Debbienho !

You’re listening to the radio. You’ve surrendered your senses to be soothed by familiar sounds coming over the static, ignoring the world and its nonstop wahala. At once you jerk upright, your eyelids flying apart. The song—the very one playing on the radio—is a direct reflection of part—or all—of your own life! This has definitely happened to you before. If it hasn’t, it’s because of one of three reasons: 1. You don’t listen to music. 2. You don’t listen to   good   music. 3. You don’t have a life (in which case I recommend Circle. They sell everything.). Me, I’ve experienced it   saa.   Christina Aguilera’s   Reflection   cut me to slices with just how it reflected me; I put up fronts so much sometimes, like when I say an automatic ‘I’m fine’ anytime they ask ‘How are you?’ And   Unwritten,   by Natasha Bedingfield, for when I’m skeptical of testing the ‘nothing ventured nothing gained’ theory. And   Wordplay,   by [my dearest] Jason Mraz, when I feel very wordsmith-y and a

You know that scene in  Wanted  where Angelina Jolie’s character is standing on a train, and she ducks just before it goes under an overhead bridge? Cool, no? I’ve been wanting to do something like that. Mm-hmmmmmm. This actually doesn’t have anything to do with Angelina Jolie or  Wanted.  I was going to write something sensible, to prove that I can defy all the pre-exam pressure and blog myself to happiness like the rock star that I think I am. Apparently that’s a little too high for me. I’m reeling from the after-effects of  dumsor,  sleeplessness and about a million hours of IAs (because what you heard is true. Teachers  are  mean.). Oh, why? Because of one degree. Do they want to kill us? Are they being altruistic and saving us the hustle of job hunting? Oh. And now I may have THD, or Temporary Head Damage. At least it’s not PHD, or Permanent Head Damage, but if they don’t stop driving us like then times slaves eh, hm. Plus I’ve also just come away from a sor

I used to think the bedroom was a woman’s paradise. Why ever not? Sitting before my looking glass, I stare at its reflection. It’s almost regal, with furniture made from fine cedar, a large feathered bed, and drapes of dark, suggestive colours foretelling the pleasure these four walls will see. Between playing lady of the house and gracing my husband’s side at functions, this is the one place I get to rid myself of the barriers of social pressure and allow myself be treated to the sensuous delights that can only be created between a man and a woman. Nonsense. This bedroom—with all its furnishing, the suggestive colours, the king-sized bed—is just a forsaken enclosure that’s trapped me! It’s that place where I slip into frustrated sleep filled with visions of the ecstasy I no longer experience. The femininity I once enjoyed has become a noose around my neck, strangling the very life out of me! Potiphar’s a shell of his old self. Minding Pharaoh’s business seems all

Slaves aren’t much different from each other no matter how they come to be slaves. They could be spoils of war, trafficked kids, children betrothed before they could speak. But here’s what ties them: their freedom’s not theirs anymore. Their actions are decided by an overlord they’ve got to please if they’re going to survive. He owns them.     Joseph was owned by Midianite merchants, then by Potiphar, and he came to Egypt. Here he was, torn from the coziness of his father’s pampering, taken from the land he grew up in, and flung into a place crawling with foreign people, foreign languages, foreign gods. And no, he didn’t have the luxury of warming into Egypt at his own pace. He had no luxury at all.     Joseph was jerked from restless sleep by the haunting bark of a slave driver. Before cocks stirred, he was already milling, drawing water, hastening to mix enough mortar to avoid being whipped. Sweat poured from him like he was doomed to die from dehydration. It was tense; ar