Give me rain over sunshine anytime!

Patience

2011-09-01T20:50:00.000+08:00

Patience is a virtue. It is also a resource. I think that I am, if compared objectively against a cross-section of society, quite a patient person.

I remember assisting at a legal clinic once. The person seeking help didn't have a case at all, and any first-year student would have reached that conclusion within 10 minutes of applying their minds to the matter. So bad this person's case was, that I couldn't find any redeeming point after a whole half-hour.

That boggles me, now as I am looking back, because I spent one and a half hours (patiently too, I might add) in that little claustrophobic room staring down an increasingly plaintive yet belligerent person who just couldn't seem to accept that there was no case to be had. It was as if beating the facts over my head continually would somehow produce defensible points on which the multitude of errors that were self-created would all go away.

So I am quite patient.

But, as I've found out, I don't have an unlimited amount of patience.

Sometimes, when things go awry, I take a step back and marvel at how tangled things have become. I then optimistically calculate how many units of patience I would need to come out of this particular encounter dignified. I then scrounge around the depths of my pockets for the loose change of patience I'm hoping which squirreled themselves away in anticipation of this rainy day.

And when I come away short, bone dry, I grit my teeth and hope that I emerge from the next few fitful moments with the blessedly spotty memory of Dr. Jekyll.

Infinity Cockroach

2011-08-19T20:36:00.000+08:00

Cockroaches used to die three kinds of death in the Leong Household.

Method One: The Smash 'n' Scram

Application: Locate cockroach, calculate distance to cockroach, scream, scream, scream, grab closest object regardless of how wieldy it is, smash, leave, summon maid.

Method Two: Twin Flowing Tai'chi Palms

Application: Locate cockroach, calculate distance to cockroach, grab closest wastepaper basket, upend said basket, trap cockroach in basket, leave, summon maid.

Alternative: ... trap cockroach in basket, sidle basket to outside brother's room, watch him kick it over when he comes out, observe brother's interpretation of The Smash 'n' Scram.

Method Three: The Hoodwink

Application: Locate cockroach, rush after it gallantly, issue multitude of death threats, secretly shoo it away to safety, tell audience (if any) that you've killed it, earn karma points.

Well, as I said at the beginning of this post, cockroaches used to die three kinds of death in the Leong Household.

Tonight, I unlocked a new method to replace them all.

Method Zero: Infinity Cockroach

Application: Play Infinity Blade for 2 hours, spot cockroach, think about catching cockroach, catch cockroach with bare hands even before thought about catching cockroach has ended because mah hands are now Swift Furious Instruments of Death, look at struggling cockroach in hands, feel the power.

Away

2011-07-19T01:33:00.001+08:00

It was almost too easy.

In my mind I saw her dancing away, teasingly out of reach, gravity and momentum conspiring to pull her away from my grasp. A hundred simulations showed me that no matter how fast I sprang, no matter how deftly I moved, she would see me coming, and with the slightest of effort elude me.

But I tried, nevertheless, fingers outstretched, determined to reach her, to hold her tight... and I did.

I felt her hair, enervated into flowing tresses by the stiff evening breeze, whipping against my arm. I felt her jacket, her thin cotton top, her bra strap, layers that vociferously demanded distinction as I gripped her shoulder tightly. But there was no time to luxuriate in the senses.

"No, please... you cannot go. Not like this." I wasn't sure I had spoken at all, until she turned to look at me. "What will I... we all do without you?"

She smiled. Her lips were quivering. Perhaps, perhaps I was getting through to her?

"I don't know what I can do for you, personally. But I will try. I promise I will try. If you want my company, I'll be here. If not, I'll go." I tightened my grip, although I knew that the real battle wasn't in simply getting her to stay here physically. I needed to persuade her to remain here with me, with us, and find joy in doing so.

She said certain things, but her feeble voice was no match for the rising wind, and her words drifted away before I could discern them. No matter, I had heard what she had said before. It was not likely that she would have anything new to say, by now.

"I've told you. Step by step. Just one day at a time. We'll try together... people have done it before. Why can't we? If we make it through today, just one more day, wouldn't we... wouldn't we be stronger than we were, yesterday? Doesn't that count?"

At some point my emotions, summoned by the unseen hand of some hormonal gland, had boiled up from the pits of my stomach and mixed themselves into the words I spoke. Tears, those attention-seeking fraternal twins to sadness and longing, were blurring my vision, cramping my style.

I must have said a lot more. I must have. I know I wouldn't have given up so easily. The clear knell of defeat, though, came as swiftly as it did unexpectedly, and it presented itself in the most tranquil and serene look of calm I'd seen on her face since the accident those many months ago.

"I have to go and be with him. He's waiting for me."

This time, when she smiled... it chilled me, to the bones. A trick of the light, perhaps? But there was now no warmth to be seen, nor felt, in her round black eyes. Her lips were properly upturned in a gaunt approximation of her normal toothy grin, but there was now a resolute and grim determination to those curves.

She reached up and placed her icy hands over mine, and shook her head slowly from side to side.

My mistake was in being too late. She had left some time ago, and none of us had recognized it.

My fingers unfurled, one by one, and my hand fell slowly, shamefully, back to my side. She turned back, took a deep breath. Looked up at some far-off point in the sky, seeing something I couldn't see.

And she stepped off the ledge.

It was almost too easy.

Away

2011-03-29T10:10:00.000+08:00

It rained today.

The droplets, they pattered against the glass windows quite insistently. I couldn’t decipher their message, if any… though I noted a certain half-hearted urgency in their tempo.

There was also tea-time, today.

The buns, they lay steaming in a corner of the office. There were shrieks of delight from our friends as the pastries put on a final brave front, and for a while the cloak of silence that swathed the office rippled.

There were other things too. Things you didn’t get to see, today.

I hope the weather, and the food, and the wallabies, are agreeable, over there… where you are.

Visitations

2010-12-17T02:37:00.001+08:00

I pounded on the door, and suppressed the urge to call out my uncle’s name. It was late, almost 11.00 pm, and the last thing I wanted was to attract the attention of the neighbors.

Enough of a scene had already been caused, I felt.

“Uncle Mark!” I hissed. A thin swath of light spilled out from the crack beneath the doorway, and I was certain he was inside. A quick check of the shoe rack showed that his shoes were still neatly stacked side by side.

If my parents were right, he hadn’t left his house in over 4 weeks. He stubbornly refused to pick up any calls, and had only sent the occasional SMS to ask after us, telling us he was fine. Well, I didn’t think so.

I took a deep breath, and made ready to rap on the door again. Heck, so be it. If he didn’t care about the neighbors, why should I.

Surprisingly, the door swung open before my knuckles could make contact, and my fist came dangerously close to knocking on my uncle’s face instead.

I’d expected him to look gaunt, withdrawn, pale. The type of face you see on people who have spent too much time indoors mulling over unsolvable tangles or lost loves. In my head I’d already braced myself for his thick eyebags and unkempt beard.

I didn’t expect him to look… well, refreshed.

“Adam? You should have called, I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Hello Uncle Mark. Erm… may I come in?”

“Oh, oh yes of course!” He fumbled around in his pockets for the keys, and the solemn padlock yielded quite gracefully once the appropriate key was applied.

When he closed the door behind me and locked it, I let out a sigh of relief, and flopped down on the nearest sofa. It was a long ride here, and the worst-case scenarios fermenting in my imagination did become a bit too compelling towards the end.

“We were all worried about you. Dad said that you were trying to deal with things on your own, and that we should give you time...”

“Give me time? For what? I’m fine, don’t know why you all kept calling, in the first place.” He splayed out his hands towards me. “What’s there to worry about?”

“Yea, you actually look kinda ok…”

He laughed. “What, I don’t come visit for a few weeks and you all thought I was sick and dying here?”

I was starting to feel pretty silly for getting so worked-up. “I was in the area anyway, so you know, just dropped by.”

“You are worse than a mother hen, I tell you. Water?” I nodded, and he shuffled off to the adjoining kitchen.

“Did you eat out today?” I called out as I distractedly leafed through some old magazines he had left by the sofa. “Don’t just eat hawker food all the time, you know. You can come over to our place for home-cooked food anytime you want.”

“Nah, outside food’s not healthy. Besides, your aunt cooked today, so I came back for dinner with her. ”

I froze.

He came back out bearing three glasses, and set them on the coffee table. “You of all people shouldn’t lecture me about food. You’re getting pudgy yourself, if I may say so.”

I forced myself to look across the table and directly into his eyes. They were clear, lucid eyes.

“Uncle Mark…” The strength was fleeing from my voice, and I wondered if he would notice. “You said that… she cooked for you today? Dinner?”

A puzzled look began to settle on his face. “Er… yes?”

He didn’t sound like he was lying or pulling my leg. I could tell that both of us were thinking the exact same thing – what the heck is wrong with him?

“Uncle Mark, aunty couldn’t have cooked for you today. She’s…”

“What’s the big fuss about?” His tone took on an annoyed inflection.

“She’s not here anymore. She couldn’t have cooked for you.”

“Tell that to my stomach, who is positively sure that I have had my dinner. Look, you can ask her, she’s right next to you.” He vaguely gestured to the empty spot next to me.

At that moment I became acutely aware of three things.

One, that the altar we had helped install at the far side of the hall was no longer there. Gone was the incense burner, or tablet, or picture of my aunt taken when she was about 40. He liked that picture the most, he said, because it was a year or two before the cancer came, and it was the last time she had smiled so genuinely.

Two, that there was the faintest whiff of honeysuckle in the air. I’m no expert when it comes to perfumes. I can barely tell honeysuckle from jasmine, or from the ten million other scents used for perfumes. I only knew the term “honeysuckle” because I had, in my younger days, asked my aunt where that distinctive smell around her came from.

Three, that reflected in my uncle’s clear, black eyes, was an image of my aunt sitting next to me. She was smiling.

The Dressed Up Blackbird

2010-09-20T02:12:00.003+08:00

Rummaging through my cupboard today, I came across a program sheet for The Dresser, a 2006 production. It took a while for the relevant memory to shake itself loose from the cobwebs, feebly raise a hand, and report for duty.

I came across The Dresser only because I was looking for a space to store away the program sheet for Blackbird, a 2010 production. I wanted to squirrel away this little keepsake from Blackbird, because it struck a chord somewhere, and I wanted to be reminded of it from time to time.

The scary part, is that I did the exact same thing for The Dresser, and yet, 4 years on, I actually had to pause to try to recall even going for it. Or even who I went with. And what we discussed as we streamed out from the theatre into the warm clammy Singaporean night.

To reminisce is to draw water from a well that won't ever run dry. No matter how sweet the water, or how bitter, or peculiar, there's always this sepia-toned muteness about it, in the same way that you can remember how a song sounded but you can't hear it.

The Cost of Doing the Right Thing

2010-04-24T18:02:00.002+08:00

Doing the Right Thing is very expensive, as I've since learned.

Recently I had problems with a service I had signed up for. Two options lay before me - Option A (the Right Way) involved me filling out a feedback form, seeking an appointment with a customer relations officer, detailing my problems, awaiting the official reply... and subsequently another estimated 1500 administrative hurdles before I got what I wanted.

Option B (the Sith Way) was considerably shorter - threaten to leave the service and / or fully relate my woes to CASE or to the Straits Times.

My friends assured me Option B was the smarter option. The service would weigh the costs of solving my problem on the spot, against the costs of bad publicity in the press and defending the CASE complaints, and figure out its much easier to "pay me off".

But there I went, pursuing Option A on my high horse of ideals. By the time the service had rejected me enough times for the spirit of righteousness within me to turn into a flaming spire of anger, I was only left with... Option B.

Of course, my friends all chided me for "wasting my time" when I should have just opted for the "smarter way" out.

Isn't it strange though? Our society places such a high cost on the Right Way that everyone turns to the Sith Way, and yet, if anyone oversteps the line and is caught red-handed, he or she is immediately lambasted, and to keep with my metaphor, fined so very heavily for it.

The only place where it's actually alright to choose the Right Way and still keep one's head high, without having to pretend to ignore all the whispers of foolishness from the more hardboiled, is probably in Primary School.

It's the only environment whereby doing the Right Thing earns you pats on the head and stars on your score sheet, where the rest of the community is encouraged to laud your actions and to keep you in high regard.

After Primary School, I guess people forget those lessons.

Patience

2010-02-01T00:46:00.002+08:00

I think it's funny how I'm most patient when I'm telling other people to be patient.

When my friends or family get into confrontations because they lack the patience to slowly resolve matters, I find that I can spend literally hours sitting down and telling them to be patient.

Walk a mile in the shoes of others, I'd say. Think about how just a few well-placed words will soothe tempers and derive solutions for both parties, I'd say.

It's tough following my own advice though. Sometimes you just feel like even when you're trying to help others, they keep lamenting the infinite intricacy of their own problems, oblivious to the simple fact that you can't solve everything in life.

I like to think that if even 40% of life goes well for you, that's cause enough to celebrate (pessimistic optimist? optimistic pessimist?

Solution to all problems?

2010-02-01T00:45:00.001+08:00

Get a big dragon. A big, red, flying dragon that only, like, 5 other people have ridden before.

Yes, so I watched Avatar late.

Through These Glasses I See

2010-01-29T03:08:00.003+08:00

Today I talked to a friend who's on the verge of a break-up. Whether they actually will part, that's tough to say. These things are unpredictable.

Strangely though, her relationship issues seemed so very crystal clear to me. Maybe it was overly-hasty judging on my part, but for that hour or so their actions, their thoughts, their feelings, they were all laid out in front of me so neatly.

I didn't voice it out, of course, but in my head I thought I knew who was at fault (both parties), why the problems were surfacing (again both parties), what they could do going forward (nothing much).

Maybe it's part of growing up, this way we accumulate so many stories that we can reasonably predict how the next one will turn out. Watch enough slasher flicks, and you can kinda guess which one's the werewolf in disguise, for example.

Human nature keeps playing out the same way I guess. It's just that the younger actors themselves have yet to realize that the dramas they are playing out are but scripts with differing variations but always the same themes.

On another note, I'll try to write more again. I think I slowly drifted away from the internet as part of some self-reflecting experiment, and now that I've found what I'm looking for, maybe I can come back to this very familiar and comforting black page of mine.

Fillial Piety

2009-09-21T13:29:00.003+08:00

Today I was forced to reflect upon the nature of fillial piety.

Question: should parents receive fillial piety as a privilege, or an entitlement?

The Confucian texts on fillial piety maintain that it is one of the highest virtues. According to the texts, by being pious to one's parents, one also learns to be respectful and loving towards others, therefore becoming a better person.

But where does one find the motivation to be pious?

Two avenues become apparent. One is love. Imagine a situation where a parent, or grandparent, has played a vital and involving role in bringing up a child. Naturally, the child would be close to that elder, and learn to love and care for that elder in time.

The other is obligatory. A child would come to recognize all the pressures and expectations compelling him to be pious, and would then choose to either give in to those influences or resist them.

We don't really like to discuss the latter obligation. There are too many questions that we can't answer satisfactorily, thorns in the flesh we cannot expel easily. Questions like, are children expected to be fillial to parents who abuse them? Or, are children obligated to love grandparents they have never really known?

If I were to put on a government man's cap, I would say, yes. Yes because it is the best way to order society. Someone has to bear the burden of taking care of the old, and while the government can share some of that burden, the onus should definitely remain on the children.

That doesn't answer the manifold questions, however. If we assume that fillial piety is not meant to be blind, that there has to be some degree of... reciprocity for it to mean something, then what do we do about the people who, frankly, do not deserve it?

Of course, there is a distinction we must be aware of. There are those who are not pious because they are selfish people who have received but who do not want to give. Those we can ignore for this discussion. I'm thinking of those who have not received such love and concern from their elders, and are yet expected to be pious.

How do you tell the person who has never been shown love and concern from their parents that, hey, you should love and care for them regardless? That you might not know the stranger standing before you, but the blood ties dictate that you show fillial piety?

I think that you can't. The more I dwell on the subject, the more it seems that fillial piety has to be earned.

Yes, Those Were The Days

2009-09-16T03:05:00.002+08:00

I guess I'll meet up with you soon, one of these days.

And we'll sit in a cafe, awkwardly at first, in silence, as our eyes are glued to the menu. Because it's a bit strange at first, meeting again after so long, and the conversation wouldn't flow.

Then, hopefully, we would figure out a tempo that suits us, as we slowly exchange bits and pieces again. Heck, we did it before, so it shouldn't be impossible.

I wonder what I would say to you then. Would we reminisce, or would we look forward and talk about the future? Would I succeed in my attempts at candor, or would I seek refuge in political-correctness?

Soon, I guess. In a few years our friendship would be a decade old, can you imagine that? Gosh.

Soon, I guess.

The Love of Teachers

2009-09-16T02:25:00.003+08:00

Heh. Not often that I have the discipline to write as frequently as I did, but hey, here I am. Did promise before not to let this blog die.

I was thinking about teachers today. And the love they have for their students.

And something about it irks me.

I'll be honest: I never was a teacher's pet. I never did have a teacher look out specially for me, or appreciate me over and above others. And yes, I used to envy classmates who enjoyed special friendships with our teachers - who wouldn't?

But it's not jealousy that makes me uncomfortable with the whole thing.

I remember this time when it was clear that a teacher liked certain students more over other others. I discovered a certain drive in myself to compete for that teacher's attention. I wanted to... talk to that teacher more, share more of my life, show the teacher how I was more deserving of attention than others.

Because that is a human reaction, I think, to want to compete for attention. To have one's own uniqueness recognized.

And I guess I couldn't do that. I couldn't bring myself to fight for that attention. A part of me knew that teachers, just like parents, try hard to love all their students the same. What then, when the year ended and the teacher moved on to a different class?

Or if the teacher just had a deeper affinity with another student? Or if the teacher just didn't have the time or energy to live up to your expectations of how the friendship should be?

It was like being drawn in two directions at the same time. On one hand it would be very nice to have a close friend in a teacher, to be special to a person you look up to, but on the other, there were too many complications thrown into the mix.

Or maybe I just worry too much. Heh.

P.S. I am aware that I'm not following my old rule of starting a post with a picture. I am also aware that I've not thought of how to escape the problem of using other people's photographs. Hmm.

Short Story: Sabine

2009-03-25T04:12:00.004+08:00

It started drizzling delicately around six, and the people in the street clutched their jackets tighter, and a new urgency entered their footsteps.

This was not good for business, because it meant that people wanted to get home quicker, rush back to a warm, comforting place. No one wanted to party on a night like this. But money was tight, and I had to try.

I spotted a group of them emerging from the nearby subway, and quickly stubbed out my unfinished cigarette. Cards at the ready. Painted smile out for the encore.

"Sir, sirs! One minute, sirs! I guarantee you... look! See them! See how pretty they are!" I knew I was sounding a bit too eager, but anything to compensate for the drizzle. "No lies, no bluffs, just a good time, sirs!"

Mumble mumble, sheepish grin. We cannot, we are late, we are on our way to dinner, we're not into that. No excuse I've not heard before.

"But sirs! It only costs you 5 euros. Just see. Use your eyes! No need to pay more if you are not happy! Just to see!" I had to try. They were slipping away, I could feel it.

Mumble mumble, slight tinge of anger. We cannot, we are late, we need to go, why do you keep bothering us?

"No no, you don't know what you are missing out on! See now, see this is what you will get! Sabine, come out Sabine!" Last chance now. If Sabine couldn't do it, no one else could.

I turn around, and there she is, Sabine, emerging from the darkened interiors right on cue. She has her make up on, and that splendid maroon dress, but she really didn't need either to send pangs through my heart. Oh, Sabine.
"So what do you say, sirs? Come right in now, you won't be disappointed!"

Mumble mumble, muffled laughter. We cannot, we are late, and in any case is that the best you've got? The other clubs have much prettier girls, I wouldn't go in even if I had all the time.

Of course, I react before I think, and the wiseguy who laughed at Sabine is on the floor, lip cracked from an unintended meeting with my knuckles. Sabine gasps audibly, as do the other guys with him. No, at that point I didn't really care about business anymore. Not when it comes to Sabine.

Mumble mumble, middle finger, vague threats of violence. We will remember this, you watch out, you watch your back.

"Get lost boys. Don't let me see you here again." They scoot pretty quickly, but they're already out of my mind. I walk back to Sabine, heart heavy, and I pat her on the shoulder. Poor Sabine, with all the worry in her eyes.

"Sorry you had to see that. Now go back in and wait with the other girls. I'll get other people in tonight, watch me."

"Yes, papa."

I turn back to the street again, and for a moment I wanted to believe all this wasn't real, that Sabine wasn't here, that Sabine didn't have to come and help. But money was tight, and I had to try.

Cards at the ready. Painted smile out for the encore.

The Problem Of The Maybe

2009-03-25T03:43:00.003+08:00

I watched that show today, and it's put me in a contemplative mood. One of the themes in the movie was about how certain mistakes from the past just don't go away - "We may be through with the past, but the past ain't through with us".

In that sense, the past to me is like a big sandcastle built with sand and stones on the shoreline. When the waves have done their part, and the sandcastle is robbed of most of its details and much of its form, the stones remain as emphatic reminders of the most defining portions of that sandcastle. And oh, how do the stones refuse to be washed away.

Perhaps then it is not good advice to tell people to 'forget the past', and to simply press on. Some things will never go away on their own, after all. But maybe people say that because, well, those things can never be remedied, or healed, or fixed. So, to fix, or not?

The main difficulty with correcting past mistakes, at least with regards to falling out with other people, is rooted in The Problem of The Maybe. Imagine this: two friends sleep together in the same room. The next morning, A discovers five dollars missing from his wallet. He could confront B, but it's not easy to do so, and A decides to keep quiet, believing that he can forget it all happened. But A never does forget, and as time goes by, it gets harder to bring it up all over again.

Now, that little unresolved mystery will cast a long shadow over their friendship for a long time to come. Maybe B took it, and is playing A for the fool all this time. Maybe B really is innocent. Hence, The Problem of The Maybe.

Of course, I would like to keep a clean slate, know that I have no unresolved problems lingering in the past. It's not that I fear them catching up with me someday, but I generally don't like to know that I have unfinished business behind me.

Yet, The Problem of The Maybe. It's hard to pull people off the street, drag up old, old memories and issues and mistakes and then try to somehow make it all right. And what then, after that? Become friends again? Would it be worth it?

I won't be that ambitious. I'll start with a small misunderstanding. I'll try to see if attempting to solve The Problem of The Maybe really does set one free, or muck things up even further. Will post results soon, I hope.

There's Something About Paris

2009-03-24T04:13:00.002+08:00

It's a bit surreal, to be walking down the streets of Paris when just a few days ago the three of us were scrambling madly in Singapore to prepare for the upcoming competition in Evians.

The first glimpse of Parisian sky I caught from the smoke-stained window of the commuter train was a gloomy one, framed with dead trees and sparse grasslands. Then came the ragged outskirts of the city, with vintage architecture and a well nurtured serenity, then finally the beating heart of Paris itself. Pretty normal, or so I thought.

There's lots of people around, so it isn't as dead as the wintry Canada I visited a while back was. But there's also none of the rushed madness that typifies New York, so it's somewhere in between, in between a gently-swaying mute coconut tree by a desolated beach, and a pack of frenzied gerbils being attacked by fire ants. Something like that.

There's a certain peace to the atmosphere here I haven't quite experienced before.

Poetry at 3 AM

2009-03-01T02:50:00.003+08:00

In my defense, it was late at night, I was tired, my work was incomplete. Then Joel challenged me. Hence. =)

On the 12th day of Christmas my true love gave to me,

Twelve Guinsoos Hexing
Eleven Daggers Blinking
Ten Rings a-Healing
Nine Yashas Maiming
Eight Gems a-Seeing
Seven Gloves a-Hasting
Six Dagons Spamming
Five Arcane Rings
Four Cranium Bashers
Three couriers,
Two Battlefuries,
And a scroll which I use to TP

On another note today Khai Joel and I went down to NATAS to settle our Grad Trip tour, and it's really exciting to think that in a few short months we'll be halfway around the world having fun. Heh.

Snippets

2009-02-23T21:34:00.002+08:00

Hmm. I've not be blogging much. Of late.

Anyways, just had this conversation.

Brenda: Hey look at these shoes online! They're cheap!
Me: Really? I know another place where it's cheaper.
Brenda: How much?
Me: About... $5, instead of the $60 there.
Brenda: Where where!
Me: They take the shoes off dead people.

I wonder if I'll still be having conversations like this in ten years.

2008-10-06T13:30:00.000+08:00

BLOG I WILL NOT LET YOU DIEEEE.

Hello Holidays

2008-05-15T12:32:00.003+08:00

Exams are over!

My mind boggles at the lengthy holidays that stretch in front of me now, and although I know school is a long way ahead in August, I've no doubt that when that time comes, I'll look back at this entry and marvel at the way time went by.

Which is kind of how I'm feeling now. Tonight's the last night I'm spending in this dorm room of mine, that's been my home away from home these past 10 months or so. I rushed a lot of my packing today, so it hasn't really sunk in yet that I'm no longer going to see this particular slice of the night skies anymore.

Heh. I'm looking forward to life back in Singapore though, despite the majority of exchange students all loving exchange life too much. For me the primary draw to going home would be feeling anchored and rooted again, because this past year just seemed too transient for my liking.

Well, tomorrow I'm off to Costa Rica for a week with Zhixiang, then when I return my parents will be here, so finally I get to eat well again! I doubt I'll get much internet access next week, so I shall return and post more to make up for lost time soon.

Take care all! Happy holidays! Unless you're like working or something. In which case, er. Happy working!

On Love

2008-05-13T16:11:00.003+08:00

It's scary, how romantic love is always justified.

It didn't strike me until some time recently, when I first noticed a common link between all the love stories, love songs, and real-life romances out there. And that was, every romance is somehow completely, unequivocally, unflinchingly justified by the parties involved.

Of course, it's a good thing when people fall in love. But consider that love, as a raw, pure emotion, often relinquishes little control to logic and sense. Could there be situations when love drives one to do what would normally not be right?

Consider the song My Boo performed in the video above. "And though there's another man who's in my life, you will always be my boo."

Consider Romeo & Juliet, which may merely be a work of fiction, but which stands for the oft-propagated message that unadulterated love is worth dying for, worth defying one's parents for. There are perhaps only half a billion other love stories where parental disapproval is similarly shrugged off.

Consider Mary Kay Letourneau, the teacher who maintains to this day that she is truly in love with the (then) young boy she abandoned her family for. You can read more about her here, in case you're not familiar with her story.

I think what happens is that people in love suddenly find themselves the living emissaries, the breathing ambassadors of love. Suddenly, against the backdrop of a gloomy world beset by too many painful realities, they are the only shining beacons of what is right, what should be, and they set out to prove that their love can conquer all.

In fortuitous cases, people fall in love without causing too much disruption to the order of the world around them.

Other times, in their quest to see their love come to fruition, people go to extreme lengths. Regardless of the obligations or obstacles facing them, people tell themselves that if they can only love deeply enough, they will overcome everything else, that since love is so rare, they are fully justified to pursue it to its end.

It's a pity then when these obligations or obstacles are ones which when abandoned, do cause very real harm to other people. Marriage vows to the wandering husband are obstacles, and so are friendship ties to she who covets her best friend's boyfriend, and so on.

Funny thing still, eh, how humans are still so very enraptured by watching only the budding love stories? You never read about how Mary Kay's first family are surviving her abandonment and betrayal. You never hear that unnamed boyfriend in "My Boo" sing his side of the story, about how he feels knowing that his love is off singing songs with Usher.

To say that one would always give in to love's demands is selfish, and irresponsible. To say that one would always fulfill obligations before love, is to be robotic, mercenary, cold.

Heh. Not an easy task balancing, at all.

If My Mind Had No Lid II

2008-05-05T02:37:00.003+08:00

Reading weeks are not much fun.

It's almost as if you have this big, oversized, humongous, gargantuan behemoth of a Blender, and you chuck in all your days and round round the blades go, until the week rolls by in an indistinguishable blur.

There were times this week when I forgot which day of the week it was, simply because everyday seemed the same. Staying at home and in the library though, I realized that the ice-cream man makes his rounds at 2pm and 6pm, and that forcefully cheerful tune his van emits kinda cheers me up.

The ice-cream man must feel quite different each time he makes his rounds, though. On his 2pm round he's like a celebrated hero meeting his adoring crowds, as the children spill out from their houses and rush to him for sweetened treats. After all, with lunchtime just over, who wouldn't be in the mood for ice-cream?

On his 6pm round though, he must like a recalcitrant homicidal pedophile - on every street that he plies his wares, parents are pulling their screaming young aside, averting their gazes, dragging them away from The Man Who Will Spoil Your Dinner.

I bet he looks forward much more to the 2pm crowd.

Sitting in the same spot for too long seems also to sap the days of colour, such that you wind up absolutely famished for variety of any sort. But you can't really enjoy any guilty distraction either, because you're wracked with guilt for not concentrating on studying.

So it was that yesterday night, I found myself eyeing the bottle of Eye-Mo on my tabletop with my mind completely submerged in contemplation of the question "I wonder... what Eye-Mo tastes like..." I snapped out of it in time, had a good cry, then went back to reading.

Lest you think that I've been studying very hard this semester, please, disabuse yourself of that notion. I'm cramming my entire syllabus in like 2 weeks. For 3 subjects. I think I played too much this semester. And hi mum if you're reading now, this is all just hyperbole.

Perfect Timing

2008-04-27T23:39:00.006+08:00

I thought my streak of terrible misfortune with electronics ended a few weeks ago.

My laptop fan was fixed at no charge, camera was restored, iPod battery swapped out successfully, earphones exchanged for a working pair. All seemed well.

You can probably see where this is going.

Last night, at the Tribeca Film Festival, my camera started acting up again. Without warning, my camera lost its ability to focus properly, much like a hyperactive kid swimming in a chocolate lake trying to concentrate on trigonometric equations.

Hey, I thought, what's the big deal, I must learn to chill, it's just a camera, life's too short, I can't be blogging about dying electronics all the time. After all, I'd already taken a few shots of the crowd for keepsakes. Peace out.

In the theatre though, as we were getting seated, I overheard two girls near me chatter in high-pitched squeals:

Girl 1: Oh did you see! They're here!
Girl 2: Who?
Girl 1: The director and the lead actress! They're here! They're outside right now having drinks with the press!
Girl 2: Seriously!?
Girl 1: Yes yes! And she's wearing a white dress, it's so pretty on her! I heard they will be answering our questions after the movie!

I couldn't help but start to sweat a little. You see, we were catching Three Kingdoms, some recent Asian flick starring Andy Lau and Maggie Q, and last I checked, Andy Lau was still male.

Let me try to convey the excitement I felt at that moment. If Maggie Q really were in the house, it would be as if a PS3 suddenly sprouted legs, snuggled up to me and said hey let's make a PS4. With lifetime warranty.

Disturbing imagery aside, YES, that was when my camera died. I turned it on to check if the focusing error had resolved itself, which indeed it had. Why, there was only the minor problem of the camera extending its lens, then shutting down automatically without retracting the lens.

My brain was working feverishly. Was it the battery? No, I just charged it, battery bar says full. Did I drop it? No, I've been cradling it as gingerly as I would a baby jellyfish. Did dust get in and jam the motors? Ridiculous! I'd even bought a new camera case for it!

There were only two possibilities left. Either it was pure undiluted bad luck, or the girlfriend-bought shirt I was wearing had the latest Anti-Straying technologies built in (which would include a sound emitter that intones 'Full price full price no further discounts', audible only to females, creating a vague sense of discomfort and thus keeping them away).

After the movie, I sat by the sidelines as fans went up to Maggie and put their filthy soiled arms around her waist or shoulders for the pictures they took. My friend told me I could still go and have my picture taken with my camera phone, but Maggie deserves better treatment than that.

In those few frustrating minutes when hope seemed to be running on its last legs, I kept pressing various buttons on my camera as I tried to fix it, but my magical touch didn't seem to transfer well from girls to cameras at all. Little motors within just kept whirring, which I guess when translated would mean "HAHA take that. Lick my batteries!"

To be honest I did think of just going up to pose with Maggie, while my friend pretended to take pictures of us with a defective camera. But somehow that seemed slimy, and desperate, and dang if I were going to sink to such levels.

Here's the only proof I have that I was really there that night:

Today, I sent off my camera for (further) repairs. From now on, it's only going to be known as 'my Fuji camera'.

Yes, I have disowned and un-named her.

Doing It Gracefully

2008-04-25T07:16:00.004+08:00

It was one of those quiet Friday nights in my room. You know, the kind of night where you know you're supposed to be out hitting the hottest clubs, chatting up the sexiest girls... but for some reason you're home alone with no plans.

But there were curtains. And there was a locked door ensuring privacy. So I simply did what any other guy would have done in my position.

I took photographs of the top of my head, since it was one of the few parts of my body I'm not that familiar with. It never hurts to learn more about yourself.

And to my utmost shock, I discovered that I have a bald spot.

I know because I uploaded pictures of my scalp to my laptop and zoomed in, then went online to figure out that the circular bit at the top of your scalp is known as the crown or the root of the parietal whorl.

And then I compared my pictures against other people's, and I discovered that my scalp was relatively very much more exposed. No matter what angle I took my pictures from, I couldn't change the ugly truth that stared back at me from the laptop screen.

Now, if you purchased a product and you discovered it was faulty, you'll call up the shop to complain. Hence, I called up my mother. I didn't care if it was only 8am in Singapore and my mother was most likely not in the mood to entertain panic-stricken first-borns.

Me: Hi mum! Look, there's something I need to talk to you about! It's quite serious!

Mum: Teng! Oh no! What happened!

(A short explanation is necessary. In all the months I've been overseas, no emergency has ever necessitated my calling home to seek counsel from my parents. Not when there was a stabbing outside my building, not even when my hot flatmate upgraded from a scanty towel to a proper all-encompassing bath robe on her daily pilgrimages to the shower.)

Me: It's my head! I've got a bald spot! I can see my scalp!

Mum: ... how do you know this?

Me: I took pictures! It's very obvious!

Mum: Cannot be cannot be! It's just the way your parting is la, you just comb your hair differently and it should go away.

Me: Go away? Mum, I don't comb the top of my head!

Mum: But cannot be! Your dad and I aren't bald, and no one in our extended families is bald!

I hung up then. The shock was too much. Either I was developing a case of non-hereditary baldness (which Google says is quite rare), or I was balding hereditarily, and hence, ADOPTED.

A melancholic reflective mood set upon me. I sat at my desk, reading up about male balding, wondering if my long hair was getting too heavy for my scalp to support, and hence, falling out.

I also went through old albums of my youth (pre-2008, it seems), and reminisced about the

times when the days were carefree and hair was thick, lustrous and in abundant supply. Memories were suddenly shrouded in sepia-tones.

My iTunes was playing then, and then I suddenly realized that the last three songs were by pop stars younger than I. Namely, Jordin Sparks (19 years old), Leona Lewis (23 years old), and Miley Cyrus, star of Hannah Montana, who's all of 15 years old at this time of blogging.

The avalanche of evidence pouring in was staggering. A lot of things suddenly made sense. Why I simply could not get up before 10am anymore, why I had suddenly taken a shine to Frank Sinatra and forsaken Mr. Timberlake, why I was always falling asleep in the toilet.

Seriously, it occurred to me that despite my best efforts I had already turned 24 this year.

Wow.

I guess for me it's that time of year again, where I sit down and contemplate what I've achieved in the past year, and how much more I want to do in the following one. It's funny how I always get so zen and contemplative about life when exams loom around the corner.

Funny, isn't it, how time is like the greedy fat kid in a candy store - when you've got your eye trained on him, he's shuffling slowly between the aisles, but the moment you blink, all the candy samplers are suddenly gone.

Hehe, I even remember that time when

OH MY LORD I'M RAMBLINGGG.

If My Mind Had No Lid

2008-04-11T11:46:00.004+08:00

It's funny how I blogged more when my laptop was away for her face lift, than now when she's perched on my desk acting all pouty because she fished around in my email and found evidence that I was considering a Mac.

Maybe it's because after you walk 15 minutes in the cold clutching tightly onto the fistful of dollars in your pocket, and after you fight with a dozen other insomniac students who are similarly deprived of laptops for a space in the com lab, you better bloody squeeze out something onto your blog.

Note to Self: when looking for a seat in a public, frequently-crowded com lab, do not pick the solitary computer at the very corner. It's empty for a reason. And the reasons begin with sticky keyboards. And chairs which are disturbingly moist.

Feeling a little light-headed now - I received my eviction notice in the mail today. Come May 31, I have the choice of quietly leaving this little cramped dingy room I affectionately call my Cramped Dingy Room, or staying and letting campus security escort me out forcibly. Time passes so fast!

I remember complaining about my dorm a lot when I first moved in. I found faults with the heating, the fish in the fridge that had a sell-by date of June '05, the showerhead that automatically aimed for your eyes everytime. But now, months later, on the cusp of leaving, I feel a strange emotional bond to this place.

So, lots of griping, dissatisfaction about how the pictures lied, then tolerance, then sadness when it is all over. Guess that's what marriage will be like.

Heading to DC again in 2 hours, taking the 3:45am bus. Daniel, Zhixiang and I are going to catch the NUS team in the Jessups - it strikes me how like other peeps in Europe are heading to all sorts of exotic places to experience great things (like fights with robbers), whilst we are headed to see people moot.

Don't get me wrong, I'm quite keen. It'll be a very rare and precious learning opportunity. Just saying. Er. So, if you're travelling around in Europe and seeing this, then, er, eat your heart out. Yeaaaa.

I've noticed the prevalent pet culture here in NYC for a long while. People tell me it's because the city is a lonesome place sometimes (oh the irony) and pets are faithful loving companions who don't demand a lot. Made me wonder if there are people who picked a pet, and then saw others and felt like they didn't love their first pet anymore.

You almost never hear of it happening, which makes it all the more strange given our collective track record when it comes to loving other people. I'll try shedding indiscriminately, cleaning unspeakable parts in public, and peeing excitedly at every tree, and then report if I've managed to isolate what separates pets from ex-girlfriends / ex-boyfriends.

Come to think of it, dogs must be pretty flummoxed whenever they go on walks. I mean, they don't know how long their owners plan to traipse around, and they've only got so much pee, and any self-respecting dog would want to mark as many trees as possible.

So when they come to a tree, do they simply just mark it with abandon, or do they think, waaiitt a minute, if I do this tree, I can't do that hydrant another 10 m down, but what if we take a different route, then I might miss out entirely, but what if...

No wonder why some dogs are highstrung all the time. There's a lot more going on in their heads than we give them credit for I guess.

Wow that was cathartic, being random on a blog. Got to go, bus to catch, moots to see!

"We Care For You"

2008-04-09T10:11:00.003+08:00

Out of all the online retailers I've used so far, Asos seems to be the one that's most concerned about its customers' welfare.

Apparently, they have a very high-tech system that keeps close tabs on its customers, generating health tips and sending reminders free of charge.

I got this in my inbox just a few days back:

They sure can work on their tact, but yea, it's time to lose some weight.

Oh, To Be Amish

2008-04-08T11:56:00.004+08:00

I've not had a good run-in with electronics recently.

First, my camera developed dust specks on the sensor. I tried to save the camera myself, thinking, how difficult can it be to open it up and clean the dust specks away, I'm not going to pay the shop $70 USD for that, they have to find other ways to cheat me of my hard-earned er pocket money.

30 agonizing minutes later, after I electrocuted myself on the circuit board and saw sparks fly (not in the usual good way I'm used to), I beat a hasty retreat. Twas a bitter defeat, for I had already removed Screws 01 through 11, but was unable to locate Screw No. Haha-You-Can't-Find-Me-Cause-You're-Not-Scientifically-Inclined.

I thought of my electrical-engineering friends, who would have easily flipped out the circuit board in a jiffy and avoided that nasty shock too. Then I thought of law and how it was so terribly helpful a degree in everyday life.

My streak continued. Last week, my laptop's fan started spinning louder than ever, and it wasn't even normal loud - I could hear it from outside my room with the door closed. I consulted another friend in law, and she told me to shut it down, let it rest for a while, and it would be fine by the next morning. Hmm. Law. I sense a trend.

Now I'm no electronics whiz, but I know enough about hardware to realize that if something fails once, it's going to fail again sooner or later. No amount of rest or TLC is going to restore it. Simply wishing that the problem would go away was not going to do a fig - I needed to get it fixed. Properly.

This time though, with the recent lessons from the Camera Incident fresh in my head, and a vow not to repeat the same costly mistakes, I was going to do things differently. I was going to open up my laptop... with rubber slippers on.

30 excruciating minutes later, after I broke a hinge and was left with only 12 out of the 14 screws I should have had (not in the usual sense too), I called it a day. Actually, I called it other unprintable names. I put it back together, switched it on and the fan was louder than ever.

I tried to look at the bright side of things, like how a friggin madman hadn't just rushed through my door during the entire sordid operation and stabbed me whilst I was deep in concetration. It made me feel a little better.

(An interesting thought occurred to me at this time - if I opened up a Macbook, what would its insides look like? Simpler and more intuitive than a PC's? Or would I find a smaller PC inside, running the whole system? What an understandable sham it would be. Shock shock, horror horror.)

Left with no alternative, I sent it in for repairs. During this trying period, a friend who's surely a devious Apple Witch in disguise attempted to induce me to the Dark Side and buy a Macbook. Why not, she said, when your PC laptop has failed you over and over again?

Her spell lasted long enough for me to find myself standing in the Den of Evil, the Apple fortress at 34th, bewildered and shaking with naked terror. Begone, I chanted, begone ye foul temptress! For shame! To ask me to consider nubile young pretty Macbooks while my sagging aging fugly Rei is fighting for her life this very instant!

(... I did caress a few Macbook Airs though, and briefly lost myself in fantasies of a different world, one where Rei and I never met, and I could have a Macbook without a hundred friends RUBBING IT IN that I should have got one from the start.)

Then, to cap it all off, the earphones I bought just days ago started malfunctioning too, and all this despite me taking the very best care of it. I rushed back to the store first this time, but only because I lacked the tools to take it apart - the masochist in me definitely would have tried.

At this rate I'm going to have to stop personifying my electronics by giving them names, for then it would affect me a lot less when they do actually fail. But oh, what a joyless alternative that would be.

It's Too Late

2008-04-06T13:50:00.003+08:00

You lift the covers gently as you climb out of bed, but the cold air which rushes in to usurp your place doesn't wake me. Because I'm not really asleep.

I tilt my head ever so slightly, if only to have my eyes confirm the unthinkable. You tiptoe to the wardrobe, where you begin to dress as quietly as you can.

Swish-swish go your shirt sleeves as you slide your arms through them - it makes me wonder, that shirt you're wearing now, did I buy it or was it a present from her? I can't see well, but I can defnitely imagine.

Clik-clik as your fingernails tap against the buttons - do you know that I've read her letter to you, and know all about tonight being the night you leave me for her? You must. I didn't have the strength to say anything directly to you, so I left a photo of us inside that envelope in your drawer. You must have known I left it there. I'm still hoping it made you change your mind.

Thwip-ip as your belt closes its loop around you. My love, I can hardly breathe. Somehow I'm still praying that this is all just a dream, an ephmeral nightmare from which I can awake. My fists are in balls by my side, and I'm clenching them as hard as I can to keep from shaking. If every move of yours now is a step away from me, I wonder, from when did it begin?

Boof-foo as you sit back down on the bed, facing away from me. I try to shout to you not to go, to cherish and honor me as you said you would, but the words are stillborn in my throat. There is nothing I wouldn't do to keep us together, as long as you would talk to me and tell me why I am no longer enough for you.

Pwoof-foo as your laces intertwine. Really? You would go? Without even giving us a second thought? You can't really mean to go, for you would take with you all that I am now - I wouldn't die without you, but I wouldn't live either. I would be different, changed, no longer as able to trust or to love or to

... and you are gone.

And I realize, that the tears which have been marking your silent departure, are no longer flowing.

As The Dice Rolls

2008-04-05T15:24:00.004+08:00

I watched the new movie 21 in theatres today, and it was... electrifying to observe how real professionals gamble.

21's a movie about a maths genius who gets roped into a card-counting team by his professor, and the whole lot sets out to break the casinos in Vegas. They played Blackjack, which, as it turns out, is also the game I set out to conquer during my jaunt there.

The movie made my jaw drop. It made me realize just how arrogant and ignorant I was to think that my simple plans and sub-JC maths could ever be enough to defeat the casinos. Let me illustrate the differences between him and I.

First off, the hero in 21 (let's just call him Giftedboy for short) had grand plans and noble intentions - he was trying to raise $300k to support himself through Med School. I was trying to raise $11 to pay my share of a parking ticket. And maybe score a $30 buffet dinner.

Secondly, Giftedboy was so good at maths that he corrected his MIT maths prof frequently, programmed for a robotics competition and knew all sorts of complex formula gibberish. At the table I had problems adding numbers up to see if I broke 21, and often made thoughtful "hmm" sounds just so that the other players would think I was strategizing.

Thirdly, they had a complete system of secret signals meant to tell each other which table was good to play at. We had our own system too, of course. If we said "@#*&$(" we meant that we were not very happy, whilst "Oh my lordy lord I'm getting probed from behind" meant that we were losing money.

I can't speak for my Spring Break Buddies, but the first sign that I should have stopped gambling came when the dealer, an Asian lady herself, started giving me impromptu lessons at the table. Our conversation went something like this:

She: So you want to hit? Or stay?
Me: Oh, of course. I want to stay.
She: Stay? You sure?
Me: Definitely.
She: Stay? Even when I've got a face card? You should hit!
Me: Oh, really? When you have a face card I should hit?
She: ... You are fake Asian boy.

It didn't help that upon following her advice I hit 21. Still, curses to the stereotype that Asians are good at maths and therefore by extension probability games like Blackjack.

But seriously, gambling was far more addictive than I imagined it to be. Sure, you read about the dangers in the papers and all, but when you're seated at the table, and it's your money on the line, everything changes.

Chances are that once you savor the sweet taste of victory, no matter how small, you'll be lured back in to play for more. The longer you play, the more alcohol you consume, the worse your game gets too.

It took an incredible amount of willpower to pull myself away from the table - there was this niggling voice at the back of my head that kept telling me my luck would have to change, all I needed was one big win to make it all back.

(In this case though, the niggling voice(s) belonged to my Spring Break Buddies. We aren't very good when it comes to supporting each other in the pursuit of respectable goals.)

Perhaps it's a good thing that my parents don't gamble, beyond the yearly tradition of the $100 Bonfire, where they plop down that princely sum in a bid to win the $5 million Toto.

(My brother and I always tell them they're better off giving us that $100 since we would be that much more inclined to take care of them when they are old, but my parents apparently place a lot of stock in being independent. Time will tell.)

I guess I'll never have the kind of luck or brains to ever make a living by gambling, but I acknowledge that the lure of easy money is going to be a temptation I'll spend years staving off. It never helps when you hear of other people getting rich quick, because everyone thinks, what if it were me?

Hopefully there'll always be nice Asian dealers to remind me of the shame I'm bringing to my race - that'll keep me away for sure.

Piece Of Mind

2008-04-04T02:11:00.001+08:00

Normal people become more socially adept as they age. Experience teaches them to better express themselves, how to connect with others and integrate into society.

It seems I’ve got it all backwards. I was most socially adept in my kindergarten years, and from there on it all went downhill.

The precipitating event that led to the retardation of my social skills lies in a conversation my mother had with another parent, at a kindergarten concert we put up. It went something like this:

Parent: Oh, so which class is your son in? Sparkle Daisy, Fluffy Puppy or Unstoppable Murderous Executioner?
Mum: That last one, that’s the one.
Parent: What a coincidence! I’ve a son there too! Does your kid tell you about school? Is he happy there?
Mum: Why, yes he is! Is there cause for concern?
Parent: Well… my son says there’s a huge bully in class, and I was wondering if my son was being singled out or something.
Mum: Gasp! A bully? At so young an age? That’s terrible!
Parent: Wait! There he is! That’s the bully!

Of course, that was the moment I appeared on stage. And that was also the first of many instances to come when my mum would look away and pretend not to know her first-born son, otherwise known simply to her as the 8-Hour-Labour-Clot (I've peeked into her diary before).

And I wasn't even a classic bully in the sense that I resorted to strong-arm tactics to gain an overwhelming advantage over the weak! If memory serves me right, he had been the first to be rude and boorish, and I had simply demonstrated my equally robust vocabulary of bad words.

Of course, Mr. Left Fist and Mr. Right Fist had something to add in too. For emphasis. I think that's why the boy thought I was a bully. Pansy.

Most mothers refuse to believe their kids are anything short of angels, but my mother evidently went to a different parenting school. You little rascal, she told me that night, your dad and I are going to reform you. We’re going to teach you proper manners, and how to relate properly to people.

And those lessons were what screwed everything up for me.

You see, now I’m incapable of effectively communicating with anyone. I can’t bring myself to say directly what’s on my mind, and I take pains to be sensitive. I even have a personalized bush I bring around to flog during long conversations. Ok that sounds wrong.

It’s not that I lie, mind you. I'm still frank, and honest, but by the time I properly justify and qualify my statements everyone assumes I'm lying. But I maintain that it makes all the difference, as the following example shows:

Friend: Does this dress make me look fat?
What I Think: Yes it does.
Right Answer: It’s not a flattering dress for you. The way it’s cut, it doesn’t accentuate your body shape at all. You look plumper than you really are. Try others?
Wrong Answer: I don’t think it’s possible for you to drown.

I’m not exactly the confrontational sort (I rarely lose my temper, but when I do…), and prefer to find diplomatic ways to solve things. Unfortunately, this lack of blunt candidness hampers me most when something irritates, even infuriates me.

For if I am unable to think of a good way to approach the issue, I’d toddle off and bottle it all up. More than once, this has resulted in my having to put up with things I’m not comfortable with, when all it would have taken was a frank word or two, to spare myself all the unnecessary angst.

But I’m learning, or should I say, unlearning many of the niceties my parents bade me learn.

Recently, on a few occasions when people went too far, I directly called out their bad behavior and made it clear I wasn't happy with them. I'm still hampered by concerns that I would destroy friendships if I said all that is on my mind, but I'm making hearty progress.

Hopefully, if all goes well, I'll be able to better communicate with my friends, feel less angsty, and also come across as more honest!

That has to be good, with so many birds with one stone, and without even resorting to the Fist Brothers.

Vegas: No Sleep For Poor Men

2008-04-03T12:33:00.003+08:00

So, there were three of us. And at all of the hotels we were staying, two beds.

Even before we embarked, my two friends were already playing Rock Paper Scissors to see who had to share a bed with me. For some reason I can’t fathom, I was the designated whore by default. It was a nice feeling though, to know that even if I were thousand of miles away from Singapore, in wholly new social circles, I still had my familiar rung of the social ladder to count on.

Yet, for all the noise they made about have to share a bed with me, it was ironic that I was the one who suffered the most.

You see, I take some time to get to sleep, a good 15 to 20 minutes to doze off completely. Secondly, I do my best to be as courteous as possible, so I try to minimize tossing and turning when someone else is in bed with me.

This means that for those minutes in bed when I’m still fully alert, I force myself to keep completely silent and immobile. Seriously, I’d feel more relaxed if I were in a lift filled to the brim with all the teachers who hate me. And with my girlfriend’s parents. And my exes. And the electricity suddenly cut off. And I needed to fart.

Although my mother warned me years ago never to publicize what I do in bed, I see no reason to keep tight-lipped now. The first night I retreated to my side as much as I could, to give my friend more space.

I also kept deathly still, and squeezed my eyes shut hoping that sleep would rescue me from this ordeal. The result was that I felt completely trapped, a tense balled-up lovemachine this close to falling, not to sleep, but off the bed.

This is the part of the story where words simply do not do justice – the follow pictures represent my sleeping arrangements for the first night.

11.00 P.M. – Lights out. All is well.
11.05 P.M. – Friend starts shifting closer to me. I exhale as much air as I can, hoping to take up less space. I begin to hate him.
11.30 P.M. – Friend is snoring, but I still can’t sleep in my cramped corner. I begin to lose temper, and contemplate sleeping on the floor. I start counting sheep, but end up killing them.
11.50 P.M. to 2.00 A.M. – Just. Kill. Me. I am in a ball on a bed because I dozed off and his leg was over mine. How the (!@&# did he end up sleeping diagonally someone please tell me.

On a side not, yay, I finally managed to use the markers I brought here to the US. I'm just glad I have my bed all to myself now.

Vegas: Sins Of The Flesh

2008-03-27T15:43:00.007+08:00

When I first went to Vegas as a 10 year old, I never got to see the seedy side of it, because I was the victim of an elaborate con.

Once we got to the hotel, it was as if my brother and I had died and gone to heaven. You see the Pay Per View TV, my father said, you can watch all the Disney movies you want. You see the fridge minibar, he gestured, eat all that you can eat.

The only catch was that we had to stay in the room the whole night, but heck, as far as we were concerned my dad had suddenly morphed into a Ren Ci Charity monk. After all, the young male mind is not geared towards looking past immediate gratification. We didn’t even notice my parents slip out gleefully and return past midnight looking decidedly happier.

Years on, the more I read about why Vegas is Sin City, the more bitter I got. The only lasting memories I had of Vegas, after all, were of nice hotels and Bambi running around in fields of green.

Coming back to Vegas as an adult, I was determined to wallow in as much filth as I could. After all, I was of age, was financially solvent (at the beginning at least), and no longer had to worry about outsmarting my parents. This was my chance to see if Vegas deserved its reputation.

And it does.

But it’s not because of the sheer availability of call girls. Nor the endless rows of slot machines and card tables. Nor the abundant alcoholic oases that litter this desert town. The way I see it, the one thing that makes Vegas Vegas, is the… Vibe.

The Vibe is this intoxicating, heady mood that chips away at your inhibitions, that makes all the wrong things somehow feel right. Ever been in a club before, where it’s dark and it feels like you can do anything and get away with it? Multiply it a thousand times, and you’ve got the Vibe.

And that’s the allure of Vegas. Here, whatever your desires may be, there’s a whole bunch of people alongside you, and their company dilutes your guilt and concentrates your indulgence.

Within minutes of hitting the Strip, we chanced upon vendors handing out little cards with barely-censored pictures of girls, complete with expected charges and numbers to call. It was mildly titillating to get these cards at first, but when I saw how many of these cards were abandoned on the pavement, the crassness of hit home.

Upon reflection, I guess it was the way these girls had endured the indignity of baring themselves to strangers (albeit on cards), and yet people were simply just… walking all over them.

Thankfully, the adult-themed Cirque De Soleil show we caught was quite tastefully done. Here’s a quick snapshot of the theatre that I managed to get. We were to go to a strip club too, but an unscheduled snowstorm on the way back from the Grand Canyon was our main entertainment for the day instead.

Unsurprisingly, for all the enthusiasm I had for exploring the dark underbelly of Vegas, I discovered that unless you're willing to throw yourself in fully and participate, you're just going to be a dispassioned bystander.

In a way, I can better understand why my father would have preferred me to stick with those cartoons all those years ago. And yes, the tone in this post is schizophrenic. Haha.

More to come!

Spring Break Statistics

2008-03-22T20:28:00.002+08:00

I'm back! Here's a quick summary of the statistical side of things, will post in detail soon!

Male companions on trip: 2
Female companions on trip: 0
Paid female companions on trip: Also 0
Miles driven in car: 1400
Cars which were better-looking than ours: ~ 2000
Parking tickets: 1
Speeding tickets: 0 (car not powerful enough)
Was overtaken by: ~2000 cars
Overtook: 15 cars, 1 truck, 1 scooter, 1 dead cat
Trips made to Grand Canyon: 1
Snowstorms in Grand Canyon of all places: 1
Theme Park visits: 1
Puked: 0
Vulgarities scolded: 794
English vulgarities: 44
Hokkien vulgarities: 750
Squatting outside Wifi zones to leech internet: 4
Getting chased away by zealous security guards: 1
Missing Fergie in concert: 1
Cameras spoilt by dust: 1 (mine, grrr)
Sinful meals: 7 x 2 = 14
Early morning gym workouts: 0
Money lost at Casinos: USD $21
Hours playing Blackjack: 1 hour
Rate of loss of money: USD $0.30 per minute
Amount of planned alcohol consumption: 50 Tequila shots, 20 Beers, 10 Flaming, 10 Margaritas
Actual alcohol drank: 2 Soju shots, 2 Margaritas, 1 alcoholic sweet
Getting chased out of pharmacy for being high / drunk: 1
ID checked on account of looking youthful: 6
Half-naked women seen: 7
Girlfriend faithfully thought of: 7 x 10 = 700
Cost of seeing half-naked women: $70 USD
Average cost per each half of each half-naked woman: $5 USD
Distance from said half-naked women: 80 meters
Conversations initiated by beautiful women: 1
Friendly women who turned out to be prostitutes: 1
Times we said we would ring up call girls: 56
Times actually called said girls: 0

Phew! Ok so that wasn't a real, classic American Wet 'n Wild Spring Break, more of a Soggy 'n Mildly Exciting Spring Break. But it was still my Spring Break, so it's special to me.

Talents

2008-03-22T20:25:00.001+08:00

There was a farm on the edge of the moor. Aside from the normal produce, people could also pay a small sum to adopt, and bring home, any one of the animals on the farm.

Every Saturday, the farmer opened the gates that were normally closed, and put up a large sign which invited animal lovers in. He would then shoo his animals out, and prod the sleepier ones so that they might better endear themselves to visitors.

One of the Ducklings was very perceptive, and it occurred to him that he had none of the charms, skills or antics of the other animals. Waddlequack! he thought, I need to improve myself! Or no one would want me!

The Duckling thus begged the Rooster to teach him how to strut. Cockakoo! crowed the Rooster, do you not waddle perfectly well already? But the Duckling was insistent. It is true that I can waddle pretty well, he said, but your strut is a most majestic way to walk too!

The Duckling also entreated the Sheep to teach him how to bleat. Whyforeeee! bleated the Sheep, you are good at quacking your native quack! But the Duckling was insistent. It is true that I can quack pretty well, he said, but it is not better if I knew how to bleat too?

The Duckling also requested the Cow to teach him how to give milk. Whatthemooo? went the Cow, you are really better off… not giving milk! But the Duckling was insistent. It is true that… I am not good at giving milk, he said, but isn’t that all the more reason to make an effort to?

And so the Duckling went around the farm trying his best to learn from the other animals. When Friday night came, the Duckling fell asleep, exhausted at rehearsing all that he had learned in preparation for Saturday.

The next day, the Duckling was the first out on the field, and when the visitors started coming in, he proudly displayed all the various skills he had acquired. Who could possibly resist me, he thought, when I am all that the other animals are too?

The hours went by, a number of animals changed hands, and yet no one had requested to bring the Duckling home. As closing time loomed, a little girl ran towards the pond where the Duckling was. This encouraged him to once again show off all that he had learned, despite all the disappointment already saddling his heart.

The little girl stared at the Duckling in puzzlement for a while, then slunk sadly back to her parents, She took their hands, and as they were walking out of the farm, the Duckling overheard this:

“There was a mighty energetic Duckling there, darling, was he not to your liking?”

“Well… I wanted a Duckling who waddled, not toddle around like he was drunk like Grandpa always is. I wanted a Duckling who quacked, not squawk like he was being stepped on. I wanted a Duckling who could be cheerful, not always look oh so very constipated.

“I just wanted a Duckling to be more, like, well, a Duckling… so no, that wasn’t him.”

Spring Break!

2008-03-14T15:12:00.001+08:00

I'm off to Vegas! And LA! And San Diego, if I haven't crashed my car in this silly left-hand-drive system by then!

Will be away for about a week, will try to blog from there! Back with pictures soon!

Once In A Lifetime

2008-03-13T03:07:00.004+08:00

Last week, I learnt that a friend here was about to go skiing. She then called me up to ask for a favor, and I must say, it was a most unpleasant experience.

I mulled over how to handle it, but decided that brutal honesty in the end would do best. So I trudged over to her place yesterday with a heavy heart.

Me: Hey, here's the ski pants you wanted to borrow.
Her: Oh ok, thanks! Hmm, is something wrong, you look... kinda upset.
Me: Yea. I wanted to tell you that I'm pretty disappointed in you.
Her: Huh?
Me: I mean, I thought you were different from my other female friends, but, at the end of the day, you also just want to get into my pants.
Her: ...

Look, if you were me, you would never have passed up the opportunity to say that. =)

Ponytail

2008-03-10T14:50:00.000+08:00

It's much harder than you would think, keeping long hair.

I've had short hair most of my life, and generally I've had the same dead-sea-animal of a hairstyle since Primary 1. There were times, of course, when I tried to break out of the mold.

In Primary 3, I discovered to my absolute amazement I could flip my hair the other way, thus creating a mirror image of myself. It was intoxicating, the feeling of being able to do something so radical to my hair, all with a simple swish of the comb.

You know the feeling - it's the same one you get after you receive a fresh, bold, new haircut. I proudly flipped my parting every other day, and only stopped after I realized no one noticed, or, even after I pointed out my cunning, gave a flying fish. I guess I was ahead of my time.

In Secondary 1, hair gel made its grand entrance into my life, and I eagerly poured my meager allowance into these Little Pots of Guaranteed Happiness (just ask Mr. J). But it didn't matter if I used gel, wax, mud or bear fat, I just couldn't get my hair to behave the way I wanted it to. According to my hairstylist (the $10 auntie), I just didn't have the type of hair to pull off those Japanese anime haircuts.

My hairstylist was also the same one to stoically veto every one of my planned hair innovations over the next few years. She refused to dye the front locks of my hair white ("boy ah later you look like ah kwa"), resisted my requests for cool, short, spiky 'dos ("eh your forehead very big, must have hair to cover") and most helpfully pointed out the failings of my hair growth ("waa you so young only but I think you got bald spot already leh!").

As my options dwindled, I finally decided to embark on that one project most guys undertake at one point or another in their lives: the Ponytail.

See, I started off this way in Singapore:

Then, over the new few months it happily grew out:

Eventually, from the progress I've been making, this is a mock up of what I should look like in a few more weeks:

We'll see how it goes.

Mother Tongue

2008-03-08T03:05:00.003+08:00

Before I came over to New York, a professor advised us exchange students that we would have to modify the way we spoke so that we could be understood easily.

So I brushed up on my English by watching Youtube tutorials on American (for practical reasons), Irish (to dazzle and charm) and er other-ethnic-group accents (so that I could tell whether the guy chasing me in a back alley wants my wallet or wants my body... not that it would change how fast I would be running).

4 Youtube tutorials and 80 House / Heroes / SATC episodes later, I was pretty confident that my faux American accent was polished enough. This was a good thing, for upon coming here I blended in pretty quickly, and never really felt left out.

That is, I blended in well with the English-speaking world. Not, it seems, with the Mandarin-speaking world here. I mean, seriously, who goes to the US for exchange and expects the cohort to be made up of 35% Mainland Chinese?

The beginning was the worst. Most of the Chinese students came up to me speaking in heavily-accented Mandarin, and were rightly stunned when they discovered my Mandarin was halting. "Your English is better than your Mandarin?" they would say. In Mandarin. I could hear my ancestors writhing in their graves in shame.

Yes, the shame! I knew how my friends must have perceived me - I must have looked like a Japanese who hasn't heard of Origami, or a Brazilian who never watched football, or a RI boy who didn't know how to charm the socks off girls. It struck me then how language is such a distinguishing hallmark of heritage.

Yet one learns fastest when one is thrown into the deep end. My conversations were like this last August:

朋友：喂，你选了哪些科目？选到你想要的吗？
Me: 我... er... 很幸运，学校给了我... ok look this is more painful for me than for you. I got Securities and Patents, which is probably 安全科目 and 不可以偷用我的东西科目. Just kill me.

For a while I continued speaking English with them, but things got to a head in one of my study groups. There were 2 other Taiwanese, and whenever the debate got too heated the 2 of them would switch to Mandarin, and then revert to English so I wouldn't feel left out. It occurred to me then that I had to cut the excuses and just practice my friggin mother tongue.

I figured that since there's about 0.8 seconds of lag time required for translation of my very English thoughts, I would take the initiative of greeting my friends in Mandarin. Then, in the time that they opened the conversation proper, I would have time to prepare my thoughts. This strategy, however, saw mixed results:

Me: 你们好！哇，今天风和日丽，乌云满天！好久没见，光阴似箭！
朋友：... 你是不是生病了？

Obviously they weren't buying it. After perusing a few self-help books on making friends, I figured that I needed to bring up a common topic, something which would clearly show that I was one of them:

Me: 同志们！毛主席万岁！台湾抢回来了吗？
ex-朋友：...　我们是来自台湾的。

There's a happy ending to all this, despite what my Chinese teachers fervently believe. Just last week, I bumped into a Chinese friend, and it was only after we parted ways did I realize that our entire conversation was in Mandarin. Apparently, my past few months of practice have done me some good.

Of course, my journey is hardly over. I've got years of practice and immersion ahead of me before I will fully appreciate my Chinese heritage / identity, but hey, 千里迢迢的路是一只脚开始的.

Phantom

2008-03-06T08:53:00.003+08:00

I finally managed to catch Phantom the other day, with a bunch of other law school friends who were visiting in NYC.

I hate spoilers, so I’ve taken every effort in my adolescence to avoid finding out about the story behind Phantom. When Channel 5 screened it, I would hide in my room and do sit-ups. When my friends talked about it I would sprint hastily away. When Phantom came to Singapore, I would… ok you get the idea.

So I got very fit. And I was blissfully unaware of the plot, aside from the nugget that there was a girl, and that there was a guy. I also suspected that one of them wore a mask, not sure who.

Last week, as I sat in Majestic Theatre and watched Phantom unfold, I was entranced, beguiled, captivated… and eventually horrified. Horrified!

What do you mean, Christine doesn’t end up with the Phantom!? Wait, is that Raoul she is going off with?! The Phantom forced her to choose, and she sacrificed herself to keep that smirky-slimy-opulent-arrogant-ratass-toyboy safe?!?!

I remember sitting there long after the curtains fell, long after the cast came on stage to receive the applause, long after the lights were turned on and people started filing out, just to see if the Phantom would prance out from behind a rock and stab that bilebag Raoul. That would have gotten the standing ovation from me.

Outside the theatre, I was righteously indignant at the way no one else gave a damn about the Phantom:

Me: Wait, so it didn’t bother you guys that the Phantom ended up alone?
Friend 1: Bo pian la, he must have been really fugly.
Me: But he was sincere! And nice to her! And he really loved her!
Friend 2: Raoul also what. Plus Raoul handsome.
Me: But, but…
Friend 3: If two girls loved you equally, and one looked like Fiona Xie and one looked like Boon Kiat, who would you pick?
Me: But, but…
Friend 1: But what?
Me: … but the Phantom got his own Bat Cave also ma. How cool. Right?

Later I realized that I had been insidiously poisoned by Disney. I had smugly expected that Christine, temporarily smitten with Raoul, would come to see how his soul was much uglier and darker than the Phantom could ever be. Like, it would come to light that Raoul trafficked in babies or something.

The Phantom, in a dramatic rousing scene, would then snatch Christine away from the evil clutches of Raoul, and spirit her away to a land of grassy plains, blooming flowers and cheap facials, and they would live happily ever after.

To my great distress, the plot for Phantom doesn’t vary much across the movie, the books, the comic books, the audiotapes. In every single iteration of the story, I kept witnessing the Phantom climb that heady staircase of Hope, only to inevitably fall so ungracefully after. It’s a most irksome story.

Some friends have tried to figure out why the story bugs me so. Some believe I see myself in the Phantom (ok maybe the singing bit only), some say that it's the disgust at how Raoul had everything whilst the Phantom ended up with nothing. It's simpler than that, I think.

I read elsewhere that humans are fascinated by tragedies – if a happy ending and a tragic one were to compete for the privilege of finishing off an epic story, chances are the tragic one would win out. That sense of injustice, of what could have been, would haunt audiences much longer than a cheesy nauseatingly happy one would.

Makes you wonder which of the endings we all subconsciously seek in our own, personal lives.

On The Road

2008-02-08T02:46:00.000+08:00

It's always unpleasant when you quarrel with a friend over a particularly thorny issue.

It's worse, however, when you simply bottle it up, swallow it, and try to forget the entire business.

In secondary school, I remember the day I walked into the teacher's room and found my classmate reading the journal I had just submitted to my teacher. It was a private journal, and the intrusion into my privacy was a stinging slap to the face.

Yet, instead of confronting him, I just turned around and walked away. I guess at that point whatever kinship I shared with him simply evaporated, taking with it any trust, affection and friendship. Nothing has changed, after all this time.

That particular bad habit of avoiding confrontation has stayed with me. On the few occasions I've ventured to openly confront a friend over a problem we have, my temper takes over and I find I'm no longer as charitable, kind or pleasant as I want to be.

For a long time this particular foreign relations policy seemed workable - cherish the friends who are true, be cordial to the ones who you aren't sure about.

But it isn't, and it's not hard to see why. Daryl asked me an innocent-enough question the other day, and instead of being frank and honest with him as an old friend deserves, I subconsciously doubted his intentions and raised my defenses sky-high.

I'm ashamed of myself for even questioning his motives.

My flame is flickering.

Without Lifting A Finger

2007-12-20T05:38:00.000+08:00

"My love, my sweetness, my apple pie..."

It was beginning to rain outside, little droplets splashing against the windshield, silent observers to the couple within. Eliza tugged on her seatbelt, gave herself a little more room, leaned closer and placed her head gently against his shoulder.

"Darling, you do remember, don't you, how we first met? Why, at first I hardly noticed you, we had been working in the same office for so long, but one day you popped into my life with your endearingly bashful request for lunch. You remember?"

His eyes were closed, and for a while Eliza thought he hadn't looked this calm in ages. Ever since he started getting busier at work a year or so ago, she had to get used to the short-tempered irritable him, and rare was the chance for a quiet moment like this.

"You really swept me away! Why, I can't remember ever feeling so... right... about someone before! I miss those days, I do... those long weekends where we would run away from work, from the world, on driving trips like this, and we would just lose ourselves in conversation, in each other's company..."

"Eliza..."

"Shush! Just enjoy the moment!"

She wondered if he was as comfortable as she was, but a quick glance reassured her that there really was nothing about the present moment she would like to change. Eliza daintily wrapped her arms around his, ignoring his soft grunt when she gripped a little too hard. Who knew it could get so cosy in the front seat, she thought.

The rain began to fall harder, and Eliza casually reached out and dimmed the headlights. He moved to protest, but Eliza was too quick for him. "Oh darling, how often do we get a chance to be together like this? Let's be young again, and let the world pass us by!"

She stoked his brow, wiped the sweat away, and nestled close enough for her to hear his breathing. Eliza hardly noticed how cramped the front seat was, lost as she was in her perfect moment.

Outside, a lone car sped by them, a darting blur in the increasingly heavy rain. There wasn't much other traffic here at this hour, at this place.

"Darling, remember how you always said you wanted a new car, a car big enough for us to bring a family around with? Well, I remembered, and I really wanted to surprise you for your 30th... I'm going to let you in on a big secret now! So, from two years ago I've been saving money whenever I could, just as much as I could afford each time, and I even opened a separate account at the bank so that you wouldn't suspect a thing!"

"Oh, Eliza..."

"Don't be silly darling! Why wouldn't I do that for you?"

She heard his breathing get heavier in that darkness, and she had to stifle a giggle. Oh, the effect she must be having on him! She wondered if now would be a good time to ask him whether he had any surprises for her too, but that could wait. It was her time now.

"So I kept saving, and I skipped all the little luxuries I usually indulge in. Two months ago I felt like I might have had enough for a downpayment, so I gleefully consulted my bank book in our drawer, and at first I had a shock, I tell you! I stared at the numbers within, and I couldn't believe I had saved so much!"

"That was when, darling dearest, I discovered it wasn't my bank book I was looking at. It was yours. Your secret, separate account, like mine. But different."

Eliza reached out and patted his cheek, and through bleary eyes he looked back, as fiercely as he could. Good, she thought, he's still conscious.

"You remember those sweaters I knitted for you? This was something like that, my munchkins, something like that. One stray thread, that's all, but tug hard enough and poof! Everything just unravels. And you're amazed just where one little thread can bring you."

Eliza smiled, and leaned against him more heavily. Too much, it seemed, for he started resisting, pushing back, but there was not much he could do, not with the way the steering wheel was crushing him into his seat. Eliza doubted he even had the strength to push her away, not with his arms at that funny angle.

"Oh darling... I never cried quite so much. Intoxicating, really, that mix of love and... whatever else you feel, two very opposite feelings swirling inside every day, tearing you in two directions. Some days I wanted to believe it was all a terrible hoax, a lie, a trick you hid up your sleeve. But the evidence... the pictures, the calls... the meetings with her... those were all real, weren't they?"

"Eliza... just call... the freaking... police now..."

"And I prayed. I prayed so hard. For someone to rescue me from it all. What can a damsel do, when her knight no longer serves her? I thought I couldn't wait any longer, that I would finally lose it... and then, somehow, against all odds, I'm here, sitting next to you, completely unhurt and well, even after that nasty flip off the road, and there you are, broken, trapped..."

"It's a sign, a miracle! I don't even have to lift a finger, darling, and I'll get exactly what I wanted. We can have the whole of tonight, to talk about anything, anything at all..."

"Oooh, my snugglepups!"

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The above was inspired by a short film entitled "The Casting: Heavy Rain", a short technical demo for a computer simulation which featured enchanting writing. You can view it by clicking here.

And yes, I need to improve. Shall write more.

Sorry Mum I Won't Do It Again

2007-12-11T06:40:00.000+08:00

I'm not really a morning person. Ask any one of the dozen or so friends who have ever been on my Wake Up Call Squad.

I have this lovely addiction to staying up late. There's just something about the peacefulness you get at night, during which you can really delve into whatever fixation has currently gripped you. Of course, there's a downside, and it's that late nights mean I sleep extra deep in the mornings.

And sometimes it can be dangerous. Like when you sleep through a fire alarm.

Yeap. On my way home today my flatmates were talking about the 'horrendous', 'ear-piercing' fire-alarm which woke up the whole block. I said, oh, when was that. They said, my god, Hanting, it was this morning at 7am.

So therefore I am now living on borrowed time. True, there wasn't any fire, but if there were I might just have died and woke up in Hell (I've not been a good boy, I think) where there are tons of exams, no motivation to study, friends abandoning you because you are fat, and your well-honed charms somehow failing to work on overseas chicks.

Wait a minute.

Appreciation

2007-12-06T14:34:00.000+08:00

The other day on my way to school, I spotted this elderly couple from a distance, walking in my direction.

She was on a wheelchair, and he was behind her, pushing her along determinedly. Snow had already begun to fall these past few days, and as the flakes danced their descent down, I noticed that the gentleman didn't have gloves on.

Wow, I thought. Aren't his fingers freezing off from having to grip those wheelchair handles? My own hands were tightly bundled in the pockets of my overcoat, and still I could feel the chill.

Then, as I passed them, the lady wordlessly reached behind over her shoulder and laid her hand over his. I stopped just to watch them, until they turned the corner a few minutes later.

I think he didn't really mind the cold.

Easy Money

2007-11-22T15:10:00.000+08:00

Today in class, the topic of discussion was the legality of sale of body parts. And it was all academic and intellectual and... boring, until this Russian student offered this real-life anecdote.

"When I was studying in Russia," he said, "I was headhunted by this medical firm which offered to buy my sperm."

I tell you, the whole room fell quiet. You could literally hear all the males just opening their eyes in surprise as the possibilities coagulated. No pun intended.

"How much were they going to pay you?" asked the Professor.

"Well... give or take $200 USD per shot."

"And did you sell it?"

"All I can say is that I'm paying my school fees here on my own!" came the reply.

(Tsk, these lazy people. If I were him I would have my own limo, my own yacht, and a whole new wing of the school named after me, by now. And also a severe case of dehydration.)

Look, I'm Singaporean and I have no idea how they do things in Russia but $200 USD per shot is just nuts, no pun intended. Granted, it's a lot of cash, but can you imagine having kids somewhere out there whom you don't even know about?

So it's goodbye, PSP, I'll earn you the hard way. Pun intended.

Besides, I doubt my ego could take it if I were only offered $2 + food vouchers + parking rebates. Men and their fragile egos.

Sobs

2007-11-20T00:33:00.000+08:00

Fish.

I came across this today in school, and it made me sob. Hehe.

http://animalcrossingtragedy.ytmnd.com/

I blame the song too.

The Secret To Happiness

2007-11-14T06:49:00.000+08:00

We teeter in the air for a moment, and as the magic dust clears, we slowly flutter down on the softest sand I've ever felt. His arms, tightly wound around me, never once loosen.

We lean back, inextricably intertwined, with the sound of waves all about us. Even against the brisk seaside air, I am not left wanting for warmth.

He brushes my hair, runs his thin fingers through it. "Oh, Wendy," he dreamily sighs, "you have the most golden-spun hair... the most enchanting eyes... the most honeyed personality I've ever seen... don't leave me anytime soon..."

I immediately blush - oh, how defenseless is the maiden who's had her heart whisked away! "Stop it! You don't really mean that!" I bury my face deeper into his chest, and the slow tick-tock of his heartbeat somehow convinces me that he does.

"It's true! When I caught a glimpse of you telling those bedside stories last night, I knew I simply had to know your name! You were that that mesmerizing, my dear."

"You incorrigible stalker! You almost had me at you with a broom, the way you flew in through the window and promptly announced yourself as if everyone should know who you are!" I make as if to pinch him, but he laughs, mutters something about spunky British girls, and we fall back to a comfortable silence.

I've known him for only 16 hours, but already it feels like a lifetime. Of bliss.

"Tell me Peter", I sufficiently rouse myself to say, "how do you stay so happy here in Neverland?"

"Hmm," he says, "I guess you kinda have to live and let live? You just seize the moment, and just make sure you don't let things bog you down. That way, every day is a new one, and you will receive everything with the utmost enthusiasm!"

"But what about the bad things here in Neverland? Do they not get you down? I envy you. Sometimes it feels like I'm carrying the world around on my shoulders..."

He plants a kiss on my forehead, gives me a reassuring hug. "You're quite the worrywart, aren't you? Hmm... in truth I can't really recall any bad memories... I guess the good things like you chase the bad memories away, eh?" Again, that winning, charming smile of his!

The waves crash around us, and we slowly fall into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

************************************************************************************

I rub my eyes, and open them blearily to see Peter standing next to me. I reach out for him, and when he deftly avoids my hand a sudden chill grips my heart.

As I sit up, Peter places his hands on his hips, the same way he did when he introduced himself yesterday, chest all puffed out, disarming smile at its brightest.

"Welcome, stranger, to Neverland! My name is Peter Pan! And who might you be?"

And for some reason it occurs to me that he is not joking.

Why Didn't I Do This Earlier

2007-10-31T05:38:00.000+08:00

I think my little heart just exploded. Into tillions of little bits.

I just came back from the costume shops, and I've got my very first Halloween costume. I once swore that if ever I blogged about the shopping I did I would send my first son to ACS, but heck, I think I can bend the rules this time.

You see, tomorrow's Halloween. For the past few days, nay, years, whenever I saw people dressing up I quickly dismissed them as either having too much time or actively hiding from their girlfriends. Dressing up was for other people, and I was cool.

I was wrong!!

No, not about the cool part. But about the dressing up!

I've seen people dress up as the Super Mario Brothers, as Locks and Keys (go figure that one out), as all shapes and forms of the creepy ghoulies. And not once did my heart skip any beat in excitement.

That is, until I tried on my wig 5 minutes ago. With my cape. And my teeth. And my fake black fingernails. And that was when this strange excitement gripped me and throttled all the jadedness out of me!

(I've never used so many !!! in a single post before. Wow. But then this is the first time I've discovered my inner-Gothic. I mean, it's the first time I can have black nails without my mum freaking out and having the are-you-a-gay talk with me. Sheesh.)

I mean, seriously. I always wondered why the women in Transylvania don't just close their windows to keep the annoying bats out. But if all the vampires are as suave as the one that grunted back in the mirror a few minutes ago, freak, I'll swing my windows wide open and paint little landing strips for the vampire bats too.

Hee. Pictures soon when I go for the Halloween parties and parades in town!

P.S. Thank you to all of you who were concerned that I had somehow died or something in the last month. =)

Ugly Duckling

2007-09-24T03:59:00.000+08:00

When the Ugly Duckling reached maturity, and beautiful grace dripped from its every movement, the other Swans came and enticed it to join them.

"You belong with us!", they cooed all day. But the Ugly Duckling, with pitiful longing in his eyes, would avert his gaze and noiselessly shuffle back to the flock of ducks he had grown up with.

And oh! how the Ugly Duckling would dance! Across the moor where they lived, the Ugly Duckling often trailed a shimmering ribbon of white as he danced to please the ducks, hoping to earn a place amongst them.

And oh! how the Ugly Duckling would sing! The stillness of the air was frequently punctuated by the melodious exertions of the Ugly Duckling - every note as unique and mesmerizing as the first snowflake of winter, every note a humble plea to be accepted and cherished.

But still the Ugly Duckling lived on the fringes of the flock, and no duck went out of its way to make the Ugly Duckling feel welcome.

Early one morning, as the Ugly Duckling stirred fitfully in his sleep, searching for the answers he so desperately wanted, a hunter came upon the moor. This the Ugly Duckling noticed immediately.

"Wake up, wake up, flee while you can!" the Ugly Duckling hoarsely screeched, flapping his wings in agitation. But the ducks awoke too slowly, and as the hunter raised his rife and took aim at the ducks...

... the Ugly Duckling soared into the air a final time, his outspread form against the bleak morning sky becoming a tableaux of timeless beauty, the inspiration for a thousand poets... the perfect target.

The gunshot was the switch that flooded the moor with life.

As the Ugly Duckling lay crumpled upon the grass, the red taint spreading across its feathers, his gaze lingered upon the backs of the ducks scattering away. Hot tears of bitterness threatened to sully its pristine beak, but the Ugly Duckling fought them back, soothed as he was by the satisfaction of helping the ones he loved.

Being the epitome of serene beauty, the Ugly Duckling was also graceful in the way he accepted the realities of life.

White Lie

2007-09-17T06:27:00.000+08:00

04 seconds before Karen hit the ground, Jerome materialized in a puff of white smoke.

His outstretched wings quickly, neatly folded up in 02 seconds, and he tucked them behind him as he gingerly sat on the ground next to her. Angels were fastidious beings.

14 seconds passed before Karen opened her eyes and groaned. Jerome knew it was 14 seconds exactly, because he was counting them under his breath, especially now that time was very, very precious.

"Hello Karen. My name is Jerome. I'm an angel, and I'm here in case you want to talk."

"An.. angel? Am I dead?"

"Nope. But you will die soon. I thought you should know that."

Karen coughed quite hard then, and couldn't form any more words until Jerome touched her throat lightly. A brief glow emanated from his finger, and the blood in her throat cleared sufficiently for her to talk again.

"Karen, it's important you understand quickly so you don't waste any time. I specialize in keeping company those unfortunate people who die in solitude, so that their passing from this world to the next is made a littler easier. Capiche?"

Karen nodded, closed her eyes and started sobbing. Jerome grit his teeth, and inwardly swore (even angels do!) at the rules that forbade him from interfering with her pain. But a suspicion lingered that the hurt afflicting Karen, wasn't exactly physical.

Through the sobs came Karen's voice, weaker by the second. "I spent my life on him, my entire life! My parents wanted me to give him up, said single mums rarely made it... but I did!"

"I know, it's something..."

"No! You don't understand... I had no friends, no one else in my world but him! I gave him everything! And I never asked for anything back, nothing at all..."

Jerome laid a cool hand on her fevered brow, and it brought a calming to her troubled heart. Her involuntary twitching lessened, and Karen struggled with her broken hands to brush away her tears. Jerome did it for her.

"Tell... me... Jerome. Will... he have a good life? Will that... wife of his... make him happy?"

A sardonic smile nested itself on Jerome's face. Ah, he thought. This is the legendary selflessness humans possess... selflessness even in the face of abandonment by one's own child. What a bittersweet thing to witness.

"Worry not, Karen. He'll come to his senses eventually, and he'll raise two children who'll love and respect him."

The lie burned Jerome's ears even as it unrolled from his tongue, but he would rather be damned than deny her a fleeting moment of peace after her years of toil. Heavens knew how many others, like Karen, needed it.

"That's... good... a pity that I wouldn't be around to..."

Jerome sat there for a while more, eating into the 86 hours, 04 minutes and 17 seconds that would pass before a jogger would come by this way and discover Karen's body.

Not Entirely Broken

2007-09-14T15:23:00.000+08:00

School bells rang.

Edna looked up from the wares arranged nearly in front of her. She didn't need to look twice to know that these boys, this specific group jauntily strolling out of the school gates, would be trouble.

They were the upper-years, a gang of boys who had long ago discovered an almost refined palate for cruelty to those too weak to fight back. It seemed as if no school anywhere, nay, no society anywhere was complete without them.

"Hey guys, look! Edna's back! Let's see what she has for sale today!" Hoots of laughter rose from the group as they rushed over to the humble two-by-four groundsheet on the sidewalk that comprised the entirety of Edna's enterprise.

Edna positively looked like an oasis of calm next to the jackals that had descended upon her store. The boys scrambled over each other as they rushed to manhandle the little toys that lay on the groundsheet, competing to see whose wit was sharpest in ridiculing the toys.

"Guys, look at this one! Is it just me or is this doll a leftover from Halloween?"

"That's nothing next to this set of tin soldiers! Any kids who suffers this would be better off under Welfare!"

Soon, when even their diseased little minds ran out of insults for the toys, the boys moved on to their next target.

"You're old and ghastly! Why don't you get someone younger and prettier to sell your toys!"

"No one wants your toys! Who wants useless broken junk? Go home Edna!"

"Oh, sorry I forgot! You have no home to go back to, right? Who would want you!"

But not one word left Edna's lips. She simply kept her eyes downcast and waited for their store of delinquent energy to wear itself out, as it always did. Mercifully, they soon tired of Edna the way they tired of the toys that wouldn't fight back, and they cackled as they left the battlefield triumphant.

Once they turned their backs, however, Edna sprang to life. As quickly as she could, she rearranged the toys neatly, and straightened out the groundsheet. Moments after she was done...

... school bells rang again, and this time it was the lower-years who were released from school.

As they spilled out from the school gates, they made a bee-line for Edna and her wares. They crowded around her store, transfixed as they always have been at the worlds Edna brought to them.

One little girl, drawn to a petite pinwheel, cautiously picked it up and admired it. As the colourful silver-foil wheels turned in the afternoon breeze, the little girl couldn't help but smile.

And it was then that Edna received her first payment of the day.

Rapunzel

2007-09-13T01:48:00.000+08:00

Rapunzel waited by her window until the first prince came along.

Help me up, he said. And she did, for she had been waiting her whole life to be rescued. He climbed up her tresses of gold, proclaimed his undying love for her, and together they joyously celebrated.

That night, as she slept, he took down her Magic Mirror, her Magic Apple, her Magic Brush, packed it all into a bag and crept away into the night.

When Rapunzel awoke she was sad, because she had lost that which was important to her.

Rapunzel then waited by her window until the second prince came along.

Help me up, he said. And she did, for she was also taught that trust is the road to love. He climbed up her tresses of gold, proclaimed his undying love for her, and together they joyously celebrated.

That night, as she slept, he lay with her against her wishes, and took her dignity and pride. When he was done, he crept away into the night.

When Rapunzel awoke she was sad, because she had lost that which was very important to her.

Rapunzel then waited by her window until the third prince came along.

Help me up, he said. And she did, for now more than ever did she need to be rescued. He climbed up her tresses of gold, proclaimed his undying love for her, and together they joyously celebrated.

That night, he shared his deepest fears and insecurities about the world, and soon his words poisoned her little heart. After his cynical views had taken her idealism and hope, he crept away into the night.

When Rapunzel awoke she was sad, because she had lost that which was most important to her.

Rapunzel then waited by the window again, but for what she no longer knew.

To Fly Away

2007-08-15T07:23:00.000+08:00

I spot her on a leaf a whole branch away, and right then I know that it's got to be her.

By the time I inch my way over, the Sun is beating a hasty exit over the horizon, urged on by a revitalized Moon hungry for the centrestage. I'm panting and my legs are all sweaty, but somehow I manage to force the words out.

"Please, be with me. I need you."

She turns to look at me, blank-faced for a moment, then the import of the words hit home. She swallows her mouthful of leaf hurriedly, but her shuffling feet betray her self-consciousness. Her voice is as sweet as I had imagined.

"You know how difficult it will be in the morning."

"I do, but that's a problem for tomorrow."

"You don't understand. Parting will hurt. We'll be different for each other then, completely diff..."

"If I tell you I don't care, will you set free your worries too?" I smile as reassuringly as I can.

She hesitates for a while more, but I know her heart is mine. Noiselessly, we shuffle towards each other, and the feel of her warm skin on mine electrifies me.

Our leaf shook in the wind, threatening to dislodge us both, but for the moment nothing could remove me from the perfect world we were sharing... we were swimming in a pool of liquefied bliss.

***

Sunlight rends apart my peaceful sleep, and I awaken to see her perched on the edge of the leaf, ready to take flight. And sure enough, she is different.

"Goodbye, and fare you well," she says, in a smooth, steely voice devoid of the warmth I craved so much to hear again.

A magnificent flap of the wings, and she was gone.

I sit alone on the leaf, watching the spot she occupied just moments ago. I bask in the memories of yesterday, but soon shrug them off.

Another magnificent flap of the wings, and gone too am I.

Green Thumb

2007-07-27T03:16:00.000+08:00

Love, is like a plant.

You nurture it daily, with nutrients that it hungers for. Eventually, depending on the effort that you've put into it, it blooms, blossoms, bears fruit.

People don't dwell much upon it, but Hate, the twin that lurks in Love's shadow, is also like a plant.

You also have to nurture it daily, lest it withers away. Again, eventually, depending on the effort invested, it bears fruit too. The best cared-for plants yield the most succulent of fruits.

I've been thinking about it a lot, especially after Spiderman forgave the Sandman in his recent movie outing. It made a lot of sense then - why labor daily to feed venom (hurhur no pun intended) to this gnarly twisted plant that is Hate, when its fruits are bitter and vile?

Therefore, logically, there seems to be no reason for us to Hate anything. For Hate corrupts us, burdening us with its endless echoes of anger, chaining us to a past we do not need.

Alas, alas, nothing is as simple as it is in the movies. For while much romantic ink has been spilt to chronicle the wonders of the fruits of love, not a lot has been devoted to the fruits of Hate. Harry Potter, for example, continually espouses Love as the one defining mark of humanity.

But you may one day discover that the fruits of Hate are useful in their own way. For every single inedible blackened apple on my desk serves as a reminder of a painful lesson learnt, so that I need not convert my living quarters into a greenhouse.

Lucky Spiderman.

The Brotherhood

2007-07-18T15:40:00.000+08:00

It is incredibly, exquisitely difficult for boyfriends to learn to be good shopping companions. Girls, please do recognize the efforts your men put in.

To appreciate us fully, first understand that men are fundamentally different from you females when it comes to shopping. We shop like homing missiles – if our shopping trip were a movie, the tagline would read “One Man. One Item. One Hour.”

As such, we shop without distractions. We walk down Orchard Road seeing only the path ahead, only vaguely aware of people buying other things in other shops, in much the same way that career-obsessed fathers are only vaguely aware of small people growing up in the same house.

In fact, if we don’t need anything from a shop, we can walk by it a thousand times without registering its existence. Don’t believe me? Try asking your male friends to meet you at Dorothy Perkins or Miss Selfridge. Chances are, they’ll be too proud to ask for directions, and will simply wander around helplessly until they find it.

Thus, every boyfriend who has learned to be a good shopping companion, I hail as a hero. Beneath their calm exteriors lie courageous hearts, tempered by the fiery, hellish flames of Girlfriend Wrath. In fact, observe carefully enough and you’ll even discern the four hallmarks that distinguish the veterans from the rookies.

First, Imagination. You gauge this by how long the male takes to react, when the female holds out a dress and asks, “How would this look on me?” The amateurs just can’t picture it, but the veterans have a full-fledged Photoshop Studio mentally running 24/7. In 5 seconds the new dress is scanned in and overlaid over the mental Girlfriend Mannequin.

It’s not surprising when you think of it as an evolutionary reaction. “I can’t imagine you in that dress, you better go try it out” means a 15 minute trip to the dressing room, so the male human brain soon forces itself to develop Imaginative faculties. That way, the male can reply with “Ah yes you look wonderful in it”, which lengthens the male’s life by 15 minutes.

This leads us to the second hallmark, Feedback. First-time boyfriends are often accused of having a terribly limited vocabulary, which usually revolve around variants of "Nice" or "Pretty". Before long they are additionally accused of insincerity, or of simply not caring.

That's where the misconception lies. Men are muscle-bound, but that doesn't mean they don't have emotions. They do have opinions about your shopping, but usually it is only the veterans who know how to better express themselves. Not only do they give feedback, but they also know when to reassure, console, reproach, all with heart-felt sincerity.

Third, Integration With Traffic. Put it this way: walk into Mango, and any male who sticks out like a sore thumb is the amateur. He's the one standing uneasily outside the dressing room, the one awkwardly apologizing and making way for people to pass by. He probably blends in as well as a well-built man in a library. Wearing a pink tutu. With two heads.

The veterans, in contrast, are like ninjas or Traffic Policemen - you can't see them until it's too late. They know how the qi in a shop flows, and position themselves such that they are one with the environment, blending in so perfectly they become accessories to their girlfriends. Blink and you’ll even think they were shopping for themselves.

Fourth, Quality of Company. Let's face it. As men it's hard to always stay interested in shopping. You're perpetually looking at clothes you will never wear, at bags you will never use, at shoes you will never slip into. There's just no way to fake that squeal of delight when you see a dress that is perfect... for someone else.

That's why amateurs exude an air of unease, impatience after a while. The novelty has worn off, and shopping quickly becomes a chore for them. Some men perpetuate this behaviour because girls sometimes give in once they sense that their men are restless, but this is a short term solution.

As nonsensical as it sounds, shopping with your girlfriend, isn't just about shopping. Shopping's the activity, much like a movie or windsurfing or rockclimbing. The focus should be on enjoying yourself, and your girlfriend's company. The veterans use this time to share stories, exchange gossip, connect... you'll be surprised at how much fun couples can have shopping.

Well, the next time you’re out in Orchard, watch out for and observe the secret Brotherhood. These men, with varying ranks in the Order, are everywhere. They may trail behind their girlfriends, or stand next to them as dresses are selected. They may stand guard outside dressing rooms, or rush to pay for the shopping.

But wherever they are, these men pass each other with a surreptitious nod, a silent acknowledgement of the Brotherhood, the thread that binds them all. The stronger ones continually egg the flagging ones on, in an endless cycle as timeless as shopping itself.

Forward the Brotherhood!

Conflict Resolution

2007-07-15T19:40:00.000+08:00

I used to believe in Hong Kong dramas. I no longer do.

Goodness knows how many lives I've lived vicariously through them. I would be an ordinary schoolboy during the day, facing down challenges that even at their largest, would amount to no more than school exams or squabbles between friends.

But come the evenings, once at 7 pm and again at 9 pm, all that would change.

I would be a suave one-armed swordsman, brushing off a dozen doting lasses while waiting years for that one chick who’s my teacher, older than me and has issues with open communication. Or a struggling firefighter, or a doctor with a heart of gold, or a professional gambler. The list goes on.

And after absorbing years of life experience through that artificial sped-up process, I thought I knew all there was to know about inter-personal relationships. In particular, about how arguments between couples could be resolved.

As it turns out, nothing I learned from the dramas could prepare me for real life. The dramas only made things worse. Take, for instance, how I tried to apply a Hong Kong Drama Lesson (HKDL) when I got into a flaming argument with an ex.

At that point, she was a seething, raging beast, a veritable PMS-ing Medusa on a bad hair day who’d just missed a Mango sale. My instincts said ‘Run’, but I swallowed and kept the faith. After all, in almost 95% of the dramas I watched, there was one magic way to defuse her.

So I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and hugged her.

If the dramas were to be believed, she would struggle at first, but after 10 seconds she would calm down and cry in my embrace, and we would be fine again. Well, here’s a little mental log I kept of that 10 seconds.

2 Seconds – ‘Pain. I think she’s trying to wear out her nails on my back. Shall persevere.’
4 Seconds – ‘More Pain. I smell copper in the air, must be me bleeding. Cannot give up now.’
6 Seconds – ‘She’s screaming something into my ear, but I can’t really hear what on account of the Pain. It sounds like a swear word.’
8 Seconds – ‘Anytime now! She will melt, then tend lovingly to my wounds, which I plan to shrug off as Painless. I may have to lie.’
10 Seconds – ‘Just got Kneed In The Groin. Have. To. Give. Up. Now.’

Hours later, still curled up on the floor, I conducted a post mortem to figure out what went wrong. I narrowed it down to two possibilities – either the HKDL was fundamentally flawed, or I wasn’t being affectionate enough.

Hence, the next time she got mad again, I tried kissing her. It was only after I got most of my upper lip reattached that I grudgingly conceded that maybe the HKDL was the erroneous factor.

But that didn’t stop me. One flawed HKDL didn’t mean the rest were inapplicable, right?

For example, another HKDL dictates that when female friends storm off, you must engage in pursuit, with no regards to her requests for cool-off time / space. After all, in over 95% of dramas, men who failed to give chase would suffer loss of said female friend, or would later endure hours of nagging from random supporting characters.

Or the other HKDL, where women can take up to 40 episodes to dump the bastard boyfriend, but can get tired of their ‘boring’ nice boyfriends in less than 4 episodes? The conclusion, I thought, is that you must treat your girlfriends badly every once in a while.

Well, let’s just say that after a while, I learnt that HKDLs as theories were fun to contemplate, but suicidal to implement, especially with my history of rather violent female friends. (You know, the kind who savage you after losing at board games… and not the pleasant sort of savage, either.)

The upside to all this is that I soon accumulated a list of things not to do when trying to resolve an argument.

1. Don’t go to bed angry.
2. Don’t be sarcastic / hurtful / spiteful.
3. Don’t drag up old mistakes from years ago.
4. Don’t confuse issues, instead resolve them individually.
5. Persevere, but don’t force things.

These days I amuse myself by observing how couples resolve their quarrels, and I find that the ones who are happiest in the long-run are those who never bury problems. These couples may even bicker on a regular basis, but you’ll be surprised at how strong they can be.

Nobody likes confrontations, but at the very least, couples should always feel comfortable enough with each other to confront even the trickiest of issues.

Farewell then, my HKDL-reliant days. I guess there are some things we really cannot learn from TV.

Effort

2007-07-12T01:34:00.000+08:00

There's just something about Scrubs I like very much. Yes, it's old and passe, but still.

I think it's the way they manage to squeeze cheesy life lessons into the plots, with the effect that after watching enough of it, you definitely would come across an episode that reaches out and hammers a specific lesson home.

Tonight, it's the lesson that "Nothing that's ever worth having comes easily", delivered by Dr Bob Kelso of all people.

Yeap, it's probably just more hogwash to you. It's just "Easy come easy go" reworded, you protest, it's nothing much.

But sometimes it's the obvious things we overlook, and sometimes we are reminded of them in the queerest of ways.

And A Good Evening To You Too

2007-06-19T13:02:00.000+08:00

Your eyes. That look in your eyes.

I had wondered what would stare back at me, when I finally had the chance of looking you in the eyes again. I expected a look of haughtiness, of derision, of crystal confidence, as you sneer at me from the towers of your high castle.

After all, wasn't I the sullied one, the flawed one, the one fallen from grace? The one who had strayed from the path all honourable men take? The one not deserving of a second chance?

But I didn't see any of that. I only saw apprehension. The words of greeting you issued may have left your lips without a single stammer, but your eyes said it all.

Your eyes said, I can no longer bear the gauntlet of righteous anger. There is doubt.

The truth may never come to light. We may forever lack the necessary scales to weigh our relative culpability in this mad circus of events. But I look at what doubt there is that exists within you, and I chuckle at how this blight has afflicted us all.

No one is clean.

And it will do us all good to remember that, as we continue to endeavour for the restful sleep of the wilfully blind.

Bad Boy Complex

2007-06-17T04:48:00.000+08:00

He said it with the most solemn of faces. "I want to smoke," he said, "I want to wear bling. I want to treat her like dirt. I want to sulk in the corner and be Emoboy. I want to be baaad."

Heh. Helllooo, Bad Boy Complex (BBC). It's been a long time.

You’ve witnessed the BBC before, I’m sure? It's a curious affliction that most commonly descends upon poor broken-hearted boys. Overnight, they boldly strike out in wild new tangents, doing things they wouldn’t ever have dreamt of doing.

The assumption, of course, is that chicks dig the Bad Boys, preferring them to the ones who are too 乖.

Interestingly enough, observe enough BBC-sufferers, and you’ll find that they rebel in eerily similar ways. And if you’re a BBC-wannabe, and have no clue where to start, you’re in luck.

Welcome to Hanting’s BBC Guide For Good Boys.

Smoking

This is probably your first resort on your journey to being a Bad Boy, on account of smoking being relatively effortless to pick up. All you really need is money, a lot of breath mints, and a blatant disregard for gross pictures.

Now, we’re all aware of the health risks involved, so what’s an intelligent Bad Boy to do? Simple. The idea is to maximize every single stick. And to do this, you have to remember, it’s not about the smoking.

It’s about being seen smoking.

So, you need to practice at home. Find a wall you are comfortable leaning against, and try out various ways of holding your ciggy. I recommend the Lolling Two-Finger Grasp, where your ciggy is hanging precariously from your fingers.

And when you do smoke it, dreamily half-close your eyelids. Exhale slowly, and flick ash away in a devil-may-care way. Heck, you don’t even really need to smoke! Just light up, and gaze longingly at some faraway point.

When others ask why you’re letting the stick go to waste, reply with some cryptic nonsense, like “From the ashes we are all born, true?” or “They do deserve the pay rise, correct?” Then go back to your ciggy while they shower you with respect.

Bling

Now, bling’s a little harder. By ‘bling’ I mean clothes, accessories, piercings, the whole lot. Now, short of paying for a makeover, it is vital that you seek professional help from friends.

Because, seriously, if you’ve been a Good Boy all this while, you don’t know jack sh*t about bling. There is no way you will be able to pull it off on your own. Not only is it already hard to know how to accessorize fashionably, but you’re a guy too, and that makes it doubly hard.

So, be humble. Ask for help.

You see, the secret is this… the bling’s got to match you. You can’t just assume that what’s cool on 50 Cent looks good on you too. A good friend will most definitely tell you when you look cool, and when you look like the village idiot – after all, he’s going to have to worry about being seen in public with you.

Just never, ever ask for your mum’s input. Please. Just say no. Her perspective is skewed.

Do you want to be as attractive as your dad?

Tattoos

With tattoos we clearly enter hardcore BBC territory. For goodness’ sakes though, considering that for most people the BBC is but a stage in life, please get small tattoos. The era of the large, ostentatious tattoo is long over, unless you’re trying to escape from a prison facility, in which case it’s damn cool.

As you can expect, the tricky part is in the choice of the tattoo. Needless to say, “Mummy Power Forever”, anywhere, doesn’t cut it. Nor do random animals in various states of aggression. Cheeky ones don’t help too, you know, the kind that goes “If you can see this you’re a lucky woman” on your… nevermind.

Don’t forget, less can say more. Go for cryptic, tiny yet highly conspicuous tattoos. Things like “Blinded” on your eyelids, or “Empty” in a gothic font just above your heart.

So what does your tattoo say about you? It says that at one point, you were delirious or troubled enough to scar yourself with an indelible statement. It’s as intelligent as having a permanent nick for your MSN… you know you will lose the angst one day, yet you still want an everlasting mark of it.

And that, my brother, is what earns you your respect.

Summary

The pinnacle of the BBC lies not in any particular activity, but in the attitude you possess. The ideal you’re striving towards, is the caged tiger. At times you will be normal, sociable, functional, but at others you can be dark, conflicted, complex.

But most importantly, never BBC allll the way. You have to be redeemable, flawed but still whole enough to be saved. For some inexplicable reason, there are girls who believe they can change wounded Bad Boys for the better, and will slavishly gravitate towards them.

Maybe it’s Nature’s way of improving the overall quality of the human gene pool, by making Bad Boys attractive only to certain girls. If so, heck, it’s not working fast enough.

But, dear BBC-wannabe, I hope for your sake that your BBC phase passes soon. I maintain that guys who subscribe to the BBC lifestyle are motivated by a nagging notion that they are imperfect in some way, and that for some reason their relatively clean-cut lifestyle is the problem.

You know that’s not true.

Enjoy your BBC phase while it lasts. I’m pretty sure that when the clouds clear and the angst passes, you’ll find that you’re still most comfortable in your own skin.

(One day, I will write about the Good Boy Complex. Because, if you think about it, if good boys want to be bad after they undergo a breakup, wouldn’t Bad Boys want to be good?

Being a Good Boy is not that easy, and deserves a full guide of its own. If you're in dire need though, a good start would be petting a kitten everyday, saying “please excuse me” instead of “kn*bc*b blind ah f*x”, and not downloading any more albino infant elephant bondage porn.)

Cryptic

2007-06-10T18:10:00.000+08:00

I think the Era of the Unsophisticated Blog is well and truly over.

Just a few years back, blogs were backdoors into people's minds. Everyone splashed raw emotions candidly across their webpages, bouyed by the rush that full and frank disclosure brought. Blogs were public platforms that suddenly became accessible even to the layman, a rare commodity unleashed upon a hungry market.

All that changed as people gradually felt the ill-effects of putting their whole lives on the net. If you keep a blog, you would know what I mean. A myriad of things can happen... your pictures get pilfered and circulated, your posts cause misunderstandings, mere acquaintances start gaining access to your innermost thoughts and feelings.

That's why blogs are so different nowadays, at least amongst experienced users. Beyond the occasional objective record of an event, say a birthday party or a night out clubbing, it's really quite hard to figure out what any given blogger is really trying to say anymore.

Yes. It is with great satisfaction that I tell all of you, the ones who always accuse me of being overly cryptic, that you can hardly find a blog out there that's not cryptic anymore.

If you approach blog-reading the way you do literature, there are indeed tools available to enhance understanding. You need:

1. To know the blogger's background, especially of his recent history
2. To know his desired audience
3. To have read enough of his posts to recognize patterns and styles

Basically, no one has time to do any of that. So, in effect, I think the large majority of posts go misunderstood, and hardly ever achieve their desired effect.

This creates consequences:

1. You can't read into someone's posts with any degree of certainty anymore.
2. You can't weave hidden meanings and messages into your posts anymore, and hope that that special target audience will understand.
3. You must be very, very careful about what you write, lest it be taken out of context (I think my friend Tris will understand this, haha)

Don't be mistaken, I'm glad that blogs are unreliable channels of communication. Humans were never meant to interact this way. We're supposed to size each other up, observe the hundred and one tell-tale body language signals, then decide if someone is telling us the truth.

We're not supposed to hop on someone's blog and hope to uncover nuggets of feelings or intentions or motives neatly ensconced in a few cryptic references. That's really a recipe for disaster in most cases.

That being said... I like being cryptic. And drama, evidently. =)

Appreciation

2007-06-09T03:23:00.000+08:00

The day is often a blender of events, emotions, happenings, feelings. Life speeds by so fast that I find myself only reacting, rushing to keep up with the pace.

Fortunately, it so happens that the night is perfect for reflection. For that's when the world, or most of it, goes to sleep, and things slow down just enough for me to think about things.

And I'm often surprised at how much perspectives change after a little reflection. Joyful moments lose a little shine when I suddenly spot considerations that weren't there before, while sombre segments become more palatable when I manage to identify silver linings.

Most days, like today, I sleep well too. For there is much to be thankful for, no matter how much it doesn't seem that way at first.

I'm thankful for friends who gleefully join me in burying time capsules in town, who give wake up calls so that I don't miss breakfast with them, who don't mind trekking halfway across the island for supper.

I'm thankful for the little miracles, like meeting supportive librarians who help you loan 40 books at a shot, or like inspiration flowing at the right time so that certain stories can be told they way they deserve, or like Havianas mysteriously snapping so that you have an opportunity to maybe further a friendship.

I'm thankful for discovering that a nature trail I was looking forward to was closed off, and yet having an enjoyable enough time that it didn't really matter.

Count your blessings often enough, and you'll find that there's not much to regret at all.

Video On Design Process

2007-06-04T03:56:00.000+08:00

This is a quick plug for one friend I've not had problems keeping in touch with over the years. =)

Dot's over at Stanford doing a course on Creating Infectious Action, Kindling Gregarious Behavior (which you can find more info about here), and her team has created a really interesting video on the design process.

Yes, the design process. The process by which elegant practicable solutions are found for the problems that crop up in everyday life.

So do take a look at it! I know I managed to gain some insight as to how one can logically identify problems and then develop counter-measures.

Mr. Snuffles

2007-06-02T02:46:00.000+08:00

07

You squeal with delight when you first lay eyes on me, and I reciprocate by falling in love with you instantly.

How does one ever forget an image like that? Of you running up to me, laughing as you wrestle me away from your mother’s outstretched hands. You are a sight, a little girl of 7 struggling to hold me up, when I’m almost half your size.

You fuss over me, and I can’t help but preen myself as you heap endearments on me. You gush about how my tail is frizzy, how I’ve got the softest fur, how my button eyes are already speaking volumes to you.

I think it’s in the way you hold me. It’s in the way you laugh, a hearty, innocent laugh that fills the house with warmth. I can’t help it if you inspire trust in me so very easily.

I stay awake that first night, just to watch you sleep. Time just doesn’t seem to flow anymore, and the bedside clock has the courtesy and good manners to signal her ticks softer. By the moonlight you look so very, very perfect.

You can’t hear me, but I’m holding on to you with my paws and I’m promising you, over and over again, that I will always be there to soothe away your pains, to comfort and guide you as best I can.

I belong to you, already.

14

I sit in your lap contentedly, as you scribble furiously away in your diary. Your tears are still hot against my fur, but they do not bother me.

You hold me up to let me see what you have written. I can’t read, so you say it aloud for me. I’m telling you to stop, that apologies aren’t necessary, but you go on anyway (you’ve always been stubborn!).

I’m trying to say, I understand. I know you wanted to seem like a big girl in front of your friends, especially around the boy you have a crush on. So I understand that when they found me on your bed and asked who I was, you casually said I was just some soft toy, like I didn’t matter to you.

You start crying again, burying your face in my side. I know you have recorded this incident in your diary so that you will never forget how important I am to you, but you know why it’s not necessary?

It’s because you have spent these past 7 years by my side constantly. I’m your confidante, your closest friend. You have shared your deepest secrets with me, and have always felt renewed with the silent companionship I offer. You have given me more than I could ask for, and now it is my turn to do something for you.

If what you need is space, to grow closer to your other friends, take it. Do not feel guilty about it. Love is letting go too, yes? I’m glad enough to know I can always cheer you up, make you happy. So, shoo!

21

You pick me up, squeal my name, and hug me tight, for the first time in months. And that’s when I know today’s the day you make your choice.

You have been deconstructing your room lately, packing it all up into little brown boxes. Some boxes are shoved into your wardrobe, but others are adorned with bright air-mail stickers and moved into the hallway.

You’re about to leave for a study program overseas, and I wonder which kind of box I will end up in. I’ve tried to ask you gently for some time, but you don’t really talk to me anymore.

I hate to admit it, but I miss you holding me to sleep.

Twice this past year you have let me comfort you, once when you fell out with your parents, and another when you failed a class test. Twice this past year did I feel needed, wanted again.

And twice this past year did I feel ashamed of myself, for being so selfish. For I have seen what an alluring, confident, successful woman you have become, and I know that asking you to love me like you did years ago, would only hold you back.

I’m proud of the way you are handling most problems on your own now. I’m proud of the close friendships you have cultivated with others. I’m proud of the way you stand on your own two feet, independent, strong.

My heart still aches, sometimes, when I see that you really do need me less, but I understand. It is necessary. I’m just not what you need now.

You slip me into a box, and slowly tape up the opening. I know then that you won’t be bringing me with you, for the rest of the box is filled with an assortment of oddities you won’t be needing overseas.

You confirm my suspicions when you shift the box a short distance, and then close the wardrobe door. As the sounds of you packing continue to filter in, I slowly let go of the hope I’ve been nursing in the bowels of my heart, and it floats away like the morning mist.

35 / 07

The sunlight hurts my eyes, as the lid of the box is pried away. There's a strange male voice in the background, and he wants me thrown out.

You do not listen (you never did!), and instead you lift me out and hug me. You have aged, my angel. There's a certain gauntness to your face I did not think possible before. What storms have you weathered without me?

It's a warm, familiar hug, one that I've not felt in 14 years. I hug you back instinctively, with love I've bottled up for so long, and I regret it at once. It hurts the very second that you disengage just a little too hastily, because I know you no longer feel the same about me.

"Mummy! Who is he!" I turn to see a younger you on the bed, jumping in excitement. She has your eyes, your hair, and most importantly your warmth. Before you can react, she has grabbed me away from you.

She engulfs me in a hug, defiantly staring you down. You disapprove, saying that I’m unclean (I take umbrage at that!), but she doesn't seem to hear you (it runs in the family!). She demands that you let her keep me.

I hesitate.

My heart's in pieces as it is. Can I really go through all this again? Of caring for her, living a life with her, only to see her grow up and walk away, just like you did? You have no idea how painful it is, to love someone with all your being, and then to realize one day that your love is simply not wanted anymore.

That's when she kisses me.

Despite what the male voice says about my thinning fur and loose stitches, despite what you say about me being old and dusty, despite her knowing that there are a thousand other prettier companions out there, she has kissed me.

"I love you, Mr. Snuffles. Will you be mine?"

I hear those words, and something in me mends. I think it may just be possible… for me to love another again.

Old Pictures

2007-05-30T01:27:00.000+08:00

You ever wonder why old pictures, or pictures for that matter, are important to you?

It's because people are forgetful creatures. Memories, the children born of the wedlock between events in our lives and our emotional reactions to them, eventually fade. Every once in a while, we will need solid, concrete pictorial proof of the past to recall things.

And, in a way, old friends are like old pictures.

Today I had dinner with an old friend. It didn't matter that the last time we actually sat and talked properly was more than a year ago. Conversation came easily, all embargoes between our channels of understanding lifted by the mutual trust we shared.

When I walked out of the restaurant, I had a spring in my step that wasn't there before. I felt like me, again.

Perhaps it had to do with the laughs we shared. It's always a joy to laugh unreservedly around people you know you can trust, knowing that you could do the silliest things and not be judged.

Perhaps it had to do with her kindly saying that I hadn't really changed much, that I might have weathered storms but fundamentally I was the same. I was touched that she remembered me that way, and that I was still the same person to her.

So thank you, for dinner today. It's great to know you are getting on so well, and that you've a most promising future ahead. Thank you too, in a way, for helping me remember the happy, carefree me I was a year ago, and for helping make me feel accepted.

Not all bits of the past are unpleasant ones, I guess.

Crisis Management

2007-05-28T02:29:00.000+08:00

Recently, I did something that can best be summed up as not "thoroughly thought through".

You know the standard operating procedure. When an idea flashes by your mind, you're supposed to evaluate the consequences, and then sleep on it. If you still see things the same way a day later, a week later, then do it. Impulse is often hazardous!

It's not that gut instinct is always wrong. In fact, it's often right. The problem is, gut instinct does not illuminate the best way you can go about doing something. It merely shows you the shortest, most obvious path to your objective.

This quick and dirty route, by its very nature, misses out on the finer nuances or considerations that any person with a positive EQ score would pick up on. Even if you think you're instinctively savvy, trust me, hindsight will put you in your place.

But life doesn't quite play out by the book, does it? Many times we find ourselves pressed to make the best choice in a limited time, or else face paralysis by indecision.

And you will inevitably make a mistake, or perhaps simply not make the best call about something. Then, voila! The mistake may even blossom into a full-blown Richter 8.0 Crisis.

I couldn't help but feel overwhelmed at first, for crises tend to do that. Initially, my mind did nothing but try to grapple with just how big the mess is, and I entertained a thousand useless questions like why did I do it that way and how could I not see a better choice.

But it got better the moment I cleanly excised all the emotional responses, and instead just focused on what I could do next. Given that the ogre of a Crisis had just hit puberty right before my eyes, what options were open to me, what possible courses of action might actually remedy the problem?

And then things got better.

This time around, I spent but an hour anguishing about the Crisis before I sprung into action. I'm improving, after all. One of the small graces in life, it seems.

Clarity

2007-05-20T01:01:00.000+08:00

Tonight, was an important night for me. Very, very important.

Of course, different things are important to different people. Using a dash of olive oil instead of a splash may be inconsequential to the overstressed working mother trying to whip up a hasty dinner, but it is the world to the professional chef locked in the foremost culinary competition.

Yes?

Before tonight, the most dangerous, influential, perspective-wrenching movie I had watched was a little film starring Julie Delpy and Ethan Hawke. I have, literally, multiple drafts trying to pin down the magic in that movie, trying my best to explain its effect on me.

It says a lot that up till this date, I have yet to publish one single post on it. There's... just too much to explain. Maybe one day I'll gain the faculties to do so, who knows.

And tonight, I had the sublime pleasure of watching another such movie like that. It's called Stranger Than Fiction.

I'm quite sure that if you watched it, chances are that you would march up to me and berate me for wasting 2 hours of your life. It was quirky, you would say. It was disjointed, poorly edited, flawed, preachy, unrealistic, or just plain dumb.

I would smile, in some small part because I have heard that all before, and it didn't change how important the movie was to me.

But I would smile largely because, there are others who understand.

Rain From The Past 3: It Was For You, Too

2007-05-19T01:42:00.000+08:00

The card lay on the table before me, coloured pens on the side. Already, most of it was filled up, all cheery messages wishing him the best in his studies overseas. Overhead, the PA system was already announcing that his Departure Gate was open. Not much time left.

And when I picked up the pen, inspiration struck! It coursed through me, a powerful jolt that effortlessly strung words together in my mind, forming a rhyming poem that was a touch humorous, no less!

Just to make sure it was all fine, I scribbled it out on a paper napkin I had. All through this while, she sat next to me at the cafe table, talking excitedly to the rest of our friends. When I was done, I gripped her hand under the table.

"Dear! Take a look at this little poem which I'm thinking of writing for his farewell card! Hehe, I think it's almost as funny as that one I wrote for you last week!"

But she was distracted. And honest, perhaps.

"What? Another poem? Please la, just write something simple? Not another one of your silly things." Another friend said something then, and she turned back to them, laughing.

I ended up writing "Hey man, all the best over there! Stay happy always!". Funny how long it took me to pen that message, when a moment ago I could have filled three cards without breaking a sweat.

When another friend chided me for taking so long to write so little, I begged for his forgiveness, saying I was never one for writing, and that he couldn't blame me for it. He smiled, said it didn't matter, and passed the card on.

I threw away the crushed napkin on the way home. I couldn't bring myself to look at the words anymore. I stole a quick glance at them at the airport, but they suddenly seemed juvenile, peurile... silly.

I didn't write poetry for a long time after. The words, they didn't flow.

Who Knows Best?

2007-05-17T23:36:00.000+08:00

One of the more engaging cases we saw this week had all the elements of a classic Hong Kong gangster movie. It was a secret society trial, replete with harsh initiation rites, gang beatings, charismatic leaders and hapless victims.

The main differentiating factor though, was that the average age of the parties involved was 12, 13 years old.

At the trial's conclusion, the judge very sternly rebuked the kids, and forbade them from ever fraternizing with each other in school again. No meetings, no sitting together during recess, no hanging out after lessons. Nada. Zilch. A complete separation, break, split.

And that was what struck me the most.

See, the children were friends to begin with, even before the gang recruited them. They might still be friends now, even after the gang was dispersed.

But the court didn't care. The court, applying an objective standard, had decided that it was better for the children to stay apart, that it was in their best interests that they be separated, never to cross paths again. The standard was arguably a reasonable one, culled from years of academic research into the behavioural patterns of gang members, years of accumulated wisdom regarding child rearing, so on and so forth.

It didn't matter whether the children still wanted to be friends - the understanding was that they were too young or immature to decide what was best for themselves, and that society's neutral, passionless objective standard decried that they be isolated from one another.

Children grow up. We grow up too. Eventually.

Does a consensus distilled from the opinions of a thousand reasonable men always outperform an individual's own reasoned choice?

I wonder, is there ever a point when we are wise enough to choose our own paths, or will we always yield to society's collective wisdom?

Beating

2007-05-15T23:34:00.000+08:00

I'm a Chinese dude. With conservative Chinese parents. Of course I was beaten when I was a kid.

As a child I was generally suicidal in the way I did things, being unable to, as my teacher put it, "think of the consequences beyond the next five minutes". I would run into glass walls, use my knees as brakes, jump happily into potholes. Pain was my constant, familiar companion.

So why did the beatings I received all those years ago, still manage to drive icy spikes of dread into my little heart? It couldn't be fear of the pain, right? You don't see Michael Jackson afraid of minor operations anymore, yes? Or JBJ afraid of minor parking fines, for that matter?

Now, years on, I understand why. It wasn't fear of the pain per se. It was a lethal cocktail of pain, shame in the knowledge you did wrong, and disappointing your parents. More on that later.

My parents got the beatings down to a fine art pretty fast too. They were complementary, that's why. My mum's the Good Cop, the nagger, the one who continually cajoles you until the wax drips out of your ears. She would threaten to hit me, but never could bring herself to. She was the one who would set me up for...

... the Bad Cop. My dad. The one who lurks in the background, doesn't speak much, who distractedly plays with Inquisitory Tools of Pain while you're trying to answer the Good Cop. And when he spanked me, it wasn't mere half-hearted Western-parent spanking... it was Golden Lotus Unfolding Palms Spanking. The Shaolin kind.

A typical Disciplinary Proceeding would thus unfold something like this:

Me: You're being unfair! It wasn't my fault!
Mum: Teng, please! We're doing this for your own good! Come, come listen to mummy...
Dad: *skulks in background*
Me: No, no! You tell me, what did I do wrong!
Mum: How many times have we told you, it's wrong to fight with your brother! You're older than him, you're supposed to take care of him!
Me: He bit me first!
Mum: He's a toddler! He doesn't know better!
Dad: *flicks a cane rhythmically against a table, hums "I Will Survive"*
Mum: You don't hit your friends right? So why hit your brother?
Me: 'Cause he's my brother! My friends would complain to their parents!
Mum: ... how disappointing. You leave me with no choice. Repent while you can, sinner!
Dad: *GOLDEN LOTUS UNFOLDING PALMS*

Of course, there were many times when I would think of retaliating. Just like the delinquents in movies, I would push my mother away, or something like that. But then I would think of my dad, and I would just whimper and give up. Heck, what did I have in my arsenal at that age, Raging Vengeful Rabbit Paw?

But children learn fast. Did not Sun Tzi once say, "What you cannot beat defeat head-on, you run the hell away from"? I soon learnt to recognize the signs, and before my parents could tag-team me I would go ballistic, zipping all over the house screaming bloody murder. Oh the glory days... I was faster and more unpredictable than a headless chicken with a firecracker up its egg-laying chute!

Of course, I knew I was going to get the same beating at the end, but heck, I had to have them earn it. Plus, the pre-emptive release of endorphins always made things easier to bear.

Which is why I'm always shocked when friends tell me they've never been caned / spanked / slapped by their parents before. It's the same shock AC* boys get when they head to Uni and find that other people are well-adjusted and pleasant and nice. Growing up in a world where physical punishment was a very real consequence indeed, I can't imagine how other kids could learn without a decent amount of corporal punishment.

It all boils down to the two main schools of thought regarding disciplining kids. On one extreme we have the modern Western teachings, which exhort reasoning with children and guiding them towards understanding the import of their actions. Children are goaded with incentives / disincentives, but never physical punishment.

On the other extreme, we have the Asian Kung-Fu teachings. Here, you may reason, you may persuade, you may cajole, but there will be a beating. If you need further elaboration, just watch Russell Peters.

In my opinion, the approach you adopt depends on the kid you have. I've observed that younger, immature kids can't reason for nuts (see above as to how I justified beating my brother over my friends), and it's fruitless trying to reason with them. What's the point in spending hours persuading a petulant 6 year-old anorexic-to-be that she needs her nutrition?

Yet, once the child develops a semblance of a functional self-aware brain, then reasoning is crucial. Beating drives home very clear boundaries, but when explanations and guidance are absent for too long, the child's moral growth is stunted, and lacks the necessary nuance.

And once the child develops a conscience, you can retire the canes and the secret Kung Fu manuals. You've been through it yourself. You're initially all defensive when your parents berate you over something, but slowly you begin to see the whole picture, and eventually you know you're wrong. And all without a beating, too.

I'm not saying that without beating you can never teach a kid well. I'm saying chances are higher that with a lil' harsh love you can guide them faster, earlier. So if by chance you're around 4 - 8 years old, and reading this, and have never been beaten before, please ask your parents to beat you.

Just don't say it with a wink in your eyes. I don't know about your parents, but if I did that to my conservative Chinese parents... whoaaaaa, mama.

Ladies Of The Night

2007-05-13T23:24:00.000+08:00

There was no love here.

I could smell sickly-sweet alcoholic fumes flirting with bitter-dry cigarette smoke, I could hear the ladies laughing their rehearsed, high-pitch schoolgirl squeals, I could taste the primal, naked lust in the air.

But no love. I could sense no love here. Not in this dimly-lit 7-11 of vices. Love was even more elusive here than an emboldened demon making merry in the streets of heaven.

I pushed past couples locked in embrace, their passions on coarse, open display. My neck itched, victim both of my vanity and the new shirt I had just bought. I came here the night before as an ordinary, forgettable leaf from the past, but tonight... I wanted her to remember me.

There she was, seated between two men, their arms around her like diseased tendrils across her fair skin. A curious mix of jealousy and anger bubbled in me. I had no right to feel that way, not when she was not mine. Not anyone's, for that matter.

She recognized me, a fleeting moment before I wrenched her away from them. And in those seconds as she was uprooted, she suddenly looked lost, confused, her gaities falling away like melting wax. No longer the confident, commanding lady of the night she pretended to be.

At a quiet corner, she lit up, pointedly looking away as the smoke rings danced away from her.

"You can't just pull me away like that. They will be angry, and you don't exactly look like the sort who can defend yourself."

"I can pay. I will pay. Look, just come away with me, again." I sounded desperate. I didn't care.

She laughed. "Pay? And towards what purpose? I'm a girl who likes to earn her money, you know, and last night didn't do much for me at all."

I wasn't shaken - the facade was as plain as day. "You lie. It was the best damned night you've had since forever, and you know it. Come with me, again, please."

She was silent for a while, then she struck out at me like an enraged rattlesnake. I was pushed back against the wall hard, but the pain barely registered. I could only notice the creases in her makeup, thin flaking lines etched in by the scowl she wore.

"Last night did not happen. You hear me?"

"It did, and nothing you can do will make you forget it."

"No. You came to me for my body, paid for it, got what you wanted, and you left. That's what happened. Another simple transaction in this sprawling existance of ours."

"I never wanted your body, never touched it. I only came to talk to you. You know that."

My perseverance was paying off. Just like last night, her defences were coming down, one at a time. The brimming tears of anger in her coloured-contacts-eyes said it all.

"You had no right to do that, you hear me? You had no right to spend the whole night doing nothing but talk to me, talking like we are still the friends we were so long ago. You were supposed to come in, take me, then leave! Not linger like this!"

I placed a hand on her shoulder, and waited for her to calm down. "I'm sorry," I found myself saying, "You said you were lonely last night, and all I wanted was to talk to you again. That's all."

When she eventually looked up it was as I feared. The mask was rigidly in place again, the pleasant, genial, vacant expression she wore for all her customers.

"Honey. Last night won't ever happen again. That girl you talked to, the one you shared old stories and laughed with, she's not living here anymore. She left a note for you, though. She said she's moved away, and if ever she finds a place of her own again, she'll contact you, so don't bother looking for her now."

She patted my cheek in that infuriatingly condescending way of hers.

"She said, don't be so idealistic anymore. Our youth has deserted us. You think you have choices in life, that you're always in control, but it's not so simple. We all have responsibilities, wouldn't you agree?"

"You know that's not true. You know that..." Her finger to my lip cut me off. I'm weak that way.

"Don't spoil the moment." She smiled then, but from whom the smile sprung from I was no longer sure. "If it matters to you that much, she also says thank you, for being nice to her last night. She felt... appreciated, and maybe one day, one day she would like to feel that way again."

I lost her then. She turned and slipped back effortlessly into that black, oil-slicked sea of leering faces and earnest hands. My feet guided me out, for I could not stay and watch. The pain was killing me.

To anyone else my resolve to return and try again may seem suicidally stupid, but no one else saw her as I did last night. And if they did, they would know it would be worth it.

Another day it would have to be, then.

* This was inspired by a friend's post, and is not reflective of my real life. Maybe the emo bits, but not the salacious bits. Sigh.

Diet III

2007-05-09T23:51:00.000+08:00

See, girls diet.

We all know that. And they diet for an amazing host of reasons which actually do sound reasonable, once you have the reasons chanted to you ad nauseum for hours on end.

(Think of it as your body’s natural survival instincts. There's a point when your will to argue back just withers, and one by one your brain cells die, and you just nod and agree. It's better than expending all your energy in a futile exercise)

What, you think naggy mothers pop out of nowhere? They have to cut their teeth somewhere too, you know.

But what surprised me was this. Guys. Diet. TOO.

And for the same reasons! For wanting to feel attractive, for wanting to fit into their clothes, for wanting to look good. Some do it for health reasons, but even then, there are healthier ways to get healthy (yes I have poor vocab, deal with it).

Just to be very clear, I’m not talking about Eating-The-Right-Food-Groups Dieting, but Today-Shall-Be-A-Water-Only-Day Dieting. There’s an objective line which I figure isn’t that hard to spot.

I’m surprised because I thought that girls are judged by their appearances, overwhelmingly more so than guys are, and therefore they are justified in a warped sort of way. But guys?

Of course, this doesn’t mean that guys should just flip off personal grooming and let their bodies go to ruin. Urgh. Let’s just say that if you diet, you better bloody know why you’re dieting.

So, in the quest towards beneficial dieting, some myths need to be debunked.

First, girls don’t really want us for the way our bodies are sculptured. True, if we all looked like Homer Simpson the only thing we’ll be turning on at night are our PS3s. But see, that’s only the first stage of attraction.

I mean, girls want us for so much more! They do, eventually, ascribe far greater weight to the other qualities we possess, like the way we are sensitive to their needs or how we keep them feeling secure.

Just ask the girls. Could they really live with a Greek God who had no other redeeming qualities they wanted? Sure, you’ll have something hunky to keep you company at night, but how much understanding can his six perfect abs give you? How much meaningful conversation can you get out of a pair of bursting pecs?

You: Sigh, darling, I had such a bad day today.
Pecs: *wiggle*
You: My boss picked on me, my colleagues backstabbed me, and I spoilt the photocopier. Please, say something to make the pain go away…
Pecs: *wiggle wiggle*

Second, everyone needs a little meat on them. Looking thin and lanky is not necessarily attractive! The key isn’t in exactly how thin or fat you are. The key is in looking healthy, exuberant, radiant. It’s how healthy an image you project that matters.

It’s almost an evolutionary trait, prizing healthiness over thinness. How do you think husbands still manage to summon so much love for their pregnant wives (aside from the threats of hormone-induced violence) ? You’ve seen that magical glow some pregnant women have, despite their… slight increase in size.

Overly-thin people just look fragile, wouldn’t you agree? People worry about being classified as ‘bak bak’, or fleshy, but in truth the most attractive people out there are reasonably meaty. If you starved yourself just so you could proudly exhibit your protruding hip bones or rib cage, trust me, people would look at you and feel instinctively that something was not quite right.

So, to my guy friends out there, diet because you want a balanced intake of food. Diet because it’s healthy for you. Please don’t diet simply because you think it makes you look hotter, more attractive.

I can’t deny that physical attraction does matter, but the effort you put into dieting can also be channeled into making yourself a more complete, attractive individual, yes?

And to show my commitment to my beliefs, I shall don a dark cape and assume the identity of Food Man. And wherever I find a guy who diets for dubious reasons, I will tempt you.

I will scoff at your Vegetables-Only Diet. I will point out every single KFC and BK we pass by, and I will recite their latest menu additions. I will recount intimate accounts of when I last had a fantastic, wholesome, sinful meal. I will moannn and shake uncontrollably whenever we see a Kinder Bueno commercial.

I will not stop, until I see you happily eating again.

For I am Food Man.

* You can find my other posts on Diets here and here. =)

No Need For Words

2007-05-08T23:52:00.000+08:00

We sat in the public gallery of the courtroom, all 12 of us Legal Service interns. We knew it was a criminal trial for charges of drug trafficking, but we couldn't help feeling a little bit detached.

After all, hadn't we already seen enough of these cases in our textbooks? Hadn't we already plowed through the arguments for and against the death penalty, in relation to Singaporean drug trafficking charges? Hadn't we already seen it all?

So there we were, insulated against cold, harsh reality. We were detached observers, mere spectators.

Until the accused came in. And started gesturing to his family in sign language. The thick panes of glass between them may have inhibited sound and distorted sight, but they did nothing to stem the torrents of understanding that flowed in those moments.

Fingers trailing down his cheeks, furrowed brows, a quick shake of the head. Don't cry for me. Whatever you do don't cry. A thumbs up, a tentative, manic grin. Of course I'm fine, why would I not be fine?

Open palms, nonchalent shrugs, undulating shoulders. I won't know what will happen, how could I? Why worry now? Chin tilted upwards, raised eyebrows, head jerking in their direction. Is mother fine? Is grandma fine? Are you two boys ok?

A crooked index finger. A quick draw across the neck. But still, still that cheerful, weary, belaboured smile. I will hang. I know I will. But life goes on, right? Don't be sad for me.

I tried hard to concentrate on the legal arguments being bandied around. But this wasn't a textbook case anymore. There was no court reporter here to excise all the cancerous emotions and reduce the proceedings to black print upon white paper. It was real.

In time I guess I will be desensitized, and I will learn to focus only on the arguments before me. But I hope that time will be a long time in coming.

Letter To The Past

2007-05-07T22:59:00.000+08:00

Dear Hanting of so-long-ago,

My my, it's not been one year since you wrote that letter, but a full seven years. Seven years, seven years of growth, of experience, of observing how the world ticks.

Remember back in Primary Three, when you thought kissing led to babies? ... Ok in a way kissing does lead to babies, just not directly, argh you know what I mean. And when you discovered the truth you laughed so hard at Primary-Three-Hanting?

Well, in a way, I also couldn't help laughing when I read what you wrote, Sec-Four-Hanting. It's not that I am being condescending... it's just slightly amusing to imagine your eyes shining with bright, wild-eyed idealism as you penned your thoughts back in Jan 2000.

I wish I could reveal all that lies ahead of you, so that you may avoid the pitfalls, and fully treasure the fleeting flashes of happiness that pass you by. But we both know we can't do that. You won't learn as much, will you?

What I can do, is to provide the merest glimpses into what you will become.

You will learn how to fully cherish your friends, family and loved ones. I know it’s a constant struggle for you, seeking the best way to provide for them, but take heart. You will be proud someday at the way you reach out to them.

Yet, you will not remain unscathed forever. Disappointments may tattoo their dalliances with you on the canvas of your soul, but you will be glad for the lessons they bring. Take heart too! Bitterness and anger will never take root for long, for though you may be damaged, you still are whole.

The rest is for you to discover. Exciting, ain't it?

Letter To The Future

2007-05-06T16:40:00.000+08:00

Back in Sec 4 our tutor made us write letters to ourselves. At the beginning of the year, we were to detail the personal growth we wanted to experience, the goals we wanted to attain, by the end of the year.

Our tutor would collect the letters, and mail them back to us after we graduated. It would be a good way for us to chart our progress through life, he said.

And this was what I wrote:

"Dear fat-shit, haha, I bet you've forgetten about this. But Mr. Indra hasn't, so here you are, with what you wrote back in Jan 2000.

I wonder how you are now, really. Did your O's go well? Did you finally manage to pass Maths? Haha, did you manage to improve at carrom, or win anything at Nationals?

It's mind-boggling, trying to predict what would happen 365 days later. The possibilities are just endless... but you and I both know, aside from these practical achievements, there are more important things at stake.

How are you, as a person? Do you still stand for the values I stand for now?

Have you managed to reach out to your parents and brother? I know it's difficult to, and it's terribly easy to lead a life separate from theirs, but don't. Any friction you've experienced so far is merely the result of them trying to weave you into their lives, trying to share their experiences with you. I have to write this to remind you, because you tend to forget all this sometimes.

Do you still give your friends your all? Are you still investing the energy and time into keeping your friendships alive and well? No man's an island, and you know you have the propensity to keep to yourself at times... but don't. You've already learnt that friends enrich the world, so don't backtrack now. If you have no idea how valuable they all, all the more you should not easily discount them.

Have you gotten attached? Haha, have you broken up, for that matter? I have no idea what falling in or out of love feels like, but right now I know if I'm attached, I would really bend over backwards to give her my all. She's precious, so never take her for granted... always trust her, always be open with her. If she lets you down, please don't change because of her. Someone else is waiting for you, someone else who wants you the way you are. You know that.

Continue to improve, Hanting. Be the person you want to be. Be open with people, caring, sensitive, funny, thoughtful, engaging. You like it too, don't you, when you help make people smile? Take pride in being able to avoid the common mistakes other people fall into. Go out there and make every day memorable, for you and the people around you!

You have a duty to bring happiness and meaning to the people around you, because it is already so easy to sow discord and cynicism for life... If ever you feel lost and unsure of what to do, pretend Ms. Gan's still here, and just imagine what she would advise you to do. She was usually right.

I hope, from the bottom of my heart, that you are smiling as you are reading all this. If not, then remember that one year ago you were me, with all this idealism and conviction to save the world your way.

Whether or not this letter serves as a mere milestone to mark your journey, or a signpost to guide you back to the path, I just want to say... I can't wait to read this myself again one day. I want to know what I've become."

Ignorance Is Bliss

2007-05-05T10:38:00.000+08:00

Inspiration really does come from the most unexpected of places. Last night, my muse happened to be... an episode of Heroes.

Now, most of the stuff on Heroes (or TV, for that matter) comes perilously close to being cheesy. Themes like believing in yourself, or self-sacrifice for the greater good. It gets painful to watch at times, but then I remind myself, hey there's Claire Bennet, and things get better.

But last night one particular line struck me, and the irony was that it came from a baddie. And the line goes, "I think, there comes a time when a man has to ask himself, whether he wants a Life of Happiness, or a Life of Meaning?"

He went on to explain, that for a LOH a man would live entirely in the present, focusing on the joys in front of him, never thinking about the past or the future. But for a LOM, a man would be "condemned to wallow in the past, and obsess about the future", for it was in such introspection that he would understand his place in life.

And I give up on Nathan Perelli, who could only stare blankly back at the baddie. Heck, two questions were already racing through my mind: Can there ever be a middleground, for how can one say that there is no Meaning within Happiness, or Happiness when Meaning dawns? And, are people naturally predisposed to either path?

While it's very possible for all of us to dabble in both paths at different stages in our lives, I still think people are naturally built to follow one path. It's really got to do with the way you think.

Take friend A. He's always been mature, rational, intelligent, but it's just that he never lets his mind wander. Clouds were but condensed molecules of water, events in life but isolated cause-and-effect incidents, memories but hazy footprints in the sand near the water's edge. When he was alone working at his hobbies, his mind was focused, clear.

Take friend B. She's equally capable of mind, but she sees life differently, thinks about life differently. She dissects characters in movies, questions their motivations, explores the various interpretations of the language used. Long after relationships end, from the ashes of the memories she still pieces together new lessons, an unrelenting archaeologist of the past.

I think like friend B does. I, er, hope that I've been mature and rational and all that too (the last Report Card which said I was mature of thought came in Primary 3. Nothing since then. Sigh), but while I do have a leash on my mind, it's really a stretchable 100m long leash.

My mum detests the way I think about things. She labels my thoughts on life 'peurile worries', and reminds me constantly that the present has so much to offer, so why think about the past and the future? To her mind, there's so little of the world we can control, so you might as well just be happy.

Which parent wouldn't want their children happy? For that matter, who would ever wish their friends to be locked in an endless cycle of truth-searching too, when we all know that some answers cannot be found?

Maybe that's why Meaning, means so much. It's one of those things you discover on your own, contrary to general advice, earned at great cost.

A Difference

2007-05-04T11:01:00.000+08:00

Sometimes, all of us lose a little bit of our way.

Sometimes, you sit alone, and it is quiet. You hear the birds outside, the wind teasing the leaves on the trees, the crackling of engines labouring to serve their human masters. But it is still quiet.

And you realize, that you could do nothing at all today, not utter a single word nor lift a single finger, and the world would spin on. It is as if the world does not really need you. It's a rude wake-up call.

But many times, many times we are fortunate enough to find our paths again.

And you realize, that you could do something today, just a few kind words, or the simple act of reaching out to a friend. Whatever you do, no matter how small, would mark one more day of you making a difference to this world.

With pain and suffering as the easiest presents to give in this world. even the smallest token of kinship is significant for the people around you.

... And Let The Reason Be Love

2007-05-03T11:54:00.000+08:00

Part Two

Now, with all that background information out of the way, the next question is, how do we utilize it?

And here’s the bit of reasoning and extrapolation that I’m proud of. Boys and girls, ladies and gentlemen, the secret method of utilizing this information, lies in… DOTA.

Yes you heard me right. DOTA.

DOTA, Defense of the Ancients, the Warcraft game that’s the bane of all you poor girlfriends out there. *patpat*

Look, just think about it. You call your boyboy when he’s playing DOTA, and he’s a million miles away from you. There’s nothing you can do to reach out to him, to connect to him. You could walk right up and flash your boobs at him, and he’ll just wave you aside and shout, “Argh I need the money to buy Eul’s Scepter! Don’t disturb me!”

And that’s pretty hard for you to accept, yes? You think of that special moment he confessed his feelings for you, when he said he needed nothing else in this world except you. Your own love for him may give him a certain leeway in playing DOTA, but it often reaches a point when he almost seems like a different person to you.

ITS. THE. CHEMICALS.

DOTA INHIBITS THE CHEMICALS.

When he’s playing DOTA, you’re a girlfriend to him. You have certain strengths, certain weaknesses. You bring enumerated joys to his life, you are important to him in specific ways. You are human, only human.

When he’s NOT playing DOTA, you’re a goddess to him. You’re the sun, the moon, the stars. You’re on such a high pedestal he’s confident of fashioning huge monuments of love from your, er, waste. You know the feeling.

How do you utilize this? Simple. Assuming he’s wholehearted about this reflection process, you give him a list of questions to answer HALFWAY through a DOTA game. Stress that he’s not answering the questions to please you, but to give himself a chance to think about the whole thing properly.

The questions can include:
1. Why me?
2. What do we bring to each other’s lives?
3. What are the obstacles we face?
4. Are the obstacles worth surmounting? Do the efforts outweigh the benefits?
5. Is staying with me now worth it, or should we both look elsewhere first?

For you, the girlfriends of all the DOTA boys out there… I can’t think of any equivalent method by which you can really distance yourself from the relationship, for those few minutes of lucidity. Perhaps, perhaps you could try those quiet nights when he’s busy with DOTA, or you could also go to a soulful, restful place like a church to think about things?

Before I end, this post honestly won’t reach out to many of you. There are just so many different approaches taken towards relationships – some of us want relationships for the long term, some of us want them for the immediate benefits they bring.

Some of us really don’t mind taking the wait-and-see approach, and see no problem with just living the present to the fullest. Why be so fatalistic, Hanting? Why worry so much about making the wrong choices sometimes, why be so fearful of getting hurt? We’re all young, there’s so much to explore!

Maybe it’s just because I feel that blind, indiscriminate love tends to dilute the meaning in every relationship I have had. If I love you, it’s not because of the chemicals in my brain or the headiness of the moment, it’s because… you’ve earned it, by being the person you are.

And if you happen to be similar to me, the sort who prefers to parcel out love in controlled limited-edition quantities, the sort who wants to give his all to a relationship grounded in sturdy, rational foundations, then it would be good if you could just take a short 5 minutes to think about all this yourself.

Wouldn’t you rather have someone learn to love you over a period of time, than to have them love you completely, irrationally right from the start?

Love Me For A Reason...

2007-05-02T23:59:00.000+08:00

Part One

A little background is necessary. What is love?

Love, without resort to dictionary reference, is basically the desire to do things for another. You want to care for that person, make that person happy, watch out for him / her. This often comes at significant personal cost, and is irrational to boot.

But then, the more important question remains. HOW does love arise?

This is the very tricky part. You often love someone for a variety of reasons, and try as you will, you just can’t narrow it down to a few key qualities. You say you love someone for their capacity to care, or their sociability, or their reliability.

But wouldn’t other people have equal or greater quantities of that quality? In those mixes too? Why do you recognize those qualities in your friends, yet never feel any inclination to pursue a relationship with them?

When pressed, people end up admitting that they can’t quite explain exactly why they want someone, at least at first. They put it down to a whimsical caprice of the human heart, or “chemistry”, if you will.

And that’s when the revelation struck! We humans keep searching for that elusive ingredient, that special thing, and the answer, the answer simply is… chemicals.

Chemicals! Secreted by your brain! Hormones! I have no wish to be cynical and dismissive of the great phenomenon that is Love, but I don’t doubt our body processes have something to do with it too!

Many of us may have read about it before, but I had no idea scientists had already shed light on so many intricacies of the chemical processes. You can read the quite thorough scientific explanations for love, right here. It’s really worth the click.

And the simple summary is this: There are two phases of Love, (1) the Attraction / Lust Phase, and (2) the Attachment Phase. The first Phase is powered by chemicals, the second by true mutual understanding and acknowledgement of qualities.

If the significance of this has not hit you yet, it is this. These sneaky chemicals do the following: they make you obsess about someone, they prevent you from assessing the other person’s qualities rationally, and they can also turn you into a love junkie, someone addicted to relationships for that natural high at the start.

In other words, these chemicals emulate the feelings of True Love.

The evolutionary explanation for these chemical processes is simple. This Chemical Love is the springboard which propels people together, which gives them the confidence to overlook their most immediate differences. Once together, they then have that opportunity to work things out. After all, very few people are matches made in heaven, and great amounts of give-and-take are often required.

This, is the Attraction / Lust Phase of Love.

Then, as your bodies build up resistance to the chemicals, the early passions fade away. By now, you would have already seen all that your partner is good for, and your feelings are truly grounded in rational reasons. There won’t be fireworks, but you’ll get the contented, stable, fulfilling Love older couples experience.

This, is the Attachment Phase of Love.

So why is this information important? It’s because I’ve witnessed too many friends, both male and female, rush into a relationship thinking they may just have found their one perfect mate in life. And it’s only later that they look back and wonder, what the hell were they thinking?

If you had an opportunity to learn how your own brain worked, which would add an extra dimension to the way you approach Love, wouldn’t you take it? My suggestion is, don’t scoff at all this too quickly.

Bookmark the links to read later. This isn’t silly information on how heavy Britney is today, or how many times Snoop Dogg got arrested this month. This WILL affect you in an intricate way someday.

(Part Two will go live in a short while! Otherwise the whole thing would have been so long as to put people off, and for some reason I feel like I reallllllly want to share this with you!)

Provision Shops

2007-05-01T23:43:00.000+08:00

AMK Hub opened recently, and it houses one really mega NTUC Hypermart. And since then I've been telling my mum, please shop there, it offers so much more than the dingy little Shop N' Save (SNS) around the corner does. But she refuses, then smiles, then continues on her routine pilgrimages, a loyal SNS devotee to the end.

Back then I just couldn't understand her. I had been to both places, and the contrast is truly startling, so much so that I found it hard pressed to see just how SNS could be the more attractive option.

Look at NTUC. The variety of goods there is astounding. You can get anything you want, from groceries to clothes to Xboxes. The thrill alone of seeing so many things at your fingertips is enough to entice even the most jaded of shoppers.

Compare that with SNS. It’s cosy, I grant you that, but you can’t really get more than the basic groceries you need. Sure, every once in a while you get special sales of clothes or other household items, but that’s about it really.

Before you conclude that I’m a dolt for not recognizing the million other factors involved, allow me to explain. I noticed too that occasionally my mum would pop by NTUC, or other shops for that matter, to get whatever else she could not find from SNS.

That led me to think, which provision shop ever provides you with all you need? Beyond the tangible physical goods on sale, there are the intangible considerations like convenience, or familiarity with the place, or the shopping experience, things like that. No one shop has it all, and that’s why shoppers frequent different places to satisfy all their needs.

Then it hit me – people are like that too. We’re all provision shops in our own right.

I mean, we all have qualities for sale. It just varies from person to person, the exact composition of our inventory on display. Our personalities and circumstances make up the rest of the equation, the intangible aspects like how approachable we are, how trustworthy, how… convenient.

Just like shops, it’s really quite impossible to imagine finding all that you need in a single person. Emotionally, many times, it seems that way, but the reality is that you do need to find other people too, for different things, to satisfy different needs. You can frequent a certain shop and call yourself a die-hard loyal customer, that’s fine, but you’ll amaze me if you did not need to shop at anywhere else for other things.

I’m sure you have noticed as well, that the strongest romantic relationships are those buoyed with multiple kinships with other people. We might find that our significant other fulfills almost all of our needs in life, but hey, the key word is ‘almost’.

It makes you wonder, does it not, what type of shop you want to be. Which slice of the demographic you want to appeal to, how much effort you will expend in keeping yourself well-stocked, how much different or enticing do you want your customer reward system to be…

And those are just the basic questions. What about the business motivations? Are you opening a shop only for the money? Is it profits-driven (think McDonalds / Walmart) or is it interest-driven, where you want to reach out to customers with the same passions (think hobby shops, or specialty food shops). Are you operating a shop merely because it is a means of survival, or because the business itself is your life?

And just as people are shops in their own way, so too are we shoppers, customers. The teenaged Hanting would settle for nothing less than Borders even if he already had a specific book in mind (the hip factor then was undeniable), but now, now if the NUS Coop had it, it would do just fine. Our priorities change in life, and it may take some time before we figure out exactly what we want when we go shopping, but we will eventually.

Just like my mum did, I guess. For all the bells and whistles NTUC has, SNS is good enough. For the time being.

At The Same Point

2007-04-30T23:53:00.000+08:00

I recognized him the moment I stepped into the Notebook Service Centre. It wasn't that hard, actually. After all, he had the same hairstyle, same uniform, same demeanour as he did, one full year ago.

Even the flow of our conversation barely differed from back then, and I accurately predicted his responses to every question I posed. It was almost as if... he hadn't moved from that spot at all, in all the 365 days that had since passed.

Now that's really scary, and I'll try to explain why.

Between the Thomson Muggers, we always said six months was the sweet, magic number to watch for. Every six months, we agreed, you could look back at the changes in your life and you would be amazed at how many developments were impossible to predict.

We tested it by looking six months into the future, and then trying to pinpoint the major changes that lay ahead. Our awkward, amateur prophecies almost always met with the same results - there was simply no way we could describe, with any hint of usefulness, how our lives would develop in the near future.

Of course, we had rough checkpoints to guide us. We could say that in six months we would begin our exchange programs, for example, but beyond that there was no way to predict what type of problems we would face, or how enriching the experience would be.

The futility of trying to wrestle the future into obediently revealing itself further sank in every time we TMs met. Upon catching up properly I would notice changes both subtle and stark, like how Alex had acquired a refined air of independence after her exchange, or how Ivan was looking more and more like a walking corpse after all his medical mugging. There was always change, and we merely had to spot it.

That's why the Notebook Man unsettled me. How did he progress in that one year since? Wouldn't meeting all the people who had streamed into his office, have changed the way he responded to them? When did his replies even begin to acquire their own stifling scent of routine / formality?

Could he still be an employee here, 6 months later, doing the exact same job? Or how about 5 years later? Would I one day break the TMs' Law of Personal Change too, and end up stagnating in terms of personal growth?

It would be nice to for one to always be able to look back and recognize all the little achievements and positive changes, wouldn't you say?

Brother

2007-04-29T23:55:00.000+08:00

(I must admit, and apologize, for the disappointing quality of my posts these days. Haha, a friend even complained to me that my posts aren't as funny anymore.

Well, I do try! But I think the new direction to my blog is a good one. I will write as much as I can, but in the meantime, I'm more interested in sharing my little thoughts each day with you. :) )

Tonight, I realized just how much closer my brother and I have gotten over the past few years. I think it had to do with us being more open with each other, sharing stories about life, the decisions we made, the choices we faced.

Back then it was a rare moment indeed for us both to sit and talk, but now, like the way tonight played out, it was a very warm familiar feeling to have him walk in and say, "Hey we need to talk."

And tonight was indeed a momentous night. He came in, sat with me, and told me about his breakup that took place mere hours earlier. In a pained yet controlled tone he detailed how he and his ex had come to the decision mutually, and that both parties had parted as very close friends.

What struck me was the clear, rational thought that guided his actions. They were quite precariously enamoured with each other, yet still decided that this was a good time for both to explore life, explore University / Army, explore other people. They recognized too the other hurdles in their way, and had clearly acknowledged each and every one.

I was mightily impressed. He had effectively learnt to deal with his emotions, managed to think more than a few steps ahead, and just saved himself and the girl no small amount of pain later. He may only be 19 years of age this year, but I somehow felt he was mature beyond his years.

So I'm dedicating this post to him, in memory of the night when I felt I no longer needed to guide him quite as closely anymore. You've really done me proud, and very few people can ever do that for me.

Internal Issues

2007-04-28T23:13:00.000+08:00

Have you caught Blithe Spirit? It's a comedy drama about a man who accidentally summons the ghost of his first wife, resulting in mayhem as the man, his second wife and the spirit all try to coexist.

And while I was much amused and entertained by the fantastic character portrayals and beautiful language, one underlying theme stood out quite starkly. That of... how it is your perspective / attitude (and not things like wedding vows) that determines how long you can stay together with a partner.

You see, [spoilers ahead!!] when the first wife returned, the husband was ecstatic. They revisited old memories, indulged in long conversations, and rediscovered tender sides to their personalities that had been stashed away.

Yet, within a few weeks, old problems once again reared their ugly mugs. The audience soon saw that their marraige really never was perfect, that it had its own serious flaws, and that there was no way they could have spent eternity together. And eventually, they decided to part again, despite all the good there was to them.

That was a very good illumination of the way people handle staying together, wouldn't you agree?

I'll try to explain. I think it's very very rare for two people to be perfect for each other their entire lives. There are a million other factors, like their stages in life, their needs at that moment, their circumstances. Thus, I always thought it was normal for people to break up and move on, for it is silly to expect life-time commitments all the time.

So, why then is marriage such a big deal? Why is it that at a certain stage, we say ok we will persevere no matter what happens, only upon death do we part?

My point is, I think marriage as a precursor to life-long commitment is an illusion. It is an excuse for people to believe that they have changed for the better, that with the exchange of vows, they will magically keep trying until they die. Marriage does not automatically make you able to commit for life.

Because, if the marriage (after weighing everything, of course, like kids and what not) is not worth it in the end, why should one remain trapped by vows that no longer hold the same meaning?

I’m not encouraging divorce. I’m saying that how one wants to deal with relationships, should come from within, and not from external social obligations like marriage.

I’m saying that at the end of the day, it boils down to what kind of person you are.
If you’re the wanderer sort, who enjoys meaningful relationships but refuse to be tied down for life, no marriage vow will ever chain you. If you’re the other sort, the kind who refuses to leave as long as (in totality) the relationship is worth it, you’ll also hardly need vows to stay together for life.

The couple in Blithe Spirit… they never dealt with surfacing problems, merely sweeping them under. There was no give-and-take. They clearly wanted to pursue their own agendas. It was that which drove them apart eventually.

To end this on a positive note, it is entirely possible for some relationships to last a lifetime. When the external factors are right, and you are ready to commit, you will naturally become the sort of person who is able to last with another to the finish line.

And you wouldn’t even have to have an official marriage to do that.

A Little Note

2007-04-28T03:24:00.000+08:00

Today marks the end of my exams for Year 2!

Today also marks the day I regained friends I thought I had lost. That is perhaps the most important thing to happen to me this entire Sem 2.

So thank you for being there today. It is nice that I shall have fond memories of today. =)

Rain From The Past 2: Suicide

2007-04-26T17:48:00.000+08:00

The first time I remember crying in front of another guy, was way back in 2002. In fact, he cried too. And so did our third and final companion.

We were in the park, all three of us, sitting under a little pavilion. And he had just told us he wanted to commit suicide, because the pain from his break up was unbearable.

The tears... just flowed, from some hidden well within. I was both crushed and furious, and the mix of emotions set me off.

Crushed, because I could empathize with the pain he felt. He and I share many a similar perspective on relationships, and I would be lying if I said that over the last few months I would have done anything different from what he did. He had tried his best, but simply couldn't make it last, and the pain had wrecked him.

But furious too, because he was important to me. I had looked up to him for so many things, and I still do today. And I hated the way he forgot that there are other things worth living for in this life, that we cannot base our entire existence over one partner in life, that there are other friends who need him too.

And so we cried, the three of us. We just let it go, and through the heaving and the tissues and the mucus we managed to remind him that there was more to life, no matter how dark and foreboding the future seemed.

He got better. He picked up the pieces and slowly stitched back a meaningful life. I’m proud of him, quite quite proud. I'm glad I didn't scoff at his fears or ridicule them, that day.

Easy Way Out

2007-04-25T18:19:00.000+08:00

A few years back, I underwent one of the most grueling, challenging camps ever. We called it Council Camp, the rite of initiation into the Students' Council.

The camp was designed to push us to our physical and mental limits, with the underlying philosophy that adversity would bond us all. It was a roaring success. And although I can't really say much else about it here, one lesson from the camp has stuck very hard for me.

And that lesson is, the best lessons are often the toughest lessons.

This exams period, I've had the opportunity to reflect on the years since I left JC. I took a piece of paper, drew big squares to signify every year since secondary school, and basically recounted the things I had learnt in each year.

Not academic things like Pythagoras' Thoerem, or how to detect / uncover a minefield, or how I would structure SMU's Law Degree Program. The life things, the things I had learned about myself, about my relationship with the world, about the people I live with and love.

And I wasn't surprised that the years in which I learnt the most, were also the relatively more painful, angst-ridden years.

It's what most people refer to as the comfort zone. When one is content with life, at peace with the world, inevitably one also becomes a little less striving, less exploratory. I must emphasise here, this is not a bad thing! It is a sublime blessing for one to be at peace with the world, and that feeling is an elusive sparrow that defies even the most dedicated of hunters.

But at 22, an age when I’m supposed to be growing to my full potential, it may not be the best thing for me now.

This current exams period, my usual stress levels were happily quadrupled when I left my comfort zone behind. It happened when I opened my eyes and started thinking, "Where am I in life?"

I reflected upon how I had grown (or not grown) since Law School started 2 years (!) back. I thought about the upcoming exchange year, where I would be quite removed from the friends I draw sustenance from, trying my best to survive in an unfamiliar country.

I freed my insecurities from the cupboard and allowed them to run rampant through the house, as I observed how they had changed during the past year. I also reassessed just how much I impacted the world, what difference it made to the people around me if I continued existing.

Some of you would ask, why think about all this now, just before the exams? Why not wait until after? Well, the answer is two-fold. One, that life often thrusts things upon you, and two, the best lessons are often the toughest lessons.

See, it’s Council Camp working its magic, its long tendrils (yes it was that monstrous) reaching through the years to remind me of the lesson I learnt then. If you have the choice, never, ever pray for the easy way out of things.

The easy way robs you of that opportunity, that chance to learn something. The easy way is less painful, less probing, but it is also less enriching.

Adversity’s such a funny creature, isn’t it.

Choice

2007-04-24T19:54:00.000+08:00

You sit facing me, a questioning ghost of a smile on your lips. You don't know why I suddenly asked you to be quiet for a while, to give me time to say what I want.

But you suspect you know, and that explains the slight furrow in your brow, the short breaths you are taking. We both know that the next five minutes will change everything.

In five minutes, words that I speak will be more than just gasps of air squeezed through my vocal chords, tempered by my tongue. They will tell you what I've been keeping secret in my mind. They will invite you to partake of my innermost thoughts.

But here I am, looking at you, thinking furiously. If I simply laughed now and looked away, we would definitely still stay friends, for a long while more. That weighs heavily on my mind, but I'm distracted, distracted by the way your hair is tied back, distracted by the shimmering reflection of myself in your eyes, distracted by... you.

I'm considering where we'll go from here. We would forge ahead, candles burning twice as brightly for our union, blazing a trail of potent memories and content laughter. Our mutual understanding alone would spill vibrant dashes of colour across our days, and even the little things would suddenly seem worth doing.

We would plumb depths of affection previously unknown to either of us. If ever the darkness that is ahead seems overbearing, in the tangle that is our hands clasping we would feel our fingers squeeze reassuringly, a silent commitment to braving this together.

That seems… tempting. I open my mouth, and begin to speak.

But! But, spectres from the past reveal themselves from the shadows, and in a cacophony of shrill warnings they bid me stay my confession. And I suddenly recall the other possibility, the other outcome. We might one day part, and we would disintegrate like a spider’s web yielding to a vengeful duster.

Paralyzed, floundering without the support of the other, we would wail and rage against things we could not control. Our bountiful memories would acquire a tint of murderous acidity, our previous laughter echoing hollowly. In the Eden garden of our understanding, there would sprout weeds of doubt, of deceit, of decay.

That seems… mildly unpleasant. My words die in my throat, a guttural sound that could mean anything.

Yet I look at you, and I know my heart if not my mind is made up. No bigger fool would there be if I gave up now, before we even started. Even if later I should despair in an endless, boiling pool of sorrow, I would not fault the me that is looking into your eyes now.

I want those precious days, weeks, months of happiness with you, very, very badly.

I smile, and then I try to speak again.

SEXY

2007-04-23T22:46:00.000+08:00

Within 10 minutes of talking to this new female friend, I could see it written all over her forehead.

"Professional Heart-Breaker", it said.

And as one expert to another, I had to salute her. Her mastery of the art was impressive for a Padawan so young.

Before you get it wrong, she wasn’t trying to charm me. Quite the opposite, in fact. She was trying her best to be warm and friendly, yet indicated very clearly at the same time that she wasn’t interested in anything else. That way, she could be bubbly and spirited and endearing, without causing any complications.

It was in the choice of her words, the tact she employed, her body language… Everything about it screamed ‘control’. This clearly was someone who had played the game extensively, not a social butterfly that flits around unaware of the consequences of its flutterings, but a hawk of sorts, talons sheathed and at the ready.

See, once you know SEXY, then everything’s at your control. SEXY stands for Secrets, Electronic-media, eXchange-your-days, and boundarY-markers. Hee. I know it's stretching it, but still it’s a great abbreviation.

Every once in a while, I find friends in sticky situations of their own doing. Either they liked someone and didn’t know how to get it across, or they were on the receiving end of unwanted affection. The stakes certainly are high, for these things have a tendency of complicating perfectly happy friendships.

When you consider too that you often interact with the better halves of your guy / girl friends, all the more do you want to be sure you’re sending the right messages across.

And since we started this post with the anecdote of that new-found friend, we shall continue and explain SEXY from the perspective of someone who doesn’t want attention.

Secrets

Simply, be careful with the stories you trade. It’s all well and good to revisit old stories with a friend, but you cross the line when you start sharing stories out of the public domain.

For example, you can freely share funny stories about your schoolmates, but start telling stories about recent crushes you’ve had, or detailed accounts of past relationships…

The worst is dredging up secrets that ‘really, no one else knows about’. You see, secrets create confidences, little exclusive pockets to your friendship that the world is not privy to.

Once secrets are traded, the two of you start walking around sharing a little special thing with the other. You two laugh when cryptic references are made to it, and you feel special that someone else confided this to you.

Hence, watch the stories you share. Carefully weigh the urge to reciprocate when someone does share a secret with you, especially if you aren’t interested. Be well aware, this applies even to small groups of friends!

Electronic-media

Let’s not kid ourselves. In this day and age, we’re using electronic communication technologies that our parents never had to contend with at our age. But with this comes new sets of protocol, new rules.

Clearly, for MSN / SMSes, the frequency and speed of your replies say a lot more about you than you think. Even the effort to continue electronic conversation may be misconstrued as interest on your part!

Don’t ever be lulled into thinking the emotional distance afforded by MSN / SMSes allows you to flirt wantonly, or that it doesn’t mean anything if you’re in constant contact with someone online. This is our generation’s equivalent of note-writing, after all.

eXchange-your-days

Every day, our heads fill up with thousands of private observations of the world.

Whether you’re on your way to school, or watching TV, or going for a run, you’re still generating random thoughts. You’re thinking about how that cloud in the sky looked funny, or how you met an old friend in town, or how you wish it weren’t as stormy recently.

This is the stuff of which full-blown relationships are built of. This is exactly the sort of luxury couples are afforded, to share their little perspectives on life with each other without fear of reprisal or judgment.

And it is exactly when you begin sharing the smaller details of your days, that you no longer appear 2D to your friend. You blossom into this fully rendered 3D model in their minds, a real person who is alive every minute of the day, someone with whom they can develop an affection for.

Don’t believe me? Examine your relationship with your closest buddies, friends. You’ll find that no matter how close you are, how long you’ve known each other, how many idiosyncrasies are already revealed, you still don’t share the minutiae of each day with each other.

Seriously, there’s a difference.

boundarY-markers

And here we arrive, at the catch-all category.

Verbal markers are easier to conceptualize. Here, all you need to do is to reinforce certain key ideas by making constant reference to them, subtly of course. Doing it right means that you manage to project a certain image of yourself. For example:

“Oh, I don’t know, it depends whether the bf/gf is free I guess”
“Yea the bf/gf says that movie is good too”
“How many children do I want? I’ve not even earned my first million!”
“Nah, I don’t think much of my ex nowadays, the days are so packed!”

And so on. As simple as this sounds, listen very very carefully to what people are saying. If you know a certain someone is attached, yet never ever makes reference to their partner at all, you know something is not too right already. It’s a very powerful indication, verbal markers.

Physical markers are ironically harder to exert control over. You would think that with language your mind would be in a tangle trying to work out all the nuances, but it is in body language that we reveal the most.

Perhaps the first and most important thing to remember here is, it doesn’t matter what your intentions are in doing something. It’s how the other person is likely to perceive it.

A simple example suffices. Say you appreciate a friend’s company because she is particularly good at something, like appreciating plays or playing basketball. And you always engage in that activity with her because you want to enjoy plays with someone who can understand them, or because you want to learn a thing or two about scoring baskets.

If it continues long enough, it gets really messy, yes? How would she know what you really want her company for?

Conclusion

The above may be trite knowledge to you, but you’ll be surprised at how difficult it is to master SEXY. It’s really about being on your toes all the time, understanding the image you are projecting, overcoming tugs of the heartstrings to do what you believe is best for yourself.

Life really is complicated enough as it is.

Waiting

2007-04-22T20:48:00.000+08:00

It's... about 12 hours from my first Paper, and somehow I'm not very stressed out.

For some reason, I find my mind wandering, thinking about today and all the little things I never really noticed.

Things like... the rain. I do like rain pretty much, as the title of this blog subtly hints. But today, after the first drops started coming down, there wasn't the usual plitter-platter I was used to, only this obscene chorus of angry drops upon my roof tiles.

Things like… chips. My parents kindly bought chips of all flavors to tide me through this exam period, but I’ve yet to open a single packet. I came across them today, lying dejectedly in a corner of the kitchen. When my eyes came to rest upon them they danced and cheered and begged me to please partake of them… but I turned away, and they softly sighed and crinkled in disappointment.

Things like… the park. It’s been there all along, but I’ve visited it more often in the past month than I have in the past 11 years I’ve lived here. It’s really a very nice park. It’s cool and shady and it has a swing, on which you can push off and feel weightless for a while.

It’s got to be this exams period. Time flows fast or slow, contrary to your desire at that, well, point in time. The days blend, like a banana-mango-pineapple slurpee, and you mark your progress through them with the stubble on your chin.

But one smiles, and awaits for the end of exams, when one regains a little more control over it all.

* Note: Never really did a rambling post before. It’s cathartic as anything, but also pretty pointless. Haha.

While Stocks Last

2007-04-21T19:47:00.002+08:00

I grew up with my two little female cousins. Or, as it would be more accurate to say, they grew up around my brother and I.

Our mothers are sisters, and through sheer coincidence their family moved into a house in the adjacent estate. Since then, our two families have spent a lot of time together, even going so far as to have dinners together most days of the week.

And as they grew older, one girl of 12 and the other 8, they began to interact with my brother and I on different levels. I mean, when they were young, interaction was limited to animal noises and peek-a-boo games. But as they got older, they began asking more difficult questions.

Just last week, the older one proudly shared her newly acquired nugget of trivia with us, that the youngest mother in the world is 10 years old. We adults of course shook our heads, saying that she was far too young to be a mother. Shauna (that's the 12 year old) then said it wasn't the girl's fault, she probably didn't even know she had hit puberty, and maybe was just sleeping in the same room as her father.

Cue the uneasy silence.

And then we changed the topic.

You see, it isn't about the difficulty of talking about the birds and the bees. It's having to explain to a child the reality that some people out there abuse their children. It's having to explain that the world is really a very raw place, that not all parents are nice, not all children get to live as happily as you think.

It's even harder with Sophia, the younger one. She's insatiably curious. She's also awfully direct with her questions.

"Kor-kor Honteng, are there any friends you hate?" "Why did Fido (our dog) die?" "Why did you have to break up?" "If Grandma wasn't Christian, then is she in hell now?" “Why are you so pimpley?”

I like it best when after I reply with my most PR, tactful answer, she would just scrunch up her face in concentration, say, "Wa I don't understand a word you're saying!" and then run off. It's an innocence she shouldn't be too hasty to lose.

Shauna, Sophia, if one day you're reading this, it's not that I want to lie to you. It’s just that even I, all 22 years of experience, can't answer some of the questions you're asking.

Why do bad things happen? Are they for our own good? Why do people go out of their way to hurt each other? How does love die? Do things really get better the older you get? Why can't we seem to understand why things happen?

It’s always painful to learn things that rock the foundations of your world. I remember, back when I was a kid, my parents had a fight so bad that I sat crying in my room, shutting my ears out and just praying really hard that they would be nice to each other again. I never took them for granted, after that.

And it doesn’t get easier, the older you get. The only difference is that you can’t really go back up to your room and wait out the storms. Most of the time you’ve got to face the unpleasant realities head-on, and try your darndest best to deal with them.

Hey, go on, find me an adult with no emotional scars, and I’ll give you a 22 year-old with wisdom.

So, my dear cousins, enjoy it while it lasts. The world’s bright and shiny now, with good people walking the streets and bad ones all locked up in jails somewhere, where rain means rainbows, and loss means your sister snatching away your Barbie.

I hope for your sake it lasts just that little longer.

Short Stories 1 - We Have No Use For Them

2007-04-21T02:11:00.000+08:00

I sat behind the counter, fiddling with the stationery. Ms. Leene sat beside me, papers of the day meticulously folded into a neat square in front of her. She barely made a sound as the papers rustled under her thin fingers.

Barely 3 hours into my temp job here, already I felt I couldn't breathe. It... it was the patients. They would come in sullen, morose, crestfallen, holding a grubby little slip in their hands - their appointment cards. I would tick them off the list (subject to Ms. Leene's approval) and then send them in to the doctor's.

And when they left, they all had the same blank, peaceful, idiotic expression. That was the worst part. Patients are supposed to leave better, not... different.

The checklist of questions was printed out and tacked in front of me. Ms. Leene was very particular about this. "Ask every question there, and be sure you get their answers. Only when you're satisfied then do they sign their forms and go on in. Understand?"

I understood, of course. We had to make sure the patients knew what they were in for, what they were asking for. People who didn't fully understand the procedure tended to get lawsuit-happy afterwards. It's no small deal, you know, having your memory erased.

Swish! went the glass doors as they slid open to present the latest patient. Barely 3 hours here, and we just received our 17th… and 18th patients.

She had her head bowed, standing one significant step behind the man. I couldn’t see her face, what with the hastily-set shawl over her head, but I didn’t really need to look closer to know she couldn’t be smiling underneath.

He stood at the doorway, looking down at his slip again, then up at the clinic’s logo. A man of average stature, he looked not a day beyond 25. But his hands were trembling, his eyes were bleary, his stubble poking up defiantly like spilt ash on pristine silk. Oh, this one had it bad.

They walked over to the counter with surprising resolve, and he wordlessly passed me his slip. After checking it against the records, I flicked the switch to turn on the hidden cameras that would record our ensuing exchange, and began the standard spiel Ms. Leene had instructed me in.

“Good day, thank you for choosing our memory clinic. Now this card indicates that both of you are slated for an appointment, but before you go in, just some formalities, if you please. First, are both of you sure that…”

Ms. Leene pushed aside her papers, leaned forward, and turned the cameras off. “It’s ok,” she said, “the doctor is ready to see you. You may enter together, if you wish.”

They might have been emotionally distraught, but they could still recognize authority when they saw it. They nodded, as one, and shuffled into the doctor’s room. From where I sat, I could hear the doctor warmly, cheerfully greet them, in a tone that was strangely antiseptic and human at the same time.

I opened my mouth, trying to frame my question in the most respectful of ways. After administering 16 painfully detailed interviews, listening to Ms. Leene rebuke me over and over for any mistakes I made, hearing her emphasize how important formalities and protecting our asses were, she actually did something like this?

The whirring sounds began to seep out from the doctor’s room. It had already begun. I wondered who was undergoing the treatment first, him or her?

“It’s ok, I know what you’re going to ask.”

“No, mam, with respect, it’s not ok. You just spent the whole morning telling me we had a job to do, that we had to watch out for them too. That we had to be sure they wanted it too. What if they didn’t want the procedure?”

Ms. Leene returned to her papers, hardly seeming to notice as my angry accusations rolled off her.

“Oh come on now. I’ve heard their stories many times, and frankly, I have no idea how they can get their memories wiped clean, leave this clinic as strangers, and yet somehow fall in and then out of love again within months. Some people should just stay away from each other! I’m not going to listen to their tragic story yet again, not on my last day here.

That’s their fourth time here, together, you know.”

*Note*: Yes, this is a rip-off of Eternal Sunshine, but I like to think of it as a tribute instead.

Her World

2007-04-20T02:55:00.000+08:00

Do forgive me if my posts aren't as funny or amusing for a while! It's the exams, and faced with a choice between blogging normal posts and not blogging because my posts aren't amusing, I'll rather blog. =)

Anyways, I was paid a high compliment recently by a friend who said I was one of the more moral people he knew. Interestingly, feedback I've received seem to indicate that my moral convictions manifest overwhelmingly in one facet... in the way I treat girls. Or ladies, if you happen to be a bit older.

This was somehow most apparant in the army. There was once when my OC (that's the senior officer in charge of us) and I went off to comfort a fellow officer who had just broken up. The way we comforted him... you can see for yourself.

Friend: (sobbing)

Me: Hey, you know, it's not that bad... you two can't be together now, but think of all the good times you two...

Friend: (sobs harder and louder)

Me: Er! No! I mean, what you two had was very special, and it's not something everyone gets to experience, so cherish the times...

Friend: (starts bawling)

OC: Hanting what the hell are you doing! Get lost get lost! (turns to Friend) Ok, you listen to me. Did you get to squeeze her ****s or not. Answer me.

Friend: (stops crying for a while, dazed look upon face, nods)

OC: (laughing) Then its ok la! You didn't lose anything, you gained a lot leh! For free!

Me: Huh?!? Sir, what the hell is that type of advice?

Friend: (starts smiling) Thanks sir, feel better now.

Yes. It may have been paraphrased, but that was the gist of the conversation. When they then started chuckling and talking about the poor girl's ****s, I was completely stunned. Ohhhkaaay. I had somehow entered the Twilight Zone, where morals and priorities are wildly different.

But that's me. For the female friends I'm closer to, I've always disapproved tactfully if they behaved wantonly, or if they dressed down too much. I've corrected the way girls sat, gently advised them against fooling around, and never once thought impure thoughts of my female friends.

Suffice it to say I’ve always respected females, and have yet to take advantage of any female, emotional or otherwise.

Apparently, and unfortunately too, it’s not the common standard of decency to expect of most men. I’ve heard of guy friends who push the boundaries with their cavalier ways, and of female friends who have come to expect nothing less. And for the record, alcohol is not an excuse for anything!

But here’s the surprising part. I didn’t inherit these values from my parents, for they are conservative Chinese folks who hardly touch upon these topics. I fashioned them after… the agony-aunt columns in Her World.

(No, I do not spend my money on those mags. Even if I were a girl, paying $10 on mags which are 50% advertisements of things you can’t wear anyway, 40% lifestyle crap you can’t afford, and 10% sex advice you can’t utilize… nuh-uh)

You see, my mum had scores of them when I was younger. (Please disregard the 50%-40%-10% thing with regards to my mum… that’s my opinion, so I have no idea what she wants them for.) And as a curious young lad, I found joy in reading the articles, just to see what the big fuss was about.

And yes, it was the agony-aunt columns that fascinated me the most.

I just couldn’t believe the stories laid out there. Typically, they would be about a girl who’s persuaded into an intimate relationship with her boyfriend, “out of love”, “for him to stay loyal”, “to show that she is true to him”. And then she would get preggers, and the boyfriend would leave.

Or, they would be about their boyfriends / husbands cheating on them. Or about their men abusing them physically / emotionally / verbally. You get the picture.

After a while it hit me that quite a lot of men are bastards. And what was scarier, I found that I could suddenly see the common techniques men use to ensnare their women, that it was suddenly within my power to choose to walk the dark path too.

For example, I shall demonstrate two scenarios in which you, the male, can carry out spousal abuse. One scenario is ‘incorrect’, and would lead to her walking out on you. The other is ‘correct’, and would allow you to happily beat her for years.

Scenario 1 >> You beat her during an argument. She is sobbing in a corner. You beat her again, and again, then you shout that it’s not your fault, and you storm out of the house, telling her you don’t care if she hates you.

Scenario 2 >> You beat her, then when she cries, apologize profusely. Cry with her too, and blame yourself. Tell her you need her to survive, that she makes you a better person. Accept her forgiveness, then hug / kiss her / say “I love you”. Then, repeat from beginning.

Look, if you can’t figure out which scenario is ‘better’, just forget it. I’m not giving the answer here. Spousal abuse is, like, just way wrong, ok? I was just illustrating a point.

As I was saying, I realized then that it was up to me entirely, to choose how I wanted to be. One path meant training oneself to be considerate, sensitive, gentle, if only to make that one girl feel truly special. The other meant dehumanizing girls, honing the art of mind games until you could destroy their self-worth and pillage all you wanted.

And I thought, it can’t be that difficult to be nice and sincere now, can it?

Lest you think this is some ego-stuffed post, about me being some god-like SNAG, it isn’t. I've certainly had my fair share of mistakes, and I admit to them.

But it is a post about how I think more guys should treat their ladies, and how when one partner (guy or girl) begins to trust and depend on the other, the person who’s received that trust should never abuse it.

For goodness’ sake, you’re supposed to be providing.

You Can't Outsmart Me!

2007-04-19T15:17:00.000+08:00

Here's something different, for a change.

Last night my brother came over to share a couple of lame jokes with me, wanting to show that he could outdo me in this department. Alas, he left my room a very humbled boy.

HL: Hey kor! Ok you see right, Doraemon was walking down the street when he saw Hello Kitty. Doraemon said "hi", but Hello Kitty didn't reply! Why?

HT: Um... cause Hello Kitty has no mouth?

(short silence)

HL: Have you heard this joke before?

HT: No! You just can't accept that I'm good right?

HL: Ok fine. So then Hello Kitty went home, and sewed herself a mouth. The next day, when she passed by Doraemon, this time she took the initiative to say "hi", but now it was Doraemon's turn not to reply! Why?

HT: Um... cause Doraemon has no ears?

(longer silence, exasperated brother)

HL: Ok whatever! Now the last part of the joke. This guy was walking with the most beautiful girl in the world, when he fell down. What did the girl say to him?

HT: What type of stupid joke is this? Of course she said "Hanting are you alright??"

That was when he left the room. I had to follow him and taunt him for the next 10 minutes about how witty I was.

Pity though, I never got the proper punchline for that last joke.

Famous Amos

2007-04-18T20:05:00.000+08:00

Today, I received a very interesting present!

Yes, the delivery man rolled up to my doorstep with a Famous Amos delivery! One jar of chocolatey-goodness! As an exam present!

I got this:

Thank you Mr. J and Mrs. J-to-be-eventually. You two were very very thoughtful. =)

Badge

2007-04-17T15:05:00.000+08:00

It is very common for people experiencing emotional pain, to ask, why?

And it is very common for other, happier, people to tell the sad ones that it was a test, a test for them to surpass themselves, to learn about themselves. That all things happen for a reason, and that this will help them grow and be better people.

That works for a short while. Then, it fails to pacify any further, like a salve that's been diluted too many times over. Because, these sad people start to ask, what are the lessons I'm supposed to learn? What did I even do wrong, to deserve a test of this kind?

Well, I asked that question today too, and the answer I ended up with, was surprisingly refreshing and effective. And I want to share it with you, so that in the event you need to reach out and help someone too, this answer I found might be useful for you.

A caveat begin I continue! I must describe the pain in question, for we all know there are many different kinds of pain and as many different remedies.

This pain in question, is a pain of loss. It's a pain of helplessness, feeling that you have done all you could but still to no avail. It is a pain of crushed expectations, of having the bottom fall out from your plans for the future. It is a pain of unable to recall the good times, for dwelling upon them ironically brings more suffering. It is a pain from affection that has yet to retire, that still urges you in your sleep to love.

What is it not? It is not a pain of regret, a feeling that you could have done something more. It is not a pain of shame or guilt, where you know you did something wrong and you wish you hadn't taken that fateful step that day. It is not a shallow pain, where you merely miss the superficial benefits and you wish you weren't so inconvenienced.

And my answer to someone saddled with that pain, is this.

"Your pain, is a badge that you are wearing. It is a badge that signifies all the things you have done right. You have earned this pain, so be proud to wear it.

Pained because there was nothing else you could do? That's good. You did everything in your power. You never gave up for lack of courage, and you kept at it until you knew you could do no more.

Pained because of crushed expectations? That's good too. You planned for a future. You earned the right to feel stable and secure, and with that privilege you planned the days ahead. Not very many people ever feel safe enough to look beyond the next week.

Pained because you dare not reminisce? You had good times! You managed to make different corners and pockets of the world special with the good times you had there. You took routine, everyday events and infused them all with a myriad of gems and pearls, making them all worth remembering for a long time to come.

Pained because your love is like a cockroach that refuses to die? If your love dissipated like a nervous whisper upon the winds, if it were so unsubstantial and feeble it refused to stand up and be counted, was it any good to you in the first place?

You do not have regrets because you never once cut corners, sold yourself short. You did all that you could do. You do not feel shame, because you never cheated, you never did something for which you have to apologize for.

You earned all that. If this happened and you felt no pain... then nothing meant anything to you. But you do feel pain. So wear it proud upon your chest. Embrace it, and with every pang you feel, remember that you deserve every bit of it."

I hope it works for you, if you should need it, because it worked for me.

Movie Spoiler 1 - Adam's Apples

2007-04-17T09:27:00.000+08:00

A few months back, I caught this movie called Adam's Apples. (Yes, you can click it to read about it.) And I've been mulling over the movie, for the issues it raises are quite interesting.

The movie's a dark comedy, extremly tragic yet perversely funny at the same time. We see a convict called Adam get a chance to do community work at a church, and there he meets a pastor named Ivan.

The thing is, Ivan has a very, very tragic life. We soon learn that as a child he was abused by his father, his mother ran off with another man, his first son was born a quadriplegic, and his wife killed herself in front of him after she could no longer endure caring for their son. And, that he has advanced brain cancer himself.

Yet, despite all these setbacks, Ivan seems fully unaware of his situation! He tells Adam that his wife is merely on holiday, that his son is a sportsman, that his parents are off well in the countryside together. Moreover, the full-blown cancer that the doctors diagnosed doens't even seem to be taking its toll on Ivan at all.

Oh yes, Ivan was waayy deep in denial. His core philosophy, the one thing that carried him through the days and gave him strength, happened to be his faith in God. Whenever our hero Adam points out the obvious, such as telling Ivan that his son was really a quadriplegic, Ivan merely shrugs, saying that God's plan is not to be so easily revealed. "Every day is a day with God's blessings," Ivan reminds Adam.

And so Adam, in a fit of malicious mean-spiritedness, forces Ivan to face reality. Adam not only brings together all the external indicators of Ivan's tragedy (clippings of his wife's suicide, his cancer diagonosis, etc), but also scoffs at Ivan's beliefs, mockingly telling him that the truth was that God had left him, and that God is persecuting him.

Bereft of his faith, Ivan collapses. His cancer wreaks its havoc, and Ivan is fully incapacitated.

But now it is Adam's turn to witness a miracle. Gangsters attempting to recruit Adam back into their fold run across Ivan, and in a scuffle they shoot Ivan point blank in the face. Adam rushes Ivan to the hospital, and learns that the bullet not only failed to kill Ivan, but also blew away all his cancer cells. For all intents and purposes, Ivan survived, and was recovering fast.

Thus does the movie end, with Adam choosing to believe too then that there was something greater than himself, which he could not fully comprehend.

For me, the movie both celebrated faith, and served dire warnings about it. On one hand faith is a life-preserver, helping us achieve our potential in a world that we can't understand with logic alone. Yet, the movie was a cautionary tale too, for faith if ever wrongly channelled, would just lead to a whole life of lies.

I've recently experienced the limitations of logic myself. For years it has served me well, giving me a foundation on which to chart my life. Strange as it may seem, logic can't explain all sometimes, and I'm not even talking about the big mysteries of life. I'm talking about the little things in life, the little occurrences, the little relationships between us humans.

Like Ivan experienced in the movie, it's very strengthening to know that the trials and tribulations one goes through aren't simple caprices of fate, but more of events that help us improve and become 'perfecter', in the words of one of my friends.

I want to see too how far I can go.

My Conscience, That Didn't Drop From The Sky

2007-04-16T14:09:00.000+08:00

One day, eventually, I might have to take up the responsibility of being a father.

Now, the question is, what makes a father worthy of being a father? It can't be an age thing, where if you're 23 you're unfit, but once you're 28 you're magically qualified. No, it can't be that.

What makes a father are his qualities. His character, his personality, his temperament. Without those, how can he expect to guide his children? Of all the various qualities, however, the one I was thinking about recently was Conscience.

Now we all know the difficulties with determining a standard of morals. For the sake of brevity, I'll summarize by saying no one man, country nor religion has a monopoly on morals. Society can have its obvious norms (like you can't kill another human), but in this world you soon find a myriad of circumstances which change the rules (can you kill a murderer? Or someone who is about to kill 50 more?).

In fact, you soon find that it's not just a question of what you personally feel is right, you've got to consider the interests of others. My Law School entrance interview question was, "If you had to legislate for the gays in your society, would you let your personal feelings affect your decision, or would you objectively weigh the interests involved?"

(I had to raise my eyebrow at that question, because I had a sinking feeling my interviewer was gay, and I didn't know if it were a subtle inquiry into my orientation.)

I'm trying to push myself, to learn to be resolved and principled, so that by the time I'm older I'll be strong enough of character to be able to provide for others. Therefore, the test I've adopted for myself, is not only whether I can sleep at night after doing something, but also whether my loved ones can sleep at night, knowing what I did.

Now, this is very tricky ground. Should we do the right things for oneself, or for the sake of others? Where the two overlap it is all well and good, but assuming they do not overlap?

Let me offer an example. Some time back, the papers carried a story of refugees in Thailand (I think) rushing to collect food supplies for their familes, with the tragic result that many died in the stampedes. Now, the father who did rush in, and who managed to get food for his family, may be able to sleep at night. But, would his children agree? Could they still respect him knowing that he contributed in a stampede and killed someone for their food?

The converse is true too. Say the father refuses to go, telling his kids he doesn't want to run the risk of hurting others in a stampede. It is a matter of principle, he says. Would his kids respect him then? Would they with their growling stomachs look at him with moist eyes and say that's the kind of backbone they want to develop? (... at the expense of other vital organs, since nutrition is at a premium)

To make this simpler, we have two broad categories, one where everyone's fundamental survival is assured, and the other, where it is not.

Where Survival Is Assured: Here, where the father's actions either way lead to no dire conseqences, there is no excuse for him not taking the right / principled path. It's a fairly simple scenario.

Say his kids ask him to buy a PS3 for them. He can do so (to provide for them, to reward them etc), or he can choose not to (matter of principle, spending money wisely). Either way, his kids should respect him, because the father is doing the right thing, the principled thing.

Where Survival Is Not Assured: But what about when survival is an issue? Say its food that the father can ill-afford to buy. Does he resort to underhanded means to provide for his family? Or does he live by his principles and seek some other way for his family to survive, hard as it may be?

The answer, unfortunately, can't be found by flipping to the back pages. Life isn't an assessment book. I doubt that society can even come to a consensus as to whether the right to survival justifies all actions.

(When I first explained my views to friends, the lawyers in them rightly pointed out that my refugee-father scenario is too simplistic. There are a thousand other factors involved. Are there other ways of getting food? Could he get the handouts without trampling on others? This made my scenario so simplistic, so black-and-white that it's useless to discuss using it.

Well, THANK YOU. That's my point! In life there are a thousand factors for every decision! You can only expect to find out what my general principles are, and trust that I will make considered decisions whenever I need to, right? You can't expect me to choose a certain path for every choice I'm faced with, right?)

That's why I prefer my simple 'sleep at night' test. Do I wake up feeling I did something wrong? Can I face my family members / friends?

My own moral code is the general one that society adopts, and when it comes to the subtler issues, I always make it a point to consider all the factors very hard. Rare would it be for me to be unable to defend my position.

In a draft of this post I had prepared fully fleshed out scenarios like the refugee-father one above, and I answered every scenario as best I could. But that's far too dry to read on a blog. The point is, if you really want to know how I am as a person, come talk to me.

It's that simple.

Signs

2007-04-16T06:48:00.001+08:00

I am always careful when I listen to friends' accounts of how they have received signs, of the divine sort.

It is because I recognize that coincidences do happen, and that the human mind when unguarded will mistakenly recognize the wrong things as positive signs. My fear is that we may sometimes lead ourselves down the wrong paths if we were to give undue weight to certain coincidences or phenomena.

Well, today I received one myself, and I wonder how I will eventually come to acknowledge it. A sign, or pure coincidence?

You see, this morning I couldn't really get to sleep again. There was just this potent sense of loneliness that beseiged me as I lay in bed in the dark, and I thought of how the whole world was sleeping and away. It was like being on MSN when your entire friends list is marked as "Busy" or "Away".

After I had eventually managed to doze off, I awoke abruptly at 6, and simply could not get back to sleep. And so, taking a leaf from a friend's book, I decided to walk out and seek a nearby chapel, one that I've always passed by but never really paid much attention to.

My intention was merely to be in a place away from home where I could think and search for answers, or more accurately, understanding. I had wondered about how I would interact with any church members who might have been there, but in any case it was still early, and the shutters to the doors were down.

So I sat on a little staircase nearby, just thinking about things and searching for the strength and resolve to move on. And, within 2 minutes of me closing my eyes, a mere 120 seconds of me thinking about the horrid lonely night I just spent...

... I felt a cat brush past me.

This orange tabby cat, this majestic looking, sharp-eyed feline, started encircling me. He (I think) first nuzzled my legs, then put its head near my tummy (got space la I know what you're thinking), and basically just threw itself at me, purring whenever I stroked it, nuzzling me all over. He never left me all the time I sat there, and even followed me a little ways when I left for home.

(I wasn't used to this because it was the first time I've had a cat, or an animal for that matter, so unconditionally throw itself at me. Human beings I've learnt to get used to.)

That walk home, I felt at peace again.

Was that a sign, I wonder now. It could be (A), that I attract stray cats, who need a scratching / rubbing post that's warm. It could also be (B), that it was trying to tell me that I'm not really that alone, sometimes.

I'll leave that conclusion-finding till later. Meanwhile, I'm appreciating the respite this brought.

TOD

2007-04-16T00:31:00.000+08:00

It was on some lazy afternoon that I flicked the TV on and caught the opening minutes of ER (George Clooney looked so much younger then!). Now, I had just finished watching Season 2 of House, and was very eager to spot the differences in standards of both shows.

So after the introductory credits rolled, viewers were treated to a scene where this badly maimed child was wheeled in, nurses all screaming, paramedics trying their best to stop the blood squirting out of him.

The doctors played by Clooney and some dude called Anthony Edwards took over quickly, and when they realized the child's heart had stopped, Edwards stuck his hands in his chest and began massaging it. This, unfortunately, went on for an excruciatingly long time.

(After a while)

Clooney: Mark, stop. Just stop.

Edwards: No! Nurse, quick! 10 milligrams of idunnowhatthehellhejustsaid!

(More exciting, 'heart-pumping' moments, hurhurhurhur)

Edwards: Come on damn it! Come on!

Clooney: (grimly, looks at the clock) Stop it Mark. Time Of Death, 1800 hrs, Sunday.....

Edwards: (upon hearing "Time Of Death") Damn it!

Of course, by this time I was almost laughing. I mean, come on! How ridiculous was it for Edwards to keep trying when any doctor could have seen that the child was too far gone? The child had lost so much blood, he had apparantly suffered brain damage too, what was the point?To my mind, Edwards' character was not believable at all, no way.

I turned off the TV, and never thought about that scene until today.

Edwards wasn't exactly wrong, now that I think about it. He was, like any other human being faced with the loss of something dear and precious, was only trying his utmost best to save it.

And he was, like any other human being, sensitive enough to know when it was too far gone, when he had to let go. When false hope no longer did anything but made the pain worse.

He was believable, after all. He has to be believable, right?

After all, I did the same tonight.

Ask Me And I'll Tell You

2007-04-15T12:55:00.000+08:00

I always get this sinking feeling when people ask my opinion on something personal. Questions like "Does this dress look pretty on me?" or "Is the dish I prepared tasty?" or "How do you like this poem I wrote?"

The dread doesn't come from the thought of having to lie (which I don’t) or from the effort of commenting on things I don’t usually notice. The dread comes from the inevitable response I get from them after I comment.

“Stop lying la! Can you please not be so PR / PC / polite and just tell me what you really think?”

You see, it’s not that I’m afraid of stepping on people’s toes. I know too that by the comments I give, people eventually end up not trusting me instinctively, seeing me as someone who is always guarded and careful.

But it’s a matter of principle, and ironically, it’s only because I’m trying to be truthful! I don’t want to give a flippant answer, I want to put effort into my reply and try my best to be constructive! Using an example to illustrate, compare the two questions below:

Q1: Does this dress look pretty?

Q2: When I wear this dress, do you like the overall look I’m sporting, just yes or no.

For Q2, it’s simple enough. The person is looking for just a yes / no answer, and that’s all I need to say. If I like it 51%, I would say yes, no qualifications needed.

But, for Q1, it’s not that simple. Sure, I could say yes / no for the dress, but I’m thinking a few steps further. I’ve got to imagine the dress on you, then I’ve got to think of the occasion that you’re dressing up for, or maybe how your hair is worn that day. It’s a question that has to be answered in context, right?

Therefore, I reply, “The dress is not very colourful, and the cutting’s a bit old-fashioned, but I think you will be able to carry it off, especially when you wear it to work. Yes, it’ll suit you quite well!” Alas, that’s exactly when I get accused of being too PC.

You’ve got to understand, I’m not out to curry favour or lie to you. But I want to answer in a way that is useful, that is constructive. Would it make sense to tell you right before your birthday party that I personally think your dress looks old-fashioned, when objectively its fine? Is it fair for my single perspective to plant that vile seed of doubt and unrest in your mind?

Maybe the origins of my attitude lie in the way I see the world. I can’t live in a world of black and white. Things are shaded all the way through, and that’s the reality of living amongst other people. The best one can do is to have strong principles on how to handle every situation, and then simply strike out from there. You then assess the circumstances that you're in, and you respond appropriately.

Now, what if my opinion was sought not on something material, something superficial, but about… another person?

Tricky tricky! But again, for me it’s quite clear cut. There are people I like, there are those I don’t. How then, am I to react towards those people I don’t like? On one hand I have my principles of being constructive, of not being mean-spirited, but on the other I also have my conscience to contend with, for I can’t possibly pretend to like people when I really don’t.

I like to do this: for the people I like, I give them my all. I always try to amuse them, listen to them, advise them whenever I can. I look out for them, remember the little things that matter to them, and generally try to make them feel appreciated.

For the people I don’t like, however, I try to live with them. You can call it considered toleration. If I don’t like them for a particular aspect, but they interact with me in a civil way in an unrelated issue, I am civil.

For example, say this acquaintance of mine is an incorrigible playboy. I know he leaps from girl to girl, taking and never giving, breaking hearts left and right. I don’t approve of that. But if he were to ask me which movie playing in town would I recommend to him, I can’t possibly tell him to buzz off, can I?

And if I don’t like them in totality, if all that they stand for is against my principles, I simply will avoid them. If we pass each other in the corridors I might tip my hat in their direction out of respect for the positive qualities they possess, out of civility, but I will never share my thoughts, my feelings, my life, with them.

I’m not out to be popular. I’m also not out to strain my relations with a society I have to live with at the end of the day. What I do want to do, is always to be as constructive as I can, and to bother to think one step further for friends and family.

And I think I can live with that.

To end off this post, and to acknowledge my recent spate of reflective posts, I shall do something unusual. For the next few days, depending on demand, you can leave a request on my tagboard for a SUPER FRANK appraisal of what I think of you. Yes, in case you’re dying to know how I perceive you after all this time, and you dare to read a no-holds-barred post on what I think of you, just tag me and write something unique to our relationship so that I know it’s you and not an impersonator.

I’ll then devote a whole post to explaining how I see you, in my mind’s eye. Haha, I may end up regretting this, but I’m tired of people not believing me.

Baby Steps

2007-04-14T14:16:00.000+08:00

As a rule I never repost things I've posted before. But again, now when the exams are looming and my creative juices have dried up, allow me to bend the rules and stick up an old poem I wrote once for a friend.

Oh Father in heaven hear my prayer
For without your guidance I am doomed to failure
Grant me strength to see me through
All present storms and those that ensue
In this urgent time of need
Please, my little prayer you must heed

Blind my eyes to all bad memories
I won't be complete but I won't miss the cavities
I refuse the baggage, the weight
I'd rather grow slower than stagnate
For what use are ghosts of the past
When even the good memories don't last?

Remove my sensitivity!
It's more a curse than a necessity
Consideration for others holds me back
It's strength I desire, hardness I lack
No longer can I suffer for others' sake
From this self-inflicted sadness I must awake

But...

But most of all, for my relief
Please restore my belief
Make me see that people are worth trusting
Make me see that love is worth giving
Even if I may be hurt again
Give me faith that will not wane

All Things Happen For A Reason

2007-04-13T19:26:00.000+08:00

About six years ago, I fell in love, for the first time. About four years ago, I broke up, for the first time.

I remember being very bitter about it then. There was much that I didn’t understand, and the pervasive feeling of helplessness that engulfed me threatened to cast a permanent nightfall on my days.

But time heals all wounds, and as I matured I understood the difficulties that she faced too. And the day that I came to terms with it all, I penned a letter to her. I kept the draft.

Why, you would ask, am I bringing this up only now, after a space of so many years? It is only because many times over the last four years I have had occasion to reread the tattered draft, and now is a time when the Hanting of years ago speaks most directly to me.

The letter is as follows.

Dear S___,

I must admit, it was not easy when you left. There was hardly a moment of rest for my weary mind, as I kept turning the events of the last few weeks around. Oh, how I longed for blissful dreamless sleep then!

But here’s the amazing part. One day, just on an ordinary, common, totally unusual day, it suddenly lifted! The cloud which hung over me dissipated completely, and I suddenly found myself in your shoes, looking out through your eyes, understanding how things must have gone on your side.

I suddenly felt… free.

I see it now. There are some things that are really out of our hands, some things we can’t change by force. Our feelings for each other, for example. When you told me you no longer felt the same about us, I struggled so hard, thinking that by dint of effort we could somehow start afresh.

You must understand, I was aghast at the idea of losing you. You meant so very much. And I thought too that I couldn’t simply sit on the side and watch you make up your mind to leave. If it meant something to me, shouldn’t I do something about it, shouldn’t I exhaust all my options before giving up the fight? I refused to give up until I had seen for myself with my own eyes that it was impossible.

But, as I can understand now, people’s needs change with time. We just weren’t right for each other then, and no amount of long-distance calls could have changed that. Love should come easy, and there was no way I could live with forcing you to love me too.

What does all this say about certainties in life? If this relationship of ours, this rock I had confidently held onto, could slip away in the raging oceans in the twinkle of an eye, what did it mean for life at large? I grappled with this question long and hard, and my conclusion is that… we really can’t do much.

Who can say what happens next? I recall the saying that the only two things certain in life are death and taxes. And that’s right, you know. But since our break up I’ve learnt that uncertainty doesn’t mean I should hole myself up in an attempt to insulate myself.

For me now, uncertainty only means that I’ve got to really treasure every happy moment that I can squeeze out of life. That I cannot take things for granted. That every friendship, relationship, has to be fully, fully appreciated.

The romantic in me likes to think that with sufficient time, we will be friends again, maybe even more. But let that come when it comes. For now, I want you to know that I support you fully in your decision to leave me, strange as it sounds.

You were brave to open your eyes to what we truly were, and not simply settle for an unconsidered relationship. You were strong to choose the path that would ultimately lead to the most happiness for us, rather than simply taking the easy way out.

I will cherish the memories we had together, painful as they might be. For they have forged us into the people we are.