Listening to a radio interview of Wentworth Miller. (God, it is so obvious I have a pathetic life.) And the DJ goes, "Ladies and gentlemen, I think we've found the perfect man!" Cause someone asked him what he did with his first PB paycheck and he said he took a flight home to visit his family. Goodness.
Something's gotta give, you know, no one's perfect. We just haven't found it yet. Man.
I'm starting to like the idea that I talk about tv here more than anything else. Because I'm prickly about telling the world what I feel. Talking about the telly just seems really safe. Bytheway, I realise my guestbook's dead. Because the people who usually fill it are far away and have apparently forgotten me. I mean Duck, mostly, because I haven't heard from her in eons, it seems, and she barely updates her own LJ. London has conquered her brain. And I hate the fact that mine and Eunice's timetables clash really really badly that we can't even go home together like we did last sem. And Pigey's just... elusive.
So yes, I'm a vagabond in NUS. I drift from faculty to faculty, befriending a variety of people, but never sticking to any one group. Sometimes I feel like I'm fading.
I watched the very last bit of Hitch on tv earlier today, again. The part where Will Smith actually jumps on a moving car to convince Eva Mendes that he loves her. And she practically shrieks (along the lines of), "Why did you jump? Are you trying to get yourself killed?" And he says, "Because that's what people do. They jump. And hope to God they can fly."
Fluffy fluffy fluffy. Hollywood gives a million advice about love and yet the red carpet is littered with marriage wrecks and divorces and failed relationships. Their credibility is seriously questionable. Actually. True love, like ghosts, is something people hear about, talk about, tell stories about, wish for but only few get to experience. It's one of the sad things in life.
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