An INFP (Idealist) Can Never Be…


There seems to be this idea circulating the internet that INFPs (an introverted and idealistic personality) are these soft, pure, airy sprites who are oh so kind hearted and loving and gracious.

That’s not true.

We can be mean. We can be selfish. We can be cruel. We can hurt other people. We can also be caring, loving, generous and sweet. We’re human. No one is utterly wicked or good, just as no one is completely introverted or extroverted.

But, in my opinion, you may disagree after all, there are just some…kinds of people that INFPs can never be. Well, not never. If you forced me at gunpoint, I would do anything because the wild call of self preservation surpasses all other impulses in living creatures. But if my life and the lives of my loved ones were not endangered in the situation, I would never, ever become these, shall we say, personas.

1.   A gold digger.  Okay, as a proud feminist, I find these women to be renegades who are spoiling it for all the women who have fought so hard to gain their rights. It is such a degrading ‘occupation’, like, can’t earn your own money without relying on some rich guy? It’s so incredibly demeaning. But, disregarding that, this is something INFPs cannot be. For one thing, we don’t find wealth to be particularly important so why would we make an effort to attract men just for their money? I can’t stand artificial relationships which these often are and don’t see relationships or marriage as a business transaction. Many of these women also have to be eloquent conversationalists. As an extreme introvert, this would be difficult. I guess I won’t be rich any time soon but at least my morals will be intact.

2. A criminal. Alright, I admit it, I think I am a good, law abiding citizen. This doesn’t make me boring. INFPs can’t dabble in serious crime (by serious crime, I mean anything worse than stealing a lollipop from the milk bar down the street) because it ultimately just hurts innocent people. We’re idealists, we dream of a harmonious world without war and crime with everyone dancing through meadows with flocks butterflies coalescing in the air. We’re just too peaceful to become a criminal.

3. A unscrupulous salesperson. Let’s just ignore the fact that sales is not something an INFP would willingly select as an occupation. I can just imagine it:

Me: Excuse me sir/madam, I am so sorry for bothering you but would you like to hear about our new range of products –

Random person: (glares) No thank you.

Me: (close to tears, dying inside) Oh, I’m so sorry, but if you would just listen –

Random person: I said no. Can you please stop harassing me?

Me: Okay, will do, very sorry. I’m so sorry. Have a nice day. I’m so sorry for bothering you.

Anyway, the key word here is unscrupulous. An INFP has a set of morals and values which are fixed. Many INFPs don’t believe  in cozening doddery old fools out of their hard earned cash. It is just immoral. I would sell a product if I believed it in it’s inherent worth. Anything less, nuh-uh.

4. A player. There are many women who go through men like they’re, I don’t know, chip packets. I don’t judge them. It’s their life and they can live it as they choose, as long as it makes them happy and doesn’t hurt anyone…too much? Anyway. But INFPs are all for the whole soul mate and love at first sight sort of thing. At least, I am. I can’t imagine burning through partners. If I ever am in a relationship, I put my whole heart and soul into it. It’s kind of scary how deeply I can love because there is a great potential for pain. Being a player? It is too shallow and artificial for INFPs. We search for the one and then that’s it. INFPs would never cheat on their partners. And if we’re ever cheated on by a player, we’d fall into an abyss of melodramatic despair.

Well, there you go. INFPs aren’t saints but there are just some things that cross the line. These points probably apply to most people, not just INFPs, because most people are scrupulous and nice.

Thanks for reading.


The Need To Be Special


We are inculcated from the moment we are born with the idea that each and everyone of us are special.

“No fingerprint is the same! You’re unique!”

“Ever since humanity began, there has been no one like you. You are one of a kind. Cherish, that. Oh, you’re so special darling.”

Most of us have friends and family to shower us with love and compliments. They tell us we are beautiful and wonderful. Your mother looks down at you and says, yes, dear, you are so special in my eyes.

But are you really?

See, the thing this, if everyone is actually ‘special’, the concept of uniqueness is nullified. If everyone is special, then everyone is technically on the same level and therefore no one is special. If the idea of exceptionally is to exist, there has to be some people who are special and other people who are, to put it bluntly, not special. Common, pedestrian, ordinary, white bread people.

But most people would recoil at the idea of being merely average. Deep in our hearts, each of us thinks we are special. That we have some sparkle within us that no one else has. Why? Because it allows people to create a sense of their own self-worth. It gives them a reason for entitlement. People cling to the idea of being special because it validates their existence and creates a comforting, fugitive illusion of their life being valuable, like, hey we are all going to die one day, me, you and everyone who comes after us and humanity itself will shrivel up into nothing some day but at least I’m special, I’m different, this gives my life meaning, doesn’t it? doesn’t it? *claws at the other person’s shirt collar with fever of desperation in eyes*

I’m exactly the same. It’s terribly hard for me to admit it, like digging up the unsightly, sordid dregs of my personality, but I obtain my self worth from being different, being special. It even allows me to accept parts of myself which I would otherwise be adverse to.

I’m an introvert. Translation: Oh, I’m different, I’m quiet and mysterious and think deep thoughts, I am a great listener, look at those chatterboxes with such malarkey spewing from their mouths.

I’m a HSP (Highly Sensitive Person). Translation: Everyone else are these thick-skinned, emotionless people who go through their days numbly and thoughtlessly. I’m so subtle and sensitive, like a delicate little flower, picking up on all the nuances of the world, look at me, sensing everything, feeling everything, imbibing the beauty of the world.

I’m an INFP (Idealist). Translation: I’m so misunderstood by society, so unique and complex that others can’t understand me. My thoughts are so august that mere commoners cannot comprehend them. They say I’m weird and strange but that’s because I’m special. My idealism soars above the banal, pragmatic thoughts of others, my mind is alight with wonder, I am this jewel nestled among the dull pebbles, my coruscant surface winking now and then.


People try to salvage their self-worth from aspects of themselves which they believe make them special.  

For me, I think I’m creative, deep and intelligent. I think I have some wonderful literature within me that is still fighting to escape. I use these aspects to satisfy my desire of being unique.

It could be different for you.

Maybe you have great physical beauty. Yes, you say to yourself, I’m a moving work of art. People stare at me longer than they should or love me more because of it and that makes me special.

Maybe you’re brainy, logical and smart. You’re another Einstein in the making. You’re so special, you’re going to make all sorts of scientific and mathematical breakthroughs.

Maybe you’re the kindest, sweetest person. Maybe you connect with animals. Maybe you are spiritual. Maybe you have a special connection with a deity/God that you think no one else has. Maybe you have a glib tongue and can convince and persuade people to believe anything you say. Maybe you’re a magnificent actor/actress and can cry at the drop of a hat.  Maybe you’re funny. It could be anything.

The desire to be special is a universal urge of humanity. We don’t want to be nothing. We don’t want to be worthless. We don’t want to be another nameless organism that dies and returns to the soil as part of the circle of life. We want ourselves and our lives to mean something. The only way to do that is to convince ourselves that we are unique.

And even though not everyone on Earth can be special, there is a strange comfort in knowing that this concept is propelling people all around the world to do greater things and achieve greater heights and bring their own kind of magic into the world that will shine on long after the breath has faded from their lips.

Because, ultimately, even if the idea of being special is but an illusion for most of us, it brings meaning into our lives. It’s good. It’s beneficial. And it helps us to do the things we want to do and become the people we want to become.  

In the words of Mark Twain, ‘Don’t part with your illusions. When they are gone you may still exist, but you have ceased to live.’

And that is something this dreamer will definitely remember.

There Is No Prince Charming


The moment the female creatures of our species enter this world, they are conditioned to believe by the entertainment industry (I’m looking at you, Disney) that there is a ‘prince’ waiting out there for them.

That prince who will sweep them off their feet and marry them and solve all their problems in life and allow them to live happily ever after.

Ever notice that we often don’t see what occurs after the prince marries the girl in movies?

Because after the marriage, reality creeps in. Arguments, divorce and barbed conversations. Maintaining a relationship takes work.

People don’t fall in love instantly and keep that love kindled without effort (I swear, if Disney’s warped sense of the world were reality, there would be a lot of assault cases – kiss the damn women on the lips and they’ll open their eyes and fall in love with you?)

But hey, don’t want to extinguish the hope in these little girls, do we? Let’s just slip them this drivel and let them dream themselves to destruction. Never mind the psychological effects in the future, making a profit is what matters, oh, yes, yes, fiddle dee dee.

Am I overreacting? Okay, maybe. And, yes, you make a valid point, those are fairytales or mere stories and are not meant to be taken at face value. But hell, they sure have messed me up.

I’m naturally idealistic. I often ignore reality, treating it like a painting on the wall – I can choose when to look at it and a lot of the time it just fades into the background. This is something I’ve been trying to work on as I’ve grown older.

And then the entertainment industry goes ahead and feeds me all this bullshit year after year. Excuse my language. But all those Disney movies. All those Hollywood movies. They have created this disgusting, horrible, twisted image of love and life. Twisted? Yes. Because all my life, I’ve dreamed of meeting a savior. Of a Prince Charming that would come riding in on his stupid, white horse and rescue me from the misery of every day life. I would fall in love and life would be perfect. I’ve coined the term ”Damsel in Distress Disorder (DDD)” for this psychological condition.

All my life, I’ve been propounded proudly that I am a feminist. But I’m not if I suffer from DDD. How can I be a feminist and expound the strength of women if I’m just a soppy wimp waiting to be saved? I’m just a hypocrite. Oh, oh, please help me, please save me dear prince, please materialize because I’m too weak to do anything myself. I make myself sick.

Because the truth is, there is no savior, no Prince Charming out there for any of us. And for all you men out there, there is no Princess who will glide in and complete your life. If your life is in the dumps, no one will magically appear to help you. If you’re not motivated and accomplishing nothing, no one will be there to prod you in the back. Sure, you may have friends and family. But they have their own lives to contend with and can’t revolve around you forever.

So if things in your life aren’t the way you like it, don’t pine, don’t whine, don’t lament. Don’t daydream about a savior. The only person who can save you is yourself. Freaking cliché, but it’s the truth and it’s one that took me a long time to see.

In the words of Tiana from ‘The Princess and the Frog’, ‘fairytales can come true but you gotta make ’em happen, it all depends on you’.


Never forget that.

Writing Makes My Life Meaningful?


My greatest goal in life has been to search for meaning. A purpose.

The universe is arbitrary. Stars are born and explode and then reborn. Planet and other large celestial objects collide at random. Comets fly until their trail of fire melts out of existence.  People fall down dead all over the world every second and most people don’t give a damn. So many of them die with unlocked talents in their souls. Every day on the news there is an earthquake, a hurricane, a tsunami, some stupid war on the other side of the world. The surface of the Earth is stained with blood and death and disease. We just build cities on it to cover up the ugly, to deceive ourselves. We fill our lives with food and entertainment and the acquirement of material goods and other hedonistic pleasures to avoid thinking about death and the meaninglessness of our lives.

I first thought the goal in life was to be happy. I was fed a litany of optimism from the day I was born. If you were happy, your life was automatically meaningful, right? Because you were satisfied. Get a great job. A great house. Nice spouse with two kids. Give yourself a pat on the back for being such a wonderful parent once a year.  Have a perfect nuclear family like the ones on TV. Then let a fire burn it all to the ground and the charred bodies disintegrate. What are you left with? Nothing, except the next door neighbor saying, ‘aw shucks, the Jonathans were such a nice family, real tragedy, just shocking man.’ And life goes on for the rest of the world, with all the people living their little happy lives embroiled in their own affairs until they too, one day, burn to the ground with nothing to show for themselves but a house and a couple of thousand dollars in the bank.

Okay, deep breaths. So the meaning of life wasn’t to be happy. Then maybe it was to help people. End suffering. End poverty. End discrimination. Fight for the underdogs. Help animals. Become a nurse in a war torn country. I would be ‘making a difference’. I’d find it fulfilling and would be able to feel smug about being such A Good Person. Yeah. This was sounding good. Only thing is, the help you can give is limited by money and power. The more you have of these two juggernauts, the greater the change you can effect. What I’m saying is, when you’re a broke college student hardly able to feed yourself and live wearisome days filled with studying and juggling two jobs, your options in terms of assuaging the suffering of other people are limited. You’re not making much of a difference in the world by casting a shower of pennies at one homeless man.

So the meaning of life wasn’t to be happy-go-lucky all the time. It could be to help people but that was limited by a dearth of resources and power. What was I to do? I was just one stupid organism in a sea of billions of others. If I’d died, it wouldn’t have mattered one jot. It would be like stepping on an ant. Oops, who cares, it’s just an ant. There’s plenty more of them. I fell down the vortex of existential depression.

Then I picked up writing again. Now, before you groan at this maudlin, sentimental conclusion, that I ‘discovered’ the beauty of writing and it brought meaning back to my life and got me back on my feet with courage blooming in my breast and la di da da, whatever. That’s not what I mean. It wasn’t some beacon of hope that suddenly shone down upon me, like sunshine streaming onto my body from a rift in the clouds as if a sign from a divine being.

What really happened is I sat down. I opened up a word document. I wrote. I saved it. The next day, I did the same. And the next. I liked what I was doing. I was still miserable about the meaningless of life. But I liked the feeling of writing down the stuff in my brain. I liked staining the pages with the liquid rainbows of my thoughts. I liked it a lot. All I knew was that I liked it and the creativity was flowing out of my fingertips and my mind was hovering from one magical world to the next. And I cradled books to my chest as tenderly as a mother rocks her babe and I read them and I liked that a lot as well.

Humanity is going to end. The art created by humans is worthless in the full scheme of things. Maybe nothing really matters. We’ll never know. I’m still scared of death. I’m still scared of the future. I’m still scared of being worthless and inadequate.

But I like this thing, writing, a lot. So I think I’ll keep on doing it. I won’t think too much about it. I’ll just do it. And let the chips fall where they may.


8 Life Tips for INFPs (aka Idealists) Which I Don’t Follow


**If any of you who read my blog or are just stumbling across it are needing any life advice or guidance, especially if you are sensitive, introverted or a dreamer and feels a little lost in this cold world, please send your Skype username to Though I can’t guarantee I can speak with everyone, I will try my best. These sessions will be free, as I’m just going to be practicing my life coaching skills and developing my own techniques and learning how to talk and counsel people. Thank you for helping me practice and taking me a step further on this new little journey of mine, and I hope that I can help you in the process too. Please no spam: it’d be good to send a message along with your username telling me a little about yourself. Thanks. Keep dreaming.

1. Stop caring what other people think. Other people don’t matter. What matters is you and your life. You are nothing but a passing thought in most people’s minds (sorry, it’s the truth). So if they don’t give a damn about you, why do you give a damn about what is going on in their brains? Live your life and stop feeling hurt and over analyzing people.

2. Money isn’t the root of all evil. INFPs have habit of disdaining money. They lift their noses into the air and pronounce haughtily that wealth doesn’t matter to them, that they will follow their passions even if it means becoming a starving artist. But money is useful. It is needed for survival. So please, don’t ignore it. Think about it as a tool (not the main source of happiness) that can you help you achieve the life you want to have. Get a job that pays okay and spend the rest of your free time dreaming, writing and reading.

3. You have to face reality sometimes. Okay, I know, the clouds up there with the rainbows and faeries and magic and wonder is awfully appealing. But you’ve got come down to Earth sometimes. Don’t shut yourself in your room in your own fantasy world while letting the bills pile up, your savings dwindle and your relationships with other people wither all the while cursing the cruel world and retreating into books.

4. What matters is the present. I know you’ve got that sparkly vision in your mind of the future. But that’s the future, it hasn’t happened yet. You have to concentrate on the present and do your best to move forward in your life right now. And here’s the thing (you ready? you ready for this?): The future will eventually become the present. If you’re always comforting yourself with the thought that the future will be better, you’ll be just chasing your own shadow until the day you die.

5. Logic (aka practicality) is useful. Oh, how I used to belittle logic! I thought creativity was the zenith and sublimation of human thought. But logic is vital for survival. It’s used to construct buses and trains and planes, grow food to feed the world, creates new medicines for diseases, etc. Pretty words and pretty thoughts aren’t going to effect much change in the world. Doing things through using logic to transmute those pretty thoughts into flesh and blood reality? That’s what’s really going to make a difference.

6. It is impossible to achieve perfection. No, no, listen. Really listen. Let the words be branded into your mind. It is impossible. There is no such thing as perfection. So stop trying to make you, your life and other people around you perfect. It’s just not happening. You are wonderful human being and should give yourself more credit for your achievements. Also, your partner will never be perfect. Don’t idealize them to the point where they feel they can’t live up to your expectations.

7. Not everyone you meet is out to get you. I know INFPs can see insults and criticisms that aren’t there because we read into things so much using our intuition. A lot people are nice in the world. A lot of people in the world also say things without thinking. Don’t morph words and suggestions into hints that other people don’t like you or want to bully you. So don’t take things too personally (I know, that’s kind of like telling a penguin to fly. But we have to work on it! *determined expression with pencil raised high in the air like a victory sword*).

8. Try to be a little less reserved. Now before you throw your tomatoes at me, hear me out. I don’t mean go against your very nature and force yourself to be an extrovert, which is just stupid. I just mean that maybe next time, when you are deciding whether to talk to a person, talk to them. Next time a teacher asks a question (if you’re still in school), raise your hand. Make a new friend. Step out of your social boundaries just a little and you might find it better and easier than you expected. It could also be a great confidence booster!

So, there you go. Sorry, what was that? I have to practice what I preach? Now where did you ever get a funny idea like that? Lord, practice what I preach….the ridiculous things people come up with these days…*scoffs*

What about you guys? Have an tips to add?

Realist vs Idealist


1. What do you think about true love?

Realist: Often, the true love people talk about is mere passion or lust. Love is more like an affection for another human being that matures over the years like good wine. It is needed to keep two people together long enough for reproduction while allowing them to tolerate each other well into their elderly years.

Idealists: True love is real and lasts forever! Love is one of the ultimate goals in life! It is the pinnacle of the human experience. Once you fall in love, the planets align, the sun smiles down at you all day long and pink butterflies metaphorically shoot out of bushes. You will never get sick of that person and will grow old together, wrinkled and careworn and sitting on the front porch holding hands. You’ll die cradled in each others arms and if your bodies are ever excavated, the skeletons of both of you will be interlocked like puzzle pieces, proving your love to be eternal. *smiles dreamily *

2. What do you hope to achieve in life?

Realist: I want to make a difference, if I can and if it is within my means. Of course, I want to have a good career so I can provide for my family and enjoy the good things in life. I want to be happy. After that, I will donate to charities and be kind and respect all people.

Save all the people! End poverty! End suffering! Save all the animals! Stop war forever! Promote world peace! Become a writer and touch a billion other dreamers around the world with my words! I couldn’t give a damn about money! Let’s end discrimination and hatred and then all human beings will live in harmony! Yeahhh!

3. What are your views on death?

Realist: Death is inevitable. It is simply the end of existence, a nothingness. Once you die, you’re just gone. Fertilizer for vegetation. There’s no two ways about it.

I do partly agree with that guy over there (points to the austere Realist whose hands are folded neatly in lap and back is ramrod straight), that death is simply a nothingness. But I don’t think you’re ‘just gone’ if you’re died. You’ll live on in the memories of people you touched. You’ll live on in the art you created while you were alive. Your voice will speak through the books you wrote. The effects of your existence will be dissipated across the globe until the end of humanity if you spent your time on Earth well. And that is something truly wonderful…

Realist: (turns to idealist) Frankly, you’re pathetic. You live in your own fantasy world.

Idealists: Frankly, you’re pessimistic. You don’t allow your mind to dream the greatest and most wondrous dream it can ever dream.

Realist: You’re too caught up in airy fairy stuff to execute your dreams and develop them into reality.

Idealist: Well…well, you don’t even have the dreams to execute, so there!

Realist: I do so!

Idealist: (pokes out tongue) Do not!

Interviewer: Please, please! Calm down. The world needs both of you. The world needs the idealists to come up with the ideas and envision a better future for us all, to create the world’s art that keeps the souls of people alive. And the realists are needed for survival – to create the planes, to appropriate resources, to execute plans and bring the dreams of idealists to fruition…don’t you see? You are both more powerful and can effect greater change in the world if you work together.

Realist: I see. Sorry for my outburst.

Idealist: (haughty) Apology accepted.

Realist: You didn’t say sorry.

Idealist: (Looks sheepish) Fine, sorry.

Realist: Apology accepted.

( Long pause in which both the Realist and Idealist look upon each other with mutual complacency. The room settles into a comfortable silence. Suddenly, Idealist stands up and scratches head, facial expression morphing into one of horror.)

But I still can’t believe you don’t believe in true love…..! And don’t you dare tell me faeries don’t exist!

(Interviewer tries to claw the Idealist off the Realist before any faces get scratched or any eyeballs blinded)

When I Hate My Writing


When I Hate My Writing

It’s one of those days where every time I write a word I feel like I am squeezing cement out of my fingertips.

Everything I write sounds horrible and banal.

Am I wasting my time? I think to myself. Maybe you have no talent at this craft. Maybe you’re just fooling yourself. Maybe you’ve built up this unrealistic dream of becoming a writer when the materials, the spark, the thoughts, the creativity, are not in you ready to be used to construct the vision. Just because you love reading doesn’t mean you’ll make a good writer.

And once these thoughts start, I fall down an abyss of despair.

Remember that kid at school who wrote all these wondrous stories when creative writing time came round? And how he later on published some of his work and impressed literature professors? My brain says to me. He was a genius. He’ll become the next Ray Bradbury, the next Emily Dickinson. And you? You’ll be left with a shattered fountain pen in your hands, the ink staining your skin, reminding you of your inadequacy compared to writers like him. You’re jealous of other wonderful writers because you think you can’t be as a good as them and that’s pathetic.

Sometimes, I really do want to give up. Ever since I wrote that post about writing and procrastination, I have wrote without fail each and every day, whether I was inspired or not. But today, I was tempted to throw in the towel.

But I can’t. I just can’t. I just have to push on, even though I’m not the greatest writer, think I have no writing talent and my story ideas are insipid and uncreative, that there are other far more talented writers out there and everything I write today should never be read by the eyes of another human because the words and sentences are all so pedestrian it would put them to sleep…

I am going to write. I am going to write today. I am going to write every day. Even if I hate what I am writing, I will write.

Because in the words of the brilliant Ira Glass, I just have to work through a large volume of work.

I just have to fight my way through it.

Have you ever had one of those days where you just hate your writing and nothing seems to be going right?

It Is Hard Being An INFP



It Is Hard Being An INFP

**To get INFP and general life advice, or Skype counselling conversations, or to choose a blog topic, click HERE or the link:


It is hard being an INFP (Check out the Myer-Briggs Personality Test if these four letters mean as much to you as leaves at the bottom of a teacup).

I mean REALLY hard.

Every day I feel like I am actually an alien masquerading as a human.

INFPs should live and be nurtured in a magical, ethereal land (see above image) where dreamers are appreciated, not trapped in the bell jar of reality. It may be fine for other people but it suffocates our souls.

Gah. It’s so hard to explain the torment. It’s like you’re on an entirely different wavelength from everyone else around you. And I don’t mean INFPs on are on a more intellectually or morally superior level. No, we’re just different from the norm. A little unconventional. And we know how much society hates that, don’t we?

When other people chase after money, INFPs look for passion, fulfillment and meaning. No, seriously. If money wasn’t needed for basic necessities such as food, we couldn’t give a damn about it. I can’t understand this consumer driven society. It’s just stuff. It’s just money. Just why is it so important to people? Mentioning this in public is not the best idea. I get sneered at for being unrealistic. And the conflict between passion and money is a never-ending war inside of me… Things like fame and money entice people enough to make them chase after them all their lives…and then on their deathbed they realize their hands and hearts are empty.

I’m also so sensitive I’m unsuitable for existence. One wrong word cuts me to the bone and I will mull over it miserably for days on end. I hate conflict so much that after going through one I feel like I’ve run a marathon. I just hurt so easily, there’s no emotional skin. I blush, I blunder, I make a fool out of myself and I can feeling the judging stares burn into my skin.

I care so much it hurts. I care so much I use up energy involuntarily. I try not to think about people or animals who are suffering not because I’m heartless but because it makes my chest tighten with agonizing empathy.

Whenever I talk to people, it’s like there is always this barrier. Always. Everyone else seem so carefree, like they belong, the words flowing out of their mouths with ease but me…I have to fake my way through it. No one around me wants to talk about the things I want to: death, existence, love, humanity, how insignificant Earth is, how the universe is so large it’s frightening, why we are here on this earth anyway and whether it all means anything. It’s too ‘morbid’ for light conversation and people just prevaricate my philosophical questions to go talk about the latest movies or whatever.

I can read people relatively well. I can tell which people are genuine and goodhearted, which are artificial and selfish. I can see through people’s masks. But no one else seems to see it. I knew this girl who was so artificial and arrogant when I was in school. But everyone loved her and thought her to be brilliant. No one saw through the façade. I felt like such an outsider, like I was seeing a ghost no one else saw.

I’m not an efficient person. My table is a mess. I never remember to wash dishes. I forget things. I’m always at the butt end of jokes because of this, that ‘scatter-brained’ person who is eccentric and can’t do anything properly.

When it’s one of those days where I’m engulfed with the meaninglessness of existence and slightly gloomy, I’m labeled as being depressed and pessimistic. I’m told to see the ‘silver lining’ and to be happy and jolly and optimistic and all smiles and gapped teeth. As if you’re defective if you aren’t happy-go-lucky most of the time.

I just have all these ideals and dreams and they’re like fragile glass windows through which I see the world. And life shatters them and I become jaded and cynical.

I think about existence and life and other deep topics which are not socially acceptable to voice and the burden of all this pondering weighs upon me every day.

Books and writing and creativity are my life blood. They pump me with feeling and energy to live another day in the real world.

I don’t know where I’m going with this post. I just can’t seem to put into words this feeling of being isolated and different, like no one understands. I’ve been to psychologists who have been nice enough but once I voice my concerns about death or something and they smile at me with only their mouths, I know I’m talking to the wrong person.

I don’t know. It’s just hard. I don’t know what else to say. People don’t know what it’s like sometimes unless they’re in an INFP’s shoes. It’s like the world is full of robust butterflies and among them are these tiny little white moths who are the INFPs and they are batted and bruised and pushed this way and that by the butterflies and the wind and life forever and ever.

I don’t know what else to say. So I think I’ll just stop now. This is probably a horribly boring and aimless post. I’m sorry.

I’m Glad I Grew Up Poor


(The above image is from morgueFile. I do not claim any ownership of the image)

My parents weren’t the wealthiest people around. In fact, as I was growing up, they only just got by.

Did I mind being poor? I hated it for a period as a teenager. I wanted to have the electronic gadgets, the shoes and the clothes other girls had. But my family couldn’t afford them. I felt left out. Other people owned houses and flashy cars while my family drove a clunky, cheap piece of metal which was sturdy but unsightly and we rented all the way up until I entered university. We were on social security. My self-worth dropped because everyone disdained those who were in penury. Either that or they pitied me, which I loathed. Society made me feel ashamed of it. It seemed to point an accusatory finger at my parents, calling them indolent and lazy even though they worked hard.

I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I lived in a safe area and was never starving or homeless, so I’m sure I was better off than a lot of people in this world. I know I should be grateful. But nevertheless, it was hard when I only bought clothes and shoes every six years. I was hard when my friends teased me about renting and having shabby clothes. It was hard when we hard to move from place to place when the rent was too high. It was hard when I saw my mother buckle under the stress of working two jobs and looking after my sister and I.

But it wasn’t all doom and gloom. Yes, being worse off than other people can be hard when you’re a kid. But looking back, I’m glad I wasn’t born into the world with a silver spoon in my mouth.

I learnt which types of foods were healthy but cheap and how to cook them into meals. I learnt to save. I learnt to make every dollar count. I learnt that the world owes you nothing and that if you want anything, such as money, you have to go out and put in sweat, blood and tears to earn it. It pushed me to gain part-time jobs as a teenager which I otherwise, as my introverted self, would not have done had my parents been well off.

Do you know what I’m saying? Growing up poor made me resourceful which I know will stand me in good stead later on in life. Even if I do get a job that brings in a good income in the future, I know I won’t splurge or make impulse buys. Which brings me to the greatest lesson growing up poor ever taught me.

I used to be so jealous of these people who had all these material goods. Then, after much pontification, the gauze of consumerism was removed from my eyes. It made me realize how ridiculous it is to spend money, which is essentially one’s time, on things such as shoes, clothes and newer gadgets. Those objects mean nothing. Sure, they might give you a rush when you buy them and raise your status and make you look sexy or whatever. But in the end, well, they’re just things. You can’t take them with you when you die. Material goods won’t comfort you when you lie on your deathbed.

Because I grew up poor, I had a chance to think about what money really meant to me. And I realized it meant freedom. The more money I saved, the more chance I had to spend time on things I wanted to do, such as reading and writing, as I would have to work less. I didn’t care about trinkets and fabrics to adorn my body. Two of the activities I adored, reading and writing, were utterly free – all I needed was a nearby library and a notebook and pen. I’ve found that it’s true that the greatest things in life are free.

So if you’re poor at the moment, especially if you’re a teenager – hey, hang in there. I know it can be damn well hard. I used to type into google ‘help my family is poor’ and I never got any results which echoed my experiences. So I want to dedicate this post to all those people who are struggling financially at the moment. Realize that once you’ve got the basics covered, house, food, shelter, water and safety, you’re good to go. You don’t need all that superfluous junk. Who cares what people think. Who cares if your lodgings are a little shabby or you don’t have a wardrobe of clothes or you don’t experience fine dining. Money isn’t real, it only exists within the minds of people and simply a representation of the exchange of value between people. There is so much more to life than money. Art, for instance. I would rather be an artist who lives on a modest income and follows their dream rather than a millionaire who sacrifices many things to amass their wealth.

No one will care if your rich or poor when you die. Death certainly won’t. Time certainly won’t. Whether you’re rich or poor or black or white or blue or pink or happy or sad, we will all grow old and die one day and return to the earth. Let’s not let money dictate our happiness. Let your purpose in life, your choices and the contribution you make to the world do that. So I’m not ashamed that I grew up poor. I’m proud. I really am.




What Introverted Women Are Attracted To



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Introverts are some of the most misunderstood people on the planet.

And since men can find women incomprehensible, female introverts are doubly misunderstood.

So, to enlighten people on this topic, I present you a list of what introverted women are attracted to:

1. Introverted women like men who listen.

We may be quiet but we have a lot of thoughts whizzing around in our minds. And if you’re lucky enough to have an introverted woman divulge her deepest thoughts, you better pay attention. If you don’t, we’ll feel miserable and that we’re not worth your time.

2. Introverted women like men who respect their ‘cave time’.

Honey, I swear I’m not ignoring you. It’s just that after a long day of work and socializing, I’m beat. So when I hibernate in my room for a couple of hours, don’t try to talk or disturb me. Not unless you want your head to be bitten off.

3. Introverted women like men who don’t disregard their ideas as nonsense.

We may not talk much but our brains are always working, thinking, pondering and musing. On the rare occasion when we voice our deep thoughts, please don’t put them down and call them nonsense. That just makes us feel like we are nothing.

4. Introverted women don’t like superficial men.

Don’t be one of those guys who always gravitate towards the extroverted and flirtatious woman who has her cleavage hanging out. Nuh-uh. Those guys are not worth our time. We don’t like them. Period. We want men who think of us as mysterious and fascinating and always want to know what we’re thinking. Oops, was that a Twilight reference?

5. Introverted women love compliments.

We’d rather have no attention most of the time and happily be a wallflower but when it comes to love, we desperately want to be noticed and appreciated by you. Though this isn’t the case for all introverted women, as a group, we can be more susceptible to lower self-esteem, due to lack of acceptance of our personality type and the ideal female partner often being portrayed in popular media as sexy, bold and talkative. After all, if you think back to school, weren’t all the popular girls loud and brassy? As a result, we would like some validation and be shown that we are loved for who we are.

6. Introverted women like men who don’t pressure them to socialize.

Don’t be one of those men who force their girlfriend/wife to hang out with people when they don’t want to. You’ll just make her miserable. You’re essentially rejecting who she is. You shouldn’t be dating an introvert if you don’t understand what introversion is.

7. Introverted women like talking about deep and meaningful topics.

If you’re one of those guys who like casual chit-chat and not thinking too much about life and all that – do you know what I mean? Like one of those men who just live life for the hedonistic pleasure of it and evade any questions that go deeper than ‘what’s your favorite beer?’ If you’re one of them, give up. There is no way in hell a sane introverted woman would be attracted to you.

8. Introverted women like men who read.

Reading is one of the most solitary human activities. Thus, most introverted women read a lot. It would be nice if you read too, so we could be book buddies and have something so close to our heart in common with you.

Did I miss anything, fellow introverted women? And men, what did you think of this list? Did it relate to you introverted men as well? Do you men like introverted women? I’d love to hear from you.