Close My Eyes.

Ever had those moments when you felt absolutely happy. Perfectly joyous?

I had. This comfortable feeling of contentment washes over you. It's as if you know you're heading from point A to point B. You know where you're from, it's a dream. You know where you're going, it's a dream.

But right now, you're contented to realize where you've come and where you're headed.

That feeling of happiness.

I've had those feelings many times. Like a dream, things slow down, but you realize it'll be over in an instant. I close my eyes and memorize how I feel. I take in friend's voices, friend's laughter. I memorize the sun light, the fabric of the couch, the crispness of the air.

I wipe a tear from laughing too hard. I remember my friend's face, smiling. I look around and memorize more faces, each happy that they're here, that I'm here. Then I shut my eyes, and memorize everything.

 I memorize the warmth of acceptance. The feeling that I can do anything, but I am content right here.

Contentment. Maybe it's not just a moment.

Student Hunting/Gathering techniques.

I recall the all encompassing horror of my first self-cooked meal in Australia. 

Wondering where I would get food at 6pm, (all stores closed) I promptly panicked realizing I didn't have food in the fridge. FInding only some rice and tomato paste, a concoction formed in my culinary retarded skull. I had seen coffee stores serve rice with pasta sauce for obscene prices; perhaps I could cook something like that as well. 

After staring blankly at the rice cooker and the Preggo's tomato paste container for about five minutes, I set to work. An hour later and a mountain of dirtied cooking utensils, I ended up with semi cooked rice, and warmish preggo tomato paste. 

It tasted terrible. Try eating some rice left outside the house for two days with lemon. That was almost how it tasted. But that was a year and a half ago. My survival skills have now improved by leaps and bounds! 

I now know how to cook indo mee with sausages. 

Just for Fun!

Slim Jeans.

I shall never wear a pair of skinny jeans. It's against everything I am.

Well no, not really, I have on an occasion tried on a pair of skinny jeans. Yelling, rolling around in TopMan's ample fitting room trying to fit that sorry excuse for a clothing around my plush tush. Pulling and dragging the blasphemy of a clothing, I realized to my pain that it's waist band only fit one of my thighs. I shall forever hate the skinny jean.

Needless to say, I gave up the hope of having my perfectly toned legs on display for the female race to gorge their sights upon. Then I started flipping through a GQ magazine, coming across this.

Well, uh... It was something like that. But not exactly. It said something along the lines of

"Back in the olden times, young men used to put themselves through the rigours of the male test that included pushing their legs through torturous garment known as the skinny jean. No more. D1 slim pants."

 I was inspired to get myself a pair of them slim jeans for the wearing. After all, if fashion is based on the rules of self expression and optical illusions, the slim jean would then make my puny little legs look longer. And express that I was a fashion forward, beacon of garment guyishness.

Now I am loathe to put on my black slim jeans in the morning. Specifically because of two things. One, they are tighter than relaxed fit jeans, which are two times looser than slim jeans. I other words, now with the tighter, jean, I have to work twice as hard to put them on each morning. Two, there are buttons instead of a zipper. Sometimes, I fantasize about being able to run freely to uni in my boxers, gliding and skipping ala the "sound of music".

Having said that, I like my slim jeans, at least they don't ride up on my thighs, showing my Michael Jackson socks. Maybe it's time to get those low slung sissy socks too.