Photography, Singular Adventures

The eye

I read before that someone takes your photograph the way they see you. I’m inclined to believe that’s true.

Olympus Stylus, 35mm, Lucky 200

Photography, Singular Adventures


I rarely have people in my photos, so this was interesting for me. I learned:
(1) People never do what you tell them to;
(2) The selfie has become a reflex; and
(3) The photos may not be amazing but the weekend was.

Olympus Stylus, 35mm

For Better or Worse

2AM drunk dialling

I think about London the way other people drunk-dial their exes at 2AM– it’s always there, at the back of my mind. I don’t have anything to say, but it’s familiar, and I liked my then more than my right now, whatever that right now may be.

“Right now” for me is unable to sleep at 2AM with a painful head cold, a fever about to pounce the second my respiratory system decides to take a lunch break, and my mother yapping on and on about things I forget about the next second later. It is hell. And ironically enough, it is more hellish than the time I did actually get sick in London, because– idiot– I left the window open at night and I caught a draft. I was stuck in bed, Googling which of the medicine I brought from home would work at that exact moment. I was hungry, and there was no food in my tiny flat– just the yogurt I’d have for breakfast everyday, and water. I did realize that at one point I’d have to go out and buy rations in case it would become a long, hard suffering, so the second I felt a tiny bit better, I stepped out to hit the nearest grocery.

But the second my foot hit the pavement, I was fine. My head cleared, and I breathed in fresh air (well, as fresh as cold stale air can be). I chose to leave London because– truthfully, really– there was nothing there for me, but it’s still the ex I think about at 2AM, when the lights are dim, and my eyes are tired, and nothing around me is of interest. It’s that usual feeling that I think I’m destined for something greater elsewhere, but I’ve been elsewhere, even just for a little while, and it doesn’t feel better than here.


The virgin suicides


I don’t know about most people, but I put a premium on virginity. Not necessarily the sexual kind– it goes for anything. I’ve never thought inexperience was a handicap; in fact, I always appreciate fresh eyes, and I prefer that those eyes be mine. I guess it’s the unjadedness– when you feel something for the first time, you’ll never feel it again as much as you did the first. I thought Nick Hornby said it best, but maybe it was Cat Stevens after all: the first cut is the deepest.

And I suppose the problem comes with every there time after that. The second time, the third time, the fourth, the fifth… None of them beat the unexpectedness of the new. I used to be so afraid of running out of new things to experience, but at twenty-three, it’s not so much about experiencing the newest. Appallingly, the problem seems to be as not being perceived as new– basically, as old. It’s the point where people take things for granted, like the pain of getting your hair bleached then dyed green. And  then of course there’s the fact hat we’re no longer new. And I don’t know to do that.


No bake baking


It is really annoying that my brother buys cookbooks assuming that I’ll do the recipes in it. I don’t even cook. The only thing I can cook are posed Instagram food shots and menu descriptors.

But I do love looking at cookbook photos, and my brothers challenged me to do 12 recipes out of Christina Tosi’s Milk Bar Life: Recipes & Stories cookbook before the end of the month. I did the (deformed) sour cream cookies the other day (with a sour cream glaze that didn’t harden; my boss aptly described it as an ugly cupcake), and I honestly thought it’d take one trip to the supermarket and then it’d be smooth sailing, but I forgot that this isn’t a first world country. I can’t find Thai tea leaves anywhere, and they’re supposed to be found at Asian supermarkets. Am I not in Asia?!?!

Complaints aside, I actually like doing these little baking projects right before I go to work. I feel so productive. Like, I can’t get up at 10 to workout, so I may as well flip the opportunity cost, and bake all the calories I was supposed to have burned. I’ve been giving all of it away (friends, officemates, househelp, brothers). If I can’t be thin, may as well make everyone fat.

I am surprised though that my ~boyfriend~ (did I just admit that ugh) loves ugly little beetles I made this morning. They’re peanut butter cornflake no-bakes, which were so simple to make, but of course I fucked up somehow. The recipe said 1 cup of corn syrup; turns out we didn’t have any at home so I improvised with molasses. Did I even measure the cup? Nope. Just threw it in and stopped when our cook Marilyn commented that this was going to turn out really sweet. I also threw in a bit of malted milk powder, just because i felt like throwing more stuff in.

I don’t have a propensity for baking, but I am fairly skilled at improvisation, and I’m slowly realizing that it’s the same thing.


Ingredients: 1 cup of sugar, less than a cup of molasses, 1 teaspoon of vanilla (the recipe said vanilla but the little bottle I used just said vanilla; I’m assuming that it’s at least similar), maybe a teaspoon of malted milk powder, a lot of creamy Skippy peanut butter, a box of Special K.

Directions: Throw everything but the cereal into a large or deep pan, and put it over medium heat. Mix til it becomes fairly homogenous. Turn off the heat, mix in the cereal really quickly before the thing hardens and you’re left with uncovered cornflakes like what happened with me. Scoop out onto a cookie sheet or a flat pan, wait to cool. Take a shower while playing an entire Taylor Swift album. Return to kitchen. Have a bite.

Photography, Singular Adventures


I miss you, London. I thought that I knew who I was when I left you, but I guess I did only for a while, and now I don’t know anything anymore (again).