life is led easier with lowered expectations.

Jumping ships and sharks.

2009-03-16T20:59:00.001+08:00

I've bailed on Blogger. You can find me here now.

Red Herring Day.

2009-02-16T10:31:00.002+08:00

I lead a blessed life.

I've been predicting the eventual drainage of whatever luck I have, but so far, the chips have been falling in my favour; everything that's resembled an obstacle has conveniently morphed itself into something pleasant. Or it's been magically wished away.

Therefore, I shall now do the familiar:

My luck's going to run out on me before I know it.

There. I've signaled the death-knell once again.

Happenstance can't be dancing with me forever.

All roads lead to me.

2009-01-13T09:31:00.003+08:00

This line is disparaging: "When we fall in love, we're just falling in love with ourselves".

But there's a tinge of truth to it.

It's hard to filter through how someone feels about you, and how much of that appeals to you more than what you feel for them.

Funnily enough, we might just want to hold on to someone for the sake of how they make us feel --- and not so much about how much we might possibly feel for them.

It makes you wonder if relationships are ever truly mutual --- whether or not you're getting what you're giving...and whether or not you're getting what you're expecting.

Something real comes from the act of compromising your expectations. Readjustments. Spine reticulations.

I'm not saying that lowering your expectations will solve all your problems; you should never settle for less. But there's no harm in settling for something different.

We've beat the beaten track into submission.

Maybe it's time for a little air.

Save him.

2008-11-14T08:08:00.002+08:00

Supersonic actuators are slowly building a crescendo in my head.

I was happier then, when my mind was at ease and my balls were firmly connected to my pelvis.

Now, every day seems surreal. Driving to work has become an adventure in itself. The people I know and the people I meet remind me of cardboard cutouts that sprang to life from some strange quarry in the back of my mind.

Then it repeats itself. An incredibly sickening, overplayed mantra that rings true for every one of us: 'there's got to be more than this'.

Some people can be incredibly satisfied with what they have. Some people are more than happy to settle for less. Some people know what they want. Some people know what they don't want.

I don't want to go thru each day like it doesn't exist. But I think I've come to a point where it doesn't really make a difference anymore.

I'm so tired.

Craters and crocks.

2008-11-11T15:43:00.004+08:00

Living for the moment still seems to be a far better alternative to drawing up a road map.

There is no plan. There's no method to the madness.

You do what you want because you feel that it's right.

You do what you want because you feel that you want to.

You do what you want because you feel that you can.

We don't get many chances to be swept up in whatever moments we find ourselves in.

Maybe it's time we changed all that.

The Bend.

2008-11-01T22:52:00.002+08:00

Belated Deepavali firecrackers are erupting on my street.

They're really annoying.

I hope they don't affect my cars.

Uno's already growing slightly cuckoo from the noise.

For the first time in weeks, I'm actually feeling quite balanced.

(Or just a bit happier.)

I'm a chippy bastard.

When the hang-ups are hung up, you're still left hanging.

2008-10-20T13:19:00.004+08:00

For some time or other for these last two weeks, I've been wishing for something to spontaneously combust during my day.

I've been starting to feel the pull of monotony taking over. What was once drudgery has now evolved into a different kind of beast; a beast where aloofness is the norm, and where the chances of becoming wayward are as slim as a eunuch being tadpole-armed.

I don't expect excitement to be procured over the course of the immediate future. It'd just be brilliant if I could pull myself out of the hole that I've dug. The bright side of all this is that the aforementioned hole is starting to become more shallow by a will of its own.

There's got to be more than this.

I'm so tired.

2008-10-17T22:39:00.001+08:00

So I'm simply not going to be around anymore.

My Paper Ring.

2008-10-04T16:59:00.001+08:00

In my heart
My paper ring
You put it on
And I am king

In my mind
My paper ring
You put it on
And I am king.

Your way isn't the only way.

2008-09-26T02:00:00.007+08:00

I can't sleep. There're a million things going on in my head. My usual dosage of slumber-inducing music hasn't been working the way it usually does.

I'm resigned to listening to my own songs. That usually isn't a good sign.

All the doubts, fears and thinly-veiled hopes that I've had these last few weeks have sprung up simultaneously.

I don't believe that anyone can be truly happy for too long without realizing what they've given up on. You can never totally letting go without paying some kind of price for it.

I believe that I'm doing the right thing; and that this is what I want to do. I can't be proven wrong, but I can't prove that I'm right, either.

Whatever happens will happen. That's undeniable.

But for the first time, I want to fight for something badly enough that it actually makes me get off my fat arse and do it.

I'm not ready to move on without a fight. I don't care if I'm going down either with a bang or a whimper. I'm not going to take this sitting down; I'm going to bring the mountain to you.

You know that this was going to happen.

There's not much of a point in turning back now.

The right time is always now.

2008-09-25T09:23:00.002+08:00

I don't think I'm as obsessed with success as I should be. Most people around me are driven to succeed; it might be some desire to gain a remote semblance of 'stability'. It also might be because it's regarded as the right thing to do --- after all, there's nothing better than making something out of yourself.

I've never felt the urgency to go places. I've been perfectly content being aimlessly aimless, and I've been happy with how things have been. I'm not saying that I want to stay showered in static all my life --- it's just that I crave and hate anonymity all at once.

Have you ever felt lost about who you are and what makes you tick? A while back (but not too long ago), I always walked around with this inclination that I was set for bigger things. I don’t really know what I think these days.

I'm not sure if I've built a cage around myself and whether or not I'm just a jaded little jigga who can't figure heads or tails between what he wants and what he really wants.

Nobody knows where they're going; I'm just not really sure I can be bothered to get directions anymore.

Fix it.

2008-09-24T15:50:00.003+08:00

Having a game plan terrifies me, most probably because of the effort required to draw one up. I'd sooner just throw something into the wind, wing it from there, and see where it takes me. I suppose it's this particular approach to things that've gotten me into this hole in the first place.

To be fair, it's not really a 'hole' as much as it is a giant Sasquatch footprint; something that doesn't really exist, yet you can't totally disprove. I do have a problem; I can easily choose to happily ignore it, but there's the risk of it always being there.

But, as usual, I digress.

I've drawn up a strange schematic that might actually resemble a game plan, and it terrifies me. Being called into action is one thing; after all, you can't run away from conscription (unless you exile yourself to Canada). But willingly submitting to something as proper as a plan only makes things harder for you --- you do so many things with the risk of them not being appreciated.

But apart from being a morose motherfucker, I also pride myself on being incredibly stubborn once I set my mind to something. I can only call it a quality I possess that makes me all the more redeeming.

Of course, whereas some people might consider not taking any advice to be a sign of a higher degree of self-value than anything else, I consider not taking any advice to be a sign that you can stay straight and true to whatever silly objective you had in the first place.

After all, we won't always get what our hearts desire. But we can surely, surely fucking try.

With that said, I'm about to embark on a relatively strange and alien trip to the center of my head. And I hope that this incredibly cliched passage of self-discovery ends with me being a happier person.

I'm just like Jerry; I know what completes me.

The path to getting it is the bitch.

Bridesmaids, not brides.

2008-09-22T15:12:00.005+08:00

People around me are dropping like swatted flies and getting hitched. It's making me uncomfortable, to a degree.

I have an unfounded fear that I'll be a living, breathing male version of Cathy by the time I'm 37.

The idealist in me would probably want to settle down and rock that domestic vibe, but at the same time, if marriage is one long, never-ending perpetual date, why don't we all just have one long, never-ending perpetual date?

Times have changed enough that the concept of a marriage is now more of a symbol than anything else; an excuse to throw one large, lavish Chinky dinner party full of 8 course meals, cover bands and cliched PowerPoint slides.

(Something that even I'll fall prey to, eventually.)

There's no doubt that I might be ruffling a few feathers here (and getting fewer invitations in the years ahead). And I really am happy for those who've taken/are taking/are going to take the proverbial plunge.

Maybe I'm just bitter that everyone around me seems to be moving on and making headway into their lives, while all I want to do is get stoked about clearing GTA IV at 100%.

Maybe I've lost sight about the point of it all.

Maybe it's because I've possibly permanently lost my own shot at some kind of happiness.

Maybe it's all of the above and more.

It's times like these that make me wish that I have a time travelling machine that runs on kerosene.

I'd use it, and save myself from myself.

CandyGirl@Cloth and Clef.

2008-09-19T23:59:00.001+08:00

Everything went wrong until 3:08.

Untitled@Cloth and Clef.

2008-09-19T23:59:00.000+08:00

If you weren't there that night, you wouldn't have felt as bad about the polar bears as I did. Ignore my rambling; it's the only safety mechanism I have against nerves.

Egads.

Nicotine dominoes.

2008-09-14T16:40:00.004+08:00

Oh, what a night.

Evolution's in the bag.

2008-09-12T21:01:00.002+08:00

Everyone has to move on sometimes.

I'm getting ready to retire an old friend.

And I'm ready to unleash a new one out upon the world.

If only some things were this easy.

Stranger than, but never less.

2008-09-09T15:01:00.005+08:00

This is life.

Life imitates art.

Or, at least, I'm hoping that it does.

There's a scene that keeps repeating itself in my head.

Looking at it now, the closer I get to it, the less likely it'll occur.

But I've still got to do it. It's taking a leap of faith.

A massive leap; not as much faith.

Don't worry...it's no cause for concern on your part.

What I'm doing should only be saved for the schmaltziest of storylines.

Then again, this is life.

And life imitates art.

Impulse shopping!

2008-09-01T23:05:00.005+08:00

I've been searching for a toy piano these last few weeks. Since my music is rubbish enough as it is, the sounds of chiming and tinkling can only add to its...eclecticity.

To be honest with you, I've spent money on a cheap-o electronic keyboard set that's not even in tune.One bit of madness is the little girl on the box. Buying the thing and then carrying it in such a way that nobody noticed her was a challenge.

Another purchase I made in my quest for all things trebleish and chimy was a baby xylophone set from Toys 'r Us.

It works wonders. And it's quite addictive.

So yes. Let the hammer fall. My next batch of songs should be fun.

Just to let the general populace of the Internet know, I might be performing at Cloth and Clef on the 13th September, as well as at The Podium on the 20th September. Details will follow.

It's been almost a year since I last performed (and overstayed my welcome onstage), so let's hope that a year's worth of meandering has made me all that little bit more prepared.

Salut.

Oh, Pig.

2008-09-01T08:10:00.003+08:00

There's no real surefire remedy for the blues.

So why feel better?

Should we let time run its race and take its course?

Nay.

Wallowing is good. Wallowing and being proactive is so much better. Wallowing and being proactive and getting the job done is a triple expresso.

Hang, on, Pigita, I'm coming for you.

Salut.

Siva's.

2008-08-31T20:33:00.006+08:00

I've been cutting my hair at the same place since Year 9; it's been almost a decade of RM 9 cuts and trims.

It's good value for money when you consider the fact that you get to have your back slapped around in a faux-massage, your neck cracked and have scented oil rubbed around your scalp.

And it's still RM 9.

Brilliance.

Salut.

Rehab for pansies.

2008-08-26T07:50:00.002+08:00

I tend to think of myself as an impractical realist. My ambitions are never lofty, yet they seem to be incredibly hard to achieve. It gets even worse when someone gets dragged along for the ride; a journey with me seems like a meandering road of pointlessness.

Or at least that's what they'd like me to think.

It's been a while.

I've somehow avoided the need to partake in self-destructive behaviour. Since I've been (somewhat) well-behaved these last few weeks, I can say that there's a light at the end of the tunnel, although it's awfully dim.

Things can't get any worse. Things can't get any better.

There's not much of a life to live when you're walking around in a perpetual sea of limbo everyday.

25.

2008-08-04T11:59:00.002+08:00

A quarter of a century.

It sounds like a long time, and, it just might be. A lot of things have happened over the last twenty five years that I've played absolutely no part in.

In hindsight, I've lived my life on the periphery (or that's what I'd like to think). I don't really see why I'd have to make my way through to some obscure inner circle, or why I'd need to be the center of attention.

I believe that being the star attraction in my own life makes up for the lack of me being the star attraction in yours.

Wishful thinking? Maybe. At least it gives me some form of solace.

So, in staying true to myself, I'm going to make a toast to my cause and wish another fruitful twenty five years to come pass me by.

Salut.

Steam (or the lack of it).

2008-08-01T11:24:00.002+08:00

I'm not the most eager beaver out there, but I can be quite determined when my mind is set upon reaching a target. Though, in all honesty, most of my targets are immediate and non-consequential.

But shouldn't all targets be like that?

However, once in a while, I like to indulge myself by investing into a long-term idea that, by right, should come into fruition. Should is such a dirty word, if only because its the ultimate disclaimer against possibilities.

Most of these solidly consequential targets have some element of planning to them (a big rarity for me), and in doing so, there's some sort of skewered pride in getting the job done...if only because I own the stupid idea.

Of course, there's always the risk of the tribal council speaking, and, as a result, extinguishing my torch. It's been done on more than one occasion over the course of this week, but I'll still be pulling my pants up (because, lo and behold, I've lost weight!).

I'm starting to believe in my own hype. All that's left now is to start living up to it.

Wits.

2008-06-29T09:55:00.005+08:00

It's not a good idea to underestimate a woman, no matter how dim-witted she might be. Happenstance might step in and shift random quotients of fortuitousness in her favour.

If only because she's a woman.

If a dim-witted woman were to keep a man in tow, the probability of the man becoming equally dim-witted is quite high.

Sometimes, the man might become increasingly befuddled and glazed, thus exceeding the level of dim-wittedness displayed by the dim-witted woman.

At the end of the day, it all comes down to love.

You fools.

O, woe is the fat boy who can't get shagged and has to shovel shit for a living.

2008-06-24T20:45:00.005+08:00

I can't bear how my justification behind something can't be accepted by another. It's hard to appreciate people who don't see my rationale behind something.

The problem isn't about being right...it's about being made to feel as if you're wrong half the time. Despite knowing better, thinking clearly and seeing it from the quorum's point of view.

Alas, the problem isn't about being wrong...it's about being wrong all the time.

Then again, I've finally understood what a lifetime of servitude really is. No matter where you are in the hierarchy, there's always a glass ceiling above you. Unless you were God...and if you were, you'd never need a promotion. Or a sick day. Or a rain check. Ever.

But by Crom, I'm not God. I'm fallible. And uninfallible. All at once.

Let the good times roll.

May they roll a little bit quicker towards me.

A snail's pace.

2008-06-23T22:55:00.002+08:00

Once again, I find myself in a situation where I can't quite keep up with the world around me.

What can I say? I'm adverse to work.

It doesn't help when I feel that I'm on the diving end of a sinking ship. The inevitable has been repeatedly kept at bay, but you can only try your best to shovel shit and dispose of it before it overwhelms you and you find yourself neck-high in feces.

I'm the horse that you bet wrongly on.

I wish everything would stop.

Mule.

2008-06-07T08:26:00.003+08:00

It's been a while, hasn't it? There's a comforting feeling that buzzes through me when I see this familiar textbox. It makes me feel better to know that when times are hard, I'm given some sort of allowance to whine about things to the world at large.

And the best part is, I don't really care if the world cares, simply because the chances of being heard are so great. Someone's bound to care.

The last month and a half has been pure madness. It's been heady.

I can safely say that academic aptitude doesn't really matter, if only because the Almighty has played a sick joke on you and pressed the Reset button.

Now, more than ever, I'm a donkey, with the carrot dangling precariously close, yet never attainable.

I want to sleep.

Groan.

2008-04-14T15:30:00.002+08:00

My day so far has been so terribly exciting that I've been compelled to regroup the contacts on my Messenger list.

It's also been mind-numbingly sedate.

But, granted, I'm savouring it for what it is. I don't think I'll ever have a first day of work like this for a long time more.

Back at none.

2008-04-11T18:44:00.004+08:00

The sensation of repeatedly starting from scratch is bizarre. Six years are spent before getting to the top of the food chain in primary school, only to make your way through five years of high school and do it all over again. Once that's done, you become a fish in a bigger pond when the tertiary years come knocking; once that's over, you're let loose into the wild to swim in the proverbial sea.

I can't really say that I achieved too much while in university, but at the very least, I'd gained some infamy and a reputation of sorts; the problem now is attempting to clutch to what little sparkle I had and maintain it as the new kid in the office.

Or, I could become the mother of reinvention. Again.

Either way, I've returned to the back of the grid; it's not a good feeling.

Precog hog.

2008-04-08T22:13:00.003+08:00

I don't quite like countdowns; after all, a countdown is a glamorized deadline with an objective of celebrating mediocrity, as opposed to setting a detrimental threshold for something to be accomplished. It's something that sounds mightily cold, especially from me, but countdowns can just be as perplexing as anything else.

Fortunately enough, we only mostly encounter countdowns commemorating happy occasions.

However, if we were all armed with the knowledge of the future, countdowns could be the most morbid things ever; imagine being able to know the precise moment someone dies, thus throwing a bash in their honour. Or how about preparing a double frosted marble cake to mark that specific moment where your marriage breaks down? You could sit back in your car in helplessness while you slowly bide your time, waiting for that final, final collision that you'll never be able to wriggle free from...how about a beer?

It's a good thing that we're not clairvoyant, then.

Even that bastard Nostradamus couldn't get everything right.

But if I were to be armed with the information of what would happen next, I don't really know if preventing it would be the right thing to do; an act of making things right might, in fact, draw you one step closer to the inevitable. Early Edition comparisons aside, and to paraphrase Tyler Durden once again, mayhaps it would be in our best interests to let the chips fall where they may.

Then again, when armed with the knowledge of the future, if we were to make a countdown out of celebrating a morbid moment of banal finality, it wouldn't be a celebration of mediocrity anymore; it'd be celebrating that one experience in your life that would change it. Permanently.

Here's to the future. And to tuna.

I am Volstagg.

2008-03-27T10:50:00.009+08:00

I can't say 'no'; at least, not directly. Not to the effect that it would offend you...but maybe to the effect that it would annoy you.

I just received a call from a particular company whose offer I had to decline; it sounded like they were willing to knock me over with an interview offer. However, the woman on the other end of the line got my name very, very wrong, and she sounded terrifying; though, looking at the company she represented, she would probably have been very, very fit.

Not that it's what I look for upon choosing a company to join, no. No distractions, no, those are bad. I do believe that I'll be okay, because I'm hardly qualified to fumble my way through the cookie jar. I'm simply not tall enough...metaphorically (but, of course).

Anyhow, for those of you in the know, the head of the company of the whose offer I declined is an English tax exile, believed to be living a reclusive multimillionaire's life in Bermuda. (That pretty much nails what we want in life, no?)

I can't really say if I could work for someone like that. There're some of you out there who'd lambast me for being picky, especially over something as detrimentally trivial as this.

What difference would how slim shady the leader of the organization you're never going to meet make? A part of me would even say that it'd be quite nifty, working for a hermit shyster. But I'm not really sure if it'd leave a fine imprint upon my conscience.

Goodwill is better than ill will.

And yes, the woman on the other end of the phone was very, very scary. It was too much to take for my daintiness.

At this point, I wonder if my conscience and my own set of skewered ethics could be used as a vibe reader when it comes to choosing a job. I'm not exactly Balder the Brave; I don't have to uphold a stunning reputation for do-goodery.

With that said, the son of the former head of the company that I do want to be employed in was the second Saint after Roger Moore!

Not that anyone cares.

This job-hunting business feels like a glorified game of cat 'n mouse.

And I still don't know how to properly decline anything without taking the time it would need to apply for a mortgage and pay back the amount.

* * * * * * * *

A conversation in my head between an incredibly straightforward pimp and a Norse god:

'Do you want herpes?'

'Mayhaps if thoust wench is ripe...doth thoust have such a wench?'

My point exactly. There are some things you just wouldn't know how to say no to.

* * * * * * * *

On another note, being called 'Hing Tai' in a non-colloquial way was probably the highlight of my morning.

Salut.

Rant rave.

2008-03-26T16:35:00.007+08:00

Ample cleavage eventually gets amply saggy.
Without a doubt, I'm definitely cut out for a life of doing nothing at all.

If I was a Mayor, and I had a female Chief of Staff, then she'd be just that: my own personal chief of staff. Insert the drum roll here.

I can't stand the fact that my stepmother likes stomping her thong-padded feet around the house. I also can't abide by the fact that she prefers to slam good china plates onto a glass table, as opposed to taking a modicum more of effort to just simply place them properly on said table.

I have nothing against Turkish people. I just have something against Turkish people playing poker on Facebook.

People who walk around and think that they can do whatever they like usually don't know that they walk around thinking that they can do whatever they like.

I still haven't been stung by a bee yet.

Actually, in technical terms, my stepmother isn't even my stepmother.

It's alright to be overly righteous because you'll never be as righteous as me, anyway.

The ends never justify the means. Which is why you should cheat more, coz nobody would really give a toss.

I sleep with my head beneath the sheets because I'm scared of the dark.

The hottest girl in my neighbourhood kicked me in the balls four times over the period of a football match. That's bonding.

Having sex does not make you sophisticated. Having a long list of partners who've had sex with you does not make you sophisticated. Having multiple partners who simultaneously have sex with you does not make you sophisticated. Anal sex is not sophisticated. Introducing your friends to a self-described fuck buddy and then chasing another tail shortly after that does not make you sophisticated. Openly trumpeting this certainly doesn't make you sophisticated. And, despite your denials, you're sad enough to care about what people think of you. You know who you are.

It's hard to believe in karma when all the good people leave you and the bad seeds stay afloat.

Taking the effort to reestablish contact is great until you realize that they're doing it for a favour.

Never forget dates.

I like short shorts.

My interpretation of love will always be deeper than yours. Simply because I know that it's something more that's served chilled on a silver platter.

Trust yourself.

2008-03-24T15:01:00.005+08:00

I trapped a beached fairy.

No, she wasn't sunbathing on the beach. She was stuck in the sand.

I made a cup out of my hands and kept her trapped in my palms.

I took her home, and kept her in a bottle. I didn't feed her.

Fairies don't require sustenance, after all. They are beyond the craving for morsels.

What fairies do need, is belief.

I believe in fairies. I have to. Otherwise, there wouldn't be a plausible explanation for everything that you see around you.

The fact that you can be amazed in the first place only shows you that there's something bigger at work.

Fairies do exist. I don't deny that.

I had to let her go. She didn't belong in a bottle.

I still regret letting her go. I think I always will.

But she didn't belong in that bottle.

I clipped a part of the wing, to remind me.

It's not exactly the same thing. But it helps.

From time to time.

Bemused over bewilderment .

2008-03-17T01:33:00.003+08:00

Tying up loose ends isn't as fun as leaving them hanging.

Resolutions always leave me feeling empty, simply because they steal the sensation of having something to look forward to.

It can be understood that temporarily misplacing your keys can be a great inconvenience, but upon finding them, you're immediately swept with a feeling of dissatisfaction over having nothing to scour over.

Without panic, there's just silence. No alarm bells ringing in your head. No adrenaline goading you on to cross the finish line. No inspiration. No motivation.

We all need a bit of fury to keep us moving. Not too much, of course, lest we fall prey to the dangers of too much analysis and the deluge of anxiety that'd come our way as a result of that.

It's sad when you realize that the only thing that really gets you going is trouble.

It's twice as sad when you've got a face that can only ask for it.

Undoubtedly, you'd be absolutely livid with yourself if you couldn't find some form of inner peace all the time.

But would it be worth it when everything else is turned up to 11?

Maggie's farm wants you.

2008-03-12T14:41:00.005+08:00

These are exciting times. Malaysia's ruling majority has been significantly silenced; the Democrats are going to win; and I'm going to get a job....eventually.

I took another look at my past academic transcript over the years, and I can say that my progress has been consistently stagnant at all times. But, on the bright side, I can say that I've been constantly underachieving.

Though it's not something that I'd want to bring to the table.

Having to declare my willingness to suck face to compensate for my lack of book smarts might not look too encouraging for the corporate types that I'm suddenly in need to so desperately impress these days, but it gets the point across: if there's shit to be swept underneath the rug, I'm your man.

On being asked what my greatest strength is, I've given the same response: the fact that I have empathy, and that I find/force myself to identify with others easily. That's right. I hate all of you, but I've got to stoop down to your paltry level just to get a sale out of you. My greatness weakness would probably be my allergic reaction to doing work, which I've had to relabel 'an ability to work well under pressure'. And how do I handle stress? Well, with a sunny disposition, of course.

I don't have much of a choice.

But it's been looking good. And for the limited amount of time I've had to impress people, I've at least refined my delivery in trying to convince people in employing me. I'm feeling that it's starting to become some sort of a sick game. Though it's fun reinventing myself as the go-to guy who has an unlimited supply of motivation and determination.

And that's true. My source of motivation is the fact that I've got to get the resources needed to get me off this rock and onto your stereo. Or, at the very least, to leave an imprint upon your very mind.

Well.

To be honest.

I just need money for an Xb0x 360. And maybe a new SD card adapter for my DS.

I'm a simple, down-to-earth, results-oriented guy who's always committed to working hard.

Trust me.

A preamble in shambles!

2008-03-03T18:57:00.004+08:00

I'd most probably remind you of a premature ejaculation: a bundle of energy that's waiting to be released, but gets set off just a little too soon without ever really hitting the spot. To others, I'd be more hype than buzz: I'd be the bastard rainbow coloured glow-in-the-dark Reebook Pump that was never really a practical idea.

To others, I'd be a slow tortoise. A very slow, oversized, uncompromisingly lethargic tortoise.

Personally, I'd like to think that I'm the perpetually easy-going everyman that every girl would love to know and that every guy would love to depend on. The truth is, I'm not very dependable. Nor am I totally quick to put on my thinking cap when it needs to be worn to etch a living out of becoming dependable.

It's hard to look on the bright side of life after believing that you've blown a job interview. Especially when you really want the job. I'd like to think that it takes a lot of courage to take a job that you'd probably be incredibly passionate about at the risk of not being compensated well enough. However, being the humble soul that I am...I think that I'm worth as much as I make myself out to be. While others would say that I'm a fool to undervalue myself, my only response would be to say that the undervaluation is justified.

Now, I digress.

A less than satisfactory answer that was pressured out of me somewhat made me realize that I have to be quicker. I kicked myself in the head (figuratively, not literally, as I lack the total flexibility) when I realized that I had a brilliant response...7 minutes too late.

In retrospect, it might not have been the speed at which I stumbled upon the better option that hit me the hardest, but more of the fact that I didn't have the mega answer lined up first.

I'm scared that I'm not living up to the expectations of someone who loves to think of himself as being out of the box.

And the tragic part is, I can't be easy on myself when it comes to this.

There's no pity like self-pity, Rufus!

But, by Crom, I'll dig myself out of this hole. I'll get a confirmation on whether or not I've landed the job on Friday. Until then, I suppose there's a countless number of places I can visit to continue living through the dredge of monotony that I seem destined for.

This is more of a reminder to me than it is for you, True Believer, but let's get on with this one mantra:

LIVING MEGA IS THE NEW ADOPTED THIRD WORLD BABY.

Love thy saccharine.

2008-03-02T10:44:00.005+08:00

Most addictions come and go, if we're lucky enough. I've managed to hold cigarettes at more than an arm's length since New Year's Eve, though it was more of a voluntarily challenge to myself to see how long I could consciously neglect them for. I'm happy to say that it's been a fruitful effort so far.

However, despite the fruitfulness, I don't feel any different; there's not really a boost in energy, and sometimes I feel even more cranky and super fatigued faster than you can say Yomeishu.

But, despite these pangs, I've got nothing to complain about. Well, I had nothing to complain about until I started developing a cough. What's annoying about being sick in my case is how nothing seems extreme. I'd prefer to get hit by a heavy illness and then completely heal from it, as opposed to having it pace itself and amortize its effects on me.

Thank God for cough syrup.

Benadryl has this solid, fat, cherry taste.

It's also wonderful how two teaspoons of Benadryl are enough to slowly burn you down and put you to sleep.

It's also becoming a little bit worrying about how I might be addicted to Benadryl for that fruity taste.

I need to find an alternative: a non-medicinal syrup on the market that's just as easily available and equally as tasty, yet won't make me a driving risk.

I hope I can find it, for my sake. I don't like staying up til 3, ensuring that everyone else is asleep and then spending my time, slowly pouring that thick, ruby effervescence into my teaspoon and then slowly mouthing it all down, swallowing with such a satisfaction that you'd think I was in the extreme throes of some lustful, lustful, filling passion.

And then doing it again.

But, no, don't worry. Really. I'm not really addicted to Benadryl. I'm just saying that it tastes great. And I'm also saying that I'm not abusing it. Much. I'm only abusing it because I'm using it for a purpose that allows me to abuse it. Like gasoline. And smelling glue. I love the smell of fumes. And I love the taste of citrus-flavoured Listerine, although I can't really swallow it. In fact, I think swallowing mouthwash got me into this whole mess with the cough anyway.

I better stop here.

Life's great without cigarettes.

Tits for tat.

2008-02-29T01:42:00.002+08:00

I love breasts. I love small breasts, big breasts, sagging breasts, perky breasts and whatever else you can find. I love breasts that are always hanging yet conical; I love breasts that bear no burden of proof. Boys are introduced to breasts, and they never let go. Even the hardiest of men would find it difficult to survive without his regular dose of the valleys yonder.

However, being the bigot that I am, I only like breasts that come on women...I'd be repulsed at the sight of my own mammary rack. And I am.

Another pair of breasts that I can't abide by would be the artificial kind. Or even the kinds that need a bit of a lift to get people to notice them...which would take away from the appreciation even further, given the acknowledgment and realization of them needing a lift in the first place. However, it must be said that there're those amongst us who wouldn't really care about the authenticity of the sacred melons.

Shame on you.

It's those who would disregard the au naturel in preference for a set of artificially inflated jugs that sicken me.

It's substance that should matter.

The same can be said of most things today; with superficiality being the main craze amongst the kids these days, it's getting more and more testing to remember a time when men were men and women were happy being flat chested.

So, let me say this, if not to make myself more earthed and humbled, then at least because it fills up space and makes people feel better.

I like big girls. I don't mind my partner not having a D cup. And being a short pixie is a big plus in my book.

Beauty is passe. It's time to make like the clouds and condense.

As cliched and tired as it sounds, being proud of what you are and where you came from counts for more than becoming something that you don't have to be.

Not anymore.

I will save you, Britney. Hang on, baby.

A house is, sadly, not a home.

2008-02-24T23:52:00.003+08:00

It's hard to stake a claim to being naturally intuitive when all you do is second guess.

Things have come to a point whereby all I'll be doing for the next few months would be to speculate upon my role at home, as well as to uber-analyze my situation in relation to the (two) immediate people around me.

The shit hath hiteth the fan!

I like to think that I can see the good in people; it keeps me going and contributes towards my ever-sunny disposition. I suppose my problem is my lack of a panic button, or at least some silent alarm that goes off in the back of my head when things come to a head...rolling.

Mayhaps it's my fat, jolly, naive, positive chinky demeanour. Ignorance is bliss.

I suppose that years of sporadic domestic disturbances and a lack of peace of mind when it came to what went on around my house have taken their toll on me. I'm just tired. Not numb. But tired.

Things should be on the up and up soon, with all the distractions and follies that'll come my way. But, still.

It's like having a niggling feeling that the Rapture is conditional...and you can't live up to the conditions.

I wonder if I'll ever be as scared of being alone as my father is now...and if I'll be as willing to sacrifice as much as he has just to get over it.

Where's the shame in being a man who doesn't have the Jones for lovin'?

Save your nuts for a rainy day.

2008-02-24T03:24:00.003+08:00

I'm so spent...and not in the way that you'd usually associate with being 'spent'. The last few nights have involved running marathon sessions of Lego Star Wars, holing myself in my room with the missus watching The Simpsons and generally just sleeping very late and waking up a ridiculously short time later.

It's as if I'm still not ready to release my grasp on the last vestiges of my youth...and I feel incredibly old, yet qualified, for saying that it is indeed wasted on the young.

You wankers; if you only knew how much of the world was in your hands. You wouldn't be walking around wearing flower-embroidered boot cut jeans. It's as bad as my innate desire to have Alien Workshop jeans when I was sixteen. Alien Workshop withered away as quickly as it came down upon us; the same can be said for that effeminate junior metrosexual rubbish that kids these days aspire to be robed in.

It's really an ugly, stinking, rancid potpourri of ideas gone wrong.

But I digress.

I went for my first job interview ever a couple of days ago, and left the building feeling happier for it. If I manage to weasel my way into the second interview, I'd feel more than happy, and, by the hammer of Thor, if I actually land the job, I swear that I won't masturbate to Internet pornography for two weeks.

Before you guffaw at it, let it be known that two weeks can lead to my testicles growing to the size of watermelons. Just ask Spud.

Again, I digress.

I suppose that the stars have aligned and the fates have agreed that it really, really, really is time for me to move on and that I should be moving off my arse to greener pastures...or at least pastures that have fewer cows in them.

I'm so excited. I'm like a pig that's swimming in shit.

But, even though things are as blessed as they seem, I could do with a little more sleep.

I am the puck in a game of tonsil hockey.

2008-02-11T18:15:00.000+08:00

'Convocation' sounds like such a dirty word; it's like I'm about to receive a lobotomy. Or an enema. Or a colostomy.

I'd like to say that I've amassed a gargantuan amount of priceless life experiences and epiphanies during the last 7 years in tertiary education; how else could you make up for the ultimate blemish on anyone's permanent record? Granted, it's taken Axl Rose more than 7 years to come up with Chinese Democracy, but I'm not a hermit rocker on the cusp of reaching the brim; I'm simply someone who might have taken too long to achieve a goal that was irrelevant, and hardly irreverent, to everybody around him.

In all honesty, although the goal's been achieved, it only goads me into another tiring, arduous endeavor that means to drain me of whatever life juices I have left...for a longer term.

Alas, for now, I'm going to pat myself on the back (although my girth ensures me that such an act is impossible) and welcome myself to the rest of my life...although it's for real, this time.

Then again, since most of you tossers had moved on with your life years ago, I suppose it's only appropriate that the self-anointed Laggard King amongst you finally starts strolling upon the beaten path.

At the very least, at least I can fund a long-standing comic book addiction.

Alan Rickman's Metatron.

2008-01-23T23:52:00.000+08:00

Okay. Let me be as blunt as I can be.

I don't want to leave Sydney. This place is pretty fucking awesome. However, the circumstances and a chronic misalignment of the stars have already sealed my fate of only becoming an occasional tourist.

Which is rather sad, because the food is good, the people are intermittently cordial, it perpetually feels like there's a beach that's never too far away and I can get away with wearing a fedora without being singled out in public. I also speak the language with an accent that I'd be burned with back home.

Applying for permanent resident status in Australia is a whore short of a harem (then again, where is it not?), and you're prone to strike out ala being turned away from Heaven's gates because you had a shoddy, sweaty, sloppy illegitimate shag with the Physical Ed. teacher when you were fifteen.

But it has been a rollicking two months, I'll give you that. From the beautifully flawed compact urban banality of Melbourne to the Sophie Monk-ness of the diorama that is Sydney, it's time to pack up and leave.

I'm not too willing to cross deeper into that threshold towards adulthood, though.

I'm not entirely in a rush towards sorting out what's next, since everyone else has beaten me to it.

You fools.

Potty reading.

2008-01-15T20:28:00.000+08:00

I can't stand taking a shit without the proper reading material. Any form of silence makes me feel uncomfortable, and, at the very least, I'd love to wire some noise into my head whilst cleansing the barrel.

Some might wince, crine and grimace (in that order, even!) at the suggestion that potty time is the only fulfilling time to read a book, but I humble digress; I've managed to finish up Catch-22 and Chuck Pahlahniuk's Choke while polishing the Armitage. I genuinely believe that such a feat would've been impossible to achieve on my part if the reading was done anywhere else (though to be fair, I ravaged my way through Choke with sporadic early morning sessions).

My list of things to do in Australia included finishing up the two aforementioned books; with that off the list, I feel somewhat satisfied. And hungry for a little bit more. Unfortunately, stepping into a Borders makes you realize that mainstream book retailers here offer things at a dollar-to-dollar rate, and sometimes even more.

So, to Gomes and Jazza, I was planning to get youse two fellows something special, but the value of the dollar prevents me from doing so.

Ah, well.

May the most pungent activity we partake in be the most aromatic episode of your day. Read a book. In the shitter.

Today.

Hooha. It's difficult to be cynical when you're happy.

Out with the in, and in with the out!

2008-01-03T21:24:00.000+08:00

It's been over a month and a half since I've last left my mark upon this hallowed textbox. And, for reasons unknown even to myself, I'm still having difficulties in attempting to conjure up something meaningful and poignant to mourn for the loss of 2007.

Mayhaps it's an indication of my waning non-existent powers of articulation or the fact that I've got nothing to write home about aside from the weather in jolly olde Australia. Mayhaps it's the strange, erratic non-summer like weather patterns during this torrid summer. Mayhaps it's my lack of experience in this crudely idyllic suburban coastal neighbourhood juxtaposed against the setting of one of the busiest cities on the planet that allows me to make a funny and insightful (short on shallow) critique that nobody would agree with. Or maybe it's because I'm typing this with nothing but my boxers on.

Whatever the reason is, I'd like to wish you a Happy New Year. And may it be a flavourful one.

Here's to good taste in double-O eight.

Pedophilic politik.

2007-11-17T01:12:00.000+08:00

The liberals and rightists among you are going to have a field day with me for this one.

I don't really care about the forty thousand or so yellow-clad marchers who were rallying for freer and fairer elections (even though I do, in a particular way). I'm not particularly bothered about the roadblocks set up last Saturday to deter anybody from entering the city, despite it forcing me to reschedule brunch with my mother. I don't even care that members of the crowd were sprayed at with water and tear gas, because, firstly, I find it incredibly funny in a sick way, and secondly, such a response would've been quite expectant and pretty obvious.

What I am troubled by is the fact that there were children involved. And although I should be upset at the Civil Defense for taking action against them, I can understand how they were probably impartial towards choosing whom to dispense their form of crowd control over, especially when the aforementioned sea of people were irresistible targets. Although there was probably some terribly profound reason behind being adorned in yellow, a wave of human taxis is just asking to be fired upon. If only because it's funny.

Anyway. The children. I'm more appalled at the thought of parents actually bringing their children to such an event, and even more so when they were more than aware of the warm welcome that they'd receive as a result. Using children as political fodder to gain sympathy doesn't warm my heart; using them as shields is just as cowardly as the association that the colour yellow has with such an absolutely, incontestably desirable quality of being a coward in the first place.

It was undoubtedly a noble cause to be marching for, but with the context of the situation in mind, it's difficult to see where the logic went. There're a lot of better ways to dispense and disseminate the message to children about the contempt you hold for the inconsistencies and irregularities that take place during each election. Putting them on the front line and in harm's way shows a gross form of misjudgment, and, of course, ignorance and negligence on the parts of the parents involved.

Being seen and being proud of it is one thing; leave the children at home. They'll tune into things soon enough. There's no rush.

Lest, you'd wish to endanger their lives. And make yourself fodder for the powers that be.

Like Whitney, I believe the children are our future. And stop that snickering. I know what you philistines are thinking.

Either way, I feel torn down between the liberals and the hardliners that we find. I wish that someone would draw a line and create a new pocket that we could sink into. In my own perfect would, I'd go for a more centralist approach and become a secular hardliner, or a hardlining secularist. The possibilities would be limitless.

As for the Majority and the Opposition? They're all dirty. There's no way that either side can take a moral highground without laying some claim to have gotten their hands dirty in the cookie jar. There's no possible way. You'd get a cleaner slate by shaving a Wookie's pubic hair, even though you know it'd be guaranteed to grow its fur back within two days.

Yet, be it in a matter of weeks, months or a year, I will be compelled to cast my ballot and make my vote count. But between voting for a sack of old, rotting potatoes which even the Irish didn't want to save themselves from the Great Famine, and a sack of old, rotting potatoes that your mother just kindly defecated in, you can tell that we're all rather stuck between a cock and a hard taste.

Let it be said: if I'm ever caught in the middle with my dick in my hand (as I will be), don't say I never told you that I get even more fickle when the cookie jar's in my face.

Hoorah, Tora, dreidels.

2007-11-16T22:50:00.000+08:00

At the peak of my childhood, I used to build make-believe cities out of Lego, Matchbox cars and a random assortment of toys. My mother would chide me endlessly about the mess that I'd made in my bedroom, while my father chided her for chiding me endlessly and told her that I was only attempting to reach my potential.

At the fringe of my adolescence, I played a variety of video games on my trusty Super Nintendo. My mother would chide me endlessly about the amount of time that I'd spend playing, while my father would chide her for chiding me and told her that playing video games would greatly improve and enhance my hand/eye coordination.

At the cusp of post-adolescence, I was given the free reign to choose whatever course that I wanted to pursue at an undergraduate level. More than eight years later, I can almost taste the end of this particular mammoth odyssey. From scraping the barrel of academic scraps only over a year ago, to rebounding out of a sheer desperate need for some form of affirmation of a backbone, I'm quite glad to say that we're almost done.

This cow is about to be put to pasture. However.

There's still an innate need to be placed back on the farm. Read this in whatever metaphorical fashion you'd like (and trust me, it'll be a hoot), but a part of me would much rather be milked than to be given a shred of freedom. Which speaks volumes about my character.

According to someone who knows me better than I know myself, I'm quite possibly a terribly risk-adverse person, despite strongly believing to be quite the opposite. And, in certain terms, I find myself forced in a position to agree with her; but only just.

It's not fully confirmed yet because there's still the question of the results having to be released, and my fingers are fully crossed that the outcome would be more than satisfactory...but I suppose that a burden has been lifted from my chubby Chinese fingers.

Only to be replaced by a whole new lifetime of burdens. Which are about to come crashing down on my oversized Chinese head.

An underachiever never has to fear failure.

No matter how bohemian being a vagabond sounds, it doesn't get you paid.

2007-11-06T00:43:00.000+08:00

Sometimes I wonder if incompetence runs through my blood. My ineptitude will be my biggest downfall; I attribute it to nerves. Or, to be precise, the lack of them.

It's troubling when we see how motivated we are in the beginning, only to cut back on progress and then bring everything to a grinding halt once we're either complacent or bored (or at most times, a mix of both).

Success spoils us. There's a possibility that it softens us to an extent whereby we simply cannot face failure without being able to pick ourselves up again. Undoubtedly, a lot of work and effort would've been put into being successful, but there's an incredibly short way to go between being the king of a mountain and being a king of a mountain of beans.

And let's be honest; success can only be reached if we can overcome the perennial short attention span and obligatory threshold for punishment.

Things taste sweeter when they come easy, no?

Yes.

Sadly, I've been drifting further into the camp of believing that hard work and effort takes us places, while being inundated with invitations to direct marketing plans telling me otherwise. However, I can see that the latter would probably involve just as much initiative as the former...which I'm unable to provide. Or it could be a biting unwillingness.

I also don't wish to impart any more pain upon my parents, because I'd like to have them go away in peace without me having to go to their graves (or in my Chinky case, their urns), wishing them to come back to life to spot me a dinner.

There is no subliminal message here; there's no epiphany to speak of. There's no new dawning realization of something that I didn't already know. There's no striking of Nirvana.

In a little under a week (depending on...you guessed it, the probability of success), I will possibly be struck free from the only bonds that I have ever been willing to become tied down to, towards a path of either corporate slavery, a lifelong commitment to the less-than-debonair civil service or simply biding my time on a beach, making money off selling bait and tackle.

And My Lord, despite how incredibly inviting, serene and surreal that last one sounded, I know that it won't lead me anywhere. After all, I didn't (over)spend six years on a business degree to help you fish.

Or did I?

I was never given a raw deal. But I'm about to give you one.

Bring on the sunshine of your love.

2007-11-05T00:38:00.000+08:00

I'm scared of death.

Tears well up within me each time I think of the finality of it all. There's no irony in that statement; I imagine what would happen after I let go of all that's worth knowing and I feel agitated that I'll never know that I'll be dead...simply because I'd be beyond knowing.

I don't really believe that death is a cold, yet welcoming embrace; I think death is a mechanically-perfect bitch that runs on precision and thrives on perfection. It's inescapable. Unavoidable. Inevitable.

I also, naturally, hate death. How everything that we've worked so hard to accomplish would go to waste. And how death itself would be the main catalyst for rushing ourselves to accomplish such accomplishments. And how these accomplishments might not truly benefit us once we've reached a certain parallel dimension of sorts whereby such accomplishments wouldn't accomplish much in our favour.

No, death is a pain. Death is a deadline that can never be pushed further. Death is absolute, and is resolute in its ability to be a total, whole, certain finish.

I think of the sadness of not being able to be myself once I fade away. I don't know if there's a lumbering abyss after the end of life, but the probability that everything just simply ends saddens me immensely. Some may say that death lightens up the burden that is life; I just see death as the biggest burden to carry.

I'm scared of that all there'll be is an enveloping nothingness that I won't even know of because I'd simply cease to exist.

Death makes us feel small. No matter how far we've come, it's always one step ahead.

The high cost of living.

I really do like you sometimes.

2007-11-02T08:22:00.000+08:00

Sometimes I feel that I can't really give five minutes for myself.

It's not that the constant hours spent on my Playstation education and my Internet commitments don't count, but after taking a step out and looking in, it feels that I'm incredibly swamped with whatever it is that I want to be swamped with that I've indirectly neglected my own need for a peace of mind every now and then. It doesn't help that the house is going to be reinstated as an old folk's home as of today; I can safely say that I've treasured almost every moment spent here alone (except for that time when the house smelled like urine one morning after a poker session that involved cigarettes and air-conditioning).

At times I despise company; yet at other times, I crave it. It's certainly selfish of me to assume that, at the proverbial snap of a finger, I could gather a group of people around myself to boost my self-esteem, and the sad part is, I can't.

To an extent, I avoid the very people that I want to see.

If alone, I go into malls and supermarkets hoping that I don't meet anybody I know, out of the sheer lumbering task of making small-talk and acting interested when all I really want to do is to sort out the groceries and pick up a game in the process.

The pang of distress that washes over me whenever I spot at someone I didn't really want to see is an unfettering declaration of my need for avoidance. I'd much rather see somebody on my own terms and conditions, as opposed to bumping into them awkwardly, with the obligatory exchange of pleasantries*.

Mind you, this only happens if I've intended to go alone in the first place. If I were in a group of friends, I'd be more than receptive to seeing you and being extremely cordial.

If only for the post-encounter activity of badmouthing you behind your back afterwards.

I'm the worst friend you could ever have, my...friend.

*(On a separate note, upon encountering people, I hate having to politely ask them what they're doing in that certain location because more times than not, it's pretty fucking obvious; and you may end up looking dafter than usual.)

Word salad.

2007-10-28T08:42:00.000+08:00

These last few weeks have been rather stale. I haven't felt the twitch of inspiration to do anything remotely interesting with the old folks out of the house; it's been more of a case of curling up in front of the TV and falling asleep, hoping that I wouldn't wake up with a sore anus after being manhandled by five Indian burglars.

Alas, while I'm living out my paranoid delusions by locking up everything in the house, I've wallowed deeper and deeper into a pit of longing and despair, where even a smidgen of human contact would make me a happy camper for days on end.

It's not easy, being a hermit. The only thing missing in my case is a beard and scraggy hair.

Apart from all the negligent aspects of my increasingly subdued life (methinks that it's basically a transition to a full-on repeated quarter-life crisis), I've got around two weeks to prepare for what could hopefully be my last dance with academia ever.

Wish me luck, even though I haven't really started doing anything about it. Forewarned is forearmed; I hope I do remember that.

Men can move mountains.

2007-10-18T11:37:00.000+08:00

Boy, 3, training to climb Mt Kinabalu next year

By R.S.N. MURALI

Raring to go: Mohd Noor and Sahrul Nizam giving the thumbs-up at their home in Kuala Terengganu yesterday.

KUALA TERENGANU: He's only three years old but Sahrul Nizam Mat Noor has started training to climb Mount Kinabalu next year and celebrate his birthday on the summit.

If he makes it, he will become the youngest ever to have made it up the mountain.

Sahrul Nizam started training under his seasoned mountaineer father Mohd Noor Mat Amin from the second day of Hari Raya. He will set off with his father on June 8 to hike up the mountain and reach the peak on June 13, which is his birthday.

Mohd Noor said they have to start much earlier as his son would most likely develop muscle cramps and have to rest frequently due to his tender age.

“Nevertheless, Sahrul Nizam is coping with the gruelling training session that I am putting him on now,” said Mohd Noor who is in the Malaysia Book of Records for climbing solo to the peak of Mount Kinabalu 50 times.

“My son has always been curious about what it is like at the peak.

“I asked whether he wanted to celebrate his birthday at the top of the mountain and he nodded happily, so I am helping to make his wish come true,” he said after a dinner organised by Mentri Besar Datuk Seri Idris Jusoh on Tuesday.

* * * * * * * * *

I'm going to assume that the boy has no idea what's going on...the father could've made a statement about the boy swallowing his cum for his birthday and the little tyke would've been all smiles to that suggestion as well. And I'd love to know what consists of a 'gruelling training session' for a 3 year old.

Whatever happened to those times when kids would ride their tricycles and play with worms?

Is it really the boy's wish or just expectations placed by a terribly overzealous father?

Go let him play in the sandbox.

(Don't) touch me.

2007-10-16T11:49:00.000+08:00

Teen girls molested my son, claims mum

By SIRA HABIBU

ALOR STAR: The mother of a six-year-old boy has lodged a police report claiming that her son was sexually abused by several teenage girls in a children’s home run by a state welfare department.

The boy was sent to the home in Kepala Batas two years ago under a court order and his mother, a 38-year-old divorcee, only takes him back during festive holidays.

His mother, a tamarind seller, said she found out about the sexual abuse and claims of orgies involving the teenagers and the children when she saw her son “acting funny” with his elder brother.

The boy claimed that the kakak-kakak jahat (bad sisters) beat up the children if they did not do their bidding and gave explicit details of what he and the others had to do, including being stripped naked.

He said one of the girls threw a piece of wood at him when he refused to engage in sexual acts, showing a smashed toe with the nail removed.

“Nak jadi polis. Bila besar, nak tangkap kakak-kakak jahat. (I want to be a policeman. When I grow up I want to arrest the bad girls),” he said when asked what his ambition was.

His mother, who lodged a report at the Kota Setar police station last Thursday, does not want to send him back to the home.

“There is too much bad influence there,” she said.

“How could the operators of the home allow this to happen? Why were they not taking care of the children?”

It is learnt that the case has been referred to the Kepala Batas district police headquarters.

A Penang Welfare Department official has directed staff at the home to investigate the allegations.

The official said the two girls named by the boy were no longer staying at the home.

One was transferred to another home in Arau, Perlis a month ago, while the other had run away.

He also said that the pre-schoolers were placed in a different building, together with babies.

“There is always an attendant taking care of them. Logically, there is no room for such orgies to occur as the older girls and the pre-schoolers are staying in different blocks.

“However, we will investigate the complaint,'' he added.

* * * * * * * * * *

Okay. Let's ignore the likelihood that the little boy might be possibly traumatized for life. Forget about the fact that Malaysia's full of perverts, and that if the propsed online perv list comes to fruition, I might have to leave the country immediately (I'm kidding...I hope).

That's one randy children's home. Apprentice dominatrix girls! Sadomasochism! Orgies!

Who can resist, honestly? If what we've read is true, then the authorities can either apprehend the culprits involved, or...as a matter of speaking...impart their own sense of 'justice' upon the girls.

Or they could just sate the girls' appetites and recruit willing individuals to serve their wishes out. Before something unpleasant happens.

It's such a pity that the potentially guilty parties are gone, though.

(It might be awfully insensitive of me to say this, but one day that boy will realize how incredibly privileged he was to be in that position.)

Though it just occurred to me that these girls could be deprived (an understatement) and very ugly.

Lord, send me an angel (again).

2007-10-15T01:00:00.000+08:00

You'd expect that an act of admitting a lack of an ability to maintain a stable relationship to be a cathartic experience, but sadly, it's not. I'm quite convinced that it'd be a lot more fun for an animal rights activist to line up a baby monkey in a sniper scope and pull the trigger than it is to embark upon a journey of uncertainty and raw emotions without a predetermined, happy conclusion to feel secure with.

There isn't any substitute for love; there's not enough chocolate in the world to overcome the fleeting tingling sensation of sensuous enlightenment you get when you clutch someone's grip into your own. Sadly, when things go asunder, there's no real sedative for the niggling itches that you can't scratch off and the doubts that you can't shake.

Moments stretch into days that, in turn, stretch into years where you're still wondering what went wrong.

No amount of labia licking or frenium fondling can divert your mind from the fact that once upon a time, physical stimulation came secondary to the genuine warm, fuzzy feeling that your receptors were tuned for.

Sadly, love is the blue chip that only goes southwards once you buy into it. It's the worst investment that you can ever make. The only conclusion that anyone can see is its end, be it in a shallow pool full of nubile, topless girls, or at your spouse's death bed at the very end.

There still isn't a substitute for it. But on mornings like these, I wonder if it's worth the trouble when an alternative form of gratification I can get stems from my left hand.

Love thyself. It's a whole lot more convenient.

I left my heart in Toh Payoh.

2007-10-13T19:40:00.000+08:00

Whenever I feel terribly lonely, I tend to chat with the bots that I play with in Counter-Strike. I often wonder what would happen if I received a reply to my rants about how the usual lack of artificially imbued team spirit was pulling the team down.

It'd be very likely that I'd freak out, and wonder if the reply was a product of my own delusions brought upon by bouts of solitary living. I'd subsequently quit the program, only to be seduced to re-enter it. And the bots would slowly (but surely) convince me to embark of a quest of pure deviousness, which would end with my bloody, lifeless body squeezing two M40s after having been gunned down by the Singaporean Civil Defense after trying to claim Lum May Yee for Malaysia.

Not that she's really worth the trouble. Though I wouldn't mind.

2 months to go.

No, I can't draw guns properly.

2007-10-10T11:26:00.000+08:00

Some may boast to be living lightning bolts; Billy Bolt is nothing but. With enough panic attacks, insecurities and neuroses to bowl over any normal man, Billy spends more time battling his issues than he does battling the villains. Will he ever overcome his shortcomings before they shock him to death? Billy Bolt is...the Perplexed Lightning Man!

Morty was a Leporidae researcher, until that fateful day where a stray lightning bolt struck shelves of chemicals. The chemicals fell onto a nearby hare (caged for scientific research) who then died as a result; however, the essence of the rabbit fused with the chemicals, which in turn were inhaled by Morty. Changing his appearance to that of a thumper, and unleashing his inner homicidal tendencies, Morty is now the Rabbit: Assassin for Hire!

If thou shall not rock, thou shall stray.

2007-09-29T02:45:00.001+08:00

Thank you for coming, those of you who did. And accept my apologies. (I sense a drama queen moment breaking through.)

I'd much rather sing than play guitar. Performing live is fine as long as I've got someone backing me up...therefore I won't have to worry about getting the chords right. Nay, I lack the dexterity to properly pull off a C#m sus 7 B7 C7 Asus Asus7 C#m simultaneous wank without choking finger-wise. Although I do attribute it to a lack of practice (and a high aptitude for ruining things by default), I strongly believe that I'm an adequately capable vocalist...once you take the guitar away from me. I'd much rather record six-part harmonies and let somebody else worry about the musicianship while I just idly sing away, engage in banter and enact peculiar noises on stage.

Everybody's happy in the end. And the fat Chink frontman has his moments in the much-needed spotlight.

Regardless of it all, it was a great lesson to learn. And good fun. Plus, I've figured out what the stronger songs are, thanks to some constructive input; and I can safely say that I can make a living out of covering Britney.

This will not be the end of me. Nay!

Here's a list of immediate pipe dreams:

Start a podcast where all I do is bitch about things.
Start a novelty music act.
Do a 180 and only record music.
Try to start a band full of competent musicians where all I have to do is sing and play the tambourine.
Try to start a band full of inept musicians where all I have to do is sing and play the tambourine and be singled out as the special one.
Add an additional sixth chord to any future songs to create the illusion of depth.
Solely record vocals and bribe a particular someone to add the finishing touches (I'm looking at you, you Tagalog Tiger).

Anyway, thank you for coming. You know who you are. It must've been the strangest, most painful RM 12 you'd ever spent, but it meant a lot. Especially since you came early.

Punctuality is still alive in our tardy Malaysiana.

Oh well.

I am still the loveable attention whore you knew me as. And now, it seems that I've been given a mission by the gods. Zounds!

It was fun sitting on a stool. Now, please excuse me; I've got a date with Armitage Shanks to make one.

What's a wonderwall, anyway?

2007-09-28T08:07:00.000+08:00

Destruction is an awful lot more efficient than construction.

A house of cards can be destroyed with a swipe.

A wrecking ball can be easily dispatched against a wall.

A mis-shave of a month-old goatee can ruin its symmetry, thus causing a preference to be clean of pubes on a chin.

But in whatever way you look at it, breaking down is a lot easier than coming up.

You don't appreciate things until you see them through a time-lapsed lens.

My feet hurt.

Tossers!

2007-09-24T20:27:00.000+08:00

Just a few more days until the (terribly small) big night, so another friendly reminder: 9:00 p.m. does not mean 9:30 p.m. If you're coming, come early. And I can reserve a table. As long as you're there. Be punctual! Because it'd be a terrible waste if nobody's around to listen to the better songs before I proceed into an awful second half.

Please try your best to make it at 8:30ish.

Banners are welcome, though they'd be incredibly awkward.

Ah, the life.

I'll give you more.

2007-09-12T08:20:00.000+08:00

Oh, Britney. My heart rings out for you.

People might say that you're washed up and that, horror of horrors, you're fat; I digress.

These same people (or at least the men) would still love to have you over for dinner. How about an appetizer of a flaming Fellatio del Fuego with your company? Or the flexibility of a meal like Copulation Ala Carte? And perhaps, for dessert, a good, solid Creampie.

The naysayers see no future for you; they say that there's no hope left. But there's always a light at the end of the tunnel, especially if the light rushes in, like a gushing geyser of overwhelming fire, filling up the tunnel with such brilliance that even the most numb would feel the slightest prick.

What you need, like the song suggests, is more.

I'm waiting.

But of course I am.

Love is not an aphrodisiac.

2007-09-09T20:19:00.000+08:00

I like blaming my long-suffering girlfriend for everything that goes wrong, and right, in my life; it's as if she's the center of a large intricate weave of occurrences that somehow become effortlessly networked. Lest you think that I'm a bit crazy, I suppose that I should share the (blasphemous) logic behind my conclusion.

My girlfriend is the physical personification of God on earth. Now, here's the clincher: she's not the only one. Barring Jesus, I think that there's an invasion wave of God's People on this planet who aren't irrevocably Christian. Like how the Gentiles became God's second wave over the Jews, I believe that there's a new wave of Gentiles who've been picked, plucked and dried.

I'm not saying that she's blameless or guiltless. It's just that she's got a rack that's not too shabby (though I'm never around to paw at it), a fit pair of legs (that I'm never around to bite) and a good head on her shoulders (that comes packaged with a bad case of acne). And she's also smart, witty, and diligent, to boot. And she cooks. Is that not Heaven on Earth?

Though she has done the odd dirty deed every now and then. And at times, her logic is baffling. She's a patsy, whereas I am a pansy. She's incredibly gullible, yet not overly naive to ditzy proportions. And in her, I find an equal in terms of knowing about the things that matter that don't matter to everyone else who think that they do matter.

Then again, I don't really care about the augmented product because in my own eyes, she's rather fetching. Though it's a pity that she doesn't really believe that I think so. An apple of one's eye could be a prune in another's. No doubt.

Anyway.

Let's say for instance that God did spawn a new invasion wave; a wave so big that'd delay the Rapture even further...what would that mean? Would the people who now frequent the churches so religiously (pardon the pun) accept that fact that they're last season's congregation? Or would they buck up, suck it in and assume their new roles as the stewards of Ye Olde Faith? Would it segregate the denominations even more? Would it bring them together?

Splinters.

However, take solace in this: no matter what denomination you belong to, God's street team comprises largely of immensely nubile, unthinkably attractive, incredibly intelligent girls who'd whisk you away at a snap of a finger and a toss of long, straight, luscious hair.

As for me, I give three cheers to the invisible church, where there's nothing to prove. It's a place that's truly ours. And ours alone.

I do feel guilty. But I'll leave the judging to the Big Man Up There.

Goodbye, Mr. Pavarotti.

2007-09-07T12:04:00.000+08:00

Farewell, Luciano. I didn't know you at all, but you gave much inspiration to this fat boy who always urged for the opera voice. You will be missed.

You were a truly funky one.

God Bless you.

And may you have all the fettucini you want in Heaven.

Gig!

2007-09-04T16:14:00.000+08:00

Yes. Join in the fun. It'll be a blast, I swear. And at the very least, there's a very good chance that the four other acts will elevate the viewing experience.

Merdeka or bust?

2007-08-30T01:20:00.001+08:00

It's understood that there isn't any equality in this country amongst the races, and that the underlying foundations of the Social Contract in the Constitution stated that affirmative action would be taken to allow the Bumiputeras to advance themselves at a level that was found to be on par with the other two dominating races. It was also understood, and accepted, that this would also be a permanent arrangement of sorts in order to grant citizenship rights to the two main factions that had somehow found their way into the country: the Chinese and the Indians. It was also stated that Islam would be the official religion of the nation, but that the country would not be an Islamic state. This was drafted out, agreed upon and accepted for the better part of the last four decades.

When you compare the Malaysia of today to the Malaysia of yore, things are (obviously) better today. Critique it as you will, but widespread education is provided for the children. The Klang Valley's development has branched out into its surrounding satellite cities, and in turn, development has taken a regional stance; the Government has taken measures to ensure that development is spread out throughout the regions, and eventually positive changes will also be heralded in East Malaysia. The fact that we're blessed with relative safety and security and a lack of rampant extremism (when compared to the world around us) should already make us realize that things aren't too shabby.

But it's in the intricacies of the execution in which we see the cracks. The dubious allocation of funds in general. The Government's adversity to investigating problems proactively as opposed to offering solutions only when the issues arise. An incredibly opaque (I'd dare to call it solidly blocked) view on transparency, a factor that this current administration ran on without exhaustion in the beginning.

To an extent, all these problems pale in comparison to the fact that we're all racial bigots in this country. All of us. I heartily believe that we're all headed toward a general direction of tolerance, as opposed to a state of understanding. And there's a genuine world of difference between the two. We can be showered with propaganda, telling us that it's alright, but it's not. And we know it. There's a climate of fear, paranoia and distrust; it's never been more evident than during these last few years.

We're also guilty of being nonchalant to the troubles around us. Ignorance does bring bliss. To an extent. But to pilfer from the Manics, if you tolerate this, then your children will be next.

I just wish that we could all pry ourselves from all the arguments over who has the true rights to live on this land and transcend that line of thought to pull ourselves together and make a better
future for everyone.

Am I a patriot for saying that we're all fucked if we continue in this direction? Yes. I'm as much as a patriot as every one of you to your respective nations.

It's just so strange; the values and ideals that founded this country in the very beginning have been bastardized and muddled during the last 50 years. The next 50 will probably be just as chaotic and confusing...only that there'd be more of the sour than the sweet.

Bangsa Malaysia. T'was a great idea. Where the fuck did it go?

Pentathlon.

2007-08-29T09:02:00.000+08:00

For someone who'd rather avoid confrontations, I'm highly prone to ruffle feathers a bit too much. Whether or not it was something that I was imbued with at birth, or something that I've picked up whilst feeling the pain of losing skirts to philanthropic playboy poseurs, my tendency to annoy and repel people with only the lightest of easy has yet to be surmounted or outdone. I suppose it's more of a passive ability than anything else. It's a reflex action.

They say that humour can be a saving grace in the gravest of situations. If that's the case, it's safe to say that my life has been one of hell of a tragedy. If only that were true.

I don't spend my time picking fights with a shortlist of people; I find that I get bounded over in the most unusual of situations. The only real fight that I've been in saw me get bounded over; not because I was a pushover, but because I was punched at the back, without any forewarning, or even a witty quip ('Hey, fat-ass, whoop-ass is here!').

No. I wasn't even granted that luxury. Someone was jealous that my geography teacher had made a remark about how I was sharing a textbook with a girl he fancied. This was in Year 7/Form 1. Schoolyard fights were few, and far between. And it's not like I even got to pull a punch.

I was an overweight dweeb. And I still am. And mighty proud of it. I'd probably excrete whatever testosterone you'd give me. Though I've never had a secret wish to have adamantium bonded to my skeleton. Or to become the Thing. Or even Superman, for that matter. Superman's a pussy. Captain America's a hero. (I wouldn't mind picking a fight with you if you're a fanboy who disagrees with me on this one.)

I suppose that I'd take the Alan Shore option and pay a bunch of barflies a good deal of money to beat someone up when it comes to a bar fight. It saves me the trouble. And it wouldn't crease my suit.

Plus, despite not being much of a fighter, I'm also not much of a lover, either. So I suppose that it doesn't work both ways.

Back to the drawing board, then.

Shades of grey and sour grapes.

2007-08-26T10:57:00.000+08:00

The harder I try to extract myself from the monotony that life has become, the deeper I get into it.

I'm in desperate need of some stimulation. Motivation. A good reason to shake my money maker.

I've uploaded two new songs...both lack the Vienna Boys Choir and that operatic vibe that I love. Not that I love the Boys Choir. I really don't.

Anyway, suffice to say, I might have to change the titles because most people associate them with other songs. And I've never felt so much pleasure from having a repetitive one-line chorus before.

Bring on the dancing girls!

(It's going to be hard to please the hip, youth-grasping bistro-going crowd.)

Help my Vibra.

2007-08-24T00:41:00.000+08:00

If anyone has the full installation disc that comes with a Creative Vibra 128 sound card, I'll commit myself to absolute servitude at your beck and call if you'd be so kind to lend it to me.

This is a tier below a life-or-death situation, but the brevity of the repercussions would just be as detrimental towards my life as a gun held to my head, ready to blow.

I'll be your bitch if you've got the disc that comes with the card. Even more so if you've got a card that was purchased, at most, four years ago that you're not using now...that'd call for a happy ending of sorts. For your benefit, of course.

You can tell that I'm desperate.

Help save Malaysia from everyone else. Please.

2007-08-16T22:17:00.000+08:00

In a nutshell, whether you're wagging a keris around in a show of supremacy or making a video to 'unintentionally' drive the supremacy on both sides to a boiling point, you've got to love this country for its cheap thrills.

Once again (as is usually the case), a whole new wave of paranoia on both sides of the racial divide is brimming.

And once again, while a bunch of boys with atrocious grammar and pockmarked faces flame each other needlessly and endlessly on message boards over a video with incredibly bad rapping and bad production values whilst arguing over who's got the bigger phallus (no doubt while simultaneously rubbing their respective cones to stimulation), I'd like to remind everyone to come to JamAsia on Friday, September the 28th.

Because good taste is always around. In liberal doses.

Finger frickin' good.

2007-08-16T01:50:00.000+08:00

You've got to love those terms and conditions.

Fly, fat ass, fly!

She was a sour girl the day that she met me.

2007-08-14T18:32:00.000+08:00

I've learnt that coffee makes me happy (or at least not as unaccomodating as I usually find myself to be) in the morning. Then again, my disposition's normally sunny at dawn. I'm not sure of myself in this respect; I'm also not sure about what my favourite position while sleeping is. If I did know, it'd most likely be easier to sleep, as opposed to endlessly pondering over what my favourite position was prior to actually sleeping.

But as I slowly creep out of the caffeine-induced episodes playing in my head, I've come to the realization that I miss being a muddled, unorganized brat of a child who didn't know how to properly tie his shoelaces until he was 10. At least as a child, pompous behaviour could be attributed to simply being young. I suppose that it explains my brimming, ever-present inclination towards the most unattainable, extremely attractive and terribly outgoing girls with a sense of Parker Posey mirth and quirk. Because I treasure eccentricities that others would disregard as being plain...strange.

No, childhood pompous leanings don't really explain my inclination at all. And a very low number of the aforementioned apples of my eyes could ever be considered pompous.

It doesn't sound that strange when I think of all my past relationships being adventures. Not so much because of the drama, but because of how inextricably different each girl was in comparison to the other. There's no pattern; no links; no commonalities; no method to the madness. (And it gets better in terms of those who got away.) Neither can I say that I was randomly trying my luck and casting a net whilst trying to ensnare multiple catches at once.

I respect the softer sex, if only because it's hardly 'soft'. I could probably gush about the fascination I have with them in general, but that'd betray my standing as a (failed) misogynist. Or would it only contribute further? I'll leave that particular vote in your hands.

More java, please.

Bummed and not exactly loving it.

2007-08-13T10:17:00.000+08:00

Yes.

I woke up grumpy.

I'm still grumpy now.

I can see cascades of joy overshooting their mark.

The bastards.

24.

2007-08-04T05:56:00.000+08:00

I don't like this aging business. I don't want to be like a fine wine. My youth isn't wasted enough for me to complain about the concept of it being wasted on the young. I just want to lay in my bed, with one pillow between my thighs and one under my head, idly dreaming about the nonsense that people dream about.

I don't care about the commitments I have to keep, the responsibilities I have to assume, the bricks I have to lay or the lies I have to tell. All I want is to find a clear valley with emerald grass that isn't too long, sunflowers growing all over it, with an azure sky overhead, puffy white clouds overcast and a golden sun suspended in stillness. I would then dig a hole and take a crap over some poor hare's subterranean lodging.

The last two weeks have been fabulous. The last month before that was extraordinary. The previous 23 years were excelsior.

As I scratch my way through an itchy scalp, without any sleep other than a light nap in the afternoon and without any sustenance other than a cup of very thin coffee, thinking of the words that can articulate the way I feel right now, I've come to the conclusion that I shouldn't really bother. Because I don't know what I'm feeling, and because I can't be arsed to find out why I can't put my knobby fingers on it.

The aforementioned knobby fingers could very well have picked up a pulse aeons ago. But there wasn't a pulse; however, despite the lack of a proof of life, the fingers kept searching until time stood still and Rasputin took out his thwang and whipped me with a great fury from on high.

And with that, I found myself back where I'd started. Staring down at my feet, with my hands rolled into balls of fists, ready to take on the day. And that's where I'm going to stand. Because I was given a pair of feet from a higher power that saw it fit to endow me with such a gift. And with this gift, I shall run.

Or at least stumble on to the next day.

There's no fruit more forbidden than the fruit at your feet.

And with that, all you'll be left with is:

Because there's nothing more divine-like than being alone and sucking it in.

Leverage.

2007-08-02T00:51:00.000+08:00

It's been said to me today: I'm a lousy poker player because I can never hold on to all my chips. There's nothing like the drama of going all in and making it known to the world...or at least, the perceived tension and drama that goes on in my head while doing so. The thrill of the plunge. The desire to know what the others are holding.

I'm proud to be part of the pack of idiots who have no clear understanding of the game, other than that patience, planning, foresight and a good dose of common sense are vital to winning a good round. But realizing these things doesn't mean that we have to play with them in mind. Skirting on playing with plain irrationality might not be the smartest thing to do, but it'd be good, as Tyler would say, to let the chips fall where they may.

To thrift off from a song I know, chance is a kind of religion where you're damned for plain hard luck.

No truer words, no?

Dive deep. And pray you don't drown.

Band wanted.

2007-08-01T01:51:00.000+08:00

Needed: a guitar guru who's able to make a miracle worker out of me by September 25th. It's preferable if the aforementioned guru is willing to back me up and save me the trouble of playing the guitar myself. Payment will be made in beer, or pornography; whichever option's the most suitable. It'd also be wonderful if the guru could sing harmonies. And play a wide range of obscure 60s torch songs that could be credited to me. Oh, it'd also help if the guru could play the bass as well. Or knew a willing, kind soul who plays the bass. Just in case.

Needed: a totally untested bedroom DJ who's willing to spin beats for me on the same night. It'd help if he believes that he's the second coming of Geoff Barrow, Robert Del Naja and Grant Marshall combined. Payment will be made in weed, or pornography; I know a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy. It'd also be wonderful if the aforementioned DJ could also play the congas, bongos (for stage versatility) or has a shaker.

Needed: a mad hatter who can make a nice fedora for me. Payment will be made in Brand's Essence of Chicken, or pornography. Mayhaps the headgear can distract everybody from the fact that I have ladylike fingers.

Needed: an estrogen brigade comprising of friends, school mates, college buddies and random readers of this blog. This is an appeal to your hearts. Payment will be made through your entertainment and amusement, at my expense.

Friday, 28th of September at JamAsia (I was looking at the wrong calendar the first time round). Please don't cross me off, Mr. Delphie. It should be an interesting 15 minutes, to say the least.

I'm praying to be hit by the Lord's stick for inspiration. Or some initiative.

(Seriously, does anybody know any overzealous bedroom DJs?)

Midnight is where the day begins.

2007-07-29T03:45:00.000+08:00

No matter what the situation is, crossing a line either takes a lot of courage, blind impulse, desperation, a calculative mind or a combination of all four. When a boundary is crossed, there's usually a very good reason for it; Clint had to get the Firefox from the Russians, Mario had to save Peach, Spock had to sacrifice himself, Gwen had to die for editorial reasons and Dubya had to invade because of that pesky insatiable thirst for oil.

It comes down to how much you're willing to give and what you're willing to do in order to cross that hypothetical line. And whether or not you get what you want. However, I still don't believe in 'calculated' risks.

I don't usually walk around carrying high expectations, nor do I carry lowered expectations. I simply don't care, because nonchalance won't get me into trouble. But on a rare occasion, something comes along and I come alive. Not like a firecracker; but like an atom bomb.

I'm easily excitable, as is everybody else. But it takes a lot to retain, maintain and contain that excitement, much less twist and tease it to ginormous proportions. It plays with my mind. It drives me on incessantly.

It's terrifying when that does happen, because it offers the perfect justification for flagrant line-crossing. I would know. I've done it before. And so have you. All of you. We're all guilty. So why bother feeling it?

Maybe this is all a way to compensate for my wasted, sad youth that was spent mulling away at how bad a hand I'd been dealt. But there are some lines that we'd all be willing to cross because whatever is on the other side is worth it. Very much so.

Would it bring about a crisis of faith? Maybe.

But nonetheless, I feel better now.

Thank you.

Not a creature was stirring....the wok.

2007-07-23T15:27:00.000+08:00

Being the sole occupant of a house during a holiday stretch is priceless. Any hints of a need for immediacy vanish. Although the silence might be deafening to some, I'll never feel as comfortable in my own house as I do whenever everyone's gone out to do their own things.

I'm probably being overly dramatic about this, but being alone for short bursts of time has got to be the greatest feeling in the world. For short bursts of time, of course. It's as good as how I feel whenever I have a cigarette alone. Except that now, I bum fags off everybody else. Which makes smoking alone a hard thing.

I'm cheap. Then again, I am Chinese.

And I'm alone. Let's commiserate.

I wanted to list down three pieces of advice that my parents gave me as a child that I still keep today...and here they are.

Always squeeze a tube of toothpaste from the bottom.
Don't do drugs.
Always wipe your ass with four squares of toilet paper at a time.

I suppose that those are the three essential things that I needed to bring with me to my dying day.

Keeping the checklists coming.

2007-07-17T03:17:00.000+08:00

I'm not a very detail-oriented person; I'm more concerned about the results. Most of the time, I think in terms of how mega something can become, and think of what to do, but not how to get there. Still, a destination is better than no vision whatsoever.

I've been chided in the past for never paying attention to where it mattered the most. Sadly, it's still true of me today; there's always the risk of not caring enough for one thing without diverting my energy to the next temporary obsession. It's not because I've got a boundless supply of enthusiasm for the zest of life; I tend to get bored easily and leave things hanging.

It's quite sad to think of the countless things I've started in the past that I haven't brought closure to.

So today, I'm paying tribute to the million things I'll start in the future that'll never see their deserved conclusions. Which is a tragedy, seeing how the results are all I care about.

I'm such a twat.

Weeds.

2007-07-14T09:40:00.001+08:00

I get irritated over the smallest things, among them being people getting their pop cultural references wrong, bad grammar, late periods, Skrulls, the smell of horseradish, toy dogs, eye bags and jets flying overhead my house every now and then. I try my best to restrain myself from showing any irritation whenever situations that tease my annoyance occur, simply because I'm not as smart as I wish I could be; I'm quite sure that I've made slip-ups in the past that the people around me were generous enough not to highlight.

In the past, I've mentioned how the most unattractive girl probably knows almost everything in an attempt to make up for her lack of schwing. In certain regards, I'm the male equivalent. My pedantry knows no bounds, if only because I was never the high school jock. I'm proud to be a geek, though some are still skeptical over my claims of being a borderline pubescent sci-fi junkie.

One trait that I'd love to change about myself would be my desire to inadvertently make matters worse. Pulling out a slightly chipped toenail is not a smart thing to do. Neither is bringing out sore points in your relationship with your girlfriend out of spite because it makes you feel better. And let's not forget arguing with your mother over how anal Catholicism can be.

Oi vey, less than perfect, no? I wish that I had the in-built intuition that so many other people I know have. Sadly, despite years of slugging it out, I'm still not the shiny part of a bald head.

I am you, with your head buried in your pillow as you scream your diaphragm out. Only prettier.

The wisdom of a fool won't set you free.

2007-07-13T18:56:00.000+08:00

I'm tired.

I haven't felt so tired in a while. These last few days have involved waking up early, going out for hour-long walks, and spending the rest of the day doing random things. My nights would be spent eating out, and fumbling my way around shopping malls that have since pulled their welcoming arms away from me.

Strangely enough, this holiday has been fulfilling. It's such a pity that when it passes, so many things are going to pass along with it; back at that ever-present crossroad, except that there's a high chance that I'd actually have to make a decision, as opposed to letting it lie there.

Except for a particular rough period, my life's been quite free from dilemmas. But you can't run away from your demons, just like how new demons are always going to be around the corner.

However, thanks to Chris Martin, I'll be counting them up. Demons, not corners.

Embrace uncertainty to find the needle in the haystack. Although you might not find it, you'll feel a lot better in the end.

20 questions with Paolo Delfino...

2007-07-05T23:11:00.000+08:00

...because Noel Gallagher wasn't available. Paolo Delfino can currently be heard on Fly FM's Campur Chart, with his song, Little Things. Although most people believe that he's overly talented, the true sources of his gifts came from the wolves who raised him, who then passed him on to a pack of mongeese who then left him with a great Canadian Sasquatch; blame it on the animal milk. True story. And my God, think of what Sasquatch nourishment would've been.

*****

#1. do you write a song with a title in mind?
sometimes. half the time the title comes first.

#2. would you rather play with a pick that's been in sophia loren's pussy or briget bardot's ass?
sophia's cunt. yet another name for a post-punk emo band.

#3. let's say you become a controversial figure in music. and somehow, you get buried in paris. would you rather your grave be defecated on or pissed on?
pissed on.

#4. if Purgatory were on Earth, where would it be?
uhm.. the border between cambodia and whatever is next to it.

#5. what're the pre-set rituals that you go through?
i try to sabotage other performers' instruments. i also clip my toenails.

#6. what would your biographical movie be called?
long legs short prick.

#7. who would play you in that movie?
someone reasonably wussy like topher grace or joseph gordon-levitt.

#8. would you rather wank into an egg tart or a bittergourd?
bitter gourd. it would be a terrible waste of an egg tart.

#9. what brand of conditioner do you use?
dove. it's white like semen.

#10. you've got a stomach ache. why?
i'm pretty sure the disgruntled mamak fella hacked a loogie in my iced coffee.

#11. would it bother you if you'd learnt that the only reason for your success was your beanpole-like legs?
not at all. it's not as bad as being famous for having awful hair.

#12. there's a transformers vs. g.i. joe rematch. who would win?
the transformers of course. cos all the gi joes would ride into battle in humvees and jets and all the transformers have to do is transform into battle mode with the joes inside them.

#13. what superpower would you want to have, and why?
time manipulation. there's no limit to the mischief one could get up to with time manipulation powers.

#14. you've released an album. you visit a local night market and find that it's been pirated. what's your initial reaction?
i'd be fucking elated! isn't that testimony that your stuff is so good that it's in demand among cheapskates?

#15. what would you call mike biting off evander's ear?
kinky boxer foreplay.

#16. if God had the urge to suddenly call you, what would His purpose be?
to get back at me for cheating when i had to recite the rosary.

#17. what pie would you throw at my face?
pumpkin pie. smashed pumpkins, to be specific.

#18. what would be the best name for a paolo delfino tribute band?
the hairless legs

#19. what're three things you'd never want to have on a deserted island?
celine dion, herpes, testicle-eating seagulls

#20. what's the meaning of life?
the title of a monty python movie.

And those were the 20 questions. With Paolo Delfino.

Happy Independence Day.

2007-07-04T02:13:00.000+08:00

Here's a random list of things I'd like to say right now to make anyone reading this feel a little bit more insecure. I'm sure we all could think of so much more.

You'll always be a mistake in your parents' eyes.
You look fat in it; you'll always look fat unless you do something about it.
The wart on your nose isn't as big as the wart by your cunt.
Your grandmother was the town whore; as was your mother. You can guess where this is heading.
You can't stop the itching, can you?
Hurting yourself doesn't solve anything. Then again, I'm perfectly happy.
I pity you. You're always so sad.
He knows about it. I think you should reconsider.
You might feel like the life of the party. But honey, everyone's laughing at you.
You're so fucking ignorant.
There's a reason why you've been left behind. Nobody wants you.
I don't want you.
It's such a pity when your best friend walks out on you. But it's sweet, since you deserve it.
Being smart hasn't taken you anywhere great yet.
All you do is throw your money at people. You've never learnt how to walk on your own. And you never will.
You're so sheltered and naive, despite believing otherwise.
Your dog's dead. Nobody cares.
Nobody gives a fuck about you anymore.
Shut up and get some help already.
She's probably cheating on you.
He's probably cheating on you.
You'll never be absolved of your sins until the day you die.
There is no Heaven.
Things don't get better.
Things only get worse.
My relationship with God has nothing to do with you.
You might be ashamed of your family, but they love you and you'll never see that til it's too late.
You're getting older.
All you're good for is finding a rich husband. But time's running out; you're not getting any younger.
I'm sorry, but you're really not as pretty as you think.
Your lack of English proficiency makes you a laughingstock. And it also guarantees that people like me find jobs. Then again, your daddy will probably find you one anyway, so you've got nothing to worry about.
Travelling around the world doesn't make you any more cultured if you don't know anything about your home.
My accent's real, unfortunately. And I'm good enough to know when someone's faking.
Using God as an excuse is weak.
She was always better than you.
She's somebody else's now.
You're a walking cry for help. In the wrong direction.
He's never been true to you.
Nobody loves you.
You're going to die. Alone.

No, I'm not angry with the world. But I was just thinking about how difficult we make it whenever we have to face some strange inner demons; instances where the solutions are easy to find; trivial insecurities that we've got niggling within ourselves.

I don't mean to sound like Roger Hodson, but for fuck's sake, find the inner strength from within and get over it.

Because you're the only one who can.

Can you hear me, Beth Gibbons?

2007-07-03T00:41:00.000+08:00

It's a total waste to feel unwell through totally pedestrian means; thanks to a simultaneous Slurpee and cigarette binge, most of Saturday night was spent coughing and feeling feverish. It caught on to something a little larger yesterday, and it was controlled today with clear skies and a sunny disposition. I can't really tell how well I am after a few days because the sensations feel the same; once I manage to get ill, I'm a walking hypochondriac.

But there's nothing terribly exciting about feeling extremely dodgy via an ice/sugar rush and an accidental overinhalation of nicotine; I'd much rather catch a cold by singing in the rain, or catch typhoid in the badlands of Africa, or catch the Consumption as it was coming out in the Old West.

And lest you wish to remind me about how unfortunate others are, I am grateful for all that I have. I'm just saying that things have felt mightily sterile of late.

Yet, certain things have not. My father, for instance, is a wildfire brimming with a burning passion to make life difficult for everyone around him...be it inadvertently, or not. The last few days haven't been pretty; and to top it all off, he might be secretly marrying his golddigging woman (the pendulum has swung to the negative yet again).

I suppose that it's hard to choose over your love for your own family over your love for a woman...but it's an absolute crime to simply ignore, and even worse, discard the former. It feels as if he's totally neglecting the people who should count in a vain attempt to retain some twisted form of vitality.

Not even all the Portishead in the world can save me now.

Money shot!

2007-06-27T01:51:00.000+08:00

There was no release after the crescendo --- it quickly died before reaching a climatic finish.

And it stayed dead.

-------------------------

Fabulous. Feelings of inadequacy, obviously.

Anyway. I'm not one for astrology or the zodiac or horoscopes, but this is interesting filler material.

My Moon's apparently in Gemini. Cue the bad jokes and puns!

I wonder how much he paid and how good it felt for him.
'That's no Moon...that's a (insert object of choice here)'.
'The Moon looks like a cookie, but you can't eat it' - The Cookie Monster.
Say, are you mooning me, or are you just happy to see me?

I slay myself. Nonetheless, the following is a description of what I am based on a combination of my Sun and Moon sign.

-------------------------

The combination of your Sun and Moon signs suggests that you are a person possessed with both action and ideas. This combination blends the vitality, personal warmth, generosity, authoritativeness of Leo, with the intelligence, cleverness, flexibility and adaptability of Gemini.

Your personality is perpetually searching for ways to impress others via these action or achievements, and, especially by matters of the mind, or your ideas. Your mind is facile and intuitive, rather than profound or over serious. Your ability to make good impressions on people serves you well in your public life and in dealing with those within your sphere of influence.

Your ideas, while not based on deep philosophy, are usually plausible, and always delivered with a manner of expression that is persuasive. You like to work with your mind, and you're rarely found working very hard for a living. You believe in easy money and seem to know how to get it without exerting great amounts of physical energy.

Mentally, you would never be called lazy. At times you can become so mentally active that you would turn into a bundle of nerves. You never really stop trying to impress others with what you know, and you are a very interesting conversationalist. You are also very social and love to entertain, especially when your guests are interesting people who stimulate you mentally. Your glib analysis and sharp observations make you a favorite with such groups.

-------------------------

So I suppose that it all hits a bit too close to home, no?

Mayhaps a little. But, honestly; I'll be damned if my character has been fleshed out by the stars. I'd much rather be an RPG character and receive a +10 Vitality bonus. And a Phoenix Down.

I'm so tired.

The day that capitalistic convenience gastronomy was somewhat silenced.

2007-06-23T00:20:00.001+08:00

I feel quite sad that the government has banned fast food commercials during childrens' television programming...that's one more hurdle for the Golden Arches and the Colonel to face in this begotten country. I understand that children should be granted the right to nutritious food, but isn't it the responsibility of the parents to ensure that their kids are eating right whenever they're around them? It's not as if children have the power to arm-twist their folks into taking them for a festive fast food frenzy feast, is it...? (Unless modern parents are just merely too busy to bother, or even worse, total pushovers.)

I mean, if little Foo decides to beg and plead and whines and sobs like the little bitch that he is to be taken to McD's, why not just give him a smack and tell him that fast food is the work of the Devil? It worked on me. Of course, I've offsetted the lack of fast food in my childhood and youth with my recent frequent visits to the land of the Golden Arches these last few years, but I was fully informed and aware of the dangers of fast food as a child and teen, and tried my best to maintain a good record for healthy eating. I tried.

Honestly...if you don't want your kids to eat too much fast food (or any fast food at all, if you're picky), it's really your responsibility to ensure that you don't bring them to any outlets...plus, you can also warn them early about the dangers of buying into big-budgeted marketing campaigns; not to buy into what the media sells. Oh...don't give them enough allowance money to grant them the ability to actually visit a fast food joint. Though, admittedly, it'd be hard for them not to cave in to peer pressure; that's where active involvement in their formative years comes into play, no? Why...yes.

There's nothing better than a responsible parent.

Right?

Ah, well. It's as if a completely bored Government has decided to take a shaky stand on an issue that shouldn't even be raised in the first place. I applaud the Government for caring, but why not ensure that all the kids get nutritious, balanced meals at school as well...is there some sort of nationwide campaign championing for better food at school cafeterias? How about properly implementing such a program and taking action against unresponsive cafeteria operators?

How about some form of enforcement against those nice gentlemen who prey upon kids who've just been dismissed from classes, peddling ice cream? Mayhaps the Government can run an uproariously hillarious ad campaign that appeals to all ages by showing how prolonged consumption of fast food turns you from a waif to Ken Davitian's long-lost brother before you turn 25?

On an unrelated yet related issue, it's great to know that the powers-that-be hold the opinion that children aged 12 and under don't read the papers. Campaigns such as the NIE program's attempts to get kids to read the dailies in school would be deemed as failures, then. Let's not forget that chains such as Pizza Hut have been sponsoring such campaigns regularly. Big whoop. Then again, looking at the state of the print media in this country, I'd be quite glad that most kids don't read such trite.

I can be thankful that the ads will still be shown on prime time, no? Like that great wave of anticipation that washes over me each January, when I know that the Prosperity Meal's coming back...with the Prosperity Burger, curly fries and Orange McFizz returning to light up my days (and nights).

You can take the boy out of the fast food, but you can't take the fast food out of the boy. Or is it the other way around? I'm not so sure.

Excuse me, while I enjoy my Spicy McChicken Deluxe.

Depp walks in.

2007-06-22T04:03:00.001+08:00

There's a beauty to an understated entrace. Making a scene doesn't quite cut it anymore.

At the recent 2007 MTV Movie Awards, Johnny Depp won the award for Best Performance. It was one of those times when you thought that it would've been a no-show, but after a few prolonged moments of awkward stillness, the man literally walked out from Stage Right. And was greeted by a standing ovation.

(Take into consideration that I'm not entirely sure if everyone else knew that he'd arrived that evening.)

Call it a form of pretentious starstruckedness, but the man seems like a humble, quiet, quissentially considerate gentleman. A thinking zen, if you will. So yes, he ranks very highly in my list of the world's coolest motherfuckers. Then again, I think that there'd be some cause for debate if I revealed who the other people on my list were.

Once again, it doesn't take grandstanding to leave a lasting impact. (Of course, it does help if you've got the admiration and respect of your peers...or at least a decent bucketload of people who worship and adore you.)

Pillars.

2007-06-14T00:03:00.000+08:00

I'm wondering what the basic tenets of a foolproof schematic that'd guide me through life would be. No doubt, it'd probably take my very essence to follow such a blueprint, but I've always believed that such a schematic would only serve two purposes: to remind you of your weaknesses, and to steer you away from your bad habits. Looking at my list of New Year's Resolutions as well as my own underachievement levels in the past, I gather that a list of daily reminders to lead me through life in a steadfast manner would look something like this:

Don't be lazy; stay fully committed to the task at hand.
Don't procrastinate. You do want your sleep, don't you? God loves a planner.
'Goreng' is not a food group.
You shouldn't really smoke, lest you intend to hit the big C, or better yet, light a stogie for Satan when you go.
Be nice to your mother. Always breathe and count to 10 whenver she snaps for no reason.
Your father is not an asshole. He's just got a massive stick up his rectum. But you know you love him, no matter what.
Don't be distracted by her shoes.
Stop buying unncessary items. Sushi isn't cheap. Even if it's 20% off after 9:00 p.m.
Stop starting at other girls. You already have someone waiting at home.
Be polite to those around you; ass-kissing is used to polish asses, after all.
Being anal stinks.
Everyone likes you, even if they don't mention it.

That last one scares me, but I don't think I'll ever be able to be shelf my self-consciousness permanently. No matter how hard your heart is towards perceptions, there's always a gremlin or two that picks at your insecurities. It's all in your/my/our heads.

Come to think of it, I was an incredibly timid person up to the time I turned 14. Everything went apeshit from there, which I'm quite happy for...because apeshit is better than quaint. I haven't been living to expectations, and I'm rather proud of it...there's something obviously wrong with that. Maybe it was some desire to work against the system, but now I suppose that the quiet resignation sets in that you can only properly fight the system once you're integrated into it. Or something to that extent.

Either way, I'm so tired of all this. To paraphrase a song, I wish some form of relief would wrap itself around me like a warm glove and fill me up with a bit of radiance. But it doesn't get any easier from here, does it?

What a drag.

Sneaking it past the superego.

2007-06-13T23:51:00.000+08:00

A couple of New Jersey hunters are out in the woods when one of them falls to the ground. He doesn't seem to be breathing, his eyes are rolled back in his head. The other guy whips out his cell phone and calls the emergency services. He gasps to the operator: "My friend is dead! What can I do?" The operator, in a calm, soothing voice, says: "Just take it easy. I can help. First, let's make sure he's dead." There is a silence, then a shot is heard. The guy's voice comes back on the line. He says: "OK, now what?"

Because I can.

2007-06-12T20:47:00.000+08:00

Layer One: On The Outside
Name: Tai Foo Hing
Birth Date: August 4th, 1983
Current status: Grounded for life.
Eye Colour: Dark brown
Hair Colour: Black
Righty or Lefty: Right-handed.

Layer Two: On The Inside
Your Heritage: 1/2 Chinese - Hakka, 1/8th Portuguese, 1/8th Japanese, 1/8th Irish, 1/3 Singaporean, 1/3 Shanghainese. I'm terrible at fractions...which is why I'm only truly 1/2 Chinese.
Your Fears: Death and baldness. Giant spiders. Being squashed by a Sumo wrestler. Jesus chasing after me in the dark.
Your Weaknesses: Girly abs, belly dancers, pretty faces, ditzy girls with funny accents and flesh-baring wenches.
Your Perfect Pizza: Topped with a belly dancer with girly abs, a pretty face, who's ditzy, speaks with a funny accent, who's also consequently a flesh-baring wench...covered with cheese.

Layer Three: Yesterday, Today, Tomorrow
Your Thoughts First Waking Up: Going back to sleep again.
Your Bedtime: I have issues, therefore I have trouble sleeping.
Your Most Missed Memory: Riding on the back of a pack of dolphins, with the water splitting beneath me, while having Neptune's daughter sucking me off. What bliss.

Layer Four: Your Pick
Pepsi or Coke: Coke. Because Pepsi isn't the Real Thing.
McDonald's or Burger King: McDonald's. Because it makes me happy.
Single or Group Dates: Single. Because I despise loose change.
Adidas or Nike: Adidas. Because I get more bang for my buck. Nike is for poseurs. Adidas is for people who know. Though if this were open, I'm beginning to opt for Puma's branding. It's all about marketing, baby.
Tea or Nestea: Tea.
Chocolate or Vanilla: Vanilla. Because eating shit is for the apes.
Cappuccino or Coffee: Coffee. Because admitting to drinking cappucinio is like admitting I like smelling flowers on the way out the door.

Layer Five: Do You...
Smoke: Yes. Keep your daughters away from me.
Curse: Yes. Keep your sons away from me.
Think you've been in love: Yes.
Go to school: Nope.
Want to get married: Yes. Because they make it look so fun.
Believe in yourself: Yes. Because I am the sum of all beers.
Think you're a health freak: Nope. Although for a fat guy, it's miraculous that I can jog for 7 kilometers without flinching. I also run faster than anyone I know. Almost anyone. Now you have to decide which one's the lie.

Layer Six: In The Past Month Have you...
Drank alcohol: I can't. I have a liver condition that severely restricts my alcohol consumption. I won't die if I drink, but I'd live to regret it very badly.
Gone to the mall: Yes. I have better tastes than most women I know.
Been on stage: No. There wasn't time to prepare my black leather burlesque costume. Hurrah for cabarets and Dita Von Teese.
Eaten sushi: Yes. My family owns a Japanese restaurant.
Dyed your hair: No. But I consider streaking my hair silver, in commemoration with the 15th anniversary of Aaron Kwok's appearance as Silver Fox in the first Saviour of the Sword movie.

Layer Seven: Have You Ever...
Played A Stripping Game: Oh, naughty.
Changed Who You Were To Fit In: No. Maybe. I doubt it. I think everyone changes, but not everyone does it to fit in. That'd be too easy.

Layer Eight: You're Hoping
To Be Married: ...because I can have sex for free on a daily basis. Marx was right: unpaid labour, indeed.
For a: ...great life, because I might not deserve it as much as you but will probably find a way to cheat people to get there faster.

Layer Nine: In a Girl/Guy
Best Eye + Best Hair Color Combination: Blonde with green eyes. Hah.
Short Hair or Long Hair: A Brazillian. Oh, you meant up there. (Cue drum roll and audience groans.)

Layer Ten: What Were You Doing
1 Min Ago: This survey.
1 Hour Ago: Sleeping.
4.5 Hours Ago: Sleeping.
1 Year Ago: Sleeping.

Layer Eleven: Finish The Sentence
I Love: ...my baby mama.
I Feel: ...like chicken tonight.
I Hide: ...a pack of condoms in the bookcase coz that's the last place they'd look.
I Miss: ...therefore, I shoot.
I Need: ...Pilates.

Suggestions for a title would be most welcome.

2007-06-10T00:56:00.000+08:00

Most of us enjoy being the center of the earth every once in a while, fully aware of our true calling to be yet another paeon in the scheme of things.

Then they're some of us who think differently. A moment of madness or two presumably grants us the free reign to impart rampage upon a few lives or so, sparing ourselves of any feelings of selfishness or guilt because we think that it's our God-given right, our calling, to do so. In the end, tears are shed, hearts are broken and everybody sleeps unsoundly, not knowing where to move on.

It's amazing how quick you are to repent once you realize the extent of the damage that you'd caused. The hard part is coming to that realization.

Steering through the dreary cacophony that's life is hard enough as it is without people coming in and making matters worse, be it unconsciously or not. What you do and what you say creates a ripple that, one day, will raise a fury so grand that even your dead mother will be popping out of her grave to have a listen. And you'll be at the center of it. Unless you change. Buck up. And fuck off.

There's no point asking for forgiveness when all you have to show for it is a smug grin and an insincere disposition.

Touch my big pockets.

2007-06-09T20:40:00.000+08:00

There were men who were naked, with the exception of wearing Doraemon masks and thongs. Now, these men were full-sized with six-packed Spartan bodies, but for some strange reason we were at a beach and playing a sport where the objective was to stuff these guys into holes in the sand...and they'd shrink to be fit.

No pun intended, but it was very queer. The thongs were a strange touch. Not to mention the masks.

Tonight, we whine in Hell.

2007-06-07T02:19:00.000+08:00

I've discovered that I like small increments of happiness to come my way, as opposed to one large bulky parcel of pep. The latter bowls me over so quickly that it can't be enjoyed, whereas receiving small, yet substantial, utils of joy spread out over a period can be pleasing to the senses. The same can't be said of pain, however; I'd rather have something gotten over than to wait and wait in desperate anticipation for it to run its course. I suppose it's all about prolonging enjoyment, which is why most of us would choose Tantric over tantamount...if only we knew how to (quite literally) pull it off like Sting.

There's no discipline involved in instant gratification; it's why I've been such a proponent for it since the beginning. But now, when I'm older and not much wiser, I've finally had the chance to sit down long enough to see that my father was right...grudgingly. Most of us would probably relate instant gratification to the fire of youth, and we'd probably welcome the sedate lifestyle of our elders with open arms when the time came.

You'd probably relent and allow age to come and creep in. It'd only be inevitable, after all. Why squander all your chances by being reckless when it'd be better to play it safe? Wouldn't that prolong your enjoyment, and more importantly, your life?

Once again, my view on things is at a crossroad. I'm impartial to being young and being a geezer. 25 years before my time. If it was possible, I'd say that I was tired of being tired of being young. Well, young-ish.

Suffice to say, I'm royally arsed and confused. Or is it the other way round?

Grass below, God above and everything else in between.

2007-06-02T23:34:00.000+08:00

From the Economist, June 2, 2007.

A legal blow to religious freedom

"EVERY person has the right to profess and practise his religion." Article 11 of Malaysia's constitution could hardly be more definitive. Yet Lina Joy, who has fought for nine years for the right to convert from Islam to Christianity, was told by the country's Supreme Court on May 30th that the guarantee is worthless to her. The court rejected her demand to have "Islam" removed as the religion stated on her official identity card. It ruled she first needed permission to leave the faith from the country's separate sharia courts, which interpret traditional Muslim law. These treat apostates as sinners to be punished, not individuals with a right to their own beliefs.

Miss Joy, now 43, converted to Christianity in her 20s, changing her name from Azlina Jailani. She wants to wed her Christian boyfriend but Malaysia in effect bans Muslims from marrying outside the faith. She went to court after the government department that issues identity cards let her change her name but not her religion. The Supreme Court, like the lower courts, upheld the department's decision. Rather trivialising Miss Joy's struggle, the chief justice said she could not expect to convert from one religion to another on a "whim". In a development typical of Malaysia's widening religious and racial divide, the only non-Muslim on the three-judge bench dissented from the judgment.

Article 11 has been in the country's constitution since independence from Britain 50 years ago. However, things were muddied by a 1988 amendment, which denied the regular courts all jurisdiction over matters dealt with by the sharia courts. It was not clear if this gave sharia judges the right to overrule Article 11 for those born Muslim and to tell them they must remain so. It now seems that indeed they can.

The ruling will confirm the fears of many Malaysians--not just among the ethnic Chinese and Indian minorities--that the country is suffering "creeping Islamisation". As the sharia courts and other religious authorities have become more active in recent years, a stream of cases has arisen in which freedoms enjoyed by non-Muslims have been denied to those the religious authorities regard as belonging to the country's majority faith, followed by some 60% of its 27m people, mostly ethnic Malays. Families have been divided because one parent was deemed to be Muslim despite insisting to the contrary. In 2005, the religious authorities snatched the corpse of M. Moorthy, a famous mountaineer whose family insisted he was a Hindu, and gave it a Muslim burial, arguing he had secretly converted to Islam.

Malaysia's prime minister, Abdullah Badawi, has been struggling to promote his own brand of moderate, "civilisational" Islam. But he has opened space for the radicals by clamping down on even temperate debate of religious issues. Last year he shot down a proposed "inter-faith council" and banned a civil-rights group from holding public debates on freedom of worship. Last month he abruptly cancelled a long-planned gathering in Kuala Lumpur of senior Muslim and Christian scholars--including the Archbishop of Canterbury--on the ground that he was too busy to attend it.

In many places, constitutional guarantees of liberty are undermined by laws constraining religious belief. Indonesians, for example, are also obliged to state their religion on their identity cards and to choose between just six officially recognised faiths. The governor of the state of Rajasthan, in India, is being pressed by the state assembly to approve a law punishing conversion from Hinduism. Constraints on individuals' rights to choose their beliefs are usually backed up by claims that religions are somehow "under threat": a curious lack of faith--in faith itself.

Your Love Alone Is Not Enough.

2007-06-02T15:43:00.000+08:00

Who knew that the Manics could be so happy? I didn't. It's startingly catchy...then again, so was You Stole the Sun From My Heart.

Nintendonomics.

2007-05-26T20:55:00.000+08:00

Which would look more stable to an economist...the Mushroom Kingdom, or Hyrule? What's the conversion rate between a Rupee and one of Mario's gold coins? I mean, honestly...if we were putting together a Standard and Poor's report on the two nations, which would be ranked higher?

Let's look at the basics. Hyrule's people are peace-loving simpletons who just happen to have their lands relocated each time. Notice how the map of Hyrule changes with almost every game. Not to mention that Ganon (or Ganondorf), has the kingdom in his clutches on an occasional basis. Also, there're more than one princesses named Zelda, despite the chronological inconsistencies; anachronisms dictate that Zeldas pop up a dime a dozen...although there was one occasion where there wasn't even a Zelda in existence.

The Mushroom Kingdom has no real citizens to speak of, other than the...Toads. Now, Princess Peach (or Toadstool, depending on your localization location) has managed to rule the Mushroom Kingdom peacefully, only to be thwarted by Bowser and his Koopas each time, who, in turn, have been thwarted successfully by the Mario Brothers. Having asexual Toads as loyal subjects to give Mario the bad news that the princess is really in the next castle doesn't hurt...aside from the fact that the Mushroom Kingdom's citizens can't be living in any great poverty due to the abundance of gold coins hidden rather unsurreptitiously in suspended bricks.

Now, the loyal subjects in Hyrule are mostly human (Kakariko Village), along with the various forest creatures and oversized humanoid fish (the Zoras), whereas the Mushroom Kingdom's filled with walking mushrooms and flying, walking and swimming turtles, amongst others. Which has the higher employed population? I suppose the Mushroom Kingdom takes the cake, since everyone found there can list 'Lackey' as an occupation.

Both kingdoms are normally found in peril. One kingdom calls for a man in tights to save it, while the other has its own pair of plumber heroes. One kingdom is under the control of a mad magical tyrant, while the other is in the thrall of a giant humanoid turtle dictator.

Which kingdom earns a bigger bang for your buck?

Oh, the tears.

2007-05-24T04:43:00.000+08:00

While lots of Milan fans (and definitely non-Liverpudlians) may gloat and taunt me, I'd just like to say that it was cruel, but I can live with it. I won't complain about it because we played terribly well. Even better. But, alas, that's the way it goes sometimes.

All's even in the end? I suppose so.

Now I'm going to back into a corner and cry. Again.

Don't stick it to the Man.

2007-05-21T18:00:00.000+08:00

Call me materialistic, but I always go bonkers over a cellphone with a camera which can play MP3 ringtones, in addition to all the other bells and whistles and doohickeys around. In terms of the MP3 ringtones, it's the only way to show the world that I'm tasteful. In terms of the doohickeys, it's the only way to show the world that I'm a man of the moment.

Sadly, it's the moment before it all becomes out of fashion again. And then we ride the carousel, going bonkers over the new bells, whistles and doohickeys. It's a vicious cycle.

And, once again, although we try our best to be individualistic and unique, we want to be like everyone else. All we want to do is to be accepted by the herd; we rarely get the chance to be the leader of the pack.

People who renounce the hive mind have got the right idea, but they'll never win.

Be superficial.

Because, in a sad way, you're bound to love yourself more because of it.

The Bin.

2007-05-18T23:09:00.000+08:00

I suppose that it's a matter of principle.

My neighbours have been placing their garbage bin very close to our side of the kerb. Their kerb consists of a variety of plants and fauna that block a direct route of access from their gate to the bin; normally, their maid would have to walk around the kerb to dump their garbage.

What my father takes offence to is that the neighbour's doing this so that there won't be any unpleasant odours going towards their gate...which means that our side suffers. Likewise, those nice men from Douglas Waste are more prone to use our side to access the neighbours' trash rather than their side...which annoys my father enough to compel him to become the Anti-Tai.

For the last few days, he's asked my uncle to move the neighbours' bin deeper into their side of the kerb to let them know his feelings. In his own words, if they didn't get the message, regardless of his current condition, he'd personally throw their bin into their pond. Either that, or kill their plants via a mixture of salt and detergent. Simply because it's a brilliant example of 'shock and awe'; something so incredibly drastic, in one mind-numbing blow, that they get the message. His example was Colin Powell. Go figure.

It'd be preferable for my father to just talk to them, but apparently that would mean we'd be asking them to do us a favour. I suppose that I could talk to them myself, but I have testicles made of cotton, which causes me to stray from anything that remotely resembles anything confrontational, no matter how mild the situation.

Honestly? I feel that my father's right in principle...but not in practice. I wouldn't want to freak out my neighbours' two young daughters with having my psycho dad throw their bin into their house, waving his arms around like a lunatic. And I wouldn't want to poison their plants in lieu of the risk that their incredibly sweet-natured dog might take a bite and die.

However, in his own words, he's quite willing 'to die' for these people, just to see his point driven across. Over a bin. Risk a heart attack. Over a bin. It makes no sense, although I'm grateful for this sudden realization:

He's turned even pettier than I am.

Feel my rage when you eat sardines.

2007-05-16T22:21:00.000+08:00

I remember when my grandfather would throttle his way through the stairs of my house whenever he was angry, or whenever it wasn't his day...which was almost every day. He'd complain endlessly about anything: not being able to open a tin of Milo, not being able to spread jam over bread evenly, and even having small bits of rice fall from his mouth while he was eating. All these complaints would be punctuated with frequent cursing in Hakka, and he'd look up to the heavens and shake his finger at God...because there was no one that he was willing to blame in the house.

Despite his eccentricities, I loved my grandfather. He was a loveable dick. I remember bawling my eyes out during his wake, and broke down at the cremation. In a way, I think I loved my grandfather more than my grandmother, probably because I could relate to him more. Not that I was aiming to become him...but he did have a full patch of silver hair on his head up to the time of his death.

I remember punching boxes to release my rage. It didn't hurt a lot, and it felt good. I'd occasionally slam a wardrobe door to prove an overdramatic point, and on one instance I actually broke the inside mirror for one of the wardrobes...which I didn't mean to do. Honestly.

Rage runs like fire through my family's blood. I think being Hakka is akin to being Irish. The only person who doesn't show his rage openly is my father, but yesterday he was peeved at my neighbours over the positioning of their garbage bin and even threatened to throw it into their koi pond. This was said in confidence to me, of course. But the vitrol in his words was so foreign to me, that I had to calm him down on the grounds that I didn't want him to pop a vessel.

I like to pick fights and be antsy, like my mother. I also like being a pacifist and thinking things through rationally, like my father. I also like to throw my toys around and hit things, like my grandfather and uncle. I also like to be a stingy bitch, like my aunt.

I am the perfect amalgamation of my mad family. I used to come from a broken home, but I think I've reached the notion that it doesn't need any fixing at all.

Slumberland has nothing on me.

2007-05-15T23:59:00.000+08:00

When I was younger, I used to lament the fact that my beds were relatively devoid of life. Not that I was dreaming of fornication when I was 6, but besides a pillow or two and a blanket, there wasn't much to shout about when it came to my nights. I never slept clutching an action figure; even my sheets were nondescript and simple, usually consisting of not more than two colours, or, if my mother felt it was special, they'd break out in strange, flowery ensembles.

Now, almost 2 decades later, nothing has changed. The bed is bigger, but the song remains the same. Sometimes I miss sleeping on a sofa...the total lack of space helped in making me forget what I was missing. Then again, I never really had a teddy bear or stuffed animal before...most probably because my parents thought it wasn't essential.

And it wasn't.

I suppose a boy turns into some sort of a man when he realizes that the greatest companion in bed is a real one. Which means that I'd reach adulthood at 13, but kept it under a lock and key until now.

Speaking of which, my father never really initiated me into adulthood/manhood when I reached 18...and 21. It's as though he threw me to the lions and never looked back. I suppose that his consistent absence was more than a valid excuse...but I always expected him to sit me down over a cup of coffee and give me some sort of life-changing pep talk. But, I'm happy to say I feel that I turned out half-alright despite the lack of proper supervision.

Fabulous. The bed beckons.

I love useless nostalgia.

Chuck.

2007-05-14T22:57:00.000+08:00

From the same guys who gave us the O.C.