I had the worst lunch today

Updates, updates. So right now I’ve got a full-time job at hand, there are also school projects to deal with (sends me mumbling under my breath quite a bit) and I’m still taking on a bit of freelance work. Life isn’t quite the same anymore, to say the least. It’s pretty much a mad flurry of rushing to work in the morning and rushing to school and night and rushing home to do whatever schoolwork, work-work or freelance-work that requires the most urgent and immediate attention.

Thus it also burns pretty darn bad when I go to school and sit before this excuse of a lecturer who so obviously has no idea what he is talking about. It makes me cringe when he fumbles his way through advertising theories and tries to make sense of his own embarrassing, senseless crap. It gets me fuming mad. I want my money back.

But the point is, don’t expect anything out of this space no more.

Someone quipped

logic will break your heart

Bob bob

God, it is almost three in the morning and most certainly not compliant with my latest efforts that flow in the general direction of a Snoozefest in both the literal and metaphorical sense.

It’s just one of those nights, where I am inexplicably sleepy and yet lay in bed with thoughts too vivid for sleep to find a suitable window to interrupt. Conversations in my mind, if you might, like those you may find yourself in at one point or another.

Today it hit me that I can be an incorrigibly neurotic person at times. Not that it hasn’t before, but it is one of the many things that you realise and then conveniently fail to remember. Also explains why that damned pack of batteries never got around to being bought. Also explains why your best mate gets his birthday present half a year late. Or not at all.

In any case, it is true. I suppose that helps to explain why I don’t make fast friends. New people don’t understand my jokes, undeniably lame, but funny nonetheless in the same way you laugh at your Dad’s endeavor in upping his hip factor with a 6-month-old Facebook account with 2 friends. You get what I mean.

I am metamorphosis at its best. With a gaggle of giggling girls, I forget self-respect and enter a world of fluffy marshmallows and unicorns, and more realistically, brittle nails and split ends. With party friends, I am a despicable pseudo-intellectual with nothing but drunken bravado. With family, I am the perfect Singlish-sputtering typicality.

I’ve realised a long time ago that there is no such thing as a True Self, and this is a disconcerting fact that becomes more obvious as Life gets older and serves you on a silver platter to circumstances so varied, you do what human beings do best and that is adapt. As the story goes, you become a myriad of many selves, none of which could possibly be said to be more authentic than the other. One might argue, but what is the point when the conclusion will undoubtedly be unconvincing and thus unsatisfactory.

I am disgusted. By one and all.

So I am neurotic, as we all can be, in the sense that it is easier to just exist sometimes. Without concerns of propriety, of sound reasoning, of purpose and of any sense whatsoever. It is simply that nothing can be disputed in the realm of neuroticism. Madness cancels out logic which cancels out argument.

We need a little more madness, less for its loud, attention-seeking ways, but more for its quiet, unassuming plight.

Puff Daddy

It’s been about a month since Tiff has gone. There’s a whole lot of stuff I miss about her like us going at Boogie Superstar on her Wii like absolute nerds and us hysterically singing along to anything from Westlife to Wheatus in her car at 3am. But mostly I guess I just miss having my best bud around.

Come to think of it, we do a lot of geeky stuff together. Like Boogie Superstar and cooking and badminton and N’sync spoofs and eating healthy and going to Nepal.

I miss my good ol’ Puff Daddy :(

Photos taken off Narene

Bowlarama II

feat. ginette, belle, race, jack and joe

Race the racist and the 3 Azns with Azn poses

I am hella B

I am officially bored of everything in life. I am bored of this space, I am bored of my thoughts. I am bored of my weekends, I am bored of the parties that are but the same. I am bored of seeking, I am bored of never finding. I am bored of yearning, I am bored of lacking.

Essentially, I am bored of life as I know it because it has been in this pathetic, categorical state for far too long. And we all know that human beings, as we know them, are not meant for a life that reeks so foully of stagnation. Well, unless you’re one of those. I’ve ceased to possess the ability to be surprised. My eyebrows are practically disintegrating due to disuse.

For the sake of my failing dignity, let’s believe that the past months of my um, online behaviour (basically of the nosey nature) simply constitutes as intrinsic research for my personal anthropological work.

As in, Why are you reading her blog? Aiyah, anthropology stuff you dunno one lah. (Uncannily like what Ginette said to me when I tried to be part of a conversation involving the iPhone. I only haz Moh toh loh lah.)

Heads shoulders knees and toes

ain’t nothing more fantastic
than my pool gymnastics

Daniel Johnston

Just caught the documentary The Devil and Daniel Johnston. Not a fan of his music and honestly haven’t heard of him prior to this, but I thought that was a great film. You’ve got to admire how he grabbed his dreams and ran, and ran everything over. I haven’t seen emotions that raw in a while. I wish I had his courage, for one.

When I was out in San Marcos a year ago today
They probably would’ve put me in a home
But I threw all my belongings into a garbage bag
And out into the worldness I did roam

My hopes lay shattered like a mirror on the floor
I see myself and I look really scattered
But I lived my broken dreams

The wildest summer that I ever knew
I had a flat tire down memory lane
But I came back after 5 months and a half
And now I’m just trying to explain

And now I’m here 
And here I stand
With a sweet angel holding my hand
I lived my broken dreams

- I Live My Broken Dreams

Morning chorus

I hardly ever tune in to radio stations. Times when I do, I am most likely a) in a taxi, b) taking a crap in a shopping mall toilet, or c) in Tiff’s car being sick of the music on her iPod.

A night from many moons ago just came to me today while I, as usual, was in Tiff’s car taking one of our longer-than-necessary trips.

We were cruising about aimlessly in the wee hours of the morning, me slouched low in the seat, her with a bottle of Jacks. The radio was on, the roads were empty and songs of the sad sort came on one after another, pretty much silencing me and effectively us.

I don’t know if it simply had something to do with the time of the night. The hour when it feels like all the world is asleep, or lingering at the final moments of consciousness. And those in slumber cease to co-exist while their dreams bring them places not bound by the sciences of nature, and those in limbo sink into a weakness that brings them on a VIP tour to thoughts better forgotten in the decrepit museums of their minds.

Then there are the leftovers, like me in the car with one knee propped against the glove compartment and my ass hanging precariously by the edge of the seat. Plagued by a sadness unfounded but only exacerbated by the never-ending tunes about love lost, dreams lost, lives lost and all the others that should’ve stayed.

I am curious; At any random point in time, do you think there would be more happy people or sad people in this world?

The truth is that we are all our own prodigal sons.

So how do you do this? How is life supposed to be?