let lemons be angry

I was flipping channels, and came across a very unappealing local production on arts central. Amy Cheng's face was bruised and pleading, and so was the other female actress's. They coaxed the men they loved to love them back, stiffly arrogant male stereotypes who scorned them like stereotypes would. Why is Singapore still producing things like these, i wondered. Bad script, bad hair. And the acting--over-enunciation, forced emotion, stage drama crammed into the small screen to overwhelm unsuspecting lazy coach potatoes. And then a line that i laughed at for its daft amount of cheese: "Maybe.. I don't love you.. (hurt, pouting, faking bravado while the arrogant man laughs).. maybe..i just need you (coming to some sort of realisation, it showing in her less angry eyes).. maybe... it's not even you. (calm, talking to self now)" And after i laughed, i couldn't laugh anymore. Familiar line because i might have wrote it down somewhere too. Trust a bad drama to speak such truth. And so even while i battle the periodic bouts of this feeling i liken to being stranded, i take the words in my head with a pinch of salt. I don't believe that you are all the things i say you are.

Announcement: for one day only, namely valentine's day, i will be scooping ice cream at taka basement. I will wield the power to scoop as little or as much as i so wish.