- Joined
- Oct 20, 2015
- Messages
- 1,526
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- 83
To me, getting besotted with someone is a form of addiction..... just like burusera or partialism as categorised in DSM-5 of American Psychiatric Association's manual. I will talk about the latter two topics on another day when I have time to write.
I wrote this diary entry in my personal laptop a few nights ago when my brain was ruminating with thoughts of an event that happened in the past. This event is stll evocatively edged in a certain part (or parts) of my brain.
I was told by a dishy brain surgeon at Mount Elizabeth which I met the other day, that my memories are not stored in my brain like books on library shelves. Memories when recalled, are actively reconstructed from various locales of my brain by some encoding processes.
I reckon this means that if some of these processes malfunction with age, my memories would be inaccurate, as the reconstruction processes would have been tampered. The solution I reckon, is put my memories to "pen and paper". It would probably be easier to recall such tumultuous events in future from the sanity of my E-diary.
When I was a teenager in a well known local junior college, I developed a serious crush on my English Literature tutor. He was tall and spunky, from the United Kingdom, and I would constantly fantasize that he was my boyfriend. At times, after a conversation with him, I would rush to the restroom's cubicle, stupefied, and flushed in blotchiness.
Often, to get such an ecstatic euphoria, I would pretend I had a query, and seek "opportunities" to have a tête-a-tête with him. I learnt for the first time, as an 18 year old, that I could efficaciously make a sheep's eye at a specie, capable of producing spermatozoa, mesmerising him with my maturing chi-chis. During our tête-a-tête session, I could feel his bright blue eyes sneaking a peek through my white blouse, and consequentially sensed a gush of "heat rays" from his "Superman's vision" on my cherished assets.
From then, I realise that guys are visual animals. The pervert oggles and salivates, while the good one takes a furtive look and appreciate my assets without being gross. It become a yardstick for me to titillate the men whom I am interested in (even up to this day), observing how they use their innate "Superman's vision" to determine whether he ia a ladies' man or a lecher.
I did become increasingly proprietorial, often green-eyed, whenever he was solicitous about the welfare of other girls in the class. I was fast transforming into a Bertha Mason, though I wasn't locked up on the third storey of Thornfield Hall.
While I wasn't as maniac or violent as what Bertha Mason did to Jane Eyre, I did become the epitome of microaggression, often bitching to the other junior college boys about so and so being slutty and so forth. In classes where my views were sought, I would premeditatedly adopt disagreeing positions to those girls that I want to "punish", for being too close to him.
After my A Levels results were out, we went for a couple of dates, clubbing, and eventually an enthralling dalliance that lasted a couple of months. He was a married man, hence, I guess you guys should know what's the epilogue of this illicit fling.
Coming back to the present (and with age as wisdom), my brain would somehow ruminate over what had happened more than a decade ago. Should I have let him off so easily? Why didn't I fought heart and soul for him? Why didn't I make him "pay" for his "enjoyment"? Why was I so besotted with an Englishman? Well I guess I wasn't a "kiss and tell" sort of girl. Neither were I a prostitute seeking remuneration for services rendered.
This event is probably one of those defining moments which I wish (sometimes) I could roll back the clock and take all the disconsolation away... But, I have the feeling that if I do so, some empirical joys which I had experienced with him would be gone as well. For the moment, let's keep memory in my E-dairy till I am ready to discard it.
Meanwhile, time for a late lunch on a slow Monday.
I wrote this diary entry in my personal laptop a few nights ago when my brain was ruminating with thoughts of an event that happened in the past. This event is stll evocatively edged in a certain part (or parts) of my brain.
I was told by a dishy brain surgeon at Mount Elizabeth which I met the other day, that my memories are not stored in my brain like books on library shelves. Memories when recalled, are actively reconstructed from various locales of my brain by some encoding processes.
I reckon this means that if some of these processes malfunction with age, my memories would be inaccurate, as the reconstruction processes would have been tampered. The solution I reckon, is put my memories to "pen and paper". It would probably be easier to recall such tumultuous events in future from the sanity of my E-diary.
When I was a teenager in a well known local junior college, I developed a serious crush on my English Literature tutor. He was tall and spunky, from the United Kingdom, and I would constantly fantasize that he was my boyfriend. At times, after a conversation with him, I would rush to the restroom's cubicle, stupefied, and flushed in blotchiness.
Often, to get such an ecstatic euphoria, I would pretend I had a query, and seek "opportunities" to have a tête-a-tête with him. I learnt for the first time, as an 18 year old, that I could efficaciously make a sheep's eye at a specie, capable of producing spermatozoa, mesmerising him with my maturing chi-chis. During our tête-a-tête session, I could feel his bright blue eyes sneaking a peek through my white blouse, and consequentially sensed a gush of "heat rays" from his "Superman's vision" on my cherished assets.
From then, I realise that guys are visual animals. The pervert oggles and salivates, while the good one takes a furtive look and appreciate my assets without being gross. It become a yardstick for me to titillate the men whom I am interested in (even up to this day), observing how they use their innate "Superman's vision" to determine whether he ia a ladies' man or a lecher.
I did become increasingly proprietorial, often green-eyed, whenever he was solicitous about the welfare of other girls in the class. I was fast transforming into a Bertha Mason, though I wasn't locked up on the third storey of Thornfield Hall.
While I wasn't as maniac or violent as what Bertha Mason did to Jane Eyre, I did become the epitome of microaggression, often bitching to the other junior college boys about so and so being slutty and so forth. In classes where my views were sought, I would premeditatedly adopt disagreeing positions to those girls that I want to "punish", for being too close to him.
After my A Levels results were out, we went for a couple of dates, clubbing, and eventually an enthralling dalliance that lasted a couple of months. He was a married man, hence, I guess you guys should know what's the epilogue of this illicit fling.
Coming back to the present (and with age as wisdom), my brain would somehow ruminate over what had happened more than a decade ago. Should I have let him off so easily? Why didn't I fought heart and soul for him? Why didn't I make him "pay" for his "enjoyment"? Why was I so besotted with an Englishman? Well I guess I wasn't a "kiss and tell" sort of girl. Neither were I a prostitute seeking remuneration for services rendered.
This event is probably one of those defining moments which I wish (sometimes) I could roll back the clock and take all the disconsolation away... But, I have the feeling that if I do so, some empirical joys which I had experienced with him would be gone as well. For the moment, let's keep memory in my E-dairy till I am ready to discard it.
Meanwhile, time for a late lunch on a slow Monday.
My wholehearted apologies for not responding earlier. 
