it has been three weeks since I went to
london fashion week
London itself is a hectic city. London, during Fashion Week, is another kind of hectic. Beautiful people wearing precise makeup, clothes picked meticulously. I could only watch in awe, my heart beating and mouth agape.
It is exciting to watch the week unfold onscreen. To watch it in real life is exhilarating. The outfits I wore was only a fraction of my week in London. The week was spent going from show to show, all across London. Worried I might forgot about every detail, I did what any sane person would do.
I filmed it.
wow.
Outfit planning stressed me out. Even though it shouldn't.
I spent weeks meticulously planning my outfit for the four day I attended. Which then proceeded to crash and burn due to unforeseen circumstance. Nevertheless, I found myself lucky with pieces to wear. New clothes hanging on the rack. I squealed as I coordinated each outfit for each day.
So here are my outfits for four days of London Fashion Week.
you smile.
"For tonight?" I ask, just as arms wrapped around my waist.
You nod.
"For tonight."
"For tonight."
I smile, caressing your face nuzzled in my shoulder. I can imagine you differently. I let your face remain the same. Brown hair and flushed skin. Slender and young, a wickedness lighting your eyes. I'll call you beautiful for tonight, as you will call me perfect. Plain lies we tell ourselves, and I almost believe it.
This isn't love, but we can pretend it is.
ugh valentine's day
It is hated as much as it is loved. A consumer-driven reminder of society's obsession with trivial pursuits in romance. Hence my frustration when shops sell chocolate hearts, and mild disgust when couples hold hands. So I eat the chocolate alone with my two free hands.
I never celebrated Valentine's Day. Never cared enough to enjoy myself. However, I take the holiday as an opportunity to use shades I rarely wear. Specifically, pinks. God knows I rarely wear pink.
Here is a Valentine's Day makeup tutorial featuring Anastasia Beverly Hills' Modern Renaissance Palette.
"There is not a single word in the whole world
That could describe the hurt."
That could describe the hurt."
I kept your heart in a glass box.
You gave it so willingly, asking me to keep it safe. You kissed my hands and wished me well. So I left it in the box, tucked away in my drawer. Every night since, I checked to see if it still beats for me. I always smiled at its glow. Tonight was different. Tonight, I removed it from its cage. Tonight, I held your heart in my hand.
This is where we end.
I never wanted this to happen. Staring at the concrete ground, refusing to look at you. My breath slow and tears swelling. I hold everything back, you say nothing. We both realise then where we stand. After a long silence, I finally speak. Three words; barely a whisper. I repeat it again and again, until I cry.
“I’m so sorry.”
How were you to know, we would end like this?
i love them to bits
but this is ridiculous.
but this is ridiculous.
A plethora of 'My [blank] Does My Voiceover' have sprung up online. From boyfriends to dads, neither of which were willing to do this. Instead, I turn to my siblings when I was back in Brunei. Two girls and an unwilling boy in the living room. I asked them up front.
"Do you want to do my voiceover?"
Each turned to me, eyes wide with mischief. And I immediately regret it.
So my family did my voiceover. How did it go?
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