Smoothie

When you make a smoothie, you peel the fruit, crush it and blend it in a food processor, until all the contents are torn into shreds, no longer recognisable.

My mind is like a smoothie, oozing, full of shreds waited to be put into place.

Events are coming out like bamboo shoots after a rain. My organiser is no longer a free-for-all----the time when all invitations were politely accepted and righteously scribed in the notepad was gone. In fact, I do not even bother to note down the things I need to do in an organiser. Being "barren" for almost three weeks, the last entry still loyally keeps the tasks supposed to be fulfilled ten days ago. Ten days later, the entry is still up to date since none of those glaring tasks has been completely fulfilled, and I am tired of erasing all the contents on 01/07/09 just to refill exactly the same contents on 11/07/09.

By now I have put down two outing requests, with grave solemn and prickling pain. Every time I decline an invitation is no different from finding a pathetic excuse for a committed plunder, heart beating fast, mind reeling, feelings chaotic.

And all around me is a potpourri of confusions and contrasts. At the same level in my block, there are girls who drool over Japanese/Korean stars, shouting "my Jamada Ryousuke!", "my Kim Jeong Hoon!", "my やまだ!" while there are also those conscientious ones studying at the lampside. There are girls who shuffle to the canteen with unkempt hair and clothes while there are also those who industriously do all the job of home-cooking in the kitchen. There are girls who are scolded by boarding masters for untidy rooms while there are also those whose rooms are "cleaner than clean".

I am neither here nor there, just like the title of Bill Bryson's travel book.

Sometimes I join the former and shout "my 현중!" to cover the voice of "my やまだ!", but I have never cooked anything for my meals, not even instant noodles, not even when there is no smoke in the pantry since we use an electric stove.

Sometimes I study by the lampside, combing my mind and doing wonders, but I have never won a single prize for "the cleanest room", though I have sincerely promised to keep my room clean if there is a prize for "the dirtiest room".

I am thus stuck in the middle, neither here nor there, like Bill Bryson the geek.

That is also why my mind is like a smoothie, oozing, contents no longer recognisable.

Still, I assert myself to be sensible, only with a tinge of self-denial.