Sometimes they are not a good idea.
You think, heck, it's been 10 years, it couldn't hurt. And then you meet and have nothing to say to each other, and you plough through the painful minutes, trying to not glance at your watch surreptitiously, and wonder when it would be OK to say you have to go.
And so there you are, stuck in a room with all those people you lost contact with, because there was nothing to keep you together, wishing you had just said no.
Nameless: So how long have you been back?
Me: Um, a while now. Like half a year.
Nameless: So what are you up to now?
Me: Up to?
Nameless: Yeah, you planning to return to (old newspaper)? Go into PR? Write a book?
Me: Dunno.
Nameless: Do you have a card?
Me: No.
Nameless: Why not?
Me: Um, I know, I really really should have a card. I was planning to have some made. But I have no idea what to put on it. Freelance writer is so boring. They're like a dime a dozen. I was thinking of Zen Mistress, but that sounds vaguely sexual. And when I tossed around Void Artist, a friend of mine pointed out that void could also stand for emptying your intestines. Then I thought, Specialist in Nothing, but heck, don't think that would drum up a lot of business.
Nameless: So that means you are a freelance writer now?
Me: Yeah, basically.
Nameless: Any jobs?
Me: A few.
Nameless: What?
Me: This and that.
Nameless: Wah so evasive ah?
Me: Wah so nosey ah?
Nameless: Fuck off.
Me: Gladly.
10 comments:
Quasar: That is an idea! I wish Malaysians had a sense of humour. It is likely they will look at the card, read the designation, not understand it, decide that I am completely flakey (and who's to say they are wrong) and chuck away card.
No, you looked a bit Zen Masterish. I don't think I would have minded the bare chested photo. I only objected to the saronged bare-chested dude because he had invited reporters over for an interview about something serious. When you invite reporters over, the least, the very least, you can do is put on a shirt.
Alas some ppl never learn no jenn?
I've never gone to a reunion. I think you can't go back. What I liked when I was there, I took with me. The rest can stay behind.
Quasar: When was my projected visit supposed to be? I don't think it would have gone down very well in kiasu Singapore if you walked around topless...although you are an ang mo and everyone tends to think they are mad anyway so excuse their eccentric behaviour. I had an English uncle who would sunbathe in his underwear in our large garden...everyone closed their doors and averted their eyes.
Grey: No, they don't. And they are boring. And I don't want to talk to them. I think I should perfect my bitch glare (Julie has this "my name is Juliebee, don't mess with me!" look which I think I should try to copy.
Nessa: You are right there. The people I love I am still in touch with. As for the rest, que sera sera. I'd rather they were edited out.
You know sometimes you sort of go over my head and I wonder, I wonder, I wonder what you are saying.
It reminds me of Kit Leee telling me to go from mono to stereo to Dolby Surround Sound spiritually and me, going, I mean to say what?
I am sorry that those darn Malays and Bangladeshis behave in such an unbecoming fashion there.
What can you do, savages will be savages.
Touche.
Ang Mos. Gwailos. Firangs. Mat Sallehs. Pukka Sahibs.
Jenn fits in with the savages, naturally.
I walk around in tattered clothes, twigs curling in my matted hair. People either give me a wide berth or ask me the meaning of life.
I tell them 42 and they walk away puzzled.
Quasar: What's with all the elevation...I like keeping my mind in the gutter, and that's where it'll stay. There is nothing so interesting to talk about as sex: PROCREATION.....ahhhhhhh.
As for 42...number of lovers? You gotta be kidding me. You think I'd stint like that and reach this age with ONLY 42 lovers. Age? Not quite. A little short of it, although I have to say, I think 42 is a very good age. Very good. All men, begin to be interesting when they hit 40. (Or at least I have a thing for 40-year olds and over)
Maybe it is the number of light years away from my original planet. Yes, that sounds feasible.
Did I say 42? Sorry. I meant 42,000.
So Italy won? Pity. I was supporting France. Caught a bit of the first half and what can you do when Thierry bangs his head in the first two minutes and has to be taken out? Was very sad about that. And what was with that own goal, for crying out loud?
I don't have any Italian lovers, but there are plenty of Italians among family and friends. Three cousins (two married, one engaged) to Italians and one friend (who is going out with an Italian). I guess they would have been in for wild nights.
I think we shall keep it clean because in one of my lightning changes of mood (the difference between commenting at night and commenting in the daytime) I feel a little Amish.
But will answer your question on the endless fascination of sex: Nothing. It's just taboo which makes it fun. If it were not taboo it would be boring. Ugh.
I've heard rumors that most of my graduating class can be contacted nightly at a somewhat seedy beverage establishment in my home town.
Maybe someday I'll drive cross country and pop in on them -- and maybe I won't.
And maybe you wont. Although the seedy bar scene sounds simply frabjuos, calloo callay!
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