i don't think the words "I love you" would mean anything to me out of the mouth of somebody who also keeps saying how horrible i actually am... and how generous he is for "loving" my horrible self.

so, to all lovers out there... stop telling your spouses how horrible they are (even if it's true). instead, try to imagine how they feel, and how you'd want to be treated when you were at their place. and then, learn to admire at least one thing in them, then encourage them to make better of what they're lacking.

alas, if you don't think there's anything worth admiring from your spouse... then you don't deserve him/her.

n’est-ce pas étrange que tu te blesse avec ton propre amant? ne pense-tu pas que tu pourrais faire autre chose avec?

comment se fait-il que je ne me blesse pas avec le mien? peut-être parce que je ne cherche qu’à l’aimer et à faire des choses gentilles pour le lui montrer, sans rien demander en retour.

l’amour est comme un couteau. si tu ne sais pas comment t’en servir, tu peux te blesser avec. mais comment devons-nous utiliser l’amour pour ne pas nous blesser? exactement comme un couteau : tu dois le pointer vers les autres.

oh well...

yep, that includes snapping to each and every one who come any closer than thirty feet, and driving the hell out of them.

on a day like today, it's a hell of a bad start. with a hell of a bad ending. makes me wonder, have i got up on the wrong side of the bed?

this week seems like a good week, which may lead into a series of several greater weeks. as i'm getting back in the mood for everything.
another rather significant exam coming, and i'm in total confident about it, so it's a good sign.
ideas and stuff are beginning to flow freely out of my head, ideas and stuff related to both work and study, which is again... very very good.

a friend in sydney pointed out that these blogs somehow makes me sound like a bitter and demented psycho... -if not a lonely wallflower-
oh well, truth is, i only write when i'm either rather fed up or unbelievably happy.
although if i was in the latter condition, i'd rather go out and get a life, instead of nailing my arse in front of the eye-sore-inducing screen, babbling irrelevant matters to people who don't really matter. and i mean you.

long time ago, i used to write when i'm in lovey dovey mood. but yet again, somehow i've overgrown my lovey-dovey moment.. so, can reading -and writing- romance be classified as a desperate attempt to create such illusions? and if so, why?

well, in some case, lacking of a lovey dovey spouse may lead to that kind of desperation.

ah, but then again, distractions are good...
especially if they come in the form of kind, caring, good looking bloke with a subtle and sweet melancholy way of flirting.