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.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Talents
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.”
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.”
Friday, March 14, 2008
Spring Break!
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!
Will be away for about a week, will try to blog from there! Back with pictures soon!
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Once In A Lifetime
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. =)
Monday, March 10, 2008
Ponytail
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.
Saturday, March 08, 2008
Mother Tongue
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.
Thursday, March 06, 2008
Phantom
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.
Friday, February 08, 2008
On The Road
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.
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.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Without Lifting A Finger
"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.
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.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Sorry Mum I Won't Do It Again
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.
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.
Thursday, December 06, 2007
Appreciation
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.
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.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Easy Money
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.
"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.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Sobs
Fish.
I came across this today in school, and it made me sob. Hehe.
http://animalcrossingtragedy.ytmnd.com/
I blame the song too.
I came across this today in school, and it made me sob. Hehe.
http://animalcrossingtragedy.ytmnd.com/
I blame the song too.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
The Secret To Happiness
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Why Didn't I Do This Earlier
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. =)
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. =)
Monday, September 24, 2007
Ugly Duckling
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.
"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.
Monday, September 17, 2007
White Lie
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.
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.
Friday, September 14, 2007
Not Entirely Broken
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.
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.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Rapunzel
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
To Fly Away
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.
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.
Friday, July 27, 2007
Green Thumb
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
The Brotherhood
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!
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!
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Conflict Resolution
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.
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.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Effort
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
And A Good Evening To You Too
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.
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.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Bad Boy Complex
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.)
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.)
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Cryptic
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. =)
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. =)
Saturday, June 09, 2007
Appreciation
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.
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.
Monday, June 04, 2007
Video On Design Process
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.
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.
Saturday, June 02, 2007
Mr. Snuffles
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.
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.
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