Facebook sometimes brings you face to face with the odd unsolicited stroll down memory lane. "Memory", perhaps, isn't the right word when you observe images of the present that you have no part of, that you have never lived. But somehow, they still succeed in invoking yesterday's ghost, which has the nasty habit of settling somewhere between my lungs and judging me. Unintentional memento mori conjuring the what-ifs, the what-was and (most poignantly) the whys. At what point did I leave and cease to be here/there? My 14-year-old self looks up and forward onto a different path and grafts herself onto the screen: a wedding photo here, a group shot there... She looks back at me now, is startled, and as most 14-year-olds, she judges me for what I've become.

No she can't understand, and neither can I. I guess I envy a sense of perceived security i see in what I  left behind/was taken from me. But I mostly don't understand why I still give a damn. 

I don't remember when I started to love durian. But boy is it good!

You know it's Singapore when

Jealousy, turning saints into the sea, Swimming through sick lullabies, Choking on her CCB, But it's just the price I pay, Destiny is calling me, Open up my eager eyes, Cause I'm Mr Brightside

10 years later, it is wonderful to sit and laugh and be happy for each other. The lack of anger, care and stress are symptoms of deep healing. But more importantly, is a sense of clarity of what is required next and the security in knowing that even if it all falls flat, I'm going to be ok.

I miss writing. Especially since I used to write well.

I miss writing. Especially since I used to write well.

Love is not being alone? Or at least, not fearing change or loss?

DON'T KANCHEONG SPIDER I NEED THIS JOB!

In the space of the mistake, before consciousness of the mistake emerges, something lives, vibrates, shakes. Perhaps it is in the mistake, the place of vulnerability, that we are completely alive.

~ Peggy Phelan, On Seeing the Invisible: Marina Abramovic's The House With The Ocean View

"In its report, Paris-Match said that Ms Dehar was typical of the modern prostitution scene in Paris.

Thanks to police crackdowns and the growth of the internet, the old nightclub-based hostess networks run by pimps and protected by criminal gangs have all but vanished.

Instead the market is dominated by "independents" - many of them students.

"Footballers are their preferred prey. The best-informed know what establishments they like to frequent," Paris-Match said.

Mr Ribery - a convert to Islam who is married and has two children - has been interviewed by police.

However, as his lawyer Sophie Battai points out, he was questioned solely as a witness and there is no indication that charges are being prepared against him.

But if that were to happen - if he were "placed under judicial investigation" in the affair - his career on the French team could be in jeopardy.

As the sports minister Rama Yade said on national radio on Friday: "The French football shirt is sacred. It cannot be worn by someone who is under judicial investigation." "
~ BBC: Escort girl claims cast cloud over French football

Prostitutes now prey on unsuspecting helpless men.
As with rape-victims, who aren't really victims at all, but were really asking for it since it is evident that rapist can't control their hormones.

Hrmph.

All I have to offer is thick black silence. You could cut it with a knife.