[via See By Chloé, SS 2011]

Scalloped trim makes me go weak in the knees, transpose want into need, pace Fraser’s floors repeatedly, and completely surrender my credit card over the till (consequently breaking my first resolution of 2011. Already.).

Hey Santa, I know I’m about 11 months too early, but if you consider the fact that Christmas last year was pretty crappy for me as a mitigating factor, would you mind sending either the crossbody sling or satchel my way? In camel.

Merci bien!


Straight up, this is probably going to the most private thing I have ever written here. But I think these words are far too important to keep solely in the private pages of my journal. I wouldn’t say I learnt this the easy way, but I think things up in my misty mind finally did click for me. So here goes:

You know I used to think that power was everything in any relationship. And this power rested solely in the hands of the person who loved less, who was consequently given more, pandered to, and could walk away with nary a scratch if the relationship did end.

I succeeded in holding this power, through all the relationships I was in, romantic or platonic. I almost always had to have the last word; I was always the one they fought over; I was the one ready with all the cynicism in the world for one more bastard in history (mine or the girls’); I was the one with the strength and the mojo, so to speak.

This is what I have come to learn. Power doesn’t bring you happiness. Holding the knowledge that you love someone less isn’t going to make you wake up with the knowledge that you don’t want anyone else in the world sleeping beside you, but him. Loving less isn’t going to make all the little things count; loving less isn’t going to take you all the way to 49 or 94 together; loving less isn’t going to build an us, and it most certainly isn’t going to build a you.

He made me realize this. For the first time I didn’t care if he liked me more or I him. For the first time it didn’t matter if I was going to have the last word in a bout of verbal sparring. For the first time I didn’t need to fight to put my defences up and ensure I had an exit route that would leave me unscathed. I didn’t need to; he was more than enough even if he didn’t mean to be.

But you should know upfront, this is not a love story.

[Image via fuckyeahkikomizuhara]

Oh Kiko, you lookin’ mighty fly.

Snow, which as usual, London couldn’t deal with. But which my very tropical mom was very thrilled about.

Chinese New Year brought dumplings and crazy costumes to Raymont Hall. And Candice to London.

Back to St. Gallen for the first time in five years. And Zurich provided some much-needed sunny days.

Some sunny respite: The calm before the essaywriting storm.

Essays x 5, Redbull cans x 90, Readings x ∞, Life x 0

Back to sunny Singers for the World Cup (damn Paul) and Super Junior fangirling!

One more month with my nearest and dearest, with the shadow of the dissertation never far behind.

Back to London for dissertation hell. May in a repeat, with a non-existent supervisor (not my fault) and extremely last-minute cramming (entirely my fault).

Farewells, birthdays, farewells.

Goodbye London, Bonjour Montreal! This was easily the best decision I made all year.

Three weeks in Montreal became two months (the second-best decision I made all year). And we went to the concrete jungle where dreams are made of.

Christmas back in London. No crazy cooking sesh or even crazier boxing day sales this time; just good company and lots of Home Alone guffaws.


It’s been a good ride.
I’m ready for 2011.

Bonne année à toi!



[Images via VisualizeUs]


I love text tattoos. There is something very surreal about permanently inking words to live by on skin. Faces change and weather so much with time, making portraits almost impossible to preserve in their purest essence. Symbols and objects are taken in and more often than not, swiftly forgotten. But words; words have the ability to transcend infinitely, wielding more mettle than any old sword could.




My fingers touched something tonight;
it wasn’t air, no no.
A candy heart wrapped in a tangle of my
my mind,
my soul.

Everything turned to gold,
the day I had my say,
six years ago with April running into May.
Makes sugar taste like stone.
Makes a feather a ball of hail.
Makes my bones turn into rods
that spear your eyes and make you cry.
Cry for me.

I see everything,
The everything that was nothing in my eyes before;
marshmellows in pastel pink dresses, blocks of chocolate for the family,
balls from the gum machine.
Sticky fingers from long liquorice laces,
As long as the hair that fell out and never came back,
As long as my hollow face would greet Mom,
As long as the silence at the dinner table,
As long as the line of mascara tears; both mine and yours;

As long as the
stretched shadows that tug at my feet each night and tell me it’s okay to
follow them.

(Image via Josephine Bradley Scott)

(Something I wrote in August this year)

It may just be tonight.
One night where I know I cannot breathe.

The unbearable screech of silence bounding off
the walls
is what it is.

That bridge, the water, the old winding street –
I begged you to take me before it got too dark.
I had to take a picture.

We got there too late.
Nobody could tell if it was Lombard Street, or just some
straight avenue in the parade blueprint.
We got there and it was dark.

I won’t go north after Thanksgiving.
It gets too cold and then life takes over.
I have letters to write,
white envelopes to open. And seal. Open. And seal.

I hear my grandma’s sleeping on my bed now.
I can only sigh with relief.
That it’s not time yet. Because I can’t let go.

Anywhere but here.
One day geography will wash my lifeless body up the shore.

And tonight;
tonight is one of many nights where
I cannot breathe.


May all be calm
May all be bright
As on that silent holy night
And may the peace and love born then
– In every heart, be born again.





I guess Korean dinners and warm cups of peppermint latte make us more than a little loopy.





If you are chilly, here, take my sweater
You head is aching, I’ll make it better
‘Cause I love the way you call me baby
And you take me the way I am

[The way I am :: Ingrid Michaelson]