tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21036206756446949772024-03-14T17:33:45.738+08:00little shurgeries Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger35125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2103620675644694977.post-20459051787278940092015-02-01T23:28:00.000+08:002015-05-23T22:14:28.749+08:00☁<div style="text-align: center;">
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Find me on cloud nine</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2103620675644694977.post-81245220574354209152015-01-04T21:18:00.003+08:002015-01-04T21:18:49.412+08:00Spun sugar<div style="text-align: center;">
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We always want what we can't have. </div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2103620675644694977.post-10301637768746164232015-01-03T19:43:00.000+08:002015-05-23T22:15:43.736+08:00ThunderstormsToday I found in my archives a post unfinished from September:<br />
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<i>Sometimes we are so preoccupied by end of season sales and chipped manicures that we forget to enjoy the simple pleasures in life, like listening to Kalmaegi make her rounds in the city. </i><br />
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<i>If I were a kind of weather, I most certainly would be a typhoon - loud, impatient and completely selfish - I probably sounded like one last week stomping around the flat in a rage because I had misplaced my sunglasses again. </i></div>
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<i>For as long as I can remember, I've loved</i><br />
<i><br /></i>I'd like for it to have been something philanthropic, like ending ivory trade or finding a way to get Spotify Premium for free, but I was probably writing about my love for listening to thunderstorms while nestling under covers, knowing someone less fortunate is fighting through rush hour in the rain without an umbrella.</div>
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In fact, it had most likely taken too long to come up with the words to romanticise my terrible case of schadenfreude that I got distracted and left things half-written.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2103620675644694977.post-66604157058765747582015-01-02T13:56:00.001+08:002015-01-04T00:18:50.400+08:00Bare<span style="font-family: inherit;">I'm hiding in my car taking deep breaths, completely overwhelmed by the wave of new information and confusing logistics. An unfamiliar playing field with too much oestrogen. </span><br>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It was a good idea to skip lunch - the anxiety is making me nauseous. The fact that I am without a manicure makes it worse. I'm at a state of utmost vulnerability, where the lightest snowflake could send me tumbling. </span><br>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And so I find comfort in old spaces and old faces. This is when bad judgement and lax morals come out to play. </span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2103620675644694977.post-24351601838234240112014-09-21T01:16:00.001+08:002014-09-21T02:48:05.676+08:00<div style="text-align: center;">
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Everything tastes of salt. </div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2103620675644694977.post-22422603567010505472014-08-30T02:49:00.000+08:002014-09-21T02:49:44.484+08:00Never too chocolateI'm in bed willing myself not to finish the last of the German peach Bellini gummies too quickly but, as I had with the rest of the sweets V sent me, I practically inhale them anyway and am already browsing the store's website and contemplating my next order.<br />
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Just a few summers ago, I was sipping the most delicious apple martini in Huangpu district, watching a logo-laden group of middle-aged men pay for enough bottles to have the privacy of a partition because they were too embarrassed to dance on the main floor. I would never spend my hard-earned money on such ridiculous things, I had mused.<br />
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It just goes to show that even the best of us sometimes eat our own words, amongst other things, like the gold-dipped marshmallows and candied black cherries that will arrive at my door within the next few days via expedited shipping.<br />
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I've become quite the frivolous spender since starting becoming a doctor, and money is not the only aspect of life I have completely given up control of. Work has become the perfect justification for evading self-discipline: being too busy to exercise yet always making time for retail therapy, adopting reckless eating habits as reward for trivial accomplishments, and forever giving myself one more day off from studying.<br />
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Perhaps it is post-call mania, but after an afternoon of reflection, I don't see why I can't have it all. I'll have my red velvet and eat it too. </div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2103620675644694977.post-78022476173077971812014-05-13T22:56:00.000+08:002014-05-14T14:49:47.933+08:00The Perfect EggI am absolutely eggstatic to share with you my foolproof recipe for soft-boiled eggs, aka the first result on google search.<br>
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You're welcome.<br>
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<i><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Perfect for a breakfast, lunch, or a rainy night in. </span></i><br>
<i><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Instant curry and leftover rice not included.</span></i></div>
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<span style="text-decoration: underline;">Way To His Heart Series: The Perfect Soft-Boiled Egg</span><br>
1. Take a little pot and heat more than enough water to cover your eggs on their side. </div>
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2. Wash your eggs while that's boiling (newbies: maximum heat, lid on). </div>
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3. When your water is at a full boil (newbies: spilling over the sides) lower your eggs in with a strainer. Or with as much gentle loving care as possible without steaming yourself. </div>
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<i>Goodbye, my children!</i></div>
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4. Your eggs may crack up a little <strike>if you told them a joke</strike> If they came fresh out of the fridge due to the temperature difference (hello heated soda can experiment in year 7). This makes them easier to peel later on, but by all means leave them out at room temperature for longer if you prefer intact shells (you don't).</div>
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5. Lower the heat so that your water is making the tiniest bubbles (I turned my setting to 7/12 on my electric stove). Replace the lid and let your eggs cook for <u>five and a half minutes</u>. </div>
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6. Fish them out with a strainer. Run cold water over your eggs until they're cool to touch. </div>
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7. Peel off the shell. Realise how right I was about #4. </div>
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8. Sprinkle on salt. Savour this glorious eggsperience. </div>
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And there you have it, directions to heaven, all in an eggshell.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2103620675644694977.post-37649025738517859692014-04-19T00:53:00.001+08:002014-04-19T00:55:34.814+08:002.0<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">'Most men die at twenty-five, but aren't buried until they're seventy.'</span><div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></div><div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">In my second year of medical school, I made a conscious effort to turn my brain off. To keep things short, it was probably a rebellion thing, having been a model student/nerd for all the prior years. I'm not sure why I'm telling you this in public, but then again this space should be desolate considering the length of my hiatus. </div><div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></div><div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">I just read somewhere about a small study concluding that we are happiest doing mindless tasks, but there surely is more about life beyond online shopping and going to work without my brain. In no way do I intend to drop everything and backpack around South America, but I'd like to have more to derive happiness from than just a difficult drip in the convoluted veins of an oedematous granny. </div><div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></div><div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">It has been an embarrassingly long time since I have read (frantically scrolling through Wikipedia because I have no idea what on earth is wrong with my patient hardly qualifies). I brought home with me Murakami's Norweign Wood today - it was shelved under 'Literature' - as my first step to becoming a person of culture. </div><div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></div><div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">And while we are on the topic, perhaps I ought also to invest in some new glasses from Oliver Peoples to look the part. </div><div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"> </div><div style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"> </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2103620675644694977.post-44417646557753307662013-09-15T20:04:00.000+08:002014-05-13T23:00:44.542+08:00The dying patientLately I often find myself complaining about work, whining about the long hours, and generally feeling very sorry for myself and my lifeless job.<br />
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Because sometimes I forget that I encounter life and death on a daily basis.<br />
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<a name='more'></a>A seventy-nine year old lady was newly diagnosed with stomach cancer after her initial presentation to the hospital because of repeated vomitting. Contrast CT showed distal metastasis, and the plan was for her to receive hospice care at home once she was stabilised. In the fortnight after I took over her care, her creatinine shot up from 59 to 600. Our conclusion was that her kidneys were shutting down due to contrast nephropathy. It was absolute irony that the suffering in her last days was not so much caused by the cancer itself than it was by renal failure brought on by an investigation that deemed her unsuitable for curative treatment in the first place.<br />
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In the week before she died, I dreaded going to her bed during rounds. I found it ridiculous asking her twice a day how she felt, knowing it could only progress from bad to worse, and that there was nothing I could do for her except step up her morphine. It sounds terrible as I type these words, but I almost wanted her to die. Without a doubt, she deserved an end to her suffering, but I have been increasingly bothered by what had been driving my thoughts: did I really care whether she was alleviated of her pain, or was I just too weak to bear even watching my patient deteriorate? Was it her I felt the sense of relief for when I found her without a pulse that morning, or was it myself?<br />
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I don't even know how to end this. This clearly got a lot more intense then I intended for it to be.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2103620675644694977.post-58946695852841295422013-08-08T01:23:00.001+08:002015-01-02T15:11:35.505+08:00Induction<div>
Between people-watching from the wall-mounted mirror in one of my favourite cafes and taking a slow slp of my flat white, I decided today was one of those times to look back and not forward. It is far more pleasant to reflect when what lies ahead is work tomorrow (and having to remove your turquoise manicure for it). </div>
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I wish I could remember all of my patients, but we usually only recall the mortalities, and the ones with angry relatives. Then there are the idiots who make for interesting stories, like the young man who needed orchioplasty because he had strangled both his testicles by forcing all of his external genitalia through a 1cm thick metal ring/sex toy that we could not break without snipping off bits of him. And of course there was the drug addict with COPD on long term oxygen admitted for a facial burn because his oxygen supply caught fire and blew up in his face when he was sneaking a smoke.</div>
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Time has been slipping away through my latex glove-cladded fingers like medical knowledge through the sieve that is my brain. It was only when I changed a suprapubic catheter again for the same patient did I notice an entire month had passed. Overall though, and I may or may not be writing behind rose-tinted eye shields, there has been more good than bad, and I definitely feel a lot more competent than I first started. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);">Now, if only I could remember where I last left my pager... .</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2103620675644694977.post-17007412175722607602013-06-29T00:54:00.004+08:002015-01-02T14:40:01.799+08:00Working for royaltyThe bigger hospitals here are mostly named after royalty, so let's just say I'll be spending my next three months at the Prince's.<br>
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That sounded sleazy.<br>
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Day 1: 8am-6pm<br>
Day 2: 8am-6pm-8am<br>
Day 3: 8am- 6pm<br>
(Day 4: 8am-6pm)<br>
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Whoever's decision it was to make house officers thirty-three hours shifts every few days is an absolute moron. Besides, taking into account my current unfamiliarity with my job, my days should start slightly after six every morning if I want to do a round on my patients before my medical officer does. I should start looking for a better eye cream.<br>
<br>You may say, hard work pays. Unfortunately, only minimally.<br>
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10 hours x 5 week days = 50 hours<br>
4 on Saturdays = 4 hours<br>
14 hours x 2 overnight shifts = 28 hours<br>
Allowing an extra 8 hours overtime per week to accommodate the ridiculous number of patients in our overloaded public system<br>
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Divided by our measly wages after subtracting costs of things like mpf and insurance, we receive less than seventy bucks an hour, i.e. just a little over <b>a dollar per minute</b>. In other words, it seems like a better deal for us to work at one of those 每六秒一蚊 sex story hotlines. The job nature is similar - 候召 - but with a better label. <br>
<br>Despite all the ranting, I'm actually pretty excited to start finally contributing to humanity as a small potato at the bottom of the food pyramid (how apt). T-minus three and counting. <br>
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<br>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2103620675644694977.post-64896397111990904032013-06-18T23:44:00.001+08:002014-05-12T02:19:10.118+08:00Prologue<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a name="more"></a>Life has been a whirlwind. As usual, I found myself overwhelmed by all that I had on my plate because, as usual, I'd bitten off much more than I could chew. Perhaps that's just the way I get things done - I push my poor self past my limits, crumble under stress like an overbaked cupcake, pull myself together, then write a literature review, plan a three-week trip, and throw a fabulous ball all within a month's time.<br>
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I have been in school for too long, and many a times it felt like I would never have to grow beyond the umbrella of my parents, professors and teachers. Yet suddenly, I find the end of my childhood dawning upon me all too quickly with work starting in two weeks. </div>
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This will be a challenging path strewn with pebbles that will trip me over when I'm not looking, and most likely even when I am. Hopefully I'll find some boulders to lean on and climb a few mountains that will help me see further. And when I fall flat on my face like the time I ran down a flight of stairs in five-inch heels, I'll think of the insanity I subjected myself to this month and feel invincible again, even if only for long enough to get back on my feet and dust myself off. </div>
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Look out, world.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2103620675644694977.post-38327539066228797742013-05-05T21:44:00.001+08:002014-05-12T01:04:02.448+08:00Productivity<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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It's been three weeks, and so far this is what my literature review looks like:</div>
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Yes, m<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">y productivity has truly hit an all-time low, and desperate times call for desperate measures. After dinner today, I plan to paint my nails, pluck my brows and play Candy Crush.</span></div>
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<br>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2103620675644694977.post-73019405602392575282013-05-04T18:56:00.002+08:002013-06-19T00:26:49.209+08:00StressYou'd think that I would be completely stress-free with exams over and degree in hand, but apparently it's quite the opposite. It's times like these when I wish I had a vibrator<br />
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<i>Aw! I googled 'cute vibrator' and this came up</i></div>
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<a name='more'></a>...for my literature review so it could finish itself off while I play yet another game of Candy Crush. If you've noticed me climbing up about a hundred levels since two weeks ago, it's because I started a research module as part of my attachment around the same time. Research is a lot like natto - not everyone's cup of tea, and most definitely not mine.<br />
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Perhaps it's ironic that one of my major stressors in my last long break before I start work is the fact that it is my last long break before I start work. This self-imposed urge that I must make the best out of my holidays eventually snowballed into an ambitious three week long trip to a country I know nothing about, save for its exports of pasta, Miu Miu and hot men.<br />
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Armed with the only phrase I can now vocalise with terrible pronunciation - "Buon giorno, vorrei prenotare un tavolo per tre per prossima domenica sera alle venti," I called the trattoria and waited, and waited, and waited. Then I realised they don't open on Saturday afternoons. 一鼓作氣 fail.<br />
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Guess I'll have to resume literature reviewing while I wait another six hours before making another call. My dad's jamming to Jennifer Lopez's I'm into you while watching mountain biking videos, so I have good reason to be unproductive. Feeling lucky like a four leaf clover. Not.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2103620675644694977.post-49621804497022090582013-04-22T23:13:00.002+08:002014-05-11T19:01:39.040+08:00Way To His HeartI realise my level of attractiveness takes a sizable plummet as I finally graduate: as doctors, we neglect our personal hygiene because public hospitals are so busy one may not even have time to shower during an overnight call, life beyond our inhumanly long calls will be spent catching up on sleep instead of with friends over drinks, and any men with potential in our laughably small social circles will likely pick someone with shaved legs and a less intimidating occupation, i.e. a nurse.<br>
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<a name="more"></a>In order to keep my game up, I've started cooking because we all know that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. The truth is it's probably via an organ further down south, but let's keep this blog remotely PG-rated and learn to make minced lamb pasta instead.<br>
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Please note that this is a cooking a guide for noobs that will hence be written in exquisite (unnecessary) detail. The following recipe was adapted from one of Nigella Lawson's. 'Adapted' is a professional way of admitting that I may or may not have forgotten one or two ingredients, while tweaking the amount of others. Here is what you will need:</div>
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If you are keen on saving some 婆乸數, certain things can be bought at a wet market...</div>
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- 3 tomatoes</div>
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- One and a half onions</div>
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- 4 cloves of garlic</div>
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- 2 tablespoons sugar</div>
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- Salt to taste</div>
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Others at a small local supermarket...</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">- 2 cans plum tomatoes</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">- 3/4 packs of linguine (or spaghetti if you prefer)</div>
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- 1 tablespoon tomato puree</div>
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- 250ml red wine (I've tried this with Merlot and Cabernet - both worked fine)</div>
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- Olive oil</div>
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Everything else you will have better luck finding at Citysuper...</div>
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- 500g minced lamb</div>
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- Oregano (4 tablespoons fresh or 2 dried)</div>
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- 200g feta cheese (you want the crumbly type, which is also the cheaper of the two options at the fresh cheese counter)</div>
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<u>The Way To His Heart series: Minced Lamb Pasta</u></div>
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<i>4-5 large servings</i></div>
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<i>Requires 1ish hours but most of the time you are free to do other things (see step 8)</i></div>
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1. I know, you're thinking who needs to cook if you marry rich? Well, the point here is it's sexy for a girl to be <i>able </i>to cook, so throw on a racy apron.</div>
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2. Chop your garlic as finely as you can without compromising the number of fingers in your possession. Roughly dice your onions and tomatoes. </div>
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3. Drizzle olive oil into your medium-sized pot and swirl the pot around so that its base is mostly covered. Set on medium heat and throw in your garlic, onions and half the oregano. Keep stirring for 5-7 minutes so as not to burn anything.</div>
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<span style="text-align: center;">4. Add lamb, bring to high heat and stir until it becomes brown.</span></div>
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5. Add wine and let it cook until mixture bubbles.<br>
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6. Have someone take a picture of you cooking as proof.</div>
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7. Add everything else (except pasta and cheese!). Turn the heat just low enough to prevent everything from bubbling over. Let it cook uncovered for at least another 30 minutes, then put the lid over the pot and continue to let stew until it reaches desired consistency.</div>
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8. While that's cooking, freshen up your manicure/shave your legs/tweeze your nostrils.</div>
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9. Cook your pasta. While it is boiling, prepare your feta by smooshing it in a bowl with a fork.</div>
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10. Serve pasta with sauce. Sprinkle the crumbled feta over it.</div>
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Took a picture without the cheese because it didn't look good, but it really does elevate the flavours that much more. Tastes even better overnight - wink, wink. Enjoy!</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2103620675644694977.post-66657543784080199792013-01-01T10:19:00.003+08:002015-01-02T14:43:07.761+08:00A votre santé<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
By no means did twenty twelve go by in a flash - the last countdown seems like an eon and some away - but I can't exactly tell you where all that time went either.</div>
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<a name="more"></a>For the first time in a long time, I spent New Year's Eve at home with family. Not that it was much of a celebration: my sister and mummy were fighting for couch space and both began snoozing beneath my duvet by quarter to midnight, and this old lady was struggling not to fall asleep so she could catch the fireworks.<br>
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As you can tell, it was a very joyous occasion at our household indeed.</div>
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A true fobby Asian at heart, I religiously take pictures of myself and all my meals, so of course I also had to screen capture the pyrotechnic finale on television with my iPhone.</div>
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This year, I have much to be thankful for. I am thankful for the new people and things that have found their way into my life, and more so for those who have stayed a constant despite my turbulent personality.</div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">So here's to our loved ones, their health, smooth sailing, good food and more frequent updates with less narcissism. And </span><strike style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">nail polish that doesn't chip</strike><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"> world peace.</span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2103620675644694977.post-88546466274483773782012-11-04T19:16:00.001+08:002014-12-21T22:29:57.542+08:00How to be a lady...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="" name="more"></a><b><span style="color: #cc0000;">...bird</span></b>.<br />
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Decided to throw out a short post while detoxing, one of my favourite ways to do which is to let sit a bulgarian rose mask on my face while listening to Rachmaninov's Concerto No. 2. My favourite rendition will have to be Lang Lang's - it's like winter on steroids.<br />
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My mind has the tendency to go off on a tangent. Anyway, I dressed up as a ladybird for Halloween this year. Or ladybug, if you spell colour without the u and get your re's mixed up with er's. Here's how I improvised my costume. Quick, easy and very economical - everything I saved by forgoing the skanky French maid costume will contribute to more overpriced shoes.<br />
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1) You will need a piece of black felt, scissors, double-sided tape.<br />
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2) Cut out different sized circles using round objects for reference. They do not need to be perfect. You are not Archimedes.<br />
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3) Keep cutting out felt circles as if working in a sweat factory. I ended up with about thirty, but it depends on how spotty you want to be/how much surface area needs to be covered.<br />
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4) Find a red dress or fake a jumpsuit like I did with a red top and shorts. Attach circles with double-tape. Be roughly symmetrical. Remember to do the back as well.<br />
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5) You should be able to achieve the makeup with products you already have. Eyes: use a pink lipstick on the outer corner as a base, and top with blusher. Pop some white shadow in the inner corner. Put a few dots along your crease with black liner. Practice the look before the actual day, because more likely than not you will mess up the first time.<br />
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<span style="font-style: italic;">Insert narcissistic self-shot</span></div>
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6) The whole process should take less than two hours, unless you have two left hands. Hope you had a fantastic Halloween!<br />
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P.S. For those who clicked into the post looking for advice on how to be an actual lady, my tips are to 1) never poop; and 2) drink tea with your pinky sticking out.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2103620675644694977.post-52496370534476176432012-10-31T09:12:00.001+08:002014-12-21T22:30:10.754+08:00The moving chroniclesMy dad says that a good start is half the success. In that case, I better start investing in low tops and cute heels to please the surgeons, because I spent the first three days of my surgical rotation in hibernation. I must have been part bear in my last life.<br />
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<i>I know, polar bears don't technically hibernate. But how adorable is this?</i></div>
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Or marmot, which sleeps for eight months, and copulate and eat for the other four. What an enviable life indeed. <br />
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Or snake, except the metaphor is suddenly not so cute anymore. <br />
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But I digress. My slothfulness was absolutely imperative because I had to move houses straight after my paediatrics exam, and those who have done either one will understand my torment. Moving is a painful process, especially if a) you/your mother are stereotypically Asian and like to hoard; b) your apartment is large and allows for storage of aforementioned hoarded items; c) the last time you moved was nineteen years ago; d) your family pretty much dismissed the renovator's advice a month ago to take action early.<br />
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In our case, it was all of the above. We were so last-minute with things that our kitchen looked like this at 6am on the day of moving.<br />
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<i>The kitchen, three hours before the movers arrived</i></div>
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Bad time management aside, we do actually own a hell lot of stuff. I wish I'd placed some money at the back of all our closets, because they seem to be a fantastic culture medium for replication. When the movers called earlier to arrange for cardboard boxes to be delivered to us, my mum told them she guesstimated we would need about thirty. We ended up with about eighty. <span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif; text-align: center;">Needless to say, we felt the need to tip the movers generously. </span><br />
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It was definitely no easy feat to pack my whole life into boxes within two days. As you sift through your possessions, you find yourself reliving chunks of your life...like that slutty hoe phase you went through in year 9. Those skanky Ecko tube tops should not have been mine to own, especially since I was neither black nor did/do I own boobs. Looking at my old closet, I'm surprised I was even let out of the house, thank god that part of my life is over.<br />
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Of course, there are many other gems retelling precious memories, some not for you to relish, such as the photos of your mother posing in a bikini on a sofa in the hotel on her honeymoon.<br />
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Yeah, let's not even go there.<br />
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<i>Did you really think I was going to show you my mother and her goodies? Seriously now.</i></div>
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Anyway, it has been almost two weeks since we moved into our new place, and it is still strewn with boxes with just the minimal amount of floor exposed for one to shuffle sideways from one room to another. Unpacking is seriously such a bitch. After all, what goes in must come out. Of bags, not vags, you dirty-minded child.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2103620675644694977.post-2542868228918212812012-10-24T04:06:00.001+08:002012-10-24T04:06:21.892+08:00MomentWaiting for my yellow pill to set in. It's always worked like a charm. Don't fail me now. <br />
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Have you ever woken up in the middle of the night, your way back to slumber barricaded by a torrent of thoughts and old memories, of him?<br />
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<a name='more'></a>I'm having one of those Moments, and it's okay to write it here because by the time he reads it - if he does - this will have passed.<br />
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I just need to fall back asleep. <br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2103620675644694977.post-57810262577884802212012-08-22T19:10:00.000+08:002013-01-25T02:12:14.004+08:00The beauty of childbirth<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: inherit; font-size: 13px;">Whoever said childbirth was the most beautiful thing in the world has clearly never seen one. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Let's talk vaginal deliveries first:</span></div>
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<li><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;">Firstly, babies never arrive when you want them to. The first day I was on duty, the labour ward had a record low of two deliveries the whole day, neither of which happened within my fruitless 12-hour shift.</span></li>
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<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Childbirth is painful. Chinese people grade labour to be 10 out of 10 - the epitome of all agonies - and we all know how adept our race is at inflicting misery on others (think 五馬分屍, 挑腳筋 etc.).</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Labour can easily take ten to twelve hours for first-time mothers. I start cursing 45 minutes into my wait for my dentist's appointment. Imagine lying in a bed for half a day, wondering when the 頭 will 蒲頭, not to mention the constant painful uterine contractions. And you're probably not supposed to cuss either, since the baby's still inside you and any profanity would be bad 胎教.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">You hear about vaginas being torn wide open by babies' heads. The good news is, we can control this by means of an episiotomy. The bad news is, this entails preemptively snipping open the vagina - a sharp, straight wound heals more nicely than a jagged one - with a pair of scissors. And in our mothers' times, WITHOUT anaesthesia.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Amongst the many things a woman is more prone to suffering as aftermath of a natural delivery is<a href="http://littleshurgeries.blogspot.hk/2012/07/my-vaginal-expeditions.html"> uterine prolapse</a>, which is enough said if you've been following my blog. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">By the way, the epidural is a lie: it's true that you become temporarily pain-free, but you can't push if you don't feel any contractions, so if you want to deliver that baby you'll have to eventually go through the torment. Did you really think God would let us women off so easily? That apple Eve ate better have tasted damned good. </span></li>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Now, before you say, "well that's okay, I'm going to get myself a Caesarean," allow me to first impress upon you that Caesareans are, in fact, not all fine and dandy:</span></div>
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<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">With the spinal anesthesia, you are still able to feel the obstetrician's every pull and drag on your body, and you can trust that there will be a lot of tugging involved. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Once we have incised through the skin and fasciae, we reach the recti abdomini and make a small cut here. Now you may wonder, how is possible for a baby to pass through? Fear yourself not: two doctors, one standing on either side, each insert both their hands into the muscle layer and on the count of three, lean backwards and rrrrriiiippppp the musculature apart in opposite directions.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">By the way, you remain conscious throughout the whole procedure, so you will be able to hear all your years of ab workouts get torn to shreds.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">For those who think your vaginas will be spared if you opt for a Caesarean, let me tell you it gets violated either way. We stick our hand up there to check for any clots and tissue remnants hiding in the uterus after we close the abdomen up.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">It actually takes longer for you to recover from a Caesarean than from a normal vaginal delivery.</span></li>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">One of the questions doctors get asked is, "well what would <i>you</i> pick?". If it isn't obvious by now, my answer is I'm clearly not having any children. My mum just laughed when I told her that. And when I confronted her - who in their right minds would have a second child after experiencing this pain once, what the hell was she smoking etc. - she compared childbirth to having a hangover: you vow to never ever drink/have babies again, and then before you know it, you're three months into your second pregnancy, hurray! How's that for an analogy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Of course, this post is just 片面之辭, but our mothers never really do receive enough credit for the terrible ordeal they go through to have us. I gave my mum a facial and neck massage before typing this post up. What was the last nice thing you did for yours? I hope you are hanging your vagina/abs-destroyng head in shame.</span><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2103620675644694977.post-69494826761202222742012-07-19T10:56:00.000+08:002012-07-19T13:07:37.914+08:00My vaginal expeditionsAfter the last post dedicated to my girlfriends, here's one for the boys too.<br />
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<a name='more'></a><span style="background-color: white;">So whenever I tell people I'm rotating to gynaecology, there is bound to be one or two douchey remarks '</span><i style="background-color: white;">Oh dude, all those vaginas that you get to see and touch for free! Haha!',</i><span style="background-color: white;"> and these comments are always made by the male species.</span><br />
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It's okay, I understand your unfortunate circumstances whereby the only time you could imagine ever getting close to a lady's privates is if you were a doctor trying to get a Pap smear. In fact, a friend of mine speculated that 70% of the guys in our class probably had their first encounter with the vajayjay sometime in their clinical years, so you're not alone.<br />
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But I digress. The point I wanted to make was, there are always two sides (to the vagina...dear readers, meet left labia and right labia) to the story. Seriously, you think we've landed the dream job looking at this all day:<br />
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<i>Oh hello, Miranda.</i></div>
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...when, more likely than ever, we're looking at this:</div>
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Before you click away in horror, ladies and gentlemen, allow me to explain to you the concept of pelvic organ prolapse. In simple terms, your eyes have just been forever scarred by the image of a uterus that has fallen out of the vagina. You see the red patch at the end of the bulge? That's the cervix. Prolapse happens when your muscles down there become lax, and fail to hold up whatever they're supposed to, which could be your uterus, bladder or intestines. It's one of those fascinatingly grotesque things that you try to divert your eyes away from, but can't stop staring at anyway.<br />
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Since I can neither stop you from naturally delivering multiple children nor slow down your ageing, my public health message of the day is: do Kegels. Studies argue about their efficacy, but it makes sense to exercise muscles that you want to keep toned. Try to visualise your perineum (the area between your crotch and butthole, in laymen terms), then pull it upwards in the direction of your belly button.<br />
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How funny, I just made all of you exercise your pelvic muscles. Such is the power of words.<br />
<br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2103620675644694977.post-8352072744620885692012-07-03T00:33:00.000+08:002013-04-22T23:24:11.377+08:00Why you shouldn't be a whore<span style="background-color: white;">My girlfriends who suffer from urinary tract infections or need advice on contraception/plan b will be pleased to know that I have started my rotation in obstetrics and gynaecology. Gynae only, to be exact, so my eyes are, until two weeks later, safe from seeing vaginas get ripped open by babies' heads and uteri being pried open with brute force.</span><br />
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The thing about O&G is everyone warns you about how bloody and disturbing obs is, but nobody tells you gynae is <b>just as bad</b>.<br />
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Last week I had the misfortune of attending the colposcopy clinic. To put it in laymen terms, the purpose of this looking at the vagina and cervix through a microscope is to check for lesions so that early cervical cancer can be detected, which isn't all too bad...until they do find something suspicious and decide to take biopsies, i.e. a tissue sample. For cost-effective purposes, only those ladies with positive Pap smears are referred for a colposcopy, so essentially every patient I saw that afternoon had chunks of tissue clamped off them with forceps like these...<br />
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...and<span style="background-color: white;"> the way they do it in the public setting is WITHOUT ANAESTHESIA. Aaaaahhhhh! Okay fine, the doctor reassured us that the cervix, in fact, does not have any pain receptors so patients should feel a pinch but not overt pain, but let me tell you, I don't care if there's no phase III trial proving the efficacy of local anaesthesia in this case, if I - touch wood - ever needed biopsies of my female parts, they better damn well have flooded my vagina with lignocaine before doing anything.</span></div>
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Anyway, the worst wasn't over. In came the most unfortunate lady with previous hysterectomy done, meaning she's already had her cervix and uterus taken out, and the back of her vagina sewn together. And, lo and behold, there were lesions that looked suspicious on staining, so biopsies were indicated. With no anaesthesia. CHUNKS OF TISSUE WERE DIRECTLY CLAMPED OFF HER VAGINA WITHOUT ANAESTHESIA. The poor patient was screaming. I wanted to scream with her. My guy friend watching next to me looked like he was going to pass out. </div>
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So ladies, if you want to save yourself from such a traumatising experience, minimise your chances of getting cervical cancer. Get vaccinated, use condoms, quit smoking and stop being a whore. </div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2103620675644694977.post-42357026812184740392012-05-06T23:50:00.001+08:002012-05-08T21:19:08.802+08:00Honestas ante honores?All throughout my high school days, I had never been to a single inter-school event unless I had to personally participate in the sport, which, of course, was never - after all, we do have 1700 students every year, 1698 of them more athletic than me and the last one being Jane. Without having to say more, I'm definitely not someone who's fired up with school spirit.<br />
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The school has changed a lot since I left. It's not just the hardware like the SSC without sofas, but also the silly systems that they run for publicity's sake (Healthy Eating, anyone? I'm glad I graduated before they banned Twixes from the campus) when there are better things to be concerned about.<br />
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<a name='more'></a>Like all the good staff leaving. I think I recognise about half the names on the staff list on the school website, and I've only been gone for four years. Yes, people look for change, they age and retire, but when the turnover rate of teachers is this high, there's something extremely wrong. Hm, allow me to hazard a guess: something shady going on with the administration, perhaps, like the principal bypassing the standard recruitment protocols and appointing his Caucasian relative/niece as head of the Chinese department when she's clearly incompetent at the language and relies on Google translate to prepare her teaching materials? Half of that has already been exposed by the local tabloids, and the rest? Let's just say we all have our sources.<br />
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At the end of the day, it's not the new sports centre or the renovated swimming pool but the education, the students and their teachers that make the school. I don't have a strong school spirit, but it pains me all the same to see fine traditions crumble in the hands of a handful of people with questionable intentions. I invite you to join me in a moment of silence to mourn the erosion of our alma mater's core values, as well as the banning of future senior prank days. <br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2103620675644694977.post-89322984304740058132012-04-09T17:05:00.000+08:002012-04-09T17:33:55.542+08:00Airhead<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I like writing, I like reading what people write about what I've written, I like reading what people write. Despite numerous attempts to create outlets where I could spew whatever I fancied without a care who was reading, I often end up - without intention initially - creating fixed personas. </div>
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It has become quite apparent that there is something my readers find inherently interesting about my superficiality. I think this monologue is proof that I make a pretty good airhead:</div>
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<br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2103620675644694977.post-37044831880772901942012-04-05T23:04:00.000+08:002012-04-05T23:04:58.964+08:00(Pitter-)patterFor those tucked cosily indoors and watching raindrops slide off window panes, the city's been cast a lovely shade of dove grey today; but for those scrambling for cover in a once-white-now-see-through shirt and no umbrella, the streets are wet and murky, and would it please stop fucking raining?<br />
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Guess which situation I was in this afternoon.<br />
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<a name='more'></a>There are many things in this world that are not fully backed by science, and that we, as future graduates of MBBS, often will ourselves not to believe in even when they hold true for most part - things like Chinese Medicine, karma, and the fact that the shitty weather on the day of final MB results being released could be a bad omen. Luckily, superstitions sometimes do tassel out into nothing, because all I have received today is good news of my friends winning their one-way tickets to slavery in the HA.<br />
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Three years ago, I didn't think I'd ever be able to muster any happiness for the recent class of graduates - after all, I would've been one of them if I didn't flunk my exams twice - but instead of being foreverbitter, I'm so genuinely proud and glad for all of you: please be nice to me when it's my turn to become a houseman - I am readily willing to offer cupcake bribes. There are still plenty of sailings for those who missed the first boat, and if anyone slips a twice, just know that everything passes with time. Except for stools in patients on long-term opioids.<br />
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Rainy days make for (mostly) pensive musings.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1