We Can Remember For You Wholesale

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Got off my nightshifts again. Slept for three hours and found myself staring at the computer screen again. Honestly I find the modern relationship between people and their computers these days is hypnotically religious. As if we can seriously google to all truth and meaning to life.

Not much happening lately. Except in finding enough excuses to hate everything recently. Everything must suck and I must abbreviate apparently enough so that everyone knows that everything sucked. From food, commercials to the sun and the stars. And by recently, I meant for the last twenty six years of my life.

Not much happening except that I was kicked in the neck this morning. Old confused patient restrained drew me near to him with his mumblings and delivered a vicious blow to my neck. Human body is cleverly designed against pain like these. Like when I was kicked, I was rendered a third person watching myself instead of absorbing the trauma as myself. I felt no pain, just dazed that I was kicked. I looked around and staggered a bit. The nightshift cleaner a distant away was watching me closely as if I was going to fall. I shook my head like a boar in summer flies and walked off.

The human body is amazing and sometimes it can turn sentient, displacing the conscious to defend us.  Examples such as passing out in pain, fight/flight reflexes, denial and if you know how our immunity system works, the human body is zealously brilliant. We are just like '58 plymouth engines mounted into Ford Mustangs, inapt in even comprehending what our bodies could do for us.

At least I was not kicked in the nuts.

Boo ya, I live to fight another day.

Pornstar Unicorns

Gras: Oh my god.

Jin: Yup.

Gras: Holy shit, she did it again.

Jin: I know. I'm here.

Gras: How could she fit that entire thing in her mouth?

Jin: Shut up. Your mum's just next door.

Gras: Can your girlfriend do that? Take it all orally?

Jin: No. Of course not. Nobody in their right mind will do that. It's just in the porn. Reality is very different.

Gras: I have got to meet a pornstar.

Jin: Don't be silly. They ain't real.

Gras: You're shitting me.

Jin: Come on. Everybody knows that. There are nothing such as pornstars. They are mythical, like unicorns or santa claus.

Gras: Kay. So what exactly are we watching right now? How is she doing that?

Jin: Computer special effects.

Time Is Never Time At All

So I was wrong.

No surprise.

Amount of hours stayed awake does not equates existence.

It doesn't mean that if you fight to sleep only two hours a day, you are existing twenty two hours a day. It doesn't work that way.

That is only barely existing. Time zombie.

Existence is all about passion. If you are passionate enough about something, two hours would seemed like a lifetime.

饺子

Making dumplings on the first day of the Chinese New Year.

Me: I could never get this right!

Her: What?

Me: I could not get enough fillings in properly. Compared to mine, your dumplings are filling up ample and busty. The big one over there is like the goddamn Aki Hoshino of dumplings!

Nothing Is Important

Meaningless sex.

It is an oxymoron.

Even reproductive sex means something.

Does everything has to mean something? Every single act a motive, every breath an impulse?

Then humanity will soon crush under its own weight.

Therefore meaningless sex is a subconscious defiance against rationalism. 

But then it won't be meaningless after all.

And it is not sex anymore.

Dhoby Ghaut Mrt. Cloudy. January Ten. Fifteen Twenty Seven Pm.

Raknax's model of 5 stages of trauma.

1. See Dragonball the movie's poster.

(This is the stage one of trauma - Shock. Usually characterized by widening of eyebrows and locking them in instantaneous surprise. Common physiology include quickening of pulse, nausea, irreversible mental retardation and visual shock if one sees Chow Yun Fatt first.)


2. Scratches my head furiously for a minute there.

(This is the stage two of trauma - Perverse Curiosity. Admittance to such stage often indicated shock victims' high tolerance for pain or that he/she must be a manga fan for at least twenty years. Possible risks for latent complications such as erectile dysfunction, epilepsy, gastric hemorrhage and collecting Garfield comic strips.)


3. Reach for my balls, will ignore the fact it has shrivelled but glad that it's intact.

(This is the stage three of trauma - Self Preservation or Self Assurance. While this stage can be rare, clinical studies have shown that survivors often possessed superhuman sense of denial and heightened reliefs. Exceptions also presented 'phantom balls' experience where even though the trauma has shocked their genitals into hiding, they hallucinate that they still have balls. Criticisms drawn from Orthodox Raknaxists claimed that such stage of trauma is centrally metaphorically damaging instead of physical - Male victims grab balls for assurance that they did not devolved at spirituality under the offense of the poster.)


4. Sympathized with the eunuchs that make the movie happens.

(This is the stage four of trauma - Hypocrisy. Why not? Health benefits like walking with enlarged steps and singing the 'I have thunderballs' song have shown a staggering recovery chance up to forty two percentage. Survivors of this stage can also register with the local support group and get a free 'I've seen the Dragonball Movie poster and all I got is this lousy T-Shirt' T-Shirt from now until end of March 2009. Proceedings from the registration fees will go to Chow Yun Fatt Visual Shock's syndrome patients and help pay for rehabilitation for Garfield fans.)


5. Remembers that Stephen Chow was the producer and died abit inside.

(This is the fifth and last stage of trauma - Shame. Some survivors cry to sleep every night, and some kick little animals. Recently, there has been optimistic speculations that some can live long enough to attain Kubler-Ross' Five Stages Of Grief.)



 

Chinatown. Sunny. Janaury Ten. Fifteen Eleven Pm.

How did I get to the point where I incessantly narrate everything? As if without these narrations, nothing functions, everything halts. The red menacing lanterns will ceased to wave in humid air if I don't talk about them in my head. Or that the sun will refused to bounce off glass doors and shadows of high noons unable to shift from gravel to gravel if I hadn't paused to appreciate it.

I wonder what I should do now? Never stop wondering before. But if I have stop or in other words, quit narrating existence, will I cease to exist too? Just like the sun, the shadows from the noons and the awfully red lanterns of Chinatown. Like how sharks have to constantly swim to stay afloat.

I should eat. But I detest easting alone. Maybe I should drop in on one of those massage parlors and pay for an afternoon with a hooker. Can I pay her to eat with me instead? If one really look into the psyche of paying for sex, it is really more than the act itself, it is a form of seeking attention. Like committing suicide. Death and sex made good bed partners. It is certainly no mystery if you ask me about my deathwish now.

One single lonely afternoon in the crowd, there are only two gratifications available; retail therapy or prostitutes. Both reap the same effect - to purchase a notion that we matters. Ironically with the very currency that renders us emotionally impotent in the first place. Very soon we all go back to our homes feeling swindled. Why didn't buying stuff and fucking beautiful strangers make us happier or vindicated or complete or different? They should, shouldn't they?

I'm meeting Own to grab a beer in his university in the evening and then to play Counterstrike with Hao in the night. Should I start drinking now, polish off some cocktails; all with ridiculous names and even more ridiculous prices, and proceed to meet Own for more beers? It gives me great joy to imagine playing Counterstrike in such state. I would probably be shooting against the wall in a corner.

The sun is on me. Is it on me because I have think about it now? So, don't define it! Stop giving it meaning. There is no such thing as temperature.

Realising the size of the crowd, I realised that I have gone deaf. I am not making sense of the noises, nor did I feel related to my social environment. It was as if I was dropped into Chinatown.I must narrate to remind myself that I'm somewhere, to make sense of the things I'm seeing. To remind myself that I'm here regardless I like it or not? My existence is parasitic to my acceptance of my loneliness. There is no such thing as loneliness. It's all physics.

The sun found me again, I should move.