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No responsibility will be accepted by the author for the wastage of your valuable time whilst reading this. Any claims that she has forced you to visit this site in order to inflate her ego will go ignored, and will only go to show your vulnerability to the author's exceptional persuasive skills as developed in Year 12 English. That is all.

Bonne vivante. Raconteur. Procrastinator.

With nothing spectacular happening right now and the reluctance to affirm my creepiness by talking about my exchange student, I've decided to put one of my stories from Year 11 English on here, just so I appear like a conscientious blogger. Oh, and feedback please.

The Light of Life

'Light is the life of the world, while Love is the light of life.' - Lewis Wallace

“Enjoy yourself, darling.”

Anna smiled warmly at Peter. He glanced almost uncertainly at his wife. She looked pleasant; her shining eyes gazed amorously at him and her hair was bunched into a simple ponytail. He clambered out of the car and into the darkness of the night. Ambling up the path, he reached the reunion venue.

As he entered the bright hall, he recognised several faces: some of which had transformed notably, others distinctly similar. Then, he caught sight of her. The goddess. A saccharine fragrance emanated from her as she glided past; it smelt of vanilla. Her hair cascaded down in fine strands of chestnut, which complemented the satin draped around her voluptuous body. She was almost luminous, giving off her own brilliant light. Her eyes flicked in his direction, and then turned back to her path. Maybe she didn’t see him.

He milled around behind the crowds uncertainly. Despite their being close, the goddess had never seemed to reciprocate his sentiments. Thus, he married the plain but tolerable Anna. He knew he had to be faithful to his wife, but that would never last. Love was the light of life: he loved the goddess her and yearned to be loved in return. However, his wedding ring continued to sparkle tauntingly. He married Anna: for better, for worse… but he still dreamed of the goddess…

“Pete!”

He wheeled around and saw her. His chest pounded uncomfortably from the surprise.

“Hi there. How –” He paused, horrified, as his throat produced a peculiar gurgling noise.

The gracious goddess ignored the sound.

“How’s Anna?”

“She’s good.”

He felt pangs of guilt as Anna’s affectionate smile inundated his mind; he made his excuses and retreated to the opposite end of the room.

The night continued in that fashion, as he determinedly remained far away for the sake of his wife. His feet were itching to move towards her, and he finally succumbed. He shouldn’t have come.

“…the wedding ceremony sometime next month.”

He paused abruptly. The voice, akin to a nightingale’s, was unmistakable.

“You are so lucky to be getting married!”

The goddess giggled. She held out her porcelain hand; from her delicate finger sparkled flecks of white and gold.

He knew it was for the best.

As the night took its toll on several celebrators, the hall gradually emptied. He glanced over and saw the
chestnut-topped head floating amidst the dwindling crowds. In a rash decision, he made his way outside towards her to bid farewell and good luck. Cars left one by one, and she was alone.

“That was fun, wasn’t it?”

He did not answer, but was fixated on her eyes, those alluring emerald gems. They tantalized him.

“Well, I must meet my fiancé.”

She began to walk away, but he couldn’t tear his eyes from the back of her shimmering gown.

“Wait.”

The goddess turned around. With the realisation that she was promised to another man, lust washed over his self-imposed control. He thrust himself into her and kissed her gently yet passionately, in the same fashion as he had dreamt of since high school. Suddenly, he felt the warmth being peeled off his as she backed away furiously.

“I’m sorry.” He said quickly.

She continued to move away, off the pavement and onto the street, a look of revulsion and betrayal written onto her face.

“How could you–”

Her words were still ringing into the dark night as the oncoming car approached.

Tears clouded his vision. He wasn’t much help to the police; he was too overwhelmed to speak: overwhelmed by the guilt of betrayal and the guilt of being responsible. It was late.

Anna was seated comfortably in the kitchen. Her fresh countenance lit up brightly when she saw her beloved husband. He vaguely remembered when he had told her in their height of ‘passion’ that those glowing eyes were the lights of his life. However, when she saw the devastation on his face, her expression withered. She did not ask what was wrong; she did not intend to. He trudged towards her, collapsed into her arms and wept.

The morning arrived, and sunlight began to creep surreptitiously through the laced windows. His sobs quietened, and he fell asleep. Anna did not sleep; not when her husband was in pain. After all, he was the light of her life.

-Mel

PS And in case you were wondering, the motif was light. It's the first time I've used a motif, because all my other stories are bland soap operas. But hey.

Labels: Work

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This week, I volunteered to take an innocent and wide-eyed Chinese girl under my wing during the duration of her Aussie exchange. Unbeknownst to me, there were many no-nos involved...

DO NOT:

Hide behind doors and jump out screaming "HABAJIBA" when she emerges.
Hide outside her bedroom door and make funny sounds whilst she tries to sleep.
Lead her to the toilet and ask her what the funny smell is.
Enthusiastically and proudly show her articles in Chinese from her 'home country', which turn
out to be pages from a Chinese porn magazine.
Tell her that cars only drive on the left side on Saturdays... and then take her on a bike ride on Tuesday.
Ask her to wait at the bus stop for the next kangaroo.
Cut her hair while she sleeps.
Tell her that 'Down Under' refers to the mole people living under her bed.
Tell her that your ferret has bird flu.
Turn on a documentary about SARS and begin to cough.
Look confused and offended when she asks you where the toilet is.

And believe me,

DO NOT:

Furtively add her on MSN (if she doesn't know your address) when she's not looking, ask for her address, send her pictures of Rowan Atkinson, tell her that "I KNOW WHAT YOU'RE DOING" and repeat the process with several hotmail accounts.

Trust me, I know.

-Mel

Labels: School

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Following the shameless and rather pointless airing of Brainiest Big Brother Housemate (why? WHY?! The attachment of the words 'Big Brother Housemate' to the title already give an extremely accurate indicator of the intelligence of these people. WHY?! What's the point? I implore you, please stop wasting the time and show quality shows like Sailor Moon), I pondered the very selection process that put together the team that brought you hours of watching neurotic girls getting slapped in the face with genitalia. Here's what I think was on the list:

Gorilla dressed up as a surfer but will not prompt action from the RSPCA (ie must wear pants... usually).
Soulful, intelligent and poetic gorilla.
Clueless girl with big breasts and never wears a bra.
Clueless girl with small breasts but compensates by implanting jelly-like substance into breasts and never wears a bra.
Clueless girl with no breasts, but compensates by implanting jelly-like substance into genitalia in order to appear like a real man instead.
Seasoned publicity whore that is also a whore, much to the hypocritical disgust of clueless girls numbers 1 and 2.
Failed teacher, clown and sanitary officer who periodically urinates in public.

But most importantly for the survival of the show:

Neurotic girl that can be slapped in the face with genitalia, earn the show publicity points AND will not sue.

Well, at least they can sell all their dignity and prospects for any public admiration and/or career in the media for a nice 3 phone (as opposed to Dancing with the Stars contestants and Pauline Hanson ).

-Big Mel

Labels: Entertainment, Rants, Society

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Following my victory (GO ROSSLYN!! WOOOOO!!) in Senior House JMAPS and the absence of any invitation to present my speech in assembly in front of almost two thousand eyes belonging to my peers, who would judge me and wait mercilessly for any humiliating mistake (not that I'm complaining), I feel obliged, nay, forced to share my bitter and caustic thoughts about the global pandemic: iPods.

iPods. Who doesn’t know what they are? But I have to admit that despite their ubiquity and ‘style’, they bug me to deaf, pardon the pun.

iPods are nothing but a fad right now, like yoyos and Tamagotchis. For example, some time last year, I spotted in the newspaper that the Queen herself has a blue iPod. Now, I doubt her majesty would really buy an iPod so she can shake it like a Polaroid picture. What would she put on it? Mozart? That’s hard to believe, because she can buy a personal orchestra with her multi-national empire. It’s simply because of the fad, to be a hip and happenin’ grandma.

In fact, it’s like a club. When you actually take a look around, you see them everywhere, with sightings more common than sightings of Elvis and Mother Theresa. The owners give each other knowing glances on the tram and wear their white headphones like badges of honour. I wouldn’t be surprised if they had a secret handshake. When my friend Nancy got one, it was simply agonizing. It wasn’t long for Ali, the owner of two iPods, to pull out her own white ear buds and notice: “Nancy! You finally got an iPod! Oh my god! How many gigabytes? What’s on your playlist?”

Everyone began to crowd around her, bringing along their own iPods and the person attached to the other end. Soon the whole crowd was excitedly chatting about how awesome they are, except me. “Hey Mel, are you going to get one?” they ask me with both bewilderment and pity. In other words, “Hey Mel, when are you going to succumb and join our cult?”

Yes, poor me was left alone in the corner. Because I haven’t brought myself to worship their iPods, I am left out of the loop and literally ostracized. In fact, am I the only one in the country that doesn’t have one? Apparently, about a million or so exist in Australia alone, but judging by the number I see on the tram everyday, it’s got to be more than that.

It’s not the numbers that are cringe-worthy, however. Obsession is. Most iPod owners talk how they’re “really really really extreme with their iPods”, although I don’t think I know what to make of that. Just recently, my friend Jess had her iPod stolen. Granted, it is painful to lose $500, but the way she reacted, I quote, “as if I had lost a family member... I’m so lost because someone took the thing that made my life worthwhile. Cry for me!”… It was a bit overboard.

But really, their relationships seem much more deep and meaningful than sticking plastic into their ears. With the zeal of a religious convert, some claim that “When I broke up with my boyfriend, I put my iPod on random play and the first track it selected was I will Survive. How spooky is that?” Enough said. However, iPods are truly style over substance. All over the place, I see people raving about how gorgeous the minimalist design is, and watch as they caress the touch wheel with such zeal that I’m afraid that they’ll develop those ‘1c text side effects’.

iPods are simply overrated. If I had a cent for every iPod that has blown up, exploded or smelt ominously like smoke, I’d have enough to take over Apple. Not that I’d want to, of course. Furthermore, with the amount of features and the price, it simply is not worth it. Who would want to pay $500 for an iPod when they can get a $300 version with even more features and breaks down less often? Because of the obsessive ubiquity and unreliability of the iPod, I think I’ll opt out and get a Tamagotchi instead.

I'd also like to take this opportunity to give a shout out to Bryony Gordon of the Telegraph, who wrote almost half the material there. Yes, I just pinched it in a desperate bid to finish the speech 10 minutes before JMAPS began. Ah, the disorganisation and last-minute-ness of PLC house events is simultaneously refreshing and excruciatingly stressful. Also, I'd like to take this opportunity to give an ol' plug to my iRiver. How iLove my iRiver.

-iMel

Labels: Entertainment, Rants, Society

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Yes, after the relentless peer pressure in the form of those exasperating gleams peppered all over my contact list (albeit fewer than when MSN spaces first emerged), I have again decided to have my very own little nook in cyberspace: a blog.

That's right, I felt it was again time to stand among those people who, instead of actively making a difference, prefer to sit in the comfort of their computer chair and post crazy comments, intelligent insights, witty... erm... witticisms and amusing alliterations to a questionable audience (all hail to armchair activism). Or maybe it was simply just peer pressure.

So ... enjoy, I guess.

- Mel, the spirited sloth

PS. "It's what you paid for" is my second and possibly last "spirited" attempt at blogging, so please be kind. And if you are curious about my previous blog (which I strongly believe has great merit... *cough* imminent plug *cough*), feel free to visit it at http://azn-angel-008.spaces.live.com.

Labels: Blog

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