My Days

For anyone who wants to know, an honest post about how I spend--and process--my days would go like this:

Some time ago: someone wrote my name on a label on my mailbox.

The next day: I bought a pink rose and hung it upside down from my four-poster bed, because I wanted to see how it'd look like, dried.

Some other day: me jumping around a park to grab a bauhinia leave, then taking a photo of it while an old man approached me: "Why? You're taking pictures of bugs?"

Same afternoon: everybody pushing past one another on a terribly crowded street in extreme heat; me in a black tank top, jeans and sneakers, in search of bubble tea.

Some days later: a former student and now friend put a coffee card in my mailbox and I couldn't make out the handwriting in black ink on the black envelope.

Some days earlier, or later, or on any given day: Subway sandwiches downstairs, from just around the corner. 6 inch. Parmesan Oregano cheese and toasted. Lettuce, tomatoes, onion...no olives, please.

On many afternoons: buying bread and cake at a famous bakery nearby; cashier: "Do you work or live in the area?"

On many evenings: monologue to self: "I must not go to the bakery tomorrow!"

On many evenings: going to the same restaurants for take-away food, reliving the same episodes from 1 or 3 or 5 or 10 years ago, only in different residential areas.

On certain evenings: friends calling: "Nicolette/Nicole/Colette! Get your ass downstairs!" Me sheepishly putting on an off-shoulder top or a tank top, then frantically brushing my hair.

On rare days that shouldn't be so rare: "Where are my bikinis?"

On most evenings: monologue to self: "I want new books...books..." while reading a library book. The joy of living one mini-bus ride away from the University of Hong Kong campus.

Last week: I went to the post office to get the book a writer friend sent from the States. Yippie!

Every week: monologue to self: "I'm sick of all this writing I'm doing. I need to do something new" then browsing through the photos I've taken in the past few months, editing them in iPhoto, which makes me look like a much better photographer than I really am.

Last week: hopping onto a minibus to go to the seaside; sitting on some stairs at the pier; watching old men practice tai-chi; yellow lights and distant trees.

Some weekends: monologue to self: "Just why don't I get drunk?" 

One weekend: I went to get vodka and pita bread.

On most days: monologue to self in front of the computer: "Just what's wrong with me not getting a bloody job? And how did all these prospects flop? I need a break I need to fucking pay my bills!"

Yesterday: stomachache and headache, which were most likely both phantom symptoms. "Can I have some morphine, please?"

Last night: "NOOOOOOO!!!" over the phone; then monologue to self: "All this is senseless. Bah."

Last night: exhaustion followed by black-out.

This morning: on the phone with Brian Chan: "How much plum drink do you guys want? Two bottles?"

This noon: drinking plum drink with Brian Chan and his girlfriend on their rooftop before it started to rain. Brian's girlfriend: "Only spend time with those who understand is what I say!" Brian to me: "Why do you meet so many people who lack...intelligence?"

On any given day: some man: "What do you want?" me: giving a long list of evidence, reasons, implications that are staggeringly logical, thoughtful and semi-heartfelt to overwhelm the man so that he must walk away in silence for the time being, because, really, "Who I am has nothing to do with you and I secretly want. you. gone. Ha."

This afternoon: a note from an ex-lover about work. Ex-lover is one man who used to shout: "You're one hell of a talented person. Don't let anyone tell you anything but that!" for which I'd always be grateful.

Tonight: past midnight; burp; monologue to you, my readers: "I need some food and I've only got bread and it's another sleepless night."