I feel a migraine coming. I recognise the paradoxical feeling of euphoria, a throbbing pain and a slight tinge of aura around things. I suppose it is a payment for the indulgence of that much cream. Like everything else I do in my flamboyant personality, with little inclination to cap these tendencies, when I decide to pamper myself, I take it to the extremes. I think spraying whipped cream into your mouth to savour the taste is going too far, and I know lots of people would have shuddered at the amount of whipped cream I topped my tea with. About a third of the cup. And I had two cups. Cups is a misnomer. Mugs would be the proper description.

But yes, I have lost the exact details of what ex-BF two told me. Something about my predisposition to feel ill at too much fat and cream. I am supposedly genetically inclined to feel ill at the slightest amount of oil and fat due because people with a family history of diabetes do. Maybe he was humouring me and my hypochondria. I don't remember.

In any case, now I am feeling extremely ill at the two-thirds of a can of whipped cream I imbibed in a frenzy of pampering. I think I won't be able to look at any dairy product or fried food, or any amount of oil without breaking into nausea. At this moment, the thought of milk makes me feel like going green and bending over the toilet bowl.

Even my mom berated me for getting that can of whipped cream. Strawberries and cream? Strawberries are good for your health but cream? You could see the indignation of the words rising from that email she sent me. And Capt. was terribly concerned about the clogging of my arteries.

But like my dad, I enjoy food too much to bother with little insipid details like health. Hah. Liar. I am cutting down on my fat intake this week. A week of sandwiches for lunch. Bleah.

Speaking of my dad, I have thought about this sometimes. Somehow I am never attracted to hunky men. I like athletic men, but lean ones. Not swimmers, rugby players, some footballers and wrestlers. I do prefer the scientific intellectual. All of my boyfriends were math aces or biology nuts, and were puzzled by the sheer idiosyncrasy that is literature and which I devour so intensely.

Maybe the psychological bit about women looking for men that either resemble or utterly not resemble their fathers, is true. My dad did love Shakespeare in his time too. Anyway, my dad gets pretty grumpy at times, so maybe I have developed a distaste for men who have the build for rugby, because in my head it means that they are more likely to be grumpy bears. Moreover, I have inherited Dad's temper and occasional sullenness, so it means that in a relationship, I need to be the one doing the yelling and emoting, and the poor guy has to endure it.

Erhm, no, my dad never laid a hand on me. I had a pretty idyllic childhood. Like I said before, my sister and I were very indulged as kids. We still are. My mom was the one who wielded the cane and got to be the baddie. I got yelled at a lot by my dad though. My dad is a very good father. The Asian stereotype, the silent, steady, provider, so I do suppose psychologically I am looking for someone that resembles him. Does that make sense? Or perhaps the reason I do prefer slimly built men is because the thought of going out with someone with my dad's build is subconsciously incestuous. Which makes me conclude that the human brain is screwed up, because I was abused as a child by a slimly built man. Hmmm. Enough of that. We all have little demons in our past. And no, it wasn't sexual abuse.