Succumbing To Luxury

Just how far would I give in to this incessant temptation of add-on luxury? I know my "dorm" experience would be kinda different from most of my peers, the moment I've been practically forced to take up residence at a private dorm. Granted, even if there was space available at the school dorms, I would still insist that my dad get me the singles suite at Lucky, but let's just pretend for argument's sake that I'm the victim here. 

Poor James, having to live in a beautiful hotel (lets be honest - try as it may, Lucky would never really be a dorm) and cope with the eternal struggle between good and evil. Good being the simple life, ala Paris and Nicole, evil as in falling prey to the wide range of unnecessary and frivolous add-on goodies. 

Sent together with the move-in package, in a pamphlet fittingly adorned with a picture of a cake, complete with that proverbial cherry on top, was a whole list of add-ons you can purchase to make your hostile and unlivable suite a tad more comfortable.

- DirecTV Package. 'Lucky has contracted with the ResTech Services to bring you a custom DirecTV Package that includes all the local stations, Big Ten Network, NFL, HGTV, Comedy Channel, ESPN, HBO, Cinemax, and even more'. My question is, why don't I see Cartoon Network or Nickelodeon? These people obviously need to learn a thing or two about what's appealing to a college student. The funny thing is, a TV is not even provided. Guess I'll have to rely on the wireless transmitter embedded in my skull for now.

- Spic and Span Weekly Housekeeping Service. Professionals clean the bathrooms, vacuum, sweep.. Basically they do everything other than leave chocolate on the pillow. I don't really need professionals to clean for me now, do I. I would frankly be intimidated to see them wearing suits while cleaning my toilet - I'll feel obliged to ask them to take a seat while I clean it for them. Not a seat on the toilet, of course, for that'll make the insides harder to reach. Even with the long stemmed toilet scrubs. 

- Anytime Fitness. "Why waste time fighting the crowd to fit in your workout?" I don't know if anyone's tried this, but fighting a crowd is a pretty decent workout. But naturally it depends on the crowd - if it's old people that's too much of a pushover, and you only get to work on your legs if it's a crowd of short children. Pick the right crowd to fight, that's my advice. Tubby people of your height would be best - the meat on them softens the blow, and they can't catch you when you run. 

- Lazybones Laundry Service. Now here's a service that really seems to speak to me. I don't mind being called a lazy-bone at all, provided they make my undergarments so clean that you could eat ice-cream off of it. I'm sure you still wouldn't want to, of course, but how about as a napkin?

The layout of the apartment has been sent to me as well, with my assigned room labeled as... (yup you've guessed it!).. 'My Room'. 

I'm glad to see they haven't placed my table with my back facing the door. I have some sort of obsessive compulsion to think that people'll try to get me from behind if my back faces open space. Like, grab me and go 'gahhh!' with a dinosaur mask. What? These things happen! 

My New Fetish - Being Eaten Alive

Does the thought of being nibbled away, bit by bit, piece by piece, scare you stiff? Not to worry, because the hundreds of tiny (but most definitely monstrous) fishes doing the deed would never let you have the privilege of staying still. But we'll get to this in a while. 

So one Saturday, for reasons still not completely clear to me, three friends and I entertained the thought of visiting Hay Dairies to visit goats. As I've said in an earlier post, we worked on a tourism website, and hence came to know various tourist attractions during our work. The most misleading and deceitful picture was posted on the Hay Dairies site, where they clearly showed the most adorable (and delicious looking, for a wild moment) baby goat. That was tantalizing enough to propel our dreams to be re-connected with nature. (On hindsight, of course, we were positively moronic to trust a website where the likes of me worked on.) 

As you would notice, on the offending web-page, it says to go earlier, between 9 to 11, so as to not miss the milking of the goats. As a city-boy through and through, this was obviously an occasion not to be missed. I have long awaited to put pink, oblong, fleshy objects in my hand, and squeeze and tug at it until milky fluid comes shooting out. Missing such a momentous event was akin to missing the birth of baby Jesus. Everyone was reminded and coerced to wake up before 8, with Jiahui even threatening to milk Jaystine if she was late and cost us the milking process. (If nay-sayers claim that I was the one who made up the threat to scare Jaystine, kindly be reminded that I would never do something so despicable, and you're reading my blog anyways, so what I say here practically passes as divine, so don't question the holy!)

So at 10 in the morning, after bus rides through farm roads and rural wilderness, breathless and disheveled, the 4 of us (this was Damian's first introduction to Jiahui, a particular touching moment for me to see two of my dearest friends come together at a smelly goat farm) arrive at Hay Dairies. I just immediately knew it was a sign that things were going to be terrible, the moment I laid eyes on the first thing that greeted us at the farm. The sign (it was honestly a signboard) read: "Touching or feeding of the goats is strictly prohibited, to minimize transference of diseases to the goats, and vice-versa." You just know they threw in a 'vice-versa' as an after thought, to make us feel better. You'd be going on with your life, convinced that they isolated the goats for your own protection, when the cold hard truth is - you're deemed too dirty even for a bunch of goats that shit around indiscriminately.

And the biggest revelation of the day: you can't stroke something you can't touch. How were we going to milk the goats if we can't even get close to it, you may ask. Well, honey, we were just going to have to settle for watching. And by watch, I mean watch them use milking machines to attach to the goats' udders, and watch as the machine pumps milk, squirt by squirt into the container. None of the classic smooth-but-firm downward action they've been flaunting on TV. No farmers in overalls and straw hats, no three legged stools, no goats moaning in pleasure as their udders are stroked. There was one hideously deformed udder (that was quite entertaining for about 18 milliseconds) , but that's as exciting as it was going to get.

The four of us fumed silently and stared, almost trance-like, at the row of mechanically-milked goats. No one wanted to say what was reverberating in our heads at that moment (for me it was "I wonder if the workers here, especially the male ones, ever used the conveniently shaped milking machine for other recreational purposes"), for no one likes admitting that they've been conned. 

"This sucks." someone finally says, as we walk away from the blatant liars and goats. We walked further into the farm, in hope of seeing something that would make this trip worthwhile, but apart from a big-horned goat with anger-management issues, and a lot of goats pooping on each other, there was nothing to salvage this disappointing mess. Not even the chocolate goat milk could lift us up. 

But when things get this low, the only possible way for it to go is up. On a spontaneous decision, we decided to head towards Farmart, a place Jiahui and I had been before on a prawning outing with the class. It was a village-ish little area where freshly grown vegetables (I have a feeling they just bought it from NTUC and are selling it there as 'purely organic goods') , extra-large eggs and exotic ostrich meat was sold. They also have, as I've mentioned, prawning ponds, and as we later found out, goats that you're ALLOWED to feed and touch, as well as ravenous rabbits, bickering birds, fat filthy frogs and a bored boy you buy goat feed from.

I wouldn't go into the details of the feeding (Jaystine is such a messy eater), but go straight to the highlight of the day - Fish Spa. Now, this is a very secret location, so be very quiet with the wealth of information I'm about to divulge. We wouldn't want too many people of the undesirable sort messing up our lovely and deserted spa, would we? Located along one of the rows of stores at Farmart, are two places you can do fish spa. Personally, we prefer the one manned (or womanned) by the nice filipino (or something) lady. It's slightly more expensive, but the shop looks more spa-like. The other one just looks like they're making use of you to feed their fishes. 

It's $10 per half hour, a ridiculously low price for fish spas. Over at Chinatown's Pearl Center, they charge $25 for half hour, and at Sentosa's Underwater world, it's around $30. So imagine our joy at finding such a steal. In fact, we were so overjoyed that we forgot all about how terrifying the experience was going to be, right up to the point of dipping our feet in. 

My heart first started to quicken as I saw the hundreds of small, grey-ish fishes come swarming up to where we were sitting. It's like they're closing in for the kill. I had completely no idea what to expect, having never done something like this before. It can't be that bad - Jiahui said she's seen people read books while having their feet eaten. Steeling our nerves, the four of us counted down from 3 and put our feet in at the same time. 

Almost immediately, amidst shrieks and screams, we pulled them out again. It was simply torture. Hundreds of small mouths sucking furiously (now that's something I have never written) on one of the most sensitive parts of your body - your feet. Not anywhere else, though I shudder to think what might happen if they offer full-body fish-spas. I have to shamefully admit that I was the one who screamed the loudest and the longest, but it was honestly unbearable. The thought of them eating away at you, and the sight of a whole swarm of fishes attaching themselves to your feet is a bit too much to handle. Throw in the tickling at the 'palm' of your feet, and the back of your calves, and I'm just ready to jump out and declare myself done.

How I overcame it, I will never know. After 15 minutes of squirming, twitching, involuntary spasms and gasps, maybe even a few drops of tears, it inexplicably began to feel pleasurable. The hundreds of nibbling mouths started to feel like effervescent bubbles, and soon enough, I had my hands in the water as well, encouraging them to eat away the dead skin accumulated from my 19 years of hard labor. Before long, our previously bought 20 minutes were up, and we eagerly extended the time, 10 minutes at a time, to eventually a total of 40 minutes. Quite an accomplishment, I'll say, from the previously shrieking and trashing about.

It's quite neat to be able to still see areas as rural as this in Singapore, a place where anything not of economic relevance would be bulldozed and rebuilt, only to be replaced with a beautiful mall, just like the other hundred exactly like it. It's eye opening to experience actual farm life, however minuscule it is.

And I'm determined to find someone to bring to the fish spa, just to hear someone scream louder than I did.

That's not my foot. No, I don't know whose foot it is. Stop asking!

An Interview

We have with us today the young and obviously very talented author of the popular self-help book 'I Smell Like Vanilla and You're Fat' with us today. Hello, James. 

You forgot good-looking and intelligent. Can we re-do the intro?

We have with us today the young, good-looking, intelligent and obviously very talented author of the popular self-help book 'I Smell Like Vanilla and You're Fat' with us today. Hello, James.

Hello there! It's so nice of you guys to feature me in this month's edition of your magazine.

Well, we could hardly say no, after the giant pile of letters and threats you've sent to our editor's office.

Oh, you journalist people are such a funny bunch, absolutely love it. You and your 'ooh writing for a magazine makes me a writer' delusion, just delightful.

No wonder they were giggling when they handed me this assignment. Right. The theme of this month's article is the declining state of the music industry. What, in your opinion, James, is contributing to such low record sales?

I was under the impression we would be talking about my new book. And for readers who don't know this, although I can't see how, this is my second book in this series. The first one is titled 'I Taste Like Chocolate and You're Ugly'. You must have read it, practically every one has (chuckles), so go on, you can ask me anything about it.

This is a music magazine, we're obligated to talk about music, James. 

How strange. I must have sent out too many of those lobbying threats.. I mean letters that I lost track. Oh well then. Someone as intelligent and talented as myself, as you've very kindly said, is obviously as well equipped as your originally featured guest to talk about the music scene. Who was that again, Born Jovin or something? 

Bon Jovi.

That's right. Well let me begin. Declining sales are definitely due to bad songs on the radio. The single most atrocious thing on the radio right now.. Well on the way here I heard the a highly offensive voice chanting about how he 'can't be tamed'. He was singing, well, I wouldn't call that singing, but I don't want to be nasty, ya know. He was singing (ahem) about guys being 'hot' for him everywhere he goes. Is this by chance a song about a very feminine looking man who frequents gay clubs?

I think you're talking about Miley Cyrus. She's not a man.

A tranny? 

No, she's not a tranny. 

Oh, right, right, I get it. We've in the era of 'political sensitivity' now. What's the new term for them again? She-male's not it, right?

She is honestly a 17 year old girl.

Well blow me over and call me George! Well now I've really heard everything. Wait, this Miley girl, or so you say, is she by chance the one featured with all the stripper poles? 

She did perform with a stripper pole last year, but the official record is that she was merely holding it and not pole danc-

I thought she was a prostitute who got into a car accident, what with that disfigured face and all. And I remembered thinking, "Good for this stripper girl! Going on and doing her thing, probably supporting 3 toddlers and a drunkard boyfriend, even after suffering such hardships and disfiguration." You know, it's really hard to break into the sex-worker industry, and with a face like that? Don't even dream about it. Good gracious! Turns out she was just a singer who got into a car accident.

She was never in a car accident, James. 

Was she hit in the face by a baseball bat then? I know of this one guy back in Junior College.. I think his name was Joey or something, I'm not sure.. who suffered that same fate. I didn't actually see it happen, but judging by that mess on his face I can only describe as 'tragic', I'd say it's a pretty educated guess.

Let's move on. We always ask this question in our interviews. If there was just one album you could bring with you to a desert island, what would it be?

Just one? Are there CD players on the island? What kind is it? 

That's not really the point...

Can I have the ones where blue lights blink on and off when it turns on? I like those, makes me feel like the aliens have landed.

Um, sure? Any kind you like, as long as it plays CDs.

I would bring... Hang on, shouldn't I be hunting for food instead of hanging around listening to music? Are there coconuts around? I do love coconuts. Hey, maybe my next book should be 'I Love Drinking Coconuts and You're as Dumb as a Coconut'. 

That's all the time we have for today, join us next month for an exclusive interview with music insider Bon Jovi.

And, I would like to add, my book is in stores now, and there are book signing sessions, with the schedule posted on my website, and.. Hey! Why are you turning the recorder off? I'm not...

Pour que tu m'aimes encore

One of my favorite songs from Celine Dion is 'pour que tu m'aimes encore', or 'So You'll Love Me Once More'. Some of her deepest and most beautiful songs are in French, and this is once of those instances. There's an English version called 'If That's What It Takes', but I didn't like how they completely changed the meaning. The hauntingly beautiful (and slightly creepy - but what's love without a bit of crazy) lyricism is lost in the English one, so I had to take it upon myself to translate a version that I was satisfied with. 

The song is basically about someone who's willing to do whatever it takes to get back the love of a man she once had, and would do just lunatic stuff (like chanting magic spells) to get it.

Understood all your words, they made perfect sense

I'm the one you should blame, dropping all my pretense

I just say I'm all right, but you know that I'm breaking up inside

Do you see it in my eyes

Everything fades away, don't leave me today

Darling you should know

I will search for your heart, let me make my amends

Even as night descends, every day without end

I can bear with the cold, your soul I'll look for

Enchantment cast upon, pour que tu m'aimes encore

You should not have begun, attract me that way

Should not give you my all, it's a game I can't play

Cause I've reached out for you when the thunder is crashing up above

I thought that it was love

When you smile like the sun that shines through the rain

That's why I'm still here

I will search for your heart, let me make my amends

Even as night descends, every day without end

I can bear with the cold, your soul I'll look for

Enchantment cast upon, pour que tu m'aimes encore

Let us travel towards fields of eternal spring

Using every language, your praises I'll sing

I'll say those words of magic, tribal priests said before

With no trace of remorse, pour que tu m'aimes encore

I will make myself king, so you won't dare leave me

I will light a new spark, flames of passion we'll see

I'll learn what you desire, who you want me to be

You're my priority, every second I live

I will strive to become someone you can adore

Even turn myself gold, pour que tu m'aimes encore

What Do You See

Sweetest love, I want to know what you see

Does my every imperfection change what you think of me

Do your eyes take you beyond the insecure child

To the heart of mine that was deliriously beguiled

Would you turn away if my eyes met yours

Or would you expose the soul my gaze implores

And when you cast me aside would you become too blind

To notice how my twisted life's been horrifically maligned

My friend and confidant, do you see

It's a curious feeling to be selflessly supportive

I'm happy for you because that's what's expected of me

But have you sensed how deeply I've been poisoned by envy

I hate how my well-wishes sound falsely warm

How they always seem to conceal an introspective thorn

I hate how I can't be completely giving

And not succumb to jealousy from within

And what about you, dearest Mom and Dad

I've accomplished what you want, now aren't you glad

Am I becoming the son you've always envisioned

Never made a choice that invited your derision

I know you love who you think I am

But one day you'll learn some things we cannot plan

You watched me grow up but you cannot see

With my heart's deepest desire you would disagree

Carefree stranger, a moment of your time

When you first saw me - take a second to rewind

What did you think and how did you feel

Did I seem put together, were my faults concealed

What kind of vibes did I seem to transmit

Would I like who I encounter if I paid myself a visit

Is a reflection of my inner self the person you saw

Or do we all hide behind cultivated masks to keep them in awe

A Hug And A Kiss, Now Get The Hell Outta Here

This momentous morning marks the last time I'll be seeing my mom for the year. In fact, I'll only see both my parents again when I visit Singapore next year. It's slightly depressing to think about it, but everyone's gotta learn to depend on yourself sooner or later. To brave the exciting and perilous world, standing on your own two feet. And daddy's credit card in hand, of course. How are we going to conquer the world without a few creature comforts.

I don't think anyone's really good at saying goodbye. Not literally 'saying' it, of course. There are many wondrous and varied ways to play with the intonation and inflections. If you're really ambitious, you could even launch into a dramatic interpretive dance which comprehensively expresses your deepest sorrow. Even better, with the help of Google Translator (or, the 'So Long, Farewell' song from the Sound of Music), you can even be pretentiously knowlegeable and say goodbye in hundreds of languages.  (Adieu, adieu, to you and you and you ~)

My life has now certainly become much freer, and yet strangely more constricted too. The ever-present meals have to be prepared by myself now, and there wouldn't be anyone to make sure every aspect of my life is taken care of. Laundry, dishes, walking the dog, taking care of yourself.. It can be a pretty heavy burden to shoulder, and to know that I'll probably have to shoulder it for the next few years. Especially the taking care of myself part. I'm such a difficult person to 'take care of', I just know I'll come to despise this hateful employer of mine. 

"I want a chocolate shake!" 

"What am I, my servant? Go get my own damn chocolate shake!"

Goodness. I can just see the bipolar tendencies surfacing already. Soon I'll be sitting in a padded cell slapping my own hand. 

In non related news, I've been accepted to the Honors program at UW-Madison. This is an especially satisfying accomplishment, as it's the only time I've trusted my own gut, and sent in the essay my dad deemed 'completely off point' for the application. Thankfully, they've liked it enough to offer me a place, and the chance to tell Dad how right I was =)

The Simba Fantasy

Some guys have fantasy football leagues, others have fantasies (however unrealistic) of getting it on with supermodels. I, for one, am proud to say that my own fantasy is nothing as childish as those of my fellow brothers. What I truly desire is to recreate classic scenes from Disney movies, eg. the Rafiki holding up Simba on the mountain ledge in 'The Lion King'. See, not immature at all. 

What I would require now, is a mountain ledge and a lion cub. The one who brings a lion cub to me would most definitely capture my heart. Not the one who finds me a mountain ledge, though. That just means the person's been around, and you sure wouldn't want to be with someone who's been around. (Though, on hindsight, that could probably mean a lot more secret and thrilling rendezvous hideouts. Alright, the mountain-ledge finding person would do too.)

With my lion cub in hand, I'll march up a mountain (I'll have to settle for Bukit Timah Hill for now) and play 'The Circle Of Life' on loudspeakers. I insist that the chants of 'Nants ingonyama bagithi Baba, Sithi uhm ingonyama!' resonate through the entire forest, calling forth all the beasts and critters to pay their respects to the divine ruler of them all. (I'll have to claim the title for myself, the damn lion cub is just a prop.) 

High above my head I'll raise Simba (for of course that's what his name will be. I don't even care if it's a female cub. She'll be a lesbian lion and deal with it.), and all those loyal subjects would bow before me. Probably not as thrilling a sight to see animals like monitor lizards and long-tailed macaques bow, as compared to the elephants, giraffes and rhinoceroses Africa has, but oh well. No one said this had to be a perfectly accurate reenactment. In fact, I'll even settle for a large yellow cat if a lion cub is too rare. 

Now you may ask; James, respected and clear-minded sir, what satisfaction could you possibly attain from such a recreation? Well of course I can, children! There is endless joy and wonderment to be achieved, and I'll let you know how to do that, as soon as I figure it out.

Picture this, but with me as the monkey and no real lions behind me. That would be unwise.

Ditching A Job

So I've been working these days at an advertising firm. At the beginning, I honestly didn't know who we were working for, because they keep us in this little conference room, separated from the main office. On more than one occasion, I wondered if we were hired through illegal means, and that our presence should has to be kept a secret from the majority of the 'real employees' of the company. The 10-day-late paychecks didn't help matters either - it just fueled a desire to drown their laptops in the rooftop pond. 

Another thing not made explicitly clear to us was our job title. When friends asked me what I work as, I would hesitantly stutter a string of words that covered everything we did. As a result, I am now tentatively a 'website-content-uploading-editing-checking-coffee-making-copy-pasting-er'. It'll have to work for the time being, for I still don't have the real answer. Doesn't quite have the ring to it, but I figure if enough people start saying it, it'll catch on.

It used to be a riotously fun job, it really was. But, as all stories go, there's always bound to be one or two conservative prudes that ruin the orgy. (I'm testing out a new saying here, I'm not actually literally describing the situation at work. Like I said, if enough people start saying it...) In our case, it's the ones who are apparently allergic to laughter who's spoiling all the fun. I honestly don't see anything wrong with introducing a wee bit of life into the office. That grotesquely shaped face of hers could sure use a laugh or two to smooth-en it out. Not being judgmental with looks here, but I dare anyone to try recalling an attractive looking bitter bitch. Not easy, is it? The attitude really does reflect in one's features. 

So that, along with a couple more annoyances at work, combined with the effects of a mind-numbingly dull and repetitive job, is making me wanna quit soon. The pay is quite good for the kind of brainless copy-paste work we do - 7 per hour for 8 hours a day. But seeing how I've already accumulated enough money for my projected splurges, I'm no longer feeling the drive and motivation to crawl out of bed (trust me, at 7.45 in the morning, all I can manage is a crawl) day after day for this. 

Which brings us to my moral dilemma. By pulling out when things start looking tough, am I simply succumbing to pressure and becoming a 'quitter'? I never was so good with 'roughing it through', and quitting now would just feed this attitude. On the other hand, by getting out of this mundane work that offers zero job-satisfaction, am I not taking a stand against becoming a slave to money? By staying on, would I just be drilling into my subconscious that I'm someone who's willing to do anything in return for money? It does seem pointless to work and work to accumulate all that money, when you don't even have the time or energy left to enjoy it. I really don't want to spend my last two or three months of pre-college holidays at a unsatisfying job with grouches as colleagues. 

Funny how a simple question of 'to stay or not to stay' can turn into an epic battle between selling your freedom for monetary gain VS deep-rooted quitter attitudes. It really sucks to have a mind that second-guesses yourself - it's like having my own personal devil's advocate, living right here in my skull.

The only saving grace of this place is the chance to see my lovely friends on a daily basis again. I had really missed that when school officially ended. I guess I have it much better than a lot of other folks who have to bear with insufferable colleagues, cause at least I have close friends to shoulder it with. (I'm going to stop this 'my fwens are so cute and cuddly, I wuv my fwens' tirade now, I'm at risk of sounding icky and goosebump-inducing.) And yes, we do talk about them on MSN when we're sitting right next to each other. There's a strange sense of satisfaction you can get through talking behind someone's back - right in their faces.

I Want One

I want one of these giant critters for a pet. Imagine cuddling one on the couch while watching TV, feeding it carrots and combing its hair. (I'm talking about the rabbit, just in case any of you mistake me for having an old-man fetish.) We could even hold paws and walk side by side along the river, talking about our work and reminiscing about the good ole' days. Just look at those adorable big feet - gives me a strange desire to want to bite it.

Congrats! You Get To See More Of Me

The single greatest most incredible thing about going to school in Madison, is the insanely beautiful dorm I'll be staying in, called Lucky 101. It's a privately owned dorm, still located in the school, but managed by private firms. That basically means the rules are far more relaxed, they can make it as luxurious as they want, and it's still within walking distance of your classes. I wanted to rent an apartment of my own, initially, but Dad wouldn't hear of it. He wants me to suffer and experience what it's like to live with other people in the dorms, he says. Sure, dad. I will be suffering very much in my hotel-like complex. They don't even say 'roommates' there, they say suite-mates. Sweet.

It costs a bit more than 7k for the doubles suite, meaning you have to stay in the same room as someone else within that apartment, which is actually cheaper than the school dorm fee of 8k per year. But of course, living with someone else would completely ruin all the plans I have (they totally do not include having various people sleep over, with Mariah's 'Making It Last All Night' playing in the background), and so I pushed my dad into getting the singles suite (12k per year, inclusive of meals), complete with my own queen sized bed. Boy oh boy. The pieces seem to be all falling into place.

The layout of the place is like this.

4 people share one apartment, and we each have our own bedrooms to engage in activities too private to be shared. We share a living room and a fully functioning kitchen, and two bathrooms. There's even concierge and housekeeping services, which leads me to wonder why they're still pretending to be a dorm, when it's obviously a hotel. Also, if you feel that the tone of this post has started to turn excessively braggish, you are absolutely right. Something has finally gone right for me and believe me, I will rub it in all of your faces for as many times as I can =)

The earliest possible date I could move in would be August 25, which is why I have changed my airticket to August 26. The Uni has a special SOAR (summer orientation and registration) date on Aug 31 for those people who are unable to make it to the earlier July dates, so it all works out perfectly. You may now take a moment to shriek in joy at the thought of getting to see me for a whole 2 months more. Go ahead, let it all out.

Okay, moment over.

Feast your eyes on my gorgeous living quarters, if you will =)