Cassandra (also sometimes known as Alexandra) is often considered the most beautiful daughter of King Priam of Troy.

When Cassandra was a little girl, she and her brother fell asleep in Apollo's temple. The next morning, they were found surrounded by snakes. During the night, Apollo had allowed the snakes to whisper the secrets of prophecy into their ears.

And so she grew up with the gift of prophecy into a very beautiful woman. Upon gazing on her face, Apollo became so smitten by her beauty that he intended to seduce her but she refused him.

Angered and insulted by her refusal to become his lover, he twisted her gift for foretelling the future by removing her power of persuasion. And so was she condemned to a life filled with visions of the future, never to be believed even by her own family.

When her brother, Paris, was born, she foresaw that he would bring about the destruction of her father's city of Troy and even recommended that he be killed; but she was ignored. Her mother, Hecuba, Queen of Troy, later had a dream that pegged Paris as the destroyer of Troy, but that's a different story.

It was Cassandra who knew of Paris' intent to sail to Sparta for Helen and warned him not to do so; that he would bring back Troy's downfall should he proceed. But again, she was ignored.

And it was Cassandra who foresaw the true purpose of the Trojan Horse. But still, no one believed her.

And so Troy was conquered. Cassandra, seeking protection in the temple of Athena (pic to the right depicts her holding onto the statue of Athena with Ajax behind her), was captured and raped by Ajax and then given as a prize concubine to King Agamemnon of Mycenae and even bore him twin sons - Teledamus and Pelops.

Her final prophecy was that of her own death.

During the Trojan War, Agamemnon's wife, Clytemnestra took a lover, Aegisthus. Together, they plotted and conspired against Agamemnon. Upon Agamemnon's arrival at Mycenae, he and Cassandra went forth to Clytemnestra and it was there that Agamemnon was killed, together with Cassandra; who had predicted the event shortly upon arriving at Mycenae but was not believed by Agamemnon. Her children were killed by Aegisthus.

Can you imagine what it would be like to go through life with such a clear purpose and gift and yet never have anybody believe you. To live your life considered by all as being mad and crazy. (Many pictures of Cassandra depict her with long hair flowing about her shoulders that is supposed to symbolize her insanity.)

I love Greek mythology. I wouldn't call it romantic (I keep hearing people call it that) but it definitely stirs something within me.

One of the driving forces that brought me to the States were the museums. I remember visiting the Metropolitan Museum in New York and being completely blown away by the Ancient Greece section.

For some reason, Shirley Temple was on my mind today. So, I googled her up. Apparently, she is highly involved in politics nowadays. Who would've thought!

I remember going to my friend, Zara's place when I was a little girl and watching old black-and-white movies from the 30's and 40's that Zara's mom had on videotape. Classics! Among those movies were a bunch of Shirley Temple films. The bouncy, dancing little girl that had the cutest pout and the tightest curls I ever saw.

Oh, how I loved watching those old movies. There is a sense of elegance and grace in those films that seems to be missing in current day movies. Oh, and the twinkle! The women's eyes always twinkled. They don't really do the eye-twinkle thing anymore.

I loved watching those old movies in Zara's place too. Somehow, the sense of class one feels when watching those old movies from that era managed to spill into that house from the television, giving it the same feel of grace.

I think that is mainly due to the objects one could find there. Porcelain dolls; a full set of silver brushes, combs, and even a hand-held silver mirror; lacy what-have-yous (but not overly lacey). And all those were just in Zara's room. In the eyes of a little girl, it was the closest thing to the ealy 1900's as you could get without paying an admission fee.

Exactly one month until the ninth installment of Terry Goodkind's Sword of Truth series comes out in paperback - Chainfire. (Thank you Wendy for introducing me to the series.)

Oh God, the exitement. Be still, my beating heart.

Sometimes I feel I have broken from the hypnotic pen of my favourite authors such as Terry Brooks, Sophie Kinsella, and Terry Goodkind but each time I find out they have a new book, my heart starts beating faster (I am so not joking there) and it takes all my strength to not buy the hardback copy (I like to keep my collections constant - i.e. all paperback)

The cake was pretty yummy. It was chocolate and had about two centimetres of icing on top of it. Very, very sweet. The trouble with sweet foods is that the taste can only linger in your mouth for so long before it fades away, leaving you wanting more.

I used to love my birthday because it was so close to Halloween. I remember dressing up as a little girl and going door-to-door with a bunch of other kids trick-or-treating. I wonder what happened to all those costumes. I know I had a Little Red Riding Hood cape, a black cat costume, and a jack-o-lantern costume. My mom made those costumes too.

I remember the Little Red Riding Hood cape was made with this heavy velvety material. I kept feeling choked because the material was so heavy that the strings that tied it together across my neck kept pulling back on my throat. Professional cape-making involves the art of balancing the front weight with the back, I guess.

The jack-o-lantern costume was pretty hilarious too, as I recall. We had a stuffing problem. Originally (if my memory serves me right), we were going to just stuff pillows under it to plump me up like a pumpkin. But, I think gravity proved to be a force too strong and the pillows would not stay in. And so I went as a very skinny jack-o-lantern.

Times were indeed very different back then. Ah, the good ol' days.

I did it. I have put myself on a diet and am cycling on a stationary bike that I borrowed. I refuse to go back to Malaysia weighing what I weigh.

The nice thing about the States is that nobody really gives a fuck about what you weigh (Unlike Malaysia where it seems beauty and weight are directly proportional with each other.) Sadly, that mentality seems to have caught on with me and I came to not care about weight either... well, not as much as I should have.

My trip back to Malaysia last December was horrible. I can still literally hear the voices of all those people telling me how "big" I have gotten in all those different languages - English, Mandarin, Hokkien, Malay, Kenyah. I have never reallly been haunted by many things in my life but this just refuses to leave me in peace. It chips away at my self esteem and almost a year later, those voices still have the power to reduce me to tears.

I am an extremely emotional eater. Negative emotions seem to act like a trigger to my stomach. It is my Everest that I intend, nay - need, to conquer.

Been watching a lot of The Simpsons too. I have never really noticed how much of a role food plays on that show until this week. Donuts, chocolates, pies, cakes, burgers, pizzas. Oh God! In my taste-forsaken state, I watch that show and memories of all those sweet foods fill my mind.

The temptation to satisfy my hyperactive sweet tooth becomes almost unbearable and I try my best to fight it. So why do I still watch that show? Because the more I fight and win over that temptation, the better I feel about myself. Unfortunately, if I fight and lose, I plunge into a deep dark pit of self pity and loathing.

But still - I need something to make me feel good about myself.

I had a dream. I do not usually remember my dreams and so each dream I do recall is special.

This dream starts out with me preparing for a two-week vacation to the Caribbean. I am especially excited about this vacation because for those two weeks, I will be playing hookey from work -- knowing full well that should my boss find out, I would be fired. (They think I will be working from home or something like that)

At the Caribbean, I am checked into a beautiful resort and the beach is simply stunning with its white sandy beaches and the blue-green sea crashing onto the shore. Since it is not the peak time of year for traveling, the place is not packed with tourists - just how I like it.

The first thing I do there is head for the beach. I walk around for hours trying to find a secluded spot all to myself. Finally, I find it. The scene is absolutely breathtaking. My own slice of heaven, completely untouched by man.

As I am swimming in the sea, I catch sight of this fantastically weird creature. It has the body of the Spanish sea dancer (picture to the left), the head of a human, and it is the size of a sea snail. These intriguing beings are not unheard of in this dream-world of mine, but are rarely seen. They are timid little things that live and hide in giant clams like a clown fish in a sea anemone.

I seem to have stumbled upon an entire colony of them. I watch, utterly fascinated, as they swim around gracefully with each other, weaving in and out of a clam's mouth. They are cautious of my presence and keep close to the safety of the clams they call home.

Now it is evening and I am walking towards the small township near the resort. The sun has just started to set, casting a magical glow on the buildings. I love this time of the day. The entire sky is lit up in hues of red and orange with small patches of black cloud that seems only to heighten the intensity of the colors of the sky.

I arrive at the small town and find that most of the shops have closed for the day. The streets are empty - not in a creepy, abandoned ghost town way, but in a peaceful, laid-back way. And so I walk around just drinking the atmosphere in until I finally find some sign of life. It is a restaurant. Probably the only place in town that is open after sunset. I have my dinner there and then head back to my hotel room.

At my hotel room, I decide it is time I call my boss and update him on the project I am supposed to be working on. Of course I have not worked on it at all but I tell him that it is coming along well anyway. He then questions me about where I am. A small alarm is set of in my head. He sounds suspicious. As the conversation continues, I find that I was spotted in the airport by one of my colleagues who was returning from a conference. I start panicking, trying to figure out what to tell my boss. Not knowing what he knows but not wanting to reveal the truth.

I wake up.

Intense negative emotions wake me up... which I suppose is a good thing because I would not want a nightmare to last longer than it should.

I have recently taken to spending probably an hour a day just surfing through blogs. (That "NEXT BLOG" feature on the top right is nifty)

The array of subjects out there is simply astounding. While the greater portion of bloggers write about their humdrum everyday chores, you do occasionally find some people who have just marvelous blogs. (I wish there were a nicer word than 'blog' out there)

It is also fascinating seeing how blogs have seemed to become a new medium for advertising. There are oh-so-many blogs out there dedicated to sex, beauty products, and poker. (I found that last one odd but when I randomly stumbled onto 3 poker sites in an hour, I can only assume it is advertising)

I have no clue why I am so entertained with blog surfing. Most of the blogs out there are either advertising, writting in a foreign language, or filled with bad spelling and grammar. I have no problem with bad spelling and grammar when chatting online or any other 'direct' medium but writing posts generally means that there is time at hand to correct such mistakes.

... Oh God... I have become one of those people. I am just one step away from openly correcting other people's sentences. Must... take... evasive... actions...

Here I am. It is midnight and I am sitting in front of my computer thinking of how I should write this post. Of how I should phrase my sentences and break my paragraphs. Of what words I should use and what picture I should add.

Were I truly honest to myself, I would admit that the thought of writing this shames me to the verge of tears. But I choose to embrace a lie that, simply put, makes me feel better about myself -- this is a confession written out of boredom and restlessness. If I allow my flitting imagination to take full rein, I can even delude myself into believing this will be a great - not good, great - piece of writing... before I have even started writing it.

It has been almost a month since I last went to any of my classes. It is too late to go back now, I feel. Too many missed assignments, quizzes, tests.

I am told that if I were to go back and explain things, I could start with a clean slate. There is a little girl in my head that is rolling around laughing. The slate is never clean. Perpetually smudged from the moment you made your first mistake because life is written in detail with a black fountain pen.

Why a black fountain pen? Because that is what my father used to use. He doesn't use it anymore and oddly enough, it makes me sad. It is a symbol of how things are no longer what they used to be.

The sheer disappointment I know I am to my parents is as overwhelming as the utter failure I see myself as in the mirror.

I have taken to staying in my room; breaking all contact with the real world. I established this self-isolation three, maybe four, weeks ago. Choosing to stay in my beautiful room with the blinds drawn and the doors closed. A cessation of time, in a small way.

In doing so, I feel as though I have allowed myself the freedom to create a world to my liking. One where I do not feel I have failed anyone. One where my intense need for approval is constantly met no matter what I do. One where I feel pretty and smart. One where I embody the "essence of confidence." One where I am not who I am but rather who I want to be.

Since the beginning of the month, I have not left the confines of my room more than a handful of times. I miss nothing of world outside, knowing full well what it holds. I split the area around me into two: Rolla and my room. The former I view as the culmination of all things mundane and the latter being the hub of my imagination.

I have been thinking a lot about my chosen career choice. The more I think, the more resolute I am at my conclusion that I should never have chosen to become an engineer. When I was in school, I wanted to write. I chose engineering because I had a point to prove: I wanted to prove that I was smart. I was also rather adamant about not choosing a career in journalism because it seemed so cliche at the time.

I have also been thinking about what drove me to this university. Memories surface of me in my old college in Malaysia flipping through university catalogues, trying to choose which university to apply to. It had to have a small student-teacher ratio, it had to have good campus security, it had to have a good engineering program, it had to have this, it had to have that. In retrospect, I did not feel any great need for any of that. I simply chose that as my standard bar because, once again, it seemed smart. It did not matter that in reality, I hate small student-teacher ratios or that I could give a flying fuck what the security is like.

I wish to God I could turn back time. Or at least did not have to pay such high fees for tuition. Or even wish I did not hate the Malaysian education system so much. I suppose everyone feels that way every once in a while. The only difference is, most other people continue on, chugging forward like Mr. Thomas. Me? I tug on a tiny frayed end and watch me lose control over my life.

I still see myself as that 10-year-old little girl living in Apartment 8B, Kianggeh Apartments, yearning for constant approval while being too timid to ask for it and forever denying myself my goals not because they are set too high but because goals are not supposed to be obtainable.