pammie returns with tiramisu and sausages and tinned tomato puree on tuesday.

sitting placidly in front of the laptop on my desk, pecking the keys with as much precision as a woodpecker drunk on milk kahlua. in case anyone is wondering, milk kahlua is a feminine alcoholic beverage, prepared using kahlua, a sort of hard liquor, and a ton of milk. on the first taste, i was struck by its resemblance to chinese medicine. but after a while, it starts to taste like the chocolate milk Alex is strongly insisting on. i guess it's either an acquired taste or the fulfilment of the power of suggestion. if u press me for an answer, i'd say it's suggestion. especially since i have never recalled my chocolate milk (or cocoa-laced glyco-protein complex, if you like) to leave a burning aftertaste. or perhaps i've never had the misfortune to be afflicted with GERD. haha.

sprained my ankle at 23XXhours on saturday. i was conscientiously trying not to disturb the meticulously arranged chairs of the wedding banquet at my void deck, and forgot about the slight curb at the edge. it's so slight that i estimate it to be less than 5cm in height. no child could possibly trip over it, not even a toddler testing out its newly biped powers. but apparently i have overestimated my superiority over a fresh bipedal human. i tripped. and landed sideways, not fully comprehending what had just occurred besides the fact that i had successfully overturned 3 of the chairs which i had very recently strived not to overturn.

Then the pain kicked in, with all the gusto of a purple newborn infant wailing lustily to get its first breath. wow. never again will i scoff at anyone who has a sprained ankle. it hurts like **** reincarnated. i hauled myself into a kneeling, subservient position and decided it hurt too much to make any further moves. there i remained for all of 5 glorious minutes whilst everyone stared at me and my playdead antics. eventually i plucked up sufficient courage to sit in a chair (one of the merrily overturned ones) to examine the injured foot. it was amusing to watch the extremity balloon up and fill the shoe in a matter of minutes. insta-elephant-legs, you could call it. it looked just like papier mache dipped in a tub of water. i struggled not to cry and laugh maniacally at the same time. fortunately i succeeded in repressing the 2 conflicting emotions, or else they would've called an ambulance to ferry me to the Land of The Ha-has With People In White Jackets.

i limped home, shamed at my defeat by a 5cm curb which 1 year olds sneer at and hop up and down on when they play catch with their mates.

the next day, i woke up to the dreadful realization that someone had taken a hacksaw and spliced off my foot (not too gently, either) whilst i was asleep. i looked down, expecting to see my left leg to end in a bloody, congealed stump of flesh. but the foot was there.

magically magnified, to boot. it truly resembled the world's biggest pig's trotters. if my mum smeared black soy sauce on it, i would've received a Guinness certificate proving my possession of the abovementioned delicacy in a snap. the ice pack and compression applied haphazardly close to the witching hour the previous night had not been as effective as hoped. but i was fortunate in that no boogeyman with rusty hacksaws had visited me while i snored and drooled last night.

not the best image in which to present, not even to my potential homicide-r, you see. pretty, well-brought-up girls do not routinely show themselves scantily clad around the lower body with lines of snot and drool hanging about their faces. as some famous but forgettable (ah, the irony) celebrity once said, one must be beautiful, even in the face of death.

sometimes i envy my guppies. they parade themselves nude in public, putting their bodies up for public scrutiny, without a trace of shame. sometimes they even allow themselves to relieve themselves and trail a line of compressed crap behind their asses without bothering to find some kleenex.

ah, to live in a world without mirrors. in a civilised world without mirrors, the ugliest people needn't be self-conscious, for they know not the magnitude of their superficial anomalies, and the people around them would be too polite to say anything about the issue.

even those ugly enough to induce appetite loss in others would simply think that the offended party was just having a routine upset stomach from, oh, too much yoghurt or something.

you see, we need to live with a kind tongue and no mirrors. maybe this is a form of HR/etiquette heaven.

but my heaven would simply have NO beautiful people in them. period. hahaha.