Flu

The flu grabbed me by the balls and suffocated my respiratory well-being, leaving me gasping for proper ventilation through mucus and nose hair. The persistent fucker attacks not only my nose but also my eyes, forcing me to pierce my fingernails near my eyelids, depressing my eyeballs in a repeated manner up to down, left to right, spreading germs from my fingers and nose all over the upper part of my face.

Lying on my bed, I start to play the balancing game of balancing the amount of mucus in each nostril. Usually it's the right nostril with more mucus. Then I gently shift my body weight to the left side of my face, I could feel the bloody mucus swarming like ants rushing all over to the other side. The mucus in this case wasn't viscous and thus more difficult to control. The trick is to adjust slowly, tilt a little back to the center such that not all the mucus flows to the left. If that fails, the bloody mucus will coalite at the left which means you have to start shifting your face to the right. Until you've gotten equal amounts of mucus in both nostrils, you can finally lie back down, face up feeling the mucus spreading to both sides of your nose like how Moses parted the red sea.

When you're feeling fucked up like that, the last thing you should do is to walk around in school, talk to people, walk some more and feel more fucked up. You should wear pyjamas or long sleeve Ts, long pants to sleep, drink hot water and cover yourself in your smelly comforter.

I always get the flu. Then I get the blues.

Dark dark night

Everyone knows I have a thing for the dark side. Dark side of people, dark side of life. I like the dark side because the dark side usually speaks the truth and the bright side hides it. The dark side is the more comfortable side because any actions can be accounted for whereas the bright side has to stick to its own principles.

Like the 2 movies I watch today. Mysterious Skin and Crash. Back to back movies. It reminded of me of another time when I had another dark night when I watched Memento and Nurse Betty. I kinda enjoy the feeling of watching depressing movies and how the reality of life sucks your soul dry, making you detest, empathize and be scornful of your own human race all at the same time.

Mysterious Skin is a story about two boys with really fucked-up childhoods and its ramifications. Sodomy and alien abduction. How you piece those two together? You'll never believe it. It kinda remind me of my own fucked-up childhood with pedophiles come calling in and writing letters to me asking me to suck their cock. Talk about a fucked-up world.

Crash is something like the NKF shows. Fucking sad stories all linked together but done beautifully with much more purpose and impact unlike the NKF shows where this retarded guy appearing always stuggles to eat his food and talk. The show goes about showing how low people can go due to racial preferences, money, favourism, loneliness.

I was pretty fidgety watching the 2 shows with an ongoing word-texting squabble on my cellphone. The dark shows illuminating the illusion that my own fucked-up dark side is gonna surface and how the fucked-up world and my own fucked-up flaws got me into this mess. My friend beside me feeling fucked-up with a fucked-up friend who was late and restless. So all this kinda link up don't you think? Catching the last SMRT train to Boon Lay to find out that the last bus back to my school leaves at 0000 caps an outstanding night of darkness. Thinking of how much money I spent over the last few days also gave me the urge to applaud myself or maybe just put my hand together a few times on my way back on a midnight surcharge cab.

But it works well for me. I'm the dark type of person. And this is just but another night that's gone a little darker than usual.

Insult

Being pretty and nothing else is the greatest insult.

There are lots of people like that. To name a few: Fann Wong, Jerry Yan, Lin Zhiling, most Taiwanese boy bands.

Do you fall into this category? That is very sad. That is more sad than being ugly.

To be viewed as just a pretty person means you give the world false hope. Pretty on the outside, empty inside. Which means you are no difference from life-size models from OG. Which means you are some pretty thing that talks, eats and sleeps. The sad thing about these people is that other people heaps praises on them and tells them how they admire them but in actual fact just a sub-conscious hyprocrisy.

They tell you, ' Hey i think you're really pretty.'
But they don't tell you what they really think. They forgot to add the 'only'.

'Hey, I think you're really pretty. Well, you're only pretty.'

Pretty things don't last forever. They grow old, they deteriorate, they wither, die and people forget about them. True class and talent lives forever.

Some people think i'm that pretty person. That's damn sad.

My room, my space

Orientation camps finally come to an end. Lost my voice twice in the space of 3 weeks. 4 trips to my hall to bring in everything I need. It is still not complete.

I'm excited to get things started. To live independently. To set out goals and achieve them. To win. To become a more likeable person. But people hate winners.

Winning at the level that people do not detest you.

So here I am now, synchronising the last four fingers of my left hand, tapping the table to get 4 consecutive beats in a second, shaking my right leg and bare-bodied typing, staring at the monitor trying to figure out what life would be.

The music right now is ABBA's Dancing Queen, followed by Berlin's Take My Breath Away.. From a time i know not when, the former hit me real hard. No doubt it's a disco song, a mambo song some would like to call it. The settings in the 70s. The dancing queens of the past, what are they now? Haggard mothers? Rich tai-tais? Are they worrying about their futures, reminiscing of their illustrious pasts? The glory days of youth and exuberance. The time of blinding neon lights, groovy dance moves, big hair bands, bell-bottom pants. The reality of living room solitude, surfing senseless TV programs, making do with reticent family members, kids of another generation, myths of everlasting matrimonial love.

This is the best times of our lives. We should make the most of it. We should have the time of our lives.


Taken from interior of room


Outside my room


Posters galore; messy

My room is just but another room. The space in the room is the soul. The soul is the room.

War

Just like a dream, we never knew how we got there. The place and time all so confusing and incoherent. We never realised it was a dream or maybe it never was. The drama repeats itself, the dialogue so fresh, real and eerie. The actors don't look like actors. We were all stuck in dreamland, we found ourselves standing in somewhere out of nowhere, so out of place yet we remained unsurprised. The silence was incongruous to the visual spectacle flashing right before our eyes. It was peacefully quiet yet our faces showed uneasiness, our bodies fidgety and our eyes betrayed our minds.

The dialogue continues. It's the type of dialogue where no sounds come off. It's the type of dialogue where by the content is so unsignificant but the mere movement of the lips with sheer intensity is so powerful. The dialogue continues.

We never knew who our real enemy was. Even up to this day. Were they aliens? Terrorists? Our minds playing tricks with us? Ourselves?

We never understood the intent of this war. Most people do not even understand the meaning of war. Like us. We appeared out of nowhere right into this battlefield. A battlefield where you do not see blood but you see senseless death. There were no hanging limbs or beheaded bodies. Just death lurking around. The sick stench of energy sapping away and losing the mind before the body. There we were, a battlefield of no gods and no divinity.

I felt so helpless participating in a war that I did not volunteer. It was unfair to be thrown into this battle without the slightest of warning. I didn't want to die. I didn't want my name to be engraved into stone walls with many other names which people don't read. I searched for exits. I pinched myself a few times to wake up from this nightmare. I realised that was stupid, so cliche and disappointed with myself that I even thought about that.

And so four young man stood. The background of death. The music muted. Time stalled for a while.

We knew our planes were waiting for us. I thought we were supposed to be divers, but we're not. We're pilots. I question whether this was a dream. A hoax maybe? Maybe at that time it didn't matter anymore because 4 planes were all there was. We knew we were going to die. All men become boys at the face of death. My heart wasn't racing. Yet it felt like I was going to be executed. We found blindfolds on the plane. What was that suppose to mean? To spare us the visual carnage?

Before the dream ended we were not in our planes anymore. And before I wished my dream would end, we were only three. People like details. I don't give details. How we fought our enemies was a blur. Did we even fight remains a mystery. We just stood there.

Camp

I'm back after a week's absence at my CS FOC camp.









Seems like quite a lot of fun har..

But pictures always capture the best moments. Not long ago, after watching Robin William's One Hour Photo, i realised that. That, as in pictures dun tell the full story.

One Hour Photo is a disturbing tale of the human soul driven by loneliness and desperation.

Perception, deception and pretentiousness.

We take pictures to remember our happy moments but at that instance what are we feeling when we smile and pose for that picture. Are we putting on a good show so to cover up for all the negativity we are feeling? A smile is no longer a smile when you get older and that alone makes a smile scary. It can mean many things. Because behind a smile, evil thoughts are lurking, hidden problems, internal hostilities or simply uncomfortable at putting up a smile.

Humans haven't realise themselves that they are excellent actors. Disgustingly but surely, when they rot of old age, flipping through the photo album, they will realise that they live in a world of deceit. A world whom they can't identify with. Smiles and laugher which they can't distinguish their genuity. Only pictures of babies and kids don't lie.

I'm just saying all this for fun.

The reader is confused again.

Hand Job

Thursday morning I was down at Raffles Place all ready for a day of hard work. The equation is simple. Finish the hard labour. 80 bucks.

The job scope was to unscrew these bottles...



All ten thousand of them from cartons. Pour them into cups and serve it to all the office workers, janitors, security guards or whoever is around walking around at Raffles Place. We were under the sun, the rain, the scrutiny of the security guards and pressure to complete our job as fast as possible.

There were just 10 of us. When lunch hour came, all hell broke loose. Unscrewing chilled bottles at a breakneck speed was no mean feat, 2 hours I stood there just unscrewing bottle caps and nothing else. I had blisters all over my fingers. The gloves don't help and the bottles were all wet fresh out from the ice box.



I sound like I'm a whiner.

I am.

We worked from 730 in the morning till 7 at night. Opening up cartons, dumping bottles into ice box, take them out again, unscrew the bottle caps, pour 2 bottles at a time into cups, serve them on trays to people walking by. There were ugly sights like people asking for bottles to take home, taking 5 to 6 empty bottles to give their kids and aunties who are just kiasu and unreasonable.

Well, the coffee was not too bad. Nescafe Mistra. Comes in 3 flavours. Banana Caramel, Tiramisu and Gold Roast. Just to let you know.