"going it hans solo"

I have a sudden urge to rewatch the whole of the OC: Seasons 1 and 2. I miss the good old days.

Yesterday was pretty pretty. Pool, after school, and I got great and golden before getting Mum a bouquet of "cheer up you are loved" purple flowers, before heading back home and then sushi dinner out with the 'rents and g-'rents.

received the text message: "HI, I thought you looked beautiful today."

...aw. Love you, S.

and you forgive me for being an indomitable geek (and not even the good kind) back in primary school?

In the library today, we had our first remotely DWL conversation ("we have lost our Cause!!") in eons. Which- okay- basically involved us talking about the various people we've known who've just conked off and completely gone off school. Like the way you go off eclairs at a chocolate buffet. Which is scaaaary because- hello. Education.

... I am such a Singaporean.

And then we spent about fifteen minutes being immensely entertained by Amrit's intensely animated Dr Phil-meets- Oprah- meets- Gynaecologist soliliquy. I think she succeeded in putting us all off marriage. Thanks, girl.

Surprisingly; I've been feeling pretty okay. Maybe because I'm used to it by now. (and you'd think I would be, too.)

I spent a bad part of the first night curled up in the duvets, pillow damp, and whispering, "i thought you were stronger..."; and that night didn't pass well, nor fast.

But then the next day I woke up, wrote a pulsing dreamscape thunderstorm in miniature of a poem about it- ...and then this sense of catharsis. of peace, and graceful acceptance. and...release, almost? long breath hissing through relieved lungs.

And it was good.

Drama today was a riot.

We spent about ten minutes playing Zip Zap Zoing to hype up the energy levels, and then I led everyone through my favourite warmup (which basically involves us going absolutely Bacchus-loose...nj sanctioned maenad madness, anyway; and bounding every which way and pulling the most grotesque, most theatrical faces and flaying arms and legs and yawping the straaangest noises for about thirty seconds) while Mr Whitby looked on in interest/consternation/abject horror.

And then after our first run we had our informal photoshoot; which was tres tres fun.

And now I am sick. Of all the YEARS to fall sick. You had to choose the one which my entire future basically hinges on. By one chipped french manicured finger.

... thanks a lot, karma.

Okay, Self, here's a bunch of grapes and a card. GET WELL SOON.

Because this year, Life isn't waiting for anyone.