a condensed slideshow of thoughts.

I woke up today feeling like a swarm of bees was buzzing around my head. It was that lightheaded, bleary dizziness that accompanied my morning ritual. Some mornings, you just wake up, and you already know that you want to punch yourself unconscious so that you don't have to go through with the day. Today was one of those days.

Given the (awesome) flexibility of university though, I could easily skip my classes, stay home and sleep away the bees. But no, I had a Chinese test today. So after a few minutes of swearing and complaining to TumTum, my ever loyal companion, I got out of the bed and got ready.

My day did not get better. I burnt my hand while pouring hot water from a kettle, my fringe was rebelling against my mighty comb, I missed my bus by a scant few seconds (few things are more frustrating than seeing your designated bus drive past you), and was stuck waiting in the rain for the next one to arrive, all the while anxious about whether I was going to be late for my test.

As a side note, when the next bus did arrive, I was pleasantly surprised to recognize the driver. I knew him from a previous bus ride of mine, and I like him very much. The first time I saw him, I was going back home from university, rushing with a crowd of others towards the bus. He quickly shouted us in, and was perfectly aghast at how full the bus was, and how slow we were at entering it. "The Great Lord Jesus will have His second coming before I get to drive this bus again," he cried out, laughing. A witty, humorous bus driver is always nice. From all my commutes to and fro university, I've seen far too many disgruntled, aggressive drivers. Understandably, they are irritated and impatient, but it's when they start yelling at passengers that I start disliking them.

Now, anyway, I spent my bus ride cramming for my Chinese test, air-scribbling down the characters, trying to jam as many strokes as I could into my memory. Then halfway through my bus ride, somewhere in between the Oakleigh and Westminster stops, I got an sms.

"PITIFUL HUMAN, WHO DARES DISTURB MY CRITICAL LAST-MINUTE CRAMMING?" I ever so mercifully thought.

It turns out that it was my mother who dared.

"I love you.

Take care."

That was what she sent me.

And then I felt both miserable and that my day had just been made. The latter because, simply put, nothing is more heartwarming than receiving an unexpected "I love you". The former because, again simply put, I miss my mother.

It's been a little more than a week since she left. My sister and I are perfectly fine: we cook, we clean, we rock and roll, we shop, etc. The house is fine. Perhaps a little bit more disorganized without a mother to run around tending to the minor details, but fine, given that the both of us are busy and with little time to spare for cleaning.

Food isn't so much of an issue, since Rachel is a good cook, and I'm a good assistant (yes, guys, I actually do help with the cooking, and yes, the kitchen is fine and undamaged). We're creative and we plan ahead, and we take after Mom by buying a crapton of snacks, so we're never really hungry. The only problem I have with cooking is when I have to cut onions. Those demented tear gas spirits, burn in hell.

And there are benefits of Mom not being around. For one thing, I'm not pestered about my studies. I don't study any more than I did when Mom was here, but I don't study any less. I'm fine with my studies. Of course, there's always more room for extra diligence, but what the hell, it's the first year of university, who exactly is extra diligent?

Another benefit is that I (as expected) feel more freedom. It's not much, nothing drastic, no explosion of overwhelming freedom. I've never been one for going out much or parties, etc., so I don't feel any increased freedom in that area. It's the more subtle aspects that I revel my newfound state in. Not being chased after for sleeping late. Not being chased after for waking up late. Not being scolded for my messy room (note to self: declutter tonight). Not being chased away from the piano because my mom wants to watch one of her sappy Chinese dramas (she's moved from violent to sappy dramas now).

So yes. I'm not exactly suffering from the depths of despair at my mother leaving.

I do feel quite miserable though. At times, when I think about it. As you'd expect, I miss her a lot. Just as I enjoy the subtle details of freedom, so do I miss the subtle joys that departed with my mother. Having a hot dinner already prepared when I come home from a rainy, tiring day. Being made a cup of hot tea, unrequested, when I stay up late burning the midnight oil for an assignment. Being driven to the bus stop on the days where I'm running late. Being asked to try on this new pair of jeans she found on discount and bought for me. Entering my room, and seeing all my books and papers placed neatly in a single pile for me to sort through later, a huge improvement from the previous jumbled mess it was in. Not having to cut onions myself.

Demented tear gas spirits.

I miss my mother. I miss my mother very much.

For the months prior her leaving, I had already been gearing up. Thinking of the various situations that I'd encounter in her absence (they've yet to happen; it's not very often Japanese ninjas break into your house, I suppose), reading and collecting various housekeeping techniques and quick cleaning tips, jotting down the odd recipe that she shared with me into my ubiquitous capture repository. And then, the vital preparatory step I undertook: hugging her every day before I left for university. The first week of university, it felt natural just to hug her, because I felt (and was) like a child being sent off to her first day of school. So I hugged her goodbye on my first day, and sprinted off to the bus stop. Weeks went by, as did months, and the pattern was set. Every day, at the front door of our house, I'd hug her goodbye, she'd tell me to look at both sides of the road (I know, Mom, I know), and then I'd rush out the gate. Some days, I forgot to hug her, or I was already running really late for the bus, or she was in the bathroom, so I skipped the hugging streak then. But I always tried to keep up with it, and it wasn't very hard to.

The first few times I hugged her, it was more of a "wish me luck, I'm a big girl now, whee, university, whee" act. Once university was no longer a new, exciting world to explore (it still is, but I guess the rainy waits at the bus stop dampens my spirit a bit), the hugging sprint became just a way for me to tell Mom that I loved her, and that I'll be home in a few hours, and that I'd miss her when she leaves.

She'll come back in a few weeks though. Either before my exams (about one-two weeks time), or in July. Either way, it's completely up to her, I suppose. I'm okay with either. As long as she comes back.

Moving on to other points of interest:

• Good Lord, the Chinese test was not easy. I'm not too concerned about it, to be honest, because it only accounts for 7.5% of the final mark, and I've gotten nearly full marks in every other assessment, so I can afford to lose a few here. I'm sure I passed, at the very least, so that consoles me. It was the grammar questions that tripped me up: asking me whether adverbials followed or preceded nouns or verbs, were attributives noun and adjective or verb and adjective related, is it appropriate to use the confirmation interrogative in this situation, blah blah blah reduplication of verbs blah blah blah pandas. STOP COMPLICATING MY BEAUTIFUL LANGUAGE WITH YOUR LITERAL JARGON! But yes, I did well enough in the translation and comprehension questions. Just the grammar questions, they can go get plowed over by a Chinese farmer. Not going to lie, I was very relieved when I exited the hall and heard the other students saying, "What the fajita* is an adverbial?"
• I keep forgetting to replenish my wallet with more money. I'm currently sitting on only a couple of coins, like a beggar waiting for people to fund his alcohol addiction.
• I really very much love university. It's like a fresh spring breeze after the frigid hellhole of high school. I love the flexibility, the environment, the BIGNESS, the way I feel like there's untapped potential hidden in every corner, waiting to be lured out and fostered into a magnificent being, the way I feel so much more in control of things, the way I feel productive and like I'm learning things that I both want to and need to. Yes, even accounting, despite my hatred for it, I recognize its usefulness and purpose. The only thing I hate about university: travelling there.
• I've been playing the piano a lot, and I'd like to say that I've improved a bit, but who knows. I feel like I understand music a bit more, if that makes any sense. The layers and the intricacies are unveiling themselves to me. It's a lot more fun and meaningful, to say the least.
• I've also been writing a lot. Well, not for the past few days, since Mom left, and I have to juggle between cooking and cleaning and studying, but I have been churning out some pieces, at least. Not very good ones, but some writing is better than none.
• For the past few weeks, I have been feeling glum, and this Sunday, May 30th, it shall spill over into a candlelit moment of remembrance and grief.

So here I am, in the Matheson Library at Monash, with ceiling-high bookshelves standing around me as compadres, with books from "The Whole Story" to "The Index and Abstract Directory" (of what, it does not say, and now I am curious, but this tome is far too large and heavy for me to bother pulling out) crowding around me. And I sit here, finally updating my blog with, of course, a blogpost far too long for its own good.

I sit here, and miss the various people who I love so much.

*word substituted because I am a stick in the mud and don't like swearing.