I’m angry at myself today. Even though he means nothing anymore but there was still a sour feeling when looking at her. I am so incredibly human still that I surprise myself in spite.
On a hind note, I mean to enjoy myself tomorrow, it had been too much work lately that I am ready to call myself introvert. Then again, I always suspect that I am a closet introvert not that you’ll believe me. If only you can just take a look at the pile of books by my bedside. Chick lit counts too! I am a voracious reader. Rawr.
I had so much fun on Valentines, it’s crazy. Thanks Love.
And I can’t stop listening to Con Te Partirò.
And I should stop rambling.
I suspect you will never hear the end of this in days and months to come, in years to go but it has been decided that if the work trip does not materialize, I will end up taking the flight out into the world of old charm, the city of romance, the place where levels of Topshop will stack like legos instead of the miserly corners it occupies now in shopping centres in Singapore.
I will unearth my berets from behind the wardrobe, all waiting sullenly in a box to see the light of day and show off cute little vests and wrap thick, warm-as-toast scarves around my neck. I will walk the Rose Line in the Da Vinci Code, organize a picnic in Hyde Park with a plaid mat and saunter proudly into Hotel Costes but in the meantime, I can only dream, listen to Edith Piaf’s rendition of “La Vie En Rose“, hum to the gay tune of “Aux Champs Elysées” and tighten the waist pouch (as if it is not). Every penny counts.
Polaroid taken off this flickr
So in love with bows that when I see them on shoes, I think they are meant to walk the path.