When you message me and ask me if I want to do something later, and I am actually lucid enough to REPLY to your SMS and say, “I’m still sleeping”, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE don’t take that as an invitation to WAKE ME UP. I’m just being polite. I don’t like it when SMSes go unanswered, so I’m trying to answer yours ASAP.

And when an hour later, you insist on CALLING ME despite how I said, “I’m still sleeping”, someone pray tell me why you would be SURPRISED that I cancelled your call? AND THEN PLEASE PUT TWO AND TWO TOGETHER, and DON’T message me AGAIN asking me why the call got cut off! All you’re going to get is an ANGRY SMS this time, simply saying, “SLEEPING.”

It’s like those people who call you and when you answer and they say, “OH MY GOD I’M SO SORRY ARE YOU SLEEPING? Hmm. WELL. Since you’re awake now, BLA BLA BLA BLA BLA BLA BLA.” And it’s all not important.

Here’s the guideline: DON’T CALL ME BEFORE 2pm. I LIKE SLEEPING. (And if you do, and I cancel your call, it means I’M SLEEPING. CALL BACK AFTER 2pm. DON’T CALL ME BACK IMMEDIATELY.)

VAUGHN’S ALIVE! THE HAND MOVED! Or should I say, Michaux….

(Yes, I know I’m quite behind, finally catching up on season 5 okayyy. And yes I know about the monks in Bhutan too.)

My bunny thanks all for your bunnitarian efforts. (via Spunky)

You stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid Americans. First you let Clay Aiken lose (though that was really the telcos’ fault), then you let bloody Taylor Hicks win, and you kick Elliot Yamin out last season, even though he could clearly sing better than that embarrassment who won. I CANNOT BELIEVE MELINDA GOT KICKED OUT YOU STUPID GOONDUS. Yes, Jordin is 17 and really amazing for a 17 year old, yes, Blake is different and interesting and beatboxes to distract us from how he can’t sing. BUT MELINDA CAN SING. It’s a SINGING competition!!

Gah. I must stop watching American Idol. Don’t even get me started on the “important” decisions that you’ve let go so so awry. Stupid Americans.

Is anyone looking for a dSLR? A friend of a friend’s is selling a Nikon d70 at S$730, and it’s in very good condition. My friend personally testifies to it, says the seller takes really good care of his equipment. I personally wouldn’t know - I haven’t ever met this dude, but I’d trust my friend’s recommendation. Anyway I’m sure you can see it for yourself.

Details here.

I think this is THE coolest instant-cooking-device, and I can already think of 2 friends whom I want to get it for. (Both of you are about to start work in HK in August, so that should give you a hint.) If it didn’t go against my cheffy principles of slaving over everything by hand…. Okay honestly I just don’t like poached eggs that much. If only it had an attachment for making hollandaise.

The video is probably old news, but anyway I just about pissed myself reading the comments. The world is full of Einsteins.

Excerpt from a conversation between the bunny and her (gay) friend who is coming over for dinner with his boyfriend this week, via SMS:

Bunny: Any food allergies or things you or D don’t like to eat?

P: We eat everything except gals (haha).

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE. So disgusting.

Lasagne for dinner tonight, made from the leftover tomatoey and sausage-meat sauce I whipped up for a quick dinner last night with the waitrose trofie. Yummm. Also on the menu: chicken maryland! Since I’ve got bacon I need to finish up and anyway everyone loves chicken maryland. :)

Little things in life make me happy.

There are fewer things better in life than lazing on a deckchair (and I’m using that term loosely, since it’s really like a queen sized sundeck with a very cushy mattress, and a raise-able upper third), with a cold, cold beer in hand, a cigarette resting in the ashtray on my left, and my nose in a book. Turning over every 15 minutes to ensure a smooth-ish tan, and then reaching over for a drag of the cigarette and a gulp of beer to cool me down.

The sky is such a beautiful blue today. I can’t even be arsed to take a picture of its cloudless perfection. My view from above the book is framed with trees, and the roof of our villa. When it gets too hot, I just shove the bookmark in and dive into our very own private pool. It’s not big, certainly not a lap pool, but then who does laps on holiday?

As the sun goes down, I’ll be bubbling away in the jacuzzi, waiting for the bath to be prepared, and listening out for the doorbell, which would mean that my in-villa barbecue dinner has arrived. But before all that - it’s only 2.40 after all - it’s time to head off for a spot of tea and a soothing massage, which - I’m hoping - will erase the tension built up in my under-utilised calves from the disappointment that was Phuket Town.

Phuket definitely isn’t my favourite place to be in Thailand, but within the safe recluse of this lovely villa, I’m tempted to come back again. The sun beating down unendingly against my back, assuring me of the horrific tanlines that started to take shape after less than a chapter; the wind lifting my fringe and blowing it out of my eyes; the calm waters tempting, beckoning me to leave my comfortable rotisserie and baste myself in the pool, and the arms of my girlfriend, my lover, in which I will fall fast asleep tonight, underneath the silk-canopied roof in my bedroom afloat in a lilly pond.

Few things could be better than this.