Memory Lane? I live there

Dear reader,








I've noticed that I dwell a lot. As in, on the past. On things that have already happened and should be put to rest, not replayed over and over again. Sometimes I catch myself reliving the most embarrassing moments from the past week, in glorious technicolour...or from the past month...or even as far back as a few years ago. I mean, I can remember this time when I was in Form 1, when I was 13 years old. I was goofing off in front of the school gate, doing some sort of impromptu balancing act on one of those cement-divider-thingies. Unfortunately, I was wearing this huge backpack at the time--and when I say huge, I mean the thing was half my body size and weighed approximately a tonne. Every time I put it on I looked like the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle's long lost baby sister or something. No joke.

So anyway, I fell over. It was inevitable, really. After all, that ridiculously heavy backpack was weighing me down like an anchor--not forgetting, of course, my remarkable lack of motor skills and hand-eye coordination...what else did I think was going to happen? As far as I know, there was only one witness to my 'oops' moment: it was a girl I'd never met before, who very graciously turned her head when she saw that I had collapsed on the pavement, a tangle of limbs, shoelaces and oversized backpack straps. But still. This happened five years ago, for Pete's sake! Why can't I just get over it? Is this constant rehashing of the most humiliating events in my life normal? Does everybody do this, or am I just a freak?




I do this dwelling-on-something-for-too-long thing with my previous blog posts, as well. I like to rifle through old posts, reading and rereading what I wrote. It's not narcissistic...at least I don't think it is. Maybe it's to make up for nobody reading my blog, so I just read it myself. Compensation or something. Or maybe to pass the time. Or perhaps it's self-analytical, self-critical. I do that, too, you know. Criticize myself and my work...stuff...whatever. Constantly. And if I see something wrong--any grammatical or *gasp* spelling errors--I fix it, pronto! I hate being wrong or looking stupid. Hmm, maybe that's why debating was such a bust for me. I hated debating. It was just a couple of kids yelling at each other, blurting out a stream of rebuttals as fast as they were physically capable of. I'm serious. You don't even need to come up with your own points, just slam the other side's arguments in the dirt. While imitating an auctioneer, of course. It wouldn't be a debate if the debaters actually presented their points in a coherent manner. I'm sorry, do I sound bitter? That's because I have--yet another--embarrassing moment connected with debate that I refuse to lay to rest. I also refuse to divulge said embarrassing debate moment to you, dear reader. I shall bring it to my grave.




Anyway. I was just looking at one of my old posts, the one about Kuching and patriotism. Among other things. I wrote, and I quote (good God, I'm quoting myself!):

"And you can breathe, even in the centre of downtown. Actually breathe--like, gulp down huge lungfuls of air--without choking to death or running the risk of developing severe bronchitis." 

Not long after the composition of this post, Kuching, of course, underwent a period of terrible haze. Really terrible haze. Figures.




But I remember good things, too. Off-hand comments a random friend made about my outfit or my make-up, for example. Like, "I like the way you did your eye make-up today" or "Wow, nice dress" or whatever. Pitiful as it may sound, these little affirmations and compliments are encouraging to me. I like them. I suppose this means that I crave acknowledgement and attention, but then who doesn't, really? Deep down, we all want the same things: to be noticed, to be unique, to be loved. *pauses to overcome sudden urge to gag* Mushy sentiments aside, it is, in fact, true. In the immortal words of Taylor Swift's songwriter--whoever that revered personage happens to be--in her song 'Fifteen': "When all you wanted was to be wanted". Yup, that pretty much sums it up. And in such a witty, lyrical way, too. Incidentally, I like Taylor Swift's songs. Very well put together. And meaningful. I swear, I almost cried when I heard 'Fifteen' for the first time. What can I say, I empathize easily.




Wait, where were we? I do believe my train of thought has been derailed. Oh, right. I remember good things, too. In fact, at any given time of the day--usually when I'm doing the most mundane and menial tasks--I will burst out laughing. Or at least start grinning for no reason like an idiot. All because of some happy or funny memory I just thought of. I'm a very inward-looking person, I guess. And this is a very long post. Awww, poor reader. Did I bore you with my long-winded rant on nothing in particular? Well, you can stop groaning in pain now, I'm done. Officially done. You have my permission to continue living your life. Thanks for droppin' by, y'hear? Til my next post, I remain...









Yours,





Figgy the Introspective