-4553631016173471912</id><published>2009-02-09T08:15:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-02-09T08:49:35.094-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Romance is dead</title><content type='html'>How easy was it? To dream of a knight in shining armour who would come and rescue you and bring beautiful roses while he was at it. How easy was it? to spend my adolescent youth stuck in an all girls school back when I had braces on and was about five feet; to dream of beautiful valentines day when he would ask me out and I would get dressed all giggly and he would pick me up and we would go for a romantic dinner date where we would just gaze into each others eyes and laugh... and that magical moment when he reaches across the table to hold your hand. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Some say Ive been a romantic most of my life. That no matter how tough the exterior, inside Im a mushball. A sad sappy romantic mushball. Maybe I am. Maybe inside I still hope and dream of romance. Of being swept of my feet. Of the inevitable (hopefully) moment when he gets down on his knee and tells me that he cannot go on without me. That his life would be empty without me. That he is asking me to give him that chance to spend a lifetime together. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And the happily ever after that comes after that of course. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But the truth is, romance is a lot of damn hard work. Overrated? maybe. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The Boyfriend and I spoke on the phone and he asked what I was doing this saturday &lt;br /&gt;"I dont know.. watch tv?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I had forgotten that it was Valentines day. And even though my life cycle had been : i want gushy romantic valentines -&gt; nobody loves me and I will have sad Valentines by myself -&gt; I dont actually care about Valentines day to -&gt; wow I finally have someone to celebrate Valentines day with to... finally the inevitable -&gt; how do I celebrate Valentines Day when he broke my heart.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Its not easy, to keep an open mind, and be optimistic. When you offer your heart and soul to someone and find out they didnt really feel the same way about you. The Boyfriend and I are still trying to work things out. Were walking together along this path of discovery. Sometimes the road is smooth and beautiful, but sometimes I find roses amongst my thorn. Sometimes he makes me laugh and smile but sometimes he makes me cry. I dont think we could ever go back to the same spot before. Our battle scars show and I walk with a tentative limp. Constant reminders of an aching heart.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I mean, I KNOW he doesnt feel the way he did. So how can I do it? Jump headlong into romance? and love?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Love; the four letter word we use probably more often than the other four letter word. I banned it in our relationship. Too much pressure on the two of us to say these things. Somedays though, I cant help it. Somedays when he's far away and the breeze of loneliness stops by for a visit, I cant help it. I wish he would feel that way about me. That he would defy my request, go against my protestations and just hold me close and tell me he loves me. *cue tears*&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;How romantic would that be?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So, I guess Ive forgotten about romance, about Valentines day recently because I dont like reminders of getting my heart broken. My walls have been up since that fateful day and its not easy to see whats on the outside. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He's trying, and I see it, and I appreciate it. And I do love it. After all, he was the first man to truly romance me with roses and secret love notes and magical kidnappings to high mountain villas with a quiet breeze and scrumptious scones. But I dont know if its real anymore. I dont know if he's doing this just to not hurt me again. I am wary. Untrusting of my understanding of how he feels about me. Questioning. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Inside... I am a mushball. Behind the walls, inside the locked box, I dream of happiness and romance. I dream of star gazing nights and trips into silent isolated spots. Just me and him. I dream of roses and him showing up all dapper to take me out for a movie. I dream of us holding hands having dinner beside the sea with long tapered candles casting beautiful shadows on our face. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I dream of him holding me, holding my face. Kissing me...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Most of all, I dream of knowing deep down inside of him loving me. No questions asked. My heart healed and whole. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Maybe one day, that day will come. But for now, its a journey. Slowly; we are trying again. Slowly I am learning again. Its not easy. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Little did I know how difficult it was going to be... back when I first dreamt of romance, of that butterfiles in your stomach feeling. I didnt see the memo that mentioned part of romance may involve getting your sould pummeled into the ground. May involve non-stop tears on bad bad days. Of hearing painful things. Of learning painful things. Of trying to trust again. To find again, the feelings you once had. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sometimes, I wish I could just go back to being that little girl with a princess tiara on, waving her magical wand and wishing wishing wishing for her prince charming to come and give her that magical magical kiss. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;... and knowing. Unfailingly knowing. That there was a Happily Ever After... after all&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-4553631016173471912?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/4553631016173471912/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=4553631016173471912' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/4553631016173471912'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/4553631016173471912'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/02/romance-is-dead.html' title='Romance is dead'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-2860319108090961188</id><published>2009-02-05T07:08:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2009-02-05T07:30:06.651-08:00</updated><title type='text'>The list</title><content type='html'>my case has been winding down... thank god... so I had time to surf around on the world wide web. Found myself The List. Im sure you've heard of the United Nations World Heritage List. And in anticipation of my trip to Rajasthan with The Boyfriend soon, I decided to cross check and see how far along the list Ive managed to get to. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Australia&lt;/strong&gt; Thanks to Silverwolf&lt;br /&gt;Great Barrier Reef&lt;br /&gt;Kakadu National Park&lt;br /&gt;Uluru-Kata Tjuta National Park&lt;br /&gt;Sydney Opera House (from outside)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Cambodia&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Angkor&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;France&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Palace and Park of Versailles&lt;br /&gt;Palace and Park of Fontaineblaeu&lt;br /&gt;Notre Dame&lt;br /&gt;Banks of Seine&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;India&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Chatrapati Shivaji Terminus&lt;br /&gt;Red Fort Complex&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Indonesia&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Borobodur Temple Compounds&lt;br /&gt;Prambanan Temple&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Italy&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Historic Center of Rome&lt;br /&gt;Historic Center of Florence&lt;br /&gt;Piazza del Duomo, Pisa&lt;br /&gt;Venice and its Lagoon&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Laos&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Town of Luang Prabang&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Malaysia&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;George Town&lt;br /&gt;Melaka&lt;br /&gt;Kinabalu National Park&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Spain&lt;/strong&gt; Again with the Wolf&lt;br /&gt;Alhambra, Generalife and Albayzin, Granada&lt;br /&gt;Historic Center of Cordoba&lt;br /&gt;Works of Antoni Gaudi&lt;br /&gt;Old town of Segovia and its aqueduct &lt;- good thing the Wolf persuaded me to go&lt;br /&gt;Historic city of Toledo&lt;br /&gt;Cathedral, Alcazar and archivo de Indias in Seville&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Switzerland&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Old city of Berne&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;USA&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Grand Canyon National Park&lt;br /&gt;Statue of Liberty&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Vietnam&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Halong Bay&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Not bad for a 25 year old =)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Not that I was planning on finishing up this list anyways... hehhehe&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;But the place that Ive wanted to see for a while with The Boyfriend...&lt;br /&gt;Rock-Hewn Churches, Lalibela, Ethiopia&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;looks amazing&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-2860319108090961188?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/2860319108090961188/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=2860319108090961188' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/2860319108090961188'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/2860319108090961188'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/02/list.html' title='The list'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-4963484204007620125</id><published>2009-02-01T19:56:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-02-08T11:38:08.095-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Ghosts from the past</title><content type='html'>I was walking to the mall to meet up with some friends for coffee. Was on the phone and walking towards the escalator, when he is slowly carried up, like a bad bad dream... Northwestern Boy. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Such a long long time ago. He managed to twist my little head into thinking that I indeed had feelings for him. He left his girlfriend for me, and left me to go back to her. We had even travelled together spent time together in the rainy weather of San Francisco. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I had turned, to finish my conversation with my friend, and when I turned again, there he was waiting to talk. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Our conversation was as it was before. Nothing to make me wonder what had been. Empty conversations where he talks about himself mostly (as usual). We were strangers and as we tried to carry a conversation, I realized I really didnt care anymore. About him, about the her that I think he migh have married, but I didnt bother to ask. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He said he couldnt find my blog anymore, and I was glad. I did not need him trying to figure out my head, trying to see what has become of me. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(I am much much happier now thank you very much and youre still an arsehole)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I left, feeling... nothing. Except maybe surprise at the sudden surprise of meeting him...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Did I mention?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He got pretty damn fat &lt;br /&gt;lol&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-4963484204007620125?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/4963484204007620125/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=4963484204007620125' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/4963484204007620125'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/4963484204007620125'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/02/ghosts-from-past.html' title='Ghosts from the past'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-4488334175473288811</id><published>2009-01-29T21:41:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-01-29T21:43:44.155-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Bollocks I say</title><content type='html'>Blardy hell...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Boss #1 asks me to work during Chinese New Year leave right... but says I can take the leave back some other time. So I say ok, and do it - working through the holidays.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Now Boss #1 says he has no control over my leave when I finish this case - i.e. the leave cannot be pushed to beyond the case... yet he wont let me take leave now coz there is a lot of work to do...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;wtf man... such bullshit... essentially I had to work a public holiday for nothing&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-4488334175473288811?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/4488334175473288811/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=4488334175473288811' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/4488334175473288811'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/4488334175473288811'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/01/bollocks-i-say.html' title='Bollocks I say'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-3127513676182004970</id><published>2009-01-25T00:38:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-01-25T00:45:58.772-08:00</updated><title type='text'>The life that isnt mine</title><content type='html'>Re-cap of the weekend...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Friday : Last day on project. Meeting does not go well. Big bosses ask me to do yet more work that isnt even in our scope. Future looks bleak, but at least Ill be seeing The Boyfriend for a whole day together&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Boss schedules all meetings for Wednesday morning. And for some stupid reason I am requested to attend them all. How is this even fair? I am not a super worker. I cannot finish ALL these outstanding items that is not even in scope AND my own stuff.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Evening : Boss 1 informs me that he needs things done that night. I push back and tell him to wait until the next day since I only have one day with The Boyfriend before he leaves for Middle East for a month. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Boss asks me to get it done anyways. Says there isnt a lot&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;1.30 a.m. The Boyfriend is fast asleep, I had managed to finish the work and sent it in.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Saturday : I finally make it back to my home country late at night and unpack. Basking in the thoughts of a few days to myself&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sunday : meet up with old friends for lunch. Receive call from Boss 1 during lunch. Asking me to work the weekend. Insists that Biggest Bosses #1 and 2 have requested changes to all the documents. Since I do not celebrate Chinese New Year I have been requested to handle all this work. After all it wouldnt be fair to everyone else who is celebrating... right? blardy hell...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Evening. Thoughts of covering&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Revision of documents that I do not own, nor do I even really understand content&lt;br /&gt;All my work that is not in scope but because my company cant bring itself to ever say NO to a client I end up doing. &lt;br /&gt;All my ACTUAL work that Im supposed to finish up but couldnt because I had to cover all this other things. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Guess just because I dont celebrate CNY im not considered a human being. Just a grunt to do all this bullshit work that will never be looked at anyways&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-3127513676182004970?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/3127513676182004970/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=3127513676182004970' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/3127513676182004970'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/3127513676182004970'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/01/life-that-isnt-mine.html' title='The life that isnt mine'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-6712609154758648797</id><published>2009-01-21T10:19:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-01-21T10:20:48.600-08:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>2 more days to go... really?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Why do I always end up having to do stupid clean up work&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-6712609154758648797?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/6712609154758648797/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=6712609154758648797' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/6712609154758648797'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/6712609154758648797'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/01/2-more-days-to-go.html' title=''/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-1644783786184600783</id><published>2009-01-15T06:17:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-01-15T06:24:43.650-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Knock Knock</title><content type='html'>A mistake. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I had meant to send him a story about us. So that he would know what its like. What it was like...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Instead I sent together with it the link to my blog..&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He found out. 0_0&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Today, coming back from a half week down south and him a weeks trip far east, he held me and told me that he wont come back here if I didnt want him to anymore. That he understands. This is my private thing. Sometimes people need to vent. Sometimes people need to just talk. and share things, both good and bad.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He says he wont come here anymore. And I said ok.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I guess there is no need for self censorship. There shouldnt be a need. Were supposed to be honest to each other, open to each other. And we are.. I am.. its just.. sometimes I need the blog to formulate things I want to say to him. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sometimes I need to see it outside in the world to asses whether it makes sense or not.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I thank him for leaving this alone, my haven alone. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Then I can crawl into his arms and be in that haven too&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-1644783786184600783?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/1644783786184600783/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=1644783786184600783' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/1644783786184600783'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/1644783786184600783'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/01/knock-knock.html' title='Knock Knock'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-2397174829865119238</id><published>2009-01-12T08:04:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-01-12T08:09:33.775-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Its been too long</title><content type='html'>"Abang"&lt;br /&gt;"Hello? who is this?"&lt;br /&gt;"Its me... your sister"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The words to call him sounding foreign on my toungue. An unpleasant combination of something reminding you of a sour past and an unwritten future. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Its been a long long long time since we've had a conversation. A longer time still since we cared about each other. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He is merely my blood. Nothing more, nothing less. He used to be my protector. The boy-man on a bike too big carrying me on its handlebars to the grocery store. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He used to be my playmate as we stayed up late late late at night playing board games that made no sense. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;He used to teach me compassion. The right way to hold a cat. The right way to stroke it and feed it. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Used to, used to, used to. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So many used to. So few is-es&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I had to call him today. A long time coming. To finally ask him for his duties as a son. To care for my mother while I am not around. And us, poor us, strangers in different states. It might as well be different worlds. Connected by the thin lines of blood that bring nothing more between us. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Are we truly siblings if there is nothing left between us? If we cease to care about each other. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I wonder when the day would come, when calling for him does not sound so foreign. When naming myself to him does not sound so awkward. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Its your sister"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sometimes I wonder if its true&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-2397174829865119238?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/2397174829865119238/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=2397174829865119238' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/2397174829865119238'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/2397174829865119238'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/01/its-been-too-long.html' title='Its been too long'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-2727905514302741751</id><published>2009-01-07T09:01:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-02-08T11:44:19.627-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Love... ?</title><content type='html'>You kiss me, you call me, you check on me... and I love you&lt;br /&gt;You tell me in a conversation casually that you just want me to be happy... and I love you&lt;br /&gt;You give me the keys to your condo... and I love you&lt;br /&gt;You fly back early as a surprise gift to me... and I love you&lt;br /&gt;You draw a message for me in the sand. Pick up a perfect shell for me.. bring it back to me... and I love you&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;You stop calling me... and I love you&lt;br /&gt;You stop e-mailing me... and I love you&lt;br /&gt;You slowdown contacting me. Period. ... and I love? you&lt;br /&gt;You stop talking to me, laughing with me when we make love... and I .... love? ... you&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We fight... and you tell me you dont love me... and I &lt;span style="font-weight:bold;"&gt;know&lt;/span&gt; I love you&lt;br /&gt;You walk away after... and dont call me back.. and I...love you&lt;br /&gt;You dont send me emails, waiting.. and I love..? you&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We talk again... and parts of me loves you...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;but after...&lt;br /&gt;the long silence after... from your side. When you do not change, when you do not contact me anymore&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;makes me wonder...&lt;br /&gt;do I? really? love? you? still...&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-2727905514302741751?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/2727905514302741751/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=2727905514302741751' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/2727905514302741751'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/2727905514302741751'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/01/love.html' title='Love... ?'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-1607277011137403170</id><published>2009-01-06T07:39:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-01-06T07:47:38.673-08:00</updated><title type='text'>No answers</title><content type='html'>My job in life is to come up answers. I solve companies problems. I come up with initiatives, processes, roadmaps, timelines, milestones. I have perfomance measurements, KPIs, SLAs&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Isnt it funny how in my own life I have zero answers... dont even know where to go. Where to turn to. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I cancelled the company trip this weekend. Its tough enough as it is to be sent away from your home. You dont see your friends and your social life takes a halt in those small instances when you do get sent home. You spend it finally blissfully alone. No colleagues, no bosses, nobody to tell you what to do. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I thought to myself, solving my personal life means more to me this weekend. More than the promises of binge drinking on the boss' account. More than the thoughts of frolicking by the beach catching a tan. My friend said to me, whats the point after all, when your heart is not in it. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Im going back to try over, to start again. To try and see if there is something we can capture again. Start again. Its not easy though. Like I said. The feelings are gone now. Numb. Stashed somewhere far away. Its not easy to pretend like everythings ok. Like everythings going to be ok. When nothing has changed. When communication is stalled to a point where I stop thinking about you anymore. Stop needing you anymore. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Just the way you wanted it. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I have no answers. I dont know what I want out of this. I dont know what I dont want out of this. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Im going home blind.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-1607277011137403170?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/1607277011137403170/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=1607277011137403170' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/1607277011137403170'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/1607277011137403170'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/01/no-answers.html' title='No answers'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-6925307249730130756</id><published>2009-01-05T07:52:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-01-05T08:05:03.271-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Statues</title><content type='html'>Its been a while. A whirlwind week filled with heartbreak, tears, screaming inside my head. But its mostly been filled with numbness. Mostly thats what I feel... or dont feel... &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I go through the motions as good as any little soldier could. I wake up, I cook myself breakfast. I watch tv. I drag myself out of my little house and walk around the city. Meet up with everyone I can find. Talk.. move...Around anywhere... looking at things, not looking at things, being looked at... anything. To remind me to stop thinking, to stop hurting. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And so I succeed. I forget, I become numb. I dont remember what its like to have his love surrounding me like his warm hugs in the middle of the night. I dont remember what its like to laugh at him, with him... watch him smile at me, laugh at me, cup my face in his hands and kiss me. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I forget. What its like to love him. I am no longer that girl giddy with happiness, feeling like she is the most blessed being on earth. Thoughts of him no longer bring me happiness, joy. Thoughts of him bring me nothing except a vision like a video replaying happy moments that a strange couple had. And wondering, what in the world happened to them?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Its been a week of highs and lows and of reminding myself to stop feeling a certain way for him. About him. And that rational side of me wins. That rational side of me puts a stop to the way I feel.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Is it really best to love and lost than to never love at all? What if you loved, with all your heart and soul only to have it ripped out of you. To not, in this moment in time be able to love him back?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Days like today I question my numbness. My lack of emotion, of ability to be hurt beyond those first few days. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I put on some music. My favorite Damien Rice CD. I listen to sad sappy love songs. And I try and recall what it was like for us when we first loved. What it was like for us when we first kissed. I remind myself, and I remind myself that its all gone now. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And I cry... a little bit. A lot more inside than you can see on me. But its enough. Enough for at least a little bit, to remind me that the relationship I have matters, that he matters. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It reminds of all things. That I am human too.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Sometimes it reminds me, that we both need to keep on fighting for this. But I still ask that question. When do we give up?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-6925307249730130756?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/6925307249730130756/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=6925307249730130756' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/6925307249730130756'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/6925307249730130756'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/01/statues.html' title='Statues'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-1062700801360830906</id><published>2009-01-03T09:52:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-01-03T11:00:12.316-08:00</updated><title type='text'>What a bargain</title><content type='html'>&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://images.teamsugar.com/files/usr/0/3362/cameron-.preview.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 550px; height: 635px;" src="http://images.teamsugar.com/files/usr/0/3362/cameron-.preview.jpg" border="0" alt="" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_eboqY9vfxq4/SV-m0zoDU1I/AAAAAAAAABQ/PiWD-MV3HT0/s1600-h/Pics+002.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_eboqY9vfxq4/SV-m0zoDU1I/AAAAAAAAABQ/PiWD-MV3HT0/s320/Pics+002.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287127913697858386" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;hahaha&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;gotta love this country right?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;On me... RM 50 = ~USD 15&lt;br /&gt;On Cameron... I have no idea.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-1062700801360830906?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/1062700801360830906/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=1062700801360830906' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/1062700801360830906'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/1062700801360830906'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/01/what-bargain.html' title='What a bargain'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_eboqY9vfxq4/SV-m0zoDU1I/AAAAAAAAABQ/PiWD-MV3HT0/s72-c/Pics+002.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-1269292805694731836</id><published>2009-01-02T09:45:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-01-02T09:55:57.289-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Another pointless entry</title><content type='html'>Ive always been a huge fashion magazine reader. Ever since I got my own house one of my fav things to do is sit around in my reading corner and read my fashion mags. I try and put things together based on what I see, or what I see can be done. Im not saying Im a hugely fashionable girl, but I &lt;strong&gt;do&lt;/strong&gt; try. I do feel better and more confident all dressed up. I do know my clients take me seriously when I come in looking the part. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;While writing in my diary today, I started doodling my work wardrobe for the next two weeks. Thats the problem sometimes, when u get sent away for 2 months and u semi-care about how you look. You end up spending some time over the weekend trying on all your work outfits and deciding whether or not it would work. I guess Ill continue this trend of keeping a record of ways to dress and what I own. Helps keep an inventory of things. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Watched Oprah and one of the key tips they have for how to manage your wardrobe is to have all the hangers facing one way, and when u wear something and you wash it and hang it back, hang it back in another way. That way, you can see after six months how many percent of your clothes you actually wear! then u can get rid of those you dont. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Pretty cool ey? hahaha, what to do la... Ive been sitting in my house for the past two weeks and only going out (almost every other day) to go shopping. Hahahaha&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-1269292805694731836?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/1269292805694731836/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=1269292805694731836' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/1269292805694731836'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/1269292805694731836'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2009/01/another-pointless-entry.html' title='Another pointless entry'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-2638715290748606445</id><published>2008-12-31T10:45:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2008-12-31T10:46:50.237-08:00</updated><title type='text'>2009</title><content type='html'>Happy crappy new year&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;May your year be filled with less heartbreak than mine&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Cheers 2009&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-2638715290748606445?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/2638715290748606445/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=2638715290748606445' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/2638715290748606445'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/2638715290748606445'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2008/12/2009.html' title='2009'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-665166825878451671</id><published>2008-12-28T08:53:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-12-28T08:58:51.170-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Schindlers list</title><content type='html'>I finally had the time and mood to watch this...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Words cannot even describe how I felt after this movie. I cannot imagine having seen it on the big screen...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I applaud Liam Neeson (amazing!), Ben Kingsley, Ralph Fiennes, and of course Spielberg&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This was such a masterpiece , I strongly recommend watching it if you havent&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-665166825878451671?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/665166825878451671/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=665166825878451671' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/665166825878451671'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/665166825878451671'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2008/12/schindlers-list.html' title='Schindlers list'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-2260306326935213497</id><published>2008-12-27T20:17:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-12-27T20:19:04.566-08:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>I will NOT call The Boyfriend&lt;br /&gt;I will NOT e-mail The Boyfriend&lt;br /&gt;I will NOT call The Boyfriend&lt;br /&gt;I will NOT e-mail The Boyfriend&lt;br /&gt;I will NOT call The Boyfriend&lt;br /&gt;I will NOT e-mail The Boyfriend&lt;br /&gt;I will NOT call The Boyfriend&lt;br /&gt;I will NOT e-mail The Boyfriend&lt;br /&gt;I will NOT call The Boyfriend&lt;br /&gt;I will NOT e-mail The Boyfriend&lt;br /&gt;I will NOT call The Boyfriend&lt;br /&gt;I will NOT e-mail The Boyfriend&lt;br /&gt;I will NOT call The Boyfriend&lt;br /&gt;I will NOT e-mail The Boyfriend&lt;br /&gt;I will NOT call The Boyfriend&lt;br /&gt;I will NOT e-mail The Boyfriend&lt;br /&gt;I will NOT call The Boyfriend&lt;br /&gt;I will NOT e-mail The Boyfriend&lt;br /&gt;I will NOT call The Boyfriend&lt;br /&gt;I will NOT e-mail The Boyfriend&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;until he calls or e-mails me first....&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I hate that I have so little resolve in this...&lt;br /&gt;=(&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-2260306326935213497?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/2260306326935213497/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=2260306326935213497' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/2260306326935213497'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/2260306326935213497'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2008/12/i-will-not-call-boyfriend-i-will-not-e.html' title=''/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2722159852217375014.post-3115544855869278596</id><published>2008-12-25T22:31:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-12-25T22:41:12.292-08:00</updated><title type='text'>The New Year</title><content type='html'>Ah! 'tis that time of the year again when we set up impossible resolutions for us to try and keep and binge drinking when it doesnt work. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I guess the only way to look forward is to look back and learn, so some moments from 2008&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The Boyfriend and I finally got together after months of being friends and not noticing what could have been. A silent kiss in the middle of the night whilst I half slept sealed the deal with us. And started me on a whole new adventure&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;World travelling on track. Though I didnt manage to go on my roadtrip around Poland, Silverwolf and I managed to trek 2 weeks through Spain without killing each other... or almost killing each other. We grew older and spent more time doing nothing, deciding to skip the party island of Ibiza and the nightlife or Madrid and Barcelona&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The Boyfriend got posted in the Middle East for six months, and I managed to fenagle two trips to be with him. Many a plans were made, for me to go out while he worked, but we ended up napping most of the time, and the few days I wanted to actually go out was diminished by the faulty weather. Global warming you say? Indeed, especially when it rains heavily in the middle east, causing small floods as the city goes, wtf... i didnt plan the roads for this&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;New house, new home. I moved out, finally!!! into a beautiful studio apartment with full glass windows looking out into the city and the might Tower. So close to my office it would take 2 minutes walking... then of course I get sent down south.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;New position, future promises. After fighting it head-on for two years, Ive gotten my promotion at work and am set for the future..&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Which brings me to NY resolution&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Be happy... learn to love me more, to put myself in front of others, to voice out when I am unhappy or angry. Be less passive agressive and just to take time out to be by me myself and I... &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Travel more. The Boyfriend and I will attempt a trip together, something we've never done before. I dont know if our styles are the same, if we look for the same things, but I guess these are the things that you live and learn&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Actually study for my GMATs. Prepare for business school. Remind self that this is what I really want. That this is what I wanna do. That I can travel more from the US&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Save more. Recession is a coming, I might as well cut back on the lavishness I can live without and enjoy the world travels I always look forward to. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Love more. Open my heart more, embrace more. Be open to more. To remember humility, and modesty, and the transitionary states of the world. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Happy new years everyone!&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/2722159852217375014-3115544855869278596?l=serialmaneater.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/feeds/3115544855869278596/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=2722159852217375014&amp;postID=3115544855869278596' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/3115544855869278596'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/2722159852217375014/posts/default/3115544855869278596'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://serialmaneater.blogspot.com/2008/12/new-year.html' title='The New Year'/><author><name>SerialManeater</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/10228061932492486751</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry></feed>
