Creature of The Night

I waited till the last of the lights went out, waited till there was ample time for my parents to fall asleep, then waited some more. The moment I was sure everyone else had fallen asleep, I fully awoke.

That afternoon I had already planned my escape - the lock on the back gate was oiled, my shoes laid out so I wouldn't have to fumble in the darkness, water bottle filled and readied. Like a shadow I danced down the staircase, skipping the steps which I knew creaked, and pocketed my keys from the table in the hallway. There was no need for an inventory check - where I was going, I had everything I needed.

The front door yielded without so much as a whisper of disapproval, and within 2 minutes I was out of my house, out the gate, into the world of the night. Every minute out was precious, so without turning back once I began to run.

It was only when I reached the reservoir and found a nice bench facing the placid waters, that I finally allowed myself the luxury of... just thinking. About things.

Since that night, I've stolen out of my house in the dead of the night a couple more times. I've become addicted to it. The feeling that you own the world, that you're free to roam wherever you please, that the worries and burdens and concerns and baggage from the day all belong to a different person, a different you.

I've visited HDB estates, neighbourhood playgrounds, 24 hr convenience stores, reservoir carparks. I've found little corners everywhere where you can just sit and observe the world sleep, and think politically incorrect thoughts that I normally would censor and bury immediately.

At night, unchained from the rigors of what I should be doing or thinking, I ponder what-ifs, explore past memories, excavate the bases for all the emotions that rule me during the day. I list what would make a Perfect Moment, question how far I am from such Moments normally, and plot to experience more Perfect Moments.

I think back to my Hanting 21 plan, and marvel at how far I've progressed or missed the mark, as the case may be. The emotional side of me battles with the rational side, locked in an unending feud over the respective amount of authority they deserve.

At the end of every excursion, I would retreat to my room, sapped, unfeeling, but at peace. Ready to face another day where something, something, just doesn't feel quite right.

I am a creature of the night, and I revel in it.

Political Correctness

I'm sapped. I just shelved my fourth post in recent weeks because I was concerned that some people might interpret it the wrong way... it seems as if every time I want to post about something personal, put words to some innermost thought, I run the risk of offending people.

What a strange state of affairs.

Seek The Truth No Further

Almost five years ago, a distant cousin of mine got married. Out of the blue.

The entire extended family was suddenly rife with all sorts of theories revolving around the marriage. In those few frantic weeks, I would hear certain camps claim authoritatively that their version of the events leading up to the nuptials was the authentic one, only to soon hear from other factions similarly credible spins on the 'truth'.

Right up to the night of the wedding dinner, the tide of theories still surged on unabated, and could not be quelled. Some whispered 'shotgun marriage', others 'true love', while the ones who sat on the fence and couldn't really keep up with justifying their positions merely muttered 'fate'.

I remember them walking down the little aisle in the ballroom, and it struck me that they were impervious to all that was being said about them. Surely they were aware, but they didn't much care.

For how does one ascertain truth? As human beings we necessarily perceive the world through coloured lenses, yet surely that in itself defeats any claim to any objectivity we might stake.

To a geographer a rock is an embodiment of Nature's whimsical creative energies, to a doctor a rock is a dangerous object posing as a repository of microbial miscreants, to a lawyer a rock is an article the possession of which spells the degree of pre-meditation a party to a fracas nurtured.

I fancy that the then-newlyweds were acutely aware of the disparaging talk going on around them, but they weren't too bothered. There was only one perspective to the truth that was crucial to the longevity of their union, and it was shared by both of them.

And that was probably all that mattered.

A Sincere Reply

I made a short call to my dad today, which ended in both of us laughing. It's nice to have parents with the same sense of humour as you. =)

Me: Pa, Aunty Lily asks if we would like to take in her dog.
Dad: Well, have you seen it?
Me: Yea I have, I went over the other day to play with it.
Dad: So what type of dog is it? What breed? What's the upkeep like?
Me: I dunno. Brown colour one.

Random (Nocturnal) Thoughts

I awaken in the middle of the night.

There is a light drizzle outside, street lamps illuminating the raindrops' shocked expressions as they end their indulgent free fall and gently plink onto the tiles of my roof.

The wind continues her petulant course through my neighbourhood, teasing the leaves on the trees, threatening the hastily affixed election posters with premature retirement. Swish-swish, swish-swish go the things that flap in the night, a chorus that drowns out the crude yappings of the resident dogs.

I am suffused with calmness. I contemplate the happenings of the past day, then the past week, then month, then year, and it all seems surreal. It's almost as if I could turn my head and see Desmond sleeping next to me, in the army a year ago. Or my brother, eight years ago. Or my mother, fourteen years ago.

It's like walking down a street while you're engrossed with talking with your companion, or trying to guess the song on your Shuffle. Then you look up and you're startled by how far you've gone, without realizing how much you've passed by, or where you're going. Life blindsides you that way.

Slowly, a few things come to mind. Regrets converge and attempt to ouster the important thoughts from my focus... But I know I am not perfect, and there are some things that I just could not have done better. There is too much to live for to stop now.

If I could speak to you now, and you would listen, you would agree, right? Let the worries and frustrations fall from you, and tackle problems day by day. You know you can.

The street lamps die, another night is over... another day is dawning.

Conscience

Looking back, I suspect that I might not have been the most angelic of little boys.

The earliest memory of how demonic I was finds its roots in kindergarten. The adults who ran the place, probably young idealistic people without kids of their own, thought it decidedly brilliant to sit us "little angels" at tables of four, and rotate the groups every two weeks.

The theory was, by mixing in different groups regularly, the kids would develop their social skills faster. They would overcome their shyness at meeting new people, and learn to cooperate, give and take, grow into well-mannered sociable beings.

Evil finds no foothold in the hearts of innocent children, no?

Foolish humans! Under that system, there was no group that I didn't come to overwhelm by sheer force of character or violent brutality. My day of glory was when I was finally rotated into the group with the then reigning class bully, for after that showdown, my dominion was complete.

(He had taken my new eraser and pulled it out of its cardboard sheath, knowing how much I hated people to do that. I took his eraser, bit it in half, and spat it out onto his books. Ooo. Never seen someone cry so fast.)

But I couldn't afford to be complacent. They made me change classes, you see, twice. Everyday was a battle for new turf.

I heard much later that after my short stint there, they scrapped the rotating system, replacing it with one where the kids sat at cold metal tables, with at least 1m between each child, thumbtacks on the floor to discourage movement, and barbed wire circling the compound.

Even now, there are many colourful posters littering the walls of the staff room, with labels like "How to Spot A Possessed Child" and step-by-step guides to dealing with juvenile troublemakers. No kindergarten kid left such a legacy as I.

Yes. My early childhood was a completely amoral time for me. If someone hit me, I would hit them back. If someone didn't hit me, I would hit them all the much harder. I was practically the poster child for, if the government wanted, their "Stop At Zero, Sterilize Yourselves" campaign.

But every story has its turning point, and mine was in Primary Five, when we received our Mid-Year Exam results. I got a 53 for my Maths Paper, a dismal score which was probably Band 5.

(Just in case you've never gone to Primary school in Singapore, your grades are clustered into Bands, arguably to encourage you to work harder. Band 1 means "Good Job, You Did Well", Band 2 "Not Too Bad, But No More Scholarship Liao", Band 3's "Tsk Tsk, Police Going To Catch You", Band 4 "Hahaha see How You Tell Your Parents" and Band 5 "Brain Damaged La You".

Aye, the academic scene in Singapore's harsh at times.)

So anyway I found myself clutching my paper and running off to the loo. I shut myself into a cubicle, and just started crying. Before long, I heard the adjacent cubicle door close, and someone else started sobbing too. When the worst of my grief was over, I said:

H: You also did badly ah.
X: Yar la. S*** la. Feel very bad now.
H: Feel bad? Why leh?
X: I'm a full-time student... my only responsibility is to study. My parents work so hard just to send me to school, so the least I should do is get good grades and support them next time. I don't want them to worry about me...
H: Oh. Ok.
X: You leh? Why are you sad?
H: Go home my mother sure going to whack me. I scared pain.

On the way home that day, pricked by what my friend said, and after long hours of inner turmoil, I gave birth to a Conscience. It was small compared to its peers, underweight and decidedly malnourished. It certainly didn't look like it would survive past a couple of hours.

Yet, frail and delicate as it was, it wailed with the lungs of a dozen babies. And true enough, not only did it survive, it developed quite well.

In fact, since that day, I've changed quite drastically. Overnight I drew my own OB markers, and started treating people better, respecting their space and rights and privacy. People tell me that I'm very 'guai', and while they're right in that my parents were good parents, I must attribute a lot of it to the strange thing otherwise known as a conscience.

There are, as of now, a loooong list of things I must set right, and by my own hand too. Way way high on my priority list is to compensate my dear friend for breaking his arm in primary school, because I was too scared then to tell my parents.

After that... after that I will seek out the loved ones I've wronged in some way or another, and for what it was worth, tell them I was sorry for the way things turned out. Some things can never be righted, but I know I will still try.

For all the laws we have, for all the fears of punishment, the hardest thing is to be able to answer to yourself before you sleep every night.

Sunshine From The Past 7: I Could Stay Awake, Just To...

One by one, everyone fell asleep. The television blared on, characters on screen quietly going through their pre-set actions and dialogue. Soon, I was the only one left awake, the single consciouness in a hall of 6 other sleeping friends.

She was lying next to me on the sofa, eyes closed, at peace. Fatigue from the day's events had already robbed me of most of my will to stay awake, but somehow I knew this chance would never come again. Somehow.

And so I watched her sleep. I held her hand, registering every little movement she made in her sleep. I was lulled by her rhythmic breathing pattern, placated by the calm expression she bore, comforted by her reassuring presence.

Sitting there in that cramped sofa, toes a light shade of blue from lack of circulation, I found for myself time to recall all the beautiful moments we shared, appreciate all the little things providence bestowed. At that moment, there was only her, and there was only me.

I wanted that moment to last, I really did. To feel so inextricably intertwined, to feel that everything was worth it, to know that it was real for me.

But time waits for none, and four hours later, daybreak broke the spell.

It is a pity that I should be the only one to bear witness to one of the most meaningful memories we shared.

Farewell

I hope one day I'll find the words to explain things to you. Until then, I thank you for all the love and concern you've had for me, till the very end.

Sometimes things just click and happen. Sometimes, they don't. In any case, chapters close and open all the time.

As you said, 5 years ago we were but strangers... we'll be friends 5 years from now, won't we?

Forgive

Emotions overwhelm me. I try to press on, to distract myself, but it's not easy.

I've just spoken words I'd never thought I'll hear myself say. Sometimes, at night, when it's so quiet you can practically hear yourself think, I've thought this all through a thousand times, always to the same conclusion.

Yet, barely a few hours later, you're awash again in a sea of doubt and indecision.

I've said it, and although I thought for a while I could just bounce about, sing a frog song or two and take it all back, I guess I can't.

I wish I were older and wiser, stronger, with more spirit and resolve. I wish I had done everything differently, and not have to look back and regret all the stupid things I did, or omitted to do. If there's anything I am clear about, it's the certainty, in my heart of hearts, that I'm the one to blame.

I'm so very sorry.

Lilac, A Lighter Shade Of Purple

There are essentially, two kinds of nightmares one may have.

The first is the kind that we all grow up with. Giant spiders, masked murderers, rampaging dinosaurs, your mum singing "Hit Me Baby One More Time" while dressed like Britney.

These are the Law of Nature Nightmares, where essentially you dream of life but with some fundamental rule of nature warped beyond comprehension. Normally we take these simple rules for granted, but when they are bent the dreams get real scary.

You have the staircases that lead on to infinity. You have little children who move faster than you, but who always wait for you to turn around to spot them. You have the various creepy animals who grow to Gargantuan Post-Army sizes. You have clothes that inexplicably dissolve, leaving you naked in the middle of Orchard Road (and if you're lucky, to rapturous applause).

And everyone's susceptible, no matter your age, build, education, race. But these nightmares are kiddy stuff in the end. Even if you wake up bathed in acrid cold sweat, you smile at the pure foolishness of your nightmare, and dreamless slumber finds you again soon after.

Not so the other kind, the Morality Nightmares.

Here, your subconcious dregs up every past indiscretion or folly your pride suppresses and your honour denies, but which your conscience is very well acquainted with. You relive past mistakes, you are allowed little trips down What-Might-Have-Been, and long-lost friends and loved ones come back to let you hurt them all over again.

When the nightmare manages to fester viciously in your consciousness even after you awaken, and haunts you throughout the entire day, that's when you know you've had a real kicker of a Morality Nightmare.

Oh, toilsome is the journey of the man who has yet to make peace.

Sunshine From The Past 6: Notebook

I remember gripping my brown notebook tight, and I remember the soft yellow glow of the staff room.

I remember the soft whirr of the air-con, and I remember no one else around. Quiet, silence all about - a dying Friday afternoon.

And as I flipped through the pages, the memories of the past months leapt out at me. From the first few 'test' entries, detailing superficial likes and dislikes, to the middle months, when I discovered she and I had a meeting of minds of sorts, to the last few days, when it seemed I was rushing, every day, to write before it was too late.

I never wrote so much before, revealed so much before. A soul laid bare, ensconced within that notebook of mine.

It was the same routine always. A thought would flit across my consciousness, and I would snare it and pin it in my notebook, like a collector does butterflies. I would pass it to her, and amazingly, she would somehow see the same butterfly as I, complete in its image, and she would reply.

Reply in that beautiful script of hers, her own little thoughts and feelings, her own reflections and dreams. Electric words that would make me ponder, or laugh, or wonder.

A few times each week I would come here alone, and place my notebook in her pigeonhole. It would disappear, then reappear, sometimes a few days later, sometimes the day itself. Everytime it came back to me, I would sense for a moment that it was somehow alive, with our thoughts, our writings.

That day was my last trip. She would be leaving the next week, moving on to greener pastures. I reached the last page, a blank page, and there I wrote:

"I know we both thought your previous reply would be the last in this journal. But I thought about it, and I would like you to have this book. It probably wouldn't mean much to you, this collection of ramblings between us, but all the same I would like you to have it. "

"All the best, till we meet again."

And as bravely as I could, I placed it in her pigeonhole, and left.

I never saw her again.

Cow From Hell

A quick post, to expunge this potent sickness that poisons me from within.

My household ran out of Milo this morning. No more tins of the brown gold, no more emergency quick-mix packets, no more ready-prepared packet drinks.

I am a creature of habit, and Milo is my morning sugar-rush that helps me avoid a nasty, messy death on the highway to school. When I learnt that there was no more Milo, I immediately soured, became grouchy, and lost my composure.

In my distressed state, I hastily agreed to the ‘next best thing’, X-Brand powdered milk. In retrospect, I would rather have slurped down raw eggs with roach eggs. That powdered milk… was… simply amazing.

In a very, very bad sense.

The following poem is meant to reflect the first 20 seconds of excruciating pain I experienced after taking a sip of the powdered milk.

Oh Lord in Heaven, thou hast forsaken me
With this powdered, disguised monstrosity
It lulls your senses and tricks your nose
It knocks your judgment out comatose
You believe it to smell faintly sweet and inviting
When in truth all that it’s concealing
Is an inexcusable ratty stew of milk
No more potent a poison you’ll find of this ilk

It stings! It scalds! It even bites!
As it flows down, my gag reflex I immediately fight
It burns! It throttles! It’s like spoilt sauce!
My eyes by now must have certainly crossed
I think of the animal from whence this came
Surely that’s where I’ll place most of the blame
For surely no hand of man can distill
A morning drink as this without the intention to kill

Yes, yes, that’s it, that’s the answer -
A diseased cow racked with cancer
Skin all peeling with multiple sores
Run over by a tractor the night before
Udders turning a light shade of green
That any reasonable man could have seen
Yet refusing to give up this tenacious grip on life
Before yielding one more bucket of milk to the farmer’s wife

What plagues me is what I must do now
Now that it’s in me, this discharge from a dying cow
To break down and hug my parents a final time?
To bear it stoically and overlook this gastronomic crime?
If I had an option to bury the milk I really would
But my parents have brought me up to never waste food
Therefore the thing that’s crushed my spirit and left me bereft
Is that there’s three quarters of the bloody cup left

I finished it all, like a man. Who would die. Within the next few hours. Whilst screaming for mercy.

On the way back from school that day, I stopped by the local grocery store and bought two big tins of Milo, as well as 60 packets of instant-mix. The lady cashier noted that no one had bought so much Milo at one shot before.

Lady. They ain’t tried X-Brand milk before.

Criterion

My friend in primary school once rattled off a list of criteria a guy had to fulfill before he could be her boyfriend.

Though I thought, even back then, that judging eligibility by the fulfillment of a list of attributes was a silly and fundamentally wrong approach to finding love, I still made a note of her criteria in my diary that night.

Just to have an idea of what girls wanted, you know, since almost all the girls then made lists.

And the list was composed of:

1. He must love me
2. He must treat me nicely
3. He must treat my parents and Shandy (a vicious demon in the guise of a dog) nicely
4. He must love swimming (she was so fanatical about swimming, I swear sometimes she would unconsciously tilt her head to the sides to breathe)
5. He need not be the most handsome, but he must be good-looking

And strangely enough, I added a little footnote later on that diary page that went something like "Die. I can't swim well." It wasn't even as if I liked her, and I interpret this afterthought as indicative of my relative insecurity then. (Though I notice I never worried about requirement 5)

In any case, it wasn't long before the backlash against having a list of criteria for potential boyfriends occurred. Suddenly, upon surviving to Primary Six, the whole lot of us was miraculously bestowed with maturity and wisdom beyond our years.

The girls issued a press statement asserting that finding love based solely on a list of criteria was too myopic an approach and more importantly, passé. The guys proclaimed that not only were we never affected by such hogwash, but also that we never made lists of our own.

A lot of paper was hidden or thrown away that day.

The most common sermon delivered was that you couldn’t be so calculative with love, given that love was something more than just a certain combination of attributes in a person. Furthermore, rejecting someone just because he/she didn’t match up perfectly, reeked of chauvinism.

To hear a statement like that in Singapore, a country where the lines ‘We are very, very practical’ and ‘No time for Love, Singapura’ fit right into the National Anthem (and they do, try it), is very jarring indeed. It’s almost like this undiscovered tension in our society, between the practical mentalities so prevalent and the undercurrent of instinctive notions of what love ought to be.

Test it for yourself today. Meet a friend for lunch, and then suddenly announce a list of criteria you have for your potential life mate, and assert forcefully that unless a core number of criteria are fulfilled, interested parties need not apply. Instinctively, your friend is most likely to disagree with your ‘heartless’ and ‘passionless’ approach.

Against the oppressive public opinion that listing criteria was bad, people still made lists in secret. Over the years, however, I noticed that the lists generally slowly changed in character, becoming more precise, more demanding. Naturally, this is reflective of the amount of introspection people have paid to the concept of relationships.

As you probably would have realized, lists are also influenced by the personal experiences of the person. Take, for example, this list I got from a JC friend, which, should I say, was influenced somewhat by her relative desirability.

1. He must love me whole-heartedly, and in his heart there can only be me
2. He must treat me nicely, shower unexpected gifts upon me, cheer me up whenever I am grouchy, be there for me whenever I need him, and be fully telepathic so that he can read my mind without me telling him
3. He must treat my pets nicely, and also treat my friends, my relatives, my colleagues, my bosses, my business associates all with kindness, respect and fawning affection
4. He must love everything that I do. Period
5. He must be cute, and have a cute butt and sturdy legs and broad shoulders and six-packs

Yes, it had occurred to me that humanity would probably evolve an extra arm or leg before we found a male that fit her requirements.

Compare with the following list from another friend, whom I suspect has not been treated too kindly by her ex-boyfriends.

1. He must love me on his sober days
2. His looks don’t matter
3. He must treat my parents, at the very least, as functional human beings
4. He must not take out more than two insurance policies on me with evil intentions
5. He must not beat me until I lose consciousness

Don’t even get me started on the wholly materialistic lists. They irk me to no end.

My belief is that as people grow up and are increasingly empowered, so will their lists get more stringent. Yet, most ironically, get too powerful or independent, and you will find no one capable of matching up. Potentially, this is how an over-achieving, rich and beautiful single girl in her late 40s would construct a list:

1. Anything that is warm, male and moving.

Astute readers would have noticed by now that I have yet to product a single guy’s list of criterion. Contrary to public opinion, it’s not:

1. She must have nice legs
2. She must have nice (random body part)
3. She must have nice (random body part)
4. She must have nice (random body part)
5. She must love me

Guys, in case you haven’t realized, are more than just the hulking masses of muscle that lumber around. They are emotional creatures as well, and some have lists that would really surprise you with their emotional complexity, despite their rock-solid alpha male appearance (hint hint)

There might well be public disgust associated with the concept of criterion-making, but I think it best to actually do so, and to abide by your list faithfully. Through the relationships we have we slowly discover what it is that we want, that we need, what can sustain a relationship and what cannot.

You know as well as I do that when emotions come into play, logic goes out the window. I’ve seen friends, normally completely logical and rational, finding themselves attracted to people who really should be prevented from contributing to the human gene pool.

Because, really, that’s what love does. It’s a lubricant of sorts, that eases the process of people coming and staying together. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a romantic at heart, but I recognize that’s the power of love. Once it kicks in your list of criterion gets a huge discount, and you’re often willing to overlook many shortcomings for the perceived overall good. Though this is good sometimes, it might not always be the case.

When love wanes or wavers, what are we left with?

Samantha

Do you remember, back then
How you so gently took me in hand?
When those who could understand were so few
When loneliness was the only friend I knew
My guilt and pain you washed away
You remoulded my spirit like a potter does clay
... you breathed meaning into my life.

I am thankful for those precious moments
So much more than my sins did warrant
You gave a caged sparrow a chance at flight
But though free by day, I was trapped by night
This cancer in me you could alleviate but never resolve
For eventually giving up, all blame is absolved
... you were right to leave to love more truly.

So here I am at this junction once again
Mercy to winds of change and limitless pain
I only pray that this little life in me will forgive
A weary girl with an evaporating will to live
You will understand I have no choice won't you?
My one chance to reset a life gone askew
... you...

... you were a brief dream in this violent nightmare of a life.

Samantha Seow, a fictional girl of 21 in a class assignment handed out almost six months ago, has woven her way into the deepest corners of our lives. If she had more time than she did, I would have liked to think that this is the farewell note she would have written.

Although we've never seen a picture of her, in my mind she's forever tanned with long dark hair, emaciated, dishevelled, skittish and with two-inch red perforated cuts on her wrists.

I do not deny that Life often throws up seemingly insurmountable challenges. But you know as well as I do, that all you need to do is reach out, and you will find someone leading the way.

There's a solution to every problem.

Ang Pao

Tomorrow's Valentine's, and I originally wanted to post on that. But time's not on my side, so I'll do a quickie post instead.

I was reading my homicide cases when I came across this story of a maid who was charged with the murder of her employer. In a splendid example of how my mind went off tangent, I came across the word 'ang pow' in the judgment, and ended up on this page blogging.

I was thinking, actually, about the differences in sizes of ang pows. Not the literal size of the red packet, as I'm sure you understand, but rather the quantity of the sum inside. Yes, I know CNY 2006 has just passed, so think of this as an early CNY 2007 post instead.

There are, to my mind, two kinds of ang pow givers. The first are the Symbolic Ang Pao givers (SAPs), who believe that it's the symbolic action of bestowing the ang pao that's the important bit. Then, there are the Symbolic Yet Generous Ang Pao givers (ANGELs), who believe that while symbolism's good, it's not going to hurt anyone to spread some moolah around.

This of course accounts for the grotesque difference between the ang paos people receive. When I was in Primary Four, I suffered catatonic shock after asking this smarmy classmate how much he received. I mean, I thought my humble collection was plentiful enough, but when I heard of how he collected in excess of $3000, my harvest was humble, very, very humble indeed.

I raged that day. I raged against the system, I raged against tradition, I raged against the government. Of course, as soon as I reached full maturity (Primary Five) I came to understand that the sum wasn't really that important after all. Seriously.

(If you happen to have given me an ang pao within the last six years, please do not misunderstand. I receive every ang pao with nothing less than full-hearted gratitude. However, if you were the one who gave me the ang pao seven years ago with 2 melon seeds inside, be warned, I still have that ang pao, and I will acquire a fingerprints kit one day.)

So why post about ang paos when all internal conflict has been resolved? Because, I am extremely curious as to how the two groups of people, the SAPs and the ANGELs, evolved such distinct behaviour regarding ang pao.

The first conclusion I reached, was that the two groups of people tend to perpetuate their behaviour down the generations. You simply give out ang paos in the same proportion that you used to receive them.

I mean, imagine you're a kid with ANGEL parents, with ANGEL relatives and friends, and you average $300 an ang pao come CNY. Can you really imagine yourself growing up and giving out $2 ang paos? Wouldn't you feel in the least bit like frying in a wok everytime you gave out one of those SAP-py ang paos?

The second conclusion I reached, was that your parents play an even larger role than you think, when it comes to determining whether you become a SAP or an ANGEL. Imagine reaching that stage in life when it's your turn to give ang pao. Imagine buying tons of red packets the week before, drawing lots of crisp new notes, then having no idea at all how much to put into each packet.

I mean, at least that's how it would happen for me. I've observed my parents closely enough - before CNY they move around slowly, drifting like jellyfish, completely oblivious to preparing ang paos. Then, the day before, the hour before, they suddenly turbo-charge into whirling Tasmanian devils, drawing, sorting, sealing ang paos faster than Wenzhao gets As in school.

When the dust settles, they're jellyfish again, albeit contented ones. Never, in all my 21 years, have I deciphered their method to the madness. So that means that eventually I'll have to humbly ask. Grr.

All this being said, no amount of preparation can still blanket the little tingle of shock I feel whenever I discover that someone's ang pao is equivalent to a freaking iPod. I guess I'll content myself with the thought that it's years more before I have to give ang pao myself.

Oh yes. AND. DON'T. GIVE. ME. ANYMORE. MELON. SEEDS. Whoever you are.

Black Saturday: Part Three

There was, if you must know, a third part to this most unholy of Saturdays.

In the interest of presenting a more representative, luckier cross-section of my life, however, I'll gladly skip over this part and move right on to my next normal post. =)

Black Saturday: Part Two

And the saga of that horrid Saturday continues.

A little background is necessary. When I was about 12 my dad got me my first pair of roller blades, and little precocious kid that I was, unafraid of injury and death, I was soon able to perform all manner of acrobatic stunts on blades. Think Disney on Ice, on crack.

Looking back, it still amazes me just how heedless of risk I was. True, occasionally I would don protective gear, but most of the time I threw caution to the winds and sashayed my way around the neighbourhood unprotected. I remember reaching incredible speeds, zipping down slopes and racing back up, thinking only of how I could go faster.

Alas, it was not to last. I wish I could relate some fantastic tale of how my youthful blading exploits ended, like how I crushed my legs in self-sacrifice whilst saving damsels in distress, or how I sold my blades to buy a birthday present for my mother.

The truth lacks any perceivable morsel of drama - I simply outgrew my blades, and then decided to wait until I was fully grown before I bought my next pair. Lame, I know.

Imagine then, how vexed I was when I bought a pair about 3 months ago, and discovered that my skills were all gone. When before I could zip my way down CTE on a crowded day, evading any police vehicle determined to apprehend me, I could now barely make the 10m from my porch to my gate without breaking my spine.

Somehow, the magic had all gone!

Perhaps the worst part was that no one believed I was the wonder-kid I remembered myself to be. Now, when I wobble along, trying to catch up with whoever I happen to be blading with, all people see is this newbie fighting to stay upright and alive. I grit my teeth and grin when they condescendingly offer to glue extra beginner wheels to my blades, but my heart aches to soar like I once did.

It wasn't long before I realized my ego was in the way, hampering my growth. I had to let go of the past, and accept that I had to start all over again. And what was the final, devastating blow that did me in?

Just a while back, when I returned home after blading in the neighbourhood, my mother ran out with her camera, snapped a few shots of me, and cheered as I made it back safely.

Enough was enough. I would start from zero, all over again, and climb back to what I used to be.

Strangely though, I found my perspectives changed. Where before obstacles were like flies, bothersome but easily dismissed, now every ledge, rock, car, bench, uneven pavement was a death-trap. I could literally foresee how every little crack in the road would be my undoing - I would trip over one, shatter my skull and burst all my organs, and lie in bed invalid forever.

All this history, the pain, the humiliation, the suffering, rage inside my head every time I blade, and this (back to the present now!) particular Black Saturday was no different.

After the entire body-clock fiasco (see previous post), I grumpily left to meet Haoyun at ECP, where we usually go to blade. Ten minutes into blading, I deliberately slowed down, and let her speed on ahead. This was it, the little bit of personal time I'll devote each session to regaining my previous form.

(You must understand, my master plan was to train in secret while looking like a whale on wheels to the rest of my friends. Laugh at me, would they?!? Bwahaha, oh, how I would stun and flabbergast and amaze and astound them when I finally regained my form!)

So while she was safely ahead, thinking that poor Hanting was having problems catching up again (pshaw!), I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, shut out the noise of the world, conjured a single flickering candle flame in my mind's eye... and Became One With The Blades.

An imperceivable period of time passed. When I opened my eyes and reorientated myself, I was aware of a small crowd around me, most of whom were wide-eyed and clapping and cheering me on. I cricked my neck, and looked back at the skid marks on the ground.

Hmm, not bad, I thought. Judging from the marks I left behind, I had probably pulled off a Devil's Final Temptation, a Double Whammy, a Grinding Flipover-Pass, a Frenchman's Regret and my own creation, a Singapura Schwzing. Not too bad at all.

So I happily resumed my original journey, leaving a gaggle of blading-converts behind. It wouldn't be long before I caught up with Haoyun, and even if she called me a snail again, I would simply smile my secret smile and bide my time.

And then it happened.

A sudden metallic screech. The smell of rubber. A jerk in motion, a sudden tilt, a sense of panic. Imbalance, confusion, chaos. The Fear of Pain.

(EDIT: I am rereading this and I want to clarify, a jerk in motion was not meant to refer to mee!!!)

It took every ounce of skill I had to keep from falling, and when I landed on my blades I heard faint applause. Distractedly, I noted that I had inadvertantly performed a Lover's Duet out of reflex, but my mind wasn't on that at the moment. What had happened to my blades?

Slowing down, I did a systems check, and Realised. That. One. Wheel. Was. Missing.

So it was when Haoyun eventually backtracked that she found me whimpering along that little stretch of road, holding one nut in my hand and frantically trying to find the accompanying screw and wheel. And she did what any loving, caring and thoughtful girlfriend would have done - she laughed her butt off for a whole 5 min, then asked me if I was ok.

But our efforts came to naught. We searched for half an hour, and recovered the screw, but the wheel had simply disappeared. We left eventually... but I think I'll never forget that spot in ECP where my spirit and dreams died a second time.

Oh, how strewn the path to glory is with the caprice of Fate.

Black Saturday: Part One

This particular Saturday a while back was the worst day I've had this year.

You see, Mother Nature's creations usually come with inbuilt clocks. Little squirrels busy with making homes and even littler squirrels suddenly know when to stockpile nuts. You never see traffic jams in the sky from migratory birds who rush at the last minute. Flowers bloom so precisely, people actually use floral clocks to tell time.

It therefore stands to reason that human beings have body clocks too, and that I, as a human being, should also be the proud owner of a body clock. Assuming I do have one, however, its present condition is extremely suspect.

The common belief is that our body clocks are like lions, harm to tame, unpredictable and dangerous if we place too much confidence in them. I've battled my body clock for years now, trying to achieve Body Clock Heaven, where you jerk awake in the morning at a certain time, on the dot. Suffice to say that for every time I wake up automatically at 7 am (the best time to wake up to prepare for school), I wake up 9 times at 9:42 am, 11:54 am, 10:26 am, 1:15 pm, 12:33pm, etc.

(I am also very familiar with research done into sleep, specifically how to awaken from it. The theory goes that your brain categorizes certain noises as 'Emergency' noises, or noises that indicate a danger to your safety. For ancient man these noises included the growling of predators, or hostile footsteps, whilst for me it's a certain whoosh sound, otherwise known to my brother and I as The-Sound-Mum-Makes-When-She-Inhales-To-Scream-At-Us-To-Wake-Up.

In any case, the worst feature you can find on any alarm clock is the snooze button - you'll be amazed at how quickly you're conditioned to sleep through an alarm after you abuse the snooze button repeatedly. I once glued little staples to snooze button to improve the chances of waking up on time, but woke up eventually to find my clock in little pieces on the floor. It's scary what being awoken rudely does to your memory and temper.)

In any case, it became clear to me in the past few months that my sleep cycle was completely out of whack. It happened gradually, insidiously - 1 am was the initial cut-off point for all work on weekdays, then after a particularly hectic week I breached 2 am, then after I started collapsing and sleeping in the late afternoon, 3 am. 4 am followed soon after.

I thought my young robust body could handle the strain of living three different timezones per week, but I thought wrong. Soon came the eyebags, the wrinkles and the crooked back, but what really caused me panic was when I started shedding clumps of hair for no apparant reason at all. I needed a huge swing back to a normal sleep cycle, and fast.

And this was where the first unfortunate event unfolded.

The night before I forced myself into bed at 10 pm sharp, determined to wrench my body clock back into shape. Haoyun was clued in to my plan, and would call me in the morning to ensure my plan worked. Sleep came fitfully, painfully, but when I awoke I felt a deep sense of satisfaction.

My progress report as per the wall clock in my room:

10:00 pm: Into bed!
11:00 pm: Still tossing, but getting sleepy!
06:50 am: Got my wake-up call! But it's too early for a Saturday, a bit more sleep please!
08:00 am: Woke up myself, automatically! Hooray!
08:30 am: Showered, breakfasted, off to mug!
11:00 am: Mum calling me for lunch, but it's way too early! Mug mug!
11:10 am: Mum still calling, sounding a bit pissed! But we usually eat after 1 pm! What's wrong with her?
11:25 am: WHAT THE ^@&#@* IS WRONG WITH MY CLOCK?!?!? Why is the second hand ticking but not moving?!?

It was quite hypnotic, really. I sat there for a full minute, staring at the second hand weakly attempt to climb from 6 to 12, feebly falling back a second for every two forward. Then the ugly horrible truth dawned upon me: sometime in the middle of the night, the wall clock started losing time, to the point when it was a full 2.5 hours behind the rest of the world.

I’m not the superstitious sort, but when your trusty wall clock runs out of batteries the very same night you resolve to reset your body clock, it’s a sign to desist. My sense of victory, of achievement, left me. I was a shell of a human being.

And yes, there was more to this particularly unfortunate Saturday.

Fan Mail 1

Oh my goodness, it's been so very long!

Forgive the lack of updates... Semester 2 has been far more hectic than I could ever imagine! Days are crammed back to back, and you hardly even have time to think...

But I am writing still! Will be posting!

Watch this space!

In the meantime, let me entertain some fan mail I've received since I started this blog:

Q: We are your legions of female fans! We demand to know why you have not been writing!! Is there some secret and unregistered female fan you're caring for, that's been taking all your time away?!?
A: Yes, actually that's quite right! My dearest darling fell ill a while back, and I spent the better part of two weeks helping to nurse her back to health... it's mini-crises like these that really do make you reconsider your priorities in life. But don't worry, I've installed Norton Anti-virus on her, she should be fine from now on. =)

Q: Do you have a New Year's resolution?
A: Yes, in fact. It's 1024 x 768.

Q: Has anything interesting been happening in your life recently?
A: Hur hur. Arguably, yes. But every single important thing deserves a post of its own!

Q: How long has it been since you were last stripped?
A: It's been a happy 232 days since I was last stripped. I fear for 30th Feb, my birthday, when I run the highest chance of getting my No-Strip Streak broken.

Q: Why do you so rarely put pictures on your blog? If you don't have time to write, at least put some pictures up so that we know how you are getting along!
A: It's mainly out of shyness really... I have a slight congenital birth defect which left me blisteringly good-looking, so I'm not all the comfortable with pictures. Yeah.

Q: Why do you not have links to your friends' blogs? Especially after they took the trouble to link yours? Are you egotistical?
A: Me? Ego? Puh-leeze, I am absolutely the humblest person you'll ever meet. It's just that I never got the hang of HTML. =)

Q: What are you busy with nowadays?
A: Trying to finish readings before lectures, and most recently trying to figure out why Samanthan Seow Won't Just Die.

Later!

Rain From The Past 1: Friend?

She was, at that point in time, perhaps the closest thing to perfection I knew. She was 4 years older than I, and the first older friend I ever made.

We shared the school bus to primary school, and twice a day, once on the trip to school and once on the way back, the whole motley crew would play games, sing songs and drive the bus uncle mad. Friendships were quickly forged, and to my delight carried over to life outside the school bus.

For instance, on the occasions I bumped into her at the canteen, we would chat and talk about the teachers we had, or the little things that had been going on in class. Days few by that way, and you would barely feel the tedium of school.

Once, however, I was in the bookshop when I noticed her coming in with a bunch of her friends. I waved and said hi, but she didn't respond. In fact, she ignored me pointedly. When her friends asked her who I was, and why I was waving at her, she was icily calm.

"Oh, just some brat from my school bus. Don't mind him."

So saying, they left. I don't remember ever talking to her again, after that painful afternoon.

We all know that it's never a good idea to love people too much. Sometimes, we even make little reminders to ourselves to have restraint, and not give so freely. Often, however, we plow ahead recklessly, unable to stem the tide of feelings flowing inside.

With care I must tread - ironically, a 7 year-old is better than handling such disappointments than a 21 year-old can.

Presents

Spotlight, the Australian chain of stores selling art and craft materials for every occasion, is frequently overwhelmingly populated by females. There's cloth of all varieties, sewing equipment, decorative items, costume jewellery... it's almost a rite of passage for secondary school girls to make a pilgrimage here.

Male minds spin fast, and if by now you are thinking, hey, this is the perfect place to hang out and watch girls, you're generally right. Yet, as I have discovered recently, the people most worth watching in Spotlight, are the guys.

It's a fundamental law of nature that there are only two varieties of guys you can spot shopping. One is the enslaved male, who despite his nonchalence is attached to his girlfriend by an invisible leash. The younger, fresher boyfriends still comment on every item they're invited to evaluate, whereas the older, jaded ones just trail behind, blank-faced and drooling.

The other variety, and the one of interest here, is the guy who's out shopping for a gift. You recognize them by the perpetual state of frustration and anxiety they are in - it's the deadline hounding them. The ones who didn't procrastinate, and planned way ahead, have more time of course... give or take 2 days before the birthday or anniversary.

(I do not deny that there's a variety of males who shop for themselves. However, you usually can't spot them in public, because they move way too fast. Such males are akin to homing missiles, and after the purchase, they do not, ever, think about whether the next shop would have sold it for less)

You see, Spotlight usually smells pleasant. There's a light floral scent in the air, reinforced by the many different perfumes wafting in from their female hosts. But especially around Christmas, the season of giving, there's a sharp, primal stink of male anxiety and worry. The following conversation I overheard sums it all up.

Male A: Quick, what can I get her from here.
Male B: What did you get her last year?
A: A necklace. I can't possibly buy her something again, it's impersonal.
B: Hmm... maybe you could make her something.
A: ... what do you think I am doing here?
B: Err... you could make her a cross stitch.
A: Siao ah. I can't sew.
B: Or how about decorating a jewellery box.
A: Siao ah. I can't paint.
B: How much more time you have.
A: Until tomorrow.
B: Die.
A: Die.

And I don't blame them. As males slowly become more sensitive, they realise that they can't keep buying presents off the rack for their girlfriends. Sooner or later, there's this implicit understanding that a personalized, self-crafted present has to come along.

The thing is, guys are guys and girl are girls because they are different. Let's face it, not everyone is equally talented in the arts. You can't flog a dead horse, and you just can't teach some guys how to paint a jewellery box.

I admit quite openly that I am a doofus at personalizing presents. It's not that I'm not good with my hands, hur hur, but just that there's this entire portion of my brain that's not functioning as it should. In fact, I once dragged a female friend down to Spotlight with me - my Cultural Arts Attache.

Me: Ok, what if I want to get her something to decorate her room with?
Attache: What colour is her room?
Me: Err... blue? I think? So what, I should get something blue too?
Attache: No, you can't. You need something to offset the colour, not complement it, otherwise it's not striking. Not pastel, but not a base colour too. Look for a shade that stands out, but not one that clashes with her room's theme. Are you going for a matt look or a metallic, glossy look? And you want a splash of colours on it too, not just... Hanting?
Me: Hurh?
Attache: (sighs) What did I just say?
Me: Err... pastel? Matt? Not blue?

In fact, if you think about it carefully, Spotlight doesn't really sell crafting materials. It sells hope. Guys see the paints and the decorations placed side by side, and a most warming and lovely present blossoms in their mind. They then buy the stuff home, fiddle around for a few days, chuck the whole lot down the chute, and go back out to buy a necklace.

As a public service Spotlight should have stringent criteria for guys wishing to enter. They could have a little booth at the entrance, where there's crayons and paper, and you're supposed to draw a picture of your family members. You then show your drawing to a six-year old female Tester, and if she laughs, you can't go in, and for your own good too.

Of course, not everyone is as uptight about presents as you think. Whilst shopping yesterday this salesgirl started talking to me (because charm is not something you can switch on and off), opening the conversation with the classic "You look familiar, have I seen you somewhere?". Yes, it can also mean that my face is as common as dirt, but I choose to think it was a conversation starter.

One thing led to another, and soon we were talking about how difficult it was to get suitable presents. When I complained that it was impossible to fathom the female mind, she laughed and said that from a female perspective, all my girlfriend probably wanted was me, wrapped up with a bow around my neck.

Yeah right. It would be suicidal to try that - my girlfriend would not even bother unwrapping me before returning me to the store. She wouldn't even ask for a refund. =(

Seriously though, as Christmas looms, maybe it's a good time for people to sit down and re-evaluate just what giving presents entails.

I personally think that it's not so much of whether you made it yourself, or whether it cost a lot, but rather, how much effort and thought went into it. And even if the ultimate result was still a present available commonly, but you knew that your friend went through 18 kinds of Hell to decide upon it, appreciate it.

Top on my Christmas wishlist is actually a nice, long Christmas card, because in many ways writing a meaningful card is so much harder than buying a present. Sometimes you don't even need a present - something as simple as company is touching enough.

It's going to be a magical season. Treasure your friends and loved ones, and jealousy guard those who mean something to you. And in case I don't manage to blog again in time, Merry Christmas.

Santa's coming!

To Trust

I am, quite unfortunately, a very trusting person by nature. So much so, in fact, that a close buddy in the army wrote me a note once, reminding me not to dispense trust so freely, in case I was taken advantage of.

With a certain amount of disappointment, a casual foray into the past has revealed numerous examples of just what my buddy cautioned me against. The first and probably one of the more painful incidents involved none other, than my very own mother.

You see, I had a favourite purple pillow when I was about four. The covers were made of satin, and it was incredibly soft, cool and silky to the touch. But because young children tend to overcome their teething issues by chewing anything that doesn't chew back, my favourite pillow (Mr. Purple) was also clumpy, fraying and soggy.

In fact, if I still had it now, I daresay if you pressed it against your ear you could hear the germs and bacteria on it playing classical music, on account of the ideal conditions for them to multiply and evolve. After which you would probably need a full-time nurse and daily injections of drug cocktails.

But try as my mother could, Mr. Purple and I were inseperable. "Hygiene" was just this 2-syllable word that meant as much to me as "hedge funds investment", and "Let-me-throw-it-away-or-I-will-spank-you" was easily countered by grabbing my mother's leg and screaming "Mommy-mommy-please-don't-I-love-you-don't-kill-Mr.-Purple".

After threats, cajoling, and reasoning (oh when will parents realize that there's almost no way to reason with children until they're older, say, 25) failed, my mother resorted to... deception.

She bided her time, too. When we moved to a new house, she waited until the moving men left before she told me that we had to leave Mr. Purple behind. There was no more space, the moving men told her, for Mr. Purple on the moving truck. But don't worry, now he has our old house all to himself!

Oh, was I a sucker then. I forgave my mother eventually though - after all, she was only trying to save the whole family from the inconvenience of a premature death through disease.

You would think that from that experience I would grow up to be this hardy, cynical, bitter shell of a man ensconced behind high walls. Oh ho ho. Let's just say that maybe if I figured out the truth about Mr. Purple during my formative years, then yes. Finding out when you're 17 doesn't change anything.

Friends have not spared me from such agony as well. Back in JC1, my dear, charming friend Dot told me that in RGS, every belt was unique to the owner. On the inside was sewn a little tag containing all of the owner's personal information, which doubled as proof of identity in exams. From the first day of school, every RGS girl was bonded to her belt.

Maybe it was her straight face and trustworthy demeanour. Maybe it was my eargerness to consolidate our friendship by not doubting her. Or maybe, it was just plain stupidity. In any case she was tickled to no end, and I contemplated throwing a Mr. Purple at her. (But seriously, it sounds possible, right? Right?)

And I must have repeated this army story a million times, but for good measure, I'll recount it once again. In the first few weeks at a new army camp I kept to myself, mainly because I didn't know anyone else. Then, one night I heard screams, laughter and sounds of determined struggle from outside my bunk - another day, another stripping. I turned back to my book.

"Hanting! Quick! Come help us strip him!" Then, more sounds of struggle and unholy laughter.

Those words set my blood on fire. Finally! I was being accepted! I was recognized as one of the them, what with this most dignified invitation to partake in one of their holiest ceremonies! The joy of conquering loneliness was potently sweet. I threw my book aside, flung my door open... and rushed out into a most despicable trap.

When I joined the guys, I sensed something amiss. There was no struggle. There was a guy on the floor, but he wasn't flailing about trying to keep his underwear on. He was only staring straight at me, grinning this horrible smirk. The decoy.

"He's out! Get him!" The 20+ guys turned on me, and a dozen hands gripped my arms and legs. I shut my eyes. 5 minutes never lasted so long.

Some of my friends find it strange the way I don't seem to learn, and wonder why I haven't become less trusting. And the reason simply is that friendships blossom so much faster when you're not skeptical and cautious and preoccupied with putting all your defenses in place.

Of course, this has to be tempered with a bit of common sense. People who abuse that trust simply don't deserve it, and when I say trusting people is good, it doesn't mean you go throwing yourself at everyone.

You see, things like what Dot and my army friends did, don't really matter. I don't mind being caught up in a little harmless joke (ok the stripping doesn't exactly qualify as harmless), but it's another thing when people abuse your trust, knowing full well what they are doing.

I'm not a perfect person. Though I believe in the basic goodness of man, and I try to reach out to as many people as possible, there are some things I find hard to forgive. Though it pains me to consciously keep a distance from some people, I have no choice, sometimes.

Not everybody has the same benevolent, well-meaning intentions for destroying the Mr. Purple in your life.

Romance

Maybe it's just me, but before you watch romantic movies or read romantic novels, you must be mentally prepared.

You can, if you so wish, jump straight in defenceless. You can sit through Titanic with your mind naked and unprotected, or read The Bondmaid similarly unprepared.

But you do so at your own risk. Don't blame me if afterwards you get bitter, upset, frustrated, or even suicidal.

The problem arises because people tend to take whatever they see in the media at face value. This is the exact reason why little kids with capes jump off tables thinking they can fly, and why ruggers suplex each other thinking no one will get hurt from wrestling.

This, of course, spells untold harm and damage on the state of Romance in Singapore, and the world at large. Basically, what happens is that young impressionable people grow up absorbing unrealistic notions of romance, and when they find out for themselves that romance is as real as Santa Claus or as probable as Moderations of Exam Grades, whatever romance in them fizzles out.

In fact, in today's accelerated world it's not uncommon to find young twenty-somethings with all the cynicism and bitterness, of thirty-somethings.

That's why, you have to be prepared. Instead of starting off overly-idealistic and then crashing, it's generally better if everyone began knowing the truth, and then slowly working to make the world a sweeter place to live in. For the sake of our young, let me dispel some myths that perpetually cloak almost every love story out there.

First Myth: Story couples live happily ever after. Generally, they either die just after they confess undying love (Romeo 'n' Juliet, Moulin Rouge), or the story ends when they get together (Just Like Heaven, Eternal Sunshine). Simply put, you never see how these wonderful couples make it through life together, months after the honeymoon period has worn off.

I mean, look at Moulin Rouge. It's great to have your new lover burst into song every time he sees you, but seriously, after a few months of that, you just want to stab him. Over and over.

Any surviving couple will testify to the immense amount of effort required to keep a relationship alive. When I was younger and captivated by the idea of Romance, I used to think that all you needed to succeed in a relationship was love. Now, older, wiser, I have learnt the distinction between real love, and hormonal love.

Most unfortunately, real love is something of a delicate rose. Cultivating it and keeping it alive takes all the skill, energy and dedication you've got. That said, even cactuses die if you just plant them and leave them alone. Hormonal love, on the other hand, grows as spontaneously and ferociously as foot rot. Often, the bad effects last just as long too.

So don't be fooled. Getting the girl might be difficult at times, but in totality, it's only less than 10% of the entire journey.

Second Myth: That love overcomes every obstacle. You just need to realise that there are some obstacles that are just insurmountable. There are tons of movies out there just raring to have you believe in this, but don't be fooled.

Look at King Kong and his little blonde girl. In that movie love transcends species, communication, religious, financial security and hygiene barriers, and yet people still believe that the two had a chance. It's about as realistic as you falling in love with a hamster and hoping to receive your parents' blessing.

Perhaps that's why parents caution us about rushing in. You need to know what your personal stands are, and assume that your beloved's own views will never change, then ask yourself if you can live with it. All in all, if there's a fundamental issue you two can't agree with, it's really worth a meticulous rethink.

Third Myth: That people never change. The quintessential story that perpetuates this myth is probably Legend of the Condor Heroes - in that story, the lovers are seperated for 16 years, during which time the male hero is assaulted by the fervent and insistent affections of no less than three different wholly approvable girls.

Yes, you guessed it. Said male hero, most probably through the use of heavy drugs, suppresses any semblance of libido and common sense and waits 16 long years for his love to return. Romantic? Yes. Drama? Yes. Realistic? No.

Don't misunderstand, I'm not belittling anyone who chooses to wait for his one true love. It's just that people do change, and it doesn't mean that if two people are right for each other at a certain time, they'll always be right for each other. Your postage-stamp-sized bikini makes you irresistable now (if you're female), but donning it 30 years later will only make your children dig their eyes out.

It's all related to maintaining a relationship. People change, and you've got to keep up. If you stop growing in tandem with your partner, if you neglect to keep connected, you'll wake up to find a stranger next to you.

Actually, now that I think about it, the hard part isn't getting people to know that romance in the media is largely exaggerated. The hard part is getting people to stay romantic, despite all the hard knocks they receive through life.

I'm morphing myself, although I am fighting it every step of the way. I'm slowly changing into this practical, cynical person that is the bane of the Romancing Singapore campaign. You can't blame people, I realize. You can't look into the eyes of a person who's just been jilted, and say seriously, don't worry, love will conquer all.

Maybe that's why romance still sells. Although it's sad that people buy into romance but don't really believe in it, in the same pathetic way students like me buy assessment books knowing I'll never touch them, maybe people immerse themselves in romance to glimpse a better world.

A better world where there's unending energy to pull off romantic surprises, where true love is untainted by the passage of time, where partners or spouses aren't just companions who help you through life, but actually are your soulmates.

I encourage you, if you are a romantic at heart, keep that fire burning in you no matter how hard the storm rages outside. It's like believing in Cho. The world may test your strength in a myriad of ways, but if at the end of the day you manage to keep that little spark of belief alive, I do believe life will be a little brighter, a little sweeter.

Keep the faith alive.

Values

As a kid you grow up thinking the whole world is brought up like you. You just assume other dads are like your dad, scolding their kids for the same things, teaching them the same values, as if there was one big leather-bound "Parents' Guide to Bringing Up Docile and Obedient Progeny" that the government issues to all new parents.

Ok wait, given the PAP that was way too believable. But you get what I mean, don't you?

That's why it's jolting every time I find out that other people have completely different views, about vitally fundamental things, from me.

To begin I must first paint a little portrait of my family. My parents may have embraced modern technology wholeheartedly, but when it comes to values, "conservative" is probably the first word to come to mind. At that, calling them conservative is like calling Lee Kuan Yew "a little strict".

The scariest part is that for all the resistance I could muster, some of their values have slowly seeped into my being. And armed to the teeth with values that I haven't fully indoctrinalized, I had bravely set off to face the world.

Getting married and having children were the twin issues that I grappled with first. This was where my beautifully constructed world of ideals and values began to unravel. You see, growing up I've always envisioned myself, near the end of my life, surrounded by little Hantings and little, er, Hantingrinas.

I mean, no one actually sat me down and told me that unless I had children life wouldn't be complete. I sort of picked it up from what I saw of other families, from the storybooks I read. It seemed as if every adult ended up getting married and having kids.

As I got older, an alternative appeared. Adults could somehow, without getting struck by lightning, have kids and then get married. Before long, adults appeared to have kids and not get married. By the time I discovered adults didn't get married or didn't have kids all the time, I wasn't fazed anymore.

The first time I heard a girl tell me she didn't want to get married or have kids, back in JC, I was shocked. The same kind of complete, mind-numbing shock your grandad would get if he caught you juggling ancestral tablets. Then, I debated with her, arguing why I thought kids and marriage were the keys to a complete life.

The debates have not stopped. Since that first girl in JC, I've engaged many a young lass in similar debates, all of whom seem to have been born without a biological clock. Grudgingly, I've had to concede that their views are logical and respectable too, that at the end of the day it's all simply a personal choice.

Another way of life that took a real flogging, revolved around... Sex. I can't help it if I blush as I type the word, and I know that in the long history of this blog not once have I dared to broach the subject, but no time is more appropriate than now to evaluate how my family tackled sex education.

I mentioned my parents being conservative earlier. Don't get me wrong, my parents aren't fuddy-duddies so steeped in the past that they try to marry you off when you're barely a month old. They are just more conservative than others their age.

Let's just say that the fastest way to stop conversation at dinner isn't by jumping onto the table and peeing into the soup, or by stabbing yourself repeatedly with a fork whilst shouting 'Deliver me unto you oh Dark Prince'.

The simplest way is just to shout, in a droningly piercing voice, "SEXXXXXXXXXXX". Or, alternatively, in an irritatingly chirpy tone, "Sex sex sex sex sex SexSex SEXSEXSEX".

(I disclaim any responsibility for any psychiatric harm you may cause to your parents using any one of the above methods)

I remember vaguely being told some things when I was around 12. Actually, what I remember clearly is my dad clearing his throat, then starting to talk to me in this strangely antiseptic voice before my mum would drag him aside for a lengthy, hushed discussion. Normal conversation would resume, and if you weren't sharp, you wouldn't have noticed anything at all.

And that's why, when I found out an army friend watches pornographic movies with his family, as a means of sex education, I was at a loss for words. My mind just blew, no pun intended. Let's not even go into some of the, uh, more diverse views other friends have on the issue. What can I say? Different people just do things differently.

More recently, I had another pillar of my life torn down when I remarked casually to Girl X that it was strange that so many women refuse to breastfeed when it was clearly the right thing to do. I was flabbergasted when she disagreed with me.

Me: What do you mean, you don't want to breastfeed?
Girl X: I mean, modern infant formula is scientifically proven to be more nutritious and beneficial than the natural alternative.
Me: That's hogswash! Even so, what about all the other advantages, like bonding with your kid?
Girl X: Ewww. That's so gross.
Me: Huh? What do you mean so gross?
Girl X: I mean, do we look like cows to you? Eww.
Me: ...... WHAT ARE YOUR GOD-GIVEN BREASTS FOR?!?
Girl X: Eww. Given a choice, I wouldn't want them. Do you want them?

(At which point my brain shut down and she won the debate. I blame it on the sneaky way she phrased her sentence)

At an age where you begin to reason almost as well as your parents can, you suddenly realise that it's up to you and you alone, to struggle through debates of all kinds, to arrive at answers that no one can say is right or wrong.

That many of the values you hold are unchallenged, merely passed down from your parents or friends, and that before you critically assess them, there's no way you will ever feel strongly enough to fight for or defend something you believe in.

Socrates words' ring true, that "the unexamined life is not worth living for man".

Just be kind. If you want to throw some stunner at me, just because you like to see the way I explode into some apoplectic fit defending some cherished value of mine, do it gently and do it slowly.

Random Thoughts 2

No time to blog. No funny juice too, for that matter. Everytime I get down to writing, I think of how I will be buried alone and destitute.

Blog before exam --> Fail exam --> Lose confidence and friends --> Drop Out --> Get disowned --> Drift around living on handouts --> Die alone and destitute

Yet the random thoughts just keep coming.

1. The term 'love triangle' is misused very often. Often, one party is being pursued by two admirers. That only means (for example) that both Girl A and Girl B like Guy HT. Girl A and Girl B clearly do not like each other. If you draw the relationship out on paper, you get a... 'Love Carrot Sign'.

Thus, very rarely is there a 'love triangle'.

2. I found an old handwritten note I scribbled and stuck in my JC Biology file. It reads "Miss Piggy and Kermit cannot biologically reproduce". I forget the scientific reason why, but it's always sad to see another pillar of your childhood crumble.

3. If human beings never stopped producing CDs or DVDs, eventually we'll run out of sand!

4. The single most important figure in legal enforcement, might very well be Santa Claus. If the legends about him are true, he would have the most sophisticated and accurate surveillance system in the world. Even if we couldn't enlist his help directly in fingering the guilty, all we would need to do is to monitor who gets what present at the end of the year.

A suspect in a murder case, getting say a PSP from Santa for Christmas, might very well be innocent. If he gets assessment books or new underwear, he's probably an accomplice. No one can help him if he gets a Robbie Williams CD.

5. You can spend as much money as you want, exert as much effort as you can, but you won't change the fact that no matter how good looking you think you are now, 30 years later your kids are going to dig out your photos and ridicule you.

Back to work.

Day

When the light from the breaking dawn stirs you, you fight to stay asleep.

Two worlds are blended at this precise moment. You are confused, and you forget for a blissful second what is real, and what is only the balming effect of a single good dream. You struggle to believe that all is well, but its no use - slowly your consciousness muscles in and brutally reminds you of the divide between the realities and the figments of imagination.

There is, strangely enough, an overwhelming sense of peace.

You think about the dream some more, and you're pleased to find that it all comes rushing back, every single nuance, every single frame. And you cannot help but marvel - every other time you labour to pass the night under burdens of mind so deep, you inevitably wake up feeling even more distraught, more stranded.

Its the first time you have dreamt a dream that addresses your dilemma directly.

Its the first time your subconscious works with you, instead of against you.

Its the first time... you think you might actually have dreamt the answer to your problems.

Sometimes things just work out in the queerest way
Hold fast your beliefs - keep the doubts at bay
Unless you dare to tread that dreaded path again
Where suffering bears no such merciful refrain
Expect that life's just full of twists and turns
Nothing's insurmountable if you're willing to learn

You hear the world stirring outside your window, and you know you can linger no more. You chose to live this life, and you'll be damned if you didn't try to lead it proudly, to lead it well.

And thus a chapter ends.

Night

In the inky blackness of the night
You clasp your hands and silently pray
That the vice around your heart so tight
Would quickly unravel and fade away

That somehow things could rewind
That life had an undo function of sorts
That amidst this mess you could somehow find
The ending which you orginally sought

In the enveloping blackness of the night
You wonder if you could have made things better
If you'll ever know whether you were right
Or if anything really mattered

A thousand things you wish to say
The words almost bursting from inside
But you can't, you mustn't, no it wouldn't pay
And again you stem this torrential tide

In the endless blackness of the night
You make up your mind once more
To grieve, but to grieve only until daylight
For burdens of the heart are such wearisome chores

In the soothing blackness of the night...

Random Thoughts 1

It's hot. I'm full and sleepy. Here's a list of 5 random things that ran through my mind in the last hour I stoned here.

1. My productivity is very, very low. So low, in fact, that's it's become negative productivity. But wait a minute! If it's negative productivity, isn't it productivity all the same, just in the opposite direction?

So is it a case of being very unproductive, or being destructive? ... the mysteries of Life.

2. I would hate to be Cho Chang right now. Over 23 people on my MSN list have criticized her to no end, elevating her status just above Saddam Hussein afflicted wtih dengue carrying wild chickens in both arms.

3. What does dust turn into? I mean, is there a constant amount of dust in the world, or is it being continually generated and rebuilt into something else? We all know matter cannot be created, so it either has to come from somewhere, or turn into something.

To find out, all we need to do is to start keeping all the dust we collect everyday into big plastic bags. At the end of 10 years, we just need to see what thing in the world has reduced in quantity significantly. Ta-da! Another of Life's puzzles solved.

4. Do judges know that every time they pen long-winded and confusing judgments they incur the wrath of academics and students for years to come? Do they do it purposely, to get back at the judges before them?

5. Do hawker stall owners eat their own food? If so, why is the yong tau foo stall auntie at my wet market plumper than the uncle selling sio bak and chicken rice? Do they pay each other for the meals, or do they just exchange food?

Idol

I first began to hear his name about a month ago. It began as a whisper of sorts, the kind of slithery ambiguous background noise that evaporates the moment you concentrate on catching it. People heard, but failed to remember.

Then, with startling ferocity, as more of his pictures circulated, his popularity began to climb. His name was on almost every single pair of female adolescent lips. As of last week, he arguably stole the entire show.

Cedric. Diggory. Aka, Gorgeous Hunk, Handsome Cutie-Pie, Fried-By-Curse-Boy.

(For those who failed to catch Harry Potter and the Goblet-of-constitutes-magical-binding-contract-Fire, Cedric was this arguably good-looking strapping young man who had more screen time than a cupcake would have in a documentary on lions. Which is not saying a lot)

It's strange how the entire idolizing process plays out. At some point amidst all the outpouring of affection for Cedric, I had to pause and think, why exactly is Cedric becoming an idol for so many? Can there possibly be a pattern to all this madness?

Three hypotheses survive, ultimately. What I'm guessing first, is that there's something in Cedric, or idols in general, that people prize. It can be looks, or charm, or money, or atttitude, or any of a thousand other things. These idols are then the quintessential role models - people either want to gain this characteristic themselves, or are satisfied to have their idol near them.

As you can see, most people who idolize fall into this category.

People idolize Princess Diana for her beauty and heart of gold, Cedric and Brad Pitt for their looks and charm, sporting legends like Mohd Ali for their resolve, spirit, courage. Bands like Metallica or Linkin' Park are also idolized, but mainly only for their flair and streak of rebellion, because God gave man eyes to see and ears to hear with, not to shrivel and bleed from.

This is of course, understandable, and even desirable at times. After all, some idols serve as good role models. Taufik gave up smoking, and performed community service voluntarily, without any booklet to stamp or school requirement to fulfil. Everyone needs to have something to strive after.

But to merely want that idol near you? Watch how fans react whenever their idols are nearby. I remember vividly this clip of a woman fainting as she screamed Micheal Jackson's name at his concert, back when parents still let their kids play with him. It's a phenomenon very much alive, right here, right now. People scramble just to be near their idols, to glimpse them, to see and touch them.

I mean, when you come to think of it, what would happen if these fans could suddenly have their wishes fulfilled? What if your idol was to materialize right in front of your eyes? Would you even know what to say to him/her? What, you would just sit there, smile numbly and poke him/her with a stick?

You: Ooooo! Tom Cruise/Cho Chang/Hagrid!
Idol: Hi.
You: Ooooo! Tom Cruise/Cho Chang/Hagrid!
Idol: Hi.
You: Ooooo! Tom Cruise/Cho Chang/Hagrid!
Idol: Hi. Say, can you stop poking me with that stick?

Of course, I'm discounting all the rabid fans who are way deep in Stalker territory, who want to bear their idol's children etc. Let's not go there today.

The second hypothesis, is that professing idolatry is equivalent to possessing a social passport. It's a bit like beer, or the army, in that sense. Just simply profess your idol of choice, and ta-dah, you're welcome to join any social circle with the same tastes.

I discovered this for myself the hard way. When I first protested and reminded people harshly that Harry Potter's about adventure and magic and courage and friendship and not about Cedric Diggory, I was shunned. People even asked me condescendingly about my educational background.

But the moment I took the initiative to tell people that Cedric was 'hot', man, girls were welcoming me like some long-lost brother. (Although, truth be told, yes I do agree Cedric's a fine specimen of the male species. There. I've said it.)

The last hypothesis I have, is that people choose/reject idols as way of making a personal statement. Thus, a principled and feisty girl might well resist the tides of peer pressure, and refuse to get into a tizzy over Cedric - ironically, some people who succeed in doing so become mini-idols in their own right.

This would be a good point in time to refute the horrendous claim, by a friend of mine no less, that I purposely idolize the most bile-inducing repulsive females for the sake of being different. My friend, it is surely no feat to identify common beauty, and more often than not it is the hidden beauty that astounds.

Also, to the snub that Cho Chang is 'just your average girl-next-door', pray tell, why do a thousand other girls-next-door not match up??

At the very least, thank goodness Cedric's dead. Let's please have more of Voldemort.

Willy

Willy the werewolf had a special trait
Now it wasn't something he would happily relate
To other werewolves who might casually ask -
It wasn't a prideful trait in which to gloriously bask
And the uniqueness simply was this:
All the fur he sprouted wasn't really his

It all began as a receding fur-line
Something unheard of among his kind
Yet before long Willy's fur came off in clumps
And his spirits spiralled down into the dumps
For if werewolves were protective of anything
It was their fur, long, black, luxuriously flowing

Willy could no longer go out like before
For hunting was no longer a pleasure but a chore
Who can savage and claw somebody
While at the same time hold in place a toupee?
And instead of screaming his prey laughed uncontrollably
For no one can take a bald werewolf seriously

Yet since he retained his strength and agility
He tried to salvage the remainder of his dignity
By taking up new and challenging occupations
At various disparate institutions
The first of which was a bouncer at Zouk
No real surprise though at this path he took

But as they say old habits often die hard
And Willy began to bite those who let down their guard
Yet as he bit the occasional thug
Soon Willy's blood was contaminated with drugs
Thus his job ended when a police raid was staged
And he ended unceremoniously up in a cage

When Willy escaped the idea of doing sports stuck in his mind
For by nature werewolves are the competitive kind
And in the sprint trials he broke all the records
Complacency was something he could well afford
But disqualification loomed - his true nature he couldn't fake
For unlike the others Willy competed on all four legs

After further failures Willy just simply gave up
And with his senses dulled and fangs no longer sharp
Willy huddled on a lonely street and cried
(If fully self-aware he would have been horrified)
His heart was shattered his spirit torn
There never was a werewolf quite so forlorn

Then a miracle happened, and not a moment too late -
A little homeless girl passed by that very minute
This girl, though poor and scruffy and not very old
Possessed a loving heart of solid gold
And when she heard poor Willy in his sorry state
To him she found herself gravitate

Fearless, she pattered forward and hugged Willy tight
A gesture which surely caused Willy fright
And in the calmest tones she simply said
"Don't cry Mr Balding Doggy, I'll find you a bed
Though I can't give you all that other doggies possess
Your company's all I want now, I confess!"

And now sometimes out of the corner of your eye
You'll spot a little street urchin go rushing by
Side by side with her new-found companion
Laughing and playing with complete abandon
And not once will you ever observe
The "dog's" almost complete lack of fur

This poem's special for me. I had a dog once, a Dalmatian cross-breed whose spots you could only see when he shed fur. And I think along the way, I grew to take him for granted, and failed to appreciate him while he was still around.

If I had him still, I think now would be a good time to pat him, and have him curl up at my feet.