Ramblings of a Convicted Half-wit

2006-12-26T02:08:00.000+08:00

I am in love.

Gift

A dream of riches silver and gold
Ensnared otherwise a simple mind.
Then something lovely unforetold
Changed the course my heart pined.

Her resting lips of Pinot Noir
And her lingering embrace, a silken cocoon
Warm with mid spring lavender-kissed air,
Lulling me in her ethereal croon.
Torrents humble to a gentle stream,
And cyclones meeken a passing breeze
By her innocent charm, infantile beam,
And impeccable feminine ease.

Why else but her for silver and gold?
An unfair trade the very least,
For her worth a priceless hold;
The loveliest gift.

2006-08-30T17:23:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

I don't normally watch or support Singapore Idol, but this performance really blew me away.

Hady Mizra.

Don't ever miss this. =)

2006-08-27T23:55:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

Feeling dreamy today. Whooshhhh.

2006-08-26T12:46:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

Why am I blogging this instant? Do I have something that I absolutely have to let loose into this infinite cyberspace? Am I going to say something that'll change the course of history as we know it? Have I made a startling discovery or solved a mathematical conundrum?

No. I'm trying to procrastinate working on my more "serious" priorities, and what excuse am I liberally giving myself this time round?

I need to shower before I start on anything "serious", I need to feel like a squeaky clean dinner china, and I can't shower without water, and that is the premise of my argument. Now why don't I have water, in Singapore where water is but a flick of the wrist away?

Well, I do not have water at this very instant because plumbing is being done in my kitchen, and as most of us know, when plumbing work is to be carried out, the wisest thing to do is to cut off the main water supply first, unless you're a goldfish reading my blog through your glass bowl.

So there you have it. Another perfect excuse to enjoy myself on a sunny Saturday afternoon.

2006-08-24T09:53:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

By some dumb luck, many mistakes leading to the making of my latest batch of banana ice cream has miraculously added a twist to the finished product.

First, I ran out of milk, a realisation only after I finished mixing all the other ingredients. It was getting late and I didn't want to lose my temper over stupid ice cream, and so I conveniently replaced it with a squealing pack of sweetened soya milk, without much thought or foresight. Sorry soya, the cow udder missed its appointment.

And then someone ate my bananas. I don't know who, because if I knew I'd be someplace without an internet connection right now.

I was left with 2 deadish looking bananas that neither has smell nor taste. But as I mentioned, it was getting late and I didn't wanna lose my temper over stupid ice cream, so I used them anyway. I was supposed to puree it with lemon juice, and although I had the lemon and did the simple task of slicing it in half, I couldn't find the bloody lemon juicer. And so, being the enterprising me, I used my hand to crush the lemon to juice it, and whilst trying to remove all the freaking seeds from the banana goo, it hit me that by violently mangling the lemons I had inadvertently released the strong and bitter taste of the lemon peel into the mixture also.

Let's fast forward to the end. I placed the soya milk mixture into my ice cream machine and left it in the freezer for quicker freezing, went upstairs to finish up my articles and conveniently forgot about it. An hour later I was downstairs cursing at how stiff the ice cream had become and it was near to impossible to fold the bananarama-lemon-bitter goo into it. I had to take a spatula and try to mash it all in, quite a horrific sight to behold really.

Then I tasted the ice cream without the banana part, and it tasted fantastic. Smooth, with a soya taste, really good. Then I regretted throwing in the disgusting bananarama-lemon-bitter goo into it cause it'll probably spoil the ice cream. And it kinda did. It gave the ice cream a zesty sour taste, kinda like a lemon sorbet, altho it was hardly anywhere near that. But I don't care. I'm just gonna rename it Sour Soyanana.

Sounds cool huh.

I could probably market it.

2006-08-23T23:08:00.000+08:00

Ice Cream

Swirling, twirling, sticky, icky,
Toffee, coffee, berry, cherry,
Lemon lime and minty thyme or
Durian paste with aftertaste and
Mash and gnash with only fresh
Fruity Loops and Chupa Chups.

Watch it freeze and see it crease.
Vanilla waves and mango caves,
Surf the cream and live the dream;
Indiana Jones in wafer cones with
Chocolate sticks and Oreo bits
Battle and rattle the Marshmellow fellow.

Drizzle and sprizzle and sprinkle and twinkle
Rum and gum and everything fun.
Black and blue with orange hue
Everything's fine it'll taste divine.
Top it off with soda pop, then
Lick your way to tooth decay.

2006-08-23T09:34:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

Call me a geek all you want, but one of the easiest ways to improve your English writing style in an informative manner is to read the blog maintained by BBC's editors.

Cool.

2006-08-19T15:06:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

Harvard Project for Asian and International Relations (HPAIR) series of seminars and talks weren't half bad. In fact, not bad at all.

I got to listen to talks on IP protection and its trends, its abuse by some and the (lackof) utilization by others. I slipped into another workshop by Srivatsa Krishna, a World Bank bigwig, giving a low-down on the very hot topic of India, its expansion, flaws and some remarkable -and relatively unknown- statistics and figures.

Delegates from all over the world actually paid 300+ USD to attend this 4 day event, while I happily zipped around the rooms flashing my dinky little card that says "Press", suddenly elevating my insignificant existence to the ranks of glitzy Harvard tribunes and other recognized publications - all for free.

So much is going on in the world, and for people like me who just carry on with their mundane little lives managing their personal duties and obstacles, these sort of experiences put things into perspective.

I particularly liked this quote that Srivatsa borrowed from Heraclitus (Greek philosopher, 535 - 475 BC):

"There is nothing permanent except change."

How true. True of the very nature of life and our existence.

2006-08-19T00:32:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

Been wanting to get out into the sun more, promised my friends for basketball later today and realised I forgot about this important HPAIR conference tomorrow I'm supposed to cover.

That's life for you. Sun + Sweat + Tan + Basketball => Stale airconditioning + Redtape + Jostling + Seminars I wouldn't half understand. Funny how things can turn out the complete opposite of what you're expecting.

Also bought too many things in too short a time. Still reeling from the aftermath. Can't say I regret though, they were good and useful purchases. At least for now.

School's starting soon too. Ergh.

2006-08-16T11:40:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

Things are starting to heat up.

Too many deadlines, too little time, too laid back, too me.

I swear on whoever's honour one swears on that I must complete my articles by today.

Switching on auto-pilot, workaholic mode now.

Whrrrrrrrrrr.

The brain you are trying to contact is currently unavailable. Please try again later, or note the news for a tall Chinese male who died choking on his own saliva. Thank you.

2006-08-12T20:31:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

First attempt at ice-cream making was a horror. Fun, no doubt, still...

Baking Enlightenment #1

It didn't take me long before figuring out that when recipe books say "whisk eggs for 1-2 minutes until light and fluffy", they meant to use an electric egg-beater. Trust me, after 40mins of manual egg-whisking, you'll look at old-time bakers with a new sense of awe and admiration.

Baking Enlightenment #2

Always check that the chocolate you'll be using is "unsweetened/baking" chocolate, because the sugar they ask you to use is built on this assumption. Unless your idea of sweet is a sugar-rush of 3 days before the onset of massive multiple organ failure.

Baking Enlightenment #3

As much as possible, refrigerate your cream base for 2hrs at least before freezing in the ice-cream maker. For impatient oh-come-on-how-much-difference-does-1hr-make people like me, prepare to relish a chocolate ice-cream that tastes like the milo icicles that your 5 year-old neighbour makes for a class in his nursery.

Baking Enlightenment #4

Fresh, homemade ice-cream will always be softer than the ice blocks you call commercial ice-cream. Never attempt to ferry the ice-cream elsewhere for your friends' consumption without sufficient keeping in your freezer, unless you fancy chocolate cream soup or you happen to live in the Artics. Or both.

I'm now going to attempt a coffee ice-cream with my newfound experience.

Keep your fingers crossed.

2006-08-10T23:05:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

Ok. I've gotten all the stuff I need at Phoon Huat, if not, at least most of them.

I still don't know the difference between "vanilla flavouring" and "vanilla extract". It's obviously different -the price in particular-, but the sales lady insists there isn't much difference. Right. But being the cheapo me, I've convinced myself my tastebuds aren't sensitive enough to distinguish between the two.

Let's see what's on the list for my virgin ice-cream making experience:

1. Chocolate Peppermint

To make the chocolate ice cream:

4 ounces unsweetened chocolate - check
1 cup milk - check
2 large eggs - Large eggs. How large is an egg considered large? Where are the bloody dimensions...
1 cup sugar - check
1 cup heavy cream - check
1 teaspoon vanilla extract - (sorry, cheap replacement vanilla flavouring only)
1 pinch salt - How much more arbitrary can they get? A pinch? So people with fat thumbs deserve salty ice-cream?

Apparently the people in the cooking business are so boring they all use the industry's universally-accepted homogenic CUP. Nothing else but THE CUP. Kinda like the biblical chalice huh?

2. Apple Strawberry

1 pint fresh strawberries, hulled and sliced - Lol. A pint of strawberries? Bartender please.
Juice of 1/2 lemon - Again no sizing. I assume they have strict size control for lemons.
Sweet Cream Base - Common ice-cream base. No worries.
1/2 cup apple cider jelly - Ok this thingmajig is really confusing. I know apples. I know apple cider. It's liquid, yes. And now I'm supposed to know how to jellyize it. Right. Not to mention it sounds like something gross.
1 cup peeled diced apples - Reasonable.

Sounds adventurous.

Sounds yummy.

Sounds like people who write recipe books always ensure the reader will never get it exactly right to protect their crummy arses.

Sounds like a disaster.

2006-08-03T22:13:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

I plan to wake up early tomorrow to catch a nice sunrise.

I figured out a simple way of explaining why humans are almost always depressed and stressed - they don't watch the sunrise enough.

If everyone in modern society only has time to look at the sunset (some don't even have time for that), then what they only get to see daily is the tragic beauty of the sun losing its radiance to the bleak darkness, and never the uplifting rays of the rising sun, like heaven's arrows, cutting through the black scourge.

According to my theory, the effects of such prolonged exposure to this powerful symbol of defeatism can adversely affect the human psyche, resulting in symptoms such as: Cynicism, anti-social behaviour, mood swings, listlessness, fatalism, low self-esteem and loss in libido.

Cure is as simple as crawling out of bed at seemingly insane hours to watch a miraculous ritual quietly performed daily through our snores and above our goose-down comforters.

Wakey wakey.

2006-08-01T21:47:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

I'm really beat! Bushed! Shacked! Tired!

But you know what?

I've never felt this alive, never felt the sensory jolt of dancing with the surroundings or the complete detachment of an ecstatic mind from my drained body for ages now.

It seemed like a day I had done everything right and everything right was showered upon me.

Unbelievable.

You don't have to travel far to rejuvenate yourself.

2006-07-30T15:15:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

I am grateful.

At times I feel lost, vexed and flummoxed by problems that never should have been. I've spent days furiously rummaging through myself, desperately trying to dig up the person that I really am, something that I've seemed to lost an idea of. And I've found it again, perhaps with an even stronger conviction and fuller comprehension of myself than before.

I do not seek solutions from others, because there is none to be seeked. I can seek solace and hide in the comfort of my warmest friends, but ultimately it is I that I have to convince, to master. Yet the importance of friends' support cannot be any more understated for a person who is lacking of wisdom, guidance and courage as I. And I believe I have achieved a better grasp of what true friends mean to me and how I am less willing to judge and jump to conclusions. For that I am grateful.

There is also my blessed life to be grateful for. I do not live in poverty, hunger, destitution or abandonment. I have a complete and caring family. I am not exposed to debilitating injury, terminal illness and disease, and neither are the people I love and care about. My current existence alone is a gift that I should treasure and be thankful for.

I am also grateful that I am not borne of retardation, or lack the capacity to reason and rationalise. I am borne of mild temperament and a natural propensity to be happy, which is something that many others struggle with daily. I am not without flaws, but I am glad that I am aware of many of them, though they are latently difficult to correct.

I am only human. I suffer from all the evils of thought and mind that plagues man. For being able to acknowledge this, I too am grateful, and will strive to disengage from them as much as I can.

Today I take a step back and count my blessings. Perhaps all should.

2006-07-27T23:46:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

The capacity to think lies not only with the brain, but also with the heart. I'm losing the judgment to maintain the fine balance between the two, the mastery of emotions and rational thought.

I'm a lot more complicated than I thought I was, and it never ceases to frighten me how little of myself I understand and am able to control. Or am I controlling myself too much? To always use rationality as a defense against my feelings. Have I forgotten how to feel or to love? And now it's cracking at the seams, this wall of weary rationality in danger of giving way.

I think too much? I think too little? When should I think? When should I let go? Am I thinking right? Am I thinking wrong? If I'm not even sure of these, should I even bother contemplating any of it?

It's amazing how the simple little things I wish for in life can be so difficult to comprehend and obtain.

99% happiness and 1% sorrow. That's me. But when the 1% hits, it hits hard. Statistics never really was my forte.

I need a hug.

2006-07-27T09:54:00.000+08:00

Mercury

Whence this transgression?
Opaque, heavy, little
Blob of mercury seeped through
My eyes, taking root like silvery crevices,
Robbing me blind.

It changes and manifests,
A thousand-headed serpent,
Gnashing through my veins.
Hissing its forked tongue,
Insidious rattling in my head.

The final prey found,
It wrapped its scaly hide,
Crushing muscles undulating
Around the pulsating victim,
A choking demise.

What more left,
Limp and senseless flesh save
The cold and voracious
Bite of maggots,
A body forgotten.

2006-06-29T23:04:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

God. Wasted another 2 days languishing in bed. Recovered from another bout of a mysterious fever attack. Not even so sure how it happened. Doctor said it could be dengue cause it hit 40 d overnight, but I doubt it; it's 2 days and I'm feeling quite fine, save for the heady feeling you get when you lie in bed too much.

Another bad news: The team I was rooting for got booted out by a less-than-deserving. Yes I did say that I don't fancy football all that much, but it's always fun -and sometimes convenient- to just pick a team and see how it goes. How awkward would it be for me to walk into a pub one evening and have a person ask me who I was rooting for. If I replied an honest "Sorry, I don't watch soccer nor the whatever millionth World Cup.", I think I'd be sent packing in diapers and a bib to stop the nosebleed.

So if anyone asked, I support Germany and Spain. And for that matter, I am not a neo-nazi or a bull-hater or part of any group whose remotest presence would stir up a lynch-mob.

And France didn't deserve to win. Heck, they didn't even invent the french fries.

2006-06-21T00:11:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

Aching all over. My thighs feel like they will snap anytime, another signal for me to start working on my legs and endurance. Still, it was plenty of fun, and I'm sure being a superhero has always been everyone's secret wish since the first time they received that Ultraman toy for Christmas as a kid. I'm proud to say I lived out that dream -albeit for only a week- and can now die with one less regret.

I used to think the kick you receive from being a superhero is about being revered and adored, and of course invulnerability, ability to fly and pretty much be able to do anything you want. But after donning the suit and getting it going for the kids, I realised it's much simpler than that. The ability to make a child's day just by prancing around on stage, to convey to them at such a tender age that good triumphs over evil; those are simpler and much more gratifying remunerations by any standards.

I would be lying if I said the money was not important, and yet I think in the big scheme of things, money is as weightless as air and as slippery as sand in your hands; but this simple feeling, it is one to keep, and takes us one step closer to finding out what life really is about.

That's the one true superpower we all have within us.

Anyone can be a superhero.

2006-06-16T00:22:00.000+08:00

Ok, I couldn't help it, and you can buy 4D for all you want, but here's my 2nd and almost immediate post of the day. Hope you don't mind me ripping this off your site drea. :)

1) How old do you wish you were?
Old enough to spend my first million without arithitis.

2) Where were you when 9/11 happened?
Forgot. I didn't even really catch the footage. I don't remember people worshipping the days when millions of starving children die of diarrhoea every year.

3) What do you do when vending machines steal your money?
Kick it and if that doesn't work I'll kick the person who's in charge of it.

4) Do you consider yourself kind?
To myself? Yes. To loved ones? Quite possibly. To enemies? Perhaps too much.

5) If you had to get a tattoo, where would it be?
The upper back. Looks pretty cool. Though my mom would kill me before the pain does.

6) If you could be fluent in any other language, what would it be?
Spanish. It's like French on viagra.

7) Do you know your neighbors?
I have neighbors?

8) What do you consider a vacation?
Anywhere with the raw smell of untouched nature. A rooftop jacuzzi and a soulmate would be nice.

9) Do you follow your horoscope?
No, although I know what it represents, at least most of its positive aspects.

10) Would you move for the person you loved?
I would. But there are so many considerations really.

11) Are you touchy feely?
I hope so. Nothing is more therapeutic than the touch of human skin. Or writing, for that matter.

12) Do you believe that opposites attract?
I believe I do. Females and males are just two complete different species, no matter how similar and mentally aligned they claim themselves to be.

13) Dream job?
Famous writer, journalist, Casanova.

14) Favorite channel(s)?
HBO, Nicklodeon, Discovery Channel.

15) Favorite place to go on weekends?
Anywhere where the warmth/love is.

16) Showers or Baths?
Showers.

17) Do you paint your nails?
Do you dig your nose in public?

18) Do you trust people easily?
I believe that people have no reason to lie on casual things. And I usually talk about casual things.

19) What are your phobias?
Cockroaches. Heights. Dying without finding a soulmate.

20) Do you want kids?
As much as any self-respecting traditional Chinese male would.

21) Do you keep a handwritten journal?
No. If I can be too lazy to type, I will be too lazy to write.

22) Where would you rather be right now?
In bed. With or without company.

23) Who makes you feel warm and fuzzy?
Friends and family.

24) Heavy or light sleeper?
I would've slept through world war 3.

25) Are you paranoid?
No. I don't think that much, if I ever think at all.

26) Are you impatient?
A slacker? Is this a joke?

27) Who can you relate to?
Myself, because I think of myself as uniquely me.

28) How do you feel about interracial couples?
Splendid, as long as they are both of the human race.

29) Have you been burned by love?
Toasted to crisp and flipped onto the side to grill.

30) What's your favorite pick-up line?
I ain't got no favourites cuz I ain't got one.

31) What's your main ring tone on your mobile?
Samsung ringtone. I think I would need a licence to be able to describe the sound in words. Or a brain scan.

32) What were you doing at midnight last night?
Playing computer games.

33) What did the last text on your cellphone say?
Too lazy to find my phone.

34) Whose bed did you sleep in last night?
Mine. Lucky me.

35) What color shirt are you wearing?
Not wearing one now. Kinky.

36) Most recent movie you watched?
She's the Man. Quite funny shit.

37) Name three things you have on you at all times?
Myself, my personality and my underwear.

38) What color are your bed sheets?
It varies. Why would anyone wanna know?

39) How much cash do you have on you right now?
I'm guessing fifteen, the last time I checked.

40) What is your favorite part of the chicken?
Drumstick.

41) What's your favorite town/city?
Singapore. The most convenient place on the planet.

42) I can't wait till:
My next gym session. Call me shortsighted.

43) Who got you to join Blogger?
Me, but only after I persuaded drea to join. You can only have that much courage. Btw, I do not neglect my blog, merely giving it more personal space to grow.

44) What did you have for dinner last night?
Long John Silver's combo 2.

45) How tall are you barefoot?
1.86m. Neh-ni-neh-ni-poo-poo.

47) Do you own a gun?
Depends on what kinda gun you're talking about. :3

48) What do you prefer to drink in the morning?
Plain filtered charcoal-processed water.

49) What is your secret weapon to lure in the opposite sex?
It's still a secret to me till I figure out what it is and how it works.

56) Where do you think you'll be in 10 yrs?
Logging on to match.com twenty times a day.

57) Last thing you ate?
Ban mian.

58) What songs do you sing in the shower?
I don't sing in the shower. It turns the water cold. As with my jokes.

59) Last thing that made you laugh?
A joke about curry spilling.

60) Worst injury you've ever had?
Concussion to the head. But that'll be something I can brag to my grandchildren about.

61) Does someone have a crush on you?
I wish. I'm easily contactable by all means and free from now till the day I die in case you're reading.

62) What's your favorite candy?
Wether's Original. Although I'm not sure if I spelt that right.

63) What song do you want played at your funeral?
Don't Worry Baby by The Beachboys or What a Wonderful World by Louis Armstrong

2006-06-15T23:28:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

My laptop's not back from IBM yet and there's no news from them to even suggest that it would be safely returned to my warm embrace. It's official, IBM has nicked my laptop and sold its parts to the factories in India and China and I'll be forced to purchase a new laptop -probably containing the same contraband parts- in the form of expensive parallel imports from the same countries.

Or at least that is my stand until they put some beef into repairing their shoddy products.

It's confirmed that I'll be volunteering for the IMF conference held in September. And this isn't just because I had signed up for it and it is unwise to back out from a major event that has full government support.

When I went for training today, useless as it may be, it simply affirmed my interest and commitment because it made me realise how much I could gain from my participation in this event, one of course being the pretty little things I can then quote in my resume, but I believe it was really a once-in-a-lifetime (if that phrase wasn't beaten to death already) experience and the little circle of influence you have as a venue assistant, how it could ripple to global proportions.

One Out of Infinity Possible Chain of Events Breakdown:

1. Smile from me.
2. Endorphins released in delegate.
3. Happy delegate goes to conference.
4. Conference entails a dishevelled and weary minister from one of the African countries presenting a plea for more aid to a panel.
5. Panel includes the happy delegate.
6. African kid gets turkey and bottled Evian for dinner.

Tadaaaa.

2006-06-11T22:03:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

Had a run of bad luck this week, what with my laptop fried for no apparent reason and me being taken ill, it's no wonder why I'm not too hyped up about the on-going world cup. This is of course, coupled with me not able to appreciate of the nuances of grown men kicking a very small ball across a very big field.

Still, life goes on, the laptop's probably coming back tomorrow and I've more than sufficiently recovered from the fever, although I'm still quite edgy over the yet unknown fate of my harddisk, because I've added pretty neat paragraphs to my story and hadn't the chance to back them up yet. I could rewrite it, and the difference wouldn't be that great, but I believe the stroke of geniuses only happen to me by the slightest of coincidences and would quite unlikely occur any time soon in the near future.

Those, unfortunately, are not my only sources of irritation. Es' back since yesterday and I hadn't been able to pick him up at the airport. I hadn't seen him for God knows how long and it's just plain distressing that I should delay our meeting any longer. I've also been sleeping way too much -I sleep alot when I'm ill- and it's not healthy, I should know because they leave me with one helluva headache and I get all these weird dreams like I'm in psychedelia, although I didn't get to enjoy any of the elevation and irrational exuberance associated with it.

Hopefully I'll be well enough tomorrow so I wouldn't have to skip my gym session. What can be more gratifying to the superficial than to see your puny limbs turn slightly less flaccid and a little bit more swollen than the bee-sting you got last summer?

Stupid headache.

2006-05-04T00:33:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

And so I blog again.

I'm in this fix; I wouldn't say it's a big fix, nothing that is close to a world-changing event. In fact, it's very inconsequential to anyone else besides me, and even now I'm thinking it isn't really bothering me that much.

Tom is twelve years old. Honestly I wouldn't know what a twelve year old prodigy in English would write, because I wasn't one, as much as I would like to tell myself that. One day when I'm older and getting senile I'll conveniently forget the earlier years of my life and boast to my grandchildren -who wouldn't really bother listening and wished I was dead- that their grandpa had always been a brilliant English prodigy.

I know I said Tom would be a prodigy in art, but I think it's easier for me to work around portraying him as an English prodigy too, or I'd really have to write in crappy sentences just to make it more believable. Besides, I have absolute power to add anything I want into the story, remember? (Read: Previous post) Then, the irony could be that in the process of trying to make Tom more believable, I made him less believable, because humans are conceited little pigs and they wouldn't want to think anyone can be THAT smart, plainly because everyone's so stupid and inadequate.

So that's my dilemma for you. That could be an excuse for not writing as much as I should, but I think not. And on an irrelevant note, I'd like to believe that Tom exists and he's such a smart, talented arse so that places me above other stupid and inadequate human beings, this raising another issue of me being still a conceited little pig but hell, the world's full of so many contradictory possibles I'll just choose to ignore that one. Just like I ignore that I wasn't really a genius in English at age twelve.

Disclaimer: When I said everyone's so stupid and inadequate and people are conceited little pigs, it should be taken with a pinch of salt. And if you are offended and couldn't draw the humour out of it, then it shall rightly so be intended.

2006-04-29T00:09:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

I've started out on my novel. Now I just have to complete it.

Two paragraphs at the moment. I hadn't been so excited about the prospect of something as much as this for a long time.

I suddenly feel infinitely powerful. I could mould the story any way I wanted it. I could make it a tragedy or a comedy with a slight twist of my wit. I could quite simply kill off characters as I liked, or give them immortality, make them ugly or impossibly beautiful. It's hard to fault a writer for being egotistical really.

There are measures of control though. I believe most novelists still write to pander to the crowd. Everyone likes to be liked. So I wouldn't actually create a hideous protagonist, or snuff out the nice little girl scout that lives next door for no apparent reason, even though I could technically.

And I can throw in so many hidden agendas and influence my readers in such scary ways. I could throw in hate messages (something which I will not do), or I could make my cute protagonist watch bloomberg tv just to suck up to them so they might reconsider rejecting me. Yes, I got rejected, but that's another issue.

2006-04-24T23:55:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

Ok this is starting to get old: I'm sorry I hadn't been updating my blog. Lazy as always. As the story goes, drea insisted I update my blog today with CAPITAL LETTERS mind you, so I've decided I've finally procrastinated long enough.

What has happened to dear old sq for the past few months? Busy. Busy because I've bummed around for most of my term and all the deadlines lie in the last few weeks, not forgetting to mention the exams at the end of the line. Then again, I could have been busy thinking how busy I was going to be than how busy I actually was. Whether I was busy for a good reason or not, it doesn't really matter here does it.

So you must concede that I was busy. And now there's this added responsibility as Vie's EIC. I don't deal well with responsibilities frankly, and from my manners you should have already realised this long before. Of course, the idea of being responsible for more things makes you feel you're important. And everyone likes to feel important, one way or another (especially for someone as unimportant as me, or used to be).

Then comes all the expectations and performance issues that didn't really cross the mind of someone who can only think in hindsight. But I can't say I'm not loving it. Vie's drawn out the writer in me, and it makes me more and more aware of how inept I am at writing. You'll come to realise at this point that if love is blind, passion is the blind dog walking it, illogical and quite a funny sight to behold I might add. I can't imagine the day I give up writing. Wait, let me try harder. It's coming to me... Kate... Beckinsale... Keira... Knightley...

I have lofty plans drawn up for this four months break. I plan to start on my novel (again), play some piano (which probably won't materialise), do a website (lazy lazy lazy), and hopefully get this internship at Bloomberg. A dream come true if I do get it (the internship I mean). Think of all the exposure you get, writing about world issues, financial disasters, crappy governments, and works of a pmsing Mother Nature. Or maybe, it's just the world-class pantry that they have. http://newshub.nus.edu.sg/ke/0106/articles/bloomberg.htm But honestly, they have this excellent atmosphere there, and it's not coming from the air-conditioning or the beautiful aquariums they keep well-stocked. I think I'll enjoy working there. PLEASE LET ME GET IT!

Oh, and another thing before I sign off - I do solemnly probably, hopefully, if-it-doesn't-keep-me-from-my-favourite-tv-show swear that I will try, attempt, contemplate updating this blog on a regular basis. Hopefully this will placate you murderous lot. Then again, I could be imagining the notion of zealous fans of hungering every written nonsense that I sprout. Maybe no one bothers to read this blog besides the cheekopek janitor uncle who always hid in my pri school toilet peeking at little boys.

2006-02-27T13:22:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

Music's finally back on the blog! Cheers all around!

2006-02-19T00:50:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

I read a friend's blog today and came across this post about constants; objects, tangibles or intangibles that keep us rooted, and not let the eccentricities of daily life sweep us away into the dangerous unknown.

A constant is anything that one finds personal and has shown to be a remarkable unwavering force in times when an anchor is needed. For me, those would be friendships, family, and my writings. But where does the danger lie when one's sense of being centers around an irreplaceable external object so firmly and so dependently? Are constants that we see actually only temporal constants, nothing more than a hot bowl of soup when we're sick? Our stubborn and sometimes irrational dependance upon these objects; do they serve us or the other way round? Are we just creepers clinging onto a wall that may eventually crumble to dust, and with it the meanings of our existence?

I cannot guarantee that my friendships will last as long as I do, and neither should I expect my family to be around always and whenever I need them. And what of my writings, should I lose my limbs and ability to think, or be blind and deaf? I would be the creeper crushed beneath the rubble, and surely life would have lost all its worth. Then, are real constants a myth? I would say not.

For some, religion is a constant. Personally I do not think that religion is a constant by itself, because it could be intepreted in all manners and in many conflicting contexts. Rather, I think religion as the guide to the development of one's principles on morality. And to me, principles are the real constants that one should center their lives around. Principles govern our soul and is just as inseparable from our physical bodies. Let us first disregard whether a person's principles are miscontrued as opposed to popular moral judgement. A principle-based life would allow flexibility to explore life within the boundaries that you morally allow yourself to. And even if eccentricity and unpleasantries occur within the boundaries, you know that you are still playing by your own rules.

But even though I agree with what I just said, I lack the foresight and wisdom to clearly define those boundaries, except for a few simple ones. Right now, it would seem to me that my very existence still depended upon my family, friends and writings. Wouldn't it be grander if I were able to just love them for their entirety, without motivation? How ignorant. How foolish.

I can only pray my walls do not crumble.

2006-02-12T03:48:00.000+08:00

Breeze

Gentle breeze;
Lift the withered leaves or
Weathered dreams that weighed
Upon thy soul that yearns for
The guileless flight of doves,
White amongst the orange.

Gentle breeze;
Pass through the verandah and
Brush off the stubborn sediment
That defies the reluctant cleaner. And
Aerate the musty room left
Abeyant and stifling.

Gentle breeze;
Comfort the discomfort
Of a body ravaged by the
Angry Sun and impossibly take
This body elsewhere, so that it
Burns no longer.

Gentle breeze;
For all that can be but
Chose the pettiest of forms, yet
Moves the oceans in
Gentle oscillations so it be
Fit for sail.

2006-01-25T06:59:00.000+08:00

Pantomime

Oh what is love,

But a clever little pantomime?
Garbed equally in brilliant motley
Or black and white rhyme.
A portrait of unsullied glee,
Yet palpable and culpable
Of dastardly connivance and tragedy.
Clever twit delightfully bilingual
In both silence and playful revelry.

Weaving stories and worlds
From expansive nothingness
For the imagineless mind but unfurls
A landscape of richness.
Addled trickster nary a stand.
Content a truthful phoney.
Oh what is love then,
But a beautiful irony?

- sq

Anyone can help me fill up the last two lines? Open to all! Winner gets nothing, except a footnote to say that the two lines are written by you. Haha!

* Too late. I filled them out.

2006-01-22T19:17:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

I'm 22. Whee.

2006-01-18T19:31:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

I can't believe it's already mid-Jan. What happened to Christmas? New Year? How can they already fade from my memory when I've barely had the time to take them in? I hadn't even penned down my 2006 resolutions(although everyone knows they never worked) yet! Do resolutions still count when they have already missed that opportune moment? It isn't really fair you know. Who has time to think about resolutions amidst the festive frenzy, and no, I wasn't asking you, you atelophobic control freak.

To be on the safe side, I've decided to name these "birthday resolutions" instead. Let it be known to the authority on resolutions that I was never late. And to those who didn't know my birthday was coming, you shouldn't even be reading this in the first place. Sod off.

Birthday Resolutions:

1. Get GPA of 3.6
2. Read and understand at least 1 book on philosophy.
3. Get the piano tuned and start banging the ivories again, albeit single-handedly.
4. Get my personal page up and running again.
5. Accumulate savings of 4 digits, decimals excluded.
6. Write more.
7. Exercise.
8. Learn to draw.
9. Be creative!
10. Think critically.

So there you have it. My top ten list. I probably have more than 10 things to change about myself, but it seems that ten is the universally defined standard of importance. Sometimes you wonder who started this convention in the first place. Can you imagine the plethora of ideas and priorities disregarded just to fit into this stupid mould? We'd be living on Mars by now if some NASA director hadn't said "Sorry Ben, that idea's gotta go. We've ten things on our list now. That's all we can take. It has always been this way." For all you know the inventor just loved the number 10. Maybe his birthday lies on the 10th. A person's birthday changes the course of history and mankind.

Interesting.

2005-12-13T18:11:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,
Three weeks left of holidays and I've not figured out my plans yet. There are of course the usual thoughts on getting some exercise, write a chapter and study, but some looming deadlines are starting to creep up like a bad Christmas movie. At least it's something I enjoy, although that only makes procrastination seem more sinful.

This new article's about spending only 10 bucks for a month's worth of beauty regime. Pretty tough topic, considering my knowledge of skincare only consists of water, facial wash and a terry towel. Now I'm playing with ideas of garden soil and used teabags, among others. Then again, I wouldn't want to be the first student writer to get incarcerated for a bimbo's disfigurement. I'm sure that would jumpstart my career. And I'm not even paid for it. Sounds funny at the moment though.

Studying during the holidays redefines geekdom, yet the thought keeps lingering like morning breath in my mind. A psychoanalysis of myself(by myself) gave rise to several plausible conclusions for this strange anomaly:

1. I did badly for the recent semester.
2. I'm insane.
3. I have a fetish for new textbook smells.
4. I've grown to like studying.
5. I'm sick of getting coals from Santa.
6. Geek is the new cool.
7. Studying is easier than having a life.
8. Academic texts are the cheapest form of stimulants. For the mind.
9. I'm too lazy to have fun.
10. "A guy without a girl and money is best seen with a book and a bright future" - sq, 2005

Some might hold true more than the others. I guess the most believable option would be the first one. Can't get it out of my system yet, the grades that apparently failed me. This failure is more moral than technical, yet there's a vehement sense of shame, guilt and quiet anger at myself.

Other than that, I'm all happy thoughts and holiday hoolaboo. Give me a pudding anytime. And some alcohol to go with it. And don't forget the mahjong.

2005-11-20T13:51:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

If there was one law that ever needed implementation, barring students from studying on Sundays must be the creme de la creme. Something has to be done to prevent deranged Singaporean students from running rampant in campus and mugging their cranium juices dry.

In SMU, mugging is as much a pop culture as the school itself. You know it's getting out of control when people start coining this affectionately as "smugging".

Well, I'm smugging now, so to speak. Exams are coming, and the cool wintery(or as close to a winter Singapore can get) weathers are not helping. Not to mention that Christmas is just round the bend. The overplayed jing-a-lings are now flooding every nook and cranny around town and SMU lies smack in the middle of the action. Not only murderously boring after the 57th replay of "Santa Claus is Coming to Town", it also makes for an incessant mockery to the smuggers who can only be least appreciative of festivities at the moment. And need I remind you of the once affable Santa figure, now cloned to death in the form of pimply youths dressed in cheap costumes and misfitting beards chortling with their prepubescent ho-ho-hos.

Give us a break you stupid demons-o-commercial-Christmas! If I take this any longer I'm going to bag the next Santa I see and stuff mistletoe into his bloody red silky underpants. In fact, I'm even going to pelt him with the coals I'll be receiving for being so rotten. Like I care.

2005-11-18T02:32:00.000+08:00

http://sidquinton.blogspot.com

A new blog I've set up to write more heavy stuff. I think this distinction might be a better choice in the long-run. Not many people like reading serious stuff, especially when life's already quite a drag sometimes. From now on this will be the funny sections, if it were ever funny at all.

2005-09-04T00:20:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

You know how things seem so easy when you're just thinking about it and not actually doing it? Ok that's very -duh-, but I've never felt it more strongly than the recent weeks ensuing the start of my varsity life. It wasn't about the idea of schooling after a 3 year break, it wasn't about the transition from clueless teenager to clueless militia to equally clueless freshman. It wasn't even about the lack of pretty girls in my classes(if there were any to speak of in the first place). No, it's about me, Xie Shangqian, learning to learn. After 21 years of a subsistential mental existence, I am finally beginning to appreciate the nuances of education; the indescribable agony of being waylaid by a tough question, the sheer joy of understanding a seeming complexity, and the fulfilment of thinking that you're actually doing something important in life. Well, almost.

I'm stressed. I don't know how much to work. Somehow I believe I should spend every single waking minute balancing financial statements, calculating the covariance of the frequency of my shock therapies to the number of hours I spend in school, helping Iranian kids get an education because their friggin' government is swimming up to their ears in oil money and wedge in a life somewhere in that equation.

Bah. Enough about schoolwork. I'm getting tired of my blog layout. My hemispherical right brain has been egging me on.

Go... Do your own layout... You can do better than this...

Come to think of it, I hadn't been exercising my creativity in a while. When was the last time I indulged in something crazy, sidestepped life, exhorted someone, caroused the night? Oh wait, just last week.

I want to create! I want to marr the pages of history with a grotesque abomination of my mind, to lay a stinky footprint in the infinitesimal fabric of time. Yet it eludes me, time and again, this spark of brilliance, an epiphany of epiphanies! Ah, the glorious triumph, the filling of my empty vessel of worth! The generous peppering of exclaimation marks must surely underscore my steely intent and determination!

But first, let me take a break. Whew, unrestraint fervour's pretty draining.

2005-08-15T00:26:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

This is the third time this month that I'm attempting to blog. I scrapped the two previous posts because I didn't know what I was writing about. It was just a flurry of words and disjointed sentences. Sometimes I really wonder what my mind is about. It's like I have this permanent blank in my head and the only times when it is occupied by thoughts, memories and logic is when I'm having a good day. Shouldn't it be the other way round? I think I'm too indulgent/temperamental/whimsical for my own good.

Picked up this nifty book recently(free of course, i borrowed it from a library): Time Management for the Creative Person. Yes, it was egoistic of me to consider myself a creative individual. Hey it wasn't purely narcissism on my part. The book described all my flaws perfectly and managed to convince me that they are not unbecomings, but rather "assets" of a creative, right-brain wired person. Which is me. Man he's slick. This is the kind of people you need in marketing. And he even makes sense.

Three friends are leaving me soon. One to the States and two others to UK. I've been too comfortable having them around, and now it's difficult to fathom them leaving our sunny shores for greater pursuits. I am happy for them, but that in no way makes it easier for me, or anyone else from the clique for that matter. How different would they be in four years? Is it just four years? How different would WE be? Would they settle down abroad permanently? Would the feelings we shared fade into a distant rumination, an afterthought of yesteryear? So many unknowns. It's depressing, really. Sometimes I wonder if my nonchalance for the past few months was really the right approach. The deep sense of self-denial together with fiercely suppressed feelings all seem to falter at the dawn of realisation. You guys are great, the best, and I'll always love you. Yucks, that sounds gay but I don't care. I might not have a chance to say that in future. Hand me a Kleenex please.

My mind's in a swirl recently. A vortex to be exact. Drawing me helplessly to the one conclusion. Can I be sure? Can one ever? Past events has taught me not to be hasty, not to be trusting, not even of myself. Yet I'm inexorably smitten. Do I still have the propensity, gut and faith? For once let me procrastinate on this one.

2005-07-22T21:40:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

Just like that, another month has passed. And I ask myself again what took me so long to type out a new entry. I love writing, and if I were to wake up one day illiterate the sudden loss of my emotional outlet would probably kill me. Yet does love equate passion? If they were indeed inseparate, why did I lose the urge to blog in favour of other activities that piqued my interest? This harmless seduction satiated a transient desire which in turn compromised my fidelity. Then again, does it really?

I see my blog as a literal representation of my thoughts, my emotions and my ideals. And sometimes my mind shuts the world out, as with everyone from time to time. Other times I resent the idea of blogging when I have nothing of value to share, being someone I coin a "charlatan writer". And well, the last one being laziness. This time however, it might have been a combination of all three.

Plainly put, I was just too lazy to blog. Lazy to dramatize my petty existence with bombastic words and ambiguous sentences designed to mislead readers. Lazy to share my antisocial lifestyle for the past month. Lazy to explain my antisocial lifestyle for the past month if I had shared it. More importantly, lazy to rationalize the sheer laziness of not even attempting the abovementioned.

On hindsight it probably showed a fallible and weak strength of character, if not more. And prudence would dictate a more guileful method of execution as opposed to what I am laying bare right now. No, this is not a call for readers to start rallying hate campaigns against me. I'm too gutless to place myself in the uncomfortable situation of public discontentment anyway. All I wanna say is: I love you people. And I'm sure all of you can understand where I'm coming from. (Remember, this is not to allay the negative vibes that I'm feeling right now, nor issit a plea for everyone's continued support for this blog.)

That being said and having cleared the air, I shall stop. For now. Before things get out of hand.

2005-06-21T16:25:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

It has been quite a while hasn't it.

Few updates:

1.The bgm's down at the moment(the tenure with my webhost ended after an unspectacular, not to mention an expensive year).

2. My online disappearance signifies nothing more than an overgrown boy who had been hopelessly addicted to a certain online game for the past month.

3. As such, I believe it's my social responsibility to probably touch on the effects of excessive online gaming:

The Downside
Lack of slumber, neglect of bodily and mental exercises, development of anti-social tendencies, dehydration, aching limbs, blurred vision, emotional instability, disconnection from real-world issues.

The Upside
Increased nutritional intake in the form of home-cooked meals. Improvement in hand-eye coordination. Cost effective. Uninhibited personal growth due to absence of peer and societal pressures. Development of financial intuition and analysis from bargaining/peddling/trading of game items. Personal satisfaction and confidence increase linearly to the level of the character ingame.

Conclusion
Don't game
-if you are harbouring any hopes of human procreation.
-if having twitchy fingers isn't your idea of a reflex improvement.
-if your computer starts making loud beeping sounds and your smoke alarm goes off.
-if your previous month's utility usage caused a nuclear meltdown.
-if you wish for someone to be present at your funeral.

Do game
-if you're too broke or plain cheap to live in reality.
-if your mum can overlook that her offspring is assimilating into the decor.
-if you want to continue your reign as "Most Convincing" at last year's Halloween party.
-if your parents hate you, your teachers swallow your homework, your friends use you to prop up the cable antennae, your dog pees on you and the girl-next-door went for a sex change after seeing you.

4. Will be heading for Bangkok tomorrow. The city of sun, fun, cheap frills and cheap thrills. A convenient respite for the poor and the parsimonious. Anyone I know who wants something Thai, too late. I'm too cheap to spring for any souvenirs anyway.

5. Serious blogging would commence once again after the trip, apologies all round to the readers who follow the many two cents worth of thrash I came up with thus far.

2005-05-22T11:49:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

My comment section's screwy, and I can't do anything about it, not because I can't actually, but because I'm too lazy to scavenge through the glut on infocyberspace for a solution to the encoding glitch. Another classic example of 'nothing's impossible, it's just you'.

And the layout. I removed the credits of the author. Not that I want to pass off as its creator, the credits were simply placed in a spot I found a terrible eyesore. My html mastery, or lack thereof, wouldn't allow me to shift it to a less obtrusive location. So what the heck. If out of the zillionth decimalic slightest probability that she would chance upon this blog and found my complete disregard for her invent, this is for you: I'm sorry. And kindly fix up the screwy comment section.

I'm a blogger with no sense of personal pride in his blog. I knock-off templates from others, infringe their copyrights, steal snippets of codes here and there, and I don't even bother spicing up the blog with cutesy dancing gif files that would serve no purpose except to amuse the little retard in all of us. I don't blog all that regularly, and my posts are all petty and conceited words of ftzdom that wouldn't stop the wars, feed the poor, shelter the homeless or move the soggy sock lying next to me to the laundry basket even. And you know what's the worst and probably the best part? No one can do anything to me about it.

So in the anarchistic blogging realm, everyone's their own king. Their own lords, hoarding over their fiefdoms of personal thoughts and their pawns of unadulterated free speech. Which pretty much explains the phenomenal rise of blogs. And bloggers' egotism. And the unvalidated bullshit that comes with them. Now any idea conceived by the most deviant, twisted evil genius can be easily accessed by IE *click*typpitty typitty* e-v-i-l-g-e-n-i-u-s-.-b-l-o-g-s-p-o-t-.-c-o-m. (Ok, that was a fake link, in case one of you actually considered visiting that site. Probably George Bush's secret blog.)

Why all the psychobabble today? Because, I can. So there.

2005-05-20T00:33:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

I want to fall in love. Hopelessly. Madly. Deeply.

I would've liked to think I was in love once. But was I ever? Could I have been deluded, a foray my mind played to my whim, to like to believe I was in love, that I had experienced the most powerful emotion since the advent of man?

Looking back, I cannot be as steadfast in my answer as I had been then. How does one define the constitution of love, when love is a paradox in itself, that it can be transient as a passing breeze as it is timeless as the hanging stars. That it can hurt as much as it can heal. That love is about selflessness yet we cannot love without desiring that person.

Some people might not agree with what I say. Advocates of 'true' love would say love is all-encompassing, that it is a feeling so pure and permanent other emotions such as jealousy, spite and lust should play no part in. Yet how much 'truer' is one love to the other? To me, true love is overstated. Love is love. Love cannot be simply defined by words because there are infinite forms that it can manifest into.

People who believe in the very notion of 'true' love do not understand love for what it truely is, they of bigotry and naivety. They think that there is a set of laws or rules that govern what is acceptable as love, that their love would be nobler than the rest, but they forget that love is essentially a feeling. And feelings fade or grow. It is as unpredictable as the mechanism that produces it, the human mind.

A love short-lived doesn't make it any less important than one that lasts a lifetime. I am not saying love is frivolous or capricious, because it is not. But I don't believe it's all-encompassing either, because humans are born of a selfish nature. Does it mean the lady who cried at her husband's passing doesn't love him? The very act(of crying) stems from the fact that she realised he's forcefully torn from her, and can you say then, that it wasn't love because she acted in self-interest, her desire for his physical presence?

To me, to the best of my understanding, love is about giving, sacrifice and compromise. And the strength of the love, its longevity, is what people should be concerned about, the harmony of the elements that nurture love.

Call me a hopeless romantic, but I don't believe love can be stopped, nor can one determine when or where to fall in love. Love at first sight holds as true for me as a love developed over years of understanding. However, whether the love blossoms into something fruitful and longlasting is completely dependent on the compatibility of the individuals.

The 'right' or the 'ideal' one, as they like to say it is, simply put, the individual whom you're most comfortably in love with and who is most comfortably in love with you.

I cannot be sure whether I was ever in love. In those years when I was foolish, immature and I didn't care as much about compromising, giving and sacrificing as I should have for someone in love. Still, why should it matter so much that I was or wasn't. Those years had been kind to me, and I was and still am grateful.

I want to fall in love. Hopelessly. Madly. Deeply.

2005-05-18T18:31:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

There's something morbidly gratifying about gasping lungs, burning thighs, wobbly knees and ashen skin. At its peak you hear nothing but the exertive beatings of your heart, your painful swallows of air. You only feel the parchness of the throat, the flailing limbs and the cold of your face.

The world does not matter anymore in that heightened existence, it's you against yourself. Your thoughts at that moment is surprisingly simple; pristine and uncluttered. It's only a two-pronged road: To give up or not to. Mind over matter or vice-versa.

At that stage it's very difficult to convince yourself to carry on, akin to a rubber dinghy braving the overwhelming tides of fatigue. Yet if you do succeed, to push intrepidly past the pain and the lightless passage, you will discover yourself on a higher plane, the point when your mind completely takes over the flesh. Your breathing regulates, the screaming muscles mute, and you carry on; confident, stalwart, unchallenged.

It's an emotional victory that will forever be etched on the gravestones of demons of fear, weakness and self-doubt. And such an experience can become addictive for people who continually pushes the boundaries created by the body to be breached by the mind.

The art of running.

2005-05-13T23:16:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

Woah, it's been what, 2 weeks? Left this blog in abeyance longer than a self-respecting blogger should. Just so that you know this blog's not quite dead yet. No, not quite. If being dead's six foot under, I'm probably 4 foot a quarter with a little bit of organic compost over my head.

I wonder how it feels like to die. To kick the bucket. To meet your maker. To be off the twig. To be under the daisies. To take the last bow. To lay down your shovel. Ok, 'nuff said.

Life and death. What difference between the two makes one such exulted and the other so reviled. The obvious would be that life constitutes living, and being alive is the elementary and indispensable foundation of being human and eventually a possible progression to greatness. I think however, so sue me, that the difference isn't as colossal as what everyone makes it out to be. It's actually pretty simple, says the ignorant sq. I think the only difference that separates one from throwing the dirt and one being under it is choice. Just choice.

In death you do not choose. Or rather you do not have the luxury of choosing. There are so many different religions, myths and folklore that dictates where one goes when he dies. You could be judged, reincarnated, tormented. You could experience utopia, flight, lightness. You could wander the earth that made and swallowed you, in ethereal existence, purposeless. Or you could just become a void, you cease to exist. You can have so many different fates, but none are of a choice to you.

And choice is the empowerment of life. We choose how we should lead it. We can wallow in pittance and mediocrity for our entire lives and die not knowing its meaning. We can also lap up every moment and embrace the very air that keeps us beating, living as if everday were our last. Choice.

I realise as I blog today that I've made so many bad choices in my life. I chose subsistence over enlightenment. I chose superficiality over genuinity. I chose shortcuts over hardwork. And the choices that I make. How far have my choices, bad and good, paved the road that leads to the particular death that awaits me, a final passageway in which I am bound and helpless. And that frightens me. As with what frightens all man in their dying years. Not death itself, but the choiceless path that carries on thereafter.

If living life as I have been thus far been a careless, reckless and selfish one, one day I might realise that I would have been better off dead from the start. If only I knew.

2005-04-27T23:19:00.000+08:00

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.

2005-04-24T22:35:00.000+08:00

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.

2005-04-09T01:46:00.000+08:00

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.

2005-04-04T01:41:00.000+08:00

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.

2005-04-02T01:44:00.000+08:00

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.

2005-03-23T00:48:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

I've taken self-debasement to a whole new level. Wanting to quit my unhealthy obsession with my computers, I now spend entire days glued to the TV, just channel surfing, watching any program that remotely catches my eye. Bad move.

I caught four romance movies on HBO/Cinemax/Star Movies in two days. I caught a few episodes of Spongebob Squarepants TV series. And their replays. I caught HK dramas, couldn't tell the difference amongst them; seemingly same actors/actresses, similar filming locations, similar plots, same sense of humour. I watched AXN, ESPN, Bloomsberg, BBC, Phoenix, National Geographic, Animal World, Discovery channel, practically every channel available save for that French channel that I can't enunciate. I'm not that bored yet.

The worst part of it all? The love movies I watched. They were nice, yes, I loved them, even the bittersweet ones, but they never failed to jab at a certain nerve. The feeling of inadequacy. The stirrings of tender passion and the inadequacy to nurse it, think about it even. I have no love life to speak of whatsoever right now, and I suspect my little longings for a love relationship is not so much derived from a need for love or to be loved, rather more so a need to reaffirm it. Yes, it's this childish impatience for reaffirmation that keeps my mind fixated on the subject of love. To know if love could actually be anywhere near cinematic glory, a quarter of it even, and not just figments of conniving scriptwriters' imaginations. Confound it.

I probably don't deserve to see the best side of love, and I'm not wishing that. It needn't even have to be me to experience this elusive love that will compel, convince and captivate me.

Just something to blind me from the hurt that I see in the people around me who lay in the smouldering wreckages of their destructive relationships.

Something to let them break free.

2005-03-16T19:55:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

I've gotta stop this obsession with my computer. It's debilitating, becoming a vice of sorts. I'm so hooked it seems like my life is orbital around it. I can't pass a day without laying hands on it, even if I absolutely have no use for the dang machine. Makes me lethargic, keeps me from doing more meaningful things, a complete waste of time at the very least. Still, I can't tear myself away. It beckons so gently every morning, an irresistable warm inviting wave that laps at your feet.

Mum: Son you look so sickly! Are you taking drugs?!
Me: No ma, worse. I'm high on kilobytes!

Hmm, that didn't sound right.

And, there's this dang Sims 2 game that I can't seem to get over. Can't help it if I had Angelina Jolie, Alicia Keys and Kate Beckinsale as my neighbours. And, my pretty wife just got pregnant. Now I have to juggle between the amorous advances of hot celebrities and my nauseate and grumpy wife. To make matters worse, I have to do yoga(for whatever unknown lameass reasons) for most part of my time to improve my "body" to get a promotion. Like suppleness of your body ever matters in your job. Unless of course, you're a porn star or something.

Then there's this problem of never being satisfied with how the way my house looked, even when I built it from scratch. It's always a quest for finding a set of perfectly matching wallpaper and floor tiles, the chair that goes with the expensive maplewood dinner table. Never. This game is designed to irk the little perfectionist in you, like it's mocking you "Hey, you never get those in life, so you'd never get them here. This is a reality simulation, hello? Boo hoo hoo."

Still, this game's so much more interesting than my life right now, which probably borders between Discovery Channel's "Habits and Movement of the Hoffman's Sloth(Choloepus hoffmani)" and the novel: "The Escapades of the Limp Rag - The Carwash Journals".

My family is really boring. They have a coffee table book called 'Pictures We Took Just to Use Up the Rest of the Film.' --Penelope Lombard

2005-03-12T01:12:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

Argh. The monotony of my life has hit me like a persevering low, droning note that never seems to trail off. In all contrasted starkness, life around me never seems to stop pulsating, a heady bass that keeps in chime with its erratic staccato. I feel like I'm in some freeze-frame or something. Weird.

Not complaining really. Just wished there were more things to do. Actually, make that just things that are effortless enough for me to want to do. And, inexpensive. Like walking the dog, or going window shopping. Problem is I don't have a dog, I used to, but that's a long story. Window shopping? Bah. That's for girls. So I came to the conclusion that the cheapest way to keep me entertained and satisfied was to be a computer geek. It's easy. You just spend all ur conscious hours logged on to the computer and you: Blogsurf -chat-.Check e-mail -chat-. Check ebay -chat-. Download mp3s -chat-. Play online games -chat-. Get name translated into Jap -chat-. Check latest hollywood gossip -chat-. That'll probably take up most of the day. If it falls short, just repeat the process. Do it diligently and you'll get that fresh-from-the-grave gothic look that's so in vogue right now, complete with bloodshot eyes and sallow skin. Talk about getting ready for Halloween.

Then I thought about writing a novel. Realised it's tougher than it seems. A bestseller (probably)needs a good plot that has an infusion of love, humour and tragedy; 2 protaganists at least, mainly a plucky hunk with chiselled jaws and deepset eyes, a sassy babe with big boobs and legs that go on forever, some short wrinkled crippled old fart as their nemesis, and not forgetting the peppering of the pages with quotes and anecdotes from famous deceased people. Throw in controversial elements such as religious zealotry, gender discrimination and same-sex marriages for that extra oomph.

Ok, this post is starting to get wacky. Better do some damage control before my mental floodgates burst. -zip-

2005-03-08T00:43:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

It's been so long since my last update.

Ok, doodleboard's down. Until I pay of course. The weasels. Now I have to go through the trouble of finding a decent free tagboard, meddle with the html and hopefully not ruin my already vintage hick of a layout, not mentioning the fact that all my "doodles" are deleted. Into the wastelands of cyberscum. Lost to oblivion. Gone. They should pay me to not sue their boxers off. Yet, they probably also know I have no case against them. The bloody weasels.

Been sleeping alot lately. Sleep has become a perpetual motion, feeding on and renewing itself in a neverending cycle of blank space, nightmares and fantasies. The more I sleep, the sleepier I become, and if I wasn't any wiser I'd have thought that was a good thing. Still, it could just be an interest collection from my sleep creditor. Which brings me to another question: Is it "an interest collection" or "a interest collection"? Does the adjective serve the noun or the verb? Naturally I would've used "an" but I think I've seen people use "a" in situations like this. Great. Now I'm bad at grammar too.

Caught "Hitch" not too long ago. A romance comedy, but not so much of romance as comedy, which makes it slightly different. Love becomes a very light-hearted affair in the show. Naivety? Probably. Hope? Definitely. Leaves you feeling a heady and happy, like a cinema version of chocolate. There are repercussions of watching an effective movie as such though, like how I can't shake the image of Eva Mendes off my mind, or the realisation of how desperately I wanted to be in love. Kinda forgotten how it feels like. God I'm starting to sound like Moulin Rouge. Fan-bloody-tastic. (That doesn't mean I don't recommend the show. You love-nuts and all the pansies out there deserve the same fate.)

Ok, gotta run. The creds are here again.

"Could I request a tropical beach backdrop, sunset, lotsa seagulls and a mai tai for tonight?"

2005-02-25T22:30:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

It came as something very slight, a miniscule discomfort that could barely be noticed. Then it began to worsen, slowly encroaching, spreading its festering tentacles through the gamut of pipelines that lay before it defenseless, the seemingly impregnable breached, a buffet for its taking.

Before long, I was dripping like a leaky faucet and shivering like a chihuahua in Siberia. (And for inexplicable reasons, chihuahuas always seem to be shivering, whatever the context.)

Yes, I have flu. Quite a serious bout of it too. And you ask why can't I just be trenchant about it and get straight to the point? Because, I wish to morbidify my predicament, let it be known that sq doesn't falter to a paltry common flu virus. Yes, it's probably a deadly variant that has weakened me so. I insist.

My eyes are closing. Random thoughts start zipping past me like a hyped up conveyor belt in a cheap sushi restaurant. I see the old lady I didn't help across the street. The single digit test marks that I received. The 10 cents that I shied away from the tin can clasped in the hands of a pretty SNGS student. The time I jaywalked across the street. And another street. And yet another street. The time I thought about sex. The instance when I fell asleep in class. Ok, that flashing probably took up most of the time in my recollections. Actually, that, and the sex.

Am I dying then? No, unlikely. Well it seems like it though, or have I mistaken death for the efficacious little bottle that says "Caution: May cause drowsiness"?

Zzz...

2005-02-20T23:19:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

Feeling out of sorts lately. The weather's bad, the haze isn't making things better; in fact, this is the first time I heard bloody Singapore having forest fires. Still, my poisoned lungs are the least of my concerns for now.

My right temple's throbbing. Bad things always seem to rush you all at once. It's like there's this underground society-for-misfortunes where all these ugly karmic imps gather in dank caverns on a particular day and conspire round a green ghostly flame on their next pathetic victims of affliction. Bi-monthly I might add.

Now I feel like I'm walking around with a big fat sign on my back that says "Torment me". So my head's still throbbing. So I'm still feeling out of sorts. A potent combination of aridity, four fleshy durians along Upper Serangoon road and nasty pranks that the ugly karmic imps have conjured upon me.

Then there's this last minute attachment tomorrow. In this weather. With the killer haze. And all the bloody Singaporean forest fires. On Tekong. Along with the karmic imps clinging onto my back pockets. And yes, that headache too.

Ouch.

2005-02-15T20:31:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

Valentine's Day just passed, and despite not having any girlfriend to spend it with, it was still a really enjoyable day.

I'm sure a long long time ago, Valentine's meant something more than just roses and chocolates and a chance to fleece hapless couples. It should have meant a day set aside to reavow your love, to let people have a time-out in their hurried lives to take a good look at the people that matter to them, a day when love is truly in the air.

The commercial success of Valentine's inevitably marred this resplendent day, another victim doomed to the big, bad ugly textbooks of economics. This ugly transgression however, didn't quite kill Valentine's spirit in me, not this time. If you look carefully enough, see past the long distasteful queues forming outside shrewd restaurants and florists, see past the mass-produced Hallmarks clutched in the hands of equally mass-produced human zombies, you'll notice the cute couples whispering sweet-nothings in quiet corners, silent couples walking comfortably down the sunset-bled streets, friends at a quaint café laughing amidst joyful banter.

The spirit and the exuberance of Valentine's Day didn't quite choke on itself and die in the face of putrid commercialism, it was merely masked by its vileness. To all the friends who made this day a Valentine's Valentine, an ode:

Lonely hearts we are not,
single smarts we purport.

We lived the day,
despite the fray.

Ate some dim-sums,
to fill our tum-tums.

Finished two cheesecakes,
probably better than I can bake.

Listened to good music,
but Fel needed some prozac.

Esmond came so late,
didn't start on his theorem, great.

Ended a Valentine full of joy,
forgotten a load of homework oh boy.

God that was bad,
but please do not upset.

Ok I'd better stop,
before I get er, bopped.

2005-02-05T23:09:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

You know how parents always want you to "quit lazing around, go enrich yourself"? Well after 21 years of living I think I finally achieved something along that line this week, by the broadest of definition no doubt.

I read three books in a week. One being The Unbearable Lightness of Being. It was never a light read, and to tell you the truth, it made my being pretty unbearable. The other two is Man and Boy and Man and Wife, but I won't touch on them. This isn't a book review.

I did twenty push-ups(which I swore seemed more like fifty). Played basketball, for a while. Woke up way early, something ninish/tennish. Damn I feel like a superhuman.

I scrubbed. I dusted. I wiped. I dumped. I recycled. I soaped. Oh my God, when will the horror end. This by the way, is the major annual event: spring cleaning. And I used to wonder why it's called "spring" cleaning when there's hardly any spring to consider in my part of the world, and metaphorically spring represents a season of joy and renewed hopes. Then as I grow older I realise "spring" is synonymous with "jump", or rather "pounce". How devilishly clever.

So I did all the things that should enrich me somewhat. I was expecting that little "ding" sound that registers whenever you level up in a game. It never came. How can I tell if I was "enriched" or not then. Literally I didn't feel any richer, bank statement's still a joke. I didn't feel any different inside either. Wasn't any smarter than before. Nope. In fact I developed a phelgmy cough.

Where the hell are the benefits?! My sense of well-being?! I demand some proof! Sometimes you just feel so shortchanged.

2005-01-29T18:21:00.000+08:00

Esmond's Theorem

Esmond's Theorem is the written ideology governing the human psyche on laws of physical and emotional interdependency based on the inconclusive research of a 21st century revolutionary, Esmond Fish. This essay seeks to define Esmond's Theorem and to delve into its intricacies.

Esmond's Theorem states that all else being equal, an individual's attraction towards another individual is never unique; that is to say the coupling of two human beings is always frivolous and fleeting. The theorem therefore suggests that it would be impossible for longevity in any relationship that followed the conventional rules of dating and falling in love. Frustrated with this impermanence of relationships, Fish devised an austere system to judge their time-worthiness. He firmly believes that this system would create abundant economic and social gains, if followed strictly, by saving the human populace from immeasurable manhours lost and emotional distress that results from such impermanence.

This system is, simply put, a checklist of the critical ills that he theorized terminally plagued current social pairings. Below is the breakdown of its criterion:

1. Does the party involved engage in unecessary nocturnal activities that include loud music, short skirts, raging hormones and "jiggy jiggy"?

2. Does the party involved apply artificial substances to their visage in an act of superficiality?

3. Does the party involved wear inappropriate attire that bares more than their neckline?

4. Does the party involved profligately consume more than is required of a spartan lifestyle?

5. Has the party involved so much as let slip a straying eye on anyone remotely considered a mate-able option other than yourself?

6. Has the party involved ever mentioned any words that relate to the word "automobile"?

If the answer is "yes" or "probably" to any 1 of the questions, the relationship warrants an immediate failure.

Fish also denounced the notion of falling in love as heretic, and instead he proposed a pragmatic approach to handling relationships. In his papers, he wrote that even after a particular pairing passed his litmus test, the individuals involved should still err on the side of caution and remain platonic, preferably taking years to get to understand each other better before committing to anything more. Talks of marriage shouldn't even come into mind anything less than a decade.

His controversial theorem drew public outrage, ranging from publishing houses to feminist movements to plain old loving citizens. Fish argued in defence that the world just was not ready to get out of their comfort zones and blamed them for their cowardice in challenging the inertia of an outdated old-school thinking. His indignation and supposed reasoning did lead to some closet die-hard fanatics, but no one is sure of their numbers, as they face ostracism should they come out in the open.

Only time can tell how many are putting this radical theory into practice and succeed. And that will be a very long time indeed.

2005-01-28T01:48:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

These days, all I've been discussing with people around me is how love has evolved into something far more sinister, far more complicated and definitely less-than-fairytalelike from the simple, blissful ones that shaped our innocuous childhood. Maybe that's what growing up is all about. You understand that reality isn't just a game of hopscotch, or a stroll in the park, or the sharing of a chocolate malt, or a bedtime story that left you smiling in your sleep.

Yucks.

So love now has many strings attached. So a loving relationship's basis now is more than just "I love you, you love me". And that now it's next to impossible to proclaim love for love without being maced. Ok, all that I can understand, I understand perfectly that you can't really fall in love with someone just by clinging onto her lovely locks or smooching her when she's comatose. All that only happens in -dang- fables.

So what is my problem here? I seem to have understood what love actually is all about isn't it. I have no issues about the expectations that each and everyone has of their would-be partners. Sometimes even dalmations could fancy a pug or two. Everyone has their own fetishes and what really makes them tick. What really bothers me is this mighty little word commitment.

I liken relationships to peeling an apple. Deep down inside, everyone wants to peel the apple in one long continuous strip of skin. Don't ask me why, it just happens. Human psyche. Anyway as I was saying, peeling an apple usually is easier at first. Almost. As the peel gets longer, you start to lose focus, perhaps thinking why you are trying so hard doing something as inane as getting a perfect peel. When the attention is drawn away too long, the peel gets cut short inadvertently. Result: You fail to get a perfect peel. Duh. Two things can happen here - the person either tries to salvage that apple by trying to continue peeling from where he nicked off, or the person would just be unsatisfied with his imperfect apple peel and try to peel another apple. The peel represents the relationship, the level of concentration on the peeling process the commitment, and the silly act of getting a nice peel the love. Geddit? Stupid as this analogy might sound, and I agree to a certain degree that it really is stupid, it does hold some truth. Well, at least to me.

What I'm saying is, if you didn't get my drift, that a loving relationship, less all its expectations, would never be a lasting one if the parties involved weren't committed to it. Love and commitment are the key to a blissful union. Expectations change, people err, and that is by no fault of man, for we were never meant to be perfect. Love without commitment is like a ruffled arrow - it knows not when or where it lands. Commitment without love is like a fish out of water - suffocating and despondent.

For the betterment of mankind, please gag on your smelly socks whenever you think you are ever in -pffzt-"love", yet don't feel the innate desire to dedicate. Bollocks to you. Oh, and don't even let me start on the ozone hole.

2005-01-26T17:45:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

Just read 'Man and Boy' by Tony Parsons. A man who had it all, who eventually lost that all overnight which led him onto a road of rediscovery, slowly piecing his life back again in a wonderfully crafted story that is funny, tear-jerking and believable yet magical all in one. This novel played out life's realities without the melancholy, its joys without the naivety, and its complexities without obfuscating.

I love the way the author percepted human emotions so well, and manages to artfully insert this keen insight subtly throughout the pages, making the characters identifiable and real to the readers, and I was able to empathise and connect the whole time. He even managed to inject humour that was strangely appropriate in circumstances that were dreary.

Don't get me wrong, this isn't a book review, or at least it wasn't intended to be. It's just that this book gave me hope that despite life always has a way to screw you up big time, more so in this increasingly superficial and cynical world we live in, we can always find refuge in the simple pleasures in life: your first kiss, your baby's first step, the sight of flowers blooming in spring, the smell of washed tarmac after the rain, the warmth in home-cooked food, the tune of a familiar song from yesteryear. And yes, that even humour could be found in the worst of times.

As I slowly step out of my sheltered life into the real world, I'm sure that no matter how bleak life may seem in future, I can see it then as just transient clouds covering the glowering sun, that rainy days are always ensued by a beautiful rainbow and fresh air, and that growing up should open new doors, and not necessarily close the ones that came before. I'm glad I am alive.

2005-01-24T19:33:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

I know it's a little bit late for this now but this post's on my 21st birthday. Hey, what can I say, a procrastinator's still one whether he's 21 or not. Anyway let's not digress further. Yes, my birthday. It might seem contrived and perfunctory to say this, but it really was the best birthday I ever had.

The highlight of the entire event were obviously the people involved. My family members, especially my mum, hurried the whole day to make sure the steamboat was a steaming success. Ok, that was corny. But I sincerely am appreciative of their efforts. Not to forget my cliquemates, a rowdy motley crue that actually tamed themselves for my birthday. They also provided free-labour, pilfering the much needed chairs and tables from dubious sources - a much prized act of magnanimity by people who were supposed to be guests in the first place. Then there are the 3 beloved Charlie Angels, whose presence added much eye-candy to the otherwise lacklustre dinner. Not to be missed too were my wonderful classmates with whom I shared many a good times back at school. There's also my favourite girl Vonne mei - so glad she came despite feeling out of place, and of course Tess, the best girl chummy around.

Next on the list that made the birthday perfect are the presents. Wouldn't wanna lie. Let's see what I had:

Handmade lemon cheesecake with strawberry topping, probably tops the top 10 list of greatest birthday gifts ever. Ever. And it tastes great even. I love the handmade cards too, namely from CK, Tess and San, and a mega-sized card which housed the thoughts of my cliquemates of me. Fantastic. 3 best-sellers from my classmates, excellent for those cold lonely nights, and I think my brain does need some greasing. The oh-so-expensive-why-the-heck-did-you-guys-spend-so-much-money AX clothes from the clique and a LaCoste polo from my campmates. Extravagant. And yes, I appreciate the soap and facial wash too, I get the hint. Also I dunno if they would kill me for mentioning this but they shouldn't really, cuz I liked it too, which was the Taboo game the girls gave. Hope there'll be an occasion where we could play it together. I mean, the girls don't think I'll be playing it alone do they. Oh and there's the lava lamp. Who doesn't love a good o' lava lamp? There are only 2 kinds of people in the world, people who love lava lamps and liars. Finally there's the Kinokuniya vouchers by my ever-thoughtful mei.

I'm just so thankful for all who turned up. They're the people who ever mattered to me and it's just wonderful to have them around on an important milestone in my life. This post sounds like a bloody acceptance speech I know, but it isn't. Mind me, I'm just a very happy 21 year old adult.

2005-01-09T02:03:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

Today's Victor's birthday. His 21st. The first in the clique to come of age: Adulthood.

21 always seem to be of impossible reach, an age that I've been looking forward to, yet hoping will never arrive. Now seeing a friend reach adulthood, time never felt so real before. Very soon, in just mere weeks, I would set off too onto this new foreign path, to fully bear responsibilities for myself and others around me. I can no longer make excuses for my own doings, and am expected to behave maturely and thoughtfully within the boundaries of social conventions. 21 is an age that gives freedom but ironically takes back so much more. Perhaps I wouldn't be so morose now if I hadn't squadered my youth, if I had more foresight and had spent it fruitfully, to have lived a fulfilling and successful life, to have spent more effort forging stronger ties with people I love. Ah yes, if only. It is immature to look back at all the ifs that we would've wanted in retrospect, and this is not an age for immaturity.

Everything becomes so clear suddenly, the veil of denial forcefully lifted from my eyes. I see the greying on my mom and dad, how weathered they have become, how over the years I've took for granted that they'll be around for as long imaginable. I see my friends at the crossroads, making life decisions that would seperate and challenge our allegiance and its strength. I'm not complaining about my life. I've had wonderful moments, I've wonderful people around me. It's just regret knowing that for 21 years I had the chance to experiment, mould and learn, to love, capacitate and respect, yet failed miserably in.

I have run out more than a quarter of my life, now I sift through the sands that had slipped away, in search of my achievements. Nothing. Nothing that impacted or changed anyone's life for the better. Nothing that made me proud or worthy. You might argue that I'm overly-critical. Everyone must've done something. Yes, maybe I did, but when I look at the whole picture as an observer, hovering high and above all physicals, I see my life as incoherent specks and dots that don't connect and represent or convey anything. I don't see what I was living, or had lived for.

It's time to age gracefully my boy, time to be in stewardship of life and not sit on the fence watching it play out by itself. Therein the future lies.

Week 6 - Thursday

2004-12-31T00:15:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

Today I have to write, for today is a day where the gods come hither in their finest garments and polished chariots to unanimously pronounce as a day of jubilation. Why you ask. Because today, my dear friend, today is simply the perfect day.

Hardly a day goes by without constant complaints of sweltering weather and the ever-irritable humidity, nor whinges about the torrid monsoon rains that sweep across the island, washing away the gaeity from the air and turning moods as heavy as its consequential rainclouds. Day by day, we resign ourselves to that fate bequeath upon us as habitants of this little tropical island. However, glimpses of heaven, though infrequent, does shine through, thinly disguised as days like today: A wet, cool and breezy day that doesn't chill and could do nothing else but invigorate and refresh the weariest of minds. A cloud covered sky that seemed to shield the land from the most piercing of the suns' rays, letting through only the mildest of light, a pleasing colour that brings joy to the heart and warmth to the soul. The air screamed freshness and the landscape could only be described as picturesque.

I admit I probably am exaggerating, overreacting, whimsifying, melodramatic, a little bit looney even. Maybe it's just me, but I do enjoy thoroughly a day as such. And today, without any particular reason and rationale, is a day that sq declares a perfect day.

Week 6 - Monday

2004-12-28T01:20:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

Exactly a month from my last post. Didn't have much to write about. You must've missed me I'm sure.

Christmas ended a few days ago, though technically it's supposed to last 12 days ain't it. There's even this song about it... Regardless, I'm now staring at a pile of Christmas cards that should've been sent and delivered but was not. Procrastination had a key involvement in this little "misdeed", but you shouldn't just blame me. I didn't have the addresses of most of the people I'm writing to, which was rather odd when the people I wrote to are people I care about. So I'm insincere they say. Bah, excuses. Nary a care in the world cept for merrymaking, gluttony and whatnots. I beg to differ. I lack the organisational functions of a normal, healthy human male, and that being said, I'm also careless and muddle-headed. Sincerity comes from the heart, not the brain I say, and frankly I have an excellent BPM to show for it.

Fret not though, the cards are, as I speak, or write, or whatever you call it, in transition, and the poor folks waiting for the card that matters most should be pleasantly surprised by Thursday noon. As for the sweet things who couldn't be reached for their addresses in time to partake in this marvellous show of friendship and love, well, there's always next year. And the year after that. And if my calculations are to be trusted, probably 50 more winters before the writer curdles and stiffens. For the other folks that thought they were getting a Christmas card from yours truly, only 2 things to say: 1st, I might have forgotten him/her. Yes, that sounds pretty insensitive and unfeeling but hey, that's life. People always get missed out. Simply contact me and cry buckets and they'll be sure of a card for the rest of their wanting years. 2nd, a person who thought they deserved a card but didn't receive one. Whoopsie doo. If the hint doesn't hit them, they could go on to the next step whereby they actually send me a Christmas card. And throw in a love-you note for good measure.

Christmas didn't have the same magical feel it used to. Maybe innocence is brought along when time quietly slips by. Just wish all my loved ones are staying warm with a hot cocoa cupped in their hands. Yeah, that'd be nice.

Week 2 - Monday

2004-11-29T19:44:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

I'm excited! I'll be off to Bintan in 2 days. Respite from the daily hassles and generous catnaps I get in camp. Not to mention all that, -ick- green. Dirty green I might add, with what seems to be swirls of brown, mucky, er. Let's not go there.

Ok, Bintan. Woohoo! I just paid $109.40 for the 2 day 1 night non-expenses paid trip. Let's see, what's on the things-to-do-on-the-island-you-paid-109.40-to-visit list. Hmmm, canoeing, waterskiing, wakeboarding, pool, billiard... Sounds familiar. Is there a second page to this brochure?

Drools. Imagine the crystal clear waters and glistening white beaches... What? The waters aren't that clean? And the currents are too strong for swimming at this time of the year? Oh never mind, at least the food's cheap and seafood's abundant... No? The buffets cost 30+ SGD?! Ah well, I'm sure the spa would offset all the other trivialities... 100+ SGD for a spa session?!! That's more expensive than what it costs here!

ARGH!!!

It's ok. No big deal. The resort should be good enough to relax in... What's that? You say it's just like Downtown East? Even worse?!

ARGH ARGH ARGH ARGH!!!

I sure hope the Bintanians have a deathwish.

Week 1 - Tuesday

2004-11-23T14:30:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

The weather's pretty nippy today isn't it. I mean, you wouldn't know. You're just a bunch of dumb spaghetti code. For those with the physical comfort of being able to tell the weather by touch, yes, it is a cold, dark, gloomy day.

Picked up a song through a friend's recommendation - Cannonball, by Damien Rice. It's funny how sometimes you listen to a song that's almost fitting; to the surroundings, the ambience, and your inner state. This is one of those times. Surrealism.

Today the colour of my world is gray. Not a moody gray that spells sadness and heavyheartedness, and even though the sky is literally wispy gray, that's not the gray. This gray is more like a b&w photo from the 50s, reminiscent and pensive.

A colour gray
like the ash of eden
a chill of the flesh
the warmth of the heart
enter the forbidden

A colour gray
a world of silence
the monotony of life
broken by contradiction
a song of defiance

A colour gray
let not concede ruth
but a cleansing of mind
the purity of soul
a seeker of truth

A little poem that I wrote. Not feeling garrulous today. That's all for now.

Regards,
sq

Week 1 - Sunday

2004-11-22T17:18:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

I know I hadn't addressed you in a while. My apologies, though not half as guilty. I don't have very much to say to you frankly - it's already weird enough that I'm talking to an inanimate object, but the reason why I've decided on an entry today's, well, simple. I felt like writing.

There are times when you have the urge to do something. Everyone does. Like eat a cake. Or kiss someone. Probably break the law even. Well, I have an urge now. To write. Not an intense lewd oh-give-it-to-me that's gonna tear out of you any moment. It's a tingly, nagging little urge that wouldn't seem to go away even after you took a bath, bbq-ed, sang birthday songs and horsed around. At least for me it didn't.

Before I begin, you might be wondering what's with the title. Week 1? Of what. That is of little importance. It was merely "Week 1" for simplicity's sake. Week 1 would be the 1st week that I start writing. Think of it as a rudimentary counter. I'm not bold enough to stake claim in a first week dedicated to the opening of my blog you know.

First feeling of the day - Boredom. A petty little disease that afflicts people once too often. I now know why people had to "battle boredom"; you'd be surprised how much effort was needed to get rid of the bugger. Waking up, I lumber around my living room, looking for things to do. Instinctly, I switched on my computer. Not that there were many options anyway. Started up a game called "Rome - Total War". Sounds pretty impressive huh. The game promises "epic real-time warfare, empire building, politics and treachery...", wow. I think they hired Terry Pratchett for the foreword. So, the game starts. Not bad at all, despite not living up to its fantastic premise. The soundtracks were carefully orchestrated to represent the different settings and moods, and the battle scenes are created with realism in mind. The gameplay's not a problem for me. *Destroy them! Charge! Attack!* What do you know, I've fifteen territories before you know it. Easy, if you don't discount the fact that I keep cheating. Money's no object, as I always say. Come on, it's just a game. If you didn't have absolute power and bijillions of moola, why bother. It's meant to be fantasy in the first place, isn't it.

Okay, I've wasted an entire morning and half of the afternoon living a life of arms and bloodshed. Shit. I'm supposed to be studying for my advanced driving theory test that's coming up in 2 days. Control yourself you wastrel! Picking a comfortable and conducive place to study, I began to furiously devour the pages, one by one. Depress the braking pedal, while slowly releasing the accelerator. They make driving sound like nuclear science I tell you. Soon my mental capabilities were maxed, and the inevitable happened. I fell asleep. Bed was a bad pick.

Waking up, it's 5 pm. Had to be honest with myself. I can't absorb anything at all. My brain's kinda like a non-porous sponge; soft, mushy and effectively useless. Switching on the computer again, this time with a new purpose. To finish viewing the latest downloads of an anime "Naruto". Great anime, plenty of action and even some tear-jerking scenes. About some ninja story that would kill you if I tried to elaborate. Fast-forwarding, 6.30 pm. Argh! I'm late for Esmond's birthday bbq! Hmm, then again, what's new?

To cut things short, the bbq was well done. Not many food choices, but good enough for me. Uh oh, guilt-trip. I can practically feel the oil and grease crawling around in my gut and on my face, mocking my impending arterial blockage and acne outbreak. Still, it was fun. The cake was good, had rum or brandy inside. Pretty strong stuff. Wonder if anyone got drunk from eating too much cake. Oh well. Happy birthday Esmond! Thought it was nice to leave a hearty salutation on his special day.

I'm spent. The urge(to write) has finally waned to nothingness. Now is the time to sleep. So I shall.

Yours (not)always,
sq

Testing. Testing 1, 2. Testing 1, 2, 3.

2004-11-10T15:58:00.000+08:00

Dear diary,

This is an official prologue to the start of a neverending(till-i-get-bored) barrage of thrash that only the greatest of idiocy can muster. In this opening chapter, I realise I have nothing of interest to say, and looking at the title you could clearly see that I was trying to play around with the reader's mind. Seeing a topic such as "testing yada yada", one would expect the entry to be a curt and short one that is, as said, a post to test the efficacy of blogger's system.

By setting the expectations to pit-bottom, I would be able to draw excitement at even the slightest hint of content when one reads this entry. While the ingenuity of this exploitation slowly sinks in, you'd most probably be cursing yourself, above all else, to fall prey to the ridiculous nature of my post. Ultimately, this serves nothing as entertainment to myself or my guest, yet I couldn't resist the lure of it.

Fortunately, I have, out of consideration, thought of a 2 ways you could go about without feeling silly about the whole thing. 1. You could casually say aloud, preferably with people around, "Oops. Wasn't this the IQ test page for Mensa? Dang!" or, 2, which is a better choice in my opinion, check back this page once in awhile, because you never know what idiocy can come up with sometimes. Cheerios.

P/S: This post is so lame I'm developing an inferiority complex and have the sudden urge to hug myself.

P/S2: It suddenly occurred to me how dumb it was to address your diary as a dear. Why do people personify their diaries? Are all people who write diaries needy neurotics? Argh am I one then?! As if being stupid wasn't bad enough. Sheesh.