This, I am most regretful to say, is not a happy post.
The very first time I was conned was in Primary Five, when the world I was living in still lacked its shades of gray. Things were either white, or black, and basically very simple. If there was someone who got along well with you, he/she was automatically a friend. If they ever irked you in any way, you declared to them 'I Don't Friend You Anymore' and that was that.
Children at 11 years of age shouldn't possess the necessary guile to fall anywhere in between a Friend and an Enemy, in any case. But they do.
He had come to me one afternoon, all concerned over how I seemed to have something troubling me recently. I was frankly surprised at his keen intuition and touched at his sincere concern. It wasn't long before his repeated assertations that he would keep everything I said in strict confidence goaded me to divulge the burden upon my mind, which was that I thought I could be in love with this particular girl!
The next afternoon, the very next afternoon, the girl in question came to me and told me that she had heard it all, and that she would appreciate it if I didn't go round telling the whole world about my feelings for her.
And trusting people actually gets tougher as we get older, on account of all the grays coming into the picture. For example, are you willing to invest trust in someone who once proved undeserving but who forswears to have reformed? What about people who inadvertantly hurt you owing to a perceived lack of consideration rather than malice?
It does seem like quite the lonely world sometimes, doesn't it.
Friday, April 29, 2005
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Clubbing 1: Protecting The Innocent
For the longest time, clubbing was one of those tantalizing forbidden fruits that young teenagers hungered for. If you assume that all teenagers start off innocent, then the draw would be twofold: because the law and parents say you can't go, and because all your friends are still going anyway.
Not... for me.
When I was 17, my mum pounced on me one evening exclaiming, "Quick! Do you want to go clubbing?" It turned out she had tickets for Zouk, and thought that the exposure would be good for me. I refused out of pure shock, mind frantically racing to find the catch in this. "Hey, if you are afraid of going alone, I'll go with you! Next Wednesday?" My mum's beaming smile was never quite so creepy.
In the end, in a bid to escape from having to club with my mum, I went with my friends. When people enquire about the circumstances under which I first went clubbing, I prefer to just say my mum didn't mind.
Parents have valid reasons for keeping their kids away from clubs. The sleaze, the booze, the bad company all really do exist. But I cannot imagine my parents banning me from clubs when I am 18, and still singing the same song when I turn 30. Somewhere along the way, I believe children really do need to get out, have a look at the real world, and then start buffing up those streetsmarts that schools typically neglect.
The truth is, clubs aren't the Dens of Evil that the media make them out to be. For every murder, rape, fight, there's hundreds of youths who go home safe after a night out with friends. The statistics basically indicate that clubbing is probably as safe as say, crossing a road.
Over the years, I've slowly began to understand the rules governing clubbing. How to keep together in groups on a packed dance floor. How to meld into the crowd when you need a quick escape. Which clubs to go to, and at what time, and wearing what, to signify that you really don't want to be picked up. I admit though, I still have problems rejecting advances from crazed fans.
Oh, but I so rue the day I go clubbing and find my mum on the dance floor next to me.
Not... for me.
When I was 17, my mum pounced on me one evening exclaiming, "Quick! Do you want to go clubbing?" It turned out she had tickets for Zouk, and thought that the exposure would be good for me. I refused out of pure shock, mind frantically racing to find the catch in this. "Hey, if you are afraid of going alone, I'll go with you! Next Wednesday?" My mum's beaming smile was never quite so creepy.
In the end, in a bid to escape from having to club with my mum, I went with my friends. When people enquire about the circumstances under which I first went clubbing, I prefer to just say my mum didn't mind.
Parents have valid reasons for keeping their kids away from clubs. The sleaze, the booze, the bad company all really do exist. But I cannot imagine my parents banning me from clubs when I am 18, and still singing the same song when I turn 30. Somewhere along the way, I believe children really do need to get out, have a look at the real world, and then start buffing up those streetsmarts that schools typically neglect.
The truth is, clubs aren't the Dens of Evil that the media make them out to be. For every murder, rape, fight, there's hundreds of youths who go home safe after a night out with friends. The statistics basically indicate that clubbing is probably as safe as say, crossing a road.
Over the years, I've slowly began to understand the rules governing clubbing. How to keep together in groups on a packed dance floor. How to meld into the crowd when you need a quick escape. Which clubs to go to, and at what time, and wearing what, to signify that you really don't want to be picked up. I admit though, I still have problems rejecting advances from crazed fans.
Oh, but I so rue the day I go clubbing and find my mum on the dance floor next to me.
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
Room Sanity
One thing about living in the same place for too long, is that things tend to accumulate and clutter. Most humans tend to do this by retaining items that "will come in handy" one day, leading to an astounding accrual of useful yet hardly critical possessions.
I was only blessed by this enlightening insight when I watched the light rays enter my room this morning. It might have well been an optical illusion, but I swear I saw the light rays bend the moment they filtered in. Now, my faltering grasp of Physics reminded me that light only bends when it passes by a black hole, which is incidentally a concentration of super-dense mass.
My room might not have reached critical mass, but it damn well was going to. The suspicion that I had too much junk in my room was only reinforced by the quick calculation that I was currently actively using but 12% of the total floor space - junk enjoying a 99-year land lease on the remaining 88%.
Clearing up was much, much harder than I thought though, physically and emotionally.
Now, I am not a very sentimental person. I know just about when to stop rewatching the penultimate episode of Singapore Idol, when Daphne was still in the running, and come to terms with the fact that she just might have lost. But going through the stuff in my room... really was sapping.
Think of the junk in my room as kueh lapis, or for those less food-inclined, strata of sedimentary rock. The topmost pile of junk of course hailed from my recently-concluded army life, and once this was cleared, bringing light to parts of my room that had existed in darkness for 2 years, I found a layer of JC memorabilia. Council keepsakes, Track 'N Field letters of Buck-Up-You're-A-Lousy-Athlete, old Chemistry assignments I still haven't handed up.
Further on I plowed, digging deeper and deeper, all the while feeling like this was becoming too much like Jules Vernes' Journey.
I subsequently hit the Secondary School layer, finding Prefect badges, Chinese essays with more red ink (teacher's) than blue (mine), old copies of school cheers. And then I stopped, because my hands were shaking, and I could press on no more.
In one morning I had relived close to 8 years of the past. I had summoned memories of old friends, recounted moments of unbridled happiness and chastising sorrow, laughed over retrospectively-embarrassing follies, cherished and mourned my first kiss(es), endured pangs of regret for all the friends I've lost and the promises I've broken...
Finally, I had no choice but to grit my teeth and throw away as many things as I could bear. Real, hard thought had gone into it - there was simply no more space in my room for everything. Natural instinct bade me to hold on tight to everything, because they were irreplaceable, but things don't work like that.
Today, although I cleared tons of excess baggage, I spruced up my room enough to make way for the first signs that University is around the corner - two spanking new Law textbooks. Making way for the new, both physically and emotionally, is an oft overlooked yet crucial aspect of maintaining room sanity.
And, cliche as it may sound, life's a bit like that.
I was only blessed by this enlightening insight when I watched the light rays enter my room this morning. It might have well been an optical illusion, but I swear I saw the light rays bend the moment they filtered in. Now, my faltering grasp of Physics reminded me that light only bends when it passes by a black hole, which is incidentally a concentration of super-dense mass.
My room might not have reached critical mass, but it damn well was going to. The suspicion that I had too much junk in my room was only reinforced by the quick calculation that I was currently actively using but 12% of the total floor space - junk enjoying a 99-year land lease on the remaining 88%.
Clearing up was much, much harder than I thought though, physically and emotionally.
Now, I am not a very sentimental person. I know just about when to stop rewatching the penultimate episode of Singapore Idol, when Daphne was still in the running, and come to terms with the fact that she just might have lost. But going through the stuff in my room... really was sapping.
Think of the junk in my room as kueh lapis, or for those less food-inclined, strata of sedimentary rock. The topmost pile of junk of course hailed from my recently-concluded army life, and once this was cleared, bringing light to parts of my room that had existed in darkness for 2 years, I found a layer of JC memorabilia. Council keepsakes, Track 'N Field letters of Buck-Up-You're-A-Lousy-Athlete, old Chemistry assignments I still haven't handed up.
Further on I plowed, digging deeper and deeper, all the while feeling like this was becoming too much like Jules Vernes' Journey.
I subsequently hit the Secondary School layer, finding Prefect badges, Chinese essays with more red ink (teacher's) than blue (mine), old copies of school cheers. And then I stopped, because my hands were shaking, and I could press on no more.
In one morning I had relived close to 8 years of the past. I had summoned memories of old friends, recounted moments of unbridled happiness and chastising sorrow, laughed over retrospectively-embarrassing follies, cherished and mourned my first kiss(es), endured pangs of regret for all the friends I've lost and the promises I've broken...
Finally, I had no choice but to grit my teeth and throw away as many things as I could bear. Real, hard thought had gone into it - there was simply no more space in my room for everything. Natural instinct bade me to hold on tight to everything, because they were irreplaceable, but things don't work like that.
Today, although I cleared tons of excess baggage, I spruced up my room enough to make way for the first signs that University is around the corner - two spanking new Law textbooks. Making way for the new, both physically and emotionally, is an oft overlooked yet crucial aspect of maintaining room sanity.
And, cliche as it may sound, life's a bit like that.
Sunday, April 17, 2005
Setbacks
In His big plan, everything happens for a reason.
Every success basking defiantly against impending failure, but more importantly, every failure putting into motion the chain of events that eventually germinate succes.
How often have we been shown illustrations of this never-ending cycle, mostly in the form of pep talks to remind us that the failure of today will lead to a better tomorrow. For example, the ancient Chinese farmer whose prized horse injured his son, only to realise that the son had been spared military drafting.
I guess somehow we all do know, that we can never give up, that we must strive onwards no matter how far back we fall, in the hopes that we will eventually catch up.
But oh, how dark and spirit-sapping can failures and setbacks be.
Every success basking defiantly against impending failure, but more importantly, every failure putting into motion the chain of events that eventually germinate succes.
How often have we been shown illustrations of this never-ending cycle, mostly in the form of pep talks to remind us that the failure of today will lead to a better tomorrow. For example, the ancient Chinese farmer whose prized horse injured his son, only to realise that the son had been spared military drafting.
I guess somehow we all do know, that we can never give up, that we must strive onwards no matter how far back we fall, in the hopes that we will eventually catch up.
But oh, how dark and spirit-sapping can failures and setbacks be.
Saturday, April 16, 2005
Couples
If you were asked, which part of your partner's physical body do you value the most, what would you say?
To tell you the truth, I was surprised by the results culled from this survey in FHM a while back (not that I read the thing, it was just that my friends mentioned it). I guess it's some basic wiring in our brains (men, at least) that makes us think in ways we cannot understand, for how else will you explain that over 60% of those polled valued fats (in very strategic areas, at least) over brains?
Because, in essence, a relationship between two people is intangible, right? A meeting of minds, a mutual understanding, that sort of thing. If you really loved someone, all you would require to keep things going is just the brains - all of the person's personality, eccentricities, inclinations, are all in essence encapsulated in the brain. In theory, if you really loved a person for who that person is, you could transfer his/her brain to any other human being, ugly or beautiful, and still love him/her, right?
At least, that's the moral in Beauty and the Beast.
The thing that leaves me scratching my head though, is the question of how much physical presence matters, and why. Why is it important for human beings to be in physical contact with each other? Does logic not dictate that as long as two people keep communicating, it doesn't matter if they don't actually see each other?
Now, do think about that last one. When was the last time you saw a couple who were not spending enough physical time with each other, work out?
Good. We have now established that relationships require a certain element of physical togetherness to succeed. Oh come on, all those detractors to this theory of mine, let's see you marry your pen-pals from some nether corner of the world ya? Yeah, you could even have your kids by post. Certainly brings new meaning to the term postal delivery.
The interesting bit only starts here. If you acknowledge that your partner's physical presence is important to you, then how much is enough? Is seeing your partner, but never holding your partner physically, sufficient?
I find this little debate interesting, precisely because it is so confusing. I've long noticed how new couples usually spend a significant amount of time working out just how often they need to see each other - frequently, Partner A would be wanting to see more and more of the other, while Partner B gets sick if they meet too often. Different people just have way different perspectives, I guess.
Its really a human phenomenon that's never seen the light of cinema. Imagine the movie Troy. A guy goes to extreme lengths just to recover posession of this babe Helen, only after it's all said and done, he realises he's bored with her company and goes off to play golf.
You think something like this can be resolved with time? Haha, pop this debate to your parents over dinner, and watch old, unresolved issues crawl out of the woodwork as they try to explain their disparate, differing perspectives. Trust me, it's good for a laugh. =)
To tell you the truth, I was surprised by the results culled from this survey in FHM a while back (not that I read the thing, it was just that my friends mentioned it). I guess it's some basic wiring in our brains (men, at least) that makes us think in ways we cannot understand, for how else will you explain that over 60% of those polled valued fats (in very strategic areas, at least) over brains?
Because, in essence, a relationship between two people is intangible, right? A meeting of minds, a mutual understanding, that sort of thing. If you really loved someone, all you would require to keep things going is just the brains - all of the person's personality, eccentricities, inclinations, are all in essence encapsulated in the brain. In theory, if you really loved a person for who that person is, you could transfer his/her brain to any other human being, ugly or beautiful, and still love him/her, right?
At least, that's the moral in Beauty and the Beast.
The thing that leaves me scratching my head though, is the question of how much physical presence matters, and why. Why is it important for human beings to be in physical contact with each other? Does logic not dictate that as long as two people keep communicating, it doesn't matter if they don't actually see each other?
Now, do think about that last one. When was the last time you saw a couple who were not spending enough physical time with each other, work out?
Good. We have now established that relationships require a certain element of physical togetherness to succeed. Oh come on, all those detractors to this theory of mine, let's see you marry your pen-pals from some nether corner of the world ya? Yeah, you could even have your kids by post. Certainly brings new meaning to the term postal delivery.
The interesting bit only starts here. If you acknowledge that your partner's physical presence is important to you, then how much is enough? Is seeing your partner, but never holding your partner physically, sufficient?
I find this little debate interesting, precisely because it is so confusing. I've long noticed how new couples usually spend a significant amount of time working out just how often they need to see each other - frequently, Partner A would be wanting to see more and more of the other, while Partner B gets sick if they meet too often. Different people just have way different perspectives, I guess.
Its really a human phenomenon that's never seen the light of cinema. Imagine the movie Troy. A guy goes to extreme lengths just to recover posession of this babe Helen, only after it's all said and done, he realises he's bored with her company and goes off to play golf.
You think something like this can be resolved with time? Haha, pop this debate to your parents over dinner, and watch old, unresolved issues crawl out of the woodwork as they try to explain their disparate, differing perspectives. Trust me, it's good for a laugh. =)
Friday, April 15, 2005
Green Men Flashing: A Poem
I was crossing this junction the other day
Crossing, of course, the prescribed safe way
When I noticed I had some company
In the form of an elderly granny
Who didn't walk as much as lumbered
On account of the fact that she was quite encumbered
She had all manner of electronic gadgets strapped to her back
Probably an IPod the only thing she seemed to lack
With LCD screens, keypads and little radars
Black cables, Bluetooth logos, even an antenna
To me she had long since crossed from being a techno-geek
Into the wild uncharted territory of a techno-freak
And I thought, 'How strange is that?
Would she have the time for a little chat?'
So I sidled up to her and spoke most calmly,
'Dear granny don't you find your getup an anomaly?
Are you really a granny concealing a big surprise,
Or a wealthy teen in elderly disguise?'
She smiled at me, with a twinkle in her eyes
'No, no, there's hardly any surprise'
And she smoothly produced a card from a hidden compartment
Which officially said she was from the Traffic Department
An important arm of the LTA
But nothing else did the little card say
Now a little light had been shed yet the mystery remained
And by that card my curiousity sparked rather than waned
Could it be that there was a purpose to her actions
Important enough to merit the LTA's sanction?
If so whatever could her mission be
To walk across a junction equipped like a Christmas tree?
Oh, the look of befuddlement that I wore
Prodded her on to explain some more
'If you needed a way to estimate how long it'll take
(And your estimate could be anything but vague)
For the average man to make it across a road comfortably
Wouldn't using little old ladies in trials occur immdiately?
'For while most people would run or even dash
Little old ladies are anything but rash
We'll take our time and only cross when we can
And since we take longer than the average man
The time I take affects when the Green Man starts flashing
Thus saving the engineers at HQ a lot of guessing'
I then pointed to the equipment she took pains to carry
Asking if if all that was really necessary
She shrugged and said it was a waste of money
A simple stopwatch was better than all the baloney
But ever since her bosses said it was image-maintaining
She had borne her load and stopped complaining
And with that she continued on her way
But not, of course, without some delay
For my questions and her loquacious attitude
Resulted in a delay of a certain magnitude
And to this day at that junction
The Flashing Man takes longer than his brothers to function
Quick, someone! Give me something better to do with my time!
Crossing, of course, the prescribed safe way
When I noticed I had some company
In the form of an elderly granny
Who didn't walk as much as lumbered
On account of the fact that she was quite encumbered
She had all manner of electronic gadgets strapped to her back
Probably an IPod the only thing she seemed to lack
With LCD screens, keypads and little radars
Black cables, Bluetooth logos, even an antenna
To me she had long since crossed from being a techno-geek
Into the wild uncharted territory of a techno-freak
And I thought, 'How strange is that?
Would she have the time for a little chat?'
So I sidled up to her and spoke most calmly,
'Dear granny don't you find your getup an anomaly?
Are you really a granny concealing a big surprise,
Or a wealthy teen in elderly disguise?'
She smiled at me, with a twinkle in her eyes
'No, no, there's hardly any surprise'
And she smoothly produced a card from a hidden compartment
Which officially said she was from the Traffic Department
An important arm of the LTA
But nothing else did the little card say
Now a little light had been shed yet the mystery remained
And by that card my curiousity sparked rather than waned
Could it be that there was a purpose to her actions
Important enough to merit the LTA's sanction?
If so whatever could her mission be
To walk across a junction equipped like a Christmas tree?
Oh, the look of befuddlement that I wore
Prodded her on to explain some more
'If you needed a way to estimate how long it'll take
(And your estimate could be anything but vague)
For the average man to make it across a road comfortably
Wouldn't using little old ladies in trials occur immdiately?
'For while most people would run or even dash
Little old ladies are anything but rash
We'll take our time and only cross when we can
And since we take longer than the average man
The time I take affects when the Green Man starts flashing
Thus saving the engineers at HQ a lot of guessing'
I then pointed to the equipment she took pains to carry
Asking if if all that was really necessary
She shrugged and said it was a waste of money
A simple stopwatch was better than all the baloney
But ever since her bosses said it was image-maintaining
She had borne her load and stopped complaining
And with that she continued on her way
But not, of course, without some delay
For my questions and her loquacious attitude
Resulted in a delay of a certain magnitude
And to this day at that junction
The Flashing Man takes longer than his brothers to function
Quick, someone! Give me something better to do with my time!
Thursday, April 14, 2005
Sunshine From The Past 5: VTW
It began with just my colleague and I. We passed each other on the stairs leading to the trainees' bunks, and we impulsively sat on the steps to discuss a particularly thorny conflict among two recruits. The thing was, another colleague who was on his way down, saw us and joined us.
One officer and two sergeants, sitting on the stairs just a stone's throw from the recruits.
Like a silly local sitcom, another colleague passed us and also joined us. Then another. Then, another. Just as we spaced ourselves out on three different steps to form a little circle, the remaining permanent staff walked up the stairs, returning from their coffee break.
Now, three officers and 5 sergeants, sitting on the stairs, passing around curry puffs and packet kopis.
A fitting end to the hastily-convened EGM played out thus: our current batch of recruits started coming down the stairs, and when they saw all of their superiors sitting around on the stairs, laughing and joking like they were at a Starbucks instead of a flight of stairs cleaned by recruit power, they were simply so stunned they stopped and stared!
That was the moment. The moment where I looked around that circle and was so seized by the camaraderie my wing had formed amongst itself. People from such diverse walks of life, brought together by circumstance and army tyranny, bonded by shared experiences and a common love for torture (just kidding). Friends in peace, team-mates in training, brothers in war.
How can anyone leave the army without such poignant memories as these?
One officer and two sergeants, sitting on the stairs just a stone's throw from the recruits.
Like a silly local sitcom, another colleague passed us and also joined us. Then another. Then, another. Just as we spaced ourselves out on three different steps to form a little circle, the remaining permanent staff walked up the stairs, returning from their coffee break.
Now, three officers and 5 sergeants, sitting on the stairs, passing around curry puffs and packet kopis.
A fitting end to the hastily-convened EGM played out thus: our current batch of recruits started coming down the stairs, and when they saw all of their superiors sitting around on the stairs, laughing and joking like they were at a Starbucks instead of a flight of stairs cleaned by recruit power, they were simply so stunned they stopped and stared!
That was the moment. The moment where I looked around that circle and was so seized by the camaraderie my wing had formed amongst itself. People from such diverse walks of life, brought together by circumstance and army tyranny, bonded by shared experiences and a common love for torture (just kidding). Friends in peace, team-mates in training, brothers in war.
How can anyone leave the army without such poignant memories as these?
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
Lawyer Girls
I've long maintained that although most people have separate personas for their professional and personal lives, it is not uncommon for traits adopted in the professional world to seep over to the personal side. Thus I've always joked with friends about how they must be out of their minds to want to marry a female lawyer - stable income, cultured brains and dressed-to-kill looks aside, who wants to be losing every single domestic argument with the wife, forever?
A long-time excuse I've employed to wriggle my way out of drinking with friends, is that drinking always brings out the animal in me. This particular remark alternately completely disgusts and overwhelmingly impresses my friends to the point where they are so flabbergasted, they forget about inducting me to the world of bad beer and libido-cramping headaches.
And that excuse has always worked... until now.
When this law-student friend of mine (yes, female) asked me why I wasn't having any beer to go with the mussel dinner I ordered, I used that excuse... to a disgraceful effect. Reenacted, it went something like... this.
Liz: So, Greek God, why aren't you having any Heineken with those mussels?
GG: Nah, not tonight. Alcohol always brings out the animal in me.
Liz: Oh, what? Hamster ah?
GG: Blakewnnbfjflkmwemdn... *continues spluttering*
And yeah, going by the universal law of retorts, I'll think of some brilliant reply.... probably... by next year. Sigh.
A long-time excuse I've employed to wriggle my way out of drinking with friends, is that drinking always brings out the animal in me. This particular remark alternately completely disgusts and overwhelmingly impresses my friends to the point where they are so flabbergasted, they forget about inducting me to the world of bad beer and libido-cramping headaches.
And that excuse has always worked... until now.
When this law-student friend of mine (yes, female) asked me why I wasn't having any beer to go with the mussel dinner I ordered, I used that excuse... to a disgraceful effect. Reenacted, it went something like... this.
Liz: So, Greek God, why aren't you having any Heineken with those mussels?
GG: Nah, not tonight. Alcohol always brings out the animal in me.
Liz: Oh, what? Hamster ah?
GG: Blakewnnbfjflkmwemdn... *continues spluttering*
And yeah, going by the universal law of retorts, I'll think of some brilliant reply.... probably... by next year. Sigh.
Saturday, April 09, 2005
Boyfriends
It occurred to me just now, over a most catastrophic event, that nobody teaches you how to be a good boyfriend.
Girls, on the other hand, have it easier. As far as I can discern, most girls are able to tap into some sprawling network of girlfriends and glean tips on how to be a better girlfriend, from the ability to prioritize time to the skill of henpecking. Guys just don't talk about such things. It's all the testosterone and machismo fogging up our brains. If you asked a guy how one could be a better boyfriend, he'll be obliged to say:
"Oh, you just gotta keep her in check, let her know who's boss, don't take any nonsense from her." Yeah. I could get better advice from a plate of satay.
When I was growing up, I knew I couldn't count on my dad to educate me in this particular specialized branch of knowledge. Heck, I knew it from the time he refused to affliate his fan club to mine, citing the driving principle that I needed to learn how to mesmerize on my own two feet.
Therefore, I modeled myself after what other boyfriends were not. And this is true. I used to read all those trashy teenage magazines, and after encountering sob letter after sob letter from girlfriends being driven up the wall by their uniformly crazed, neurotic and ***-obsessed boyfriends (oh come on, how many three-letter words would fit in there), I thought being a good boyfriend couldn't be that tough.
Unfortunately, as my brilliant and fantastic track record has shown, I positively suck at it.
It's amazing how many times I know what's the wrong thing to say, but still end up saying it anyway. It's mind-boggling how often I depress rather than uplift, by dint of some poorly-thought out gesture. When I wake up in the morning, and count the number of girlfriends (just one, to avoid any further complications) I still have, I'm as surprised as a man running through a minefield would, on discovering he still has two feet.
The worst part of it all is when you witness the look of pain, the tone of anguish your loved one possesses right after you screw up. It's then that you feel so ultimately repulsed by your own sordid actions that you no longer feel like Hanting, Idol of a million girls across 5 continents and 6 racial barriers.
You just feel like Hanting, Sentient Piece of Turd.
Girls, on the other hand, have it easier. As far as I can discern, most girls are able to tap into some sprawling network of girlfriends and glean tips on how to be a better girlfriend, from the ability to prioritize time to the skill of henpecking. Guys just don't talk about such things. It's all the testosterone and machismo fogging up our brains. If you asked a guy how one could be a better boyfriend, he'll be obliged to say:
"Oh, you just gotta keep her in check, let her know who's boss, don't take any nonsense from her." Yeah. I could get better advice from a plate of satay.
When I was growing up, I knew I couldn't count on my dad to educate me in this particular specialized branch of knowledge. Heck, I knew it from the time he refused to affliate his fan club to mine, citing the driving principle that I needed to learn how to mesmerize on my own two feet.
Therefore, I modeled myself after what other boyfriends were not. And this is true. I used to read all those trashy teenage magazines, and after encountering sob letter after sob letter from girlfriends being driven up the wall by their uniformly crazed, neurotic and ***-obsessed boyfriends (oh come on, how many three-letter words would fit in there), I thought being a good boyfriend couldn't be that tough.
Unfortunately, as my brilliant and fantastic track record has shown, I positively suck at it.
It's amazing how many times I know what's the wrong thing to say, but still end up saying it anyway. It's mind-boggling how often I depress rather than uplift, by dint of some poorly-thought out gesture. When I wake up in the morning, and count the number of girlfriends (just one, to avoid any further complications) I still have, I'm as surprised as a man running through a minefield would, on discovering he still has two feet.
The worst part of it all is when you witness the look of pain, the tone of anguish your loved one possesses right after you screw up. It's then that you feel so ultimately repulsed by your own sordid actions that you no longer feel like Hanting, Idol of a million girls across 5 continents and 6 racial barriers.
You just feel like Hanting, Sentient Piece of Turd.
Thursday, April 07, 2005
Dreams 2: Pink Stuff
One of the trickiest parts of dreaming, is how you actually try to relate the entire vividness of it all to someone else.
Take for example, Alex Wee (name has been changed to protect the innocent). Once I tried to relate to her how I had dreamt of some really normal stuff, like I was taking a walk in some garden or something, but quite unexpectedly there was a gain in translation and before I could stop myself she ended up with the impression that I was dreaming Really Wicked Things.
Other times when telling your dreams to other people doesn't ruin your reputation, it somehow just makes you seem silly. Well, last night I had a really scary dream. I dreamt that I was in some tall building, and when I looked out the window there was this really huge thunderstormy cloud streaking across the skyline. Black as a girlfriend's face after you tell her you idolize Daphne, the menacing cloud suddenly evaporated, leaving three really huge, pink aliens discussing their plans to take over the world.
Now I don't care what you say about me or my guts (the lack of it), but the dream really was freaky.
Take for example, Alex Wee (name has been changed to protect the innocent). Once I tried to relate to her how I had dreamt of some really normal stuff, like I was taking a walk in some garden or something, but quite unexpectedly there was a gain in translation and before I could stop myself she ended up with the impression that I was dreaming Really Wicked Things.
Other times when telling your dreams to other people doesn't ruin your reputation, it somehow just makes you seem silly. Well, last night I had a really scary dream. I dreamt that I was in some tall building, and when I looked out the window there was this really huge thunderstormy cloud streaking across the skyline. Black as a girlfriend's face after you tell her you idolize Daphne, the menacing cloud suddenly evaporated, leaving three really huge, pink aliens discussing their plans to take over the world.
Now I don't care what you say about me or my guts (the lack of it), but the dream really was freaky.
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
Exams
For the first time ever, in my life, I think I have never been so happy that someone else's exams are over.
=)
=)
Sunday, April 03, 2005
Amputations
One of the very last few options a doctor (or at least a good one) will ever resort to - to amputate. And there's good reason why we leave it up to them to decide. The average man in the street would lack the experience, knowledge and presence of mind to make the call when it's necessary. Most of the time, doctors are left with no choice but to suggest amputation - better the surgical removal of a gangrenous limb than the endangering of the whole.
So then we worry less when it comes to medical affairs. And it is also when we move on to personal affairs that it is most strikingly obvious, that we could do with a lot more experience, knowledge and presence of mind.
I am at a sudden loss of verbosity, so forgive the lack of gracefulness in the way my words flow today. I think, that if you have just gone through a break-up, you need to make some hard decisions, and fast. Pessimistic and cynical though the above advice might ring, the truth is, very few breakups manage to weld back as seamlessly as the ones in movies do. Most of the time, one partner is left hanging, and it is in limbo that one endures the most.
At some point in time you just have to scoop up all the broken dreams, shattered hopes and move on. You can be sentimental, yes, and when you're sixty you can still reminisce and sigh wistfully everytime you pass by the place where you first kissed her. But if you're sixty, and instead of just treasuring the memories you're still pursuing the elusive maiden who's now a grandma with a brood that's not yours, you're not sentimental, you're mental.
I might be wrong, yes. Maybe this life of ours really should be spent in painful pursuit of whatever our initial dreams enticed us with. Maybe when you agonize after months and months, and finally regain that lost love, do you find that she's truly worth it all.
But then again, I might be right. This time, I doubt there'll be doctors around to help.
So then we worry less when it comes to medical affairs. And it is also when we move on to personal affairs that it is most strikingly obvious, that we could do with a lot more experience, knowledge and presence of mind.
I am at a sudden loss of verbosity, so forgive the lack of gracefulness in the way my words flow today. I think, that if you have just gone through a break-up, you need to make some hard decisions, and fast. Pessimistic and cynical though the above advice might ring, the truth is, very few breakups manage to weld back as seamlessly as the ones in movies do. Most of the time, one partner is left hanging, and it is in limbo that one endures the most.
At some point in time you just have to scoop up all the broken dreams, shattered hopes and move on. You can be sentimental, yes, and when you're sixty you can still reminisce and sigh wistfully everytime you pass by the place where you first kissed her. But if you're sixty, and instead of just treasuring the memories you're still pursuing the elusive maiden who's now a grandma with a brood that's not yours, you're not sentimental, you're mental.
I might be wrong, yes. Maybe this life of ours really should be spent in painful pursuit of whatever our initial dreams enticed us with. Maybe when you agonize after months and months, and finally regain that lost love, do you find that she's truly worth it all.
But then again, I might be right. This time, I doubt there'll be doctors around to help.
Dreams 1: Trying to Understand
For the longest times people have been dreaming of the strangest things, and in turn other people have been trying to interpret those dreams. Of course, in the past people thought that their dreams had some actual prophetic effect on the events in reality, but nowadays most people accept that it is in fact the reverse, that your experiences in daily life influence your dreams.
So, how much do we need to worry about the kind of stuff we dream about? Should we get jealous if our partners in life dream of other people?
Considering the entire argument that our dreams also reflect our subconscious, should we worry about the stuff our subconscious is trying to tell us? I know I should be worried, because I do dream of the darkest, most frowned upon and depraved human acts... for example, in one dream I finished my meal at Macs, and actually did not return my tray. Other times I cut queues, or allowed my phone to ring in cinemas.
Sometimes dreams do scare me though. Dreams seem to dreg up memories or thoughts that had been stowed away in the deepest recesses of your mind. They bring to light once again unresolved tensions that have been forgetten rather than resolved.
And when you wake from your slumber, heart still a-poundin', you face the concious choice: to forget, or to somehow resolve?
So, how much do we need to worry about the kind of stuff we dream about? Should we get jealous if our partners in life dream of other people?
Considering the entire argument that our dreams also reflect our subconscious, should we worry about the stuff our subconscious is trying to tell us? I know I should be worried, because I do dream of the darkest, most frowned upon and depraved human acts... for example, in one dream I finished my meal at Macs, and actually did not return my tray. Other times I cut queues, or allowed my phone to ring in cinemas.
Sometimes dreams do scare me though. Dreams seem to dreg up memories or thoughts that had been stowed away in the deepest recesses of your mind. They bring to light once again unresolved tensions that have been forgetten rather than resolved.
And when you wake from your slumber, heart still a-poundin', you face the concious choice: to forget, or to somehow resolve?
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