The first thing I noticed about the Kindle was that, when you first open up a new book, it invariably starts you off at the first chapter of the book. It skips the cover, the copyright information, acknowledgements, quotations, dedications, maps, genealogy tables, author’s notes, etc, sometimes even prologues, conveniently allowing you to get started reading the book NOW.

Yes, there are people who prefer to bypass what they consider pointless drivel and get started on the action. There are people who do not want to read anything outside the main story, do not read the back of cereal boxes, do not RTFM.

Sure, I get that.

But what about the rest of us who appreciate the time taken by actual people who write the back of cereal boxes and want to know what they have to say? Why is there no option to default to starting a book from the cover? What of an artist’s effort in designing a cover?

I am quite offended by this feature. How can Amazon presuppose that I do not want to see all of the above-mentioned pages? A cursory Google search reveals that many readers think as I do and lament the lack of choice in the matter of a book’s starting point. Like me, many readers would always make the few screen taps (or keypresses) to move to the cover of the book and start there.

Although there is a relatively quick workaround, it is an annoyance because it happens every book. It is much the same kind of annoyance you might get with having to close a hundred ads before you can play a mobile game these days.

Reading the pages between the cover and the first chapter is not merely to satisfy a curiosity or to gather information. For me, it is a sacred ritual.

It goes back to the days of my childhood when I would get a new book and stare at the cover in eager anticipation of the joy that I would unearth within. I would let the anticipation build up as I turn each page over, ever so carefully, reading almost every word (but skimming the copyright information since they’re always about the same and not quite important).

Every page turned and read before the story starts only serves to heighten the anticipation so that, by the time you get to the first chapter, the build-up has burst out in a delightful shower, bathing you in a profound joy that makes the beginning of a read a most special occasion.

That is the delicious ritual of starting a new book. Admittedly, the effect is keener with physical books but one has to move with the times and adapt. Digital books are the future because my poor old bookshelf has long ago burst at the seams, the resulting explosion causing precious books to all but vaporise. (No, seriously, I have lost untold numbers of precious books because I’ve had to leave them around everywhere due to overpopulation in designated book receptacles.)

But rituals! Rituals can still be preserved without renouncing technology. Let us open the book from the cover so that the devastation to the romance of reading, wrought by digital evolution, is not total annihilation. Do this one little thing to keep technology from dousing the last remaining ember left in the magic of reading a book.

I hope Amazon will wake up their idea and, while at it, see if they can’t do anything about the ridiculous number of typos found in ebooks. While proof-reading remains the domain of individual publishers, Kindle is Amazon’s domain so I’m sure they can at least do something about the books sold in their format.

Yes, I am a demanding customer because I do 90% of my shopping on Amazon these days, for everything, not just books. So give me quality and my money’s worth! Give me back the magic!

Yes, the unbelievable has happened. I have contracted chicken pox.

To get it at this stage of my life! Even Piers is laughing at me saying I’m so cute-obsessed that even the diseases I get have to be cute.

What rubbish? There is nothing cute about chicken pox, I told him, for it is the ugliest, most evil disease. But he argued that only little children get it usually, therefore it’s cute.

Why is it happening to me, then? What the hell, you stupid poxes?

It’s like these Chickenpox-men from outer space have decided to land on my body to have a picnic. They’re celebrating some alien festival by having a week-long party and the whole bloody colony is invited.

At first, they send a small expedition team of maybe five to test the water, so to speak. These brave pioneers, upon finding the land fertile and the water fresh and unpoisoned, ring home eagerly to mobilise the rest of the colony.

They start coming in droves, the quickest ones getting to pick choice spots around the body. But there are plenty of good spots to go around, so there is no need to fight. The whole body is an endless field of fun and sunshine all for the taking. They even bring camping equipment to make it a nice holiday.

“Look, Ted, let’s set up our tents next to the navel. We can play bouncing castle in it after our picnic!”

Ted and his friend are soon joined by more friends, who set up more tents and mats around haphazardly. It’s a celebration, folks! Come, have fun and don’t worry about anything! Bring your old, ailing grandparents and newborn babies, too, why not? The more the merrier!

And then, inevitably, some of them wander up to the face.

“Come quick, Amy, I have found us the perfect lookout point for our picnic! The view up there is gorgeous!”

While Amy is swooning at her oh-so-romantic beau, my brain is going, “No, nooooooooooo. Anywhere but my nose!”

Or my cheeks, for the matter.

Or my whole bloody face, you poxy vermin!

But the Chickenpox-men (and -women) don’t care. The whole point of their existence is to have a bloody picnic on my body and face. They just plonk themselves right down anywhere they like and then text their friends to hurry up and join in the fun.

Between the crazy itch and the disfigurement (and the fear that, if I so much as sneezed the wrong way, the disfigurement would become permanent), I am finding it hard to keep my sanity.

My flu isn’t getting any better after one whole week of holing myself up at home and surviving on oatmeal and honey drinks. I haven’t gotten much quality sleep, what with the painful throat, coughing, sore intestines (from coughing), blocked nose and my chronic neck pains.

And stupid university students who walk past the apartment every night to go to the bars and clubs in the town centre.

These nincompoops are worse than the Chickenpox-men because I know the Chickenpox-men will soon get tired of revelling and go home to Chickenpox Land.

These university students are there night after night, year after year. There’s a large university hostel near my apartment, so that’s where they come from. No matter what day it is, no matter what unearthly time of the night, they’re outside my window singing drunken songs at the top of their voices.

Sometimes they don’t just walk past. Sometimes they stick around the carpark just across my apartment and hold ear-popping rock concerts.

I am not exaggerating. This morning, Thursday, 4:10 am, group of blokes singing in unison loud enough to wake the dead. The ones who can’t sing are laughing their asses off, trying to drown the singing with their laughter, but it’s a tough fight.

This goes on every night between 11 pm and 6 am, with different groups of students streaming past every so often. Nobody has put a stop to this for goodness knows how long despite the fact that there are like 30 affected apartments between the hostel and the city of sin.

I don’t know why. There’s even a police station smack in the middle of the path, but I guess the police knock off work at 5 pm like everyone else does in this country.

I can understand the fun of drunken romps, but have none of these people yet realised that they’ve been doing it in a residential area, which apartments are stood out in the open right in their faces?

The amount of partying these kids do is unbelievable. I mean, never mind their studies, they can flunk their asses big time and live on government welfare for the rest of their lives, but what about their livers?

Oh, yeah, healthcare is free in this country so that’s covered, too.

I guess there is no reason not to party yourself to your grave, then.

Piers and I have been talking about moving out to a nice big house some time in the future and leasing this apartment out, but I’d feel really bad for the future tenants who would have to put up with this insanity.

Oh well, at least they won’t be having chicken pox, too. That much one can be thankful for.

Not for me. I thought I’d already gone through hell week (with the flu) but now it’s beginning all over again, meaner and poxier.

I just received a phone call with an invitation to attend a Dior christmas party (presumably because I’m a Dior member and not because I’m a blogger.)

I was first told the date of the party, then a list of highlights, including makeup and fashion shows, food and drinks, limited edition products on sale, and a door gift, all of these read off a page in monotone.

Then silence.

“Is that all?” I asked.

“The price is $50. If you want to bring a friend, it’s $80. But you can redeem products with your tickets.”

“Oh, okay. I’m not interested, but thanks.”

The caller asked for a reason, so I said I wasn’t interested in buying any Dior products at the moment. Parties are okay, but having to pay to attend one where they will try to make you spend even more money is plain ridiculous.

She said, “Oh, you don’t have to buy anything.”

“But I have to pay to attend the party,” I said.

She then went on to inform me that I can redeem other stuff with the price of my ticket, but neglected to explain what she meant.

I wasn’t interested, anyway, so I just said, “No, thanks.”

But she wouldn’t give up.

“You can have fun at the party with your friends,” she persuaded.

“No, it’s okay, thanks.”

“You’ll also get a door gift.”

“No, I’m not really keen, but thanks.”

“There’ll be free refreshments, and you can just come and have fun with your friends.”

“Erm… no, thanks.”

She finally accepted my polite refusal and allowed me to hang up.

Although I hate telemarketing, I can kind of understand why companies would use this channel to sell, for example, insurance policies. But telemarketing for parties? I think it’s a new low.

Not very impressed with Dior now.

A bit off-topic, but some time in the beginning of this year, they sent me my membership card with a letter asking me to go pick up a welcome gift at any Dior counter.

I went to pick it up.

The gift was a welcome letter and a brochure.

Thanks, Dior. What I always wanted.

Just thought I should pop in to say that I’m stil alive and kicking and gaming too much for my own good.

(I do have to assert for the record that the right games promote mental acuity, so there is something to be said for gaming too much.)

Well, the thing is, once in a while I get into a kind of mental block that prevents me from writing. It’s not writers’ block; it’s a block which I can explain more adequately by sharing with you the following internal dialogue:

Sheylara 1: What shall we write about today?

Sheylara 2: We could do X, Y, Z or A.

Sheylara 1: We could, but I don’t want to.

Sheylara 2: Why not?

Sheylara 1: They’re all boring.

Sheylara 2: No way. People are waiting to read them.

Sheylara 1: They’re boring to write. And if they’re boring to write, they must be boring to read.

Sheylara 2: Just write one of them, anyway.

Sheylara 1: I don’t want to write for the sake of writing. I want to make some changes to my blog.

Sheylara 2: Like what?

Sheylara 1: I don’t know. I have a million ideas but they’re all not sustainable and I don’t want to start work on half-baked ideas only to regret and then want to change again.

Sheylara 2: Okay, keep on incubating ideas but in the meantime write something or everyone will think we’ve quit and gone to live in Tibet.

Sheylara 1: I can’t! I just can’t work on something I don’t believe in anymore. I want a new direction. I want to change everything. I NEED to change everything!

Sheylara 2: Do it gradually.

Sheylara 1: I can’t! Because if I continue in this vein, I will keep on continuing in this vein! There needs to be a sudden, drastic change for anything to happen for real! And for that to take place, I need to stop doing whatever’s not working! Don’t you understand?!!

Sheylara 2: …

Sheylara 1: I need to change NOW! I can’t wait! My blog is getting stupid and boring!!

Sheylara 2: Erm… I think we should get back to our game.

Sheylara 1: Okay.

This happens a lot.

In fact, this happens regularly my entire life.

Occasionally, Sheylara 1 gets a breakthrough and something life-changing happens and then we are happy for a time. But, more often than not, Sheylara 2 wins by appealing to the mature, sensible adult hiding somewhere in our DNA, and then life goes on in a mundane but safe cycle until such a time as Sheylara 1 decides to halfheartedly rebel again.

In other news, I am taking my IELTS tomorrow. That’s the stupid English test we are forced to pass in order to apply to colleges and universities in Western countries.

I hate it because it makes you study stupid charts showing how many Japanese people travelled abroad each year over a 10-year period and how many of them chose to go to Australia in each of those years.

You then have to write your findings in 150 words or more.

Among other things, you also have to read long, wordy essays on the boring history of cartography and then answer a series of trick questions which are impossible to answer because you fell asleep while reading the essay.

The IELTS is a three-hour ordeal that will only prove, if you pass, that you have the mental fortitude required to withstand prolonged torture to your brain.

Well, don’t mind me. I’m just grumpy.

My hair is the bane of my life!

I’m getting mighty fed up with it. It’s so annoyingly straight and down-hanging, even when permed.

I did kind of enjoy it for a while after perming and colouring it about two years ago because it is easier to style your hair when it’s drier and coarser. At least, when you do a ponytail, it doesn’t start falling apart the moment you get up and walk, which was what happened with my old hair.

This is how I look immediately after a session at the salon (cut + perm + dye):

See how the front hangs downwards, covering half my face?

No one in the world can do anything about it, not the best stylist in the world. Because that’s just how my stupid hair grows. Nobody can understand how very infuriating angry I am about it!

Even when I get bangs so that I can have my eyes uncovered, the stupid strands hang down straight like toothpicks instead of curling around the forehead attractively.

Good bangs (Korean actress Koo Hye Sun):

Bad, evil bangs (me):

In order to keep hair off my face so that people don’t mistake me for a broom or a wookiee, I’m forced to either have bangs or wear a hairclip to hold my fringe up. For the rest of my life.

It makes me pretty damned disheartened whenever I think about it.

Poor clipped hair, unable to fly freely:

People claim to envy my long hair, but what’s the use of long hair when you can’t style it any way you want?

Recently, though, I realised that I have a third option.

I could wear a wig!

Then I could have any hairstyle I wanted, something I’ve always wanted but have never been able to achieve because of the stubborn nature of my hair.

So brilliant, right?

I’ve mentioned to Piers a few times about buying a wig or three and he always thinks I’m joking. Or he thinks I’m just saying it and not really going to do it.

Like, I gtalked him the other day saying, “I found a nice wig shop!!” and he went, “Hahahaha. Oh. Uh, you’re not really going to buy a wig, are you??”

He thinks I’m crazy, saying I have no reason to wear a wig because he loves my hair.

That’s fine and good, but he doesn’t have to spend two hours washing it, blow-drying and styling it every time he wants to go out. It was worse before I permed it and had to use a curling tong, which would take ages.

What’s wrong with straight hair, you ask?

My natural straight hair looks more like a wig than an actual wig does!

Anyway, everyone fashionable wears a wig these days. I try telling Piers that but he won’t believe me.

I think I’ll buy one, anyway.

It will take some time because shopping for a good wig is like shopping for a good handbag. You have to take the time to choose something that you won’t regret buying.

And I’m going to England this Friday, not enough time to shop anymore. Don’t think I’ll be able to find fashionable wig shops there like we have in Singapore.

Oh, Friday!

Can’t come soon enough!

=)

My wig can wait, I suppose.