Dear diary,

Whew. Issit just me or are my toes melting into the brown slop that used to be my parquet floor?

Unbearable. Singapore's like a 24/7 sauna bath right now. Not just a normal sauna bath. It's like being in a sauna booth in the middle of the Gobi desert wrapped up in polar bear hide gulping ginger tea and playing checkers with Helios.

Ten years from now people will know Singapore as "an extinct civilisation that perished circa 2005 when an extreme heat wave drove its inhabitants insane, heralding the start of a social meltdown of genocidal proportions."

That's not stretched far from the truth either. You know the heat's getting to you when you start hurling abuse at the pillar of the bus shelter and eventually kicking it and getting your toe stubbed. That happened to me. And I only waited 15 mins.

It doesn't end there. Something's seriously off-whack when I boarded the bus and the first thing I thought of was not how pretty the lady on the 2nd seat was, but how to perform a neck-lock on the disgruntled and irksome driver.

Too damn hot to blog. Yet I'm still doing it. I love blogging too much. Or probably just because my fingers are stuck to the keyboard.

Time to log off. If my tongue can reach the mouse that is.

Dear diary,

Dreary. Dreary, dreary, dreary. Life's so uninteresting it's almost a sin to blog an entry. Still, I find it necessary to update my blog now and then, which meant any slight deviations from my clockwork lifestyle would now be screaming headlines for that day's particular entry.

Today, I had diarrhoea. As in DIARRHOEA. And that's an understatement.

I was out with the gang, just sitting quietly in Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf, being the perfectly inhibited societal-conforming citizen, sipping my mid-noon tea, when it hit me without any premonitions. Pow. Just like that. Kinda like a Chris Rock one-liner.

The feeling is unbelievable. Picture: whirling dervish troupe high on weed. It's one hell of a bowellecular roller-coaster ride I can tell you that. And as with such activities done with immoderacy, I "upchucked" no less than 4 times in the simply exceptional public toilets. The aroma, the ubiquitous puddles of questionable origin, the creaky lilliputian toilet seat designed for minimal support; they add a whole new dimension to the entire latrinal experience.

And then there's the quintessential sandpaper line of toilet paper that most public toilets utilize. It made what was initially an internal problem branch out into a secondary external source of discomfort. I can so imagine seeing a minute disclaimer on the jumbo pack - Caution: Excessive usage might cause a slight burning sensation. Seek medical attention if problem persists.

The day was hot. I mean it was really hot. No joke. Someone tuned the Sun to "extra crispy" setting today. You could literally smell the heat, snarling up your nasal passage and singeing your nose hairs.

Well that wasn't quite the literary approach, but you get the idea.

Anyhow, the heat of my surroundings normally wouldn't be associated to a post on diarrhoea, but when you consider the fact that diarrhoea dehydrates you severely(more so in this particular incident), you can be assured there really is an interesting relationship going on between the two.

My lips started chapping, I broke out in cold sweat, and my knees felt like rubber. Funnily, I never thought of consuming more fluids, probably out of fear of the brainless notion that I'd be feeding the diarrhoea and replenishing its depleting ammunition. So I stayed adamantly chap-lipped, feeling cold and stringy. Sq the human noodle. Locked in an escalating battle to stay in control of his bodily functions. Prolly near matyrdom.

With the predictability of B-grade Hollywood plots, the hero never dies, and I managed home broken but victorious. Another day down for the count, another day survived in the pestilent jungles of geekdom.

A traverse cobbled pathway slinked lazily up the lush grassy hill. A house perched on its peak, outlined by the setting sun.

On first look the essence of the house is unabashedly obvious: the windows. Windows line the walls boldly, large doubled-storeyed windows that give the house bare decency. At this time the house glowered like a candle, a romantic inviting warmth. It beckons to the onlooker passive and unhurried, an irresistable stance that piques his interest. The stroll up takes effort, yet none ever resented.

At the end of the pathway he sees an entry, shielded by unassuming neatly cut hedges. Burgeoning crimson roses file its stepped entrance; a little wooden swing gate that seem more whimsical than secure. It swings open easily, unlatched, much to his surprise. He enters.

Past the gate he sees an immediate porch, a beautiful porch set in rustic sienna tiles, an overhanging progressive brass windchime tinkling crisply in the wind. In its middle, an intricately carved door. It is ajar, as he would now come to expect.

Through the heavy rosewood door an interior preciously designed with Victorian furniture, Baroque artworks and antique candelabras awaits; a majestic lady with an air of extravagance that is almost ostentatious. Walking through the house, the heart stops beating and everything is held to a standstill. The grandeur is ethereal, a chef d'oeuvre that can never be fully measured. He quickly steps out the back door , giddy with enrapture.

A spacious patio fans out at the back facing the captivating sunset, a grand piano at the corner ready to bolster the ambience on special days. A marbled dance floor lay meekly, anticipating the eager feet. He looks out and is greeted by the magnificent view of the ocean, dancing blades of shimmer playfully waving out to him.

There he sits himself down on the grass.

The house on the hill.




A manisfestation of my thoughts and personality.

Dear diary,

Discovered Eva Cassidy today. It's hard not to fall in love with her or that voice of hers.

The voice that you can never quite categorize into a certain genre or period. A timeless voice, a voice that can be as convincing in a Joni Mitchell piece as much a Norah Jones work. I can even fathom her singing Christina Aguilera and getting away with it. She covers so many songs at such breadth that you probably could listen to her on any occasion. Jazz, 50s 60s 70s 80s 90s pop, soul, almost anything short of rock.

She died at the age of 33. An immense loss of talent.

I am her fan.


For you there'll be no crying
For you the sun will be shining
'Cause I feel that when I'm with you
It's alright, I know it's right

And the songbirds keep singing
Like they know the score
And I love you, I love you, I love you
Like never before

To you, I would give the world
To you, I'd never be cold
'Cause I feel that when I'm with you
It's alright, I know it's right

And the songbirds keep singing
Like they know the score
And I love you, I love you, I love you
Like never before

Like never before; like never before.

Dear diary,

I know it's been a while since I last addressed you. Been busy on my new endeavour: Story writing. Yes yes. You must be wondering, 'What, you? You the one who has had as rich a life experience as a bowl of low-fat tofu yoghurt? You the one who can't even name Fortune 500s' top 5? You the one who thought cantaloupe was a species of deer?'

Yes. Me. I admit there many factors against me in this. Like my lack of any writing experience whatsoever. Like the reality that I can't think beyond the next paragraph. Like the 30words/3hrs writing to manhours ratio. Like the ridiculous fact that my novel didn't have a title yet.

But did that stop Gandhi from taking his first soddy step in the Salt March? Did that stop Edison from toying with the absurd idea that his hair could act as a bulbs' filament? Did that stop Mr Gump the retard turning into the best football/ping pong player in the world? Did that stop harvard drop-out Bill daddy Gates from becoming a grotesquely rich mophead with his bug-infested ripoff softwares? No! Never! They all have one thing in common, and no, it's not that indecent organ you're thinking about. It's unwavering doggedness! The pursuit of seemingly unrealistic goals that common man would denounce as lunacy, they call it dreams! And to make it sound even more convincing, here's a completely irrelevant quote.

I look forward confidently to the day when all who work for a living will be one with no thought to their separateness as Negroes, Jews, Italians or any other distinctions. This will be the day when we bring into full realization the American dream -- a dream yet unfulfilled. A dream of equality of opportunity, of privilege and property widely distributed; a dream of a land where men will not take necessities from the many to give luxuries to the few; a dream of a land where men will not argue that the color of a man's skin determines the content of his character; a dream of a nation where all our gifts and resources are held not for ourselves alone, but as instruments of service for the rest of humanity; the dream of a country where every man will respect the dignity and worth of the human personality.
- Martin Luther King

Woah. That sounds way way cool. Irrelevant. But cool. And famous at that.

After that standard sales pitch, still, who am I kidding. I'd be lucky to even get through chapter 2. Maybe I'm just plain bored. But I really am relishing every word, every sentence, every punctuation. At least there's finally something to keep me preoccupied other than b-grade movies and mindless diseducational games.