Just the other day I was browsing through the *millions* of bulletin posts in Friendster (yes, I'm in there with the rest of the world) and I came across this post entilted "Your Gothic Name".

*Oooooh* Of course I was interested. I'm always interested in all things goth. And so I went to the link provided.

Turns out my goth name is "Beautiful Scars". Yeah, yeah. Laugh, laugh. Beautiful Scars. What's that supposed to mean?

I changed my MSN nick to Beautiful Scars then. And the first person who sent me a message asked, "What's Beautiful Scars?"

That kinda triggered a question off in my head. Yeah, come to think of it, what's Beautiful Scars? As far as I'm concerned, scars are never beautiful. Think of all those people who'd willingly spend a bomb on cosmetic surgery to cover up their ugly scars. *shudder* And then there are some who opted for the cheaper and more aesthetic method of covering their scars--by getting themselves tattooed. *cough cough*

Question: Why do people willingly spend their hard-earned money to cover up something that's obviously become a part of who they are?

I came up with this answer, not so much for anyone else, but more for myself. After days of thought, I finally decided that scars should never be called ugly. (Remember all those times when you said, "Yeah, and I got this ugly scar here to prove it~!). Scars are just...unsightly. That should be the word. Unsightly.

So, anyway, back to Beautiful Scars and how I made sense of it. You know how each time you fell and scraped your knee or got into an accident that left you scarred, whether physically or emotionally? Well, it's never a bad thing to be scarred, you know. Having a scar is like carrying the stigma of an emotional burden, not so much of a physical one. Sure, we've never liked looking at people who are disfigured with scars because they're simply unsightly.

Turn the image around and look at the bigger picture. I have a couple of scars myself. Though they're not as obvious as the ones lots of other people have, I've spent, more like wasted, a lot of time disliking them. There's this one scar on my leg that I particularly disliked--it's slightly pink and raw even though it's been almost 10 years since it last healed. That same scar made me envious each time I see girls (you know those with legs a mile long and never had any scars) wearing skirts. I guess that's probably the reason why I don't wear skirts. Ashamed of my scar, maybe.

So where exactly am I getting? The point is, after a couple of days spent in thought, I wonder why people waste life worrying about small ickle things like scars. Geez. Get a life, I said to myself. They're not ugly. They're just unsightly. Most of the time, no one notices scars until you mention it to them.

Scars are like landmarks in our lives. Just imagine, each time you're left with a scar, you're also left with a lesson learnt and a little more wisdom. The scar that is left on your body may just be a small reminder of greater things that had happened.

I have a rather unsightly scar on my left thigh. I got it when I was about 10. I was swinging on a rope suspended from a tree branch by the beach when I lost my grip and fell on the hard sand. A big patch of my now-gone skin was pink and raw for a few seconds before it finally began to bleed profusely. Of course I cried.

Now, 10 years later, I'm left with that scar that reminded me of that one particular day at the beach. It also reminds me it's the first time my dad had encouraged me to climb up the rope and he had pushed me gently to get me into a slow swing. Days after my wound had healed, it didn't really matter that I fell from a tree and skinned a huge part of my thigh. It didn't really matter that the scar will stick out like a sore thumb for the rest of my life. What really mattered was my Dad's encouragement that day. And what really mattered was that few seconds of pure, untainted enjoyment I had shared with my Dad at the beach.

Now, so what if I have a scar? It doesn't quite measure up to being my Daddy's girl for that short moment.

Beautiful Scars. Though it will take some time for me to digest the "Beautiful Scars" part, I've kinda accepted that first and foremost, scars are never ugly. They might be beautiful you know. They just might.

I confess. I'm an addict. I need to check in to a rehabilitation centre. Soon. Very badly.

Yes. I'm a neopet addict.

Geez. What were you thinking anyway? It's just a harmless little neopet. Or two. Or three...*tum tee tum*...(twiddling my thumbs absently trying to look innocent).

The problem with them is that they're just so...needy, you know? They need to be fed all the time. And they need to be happy; I'll need to buy toys for them to play with. How do I buy toys? Neopoints, the equivalent of money in Neopia. How do I get NPs? Play games~! These games are highly addictive, I'm telling you. And then there are these never-ending quests which I always accept (because they give away "special and rare" items).

I can safely say that I've never paid that much attention to anything before. Can you just imagine how panicky I was this morning when Azalirr, the oldest of the three pets had the Sneezles?? To add topping to my panicky state, the pharmacy didn't stock up on the Magic Cookie which was the prescribed cure when I brought her to the hospital to diagnose the illness~! I was almost tearing my hair out with worry. Almost.

Of course, I have this strange tendency to get myself out of sticky situations. And this wasn't an exception. Azalirr was good as new, but just a tad bit unhappy (more toys for her, people~!).

I'm wondering if this is what happens when I have kids. Hang on. I'll answer that myself. I'm sure it will be 10 times worse. They won't be needing only toys and cures and my time.

They'll need way, way more than that.

I woke up at noon today. And I was feeling more than a little lost. It's the eve of my birthday. And it hit me that I'm turning 21 soon. Like tomorrow. And what have I done to help commemorate this special day? Nothing.

All of a sudden, I feel as if I've aged a decade or two over the past 2 months. It wasn't an entirely unpleasant feeling to have, though. At least I've decided to quit smoking. And I'm so much of a homebody the only thing missing is a husband who's away at war and a pair of knitting needles.

Lots of people say that 21 should be a landmark age in one's life. I took a look at the last of my "age 20" life, and I realized that every single person who had told me that was just pulling my leg.

What's so different about being 21 anyway? Sure, my parents gave me a car to call my own after spending 20 years on foot. But other than that, nothing's changed, save for the fact that I'm a year older than I used to be. And if, BIG IF, my parents do give me that golden key thingy that girls so love to wear around their necks when they turn 21, so what?

I'm pretty sure I won't wake up tomorrow with this silly grin on my face thinking, "Oh gosh~! I'm 21 already~!"