There is something most dehumanising and disturbing (alas my vocabulary fails me) with having your name being changed to another. For example my hairdresser calling me Melissa and the counselor calling me Melanie. I didn't want to correct them because I didn't want to make them embarrassed, but at the same time I derive a vague sort of desired detachment away from who I really am. Who's seeing a counselor? Melanie Wong is.

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I felt odd sitting there in the room. Sitting in a seat where I expect young rape/molest/incest victims once sat. I felt undeserving - you don't belong here! There are kids so much more worse off than you. I felt like a fraud. A fraud with OCD tendencies.

The walls were painted a light sage green with toys crammed into little nooks and crannies. A Sesame Street toy was perched atop a divider, filled with primary coloured plasticky happiness. A well handled transformer head sat at the far end of the desk, the silver paint rubbed off to show a dull curdled milk colour underneath. It looked a little sad. The transformer head was placed next to some folders in bright bursts of fuchsia which was ostensibly cheerful and made my head spin a little.

On the computer screen I saw my file open. As she kept turning around to answer her handphone, I kept peeking at screen. My address had been keyed in wrongly. I had to resist the urge to lean over and change it, but stopped it least I actually appear dysfunctional to a counselor. This drew my attention to the black keyboard, the colour accentuated by the small particles of whitegrey dust sticking to the side and larger dust bunnies between the cracks of the keys. Again I had to fight yet another urge, this time to wipe off the dust.

Outside waiting in the corridor, blatantly waiting for the counselor, I kept thinking of Sylvia Plath. I stared right ahead, face blank and devoid of all emotion for I had felt none whatsoever. I felt the people walking past me. Some seemed to quicken their pace to get past me, others I felt their pitying/scathing judgments as they walked past then there were those who completely ignored my presence and made me feel transparent and insignificant. Whatever it was, no one was really keen to see me there.*

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On another most disconcerting note, I have quite lost all possible respect for my mother. Ordinarily I'd be most angry over this unnamed matter, but it is frankly so shocking and disappointing (though not 100% unexpected) that I really have no feeling towards it left. It just is.

Furthermore the AIA website is quite a pain in the ass to navigate - exactly what are they doing with those funds if they can't even hack together a proper website? I also foresee myself receiving lots of Robinson vouchers from now on. I suspect they have some sort of dodgy agreement with AIA.

*(yes I came back and edited this bit on the 30/4/08 because it kept bugging me how badly I had phrased it)