I say that my lipstick gives me a teeny change in my appearance, a challenge, and sweet pleasure.

Maybelline used to have a good tagline. I don't know if they're still using it or not. They used to say "Maybe she's born with it. Maybe it's Maybelline." That's what make-up is supposed to do. It's supposed to enhance your face without anyone ever even realizing that you actually look better than you really do. Mascara makes your lashes look longer and curlier. Foundation makes your skin look softer and clearer (as well as protecting you from skin cancer). Eyeshadow makes your eyes look wider and brighter.

Lipstick? Lipstick brings attention to your lips. Makes people notice when you're smiling, or when you're pouting, or when you're speaking. Lipstick tells something about you.

A girl who wears sheer lipgloss gives a different impression from a girl who wears bright red lipstick. A girl who wears soft pink gives a different impression from a girl who wears dark wine.

My lipstick is Revlon. The colour is called Cocoplum Chrome. When I wear it, I think it says I have strong lips. Lips that say strong things. I won't mince my words, says my lipcolour. I'll say whatever I want, and my mouth will do whatever it wants. Maybe kiss someone right on the mouth. Because my lipcolour is outrageous enough to call for it.

It's funny how I love make-up, when I rarely wear it. It's a lot of effort. Not to put it on, but to remove it. If I didn't have to remove make-up, I think I probably would wear it on daily basis.

Excuse me. I have to remove my mascara. I was born with with my beautiful eyelashes. Never mind that the mascara is Maybelline.

Sigh.

I am feeling a little terrified right now. It is October. That means next month is November. That means my final exams near.

Let me clarify my history of education to you.

Form Four: age sixteen. I did very well in English (because Malaysian standard of English was so low), and I failed everything else.

High School: age sixteen and seventeen. I didn't write fifty per cent of my Philosophy essays, and I did none of the Biology assignments. Thankfully, I'm very active in Philosophy class, which made up for my grades, while the Biology teacher was new, and a sucker for a pretty girl. I also avoided composing the gamelan score for Music. Gamelan, for goodness sake. People don't compose gamelan music! I did quite nicely for the piano piece, and the andes folk piece. My performances were okay too. I skipped TONS of classes. Went to sleep or read in the library.

Freshman year in NYU: age eighteen. I got an A- for my Ethics paper. I also got a good grade for screenplay, but I don't remember what it is. I stopped showing up for classes in my second semester.... I visited Barnes & Noble from the moment I woke up till they kicked me out, for a month or so, then I literally stayed in bed for a week. So I went to NYU Counselling Unit.... and I dropped out of college before the final exams.

First year in Malaysia: age twenty. I did well for the first semester. Then repeat NYU second semester in Malaysia. Except worse, I failed the whole semester, instead of pulling out.

This is my second year. I did okay last semester. The question is... will I survive this semester?

1. I am extremely sleepy.
2. Nothing note-worthy to speak of currently.
3. I am bored of blogging.
4. I am shy to blog because of the nice comments I've been receiving about my blogs.
5. I am so full of bullshit I can't decide which bullshit to put in.

Hmm, I should make this into a poll....

But Tariq wants to call me.

I tell him, I'm hanging out with girls, and could you not call me so I can concentrate with girls?

He goes all miserable and points out that when he's gone out with friends, I still demand he calls me.

Well, we've been talking on the phone every single night. For hours. I have barely any time for anything else anymore!

I wish I was with Tariq. That solves a lot.

It always was a requirement of mine, that any guy whom intends to enter a long-term relationship with me should be able to get along with the YCCians. Since my friends are somewhat strange and kooky, like me, it figures to me that if my guy can handle them, they can handle me.

So it disturbs me to see any friend of mine romantically attached to a guy who is uncomfortable with the YCCians.

I'm not asking for being able to join us outright in our zaniness. I'm asking for being able to sit there, watch us, and be comfortable. I mean, there are actually guys out there who have difficulty watching a bunch of girls insult him to his face, grope each other, threaten each other, talk about reading gay fanfiction (a.k.a. slash), asking intimate questions of strangers, making outrageous statements, and various other terrifying activities that attract very embarrassing attention.

But any guy who can take all these things in stride is a man that I would say is worthy of a YCCian member.

I am inclined to distrust a man who doesn't like his girlfriend's friends. A girl's friends are part of her. When a man doesn't like her friends, it would seem to me that he doesn't like a part of her too.

I could never have a long-term relationship with a man who doesn't accept all the nice parts of me. Unless the girl herself thinks her friends aren't a nice part of her. Then I would think less of the girl.

Does anyone else have a language in their head that belongs to no other language in the world?

Unfortunately, this language of mine inside my head is not made of written words in anyway. Not in spoken words either. It's a language spoken with the mind.

If we had telepathy, we'd probably be speaking in that mind-language.

Okay, so I'm babbling and not speaking anything of importance or essence.

Yet, the thing about the language of my mine: it always speaks something profound. It sounds quite beautiful in my head.

That's why I wish I could speak it aloud. In my blog, or with my mouth, or in any way that would push it out of my head.

Then again, I should be careful what I wish for, because I think if my wish came true I would be very very very freaked out. So never mind about the wish. It was a stupid one.