Sweet Dreams Are Made Of These

Was supposed to wake up to work on my assignment @ 7am. Rushing for dateline. I had set three alarms for this and wished heavily that my body will realised that it is important to wake up that early.

You see, my body knows how to count time. My body will NEVER gets up early unless it's for work. No matter how I psyche myself to trick my body into thinking there's work in the morning, my body never buys it. Ten alarm clocks won't do either. That's my body telling me to bugger off.

I can't finish that assignment, I can't. I thought I could use my 2 off days to crash through the 2,000 word essay. I can't.

Because I discover no matter how I adore writing and train myself to write, I could never write more than 300 words a day. I don't know why. It's as if there is a gantry in my head and it shuts off after the 300 word mark. That's my mind telling me to bugger off.

It's not that when you are older, you don't get these limitations, you just realise that they are there all the while. With age, you simply concede because you have see enough not to fight with your body.

There is another limitation to what I can do.

I can never stop that dream. It happens around half a year and it really comes around. It's sweet and frightening as well. I would wake up, blank-eyed the morning sun for a while, the birds are always singing somewhere. I always wake up in a beautiful day and never a rainy one. A rainy one will give you more reasons to roll back to sleep, but no. I have to skip that beautiful day, skip those alarm clocks, skip that 300 word mark of assignment, close my eyes and try to fight back to continue that dream. That's no such thing as jumping back into dreams. That's my subconscious telling me to bugger off.

I cannot tell you what these dreams are made off. I'm socially handicapped. It tells me to bugger off and don't even think about blabbering here. I can't.  I can only tell it to Bryan when it comes every half a year.

I will tell Bryan over supper that I had that dream, again. And we wait for that moment to pass. No, it's not trying to tell me something, even if it does, I can't and won't do anything about it.

My destiny won't allow me to. It will tell me to bugger off.

 

L4D2 - The Passing (For General Public)

* This entry is targeted for general public.


I have never been much of a fanboy in my life. A geek maybe, but only a closet one. I have never queue for nights for launch of iphones, Halo or Star Wars movies. I am the technological barbarian and a very lazy nerd.

But the past twenty four hours, I have partaken in a fanatic nerd-rage that is both exciting and embarrassing for folks my age.

Upon knowing the launch of the much anticipated 'The Passing' campaign for Left4Dead2, we camped out Sembawang Chambers LAN shop just to play the game.

24 hours post the update of The Passing around the globe, by now there must be gazillion reviews and blogs on the game. The reason I still want to squeeze in my two cents' worth is to remind myself in the future that I have never and will never be a Mr. Stepford. Despite marriage and work, I still have time for myself to engage in otherwise misunderstood frathood.

L4D2 is a first person shooter, cooperative game that can be played with both LAN and Internet domains. It is the sequel to Left4Dead which four survivors in a post-apocalyptic world have to fend themselves from zombies and special infected. It is a very violent game that depicts decapitations, disembowelment and genocide using chainsaws, M16, frying pans and sardonic dialogues. Blood fly and innards splashing all over the place that will shock parents into coma just like what Contra did in the Eighties.

Why don't I join regular people my age over beer in soccer pubs, or mahjong and other mature vices? I simply don't. I like to set people on fire over red bulls and pocky chocolate sticks and melee an endless surge of zombies while updating my Facebook. I like to curse, swear in joy, spin and throw my mouse in rage and laugh rabidly with my friends and brothers in front of glowing computer screens and seas of pubescent adolescents.

You just have to accept that the entire generation of Counterstrike gamers has now grown up and still decide to stick to their guns. The quick and easy access of modern Internet and media violence desensitization are just pushing the lot of us in numbers.

I am thrilled that The Passing was not disappointing and exceeded our expectations, which made the long wait worthwhile. I am looking forward to shorten the launch-and-play time of the next DLC (downloadable content) campaign of L4D that will explore the sacrifice of the playable character Bill and preparing for Blizzard's Diablo 3. Yes, I will be taking a week of sabbatical absence from work and housework for that.

Rant

More kids poured in. One more hour. The band probably will be late anyway. I was so bored. Standing bored. Rock gig is a funny thing. You pay hundreds of dollars, you have to queue hours, fight your way to the front and stand throughout the whole show. It’s pure sadism compared to going the Indoor Stadium.

Then a good old-fashioned conversation opened up. Not before me, but behind me.

Him: ‘Hi, you’re here alone?’ (Nice. This is gonna be interesting.)

Her: ‘Ya, you too?’

Him: ‘Yaya, My friends are not into Placebo.’ (So are my friends.)

Her: ‘Mine too. I always have to come alone for these gigs.’ (Alone? Awesome!)

Him: ‘Ah. So what else did you went?’

Her: ‘Paramore? (And some more shitty bands I cannot remember.)

Him: ‘I was there at Paramore’s too. It was awesome! So was Lifehouse!’ (Shitheads. Gay. Shitheads.)

Her: ‘Yaya, The sounds were amazing! I heard Stereophonics would be here. I can’t wait to go!’ (Dakota… Think that’s the only song I cared.)

Him: ‘Ah. I’m not into them…’

Her: ‘How about AC/DC? Or Led Zeppelin?’

Him: ‘Heard about them, but never really download their songs before.’ (Fraggot maggot.)

Her: ‘You should try Stairway to Heaven.’ (Or Immigrant Song, Black Dog, When The Levee Breaks…)

Him: ‘…’ (You and your Lifehouse cha-cha. Buried your head a hole and hide. A chick’s musical taste is better than yours.)

Her: ‘…’

Him’…’

Him: ‘So what songs do you think they’ll play tonight?’ (Nice rebound though.)

Her: ‘Hopefully all of their new album’s.’ (They should play all their old songs, cause I didn’t catch the new album.)

Him: ‘I hope they play Bright Lights.’ (Bright Lights?)

Her: ‘Yaya! I adore Bright Lights! I listen to it every night!’ (Must check out Bright Lights.)

Him: ‘I hope Battle For The Sun will be on too.’ (This conversation is getting annoying.)

Her: ‘I want them to play Infrared Red, you like their old songs?’ (This conversation is not getting annoying anymore. Discuss more on their older songs, cause they are the only ones I know.)

Him: ‘Actually I have only listened to their Battle For The Sun album.’ (GET OUTTA HERE!)

Her: ‘I like their ‘Meds’ album. It is the greatest.’ (I worship her. I really do.)

Him: ‘Do you like Every You And Every Me?’ (I am surprised you know that.)

Her: ‘Nope.’

Me and him went totally silent. This is bad. Who is she? What is she doing here not knowing what is that song? This is so wrong.

That could only be one reason.

Him: ‘This is odd but how old are you?’

Her: ‘I’m sixteen.’ (BURN! FLASH ALERT! JAILBAIT! JAILBAIT!) ‘And you?’

Him: ‘I’m twenty one…’

I pretended to look for friends I don’t have and turned around.

Gawd. She looked like nineteen and he looked like twelve.

Speak about plastic reality.

 

505

Grand Taoist Master = GTM

Before the GTM went into the top of the mountain, before he stepped into the cave to meditate, the GTM did before he waved his disciples goodbyes and before he would enter a ten year trance that would promise enlightenment, he bought with him only a change of robes and his grass slippers.

And ten dollars.

'Why ten dollars?' Tze Wen, his youngest disciple asked the GTM before he went off.

'So perhaps I can purchase a bowl of noodles when I complete my training in the mountains.' GTM replied.

Tze Wen pressed on, 'But a bowl of noodles only cost two bucks, master.'

The GTM smiled and replied, 'Read more news, you idiotic calf. Inflation will kill us all.'

With that, the GTM went into the mountains.

Wile the rest of the sect went on with their business, Tze Wen though naive decided to wait for the GTM at the foot of the mountain. He read everyday.

At only the fifth year, Tze Wen caught the GTM coming down from the mountain. GTM was unshaved, smelly but oddly radiant.

'My master, you have anticipated that it would take ten years before you could gain enlightenment and nirvana, it has only been five years. I know because I read the news everyday. Have you already been enlightened or are you giving up?' Tze Wen asked.

GTM just smiled and asked to be lead to town.

In town GTM used his ten dollars to purchase a pack of cigarettes instead of food.

'Why are you smoking? It's forbidden in our sect.' Tze Wen surprised. 'What happen?'

'I have reach enlightenment.' GTM traded his clothes with the stable boy. 'My enlightenment is that there is no more enlightenment. This is it. Live your life now.'

GTM completed his sentence by throwing off his grass slippers and smoked his way into the crowd.

 

 

The Living Room

He polished the beer dry, the green bottle gleamed in the darkness of his living room triumphantly. That is how it should be done, he thought, beer should never be warm. People should never talk and drink at the same time that will only bring out the shit from the beer. Beer is as shitty as it gets if it’s warm, toast as a bone.

He smiled with his numbing face as he nodded to himself in the dark. The first beer always gets him in the face. His head nodding to the rhythm in his earphones as the clear crisp guitar scratched eight times on the seven and nine frets to the explosive bass drums. Of the beat to A Certain Romance.

‘God.’ He smiled to himself, ‘Arctic Monkeys should play in my wedding.’

He was in the living room, in front of youtube at his dinning table. It was midnight and so he had used the earphones. He had finished cleaning up the house when he decided he needed a beer, regardless if he had a buddy or not. It was hot and the beers were freezing in the fridge and he had finished sweeping the floor and mopping after mopping with soap and he had had his shower and he was alone and nobody is going to drink anything out from his fridge for the entire week.

The living room was dark because he had wanted to save electricity. Two people are paying for the fee of five people and that’s just crazy talk. He wished it was the afternoon and so he could unplug the earphones and let Andy Nicholson’s bass burstfire and ricochet off his purple walls. Instead he had to settle in playing air guitar and dance the forbidden dance that nobody are allowed to see in the confine of his chair.

The first beer warmed up him enough to write. Write what? Anything! He just needed the focus to keep his fingers tapping the scores away at the keyboard; otherwise they will just stick to swimming off in the air to the voice of Alex Turner. So he typed out one page detailing to the details of his afternoon cleaning every corner of his house. Then the first beer asked him to ask himself what’s the point. He shrugged while nodding to snare drums of ‘Perhaps Vampires Is A Bit Strong But…’ deleted the entry and begun a new one about brushing his teeth. Twenty words through and he wondered about boredom of teeth brushing but went on anyway because he had loved the constant drumming of his fingers across the keyboard and the guitar riffs in his ears. He soon scrapped away that entry too, scratched his numbing face and started a new one about enjoying cold beer after cleaning the house. He would write about the wonderful music of Arctic Monkeys and write about him writing.

When he was bored and his fingers tired from making nonsensical entries, he shut off the laptop at his dinning table and jumped into the corner of his very red couch, flicked on the table lamp and read Andre Dubus. He would read until he fell asleep on his numbing face to his first beer. His fingers aching of typing, his neck complaining from nodding with his ears, his shoulders ruining from the mopping and his eyes will open again to his living room when she returns from her night shift.

The Bed

The bed is one of the very last things they had bought of their furniture. This is not necessarily true; she had bought the bed frame along with the dressing table and the wardrobe for a bundle price. But he has never thought a bed frame enough to make it a bed - the bed is the mattress.

The history of beds he had slept in came in various forms. He had spent nights on the couch if his brother’s girlfriend came over. He had slept on the floor mattress, barely a piece of cotton in his parents’ room whenever his mother had turned on the air conditioner. His two other brothers would each take a corner around his mother’s bed.  Elbows and toes in each other’s hair and they would speak to each other in the cooling darkness. They would talk about everything until it was really late in the morning and they all have to wake up later for school and work. In his formative years of emotive tantrum, he would refuse to sleep in the house. He would sleep at the bench a distance from his flat, he would sleep beneath the shop house at the beach and he would sleep in his friends’ house. When his insomnia came after he graduated, he would sleep anywhere in the house and at least attempted to anyways. He tossed and turned in the kitchen or under the bed. Finally he will always gave up and stared blankly outside his kitchen window.

The irony when he goes traveling is always the hotel beds. There they were, majestically comfortable and puffy and cloudy, they are always the ones he had to spend the minimal time with. After all, a rare chance to go overseas no one would want to spend it all by sleeping in. On their Thailand trip he did it. He was so convinced that he had food poisoning from eating fired bugs from street, he insisted on spending the rest of his vacation in the hotel’s king sized bed, the kind that swallow you alive with thread counts, satin pillowcases and yellow table lamps.   

In fact when he had shopped for his bed, he had used the word ‘that kind that eats you alive’. He’s shopping for the ultimate cotton coffin. The one that you won’t mind dying in. He had heard so much about dying in one’s sleep. His primary school principle had told his school that it was a very much-preferred way to die. It is a very romantic and a dignified way to pass on. When he did nursing, he was then told dying in one’s sleep is actually suffocation. He shrugged away that scientific notion and went ahead and ordered ‘the kind that buries you alive’ mattress anyway. He guessed that he was more afraid of deprivation of comfort than death itself.

It was not that he had intend to spend a lot of time sleeping or bought the bullshite about how people will spend a quarter of their lives sleeping and thus the need for a better bed. He needs a good bed now that’s he’s married with her. He has to believe that it can work. If you ask him to close his eyes and talk about his parents or just get him drunk enough to feel sad, he will tell you about the voices between the walls. How when he was a boy in his bedroom tuning in to his parents’ conversations before they slept, across the rooms. It was before the time when his parents fought and slept in different rooms. It was a quieter time when they would ask about each other’s day and tease about little things. Sometimes his mother’s voice would go shrilly and called his father ‘Friend’ in Hokkien. People would nickname each other silly sweet titles but theirs was ‘Peng Yu Eh’. He could always picture them at the head of the bed, propped up on pillows, his father would probably smoke and they would talk until their voices were no more across the rooms. Or at least until he curled up and sleep like a ball in the covers. Safe and comforted by his parents’ bedtalk.

When they shopped for the bed, he had specifically asked for a high bed so that they can ‘climb into’. Actually a normal twelve inch mattress would suffice but he felt that he had to be animatedly specific to oppose the low lying Zen-like beds that were rampantly so in the rage. As a result he fell from his new bed once. It was three thirty in the morning and he was due for his morning shift in the next three hours, he woke up upon a thud and found himself on the floor. He was so embarrassed and looked around in the dark for her. She was sleeping like a log, her back against him with her face in her hair. At least he paid well for the individual pocketed spring mattress.

One night he was turning in with her, they heard noises between the walls. Being a newly weds in a new house there will always be irrational fear of breaking and entering. He climbed out of bed and checked all the windows, locked them and returned to the bed. More crashing sounds broke out from upstairs. It was one in the morning. The couple above raised their quarrels and their kids began to brawl. He listened closely and thought that he was back in his old flat when his parents used to fight endlessly in the nights. He used to wonder about his neighbors. What would they think and how would they look at him in the morning when they see each other in the corridors? Would they try to look into his house? Lying in the bed with her and listening to the fight a ceiling apart, he had become the neighbor. He pulled the covers to their chin and asked her to ignore the quarrel. And there he slept in the thick and soft bed, holding her hands and prayed that they will never end up like that.

50

I tried to hold it all in my head. Until I'm blue.

It's like those times we held our breaths underwater. Until we were blue inside.

I held it in my head, like a leaking water balloon, I reached home an hour later, that's the best I can do. No, that's not it. I went into the stores, into white light and pushing noises. The eleven o clock shoppers. I joined the queue and bought stuff I don't need. I bought a bagful of wafer biscuits I knew I won't eat. But it had to be done. Ritual is a ritual. When 63 died, bleeding his entire bed, I had spent the afternoon in the bar. Like everything worthy in life, self indulgence is a 12 step program.

At home in front of the computer, I unloaded and there was nothing. My head the size of a sunken balloon. All I could remember was the mixed emotions of relief followed by instant horror when he finally spoke.

I swore that was him speaking.

His first word after a 280 days of coma was his death rattle.    

Now I can remember that first time we met. He could walk then and he was in the isolation room. They said he's a bit crazy but don't we all? He refused to let the nurses shower him, so they get me, a dude. He's not crazy, towering and shaggy headed, but not crazy. In fact he's quite polite.

A while ago at his bedside where everything was ripped opened and him rattling for a good ten second, I could remember nothing. All I could comprehend is this thick muck of silence in my head.

On the train home I put on my ipod and tried to drown this fog of silence off. I can't. I'm defenseless even against myself. All I had were The Cure and Smashing Pumpkins.

For the longest time, I don't believe that this woman was his wife. She appeared only at the last two weeks. Spending 270 odd days with him, I had my doubts with her sudden appearance. But seeing her crying, calling and slapping his cold clammy torso, I believe she love him.

When the rest of the family came, the wailing imploded. Even that could not drown out the murky silence in my head. So I stood there and let both of the wailing and the absurd tranquility bathe me like how the sun and the moonlight do. I must have tell myself that I had in fact enjoy this. The hollow rotten bastard that seek pleasure through people's misery. I think deep down I have to keep telling myself I do what I do, so that I won't leave this job, or worse: join them and burst into tears.

Lean On Me Now

We are billed as the worst disaster as a couple.

We lost tons of stuff.

Always being shortchanged and taken advantage of.

We lag behind others in so many ways. We are not very bright and far-sighted.

We always get the worst bargain, worst quality of goods, worst service and worst luck among our friends.

Our strengths does not lend to compensate each other while our weakness combined and get blown up.

People actually afraid that we might:

A) Lost our baby.

B) Roll over our baby when we sleep.

C) Fall into drains.

But we truly love each other.

We will be happy even as luckless trolls, dumb and dumber and come what may.

We will be happy because in love nobody else exist.

If we are the world to each other than there is no such things as worst bargains or coming short in comparison.

We will be happy being just us.




 

Sleepless Tides

I wonder which is more taxing?

Guilt from harming others intentionally?

Or.

Guilt from harming others unintentionally?

I Hitched A Ride With My Soul By The Side Of The Road Just As The Sky Turned Black

Wanna hear the saddest story, kids?

Here's one. And it's real.

I have a patient. Thirty plus. He has brain tumor. Now tumors are tricky sons of bitches, they are these ticking bombs waiting to explode in your body.

And it did to him.

He came in walking, smiling and talking to us. Then his tumor bled out. Now he drifting in and out of consciousness.

His wife was crying her heart out by the corridor when the surgeons told her that there was nothing they can do further. That western medicine was a cheap shot and there is nothing they could do. They could only make him as comfortable as possible.

That means loading him with inhumane doses of painkillers and sedatives.

The young wife stayed on. She was there for the entirety of the day and only went back home to shower. Eventually when she found out that she could sneak and use the patient's bathroom to shower, she gave up going home altogether. She wanted to be with him until his very end.

The cancer pain. It was a pain like nothing we have ever seen. The pain was so tormenting that it seems physically real. He would wring and groan to nightmares that were never there. He would pull his hair, his tubes and his wife, trying to defend himself from something.

The wife stood by him every moment of the way, called us up for painkillers, sponged him, messaged him and even once apologized when she has fallen asleep. That was four in the morning.

Every minute of his life, she fights to stay with him. Every single second she wants to be there.

What kind of love is this?

Today she was told that at best he would live for three months. She nodded her head and just went back to sat by her husband, pulling his hand over hers and slept on his shoulder.

Three months from now she will lose him forever. I kept thinking to myself that there are so many things I will be doing three months from now. I will get my house and I will be married.

And he will be gone by then.

Three months are just days away.

The Dreams We Have As Children Fade Away

I was doodling on the table while blasting away Oasis' Fade Away.

'What's that?' She asked about the music that bore clashing drums and crying guitars.

'That's Oasis.' I replied without looking up. I drew bugged out eyes, snapping my mechanical pencil leads in serial succession.

'So that's the band that you will be going to their concert this April?' She said, holding her mug to her lips. She was interested in what I do. That's rare.

'Yup.' I grunted without tearing my eyes from my doodle. I reached over for an eraser and decided to rub off everything.

'If you had like them so much, how come I have never hear you playing their songs before?' She exclaimed.

'What?' I spun away and looked at her. I'm offended, sort of. I'm like their biggest fan.

But she will never understand. My glaze soften and I returned my focus back to my drawing.

'Uh huh.' I grunted.

I have decided gingerly that I'm gonna elope with another female fan at their concert in Singapore this April.

Gutter Sex And Neon Thunder

I shouldn't be here. I should be working instead. Working as not in nursing but on the nursing newsletter I'm contributing. Actually I think I'm not supposed to talk about the newsletter because it's an official newsletter and my presence here might conflict against it because of my incessantly tactless journals at this site.

The point is I should be cracking my head on the lip of the glass bowl and hopefully bleed my yolk of wisdom, zeal and restrained humanity. But I can't. Given a cubicle in an office, the right picture would be that I will clicking impulsively on email jokes. Procrastinating indefinitely. The best hobby in the world - doing utterly surreal stuff that you shouldn't be doing at that moment. I'm struck in that zone where I cannot work or rest properly. Like when you have too much coffee and you cannot sleep, nor can you rest. Your world hop agonizingly. The human molecule. 

This is the result of insisting to sleep for only two hours after getting off night shifts.

This year is a big year. Was planning to get a degree initially but dived into getting hitched after much discussion with her. A wedding year is a busy year. We did everything on our own. We spent three months house hunting and went to every possible household/electronics/bridal fairs we could. We talked to many people for ideas for weddings and renovations. We been to endless websites for videography, catering and banquet services. It is namecards after namecards, handshakes and single serving beverages. It's smiling and asking and walking and sighing and fighting and sleeping late. There was even a twelve hour span we blazed the pouring rain to knock on doors of a dozen hotels.

We even went to the zoo to enquire about their banquet service. Seriously, zoo wedding rocks! At evening the guests could admit into the zoo with their wedding invitations where they will be ushered onto a looping tram. The tram would bring them to the wedding reception where they will be served cocktails beside a streaming koi pond. The couple will arrive in horse drawn carriage. How outrageous is that? In my opinion, horse drawn carriage beats everything any hotel offers hands down. Hands down I say! You can offer me free booze, luxurious bridal suite or even wedding at an evening poolside, but you ain't beating a grand entrance via horse drawn carriage. I will be so cool!

Well that aside, it will still not happen in the zoo.

But Chumbawumba will happen! Sort of.

'Never compromise. Not even in the face of Armageddon.'

The film stays very true to the book. But it has no climax. Alan Moore is right - not everything is meant to be presented on the silver screen. With the book, the climax is the saturated wisdom and craftiness beneath the panels of colors and colors of horrors.

But I have to give credit to the movie for at least making him right.

He is the coolest vigilante.

Because he is not locked in here with us.

We are all locked in here with him.

Losing My Religion

Because I can.

And I choose D.

It is written.

So fight destiny.

Pissin' The Night Away

It's only natural that I want it to be all me.

The wedding that we if not everyone else can remember for the longest time.

With rock bands, songs from the nineties, dancing, chinese kites, golden balloons, tapping shoes, movie quotations and flying pies.

It's only natural.

And then the lights go out and I wake up to an authentic traditional let-me-paint-the-walls-with-my-balls super dull wedding banquet. Yes. That all so familiarity in the soaking ten course substandard food that goes round on the table that sits ten strangers and they could barely see the bride or the groom on the horribly decorated stage. With a loud and chesty 'Yam Seng!', the forgettable charade will be over.

I cannot believe that that's no Chumbawumba.

My 25's.

Rules: Once you’ve been tagged, you are supposed to write a note with 25 random things, facts, habits, or goals about you. At the end, choose 25 people to be tagged. You have to tag the person who tagged you. If I tagged you, it’s because I want to know more about you! Blah Blah Blah, tagged by Owen, Blah Blah Blah, nothing to do now anyway, so here we go.

1. When I put down watching movies in my interest section, i meant every word. I watch movies exhaustively and extensively. Was a film reviewer years ago.

2. It is annoying to watch films with me. There is nothing in this world I loathed more are lameduck idols trying to make it as actors.

3. And sprouted beans.

4. And folks who don't wash their hands after they pee. Seriously they should be gassed.

5. Love to drink, but unable to hold liquor well.

6. With observations from friends for years, it's easy to know if I have a beer too many; I'll start to mouth off fluent English.

7.  Always wanted to be a rock god. Wants to play at Glastonbury.

8. Bad at grammar. Very.

9. Hated Backstreet Boys for the entirety of my secondary schooldays. But has started listening to them now because I missed those days.

10. Thinks that the seventies is the coolest era.

11. Part timed in Bedok's Funland Arcade during my poly years. It paid the lowest wages: $2.50 per hour, yet I'm not surprised; all I do is to watch people play games. The fun part of the job was that we get to play free games for half an hour after we've closed the arcade.  

12. I get to become a cashier in the arcade at times and being cashier it allowed me to take charge of the store's av system. I get to decide what booming music the customers have to listen to. During an insufferable breakup at year 1, all the gamers have to listen for ten hours a day, three times a week was Hikaru Utada's First Love, looping endlessly.   

13. Tone deaf.

14. My waistline unlike the general population is of definitive volume and cannot be expanded. To make room for more food, my body just keep purging. My bowel movement are well rostered, straight after each meal. Never gain or lose a kg in the last five years.

15. Excels in trivia. One look at someone on the tv, I can almost always name you his/her name, movies acted, awards won and other random stuff.

16. Came in third in the whole of Singapore during 1999's O Level Chinese Calligraphy (Arts).

17. There were only three students who did Chinese Calligraphy that year.

18. I like the color purple. And I can explain to you why it is not gay at all to like purple. When I was a boy, I like blue just like every boys. When I reached my angst years, all I associated myself is black. So liking purple now is basically matching these colors.

19. Thinks that girls look hot in purple.

20. Strangely attracted to bookstores. Any bookstore. Must enter one whenever I go to a mall, even if it's the goddamn Popular. Initially wanted to be buried in Page One of Vivo, but decided against it because then Page One will have to relocate. Decided to instead sculpt my dead body into a smiling usher standing inanimately at the Philosophy section of Page One wearing a bubble that says 'Reading Is Awesome!'

21. Told that idea to Vimcent which in one of his function actually met the owner of Page One. Vimcent told him my intention.

22. Is trying to save enough to go Russia. For Lenin, for the Winter Palace, for the Russian chicks.

23. Thinks that the Chinese language is way superior than English.

24. I can eat chicken everyday for the rest of my life.

25. Don't believe in sleeping.

Betamethasone Valerate 0.025%

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.

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.