wankst (2).

Trundling wearily down Isetan at Parkway Parade earlier this afternoon (trundling cos it's a nice quaint word that should be used more often, even though I've used it earlier today already, who's complaining, who cares?; wearily cos twas guard duty yesterday and I only caught mites of sleep; Isetan cos my mom dragged me there, needing to get a bag - pffft!) I couldn't help noticing the clothes. Orange t-shirt with cool print. Pretty cool print. Orange too. Had no idea what it said, as usual, but who gives a flying fox?

But nah, something in me holds back. I hate getting clothes, they never seem to hang on me quite the right way. It's amazing how clothes are never how I want them to be. I want them to be me, contradictory and insecure, trying to look average but failing miserably on closer inspection in most of the wrong and obvious places. I swear, designers must have something against me.

And it's amazing how neatly other people can fit their clothes. Their characters become their clothes. E.g. Daniel Ong, beach bum; Daniel Peck, bum... Clothes speak volumes about the person, who s/he is and what s/he's attempting to be. They project a facade; yet it's not a fake facade because very often you are what you wear. I feel great in long sleeves and that's probably why I manage feats like performing music or pissing the PSC board off in my interview, in long sleeves. But wearing shirts in this kinda climate is suicidal, you end up with wet patches in bad places that reek of manliness gone sour. Uck. [Not that there's much manliness emanating from me, I flatter myelf ^^]

Same thing with hair; I hate my hair. The only 2 things worse than having my hair is having Zhaohan's hair xP and having no hair at all. I just had a haircut and it doesn't look like a visible improvement.

Fuck I'm wanksting. Aargh time to stfu.