Transcended from Shadows

It struck me suddenly how liberal I am with reading romance fan fictions while hesitating to pick up proper published novels of the same genre.

Fun fact: I only own one romance novel in my not insubstantial collection of book.

I'm not particularly embarrassed to say that it is a copy of "Twilight" by Stephanie Meyer, because I truly thought that it was well-written (granted, I was still in Primary school when I made that judgement). I never did get round to picking up its sequels, though, because it seems to me that all the reviews of all subsequent books in the series were in adamant consensus that Meyer had nothing fresh to add and was merely recycling ideas and phrases, and making things even more convoluted than I would have thought possible.

I suppose that one of the reasons I enjoy reading romance fan fictions is the fact that I knew the characters before they were thrust into any semblance of a relationship with each other.

I like for romance to be moulded to the characters, not the characters to be carved to fit whatever romantic notions the author decides to put in place. Similarly, I like adventures and turmoil and conflict to be shaped by the characters' unique mix of personality traits, and not have them cast to fit the plot.

Perhaps I find the idea of being introduced to new characters whose personality I have no grasp of to be repulsive. Perhaps it is the thought of delving into a trashy and cliched drama that is similarly repelling (all the blurbs I've read seem to revolve around the same thing: boy meets girl, girl is enamoured with beautiful boy, boy has unspeakable secrets, girl helps boy overcome them, read on to find out what happens next).

Whatever it is, I find I have no fondness for fumbling with character development throughout a romance story.

Because I am of the opinion that romance is not a "BANG-I-love-you" kind of thing. It is hardly love-at-first-sight, though I must admit that instant infatuation seems to be a probable happenstance. I like it to be slow-moving, to be thoughtful, to be deliberate. The idea of not having any control over yourself when you first find someone who appeals to you on a sexual level is relatively disturbing.

Of course, I myself cannot deny dreaming of fairytale romance. I mean, come on, wouldn't it be nice to know that there is a soul mate out there, and before you meet that person you can completely ignore the hardship behind courtship and seeking out that perfect someone?

I would really like it if there is someone out there tailored for me, whom I will know upon first sight (yes, typical sappy romance storyline, but the difference lies in the fact that THIS IS REALITY and you cannot expect any such things here) is the one I will forever dedicate myself to.

In this way, I guess I envy fan fiction characters. It all seems so clear that they were meant for each other, that they can be fully certain that this person is the right one for them, that whatever they do they will still be in possession of that enviable affection.

I find that real life deprives us of such surety.

Maybe life is short-changing us, maybe it's giving us a choice, but I really wouldn't mind if I were to be spared the agony of ploughing through a million, a billion faces to find someone whom I can live with for the rest of my life without tiring myself or my partner out.

Maybe I read fan fictions because, when I am reading, I find myself able to "live in a dream." It's nice to depart from reality every once in a while, truth be told. Refreshing, even.

Isn't it painful that every relationship that you will endure in reality has to be deliberate, a choice to love? Maybe this is why I want to see this sacrifice in romance fiction, to observe how this imperfect process can be made perfect and beautiful.

You can never know for certain that you will give up your life for this one person unless you were hanging above a roiling pit of molten rock with your loved one hanging on the other end of the rope, and to live is to swing yourself to safety, cut that rope when you are above ground, and let your loved one fall into that molten pit.

I would rather not experience that myself, but oh, what I would give for such a selfless love.

The thing, though, is that I'm not sure I can properly reciprocate that all-consuming an affection.

I have my reservations. What if I am hurt? What if my partner decides that I am unworthy? What if? What if? It is too easy to say "I love you," but too difficult to be prepared to lose everything to hear that phrase echoed back at you.

Well, my dear counterparts in fan-fiction-land seem to lack such hesitance. Bless them.

I don't think I can truthfully say that I have ever been in love with any living, breathing mortal. I love my parents, my siblings (yes, even my sister, despite the sometimes-venom that I vehemently project), my art, my friends, and (be warned, one obligatory religious example coming right up) my God, but can I every truly, sincerely say that I am in love with someone?

Being in love implies some sort of sexual attachment, which, really now, I am a little too premature for. But it is more than that, I think. It is an all-consuming river of affection that should never let up once it starts to flow, it is the unstoppable sensation of wanting to lay in "perfect" arms and never get up, it is something I read so often about but can't imagine ever experiencing myself. It seems too wonderful to ever exist, or even if it does, to ever happen to me.

But it must be mitigated by love. Love, to me, is the deliberate choice to shower attention upon someone. Sometimes it is obligatory, such as in family, but you can never force yourself to love someone you do not wish to. I could probably be in love with someone but not love them. I could definitely love someone but not be in love with them. I could, most likely, love and hate all at the same time.

Love is a fickle thing, and the English language is wholly ill-prepared to define it adequately.

I am a difficult person to even love. Who in their right mind would decide to fall in love with me?

Well, then again, since I believe falling in love to be an non-cognitive development, I suppose that "deciding" is the wrong word. The correct phrasing would be: "Who in their right mind would be audacious enough to instinctively desire the pains that could only come with falling in love with me?"

I don't even make friends easily, although one may argue that the friends I do make are firm ones, like rocks embedded in the earth. It takes an age of digging to get to me and be my friend, forget any mindless attraction. To become my friend is to be patient enough, willing enough, bull-headed enough, and most of all, smart enough to know when to stop pushing.

Because I will push away those who press too hard at the wrong time.

So, with all these factors, falling in love with me is definitely an 11 on a difficulty scale of 1-10, 10 being most difficult.

But I think I will settle for loving, and being loved in turn. Being in love is troublesome, especially when there is no guarantee like in fan fictions.

But somewhere, maybe I just want someone to prove me wrong.

Incandescent

I'm not entirely certain how they knew which words to say and when to say it, but however they went about selecting the occasion and means, it worked perfectly.

In essence, this is what they told me:

"We know you're not exam-smart. We just want you to try your best."

And boom, there goes my insecurity. I may not have realised it then, but that put me to rest. A lot.

My worries mostly revolved around having to compete with my super-exam-smart sister, who has this crazy affinity for memorising through verbal cues, when she gets back her 'A'-level results in, say 2-3 years time and discover that she's done better than I have (I will be taking my 'A'-levels NEXT YEAR and I frankly don't think I'm going to score well enough to get into any university based on grades alone).

I admit that I've always been slightly paranoid about my grades. Coming from a rather no-name Primary school and then rushing into the Gifted Education Programme (GEP), I went from first in class to last, which, I must say, did wonders for my self-esteem.

I stopped trying so hard to excel, because I discovered, early on, that no matter how hard I tried I will still be behind somebody, and the fact that I can't find a way to catch up to them just simply...pushes me off the edge of caring so much any more. I suppose you've figured out by now that I have some sort of "first or last" mentality. If I'm not one of the top, I don't see much point.

That is, admittedly, a terrible philosophy to live by, but I managed, somehow.

And then, after obtaining rather more spectacular a Primary School Leaving Examination (PSLE) score than I expected, I found myself in one of the most prestigious Secondary schools and, once more, floundered at the bottom of my class. I might have almost given up on actually doing well at some point when I realised that everyone around me was scoring 3.6 GPAs for their first Common Test and I, a miserable 3.14.

Thereafter I think I threw myself into the monotony of just caring enough to do reasonably well, but not exceedingly concerned with outdoing anybody whom I have resigned to always do worse than. Which, without saying, is quite a lot of people.

Of course, I loved it when I exceeded my own expectations, low as they were. But I think, somewhere, I've always set the bar rather high for myself for certain subjects and assignments. When I've actually worked for something, I think I expect a 3.6 GPA at least. I mostly did fine.

I ended Secondary school with a bang at 3.54, worse than the 3.66 I got mid-year, but fantastic nonetheless, considering my terrible start to my Secondary school career.

Junior College was simply...crazy. Some parts of it were fun, such as the one memorable holiday where we had to return to school to complete our paintings in time for our Common Test. I don't think I ever spent as much on bottled green tea at any other time. Others, not so. I particularly dislike having to orientate myself in my new class, and did not take well to Physical Education (PE) at all.

From Secondary school up to Junior College, I had been rather shielded by the Integrated Programme (IP) I was part of, which allowed me to transition into Junior College without having to sit for the 'O'-levels. This spared me from having to compare with my other crazy relative, my cousin.

Oh, she's delightful, I'll give you that, and I'm not saying this out of spite. Well, one thing that bothers me is how I seem to have lost some important memories between Primary school and now in order to explain the somewhat cool relationship between us, but other than that, I've gotten to know her better, and she's perfectly fine.

Have I mentioned that she's in my class?

I was terrified when I first discovered it. The IP rendered me immune to comparisons with her, since, hey, no 'O'-levels, but now, I really fear for my grades. I keep thinking that because I went to a supposedly better school and had a supposedly better education, my parents would expect me to do much better than her in exams (which is ridiculous, of course, since she's been admitted into my school and she wouldn't have gotten here if she wasn't competent).

I don't want to disappoint them.

In comparison, I think losing to my sister would be the lesser evil.

There are a couple of factors influencing my fear, including the fact that I believe her mother to be somewhat competitive about the "rivalry" between us, as my aunt was a student at my Secondary school, which my cousin did not attend (I blame one-time PSLE scores for her not getting in, I suppose she would've if we assessed her long-term), and neither did my mother.

I don't know why I perceive it this way. I really don't.

My sister attends the same Secondary school as my crazy smart cousin, which is really not much of a relief to me. Either way I'm still going to be compared to them. Sometimes I think I should have transferred to a Junior College offering the International Baccalaureate to spare me this stress of being compared, of comparing myself with others.

I don't know how many people know this, but I'm absolutely terrified of letting my parents down. Apart from my miraculous admission into the GEP and my allegedly excellent Secondary school, I am nothing spectacular. In fact, I think most teachers would venture to say that I'm probably one of their worst students.

And I won't deny that.

I have absolutely no idea how to study for exams. I think I would do much better if you perhaps gave me a few tasks spread over the year and assessed me according to that. Sometimes, it seems as if I have luck on my side because I have failed every single one of my General Paper essays for practice but scored an 'A' for my Common Test, but this isn't going to hold out.

I'm terrified, and I have no idea what I need to do.

And then my parents came along and told me that they don't expect me to do excellently academically (or, rather, in examinations, because I'm just that exam-stupid).

For that, I'm willing to work hard. For them, who trust and believe in me, I'm willing to give my best, not to show results, which would be nice, of course, but to express my gratitude for their faith in me even when I have none in myself.

It's like a weight off my shoulders. I know they'll be disappointed if I fail terribly, certainly, but now I also know that they won't look at me and judge my worth by my grades. I no longer have to judge myself by how well I do in examinations, how well I score. I just need to do it. The pressure is on a different area now, and this kind of pressure, I think I can live with.

I'm actually rather disappointed by how I perceived my self-worth. I thought I was beyond that.

Ah, well, I guess there are some things I don't really know about myself.

Without this burden of obtaining top grades, I feel as if I could just study with earnest and actual vigour instead of merely memorising facts to regurgitate during examinations. I feel as if I could potentially actually enjoy school, that it's not about achieving, which I have thus far failed to do and for which I have set no expectations for myself for fear of failing.

It's about me just enjoying things.

It's about me learning things my own way.

It's about me, just being me, and them loving me for all my academic failings.

It's about me, loved by them.

I love them, and I am not afraid to say it.

The Broken Subterfuge

Disappearing Distance: 43.4

For the sake of my rapidly vanishing sanity, I have decided to hold a monologue (with myself, obviously) on this blog. Must be very exciting for you all, being able to sneak a peek into my otherwise obscure and shrouded-in-shadows life. Yes, so very exciting.

But come on now, who do I kid? There's probably no one to read this anyway.

Well, here's a little inconsequential trivia for you: my weight is currently a palindrome. Or at least, it was when I weighed myself a couple of hours ago.

What truly fascinates me is that I have never, not since I was 5 centimetres shorter (that might have been more than 5 years ago), weighed under 45.0 kilograms.

...oh come on now, you can't expect me to be ashamed of my weight. I'm not one of those flighty girls on the street who giggle and blush when you compliment their make-up, then act all offended when you pry about their measurements (actually, I don't know my sizes, so don't bother). Really now, do you actually expect to see me with make-up?

That is, however beside the point. I digress.

In a most interesting twist of what I hesitate to call fate (because, surely, not many of you believe in fate), I find myself much lighter (almost 5.0 kilograms lighter, in fact) than I was a few months before, around the time of NAPFA. This has been most surprising, considering how much fats I consumed during my little stint in New York where I was fed the equivalent of 6-7 proper Asian servings a day when 3 would already have been more than enough thank you very much.

(I didn't finish around half of that, of course, but still...)

I must also add that most of those meals consist of deep-fried chips (fries, if you're American) and BBQ chicken (not exactly my cup of tea) with way too much oozing oil for my comfort.

ANYWAY.

When I weighed myself this morning out of curiosity, I found myself at 43.4 kilograms, which left me quite stupid for a few moments as my hard drive struggles to discern what could possibly contribute to this stunning loss of weight.

Must have been the days I spent sleeping and the nights I spent awake, it finally (and brilliantly) deduced.

Jet lag, I blame. I don't eat in the nights (no appetite) so naturally, sleeping in the mornings and waking at night led to only one or two meals a day, certainly not enough to maintain my impressive weight of between 45.0 kilograms to 48.0 kilograms.

For the record, I have never exceeded 48.0 kilograms -- never even reached it, in fact. It's kind of like a weight ceiling for me. Similarly, I have never lost so much weight that I fall to below 45.0 kilograms. It just doesn't work that way, you know, when you're actually eating proper meals and not fed the garbage they load onto your tray on aeroplanes (or the hunk of junk they dump onto your disposable plate -- almost every meal in New York is taken with disposable utensils -- when I was back in the US).

Pity.

I'm not actively trying to correct my sudden weight loss, though. Perhaps I see it as a challenge to myself; my sister posed to herself the challenge of being 43.0 kilograms by some day in May, so maybe my subconscious just wants to prove to myself (because, really, who else am I proving to?) that if she can do it, so can I.

I almost did it (not that I was actually consciously trying).

And I'm using this as an excuse to binge -- not that my stomach is letting me eat much. I need to ease a little into eating more than a handful of rice. Ugh. Ooh, I miss gorging on food.

My point is, I'm taking full advantage of my delightful loss of weight, but I suppose I should caution myself not to go too far. I realise that I am becoming somewhat obsessed with maintaining this sub-45.0 weight and it's not good for me. I think I might be verging on anorexic soon if I don't stop harping about how slim I'm going to be if I lose just a kilogram or two more.

Hey, if I'm going to continue losing weight, maybe I'll be as thin as Cumberbatch who plays Sherlock Holmes in BBC's modern-day adaptation of the famous detective!

(...Grace, Awa, what have you done to me? Now I'm hopelessly pining for Sherlock season 3 which won't be aired until end of next year and it's ALL YOUR FAULT!)

Although, that's not particularly a pleasant thought. I mean, his leanness is nice to admire and all, but I don't really fancy being all awkward elbows and knees (not that in my current state I'm not close to -- I've been told I've got thin arms -- but I try to be less sharp...unless you're talking about wit and tongue, then I would dearly love to hone those).

Okay, my stomach's feeling really funny now. That can either mean that I'm really hungry and should probably swallow a whale or that I'm really full and all that churning's warning me to head for a toilet. I think I'll go for the latter, seeing how I just had a really big lunch earlier (mm, frozen lunches and bananas is a really good way to fill you up when you're home alone and bored to death trying to procrastinate on homework).

Ta.

Expunge the Darkness

I was approached by a stranger yesterday regarding a drawing I had been working on then. I believe it is the first time I have ever been publicly commended for my art before.

As it happened, I was attempting manga-style after a term (or more) of abstinence from the style. While I waited for the bus to arrive, I took out my sketchbook and continued from a previous drawing (which subject matters were China, Japan, South Korea, Hong Kong and Taiwan from Hetalia: Axis Powers). All in all it was a pretty mundane situation.

Despite being more than pleased with my drawing, I did not expect to be praised by a complete stranger. He was, I estimate, in his early twenties, and spoke to me in rather fluent Chinese. One of his questions, as I recall, was, "你画的啊？" (approximate translation: Did you draw this?) which I personally believe to be a rather silly question considering how he could've observed for himself that I was indeed drawing it.

Disregarding his less than desirable observational abilities, it was flattering to be complimented in public space. He proceeded to ask me, "你会画 One Piece 吗？" (approximate translation: Are you able to draw the characters from/in the style of One Piece?). I told him (in considerably fluent Chinese, I should hope) that I regrettably do not as I do not even read One Piece. I neglected to say that I did not think that One Piece's art was all that fantastic anyway.

To be honest, his honest (and bold) articulation of how much he liked my art stunned me and at the same time made my day. I believe I will forever remember him as the first person to proclaim appreciation for my art without knowing me at all (even if I no longer remember his face, only that he was wearing a white shirt).

Dry Oceans

I don't think I've ever felt so ill before.

Things started out pretty mild -- slight lethargy with occasional throbbing headaches. I actually developed goosebumps even though I knew, logically, it wasn't even cold.

It got progressively worse after dinner. My body felt too heavy for me, and it seemed to demand rest even though I wasn't actually tired enough for it. My movements became sluggish and walking became lumbering. I took my temperature (after attempting to hunt down the school-issued thermometer and giving up, using instead the common thermometer at home) and discovered, much to my chagrin, that I had a mild case of fever.

37.8 degrees Celsius.

To most people that isn't very high. However, my body temperature hovers at around 36.7 (or lower) when I'm healthy, which makes 37.8 at least a whole degree higher. It definitely constituted a fever.

So I downed a Panadol tablet and went to sleep a couple of hours later at 21:00.

I woke up this morning at 06:40 feeling hot. For a moment I wondered if the temperature was suddenly cranked up all around the world because I don't remember feeling so warm in the mornings when it hasn't yet reached June or July. My head pounded and I could barely shuffle my way to wash up. My legs hardly held me up as I changed into my uniform.

When I went down to prepare to leave the house I felt light-headed and indescribably warm. Sweat was literally being secreted from all my pores. I think I asked if it was warm today, but I don't recall receiving a reply.

A wave of nausea overtook me and I stumbled into the nearest wash room before collapsing against a wall when my sight all but disappeared behind black. I realised that I had almost fainted. I've fainted before and I recognise it. It felt like my whole world was going out behind my eyes, like gravity simultaneously disappeared and reasserted itself ten times over.

Diarrhea followed, accompanied by the sensation of throwing up. I went through the motions of vomiting but I could expel nothing. It served only to choke me of air and make me feel terrible. I began burning up again. It was too hot, too stale, too uncomfortable. My stomach lurched and my head began throbbing again.

My mother came to check on me and decided that I shouldn't report to school today.

So I didn't. I passed time resting in a chair until 08:15, when my father drove me to see a general practitioner. I lay in the back-seats of the car with the buckles digging into my back. At that time, I was to exhausted and lethargic to bother about the discomfort.

I had begun to cool down. Things weren't so bad. It didn't feel too hot or too cold. I wasn't shivering or sweating, but I was feeling slightly sleepy and unsteady on my feet. The family clinic opened at 08:30, but it wasn't until 09:00 that we got to see the doctor.

In that 30-minute window I once more experienced vertigo and the impending urge to throw up, feeling weak and nauseous and decidedly uncomfortable during the wait. It got so bad that I had to lie down with my head on my father's lap because my head felt too heavy to hold up. I tried to vomit into a plastic bag but wasn't successful.

I was diagnosed with recent food poisoning since there was more throwing up urges than diarrhea. The doctor prescribed me activated carbon tablets and some liquid medicine (couldn't read his handwriting). I rested in the car again while my father drove me back.

Once home, I took the opportunity to fall asleep on the couch (my bedroom was on the third floor, and since I couldn't even walk, I settled for the sofa in the living room). It was about 09:45 when we got home.

I continued to sleep until 10:30, when my father had to leave for work. He informed me that he had made me some porridge (the watery kind with absolutely no flavour whatsoever), which I consumed when I awoke again at 11:30 (after downing my medication).

I used the computer until 14:30, after which I decided to take a rest. Once rested, I didn't really wake again until 21:30. It would be easier to count the hours I was awake than the hours I was asleep. I'm sure I slept for more than half a day -- I'm guessing somewhere around 14-15 hours, and it isn't even the end of the day yet.

Things are getting better. My mother also got me a new watch since the strap of my current (or previous, depending on how you see it) one was breaking apart. Yeah, the watch is that old. Actually, it's even older than you think, because I had the strap for that watch replaced before. In fact, I think I replaced the battery at least twice too. The watch wasn't being very reliable either. It stopped for 5 minutes a couple of days back.

I'm still having acute stomach pains (cramps, the doctor called it, and gave me a tablet for that during the consultation) and the occasional shooting head pains, but I think I should be viable for school tomorrow.

Temperature's a lot better now: 36.8 degrees Celsius.

Violation of Memories

I don't understand how I can continue leaving things behind in classrooms.

Just 2 weeks ago I left my writing pad. Just this Friday I lost my homework file (which has my timetable in it as well as - you can infer from its name - my homework). I think I'm beginning to forget more important things.

I'd like to just screech my indignation to the world, but that's not going to make it better. First thing tomorrow, I'm going to go look for that damned file in B46 AND the SAC. If I can't find it there, then I'm screwed. Royally screwed. Because without my timetable I have no idea where to search. Or if I'm supposed to be somewhere during Protected Time.

Damnit, I only noticed that it's missing now, and I can't even be certain that I haven't brought it back and left it in some random corner of my house because I DON'T REMEMBER ANYTHING about it.

Sometimes I can be such a fool...

Meteor Rainfalls

Things are radically different now.

For one, I find myself surrounded by a population half constituted by males instead of the "all female with the random male teacher thrown in" profiles I've been around in RGSS. It makes for some rather interesting classroom entertainment (because, seriously, the guys have this strange, inexplicable tendency to embarrass their fellow male classmates), if you're not averse to them bouncing about like monkeys on drugs. Personally I think they're weird, but hey, that's just me.

One of the most disturbing things I noted was that girls don't seem to know how to conduct themselves -- especially when sitting. Some sit on chairs with their legs crossed as if the chair was the hall floor, others propping their legs on their other knee and baring their thighs wide apart. It wouldn't have mattered so much if their skirts weren't as short as Singapore is small compared to Russia. It's so indecent I don't even know where to begin. Perhaps I'm just being a stuffy prude, but I'd like to keep my legs closed, thank you very much.

Homework isn't too difficult, unlike what I was expecting -- perhaps only so because I'd been hearing horror stories about JC life. Whatever the case is, lectures are boring to the point of having levelled up their "put students to sleep" ability until they achieved "spontaneous slumber."

It is super effective.

Especially in Biology lectures.

Now I'm not saying that the lecturers don't know what they're talking about. What I'm more concerned with is that while I know that I don't know the content, I somehow can't seem to stay awake. Perhaps the lectures are dry, perhaps something about note taking just strikes me the wrong way, but damn it, there has to be some way of getting through a Biology lecture without nearly succumbing to Morpheus, who for some reason finds me unreasonably attractive during lectures and wishes me to join him in his realm.

So, here I am, being tempted (quite successfully, I might add) to marry myself off to Morpheus and live happily ever after in his land of forever slumber, with a terribly boring life to keep up with when I am awake. My choice should be pretty clear, but things can't always be as I wish them, and hence I am stuck with my continued existence in this plane of consciousness that does nothing but bore me and further screw up the mechanisms in my brain my insisting that I process more information than my poor grey matter is willing to.

Friendships between myself and someone else within my class are pretty much non-existent at the moment, most likely due to my detachedness and markedly icy countenance with every attempt at class bonding instigated by either the Civics tutor or some class effort.

I am not one for socialising, you must realise. I am incredibly awkward around strangers, especially those who try to include me in everything. If you want to get to know me, just be there, don't talk too much, don't ask too much, don't try to get me involved in anything. With time, I will warm up to you (whoever you are) and will learn to appreciate your company.

For now, though, things are still rather lukewarm. There are some people who are, in my opinion, trying too hard to get me involved, and others who look on and don't know what to think of my two-faced attitudes. Even I myself don't know what to make of my reactions, much less people who don't even know me.

I'm learning to welcome the presence of those trying to get to know me instead of merely tolerating their efforts (that, at best, I can only appreciate the intent but not the way they went about doing it, because I'm not your average student and I don't bond over sports), and I find this gratifying since I'm going to have to spend 2 years with them.

It's probably going to be painful if I were to endure 2 years of people tip-toeing around me simply because I don't give them the right impression off the bat.

Go slow, don't rush, let me come to accept you. If you push, I will distance myself. Let me come to you instead, don't make me claustrophobic with your efforts, don't be someone you're not. I'm not a pleasant person to people I hardly know, and you may not appreciate my brand of sarcastic humour once I'm comfortable enough around you to unleash it, and if you find yourself deterred by these, then you aren't going to enjoy being my friend. We'll settle for acquaintances.

Sometimes things develop differently and we get to know each other by rather unconventional means. That's fine. Just don't expect me to hug and hold hands like a good RGSS girl. Abstinence of hugs has been my modus operandi since Year 1; I don't do casual contact.

I don't like people interrupting my rhythm and plans. Stay out of my way, smile a little, and maybe I'll decide that you aren't just one of those people who want to involve me in the class just to show that you can. I'm not a tool for you to practise your people skills on. Go find someone more average.

...okay, I don't know how it devolved into a rant about my expectations of people and the way they treat me, but whatever. There's my rant, there's my personal discourse, take it or leave it.