On a whim, I've decided to list out some of the heinous, heinous guilty pleasures I used to indulge myself in even a few years back. I ought to treat myself to some of them when I'm feeling really skinny or something, haha.
First up, Swiss Rösti! It's those supermarket-bought packets, each of 2 servings, both of which I would fry and eat in a single go. PLUS, there were times when Mom was able to buy home a large-sized tub of the KFC whipped potato gravy; I'd pour in the entire tub of gravy into the frying pan along with the Rösti! It makes me shudder (with fear? pride? salivation?) to think of such a sinful thing to eat.
Second thing I can remember is the late night instant mee I'd cook: I would use 2 different flavours of the Myojo instant noodle line, either Chicken Tanmen 汤面 or Chicken Abalone, plus a Mee Goreng. After draining the 2 packets of noodles, I would then mix in the seasoning for a dry, Chicken Mee Goreng! Sometimes I'd wish I could eat this again, but I don't think I should (or can) stomach 2 whole packets of noodles! Somebody eat with me? Kaiquan? Hehe.
Okay, I don't remember what other crazy food binges I've been on; somebody who knows remind me! and I'll post more grossly delicious reminiscences.
Sunday, May 3
I realised that calling myself a writer is a problem, because I write so sporadically. It's made me question this name I've given myself.
When I was reading about Mary Shelley for my essay, I found something that said in her youth, she made a distinction between the stuff she wrote and the stuff she dreamt. Her writings were those she would show to close friends, but her dreams were all her own. I could be seriously misreading, but I can so relate to this. I generally 'write' in my head, putting thoughts into coherence; the moment they form sentences, they dissipate. They really do. Maybe this is why I write rather stuntedly. Words don't flow as easily onto the page as I'd like them to.
I wish I could just copy down all the details of my dreams or something. Dreams are vivid and you feel your way around in them as you would do in a new country. There've been times when I've woken up and I give myself completely into the illusion of the dream; all my wishes, fears and desires rush to the surface and dissolve into the air.
Maybe I'm not a writer; I'm a dreamer.
When I was reading about Mary Shelley for my essay, I found something that said in her youth, she made a distinction between the stuff she wrote and the stuff she dreamt. Her writings were those she would show to close friends, but her dreams were all her own. I could be seriously misreading, but I can so relate to this. I generally 'write' in my head, putting thoughts into coherence; the moment they form sentences, they dissipate. They really do. Maybe this is why I write rather stuntedly. Words don't flow as easily onto the page as I'd like them to.
I wish I could just copy down all the details of my dreams or something. Dreams are vivid and you feel your way around in them as you would do in a new country. There've been times when I've woken up and I give myself completely into the illusion of the dream; all my wishes, fears and desires rush to the surface and dissolve into the air.
Maybe I'm not a writer; I'm a dreamer.
